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YATES CITY BANNER. 
 
 "HEW TO THE LINE. LET THE CHIPS TALL WHERE THEY MAV." 
 
 Tatat Clij, t'rlday Jim.- H, iw). 
 
 Yates City Banner 
 
 Dry Goods, Notions, 
 Hats, Gloves, Laces. 
 
 Swiss and Hamburg 
 Embroiders and Inser- 
 tions, old men's Fedora 
 hats black and colored; 
 New styles in young- 
 men's hats; new corsets, 
 
 Ladies White Parasols in Assorted Styles, 
 and must be sold right now 
 
 G. A. STETSON. 
 
 Dry Good*. Men s Furnishings and Shoes 
 
 Just a Business 
 PROPOSITION. 
 
 That 3 what (jiiying supjilies for the fain- 
 ily really is There is no sentiment in it. 
 Groceries and meats are two of the main 
 propositions. If I can make it to your ad- 
 vantage and profit to buy them at my store, 
 you will come- here for them. I mean to 
 make it to your advantage and profit to buy 
 at my grocery and meat market Seel 
 
 C V. BIRD, Model Grocef y. 
 WARREisfPAINTT"' 
 
 The Right Paint to Paint Right. 
 White Seal and Fahnestock white lead. 
 
 Pure raw and boiled linkeed oil 
 Slams and Varnishes at lowest prices 
 
 . MM anci.« .( •.. CM. W.MU. I MIM Cm... 1^...^. - - 
 
 Are the most economical, are fly light, easy 
 to adjust and can be Kad in all sizes at 
 
 TAYLOR BRO S. & SCOTT'S. 
 
 C. B. & Q. Time Table. 
 
 thr.^^°*°^*5^.*''/uP'"^"TT*^?? ?i *^^ ^'■'* P«Se of the Yates City Banner, for over thirty- 
 eSSwri't^gs^ "^ • ""• ^^^^^^^^'^^ ^^^ - -b-t the contentJof this book appeared i 
 

OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 AND POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 A. H. McKEIGHAN 
 
 For more than thirty-three years Editor 
 of the Yates City Banner, at Yates City, 111. 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 
 JUDGE P. W. GALLAGHER 
 
 of Canton, 111. 
 
 Copyrighted 1913, by A. H. McKeighan 
 
 Published July, 1913, by the Author 
 
 Permanent Address, Yates City, 111. 
 Present Address, Suite 424, 108 S. La SaUe St.. Chicago 
 

 Dedication 
 To the Sacred Memory of 
 
 My Dear, Loved Wife 
 
 Who for fifty-four years was the angel of my 
 home, and to whose love, devotion, courage, 
 wisdom, counsel, patience and unfailing loyalty 
 to me under all circumstances, I owe whatever 
 of success I have attained, I most reverently 
 dedicate this book. 
 
 CM' M<^^ 
 
 ^^. 
 
 
 ©CI,A351077 
 
' Author's Preface 
 
 At the earnest solicitation of many friends I have consented to 
 publish this book. I submit it to the criticism of the public with no 
 small degree of diffidence, and yet with that courage which my readers 
 have in the past, given me credit for. I will state that the copy was 
 not written with any intention of being published in book form. The 
 greater portion of it was prepared in haste, and under circumstances 
 that made it impossible to give it that careful study that might have 
 improved it. It is compiled from the editorial writings of more than 
 a third of a century. It has been no easy task to select from such a 
 large amount of copy that which seemed to the author to be the best, 
 and it may be that I have made mistakes. 
 
 The aim has been to use that which would interest, instruct and 
 amuse the readers and, at the same time incite them to choose the 
 better, truer, nobler things in life that make for higher aims, stronger 
 characters, purer living and the highest type of citizenship among men 
 and women. 
 
 In this book the reader will get a glimpse of the life and character 
 of the author. In that life work, and in the building of that char- 
 acter he is largely indebted to his faithful wife, one of the noblest 
 and best of women, and to whose revered and sacred memory he has 
 dedicated this volume. 
 
 I return my sincere thanks to all those who have aided and as- 
 sisted me, those whose generous patronage has made it possible for 
 me to publish the book, and whose kind words of encouragement and 
 approval are so much appreciated that they can never be forgotten 
 until the death angel draws about me that curtain that shuts out for- 
 ever the best loved scenes of earth. 
 
 C>P M^-^^^^X^- 
 
Introduction 
 
 To be possessed of high ideals of the immutable character of Al- 
 mighty God. To firmly believe, and for a lifetime, conscientiously 
 follow the teachings of the Christian religion. To be endowed with 
 a spirit of loyalty to country, a love for pure, honest government, the 
 enactment and forceful administration of law in the interest of all 
 the people. To be a faithful, loving husband, a generous, kind father, 
 a true friend and a reliable citizen for more than seventy-six years, 
 is to have lived a life of which any human being should be proud. 
 
 Such a life has been lived by my old friend, A. H. McKeighan, now 
 of Chicago, Illinois, who for more than thirty-three years past was 
 managing editor and owner of the Yates City Banner, of Yates City, 
 Illinois. 
 
 Mr. McKeighan has now determined to give to his friends and 
 the reading world, a treat of high character, by presenting to them 
 in book form, the best articles he has written during his many years 
 of editorial labor, and many of them, I can assure the public, are 
 literary gems that can be found in no other publication. 
 
 Their reproduction will be both interesting and instructive, Mr. 
 McKeighan 's pen pictures of public men and public events were always 
 true, keen criticism in the interest of right and good government. 
 
 I congratulate Mr. McKeighan on his proposed publication, and 
 I heartily congratulate the reading public on the great treat in store 
 for them. I hope that this book will meet with general favor and 
 prove a great success in every way that success may be fairly measured. 
 
 "What shall we gain when we reach the end of a life of joy and pains, 
 When Mother Earth on rich and poor, has a deed to all remains? 
 What shall we gain? The pleasing thought that heaven's blessing sends. 
 The thought that we have an abiding place in the memory of friends." 
 
 Canton, 111., June 15, 1913. 
 
Our Hour Alone 
 
 The Cradle 
 
 The grandest motion in all the world is the motion of the cradle 
 as it rocks to and fro, in palace, or mansion, or hovel. The most heart 
 touching appeal that falls on human ears is the wail that rises from 
 millions of cradles. The sweetest music that vibrates the atmosphere 
 of earth, and rolls upward to the very jasper gates of heaven, is the lulla- 
 bys of the mothers who sing above the tender pledges of love who are 
 being soothed into dreamland in the cradle. It is about the cradle 
 that hopes cluster, pregnant with thousands of possibilities. 
 
 What mother ever bent over a cradle and saw the vision of a desert 
 life? What maternal eye ever looked down into a cradle and traced a 
 path leading to a jail ? What maternal glance has ever seen the shadow 
 of a gibbet glide over the cradle where slept the angel of her promise? 
 And yet, alas ! the possibilities of desert lives, and jails, and gibbets, lie 
 wrapped in these cradles. Here are lying in helpless ignorance the 
 curses of a world. Here, too, unconscious of the latent power, are 
 reposing those who are to bless a race. Go and peer into the cradle if 
 you would see the latent forces that are to pulse a world. If you would 
 view the weakness of strength, stand by the cradle and gaze into the 
 wonderful face of an infant. If you would note the ignorance of wis- 
 dom, you must look on the embryo man wrapped in swaddling clothes, 
 and resting in the cradle. 
 
 The great undeveloped forces of a race are sleeping on cradle 
 pillows. In these humble receptacles, and rocked by the foot of a 
 loving mother, who sings to lighten toil and soothe her precious charge, 
 are to be found those who are to develop the resources of nature in the 
 future. A future generation is not roaming over plains, nor climbing 
 rugged steeps, nor stemming swift and strong currents, nor lifting up 
 a voice in senates, nor striking the sturdy pick into the flinty ore, nor 
 wielding the pen of wisdom, nor handling the sword of power. No; a 
 future generation is in repose; is in rest; is in the cradle. 
 
 Gather all the wealth in the universe into one great shining heap, 
 gemmed with all the diamonds, and rubies, and precious stones that 
 can ever be gathered, and the whole dazzling pile pales in lustre when 
 but the sparkling eye of one infant casts its brighter radiance over it. 
 Bring together all the paintings and all the sculpture that genius has 
 created, and how their grandeur diminishes, and their beauty disappears 
 when the crowing infant but lifts a faultless leg or matchless arm from 
 
10 U R HOUR ALONE 
 
 a cradle pillow, and waves it before them. Bring together, if it be pos- 
 sible, all those colossal works that man has builded, the pyramids, the 
 sphinxes, the great wall of China, the leaning tower of Pisa, the Druid 
 rocks, the tower of Babel, the mounds of the Mound Builders, that race 
 so lost in hoary centuries that only speculation dares to molest them, 
 and place with them all the beauty, and elegance, and grandeur of the 
 world's architecture, then lift from its cradle bed the miniature man, 
 and as you place him beside the imposing pile, listen to the majestic and 
 striking declaration of the holy book saying, "It is fearfully and won- 
 derfully made," and how insignificant man's mightiest works appear! 
 Pile up a vast pyramid of the wisdom and the learning of the world 
 as preserved in books, and as the mother lifts from out its cradle bed 
 her babe and places it beside the accumulated wisdom and learning of 
 a world, who would dare to say that wrapped in its little frame, so 
 frail that but a breath might waft away the vital spark of life, there 
 does not lie hidden a learning deeper, and a wisdom more profound 
 than all these volumes hold? 
 
 In these cradles are the Abrahams, the Isaacs, the Jacobs, the 
 Josephs, the Moseses, the Aarons, the Joshuas, the Sauls, the Davids, 
 the Jonathans, the Solomons, the Nehemiahs, the Ezekiels, the Daniels, 
 the Isaiahs, the Johns, the Peters, the Pauls, the Calvins, the Luthers, 
 the Knoxes, the Wesleys, the Wilberforces, the Washingtons, the 
 Lincolns, the Grants, the great rulers, the mighty warriors, the his- 
 torians, the sculptors, the painters, the poets, the inventors, the dis- 
 coverers, of the future. Freighted with the hopes of a race are these 
 cradles. And in them lie all the possibilities that human ambition, 
 stimulated by example, is capable of attaining. The purest love, the 
 tenderest affection, the holiest passions, the fondest hopes, the most 
 sacred joys of earth cluster around these cradles. Were we a painter, 
 and our brush could trace the canvas o'er with living thoughts and 
 grand conceptions, and did we wish to show the highest and most 
 perfect scene of human happiness, then should our model be the 
 mother, young and fair, bending above the cradle bed where sleeps 
 her child. 
 
 And as we sit tonight amid the silence of a sleeping world, the 
 hour nearing that mysterious time when one day dies just as another 
 day is born, and but the ticking clock sounds like a funeral bell, 
 a vision rises on our view, a quiet country home appears, and in it 
 is a cradle, an empty cradle ; and by it sits a mother in her grief ; upon 
 a board, covered o'er with cloth of spotless white, and resting on two 
 chairs, in an adjacent corner, rests a child; the hair is smooth and 
 glossy; the waxen face is pinched as if by suffering past; the hands 
 are folded o'er a breast that heaves and falls no more; the feet are 
 straightened to remain forever; the mother rises, and with noiseless 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 11 
 
 tread approaches, turns down the snowy covering, and kneeling there 
 she kisses the cold brow, and presses lips hot with the fever of a 
 sacred grief to lips that are as cold as clay ; and tears fall in a blessed 
 shower, as bending in the presence of this great mystery of life, she 
 hears the wail of Eve, when Abel was lying at her feet, the wail of 
 Egypt's mothers, and of every mother from creation's dawn until now, 
 and she knows for the first time how stricken they were, and what a 
 hollow mockery the words of consolation are. And then we see her 
 look from the silent form back to the empty cradle, and start up to 
 realize that we have painted a picture that will be a vivid reality to 
 many a mother, and we realize further that if earth's holiest, highest 
 joys cluster around the cradle of the living child, that its sublimest, 
 deepest, darkest sorrow clusters around the empty cradle from which 
 has just been lifted the dead form of the babe. 
 
 A Tired Mother 
 
 Just a tired mother, that is all. She has wiped the sweat from her 
 hot brow with the corner of her apron, and she is looking out of the 
 back window of a small kitchen, her eager gaze sweeping the green 
 fields where thousands of rustling corn blades are flaunting their 
 green streamers in the shimmering sunlight, and the billowy wheat 
 is rolling forward in graceful undulations before the brisk breeze 
 that sways and bends the boughs of the yielding maples, and causes 
 the leaves of the tall, graceful poplars to dance and flutter as if they 
 were rejoicing in the beauty and the gladness of the bright day. 
 
 Only a moment does she devote to this scene of nature in worship ; 
 only a moment does her eye take in this panorama of earth's mag- 
 nificent beauty, and then she turns with a scarce audible sigh to the 
 weary, worrying, wearing and monotonous duties of everyday work 
 of a woman's life on the farm. 
 
 What tempted that sigh to be audible even in the slightest degree ? 
 It would be idle to guess. She is a woman past fifty years and she 
 has toiled through all the experiences that come to those of her age. 
 She was a school girl once, careless, happy and free as the wild 
 flowers she garlanded into wreaths ; she was the grown daughter once, 
 and stood by another kitchen window, while the shadows were deepen- 
 ing around her, and watched the path across the meadow for the 
 coming of a form, and dreamed, as only a maiden can dream ; she was 
 a bride, too, and felt the strange emotions of the new life surging 
 about her wildly fluttering heart; she was a mother, and knew the 
 raptures of the strong, tender, holy, enduring sentiment of maternal 
 love ; she was a mourner, and realized the bitter hopelessness of those 
 who stand beside the little casket gazing down into the face of a dead 
 
12 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 babe; she has been half crazed by the nervousness of a sleepless 
 pillow, as she listened for the returning footsteps of a wayward son 
 whose feet are treading dangerously near the brink of ruin, and has 
 pleaded in prayer, while the tick, tick, tick of the clock counted ofe 
 the slowly dragging hours; she has stood beside the altar where her 
 daughter was putting her all of earthly happiness into the keeping 
 of another, and only those who have stood there know aught of what 
 passes in the deep recesses of the heart at such a time. 
 
 Might not a thought going back to any of these past experiences 
 be the cause of the little sigh ? 
 
 And all these years she has gone about the same household duties, 
 too busy to repine, too full of cares to take the smallest portion of 
 the precious hours for rest or pleasure. 
 
 That is her picture over the shelf where the lambrequin is so 
 gracefully festooned, whose needlework is so delicate in pattern that 
 it is much admired, though the hands that wrought it have long since 
 been folded in the dreamless sleep. But the picture, while like her, 
 is unlike her, for it was taken years ago, and she has changed. 
 Swift years ! how they fly ! She is not thinking of change or rest, for 
 she does not see how the world could move on if she did not per- 
 form the round of her daily duties. She has changed, but her toils 
 have not, nor will they. Some day a shadow will creep over these 
 familiar rooms, the flutter of the dark angel's wing will disturb the 
 quiet atmosphere in the house where she has so long practiced self 
 immolation, and she will lie down to rest forever. 
 
 The Sore Heeled Boy 
 
 We have all seen him; we have all known him; most of us have 
 been him in days gone by. The sore heeled boy always has been a 
 character, is one now, and always will be. When he ceases to be, the 
 sun will grow dim, the moon hang a black ball in midheaven, the 
 stars cease to twinkle in the azure depths, the winds wither, and the 
 waters stagnate. He is in age from 7 to 11 years; he ripens in the 
 autumn months, generally from September to the middle of December, 
 while some specimens may be found even up to the glad holidays. He 
 is tanned by fierce suns ; he wears pants much too short for him ; one 
 leg is rolled up, while the other is frayed by dragging over the clods. 
 He has one suspender, fastened by a half button on the back part, 
 and held up in front by a toggle; his hair is white, tangled and un- 
 kempt; he has a scarce perceptible squint of one eye, a few freckles 
 scattered over his cheeks, a stub nose and a bias patch on the seat 
 of his pants. No one can tell how his heel got sore; it may be an 
 old fashioned stone bruise, or it may be that he injured it gouging 
 the dirt off a moldboard of a stubborn plow that refused to scour. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 18 
 
 or perhaps it was hurt in the zeal with which he stamped the hole 
 to prevent the bumble-bees from getting out, while his hands were 
 busy clawing an old king bee out of his disordered hair, and his com- 
 rades were rolling in high glee on the grass at a safe distance, and 
 yelling "Go it, boots," at the top of their voices. It doesn't matter how 
 he came by it, but he has it. At first he makes quite a fuss over it; 
 his mother is called on and after a critical examination she says : 
 ''Well, I do declare, if that boy hain't got another sore heel." Then 
 she slips softly upstairs, takes down a bundle of rags, tears off a strip, 
 returns to the kitchen, goes into the pantry, takes from the top shelf 
 a small tin box, smells of the contents, reaches in with her forefinger, 
 dips out a small portion, holds it close to her nose, tucks the box in 
 the rag, goes to the sewing machine, takes a needle carefully from the 
 cushion, holds it between her eye and the light — for just what purpose 
 we never could decide — unwraps a small piece of castile soap from a 
 flannel rag that has lain in the corner of the bureau drawer, and which 
 no other living soul knew was in the house, secures a basin of tepid 
 rain water, seizes the boy's foot and begins to wash away the dirt, and 
 press carefully with her delicate, soft touch about the bruise, until the 
 boy utters lots of "ouches," "oh mys," "don'ts," "that hurts," and 
 finally breaks into a regular boo-boo, hoo-hoo. Then she spreads some 
 green salve from the tin box on a clean rag, applies it to the sore, 
 binds over another rag and sews it on securely, dries his tears on the 
 corner of her apron, assists him to the little bed in the corner, asks 
 him if he is going to forget his prayers, listens to the sobbing repetition 
 of that matchless invocation, "Our Father who art in heaven," covers 
 him up snugly, speaks a few words of comfort in such a soothing tone 
 that he almost forgets his pain, prints the holiest of earthly kisses on 
 his brow and leaves him to himself. Then she returns in half an hour 
 to find him with eyes closed, breathing heavily, a look of pain on his 
 young face, and traces of tears down either cheek. Then she softly 
 mutters, "God bless mother's pet," adjusts the covers and descends 
 to cut the leg off an old sock, well knowing that a boot or shoe will be 
 out of the question. The next day, and for days and days, yes, for 
 weeks and weeks — perhaps months — you will see the boy moving about, 
 walking on the ball of his foot with the old sock over the sore heel. 
 Sometimes the heel does not seem to trouble him much, as, for instance, 
 if he sees a steam thresher coming, hears two dogs fighting, catches 
 the strains of a hand organ, or hears of a party who are going nutting. 
 At another time the heel takes a wonderful tantrum, as, for instance, 
 if his mother wants him to dig potatoes, carry away the slop, split 
 kindling or drive up the cows. As we sit here in the silence tonight, 
 our thoughts trying to penetrate the future or wander back into the 
 past, we set our foot down hard to make sure that we are not a sore- 
 
14, OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 heeled boy again, and the jar wakes us from a half reverie, and we 
 realize that forty years intervene between us and the sore-heel period 
 of life, and we hear the labored breathing of the dear old mother who 
 soothed us when we belonged to the sore-heeled brigade, and we find 
 ourselves wondering what the sore-heeled boys of today will be doing 
 when forty more years are added to the calendar of time, and the 
 hands that trace these pages shall be folded on a silent bosom. 
 
 A Transfigured Hero 
 
 It is easy to be a hero when everybody knows it. But most heroes 
 are not discovered until after they are dead. It is then that brilliant 
 writers dip their ready pens in fabled inks and say the things that 
 should have been said to the living rather than of the dead. But 
 such as these our humbler pen, dipped in no magic urn, and with no 
 nibs on fire with great achievements, has no desire to lift to public 
 gaze. Today was cold, bleak and cheerless. Its hours are going out 
 boisterously, the wind a moan — nay, almost a very shriek. It rattles 
 the windows, whips the bare branches of the two sturdy maples that, 
 in summer, shade the walk in front of our humble cot, and it has that 
 peculiar whistle in the crevice of the stovepipe that in the long past 
 days of childhood so filled us with awe that we crept close to the knee 
 of the dear old mother for safety, and felt but half secure when the 
 tousled head was pillowed on her lap. How her kindly face comes 
 out before our inner consciousness as we write! Again we hear her 
 low, sweet, musical voice as she dispels our fears with reassuring 
 words. The snows of many winters have fallen on her grave, and 
 kindly summer suns coaxed from the bosom of mother earth the 
 bladed grass to green the mound where sleeps her hallowed dust, 
 and flowers have bloomed and faded above her, as she sleeps the last, 
 long, dreamless sleep in the beautiful Oak Ridge cemetery at Farming- 
 ton. But our heart yearns tonight, Oh! so deeply yearns to lay an 
 older head upon that lap, that the graver fears of a maturer age might 
 be soothed. 
 
 But this is wandering. The day has been a gloomy one — dear 
 reader, recall Monday — ^the clouds dull and heavy, the air keen and 
 penetrating beyond the season, and the wind — it reminds us of the 
 winds that were so awe-inspiring in the long ago, as we listened to 
 its soughing in the tops of the stately pines in the forests about the 
 beautiful town of Millville, New Jersey. True it is that : 
 
 "When chill November's surly blasts. 
 Make fields and forests bare." 
 
 And while the day has impressed us by its cheerless gloom, it will be 
 remembered more for an incident that came to our notice. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 16 
 
 "We saw a man with bent form and gray hair. He was clothed in 
 threadbare garments, faded and frayed. "We heard from thoughtless 
 lips of ignorant men that in the scramble after the pelf the world so 
 loves and worships, he had always come out last, and with nothing. 
 We heard the scornful laugh, and low-toned speech that said he had 
 no pride, or better garb would hide the angularity of his loose-jointed 
 frame. It grated harshly on our ears, and set a-quiver every sensitive 
 nerve, for we, by chance, had known him from a lad, knew how his 
 future once was pregnant with great hopes, and expectation stood on 
 tip-toe, looking over into HIS promised land from HIS Kadesh Bernea, 
 and how the hand of God had turned his weary feet back to the wilder- 
 ness, how sickness sapped the substance of his home, and death, whose 
 cruel hand has never pity shown, had robbed him of those he loved, till 
 now more ties are binding him to heaven than anchor him to earth. 
 "We knew how time and time again some prize seemed just within his 
 grasp, when one of longer reach and subtler cunning removed it from 
 his path. We knew that in the recent time he had, by strict economy, 
 scraped together enough to change his rags to better things, but ere 
 he got them a letter came that told how an old friend — one he loved — 
 in a distant state — was sick, and — well — in want. The post office got 
 two coppers for a stamp, a far-away home was made bright as Eden's 
 fairest morn, even when the natural sun was hidden by sombre clouds, 
 and he — well, he still wears a shiny, frazzled, faded coat. 
 
 Today we saw the crimson mount his cheek as those who never 
 dreamed the manner of man he was, turned supercilious, scorning lip 
 to say hard things of him. 
 
 And as he buried himself from human sight within the little room 
 where tasks are done that would a burden prove to younger men than 
 he — ^to men of larger hope — we thought it were an illusion — but at 
 the moment it seemed almost a real thing — we thought a halo played 
 about his plain and homely face, and as we thought of all that he 
 had done and suffered — and all without a thought of self — but all 
 for others — there rose before us the sacred mount in Palestine, where 
 the lowly Nazarene was transfigured in the presence of His chosen 
 disciples. 
 
 The hours are waning fast. The day will soon be part of that great 
 past that grows by slow but sure accretion of dead days. Those 
 whose daily toil and interest center in Yates City are wrapt in sleep. 
 We started out to write of heroes, and with the dear readers of the 
 Banner, who, in the days gone by, have kindly welcomed some of the 
 brain children born in "Our Hour Alone," we leave the decision of 
 whether we have missed our good intent or not, for all that we can say 
 is that with a softer heart we say to all, ' ' good night. ' ' 
 
16 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Let Santa Claus Come 
 
 There are many homes blest with children, bright, lovable, happy 
 boys and girls, and they are all on tip-toe with expectation as to what 
 Santa Claus will bring. In these homes there is not much money, and 
 the little there is some one has a claim on, and the parents are in 
 sore distress as to whether it is their duty to pay the little debt and 
 disappoint the children, or have Santa Claus come and make the boys 
 and girls happy. Please don't ask us to tell you what to do. We 
 know, and you know, that the world says "pay the debt," and the 
 world is right ; but — blamed if we wouldn 't say let Santa Claus come ; 
 let the eyes of the little ones sparkle with joy, even though the money 
 that enabled Santa Claus to come were a dollar and a half that was 
 due the editor, and the lack of which may compel him to eat very 
 common grub for his Christmas dinner. Let God feed the editor — that 
 is, if he is in favor of our theory for the children — if he isn 't, he isn 't 
 worth feeding. 
 
 This is just about the fool advice we would give if you did ask 
 us, so please don't ask us, for if you followed our advice you would 
 be a repudiator and an anarchist almost as abhorrent as W. J. Bryan, 
 who wanted to make silver dollars so plenty that the children of the 
 poor laboring man might have plenty to eat, and might hug a very 
 sure enough doll at the glad Christmas time — the time when the won- 
 derful Christ child's feeble wail mingled with the lowing of the kine, 
 in the little hamlet of Bethlehem, while the glad angel song woke 
 echoes that will reverberate around and around the world, until that 
 supreme moment when the angel shall stand with one foot upon the 
 sea, and one on solid land, proclaiming that time shall be no longer. 
 
 But you who level the coldness of your criticism at us — you, who 
 feel your honest blood boil at our loose moral suggestions — have you 
 tested every phase of human experience ? Did you stand one Christmas 
 day looking down into the sadly sorrowing face of the dearest little girl 
 in all the world, and hear her sobbing cry that Santa Claus had for- 
 gotten her, and felt your own bosom heave and swell as the waves 
 of sorrow rose and sank in her little breast? Did you watch her make 
 little futile attempts at play during the day, and did you slip up to 
 her little cot at night, after she had cried herself to sleep, and kiss the 
 tears from her wet lashes, turning your head so your own hot tears 
 might not fall on the little innocent face over which you were bending, 
 while you made a solemn promise before God to right her wrong next 
 Christmas? Did you forget the matter until a few months later you 
 again stood by her little cot and looked down upon the saddest mystery 
 in all the universe of God — a dying child, and realized that her 
 next Christmas would be passed in the presence of Him whose birth 
 made sacred the day to all his followers? How did you feel pangs 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 17 
 
 of remorse about your heart as you smoothed her shining tresses back 
 from her bloodless brow? How did you keep chafing the little thin 
 hands that lay folded on the little bosom that would never again rise 
 and fall in a sigh at any sorrow for the doll that never came? 
 
 And then as you wandered to the quiet burial place the next 
 Christmas, and sat you down beside the little mound — dear, sacred 
 mound that hides her from your sight — your thought flies back to the 
 Christmas before, and you say, "If I had known ; if I had only known." 
 
 If your experience has been similar to this, then carping criticism 
 will die upon your lips, and in your heart such love for helpless child- 
 hood will glow as that which kindled in the Savior's breast that day 
 He made so glad the hearts of Jewish mothers as He folded in His arms 
 the little ones, and said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, 
 and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Oh, 
 sacred words ! Oh, blessed words ! to all of us whose darling little ones 
 have gone through the "Gates Ajar," and will not be with us when 
 the morning of Christmas breaks over the world. 
 
 If such experience you lack, we can say thank God whose hand has 
 dealt so kindly with you, but pardon us, your criticism may not be 
 allowed. 
 
 Dear reader, you have Our Hour Alone. Receive it as you will, but 
 when we come to be buried, if no minister be there, ready with flatter- 
 ing words, let some true friend but read it o'er the grave, and say for 
 us, farewell ! 
 
 Hope, Faith and Love 
 
 Hope is the anchor that holds men when great storms are surging 
 all about them, and nothing but darkness and gloom and anxious fore- 
 boding can be seen, look which way they may. Hope points to fairer 
 skies, to happier days, to brighter prospects. Hope lifts the shadows 
 from the face, takes the sadness out of the heart, heals the sickness of 
 the soul. Obliterate hope and you make a wreck of man, and he 
 needs no argument to convince him that there is a place of endless 
 torment. Where is to be the end of punishment, if hope be dead, never 
 to be resurrected? Hope is the sunshine that lights up the cold, gray 
 peaks of life ; it is the rainbow that spans the dark clouds, and reminds 
 us of gracious promises ; it is the fire that warms the chilliness of life, 
 and around which we gather to inspire new courage for strifes that 
 we know lie before us, and which — plan as we will — cannot be avoided. 
 With hope man is not — never can be — lost, and has in him all the 
 possibilities of all the ages past, of the present one, and all that are yet 
 to come. Take away the forest ; dissolve the landscapes ; wither the 
 flower ; blot out the sun ; extinguish the stars ; dry up the oceans ; level 
 the mountains ; let the earth swing in chaotic space, ' ' rayless, treeless, 
 
18 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 herbless," but leave man the enthusiasm of hope, and he will smile, 
 and looking out beyond these material disasters, will confidently expect 
 he is not born to die. 
 
 Faith is belief ; take it out of our life, and what have we to live for? 
 We need faith in nature and her marvelous works ; faith in truth, that 
 it will ultimately prevail ; faith in goodness, that it may lift us above 
 the evils of life ; faith in human progress, that it will finally carry us 
 beyond all that now clogs, and retards, and hinders; faith in our 
 fellow-man that he is — as a whole — noble, brave, loving, just, true, 
 sympathetic, kind and self-sacrificing ; faith in God, whose omniscience, 
 omnipotence and omniprescence are so many guarantees that all things 
 are ordered by Him, all things controlled by Him, all changes meted 
 out by Him, and that serene above all interference, beyond all possi- 
 bility of accident, beyond all peradventure of doubt. He is doing His 
 will among the armies of heaven, and among the inhabitants of this 
 earth; faith in ourselves, that all the possibilities for good that lie 
 latent and dormant will yet be aroused to full and effective action, 
 and that all the evil that clings to us in our fallen condition will be 
 eradicated in that great and mysterious future about which we so 
 earnestly speculate. Faith in education, in science, in philosophy, in 
 government, in religion, in the triumph of right, in the rule of justice, 
 in all that elevates, ennobles, lifts up, and carries forward. 
 
 Love is the mighty conqueror. It unlocks the long-closed doors, 
 turns them creaking on rusty hinges, open the shutters and floods every 
 apartment with radiant light, fills every empty chamber of the heart 
 with joy and gladness, causes us to reach out toward others, widens 
 the circles of our lives until they touch other life circles, lifts us out 
 of self, and teaches us the duties we owe to ourselves, to others, to 
 God. Love is the great transformer, coming to change the very con- 
 stitution of our being, and awakening new hopes, new faiths, new joys. 
 God is love. Wondrous declaration. Man derives his being from God ; 
 hence he is endowed with the capacity to love ; that capacity is the 
 evidence of our divine origin. It separates us from the lower orders; 
 it links us to those that are higher. Think of the friend love, the 
 parent love, the brother love, the sister love, the wife love, and above 
 all the mother love, pure, holy, unselfish, lasting, strong, unbounded! 
 It is the least mixed with things of the earth, and is nearest to God's 
 love. No love like the mother's love lasts and endures. 
 
 Hope, Faith, Love ! A trinity that embraces all that man wishes, 
 desires, aspires to. They give strength; they bring comfort; they are 
 the sentinels that guard the avenues leading to and from the human 
 heart. Let us seek to have them; let us strive to retain them; let us 
 realize how much they have to do with the everyday duties of life, and 
 how much they mean to those who are but pilgrims, and who realize 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 19 
 
 that life is but a vapor that appeareth for a little season, and then 
 is lost to sight. 
 
 The Church Imperishable 
 
 The church of Jesus Christ is the most wonderful thing in all the 
 world's history. It is the only thing in all this universe that will never 
 show a vestige of decay. It is as grand, as sublime as its founder, 
 and will be as eternal. It will be transplanted, but not destroyed. It 
 will be changed from the church militant to the church triumphant, 
 but it will have no semblance of disintegration. The chief cornerstone 
 has been laid, and the capstone will be put on with shoutings of 
 "Grace, grace, unto it!" 
 
 The world has seen some great structures. The pyramids of Egypt, 
 grand, vast, colossal, and hoary with the passage of four thousand 
 years, one of them 746 feet on each side of the square base, 450 feet 
 high, and containing 82,111,000 cubic feet of masonry, and one hundred 
 thousand men toiling in its erection. It has been called "an eternity of 
 masonry," but the sands of the desert are slowly but surely creeping 
 up from its base, and it will yet be buried as deep as Herculaneum or 
 Pompeii. 
 
 Greece had its Acropolis, and on it the wonderful Parthenon; 
 it cost $46,000,000 when money was just ten times as valuable as it is 
 now. Think of it ! $46,000,000 ! It was the gem of Grecian architec- 
 ture, and glittered in the sunlight, beautiful, exquisite, transcendent. 
 In 1687 it was used as a powder magazine. A Venetian shell fell on the 
 roof, and the glory of the magnificent structure was a ruin, 
 
 Rome had her Coliseum, 612 feet in length, seats for 87,000 people, 
 standing room for 15,000 more — 500 years of cruelty — but it is now but 
 a stupendous ruin. 
 
 Egyptian civilization gone ; Grecian civilization gone ; Roman civ- 
 ilization gone, but the church survives, and flourishes amid a decay that 
 has wasted and destroyed the most stupendous of the monuments that 
 human skill has planned and human labor has accomplished. 
 
 The battle of Marathon, the battle of Syracuse, the battle of Arbela, 
 the battle of Metarns, the battle of Yarns, the battle of Chalons, the 
 battle of Tours, the battle of Hastings, the battle of Orleans, the battle 
 of Armeda, the battle of Blenheim, the battle of Pultowa, the battle of 
 Saratoga, the battle of Valma, the battle of "Waterloo, these have 
 changed the destiny of a world, and yet the church has exerted an 
 influence greater than them all. 
 
 The mightiest structures live only in their ruins; the most impor- 
 tant battles live only in history ; but the church of God shows no 
 semblance of decay; it lives now, and will live amid the wreck of 
 matter and the crash of worlds. 
 
20 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Peace on Earth 
 
 More than eighteen centuries have come and gone into the silent, 
 misty, dim and fading past, since the lonely shepherds, watching their 
 flocks on the lone Judea hills, saw the wonderful star, and followed 
 its guiding light until it came and ''stood over the manger where 
 the young child lay." Here was the beginning of a new era. 
 Here was the dawn of a better day for humanity. Here, indeed, 
 was the "Ringing out of the old, and the ringing in of the 
 new," Here, as at the approach of the natural day, a star appeared, 
 attracting the attention of the lowly tenders of the flocks, and they 
 hesitated not to follow it over the rugged hills, until they were per- 
 mitted to kneel before Him who was to "be lifted up, that He might 
 draw all men unto Him." Since that memorable night, when the song 
 of the angels woke the slumbering echoes of those hills, stirring the 
 hearts of the simple minded with a glow of holy enthusiasm, almost 
 nineteen hoary centuries have stalked past in the mysterious proces- 
 sion of time; kingdoms have risen and died; races have begun and 
 ended ; religions have been founded and perished ; long processions of 
 kings, nobles, heroes, conquerors, scholars, priests, philosophers, sages, 
 have come, stalked their brief hour upon the mimic stage, and gone; 
 cities have been built and crumbled; books have been written, and 
 today they are lying on the shelves of musty libraries, slowly coating 
 with the silently accumulating dust of centuries ; generation after gen- 
 eration of men have come from the mysterious and gone into the 
 unknown; hope, joy, sorrow, despair, have rolled their surging tides 
 over men, women and children, and yet the anniversary of the natal 
 morn of Christ is celebrated wherever the story of the cross has been 
 told, and all classes and conditions of people hail the approach 
 of the merry Christmas times as the season of joy, of gladness, 
 and the giving of gifts. The children of today listen to the 
 story of Santa Claus, and look with open-eyed wonder on his 
 beautiful and wonderful gifts, and speculate on how he got down 
 the chimney, or through the diminutive key-hole. Ah! Happy, 
 trusting, confiding childhood! Let them believe it; let them not 
 be rudely awakened from such pleasing dreams; do not cast the 
 dark gloom of reality over this picture of fancy; all too soon will 
 be the awaking; the battle of life is not fancy, but fact; not poetry, 
 but prose ; not songs of ease, but commands that we must obey. Gather 
 the children, then, into the churches, around the family circle, In the 
 school room, everywhere, and tell them the wonderful, the beautiful, 
 the touching story of the birth of Christ. Let them catch visions of 
 angels and shepherds, and worshipers ; let them hear the echoes of that 
 voice — the voice of Him who "spake as never man spake" — chiming 
 down the corridors of the centuries, sweet, pleasant, gentle, mild and 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 21 
 
 loving as it was when He held those familiar talks with His disciples ; 
 when He entered into the temple and taught ; when He sat on the mount 
 in the presence of that vast multitude and delivered that immortal 
 sermon that has never been approached by the utterances of mortal 
 man. Let them see Jesus at the well, talking with the woman of 
 Samaria; let them see Him restoring the widow's son; let them see 
 Him in the house of Mary and Martha, whose brother, Lazarus, He has 
 just called back from the grave; let them see Him in the garden of 
 Gethsemane ; let them see Him before Pilate ; let them follow Him up 
 the steep ascent of Calvary ; let them see the sun veiled in a mysterious 
 eclipse ; let them feel the rockings of that terrible earthquake ; let them 
 behold the bursting graves giving up their sheeted dead to take up 
 their march through the tortuous streets of Jerusalem ; let them hear 
 above the rumbling of the earthquake and amidst the gloom of the 
 eclipse, that voice, crying, "Elio! Elio! Lama! Sabacthani!" It is 
 more interesting than fiction ; it is more fascinating than story. It is 
 elevating and grand. Such instructions never sowed the seeds of vice, 
 never led to any crime, never wrecked a life, never blasted a home. 
 Then weave the evergreen about the altar; put the gift of affection 
 under the plate ; let the mails be burdened with the silent but eloquent 
 messages of love. For away down the aisles of the future, when God 
 fulfills His promises, that a "Knowledge of Him shall cover the earth, 
 as the waters do the seas," as the glorious dawn of the millennial 
 morn lights up the peaks and crags, the hills and groves of earth, mil- 
 lions of glad children will meet on Christmas morning to take up the 
 glad refrain that erstwhile broke the stillness of Judea's plains, 
 "Hosannas in the highest, peace on earth, good will to men." 
 
 Nature the Teacher 
 
 Nature is the great teacher; she has a lesson for the learned and 
 the ignorant, and she speaks to each in his own language — a language 
 that is simple, because it is understood. She has no library, but she 
 has all that has been presented to the mind of those who have written 
 her teachings, and bound them in volumes. The student soon learns 
 this lesson, that nature is never idle ; she is always at work ; she works 
 by unerring laws, and all her changes are changes of method. Nature 
 is a lasting, a continuous revolution. She is a constant change, in 
 which is multiform variety ; but it is only revolution and change — it is 
 never death. Day follows night, and night again takes the place of 
 day, but day does not die; it simply changes place with night, and 
 while we see it not, other eyes behold its light. Night is not lost, for 
 when the king of day scatters its gloom where we behold it, its murky 
 skies and simerian darkness settle on places beyond our vision. Suns 
 rise and set, to us, but do they rise and set? Our infant knowledge 
 
22 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 tells they do not. Stars come and go — now in the circumscribed 
 horizon of our vision, and now far, far beyond; but do they cease to 
 shine? The telescope comes in to aid the eye, and gives denial to such 
 a thought. All heavenly bodies are but a revolution ; they are in con- 
 stant change, but nowhere do they cease to be. The seasons are in 
 revolution ; they are in continual change, but not a single one has yet 
 been lost. Winter is said to be an emblem of death; but is it? Is it 
 not rather the emblem of repose? Nothing in nature dies in winter's 
 cheerless reign. And when the change is made, and spring comes with 
 her potent resurrection voice, and stands beside the grave of tree and 
 shrub and plant and flower, and in the words of Him who stood before 
 the rocky cavern where Lazarus lay, utters the simple "Come forth," 
 how is the lie given to the theory of death. How does the germ of 
 life shoot up, and genial currents start, and : 
 
 "Life and beauty everywhere, 
 Are bursting into life." 
 
 Yes, life and beauty, for they are not separable. But revolution 
 continues, and summer comes to give symmetry to form, to change the 
 blossom into fruit, to fill the bearded heads with wealth of grain, to fill 
 the grass with juicy succulence, and start the droning hum of insect 
 life. It is a revolution, — a change — but in it all no indication of death. 
 Again a change, and autumn russets the apple, mellows the pear, 
 makes solid the potato, hulls o'er the gluten of the grain, ripens the 
 corn, tinges the blushing maples with crimson glow, and carmines the 
 clumpy shumachs — perfecting all that nature has done, and yet it 
 is but change — not death. Then winter comes again and shuts the 
 forces of nature up, and locks them in his cold embrace — so like 
 to death that only knowledge makes it certain it is not. That knowl- 
 edge teaches us that it is not death — but rather rest, repose. And 
 when we comprehend that all is thus but evolution — change — that 
 nothing created is lost — that only changes come to shift the forms 
 of life — that naught in nature dies — but only seeks rest — repose — 
 who will dare to say that man can die? In youth we have our 
 spring — with tender leaf — with bud — with beauteous, regal flower. 
 In manhood summer — with its change from bud to leaf — from flower 
 to fruit — from pulp to ripened grain. Old age is autumn — with per- 
 fected results — with glorious beauty tinging every honest life — with 
 wisdom 's garner full — and ample preparation made to meet that winter 
 when rest — repose — the sleep that we call death shall wrap us in its 
 mantle dark and cold. But spring will come, the beauteous, vernal, 
 lasting spring that circles with all seasons round. And the eternal 
 summer, warm — not with a transient sun, but an enduring heat — will 
 perfect all our powers, those fruits that so adorn the mind. Then will 
 the autumn come to tinge with an unfading splendor all the boughs 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 23 
 
 of the fair tree of life. And winter, no longer needed to instruct us 
 in the power of a resurrection to come, will merge in these, and 
 changed, yet not lost, will tone this trinity of seasons that will revolute 
 through the eternal ages— revolute and change — but never die, for 
 what is death but change ? 
 
 "Stand Up" 
 
 Just 1851 years ago, in Cesarea, dwelt a devout man who was a 
 centurion, that is, had command of one hundred men called the Italian 
 band. In a vision he was directed to send men to Joppa, and inquire 
 for Peter, the apostle. He obeyed the direction given, and when the 
 men returned, bringing Peter with them, the centurion, whose name 
 was Cornelius, met him, and fell at his feet and worshiped him. But 
 Peter took him up, saying, * ' Stand up ; I myself am also a man. ' ' 
 
 "Stand up." This is a command. It was just as if Peter had told 
 the centurion that man bowing down to man was degrading, and that 
 there is but one being before whom man may prostrate himself and be 
 elevated and that being is God. This is a logical conclusion, because 
 man is the nearest to God — the immortal part of his fellowman being 
 a spark of Deity itself, and if man is not to bow before man then he 
 can only bow before God. "Stand up." As we read this bit of old 
 history, some days ago, these two words fastened themselves on our 
 memory, and they kept presenting themselves before us, and we could 
 not but admire the independence that they suggested. Man was never 
 intended for a slave. He has but one Master; all his fellows are his 
 brethren. If the beggar on the dunghill has not as many rights as the 
 king on his throne, it is not because there is any heaven-born distinc- 
 tion between them, but because man has made a distinction in favor 
 of the one as against the other. This distinction cannot degrade the 
 beggar until he becomes a party to the wrong against himself, and 
 bows in cringing servility before one who has no right not common to 
 both, except so far as he may have usurped it. And how like the 
 command of God himself would come these two monosyllables to call 
 the beggar back to a realization of heaven-born rights, "Stand up." 
 This king before whom he fell prostrate is but a man. How like a 
 shrill shriek these words would echo in the ears of the miser as he 
 bows before his golden god, to pay a willing worship! With what an 
 emphasis might they fall on the hearing of the giddy votary of fashion, 
 as she bends in devout devotion before the altar of her capricious 
 goddess! "Stand up." How cause a paleness to fade out the flushed 
 and fevered cheek of the gambler, as they called him to a sense of 
 what a tyrannous oppressor the object he worships really is! Brave 
 words these to whisper in the presence of those who are spending 
 their lives in a selfish desire to satisfy their own animal want, and who 
 
24 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 know no higher motive than seeking pleasure gives. How we do wish 
 that we could shout these words loud enough to arrest the attention of 
 every one in that vast army who, with bleared eyes, reeking breath, 
 besotted visage, ruined health, weakened intellect, and reeling step, 
 are marching in a pitiful array on the downward road to the worship 
 of king alcohol, that tyrant devoid of pity, who laughs when innocent 
 childhood suffers, derides the despairing wail of helpless womanhood, 
 and exults in fiendish delights over the miseries of souls that he has 
 sent to the drunkard's hell. Who is there with one spark of humanity 
 in his bosom who would not shout Amen! could these words, "Stand 
 up, ' ' but reach these unfortunates in such a way that they would heed 
 them? Stand up for the right against the wrong; stand up for the 
 weak against the strong; stand up for the oppressed against the 
 oppressor. When temptations come, stand up ; when trials come, 
 stand up ; when your convictions of duty tell you that you are in the 
 right, do not hesitate to stand up. And now to those readers of the 
 Banner who reside in the corporate limits of Yates City, let us say 
 there is a time not far distant when you will be called on to vote for or 
 against license for the degrading saloon, that octopus that reaches 
 out to take the innocent boy and destroy his manhood, and make him 
 a ruin, and may we not in all the earnestness of sincere conviction, 
 with all the zeal of one who would save the erring, entreat you, if you 
 are tempted to take a ballot in your hand for such a doubtful purpose, 
 and thus prostrate yourselves before the giant wrong and crime of the 
 age, to stop and determine if you do not hear these words of the 
 impetuous Peter sounding along the past centuries, and saying to you 
 in tones that may not be disregarded, ' ' Stand up, ' ' and do not dishonor 
 your manhood by doing so foul a thing. 
 
 More Sunshine Than Shadow 
 
 Before this article is put into type by the fingers of the patient 
 prmter. Thanksgiving day will be past. 
 
 It is a commendable custom to set apart one day in which to return 
 thanks to the Giver of All Good, for His care of our lives and property. 
 
 Thursday has been appointed as a day to be observed by our people. 
 The President has issued a proclamation, and the Governor has also 
 issued one. The people will gather in the churches and spend an hour 
 in solemn worship. That is, a part of the people will. A very large | 
 number will spend the day with relatives or friends. It has been a 
 glad day for a large majority of our people. Friends have met, families 
 have been reunited, children have gathered at the old homestead, 
 enemies have been reconciled, new friendships have been formed, new 
 joys have been awakened. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 25 
 
 We are right glad that God has given us this extra Sabbath, this 
 sacred day in which we may stop for a moment, as it were, to recount 
 a small part of the mercies that have been given us. 
 
 It is too often the case that we get so engaged in the busy rush 
 and whirl of life that we forget how much we have to be thankful for. 
 The dark clouds are more noticed that they obscure the bright sun. 
 The trials, the toils, the troubles of daily life are so many and varied 
 that we are apt to forget that we have had a thousand blessings for 
 every curse. An hour of joy for every moment of sorrow. An age of 
 ease for every brief season of pain. Weeks of health for days of 
 sickness. Months of prosperity for brief times of adversity. Long 
 days of bright, soft, warm sunshine for short nights of darkness and 
 gloom. Too often we forget the sweet, and remember only the bitter. 
 How we are surprised when we stop to consider how blest we have 
 been. Truly we can say, with the devout and worshipful poet : 
 
 "Moments and mercies multiplied, 
 Have made up all the day; 
 Moments came swift, but mercies were 
 More swift and free than they." 
 
 Many of us can be thankful that our life has been spared during 
 a year remarkable for accidents. Our health is good. No great calam- 
 ity has overtaken us. We have mourned the loss of no dear one. We 
 ha'.e had good homes, kind friends, plenty of food, comfortable 
 clothes. The lines have fallen to us in pleasant places. 
 
 But there are some who cannot say so. Accident, disease, death, 
 loss of property, health, friends, all have overtaken them. Still we are 
 sure if they have searched, they found on Thanksgiving some occasion 
 to thank God that it is as well with them as it is. Many of the evils 
 of life are but seeming evils. For many of the misfortunes that we 
 mourned over a few short months ago, we could say devoutly last 
 Thursday, * ' Thank God for them. ' ' No truer words were ever written 
 than these: 
 
 "And even should misfortune come, 
 I, here wha sit, hae met wi some, 
 
 An's thankfu' for them yet. 
 They gie the wit of age to youth; 
 
 They let us ken oursel' 
 They make us see the naked truth, 
 
 The real guid and ill. 
 Though losses and crosses 
 Be lessons right severe. 
 There's wit there, ye'll git there, 
 Ye'll find nae other where." 
 
 Thrice happy those who have the wisdom to give thanks for even 
 the crosses of life. 
 
 Some of us have gone through the deep waters of affliction. The 
 death angel has spread his wings over our dwelling, and shut out the 
 
26 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 sunlight of hope, and our loved ones have faded from our sight. Age 
 has tottered to its final rest. Manhood has lost its strength, and sleeps 
 the last long sleep. Beauty has faded and now is lying silent on the 
 eternal hills. Youth has forgotten its vigor, and has gone to make its 
 bed with the great, silent throng. Infancy has ceased its prattle, the 
 smile has faded from its thin lips, the little spark of life has gone sud- 
 denly out, and with tear-dimmed eyes, and bursting hearts, you have 
 laid the dear, cold clay to rest, heaped a mound of earth over it, and 
 have gone back to a desolate home— to grieve forever? Oh, no; but 
 in many instances to thank God that you have fathomed the great deep 
 of paternal woe ; to rejoice that they are safe in the fold. 
 
 No more sincere thanks have gone up on the annual day of praise 
 to God for blessings given, than has gone up from the hearts of 
 parents who have lifted up their hearts in gratitude to God for the 
 memory of the loved and lost. 
 
 As we sit here in the deep silence tonight, with no sound to break 
 the solitude of night, but the deep wailing of December wind, our 
 thoughts go back to the dear little blossoms that opened and faded 
 in our arms years ago, and they are with us in memory once more, 
 while a tell-tale moisture dims our eyes, as we lift up our hearts in 
 deep gratitude to God, and thank Him that the dearest spot in all 
 the universe, to us, is where four little mounds of earth are being 
 swept by the bleak blasts that are howling over the earth. 
 
 Happy are those who have been able to say, "Thank God that 
 it seems well with the living," and have been able to add, "Thank 
 God that we are sure it is well with the dead." 
 
 Dear reader, the musings of this Hour Alone may touch a tender 
 chord in your heart; but if you will retire to silent solitude for but 
 one hour, and give the time to the memory of the past, we feel sure 
 that you will find every chord in the "Harp of a thousand strings," 
 all tuned to the beautiful harmony of Praise and Thanksgiving. 
 
 The Old Copy Book 
 
 "No man was ever great by imitation." These words come back 
 to us like the remembrance of some strain of music heard long ago, 
 and for a time forgotten. It was somewhere away back in the dim 
 uncertain past — perhaps in the old log school house near the New- 
 comb place — that our eye first fell upon this sentence, as it is at the 
 head of this article. Perhaps we first noticed the difficulties of the 
 capital N, M, G, B, and I, that loomed up with such formidable aspect 
 on the clean, white page — clean and white then — but alas! sadly 
 marred, blotted, and disfigured, before our hieroglyphics were traced 
 on the lines on that — to us — interminable page. "No man was ever 
 great by imitation;" it does not occur to us that we understood a 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 27 
 
 word of it; indeed we are pretty positive that we did not; at least 
 there is no doubt but what our mind was badly befogged by the word 
 "Imitation," but then it had some easy letters in it, and we rather 
 liked it before we got done; besides we supposed that the teacher 
 knew all about it, and somehow or other — it was not clear to us 
 how — we expected the teacher would be with us all along the pleasant 
 journey of life, and if we ever really cared to know the meaning 
 of it — which we certainly did not then — why, we would ask. 
 
 Of course we got familiar with the copy before we got down the 
 long row of lines, but our real knowledge of the quotation — but bless 
 you, we never dreamed that it was a quotation — far from it; we had 
 an exalted opinion of the teacher, and were firm in the belief that he 
 was not only the greatest man living, but no such man ever had lived 
 before, and we supposed that he just whittled his quill and then 
 picked out these words from millions that he had stored away in the 
 back of his head, and wrote them on our copy book, so "awfully" neat 
 and pretty, that we never expected to be able to write half so well — 
 and we never have. If all our later expectations had been half so 
 well filled, we would perhaps not have been spending this Hour Alone, 
 in which case we would have lost pleasant time indeed, for the 
 memory of that old copy recalls faces long forgotten, and calls up 
 forms that have long since rested from the cares of life. But we only 
 mention this incidentally ; the reader will no doubt see a similar picture, 
 differently shaded and colored, perhaps, but still deeply interesting. 
 
 The drift of our thoughts tonight seems to indicate that there 
 is a vast amount of information in that old copy. And while we 
 never could get the artistic flourish to the N or M, or yet get the loop 
 on the G, to pass our own partial criticism, we feel that our reading 
 and observation both go to sustain the truth of the proposition, 
 "No man was ever great by imitation." 
 
 Originality is the first great mark of true genius; lacking that, 
 we become but an amanuensis, writing out splendid sentences that 
 great men have evolved from brains that needed not to borrow from 
 others. 
 
 It has been truly said that "Shakespeare's greatness consisted not 
 in his being unlike other men, but in his being like every other man." 
 But in this consisted his lack of imitation. Among the millions of 
 earth, no two heads can be found alike in shape ; as well try to 
 fashion them after one model as to imitate greatness. 
 
 Every one has a niche to fill in the great temple of the world. 
 No other person can fill it, or do his work ; neither can he accomplish 
 his own if he attempt to fashion his life after some impossible model. 
 
 If we attempt it, our lives will be miserable failures ; but if we are 
 content to simply be ourselves, then are we on the sure road to fill 
 
28 U R HOUR ALONE 
 
 our niche, whether it be near the foundation, or high on the dome of 
 the temple of the world. 
 
 But before we close let us remember that while genius may be 
 eccentric, that eccentricity is not genius. And that it is very true 
 that those qualities we do really possess, never make us half so 
 ridiculous as those we pretend. And that, while it is laudable to 
 emulate whatever is good, it is impossible to rise to distinction by 
 mere imitation. 
 
 Dark Skies and Fair 
 
 Sometimes in the busy struggle of life, and while we are fighting 
 its often-times unequal battles, we are led to believe that virtue has 
 no reward, and wrong no avenger. It seems to our short and defec- 
 tive sight as if "justice had fled to brutish beasts," and that oppres- 
 sion had received a life lease on every human being. And it may 
 be true that in some degree there are grounds for these apprehensions ; 
 but when we let thought have free access to every department of 
 scientific research, we learn the dark hours in life often resemble 
 the dark, gloomy, cheerless days that come in every season. During 
 these days the sun is hidden from our view; storms arise; tempests 
 howl ; torrents pour down ; blinding drifts drive before fierce blasts ; 
 thunders roar and vivid lightnings flash, and it appears as if nature 
 were mad, and in her insanity had unchained the fierce elements that 
 they might combine to work ruin and devastation. But other days 
 come and the scene is changed; the skies are serene and clear; the 
 winds are but a whisper, that toys with the tiniest leaflet ; the thunder 
 has died away; the fire of the lightning has gone out; nature is 
 rejoicing in loveliness and blooming in splendor. It is plain to us 
 now that chaos was but momentary, and rather apparent than real; 
 that all the time while we were shrouded in the thick gloom of the 
 dismal valley, there were grand mountain peaks whose pinnacles 
 were bathed in perpetual sunlight, and whose serenity was not ruffled 
 by a blast. 
 
 It is thus with life. There are deep, dark, desolate valleys where 
 the blue sky is shut out, where damp cold fogs settle around us ; where 
 storms rage, and fierce blasts assail us, and we imagine, for the time, 
 that sunlight has departed forever. But if we keep right onward 
 in the path of duty, we will get away from these uncomfortable sur- 
 roundings, and find ourselves on the pinnacle, with the radiant sun 
 shining full upon us, and the darkness is driven from our lives, 
 and we feel a new strength imparted and start forward — it may 
 be to descend into another valley, — but we go with more faith in 
 human virtue, more reliance in justice, in right, in God, yes, and in 
 humanity, than we ever had before. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 29 
 
 The storms that sweep over the earth snap off some tender plants 
 and beauteous flowers, beat down the brambles, and break the defec- 
 tive trunk, but they strengthen the sturdy oak, send its roots deeper, 
 and spread its branches wider. So likewise the storms of life dis- 
 courage the weak and the timid, while they but serve to strengthen 
 the really brave for the duties of life. 
 
 Nothing happens by chance. A supreme intelligence, guides sys- 
 tems, worlds and men. Eternal love never fails. Eternal justice never 
 slumbers. Eternal goodness never wearies. Human ambition can 
 never overreach the appointed bounds. Life's limited span is all 
 too short for man to undermine the pillars of the great temple where 
 justice sits to guard the rights of man. Clouds may come, but they 
 will vanish, and in the clear sunlight of Hope and Love and Truth, 
 man's progress will be onward and upward toward the Great Eternal. 
 
 The Poet Burns 
 
 ARTICLE I 
 
 On the 25th of January, 1759, some two miles south of the town 
 of Ayr, in Scotland, in one of the humblest cottages known to the 
 peasantry, — a cottage built of clay, — was born Robert Burns. His 
 father was not rich, but he was, for all that, a remarkable man ; re- 
 markable alike for his honesty, his deep, reverent, religious feeling, 
 and his peculiar power of understanding human nature. It has been 
 remarked by some one, "that such a father is seldom found in any 
 rank of society; and was worth descending far in society to seek." 
 It is said that Robert was an apt scholar, and that he evinced that 
 sturdy independence of character, that keen insight into human feel- 
 ing, and that love for nature that has so colored all his writings. 
 
 It would, perhaps, be impossible to imagine a position more dis- 
 couraging, or circumstances more unfavorable, than those which met 
 the young poet on the very threshold of his career. Born in obscurity 
 and poverty, and destined to remain in that condition through life, he 
 had but little to encourage him in the great task that he accomplished. 
 The lyre of his county had long been unused to the touch of a master 
 hand. Furgeson and Ramsey had caught a glimpse of that which, 
 in the life of Burns, became a glorious vision. The pipes of Scot- 
 land that responded but feebly to their touch, startled the world 
 when the fervid breath of his matchless genius was poured in all its 
 impulsive vehemence upon them. It remained for him to touch with 
 his magic wand the humblest subjects, and they, at once, assumed 
 a grandeur and beauty unlooked for in their situation. It had been 
 supposed that education, and constant intercourse with the grander 
 and more soul inspiring scenes of nature, were requisite to develop 
 
80 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 poetical genius, and cause it to bud, blossom and bear fruit. But this 
 illusion was dispelled when Burns, comparatively without education, 
 without leisure, and while in the discharge of his duty as a farmer, 
 where but little of the majestic in nature was presented, cast the 
 lambent flame of his inimitable and impassioned genius full on the 
 commonplace things and individuals that surrounded him, and in- 
 vested them with the unequaled richness of his coloring, true to 
 nature, because it was nature's self. 
 
 Who, like Burns, could have interested millions in the "Daisy" 
 that was turned under by his plow share? Who, like him, could have 
 created sympathy in the hearts of multitudes for the homeless 
 *'Mousie" that had been deprived of its shelter by the upturning of 
 his furrow? 
 
 It were not so difficult a task for a Shakespeare to attract our 
 attention to gilded courts, noble courtiers and worshiped kings; but 
 it was no easy thing to invest the "Highland Lassie" in kilted gown, 
 with such interest as would engage the attention of all classes of 
 society. Yet this is just what Burns has done. Instead of being ele- 
 vated by the things that he found in nature around him, he elevated 
 those things that were the most commonplace, until others could 
 see them from his standpoint, and, with his eyes, behold their hitherto 
 hidden beauty. 
 
 Burns did not lead his countrymen to some far off land, or invite 
 them into the bewildering realm of imagination, but he held up to 
 their gaze the very things with which they were the most familiar, 
 and in the simplest language talked of them, until they were trans- 
 formed into objects of beauty, or became heroes that all could wor- 
 ship. 
 
 It is not, for a moment, to be supposed that the stores of his 
 versatile mind were exhausted. In fact the very peculiar mental 
 construction of Burns precluded the possibility of any extended effort. 
 Hence, we have, from him, no studied or labored work. His efforts 
 were desultory, and he lightened up his subject with the bright 
 effulgence of his vivid imagination, rather than to engage in labored 
 effort to create something that did not exist. What he might have 
 been under different circumstances we do not care to inquire, for under 
 them he would not have been Burns. 
 
 The fact that while but little more than a century has elapsed 
 since his birth, and yet he and his poems are almost all that is known 
 or remembered of his time, is evidence that his was one 
 
 "Of the few, the immortal names, 
 That were not born to die." 
 
 Cut off in the prime of his scarce mature manhood, he died almost 
 neglected, at the age of 37 years. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 81 
 
 It will be noticed by our readers that we admire the master of 
 all the poets; but that admiration does not blind us to the fact that 
 he had faults, and faults, too, of no ordinary magnitude. But in our 
 allotted hour it is not possible to touch on his virtues, much less to 
 attempt to discuss his defects. But it may be truthfully said of him 
 that he was free from imitation, and always true to nature, and hav- 
 ing said this we have, no doubt, reached the very foundation of his 
 undying fame. 
 
 If we can resume these random thoughts at our next opportunity, 
 we will touch upon some of his distinguishing features in poetry, 
 trace the record of his short but eventful life, and — if it be possible — 
 invest the sad story of his closing years with something of the pathetic 
 interest it will have when the coming years will have given him the 
 full measure of a fame that is, as yet, but half comprehended. 
 
 ARTICLE II 
 
 Robert Burns was a great man, and no man was ever great that 
 did not differ from the mass of his fellow men ; indeed he must, from 
 the very nature of the case, show some marked distinction showing 
 that he was not only among them, but not of them. In this light 
 Burns was beyond all his compeers. While he was in the midst of 
 them, he still was separated by an immeasurable distance from them. 
 
 There never has, nor never can, exist a poet but must be man. 
 Hence in looking at the life of Burns, he must be judged from both 
 standpoints. It will not, we apprehend, be seriously denied that a 
 large share of that which is credited to genius, in after years, during 
 the life of the subject is called, if by no harder name, at least idiosyn- 
 crasy. In fact it is to be doubted if there be any distinction between 
 the higher order of genius and madness, except that "there's method 
 in the madness" of genius. 
 
 If we admit this, then we will not be expected to take the posi- 
 tion that Burns was perfect in anything. Not even for his poetry 
 would we feel disposed to set up so absurd a claim. So much being 
 granted, we would not dare to claim for him as a man, any degree 
 of perfection. 
 
 It is not for us to deny that under different circumstances Burns 
 would have been an entirely different man: but we have already said 
 that under different circumstances he would not have been Burns, 
 at least not the Burns that we enthusiastically love, and so deeply 
 pity. 
 
 But while such is the case we are not willing to admit that he 
 was all that his enemies have loved to depict him. His writings, 
 whether poetry or prose, are a glossy mirror in which his overflowing 
 
82 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 kindness of heart is reflected in a way that can never be mistaken. 
 That he was not what we would term a Calvinist, no one would attempt 
 to deny ; still no one can read his poems and draw the conclusion that 
 he was an atheist. The "Cotter's Saturday Night" could never have 
 been written by one who was a disbeliever in revealed religion. In 
 fact all his writings partake too much of the mercy, justice and spirit 
 of Him who "spake as never man spake" to have been evolved from 
 the dull, cold calculations of he who not only doubts, but reaches that 
 point where doubt is not needed. 
 
 That he believed strongly in the manhood of man, and that, too, 
 when divested of everything but what nature gives, can scarcely 
 be doubted. If such had not been the case he never would, yea, 
 more, he never could have quoted: 
 
 "An honest man's the noblest work of God." 
 
 Neither would the literature of the world ever have been en- 
 riched by the matchless production 
 
 "For a' that, and a' that." 
 
 Burns was, without doubt a strong believer in the rights of man. 
 That he was licentious, in the common meaning of that term, 
 is too preposterous to need refutation. His treatment of Jane Armour 
 should forever silence such a slander. 
 
 One more thing we wish to speak of, and that is the charge that 
 he was dissipated. It is not for us to deny that he indulged to 
 excess; but it was the fault of the age, and more perhaps of his 
 peculiar organization. Still those who charge that this vice cut 
 him off in the prime of life, shows that such was the case. A soul 
 so sensitive and a body so sympathetic to every impulse of that soul, 
 could not but waste vital energies, especially when poverty and neglect, 
 twin monsters to such as Burns, were united to drive him from a 
 world that was but little worthy of such a noble spirit. 
 
 It is doubtful if Burns ever saw a woman he did not love. That 
 he ever refused to drink when he was sober is still more doubtful. No 
 wonder, then, that his was an unsettled life, full of cares, disappoint- 
 ments and bitter regrets. But that he felt all his defects, and was 
 conscious of their serious nature is certain. That he made no strenuous 
 effort to suppress, or even to control them, is no less certain. That 
 wealth would have bettered his condition we do not believe; or that 
 a full recognition of his merits would have been best for him, we 
 are not prepared to admit. 
 
 How much he is to blame for peculiar physical organization, or 
 mental weakness, those things over which he could have no control, we 
 leave others to judge. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 88 
 
 And here we rest this part of the subject for the present, hoping 
 that if our readers can not approve our criticisms, they will not con- 
 demn until they have given the subject the most careful thought. 
 
 ARTICLE III 
 
 It has already been inferred by our readers that we consider 
 Burns a genius; not only is this inference correct, but we consider 
 him a genius of the highest order. Of his life and actions we have 
 freely admitted that his faults were many and grievous. But at 
 the same time, we have tried to defend his memory from some 
 of those fouler aspersions cast upon it by envy or malice. In the 
 same way we intend to speak of him as a poet. That is, while 
 we do not expect to closely analyze his faults, we intend to 
 remember that they exist, and it will be our aim to so speak of 
 his excellencies that others may do as we do, see his faults standing 
 out in bold relief, but appearing in the background of his life picture 
 such a marvelous array of good, grand and noble things, that these im- 
 perfections will appear but as the small weeds that, on close inspec- 
 tion, can be found in almost every field — even well tilled fields — 
 while his merit is a rich, bountiful harvest of golden grain, nodding 
 in the breeze of time, and just ready to be garnered. 
 
 It is not so easy a task after all, to determine what was the extent 
 of Burns' ability, or yet on what particular line to look for his greatest 
 excellencies. His songs, so simple and country like, breathing as 
 they undoubtedly do, the very essence of poetry, might be taken as 
 the point in which he most excels. It has been hinted before in 
 these papers, that his crowning merit consisted in the fact that he, 
 himself of the common people, could take the people and thing of 
 most humble origin and station and invest them with an interest 
 not only for his own class, but for all other classes as well. 
 
 It has been claimed that he had but little genius in reaching out 
 into the world of fancy, that world where the poet finds his widest 
 field, and more often draws his largest measure of enduring fame. 
 But when we carefully examine the plot of "Tarn O' Shanter," 
 ''Address to the Deil," "The Twa Dogs," "Death and Dr. Hornbook" 
 and that inimitable production, "The Vision," we are forced to the 
 conclusion that Burns was amply capable of soaring in the field of 
 fancy, and not only that, but also that he would return from these 
 flights laden with the rich treasures his own matchless genius would 
 gather. 
 
 "The Vision" we think remarkably fine. The dreary winter day 
 has closed; the "hungr'd maukin" has gone out to seek food; the 
 poet himself, weary with "flingin' the thrasher tree," is nestling in 
 the inner room; he muses there in dejected loneliness, amidst the 
 
34 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 vexing smoke from a peat fire; the "ratton" is playing his pranks 
 and uttering his "squeak" about the ridge pole; in the midst of 
 this uninviting picture sits the poet: 
 
 "All in this mottle, misty clime, 
 I backward mused on wasted time, 
 How I spent my youthfu' prime, 
 
 And done nae thing. 
 But stringin' blethers up in rhyme. 
 
 For fools to sing." 
 
 After looking back over his past life, a life of poverty and toil — 
 remember he was not yet recognized as a poet, — and then looking 
 forward into the misty but dark future, he involuntarily laid bare 
 his hopes and fears in this verse: 
 
 I started, muttering, blockhead! coof! 
 And heaved on high my waukit loof. 
 To swear by a' yon starry roof, 
 
 Or same rash aith. 
 That I henceforth would be rhyme-proof, 
 
 Till my last breath — 
 
 Just at this point appears the "vision," and at once the poet is 
 lifted above the cares and ills of life, and enters on his description 
 of the "vision," runs in imagination over the history of Scotia's 
 heroes, 
 
 "Gods in war, and geniuses in song." 
 
 Then as if inspired — and who will dare say he was not — he breaks 
 into that matchless and inimitable peroration — if the readers will par- 
 don the use of peroration in this connection — opening: 
 "All hail! my own inspired bard!" 
 
 No one can get down to the true merit of "The Vision," take 
 in the surroundings of the poverty stricken bard, note his failures 
 in life hitherto, his obscurity, his small prospect for fame, and not 
 stand astonished in the chill chamber, dark as an underground cave, 
 and not realize that a sparkling diamond is shedding a glitter, not 
 only in that poverty stricken chamber, but that its radiance is, even 
 now, reaching out toward the coming years, and making bright and 
 glorious the future history of Scotland and the world, as well as 
 illuminating the stars in the crown that coming generations were 
 about to place on him who has so well earned the title of "King of 
 Rustic Bards." 
 
 It is impossible to read those, we repeat, and not be convinced 
 that had Burns lived to overcome the perhaps too ardent fire of youth, 
 and then turned his giant mind to the realm of fancy, he would have 
 added much to the richness of poetic imagery, and invested his honored 
 name with still more of intense interest to those who already bow 
 in ardent though sensible worship at his shrine. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 35 
 
 The Call of Duty 
 
 Here we are, grinding at a task, just one hour after midnight, and 
 long after all sounds of activity have died out. It is scarce in human 
 nature not to rebel, as we look around us and see: 
 
 "How things are shared." 
 
 But fate is an inexorable taskmaster, and a wife and children, 
 whose dependent condition would appeal to the sympathy of man in 
 general, is a terrible incentive to over exertion, when it appeals to 
 the glowing heart of affection; sanitary laws are forgotten, or, if 
 remembered, are unheeded. The absence of motive would soon lead 
 to the cessation of action. Hence man is so constituted that some 
 want comes up to prompt to action, and rouse dormant energies to 
 exertion. Ambition nods; its votaries obey. Fame hangs out her 
 banner far up on the steep declivity of time, and mistaken zealots 
 spend the best years of life in an endeavor to reach, or, at best, reach 
 it just as their tottering steps are on the brink of the narrow house. 
 Avarice jingles a few paltry coins, and multitudes sacrifice ease, 
 health, honor, nay, even life itself to grasp in the feeble hand of age 
 the tinkling symbols of man's supreme folly. Revenge invites the 
 wounded soul, and all at once discretion is forgotten, caution disre- 
 garded, prudence mocked, and man rushes to certain doom. Lust 
 shows her gilded bait, and man forgets purity, honor, truth, justice 
 and God, to gratify sensual desires, that gratified, destroy both soul 
 and body. Fear turns her magnifying lenses full on the objects that 
 are before us, and we hesitate, tremble, turn back from sacred duty, 
 and violate every code of moral obligation. Love colors the dull, cold, 
 uninviting things around about us, and how highly colored those 
 scenes become. All of these may be followed by blind zealots, urged 
 on by a love of self, and animated by no noble purpose. But let 
 affection, such as that which binds the truly wedded to each other, 
 the mother to her child, the father to his offspring, the brother to the 
 sister, the sister to the entire family, be the motive that induces to 
 action, and how terribly in earnest we become. It is the noblest, 
 the truest, the best of all motives that appeal to human hearts. No 
 wonder, then, that many are performing weary tasks even now, as 
 the shrieking whistle breaks the stillness, telling us that two hours 
 of another day is already past. While we still ply the busy pencil, 
 and rejoice that our little world, the family whose welfare is the 
 object of our life, is resting in peaceful slumber, and that we have 
 the ability and strength to provide for their wants and shield them 
 from the rough blasts of life. 
 
 But how have we wandered! Afraid are we that we put our 
 pencil point to these pages ready to complain that our taskmaster 
 
36 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 required these extra hours; but this one "Alone," causes us to arise 
 glad to know that our lot is just what God intended it to be; glad to 
 realize that He makes no mistakes; and happy in the thought that 
 mayhap we have, in this silent hour, helped to lift the shadows from 
 other hearts. Good night. 
 
 The Lesson of the Seasons 
 
 We are reminded that summer is passing. Time glides away so 
 rapidly and almost imperceptibly that we have scarce begun to drink 
 in the blooming beauty of the gentle spring, till she is called to give 
 place to the teeming maturity of summer, and ere we are aware of 
 it the decaying touch of autumn's gentlest beginning will warn us 
 that decay awaits the most beautiful and lovely of nature's gifts. 
 "Well is it if we are able to draw lessons of wisdom from the changes 
 that are continually occurring around us. If they lead us to endeavor 
 to so act in the future as to show that we have profited by the 
 experience of the past; if they lead us to inquire if we have made 
 the proper advances toward the object of our existence; whether we 
 are stronger in virtue, in goodness, and truth, less liable to commit 
 wrong acts and do unjust deeds, more ready to stretch out a helping 
 hand to suffering humanity, more willing to east the blessed mantle 
 of genuine charity over the misdeeds and shortcomings of those with 
 whom the everyday duties of life bring us in contact, less likely 
 to condemn, without close scrutiny, the opinions of those who differ 
 with us, in religion or politics. Well is it if they cause us to remem- 
 ber that the spring when we sow the seed, for our harvest of usefulness 
 in life, will be quickly followed by the summer, when our sheaves 
 ought to be garnered, that the autumn of life will too soon place 
 his hand of decay on us and remind us that the golden time of 
 opportunity is gone forever, and that the winter of death will come 
 and force us to leave our records on the tablets of time, and take 
 our places with those who rest from their labors. Well is it, then, 
 if these changes of season cause us to search out, diligently, the will 
 of Him who bids these seasons roll, and brings those varied changes 
 over our earth ; if they teach us to turn the eye of thought from every 
 page of nature's great book, upward to where its sublime and holy 
 Author sits to rule the worlds, in wisdom, goodness and gentleness ; and 
 if they teach us that we are individually responsible to Him for the 
 use of the talents He has given us, and for the manner in which our 
 life work has been done. 
 
 But some one may say, "I know this is good advice, and there 
 is room for improvement in me, but don't see what one so humble 
 as myself can do, I see no chance for me to work." 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 87 
 
 My friend, have you tried to see? With the fearful amount of 
 drunkenness, profanity, corruption and crime prevalent in this land, is 
 there nothing for you to do? With thousands of little feet starting 
 in the slippery paths of vice and sin, nothing for you to do? Go 
 tell the drunkard there is a better way to spend time and money than 
 he is doing. Go tell the one vrho is ignorant that wisdom is for those 
 who seek it. Go tell the suffering — by simple acts of charity, that 
 will speak to them in a language they can fully understand — that 
 God's suffering poor have a large corner in your heart. Are you 
 debarred from these things? Then speak kindly; O, there is a mighty 
 power in kind words. Have you a neighbor whom you think is 
 churlish ? Speak kindly ; perhaps the man may be only sad ; you 
 don't see the great cross he is bearing; you may never have tried 
 to lift the great load he is carrying ; he may have some private grief, 
 don't try to wrest it from him, but speak kindly and you will be a 
 worker. There may be some things in the family of your nearest 
 neighbor that is hardly right, your near intercourse has led you to 
 discover the skeleton in their closet — most families have one, a hid- 
 eous, long, bony, frightful skeleton hid in their closets — if you have 
 discovered it don't tell every one that you have seen it, heard its 
 bones clatter, its joints creak, and heard it utter words that ought 
 never be heard in the family circle; don't tell it and you will be a 
 worker. A thousand deeds of kindness, a thousand acts of love will 
 spring up before you, appear in your path, and urge themselves 
 upon your notice if you are in the right spirit to take advantage of 
 them when they present themselves. Ah, you say you "didn't think of 
 it in that way before." Well, that is just the reason why I have 
 said a word or two about it. I have been thinking about it, and I 
 want all to think who read. But perhaps you are weary of my think- 
 ing, and ask if I intend to write a sermon. Why, if you could see 
 me now you would laugh at the idea of my writing a sermon. No, 
 I fear I would be a sorry preacher, but thoughts come into the heads 
 of those who are not preachers. Good night. 
 
 Nil Desperandum 
 
 There is a story told of four Australian miners, who had labored 
 long and assiduously, but without reward ; they met one day, and 
 after bewailing their hard lot, their want of luck and their desperate 
 straits, three of them resolved to go down into the mine to take a last 
 look before leaving the scene of their misfortunes forever. While 
 looking around at the unpromising walls, one of the miners seized 
 a pick, saying, ''Good-bye; I'll give you a farewell blow," and with 
 that his pick sent the splinters flying. His trained eye spied a glitter 
 on one of the pieces that fell at his feet; he examined it and found 
 
38 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 it was gold. They now went to work, and in a short time unearthed 
 a nugget. A glad cry went up, and the nugget proved to be worth 
 $30,000. It was just when everything seemed the darkest to them, 
 that light came ; just as they were beginning to doubt, that the reward 
 came. On the site of the claim where these miners toiled and 
 triumphed, is now found the splendid streets of the fine city of Bal- 
 larat. We have sketched the outlines of this story for the reason that 
 it contains a lesson that should be learned by every person. That 
 lesson is epitomed in the sentence standing beneath the caption of 
 this article, "Nil Desperandum" — never despair. We sometimes think 
 that we are all like these miners; we are groping about in the dark, 
 at best assisted by but the flickering rays of a puny lamp, and we 
 toil and dig year after year, until we are ready to faint, and our 
 courage is well nigh gone, and we feel as if it were better for us to 
 lay by our implements and give over the unequal struggle, when a 
 chance stroke of the pick reveals to us the hidden and sought for 
 treasure, and we send up a glad cry, rejoicing that the lamp of hope 
 has been relit, and that in the flush of our victory we are ready to 
 cry out in rapture, "Nil Desperandum." A large number of young 
 people will pick up this paper, read a portion or all of this article, 
 and then think that this applies to these who are engaged in the active 
 duties of life, but can have but little significance to such as are not 
 yet settled. But in a very short time they, too, will find themselves 
 in the mine, striking again and again against flinty sides, wishing, 
 watching, waiting, toiling, tired, ready to give up and quit forever, 
 sure that further effort is useless, and caring not for the future. It is 
 then we wish them to strike once more into the rocky face of the for- 
 bidding ledge, and as they see the glitter of the genuine ore, we wish 
 to listen to their glad shout, and hear from their strained throats 
 the welcome "Nil Desperandum." Life was meant for activity; it 
 admits of but little leisure. It calls for earnest, active, persistent, 
 effort; it is a hive in which there is but poor quarters for drones. 
 Man may present a pleasant exterior, but there are but few who are 
 relieved from the trials and hardships of life, and there are but few 
 who do not need again and again to brace themselves for the conflict, 
 strain every nerve for success, and cheer the darker, gloomier moments 
 of life with the exclamation, "Nil Desperandum." Life is not all 
 gloom, all shadow, all bitterness. It has its brightness, its sunshine, 
 its sweetness, and we are right glad that more of sunshine than of 
 shadow falls to the life of nearly every one; glad that "Hope springs 
 eternal in the human breast;" glad that "Man's heaven erected 
 face" was made for the "Smiles of love to adorn." But while all 
 this is true, it is also true that we are all called to walk through dark 
 valleys, walk over rough paths and drink of the "marrah of life," 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 89 
 
 and it is well for us to discipline ourselves to these things, and be 
 able to say under all discouragements, "Nil Desperandum. " 
 
 Pleasant Hill 
 
 A week ago last Saturday, we went out to spend the night at 
 Pleasant Hill, west of Farmington. In April, 1849, we first saw this 
 spot; it is 36 years since then, and time has wrought changes in 
 almost everything on which our eyes rest. Then great stretches of 
 level prairie reached in every direction, till they merged in the scant 
 strips of timber that belted the streams winding their tortuous ways 
 toward broader streams, that, in turn, swept onward to the Father 
 of "Waters. These prairies have all been turned by the plowshare, and 
 fences and hedges separate them into farms on which have been erected 
 tasty farm houses and comfortable barns. The sloughs, as they were 
 called, are indeed in the same places, but so changed that one would 
 scarcely recognize them; then they were bordered by rods of tall 
 slough grass, and their beds were almost on the surface of the ground ; 
 then they conveyed large quantities of water, and about every few 
 rods had miniature lakes, in which could be caught a great many 
 fish of no mean size, and many a rainy day have we patiently sat on 
 their marge and enticed the finny tribe with fat angleworms or 
 tempting grasshoppers. And night after night would we steal down 
 and angle after the sly catfish, that was sure to nibble cautiously 
 in the dark. Then there was a swimminghole in Smith's field, just 
 south of where the cemetery now is, and there the boys were wont 
 to congregate, after the labors of the day were done, and dive and 
 swim as if that were the chief end of a boy, and we verily believe 
 many of us thought so; at least we enjoyed the sport hugely, and 
 but little thought of the great, busy, bustling world, with its cares, 
 changes, responsibilities and sorrows, came to us there. There were 
 the Browns, the Chapins, the Armstrongs, the Finks, the Saunders, the 
 Douphmans, the Whitakers and the McKeighans, and perhaps others 
 whom we do not remember. Where are they tonight? Most of them 
 entered the Union army afterward and some of them went down 
 amid the smoke and din of the battle, and were buried on the field, 
 where for twenty years they have rested in silent graves. The rest 
 are scattered over this vast country, some in Texas, some in Wash- 
 ington Territory, some in nearly all the western states. If we knew 
 the address of all, we would mail them a copy of this paper, and we 
 feel sure that they would all gather in memory at the old swimming- 
 hole, and be boys again for a time. But the swimminghole is gone — 
 destroyed by the washing of the creek — the grassy edges have gone, 
 and not a minnow now can be caught, while the sloughs have cut 
 down through the muck, the top soil, and are now wearing deep 
 
40 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 down into the first strata of clay, even in some places down entirely 
 to the rock. And those catalpas, standing out in bold relief in the 
 mellow moonlight of this splendid September night, spreading out 
 their great branches and casting weird shadows, how they have 
 grown! Butler planted them when he first broke the 60 acres on the 
 north side of the road, and we have cause to remember them, for 
 when they were but switches, not so large as the pencil we are now 
 using, the rabbits came and cut them off as smoothly as you could 
 have done it with a knife, in fact Butler insisted it was done with 
 a knife, and worse still, with a jackknife that we and our elder 
 brother carried to make hickory and willow whistles, and he came 
 over and told our father, and he was about to settle with us, when 
 Neil Brown, bless his old honest heart, came over and relieved us, by 
 proving that the rabbits were guilty, Neil is living yet, an old man, 
 now near the end of life's journey, but we are still grateful to him 
 for helping us out of a scrape that, at the time, had little of sport 
 for us, though we were innocent. Then we tried to think of the ones 
 who used to be active in business: A. P. Saunders is still on the hill 
 close to the school house — then a small brick — now a fine frame. 
 James Jocobus is here, and Mrs. Chapin, but none others as we re- 
 member them at this time. Then we look over on the knoll just on 
 the line between the Butler and Chapin farms, and we see the monu- 
 ments rising toward Heaven and marking the resting places of many 
 of those we then mingled with. Here are the old, the young, and 
 the middle aged ; they have been gathering there until there are a great 
 many of them. Over there in a fresh raised mound is Andrew Berry — 
 an old man just buried a few days ; in the opposite side lies Frederick 
 Loomis, killed by a runaway team, long years ago, and just on the 
 eve of his marriage with a beautiful girl — a romance nearly — but we 
 are not writing romances. In another sweet spot lies Melissa Brown, 
 once among those who trudged, light-hearted, over the clayhills to 
 the old school house; she died in the opening years of womanhood, 
 just as others had done before, and just as many have since, and as 
 many will continue to die. There lies Butler's only daughter — but 
 why stop to enumerate; here are men and infants; here are monu- 
 ments and beautiful flowers; here are evidences that in death our 
 friends are not forgotten. And are these the changes of but thirty- 
 six years? What will be those of the next thirty-six? We think of 
 the air castles we built, and the day-dreams we indulged in while 
 hoeing potatoes over on the patch west of where the barn now is, then 
 we turn to a convenient glass and see the silver hairs on our head 
 and the gray mingling in our whiskers, we are spoken to as the "old 
 man," and that our boys smile at our old fashioned ways, and we 
 remember that more than half of our own family are on the "silent 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 41 
 
 camping ground," and that we have but a few new purposes in life, 
 and only hope that our follies and errors are — like many of our 
 friends — in the grave, and that some of those we met here in "lang 
 syne" may be interested in this Hour Alone. 
 
 An Appreciation 
 
 "And thoughts on thoughts, a countless throng, 
 Rushed, chasing countless thoughts along." — Scott. 
 
 A laudable desire to do something that will meet the approval of 
 others, is to be commended. If we fail to awaken a responsive thought 
 in the heart of our reader, then this hour will be spent in vain. The 
 hope that we might lift the shadow from some heart, remove the 
 gloom from some household, dispel the darkness from some despair- 
 ing mind, renew the hope of some weary life, comfort some sorrowing 
 one, point some needy soul to the source of comfort, relieve some dis- 
 tressed one, warn the tempted, reclaim the erring, assist the weak, 
 and admonish the unthinking was the prime motive that induced us 
 to give the meditations of these silent and sacred hours to our readers. 
 And we doubt not they would have been discontinued, long ere this, 
 had it not been for the fact that several whose friendship we prize, 
 and whose judgment we have confidence in, have told us that they 
 took a deep interest in these articles, and felt that they were doing 
 some good. 
 
 It would be egotism in us, did we make this statement merely 
 to gratify our own personal vanity; but we do not; as we sit here 
 giving loose rein to thought, the idea has struck us that we too often 
 withhold the just meed of praise, for fear that our motives may 
 be misconstrued. 
 
 There are many who go through life, scarce conscious if that 
 life be not a complete failure, because no one has thought to tell 
 them that their efforts are appreciated. This is, we fear, especially 
 the case in families ; so accustomed do we become to the kind assiduities 
 of the members of our own families, that we deem it not worth while 
 to give expression to what we must feel, if we be not ingrates. 
 
 The wife has been busy all day in ceaseless toil, preparing some 
 comfort for the husband, a comfort that he really appreciates and 
 enjoys, but he fails to speak the kind, gentle, loving words of approval 
 that her ear longs to hear, and she realizes that, somehow, she has 
 failed to enjoy the occasion as she expected. 
 
 The husband has taken time from the cares of business, to pro- 
 vide some token of love for the wife, a token she cherishes, but in 
 the flutter of admiration for the gift, she neglects to speak the word 
 that would be worth so much to him. 
 
42 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 The brother and sister become so accustomed to sacrifices of 
 personal comfort made for each other, that they forget to acknowl- 
 edge these favors, and thus rob them of their most potent influence 
 for gratification. In our relations as friends and neighbors, we too 
 often forget to commend, and thus fail to attain to that degree of 
 enjoyment that might be ours. 
 
 For us, we have no desire to conceal the fact that these frank 
 words of approval spoken by our friends are gratifying to us. The 
 knowledge of their kind words of approval comes to us in some of 
 our more trying moments, and lifts us above our difficulties, as they 
 indicate to us that our work is not despised by all. And as we value 
 those kind words, we suspect others do. And if they do, then is an 
 avenue open for us to add much to the pleasure of others, and, at 
 the same time, to the enjoyment of ourselves. , 
 
 It would be folly for us to think that those friends meant to 
 convey the idea that these articles were free from grave defects. Did 
 we think so their utterances would not be so valued by us, nor would 
 we have much faith in their judgment. Those articles are open to 
 severe criticism ; many of them are prepared in great haste, and while 
 we do not have that freedom from care that would enable us to remedy 
 many of their defects. But while this is true, we are aware that 
 some of them are not devoid of true merit, and that, by careful re- 
 vision, they would be made much better. 
 
 He who brings up living thoughts out of a heart where humanity 
 never appeals in vain, a heart that feels for "others' woes," seldom 
 fails to reach the hearts of others, and we have done this, if we are 
 capable of judging. 
 
 It was our intention to hint to our readers, that if they were as 
 ready to speak a good word for the Banner when it meets their 
 approbation, as they are to condemn when it does not suit them, that 
 they would have a better paper; but thought has carried us beyond 
 our destined space and trusting that we have touched a theme of 
 thought for other minds, a mine from which much of love, and hope, 
 and happiness may be digged by those who are willing to labor in 
 it, we again bid you all a kind good night. 
 
 The Patter of Rain Drops 
 
 There has fallen a dreary, steady, drizzling kind of rain all day; 
 and falling, as it has, on Monday, it is more than likely but the pre- 
 lude to at least two more rainy days before the week is out. 
 
 There is something peculiarly touching about the patter of rain, 
 that we have never been able to fully explain ; but we remember that 
 long ago when we were a mere boy, that we loved to go out into the 
 grove, where the pine trees stood thick enough to form a green canopy, 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 43 
 
 and listen to the patter of the rain drops, until a kind of solemn sad- 
 ness stole over us, and we felt as if the great pulses of the world had 
 ceased to beat, and that we were emphatically alone. 
 
 Indeed on such occasions it seemed to us that those peculiar 
 feelings could never be described. 
 
 Have you never dreamed some weird dream, — away back in the 
 happy days of long ago — that had something so strange and solemn 
 about it that it appeared to partake of awe and pleasure at the same 
 time, and although you could remember every incident, or perhaps 
 we should say you do remember everything down to the minutest de- 
 tails, you can never bear the thought of telling it even to your most 
 particular friend? Just such a feeling has come over us as we have 
 stood under the umbrageous branches of some giant oak and listened 
 to the incessant patter and drip, until we wished to see a human 
 face, and yet we were loth to break away from the spell that seemed 
 to bind us. 
 
 Certain it is, we carry just such a sacred dream secret locked 
 up in our inner self, that has demanded the relief of publicity for 
 decade after decade, and yet we feel that it never will be told. Do 
 you ask us why? Our answer must be, we are unable to explain it; 
 we do not understand the mysterious workings of that unconscious 
 state, when dreams are photographed on memory's canvas. It may 
 be that in another state of existence, expanded and quickened powers 
 may enable us to live and act and think with the rapidity that 
 characterizes these dreams, and that pleasant ones are but preludes 
 of heavenly beatitudes, while terrible dreams are but the dim and 
 uncertain foreshadowings of that dread despair that is to seize the 
 soul when banished from the presence of God. Alas ! that human in- 
 vestigation should be so soon bounded by the impassable walls that 
 shut out our finite vision. Alas ! that the soul returns from her loftiest 
 flights, to find that she has been but beating her pinions against the 
 bars of that cage that circumscribes the greatest and most lofty 
 aspirations of man. Man may measure the stars; he may weigh the 
 heavenly bodies as in the balance ; he may compute the cycles of time 
 and demonstrate the exact moment when the eye of the alert astrono- 
 mer will again catch a glimpse of such and such a star; but he is 
 not able to explain the mysteries of his own being, nor can he de- 
 termine why the faculties reach out, while the body is apparently 
 unconscious, and grasp ideas and things that remain in memory al- 
 though we can never tell whether they be of earth or heaven. Nor 
 yet can we account for the fact that the patter of rain drops, are 
 calculated to awaken such strange sensations within us. 
 
 In addition to this peculiar feeling of loneliness that we have 
 spoken of, we can never listen to dropping rain falling continuously, 
 
44 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 for any length of time, without feeling a shiver of sympathy for those 
 who are sleeping in the silent church-yards. It is useless for us to 
 say that it makes no difference to them ; it is useless to attempt to be 
 cheerful and think of them as glorified spirits; the thought of the 
 countless dead; of the beautiful and lovely; of the tried and true, on 
 whose lonely graves these drops are falling, comes to us like sad 
 requiems from a world where sorrow for the loved and lost is the 
 only knowledge. 
 
 It is useless to ask if you, dear reader, have ever attended the 
 funeral of some loved one on a rainy day; have you not stood by 
 that open grave, and listened to the steady drip, drip of the water, 
 and heard the duller thud, as the earth closed over the lost? We 
 know you have. And we also know that the first rain after your 
 dear one has been buried, is the saddest rain you ever heard. Let 
 the father answer who hears the first dash of the storm that wets 
 the clay over the form of son or daughter; let the husband answer 
 as he realizes that it moistens the mound that hides the wife, tender, 
 loving, and true ; but above all let the mother answer who is awakened 
 out of the first fitful slumber that has come to bring blessed oblivion, 
 for a time, of that sorrow that has well nigh bereft her of reason, and 
 hears the rain patter on the shingles, then reaches out her hand to 
 draw the infant to her l)OSom, and then returning consciousness tells 
 her that it is out yonder among the marble monuments, and these 
 drops are beating down into the earth that covers it. Oh, mother! 
 we know how your poor, bleeding heart sank at the realization, until 
 you almost thought it would cease to beat. 
 
 But what have we been doing? When we took up our pencil 
 to fill this alloted hour, the recollection of the incessant patter of 
 the falling drops that have fallen all day, came up before us, and 
 forced our thoughts into channels that we did not mean to follow; 
 and we find that another day has been born, and it is time for us to 
 say again, good night. 
 
 "Oh Death, Where is Thy Sting?" 
 
 "Oh, mystery of life! whate'er 
 
 Thou art none knoweth, nor shall know, 
 Until the tide of time shall roll 
 Between the hody and the soul — 
 
 Until each soul shall homewards go 
 To that great home of which we dream, 
 And life with Life-Eternal share. 
 
 Beyond the stream, heyond the stream." 
 
 Death is relentless, and visits every household. He enters the 
 abode of man and he has no protection, no defense. It is his cold 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 46 
 
 touch that is placed on the wealthy, as he tosses on a bed covered 
 with purple and fine linen; it is his skeleton hand that lifts the poor 
 man from his pallet of husks and lays him in the dampness of the 
 grave; he touches the tender infant as it nestles on the bosom of the 
 fond mother, and the breath dies out forever; he comes to the youth, 
 full of the vigor and sweetness of life, and he sinks into the oblivion 
 of f orgetfulness ; he seeks out the strong man in his pride and lays 
 his bony hand upon his arm, and life loses its charm, and he sinks 
 out of sight as the wave ceases to roll ; he steals in silence over the 
 threshold of the aged man, and puts the spell of his magic touch 
 upon his dim eyes, smooths the wrinkles on his withered cheek, and 
 he "wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to 
 pleasant dreams." He enters the opening in the tepee, and the dusky 
 warrior acknowledges his conqueror ; he pushes aside the paneled 
 door in the residence of the famed general, and he who rode in calm- 
 ness where death hurtled and carnage ran riot, sees that his hour is 
 come ; he knocks at the door of the palace, and royalty loses its admira- 
 tion for a scepter and throne; he comes to the rough door of the hut 
 where poverty shivers in rags, and by his leveling touch the beggar 
 is made the equal of the king. 
 
 The earth is a vast graveyard; the world is a charnal house; the 
 universe is a weeping gallery. Up yonder, where winds the sinuous 
 Nile, we hear the universal wail that broke the stillness of the 
 Egyptian morning, when the first born were lying cold and rigid and 
 lifeless in every household; down here where rolls the Jordan, where 
 Judea's hills lift up their heads in grandeur and sublimity, we listen 
 to the bitter wail of Rachel mourning for her children because they 
 are not; out yonder on the terrace of the palace in Jersualem stands 
 the old king, and how pathetic his cry ! "0 my son Absalom ! my son, 
 my son Absalom ! would to God I had died for thee, Absalom, my 
 son, my son!" 
 
 And today, wherever a river rolls in grandeur, wherever a moun- 
 tain lifts its head in sublimity, wherever a plain stretches away in its 
 beauty, wherever a forest waves the coronal of its branches, wherever 
 the flower blooms in its loveliness, wherever the harvest shimmers in 
 the sunlight — there the stillness is broken by lamentations for those 
 whom death has cut down with his scythe. 
 
 Is, then, this picture without aught of brightness? Is there no 
 comfort for those who mourn the dead? When the grave hides, and 
 tears flow, and sorrow fills the heart, hope springs to life, "we hear the 
 flutter of a wing," that poising o'er the grave points upward to 
 another world, where the loved and lost "dwell in their beauty for- 
 ever." It shows us death is not an eternal sleep, and that there is 
 a home "where far above hope, hate and fear they live all passion- 
 
46 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 less and pure." Reason's dim lamp can penetrate but a little way 
 the gloom that curtains the vale where rolls the chilling river; but 
 revelation lifts the torch that sends its beams across the narrow gorge^ 
 lights up the peaks beyond, and shows us glimpses of the better, purer 
 world, where darkness is not, where death never enters and sorrows 
 never come. 
 
 "Not yet, the flowers are in my path, 
 
 The sun is in the sky; 
 Not yet, my heart is full of hope, 
 
 I cannot bear to die. 
 
 Not yet, I never knew till now. 
 
 How precious life could be; 
 My heart is full of love, O Death, 
 
 I cannot come with thee. 
 
 But love and hope — enchanted twain — 
 
 Passed in their falsehood by; 
 Death came again, and then he said, 
 
 'I'm ready now to die.' 
 
 'Tis but a mound, and will be mossed, 
 
 When summer grass appears; 
 The loved, though wept, are never lost. 
 
 We only lose our tears." 
 
 Parting 
 
 That man is restless needs no proving, needs no statistics. Why 
 he is so could not very easily be explained. That this characteristic 
 is valuable — to a certain degree — is apparent. To it we are indebted 
 for all the discoveries of islands and continents. Without it, much of 
 the earth must have remained a wilderness, and primal forests would 
 be swaying their umbrageous branches over many square miles where 
 now nutritious grasses glisten with pearly drops in the morning sun- 
 shine, rich grains nod in the warm breezes of the summer noons, and 
 the broad blades of the dark green luxuriant corn rustle in the evening 
 wind, as they uncurl from the heat of the fiercer noon rays, and pre- 
 pare to gather to the center of the stalks the crystal distillations of the 
 cooler night. 
 
 It is this restless spirit in man that seeks to unlock every mystery 
 of nature, no matter how cunningly she may have hidden it, nor how 
 sedulously she may guard it. It has emboldened him to sail unknown 
 seas, to cross trackless deserts, to climb almost inaccessible mountains, 
 to delve the mine, to descend into ocean caves, to endure the torrid 
 heat of the equator, to brave the frigid iciness of the poles, to court 
 the dangers of savage men, to dare the ferocity of the wildest of the 
 brute creation. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 47 
 
 We see this same restless spirit manifested in the migrations of 
 people from country to country, from state to state, from locality to 
 locality, and in the changes that take place every spring in neighbor- 
 hoods, and in the cities and villages everywhere. 
 
 The present spring has witnessed as much of this as usual, and 
 perhaps more. Some of the most pathetic partings that the observer 
 witnesses may be seen at the depots of our railroads, as trains come 
 in to bear away to distant homes those who have determined to cast 
 their lots in other parts of the land. 
 
 One of these scenes took place at a depot in a neighboring town 
 a few days ago, and it was an episode that brought out much of the 
 finer, and truer, and holier impulses of our nature — yes, our better 
 nature. 
 
 It was a case where three families were leaving Illinois for a 
 locality near Red Cloud, Nebraska. One of them was composed of 
 the father, mother, two boys, a girl, and a baby just able to toddle 
 about, and who, happily, was too young to realize that the parting 
 meant so much of real sorrow to those who were older. It was evident 
 that the two families — those of the father and mother — were there to 
 say farewell and Godspeed. It was the first real parting of their lives. 
 They had, indeed, lived in separate houses, but they were adjacent. 
 For months this event had been brooded over, talked about and dis- 
 cussed. It had been looked at in every phase of it, until all seemed 
 familiar with it, and reconciled to it. But when the train whistled, 
 and the grips, the telescopes and the bundles were hastily grasped, and 
 the bustle of getting away actually began, the bravado of the past few 
 hours all vanished, the strangers — all disinterested — were forgotten, 
 and sisters embraced each other, mothers clung to loved daughters, 
 fathers said good-bye in husky voices, manly brothers wrung each 
 other's hands in a silence they dare not break, and tears and sobs 
 were evident everywhere in those groups. 
 
 What thoughts of the old happy homes were there. How child- 
 hood — free, happy, careless childhood — came back to those who now 
 were burdened with life's care. What hopes for the future were 
 visible. What foreboding. Hundreds of miles would soon separate 
 them. Faces were vanishing, never more to be seen. Eyes were look- 
 ing into eyes that would not flash recognition again on earth. If there 
 be those who can witness such a parting scene, and not realize that the 
 dearest ties of love and friendship are being sundered, they are to 
 be pitied. Let us hope that no human heart is so hard, so callous, so 
 lost to feeling as not to melt at such a scene. And if a tear of sym- 
 pathy should fall, forbid it not. If life has much of joy, it has its 
 sorrows too, and they must come to all — do come to all, and when we 
 hope that all is well, and rosy hues o'ercast our fairest skies, the ten- 
 
48 OUR HOUR ALONE \ 
 
 derest ties of life are sundered as we part with those we love where 
 ways in life must part, or death creeps in with silent, stealthy tread, 
 and robs us of our loved, and bears them from our tender, sweet 
 embrace. Dear readers of the Banner, you have the thoughts that 
 come to us in this. Our Hour Alone. 
 
 Choosing 
 
 There is scarcely a day in our lives that we are not called upon to 
 choose. Sometimes we are called on to choose several times in the 
 course of a single day. This is no easy task. Calculating the things 
 that pertain to the future is environed with many difficulties. It is so , 
 hard to tell just what one ought to do, and what they should leave I 
 undone. It has been said that there are two kinds of prophesy — the 
 one looking forward into the future, and the other looking backward 
 into the past. This may be a correct definition, but if it is, there can 
 be no hesitancy in declaring which of them is the easier to do. There 
 be few of us who could not do better if we were permitted to go back 
 and live over the year of our life that has just closed. We can see 
 just what we should have done that we left undone, and just what we 
 should have left undone that we did do. Every year of life we close 
 up a set of books in which we feel that we have recorded a sad over- 
 balance of mistakes that we would gladly rectify if we had the oppor- 
 tunity, or, perhaps, more gladly blot out. But the books are closed, 
 set up on the shelves, and are not to be opened. The fact is that in 
 looking back we see plainly enough our mistakes, but we are power- 
 less to rectify them, and it would seem that a knowledge of them but 
 adds to the poignancy of our regrets that they have occurred. 
 
 But as we take down the new set of books, at the beginning of 
 another year, with a sincere desire to make a better showing, we cast 
 our thoughts forward into the future, and how little we really can 
 discern of what it contains for us ! "While the past is beyond our con- 
 trol, how uncertain is the future ! We are as one walking in a dense 
 fog ; we know something of what is behind us ; a thick and apparently 
 impenetrable veil shuts out what is before us ; there is a little space 
 about us, and that is all that we can be sure of. And with these dim 
 uncertainties all about us, we are to continually choose. Nor is there 
 any period of life exempt from the demands, nor free from the per- 
 plexities. From early childhood to decrepit age we are making some 
 choice. We choose to obey or disobey our parents; we choose those 
 with whom to play in infancy ; we choose to gain knowledge, or to be 
 ignorant ; we choose to labor, or to be idle ; we choose to imitate good 
 or bad example ; we choose to have some object in life, or to drift into 
 that state where we permit chance to guide us; we choose to be rude 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 49 
 
 or courteous ; to be well or ill bred ; to use good or bad language ; to 
 be pure or impure; to be honest or dishonest; to form good or evii 
 habits ; to be useful members of society, or to be worse than useless in 
 the community; to have a good or a bad reputation. 
 
 These are but a few — a very few — of the things we will choose 
 in our earlier years. We will have made all these choices before we 
 pass the age of eighteen. It is a solemn, an impressive fact that up to 
 eighteen is the formative stage so far as character is concerned. If 
 the choosing up to this period has been wisely done, there is great 
 reason to anticipate that a good start has been made on the journey 
 of life, and that our appearing in the world will at least do it no harm. 
 If our choosing up to this period has not been wisely done, then, indeed, 
 is there small hope that we will ever escape the consequences of the 
 errors already committed. 
 
 Another important consideration connected with our power of 
 choosing is that it must affect others as well as ourselves. The choice 
 of the child can but add joy or sorrow to the fond parent. If a child 
 chooses to be ignorant, he adds a pang to the hearts of his parents; if 
 he becomes vicious, he enhances their anxiety; if he be rude and 
 uncouth, he increases their mortification. 
 
 What is true of the parent, in this respect, is true of all those with 
 whom we come in contact. Society is a cohering mass of individuals, 
 each capable of choosing — nay, more — each compelled to choose, and 
 yet all — to a greater or less degree — affected by the choosing of all 
 the other individuals. 
 
 It will thus be seen that what we choose to do is not, strictly speak- 
 ing, our own business. As what we choose must affect others, what 
 that effect will be should be a consideration with each before choosing. 
 
 But while this relative position to those about us is by no means 
 to be ignored, it is by no means the most important. It is the ques- 
 tion of how our choice will affect us individually, that is most impor- 
 tant. There can be no doubt but we are placed in the world for a pur- 
 pose. There can be no doubt but all are destined for another state of 
 existence. There can be no doubt but improvement is the duty of every 
 one. If each will choose aright, and each will do right, then the indi- 
 viduals, cohering to form society, will make a happy community. 
 
 If this was the case we might give to earth the name of heaven; 
 but it is not the case ; it was not intended to be the case. I am not 
 here discussing why this is so; I am just stating a fact as I find it. 
 Good and evil both exist ; man has a conscience that teaches the dis- 
 tinction between good and evil. To avoid evil and to attain good is 
 the duty of man. Nature's laws are divine. If we violate one of them 
 we must suffer the penalty. If we obey them the reward comes in the 
 obeying. 
 
60 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 That is the best form of government where the interests and hap- 
 piness of all are consulted and secured. 
 
 That is the best system of religion that teaches the unity of God 
 and the brotherhood of man ; that teaches exact justice to all ; grants 
 equal privileges to all; teaches the largest charity; lifts up the fallen, 
 makes better men, better women and better citizens. 
 
 In our judgment the religion of the Bible is the only system that 
 can ever elevate the human race. Therefore it is the duty of every 
 one to give it serious consideration, and to be fully persuaded before 
 choosing in so important a matter. 
 
 An Incident 
 
 Many of the readers of the Banner know that Maiden is a town on 
 the Q. railroad, as all travelers on that line pass through it in going 
 to and coming from Chicago. It is north of Princeton, and has nothing 
 to distinguish it from any — or at least many — of the other towns that 
 mark the from five to eight-mile stations on the ordinary railroad. 
 But it remained for the town of Maiden to verify a statement made in 
 the penned article of this series — "That some of the most pathetic 
 scenes in life may be witnessed at some of these depots, on the arrival 
 and departure of trains. ' ' 
 
 If the reader cares to jog his, or her, memory, he, or she, will 
 recollect that Wednesday, March 20, 1900, was a clear, bright, magnifi- 
 cent day, for the time of year. It came after three or four cold, dreary, 
 chilling, dismal days, and the contrast was so great that it put one 
 in great good humor with himself and with all the world. It was a 
 day — if one such ever comes — and who will say that they do not — when 
 one could fulfill the scriptural injunction, "Forgive your enemies." 
 There were the remains of snow drifts lying along the fence rows and 
 hedges, and the tepid noon had melted them so that cute little rivulets 
 were born, and went creeping over tortuous courses in their efforts 
 to reach some outlet into some more pretentious stream that would 
 carry them riverward, and, finally, seaward, to be lost in the waters 
 of the mighty deep, that has almost as much of mystery about it as 
 do these human lives of ours. It was a day to brood thought, espe- 
 cially if one were alone — and one can be alone even on a crowded 
 railroad train — just as the stranger can be alone in the crowded streets 
 of a great city. 
 
 The lazy hours had been creeping slowly by, one by one, as the 
 train that pulls out of the Union depot at 11 :30 a. m. went rushing over 
 the track, speeding toward Galesburg, and the hands on the face of 
 the accurate timekeeper indicated 3 p. m^ as the whistle sounded, the 
 brakeman called out "Maiden! Maiden!" and with creak, and groan, 
 and crunch, and grind of the wheels the train halted at Maiden. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 51 
 
 It was noticeable at once that something more than the ordinary 
 was here. The platform was crowded with a well-dressed throng, and 
 it was evident that something was exciting them to a perceptible 
 degree. There was a subdued look — something akin to a sad look — 
 on every face visible from the car window, and one fell to wondering 
 if some prominent person or family was leaving the place, and these 
 had come to say farewell. A couple of old people, with a number of 
 both sexes, who were in the prime of life, pushed along toward the 
 forward platform of the next car back, and a glance from the window 
 fell on a handsome woman — perhaps thirty-five years of age — dressed 
 in the deepest mourning, with black veil pendant, and eyes sad and 
 swollen with weeping. As she stepped on the platform she was met, 
 embraced and kissed by those nearest the steps. No word was spoken. 
 It was a sorrow too deep, too tender, too sacred for the set phrases 
 of speech. It was the meeting of the young wife who had sustained 
 a great loss, with her father, her mother, her brothers, her sisters, and 
 with the nearest kin of him she had so loved, and so recently lost. 
 Let us draw a curtain over this scene. It is not an isolated case. It 
 is witnessed somewhere, by somebody, every day; but it is none the 
 less sad and sacred. 
 
 It was not difficult to divine the facts, though, as yet, nothing could 
 be seen to prove them. But the conductor's voice rang out, "All 
 aboard!" the bell rang, the steam hissed and sizzled as if impatient, 
 the tremor of moving wheels was felt, and as the train forged ahead 
 it brought to view the express truck, the box containing the casket, and 
 the men who were to bear it away. 
 
 As the wheels regained the monotonous clank, clank, clanty-ety- 
 clank in passing over the frogs a vision came to us. It was of two 
 peaceful, happy homes in Maiden. In the one a dark haired little 
 girl ; in the other a boy with chestnut curls ; they are playing together 
 by the brook ; they are making mud pies ; they are plucking flowers in 
 the meadow ; they are peeping curiously into the nest of the robin with 
 the four tiny speckled eggs; they are going to school together; they 
 are gliding hand in hand over the smooth surface of the ice. 
 
 There is a change; I see a handsome black-eyed maiden; by her 
 side is a manly youth; there is a strange, hopeful light in both pairs 
 of eyes ; they are lovers. 
 
 Another change; a wedding scene; all is joy, and mirth, and 
 gladness : 
 
 "There is no sorrow In their song, 
 No winter in their year." 
 
 Another change; the old homes are a glad memory; there is a 
 new home born of the two old homes; it is a happy home; it is full 
 of love, and full of hope, and — and who would dare to fear. 
 
62 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Another change; the strong man looks tired; his pulse is quick; 
 his limbs are weak ; he has a lassitude that will not be shaken off ; the 
 wife is alarmed ; the physician is called ; everything that love can plan 
 and execute is done; it is hoping against hope; he has reached that 
 spot where 
 
 "The Shadow sits and waits for him." 
 
 The closing scene is come; the idol is turned to clay; the young 
 wife is face to face with the great mystery of life — the mystery of 
 death. 
 
 And here, on this beautiful day, she has come back to Maiden to 
 lay her idol in the dust, and these are her relatives and friends come to 
 meet, and sympathize, and weep with her. 
 
 And as the scene receded from the view, these sorrowful words of 
 song came sweeping o 'er our subdued and chastened thoughts : 
 
 "It was not so, ere he we loved, 
 And vainly strove with heaven to save. 
 Heard the low call of death and moved, 
 With holy calmness to the grave 
 Just in that brightest hour of youth, 
 When life, spread out, before us lay, 
 And charmed us with its tones of truth. 
 And colors radiant as the day." 
 
 The noise of day is done ; the silence of midnight reigns ; the ham- 
 let of Yates City is peacefully sleeping ; but as we sit here to record the 
 thoughts that come to us, we realize that truth is stranger than fiction, 
 and that we have but touched a theme that, in the mind of a competent 
 and ready writer, would develop into an interesting story. But we 
 have touched it only with the magic wand of truth, and it will touch 
 a tender chord in many a reader's heart, and some will find in it a 
 mirror in which to view their sorrow-stricken selves, and they will 
 gently weep, and clip this Hour Alone, and paste it in some scrap-book 
 rare and prized, and they will go to it like worshiper devout to the 
 shrine he loves, and read it o'er again, and, reading, weep afresh. 
 
 Woman's Work 
 
 Most men pay little attention to the work done by their wives. 
 This is more especially true of the cooking, and the keeping in order 
 the dishes, the cooking utensils, and the many things that go to make 
 up the outfit for preparing meals. 
 
 It is true that nearly all men think that they could do the work as 
 well as their wives, and perhaps a little better, for man is a conceity 
 animal after all. He is so accustomed to seeing things decent and in 
 order, when he comes home to his meals, that he falls into the notion — 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 63 
 
 absurd enough, too, on reflection — that somethow it is no trick at all 
 to have them so. His work is in the field, the mine, the shop, the 
 store, or the office, and he realizes how much of study and of worry- 
 there is in planning what falls to his lot to keep going. But the mere 
 work of preparing a meal, of washing the dishes, of tidying up the 
 place — "siding up the house," as the English put it — why, pshaw! there 
 is no trick in that. Anybody could do that. Why, of course they 
 could! But it is only men who reason in this silly fashion. Women 
 know better. They have become accustomed to that kind of work, and 
 it becomes a second nature to them ; but they know that every meal has 
 to be planned; that things do not happen to come right; that every 
 batch of bread has its worry for fear it will not rise as it should, or 
 that the oven may get too hot, or that it should not bake evenly. It 
 is not without diplomacy that a woman goes about to make such a com- 
 promise of the meal that each member of the family may find some- 
 thing appetizing. There is one who will not eat anything that has 
 onions in it; another can't bear potatoes if cabbage has been cooked 
 with them ; one is just wild to have potato soup, while another thinks 
 soup of any kind is out of place, and can only be suggestive of "Oliver 
 Twist"; one won't stomach cheese, while another thinks if there is 
 anything better than cheese, it is more cheese ; one hankers after pan- 
 cakes three times a day, and another never wants to see one; mango 
 peppers have great power over one, while the other would just as soon 
 be offered a dessert of Indian turnip. One must have lettuce wilted 
 in vinegar, while another likes it sweetened, and a third contemp- 
 tuously denominates it "rabbit fodder." One prefers pickles out of 
 the brine, while another wants them sour enough to make a pig squeal. 
 
 Now it is evident to anybody — except a horrid man — and all men 
 are more or less horrid — generally more — that in the thought, and plan- 
 ning, and study, and worry, to meet all these different tastes that 
 fall to the lot of woman, she has the harder task. And this has to be 
 faced, and settled three times a day — except possibly on Sunday- 
 seven days in the week, four weeks in the month, and twelve months 
 in the year, during her natural life. It makes one dizzy to even think 
 of it. The only wonder is that there are so few women in the insane 
 asylums. If the men were to tackle such a job there would not be 
 enough of them left on the outside of the "fool house" to stand guard 
 over those on the inside. 
 
 Then there is the other side of woman's work as a cook. It is the 
 pathetic side, too. The task would be perplexing enough were the 
 larders always well stocked ; but they are not. Many a woman knows 
 all about the perplexities of getting up meals when there is precious 
 little to get. It is these that should command the respect, and have 
 the pity of mankind. And they are the larger class, too, which is 
 the worst thing about the whole matter. There are the homes of 
 
S4> OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 thrift and plenty, thank God, for every one of them! There are 
 homes of want and squalor, God pity them ! where the cooking causes 
 scarcely a thought, for there is nothing to cook. But between them is 
 the number greater than both of these — those homes where the subject 
 of economy, strict, stern, rigid, uncompromising economy must be a 
 daily study. It is no easy task to make even dainty, appetizing food 
 always inviting. It is downright mental drudgery to meet the require- 
 ments of every day, when meals must not only be invented out of the 
 coarser materials, but often be patched up of scraps that are too 
 valuable to be thrown away. 
 
 Most of us may say of these tactful, patient, brave, noble and 
 loving women of ours, in the truthful and beautiful words of Petro- 
 leum V. Nasby : 
 
 "I wrestled with my books; her task was harder far than mine — 
 'Twas how to make two hundred dollars do the work of nine." 
 
 It was not our purpose to thus moralize when we took up the pen, 
 but these thoughts came to us — or may we not indulge the fancy that 
 they were sent — and we hope that they will be appreciated by the 
 large class of women whose alpha and omega in life is the drudgery 
 that the kitchen imposes. 
 
 The Influence of Christmas 
 
 It is scarcely possible to escape the influence of the holiday season. 
 It becomes so universal that it permeates everything. If we could 
 imagine that every particle of the influence exerted on the human race 
 by Christianity could be blotted out, — forgotten — and we could still 
 retain the glad season of Christmas, there would be no danger of a 
 relapse into the darkness and ignorance of barbarism. It would be 
 impossible to keep the knowledge of the Divine Savior of the world 
 from those who were in the habit of celebrating the annual return of 
 the most important birth the world has ever known. 
 
 It is the time when the children become the special objects of the 
 labor, the love and the affection of the older people, the time when 
 the little ones are the center and the circumference of all plans and 
 speculations. It is the time for rejoicing over the many family 
 reunions — and may we not say of sorrow that there are so many whom 
 adverse circumstances deny that boon — where the sons and the daugh- 
 ters gather about the table in the old kitchen, and reverently bow their 
 heads while they listen to the old familiar "blessing," from the lips 
 of the now gray-haired father. It is the time for giving gifts, and for 
 the expression of good wishes, and the indulgence of good cheer, and 
 for general rejoicing. It is spoken of as a time of joyousness, of 
 pleasure and of happiness. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 65 
 
 Christmas is like a political campaign; one may hold aloof from 
 its influence for a time, but will be gradually drawn into it — because 
 everybody else is in it — and one is soon as enthusiastic as any of them. 
 The fact is that enthusiasm is contagious, and cannot be resisted. That 
 is the best reason that can be given for the belief that enthusiasm is 
 a good thing. It is a reacher out after the cold, the lukewarm, the 
 indifferent, and a welder of all the parts into a homogeneous mass. 
 So is the influence of the Christmas season a reacher out after those 
 who are not interested, and it welds the component parts into a com- 
 pact, solid and enthusiastic whole. 
 
 Would it be possible to extend the happiness of this glad season 
 through the entire year? No; because enthusiasm is not a normal 
 condition, but a fitful fire that flashes up when fanned by some sud- 
 den gust of wind, but smolders — almost hidden — in the calm. It is a 
 wave that rises, and mounts, and rushes furiously and frantically for- 
 ward when the storm rages, but sinks to the level of the ocean as soon 
 as the wind seeks its cavern. No ; because man is an impulsive animal, 
 and scintillates or soddens at the changing of a breath. 
 
 But let us not confound happiness and pleasure. They are not 
 alike ; they are not to be obtained in the same way. Pleasure may be 
 sought after and obtained, for it is an object, but there may not be 
 happiness in it when obtained. Indeed, it will readily suggest itself 
 that pleasure indulged may result in the most intense misery. It may 
 be found in the humblest home, as readily as in the most costly palace, 
 for it is but the ripened fruit that grows on the tree of contentment. 
 
 Pleasure may be purchased with money, but happiness is beyond 
 the reach of wealth to buy. It is a blessing that — like all God's best 
 gifts to man — is in the reach of those who are in the obscurest con- 
 dition of poverty. 
 
 Happiness is the great desire of the human heart. But many mis- 
 take the way to secure the coveted prize, and find, when too late, that 
 they have traded happiness for pleasure, and have mortgaged their 
 higher and better manhood for that which can never satisfy. Pleasure 
 leads downward to riot, to excess, to failure, and often to ruin. Hap- 
 piness leads upward to wider charities, to higher manhood, to nobler 
 purposes, to God and heaven. 
 
 The happy crowds of children who — before these random thoughts 
 are printed — will have gathered about the Christmas trees, and picked 
 the ripe fruit of love and affection, are standing with the promise of 
 their years before them, and hope gilds with splendor this promise, 
 and reveals to them the beauty of the roses that bloom in their path- 
 way, but conceals the sharpness of the thorns that will lacerate their 
 hands in the attempt to gather them. Some of them are too young 
 to be advised, admonished, or warned. But many of them are old 
 
66 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 enough to think for themselves, and to all such we would say, learn 
 in the very outstart, that pleasure and happiness are not synonymous 
 terms, that, of the two, happiness is beyond compare, and that the 
 surest way to miss happiness is to engage in a mad chase after pleasure. 
 Remember the words of the sad, sweet singer, Mrs. Dorothea Felicia 
 Hemans : j 
 
 "Oh happiness! how oft we flee " 
 
 Thine own sweet paths, in search of thee." 
 
 Alone in the Old Church 
 
 It is again Monday night, and the tiny bustle of Yates City — 
 which some of her citizens may be pardoned for mistaking for the 
 noise of the world — is hushed to a serene quietness that is Sabbath- 
 like in its stillness. The day has been in strange contrast to the Mon- 
 day of a week ago. Then it was cold, cheerless, dreary, repelling; 
 now it is warm, cheerful, pleasant, inviting. No howling winds arouse 
 the weird fancies of days that make one feel just a little as if one 
 had been reading Tam 0' Shanter. So calm and peaceful seems nature 
 at this hour that the poet 's fancy comes to us : 
 
 "The breeze of night has sunk to rest, 
 Upon the river's tranquil breast." 
 
 There are no moving shadows occasioned by the oscillating motion 
 of the electric lights, for they are not needed, and have not been 
 lighted, for such a lambent moon pales out the weaker stars that only 
 the more brilliant ones are left to spangle the blue heaven. There are 
 no clouds, and just such a night must have entranced the eye of the 
 poet when he wrote : 
 
 "And milder moons imparadise the night." 
 
 A week ago we mused why such a bleak, uncanny day should come, 
 but now we realize that it enables us to appreciate the wondrous, gen- 
 tle beauty of a day like this — days none too common in a climate so 
 capricious and fickle as that in which we live. 
 
 Sunday was a rare, sweet, beautiful day, too, well calculated to 
 call out the worshipful in man, and center all his homage above the 
 earth rather than on it. As we sit here, spared by a gracious, loving 
 Heavenly Father to enjoy another Hour Alone, our thoughts, amenable 
 to no law of control, call up the multitudes that gathered in the 
 churches, ostensibly to worship God. It has been said by some quaint 
 writer that if one enters a church when filled with a congregation it is 
 not possible to realize the past that it may have, because some move- 
 ment in the pews, some fashion brought there for display, some eccen- 
 tricity of the minister — we take it he is not less free than other men 
 from these — will distract our thoughts. But to get the key and slip 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 57 
 
 up to the church door when one is all alone, to walk as softly as 
 infant's step — a thing we will be sure to do — to start at turning of 
 the stubborn lock as though we heard an angel speak, to enter half 
 reluctant, half in dread, and feel a strange and weird sensation creep- 
 ing over us, as if we stood where rest the sheeted dead just at that 
 solemn hour when another day is on the eve of being born — these bring 
 us face to face with other conditions. 
 
 The time the church was built forces itself upon us; strange that 
 it never came to us on Sunday. It has been forty years — perhaps 
 more — it may be less — it matters not — but forty years make changes 
 in most men, and in communities too. 
 
 And as we stand alone within the aisle the shadows lift, we 
 gather courage, lose that deep sense of superstitious dread that clings 
 to most of us, and begin to realize what has been acted on this mimic 
 stage. 
 
 Here are the aged men, walking with short, unsteady step, to 
 reach the pews nearer the pulpit, for somehow they seem to hear 
 the sermon better of late when a little closer, but not because age 
 has dulled their sense of hearing, not at all. Yonder the mothers, 
 aged and bent, with quaint device of cape, or cloak, or shawl, totter 
 to their places, and grasp the back of the next pew to enable them 
 to settle in their own. There on the left hand side the young men 
 gather to fill the seats nearest the door. Alas, that young men so 
 often prefer to take the left hand road in life! About the middle 
 pews the young ladies congregate in bevies. It would be quite unjust, 
 besides being rude, to insinuate that their thoughts wandered from 
 the sermon — sometimes over to the left hand corner. Then come 
 the boys, rollicking, roistering, romping, careless, thoughtless, happy 
 boys, and they drop down anywhere, and with an expression of face 
 that says as plainly as words could do, "I wonder how long I'll have 
 to be tortured by this high backed seat this time. Just wait till I 
 get big, and you don't never n-e-v-e-r catch me in a church." But, 
 thank God ! the resolutions of boyhood 's days are apt to be forgotten 
 when the responsibilities and duties of manhood come. And sand- 
 wiched everywhere are the doll like little girls — curled, ruffled, 
 starched, primped until they verily believe it were dangerous to move 
 lest they might fall to pieces. Gathering in the left hand corner next 
 the pulpit, is the choir, it will not do to speculate upon the possibilities 
 that lie wrapped in the average choir. The minister generally looks 
 over to the corner where the choir sits, much as the farmer looks into 
 the northwest in haying time, to determine if a storm be imminent. 
 And the babies; there is no observation in the person who has not 
 noted the baby in church. How its eyes dilate with wonder! How 
 it shrinks at the first tone of the organ! How its lip quivers as the 
 
68 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 tenor, soprano and alto drop into line, and when the deep toned bass 
 joins all the others, and they all thunder down on the final Hallelujah, 
 Amen! the pearly tears are rolling down its peach bloom cheeks, and 
 it is trying to hide in the fold of its mother's dress. 
 
 The scene changes; it is communion Sunday; there is a holy hush 
 on the congregation; the sacred emblems are being passed by the 
 solemn faced elders ; with bowed heads, and white handkerchiefs 
 shading their faces, the followers of Jesus are obeying his command, 
 "Do this in remembrance of me." If there be a type of heaven seen 
 on earth, it is where the children of the King meet around His table 
 to commemorate His dying love. 
 
 Again the scene changes ; the wedding march is playing ; beauty 
 and manhood plight their troth : the father's face is grave ; the mother's 
 eyes are wet ; congratulations are given ; at such a time how appropri- 
 ate the poets words: 
 
 "But though impressions calm and sweet, 
 Thrill round my heart a holy heat, 
 
 And I am inly glad, 
 The tear drop stands in either eye, 
 And yet I can not tell thee why, 
 
 I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad." 
 
 Again the scene changes; the church is crowded; there is the 
 trample of feet at the entrance ; the bearers are toiling up the narrow 
 aisle; a wail of sorrow breaks from lips of anguish — the same bitter 
 cry that woke the echoes of the Nile when Egypt's first born died; 
 that cry has never ceased, and yet it stirs the fount of feeling in all 
 of human kind, and while the kindred weep because 
 "God's finger touched him and he slept." 
 their friends weep too, at sight of stricken friends. 
 
 Dear readers of the Banner, it were a tale too long did we 
 relate but half that came to us in this hour while standing here within 
 these dedicated walls. Just how we came to wander in we can not 
 tell; call it an inspiration if you will, we do not care; but earnestly 
 we hope some thoughts may come to you as you peruse our thoughts, 
 and that we all may be the better for the thinking. 
 
 A Touching Obituary 
 
 Elsewhere in this issue will be found an obituary notice entitled 
 ''In Loving Memory," taken from the columns of The Manito Express. 
 We do not know any of the parties, for Manito is in the north part of 
 Mason county. But it is written in such a sad, tender pathos, such 
 a simple, touching, sorrowful style, that it must appeal to the heart 
 of every parent, whether they have been called upon to lay away in 
 
 Ai 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 59 
 
 the windowless palace such a dear household treasure, or whether 
 that treasure be still the light and the joy of their home. If you 
 "have loved and lost," we are sure that your tears will flow afresh 
 when you read the obituary of little Ralph. If you have loved such a 
 precious four-year-old treasure, and he is still spared to your loving 
 embrace, we feel sure that when you read this simple story of the 
 death of little Ralph, you will clasp your dear one closer to your 
 heaving bosom, and looking up with tear-dimmed eyes thank God who 
 spared him you, and utter a prayer for his continued safety. In either 
 case you will be the better that you have read it — that is if you have 
 tried to realize the tragedy of this simply story in all its sad, vivid 
 reality. To do this you must put yourself in the place of these bereaved 
 parents; their little Ralph must become your own little Paul, or 
 Philip, or John, or Albert, or Herman, or Frank, or whatever the name 
 of your dear one is. Suppose this scene were enacted in your home? 
 Will not your tears flow like rain at the mere thought that such a 
 scene may come to you? It may come. 
 
 "There is no flock, however watched and tended. 
 But one dead lamb is there! 
 There is no home, howsoe'er defended. 
 But has one vacant chair!" 
 
 These are the tragedies of life that bring the deepest sorrows, that 
 stir the soul to its profoundest depth, that scar the heart with wounds 
 that never can be effaced this side the gates of Paradise, where the 
 departed ones wait to welcome us. 
 
 Have you ever been an actor in such a scene? Have you seen the 
 strong, manly little hero lose interest in the things of this world, and 
 begin to see visions of the shining way? Have you seen the glow of 
 health fade from his cheeks, and the pallor of death settle over his 
 pinched face? Have you listened to his childish "I'se going to die?" 
 Have you heard his last "Doodnight Papa, Doodnight Mamma, Dood- 
 night Dranma, sweet dreams?" — never to be heard again this side the 
 pearly gates, where his greeting will not be "Doodnight," but a glad 
 "Doodmorning." Have you witnessed the last feeble struggle, and 
 seen the pale hue of death o'ercast the face but yesterday so flushed 
 with hope, so bright with promise? If so, strive not to dam the sor- 
 row sluices of the soul, for grief in swelling tide will rise and sweeping 
 every barrier away, will let your tears o'erflow, those kindly tears, 
 those heaven-sent tears, that only can quench the fierce, consuming 
 fires of grief, and soften bitter pain to that which bring to crushed 
 and bleeding human hearts a sad relief, the thought that He whose 
 lowly birth in Bethlehem's manger cradle awoke the echoes of Judea's 
 rugged hills with glad refrain of angel song, hath said "Suffer the 
 little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such 
 
60 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 is the kingdom of heaven." And shall we meet those dear ones once 
 again? Can love perish? Forever no. Our reason answers no. Our 
 hope says no. Our faith looks up to God and clinging to His promise 
 says I know that when the earth dissolves in fervent heat, when suns 
 are burned to dust, when stars have fallen, when moons shall wander 
 darkling in space, when the heavens are rolled together as a great 
 scroll, when the archangel's trump shall call the sheeted dead, amid 
 the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds, immortal love will live, 
 and we shall meet our Ralph, our Paul, our Philip or our John, and 
 hear his welcome, "Doodmorning." 
 
 This beautiful obituary of little Ralph is truly touching. We 
 have often said that those who would touch the heart with what they 
 write must themselves be moved to tears in the writing. We do not 
 know the writer of little Ralph's obituary, but we have read it, and, 
 well, we think tears fell to stain the pages on which it was written, 
 and we believe there are but few who can read it without the mist 
 of tears dimming their vision — and those who can we envy not. 
 
 Dear readers of the Banner, you have the brain child of an Hour 
 Alone. If it shall stir you to deeper sympathy for those bereaved, 
 if it shall cause a more earnest study of the mystery of death, if it 
 reveals to you a loving chastening in earth's greatest sorrow, if it 
 strengthens your hope in God, if it makes your faith in a better world 
 beyond clearer and brighter, if it adds to your assurance of a happy 
 meeting with those you have loved and mourned, then will we rest 
 content, and bid you all a kind good night. 
 
 Having a Purpose in Life 
 
 No one can make life a success without some purpose. He who 
 haphazards through life never accomplished what he might do. Our 
 very best for others is a motto that should ever be before us. In 
 doing our best for others we do the very best for ourselves. To do 
 our best for others there must be a purpose, a resolve, a determina- 
 tion, and these must be so persistently followed that time will give 
 us no vacancies in which to idle, to repine, to despond. Those who 
 do something for humanity are those who see the needs of the human 
 race. This is not asserting that all who tl^us perceive man's wants 
 are able to administer to them. Far from it; there are many who 
 discern those needs and wants very quickly, and yet their plans are 
 so tardy in forming, or rather their lack of plan is so conspicuous 
 that with the very best intentions, they let life's golden opportunities 
 slip by unimproved and at its close look back with vain regrets and 
 wonder at their blindness, and censure their own lack of system that 
 induced them to let days lengthen into weeks, weeks into months, 
 and months into years, until the whitening locks, and the dimmed 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 61 
 
 eye, and the bent form, and the treacherous memory warn them that 
 just before them is the open grave, that was none the less rapidly 
 or surely approached because of irresolution and want of decision. 
 Their great lack — and they see it now all the more only because it 
 is too late — has been the absence of a purpose that would have made 
 life much more of a success than it now appears. 
 
 But more than a purpose is needed. There is needed an absolute, 
 abiding, enduring, unwavering belief in the goodness, the purity, the 
 nobility of their fellowman. He who did more than all others to 
 lift up the fallen and rescue the perishing of the world did so because 
 he saw that while the image of God was scarred, and blotched, and 
 scratched, and disfigured by sin, yet there still remained the Divine 
 impress of the Creator, needing only to be washed, and polished, and 
 regenerated in order that it might regain the pristine beauty and 
 purity that was tarnished by the fall. And so do we need to realize 
 that men and women are worth saving before we can hope to have any 
 success in our endeavors, no matter how earnest they may be, nor 
 how much of purpose we may have for the accomplishment of good. 
 He is not equipped for the real duties of life who fails to grasp the 
 great fact that no truth is more capable of demonstration than is this 
 one of the brotherhood of man and the fatherhood of God. We laugh 
 at the castes of Brahmin, but forget that all class distinctions that 
 exist in our own civilization are man made and God condemned. In 
 our sight, as in God's sight, wealth and power and position and popu- 
 larity must count for nothing, and character and worth must be the 
 criterion before much can be done that betters the condition of those 
 who act on the stage of life with us, or that will make an impress on 
 the age in which we have lived. 
 
 Of course if we admit the soundness of the conclusions in the 
 last paragraph, it will follow we must not dwell too much on those 
 phases of human existence that tend to show us that some of the 
 strings on the instrument we call society are out of tune; that some 
 of the cogs are broken in the great wheel that rolls us all forward, 
 and others so much worn that they no longer mash, but cause a loss 
 of power by jumping cogs. And here is the nice point to decide. 
 If some good still remains in man, and we are bound to discover it and 
 acknowledge it, are we to look only on this phase of human character, 
 always finding something to commend, something to praise, something 
 to admire? Are we to shut our eyes to the fact of wrong, of vice, 
 of tyranny, of injustice, of oppression? 
 
 It is charged to the reformer that he is a "calamity howler," and 
 there are undoubtedly good grounds on which such a charge can be 
 predicated. It is hinted that it is only the "green fly" that finds 
 the sore. It is said the time spent in holding up to view the wrongs 
 that are asserted to exist would — if otherwise spent — discover some- 
 
62 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 thing that could be made to reassure man's failing virtues and make 
 his faith in goodness strong. It is doubtless true some have turned 
 out of the path where duty plainly pointed because others have 
 scouted at the existence of the evils that they were about to attack. 
 The Priest and the Levite came along the same road where the man 
 who had fallen among thieves was lying, but they preferred not to 
 see him, and if no other source of relief had appeared, he would have 
 perished in his hopeless helplessness. But there came a Samaritan 
 along that way and he saw him; his misery touched the cord of sym- 
 pathy in his heart, and he forgot the millions who were at ease in the 
 world, and saw only the imminent danger of this man. He set about 
 doing something for him; he brought him to another man, and asked 
 him to help. The fact is he got excited and became a calamity howler. 
 But the Master in the matchless narrative that brings the event to our 
 notice does not condemn him for this. 
 
 Our conclusion is that the "whole need not a physician, but those 
 who are sick." That the strong are able to care for themselves, while 
 the weak need assistance. "We do not forget the larger multitude 
 who are law-abiding, happy and prosperous. No need to cry out 
 in regard to them. But urgent, imperative, pressing need to arouse 
 sympathy for the weak, the fallen, the suffering. 
 
 If we see only the bright side of life, how will the dark side be 
 made brighter? If we hear only those who laugh, who is to comfort 
 those who weep? If we notice only those who stand in the sunlight 
 of prosperity, who will speak cheering words to those who sit in the 
 shadow of adversity? The butterfly flits from flower to flower in 
 the tepid warmth of the noonday sun, but the petrel will fly in the 
 very teeth of the angry storm cloud. It is necessary to have a pur- 
 pose; it is right that we see the wrongs that should be righted as 
 the days are going by; that we see the poor who need help; the 
 oppressed who need succor, and that we fail not to meet the responsi- 
 bility that falls to our lot. 
 
 If some readers of the Banner find in this Hour Alone a thought 
 inspiring to a better conception of duty to those around them, an 
 idea inciting to nobler manhood and womanhood, to a more desirable 
 citizenship for Yates City, the aim of the writer is accomplished. 
 
 The Power of Words 
 
 Lord Byron, that wonderfully gifted genius, has given us this 
 beautiful thought, and it is no less instructive than beautiful: 
 
 "But words are things, and a small drop of ink. 
 Falling like dew upon a thought, produces 
 That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think." 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 63 
 
 What have words done? And what have words not done? And 
 yet how much at random do we use them ! How many of them are 
 frivolous words! What a vast number of them are idle words! And 
 what a multitude of them are vain words! How little of thought is 
 given to a majority of the words that are used ! And yet words are 
 but thoughts, so articulated that what is passing in one mind is con- 
 veyed to another, and thus becomes a medium to awaken thought in 
 that other mind. 
 
 As I sit here tonight in this same chair where thoughts of mine, 
 though not articulated, have been so pictured by the pencil's point, 
 and so placed on paper by the printer's art, that those who read the 
 Banner have with us gone into some of the grand picture galleries 
 of the mind, and together have gazed on joyous scenes, on sorrow's 
 saddest hours, on home's sweet, quiet bliss, on poverty's deep distress, 
 on all a mother's deep and holy love — or had we not better say on 
 all of it that we, with our cramped powers, are able to comprehend? — 
 for if there be one thing not born on the earth, but lent, we can but 
 thiak, from heaven, that will continue to unfold in all the ceaseless 
 years of the eternity that must run parallel with God's existence, 
 that thing must be the pure, unselfish, enduring, self-sacrificing, holy 
 love that finds lodgment no other where but in that sacred place, 
 a mother's heart. But as we sit and muse, the fancy comes to calcu- 
 late how many words the ordinary mortal uses during life ; how many 
 kinds there be; and what effect they have on our own lives, and on 
 the lives of others about us. But can we number them? Go tell the 
 waves that in the years since time begun have dashed on all the 
 wave washed shores. Go number all the myriad notes that in the ages 
 past have floated in the sunbeam's warmth. Go and enumerate the 
 sands that pile the desert's wastes. Go and lift up your eyes to 
 heaven's vault of blue, and count the stars that sparkle in those azure 
 fields, for when you can do all these, nor yet omit one wave, nor leave 
 one note unnumbered, nor miss one grain of sand however small, nor 
 fail to count the tiniest star in all yon host, you may expect to count 
 the words that fall from the lips of one whose years have reached the 
 allotted span of life. 
 
 There are the lisping, faltering words that fall from childhood's 
 rosy lips, the thoughtless words of youth, so freely used before ex- 
 perience teaches us to think ; the earnest words of years mature, when 
 wisdom rules the tongue, and oft enforces silence ; the jabbering words 
 of age, when all the faculties decay, and we are as the infant once 
 again, but yet bereft of hope. 
 
 There are harsh words, that grate on every ear; gentler words, 
 that soothe and heal ; bitter words, that tell us peace has flown ; sweet 
 words, that tell us love is born ; words of reproach, that stir the very 
 soul to madness ; words of commendation, that rouse every latent power 
 
64 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 to nobler action ; words of cursing, that incite to rage ; words of bless- 
 ing, that fall on troubled hearts like some blest benediction ; words of 
 praise, that lift the heart to ecstasy, and words of doom that sink 
 it in despair. 
 
 Oh, those cruel words that destroy domestic bliss, that kill love, 
 that feed hate, that mar friendships, that estrange lovers, that destroy 
 hopes, that mar lives! Oh, sarcastic words that burn and scathe, and 
 blight, and blister! Oh, words of scandal that sear and scorch, and 
 blacken, and destroy ! But, gentle reader, let us go back to the genesis 
 of words. While there are millions of derivatives, there are but two 
 roots — the good words, and the bad words. And they are formed so 
 often upon the same tongue. One of the inspired writers says of the 
 tongue : 
 
 "Even so the tongue is a little member, and breatheth great 
 things; but the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of 
 deadly poison. Therewith bless we God, and therewith curse we 
 man." And let us remember that these tongues are word formers, 
 and that one of them is ours to guide, to direct, to control. 
 
 But the wisest man of all the ages has said that "words fitly 
 spoken are like apples of gold in pictures of silver." 
 
 And e'er we say good night, permit us, reader dear, to tell you, 
 as a reminder here, that words, like us, are mortal, and, like us, im- 
 mortal too ; that while they sleep and we, perchance, may count them 
 dead, they sleep but to arise, and rising will confront us as we stand 
 with all the human race in that great judgment hall, to hear from 
 lips of the great Judge Supreme this verdict, rare but true: "By thy 
 words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be con- 
 demned." You have the thoughts that come to us in this Our Hour 
 Alone; God grant these thoughts may benefit you, as they have 
 profited us. 
 
 The Mystery of Life 
 
 The day with its brood of busy cares is ended. The shades of 
 night have wrapped in gloom alike the tall mountain peaks, the valleys 
 and the plains of earth. Deep, sombre clouds are drifting over a sky 
 that shows but here and there a rift of azure blue, in which a few 
 scattering stars look down upon the earth, just as they looked down 
 upon the plains of Judea on that memorable night when simple shep- 
 herds heard the angel song that has never since died out. The lights 
 have gone out in the houses until but few are visible from the window 
 by which we sit, and these may be attributed to bookworm's love 
 of musty volumes, the imperative necessity of watching by the bed 
 where pain has banished rest, or that more solemn task where watchers 
 keep their silent vigils about the white-robed form whose pulse is 
 stilled forever, and whose span of life has been cut short by that 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 65 
 
 inevitable shadow that lurks in all the busy haunts of life, and whose 
 silent footfalls wake no echo as he places his foot just in that spot 
 where ours was lifted from. 
 
 The clock ticks loud — or seems to do so — for harsher notes of day 
 have died away or gone to sleep to wake again with the returning 
 light, to din the ear of man, who, waking too, will rise to scheme 
 and plan, to reach and overreach, to toil and strive, to triumph or 
 to fail, and but the few mysterious sounds that waning hours of day 
 know, and we have scarce the courage to investigate, are heard; and 
 so the clock ticks away those hours, those hours that never can return, 
 but always march in the procession that comes out of the darkness 
 and is lost in the mists, and the sound strikes on the ear with a per- 
 ceptible jar, and we wonder if comparison is the only criterion by 
 which we can estimate those things that we see or hear. 
 
 At such a time, to spend an hour considering that in a few brief 
 years, we are to pass to the eternity of years that are but part of 
 those that are to come, can fitly bring to mind the fact that with those 
 hours, we, too, are passing on, and that before we cease to turn with 
 fondness to the things of youth, the hand of time has pushed us to 
 the verge of age, and we are near the lesser of the two great mys- 
 teries of life, for there are two, and we do know that they are life and 
 death, and also know that life is the profounder of the twain. 'Tis 
 vain to speculate on life or how it came; enough to know we live, 
 and joy beyond compare if we can feel that we have lived aright. 
 Science may weigh the worlds, may measure the distant stars, may 
 penetrate the rocky crust of earth and drag her buried history to the 
 day, may resolve the sunbeam to its elements and find in its tiny 
 globule that the iron is there, may drag the bottom of the seas for 
 hidden things, may hitch the forces of nature to her car and urge 
 it forward, but science, baffled, stands as dumb as Egypt's sphinxes 
 are when she is brought face to face with the mysterious problem of 
 life, and with the great agnostic, Ingersoll, hides behind the ram- 
 part, "I do not know." 
 
 Yes, science plumes her flight to the most distant stars, peers in 
 the caves where winds are born, unlocks the curious chemistry of 
 nature, lays bare the treasures of the mines, takes atmosphere to 
 pieces, and toys with all the forces that she meets, until her voice is 
 wisdom's utterance, and yet when asked how life originates her lips 
 are dumb and her great knowledge is at fault. 
 
 Is there a lesson here? It must be so. Man learns that but a 
 higher power can understand this great mystery of life, and after all 
 the solid wall of fact blocks up his way, and he is driven to accept 
 what only revelation can explain of life and how it came. 
 
 The greater mystery comes first and still remains unexplained, 
 
66 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 and little wonder then the last — though less — is still so great that 
 science fails to grasp it and explain. We look upon our friend who 
 lies before us, cold and calm and rigid, and we know that he has 
 solved the lesser mystery; but here our knowledge ends. Ah, how 
 we long to know if he has stepped on higher vantage ground and 
 solved the greater, too. Has science found her peer, her superior? 
 Has speculation found a solid base and changed to certain knowledge? 
 We cannot answer questions such as these, but we may do so in the time 
 to come. 
 
 One thing we know, we live; another, that we are all candidates 
 for death, and our election certain. Since Cain arose and slew his 
 brother Abel, and tearwet lashes rested on the cheeks of Eve, the 
 wail of sorrow caused by death has never ceased to fall on human ears. 
 That bitter wail rolled down the Nile when Egypt's firstborn died, 
 has broken the stillness everywhere that human feet have trod, has 
 sounded in each vale, woke mountain echoes from their slumbers, and 
 penetrated every nook in this busy world. 
 
 Is life to be despised? Must death a terror be? Forever no! 
 There rises in the soul that strange, strong, intense desire for after- 
 life which is the strongest evidence nature gives of life beyond the 
 grave, and it gives to life a purpose, and to death a glorious hope. 
 
 Dear readers of the Banner, you have the musings of an Hour 
 Alone. If they but wake some thoughts in other minds, but lead 
 some one to look on life as given for some purpose, and death the hour 
 that leads to fuller life, the writer is content to bid you all good night. 
 
 The Sick-Room 
 
 The room is a common one, the floor covered with a rag carpet, 
 the walls finished in white, a few pictures hanging here and there; a 
 small stove is standing a little back from the chimney, and an air 
 of neatness pervades the whole apartment, as if deft fingers had 
 tried to make everything connected with the room as cheery as pos- 
 sible. It is an upper room, and as you enter it an aroma of medicines 
 greets you, even at the landing on top of the stairs. It is difficult to 
 tell just what it is, but it always makes us slightly nervous to detect 
 this smell, for it tells us that somebody's darling is supposed to be 
 in danger. 
 
 As we enter the room we see an improvised table, — perhaps a 
 goods box — covered with a plain white cloth ; above it a small mirror, 
 a coarse comb lying below it, and a small white towel hanging over 
 the corner of the table. A glance shows us a saucer with three or four 
 oranges in it, one cut and lacking one quarter, and a few peelings 
 showing that a dainty appetite has tried to relish the fruit. Several 
 bottles, of various sizes, are ranged on the back part of the table. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 67 
 
 all carefully labeled in that professional scrawl that indicates the doc- 
 tor, daily writing kindred scrawls. Each bottle has its peculiar flavor 
 that the educated nostril distinguishes in a moment. A small delft 
 individual dish sits a little to one side of the centre, containing per- 
 haps twenty small papers, doubled in that peculiar manner that doc- 
 tors observe in putting up powders. Directly in the centre stands 
 a tall glass goblet, covered with a small glass side dish, on which is 
 resting a silver teaspoon. A common white teacup is not covered, 
 but has a spoon with its bowl resting in the liquid the cup contains. 
 A box of salve is there also, one of those little round wooden boxes 
 that we have all admired and coveted in the happy days of careless 
 childhood, long ago, long before such a scene as we are describing 
 had any absorbing interest for us. 
 
 On a chair beside this table is a bunch of oakum, while a few pieces 
 of tarred rope, a small lap-board, and a well worn caseknife indicates 
 clearly how the oakum is obtained. Beside the bed — which stands 
 north of the middle of the room — is another chair, and on it is a server, 
 on which rests a number of dishes, pickled cherries, a half peeled 
 banana, a bunch of luscious looking California grapes — clear and 
 transparent as a crystal — a cup of jelly, a few thin slices of dried beef, 
 a bit of delicate toast — a very small piece broken from one corner — 
 and a paper sack containing several varieties of candy, is resting 
 between the edge of the server and the back of the chair. 
 
 On a small stand, in another part of the room, we notice several 
 strips of well worn muslin, evidently torn from some discarded sheet, 
 and in a basket, in the corner, we notice a medley of pillow-cases, 
 old night-gowns, discarded fine shirts, and other articles — perhaps 
 thoughfully provided by friends of the family. Standing near the foot 
 of the bed is a woman — and it takes but a glance to convince you 
 she is the mother. There are no traces of recent tears on her pale 
 cheeks — for this is not an immediate death bed — but a glance shows 
 you she is acting a part ; that she is appearing unconcerned while she 
 is deeply, dreadfully anxious. She has that in her face that tells this 
 is not her first great sorrow. No ; she has been a student in the school 
 of affliction, and has learned to mask the emotions of the heart so that 
 they can scarcely be detected in her visage. It is almost two years 
 since she began to try to make this room cheerful for the sick one. 
 When she put the first touch to it she knew just how the case would 
 terminate ; she had no hope for ultimate recovery ; but she had a duty 
 to perform, and she is doing it nobly, grandly, silently, bravely and 
 well. 
 
 Days have lengthened into weeks, weeks into months, and months 
 into a year, and now almost a second year has been added, and yet she 
 is there, apparently tireless, always cheerful, always ready, in fact, 
 
68 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 seeming to anticipate every want. Nobody but a mother ever did this ; 
 nobody but a mother ever could do this. But what think you are her 
 feelings? None can answer except a mother who has passed through 
 some similar experience. If she has not she could not comprehend 
 if it were told her. 
 
 We are alone ; the lights have faded from the windows, one by one, 
 until all are gone ; a dark rim of heavy black clouds hangs in the north- 
 west; the clock is ticking — how loudly, too, but swiftly and surely 
 along toward the midnight hour; it is the 22d day of August, 1887; 
 in a very short time it will be the 23d, and this day, too, will be num- 
 berd with the past. Will the little sketch that we have just penned 
 awaken any emotions in the hearts of those who read the Banner? 
 We have only taken you to the threshold of a sick room, and permitted 
 you to glance at the interior. Some of you have been there before. 
 We have only told what you already knew. Some of you — perhaps — 
 have not, as yet, reached such a scene in your own life history. Then 
 let us ask God to make you wise, brave and strong, for those who can- 
 not say "my heart is touched by this simple description of what I 
 have seen," will sometime in the future say, "A like experience has 
 come unto me." We have but copied from a picture that hangs on 
 memory's wall, in the hearts of many of our readers. Good night. 
 
 The Value of a Soul 
 
 Man is restless, energetic, pushing. He is a progressive engine of 
 activity. Not only does he turn opportunities to the best possible use, 
 but he makes opportunities. His body is a wonderful piece of mech-. 
 anism; every part is admirably adapted for the use to which it is to 
 be put; the hand is a wonder, taken by itself; take away the hands, 
 and how would he subsist? The foot, soft, springy, elastic, how it 
 resists the pressure of the weight of the body upon it! The ear is a 
 structure so complex, and yet so delicate, that one is amazed at its 
 contrivance. The eye, what a wonderful thing it is ! It sees the tiny 
 microbes that inhabit a drop of water, and it reaches out into immens- 
 ity to examine a star. Let us contemplate the adaptability of the 
 body of man to the wants of his physical nature, how its joints, and 
 tendons, and ligaments enable man to stand erect, lie prostrate, move 
 forward or backward, climb, descend, labor and take pleasure, and 
 we will soon discover the fitness of the expression of holy writ, "Man 
 is fearfully and wonderfully made." Let us consider the advances 
 made in the sciences on account of the properties of the senses in man, 
 the progress he has made because of hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting, 
 feeling, and we no longer wonder that the poet has said : 
 
 "The proper study of mankind is man." 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 69 
 
 Give the individual all of these senses, and if reason sits on her 
 throne to direct them aright, happiness, pleasure, will result. Deprive 
 him of a portion of them and he is still far from miserable. Take them 
 all away and existence has no charms, because his intercourse with 
 the world of matter and of mind ceases. 
 
 And yet these wonderful bodies are but the husks that hide a 
 kernel; they are but the basket that holds the fruit; they are the 
 casket that holds a priceless jewel. They were not meant to be lasting, 
 and in them lie the elements of decay, of dissolution. The body is as 
 a stalk coming up from a germ, that comes forth, grows, matures, 
 decays, dies. The one great undisputed truth of the world is mortality. 
 Man lives to die, and living is dying. 
 
 "Soon as we draw our infant breath, 
 The seeds of life spring up for death." 
 
 And it is true to the very letter, the expressive words that declare : 
 
 "And our hearts, though stout and brave. 
 Still like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave." 
 
 A thousand enemies surround the citadel of life, and seek to enter 
 it; a thousand enemies invite the approach of the insidious foe who 
 destroys. 
 
 "Man dies, and the mourners go about the streets," was not 
 written for a place, but for all places. It is not true of one 
 age only, but of all ages. Death's carnival has been all time. 
 "He has all seasons for his own." The wail of Egypt's dusky 
 mother, as it rolled in sublime sadness along the valley of the 
 storied Nile, has echoed and re-echoed along every river of the 
 world; that was the bitter cry of affection as it looked into the cold, 
 calm, stony face of her first born, as it lay in the embrace of death. 
 It has not changed in kind, it is not altered in degree. As it was car- 
 ried over the wind-swept waters of the Nile on the morning of a 
 nation's sorrow, so we heard it but yesterday, as the mother heart 
 poured out its bitter grief over the beautiful little white casket, strewn 
 with flowers, proffered in sympathy and love, it is true, but in which 
 lay the form of her idol, Walter Penman, an idol that the cruel, cold 
 hand of death had turned to clay. That same cry of anguish will go 
 out from the last mother who looks into the face of her dead child 
 on earth. We walk the earth to trample on a grave. Bryant had 
 this thought in mind when he penned "Thanatopsis," and said: 
 
 "All that tread 
 The globe, are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom." 
 
 But wonderful and curious as the body is, it is not the important 
 part of man ; it is not the most valuable part of him. The mind is as 
 
70 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 superior to the body as the Creator is superior to the creature. Mind 
 must be superior to matter. It is not the body that achieves success, 
 but the soul that works through the body. The soul designs ; the 
 body is but the machine through the agency of which the design is 
 carried into execution. The body should be preserved, the mind should 
 be educated. "Without mind man is but the companion of a brute; 
 with mind he is the equal of a god. What is the value of a soul? 
 Listen to the reply of inspiration: "What shall it profit a man if he 
 gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" Worth more than a 
 world — yea, more than a universe. How shall we estimate its worth? 
 Can we number the stars? Can we count the sands on the seashore? 
 Can we compute eternity? "Can we, by searching, find out God?" 
 How, then, can we estimate the value of the soul of man? The soul 
 cannot die. No wail of sorrow will ever ring for a dead soul. But 
 such a wail may roll along the valleys of the world of despair for a 
 lost soul. It is our duty to preserve these bodies in health, in vigor 
 and in strength. It is our duty to preserve these souls of ours from 
 pollution, from vice, from sin, from everything that will degrade or 
 defile. Are we responsible for the faithful performance of these duties? 
 If so, are we here for a purpose? If we are, we have no time to lose. 
 Our talent is lent to us. Our duty is our own, and cannot be shoved 
 off on someone else. There is no time to idle away. There is no hour 
 to waste. No one with a sense of the responsibilities and duties of life 
 will ever have to devise means to pass time. Time passes swiftly; it 
 carries us with it ; it is a swift stream bearing us forward to the shore- 
 less ocean of eternity, where we, dear readers of the Banner, will be 
 called on to give an account of how we used our time. 
 
 Opposing Forces 
 
 Mrs. Moreland, in her excellent address on Odd Fellowship, in 
 Union Hall, on Monday evening, while speaking of that benevolent 
 order, truthfully said that "Everything in the world except sin, folly 
 and crime, had to make its way in spite of the most strenuous opposi- 
 tion. " This is a fact that is not less strange than true. Just why it 
 should be so is one of those mysteries that crowd the entire path of 
 scholarly research. No person will for a moment deny the truth of 
 her assertion ; in fact, she uttered nothing new when she stated it, but 
 simply reiterated what every observer had already noted. The fact 
 is not the mystery, but that it should be a fact is not so easily ex- 
 plained. One would suppose that an animal of the sagacity and intel- 
 ligence of man would shun a road that has such a steep and certain 
 decline to destruction; it seems scarcely reasonable that gates, and 
 bars, and obstructions would have to be erected across the broad road, 
 in order to prevent victims from crowding the road to ruin. It is 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 71 
 
 passing strange that a small part of the people should be engaged in a 
 desperate — and, at times, a seemingly hopeless — struggle to hold the 
 larger part back from some steep precipice over which they are striv- 
 ing to plunge themselves. The Christian tells us that God and the 
 devil are engaged in a prolonged, though not uncertain contest; those 
 who deny religion assert that Good and Evil are opposing forces in 
 a great and desperate conflict. Both agree that the earth is but a 
 battle field. It would seem more natural for man to crowd the road 
 to honor than the one to disgrace; that he should seek happiness 
 rather than misery ; that he should wish to move upward rather than 
 downward ; that he should strive to be better rather than worse. 
 
 Nor can this warfare cease for a day ; if it does, or if it had since 
 the day when a virgin soil drank in the innocent blood of Abel, red- 
 handed murder would skulk in every shadow ; the destroyer of virtue 
 would creep out in darkness, as the beasts of prey go forth to devour ; 
 the robber would scarce seek to shelter his wrong deeds from the 
 eye of the sun ; chicanery, fraud, deceit, corruption and villainy would 
 learn to stalk forth with unblushing effrontery, and chaos would soon 
 usurp the prerogatives of order in society. The glare of a false light 
 gloats over the garish scene on the road where travel those who love 
 a Sabbath license, the gambler's excitement, the saloon's seductive 
 destructiveness, the siren smile that leers, the painted lip that allures 
 to the gilded palace where sin blots the blush of shame from the cheek 
 of beauty; the tyranny — that most brutal of all the vices, as avarice 
 is the sordid and soul destroying — would trample every right of 
 humanity beneath the heel of power. To us there are but two ways to 
 explain this seeming paradox. God has made a mistake, or man has 
 committed a crime; nature has blundered, or man has fallen. But it 
 is not our purpose at present to provoke argument, but to awaken 
 thought. Let us not forget Mrs. Moreland's aptly stated fact, that 
 every good thing is compelled to win its way against the most persist- 
 ent opposition. And then let us remember that just once in life 
 every human being stands on that spot where two diverging ways pre- 
 sent themselves, and is obliged to choose whether his feet shall tread 
 the rugged, steep, difficult road that leads to honor in life, peace in 
 death, and happiness in eternity, or whether he will enter the more 
 easily traveled road that will demand no self-denial in life, but will 
 end in dishonor, unrest, and an eternity of unavailing regret. 
 
 "For I Know Their Sorrows" 
 
 "For I know their sorrows." 
 
 Moses was a great man. Great in his simplicity. In this he was 
 just like every other great man. Every man who has become great 
 has done it in spite of himself. Greatness grows, just as the sturdy 
 
72 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 oak grows — imperceptibly. Every man who set out to become great 
 has made a miserable failure of it. To this rule there is not a single 
 exception in all the world's history. Moses was born a slave; more 
 than that, he came into the world a subject of a monarch's wrath, with 
 the sentence of death impending over him. But he was also the sub- 
 ject of the love of a mightier Monarch, One whose purposes were 
 never thwarted, and whose plans fail not, and for this reason Moses 
 grew to manhood, and not to manhood only, but as the adopted son 
 of a king's daughter, he was heir to the proudest throne the world 
 had — up to that time — known. For four hundred years his Hebrew 
 ancestors had toiled as hewers of wood, and drawers of water, and 
 makers of brick, for the cruel taskmasters of Egypt. A Pharaoh had 
 arisen who knew not Joseph, and human ingenuity was alert to devise 
 some new method to add to the sorrows of the despised race. As years 
 grew to centuries, and centuries followed each other, what billows of 
 sorrow must have swept over the hearts of this strange people — these 
 children of promise. When Moses came to the years of discretion he 
 refused to be called the son of Pharaoh's daughter, refused all the 
 emoluments of royalty, and chose to suffer affliction with his own down- 
 trodden race. Moses championed the cause of his countrymen as 
 against an Egyptian, and in the conflict the latter was slain. The 
 ruler sought to slay Moses, but he fled to the land of Midian, and sat 
 there by a well, an outcast, a tramp, a fugitive from justice, and prob- 
 ably as desolate and forlorn an object as breathed the air of heaven. 
 But he found favor, and found employment, and became a simple 
 herdsman for Jethro. As he tended the flock, what sad memories must 
 have risen in his mind ? How the tears must have welled up into those 
 mild eyes as he thought of his captive brethren, and felt that even hope 
 was but a feeble glimmer? One day he led Jethro 's flock to the back 
 side of the desert and came to Horeb, the mount of God. And God 
 appeared to him in a burning bush, and talked familiarly with him 
 in regard to the captive Hebrews, and told him that he had seen their 
 afflictions, and would deliver them, for, said He, "I know their sor- 
 rows." And He sent Moses, the meekest man that ever has lived, and 
 He made him the deliverer of his people, and he is known today as the 
 great law giver. It is a wonderful history. Four hundred years of 
 contact with the Egyptians did not destroy their nationality, nor 
 merge them with the dominant people. Today their descendants are 
 among all the peoples of the earth, but not of them. Today the prog- 
 eny of those who in sorrow made so many teals of brick, under the lash 
 of oppression, are in all the marts of trade and control the wealth of 
 a world. 
 
 "I know their sorrows." How these words fell on the troubled 
 heart of Moses like a gentle benediction! How hope revived! How 
 courage came into his heart! How resolution sprung into life! How 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 78 
 
 patriotism felt her flickering flame shoot up to dispel the dismal gloom ! 
 "I know their sorrows." These are words of inspiration, and they 
 are inspiring words. They were not only for Moses and the Hebrew 
 children, but they come to every one of us. This is a world of sorrow. 
 This is not the wail of the misanthrope; earth has much of joy and 
 gladness ; but it is earth ; and earth has a chalice of bitter sorrow that 
 nearly all must press to their lips. When its bitterness wrings the 
 human heart, how like a blessed benediction comes God's words to 
 Israel's great law giver, "I know their sorrows." 
 
 Here is one who has met misfortune after misfortune ; health has 
 failed ; friends have forsaken ; envy has assailed ; suspician has hinted ; 
 dishonor has come; age has enervated; pain has enfeebled; gloom is 
 on every hand ; hope tires in seeking a rift in the dark clouds about 
 the pathway. But lift your head, dejected one; you are nearing 
 Horeb, the mount of God. Hark to the voice that comes from the 
 burning bush, "I know their sorrows." 
 
 Here are a father and a mother who have toiled early and late to 
 provide for a large family of children, and just when age was whiten- 
 ing their locks, disease came with stealthy step, and death called time 
 and again, until now they stand in the door of a desolate home, and 
 look out to where the grassy mounds mark the resting places of all 
 they held dear, and just as they are ready to sink under their burden 
 of grief they reach the Horeb, and they hear that same voice of power 
 saying, "I know their sorrows." 
 
 Here is a son who has despised the chastening of the father, has 
 despised his reproof, has sounded all the depths and shoals of vice 
 and crime, and just as he thinks that he is about to plunge into the 
 abyss, he reaches the Horeb, and ringing out clear, distinct, cheering, 
 come these words, ''I know their sorrows." 
 
 Here is a daughter, loved, petted, caressed, spoiled; she has 
 lost innocence; she has lost modesty; she has flung away her good 
 name; but is she lost? No, no! See her as she comes along the 
 rugged, thorny, toilsome path that leads by this Horeb! Why this 
 changed look? Why does the ghost of a murdered smile cast a weird 
 light over that haggard face? Ah, she has caught a sound never 
 before heard! Horeb rises before her, and God's own still, small 
 voice reaches her, '*I know their sorrows." 
 
 There is a great crowd of sinners; there is a vast army of sinners; 
 there is a countless host of sinners ; they are marching from the cradle 
 to the grave ; it is a solemn march ; it is a sad march ; it is a sorrowful 
 march, for sin destroys joy and breeds sorrow. But a bow of promise 
 spans the concave above them. That host marches in single file at 
 some point on the journey, and they pass so close to Horeb, the mount 
 
74 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 of God, that none can fail to hear the voice that rings out constantly, 
 *'I know their sorrows." 
 
 The way may be rough and rugged; the night may be long and 
 dark; the storm may be loud and appalling. But the way will end; 
 the morning will dawn; the storm will become a calm, and we will 
 find that though we are strangers in the land of Midian, that at the 
 far side of the desert stands that mount that can never be mistaken, 
 for from its steep declivity we hear that voice speaking as man never 
 spake, ' ' I know their sorrows. ' ' 
 
 The Death of a Tramp 
 
 [The following article in the "Hour Alone" series, was written by the editor 
 in 1893, at Bozeman, Montana, while he was in charge of the New Issue, and was 
 published in that paper of the date of January 20th of that year. We reproduce 
 in the Banner, knowing that many of our readers will recall the incident upon 
 which it is founded, and because we believe it will meet the same kindly greeting 
 as has been accorded others of this series in the past — Ed.] 
 
 Situated in the rich prairies of the Military Tract, in Knox County, 
 Illinois, is an unpretentious little town of perhaps one thousand inhab- 
 itants. It is on the Peoria branch of the C, B. & Q. railroad, and is 
 the virtual crossing of the Rushville branch of the same road, though 
 for nearly three miles after leaving this "^own the same track is used 
 by both the branches. All trains on both the branches are required 
 to stop here to register, and about the depot, in addition to the usual 
 crowd of citizens who are invariably on hand to see the incoming and 
 outgoing trains, many strangers are to be seen, for here the south- 
 bound passengers change for St. Louis, the northbound for Chicago, 
 the eastbound for Peoria, and the westbound for Galesburg. 
 
 Nor is it a thing unusual to see from one to a dozen, or even two 
 dozen of the genus "hobo," or "tramp," loitering about the depot, 
 or skulking in the lumber yard near the tracks, or keeping "shady" 
 in the intricacies of the cattle pens and hog chutes, as they inspect the 
 freight trains, and scan the fastenings to the doors, and make mental 
 calculations in regard to stealing a ride, or consult together in regard 
 to the route they will go, or whether it will be policy to mount dif- 
 ferent cars, or all pile into one. 
 
 The genus tramps who ride in the "side-door Pullmans" of the 
 Q. road are a tough looking set, ranging in age from the kid of 
 scarcely ten summers to the old man of sixty-five or seventy, and in 
 size from the slender boy to the stalwart man who seems almost a 
 Hercules in muscle and in strength. All of them are grimed with the 
 coal-black that is omnipresent in these cars, and their clothes generally 
 seedy, if not ragged, their shoes mere relics of the footwear of a more 
 prosperous class, and their hats crushed out of all semblance of shape 
 by having done duty as pillows when the soft side of a plank, the filthy 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 75 
 
 floor of a stock car, or the decayed top of a discarded railroad 
 tie was being improvised to take the place of a bed. 
 
 Being then engaged in a business that made it necessary for me 
 to be at all trains, I had an opportunity to observe these nomads of a 
 modern civilization, and often the leisure — owing to delayed trains — 
 to speculate on the various paths these men had trod in their march 
 to their present condition, and to wonder in regard to the multitude 
 of different causes that operated to bring them thus together on a com- 
 mon level, the outcasts, the vagabonds and the scourge of social usages, 
 and society conditions that may not be entirely blameless for their 
 existence, though — in the main — those who make social usages, and 
 those who are responsible for society conditions seem to be scarcely 
 concerned in regard to them, if, indeed, the larger part of both these 
 classes are not entirely ignorant in regard to these exiles from good 
 society. 
 
 "When in the proper mood I would weave quite a romance, as I 
 would trace them back from Yates City to the homes of boyhood days, 
 and see them engaged in the usual pastimes of childhood and youth, 
 rolling on the greensward, playing hide-and-go-seek around the build- 
 ings, stacks and sheds, resting in the shade under the apple trees, or 
 slaking their thirst at the spring that bubbled out from under the 
 great rock at the foot of the sterile garden of some New England 
 home. Or I would imagine that I saw them a merry troop of lads, and 
 all gathered in some secluded farm neighborhood in the closing sha- 
 dows of the summer's twilight, eagerly intent in the chase of the 
 elusive firefly whose momentary gleam beaconed them flrst in this 
 direction, and next in one entirely opposite. 
 
 From scenes like these it was no great stretch of fancy to see 
 them gathered, a tired but happy and careless group, about a fond 
 mother, who directed them to wash their feet, straightened out the 
 curls on their brows, heard their evening prayers, kissed them a fond 
 good-night, tucked them tenderly in clean, warm beds, saw their eyes 
 droop heavy with slumber, and then went softly downstairs to build 
 the most gorgeous air castles — what mother ever failed to build air 
 castles in regard to her darling boy? — in regard to these innocent 
 dreamers. 
 
 And how I did sometimes wish that the tide of the years would 
 somehow flow backward and land these poor, forlorn outcasts, these 
 modern Ishmaels, once more innocent boys in the shelter of those 
 blessed old homes. But the tide of the years does not flow backward, 
 but forward, and I know such a dream can never be realized. 
 
 One day there were five of these nomads at the depot. The Buda 
 freight was just pulling out, and four of them had slipped in between 
 cars and disappeared, no doubt through those little windows that are 
 
76 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 found in the ends of box cars. The fifth one stood beside the track 
 watching a chance, and hesitating, as the train was gaining quite a 
 rate of speed; at last he caught an iron rod and attempted to swing 
 himself to the brake beam under the car, but missed putting his foot 
 on the beam, lost his grip on the rod, fell, and was rolled along the 
 track for some rods, and then was pushed outside of the rail, where he 
 lay motionless. A score of people on the platform of the depot saw 
 him and hastened to him, but he was but a dead tramp. He was not 
 badly disfigured, but there was a great gash on the head, the skull 
 crushed, and several bad wounds on the body. 
 
 His bon voyagers said they knew nothing in regard to his name 
 or whence he came, stating that he joined them the night previous 
 as they were camped about a fire of old ties along the railroad. 
 
 He was placed in the freight house, the coroner notified, an inquest 
 held, and the next day the county buried him in that part of the 
 cemetery set apart for paupers, and there he is sleeping the last long 
 sleep. 
 
 From one of those homes where waking fancies had carried me, 
 and where I had seen these waifs in their shelter, he had gone out 
 and become a wanderer. It may be that even as I write these lines 
 a wrinkled, gray-haired mother is standing at the window, watching 
 for the form that will never come, and praying that her boy — for he is 
 but a boy to her after the lapse of all these years — may be returned 
 to her before she steps down into the cold waters of the mystic river. 
 
 Dear old gray-haired mother, God has in mercy placed a veil 
 between your eyes and that cruel scene in the obscure little town in 
 Illinois, and shut out from your sight one bitter sorrow. 
 
 Individuality 
 
 It is doubtful if any writer is able to lay aside the peculiar indi- 
 viduality that pertains to him or her. Nor that it may not be true that 
 some can very nearly, if not altogether, forget self in the delineation 
 of characters. Such rare geniuses have been, and, no doubt, can now 
 be found. By far the finest compliment that has ever been given to 
 any author was that paid to Shakespeare in the following: "He was 
 not unlike other men, but like every other man." Still, after aU has 
 been said and done, it is true that a distinct individuality is a char- 
 acteristic of every noted writer. Let us become acquainted with a 
 number of persons only by their writings, and they become known to us 
 by their style, just as our friends are distinguished by the sound of 
 their voices, even if it be so dark that we are not able to see them. 
 We recognize a sentence as belonging to this, that or the other of our 
 favorites, just as we learn to know the walk of our most intimate 
 friends when their footfalls are heard — that is, by some peculiarity 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 77 
 
 that is not to be explained, and yet it identifies them as surely as if 
 all the senses had been appealed to, because only this one among all 
 of them has this footfall. 
 
 It is a curious, but admirable arrangement, that one single thought 
 leads to another, this to a third, and that to others, until what was at 
 first but a simple sentence, becomes, at length, compound, or even 
 complex. And so it is that the first here touched upon — that of being 
 able to distinguish the author by his style — has led us to consider one — 
 to us well known — who has learned to distinguish the different engines 
 that pass through Yates City, by the difference in the way in which 
 the engineers sound the whistles. It may be said that as no two 
 engineers ever sound them exactly alike, that this is not a great , 
 achievement. But this same one can also tell the difference of the 
 engine bells, and designate the particular train by that difference, and 
 can also tell what train it is by the noise it makes in passing over the 
 rails. It was with some astonishment we learned this fact, nor was it 
 altogether without hesitation that we admitted its truth. To us, all 
 whistles are the same, all engine bells alike, and the noise of all trains 
 as similar as a row of peas in a pod. But observation convinced us that 
 she could tell accurately by these sounds, and all that could be done 
 was to conclude that she had an aptness for this sort of thing, or 
 that she took an interest in it, or, what is no doubt more nearly cor- 
 rect, that she had arrived at this degree of perfection by persistent, 
 careful and laborious study. 
 
 And may not this thought be linked with another, that, after all, 
 this is the secret of success along any line. Rrst, some adaptability 
 to that particular line — whatever it may be — and then persistent, care- 
 ful and laborious study. Few people can do many things well. It was 
 out of the recognition of this came the adage, "Jack of all trades 
 and master of none." Some rare mind may do many things well, but 
 there is one thing that this same mind can excel in, and only one. 
 
 Here another thought may be linked with those we have, and that 
 is that the person of one idea is not to be despised. The man of one 
 idea will generally make the world aware of the fact that his one idea 
 can clear every obstacle from the road that leads to its success. Too 
 many ideas hinder, rather than help. David would have met defeat in 
 the armor of Saul. Paul, Luther, Morse, Watt, Singer, each had one 
 idea. John Brown had one idea, and John Brown made that idea so 
 prominent that men of greater learning than he made the mistake of 
 trying to hang his idea with him. 
 
 This links another thought. The world tries to ridicule what it 
 does not understand, then to persecute it, then to murder it. The 
 world is not aware — or else it forgets — that not an idea comes to the 
 mind of man that is not bom of God, and is, like Him, immortal. Man 
 looks on the outward appearance, and he talks glibly about success 
 
78 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 and failure. May it not be possible that in all this universe there is 
 not one failure? May it not be true — nay, more — is it not true, that 
 not an accident has ever happened, or ever can? 
 
 Our Sacred Graves 
 
 One of every two friends must hold the hand of the other in fare- 
 well at the entrance to the dark valley. 
 
 "There is no union here of hearts, 
 That finds not here an end." 
 
 Ever since the blood of murdered Abel cried from the ground, 
 death has been the common heritage of a common humanity. 
 
 Human affection is more lasting than are these human bodies; 
 hence there is a universal desire to make beautiful the sacred mounds 
 that mark the places where sleep our sainted dead. 
 
 There are places that have been made sacred by heroic deeds, devo- 
 tion to principle, unselfish sacrifice for the good of mankind and for a 
 patriotism that has faced death in its most appalling forms; but these 
 are as unhallowed ground when compared with the grassy hillock 
 where the mother, with bursting heart and tear-dimmed eyes, has seen 
 the little, silent, cold form of her babe hidden from her sight until the 
 archangel's trump shall wake 
 
 "The myriads who slumber in earth's bosom." 
 Prom the day when Abraham paid the children of Heth four hun- 
 dred sheckles of silver for Ephron, or Machpeleh, that he might bury 
 his wife, Sarah, the disposition of the dead bodies of the near and 
 dear ones has been a question of vital importance, Joseph had an 
 entire nation with him when he placed in the sepulchre the dear old 
 father, Jacob. Before his own death he gave minute directions in 
 regard to the disposition of his bones. Moses rests in an unknown 
 grave. The illustrious kings of earth have died and were buried 
 with their fathers. Earth has become a cemetery. The king and the 
 beggar sleep together in the dust ; the frame of the sage of brightest 
 intellect moulders in the clay with that of the unlettered savage. 
 
 As the feet of the living tread the earth they make a hollow sound 
 as they pass over the burial places of their progenitors. 
 
 "All that tread 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
 Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands. 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
 Saves his own dashings — yet the dead are there! 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 The flight of years began, have laid them down 
 In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone." 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 79 
 
 The grave of Lazarus will never lose its interest for those who at 
 its portals see the sympathizing man who shed the tear of sorrow for 
 his friend, and in that man beholds the Almighty God whose words of 
 power called from the cold embrace of death the noble brother over 
 whom the tender, loving sisters wept and mourned. 
 
 The grave where the body of Jesus was laid! What a profound 
 interest centers about that hollow in the rock where Joseph of Ari- 
 mathffia placed the body of the crucified Saviour ! All the other graves 
 of earth would be places of utter hopelessness if we knew nothing of 
 the grave where Christ ''became the first fruits of those who slept." 
 
 The Lord of Glory had stood in Pilate's judgment hall and heard 
 the railing accusations of the Jews ; He had endured the cruel scourg- 
 ing; He had worn the crown of thorns, and from His brow the blood 
 had oozed as harsh and cruel hands pressed the sharp points into His 
 temples; He had heard the frenzied mob cry out, ''Away with him! 
 Away with him ! Crucify him ! Crucify him ! ' ' He had toiled up the 
 steep acclivity of Calvary bearing the heavy cross; the nails had 
 pierced His hands and feet ; He had hung between the earth and the 
 heavens, a spectacle to men and to angels; for three hours a strange 
 darkness had veiled the face of nature ; the earth trembled in the 
 throes of a mighty earthquake ; the graves were opened and the silent 
 and sheeted dead took up their solemn spectral march through the 
 narrow, tortuous streets of Jerusalem, when the expiring Saviour 
 cried out, "Elio, Elio, Lama Sabachthani," "My God, my God, why 
 hast thou forsaken me?" It was the close of the most sublime and 
 wonderful tragedy that ever will be enacted on this earth. The Jew- 
 ish Sabbath approaches; Joseph begs the body of Jesus; he wraps it 
 in the habiliments of the grave and places it in a new sepulchre, 
 ** wherein never man was lain." The story is familiar to all; the seal- 
 ing of the sepulchre ; the placing of the guards ; the coming of the 
 angels ; the resurrection of the Lord ; the visit of the women ; the meet- 
 ing with the disciples; the indubitable proofs that he is the risen 
 Saviour — these are historical facts. 
 
 But how do these facts relate to us? If they do not touch our 
 lives somewhere they are valueless to us. Herbert Spencer says: "It 
 may be a fact that my neighbor's cat has seven kittens; but before you 
 ask me to ponder it, tell me how that fact is related to me." The 
 grave at Jerusalem touches all our lives because it brings to our 
 knowledge the fact that there is a resurrection from the dead, that man 
 is immortal, that he is a candidate for two worlds, and that God will 
 call the sleeping millions of the world out of their graves and into His 
 presence. 
 
 And so we stand beside the graves where sleep our dead, and 
 though the tear of affection may dim the physical eye, the eye of 
 
80 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 faith looks far beyond the stretch of time and sees the loved and lost 
 on earth, found and reunited in heaven. 
 
 No wonder that the most sacred spot in all the world is where 
 the dust of our loved ones is waiting the sound of the trump that shall 
 call it again to life. No wonder we make beautiful the cemeteries 
 where they are buried. No wonder that we erect monuments to keep 
 their memory from fading from the earth. No wonder that , 
 
 "Today we search the snowy vine, 
 
 And cull the fairest rose. 
 As meet the marble to entwine. 
 
 Where low, in calm repose, 
 Beneath the cold memorial stone. 
 
 In silence mournful, deep. 
 Our voiceless brave, fair freedom's own. 
 
 The nation's favorites sleep." 
 
 Symmetrical Development 
 
 That system of education that aims at nothing except the intel- 
 lectual capacity of the pupil, must be defective. It matters not how 
 carefully the intellect is trained, if the other faculties that go to make 
 up the human mind are neglected, the man will be out of proportion, 
 and may be compared to the oak that has grown prodigiously to top 
 all on one side of the trunk ; the more growth, the greater will be the 
 disproportion of the parts; and the more unattractive the tree will 
 become. It is an indisputable fact, that the present is a time in which 
 this false system of education prevails to an alarming extent. Man is 
 an intellectual, physical, social and moral animal. His intellectuality 
 may be developed while the other three may remain in a manner dor- 
 mant. The man then becomes a thinking machine, and his conclu- 
 sions may be just or erroneous, as he happens to reason correctly or 
 incorrectly. Let the physical part be educated at the expense of all 
 the others, and man becomes a dancing master, unable to think, to 
 reason, to reach conclusions; in fact, he is but an imitator, devoid of 
 ideas, and, therefore, devoid of originality. Let the social faculties 
 be the only ones trained, and man becomes a creature unable to think, 
 careless of his physical structure, but noted for those that constitute 
 the good neighbor; the judgment of his fellows, at the close of his 
 life, will be that he was always ready to add to the enjoyment of 
 others, and delighted more in the society of men than of books. Let 
 the moral nature have all the care bestowed on it, and man then 
 becomes what we are pleased to term fanatical. His is a revential 
 nature that is ready to worship anything that he does not comprehend, 
 and his education fits him for comprehending only the simplest and 
 most apparent phenomena. We have already stated that such a system 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 81 
 
 must be faulty. The educator who has no broader comprehension of 
 his duties is like a gardener who would plant all hollyhocks one sea- 
 son, all roses the next, and all violets the next. Or he may be com- 
 pared to the man who would trim all the branches from one side of his 
 trees and trim only one side of his hedgerows. He might work earn- 
 estly, faithfully, conscientiously; but he never would have a garden 
 that would be admired, a tree that showed beauty, or a hedge that 
 would appear attractive. A house may be builded just the right height, 
 but if it be made too broad or too narrow, it will be unsightly. A pic- 
 ture may be painted with the most beautiful colors, but if the trees are 
 too large and the mountains too small, the effect will not be pleasing 
 to the eye. It is in proportion that we find beauty; without it, all is 
 deformity. If man is ever benefited by education it will be when 
 those in charge of that important subject become aware that all of 
 the elements in man must be developed. His intellectual, his physical, 
 his social and his moral nature must each be kept in harmony, must all 
 have a symmetrical proportion. Man, to think, must have physical 
 developments; to think right he must be a social being, and to think 
 rightly and for the good of others he must be a moral creature. The 
 mind that is uneducated may think, but it will be to poor purpose. The 
 mind that is in a frail or poorly developed body, though trained to 
 think, will accomplish but little. The trained mind and the devel- 
 oped body will benefit the human race but little if they have no per- 
 ception of, or love for, sociability. And all of these will be worse 
 than useless if a sense of moral obligation keep not all the other facul- 
 ties and powers under the control of just and equitable laws. Without 
 morality there is no veneration; without veneration, no love; without 
 love, man is not human. Lacking morality, man is the powerful 
 engine without a governor. He is the ship without a rudder. He is a 
 god without a purpose. He is a planet without an orbit. These con- 
 siderations should be present with every one who goes about to instruct 
 his fellow. It should be impressed on the heart and conscience of 
 every man who aspires to teach the young. With this idea promi- 
 nently and constantly before one, he may be a success as a teacher; 
 without it, he must be infinitely worse than a failure. 
 
 The Age of Transition 
 
 This is an age of transition. We are aware that this may be 
 said of any age; but it is more applicable to the present, and in a 
 greater degree, than to any that has preceded it. It is true also 
 in a greater degree to thought and belief than to custom and habit. 
 The iconoclast is busy everywhere. He is tearing down the old ; his 
 daring hand lays hold of the old idols, shakes them from their pedes- 
 tals, and they lie before us broken fragments that never can be 
 
82 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 reunited ; he touches governments, and they cease to bind the subject ; 
 he reaches out — without fear of sacrilege — to touch creeds and dogmas 
 — sacred with age, that have bound the minds of men, and these creeds 
 and dogmas are modified, if not changed altogether, or remodeled until 
 they are no longer the sacred object that former generations loved, 
 idolized, worshipped, but dared not criticize ; he reaches out to destroy 
 all that traditions, history, and custom have endeared to the hearts 
 of millions for ages past. 
 
 It is small wonder that he is opposed in this vandal destruction; 
 small wonder that he is ostracized and persecuted. But his work 
 is only retarded, not stopped; only delayed, not turned aside. His 
 very boldness draws the hearts of his opposers towards him. When the 
 missionary went into the heathen stronghold and asserted that the 
 great, ugly, senseless image was not a god, he aroused all the latent 
 opposition of those whom ages of training in one direction had ren- 
 dered incapable of reasoning correctly on this subject; nay, more, 
 it aroused the indignation of those whom education — such as it was — ■ 
 had rendered too servile to dogma to question a creed. They were 
 sure that thought, feeling, purpose, health, happiness, life, death, and 
 immortality were in the keeping of this image. 
 
 But when long and persistent attacks had been made, in studied 
 discourses, against this power, and still the idol did not punish the 
 offender, they began to entertain the devil doubt; at length the mis- 
 sionary reached forth his hand and pushed the idol from the pedestal 
 where he had sat for ages. It lay there, an impotent thing ; and when 
 its votaries saw that it was but a lump of senseless clay, they fell 
 upon it in rage, stamped it into powder, and cast the dust into the 
 river. It is thus that more enlightened and better educated people are 
 willing to accept dogmas for truth, and permit some creed that noth- 
 ing but age has venerated, prevent them from letting reason examine, 
 or intellect investigate them. 
 
 The iconoclast is the missionary who comes to push the idol from 
 its pedestal, and show us that much that we have venerated, nay, even 
 worshiped, is but an ugly idol, incapable of either good or evil. We 
 sometimes fear the iconoclast ; we have no need to do so. It is only 
 error that can fall. Not one single truth can be obliterated ; it is 
 eternal. Error is like the idol ; it sits so loosely that the slightest touch 
 dethrones it, and it is destroyed. But truth is like the Druid rocks, so 
 evenly balanced that though they may be rocked with the tip of the 
 little finger, yet the united strength of thousands is not able to over- 
 turn them. The history of man is the history of progress. Truth, 
 right, justice, are always safe. No fear that they will be destroyed; 
 no danger that they will be changed. Error is mortal; it crumbles 
 under the touch of the destroyer. But truth is immortal and the hand 
 that touches it to destroy is paralyzed. Investigation, discussion, con- 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 83 
 
 troversy, these are but the test of what has real worth. From every 
 contest right emerges in triumph, while error, in defeat, hides its 
 wounded form. 
 
 Education of the Boy 
 
 Ministers, we sometimes think, preach as if there were no boys 
 to listen to them. This can scarcely be less than a fault in a minister. 
 The old men will very soon all pass away in the ordinary course of 
 mortality. But the boys are to grow up and fill the places thus made 
 vacant. If it be important to preach to old men, then it must be no 
 less important to preach to the boys. If a farmer goes out to feed his 
 stock, he is careful to place some of the provender where the younger 
 animals can reach it. It is poor policy to place things out of the 
 reach of any portion of the community — that is, if it be of any benefit 
 to any of them. What we condemn as a fault in ministers, we fear, 
 is, to too great an extent, prevalent among those who preach to larger 
 congregations through the medium of the press. They, too, seem to 
 fall into the habit of directing their praise, blame, or censure to the 
 older members of the community, and forget that there is growing up 
 in every town, and every community, a class, who, though young and 
 inexperienced now, will soon stand in the front rank of that busy, 
 pushing, jostling, eager army that marches over the stage of life, 
 attracts the attention of the audience through a few gaudy scenes, and 
 then enter the green room of obscurity and forgetfulness. The boy 
 must be taught, or he will teach others. His mind is a blank page 
 that will either be covered with beautiful characters by the pen of the 
 master, or it will be blotted and blotched with useless splotches of ink. 
 His mind is a garden that must be cultivated, and whose soil must be 
 made to yield fruit and grain, or it will be cumbered with useless 
 weeds and overgrown with thistles that will sting those who come 
 in contact with them. In the country a boy is more safe from harm. 
 If he goes out he is in the presence of nature in some of her charming 
 moods ; he may learn some useful lesson from almost any object, either 
 animate or inanimate, that he comes in contact with ; the grass grows 
 up to ask him how it springs ; the flowers bloom to ask him who clothed 
 them in their regal beauty; the trees nod, and swing their giant arms 
 to ask him who imparted to them strength and beauty; the brook 
 murmurs to inquire who cut its tortuous channel in the rocks; the 
 golden grain waves and undulates to inquire who provideth food for 
 man ; the cattle feeding on the hills start the query of how long man 
 has fed his flocks and herds ; the ants teach him industry; the bee asks 
 him to examine her wonderful mechanical skill; the wind fans his 
 cheek and keeps whispering, ''Canst thou tell whence I come, or 
 whither I go?" the rain teaches him that even nature weeps; the snow 
 that crystals form. No ; there is but little danger for boys who learn 
 
84 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 only from nature ; they will never learn to lie, to swear, to be obscene, 
 vulgar, or wicked in such a way. But it is different in towns and 
 cities; here the boys come in direct contact, not with nature, but with 
 art ; not with innocence, but vice ; not with purity, but crime. On the 
 street is the man who chews, smokes, drinks, swears, talks obscenely, 
 sings the vulgar song, lies, cheats, steals, murders, robs virtue, deifies 
 vice and glories in his shame. On the street corner, in the alley, in 
 shops, stables, stores, in fact, everywhere is seen the form of the 
 monster evil, looking to the unsophisticated youth, just as pure as 
 virtue. It is to these youths, thus lured to evil now, but soon to be 
 active participators in the great struggle of life, that we would speak 
 in this Hour Alone. We are not going to ask you to become old men, 
 or forego youthful pleasures, or read the Bible daily, or join Sunday 
 school, or listen to long, dull sermons, though some of these things 
 would never injure you or make you less brave or effective soldiers 
 in life. But we do wish to ask you what good sin, vice, crime, de- 
 bauchery, drunkenness has ever done any one? What good will it 
 do you ? We do not ask that you be religious in order that you may be 
 prepared for death, but that you be moral in order that you may be 
 fitted for life. Not that we substitute morality for religion. Far 
 from it ; that would be attempting to make the effect the cause ; but we 
 are asking the attention of boys to something that all must see at a 
 glance will benefit all. You may not be able to attain to what you 
 could wish ; but you can come nearer to excellence if you will take the 
 advice given by an eminent writer to a boy who was just going away 
 to school: "Remember never to be mean, never to be unjust, never to 
 be cruel." If the boys who read this article will follow this advice, 
 to which we would add, never be selfish, and never, never forget your 
 mother, we will be willing to predict that if you are not successful in 
 life, you will at least gain the confidence and esteem of the good, the 
 wise, the happy. 
 
 "And Answer Only With a Cry" 
 
 The word cry is in itself pathetic. It expresses some longing 
 want, or it bewails something that has been lost. It is, therefore, 
 nearly universal, for man is either wanting or losing. Never satisfied 
 with what he now has, he is crying out for something he does not have, 
 and very often for what must ever remain beyond his reach. We 
 might reflect here. Why this unrest? Why discontent, when content 
 would be heaven? The philosopher — who is knocked out in his first 
 round with a blade of grass — can scarcely hope to answer questions 
 such as these. Man searches deep in nature's hidden mines, and brings 
 to light much that is new and strange and precious. But is he then 
 at ease? Not for the life of one short moment. He speculates till 
 fever wraps him with its blistering touch, on what may still be hid, 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 86 
 
 and lie concealed, locked up forever in the bowels of the rocky world ; 
 and but the chance that something lies beyond his reach, below his 
 stretch, that some one else may find when he has crumbled back to 
 dust, will wring from him a cry; and as he eager listening frets, the 
 earth that stores and hides and locks, will answer only with a cry. 
 
 Nature has guarded long and well those mysteries that lie to 
 northward and to southward, locked up in icy fastnesses, and kept thus 
 far from the inquisitive eye of man by frozen barriers that none, as 
 yet, have passed; watched over these secrets are by frowning preci- 
 pices of ice that stand as silent sentinels to challenge the restless spirit 
 of adventure that sees no danger and feels no fear while rankles in its 
 breast the thought that yonder, where the poles are placed, is some- 
 thing barred from man. And as these brave men lingering die on fields 
 of glittering ice, we hear a cry; or if they, more fortunate, return to 
 busy haunts of man, they utter still a cry; and nature, who has kept 
 the poles beyond their reach and ken, but answers with a cry. 
 
 These are the cries of intellect, of courage, of daring, of manhood, 
 of strength. If such as these have a cry, then every age in life must 
 have a cry. How pitiful, how appealing, how helpless is the cry of the 
 infant, as it looks up into the faces of those who would gladly supply 
 its wants could they but understand them. Have you not stood by a 
 cradle and looked down into the eyes of a babe, and seen the revela- 
 tion of a new unfolding spread out before you, and realized that God 
 had just opened to you a wonderful and beautiful page of the book of 
 your existence; and as you listened to the wailing cry, you said, "Oh 
 Lord ! teach me, and show me my duty to this little one. ' ' Happy, but 
 serious parent, if standing by the crib of your first born you should 
 be thus stirred to the innermost, and you utter an earnest cry for 
 wisdom to direct your love aright. I know nothing more appealing, 
 more pathetic than the cry of a helpless babe. 
 
 Youth has a cry; a hopeful, and therefore a joyful cry. It asks 
 for more freedom, more responsibilities, larger opportunities, a chance 
 to do and dare in the great battle of life. Ah! in all the universe of 
 God there is not so hopeful, so earnest, so anxious, so peristent a 
 cry as that of the youth who is asking for the fuller duties of manhood ; 
 nor is there one that realizes so little of what it clamors for. Utter 
 thy joyous cry, Oh youth ! for in a few short years it will be lost in the 
 noise of the strife. 
 
 Manhood and womanhood have their cries ; they are backward for 
 what is already past, and forward for what is in the future — a cry for 
 success, for wealth, for fame ; it is a strong cry, loud enough to rise 
 above the turmoil of a maddening, struggling world rushing and striv- 
 ing for victory. Oh ! the thrill of the cry of manhood and womanhood ! 
 
86 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 It is the boldest, bravest, strongest and most penetrating that has, or 
 will, awake the slumbering echoes of a world. 
 
 Age has its cry ; it is not like the cry of the infant — an appeal ; it is 
 not like the cry of youth — a demand; it is not like the cry of man- 
 hood and womanhood — a desire. It reaches over the cry of manhood 
 and youth, joins the cry of the infant, for both are helpless, hopeless 
 cries; in the first hope not having sprung into life, in the second hope 
 being dead. Ah ! the intensity of the cry of age ! Done with the wants 
 of the child ; done with the demands of the youth ; done — aye, disgusted 
 with the ambitions of manhood, age utters a cry for rest. White hairs, 
 wrinkled face, feeble hands, tottering steps, and — a cry. Is life a cir- 
 cle, and do we moil its weary march, and stand at last by the cradle 
 where we first started, the second time a child? 
 
 I am tempted here to speculate beyond where my readers of the 
 Banner might care to follow. I, too, have paced the circle more than 
 two-thirds round, and age grows garrulous, if not wise. But sitting 
 here this lovely night, with nature spread all about me, and the silent 
 little city lying before me, I realize that I may speak but seldom to you 
 in the future, if at all. And so I would not say good-bye until I 
 remind you that there is another, and a more important cry that comes 
 to childhood, youth, manhood and age — the cry of the human heart for 
 God. It is but the utterance of a divine impulse. It is but the expres- 
 sion of the great want, the mighty need of man. I do not, I cannot, 
 believe that there is now, or ever has been, a human heart that, some- 
 where, at some time, in some way, has not cried out for God. This cry 
 is the divine in man going around the circle and meeting the divine 
 in God. It is the cry after a nobler, a higher, a truer, a better life. 
 
 Changes 
 
 Again alone ; again rested ; none but those who know the tortures 
 of an overworked body and overtasked brain, can realize how much 
 these expressions mean. 
 
 As we stood tonight, looking up through the young foliage of a 
 stately maple tree that stands by the old summer kitchen, and spreads 
 its shadows over the quaint old brick smokehouse, with its cracked 
 walls and savory smell left by the countless joints that have been 
 colored in it, to the bright May moon, sailing in unclouded majesty 
 through a serene sky, and we caught the scent from two sprangling 
 plum trees, now in full bloom, and appearing, if possible, more beauti- 
 ful than ever in the glow of the bright sunlight, looking like a huge 
 whitecapped wave, or the snow-covered summit of some far-away 
 mountain, we were forcibly reminded — not for the first time, but 
 again — that inevitable change is not only certain, but sudden. And 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 87 
 
 we remembered that a short time ago — but a very short time, it seems — 
 we spent an hour alone wandering along the edge of one of our beau- 
 tiful groves, musing on the crimson glories of richly tinted October, 
 that told us the vegetation of the summer was entered on its decline, 
 and that icy fetters would soon bind tiny brooklet, rushing stream and 
 mighty river in bondage. 
 
 Then we remember another quiet evening when silent and deserted 
 streets gave us the chance for an uninterrupted hour, as we saw the 
 pure, soft, feathery flakes of snow descending, we fell into the fancy 
 to specify some of the different kinds of homes on which the shifting 
 flakes were falling. 
 
 And now as we stand here, trying in our imperfect way to realize 
 the mighty power that has, in so short a time, wrought such marvel- 
 ous changes, we can hardly believe that one was October, the other 
 December, and that now May, "The merry month of May," is upon us. 
 
 For a short season the glories of real Indian Summer lent a charm 
 to nature, painting plant, and shrub, and tree, with those peculiar 
 crimson dyes that lend a charm we could not wish were gone, even 
 though we realize that, like the hectic flush on the check of the de- 
 clining consumptive, they are but the sure heralds of approaching 
 death. 
 
 This was followed by the long, rigorous and dreary winter, with 
 its, to us of Illinois, overplus of snow, and its keen, biting, searching 
 blasts that bring such discomfort and suffering to the ill prepared 
 poor. 
 
 But tonight the evidences of another change are here. Spring- 
 ing grass, shooting blade, expanding leaf, bursting bud and opening 
 flower, proclaim that the winter of apparent death is over, and that 
 the voice of the Omnipotent has been heard in every realm of nature, 
 bidding everything come forth to a resurrection that is no less won- 
 derful than that spoken of in revelation. 
 
 It would be a task both pleasing and sad, could we note all the 
 changes that have touched the lives of the readers of the Banner; 
 but they have been too numerous to attempt it ; new friendships have 
 been formed, old ones severed ; new habits been learned, old ones for- 
 saken; those long associated been separated, those long separated re- 
 united ; friendship has ripened into love, and love into its natural state 
 of marriage, while marriage has ceased to be love, and resulted in 
 divorce ; hopes have been born, nurtured and fulfilled, while other 
 hopes have been born, cherished and blighted ; in a thousand ways such 
 as these, important changes have come. 
 
 But the mellow moonlight makes visible the monuments that 
 mark the resting places of the peaceful dead — for from our place 
 here they are plainly visible, — and they remind us that the last winter 
 
88 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 has been one remarkable for diseases of different kinds, and for the 
 number who have lain down the weary burden of life and gone 
 to rest. 
 
 The careful reader of the current news has not failed to notice 
 this; nor that death has been no respecter of persons. The king and 
 his subject, the prince and the peasant, the high and the low, the 
 rich and the poor, the learned and the unlearned, all have yielded to 
 his scepter. 
 
 Some parents have lost all their children, some a part ; some 
 children have lost one parent, some both. While in other cases whole 
 families have gone down together, not separated even in death. 
 
 Earthquakes, war, pestilence, famine, disease, storm, flood, ac- 
 cident all have been busy decimating the ranks of the living and add- 
 ing to the number of the dead. 
 
 The number of mounds in our own sacred spot tells that in this 
 change Yates City has had her share; and the report comes up all 
 around us that those who were identified with the early settlement 
 of Illinois have ceased from their labors. 
 
 Sad, sore hearts weep over idols that have fallen from our grasp 
 and been shattered ; we carry a grief concealed but poignant and real, 
 and we wonder how it can be that we have been so stricken. But 
 we rejoice that May has brought her wealth of flowers to furnish 
 wreaths with which to decorate the graves of the loved and lost. 
 
 But let us not forget, dear readers of the Banner, that we owe 
 duties to the living as well as grateful remembrance to the dead. 
 Let us ask, are we better and stronger for the battles of life that 
 remain, because of the experiences of the past, and the defeats and 
 triumphs of those days that are past? 
 
 To stand bravely in our allotted station in life, and discharge its 
 duties faithfully, with a sincere desire to do right for the sake of right, 
 is the highest ambition that can animate us here. It matters not what 
 our station may be ; the true hero is he or she who does his or her 
 duty in a faithful manner. 
 
 May the genial summer season now approaching renew our hopes, 
 our confidence, our efforts to do our duty, and let not man judge his 
 fellow man harshly is our wish as we bid you good night. 
 
 The Limitless Possibilities of a Soul 
 
 The amount of certain knowledge is so small that man may well 
 be classed as a doubter. What is meant by this statement is that 
 while a great many things are absolutely known, there are so many 
 more that are not so known that the former bears the same relation 
 to the latter that time does to eternity. The number of people who 
 
 ■i i 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 89 
 
 realize how little they really know is very, very small. Man — taken 
 in a general way — is very much of a pretender. He is too proud to 
 confess that what he has not found out is far more than what he has. 
 The four decades that the most favored of mortals can hope to use 
 in investigating the things that surround them is too quickly passed 
 for much to be accomplished. The mind of man is lost in the con- 
 templation of one universe; and there are countless millions of uni- 
 verses lying beyond his most boundless conception, the mysteries of 
 the smallest of which it would take him countless ages to enumerate, 
 much less to understand. This is not to be wondered at when we 
 remember that it is not possible for the finite to fully grasp the idea 
 of the infinite. God is a word of but three letters, and yet it is the 
 most wonderful in any language. God has existed from eternity, is 
 easily said, but if the coming eternity were spent in going back into 
 it, the journey would be but entered upon. God's universe, what does 
 it mean? It has, it can have, no limit. God is the centre, and around 
 Him are worlds, suns, systems, without end. It took infinite power to 
 create an atom, it took no more to create a world. A limited power 
 could not make one world; an unlimited power has no limit to the 
 worlds it may create. And yet after the most stupenduous effort to 
 realize the utter vastness of what creative skill and wisdom can do, 
 it is a fact that the possibilities of a soul goes far beyond the vastness 
 or the mystery of all things besides. Whatever is of the material 
 creation is subject to change, if not to destruction; the soul, a spark 
 of Deity, can never die. The feeblest infant, whose wail scarce stirred 
 the smallest wave of air, then ceased, will stand in quenchless life, 
 amid the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds. Man's intelligence 
 were the veriest mockery if no knowledge were possible after the 
 change called death. Man attains to much even when the soul is fet- 
 tered in a prison house of clay, and hampered by an unnumbered 
 myriad of circumstances. What may he not know when freed from 
 sensual surroundings? An ancient philosopher said, "give me a ful- 
 crum for my lever, and I will lift the world." May not the candidate 
 for eternity say, "give me time and I will know all things." Time! 
 Who lacks for time when in an eternal state ? Who doubts the power 
 of God to comprehend? Who doubts the soul's capacity to learn, if 
 the soul be but a part of God? Who is to limit the soul's achieve- 
 ments when it is separated from the power to forget? Who shall say 
 that in the eternal ages man may not become perfect in knowledge? 
 Every effort put forth by the soul will but make it more capable of 
 a still greater effort. The poet expressed no idle words without mean- 
 ing when he said: "We shall know as we are known." The Creator 
 knows us perfectly. Shall we not know perfectly also? We know 
 that the grass grows. May we not sometime know how it grows? 
 We know that life is. May we not be able to understand 
 
90 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 how life originates? In one deep sense all that confronts us 
 here is mystery, and yet he to whom all is thus a mystery is the 
 most stupendous mystery of all. And if these thoughts that 
 come in this Hour Alone have foundation, and man is thus to go from 
 gradation to gradation higher still, and no end come to his expanding 
 powers, how gross a crime it is for him who says that death ends all. 
 He rises scarce beyond the brute who eats to live, and lives that he 
 may die. Better the brute without a future wish, if not a future 
 wish is to be realized. Better the senseless stone that shows no out- 
 ward evidence of the pitiless peltings of the elements, if in another 
 state of existence man does not begin to learn, and ceases to forget. 
 And if our thoughts be true, and man has every possibility wrapt in 
 this human soul, how careful should he be to preserve the germ that 
 in the genial clime of the eternal world will germinate, and grow, 
 and bloom with fragrance sweet, and bear such wondrous fruit. 
 
 Discipline of the Boy 
 
 Just what shall be done with the boys is a question that rises up 
 to harass and worry every parent who has had any experience. It 
 is a question that is intensified by the lax ideas of family discipline 
 that prevail, and the loose manner of enforcing family government 
 that has become so popular of late years. It is a question by no means 
 settled, that boys are any better under the new, than under the old 
 regime ; it is a problem that is not yet satisfactorily solved, that the 
 modern ideas will give us any better boys, or that under their influence 
 we will obtain any more satisfactory results. It is possible, yea more, 
 it is probable that the discipline of the family, in days gone by, was 
 too strict, too puritanical, too narrow and too bigoted. But under 
 it some grand results were obtained, and from its wholesome teachings 
 spring some of the grandest characters that have graced the history 
 of the human race. It is true that it had its faults, but it 
 is not less true that it had its advantages ; and those, too, of 
 such a character that no methods since employed have been able 
 to find substitutes for. It has been popular to blame the spoiling 
 of a boy, reared at that time, to puritanical teachings and Presbyterian 
 rigor. But to what are we to attribute like results at the present time, 
 if these charges were true? Is there any difference in regard to the 
 ideas held by the boys fifty years ago, and those of today, in regard 
 to keeping a seventh part of the time as a day of rest? It was to the 
 boy of fifty years ago a day of emphatic rest, not only from labor, 
 but from all amusements as well. He spent it at home, learning les- 
 sons of rigid and stern integrity and honesty from austere parents, 
 or in the church, under the watchful eye of the same careful guardians. 
 If he learned to wish for the appearance of Monday, he at the same 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 91 
 
 time learned to respect his fellow man, and be honest. If he made 
 but little progress in the narrow road where his elders purported 
 to be traveling, he had but few opportunities to rush down the broad 
 and descending road that was crowded with the sons of unrighteous- 
 ness. Right here we wish to ask those who will condemn these ran- 
 dom thoughts — for we are sure there are such — what good points in 
 morals, in manners, in character or in any respect, is gained by per- 
 mitting a total disregard for this day of rest to prevail? We are not 
 asking this in the narrow channel of our religious views — which we 
 have no desire to conceal, and which are clear, strong and emphatic — 
 for we are aware that a large number, failing to start with our premises 
 will miss our conclusions ; but we appeal to you, as those who are alike 
 interested with us in morals, in manners, and in good citizenship; 
 have we not gone too far in our endeavor to correct the abuses of 
 our bigoted and narrowminded — at least so called — fathers? Have 
 we not only escaped the whirlpool where they were wrecked, but also 
 gone far enough to enter a vortex that proves not less fatal? Young 
 people will take but little interest in this subject. Even young parents 
 will not become overly interested in the theme. But when we come 
 to those whose children are standing on the crossroads of life, those who 
 have learned to realize the full import of the declaration, "We live 
 again in our children," we will meet those who, even though they 
 condemn our conclusions, and mentally, at least, controvert our 
 theories, will thank us for having made a few suggestions on a sub- 
 ject that, to them, is of the most vital importance. We may say with 
 some degree of truth, that we do not care what the world says or 
 thinks about us, but we dare not say this of our children. We wish 
 to see them respected, happy, honored ; and if they become so, we are 
 surely interested in the question, what shall we do to train them 
 aright ? 
 
 Fortitude 
 
 There are a great many attributes that come up and present them- 
 selves as pertaining to the human soul, and beg for special recognition. 
 At an hour like this, when the solemn silence of midnight broods over 
 the city, and we settle down to work in our shining mine to try to 
 dig out some gem of thought for the readers of the Banner, we scarce 
 know which to give our feeble attention to. Is not the human soul 
 made up of attributes? And here they come trooping by in regular 
 order and with military precision! Hope, fear, anger, love, hate, and 
 — may we not say fortitude ? We like that bold, strong, brave English 
 word, "fortitude," and we will just let envy, revenge, and a large 
 number of other attributes of the human soul go by us unheeded for 
 the present, and we will jot down the rambling thoughts that may 
 come to us this hour in which fortitude is necessary. 
 
92 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 If this life, on which many of the Banner readers are just enter- 
 ing with so much zest and so many fond anticipations was all that 
 youthful fancy paints it, then, indeed, would fortitude not be so req- 
 uisite a characteristic in the make-up of human beings. 
 
 It is not our purpose to disenchant the fairyland of youth of its 
 beauty and glory, or deprive its occupants of a single joy its fancy 
 painted fields can afford them. No, we would not disturb those fair 
 sleepers whose dreams are all beatific visions. We are glad that youth 
 does not know the real meaning of the word fortitude, and indeed we 
 would be only too glad if these dreams could always last. 
 
 But we are not sure that this ideal, even were it obtainable, is 
 to be desired all through life. It is pleasant always to look on beau- 
 tiful pictures, to gaze on serene skies, to sail on placid waters, to 
 walk in smooth roads, to climb gentle declivities, to linger in shady 
 groves, and bask in genial sunlight. But this would be a state of 
 repose, rather than of action, and fortitude would be but little needed. 
 
 But it is action that calls out our latent energies, and teaches 
 us self-reliance. It is well to sometimes view hideous pictures, to 
 look on darkened skies, to climb rugged and steep mountains, to sail 
 on rough and treacherous waters, to encounter scorching suns, and 
 become familiar with nature in her rougher moods. 
 
 It matters but little, however, what we may wish, we will no 
 doubt find that life is a constant struggle, and that fortitude is neces- 
 sary to enable us to meet its requirements at all. 
 
 To learn to cultivate fortitude is, therefore, a duty, for we will 
 find sore need for it along the rough, uneven ways of life. 
 
 Have the bright prospects of your earlier years become clouded 
 over and dimmed? Have friends, once trusted, been found false? Have 
 riches taken wings and left you to meet the jeers and scoffs and ridicule 
 of those more favored? Has health departed? Has beauty faded? 
 Have prospects been blasted? Or, what is sadder still, have those 
 who were the fond objects of your affection and esteem been called 
 into the dreaded unknown? Have you watched their fading forms 
 and marked the daily gathering signs that the sad and solemn hour 
 was approaching? Have you hoped, and feared, and doubted and 
 prayed, with oh! such bitter agony, that they might be spared? If 
 you have, then you know something of the attribute known as forti- 
 tude. If you have not, then be sure that some of these things are in 
 store for you, and be prepared to meet them with that calmness and 
 manly dignity that only fortitude is capable of giving. 
 
 Our fortitude has beautiful proportions, and we have spent this 
 fleeting hour, we trust, to good advantage to ourselves, and, may 
 we hope, not without benefit to others. We know that many, stand- 
 ing in the ways of life, about where we stand tonight, perhaps with 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 93 
 
 no less of the misfortunes and ills of life to mourn over, and no less 
 mistakes to lament and deplore, will feel a responsive chord touched 
 in their sore hearts ; and we also feel that those young people who read 
 the Banner will, as the years crowd on, and the cares of life thicken, 
 and its sorrows deepen, thank us that our thoughts tonight were of 
 that character that may be made of some practical utility in after 
 life. For it is true that the teaching that does not apply to the every- 
 day duties of life has but little lasting value. 
 
 With a sincere wish that every one of us may have fortitude to 
 take up his allotted burden in life and perform every known duty 
 to the best of his ability, we say to all, a kind good night. 
 
 Sympathy 
 
 Tonight we have been spending our sacred hour, revolving in our 
 mind the reflection of what constitutes the great distinctive character- 
 istic between man and the lower order of animals. 
 
 The subject is of too much interest to be treated upon in the 
 time we are able to give it now. But we can hardly, even at the risk 
 of doing injustice to the subject, refrain from giving the readers of 
 the Banner the thoughts that have come to us on that point during 
 this silent hour. 
 
 It would be idle to attempt to answer the curious query by point- 
 ing out the difference of the conformation of the body, or the size and 
 texture of the brain, or the fact that there is a line somewhere be- 
 tween instinct and reason; or by claiming that the lower animals 
 do not reason at all. We say this would be idle; for while either 
 of those points, no doubt, are susceptible of more or less demonstra- 
 tion, yet there is a degree of similarity in each case, that causes a 
 vague sense of something not quite clear on the mind. 
 
 But there is one point that is so clearly marked out that we are 
 led to believe that it was intended to exhibit, in an unmistakable 
 manner, the difference between the mortal and the immortal, between 
 the lower animals and man. That characteristic is sympathy. We do 
 not mean to allude here to the affinity of species — if that be a correct 
 expression — nor yet to that maternal love that has been implanted 
 in everything that lives, and was designed for the wise purpose of 
 shielding and protecting the young through the helpless stages of 
 the beginning of life ; but we refer to sympathy as a distinct feature. 
 That quality of the mind that is touched by suffering, not in our- 
 selves, but in others. Phenomenal cases may exist where something 
 nearly akin to this feeling is observable in the brutes, and the 
 almost total lack of it is found in that that passes as human; but 
 these cases, when closely studied, are rare ; in fact do no more 
 
94 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 than make the exceptions that are said to be a necessary element in 
 a genuine rule. 
 
 We are glad this sympathy is given to man. No trait is more 
 noble, or shines out with more brilliancy in humanity than this one. 
 When reason is occupying her throne, and guiding the impulses of 
 the mind, it is not possible for humanity to look unmoved on suffer- 
 ing. When we look at the picture of society with this sympathy in 
 it, it looks to us as though no human artist could have conceived it. 
 When we look at the picture without it, there is seemingly no con- 
 ception about it. The life, the soul, the beauty, the proportion is gone. 
 And there remains but a mass of irregular lines, a colored canvas 
 that has been daubed, not painted. Without it humanity is a body 
 without a soul. 
 
 Take away sympathy and life becomes a dreary waste. Take it 
 away, and you remove the sun from the solar system of humanity. 
 With it life is the genial tropical land, covered with exuberant 
 vegetation and rendered redolent with the mingled scent of a thou- 
 sand aromatic plants ; birds of rich and rare beauty nestle in the 
 branches of umbrageous forests, and warble their sweet melodies in 
 glad songs that are a very rapture to the soul. Take it away and that 
 land of joy and beauty becomes the polar land where the glaciers 
 have been moving toward frozen oceans with silent and resistless 
 force for ages. 
 
 Without it this world would be a dreary desert devoid of hope. 
 It comes to all God's children irrespective of class or condition. When 
 the dark cold wave of adversity comes to buffet us, sympathy comes 
 to pour in the oil of gladness. 
 
 When suffering comes, and pain racks the quivering body, it 
 pours the alleviating cordial. 
 
 The great Master, when on earth, did not take so much pains to 
 prove His divinity. His incomparable miracles did that. But His 
 humanity never would have rested on a sure foundation, had He not 
 wept over the city of Jerusalem, or dropped the sympathizing tear 
 at the grave of Lazarus. 
 
 Let us stand by the bedside of a human being who is about to die. 
 It matters not what relation we may have sustained in life. He may 
 perchance have been our enemy; but the sight of his helpless con- 
 dition, the mute appeal in his glazing eye, kindles in our bosom a 
 spontaneous glow of sympathy that buries every resentment, and causes 
 us to forget every past unkindness, and the heart melts into love and 
 forgiveness, or in other words the divine image is unveiled, and the 
 great, the grand, the glorious distinction between man and the lower 
 animals stands out so clearly that we bow in reverence before it, and 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 95 
 
 worship it as the nearest conception of Deity that man ever realizes 
 on earth. 
 
 That the hidden idol of selfishness may not altogether monopolize 
 our worship, and that we may be led to see to it that the "Genial 
 current of the soul" be not frozen in its icy embrace, but be melted 
 and warmed in the bright glow of human sympathy that feels for 
 all, and in the feeling raises us nearer the Infinite and the Eternal, is 
 our hope, as we lay aside our feeble pen, and bidding you, dear readers 
 of the Banner, a kind adieu for the present, we turn again to the 
 stern demands of the every day duties of life. 
 
 Homeless Children 
 
 This has been a bitter day. Keen, biting blasts have been search- 
 ing out the little crevices, and have made it almost impossible to keep 
 even comfortable. And as we sit here by a red hot stove, long after 
 the light has disappeared from the last window, our thoughts go out 
 to the children who are spending this comfortless night in such a great 
 variety of homes. 
 
 It may be that these thoughts would not have come to obtrude 
 on our notice, had we not read in "Star's" Vermont letter, today, 
 of a family at the place whose only fire this winter has been such 
 sticks as were picked up by two little boys. 
 
 "Star" makes some comments on that incident, and they have so 
 much of truth in them, and contain so much food for serious reflec- 
 tion that we are unable to get them out of our mind. 
 
 There are many children who have no home of any kind. They 
 know literally nothing about even a cheerless home, let alone one 
 where joy, peace, plenty and contentment are the predominant fea- 
 tures. When I think of them I am glad there is a beautiful story in 
 the testament, of a living Savior who took little children in His loving 
 arms and blessed them. And we hope that every one of those little 
 homeless outcasts may yet come to that home He has so kindly pro- 
 vided for all. 
 
 Our mind takes in the vast multitude of children in the world, 
 and then we can only regret that they do not all have good homes here 
 on earth. Many of them we fear do not help to make their home 
 pleasant and happy. Some are not at all thankful tonight that kind, 
 loving parents are doing all in their power to shield them from the 
 evils of the world in quiet homes. 
 
 Then we fear there are parents who do not attempt to make 
 home the most pleasant place on earth for their children. Too many 
 can look back to their young days only to thank God that they are not 
 to be lived over again. 
 
96 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Some parents are too strict at home; some are too lax. Both of 
 these classes make miserable failures of home. 
 
 One rules by fear only, and, of course, fails. Better never to have 
 had a child than to have that child remember you only with a shudder. 
 
 As a general rule it is from these ill regulated homes that come 
 the ill starred brood who prey on society. It is from well regulated 
 homes that come those who pray for society. 
 
 We are aware that it is difficult to make homes of poverty and 
 want, homes of peace and love. The bitter struggle of life tends to 
 sour the disposition and ruffle the temper. But there are sorrows 
 enough connected with even the most favored homes. There is the 
 creaking, grinning skeleton in the closet; it may not be buried, it 
 dare not be exhibited. 
 
 Then there are the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows, trials 
 and difficulties of every day life. 
 
 Great sorrows brood over many homes like black clouds that 
 never can be scattered. Children are going out of those homes daily. 
 Some to honor, some to shame. 
 
 Death enters them and takes the fairest and best. "We stand help- 
 lessly by and see them fade out, "As the flowers fade out in the chill 
 Autumn air," and we follow them to their last resting place; then 
 we return to feel that a sun has been blotted from our constellation, 
 that a cherished idol has been broken. 
 
 Yes, earth has enough of sorrow; and if the directing of our 
 thoughts into this channel tonight tends to awaken in us a desire 
 to make of home the purest, the sweetest, the dearest, the most 
 cherished spot in all the wide world; if it shall have a tendency to 
 induce some child to be more contented and happy in its home, 
 whether it be adorned with the rich tapestry, velvet curtains and 
 costly pictures that wealth can command, or in those less pretentious 
 ones where the deft touch of woman's skillful fingers has made hum- 
 bler walls assume more inviting forms of beauty, or yet in those where 
 life is but a desperate fight with death, then will we thank our 
 "Star" for the gems of thought that directed our mind into a field 
 of such character that we have been enabled to glean some flowers 
 of hope, some fruits of rare value for the dear readers of the Ban- 
 ner, and will again wish them a sweet repose, and saying our ac- 
 customed good night, will seek that rest which a tired body craves. 
 
 To Young Men 
 
 If this were the very last article of this nature that we ever 
 expected to pen, we could wish that it might be devoted to the young 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 97 
 
 men who may read our paper. And our advice to them would be to 
 cultivate a love of honesty, sobriety, truth and justice, and have a 
 large and abiding faith in the goodness of humanity. In all of our 
 dealings with the policies of parties we are led oftenest to point out 
 defects. But we would not have any young man suppose for a 
 moment that we do not have the strongest faith in the honesty, in- 
 tegrity, ability and candor of the masses of all our people. 
 
 That young man is far on the high road to ruin, who is convinced 
 that there is no virtue left in his fellow men. 
 
 There is a dark as well as a light side to life. It is well to look 
 on the dark side; well to become familiar with all phases of human 
 sorrow and human suffering. But it would not only be dangerous, 
 it would be suicidal to let our minds dwell on these sorrows, these 
 sufferings; and to rest our eyes forever on these dark colorings. To 
 be manly we must associate with manly men. To do this we must 
 seek them out, and then study their character, and strive to emulate 
 their virtues. 
 
 It has been well said that "people generally attribute those faults 
 to others that they themselves, are most prone to." This no doubt is 
 true. How careful then, ought we to be in our criticisms, how merci- 
 ful in our judgment. 
 
 Let our young men learn to do right ; let them choose the company 
 of the wise and the good ; let them emulate the example of those whose 
 monuments are in the hearts of the people among whom they have 
 lived; let them shun the company of the wicked, the evil minded, 
 the vicious, the bad. Let them shun every species of gambling; let 
 them beware of the intoxicating cup. 
 
 Oh ! If our young men only could see the end from the beginning, 
 how would it startle and appall some of them. You have the example 
 of the great and good of all ages; you have the warning of those 
 who have made of their lives worse than failures; you are now on 
 the very threshold of that busy life that you can live but once. How 
 important that you start right ; how much depends on yourselves. 
 Indeed everything depends on you. Your life will be just what you 
 make it. Your history is being written daily. 
 
 And if in the course of events this should be our last article, and 
 we were sure of it, still we would close it by saying, young man, 
 honor thy father, and forget not the love of thy mother, and remem- 
 ber that in your own body are the successes or failures of life. 
 
 But as at all other hours, the avenues of thought lead us out and 
 on, and hoping your mind has been directed into some profitable 
 channel, we say again, good night. 
 
98 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Influence of Religion 
 
 It has been well said that "every man has his religion." There 
 lives not a human soul in all God's good world tonight, who does 
 not worship something. Such being the case, it is impossible to con- 
 ceive of a world without religion, or a people not swayed by its 
 influence. In this age of fast living and rapid development people 
 are apt to sneer at the old, and court the new, especially if the new 
 gives promise of a larger license to those passions that are so irksome 
 under restraint. It is not our business here to defend isims or sys- 
 tems ; we only wish to call attention to the fact that the world is largely 
 indebted to the good old Bible and its religious system for much of 
 what we now prize, and that it is to it we are indebted for the inspira- 
 tion that has poured a stream of living fire on the pages of our most 
 gifted authors. Of these we will advert to but a few. Bunyan's 
 Pilgrim's Progress, that book that has swayed the hearts of millions, 
 teaching them the great lesson of practical life, would never have 
 appeared, had the religion of the Bible not existed. Burns, the gifted 
 son of Scottish song, would sink from the proud eminence where he 
 now sits enthroned the king of those who taught a true loyalty to 
 country, did his "Cotter's Saturday Night" not exist, and it never 
 would have existed had not the religion of the Bible previously 
 existed, and been to him the embodiment of a living reality. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans, whose mournful cadences have touched with a 
 sublime pathos the hearts of all her readers would never have held 
 the pencil she now wields, wields though dead, had she not drank at 
 the pure fountain from whence flowed the Biblical stream. Destroy 
 her faith in the God of revelation, and you annul her power over 
 the understanding of the people. 
 
 "Uncle Tom's Cabin" has wielded an influence greater than that 
 of any other novel ever penned. But who will suppose, for a moment, 
 that such a production would ever have appeared, had Mrs. Stowe not 
 been a firm believer in the Holy Book? The tears that have welled up, 
 dimming the eyes of the millions who have read her matchless produc- 
 tion, are but millions of testimonials to the fact that no difference 
 what our wish in the matter may be, still it was the influence of the 
 teachings of the Bible, it is the influence it exerts today, that caused 
 that simple narration to revolutionize a mighty people, change the 
 institutions of a nation, and taught men to scorn oppression and wrong, 
 and worship the genius of human freedom. 
 
 It is boasted that this is an age of materialism ; but is it not, as 
 well, an age of appalling crimes? Is my life as safe, is the prosperity 
 and safety of government as sure in the keeping of those who have 
 no moral restraint, as in the hands of those whose simple faith lays 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 99 
 
 hold of the Great Eternal as He is revealed in the scriptures, and 
 personified in the Christian religion? 
 
 That you, dear reader, may have time to reflect over so important 
 a question, we w^ill again say, good night. 
 
 A Ruined Life 
 
 The swift wings of time have carried us forward a number of 
 weeks, and we have not been able to get Our Hour Alone published. 
 We did prepare one the week of Thanksgiving, but the typos were 
 not able to get it set up. Several subjects have demanded our atten- 
 tion, and some of them are laid up for future use. But one particular 
 incident has lately come under our observation that has made an im- 
 pression that we cannot shake off, and we think it contains a lesson 
 for the young people who read the Banner. And as we know the one 
 referred to would not object to our making this use of it, we will 
 outline it, and leave the lesson to be drawn by the intelligent boys and 
 girls who read the Banner. 
 
 Some 24 years ago, while we lived west of Farmington, we became 
 acquainted with a family in the poorer walks of life, but of more than 
 ordinary intelligence. It was composed of the father, mother, two boys 
 and three girls. The parents were of English birth, and were both 
 willing to do their full share of the labor that inevitably falls to the 
 lot of those in their station in life. The children were taught habits 
 of industry, and were, at the same time, given the advantages of educa- 
 tion afforded by the common schools. 
 
 The father was addicted to the use of intoxicants, but was not 
 considered a drunkard. The parents were neither of them church 
 members, though they had no particular prejudice against religion, and 
 seemed anxious to have the children attend Sunday School, and it 
 was in this connection that we first took more than a passing interest 
 in the oldest boy, who was bright in intellect and naturally possessed 
 a high sense of honor. The children used to go with us to the Union 
 school house, and often went up to the village to attend the morning 
 session there. 
 
 The fact that we were near neighbors, and that the family were 
 sociable and kind, and the children nearly always on their good 
 behavior, caused us to take more than a passing interest in them. But 
 the family moved west; we were carried to a distant part of the 
 county and for a time we lost track of them. We incidentally learned 
 in the course of time that the oldest boy had grown up and married. 
 For a few years we continued to hear from them occasionally. He 
 seemed to be somewhat like his father — a good worker, a good fellow 
 in many respects, but addicted to taking a dram, and afterward too 
 
100 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 many of them. Soon after we came to Yates City we found them in 
 a neighboring town, he engaged in good-paying employment, and she 
 earning something too, for no children had come to cement the ties 
 of the family. 
 
 After a time we learned that both were out of employment here, 
 and during the campaign we met him in Peoria. It was evident that 
 the habit of intoxication was growing on him rapidly; it could be 
 seen legibly written on every feature. 
 
 A very few days ago we were in one of our sister towns on busi- 
 ness, and just as we stepped on the platform we saw him approach- 
 ing. He wore such a troubled look and seemed so changed since we 
 had so recently met him that we were startled, and at once inquired 
 if he was not sick. He shook his head and answered that he was not, 
 that he was in trouble, and added that his wife had that day obtained 
 a divorce. We expressed our surprise and asked what was the trouble. 
 He answered in a careless way, "that it made no difference," and said, 
 "I do not like to dwell on the subject." We went up town and did 
 our errand and went back to the depot. Here we again met him, 
 when he came up and apologized for his condition and said he was 
 ashamed to meet us, as he was drunk. He said he had a ticket in his 
 pocket to carry him to a distant western city, and said he did not 
 blame his wife. "I have been a hard one," he remarked. He then 
 referred to his father, who is buried in a distant State, and spoke of 
 his mother, brothers, and sisters, and then referred to the old Sunday 
 School days, remarking that he wished he had taken the advice of 
 those he met there. He said it seemed but a few days since with us 
 he attended those quiet Sabbath afternoon gatherings, and then he 
 feelingly spoke of his condition now. 
 
 He told us he meant to reform and spoke of what he ought always 
 to have been. We tried to speak words of comfort to him, but oh! 
 how poor seemed any words of ours as we stood in front of that 
 wreck. He told us his now divorced wife would be up on the train 
 that was to carry him from scenes that he now sincerely wished to 
 get rid of forever. We told him that if in need of help to let us 
 know, and he said it was a comfort to know that even one took some 
 interest in him. 
 
 While we were talking the train rushed up, the passengers 
 crowded off, we saw a woman shake hands with him, the bell rang, 
 the impatient engine bounded forward, and the lights of the station 
 were soon lost to view. As we stepped off at Yates City he came 
 out of the smoking-car, wrung our hand with an earnest grip, said 
 he would be sober before morning, and added emphatically, "It is 
 my last drunk." 
 
 4 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 101 
 
 The groaning iron horse again bounded forward and we lost sight 
 of him, for how long God only knows. But we stood there for some 
 time amid the hurrying throng, trying to realize if the half-desperate 
 man who had just left us could possibly be the same noble, earnest, 
 hopeful boy who, in the peaceful summer evenings, used to go down 
 the quiet lane with us toward the old school house. 
 
 We have no desire to use this as a text or yet attempt to preach 
 a sermon, but the incident cast a gloom over the whole evening, and 
 we have not yet succeeded in getting the sad picture out of our mind, 
 and we suppose this is the reason that it obtruded upon us in this 
 silent hour and prevented us from giving our readers a more pleasant, 
 if not so profitable, a subject. 
 
 There are boys who will read this article standing just where he 
 stood twenty-five years ago. There are fathers and mothers whose 
 eyes will fall on this page who are casting an anxious glance to where 
 their boy is now engaged in noisy sport, and they lift up a silent 
 petition that such may not be his career. 
 
 That some of our readers, who are now standing on the place 
 where life's paths verge out into the great unknown, may shun the 
 bitter pain of such an hour, we have thought best to make public 
 this incident and we sincerely hope that all the boys who read the 
 Banner may sow the good seed, for there is no escaping the harvest. 
 
 Alone With Self 
 
 There are few who are not cowards when brought face to face — 
 if we may be allowed that form of expression — with themselves. 
 Conscience, that inward monitor, placed there by the wisdom of a 
 God, no doubt speaks out in clear tones of rebuke at wrong, or 
 whispers commendation of the right, as well when we are in the crowd 
 as when we are alone ; but the voice is not heard, or, if heard is not 
 heeded. But let one be placed apart from all his fellows, be isolated 
 from the crowd, be left to himself, and that little monitor whose voice 
 was inaudible amidst the surging mass of humanity, will thunder 
 out its denunciations of the wrong so loudly that we will stand in awe 
 "As though an angel spake." 
 
 Self examination is taught as a religious duty. It is claimed — ■ 
 and rightly, too — that there is a direct warrant for it in the Bible. 
 But it should not only be practised by those who are bound by creeds, 
 it should be made a part of the discipline of the life of every one who 
 has a desire to live a useful life among his fellows. It is not always 
 easy to see the right and do it in the whirl, the excitement, the hurry 
 and the turmoil of business. There may be a few equable tempers, 
 minds of mature strength and exact equipoise, housed in bodies of 
 
102 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 perfect build, where disease has never shattered the nerve system, and 
 irritability is unknown, whose happy possessors are able to even up 
 all transactions as they go along. But, if this be so, they are but the 
 exceptions necessary to prove that the rule is a different class of beings 
 entirely. The average mortal has not an equable temper; he has not 
 a sound body; he is not possessed of a nerve force that has not been, 
 and can not be irritated. He is not able to control himself, and angry 
 passion rises, the hasty word is spoken, the unkind act is done that 
 is injustice to our fellow men, and we scarcely realize it, or even 
 think of it in the impetuous haste with which we are carried along. 
 Indeed if some one would come to us and remind us that we had 
 violated the laws that should govern us in our intercourse with our 
 fellows, we would indignantly deny the accusation, and be ready to 
 cast all the blame on those whom we have injured. 
 
 But lay aside the cares of business, as the day closes, and twi- 
 light deepens into the gloom of darkness, and spend the evening in 
 the sacred precincts of home, in the midst of the family circle, — we 
 know of no more sacred, no more consecrated spot in all God's uni- 
 verse, than the place where husband and wife, father and mother, 
 parents and children, brothers and sisters dwell in unity and peace, 
 the place where they toil, and suffer, and rejoice, and sorrow, and 
 hope, and fear, and pray, and offer up the sacrifices and the devo- 
 tions that affection impels, the place that we call home, — let the mind 
 become calm in the serene atmosphere of that sweetest spot on earth, 
 and then, as the lights go out in the windows, and the curtains of 
 night drop down and enfold the hills, as the sentinel stars come out 
 to glitter in the resplendent dome of heaven, and the Milk Maid's 
 Path trails like a great gulf stream through the ''Star isled seas of 
 heaven," when the hush of nature is over all, and the winds have 
 died to a gentle whisper, go out into the deep solitude, alone, with 
 only nature and nature's wondrous God about you, and stand face to 
 face with self, and there recall the deeds, the acts, the words of the 
 day that has gone out in the darkness of the night that has soothed 
 your turbulent mind to serenity, and you will be surprised to find 
 that you are ready to reverse the decision of the day, and that this 
 court of equity indeed, has weighed the evidence to better purpose, 
 and you are willing to make all the reparation possible to those whom, 
 but a short time before, you looked on as having injured you. 
 
 At such a time man feels his own littleness; nature is so great; 
 the stars look down into his heart ; the solitude has a voice ; the dark- 
 ness speaks; that spark of Divine goodness that God has planted in 
 every human breast flashes up into a glare of light that shows us 
 our weakness, our sins, our follies, and the "Still, small voice" of God 
 comes to us saying "What doest thou here?" and we are melted by the 
 
U R H OUR ALONE 108 
 
 tenderness of His love, and the true manhood asserts itself, and we 
 go back to seek repose feeling as if we had seen a vision of angels, 
 and talked face to face with God, and we are better prepared for the 
 duties of life, or the solemn hour of death. It is good for man to 
 be alone for an hour, 
 
 A Weeping World 
 
 "He wept? — the stars of Afric's heaven 
 
 Beheld his bursting tears, 
 Even on that spot where fate had given 
 
 The meed of toiling years. 
 Oh happiness! how far we flee 
 Thine own sweet paths, in search of thee." 
 
 — Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 This is a weeping world. Where is the human being who has 
 not wept? It is the universal voice of sorrow, and it comes with 
 us into the world, follows us along the journey of life, and leaves us 
 not until we stand on the banks of the mystical river that separates 
 between the seen and the unseen. 
 
 If we were to say that our time is divided between laughing and 
 weeping, and that the eye is either brightened by a smile, or dim- 
 med by a tear, we would but state a truth that is old as the history of 
 the human race, and will continue to grow older until the last sur- 
 vivor of the race stands amid the wreck of nature and the ruin of 
 worlds, weeping over the lost and loved, and smiling through tears 
 at the prospect of meeting them in a purer world, where, under 
 different conditions, the eye will never again be dim, but will light 
 up with an eternal smile. 
 
 Permit us to say that we do not undervalue the gayer moments 
 of life, when the smile evaporates the tear, and adds a charm to love- 
 liness that nothing else can give. At some future time, when we 
 are permitted to spend an "Hour Alone," and thought roams fancy 
 free, it .may be ours to watch the mantling smile, and note the rippling 
 laugh, and draw a lesson from them that may leave us purer in 
 thought, braver in heart, better in deed, kinder in action and larger 
 in our sympathies. But at this hour, when darkness lends a deeper 
 gloom to nature's pall, and silence — in a degree — has fallen on a 
 tired world, the thought comes to us to dwell on that side of human 
 history that deals with the world's great ocean of tears. 
 
 Did Adam weep with Eve, as standing just outside the gates of 
 Paradise they viewed the ruin of a race, the loss of all? Or was the 
 feeble wail of infant Cain the first sad cry that set in motion the 
 waves of atmosphere that volumed round the virgin world? Was his 
 the first rosy cheek to bed a pearly tear, whose orb rolled downward 
 freighted with the first sorrow of a sin cursed world? We know not, 
 
104 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 and may never know, what proper answers might, to these, be made. 
 But just a little further on when Abel's blood is shed — ^the first red 
 drop that stained a virgin earth — and when the mother saw the sad, 
 cold face of her dead son, we know the great deep of her maternal 
 heart must have been stirred by such a tempest of grief that it was 
 broken up, and rising in a rushing tide, broke every barrier through, 
 rolled from her eyes, dropped on the clay his blood had dyed, and 
 vainly strove to wash out the first great crime that man had done 
 against his fellow man. 
 
 Abraham wept over the grave where rested the form of his be- 
 loved Sarah. Joseph sought a place in which to weep over the brother 
 whom he loved. Esau found no place for repentance, though he 
 sought it earnestly with tears. 
 
 But come and stand beside the Nile whose waters flowed by the 
 first great civilization of a race, where stand the sphinxes, and the 
 pyramids, silent, grand, impenetrable, mute monuments of power and 
 skill that tell of wealth and poverty, of king and slave. Count if you 
 can the tears that fell from captive eyes, while those silent sentinels 
 of the centuries were being built. But hark! What means this 
 strange and gathering swell of sound that upward rolls along that 
 fertile valley, and spreads out to the farthest stretch of the empire 
 of the proud Pharaohs? It is the universal wail of sorrow that is 
 welling up from the hearts of a people stricken and smitten. For 
 the angel of Death had rode on the blast, and the first born in every 
 Egyptian home was lying in the slumber of the dead. Listen to the 
 children of the captive tribes, as they hang their harps on the wil- 
 lows, and weep for the days that are gone. Hark to the voice of the 
 King, as he went up, weeping as he went and crying, "O my son 
 Absalom! Absalom, my son, my son!" Hear ye not the "voice 
 of Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted 
 because they are not?" 
 
 Then let your thought take in the storms, the floods, the 
 pestilences, the fires, the earthquakes, the wars, the persecutions of 
 all the world's ages, and how many have wept over their accumula- 
 tions of sorrow? Realize, if you can, the tears that have flowed for 
 these things, and then realize, if you can, that but a moiety of all 
 earth's sorrows have been thus caused, and you can perhaps begin to 
 comprehend that rill has run to rivulet, rivulet to stream, stream to 
 river and river to a vast ocean filled and kept full with a ceaseless 
 tide of human tears. 
 
 But do we stand to shiver on a bridge of sighs, and mourn that 
 man may weep ? No, no ; forever no. How many poor, crushed 
 hearts would break, did not their sorrows find relief in tears? Nor 
 can we but rejoice that Jesus wept over the city of Jerusalem, and 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 106 
 
 that His tears mingled with those of Mary and Martha, at the grave 
 of Lazarus. These drops of sympathy that flowed down the cheeks 
 of "Him who spake as never man spake," are the evidences of His 
 humanity, as His matchless miracles were of His divinity. Let us 
 devoutly thank God that man has the power to weep. That the 
 blessing of tears meets us on the threshold of existence, and goes 
 with us through all the scenes of life, and never forsakes us until 
 we are on the bed of death. The dying never weep. While our poor 
 hearts are wrung, and our tears fall as rain, their eyes undimmed and 
 bright, look over the narrow vale that separates the great mysteries 
 of the present from the greater that lie beyond, and thus they leave 
 us. And "w^e sincerely pity the one whose hand has never brushed 
 away a tear from their own eyes. 
 
 How could we sit beside the little crib and count the slow declin- 
 ing pulse, and watch the little breath come thick and short, could 
 we not shed a tear? How could we clasp — for the last time — those 
 wrinkled hands that guided us in youth, and fail to weep? How 
 could the husband see the wife, adored, pass out to the beyond, with 
 eyes as dry as summer fallow? Or wife look on a dying husband's 
 face and never shed a tear? Could brother and sister speak the last 
 adieu without a flow of tears to quench such fiery grief? What were 
 the earth without its showers to hang in crystal orb on leaf and 
 spray, on flower and blade of grass? And what were man without 
 a fount of tears to rise and overflow at his or other's woes? 
 
 Yes, we are glad that man can weep, and misery find tears. They 
 are a part of our earthly inheritance. They will follow us until we 
 are about to cross the mystic river, but they will leave us there, never 
 to come again, for on the other side no tears are shed. He who ex- 
 pects to go through life with dry eyes will never lift a sorrow from 
 a human heart, nor help a fellow in distress. But while weeping may 
 endure for a night, joy cometh in the morning of the resurrection. 
 
 "He wept that we might weep, 
 
 Each sin demands a tear: 
 In heaven alone no sin is found. 
 
 And there's no weeping there." 
 
 The Greatest Sorrow 
 
 A few days ago we were listening to a very worthy gentleman 
 who was conducting a meeting, and we noticed that he said that 
 "sorrow occasioned by the death of our friends is, of course, the 
 greatest of earthly sorrows." The proposition seemed strange to 
 us, and it set us to thinking, and the result is that we cannot endorse 
 the statement, because we do not believe it to be correct. If the 
 statement was that this sorrow is the most universal, it would be 
 
106 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 true. For ever since sin made man mortal, and the fiat went forth, 
 "dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return," man has been going 
 to his long home, and the mourners have been going about the streets. 
 True it is of man that: 
 
 "The shadow sits and waits for him." 
 
 No one can doubt for a single moment that the statement of the 
 poet is true, as a general rule : 
 
 "There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 
 But o"ne dead lamb is there; 
 There is no household, howsoe'er defended, 
 
 But has one vacant chair." 
 
 There can be no doubt but the sorrow for the dead is the most 
 universal. All other sorrows some of us may escape, but this one 
 is inevitable, and cannot be avoided. Nor do we presume to say it 
 is not a great sorrow. Of all the ties that bind us here on earth, that 
 of kindship is the strongest, and the hardest to break. "When death 
 comes to sever it, the great fount of human feeling is stirred to its 
 profoundest depths, and we feel that great burden of grief weighs us 
 down. We think we are capable of speaking with some degree of 
 authority on this question, for we have not escaped personal ex- 
 perience in this direction, and we know : 
 
 "How broke the heart may be with its own wretchedness." 
 
 But we do not for a moment think that we have passed through 
 the greatest sorrow that earth can bring to humanity. When we 
 stand by the bier of a departed dear one, if their life has been of 
 that character calculated to bring a feeling of pride to our conscious- 
 ness, we may be cast down by sorrow, but we do not "sorrow as those 
 who have no hope," and as we look into the face that can never again 
 light up with the smile of recognition, we can smile through our tears 
 when we reflect how much they have left behind of human toil, and 
 disappointment, and trial, while we rejoice to know that they are 
 safe in Paradise. 
 
 But who of us can not recall incidents in the sphere of our in- 
 dividual observation that convince us that there are greater sorrows 
 than those occasioned by the mere fact that death has robbed us — 
 for a time at least — of a dear friend? 
 
 Are you a parent, and are you mourning over the death of a 
 noble son, whose life gave promise that he would be useful and 
 honored? Let your tear dimmed eyes look on the misery of another 
 parent whose son has broken away from every paternal restraint, 
 disregarded every appeal of affection, depised every correction, and 
 has become a sot, a wreck, steeped in crime, and lost to every sense 
 of shame, and say if you would change places. As you look on the 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 107 
 
 calm features of a lovely daughter, called away in the bloom of open- 
 ing womanhood, with a reputation for goodness, gentleness, generosity, 
 virtue, and all the graces that adorn the feminine character, and 
 as you place your hand on the marble brow, and smooth down the 
 shining tresses of her hair, and your tears flow as rain, listen to the 
 wail of sorrow that comes from the stricken heart of one whose 
 daughter has gone astray, and is on the road to swift and sure destruc- 
 tion, and answer the question whether you would not rather sor- 
 row as you do, than as she does. If you are a widow weeping over 
 the new made grave where rests the form of a noble, brave, true, 
 loving, devoted, tender husband, turn your attention for a moment 
 to this other heart-broken woman, who is shivering in fear as she 
 hears the heavy tread, and is greeted by the coarse oath and idiotic 
 laugh that tells her that her husband is returning a demon under the 
 influence of a spirit that has robbed him of his friends, his money, 
 his self respect, his manhood, his honesty, his home, his humanity, 
 and that he is a demon without pity, without mercy, without hope, 
 and tell me if you cannot rejoice that no such sorrow has fallen to 
 your lot. 
 
 Go to yonder prison cell and hear the bitter cry wrung from the 
 agonizing hearts of a father and mother who are holding the last 
 interview with one whose crimes have richly merited the ignominious 
 death that he is sentenced to, but whose innocent child prattle was 
 once the music in their home, and you will be convinced that there 
 are sorrows in this life that are not for a moment to be compared 
 to that great but not hopeless grief that comes to us in the hour of 
 our bereavement. 
 
 Are we thankful that we have escaped the greater sorrow? Are 
 we so living as to bring no reproach on our friends? Are we a child, 
 and do we make a resolution that our conduct shall be such that the 
 gray hairs of parents will not be brought in sorrow to the grave on 
 our account? Are we a son just beginning to feel a little irritation 
 at what seems to us overmuch solicitude on the part of our parents, 
 and will we resolve that never shall conduct of ours bring the blush 
 of shame to their cheeks? Are we a daughter, and will we be 
 admonished to keep ourselves pure, and virtuous, and unstained by 
 evil associates? If we are, then will the short time that we have 
 spent in touching on this subject be profitably spent, and we will 
 not regret that in the good providence of God we have been permitted 
 to spend an Hour Alone. 
 
 Editorial Responsibility 
 
 On an average our ministers preach to one hundred and fifty 
 people, from Sunday to Sunday. "We often talk of what a great 
 
108 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 responsibility rests on these men who are commissioned to preach the 
 gospel — glad news to men — and to admonish, reprove, rebuke, warn. 
 And the true and faithful minister goes into his pulpit with the bur- 
 den of his charge weighing heavily upon him. One hundred and 
 fifty men, women and children are waiting for him to rightly divide 
 the word of truth. Three hundred ears are listening to learn some- 
 thing that will be made applicable to them as intelligent, responsible 
 moral agents who are to give an account, at some future time, for 
 how they hear. Is it not natural for these men to say: "Lord, who 
 is sufficient for these things?" 
 
 But while this is true of the minister, is it not true, in a larger 
 sense, of those who sit at the editorial desk and write out sentiments 
 and ideas that must meet the eye, engage the mind, and sink into 
 the hearts of a much larger number than listen to any ordinary dis- 
 course from the pulpit? It is but a small and insignificant paper 
 indeed, if it does not meet the gaze of two thousand men, women 
 and children who scan closely its every utterance. 
 
 What, then, must be the responsibility of the one who thus, week 
 by week, and year by year, speaks to such a large number? How 
 great the responsibility resting on them ! Surely if the minister 
 should be an example for his flock, the editor should be as much, 
 if not more, to his readers. We boast of our wonderful progress, and 
 we boast not idly; but take away our ministers and our newspapers, 
 and where would be the achievements that would indicate our onward 
 march in the direction of that grand progress that now marks the 
 path trodden by the millions of the earth? It takes no prophet to 
 predict that such a calamity would turn the wheels of civilization 
 backward, and sink our highest types of manhood and womanhood 
 into a chaos, a darkness, deeper and more hopeless than any that has 
 yet visited the children of men. We sit here at this hour penning 
 these lines, conscious that ten thousand ears will hear the sounds of 
 these words, and that ten thousand eyes will sparkle as they re&J 
 them, to praise, or to condemn. What is our responsibility as we put 
 letters together to form words, words to make sentences, and sentences 
 to convey ideas to other minds? 
 
 Will this copy of the Banner fall into the hands of some man 
 who is in doubt, perplexity and fear? Has he been buffeted by the 
 waves, and driven by the winds, and so far lost his course that he is 
 ready to say that there is no justice, that truth has fled, and wrong, 
 injustice, error, triumphs over all? If it does, let us say to you nay, 
 nay, my brother, it is you that is wrong ; justice never dies ; truth is not 
 lost, error has not triumphed, and when the storm ceases, and you 
 reach the shore, and climb up the steep mountain side until you are 
 out of the mists that now obscure your weak vision, you will see 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 109 
 
 high above you still the temple where justice is enthroned, where 
 truth abides forever, and error is not permitted to approach. 
 
 Comes it to one who has lost the bloom of health and halts in 
 feebleness and pain along the arduous journey, almost persuaded that 
 never again will the tinge of returning health light up the pallid 
 look of death that now is on the face? Let us say to you that there 
 is a fountain of youth, there is a perennial spring, there is a foun- 
 tain of life, if not in this world then in another and a better; and 
 that you will yet stand among your fellows, to wonder how you be- 
 came disentangled from this worn tegument of the body, and how you 
 became imbued with the principle of life that fails not. But rest 
 assured that this is no idle promise, no fabled story, for there is not 
 an atom of created matter that can be entirely destroyed. 
 
 "Why should this worthless tegument endure, 
 
 If its undying guest be lost forever? 
 O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 
 
 In living virtue; that, when both must sever. 
 Although corruption may our frame consume, 
 
 Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom." 
 
 Does it come to some poor fallen one, whose feet have touched 
 the deepest mire and filthiest dirt of earth, and dost thou fear that 
 mercy is not thine? Cheer up, dear soul, cheer up, for He whose 
 weary feet trod all the ways of human sorrow, trial and temptation, 
 has sounded every depth, knows all your sins, and knowing pities 
 you, and reaches out the helping hand, and bids you come — not when 
 you feel no need — not when you need no help — but now — and here, 
 just as you are. He came to seek and save the lost, and sin's black 
 ruin reaches not to where His healing cannot come. 
 
 Comes this before the eye of one who doubts, and fears, and is 
 afraid that faith so weak can never move the mountains from the 
 road? Then rest secure, for doubt will be dissolved, and fears be 
 chased away, faith that is too weak to show a spark will kindle to 
 a glorious flame whose glow will light a path wherein a thousand 
 angels stand to guard the way your timid feet will tread. And what 
 will be the end? Have all these words, born of this Hour Alone, 
 spirits that can not die? Will they beget some thought in other 
 human souls, and thus go on and multiply and live, when this paper 
 is eaten by moth, this pen has ceased to write, this hand has lost 
 its nerve and power, this brain become as senseless as the clod, and 
 this pervading spirit long has flown? If such should be the case, 
 God grant that only such as be for good may live, and if an error 
 we have coined, may it go down to death — nay more — may it be buried 
 a thousand fathoms deep in the oblivion of a Heavenly Father's love, 
 while every line for good may live to bless a million yet unborn. 
 
110 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 A Quartet of Words 
 
 Right, Wrong ! Truth ; Error ! These words form two sets of 
 antitheses. It would pay all — and more especially the young — to care- 
 fully study these words. They are worthy of more thought than can 
 possibly be bestowed upon them in one Hour Alone. 
 
 Right! What a brave, bold, honest, straightforward, lovely old 
 Anglo-Saxon word it is. How it shines out among commonplace words 
 like "apples of gold in pictures of silver!" It means straight; cor- 
 rect ; in accord with truth and justice ; conformity to law, moral or 
 divine ; adherence to duty ; freedom from guilt or error ; integrity ; 
 freedom from error or falsehood ; most direct. 
 
 "He can't be wrong whose life is in the right." 
 
 — Pope. 
 
 What a grand motto this word would make. Suppose it was thor- 
 oughly understood ; suppose it was lived up to strictly. Where would 
 be the cheat, where the fraud, where the gambler, where the prize 
 fighter, where the oppressor? What would become of the pauper, 
 the poor house, the reform school, the calaboose, the jail, the prison, 
 the penitentiary? 
 
 What would become of the lawyers, the courts, and all that vast 
 system of legalized plunder that rob a deluded people? 
 
 Where would be the distillery, the wholesale liquor house, the low 
 down, mean, degrading, brutalizing, soul destroying, contemptible, 
 despicable saloons? Where would be the wrong, the injustice, the 
 oppression that have wrung tears and bitter cries from millions of 
 human beings? Where would be war with its bloody contests, its 
 ghastly wounds, its maimed and shattered devotees, its cruel devasta- 
 tions, its fearful wastes, its utter desolations? Would not all these 
 disappear if Right were the motto of every one on the earth, and all 
 squared their lives by it? 
 
 But look at this word "Wrong." It suggests to us all that is 
 low, cunning, mean, vulgar and outrageous. It means crooked; 
 twisted ; not morally right ; not just or equitable ; not true ; erroneous ; 
 to do wrong ; to injure ; to do injustice. 
 
 It is like a great blotch in a beautiful picture; it is like a great 
 dark cloud that shuts out the radiance, the light, the heat of the sun. 
 Suppose we take it for a motto? Suppose every one acted up to the 
 full meaning of the word? Where would liberty be? Where justice? 
 Where the home for the friendless? Where the hospitals, the schools, 
 the churches, the missionaries, the philanthropists of the world ? Where 
 would be the home with its sacred ties, its blessed associations, its 
 disinterested loves, its pure joys, its blessed hopes? Where would be 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 111 
 
 the wise and just systems of human government? Where the security 
 to property, to life? Where would be integrity, intelligence, man- 
 hood, religion? They would all be lost in chaos and ruin. 
 
 Truth! Another of those grand words that loom up as land- 
 marks in a desert. It means fact; constancy; exactness; honesty; 
 virtue; probity; purity; veracity; real fact; just principle. A true 
 man! A true woman! How much these terms imply. An honest 
 man ! Forever away with the idea that 
 
 "An honest God is the noblest work of man." 
 
 It would set back the hands on the dial-plate of civilization. It would 
 stop human progress ; it would paralyze human enterprise. No, no ; it 
 will not do. Let us hold fast to that other, that better, that grander 
 idea 
 
 "An honest man is the noblest work of God." 
 
 Have you ever thought how near akin the words Truth and God 
 are? Is there a wonder here? No, for God is the author of truth, 
 God is truth. 
 
 But here again is the antithesis. Error. Another mean, impu- 
 dent bastard, that comes to deceive. It means a wandering from truth ; 
 a mistake in judgment; misapprehension; fallacy; blunder; a fault; 
 transgression. / 
 
 It means all that stands in opposition to truth. It has much to 
 answer for. It has fastened clogs on the limbs of mankind ; it has 
 caused oceans of red blood to flow ; it has kindled the fagots that 
 blazed about the writhing forms of the world's martyrs; it has cre- 
 mated the living widow with the dead husband; it has tortured the 
 victims of false systems with all that cruelty could invent; it has 
 stood in the pathway of human progress to retard and turn it back- 
 ward ; it has come between man and truth, and has shut out its bright- 
 ness and glory. Error is a monster that never appears in his hideous 
 deformity, or else man would flee from it. It comes in pleasing dis- 
 guise, with a lie in its right hand, with hatred in its heart. 
 
 Right, Wrong! Truth, Error! 
 
 These words never change. There is nothing half way about 
 them. Right is not partly wrong. Wrong is not partly right. There 
 is no blending of the terms. No coalescing here. Right is right. 
 Wrong is wrong. Both have always been so. They are like the won- 
 derful lines in geometry that always approach yet never meet. It is 
 the vain attempt of man to blend them together that destroys human 
 happiness. It will be the entire separation of them that will con- 
 stitute heaven. 
 
112 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Truth is always truth. It is immutable. Nothing can change it. 
 Humanly speaking, God cannot change it, for it is His chief attribute. 
 Truth is clear cut. It is finished. It is complete. Nothing can be 
 added to it. Nothing can be taken from it. 
 
 Error is always error. It borrows no virtue from truth. It stands 
 opposite to truth and keeps repeating, you lie, you lie! Error de- 
 ceives. It is cruel. It is pitiless. It lures only to destroy. 
 
 Right, Wrong, Truth, Error! This quartette is engaged in a 
 contest, a conflict. They will not all continue to exist. Right and 
 Truth must win, or else the great universal plan is a failure. Wrong 
 and Error must die, or future bliss is but a fable. 
 
 But are we personally interested in these words? Most certainly 
 we are. We are free moral agents, and we can choose Right and 
 Truth, or we can choose Wrong and Error. We are capable of under- 
 standing them. Nor can we ignore the matter. We who live in 
 Yates City, read The Banner and peruse this Hour Alone, must make 
 our individual choice. We may make a mistake, but we will choose. 
 Right and Truth will lead us onward and upward. Wrong and Error 
 will drag us downward. They are the rock on which souls are 
 wrecked and lost. Truth cannot be destroyed, and Right cannot die. 
 Both will remain forever. 
 
 If these random thoughts lead some hesitating, wavering one to 
 choose for Right and Truth, then will we lay aside our pen well 
 satisfied, and close with this grand thought of the poet: 
 
 "Truth crushed to earth will rise again, 
 The eternal years of God are her's; 
 
 But error, wounded, writhes in pain. 
 And dies amid her worshipers." 
 
 The Passing Months 
 
 We are reminded that October is here, cheerful, bright, exhilarat- 
 ing October, with its soft winds, clear skies and smoky horizons. 
 January and February have passed, with their frosts and snows, their 
 ice and intense cold. March has gone by with its blustering winds 
 and bleak, cheerless storms. April, false, fickle, changeable, showery 
 April, has gone into the dim vista of the past, and has again proved its 
 right to the title of the inconstant month. 
 
 May has again shown us the resurrection of a dead world, and 
 we have seen the blossoms merging to full bloom, and the tender 
 shoots springing up, and the expanding leaves unfolding in the glad 
 sunshine, gathering up the dew drops and the rainfall and feeding on 
 them, while they absorbed the oxygen from the air, and circulated it 
 to twig and branch and trunk and root, thus reaching out to a wider 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 113 
 
 stretch of branch, a sturdier growth of trunk, a stronger grip of root, 
 so that it tosses in storm and is bent but not broken, and is thereby 
 only made the stronger for the next struggle with the giant forces of 
 nature, when the disturbed elements go out to level the proudest 
 monuments of man's skill, and toy with the giants of the forest. 
 
 June has gone, June in her wondrous beauty, with her wealth of 
 flowers making beautiful the glad gardens of God, and pushing the 
 berries to mellow ripeness, and shooting up the blades of grass that 
 grow, no man knows how, and brings out the bearded grain with its 
 abundant promise of a bountiful harvest; June with its long, clear, 
 bright soulful days, when the sun loves to linger over the shimmering 
 landscapes that lie in radiant beauty as under the revivifying touch 
 of God. June, with her clear skies and radiant nights, in which the 
 fireflies shimmer over the velvet grass and sparkle like a thousand tiny 
 lamps, that are ever shifting and moving as the magic colors of the 
 kaleidoscope, while the stars twinkle in the cerulean blue, and the 
 constellations move in the horoscope, with that sublime and silent 
 majesty that has marked the processions of suns, and planets, and 
 moons, and constellations, ever since the morning stars awoke the 
 first sweet notes in the jubilant song of creation. 
 
 July has gone with its squibs, its burning powder, its noises, its 
 patriotism, dear to every American heart, as they are trying to weak 
 nerves and aged systems. July, with its shooting ears of corn, its 
 wains of succulent hay, its shocks of golden grain, its clatter of the 
 mower and the reaper, its hum of the thresher, its scorching days 
 and sultry nights, in which lightnings break from a clear sky, and 
 light up with a weird distinctness the distant horizon. 
 
 August is not, for she has filled her hesitating mission, a mission 
 that we scarcely understand, but in which vegetation seems on the 
 stand still, undecided whether to go forward or backward, and com- 
 promises by gaining — somehow — a fuller and grander maturity. 
 
 September has laid its gentle touch of decay on the beauty of the 
 glad summer-time, and the sumachs begin to show their scarlet 
 leaves, and the earlier decaying leaves to fall, hesitatingly, reluctantly, 
 regretfully as it were, and with a music that is a very sadness in its 
 solemnity. The fruits have matured, and the close student of nature 
 realizes that the subtle forces that produce growth are failing in 
 energy, as if spent with their efforts, and are about to go back to that 
 season of repose that is necessary in order that seasons may not 
 cease. 
 
 And so here is October, laying its crimson touch on the symmetri- 
 cal maples, and causing them to glow, a perfect carnation, as they 
 fling back from their beauteous branches the glories of these October 
 sunsets. The tenderer flowers are already dead, reminding us of the 
 
114 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 children who lay down the burden of their little lives almost before 
 they have begun, and go out from the chill, the frosts and the cruel 
 cold earth, into the warmth and wealth of heaven. October has 
 come to show us that nothing on earth is too lovely, too beautiful, too 
 precious for decay. The keener frosts are coming that will not only 
 nip vegetation, but will kill it. The leaves will disengage themselves — 
 mysterious process — and fall, one by one, until falling will be but to 
 join the majority. The grasses will wither; the crickets will cease 
 their merry fiddling ; the song birds will make vocal the russet groves, 
 with their farewell songs, as they congregate to seek a less rigorous 
 clime ; the squirrel is busy cramming his narrow dormitory with the 
 wealth of nuts that nature has placed in his reach; the timid mouse 
 has sought out a spot where it is laboring to make a winter home, all 
 unconscious of the cruel plowshare that is to rudely invade it and set 
 her adrift in the bleak November blast, homeless and shelterless. 
 
 October is here to show us that nothing is sacred from the touch 
 of decay. October is here to teach us that the fairest hope of the 
 glad summer is blasted by the rude touch of time that commands 
 everything to decay. October is here to put nature into her transient 
 sleep. Each month has had its share, its own peculiar part in the great 
 economy of nature, in the wise plan of an unerring God. But the 
 vegetable world is not alone in these great and mysterious changes. 
 During all these months, change has invaded the domain of our lives, 
 a change that teaches us that man is but the creature of an hour. If 
 we have withdrawn ourselves from the busy throng, and gone into 
 the solitude to spend an Hour Alone, we surely have heard the voice of 
 grief as it welled up from the bruised and broken heart of sorrow, that 
 hopeless wail and bitter cry that is wrung from the desolate heart as 
 we stand by the open graves of those who are called in the gloom of 
 January and February, the stormy days of March, the changing moods 
 of April, the quiet hours of May, the budding beauties of June, the 
 busy times of July, the heats of August, the slight changeful Septem- 
 ber, or the scarlet month of October, to lay aside the busy cares of 
 life and sink into the cold, calm, voiceless repose of the dead, as if to 
 show us that while: 
 
 "Leaves have their time to fall, 
 
 And flowers to whither at the north wind's breath, 
 And stars to set — but all. 
 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!" 
 
 But to the christian's ear this wail of sorrow changes into a glad 
 paen of rejoicing, for he looks beyond the dark, silent, cheerless, cold 
 and forbidding winter of death, and sees the resurrection of the 
 eternal spring, when these dead trees of hope will awake to newness 
 of life, and bask in the beauties of a never ending summer. Man 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 116 
 
 stands in the midst of the gloom and desolation, and seeming death 
 of nature's winter, but he knows that spring will come, and apparent 
 death spring into the beauty of life. The christian stands in the 
 presence of death, and he knows that the eternal spring will come, 
 and these apparently dead bodies will come forth to bask in the 
 sunlight of an eternal summer. 
 
 Doubt and Belief 
 
 Just a doubt ; only that, and yet how it perplexes, how it annoys, 
 how it takes away our ease, puts us on the mental rack, destroys 
 happiness, mars pleasure, kills joy, and murders sleep. If it be taken 
 in a literal sense, that writer who hatched from a morbid brain "He 
 who doubts is damned," was a Universalist, but a Universalist whose 
 doctrines consigned the teeming millions of the world to a hopeless 
 doom ; for who of the countless throng whose dust now mingles with 
 its kindred mold, and makes the universe a cemetery vast as earth's 
 domain, has lived or died without a doubt? Or lives there now one 
 solitary soul, so strong in nerve and limb, so filled with knowledge rare, 
 so fortified in understanding all the deep and curious intricacies of 
 life, with faith so full and perfect — a being so complete in all that 
 marks the line that separates the higher and the lower orders of life — 
 that point where instinct finds a barrier too high for it to scale, and 
 where reason, that wondrous germ that grows, buds, blossoms, and 
 bears such fruit as proves the root divine, begins that wondrous ex- 
 pansion that shall never know an end, a being in whose mind no 
 sense of doubt has ever come? 
 
 A being such as this would be a god, not man; would be divine, 
 not human; would need no guiding hand to steer his steps aright. 
 That were a happy state; 'twould be an Eden found, for doubt was 
 devil born when Eden's gates were closed, and sword of flame began 
 its turning every way to guard the tree of life, when man plucked the 
 fruit from the forbidden bough, and by the act acquired the power to 
 see the evil and the good — a power that cursed his life, as power is 
 prone to do the life of man. 
 
 Then doubt is but a heritage to man — a universal legacy that 
 came — as legacies do come — through death. Before the fall faith was 
 a bird of plumage rare, so balanced in the wing, so poised in flight, so 
 fit for lofty soaring, that the expanse of blue was scaled on upward 
 wing, and circling near the throne, basked in the ray divine. But 
 disobedience clipped the pinion feathers short, weighted the feet with 
 clogs of doubt, and thus forbade a rise beyond the fogs of earth, and 
 crippled all its powers. 
 
116 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 And what are we? Heirs of this brood of doubts. The faith we 
 have is but an embryo. We pray that it may grow so strong, and 
 broad, and deep, that doubt may be debarred. But the ideal never is 
 attained, and failure always comes. These doubts rise up to vex us 
 at our best ; they come in infant years, when reason starts to life ; they 
 spoil our childhood sports; they come with an intrusive impudence, to 
 mar the pleasures of our youth ; they gather in a hideous troop about 
 the plans that make our maturer years, fill us with the perplexities 
 that give us naught of rest, and make us timid, hesitating, halting; 
 we purpose this or that, but doubt is at our elbow and suggests, "is 
 that the best?" We aim to reach some noble end, but like some numb 
 paralysis doubt weakens all our powers, halts our quick pace, and 
 purpose is defeated. 
 
 A faith without a doubt would show a road so plain and traveled 
 that none could err in seeking it; doubt places us in a circle's center, 
 with roads so multiform and intricate that reason fails to tell us which 
 is right, and oft we wander round the maze till life is near the end, 
 and make no progress. Take doubt out of these lives and what an 
 easy task to live. 
 
 Is life all hopeless, then? No. Belief is here, a factor, too, as 
 potent, as universal, as insistent as doubt. Belief is of an origin de- 
 vine; it must immortal be; doubt sprang from earth, and with the 
 earth will be destroyed ; belief, heaven born, will live when doubt is 
 dead. Doubt can go with us down the path of life, and stand beside 
 us in that dark vale where every life path leads. But when we hear 
 the swish of waves that wash the shores of both time and eternity, 
 and hear the dip of the pale boatman's oars — as all must hear — and 
 as we see the dim, obscure light of our belief shine out across the cold 
 and surging tide, reaching the farther shore, and rays that burnish 
 the peaks of the eternal world, scattering the gloom, then will we 
 look around to find that doubt — our constant attendant hitherto — has 
 vanished from our sight forever. 
 
 The more of faith and less of doubt, the better are our lives. 
 Doubt mars, but can't destroy. Belief in God is an immortal thing 
 that doubt can never kill. So is our strong belief in every human 
 good. That virtue is a nobler thing than vice most easily is seen; 
 that virtue will live when vice is dead is sure. Doubt whispers, "all 
 the good in man is dead." Belief arises in her indignation just and 
 stamps the base assertion as "a lie." The bird of faith will grow her 
 pinion feathers yet, and poise her flight again to circle near the 
 throne. We walk through gloom, with dim, uncertain light to guide 
 the way, and doubt stands ready to deride and scoff, but duty points a 
 rugged, steep and thorny road, with many a weary cross, but at the 
 end no shadow of a doubt, but in its stead a glorious crown of life. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 117 
 
 The Old Homes 
 
 Some seasons are calculated to turn the thoughts to the subject of 
 home. Long, tiresome and expensive journeys are made in order that 
 those long separated may meet again under the roof of the old home 
 that sheltered them in infancy, secured for them a retreat from child- 
 hood's sorrows — for childhood has its griefs, not less real, less hard 
 to bear because they are small, and trivial, and unimportant to those 
 who are older — and the disappointments of youth, those bitter cups 
 that are held to the lips often because of sin and folly that might 
 have been avoided if we had been more considerate, or more obedient, 
 or less headstrong and impetuous. 
 
 How much of shame has been hidden from the cold, calculating, 
 critical, unpitying eye of the world, in the blessed seclusion of these 
 dear old homes, where the father's heart yearned over the mistakes 
 of the children, and was as ready to *'see them afar off" as was the 
 father of the returning prodigal whom Jesus uses to bring down to 
 man's comprehension the love of the Heavenly Father for His erring 
 ones who have wandered so far in the paths of sin, and been so near 
 starving, while in His house was "bread enough and to spare?" 
 
 And how has the mother heart wrestled with God beneath the 
 shelter of this roof, that her children might have wisdom, and strength, 
 and courage, and help, so that they might not yield to the seductive 
 blandishments that temptations show to them, hiding the thorn in the 
 petals of a flower so beautiful that innocent youth fails to detect its 
 presence, though scarce a person of mature years but can see ugly 
 scars where these thorns have penetrated the palms in which they 
 were too eagerly and too tightly grasped. No human being will ever, 
 on earth, be able to measure or fathom the love of God. The length 
 and the breadth, and the height and the depth of it passeth human 
 comprehension. 
 
 Only a little below this incomprehensible love of God for man, is 
 the love of the mother for her child. It may not — it cannot — stand 
 equal to God's love, but it is large enough to be beyond man's measure- 
 ment, and lasting enough to have no other comparison but eternity. 
 How has that dear heart yearned over us in the home ! How have 
 those hands toiled for our comfort ! How has she laughed in our joy ! 
 How has she wept in our sorrow ! How has her pride been touched 
 by our success ! How has she clung to us when all the world besides 
 has said we were a failure ! It has been said that nothing on earth is 
 so pure as the love of a little child. It is certain that nothing is so 
 strong, so lasting, so full of faith, so disinterested, so self-sacrificing 
 as the love of a mother. If every other evidence of purity and good- 
 ness were blotted from the earth, and no revelation had come to tell 
 
118 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 us of an infinite purity and goodness, this mother love would be 
 sufficient to convince us that somewhere there must be a central fire 
 where this vestal flame was kindled, and that somewhere there must be 
 a great lamp where the lamp of her love has been lighted. 
 
 Some of us visit these homes in gladness. Some of us have been 
 such a short time out of them that we scarcely appreciate the privilege 
 of going back. Some of us have been out of them so long that we 
 speculate as we speed toward them, in regard to how they will look 
 to us, and how we will be touched in feeling by the return. Some of 
 us have no old home to which we may go back. Time has laid his 
 vandal hand on these sacred altars where the worship of our young 
 hearts was poured out, and they have crumbled at his touch. Death 
 has come and closed the activities of the aged father, and he has 
 turned out of the busy path of life. He has touched the mother, and 
 she has faded from our sight, and gone from our embrace. Has her 
 love been quenched in the cold waters of the swiftly rolling Jordan? 
 It cannot be. Such love 
 
 "Was not born to die." 
 
 It has been transferred, but not lost. The brothers and sisters are 
 gone — to the grave — or to homes of their own. We may return and 
 view, with a sort of melancholy satisfaction, the old familiar scenes; 
 we may stand beneath the old roof, and let our gaze wander about 
 the four walls ; and as we do so we begin to realize, as we never have 
 before, what home really is, what the name really implies. We know 
 now, as we have not in the past, that roof, and walls, and pictures, and 
 grounds are not home. We love these only as they bring back some 
 recollection. We will know that home was where father and mother 
 lived, and toiled, and planned, and worked for our happiness ; we will 
 see that home was in the sweet blendings of a brother's and a sister's 
 devotions; we will see that home is where little offerings of our 
 separate loves were carried to a common altar and laid down as a 
 blessed sacrifice whose incense went up toward heaven. 
 
 For a time we may stand and gaze on the shadow from which we 
 know the substance has been taken, and then turn our steps to the 
 silent city of the dead, and tears — blessed tears — sacred drops of 
 heaven born sorrow — will fall upon the mounds where sleep our loved 
 and vanished, hidden from our sight for a time — and happy are we if 
 at that moment no vain regrets for what we might have done to make 
 their lives more bright come to us. 
 
 And happy, too, are we, if standing thus, with our dim earthly 
 sight made dimmer by these tears — the eye of faith looks up and sees 
 the glorious heavenly home — the mansions in the skies — and we can 
 say, not doubting in the least, we all will meet again in the home of 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 119 
 
 the blessed, where the eternal morning breaks, where families reunite 
 — not to part as they do here — but to go out no more forever. 
 
 Our hour is past. New duties come with their demands. If in 
 perusing these poor random thoughts, some reader's thoughts are 
 lifted up to higher, nobler things, or some long slumbering recollection 
 is awakened to bring back a happy scene, or if some youth, still 
 lingering on the threshold of a happy home, be led to put a higher 
 value on its joys, then are we content to lay aside the pen and say 
 good night. 
 
 Leah and Elizabeth Harriss 
 
 'They grew in beauty, side by side, 
 They filled one home with glee; — 
 Their graves are severed far and wide, 
 By mount, and stream, and sea. 
 
 "The same fond mother bent at night 
 
 O'er each fair sleeping brow; 
 She had each folded flower in sight; — 
 
 Where are those dreamers now?" 
 
 The music of these sadly beautiful and touching lines from one 
 of Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Hemans' exquisite little poems, has been 
 sounding in our ears since Sunday. That day two sweet little girls 
 came home with Mettie from church. They have taken a great liking 
 to her — the cause, no doubt, being that she gives them a full measure 
 of affection in return. It is wonderful how observant children are — ■ 
 those two are twins, and just past six — of the love bestowed upon them. 
 There is only one way to the heart of a child, and that is through the 
 avenue of love; there is only one cord that binds children to grown 
 people, and that is the cord of affection. 
 
 It was soon evident that these children had brought a ray of 
 sunshine along with them. They had none of the shyness of children 
 who are strangers to the house, for they had been here before. It was 
 not surprising that in a short time they were engaged in play with 
 the cheerful vivacity characteristic of healthy children of their age, 
 and were enjoying themselves immensely; not in a boisterous way, but 
 in a way perfectly natural for their age — an age that is full of con- 
 tortions and twists and wiggles. 
 
 They had come up from their home in Canton, Thanksgiving day, 
 with their grand-mother, to visit relatives in this quiet little town, 
 and attended the library festival, where they made a brave attempt to 
 keep awake — an attempt that was almost an entire failure — for it was 
 evident that the dust man had found them and was sifting sand into 
 their blinking peepers, and they belonged to the company of "Winky, 
 Blinky & Nod." But Sunday there was no dust man, and no such firm 
 
120 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 as Winky, Blinky & Nod. They found two canes, — very good substi- 
 tutes for horses, in a pinch — and there was a box of hazel nuts in a 
 cute little closet, and a dish of crackers in a low cupboard, and a 
 plate with some candy left over from Thursday — shall we not say 
 Providentially — and Mettie had given permission for them to help 
 themselves, the only terms being that they were not to soil their 
 dresses. It has always seemed an outrage, to me, that when a child is 
 given permission to do that which will make it perfectly happy, there 
 must be coupled with it this admonition about soiling the dress. It is 
 a dead fly in their ointment, a tree in the garden of pleasure bearing 
 forbidden fruit, and — well. Eve fell before such temptation. 
 
 But the children had a nice time. They remembered a tiny little 
 glass tumbler, and a dainty little mug that were theirs by right of dis- 
 covery — a right that is acknowledged by the Pope and all other 
 civilized potentates, — and they got them to drink out of at the table. 
 Other little hands had handled these, other little lips had touched them, 
 hands that are folded, lips that are silent, and now the snow lies white 
 on their — 
 
 "But I rhyme for smiles, and not for tears." 
 
 After dinner they opened the organ and one played and both 
 sang for us — sang the first verse of that grand National hymn, 
 "America," and did real well, too, and then essayed a stanza of "Let 
 a Little Sunshine In," — and wasn't the sunshine visible on the two 
 cherub faces, and didn't it make bright the room, and shine into dark 
 corners of our heart as it would not have shined but for them, and 
 didn't we get a glimpse of some cobwebs that had gathered there with- 
 out our knowledge? We are so glad that God don't send people full 
 grown into this world. We are so glad that they come as little sun- 
 shines, to brighten the lives of those burdened with cares, and toils and 
 sorrows. 
 
 It was while they were thus busy that the music of the lines at 
 the head of this article came to us, and it has been with us since. We 
 went back a few years — only a few — and we saw the mother of these 
 two girls, then a fine, healthy, strong, intelligent young lady, the 
 daughter of a farmer, the eldest of three sisters, all of whom are with 
 that vast majority who, in all the ages, have fallen out of the journey 
 of life and are resting. 
 
 She was a pupil at Normal, and there met a noble young man, 
 and between them sprung up an attachment that ended as usual. Both 
 were teachers in our schools here in Yates City, and while so employed, 
 were married. Afterward they went to Oregon, 111, and to them came 
 three children, the eldest a girl, and these twins later. The mother's 
 health failed, the situation was given up, and a location sought in 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 121 
 
 Colorado, in the hope that she might recover. She lingered for a 
 time, but faded, as the 
 
 "Flowers fade out in the chill autumn air." 
 
 and the end came, Oh ! so suddenly and with such a crushing weight 
 of sorrow, to him who had so hoped against hope, and who now found 
 himself alone with these helpless children. 
 
 In the meantime her next younger sister died, and last spring 
 the other sister joined them in the better land, and so the grand- 
 mother has taken those two little ones to fill a vacant place in her 
 heart, Elizabeth and Leah Harriss, the one light haired and blue 
 eyed, the other dark haired and dark eyed, and both full of life and 
 innocent glee. 
 
 We could not resist the train of thought that came to us unbidden, 
 and brought these past events, and we were sore of heart as we saw 
 the mother bending over these little sleepers in their far western 
 home, and thought of how she must have speculated on the future of 
 those dear ones when deprived of her care. 
 
 There are so many things we do not understand; God never 
 meant we should; 'tis well if faith has grown so strong a plant that 
 we can look beyond the present, with its sorrows, griefs and tears, up 
 to the realm where He reigns, beyond the reach of accident or change, 
 guiding with wisdom deep, wide and sublime, the vast affairs of this 
 and other worlds. Happy, if doubt — said to be devil born — be so kept 
 down, and under such control, that we can say, when darkness closes 
 round, and all the way appears hedged up, and far beyond our scale, 
 that we are 
 
 "Only waiting 'till the shadows are a little longer grown." 
 
 and can realize that 
 
 "We shall know as we are known." 
 
 for then the realm of doubt being past, and mystery no more, we may 
 look back and wonder that a veil so thin hid from our vision dim those 
 purposes and plans that, in our fuller knowledge, seem so wise. 
 
 What may be yet in store for these dear little girls it is not ours 
 to know. It has been wisely said, ' ' God from our vision hides the book 
 of fate." This very fact is not the least of all the mercies God has 
 given to man. They are in the care of one, who once a child, grew 
 up to man's estate, then took such little children in His arms and 
 blessed, and said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and 
 forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven," and in His 
 
122 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 care may we not trust them. What if partings come ? What if graves 
 be separated? 
 
 "And parted thus they rest, who played 
 
 Beneath the same green tree; 
 Whose voices mingled as they prayed 
 
 Around one parent knee! 
 "They that with smiles lit up the hall. 
 
 And cheered with song the hearth, — 
 Alas! for love if thou wert all. 
 
 And nought beyond, O earth." 
 
 You Can't Fool With a Fact 
 Many of our readers will remember a sturdy Scotchman who re- 
 sided in Elmwood a few years ago. He has gone to his reward, having 
 died a year or two since. He was a remarkable man in many respects, 
 was possessed of strong common sense, was quick to discern the right, 
 and vigorous in denunciation of wrong. His was the organization of 
 the true reformer, and he hated oppression with the same intensity 
 with which he loved humanity. We always had a profound respect 
 for him as a man, and some of his quaint aphorisms come back to us 
 now and then with much force. On one occasion we heard him make 
 an address during a political campaign, and in the course of his 
 remarks he made use of this vigorous language: "Gentlemen, you 
 can't fool with a fact," Had this sentence been uttered by a Lincoln, 
 a Garfield, an IngersoU or a Beecher, it would have been heralded 
 from one end of the earth to the other. It matters not to us that it 
 comes from an unpretentious source ; it is true, and Truth never grows 
 old, never dies. Truth is immortal; it has existed from eternity, and 
 it will exist to eternity. Mr. Mathewson is dead ; in time he will be 
 forgotten ; but the sentence that he uttered in that humble speech fell 
 into the hearts of the children of men, and it wUl not be forgotten. 
 You may fool with error, with falsehood, with deception, for they are 
 evanescent, and soon become obsolete, forgotten, dead. But a fact — 
 look at it. It stands out, clear cut, bold, strong, undisguised, un- 
 covered, brave and fearless, the noblest thing in all the universe of 
 God. It is just what it claims to be ; you can trust it ; you can put 
 your confidence in it ; it will not deceive you ; it is true — Truth itself. 
 This sentence is a talisman of power to the noble, the good, the virtu- 
 ous, the benevolent. It shines out clear, bright, lambent — like the 
 polar star — always to be depended on. If we have lost our bearings 
 in life; if dark clouds have enveloped us; if storms have driven us 
 far, far from our course ; if wild waves lash themselves around us, and 
 our frail bark seems destined to go down in the turbulent waters, all 
 we need is to cling fast to fact. It is the strong sheet anchor that 
 fastens itself on the solid rock at the bottom of the great deep, far 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 128 
 
 below the reach of storms, and that will never drag. It is the gleam 
 of Truth 's great lamp in the lighthouse warning us of the danger, and 
 enabling us to avoid it. Let us see; this sentence begins with the 
 second person, "You." Is this significant? Who is meant by "you?" 
 Does it mean ministers, deacons, church members, good men, good 
 women, the wise, the just? Yes, it means all these. But it means 
 more. It seems to me that I see a boy about to disobey the wise com- 
 mand of a loving mother, for the first time ; be careful lad, better not 
 do what she has forbidden; "you can't fool with a fact." Here is 
 another boy smoking his first cigar, sneaking around to hide it from 
 his father ; he is venturing on dangerous and deceiving ground ; boy, 
 "you can't fool with a fact." Here is an older one about to sit down 
 to his first game of cards; listen, young man, there is a still, small 
 voice whispering in your ear, "you can't fool with a fact." Here is a 
 youth standing beside the bar of a gilded saloon — or it may be the 
 glittering counter of some other gilded net where bait is kept to catch 
 souls — he has his hand upon the first, the fatal glass; hark! Is that 
 the sound of John Mathewson's voice? Yes, it must be; but it is 
 more; it is the voice of your father, your mother, your brother, your 
 sisters, all your true friends, all the good men and good women in 
 the world; it is the voice of the dead — of the living — of angels — of 
 God — swelling up in a resonant diapason that you may not disregard, 
 and the burden of the music is, "you can't fool with a fact." Here 
 is a man slipping along in the darkness; he is lean, gaunt, haggard, 
 hungry ; he has crawled out of a hut where he has left a wan, starving 
 woman shivering in a fireless room, destitute of furniture, with five 
 ragged, skeleton children crying about her; he is despairing, hopeless, 
 vicious ; he has lost his self respect, manhood, energy — all that makes 
 man man — almost; he has determined to steal — not to save his own 
 miserable and wretched life — no, for he values it not — but for them, 
 they who depend on him ; he is not yet by overt act a criminal ; what 
 sound is that creeping up into his attenuated ears? Ah, it is the voice 
 of everything outside the region of lost souls, and swells up, nearer, 
 clearer and sweeter ; it arrests his attention, he listens until he is again 
 kneeling at the side of a praying mother, and hears the pleading tones 
 of a loving father saying, "my son, you can't fool with a fact," and he 
 is saved. The scene changes; I see a young and beautiful girl; she 
 has the intelligent look, the neat dress, the dignified bearing that de- 
 notes one who has been well raised ; I see the home she has just left ; 
 there is the father reading the evening paper, a few silver hairs shining 
 among the dark locks that cluster about his brow ; there is a woman — 
 no doubt the mother — a trifle stout, a few wrinkles showing about the 
 firm mouth, traces of earlier beauty all about her, and that indescrib- 
 able something that speaks the accomplished lady; there are three 
 
124 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 sisters, younger, but happy as youth and innocence can be ; there are 
 two manly boys turning the leaves of the same magazine, their heads 
 closely meeting, and their brown curls intermingling, while seated on 
 a crumpled rug on the floor is a child, perhaps a boy, perhaps a girl — 
 playing with a half grown cat ; the furniture is neat — not costly — and 
 a hanging lamp sheds a mellow light over all. Oh! If there be one 
 taste of heavenly bliss this side of the grave it is a happy home. But 
 the young girl is not under the influence of that home ; she is on the 
 street ; she has deceived her parents ; she is deceiving herself ; she has 
 caught the eye of one who is waiting to deceive; she has fluttered 
 her handkerchief in answer to his signal — she has turned on the cross- 
 ing — she is evidently about to join him. Has Heaven no pity? Are 
 the prayers of faithful parents not heard? She slackens her pace — 
 hesitates in the middle of the street — stops — turns, and with flushed 
 cheeks, palpitating heart and flying feet she is hastening toward home 
 and safety. Why did she not destroy the peace and happiness of that 
 home ? Call it what you may ; name it what you will ; but we shall 
 always believe that it was the Power that ages before caused the 
 enemies of Israel to hear the noise of myriads of chariots on the 
 mountains, that caused her to hear the voices of men and angels 
 sweetly singing in unison, "you can't fool with a fact." This 
 sentence has been true for ages ; it is true tonight, and it will be true 
 when millions of cycles of years shall have passed away. When the 
 sphinxes shall have been forgotten; when the pyramids shall have 
 crumbled into dust ; when age shall have leveled the mountains, 
 crushed the rocks into powder and dried up the beds of the oceans; 
 when the moon shall have become too old to undergo her changes; 
 when the sun shall have grown cold and dim; when the earth swings 
 hoary and gray with illions of ages, and the stars have fallen in 
 glittering showers from the sunless firmament, leaving nothing but 
 chaos in a decrepit universe ; when nothing but men, and angels, and 
 God lives, then shall be heard a glad song, rolling its volume of sound 
 over the plains of Paradise, sweet, clear, inspiring as that which woke 
 the slumbering shepherds on Judea's hills, and its burden will be 
 Eternal Truth, ' ' Gentlemen, you can 't fool with a fact. ' ' 
 
 The Inquisitive Boy 
 
 It was our intention to spend this hour in reflecting on the 
 events of the year that has so recently closed, and to educe from its 
 varied experience the line of action best to be pursued during the 
 year that on yesterday took its position in the great calendar of time. 
 But let us try ever so hard to write good advice — that we very much 
 doubt will ever be heeded by others — we find another incident revealed 
 by our reflective boarder, coming up and demanding our attention. It 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 126 
 
 seems in vain for us to debate the question of whether our readers will 
 not rather demand something that has come under our own personal 
 observation ; or that, as it is just passed the holidays, we should — to 
 be in the fashion, of course — devote this article to some subject in 
 connection with it. Such debate is rendered nugatory by the fact that 
 there is such a really fine lesson in this incident for not only the boys 
 and girls, but the men and women, as well, who read the Banner. The 
 whole incident so vividly portrays the ideal part of human life, that 
 we are led to the conclusion that men are but great, grown boys, and 
 that we, too, have been during all these weary years climbing the steep 
 and rugged hill to see if some of those curious and interesting things — 
 many of them, no doubt, made so simply because we were not 
 familiar with them — did not lie just on the opposite slope, and 
 whether, when on the pinnacle, we could not be able to unravel all 
 the great and terrible — but, yes, that is just the word — terrible mys- 
 teries of life. 
 
 It will be remembered that in a former article we stated that our 
 friend, the boarder, was a man of far more than ordinary intelligence, 
 and of keen perception, while, at the same time, he had cultivated a 
 habit of reflection, or, in other words, drew some useful lesson from 
 even the most trivial scenes and incidents of every day life. 
 
 This knowledge will enable us to see that such a story is not only 
 plausible, but that it is more probable to have happened, than that it 
 should not have occurred, and leads us to the pleasing reflection that 
 it was a laudable desire to satisfy a perfectly natural ambition, that 
 prompted him to disregard discipline, and risk the disgrace of expos- 
 ure to enable him to satisfy that desire. 
 
 "I was," said he, "about my tenth year, extremely anxious to 
 verify the things I had learned, principally from books — in regard to 
 mountains, rivers, lakes, seas, oceans, islands, archipelagoes, and the 
 thousand-and-one other things that a naturally vivid imagination led 
 to believe must exist just beyond the range of my vision, and, perhaps, 
 just over the crown of the hill that — from our playground before the 
 old school house — seemed to me a very great distance indeed. I had 
 consulted all the books in reach, and pored, with deepest delight on all 
 the pictures of the above things that I could get my eyes on ; and now 
 the idea struck me that just beyond the hill, my eyes would be feasted 
 on all these — to me — glorious objects. 
 
 "At last I conceived the idea that it would be a grand scheme to 
 run away from school and climb the vision closing hill, and let my 
 eager eyes feast, with unutterable delight, upon all the glory and 
 grandeur of the fairy scene. 
 
 "I remember distinctly how I did long for the coveted opportunity 
 to come, and how I did wonder if the reality would not far transcend 
 
126 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 my wildest fancy, and how impatiently I sought to elude the vigilance 
 of the 'Master,' as we called him, and how I speculated on the chances 
 for detection, and what the probable consequences would be, for, at 
 that period, it was a much more serious matter to be caught in a 
 school escapade than it seems to be now. 
 
 "At last I mustered the necessary courage and stealing away un- 
 observed, I trudged out on the road of discovery as buoyant as any 
 of those whose names are connected with the first knowledge of seas, 
 islands or continents. But the way seemed very long, and ere it was 
 half traversed, my courage began to ooze out, and I reflected that per- 
 haps some unforseen event might get me into trouble, so by the time I 
 got half the distance my caution got the better of me, and slowed my 
 gait until I finally stopped, and turning, retraced my steps, and suc- 
 ceeded in keeping not only my absence, but my intention as well, 
 from the knowledge of all. 
 
 "But the idea of all those fine things just beyond the hill still 
 kept haunting me, until in an evil moment, I again set out. This time 
 I was determined to succeed, and so I kept resolutely on. Once I saw 
 a man coming toward me from the hill, and to avoid detection — for 
 the idea struck me that his mission was to see where I went and re- 
 port. — I got over the fence and secreted myself until he was fairly out 
 of sight, when I again took the high road, and in the course of time 
 reached the foot of the hill, and began the weary ascent. But what I 
 then thought a laudable spirit of enterprise urged me on until I at 
 last reached the summit, and behold, not a single lake, river, sea, 
 ocean, mountain, or even another hill was in sight, but the view 
 seemed for all the world just like that upon the side I was accustomed 
 to. 
 
 "If the journey out seemed long, the road back appeared double 
 in length, as the distance was beguiled by the pictures my fancy 
 painted on the outward path. And then to think that not even the 
 sight of a full rigged ship, that I counted on, appeared. It was too 
 bad. 
 
 "But I got back at last, to find that my absence was noted in 
 school, and the old tyrant who ruled that helpless little kingdom 
 administered a terrible castigation for the offense, volunteering the 
 information that it was entirely for my good that he did it. 
 
 "Of course, the bad news reached home before I did, and then I 
 got a second punishment for the same offense, and was tortured into 
 a solemn promise that I would never, never, never do the like again. 
 
 "It took me some time to become reconciled to the disastrous 
 termination of my venture, and even to this present time I fail to 
 see the justice of the penalty, and think my ambition to extend my 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 127 
 
 knowledge to wider circuits a laudable one. And even yet, though 
 nearly sixty years have rolled their solemn rounds, and spring's bright 
 flowers have sprung and faded all, and summer, with her waving fields 
 of teeming grain, has gone with silent steps away, and autumn's 
 wealth of golden fruits has cheered the hearts of all earth's toiling 
 sons, and winter's icy chill has numbed the hearts of men, driving 
 their thoughts away from all the hopes and joys of fuller life, and 
 turning them adown the misty slopes that lead us on toward that vast 
 sepulchral city where all the former striving multitudes of ages past 
 are sleeping in the cold embrace of that dread King, whose scepter 
 sways all animated life, and whose cold touch has quenched the fires 
 of love on such a countless host of family altars, whose sacred fires, 
 but for His potent touch, had burned forever on ; yes, even though 
 our weary feet have trod the devious paths of life for three score years, 
 I still do follow on to climb the distant hill, and ever do expect to find 
 the fairest scenes of earth beyond ; the full rigged ship of hope, the 
 mountain of expectation high, the seas of love, the oceans of despair, 
 the isles of joy, and all the pictures bright that fancy painted I strive 
 to reach, and at the summit of each hill I find the apple turned to 
 ashes on my lips ; but viewing still another hill beyond, I ever climb 
 again. Nor is the tyrant 'Master' absent here, for old Experience, 
 with his supple rod, lays on the stinging blows, and last, the Parent, 
 in the form of old Remorse, chastises me for seeking out forbidden 
 paths. ' ' 
 
 You have our story, gentle reader; it has filled our mind during 
 this Hour. It is of such large and varied application that you cannot 
 fail to find a lesson in it. And if it teaches you to open the eye of 
 thought and let reflection dwell on the smaller things of life and 
 gather wisdom from them, I rest content, and softly say "Good 
 Night." 
 
 Backward Paths 
 
 It often occurs that a very trifling incident changes the current 
 of our thoughts, or, for that matter, our whole future course of life. 
 This is the more forcibly presented to us from the fact that just as we 
 sat down to the little table in the cozy parlor, to spend our allotted 
 hour in silent meditation, our attention was attracted by the move- 
 ments of a man crossing the street in the midst of this blinding drift, 
 whom we used to know, away back in the careless days of yore. He 
 is thinly clad, and great gaping rents can be seen, even at this distance, 
 in his clothing. He has that emaciated, don't care look that is so apt 
 to become a prominent feature in the countenance of those who have 
 made up their minds that the battle of life is already decided against 
 them, and who are only waiting to see what terms will be granted 
 
128 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 when the final surrender comes. As he reaches the opposite side of 
 the street he stops to stamp the snow from a pair of boots that would 
 have graced a rubbish pile long before this, save for the fact that his 
 cynical philosophy has taught him that a relic is better than nothing ; 
 that the memory of better days is to be preferred to sheer forgetful- 
 ness, and that he is in strict harmony with the poet who sang: 
 
 " 'Tis better to have loved and lost, 
 Than never to have loved at all." 
 
 And so it seems to us that we can read his very thoughts as he pauses 
 — perhaps mechanically — to shake the feathery flakes from the spots 
 where the leather is still whole, and out of those places where it is 
 gone and has left a hole. Memory has an unbroken chain, if we can 
 but straighten it out ; and so what could be more natural than that 
 his thoughts should wander back along all the checkered pathway 
 of life, and show him — in retrospect, of course — the former events in 
 which he has been a prominent actor. If the careworn expression on 
 his face was not already stereotyped, it would certainly exhibit some 
 sign of feeling during such a process; but it does not, and this is the 
 best proof that he has been cowed, and is completely conquered. Well, 
 what is the retrospect? The events of a single year are largely dis- 
 remembered; but there are the shame and the disgrace of these sea- 
 sons when he has been under the dominion of the spirit of wine, and 
 he revels in them until they carry him back to a picture so fair and 
 hopeful, that he starts back with involuntary surprise, to think that 
 such a picture of hope was once a reality in his own life history. But 
 he turns disgusted, and enters another path, in the hope that it may 
 be less marred by failures in duty and he finds that it, too, is rendered 
 a source of annoyance from the fact that sensual pleasures have not 
 been curbed, and the way is strewn with wrecks of lovely virtue, 
 and he is surprised to find that, in the end, the way is identical with 
 the first path trodden. 
 
 Again he retraces his steps, and choosing a path that seems, in 
 this portion at least, to be traveled without fear of detection. Along 
 it, strewn as thick as forest leaves in autumn time, lie the ruins of 
 the temple of truth, at first so utterly in ruins as to be scarcely recog- 
 nized, and, as he proceeds, showing less and less of ruin, until at last 
 it stands a shining temple, beautiful in all the sjonmetry of its pro- 
 portions, from turret to foundation, and the most curious of all is 
 that it stands just where he abandoned the other two ways. 
 
 Another path is tried and it soon appears that it has been thick 
 set with finger boards on which, by some process, the words spoken 
 by him while in that path have become indelibly written. Here are 
 the ribald songs, the senseless jest, the obscene story, the horrid oath, 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 129 
 
 the blasphemous expression, the nauseating slang. A finger board 
 every step for some distance but getting further apart, until the 
 temple of truth looms up again, and he again sees the abode of virtue 
 and the residence of sobriety, and finds but one path leading back 
 from them all. 
 
 He enters the road where he walked with her he once loved and 
 honored, and at the start it is full of blasted hopes and withered 
 flowers that have failed to develop into fruit. Here is the unkind 
 word; there is the heartless oath; yonder is the recrimination that 
 led to a bitter quarrel; they grow less and less frequent, and there 
 is a space where two united hearts are bravely battling along the 
 rugged road; then there is the merry youth and the modest maid, 
 but they are in the shadow of that temple of virtue, and he finds 
 but one road leading farther. 
 
 He tries a path nearly choked up at the entrance, and finds 
 along it, for long distances the evidence that he has rested under 
 shrub and bush ; then these evidences become less and less frequent, 
 till he sees them no more, but patches of garden and beautiful field 
 appear, while in the opposite corner he again is confronted with the 
 single way and sees the now familiar temple. 
 
 He continues this process, tracing back obscure paths, tortuous and 
 distinct at first, disagreeable and offensive in the highest degree, but 
 all leading back to the same spot. He is surprised to find other paths 
 between, and he finds the task of exploration a fatiguing one, and is 
 led to entertain a desire to ascend the polished steps that lead up to 
 the temple of virtue. 
 
 He is encouraged to venture it. But how the holes in those 
 dilapidated boots seem to expand as he places his feet on the polished 
 surface ; how the rents in his threadbare garments appear to grow 
 worse as he gets higher and higher. But he is inspired to keep on, 
 and so he is soon in a condition to look back over the single path, 
 and he discovers that it leads to a quiet farmhouse standing over on 
 the slope of the distant hill, surrounded by beautiful groves, its 
 spacious grounds watered by running streams, its garden bright with 
 countless flowers, its fruitful field teeming with yellow grain, its 
 lowing herds nipping the grass from slopes that are ever green, and 
 a group of merry children playing in the yard, all of them intelligent, 
 bright, healthy and full of hope. But one arrests his attention. It is 
 a noble boy. His mother is just pointing out to him the glories of a 
 summer sunset, and as he lifts his radiant face — ^radiant no less with 
 conscious truth than with the rays of the fading orb of day, he is 
 struck with the resemblance and drawing out an old time-worn album 
 he turns to a picture, and behold it is a reality, for it is the picture 
 of himself. 
 
130 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 He gazes long and wistfully upon that quiet scene, and Oh, how 
 earnestly he wishes that he had never made those devious roads that 
 lead out from the temple where he is standing. But he realizes that 
 time past can never be recalled, and the keen blast awakens him to 
 the reality that these scenes are gone forever, and that the mere 
 wreck of a former noble character — a character yet retaining many 
 of the elements of honor — is shivering on the crossing of a street in 
 Yates City, and that the chances are a hundred to one that he will 
 die a pauper, and fill a nameless and unknown grave. 
 
 Dear reader, we knew him in the days of his youth, ere the 
 tempter, with his siren song, lured him on to ruin. You have seen 
 him daily, and you realize that he is a wreck, stranded on the surf 
 beaten shores of time, and so we have given you the fancy of an 
 hour, hoping that if any of you are yet in the single path, or have 
 not yet left the shining temple, you may be warned to shun those 
 ways that will lead you to the same fate. 
 
 The first cigar, the first chew of tobacco, the first social glass, the 
 obscene jest, the half-in-earnest-half-in-fun lie, the dishonest act, the 
 departure from the way of virtue, are the entrances to these paths. 
 If our random thoughts enable you to shun them, we can hopefully 
 bid you good night. 
 
 Names and Honors 
 
 "From our ancestors come our names, but from our virtues our 
 honor." 
 
 This is a sort of proverb or wise saying that is worthy of pro- 
 found study by all, and more especially by the young. Our names 
 are inherited ; that is, we mean the designation by which we are known 
 to ourselves and others, as White, Black, Jones, Smith, Thomson, 
 Hilligoss, Rodenbaugh, Killposey or Pancake. We are not responsible 
 for them ; we were not consulted in regard to them. It may be the 
 name we bear is not fully up to our taste as to names ; but it was the 
 name of our father, our grandfather, our great grandfather, our great, 
 great grandfather, ad libitum. These names are like a pair of spindle 
 shanks, or stoop shoulders, or a crooked nose, or cross eyes ; they may 
 not add to our dignity, but no one can accuse us of getting them by our 
 choice. Many of us do not so much as know why we were not called 
 Sampson or Snodgrass, instead of Opeinhammer or Husselcuss; nor 
 why our parents could not as well have borne the patronymic of 
 Stufl'elbeam or Deiffenbacher, instead of Swackenbecher or Ostrander; 
 the thing was settled before we were separated from the mass of 
 common matter by that mysterious process called creation, that is 
 known to ignorance, yet it can not be explained by the most highly 
 educated, and before our matter felt the vivifying touch of that im- 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 181 
 
 mortal spirit quickening the clay prison house of life, and was as 
 much beyond our control as the spots on the sun, the location of 
 continents or the movements of the planets. 
 
 Even our first names though given perhaps after our infant lungs 
 have become accustomed to disturbing the air by vibrations that strike 
 on the tympanum of the ears of our friends in such a way as to pro- 
 duce the sensation known as squalling, yelling, or crying, are some- 
 thing that were tacked on to us before we were old enough to offer 
 the congressman's amendment, or the lawyer's everlasting objection. 
 All that we may hope to do is to wiggle through life with the cogno- 
 men, whatever it may be, that the peculiar fancy of the moment has 
 induced our parents or some other person to give us. It may be 
 Sardanapalus, George Washington Curtis, or James Buchanan ; it may 
 be Julius Csesar Augustus, or Andrew Jackson Donelson Johnson. 
 It may be that devout parents have called us John, after the beloved 
 disciple ; or Paul after the argumentative apostle ; or Peter, after the 
 impetuous and ardent defender of the faith ; or Solomon, for the wise 
 king; it may be Moses, Jonathan, Saul, Samuel, David or Aminadab. 
 "We were too young to object ; perhaps we would not have done so if 
 we could. Be that as it may, it is still true that "From our ancestors 
 come our names. 
 
 Some names, it is true, have become a scorn and a by-word among 
 men. But this has not been the fault of the name but of the possessor. 
 Judas, Nero and Benedict Arnold are instances of what we refer to ; 
 but they, too, get their "Names from their ancestors." 
 
 But it is just as true as to the other part of the proverb, viz, 
 "But from our virtues our honor." Of course we are to understand 
 by virtues moral strength and goodness. When we come to the years 
 of maturity we have some character ; some bundle of qualities that 
 makes us different from every one else ; some reputation that we have 
 earned and that is accorded to us by common consent. With this 
 character, this reputation, we go forward to honor or dishonor. 
 
 It is not our purpose to discuss, in the present paper, the reputa- 
 tion of those who have no virtues, though we doubt not but what the 
 discussion would be profitable. It is our desire simply to call atten- 
 tion to the lecture, the sermon botind up in the text that opens this 
 article. 
 
 Individuality is a distinctive feature of man. No two are alike. 
 As among all the millions of earth no two heads are of the same shape, 
 so among all these millions no two are alike in character. Still each 
 one has made his own reputation. It is not necessary to be alike to 
 be honored. We honor men for the display of numerous good qualities. 
 Love, goodness, manliness, gentleness, sobriety, truth, wisdom, gen- 
 
132 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 erosity and a host of others. But how do we become distinguished 
 in any of them? "We have, in a former paper, tried to show that "No 
 man was ever great by imitation." It is only after the race that the 
 winner is awarded the prize ; it is only after the battle that the victor 
 is crowned; it is only after the contest that laurel wreaths encircle 
 the brow of the successful competitor. Honors do not come by chance ; 
 the harvest is not gathered but by labor, the far summit is not reached 
 but by effort; it takes constant endeavor to excel. Let the young re- 
 member this; let them act on this, that to succeed we must be in 
 earnest. 
 
 You are the stately ship just launched ; your voyage is to be made 
 over a rough and dangerous sea, where the cool head, the steady hand 
 and the fearless heart will be required; you are the locomotive just 
 out of the shop, and are to be tested on a road where there are many 
 long bridges and high trestles, where great caution will be necessary 
 in the driver. You are on trial; the verdict will be made up and 
 handed in by a jury of your fellows ; they are watching you ; they are 
 listening; they are carefully weighing the evidence. Are you aware 
 of the fact? Do you realize the importance of it? Have you thought 
 over this proverb? Have you a definite purpose in life? Have you 
 considered that men are divided into two general classes, the honored 
 and the dishonored? Are you aware that neither class inherit their 
 position? Honor or dishonor comes not as your names come. They 
 are the result of your own individual actions. 
 
 As we sit here enjoying this Hour Alone there rises before us 
 a vision of the youth of our land. They are a vast multitude, standing 
 on the dividing line, mingling together; as we look the mighty con- 
 course is separating into two distinct bodies. The bodies are dis- 
 proportionate in size, but the choice seems voluntary. They are widely 
 apart now; over one assembly is written "Honored;" they are no 
 longer youths; they are old, wrinkled and gray; but they have been 
 eminent for virtues. 
 
 The other part we will not follow now. Over them is written a 
 different inscription and a different course of life has added a thrilling 
 though far less pleasing, interest to the story of their lives. With a 
 clear understanding of the causes leading to the separation of the 
 youth into two totally different classes, we may well ask you, in which 
 of them do you wish to stand? 
 
 Our aim is to induce you to cultivate the virtues that you may 
 share in the honors. In Yates City and other towns where this 
 Hour Alone will be read, are many of the boys and girls who are 
 to make up these classes. "Will they learn this proverb, remember it, 
 act upon its manifest wisdom, and profit by it? "From our ancestors 
 come our names, but from our virtues our honor." Good night. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 188 
 
 The Sick Child 
 
 A sick child. Our attention was directed to it by a friend, one 
 day, after we had been looking over the interesting part of a great 
 city. The child was a boy, for child he certainly was although some 
 eight summers had no doubt passed since the home of the parents was 
 brightened by the advent of this little stranger. But the little frail 
 life brought also anxiety as well as brightness, for it was soon known 
 to the mother that the little one was far from being robust. It is 
 a curious study to determine how a mother gains this knowledge so 
 much sooner than a father does. But it is no less true than curious. 
 It was some time before this father would consent to admit that the 
 child seemed delicate. But the passing weeks revealed it so clearly 
 that even the heart of affection could no longer ignore it. 
 
 The father was a machinist; one of that class whose necessities 
 compel them to go out at seven in the morning, carrying a tin blickey, 
 and who are shut in with the dirt and smoke and stifling air of the 
 shop until a delivering whistle sounds the hour of six. Then they go 
 home to eat a frugal meal, read a few moments in the latest paper, 
 and then drag a weary body, whose over taxed muscles are aching, 
 to a bed where a feverish repose only partially restores the cruel waste 
 of animal tissue, and leaves the body less able to fulfill the next day's 
 task. 
 
 The mother had been the daughter of a farmer, her young days 
 being spent amid the sweetest and best scenes of nature, where shady 
 groves, green fields, running streams, beautiful wild flowers, climbing 
 vines, and innocent sports, beguiled the hours, and literally made her a 
 careless child — not in the sense of neglect — but in the sense of being 
 entirely free from care. 
 
 Gentle reader, let me digress long enough to say that the happiest 
 lot on earth is that of such a one, thus surrounded by nature's charms, 
 "The fields and woods." 
 
 But the tempter came. The manly young mechanic came out to 
 visit a relative. They met, became interested, formed an attachment, 
 built the usual number of air castles, got married, met their first serious 
 care in the knowledge of the frailty of their first born, and soon found 
 themselves loaded with the cares of life. Other little ones had come to 
 share their affections and make demands on their bounty, until, as we 
 saw them on that sultry afternoon, there were four children, the other 
 three robust and hearty as children usually are. 
 
 At last it became painfully evident that the sick child was fast 
 losing strength, and in this terrible knowledge, they resolved to make 
 a great sacrifice, and carry the drooping one away from the disease 
 
184 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 engendering city, and give him the benefit of the "Pure sun and air 
 of God," hoping in doubt, that he might be restored to health. 
 
 Dear reader, have you ever watched a human flower fade and die? 
 Have you, day by day noted the scarcely perceptible progress of decay, 
 that marks the pathway to the grave? Have you watched that flower 
 grow more beautiful even in decay? And noted the surpassing love- 
 liness it exhibits, just before the great Father transplants it to the 
 garden of paradise? 
 
 If you have you know something of the feelings of that father 
 and mother as they sat there waiting for the train that was to bear them 
 to health — or a grave. 
 
 A few months after, we were in the country between the towns 
 of Ipava and Vermont, and having occasion to ask the direction, as 
 well as to refresh ourselves with a draught of pure water, we alighted 
 at a spacious farm house and entered it. 
 
 There were perhaps a dozen people inside, and we saw at a glance 
 that they were at the bedside of a dying boy. It took but a moment 
 for memory to recall the scene at the depot in the city, and before us 
 was the same family, with more of sorrow, more of fear, and not a 
 ray of hope. 
 
 "We did not speak; a lady stepped aside politely, in order to let 
 as obtain a glance at the pinched features of the dying child. He 
 was reclining in that sitting posture, so often the last one taken on 
 earth, and was talking in that feeble, but clear voice, that is so 
 usual in those who are almost done with earth. 
 
 He spoke of the city and ran over nearly every object of interest 
 connected with their home, asked if that was the noise of cars, and 
 declared that he could hear the water as it fell in sparkling sprays 
 from the artificial fountain in the yard of their wealthy neighbor. 
 
 He spoke of the journey out to the country, seeming to be unroll- 
 ing the curtain of the past, and looking at the beautiful pictures there. 
 Then again he took up the things of the quiet country home, spoke 
 of horses and cows, the dogs and pigeons, the bees and flowers, the 
 fields of corn and stacks of grain, as well as the little brook and 
 shady woods. His own was the only dry eye in that solemn little 
 company, and he noticed it and began to say, "Don't cry, dear papa; 
 don't cry lovely mama. You will be happy when I am gone, and I 
 will rest so nicely in the beautiful graveyard, just below the old red 
 meeting house of the Quakers." Here he made a slight motion toward 
 a glass of water that stood on a little stand. An elderly woman took 
 it up, and with a spoon, dipped in the liquid, moistened the parched 
 lips. For a moment the muscles of the neck relaxed, and the weary 
 head rested languidly on the snowy pillow ; then he started up, saying, 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 135 
 
 "Who called me? Good bye, papa, mamma, brothers and sisters, good 
 
 bye, all; am sleepy; I must re ," he sank back on the pillow, and 
 
 amid a low sound of wailing sorrow, the same woman who had 
 moistened the parched lips but a moment before, stepped forward 
 and gently pressed down the eyelids of a dead child. 
 
 The next day on our return from Vermont to Ipava, we reached 
 the little graveyard just as the funeral cortege filed into the gate. 
 We stopped a few minutes, and reverently uncovered our head as the 
 sound of the earth falling on the little coffin, mingled with the stifled 
 cry of the mother, the sobs of father and children, as well as the 
 solemn tones of the gray haired preacher, saying, "Earth to earth, 
 dust to dust, ashes to ashes," reached our ears. 
 
 About one year after, having occasion to pass the old Quaker 
 graveyard, we were surprised to see a man and a woman standing by 
 the side of a little white marble monument, in one corner of the yard. 
 The man was pensively looking on the little mound of earth, while 
 the mother's face was covered with a white handkerchief, which she 
 pressed to her eyes, and we knew it was the first visit of sorrowing 
 parents to the grave of their first born child. 
 
 Dear reader, if you pass that road, seek out the little white monu- 
 ment, surmounted by a lamb; it stands in the northeast corner; and 
 as you recall the incidents of this Hour Alone, banish forever from 
 your bosom the skeptic thought that would rob these parents, forever, 
 of their child. 
 
 Man Loves Beauty 
 
 Man loves beauty, whether he be in a savage state or has reached 
 the plane of enlightenment. 
 
 Symmetry, proportion, beauty, fitness, all have a charm for him. 
 
 The beautiful flower is preferred to the unsightly toadstool, even 
 by those who have never studied botany, nor yet been taught to know 
 that there is such a thing as symmetry. 
 
 It does not take an educated person to point out the superiority 
 of the fine, stately tree that has grown up as though under the care 
 of the experienced gardener, over the old, twisted, gnarled, ill-shaped 
 scrub that has been disfigured by the potent cyclone. 
 
 The humming bird with its tiny form, symmetrical shape and beau- 
 tiful plumage, will awaken a pleased feeling in the mind of the child, 
 who is yet too undeveloped to give a reason for it, while the toad, 
 with its puffed sides, its squab form and warty hide will cause him to 
 shrink from it in disgust. 
 
 Suppose, for a moment, that this earth had contained all else 
 that it now has, and yet were destitute of flowers? Think you that 
 
136 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 man would have been satisfied? Not for a moment. Why? Because 
 the Divine mind, in the creation, made a want, and the flowers were 
 but made to fill that inborn desire. 
 
 Man was not designed to exist without woman. Hence we find a 
 desire among men, not acquired, but innate, to have a handsome wife. 
 In this we have a solution of the problem — if problem it be — why- 
 women are more beautiful, more refined, more gentle, more loving. 
 Here, too, we begin to understand why it seems so natural for a 
 woman to adorn her person in the most becoming manner. It is not 
 acquired, but natural ; and natural because required. 
 
 This assimilation of our natural desires to ideas of beauty, and 
 this feeling of sympathy with symmetry, proportion and correct 
 blending of pleasing colors, and this refusal of the human mind to 
 be satisfied with the commoner things, may teach us that man was 
 intended for the earth, the earth for man, or better, perhaps, that 
 when both were designed, each was expressly intended for the other. 
 
 Suppose that not a single star had gemmed the glassy sky? Who 
 could, for a moment have been delighted with the "beauty of dark- 
 ness," even though a full moon, whose disc knew no waning, bathed 
 the hills and vales in one eternal flood of mellow light? 
 
 If one continuous chain of mountains after another reared their 
 giant heads o'er all the earth, and not a single vale or level plain 
 appeared, who could enjoy it, even though their silent peaks were 
 capped in shroud of spotless white, and every setting suns bathed all 
 their glittering peaks in gold ? 
 
 If all were level land, how soon the eye would tire, even though 
 a multitude of flowers decked all the sod, and myriads of sparkling 
 gems were scattered 'mid its grass. 
 
 If we could live without the moistened air, and not a pond, a lake, 
 appeared or yet an ocean to divide the continents, how soon would 
 we be weary of the world. 
 
 It takes variety to make beauty. Hence we find our friends as 
 various in their features and their shapes as they are numerous. 
 
 We think there is a lesson in these thoughts. It would not take 
 a seer to prophesy that there would be a difference in the character 
 of the same person, if he were reared amid the most varied and beau- 
 tiful scenery, surrounded by handsome animals, beautiful flowers, ex- 
 quisite pictures and refined society, from what it would be if he 
 were shut up in a dismal cave, away from the genial sunlight, sur- 
 rounded by loathsome reptiles, hideous beasts, foul toads, and only 
 had access to the company of the gross and sensual. 
 
 If this be true, how important that we make our surroundings 
 as pleasant and agreeable as possible. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 137 
 
 The home where poverty forbids a picture on the wall, a vase, a 
 vine, a flower, will, at best, but turn out a stunted character. 
 
 The home that is made attractive and beautiful, where flowers 
 bloom, where pictures adorn the walls, where curtains mellow the 
 light, where vines creep o'er the roof, where music charms the soul, 
 will send out those more nearly perfect. 
 
 Dear reader, do you find a hint in this our silent hour? If so 
 improve it well. You have a home ; adorn it with all the beauty that 
 you can. Let love control the charges that you have to rear, and we 
 may hope to see your boys and girls revere the sacred spot where 
 father hoped and toiled, where mother worked and prayed. And may 
 there come from out such homes, a race to give a larger liberty to 
 man, kill out the seeds of crime, destroy the monster unbelief, give 
 ampler scope to charity, give to our lovely land a better, juster, wiser, 
 grander, nobler set of laws to govern those who toil beneath its flag, 
 reach out the hand of faith to grasp the helping hand of God, and 
 give a stronger trust in the unbounded possibilities of the life beyond 
 the grave. 
 
 From Different Angles 
 
 *'0h, never mind, the Lord will provide," were the insinuating 
 words that fell on our ears as we waited in the depot at Farmington 
 for a train that, it seemed to us, in our impatience, would never come. 
 
 It was some time ago, in the days when grasshoppers were devas- 
 tating the fields of Kansas and Nebraska, and were making it doubt- 
 ful, for the time, whether the venturesome spirit of emigration had 
 not, at last, found a barrier that it would not be possible to overcome, 
 and that would eventually drive it back upon the great, swarming, 
 teeming, struggling centers of population, circumscribe the area of 
 habitable land and force upon the attention of statesman and philos- 
 ophers the gravest question that can ever confront them, viz. : What 
 is to be the result, when the great, restless mass of human beings 
 have no longer a place where their energy, their activity, their exuber- 
 ance of spirit, if you please, can be utilized in conquering the wild 
 frontier to the dominion of civilization. The great sympathetic heart 
 of the nation was being stirred to its innermost recesses by the tales 
 of want, woe and misery, that came back by letter, or appeared in 
 the columns of the daily press. 
 
 Nothing else so interests man, as that which concerns his fellow- 
 man. It follows that the daily press, containing, as it does, the rec- 
 ords of man's attempts, his successes or his failures, is read with far 
 more avidity than even the sensational stories that emanate from the 
 brain of the wildest dreamer in the realms of fiction. These wild, 
 unnatural, fanciful stories appeal strongly to a portion, while by far 
 
138 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 the larger share take no interest in them. On the contrary, the tamer, 
 but far more exciting recitals of actual experience in the terribly earn- 
 est incidents of every-day life, address themselves to all, and demand 
 the intense attention of all. 
 
 Of course, our attention was turned to the speakers. The one 
 who had just so glibly used the quotation that closed her sentence, 
 Avas a female, evidently unmarried, well, if not elegantly dressed, 
 whose kids of numerous buttons, silk parasol, dainty boots and small, 
 elegant gold watch, indicated to be the daughter of some one of the 
 numerous wealthy farmers, then, as now, found located about that 
 pretty little town. She had evidently grown up without having to 
 exercise any very great anxiety about getting a living. Not that her 
 appearance indicated that she did not work. On the contrary, had 
 we followed her to the well stocked farm of her father, we should 
 have been disappointed if she had not changed her attire for a neat 
 calico dress, donned a large apron and a slouch sunbonnet, picked up 
 a tin pail with a strainer fastened at one side of the upper edge, and 
 tripped lightly down the walk toward the barnyard, humming a lively 
 little air, intent on the effort to milk the sleek, fat, contented looking 
 cows, that are so leisurely chewing their cud, about the great circular 
 tank at the wind pump. She looked, in short, a worker, keen, shrewd, 
 intellectual, devotional. One of those contented, happy beings who 
 had never seriously thought of marrying, for the simple reason that 
 she had never yet seen the man who came up to her day dreams of 
 the man she could love. If you had told her she would die an old 
 maid, she would have been shocked. But to the close observer she 
 was in that category of anomalous females at the present time. Of 
 course, she expected to marry some one, more than likely some Meth- 
 odist preacher, and thus get ample scope for that peculiar trait of 
 character that her remarks, recorded at the head of this article, 
 attests she possesses. 
 
 The person she addressed was a female, whose years numbered 
 less than her own, of pleasing address, arrayed in modest apparel, 
 neat, but inexpensive, holding in her plump round arms, a rosy child, 
 the picture of health, and the image of some manly form, whose open, 
 frank, generous ways had won her girlish heart, and tempted her to 
 leave the humble home where she had spent very many happy hours, 
 as well as very many of solicitude, for it must be evident that none of 
 her family had been free from that unexplainable, but irksome and 
 wearying anxiety that gives such undefined acuteness to those who 
 struggle with the cares of life daily, and are never free from the 
 worrying dread, that, in the next encounter, the enemy may get the 
 mastery of us. Two other children, a boy and a girl, are busy inspect- 
 ing the objects of interest in the average depot, the cuts of competing 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 189 
 
 lines, and the imaginary scenery along the route where miscalled 
 statesmanship has given them the title to land that should have been 
 kept for just such citizens as this woman is, no doubt, the wife of. 
 
 In listening to the conversation, we learned that shortly after 
 they were married, being ambitious to own a farm, they emigrated to 
 Kansas, and spent all they had in getting a valid claim to eighty acres 
 of land. The seasons had been unfavorable, and they were being 
 cramped more and more, until the year opened with gloomy prospects. 
 But the spring and summer had been favorable, and the star of hope 
 had risen and was shining brightly. Her husband insisted on her 
 making a visit to her parents, near Farmington. She hesitated between 
 a sense of duty to her husband and love for her parents, but yielded 
 at length, and came. The first letter from her husband was full of 
 bright promise. But rumors of the great grasshopper plague began 
 to thicken ; they were in this county and that ; she waited anxiously ; 
 the fatal news came all too soon ; the pests had descended on prom- 
 ising fields, at midday, and ere the shadows of evening fell not a green 
 thing was left. She was on her way back, anxious to at least speak a 
 word of comfort to her husband. 
 
 She had related her sad, pathetic story to the speaker, who, with- 
 out fully considering the full scope of the calamity to those in that 
 struggling country, had replied in the words that now form the open- 
 ing sentence in this Hour Alone. And we thought how easy it is to 
 say the ''Lord will provide," when it is some one else who is in the 
 desperate strait. But it has baffled even the most resolute Christian 
 philosophy to feel resigned, when all things seem against us. It may 
 be natural for us to attempt to comfort those who mourn. But it is 
 idle to expect those afflicted to look through our spectacles, or look 
 out on nature from our elevation. The storm sweeps away our habita- 
 tion and kills our children; the fire destroys our goods; the harvest 
 fails; the sad accident happens. We sympathize, but let us not mock 
 human grief, or add to human misery by speaking that which is, to 
 them, but idle words. 
 
 The friends who met to condole with poor, afflicted Job, did not 
 die childless, and their descendants are in all parts of the earth. 
 
 Monuments 
 
 Monuments ! Monuments ! ! Monuments ! ! ! This is the word that, 
 despite our ablest endeavor to banish it, comes up again, again and 
 again, as we are wishing to fix our mind on some subject that would 
 edify and instruct. There is a curious psychological study for the 
 observant, in the strange composition of the mind. It is confined by 
 
140 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 matter, but is not controlled by it. It runs out into various channels, 
 no difference how we may wish to confine it to one, or it may be it 
 will persist in taking one channel when we have a desire to have it 
 enter another. It would be useless to attempt to discuss these seem- 
 ing inconsistencies in the space allotted to these papers. Indeed, we 
 much doubt if the time would be well employed. Curiosity is a very 
 useful quality in the makeup of human intelligence. If it were want- 
 ing, then, would man be content to rest satisfied with present attain- 
 ments, present happiness, present conditions? In this ease there would 
 be no motive urging man to invade the vast, untrodden, and, we were 
 about to say, uncomprehended domain of matter. Wanting it man 
 must have remained an unlettered nomad; a sort of aimless, listless, 
 unconcerned animal. 
 
 Astronomy would never have penetrated the vast distances sepa- 
 rating the planets, to weigh them in the balance, to calculate their 
 seasons, to determine their equinoxes and to disclose, by aid of the 
 spectrum, the very metals that are buried in their mountains. 
 
 Wanting it, zoology would never have been able to take a single 
 bone, and from it, construct the entire carcass; nay, more, depict it 
 on the speaking canvas, and tell the ages in which it lived, its man- 
 ner of life, its natural food, and the exact time when it disappeared 
 from the field of natural history. 
 
 Wanting it, ornithology would want a name, and the feathered 
 warblers, those sweet praisers of the eternal Creator, would never 
 have been classified, nor their habits understood. 
 
 Wanting it, botanical research would never have established the 
 geometrical exactness of nature, nor unfolded the beauty and sweet- 
 ness hidden in the flowers and plants that diversify and make pleas- 
 ing the landscape. 
 
 Wanting it, the power of steam would have remained unknown, 
 and the commerce of a world would have been crippled and cramped, 
 millions of acres of land been forever untillable, and civilization been 
 confined in its narrow sphere until it would scarcely have been dis- 
 tinguished from barbarism, if, indeed, it had ever reached the line of 
 demarcation between them. 
 
 Wanting it, the cotton plant would be a useless shrub, tobacco a 
 noxious weed, chemical combinations unknown, the sewing machine, 
 the reaper, the corn planter, and the thousands upon thousands of 
 useful implements unheard of. 
 
 Without it, the rude artist would still, with the burnt end of a 
 stick, have traced the hideous outlines of the picture; the printing 
 press would not, as now, pour its mind moulding volume of fact and 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 141 
 
 fiction, like a great ocean of thought, into the hearts and homes of all 
 men; the telegraph, the telephone, the electric light, would not have 
 come within the domain of man's knowledge, and helped to solve the 
 leading mysteries of the world. 
 
 Without it, geology would never have dug into the bowels of the 
 earth, nor caused the solid rocks to deliver up the great secrets that 
 seemed to be securely hidden in their solidity; nor yet would the 
 silent ages composing the periods of the different formations be 
 known to us. 
 
 Had it not been for it, the adventurous spirit of discovery would 
 never have braved the perils of unknown seas in search of lands that 
 existed only in the active mind of those who lived a hundred years 
 too soon to be appreciated. 
 
 Without it, the longest and largest rivers, the highest mountains, 
 the most fertile valleys, the most valuable forests might have been but 
 a fabled dream. 
 
 Lacking it, the desolate solitudes of the far north, those massive 
 and stupendous fortresses of ice, where silence is so deep as to be 
 oppressive in its very nature, never would have had their echoes 
 broken by the voice of man. 
 
 Curiosity may not have been the only factor in these startling 
 developments, but, it has been the promptor in them all. It would 
 not do to curb a quality that has developed such magnificent results, 
 and we have no desire to do so. Curiosity prompts to investigation, 
 investigation leads to action and action results in the advancement of 
 the human race in all that is ennobling and elevating. 
 
 But here, as we drop our pen, and silence settles around us, we 
 again hear the repetition, monuments ! monuments ! ! monuments ! ! ! 
 And we start as from a reverie, with the impression that we have 
 drifted entirely away from our subject, and that our mind, following 
 the only well defined law recognized in regard to it, has played the 
 truant with us. But as we glance our eye back over these pages, 
 we are surprised to discover that we are mistaken, and that every- 
 thing we have jotted down is a monument to man's courage, integrity, 
 perseverence and onward progress, that will live when marble shafts 
 shall have crumbled into dust, and be undistinguished from the sands 
 of the desert. 
 
 Yes, dear reader, the people of this generation are now building 
 monuments. It may be that even in this silent hour some secret spring 
 may have been set in motion that will yet reveal to us a monument 
 more lasting than any granite block. At least we are satisfied that 
 to see monuments we do not have to visit a cemetery. 
 
142 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Selfishness 
 
 Mankind, as a mass, is in the main, just; but individually this is 
 not the case. It is true that : 
 
 "When self the wavering balance shakes, 
 'Tis rarely right adjusted." 
 
 If we assert that it is a "self-evident fact that all men are created 
 free and equal," man vt^ill give a general, indefinite answer saying, 
 "Yes, you are right; your position is well taken, and the expression 
 embodies a grand idea." In such a case there seems to be no dispo- 
 sition to quibble on technicalities. Nothing seems to obscure the mental 
 vision, or warp the moral judgment. But you talk to some individual 
 about being just to the man who joins fences with him and we soon 
 discover that he is not able to discern where his brother's rights appear, 
 or else his moral sensibility is so blunted as to render him incapable 
 of exhibiting that spirit — learned not from the cold, barren wastes of 
 a universe created by the clouded intellect of him who discards reve- 
 lation and seeks comfort only in the belief that God is nature, and 
 nature is God — which is anxious to accord to every other individual 
 the same rights insisted upon for himself. 
 
 The proposition that Africa should be civilized and her uncouth 
 tribes taught the rudiments of Christianity, will not long be debated 
 anywhere. But if two families live in close proximity, and a hen's 
 nest be found within a gnat's eyebrow of being equi-distant from 
 each, it takes a remarkable amount of grace to enable either the one 
 or the other to believe that it was not their hen that had added to the 
 aggregate wealth of the world by depositing the dozen or fifteen 
 eggs found in it. In this case it cannot be the value that blinds a 
 correct sense of justice, because the amount to realize is small enough 
 to preclude such an assumption. The inference seems, then, fair, that 
 man is naturally selfish. 
 
 It may have been noticed that if two men own contiguous farms, 
 and a division fence is to be built, and they agree to start at oppo- 
 site ends of the line and pace to the center, that when they came to a 
 final halt, each will have passed the other several rods, while both 
 will be reasonably certain that the other must be mistaken. Now 
 both of these very men would agree that congressmen were easily 
 bribed, or that South America would be benefited by an increase of 
 Sunday schools. What is the inference? If we were to hint at the 
 true character of that inference, we might injure the feelings of both 
 men. 
 
 If two thrifty and well-to-do farmers have grain fields in reach 
 of each other, and the stock of the one gets into the enclosure of the 
 other and destroys a quantity of the grain, and they walk out together 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 143 
 
 to investigate the depredation, and determine the damage, it is barely 
 possible that in guessing on it they will be nearly, if not quite, one 
 hundred bushels apart. If this should occur, we would venture to 
 say that the man guessing the lowest number of bushels, owns the cat- 
 tle, while the man guessing the highest owns the field of grain. Still 
 these same two men would sign papers to declare that according to 
 their best knowledge and belief, Samuel J. Tilden was elected presi- 
 dent, and got an addition to his barrel for permitting an 8 to 7 com- 
 mission declaring that another man was entitled to that position, 
 "What is the logical conclusion? It must be plain to observing people, 
 that some potent factor is present in one case, and lacking in the 
 other. 
 
 We have seen two men go home from a rattling good devotional 
 meeting at the church, their hearts all aglow with zeal for the good 
 cause, and yet in attempting to trade horses, the one would gravely 
 assert that a knock-kneed tacky, not an hour under twenty years old, 
 was a four-year-old colt scarcely broken to the harness; while the 
 other repeats time and time again, that a spavin as prominent as a 
 musk rat's nest was on that colt when he was foaled. Both of these 
 men would — in order to divert the attention of the other from a weak 
 eye that he was fearful he would discover — talk eloquently about the 
 low ebb of Godliness, and the need of a powerful revival, while the 
 other would assent to it all, hoping in this way to prevent the other 
 from noticing that his horse had contracted the habit of cribbing. 
 What is the logical conclusion? Is it that religion is a failure or a 
 fraud? Certainly not. It only shows that two knaves have borrowed 
 the "livery of heaven, to serve the devil in," and that selfishness has 
 blunted the moral perception to such a degree that either would sell 
 their heaven for a small mess of very thin gruel. 
 
 We have known two women, handsome, intelligent — as the phrase 
 goes — members of the same sewing society, neither ever missing an 
 opportunity to attend the regular meeting at sister so-and-so's, be 
 glib enough of tongue so that in case of an emergency either could, in 
 less than two hours, persuade Deacon Grasp to subscribe ten cents 
 to the fund for furnishing supplies for the widows of a coal mine 
 disaster, the good Deacon blandly saying, while rubbing his hands as 
 though a chilliness pervaded his frame, "that it is not often I give so 
 large a sum at once, as there are so very many of these charitable 
 calls, but really Mrs. Stivem, the case seems so deserving, and you 
 present the case so strongly, and in your witching manner, that really 
 one must be liberal, if for no other purpose than to satisfy so clever 
 and handsome a leader as you are." And the good Deacon lays one 
 hand on the lovely sister's shoulder, chuckles her under the chin, and 
 waddles off to order his attorney to evict Tom Dauly, whose wife h?'* 
 
144 OVR HOUR ALONE 
 
 the consumption, and whose children — poor, puny beings — have never 
 known a well day, for the reason that he ''has failed to pay his rent 
 and here it is the fifth of the month." Yes, we have actually known 
 these women to go home from such a scene and get by the ears over an 
 old turkey hen and eight little weakling turkeys that may never 
 grow to grace a Thanksgiving table. Both are positive as to the 
 identity, both determined as to having possession, and both in advo- 
 cating their assumed rights forget the smooth, winning flattery used 
 on the Deacon, call each other certain vile epithets, that we care not 
 to repeat. What is our decision after knowing these things to be so? 
 Not that these women are arrant knaves, oh, no! but simply that "deep 
 down in the human heart there is an element of extreme selfishness 
 that is aroused to activity in nearly all cases where our individual 
 interests are brought into conflict with those of our neighbors. 
 
 But wasting hours warn us to pursue these thoughts no further 
 at this time. We have no desire to make a personal application to 
 our readers, but if they think themselves tainted with this blemish of 
 character, as we badly suspect ourself, then it will be no detriment if 
 we read this article over carefully again, and then make a solemn 
 promise that we will guard more carefully our conduct, especially 
 when we are called on to decide between ourselves and others. 
 
 A Sad True Tale 
 
 The wind went around to the northwest this morning, the mer- 
 eurcy is sinking, fine particles of snow, cutting with their keen edges, 
 like ice points, are filling the air, driven about in the eddies formed 
 by buildings, or speeding away before the biting blast in white clouds 
 that almost obscure the vision. 
 
 There is something about the winter that is sad and mournful 
 and dirge-like, and gives to us an inexpressibly melancholy feeling. 
 Nature is dead. The great pulsing life of summer is gone. The voice 
 of the song-bird is not, for it is basking in the genial rays of the 
 tropics. The lowing herds have deserted the hillsides for the shelter 
 of the valleys, or the protection of farm buildings. No springing 
 grass, no budding flowers, no teeming grain. The bare branches of 
 the trees, waving to and fro in the wind, seem to be reaching out to 
 us for consolation, in their grief for the death of the beautiful foliage 
 that but a short time before crowned them in regal splendor. The 
 ground covered with its mantle of white ; the distant hills, looming 
 up against the leaden sky; the silence of the woods, save for the 
 tenderly sad moaning of the wind; the streaks of light gray, where 
 the juiceless stalk, denuded of its golden ears, stands in silent solem- 
 nity; the sullen sound of the imprisoned river, as it forces its unseen 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 145 
 
 way beneath its icy fetters; the cracking of the weather boards as 
 the giant hand of the frost king shortens the nails that fasten them; 
 the hurrying tread of the overshoe-muffled feet as they hasten to seek 
 the shelter and heat and comfort of home; all these, and a thou- 
 sand others that come up to remind us that decay and death follow 
 the footsteps of beauty and life everywhere, but tend to sadden us 
 and are prone to call up from that vast storehouse of knowledge, 
 memory, the dreariest scenes and the most mournful events that we 
 have encountered along the dreary vale of life. 
 
 Such a scene obtrudes — yes, we will say obtrudes, for it is not 
 altogether welcome — upon our attention now. It stands out before us 
 such a terrible reality that we could wish to vanish its memory for- 
 ever, and yet so appealingly sad that though we are looking straight 
 out of the window eastward we forget for a moment the hideous ugli- 
 ness of Grange Hall; forget the beautiful contrast of the dark green 
 blinds with the snowy whiteness of the paint on cranky Andy's 
 house ; forget, for a time, that the crimson curtains over the way were 
 purchased with the money spent to put the firey demon of alcohol 
 into the brains of those who, without it, were "a little lower than the 
 angels," and with it are more degraded than "the meanest spawn of 
 hell." 
 
 But it stands there, ghost-like and sad, and seems to urge us to 
 attempt a meager sketch of its outlines, a bare mention of its crushing 
 blight to at least one heart, in order that those who read this Hour 
 Alone and have the charge of youth may realize the responsibility 
 of that charge; or if, perchance, they be among the number of the 
 innocent youth, they may be warned; or if — which heaven forbid — 
 they, too, have soiled their feet in sin's dark ways that they may 
 know there yet is sympathy in one human heart akin to that which 
 welled in love divine from out the Savior's when he said, "Neither 
 do I condemn thee, go and sin no more. ' ' 
 
 Some twenty years ago we were teaching school in an unpreten- 
 tious neighborhood, near the town of C , in a neighboring county. 
 
 The school house was small and unattractive looking outwardly, but 
 rather neat and comfortable within; the scholars such as generally 
 fall to the lot of the country teacher. The people such as you find in 
 the more prosperous agricultural portions of "The Military Tract," 
 most of them intent on laying up money or earning a decent living. 
 They were all kind and courteous to the teacher whom poverty and 
 a desire to provide for a black-eyed girl-wife and a strutting mixture 
 of flannel and impudent flesh, whose uncles had taught to denominate 
 himself "Captain" by the time he was a year old, had thrown into 
 their midst. But, while this was the case, there was the usual amount 
 
146 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 of the ills and accidents of life, an ordinary amount of gossip, and 
 sometimes a morsel of scandal. 
 
 Among those well known to that circle was a girl of exceeding 
 beauty, full of vigor and life, the moving spirit in festival, dance, 
 party, picnic or ride. She occupied the humble but by no means 
 degrading position of "domestic" in the family of a well-to-do farmer. 
 
 One day on our return from the humdrum duties of the school, 
 we were shocked to learn from the lips of the old man in whose fam- 
 ily we boarded, that the girl— who shall be nameless here — was gone 
 from the family of her employer, and that she had left in order to 
 avoid the shame of an exposure that she could hope to conceal but a 
 short time longer. Of course, it created a breeze in that usually quiet 
 neighborhood, and among different classes was treated in different 
 ways. The older women were nearly unanimous in condemnation, and 
 wound up by blaming the lady whose domestic she had been. The 
 young women concluded that she had "carried her head too high," 
 and declared that not for the world would they associate with her 
 more. Old men regretted that "times were so changed since they 
 were young," while the young men, among themselves, spoke of it 
 with a degree of levity and indifference that indicated a total lack of 
 respect for female virtue. 
 
 There seemed to be a mystery hanging about the girl's early his- 
 tory. If any one was able to unravel it they did not do so. Some 
 said she was herself illegitimate, and had been sent here to cover 
 crime and shame ; some thought she was a waif from some county 
 house, and had drifted out upon the stream of society through the 
 kindness of a family whom poverty and sickness compelled to desert 
 their charge; some persisted in saying that she was here by the 
 failure of relatives to discharge duties assumed in the presence of 
 death, when a young and beautiful mother appealed to God and kin- 
 dred to assume charge of a treasure that she must relinquish. These 
 questions, and kindred ones, were debated for the usual nine days, 
 and then the surface of society closed over her as smoothly as the 
 deep water closes over those who have ceased to struggle, and she was 
 apparently forgotten. 
 
 We, too, had almost ceased to recur to the event, being compara- 
 tively young, and but little versed in the sadder experiences of life, 
 while the prejudices of an early education that had failed to teach us 
 the distinction between hate for the sin and the sinner helped us to 
 determine that it was her own fault, and that our own character would 
 suffer if we permitted a ray of light from the great sun of love, planted 
 in the heart by our Heavenly Father, to go out toward her, that it 
 might kindle anew the flickering flame of virtue in that desolate and 
 despairing bosom. 
 
 >, i 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 147 
 
 One Saturday, along toward the close of a remarkably bleak, 
 
 cold January, we were hurrying along the streets of C , anxious 
 
 to escape from the effects of a cheerless day, for all the world like 
 today, when we heard a familiar voice call our name, and turning we 
 
 saw Dr. M in his cutter, wrapped in a comfortable robe. He 
 
 asked us if we would not accompany him to his home, a point he 
 intended to reach as soon as he had visited a patient at a house where 
 a few charitable women took care of the unfortunate. Stepping under 
 the robe held open for us, we were soon speeding along, enjoying the 
 cheerful chat of the genial doctor, who was about equally divided in 
 his love for his chosen profession, his accomplished wife, and litera- 
 ture, especially poetry. 
 
 On arriving at the house he invited us to enter in order to get 
 warm ; what was our surprise on entering to see a beautiful face, look- 
 ing out from the folds of a coarse but clean pillow slip, wan and 
 emaciated, but lighted up with that unearthly light that indicates the 
 near ending of the great battle of life. The moment our eyes met we 
 recognized the girl who but a few short months before had gone out 
 from our neighborhood, no one knew whither. The wail of a new-born 
 infant, cradled in another part of the room, told us that another poor, 
 weak human soul had tasted the bitterest cup of life, and reached at 
 the same time the highest ambition of woman, maternity. 
 
 She recognized us at once, and a tear glittered for a moment on 
 that transparent cheek, but it was but for a moment, for she was 
 nearing that point where the fountain of grief is dried forever. She 
 called for the child, and it was laid in her arms. The wealth of a 
 mother's love was in the look she bent upon that tender, innocent face. 
 The inexhaustible treasure of a mother's love was imprinted on that 
 downy face with every passionate kiss. Exhausted, her feeble hold 
 relaxed, and the infant's head rested on her wan cheek for a moment, 
 and then was removed. For a moment we thought all was over, but 
 she rallied and we made an abortive attempt to soothe her by words 
 of kindness. The doctor gave some subdued orders, left a potion, 
 and motioned us away. 
 
 The next day we asked leave to accompany the doctor again, 
 determined, if possible, to learn of her early history, but on our arrival 
 we saw a cot covered with white drapery, and learned that the mys- 
 tery of another life had been solved. 
 
 As the cover was removed we looked in tearful sadness on that 
 form, matchless in the repose of death, and on those features, more 
 beautiful now, that the look of suffering had departed, and we won- 
 dered if society with its false system was responsible for her mur- 
 der. 
 
148 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 While we were yet there to make some arrangements for the 
 funeral, which was set for that evening, the infant was seized with 
 croup, and in less than two hours it was with the girl-mother among 
 the stars. It was placed in the arms of the dead mother, and it 
 seemed hard to look on that scene and realize that death is deemed a 
 cruel monster. Was he not to her a sweet release from sorrow, sin 
 and shame? 
 
 The storm of the preceding day had but gathered force, and as 
 ■we — two faithful women, the doctor and ourself — followed the four 
 kind-hearted men, who had voluntered to carry the coflfin down the icy 
 walk toward the desolate graveyard, the howling blast sifted the cruel 
 snow into our faces until it was scarcely possible to see. 
 
 In a remote corner, the poorest, wettest spot in that inclosure — 
 and we have often wondered why the selfishness of man goes even 
 to the graveyard, and gives the poorest, meanest place to poverty — 
 we halted, took a last look at the beautiful face, the luxuriant, black 
 wavy hair of the mother, and the innocent face of the child, and they 
 were consigned to the last abode of all men. There let her sleep until 
 the morning of the resurrection. There was a partner in this crime, 
 of course. But twenty years has obliterated the memory of the 
 wronged girl ; while he who was not a particle less guilty in the sight 
 of God, is courted by society and bears the title of "honorable." 
 
 Is it any wonder that we are glad to turn away from this sad 
 picture, or that we thank God that in the time when He makes up 
 His jewels there will be none of the criminal conventionalities of soci- 
 ety to condemn the erring for whom Christ died ? 
 
 Dear reader, are you a mother? If so, let the broad mantle of 
 charity be cast over the erring one, for you have a daughter. Are you 
 a father or brother? Remember that the girls you come in contact 
 with are near and dear to some one. Are you the blooming maiden, 
 entrusted with the jewel of chastity? Oh, guard it as the priceless 
 treasure, looking to Heaven for strength. And let the picture, so 
 deeply graven on our memory, of the dreary winter day, the howling 
 storm, the beateous face of that dead mother, clasping in her lifeless 
 arms the token of her shame, and the lonely grave over which the 
 flowers of twenty summers have faded, help to teach us that the foun- 
 tain of human sympathy should never be closed. 
 
 As we sit here in the gathering shadows of this cheerless night, 
 we almost imagine — it may be the music of the wind on the telephone 
 wires — but it sounds like the voice of the compassionate One saying 
 "Neither do I condemn thee, go, and sin no more." 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 149 
 
 Be True 
 
 " — To thine own self be true, 
 And it must follow, as the night the day. 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man." 
 
 It is past twelve, midnight. This will be emphatically an hour 
 alone. The three lines quoted at the head of our article are placed 
 before us written on a ragged scrap of soft paper, that was hastily torn 
 from some patent sheet, at the moment the lines met our eye. Of 
 course, we are on the watch for incidents that may be of use to us in 
 our prized intercourse with our dear readers. 
 
 We took the trouble to note these down as a text for some future 
 article. Of course, as we are not a preacher, our text may be taken 
 outside the Bible. Not that we do not think the Bible contains the 
 grandest pictures, the most beautiful texts, the sublimest truths, the 
 most comforting promises, for it certainly does. But then we are not 
 forbidden to make use of truth even if it be found elsewhere. Beauti- 
 ful flowers spring up outside of carefully cultivated gardens; costly 
 treasures are deep buried in the rocks; sparkling gems are hidden in 
 the deep caverns of the ocean ; and diamonds of truth are met in most 
 unexpected places. We are not able to tell where our text is to be 
 found. We do not even know the name of the author. It may have 
 been "some mute inglorious Milton." It may have been some one who 
 had just passed through a season of severe temptation. It may have 
 been some one whose eye had caught the "silver lining" to the dark- 
 est cloud of life. "We know not, may not tell." But one thing we 
 do know, and that is that these lines contain food for much serious 
 reflection. Each line is "a gem of purest ray serene." The first one 
 has a golden text, "be true;" to whom? "to thine own self." Bind 
 that golden text about thy brow, and let it be to thee a banner, under 
 whose folds thou shalt go forth to victories over thyself, over error, 
 over sin, over satan, over every foe. "To thine own self be true." 
 Then you will be true to man, in the generic sense, to your fellows, 
 your neighbors, your friends, your children, your wife, your brothers, 
 your sisters, to father, mother and God. If you are thus true to 
 thyself, then "Thou canst not be false to any man." Here is some- 
 thing inevitable. If the first be observed, the second follows as a 
 logical conclusion. It is an utter impossibility to be true to self, 
 and false to others. If the first be admitted, the second becomes an 
 axiom. The first is given in the form of a command. It is in the 
 imperative mood. "Be true." Obey this, "And it must follow, as 
 the night the day," that "Thou canst not then be false to any man." 
 
 There is a gem in the last two words, "any man." It is far 
 reaching and comprehensive. It embraces all. Not God only, for 
 the inborn desire to revere and worship a superior intelligence might 
 
150 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 furnish a motive. Not to father or mother only, for that feeling that 
 nature has placed in the mind of every human being, and that binds 
 them to the parents in bonds, that death, perhaps, will but intensify, 
 might make us true to them. Not to friends only, for a feeling of 
 gratitude for favors received might be the promptor. It includes 
 all these, but it goes infinitely beyond them. "Any man!" Can that 
 be possible? Not false even to a foe! True to your enemy! Yes, 
 here is the test. It is easy to sail on placid waters, when 
 the wind is lulled to rest, and the air is pleasant, and 
 the sunshine warm. But let the sky be overcast; let the gale come; 
 let the angry waves lash themselves into fury, and it takes nerves to 
 stand up and calmly do one's duty. It is easy to glide smoothly along 
 the journey of life, in the days of prosperity, but it takes the stuff 
 of which heroes are made to guide the man through adversity. It is 
 easy to be true to those who are true to us. It is even true that a 
 selfish spirit will urge us to deal justly with those who have favored 
 us. But when it comes to an enemy, a foe! To deal justly in such a 
 case ; to rise above envy, malice, anger, revenge ; to put prejudices 
 aside, and be true to a foe, is to forget that we are human, and realize 
 that we are a spark of Divinity itself. There is but one way to do this. 
 It is to be true to our own selves. If we are, then as sure as nature's 
 laws, as sure as the dark shades of night follow the glad sunshine of 
 day, as sure as the planets remain in their orbits, so sure will we be 
 not false to any man. 
 
 Be true to every noble and generous impulse of the soul. If 
 idleness comes to lull you into indolent repose, be true. If avarice 
 bids you unduly hoard, be true. If the gambler comes and bids you 
 win what you have never earned, be true. If envy bids you aim the 
 dart, be true. If falsehood comes to plead some dire necessity for de- 
 ceiving, be true. If murder rears his hideous form athwart your 
 path, be true. If beauty, with her seductive wiles, should plead "The 
 illicit love," be true. If the sparkling cup attempts to lure you on to 
 death, be true. If the voice of warning comes, be true. In all con- 
 ditions, under all circumstances, in every position, and in all eases, 
 dear reader, be true to thine own self — to all — to any man. 
 
 When you deal with your fellow man, be true. When you deal 
 with God, be true. In dealing with religion, be true. In dealing with 
 temperance, be true. In dealing with the poor, be true. In life, be 
 true; in death, be true. 
 
 It is late; wearied nature pleads for rest. But something seems 
 to say to us, be true to the boys and girls who read these articles. 
 Ask them kindly, but earnestly, to be true to themselves. Remember 
 that all hinges on that. Study these three lines. Commit them to 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 161 
 
 memory. Act on them. And, in order that you may do so, we will 
 
 let them close this Hour Alone. 
 
 " — To thine own self be true, 
 And it must follow, as the night the day, 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man." 
 
 The Gun and the Hare 
 
 There are a great many failures in this world that come upon us 
 that are brought about because it is beyond our power to combine 
 the proper circumstances to bring about a success. It is said that 
 ''there is a tide in the affairs of men that, if taken at the flood leads 
 on to fortune." But it takes good judgment to determine just when 
 the tide has reached the flood. Then it may happen that just at the 
 flood, we are unable to take the tide because something is not then in 
 our reach, that is necessary to the taking. 
 
 It is true that the "best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft 
 agley. " The little winter home was builded with the greatest of 
 care, lined with the softest of wool, stored with the toilsomely 
 gathered gleanings of the smooth clipped stubble and — so far as 
 mouse knowledge was concerned — nothing was left undone to secure 
 the comforts of home for the winter. But the rough plowshare came 
 crushing into it and it was scattered to the four winds of heaven, and 
 the timorous little occupant was seeking to hide from the greater 
 danger it apprehended from him whose hands had guided the share 
 into its cherished place of shelter. It is no wonder that the weary 
 poet ploughman, as he sat on the beam, with the lines falling neg- 
 ligently down from his aching shoulders and his weary feet resting on 
 the edge of the furrow, should let his fancy toil with the extent of the 
 ruins, and that his heart — always ready to sympathize with mouse, 
 devil or man — should go out to the little "beastie," thus suddenly 
 bereft of its all. 
 
 But we must call a halt to this train of thought, though it is 
 leading us away into a land where we so love to linger, and turn it 
 into the channel that was indicated by the opening sentences of this 
 Hour Alone. Subjects are often suggested by some remark heard 
 causally, or by some little incident that we chance to experience. 
 
 One morning this week a friend asked us if we remembered a 
 couple of companion pictures that appeared in Scribner's Magazine 
 about ten years ago. In one of them an old darkey is seen cautiously 
 peering about a spacious field, with an old gun under his arm, and 
 below is the following: "Oh, I wish I could see a hare." 
 
 In the other is seen the same darkey in the same spacious field, 
 but he is minus the gun, and a fine fat hare is scudding away before 
 him, while he exclaims: "Oh, I wish I had a gun!" The humor of 
 these companion scenes is the first thing that strikes one, but the 
 
152 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 humor is not all by a great deal. The artist who conceived the pic- 
 tures no doubt intended to teach us that very often in this life we 
 may have the gun, while our best efforts are futile to discover the 
 hare for which we are looking. And that after we are weary of the 
 hunt, and refuse longer to be burdened by the gun, that the hare 
 starts up before us, scuds away over the fallow ground, and we find 
 ourselves wishing that we had not so soon become discouraged, and 
 that we had longer persevered. 
 
 Tonight as this old picture — which, by the way, we only heard 
 described — comes up before our mental vision, we are carried to the 
 same point of observation from which the artist looked out over the 
 narrow field in which his genius crowded so much of genuine 
 philosophy, and the field seems to widen out, its boundaries stretch 
 out until it takes in the whole world, and we can see, oh, such a great 
 number who are tramping about with the gun on their shoulder and 
 the earnest desire in their heart to see the coveted hare. But the 
 feet become weary and sore, the eye becomes tired, the body fatigued, 
 the heart discouraged, and they go home and hang up the gun, sure 
 that for them there is no hare. 
 
 Then we see them again with the earnest and anxious look on 
 their faces as all unexpectedly, in the middle of the field, the hare 
 starts up, and as they stand gazing after its swiftly receding form, 
 they exclaim with all the earnestness of the old darkey, "Oh, that I 
 had a gun!" 
 
 It may be possible that after all what we call luck is just one 
 of the few fortunate cases where one has persevered and carried the 
 gun until the hare was sighted. 
 
 Where would Gen. U. S. Grant's place in history be had it not 
 
 been for the ac no, we will not use that word, we do not like it — 
 
 but we will say for the fortuitous circumstances that brought himself, 
 the gun and the hare together in the field. 
 
 Where would be the fame of our immortal Washington, had he 
 not had the gun on his shoulder when the hare broke cover in his 
 front? 
 
 Where would be the cherished memory of the sainted Lincoln, if 
 he had traversed the field without the gun to secure the fleeing hare? 
 
 It is not the number of stories we hear that gives us knowledge ; 
 it is the amount of earnest, serious, careful thought that we give to 
 those we do hear that makes us more wise. It is not the number of 
 pictures we see that gives us broader views, and more comprehensive 
 understandings; but it is our faculty of being able to catch the in- 
 spiration of the artist, the placing of ourselves in his position and 
 looking through his glasses that enables us to gather and profit by the 
 wisdom that he partially hides in his picture. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 168 
 
 All who will read this article are wandering somewhere in the 
 field ; there is a hare that we will see sooner or later ; are we determined 
 to hold on to the gun so that our one opportunity may not be lost? 
 
 Let us remember that if we would not fail, ourselves, the gun, 
 the hare and the field must be combined at the proper time. Our 
 wish for you, dear reader, is that you may not attempt to search the 
 field in which your life is cast without the gun. 
 
 The Hog Bite 
 
 On last Monday evening, about four o'clock, we were standing 
 in front of the Banner office, when a number of boys and girls came 
 along, we suppose from practicing for the concert that was to be given 
 at the M. E. church that evening. A majority of them would have 
 been caught between the ages of 5 and 9 years. They were a merry, 
 noisy, happy set, and just as they came in front of us we noticed 
 that one had a nice apple in his hand, and a companion was nagging 
 for a bite of it. The boy held it out and the other removed a bite that 
 left a fearful gap in the rotundity of the apple. "Oh, there," cried' 
 the owner of the apple, '*you told me a story, you said you would take 
 a small bite, but you took a hog bite." 
 
 The children were soon out of sight, and we turned to our work, 
 but the ideas awakened by the incident kept flitting before us. That 
 night, while we were seated in the church enjoying the concert, the 
 incident came back to us with great force, and we thought, well, this 
 boy is but the representative of a large class found everywhere. And 
 tonight, as we take up the pencil to meet the inexorable demand for 
 ideas that must be formulated into words, and words that must be 
 formed into sentences, and sentences that must grow into articles, it 
 comes back to us once more. 
 
 There is a large number of hog bite boys in the world. Boys who 
 open their mouths pretty wide when they are taking a bite out of 
 another boy's apple. We have seen many families where one boy 
 wanted the most and the best of everything that came about the 
 place. If a nest of kittens was found he must have the first choice, 
 and he is sure to take the Maltese ; if a litter of pigs, he must take hia 
 pick, and if there be one with an extra kink in its tail he gets it ; if a 
 lot of little pups, why, he must have the one with the shaggy coat, 
 white on its hind legs and the brown spots above its eyes; he must 
 wear the best clothes, read the new book first, peruse the paper before 
 his sister dares to glance at it, eat the largest apple, the ripest cherry, 
 the sweetest berry, and be first in every case. We never found a 
 name so expressive of what he really is as this term hog bite. 
 
154 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Then we have stood by the play ground of a school house and 
 have seen the boy who must choose up or he won't play; he must be 
 on such a side, associated with just such and such ones or nothing can 
 be done ; he must rule the whole business or he will spoil all the fun. 
 What is such a boy? Can you think of any more suitable or ap- 
 propriate name for him than that of Hog Bite? 
 
 Then we have noticed girls, too, who wanted to run everything; 
 they must be consulted, deferred to, looked up to, and obeyed, or they 
 are grouty, peevish, ugly, scowling, fretful, pouting and hateful as 
 sin. Are they not exactly described by the term hog bite? 
 
 But when we come to let our thoughts follow the subject we 
 find that we have seen some men who acted largely on the hog bite 
 principle. They work, and plan, and speculate, and contrive to over- 
 reach every one with whom they have any dealings. They do not 
 scruple to misstate, and misrepresent, and deceive, in order to get 
 the best of the bargain. These men are suited to a dot when we apply 
 to them this terse term, hog bite. 
 
 And there are women, too, real good looking women, who act 
 just as if they might be closely related to the hog bite family. They 
 borrow and do not pay, or take care not to pay back so much, 
 always grasping to get their share and a little more. They may not 
 know it, but when they bite some one else's apple they leave a great 
 gap in it, for they always take a hog bite. 
 
 But it is not our intention to draw this subject out. "We refer 
 to it because it teaches a valuable lesson. If you desire to know how 
 large the hog bite family has grown, just go out into the busy ways 
 of life and keep your eyes and ears open; you will soon discover a 
 number of those who are members of it. They are found in the 
 church, in the legal profession, in trade, in politics, in literature, in 
 science, in all stations and conditions in life, and under all circum- 
 stances they spoil the shape of your apple, if you allow them to bite 
 it. 
 
 Permit us to ask all boys and girls to avoid the practices of the 
 hog bites. A young hog bite may be cured of the evil, but an old 
 hog bite is hard to reclaim. A well defined sense of justice, a clear 
 perception of right, a large degree of generosity must be natural, and 
 need to be improved by every day practice, if we would be entirely 
 free from the practices of the hog bites, and be able to prevent our 
 mouth from opening too wide when we are offered a bite of some one 
 else's apple. 
 
 Mrs. Wally 
 
 On the morning of October 26, 1898, we left Quincy at 6:20 
 o'clock on the 0. K. C, & E. railroad. In a few minutes we were on 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 166 
 
 the fine new iron railroad bridge that spans the great Father of 
 Waters at this point. The draw is near the west end, and our train 
 was halted on the center of the bridge while the draw was opening 
 to let a steamboat pass through on its way up the river. The boat 
 was making slow headway against the current, and we were detained 
 for some time. We were amply repaid for the detention, for while 
 standing here we witnessed one of the finest sunrises that we have ever 
 seen. The city of Quincy, the third largest in Illinois, is on the east 
 bank of the river, and is built on the high bluff that overlooks the 
 beautiful valley cleft by the mighty stream. It was a clear, bright, 
 beautiful morning, coming after the abortive attempt at a blizzard that 
 all will remember as coming on the 25th day of October, and in which 
 the snow fall was so damp and heavy that the train on which we came 
 from Galesburg to Quincy was obliged to leave Colchester on a side 
 track, owing to the fact that the weight of snow had broken the tele- 
 graph poles, and they were lying on the main track. The snow was 
 still on the ground, and covered the streets of the city, and lay over 
 the surrounding hill country, a glorious mantle of white, and when the 
 sun came up in all his splendor, the view as seen from the center of 
 the bridge was grand, and would have furnished inspiration for an 
 artist. Our regret is that the divine touch that transfers nature's 
 finest and most beautiful scenes to canvas is only given to a favored 
 few and is not ours. We also regret that we do not feel equal to the 
 task of making a pen picture of that magnificent sunrise as we saw it 
 on that morning from the center of the Quincy bridge, with every 
 window aglow, and the brilliant light gilding the domes and steeples 
 of the city, and flashing along the ripples on the river. It is some satis- 
 faction to know that many others have seen the sunrise from this 
 same spot of vantage, and we feel sure that the scene is one of the 
 cherished and 
 
 "Beautiful pictures that hang on memory's wall." 
 
 But this is rather a digression. It is not the sunrise that comes 
 to us most vividly as a recollection of that early morning. As the 
 draw swung to, the train slowly pulled to the west end of the bridge, 
 and stopped at West Quincy, on the north side of the little depot build- 
 ing. In a few minutes the train from Hannibal came to a standstill on 
 the south side, and a few passengers came over hurriedly — they al- 
 ways come that way — and took places in the car we occupied. One 
 of them was an old lady dressed in rather plain, but neat, black, the 
 lines on her face — that yet showed faint traces of an earlier beauty — 
 indicated that care, or worry, or work, or all combined, had left their 
 impress there. As she put her three or four packages — for she was a 
 woman — down on the seat we noticed that her finger joints were large 
 and that her hand indicated a life of drudgery. 
 
166 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Somehow we were not prepossessed in her favor, and our mental 
 conclusion was that she was ignorant and no doubt disagreeable. It 
 gave us no pleasure when she looked back, and seeing us — the wife 
 was with us — she got up, took her bundles, and coming back took the 
 seat directly in front of us. She spoke to us — and her voice was sweet 
 and low — remarking on the beauty of the morning after the storm of 
 the day before. She spoke of leaving Hannibal so early, and told us 
 she was going to Durham, to spend the day with her daughter, that 
 she lived on a farm 7 miles southwest of Durham and that her husband 
 would meet her there the next day and take her home. She had been 
 gone from home a month, having gone to Hannibal to visit the family 
 of her son, his name being Joseph Wally, he being a fireman on the 
 railroad — and here her voice became tremulous — and we noticed that 
 tears were forcing their way over the dark lashes of her eyes, though 
 she made a brave effort to force them back, and her voice was choked 
 as she told us that while she was there her boy went out on his engine, 
 there was an accident, the engine left the track, turned over, caught 
 the fireman beneath its ponderous weight, crushing out his life, and 
 cutting his body in two. Here she became silent for a little season, 
 the intensity of her grief rendering her utterly unable to proceed on 
 account of her feelings, and as we looked at her she was no longer the 
 common-place old lady that we had seen enter the car a short time 
 before, but one of earth's greatest heroines whom all might honor, and 
 as we looked upon her tear-wet face, and noted the swaying of her 
 grief racked body, we realized that she had been transfigured before us. 
 
 Presently she resumed speaking. Her boy — for he was a boy to 
 her mother heart, though almost 40 years old — was a noble fellow; 
 he had been on the road 9 years ; she had always dreaded an accident 
 and was ill at ease ; he went out that fatal morning full of life and 
 hope and ambition; he was carried back ere night-fall a corpse. He 
 was married and had four children, 3 girls and 1 boy, and his in- 
 surance left them provided for. She had remained a short time after 
 the funeral and was going home bearing her great grief. She was 
 sixty-four, the mother of seven children, and this the first death in 
 the family. She asked about our journey and hoped that we would 
 have a pleasant visit at the home of our son. 
 
 The train whistled, the brakeman came in and called out "Dur- 
 ham!" The old lady gathered her bundles, bade us a cheery bood-bye 
 and left the train. When she had gone it became evident to us that 
 her story had touched us, and a moisture dimmed our vision on looking 
 out to see if any one came to meet her. 
 
 We had misjudged her. She was a toiler, and not rich; she had 
 not the refinement of education, nor the polish of polite society, but in 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 157 
 
 that short time she had convinced us that she had the qualities of the 
 true heroine. 
 
 How prone we are to err in judging others if ignorant of the 
 griefs that bear upon them; if we could but know the sorrows, deep, 
 and bitter, and full, that have crushed their hearts, would not our 
 better, tenderer nature come to their relief, and words of consolation 
 flow from ready tongues, and make us quick to bring relief? 
 
 This is a simple tale, no laurel crowned heroine to grace its telling, 
 but it comes back to us in this, our hour alone, and if the recital but 
 serves to rouse some sympathy for this fond mother whom death has 
 robbed, it will not be in vain. 
 
 Dear readers of the Banner, when in your happy homes, in daily 
 page you read of train derailed and trainman killed, remember that 
 in some home, conspicuous or obscure, some Mrs. Wally sorrows for 
 her son. 
 
 One Thanksgiving Day 
 
 On Thanksgiving day in the year 1897 the head of one family was 
 not feeling just right, being scarcely in rapport with the spirit of what 
 should animate the American citizen on this glad national holiday. 
 His business demanded his attention, and he was obliged to undergo 
 the usual daily grind of labor. The demands on his purse had been 
 many, and collections were slow — very slow. The fact was that though 
 he had hoped that something would occur to replenish the pocket-book, 
 the day opened, and he had not a cent of ready cash. The family were 
 not destitute, but they were living as economically as ever they could, 
 as thousands of other families were doing, and are now. His wife got 
 up and made ready the morning meal, and she seemed to be blithe 
 and cheery, but somehow he was painfully impressed with the idea 
 that she was making an effort to appear joyous, and it did not add to 
 his composure of mind. The family gathered about the table, the 
 usual heart-felt "thanks" were repeated with bowed heads, the low 
 hum of conversation began, and the repast ended. At the close the 
 old Bible was brought out — as was the daily custom — a chapter read, 
 and the father led the little flock in offering up the morning oblation. 
 But there was more in his heart than was spoken at the altar; his 
 was a simple, trusting, loving faith, and somehow he hoped God would 
 work just a little miracle for him — is it not true that miracles are 
 wrought for us daily? — for he knew it would be almost a miracle if 
 he should be remembered that day by any one who owed him. Not 
 but that there were many on his books who, if they had really known 
 his circumstances, and how depressed, yes almost discouraged, he was, 
 would have hastened to do an act of justice by settling at once; but 
 
168 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 they did not think, and he was too proud to go to any of them and 
 frankly tell them his need. 
 
 The forenoon wore away, and he toiled on, growing nervous as 
 the hands of the clock came together at the midday hour. As he put 
 on his coat to go home there was a rebellious feeling in his heart, and 
 he was startled to find the question presenting itself, "Is God so 
 merciful, so loving, so kind, or has He forgotten me?" But he put 
 aside these bitter thoughts, for he went back in memory to the teach- 
 ings of a beloved father, and the prayers of a dear Christian mother, 
 and he said, "no, no; God is good; it is I who do not understand." 
 
 Still, as he walked along the street and saw those who were in- 
 vited out to dinner, and those who were to entertain them, walking 
 so briskly and with such light steps, and looked into their beaming 
 faces, he felt the bitter thought striving for mastery, and wondered 
 why his family should not share the joy of the day. 
 
 As he opened the kitchen door the frown on his face relaxed, for 
 it was evident that the good angel of the house — his dear wife — had 
 not been repining, but doing. The table was set to the best advantage, 
 the cloth was snowy white, the dishes burnished in brightness, the 
 butter was yellow and sweet looking, the bread was light and nice, a 
 crisp crusted cherry pie was tempting the appetite, and everything 
 was so tidy and cheery that he forgot his moroseness, and was com- 
 plimenting the angel, who blushed at the praise so lavishingly given, 
 and he thought that after all there was much that he should feel 
 thankful for. 
 
 Some of the family had attended the little church and listened 
 to the Thanksgiving sermon, but as it was discussed he could not help 
 wondering if some of those worshipers had not forgotten that the 
 day was one for doing, as well as praising. 
 
 He went back to work feeling better satisfied — so far as he, him- 
 self, was concerned — but still the fact that he had to deny so good a 
 wife the pleasure she would have taken in having more to do with 
 made him rather uncomfortable. 
 
 As he took up the burden of the afternoon he thought, what good 
 came of your prayers, and your effort to have faith, when the morning 
 sacrifice went up? 
 
 He started as the door creaked on its hinges, and looked around 
 to meet the glance and receive the kindly greeting of one of his 
 friends — a church member who had been over in the congregation 
 giving thanks. He spoke a few cheering words, though the day was 
 gloomy enough — a drizzle — and the room seemed to brighten up a 
 little. Then he took out his pocket-book, opened it, took out some 
 money and handed it to him remarking, "While it is not quite pay day 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 159 
 
 yet, I thought I would call and pay you." He spoke of the sermon 
 of the morning, and as he opened the door to go out it seemed as if a 
 burst of sunlight flooded the dingy little office, but it must have been 
 an illusion, for on looking out he saw that a steady drizzle was still 
 falling. 
 
 There was a moisture in his eye as he went out to make some 
 purchases that he would gladly have made some hours before, and 
 when he got home that evening the bitterness was gone out of his 
 heart, and joy was present in the household. 
 
 That night he communed on his pillow, and there were things 
 that he could not yet understand. His first conclusion was that the 
 morning prayer, and the faith in which he asked God to enable him to 
 make glad the hearts of his family, deserved the credit; then came 
 the thought, does the man who called and left the money really know 
 how glad he made other human hearts that day? May it not be true 
 that God put into his heart to come, and thus wrought the little 
 miracle? 
 
 Dear readers of the Banner, this is no make believe sketch. It 
 will be read by many who will recognize in it a past experience. It is 
 only when we touch the everyday life of the reader that we secure 
 confidence. Genius may touch heroic themes and win applause. But 
 we will rest content if in an humbler sphere our mediocre pen touches 
 the homely theme of those who dig, and delve, and toil, and live in 
 humble homes. We give the sketch because we have a hope that 
 when you read you may resolve that when another Thanksgiving 
 comes, you may seek after the spirit of its observance. How much we 
 might do if we only knew where help is needed? This man who — per- 
 haps all unconscious — had brought sunshine into a home, no doubt felt 
 in his heart that somehow it had been a pleasant Thanksgiving to him, 
 for we cannot believe that he did not receive a blessing larger than he 
 gave. It is this belief that makes us love the religion of Jesus. It 
 comes down to touch the lives of those who are meeting the troubles, 
 and toils, and cares of life, and it brings sunshine into the home. 
 
 True Heroes 
 
 Did you ever think where you would go to look for heroes and 
 heroines, if you should be commissioned to find them? Of course, we 
 all know that war is supposed to produce the heroes. And it is true 
 that war developes and exhibits them. The man who can calmly and 
 deliberately march up to the mouth of death-dealing guns, when he 
 is conscious that every moment may be his last, certainly has in him 
 
 k 
 
160 OUB HOUR ALONE 
 
 the elements that constitute bravery, if not true heroism. But if we 
 are to seek only here, the truest heroes will not be found. The 
 trouble with the heroes of war is that much that is mistaken for 
 heroism is but a rash, yea, an insane desire for fame. 
 
 The woman who is able to meet disappointment, discouragement, 
 poverty, neglect, want, sickness, scorn, contempt, ridicule, and yet 
 continue to labor, hope, pray and strive for an inhuman husband and 
 unthankful children, has a heroism that approaches the sublime. If 
 this was but for a week, a month, a year, or even ten years, it might 
 be suspected that hope gilded the gloomy clouds with the bright bow 
 of promise; but when it continues until wrinkles destroy the beauty 
 and freshness of youth, and silvery hair proclaims that but a short 
 time remains for her to suffer, one cannot look upon her and not be 
 struck with astonishment that she still goes bravely about her thank- 
 less task. There are thousands of such women whose lives are literally 
 wearing away under such adverse circumstances, and the only wonder 
 is that they live at all. If we were to be sent out to find a heroine, 
 we would go down to some hut, — pen would be a better word — lead 
 out into the light and warmth of nature, one of those whose unkempt 
 hair, haggard face, tattered clothing, emaciated body, and broken 
 spirit pointed out as one who has toiled and striven for years, and 
 we would point to her as one whose claims to heroism were infinitely 
 beyond that of the boldest warrior and bravest martyr who ever lived 
 or died. 
 
 Or if you are not willing to look on this phase of human suffering, 
 when squalid poverty and wretched woe stand out in such bold relief, 
 you might seek out some one who has lost the inestimable boon of 
 health, and who has for years suffered from some desperate, malignant 
 disease that they know to be slow but incurable. Look upon the sharp 
 features, the thin white hands, the slim neck, the hollow, sunken eyes, 
 the wan, weary, hopeless expression of the countenance ; consider 
 that for one, two, three, four, or, it may be, a dozen years, they have 
 battled with death, terrible, dreaded, monstrous death, fighting him 
 inch by inch, foot by foot, step by step, and you will realize that you 
 are in the presence of one whose title to heroism is clear and un- 
 mistakable. 
 
 Stand in such a presence but for a few moments, and uncork 
 the vials of sympathy to weep at the brief suffering you behold. Con- 
 sider that where others are free from pain, this body is racked with 
 torture; that while others are out in the bright, glad sunshine, this 
 one is in a chamber dark and gloomy ; that while others are going out 
 to wrestle with the great events of life, this one is not able to minister 
 to his own wants; that all the varied and changing scenes that make 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 161 
 
 glad the heart of health is denied, and denied forever ; that you meet 
 this one day after day, week after week, month after month and year 
 after year, and hear no complaint, no words of pining, and you may 
 begin to realize that you are again in the presence of one of the truest 
 heroes that ever has lived, or will live. 
 
 There are thousands of such heroes whose brows are not wreathed 
 with laurels, and whose names are not seen on the pages of history. 
 Thousands of them are sleeping in sequestered nooks, where no monu- 
 ment is placed to voice, in cold marble, the merits of their lives. 
 
 Ah ! it is easy to be a hero when the plaudits of millions are ring- 
 ing in our ears. But to be calm, and hopeful, and patient, and con- 
 tent, and cheerful, when the world seems to be against us and we are 
 forgotten is a heroism grander, nobler, truer, better, sublimer than 
 anything else in the range of human knowledge. 
 
 And if this article but meets the eye of one of these despised 
 but heroic souls, and causes a gleam of happiness to rest but for a 
 moment on the barren waste of their lives, we will rejoice that we re- 
 membered to seek such humble walks for the material for this, our 
 Hour Alone. 
 
 Christmas Musings 
 
 More than eighteen hundred years ago the Star of Bethlehem 
 glittered and glimmered over the "hill country of Judea." The angel 
 choristers sang the glad anthem of "Peace on earth, good will to 
 men." The morning star "sang together, and all the sons of God 
 shouted for joy." 
 
 We have often thought that we would like to visit Judea, and 
 climb to the top of those historic hills, and sit there and meditate on 
 the grandeur of the character of Him whose birth caused the wonderful 
 star to shine, the morning stars to sing together, and all the sons of 
 God to shout. 
 
 How we would delight to look down into the quiet little city of 
 Bethlehem, where in that far away time the infant Jesus was "sleep- 
 ing in the manger, with Mary, his mother." Our imagination goes 
 back to that time, and we peer — in fancy — into the features of the 
 slumbering child. What possibilities are locked up in every sleeping 
 infant? What a subject for study is here. We may well stand in 
 solemn awe before this undeveloped man, for here may be a Nero or 
 a Christ. What will the future be ? This infant has just come into the 
 world. It may die ; it may live. It may be a god or a devil. 
 
 No one has ever yet studied complex human nature from all its 
 points of observation who has not sat down beside a sleeping babe, 
 
162 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 and watched it for an hour, when none but God and they are near. 
 As you look at its hands, do you wonder where and how they will toil? 
 As you turn back the long dress and see the tiny feet, do you wonder 
 where they will wander along the "thorny ways of life?" 
 
 When the wise men came to worship, led by the star, did such 
 thoughts crowd forward in their brain, and such speculations pre- 
 sent themselves to their fancy? It may well be, for these were but 
 men, and man has ever been much the same. 
 
 As we read the history of those years we get only the results. 
 The toil, the trial, the grief, the sorrow, the heart aches, the disappoint- 
 ments that ante-date those results are not recorded. 
 
 But we know that Judea was a conquered province. That it was 
 tributary to Rome. That Herod ruled, and unscrupulous Publicans 
 gathered in taxes, with all the unrelenting greed that is bred in the 
 villian heart of him who is the tool of tyranny for gain. We know 
 that thousands of God's humble poor were dreading the coming 
 winter only a little less than they did the foreign masters who ruled 
 them with a rod of iron. We know that human wants were not less 
 than now, and human rapacity not an iota less cruel and exacting. It 
 was but a few years after, when this child, then a wonderful preacher, 
 said, "The poor have ye always with you." 
 
 Nearly nineteen hundred years later, we are about to celebrate 
 the birth of the child. But human wants are just as great, and 
 human rapacity not one whit less exacting. The tax collector, mayhap 
 a better type, but still a collector of tribute, is with us. Masters we 
 have, though they be of our own country. And human suffering ap- 
 peals to us just as strongly as it did to the simple peasants who then 
 lived, loved, planned, strove, succeeded, failed, died, in the humble 
 tenements that adorned the hillsides about Judea. 
 
 The same discrepancies are yet visible, though we have the steam- 
 boat, the railroad, the telegraph, the sewing machine, the telephone, 
 the reaper, and a thousand other labor saving inventions ; and we yet 
 find the bread winners struggling as they did when Mary held the 
 infant Savior to her throbbing breast, looked down into his mild, 
 blue eyes, and wondered what His lot in life would be. 
 
 In our own country, tonight, as we join in the usual festivities of 
 the times, there are more than three hundred thousand laborers out of 
 employment, while twelve hundred thousand depend on them for food 
 and shelter. Let us sympathize in their sorrows, and make some effort 
 to emulate the example of that benign Savior whose ear listened to 
 every story of suffering, and whose heart overflowed with love, not 
 only for the good and the true, but for the sinful and the depraved 
 as well. 
 
OUR HOU R ALONE 163 
 
 Dedicated to Mrs. A. H. McKeighan 
 
 "Your wedding ring wears thin, dear wife; Oh, summers not a few. 
 
 Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me and you; 
 
 And, love, what changes we have seen, — what cares and pleasures too, — 
 
 Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new." 
 
 The devotion of a true wife is sublime. It is a part of her being 
 — a flame kindled at the altar of God, and it never can be quenched, 
 never can be annihilated. It is part of that divine essence that men 
 know as soul, and it is as immortal as the being of Him who gave 
 woman to be the companion of man. 
 
 Not in the entire range of human thought has there been evolved 
 an idea that has had such an influence on the life, the character, the 
 plans, the purposes and the destiny of man as does this devotion that 
 is shown by the wife to the man she has chosen out of all those whom 
 she has known, to be her husband. Her devotion to him is grand, 
 noble, true, wonderful and lasting. Anyone will pat you with fawn- 
 ing complacency when you are successful ; the butterflies of friendship 
 will flutter about the brilliant lamp of your prosperity, and scorch 
 their gauzy wings ; but when the dark portentous clouds of adversity 
 settle about you, and the howling, pitiless storm breaks about your 
 defenseless head, not the flutter of their pinion is heard on the fierce, 
 cruel, relentless blasts that are raging around you. The devoted wife 
 is with you when the sun of success beams in lustre about you, rejoic- 
 ing in your achievements, proud of what you have accomplished, and 
 almost oblivious to the fact that she has been the significant figure in 
 every problem, without which none of them could have been solved. 
 And when adversity comes — as it always certainly will — she is by 
 your side, calm, serene, trusting, hoping, planning, advising, helping. 
 In that hour how you realize that 
 
 "The weak are strong, the timid brave. 
 For love puts on an angel's power, 
 And faith grows mightier than the grave." 
 
 Anyone will praise you when you do right. It is then that honied 
 words, though every heart responds to flattery, even when it is known 
 that the silly words are not only light and frivolous, but false as well, 
 are not needed by you at all. 
 
 But the true wife not only puts the seal of her approval on the 
 right when you are right, but she is with you right or wrong. She 
 may not approve of the wrong you do — in fact, she never does — but 
 she is ready to excuse and condone. She may know that you are 
 mistaken, but her love rises superior to your mistakes, your faults, 
 your wrong doings, and has a value to you that nothing else on 
 earth can have. 
 
 Home, with all its hallowed influences, its cherished associations, 
 its elevating refinement is the creation of her genius — or rather, may 
 
164 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 we not say — the result of that devotion which the wife always has, and 
 which rises superior to every circumstance, and compels results where 
 — without her devotion — defeat and disaster would make life miser- 
 able. 
 
 It is to be regretted that so many men fail to appreciate the de- 
 votion of a true and loving wife. It is almost as much to be deplored 
 that more men get so interested in the battle of life as almost to forget 
 the part she took in the strife in which they are so absorbed. It 
 would be a sorry day for the cause of human progress were the wife 
 ever to fall into the position where the actions of the thoughtless 
 husband would seem to place her. 
 
 It is small wonder that when Christ came into the world to bring 
 back to a loving Heavenly Father those who had wandered so far 
 from Him, that He first declared His divinity to the woman of 
 Samaria. There is much of meaning in the announcement that woman 
 was last at the cross and first at the sepulcher. She was the de- 
 voted follower of the loving Master, and she has carried a like de- 
 votion to her wifely duties, and her faith, that looked beyond the 
 tomb where slept her crucified Lord, is strong enough to believe that 
 some shining angel will come down to roll away the stone that closes 
 the hopeless sepulcher where all but she honestly believe lie buried 
 forever all that was good, and noble, and true in her husband; and if 
 he has the strength to break the bands of mortal death, she will be the 
 first to look down into the forsaken grave, and will go forth rejoicing, 
 to tell others, the burden of her glad song being, *'He is not here, 
 he is risen." 
 
 The fore night is waning; outside the rain is falling in fitful 
 splashes; I sit here in the bright glow of the lamp, in the kindly 
 warmth of a cozy room, thankful for the devotion of a loving wife, 
 and hopeful that the thoughts that have come to me in this Hour 
 Alone may lead myself and others to better appreciate what we owe 
 to those dear wives who have been so devoted to us under all circum- 
 stances. 
 
 "And O, when death shall come at last, to bid me to my rest, 
 May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast; 
 O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you, 
 Of those fond eyes, — fond as they were when this old ring was new." 
 
 Sadness and Mirth 
 
 "Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear; 
 Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier! 
 As a gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed, 
 Crosses the storm in its path of dread; 
 As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky — 
 Sadness and mirth! so ye come and fly." 
 
 Strange mystery that baffles our keenest analysis, that eludes our 
 
 subtlest deduction, evades our every effort to explain, that ridicules 
 
 ll 
 
OUR HOUR A LONE 166 
 
 our philosophy, scoffs at our learning, laughs at our fears, and mocks 
 our hopes, the mystery that in every life, and everywhere in life, sad- 
 ness and mirth meet together. 
 
 If there were no other evidence to show that man is not as he 
 came from the Creative hand surely this fact that standing side by 
 side, walking arm in arm, the shadow of the one falling upon the 
 form of the other, mingling, commingling, ever near, never far apart, 
 often together, or so nearly interlocked that one may seem both, or 
 both appear as one, this meeting of sadness and mirth in all our lives, 
 would be conclusive evidence that man is not the perfect man, as 
 fashioned at the first. 
 
 Degraded from a noble birthright, dwarfed from a moral perfec- 
 tion that should always woo a smile, stunted in every noble attribute 
 of the soul, man must have lost something of completeness, else would 
 not these two, so radically different in every conceivable way, Sadness 
 and Mirth, meet man so constantly, so continuously, so persistently, 
 so frequently. 
 
 So true is it that sadness and mirth divide between them the 
 lives of every human being, that none will dispute the assertion — made 
 long ago — that man is a bundle of smiles, a fount of tears. 
 
 The infant in its cradle bed, with reason scarce awake, with sense 
 of touch so incomplete, with distance yet unmeasured, with knowledge 
 yet unused, is wreathed in smiles, or bathed in tears, because standing 
 beside the crib where lies the tiny form, sadness and mirth, look in 
 upon its earliest day of life, and move to tears or smiles. 
 
 When older grown, the child, with fast expanding powers, in- 
 tellect awake, reason in busy search, and knowledge gaining daily, is 
 meeting day by day these two, and joy or sadness leaves its first 
 impress, as mirth or sadness meets them on the way. 
 
 And Youth — 0, wondrous youth! time of such aspirations high, 
 with every power of mind so gifted and so strong, with such resolves 
 for doing grander things, whose skies are all so clear, who have no 
 winter in their year, why part those rosy lips in such sweet smiles? 
 Why falls the darkling cloud on brow so fair? Is it because even in 
 this busiest time of life, sadness and mirth have met you on the way ? 
 
 In manhood's hours, so calm and so serene, when life has plans 
 and purposes that seem of so much worth, when coveted success lies 
 in such easy reach, why beams strong manhood's face with light, as 
 if the sun streamed golden light through rifted summer cloud? Is it 
 because of mirth that sudden met thee there? And why the sudden 
 frown that fades this light to twilight gloom, to darkness dense an^ 
 palpable as that which shrouded Egypt's land, when judgment sore 
 was sent? Is it because when mirth had caused the smile, that sad- 
 ness met thee, too, and changed the gayer mood? 
 
166 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 And age, in which ambition's power loses its sway, when hope — 
 seductive hope — no longer leads the way, when memory treacherous 
 proves, when strength is gone, when death has lost the power to 
 waken fear, as once it did in youth, when it has come so near that 
 trembling hands have lifted up the mask and seen — not the dreaded 
 enemy, but a very friend whose gentle touch will give us rest, even 
 age has tears and smiles ; for these that peeped above our cradle bed — 
 they — sadness and mirth have met us in decrepitude, and we respond 
 in tears — in smiles. 
 
 Sadness and Mirth! Ye meet us everywhere. You are in the 
 chamber sacred to a birth, — sadness in pain — mirth in the joy a man is 
 born into the world. 
 
 Beside the altar where love in marriage is plighted, you stand, 
 and smiles that lit the lovely face of bride, is sicklied o'er as sadness 
 comes with thoughts of mother, home and friends. 
 
 There never will be a parting of sadness and mirth, never in this 
 world. They are inseparable. They meet us at birth, they go with 
 us wherever we go, they will stand together beside our death-bed. 
 But they part there. Into the better land together they cannot enter. 
 When we leave this world sadness cannot go with us. All tears are 
 dried, for true it is : 
 
 "But there smiles a land, oh! ye troubled pair! 
 Where ye have no part in the summer air. 
 Far from the breathings of changeful skies, 
 Over the sea and the grave it lies 
 Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done. 
 And joy reigns alone, like a lonely sun." 
 
 Be Tolerant 
 
 When we have a short time for serious reflection, we are often 
 tempted to attempt giving a reason why so many people persist in 
 trying to make themselves and all with whom they come in contact, 
 as miserable as possible. Nothing can be more true than that it takes 
 all kinds of persons to make up the number found in the world. And 
 while thinking over this the curious fancy has struck us to inquire 
 what kind of a world it would have to be in which no particular in- 
 dividual would find fault with, or be dissatisfied with any other one 
 in the world. And we were not a little amused by the queer fancy that 
 all the people would have to be as near alike as "two peas," not only 
 in one particular, but in all. Were this the case it would very likely 
 be a monotonous humdrum kind of a world to live in, as no one would 
 deny any proposition that any other one might see proper to advance. 
 Imagine for a moment, that when some one asserted that Mr. A. was a 
 pretty good kind of a man, that no person would say "Yes — but, well, 
 I don't know; if all stories be true he lacks much of being all right." 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 167 
 
 Or if some one asserted that Mrs., was amiable and lovely, that a 
 dozen of feminine noses wouldn't turn in the direction of the sky, 
 while they would say, "Oh! For-the-land-sake ! Why you certainly do 
 not know her. ' ' Wouldn 't it be just too funny to hear a man say that 
 he "believed it would rain during the week," without his wife saying, 
 "much you know about it, now isn't it." Wouldn't it savor of the mil- 
 lennium to hear some one tell what a good christian F. was, without a 
 dozen different ones chiming in all at once, "he lies; he steals; he 
 swears; he is a hypocrite; he whips his wife; he starves his children; 
 Pshaw ! talk of him going to Heaven ! ' ' 
 
 No wonder such a curious fancy provokes a smile, and we do not 
 think, come to study the matter a little, that we would fancy such a 
 radical change all at once. It would be too great a contrast, and 
 society would be too much like a duck pond, far too quiet to suit us. 
 
 But on the other hand, we do get disgusted sometimes when we 
 consider how universally people take delight, — or, perhaps, more 
 properly, misery, — in imputing wrong motives to their fellows in 
 regard to their actions and opinions. In fact, there appears to be so 
 little of the spirit of toleration left sometimes, that we almost think 
 that it has gone out of use entirely. It appears so natural for us to 
 cultivate a spirit of fault finding, that we will forget a thousand kind, 
 generous, self-sacrificing actions of a fellow mortal, in order that we 
 harass and persecute him because he has fallen into one error. It 
 matters not that he has spoken many kind words about us; that he 
 has gone out of the way to do us a favor; has he not now expressed 
 an opinion to which we cannot subscribe, and are we not determined 
 to injure him if it be possible for us to do so? Intolerance, bigotry, 
 self-conceit, these wrap man up in a little swaddling cloth that not 
 only represses the natural freedom and vigor of the human mind, but 
 envelopes the head and shuts out the vision as well as blunts the 
 sensibilities of the soul and deprives him of that generosity that 
 willingly accords to others every right that they themselves would 
 enjoy. 
 
 God's wisdom has given us a never ending variety. It is that 
 which gives beauty to garden and forest; who would take pleasure 
 in viewing the grove were every tree exactly like every other one? 
 Who could in the flower garden find delight, were every blossom pre- 
 cisely like every other? Then is it not fair to presume that God in- 
 tended a variety in humanity? And does it not show weakness to be 
 forever engaged in nothing better than finding fault with his arrange- 
 ment? 
 
 Politics and religion are the two great thoughts of man. No one 
 is free from either of them. And it takes the most careful practice 
 to enable us to be just, or even tolerant with those who differ with 
 us on either. 
 
.168 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 For ourselves we are glad to be able to say candidly and honestly, 
 that all religions and all politics have in them something that we can 
 commend, even while we feel that we cannot subscribe to their par- 
 ticular forms. 
 
 If these thoughts that have come to us in the solemn stillness of 
 the midnight hour, will tend to make any reader, who perchance may 
 peruse them, more tolerant of the feeling of others in the matter of 
 either of these central questions, or both, then will we be glad that 
 our task has not been a fruitless one at least. 
 
 The Robin's Song 
 
 It has been some time since we dropped into our accustomed atti- 
 tude, and we have vainly striven to give an instructive turn to our 
 thoughts ; but only one thing appears to come to us, and that is the 
 thrill of gladness that we experienced one morning this week, when 
 on awakening we heard the robin's well-known song, and knew that 
 it was but the herald of coming spring, when nature will come forth 
 to another of those resurrections that are as incomprehensible to us as 
 the promised resurrection of the body from the grave. 
 
 In the busy whirl of duties that come every day to the editor of a 
 newspaper, we scarcely realized that four months had sped on the 
 swift wings of time, since we stood by the grove and were inspired 
 with reverence and awe by the crimson beauty that spoke to us in 
 the simple language of nature that all her life functions were about 
 to be suspended for a season. 
 
 The migratory birds were then gathering in noisy bevies in those 
 groves, preparatory to "wheeling their flight to a southern zone," and 
 it was only when the glad music of these tiny warblers awoke us, as it 
 were, to a knowledge of vanished months, that we really realized that 
 nature's season of repose was drawing to a close and that in a short 
 time her recuperated powers would again astonish us with the marvel- 
 ous changes that a few short weeks may make. 
 
 If we could suppose for a time, that none of us had ever witnessed 
 the changes of the seasons, but that all of our knowledge in that direc- 
 tion extended back no farther than the spring of last year, and then 
 we were told that nature would again revive, that frozen streams re- 
 leased from icy fetters would again dance onward toward the sea; 
 that the sapless trunks whose bare and cheerless branches made such 
 a sadening sound as the wintry blasts howled around them, would 
 again put forth buds and leaves; that from their graves under the 
 snow the flowers would again spring and blossom in all their former 
 lovliness; that the creeping grass would again carpet the plains with 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 169 
 
 verdure; in short that tree, and herb, and plant, and flower should 
 mingle and blend once more in every nook and corner of the land, 
 and that teeming millions of insects would crawl over the earth or 
 float in the tepid air, would we not find ourselves haunted by "the 
 devil doubt," and ready to say, "It cannot be possible to reanimate 
 this cold, barren, dead earth, so that it may appear as beautiful as 
 before." 
 
 But is this not similar to the position we occupy in regard to the 
 human family? Our first knowledge of them is in the spring time of 
 infancy and we watch with ever increasing wonder their expanding 
 powers, as they attain from one degree to another of perfection ; the 
 buds of promise swell and burst, revealing the flower touched with 
 tints given by no earthly hand, and decked in colors that only the 
 magic touch of a master's hand could have imparted; but these in 
 turn yield to the mature summer when the flowers have fallen and the 
 full fruits of mature manhood are weighing down every bough, and we 
 rejoice in a bountiful harvest of thought; but the autumn cometh 
 apace and the fruits begin to separate from the parent stem, and soon 
 the chilling winds begin to disengage a leaf here, and another there, 
 and they silently fall on the bosom of the earth ; then come the biting 
 frosts, after which they are swept down in myriads and we stand in 
 the middle of the winter, everywhere surrounded by the evidences of 
 death, and as we have never witnessed the returning spring in human 
 life; it is but slight wonder that we hesitate and doubt, and often 
 refuse to believe that humanity will come forth from the grave, 
 fresher, more vigorous, more beautiful than if the hand of decay had 
 never touched it. 
 
 But it was the song of the robin that came into our thoughts, as 
 we dropped into our accustomed place ; yes, and the song of the 
 robin has taught us a lesson in faith that we hope to profit by, not in 
 the Sabbath hours of life only, but when its toils and cares press the 
 closest upon us; and we ask those readers of the Banner who love 
 to follow our random thoughts in this column, to listen to the song of 
 of the robin, for you may hear it rising clear and shrill, from the 
 very portals of the tomb of a buried world, speaking sweet words of 
 comfort and hope to every stricken heart, and heralding the dawn of 
 the eternal morn, the coming of the never-ending spring. 
 
 What Shall We Read? 
 
 There are a multitude of questions that might be asked daily — in 
 fact, they are asked almost hourly — in regard to those things that 
 most intimately concern our comfort and welfare in this life. What 
 shall we eat? How shall we sleep? In what will we dress? What 
 
170 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 shall we drink? And so on, to endless extent. These are called vital 
 questions, because they concern all classes, from the highest to the 
 lowest, and they demand an answer, and in such a manner that there 
 can be no escape from the responsibilities that rest on the individual 
 members of each class. 
 
 But it is not of any of those that we desire to speak or think of 
 during this hour, but we rather choose one that no doubt has often 
 forced itself upon our readers, and, perchance, may have given them 
 some uneasiness. That question is, what shall we read? We are as- 
 suming, of course, that all intelligent people will read something. It 
 will have to be assumed also that no small degree of judgment will 
 be necessary in order to call out that which will be beneficial to us 
 in our reading. This is necessary from the fact that so long as the 
 freedom of the press remains unrestricted, and we hope that may be 
 forever — there will be much printed that had better never be read at 
 all. For you may rest sure of one fact and that is no neutral ground 
 can be occupied by printed matter ; it will exert an influence either for 
 good or evil ; and we have only to remember the amount of printed 
 matter that falls from the press daily in order to see that its power 
 for good or evil, or both, must be immense. Some prominent Eng- 
 lish statesman is reported as saying, in substance, that you might have 
 a corrupt house of lords, a corrupt commons and all branches of the 
 government corrupt, but so long as there remained a free and inde- 
 pendent press the liberties of the people were safe. This might, per- 
 haps, be qualified by saying, if the press inculcated correct principles. 
 
 Be this as it may, no one will dispute the power of the press; 
 and it is here we wish to impress a thought, and that is that reading 
 should be carefully selected. If we go out to gather vegetables for 
 food for our children how careful we are to exclude those that we 
 suspect of being poisonous. Pernicious reading poisons the mind and 
 corrupts the moral nature, in fact poisons the fountain of life and 
 so corrupts the whole stream. 
 
 Then let parents see to it that no newspaper that does not have 
 a pure, healthy moral tone has a place on their reading tables, and 
 no book whose contents are not pure and right, find a place there. 
 Let them be excluded as the vile toad or the venomous reptile. Let 
 not the child be ruined while under your control by reading bad books 
 or papers. 
 
 And to the youth of our land we wish to say be careful what 
 you read. Bad company will ruin you, but no sooner than bad read- 
 ing will. 
 
 We will perhaps refer to this subject again as it is of too much 
 importance to be dismissed abruptly. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 171 
 
 No good paper, periodical or book can be in your family with- 
 out an influence for good being the result. No bad one should be 
 tolerated any more than you would a plague. 
 
 Parents, what are your children reading? Youths whose eyes 
 fall on this copy of the Banner, what are you reading? 
 
 Seen in Galesburg 
 
 Another beautiful summer day has gone quietly out. Its light 
 has :feded and grown dim, until long since darkness has settled over 
 field and wood and village. "Sleep has weighed down the eyelids 
 of a world." But here we find ourself in this quaint looking, but 
 pleasant old kitchen, where so many times we have talked with our 
 readers, — yes, and ofter speculated about them, wondering how they 
 looked, and if they really felt the interest in us that we do in them — 
 we know all of those readers are not as happy as we could wish them 
 to be. The cares and duties and demands of life ; the trials and 
 difficulties and dangers ; the griefs and sorrows and tears that are 
 encountered daily forbid this. 
 
 We could wish to think only happy thoughts, and write only on 
 pleasant themes. But sometimes our duty would not be well done in 
 that way. The sunshine is pleasant, but were it uninterrupted vegeta- 
 tion would die. The storm is necessary, though not so pleasant; and 
 sorrow — if of the right sort — will make life purer and better. 
 
 But a tinge of regret comes to us tonight, as fancy free we let the 
 pinions of thought have freedom to carry us where they will, when 
 we think that in the most beautiful of our cities there are places — • 
 entirely devoted to the manufacture of misery for otherwise happy 
 households. 
 
 Business called us to Galesburg a few days ago. Nature has done 
 much for her, and art has combined to form an almost ideal spot. 
 Schools, seminaries, colleges and churches are provided in abundance. 
 Three newspapers are there working with untiring zeal to build up the 
 town and make her people happy. She has temperance and other 
 societies, all anxious to build up her good name. But while her streets 
 were crowded with noble looking men and beautiful women, and we 
 were wondering if all were not happy, a hideous noise jarred on our 
 nerves, and, on inquiry, we found that it emanated from a licensed 
 saloon. We stopped to look in at the door. A maudlin band made — 
 not music, for music could not live there — but a noise. Perhaps near 
 a hundred men were standing before the bar, grasping in shaky hands 
 glasses filled with devil brewed wine, while they drank and gesticulated 
 in maudlin idiocy. We watched the stream going in and out, and we 
 saw the old gray haired father, the husband, in the strength of his 
 
172 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 manhood, the young man of fair promise, and, Alas! Alas! The 
 stripling, the mere boy, whose judgment is not yet mature, the pride of 
 a fond mother, into whose loving heart the iron is about to enter. 
 And we said, can it be possible that this is Galesburg, the pride of 
 Knox County, the city of schools and churches, and is this traffic legal- 
 ized and made respectable by law? 
 
 Then we looked at the objects who dealt out this poison to man, 
 and we were sure that delusions exist, for they had the semblance of 
 men. But certainly no man with a soul, a thinking, reasoning being, 
 would thus put damnation to the lips of his fellow men for a little 
 paltry sum of money. In the deepest labyrinths of the lost and 
 damned, when eternity's years are rolling on, and on, these carica- 
 tures on humanity would suffer did they possess a soul. God pity 
 you, poor, deluded, mean and vile apologies for human forms. 
 
 Then as we went up the street we met temporary idiots, mutter- 
 ing incoherently, and gibbering in total oblivion while sense had, for 
 the time, departed. 
 
 "While we are sitting here tonight and the cricket is chirruping its 
 merry songs, and the stars look down on the glad earth, and angels 
 are looking earthward, in those traps of vice and sin the boys of some 
 of our readers may be learning to walk the downward road. 
 
 But as we exchange a good night let us life up a silent petition to 
 Him whose eye never slumbers nor sleeps that He may put it into the 
 hearts of the voters in Galesburg to rid their fair town of this foul 
 blot. 
 
 A Sad Burial 
 
 There are some incidents so sad and pathetic that they are 
 treasured in the heart as almost too sacred for recital. The advent of 
 the death angel, come in what form it may, or under whatever cir- 
 cumstances, is a dreaded event. It seems that in the dread presence of 
 the last enemy, human consolation is inadequate to offer any relief. But 
 human sympathy is a great relief when we are permitted to meet 
 those losses, surrounded by those who we know share our sorrows and 
 feel for our desolate condition. 
 
 There is something so abhorrent to us in the very idea of death. 
 That such a total and mysterious change should come over the human 
 form, is, to us, not only repugnant, but terrible. But even in death 
 there are mitigating circumstances, that seem to reconcile us to the 
 great bereavement; while, on the other hand, there are circumstances 
 that seem to burn the picture of a death scene so indelibly on our 
 minds, that the main points will never fade, so long as memory is 
 faithful to her trust. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 178 
 
 We remember one such death scene. It was a child, a mere in- 
 fant. We do not even remember the name, for the mother was only 
 thrown in our company years ago, while on a journey, and we were 
 but a boy — perhaps that is one reason it made such a lasting impres- 
 sion — and had no idea that our pen would ever narrate the sad little 
 episode for the readers of a paper whose editor we now are. 
 
 It was in 1849, the writer, in company with his father's family 
 and a favorite uncle, James Torrens, now of Parmington, left New 
 Jersey for the then comparatively new State of Illinois. It was a 
 journey that required three weeks at that early period. 
 
 When we embarked on the Pennsylvania canal, we found among 
 the passengers a woman whose speech showed her English birth, ac- 
 companied by her child. Her husband had preceded her to America, 
 and was in one of the western States, and had sent for her to join 
 him. She had passed through a long sea voyage, and now found 
 herself without even an acquaintance on the boat, with the child 
 dangerously sick. Those who have a recollection of travel by the 
 canal boats know that it was impossible to give it that care and atten- 
 tion that its condition demanded. 
 
 We had passed the first stage of the canal, and were on "the 
 inclined plains," and the child was, to all appearances, dying, when 
 a sudden bump of the locomotive gave the trucks a sudden shock, 
 and the child started up on its hands and knees and looked wildly 
 around. It lingered until we were again on the western end of the 
 canal. It was in the latter part of March, or perhaps the first part of 
 April when it died. I do not remember in all my life so sad a scene as 
 that poor, forlorn, strange English mother, sitting in such a situation, 
 holding the hand of her dead infant. 
 
 It was one of those peculiar days that come in the early spring; 
 fitful showers of snow would obscure the vision for a few minutes and 
 then clear off, while the wind was a very gale, in its fury. The boat 
 was made fast at the base of one of the Alleghenys, it being too 
 boisterous to proceed, and the child was to be buried. If we remember 
 rightly it was Uncle Torrens and the mate of the boat who started over 
 the mountain, and after a long absence returned with a rough board, 
 and some tools to dig a grave. Mr. Torrens made a rough coffin, a 
 grave was dug at the foot of the mountain, kind hands prepared the 
 little emaciated body, and it was consigned to the earth. But who 
 can imagine the feelings of that poor emigrant mother as she laid her 
 first born, and only treasure in such a casket? Afterward the wind 
 abated ; the boat was loosened from her moorings, and we were under 
 way again. At Pittsburg we parted from the mother, but a thousand 
 times that saddest and most solemn funeral that we have ever witnessed 
 will come back to us, making a fresh demand on our sympathy. 
 
174 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Mr. Torrens has done many acts of disinterested kindness, but 
 none of them, we think, will call down a mother's blessing, as his 
 efforts to give a christian burial to that dead babe. 
 
 Years have passed, and many sorrows have fallen to our lot, but 
 the remembrance of none of them sends such a sudden chill to gay 
 thoughts as when that scene comes up before us. We never heard 
 of the mother after, nor do we know her fate, but there, at the foot 
 of a stately mountain, is a tiny mound that will remain closed until 
 the Arch Angel's trumpet shall call the sleeping dead. 
 
 Reader, you have the rude sketch of what might form the subject 
 for a grand picture, did the proper artist portray the subject. 
 
 The Sorrows of a Day 
 
 The fleeting hours, running on so swiftly, have again brought 
 the time when we must shut ourselves in from the busy turmoils, 
 cares and strifes of the bustling business world, and, casting our tiny 
 net into the boundless sea of thought, catch something that may benefit 
 those for whom we write. 
 
 To us, there is something mysterious about the silence of night. 
 As nature stops to rest — or may we say sleeps for a season — it fills 
 us with awe, and in the dim, gathering shadows, it seems we catch an 
 inspiration impossible to be obtained while the noise of active life, and 
 the hum of busy industry is sounding in our ears. To our mind there 
 is something beyond the grand — it reaches the sublime — in the solemn 
 stillness that settles over the world when the sun has gone down, and 
 the stars — heaven's beautiful and radiant lamps — are twinkling in 
 myriads over the blue expanse above. When the birds have ceased 
 their twitter, and the beasts have sought their wonted repose, and 
 weary men and exhausted women have laid aside the grievous bur- 
 den of labor, too heavy by far for many of those who are frail and 
 weak, and are forgetting the ills they have in heaven-sent slumber; 
 as we listen to the song of the katydid, the chirrup of the cricket, the 
 boding of the doleful owl, or the shrill voice of the night hawk, we 
 seem to be divorced from the tedium of toil's endless treadmill, and all 
 the faculties of the mind expanding, reach out to the grand, the mys- 
 terious, the beautiful in nature. 
 
 As we sit here tonight, in the stillness of the midnight hour with 
 almost all those around us wrapt in that mock death called sleep, we 
 find hundreds of different avenues opening to our fancy, each inviting 
 us to walk there for an hour, and each offering some peculiar induce- 
 ment to win us there. But as we let thought seek her own chosen 
 way in these silent hours, we find it yielding to the first great law of 
 thought, that it is not controlled by law; and as our stubborn fancy 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 176 
 
 seems determined to return to the same spot at each attempt to force 
 it into other paths, we here let fancy spread her wings, and let 
 imagination rove where'er it will. 
 
 But lest too much chaff be found to cumber the golden grain our 
 garnered sheaf should bring to our dear readers, we will ask this 
 question : Did you ever think how serious a thing is life ? A tragedy. 
 A farce. Half comic, wholly sad. There are two standpoints from 
 which we look back on a dead day. One gives us a joyful glimpse 
 of life. The other gives us a tearful view of death. Perhaps in some 
 more favored hour we may occupy the former standpoint and view 
 the joyous scenes of life that but one day brings forth. 
 
 But can it harm us now to linger here while the day dies and 
 let our thoughts go back to sorrows that were born since this day 
 began. 
 
 Away down in the bowels of the earth, this morning, a band 
 of brave miners were toiling for bread for those whose love made the 
 task a task of love. A careless uncovered light, a deafening noise, a 
 wild alarm, the hurrying feet of women and children toward the 
 pit; a desperate fight for the dead bodies, and they are lying in a 
 row, the silent, white faces turning towards the heavens, as though 
 looking after the freed spirit. In twenty humble homes a corpse is 
 watched even while our pen traces these lines. A thousand crushed 
 and bleeding hearts appeal to poor human sympathy for comfort. 
 
 The roar of a flying train is stopped. The treacherous bridge has 
 given way. Down in the abyss is a mass of splintered wood and 
 twisted iron. On the sward are the dead, the dying and the wounded. 
 Ten, twenty, thirty are already dead and hundreds mourn, who when 
 the day but dawned were glad, 
 
 A stately ship, a stormy sea, an hour or two of suspense worse 
 than death, and all is over. The hungry and remorseless sea has 
 swallowed up hundreds of loved friends and the telegraph flashed 
 sorrow to many saddened homes. 
 
 The startling cry of fire; the building swathed in flames; the 
 sickening stench of roasting flesh, and sorrow enters homes hitherto 
 untouched by its blight. 
 
 At noon a company of bathers sought the river's brink; in a 
 moment one has gone down, none know how, and tonight the noble 
 boy is costumed for the grave — and — well, Ah me ! 
 
 'Tis morn. He seeks the cup, and drinks, and drinks again. He 
 tries to board the moving train. He falls, is crushed. The mangled 
 body is here, wept over by a heartbroken wife. 
 
176 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 The treacherous well has caved, and one has found a living tomb. 
 And an aged mother weeps because her first born has perished. 
 
 The swiftly whirling stone has burst; a corpse, an inquest, and a 
 desolate home. 
 
 The lightning has fallen, and the strong man is in eternity in a 
 moment ; but friends mourn and will not be comforted. 
 
 The mails are arriving. The distribution is impatiently awaited. 
 The letters are opened. Tears are falling. Family ties are broken. 
 The saddest news has come. 
 
 The telegraph has kept up its busy click all day. To one here 
 and another there comes these brief but dreaded messages: "Come 
 at once, all hope is gone;" "He is dying;" "Fell from a scaffold, no 
 hope;" "Father died at one;" "Mother is dead. Come;" "John is 
 dying;" "Mary is sinking." Into hundreds and thousands of homes 
 just such messages have found their way today. Yes, it is true. 
 Accident, Suicide, Murder, Disease, Death. It prevades every spot 
 and disputes the path with life. 
 
 Can it be that while we have been busy with the cares of life, 
 that such a record has been made for others? 
 
 The picture is not overdrawn; is not even complete. No. There 
 are a thousand phases of sorrow compared to which death would be 
 joy. But we will not enumerate them. It would not perhaps be best. 
 In the broad glare of the bright sun, if you read these you may not 
 catch our feeling. But let night come. Let midnight come. Shut 
 yourself out from the gay world — that laughs o'er yawning graves — 
 and then try to grasp the record of but one single day, and you will 
 realize that: "Man was made to mourn." 
 
 But have I been dreaming, or is it reality? I see a broad ex- 
 panse. 'Tis dotted o'er with graves — little graves. The mounds of 
 earth are fresh. All nearly of a size. In thousands of homes tonight 
 there is bitter mourning for idols who have turned to clay. Mothers 
 are starting from troubled, fretful sleep, to reach out hands for forms 
 that are sleeping the last, long sleep. God grant that none of the 
 Banner readers mourn over one of these tiny mounds that have been 
 heaped up today. 
 
 Growing Old 
 
 It has been some time since we sat here penning the last article 
 for this part of our paper. It was just after the schools had got into 
 working order for the present school year, and we felt anxious to say 
 something and to say it at the right time and in the right way; but 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 177 
 
 one week after another kept slipping away, and we were obliged to 
 give our coveted space to others, until last week; but we determined 
 to let the cogitations of that hour appear with the rest, and so we 
 published them, although perhaps a little old. How soon things grow 
 old. Eternal change ! How doth thy stealthy tread transform the most 
 familiar objects, and make them appear unto our vision as though 
 unknown. 
 
 It would be useless now to attempt to divert our thoughts into 
 any other channel, for, as we let idle pen rest listlessly on the paper, 
 and try to get into the proper frame of mind to write useful thoughts, 
 everything seems to fade out and become dim and indistinct except 
 this. 
 
 Growing old ! Growing old ! ! At such times we mostly find, when 
 careful search is made, that some incident or scene has impressed itself 
 upon our mind with more than usual force ; and we suppose we owe the 
 feelings of this silent hour to the fact that while we were attending 
 the Fulton county fair, last week, we met so many that we had not 
 seen for some time, and this thought came up very distinctly as each 
 additional face found a picture of what it used to be in the gallery of 
 memory. 
 
 As we approach the east end of Floral Hall, a neatly dressed and 
 elegant lady steps out and extends a welcome hand; we notice in a 
 moment that it is Mrs. R., she whom we knew eighteen years ago as 
 Miss M., at the time when we were teaching in the neighborhood of 
 Canton, and were boarding with her parents. As we pass the usual 
 greetings and make the inquiries that always will crowd up we notice 
 that Mrs. R. has changed ; and we can scarcely realize that the fine 
 matronly woman with whom we are conversing, was once the beauti- 
 ful and fascinating young lady who shed such a brightness over the 
 usually quiet old homestead. Light hearted, vivacious, free from 
 care, the idol of her parents and the center of attraction in every 
 social gathering, it seemed that to awake her from such a dream of 
 bliss were all too wanton. But a noble boy — for he was but that in 
 years, though full of manly vigor and noble purposes — wooed and won 
 her. There was a wedding feast at the old place, and they went out 
 to battle with the world. And this is that girl — a girl no longer — as 
 we realize when she introduces a girl nearly as tall as herself as "my 
 daughter." Growing old, we thought, but growing more interesting. 
 The blushing glow of girlhood exchanged for the sober cast of riper 
 age. And we could not decide — we found it impossible to do so — 
 whether we could admire most the maid or the matron. We found 
 her husband, Mr. R., at the southeast corner of the Hall tying a blue 
 ribbon on some article whose merits he had just passed upon. As he 
 gave us his peculiar hearty hand shake and cordial greeting, and his 
 
178 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 rippling laugh floated out on the balmy air, we thought, well, certainly 
 he is not growing old. But when we looked at him we found that he, too, 
 was changing. But is it really growing old? Perhaps it is ; but does the 
 heart grow old ? We doubt it ; for we know that the deepening shadows 
 of years will never shrivel up the generous impulses of the heart that 
 make the friendship of such people valuable. 
 
 Here at the west end of the hall we meet Mrs. C, of Fairview, 
 followed by two of the sweetest of children; for all the world an- 
 other edition of what she was when first under our charge. She, too, 
 is changed, growing older ; but her greeting is as fresh as ever. 
 
 Here by the amphitheatre we met a fine, hearty looking young man. 
 He holds out his hand, and smiles as he watches our puzzled expression. 
 "What is your name?" we ask. He responds, "you ought to know 
 me; I went to school to you; my name is Charles B." We tried to 
 realize what ailed him, and could only say growing old; for we could 
 remember the neatly clad and careful little boy with the large check- 
 ered apron over a comfortable suit, but can this be him? Yes, he 
 looks like the older boys. He, too, is growing old. 
 
 And thus we were meeting them all day. Those who were older 
 then, now seeking the quiet corner ; those who were youths, now giving 
 and taking the premiums; and those who were then babes, just enter- 
 ing the years of manhood and womanhood. 
 
 It seems so strange ; but two decades, and what changes. Many 
 of those whom we then knew have long been sleeping the last long 
 sleep ; many are scattered, while those who greet us with the old 
 familiar smile are all growing old. 
 
 We go to the glass and find that time is placing silver threads in 
 our hair, and wrinkles on our faces ; and we feel that we are growing 
 old also ; unawares, as it were, but surely growing old. 
 
 And the day is growing old, too. The clock is nearing twelve, 
 and we must call back our wandering thoughts, and bid the Banner 
 readers good night, hoping that while none of them can expect to 
 escape the withering touch of age, yet that their hearts embalmed in 
 living virtue may still be new and young. 
 
 Night 
 
 "Night is the time to weep, 
 To wet with unseen tears 
 The graves of memory, where sleep 
 The hopes of other years." 
 
 The beautiful, the wonderful, the mysterious night! How it 
 comes with visions of joy and pleasure to the tinseled and painted 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 179 
 
 and utterly heartless devotees of pleasure, who worship at no shrine 
 where music does not lure, and where flying feet do not patter in 
 time to its witching strains! 
 
 How it comes with anticipations of gladness to wife and child, 
 who peer out of crimson curtained windows, eager, expectant, anxious 
 to welcome husband and father as he returns to seek under the 
 blessed roof of home that something that heart has yearned for through 
 all the long, busy, hurrying, exacting and relentless hours of the day 
 in which great concerns claimed his attention, and momentous business 
 calculations harassed his strained and distracted mind! 
 
 How it comes with its chill and damp and biting blasts to the 
 houseless poor whose want and misery will be but the keener felt, 
 and whose emaciated bodies, thin-clad and shivering, cower over the 
 mockery of a blaze, and then crawl into beds cold, cheerless, uncom- 
 fortable, to sleep? Ah, no! To suffer and speculate on that great 
 problem of life, why some are rich and warm, while they are poor 
 and cold. Nor can they hope to solve the problem, for have not wise 
 philosophers, men of science, clad in rich, warm robes, sitting in 
 cushioned divan, with mellow light of brilliant chandeliers gloating 
 the wide apartment and falling with softening tints upon the paper 
 where his deep thoughts are traced, failed to solve it? And how shall 
 this poor wretch in hovel dark and cold, with hunger gnawing at his 
 vitals and hope so nearly gone within his heart that doubt comes in 
 disputing it is dead, hope to solve it? Neither of them does; it never 
 has been touched by human knowledge, and it will not be, but while 
 he speculates the cheerless hours go by, and nearer comes the hour 
 when welcome sun shall bring him light and some degree of warmth, 
 if hunger's voice should not be stilled, nor any outward sign of joy 
 show on a face so wan, so emaciated, so expressionless that inward 
 movings of the soul no longer find a record there. 
 
 How it comes with dread to those upon whose cheek the rose of 
 health has perished and faded, and who will count the weary hours 
 of pain and restlessness that lie between them and the rosy morn 
 whose glowing tints will mark another day! 
 
 How it comes with mingled emotions to the young mother on 
 whose breast lies the soft cheek of the infant whose advent has 
 awakened that mother-love that is immortal. 
 
 HJow it comes with conflicting emotions to the wife who has sat 
 up in worry and suspense to welcome her husband, and finds an un- 
 steady step and thick voice to tell her that her dream of bliss has had 
 a sad awakening! 
 
 How it comes to the fond mother as she lies tossing on a sleepless 
 pillow, distracted because her boy is not yet in for slumber, though 
 she has counted the hours until it is now long past midnight! If 
 
180 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 there be one hour of supreme bitterness for the maternal heart it is 
 that one in which the mother first admits a doubt in regard to the 
 path in which the feet of her idolized son are entering. 
 
 Night! In which good men sleep, and happy homes are angel 
 guarded. Night ! In which the boy is lured to ruin under the devilish 
 guise of pleasure. Night! In which the fair flower of virtue is 
 scorched and withered in the lascivious heat of wine-inflamed passion, 
 that leaves life a dreary waste, heaven a far away impossibility, the 
 cold and cheerless grave a welcome place in which to hide dishonor, 
 and hell a place not longer to be avoided. 
 
 Night! In which the brood of criminals crawl out to prey on 
 what they find. The petty thief sneaks out to pilfer and the bolder 
 burglar to blow the safe, and the highwayman seeks the belated one 
 and chills the very marrow in his bones by the demand for what of 
 value he may have. 
 
 Night! In which the gambler, too lazy to work, too indolent to 
 beg, too cowardly to steal, sits around the board high heaped with 
 glittering gold, and drinks and cheats and swears the exciting, feverish 
 hours away. 
 
 Night ! In which the murderer stalks forth to seek his unsuspect- 
 ing victim. He crouches in the shadows of the streets, seeks the 
 saloon to blunt his conscience in the fumes of rum and rouse his devil 
 courage by the help of drink, until he loses all of human that was his 
 by birth, and is a demon fit for devilish deeds of blood at whose very 
 recital honest men will quake when the next day is born. See him as 
 he slips away with cat-like tread and cunning born of much experience 
 in the ways of sin ; he finds the house all dark and silent ; he springs 
 the shutter so deftly that no hinge has creaked to warn his victim; 
 the sash is raised ; he cautiously enters ; he slips without a sound along 
 the halls and passageways, climbs up the tortuous stairs, springs back 
 the lock that bars him from his victim, enters the room, deals with his 
 hand the fatal blow that satiates revenge, or clears the path for 
 robbery, and the victim passes from the mockery of death to its 
 reality. 
 
 Night ! Storm-swept and boisterous, wind-tossed and awful. With 
 crash of toppling tower and turret, and sound of falling trees up- 
 rooted by the pitiless gusts that strip the forests, level the cities, lash 
 the waves to madness, and wake the slumbering echoes in the gorges 
 deep. 
 
 Night! With the mellow moonlight flooding all the landscape 
 and casting shadows weird, fantastic, grotesque and wonderful. The 
 tall and stately pines stand silent on the hills; the mountains reveal 
 their distant summits, standing out in bold relief against the sky ; day 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 181 
 
 seems but to have put on a fairer tint of loveliness, and Luna reigns 
 as queen where but an hour ago the sun was king. 
 
 Night! Moonless, cloudless, calm, serene and quiet. A million 
 stars are sparkling in the concave of the skies. The milk maiden's 
 path trails in a luminous line from horizon to zenith, and from zenith 
 to horizon. These stars are silent sentinels watching above a world. 
 For ages they have seen the struggles, the triumphs, the failures of 
 humankind; nations have come and gone, dynasties have been estab- 
 lished and perished, generations have been born and died, continents 
 have risen above the waves and sunk beneath them, the hand of time 
 has made the very mountain tops heavy, and passing centuries have 
 written their records in the flinty albums of the rocks, and yet these 
 stars have glittered over all just as they do tonight. They seem to 
 us eternal, and we wonder, as we gaze up to them, how they can 
 shine so calmly on palace and hovel, on poverty and wealth, on joy 
 and sorrow, on happiness and misery, on virtue and vice, on love and 
 hate, on generosity and selfishness, on deeds of charity and deeds of 
 crime, on birth and life and death. How small we are as we stand 
 and look upward to where they shine ! How little do we really know. 
 Tonight as we record these random thoughts, these stars are looking 
 down in silent grandeur on the oft-repeated comedy and tragedy of 
 life. 
 
 We are the players now ; the curtain soon will drop ; death stands 
 to ring it down ; put out the lights and bill us for another world. 
 
 Mother ! Home ! Heaven I 
 
 Mother! The first face we see to recollect, the name we never 
 can forget. It is one of the sweetest names ever spoken ; it is the holiest 
 human name that ever has been sounded by the lips. Mother! Who 
 caught the first smile that played on infant lips ; who saw the first 
 gleam of intelligence that played on the face of babyhood; whose 
 soothing voice stirred the sound waves of air that broke on the 
 tympanum of the infantile ear; whose eyes were sleepless when sick- 
 ness was the lot of tender years ; whose hand guided our first tottering 
 steps ; whose wisdom nullified our childish ignorance ; whose experience 
 came to assist the doubtful hesitancy of our unskilled lives ; whose 
 restraining hand held us in those impulsive moments when impetuosity 
 of youth would have carried us beyond the limits of reason and made 
 us do that which would have caused shame and regret. Mother ! To 
 whom we came in all our difficulties, all our sorrows, all our sadness, 
 all our disappointments, all our trials, all our failures. Mother! 
 whose stock of patience was never exhausted ; whose assiduous watch- 
 fulness never grew weary; whose helping hand was ever extended; 
 whose forgiveness came unasked ; whose love was pure, sweet, strong, 
 
182 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 enduring. Mother ! Who could seem not to see our imperfections, and 
 who was the first to note the good traits — if we had any — or supply 
 them if they were entirely lacking. Mother! She who caused us to 
 kneel at her knee and taught us to say, "Our Father, who art in 
 heaven;" who read to us those Bible stories; who instilled into our 
 young hearts that reverence for God that all the sophistry of the 
 infidel can never eradicate. Mother! Whose pure life, self denial, 
 sacrifices, and devotion to principle was our guide in youth, our in- 
 spiration in manhood, and our veneration in old age. Mother! The 
 first name in a blessed trinity of names. 
 
 Home ! The sweetest word but one. Home ! Where our infant 
 wants were supplied ; where our first impressions were formed ; where 
 our first associations put their stamp on the plastic mind. Home ! 
 With its hallowed recollections, its pure joys, its blessed privileges, its 
 sweet enjoyments. Home! Where father and mother were, where 
 brothers and sisters met. Yes, home! With its altars where our 
 fathers prayed, where mother sang her sweetest lullabys, where a 
 brother's unselfish admonitions were given, where a sister's pleadings 
 for a discontinuance of evil habits were so earnest. Home ! Where 
 all our best impulses came ; where our first friendships were formed — 
 and alas! where the first links in that golden chain were broken. 
 Home ! Where ambition first awoke, and curiosity began that investi- 
 gation which was to give us all our knowledge of the world. Home ! 
 The holiest place on earth, the dearest, the best, the first place we 
 remember, and whose loved scenes will be lost only when the mists 
 of death close around us, shutting out from us everything that is of 
 the earth earthly. Mother! Home! Twin jewels that sparkle the 
 brightest in the casket of language, diadems whose lustre will never 
 grow dim. 
 
 Heaven! Perfect rest; perfect happiness; perfect love; perfect 
 obedience ; freedom from sin, from pain, from sorrow, from sickness. 
 No fear in heaven; no anxiety, no disappointments, no partings. 
 Heaven ! The realization of all the best, and purest, and loveliest aspir- 
 ations of the sanctified heart. An endless day, a continuous summer, an 
 eternity with perfection written in living characters everywhere. 
 Heaven! A blessed gathering, a meeting with the father, the mother, 
 the brother, the sister, the wife, the child, the friend we lost on 
 earth, and whose departure left our hearts so sad, so desolate, so 
 crushed that we doubted if even hope — witching siren — could ever 
 again tempt us to smile. God will be there; the blessed Savior will 
 be there ; the angels will circle the throne and cast their crowns in 
 glittering shower at His feet ; the saints, made perfect through suffer-, 
 will be there ; the righteous will be there ; that innumerable company, 
 whom no man can number, who have washed their robes in the blood 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 183 
 
 of the lamb of God will be there. Heaven will be the full, perfect 
 fruition of every hope. 
 
 Mother! Home! Heaven! A trinity of words, the dearest, the 
 sweetest, the best: 
 
 "There are three words that sweetly blend. 
 That on the heart are graven; 
 A precious, soothing balm they lend — 
 They're mother, home and heaven! 
 
 They twine a wreath of beauteous flowers. 
 
 Which, placed on memory's urn, 
 Will e'en the longest, gloomiest hours 
 
 To golden sunlight turn! 
 
 They form a chain whose every link 
 
 Is free from base alloy; 
 A stream where whosoever drinks 
 
 Will find refreshing joy! 
 
 They build an altar where each day 
 
 Love's offering is renewed; 
 And peace illumes with genial ray 
 
 Life's darkened solitude! 
 
 If from our side the first has fled. 
 
 And home be but a name, 
 Let's strive the narrow path to tread. 
 
 That we the last may gain!" 
 
 Overworked; Underfed 
 
 As we catch the opportunity to indulge in a quiet hour, we find 
 our thoughts getting fixed on the great number in the world, who, in 
 spite of the hardest toil, and the strictest economy, find it difficult to 
 get along. 
 
 This great multitude is never free from the apprehension that the 
 grim, gaunt, terrible wolf of hunger will, sooner or later, enter their 
 doors. 
 
 Many of these keep up a cheerful exterior, and hide from even 
 their nearest and most valued friends the pinching that must be re- 
 sorted to in order to seem to be in moderate circumstances. 
 
 We do not refer to the still larger class who spend their hard 
 earnings for tobacco and whisky; but to those who deny themselves 
 everything in order to clothe and feed their families. 
 
 It would seem to be a fair proposition that God intended that 
 man should live — not starve — by the sweat of his brow. The fair 
 face of nature would indicate this. The genial sun, the favoring 
 
184 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 breezes, the seasonable showers, the adaptability of climate, and, in 
 fact, everything points to the conclusion that God intended that all 
 men should be able to live by toil, and, of course, that no drones, in 
 the human hive, were intended in the Divine economy. 
 
 But certainly there has been as great a change in this respect, 
 as in the fact that God created man holy, and that man fell by sinning 
 against God. 
 
 The selfish attribute of man — not to be spoken against when kept 
 in proper bounds — has so changed what was plainly intended, that we 
 find a comparative few able to live in idle luxury, while the multitude 
 must dig, and delve, and almost starve. 
 
 We do not intend to follow out the causes elaborately, nor to 
 spend much time in pointing out the remedy. The keen eye of distress 
 is even now resting on the class laws that have marred man's happy 
 lot; and the time is not far distant when united action will apply a 
 remedy that is already being pointed out. 
 
 But our thought was, that while you are anxious and concerned, 
 and think that you are the only one in trouble, the fact is there are 
 hundreds and thousands more who are having just your experience. 
 
 Right in the midst of a "boom," and in Heaven gifted America, 
 hundreds of toil worn, anxious fathers eat scanty fare, and snatch a 
 fitful rest; hundreds of overtasked, careworn mothers trouble about 
 the things of the tomorrow, and are planning, in hours that ought to 
 be sacred to soothing slumber, as to how the family is to be provided 
 for. 
 
 Man seems all too willing to let his fellow man rob him of God 
 given rights, and give him in their place man invented wrongs. 
 
 If we were standing on the elevation where common sense and a 
 proper education should place us, and the light of that education was 
 making visible the crimes and wrongs being enacted in the dark 
 valley where we are today, we would stop repining at God and for- 
 tune, destroy our tyrants, and rejoice in manhood and freedom. 
 
 Reminiscent 
 
 October, month of beauty, of crisp, clear, frosty air, of glorious 
 sunshine days, of silent nights when stars twinkle in regal splendor, 
 when nature changes into beautiful colors of crimson and gold along 
 the stately groves — a few of which still remain by the edges of the 
 prairies — where the gray stubble fields separate the fields of corn that 
 rustle their withered leaves in the gentle wind, leaves made brittle by 
 the frosts that have come to paint our landscapes as no other painter 
 can ever hope to color them. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 185 
 
 Sunday, by the very thoughtful kindness of Jacob and Mrs. Leh- 
 man, we were permitted to see the beauties of this tenth daughter 
 of the year, as they are spread out to view on what is called the 
 "Hilly road" to Farmington — a road that, at this season, has so many 
 fine scenes that one wishes he could gaze forever on this one, and 
 yet makes one anxious to cross the next hollow, and catch the vista 
 that opens from the succeeding hill-top. 
 
 The road crosses the Kickapoo, the creek with the liquid Indian 
 name, recalling the rude hunter, the cruel warrior, the wiley, sneaking, 
 treacherous, cunning aborigines, those whose canoes once rippled the 
 waters of this crooked stream, whose war whoop woke the echoes of 
 these rugged hills, where chiefs held sway, where dusky Indian 
 maiden was wooed and won, where life had all of comedy and tragedy, 
 its hopes and fears, its joys and sorrows, its pleasures and its pains. 
 Ah, noble, savage, ill-starred race! Brave, cunning, skilled in wood- 
 craft and in nature's lore — but doomed — long since have they dis- 
 appeared from this stream, these hills, and looking from the lofty 
 peaks of the mighty Rockies, ''Read their doom in the setting sun." 
 
 This bright morning of October 11, 1908, as two old couples drive 
 rapidly over these hills, thought, with its curious ways — thought, that 
 cannot be controlled — that will not move in planned orbits, nor run 
 in prepared grooves — thought carries us back to those earlier scenes, 
 and a tinge of solemn sadness creeps over the mind as it contemplates 
 a race now almost extinct. 
 
 Our friends were going to visit relatives, and we, too, were going 
 to visit two cousins, the Misses Janie and Mary Torrens, the only two 
 we are in touch with on a sainted and revered mother's side of the 
 house. The social part of the trip was fully enjoyed by all, for never 
 can we expect a kindlier welcome, nor a more royal entertainment. 
 
 But we enjoyed another great pleasure — one that we fully ap- 
 preciated. It was being present at the morning service in the Pres- 
 byterian church. It was our privilege to belong to that grand body 
 of devoted followers of God when the present house of worship was 
 built. It has been twice remodeled since, and is a very beautiful and 
 up-to-date building. The pulpit, originally at the east end, is now 
 on the south side. The floor has been raised in order to make room for 
 the heating plant, and is now almost on a level with the windows; a 
 new floor of very narrow material has been put in, the frescoing is a 
 marvel of beauty — in fact, they have a very fine, beautiful, convenient 
 and comfortable house in which to worship. 
 
 Their hour for morning service is 10 :30, and we arrived a little 
 early, and as we sat waiting memory got busy, calling up the old house 
 of worship that stood on another location, and where we spent our 
 .Sundays from 1849 until the new house was erected on the present 
 
186 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 site, and we recalled these grand old men and women who filled those 
 ruder pews of those earlier days — those who are now sleeping the 
 dreamless sleep over yonder in Oak Ridge Cemetery — then but a 
 patch of hazel brush, with here and there a little opening where a 
 pioneer's grave had been hollowed out and closed. We recalled John 
 Simpson and his sweet-faced, motherly wife, pioneers in this church, 
 as they were pioneers in the settlement of this great state. There, too, 
 were John and Cunninghan Brown and their families, who lived at 
 Five Mile Point, noted christians and noted abolitionists, whose sons 
 fought to make America free indeed, and one of whom left an arm on 
 one of the bloody fields of the civil war. Also the Mathews brothers, Rob- 
 ert, John, Thomas and William, coming long distances to worship in 
 that old frame church — all in the better land, except Robert, still living 
 on the same farm, northwest of Yates City. Also James and Mrs. Arm- 
 strong and their seven daughters and two sons, schoolmates, and as 
 fine a family as ever graced a prairie home ; and John Wallace and his 
 family, and Mrs. Montgomery, the mother of our A. E. Montgomery, 
 and her daughter, Mary ; there, too, were the Torrens, the McKeighans, 
 the Ralstons, the Dickeys, the Jacks, the Montgomerys, the Wilsons, 
 the Vandersloots, the Marshalls, the Kelleys, the Stecks, the McKissicks, 
 the Buchanans, the Stairs, and others, many of these latter from that 
 nursery of pure Presbyterianism, Westmorland county, Pennsylvania. 
 
 Then we thought of the time when, a barefoot boy, we swung our 
 feet from those old hard seats and recited the shorter catechism and 
 chapters from the Bible, and recalled the choir, led by Thomas Mont- 
 gomery, and could again hear Lida Wilson, now Mrs. Ira Steenburg, 
 and Lida Vandersloot, and all those other gifted singers, wonderfully 
 gifted to us then. 
 
 Then, too, rises a vision of a black eyed girl sitting beside us in 
 one of those seats, on the first Sunday in 1859, receiving congratula- 
 tions as a bride. She is sitting by us today as we notice some of the 
 familiar forms come along the aisles and take their accustomed places, 
 some of the then young, now bent by years, and gray — but 50 years 
 make changes, and open graves have closed over many who then were 
 young and fair. 
 
 But the tones of the bell recall us from the past, and as they die in 
 the distance, a bright young lady touches the keys of the piano with 
 a skillful hand, and the congregation is singing "Praise God From 
 Whom all Blessings Flow." Just before, a young man, a mere boy in 
 appearance, has glided into the pulpit, and enters upon the duties of 
 the hour. The choir is, today, but a quartette, but it is capable of de- 
 lighting the ear by sacred song and beautifully executed anthem. 
 
 The opening prayer is fine, helpful, uplifting, a foretaste of that 
 to come after. The Scripture lesson is the 26th chapter of Job, and 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 187 
 
 the sermon founded on the closing verse: "Lo, these are parts of his 
 ways; but how little a portion is heard of him? But the thunder of 
 his power who can understand?" 
 
 The sermon was a scholarly, able and eloquent production, and 
 was a surprise for us, and we enjoyed being present to hear it and 
 gather information and get inspiration from it. We prepared an out- 
 line of it for this article, but busy cares and lack of help compel us, 
 very reluctantly, to omit it. 
 
 After the benediction we had the pleasure of meeting many of 
 the old friends, and were moved by the earnestness and cordiality of 
 their kindly greetings. 
 
 We reached home at 4 :30 after another most delightful ride along 
 those groves tinted with the crimson and gold, over those hills that 
 are so fine in their regal autumn splendor, by fields of rustling corn, 
 and passing those fine buildings that dot the farms, and looking off 
 miles and miles on landscapes that even "Sunny Italy" cannot sur- 
 pass. 
 
 The Dying Girl 
 
 Last week we spent Our Hour Alone in a sick room. As we 
 drop into our place tonight, to commune with thought for a short 
 time, we have tried to guide our reflections to some subject that would 
 be light and profitable, if not gay. But we find that one well defined 
 law of mind is that it is not subject to any law, and cannot be con- 
 trolled. In spite of our efforts we will drift back into that sick room. 
 We have described it — we say it, but we might say them — for, alas! 
 they are all too numerous — so that it is familiar to all. But we have 
 not reverted to the central figure in that invalid room. As we enter 
 it tonight we are not struck so much with the surroundings, for our 
 eye rests on the occupant of the bed. She is a girl — a mere child in 
 appearance — perhaps thirteen, but looking a great deal younger, not 
 over ten, one might say. She is of delicate stature; what we would 
 denominate a frail child. But she has never complained much. Some- 
 times a slight cold, or a fever, would render her listless for a day or 
 two, but the vivacity of youth would assert itself, and she would be at 
 play again. About two years before we look in upon the scene, she 
 began to complain. In a few weeks disease had so developed that a 
 physician was called. He made an examination, and told the parents 
 frankly that the girl would die. As we see her now, she is lying on 
 the bed, her head resting on a pillow, her hair, long and black, has 
 been combed back from a smooth, white forehead; her eyes are large, 
 and dark — almost, if not altogether, black; her skin is fair and her 
 features regular. She is what one might call a handsome girl — not 
 particularly beautiful. As she turns her eyes to greet us, on entering, 
 there is a peculiar light emitted from them, that impresses us with the 
 
188 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 idea that she is quick and bright beyond her years, or else that she 
 has been thinking strange thoughts during all these weary days, and 
 months, and years. To our inquiry, of how she is, she replies in a 
 soft, sweet, musical voice, ''Oh! I am pretty well," and then adds, 
 after a pause, "for me." There is no mistaking the look on her 
 pinched features. It is not want, for everything has been done by 
 parents and friends. It is the seal of death stamped on a youthful 
 brow. In a week or two after this we again look into the room. It is 
 much the same, but the bed has lost its occupant. She has become 
 too weak to get up stairs, and we find her in the front room on the 
 ground floor. She is thinner — if possible — there is a brighter light in 
 her eyes as she responds to an inquiry, "I am so tired." Her appetite 
 has failed. She has lost all interest in domestic affairs. What does 
 she think of her own case? No one can tell. She has never hinted 
 that she expected death. She may have known it all the time, but 
 she has kept her own counsel. There has been scarcely a complaint, but 
 now new complications arise. No one but her constant attendants 
 know her true situation. For almost an entire week she has refused 
 food, and simply takes a little water. On Saturday night there is a 
 change. During the day her limbs have become cold. But she does 
 not realize it. She breathes hard and labored. The family is about 
 her bed. A few neighbors have been summoned. Ten o'clock comes — 
 eleven — twelve. Still she lingers with sad, appealing eyes, looking 
 around on those about her bed. The solemn old clock ticks on, and 
 on, until daylight begins to light up the world and ushers in the 
 Sabbath morn, and then she closes her eyes, and gently passes to the 
 great beyond. We are in the presence of a dead girl. What follows 
 is familiar to too many. Friends gather in. Preparation is made for 
 a funeral. One and another tries to comfort the poor, stricken mother. 
 Her task is ended. She has loved the girl until the end. There is 
 another grave in the cemetery. The snows of winter will soon whiten 
 the mound. We have tried to picture — not an ideal — but a reality. 
 But we would not make you sad, dear readers of the Banner. Some of 
 you feel just as we do at this moment, with the dimness of vision 
 almost obscuring the lines we are trying to trace. But a divine writer 
 has said: "It is better to go to the house of mourning, than that of 
 laughter." It is profitable for us to remember that life is a reality, 
 and death a terrible certainty. Let us live right, so that we may at 
 least die with composure. Good night. 
 
 A Love Story— The Book of Ruth One of the Sweetest— 
 Whither Thou Goest I Will Go 
 
 The book of Ruth is one of the sweetest of love stories. A far 
 away romance without a blot or an impure suggestion to mar its 
 beauty. Naomi did not need to be told that the "greatest thing in 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 189 
 
 this world is love," after she had taken to her heart the little Moabi- 
 tish maiden, sounded the depths of that tender girlish nature and 
 had proven its loyalty. 
 
 Naomi had not been the only sufferer. The hand of death had 
 smitten her sorely, it is true, making her woman's heart grieve and 
 ache with its longing and its loneliness. She had come to this land rich 
 in the love of a devoted husband and children. The new home was 
 made happier by the presence of two young wives, but very soon 
 the three strongest links in the chain that held the little home to- 
 gether were taken away and the home made desolate. 
 
 It was no wonder that Naomi's heart turned longingly to that 
 other home in Bethlehem and the old friends to whom she had said 
 good-bye in the happy past. But Ruth was still in her own land sur- 
 rounded by those who had watched the growth and development of 
 her young life from infancy, and who loved her unselfishly and faith- 
 fully. But she had learned to love with a love that was heroic in its 
 sacrificial strength. She knew just how lonely she would feel when 
 she reached her own country, leaving behind her all that had made 
 life sweet to her alone, without even the graves of the loved ones 
 where she might go and whisper through the flowers and through the 
 kindly earth the love thoughts, the longings that death cannot kill nor 
 the grave prevent — but that reaches over and beyond into the silence 
 and are swallowed up in the mystery that shuts our loved one from us. 
 
 And so when Naomi, fearing the greatness of the sacrifice of the 
 young heart, urged her to stay in her father's land, Ruth replied in 
 tender words that will continue to touch the hearts of all future gen- 
 erations as they have the past: "Entreat me not to leave thee, for 
 whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge ; thy 
 people shall be my people, and thy God my God." And to make as- 
 surance doubly sure she binds the loving assurance with an oath of her 
 people. We all know the result of Ruth's decision. She came into 
 the life of Boaz, who quickly learned to love the young stranger, and 
 as we trace her future history a little further down the line we come 
 to the house of David and then to the Christ, a direct descendent of 
 the union of Boaz and Ruth. 
 
 Theologians tell us that all this chain of circumstances was the 
 result of a great plan leading to the advent of the Christ. It may be 
 so, and yet we are not willing to believe that Ruth was merely an 
 instrument upon which the Father worked out a long premeditated 
 plan. That she had been unconsciously influenced to such an extent 
 that this beautiful act of devotion was the mere outcome of another's 
 purpose. We love to think that among those heathen people the sons 
 of Naomi found beautiful souls as well as beautiful bodies ; souls 
 stamped with the purity of faithfulness that made this one at least 
 
190 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 worthy to become the ancestress of the world's Redeemer. Ruth did 
 just what a beautiful soul such as her's is certain to do; showed her 
 great love by her sacrifice and her willingness to risk uncertainties 
 that lay before her in the land of the strangers. 
 
 God honors faithfulness whether to Him or to each other. It is 
 no small thing to have such an abiding love in our hearts, for even 
 earthly friends, that we are willing to follow them, if need be, 
 into a strange land. And when we put our hand in the hand of the 
 Father and give Him our promise to go with Him the rest of the way, 
 it means much to Him even though He may know that sometimes we 
 will turn back for a little to dwell in the tents of those who are not 
 going His way. But if we keep our oath with Him as Ruth kept her's 
 with Naomi He will honor our faithfulness with the best He has in 
 store for His friends. Are our people His people? Do we lodge with 
 Him by day and by night, keeping our souls "under the covert of 
 His wing," not looking for a reward, but just because — like Ruth — we 
 love Him with an abiding love? If so, no harm can come to us here 
 or hereafter. 
 
 "It may be He keeps waiting, 
 
 Till the coming of my feet. 
 Some gift of such rare blessedness, 
 
 Some joy so strangely sweet. 
 That my lips shall lonely tremble. 
 
 With the thanks they cannot speak." 
 
 Christmas at Bozeman, Montana 
 
 The law governing thought is that thought cannot be governed. 
 This may seem paradoxical, but it is true. Still thought is not so in- 
 ward that external circumstances do not affect it. On the contrary, 
 outward things have very much to do with what is passing in the 
 inner consciousness of man. And so it is not to be wondered at that 
 as we drop into the accustomed place to make the record of Our 
 Hour Alone, and we look out through a clear patch on the frost mosiac 
 of the large pane in the window, and the dim outline of the peaks 
 that rise in sombre and solemn grandeur around the city of Bozeman, 
 whose people are long since gone to rest, and, let us hope, to pleasant 
 dreams, and stand there as silent sentinels guarding their slumbers, 
 and the beautiful valley stretching away toward the west, and ter- 
 minating where the Missouri, that tortuous, treacherous, but mag- 
 nificent river, first takes its name, and starts its murky waters toward 
 the great Father of Waters, in their onward flow through defile, and 
 gorge, and valley, until they find an outlet in that ocean that is like 
 eternity in that it receives, absorbs, and yet is never full, and the 
 thought comes to us that ere we pen another article for this column 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 191 
 
 the Christmas time will have come and gone, marching with the 
 solemn stateliness of the paralaxes of the planets out of the future 
 and into the past, that it is no fault of ours, nay more, that it is almost 
 without our volition that there rises before us a starlit plain in a 
 distant land, and that the dim outlines of Judea's hills appear, and 
 that we see the flocks at rest safe in the folds, and hear the gentle 
 hum of shepherds' voices as they recount the greatness of the past 
 of Israel, when warrior kings went forth to war, and 
 
 "Smote the foes of Zion and of God," 
 
 or in the low, sad cadences of sorrow deeply felt, spoke of the days of 
 Israel's deep disgrace, Avhen haughty heathen monarchs led them 
 captives in a stranger land, and while their hearts were bursting with 
 ithe exile's longings for his home, asked him to sing the songs of 
 Zion, and whispered how these sorrowing captives hung their harps 
 upon the willow boughs, and would not, could not sing. 
 
 'Tis little wonder if towers and minarets of proud Jerusalem 
 rise up to limn themselves upon the sky, and that some vision, faint 
 and dim, but still a vision, should come to us that the fullness of 
 time was well nigh come, and that deliverance to the captive and 
 tributary Jew, now chaffing in the Roman yoke, was near. 
 
 Ah ! What a scene was that upon which those silent stars looked 
 down that night, upon those plains where flocks were fed and tended 
 by simple peasant men, amid the beauty and grandeur of the hill 
 country of Judea. The promise of this night had been given when the 
 sound of the virgin waters of the Euphrates awoke the slumbering 
 echoes of an infant world. The finger of prophesy had pointed to 
 this night, and the voice of the seer had spoken of it in deep, mys- 
 terious tones. The types, the shadows, the sacrifices and the oblations 
 of a nation's religion voiced the hope that such a night as this was 
 somewhere to come and burst with glorious hope across the path 
 where faith still lured the worshipers of God. The kings, the judges, 
 the conquering generals of a nation rich in patriotism and valor had 
 made a preparation for such a night. Ezekiel in his visions wonder- 
 ful and strange, caught glimpses of it. The glowing imagery of rapt 
 Isaiah's ecstatic mind was poured upon the living page to herald it, 
 and the sweet singer of Israel, himself the shepherd king, caught his 
 sublime inspiration from a contemplation of the glory and beauty, 
 the promise and hope of this night, in which a new revelation would 
 come to humanity, and promise be indeed a blessed reality. 
 
 "What wonder the scene rises like a vision before us, separated 
 as we are by almost nineteen centuries from its eventuation. Has not 
 
192 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 its wondrous beauty, and more wonderful hope, and its glad reality, 
 made prolific the historian's page, inspired the poet's song, made the 
 brush of the painter give the dull canvas a voice, and caused the sculp- 
 tor's marble block to become a living, breathing record of it? 
 
 We look a moment at those lamps of God shining down on Bridger, 
 cold and calm, and silent, and grand, and we see them as they twinkled, 
 and glowed, and scintillated above those other far away hills, and 
 we look up at them and forget the lapse of the centuries, and stand 
 again beside those humble shepherds. They have ceased conversing, 
 and the rich, mellow and sweetly intoned Jewish voices are just trilling 
 the first bars of a sacred song, when a low murmur of ravishing music 
 breaks the stillness of these historic plains, coming nearer, rising in 
 volume, gathering strength, and sweetness, and power, rolling along 
 the valleys, climbing up the mountain steeps, waking the music of 
 the spheres, reverberating along the star gemmed canopy, and again 
 being flung back to earth. The awe-struck shepherds stand and listen. 
 A brightness of sun, or moon, or stars, lights up the landscape. The 
 vales, the hills, the gorges, the mountains, all glow in more than 
 natural brightness. The glad new song comes swelling on the mid- 
 night air. The words are, "Peace on earth, good will to men." 
 
 The great event of all the centuries was in that song. It an- 
 nounced the birth of Him who was to restore to man the image he had 
 lost. In Nazareth, in the little hamlet of Bethlehem, in a manger, 
 the God-child was nestling in the arms of the Hebrew mother. 
 
 He grew among these hills, a pattern for all men. He went among 
 these hills a teacher of peace, of love, of righteousness. He brought 
 hope and joy and happiness to the poor, the needy, the weary, the 
 heavy laden. He talked face to face with the poor and the outcast. 
 He spake as never man spake. He became the man of sorrows. He 
 gave Himself a sacrifice to rescue man from the power of sin. No 
 wonder that night that heard the angel song that told the Savior was 
 born comes back to us at this time. To that sublime event we owe 
 all our civilization here, and our certainty of eternal felicity. 
 
 In a few days the events of that night will be recalled, remem- 
 bered and celebrated in every spot where man dwells. Happy fam- 
 ilies will hold reunions; merry children will sing about the star of 
 Bethlehem ; the poor will be remembered, and gifts of friendship will 
 cement ties of love. 
 
 Ah! dear readers, how could we do otherwise than remember 
 that glad night when the angel songs announced the glad tidings that 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 193 
 
 Christ was born and man redeemed. May His blessing rest on all 
 your homes, on all your lives, on all your efforts to lift up the fallen, 
 and may you all enjoy a merry Christmas. 
 
 Educated Intelligence 
 
 Obedience is a soldier's first duty. No one will deny this propo- 
 sition. It is a self-evident fact, and cannot be denied. This is not a 
 reasoning obedience, but unreasoning. He is not to obey after he 
 becomes satisfied that the command is a reasonable one, but at once, 
 without delay. On this promptitude depends the efficacy, the success, 
 and often" the salvation of the army. There is a general somewhere 
 who is doing the thinking, the planning, and on whose shoulders rests 
 the responsibility. The soldier is not in direct touch with the general, 
 but the genera] must have some plan by which he can move the sol- 
 dier. Military wisdom has determined that the only sure way to do 
 this is to teach, to inculcate, to demand perfect obedience to the supe- 
 rior, from the men in the ranks up through all the grades of the 
 service. This has a tendency to make an army a machine, and that 
 is just what it is intended to be, a machine, and a machine, too, that 
 is intended for a purpose. 
 
 Sometimes it may seem arbitrary to demand obedience before 
 reasoning, and it is. It may even occur that reasoning is natural, and 
 cannot be prohibited. But remember, the proposition is, obedience 
 is the soldier's first duty. After he has obeyed he may reason as much 
 as he pleases. The soldier whose only duty is to obey would be a poor 
 soldier indeed. The more intelligence, thought, education and refine- 
 ment there is about a soldier the more effective he is. And an army 
 is weak or powerful just in proportion to its degree of thought, and 
 its advancement in education. For proof of this may be cited the 
 contest between those two great powers, France and Germany. The 
 former was a nation polite, affable, genteel, gay, mercurial, but it was 
 a nation whose educational privileges had been neglected. The latter 
 was a nation whose educational advantages had been pushed to the 
 utmost limit, and whose school system was the best in the world. It 
 was superficial ignorance meeting in the shock of battle cultured edu- 
 cation, and the result was not doubtful to those who had been watch- 
 ing the systems that were being pursued in the two countries. Both 
 these armies were under the best of discipline; both of them were 
 ruled by this idea that a soldier's first duty is obedience; both of them 
 were commanded by generals whose skill and bravery could not be 
 doubted ; and yet the lesson of history is that the nation whose com- 
 mon school system was the best, annihilated the vast armies of her 
 
194 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 antagonist, dismembered her territory, caused the capitulation of her 
 capital city, and compelled her disgraced and beaten people to pay 
 an enormous tribute to her victorious conquerors. 
 
 The great internecine war that tested the endurance and the 
 patriotism and the valor of the citizen soldiery of America furnished 
 another example. North of Mason and Dixon's line there flourished an 
 intelligence that was proverbial, the result of a common school system 
 that has no superior except that of Germany. South of that line was 
 the dense ignorance in whose dark shadow only the poisonous plant of 
 slavery could be nourished. When beaten in argument these deluded 
 people appealed to the arbitrament of the sword; they arrayed in 
 two oposing forces men whose natural bravery was equal, whose 
 leaders were alike skilful, whose determination brushed away all com- 
 mon obstacles, whose knowledge of a soldier's first duty were alike 
 practiced, and yet graduates of the little white school houses overcame 
 the boasted chivalry of the defenders of ignorance and slavery, com- 
 pelled them to relinquish ownership in man and taught them to doubt 
 the sophistry that "Ignorance is bliss." 
 
 The thought is that while blind obedience may be a necessary 
 factor in making a million individuals an effective machine for the 
 accomplishment of some purpose, that there is still back of that a more 
 important factor — that of educated human intelligence. Mind is 
 superior to matter. It always has been, and it will ever remain so. 
 Brain must direct muscle in order that muscle may overcome obstacles. 
 It is educated intelligence that counts the stars and measures and 
 weighs distant planets; that goes down into the bottom of the seas 
 and holds up to gaze the mysteries hidden in those wave-washed cav- 
 erns; that quarries the flinty rocks that hold the histories of all the 
 ages, as plainly written, and more securely kept than parchment or 
 tome could possibly have kept them; that has given us literature, arts 
 and science ; that has sought out inventions, laid submarine cables, 
 girded the earth with wires, laid bands of steel across continents, 
 hung bridges over rushing torrents, dug tunnels through mountains, 
 sent ocean greyhounds bounding over the waves, and planted the pop- 
 ulace city where but yesterday a swamp wilderness was found. Yes, 
 educated intelligence is the magician whose deft wand is potent to 
 create or to destroy. 
 
 Is there a lesson here to recompense an Hour Alone? Most surely 
 yes. "Will we stand idly by and see some foreign horde pour on these 
 shores with fell intent to cripple and destroy that system that has made 
 us great, because, forsooth, they take exception to the language, the 
 religion taught? It must not be. These schools must stand whatever 
 else may fall. With them is freedom safe. Without them, who can 
 tell what tyranny may do? 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 195 
 
 The hour grows late, and nature seeks repose. We leave the sub- 
 ject here, content if some one following in the train of thought born 
 of this Hour Alone, grasps some idea not before perceived, sees some 
 new duty in the pathway of their life, or gathers resolution to make 
 their children wiser than their sires. 
 
 The Dead Mother 
 
 "Our lives are albums written through. 
 With good or ill, with false or true. 
 And as the blessed angels turn 
 The pages of our years, 
 God grant they read the good with smiles. 
 And blot the bad with tears." 
 
 She was a dead mother. Her feet had trod the path of duty for 
 a little over 62 years — the plate on the beautiful casket said, 62 years, 
 1 month and 5 days. Her's had been the life of labor and duty, of 
 trial and of trust. Known only to the circle of neighbors and friends 
 where the blessed ministrations of her love had endeared her; she 
 knew nothing of fame beyond the simple and honest praise bestowed 
 upon her by those she had aided in the painful hour of sickness and 
 suffering, and in the bitter hour of death, "When the darkness of 
 despair curtained the chambers, and the tempest of sorrow was abroad 
 in its terror." It was only those who knew her very intimately who 
 understood the excellence of her character, and the many noble vir- 
 tues that adorned her quiet, unostentatious life. She was not a talker, 
 but a worker. Her's was the timid, retiring disposition that shrank 
 from publicity, and found its chief pleasure in those home duties, and 
 ■deeds of loving kindness, that all her neighbors who were sick or in 
 trouble felt were the most precious of all ministrations. She was an 
 humble follower of the Savior, but she did not follow afar off; her's 
 vv^ere those Christian graces that are not the result of accident, but 
 .are rather the reward of diligence in all the commands of God. It 
 would seem that writing the obituary of such an one would be an easy 
 task, but it is not so to us. We remember a beautiful painting that 
 -we once saw ; it will never be forgotten ; it was the masterpiece of all 
 that we have ever seen ; but we can never describe it ; its beauties are 
 known to us, and fully appreciated, but when we attempt to write 
 of it we find no words adequate to convey our meaning, and yet we 
 Tcalize that it is ever a pleasant recollection shrined in our heart. It 
 is so with this dear daughter, sister, wife, mother, aunt and friend; 
 we all knew what she was ; we all realized that she filled a place that 
 no one else can fill. It were better, perhaps, to speak sparingly in 
 Tier praise ; for if we did her justice, those who knew her less intimately 
 
196 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 than we, would think it fulsome adulation; and did we not leave this 
 impression on their minds, then would we wrong the dead. When 
 we took up our pen we meant to write, "Dead." But we could not 
 write it so; such as she are not dead, and cannot die. She has laid 
 down to sleep — to rest — gone home to dwell with God, But tell us not, 
 while gathered thus around her still and pulseless form, clad in the 
 vestments of the grave, that death is an eternal sleep; our human 
 hearts rebel at such a thought, and skepticism skulks away to hide 
 itself, while faith arrays her plumage, and spreads her wings for 
 flight, and circling a moment o'er the grave, darts up among the 
 peaks of the eternities, leaves the cold, damp, chilling atmosphere 
 of earth, and bathing her pinions in the beams of the sun of righteous- 
 ness, sees that our dear, departed ones are not dead, but sleeping. 
 
 But oh ! how sad, and bruised, and broken are these poor hearts ! 
 How full of bitter anguish are our souls! Why fall these tears? For 
 her, and not for her, but for ourselves ; for what we lose, and not for 
 what she gains. Who bids us to be comforted knows not the grief we 
 feel. Only time mellows grief; that comes apace, but still it comes 
 to change our present bitter anguish into a pleasant memory of the 
 lost. 
 
 She died in hope; she hopes no more but sees; we are hoping 
 still, and in a little time will wake as from a daze, pick up the tools 
 that, fallen, lie about, dropped from our nerveless grasp, and go to 
 hewing at our different tasks in life. We linger loath to end the last 
 sad — pleasing — bitter — sweet — but loving task that we can ever do 
 for her. Let us resolve to drop our grosser sins, amend our faults, 
 strive hence to live the life she patterned us, then will we hear the 
 call of God come welcome as the wedding bells, and meet her in that 
 realm where there are no farewells — farewell. 
 
 Is the Young Man Safe? 
 
 It makes considerable difference what mood of mind we are in 
 when we come to discharge any duty, and it may be pleasant or irk- 
 some, just as that condition is joyous or gloomy. The physical, the 
 mental and the religious worlds are analogous in many respects, and 
 in whichsoever of them we attempt to do something there will be 
 times when we feel all out of sorts, and we say that we are not 
 capable of doing as well as we would like to, nor as well as we feel 
 we have done in some past attempt. And we find ourselves in much 
 the same case as Paul was when he said that ''The good that we 
 would, we do not, while the evil that we would not, that do we." 
 And as in the religious life "The spirit is ofttimes willing but the 
 flesh weak," so we are cognizant that in the intellectual world, the 
 desire to do is often beyond the power to accomplish. These phe~ 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 197 
 
 nomona often leave us perplexed as to what is the best course to 
 pursue, or what path we should follow ; what subject we should 
 treat on, or what theme would the best meet the wants of those with 
 whom we expect to come in contact. In the case of a newspaper 
 writer — all of whose work must be desultory, crude, hasty, unfinished, 
 and, in a manner, incomplete — it is no small matter of anxiety to 
 determine what particular subject to treat on at any particular time, 
 or in what manner it shall be treated. As no two faces are alike, so no 
 two minds are the same. It is then clearly evident that no subject 
 can be so presented as to strike with the same force on the minds that 
 are intended to be operated on. But, as has before been intimated in 
 these articles, which we have taken up from time to time since we 
 have been in Yates City, we generally come to them without pre- 
 meditation and permit fancy to roam in partial freedom, with no 
 restriction except it be a determined purpose that nothing shall be 
 allowed that we do not sincerely believe will be helpful to some fellow 
 mortal, that will inspire new courage in some faint heart, give fresh 
 hope to some desponding soul, awaken a better desire in some care- 
 less one, and inculcate a more universal confidence and trust in that 
 religion revealed in the scriptures, a religion that the writer has 
 never — for a single moment — doubted, that he looks to for support in 
 life, and that good hope for the life that is beyond the grave, that 
 he confidently expects will enable him to meet the last enemy with 
 a serenity born of an unflinching hope of immortality. And while 
 we have almost unconsciously fallen into this personal theme — a 
 thing that we by no means expect to make a practice of doing — 
 let us say here and now, that we do not intend that after this life 
 work of ours is done, our friends will have to speculate as to what 
 our opinions of religion were. We are neither afraid nor ashamed 
 to make the public statement that we believe in a religion that makes 
 men and women better, lifts the great burden of grief from human 
 hearts, induces a higher standard of morality, leads to a broader 
 and grander civilization, inculcates the fatherhood of God and the 
 brotherhood of man, and gives us the assurance of a larger and morei 
 exalted life when we are done with earth. 
 
 But this is only a digression ; yet it is one for which we feel no 
 apology is necessary. It may be that it will exactly meet the require- 
 ments of some one, and that it may be helpful to them. Still we 
 expected to follow a different train of thought when we took our 
 accustomed seat. That was in the direction of the young men. We 
 have recurred to them again and again, and it may be that we are so 
 inclined from reading the text used by Rev. S. L. Guthrie, of our 
 own town, in preaching a sermon, last Sunday, in Peoria, on the 
 occasion of the meeting of the Y. M. C. A.: *'Is the young man safe?'^ 
 
198 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 This is an important question. It should come with great force, 
 to every young man. It does come with terrible earnestness to the 
 parents of every young man. There are so many dangers in the path, 
 so many pitfalls to be avoided, so many sins to be shunned, so many 
 vices to escape from, so many enemies to meet and overcome, and 
 youth is so hopeful, so buoyant, so impetuous, so confident, that it 
 is no wonder the anxious parent stands inquiring of those who have 
 been in that great battle, "Is the young man safe?" 
 
 Oh, there are so many blasted, ruined, dead lives — dead while 
 yet living, and in the hey-day of youth — that the question forces 
 itself on every one who takes pride in a grand, noble, strong, vigorous 
 character, "Is the young man safe?" 
 
 While this text is from the Bible, we are not a minister, nor 
 does it necessarily have to be confined to a religious point of view, 
 although the young man who is a consistent actor on the precepts of 
 the gospel is generally safe. But they need to be safe in this world. 
 Any one has but to look around to see that there are two kinds of 
 young men. There are two classes of them. One class is to earn and 
 wear the honors of the world; they will be its teachers, its writers, its 
 statesmen, its preachers, its philanthropists. The other is to become its 
 thieves, its murderers, its law breakers, its candidates for prisons, alms- 
 houses, penitentiaries and gibbets. The one class is to become honored, 
 respected, useful, and will live in the history and songs of a nation. 
 The other will be despised, hated, detested, shunned, and will be exe- 
 crated by all who value character. Every young man is a candidate 
 for one or the other of these classes. He is being educated for one or 
 the other. If he is weak in filial love, has no respect for law, is idle, is 
 a corner loafer, frequents saloons, gambling hells and low resorts, has no 
 desire to read good books, and loves to associate with the evil, the 
 vicious, the depraved, the vile, it takes no prophet to tell what he 
 will come to, if he do not change. But if he be a lover of home, 
 honors his parents, avoids the company of the low and vulgar, 
 improves every means to secure useful knowledge, reads good books, 
 keeps good company, is free from vices, avoids bad habits, is honest, 
 truthful, upright and conscientious, he is on the sure road to happi- 
 ness, if not to wealth and honor. Young man, are you safe ? Remem- 
 ber it all depends on your own choice. If anywhere in this article 
 there is a word, a thought, an idea, that will arouse you to see this 
 matter in its true importance, then will this Hour Alone not have been 
 spent in vain. 
 
 The Empty Chair 
 
 There are empty chairs in every household — sooner or later. An 
 empty chair in Chamberlain's furniture store has no significance. It 
 brings up no vision of the past; it arouses no thought; it touches no 
 
OUR HOUR ALONL 199 
 
 sealed fountain in the hearts, releases no tears, lifts no veil, discloses 
 no picture, stirs no great deep of the emotion. The chair has never 
 been filled, hence it does not appeal to us in the language of the heart. 
 It is not the empty chairs of the furniture store that we see in this 
 Hour Alone. 
 
 It is the empty chairs of the home that speak to us in so many 
 languages, that recall so many pictures, that call up sacred visions, 
 that stir the deeper feeling of the heart, that break up the great deeps 
 of human feeling. 
 
 These empty chairs are found in almost every home. If there be 
 one here and there which is an exception, then are there here and 
 there a family who lack in a rounded out experience. One whose 
 mind cannot comprehend the almost universal language of the empty 
 chair; and whose heart has not felt how near broke it may be by 
 sorrow. 
 
 In this armed chair a father rested in the quiet evenings, when 
 cares of day are done and moon serene shines brightly in the star 
 studded dome of heaven, and nature folds her numerous lids in 
 sleep. What cares were daily his? What anxious cares for those 
 sheltered in that home? What sacrifices were his? What shields he 
 wore to ward the foes his children never dreamed were lurking near — 
 nay, were daily met and turned aside. That armed chair speaks to 
 the very heart of the grown-up sons and daughters of the sire whose 
 work has long been finished, and whose rest is so secure, so undis- 
 turbed. 
 
 In this easy rocker a mother once gently swayed back and forth. 
 What cares were daily her lot? Here we children came to pour the 
 tale of our petty sorrows, and to be soothed by a love that never grows 
 weary, never falters, is never alienated, a love that death fails to 
 destroy, that is heir to two worlds, and is a strong argument that 
 the soul is immortal. Around this rocker we came as shadows wrapped 
 a world, and by her knee we knelt to repeat after her that matchless 
 prayer that Christ taught his disciples, "Our Father who art in 
 heaven?" As she kissed us "goodnight," how little did we compre- 
 hend how much that mother love meant to us, and what she really 
 was doing for us. What a revelation that empty rocker is to us, as 
 we view it when she "who had our earliest kiss, sleeps in her narrow 
 home." 
 
 In this row of empty chairs the brothers and sisters sat, care-free, 
 and shielded by parental care and love. They are all empty now, and 
 each some memory brings. Death claimed a noble boy with much 
 of promise in life, and here a daughter loved and idolized, and we 
 watched "Her fade out as the flowers fade out in the still autumn 
 air." And others heard ambition call and were lured out from the 
 
200 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 sheltering home and love, with story old as time, but young to every 
 youth, enticed the daughters fair, time keeps his ruthless stride and 
 works his magic changes, and every empty chair recalls some history 
 sad as death, or filled with pleasing memories. 
 
 In a little high chair — now empty, and put away in a spare room 
 upstairs sat a child, a lovely child — what mother ever clasped to her 
 bosom a child that was not — to her maternal vision — lovely as a 
 dream. The angel came; the child vanished; a tiny mound is mossed 
 each year "When Summer grass grows green," and the chair is 
 empty, but not so empty as that mother heart. That is a sacred 
 chair; she steals away from household cares, and softly tip-toes up 
 and stands before her Mecca ; a little dress is folded on the seat, a tiny 
 pair of shoes hangs on the back; a ring tied with a ribbon is on a 
 round of the arm ; a very small pair of stockings is on the little foot 
 rest. She bends before these relics of her lost ; tears, tears, such as 
 only the bereaved mother can shed, fall in profusion to baptize these 
 cherished things, and then she forces back a sorrow from which she 
 would not be divorced, takes with her from the place — her shrine — a 
 grief she will not forget, and realizes the deep sorrow of every mother 
 heart since Eve wept over the corpse of Abel, slain. 
 
 Oh ! these empty chairs, they speak to us in tones of veriest sad- 
 ness — not like some wireless message coming from afar, but in our 
 very ears, here in this quiet, Yates City home, they speak a language 
 that father hearts and mother hearts, and hearts of brothers, sister, 
 children, all know the meaning of, and should this Hour Alone call 
 up the loved ones of the home — the most sacred spot on earth, and 
 bring to you dear readers of the Banner, the words they spake, the 
 pictures they presented, the visions they held, and help you to learn 
 the lessons they do teach, then do we rest content. 
 
 The Tick of Time 
 
 Silence has settled over the town. For more than two hours not 
 a footfall has reverberated along the streets. The old clock in the 
 corner ticks out with startling clearness. How did it ever come that 
 in the busy bustle and hurry of business during the day, we sat in 
 this same seat, but failed to hear its tick? Does not this teach us a 
 lesson? In the great house of the world we have long occupied a 
 room ; it contains a clock that has been busy ticking away our passing 
 hours ; measuring them out with the deliberate swing and equipoise of 
 the pendulum, and yet so intent have we been grasping after the 
 grandly painted butterflies that floated around us in the tepid sun- 
 shine, that we have failed to detect a single tick, or mark the loudest 
 noise that measures the portion of duration called time. Can it be 
 that time is so short for each of us and yet so seldom noticed? Is it 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 201 
 
 possible that "the days of the years of our lives are three score years 
 and ten," and yet that we take no note of their departure until the 
 decrepitude of old age compels us to give some heed to their lengthen- 
 ing shadows? 
 
 Infancy is all too much a-gape with wonder at the many strange 
 things about us, to permit us to hear the measured tick or heed it, boy- 
 hood all too rollicking and careless to heed them, were it possible to 
 hear. Youth all too intent on study or pleasure to spare time to listen 
 to them. Manhood demands all our time and energies in the great 
 battle of life, where each one is alike a soldier, so that no opportunity 
 comes for us to pay attention to such a sound. Middle age comes, but 
 it, too, demands so much of man ; children have grown up about us, 
 and we are anxious now — not for ourselves, but for them — that they 
 may be properly settled, and that they escape our earlier privations, 
 and we fail to note that time's old clock has ticked on and on, and on, 
 all these years, never failing, never stopping, never varying, but ever 
 faithful and true. 
 
 But a serener, a calmer period came; the wondering child is no 
 more ; the careless boy is not here ; the diligent student or careless 
 devotee of pleasure has passed away; the strong, lithe man has lost 
 his power; the careful and considerate period of middle age has re- 
 ceded, and we are sitting in that sacred room in the house of the 
 world, that it set apart for old age ; there is a solemn quietness about 
 it ; no childish voice disturbs its repose ; no noisy boy breaks its slum- 
 bering echoes; no inquisitive youth comes to perplex with curious 
 questions ; our sons and daughters have come out of the mists of the 
 past, and have gone out into the ocean of life to buffet with its rude 
 billows, and as we sit in the silent room, the tick of the great clock of 
 time smites upon our ear, with a suddenness that appalls us, and we 
 remember that death stands just over against us on the other side; 
 a glittering coffin, just our measure, appears in front of us ; and just 
 beyond it, a little further out if you please, is a fresh dug grave that 
 seems to have been meant to receive the coffin. 
 
 Every tick is now so clear and distinct that we wonder how we 
 ever could have given no heed to them ; they sound to us now like 
 funeral knells; can it be that they are indeed so? Is it possible that 
 we have been dying all these years, and were not aware of it? Is it 
 true that so soon, ah! so very soon, the midnight tick of time will be 
 sounded, and the first tick of eternity break on our ravished ears? 
 
 It may be so; for already the old clock in the corner has slowly 
 crept up to "midnight's holy hour," and bidding you, dear readers, a 
 kind good night, we seek the sweet repose of sleep. 
 
 Ki 
 
202 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Changed 
 
 Here is a parent who has a family of children in whom his whole 
 heart seems wrapped up. They have twined the clinging tendrils of 
 their affection about his very being, until they are so much a part 
 of his every day existence that he can not bear the thought of being 
 parted from them even for a short time. They are little idols en- 
 throned in his heart, and they have not only claimed the larger share 
 in his devotions, but they have imperceptibly and silently, but not the 
 less really usurped the place of every other object of his worship. 
 
 But as the years pass a change comes ; one — a babe — a very little 
 one — falls sick; the small form wastes and shrinks under the burning 
 fever and doubts creep into your heart that drive you to the verge 
 of madness, and you frantically strive to draw the hand of the infant 
 out of the grasp of the chilling hand that has changed so many little 
 forms, and you turn to heaven and ask God if it be possible to "Let 
 this cup pass from you," while you can not, you will not say, "Never- 
 theless not my will, but Thine be done." Ah! we doubt if there ever 
 was on earth such a sublime faith as would enable the parents to say 
 this as they sit by the little cot where lies their dying child, and they 
 are standing face to face with the first real sorrow that has ever 
 touched the horizon of their lives. The scene will come back to the 
 parents who read this, and memory will recall how they went out 
 into the night, and looked up to where the stars twinkled and glittered 
 as if misery did not reach their sphere, and wondered if God knew 
 what a sorrow was in their heart, and if He would not come and de- 
 liver them from it. They will recall how they went somewhere — it 
 may have been into the garden — a veritable Gethsemane at that hour — 
 and were in agony as they pleaded with God for the life of the child ; 
 or it may have been into the open field where the corn nodded gently 
 to the night wind, and nature's beaded sorrow hung in glittering drops 
 from slanting grass, and scented flower, and pendant branch, and you 
 mingled the dew of your grief with that distilled from heaven; or it 
 may have been into some empty granary where you cast yourself upon 
 the cheerless floor, and called the silent hills of Judea to mind, and 
 saw the man of sorrows, as He stands by the gate of Capernaum and 
 says to the Centurion, "Go thy way, and as thou hast believed, so be 
 it done unto thee"; we see Him standing at the bedside where lay the 
 twelve-year-old daughter of Jairus, dead, and we hear Him saying, 
 "Weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth"; and watch him as He 
 takes her by the hand and says "Talitha cumi"; we see Him as He 
 stands by the grave of Lazarus and through His sympathetic tears 
 says, "Come forth"; we see Him as He journeys and is drawing nigh 
 to the humble hamlet of Nain, where He meets the funeral train with 
 the one desolate and heart-broken mourner, and as He stops the bier 
 
U R HOUR ALONE 203 
 
 and restores to the widow her only son, we ask, dear Lord, were 
 their sorrows greater than ours ? Why have the days of miracles gone 
 by; and you besought God to have mercy on you too, and not break 
 your idol. Yes, and dear one, may it not be that in all your experience, 
 from childhood to those mature years, this is the first genuine prayer 
 that you have ever uttered? The first petition that you have wafted 
 heavenward with a sincere desire that it might be answered? 
 
 But the end came; your idol turned to clay; your hope perished; 
 and you stood looking down into the little grave, and felt that in all 
 the universe there could not be a sorer heart than was then beating in 
 your bosom. 
 
 And this experience is repeated again and again, only varied as 
 to the age of the subject, until more than half your loved ones have 
 perished from the earth, and the row of mounds indicate all stages of 
 growth from infancy to mature age. And you look from your deso- 
 lated home into the dark gloom of the changed world, loath to believe 
 that anybody can possibly have known a deeper grief. 
 
 But just as you are about to draw this gloomy conclusion, you 
 remember one who has a son whose body has grown to manhood, while 
 the mind has remained a perfect blank — a desert incapable of culti- 
 vation — in whose soil no flower of knowledge will ever expand its petals, 
 and no cluster of fruit ripen to reward the anxious solicitude of the 
 distracted parent. And you begin to consider what a trial it must be, 
 and what a heavy cross your neighbor has been bearing — none the less 
 heavy because it is a cross that he seldom refers to — and as you let 
 the mind go back over those weary, hopeless years that he has borne 
 the burden, and as you look into the meaningless eyes of the unfortu- 
 nate one, you begin to realize that you could go right out to the cem- 
 etery, and kneeling above the mounds that cover your sainted dead, 
 you could thank God that He had dealt with you in such tenderness, 
 and that He had placed on your shoulders a cross so light in com- 
 parison. 
 
 This world was intended to be earth and not heaven. And if there 
 were no burdens to weary us, how could we wish for rest? If there 
 were no clouds in our sky, how could we appreciate the glad burst of 
 sunshine? If there were no cross, how could the crown give us joy? 
 Let us remember that the ills of life are the common lot of humanity, 
 and that we are but one of a vast multitude born to sorrow and trouble, 
 but destined to endless happiness, if we but rise through suffering to 
 that state of mind that will lead us to depend on God for that grace, 
 that help, that pardon that will enable us to live the life of the 
 righteous, that we may be prepared to die his death. And if we do this, 
 we will learn, in time, to know that no affliction has overtaken us 
 
204 O UR HOUR ALONE 
 
 but such as is common to man. And we will learn, too, that by con- 
 sidering the more grievous sorrows and trials of others, we can the 
 more readily bear our own, if indeed we do not entirely forget them. 
 
 Sunday 
 
 Sunday was an ideal Indian Summer day, hazy, smoky, calm, slum- 
 brous, fine as one could ever hope for, wish for, or even dream of, 
 October tinted beauty on garden, field, wood and landscape, a red sun 
 flooding a world in mellow light, the song bird in weary southern 
 flight or sadly silent. Nature wearing the hectic glow that tints the 
 cheek that cruel fate has beautified for death and you get an idea, 
 dim, vague, shadowy, and far below reality, because he who writes 
 is void in mental power, lacks the poetic fire divine, the artist's vivi- 
 fying and creative touch, and halts in speech, and fails to tell the 
 beauty of the marvelous scene that wrapt Yates City in, enfolded, 
 the outlying fertile fields, and touched with magic wand the wooded 
 slopes of distant French Creek and sinuous Kickapoo on that glorious 
 October Sunday morning. 
 
 No wonder the church services were well attended, for true it is that 
 human kind, through Nature, catches glimpses of Nature's own great 
 God and bows in reverent worship. And so it was that the influence 
 of early training — for which we are indebted to Godly, faithful 
 parents, to whom we hope we do not fail to be thankful, to whom we 
 are indebted hopelessly, for to repay it would bankrupt an angel, and 
 is beyond the resources of the weakest sinner — led us to pre-empt part 
 of a pew in the Presbyterian Church. As we drew near the church 
 we noticed there were twenty-four fine rigs at the tie-posts about the 
 edifice, and there was a good-sized congregation on the inside. The 
 services were fine, the music excellent. Mrs. Ada Allen touched the 
 organ keys with no 'prentice hand, but with a natural skill that culture 
 and practice had made close to perfection, and the choir and the con- 
 gregation accompanied the organ with rythmic precision. Rev. W. H, 
 Clatworthy offered the morning prayer, eloquent, helpful, devotional 
 and uplifting. Miss Lilly McGinnis then sang a solo in her own usual 
 happy and pleasing manner, accurate in time, sweet-toned, grand and 
 inspiring, a fit preparation for the coming sermon. The pastor, Rev. 
 S. A. Teague, read the scripture lesson and in a sermon that exceeded 
 even the high mark of his own undoubted ability, he brought a mes- 
 sage of comfort, of love, of joy, of mercy and hope, to every hearer. 
 At the close L. A. Lawrence offered an appropriate prayer. Rev. W. H. 
 Clatworthy pronounced the benediction and the congregation went 
 softly out. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 206 
 
 Do you think the picture overdrawn and too highly colored? If 
 so, then are we sure that you did not — as did we — enter the church 
 conscious of what a miserable failure our life had been during the 
 week just gone, and feeling that the Master's look must be turned 
 upon us with the same sorrowful compassion in which it was turned 
 upon the impetuous Peter on that eventful night when he denied his 
 Lord. 
 
 The blind no beauty see in flowers. The deaf are unresponsive to 
 the loftiest strains of the grandest symphony, and we too, may fail to 
 see the beauty of the message, nor hear the music of that voice that 
 says, ''Come unto Me, all ye who labor, and are heavy laden, and I 
 will give you rest," 
 
 The Hebrew Mother 
 
 "I give thee to thy God — the God that gave thee, 
 A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! 
 And precious thou art. 
 And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee. 
 My own, my beautiful, my undefiled! 
 And thou shalt be His child." 
 
 The shades of a November night have fallen over the homes of 
 Yates City, those homes in which the toils, the cares, the hopes, the 
 joys, the sorrows of life have been enacted during a day that had 
 opened with a chill November rain, but cleared as the hours passed, 
 and as the evening gathered, and a sun that had but shyly peeked out 
 through rifts in dull, cold, leaden clouds, was hidden behind the rim 
 of a revolving world, and a northwest wind, keen, chilling, penetrat- 
 ing, called up before us the gloomy scene that in bygone years rose 
 on the vision of "Scotia's matchless bard," when he saw in a mental 
 vision the bare fields, the leafless forest, the bleak hills, the chilling 
 waters of Ayr, and began that creepy, solemn dirge, opening with : 
 
 "When chill November's surly blasts, 
 Make fields and forests bare." 
 
 We were wondering what we might say that would be helpful to 
 some one, when there arose before us — shall we say a vision? — it may 
 be, for the beautiful visions come to us when we spend a silent Hour 
 Alone, when inquisitive thought roams fancy free, and wanders back 
 along the dim and half forgotten past, grapples with and strives to 
 solve the problems of the present, and reaches out to speculate upon 
 a future that is so mercifully hidden from our foolish inquisitiveness. 
 And so in this silent hour came to us a vision of "The Hebrew 
 Mother," that intensely human Hebrew mother, whose act of moral 
 heroism can never be forgotten so long as other human mothers clasp 
 to loving bosoms a first-born child, and as she rocks and croons in 
 
 I 
 
206 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 lullaby as sweet, as pure, as holy as angel's song, and realizes the 
 rebellion that slumbers in her heart, ready to wake and defy a world, 
 if called to give up her precious child, a vision of that Hebrew mother 
 whose simple story, as told in holy writ, inspired our own sweet, sad, 
 pathetic Mrs. Hemans to write the touehingly beautiful stanza that 
 heads this Hour Alone. 
 
 0, what does the world not owe to sweet, loving, hoping, trusting, 
 self-denying motherhood! Let those who hope to comprehend the 
 simple story born of this Hour Alone, turn to the opening chapter of 
 "The First Book of Samuel," and there read the brief history of 
 Hannah, and then you will realize the noble self-sacrifice of her, whose 
 son made in after years, such an impression upon a nation wonderful 
 in its effect upon the civilizations of all time. 
 
 Samuel was an answer to prayer: '*And she bare a son and called 
 his name Samuel, saying, 'because I have asked him of the Lord.' " 
 When the child was weaned she took him and brought him to Eli, and 
 left him there as she quaintly expressed it, "Lent him to the Lord." 
 Were it my purpose to do so, I would ask the mothers of the present 
 time, the mothers who will read this unpretentious recital in the 
 Banner, to put themselves in Hannah's place; what would it be to you 
 to give up that dear first-born boy? Could you make the sacrifice this 
 Hebrew mother did, and as you kissed your child, and turned your 
 halting steps back to a desolate home could you break forth in songs 
 of praise as did Hannah, the wondrous Hebrew mother? 
 
 But this is not my present intent. As I sit here, one sentence 
 comes to me from the words spoken by the Hebrew mother. If you 
 turn to the Book, you will find it in the twenty-seventh verse of the 
 first chapter and the first clause of the verse. It is, "For this child 
 I prayed." Who doubts the truth of this statement? Where is the 
 skeptic so bold in unbelief, so reckless, so fool-hardy, as to deny the 
 absolute truth of this declaration of the Hebrew mother? It is verified 
 in the heart of every mother, stretching back in history, from Hannah 
 clasping the babe Samuel, to that ecstatic hour when Eve clasped to 
 her heart in fond embrace the infant Cain, and the birth of a maternal 
 love that has in it so much of the love divine that it can never be 
 quenched, but will survive the wreck of worlds. It is verified in the 
 life of every mother who has lived since Hannah's time, down to the 
 young mother, who, while we write, clasps in her arms of love her 
 new-born child, and with its birth realizes the birth of a love immortal. 
 No child was ever born, no child ever will be born, but what its mother 
 can say, "I prayed for this child." There can be no doubt as to this, 
 there can be no skepticism. It is a truth that forces recognition, that 
 every mother has prayed for her child. There is not a child, not a 
 youth, not a young man, not an old man, in Yates City tonight, but 
 
 it I 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 207 
 
 some mother can say, "I prayed for this child." Oh ! child, so thought- 
 less, so forgetful, be sure a mother is praying for you; and youth, so 
 fretful of restraint, so eager to try the devious ways of life, a mother 
 is praying for you; young man, as you tonight are venturing on the 
 dangerous ground, are dallying with the ways of sin, the primrose path 
 that leads to destruction, remember a mother is in the agony of prayer 
 for you. And you, young girl, all innocent as yet, but catching the 
 first glimpse of the alluring light, where wisdom is blinded, and 
 mother's advice begins to be unheeded, it is your salvation that mother 
 is praying for you. If a son attains an honorable place a mother has 
 prayed for him. If a daughter has become a power for good, a mother 
 has prayed for her. If a son has fallen to the lowest, vilest level, a 
 mother prays for him. If a daughter has become an outcast, a mother 
 prays for her. "I have prayed for this child," is the voice of every 
 mother heart, and only eternity will reveal to us our indebtedness to 
 a mother's prayer. 
 
 Dear readers, you have the thoughts of another Hour Alone, and 
 as I say good night, I place before you another stanza of Mrs. Heman's 
 inspired by this Hebrew mother, and showing the farewell to her 
 child : 
 
 "Therefore farewell — I go, my soul may fail me 
 
 "As the hart panteth for the water brooks, yearning for thy sweet looks. 
 
 But then, my first, droop not, nor bewail me; 
 
 Thou in the shadow of the rock shalt dwell; 
 
 The rock of strength. Farewell." 
 
 Changes 
 
 Everything changes. Only God is the same forever. Not one 
 created thing but is subject to mutations. Nor do they for a single 
 moment remain the same. The sun and all the complex system of suns 
 change. The earth and the multiform planets circling in space change. 
 Man too, changes, as do all the purposes and acts originating with 
 him. Not only do material objects change, but mind changes as well. 
 This being true, it follows that no system of human government can 
 be stable. 
 
 All changes are gradual, and not abrupt. Systems, suns, planets, 
 atoms, make their changes imperceptibly. Silently as the stars circle 
 in the blue dome of heaven, noiselessly as the modest violet springs 
 from the bosom of the cold earth, mute as the pale lips of the dead, 
 still as the confines of a world without atmosphere, and dumb as the 
 throats of tongueless marble statues, are the transformations that are 
 continually going on about us in the material universe. Just as silent, 
 
208 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 I 
 
 noiseless, mute and still are the changes in the mind of man. But 
 just so sure as the former occur, do the latter take place. 
 
 Ignorance looks out over the material world, and asserts that it 
 is always the same; Science casts her well trained eye over the same 
 world and declares that the term ''Semper Idem" can only be applied 
 to Deity. Ignorance says this body has not changed since yesterday; 
 Science proves that in seven years it will be an entirely new organism. 
 Ignorance casts aside the rough diamond as useless; Science picks it 
 up, polishes it, and it is a sparkling gem. Ignorance looks on the 
 wounded man and guesses that he will die ; Science goes to work and 
 applies her knowledge of surgery, and the man is saved. Ignorance 
 sees the level stretches of prairie, and at once concludes that for lack 
 of fuel they will not be habitable; Science delves into the bowels of 
 the earth beneath those prairies and finds millions of bushels of coal, 
 and the plowshare is soon turning the sod, while farm house, hamlet, 
 village, town and city spring forth as if commanded by the voice of 
 magic. Ignorance, while digging for water, strikes the crude ore, but 
 thinks it too far beneath the surface, and too full of base alloy ; Science 
 assumes it can be utilized, puts in the machinery, hoists the ore, 
 crushes, separates the dross, shapes the bar, forges it into the reaper, 
 and sends it forth to relieve man from the drudgery of the harvest 
 field. Ignorance casts a contemptuous glance at the wild broncho and 
 is satisfied that it is but a sorry brute ; Science lassoes it, breaks it, 
 breeds it with skill and trains it with care, and the result is to be seen 
 in such wonderful records as that of Maud S., St. Julian, Jay Eye See 
 and Johnson. Ignorance scalds its hand with the escaping steam from 
 the tea-kettle ; Science harnesses it to the car, and causes it to propel 
 the largest ship. Ignorance sees the zigzag lightning's flash, and is in 
 terror ; Science brings it down to the earth, tames it, and sends it speed- 
 ing over continents and flashing around the world. 
 
 Science is but a change from ignorance, and in that change is 
 found the all of what is known as human progress, and human hap- 
 piness as well. To aid, assist and accelerate this change school houses 
 are put up at the cross roads and churches lift up their glittering spires 
 toward the throne of the Eternal. To facilitate this change the mis- 
 sionary goes forth, denying himself the common comforts of life, and 
 good men and women are making daily sacrifices. It is the duty of 
 church and state, of government and people, of press and pulpit to 
 bring it about, and in order that we too, may contribute our humble 
 mite we send forth the thoughts of this silent hour, hoping that some 
 of them may touch a responsive chord in the heart of the generous, 
 patient reader. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 209 
 
 They Visit Us in Dreams 
 
 "The departed! the departed! 
 They visit us in dreams, 
 And glide above our memories 
 Like shadows over streams." 
 
 It was thus wrote Park Benjamin. There are some few favored 
 ones who can not understand this quotation. It is beyond their com- 
 prehension, because they lack the experience necessary to enable them 
 to understand it. That experience comes to us only when the shadow 
 of death has crept across the threshold of our own homes and stilled 
 forever on earth the voice that was very music to our ears. There 
 are but a few who have not seen this shadow creeping stealthily, 
 slowly, surely, cruelly and irresistibly into their dwelling places to 
 take from them the veriest treasures of their hearts. At first it was 
 a dim shadow, almost imperceptible, and scarcely would it be ad- 
 mitted that it was a shadow. The sun of life of a loved one might 
 not be shining as brightly as was its won't, but surely it was but a 
 vapor, a passing fog whose obscuring traces would quickly vanish, 
 leaving the brightness more effulgent by the contrast. It would cer- 
 tainly be gone on the morrow. But when the morrow came, there was 
 the shadow, a little deeper, a trifle darker, and certainly somewhat 
 nearer. And after that, to paraphrase slightly : 
 
 Each tomorrow 
 Found it nearer than today. 
 
 These tomorrows lengthened into weeks and months — it may have 
 been even into years — before the shadow covered the disc of the life 
 of the loved one in the gloom of the eternal eclipse. How hope, so con- 
 fident at first, lost courage, and fear crept in to murder peace and 
 terrorize the soul. How did doubt, compelled to speak at last, make 
 known to other friends — in whispers what it dare not speak aloud — 
 
 that 
 
 "She we loved. 
 
 And vainly strove with heaven to save, 
 
 Heard the low call of death and moves 
 
 With holy calmness toward the grave" — 
 
 that she we idolized is slipping away from us, and will soon disappear 
 in the thick mists that envelop the farther end of the bridge on which 
 we are all crossing the valley. The hope that changed to fear has 
 changed again to certainty, dread certainty, and in despair the inevit- 
 able end is awaited. Love has not been able to hide our idol from the 
 searching gaze and the ruthless hammer of the great iconoclast that 
 we call death. Skill has mixed the potent draught that love so fondly 
 hoped would prove the elixir of life, and skill has failed completely. 
 
210 O UR HOUR ALONE 
 
 The shadow creeps on and on, and it hangs, a drapery of darkness 
 over every avenue of life and shutting the door of the citadel, locks it 
 so securely that only the hand of Omnipotence can ever again turn it 
 upon its hinges, and she who so bravely fought for life, who contested 
 every inch so determinedly and disputed so strenuously every vantage 
 ground, whose every defeat but nerved for a more stubborn resistance, 
 wasted, worn, until relatives are in anguish, friends weep and enemies 
 pity, speaks the last word, gives the last assurance of a love over 
 which death has no control, and which cannot be destroyed, says in 
 feeble, faltering tones, "It is growing dark," draws a few labored 
 breaths, sinks to the calm repose of death and leaves us weeping over 
 a casket that the shadow has robbed of the jewel we prized. 
 
 Dear reader, this is no romance. If you do not realize its reality, 
 then are you indeed favored, but you can not comprehend the full 
 meaning of the quotation at the head of this article. But we know 
 that the great majority have gone through this experience, and know 
 whereof we speak, and can, in their own selves, verify the truth of 
 the poet's words. 
 
 James Montgomery felt that such an experience was practically 
 universal when he wrote that exquisite little poem so filled with com- 
 fort and hope for mourners, beginning: 
 
 "Friend after friend depart, 
 Who has not lost a friend? 
 There is no union here of hearts, 
 That finds not here an end." 
 
 In these experiences the sympathy of friends who gather about 
 us, is very comforting, and we realize that sympathy marks, in the 
 most positive way the difference between man and the lower animals. 
 But sympathy alone cannot close the ducts of human sorrow. Time 
 only can soothe grief to a tender recollection. And even time, while 
 it heals, is not able to hide the scars where sorrow has blistered the 
 heart. 
 
 Nor do we wish to be divorced from this sorrow. It is true, as has 
 been so beautifully expressed in a poem written by the late Robert 
 McKeighan, a brother of the writer, when, in speaking of the fact that 
 time robs grief of tears, he says : 
 
 "Is it that in a time so brief 
 They'll have no tears to give? 
 No; grief, in time, is tearless grief, 
 'Tis fame alone will live." 
 
 And so time does rob sorrow of tears, but sorrow, when tearless, 
 is not the less sorrow. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 211 
 
 And how those who have gone out from our homes, from our lives, 
 from the secret and sacred chambers of our hearts, not only 
 
 "Visit us in dreams," 
 
 but they are called back to us in the things that come to us in the 
 duties of every-day life, it may be a flower, a picture, a book they 
 prized, some bit of work they left unfinished, some chair they rested 
 in, some gift they gave, some article of dress, a ring, a watch, a little 
 shoe, a tress of hair of brown or raven black — you meet them every- 
 where — mute, silent, appealing, they call back the dear ones, they 
 dim your eye, though time has done its best to make your sorrow dry, 
 with tears; tears that you shed and hide them from your veriest 
 friends; tears that are witnesses that death can east no shadow over 
 love, for love is immortal. 
 
 Dear readers of the Banner, you have Our Hour Alone. If you 
 have read it through, and not a tear has welled, then must it be that 
 we have failed to paint the picture true, or else the grave hides not 
 from you a form you loved and lost. 
 
 How sweet to know that death but takes our jewels fair, and puts 
 them in casket far more rare than that he plundered here, and that 
 old time, the partner of death, moving with winged feet, will place 
 those caskets in our reach. 
 
 Faith and Duty 
 
 "So near is grandeur to our dust, 
 So near is God to man, 
 When duty whispers 'lo! you must,' 
 The youth replies 'I can.' " 
 
 The path of duty is the road to right doing. The duty that lies 
 nearest to us, that most nearly touches the little point of time that 
 we can call our own, is the most important duty, whether it be a small 
 or a great one. To do that duty, with a faith that our part is per- 
 formed, and that others will as surely, as earnestly, as faithfully do 
 their part, is the plan on which all enterprises must be carried for- 
 ward. 
 
 Faith and duty. Brave words, noble words. Believing and acting. 
 How much these two words have to do with the every day lives of men 
 and women. How faith urges on to duty; how duty plucks the rich 
 fruits of belief. What faith we have in the promise of God that ''seed 
 time and harvest time shall not fail," and what patience it gives us to 
 clear away the forest, remove the stumps and roots, break up the 
 stiff soil, crush the hard clods, smooth down the uneven surface, cast 
 in the tiny seeds, and wait for the results. How faith drives us into 
 
212 U R HOUR ALONE 
 
 the mountains to pick and drill and blast the stubborn rocks that hold 
 in their flinty embrace the yellow metal we covet; how it nerves the 
 arm to dig the shaft into the very bowels of the earth, and thence to 
 drag up to the surface the fuel hidden there ages before when divine 
 wisdom made preparation for man's future needs; how it urges the 
 discoverer along unbeaten paths, over deserts of sand, fields of snow, 
 along unknown rivers, and over trackless seas ; how it drives the nat- 
 uralist out into the haunts of wild and savage beasts; how it urges 
 the scientist, down among the rocks — the ribs of a universe — and up 
 among the stars — rich gems set in a canopy of blue — and how he wrests 
 the secrets of the former ages from these flinty albums, and reads the 
 mysteries of divine wisdom in the twinkling sentinels that God has 
 set to watch above a slumbering world. 
 
 Here is tht. locomotive standing on the track in New York, coupled 
 to a train loaded with people destined for San Francisco ; they have 
 faith in every particle of the arrangements, from the wonderful piece 
 of mechanism that is to move them, down to the iron spikes that hold 
 the rails in place ; faith in the man at the throttle, the conductor, the 
 operators at every station, the switch tenders, and every one of the 
 large number that serve on the route. 
 
 Here is the great steamship, the smoke pouring in great black 
 masses from her huge funnels, ready to heave her anchor, cast off her 
 mooring, and turn her prow toward the middle of an ocean. What 
 faith in her timbers. In her engines, in her crew, in her commander, 
 that silent man who paces the deck as you would go along the graveled 
 walk in the garden. We little realize in the rush, and strife of exist- 
 ence how much of faith we exercise. 
 
 And duty is the result of faith. The duty of the child, the duty 
 of the youth, the duty of the mature man, all must be met, must be 
 faithfully performed. The duty of the neighbor, the friend, the citizen, 
 the brother, the sister, the husband, the wife, the master, the servant. 
 To know these and to be faithful in the doing, is to make organized 
 societ.y. And let us here bear in mind that one of the important duties 
 is obedience to law, to correct authority. The duty of obedience must 
 begin in the family, and it must go up to the very crest of society, if 
 man would be secure in life and property. The man who disregards his 
 duty, and defies law is a dangerous character. He has no place in a 
 republic. There is no room in America for the red flag, or the black 
 flag, or any other flag but the stars and the stripes that symbolize our 
 liberties. It is the duty of every man — his present duty — aye his 
 sacred duty — to frown on every attempt to break down the bulwarks 
 of society, or overthrow the laws that give to society its security, its 
 safety, its prosperity. That is the safest and the best government 
 whose people want all their own rights, and are willing to concede 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 218 
 
 the rights of others, to teach this, to inculcate it, to practice it is the 
 highest social duty. And we can do this. 
 
 Are We Forgotten? 
 
 "Are we so soon forgotten when we're gone?" How this quaint 
 but pertinent question forces itself on us all, obtruding like an unwel- 
 come guest, or a poor relative, or a persistent creditor. Just when 
 we are in no humor for it and would be busy along other lines of 
 thought, it rises up before our mental vision as uncalled for as the 
 widowed aunt who comes with her greatness of trunks, her profusion 
 of satchels, her spectacles, her sniffle, peeking habit and her broad, 
 deep, wide, vast, awful memory to torture you in the heat unbearable 
 with the recital of the date of the birth, baptism, marriage, death and 
 burial of all the family from Adam to Commodore Dewey. But like 
 her the welcome makes little difference; like her the thought comes 
 anyway, and as a matter of course, and it is heard, just as she is heard. 
 
 The form we have given this disagreeable question — or rather 
 that we present it in — is that of Washington Irving, but it is older 
 than he ; he found it hoary with passing ages, and arrayed in frayed 
 and moth eaten raiments, and he dressed it in new attire, and it so 
 changed its appearance that some superficial observers still believe it 
 the child of his brain. It is as old as man. It grew out of that innate, 
 heaven-born repugnance that is in the mind of man against the theory 
 of the annihilation of spirit, that is among the most conclusive proofs 
 aside from those found in the Bible — of man's immortality that can 
 be educed. 
 
 It came to the dwellers in the far Orient, and the attempt to build 
 the tower of Babel resulted, and out of it grew the diversity of lan- 
 guages now in use in the world, including that wonderful conglomer- 
 ation now used exclusively by our own famous fellow townsman, J. D. 
 Truitt. 
 
 To answer it the pyramids arose on the sands of Egypt, those 
 structures that have been the wonder of all the succeeding ages. How 
 many human lives they cost will not be known until the time comes 
 when all secrets are revealed, but human life has always been held 
 cheap when ambition aspired, and in this colossal work unkown thou- 
 sands perished. 
 
 The sphinxes, vast, grand, silent and imperturbable, are evidences 
 that to their originators this query came, and perhaps the hope came 
 that the answer would be enduring. 
 
 It has come to the tyrant, and seas of blood have flowed; it has 
 come to the historian, and volumes have grown into vast libraries; it 
 has come to the scholar, and sleep fled from his weary and sore racked 
 
214 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 aod perplexed brain ; it has come to the poet, and the beautiful flowers 
 of language have been wreathed in bouquets of beauty that thrill man's 
 deepest and purest nature; it has come to the painter, and his brush 
 has made dull canvas speak in rapt and prophetic language, and en- 
 tranced millions have bowed in silent and devout adoration before the 
 triumph of his genius; it has come to the General and Ceesar crossed 
 the Rubicon, Miltiades won glory at Marathon, Napoleon scaled the 
 Alps, Wellington won at Waterloo, and Grant dictated terms of peace 
 at Appomatox; it has come to the physician, and the hidden cause of 
 human ills has been laid bare, and life disputes the royal prerogative 
 of death ; it has come to the astronomer, and worlds are measured, and 
 weighed, and named, and classified ; it has come to the discoverer, and 
 the prows of frail ships have ploughed unknown and dangerous seas 
 and grated on the sands of new and inhospitable shores ; it has come 
 to the explorer, and the glaciers themselves, those cold, colossal, grand 
 and silent sentinels placed at the threshold of the forbidden north by 
 God himself, to curb man's restless spirit of enterprise have been 
 passed, and many of the secrets they so sedulously guarded are known 
 to man. 
 
 The granite shafts, the marble slabs, the tapering monuments 
 that rear themselves in the cemeteries where grasses grow, and flowers 
 bloom, where evening's gentle zephyrs come to cool the throbbing 
 brow of sorrow, as sad, sore hearts bend, bowed by earth's one uni- 
 versal grief, over the mounds that cover the forms of the tender infant 
 whose life went out like a taper, the prattling child whose sweet voice 
 will nevermore be heard, the loving brother, firm and noble, the sister, 
 loving and forgiving, the wife trusting and true, the husband noble 
 and brave, the father loved and revered, the mother whose love — spark 
 of the fire divine — death hides but quenches not — these all are feeble 
 answers made by man to this same query, "Are we so soon forgotten 
 when we're gone?" 
 
 And yet we die and are forgotten, and that very soon. These feet 
 of ours tread over graves of millions, dead and — forgotten. 
 
 "Those who tread the earth are but a handful 
 To those who slumber in its bosom." 
 
 Thus sang America's greatest poet, Bryant, in that matchless produc- 
 tion, "Thanatopsis," and all of them forgotten. We tread the earth 
 today, tomorrow we shall slumber in her bosom and be forgotten. 'Tis 
 well if we can live so near the Savior's matchless model, that, dying, 
 men and women, yea, and little children may gather about the casket 
 where we lie, and say "He s^ave when want did cry, wiped sorrow's 
 tear away, spoke words of comfort to the hopeless ones, fought bravely 
 in the battle with the world, was fair and just to all, trusted in God, 
 and will be missed before he is forgotten." 
 
U R HOUR ALONE 21B 
 
 Dear readers of the Banner, the brain child born of another Hour 
 Alone we place before you, and while we trust it may incite to deeper 
 thought, and higher purpose, and purer life, we hope it may receive as 
 flattering a welcome as have some of its processors, and so we bid you 
 all good night. 
 
 Life Is a Revelation 
 
 Life is a revelation. The passing years, with their experiences, 
 give us new capacities. We fully understand some things, better un- 
 derstand others, and begin to comprehend some that in earlier years 
 we absolutely knew nothing about. Love is but an abstract principle 
 until it finds lodgment in our own heart; death is an unmeaning word 
 to us except it has come to put the seal of silence on the lips that we 
 have fondly kissed; weariness is an idle tale to those who have never 
 put forth an exertion; loneliness is a fable to those who have always 
 reveled in company; solitude is not realized by one who has never 
 been alone. 
 
 Childhood is a revelation; youth is but an unfolding; the parent's 
 home is the great school. But we go out of these and begin a home of 
 our own; there are but two; neither is wise or experienced, but there 
 is something about this stage of life that is rather fanciful than real. 
 It can not be told, yet every couple has sat there and realized the 
 looking back to the old life, and forward into the new. Those who 
 have not reached this point are not competent to realize it. But 
 presently the two are no longer alone; there is one, two, three, per- 
 haps a half dozen children to share — or shall we not rather say to 
 make — the joys and the sorrows of home. Who knows the lifting up 
 of the floodgates of paternal affections as child after child troops in 
 to enlarge the family circle ? Only those who have had that experience. 
 Who knows the joys, and sorrows, and hopes, and fears, and anxieties 
 that crowd the parent's heart as these children grow from helpless 
 infancy to the strength and vigor of mature years? Only those who 
 have had such experience. 
 
 How is the heart wrung when one of these precious little ones 
 dies? It is useless to ask except you have stood and looked down 
 into the grave that is to hide your own little darling. 
 
 But time goes on; the years roll by; there are no longer babes 
 in the house ; there are boys tall as father ; there are girls whose heads 
 are on a level with that of mother. Processes in life, as in nature, 
 repeat themselves, and one child goes out to found a home for itself. 
 What were the feelings on this occasion? No use to elaborate it, let 
 experience answer. One goes out into the world here, another there, 
 one for one purpose, another for an entirely different one, and thus 
 some day there is a wonderful stillness in the house, and but the 
 
 i 
 
216 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 original two are at the table, and gather around the evening lamp. 
 What are the thoughts, the feelings, the emotions of the father as he 
 looks into the face of the mother and realizes that the children are 
 gone — not for a visit — but never to return except as visitors? What 
 are the thoughts, the feelings, the emotions that stir the heart of the 
 mother as she looks across the table into the face of her husband, 
 and realizes that they are just where they were thirty years before, 
 only that then they had youth and hope, while now they have but 
 age and experience? 
 
 There are many readers of the Banner who will see in this article 
 nothing beyond an effort to fill an empty column ; but there are many 
 others who will be reminded of that sad, silent, thoughtful time when 
 they ate the first meal alone after the last of the children had gone 
 out from the home circle to buffet the rough waves on life's sea, 
 and as they lay aside the spectacles by the aid of which they have 
 been enabled to read it, a tell-tale moisture will dim the glasses, and 
 a tear that recollection has started from the fount of feeling will 
 glisten, gem like, among the wrinkles on their cheeks. 
 
 These experiences appeal to our noblest sympathy, stir the better 
 nature within us, and emphasize the opening sentence of this Hour 
 Alone, viz, that life is a revelation. 
 
 Dear readers, you whose kindred experiences enable your hearts to 
 beat responsive to that of the writer, may God bless you. Good night. 
 
 Primitive Homes 
 
 Elegant surroundings do not make a home. They may, and often 
 do, enhance the beauty of it. But humble conditions do not destroy 
 homes. Let us rejoice that the dearest word but one that falls on 
 human ears, and thrills our human hearts is not beholden to station, 
 wealth, nor to anything external, 
 
 A primitive log cabin in a dense pine forest — so dense that the 
 logs are all cut on the lot where it is erected — has been put up. The 
 logs are unhewn, and the corners are not squared, nor is the rough 
 bark taken off. There are ten logs on a side, up to the gable ends. 
 The rafters are saplings, laid lengthwise of the building. The roof 
 is of rough slabs, laid two together, with a third laid to cover the 
 crack between the two. To hold them in place poles are laid across 
 some three feet apart, and supported by rests extending from one to 
 another at either end. The floor is like the roof, only laid with the 
 other side up, and the slabs straightened with a common chopping ax. 
 A space is left at one end for the chimney, and the hearth is made 
 of clay tamped down with a heavy rammer. The chimney is of slabs, 
 made precisely like the old ash hopper of primitive Illinois days, only 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 217 
 
 inverted, and coming down only to the mantle, and finished from the 
 roof up with sticks laid in clay. A crane is fastened to the jam, and 
 three pot hooks are pendant from it. The cupboard is made by boring 
 auger holes in the logs, driving wooden pins in, and laying boards 
 across them. The bedsteads were made in a similar manner, only 
 with a rough post set on the floor and fastened to the pins. The 
 seats were slabs cut in lengths of two feet, and legs inserted in auger 
 holes bored in the under side. The chinks between the logs were 
 daubed with clay, and the interior whitewashed with the same ma- 
 terial — always obtained by digging the well, which is not walled. 
 Water is drawn by a sweep — made by setting a post forked at the 
 top, in the ground, and fastening a long pole to this fork with the 
 heavy end down, and the bucket fastened to a slim pole pendant from 
 the light end. In some cases the well had a slab curb placed around 
 the top, but mostly it was absent. The cabin door, for there was but 
 one, is hung on wooden hinges, and fastened by wooden latch, a leather 
 string hanging on the outside to lift it out of the hasp. A dutch 
 oven sits on the hearth, or rather a three legged iron skillet, with an 
 iron lid covered with live coals when short-cake was baked. There is 
 an oven in the yard made by setting four forked sticks in the ground, 
 placing stringers on them, covering them with sticks laid close to- 
 gether, covered with clay, then with wood builded on this make an 
 oval pile of straight cord wood, covering it with clay and then burning 
 out the wood and leaving the heat hardened clay standing. The door 
 is in one end, and is closed with a board made to fit and held in place 
 l)y a prop placed against it. When ready to bake the oven is filled 
 with dry wood, which is burned to coals, which are drawn out, the 
 Tjread put in — sometimes a dozen loaves — the door closed and held in 
 place by a prop, and in one hour the bread is nicely done. 
 
 This is not a fancy sketch. The writer lived in such a home fifty 
 years ago, near Millville, New Jersey, in Cumberland county, and there 
 were hundreds of them, identical in every particular, in which lived 
 the strong and hardy men who at that time made charcoal for the 
 iron furnace at Millville. 
 
 And they were happy homes. True there was toil, but there was 
 enjoyment and contentment, and love, and these are all there is in life 
 worth the struggle. 
 
 We remember standing under the giant pines, and looking up to 
 their bending tops, and wondering if the moaning of the wind through 
 their tassellated branches was not the voice of that great God of 
 whom we had learned as we kneeled beside our mother's knee and 
 repeated after her that simple but sublime prayer which Christ taught 
 his disciples. 
 
218 U R HOUR ALONE 
 
 Impressions 
 
 It is curious to notice how the sight of some object will call up 
 a particular memory. A boy was attacked by a vicious dog, the 
 animal seizing him in such a way that the point of the chin was in 
 the dog's mouth, and one of the tusks cut through just below the 
 front teeth. The boy had heard of persons getting hydrophobia from 
 the bite of a dog, and it made a deep impression on his mind, though 
 the dog was not mad, and no bad results followed. But in going 
 through the heavy pine timber, to and from his daily labor, he had 
 to pass an old by-road — that had been used at one time in hauling wood 
 — and the incident of the attack of the dog flashed through his mind, 
 and he was speculating on the possibility of its being mad. The 
 next time he came to the old by-road precisely the same train of 
 thought came to him, and ever afterward the sight of the road would 
 call up the identical associations, until it became extremely disagree- 
 able — in fact a very mental misery — and he gave it the name of Mad 
 Dog Road. After several years he left that part of the country for 
 the west, and it was an actual relief that he was no longer obliged 
 to pass the now thoroughly detested road. But he never got rid of 
 the hateful memory, and in old age the picture of the road will 
 intrude itself upon him like some ghost that will not be at rest, and 
 every time the appearance calls up the old mental agony. 
 
 This is only one case, while many might be given, and no doubt 
 those who read this will recall some personal experience that is similar, 
 and as distinctly marked as this one. 
 
 It is related of a man, that when a mere boy — not over ten years 
 of age — and was just beginning to be impressed by the stupendous 
 fact of the existence of a God, that he dreamed one night that he saw 
 an immense ladder — with rounds that were ten or twelve yards long — 
 slanting, up toward heaven, and that God himself stood at the top, 
 while he tried to climb toward Him, but the ladder was steep, and as 
 he ascended a round was missing, then two, and sometimes more, and 
 there was something about the appearance of the Deity that filled him 
 with awe, while he could get no clear or well defined idea of the 
 shape or form, and he became so awe-stricken that he awoke with a 
 feeling of solemn dread, and while he tried to believe it was but a 
 dream, he never could forget it, and never recalled it without a feeling 
 of sacred awe that made him reluctant to think of it, and adverse to 
 talk of it, and yet it so impressed him that from that day forward 
 he never had the shadow of a doubt of the existence of God. 
 
 It may be said by some that he had been studying that subject, 
 that it was the mystery he was trying to solve, that he had been reading 
 the story of Jacob's ladder, and hence the dream. Granted that this, 
 is all true, and then we may ask why this one particular dream so 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 219 
 
 affected him? Has there nothing similar entered into your own ex- 
 perience? May this not have been a vision, and may not God have 
 appeared to the untutored boy as he lay in his humble cabin home, 
 as truly as he came to Abraham, to Jacob, to Moses or to Samuel? 
 
 There are poems that are never read without calling up recollec- 
 tions that are supposed to have been sepulchered for all time. There 
 is that beautiful and pathetic poem by Cora M. Eager, entitled, "Will 
 The New Year Come Tonight Mamma?" If you have not read it, 
 hunt it up and do so at once; it will not be time lost; you may find 
 it on page 266 of ' ' Crown Jewels, ' ' a book that is in many homes, and 
 should be in all. It will impress you, if there be a true and tender 
 side to your nature — and we sincerely hope there is — for it is ten- 
 derly touching and pathetic. It always carries one person back along 
 the flight of years a quarter of a century; it brings up a vision of 
 a flaxen haired girl who learned this poem to "speaJs;" at the Friday 
 afternoon exercises at school. She was ten years old then. She lived 
 ten years more, and — the flowers have bloomed and faded above her 
 for almost as long. What air castles took form in the mind of the 
 parent as he heard her declaim the piece time after time, as he 
 thought of the future and pictured her in her maturity, an 
 educated, true and noble hearted woman, Alas! all our dreams 
 do not come to us in the night. Then one night, when she was 
 chided because she failed in the proper inflection, the tears 
 dimmed her large lustrous eyes and bent the long lashes down 
 on her cheeks, and she strove to keep back the great sobs that would 
 come — Oh! how the bereaved heart goes out in gratitude to God that 
 there are no wrong inflections in heaven — and no tears, Happy years 
 passed afterward in watching her unfold into the bloom of woman- 
 hood — thanks to that veil which God's wisdom has placed in front of 
 us to hide the future from our view — and then the insidious hand of 
 the destroyer was laid upon her, and her young life went out — just 
 as that of the boy in the poem does — before the New Year came. But 
 every time the parent may chance or choose to read the poem the pic- 
 ture of the flaxen haired girl reciting it as her school task comes up 
 as if it were but yesterday. 
 
 Nor is this an isolated case. Among those who will read this 
 will be some who have — not the same poem perhaps — but some poem 
 that, reading, the locks of memory are forced back, and out from 
 sacred niches in memory's halls some picture such as this is taken, 
 and they are gazed upon as misers gaze on gold, and bowed before 
 with reverence devout as Roman to his saint, bathed in the sacred 
 flood that wells from sorrow's font, and then we lay them by, relock 
 the doors that hide them from our view, and wonder how those tell- 
 tale tears could wash such furrows on our cheeks. If all the book of 
 
220 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 life were open at the first, then who could live in joy? But turning 
 as it does, page after page, and but one page at once, we suffer and 
 endure. And this is well, for memory never dies, and though at times 
 she may seem recreant to her trust, yet ever with her sure revolving 
 wheel, she brings our sorrows and our joys before us once again. 
 
 "The New Year comes — good night, mamma, 'I lay me down to sleep, 
 I pray the Lord' — tell dear papa — 'my precious soul to keep; 
 If I' — how cold it seems — how dark — kiss me — I cannot see. 
 The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year dies with me." 
 
 A Spring Journey 
 
 Did you ever undertake a journey at a time when some sorrow 
 weighed you down? Perhaps it was in the joyous spring time. 
 Nature, at that season, has little akin to sadness in it, if we judge 
 from outward appearance. The long, dreary, cheerless, uninviting and 
 tedious winter is over. The balmy south winds have melted the icicles, 
 and released the streams. They have come with breath of warmth to 
 waken to life the trees and plants and flowers. On the sunny slopes 
 the earlier spring flowers have bloomed, and, in that blooming made 
 glad the heart of age, stirred with noble purpose the breast of youth, 
 and brought a momentary forgetfulness of pain to the wasting invalid, 
 whose tired, feeble body will rest under the flowers of another season, 
 and whose soul, let us hope, will be complete in the joys of a higher 
 life, and whose angel feet will press the fairer flowers that bloom on 
 the shores of Paradise. The trees have changed. A marvelous change 
 it is, too. But a short time ago they stood, great naked sentinels, 
 around the dwellings of man. Dead they seemed to us, and all bereft 
 of beauty. But now they have felt the magic touch of a hand of 
 Power, and the life giving current has sought the highest limbs, and 
 swelled the tips of the outer sprays into buds, that, in turn, have 
 burst into the tiny leaf, and now in the freshness of a new life, they 
 stand out to baffle our feeble attempts to solve the mystery of their 
 awakening, and to challenge our admiration for a beauty that no 
 artist, how-so-e'er skilled his hand, has ever yet been able to transmit 
 to canvas. 
 
 The grass is "creeping, creeping everywhere"; already it is a 
 velvet carpet that no loom — not even those of Brussels — can surpass. 
 The birds twitter in the new found freedom of a land that has been 
 forbidden for a season. The ephemeral insects hum on lazy wing 
 amid the tepid noon. The lambs are frisking on the sunny slopes. 
 The cattle rest, in sleep content, on grassy knolls. The bright sun- 
 shine is flecked with here and there a cloud that seems to float forever 
 on. We have been drinking in the inspiration of such a scene, uncon- 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 221 
 
 sciously becoming invigorated by it, and are just wondering if a fierce 
 breath from the vigorous north will come to nip the beauty of our 
 landscape, and cause it to recede imperceptibly from our reach, as 
 the loved one, smitten by the relentless hand, fades from among us, 
 and lives only as a pleasing recollection — for we are in that peculiar 
 geographical location, where, for a time, in the glad spring time, a 
 breath of icy touch comes from the glaciers of the north, or sultry 
 breezes from the south, bearing the fragrance of the orange grove may 
 come. 
 
 Our day dream is disturbed. A careless message boy places in 
 our hand an envelope; a glance reveals the "Western Union," and we 
 open it — with that peculiar mingling of hope and fear characteristic 
 of those who seldom get such missives, — to find it is a call to the bed 
 side of a friend whose love we prize above the things of time. The 
 message has come from southern lands, and in as brief a time as pos- 
 sible we are on the platform, pacing with that aimless yet uneasy 
 stride that marks the one who is anxious to be gone, and yet must 
 await the advent of the delayed train. But it comes ; we step on 
 board ; the whistle sounds two sharp, short notes, the hissing monster 
 moves, the grinding wheels acquire momentum, and soon we find the 
 landscapes changing, like the figures in the kalideoscope. Here it is 
 a ridge of broken hills; there it is a snug farm residence indicative 
 of thrift and comfort ; again it is a shimering stream spanned by a 
 covered bridge ; now it is a forest rich in wealth of noble trees. We 
 drink in the beauty of the scene but wonder the while what errand 
 called our fellow travelers forth; have they, too, started in obedience 
 to such a sad request? Ah, well! 'tis better, perhaps, that no device 
 of man has ever yet divined a human thought. The night comes on; 
 we glide along, new constellations telling us of miles that we have 
 passed. The morning comes ; we note a change ; a pine is here and 
 there; the dark cedar mingles with the foliage; strange forms of 
 trees appear. The train speeds on, and added miles show more and 
 more change of scene, and every change speaks more of earthly beauty. 
 Here are the trees of larger growth. Here, too, the flowers of brighter 
 hue; and here the birds of more beautiful plumage. The sun is shin- 
 ing with a brightness new to us. For a moment we catch a glimpse 
 of a little white church, and near it a small enclosure, marked with 
 marble slabs that mark the sacred dust of those who in the bygone 
 years have laid the heavy burden down, to rest in sweet repose. 
 
 The sight awakens us to a full sense of the object of our visit 
 here. We are nearing our destination ; we are anxious to be there ; 
 but who will dare to say that we have less enjoyed the grander scenes 
 of nature from the fact that deeply in our heart a sorrow lingered. 
 
222 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Nay, rather has it not given a charm to pleasing scenes that nothing 
 else could give? 
 
 How fared it with our friend? It matters not. The strongest 
 man must die. We did not start to tell you of his fate. Nor did we 
 mean to reach for something new or strange. But we did mean to 
 call you back to some event of life that gave you equal share of pain 
 and joy. If in the backward glance a real pleasure shows, pleasing, 
 though sad, we rest content. 
 
 God's Religion 
 
 It is impossible to listen to the cold, bleak, howling winds of 
 winter, and not think of the poor. There are so many of them, and 
 their needs are so patent that we may not forget them, even if we 
 would. It is all well enough to let our sympathies go out toward 
 them. It is well to say that we feel sorry for them. But this is not 
 enough. This will not relieve their suffering, assuage their grief or 
 sooth their sorrows. 
 
 Christian sympathy is good, but Christian charity is infinitely bet- 
 ter. It is good to pray, but it is far better to act. Paul, the great 
 argumentative apostle, has said, "Charity covereth a multitude of 
 sins." No doubt the logical mind of the celebrated expounder of 
 faith to the gentiles, was conscious of the vast superiority of doing, 
 over talking. He was not one of those who would say, "Be ye warmed 
 and fed"; but rather "Let me warm and feed you." 
 
 So far as our observation goes, the majority of people are but 
 little given to deeds of charity except there is something to be gained 
 by them. This may seem a cynical statement, but it is true. Advice 
 is cheap, and much of it is given. It has been held that religion costs 
 nothing, and most people are ready to give it away. And religion is 
 good, in its place. That no one may have reason to find fault on this 
 matter, the statement is made that we believe in revealed religion. 
 Not in some theory that emanates from the unsettled brain of some 
 vain man who sets his knowledge, his wisdom, his experience, his 
 opinions up in opposition to God; but we believe in the religion of 
 the good old fashioned Bible — not in a part of it — but in it all from 
 alpha to omega, from Genesis to Revelations. But the religion that 
 we find there is practical; it has to do with the every day life of 
 men, women and children. It contemplates heat, cold, hunger, naked- 
 ness, poverty, vice, crime, want, woe, misery, accident, disease, sick- 
 ness, death. It is not ideal, but literal. God's religion not only reaches 
 out the hand to grasp that of a fellow mortal in need, but it puts that 
 hand into our pocket, and if anything be there, it conveys it into the 
 custody of that needy one. God's religion will not let its votaries 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 228 
 
 rest when they have prayed, "Oh Lord, bless the poor, the needy, the 
 oppressed, the suffering condition of man everywhere." But it bids 
 them go out and find the poor, the needy, the oppressed and the suffer- 
 ing, and relieve their wants. God's religion never teaches us to in- 
 quire how the man came into such a plight; it does not enjoin us to 
 ask if he belongs to our faith, our church, our communion; it does 
 not even ask us to know that he is a believer at all. But it does com- 
 mand us to do what we can to better his condition. 
 
 If you find such don't stop to speculate on whether they are 
 worthy or not; how they came to be so; why God did not make them 
 different. It is none of your business. Don't stop to convert them 
 to Christianity. But if they are cold, warm them; if they are naked, 
 clothe them; if they are hungry, feed them. Fuel, food, clothing, 
 shelter ; these come first. After that, tell about the excellency of God, 
 the beauty of religion, the joy of believing, the efficacy of prayer, 
 the power of faith. A sack of flour for the widow, a warm dress 
 for the orphan, a comfortable shelter for the perishing, these things 
 God has put it in your power to give. 
 
 If you carry something to eat in one hand and the Bible in the 
 other, offer the eatables first, and the offer of the Bible will be none 
 the less appreciated because it came last. But don't mock human 
 suffering by telling of the warmth of Heaven, to those who are freez- 
 ing; don't mention the bread of life to those who are starving; don't 
 offer the robe of Christ's righteousness to those who are in rags. Show 
 to those poor, unfortunates that you have learned the spirit as well 
 as the letter of that gospel that emanated from Him who went about 
 doing good, healing the sick, opening the eyes of the blind and minis- 
 tering to the wants of the poor, the humble, the despised. 
 
 When the thermometer is below zero, and the bitter blasts surge 
 over the bleak, bare hills, would that we could realize the sublime 
 beauty of that inimitable parable of the judgment in which Christ 
 says to His astonished people who are before Him for judgment : 
 
 ''Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, come, 
 ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from 
 the foundation of the world. For I was an hungered, and ye gave me 
 meat. I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and 
 ye took me in; naked, and ye clothed me; I was in prison, and ye 
 came unto me. Then shall the righteous answer him, saying. Lord, 
 when saw we thee an hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave 
 thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or 
 naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, 
 and came unto thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, 
 verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the 
 least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. ' ' 
 
224 OU R HOUR ALONE 
 
 When we have learned the full strength and beauty of this quota- 
 tion, which may be found in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, 34, 
 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, and 40th verses, inclusive, we will be able to realize 
 what is our duty as Christians, toward those who are in poverty, 
 during this severe weather. 
 
 The Truly Great 
 
 It is absolutely true that "There is no royal road to eminence." 
 Akin to this is the declaration that "There is no excellence without 
 great labor." It is true that some are born with "A silver spoon 
 in their mouth ' ' ; but it is also true that it is of no practical benefit 
 to them. When we read the history of the past, and particularly the 
 biographies of the eminent men and women, we are too apt to con- 
 clude that they somehow drifted into prominence ; that they were car- 
 ried on "flowery beds of ease," and that there was no plan in their 
 lives; no perplexities, no struggle, no dark hours, no mountains to 
 climb, no rugged roads to pass over. But this is a mistake. Every 
 one of those have won their way up from obscurity until they forced 
 recognition from those who were none too ready to bestow it. Abra- 
 ham, and Joseph, Moses, Joshua, David, Solomon, Daniel, Nehemiah, 
 Peter, John, Paul, Lycurgus, Draco, Solon, Miltiades, Aristides, 
 Themistocles, Cyrus, Artaxerxes, Philip, Alexander, Romulus, Hanni- 
 bal, Cffisar, Mohammed, Columbus, Penn, Magellan, Cabot, Luther, Crom- 
 well, Peter, Franklin, LaFayette, Napoleon, Wellington, Washington, 
 Lincoln, Douglas, Grant, Logan, and a host of others we fail to recall, 
 have all earned their places in history. 
 
 Then we might turn to that greater number whose lives are just 
 as verily those of the hero, but who have not arisen from obscurity — 
 for we are firmly persuaded that the great array of heroes are not so 
 much as mentioned — and we find that all of them have grown into 
 themselves, labored for what they earned, toiled for what they ob- 
 tained, and not a single one of them has attained enduring fame with- 
 out an effort. 
 
 These roads are still open. No avenue to human preferment has 
 ever closed ; no obstruction is there today that has not always existed. 
 There are as many great minds now living and active as there ever 
 has been. There will be such in all the succeeding ages of the world's 
 history. But let us here note a very important fact. All great men 
 are not good men. Nero was a great man ; but who does not execrate 
 his memory? Pizarro was a renowned conquerer; but the mention of 
 Athualapa must forever call to mind his perfidy. Cortez lives in his- 
 tory, but alas! so does Montezuma. 
 
 Such have been called falsely great. We like that term. All 
 greatness that lacks the element of goodness must be false. The man 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 226 
 
 who rides over the just rights of others in order to secure his own 
 advancement is lacking in all that constitutes true greatness. 
 
 Wisdom, zeal, courage, perseverence, knowledge, are some of the 
 traits of character that push one to the front. But above all things 
 it takes industry to make advancement. 
 
 We must begin young. Time must not be wasted ; it is too precious 
 to those who expect to succeed. Idleness must not be tolerated. The 
 men who reach notoriety are busy men. There are idlers in school; 
 as a rule they are never heard of beyond the school room. There are 
 street corner loafers who spend days in whittling boxes and tie posts ; 
 but who ever heard of them as being noted for anything else ? There 
 are people who are fascinated by cards, or billiards, or base ball, 
 or croquet; but there are few fascinated by their life history. 
 
 Who has heard of Edison umpiring a base ball game? Robert 
 Fulton never mourned because time hung heavily on his hands. Horace 
 Greeley was not everlastingly brushing lint from his tailor cut suit. 
 John Brown had no time to roll cigarettes. 
 
 There will be great men yet, but they will be workers. God pity 
 the man who has time to spare; on whose hands the days drag; who 
 has to invent ways in which to amuse himself. While he is doing this 
 he will find that somebody has gone on ahead. While he is idling 
 some one has worked ; while he has been but a drone in the hive, others 
 have gone out and laboriously gathered the sweet stores. 
 
 Striving to excel; laboring to conquer; working to accomplish; 
 seeking for the right road — these are the aims of those who would 
 have a consciousness of duty done, and excellence attained. 
 
 It is true all may not reach the top of the mountain of fame. 
 But it is better that death find us somewhere on the acclivity, with 
 resolution strong within us, than to me buried in the valley, with- 
 out having made a single effort to reach the top. 
 
 A Dirty Rag 
 
 On Sunday morning one of the boarders at the Banner House, 
 who. by the way, is of more than ordinary intelligence, whose travels 
 have bt'en extensive, and whose observation has always led him to get 
 the most information out of the opportunities that come under his 
 scrutiny, was telling what a curious train of reflection was awakened 
 in his mind on seeing an old decrepit looking woman picking rags out 
 of the gutter with a hook made fast to the end of a long stick. We 
 took so much interest in the story — or perhaps it was his apt way of 
 relating it — but be that as it may, the theme kept recurring to us all 
 day, and even after the lapse of another day spent in the busy rounds 
 of those duties that press upon us, has failed to rid us of it, and so 
 
226 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 it comes up to demand our attention as we sit here alone, the hands 
 of the pleasant looking clock pointing to a quarter past twelve, the 
 wind moaning with a solemn, dirge-like sound outside, and the close 
 imitator, if not counterfeiter of death, sleep, having long since claimed 
 nearly everyone as its victim. It is useless to attempt to fix our mind 
 on some other theme, and so we will let thought roam fancy free, 
 while we give to our indulgent readers — not the concoctions of our 
 own brain, but a rehearsal of what our worthy friend so ardently 
 related. 
 
 This particular rag had once been a splendid piece of goods, and 
 had perhaps attracted the attention of a handsome lady, who planned 
 and schemed until she found a way to get it in her possession ! It 
 is amusing to note the expression on her face as she turns the goods 
 over and over, examines the texture, the strength, the color, the width ; 
 then she contrasts the article with her peculiar east of complexion, 
 and wonders how it will look with this hat, or those gloves, or that 
 polonaise. Then she asks the price, and considers it dear, and fumbles 
 in the little portmanteau to see if the money will permit her to buy 
 it, and still leave her enough to get the proper and indispensable 
 trimming. At last she completes the purchase, the fabric is neatly 
 wrapped up, the money counted, the change given out, examined and 
 put into the purse, and the ladj^ goes out, hugging the prized package 
 to her dainty bosom. 
 
 She is at home, and some one has been called, and the new goods 
 are brought out and both look over them carefully, and compare notes, 
 talk over the price, speculate on how it will look anyway, and finally 
 decide that it is just splendid, and so becoming. Again we see her 
 at a small table, wearing a half puzzled look, a fashion book is open 
 before her, a pair of scissors are in her right hand, in a moment she 
 cuts the goods into her favorite style, and sits down to ruffle, tuck, 
 hem, stitch, baste, and sew, until it has assumed the proper shape. 
 Now she is before the glass, with half her mind on the dress, and 
 half — perhaps more — on a few stray freckles that she would give the 
 world to get rid of. 
 
 Again she is in the little dressing room, with several dresses 
 before her, and among them the new one. Her choice is made and 
 presently the splendid new garment is showing to the best advantage, 
 a form that she — and perhaps others — think faultless. 
 
 On her return how carefully she brushes and dusts it, and with 
 what attention she smoothes out the creases, and lays it away in the 
 best nook of the drawer. But days, weeks, months, and years, glide 
 swiftly by and leave their traces even on this so diligently guarded 
 treasure. It has been worn to balls and churches; it has been to the 
 altar and the grave; it has shown at the party and rustled gently 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 227 
 
 by the bed side of the sick. But its beauty is faded, its richness gone, 
 and she no longer worships it — yes that is the proper word — and she 
 takes it down to the second hand store and barters it away out of 
 her possession, and gives a sigh of relief to think that she will not 
 have to wear "that horrid old thing again." 
 
 A poor, hard working servant girl comes into the second hand 
 store, and sees beauty in the slightly faded dress, and her admira- 
 tion is kindled, and she buys it and goes forth not less proud of her 
 purchase than the original owner was. 
 
 In possession of a second woman, what countless changes it en- 
 counters; what wonderful things it passes through, and with how 
 much human history is it connected? 
 
 But it wears out at last, and perhaps is stuck in the orifice left 
 by a broken pane of glass, in order to keep out just such a blast as is 
 howling outside as we write. Then it is fastened to a mop-stick and 
 is used in the cleaning up of the dirtiest places, and at last is cast 
 out and swept into the gutter. 
 
 Then comes the decrepit old woman with her coarse gunny sack, 
 her stick and hook, and her eyes glisten as she spies the treasure — 
 to her. As we observe her another long train of reflections come 
 before us, and we speculate on her history, and wonder about when 
 she was a weenty little baby, then a shy little girl, a coy maiden, a 
 mature woman. Was she always poor? Were her parents kind? Was 
 she beautiful? Yes, she must have been, for even now, under these 
 unfavorable circumstances there lingers some traces of loveliness. But 
 it will not do to follow out her history ; it is but a speculation at best, 
 for we will never know perhaps, whether she has come to her present 
 condition through any fault of her own or not, and while conjecturing 
 about it we are in danger of losing sight of the rag. 
 
 We return to it, and follow it to the junk shop, see it loaded 
 among hundreds of others of perhaps as interesting history, see it 
 in the express wagon, the cars, the ship ; see it unloaded, re-expressed, 
 put in the ware house, east into the tank, soaked, rinsed, pulped, 
 passed through all the intricate processes, and finally emanate from 
 its seclusion, the most beautiful, smooth, white, enameled, and sweet 
 scented note paper that ever drove a love sick girl crazy to get it, 
 and write great burnings words of frenzied love to some idol in the 
 shape of a handsome young man. But here again the subject branches 
 out; here again we find ourselves vainly trying to get at the facts in 
 the girl's history, and to wonder how she became acquainted with the 
 young man, and how she came to love him, and if he reciprocates 
 her affection, and whether he is worthy or not, and what will be their 
 lot in life. 
 
228 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 But we break off this train of thought, for the curious fancy 
 comes to us, what if we are now writing on the paper made from this 
 identical rag? But no, we will dismiss the idea; it is better to let it 
 remain as above, let the maid trace more delicate lines on its white 
 surface than we can take time to do for the dear, patient compositors 
 who will put this Hour Alone in a shape where we hope it will interest 
 those of our readers who desire to get some information out of even 
 the most trivial occurrences of everyday life. 
 
 But we must close these pages and get out of this semi-dream- 
 land, where we feel as though we were isolated from all the world 
 of man, and were existing in a fairy realm, where everything was left 
 to take some fanciful form, elucidated, perhaps, in that mysterious 
 state where thought refuses to follow our dictation. 
 
 And now we think there is a lesson in this narrative. The text is 
 certainly a homely one. A dirty rag picked out of the filthy gutter, by 
 a slovenly old woman. But what a train of thought it has called up. 
 The lives of those people; the joys and sorrows, the griefs and fears, 
 the hopes and cares, the loves and hates, the ease and sufferings, yea, 
 all those vicissitudes and changes that fall to the lot of man, are 
 present to us, and all growing out of a simple incident that many 
 would never notice, or at least never heed. 
 
 And we further hope that the boys and girls who read the beau- 
 tiful new "Banner" will form a habit of thinking and also of getting 
 some store of knowledge from the every day occurrences of life. 
 
 Another thought ; the rag represents man. At first pure, hand- 
 some, good ; but as time passes he gets soiled, stained, worn out. He 
 reaches the gutter of the grave, and oh! let us hope that the angels 
 come and pick him out, and that after renovation he is again as 
 pure and white as this sheet on which we reluctantly trace the words, 
 good night. 
 
 Our Dreams 
 
 The gilded dreams of early years color our lives with the roseate 
 hues of hope, love, joy, bliss. We have been sailing near the shore, 
 in the smooth, placid waters, while the hand of experience has held 
 the shore end of a rope that prevented us from drifting out on the 
 great ocean, and being buffeted by its waves. We have been stand- 
 ing secure in the entrance of the cave, while the storm has raged over 
 the plain, through the valleys, and rocked the tall pines on the sum- 
 mit of the great mountains. We have been sitting under the shadows 
 of a great rock, out of whose fissures flow the cooling waters, while 
 the scorching rays of a tropical sun has glared down on the arid plains, 
 covered with glittering sands, and swept by poisonous winds whose 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 229 
 
 breath is fatal to life. We have been standing on the mountain top, 
 gazing out on the horizon bathed in the splendors of a glorious sun- 
 set, while far below us, hundreds of feet down, storms are 
 raging, thunders rolling crash after crash and lightning dart- 
 ing in zigzag lines athwart the seething mass of angry 
 clouds. Ah ! these are the happy, blissful dreams of early life. 
 We awake from them, but they leave a pleasing recollection to which 
 we love to turn, when with feeble frame and tottering step we hobble 
 toward an open grave that must soon close over us. But the time 
 comes when we leave the shore, and with only a chart and compass, 
 steer for the other shore ; the storms arise, the billows roll, the break- 
 ers roar; from the timid youth we become the hardy, tough, skillful, 
 energetic sailor. We step out from the security of the cave, and 
 while yet in the center of the plain the storm bursts in its fury, and 
 we learn to stand firm and resolute amid its wildest terrors. We have 
 left the shadow of the friendly rock, with its cooling water, and we are 
 plodding over the burning sands of the desert, bearing the great bur- 
 den of our lives, hot, thirsty, weary, and almost ready to faint by the 
 wayside. We have descended from the sun-bathed pinnacle of the 
 beautiful, pleasant mountain, and we are struggling with the tempest, 
 our ears maddened by the terrific crash of thunder, and our eyes 
 blinded by the vivid flashes. Happy are we indeed if we look up and 
 say we thank God for the privations, the trials, the crosses, the bur- 
 dens the toils, the troubles, the afflictions of life. As the storms that 
 rock the branches of the oak, but settle and fix its roots deeper and 
 stronger in the earth, so do these rougher experiences of life make 
 us stronger, better, purer. Then let us stand in our allotted station 
 in life, bravely, not timidly; let us meet every duty with a willing 
 heart; let us accept wealth or poverty in the same spirit of heroism. 
 For the way is short and the end draweth nigh, and we shall soon 
 turn aside and take our places with the silent multitude who have 
 gone a little before us. The earth will revolve, the seasons come and 
 go, the flowers bloom and fade, the grass grow up and wither, men 
 be born and die, nations rise and fall, governments be established and 
 destroyed ages after we have dreamed our dream, met our difficulties, 
 and slept in our graves. 
 
 Hope 
 
 Childhood and youth are radiant with hope. That it "springs 
 eternal in the human heart" is a proposition so undebatable that we 
 thank God it can not be contradicted. But hope is the peculiar 
 heritage of the young. It lures them on from the earliest dawn of 
 intelligence, ever presenting to them the rainbow at whose foot the 
 fabled pot of gold lies buried. The child, made irksome by the neces- 
 
280 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 sary restraints of home, longs for the freedom of the street, and the 
 supposed immunities that school life will bring. The school boy- 
 tired of the hum-drum of the primary room, hopes for, and seeks pro- 
 motion to a higher grade. The youth grows tired of study and the 
 application that study makes imperative, and hope points him to a 
 better state, an easier life, a more independent condition, when he is 
 privileged to mingle with the larger throng who crowd the thor- 
 oughfares of active life. The minor has a feverish, an intense desire 
 to slip the shackles — for the nearer he reaches the hoped for freedom, 
 the more like veritable shackles these impediments to unrestrained 
 action seem — to him — from him, and become one of those integers that 
 — properly placed — become such important factors in that busy world 
 where fortunes are made and lost, where honor comes and goes, where 
 fame beckons on to daring deeds, where the voice of the multitude 
 shouts the accents of praise ; and the hoot of the rabble hisses in bitterest 
 scorn, where battles are won and lost, where difficulties are to be met 
 and mastered, where the great struggle of the giants is in progress, 
 and where hope tells him he is to be more fortunate than any who 
 have contested in this mighty arena before him. Ah, radiant hope ! 
 how bright it is, and not less bright because it so often deceives. 
 How it lights up the dark valleys ; how it gilds the mist crested moun- 
 tain tops ; how it drives away melancholy ; how it burnishes the prison 
 bars of despair; how its sun paints the bow of promise as the storm 
 subsides ; how brilliant the silver lining it places as a fringe on the 
 edge of the darkest and most portentous clouds. The hope of humanity 
 lifts the world above despair; but the hope that becomes a reality to 
 the young does infinitely more than this; it not only lifts up above 
 doubts and fears, but it blots from the lexicon of youth such words 
 as failure, despair. Hope is never lost to humanity — thank God for 
 that — but hope does undergo a wonderful, a marvelous change as 
 years advance and powers decay. Youth sees hope as the lovely 
 maiden, radiant in beauty and decked in splendor, adorned with the 
 bridal veil, and true as the magnetic needle. Age looks on hope as 
 the decrepit old woman, deformed by wrinkles and replete in rags, 
 whose promises have turned to ashes on the lips that uttered them, 
 and whose judgment is more unreliable than the simple utterances of 
 a novice. 
 
 But do we rail at hope? Without her life were a dreary waste, 
 and earth a hell without a heaven in view. Blot out the natural sun, 
 and in the coming years note what a ruin nature is. Blot out this 
 sun of hope from lives of men, and see a vaster ruin still. Rail at 
 hope? No, no; it lit the lamp of childhood's first desire; it built our 
 castles in the days of youth; it pointed to the mountain's crested 
 top in manhood's days, and we beheld the word "fame," in letters 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 281 
 
 large and bold, and then she bade us climb the rugged steeps, and 
 pluck those letters hence and place them as a wreath about our brows ; 
 and when age has tamed the fiercer torrents of our life, and wisdom 
 sits to judge what hope reveals, and we are sure that not a score of 
 years will pass till we are done with earth, this wizard, hope, still 
 flashes the magic glass before our failing eyes, and in that glass we 
 see another world where hope is lost and full fruition found. 
 
 Looking Backward 
 
 There are but two events that will vividly recall the earlier scenes 
 of life, and cause us to dwell, in fancy, amid the hopes and joys of 
 days long since past, but that cannot be obliterated from the pages of 
 memory's cherished book. The one is meeting with some one who, 
 in that dearest and sweetest period of existence, when friendships are 
 the most sincere and the most valued, partook of our confidence. 
 The other is when we are spending our Hour Alone, and the solemn 
 stillness of our isolation has, as it were, driven our feelings in upon 
 themselves, and turned back the thoughts from reaching after what is 
 hidden in the dim and uncertain future, to send them rushing through 
 the but little less dim and uncertain past. 
 
 So it was that in this particular hour, we found our thoughts im- 
 pelled irresistibly back over the history of more than forty revolving 
 years, and found that history recording the successful termination 
 of a few, a very, very few cherished objects, and the destruction of 
 many, very, very many of our fondest idols. 
 
 It was our intention to guide these thoughts into none but pleas- 
 ant channels, and to let them linger only on the spot rendered delight- 
 ful by some event that would call up none but the fondest recollec- 
 tions. But we were soon aware that the first law in thought is that it 
 is controlled by no law, but ranges at will through every possible 
 phase of past memory, or future anticipations. And we found our- 
 selves enjoying a sad pleasure, yes, that is the exact phrase to express 
 our full meaning, a sad pleasure in calling up the great number of 
 familiar names and faces that in past years we had been conversant 
 with, and trying to recall their present locations, and various occupa- 
 tions in life, or the time, manner and circumstances under which they 
 were severally released from the obligations of life, and passed be- 
 yond the reach of praise or censure, by entering through the narrow 
 and universally dreaded portal of death, the unknown and mysterious 
 realm known to us as eternity. 
 
 It was surprising to us the number that we appeared to have lost 
 track of entirely in the busy throng of life, and along its diverging 
 ways, while we were compelled to close their brief page of memory's 
 
232 
 
 OUR HOUR A LO N E 
 
 history, with the short and unsatisfactory remark "they passed from 
 our knowledge." 
 
 Another large number of those whose movements in life we could 
 trace to the present, appeared to have been bent on making the jour- 
 ney of life for themselves and others as miserable as it was in their 
 power to make it ; while not a few were to be found occupying posi- 
 tions only to be obtained by those who have learned to meet every 
 duty promptly, shirk no responsibility, and wait with patience for the 
 fruition that always comes as the just reward of honest devotion to 
 duty and right. 
 
 Then, too, in this backward retrospect, appear the sad and silent 
 cities of the dead, many of them builded on the most beautiful spots 
 of earth, rendered attractive by every seeming advantage of natural 
 scenery, and decorated with all the embellishments that art, urged to 
 its highest efforts by the tenderest pleadings that a love nearly akin 
 to idolatry, can give. As we enter one of these we see what? Ah, 
 yes! in this almost level and nearly forgotten grave, rests the old man 
 who used to totter by each morning on his staff, and who, to us chil- 
 dren, seemed to be looking for some one he had lost. Perhaps he 
 was; and who shall say that he has not found him? 
 
 In this grave rests the boy who was thrown from the horse and 
 killed, just over the brow of the hill yonder, but it is thirty-six years 
 since those stricken friends stood with the weight of that bitter sor- 
 row bowing them to the earth. 
 
 Here is the carefully 'tended spot where sleeps the "radiant 
 maiden," who was the pet and idol of the community. She is found 
 in every community and she sleeps in every enclosure sacred as a 
 place of sepulture. But a peculiar feeling comes over us as we draw 
 near a particular spot in this silent bivouac of the dead. It is not a 
 desire to weep that seizes us as we pause before the sculptured marble 
 that marks the resting place of a dear sister who faded in the spring 
 time as the stars melt into the brighter day. Beside her is a noble 
 brother, who perished in the bloom of his early manhood : 
 
 "Just at that brightest hour of youth. 
 When life, spread out before him lay." 
 
 And nestling close to these is the baby brother whose brief span 
 of life closed years and years ago. 
 
 But a different feeling comes over us now, a moisture dims our 
 eyes, a tremor shakes our frame as we read those words so dear and 
 yet so sad, "Our Father." Is it weakness to weep? Then call us 
 weak, but deny us not the poor privilege of bathing this sacred mound 
 with scalding drops. No matter what he was to others, he was our 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 233 
 
 father, toiling for our subsistence, planning for our comfort, anxious 
 for our safety. He guided our wayward feet into the paths of recti- 
 tude and virtue, shielded us from the temptations of evil, taught us 
 an abiding faith in revealed religion, to love our country and our 
 God, and then his form, bent with the cares of more than seventy 
 summers, composed itself for the tomb, and in this, to us, expressive 
 phrase, "Our Father," we give vent to feelings that may be experi- 
 enced, but never described by mortal pen. 
 
 A little beyond these are a few tiny mounds, containing our treas- 
 ures. We will not detain you here. It were a useless task to attempt 
 to impress you with our sorrow. If you have any of these sacred 
 little mounds to weep over, you need not the aid of our feeble pen. 
 If you have none of the broken idols, it would be vain to tell you of 
 our past idolatry. Tears come thick as rain drops, and bitter sorrow 
 chokes our utterance. But, dear readers, of the "Banner," while you 
 have the jottings of another Hour Alone, we can say to you, if they 
 recall not your own experience then are they not for you. But if 
 your heart goes out in an earnest desire to be prepared for the hour 
 of dissolution by reading these lines, then is our object accomplished. 
 
 The Fentlands 
 
 Although our thoughts are amenable to no well defined laws, yet 
 circumstances, such as at particular times surround us, serve to guide 
 those thoughts into this or that channel. When we got the coveted 
 opportunity to spend our hour alone this week, the delightful weather 
 of the past notably beautiful fall had been replaced by the biting 
 blasts of those bleak and gloomy November winds, that are so apt to 
 give us melancholy forebodings, and we soon found that we were 
 revolving in our mind the vast amount of suffering that such a winter 
 as this early cold indicates, must, necessarily, entail upon those whom 
 poverty has deprived of the means of shielding themselves from its 
 terrible pinchings. 
 
 Was it wrong for us to wish that we were a millionaire, when our 
 thoughts gathered in the thousands upon thousands, who, in different 
 degrees, were suffering for food and shelter, and perhaps not less for 
 kind words and loving sympathy? 
 
 Particularly were we struck with the situation of a family whose 
 history recurred to us more vividly, perhaps, because we had been more 
 intimately conversant with them. 
 
 They lived in the somewhat metropolitan city of P , and when 
 
 we first knew John Fentland he was a bright, rather intelligent youth 
 of twenty-two years, and was working for a thrifty farmer, west ol 
 
234 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 the city. He was one of those good-natured, accommodating fellows 
 who would rather see others happy than to enjoy selfish pleasure. 
 His scanty earnings had been saved until he had one hundred and 
 fifty dollars in the hands of another old farmer, to his credit; and 
 being willing, strong and healthy, he hesitatel not to propose to Mary 
 
 Telfin, the tidy daughter of a day laborer who lived on E street. 
 
 They were quietly married and John continued to work during the 
 first summer. But when their first child was born, the life of Mrs. 
 Fentland hung for weeks in the balance. This caused a heavy expense 
 to John ; besides being obliged to remain at home lost him his situation. 
 He borrowed from friends expecting that he would soon be able to 
 pay. But when his wife was sufficiently recovered to set him at liberty 
 he found that times were getting dull, and it was not possible for him, 
 with the hardest toil and the strictest economy, to more than subsist. 
 Ten years elapsed before he was free from debt, and he found him- 
 self broken in health and spirits, with a family of five children to pro- 
 vide for. But John loved his family, and as he was addicted to no 
 evil habits he struggled on for a few years longer, when, in order to 
 better his condition, he engaged to dig coal in a mine. He had scarcely 
 been engaged six months when one of those accidents so common to 
 miners occurred ; the roof of the mine gave way and buried him under 
 several tons of slate. He was taken out, dead. It were useless to 
 attempt to describe the feelings of Mrs. Fentland as she looked from 
 the silent face of her dead husband into the faces of those weeping 
 children. 
 
 The miners came to console her, for John had made friends among 
 them, and they are proverbially sympathetic. But when he was buried 
 a sickening sense of her lonely, dependent condition completely un- 
 nerved her, and only the task of providing for those dearer to her than 
 life, prevented despair from taking complete possession. 
 
 For three years that anxious mother has battled with poverty, — 
 yes, battled,— for her's has indeed been a fight for bare existence. 
 
 How has her heart sunk as the heartless butcher charged seven 
 cents per pound for the bone so scantily covered with meat, and she 
 thought of the hungry mouths awaiting at home. 
 
 How bitter were her thoughts as she drew a scanty robe around 
 her, and stepped from the grocery store into the cheerless street, hug- 
 ging the supplies that were far too inadequate. 
 
 How did hope well nigh die out as she left the counter of the 
 opulent merchant with eyes moistened with the bitterest tears that 
 earth's sorrows can cause to flow, tears shed because her children could 
 not be protected from the keen, cutting, merciless blasts of stern, 
 relentless winter. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 235 
 
 True she heard the remark that the butcher was flourishing in 
 business. She knew that the groceryman was building a splendid 
 residence. She was aware that the merchant could command every 
 comfort for his family. But that did not relieve her necessities. 
 
 Some months ago her youngest child, yielding to disease brought 
 on by lack of proper clothing and sufficient food, died ; and as she laid 
 it away in that part of the graveyard known as "Potter's Field," it 
 was hard, Oh ! so hard for her to be comforted, when she knew that 
 her babe had actually been murdered. 
 
 No ; it can not be wrong to wish we had the means to relieve 
 human suffering, after we have spent an hour alone, thinking over the 
 fate of John Fentland's family, and realize that his widow and her 
 four spared children are even now appealing to the cold charities of a 
 selfish world. 
 
 Dear readers of the Banner, you have the etchings of another hour 
 alone. We cannot tell why our thoughts took this turn ; but if the 
 perusal of them causes a kindlier glow of human sympathy to kindle 
 in your bosom, and determines you to seek out the Mrs. Fentlands in 
 your neighborhood, then will we rest satisfied that our object has been 
 accomplished. 
 
 Reverence Your Father 
 
 If there be one fault in the boy that we can never feel like con- 
 doning, it is the neglect to render that respect to his father that the 
 relation existing between them so imperatively demands. 
 
 On this quiet evening as we retire to spend our allotted time alone, 
 somehow our thoughts turned to the many instances that have come 
 under our own observation, in which boys forgot or ignored the duty 
 of rendering a due amount of respect to their father. We have always 
 felt that nothing outside of heaven could approach to the holy devotion 
 of a mother's tireless love. But certainly next akin to this comes the 
 less demonstrative, but scarcely less ardent affection of a fond father. 
 When we remember that a large majority of fathers are placed in cir- 
 cumstances where a ceaseless struggle is necessary to keep "The wolf 
 from the door," and that the brunt of that struggle falls to the lot of 
 the father. When we know that a thousand daily trials come up to 
 vex and harass him ; when we realize how often the burden seems 
 heavier than he can bear, and that sleepless nights, the horrors of 
 which can only be known by those who have experience in that direc- 
 tion, have been passed in futile endeavors to conjure up some way to 
 meet pressing obligations, without letting the loved ones know the 
 desperate strait that would undoubtedly dampen their accustomed 
 joys; when we feel that those wrinkles are less the result of age than 
 
236 
 
 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 care ; that those silvering locks are not whitened so much by the frosts 
 of age, as by the daily little troubles that come upon him, viz. : the 
 care of all the family, then we can not help thinking how barren of 
 affection, how bare of the flowers of love, how dead to every noble 
 sentiment, how devoid of every principle of honor, how destitute of 
 generous impulses, how lost to every finer sentiment of humanity must 
 a boy be, who can for a single moment, forget to render the truest 
 devotion to that father. 
 
 Ah! Alas!! The boy who can deliberately make sport of his 
 father, no difference what the failings of that father may be, occupies 
 a fearful position, and is a foul blot on the society in which he lives. 
 
 He is to be avoided as one would avoid the destroying pestilence. 
 
 The boy stands out in the community, ugly as the foul weed that 
 neglect has suffered to mar the beauty of the flower garden. He is 
 the blasted apple tree that destroys the fair proportions of the well 
 set orchard ; the gnarled oak that appears so unsightly in the symmetri- 
 cal grove ; his page of life is already covered with unsightly blots, that 
 a whole life of repentance may scarcely wipe out. In fact he is the 
 deadly poisonous and hideous serpent that not only shocks the com- 
 munity, but is dangerous to its peace. 
 
 Our heart bleeds tonight, as our memory goes back to a large num- 
 ber who, we know, carry in their bosoms, hidden from the gaze of 
 every human being, recollection of such treatment of a father, as for 
 worlds they would not now make public. 
 
 To the large number of boys who, we hope, read the Banner, we 
 dedicate the result of Our Hour Alone, hoping that it may lead them 
 to have a greater degree of love and respect for that father who has 
 spent his strength, and the best years of his life, for your especial 
 benefit. And that those random thoughts may prevent you from laying 
 up for yourselves a store of bitter sorrow for future years, by being 
 negligent of those final duties that none can neglect with impunity. 
 
 The Falling Snow 
 
 The snow is quietly sifting down over the Silent City, as we drop 
 into our accustomed place and find we are as near alone as it is pos- 
 sible to get. This drifting mantle of white is silently falling around 
 millions of homes, some of them the homes of opulence and wealth, 
 rich in all that money can buy, and tasteful in all educated minds can 
 invent ; some the homes of that great class upon whose valor, education 
 and virtue, the structure of government rests ; those homes where more 
 of independence rests and more of contentment dwells, than anywhere 
 else in all the world. Some the homes of those who are engaged in a 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 237 
 
 great and powerful struggle to obtain the very necessaries of life, and 
 in whose shadows deeds of heroism are daily, yea, hourly performed, 
 more noble, more grand, more sublime than any ever performed on 
 blood-stained deck, or field, where in the great shock of battle, con- 
 tending armies meet and maim and cripple men for glory. Some are 
 the homes of those who have been conquered in the fierce contest, who 
 have succumbed to a fate they have no longer power to resist, and are 
 now sullenly waiting for what is no longer even dreaded by them — 
 death. 
 
 Some are happy homes, where peace reigns, where contentment 
 dwells, and where hope beats strong in every bosom, diffusing a glow 
 and warmth over all its surroundings. 
 
 Here it drifts over the home, where all that might make life 
 desirable is present, but where, owing to the utter lack of love — the 
 golden chain of life — nothing but misery dwells. 
 
 There it spreads a mantle about the home where love, and love 
 only, is the controlling influence, and sheds a radiance over every- 
 thing, that partakes much of the beauty and character of Him who is 
 said to be love. 
 
 Here the soft flakes are resting on the home of him who has never 
 learned to quaff the devil-brewed cup of wine ; that hell-decocted fluid 
 in whose cursed and unpitying flood, not only the bodies but the souls 
 of millions have been drowned in the darkest perdition, whose wife 
 still sits a queen upon the pedestal of his affections, and whose children 
 are growing up about him like fair plants. 
 
 There it is finding its way through open roof and broken siding, 
 and paneless windows, into the place that ought to be the home of 
 him who loves strong drink. Oh ! that but one life had been blasted in 
 that miserable dwelling. Oh ! that the wife — once fair and lovely as 
 the flowers, and radiant as the stars, and trusting as the infant in her 
 arms — did not share its utter wretchedness and woe ! That these little 
 children had never been permitted to enter this abode where the devil 
 rum, riots in all that is degrading and vile, while all their surroundings 
 are dark as midnight darkness, and where those blessed flakes, em- 
 blems of heavenly purity, seem to linger, lest dropping they might 
 be defiled. 
 
 Here it finds a home where father, mother, brothers and sisters, 
 are bound in the closest unity, and where sullen faces and cross words 
 are seldom or never seen. 
 
 There again, it seeks out those Avho are so opposite in all that con- 
 stitutes the true bond of affection, that father and mother can never 
 agree, and brothers and sisters have never learned how sweet it is to 
 dwell together in unity. 
 
238 
 
 OVR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Here the feathery down covers the home whose occupants are sor- 
 rowing over the wayward boy whose feet are even now fast entered 
 upon the way that leads down to swift and sure destruction. 
 
 There the same down is on the dwelling where a noble son, now 
 become the main support of the family, is standing in the line of 
 manly duty, firm as the sheet anchor that is sure and steadfast. 
 
 Here it seems to have an audible sound of sadness as it drops on 
 the roof that shelters the form, and covers the shame of a daughter 
 who, scorning paternal control, and spurning the holy efforts of a 
 mother, who has agonized for her, has, moth like, been dazzled by the 
 brilliant light of pleasure, until she has been scorched and ruined in 
 the fierce flames of the libertine. 
 
 There again it assumes a sound of joy and gladness as it visits the 
 home where a prudent daughter, wise in obeying her mother, and con- 
 scious that while all her plans are open for the approval or condemna- 
 tion of that tireless interest for her welfare that glows only in the 
 breast of a mother, that she is in the path of duty, and is shedding a 
 light over all the household that will be sadly missed when she leaves 
 it. 
 
 Falling is it on homes of gladness, where hopes brighten, on homes 
 of sadness where despair enters ; on homes of health where no concern 
 is felt, and on homes where the soft tread and low-turned lamps, 
 speaks of the invalid and anxious concern for the sick. 
 
 On homes where new born babes grapple hearts with new chains 
 of love, and on homes where the expiring grandfather lays his trem- 
 bling hand on the head of youth and gives his parting blessing. 
 
 Yes, and on the homes of the dead it is falling, white as the 
 shrouds that envelop their still forms; covering from view their rest- 
 ing places. Here is the grave of age, youth, manhood; yes, and the 
 little child. Ah ! How many hearts ache tonight, as they think of those 
 dear little forms, those forms once so full of life and hope, now being 
 rapidly covered with God's pure carpet of snow. 
 
 But Our Hour is closing, while yet a thousand thoughts seem to 
 ask that we jot them down so that readers of the Banner may profit 
 by them, but we cannot. But we have felt as if we had from some 
 high peak, looked down into many homes, and contrasted them and 
 profited by the contrast. If those who read the Banner are induced 
 to think seriously of how they can add to the happiness of their own 
 homes, we are satisfied and will say again, good night. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 289 
 
 Respect for Age 
 
 This is a cheerless night. Cold north winds are sweeping over the 
 level plains, through the gorges of the mountains, over the crests of 
 the hills, and are moaning among the leafless branches of the cheer- 
 less forests, with a solemn sound that is suggestive of the deepest sad- 
 ness. And though the merry chime of the Christmas bells is almost 
 ready to waken us from any melancholy reverie, yet there is a some- 
 thing akin to real sadness in the sighing of the bleak December winds, 
 that will give a sombre cast to all our thoughts. 
 
 So much are we the creatures of circumstances, that while engaged 
 in the whirl of actual business, or even when in social intercourse with 
 friends, our thoughts travel around in a sort of circumscribed circle, 
 essaying to fly but crippled in their flight. But when, — as is now the 
 case, — we revel in the coveted Hour Alone, our thoughts expand, and 
 wandering fancy free, reach out to the sterile hills of rock girt New 
 England, and wandering on and on, reach at length the semi-tropical 
 coasts of the Gulf States, or crossing the wonderful valley of the Mis- 
 sissippi, traversing the American Desert, toiling over the barriers of 
 the Rocky Ridge, and standing at length with the smooth and placid 
 waters of the Pacific Ocean at our feet, we find everywhere the evi- 
 dences of decay, and the whole natural scenery, covered as it is with 
 a spotless mantle of white, is so suggestive of old age, that we find our 
 thoughts irresistibly drifting toward those whose whitening locks and 
 silvering beard tell all too plainly that the winter of life has settled 
 over them. 
 
 We see the old man leaning on his staff to support his feeble body 
 and assist his tottering limbs. His hopes lie buried in a hundred 
 graves; his ambition no longer urges him to attempt the hazardous 
 chances that fortune holds out as the alluring bait to stimulate to the 
 accomplishment of deeds of heroism or virtue. His eye is dim ; his 
 ear heavy ; his intellect sluggish ; his step unsteady, and his energy 
 dead. We watch him as he hesitates and passes around an object in 
 his path that in the days gone by his nimble foot would have spurned 
 from his pathway. 
 
 The extended horizon that his keen vision once scanned is a very 
 limited space. The ear that once caught the slightest vibration of the 
 air, now scarce responds to the most violent concussion of the atmos- 
 phere. As the dead oak that once reached out its giant branches to 
 interlace its fellows, and bid defiance to the fiercest storm, but now 
 with sapless trunk, and leafless branch and loosened in the earth, is 
 moved and swayed by the gentlest breeze, so he once hearty, strong 
 and proud, now bows his head to earth and shivers in the balmy winds 
 of summer. 
 
240 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 But thought goes back to the antipode of age, and we see a prat- 
 tling babe crowing in the arms of a loving mother ; we see a toddling 
 infant whose unsteady feet are just learning to support the body ; we 
 discern a romping boy intent on chasing the flitting moth ; we behold 
 the thoughtful youth threading the devious ways of learning ; we find 
 the young man of business struggling in the surging billows of trade. 
 
 "We discover the man of family weighted with a thousand cares; 
 and then again blessed with a competency, girdled by his family and 
 surrounded by his friends, in the full flush of a matured and vigorous 
 manhood, it seems that winter could not come. 
 
 But its snows are on his locks tonight. The wife of his youth is 
 resting in hope; his children are fighting the battle of life in distant 
 lands ; his friends have long since grown weary and lain down to rest, 
 while he is waiting to be mustered out of service, with an honorable 
 discharge. 
 
 An instinctive homage rises in our heart toward that old man, as 
 we think of him as a soldier in life, bearing the scars of many sorrows. 
 His burdens in life we may never know, but God knows them every 
 one, and we know that over the silent river a band is waiting to wel- 
 come him home. That band is composed of father, mother, brother, 
 sister, wife, children and friends. 
 
 But a rattle of the blind recalls us to a consciousness of the present, 
 and as we cast our eye over the white and silent world we realize 
 that another cherished hour has gone in the darkness of that which 
 is past, and we sit here wondering why our thoughts took this peculiar 
 turn. May it have been in order to awaken in the hearts of the young 
 people who read the Banner a genuine respect for age in whatever cir- 
 cumstances it may be met? If so, we are content, and we ask our 
 young readers to reflect that while age with plenty and friends is 
 entitled to respect, that there are many who have not been victors in 
 life's battle, who are without means and friends, and whose bitter 
 experience is a living testimony to the fact that, 
 
 "Age and want, oh ill-matched pair 
 Make countless thousands mourn." 
 
 Hoping that the dear readers of the Banner may have a genuine 
 respect for those whose age and experience entitle them to such from 
 those who yet are young and comparatively inexperienced, we give 
 you a pleasant good night. 
 
 Young Men 
 
 Tonight as the silence of solitude falls around us, our thoughts 
 appear to be instinctively turned to the young men whom it has been 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 241 
 
 our lot to come in contact with during our journey thus far along the 
 rugged ways of life. 
 
 There is perhaps no time in the life of an individual so critical, so 
 important, so full of promise, either for good or evil, as the time from 
 sixteen to twenty in the life of a boy — we say boy for few of them 
 can be called anything else at that age. 
 
 It has been said by some one that "at the age of eighteen charac- 
 ters are mostly formed." And that "whatever a young man is at that 
 age he will be, with slight modifications, perhaps, until the close of 
 life." 
 
 At the first glance we were disposed to take some exception to 
 these sentiments ; but upon more deliberate examination we believe 
 them to be, in the main, correct. 
 
 Of course there are exceptions to all general rules, but these only 
 go to make the declaration so much the more emphatic. 
 
 Our former position in life, that of a teacher, brought us in direct 
 contact with a great many young men, and gave us a pretty accurate 
 insight into a great variety of different dispositions, and as silence 
 broods over the sleeping world, and we sit in silent thought, the mind 
 calls up many familiar forms and faces to our views. 
 
 A great number of them, by far the greater, have passed out of 
 our human knowledge. They have become identified with the great 
 moving, jostling, rushing mass of humanity, and have been swallowed 
 up in that unfathomed ocean of business where so many of our young 
 men are, alas ! lost to view forever. 
 
 We have taken a sort of sad pleasure — for we know there is a 
 sad pleasure, and we thank God that He has given it among the things 
 bestowed on our poor restless human hearts, — in tracing the history 
 of some of them backward from where we lost sight of them, to the 
 time, when they lay an undeveloped embryo in the arms of a tender, 
 loving, faithful mother. It is her watchful eye that sees the first smile 
 play over that face; it is her tireless hands that administer to every 
 want ; it is her loving heart that anticipates every wish or desire ; that 
 rejoices at the first sign that indicates the awakening of that intellect 
 that is destined to place her boy among those who come to honor, or 
 consign him to a place among those whose deeds of sin and shame 
 have taught society to execrate his very name. 
 
 Tears have fallen on your face, young man who may pick up this 
 copy of the Banner and read "Our Hour Alone," for no mother ever 
 yet looked into the sparkling eyes of her infant son without shedding 
 tears at the possibilities that were lying before him in the future. 
 
242 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 Prayers have gone up for you, young man, for no mother ever 
 ceased to pray for her own son. It cannot be possible that she could 
 do so. 
 
 The towering oak may attain to symmetrical proportions and 
 gigantic strength, swaying its branches in the gentle breezes, or defy- 
 ing the mad elements when lashed to fury by the storm ; its age may 
 be recorded by thousands of annual rings, but it will perish and decay 
 as though it had not been. 
 
 The towering mountain, by the action of water and other elements, 
 will be blended with the plain. 
 
 The glaciers will melt away from the continents that are lying 
 cold and barren beneath their crystal appearing clearness. 
 
 The oceans will evaporate and go back into that atmosphere from 
 whence they were at first distilled. 
 
 The sun will forget to shine, his mighty furnaces being exhausted ; 
 the moon will no longer reflect her borrowed light ; the planet will 
 cease to revel in paths of living light ; the stars will dim and fade and 
 go out forever from the azure blue of the sky; the comets will no 
 longer wheel their erratic courses through limitless space ; the Heavens 
 will be "rolled together like a scroll," and the earth will melt with 
 fervent heat; all else may perish, but that mother's love, laying hold 
 of the arm of God in prayer for her son will be tireless even then ; for 
 it cannot be that in the eternal world that mother love is less ardent 
 than it is here on earth. 
 
 Some of those boys we have been able to keep track of yet. A 
 portion of them heeding the counsels of the wise and prudent have 
 arisen to places of distinction and honor and profit; others made sad 
 shipwrecks of their lives, being lured by the wine cup and the fascinat- 
 ing glitter of the gambler's hell, and have despised wisdom and learn- 
 ing until their feet have entered the road that leads to death. Some 
 of them have gone down to untimely graves, and have left a hideous 
 blank to mark the promise of their early years. 
 
 Ah ! We cannot but think that when their tired feet were standing 
 on the margin of the cold river of death, and the clammy dampness 
 of the last great struggle rested on their brow, and the rustle of 
 angel's wings came near, and the cold touch of the icy fingers of death 
 was feeling along the lines of life, about to loosen their silver cord and 
 break the golden bowl of life, then a vision of the beautiful home on 
 the hillside, with its smooth lawns and spreading trees; its waving 
 fields and murmuring brooks; it growing plants and singing birds; 
 its ripening fruits and bursting flowers, — that home made sacred by 
 the thousand endearments of a father's care, a mother's devotion, a 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 243 
 
 sister's love, must have come to them, and how the remembrance must 
 have added "Another bitter pang to those already there." 
 
 Twenty years ago these young men were standing just where the 
 readers of the Banner are standing tonight. 
 
 Is there a lesson for you in these few feeble, erratic and wander- 
 ing thoughts that the expiration of "Our Hour Alone" warns us we 
 may no longer indulge for the present? If so, and our humble effort 
 induces one of you to enter the narrow, often rugged, and always dif- 
 ficult road that leads at last to an old age of respect and honor, then 
 as we bid you good night we will feel this one hour at least has not 
 been mis-spent. 
 
 Silence of Night 
 
 The silence of night has settled over this little city, this hamlet 
 of a few hundred people. There is a weirdness about this stillness 
 that those who retire early, miss. The day has many jarring notes, 
 notes that are inseparable from the waking activities of life. They 
 are the accumulations of all those minor noises that are concomitant 
 to business, to the profession, the manufactories, the movements of 
 trade, the commercial transaction, — in fact to all that go to make up 
 the activities of busy man. 
 
 In the rush of the day's doings there is nothing done in silence. 
 The bird warbles its matin song when but the farther reaching 
 streamers of the sun climb up the eastern slopes of heaven's cerulean 
 blue. The waking infant, whose wiggling toes and moving fingers 
 indicate that intelligence begins to dawn, is cooing in its cradle bed. 
 The rooster with his voice shrill or sonorous has marked the quarter 
 hours of waning night, taught by unerring instinct that light will scat- 
 ter gloom. The daylight insect world awakes to stir the still, damp 
 air with vibrant wing, to chirp, to whir, to drone, to make their 
 music droll in curious, devious ways. The cattle ruminate and, drowsy 
 still, get their rear limbs in place and resting for a moment on bended 
 forward knees then rise and stretch, and low for easing hand of milk- 
 man skilled. The horse, impatient to be fed, lifts up his head, braces 
 his forward legs, drags his hind ones beneath, shakes his loose hide 
 to rattle off the straw, noses the coarser stalks of hay that litter the 
 manger bottom, and whinnies for a fresh supply. The whistles blow 
 with keen and piercing screech ; the ringing anvil starts its deafening 
 din; the school bell rocking in its tower above twangs out its call, 
 warning the student the daily task is near; the care-free children 
 crowd the streets with laughter, shout and song; the rattling wagons 
 join the incongruous sounds; the automobile buzzes swiftly past; the 
 flying train, with precious human load, is here and gone ; the grinding 
 wheels of slower moving freights wind round the sinuous curves, and 
 
244 
 
 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 all of these, with myriads more that time would cloy to note make up 
 the constant din that all day assaults the ear. 
 
 But night has come, and with it night's repose. The sun has gone 
 beneath the western hills; the gathering shadows fall, and darkness 
 comes ; the silent bird, with folded wing, is perched ; the infant sleeps 
 in peace; the chanticleer is still; the daylight insects all are mute; 
 the cattle lie at ease; the tired horse now stretched in narrow stall; 
 • the whistle gives no sound; the bell gives out no peal; the childish 
 shout has changed to pleasant dreams; the wagon noise is gone; the 
 automobile chug has ceased; the flying train is at the terminus; the 
 freight wheels on the siding stand, and all the other sounds of day 
 are dead. The moon has hid her borrowed light; the stars — those 
 silent stars — twinkle above and show where other silent worlds revolve 
 in space. The lights in houses near and far have long been out, or 
 dimmed — except where some lone watcher sits beside the bed where 
 toss the restless sick, or in the room where friends in whispers speak, 
 and quiet, watch for death ; the mother heart, so full of love, begins 
 to slow and stops forever; the strong man wasted by the cruel fever 
 loses his vital breath ; or age, with gladness, lays his weary burden 
 down — except for these the world is dark, and silent as though the din 
 of day had never been. 
 
 In such an hour, when slumber wraps a silent world, how small, 
 how very insignificant, one lonely man appears? What strange, weird 
 feelings creep upon him ? How foolish seem the strifes and bickerings 
 of the day? How troop before us in this silent hour the duties we 
 neglected in the light; the rank injustice we have done a friend; the 
 evil that we failed to shun; the good we did not grasp, when but the 
 hand outstretched would make it ours? 
 
 If you have never gone out in the silent night, and looked up to 
 where God reigns, in power, in mercy and in love, and abroad over 
 this great world in which one seems so small, so helpless, then have 
 you, dear readers of the Banner, never realized to what you are in- 
 debted for this Hour Alone, and so we lay aside a weary pen, and join 
 the sleeping ones who now in silence rest. 
 
 North Dakota 
 
 No grander scenery is found anywhere than that of the Rocky 
 Mountains. Those who go west by the Northern Pacific railway see 
 some of the finest views in the world. Leaving St. Paul and Minne- 
 apolis—well called the Twin Cities— the traveler catches glimpses of 
 the lake regions of Minnesota, is whirled across the Red River of the 
 North, and begins to cross the interminable treeless plains that consti- 
 tute the prairies of North Dakota. It is doubtful if there is a more 
 
OUR HOUR A LP N E 245 
 
 magnificent stretch of prairie land in the world than that which con- 
 stitutes the Red River Valley. As the writer saw this country in the 
 late August and early September of 1892, it seemed as if it must have 
 been meant for the garden spot of the world. There is a vastness 
 about the long stretches of open grass lands that makes one feel as 
 if there was no end to earth, and as if the idea was to have no limit 
 to vision. There is a bigness about the farms west of Fargo that 
 makes our Illinois farms seem mere garden patches. It was here, on 
 the afternoon of August 19, 1892, that we saw fifteen harvesters fol- 
 lowing each other around a field of wheat, on what is known as the 
 Dalrymple farm. It gave us some idea of the way in which so many 
 immense flouring mills are kept in operation in Minneapolis. There 
 were miles and miles along the route that serene and beautiful August 
 evening, extending miles and miles both north and south of the track, 
 that were as thickly dotted with wheat shocks as rich soil and careful 
 and intelligent cultivation could set them. 
 
 One's impressions of a country are largely formed for or against, 
 as one sees it under favorable or unfavorable circumstances. It was 
 our fortune to pass through this part of North Dakota four times, but 
 always at the same season of the year, and that the most pleasant. "We 
 were told that a few months later, when the "northers" are sweeping 
 these bare plains, that one's impressions would not be that this is the 
 garden spot of the earth, by any manner of means, and we can well 
 imagine that all that was told us is true. The beauty of the landscape 
 is patent to the most dull and stupid observer. To one who has an 
 eye for the beautiful in nature, it is a picture painted by a master's 
 hand. But we were not hurrying to our destination, nor were we 
 carried away by first impressions. This country has advantages if 
 wheat raising was the only object in life. But it has one great draw- 
 back — and in our estimation a very serious one — and that is that a 
 diversity of crops is out of the question. Corn can not be successfully 
 raised on the prairies of North Dakota, and we state a deliberate opin- 
 ion that has grown stronger with the years, that the most prosperous, 
 and the most wealthy farmers will be found where the greatest variety 
 of crops may be cultivated with a reasonable prospect of a fair yield, 
 and a ready market. 
 
 It must be kept in mind that we are now speaking of what we be- 
 lieve to be the very best portion of North Dakota. "We stood out on 
 the platform a couple of hours, with the door of the vestibule open, 
 and saw the glories of a sunset that could not be excelled — except it 
 might be on the ocean — and we fancied that serene evening that it 
 must be a very similar scene. 
 
 A few hours' ride brings us to miles and miles of virgin soil that 
 no furrow has yet been turned in. There are great stretches rising 
 
246 
 
 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 and sinking so gradually that as one watches them, the idea gets hold 
 of them that here was once a great ocean, and that by some means it 
 has changed from water to land, just as some gentle wind had calmed 
 its billows into long, but gently swelling undulations. On the higher 
 points begin to appear great boulders, sometimes isolated, sometimes 
 in groups, but always present from here until the Missouri is reached 
 at Mandan. 
 
 Where the smaller streams are dried up there is a thick, white de- 
 posit of alkali, that in the fierce sunshine of the long summer days 
 cracks into mathematically symmetrical blocks or diamonds. The little 
 lakes, or more properly ponds, are fringed or bordered with this same 
 shiny deposit, and are alive with the wild duck at this season. 
 
 About every so far a house can be seen, or what answers the pur- 
 pose of a house. They are generally on some high knoll, near a stream, 
 and so far from any other habitation that it makes one lonesome to 
 look at them. It is possible — nay more than probable — that these high 
 plateaus will be as thickly dotted with homes as are our own Illinois 
 prairies ; but when we look at the difficulties, and realize that the rain- 
 fall is not to be depended on, we may be pardoned for a slight skep- 
 ticism. If this land could be irrigated — and it may yet be by means of 
 artesian wells. 
 
 We sat down to write an Hour Alone. By the calendar the moon 
 should be now totally eclipsed, but the thick, black, murky clouds are 
 driving before a gale that is bending and tossing the trees, and we 
 peer in vain for a rift that would grant us a sight of luna's darkened 
 face. Was this night meant for failure? When we sat down to write 
 we saw a picture of an August day a year later, we standing on an 
 elevation, and a beautiful valley hemmed in by lofty snow-capped 
 mountains, before us, and our purpose was to put the picture on paper, 
 but we have failed in this, and written an article that would be ac- 
 cepted in the office of a modern farm journal. We promise our readers 
 that in some future Hour Alone that picture may appear. 
 
 Man is Gregarious 
 
 How insignificant and how significant is life. When looked at in 
 the abstract there are few lives that seem important. When looked at 
 in the concrete there are few of them that do not seem to fill a place 
 that no other one would appear capable of filling. Man is not, and 
 never was intended to be a solitaire. He is a gregarious animal, and 
 his adaptabilities are all in that direction. In this fact we discover 
 the basic structure of the family, the neighborhood, the community, 
 the state, the nation, the world. In this fact we also discern the idea 
 that finds expression in that far-reaching and comprehensive word, 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 247 
 
 cosmopolitan. In this fact also lies the incentive to progress, to civil- 
 ization, to enlightenment, to education, to culture, to invention, to 
 development, to government, and from this fact flows all the benefits 
 and the advantages that accrue to man from what is known as society. 
 Take man and isolate him, and he becomes the most helpless thing that 
 comes within the scope of observation. He has no incentive to action, 
 lacks the spur of competition, has no emulation to lead him on, no 
 virtues to culminate in religion, no love of country to end in patriotism. 
 It is not possible for the hermit to develop ; the best that he can do is 
 to slowly retrograde away from spirituality, and toward the instincts 
 of the brute, and if he does not complete the transformation it is because 
 death comes to end a career that has no hope but in obscurity. Place 
 two men together and you have benefited both. Add another to the 
 number, and your trinity is more to be desired than is the dual 
 existence. Add another and another, and so on, ad infinitum, 
 and you are dealing with a geometric ratio that will soon 
 carry us beyond finite comprehension. From this problem springs 
 the busy farm, the clustering hamlet, the brisk village, the 
 bustling town, the pretentious city, the great metropolis. If 
 we take the ascending scale we start at the insignificant single life 
 and gradually but surely go upward until we reach the realm of the 
 cosmopolitan. If we start at the significant life, the aggregate life, 
 we take the descending scale and trace it, slowly it may be, but surely, 
 to the one life. As we trace the upward scale we reach successively 
 the highest development of man's physical, mental and moral nature. 
 As we trace the downward scale, the moral nature is lost, the mental is 
 scarcely noticeable, and the physical is dwarfed and distorted. But 
 where is the profit in following out the steps in such a calculation? Is 
 it any benefit that we note the integers and count the factors in such 
 a calculation? Is there a logical conclusion that may be reached that 
 will compensate for the pains and the labor we must put forth? If 
 we study this question will it bring us face to face with the important 
 question of individual responsibility? Will it enable us to reconcile 
 the seeming inconsistency of the statement that the same life is insig- 
 nificant and significant? Will it lead into that realm where we will 
 be forced to take a proper view of what constitutes the individual 
 rights of man? Will it point out to us the place where these rights 
 must meet and yield to the more important rights of society? Will it 
 show us that unrestrained liberty is the worst form of tyranny? Will 
 it enable us to raise and answer the question whether governments 
 make men, or men make governments ? If it does all these, or if it does 
 any considerable part of these, the meditations of this hour will not 
 be useless. If it shows us that it does matter what the individual life 
 is, it will not be a useless task. Give us the true man, the honest man, 
 
248 
 
 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 the just man, the great man, we have the material from which to build 
 the true community, the honest state, the just government, the great 
 nation. No nation can be great whose individual citizens are not pure, 
 good, just, true, righteous, and able to discern the rights of themselves 
 and others. 
 
 The Natural Law is Labor 
 
 Let us first settle it that there is a great Creator who has planned 
 the universe, not only this small world on which we live for a brief 
 period of time, but all those universes the darkness reveals to us, and 
 that the use of the telescope has made us more or less familiar with. 
 It is true that some attribute everything to law ; some refer the regu- 
 larity of circling orbs and moving planets to chance; some looking 
 upon the earth in its beauty, the firmament in its splendor, the sea in 
 its grandeur, the mountain in its strength, the landscape in its loveli- 
 ness, make the plea of ignorance and say we do not know. 
 
 The first of these forget that law never reasons nor plans, but 
 works as some intelligence has planned. The second forget that chance 
 has no fixed system, no formulated plan, but is deaf, blind and voice- 
 less. The third forget that knowledge — more or less accurate — is pos- 
 sible to every one possessed of reason. The very fact that law governs 
 in every realm of nature, points backward to the superior wisdom that 
 planned and set these laws in operation. The very fact that all the 
 worlds move in allotted circles through space, never getting out of 
 their orbits, never colliding with each other, is evidence that chance 
 can never account for these regular movements through space. The 
 fact that knowledge — yet in its infancy — has revealed so much, makes 
 one pause, in subscribing to the theory that we do not know. 
 
 It seems evident that there is a great intelligence that the Christian 
 calls God. To us it seems certain that this God has so formed man, 
 and so circumstances him, that labor is essential to his happiness. The 
 world is not a great store room filled with everything that man needs ; 
 it is rather a great work-shop, where tools and materials are found, 
 where man may make for himself, those things that add to his enjoy- 
 ment, his comfort and his happiness. 
 
 Whatever may be said of nature as a provider, the fact remains 
 that she gives but a scant store, and that in but embryo forms. 
 
 The kernel of wheat was first a weed seed until labor developed 
 it. The tomato was but a small fruit of uninviting flavor, until labor 
 brought it to its present valuable state. The peach was but a poison 
 production until labor made it a luscious fruit. The strawberry was 
 but a tiny thing until labor made it a mammoth in comparison with 
 the original. It is so in every department of nature. She may make 
 provisions for a savage existence, but man's labor, man's skill, man's 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 249 
 
 inventive genius has made provision for an existence that is civilized, 
 enlightened, refined. 
 
 This is evidently God's plan and, like all others of His plans, it 
 is made in infinite wisdom. There is no really well developed, happy 
 man, who is an idle man. It is true that man has established an aris- 
 tocracy of wealth that attempts to live in idleness, but the Fisks, the 
 Gould, the Vanderbilts and the Thaws give evidence that the highest 
 type of manhood and womanhood is not thus produced. 
 
 A life of labor is not a curse, but a blessing, and favored indeed 
 is the young man or young woman who is born to this life of labor, 
 who realizes that God placed the first pair in the garden — not to loaf 
 there, but to "dress it and keep it," and fully understands the fiat of 
 God in regard to man, ''In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread," 
 and he is best equipped for meeting the duties of life, who must toil in 
 order to live, and has no time to loaf in some other man's business 
 place or on the corners of the streets. 
 
 A Sea Voyage 
 
 Nothing in the world can so completely isolate us from connection 
 with the great bustling crowd of humanity as a long sea voyage. It 
 seems to cut us off so completely from all our former ties that we for- 
 get, for the time, that we have any connection with the busy marts of 
 trade, and we feel that our interests all center in the company that 
 compose the number of our fellow prisoners — for we can never divest 
 our mind of Dr. Johnson's idea that all on board of a ship are virtually 
 prisoners — and we find ourselves deeply interested in even the most 
 humble and obscure of our fellow passengers. A unity of purpose — 
 that of reaching a common point of destination — tends to unify all in 
 more directions than this. A sea voyage is, at best, monotonous ; there 
 is the same seemingly interminable expanse of water ; the same repeat- 
 ing of wave after wave rolling with undulating motion up toward the 
 prow of the vessel ; the same lack of variety day after day, as the sun 
 emerges from his bed of water, and sinks again to aqueous slumber. 
 
 Thus isolated, the vessel becomes a miniature world ; it is subject 
 to every phase of life's mysterious drama; hope, love, joy, despair, 
 hate, misery, revenge, all are here ; friendships are formed and broken ; 
 jealousy creeps in to sunder sacred ties ; ambition holds up her fatal 
 mirror before the gaze of one, before alive to every touch of misery, 
 and he at once becomes dead to every generous impulse, and deaf to 
 every sound but self -laudation ; envy lurks in secret disguise, ready to 
 point out every defect in human character ; love is born ; love also dies ; 
 health is regained and lost; marriages are solemnized; death comes. 
 Ah ! yes. The relentless tyrant, death, comes into this miniature world. 
 
250 
 
 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 and leaves his cold, icy, chilling touch on the infant, the youth, the 
 middle-aged and the old. Death is not welcome anywhere. He is the 
 dreaded specter, that with noiseless tread walks just behind on the 
 life-path of every human being ; he stands at the cradle, appears beside 
 the bride at the altar, and grins, a hideous monster, in company with 
 the tottering steps of age. Gild as we may the shores of eternity with 
 the blessed promise of a higher state of existence ; people it, as we do, 
 with the glorified spirits of those who have perished from our side, 
 cover it with the sweet flowers of hope ; gladden it with the assurance 
 of freedom from pain, from sorrow, from disappointment, and bathe it 
 in the bright effulgence of God's love, and care, and goodness, and yet 
 we stand aghast at the bare idea that the pale king of terrors is placing 
 his invisible spell on us or those we love. 
 
 Death comes with a peculiar and undefinable terror to those on 
 shipboard. A case recurs to us now. The ship was a large one, with 
 a full complement of passengers. Among them was a young mother, 
 whose life seemed bound up in a beautiful infant, a girl, of perhaps 
 two years. It was known that her husband had preceded her to 
 America, and that she was on her way to join him. On pleasant days 
 she came on deck, never without the child, and it had become an 
 object of interest to all on board. One fine day she was missed from 
 her accustomed place ; inquiry developed the fact that the child was 
 sick; the next day it was no better, and the third brought anxiety. 
 A dangerous and malignant fever developed and as the days wore by, 
 one by one, all hoped for the best but feared the worst. The first in- 
 quiry in the morning was for the condition of the child, no one seeming 
 satisfied until they had heard from it. And when the announcement 
 was made on the morning of the ninth day that the baby was dead, a 
 feeling of almost superstitious sadness took possession of every breast, 
 and human sympathy, God's richest earthly gift to man, flowed out 
 pure and ardent toward the stricken mother. 
 
 It is useless for us to attempt to describe that lone mother's grief. 
 Some of our readers — themselves mothers — have sat beside their dead 
 infant, in a cozy room in a comfortable home, surrounded by husband 
 and friends, and have felt their sorrow hopeless. But even they can 
 have but a faint conception of the utterly crushing weight that brought 
 this mother to the verge of despair. The morrow came ; even the sky 
 seemed sad ; dull, heavy clouds drifted before a stiffening breeze, that 
 at the same time lashed the turbid waters into fierce waves that seemed 
 to chase each other in anger ; far out as the eye could reach the expanse 
 of ocean was flecked with white caps, that anon were lifted and scat- 
 tered in shivers of spray. Gathered on the slippery deck were the 
 entire human cargo— passengers, officers and crew. A solemn awe 
 rested on every heart. Resting on a plank, sewed up in coarse canvas 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 251 
 
 cloth was the body of the child, standing a little to one side of the 
 captain was the mother ; near the plank stood a detail of seamen ready 
 at the given signal to consign the body to the deep. Not a sound is 
 heard for a minute but the creaking of the pulleys, the moaning of 
 the wind, and the angry splash of the waves breaking on the sides of 
 the ship. The silence is getting oppressive, when the clear voice of 
 the captain rises over the wail of the wind and the moaning of the 
 waters, reading the beautiful burial service of the Episcopal Church. 
 As he pronounces the words, "We commit this body to the deep," 
 strong arms lift the plank, tilt it over the gunwale, a dull thud comes 
 back from the waters, a piercing wail breaks from the bosom of the 
 mother, and the most solemn scene on earth closes. 
 
 Dear reader, if your eye is dimmed by the moisture of a tear, stop 
 not to apologize. As we sit here tonight, in the deep stillness, with a 
 gentle rain falling, one of those rains that drive in the heart upon itself, 
 and look out on the stormy sea, and lonely ship, and bereaved mother 
 that our pen has just pictured, we thank God that tears well up from 
 the fountain of the soul to dim our vision. 
 
 And now, dear reader, thank God that your dear little dead 
 treasures are resting on the hillside, in the quiet graveyard, where you 
 can visit the green mound that covers them from your sight, and while 
 you water it with your tears, you can remember that yours is not the 
 depth of human suffering. 
 
 Turning the Leaves 
 
 The pulsations of the great heart of the world has the measured 
 beat of rest — of repose. An incident of the day has given a few sub- 
 jects for thought to dwell upon during the hour consecrated to solitude 
 and self. 'i, 
 
 Two children — the one a girl of eight, the other a boy of six — took 
 down a book, and both wanted to turn the leaves. It was a simple 
 incident; it was, withal, a very natural one, and, perhaps, that was 
 the reason it impressed itself upon our mind, and now comes back to 
 claim our attention. 
 
 Ah ! how many of life 's trials, and sorrows, and griefs, and bitter 
 regrets might be avoided, were it not that when two of us meet, we 
 each want to "turn the leaves." 
 
 We have seen two girls, of nearly mature years, whose position 
 in society was envied by many, and whose friendship might have been 
 as lasting as the measure of their years ; but alas ! that friendship per- 
 ished because both insisted on "turning the leaves." 
 
 Two brothers recur to us now ; they were endowed with many fine 
 qualities of head and heart; their 's had been a life of more than ordi- 
 
252 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 nary promise ; but when the book was to be examined, both of them 
 insisted on "turning the leaves," and from that point we trace out two 
 diverging paths, thickly strewn with the wrecked peace and concord of 
 two hearts that but for this would have been loving and true. 
 
 A vision of noble manhood and lovely beauty is before us. He 
 was the pride of a happy home, and much of promise clustered around 
 his prospects for the future. She was the idol of fond parents, the 
 hope of brothers and sister, and the delight of friends. They had met 
 in the social circles, had mutually admired, had plighted sacred troth, 
 in the sight of angels, and in the fear of God. The cup of earthly bliss 
 was touching their lips, but in an evil moment a selfish desire that each 
 must "turn the leaves," dashed that cup of bliss to the earth, estranged 
 two loving hearts, and filled two widely separated graves with broken 
 hearted inmates. 
 
 Here are two whose hands have fondly clasped, and whose hearts 
 have truthfully responded to the words their lips have spoken, when 
 they promised to love, cherish and protect each other until death 
 should them separate. Scarce has the honeymoon ended, when an in- 
 sane desire seizes upon each to "turn the leaves," and alas! the 
 estrangement of two loving hearts is accomplished ; two hearts become 
 the graves of blasted hopes and faded joys, and life — that might have 
 been a grand and noble thing to each — has lost its fair, bright bow 
 of promise, while the darkness of the storm cloud has shrouded in eter- 
 nal gloom, the brightness of their opening years. 
 
 Here is a happy home — emblem of the world above, where sin no 
 more may mar our joys, nor trouble longer murder rest — a father's 
 silvery hairs tell that the fleeting years of phantom life is more than 
 half escaped. A mother's wrinkled brow bears traces of the years, 
 years that have flown on glad and joyous wings, while in obedience to 
 the great command, children have come to nestle in their bosoms, and 
 link their souls in sweeter bonds of love. Ah! surely none but Satan, 
 himself cast out of heaven, could here invade to murder peace and lay 
 the envenomed dagger to the heart of hope. But no ; of far less hideous 
 form, but still of far more power to turn this Eden to a desert, dismal, 
 dark and hopeless, the subtle tempter comes. The book is taken down, 
 and — oh, feeble, tempted, lost and ruined man! Both are determined 
 to "turn the leaves," while good men mourn, and angels weep — if 
 angels ever weep — o'er Paradise destroyed. 
 
 But let our thoughts return to those two children who but today 
 strove each to "turn the leaves." May it not be, dear readers of the 
 Banner, that they were sent to us by Him whose love enfolds the 
 humblest of His creatures, to preach to us a sermon? If such should 
 be the case, let us receive the message as from God, and thus be 
 warned that far the larger share of happiness is lost, if in our inter- 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 253 
 
 course with men we each resolve that we shall "turn the leaves." And 
 more, that half of heaven is won, if we can be content to read the 
 leaves that other's hands have turned. If, in these random thoughts, 
 a balm be found for any wounded soul, or but one bitter pang be spared 
 a human heart, well pleased, we say. Good night. 
 
 A True Story 
 
 Pekin, the county seat of Tazewell county, situated some distance 
 below Peoria, is sometimes called "the Celestial city." It is not our 
 intention to describe the town or the inhabitants. But an incident in 
 its recent history has come to our knowledge, and we cannot drive it 
 from our memory, although it serves to awaken a very disagreeable 
 train of reflections. 
 
 It was the glad and merry season of the holidays that would close 
 out 1881, and usher in the hopeful era of 1882. The Christmas festiv- 
 ities were over. Over the ridges of sand, and out on the blue, placid 
 waters of the Illinois, had floated the mellow sound of the glad bells, 
 calling crowds of joyous children — and we might say, adults, too — to 
 assemble in the sumptuously furnished churches to listen to the story 
 of the "Babe of Bethlehem." It was the burden of the exercises, that 
 away back, eighteen hundred years ago, in the hill country of Judea, 
 while shepherds watched their flocks by night, the angels came down, 
 with a glad new song, the burden of which was "Peace on earth, good 
 will to men." And then appeared a multitude of the heavenly hosts, 
 shouting glad hosannas, and praising God. 
 
 Childish eyes glistened, while young hearts were fired, and youth- 
 ful minds filled with wonder, as in imagination they sat on a rugged 
 mountain side, overlooking the town of Bethlehem, and the plains of 
 Judea, and saw the glittering wings of the angel host, and heard the 
 soft, heavenly music floating away over hill and valley, and echoing 
 and re-echoing everywhere, "Peace on earth, good will to men." Then 
 were those children admonished that the poor must be remembered; 
 that all God's creatures must be made glad by gifts. And those gifts 
 are given. From arch, and cross, and tree, and manger, and boat, 
 costly gifts made glad the hearts of both donor and receiver. 
 
 Thank God for civilization, and schools, and churches, and chil- 
 dren, and Christmas. 
 
 A single week has passed on time's unseen but swift and silent 
 wings. The old year is dying. Here and there a watch party has 
 counted the fleeting moments that marked the close of Saturday night, 
 as well as of the year. A spirit of thankful praise filled many hearts, 
 as the solemn sound of the measured hammer told the hour of twelve, 
 
254 
 
 OV B HOUR A L ONE 
 
 and ushered in the "glad new year." The blessed Sabbath morning 
 broke over Pekin, and called her citizens to rejoice in the goodness of 
 God and the humanity of man. 
 
 On one of the streets of Pekin stands a miserable hovel ; it is the 
 abode of a poor emaciated vi^idow, whose pinched features and ill-clad 
 limbs show extreme poverty. One year ago her lot was in more pleas- 
 ant places. Her husband turned his loving glance toward her, as she 
 prepared the morning meal, while the children were eagerly prying 
 into the mysterious receptacles where Santa Glaus had left his boun- 
 tiful favors. But time flew; disease came; the husband lost the 
 strength of his manhood; he lingered, and wasted and died, while in 
 the desperate struggle to baffle the fell destroyer the little hoard that 
 frugality had laid by, wasted and disappeared, too. A lonely widow, 
 she stood by the side of one of the open graves of 1881 — Oh ! God, that 
 hers had been an isolated case — and felt that she was indeed stricken 
 and alone. She turned from that fresh mound of earth where her 
 heart's treasure was forever hidden, and gathering her children about 
 her she returned to her desolate hearth, and looked the dismal, gloomy, 
 cruel, cold and dark world in the face, and her heart sank within her. 
 Still she bravely entered upon the unequal struggle. Over-work 
 brought on disease; want came; the children suffered; humbler lodg- 
 ings were sought, until on this bright Sabbath morning of a new year 
 we find her in this wretched hovel, too poor to pay the rent demanded 
 by — well by one devoid of conscience. She has been warned to leave, 
 and now at the hour of 10 o'clock a. m., this villain, this fiend in human 
 form, comes and puts her and her helpless little ones out into the 
 street. Yes, here in Pekin, this sick widow, with the helpless babes 
 clinging about her, looks up and down the street, and hears rich silks 
 rustle, and sees costly jewelry glisten, while the rich mellow tones of 
 the bells, calling them to worship, calls us back to the hills of Judea 
 and the babe of Bethlehem. 
 
 The episode is ended. Our information goes no farther, and we 
 sincerely wish that we had never heard of it ; for as we sit here tonight, 
 we are vainly trying to solve the problem of what became of her, or 
 why God permitted her to live for such a fate. 
 
 It is not our purpose to melt your sympathy to tears, dear readers 
 of the Banner, but as you sit in your comfortable homes and read this 
 imperfect narrative, which is true in every particular, if your sympa- 
 thies are awakened for this poor widow, thus deprived of shelter in 
 mid-winter, and your lip trembles, and your eyes become bedimmed by 
 moisture, be not ashamed, for sympathy for the sufferings of others is 
 the great distinguishing feature between man and the lower animals. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 255 
 
 Selfishness 
 
 Selfishness is natural to all those who have not breadth of char- 
 acter. It is a vice that should be guarded against, as it not only 
 destroys peace of mind in those whom it possesses, but it takes away 
 the rights of those with whom they come in contact. There is no love, 
 no warmth, no pity, no tenderness in selfishness, but it is hateful, cold, 
 hard-hearted and revengeful. It looks on others as prey to be fol- 
 lowed, captured, despoiled and devoured. It is a tyrant who refuses 
 to reign in a divided kingdom ; it claims the entire throne ; it tolerates 
 no rival ; it acknowledges no superior. It wraps its victim in vestments 
 that leave them no more freedom than does those linen bandages that 
 for thousands of years have confined the hands and the feet of the 
 Egyptian mummy. There is a touch of it that seemingly belongs to 
 human nature ; it may be that in its proper place it has a utility, and 
 that it is placed there by the Creator as a balance wheel in the ma- 
 chinery of existence. But it is not one of those things that we can 
 afford to cultivate, as we can those graces that are not shadowed by 
 self, and that, in the cultivation, grow out toward others, and make 
 us interested in their happiness, their honor, their honesty, their wel- 
 fare and their success in life. We should sedulously guard against it 
 as we would against some deadly enemy, some contagion that we knew 
 would destroy. The plans, the purposes, the aspirations, the ambitions 
 of those in its grasp are all circumscribed in the daily circle where fall 
 their own shadows, for self is all and in all to them, and become entire 
 strangers to all that goes on outside of this little world, ruled by a 
 tyrant who has no desires above the gratification of wants that are 
 not admitted to reach beyond his own desires. There are degrees of 
 this mean attribute, and they vary from those that are not — so far as 
 we can see — objectionable, to that which so changes its votary that 
 the shell in which he exists — for such a being can scarcely be said to 
 live — is all that indicates that he belongs to an order of animals above 
 those that follow a blind, unreasoning instinct, and have not the power 
 of reasoning. It is needless to state that such a being is useless on 
 earth, and would be out of his element in heaven. 
 
 Closely allied to selfishness, is greed, or the desire to possess 
 things, not so much because they will do any real good, but simply to 
 gratify an intense desire. This greed — if indulged — degenerates into 
 avarice, that passion that goes lower than selfishness because it schools 
 to not only forget others, but self as well, in the insane desire to have. 
 Avarice develops the miser, and the miser foolishly starves his own 
 body, deprives it of decent apparel, puts it in a hovel, covers it with 
 dirt, denies it every pleasure, in order that the fingers may scrape up 
 the piles of glittering dust, and that the eyes may be feasted on dollars 
 
256 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 that are only hoarded to be worshiped; dollars that have become a 
 god, supreme— so far as he is concerned— in that they command the 
 all of worship and reverence that one so lost to noble impulses can give. 
 The selfish man refuses to regard or pity others; the miser refuses 
 regard or pity for himself. 
 
 If we wish to see how nearly the image of God can come to being 
 entirely defaced, obliterated, destroyed, we have only to go and study 
 the character of the man who is thoroughly selfish, or that of the one 
 who is a complete miser. It will make us glad to know that there are 
 those who deny that the image of the Creator can ever be wholly 
 destroyed and obliterated, and insist that it is only covered up and 
 hidden by the vile dross that covers it in a fallen state, and that when 
 this dross is removed and the concealments taken out of the way, the 
 image will appear in all its original grandeur and beauty. 
 
 It is well to look on such pictures occasionally, in order that we 
 realize how far man can get away from what he was intended to be, 
 and also that we the more appreciate generosity and liberality, two 
 other attributes that — if cultivated — burnish the moral image until it 
 becomes so like the original that we may almost forget that sin and 
 folly have ever defaced it. 
 
 That man is not perfect is apparent. The life of every one shows 
 it so plainly that not for a moment can it be doubted. This imperfect 
 creature is in the world for a purpose. These attributes are given to be 
 cultivated or retarded in growth. Those that would lead us farther 
 away from the source of all goodness should be restrained. Those that 
 would lead us nearer to goodness of heart and purity of life are to be 
 given full play. As these attributes are curbed or expanded we gain 
 character as good or bad people. Those who forget self in their desire 
 to help up and lift others are the most happy here and hereafter. Those 
 who forget others and cling to selfish purposes are despised here, and 
 will be rejected hereafter. 
 
 Actual Knowledge 
 
 The most important events in our lives, those that concern us the 
 most, are those over which we have no control. We find ourselves here 
 moving about in this world, but we know not anything of how we 
 came into it, how long we are likely to remain, or how, or what the 
 manner of our going out of it will be. 
 
 There is a natural curiosity in man that urges him on to find out 
 the dim and the obscure. Like the shepherd who left the ninety and 
 nine in the fold and went out to seek for the one that was astray, man 
 leaves the known to speculate and wonder and guess about what is 
 either not known at all, or, at the best, but dimly shadowed. 
 
 'A 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 257 
 
 Too many spend their lives in this speculation, and at its close 
 discover that they know as little, or even less than when they began 
 to study. 
 
 Two great facts are too prominent to be controverted — one is that 
 man, of his own knowledge, can never explain how he came ; the other 
 is that he knows, of his own knowledge, nothing of whither he is 
 going. 
 
 However, hard it may for us to say so, however humbling to 
 human pride it may be, we are compelled to acknowledge that only 
 revelation casts a ray of light back on the path of our lives, or forward 
 to the future that is before us. It may be said by some that revelation 
 is not true. Very well ; that does not help the former difficulty. If reve- 
 lation be not true, then are we left to beat our wings of thought, like 
 the captive bird, against the prison bars of those cages that only death 
 can open. 
 
 Or, like the chained captive, we may tug and strain, to break a 
 fetter that must continue to bind us until the great deliverer with 
 the chisel and hammer of death sets us at liberty. 
 
 But is it the part of wisdom to lacerate our wings beating those 
 bars we know can never be opened in this world? Is it well to wear 
 out our lives in ineffectual attempts to break chains too strong for 
 limited power? 
 
 Are there not other duties that can be attended to by us while 
 here, that not only do us no harm, but will do others good? Most 
 certainly there are. They are the too often despised every day duties 
 of life. To help to lift a load here, to bear a burden there, to speak 
 a kind word, to comfort some mourning soul, to wipe a tear from the 
 face of sorrow, to reclaim an erring brother, to left up a fallen sister. 
 Oh! How many pleasant duties come up — pleasant if approached in 
 a spirit of love and charity. 
 
 Thank God! Man is so constituted that happiness is found in 
 action rather than repose. Then dear readers of the Banner, gird 
 on your armor for the battle and strike sturdy blows in the battle 
 of life. With eye made keen by searching for human wants, with 
 ears sensitive to the cry of human suffering, and hearts overflowing 
 with pity for the poor, the needy, the oppressed, yea even for the 
 fallen, fail not to meet your individual responsibilities and duties. 
 
 Mother Love 
 
 The word picture "Mother," occupies, in our arrangement, the 
 second position. It is, as we have before remarked, not quite so 
 universal as the word picture "God," from the fact that some lose 
 this picture before memory has acquired retention. But if not so uni- 
 
258 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 versal, it is more easily agreed upon, as but few will contradict the 
 assertion that Mother is the sweetest sound on earth. 
 
 Of course we know that there have been unnatural mothers; 
 mothers who have lost not only the maternal instinct, but all feelings 
 of humanity as well. But these isolated cases only serve to make 
 this picture more bright and glorious, from the contrast. 
 
 If there be one theme more than all others upon which we feel 
 entire inability to express ourselves it is the one we are now con- 
 sidering. Woman has filled so important a part in the history of the 
 world, and we have such a high regard for her in every position that 
 she adorns, that our admiration is kindled outside of the particular 
 case we are now treating on. When we remember that she is the 
 angel of mercy to suffering humanity ; when we consider that she has 
 been the companion and advisor of man in every relation of life ; that 
 she has never failed to exhibit the loftiest heroism and the most 
 exalted patriotism; when we see her facing the most iminent danger 
 with unblanched cheek ; when we see her on the field of battle — not 
 as the reason-dethroned contestant for the doubtful honor of success — 
 but as the Heaven sent messenger pouring in the balm and cordial, 
 speaking of hope to the living and consolation to the dying; as we 
 behold her unblanched even amidst the most appalling dangers, we are 
 doubtful if another picture should not have been placed with the 
 three chosen. 
 
 But great, and loving as she no doubt is as a woman — as a wife — 
 she far transcends them all as a mother. 
 
 When the gentle breath of the helpless infant is felt upon her 
 cheek, a thousand new, strange and sweet — and may we not say 
 Heaven-born impulses spring into active existence. When the first 
 wailing cry of that tiny image of her own being falls on her entranced 
 ear, emotions are born that are immortal. When those eager little 
 lips, for the first time, draw sustenance from the warm fount of the 
 maternal breast, devotion is kindled that never can be quenched. As 
 she looks into those little orbs that are raised with wonder to her 
 own, a faith is felt that nothing can ever shake. And as she clasps 
 the helpless, tender charge to her heart, and realizes that her blood 
 courses in those litle veins, and throbs in every pulsation of that little 
 engine of life, she suddenly realizes that a mysterious change has 
 taken place, a change that is only to be compared to a new creation. 
 
 What mother does not remember those emotions? And has she 
 not wondered as the mighty deep of a mothers love is rippled with 
 the first infant breath ? Ah ! that deep is unfathomable, it is boundless 
 and eternal. It cannot be measured, nor weighed, neither can it be 
 analyzed or understood. That love reaches through time, and will 
 be continued in eternity. In honor and dishonor; in poverty and 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 269 
 
 riches ; in evil report and good report ; in hope and in fear ; in joy and 
 in sorrow; in prosperity and adversity; in sickness and health; in 
 sanity and insanity ; in life and in death, it never falters, it never fails. 
 The child may be despised, she loves it ; it may be disgraced, she loves 
 it ; it may be loathsome, she loves it ; it may be a criminal, she loves it ; 
 it may reach the scaffold, her love stands there beside it, and when 
 the vital spark has left the mortal tenement, she bends over the life- 
 less clay and utters lamentations that none but a mother can ever 
 utter. 
 
 Let us contemplate this picture from any standpoint, and it shines 
 with a brightness, a glory not born of earth. If there was no other 
 proof of the existence of a God who is love, a mother's love would be 
 as conclusive as a demonstrated fact. 
 
 As we sit here tonight — the eleven o'clock trains having passed 
 some time ago — the weird and mysterious silence of "Midnight's 
 holy hour," already settling around us, the dim and spectral fancies 
 of the ''Ghostly night," spreading themselves about us, and the un- 
 certain light flickering over our fancied gallery, we bow before this 
 word picture "Mother," and feel that we are in the presence of the 
 most sacred thing on earth. 
 
 Blot out this picture, and you blot out civilization; destroy it 
 and you destroy the sunlight of humanity; mar it, and you mar that 
 which is next to God. 
 
 The influence of this word picture can not be estimated, weighed 
 or measured; and as we prepare to lay aside our inadequate pen, 
 and bid the Banner readers good night, we say as our parting admoni- 
 tion, let your reverence for your mother be akin to your love for, and 
 devotion to Him who gave you life, and with that life, a mother's 
 ceaseless love. 
 
 What Home Is 
 
 Home ! The word picture home ! What memories, what emotions 
 it awakens in the heart. "There is no place like home." Beautiful 
 bordering for such a grand and noble picture. Home ! Father, mother, 
 brothers, sisters, children, husband and wife, all embraced in this 
 magic word. It was our promise to speak in regard to the influence 
 each of these word pictures had exerted on the history of civilization. 
 But what shall we say of this? Without it civilization itself would 
 want even a name. 
 
 It is the sweetest sound on earth to the weary traveler in a dis- 
 tant land; it is the uppermost thought in the bosom of every son of 
 toil, cheering him with the dear prospect of repose and love at even- 
 tide. It comes like a symphony of heavenly music to the shipwrecked 
 sailor on life's treacherous sea, who has — Enoch Arden like — been 
 
260 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 watching for a sail. It visits the troubled fancy of the fatally wounded 
 soldier, and bathes the scorching plain and arid waste with the glow 
 of Paradise. It comes to lift the beacon light of hope, and promise, 
 and love to earth's toiling, struggling millions everywhere. It may 
 be a palace, rich and glittering with affluence and wealth; it may be 
 the palatial residence of the successful merchant; it may be the con- 
 tented home of the mechanic ; it may be the humble home of the day 
 laborer ; it may be the hut where poverty keeps up its perpetual strife 
 with want, but it is home. It is the synonym of peace, of contentment, 
 of joy, of happiness, of love. 
 
 Yes, the idea of God, of mother, of happiness, of heaven itself 
 is comprised in this picture, and looks down into our human hearts, 
 with a gentle, loving, persuading, tender look, that inspires these 
 hearts with new zeal for God, and more love for our fellow man. 
 
 Dear reader of the Banner, have you a happy home ? If you have, 
 let no demon tempt you to mar its sacred beauty. Let no seductive 
 influence persuade you to forget its holy scenes. But let your purest 
 affection cling to the blissful spot where a father has guided with his 
 precious counsel, a mother has watched and prayed over your open- 
 ing intellect, a sister's devotion has hallowed the memory of your 
 lives, a noble, disinterested brother has warned with words of wisdom, 
 children have clung to you with filial devotion, and a loving wife 
 has lavished the full wealth of woman 's undying devotion. That home, 
 over which angels have hovered in deep solicitude, while the voice 
 of Deity itself has sweetly, lovingly, tenderly said: "I have given 
 you this foretaste of Heaven, this type of supreme felicity — the word 
 picture, home." 
 
 But a tinge of holy sadness came to mar the sacred pleasure our 
 picture gives — God grant, dear reader — but no; the tenderer, holier, 
 deeper feelings of human hearts can only thus be stirred. A blot is 
 on the picture, a moisture dims our vision. Here a father went out 
 from this home to the home eternal. A tear — but pardon it, for tears 
 were given for this. Here a mother laid down her saintly head, gave 
 her last token of love, too pure to dwell on earth, and with that love 
 entered the pearly gates. A sister faded there and died. A brother 
 felt the chilling hand of death, and thus a love was lost that nothing 
 else could dim. And here — Oh! mystery sublime, too hard for us to 
 understand— the infant perished from our sight, the prattling child, 
 the tendrils of whose love had twined themselves so closely around 
 the very vitals of our heart — faded, died, and left our picture marred. 
 
 But, lest we stir the deeper fountain of your parent heart — which 
 heaven forbid we should — and leave the traces of tell-tale tears on 
 your cheeks, too, we say again. Good night. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 261 
 
 What Will the Future Be? 
 
 What will the future be? No other question, perhaps, in all the 
 range of human thought is asked so frequently, so universally, or so 
 anxiously as this one. It concerns us all. It interests us all. 
 
 True, when we take up the life history of some one who seems to 
 have been a peculiar favorite of fortune, we are apt to conclude that 
 this obtrusive inquiry could never have pushed its perplexities on their 
 attention. But we must remember that such an examination gives us 
 the results, and not the every day experiences of their lives. Could 
 we have entered the journey of life along side of them, and been their 
 constant companion to the close, no doubt but our ears would have 
 become familiar with this universal inquiry. 
 
 But at best it is but few histories that give even this cast to 
 thought. The history of man is the history of baffled hopes, lost op- 
 portunities, miserable failures and blasted aspirations. The records 
 of kings have given rise to the adage, "Uneasy lies the head that wears 
 a crown." 
 
 The researches of the naturalist discovers, for him, but a life of 
 incessant toil. The historian's zeal to separate fact from fiction leads 
 him to untold perplexities. The warrior's wreath is plucked amid the 
 dangers of carnage. The physician's laurels must be grasped in one 
 hand, while the scalpel of science embellishes the other. The states- 
 man's dream of fame seldom terminates but in the dreadful nightmare 
 of disappointment. The poet's finer sense of nature's matchless sym- 
 phonies, is dulled by contact with the bitter, biting blast of penury 
 and want. The painter's master piece is perfected while the wails of 
 half fed children are appealing to him for bread. Burns reached the 
 hearts of future generations, but failed to shield himself from want, 
 and wandered desolate and alone among the soul inspiring scenes of 
 his native Scotland. Byron will live as long as the English language 
 endures, but he died broken hearted. 
 
 Goldsmith stands alone in the peculiarities and beauty of his 
 inimitable greatness, but he perished with the bright moon of his 
 fame but in the crescent, Mrs. Hemans, with her pathetic music, will 
 thrill unborn multitudes, yet she struck her sweetest chords in doubt, 
 in fear, in distress both of body and mind. Pope stands pre-eminent 
 above his persistent detractors, but he lived harassed by a multitude 
 of foes. 
 
 These, it is true, caught casual glimpses of coming renown, and 
 saw half understood visions of the bright halo that in after years was 
 to wreathe their fame in immortelles, but how often during the dark 
 conflicts did the query come, "What will the future be?" 
 
262 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 These are a few of the brighter examples that come to us this 21st 
 of November, as we sit here in the mellow lamp light, with a sleep- 
 ing world around us. But there are heroes whose history has never 
 been written — nay, is not even conceived of — and will not be suspected 
 until that supreme moment when the last trump shall call a dead uni- 
 verse to life, and the troubled sea shall yield up her buried human 
 treasures, and the bursting graves shall send forth their sheeted and 
 silent occupants to swell the teeming multitudes who will witness the 
 throes of a dying universe, the astonishing wonders of an infinitely 
 just Judge and impartial tribunal. Then from the unassuming throng 
 of God's suffering poor will come heroes, before the splendor of whose 
 immortal fame the brightest stars in all earth's cherished galaxy will 
 pale and dim. But these, too, have gone through life with the absorb- 
 ing query trembling on their tongues, "What vsall the future be?" 
 
 Dear reader, have you doubts, and fears, and heavy burdens 
 grievous to be borne? Do you imagine that your cross is a peculiar 
 one ? Are you fainting on the highway of life ? Is the terribly earnest 
 question, "What will the future be," coming to you daily or hourly? 
 If so, take courage. These burdens, these trials have been borne by 
 many before you. This life is a battle field ; we are soldiers ; death 
 brings our discharge, and Heaven is the pension land. Good night. 
 
 Starving 
 
 One scene comes up before us tonight. It seems but trivial. It 
 is of the most humble character, but it obtrudes — and we give it. 
 
 It was Tuesday, November first, 1881. We were picking our way 
 along Monroe street, Chicago. It was afternoon, and though but 
 November, its chilling wind made us shiver, though warmly clad, and 
 we buttoned up our overcoat as the searching breeze from lake Michi- 
 gan began to seek out the marrow of one's bones. 
 
 Our attention was attracted by the peculiar wailing cry of a sick 
 child, and on looking up we beheld a sight that so photographed itself 
 upon our memory, that now, as we are alone to think, it shuts out 
 every other picture. 
 
 It was the most miserable and wretched looking family that we 
 had ever seen. A little in advance was the husband and father, moving 
 with that uncertain, unsteady and hesitating step that tells better than 
 volumes could express it, that hope flickered with but a feeble glimmer 
 in his breast. His garments were of the coarsest material and scarce 
 covered his thin legs, while his face had that shriveled, pinched — and 
 to me — awful look, that tells that starvation rather than disease, had 
 wrecked his form. 
 
 The mother followed several paces in the rear, carrying in her 
 arms a child of perhaps two summers — the one whose wailing cry had 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 263 
 
 arrested our attention — whose whole frame was a mere skeleton. Its 
 legs dangling over the mothers arms — were but little larger than an 
 ordinary gas pipe, while they seemed to be long enough for a child 
 of seven or eight. Its poor, little pinched face was as near hectic with 
 fever — the fever of starvation— as was possible for a bloodless face to 
 be. Between the husband and wife trudged two dirty, ragged, mis- 
 erable looking children, perhaps four and six respectively, while follow- 
 ing her was a boy of — well he might be ten or fourteen — for age had 
 no chance to stamp itself on a form like his. He carried in his hand 
 a small bundle knotted up in a dirty rag, more than likely containing 
 the earthly possessions of the miserable family. 
 
 They were in very fact but living skeletons, and in scanning 
 them closely as they went by us, we could detect no expression on 
 the face of any of them save that of sullen despair, except the mother. 
 As she hugged the child to her scarce covered bosom, and tried to 
 shield its trembling form with her poor skeleton arms, her sunken 
 eyes gleamed with the bright and tender light of a mother's love, 
 that holy affection that out-lives every other impulse of the human 
 heart. 
 
 They were by us in a minute, and it was with a very moist vision 
 that we turned and watched that wretched family disappear in the 
 busy, surging crowd. 
 
 Reader, you have read of such scenes before ; so had we ; but did 
 you ever witness one of them? Here was food for reflection. What 
 placed them in such a condition? They had not the appearance of 
 drinking people. No; they seemed to me to be simply starving, and 
 that too, in a land of plenty, in a wealthy and prosperous city, whose 
 bins and warehouses were bursting with food, a city where $20,000 
 is expended in celebrating a silver wedding. 
 
 As we turned on Fifth avenue, the single word starving, was the 
 only one we could call up. 
 
 It seemed a parrot tone, starving ! In vain we tried to argue that 
 it must be their own fault, that it must be mismanagement on their 
 part; all was lost in the recurring word starving! My God! Here 
 under the sound of a religion taught from gilded pulpits, and listened 
 to from crimson cushioned pews were God's poor literally starving! 
 
 We remembered that but a few weeks before this great city 
 expended thousands in mourning the death of a successful politician, 
 while here was starving humanity, homeless, wandering, lost, and we 
 involuntarily clinched our teeth, and shut our eyes for a moment, 
 and the city was gone, and we saw the gentle Savior, and heard his 
 loving voice, saying, "the poor ye have always with you." 
 
264 UB H OU R A LO N E 
 
 Dear readers of the Banner, as you sit in your comfortable homes, 
 and look around on your well fed households, imagine, if you can, 
 that scene on Monroe street, Chicago, on Tuesday, November 1st, 
 1881, and wonder not that we have been called to sketch no sadder 
 incident in this silent Hour Alone. 
 
 Homes 
 
 It may be a simple clearing in the dense forests of Wisconsin, 
 with a log cabin roofed with rough clap-boards, and floored with 
 puncheons hewn out of the newly felled trees, the chinks between the 
 logs daubed with clay taken from the rude well, but in that uncouth 
 dwelling in the wilderness is the wife and the baby, the pictures and 
 the books, the old family bible, and the altar where the sturdy 
 wood-chopper bends in humble adoration before Him who has seen 
 fit to set the world in families, to thank Him for these rougher, these 
 humbler benefits, and to implore a continuance of them, and there is 
 joy, and happiness, and love, and contentment there, for that se- 
 questered spot is home, the dearest, the best, the most highly prized 
 of all the spots on the face of the earth. 
 
 The man who here strikes with keen blade the sturdy oak, and 
 grubs the stubborn root, to sow the wheat and barley, to plant the 
 corn and potato, is working for a purpose noble as ever was blazoned 
 on banner or flag waving over the host of conquering army, for he 
 labors for her he loves, and for the child that has two human hearts 
 for thrones, and wields in either little hand a scepter. He may know 
 but little of man's origin as it is sought after by the scientist, but 
 he rests secure in the promise that in his "Father's house are many 
 mansions," and he feels safe in the belief that man's future condition 
 is more important to him than is the theory of man's possible evolu- 
 tion from tadpole to monkey, and from monkey to man. With the 
 past he has little connection, and it matters not that dead peoples, 
 and ruined nationalities, and crumbled thrones, and destroyed dyn- 
 asties are covered with the mould of long drawn centuries, for who can 
 change a single event that has been cast in history's unyielding 
 mould? Or who recall a solitary purpose that has changed from some 
 plastic present into the metallic past? He lives and breathes today, 
 now, here, and for the present, and a purpose. He has a strong desire 
 to live when worlds are dead. All future years are his, for he has 
 come from God, and must return, and so he waits in faith, strong 
 in hope, reliant in purpose. And thus he is the man — God made him 
 that — the citizen — he chooses to be this — the patriot, too far from 
 wealth for pride, and too remote from want to fear. 
 
 It may be a hut standing away off on the interminable prairies of 
 the Dakotas, lone, isolated, solitary and desolate in its surroundings. 
 
OUR HOUR ALONE 265 
 
 not a shrub to shade from fiercest rays of sun, nor bough to break 
 the keen, cold penetrating blasts that drive the snow in particles 
 so fine, they sift through paneled doors, as they rush down 
 from frozen barriers of the north, where hidden lie so much 
 that man desires to know. But it is home, for here again 
 is wife, and child, and love, the books, the pictures, the plan, the pur- 
 pose, and the reverence for God, and hope for independence when 
 the sere and yellow leaf of life has come. He stands beside the few 
 rough boards that shelter those he loves, as evening's curtain swathes 
 the world in darkness, and gazes up to worlds above his own, and 
 knows that telescopes would show him other worlds, and that beyond 
 their power lie other worlds and systems, so vast, so great that finite 
 man's conception fails and he is lost; and then his eye returns to earth, 
 and rests where virgin sod is touched by star-gemmed sky, his thoughts 
 go back to other scenes, a church, a congregation clad in Sabbath 
 dress, himself a careless boy, he hears adown the lapse of years, 
 in solemn tone the man of God exclaim, "What is man that Thou art 
 mindful of him, or the son of man that Thou visitest him." And he 
 pushes open the door and enters the most sacred place in all earth's 
 vast domain — a home. His all is here, and here he rests content, nor 
 dreams of millions to be won, nor fears he want while God gives 
 strength to turn the stubborn glebe. 
 
 It may be on the mountain side perches the low built, dirt covered 
 ground floored and unpretentious hut that shelters the wife and babe 
 of hardy mountaineer. Above them piled in wild disorder, rises crag 
 o'er crag, and peak high over peak, lifting their snow capped heads 
 in heavens cerulean blue, where sunlight glitters all their dizzy heights 
 in blazonry of beauty, while far below this eyrie where his young is 
 safe, the sinuous Yellowstone rolls a golden thread, rushing through 
 wild, romantic scenes to mingle its floods with the murky waters of 
 the sluggish Missouri. The little valley, rich in soil of rocks fine 
 pulverized by ages of corrosion, yields bountifully to his toil. He 
 knows the dangerous pass, the tortuous defile, and follows to his lair 
 the fiercest denizens of these old hoary rocks. He has a plan, a pur- 
 pose. Love nerves his arm to toil ; love gives the steady eye ; love 
 plants his step on peak till now thought inaccessible. That structure 
 is his home. God speaks to him amid these rougher scenes; he sees 
 where nature has hurled and heaved in giant combat. As he looks 
 on nature in her wilder moods he feels how little man really is; and 
 so he, too, grows strong — not in conceits, but in a simple faith that 
 He who uprears these cliffs, piles up the buttresses of rocks, scoops out 
 the valleys fair, and cuts the canyon dark and deep, has wisdom, power 
 and might, and thus he learns to look from nature up to nature's 
 God. 
 
266 OUR HOUR ALONE 
 
 As we sit here tonight and list to cricket's chirp, and note the 
 plaintive cry of katydid, we see such homes by millions multiplied; 
 they dot the land ; they form a bulwark round us no foe may scale 
 or batter down. And as we sit and muse this solemn hour of night, 
 Yates City wrapped in sleep secure and sweet, we can but think that 
 in these homes where dwell in peace our happy middle class, where 
 daily toils are met, where daily victories are won, where incense rises 
 up from altars where fathers bow, and mothers bend the knee, and 
 children learn that character is all there is in life, that justice will 
 be done, that purity is bliss, that manhood's noblest measure is the 
 man who knows his duty to himself, his fellow man and God, and 
 acts this knowledge in its broader sense — these give us strength; in 
 them lie our security. 
 
 The rich and overfed become tyrannical, oppressive and danger- 
 ous. The poor and underfed become lawless and often criminal. But 
 the homes of the great middle class are the walls of safety that rise 
 around our nation. Yes, dear readers of the Banner, the christian 
 homes of America are more to her than armies, and navies, and wealth. 
 They make her great. 
 
Poems 
 
 AWAKENED FROM A DREAM 
 
 Oh, did you ever sleep and dream some sweetly pleasant dream, 
 In which your bark sailed gently down some smoothly flowing stream, 
 Whose banks were lined with stateliest trees, of richest foliage rare; 
 Where thousand fragrant flowers combined to scent the balmy air; 
 
 And heaven's blue sky was bending o'er, a dome so rich and grand, 
 It seemed the transcript of some scene in fabled fairy land, 
 With here and there a fleecy cloud, tinged with a band of gold. 
 Like those of ideal skies, found in some picture quaint and old? 
 
 A dream in which your lines of life seemed filled with much of bliss, 
 Your lips all tremulous with joy from pleasure's honeyed kiss? 
 A dream so sweet you feared to wake, lest waking you should find, 
 Some wave of human sorrow break across your peaceful mind? 
 
 Just such a dream was ours; it lasted twenty fleeting years, 
 And then we woke to pain, and grief, and all earth's bitterest tears. 
 Yes, woke to find how much of woe, these human hearts can bear; 
 To feel how hopeless is that grief, how helpless every prayer. 
 
 She came and nestled in our arms, the tiniest, shrinking child. 
 
 And grew among us, as some flower grows in the dingle wild; 
 
 But ah! She was the climbing plant, and twined her tendrils round our heart 
 
 So closely, that it caused a pang to think that we might part. 
 
 Her form was not divinely fair, nor features cast in beauty's mold; 
 She had no wealth of raven hair, nor drapery's costly fold 
 To lend a grace, a charm, or make her features lovely seem; 
 But goodness shone in every glance, and by its radiant gleam 
 
 We saw the beauty of her life, saw her full power to blend 
 
 The hearts of all she mingled with, into her heart — a friend; 
 
 Saw that the magic of her love wrought out the kindliest deeds, 
 
 And that she culled life's fairest flowers, but shunned its useless weeds. 
 
 Saw that she left the child in smiles she lately found in tears, 
 
 That every tale of woe and want, reached her attentive ears; 
 
 And that she scattered sunshine where she found but clouds and gloom. 
 
 And left the incense of her deeds, where poverty found room. 
 
 267 
 
268 POEMS 
 
 The loveliest flower will droop and die, in autumn dark and chill; 
 The beauty of the sunset fade from meadow, vale, and hill; 
 The glory of the starry night will merge into the brighter day; 
 The finest frostwork of the morn, melt in the noontide ray. 
 
 We saw her droop like lovely flower, and fade like sunset grand. 
 The glory of her star merge in the brighter heavenly land; 
 The frostwork of her life melt in the softer, warmer ray 
 Of sunlight pouring o'er the morn of the eternal day. 
 
 She died; and we awoke from our transcendent dreams of bliss; 
 Awoke to find that Dora's lips no longer answered with a kiss. 
 And we have laid her gently down, to sleep the last long, silent sleep, 
 Where but the shining angel bands, her nightly vigils keep. 
 
 While we are sleeping other sleeps, and dreaming other dreams; 
 And catching here a glimpse of joy, and there some beatific gleams 
 Of angel wings, that hover o'er our slumbers in the night, 
 And hear- their whispered words, "Cheer up, ye walk by faith and not by 
 sight." 
 
 CHILDREN 
 
 If there be one place below, where heaven dwells. 
 In all its beauteous, radiant glories mild, 
 
 A place where purest, best emotion swells. 
 
 It must be in the guileless heart of some sweet child. 
 
 And as we stand, with reverence, in their sight, 
 
 Wrapped in our foulness, steeped in sin and shame. 
 
 How lost to hope would be our hapless plight — 
 
 Compared with theirs, our boasted love how tame. 
 
 And when we come with these vile natures fraught, 
 
 With such a load of sorrow and of sin. 
 How will we be by their example taught. 
 
 To see the foulness of the heart within. 
 
 For he who comes for wisdom to a child. 
 Must needs be better, by the coming made, 
 
 And he who learns from their example mild. 
 Is nearer heaven than when he first obeyed. 
 
 If purity and heaven be but one. 
 
 The lives of children must be near to both. 
 
 Nor far can we be from the Master's plan 
 If we can do as these dear loved ones doth. 
 
 For man may have a thousand vices on his soul, 
 Yet if he comes in child-like faith to God, 
 
 The sin-sick conscience will His power make whole. 
 And hope will blossom as did Aaron's rod. 
 
POEMS 269 
 
 And he who loves a child can not be wholly bad, 
 Nor has he strayed beyond sweet mercy's power, 
 
 Whose heart is in their joyous presence glad. 
 
 And who, with them, can spend a gladsome hour. 
 
 But he has ample reason to despair, 
 
 Whose heart is shut to aught of childish love. 
 
 For such — the Savior's own true words declare — 
 Can never enter His blest courts above. 
 
 Then may we love as doth the little child. 
 
 And love our Father as the children do. 
 That we may hear His accents, sweet and mild. 
 
 Saying, "Well done, thou servants good and true." 
 
 THE DIRTY FACED TAD 
 
 The teacher stood in her little school. 
 Thinking of lessons, discipline, and rule. 
 
 And watching the pupils file in; 
 And she felt dejected, disheartened and sad. 
 For here was a dirty and ragged tad, 
 
 Full of mischief as Satan of sin; 
 
 And she knew that before the hour of noon — 
 Perhaps some late! — but all too soon. 
 
 The tad would bother her some; 
 Perhaps he would pinch little Billy Scroggs, 
 'Till he'd howl like one of the Deacon's dogs, 
 
 Perhaps he'd be chewing gum. 
 
 Perhaps he would "chick" like a flying squirrel, 
 Or throw a sly kiss at the freckled-faced girl, 
 
 Or stick a pin in the stolid dunce 
 Who sits in the chair across the aisle. 
 Causing the school to giggle and smile. 
 
 While he moves a muscle — not once. 
 
 But he looks at the ceiling and watches the flies. 
 And starts in a sort of a dazed surprise. 
 
 If the teacher calls his name. 
 Then he rises and shuffles along the floor, 
 'Till he stands between her chair and the door. 
 
 With a downcast look of shame: 
 
 Then digging a knuckle in either eye, 
 He lingers to simper, and whimper, and cry. 
 And say "it couldn't be me. 
 
270 P OEMS 
 
 For I wath just sthudying ever stho hard, 
 To get the lethen marked down on the card, 
 And it could't a' been, you sthee." 
 
 And he lies in her face with such elegant ease, 
 
 And says with such vim, "may I take my stheat, pleathes?" 
 
 That she never can punish him more. 
 And he goes to his form with a grin on his phiz, 
 And in less than a minute is at the old biz — 
 
 Doing worse than he did before. 
 
 The hour of noon had come and past, 
 And aside hoop, kite and ball were cast. 
 
 And the children were filing along; 
 When the teacher — while dusting the desk and chair 
 Saw the dirty faced tad come — humming an air — 
 
 The last of the noisy throng. 
 
 And she watched him come ambling up the aisle, 
 While her sad, weary look gave place to a smile. 
 
 As she spied in his dirty fist, 
 A bouquet of sweet scented violets, 
 That had bloomed in advance of the mignonettes. 
 
 And other flowers on the list. 
 
 And he poked the flowers up under her nose, 
 And stood looking down and working his toes, 
 
 "Pleathes my ma thaid I might, 
 Tho I gathered a few ath I came to skuthel, 
 They'll keep a good while if the air ith kule, 
 
 And they'll be a pretty thsight." 
 
 And she took them with feelings of real joy, 
 And asked God to bless the mischievous boy — 
 
 For she felt that he could not be bad — 
 And she hoped that when life's ripened harvest had come. 
 That boy would be bringing the golden sheaves home. 
 
 No longer a dirty faced tad. 
 
POEMS 271 
 
 THE MOTHER'S ANGUISH 
 
 Oh! the anguish, bitter anguish, 
 That sweeps o'er a mother's heart. 
 
 When she comes to sort the wardrobe. 
 Yes, the tiny little wardrobe, 
 Of the dearest, late departed, 
 
 Late departed from her heart. 
 
 Oh! the garments, little garments, 
 How they harrow up her soul. 
 
 As she folds those little dresses, 
 Yes, those dearest little dresses. 
 Worn by her that's gone forever. 
 
 Gone forever from her soul. 
 
 Ah! the relics, yes, sad relics, 
 How they speak of her that's gone; 
 
 Oh! they speak in tones of sadness. 
 Yes, in tones of deepest sadness. 
 Speak those relics of the loved one, 
 
 Of the loved one lost and gone. 
 
 But the tresses, shining tresses. 
 Taken from her golden hair. 
 
 Oh! they set her tears to flowing, 
 Yes, her bitterest tears to flowing 
 For the one who wore those ringlets. 
 
 Ringlets bright of golden hair. 
 
 But thou darling! Oh, thou darling! 
 Her fond heart will ne'er forget thee, 
 
 Oh! by her thou'rt not forgotten. 
 No! by her thou'rt not forgotten. 
 Her true heart for thee will sorrow, 
 
 Sorrow evermore for thee. 
 
 But thou angel. Oh! thou angel. 
 In the realms of light secure 
 
 She feels that thou art happy. 
 Yes, she knows that thou art happy, 
 And she longs in heaven to meet you. 
 
 Meet you thus in heaven secure. 
 
272 POEMS 
 
 AWAY WITH IT! 
 
 The evil of rum is the foulest blot 
 
 That curses the land; and it heedeth not 
 
 The cry of despair that is never forgot. 
 
 By those who hear its wail. 
 As it surges up from valley and town, 
 Rolling out from cot, and mansion brown — 
 From the poor in his rags — the king in his crown — 
 
 Borne out on the sighing gale. 
 
 The curse of rum is a ceaseless stream. 
 Whose waves awake from a pleasant dream 
 The good, the pure, the wise, who seem 
 
 Too happy for such a fate; 
 And it carries them down to fathomless caves. 
 Where the tossing foam of the cataract's waves. 
 Will bury them deep in dishonored graves — 
 
 Will bury them soon or late. 
 
 It comes to take bread from the hungry child — 
 To sadden the life of the wife who smiled — 
 To drive the aged father distracted and wild. 
 
 To murder a sister fair; 
 To banish the joy from a happy home, 
 To scatter its inmates abroad to roam. 
 To record their crimes in a bulky tome. 
 
 To fill their souls with despair. 
 
 It comes — like Satan — to Paradise, 
 
 And weaves such a web of crafty lies. 
 
 That the pure, the good, the noble, the wise, 
 
 If they listen, are surely lost; 
 One slays a child; one murders a wife; 
 Here the suicide's deed is rank and rife; 
 There a son has bereft a mother of life. 
 
 While in maniac agonies wild. 
 
 There is no crime but the drunkard's bowl 
 Will place on the suffering human soul. 
 No anguish nor sorrow it will not roll. 
 
 With pitiless, cruel fate; 
 For it is a demon, born in hell. 
 Where pity died when the angels fell. 
 And the wail of the damned was of hope the knell. 
 
 Fixing their lasting state. 
 
 Why stand we abashed when this monster appears? 
 Why shrink we, and counsel alone with our fears? 
 Why waste we the precious days, and the years, 
 In which we might throttle this foe? 
 
P OEMS 278 
 
 The plain path of duty shines bright as a star; 
 It leads us to battle, it brings us to war; 
 Duty tells us to banish this evil afar, 
 
 To finish this author of woe. 
 Are we craven and cowards while friends fall around? 
 Must the blood of our brothers still cry from the ground? 
 Will we turn a deaf ear to this terrible sound 
 
 That comes to us year by year? 
 Let us drive the vile traffic away from our land; 
 For right, truth and justice together let's stand 
 With a purpose of heart, and strength in our hafid 
 
 To smite till the foe disappear. 
 
 C. A. STETSON'S JERSEY JACKETS 
 
 I. 
 
 How dear to my heart is the new Jersey Jacket, 
 
 A well-moulded figure 'twas made to adorn. 
 I'm sure, as an elegant, close-fitting sacque, it 
 
 Lays over all garments I ever have worn. 
 Oh, my! with delight it is driving me crazy; 
 
 The feelings that thrill me no language may tell. 
 Just look at its color! Oh, ain't it a daisy. 
 
 The new Jersey Jacket that Stetson does sell? 
 The close-fitting jacket, the crimson-hued jacket, 
 
 The new Jersey Jacket that Stetson does sell. 
 
 II. 
 
 It clings to my shoulders so tightly and neatly; 
 
 Its fair, rounded slopes show no wrinkle or fold; 
 It fits this plump figure of mine as completely 
 
 As if I'd been melted and poured in its mould. 
 How fertile the mind that was moved to design it. 
 
 Such rhythm pervades each depression and swell! 
 The waist would entice a strong arm to entwine it — 
 
 The waist of the Jersey that Stetson does sell! 
 The crimson-hued Jersey, the close-fitting Jersey, 
 
 The new Jersey Jacket that Stetson does sell. 
 
 III. 
 Of course I will wear it to parties and dances, 
 
 And gentlemen there will my figure admire; 
 The ladies at me will throw envious glances. 
 
 And that's just the state of affairs I desire; 
 For feminine envy and male admiration 
 
 Proclaim that their object's considered a belle. 
 Oh, thou art of beauty the fair consummation. 
 
 Thou new Jersey Jacket that Stetson does sell. 
 The black-braided jacket, the close-fitting jacket. 
 
 The new Jersey Jacket that Stetson does sell. 
 
274 POEMS 
 
 I'LL MEET YOU THERE 
 
 I'll meet you, my dear, where roses bloom. 
 
 Where violets and snowdrops fair 
 Are filling the air with rich perfume, 
 
 Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 
 
 I'll meet you where small birds are wont to sing 
 
 Their gladsome songs of cheer. 
 When welcoming back the early spring — 
 
 Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 
 
 I'll meet you when spring has come in power. 
 To clothe all the trees that are bare, 
 
 And cause them to blossom and bud in an hour — 
 Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 
 
 I'll meet you where whippoorwills doth cry. 
 
 In voices silvery and clear. 
 Where nature in slumber quiet doth lie — 
 
 Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 
 
 I'll meet you where golden sunlight bright 
 
 Is streaming o'er valleys fair, 
 Causing the heart to bound with delight — 
 
 Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 
 
 I'll meet you where summer's warm breath has come, 
 And blossoms are scenting the air. 
 
 That is wafting around your quiet home — 
 Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 
 
 I'll meet you amid the woodland grove. 
 
 Where hearts to each other, dear, 
 May gently whisper sweet words of love — 
 
 Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 
 
 I'll meet you beside the quiet stream, 
 
 Where without a sign of fear 
 The silvery fish on the ripples do gleam — 
 
 Dear Sarah, I'll meet you there. 
 
 I'll meet you at last, no more to part, 
 
 No more to feel despair. 
 Like a worm of canker, gnaw at my heart — 
 
 Oh! may I not meet you there? 
 
 Oh! may I not hope that from sorrow's brow 
 
 You will kiss away the tear, 
 And he who is penning these brief lines now, 
 
 Will be happy to meet you there. 
 
POEMS 275 
 
 A TRUE LOVE'S CHARMS 
 
 Did love inspire the poet's song, 
 
 A poet then thy love would be, 
 And never from his soul be gone, 
 
 That muse that still would sing of thee. 
 
 Did distant duties call him far, 
 
 Away from his loved home and thee, 
 Thy love would be a polar star. 
 
 To guide him o'er life's boisterous sea. 
 
 And ever in the midnight hour. 
 
 When danger's mightiest shafts should fly 
 Around his path, with tenfold power, 
 
 And not a star illume the sky — 
 
 'Tis then he'd hear thy gentle voice, 
 In loving accents, low, but clear — 
 Bidding his inmost soul rejoice, 
 For woman's holy love is here. 
 
 Should e'er temptation's voice be heard. 
 
 In siren accents, tempting me. 
 And I should listen to her word. 
 
 Nor yet the lurking danger see. 
 
 'Tis then the memory of thy love — 
 
 Like heaven's own voice — would bid me flee, 
 And pointing — like the spire — above — 
 
 Would whisper thus: "Remember me." 
 
 If beauty, with her thousand charms. 
 
 Should strive to win my heart from thee, 
 And, opening her deceitful arms. 
 
 Should claim but one embrace from me — 
 
 'Tis then thine injured love would rise. 
 
 In sorrowing tones, reproaching me; 
 With such a vision on mine eyes. 
 
 Think you that I'd prove false to thee? 
 
 Ah no! just heaven itself would frown, 
 
 And angel voices censure me. 
 For trampling to this earth's cold ground, 
 
 A love like that possessed by thee. 
 
 Dear Sarah! in my inmost heart, 
 
 I feel thy love enthroned must be — 
 And if in death I first must part. 
 
 In heaven I'll remember thee. 
 
276 POEMS 
 
 JOE MATHEWS' FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY 
 
 They say that I must dight my steed 
 
 And mount him for a race; 
 Though he be an inferior breed — 
 
 Not fitted for the chase. 
 
 In days when he and I were young 
 
 We sometimes sought to climb — 
 He had a wondrous power of lung — 
 
 And I — I thought that I could rhyme. 
 
 'Tis said at thirty years a man 
 
 Suspects he is a fool; 
 At forty feels 'twas Nature's plan — 
 
 But scorns to change his rule. 
 
 Age — if not wise — is garrulous. 
 
 To prattle of the past; 
 To give it chance is perilous. 
 
 For then the die is cast. 
 
 Here where we meet today 
 
 To celebrate the birthday of a friend. 
 To tell our little joke and play 
 
 Our part, to give the time a merry trend. 
 
 Not many years ago — as age counts years — 
 
 The prairie grass bent o'er to greet the morning sun. 
 
 Tipped with its pearly dew — like crystal tears 
 Shed for a life that closed e'er well begun. 
 
 Here lay a virgin soil as rich and fair 
 
 As Eden was when Adam came; 
 No balmier skies, nor softer, milder air. 
 
 When summer suns poured down the livid flame. 
 
 No furrow yet the stubborn glebe had broke. 
 No harvest grain set free with weary flail; 
 
 The frisky steer bore not the galling yoke. 
 No shrinking udder filled the flowing pail. 
 
 The coyote howl intoned the silent night. 
 
 And French Creek's brush-clad banks 
 Were peered by hoot owls of nocturnal sight. 
 
 That preyed on all the feathered tribe of humbler ranks. 
 
 Then came our fathers — the father of our friend — 
 He built a cabin — a shelter for his wife. 
 
POEMS 277 
 
 And here began his energies to bend, 
 
 To brave the storms and court the calms of life. 
 
 He had a fortune — in his strong right arm — 
 
 A character — in his pure Scotch-Irish blood; 
 He meant to carve from this prairie sod a farm — 
 
 That was the dream for which he braved the Atlantic's flood. 
 
 Within this cabin's walls his children were born — 
 
 William, Thomas, Joseph, Robert, Jane, Sarah, Liza, Clara; 
 
 The father died, at ripe old age, like shock of garnered corn — 
 The older children, too, began to marry. 
 
 A few years ago William B. died, 
 
 Called away almost without a warning; 
 But then his life was so close with heaven allied 
 
 That this world's loss was but the better world's adorning. 
 
 The mother — Clara — fell asleep — yes, that's the word. 
 
 And left her dear ones bathed in sacred tears; 
 They'll find her sometime risen with the Lord, 
 
 And freed from sorrow, pain and earthly fears. 
 
 And Sarah sleeps in Kansas soil. 
 
 Fit sepulcher in which to find a grave; 
 Her humble sons, though born to lives of toil. 
 
 Would not permit the winds to kiss the brow of slave. 
 
 And Tom went out to conquer in the war. 
 
 And then went west to conquer Nature too. 
 While Robert turned a hunter of bad men. 
 
 And is a terror now to all the murdering thieving crew. 
 
 But somehow Joe was left to tend the homestead farm 
 
 And meet the ups and downs of rural life; 
 He met its hopes, its fears, its false alarm, 
 
 Nor shirked a burden nor a duty in the strife. 
 
 And Joe is known to all his neighbors here, 
 
 As honest, upright, gentle, true and brave; 
 In duty's path to walk he does not fear — 
 
 And scorns to be, to any vice, a slave. 
 
 Well, call Joe's lack of cheek a fault; 
 
 I admire the man because he has it not, 
 1 know some men who do not lack — but halt! 
 
 If one lives in a house of glass, another may attempt a shot. 
 
278 POEMS 
 
 And Joe is 50, a half a century old! 
 
 He stands upon the top where two sloped ladders meet, 
 Looks backward o'er the track worn wold, 
 
 And forward, where the close of life seems wondrous sweet. 
 
 And we are here to give our friend God-speed, 
 
 To shake his honest hand, and touch his loving heart. 
 
 To give to manly worth the well earned meed. 
 And speak our benedictions when we part. 
 
 We hope that in the future years to come 
 
 A stronger faith may blossom from our love. 
 
 And howe'er far apart our lives may roam, 
 That anchor bind us to the home above. 
 
 And now let's give the day to joy, and love, and cheer; 
 
 We'll vouch our hearts are with you, Joe; 
 No hypocrite would dare to venture here, 
 
 And you will class us loyal all, before 'tis time to go. 
 
 And now God bless your family ties. 
 
 Your worthy wife and children all; 
 While love-light glitters in their beaming eyes 
 
 You may not count your blessings over small. 
 
 For God is good. And not a sparrow falls 
 
 That is not in the shadow of His care. 
 And while we grope around blind human walls 
 
 His ear is bending o'er to catch our feeblest prayer. 
 
 We fret because we fail to understand. 
 We hesitate to step where Christ has trod, 
 
 Too oft we fail to keep the great command 
 
 To love our neighbor and sincerely worship God. 
 
 LINES 
 Written to a Friend, on the Death of a Pious Sister 
 
 Oh! weep not friend, for her that's gone. 
 And left thee here to toil alone; 
 Her spirit's happy now on high, 
 Where Christ, her Savior's ever nigh. 
 Oh! weep not, that her toils are done. 
 That home to heaven at last she's gone; 
 Ah! weep not, friend, to think that she 
 From all life's toils and cares is free. 
 
 But let this truth your sorrow cheer. 
 Whilst thou dost mourn in sadness here, 
 
POEMS 279 
 
 Her soul shall sing that heavenly strain, 
 "To die was my eternal gain." 
 She fought the fight, she won the race, 
 She triumphed through her Savior's grace. 
 And found in death she had the power 
 Of victory in a dying hour. 
 
 Then let thy lovely sister sleep; 
 She is not dead — why should you weep? 
 Then weep not though thy sister ne'er 
 On this dark world again appear; 
 You soon will meet her in a home 
 Where tears and partings never come. 
 "Farewell till then," canst thou not say, 
 And bid the tears of sorrow stay? 
 
 I know 'tis hard to stay the tear 
 Affection sheds upon the bier; 
 To bid the raging storm be still 
 And quell your sorrow when you will. 
 I know 'tis hard to comfort those 
 O'er whom the stream of sorrow flows; 
 Yet would I fain see calm relief 
 Come o'er the spirit worn with grief. 
 
 LOST ON THE STORM-TOSSED LAKE 
 
 In May, 1858, a tornado passed over Peoria, 111. George H. Beesman, with his family— a wife, three 
 boys and one girl — were out on the lake in a row-boat. In the storm the boat was swamped, and only the 
 husband succeeded in reaching the shore, the remainder of the family being lost. 
 
 Far out on deep Peoria Lake, 
 
 A genial, happy family went; 
 They rowed along for pleasure's sake, 
 
 Which through each heart new joys had sent. 
 Within that boat a father's form. 
 
 In manly strength and beauty stood. 
 Nor thought upon the rising storm. 
 
 That soon would lash an angry flood. 
 
 His loving wife was with him there. 
 
 His three brave boys — their father's pride — 
 The daughter — like some lily fair — 
 
 Was nestled at her mother's side. 
 Hope gleamed in every tender glance. 
 
 And shone in every sparkling eye. 
 And little did they think, perchance, 
 
 That ere the darkness they would die. 
 
 But hark! along the trembling earth, 
 
 There breaks a strange, a solemn sound; 
 
280 POEMS 
 
 A fierce tornado springs to birth, 
 And heaven's artillery rolls around. 
 
 Each vivid flash of lightning broke, 
 
 Upon the storm-cloud's darkness there — 
 
 And man the help of Heaven invoked, 
 While sank his heart in deep despair. 
 
 But naught could quell the tempest's rage; 
 
 It lulled to gather mightier power, 
 Then hurled the earnings of an age. 
 
 To swift destruction in an hour. 
 It spared not learning's stateliest hall, 
 
 Nor structures where, each Sabbath, trod. 
 The humble ministers, to call, 
 
 The creature man to worship God. 
 
 But where. Oh! where were that small band? 
 
 Alas no power on earth could save; 
 The father reached the stormy land — 
 
 His family found a watery grave. 
 In frenzy, maddened by despair, 
 
 He strove in vain to reach the shore — 
 A wail of anguish filled the air — 
 
 His loved ones sank to rise no more. 
 
 Oh! who can tell the bitter pang. 
 
 That pierced that father's heaving breast, 
 As on his ear that loud wail rang. 
 
 From out the surging water's crest? 
 Or who dare words of comfort speak, 
 
 To him in his deserted home? 
 Whene'er he hears the tempest shriek. 
 
 His thoughts will to the lost ones roam. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD 
 
 Written to Mrs. Annie M. 
 
 How many flowers but ope to die; 
 Like autumn leaves they scattered lie. 
 
 Upon the sin cursed ground; 
 Like sand upon the simoom's breath, 
 The gale of life is full of death. 
 
 And victims fall around. 
 
 Thus many a child has but begun, 
 The weary course of life to run, 
 
 When it is called to die; 
 Its pilgrimage with us must end, 
 Its spirit must to God ascend. 
 
 And dwell with Him on high. 
 
POEMS 
 
 281 
 
 And thus, dear one, thy boy hath past, 
 Away from earth! in death's cold blast, 
 
 And left thee sorrowing here; 
 But thou wilt mourn for him in vain, 
 He ne'er will smile on earth again — 
 
 Then stay the falling tear. 
 
 His soul has joined the infant band, 
 Who ever near the Father stand, 
 
 And sing His praises there; 
 And when thy soul is called to go. 
 Away from scenes of sin and woe, 
 
 He'll meet you in the air. 
 
 And you will ever with him be, 
 Through boundless, vast eternity, 
 
 Where sorrow's tear ne'er fell; 
 Then smile beneath the chastening rod. 
 And leave the sleeping child with God, 
 
 Who doeth all things well. 
 
 MY HOUR TO DIE 
 
 There comes a time in every life. 
 The end of labor, toil, and strife. 
 
 An hour beyond our ken, 
 When we shall hear the solemn 
 
 call. 
 Suggesting bier, and shroud, and 
 pall, 
 For all the sons of men. 
 
 This earth is beautiful and fair. 
 Its mountains cleave the ambient 
 
 air. 
 Its oceans grandly flow; 
 Their waves, in ceaseless dash and 
 
 roar. 
 Break sullen on the rock bound 
 
 shore. 
 Capped 
 
 snow. 
 
 white as stainless 
 
 We trace the river's line of blue. 
 With changing beauties, strange 
 and new. 
 Up to its mountain birth. 
 
 And standing by its spring fed 
 
 source. 
 Behold the sun, in radiance, force 
 His streamers o'er the earth. 
 
 The mountain pine, the oak, the 
 
 ash, 
 Wave in the morning breeze, and 
 
 flash 
 To heaven the new born light, 
 While leaf, and plant, and bud, and 
 
 flower. 
 All sparkle in the morning hour. 
 Gemmed with the tears of 
 
 night. 
 
 The breeze swept fields of grain 
 
 below. 
 With undulations, graceful, slow, 
 
 Begin to rise and fall, 
 While on the grassy knolls we see. 
 The sleek, fat herds are roaming 
 free. 
 Released from byre and stall. 
 
282 
 
 POEMS 
 
 And breath of flowers arise and 
 
 sail, 
 On airy wings of scented gale, 
 To kiss the fleecy clouds. 
 That float along the azure sky. 
 Like sloops or shallops sailing by 
 With swelling sheets and 
 shrouds, 
 
 And breaking on the ravished ear, 
 A thousand trilling songs we hear. 
 
 From feathered warblers come, 
 That swell in diapason grand. 
 From grove, and hill, from wood 
 and strand. 
 
 And reaches heaven's dome. 
 
 When every headland bathed in 
 
 light, 
 Flash back upon the raptured 
 sight 
 The glories of the sea. 
 On such a bright and beauteous 
 
 morn. 
 With nature bathed in light new 
 born, 
 Let that hour come to me. 
 
 As backward swings the golden 
 
 gate, 
 
 Where guarding angels watch and 
 
 wait. 
 
 May such a scene but end, 
 
 That its transcendent beauties may 
 
 Melt in the morn of endless day. 
 
 And with its glories blend. 
 
 UNWRITTEN HEROES 
 
 That life is but a failure, 
 
 That waits for some great deed, 
 To show the world its willingness 
 
 To succor those in need. 
 
 Life is made up of little things. 
 And not of mighty wholes; 
 
 And if we would be helpful 
 To needy human souls. 
 
 We must take the little burdens up, 
 Just as they come along. 
 
 And speak our words of comfort, 
 In sermon, prayer, or song. 
 
 For one may need a sermon. 
 
 Another but a song; 
 While prayer, offered up in faith. 
 
 May save some soul from wrong. 
 
 If we would be a victor. 
 
 Glad to wear a starry crown, 
 
 The cross of duty must be borne 
 Up toilsome hills and down. 
 
 "Go ye into my vineyard;" 
 'Tis the voice of duty calls: 
 
 It may be there to prune, or dig. 
 Or mend the broken walls. 
 
 No matter what the duty be, 
 
 'Tis our duty to obey; 
 It is the Master bids us go, 
 
 He will our toils repay. 
 
 It may be to bear the heavy cross 
 Mayhap some lighter load; 
 
 No matter; let us falter not 
 To walk in duty's road. 
 
 Whatever is our earthly lot 
 Must surely still be right, 
 
 Although the way seem dark, and 
 hedged, 
 To our imperfect sight. 
 
 It may be ours to always serve, 
 And never to command; 
 
 It may be ours to always give. 
 Nor take the helping hand. 
 
 But often in the humbler walks. 
 The hero may be found; 
 
 The lesser victories must be won, 
 Before fame's trumpets sound. 
 
 There sleep amid the silent dead, 
 A thousand heroes grand, 
 
 Whose victories will never grace 
 The annals of the land. 
 
POEMS 
 
 288 
 
 WE MAKE OUR GREATEST 
 SORROWS 
 
 Man sure is born to sorrow's lot, 
 
 In stately hall or lowly cot. 
 
 None are exempt from grief and 
 
 pain, 
 But all are bound in misery's 
 
 chain; 
 The chance of birth, or fortune's 
 
 smile. 
 May serve this sorrow to beguile; 
 But each must bear some galling 
 
 load. 
 While travelers on the earthly 
 
 road. 
 
 Yet all these sorrows are but small, 
 That to the earthly pilgrims fall. 
 When we compare them with some. 
 That from our own misdeeds may 
 
 come; 
 Self love and pride becomes a 
 
 lure. 
 And wild ambition, slow but sure. 
 O'er rides our good resolves, and 
 
 we 
 Are drifting on a storm tossed sea. 
 
 When anger rages, reason dies. 
 And blackest shadow round us lies; 
 Then base ingratitude appears, 
 To blast the peace of coming years; 
 And fierce, licentious passions burn, 
 That every code of morals spurn; 
 While man, on these environs 
 
 tossed. 
 If left unaided, sure were lost. 
 
 But Nature has a nobler plan — 
 A better fate for suffering man — 
 Her wondrous book she opens wide, 
 And shows him blessings multi- 
 plied; 
 He reads and learns that no mis- 
 takes. 
 In all her wide domain she makes; 
 While those who pattern her may 
 
 be. 
 From sorrow, grief and suffering 
 free. 
 
 Then Revelation Nature joins. 
 And matchless plan of love it 
 
 coins: 
 It lifts the glorious cross and 
 
 shows. 
 The final end of human woes; 
 It bids his sins and sorrows cease. 
 And guides to home, to heaven, to 
 
 peace. 
 Oh rapturous love! that Christ 
 
 should come. 
 To call these suffering sinners 
 
 home. 
 
 TEACH ME 
 
 Teach me to know the very way. 
 In which my feet should go; 
 
 Lead me, and let thy kind voice say. 
 This is thy duty, this thy row. 
 
 For reason often seems to doubt. 
 Where instinct walks with surer 
 tread. 
 And all the lights that shine about. 
 Show glimmering shadows that 
 we dread. 
 
 Just why it is that reasoning man. 
 Made highest in the scale of life. 
 
 Seems farthest from a stable plan. 
 And deepest in unequal strife. 
 
 Is something hid from mortal ken, 
 A mystery unsolved below. 
 
 Too deep for philosophic pen. 
 And far too high for sage to 
 know. 
 
 The lower orders, instinct guides, 
 Are found to never go astray; 
 
 They reason not, and nothing hides. 
 From them the one, the only way. 
 
 The oriole builds her pendant nest. 
 Through lapsing ages, just the 
 same; 
 And yet its fashion is the best. 
 Nor can we prove her instinct 
 lame. 
 
II 
 
 284 
 
 POEMS 
 
 But man has an expanding power, 
 A force that he may educate, 
 
 By storing lessons hour by hour, 
 And gathering wisdom, concen- 
 trate. 
 
 And yet he doubts, and halts, and 
 fears. 
 And wonders if the right be right. 
 Uncertain as those doting seers. 
 Who claim the gift of second 
 sight. 
 
 Is man the one mistake of all 
 That nature gathered in her 
 plan? 
 Or was it Adam's primal fall. 
 That marred the perfect sense 
 in man? 
 
 It matters not how much we doubt, 
 Doubt changes not a single fact; 
 
 And disbelief, however stout, 
 Will not destroy one single act. 
 
 Of all the great Creator planned, 
 Nor swerve a purpose of His 
 mind. 
 Who gave to instinct, clearer 
 scanned, 
 A vision hid from reason blind. 
 
 So feeling my own learning small, 
 I ask some higher power to 
 teach; 
 
 Some hand to lift me when I fall, 
 'Till I a surer knowledge reach. 
 
 THEN SHALL WE KNOW 
 
 Sometimes the path of duty leads 
 O'er toilsome, dark and dreary 
 roads; 
 And oft our fainting heart so 
 pleads, 
 We may not bear such galling 
 loads. 
 
 'Tis human nature thus to shun. 
 The toil and pain we dread to 
 meet; 
 We sigh and wish that we might 
 run 
 In smoother roads, with nimbler 
 feet. 
 
 But man was destined thus to 
 strive. 
 
 And bear the burden here below. 
 Amid these crosses virtues thrive, 
 
 And cups of blessings overflow. 
 
 For paths of duty lead to strength, 
 And sorrow's learnings make us 
 wise. 
 And we shall realize at length 
 That by our failures we may 
 rise. 
 
 For when these crosses all are past. 
 And we can use a clearer light, 
 
 That comes to every soul at last. 
 And gives a truer sense of sight. 
 
 We then shall know that all was 
 best. 
 That all in tender love was 
 given. 
 To fit us for our final rest. 
 
 And lead us up from earth to 
 heaven. 
 
 Oh, poor, blind eyes that will not 
 see; 
 Oh, faint, weak hearts that will 
 not love. 
 Unless our dormant senses be. 
 By these afllictions forced to 
 move. 
 
 We shiver in the darkness here. 
 And fear to try the rugged road. 
 
 Until we grasp the hand so near. 
 That lifts, and bears our heavy 
 load. 
 
 That hand will guide us in the way, 
 And lead us to a lasting rest. 
 
POEMS 
 
 286 
 
 Where beams of the eternal day 
 Will light our eyes and warm 
 our breast. 
 
 Then looking from these heights 
 
 sublime, 
 
 Backward along the way we trod, 
 
 We'll solve the mysteries of time, 
 
 And know the wondrous love of 
 
 God. 
 
 A CONTRAST 
 
 In wealth of beautv stood two 
 boys. 
 Two heads with silken curl; 
 Around them lay the numerous 
 toys, 
 That made their little world; 
 Those toys that made their world 
 
 as bright 
 As glow the orbs of starry night. 
 
 They stood together in their 
 youth. 
 Their cheeks aglow with 
 health. 
 Their minds were full of love 
 and truth — 
 More precious far than wealth; 
 That truth which through all 
 
 nature lies. 
 And, crushed or wounded, never 
 dies. 
 
 The boy, the youth, must on- 
 ward move. 
 Life brooks no standing still; 
 Its fierce alembic soon will 
 prove 
 The metal of their will; 
 For fierce alembic, heavy cross. 
 They prove our faith, or find our 
 dross. 
 
 Again the same two forms 
 appear: 
 They are not boys, but men, 
 Whose stalwart limbs, and 
 voices clear. 
 Recall the now, and then; 
 
 That retrospective glance that 
 
 shows 
 How swift the onward current 
 
 flows. 
 
 But here their path diverges 
 wide. 
 And carries them apart. 
 For one has sought the temp- 
 ter's side. 
 And listened to his art; 
 Whose art still forms the down- 
 ward path. 
 Away from hope, and ends in 
 wrath. 
 
 The other seeks the narrower 
 way. 
 Where wisdom loves to dwell, 
 And toils, and strives, as day 
 by day 
 He does each duty well; 
 Those duties finished brings re- 
 pose, 
 At each returning evening's close. 
 
 Again we see them at life's 
 close — 
 The one all sin, and shame, 
 and crime. 
 Environed by a thousand foes. 
 And bankrupted of time, 
 A soul that shrieks "Forever lost," 
 And seeks the dark plutonian coast. 
 
 The other full of hope and joy. 
 
 Beloved of God and man, 
 Serenely smiles — as when a 
 boy — 
 And yields to nature's plan. 
 While sinking in that calm repose. 
 That but the faithful righteous 
 knows. 
 
 Thus every boy, and youth, and 
 man. 
 Is called to stand and choose; 
 To work, and toil, and strive, and 
 plan. 
 Nor can some choice refuse; 
 
286 
 
 POEMS 
 
 May wisdom's torch illume the 
 
 way, 
 That leads to everlasting day. 
 
 For earth enough of failure hath, 
 
 It needs the brave and true. 
 To tread the much neglected 
 path, 
 Where walk the faithful few — 
 That few who bear the heavy cross. 
 And, for its sake, "count all things 
 loss." 
 
 WHAT THE FARMER DOES 
 
 The farmer does the hardest work. 
 He labors like a Turk; 
 
 He plows and sows, he grubs and 
 mows 
 And does the drudging work. 
 
 Before the hour of four has struck, 
 
 He rises from his bed; 
 And up to sultry hour of noon. 
 
 He goes, with weary tread. 
 
 For dinner he has scarcely time. 
 But goes to slop the pigs. 
 
 Or train a grapevine o'er the porch. 
 Or trim the "Limber Twigs." 
 
 Then hastens back into the field. 
 
 And goes, till set of sun 
 Reminds him that the day is gone, 
 
 And chores must be done. 
 
 And here a cow has broke the 
 fence. 
 
 And there a colt has strayed. 
 Until, with this mishap, and that, 
 
 He is well nigh dismayed. 
 
 He feeds the horses, pails the cows. 
 And litters down the sheep; 
 
 Then bolts his supper in a rush. 
 And tumbles in to sleep. 
 
 The cholera gets among his hogs. 
 Frost nips his tender corn. 
 
 And out of five young blooded colts, 
 Three die as soon as born. 
 
 The rats eat up the little chicks, 
 The "taters" turn out small, 
 
 While apples that looked well in 
 spring. 
 Are scabby in the fall. 
 
 The spring proved far too wet for 
 grain. 
 
 The summer far too dry. 
 So when he views his scanty store. 
 
 He heaves a hopeless sigh. 
 
 The butchers bought his heifers 
 fat. 
 
 And drove them from his pen. 
 Paid him from one cent up to two, 
 
 Then sold him steak at ten. 
 
 He sold his oats for eighteen 
 cents — 
 
 And then gave extra weight; 
 His corn went off at twenty-five — 
 
 Good wheat at forty-eight. 
 
 And when he came to sell his pork, 
 Three thirty was the price. 
 
 Still he paid eighteen cents for 
 ham — 
 Thirteen for bacon nice. 
 
 The grain man weighs what e'er 
 he sells, 
 The store man what he buys — 
 The one weighs heavy, t'other 
 light- 
 Both gall him with their lies. 
 
 No wonder that his back is bent. 
 Or that his locks grow thin; 
 
 No wonder that he often fails 
 A competence to win. 
 
 'Tis time for him to stop and ask, 
 Why is the thlsly thus? 
 
 "And must I ever thus be robbed 
 By every thieving cuss?" 
 
 And when he gets his dander up, 
 He'll go and join a Grange, 
 
POEMS 
 
 287 
 
 And thus united efforts will. 
 Work out a happy change, 
 
 For when the farmer makes the 
 laws. 
 As well as earns the bread. 
 Then will he get the wealth he 
 makes, 
 And "Trusts" will all be dead. 
 
 LIFE'S PURPOSE 
 
 Every life must have a purpose. 
 Some deep plan, both strong and 
 true, 
 
 Hidden low beneath the surface. 
 Kept from others' ken and view. 
 
 It must not be selfish, scheming, 
 Planning ever for the one. 
 
 But with hopes for others gleaming. 
 Find its joy in duties done. 
 
 Those who love their fellow mortals 
 Show a touch of love divine — 
 
 Treading near the sacred portals. 
 Of the higher life sublime. 
 
 God has made man's duties 
 pleasant. 
 When life's purpose seeks the 
 right; 
 Trouble comes to king and peasant, 
 When such purpose sinks from 
 sight. 
 
 In this world, where much of 
 sorrow. 
 Shades the fairest path in life. 
 Where our clearest skies must 
 borrow 
 Shadows from the clouds of 
 strife, 
 
 Purpose must be true and lasting, 
 Life must have a stern resolve, 
 
 Every weight behind us casting, 
 We must move, while worlds 
 revolve. 
 
 Here, a child in sorrow crying — 
 There, a strong man in despair — 
 
 Yonder, age, in weakness, trying 
 Life's disasters to repair. 
 
 Soothe the child, to cease its 
 sorrow. 
 Teach the strong his cross to 
 bear. 
 Give to age, whose step is failing, 
 Tender pity, help and care. 
 
 In these things lies earth's enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 Purpose gives to life its plan. 
 Teaching us our best enjoyment. 
 
 Is to aid our fellow man. 
 
 Those who live for self are 
 narrow — 
 Those who love and toil, 
 expand — 
 Fields that lie forever fallow. 
 Soon are known as useless land. 
 
 Life, without a purpose guided, 
 Soon becomes a stagnant pool; 
 
 Sorrows, loves, toils, joys divided, 
 Make of it a "Golden rule." 
 
 WHAT OF PROGRESS? 
 
 Does the world grow better? 
 
 Or does it grow worse? 
 Have we loosened a fetter? 
 
 Or lifted a curse? 
 
 Are we going up higher? 
 
 Or losing our pace? 
 Have we kindled a fire 
 
 That's warming a race? 
 
 Have our lives grown truer, 
 Or braver, or grander? 
 
 Do we live ever sure 
 
 That to no vice we pander? 
 
 Do we bow down to party, 
 
 And smile at a sin? 
 Can we laugh out right hearty 
 
 When right seems to win? 
 
288 
 
 POEMS 
 
 Do we stand with arms folded 
 
 When poverty cries? 
 Or shrink when is moulded 
 
 The venom of lies? 
 
 Are we making a struggle 
 To right what is wrong? 
 
 Or cringe we, and smuggle 
 The loot with the strong? 
 
 To sail with the current 
 
 Is easy to do; 
 But to stem the fierce torrent 
 
 Tries boatswain and crew. 
 
 To stand on the mountain, 
 And drink in the breeze; 
 
 Or bathe in the fountain 
 Of indolent ease, 
 
 Takes naught of exertion, 
 Takes nothing of zeal, 
 
 'Tis the joy of inertion 
 The careless may feel. 
 
 But to stand in the valley 
 When darkness has come. 
 
 When the storm forces rally. 
 And white lips are dumb. 
 
 Takes courage the strongest. 
 Takes manhood the best; 
 
 Takes patience the longest. 
 And zeal without rest. 
 
 But the world does grow better, 
 
 It never grows worse; 
 Here we unloose a fetter — 
 
 There banish a curse. 
 
 And thus rise by gradations. 
 
 Until we shall stand, 
 A cordon of nations 
 
 In brotherhood grand. 
 
 FAITH AND WORKS 
 
 What the world needs is good 
 honest workers, 
 With purpose to labor and do. 
 
 With a heart all aglow for true 
 manhood, 
 And a zeal that is honest and 
 true. 
 
 'Tis useless to say to the needy, 
 "Be warmed, be clothed, or be 
 fed," 
 If the hand be not lifted to help 
 them, 
 'Twere better the words were 
 not said. 
 
 When we come to the hovel where 
 squalor 
 Sits warming itself by the hearth. 
 Ere you offer the joys of your 
 heaven. 
 Let them taste of the comforts 
 of earth. 
 
 When you come to the wounded in 
 spirit, 
 If poverty sits by their side, 
 Relieve their sore needs with your 
 money. 
 Then tell them "The Lord will 
 provide." 
 
 If you find both the soul and the 
 body. 
 Sunk low in the evils of sin. 
 First win them by acts of true 
 kindness. 
 Then tell them "The Lord will 
 come in." 
 
 Go into the highways and hedges. 
 And rescue the wretch from his 
 doom. 
 And then you can point him to 
 Jesus, 
 And whisper "And still there is 
 room." 
 
 'Tis useless to preach of repentance, 
 Or faith that is saving, or zeal. 
 If our faith bears no fruit in an 
 action. 
 That shows that for others we 
 feel. 
 
POEMS 
 
 289 
 
 'Tis better the loaves and the 
 fishes, 
 Be found where the multitudes 
 sit, 
 And then when the fragments are 
 gathered. 
 The words of true wisdom will 
 fit. 
 
 For true faith and works go to- 
 gether, 
 'Tis these makes religion so 
 grand. 
 And those whose faith is the 
 strongest. 
 Are willing to help with their 
 hand. 
 
 THOSE PROMISES 
 
 It is the time of good resolves. 
 And swearing off from evil deeds. 
 
 And as successive years revolve. 
 Still comes the same old wants 
 and needs. 
 
 One swears that he will swear no 
 more; 
 Another bids good-bye to smoke. 
 Regardless that so oft before. 
 Both have performed the same 
 old joke. 
 
 The honest purpose, most sincere. 
 That comes at merry Christmas 
 time. 
 To lift the heart so very near 
 The heights of Christian love 
 sublime. 
 
 Is not without its power for good, 
 Without its influence on the life. 
 And if these good resolves but 
 stood. 
 Our glaring faults would be less 
 rife. 
 
 And if there be but few who 
 stand. 
 Firm in these promises to mend, 
 
 These few may form a little band, 
 To help some hopeless, erring 
 friend. 
 
 'Tis better to have vowed these 
 vows — 
 Though destined to ephemeral 
 life — 
 And though no victories crown our 
 brows, 
 'Tis better we have felt the 
 strife. 
 
 For every effort we have made. 
 Has left us stronger for the 
 right. 
 And every altar where we prayed. 
 Has shown us visions clear and 
 bright; 
 
 Visions of better things to come. 
 Of grander lives and nobler aims. 
 
 That culminate in happier homes, 
 And cluster round more honored 
 names. 
 
 For if there be no wish to mend. 
 And no desire to cease from sin. 
 
 Where will the old life have an 
 end. 
 And where the better life begin? 
 
 Then oft as we these vows may 
 break. 
 Let us repeat them o'er and o'er. 
 And every holy Christmas make 
 Them new, till they are broke no 
 more. 
 
 THE BLACKBIRDS 
 
 Do you notice the gathering black- 
 birds? 
 Do you list' to the songs that 
 they sing? 
 They will soon leave our groves for 
 the sun-land. 
 We shall see them no more until 
 spring. 
 
290 
 
 POEMS 
 
 Is the song they are singing of 
 gladness? 
 Or is it a wailing of woe? 
 Do they trill us a measure of 
 sadness, 
 As they leave us far southward 
 to go? 
 
 Do they know that before their re- 
 turning 
 Some of us will sleep under the 
 sod? 
 That these souls with ambition now 
 burning. 
 Will be called to the city of God? 
 
 Whom love nor affection could 
 save, 
 And, perched on the trees deeply 
 shaded. 
 Sing dirges above their low 
 grave? 
 
 And we, who are left, when we 
 listen 
 To the rush of the swift cleaving 
 wing, 
 And see, on their back, the gloss 
 glisten. 
 In the calm, tepid warmth of 
 the spring. 
 
 The flowers have already departed. 
 And the bleak, chilling breezes 
 will come, 
 And the feeble, the sick, the faint- 
 hearted. 
 Will seek the repose of the 
 tomb. 
 
 Will rejoice that the One who has 
 guided 
 The bird in its wonderful flight, 
 Will never forsake us, provided 
 We love Him, and serve Him 
 aright. 
 
 And the white snows of winter will 
 
 gather, 
 
 Above their low bed in a mound. 
 
 Sifting down from the home of the 
 
 Father, 
 
 With scarcely an audible sound. 
 
 And the pure, white, impalpable 
 cover, 
 Will be as a token to show 
 That Jesus, the friend and the lover. 
 Has washed their sins whiter 
 than snow. 
 
 And when the dark winter has 
 yielded. 
 His power to the mildness of 
 spring. 
 And the blackbirds, the warmer 
 clime shielded, 
 Return to our woodlands to 
 sing. 
 
 Will they miss the dear ones who 
 have faded, 
 
 IMMORTALITY 
 
 And are we parted from our dead? 
 Are our adieus forever said? 
 
 And shall we meet no more? 
 Did God intend the grave to be 
 The end of all we feel and see? 
 
 Is there no fairer shore? 
 
 When all the toils of life are done. 
 Its battles fought, its victories won, 
 
 There surely is some prize. 
 Some recompense for those who go 
 In sadness all their years below. 
 
 Some mansions in the skies. 
 
 For if there were no starry crown. 
 Who could endure misfortune's 
 frown. 
 Or meet the tide of woes 
 That surge round our pathway 
 
 here, 
 From our first opening infant years. 
 To life's reluctant close? 
 
POEMS 
 
 291 
 
 'Tis graven on our inmost soul. 
 The tomb is not our lasting goal, 
 
 Nor death our last repose. 
 And that at last these souls shall 
 
 rise. 
 Beyond the earth and vaulted skies, 
 
 Even as our Lord arose. 
 
 For if there were no after life, 
 No rest beyond these years of strife. 
 
 Why this desire to live? 
 No plant would ever seek for light. 
 When prisoned in the cellar's night. 
 
 Had heaven no light to give. 
 
 Nor can we think that God would 
 
 give. 
 This innate, strong desire to live. 
 
 Implanted in the breast. 
 Had He no means to satisfy 
 Our wish for immortality. 
 
 Our strong desire for rest. 
 
 And nature's varied changes show — 
 As years revolve and seasons go, 
 
 That life does follow death; 
 That summer scatters winter's 
 
 gloom. 
 And calls dead flowers from the 
 tomb, 
 Prepared by Autumn's breath. 
 
 Then revelation comes to prove 
 That God's unbounded, matchless 
 love 
 Has made immortal man, 
 To live when suns and worlds are 
 
 dead. 
 United with his living Head, 
 Part of an endless plan. 
 
 In which all living souls shall meet 
 In rapture at the Savior's feet. 
 
 When time shall be no more; 
 There friend shall meet with absent 
 
 friend. 
 And saints and angels ever blend. 
 
 Together on that shore. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF WILLIS 
 HASTY 
 
 (Co. A, 55th 111. Veteran Vol. 
 In., who was killed at Atlanta, 
 July 28, 1864.) 
 
 Let abler minds grasp richer 
 themes. 
 
 And other heroes praise; 
 A private soldier's virtues gleam, 
 
 In these, my humbler lays. 
 
 A loving mother's only son. 
 His country's call he hears. 
 
 He girds that country's armor on, 
 And leaves her bathed in tears. 
 
 I hear Columbia's bleeding cry, 
 Foul traitors seek her life, 
 
 I cannot see my country die, 
 I'll haste to Join the strife. 
 
 The glory of our State's at stake. 
 And through the war clouds rift, 
 
 I'll follow for her honor's sake. 
 The glorious "Fifty-Fifth." 
 
 He heard her charging squadrons 
 shout. 
 As roars the boisterous sea; 
 And saw his comrades' blood 
 poured out. 
 Where rolls the Tennessee. 
 
 He saw that starry banner bright, 
 With victory's constant gleam, 
 
 As onward rolled the din of fight, 
 Down Mississippi's stream. 
 
 At Corinth, and at Vicksburg, too, 
 
 And at Arkansas Post, 
 Each regiment clothed in federal 
 blue, 
 
 Had proved itself an host. 
 
 Three years have passed, of dead- 
 ly strife. 
 Again he hears that call, 
 Come, veterans, save your coun- 
 try's life, 
 Or with her honor fall. 
 
292 
 
 POEMS 
 
 Again he springs to aid her cause, 
 And set her captives free; 
 
 To vindicate her broken laws, 
 And save her liberty. 
 
 Atlanta's deadly strife came on. 
 We anxious held our breath; 
 
 At length the mournful tidings 
 came. 
 Poor Hasty's low in death. 
 
 But, father, mother, sisters dear. 
 While weeping o'er his grave. 
 
 This consolation still will cheer. 
 He died, as dies the brave. 
 
 I mourn with you, a valued friend. 
 With yours, my tears shall flow. 
 With yours my sorrowing heart 
 will bend. 
 Beneath this crushing blow. 
 
 Ah! traitors to your country's 
 power, 
 God's vengeance never dies; 
 And Hasty's blood, each coming 
 hour. 
 For double vengeance cries. 
 
 Oh! rest thee, 'neath thy mountain 
 grave, 
 Our own dear soldier boy, 
 Thou'rt numbered with the count- 
 less brave. 
 Their country's pride and joy. 
 
 'Tis well if in our inmost heart. 
 
 We still retain a strong desire, 
 To follow out that better part, 
 'Twas taught us by a sainted sir^ 
 
 'Tis meet that we should cherish 
 long. 
 Those counsels from a brother's 
 heart; 
 'Tis well if yet a sister's song, 
 Some lingering rays of hope im- 
 part. 
 
 Those scenes around the family 
 hearth. 
 On which the fancy loves to 
 dwell. 
 While I retain one grasp of earth — 
 I will not, can not, say farewell. 
 
 As lovely scenes, as sunny skies. 
 Appear in rich profusion 
 hurled — 
 I feel the inspiration rise — 
 
 I'd call my home the wide wide 
 world. 
 
 Where e'er the crushed and bruised 
 in heart. 
 In bitter anguish madly roam — 
 Where e'er the tears of sorrow 
 start — 
 'Tis there! 'tis there I'd be at 
 home. 
 
 COSMOPOLITE 
 
 'Tis well to love the dear old spot. 
 O'er which our infant feet have 
 strayed; 
 'Tis well if we forget it not, 
 The altar where our mother 
 prayed. 
 
 'Tis well to cling with fond de- 
 light. 
 To every place our childhood 
 knew — 
 To cherish each remembered sight 
 That on our opening vision grew. 
 
 I'd call them mine — those moun- 
 tains grand — 
 Those rivers sweeping to the 
 main — 
 The frigid or the torrid land — 
 The pampas, or the arid plain. 
 
 Where e'er the human form divine. 
 Retains its Maker's image fair. 
 
 In northern or in sauthern clime, 
 I'd feel I was a native there. 
 
 Caucasian or Mongolian race — 
 From India or from Asia 
 sprung — 
 
POEMS 
 
 298 
 
 Adorned with white or olive face, 
 I feel you speak my native 
 tongue. 
 
 Ye dusky dwellers by the Nile, 
 In you a brother's face I scan — 
 
 Or fierce Malasian, low and vile — 
 Or better still, American. 
 
 My Father is your Father too. 
 He formed us by His mighty 
 hand; 
 Oh! then, is not this saying true? 
 Our home is all our Father's 
 land. 
 
 And while we love the sacred place, 
 
 Where knowledge first her page 
 
 unfurled. 
 
 We scorn the formal ties of space. 
 
 And claim our home the wide, 
 
 wide world. 
 
 WRITTEN TO A WIFE DUR- 
 ING HER ABSENCE 
 
 Oh! that thou wert near, love. 
 Tonight, that thou might see. 
 
 The wealth of holy feeling, love. 
 This heart contains for thee. 
 
 And Oh! that thou might gaze, 
 dear. 
 
 In these speaking eyes of mine; 
 And Oh! that I might revel, dear. 
 
 In the hazel depths of thine. 
 
 The cherished name of wife, love, 
 
 Is dearer to me now, 
 Than when before the altar, love. 
 
 We spoke the lasting vow. 
 
 A holier radiance beams, dear, 
 Adown the path of time, 
 
 A sweeter chord of love, dear. 
 Rings out its pleasing chime. 
 
 Affection does not fade, love. 
 
 Though oceans roll between; 
 Thy image in my heart, love, 
 Will keep its memory green. 
 
 Though leagues of vale and moun- 
 tain, love. 
 
 E'en now does intervene. 
 My memory spurns it all, love. 
 
 What e'er may rise between. 
 
 My love is like the eagle, love. 
 That soars toward the sun. 
 
 And bathes his pinions there, 
 love, 
 Nor stoops on earth to run. 
 
 It soars o'er field and flood, love. 
 Nor stops for mountain high. 
 
 But bathes its pinions there, love, 
 Within thy kindling eye. 
 
 But distance is so Irksome, love. 
 It closes from our view. 
 
 The thousand little actions, love. 
 That tell the heart is true. 
 
 But haste those days of absence, 
 love, 
 
 Let them pass swiftly by, 
 I'll clasp thee in my arms, love. 
 
 And feel that thou art nigh. 
 
 MY ANGEL SISTER 
 
 I have an angel sister, 
 
 Though few there be that know, 
 That I have an angel sister. 
 
 To whom I'd love to go. 
 
 But well do I remember her, 
 
 And oft I have to cry. 
 To think that in her early years. 
 
 The lovely girl must die. 
 
 Ah! she was very beautiful. 
 And beauty's seldom given, 
 
 To those who long must dwell on 
 earth, 
 For beauty's made for heaven. 
 
 Oft when my temper's ruffled. 
 
 Her voice I seem to hear, 
 
 As she bids me to be dutiful, 
 
 And I'll have naught to fear. 
 
294 
 
 POEMS 
 
 "Be kind unto your mother," 
 "And lighten this sad stroke," 
 
 "And cheer your sorrowing father," 
 Were the last words that she 
 spoke. 
 
 My sister was not made for earth — 
 So I have heard them say — 
 
 But my heart is very desolate. 
 Since she has gone away. 
 
 I know that she is happy now. 
 Nor do I wish to bring, 
 
 Her lovely spirit back to earth. 
 To dwell 'mid suffering. 
 
 THE GAL WITH THE ROCKS 
 
 Some may sigh for love in a cot- 
 tage. 
 Some for the gal with the blue 
 in her socks, 
 But I long for the maid with the 
 donyxs, 
 I yearn for the gal with the 
 rocks. 
 
 Some dote upon beauty — 'tis fading, 
 'Tis not so substantial as blocks; 
 
 So I'll cling to my own pet idea. 
 And go for the gal with the 
 rocks. 
 
 It matters me not if she's homely — 
 Her face even scarred with 
 smallpox — 
 Such a trifle would trouble me 
 little. 
 Just so she possesses the rocks. 
 
 One goes wild over dark raven 
 tresses, 
 And women dressed out in silk 
 frocks, 
 But I'll take one — yes, even red- 
 headed — 
 If she only has plenty of rocks. 
 
 My chum gave his heart to a 
 charmer. 
 Who was famous for roasting 
 woodcocks; 
 
 But I'll hire for my cook a green 
 Bridget, 
 If my charmer will furnish the 
 rocks. 
 
 Love for music with me is a pas- 
 sion, 
 Discord sends my nerves to the 
 shocks. 
 But my siren may sing like a tree- 
 toad. 
 If she only comes down with the 
 rocks. 
 
 I care not if she is a virago, 
 
 And gambles in shares and in 
 stocks. 
 She may "bull it," or "bear it," or 
 neither. 
 If she brings to my pocket the 
 rocks. 
 
 Her pa may be grim as a blue- 
 beard, 
 And as grasping as forty Shy- 
 locks, 
 I'll lovingly call him dear father 
 If he'll will to my lady his rocks. 
 
 I could dance with her mother, 
 though ugly 
 As any wench ever sold on the 
 blocks, 
 And smilingly swear 'twas delight- 
 ful, 
 If her daughter is lousy with 
 rocks. 
 
 I would visit her country rela- 
 tions — 
 Go wild o'er their herds and 
 their flocks — 
 Or do anything else in creation, 
 For the sake of the gal with the 
 rocks. 
 
 And finally: Though the old satan 
 Himself, should attempt to throw 
 blocks. 
 In the way of the game I was play- 
 ing, 
 I'd marry the gal with the rocks. 
 
Humorous 
 
 A Disabled Proboscis 
 
 The editor has a nose. Most editors do have a nose when they 
 first enter on their wild career, but some of them get their 's knocked 
 off. On several occasions some one has called at our office and offered 
 to knock off our nose for nothing. We always felt obliged to decline 
 such offers; they were entirely too generous to suit us. Now we are 
 almost sorry that we did not permit some of them to carry out their 
 disinterested intentions. Our nose has gone back on us. We have 
 always considered that it was an ornament to a face that had none too 
 many to make it appear to good advantage. 
 
 This nose began to put on airs; it swelled up with pride — or 
 something else — and the trouble was it only swelled on one side; but 
 it kept on in spite of our protest, and without our consent, until it 
 spread pretty generally over the right side of our face. It did not 
 add to our comfort ; it did not enhance our beauty ; it did not increase 
 our income by a single kopek. After repeated expostulations with 
 him — yes, it is proper to use the masculine pronoun in such a case — we 
 took him to a doctor. The man of pills, potions and patients looked 
 wisely at the nose, and comically at us, and asked us what the matter 
 was. We told him that we could not answer so profound a question; 
 all we knew was that we had lived in peace and comity with that nose 
 for 56 years, and in all that time it had not served us such a trick; 
 we had learned to put confidence in the best nose we ever had, and 
 we trusted it implicitly. We forgot that a nose was but human after 
 all, and nothing human should ever be trusted. The doctor said he 
 guessed so too. Then he seated us — he was a polite little cuss — and 
 he got two rubber globes joined together by a ligature — a sort of 
 Siamese twins arrangement — and he tried to fire it off in front of us, 
 but it proved a fizzel; it was not loaded, and we consider our escape 
 one of the most remarkable on record. Then he picked another thing 
 that looked to us like an infringement of the patent that covered the 
 other one, and it did go off. The first charge hit us squarely in the 
 mouth, which we — supposing in our innocence that he was aiming at 
 our nose — had neglected to close, and it had a most villainous taste, 
 equaling the smell of the Chicago river, and it stayed by us like a 
 poor relation on a visit. The next charge took effect in our off ear, and 
 
 295 
 
296 HUMOROUS 
 
 we now hear lop-sided. The next shot took us in the west eye, which 
 had failed to profit by the experience of our mouth and was wide 
 open, apparently making an effort to see what the man of physic was 
 aiming at; that eye went out of business at once, but as the assets 
 and liabilities are reported equal — a peculiarity that we have noticed 
 in all reports of business failures — it may resume. We were just con- 
 cluding that the next shot would hit us in the nose — our reasoning 
 being that now he had filled up plaguey near all the other cavities on 
 our anatomy, he would be compelled to hit the nose — but he didn't. He 
 laid down the machine, remarking as he did so, that the operation had 
 been so successfully accomplished that he thought nothing else in the 
 way of treatment would be necessary. We told him that he had 
 happily and neatly expressed the very thought that had evolved in 
 the gray matter of our own massive brain, at which compliment the 
 doctor arrayed his face in a loud and rather handsome smile. After a 
 moment of deep contemplation the doctor said a nose that had proved 
 so deceptive in the past — especially as it was old enough to know 
 better — could not be trusted in the future, and he got down the con- 
 tents of two medicine cases, mixed them in equal parts, told us to go 
 home, secure a chicken feather and paint our nose. We did so. It is 
 now the color of a new saddle. We are living in hope that time may 
 fade the brightness of this saffron hue, for we detest a prominent nose. 
 These facts are unvarnished — but our nose is not. We hope that 
 we have not put the public in possession of the modus operandi by 
 which doctors repair noses, for we have no desire to injure their busi- 
 ness. But the course of treatment is so simple, so pleasant, so effec- 
 tive, so sure of success, that someone may be tempted to try it for 
 themselves. 
 
 Sad 
 
 We learn that Bro. Hull, of the "Wyoming Herald" is in a sad 
 case. It seemes that he has chased around after delinquent sub- 
 scribers until he seems a "little off." He went to an old granger 
 and bought an old, dejected looking plug of a horse, for $21; — P. S. 
 Of course he gave his notes. He then got a controlling interest in the 
 two front wheels of a farm wagon, and proceeded to fix up a machine 
 that he called a road cart. He got 40 feet of half inch rope to fasten 
 the plug with, and the poor old cripple — we say cripple because 
 he is hip shot, has a spavin, is knock kneed, ring boned, is hoof bound, 
 has a bad fistula, is a cribber, and is opposed to pulling anything, 
 except hay out of a rack — got tangled in the rope and was about to 
 resign, after the manner of Roscoe Conkling, when the rope was cut 
 and he set at liberty. 
 
HUMOROUS 297 
 
 We further learn that Bro. Hull gets this antiquated specimen of 
 shave tail burlesque on the equine race — we forgot to say before that 
 he had a shave tail — out and speeds him on the principal streets of 
 Wyoming. 
 
 He has christened this superb steed ''Sardanapalus" probably 
 from the fact that equine experts suppose that he was a young work 
 horse about the time that worthy flourished on the earth, and he 
 seizes the reins with all the pride of a Budd Doble, flourishes the butt 
 end of a twenty-five cent whip, and calls out, "Hi there! Hi there! 
 Hi there 'Sardana,' steady my boy, steady now." Thus encouraged 
 the poor old crow-bait makes a violent stagger to raise a trot, but 
 gives it up in disgust when he notices that he never overtakes a snail 
 but invariably meets it. 
 
 It is said that Hull's friends are loath to tell him the true state 
 of the case, thinking it best to humor such a mild and harmless form 
 of lunacy, and we would not refer to the case, were it not for the 
 fact we have an eccentric friend who is writing a book to prove that 
 the horse is immortal ; and as history does not refer to the coltship of 
 this grass nipping quadruped, and he seems in fair way to never die — 
 as we judge from the fact that there is not room in his anatomy for 
 another ailment, and the present ones do not lay his bones at rest — we 
 thought our friend might wish to refer to him as an unanswerable 
 argument in favor of his pet theory. 
 
 It is to be hoped that Bro. Hull's malady is not incurable, and that 
 Bro. Chandler may yet prevail on him to trade his steed for a yellow 
 feist, so devoid of respectability that the assessor won't notice him. 
 
 The Horse 
 
 The horse is a noble animal. We would like to say that the horse 
 is the noblest of all animals except man. But if we did so it is more 
 than an even chance that some one would arise and whack us over 
 the cranium with the club of his opinion, and set up a counter claim 
 for the lion, the elephant, the ox or the dog. Ever since the Elmore 
 doctor took a fancy to Doctor Royce's yaller hound, we have thought 
 that no animal has been made — or, indeed, can be made — so ugly, so 
 depraved, so senseless, but some one would become attached to it. We 
 do not wish to be understood as daring to limit the creative powers 
 of God; far be it from us to say that He cannot send into existence 
 a worse looking beast than Dock's hound; but we wish to state — and 
 we weigh well our words — we are certain that He never has. But to 
 return; the horse is a noble animal; and Dr. Gove, of Farmington, 
 has one of the most noble and sagacious horses that can be found out- 
 side of an Equine Paradox. This animal seems to have descended, by 
 
298 HUMOROUS 
 
 ordinary generation, from that illustrious breed of steeds of which it 
 is said: "He smelleth the battle afar." "He paweth in the valley, 
 and scorneth at fear." The doctor has driven this horse night and 
 day for a long time ; he passed through the late political campaign 
 without a shy; he saw the big meteor pass without a tremor; he had 
 met John Deyo face to face, and never winced ; he had witnessed the 
 wild contortions of John Holcomb when pleading at the bar of offended 
 justice, for the rights and priviliges of the man who had traded a 
 spavined mule for a ringboned tackey, and never moved an ear ; he had 
 heard Whistle Cramer in his grand and terrible solo, when he was 
 practicing to furnish the music for Neal Brown, when he lost a bet 
 on the election, and no signs of fear appeared ; he met Sam Jack in 
 the street the day after he became convinced that Cleveland and old 
 Nick were elected, and yet he did not run away. In fact, that horse 
 did not seem to know how to shy, and the only times he ever was 
 known to run, was when the doctor goaded him into a buffalo gallop 
 in order to reach the house of some patient, lest he might recover 
 before he had authority to enter a fee on his books. But a few days 
 ago, while the doctor was making a professional call at the residence 
 of James Torrens, his horse broke an inch tie-rope, and made a wild 
 and reckless dash for home and safety. This episode astonished the 
 doctor; it astonished every citizen of the town. Every one went to 
 work to discover the cause, for all felt that it could have been no un- 
 common sight that flustered the nerves of that staid and sober beast. 
 At first it was rumored that Jim Davidson, he who in years gone by, 
 edited the Fulton Democrat, had returned to the county and the horse 
 had caught sight of him ; but this turned out fallacious. Numberless 
 rumors were started and hunted down, but still the mystery deepened 
 and darkened. At last Mr. Torrens noticed part of a newspaper on 
 the walk, and turning it over with his cane, he discovered that it 
 was part of the lately enlarged Farmington Bugle, containing a double 
 column wood cut of Capt. John Smith, Auctioneer and Justice of the 
 Peace. By the criminal negligence of some person — as yet unknown — 
 this scrap of paper was permitted to get loose, and wafted by a gentle 
 zephyr, it turned over on the walk, near where the horse was tied; 
 it was a sight so much more appalling than anything he had ever 
 set eyes on, that he made up his mind the only safety was flight, in- 
 stantaneous and inglorious flight; and he went, and stood not on the 
 order of his going. We will state in justification of Capt. Smith, whose 
 parents were respectable people, that the cut does not flatter him ; 
 in fact there be those who claim that he is a right smart chance better 
 looking than the picture, and we learn that when the picture first 
 appeared in the Bugle, a debating society spent two weeks discussing 
 
HUMOROUS 299 
 
 the question: "Resolved, that the double column cut in the Bugle is a 
 Chinese Joss;" and they were astonished when their corresponding 
 secretary wrote to S. P. Wood, editor of the now dangerous sheet, and 
 learned that it was the likeness of Capt. John S. Smith. Out of respect 
 for the cause represented by Parnell and compatriots, we wish to state 
 that Capt. Smith is not an Irishman. And after a careful survey of 
 the case, we are prepared to reiterate our opening statement, that the 
 horse is a noble animal. 
 
 Notice 
 
 To those whom it may concern. We hereby warn all weak minded 
 persons, imbeciles, beciles, lunatics, fools, idots, spider-legged-dudes, 
 and those destitute of brains to refrain from reading this paper, as it 
 is designed for people of ordinary intelligence, and, we are informed 
 by a communication now in our possession, has had a bad effect 
 on one such case lately. We will not be responsible for any bad effect 
 it may produce in such cases after the publication of this notice, which 
 is for the express purpose of putting such persons on their guard, 
 and preventing them from partaking of mental food that nature has 
 evidently denied them the power of assimilating to their unhappy men- 
 tal condition. 
 
 The Bismark Wild Animals 
 
 It is reported that E. F. Taylor has met the wild animal of Bis- 
 mark. It was a dark Sunday night, and Ed had been over in the 
 southeast corner of Salem township, courting the sweetest little piece 
 of calico in seven states, and he took no note of time, but the girl's 
 father did, and at 2 a. m. Monday he appeared in the room door armed 
 with a pick handle, and said "young man, get," and Ed struck a can- 
 ter for Bismark. Just as he reached the bridge west of Tom Christy's 
 this animal appeared in front of him with a great roar. Ed made 
 a lunge at the brute and said, "I fear you not, get or die, for I am 
 fleeing from a worse terror than you, and I'd face the devil, but not 
 that old man." The animal saw that he was a desperate man, so it 
 tucked its long tail between its hind legs and sneaked off, while Ed 
 did not lose a jump, and was soon safe in bed. 
 
 Some of the boys from here were returning from Farmington last 
 Saturday night, and when near the home of Gus Dalton, in Bismark, 
 the unearthly yell of the Bismark wild animal smote on their affrighted 
 ears. When they reached Lothy Taggart's it appeared to them, and 
 fear seized their mortal frames, each particular hair on their heads 
 arose erect as the quills on the porcupine, and their eyes "bugged 
 out" until you could have knocked them off with a club. This wild 
 
300 HUMOROUS 
 
 beast is 135 feet in length, is 11 feet wide, has a massive head, a long, 
 shaggy mane, pendulous ears, a prehensile tail which it wraps around 
 the trunks of giant tress and uproots them with apparent ease, has 
 a long liver colored tongue that drops saliva at every jump, and great 
 red, firey eyes such as Victor Hugo has given to "Hans of Iceland," 
 and teeth that protrude and curl after the style of the wild hog, only 
 that they measure 7 feet in length and are 2V2 feet in diameter at the 
 base. It is small wonder that the boys thought it "Had 'em," or that 
 they went, nor stood on the order of their going, nor are they to be 
 blamed even if they did push on the lines, for that Bismark "What Is 
 It" is a holy terror. 
 
 An Imaginary Congregation 
 
 Saturday night a continuous, slow, drizzling rain fell. Sunday 
 morning dawned with the sky entirely obscured by dull, somber clouds 
 that gave promise of more rain. It was not one of those days calcu- 
 lated to induce one to go to church, but rather to stay close to the 
 house. The usual sessions of Sunday School were held. Rev. Duncan 
 preached at the regular hour in the Presbyterian church, but whether 
 the choir were all present or not we do not know ; nor do we know 
 whether the attendance was large or small ; nor yet what the text was, 
 or what the plan of the sermon. The reason is that we were not there. 
 Of course we should have been. But then we should have been good 
 looking, rich, amiable, kind and obliging, but — we ain't. There was no 
 evening service in Bro. Duncan's church. Rev. J. H. Boggess was 
 announced to preach at the M. E. church. We went. So did several 
 others. There was Mart, Jordan, singing in the choir, like a lark; 
 there was "Pet" Thomson, slyly chewing a quid of navy behind the 
 stove and listening with eyes and ears ; there was Henry Soldwell, sit- 
 ting under the glare of the chandelier, looking as contented as if he 
 were about to begin a game of croquet ; there was Perry Taylor, looking 
 as if he thought a good set or two could be formed from the crowd ; 
 there was Sam Conver, sleek, fat, contented looking ; there was Boaz 
 Bevans, looking as if he would dearly love to know how many in the 
 congregation were in favor of A. J. Bell for governor of Illinois ; there 
 was Smith Rhea, calm, sedate, thoughtful looking, as if he felt in 
 accord with civil service reform ; there was John Hunter, looking over 
 toward the choir as if he were speculating on what kind of a hand 
 J. A. Hensley might hold in a little game in a freight car; there was 
 Charlie Bird, enticed from his block and cleaver, and there was D. M. 
 Carter, sitting well up toward the amen corner, stroking his long, 
 black beard, and looking around at the other worthies we have men- 
 tioned, as if he would give a quarter for the privilege of saying: 
 "What are you fellows doing here, anyway?" The house was well 
 
HUMOROUS 801 
 
 filled. The choir was Mart. Jordan, L. A. Lawrence, J. A. Hensley, 
 Mrs. J, A. Hensley, Miss Rogers, and Miss Westfall, with Miss Jaquith 
 at the organ. The prayer was unique and uncommon; the preacher 
 seemed to be talking to some male friend ; he told the Lord several 
 important things. But all the time we had the uncomfortable feeling 
 that the speaker was not just in his element, a little as though he were 
 not so well acquainted with the Lord as he might be. But the prayer 
 had one "rare, strange virtue" — it was short. He read a portion of 
 the sermon on the mount. The text was Proverbs nineteenth chapter 
 and first clause of the second verse: "That the soul be without knowl- 
 edge, it is not good," and the twelfth chapter of the gospel by John, the 
 last clause of the twenty-first verse: "Sir, we would see Jesus." He 
 stated that learning and religion went hand in hand ; that Paul did not 
 go to the ignorant tribes of heathen lands, but went to Athens, to 
 Philippi to Rome ; he asserted that all the best talent, intellect, mind, 
 of every age, had the same desire to see Jesus. He claimed that 
 wherever ignorance ruled, religion dwindled, and priests swayed multi- 
 tudes. The discourse was a masterly effort. As in his sermon two 
 weeks ago, he ranged the whole fields of poetry, philosophy, litera- 
 ture, scripture, history, romance, geology, astronomy, in fact, every- 
 thing. He carried his audience with him. No matter what you may 
 say or think of him otherwise, as pulpit orator you concede that he 
 takes a high position. He repeats nothing. Every sentence is new. It 
 has an idea. It is expressed in the best manner. It is in the best 
 language. Many of the passages in this sermon were grandly beautiful 
 and inspiring. There may be those who would not like to hear him, 
 but they would be those incapable of appreciating masterly eloquence. 
 
 Death of Toodles 
 
 Toodles is dead. He has "Passed in his checks," "Handed in his 
 chips," and "Gone over the divide." Toodles was just a cat, and he 
 was of the Thomas H. variety. His forbears came from the Island of 
 Malta, but he was born in Illinois, and is a Sucker — or at least he was 
 when he was a kitten. About the time Toodles got to the age of cat- 
 hood, W. S. Bliss, then a resident of Yates City, but now of Hamlet, 
 Indiana, took a notion to get married, and went off where he was not 
 so well known as he was here, and persuaded a good looking and very 
 intelligent girl to marry him, but how he did it is a mystery, and this 
 will not admit of any mystery. When they began housekeeping here, 
 Mr. Bliss discovered Toodles, and he was a part of the family until 
 they moved away, when he was given to Mrs. Angeline Bliss, at whose 
 home he passed his days in peace — but not his nights, for Toodles had 
 a strident voice, and when he got on the back fence and lifted it in 
 
302 HUMOROUS 
 
 song half the people in town woke up and swore horrid oaths, and the 
 Mariar cats would come out softly and get on the fence with Toodles, 
 and nestle close to him, and purr gently, and enjoy the moonlight with 
 him. This raised the ire of other less favored Thomases, and they 
 would sally forth and yowl defiance, and the battle would be joined, 
 and it would end in a great catastrophe to one of the combatants. 
 In time this told on Toodles, and he became quiet, sedate and sad, and 
 he would sit in the sun and blink, or go out in the pasture lot and 
 meditate. 
 
 Some ten days ago he failed to come back, and on search being 
 made he was found in a secluded spot, cold in death and stretched in 
 rigor mortis. His age was 14 years. Vale, Toodles! Requiescat 
 in pace. 
 
 Bob's Calf 
 
 We here refer to a calf that Robert Knightlinger has charge of. 
 Last Friday Bob went out to the pasture with a two wheeled cart that 
 is constructed to carry a slop barrel from place to place. It was Bob's 
 duty to bring the calf home, and as he had the cart on his hands, he 
 conceived the brilliant idea of hitching the calf to the cart, thus killing 
 two birds with one stone. Bob had no harness, but he took the cow 
 rope, attached an end to each side of the halter, and fastened the other 
 end to the cart for traces. He then got on the cart, held 
 up the handles, and gave the word go. And the calf did go. 
 Bob had no idea that any calf could navigate at such a terrific 
 rate. He soon found out that while the calf could be easily started, 
 stopping it was different, and he soon began to wish that he had 
 shipped an anchor before sailing. The calf came down the street at 
 a 2 :10 clip, and Bob made up his mind that if his mother ever saw him 
 again, it would be as a cold corpse. It is surmised that he made several 
 good resolutions before the final catastrophe came — among them that 
 he would never swear any more, would quit playing hooky, eschew 
 cigarettes, and that just as he saw the end was near, he promised 
 himself that he would go to Sunday School, and be a model boy. The 
 calf finally left the middle of the street, ran into a bank, played sky- 
 ball with Bob, and demolished the cart. If there is a calf that can 
 make better time than Bob's, he don't wish to ride behind it. 
 
 Pipsisaway Bill 
 
 Living in the corporate limits of Yates City — by the grace of God 
 and the authority of the city council, after the manner of Andy's 
 slaughter house — is a man whom we will call Pipsisaway Bill. His 
 parents were blessed with a large family — all named Pipsisaway Bill — 
 
HUMOROUS 803 
 
 after the style of the old down east Yankee who said he had thirteen 
 sons all named Isaac except one, and his name was Ichabod. The 
 brothers of Pipsisaway Bill have scattered all over this state, and the 
 other states and territories of this Glorious Union. I borrow, by per- 
 mission, the phrase "Glorious Union," from a neat little volume enti- 
 tled, "Fourth of July Soars," by Eminent American Soarists, bound in 
 broadcloth, at $50 per soar. Pipsisaway Bill is tall, angular, slab 
 sided, shock headed, slightly pigeon toed, stoop shouldered — caused, 
 no doubt, by his trying to shoulder everybody's business — perceptibly 
 cross-eyed, has long arms terminating in hands that were made when 
 nature was in a generous mood and hand material not at all stinted; 
 legs that curve outward from the knee either way and are kneesprung 
 hindways, and have about one-third of their entire length turn-up in 
 such a manner as to answer the purpose of feet, and resemble a couple 
 of government scows, while in walking he sets down a foot and takes 
 up 18 inches. At first nature seems to have intended to ornament 
 Pipsisaway Bill with a red head ; but becoming tired, disgusted, or 
 suddenly changing her plan, she made it a sort of yellow ocher color ; 
 his mustache is the exact shade of a potato vine growing in a dark 
 cellar, and his beard is a reluctant compromise between the color of a 
 frost bitten pumpkin and a brindle steer ; a careful study of his face 
 leaves the impression on one's mind that the original intention was to 
 improve the general appearance of Pipsisaway Bill by freckling his 
 face, but after a few were put on it was thought that Bill could never 
 be otherwise than prepossessing in appearance, and the rest of the 
 freckles were saved for some one not so highly favored in other facial 
 adornments. But the crowning glory of Pipsisaway Bill's personality 
 is in his ears; they are long, wide, thin, and so transparent that you 
 can see objects through them when he turns them between you and the 
 sun ; Bill has the power of moving the entire scalp of his head at will 
 by a simple contraction of the muscles, and can wiggle his ears a la 
 the mule. Pipsisaway Bill is six feet two inches tall, weighs 163 pounds, 
 and is an easy and fluent conversationalist. Bill's tongue is flexible, 
 pivoted in the middle, and both ends go flur-a-laly — like the tail of a 
 sucking lamb — and, like the aspen, the least breeze sets it in motion. 
 He is 26 years old, but has had more experience than anybody; his 
 educational term was short, but he made out to lick three large and 
 powerful teachers before he was fourteen. His battles with schoolmates 
 were numerous, and he always scored a victory; he rode all the horse 
 races, and won them ; he was the lucky man in every raffle, he held the 
 winning ticket in every lottery ; he threw all competitors in wrestles ; 
 he outran the man who wore the belt of the champion racer; he rode 
 the horse that no one else dared to mount ; got all the turkeys at shoot- 
 ing matches ; swam the river where no other man dared to try it ; skated 
 
804 HUMOROUS 
 
 across the lake when the ice was as thin as the speech of a pettifogging 
 lawyer ; plowed more acreig in a day than had ever before been plowed ; 
 bound more wheat, husked more corn, cut more fodder, caught more 
 and larger fish, dug more post holes, dived deeper in the lake, climbed 
 higher on the liberty pole, jumped seven inches farther, and killed 
 more wolves than any other individual. Pipsisaway Bill has caught 
 oysters in Chesapeake Bay, and sea lions in the Pacific Ocean; has 
 trapped beaver on the Red River of the North, and shot alligators in 
 the lagoons and bayous of the lower Mississippi; has killed seventeen 
 cowboys in Texas, and took the scalps of five full grown mountain lions 
 in California; has fought and conquered the terrible grizzly of the 
 Rockies with no weapons but his two fists, a wooden toothpick and his 
 mother's cambric needle, that, fortunately, was left by accident in his 
 vest pocket; has encountered eleven wild Comanche bucks, killed 
 seven of them in a running fight, and captured eight squaws and three 
 pappooses as trophies of the conflict. Pipsisaway Bill discovered the 
 two richest mines in the west, and he knows now just where he can 
 go and gather gold until it would cause the cheek of a tobacco sign 
 to flush with pride to think that it is permitted to stand out in the 
 sunshine and storm in a country so highly favored in mineral wealth. 
 These facts we have from the lips of Pipsisaway Bill himself, and we 
 feel entire confidence in stating to our readers that we do not doubt 
 the reliability of the statements. As an enterprising newspaper man 
 we would scorn to use a second hand story; the fact is it isn't neces- 
 sary; it's the easiest thing in the world to get information from Pip- 
 sisaway Bill ; all you have to do is to find him, clear your throat as if 
 you are about to speak, and if you don't get a full and complete history 
 of Bill's travels and experiences, then you may look for honest politi- 
 cians, editors who won't lie for pay, lawyers who won't take all their 
 clients' money in fees, railroad conductors who won't "knock down" 
 fares, gamblers who won't cheat, and women who will say candidly 
 that another woman is good looking. Pipsisaway Bill is at present 
 loafing about the stores, restaurants and hotels, but after harvest he 
 is going west — so he says. 
 
 Dago, Bear, Monkey- 
 Last Friday the Italian band came here with the usual outfit of 
 bear, monkey and bull dog, only that the Dagoes had a couple of inches 
 more filth stuck on them than is usual for even a Dago, and that the 
 smell they emitted so rankled in the poisoned air that Theodore Cun- 
 ningham is supposed to have mistaken it for the offensive effluvia of 
 the dead democratic party, which he stoutly asserts has been dead for 
 the past two years, that the monkey was a dead mate for a man who 
 
HUMOROUS 806 
 
 at one time declared that he had "sot down in a crock of cream," and 
 that the bear was lean, gaunt, starved, old, totally blind, and daily 
 tortured, a chain on his jaw, a cruel ring in his nose, and the principal 
 part of his ears already in the maw of the devilishly vicious bull dog. 
 There were two or three nondescripts along, supposed to be females of 
 some species — may have been meant for women — but so covered by the 
 accumulated nastiness of years that their voices sounded like echoes 
 from some cave in a gigantic manure pile. They camped here over 
 Sunday, and twice let the bear — the poor, old, decrepit, blind bear — 
 fight. It was an exhibition compared to which savage cruelty would 
 be refinement. The dog would fasten his vise-like jaws in the bear's 
 ears and hang on until the pain maddened brute would get the dog in 
 his embrace and begin to squeeze his life out, when one of the Dagoes 
 would bite the dog's tail until it opened its mouth to yelp, and then it 
 would be jerked out of the bear's grasp. It is said that about fifty of 
 our people chipped in to raise 25 cents to get to see this exhibition. 
 We were about to write a scathing article on "The Brutality of the 
 Spanish Sunday Bull Fight," but we sneaked the few sheets we had 
 prepared into the stove. Why berate Spain, ignorant, superstitious, 
 priest-ridden Spain, when the people of Yates City, with the Banner, 
 the loving unity of one church and the rigid Puritanism of the other, 
 the model excellency of her schools, the influence of her Epworth 
 League and Christian Endeavor, with their adjuncts, the Juniors, the 
 W. C. T. U., the L. T. L.'s, the Missionary Societies, the Sunday Schools, 
 the Cemetery Association, the best library of its kind, the free reading 
 room, the tender poetry of Wren, the fervid eloquence of Truitt, the 
 scintillating, judicial acumen of Kightlinger, the brilliant corruscatings 
 of Hensley, the soothing music of Lawrence, to say nothing of the 
 humanizing, civilizing, enlightening influence of the billiard hall and 
 the saloon, has not been elevated beyond the point of contributing two 
 bits to have a stinking Dago set a vicious bull pup to torturing a help- 
 less, blind bear? Excuse us from berating Spain; we would doff our 
 hat to the vilest Cannibal whom we met eating meat from the shin- 
 bone of a missionary, and realize that he was superior to any excuse 
 for a man who would aid, abet or encourage a loud smelling Dago to 
 set a bull dog on a poor, old, blind bear on Sunday — or any other day. 
 
 An Episode 
 
 There was an episode in town Tuesday. Let no one get alarmed, 
 an episode is not so dangerous as a grizzly bear, and this one was like 
 a comet, it did not remain. It happened this way, if our information 
 be not at fault: Some time ago a young man from a neighboring 
 town — might be Maquon — was in the city, and his purse being like that 
 
306 HUMOROUS 
 
 of a country editor, that is, "M T," he requested Bert Goold to let 
 him share his couch, for it was one of those nights when borean blasts 
 toyed about the nether part of one's panty legs in such a manner as 
 to make one think that said blast had recently kissed the bald forehead 
 of a glacier, and Bert, in the kindness of his sympathetic heart, per- 
 mitted him to nestle in his bosom even until the breaking of another 
 day. But man's ingratitude is proverbial, and when the young man 
 arose his practical eye told him Bert's new hat would be a more sightly 
 ornament with which to cover his knowledge box, and so he took it, 
 left his own old tile, and departed. When Bert saw that battered tile 
 the old Adam rose within him, and in the language of the canny Scot 
 in the days when the Grant and the McPhearson cultivated the deadly 
 feud said, "I bide my time." That time came Tuesday, when the man 
 again appeared in town, bowing and smiling under that identical hat. 
 Bert went to him and asked him to give up his property, but he flatly 
 refused ; he then offered to lick him ; he did not want a licking ; he 
 went to the livery stable and ordered out his rig, but just as he got 
 seated the form of the now irate Bert loomed up before him, again 
 demanding his hat; again he met refusal, and his strong right arm 
 weighed out one of his eighteen hundred pound blows, and it caught 
 the mug of the cute young man, and he wilted a la Jonah's gourd; the 
 hat fell at the feet of the victor, some one picked it up and gave it to 
 the rightful owner, and the young man, his dome of thought bared to 
 the pitiless elements, sought a hat store, left town and this episode 
 was ended. 
 
 Blessing an Editor 
 
 Editor C. D. Benfield, of the Maquon Chronicle, was in the city 
 Tuesday morning, and spent a short time in our office. He intimates 
 that he has laid a firm hold on the journalist situation in Maquon, 
 that he is flourishing like a green sorrel tree, and that the main ques- 
 tion with him in the near future is going to be how he can invest the 
 surplus to the best advantage. We are disposed to take some credit 
 for Benfield 's success. When we first laid eyes on Benfield we said 
 this man has a wonderful likeness to the late Horace Greely. Yes, we 
 did ; and that, too, in spite of the fact that he was trying to fool him- 
 self into the belief that he was able to mock Joe Jefferson in his rendi- 
 tion of Bill Shakespeare. We intuitively knew he was a journalist, and 
 our eagle eye saw that the very conformation of the physical man 
 was evidence that he was an editor, and not an actor, for if ever a 
 man was destined to sit gracefully on a tripod, isn 't that man Benfield ? 
 Well, we guess yes. And when he did go into the work we said 
 Ah ha ! true as preaching we did. And we did more ; we sawed off one 
 of our choicest blessings and gave it him, and said, "Sock it to 'em, 
 
HUMOROUS 307 
 
 Benfield," and he did, and now he has triumphed gloriously, and we 
 are here now to lay our broad, cool palm on his bald head, and in a 
 fine burst of unselfish admiration exclaim, "Bully for old Benfield!" 
 
 The Ground Hog on Easter 
 
 One great event has happened; ground hog day has been neatly 
 folded up, sprinkled with camphor gum and fine cut tobacco, and laid 
 away to rest until next February. A slight moisture dims these optics, 
 for we had become accustomed to ground hog day. True, it had devel- 
 oped some differences of opinion ; true, it had engendered some strife ; 
 true, it had multiplied theories until no one was sure what he believed 
 on the subject. But it had amused the public, and it is about as cheap 
 a way to amuse the public as we have ever figured on; it don't cost 
 so much as one of Eli Perkins's lectures, and probably no larger amount 
 of prevaricates pervades the one than permeates the other; it is not, 
 perhaps, so instructive as one of Beecher's farewell speeches, but one 
 can look a ground hog theory in the face and see no mutual friend 
 standing in the background of the familiar picture ; it may not draw 
 as large a crowd as Bob Ingersoll does when he tackles Moses — Moses 
 has been dead for some years — at several hundred dollars per tackle, 
 but there is absolutely no smell of egotism detected about the ground 
 hog theory. This being the case, we are willing to spare a slight mois- 
 ture in our eye for the ground hog. But we find that age is reducing 
 the fountain of our weeps. It don't slop over and drop on our coat 
 sleeve as it once did. We don't mind telling you in confidence that we 
 wept on account of the ground hog once before ; it was years ago ; we 
 were a careless boy then, wearing a rimless hat and one frail suspender 
 with a piece of pantaloons hanging to it; our mustache and fame were 
 both in the future ; the former came with the whirling years ; we went 
 down on Littler 's Creek one mellow autumn afternoon and found a 
 hole in the hillside ; with the proverbial avidity of youth thirsting to 
 investigate the mysteries of nature, we dug into the dim recesses of 
 that hole; we had not the least doubt but it contained a thirteen 
 pound mystery, twenty-two carats fine — but it didn't — it contained a 
 ground hog, a robust specimen, of the male gender, warranted never to 
 slip a cog or miss a motion; we reached in our hand to seize him 
 by his hoary locks and drag him forth in triumph from his lair; he 
 resented our gentle endeavor; he made one lunge at our extended 
 digits and scooped out a chunk of cannibal fodder from our fore finger 
 that left the white bone glistening in the rays of the setting sun like 
 the bald pate of a new born infant; then we wept; we felt like it; we 
 were alone with one of the first great sorrows of life, with no one to 
 console us, and we lifted up our voice freely and let our tears fall on 
 
808 HUMOROUS 
 
 our bare toes. It will thus be seen that we are no novice in dimming 
 our vision with moisture gendered by the ground hog. But, as we said, 
 ground hog day has been folded up and laid away until next year; 
 we have no desire to interfere with the arrangements. As a chronicler 
 it is our duty to record that Easter Sunday has effaced the bright 
 effulgence of ground hog day. It was thus : it rained on Easter Sun- 
 day, and if there has ever been one event evolved from the prolific 
 womb of time that everlastingly scoops ground hog day it is a rainy 
 Easter Sunday. It will no doubt occupy the boards until the day on 
 which the American people take their annual tAvist at the tail of the 
 British lion, and permit the great American boiled owl to soar aloft. 
 John Brimmer says if it rains on Easter Sunday it will rain for nine 
 more Sundays ; Wm. Philbee says it will rain nine consecutive Mon- 
 days; Lew Bales says it will rain six Sundays; Andy Alpaugh says it 
 will be "werry" apt to rain eleven more weeks; Wellington Series 
 says if it rains Easter you must hang on to your watch and be careful 
 to what Peoria house you consign butter ; Steve Boyer says he would 
 not trust Series to pick out his boarding place in Peoria ; Lara Kehoe 
 says he never knew it to rain on an average over fifty-two Sundays in 
 a year; Jack Kightlinger says he gets in out of the wet on election 
 day; George Stone says that he "niver heerd o' ony such toimes in 
 the ould counthry;" Pet Thomson says he'll be — (here Pet uses a very 
 naughty cuss word that printers never use) if he believes any of them 
 are right, and wants to know how in shoel they are going to prove 
 it? At last we appealed to J. A. Irving, and he says, "Well, now, see 
 here; it's jes' like this: after reflecting carefully on all the different 
 points, and listening to the able opinions of those who have told what 
 they know, I have about concluded that if it rains on Easter Sunday 
 there will be a considerable spell of weather follow of some sort." Of 
 course we do not claim that we have given our readers the highest 
 authority in the city, for Benny Shaffer is confined to the house by a 
 sore leg ; this prevents us from giving the most reliable data on the 
 weather. As it is, we suspect that Easter Sunday will loom up on the 
 discordant future, black as a storm cloud, and vengeful as a full 
 sized cyclone. 
 
 Rammy, Rammy, Ram 
 
 D. W. Hambrick is a painter who, in days gone by, resided in 
 Yates City; but of late years he has taken up his abode in Maquon; 
 he is one of the best men in the world, and would not harm an}^ living 
 creature; in fact, we think he was intended for one of the "early 
 Christians," so meek is he. He is not painting much this rough 
 weather, and so he fills in the time by delving in the earth after black 
 diamonds; or, in other words, he digs coal. In the field where the 
 
HUMOROUS 309 
 
 mine is situated a flock of sheep are wont to spend the sunny days, 
 nipping the dry grass and amusing themselves in the best way known 
 to sheep. Of course, being sheep, they were nearly all innocent ; in 
 fact, they all were except one old, rantankerous ram, that seemed to 
 be possessed of a large degree of the spirit of Beelzebub; he is old 
 in years, and older still in all that goes to make up the character of a 
 vicious ram. On Wednesday, as Mr. Hambrick emerged from his labors, 
 covered over with the black from the bituminous fuel, he noticed the 
 ram standing a short distance off and looking as forlorn and sad as if 
 all his relations had died at once, and he had just returned from the 
 funeral. Hambrick took pity on the poor old ram, and in order to 
 divert him from his great sorrow, he put down his head and made 
 sundry playful motions at his woolly friend. His ramship looked on 
 gravely for a moment, caught the idea — or thought he did — and, dart- 
 ing forward like a blue streak of lightning going through a crab apple 
 orchard, he planted his antlers square on the sconce of Hambrick. 
 Great world alive! Was he not surprised? Why, he thought that he 
 was in a collision, had been struck by the engine, and was sailing 
 through starry fields, straight up to glory. The ram assumed his 
 former innocent look. Hambrick picked himself up and started toward 
 home, with the intention of going into "dry dock." 
 
 Moral : Never fool with a ram ; better make faces at your mother- 
 in-law. 
 
 An Editorial Genius 
 
 S. P. Whiting has retired from the editorship of the Altona Jour- 
 nal, after fourteen years of vain endeavor to make a suffering public 
 appreciate his peculiar style of journalism — which he was pleased to 
 style genius. Well, if his style was not exactly genius, it cannot be de- 
 nied that it was original. While Sam sat astride the editorial tripod 
 poor old Lindsay Murray's bones rattled in their casket — always pro- 
 viding that there were caskets in the day he was gathered to his ances 
 tors — and that bothersome old codger, Noah Webster, LL. D., groaned 
 in spirit. Sam was the first man to place printing in the category of fine 
 arts. Before his time typos held to the idea that a monosyllable was 
 an indivisible thing, but during his career they were separated with 
 the boldest impunity. No man has ever lived on the earth whose edi- 
 torial could at all be compared to Sam's. It could not be charged 
 against him that they were borrowed, for there was no place from 
 which he could purloin them. They were like Sam himself, "Fearfully 
 and wonderfully made." True, they were not appreciated; yea, we 
 doubt if they were even admired ; but that was because no living mortal 
 was ever able to tell what they meant. They were of that character 
 that left the impression on the mind of the reader that they might be 
 
310 HUMOROUS 
 
 his ideas on politics, religion, science, or else a receipt for making a 
 salve that would cure the itch. Now that Sam has decided to let his 
 pencil lie unused on the headrail of his bedstead, and has laid his stick 
 and rule on the top shelf of the pantry, we fear his peculiar style will 
 take a prominent position beside the dead languages. In writing this 
 little criticism of Sam's editorial career — which was brilliant, if not 
 short — "the reader may suspect us, as we suspect ourselves," of a 
 tinge of envy at Sam's higher attainments; but we have tried to be as 
 impartial as possible, and we will close by saying of him, as the Chinese 
 said of his idol: "We know that he was ugly, but we feel that he 
 was great." 
 
 A Sick Editor 
 
 The editor has been sick. One week ago last Saturday he took 
 the horse distemper ; on Sunday it developed into the epizootic ; on 
 Monday it was the pink-eye and on Tuesday the glanders. There are 
 numerous phases of each of these, and we have been introduced to 
 them all. Our nose — that handsome nasal ornament, that we set such 
 store by — has been blowed until it is sorrier than a town that has been 
 struck by a cyclone. And those stupendous ears, that erstwhile stood 
 up erect and bold as the bald front of Mount Blanc, now lop down 
 like two huge barn doors wrested from their hinges. To him, the voice 
 of the boy who could swear the loudest has sounded the sweetest. 
 And those two old snags that ornament the larboard side of his jaw 
 on the upper tier have heaved like two baby volcanoes. The foreman 
 in the office is getting his life insured ; the compositors have formed a 
 safety society, while the "devil" has actually become so subdued that 
 when he calls for copy his voice can scarcely be heard a mile. How 
 a man would fare if he called to pay his subscription we have no means 
 of knowing, as no one has been rash enough to attempt such a danger- 
 ous experiment. The editor of this paper is sick. 
 
 A Meteor 
 
 Those grasping sinners who arose before six o'clock on the morn- 
 ing of January 2, 1890, came very nearly being frightened into a pious 
 streak by a large meteor that came from the northwest and went 
 southeast, exploding over in the neighborhood of Gus Dalton's. Of 
 course those good, honest, religious people — of whom we are a shining 
 example — who were calmly reposing in bed, were not agitated by the 
 meteor. Some assert that it burst in Gus Dalton's field and threw 
 cockle burs to a distance of twenty-one lineal miles, but we take no 
 stock in this report, and positively state that we do not believe it. It 
 is also reported that W. H. Longden took it for a special call to the 
 
HUMOROUS 311 
 
 unconverted, and thought seriously of joining Elder Morse's church. 
 "We would be glad to deny this story also, but the fact that he was seen 
 in town early in the morning gives so much color to the report that it 
 is scarcely safe to contradict it. We are told that M. H. Pease denies 
 seeing it at all, and it may be possible that he did not, though he would 
 have given eighty acres of land to have done so. Nelson Cunningham — 
 who is a Presbyterian — thinks it was intended as a warning to those 
 who claim to raise better corn than he does, and — as we lean far over 
 toward that faith ourselves — we coincide with his opinion. However, 
 all agree that it burst over in Bismark, and we hope that it may be the 
 means of reforming some of the striking cases of depravity in that 
 section. 
 
 Selecting a School Director 
 
 The city election is past and everybody has made his or her kick 
 over the results, and over the appointments of the new council — and 
 the council don't care a tinker's swear. The township election is past, 
 the dead have been buried, the wounded are on the road to recovery, 
 and resolves have been made to get even next year. But Saturday will 
 give the citizens a chance for another go at the privileges of those 
 entitled to vote, as a school director is then to be selected. Care should 
 be taken as to this selection. A school director should be over one 
 year old, and under one hundred; he ought to be able to read and 
 write ; he should have the meekness of Moses, the patience of Job, and 
 the wisdom of Solomon ; he should not be given too much wine — in fact, 
 he should not drink over three pints in twenty-four hours ; he should 
 be a white man and born in Yates City if possible — as no outsider, nor 
 any one else for that matter — can understand the intricate subtleties 
 of our common school system; he should be the husband of one wife, 
 so that his domestic squabbles may not occupy all his time, thus giving 
 him leisure to attend to the duties of the office ; he should be the father 
 of no children, for it is borne in upon us that those having no children 
 know best — in theory — how to manage the miniature men and women 
 of others; he should be a man with a thick epidermis, not easily 
 affected by a cussing, and a man of great self conceit, so that he may 
 be satisfied with what he himself does — for it is certain no one else 
 will be ; he should be a man of moderate means, for the position is one 
 in which the opportunities for accumulating scads of money are plen- 
 tiful. If such a man can be found let him be elected, even if he knows 
 not the difference between a parallelogram and a velocipede. 
 
 Gus Dalton and the Honey 
 
 Gus Dalton is a lover of honey and has the most beatinest nose for 
 a bee tree of any man on the job, and can find them if any there be. 
 
312 HUMOROUS 
 
 Some two weeks ago Gus went to Liverpool, on the Illinois River, 
 on a hunting and fishing expedition. One day he was some distance 
 south of the camp and started to walk back, and, becoming weary, he 
 sat down on a log to rest, and, looking around, noticed an eight 
 gallon beer keg that had lodged in a pile of drift, and, seeing what he 
 thought was a large number of flies about it, he went to examine it, 
 and discovered that a swarm of bees had taken possession of the keg 
 and filled it with honey. He took the keg to the camp, where he found 
 that the bees, in order to economize space, had put in the honey in a 
 liquid form, omitting the comb. He took a beer faucet — we are not 
 informed as to how he happened to have a beer faucet — and inserted 
 it in the bung, and drew out seventeen gallons of pure strained honey. 
 In order that his story might be corroborated and proved, Gus brought 
 the bunghole of the beer keg home and had it framed and hung up 
 in his home, where it may be seen. 
 
 Friendly Wishes 
 
 B. T. Elderkin, who is the most rotund, ornate, chaste, and vir- 
 tuous democrat in the Tenth Congressional District, was in the city 
 Thursday, in the interests of the Peoria Daily Herald. Mr. Elderkin is 
 an old newspaper man, having filled every position in a printing office, 
 from that of devil up to editor ; this is why peace — like a mighty river 
 — rolls over him, and that his "caparasity" resembles that of Clark E. 
 Carr. Elderkin is a democrat of strong and abiding faith, and hopes 
 of roseate hue, and he has climbed Pisgah's heights, and is gazing 
 right down into the promised land, where he believes all good demo- 
 crats will browse in green pastures, and eat "lowcusses and wild 
 hominy," after 1892, when he expects Grover to level the walls of the 
 republican Jericho with one mighty blast on his foghorn. After Elder- 
 kin had interviewed us in our office, we had a struggle to keep from 
 exclaiming, "Almost thou persuadest me to be a "dimikrat." We 
 have an abiding love for Elderkin, and we want him to live until he 
 knocks his brains out against the gold bell knob of his own brownstone 
 front, and we feel confident that seventeen of the most beautiful angels 
 will grab him, convey him to Paradise, seat him in the big arm chair, 
 furnish him a palm as big as an elephant's ear, and give him the best 
 harp in the whole outfit ; and he deserves it all. 
 
 Dixon's Arch of Ice 
 
 Sunday morning was the coldest of the season. All over the 
 city thermometers indicated from 16 to 20 degrees below zero and 
 thousands of the poorer people in the lower wards of the city suffered 
 
H U MO ROUS 813 
 
 intensely. Monday morning we met Mr. J. W. Dixon, cashier of the 
 People's Bank, in the postoflfice, and he told us that he went out and 
 threw a bucket of water up over the house, and it froze in a complete 
 arch or bow, and it was still standing there at noon the next day. Mr. 
 Dixon says it was the finest sight he ever saw when the sun was shining 
 on that arch of solid ice. Mr. Dixon insisted on our going out to his 
 home to see it, but the weather was bitter cold, and besides we thought 
 it would look a little as if we doubted his word, and we declined to 
 go. All the reason we mention this is so that those who saw the reflec- 
 tion and thought it was the northern lights may be posted on what 
 the phenomenon really was. 
 
 A Close Contest 
 
 Dr. Royce and the editor had a rabbit skinning contest Wednes- 
 day night. The winner was to get a large piece of cake. After a few 
 false starts they got away in good style, the editor leading on the first 
 quarter by a good length ; the second quarter closed the gap, and they 
 crossed the half mile with the doctor close to the wheel, both going in 
 fine style ; on the third quarter both appeared to be preparing for the 
 final struggle ; the doctor made a bad break, but settled down to busi- 
 ness, and as they crossed the third quarter was lapping the wheel and 
 making desperate efforts to close the gap. At this point the interest 
 became intense, the doctor took a fresh hitch on his pants, and the 
 editor spit on his hands. Then the fur began to fly in earnest. The 
 doctor took the lead for half of the home stretch, when the editor 
 made one of his famous spurts, then came down the home stretch 
 neck and neck, until within a few rods of the wire, when the doctor's 
 knowledge of surgery enabled him to cross the wire three inches ahead, 
 amid the wildest applause. 
 
 The editor kicked some on the decision, but it was no doubt owing 
 to the fact that cake was the prize. 
 
 Time — 44 min. 5 sec, and 44 min. 10 sec. 
 
 The "Devil" Goes to a Wedding 
 
 Last week the junior member of the corporation that runs this 
 great model pendulum got invited to a wedding. As he had succeeded 
 in getting a pair of new pants with wide legs, and there was more than 
 an average prospect of getting a meal adorned with "chickin fixins'," 
 he was just possessed to go, nolens volens. This left us without help ; 
 but that great and good man, David Corbin, who can do anything from 
 tuning a jewsharp to laying brick, came in, saw that we were non est, 
 pulled off his coat, hung his hat on the floor in one corner, pushed 
 
314 HUMOROUS 
 
 up his gray locks, pulled down his white beard, and in a style that 
 would have done honor to Horace Greeley, he helped us to get out the 
 Banner. The only thing that vexed David's soul was the interruptions 
 caused by people coming in to subscribe and pay up for the paper. 
 Dave said: "Drat 'em, why can't they stay out until we get the paper 
 oflp?" But we did not find any fault. Our thanks are hereby given to 
 David — we have some thanks left, but no money — and we will just 
 say in conclusion — a phrase we borrow from the preachers — that if 
 we had twenty sons to name, every one of them would be called David 
 Corbin McKeighan. 
 
 A Water Haul 
 
 It transpires that Messrs. Ewalt, Bird, Westburg and Lower failed 
 to catch any fish "Wednesday. It is reported that when Squire J. A. 
 Hensley crossed French Creek and Spoon River the evening before, he 
 warned the fish that the boys were coming and that night the fish took 
 their wives and their little ones and sought safety in flight. The Squire 
 is a tender-hearted man, and no doubt his warning saved the lives of 
 a multitude of fishes. We trust that this explanation will prevent any 
 stain on the reputation of the fishermen who took part in the ill-starred 
 expedition of Wednesday. It is said — and no doubt is correct — that 
 as soon as Burt Lower saw that the fish had gone — being the best 
 versed in the scriptures — quoted this sublime and appropriate text : 
 "An enemy hath done this," and Jonas Ewalt — thinking for a moment 
 that he was in the Amen corner — said, "Yea, verily!" 
 
 Suggestions to Farmers 
 
 When we awoke on Wednesday morning the ground was covered 
 with hoar frost. Hoar frost is an expression in general use among the 
 best writers and speakers, and is considered complimentary to the frost. 
 As soon as we became aware that Winter, with his icy breath and 
 chilling touch, really meant to get down to business, we determined 
 to warn our farmer friends to be on their guard. It is high time to 
 make preparances. Sweet potatoes should be carefully picked ; do not 
 shake them down ; millions of dollars are annually lost by careless 
 farmers shaking down their sweet potatoes instead of climbing to get 
 them. Many farmers give as a reason that they do not have ladders. 
 But why not plant a few rows of ladders in the kitchen garden? If 
 planted early, in hills, at a distance of 3 feet 7 inches each way, we 
 see no good reason why a thrifty farmer might not only have ladders 
 for his own use, but he might sell a few to help pay his grocery bill. 
 But at any rate it would be better to buy ladders than to spoil the 
 sweet potato crop. 
 
HUMOROUS 815 
 
 Do not neglect to bury cross-cut saws before severe frost. It is a 
 mistake to suppose that the cross-cut saw is a hardy plant. One 
 severe frost will completely kill the germ of the cross-cut saw, and then 
 next year's crop is endangered, or much valuable time lost the next 
 spring looking up good seed. The early market for cross-cut saws is 
 always the best, and therefore the most profitable. 
 
 Tomatoes should be dug by the 10th or 15th of October. There 
 may be a few strains of the tomato that will do to risk longer, such as 
 the Herefords, or the Short Horns, but the Polled Angus variety may 
 have its horns entirely ruined by neglect, and every agriculturist 
 knows that it ruins the tomato. 
 
 Be careful to look after the barbed wire pump. In the days of 
 slipshod farming, when a common rail pump was considered good 
 enough, so much care was not necessary. But the high state of breed- 
 ing to which it has lately been subjected has made it a tender plant, 
 and it must be protected. We have a theory that the barbed wire 
 pump has been too closely in-bred. But as this is a subject demanding 
 more space than we can give it now, we pass it by. 
 
 We notice, with great pleasure, that our granger friend, Aleck 
 Kerns, had most of his pumpkins husked this morning. We commend 
 his manner of husking them. Too many people only about half husk 
 a pumpkin, leaving what is technically called "ribbons" all over it. 
 This is a reprehensible practice that we feel we can not too severely 
 condemn. Mr. Kerns raises the Yellow Dent variety — at least we 
 noticed that some of them were yellow and had a few dents in them — 
 and he assures us that the curculio or the coddling moth never molests 
 it; that it has a stiff er straw than any other variety; which prevents 
 it from crinkling before the heads are fully ripe, and that when this 
 straw is properly stacked the Plymouth Rock calves will eat it with 
 great avidity. 
 
 Cucumbers should be mulched ; if this can not be done, cover them 
 with horse blankets, even if you have to kill a horse to obtain the 
 blankets; if you neglect this a portion of your cucumbers will come 
 out in the spring thin in flesh, the hair turned the wrong way, puny 
 in appetite, and with great danger of the hollow horn getting into 
 the herd. 
 
 There may be other matters, perhaps as important as those we 
 have mentioned, but we happen to think of none at present, except it 
 be to advise you to subscribe for the Banner. If you neglect this we 
 fear that the fur of the domestic hop-toad will yet monopolize the mar- 
 kets of the world. 
 
316 HUMOROUS 
 
 Unmourned, But Not Unsung 
 
 Nettie Jaquith's old white eat came to the termination of his nine 
 lives some days ago. He was an animal of nocturnal habits and melo- 
 dious voice. The quiet of the stilly night has many a time and oft been 
 broken, as his dulcet notes rolled out with grating sound, as if some 
 plebeian wood sawyer did bend his energies to file his saw. It was 
 his delight to visit all the other cats for blocks around, and sing to 
 them a solo, terrific in its noise. Oft has he sat upon the fence and 
 yowled, and yowled, and spit his venom out, and woke the echoes — 
 and the sleepers, too — with song of amorous intent, just at that hour 
 when graveyards yawn and spectral shapes glide in mysterious zig- 
 zags o'er the earth; nor heeded he that at that solemn hour one day 
 died just as another day was being born. He did not seem to care for 
 these events o'er which philosophers have puzzled, and poets sung in 
 raptures. It was evident that he was a wanton cat, on pleasure bent, 
 and had fallen in love with his own voice. The writer can testify to 
 all these facts, for often when bereft of sleep by the unearthly cater- 
 wauls, he has arisen and stolen out and braved the chilly fogs and 
 damps of poisonous airs, and hurled great chunks of coal, fragmentary 
 rocks, old pans, rejected boots, clubs and pieces of crockery at his 
 retreating form, in hopes of cutting short his earthly career; but 
 always was our aim defective, and he escaped scott free. But time, 
 that evens all things, laid him low, and Death, that knows no pity, but 
 is relentless as an old maid whose love has been spurned, at last put 
 a quietus on his diabolic yowls, and so a grave was hollowed out, and 
 in he was tumbled. There let him "Requiescat in pace." 
 
 Unique Rocking Chairs 
 
 We were shown a couple of cute rustic rocking chairs, at the shop 
 of Newell Livermore, that are certainly rather unique. They may be 
 called Siamese twins rocking chairs. There are two seats facing in 
 opposite directions, having only three rockers. If two persons are 
 seated, one in each of the chairs, it brings their faces most delightfully 
 close together — that is, if one of the persons be a charming lady. In 
 fact, it would look to us to be a very dangerous juxtaposition to be 
 seated in these chairs with a lady, on a porch, when the mellow moon- 
 light is flooding the landscape on a rare night in June. "We made an 
 attempt to gain some information as to Mr. Livermore 's own experi- 
 ence in this line, but just then something on the bell tower of the 
 new Presbyterian church attracted the old man's attention, and he 
 seemed to have not heard our query and did not answer, but there 
 was a strange light in his eyes and a joyous look on his face, as if 
 
HUMOROUS 817 
 
 some very pleasant memory of the past had come to him. "We now 
 feel confident that he did not want to tell his own experience with the 
 double rocker, nor how he came to invent such a chair, but we have 
 our opinion, and if the best woman in America ever makes a widower 
 of us, he can count on selling us twin rockers. 
 
 A New Stove 
 
 Last Friday was a red letter day for the men who have charge 
 of the Q. depot in Yates City. Away back in the dim distance of the 
 mystic past, a stove was put into the depot in this place. It was long 
 ago. Alex Kerns, Bostic Kent and Duke Coykendall were small kids, 
 playing mumble peg, when that stove began its career in our depot. 
 David Corbin wanted to play with the other three boys, but they told 
 him he was not large enough, and that they wanted no one in the 
 game who was under 5 years of age. That stove has been in constant 
 use from that day until last Friday. For fifty years it was considered 
 a good heater and was used for that purpose in winter, and in summer 
 it was used as a target by tobacco chewers, who sat on a row of very 
 uncomfortable benches ranged around the walls, and apparently three 
 out of every five hit it with remarkable precision. Seventeen years 
 ago, along in the latter part of the winter, this stove began to exhibit 
 evidences of old age. The boys in the office called the attention of 
 the company to the fact that its days of usefulness were ended. They 
 promised to see that a new one would be put in at once, and with the 
 remarkable celerity that is a distinguishing characteristic of the Q. 
 Company, the new stove arrived last Friday, only seventeen years and 
 eleven days after the request for it was sent in. When it was unloaded 
 the attaches of the office were so surprised that for the space of two 
 minutes and forty-five seconds no work was done, and not a word was 
 spoken. Then H. S. Stephens made a break for the door, turned seven 
 double handsprings, jumped over three trucks and sprinted to the 
 elevators and back, in the record breaking time of 17 minutes and 12 
 seconds. Don C. Root became rooted to tlje spot and had to be torn 
 loose by main force, and Chas. Walker walked up town and invested 
 3 cents in peanuts, and went back and treated the entire force, insist- 
 ing that S. P. Hasselbacher should eat all the peanuts he wanted, even 
 if it took half of them. But the most surprised man of all was the 
 mail carrier, W. H. McKinley, who declared that he had never been 
 so surprised since the days of 1864, when he seized the Southern Con- 
 federacy by the nape of the neck and shook its toe nails off. Bill said 
 he felt like a hot tamale and that he would trade his overcoat and 
 overshoes for the singing of a good old song, sung by any person 
 except the editor of the Banner. 
 
318 HUMOROUS 
 
 A Spurt of Spring 
 
 Last Saturday old winter turned his freezing glances away from 
 us and permitted us to say: "Hale, gentle spring! Ethereal mildness, 
 come." It did come, too, with so much "ethereal mildness" on Sun- 
 day, that all nature felt the thrill, "And youth and beauty every- 
 where, seemed bursting into life." In fact, we were beguiled into the 
 belief that "Winter was over and gone," and in the evening we heard 
 music wafted toward us on "The still evening air," and we thought 
 that Dr. H. J. Hensley and C. A. Stetson had broken into song, and 
 were wafting heavenward the strains of "The good old summer time," 
 and we went out to listen to the charming music — good music has a 
 charm for us that we have never been able to resist since that early 
 morn in 1881 when John W. Bird went up Main street with old Dan, 
 that noble old dun, hitched in the thills, while John stood on the 
 quarterdeck of the two wheeled dray and sang: 
 
 "Possum up a gum stump, 
 Cooney in a hollow, 
 Wake snakes and June bugs, 
 I'll give you half a dollar." 
 
 It was "Grand, terrific and sublime," and it touched us in one of our 
 soft spots — there are several of them scattered over our anatomy; 
 nature seems to have used a "Lavish hand" when bestowing them — 
 but only to discover that it wasn't Dock and Charlie at all, but just the 
 frogs in the ditch along the side of the railroad, down by the now 
 lonely abode of "Whack" Slater, croaking for more rain. When 
 we first realized that is wasn't Dock and Charlie, a chunk of sorrow 
 as large as a woodchuck crept into our heart and sat down, seemingly 
 bent on a lengthy visit, but we said, no, you must move out, this dis- 
 appointment is a great sorrow, but "It can but add one bitter woe 
 to those already here," and we "Will bear the ills we have," rather 
 than "Ply to others that we know not of," for "Grief, in time, is tear- 
 less grief," and we feel that while "Weeping may endure for a night, 
 joy cometh in the morning." So we did "Awake from sorrow's 
 dream," and just then the wind woke up, too, and swept down from 
 "Icy north," and old winter "Rode back on the blast," and squatted 
 in the lap of spring, "The mean old thing," and there the blamed old 
 cuss is lolling at this blessed moment. 
 
 The Big Stick 
 
 We read that in the olden times the disciples were together in an 
 upper room. Well, not so long ago, in fact, scarce a fortnight agone, 
 a party of disciples were together in an upper room in Yates City, 
 but of course not exactly the same kind of disciples, and about the 
 
HUMOROUS 819 
 
 holy midnight hour, when graveyards yawn and ghosts do walk, a 
 woman appeared to these terrified disciples, and in one hand, so fair 
 and white, she held a lantern, and in the other, firmly grasped, she bore 
 a club of vast circumference and ponderous weight, and in a voice 
 whose tones struck terror to each heart, she said, "This club is trumps; 
 I'll rake this jackpot in. Begone!" In ten short seconds she was 
 there alone, while several pairs of heels did clatter on the walk, the 
 while their owners were digging desperately for home. 
 
 A Memorable Caucus 
 
 And it came to pass in the fourth month, even the month April, 
 that Andy, whose surname is Alpaugh, seeing that the city was given 
 over to certain sons of Belial, consulted with a man of much wisdom, 
 even with Brimmer, whose front name is John, saying, let us call for 
 the people to come together, and let them consult, and afterward let 
 them appoint wise men to conduct the affairs of the city. 
 
 So it came to pass that Andy, of the capacious stomach, did cause 
 to be posted throughout the city, notices, calling upon all those who 
 feared the Lord and eschewed evil, to gather themselves together at 
 the great hall of the city, at the going down of the sun, on the third 
 day of the fourth month, even the month April. 
 
 And it was so that a vast congregation did assemble themselves, 
 insomuch that the walls of the building were in danger and it was so 
 that when the people wanted a man to preside over the councils of 
 the meeting, that it was perceived that Andy was a man of great under- 
 standing — his boots being elevens — and so it was that they cried out, 
 "Let Andy be our chairman!" "Let Andy be our chairman!" And 
 it was so that he was selected, and he sat in the chair of honor, while 
 his bald head loomed up, even as the top of a great mountain. 
 
 Then one of the people arose and said, "Ye do not well; why is it 
 ye do not have a scribe?" And the thing seemed good unto them, and 
 they essayed to select one Brimmer by name, but he refused to serve, 
 saying, "Do not so foolishly; perceive ye not that wisdom is in Irving, 
 whose fame in healing the people has extended all over the world?" 
 Then did the people repent and call for Irving, who is better known 
 as Jack. And he was selected to act as scribe for the people, as it was 
 known that he was expert in prescribing for those who felt that more 
 spirit should enter into them. 
 
 But no sooner was the scribe appointed than it was found that by 
 some means he had taken a dose of his own medicine and that he was 
 well nigh drunk. 
 
320 HUMOROUS 
 
 And it was so that in the assembly were some pious sons of perdi- 
 tion, Hensley, the Judge ; Coykendall, who sold the people furniture, 
 and thus gathered in many shekels; Kay, a tiller of the soil, and 
 Corbin, who was wont to do service for the C, B. & Q. Those men 
 stirred up much strife by insisting that the scribe should remove his 
 hat and that the chairman should keep order, and in many other ways 
 strove to create an uproar. 
 
 And there were certain boys who did not fail to lift up their voices 
 on high, even to such an extent that Andy's soul became sorely vext, 
 and he was about to abandon the people. 
 
 But there was a man in the assembly who kept an inn, and did 
 great service to the people by providing for their wants, in preparing 
 pottage and other savory viands. His name was Hunter, but the people 
 had given him the name of "Whiner, " because when the game of 
 euchre went against him and his shekels went into the other fellow's 
 pocket, he invariably lifted up his voice and whined with an ex:ceeding 
 bitter whine. 
 
 And it was so that when the people would have dispersed, that 
 Hunter, otherwise known as Whiner, said, "Not so; but let us make 
 Roberts our chief." But Andy refused to put the motion and as the 
 scribe was unceremoniously and suddenly called out by a call that 
 might not be gainsaid nor denied, the assembly broke up in great 
 commotion. 
 
 And the hoodlums lifted up their voices in derision, saying, 
 "Andy's caucus, Andy's caucus; sneak off." 
 
 Thus ended the attempt of Andy to clear the city of those who 
 persisted in prosecuting Peg Leg. 
 
 What's in a Name? 
 
 Which family has the shortest dresses? The Tuckeys. — Which 
 family should get there first? The Runions. — Which family in town 
 should be the most comfortable when the thermometer is over 90? 
 The Cools. — Which family in town has the hardest name ? The Stones. 
 — Which family all belong to a society? The Masons. — Which family 
 are farthest from the east? The Wests. — Which family are the best 
 writers? The Penmans. — Which family in town is never short? The 
 Longs. — Which family has the best shelter? The Housers. — Which 
 family has the largest hands? The Alpaughs. — Which family has the 
 most feathers? The Birds. — Which family has the most milk? The 
 Cowmans. — Which family has the poorest ground? The Heaths. — 
 Which family can haul most? The Carters. — Which family has the 
 most meat? The Cunninghams. — Which family is done up in bundles? 
 
HUMOROUS 821 
 
 The Bales. — Which family is the richest? The Goulds. — Which family 
 should be the best barbers? The Shaffers. — Which family can never 
 be preachers? The Lehmans. — Which family in town should have the 
 most game ? The Hunters. — Which family in town is nearest the ceme- 
 tery? The Graves. — Which is the oldest family in town? The Adams. 
 — Which family is the hardest to climb? The Hills. — Which family 
 can you tie to the easiest? The Fetters. — Which family has no color? 
 The Whites. — Which family is finished? The Dunns. — Which family 
 is well done? The Browns. — Which family owns the most timber? 
 The Woods. — Which family has the least water? The Sol (d) wells. — 
 Which family has the hardest road to travel? The Jordans. — Which 
 family has the best fire? The Burn-ets. — Which family burrows in the 
 earth? The Hares. — Which family lives farthest from the street? The 
 Aleys. — Which family has a county named after it? Fultons. — Which 
 family should be the happiest? The Blisses. — Which family has a 
 shrunk shoulder? The Sweeney. — Which family is the shyest? The 
 Coy-kendalls. — Which family has the largest farms? The Broadfields. 
 — Which family soars the highest? The Kightlingers. — Which family 
 can fly the easiest? The Wings. — Which family has no girls? Bey- 
 er's. — Which family get honey the easiest? The Bee-sons. — Which 
 family rules? The Kings. — Which family has the best roof? The 
 Slaters. — Which family should have the best fitting clothes? The 
 Taylors. 
 
 A New Organ 
 
 The Masonic and Odd Fellows lodges of Yates City meet in the 
 same hall, and Tuesday they jointly put in a fine new organ, and the 
 ears of their respective goats will, from now on, and from henceforth 
 be larumed by sweet tones gently stealing — in upon them, thus reveal- 
 ing — that oft in the chilly night — old Dan Tucker was a fine old man 
 — and so is our John Spring — but what shall we say of our own John 
 Bird, whose voice rings out, like the nightingale's clear, to tickle the 
 drum of the Wm. goat's ear — and Mort Thomson sings, as he only can 
 sing — bye baby, bye baby, bye — for practice is perfect, and why 
 shouldn't he — like the colts of the pasture, so wild and free — and 
 Johnny Hensler, in shrilly squeals, sings my business is rap-a-ta-tap on 
 the wheels — but he tapped so hard that he broke the machine, that 
 ground out this article brilliant and keen, and the blamed old thing 
 went all to smash, just as our office was entered by W. H. Nash — and 
 T. J. Kightlinger came and demanded the rent, and it took from the 
 office the last red cent — so we sit here and mourn like the Whang- 
 doodle bird, and our heart by the tones of that organ is stirred — and 
 a chunk of emotion rises up in our breast, and our readers are saying 
 — oh, give us a rest. 
 
322 HUMOROUS 
 
 A Dead Language 
 
 We have beard it whispered that the City Council have an idea 
 that Dr. Hensley has tried to slur that potent body of men. If this 
 surmise be correct, we venture to say that more than likely the good 
 Doctor has sinned more through ignorance than intention — that is, 
 we suspect that the Doctor failed to realize what a mighty "Sanhe- 
 drim" the council is. The Doctor is accused of sending in a report 
 to that august body, couched in one of the dead languages. He no 
 doubt supposed that a board that could not smell the dead matter 
 around Andy's slaughter house, would not object to a well preserved 
 corpse or two from the dead languages. But it seemed he was mis- 
 taken; the board determined to preserve the official dignity, are com- 
 pelled to draw the line somewhere and they decided it should be 
 between dead hogs and dead languages; hence they made a vigorous 
 official kick. The council is right, and we think that when the Doctor 
 sees the naked and hideous enormity of his offence, he will put some 
 ashes on his head, wrap a gunny sack about his loins, and retiring to 
 some secluded spot, scrape himself with a piece of a broken pitcher. 
 
 Death of the Sandy Sow 
 
 Died, at its late residence on Monday, July 25, 1892, the Sandy 
 Sow, after a checkered career of two years. When the Sandy Sow 
 was born it was given the euphonious soubriquet of "The Blue 
 Goose." It was an organization of men who saw nothing to do in 
 the world about them, and in order to kill time and escape from the 
 presence of their families, they banded themselves together in this 
 organization. The first symptom of decay was seen when the by-laws 
 were so framed as to forever prevent our worthy postmaster from be- 
 coming a member, or even entering the charmed circle where kindred 
 spirits held daily sessions. After this the building which gave the 
 name was sold, and the iconoclastic hand of progress razed it to the 
 ground. Slowly and sadly its members climbed the stairs at the Kobert 
 Shelton room and read their doom in the setting sun. But even then 
 the members were faithful, meeting daily, nightly, and at least twice 
 on Sundays. Death came with silent tread, and with relentless hand 
 stilled the throbbing heart of youth and age in Yates City, and still 
 the Sandy Sow missed not a sitting; the laughing infant leaped and 
 crowed in the young mother's arms, but still the daily session knew 
 no opposition; the sweet toned evening bell rang out its gospel invi- 
 tation each returning Sunday night, but still the light shone brightly 
 from the few clear spots in the dust-covered windows of the Sandy 
 Sow. Never but once did an event occur to break up a sitting of the 
 members; that was at the time of the terrific storm, one evening last 
 
HUMOROUS 828 
 
 summer, when nature's warring elements contended in desperate strife, 
 when winds were cyclone born, when thunder peals shook earth's 
 foundations firm, and lightning zig-zag rent lowering cloud, and 
 seemed to show the hand of doom writing on the murky wall of heaven 
 the fate of man. We have the authority of Andy Alpaugh that on that 
 night of dread and fear the members of the Sandy Sow fled affrighted 
 from the place, leaving puddles of tobacco juice upon its floor, and 
 deck but half shuffled and still uncut lying on the table, and fled as if 
 the old arch fiend were just behind, and reaching out to seize them as 
 they fled. The Sandy Sow never fully recovered; and when, a little 
 later, some one so far forgot as to hint the 'Squire had made a mistake, 
 its fate was sealed, and so it declined until its veriest friends did shake 
 their heads and say, ' ' the Sow will die. ' ' And so it did ; and on that 
 Monday morning its features paled, breath came short and hard, eyes 
 closed, muscles relaxed, and Charles Coy-kendall laid silver pieces on 
 its eyes, wiped a moisture from his own, and said : ' ' The Sandy Sow 
 is dead." 
 
 Song 
 
 Monday night a party of "lads and lassies" were out pouring 
 forth their souls in song. They woke us from the first refreshing 
 slumber of the night, and we thought for a time that we had reached 
 that heaven where all the good editors will sit on the front benches, 
 and we might have remained under that same delusion had not the 
 young ladies struck up that soul-lifting, sublime and inspiring song : 
 
 "Where, Oh! where is my little dog gone, 
 Where, Oh! where can he be; 
 With his ears cut short and his tail cut long. 
 Where, Oh! where can he be." 
 
 One of the reasons that has reconciled us to the idea of exchanging 
 this for another and a better world was our faith in the belief that 
 no dogs could ever enter there, no matter whether their tails are short 
 or long, and we began to think that a mistake had been made in our 
 case, and even imagined that we could detect the faintest odor of brim- 
 stone ; but when fully awake we were glad to know that we were still 
 on terra firma. (This last phrase is used by permission of the author, 
 J. D. Truitt.) But we can testify that there is a wonderful uplift in 
 that grand and noble song, when the sweet, melodious voices of inno- 
 cent girlhood warble it out on the eleven o'clock p. m. zephyrs, and 
 it floats in through the wire screens that keep the low-lived flies out 
 of the humble cot that one calls home. A very melody is it, a sym- 
 
824. HUMOROUS 
 
 phony, a diapason, expanding into the cerulean blue of the star- 
 gemmed skies like a new revelation. 
 
 "With his ears cut short, and his tail cut long 
 Where, Oh! where can he be." 
 
 There is a mighty power for education and elevation in a few 
 "purty" girls the ennobling words of the song from which we have 
 quoted, and the solemn stillness of the starry night, just at that witch- 
 ing hour when the hands on the dial plate of time indicates 11 p. m. 
 
 A Swell Affair 
 
 One young man wore his tight-fitting, spike-toed shoes to the pink 
 party Monday evening and it proved a very swell affair to him. He 
 went home with his "Dulcina," and as there was no train to his town 
 before morning he stayed all night. In the morning his feet were so 
 swollen that the spike toes fit too soon, and it was afternoon before 
 he could get them on. His girl began to fear that he contemplated 
 joining the order of Barefooted Monks, instead of the Benedicts, as she 
 was wishing he would. 
 
 Stolen Sweets 
 
 Last Saturday night, when the sun had sunk behind the distant 
 hills, darkness had settled over the throbbing city — hushing it until 
 nary a throb was visible to the naked eye — a party of four couple, one- 
 half of whom were girls of the female gender, got into Wm. H. 
 Houser's grape patch, with the evident purpose of distending their 
 diaphragms with the luscious grape. But alas, scarcely had the fair, 
 sweet young creatures stowed a half dozen grapes under their corsets, 
 when the sound of Houser's voice, "Nearer, clearer, deadlier than be- 
 fore," in a whoop that would have been the envy of the "Noblest red 
 man of them all," fell on their ears. The four couples went; there 
 was a wild rush for the fence, four bustles bobbed like the nodding 
 plumes of warriors "Of ye olden times," there was a confused min- 
 gling of brogan and dainty slipper on either side the top board of the 
 fence, a show of calves that would have been a drawing card at a 
 county fair, a patter of "Willing soles" on the walk, as "Their flight 
 they ply," while "Shout, and groan, and Houser's cry, was maddening 
 in their rear," It was an auspacious time. 
 
 Must Retract 
 
 We are in receipt of a postal card from our old friend J. H. Whit- 
 aker, congratulating us on our (?) poem (?) in this week's issue of 
 the Farmington Bugle. We have always considered J. H. a humorist 
 
HUMOROUS 325 
 
 of the first water, but we think he carries the Joke too far. No ! No ! 
 Joe, we are not guilty, and you must retract or prepare for the 
 "Golden Shore," as we intend to bear down on your avoirdupois; and 
 we will be armed, too; we have a Krupp gun, two small cannon; a 
 "boss pistol," a Toledo Blade, a buck saw, a corn knife, a flail, a 
 claw hammer, and a gimlet a la Sam Piester, and so, Joseph, you might 
 as well settled up your worldly affairs. If there were extenuating cir- 
 cumstances, Joseph, we might point you to a faint glimmer of hope; 
 we would wish to spare you for the sake of your loving wife and prat- 
 tling babes; but we have read that poem; and with our right hand 
 on a pile of Democratic platforms and our left grasping Hayes' veto 
 of the funding bill, we have sworn a terrible swear sixteen feet long, 
 that you must hand in your chips. 
 
 Mr. Aley Goes West 
 
 And now by the halidom of all the kings, but sorrow wraps us 
 about like a mantle, and shuts us in, like a young duck in a coop, and 
 we mourn even as the whangdoodle mourneth for her first-born, and 
 all because the best judge of drug store whiskey, Electus Aley, has 
 departed from the city, shook off as it were the dust of his feet against 
 us, and departed for Kansas, where he has sworn a great swear that 
 he will spend the remainder of his days with his son. Hie is an old 
 man, bent with the weight of years, and he totters leaning upon a 
 cane, but he is one of the landmarks that will be missed from the city. 
 Ah well: 'Tis ever thus. In the language of the poet: "Coming 
 events cast their hind legs before." And we expect to ever find it 
 thus. Just when we believe that we have anchored fast to a kindred 
 mind, death or removal comes and snatches us bald headed, and leaves 
 us alone like a lodge in a cucumber patch, or a pelican in a wild duck's 
 nest. Thus the good leave us, and we are left to wiggle along at our 
 task, much like a large ant tugs at a big grain of corn. 
 
 In Justice to Barnhill 
 
 Some son of Balial put us up to state that Mr. Barnhill got into 
 trouble with his horse while raking hay on Sunday. We are now sat- 
 isfied that it is an attempt to slur a great and good man. The fact is 
 that Barnhill is such an example of religious godliness that his neigh- 
 bors have become jealous of his scantified piety, and they are throw- 
 ing mud and rocks, and sticks at him, and trying to trip up his heels, 
 and in divers and sundry ways to make life a burden to him. We 
 have interviewed Barnhill, and are confident that he is head and 
 shoulders above his fellows, besides curling hair a la Absalom. He 
 
326 HUMOROUS 
 
 wishes us to put at the head column this statement: "I have known 
 people to get rich minding their own business." "We are sorry that 
 the top of the column was engaged before we saw Mr. Barnhill. If 
 there is one thing that delights us in this vale of tears it is the oppor- 
 tunity to set a good man aright. Alas ! It is impossible but that 
 offenses must come. You might just as well expect a bear to climb a 
 tree backward or pull a black snake out of a briar patch with a crooked 
 stick, as to expect that editors will not be imposed on or men like Barn- 
 hill be reviled. After looking at the matter we feel like saying in the 
 language of J. D. Truitt, Rosa et chulenebar Barnhillabus rex. 
 
 Molar or Incisor? 
 
 On Wednesday night of last week, we — that is, the editor of this 
 Great Moral Pendulum — caught a cold; none of your small, shriveled 
 up, scrunty kind of colds, but a thoroughbred, full size, 57 yards to the 
 bolt, warranted alike on both sides, fast colors, full 36 inches in width, 
 and twilled on both sides. It slyly crept down the spine of our noble 
 frame, penetrating our anatomy from capillary to toe nail, making 
 us feel meaner than a disappointed office seeker ever looked. It finally 
 located what seemed to be a permanent claim on our right side, and 
 began to act as if it intended to prove up as soon as it fulfilled the 
 requirements of the most approved land act. It also loosened the bark 
 on us and caused it to peel off in great chunks. Well, we had just 
 made up our mind to let the cold have that side, and we be a martyr — 
 a la Dr. McGlynn — when that sneaking cold went over and took a 
 homestead claim on section sixteen, third tier of counties from the 
 south line of our left jaw; like a swarm of bees it entered a hollow 
 stump ; that stump kept us lively ; we sat up with it in the night, late 
 as any young fellow with his girl, but — judging by our somewhat dis- 
 tant recollection of such a time — we did not have as much fun; if it 
 took a notion to go about the room we went too ; we have been keep- 
 ing it company all day; our face is all down to one side, like a mis- 
 placed bustle, and we closely resemble a man who has called a larger 
 and stronger man a liar. Like the old sailor, we do not know whether 
 this tooth is a molar or an incisor, but we know just where it is 
 located. The old sailor went to a dentist to get just such a tooth ex- 
 tracted; the dentist asked if it was "a molar or an incisor." The old 
 sailor replied: "Weather my mizzen if I know which; but it is in the 
 upper tier on the larboard side, and I want you to get a marline spike 
 and bear aft, for the son of a land lubber is nipping away at me like 
 a lobster." And that is just what ails us this blessed moment, and 
 this article must close. 
 
HUMOROUS 327 
 
 It Wasn't True 
 
 Some wise man has said that "truth travels like a snail, not pooty 
 fast, while a lie runs as fast as Jack Spickard. " The wise man might 
 have added that "a wild hoarse rumor grows with a rapidity equal to 
 that of Jonah's gourd, while a fact grows no faster than does Chillis 
 Bird." Be this as it may, there was a wild hoarse rumor in town this 
 week. It took root on Saturday, when John W. Bird arrayed himself 
 in gorgeous raiment, putting on his clear buckled harness, and made 
 a bee line for Knoxville, where the aforesaid rumor whispered his Dul- 
 cina lived and loved, and added further that after enjoing the Sabbath 
 in her blissful presence, he would reach Galesburg on Monday, and 
 there he would forever leave the ranks of the celibates, and become a 
 benedict, a veritable head of a family, and, perchance, in time become 
 one of the fathers of the town. No sooner did this wild hoarse rumor 
 get abroad than excitement ran rampant. The editor of the Banner 
 declared that he would refrain from lying until John had come home 
 and he had wished him joy, provided it was not over 24 hours. Billy 
 Woods resolved that he would not put a dead rabbit off on Jim 
 Hensley from now, henceforth and forever, if it should prove true. 
 George Broadfield said that he — if he was sure it was so — would be in 
 half a notion to renounce allegiance to Queen Victoria. M. S. Jordan 
 said if it should prove true it would be but another evidence of the 
 superiority of Professor Hicks as the only reliable weather prophet. 
 John Hunter said "by dev" but if John Bird was really married he 
 would be almost willing to see the next jackpot raked in by the other 
 fellow. Milt Beardsley declared that it so rejuvenated his old frame 
 that he believed he could live two whole days without tasting that 
 medicine which his infirmities had made necessary for the past 18 
 years. George Slater said that he believed he would just show how 
 generous he could be, and he would treat John to one dozen assorted 
 peanuts. Andy Alpaugh said that if it proved true he would lose 
 all faith in Hiram Abiff. Bill Butler said it so demoralized him that 
 he forgot to start a fire in the "Blue Goose" until almost noon. Baz 
 Bevans declared that if it was so, then General Palmer would be 
 elected if he got the necessary number of votes. Steve Boyer said 
 that in honor of John's nuptials no more stale rain water should be 
 put in the alcohol barrel, and wiggle tails would be a reminiscence. 
 David Corbin said he would not play cinch on the evening John 
 brought his bride home. The foreman of the Banner office said if John 
 was really married he would try awful hard to drive a team hitched 
 to a sleigh out to Beal's without having the lightning strike the sleigh 
 and tear off two braces. Nig Golliday said he believed he might now 
 work three consecutive hours at a time, while Jim Truitt said: "With 
 
328 HUMOROUS 
 
 Fortiter in re I shall forego the Furor loquendi, the Furor poeticus and 
 the Furor scribendi, for horrible dictu, humanum est errare, and in 
 foro conscientia if I have John's ipse dixit I would almost be willing 
 
 to a honorarium" There is no telling where this might have 
 
 ended, but at this point John returned to Yates City all alone by him 
 own self, and his presence soothed the excitement just as rubbing lin- 
 seed oil on a mangy pup has a tendency to stop his scratching his left 
 ear with his hind foot. We hope that John will not do so any more, 
 for it came near upsetting the gravity of the entire town. 
 
 "Maud Muller" 
 
 Thousands of people have been delighted by reading that sweet, 
 strong, beautiful poem by John G. Whittier, entitled "Maud Muller," 
 and many have grown wiser from its perusal. Who, having once read 
 it, can forget the picture of the rustic beauty of the country girl in 
 torn hat, singing as she raked the hay. The song ceases ; she is leaning 
 on the rake and glancing over at the far off town, and the vague un- 
 rest comes to her, a nameless longing for a better lot in life ; the judge 
 rides slowly down the lane ; he halts in the shade of the apple tree 
 to greet the girl; he asks for a drink from the bubbling spring; she 
 fills her little tin cup and presents it, blushing as her eye takes in her 
 feet so bare and tattered gown ; he thanked her ; he talked to her of 
 the grass, the flowers, the trees, the birds, the bees, the haying, the 
 clouds, the weather ; he won the girl, who forgot her briar-torn gown, 
 and her graceful ankles bare and brown ; the judge rides on ; the trans- 
 formed girl sees a vision of what might be her's if she were his bride; 
 the judge looks back from the hill at the girl, and realizes the beauty, 
 the grace, the wisdom, the nobleness of the girl, and wishes she were 
 his ; but a vision of his vain mother and proud, cold sisters came to him, 
 and he rode away; he wedded a rich woman of fashion and failed of 
 happiness; she married an ignorant galoot who smoked a short pipe 
 and drank beer out of a rusty tin cup, and was just about as poor as 
 the average editor, and Maud drudged, and moiled and hankered after 
 the judge all her miserable life. 
 
 A Dandy 
 
 A God forsaken looking circus outfit pitched a forlorn tent on the 
 commons, in the city, Friday morning and turned out a few old knock- 
 kneed, spavined, ring-boned, halt and blind cripples, that they were 
 evidently using as a substitute for horses, to contest with the vora- 
 cious town cow for the rag weeds and thistles on the vacant lots. The 
 few dirty looking rascals who lounged listlessly about the tent were 
 low-browed, flat-pated, hollow-eyed, wide-mouthed, bandy-legged, big 
 
HUMOROUS 829 
 
 footed galoots, whose complexion is a cross between a frost-bitten 
 pumpkin and a brindled steer, and on whose every lineament nature 
 had written fraud. The band music that they made agitated the air 
 like dozens of harrows moving over a gravel bed, and their per- 
 formance would have made the most ardent desire for life turn to 
 an intense longing for instant death before the first abortion they 
 tried to pass for an act was half over. A few hailstones fell on the 
 tent during the afternoon, the purest, the sweetest, and most heavenly 
 visitants they ever had, but too much like an editor to be at all profit- 
 able. On Saturday morning they whistled up the old rack-a-bones, 
 folded the bedraggled tent, got the dirty galoots perched on the 
 creaky wagons, the drivers wrapped the lines around the front stand- 
 ard, greased their elbows, spit on both hands, raised a few welts on 
 the patches of hide that still hung on the bones of the sorry cuddies, 
 and the "greatest show on earth" was slowly on the move for Farm- 
 ington. 
 
 Good Deacon Philbee 
 
 Deacon William Philbee brought us a sack of cherries — a small 
 sack — not nearly so large as the one J. A. Hensley weighed our dollar's 
 worth of sugar in — that sack was not small. The editorial ash barrel 
 fell to pieces, and Mrs. McKeighan was worrying over what she would 
 do with the ashes; we told her to get that sugar sack and scoop them 
 in, and she did ; she then was in a fret because the sack was only half 
 full ; but we told her that we had 21 loads of wood bought for next 
 winter, and we believed that there would be ashes enough to fill the 
 sack, but she looked incredulous — women are so apt to doubt and 
 worry — and then we asked her if she couldn't turn a good part of 
 the sack down, same as Jim did when he tied up the sugar, and she 
 said yes. But the deacon's cherries were good and — so is the deacon — 
 but he can not help being good. The fact is that Philbee is a philoso- 
 pher, and a prophet, that is, a weather prophet, and while nearly all 
 his predictions fail of verification, he evens things up making a new 
 one. He has dug into all the weather lore extant, and is as familiar 
 with meteoric changes as a printer is with pica quads. He has mas- 
 tered gingseng root, calamus root, polk root, briar root and the root 
 of all evil ; he has studied the ground-hog, the muskrat, the hog-melt, 
 the goose-bone, corn husk and the tree toad ; he knows the sun, planets, 
 stars and astriods, and is onto all their paralaxes and equinoxes with 
 the same aptitude with which the sweet girl graduate tackles interna- 
 tional problems. Only the moon puzzles Philbee. Philbee 's moon is a 
 peculiar cuss ; one month it is far north, and the next away south ; one 
 time it lies squarely on its back, the next time it is prone on its 
 stomach. If Philbee 's moon is correct, then were it small wonder that 
 
330 HUMOROUS 
 
 the poet has put this language in the rosy lips of the young man's 
 best girl when he was about to affirm by the moon that he would 
 set up the ice cream if he lived to get to Jack Kightlinger's Hotel 
 American the next Sunday: "Oh, swear not by the moon, the incon- 
 stant moon that changes like the policy of President McKinley. " No 
 wonder that Philbee's moon is not to be depended on. But in all these 
 others he is rooted and grounded, and we have ample grounds for 
 asserting that he is a good man, chock full of the milk of human kind- 
 ness and without any guile. 
 
 A Materia Medica Experiment 
 
 David Corbin is a noted veterinary; he is trying to cure a bone 
 spavin on his horse by putting him on a diet of dandelion. Dave has 
 discovered — or at least thinks he has — that bone spavin is correlative 
 with magnum bonum, and co-ordinate with lymphatic negrocology, and 
 is superinduced by failure of the kidnioid gland to properly suppurate, 
 thus permitting chalk deposits on the inner part of the hocuspocus or 
 hind leg joint, which, coming in contact with ozone, crystallizes into 
 fibroid calcareous or bone spavin. Hence, it is obvious that the kidneys 
 are at fault, and dandelion, operating on the kidneys, hits the disease 
 squarely on the solar plexus, knocking it galley-west. The medical 
 world is watching the experiment with a great deal of gravity, and 
 Dave thinks he is on even a higher kopje than he was when he in- 
 vented the gooseberry picker. 
 
 Bill George 
 
 The only Bill George, he who lives and caters to the inner man 
 at Brimfield, came over in two loads, in a buggy, Wednesday morning, 
 whacked up the kopecks for the exclusive right to eat and drink all 
 and sundry, the men, women and children who may come into the 
 school park on the tenth day of August, to attend the Big Harvest 
 Home. This does not mean that Bill is a cannibal, for he is one of 
 the most mild-mannered men that ever sliced a ham to make the 
 deceptive but alluring sandwich. Bill is rotund of form, and, like all 
 fat men, the juices of good nature bubble in his veins and mellow his 
 entire system, and he is so built that he delights in feeding any living 
 man who has — money to pay for the grub. If Bill's corpulent frame 
 does not attract your attention his voice will ; it is basso profundo, and 
 was intended to be a compromise between the sound of a foghorn and 
 the devilish screeching of the Elmwood fire whistle. Bill called on us 
 and hinted that we might mention him, and we have — the fact is we 
 have grown wide of girth mentioning people gratis but this is not this 
 character of mention; we expect that when the eventful day comes 
 
 ,!* j 
 
HUMOROUS 331 
 
 that Bill George will seek us out in that great multitude, drag us up 
 to his pie counter, and compel us to eat a meal equal to the one that 
 the good 'Squire J. A. Hensley ate out at Bill Johnson's the night he 
 officiated at the marriage of Bill's son to Miss Hoget. 
 
 Baseball Fans 
 
 It was just too funny to note the actions of some of the staid old 
 citizens on Tuesday, the day our baseball club went up to play with 
 the Williamsfield boys. W. C. Series happened to choose that day to 
 visit Williamsfield in order to establish a blackberry trade ; L. A. Law- 
 rence happened to remember that he had pressing business at the old 
 Moses Wheeler farm — close to Williamsfield — and up he posted ; Smith 
 Rhea took a sudden notion that Williamsfield would be a grand place 
 to sell the "History of the Johnstown Flood," and he hired a horse 
 and rig and up he went ; Pet Thomson concluded that if any live man 
 knew just where a cannon ball, if fired north from the platform of a 
 car attached to a train moving at a speed of one mile per minute west, 
 would be when the car was one mile from the point where the cannon 
 was fired, that man lived close to the depot at Williamsfield, and off 
 he posted ; Milt Beardsley just made up his mind that if there were 
 any good looking young widows in Illinois they must be near Williams- 
 field, and of¥ he went pell-mell ; D. M. Carter thought no man could be 
 a storekeeper in the revenue service if he had not been to Williams- 
 field, and so he just thought he would go up on Monday or Tuesday, 
 but happened to go on Tuesday ; the good 'Squire T. J. Kightlinger has 
 a farm up north, and fearing that the velvet weeds might need trim- 
 ming, he went up, then finding that the moon was not just right, he 
 went on up to Williamsfield and — of course — was surprised to see the 
 boys there ; Peter McFarland just accidently heard that the boys 
 were going, and fearing that some of them might get to monkeying 
 with the drug store at Williamsfield, he went up to see that they all 
 kept straight. The next morning they were all back home looking as 
 innocent as a pet kitten. 
 
 A Chicken Story 
 
 The chicken is a nice fowl. It is a profitable thing to have about 
 the premises. Fried chicken is an appetizer that has few equals and 
 no superior. The right to own, have and control chickens is one that 
 pertains to all women and some men, but chickens are mostly the 
 property of women until they are sold, when the husband generally 
 pockets the money, reluctantly handing his wife a quarter. This right 
 to own chickens is inalienable, is secured by international law, has 
 been admitted by Theodore Roosevelt, acquiesced in by J. D. Truitt, 
 
832 HUMOROUS 
 
 and clinched by the decision of so eminent a jurist as 'Squire J. A. 
 Hensley, and we admit it without argument. But we believe this right 
 extends only so far as the premises of the owner is under his jurisdic- 
 tion and control by reason of purchase, rent or lease. Now the owner, 
 renter, or lessee has the right to let his, or her, chickens run on premises 
 so controlled, but beyond this line his, or her, chickens become trespass- 
 ers on the domain and rights of others. To state the case plainly we 
 believe that no man, nor woman, has any right, inherent or acquired, 
 to let their chickens get into the gardens, lots, or premises of another 
 person. 
 
 From our experience we judge that some of our neighbors do not 
 coincide with our particular views on this subject. We regret this. 
 There are chickens to right of us, chickens to left of us, east of us, west 
 of us, north of us, south of us, and they are a nuisance to us and vex us. 
 
 We have tried to kill some of them, but unfortunately time has 
 laid his leaden hand on us, and our feet are not nearly so nimble as 
 they were in the days when we made a record in getting out of peach 
 orchards and watermelon patches that some considerate man in the 
 neighborhood had planted and tended — as we then thought — for the 
 special benefit of boys. The fact is that in those earlier years we 
 imbibed the pernicious doctrine that a beneficent Providence intended 
 peach orchards and watermelon patches, turnip fields, etc., for the sus- 
 tenance and development of boys who, at that early date in the history 
 of Illinois, were not overly fed in the primitive homes of the pioneers. 
 Of course we have since repudiated our former belief and at the 
 present time — our age being now 72 — we would under no consideration 
 molest a neighbor's peaches or melons — for we doubt our ability to 
 outrun the owner, if he discovered us and gave chase. 
 
 This physical deterioration was emphasized last Monday morning, 
 when we gave chase to a flock of chickens that were trespassing. We 
 also discovered that age had dimmed our eye, and that our hand had 
 lost its cunning in throwing, for though our failure to kill one or more 
 of those chickens was complete, it was no fault in our intention, nor 
 was it any lack of persistent perserverance, for we pursued them even 
 to the premises of the owner. It will be well for the owner of these 
 chickens to persuade them not to explore the country too far from 
 home, for we are still seeking revenge, and we have read in the scrip- 
 tures something about renewing our youth like the eagle, and if it 
 comes true in our case, we would not give a tinker's cuss word for 
 the lives of those same chickens, for our determination to commit 
 suicide on these fowls is writ in large letters and in indelible ink. 
 
HUMOROUS 888 
 
 McGinnis et al 
 
 Last Friday George McGinnis of Peoria, was in the city looking 
 after the circulation department of the Peoria Daily Transcript. Once 
 on a time, George, was a shining light in the newspaper world, in his 
 native town of Princeville, where Joey Barnum helloed from the office 
 of the telephone, and where B. J. Beardsley afterward bellowed, and 
 swelled up and — bursted. Here, too, Paul Hull, that lankest and queer- 
 est specimen in the newspaper ornithology of the great state of Illinois, 
 once sat with both his legs on one side of the tripod, and got so sacri- 
 legious as to turn up his elongated smeller at the Pope, and sneer at 
 his faithful followers, which so incensed the Corkonians and their de- 
 scendants dwelling in Peoria county near to Princeville, that they 
 entered the place where Hull published his paper, and when he came 
 to the office in the morning he found the type scattered on the floor in a 
 promiscuous pi. This so vexed Paul Hull's righteous soul that he 
 scraped the clay of Princeville from his boots and went to Chicago and 
 got a job of reporting on one of the big dailies, and made a truthful 
 report of some big fashionable social function, when a corpulent police- 
 man lit on him and smote him hip and thigh so that Paul was in a sad 
 plight for many days, but he recovered, married a beautiful and tal- 
 ented young lady of Brimfield and lived happily ever after. All of 
 this rushed through our dome of thought when George McGinnis, in 
 company with D. M. Carter, came in to call on us, and we felt that fate 
 had dealt kindly with us, and we proposed to George that we unite 
 in singing "And Are We Wretches Yet Alive," when Carter suddenly 
 remembered that he had an appointment to meet a man, and George 
 said he had to make a train, and both hurried out. It was too bad, 
 and they missed something really fine. 
 
 The Editor Visits Maquon 
 
 On Wednesday afternoon we were perambulating the streets, hav- 
 ing grown desperate for lack of important events to record. Nobody 
 had died; but few got married; everybody was sober; not a man would 
 get mad enough to fight; no one broke a leg; not a horse could feel 
 frisky enough to run off ; even the mules forgot to kick ; we could hear 
 of no one going with another fellow's girl; everybody seemed virtuous 
 and happy ; man and woman seemed indifferent as to whether Maquon 
 made a good showing in the census of 1880 or not, and so there was 
 not even the poor comfort of noting how crazy some man had acted 
 all because a new arrival had appeared at his house, with ten chances 
 to one that it was either a girl or a boy. No wonder we were in a 
 desperate state of mind. In fact we were meditating the hazardous 
 
334 HUMOROUS 
 
 experiment of getting Shaffer to tell a fish story, or get Maple stirred 
 up on some scientific subject, when we saw Charles Hamrick sitting on 
 a hitching rack, looking as innocent as a butting sheep. As we came up 
 he ejected a quid of tobacco and said carelessly, "It was Cy's son, then, 
 who came." Our massive ears began to spread out like the sails of a 
 merchant ship, we yanked out our Faber and note book, and guile- 
 lessly asked, Cy. who? "Why," he said, with a peculiar twinkle of 
 his eye, "Cyclone." Then we suddenly remembered that a heavy 
 storm had just passed, and we went off sad as a yearling mule that 
 had kicked at a spring pig and missed it, and felt in the capacious re- 
 cesses of our pocket to see if we had a nickle with which to hire a stout 
 man to wallop us until we would have as much sense as an idiot mud 
 turtle. But the nickle was "nix," and so we just resolved that the 
 next time we catch Charlie in Yates City, we will waylay him and 
 treat him to the best cigar for sale at the Banner Hotel. 
 
 The "Devil's" Fiddle 
 
 The imp who holds high carnival in our office, is a versatile genius ; 
 he is not so rich in experience as some, but that is owing to the fact 
 that he is not so old as some. But he has crowded as much into the 
 short space of his life as possible. He first cut his teeth ; then he fell 
 on an earthen jar, and cut through one of his lips ; then he got a bean 
 fast in his nose, and scared his mother into a young geese fit ; then came 
 the regular order of chicken pox, scarlet rash, measles, mumps, earache, 
 scratches, itch, stone bruises and school fights ; he survived everything, 
 and about two years ago he became affected with a musical eruption 
 that broke out on him in spots as large as a blanket. He got a set of 
 bones and rattled them till every one within seven blocks was about 
 crazy ; then he got a jewsharp, and pounded it till he produced a felon 
 on his finger; then he got a French harp, and broke all the tumblers 
 about the place practicing on the gamut ; at last he took a soul longing 
 for a fiddle. He struck a trade with a music dealer for a superb article 
 that the dealer assured him was worth seven dollars. He sawed on it 
 for a week or two, making a sound much as if one should draw a stove 
 poker across a barbed wire fence. It took $6.17 to purchase strings-, 
 keys and bridges for it the first three weeks. At this point we rebelled, 
 and threatened to make an assignment, if any further demands were 
 made on our finances. Then the imp got sick of the fiddle, and tried 
 to trade it off. No musician would touch it ; one tune attempted on it 
 was enough for any timid person. He had traded off nearly everything 
 about the place, but this proved to be a sticker ; but he persevered, and 
 last week he came across Andy Condrey, and as the bridge was out of 
 the fiddle, he traded it off for an old revolver with no spring in the lock. 
 
HUMOROUS 886 
 
 We have a chunk of sympathy three rods square, for Andy's family 
 and friends. In the meantime the imp has our wife and oldest daugh- 
 ter treed under the table half the time, for fear that in some unaccount- 
 able way, the old revolver may depart from its usual custom, and go 
 off. 
 
 An Epidemic 
 
 For some time there has been premonitory symptoms that the fish- 
 ing fever would make a clean sweep of ail, both old and young, in 
 Yates City. For a long time Henry Soldwell made a brave fight, and 
 we had hoped that he would escape with a slight attack, but it was not 
 to be so. Postmaster J. A. Hensley is subject to such spells, and he 
 would as soon think of giving up the postoffice as to forego a fishing 
 trip. Smith Rhea has had the fever so often that it has become chronic, 
 and he does not even hope to entirely escape. C. A. Stetson has the 
 disease in a peculiar form. Sometimes one might suppose that he did 
 not have it at all, but when the rest break out with it bad, he just goes 
 off with them. So last Wednesday they hied them off to the winding 
 spoon and spent the entire day in hobbling the cork. It is said that C. 
 A. Stetson would have escaped the fever entirely had it not been for 
 Deacon Philbee. But when he heard Philbee tell of catching a wagon 
 load of fish in half a day, each of which weighed from twenty-five to 
 forty pounds, he just broke out in spots, and go he would. We had 
 seriously considered the advisability of borrowing a clean shirt and 
 getting a couple of barrels of fish ourselves, but we feel it is now too 
 late, and so we will wait until some of the young fish grow up. 
 
 A Missionary 
 
 0. W. Wren went over to Elmwood Wednesday and spent the 
 entire day in arduous but pleasant missionary work. They do publish 
 it in Gath, and tell it openly in Ascelon, yea, and also in the sea ports 
 adjacent thereto, that Oscar has found the sweetest and nicest little 
 heathen over there that he has ever met, and that her smile is winning 
 and cute, and that the tent hooks of her affections have laid firm hold 
 on the cords of his heart, and the tendrils of her love have scaled the 
 heights of his anatomy and wound themselves about him "like sea 
 weeds round a clam," and that he has sworn a great swear that no 
 stone will be unturned to change her — name. It may be that these be 
 but vile slanders, but if not then we say "Bully for Oscar!" in "Ses- 
 quipedalia verba," which being translated into the vernacular of the 
 common herd, means, "Words a foot and a half long." 
 
336 HUMOROUS 
 
 Not Mentioning ISTames 
 
 Monday a couple of young gents came over from Farmington and 
 called on some of Yates City's blooming belles. One of them was a 
 great big, long, short, slick, slim, slender fellow, and the other was a 
 short, thick, slim, slick, tall, wide fellow. They became so intoxicated 
 with the loveliness of our girls that turning the corner at Spickard's 
 new house, they both fell out in the snow, "kersouse"; the reason was 
 plain, as all may see, for the horse turned "haw," while the boys went 
 "gee," and the sleigh went up like a busted bank, while down in a 
 drift the two boys sank; the heels of the one stuck out of the snow, 
 but his head was down six feet below ; the other lay prone, like a man 
 with a jag, and clutched in his hands, were the lines on the nag ; while 
 on Wesley's stomach, so trim and neat, lay the great big stone that 
 had warmed their feet; but the stone rolled away, like the one of old, 
 and the boys stood up in the keen, bitter cold ; and they righted the 
 sleigh with their fingers numb, and they said, "Ah! the editor! keep 
 this mum." But Carrie and Maggie were watching them still, and 
 Thirza was laughing just fit to kill ; and Mettie she put us right on to 
 the job, for what "devil" ever could hold its job; so we got our 
 machine and started the crank, and it ground out this article raw and 
 rank. 
 
 Goats 
 
 The latest addition to the town is two William S. Goats. Some of 
 the boys declare that the S. stands for smell, while others are positive 
 that the S. is an abbreviation for stink. Like all other important scien- 
 tific questions, this has adherents for both theories, and, as this paper 
 has some subscribers in both factions, it hesitates about taking a 
 decided stand for one or the other. But we make bold to announce 
 that the goats are here. They are not to the manor born, but were im- 
 ported from Galesburg, and we will mention, in confidence, of course, 
 that they do not stink as offensively as an editor who resides there. 
 Indeed it is doubtful if the good people of that educational center will 
 ever miss the William S. Goats, while so many other smells remain. 
 But this is a digression, and, like those who write thrilling tales, we 
 apologize for it. Speaking of tales reminds us that these goats have 
 short tails, which leads us to conclude that they were not furnished by 
 Ned Buntline or Mrs. D. E. N. Southworth. No; these tails are 
 modeled on a different plan, but no doubt are useful to the goats, and 
 we doubt if they would trade. These William S. Goats are dark brown 
 in color, their legs grow down, or did until they reached the ground, 
 and their tails turn up like an aristocrat's nose. Still they are not 
 exactly like an aristocrat, for these goats will M^ork in harness, and the 
 true aristocrat refuses to work anywhere. 
 
HUMOROUS 887 
 
 These goats have beards, and their brainpan is small, resembling 
 in this respect many of the other citizens of Yates City — of course we 
 speak now of the beards. They are kept at the livery stable, and may 
 become useful in some way, but we fear that they will never play 
 croquet, for while they have the beards and the heads, they have no 
 hands, and are not able to talk — at least not in the vocabulary of the 
 arch. 
 
 But perhaps we had better make this article like the goats' tails, 
 short, or we may say something for which the goats may ask us to 
 apologize, which would not be so strange, as other goats have done 
 the same thing. 
 
 Tom's Stunt 
 
 T. J. Truitt may not be Cincinnatus or Burpee, and he may not 
 have originated as many horticultural species as Burbank, but when 
 it comes to the stunt of making the small, barren desert under the 
 bandstand blossom as the rose, Tom is a whole team, with a "yallar 
 dorg" trotting under the wagon, and a tar bucket dangling from the 
 reach. Tom has metamorphosed that bleak, bald, arid spot into a 
 botanical garden, and people bless him, and he has caused the latent 
 pride of the average "Yates Citizen" to arouse itself and, like a bob- 
 tailed rooster on a rickety hen roost, to be looking up. Tom's artistic 
 beauty spot has made every loyal citizen feel that a crisis has arisen, 
 and emulation gluts itself again, and other hideous nooks about the 
 city are being hoed and raked, planted and tilled. "Tam 0' Shanter" 
 became famous by arriving home on the mount of a mare with an 
 abbreviated tail, but our Tom will be loved — not for the enemies he 
 has made — but for the flower garden that he made. One beautiful 
 young lady, while attending the band concert, last Saturday night, 
 became so enthused over the beauty of Tom and his flower garden, that 
 she came to the editor and sweetly whispered "Say, can you tell me 
 whether Tom Truitt is married or not?" As she turned to cross the 
 street we thought that Tom's personal liberty is in jeopardy, but we 
 realized that all our people love him and say of him, "For he loveth 
 our city, and hath builded us a garden." 
 
 We'll Apologize, And We Won't 
 
 There were some things in the Banner last week that some took 
 exceptions to. One was the notice in regard to David Corbin's new 
 method of treating bone spavin, and the other was the head of the 
 article in regard to the re-employment of the teachers, which read, 
 "The Same Old Corpse." We have decided to apologize to the teach- 
 ers, because there are four of them, and they are all robust and strong, 
 
388 HUMOROUS 
 
 and we are afraid of them, and we will say it was a typographical 
 error (all editors slide out that way) that escaped our proof reader, 
 and to make the apology "more betterer," we are willing to add that 
 if we have done anything that we are glad of we are sorry for it. 
 
 But as to the Corbin article, we flatly refuse to apologize. The 
 reason is that Mr. Corbin is old and quite feeble and though we think 
 that he can whip us, we feel confident that we can outrun him — if we 
 are scared, and we are. We wrote that article with malice prepense 
 and aforethought, and with the intent to commit mayhem, and we did 
 it because Mr. Corbin 's potatoes have grown faster than ours have, 
 and we are jealous, and we get revenge in this way, and we will add 
 that if we have said anything about Corbin that we are sorry for we 
 are glad of it. 
 
 "Oh, Dem Peaches 1" 
 
 Just why any one should plant peach trees so close to the street 
 fence that people can reach them, is more than we could ever tell. But 
 they do it ; it is a temptation that few people can resist. There is just 
 such a case in this town. The other night two charming young ladies 
 were out promenading, and they saw the luscious fruit, and their 
 mouths watered for a taste of it. And, like the mother of all living, 
 they resolved to risk all in order to eat of the forbidden fruit. So 
 they timed their return so they thought the old man who owns the 
 peaches would be in bed, and then they slipped up, got on the fence, 
 and reached for the coveted prize. But alas ! The old gent was up to 
 snuff, and he was lying close to the fence, and just as one of the 
 charming girls said, "Oh, here's such a nice one, I must have it," the 
 old man said, "No, you don't," and grabbed her by the ankle. She 
 was somewhat surprised, and both girls lost all appetite for those 
 peaches, and left that locality with celerity. Now, we wish to say 
 that we do not blame the young ladies. We have long ago doubted 
 whether the recording angel marked down stealing peaches against a 
 boy, and we are sure he does not in the case of good looking girls, and 
 both of these girls are good looking. More than this, we doubt if we 
 could have gone right by those peaches without trying to get some 
 of them, and we only give this item in order to show — what must be 
 apparent to the most casual observer — that the old man just planted 
 those trees there, and has waited all these years, just to get a chance 
 to grab a pretty girl by the ankle. Oh, you naughty man ! And then 
 to think of the example ! Why, every old codger in town will be 
 planting a peach tree close to the front fence. 
 
HUMOROUS 
 
 Smith Gets His Dinner 
 
 W. T. Smith, the Galesburg attorney, who is sometimes profanely 
 called Bill Smith, arrived here on Christmas morning, and walked out 
 to the home of his parents, Ira and Mrs. Smith, several miles north of 
 town, hoping to get there in time to put his feet under the table, and 
 get some of the bread and pies "like mother used to bake." The 
 train on which he came was an hour or two late, and W. T. looked 
 "lean and scraggy," and we think that after he hoofed it the matter 
 of six or seven miles, his front room would be entirely empty. But he 
 was resolute, and putting a linen handkerchief over his ears, he let 
 slip the cable, weighed anchor, ported the helm, turned the prow 
 toward the frozen north, "strake sail and let her drive," and the last 
 look w^e had of him he was hull down, latitude 74, longitude 91, with 
 Jake Lehman's on the starboard side and well astern, and the speed 
 of the craft being apparently from 16 to 18 knots, with the wind nor' 
 by nor 'west. 
 
 Mule vs. Duck 
 
 Ben Mahon is a gay and festive granger who is pretty sure that 
 he has the best looking wife and handsomest baby in Knox county. 
 Ben is a rustler, and gets up and comes whether it rains or shines, is 
 hot or cold. He drives a span of very small mules that seem scarcely 
 larger than a couple of ordinary jack rabbits. Mrs. Mahon had raised 
 gobs of poultry, and had a load of ducks to spare. Andrew Jackson 
 Donelson Coykendall, Esquire, now in the employ of that eminent sci- 
 entist, A, Alpaugh, better known as Alpaugh the wise, tempted the 
 women with the promise of many tomans, to bring the ducks to town. 
 Of course Ben was called on to become a common carrier — as it were — 
 and he hitched up the mules, loaded the ducks, and turned his gallant 
 steeds on the road to Yates City, and was soon lost in deep thought, 
 in regard to what excuse he would make to his wife in order to borrow 
 the money when he got back. All at once the mules remembered that 
 they had not run away that day, and they struck out at a speed that 
 bade fair to leave the record of Maud S. nowhere. The sled was not 
 made for such work. It broke ; Ben got spilled, so did the ducks. Ben 
 caught the mules — after they took a notion to stop — gathered up the 
 rig, secured a few ducks — the rest are scattered along from Yates City 
 to Summit — and came into town, wondering how so much of old Satan 
 could be wrapped up in so little mule. The next time these mules 
 start to run we advise Ben to jump in between them, pick one up under 
 each arm so their feet will be off the ground, and then they can't run. 
 
340 HUMOROUS 
 
 In Days of Yore 
 
 A number of years ago a party of fishermen went out to the 
 classic and winding, yea, and shady and treacherous Spoon, and gave 
 the fish the worst scare of their lives. If we remember correctly Squire 
 Hensley, L. F, Wertman and R. B. Corbin were in the party, and we 
 know that they had the bait in a two gallon jug, for the Squire wanted 
 to label the jug coffee, but Corbin said it would be no use, as fish bait 
 smelled much alike. Wertman insisted that a bottle was the best to 
 carry bait in, but Corbin said that everybody could see just the kind 
 of bait then, and that a jug was the proper thing. That the fish were 
 badly scared is evidenced by the fact that the fish hid so securely that 
 none of them were caught, although the bait was all used. Wednesday 
 this incident was recalled when we met R. B. Corbin with 94 yards 
 of line, 171 hooks, a pair of waders, 7 pounds of cheese, 11 links of 
 sausage, 1 loaf of bread, and 3 circular canteens, that he said were for 
 water, and an Isaac Walton look that boded no good to the finny tribes 
 that are supposed to swim in depths and shoals of the sinuous Spoon. 
 We asked him if Hensley and Wertman were going, and the old man 
 shook his head and said no, that neither of them were fishers, but— 
 and here his voice was a mere whisper — "Mc, those two men had the 
 greatest capacity for bait of any I ever met." If this notice doesn't 
 entitle us to a fine channel cat on the return of Corbin, then will we 
 be tempted to say that the race is degenerate, and that the rich juices 
 of generosity have acidulated in his system. 
 
 A Vision Fades 
 
 One week ago last Friday we were called on to act as attorney 
 for John McCarty in a suit against James Rodgers, growing out of a 
 horse trade. On that momentous occasion Attorney J. L. Welles, of 
 Maquon, got away with us, prostrated our legal frame in the dust, 
 got astride of our Blackstone neck, and pinned us down to the floor 
 of justice. Our client at once got out the papers in proper form for 
 a new suit which was set for last Thursday at 10 o'clock a. m., before 
 His Honor, Squire J. A. Hensley. We were all ready for this legal 
 fray ; we had the right side, we had the law, we had the evidence, and 
 we ached to make a legal slide out of Welles; we intended to ride 
 him bug hunting, and pretty effectually absquastulate him. But just 
 as we saw the bright light of the sun of victory resplendent over the 
 top of Kimbler's stable, and we were sure that we were about to 
 grasp the: 
 
 "First captive lean and scraggy, of my legal bow and spear." 
 
 our client failed to put in an appearance, and the suit was dismissed 
 
HUMOROUS 341 
 
 at his cost, and thus another bright vision humped itself out of our 
 sight. 
 
 February Suggestions 
 
 February has opened, and we think it a good time to give our 
 granger friends some advice. We have had some experience in farm- 
 ing; we worked at the business until we were busted so flat that the 
 sheriff could find nothing to levy on; we didn't have a red cent left, 
 nor a cent of any color that we remember of; then we went into the 
 journalistic field — and have held our own splendidly. Some men lack 
 our experience in farming, but our advice is worth more than we 
 made farming. If things are permitted to run loosely on the farm 
 in the month of February, there will be a loss. Keep things neat and 
 tidy; see that the hired man does not do chores in his bare feet; we 
 don't think Polled Angus fowls give such rich milk in February if 
 fed by a barefooted hired man ; then it looks bad to see the hired man 
 oiling the spindles of the bob-sled barefooted. See that the children 
 take a parasol when they go out to see the innocent lambs elevate 
 their hind legs on the greensward ; for the sun is getting closer, and 
 there is danger of sunstroke, if not tanning. If you notice any blos- 
 soms on the Richmond cherry trees pinch them off; we are satisfied 
 that larger and better flavored cherries are obtained by not permitting 
 the blossoms to remain on the trees over night in February. Don't 
 pick and can your mammoth strawberries this month ; of course, the 
 temptation is great, but we have never seen a good can of mammoth 
 strawberries that was picked and canned in Knox County in Feb- 
 ruary. Young turkeys should be weaned this month, and not be 
 allowed to suck the dam longer; it is this reprehensible practice — in- 
 dulged in by slip-shod farmers — of permitting young turkeys to suck 
 in February that causes pin feathers, and brings disgrace on reputable 
 breeders of this quadruped. Be careful to keep young chicks out of 
 the potato patch, eating potato bugs in February is a prolific cause 
 of gapes in chicks, and is sometimes fatal to the flock. Young goslings 
 should be provided with good high roosting poles, as sitting on the 
 ground makes them web footed, and gives them a waddling gait. Feb- 
 ruary is the best time to cut the tail off shepherd pups; don't be afraid 
 to cut high enough ; the nearer you cut to the pup 's neck the better — 
 for the community; we have never known a single case of a pup's 
 tail freezing in July, if it had been properly cut off in February. An- 
 other advantage is, if a shepherd pup's tail is cut off in the light of 
 the moon in February, the stump will never sprout. It might be well 
 
342 HUMOROUS 
 
 enough to prevent the hired girl from loafing on the front gate later 
 than 11 o'clock p. m., unless she wears a large caliber bustle, for the 
 damp, soft, humid atmosphere of these lovely February nights is con- 
 ducive to the development of brain trouble. 
 
 His Happiness Incomplete 
 
 We are in receipt of a letter from P. N. Wood, he who erstwhile 
 lathered the faces and manipulated the hirsute covering of the cra- 
 niums of the ab captandum vulgus, in Yates City, and whose legal logic 
 astonished even the learned and erudite 'Squire Hensley, while his 
 masterly eloquence captivated the learned savants who congregate 
 about the city hall, and mashed the susceptible hearts of the coy dam- 
 sels who had not previously become mashed on his shape. This letter 
 came last week, struck us amidships, careened us on our beam ends 
 and left us wallowing helpless in the trough of the sea. You see the 
 letter took us like old Sammy Etnire's wedding. He was a widower, 
 and 73 years old ; he went to Ohio and married a girl of twenty ; when 
 he got back home he said the event "tuk him unawares." That is 
 just how this took us ; it has doubled us all up in a heap. We gather 
 from F. N.'s epistle that he is in Decatur ; that he worked on the Peoria 
 Freeman until that metropolitan sheet had downed all its contempo- 
 raries, and then he vaulted the tripod of the Peoria National Democrat, 
 and paved the way for Kentucky's favorite son to walk into the Peoria 
 postoffice, and then he went to Decatur, where he is booming the 
 town with a great and terrific boom, and is as happy as a mud turtle 
 in a swill barrel. The only fly in his ointment is the fact that he does 
 not get to read the Banner. "His children are about him, his wife is 
 before him," and by the stars that spangle the blue dome above and 
 blink in the vast immensity of space, we shall send him a copy of our 
 Great Moral Pendulum, so that he may seat himself in his easy chair, 
 elevate his pedals on the center table, and bask in unalloyed bliss. 
 
 Lies 
 
 We are informed that a dear old lady who lives in the country, 
 saj^s that we print lies in the Banner. We are of the same opinion, 
 and we are sorry we are not able to keep mis-statements out of the 
 paper. Sometimes we print lies just for fun ; then again we print them 
 by mistake ; again we print some on account of the total depravity of 
 the editorial heart ; sometimes we print them because other people ask 
 us to do what they are ashamed to do themselves ; then we get ten 
 cents a line for printing some, and it is hard for a poor, ignorant, de- 
 spised, starving editor to refuse to do that which a well fed, educated, 
 honored business man promises to pay him for. Sometimes we print 
 
HUMOROUS 343 
 
 them to screen our friends, and then again to demolish our 
 enemies; but the great reason we print lies is because peo- 
 ple will forgive us when we print lies about them, but if we 
 tell the honest truth about them, they will never forgive us, never! 
 Never ! ! NEVER ! ! ! If the dear old lady whose ire has been kindled 
 against us, will but consider these various temptations to which we are 
 constantly exposed, the tendency of the poor miserable cuss of a coun- 
 try editor to go further in the way of unmitigated meanness than even 
 his master, the devil, could wish, we hope her judgment may be tem- 
 pered with mercy, and that when she spreads the ample folds of her 
 silk dress over her cushioned pew, arranges her commodious bustle in 
 becoming style, puckers her pretty mouth to proper sanctified shape, 
 and proceeds to thank the Lord that she is not as other people are, nor 
 even as this lying editor, she will permit us to stand afar off, smite 
 our empty stomach and say, "God be merciful to me a sinner, and 
 remember in the last great day, when 'the wicked are turned into hell, 
 with all the nations that forgot God,' that we have been there ever 
 since we have published a paper." 
 
 Heels vs. Heads 
 
 The pedal extremities of some of the high school pupils seem to 
 be regarded by their parents as the most important part of them. 
 We, therefore, conclude that the old cuss who placed himself on record 
 by declaring "That the head of man is the most important part of 
 him," committed a grievous error, in fact was somewhat adle-pated, 
 and laid himself liable to the charge of being non compus mentis. 
 Perish the thought! What a lamentable mistake our Yates City 
 teachers have been making in trying to polish the heads of their 
 pupils! Like Achilles, these pupils are vulnerable only in the heel. 
 It must be patent to the observer that the teachers have been in error, 
 and have tackled the wrong end of their subjects. It is suspected that 
 educational tactics will have to be revised. Education, to accomplish 
 results, must lay siege to the brain citadel, must surmount every ob- 
 stacle, overcome every barrier, and plant its triumphant banner on the 
 objective point of the campaign. If that point be the heels, let no one 
 falter in the charge. If brains indeed have settled in the heels, then let 
 the teacher, too, descend to the level of heels, discard the obsolete text 
 books of higher aims, seize the twanging fiddle, impress the asthmatic 
 piano, beg the assistance of the dulcet toned crossroads caller, put 
 rosin on the soles, and upward lift our sons and daughters to the 
 sublimer heights by educating their heels. And why not? The wise, 
 when error, stripped and bare, stands out to view, no longer allegiance 
 yields, but discards it when reason invites to what would seem the 
 
344 HUMOROUS 
 
 safer, better plan. Is it not clear as day that if these noble scions of 
 our homes ever honor their illustrious forbears, it must be that they 
 will have to glide, slide or stride into some prominence? Can this be 
 done upon their heads ? Not on your tintype ; the absurdity of it is as 
 plain as a bump on a log, and sticks out like a sore thumb. It might 
 chance that a son might slide upon his head, but imagine our lovely 
 daughters sliding for the home base of success on their heads ! Nay, 
 verily, it may not, must not be. But the heels! how admirably they 
 fit into the sliding business like a stocking on a dog's nose, adapted to 
 it as well as if they were banana peels on a cement sidewalk. We 
 wish to be on the popular side, and just now the heels are in front — 
 of course this is a figure of speech — and are getting there, Eli, with 
 both feet, and we are pleased to note that some of the more progressive 
 parents of Yates City are ignoring the fanatical yawp of bigoted teach- 
 ers who can see nothing but heads to children, in face of the fact that 
 the feet of some of them are as well developed as their heads ever will 
 be, and are permitting their young children to cultivate their heels, 
 apparently satisfied that if the heels get there they will carry the head 
 with them. 
 
 Bee-ware 
 
 The eye of justice came near being closed Wednesday morning in 
 Yates City, thus giving a clear track for revolution, riot and bloodshed. 
 It all came about by 'Squire J. A. Hensley confiscating for his own use 
 the summer's wages of a stand of bees, just at a time when the chilly 
 evening zephyrs reminded the said bees that new overcoats were in 
 order, and that their pants and socks didn't meet by at least a couple 
 of inches. After brooding over the matter awhile, one poor little under 
 sized bee was appointed to convey a pointed remonstrance to the 
 erudite 'Squire. So when he emerged from the house looking as though 
 he had enjoyed his feast of bread and honey, that bee made for him. 
 J. A. immediately placed himself on the defensive, keeping his guard 
 well up. The bee sparred cautiously for an opening, or a chance to 
 make one. Short jabs were exchanged, the round ending with honors 
 even, and the 'Squire a little groggy. The second round opened with 
 some lively infighting. J. A. sent in a vicious left swing but missed, 
 the bee ducking cleverly and coming up smiling. The 'Squire thought 
 he had it all his own way and became reckless, when the bee, quick 
 as a flash, made a vicious jab with his business end and deposited the 
 remonstrance, at least the pointed part of it, directly below the off 
 eye of his adversary. It was a clean knock-out, and caused the eye 
 of justice to close for repairs. J. A. says there were 17,000,000 bees 
 after him, but this version of the mill comes from an eye witness, and 
 we incline to the belief that it is the only correct one. 
 
HUMOROUS 345 
 
 An Outing 
 
 On Monday the Jaqiiiths, the Smiths — some of them — the Aleys, 
 the Rogers, Miss Jarbo, et al, hied them to the banks of the historical 
 Kickapoo, and on its classic banks, beneath the umbrageous trees, 
 played croquet and pic-nicked, just as if the soulful John Downs had 
 never tuned his 'liar' on it's verdant banks, nor the noble red man 
 splashed his spud toes in its placid puddles. It was fun; of course 
 the industrious ant played baseball on their luncheon, and the fiddling 
 cricket meandered gracefully along the alabaster neck of the Yates 
 City belle, but all the more the sport was hilarious. When the sun 
 began to sink in the west — a habit with him — they scrambled into 
 sundry vehicles and arrived in the city in due time, to wipe the per- 
 spiration from their brows, and dig the impalpable dust from their 
 ears. 
 
 A Drop in Temperature 
 
 One week ago last Monday morning. Tall Slimbuilt, who resides 
 in the east part of the city, got up early ; he had been dreaming of 
 pansies, mignonettes, sunflowers, and such; but as soon as his bare 
 feet touched the floor, a polar billow swept up the small of his back, 
 large enough to diffuse itself over his whole frame, and then feel 
 around for some more frame to spread over ; pimples of goose flesh 
 covered his body until his epidermis looked like it was second cousin 
 to the steps of an iron stairway; he rushed down stairs and opened 
 the door, but no scent of fragrant flower came wafted in ; not a single 
 waft ; instead, old Boreas struck him with a blast that made him think 
 the north pole had moved down, broken off, and a quarter section had 
 hit him kerslap ; not a bird warbled in the branches of the cotton- 
 wood over in his neighbor's yard; the birds seemed to have staid at 
 home, or at least had closed out their stock of warble at a reduced 
 rate in order to make room for a spring stock; not a robin was to 
 be seen; not a bluebird was in sight; even the blackbirds had closed 
 out at the old stand and were gone. He listened until his ears were 
 white, and smelled until his nose was blue as a whetstone, but the 
 only fragrance (he is not a member of the city council), he detected 
 arose from Andy Alpaugh's slaughter house, and the only music was 
 the harsh, grating sound of Sam Conver's horn, as he struck the 
 first notes of "Only a Pansy Blossom," with the same vim, the same 
 energy, the same determination, and with about the same success that 
 he struck it two years ago. Then Tall Slimbuilt went to the porch, 
 took a wild look at the thermometer, saw that it indicated 13 degrees 
 below zero, turned sadly into the house, slung his linen duster in the 
 closet, hung his straw hat up on the corner of the kitchen floor, kicked 
 
346 HUMOROUS 
 
 a palm leaf fan under the safe, fell over a rocking chair with both 
 arms up to the elbows in a tub of rinse water, got up and bawled 
 out at the open stair door, "Say there, Marier, where in thunder have 
 you poked my woolen drawers? Blast my buttons if the old world 
 hasn't been knocked into the middle of next winter." Then he 
 sauntered around behind the table and stood gazing intently at an 
 old calendar for 1881, that his wife had hung up for a splasher. 
 
 A Fake 
 
 There was an outfit here Tuesday night with what purported to be 
 a liver medicine. The team was beautiful, the songs old as the hills, 
 the gags moldy chestnuts, the musician's voices sounded like a paper 
 mill tearing rags, and the orator — well, he was the same old man, 
 that went into the army at the age of 13 years, marched boldly to the 
 front, seized the Southern Confederacy by the nape of the neck, lifted 
 it resolutely and firmly from the earth, and shook it until its toe nails 
 dropped off. If our memory serves us correctlj^ he is the seven hundred 
 and fifty ninth different man whom we have heard tell the same story, 
 and so far as we can determine he told it just as glibly, and with as 
 much apparent sincerity as any of the others. The night was chilly, 
 but the entire town was present, men, women, and children, including 
 babies — the only ones not present being twenty who were holding a 
 prayer meeting in the Presbyterian church, the editor who was obliged 
 to work that night or starve, and one other prominent citizen who 
 had gone to bed early — of course he was not aware of the street show — 
 in order that his wife might wash his shirt. Those Avho do not wish 
 to read this item — which we admit we dashed off on the spur of the 
 moment, and which may not be all correctly spelled— can just read 
 the heading, which is a short, concise and truthful statement of what 
 the medicine street show really is. 
 
 The Hidden Light 
 
 Anton Schoenberger is a staid and sober citizen of the town. His 
 locks are fast bleaching with the suns of age, and his natural strength 
 has somewhat abated. He was a soldier in the late war, and after 
 having fought bravely through all its bloody contests, and after white 
 winged peace had folded her pinions, he enlisted in the regular army, 
 and fought the Indian braves from Dan even unto Scoot-Horn. Here 
 he met Sliding-door, Hole-in-the-Sky, Drippin-Fat, Young-Man-Afraid- 
 to-Wash, Old-Man-Who-Is-Not-Afraid-to-Steal, and a host of other 
 renowned but dirty and loud smelling savages. In this war he fell into 
 almost every hole in the "Bad Lands," while his horse fell over almost 
 every hummock. At the close of his term of service, he returned to 
 
HUMOROUS 347 
 
 Illinois, stuck a potato on the end of his sword so that he might not — 
 in a moment of forgetfulness — do injury to some fat denizen where he 
 lived, hung up his canteen as an heirloom for future generations of 
 Schoenbergers, decorated the lapel of his coat with 49 different decora- 
 tions, married a wife and settled down to the peaceful pursuits of rais- 
 ing onions and babies. In addition to this he became a shoveler on the 
 Q. construction train, where he worked six days and on the seventh he 
 would remove the beards from the faces of his comrades. At length 
 there was a city council elected whose president was a man of vast 
 power of discernment, and the promoted Schoenberger to be city mar- 
 shal and street commissioner, in which dual capacity he wore a star, 
 carried a revolver that never could be coaxed to go off, buried dead 
 dogs, chased recalcitrant gamin, and mended the sidewalks. But at 
 last "there arose a King who knew not Joseph" — or, as this case is, 
 Anton — and so he laid down his club, took pff his star, hung his 
 revolver on the bedpost, and was a private citizen, except that he had 
 charge of the G. A. R. hall, and here is where he got left. One night 
 last week he came down to open the hall, carrying a lighted lantern, 
 and accompanied by comrade Kleckner — he of Orange Daniels fame — 
 and wearing a long tailed overcoat. As he opened the door the tail 
 of the coat flapped in the breeze and fell over the lantern, Schoen- 
 berger looked all around, and not seeing a light he said to Kleckner: 
 "I must go back and find my lantern; I had it when I left home, and 
 must have set it down somewhere." Kleckner asked him whose lantern 
 he had in his hand, and it was then that a smile as large as Philbee's 
 feet broke over his countenance, and he was ready to set up the 
 cigars. 
 
 Imposing on Generosity 
 
 Last week we stated that we were willing to give part of one 
 month's income to pay Orange Daniel's claim for $5,000 damage 
 against our G. A. R. boys. Just as soon as it became known that 
 some rich and responsible person was willing to pay the demand, one 
 Booth bobs up and puts in for another $5,000. Now Jacob Lehman 
 says that this is an attempt to take the larger share of our entire 
 income for a month. We believe he is correct. Of course we could pay 
 the $10,000, but it would take about one-third of our month's income, 
 besides establishing a precedent that would make it possible for our 
 entire income to be ultimately absorbed in the same way, to say nothing 
 of the inconvenience of living on the remaining $20,000 ourselves. We 
 now give fair warning that there is a point beyond which we will not 
 go even to make life pleasant for Daniels, Booth, et al. If we were a 
 bachelor we would pay the entire bill, but we have a wife and family, 
 and there are demands that even a newspaper can not accede to. 
 
348 HUMOROUS 
 
 Burglary- 
 Saturday night the light fingered — and light footed too, for that 
 matter — visited the city. They entered the home of R. A. Lower, 
 cutting out the screen, hoisting the window, and propping it up with 
 a stick cut from a plumb tree. Once inside they passed through the 
 sitting room, took Mr. Lower's pants from the bed post, returned to 
 the kitchen, took $1.20 in change that was in the pocket, left the pants 
 on the floor, took all the cooked victuals, and departed. 
 
 They also entered the house of H. J. Truitt in the same way, but 
 the door was bolted between the sitting room and the kitchen, so they 
 contented themselves with the contents of the cupboard. 
 
 Their credit for sanity would have been good had they left town 
 now, but they did not. They went to the home of editor A. H. Mc- 
 Keighan, cut a sprout from one of his Poland China peach trees, opened 
 the south kitchen window and stepped in. They went through the 
 sitting room, took the editor's pants, went to the kitchen, laid a 
 pocketful of letters on the floor, put the composing rule, the make-up 
 rule, the office key and a stub pencil on the sewing machine and 
 covered them with a small white handkerchief, took 73 cents, and left 
 the pants on the floor. They then took the piece of beef that had 
 been secured for a Sunday dinner, took the salt and the pepper off 
 the table, took our only pair of shoes, and left us alone in our glory. 
 Some people wonder how we had so much money in the house, and 
 we feel that some explanation is in order: That night we took ad- 
 vantage of the darkness to slip up on a delinquent, and got a dollar. 
 That is how we had the meat, and the 73 cents. Then another man 
 asked us why we did not hide the shoes. It must be that the inquirer 
 never saw those shoes. Hide them! Great Scott, man ! They couldn't 
 be hid. We do not expect the burglars to be captured, for our theory 
 is that they have sailed for Europe in one of the shoes. If this article 
 is cribbed by the London times, and meets the eye of the proper parties, 
 we wish to thank them for their consideration in not waking us up. 
 Sam Knox had a stew-kettle stolen that same night, and Rev. 
 Parsons lost his chicken. At Lower's a buckskin sack containing $17 
 lay on the floor of the bed room, and $35 in bills was under the pillow, 
 but they did not get it. Miss Mary Lower's gold watch was on a table 
 in the sitting room, but was not taken. 
 
 The House of Thomson 
 
 It was said of a celebrated Scotch family "The Campbells are Com- 
 ing," It is the Thomsons who are now forging forward for furious 
 fray. And it is the particular house of L. A. Thomson that is now in 
 
HUMOROUS 349 
 
 advance. Some old coot of a writer prated about "The fair haired 
 daughter of the house of Brunswick." He had no prophetic glimpse 
 of the fair haired daughter that came to the house of Thomson, last 
 Saturday, or he would have cheesed his racket e'er he had begun. 
 "Talk about your Moses;" rave over the first born of Egypt, and 
 go into ecstasies over ancient and modern babies : Nature has been 
 experimenting for more than six thousand years. ' ' Trying her 'prentice 
 hand," as it were. The culmination of the perfection of babies took 
 place at Thomson's on Saturday. The mother and child and L. A. are 
 doing nicely; but don't ask L. A. to discuss politics; he isn't in it; he 
 is studying the analysis of paregoric, and going through a calculus 
 to demonstrate that this particular baby will cut its wisdom tooth at 
 an early age. Here's our congratulations; and if our wishes and your 
 expectations meet their fruition in the little "tot" she will be more 
 renowned and wonderful than "Helen's Babies." 
 
 A Bad Law 
 
 Last week there was a rumor that a schoolma'am in one of the 
 adjacent districts had resigned her position with the intention of get- 
 ting married, but that the boss director — there is generally a boss 
 director in every district — had refused to pay her for the time taught 
 unless she would complete the term for which she was hired. It may 
 be possible that the school laws of Illinois are a bit crude and old fogy. 
 It may be that no provision was made for a clause in the contract with 
 a schoolma'am that in case she found an opportunity to get married, 
 that she should have the privilege of quitting, that she should receive 
 wages for the time already taught, receive the benediction of the full 
 board of directors— this latter ceremony might be just after dinner — 
 and be permitted to marry the man of her choice. If it be true that 
 the law is thus defective, we are here to say that the law should be 
 amended at once. 
 
 And now that we think of it, why is not this the golden op- 
 portunity for "Jim Put," of Elmwood, who by the mysterious and in- 
 scrutable workings of Providence, and the vote of a majority of his 
 constituents, was elected to the state senate. Jim is a widower, young, 
 brilliant, talented, handsome, rich, ambitious, and with a tongue 
 pivoted in the middle and loose at both ends. He will want to intro- 
 duce a bill, and we suggest that his bill be one for securing the in- 
 alienable rights of schoolma'ams, by so amending the school law of the 
 state that in every contract made between any duly elected board of 
 school directors, and any unmarried schoolma'am, there shall be a 
 clause permitting her to close the school at any time, providing she 
 has a chance to get married. Such a bill would make Jim solid with 
 
350 HUMOROUS 
 
 all the schoolma'ams in Illinois, as well as with anyone who wished 
 to marry a schoolma 'am, and would give an efficiency to the female 
 teacher that must be otherwise lacking. What schoolma 'am can do 
 good work while aware of the fact that while she is boosting the young 
 ideas up the tree of knowledge that her first, last and only chance to 
 enter the double harness trot may come, and that some cruel school 
 director may put before her the awful choice of losing pay for one 
 month's labor, or going without a man? There is indignation in the 
 air, and the dear, sweet schoolma'ams are lisping, in the language of 
 
 the poet: 
 
 "Can we get men, and be thus handicapped?" 
 
 A New Stove 
 
 That the influence of this Great Mora Pendulum is still large has 
 been shown by recent events. Last week we published a short article 
 in regard to the renewed interest being taken in the Yates City school 
 and no sooner did it appear than the school board rushed off and pur- 
 chased a great large new stove for the grammar room. This so upset 
 "Chillis Bird," the teacher, that he rushed into this office Saturday, and 
 executed a war dance that would have made Ah-Shig-Pu-Bah-Sing-Low 
 green with envy. We do not censure him for this exhibition of feeling. 
 That old stove was long past its usefulness. It was on the superan- 
 nuated list before the advent of M. S. Jordan as a groceryman. There 
 was no more heat in it than there is in a wagon load of ice, and it could 
 gas with the volubility of a politician. It was like the darkey said 
 about the broken pump handle, "It am neither ornerymental nor use- 
 ful." Chillis had become so disgusted with it that it haunted him in 
 his dreams, and one night he imagined that it came into his room and 
 sputtered and smoked and gased until he woke up glad it was only 
 an ugly nightmare, for he actually began to think that he had gone 
 in search of Andre, and was sitting on the jutting crag of a glacier 
 eating ice for breakfast. We are told that a few Sunday nights ago 
 Chillis dreamed he was hugging that old stove, and by all that's sacred, 
 the truth is he was not hugging a stove, but — Avell what we wanted to 
 say is that we are real glad that he has the stove, and we feel sure 
 that he will teach better, and that the scholars will study harder 
 in the genial warmth generated by the new stove. 
 
 An Editor Falls from Grace 
 
 We are sorry to see that our good Bro. editor, S. P. Wood, of 
 the brilliant Farmington Bugle, has at last gone wrong. We have 
 admired him in the past as a shining example of goodness, virtue and 
 morality, and in the stillness of the weird, wanranchie, creepy mid- 
 
HUMOROUS 851 
 
 night hour, when good men slept, and baby prattle was hushed in slum- 
 ber deep and still, and the tired toiler's resonant snore rattled the 
 windows of adjacent blocks, and the old maid had swathed her aching 
 jaw in camphor, and dreamed of childhood's rosy time and youthful 
 chances long since past, we have tossed on restless couch, and specu- 
 lated if a wretch like we, so prone to err, so long on evil deeds, so 
 short on good, and withal, so consummate in hiding truth away, could 
 hope for harp and crown. Then would a vision come of Bro. "Wood, his 
 white sombrero, his mustache dark and curled, his face so like an open 
 book that all might read, and then a hope would come and we would 
 grapple it, and make a firm resolve to linger near the pearly gates 
 and watch and wait until they swung ajar for him, then would we take 
 a tailholt on his coat, and thus sweep through. We knew him honest, 
 doubted not his goodness, and thought him truthful until last week 
 in the Bugle he stated that one Williams, sold 80 hogs that averaged 
 1380 pounds. Ah! Bro. Wood, why tell so great a whid? Is truth 
 a knave to masquerade like this? Or have you fallen from grace, and 
 drank again of "Bully Dandy?" 0, Brother! we admonish you to 
 come to Yates City with haste ; we know a man whose girth is wide, a 
 good man, modest and quiet in all his ways, who never sleeps — except 
 it be in church — and who has never told a lie, one so prone to looking 
 up to higher things that even "his failings lean to virtue's side," the 
 good Squire Hensley of the Regulator; we'll intercede with him, and 
 peradventure he will take us, one under each ockster, and touch our 
 feet upon the golden streets. But say, Bro., don't make the hogs too 
 large ; 500 pounds or so might do, but over a lie of such outrageous 
 avoirdupoise as 1380 we weep tears as large as hulled walnuts. 
 
 The Woes of William and John 
 
 J. W. Wood, Jr., is engaged in fitting up a house that he recently 
 moved to a lot he has on west Main street. He was preparing for the 
 plasterers, and John Newlin was assisting him. Mr. Newlin is an ex- 
 pert engineer, and as Captain of a sawmill he is hard to beat ; and Mr. 
 Wood knows the hardware business from A to Izzard. But neither 
 of them ever belonged to the Lime Kiln Club, and both were a little 
 bit slack in the matter of slacking lime. At first Billy insisted that the 
 proper way was to get a wire stretcher that he had at the store, and 
 he knew that it would yank the slack, out of anything. John told Bill 
 that he never would slack lime that way, and that he thought the 
 proper caper would be to get a hawser, attach one end to the lime, 
 hitch a traction engine to the other, and jerk the slack bald headed. 
 Just then the good Deacon Philbee came along on his way to make a 
 weather forecast for next winter, and he said both were in error. He 
 
352 HUMOROUS 
 
 said the only proper way was to get a gallon of pure bear's oil, and 
 rub one quart on the barrel containing the lime; but as pure bear's oil 
 was hard to get he suggested that they procure a box, put the lime in 
 and pour cold water on it. They got the box, put in two barrels of 
 lime instead of one, and put on some water. It was only a minute 
 before things got very interesting. The lime rose up and seemed 
 determined to spread all over the city. The smoke began to go up, 
 while John and Bill were frantically clawing the sizzling lime with hoe 
 and shovel, while their eyes stuck out like a jack-rabbit's, and great 
 drops of sweat hung tremulous on their noses. After some time Billy 
 said that he was satisfied that Ingersoll was mistaken about there being 
 no hades. "Why, John, don't you see that if the devil had a few 
 barrels of lime and some water he could furnish enough hades to sizzle 
 every soul that refused to repent when Bybee preached at the M. E. 
 church?" But the lime got hotter and hotter until Billy declared it 
 was worse than the day the republicans had their election, and he 
 began to think it was a judgment sent on him for palming off a dead 
 rabbit that he found in the hedge, and which had been dead for two 
 months, on Jim Hensley, when Jim beat him shooting at a mark 
 years ago for the rabbits. Just at this juncture Dave Corbin came 
 along, divided the lime and thus taught Billy and John how to slack 
 lime. 
 
 Joe Just Rested 
 
 A tall young man, wearing a pale and intellectual cast of counten- 
 ance, came into the sanctum where we manufacture the lubricating 
 oil for the Great Moral Pendulum, and in a tremulous voice requested 
 us to ask Joe Maxwell if he didn't think an icy porch a soft place to 
 sit down. We must respectfully decline, young man ; in the first place, 
 Mr. Maxwell is a large and muscular granger, and might go off when 
 we didn't suspect he was loaded; in the second place he pays us two 
 dollars per year, good and lawful "kopecks" of the realm, for a copy 
 of our Great Moral Pendulum, and said princely portion of our mag- 
 nificent income might be cut off in the entail ; in the third place, Joe 
 might cause us to sit down on the office floor a good deal harder than 
 he sat down on the icy porch. If ever the expectant public finds 
 out that Joe sat down solid on the icy porch the individuals compos- 
 ing that public will be obliged to read some of the common cheap 
 country sheets that deal in personalities. No such inquiry will be 
 permitted to appear in these columns while the Great Moral Pendulum 
 swings at our beck. 
 
HUMOROUS 353 
 
 Dr. Royce's Hound 
 
 One day last week we met a great measly, sore eyed, lean, sneak- 
 ing looking specimen of the canine hound on the street running at 
 large. On inquiry we were told that it is the property of Dr. W. T. 
 Royee. We are loath to believe this, for we have had a good opinion 
 of the doctor; and if it prove to be true we shall still try to respect 
 the man. But we will say that a man may call us a liar with immunity ; 
 he may spit in our face and still cumber the earth until the snow flies ; 
 he may tweak our nose and still linger to chew the juicy end of spare 
 ribs that are yet being utilized by his hogship in his anatomical struc- 
 ture ; he may accuse us of causing the death of our first wife and still 
 not taste angel's food before Christmas comes; or he may even state 
 that we have taken the home paper and got six months behind and 
 still he may not die suddenly. But there is a point beyond which no 
 man can go and live, so we don 't wish any person to start a report that 
 we own a single hair even on the extreme end of the villainous look- 
 ing caudle appendage of this cantankerous cur. 
 
 A Chicken Foundry 
 
 Andrew Jackson Donaldson Coykendall, Esq., has erected, built, 
 put up and caused to be constructed a commodious house in which to 
 pick poultry. Here will the proud gobbler cease to strut, and the 
 spring hen be ruthlessly separated from her great grand children and 
 be forced to lay by her well worn toggery, and here will the venerable 
 old red rooster crow his last crow — that rooster whose faithful and 
 cheery crow has woke the horny palmed tiller of the soil from the 
 slumber of the just for the last seventeen years — will be denuded of 
 his spurs and will masquerade in Chicago as a spring chicken. And 
 here, too, will the festive chicken louse navigate to the extreme end of 
 Jackson's nose, and speculate whether there be, in all the range of 
 louse knowledge, such, another human proboscis. 
 
 Nothing Much to Do 
 
 This office has labored under slight difficulties the past week. 
 Friday of last week Frank Carroll, the gentlemanly and efficient fore- 
 man of the office, was taken down with the measles, and, of course, 
 was not able to be on duty. This left us to be "Monarch of all we 
 surveyed, and we tell you it was no limited survey. We have been 
 editor, local typo, solicitor for ads, reporter, foreman, pressman, folder, 
 mailing clerk and devil; we have expostulated with the spring poet 
 who insisted that his production was none to early, stood off the 
 
354 HUMOROUS 
 
 express messenger, answered dun letters, chased delinquent sub- 
 scribers, kept out of the way of the man who insisted that his bill 
 should be settled, mollified the man who said that we were putting in 
 too many ads, soothed the subscriber who swore that we had turned 
 democrat, argued with that other one who was sure we are a 
 republican in disguise, tried to show another that he was wrong in 
 his opinion that we are an Alliance man if not a latent anarchist, 
 apologized to those whose names were spelled wrong in our last issue, 
 swept the office — ^yes, we will make an "Affidavid" to this last state- 
 ment in case it is required and some one will furnish the necessary 
 twenty-five cents — wrote letters to all sorts of people on all sorts of 
 subjects, carried in coal, fed and curried a horse, took care of a coop 
 of fancy chickens, attended church and done many other things too 
 numerous to mention here now. It is fun, pure fun to get out a 
 paper under such circumstances. There may be a few mistakes, but 
 we do not see how it could be possible; we may have neglected some- 
 thing, but we are certainly to be blamed if such be the case. 
 
 A Reformer 
 
 The newspaper man is nothing if not a reformer. This is where 
 he gets into trouble ; if he could be content to just state that Mrs. 
 Replenishtheearth was the mother of another boy, and Mrs. Increase- 
 thecensus had fallen heir to a diminutive angel in the shape of another 
 girl, that old Fussy was one of the pillars in the church, and Mr. Itch. 
 F. Place, the best man for position; yes, if the man who sits astride 
 of a tripod, could only be content to tell squash lies at thank-ee-sir 
 per lie ; or spend half a day of his valuable time writing up a history of 
 Mr. Brassface's brindle bull, asservating that he (the bull) had been 
 imported, and that he had no doubt traced his progenitors to the 
 sacred bulls, that used to wake the emotional love of the nude and 
 dirty savages, even as the eyes of the peach-down maiden raises the 
 tender and green — oh, how green! — school boy's; and then use the 
 bull story "just to fill up, you know," the editor man might live at 
 peace, and die so thin in flesh that he might be wanted for a skeleton 
 the day of his death, and on the morrow be doing duty behind the 
 door of some man holding a state license to kill people. But the 
 trouble is the average editor is an ambitious cuss ; yes, even in poverty 
 he is aspiring ; what he would be if fed three times a day no one can 
 tell; but if he would soar higher on three meals, it would seem to be 
 a wise provision of Providence that he has never been able to get 
 them. The fact is a tripod is an elevated seat, and the poor devil who 
 is obliged to sit on it has even a chance to witness the contortions of 
 the "common herd," and sees so much of their shams and pretenses 
 
HUMOROUS 855 
 
 that he catches a desire to reform people just as naturally as a school 
 girl falls in love, children catch the itch, or boys gravitate toward mis- 
 chief, and he tackles them with a desire to remedy wrongs. Here is 
 where our trouble comes; when we lay our esteemed friend Andy 
 Alpaugh, across our editorial knee and apply the shingle of reform, 
 he howls like a burnt Beagle, and kicks like a bay steer; when we 
 simply state that our worthy fellow citizen, John Brimmer, has de- 
 molished his enemies with the same weapon with which Samson is 
 reported to have routed the ungodly Philistines, John elevates his back 
 a la the irate Thomas H. Kitten, and puffs out his cheeks like a Dutch 
 Alderman, when he meets us on the walk. Even a dog resents our 
 efforts to reform things; last week we devoted some valuable space 
 to Dr. Royce's "yaller" hound, and it got us into trouble; before the 
 article was dry from the press that hound made an abortive attempt 
 to commit suicide by swallowing a dog button, and Dock blamed the 
 deed to a grass widow, called it an outrage, and gave the pup an anti- 
 dote that set him on his pins again ; but that article rankled in his dog 
 bosom, and he thirsted for revenge, and he got it ; Sunday evening — 
 not having to keep our eye peeled for our creditors — we sat down to 
 numerate our more grievous sins, separate them into classes, and see 
 how many of them we could lay to our wife, in case the Lord came 
 down into our garden, when that hound got up on Dock's porch, sat 
 down on the end of his tail, dropped his ears until they met beneath 
 his snout, elevated his nose in the direction of Adromeda, shut his eyes, 
 and began to deal out hound music, first in small quantities, then by the 
 quart, gallon, bushel, yard, rod, in chuncks, by cart loads, wholesale 
 and retail, any way to keep the tune going; in fact it seemed as if 
 all the bark on him had got loose and was peeling off; he seemed to 
 think *'He'd rather be a dog and bay the moon," than be a Roman 
 or anything else, and he did bay the moon, and everybody else, and 
 he kept on baying for three mortal hours. We have been told the dog 
 has every modulation of voice; we stand ready to testify to it. That 
 was certainly the most unearthly and diabolical noise that has smote 
 our ears since a merciful Providence permitted us to move out of hear- 
 ing of Sam Conver's horn. Yes, he kept at it until our shattered nerv- 
 ous system was so tortured that we would have traded his racket for 
 that of all the Band Boys practicing a new piece. Our idea of Heaven 
 is a place where there is nothing for editors to reform, and where 
 no yaller hound can ever come to make us envy the humble lot of the 
 saw filer. 
 
 A Wolf! A Wolf!! A Wolf!!! 
 
 When we were younger and friskier than we are now, we read the 
 story of the boy who cried wolf! and when the men ran to assist him 
 
356 HUMOROUS 
 
 they found he had seen no wolf. He did this several times. One 
 day the wolf did come and the boy cried wolf ! wolf ! ! but the men 
 thought he was trying to fool them again, and refused to go, and the 
 big wolf ate the boy up. After reading this story we determined to 
 never tell another lie, and in order to be free from temptation we went 
 into the newspaper business, and have refused to lie, and hence our 
 poverty. 
 
 But here is another wolf story. Once on a time — it might have 
 been last Saturday — R. W. Taylor and John Scott, members of the firm 
 of Taylor Bros. & Scott, dealers in lumber, shingles, lath, buggies, 
 wagons, farm implements, engines, lime, cement, sand, hard coal, paints, 
 varnishes, stains, oils, brushes, etc., etc., whose stock is the largest and 
 prices the most attractive of any in Knox county, went to the farm of 
 S. L. Vance to set up an engine, and while so employed a large and 
 ferocious wolf was discovered on the premises, and they determined 
 to slay the beast or perish in the attempt. Preparations were hastily 
 made. Scott seized a monkey-wrench, Taylor got a screw driver, 
 Vance rushed to the house, grabbed a double barreled shot gun, and 
 gave the order to charge. Fortunately there were two powerful bull 
 dogs on the farm, and these were deployed as skirmishers, with instruc- 
 tions to engage the enemy and divert his attention until the three 
 divisions of the main army, viz, the shot-gun the monkey-wrench and 
 the screw-driver, could be brought up and placed in position. In the 
 meantime the two dogs had come up with the enemy, engaged him, 
 and were worrying him very considerably. At this juncture Taylor 
 suggested that each repeat an inspiring war saying, and led off with 
 "England expects every man to do his duty." Vance struck an atti- 
 tude and said solemnly "Twenty centuries are looking down upon us." 
 Scott looked around, scratched his head, and, swinging aloft the death- 
 dealing monkey-wrench, shouted, "Mary had a little lamb, it's fleece 
 was white as snow." Just then Arwine Garrison drove up and the 
 wolf broke away from the dogs and took shelter behind the rig. Garri- 
 son asked what was the matter. "Don't you see the wolf ?" "Wolf!" 
 said Garrison, "that's Ralph Garrison's cur dog. What have you 
 been drinking?" So ends my tale, and still the world goes on. 
 
 A Frozen Toe 
 
 The text for this little sermon is a girl's little toe. It is a good 
 text, too, for she is a very fine girl. The matter is this : we are told that 
 a girl had her little toe frozen while attending services at the Presby- 
 terian church on a recent Sunday. Is it not time to take steps to put 
 in a new heating apparatus? These two old stoves are a nuisance to 
 the hearers, roasting some of them one minute and chilling them the 
 
HUMOROUS 367 
 
 next, and they are a weariness to the flesh of the janitor, who cannot 
 keep them at an even temperature. This is not a long sermon, but 
 the conclusion we draw is that there would be as much religion in mak- 
 ing the church comfortable in cold weather as there is in sending 
 money to convert the heathen. Besides, these girls are too valuable to 
 have their little toes frozen in any such manner. Everybody may not 
 agree with our sermon, but then they never did with any sermon. 
 
 The S. S. S. Buds 
 
 Monday night the S. S. S. Buds held a meeting at the home of the 
 Misses Roberts in honor of Miss Birdie Stevenson, one of their mem- 
 bers, who is moving to Peoria. No reporter was present, but it has 
 leaked out there was oodles and oodles of fun, and that all former 
 records of this highly cabalistic society were broken. In fact their 
 celebration extended over the entire city, and woke some of the slum- 
 bering citizens, long after "Midnight's holy hour." There is a canny 
 rumor that three Blossoms (married women) gained admittance — jn 
 some mysterious manner — to their banquet hall, and that these same 
 Blossoms had not entirely forgotten the pranks of the days when they 
 were Buds, but waxed gay and hilarious. In one of the earlier raids of 
 the evening a business man — a sly old bachelor, " d-e-v-i-1-i-s-h sly" — 
 called the Buds in and treated them to candy, oranges and chewing 
 gum. The Buds took one of the blossoms home — she is the beautiful 
 wife of one of our most handsome young business men — they insisted 
 that he should hug the entire posse, in consideration of the service they 
 had rendered him in returning his truant spouse safe and sound, and 
 he did — in his great gratitude — attempt to do so ; but after hugging 
 one buxom lassie — one report says a full half hour — he was so delirious 
 with bliss that instead of keeping strictly to business, he grabbed 
 another sweet Bud, dragged her to the pump and pumped a barrel 
 of water on her head. His wife succeeded in dragging him into the 
 house, locked the door, and the rest of the Buds departed mourning 
 that he was not hugger enough to go around. 
 
 They then started out to end the fun by seranading some of the 
 more prominent families, but had no instrument to play the accompani- 
 ment, when fortune again favored them; they met Mrs. M. J. Steven- 
 son returning from sitting up with a sick friend, and as luck would 
 have it, she had her "Caterwalups" with her, and they do say that 
 when she turned the handle — which in this instrument is always attach- 
 ed to the back part — her playing was so perfect, so charming, and yet 
 so comical, that some of the Buds could scarcely keep time in the sing- 
 ing. 
 
358 HUMOROUS 
 
 The S. S. S. Buds is a young ladies' club, and is so select that none 
 but the best is admitted. No reporters are allowed to be present but 
 "Walls have ears," and this report is correct. 
 
 How About This? 
 
 Some one has made the sage remark that "This is a funny, funny 
 world," and some recent developments confirm us in the belief that it is 
 not only a sage remark, but a true one as well. Many things are too 
 deep for human philosophy. Sleeping and dreaming are both mysteries. 
 May there not be a state between sleeping and waking, in which we 
 act without knowledge and without recollection? Listen to a plain 
 unvarnished tale. Tuesday night of this week, the wife of one of our 
 prominent business men got up sometime during the "wee sma' hours," 
 took off her gown, arrayed herself in an old blue wrapper, put on one 
 stocking, put one garter under her pillow, hid the other stocking where 
 it has not yet been found, and went back to bed. In the morning she 
 was astonished at her changed appearance, and appealed to her hus- 
 band to tell her "where she was at." And all this in a town sans 
 saloons, minus airships, and where only visions of the wealth to come 
 with the Durkee heirships is supposed to disturb the slumbers of the 
 just. But such is life in a great city. 
 
 The Story of Six Cyclers 
 
 There is no pleasure but has its alloy; no rose the plucking of 
 which may not discover a thorn ; no up but has its down ; no sweet 
 but has its bitter; no morning but has its night; no calm but has its 
 storm ; no skies so clear but dark clouds may hide their ethereal blue ; 
 no mountain height but has its dark and sombre valley. And so it 
 turned out that the six fair bicyclers who left the city Wednesday 
 morning, flying on their wheels like graceful birds on wing, crept 
 back in the darkness, amid the rain and mud, with plumage drabbled, 
 dank and wet, content to move at pace of the slow moving horse, rid- 
 ing on four wheels, instead of six, as when they left. It is said in 
 the scriptures that "the rain descended, and the floods came, and 
 the wind blew," and so it did that night. As the dark clouds rolled 
 up from lurid west, and the dire noise of rain cart rumbling over the 
 stone pile smote the 'larumed ear, and zizzag lightnings plowed their 
 sinuous ways athwart the murky skies, those six silent and awed 
 scorchers, tired out with pressing tiny foot on glittering pedal, were 
 scattered two and two, from where Nead Bear resides, northward to 
 M. D. Sargent's home, two at each mentioned place, and two sought 
 shelter where Tinen dwells. 'Twas well that one had left a husband 
 
HUMOROUS 869 
 
 at the home to mourn her absence, cook the beans, the bacon fry, the 
 dishes wash, forgetting the skillet — as all men do; that one a lover 
 had who yearned to fold her in his two willing arms and hold her 
 there — as long as he had strength — for those two got a rig, and went 
 out in the dark, the rain, the mud, the thunder's roar, the lightnings 
 flash, rescued these stranded barks and towed them safe to port. 
 
 Making a Postmaster 
 
 Editor S. P. Wood, by the will of God editor of the Farmington 
 Bugle, and by the will of Joe Graff and the consent of Bill McKinley 
 postmaster of Farmington, was in the city Monday evening, and was 
 a caller at this office. He is clean shaven, well dressed, fat, plump and 
 independent. Editor Wood is handsome, has a head that is both 
 ornamental and useful, and might have succeeded all by his lone self; 
 but when the Lord "Made an editor outen o' him," and walked with 
 him, they two wiggled along, through difficulties and trials ; but when 
 Joe Graff saw what a noble struggle the editor and the Lord were 
 making, he went to McKinley and said, ''Bill, here are two worthy 
 individuals who are doing the best they know how; let us give them 
 a boost ; you have opened the mills with one hand ; now reach out the 
 other hand and take Sewell by the scruff of the neck and lift him into 
 the Farmington postoffice." And Mc. said "I remember one time when 
 Mark Hanna was all that saved me from asking a favor of the Lord, 
 and now that I can help Him and a worthy editor at the same time 
 I'll do it; Joe, tell Sewell that he can lick stamps at Farmington." 
 When Wood stuck in his own toe-nails he went forward; when the 
 Lord helped him he made progress; when Joe Graff found him the 
 smile of hope lit up his gloom; when McKinley spoke the sun of 
 prosperity shone full upon him. May his shadow increase and may his 
 posterity eat white bread forever. 
 
 Our Pretty Girls 
 
 A couple of long legged, lop eared, lantern jawed, slab sided, 
 club-footed, pigeon-toed, cantankerous looking specimens of the genius 
 homo were in town Wednesday evening. At first we mistook them for 
 a couple of hopeless insane persons who had escaped from Bartonville 
 — most of those in Bartonville do make their escape — but when we 
 heard them wonder "If they could find any 'purty' girls in this town," 
 we realized that we were in the presence of two idiots — regular im- 
 beciles. The very idea of wondering if there were pretty girls in 
 Yates City! Why, there positively isn't any other kind of girls here. 
 We have lived in Yates City for the last 30 years, and actually we 
 
360 HUMOROUS 
 
 have lost all conception of what a homely girl really looks like. Our 
 wife has a pet theory that we grow to be, in a degree at least, like the 
 persons and things we daily come into association with, and last 
 Tuesday night, when we came home from the revival, Mrs. Mc. said, 
 "I know that my theory is true, for, Mc, I fancy that you are not 
 quite as fearfully ugly as you were when we came to Yates City, 
 and I don't believe that you are much homelier than J. A. Hensley." 
 We fear there will be something doing when Mrs. Hensley meets Mrs. 
 Me. All the Yates City girls are prettier than a new, red painted 
 wagon box. Why, their beauty is only surpassed by their intelligence, 
 their wisdom, their innate sense of modesty, and their decorum, and 
 it may be said of any one of them, "She moves a queen." Sure thing, 
 those two guys were idots of the first water — "Haverils," as the Scotch 
 would say, only baked on one side and even that side not well done. 
 To have these two "it's" wonder if there were any pretty girls in 
 Yates City, caused our gorge to rise, and raised in us the old Adam 
 up so high, that we wanted to light upon them, and smite them hip 
 and thigh, but they were lusty cusses, and age has made us long on 
 discretion. So fortunately they escaped, and we will not give our 
 real opinion of them, for a sainted mother taught us never, never 
 to say hard things about those whom a wise Creator has seen fit to 
 leave unfinished in the upper story, and if we write further we might 
 be tempted to say something disrespectful of them. 
 
 As the Boys Remembered It 
 
 A gang of men is at work putting down brick walks in Yates City. 
 When they finish a walk past the house of a citizen they assess him 40 
 cents for buying beer. When they got to the T. L. Long property 
 Mrs. Long demurred to buying the beer, but said she would furnish 
 the money to buy a cake, that she was to slice the cake, give her invalid 
 husband a slice, and then divide the rest among the gang. The cake 
 was bought and sliced, but when she came out with it she told them 
 that they would get none of the cake until they repeated the Lord's 
 prayer. At this announcement C. Spickard fainted, and the street 
 commissioner laid him under a big tree and fanned him with a shovel. 
 Bill Bowman began: "Dickery, dickery dock, three geese in a flock," 
 when Frank Light broke in with, "0 were you ne're a school boy, 
 and did you never train," but George Middleton said you are wrong, 
 it is this way, "His father called, he did not go, because he loved the 
 peanuts so." By this time Charlie Spickard had come to, and he 
 said, boys, I remember it now: keep still; it is this way; "And now 
 I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep." Just then 
 D. M. Carter came along and they decided to leave it to him which 
 
HUMOROUS 361 
 
 had it right, and after hearing what each said, he said, "Boys, you 
 are all wrong ; I learned that prayer when I was a kid, and I can never 
 forget it ; then when I was a ganger in Peoria I heard John McGinnis 
 repeat that prayer a thousand times, and he always began like this 
 ** there are but two classes, the loyal Republicans and the dogfennel 
 Democrats." Then Carter said, "I have heard Bill Corbin and Jim 
 Putnam give it different, but John McGinnis had it right, and I think 
 Mrs. Long ought to give the cake to Dave Tuckey. 
 
 Three Prize Beauties 
 
 Mrs. Jacob Lehman arrived home Saturday evening from Okala- 
 homa City, Okalahoma, where she has been visiting her daughter, Mrs. 
 G. W. Van Meter, and she says that she has the finest grandson, now 
 two months old, and weighing seventeen pounds, and so good looking 
 and then she insinuated that he looked remarkably like his grand- 
 mother. She says that he will be here next summer, and that if our 
 grandson, John A., comes down then, there will be two of the finest 
 babies in town — John A. does not look a bit like we do, his beauty 
 being of a different type — and it will be all right, if Ed. Taylor 
 doesn't "butt in" with his baby, which he says is the "best ever." 
 
 Important — If True 
 
 [This week Everett Smith, the valued "typo" in the Banner office, 
 has been unable to work, on account of an injured hand and sickness. We 
 were working alone, Wednesday, when at seventeen minutes past four 
 o'clock p. m., there was a timid knock at the office door, and on opening 
 it was confronted by the most beautiful young girl we have ever seen. 
 She blushed, and sweetly said: "Mr. McKeighan, do you ever print pieces 
 and never, never, in all this world, tell who wrote them?" We assured 
 her that we live mostly for that purpose, when she drew from a small 
 hand-bag a bit of scented paper and timidly said: "I wrote this, and — well 
 — I — I do think a lot of Everett — O! I don't mean — but I mean — wouldn't 
 have him know I did this — not for the whole world." We told her the 
 secret would be buried in the grave with us, and she gave us the piece, 
 and went off along the hall humming in a low musical voice: 
 
 What care I for gold and silver? 
 
 What care I for houses and land? 
 What care I for a world of pleasure? 
 
 All I want is a handsome man. 
 
 We turned musingly away, picked up a "stick" and set her piece, which 
 the reader can peruse, as follows: — Ed.] 
 
 "She was the typo's darling fair, he was her lover true. Said he 
 you are the 'type' for me, I'll always 'stick' by you. I've had a 
 
362 HUMOROUS 
 
 'chase' but now, my own, my 'take's' revised I guess; and now that 
 love is 'justified' why, let us go to 'press.' The maiden hung her 
 shapely head and whispered in his ear, while both her cheeks were 
 rosy red, "The 'form' is ready dear." 
 
 Found a Jug 
 
 A. J. Coykendall is engaged in peregrinating over the county 
 negotiating for those articles of clothing that the ravages of time have 
 made unfit for adorning the persons of the possessors any longer. 
 
 As A. J, was thus prosecuting his endeavor to secure a portion 
 of the root of evil, and was meditating on what peace of mind falls to 
 the lot of the man whose conscience is clear, he drew up to a house 
 in the goodly township of Elba. His piece was spoken and the lady 
 gave into his possession a sack of dilapidated linen, that weighed 
 28 pounds. Jack bade her a polite good-day, mounted his wagon, and 
 was soon enjoying a good smoke, while he was admiring the beauty 
 of the country, and wishing he was a festive granger, with 340 acres 
 of land, a wife and eleven children, when the off fore wheel dropped 
 into a rut, and off tumbled the newly acquired sack. 
 
 Of course he stopped to recover it, and in picking it up he felt 
 something hard, and opening it brought forth a jug minus the handle. 
 
 A. J. took one sniff at the jug, but it had been put to the base use 
 of holding oil. He will return it, as he had no intention of cheating 
 the woman. — Sic transit gloria jugi. 
 
 Dog and "Devil" 
 
 On Monday some fiend in human form presented our devil with a 
 "purp" a long, lank, cadaverous looking purp : one with one half 
 of his head black, the other white, while the rest of his body was of the 
 color — of — well, a cross between a frost-bitten pumpkin and a brindle 
 steer. That wretch at once introduced him into the office ; and if that 
 devil ever lives to become an editor, and is one quarter as enterprising 
 as that purp he will make the liveliest paper in America. He began 
 business without any preliminaries by chewing up the twine ball, then 
 he licked out the paste cup, upset the ink bottle, pied a galley of type, 
 rubbed himself against the ink keg, tore up a bundle of bills that was 
 ready to be mailed, and was looking for fresh victims, when dinner 
 time came. We implored our devil to let him remain in the office, 
 as we thought he could do but little more harm ; but no ; home to 
 dinner he must go, and he did. But alas! when dinner was over, 
 the doll lacked an arm, a skillet of grease was upset, the child's Sun- 
 day shoes were under the porch, a half made dress was in shreds, a 
 
HUMOROUS 
 
 pound of butter was missing, a jar of molassess was upset, and he was 
 about to investigate a picture of Noah's Ark, when our better half 
 interfered. She is generally mild as the sunny skies of Italy but her 
 "gorge" rose at sight of the wreck; her choler was violent, her wrath 
 warm, her indignation deep and strong; she "spoke not wisely but too 
 well;" and her words entered into our ears, and settled down into 
 our heart — into our very boots, and we were conscious that if she 
 "loved us less she hated the other purp more," and we learned too, 
 that our earthly happiness, our domestic peace, our connubial bliss 
 depended on our seeing that the purp came to an untimely grave. 
 Then we arose and sought for the purp, but we found him not ; we 
 searched diligently but discovered him not, and it dawned upon us 
 then that both the purp and our devil had did like unto the Arab by 
 folding their tent and skipping out. We left the old lady more in 
 anger than sorrow, and when we reached the office, on revenge bent, 
 no dog was there. He had been sold to an Elmwood butcher and the 
 face of our devil was as serene as a squash, as he fingered the marbles 
 in his pocket, while he critically scanned the pied Presbyterian church 
 directory, and blandly asked if a "long faced P should commence 
 "Presbyterian." 
 
 It has been years since we swore, but at that moment a gush of 
 early memories overpowered us, and we heard a low murmur, like 
 a wild wind harp, and it smote on our ear much as we remembered 
 those sounds when we were playing marbles in the back alley. So 
 we reached for the poor devil, reached out our hand to feel for him, 
 but he too had departed like the joys of our earlier years. 
 
 And One Chased a Hundred 
 
 Last Sunday afternoon the quite and peace that should pervade 
 the Sabbath was broken and destroyed by the conduct of a couple of 
 so-called baseball aggregations that had gone into the pasture field 
 owned by Thomas Terry — without his consent and without his 
 knowledge — for why should those who have no respect for God's com- 
 mandment, no regard for the municipal code, no obedience to render 
 to state law — why should they respect the rights of Thomas Terry? 
 "With them came about one hundred spectators, good, bad and indif- 
 ferent, all tramping on the grass — and on the rights of Terry, and on 
 all laws human and divine. The amusement each sought was there. 
 The silly joke, the obscene jest, the filthy story, foul expectoration of 
 tobacco juice, the villainous smell of the stinking and brain enervating 
 cigarette, the vile oath, the horrid blasphemy, all were there, rising 
 up toward heaven, and, as the enthusiasm increased — it always in- 
 creases at a Sunday baseball game — it spread out farther and still far- 
 
364 HUMOROUS 
 
 ther, until it penetrated to the more remote parts of the city, and 
 attracted the attention of the most indifferent. The game is wearing 
 to a close ; those who have been shouting in a mere whisper — if we are 
 to believe their own testimony — are becoming exhausted; the entire 
 crowd are gazing toward the west ; a vision has appeared in the west ; 
 the vision is not the cloud the size of a man's hand; it is the veritable 
 hand of a man ; it is fast by the arm to the body of a man ; that body 
 is being carried forward on two stalwart legs; a silence deep, solemn, 
 portentous has fallen on the hundred; it is the calm of Nature before 
 the breaking of the storm ; as in the vision of the old prophet, there is 
 no sound as of the wind going in the tops of the mulberry trees ; scarce 
 the frail aspen seems to shake, that shadows o'er the road; the small 
 bird will not sing aloud, the springing trout lies still, so darkly looms 
 yon thunder cloud, that swathes as with a purple shroud Ben Ledi's 
 distant hill; the vision is nearing; some one whispers "It is Terry"; 
 rout, ruin, panic seizes all; at once there rose so wild a yell, within 
 that dark and narrow dell, as all the fiends from heaven that fell, had 
 pealed the banner cry of hell ; the hundred realize that even Terry has 
 rights; they wish to go to some other spot and meditate; over the 
 fence is out, in a ball game; and over the fence they went, helter- 
 skelter, hurry-skurry ; there is a sound of flying feet, a digging in of 
 toe-nails in the sod, a humping of backs, a stretching out of necks, a 
 rolling of beaded perspiration down blanched faces, and over the 
 barbed-wire fence roll the hundred, leaving souvenir of clothing on 
 the barbs, mute but eloquent testimony to the truth of the observation 
 of the good Deacon Philbee, when he said: "And thus doth conscience 
 make cowards of us all." The worst thing about this story is that it 
 is true. That morning the eloquence of a Schreiner had thrilled a 
 wrapt congregation with convincing proofs that God made no mistake 
 when He established the Sabbath, and Chicago papers were full of 
 speculations as to the best means to stay the terrible carnival of crime 
 that is rampant all over the land. Is such scenes as that enacted in 
 Terry's pasture last Sunday afternoon calculated to educate in the 
 right direction to become good citizens? Let us not deceive ourselves: 
 "God is not mocked; whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also 
 reap." 
 
 Making a Record 
 
 The motive power that perambulates the D. M. Enoch's delivery 
 wagon is a diminutive sorrel horse named — we guess we are some- 
 thing like P. Garrison was when he was playing the leading role in 
 that blood-curdling tragedy, "The Deestrict Skule, " and he was re- 
 quired to speak a piece, and after getting into position, and making 
 a bow as gracefully as any hippopotamus could have made one, he spent 
 
HUMOROUS 365 
 
 some time in solemn thought and began to scratch his head and said, "I 
 think I've clean forgotten it." We have clean forgotten the name 
 of that particular equine, but it is probably "Rosinate" or Sardanap- 
 alus, or some such a distinguished name. At any rate he was sup- 
 posed to be sedate, quiet and sobered by age and service, and that 
 he was long done with coltish tricks. So, like a "trusty" in a penal 
 institution, he was accorded privileges denied to the more pretentious 
 of his race, and was permitted to browse on the vacant lots, still har- 
 nessed to the delivery wagon. Tuesday evening he was munching 
 tender grass on a lot at the corner of Main and Burson streets, when 
 he suddenly took a notion to distinguish himself — or else he got 
 badly frightened. Some there be that insinuate that the editor of the 
 Banner was coming up town after the mail and that he suddenly 
 broke into song, and that the horse, never having heard such terrible 
 sounds, became frantic and in an effort to save himself, took to flight 
 and dashed up Main street with the speed of a Zeppelin airship drag- 
 ging the delivery wagon with him. We enter a denial of the charge. 
 It is a base slander, as we were not sure on the bass key that evening. 
 But we admit that the horse ran off, and might have been running 
 yet, had not the citizens turned out en mass, and blocked the street, 
 thus making it impossible for him to finish the course he had laid 
 out. He was captured and led away to captivity, a living example 
 of how abject is even a horse when the foot of the conqueror is on his 
 neck. 
 
 A Peaceful Errand 
 
 S. P. Wood, editor of the Farmington Bugle, and James Tenley, 
 of the same place, called at our office Monday. They are a jolly twain, 
 and withal, rather disposed to be peaceable. But when we saw S. P. 
 pull a long, bright, keen-looking sword from its scabbard, and Tenley 
 strike an attitude a la Sullivan, we began to count up our few good 
 deeds and set them over against the many bad ones of which we had 
 been guilty, where the good ones looked so small, so trifling, so insig- 
 nificant, so lonely, so like one black sheep in a flock of two thousand 
 white ones, so like one Polled Angus on a ranch where forty thousand 
 Texas steers are feeding that we felt thoroughly ashamed, and did 
 what others have done when they thought themselves in great danger 
 — we mentally resolved to reform. But just as we were about to 
 abandon hope and direct that our effects be turned into cash, a pint 
 of peanuts he bought with the money and distributed among the office 
 boys, we saw a merry twinkle in Jim's oft' eye, and a feeling of hope 
 crept up from our turtle shaped great toe, warmed the region of our 
 gizzard, flushed our thoughtful face and spread even to the end of 
 the middle digits of our hands. Then we ventured to ask, "Why is 
 
366 HUMOROUS 
 
 this thus?" And we found that the boys were out — not to become 
 avenged on their enemies — but that they were on the road represent- 
 ing a great firm selling the sword and regalia for the Patriarch Mili- 
 tant, a higher order of Odd Fellowship. Then did we give them the 
 freedom of the office, exchange brain fabrications with them, and 
 finally salaamed them out of our den in the latest style. 
 
 Al. Kidder Threshes 
 
 One would scarce expect to hear the shrill whistle of the steam 
 thresher at this season, but it was heard on Wednesday when Al. 
 Kidder did his threshing. This is earlier than Al. is in the habit of 
 doing such work, but as the dry weather is shortening the grass crop, 
 he thought the straw would help along the feed. Al. has always been 
 opposed to hurrying in a job of threshing. About a quarter of a cen- 
 tury ago, a gifted son of Illinois, named Lincoln, was selected to 
 superintend the threshing of Jefferson Davis, et al. But Al. Kidder 
 would not help ; he thought it was not the right time to thresh, and 
 was in favor of waiting. In fact Al. 's ire was kindled against abo- 
 litionists, union men, bondholders, and "sich," and he neglected to 
 insist that the threshing should be done at the right time. We sup- 
 pose that this became a habit with Al., and he now puts off threshing 
 to the very last minute. In fact Al. worked 25 years to help thresh 
 the "Black Republicans," and when it was finished to his satisfac- 
 tion he did not think it best to rush the threshing business. Al. 's 
 grain will not be sold at present. Being a rock-rooted, mountain-but- 
 tressed, moss-backed, dyed-in-the-wool, simon pure reform democrat, 
 he is constitutionally opposed to doing anything until at least twnety- 
 five years after other people have done the same thing. Al. is a great 
 man; he is a good man; nothing in this article is to be so construed 
 as to work hardship to him either in person, character, reputation 
 or property. We are opposed to laying the sins of one to the charge 
 of another, and it certainly was not Al.'s fault if Lee failed to cap- 
 ture Grant, and Jeff. Davis donned a hoop skirt after Lincoln threshed 
 him. These things happened rather in spite of Al. and it may be 
 that the dry weather forced him to thresh his last year 's crop so much 
 earlier than common. 
 
 Wild Turkeys 
 
 Last week we stated that S. Boyer had captured a couple of partly 
 grown wild turkeys; Monday morning Elias Fletcher and M. T. 
 Beardsley met us, and stated that they wanted their papers stopped; 
 they said that they could condone an ordinary lie, but this one was 
 
HUMOROUS 367 
 
 more than they could stand. We tried to smooth matters over, but 
 could not; so we went around to Steve and told him that he must 
 pay us $4, the amount of a year's subscription from Fletcher and 
 Beardsley. Steve said he guessed he ought to pay it if he could not 
 convince them it was a wild turkey. After a thorough examination 
 Fletcher found that the turkey was not only a wild one; but that 
 it was a genuine Galloway. It has all the peculiarities of the Gallo- 
 way ; it is black, has no horns, is an easy milker, will not jump, lays 
 on fat easily, winters well, is prolific — generally having twins — and 
 does not shed its horns like the deer. In fact Fletcher was more 
 than satisfied and agreed to continue taking the paper. As soon as 
 Beardsley understood how it was he agreed to continue too, in case 
 we would agree to have a good-looking, black-eyed widow start a 
 millinery shop in Mr. Fletcher's new store. Now, if any of our read- 
 ers know of such a widow, please let us hear of it. 
 
 What Kind of Goat? 
 
 A scientist says "a goat lives about ten years, and will give about 
 a quart of milk a day." What kind of a goat. Mister, a billy or 
 nanny? We consider the point important when it comes to a milk 
 proposition. 
 
 The White Dove of Peace 
 
 Thanks to our cowardly carcass, we are at peace with all our 
 editorial brethren. Some time ago we concluded that we could not 
 feel easy in our conscience if we demolished so handsome, intelligent 
 and good a set of men, and we resolved to quit making faces at 
 them, went to them individually, and told them not to harbor any 
 malice in their bosoms against us, as we certainly had used great 
 caution in not saying half as bad of them as we really thought, and 
 certainly if we had said anything that we were sorry for we were 
 glad of it. Since that time a great peace has filled the cavity above 
 our stomach, and we had hoped that such a course would have made 
 us the venerable bell sheep to lead the editorial lambs into the fold 
 of peace. But we notice that postoffices and politics have set our Ful- 
 ton county editors by the ears, while in Galesburg the editors are walk- 
 ing up and down on opposite sides of an imaginary fence, with bristles 
 erect, and going sidewise, after the style of a hog going to war, and 
 all on account of the water question. Just why these Galesburg editors 
 should get by the ears over something that they know nothing about, 
 is a mystery that probably will never be explained. But as our main 
 hold is mending and patching up cracked and broken friendships, we 
 suggest that our Galesburg brethren drink a little water — carefully 
 
368 HUMOROUS 
 
 at first — go out to some large pond and wash off, in which disguise 
 they can pass each other on the street without knowing each other. 
 In the meantime we are laying hold with both hands on the pillars 
 of the spiritual temple in order to bring these erring ones under the 
 power of some influence that will make them so loving that they will 
 be willing to suck each other's ears a la spring calves. 
 
 We Object 
 
 There is one thing about the harvest home program that we wish 
 to enter a respectful but firm objection to. The attempt has been 
 made to have the ladies furnish their own hammers for the nailing 
 contest. We do not think it is fair to ask the ladies to carry a hammer 
 about with them all day, in order that they may get 10 cents for 
 each nail they may drive — provided they can drive said nail quicker 
 than any one else. But it is not on account of the inconvenience to the 
 ladies that we base our main objection. We base it on the grounds 
 of personal safety. Just suppose that the ladies come to the harvest 
 home each carrying a claw hammer. Suppose that during the events 
 of the day one — or even all — of these ladies were to become offended 
 with something said or done? A hammer is a dangerous weapon 
 under any circumstances, and in the hands of an irate female woman, 
 it would be a menace to limb, and even life. Excuse us. If' the 
 women are to be armed with great claw hammers, we do not wish to 
 be in the crowd, as we would feel safer if absent in the body. It is 
 the part of wisdom — nay, rather of valor — for is not discretion the 
 better part of valor? — to have the committee furnish the hammers, 
 rather than let the women loose in such a gathering each armed 
 with a claw hammer. We object strenuously. We care not what 
 course others take, but as for us, give us a crowd of hammerless 
 women, or let us brave death at the mouth of a cannon, or set us to 
 picking burs out of the tail of a mule, any old way, but not by the 
 hammer route. 
 
 A Tramp Printer 
 
 Last Friday morning, while we were trying to make the profit 
 side of our ledger jibe with the loss by double entry, a large florid, 
 shock-headed, freckle-faced, red-haired specimen of the genus tramp 
 printer walked into the office and wanted to know who wore the 
 brass collar of the shebang. He was dressed in a ragged uniform 
 of the "Soldiers' Home," wore a pair of dilapidated shoes with 
 soles on them like the quarter-deck of a government mud scow, and 
 carrying in his hand a large saber of the vintage of the late unpleas- 
 antness. He said his name was Bill Smith from Spoon river, and 
 
HUMOROUS 369 
 
 that the Governor had requested him to go down to Springfield and 
 locate the Soldiers' Home. He also intimated that he had a hand in 
 putting down the rebellion, all of which we readily conceded for the 
 sake of euphony and a growing family of children. Of course we 
 invited him to tarry and help run up our meat bill. He said he would, 
 and he did. He remained till Saturday evening, by which time we 
 had learned his history, travels, hairbreadth escapes, and deeds of 
 valor. We presented him with a silver medal surmounted by an 
 eagle, and his colossal form was soon lost to view on its way to 
 Farmington. He was a bona fide tramp, take him for all in all — we 
 shall ne'er look upon his like again. 
 
 Insulted 
 
 On Thursday we were invited to a wedding anniversary at M. B. 
 Mason's, and as we had a hankering after one more square meal we 
 went. And we had a good time too; but, alas! To do this we were 
 obliged to get a well-known citizen to edit the paper for us that day. 
 It may be that he was naturally cut out for the business, and was, 
 therefore naturally depraved; it may be that he had some mortal 
 grudge against us, for some injury we have done him; perhaps we 
 never shall know; but he took occasion to ask us to keep away from 
 town; he not only said, "Mc. keep your phiz away," but he empha- 
 sized it by saying "keep your ugly phiz away." It may be that time 
 will heal this deep and deadly wound to our handsome honor; it may 
 be that we will be able to forget it; but, so long as looking glasses 
 are in use, we doubt it. This foul stab at the very foundation of our 
 popularity, will be the dark cloud hanging over our future life. If 
 we are invited out to dinner, we may be grim, gaunt, slim and awful 
 anxious to eat with white folks; but how can we, when some craven 
 hand may be tracing some word in derogation of our classic features? 
 Our present idea is — if there be justice for American citizens — to 
 wreak a terrible revenge on this man. It will not do to suffer it; the 
 next thing he would be ready to swear that a Chinese God was not a 
 beauty. It may be rough on this temporary editor, but men and gods 
 must feel secure. 
 
 Hind Sight 
 
 This week we met the man who always tells you that he predicted 
 the very kind of weather we are having, no matter what it may be. 
 Some days ago he told us that he knew we would have a thaw; he 
 said he was aware all the time that the first part of the winter would 
 be mild. And now he says that he told his wife, and several neigh- 
 bors, that a blizzard would come on last P"'riday, and told them just 
 
370 HUMOROUS 
 
 how long it would last. We always meet this man after a change 
 has taken place, and then he always insists that he told us of it some 
 time before, and is surprised to think that we do not remember it. 
 This man is about the ordinary size, dresses much as other men, 
 shaves once a week, sometimes smokes and sometimes don't, has been 
 over the Rocky Mountains at least twice, was in the late war, and, 
 of course, halted General Grant on the picket line, and compelled 
 him to give the countersign, met General Garfield in Tennessee, and 
 after a social chat with him, remarked to the Lieutenant Colonel of 
 the Eighth Missouri, that Garfield would yet be president, and was 
 generally detailed as Orderly to the commanding General during 
 battle. Besides telling you that he told some one of the coming 
 change, he will tell you that nine years ago this winter was just 
 such a winter for all the world. He has been engaged as a weather 
 predicter as long as either the man who always predicts a severe 
 winter or the one who always predicts a mild one, but he never 
 misses it; he is a dead sure shot on the weather. He can in- 
 fallibly tell how many snows the winter will give — after the 
 winter is past. He can always tell how many thunder showers the 
 summer will have — after the summer is gone. This man belongs 
 to a large family who are scattered over the country, and what is 
 remarkable they are all post-weather prophets, all great men — on 
 the predict. 
 
 Like Pulling Teeth 
 
 E. F. Taylor is an all around man. He worked on a farm in his 
 early days, has done carpenter work, is agent for a first-class tailor- 
 ing establishment, also for the Lehman laundry, is a first-rate barber, 
 has been an insurance agent, has raised chickens, and water melons — 
 the latter out of somebody else's patch — and in his younger days 
 he used to raise something that isn't spelled the same as chicken; 
 besides all these he is a funeral director and undertaker, so when 
 Thomas Hand came into his shop last Friday and asked Ed if he 
 could pull a tooth for him, Ed said that undertaking was his bus- 
 iness, and he would undertake the job, and he assured Mr. Hand 
 that if he died in the operation his corpse should be embalmed and 
 turned over to his friends. Tom got into the barber chair, and Ed 
 armed himself with an instrument that old Joe Jacobs got the summer 
 of 1843 to remove wolf teeth from horses, tilted back the chair, climbed 
 up on the back part of the chair, seated himself on Tom's chest, 
 put a leg over each of the victim's shoulders, braced his feet on the 
 chair back, seized the tooth with his canthook, and the circus was 
 opened. P. A. Taylor, who is Ed's partner in the shop, was standing 
 on the west side of Union street, when he was startled by a series of 
 
HUMOROUS 871 
 
 shrieks and unearthly yells emanating from the shop, and looking 
 across, he saw a couple of large objects flying up and down from the 
 floor to the ceiling, and rushing across, he found it was Tom's feet 
 going flurry-laly, like a lamb's tail, and that the yells were also his. 
 P. A. yanked the door open, and Ed gave an extra surge on the cant- 
 hook and leaped to the floor, waving the offending molar on the point 
 of his instrument of torture. Tom regained consciousness the next 
 afternoon, and is slowly convalescing. No arrest as yet. 
 
 An Aged Hen 
 
 The editor of this Great Moral Pendulum has always had a pro- 
 found respect for old age, and we have looked with veneration on 
 extreme age, and now we have added awe to veneration. It came 
 about in this way: The boss of our humble cot ordered us to get a 
 chicken for the Sunday dinner, and we did. Any order coming from 
 that direction is always obeyed by us. It is best for our health. 
 The dealer picked us out a nice plump young pullet — at least that is 
 what he told us after a careful examination, and after he had pinched 
 the fowl's legs a la connoisseur. We took the fowl home and the 
 boss of our cot hinted that it was a mature hen, and probably not 
 as young as it used to be. We assured her that either she, or some- 
 body else was mistaken, which was true, but it was not her, it was 
 somebody else. There was another mistake made when we did not 
 get up until 8 a. m. The fowl was put on to roast but it proved 
 to be a deliberate chicken, and did not roast with that degree of 
 celerity that we had hoped for. The day wore away, and so did 
 our wood-pile, and our back was bowed, like that of Atlas, from 
 carrying wood from the barn, but that fowl was as solid as the 
 man who has the largest bank account. At last our stomach col- 
 lapsed as flat as M. Santos Dumont's dirigible balloon the day it 
 ducked him in Monaco bay, and we made a desperate charge on that 
 fowl, but we were defeated on a foul by the fowl. Excuse us, please, 
 we do not know just how old that hen was, but we are satisfied that 
 it was considerably older than J. W. Dixon's youngest child. We 
 are convinced that when we lifted our axe to decapitate that ancient 
 hen, we struck at one of the oldest things in the United States, if not 
 in the world. If there was any antediluvian chicken survived, 
 she was it; if not she knew more about Noah's ark than many who 
 have written on that vexed question. Monday the boss of our cot 
 dismembered the remains with a cleaver, and after boiling for six 
 hours she succeeded in impailing a fragment on the prongs of a 
 sharp fork. Gentle reader, we will admit that this particular hen 
 was old and tough. 
 
872 HUMOROUS 
 
 A Remarkable Woman 
 
 When we first east our lot among the good people of Yates City, 
 and entered into a vigorous tussle in order to supply our natural 
 wants, we had a high regard for women in general, and for some of 
 them in particular. But we sadly confess that our experience has not 
 been of a character to confirm the correctness of our first impressions. 
 Then we were satisfied that women were only a little lower than the 
 angels; in fact we supposed about all the difference consisted in the 
 matter of wings. Now we are clearly of opinion that there are other 
 differences, that, although not so clearly defined, are still distinctly 
 marked. It is the custom of the Yates City women to call on each new 
 family that takes up its abode in their midst ; no well regulated woman 
 of this place would consider that she had performed her duty did she 
 neglect this. The first one who called on us came just after we got 
 to the house. She declared she couldn't stay, but must go right back 
 again, and it wasn't worth while to take off hat or shawl; she wasn't 
 well, and nothing short of her duty of calling on strangers could have 
 induced her to leave home ; she never went nowhere much. Her baby — 
 poor thing — was sick; last night she thought it would die with the 
 croup. Then her elder daughter caused her much anxiety; she was 
 so delicate, although she looked well ; was afraid she would lose her yet, 
 A younger daughter had always been afflicted ; one of her knees was in 
 the habit of slipping out of joint; then she was subject to tonsilitis; 
 why sometimes you could hear that child breathe a half-a-mile. Then 
 another child was so anxious to learn that books had to be kept out of 
 its sight. I asked her how old this child was, and she said, only three 
 years, but it had such a notion for study, it was very remarkable. I 
 found out afterward that this child didn't know its letters. She said 
 some people seemed to be born to trouble; her mother never had good 
 health, and she never had. For six years she had the rheumatism so bad 
 she never left her bed! for sixteen years she had been nearly blind, 
 and for seven years was entirely blind in one eye; finally got some 
 better, but expected to lose that eye yet; for sixteen years she had the 
 erysipelas three months in the year; for nineteen weeks she was down 
 with smallpox; for sixty -five days she had the typhoid fever, and in all 
 that time the light was not out in the house. Then suddenly placing 
 her finger on the side of her neck, she asked us if we had any idea 
 what caused that scar? We told her we had not the slightest. That, 
 said she, in a triumphal tone, was a cancer, and I don't think any 
 other woman ever suffered as I did with that ; for forty-three days and 
 nights I never slept a wink, and I weighed just forty-one pounds; I 
 finally killed it with tansy tea, but it was over nine years before I 
 could do any work. Then she placed both hands on her breast and 
 exclaimed, * * Oh, my heart ! ' ' did we ever have the heart disease ? Well, 
 
HUMOROUS 878 
 
 I do declare; never had it! I have had it now for going on seventeen 
 years; it's dreadful, and I expect to die with it yet. Once she expected 
 to die with the yellow fever — that was when she lived in Alabama — 
 she had it bad for five weeks. In 1852 she had the Asiatic cholera, but 
 got over it. Thought now that the chord leading from her backbone 
 to her heart was broken; in fact the doctor thought her spine almost 
 entirely gone, and one of her arras got out of place occasionally, while 
 the other arm she could not lift at all, and when she did lift it, Oh how 
 it did hurt! She had the tooth-ache for fourteen years, almost inces- 
 santly, and she had to keep cotton in her ears to ward off earache, while 
 every Wednesday and Sunday she had the headache. But she must 
 go right back; hadn't walked so far before in four years; wouldn't 
 our wife come over to see her? had taken a fancy to her on sight; had 
 forgotten to tell us that her family had never had the itch, nor had 
 a bedbug ever been seen in her house, and one thing she could say 
 without boasting, and that was that no child of her's had ever been 
 lousy. At the end of three hours she took her leave, but not until she 
 knew how many dresses our wife had, and where she got such a love of 
 a hat, and how old the children were, and how many cans of fruit we 
 had, and got two dress patterns, and three apron patterns, one bonnet 
 pattern, and borrowed a little salaratus, and warned our wife who 
 to associate with and who not to associate with. As her footfall died 
 away on the walk, we remarked to our wife, reflectively, that is a 
 remarkable woman. 
 
 A Medicine Ad. 
 
 There are editors who are ambitious to shine, and who sing the 
 praises of the *' Grand Elliptical, Asiatical, Panticurial, Nevous Cor- 
 dial;" others extol the "Grand Parramanna, Rhap Squianna, from 
 Whandete Whang Whang." But we are here to sing for Hartsook's 
 Infallible Salve, that reaches down into the very grave and yanks 
 back to vigor the one as good as dead; we extol that matchless remedy 
 that, by a simple twist of the wrist, pries open the powerful jaws of 
 death, and releases the wriggling victim, just as he or she is about to 
 turn up his or her toes to the daisies. This salve shows the possibilities 
 of a free country. If you have 25 cents you can get a box of this salve ; 
 if you have a box of this salve you can laugh at old sores, forget old 
 scores, smile in the grinning face of death, and poke fun at the rusty 
 scythe that hangs over his shoulder. Why should people "crowd the 
 road to death as to a festival, ' ' when by getting a box of this salve they 
 may kick up their heels in clover? 
 
 Missing 
 
 Can it be possible that our worthy, esteemed and valuable Bismark 
 correspondent has become lost in the alfalfa fields of that portion of 
 
 m 
 
374 HUMOROUS 
 
 our great and glorious domain? "Our hopes and fears start up 
 alarmed, ' ' for evil camps on the trail of the just, and even a good man 
 is not exempt from "The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." 
 And then again it may be that some maiden fair and coy, just budding 
 into beauteous womanhood, with teeth of pearl and tresses deftly curled, 
 has made at him the goo goo eyes, and turned him from the paths of 
 literature. May all the gods forbid. 
 
 Left Rapidly- 
 Last week one of our citizens had a little family tiff with his wife, 
 and he resolved to flee from the city in the stilly night, and incarcerate 
 himself in the Soldiers' Home, or some other safe retreat. So he put his 
 Sunday clothes in an old corn crib, and waited for darkness. A couple 
 of town wags found them, stuffed them with straw, set them in the 
 corner and left. Our citizen cautiously approached in the gloaming, 
 and seeing the stuffed suit, took it for a tramp, and left the locality 
 at a 2:40 gait. 
 
 W. T. Corbin's Experience 
 
 W, T. Corbin is a dealer in cattle, hogs, sheep, wool and pelts. 
 He is known to a large number of people in Knox, Peoria and Fulton 
 counties. He is an excellent judge of stock, and is prosperous and 
 happy. 
 
 Some two years ago he decided that the good book was correct 
 in the statement that "It is not good for man to be alone," so he took 
 unto himself a beautiful and intelligent girl for a wife, and he built 
 for her a neat and tasty bungalow on West Main street. 
 
 A couple of weeks ago he concluded that the lawn was too much 
 like some men's heads — it had far too large a bald spot — so he got a 
 package of clover seed at West's elevator, and as West was busy he 
 told Corbin to go to the elevator and get the seed. On his way home 
 he stopped at C. V, Bird's meat market to get a steak, and there he 
 encountered W. M. Bantz, he of the smile that won't come off, C. V. 
 Bird, whose judgment of beef cattle is really better than his judgment 
 of grass seed, and the editor of the Banner. Corbin asked their opinion 
 of his grass seed. 
 
 Bantz said it was by far the purest and best sample of genuine 
 red clover he had examined in seventeen years. The editor said that 
 Bantz was scarcely correct, that he had the endorsement of Judge 
 P. W. Gallagher that he was an expert agriculturist, and that he had 
 grown up among the greenest of grasses, and he positively knew that 
 it was a mixture of all the most noted grasses and was intended for 
 the most aristocratic lawns. C. V. Bird asked to be excused until he 
 put on his glasses, and then, after a careful inspection, he said Bantz 
 
HUMOROUS 376 
 
 was too hasty in his decision, and he was of the opinion that the editor 
 had spent so much time with green grasses, that he had become like a 
 tree toad, somewhat green himself. "Now," said he, "any one can see 
 that there is some clover seed in this package, but my opinion is it 
 is mixed with timothy, with a smattering of fox-tail." 
 
 Corbin began to realize that he had secured a bargain in grass 
 seed, so he went home and carefully sowed the grass seed, being careful 
 not to waste a single seed. Before he began to sow it, his wife told 
 him to fold up the bottom of his pant legs, so as not to get them soiled, 
 and we have the testimony of S. S. Goold that when Corbin finished the 
 job he turned down the fold in his pant legs, and carefully brushed out 
 every seed, so none might be lost. 
 
 He then went to the grain office to pay West, and insisted that his 
 price on grass seed was too low. Harley Dixon inquired what box he 
 got it out of, and Corbin told him. Dixon and West then told him 
 it was not grass seed at all, but the refuse blown out of the clover seed 
 in cleaning it. They gave him some real clover seed, and he sowed 
 that. He now says that he is puzzled whether to recommend Bantz, Bird 
 or the editor for the position of state inspector of grass seed at Chicago. 
 
 Our Hat Off to Andy 
 
 And now comes that great and good man, Andy Alpaugh, and 
 deposes and says that he owns all the lands, buildings and appur- 
 tenances thereto belonging, embraced in 152 feet front on Main street, 
 viz., etc., from the corner of the I X L barber shop, thence west to 
 and including four linear feet of Dr. H. J. Hensley's drug store, thence 
 directly to Sneak alley, sometimes called Tangleleg way, thence east 
 to the southeast corner of the Banner office, thence north on Union 
 street to the place of starting. Mr. Alpaugh swears by the bones of the 
 murdered Morgan and the hairy scalp of Hiram Abiff, that the above 
 described real estate is his by the right of discovery — a right recog- 
 nized by the Pope and all other enlightened Christian potentates — 
 that he has the deed for it duly signed, sealed and delivered, that it 
 is recorded, and therefore his title extends as far back as the memory 
 of man, and embraces the time when the only right man held was a 
 usefructary right, and that this title empowers him to cut timber, hunt, 
 fish, dig gold, minerals and precious stones on said tract; that he has 
 authority to bargain, sell, trade off, give away, or otherwise dispose 
 of all, or any portion of said premises, and further, that he has author- 
 ity to rent or lease said property, and collect for the same. If the 
 above claims are valid — and we see nothing to the contrary — then, 
 indeed, has our Andy a cinch on a good thing, for it must be patent 
 to all that he owns all the real estate in Yates City that doesn't belong 
 
376 HUMOROUS 
 
 to somebody else, and that on the same principle he also owns all the 
 arable land in the state the title to which is not vested in somebody 
 else. Our hat goes up for Andy. 
 
 Thanks 
 
 Last Monday night, between the hours of ten and eleven o'clock, 
 a party of four persons, in an open rig, serenaded several families in 
 the city, among others those of Henry Soldwell, C. L. Roberts, and the 
 editor. It was not one of the loud-mouthed serenading parties, for not 
 a word was spoken. But the music was splendid, floating out on the 
 still, evening air so softly, so sweetly, that one might have thought the 
 pearly gate was open and the angels tuning their harps. Thanks to 
 the party. We are told that Claude and Delbert Enochs of Canton 
 and Jacie Riner of this city were three of the party. 
 
 A Four Legged Turkey 
 
 And now comes the wild, woolly, wonderful word, wandering 
 wearily westward from worthy Bismark, that Mrs. Rose Anderson set 
 some turkey eggs, whether under a common hen or under a turkey 
 hen deponent saith not, nor does it matter. But the strange and 
 startling story is that one of these eggs hatched out a turkey that has 
 four corners, and a leg on each corner. This is about double the 
 number of legs that any well regulated turkey would seem to have 
 any possible use for. Whether it has four wings, two gizzards and a 
 brace of wishbones we are not informed, but it is a wonderful turkey, 
 and if it lives will be a dandy bird for Thanksgiving. 
 
 Joe Kennedy's Cow 
 
 Joe Kennedy lives just outside the corporate limits of the beauti- 
 ful city of Farmington. Joe has a Jersey cow that he set great store 
 by. She is a cow large of udder, and gives gobs of milk. Tuesday 
 night some villain — one not yet thoroughly weaned, it is supposed — 
 sought the barn lot and milked this gentle bovine in the "stilly night." 
 Joe says he does not care so much for the loss of the milk, but he does 
 not like to have his favorite "bossy" woke up so early and broken 
 of her rest. This story has nothing whatever in common with the 
 story of the "cow with the crumply horn," for this one is sans horns, 
 no doubt having been operated on by R. B. Corbin's celebrated dehorn- 
 ing fluid, none genuine except the name is blown in the bottle, all 
 rights reserved and all infringements prosecuted. 
 
HUMOROUS 377 
 
 Another Remarkable Woman 
 
 Last week we spoke of the remarkable woman who called on us 
 the day we arrived in Yates City. We soon discovered that our near- 
 est neighbor was a widow named Annise Donyx. We soon got ac- 
 quainted with her; she came over the morning after we moved, to 
 get a little salt to salt butter; wanted to know if we didn't use fine 
 salt for butter? She always did, but some people didn't seem to know 
 the difference. The next morning she came to get some sugar ; would 
 rather have white sugar, but supposed she could get along with brown. 
 The next morning she wanted soap enough to do a washing, and, 
 could we spare a washboard? This was only a beginning; she bor- 
 rowed pepper, cloves, allspice, cinnamon, nutmeg, rising, flour, bread, 
 meat, candles, oil, lamp wick, ginger, bluing, rice, vinegar, molasses, 
 coffee, tea, apples, cannel fruit, peaches, matches, flatirons, wash tubs, 
 stove kettles, steamer, brass kettle, clothes pins, clothes line, hammer, 
 augers, saw, nails, chisel, hoe, rake, spade, coal, wood, potatoes and 
 butter. She came twice a day for milk, once for sour milk, and once 
 for sweet milk. Then if she was going to have company she wanted 
 chairs, dishes, knives, forks, spoons, bowls, and, sometimes, a clean 
 table cloth. In fact, she borrowed frequently. This got to be monoto- 
 nous in six or eight months, but as she was a woman and a widow, 
 we did not like to complain. After a time, our financial condition 
 seeming to justify it, we came to the conclusion to invest in a pig, 
 thinking it would be proper to raise our own meat. So we went over 
 to an Irishman to buy a pig. We asked him if the pig was good stock. 
 "Is it the sthock yez wud be afther inquirin' about? Shure, is it 
 Barney McFlynn that wud be afther kaping anything but the tap 
 o' the sthock? Be jabers, sor, but barrin' ill usage, the aquil o' that 
 same pig niver gruntit in ony jintleman's parlor; yez might search 
 the blissed ould Isle itself, and from Cork to Tipperary the match o' 
 that very pig niver rootit in a prata patch! It's meself that wus 
 offered forty-foive dollars fur that pig at the fair, but I towld thim 
 I wusna near sa graan as I luckt; the jintlemen that toid the ribbon 
 on the pigs said that they wuldn't disgrace this pig by comparing it 
 wy the lave o' them; and the praist — bliss his rivirence — said he had 
 seen men wy worse manners nor that pig had. But it's no for the 
 loikes o' me ta ba boastin' about the bit pig; it's yer honner can tell 
 plenty fasht its the decent baste he is, an' sa docile, too, he wudn't 
 harum the laste thing in the wurruld, an mesilf that's sorry he didna 
 ha' a better master nor Barney McFlynn." We closed the deal at 
 $50, and as Barney clutched the money, he said: "Shure, its mesilf 
 that knows yez is the illigant judge av a pig." It took a half day 
 to get that pig to consent to go on our property, and it spoiled the 
 other half badly before we could induce him to enter the sty we had 
 
378 HUMOROUS 
 
 prepared. We learned more about the hog than we ever knew before. 
 We found that a great mistake had been made in putting this one 
 together, his head having been put on the wrong end. He had large 
 decision, and it took some argument to convince him that he didn't 
 know best where he wanted to go. We pride ourself on being too 
 much for an animal, and so we finally got him in limbo. But we soon 
 found he had no notion of staying there. Half an hour after we found 
 him in the garden rooting up a celery bed; at 7 o'clock next morning 
 we discovered him finishing up a patch of peas; at half past eight 
 he was in the poultry yard and gobbled up a setting of Buff Cochin 
 eggs that lacked only three days of hatching; at 10 he had eaten 
 eleven goslings, and he caught two more before we could explain 
 things to his satisfaction; by 3 o'clock p. m. we found our full-blood 
 Polled Angus calf minus his natural defense against flies. When we 
 got him in this time we did not dare to leave him, but sending for a 
 scientific work on defense, we worked until supper to make the place 
 secure. We hired a boy to guard him while we got our rations ; but 
 what boy ever did his duty? He got to playing mumblety-peg ; on our 
 return that pig was non est ; he had moved by the left flank and eluded 
 the guard, and all our efforts to come up with his rear guard that 
 night were futile. The first hint we got of his whereabouts was from 
 the widow. She called early and asked if we were about the premises ; 
 on answering her summons, she did not say good morning, but said, 
 "Is that your pig that has destroyed my garden?" We said it might 
 be; that he got out accidentally, and we could not find him. "Got out 
 accidentally!" said she. "I don't believe a word of it; you turned it 
 out to get into my garden; if you can't feed a pig at home you had 
 better not keep one; besides, I'll permit no bow legged excuse for a 
 man to serve me such a trick." We tried to apologize, but she didn't 
 give us a chance ; for half an hour she bombarded us with adjectives 
 more forcible than polite. When she finally got out of breath, we 
 unguardedly said that we did not think a lady would talk so. Ah ! 
 gentlemen, that was a terrible mistake. In fifteen minutes you could 
 not have told that our hair had ever been combed, and our face looked 
 like a pumpkin that the calves had nibbled. We had reason to be 
 thankful that nothing on earth is everlasting ; we escaped at last. We 
 do not think the barber made a quarter out of us before August, and 
 we used four bottles of liniment ; we put that pig in a patent hog 
 trap that cost us $15; the widow didn't borrow any more at our house, 
 and we don't believe that all women would be angels if they had wings. 
 
 We Reluctantly Decline 
 
 The C. B. & Q. Railroad Company sent us an advertisement, worth 
 some fifty or sixty dollars a year, and wanted us to sign an agreement 
 
 >, I 
 
HUMOROUS 379 
 
 to publish it for one year, and also to put in all changes in their time 
 table and all locals they saw fit to require, and they offered us the 
 magnificent remuneration of a pass over their branch road from Canton 
 to Vermont. Now, we are sorry to say that our innate sense of honesty 
 prevents us from accepting this liberal offer, that none but a wealthy 
 corporation could aft'ord to make. We don't wish to bankrupt the 
 company; they are too valuable an aid in the game of taking from 
 honest labor its just earnings to be used up financially; yet we know 
 that the people have a great respect and love for them ; yea, many of 
 them, rather than put the C. B. & Q. to too much trouble, ship their 
 things on other roads, even when it costs them less than the said com- 
 pany would charge; we know that many farmers haul grain twenty- 
 five miles to market rather than see this company impoverish itself 
 by the modest price they charge. No ; a corporation so loved and 
 honored by the people along its entire route we wouldn't harm for 
 anything in the world; besides, we don't really need a pass; we belong 
 to the tramp class, and we rather enjoy hoofing it from Canton to 
 Vermont, and if we don't wish to walk, any of our neighbors will 
 hitch up a team and take us over, by our merely promising never to 
 return. But we have another serious objection to riding out that 
 amount of advertising between the places named. "We fear that occu- 
 pying the seats in their passenger coaches to that extent would wear 
 out our Sunday pants, and as we have only one pair we don't think 
 we could stand the pressure. No, thank you ; we won't ride. 
 
 He Would Go 
 
 Our ''devil" insisted on going to the lecture Saturday night. We 
 warned him that some dire calamity would overtake him, but he would 
 not be warned. He chewed gum persistently for half an hour after 
 the lecture commenced, but the technical names used by the professor 
 were too much for him, and he began to lose consciousness, his jaws 
 refused to wag, his mouth opened like the bay of San Francisco, and 
 his face assumed a look of, who-cares-a-cuss-for-Phrenology that was 
 comical in the extreme. Our first thought was to let that "devil" 
 rest, but seeing that he was monopolizing the attention of the audi- 
 ence, we smote him a terrible smite, that awoke him to the solemn 
 realities of life, and his jaws were soon in motion trying to make up 
 for lost time on the gum. 
 
 A Squab Dog 
 
 Nubbin Ridge, August 3, 1880. 
 Hiram Squab's dog, Dilgo, was a walking rail fence and hedge 
 combined. He never did less than throw cattle over a nine rail fence. 
 
880 HUMOROUS 
 
 If in the middle of the field, he carried them out. Dilgo loved to 
 gather eggs, but could never be taught to bring them in before eating 
 them. I heard this from Hiram's little girl. I suppose he forgot to 
 tell me. Dilgo would never let the hired girl enter the room where 
 Mr. Squab was, after dark. Mrs. Squab liked him for this. Dilgo was 
 worse than a country paper on peddlers. The paper is content to 
 incite other people to injure peddlers, but he practiced while they 
 preached, and you could tell the number of times a peddler had called 
 at Squab's by the scars on his person. 
 
 The recording of the deeds of man's heroism in the past ages of 
 the world's history, not only on the field of battle, but in the very 
 day walks of life, and among all classes and conditions, has a direct 
 tendency to induce us to emulate their praiseworthy achievements. Not 
 only so, but it is a powerful motive urging us to deeds of still nobler 
 daring; and the curious fancy has struck me upon these observations, 
 that if our dog could be, by some means, taught the rudiments of a 
 good English education, so he might read the oft repeated stories, or 
 even could understand half that is told of him, it would stimulate him 
 to actions beyond our present belief, or else man's standing in regard 
 to veracity would be greatly diminished in the dog's estimation — prob- 
 ably the latter. While we are digging around in the dark and dirty 
 mines of the world, we must expect to unearth, once in a while, some 
 apparently unfinished or some marred specimen of the work of the 
 great Architect, whose simple love of truth is not strong enough to 
 keep in bounds a bragging tongue. So in gathering material for this 
 article on the dog, I have met a few whose anecdotes were carried into 
 a region where truth was such a small component part of the sur- 
 roundings that the poor weak fledgling of my faith would not follow, 
 and thus I am obliged to discard some of the most marvelous. The testi- 
 mony of no saint or sinner has been admitted on this point who would 
 not have been qualified to sit as a juror in the Beecher-Tilton scandal 
 case, or who would not rather endure the full pressure of a completed 
 Keely motor on every square inch of their body, than swerve the 
 breadth of a gnat's eyebrow from the truth. 
 
 Equine Sport 
 
 Jay Coykendall et al bought a nondescript equine at a sale last 
 spring. This animal had more fine points about him than the city of 
 Boston, and Jay yearned to be the sole owner of the restless steed, so 
 he bought out the other partners. On last Friday this fiery, untamed 
 steed was harnessed to a delivery wagon, the other side of the tongue 
 being occupied by a frisky steed owned by E. G. Fox. Harry Coyken- 
 dall seized the ribbons with the calm assurance of a Budd Doble, while 
 
HUMOROUS 881 
 
 Clate Trumbull mounted the seat beside him with an air that seemed 
 to say: 
 
 "Hope springs eternal in the human breast." 
 
 than did these festive steeds skim over the ground. They reached 
 the southern limit of the City in safety, turned back and were coming 
 Crack went the whip, round went the wheels while 
 
 "Not lighter does the swallow skim 
 Along the smooth lake's level brim," 
 
 down the home stretch at a pace indicating 2 :16 — or less. When ! 
 
 "The trot becomes a gallop soon, 
 In spite of bit and rein" 
 
 The heels of Jay's charger became light as the "ethereal air," and he 
 began to get in the wagon backward. Clate not wishing to interfere 
 with the rights of even a horse got out and sat down on the ground. 
 Harry clung to the ribbons with Spartan bravery till he was dragged 
 from the wagon, but the noble chargers escaped. Clate took an inven- 
 tory and found 391/4 square inches of cuticle missing from his anatomy. 
 When Jay's steed got loose he cavorted like a yearling mule vrith a 
 chestnut bur under his tail; yea, he scorned the control of man and 
 hied him away to the prairie and spent the night cropping the juicy 
 dandelion, and trampling the broad-leaved burdock under his hoof, 
 while Jay rushed frantically over the wicked City exclaiming '*My 
 furniture store for that horse." 
 
 Wyne Garrison's Pony 
 
 Wyne Garrison now has a pony. He is a meek appearing beast, 
 and is rather angular for his size. His color is — well, now, we do not 
 exactly get the word to appropriately convey an idea of the color of 
 the brute. Perhaps if we were to say he is a cerulean blue, it would 
 come pretty close to the mark, from the fact that we have no well defined 
 conception of what cerulean blue really is, and that is just about the 
 color of Wyne's pony. He is like the Dutchman said about his stray 
 sheep, viz: "he vas built mit three white fore legs behint." Of course 
 we are now speaking of the pony, not of Wyne. He bought the noble 
 charger — of course we are now speaking of Wyne's — from that dis- 
 tinguished citizen of Williamsfield, Joe Shaffer, consequently the pony 
 is — to borrow a word from our respected friend, Dr. J. D. C. Hoit — 
 "a buster." We have an impression that this pony is good for some- 
 thing, but we do not know what it is. 
 
382 HUMOROUS 
 
 The Circus 
 
 On Saturday the great French & Co. 's Monster Circus exhibited 
 here. The entire show came, on Friday night, from the favored town 
 of Brimfield — favored in not having them stay until morning — in one 
 old baggage car and two antiquated looking passenger coaches. The 
 street parade consisted of a horse with a white mane and tail — the 
 only white thing in the outfit — a dog riding a black pony, which he 
 did well, a spotted horse, a black horse and two greasy specimens of 
 circus manhood, together with five small boys — the latter, of course, 
 belonging here. 
 
 They had two tents, ten cents admitting to one, and fifty to the 
 other. The day was splendid and quite a number were on the streets, 
 though but few went in to see the performance. 
 
 There was some kind of a wheel of fortune, where many people 
 chose to relinquish their hard earned cash, for the poor privilege of 
 trying to beat the owner of the wheel out of sundry tempting bank 
 bills that he had fastened to a board. There was another chap, sleek 
 as greased lightning, who manipulated a pyramid with nails driven 
 into it so as to leave about one-half sticking out, covered with a cap, 
 the cap having a hole in the top into which a marble is dropped, reach- 
 ing a pocket at the bottom that is numbered to correspond with numbers 
 in a show case containing the prizes, and he did a land office business. 
 
 During the afternoon performance one of the women was slightly 
 injured by her horse falling with her, while performing in the ring. 
 
 Those who were in say the circus part was not an entire failure. 
 Still if there be a town in Illinois that this particular show misses and 
 they do not immediately appoint a day of thanksgiving in the churches, 
 we will think that the town has no faith in a kind Providence whose 
 watchful care has delivered its people from such a calamity as a visit 
 from this show would be. 
 
 After the performance the few traps were gathered together, 
 tumbled into one corner of a car, the south bound passenger coupled on 
 the old cars, and the outfit was away to spend Sunday in Farmington, 
 and inflict the nauseating dose on her citizens on Monday. 
 
 It may be possible that a little prejudice will be detected in this 
 article by the reader. Indeed we suspect ourself of it now. But we 
 beg the reader to remember that the provocation has been very great, 
 for we had two comps, and we accidently dropped them out of our pocket 
 while changing our clothes, the children found them, and having no 
 judgment, owing to their tender years, went to the show, and returning, 
 got off some of the stale gags used by the man who mocks a clown, and 
 ever since we have had a terribly earnest desire to hear that a howling 
 cyclone has struck a circus tent just after the people have left, and 
 
HUMOROUS 383 
 
 before the clown has escaped. After all something worse might have 
 struck the town — cyclone, smallpox, cholera — Oh ! we are glad it was 
 no worse. 
 
 Little Giants 
 
 Saturday evening, just as we had gotten attired in our new store 
 clothes, and had settled down to work — for a wonder — who should pop 
 into our sacred den but A. R. Saunders and Editor S. P. Wood, of the 
 Farmington Bugle. The boys said that they had come up to see John W. 
 Dixon's new four-pound boy; but they made fun of us as if we were 
 one of the common herd, and even claimed that they are better looking 
 than we. The boys were here to see if the reports in regard to our big 
 celebration were true. After running about the city for a time, they 
 were convinced that Yates City is the place to come on the Third, and 
 that Farmington will send up a large delegation. Saunders and Wood 
 are not large in stature, but in all those qualities that go to make up the 
 man they are giants. 
 
 A Bedlam 
 
 Monday night about nine o'clock, Yates City was a noisy town. 
 There were three or four freight engines puffing and blowing off steam. 
 John W. January was lifting his voice like a fog horn, in praise of 
 some liver nostrom; several dogs whose lives had been spared for 
 some reason not patent to the average mortal, were sitting on their 
 haunches baying the moon in a manner that would have astonished 
 Wm. Shakespeare himself; Mr. Thomas H. Cat, Esq., was out in force 
 holding concerts in the open air, while two drunk men were making 
 night hideous by their maudling bowlings in the alley behind the 
 Jaquith place. Take it all-in-all, it was not a good time for quiet medi- 
 tation, nor yet for spending an Hour Alone. 
 
 A Modern Charioteer 
 
 Andy Alpaugh has the most cantankerous team in the city. One 
 of them is a strawberry roan with a round body and short legs; 
 the other is an iron gray, with a long leg placed at each corner of him, 
 and a body that resembles a "Devil's Needle." Sometimes Andy 
 bestrides this beast, and when he does so and canters up the street he 
 makes the ideal of an equestian statue of somebody, we do not remember 
 just who. Tuesday morning Andy hitched these two firey, untamed 
 steeds to a wagon, and placing himself on the spring seat he gave the 
 word to "forward." The team was eager to obey, but they wanted 
 to see how fast they could go. Andy laid back on the ribbons like an 
 Ajax, but: 
 
 "The trot became a gallop soon. 
 In spite of word or rein." 
 
884 HUMOROUS 
 
 In front of the postoffice J. A. Hensley sallied out to rescue Andy^ 
 and when the team saw the stalwart form of the Kentuckian in front 
 of them they became as peaceable as two young rabbits. 
 
 If Andy persists in driving so much like Jehu of old, he will come 
 to grief, and we will get a good item. 
 
 Jerry Simpson's Socks 
 
 While returning from Farmington, Wednesday evening, we met 
 with an unexpected incident. While on the Burlington road, about one 
 mile and a half west of the town, we found the place where Jerry 
 Simpson, the sockless statesman of Kansas, originated. At least there 
 were the socks, ragged and dirty, lying in the road. We are no longer 
 surprised that Jerry then and there foreswore the useless covering for 
 his feet, and determined to wiggle through the rest of life's pilgrimage 
 sans socks. It used to be that a man who wore boots could not be 
 elected school director, and he who could be proven guilty of combing 
 his hair was ineligible to the office of pathmaster. But it was reserved 
 for Jerry to demonstrate that the wearing of socks is a bar to the con- 
 gress of the United States. The next time we visit Farmington we 
 expect to find Thomas Montgomery's socks neatly folded beside those 
 of the renowned Jerry. 
 
 A Vicious Mare 
 
 On Monday, while Wm. Johnson was driving his blooded mare 
 to a light wagon, being engaged in moving the household goods of Mr. 
 Burnett to the depot, she became restive, and getting beyond his con- 
 trol she kicked the harness off, and got entirely loose from the rig. 
 Johnson, who was perched on a high box, had a narrow escape from 
 instant death, an incident that we are sorry to record. He succeeded 
 in getting her pacified, and found that the breeching of the harness was 
 a total wreck. Our opinion is the animal is a race horse in disguise, 
 and we fear that she will yet do some great damage. 
 
 A Strange Craft 
 
 Monday evening the two worthies of the Farmington Bugle — ^Wood 
 & Johnson — sighted the shores of Yates City, and soon dropped anchor 
 in the placid waters in front of the Banner office. Their sailing craft 
 was a one-horse-wagon, propelled by a flea-bitten gray tacky, aged 27 
 years. On the quarter deck was a table, two chairs — in which were 
 seated the two worthies — a basket of grapes, and two vacancies that 
 looked as if they could only be filled by a spring chicken. P. S. — These 
 vacancies had vests on. James Johnson was acting sailing master, and 
 had a determined look, as if he would not hesitate to ascend to the tip- 
 
HUMOROUS 386 
 
 top of the tacky 's back, if it became necessary to reef his fore-top. S. P. 
 Wood was at the wheel — the fore wheel— and had just made an entry in 
 the log, and as he hitched up his trousers, and took a tack in the star- 
 board side of his tarpaulin he exclaimed : 
 
 "We'll fling our banner to the breeze, 
 
 Set every thread-bare sail, 
 And trust her to the God of storms. 
 
 The battle, and the gale." 
 
 This inspiring quotation so fired the bosom of Johnson that he 
 arose, spat on his hands, swung aloft a marlin-spike, and let it descend 
 on the jib-boom of the old gray with such force that he dragged the 
 anchor and sped away, bounding over the wavy crossings like a thing 
 of life, until the hull (here used for whole) disappeared below the dim 
 line of the horizon, and the precious argosy was lost to sight, while the 
 sound of a Bugle came floating back on the gentle evening zephyr in 
 tremulous tones, the refrain of which seemed to be: 
 
 "Oh! That the delinquent subscriber would come, 
 
 With the pumpkins, and taters, and corn; 
 If he don't we'll be ragged as any old bum, 
 
 That crawls out the small end of the horn." 
 
 Jack's One-Legged Rooster 
 
 A. J. Coykendall moumeth like a Whangdoodle. His flock of poultry 
 consisted of one rooster that neither laid eggs nor raised chicks. He 
 was minus one leg, and so went on the half scratch. When or how he 
 lost his leg is not stated. It may be he lost it in battle, or may be some 
 irate garden owner took it off while he was scratching out onions on 
 forbidden ground, but certain it is he had but one leg, while all the 
 world knows that any well regulated rooster should have two. Jack 
 missed his familiar crow Wednesday morning, and going out to learn 
 the reason, found him a cold corpus, not only in the jaws of death, but 
 in the jaws of Ed. Boring's dog as well. Jack thinks it is a clear case 
 of rooster murder, and charges the dog with the crime. We incline 
 to the opinion that it was a suicide, or more properly speaking, a rooster 
 end. It was not a good morning for democratic roosters anyway, and 
 a democratic rooster that had but one leg to stand on before election, 
 certainly had little inducement to longer scratch with but one set of 
 toes. 
 
 Ground Hog Day 
 
 Tuesday was ground hog day. We are aware that some dispute 
 this fact, and put in certain claims that Wednesday was the day. We 
 give no sort of credence to these claims, nor do we admit any of the 
 
386 HUMOROUS 
 
 arguments set up in support of that theory. We know that Tuesday, 
 February 2, was ground hog day, and the ground hog knows it, and 
 that settles the matter. All the arguments that could be adduced from 
 now until the "crack o' doom" could not change the fact, and if all the 
 world should declare otherwise, it would merely be an admission that 
 all the world was mistaken. Now this should settle a vexed question, 
 much as the edict of an emperor, or that more pretentious, though per- 
 haps not least potent, document, the Pope's bull. Having thus settled 
 this vexed controversy, for we take it that the world will not be stub- 
 born enough to longer maintain what we do not believe, and what we 
 have taken the pains to thus controvert, we will proceed to say that 
 Tuesday was a most auspicious ground hog day. He came out of his 
 hole, but not seeing his shadow, he did not go back, and at this blessed 
 moment he is roaming like the free and independent tramp, at his own 
 sweet will. This is great news for the farmer. It indicates that the 
 ground hog has joined the Alliance, and that Simpson, Peffer, Ground 
 Hog, et al, are all combined to compel prosperity to sit on the door step 
 of every granger. 
 
 Our Prognosticator 
 
 The last time that we referred to the good Deacon Philbee in this 
 Great Moral Pendulum, we lost a valued subscriber — that is we valued 
 him at $1.50 per year. But there was a pesky difficulty, an hereditary 
 feud, a vendetta a la Kentucky, existing between our valued subscriber 
 ■ — to the extent of $1.50 — and the good Deacon, and so the circulation 
 of the Great Moral Pendulum was dwindled to the extent of one. We 
 then made a solemn cuss that Philbee should not again be mentioned in 
 our columns until we got another subscriber. Fifteen weary months 
 have passed, and last week we added a new name to our list, and now 
 we are free from our rash cuss, and can say that, as a weather prog- 
 nosticator, Mr, Philbee, in our estimation, stands head and shoulders 
 above all his contemporaries. We are aware that M, S. Jordan shows 
 a wonderful aptitude in planetary lore, and has made a profound study 
 of equinoxes and paralaxes, and stellar precessions, but he lacks the 
 aplomb, the sang froid, the fortiter in re that distinguishes Philbee, 
 and like Philip Ray, in Enoch Arden, he must be content to be "a 
 little after" Philbee. Our faith in Philbee is a living, vital, growing 
 principle. Has he not told us that he has laid awake in order to study 
 the muskrat, the goose bone, the corn husk, the hog melt and the thick 
 bark on the north side of the giant oak, and is there not an unction about 
 the old man "ye '11 scarcely find in ony." Well, we guess yes! And 
 then did he not tell us — and that only a few days ago — that he was of 
 the opinion that the first part of this winter had been mild and salu- 
 brious, and that if the same kind of weather continued for three months 
 longer that the last part would be precisely like the first part only more 
 
HUMOROUS 887 
 
 so. We have kept strict watch of Philbee's prognostications for almost 
 a quarter of a century, and we can testify that he always hit it if he 
 didn't miss it. In fact, Mr. Philbee's weather predictions remind us of 
 the way the Irishman ssi'^ Tip shot the porcupine. ''Be jabers I treed 
 him under the hay stack and shot him with the barn shovel. The first 
 time I hit him I missed him, and the second time I hit him right where 
 I missed him the first time." 
 
 Another Dream Vanished 
 
 This is a vile world. We did not originate this idea, nor did we 
 even discover it ; but it is just as true as though we had. For years we 
 have been searching for a life work ; some mission that would not only 
 make Yates City a great and important metropolis, and her traders 
 merchant princes, but would also place our toes in the top niche of 
 fame and cause our fellow citizens, after our demise, to drive a smooth 
 board at the head of the first real estate that we could call our own, 
 and inscribe on it, ' ' Here lies the old cuss who blazed the way to great- 
 ness for others, but missed it himself." We thought we had found it. 
 We saw that Yates City was much like a sick kitten, or a lousy calf, or 
 a mangy pup, or a boy who has just taken his first smoke ; there was 
 something the matter with her. We diagnosed the case, located the 
 trouble, and then we set out to discover the remedy. One day, some 
 three weeks ago, we jumped three feet from our chair and exclaimed, 
 "Eureka!" We would come to the help of our merchants, and induce 
 all our people to trade at home. Our articles are part of the history 
 of this town. So red hot were they, so vehement, so fierce, so caustic, 
 so convincing that several persons had formed themselves into an 
 oathbound society, and taken a solemn oath never to get half a mile 
 from Yates City, no odds what the inducement might be ; others were 
 about to foreswear "the illicit rove," and even some of the most 
 inveterate old codgers, when they were returning from Elmwood with 
 contraband purchases, would sneak down the back alleys in order to 
 escape our eagle gaze. We were looking forward to a grand banquet 
 that we felt sure our merchants would tender — yes, we believe that 
 "tender" is the proper word — us when we had succeeded in making 
 every saint and sinner, good, bad and indifferent, trade at home, and 
 we had just entered the post office to purchase a pencil that we in- 
 tended to devote to the cause to which we felt we were wedded, when, 
 what do you suppose we saw? It was a large advertising card, gotten 
 up by a man from another town, and two-thirds of our merchants had 
 paid him two dollars each for a small space. It took away our breath ; 
 it caused a polar wave to make a detour down our spinal cord; it 
 cooled our ardor. We went out a firm believer in total depravity. 
 How could we write an article pleading with people to trade with 
 
388 HUMOROUS 
 
 merchants who themselves take the first opportunity to spend their 
 money with a foreign trader? We are done for. That bright vision 
 of a smooth board at our grave had faded like a maiden's dream of 
 love. It is said that Dogberry wanted to "Write himself down an 
 ass." What have these merchants done? They have advertised as a 
 whole pasture filled with something that might rise to the sireship of 
 a long-eared horse. In some other line we may yet rise to eminence, 
 but in that great battle in which gain was to come to our merchants 
 we feel that the flash of our sword will not light the path to victory. 
 
 Editor Brown 
 
 Editor Alson J. Brown, of the Farmington Home Visitor, has not 
 climbed the golden stairs yet, but Monday, about the hour of 11 :30 
 a. m., he did climb the stairs leading to the Banner office. He came 
 over to meet his daughter, Mrs. Ben. Wallich, of Prairie City, who 
 was going home on a visit, and did not wish to wait for a train. We 
 just got a glimpse of Brown. That glimpse assured us that he is 
 handsome, intellectual, erudite, gallant, brave and honest. But we did 
 not like his visit. He made it too short — something like the fly did 
 when it alighted on the hot stove. In fact, his visit was brief, like 
 Finnigan's report which ran "Aff agin, on agin, gone agin. Finni- 
 gan." Brown didn't even try to make us glad when he left. 
 
 A Mistake 
 
 Last Saturday evening we discovered that we had a number of 
 very interested friends in this city. We cannot afford to name them, 
 because there are several, and it would be invidious to particularize, 
 where all had done so much to assist us while enemies were mali- 
 ciously endeavoring to have us indicted. We are ashamed of ourselves 
 to think that we did not find out what they were doing for us until after 
 the case was settled in our favor. We are now satisfied that we made 
 a mistake in taking any trouble in the matter at all ourselves. But 
 there can be no mistake about it, for they told us that they did much, 
 and that settles it. True, we did not discover it until the contest was 
 over, but this we attribute entirely to our lack of perception. Had 
 we been sharp enough to know how they were moving heaven and 
 earth to serve us, we, and some other friends, might have rested easy. 
 Mark Twain once said, in speaking of a man who was elected to a 
 high office from his town, that there were two great men in the town, 
 the one elected and himself, but that he had succeeded in keeping the 
 fact of his greatness hid better than the other man had. This is the 
 way with our friends. There were two classes of them, and this class 
 succeeded admirably in keeping us from finding out that they were 
 on our side. We can say of these friends as the old negro woman 
 
HUMOROUS 889 
 
 did of the distinguished visitor to whom she got an introduction. She 
 was much embarrassed, and feeling that she should say something, she 
 said: "Glad to meet you. I hope to have a better opinion of you." 
 This is how we feel toward those friends ; we hope to have a better 
 opinion of them. What we intended to do was to thank these friends, 
 and congratulate them in their success in keeping the side they were 
 on such a profound secret that no mortal discovered it until they told 
 it after the battle was fought and the victory won, and if we have 
 not succeeded we beg their pardon most humbly. 
 
 John Downs 
 
 Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, stand 
 back and give small folks a chance to see what is going on. We are 
 ready to depart and get tickets for a harp and crown. We have seen 
 the pink of the whole Democratic camp. It was the poet orator, of 
 Peoria, and John Downs is his name. He came among us like a 
 benediction, on Saturday afternoon, and he left a great streak of 
 democracy and poesy hanging over the city, so that one might go 
 up and cut off a chunk, just as we used to cut off a slice of dried 
 beef that hung from the rafter in the happy days of long ago. John 
 is a sort of corruscating oracle of the great and good democracy. He 
 is never weary in well doing, but he orates and sings, sings and orates, 
 just as though the pillars of democracy rested on his broad shoulders. 
 We are blest in having seen John. 
 
 An Accommodating Squire 
 
 Yates City has one of the most accommodating squires in the 
 world. A week or two ago a young man called on him and inquired 
 what he would charge to perform the marriage ceremony for him and 
 his best girl. Jim told him that as he was a hard working boy, he 
 would not charge him more than one dollar. The young man said, 
 "All right," and in a short time appeared at the Hensley mansion 
 with the blushing bride and future mother-in-law. Jim proceeded 
 to tie the knot in the most approved manner and latest style, and at 
 the conclusion the young man called him to one side and said: "I 
 haven't got the one dollar, but will pay you on Monday." The groom 
 stood silent for a moment, and the squire thought he was pondering 
 over the good advice he had given him a few moments before, and was 
 congratulating himself that the young man would make one of the 
 most loving and exemplary of husbands, when he was a little taken 
 down by the new head of the prospective household suddenly saying: 
 "You couldn't let me have seventy-five cents to take me up to Oak 
 Hill, could you?" The good squire dug down in his "jeans" and 
 fished up a half dollar which he lent, added his blessing, wished the 
 young couple "much joy," threw in a parting benediction, and started 
 
890 HUMOROUS 
 
 two hitherto divided hearts down the declivity of time with only one 
 perceptible "beat." 
 
 The Town Cow 
 
 In our opinion there can be no genuine revival of religion in this 
 community as long as cows are permitted to run loose in the street 
 during winter. You may convert a granger in the spring, and he may 
 be a consistent Christian during the summer; he may even wiggle 
 along past Thanksgiving, or even the holidays. But when the first 
 snow falls and he comes to town in his sled or sleigh, and in a few 
 minutes finds one or more old lank, lean, vicious looking cows clean- 
 ing the hay out of his rig, and chewing the corner of his robe or 
 blankets, we do not believe that it is possible for him not to swear. 
 No, sir; you may boost the average granger so near the heavenly 
 kingdom that he can almost smell the fruit on the other shore ; but the 
 sight of the diabolical old town cow calmly and complacently munch- 
 ing hay out of his sled will yank him so near to the domains of his 
 Satanic majesty that the nap on his chinchilla beaver coat will smell 
 mighty strong of brimstone. In fact, we think it a moral impossibility 
 for a granger not to swear at the town cow. 
 
 Drove Too Fast 
 
 Last Sunday some of our horsemen got mixed up in a race with 
 their horses and buggies, and as the home stretch happened to be 
 inside the corporate limits of Yates City, and on the main street, the 
 powers that be found that the ordinance was not only bent, but badly 
 twisted, and they called on the offenders to contribute something 
 toward salving the wounded dignity of the city, and help in straight- 
 ening the bent ordinance. On Monday L. C. Kennedy, George Dimick, 
 and a Mr. Riner, the latter from Elmwood, came up, plead guilty, 
 and dropped something over $12 into the city fund. Lee Cummings 
 of Williamsfield, was with the boys, but he has not yet settled. In 
 the race Kennedy smashed a wheel on his buggy. This is a warning 
 to all and sundry, that if they wish to imitate Jehu, the son of Nirashi, 
 they had better get out into the country, where the inhabitants wear 
 wide-toed shoes, the bull belloweth with impunity and the polecat 
 perfumeth the evening zephyrs. 
 
 The Latest Arrival 
 
 "We have a baby in the house, 
 
 A little man of ten; 
 Who dearer to his mother is 
 
 Than all God's little men." 
 
 Common folks want to stand back; be careful how you set up 
 your yawp; this town is growing, and don't you never forget it; an- 
 
HUMOROUS 391 
 
 other painter, grainer and paper hanger has been added to our list; 
 he arrived by the old reliable route, and reached the city about the 
 hour of high noon, on Tuesday, February 23, 1886, just one day behind 
 the birthday of the father of his country. For the same reason those 
 of the same trade affiliate everywhere, he first called on Frank T. 
 Corbin. He is the light weight champion of Yates City, tipping the 
 beam at 814 pounds, and he has never yet been whipped. He has 
 gone into partnership with F. T. for twenty-one years, and then he 
 will vote the straight, simon pure, unadulterated Republican ticket. 
 Frank's wife — formerly Miss Sadie Whited — claims a half interest 
 in the new painter. 
 
 That Watch 
 
 Last week when this great moral pendulum was obliged to go 
 to press in order that its 700,000 — or less — readers might not be left 
 without good Sunday reading, this town was all torn up, ripped up the 
 back, so to speak, by a watch contest. It was to have been settled 
 Saturday night, but it was postponed until Monday night, thus giving 
 the church members time to pray over it, or else for some other wise 
 reason. At any rate it was put off until Monday night. There were 
 some scattering votes cast for persons who promptly forbade the use of 
 their names for the contest, and these were not given. There were 
 1,519 votes cast, as follows : 
 
 May Maxwell, 402; Lizzie Spickard, 386; Stella Boyes, 367; Loa 
 Coykendall, 364. 
 
 That Rooster 
 
 The boys who run the chicken ranch brought us in a rooster 
 on Wednesday. They said he was sent by R. G. Mathews, and that he 
 was a this year's chicken. He was a dominique, sans tail, sans comb, 
 sans everything except spurs, and of these he had at least five inches 
 on each leg. We gave this tender bird over to the mercies of John 
 Brimmer. We are sorry that this bird can't talk, because we are 
 confident that if he could, he could settle the question of the deluge, 
 and where the ark really did rest. He is undoubtedly the same rooster 
 that woke M. H. Pease the first night he spent in Illinois. 
 
 Base, Heartless World 
 
 The world — base, heartless world — has not ceased laughing at 
 Dogberry, who insisted on writing himself down an ass. But last week 
 we succeeded in writing ourselves down a plain, bald-headed liar. 
 Now, it must be patent to every reflective mind that a man who tells 
 bald-headed lies is on a lower plane than is any well regulated jackass 
 
392 HUMOROUS 
 
 that ever lopped his lazy but honest and lengthy ears in a thistle 
 patch. It was on this wise : We stated in this great moral pendulum 
 that Henry Larson would move his shoe shop to the room in the west 
 end of the building occupied by Ed Taylor's barber shop. It was not 
 true ; therefore it was a lie. We do not feel like humiliating our- 
 selves — there is but one of us — by further apology this week, and will 
 now state that Henry Larson will move his shoe shop to the room in 
 the south end of the Farmers' Bank building, and may he continue to 
 put good leather in his soles. 
 
 The Fourth of 1858 
 
 In another part of this paper will be found an article, sent to 
 the Banner by David Corbin, giving some history of the first Fourth 
 of July celebration held in Yates City, which was in 1858. In this 
 article is mentioned the music, furnished by one whom he calls our 
 warrior fifer, we presume because he afterward was in request as a 
 fifer during the time the soldiers were being recruited for the war 
 of the rebellion. The statement is also made that there was drum 
 "accompaniments." M. Knable informs us that the drummers were an 
 old blacksmith named Winchel, and Bob Miller, and states that as 
 soon as dinner was announced, Miller threw away his drum and made 
 a bee line for the table. 
 
 The name of the orator of the day is not given and we have not 
 yet been able to find any one who can remember who it was. It seems 
 strange that one who yanked the tail of the British Lion, and caused 
 the "American Boiled Owl" to screech in very glee, should have been 
 forgotten in fifty years. But such is fame, and it serves to emphasize 
 that sage remark of Rip Van Winkle, "Are we so soon forgotten when 
 we're gone?" We are sure that some of the older readers of the 
 Banner will read the article with interest. 
 
 The Yaller Dog 
 
 North of Yates City lives an old farmer whom we will call Potts. 
 And if any one wishes to write his initials, let them call him Henry, 
 as it will do as well as any other. His wife bought a nice new copper 
 wash boiler in Yates City, paying $4.50 for it. She had used it but 
 a few times, and set it on a bench in the yard, and forgot to bring it 
 in at night. Now some cantankerous, lousy, mangy cur dog had been 
 bothering Potts for some time, and he swore a solemn swear more 
 than a yard in length, that the next time he came on the premises at 
 night he should be left ready for the bologna mill. So he loaded both 
 barrels of an old blunderbus to the muzzles, and listened. He was 
 
HUMOROUS 898 
 
 rewarded ; he heard a noise ; he slipped out, crept silently around the 
 house, saw a form looming up, fired both barrels and — riddled the new 
 wash boiler so full of holes that it could not even be used for a strainer. 
 Andrew Jackson Donaldson Coykendall bought the remains at 2i/2 
 cents per pound. Mrs. Potts has a new boiler, and Mr, Potts knows 
 more than he did about "yaller" dogs. 
 
 A Sad Case 
 
 Last Saturday we went to Farmington, and called on Brother 
 Wilson, the sad and lonely grass widow of the Bugle, whose sad looks 
 sent a bitter pang even into our gizzard. We tried to wean his 
 thoughts by a reference to Invisible Green's fish slander. He said he 
 knew and pitied the simplicity of Invisible Green, who, no doubt, 
 meant well, but evidently was directing others in the road where his 
 own most brilliant deeds overtook him; but, added he, "Green is safe 
 until Mrs. Bugle returns. ' ' We knew then that we had struck a heftier 
 chunk of grief than we understood, so we glode, slode and strode out, 
 feeling that but a scurvy wretch would say fish in the shadow of such 
 woe. 
 
 Took Some 
 
 Andy Alpaugh took an enormous dose of Wizard oil last week, 
 and it doubled him up like a wagon jack, unjointed his neck, dislocated 
 his spine, loosened his toe nails, and almost shook his confidence in 
 his pet theory of the flatness of the earth. The reason he took so much 
 was because the medicine man gave it to him free gratis, for nothing, 
 without a cent, and told him it was a good thing; and Andy has 
 always believed that he could not get too much of a good thing. Andy 
 says he intended to set that particular dose of Wizard oil to wrestling 
 with the rheumatism, but he thinks the plaguey stuff took a fall out 
 of him. It is ever thus, the good seem destined to come to grief, even 
 as the sparks hustleth up the flue. 
 
 Identifying Portraits 
 
 On Monday that prince of prevaricators, Andrew Jackson Don- 
 aldson Coydendall, ex-California pioneer, ex-Colorado explorer, boss 
 auctioner for the people of the great state of Illinois, Grand Mogul 
 of the Chicken Peelers, most noted of all the peregrinating tin mer- 
 chants, and sole and only man in the state whose birthday is a mov- 
 able date, came into this office and was looking over a copy of the 
 History of Fulton County, when E. H. West came in, and noticing 
 the portraits in the work, asked Uncle Jack if he knew them all. 
 "Know them," said Jack, "why, you may cover up the names, and I 
 will tell you who they are as fast as you can turn to them." E, H. 
 
394 HUMOROUS 
 
 said he would test Jack's knowledge in that direction, and he went 
 through the book, and Jack knew three, sort of guessed at the fourth, 
 and made a clear miss of the remainder. This would have downed 
 any common liar, but Uncle Jack is a thoroughbred, and don't you 
 forget it. 
 
 As to Population 
 
 Yates City has taken no real census, but Sam Weir got Deacon 
 Spickard to guess on the population, and the Deacon solemnly avers 
 that after looking at the matter from both sides, and then perambulat- 
 ing down the middle, he is satisfied that the population of Yates City 
 amounts to some, if not more. In this conclusion the good Deacon kept 
 strictly within the limits of the corporation. This does not include 
 Douglas nor Uniontown, where several more people reside. If the 
 towns on the Q. south to Canton, west to Knoxville, and east to Peoria, 
 were counted it would add materially to the splendid showing here 
 given. As it is, Yates City is shown to be larger than any other town 
 of half its size. Boost Yates City. 
 
 Scorching "Winthrop" . 
 
 Nearly all our readers remember A. M. Swan. Ame Babcock 
 secured him a clerkship in some department at Washington, during 
 the first part of Lincoln 's administration. He was five-tenths pure wind, 
 four-tenths cheek and one-tenth audacity. He used to be on familiar 
 terms — if his own word was believed — with all foreign ministers, states- 
 men and generals on both the Confederate and the Federal sides. It is 
 not probable that he ever spoke to half a dozen of these celebrities in 
 his life, but some were so charitable as to say that Swan had told these 
 lies so long that he actually believed that these were veritable occur- 
 rences. The Peoria Journal has a correspondent at Washington whose 
 assumed name is "Winthrop," who has all of Swan's qualities except 
 his ability. He gravely states, in a recent letter, in speaking of the late 
 A. J. Bell, the following: "It was some time before I discovered any- 
 thing in him, and I shall always have to regret that my first allusions to 
 him in my correspondence were far from being complimentary." Ye 
 gods ! that such a man as Winthrop should pen these words ; and that, 
 too, just after he had related a transcendent joke that he perpetrated 
 on Senator Palmer, after he had been sworn into office, by telling him 
 that ' ' I had great confidence now in the results of his senatorial career. ' ' 
 And he remarks that Palmer "smiled audibly;" that is, we are led to 
 conclude, he laughed right out. Well, for the life of us we do not see 
 how the senator could have helped the "audible smile," if he got even 
 a glimpse of this rubber-up-against-great-men, if he has not changed 
 since his red hair shined through the fogs in Pontiac. And by Jove! 
 
HUMOROUS 395 
 
 only to think that he did not at first discover anything in A. J. Bell! 
 And he "regrets it." Ah, vain regret! It comes too late to benefit 
 that true and noble man who has gone to join the great majority, 
 and whose body rests so calmly in the sacred precincts of Springdale 
 Cemetery, What might have been the career of A. J. Bell had not this 
 fawner at-the-feet-of-greatness, in a moment of weakness, no doubt, a 
 weakness that pertains to humanity, and more to greatness, "failed 
 to discover anything in him for some time." We regret it ourselves, 
 regret it so bitterly, so mournfully, so sadly that a tell-tale moisture 
 dims our eye, — not for him whose death we have so recently mourned — 
 no, not for him, — but simply and solely because this admission of weak- 
 ness on the part of "Winthrop," shatters our cherished idol, before 
 whom we bowed in adoration, and in whom we implicitly believed; we 
 can only console ourselves now by the reflection that the character of 
 Christ is the only perfect one that history records, and that ' * Winthrop ' ' 
 — probably by an oversight on his part — has never claimed that he 
 talked familiarly with the Saviour while He was on the earth. 
 
 Not Justice 
 
 If we are disposed to question that ' ' There is no excellence without 
 great labor," let us turn to the picture of poor old Galileo, kneeling 
 in the presence of the inquisition, and solemnly declaring that he did not 
 believe what he knew to be absolutely true. Let us read the story of 
 Eli Whitney, the inventor of the cotton gin; let us note John Fitch 
 dying broken hearted and alone ; let us observe the struggles of Guten- 
 berg, fleeing from his enemies and finally dying in poverty; let us gaze 
 on the destitution of Howe, as he shivers in a cheerless London garret, 
 hungry and utterly dejected, and after his return to America behold 
 him begging for means to enable him to reach the bedside of his dying 
 wife. The world has not recognized its greatest benefactors in the 
 hour when such recognition would have benefited them. 
 
 The Spectacle Man 
 
 Wednesday the City was visited by an itinerant spectacle man. He 
 did not meet with success; indeed nothing but high living injures the 
 eyesight, and no one lives high in Yates City; (our eyes are in splendid 
 condition). He lost faith in the town; he waxed wroth; he belted 
 M. Bird, our hotel man, lively at every place he stopped; he said we 
 did not have a first class house in the City. At length he got into 
 Fox's store, and awoke the ire of the senior Fox, who proceeded to 
 preach his funeral sermon for him, and, we are told, did him a good 
 job, giving Mr. Itinerant just what he needed, a good "setting down." 
 Mr. Spectacles then came to the Banner office to be consoled; we con- 
 
396 HUMOROUS 
 
 soled him; we told him that Fox was in the habit of talking just 
 that way to every fool who struck the town, and if he could not be 
 induced to desist we feared that first class idiots would cease to visit 
 the town. He wept when he thought what a calamity that would be. 
 He left for Maquon on the 5:20 express; didn't even wait for supper. 
 Look out for him, other towns ! And if you have anything good to eat, 
 set it out to him. How will you know him ? Bless me ! Don 't you know 
 a gentleman by instinct? If you don't you can tell him by his other 
 stink, it is so much like a smoking car stink. 
 
 He is tall and finely built — so finely that when he stands edge- 
 wise you can hardly see him; and his legs are swollen, so much so that 
 they are nearly as large as knitting-needles; and then in the clutch 
 of his bony hand rests a grip-sack. Oh ! You would know him anywhere. 
 But beware if you meet him in Chicago; he would not fight in Yates 
 City ; no room to bury dead men here ; but in Chicago — Ah ! Fox, 
 beware of Spectacles if you meet him in Chicago. 
 
 About Bath Tubs 
 
 "We are told that there is a paper published at Maquon called * ' The 
 Tomahawk" — it should have been called "The Maul," which would be 
 much more appropriate. The editor is trying to get in the same class 
 with Victor Rosewater of the Omaha Bee, but he seems to lack the 
 ability. Some one happened to mention a bath-tub in his hearing, and 
 having no knowledge of what it was, he wrote what he called an article, 
 stating that a barber in Yates City had caught a bath-tub (he evidently 
 had the idea that they run wild somewhere), and that he had it at the 
 shop, and that he nor his assistant could shave a man, for a week, they 
 were so busy explaining the thing to their customers. 
 
 It is true there are no bath-tubs in the Yates City barber shops. 
 They are not needed. Every family in this city has a private bath- 
 tub, and they take their bath before coming up town. It would be con- 
 sidered very bad taste for a number of people to "sopple" in the same 
 bath-tub, in this place. We had supposed that the only animal that 
 wallowed in the same puddle was the hog, but since hearing of this 
 Tomahawk screed, we are wondering if we have not been mistaken. 
 
 Badly Used 
 
 Two young braves from Yates City, whose hearts were full to burst- 
 ing with love for two fair damsels of Maquon, hired a livery rig and 
 determined to bask, for one evening in "Love's young dream." But 
 alas! The Maquon boys tumbled to their racket, and so it was that 
 about the hour when John and Jake expected to be in clover, the boys 
 sailed in. Jake drew a long breath, made a solemn promise that if 
 
HUMOROUS 897 
 
 he got safe home to his ma, he would never, never be caught hankering 
 after the pouting lips and coy bangs of a Maquon lass. But prompt 
 action was a necessity, and so Jake lifted up his voice and warned John 
 saying: John, John, the "Philistines be upon us." And it was even so, 
 for a large number of the uncircumcised fell upon them with rock, stick, 
 coal and mud. And the boys made great haste and got them out of 
 town, and returned to Yates City, weeping as they went and saying, 
 Alas! Alas. 
 
 Fixing Responsibility 
 
 A report got into circulation that W. G. Lehman, our worthy 
 postmaster, had chopped down a large tree for a telephone pole. In 
 trying to prove the truth of this report we interviewed L. D. Fletcher, 
 our hustling lumber merchant, and he insists that he did some chop- 
 ping on that same tree himself. Our own opinion is that when the man 
 who actually did chop down that tree is finally discovered beyond a 
 doubt, it will be found that it was either Pete Garrison or J. W, Dixon, 
 and all the indications now point to Dixon as the man. 
 
 The Song He Sang 
 
 In a write up of the 0. S. E. surprise party for Mr. and Mrs. 
 
 Wilson Adams, which appeared in the Banner, some two weeks ago, it 
 
 was stated that Dr. H. J. Hensley did some artistic singing. We are 
 
 now able to lay before the delighted reader the words of his song, as 
 
 follows : 
 
 "There was a man, he had two sons. 
 
 And both of them were brothers, 
 
 Tobias was the name of one, 
 
 Bohunkus was the other." 
 
 Our "Devil" 
 
 Our "devil" went off on a bender, this week, and was gone three 
 days. On his return he handed in the lines given below, and claimed 
 that they were given to him by some one. We have suspected for some 
 time that the youth was going to the bad, and we are glad that it 
 resulted in nothing more serious, as, for some time, we were afraid that 
 some of the Yates City girls had "mashed" him with their red stock- 
 ings: 
 
 "The Bugle man he blew a blast. 
 
 That blast it was a blizzard. 
 But the reaction was so great. 
 
 That it burst the Bugle's gizzard." 
 
398 HUMOROUS 
 
 Authentic Anecdotes of Dogs. 
 
 Nubbin Ridge, July 27, 1880. 
 
 Mrs. Raca was my neighbor while living in Salem township, Knox 
 county. She was the happy possessor of a squatty looking dog whose 
 family traits were so completely covered by extreme ugliness that I 
 never could make out to what particular species he belonged. His 
 chief recommendation consisted in the fact that he had been to Michigan 
 twice. This lady had four children, and she informed me that the dog 
 had had the chief care and management of them. After I got fully 
 acquainted with the children I never doubted it for a moment. She 
 said that dog would permit no one, not even the father, to lay a finger 
 on the baby; I think he made a difference when you took the whole 
 hand for I have seen dozens of people handle the child and the dog 
 did not appear to notice it. If that dog could only have been a little 
 different, and permitted no one but the father to touch the child, I 
 think he would have been the illustrious head of a useful family of 
 dogs. In that case every women could own such a dog, and in cases 
 of doubtful parentage the gentlemen could be marched up in single 
 file and he who could lay his finger on the baby without having a right 
 smart chunk bit out of the calf of his leg, could be made to provide for 
 said baby. The only drawback I see to this would be that many married 
 men would keep the youngest child 's dress soiled by laying their fingers 
 on it, with one eye on the dog, just to see how he would act. But then, 
 I wouldn't let my wife see me try that. No, not for half the gold in 
 the Black Hills. And it may be as well such dogs don 't exist. 
 
 When Mrs. Raca first visited me the dog always came along; I 
 asked her why she let him follow. 
 
 ** Bless you," said she, "you can't keep him at home." 
 
 "Shut him up in the house," said I. 
 
 "Oh my," said she, "you might do that, and I warrant he 
 would get out some how and be here in five minutes. No you can't keep 
 him in the house if that child is gone." 
 
 That summer I received a visit from a friend of mine, named 
 Harry Symons. Now Harry was perfectly tractable on everything but 
 dogs; but it had to be a very fine looking dog that Harry wouldn't 
 rather shoot than to eat oysters (and few oysters spoil around Yates 
 City). Harry was coming for a few days of squirrel hunting, and I 
 warned Mrs. Raca not to let her dog get in his way or he might shoot 
 it before I was aware of it. One day she came down and while we 
 were talking I heard the report of Harry's gun, and the sudden yelping 
 of a dog. I sprang from my seat exclaiming, "Mrs. Raca, I'll bet he has 
 killed Slip!" 
 
 "That can't be," said she, "for I shut him in the house and I know 
 he can't be here." 
 
HUMOROUS 399 
 
 I looked around; that child was with her; true politeness forbade 
 me asking- how he could be kept in the house and that child gone — 
 instinct must have warned him of danger and he remained of his own 
 accord. 
 
 Pease Hill 
 
 Fame never comes single. We don't remember the author of the 
 above, and if you can't just attribute it to us. It will only be another 
 attribute to those already there. No, sir ; fame never comes by himself ; 
 he generally hustles around and invites some of his bosom friends to 
 come with him, so there is mostly two of him at once. This is verified 
 in the every day trot and chin jabber of nearly every one. No sooner 
 did Pease Hill become prominent as the prospective future depository of 
 the Chase-Townley wealth — or the Townley-Chase wealth perhaps — but 
 no matter, there is a chase to it somehow, and it promises to be the long- 
 est chase of the whole Chase family — and Pease was beginning to stick 
 up head and shoulders above his fellows, after the style of Saul among 
 the Israelites — or for the benefit of those who are skeptical on Bible 
 stories, we will say after the manner of Romeo Bill among the common 
 herd in Yates City — and the Hill was looming up like the minarets of 
 Constantinople, Pike's Peak, or the mound near the village of Elmwood 
 did to her citizens while Ed. Phelps and Dr. A. J. Graham were chasing 
 the late lamented Commissioners to locate the Soldiers' Home over the 
 state and talking them as blind as a whole family of bats, than another 
 event occurred to make the locality historical ground. Of course every- 
 one knew that Pease was on the Hill ; that, like the Irishman who carried 
 the banner with the strange scribbling onto it, he had climbed to the 
 ''very tiptop, be jabers." But there were few who were aware that 
 Oscar Williamson was there pursuing happiness and enjoying liberty, 
 subject only to such restrictions as a good wife imposed ; or yet that 
 Joe Williams was out there hewing down the primeval timber on 
 weekdays and cutting into the affections of the susceptible country 
 damsels on Sundays; or that John Barnhill is a happy granger who 
 drives his team afield in the summer, and rides in a bobsled in winter, 
 varying the monotony by waging war on the bold velvet weed, the 
 sneaking and insidious cockle bur, studying the subtile and mysterious 
 hog cholera, and chasing the wild and dangerous potato bug on his 
 native Hill. But the happenings of last Sunday night are likely to 
 spread a knowledge of these facts. Oscar Williamson has rented Sam 
 Conver 's farm out in the wilds of Nebraska. He goes there in the spring 
 and expects to encounter the fierce grasshopper, the dauntless rattle- 
 snake, the sneaking coyote and the treacherous Indian. In order to be 
 prepared he had read all day Sunday in a book entitled "The Border 
 Ruffian, or the Lithe and Supple Commanche Chief. ' ' It had unsettled 
 his nerves a little; but when the holy calm of that beautiful Sabbath 
 
400 HUMOROUS 
 
 eve settled about him, and he had slopped the pigs, read the lesson leaf 
 for next Sunday, given the calf some milk and meal, prayed for good 
 crops in Nebraska next year, and foddered the colts, he went in and 
 sat down by the stove. With visions of border dangers flitting through 
 his brain he fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by 
 a sonorous rap at the door. He sprang up, grabbed his trusty firelock, 
 rushed to the door — thinking all the time that he was out on Sam 's farm 
 — opened it and met the terrible apparition of a veritable Indian that 
 he supposed to be the vanguard of twenty-seven other bloodthirsty sav- 
 ages, and he decided to sell his life as dearly as possible. He called to 
 the chief to hold up his hands, and at once opened fire ; the first shot 
 carried away a piece of the chief's ear about five by seven inches, the 
 rest of the charge lodging in the body of a full blood Polled Galloway 
 calf, that was contentedly chewing its cud, down by the gate, and it 
 yielded up the ghost, costing Pease $97.32 hy the yield. The chief was 
 so frightened that he could not have picked himself out from among a 
 lot of red stockings filled with saw dust; but he recovered speech 
 before Williamson got in the second broadside and his voice sounded 
 so much like a white man's that he lowered his gun, and behold it was 
 John Barnhill, who had come over to get him to help butcher the next 
 day. They swapped explanations and apologies, and soon the two 
 warriors were eating salt and smoking the pipe of peace. We learn 
 that Mr. Williamson gives the following as his version of the affair: 
 Joe had gone out; he heard the rap, supposed it was Joe trying to fool 
 him, thought he would scare Joe and have some fun, got the gun, opened 
 the door, presented the weapon and ordered him to hold up his hands, 
 before he noticed it was Mr. Barnhill. It may be this is the true story, 
 but it is not half so good as the one we have given above, and which 
 we have from a person whose parents were poor, but honest. 
 
 A Sneaking Coward 
 
 The Banner editor acknowledges the receipt of a card, on one side 
 of which is the cut of a large jug of whiskey — at least it is labeled 
 "Peoria Co. Club Whiskey." On the reverse side are four verses of 
 soulful poetry, reminding this insignificant editor that he has slandered 
 someone, that it is naughty to do so, and hinting that all may have 
 their faults, but that the old are especially full of faults — especially 
 any old cuss who persists in mistaking himself for an editor. We 
 feel sure that the sender is stuck on truth and poetry. And it may 
 be that the sender, he, she, or it — probably the latter — is up in G on 
 truth, but shiver our timbers if we don't believe there is a deficiency in 
 their conception of poetry, else they could not have selected verses hav- 
 ing one half the feet too short, and the other half too long. It pains us 
 to see even a driveling poem limping, and "tears, unbidden flow." 
 
HUMOROUS 401 
 
 Have a care, there, our foe incog, heart failure troubles us, and one 
 more jolt like this might snuff our vital spark. But in that dying hour, 
 as earth recedes, and heaven comes in sight — or Clootie's horrid den 
 looms just before — may we stand boldly erect, and our last utterance 
 from this faltering tongue be: "Thank God we were no sneaking cow- 
 ard, but fought a manly, open fight," 
 
 Slanders Old Ben 
 
 Week before last we Avere told that Dr. W. T. Royce's horse ran 
 away, and spread the doctor around promiscuously and demolished his 
 sleigh. Then again we were told that Dr. W, T. Royce was seen with 
 a dilapidated set of harness on his shoulder making his way to a harness 
 shop. With this clew we sought the doctor, and asked about it. With 
 face solemn and grave he told us it was all a mistake, and hinted that 
 the rumor arose from the fact that "old Ben" had got scared at the cars 
 and tried to run away with Dr. J. D. C. Hoit. Now we are noted for 
 our open, frank and confiding nature. Our countenance is open too ; 
 indeed it could not well be more so, unless our ears were set back, and 
 that would be a large contrast. These things cause our verdancy to 
 stick out like a sore thumb, and no doubt tempt people to put up jobs 
 on us. Of course we took the doctor's story all in. It was hard to 
 believe that a man with the experience of Dr. J. D. C. Hoit would let 
 old Ben run away; it was still harder to conceive how old Ben could 
 run with a man having so much of the alphabet fastened to him for 
 life; the only other individual in the city with such a slice of the first 
 lesson in the primer tacked to him is the imp in this office, and we keep 
 two-thirds of his front name fastened under the corner of the imposing 
 stone, as a security against its getting loose and making pi of the cases. 
 It was a real down-right slander on old Ben. The fact is old Ben 
 has not, with malice, intent and forethought, voluntarily struck a canter 
 for the past twenty-nine years. If Ben had been a gray, instead of a 
 sorrel, he could easily have established his claim to being the identical 
 horse that King William rode at the battle of the Boyne. Judge, then, 
 of our surprise when we heard, this week, that Dr. W. T. Royce has 
 a new horse, that he hitched it up, and getting into the sleigh seized the 
 ribbons with the air of a Robert Bonner, and set sail ; that he struck a 
 reef, unshipped the rudder, lost his jib boom, spanker and mizzen top, 
 was badly wrecked, and was cast ashore, his head in a snow drift, his 
 hands set out for braces, the foot end of one leg pointing toward the 
 north star ; that of the other inclining toward the orange groves of Flor- 
 ida. We have no sympathy to waste on him ; any man who will delib- 
 erately put up a job on an editor, palm off his own runaway on a fellow 
 practitioner, and — above all — slander decrepit age in the body of old 
 Ben, can neither buy, borrow nor beg sympathy from us. 
 
402 HUMOROUS 
 
 Alas! Alas!! 
 
 We believe it was Oscar Wren, or else Robert Burns, who said 
 that, "one is never sure of anything except he gets a piece of meat 
 fast in his neck. ' ' At any rate we are ready to solemnly affirm that it is 
 true. Last Saturday the Yates City football team might have stood 
 against the world; now none so poor to do them reverence. It is ail 
 along of the fact that the Elmwood team came down like a wolf on a 
 now born lamb, and left not a grease spot of them. When the news of 
 this terrible defeat reached us we wilted and fell down all in a heap. 
 We cannot account for this great National disaster, except 
 on the theory that Elmwood had the best team. We are 
 seated in a pile of cinders scraping ourself with a broken 
 saucer, and weeping as we cry, our football team is done for, 'tis 
 straightened for the grave; there'll be no resurrection, for nothing now 
 can save. Alas! we are like a pelican in a wildhog's nest. Bring forth 
 the Whangdoodle and place it on the hewgag! Let us gnaw a file, and 
 flee into the wilderness of Swab Run ! Chillis is no longer as Goliah of 
 Gath, and Tracy's nose is peeled. Alas! Alas!! 
 
 Bucking the Tiger 
 
 F. T. Corbin and the editor of this paper may not be any better 
 looking than they were last week, but they know more. They thought 
 they had business in Peoria on Tuesday, and they took a train fori 
 that place. They soon found themselves in company with a sedate 
 looking young man, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two years old, 
 dressed in black, with immaculate shirt front, gold watch chain. Prince 
 Albert coat, and well polished shoes ; he wore a decidedly ministerial 
 look, and as he complimented Corbin on his good looks and the editor 
 on his vast knowledge, he was soon on easy terms of familiarity. They 
 do not seem to know just how it came about, but they became inter- 
 ested in a little game, and Frank and the editor were soon minus the 
 last red cent they had about them. Peoria was soon reached, and 
 the trio walked up town together, and just as the Yates City part 
 of the outfit were congratulating themselves that they would put the 
 police "onto" him, they lost sight of him at a corner, and never 
 got sight of him again until the time they had to leave town, though 
 they spent the entire afternoon in a fruitless search. It is said that 
 the ministerial looking youth took off his Prince Albert coat, removed 
 his glossy cuffs, and stood in the door of a business house on Wash- 
 ington street watching the plucked innocents as they munched a cold 
 snack kindly furnished by a friend. Corbin estimates his loss at three 
 cents, while the editor is not sure of his, not having counted the cash 
 for several weeks, but he feels almost certain that he had nothing 
 
HUMOROUS 408 
 
 smaller than a one-cent piece, and so must have been out that amount 
 at least, and both of them assert that a good photograph of the slick 
 individual would look wonderfully like Fred Soldwell. 
 
 "Richard Is Himself Again" 
 
 Ever since the death of "Cute" — the same being a doggie — there 
 has been a goneness in the look of Uncle Dick Corbin. There was 
 an aching void in his life — a longing after something that was gone 
 never to return — a high old hankering like that of a high school girl 
 for a beau. But Dick is all right now. Jim Golliday fell heir to a 
 black cur dog, one of those apologetic dogs that draw their legs out 
 of sight and grovel on their stomach, and fawn servilely, and wag 
 their tail deprecatingly, and hug their nose close to the ground and 
 roll up their eyes to your face so humbly, as if saying, "Please don't 
 blame me, sir; I don't know why I was born, nor why I wasn't 
 drowned, nor why I never could get enough to eat; I wasn't consulted; 
 I don't know as I'm to blame; I'm only a sorry dog, and will you 
 pardon me for living?" He was lean, lank and scraggy, and looks 
 like he might have been trying to live on the fare of a country editor's 
 family, and Jim presented the dog to Dick. He is not probably the 
 equal of the lamented "Cute," for he was a dog of wonderful repute, 
 but still the new cur seems to be a dog of good parts. We can testify 
 that for the purpose of making tracks in newly made garden beds he 
 stands at the head of the heap. He has a nose for stray bones, and 
 an eye for a square meal, and if Dick Corbin can't discover something 
 good about that dog, it will be the first dog — or man, for that matter — 
 that he did not find some good in, or at least thought he did. Well, 
 well ; after all, the ability to find something good in man or dog is not 
 a bad failing. 
 
 The Fall 
 
 It is a generally received statement that the first man fell. And 
 ever since that time his descendants have shown an aptitude for fall- 
 ing. John Brimmer is a lineal descendant of Adam. We do not at 
 present have the genealogical record that traces the Brimmer tree 
 through all its multiform branches until it comes back to the original 
 root, Adam, but we defy any one to successfully deny that John 
 Brimmer is a bona fide Adamite. We are confirmed in this idea from 
 the fact that both Adam and John Brimmer have fallen. We blame 
 this entirely on Adam. It is like this: Adam fell. Brimmer de- 
 scended from Adam by ordinary generation. Brimmer fell. Adam 
 set the example, and is therefore not only responsible for his own fall, 
 but for that of Brimmer. It is true that Adam fell but once, and 
 
404 HUMOROUS 
 
 Brimmer several times. But we must remember that Adam stood at 
 the opening era of history, while Brimmer has the records of almost 
 1,900 years, and its experiences also. It is true that Adam fell from 
 an estate, and that Brimmer has fallen from a hay shed, from the 
 roof of a house, and a road cart. But let us not forget that when 
 Adam fell there was not a hay shed, not a house, not a road cart, in 
 all the world, not one. Besides, we take some pride in the fact that 
 Brimmer has broken Adam's record in the matter of falling. We lay 
 it all to the fact that Brimmer is a citizen of Yates City. Of course, 
 we realize that it was more Adam's misfortune than his fault that he 
 did not live in Yates City. Nor do we intimate that Adam preferred 
 Eden to Yates City from choice. Far from it. From what we know 
 of Adam, we are confident that if he had known of Yates City, he 
 would have given up the gardening business, sold his hoe, and bought 
 a membership in the Blue Goose. Brimmer's last fall was on Monday. 
 He was seated gracefully in a road cart, and was riding down one 
 of our main boulevards, in company with a friend, when some son-of-a- 
 sea-eook rode up behind them and made their horse take a sudden 
 lurch. Brimmer is opposed to letting any opportunity slip to get in 
 a fall, and so he went over backwards. He made the start for a rapid 
 fall, but his companion interfered by seizing him gently, but firmly, by 
 the legs, and using them as a lever, with the seat of the cart as a ful- 
 crum, he let John descend into the mud with all the grace and dignity 
 of a Chesterfield. If there were no moral to this story, it never would 
 have been told. But there is, and it is an important one. It is this: 
 "Keep off of road carts." It will be remembered that when the 
 down-easter was hauling wood, and the oxen upset the wagon on a 
 bridge, breaking his leg, and when his wife was told of the accident, 
 she said : "Well, maybe that'll learn Moses to keep off en bridges." 
 
 Old Dan 
 
 Old Dan has fallen from his high estate. John W. Bird has bought 
 another yellow horse, and old Dan will no longer furnish motive power 
 for the dray. Good, faithful, patient, trusty old Dan ! The pains and 
 aches of old age have made him no longer able to toil as he once did. 
 But he has earned the rest and repose that he will now get. It would 
 be a grand good thing if all the men of Yates City would do their duty 
 in their respective stations as well and faithfully as old Dan filled his 
 station as a horse. It is not without a feeling of regret that we see 
 old Dan give place to a younger and suppler animal. It is a sort of 
 prophecy of what is coming on us all. May old Dan's rations be 
 always ready, and may he find juicy grasses to nibble with his worn 
 molars. 
 
HUMOROUS 406 
 
 Wellington, Kansas 
 
 Last week we received a copy of "The Republican," published at 
 Wellington, Summer County, Kansas. From this paper — which, by 
 the way, is a pictorial edition, containing "cuts" of all the principal 
 buildings in that bailiwick — we learn that the place is on a boom. It 
 seems that the place got quite a start all by itself, and was "increas- 
 ing slowly" until about two years ago, when George Gooding went 
 out there, and cast in his lot with the denizens of that favored spot. 
 Now, George is a hustler. When George was first born, it is reported 
 that a flock of wild ducks flew over in the night, and that the old 
 boss drake squawked in a peculiar way, something like the noise of a 
 new pair of brogans on a granger when he marches up the aisle of a 
 country church on the first Sunday after the Fourth of July. This 
 may only be a tradition; but if it is, it is certain that George grew 
 up to be a man of broad gauge, easy grades, few curves, and innumer- 
 able siding; and when he spits on his hands and leans up to the hand- 
 spike of the capstan, the anchor heaves with alacrity, and the vessel 
 is soon scudding away before a brisk breeze. When he pulls some- 
 thing has got to crack; in fact, George is a man of function, of eclat, 
 of aplomb, of imposing bearing, of lofty crest, of wide girth, a whale 
 among toads if you give him a stick, and a whole team with a yaller 
 dog trotting under the hind axle. As soon as George struck the town 
 it went into travail, and was born to a new, a higher, a better era 
 of prosperity. Supposing that George had sent us this paper in 
 order that our 239,243 subscribers might learn exactly where the 
 Garden of Eden was situated, and where the river Euphrates flowed, 
 and where the tree of the knowledge of good and evil really grew. 
 We took the paper and started out. The first man we met was C. L. 
 Wing. He refused to believe that Wellington was such a great place 
 as it was represented, and declared that he suspected there was about 
 as much reliability about the paper as there is about the promises 
 of Nick Worthington. F. T. Corbin said he could see that there were 
 some nice buildings, but he could never believe that 25,000 people read 
 the paper, as that was more than Post's majority at the last election. 
 John Hunter said it might be a good enough place for business; he 
 supposed it was; but he did not think it equaled Yates City or Ma- 
 quon as a point to engage in ten-cent ante. J. A. Irving said he 
 presumed that might all be true, but nevertheless he doubted if they 
 had a remedy for gripes and colic that equaled the Oil of Gladness, 
 made right here in Yates City. A. J. Knightlinger said he thought 
 Kansas a great state, but he had heard that only one pint was being 
 paid for votes by the Republicans out there, and here they gave him 
 two five-dollar Williams and two pints. Alex Kerns said he expected 
 a blacksmith might do well enough out there, but he was afeared that 
 
406 HUMOROUS 
 
 he could not get a shop as handy to a drug store as his was here. Dick 
 Corbin said it might be, but he had peddled all over Kansas, and 
 he never had seen such a place as that. John Bird said he supposed 
 a man might get rich out there, but he did not think the climate 
 would agree with old Dan. Larry Burke said he would like to be 
 out west, but it was just such a nice morning walk from his house 
 up to Steve's that he hated to leave. Boaz Bevans said he was ready 
 to go west, but he thought there were too many Republicans in Kansas. 
 Bob Hobkirk said if Elmwood was only two miles from Wellington, 
 he would go out there. John Brimmer said if they had not put in 
 that picture of the court house, he would go out in order to bid on 
 the contract for putting his 3x4 flue in operation. Andy Alpaugh 
 wanted to know if the town council of Wellington permitted a slaugh- 
 ter house in the center of town ; if they did, and the school directors 
 would not make his children study a geography that taught the pre- 
 posterous doctrine that the earth is round, he would go out there, 
 ponies and all. Pet Thomson said he was satisfied it was a good 
 place, but he understood that no one there could dispute with him 
 more than three hours at one time, and he did not care to be there. 
 Wils. Adams said he understood that Clark E. Carr was not a great 
 man out there, and he would not go. William Philbee said he under- 
 stood a horse doctor was not as much thought of out there as a regular 
 physician, and he would stay here. John W. Wood said he understood 
 that no man could sell hardware at cost in Wellington, and get rich 
 and he did not care to go. Ed. Baxter said he had heard that no 
 dramatic company would visit him in his sleeping room, and so he 
 would stay right here. Elmer West said he understood that no man 
 was allowed to win more than eight turkeys at a shooting match, and 
 he would rather be in reach of John Williams' place. Fin. Westfall 
 said he would never stop in Kansas, as he had heard that no man was 
 allowed to lay claim to belonging to more than three political parties 
 at once. Win Aley said he could not go there, as his best girl had just 
 got married and gone out west. Sam. Conver said he would like to go, 
 but he had got the people here reconciled to his razors, and he would 
 stay. Mart Jordan said he did not believe that Wellington could be 
 so large ; he had been through that country in 1530, and he felt sure 
 that such a town could scarcely have grown up since. George Broad- 
 field said he had been all over that country, and as he had seen no 
 such beautiful girl as Bert Hunter, he would stay right here. George 
 Slater said that he would go west, only he learned that the statutes 
 of Kansas prohibited a restaurant keeper from breaking a peanut 
 in two in order to make exact weight, and he would not live there. 
 L. A. Lawrence said he would go there if he could get the contract to 
 furnish the city with lumber, R. A. Pulton said that if the town of 
 
HUMOROUS 407 
 
 Wellington had an ordinance prohibiting any one from keeping or giv- 
 ing away a razor, he would not mind to change. J. A. Hensley said he 
 had been told that the Presbyterian church would not permit its mem- 
 bers to play seven up, flip coppers in the barber shop, or take more 
 than a pint on a fishing expedition, and he did not think that was 
 right. Dr. J. D. C. Hoit said it was strange to him that Atticas, nor 
 any other of those old Greek cusses, ever mentioned Wellington. Dr. 
 Royce said he would locate out there, but he expected they would 
 want him to ride out in the country when he wished to rest at home. 
 H. Soldwell looked at the paper, and asked us to wait a minute ; he 
 went out and soon returned with 'Squire Roberts, and wanted him to 
 play chess on the town plot in the corner of the paper, evidently having 
 taken it for a new fangled chess board. Mort Thomson swore he 
 would not live in a place where they fiddled on a key different from 
 that he used. George Stone said he heard there were none but mongrel 
 Irish out there, and he would just stay close to John Graves, who, he 
 was sure, was the genuine article. Jaquith said he would go out if 
 Dave Corbin, William Houser and E. Rogers would go, too, so he 
 could play croquet all winter. Smith Rhea said he saw no such signs 
 as those he has on the awning posts, and he could not go. Steve Bird 
 thought the soil of Yates City better for turnips. John Dixon said he 
 would rather hunt rabbits in Illinois. Sam Highlands was afraid he 
 could not gather bones out there. A. J. Coykendall thought M. E. 
 preachers were too plenty for a good chicken business. Romeo Bill 
 said he feared he could not laugh loud enough to be heard all over 
 Wellington. At last we called on Koos. He said, by George, he 
 thought it was just the place, and if he could "sell his cow, he'd come 
 to Kansas." 
 
 "Korea and Alice" 
 
 Last Monday morning at the Banner Hotel several gentlemen were 
 discussing the Aurora Borealis at the breakfast table. One gentleman 
 thought it might be reflection of arctic snow. Different opinions were 
 given but no satisfactory explanation was heard until a clerical ca- 
 daverous individual removed his eye glasses, took a swallow of coffee, 
 and in a sepulchral voice said, ''Gentlemen, I am perfectly familiar 
 with this wonderful phenomenon and will give you the scientific 
 reason." 
 
 Then the cross-eyed drummer looked at the sad eyed traveler and 
 everybody stopped eating while the melancholy individual explained 
 as follows: "The Aurora Borealis is caused by the illumination of the 
 fundamental firmament as applied to the eccentric refrigeration in 
 contamination with the unsubstantial atmosphere." 
 
 Then a heavy gloom settled over the dining room until the sad eyed 
 drummer remarked that he did not understand the explanation. Then 
 
408 HUMOROUS 
 
 the professor turned to liim, and in scathing sarcasm replied. "Of 
 course you do not understand." "Why?" "Because the explanation 
 is too vast in its congestion and supplementary with the antimonial 
 circumambrience of the disingenious insignificance as indemnified with 
 the festivity of the pertinacity of the vascillating firmament. 
 
 The professor then walked out of the dining room as straight as if 
 an ironing board was resting against his spine. When he was gone 
 the cross-eyed drummer said, "What sort of a racket was he givin' us?" 
 The cross-eyed drummer exclaimed in a voice husky with bread crumbs 
 and coffee, "Damifino." 
 
 Veni Vidi 
 
 Andrew Jackson Donaldson Coykendall, of Farmington, was in 
 town Thursday forenoon. Uncle Jack has reefed his pant legs, took an 
 extra hitch in his galluses, rolled up his sleeves, spit on his palms, and 
 is lifting on the heavy end of the old settlers' picnic at Farmington, and 
 swears by the whole calendar of saints that it will be the biggest thing 
 on wheels, and he has started a boom here that has not been equaled 
 since the day of the Big Harvest Home. If this boom does not subside 
 before Wednesday, the 14th, Farmington will see the hordes of the 
 north sweeping down on her, "terrible as an army with banners" and 
 "irresistible as the avalanche as it rushes down the mountain side." 
 In fact they "will come as the waves come, when navies are stranded; 
 they will come as the leaves come when forests are rended." It is said 
 that even J. D. Truitt is excited and has exclaimed, "La beaute sans 
 vertu est une fleur sans perfum, " "Labor omni vincent, " "Le mot d' 
 enigme, " "Lex loci," "Licentia vatem," "Lis sub judice, " and probably 
 would have been going yet if it had not been that J. Knox caught him 
 by the coat tail, yanked him off the dry goods box, and insisted that 
 no man should be permitted to make a Spanish speech. To such degree 
 did Uncle Jack stir our staid people up. We cannot more fittingly close 
 this than by a quotation from our own wrapt poet of the parsnip patch, 
 O. J. Wren: "All the high toned darkies will be in Farmington Sep- 
 tember 14. Selah." 
 
 Truitt Wins a Case 
 
 J. L. Wells, of Maquon, and Attorney Hendricks, of Galesburg, 
 came here on Saturday, and doubled teams on J. D. Truitt. Of course 
 they did not apprise him that both would be here. But they did not 
 make anything by this effort. J. D. just took a fresh hitch on a volume 
 of Blackstone, laid hold of the Illinois Digest, got the 9th volume of the 
 decisions of A. J. Coykendall, when he was police magistrate, and 
 sailed in and smote these legal Golliahs until "they ran and roared as 
 ever I heard a calf," or words to that purpose. The fact is when 
 J. D. is " bearded in his den, ' ' he becomes desperate ; it is then he ' ' lets 
 
HUMOROUS 409 
 
 slip the dogs of war," and in the beautiful, chaste language of the 
 editor of the Galesburg Plaindealer, he cries: "Lay on McDuff, and 
 damned be he who first cries 'hold, enough.' " When Jim got roused up, 
 spread on his war paint, seized his tomahawk, and went for those two 
 worthies, even the sedate and venerable C. L. Roberts became so excited 
 that he started up, and addressing the erudite Soldwell, who was holding 
 down the "Woolsack," said: "May it please the court; under the fervid 
 and burning eloquence of my Colleague, Mr. Truitt, I can keep silence 
 no longer but am led to exclaim, in the grand, terrific and sublime 
 words of Paul the Apostle, in his celebrated epistle to the Aboriginese, 
 'Root little pig or die.' " It was no wonder; if eloquence could rouse 
 the stones of Rome to mutiny, how could this wild burst do otherwise 
 than "stir the red tide in the veins of men," and make them feel that 
 "it were worth ten years of peaceful life, one glance at Jim's array." 
 Small wonder that the Maquonites and the Galesburgites were routed 
 "horse, foot and dragoons," and the verdict of the public is that "They 
 were not in it. ' ' 
 
 He Declared War 
 
 Last Monday night Romeo Bill held a cabinet meeting and declared 
 war. Not a sort of make-believe war, but the genuine, double and 
 twisted, sanguinary, gory, grim visaged war, warranted not to rip, cut 
 in the eye, fade or wear out. He then marshaled his forces in front of 
 Dewitt's restaurant, struck an attitude a la dime novel, set one foot 
 down on about four square feet of walk, stretched out one arm in the 
 form of a shinny club, curved the other gracefully till it resembled one 
 of the original Burson binders, tossed his long hair back on his noble 
 brow, set his starboard molars firmly together, bent his majestic form 
 over till he resembled a boy who had eaten bogs of green apples, hatched 
 a scowl upon his face dark as Erebus, rolled his tobacco quid on the 
 port side, and thus spake: "He stole 65 cents out of my pocket; that's 
 all right, but let him beware how he crosses my path, or he is a dead 
 man." Not knowing exactly where Bill's path was located and fearing 
 that we might step athwart it inadvertently, and perish, we hustled off 
 to the office and went to slinging type, glad that we still lived. 
 
 Our Advertising Columns 
 
 See our Yates City ads — if you have to borrow a microscope. They 
 show just the enterprise of the town, and we call attention to them with 
 the same pride with which we would mention that we had a sore toe, or 
 would admit that our brother was in the penitentiary for stealing a 
 string-halted mule. Our pride in the enterprise of our live business men 
 sticks out like a sore thumb, and looms up a la the big beet at a country 
 fair. In most towns advertising slacks up after the Fourth, but it 
 won't with us. 
 
Miscellaneous Writings 
 
 "Cute" Corbin Is Defunct 
 
 Cute was only a dog, but he was honorable, in fact much more 
 honorable than some men we could mention — and would were it not 
 that we are afraid that they would come in and lick us like thunder, 
 Cute's friendship was sincere and disinterested, and that is more than 
 we can say for many men of our acquaintance and retain any character 
 for truthfulness. Cute never told a lie, and here he was entirely differ- 
 ent from the editor of this paper, who has told many — and so have 
 some of his readers, if they would only confess, as honestly as we do. 
 Cute would deliver the mail and never read a postal card, a thing that 
 cannot be said of any living man, or of any woman either living or 
 dead. He never took money out of any letter entrusted to his care, 
 and here he had the advantage of many mail clerks. He never danced, 
 and here his conduct was more consistent than that of many church 
 members. He never played cards, an example that we suspect his mas- 
 ter did not always profit by. Cute had his faults, and we would not 
 conceal them, nor attempt to condone them; in his younger days he 
 almost broke up the Sunday schools of Yates City by enticing the kids 
 away on Sundays to see with what dexterity he could kill rats, a 
 pastime in which he apparently took almost as much delight and satis- 
 faction as the people of the United States take in killing off the liberty 
 loving inhabitants of the Philippine archipelago. Cute did not smoke 
 cigars nor chew tobacco, an accomplishment in which no boy of half 
 his age is deficient. Cute never went to the depot to flirt with the 
 strangers at train time, wisely considering that there were enough 
 young girls, together with a few married women, who were not so 
 charry of their reputation as he was to attend to that. 
 
 Cute was the property of R. B. Corbin, of dehorning pencil fame, 
 and had attained the good old dog age of 19 years. He was well 
 known to all the citizens of Yates City, many of whom have seen him 
 trotting home with the paper or a letter in his mouth. 
 
 Some years ago, when the Corbin family lived on South Burson 
 Street, Cute was sent home with a letter; when he reached the Dr; 
 Hoit place — now J. W. Dixon's — he spied a cat — there was perpetual 
 enmity between the cat tribe and himself — and he laid down the letter, 
 gave chase to the cat, which took refuge finally in one of the large 
 pines in Dr. H^nsley's lot, when Cute went back, took up the letter 
 and resumed his homeward trot with the air of one who had done his 
 duty. 
 
 411 
 
412 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 It was evident that Cute was disgusted with the late prolonged 
 zero weather, and Saturday night, February 11, 1899, he made up his 
 mind that if such weather was going to continue he would quit, and 
 sometime during the night he died. 
 
 This notice is not exactly in accord with the usual style, for it 
 contains more of truth than we would dare to put in the ordinarj' 
 notice — in fact, if we suspected that some one would tell as much truth 
 in our obituary, we would be congratulating ourselves that we will 
 not be here to read it. Cute was a tan colored rat terrier, but a little 
 above the average size, and worthy of special mention. 
 
 A Drive 
 
 Albert A. and Mrs. McKeighan and A. H. and Mrs. McKeighan 
 went out for a drive Monday afternoon and had a most delightful 
 time. The day was one of those beautiful Indian Summer days that 
 are no other place nearer perfection than they are in our own state of 
 Illinois, and as the roads were in the best possible condition, and the 
 route was through a part of the country with which we were familiar 
 in boyhood days, it is small wonder that we enjoyed it. We made a 
 few front gate calls in Farmington, and reached home at 5:30 p. m., 
 just a trifle surprised that the world was going on as usual, and we 
 absent from the Banner office for fully six hours. 
 
 Extra Visit 
 
 On Saturday last Mrs. Elizabeth McKeighan, mother of the editor 
 of this paper, paid us a visit, remaining till Monday. She is an old 
 lady, having been born on the 10th of March, 1810, and is consequently 
 69 years old the 10th of last March. 
 
 We call this an extra visit because we delight to honor the best 
 and truest friend we ever have had, or we ever expect to have ; and 
 wish to acknowledge that whatever we have of respect or esteem among 
 our fellowmen, we are indebted for to her patient, earnest, faithful, 
 prayerful efforts on our behalf in the years of our childhood and youth. 
 It was she who bore with our childhood folly, restrained our youthful 
 wanderings, and guided our unpracticed feet along the untried paths 
 of life. 
 
 No mother's love ever yet failed; it is as unbounded as the ocean 
 and as lasting as eternity ; and hers has followed us all the days of our 
 life. She taught us to honor ourselves, to respect our fellow men, and 
 to reverence God. We are glad to be able to bear testimony to the 
 great worth of a mother's disinterested love, and to the benefits of 
 her pious teaching, and, may I not say, holy example. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 413 
 
 We would give but little for the friendship of that one whose 
 respect for a good, kind, loving mother does not outlive every other 
 earthly aspiration. 
 
 Progress 
 
 This is an age of unrest. It is an era of skepticism. The iconoclast 
 is entering the most sacred temples, and pulling down the most cher- 
 ished idols of the past. The divine right of kings is scouted. Tha 
 priest no longer rules the conscience of the people. It is no longer a 
 crime to think, nor a misdemeanor to express thought. The tendency 
 is toward the emancipation of the bodies of men — and the souls as 
 well. All the old forms of governments are losing sacredness in the 
 eyes of the people. But while this is the case the tendency is toward 
 better forms, and not away from all forms. That is, the tendency is to 
 drop what has been found bad, and retain what is good and useful. 
 It would be useless to assert — because it is not true — that governments 
 are failures because they have not been, heretofore, perfect. The ten- 
 dency is away from all that has been found useless in religion, but it 
 would be useless — because it is not true — to assert that the tendency 
 is away from all religion. Without organized governments anarchy 
 would be supreme among all peoples. Without religion chaos would 
 reign in the world. The instinct of humanity is toward the protec- 
 tion of law. The innate desire of mankind is in the direction of a 
 religion that develops the moral sensibilities. Governments have to 
 do with man's civil rights. Religion has to do with his moral obliga- 
 tions. The true theory of government was not less true at creation's 
 dawn than it is now, though it was but imperfectly understood. True 
 religion is not different now from what it was in the beginning, only 
 that enlightened experience proves that many crimes have been done 
 in the name of religion, for which it was not responsible. Governments 
 will not perish, because man is government. Religion will not be 
 destroyed, because man is a religious animal. 
 
 William Simpson 
 
 We were not much surprised, but very much grieved, when R. C. 
 Mathews informed us that William Simpson had died at his home near 
 Fort Scott, Kansas, July 29, 1910. He was among the first boys we 
 knew intimately when we first came to Illinois, 63 years ago last April. 
 His parents, John and Mrs. Simpson, were among the earlier settlers 
 at Farmington, their old homestead being only a short distance south 
 of that place, and where one of the sons, John F. Simpson, still resides. 
 To this home of the Simpsons were made welcome many of those who 
 came a few years later from Philadelphia and from New Jersey to 
 take up the pioneer life in a strange, new, and not — at that date — an 
 
414 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 overly inviting country. The parents of William Simpson and our 
 own revered father and mother — long since of sainted memory, were 
 of the same nationality, being Scotch-Irish, were of the same pro- 
 nounced religious faith, all being Presbyterians, and as William Simp- 
 son was but 1 year, 3 months and 18 days our junior in age, we met in 
 the old church at Farmington, where we swung our bare feet from 
 the same tall benches — taller to our youthful fancies — than they prob- 
 ably really were, and where, together a part of each week we both 
 grew from childhood to youth, and from youth to early manhood, and 
 where we both won noble girls for our wives, and went out to meet 
 the labors, the duties, the responsibilities of maturer manhood. 
 
 We seldom outlive the attachments of these earlier years, and 
 memory, faithful to her sacred trust, brings back those earlier scenes 
 and we forget the years that mark half a century lies between the 
 then, and the now, a river flowing to the sea of eternity, so wide, so 
 deep, that only memory bridges it with piers on either shore. 
 
 In these earlier times we learned to know the promise of future 
 usefulness in the boy, the laudable ambition of his youth, and in the 
 after years we noted the noble work his manhood wrought. Can you 
 blame us that we regret our inability to say what we feel of our dear 
 friend, whose life has closed before our own, or that we sorrow most 
 of all these sundered earthly ties, or that a tear should dim these aged 
 eyes, when told that he has gone, even when we felt that in a wider 
 field he rises to nobler deeds, attains to higher duties, and see the 
 Master face to face. 
 
 William Simpson was born at Farmington, Illinois, December 1, 
 1837. His education was begun in the district school, and ended only 
 when death touched him, for he was ever a student. He was married 
 to Sarah A. Mathews, the daughter of John and Clara Mathews, of 
 Salem Township, Knox County, Illinois, December 15, 1859. They 
 moved to Fort Scott, Kansas, in the fall of 1860. He enlisted in the 
 Federal Army in 1862, served faithfully during the war and was hon- 
 orably discharged in 1865, 
 
 Returning to his home he took up the duties of a peaceful life. He 
 was twice elected to the state legislature of Kansas, and was a mem- 
 ber of that body when a successor to United States Senator Pomeroy 
 was elected, and was called to Washington as a witness in that cele- 
 brated case. 
 
 His family consisted of ten children, seven of whom are still liv- 
 ing. His wife died some sixteen years ago. 
 
 We met him last a few years ago, when he was here to attend 
 the funeral of his daughter, Mrs. Fred Thurman, and in our own 
 beautiful cemetery, where sleeps his dead and those of our own family 
 we grapsed his hand and said farewell, realizing that death had 
 
MI S C ELL A N E US W RI TINGS 415 
 
 even then cast its sombre shadow across the pathway of his life. He 
 was a noble and useful man. He was an honest man the noblest work 
 of God. 
 
 Mother Love 
 
 The Banner, does not know of anything else on earth so pure, 
 so disinterested, so unselfish, so sacred and holy, — outside of re- 
 ligion, — as a Mother's love. All other ties may be severed; all other 
 affections may perish; all other hope die out; but a Mother's lov» 
 that gushes free and warm, out to the tender bud of promise, as it 
 nestles, for the first time in that bosom, can never be quenched, can 
 never be put out, can never become a particle less ardent than when 
 it first flows warm from her tender bosom. 
 
 It may not be returned; the object of it may be totally unworthy; 
 every other human being may learn to execrate the very memory of 
 that child, but the Mother's love is the same sacred fire that never 
 goes out ; the light that is never dimmed ; the lambent flame giving 
 out the same steady glow of ardent devotion. 
 
 No wonder the inspired penman, when he wished to express, in 
 the highest degree, the love of God for fallen humanity, exclaimed: 
 "When thy Father and thy Mother forsake thee, then the Lord thy 
 God will take thee up." Nothing can go beyond this; it is the end 
 of all earthly comparison. A Mother's love is surely akin to God's. 
 
 Our Own Dear People 
 
 It is known to all our readers that death has again entered our 
 home, and taken from us a dearly loved daughter, the last girl of the 
 five who came to claim our love and care for a longer or shorten 
 time, and then went home to God. You have read her obituary; 
 some of you knew her intimately. We think she had more near, dear, 
 true, loving friends than come into the lives of most people. The 
 efforts of these friends to do something to cheer her in the years of 
 her weakness and pain has deeply stirred our hearts. The very large 
 number of letters that have come to us — and are still coming — ex- 
 pressing regret and sorrow for her death, and such kind sympathy 
 for us in the hour of our deepest grief — letters coming from all over 
 this country, from Philadelphia on the east, to San Francisco on the 
 west — have been such a comfort to us, that they will be sacredly 
 kept, and guarded as treasures that we prize. All these dear friends 
 have helped us to bear a burden that seemed almost too heavy for 
 us in our old age, and mere words can never express how grateful we 
 are to all of them. 
 
416 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 But it is to the dear friends who live in Yates City and vicinity 
 that we wish to say a few words — words that can but feebly express 
 what our sad hearts feel — before we turn again to the duties that fall to 
 our lot. We had before tested the worth of these friends in times of 
 trial, and we have the sweet incense of their kindness to us locked in 
 the casket that is shrined in our hearts. But on this occasion their 
 love for, and devotion to the dear dead girl — while not undeserved by 
 her — was certainly far beyond what we had expected even from a 
 people whom we have always regarded as the kindest and best on 
 earth. 
 
 There have been but a few funerals at which all who had part 
 in the services were such sincere mourners. The ministers who spoke 
 to the living were speaking of a departed friend; the choir sang the 
 grand and comforting selections, how difficult a position they were 
 placed in, for they sang with aching hearts and tear dimmed eyes 
 the last songs over her who was dear to them ; the six ladies who were 
 her pall bearers were carrying to its resting place the form of her 
 whom they all loved; the undertakers were those who knew her and 
 were her true friends, and as they were performing the last duties 
 for her tears of sorrow made dim their vision ; the large congregation 
 were those who came to show their love and respect for one whose life 
 they admired, and to express their kindliest sympathy for her sorrow- 
 ing relatives. The closing of the public schools and all the places of 
 business during the time of her funeral was a mark of respect for her 
 that touched the tenderest chord in our hearts, and while unexpected, 
 was all the more appreciated. The picture of the funeral of our dear 
 girl is hung on memory's wall, and it will only become faded and dim 
 when the things of time become merged in the bright effulgence of the 
 eternal morning. 
 
 Dear friends, we have lived among you for more than a quarter 
 of a century in a position that is as open to criticism as any calling 
 can be; we have made mistakes that we deeply regret, but we have 
 ever had the interests of Yates City and the welfare of her people 
 close to our heart. If we believed that a better, a truer, a kinder 
 people, or a people more ready to overlook our defects and sift from 
 the chaff of these defects the few golden grains that we hope lie cov- 
 ered there, we would not be here. 
 
 We have buried our dead girl in your beautiful cemetery that she 
 may rest in death, as she lived in life, among her friends. We intend 
 to place her brothers and sisters beside her. We expect to spend the 
 few years that God may give us among you. Our wish is "to lay our 
 weary bones among you." We know that you will gather about our 
 casket and say kinder things in regard to us than would any other 
 people on earth. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 417 
 
 We deem this statement due to the people among whom we dwell 
 from choice. We love our home people, we have faith in Yates City, 
 and we hope to be always ready to do all we can for the town, and 
 that we may, in some measure, merit the approval of a people whom 
 we have learned to love and whom we respect more as the years go by. 
 
 A Thought for the Dead 
 
 It is well sometimes to call back our thoughts from the busy 
 scenes of life, that all too much engage our every moment, to let our 
 memory wander from the pleasant forms of the living to the less agree- 
 able but not less loved forms who have, for longer or shorter periods, 
 been sleeping the last long sleep. On the sunny slope of the winding 
 hill are tiny graves, where loving hands and bursting hearts have 
 labored, oh so faithfully, and so diligently to keep in order the mound 
 that covers from sight forever the idolized child. 
 
 On the brow of that hill rises a marble slab sacred to the memory 
 of the loving wife, and tender mother. A little further on lies the 
 once proud form that cherished wife and children, while all around 
 lie scattered, not only the young and beautiful, the noble and good, 
 but all classes and all conditions, for death comes alike to all. But 
 is it not well sometimes to turn from the charms of the living to revel 
 for a time in the chaster charms of the dead? 
 
 It may be that time has not yet softened our sorrow into that 
 calmness that can make us take pleasure in these thoughts, but none 
 the less do we feel relief in them. 
 
 Tears may dim our vision as we call up the helpless wail of the 
 infant, the gentle prattle of the child, the devotion of a brother, the 
 chaste love of a sister, the brave struggle of a father, the more than 
 earthly love of a mother, the loving kindness of a husband, or the 
 tender devotion of a wife. Awhile they cheered us here below, but 
 they are resting, while we yet toil, and toil not less cheerfully that 
 we know that over on the other shore they are waiting and watching, 
 not in toil and sadness, but in joy that is eternal, to welcome us home. 
 
 Who does not feel better and braver for the battle of life after 
 having held an hour of sacred intercourse with the dear departed 
 ones? 
 
 Across the Great Divide 
 
 James Henry Hunter died at his home in Farmington, Saturday 
 morning, February 17, 1894, aged 54 years. 
 
 This is not intended for an obituary notice, but is written to 
 express the sense of loss on the part of the writer, in the removal of a 
 true and valued friend. We have known him from boyhood, and we 
 
 I 
 
418 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 learned to respect the manliness of his character, and the purity of 
 his life. 
 
 Monday we sat among the great throng of people who crowded 
 the church where his funeral was conducted, and realized that we 
 were but one of a vast company of mourners who had come to pay 
 the last solemn duty to the loved and lost. 
 
 We passed by the casket where lay our friend with pulseless 
 hands folded, with stilled heart, and cold white face turned toward the 
 blue of heaven, and we knew that he had awakened to a fuller knowl- 
 edge, and that the mystery of birth, of life, of death, were all familiar 
 to him, while we are not yet able to fathom them, nor will we be until 
 we too shall cross the range that separates the little vale of time from 
 the more extended valley of eternity. 
 
 But what was it that bound so many hearts in friendship to his 
 own? It was not his human frailties, of which, with all of us in 
 common, he had a share ; it was not because he was an honest man, 
 though that was a conspicuous fact; it was not because he was a 
 moral man, for moral men were thick about him ; but it was because 
 he had a large, generous, impulsive, warm and loving heart, in which 
 he carried all his friends, and caused him never to forget a benefit. 
 
 We knew the dead man well, and all his father's family, and we 
 respected all, for all were worthy of esteem. A little more than a 
 year ago, the morning we departed for a new and distant home, he 
 came to us and gave a parting gift — a pair of gold rimmed spectacles — 
 their value matters not — but if you ask of that, our answer is, beyond 
 compute. Amid distant scenes they brought his genial, kindly face 
 before us, and must do so as long as life shall last. Among the little 
 hoard of treasures we possess are some made dear because hearts long 
 still prompted the gift, and hands that we shall clasp no more on 
 earth placed them in our possession; but among them all is none that 
 we more highly prize. That fair October morning, as we parted from 
 our friend, the tears welled up and dimmed our vision so that not a 
 glass in all the universe might make it clear, and then we said: "How 
 can it be that we have known him for so many years, and yet we but 
 begin to know him as he is?" We loved him for the good he did, the 
 light he put into our life. No doubt there are many who can share our 
 feelings for the one we now have lost. 
 
 Could we do less than sorrow when we learned that he was dead? 
 We went and looked into his face serene and calm in an eternal repose, 
 and then in our own heart we said, "Farewell, dear friend, farewell!" 
 
 The wife mourns for a husband gone, the children lament a father 
 lost, the brothers and the sisters sorrow over a dear one hidden now 
 from sight, but all of us who knew him may share in all their griefs, 
 for we have lost a friend. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 419 
 
 If We Were a Preacher 
 
 If we were a preacher, we would chose those texts that contain 
 the precious promises of God; those that have such blessed invitation 
 in them; those that are so full of earnest entreaties; those that are 
 pregnant with hope; those that are so full of balm for the wounded 
 heart of man, woman and child, and preach to the congregation in 
 sermons as simple in language, as full of the spirit, as tender in invi- 
 tation as the matchless sermon on the mount. 
 
 If we were a preacher, the morning prayer would never, no never 
 be more than sixteen times as long as that inimitable prayer that 
 Christ gave to his disciples. 
 
 If we were a preacher we would in the politest manner possible, 
 ask as a favor that the Sunday School should be closed promptly at 
 the time allotted to it. 
 
 If we were a preacher we would try to begin service on time, and 
 close in one hour if possible, and if that were not possible — then we 
 would cut a small fraction from the hour, and quit anyway. 
 
 If we were a preacher, and something else encroached on our 
 hour, we would look at the clock and say, "my beloved hearers, some 
 of my time has been used by another, and so we can't elaborate as we 
 had intended" — and then we would stick to our declaration. 
 
 But we are not a preacher, and possibly we might not be able to 
 accomplish all these reforms, but just as sure as a fact, we would 
 make a valiant attempt to do so. 
 
 A Failure 
 
 Any government that takes opportunity away from the worthy 
 poor man is a failure, and sooner or later it will be placed on the 
 rubbish pile of the past, and a better will be adopted in its place. 
 
 Good Resolutions 
 
 The time for good resolutions is with us once again. There is 
 nothing wrong about good resolutions, even if they are not kept. 
 But the best thing about a good resolution is the keeping of it, both 
 in the letter and the spirit. 
 
 If a young man has no bad habits, he should resolve to keep him- 
 self clear of them for all time to come. If he is already in the grasp 
 of any bad habit now is the best time to resolve to give it up, and then 
 stick to it. 
 
 Using intoxicants is a bad habit, and it makes a fool of any 
 one who indulges it. Cut it out at once and forever. 
 
420 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 The use of tobacco is a bad habit, is useless, disgusting, arid makes 
 a hog of those who become slaves to it, and no person will ever regret 
 making a resolution to quit it, that is if the resolution is strictly kept. 
 
 The habit many young men form of spending much of their time 
 and far too great a part of their money in billiard halls and pool 
 rooms, is a bad habit, especially for those young men who have to 
 work hard for their money, and do not have more clothing than the 
 law allows, or the usages of polite society require, or that class of 
 young men, who spend in these places money that toiling, but over 
 indulgent parents have slaved to earn, is a bad habit, and a resolution 
 to forego it for all time, and see that it is kept for all future time, 
 would honor any young man making it and keeping it. 
 
 There may be those who do not agree with the above statements, 
 nor approve of our way of making them, or may conclude that it is 
 none of our business, but permit us to say, in all kindness, that in these 
 remarks are some thought, horse sense and observation and the ex- 
 perience of over seventy-five years of life. 
 
 A Mistake 
 
 The youth who fails to make some preparation for the struggle of 
 maturer years, and the demands of decrepit old age, is making a very 
 serious mistake, and one that he will — in after years — vainly regret. 
 
 Visionaries 
 
 In our experience we have known women who become so absorbed 
 in the study of religious fads as to neglect the duties they owe to home, 
 to husband, to children. They are but visionaries, who have mistaken 
 the path that leads upward to higher and better knowledge. 
 
 We are Riding Backward? 
 
 Some people ride, in the journey of life, with their faces toward 
 the rear, and they never see anything until they have passed by it. 
 Such passengers can do very little that is of real value, for the reason 
 that they see opportunity as a receding something, and as the rig 
 moves always forward, the chance to take advantage of these things 
 becomes less and less as the moments pass. 
 
 Some people ride with their faces to the front, and they see oppor- 
 tunities before they come to them, and can make their calculations so 
 as to be benefited as the chance comes opposite to them. 
 
 It is our thought that those who are riding facing the front should 
 continue to ride that way, and that all who are riding backward should 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 421 
 
 turn about and ride facing to the front, so they may see the things 
 they are passing before they are things of the past. 
 
 Has Failed 
 
 He who studies the wonderful evidences of wisdom and design; 
 to be seen everywhere in the material world, and fails to see the hand, 
 the brain, the intelligence of a power above that of the mere man, 
 has failed to weigh these evidences aright. 
 
 Man's Cruelty 
 
 There is scarcely a great monument to man's mighty energy 
 that is not also a monument to his cruelty. The pyramids cost the 
 lives of millions of slaves, whose lives were dark as stygian gloom, and 
 to whom death was a relief. It is so with every great work that man 
 has accomplished. The tears, the groans, the blood of unrequited 
 labor cries out from every nook and corner of their ruins. Man has 
 climbed the steps toward civilization by intense suffering. Wealth, 
 power and arrogance have forced unwilling slaves to build these last- 
 ing witnesses to their helpless and suffering condition in life. The 
 whole history of labor is the relation of deeds of wrong and acts of 
 suffering. Where death has snatched one from happiness, he has 
 closed a career of misery for thousands. We state these facts without 
 argument. 
 
 A Surprise 
 
 Last Friday evening there was a surprise party for Miss Emma 
 Dowdigan, gotten up by Mrs. Helen Smith and Miss Lida Rogers. It 
 was largely attended, and was one of the most pleasant social events 
 of the season. The ladies came with ample preparations for a tooth- 
 some lunch, and games, music, etc., etc., passed the merry hours. 
 Below we give a list of names of those present : 
 
 Carrie Soldwell, Adie Rogers, Lida Rogers, Theresa Corbin, Lydia 
 Corbin, Inez Long, Mrs. Lettie Parker, Belle Hoit, Ella Hoit, Ida 
 Bevans, Mettie McKeighan, Georgia Roberts, Ellen Roberts, Jennie Bird, 
 Etha Carter, Lillie Bliss, Olive Bliss, Fannie Enable, Gertie Kightlinger, 
 Mrs. Frank Adams, Mrs. Hattie Coykendall, Mrs. Wm. Aley, Fay Aley, 
 Mrs. F. E. Smith, Frank Thomson, Lincoln Smith, Al. Aley, Claude 
 Anderson, Robert Anderson, Robert Bird, John Bird, Owen West, 
 Albert McKeighan, Frank Adams, Simon Hasselbacher, Johnny Mc- 
 Intyre, Wm. Bliss, H. J. Hensley, Wm. Boyer, Charles Corbin, Ed. 
 Cunningham, Earl Benson and Curtie Smith. 
 
422 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Evelyn's Birthday Party 
 
 Evelyn Cunningham, the five-year-old daughter of J. M. and Mrs. 
 Cunningham, is one of the sweetest little girls in the city. She has 
 been very seriously sick for a long time, but she is now getting better, 
 and everybody is so glad that she will soon be well. Last Monday, 
 June 5, 1911, was her birthday. She planned for a party, and selected 
 her guests, all of whom were married people except two — the little 
 daughter of George and Mrs. Davy, and that of S. W. and Mrs. Kogers, 
 Her other guests were Wilson and Mrs. Adams, Geo. and Mrs. Davy, 
 Dr. and Mrs. H. J. Hensley, S. W. and Mrs. Rogers, and Grandpa and 
 Grandma Cunningham, and the families of her uncles and aunts. It 
 certainly was an enjoyable time for her guests, as well as for Evelyn, 
 and all wish for her many, many more such happy birthdays, 
 
 A Pleasant Surprise 
 
 Last Friday evening was the fortieth birthday of Mrs. A. J. Jacobs. 
 It was made the occasion of a very pleasant surprise. The prepara- 
 tions had been made at the house of her sister, Mrs. Melchor Knable, 
 and Mrs. Jacobs was in entire ignorance of the event, until her friends 
 began to arrive in a blinding snow storm. A pleasant social evening 
 was spent, and a most excellent supper served, Mrs. Knable, Mrs. 
 Jacobs, of Elmwood, and Miss Fannie Knable and Miss Maggie Kernes 
 preparing and serving the tables. Oysters, chicken, excellent bread, 
 and eight or ten different kinds of delicious cake are a part of the 
 repast. 
 
 Married 
 
 Miss Belle Steck, the daughter of Robert R. and Mrs. Steck of this 
 township, and Mr. Woolsey, whose home is north of Maquon, were 
 married at the home of the parents of the bride, Thursday, Feb. 25, 
 1909, at 8 p. m. We are not acquainted with Mr. Woolsey, but he 
 has certainly shown wisdom in choosing a life partner, as the bride is 
 as fine a girl as we have ever met, and we wish her a long and happy 
 married life, and offer them our heartiest congratulations. 
 
 The Grand in Nature 
 
 There may be those who are not impressed by what is lofty and 
 grand in nature, but they are certainly not an object of envy. And 
 are not those to be pitied who see nothing to admire in those scenes 
 of nature that are familiar to them because of every day intercourse 
 with same? Nature must have done violence to man, or man to his 
 better nature, if he fails to see majesty in a tree, or beauty in a flower; 
 if he can hear no music in the rustle of growing corn, or perceive noth- 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 423 
 
 ing of the poetry of motion in the undulations of the bearded wheat 
 as it bends in the breeze ; if he detects no music in the bubble of the 
 brook, and no melody in the hum of insect wings. Yes, there is some- 
 thing not right in him who has no admiration for growing grass, and 
 budding leaf, and opening flower; he who sees no worship in the 
 bended forest, no devotion in growing vegetation, and no praise in the 
 melody of the song bird. It is true that every object in nature speaks 
 to that man whose better nature has not — in some way — had violence 
 done to it. 
 
 Poverty and Wealth 
 
 Extreme poverty is not much less a menace to man's liberty than 
 is extreme wealth. When both become prevalent in a republic, it 
 bodes no good to that other class that is supposed to occupy a position 
 between them. 
 
 Golden Wedding 
 
 Wednesday, March 18, 1908, was the 50th anniversary of the 
 marriage of Erick and Mrs. Erickson, two of the old and respected 
 citizens of Yates City, and the event was duly celebrated by their 
 children, relatives, friends and neighbors. Owing to the lack of room 
 in the house to accommodate all whom they wished to have present, 
 the golden wedding was held in the M. E. Church, and a general invi- 
 tation extended to all who wished to come, and a number availed 
 themselves of the opportunity of showing the esteem and respect that 
 is felt for the aged and worthy couple. The dinner was in the spacious 
 dining room of the church, and was under the management of Mrs. 
 Anderson — a daughter of the honored couple — and Mrs. C. M. Corbin, 
 and it was just as fine as a dinner could be made, being par excellence 
 in every particular, the viands being varied, plentiful and fine, and 
 the service being faultless, while the tables were as beautiful as the 
 deft fingers of skilled artists in that line could make them. A number 
 of valuable presents were given Mr. and Mrs. Erickson, and at the 
 conclusion of the dinner. Rev. C. D. Cady, their pastor, presented 
 them, in a very fitting and touching speech. 
 
 After this the company spent some time in informal sociability, 
 and in congratulation and well wishes for the welfare and happiness 
 of those in whose honor the event was planned, and successfully 
 carried out. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Erickson were married in Sweden, March 18, 1858, 
 and came to America in the year of 1880, residing in this city ever 
 since. 
 
 They were the parents of fourteen children, of which seven sur- 
 vive. They are: Mrs. Carrie Anderson of Gilson, 111., Mr. Charles 
 
424 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Erickson, Yates City, 111. ; Mrs. Wm. Hunter, Saybrook, 111. ; Mrs. Gus 
 Larson, Yates City, 111. ; Mr. Fred Erickson, Banning, California ; Mr. 
 Jake Erickson, Davenport, Iowa; Mr. August Erickson, Brock, Neb., 
 and ten grandchildren. 
 
 The children were all here, except Fred, who is in California, and 
 August, who is in Nebraska. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Erickson are natives of Sweden and have long re- 
 sided here and are loved and honored for the many noble qualities of 
 industry, frugality, honesty, good citizenship, and Christian character 
 for which they are noted. 
 
 Married 
 
 KENNEDY— McKEIGHAN. On Wednesday, March 10th, 1880, 
 at the residence of the officiating clergyman. Rev. Elliott of Farmingt- 
 ton, Mr. Joseph Kennedy of Salem, Knox County, to Miss Mary J. 
 McKeighan of Middle Grove, Fulton County. 
 
 The bride is a sister to the editor of the "Banner." Hence Mr. 
 Kennedy is a brother-in-law to this office, and a brevet uncle to the 
 little Banners. That the choicest blessings of kind Heaven may ever 
 attend them and that a long life of happy prosperity may be theirs, 
 is our sincere wish. 
 
 Silver Wedding 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Sloan entertained their immediate relatives 
 on Sunday, March 22, 1908, in honor of their 25th wedding anniversary. 
 An excellent two-course dinner was served. Those present were Mrs. 
 Ware and daughters, Misses Jessie and Prissilla, of Douglas, Mrs. 
 Hugo Delmar and baby, Jeanette, of Chicago, Mrs. Sarah Sloan, Mr. 
 and Mrs. L. A. Lawrence, Mrs. Mary Hensley, Mr. James Sloan, Mr. 
 and Mrs. A. J. Lawrence and three children. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Sloan received several beautiful gifts of silverware. 
 
 Her 91st Birthday 
 
 Saturday, Oct. 10th, 1908, Mrs. Sarah Enochs, who lives on West 
 Main street, Yates City, 111., reached the great age of 91 years. She 
 has not been able to walk for almost six years, owing to a fall which 
 left her in such a condition that she is unable to walk. She has not 
 been able to read any since she received this injury, but she enjoys 
 having any one read to her. She retains her remarkable memory to a 
 wonderful degree. 
 
 She enjoys good health, and bids fair to live to see several other 
 birthdays. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 425 
 
 On account of some of her children not being able to be present 
 on Saturday, the aniversary dinner was given on Sunday following. 
 
 The children present at the dinner were John Enoch, his wife, 
 Jeannette, from Farmington; her daughter, Mrs. S. A. Hensley of 
 Yates City, and her husband; David Enochs and daughter Maud of 
 Creston, Iowa; S. D. Enochs and his wife Angie of Mattoon; Edith 
 EDoward, her oldest grandchild, and her husband, Charles Howard, of 
 Farmington, and her infant son Clarence, who is her youngest great- 
 grandchild ; Harry Enochs, son of T. B. Enochs, and his wife, of Kansas 
 City, Mo. ; D. M. Enochs, her grandson, and his wife, Ida M. Enochs, 
 who are living with their grandmother at the old home; Mr, and Mrs. 
 Wm. Carroll, the parents of Mrs. Ida M. Enochs; Mrs. Elizabeth 
 Riner, mother of Mrs. Angie Enochs ; Rev. C. T. Cady, the M. E, minis- 
 ter at this place, whose home is at Brimfield; Mrs. Jessie Wheeler of 
 Yates City ; Mrs. Long of Yates City. 
 
 A two-course dinner was served, which was good enough for a 
 king — or any one else. Mrs. Enochs received many useful presents 
 from relatives and friends, also letters from I. C. Enochs of Rockford, 
 and T. B. Enochs of Kansas City, Mo., regretting their inability to 
 be here at the reunion. 
 
 A pleasant day was spent with Mrs. Enochs, all wishing her many 
 more birthdays, after which they bade her good-bye and departed to 
 their several homes. 
 
 Birthday Anniversary- 
 Tuesday, Nov. 8, 1899, was the 72d birthday celebration for Mrs. 
 Mary J. Mathews, and it was made the occasion for a family celebra- 
 tion at the old homestead. 
 
 Those present were her brothers, A. K. Montgomery, of Farming- 
 ton ; J. C. Montgomery, of Oneida, and A. E. Montgomery and wife, of 
 Yates City. These three brothers and herself are the sole living mem- 
 bers of her family. In addition there was Uncle Robert Mathews, 
 Mary E. Mathews, George W. Hattan and family— Mrs. Hattan being 
 the daughter of the late W. "W. Montgomery, who was a brother of 
 Mrs. Mathews. Besides these all her children and their families were 
 present, except Clara B. Nixon, of Creston, Iowa. Uncle Thomas 
 Mathews was unable to be present. 
 
 The average ages of these five — the brothers, self and brother-in- 
 law — was 77 years, A. K. Montgomery, the oldest present, being 82. 
 
 The reunion was very much enjoyed, and after a day long to be 
 remembered, the company dispersed, wishing for many such anni- 
 versaries. 
 
426 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Birthday Surprise 
 
 Wednesday, July 18, 1894, was the 61st birthday of Mrs. Cyrus 
 Bliss, and her sons and daughters made it the occasion for a delightful 
 and most complete surprise for her. To her astonishment they all came 
 with well filled baskets, out of which materialized one of the most 
 elegant dinners that ever tempted the appetite of mortal, and the day 
 was devoted to pleasure and enjoyment. There were present Mr. and 
 Mrs. W. B. Bird and their three children, Mr, and Mrs. Clarence Bliss 
 and three children, Mr. and Mrs. W. S. Bliss and two children, Mr. and 
 Mrs. R. C. Mathews and one child, and Mr. and Mrs. Luther Bliss and 
 one child. Thus there were present the six children and ten grand- 
 children. After dinner had been served Mr. Bliss went to Elmwood 
 and brought out the St. Louis photographer, who took a picture of 
 the entire group. It was one of the most successful and enjoyable 
 family gatherings that has ever been held in the city, and while it was 
 a great surprise to the old people, they made it a grand good time for 
 the children and the grandchildren. The photograph will be prized by 
 those present, for it may be that never again will the entire family 
 thus meet at the old home. Mr. and Mrs. Cyrus Bliss are numbered 
 among our most valued citizens, and all will join in wishing Mrs. Bliss 
 many happy returns of her natal day. 
 
 Highway Robbery 
 
 Thursday of last week, just after dark, while W, D, Ware was 
 walking on the Q. track just south of the city, going home, he met 
 three tramps. One of them seized his arm, one got on the other side, 
 and the third one lined up in front and demanded his money. He 
 promptly handed them the contents of his pocket, which fortunately 
 was but 35 cents and a knife. They went through his pockets, gave 
 him back his knife, and let him go. Of course Mr. Ware was in a 
 close place, and does not care to repeat the thrilling experience. 
 
 Surprised at 84 
 
 Last Tuesday, May 11, 1909, Newel Livermore reached the 84th 
 milestone on the journey of his life. His sister, Mrs. Lucy Livermore, 
 planned a little surprise for him by inviting a few of his older neigh- 
 bors in to take dinner with him and have a good old social time. 
 
 Those who were present were : Ross and Mrs, Taylor, Rev, S. A. 
 and Mrs. Teague and their little son. Homer, Rev. and Mrs. W. H, 
 Clatworthy, W, H', and Mrs, Vance, and A, H, and Mrs. McKeighan, 
 
 The dinner was just elegant, and it is not amiss to state that it 
 was prepared by Mrs, Lucy Livermore, who has an enviable reputation 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 427 
 
 as a cook. This dinner was certainly a credit, even to one whose past 
 achievements in that line had made her famous. 
 
 When the company was called into the dining room, all present 
 stood behind their chairs, while Rev. W. H. Clatworthy returned 
 thanks for the bounties given, and thanked God for his favors. The 
 meal was without formality, and relished by those who were present, 
 and was thoroughly enjoyed. Two fine bouquets were on the table, 
 and in the center was a large plate filled with wild flowers, presented 
 to Mr. Livermore by the pupils of Miss Edna Mason, teacher of the 
 primary department of the public school. In addition was a shower of 
 postal cards that came from states separated as widely as Florida and 
 Washington. 
 
 These gifts were appreciated by Mr. Livermore, as typical of the 
 love, the respect, the esteem that everybody who really knows him 
 feels for him. 
 
 We have had the occasion before to speak of the regard we have 
 for our excellent old friend. Newel Livermore. We regret that for 
 the past year the labor of climbing the stairs to our office has become 
 too great a task for him, and we miss the helpful visits we were wont 
 to enjoy with him, for he generally always added to our stock of 
 knowledge, or said something that set us to thinking after he had 
 departed. 
 
 A man of his age, his education, his extensive travel, his tenacious 
 memory, his close observation, his keen insight into the character and 
 motives of those with whom he came in contact, has a rich fund of 
 information from which he draws at will. Another trait that we have 
 admired in our dear old friend is that while he has opinions of his 
 own, clear and well defined on almost every question, he is tolerant of 
 the opinions of those who differed with him. 
 
 It is no small praise when old and young respect and revere a 
 man of his age, and we know whereof we speak when we say that 
 Newel Livermore is loved and respected by the old, the middle aged 
 and the young of this town. 
 
 The congratulations that he received were earnest and sincere, and 
 at the close of a day fully enjoyed by all present, the departing guests 
 wished for him many returns of his birthday, and all hoped that God 
 had further use on earth for Newel Livermore. 
 
 That his health may improve, and that his honest, upright life 
 may still longer be an incentive to duty and right living is the sincere 
 wish of the writer. 
 
 Yates City History 
 
 We are indebted to an old settler for much of the information th&t 
 is given in this article, but believe these statements to be facts. The 
 
428 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Jacksonville & Savannah Railroad was located in the spring of 1857, 
 and a large part of the grading was done the same year. In 1858 a 
 little more grading was done, and then it was left until the fall and 
 winter of 1861, when the grading was finished and the rails laid, reach- 
 ing a point two and a half miles south of the present town in February 
 of 1862. 
 
 The city was laid out in 1857, and houses were built by Burson, 
 West, Kerns, Sonemaker, Isinbrand, and Lungate. These were all the 
 houses built here in 1857. 
 
 Of all the men who were here at that time, Alexander Kerns is 
 the only one left, so he is the oldest — in point of residence — of all the 
 citizens of Yates City. 
 
 No depot was on the Peoria & Oquawka railroad at this place until 
 1858. Buffum & Kanable had the first warehouse, and Kent the 
 second. There are yet several citizens here who were here in 1858. 
 
 In February, 1859, J. M. Corey put up the first mail that went 
 out of Yates City. D. B. Coykendall, who still resides here, came in 
 1858, and Buffum, Kanable and in fact all the rest thought he would 
 have to be buried soon, but he has outlived a large number of his 
 neighbors of that time, who have long since ceased from their labors. 
 
 The first school was kept in a small frame house that still stands 
 on West Main street, and is owned by S. Boyer. The teacher was Miss 
 Biggs. 
 
 In those days the only preaching was done in the old school house 
 by Elder Newton, a Baptist minister, then located at Farmington, while 
 the Sunday School was in the same place, and was kept up by Kanable 
 and others. Kanable was fond of a glass, and it is said the he always 
 took a dring before going to take charge of his Sunday School class, in 
 order that he might explain the scripture in a spiritual manner. A 
 man by the name of Marrow was the superintendent. 
 
 There was a place called the hole-in-the-ground, kept by different 
 ones, where cards, whisky and groceries were staple articles ; if a man, 
 in playing, won, he could take whisky, beer or groceries, just as it 
 suited his taste. In order to satisfy different people, they could listen 
 to preaching overhead, in the warehouse, or play seven up for the 
 drinks in the cellar. 
 
 The first hotel was built where the Universalist church now stands, 
 but owing to a dispute in regard to the title of lot the house was moved 
 to the other side of the street where it was burned. The next hotel 
 was built by Jesse Calkins, on the corner of Main and Burson streets ; 
 it was later moved to West Market street, where it also met the fate of 
 its predecessor, being burned down. The next was built inside of the 
 C. B. & Q. "Y," close to the old depot. When the depot was moved, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 429 
 
 it was set a little south of it, where after a few years it was destroyed 
 by fire. It was the last building put up for hotel purposes, the present 
 Hunter House springing from a small shoemaker's shop that was 
 started by J. P. Buckman. 
 
 The building now known as the "Old Regulator" was torn down 
 in Farmington, in 1854, and rebuilt at what was supposed at that time 
 would be a station on the Peoria & Oquawka R. R., and which was 
 then called Glenwood ; but the road failing to make Glenwood a point, 
 the building, after being occupied by S. Reed as a store room for a year 
 or two, was abandoned by him, and was then moved to Yates City. 
 The lower story is now occupied by Soldwell & Son as a boot and shoe 
 store. While Reed was at Glenwood he sold a great many goods, and 
 it would have made quite a place if the railroad had went on that line. 
 Glenwood was located where Hugh Sloan's house now stands. 
 
 The S. S. S. Bud's Show 
 
 Last Friday night the S. S. S. Buds gave their minstrel show to a 
 densely packed house, every chair in the hall being sold long before 
 the hour for opening. The program was intended to be one of fun, 
 and it certainly filled the bill. There were fifteen of the lady minstrels, 
 and the acting and singing were of the best. Just after the perform- 
 ance began eleven big negroes came in and took seats on the front 
 row, every nigger of them a dude with an immaculate style. Their 
 attention centered on the stage, and opera glasses were freely used. 
 As the ladies came on the stage bouquets were showered upon them, 
 and the applause of the sable visitors was earnest, enthusiastic and 
 prolonged. When the flowers gave out they got a basket of onions, 
 and after throwing them on the stage they threw the baskets after 
 them. It was a wild, "auspaucious" and hilarious time, and really we 
 believe it would have embarrassed the performers had they been white 
 folks. There be those who kick because they mistook onions for 
 flowers, but there are people who would kick if they were being hung. 
 The Buds netted a large sum for the reading room, and the audience 
 had "a heap big fun" for a little money. 
 
 Pluck 
 
 There is nothing like pluck, perseverance and energy to bring 
 success. There is an instance of this right here in the case of Gilbert 
 Lehman, who operates the milk route in this city. He has been at the 
 business for almost two years, perhaps longer, and he is always on 
 hand, always prompt, always cheerful, always ready to accommodate. 
 In rain and shine, heat and cold, mud or snow, he is always at the gate 
 on time, with sweet, pure milk. We are glad to speak a good word for 
 
430 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Gilbert, for he merits it; and we do so willingly — not for pay, for we 
 have paid him the cash for every pint of milk that we have used, but 
 because we like his push, his vim, his hang on. It is these qualities, 
 coupled with honesty and sobriety that bring success in any line. 
 
 Sober Looking — But! 
 
 That staid, sober looking, mouse colored mare that Gilbert Lehman 
 drives to the milk wagon took a notion that it would be proper to run 
 away. So she watched her chance, and when Gilbert was in the post- 
 office, no doubt looking for a letter from his best girl, the mare started 
 across the street to Mrs. Duth's millinery shop. The wagon came in 
 contact with the walk, and she made this the pretext for a first class 
 runaway. She threw out the milk can, broke the fills, left the wagon 
 on the road, and capered out home to her feeding place. "We suppose 
 the mare had some fun, Gilbert got to gather up his outfit, and we got 
 this item. 
 
 The Dark River 
 
 Last week we were pained and saddened beyond expression at a 
 short notice, first seen in the Canton correspondence to the Peoria 
 Journal announcing the death of S. D. Miner, on the morning of Dec. 
 26, 1888. It was not a surprise to us, for we had been watching for it, 
 and expecting it. But we are never prepared for the death of a dear 
 friend. "We had known for two years that the seal of death was 
 stamped on a brow as noble as ever was bared to be kissed by the 
 dews, and bathed in the glad sunlight of God. That a life was doomed 
 that was as true, as brave, as manly as ever left its impress on thei 
 passing years. He was no relation to us, and we knew him as one of 
 those peculiar, tender ties that sprang up between us as teacher and 
 scholar. During a period of 20 years spent in the school room, we 
 formed many friendships of which we are as grateful as we are proud. 
 But amongst them all none was stronger, purer, better or more recip- 
 rocal than that of S. D. Miner, whom we knew from almost the first 
 dawn of an intellect that was far above the ordinary. For several 
 years he was a pupil with us, and he was the model there, as he was in 
 every relation in life, both at that time and subsequently. In truth 
 we are free to say — and without disparagement to many others whom 
 we love, and whose memory is still cherished by us — he was the closest, 
 the aptest, the most persevering, the most thorough in all departments 
 of study of any pupil ever under our charge. There was that some- 
 thing, that congeniality of tastes, purposes and aims between us that 
 it seemed to us the boy was more companion than pupil. He had strong 
 individuality, and did his own thinking; but he was always ready to 
 obey any command made by the teacher whether he approved of it 
 or not, and that obedience was grand and free as his own noble nature. 
 
I 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 431 
 
 It is needless to say that we watched him grow in stature, and expand 
 in intellect, until he became the robust young man, with a mind 
 abundantly stored with useful knowledge — for he was a student every- 
 where — and giving promise of a life of great usefulness. Deception, 
 deceit, fraud, hypocrisy had no place in his nature. He went west 
 after his scholastic career ended, and his great thoroughness made him 
 a business success. He had a friend who had consumption, and he 
 took care of him with that devotion that he ever had for those who 
 commanded his respect, and he contracted the disease, and was soon 
 beyond the reach of human aid. But there was not a murmur. His 
 was a scientific mind, and he tested religion as he did everything else, 
 and accepted its great and glorious truths just as he accepted any- 
 thing he believed, with his whole heart. He hated slavery, despised 
 tobacco, and abhorred the rum traffic. 
 
 Two years ago, while in Canton, we called to see him and spent an 
 hour or two with him. He was cheerful and happy, with all the 
 splendid faculties of his mind in full play, and discussed the leading 
 questions of politics, science and religion as though he were in robust 
 health. H« spoke of the old happy days at "Sunny Side," where our 
 friendship began, spoke of his plans that he had laid for life, and 
 referred to the end of all in death without a tremor of voice, though 
 tell-tale tears filled our eyes and dimmed our vision. He did not hint 
 that his career was ended, but said that God had other and better 
 plans for him. As we sat there and listened to him, we had a grander, 
 a higher, a better view of the power of genuine religion to solace the 
 human soul, A year ago in November we saw him again, and had our 
 last conversation with him. He was thinner, weaker, feebler than 
 when we saw him last, but those wonderful faculties were bright aa 
 ever, and that strong faith had not altered. He was not an enthusiast 
 nor a fanatic, but he spoke of religion as he would of any other busi- 
 ness of life. Some time ago we received a letter from him — it was 
 during the bright, beautiful, balmy fall weather — and he spoke in 
 glowing terms of the beauties of nature, the goodness of God, and just 
 as placidly of his approaching demise. He was permitted to spend 
 Christmas on earth, but the next day he sweetly and peacefully passed 
 into eternity, as though he were but going to sleep. And on this 
 bright, glad New Year's, as we sit here in tears and sorrow, striving 
 to do justice to the friendship and memory of one we learned to love, 
 we know that he is basking in the glories of the heavenly world, and 
 that those rare gifts that made his life so noble, brave, true and 
 courageous are being used in better and nobler purposes than they 
 could have been on earth. He was 30 years of age, but let us remem- 
 ber that his life is longest who lives to the best advantage. Farewell, 
 dear friend. 
 
432 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Fortieth Anniversary 
 
 Friday night was the fortieth anniversary of the wedding of Ross 
 S. and Mrs. Taylor, and it was made the occasion of an enjoyable 
 celebration, held at their home in Yates City. As it came so near the 
 glad Christmas time, it was made a double celebration, and a Christ- 
 mas tree for the house of Taylor was made part of the entertainment. 
 An elegant supper was served, and a royal good time was ^njoyed by 
 all. Their children presented them with a fine rug, and the children 
 all received presents on the tree that made their hearts glad, and it 
 was an event that will not soon be forgotten by the little ones. 
 
 A fine supper was served and the entire affair was such a success 
 that it certainly was one of the most elaborate, happy and joyful of 
 all the Christmas entertainments given in the city. Ross S. and Mrs. 
 Taylor are among the best beloved old people in this place, and they 
 are held in highest esteem, not only by their own children, but by all 
 who know them. Those present were W. H. Taylor, wife and son, of 
 Rapatee ; L. B. Hughbanks and sons, Harold and Granville, of Rapa- 
 tee ; Norman and Mrs. Foster, Earle B. and Mrs. Runyon and son Dale, 
 C. M. and Mrs. Corbin and Mrs. Bessie Johnston, R. W. and Mrs. 
 Taylor and son Roland, Fred B. and Mrs. Taylor and daughter Vera. 
 
 Death of a Sweet Babe 
 
 Last Sunday the little daughter of Lewis and Mrs. Myers died at 
 the home of its parents, in the Uniontown neighborhood, at the age 
 of 11 months. We are told that the cause of death was catarrhal 
 fever. The death of a child is the saddest thing we have any knowl- 
 edge of. In this case it was rendered doubly so by the sickness of 
 the mother, who was too ill to follow the body of her dear little darling 
 to its last resting place. The funeral was held Monday afternoon, the 
 cortege reaching the Yates City cemetery at 2:15 o'clock. The writer 
 had been called to the cemetery, and happened to be there when the 
 child was buried, and we will not soon forget the scene. It was a 
 beautiful October day — one of those rare days that come in this rare 
 month — the month that tinges the flowers, the shrubs, the trees with 
 the first faint indications of that decay which is inevitable. The air 
 was calm and still, and filled with that peculiar haze that gives to our 
 earlier fall days their wondrous grandeur and beauty; the sunlight, 
 mellowed by this faint haze, was blending the colorings over a land- 
 scape so lovely that it has no rival — not even in sunny Italy. 
 
 The carriages — perhaps a dozen in number — headed by the black 
 plumed hearse, in which rested the beautiful tiny casket of spotless 
 white, were drawn up in a straight line, one tier of lots south of the 
 little open grave, and extending almost to the west line of the cemetery ; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 433 
 
 the occupants alighted and stood for a moment beside them; the 
 undertaker took up the casket, and the father, the relatives and friends 
 closed in in order and followed to the grave, where they stood in mute 
 sorrow; the sexton and undertaker slowly lowered the casket to its 
 final resting place ; the assembly reverently uncovered their heads, and 
 the aged minister made a brief address, touching on God's right to call 
 even children back to himself, spoke of the love of Christ for little 
 children, referred to the need of all to be converted and become as a 
 little child, thanked the kind friends for help and sympathy, and 
 closed with a prayer in which he spoke tenderly of the absent mother, 
 pronounced the benediction, and the friends left the grave, re-entered 
 the waiting rigs, and we found ourselves alone, save for the presence 
 of the old sexton and the little white casket. 
 
 How we did wish for the genius of the great painter that we might 
 paint that burial scene as it really appeared to us that autumn after- 
 noon; that we could have made the canvas glow with the beauty, the 
 pathos, the sadness of the laying away of the child in the bosom of 
 the mother earth. Could we have done this, we would have taken the 
 speaking semblance to the sorrowing mother, that her tear dimmed 
 eyes might behold it, and we would have written beneath it 
 
 "Earth hath no sorrow 
 That heaven cannot heal." 
 
 But heaven gave not to me such power, and so I write, and as I write 
 I feel the poverty of words that come to us, and realize that abler 
 pens than that which we command might fail to do such subject justice, 
 and so we leave it thus, and only pause to say that if you grasp the 
 meaning of this, as it appears to us, and yet your eyes are dry, then 
 can we only say you are cast in sterner mold than is the writer. 
 
 Married 
 
 At the residence of the bride's parents, Mr. and Mrs. E. M. Collins, 
 five miles east of Knoxville, on Wednesday, October 31, 1894, at 6 
 o'clock p. m., Mr. Frank E. Wilson of Yates City and Miss Kate 
 Collins. Rev. Dennis performed the ceremony, which was witnessed 
 by about 80 relatives and friends. After a sumptuous repast the newly 
 wedded pair left for St. Louis for a few days' visit. They will return 
 to Knoxville Saturday and on Monday they will come to Yates City, 
 where they will reside. They were the recipients of a large number of 
 valuable presents. Mr. Wilson is cashier of the Farmers' bank of 
 this place and is a man of sterling worth, irreproachable character and 
 undoubted business ability. The bride is an estimable and accom- 
 plished young lady, having many fine traits of head and heart. The 
 "Banner" hereby extends most hearty congratulations. 
 
434 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Three of the Sweetest Little Girls 
 
 In our opinion there is nothing so sweet as three pretty little girls, 
 except, possibly, three large beautiful girls — and all who were present 
 at the VanMeter-Lehman wedding will concur, for they saw those two 
 little flower girls, Elizabeth and Leah Harriss — twins, and aged six 
 years — and little Edith Cunningham, who preceded the bride and 
 groom bearing the wedding ring on a handsome silk plush cushion. 
 She perhaps five years old, wore a silk costume, and was lovely as a 
 dream. The two former are daughters of Lincoln E. and Jennie 
 (Cunningham) Harriss — the latter now dead — and the latter is the 
 daughter of Ed and Fanny (Ejiable) Cunningham. The three little 
 ladies are relatives of the bride, and they were lovely as a fairy vision. 
 
 True to the Former Home 
 
 Elsewhere in this paper we publish a communication from Ora E. 
 Chapin of Chicago, in regard to The Knox County Association of 
 Chicago. In the battle of life the sons and daughters of Knox county 
 may be assigned to duty on the distant skirmish line, but they do not 
 forget the old home, and they look forward to the time when they will 
 get a furlough and return to visit the dear old familiar scenes. Your 
 KJiox county man or woman, when away, is an exile, with all the 
 exile's yearnings for home. Ora E. Chapin is the son of our valued 
 friends, Burrell and Mrs. Chapin of Knoxville, and is a successful 
 lawyer in Chicago. 
 
 She Has Come! 
 
 Who has? "Why, Ed. Cunningham's first baby, and she is a daisy. 
 She was born on Thursday afternoon, April 3, 1890, making her advent 
 into the world in the midst of a terrific hail storm. Ed. is setting up 
 the cigars, and we congratulate both the parents. 
 
 To Our Generous Friends 
 
 The editor of the Banner was honored by being invited to make 
 the address at the Decoration Day exercises in Yates City. "We ac- 
 cepted the invitation, feeling that it was an evidence of confidence on 
 the part of the citizens of our own town, in our ability to perform the 
 task with some measure of success, and that confidence was fully ap- 
 preciated by us, while at the same time we fully realized that at home 
 is the most difficult and trying place to do justice to one's self, or 
 measure up to the expectations of the audience. 
 
 On so many occasions we have had evidences of the just and gen- 
 erous approval of our dear friends, indulgent neighbors and consider- 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 435 
 
 ate fellow citizens, that we had no anxiety in regard to receiving recog- 
 nition for any merit our humble effort might have, and we were sure 
 that any defects it might contain would receive the most gentle criti- 
 cism possible. 
 
 But we were scarcely prepared for the reception given us when we 
 came forward to make the address, nor for the hearty applause that 
 so often marked its delivery, nor yet for the unmistakable evidences 
 of approval that was given at its close. 
 
 We are not going to say that we were not pleased and gratified 
 by the treatment given us, for we are not indifferent to the approval 
 of our fellow citizens, and we desire to state that while the greeting 
 we received when we faced that fine audience was a complete sur- 
 prise to us, that it was, to us, the most prized of any we have ever 
 received, because it was given by those we have learned to esteem and 
 love, whose good opinions we value, and whose generous praise is so 
 dear to us. Permit us to say, not in the idle words of flattery, but 
 because it is true, that whatever of merit was found in that address 
 was largely due to the inspiration of that generous greeting. 
 
 We would fail in a duty we feel to be incumbent did we neglect 
 to give expression to our grateful, hearty and sincere thanks, not only 
 for the treatment we received during the delivery of the address, but 
 for the kindness of the large number who came to congratulate us 
 while leaving the opera house, on the streets, and as occasion has since 
 offered. 
 
 Our only regret is that the demands made on our time by other 
 duties prevented us from giving the address more thought, and that 
 our ability is not greater, so that we might better have served a people 
 whose approval we value above all other honors. 
 
 A Very Sad Death 
 
 One of the saddest deaths that it has fallen to our lot to record 
 was that of Mrs. Lizzie Steward, wife of John C. Steward, which 
 occurred at their home on the R. J. McKeighan farm, where Mr. 
 Steward has been employed as a farm hand for the past 14 months, at 
 5 o'clock a. m., Friday, March 13, 1903, just a few hours after the 
 birth of her babe. Her maiden name was Lizzie Spurlock, and her 
 people live at London Mills, where the remains were taken Saturday 
 morning, and at which place the funeral was held Sunday. We did 
 not learn her age, but it is supposed from 32 to 35. She leaves the 
 husband and 7 children, the oldest a girl of about 14 years. The 
 family were well liked in the community and the grief stricken husband 
 and the seven motherless children have the sincere sympathy of all 
 our people. Such a sad, sad ease touches every heart. 
 
436 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Injustice 
 
 While walking down 55th street in Chicago recently, in company 
 with an intelligent laboring man, the writer was struck forcibly by a 
 statement made by his companion. This street is now called Garfield 
 Boulevard, and it is certainly made very beautiful. We were speaking 
 of this, and of the continuous line of autos, electric cabs and motor- 
 cycles that were passing, when he said: *'Yes, this is all very nice, 
 but it grinds me to think that while we are all taxed for these fine 
 driveways, only the rich people of Chicago can enjoy them." The 
 remark startled me. It was not the complaint of an anarchist, nor the 
 dream of a socialist, but the protest of a native born American, whose 
 relatives fought in the rebellion, offering their lives as sacrifices on 
 the altar of their country, a well read thinking man, and yet he evi- 
 dently felt that he was not getting a fair deal in the struggle for 
 existence. This man evidently sees the injustice of the power held by 
 the favored classes, and he resents it most bitterly. We did not argue 
 the question. But it made such an impression on us that we have 
 not been able to get it out of our mind. The ignorant anarchist will 
 never overturn what now exists. The enthusiastic socialist may never 
 enact the reforms he aims at, but mark the prediction, the law favored 
 classes, whose greed, arrogance and oppression make life so dreary a 
 round of hopeless toil for the masses, has a dangerous enemy in this 
 thinking native American, and those who believe as he does. 
 
 Davidson Was Late 
 
 Editor W. T. Davidson walked over from Elmwood Wednesday 
 morning to get the Rushville passenger for Lewistown, but he failed 
 to connect, the train having gone two minutes before he got to the 
 depot. The ordinary man would have said some naughty words, but 
 long years of editorial work has made Mr. Davidson a philosopher, 
 and 80 he did not give way to wrath, but came over to our office, 
 where we settled some great questions, state and national, gave up 
 the labor question as beyond our ken, and mutually agreed that if we 
 could we would reach out the strong hand of love and gently but firmly 
 lift the great, toiling, suffering, struggling mass of humanity out of 
 the power of the saloon, out of the infamy of the gambler's hell, out 
 of the rotten, seething cesspool of social impurity, out of the darkness 
 of ignorance and superstition, up into the glorious freedom, the 
 honesty, the health, the light of right living, right thinking, and right 
 worship. Will these intentions of two provincial editors be remem- 
 bered when wrecked worlds hang black and motionless in space, and 
 all men are standing in one great company, without hope, and destitute 
 of ambition? Brother Davidson went back to Elmwood to remain 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 437 
 
 with his wife until the coming of the evening train. If Editor David- 
 son passes over to the rest of heaven a little before us we may be fool- 
 ish enough to stop the almost ceaseless moil and grind of newspaper 
 toil to shed a tear or two, for we respect the large hearted tenderness 
 that cannot be hidden by the rough and ready exterior of W. T. 
 Davidson. 
 
 The Hotel Banquet 
 
 Thursday, August 18, 1904, was a sort of red letter day for Yates 
 City, for the reason that on that day the New American Hotel was 
 formally opened by a banquet given by the proprietors. The good 
 people of Yates City — so many of them as could get away from the 
 pressing cares of business — responded to the invitations liberally, and 
 were in attendance, not only to enjoy the good things provided, but 
 also to show that they appreciated the enterprise of A, J. and Mrs. 
 Kightlinger in furnishing Yates City with such complete and up-to-date 
 hotel facilities. 
 
 The banquet was in charge of Wm. Treager, the popular restau- 
 rateur of Peoria, who sent his chief chef, Wm. Parr, and his wife, 
 to take charge of the culinary department. It is needless to state that 
 the banquet was fine, consisting of seven courses, and faultlessly served. 
 Speeches were made by Rev. H. F. Schreiner and others, and the Faith 
 Harp orchestra furnished music during the day, and for the dance, 
 which was in the Opera House in the evening, and which proved to be a 
 very pleasant affair. 
 
 There were many traveling men and strangers from neighboring 
 towns who came to enjoy the day. 
 
 The opening banquet is only an earnest of what the New American 
 Hotel promises for Yates City and the traveling public. 
 
 Born 
 
 Born to Mr. and Mrs. Earle Runyon, a son, Monday, March 25, 
 1907. It is the first child in the family, and therefore a most important 
 event. The mother was formerly Miss Norma Pittman, and the event 
 is also important in that Mrs. Alice Pittman is now a grandmother. 
 Of course she is inclined to put on airs, which she has a perfect right 
 to do. Mrs. F. J. Runyon, the other grandmother in this case, was 
 promoted to that office nearly six months ago, and this attack is lighter 
 in her case. 
 
 The parents are among the most popular young married people 
 of this community and are being congratulated by all their friends, and 
 the Banner joins in heartily, and its wish is that this son may long be 
 a joy and a comfort to them. 
 
438 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Adams-Crenshaw 
 
 Mr. W. H. Adams of this city was united in marriage to Miss Flora 
 Bell Crenshaw of Christopher, 111., Sunday evening, Dee. 24, at 2:30, 
 at the home of the bride's parents in Christopher. They are spending 
 a few days with home folks here, after which they will return to 
 Christopher, where they will make their future home. 
 
 The Deestrict Skule 
 
 The Thanksgiving entertainment this year, for the benefit of the 
 library, was varied somewhat, and instead of the usual program and 
 festival, the Deestrict Skule was given, and it proved a success as a 
 money maker, the seats all being sold, with over a hundred applica- 
 tions who were turned away for want of room, while as high as $1 
 was paid for seats to parties fortunate enough to have them. 
 
 The hall was literally packed with one of the most attentive, ap- 
 preciative and best behaved audiences ever seen in the hall. 
 
 The piece is too well known to need a special write up. It was 
 fairly well rendered, when the difiiculties are considered. The stage 
 is too small for such a play. 
 
 Those taking part were Mr. and Mrs. T. J. Kightlinger, Mr. and 
 Mrs. L. D. Fletcher, Mr. and Mrs. A. German, Mr. and Mrs. J. W. 
 Wood, Mr. and Mrs. Smith Rhea, Mr. and Mrs. Peter Garrison, Mr. 
 and Mrs. John Conver, Mr. and Mrs. Arwine Garrison, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Wm. Macklin, Frank Barnhill, 0. B. West, Chas. Bird, W. F. Boyes, 
 M. W, Thomson, Mrs. Jacob Lehman, Mrs. G. D. Pendell, Miss Ella 
 Houser, Miss Lizzie Spickard, S. C. Henry, E. F. Taylor, L. A. Thom- 
 son, and Mrs. F. H. Chamberlain. 
 
 The music was furnished by the high school chorus, the young 
 ladies' quartet and a trio of girls. 
 
 Mr. Curtis Beal gave an oration entitled "A Medley," which was 
 alone worth the price of admission. It was a fine thing, exceedingly 
 well done, and he received great applause. 
 
 The receipts were over $65.00, and as the expenses were small, the 
 library will realize a neat sum. 
 
 Prof. Boyes and his corps of teachers did much to make the enter- 
 tainment a success. 
 
 A Family Tree 
 
 A Christmas family tree and a supper was given at the home of 
 F. H. and Mrs. Chamberlain on West Main street, Monday evening. 
 Roscoe and Mrs. Goold and their two children, and Jay A. and Mrs. 
 McLaughlin and their little daughter, and Glen Chamberlain, who is 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 439 
 
 home for the holiday vacation, making the entire family circle, were 
 present to enjoy the occasion. The little folks were made happy by 
 the fruits of the Christmas tree, and even the older ones felt the glow 
 of an added enjoyment when the tree had yielded its store of valued 
 gifts. It was one of those family reunions that make the separated 
 ones look forward to the holidays with so much of genuine pleasure. 
 These family trees, family dinners and family reunions are more 
 and more becoming popular. 
 
 Appreciation 
 
 The most agreeable thing that we have done in Yates City has 
 been to express our appreciation of a large number of valued friends 
 who have always stood by us in any time of trouble, sickness or sorrow, 
 who have cast the broad mantle of a generous charity over our mis- 
 takes and imperfections, and have always credited us with an honest 
 intention to do the right as we have understood it. The occurrences 
 of the past few days have deepened our obligations to those dear 
 friends. They can never know how deeply we feel obliged for their 
 confidence. We are glad to be able to place in this list such men as 
 Jacob Lehman, Walter Bailey, W. G. West, D. B. Sargent, R. A. Fulton, 
 T. L. Long, J. L. Searl, J. Mason, Wilson Adams, C. L. Roberts, L. A. 
 Lawrence, S. M. Taylor, J. M. Cool, Dr. J. D. C. Hoit, the Corbins, the 
 Mathews, the Rogers, Dr. W. T. Royce, E. Rogers, J. W. Dixon, F. D. 
 Thomson, Nelson Cunningham, M. H. Pease, the Coreys, Dr. H. J. 
 Hensley, Thomas Terry, C. A. Stetson, B. Bevans, James Clancy, I. C. 
 Enoch, W. H. Houser, and very many others just as good, but whom we 
 may not stop to name. Among them we wish to specially remember 
 Wilson Adams, Walter Bailey and L. A. Lawrence, whose voluntary 
 and generous offers of assistance has made a profound impression on 
 our minds. It puts us under renewed obligations to so conduct our- 
 selves that we may merit and continue to hold the good opinion of 
 such men. 
 
 Died 
 
 Myrta Carter, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. D. M. Carter, and sister 
 of Mrs. Dr. H. J, Hensley, died at Phoenix, Arizona, on Tuesday, at 
 5 o'clock p. m., of consumption. The telegram announcing her death 
 was not unexpected, but it was not the less a shock to the many friends 
 of the dear girl. She has been sick but a few months, and when it was 
 seen that her case was hopeless here, she was taken to Arizona as a 
 last hope. But God has called her, and we all bow in deep sorrow for 
 her whom love could not save. She was 20 years of age, and well 
 known here, where she spent nearly all her life. Her obituary notice 
 will appear later, but we cannot refrain from expressing our grief at 
 
440 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 her death and sympathy for her family. We do not forget the efforts 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Carter to help us when two of our own dear girls 
 died ; nor do we forget how much Myrta did to make pleasant the last 
 two years of Cora's life. They are united now, but how our hearts 
 sorrow for them ! 
 
 The funeral will take place from the family residence on Union 
 street at 2 o'clock p. m., Monday, April 16, 1894, that being as soon 
 as the long, sad journey home can be accomplished. 
 
 Married 
 
 Miss Nettie Beale, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. S. K. Beale of north 
 of town, was married to Mr, Charles Kerr on Thursday evening, April 
 19, 1894, Rev. J. H. Clark performing the ceremony, which was wit- 
 nessed by a large company of relatives and friends. The bride is well 
 known to the people here, is an accomplished and winsome lady, and 
 has a host of friends in this city and vicinity, where she has grown to 
 womanhood. The groom is a native of Maryland, a young man of 
 good habits, worthy of the noble woman he has won. After the cere- 
 mony the company sat down to an elegant and sumptuous repast, to 
 which they did full justice. The Banner joins heartily in wishing the 
 young couple happiness and prosperity. The presents were numerous 
 and costly. Those in attendance from here were Mr. and Mrs. Smith 
 Rhea, Mr. and Mrs. J. A. Hensley, Mr. and Mrs. F. H. Chamberlain, 
 and Mr. Albert A. McKeighan. 
 
 A Family Gathering 
 
 There was a pleasant family reunion held in this city since our 
 last issue. Mr. M. S. Jordan is one of the staunch business men of 
 Yates City, having long been engaged in the grocery business. There 
 are two brothers, Harvey and Justin, and a sister, Mrs. Mattie A. 
 Bowman. The two brothers live in Galesburg, and the sister at 
 Wichita, Kan. Last Saturday they all came to Yates City and spent 
 Sunday and Monday with M. S. They made a party of thirteen, con- 
 stituted as follows, the names being given in the order of their ages: 
 Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Jordan and son Elmer, and their married daugh- 
 ter, Mrs. Marion Smith, her husband and child ; Mr. M. S. Jordan, who 
 has never been married ; Mrs. Mattie A. Bowman and daughter Minnie ; 
 Mr. and Mrs. Justin Jordan and their two children, Maude and Harlan. 
 
 They all met at M. S. Jordan's rooms over C. A. Stetson's store, 
 and all took meals at the Commercial Hotel. On Sunday morning they 
 all attended services at the M. E. Church. They spent most of one day 
 at the old Jordan homestead, now the R. F. Anderson place, just east 
 of the city limits. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 441 
 
 Took a Spin 
 
 Wednesday about 1 o'clock W. T, Corbin loaded a cow in to his 
 spring wagon, on which is a high rack, and Elmer Kightlinger mounted 
 the high seat — on top of the rack — and started the ponies for Maquon. 
 As he turned into Union street a sideling place on the road tipped the 
 wagon, throwing the driver and the cow both out. The ponies started, 
 the wagon righted itself, and the wild race was on. They went south, 
 fairly in the road, and did not halt until they were stopped by Sam 
 Wilson's gate, two miles and a half from town. The lines and harness 
 were broken some, but the ponies and wagon were not injured. Elmer 
 got a hard fall, but while sore, was not seriously hurt. 
 
 Birthday Party 
 
 On Wednesday evening, Nov. 14, 1894, a large company of friends 
 and schoolmates met at the home of Freddie Jacobs to celebrate his 
 eleventh birthday. 
 
 He received quite a number of nice presents. Master Freddie 
 entertained the company in a very pleasing manner. The evening was 
 spent in playing games and other amusements. Refreshments were 
 served, which were enjoyed by every one. After wishing Freddie 
 many happy birthdays the company dispersed. 
 
 Those who were present are as follows: Lizzie Spickard, Mable 
 Pittman, Bertha Chamberlain, Edith Chamberlain, Mollie Larson, 
 Emma Larson, Jessie Larson, Gus Larson, Susie Sandall, Florence 
 Nash, Alice Hand, Myrl Dixon, Maud Schlenker, Eula Schlenker, Pearl 
 Runyon, Earl Runyon, Minnie German, Lotta Bird, Alta Bird, Myrtie 
 Kennedy, Susie Gollidy, Nora Kjellenberg, Hulda Peterson, Lena Ramp, 
 Laura Ramp, May Ramp, Otis Bowman, Freddie Sandall, Eddie San- 
 dall, Graham Widmeyre, Harlem Bird, Delmar Nash, Floy Bear, Lulu 
 Hand, Lura Nash, Florence Smith, Lois Anderson, Harry Anderson, 
 Eddie Larson, Ralph Dixon and Irwin German. 
 
 In California 
 
 Yates City people have not lost interest in three young men who 
 left here two years ago for the state of California. They were Philip 
 Gonzoles, Omer Barker and Douglass Barker. The two latter had 
 grown up in Yates City, graduated from her school, and had endeared 
 themselves to all, and more especially to the young people. The family 
 was afflicted by that dread disease consumption, the only sister, Minnie, 
 falling a victim to the disease. Omer had determined on a collegiate 
 course at Lombard, but the inroads of insidious disease warned him 
 
442 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 that a persistence in his purpose would be fatal, so they determined to 
 seek a change of climate. They went to Riverside, California, where 
 they took off their coats, rolled up their sleeves and went to work, the 
 first job being to pick oranges. Omer then got a job as bookkeeper in 
 a fruit canning establishment, and afterward became clerk in a hotel, 
 where he continued until he became satisfied that our door exercise 
 would be better for him. He then went up some five miles to a higher 
 altitude, and took charge of the water works, until he got a school ; he 
 is now teaching the school at Banning, and is enjoying robust health. 
 Douglass has charge of a gang of Chinese fruit packers. Mr. Gonzoles 
 is keeping books at the office of the Irrigating Company. 
 
 We mention these young men because they are examples of what 
 can be done by those who have been well raised at home, have grown 
 up under the advantages of good schools and a fine public school 
 library and have energetically applied themselves to the pursuit of 
 useful knowledge. 
 
 Mr. Charles Barker, who resides here, has reason to be proud of 
 the boys whom he brought up under common sense kind of family 
 government. "We expect to hear of the continued success of these 
 friends, and we shall always be glad to record the same. 
 
 Calaista Loveland Dawdy 
 
 The sympathy of the entire people of Knox county goes out to 
 L. J, Dawdy and his afflicted family on the death of his daughter, 
 Calaista Loveland Dawdy, who died at the family residence in Maquon 
 on the evening of July 4, 1888, after a long illness of consumption, at 
 the age of 17 years and 5 months. She was gifted, talented and lovely, 
 both in mind and body. She was a general favorite among all who 
 knew her. She exhibited the most lofty heroism during her hopeless 
 sickness, and met death with a calm fortitude that astonished her 
 friends. As a friend of the family we attended the funeral at the M. E. 
 Church on Friday at 10 o'clock a. m. It was the most beautiful funeral 
 we ever attended. The costly and elegant casket was pure white, 
 emblematic of the purity of her young life. Six young ladies, all 
 dressed in white, acted as bearers, while four others, also dressed in 
 white, followed, carrying the rich profusion of beautiful flowers that 
 the hand of affection had provided. The church was literally packed, 
 and could not afford room for all who wished to honor the memory 
 of the lamented dead, and show their respect and sympathy for the 
 mourning family. As we looked into the emaciated face of the beau- 
 tiful dead, and remembered how she was loved, and how worthy she 
 was of all the affection bestowed on her, we could not but feel that 
 the father and mother had a rich legacy in the memory of such a noble 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 443 
 
 daughter. They have our sympathy, and may God bless them in this 
 hour of severe trial. They have laid a treasure in the earth, but it is 
 not lost. Of her it can be truthfully said: 
 
 None knew her but to love her, 
 None named her but to praise. 
 
 John Brimmer 
 
 John Brimmer is a touristic dispenser of fish. He peregrinates over 
 the rich prairie soil, across the clay knobs, and along the rich alluvial 
 deposits that skirt our streams, and sells fish to saint and sinner, old 
 and young, rich and poor, high and low, black and white, license or 
 anti-license, alike. Monday he got tangled in the mystic mazes along 
 the brakes of French creek and Spoon river, and wandered around 
 like a lost ram in Israel until he came within hailing distance of an old 
 granger who was piling roots in a piece of newly broken brush land, 
 when he called out: ''Say, you, old man, where be I?" The old 
 granger gave John the directions, and he struck for Yates City with 
 the same alacrity that a three-months-old pup would make for a pan 
 of new milk. It may be well enough to state that we overheard Carter 
 giving the above facts, in strict confidence, to one whom he was sure 
 would not breathe it to a living soul. But it is our duty to give the 
 news, and we must do it. 
 
 A First Settler 
 
 Mr, Thomas Capperrune, of Milo, Bureau County, 111., came down 
 on Friday and remained in the city and vicinity until Monday morn- 
 ing visiting friends, relatives and old neighbors. He was one of the 
 first settlers in Salem township, having come here from Ohio in 1839. 
 He worked a short time for Mr. Ewalt and then bought the land now 
 owned by Andy Alpaugh, where he remained until 1850, when he 
 bought a farm four miles east of Bradford, Stark County, the farm 
 being in Bureau County. He has been an active member of the M. E. 
 Church since he was a young man, and organized the first prayer meet- 
 ing and Sabbath School in this part of the country. While here Uncle 
 Dick Corbin took him out to visit M. B. Mason, a visit that Mr. Capper- 
 rune enjoyed very much, having known Mr. Mason before he left Ohio. 
 He is a hale, hearty, jovial old man of 72 years, an active republican 
 in politics, and a man who takes a decided interest in all that tends 
 to the public good. It is needless to say that he is a staunch temper- 
 ance man, and has no sympathy with the unholy whisky traffic. 
 
444 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 A Brave Young Man 
 
 There is one brave young man in Yates City, and we honor him. 
 Last Friday he came into the office, and without making any threats, 
 or claiming that he knew how to run the machine, told us where he 
 thought we had made mistakes. It surprised us, being so out of the 
 ordinary mode of treatment we have received. We cannot say that we 
 coincided in his views, but we thank him for his kind intention, and 
 his gentlemanly manner. We studied over it after he was gone — he 
 paid us in advance for his paper before going — and we own right up 
 that we had serious intentions of apologizing for those items. That 
 we may not be misunderstood, we will state that these items had no 
 reference to the whisky traffic. Such kindly criticisms we value, for 
 "He is our friend who tells us of our faults." 
 
 Uncle Dick 
 
 Some of the worshipers at the M. E. church were struck all of 
 a heap, on last Sunday evening, by what they at first supposed was 
 an "appergoshen." On thorough investigation it proved to be Uncle 
 Dick Corbin. It has been perhaps ten or fifteen years since Mr. Cor- 
 bin has cut such a caper, and it is no wonder people were startled. 
 He was heartily congratulated, especially by the sisters. It tran- 
 spired that Mr. Corbin simply went to accompany his old and valued 
 friend, Mr. Thomas Capperrune, whose Methodism is of that pro- 
 nounced type that prods him up to attend the services of the sanc- 
 tuary without fail. Mr. Corbin was pleased with the sermon, and 
 behaved just as if he was a regular attendant. 
 
 The Lyceum 
 
 The open meeting of the lyceum on Friday evening, drew a 
 comfortable house, and those who attended were certainly well repaid. 
 The house was called to order by T. W. Thomson, and the secretary, 
 Miss Lura Kightlinger, read the minutes of the last meeting. Before 
 the program of the evening was taken up, Mr. Egidius Schoenberger 
 was called to the chair, and during the meeting presided in a very 
 neat and quiet manner. The order was most excellent, which speaks 
 well for a crowd composed almost entirely of young people. A 
 quartette rendered a selection, Bertha Lehman gave a recitation, and 
 Glace Kennedy a select reading. Miss Georgia Roberts read a paper 
 on "Chautauqua," Egidius Schoenberger gave a personation, T. W. 
 Thomson read a paper on the coal measures of America, and Walter 
 Kightlinger offered an essay on the "Great Northwest." Of these 
 papers that on Chautauqua, the one on the Coal Measures and that 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 445 
 
 on the Northwest were most excellent. A short recess was then taken, 
 after which George Anderson read an original poem that had a rich 
 vein of humor in it, May Maxwell rendered a good recitation, and 
 Maggie Fulton gave a second personation, A charade by Bertha 
 Lehman, Glace Kennedy, Walter Kightlinger and George Anderson 
 was then given. Then came the debate, the question being, "Resolved, 
 That the present site of the state fair is preferable to Peoria." The 
 affirmative was sustained by Frank Wilson and Paul Montgomery, 
 and the negative by Albert McKeighan and Walter Kightlinger. We 
 suspect that all the debaters really believed in the negative side, but 
 the affirmative stood by their colors and got the decision. After some 
 routine business, the members of the school board were called on, 
 and L. A. Lawrence and Jacob Lehman responded in neat speeches. 
 A call for Editor McKeighan brought that mouth warrior to the 
 front for a short time, and then a motion to adjourn was carried. 
 Mr. Claude N. Anderson was the critic, and we think he did justice 
 in his remarks. If this evening is a sample of the society, it is in 
 good condition. There was no asking to be excused, no saying "I am 
 not prepared," but all responded promptly, and all were apparently 
 ready for his or her part. The order was most excellent, and par- 
 liamentary rules were observed in every act. It is to be hoped that 
 they will prepare another program for an open meeting before long. 
 
 John R. Hahn 
 
 John R. Hahn, of Canton, was in town Monday evening, and of 
 course he called on us. He has just got a patent on a machine for 
 making light from acetylene gas, and he may soon loom up in the 
 same class with Jay Gould, Bill Vanderbilt and Mark Hanna. John is 
 a philosopher from his youth up. In the days gone by when we sat 
 in the teacher's chair at Sunnyside, with a wide strap in our hand — 
 the insigna of our authority and the terror of the pupils — we have 
 watched John carefully as he dug the toes of his small boots into a 
 crack, fixed one eye on the strap with furtive glance, while the other 
 wandered off into space, and we thought that the kid had worms, 
 but now we know that dim shadowy visions of acetylene gas was 
 what doubled the boy up as if he had a terrible pain in his inwards, 
 and that worms were an unkown quantity in the equation. Ah ! little 
 did we think then that we would be clicking type in this dingy office, 
 and that John would come in to grip the feebler hand within his 
 sturdier grasp, and tell us of his success, while the old time smile 
 lit up his honest face. We are glad to congratulate John, for the 
 glad and happy days of Sunnyside are becoming dim shadows of the 
 past, and many of the dear boys and girls whom it was a pleasure 
 
446 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 to instruct, have been passed into the higher room, and are learning 
 under the wise instructions of the only Great Teacher. 
 
 William Simpson 
 
 Mr. William Simpson and wife — formerly Miss Sarah Mathews — 
 who now resides near Fort Scott, Kansas, are visiting friends here, 
 at Farmington and Peoria. Mr. Simpson's father and mother came 
 to Illinois, from Philadelphia, in 1832, and settled a short distance 
 South of Farmington, being afterward joined by the Browns, the 
 Mathewses and the McKeighans. The elder Simpson was a man re- 
 markable for intelligence, piety and industry. He was an Elder in 
 the Presbyterian church at Farmington, being elected at the time of 
 the organization of that body, and continuing an acting elder until his 
 death, which resulted from a fall off the roof of his own house, which 
 he was repairing, his skull being fractured by striking on a large 
 rock that lay in front of the door. His funeral was one of the largest 
 ever seen in Farmington, the sermon — preached in the Congregational 
 church, on account of its greater seating capacity — was by the then 
 pastor of the Presbyterian church. Rev. Wm. A. Fleming, from the 
 text, "My Father! my Father! the chariots of Isreal and the horse- 
 men thereof," and was as fine a specimen of pulpit eloquence as we 
 ever listened to. The death of Mr. Simpson was regarded as a 
 calamity to the entire community. 
 
 Wm. Simpson, who is now here, is but a year or two younger 
 than the editor of the Banner, and we attended the same Sunday 
 school class, Sabbath after Sabbath, at a time when bare feet pre- 
 dominated among urchins of our size. Twenty-five years ago next 
 winter he married Miss Sarah Mathews, daughter of John and Clara 
 Mathews, and sister to W. B,, R. G. and J. J. Mathews. She will be 
 remembered as one of the most excellent girls of Salem township, 
 at a time when the standard of excellence was higher than at the 
 present. 
 
 They went to Kansas the year after their marriage, and have 
 resided there since, or for the past 24 years. It gave us much pleasure 
 to again grasp the hands of these excellent people, after a separation 
 of so many years, not having seen them since 1860. 
 
 And memories of our earlier years 
 Crowd o'er us when we meet. 
 
 Has Finished Her Work 
 
 Saturday Mrs. Michael Donahue died at her home in this city. 
 Her obituary appears in this issue. Her death is a loss to the com- 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 447 
 
 munity, as well as to her family. None but a good, loving mother 
 could have reared a family of children such as her children are. 
 These children are a living monument to her wisdom in care and 
 training. They are an honor to their mother, and to this com- 
 munity. The mother who leaves five such noble children has not 
 lived in vain. Never was a mother more tenderly loved and cared 
 for by her children. We believe she was loved and appreciated 
 by all. This was evidenced by all classes at her funeral, and her 
 memory will live in the hearts of all who knew her. 
 
 That Dinner 
 
 The most elaborate spread ever laid in Yates City was that at 
 the Commercial Hotel, on New Year's night, being a dinner in honor 
 of Dr. Herman J. Hensley. It was given by Mr. and Mrs. Wilson 
 Adams, the popular landlord and landlady of that deservedly popular 
 hotel. The invitations were given by cards, which were elaborate 
 and elegant in design. The dinner was served at 7 o'clock, p. m., 
 and was a marvel of the culinary art. It was a credit to even so 
 noted a manager of extra dinners as Mrs. Adams is known to be, 
 and was prepared by her, with the assistance of her sister, Mrs. 
 Stephen Johnson. We will not attempt to go into details, but we 
 know that there are twelve good men and true, who will testify that 
 it was immense, while their partners will declare that it was just too 
 lovely for anything. The guests were all prompt to the appointed 
 time, and were Dr. Herman J. Hensley and Miss Etha Carter, Dr. 
 and Mrs. J. W. Hensley, Mr. and Mrs. D. M. Carter, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Lloyd Wertman, Mr. and Mrs. J. A. Hensley, Mr. and Mrs, Jonas 
 Ewalt, Mr. C. A. Stetson and daughter Nelly, Mr. and Mrs. Frank 
 Adams, Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Johnson, Mr. and Mrs. Smith Rhea, 
 Dr. J. D. C. Hoit, and Mr. and Mrs. A. H. McKeighan. After the 
 dessert Dr. Herman J. Hensley arose and thanked those present for 
 the honor done him, remarking that he was utterly unable to express 
 what his heart felt. Mr. Adams then called on A. H. McKeighan, 
 who responded in a few remarks, that the natural modesty of the 
 editor prevents us from dwelling on. Mr. Adams then called on 
 Dr. J. D. C. Hoit, who read an excellent, able and original poem 
 suited to the occasion. The host then gave the guests the freedom 
 of the hotel, and the hours flew on all too speedy wings, until the 
 time for separation came. The guests bid their generous entertainers 
 good night, wished the youthful doctor abundant success in his new 
 field, and went home satisfied that they had never been more royally 
 entertained, nor spent a more pleasant and happy evening. 
 
448 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 A Large Hookey- 
 Wednesday afternoon nearly all the pupils in the high school, 
 and quite a number from the grammer room, played hookey, and 
 went to Elmwood, the boys and girls walking the entire distance 
 and return. There is no doubt but these pupils thought they were 
 doing the cutest, smartest thing that ever was, but no sensible person 
 agrees with them. It is a disgrace to themselves, shows disrespect 
 to their parents, showed contempt for the authority of their teachers 
 and was a direct insult to those Galesburg teachers who were here 
 to visit the school. 
 
 The fact is that it was a piece of thoughtless foolishness border- 
 ing on idiocy, for which the participants deserve to be punished, and 
 we are sorry that our most always splendid boys and girls, should 
 have so acted that their own better judgment must fail to approve 
 and we are compelled to speak of them in such harsh terms. Shame 
 on you, you great gawky Ninnies! Let us hope that coming years 
 may bring to them an increase of wisdom, and a more discriminating 
 judgment. 
 
 Well Watched 
 
 For more than five years Mrs. Dora Hoxworth has been the 
 faithful and efficient housekeeper for the R. B. Corbin family, and 
 so well has she done that they determined to give her some token 
 of their appreciation. It was thought best to "watch" her, so R. B. 
 Corbin, W. T. Corbin and Mr. and Mrs. C. M. Corbin purchased an 
 elegant gold watch and chain, and just as the family sat down to 
 supper Monday evening, Mrs. C. M. Corbin came in and in a happy 
 manner presented it to her. She was completely surprised, and 
 almost forgot to eat supper. She is proud of the gift, and well she 
 may be, for it is an exceedingly fine timekeeper. 
 
 A Christian Mother 
 
 There she sits, old Christian mother, ripe for heaven. Her eye- 
 sight is almost gone, but the splendors of the celestial city kindle 
 up her vision. The gray light of heaven's morn has struck through 
 the gray locks which are folded back over the wrinkled temples. 
 She stoops very much under the burden of care she used to carry for 
 her children. She sits at home, too old to find her way to the house 
 of God ; but while she sits there all the past comes back, and the 
 children that forty years ago tripped around her arm chair, with their 
 griefs, and joys, and sorrows — those children are gone now. Some 
 she brought up are in a better realm, where they shall never die, 
 and others out in the wide world, testing the excellency of a Christian 
 mother's discipline. Her last days are full of peace, and calmer and 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 449 
 
 sweeter will her spirit become, until the gates lift and let the worn- 
 out pilgrim into eternal springtide and youth, where the limbs never 
 ache and the eyes never grow dim, and the staff of the exhausted 
 and decrepit pilgrim shall become the palm of the immortal athlete. 
 
 A Welcome Visit 
 
 The editor and Mrs. McKeighan had the pleasure of entertaining 
 their dear and valued friends, B. N. and Mrs. Chapin of Knoxville, 
 at dinner last Tuesday. For almost 50 years we have known them 
 as husband and wife. For 59 years we have known Mr. Chapin as 
 boy and man, and it is not strange that we should have enjoyed 
 their visit so much. They have been spending the winter in Southern 
 California, mostly at Pasadena and Los Angeles, and only returned 
 home April 10th. They spent Tuesday night with Chas. and Mrs. 
 Sargent, the latter being a relative. Wednesday they visited Mrs. 
 Lydia A. Hall. There are only a few of those who mingled in the 
 pleasures and labors of those old days, who have not laid down the 
 burdens of life and it seems that the ties of early years grow stronger 
 as the shadows of the moving years flit over the dial of time. 
 
 Married 
 
 At the residence of the bride's parents, in Yates City, 111., on 
 Saturday, October 3, 1896, Mr. Charles T. White, of Davenport, Iowa, 
 and Miss Nellie F. Ewing, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Wm. Ewing, 
 Squire J. A. Hensley officiating. The wedding took place at 8 o'clock 
 p. m. The groom is the son of Thomas White, who recently moved 
 to Iowa, while the bride is one of the best girls in Yates City, and 
 one of the best friends the Banner has ever had, and it wishes them 
 long life, prosperity and happiness. 
 
 Interesting Caller 
 
 Mr. Alexander Todd, of French Grove, Millbrook township, Peoria 
 county, called on Tuesday, and spent an hour in the office. He is 
 a well preserved old Gentleman of 82 years past, having been born 
 in county Tyrone, Ireland, October 31, 1806. He came to the United 
 States and resided for some time in Philadelphia, where he made the 
 acquaintance of the Mathewses, the Simpsons, the Montgomerys, the 
 McKeighans, the Armstrongs, and others, all of whom afterward 
 drifted west, settling in Fulton and Knox counties, in this state. 
 In 1840 Mr. Todd came to Illinois, settling twelve miles south-west 
 of Peoria, where he made for himself a farm of 250 acres. He after- 
 wards sold this farm and bought the one where he now resides. On 
 the 19th day of June, 1878 the golden wedding of himself and wife 
 
450 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 was celebrated, on which occasion the old gentleman was presented 
 with a fine gold headed ebony cane, the inscription on which bears 
 the date of that interesting event. His wife died five years ago. He 
 is the father of Mrs. Andrew German, of the firm of German and 
 Nelson, and came to the city a week ago last Saturday, to place 
 himself under the care of Dr. J. D. C. Hoit, for the relief of an acute 
 pain that has located in the hip joint, and has annoyed him for some 
 time. He was a Whig in politics, in earlier days, but is now an ardent 
 Republican, and a full believer in protection. He is an intelligent 
 man, is a reader, has a good memory — we judge — and is well posted 
 on passing events. 
 
 Anniversary 
 
 On Wednesday Mr. and Mrs. Enos Kelsey celebrated the 22nd 
 anniversary of their wedding, by inviting a company of friends to take 
 dinner with them. There was Mrs. Buffum, Mrs. Chapin, Marshall 
 Chapin and his little son, Mr. and Mrs. N. Bear, Rev. and Mrs. Tasker, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Routson and two daughters, and Mr. and Mrs. 
 A. H. McKeighan. It was a regular old fashioned, enjoyable affair, 
 with a splendid dinner, such as only thrifty farmers' wives can provide, 
 and was a treat to the company. Mrs. Orena Chapin, the venerable 
 mother of Mrs. Kelsey, is eighty years old in the spring, and is as spry 
 as many who are not past 60. Rev. Tasker favored the company with 
 music and singing, and Mrs. Bear played and sang several pieces, and 
 by the way she is an accomplished player and a very superior singer. 
 After dinner Rev. Tasker presented Mrs. Kelsey with an elegant pair 
 of slippers, a present from her husband, which was a complete surprise 
 to her. The day was pleasantly spent, and Joseph Routson desired 
 us to say that he got all he wanted to eat. Joe is an old soldier, a 
 jovial soul, and is the life of any company. All joined in wishing Mr. 
 and Mrs. Kelsey many happy returns of the event. 
 
 Anniversary- 
 Saturday, May 26th, 1888, was the 30th, wedding anniversary of 
 Mr. and Mrs. W, M. Carroll, who reside on what is known as the 
 Brassfield farm, near the Fulton county line. It was a surprise 
 gotten up by their children and friends, and was numerously attended, 
 their being some 60 people present. Some useful presents were given, 
 and a happy afternoon spent in social pleasure. We regret that it 
 was not possible for us to accept the kind invitation to be there. 
 
 E. G. Duel's 45th Birthday 
 
 The south-west portion of Salem township is the home of a large 
 number of intelligent, industrious, well-to-do farmers, whose broad 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 461 
 
 acres are in a high state of cultivation, whose pastures are covered 
 with the best cattle and horses in the state, and whose ample granaries 
 are always well filled. Their barns are of the best, and their residences 
 are elegant, and well furnished. But while they are looking after 
 all these things, they are a social class, and do not forget to enjoy 
 themselves, so that we are often called upon to record some social 
 gathering or birthday party that has occurred among them. 
 
 Among the most successful of Salem's farmer citizens, may be 
 classed E. G. Duel, whose splendid farm, comfortable buildings, well 
 tilled acres, fine horses, sleek cattle and fat hogs are noted, and are 
 proof that he was calculated for the buisness he is in. 
 
 Last Saturday was the 45th milestone in his life journey, and 
 his esteemed wife made it the pleasant occasion for a celebration, that 
 was enjoyed by 37 of their friends and neighbors, who gathered at 
 the Duel residence, and spent a day that will not soon be forgotten 
 by those who were fortunate enough to enjoy the hospitality of that 
 home. Mr. Duel was presented with a fine library chair, and several 
 other nice presents. They then partook of the repast which Mrs. Duel 
 had prepared for the occasion. The day was only too short for the 
 happy gathering, and Mr. Duel wishes that birthdays were not confined 
 to one day in each year. 
 
 E. R. Brown 
 
 It was with the profoundest sorrow that we learned of the death 
 of E. R. Brown, of Elmwood, which took place on Saturday evening 
 at 9 'clock. He was an honest man ; he had as kindly a nature as any 
 man we have ever known ; he was positive in his opinions, and yet he 
 was one of the most tolerant of men; he was literary in his purest 
 and best thought, and it was on this common ground that he and 
 the writer met and most thoroughly enjoyed themselves. He was 
 a deep and an original thinker, a thorough believer in good in human- 
 ity, and a strong advocate of the liberty of man, morally, mentally 
 and physically. In religion he was a free thinker, in politics a republi- 
 can, but he was a patriot rather than a partisan, and he refused to 
 follow his party into the gold camp, believing that the free coinage 
 of silver was best for the interests of the great industrial classes of 
 America. He was not only the friend of man, but of the lower 
 animals as well. His death is no ordinary loss, and he will be sincerly 
 mourned wherever his kindly face was known. 
 
 Married 
 
 At the residence of Henry Adams, in Yates City, on Thursday 
 afternoon, November 22d, 1888, Mr. Elmer Heath and Miss Maggie 
 Adams (Kerns), all of Yates City, J. A. Hensley officiating. 
 
452 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 A Bicycle Idyl 
 
 One week ago today — mark well the time; it was a beauteous 
 day ; 'erhead a sky flecked by the fleecy clouds ; a radiant sun poured 
 down its mellow light; a rare and wanton day. 
 
 Frank Thomson had a thought to go to Pease Hill. He scorned 
 to ride in cart, sidebar, or gay barouche. But he would mount the 
 airy bicycle, and skim along, light as the aerial bird, and joyous as 
 the maiden coy, whose heart is full of love, while honied words — 
 spoke while she hung upon the treacherous gate — still vibrate in 
 her ears. 
 
 He bounded to the tiny saddle, with smile serene. Away he sped. 
 Out of the sleepy town he flew. Out past George Stone's he bowled, 
 and as he passed, his eye alert rested on wheeled vehicles of all kind, 
 all wrecked and piled in promiscuous ruin, like caissons where the 
 battle late has raged. With nimble whirl he passed old Mullen's 
 house. Frank saw the old man stand in wonder gaping wide; on 
 his gray head a black felt hat with drooping brim thick covered with 
 the cornfield dust ; a denim shirt of brown ; suspenders crossed up near 
 his neck, and faded well ; his overalls too short by near an ell, and 
 patched with bias piece; his feet in plow shoes large; his legs un- 
 conscious that ever socks were knit, he stood, a grand old farmer 
 struggling with toil, and sore amazed to think the boy could ride 
 so well. 
 
 He turned the Southern road, left just behind the Mathews place, 
 passed o'er the bridge below where Goold resides, toiled the tedious 
 hill where Sargent lives, passed where the unpretentious Montgomery 
 plods, was charmed to see the elegant abode where Mike — the younger 
 Sargent — shelters wife and babes, looks o'er the neat trimmed hedge 
 and well tilled fields where John X. Tinen delves in mother earth, 
 while in his fertile brain revolves maxims wise, and relished bits 
 of news that weekly, or as case may be, does grace the Banner's 
 page. 
 
 Here West he turns his course, and Salem's sacred walls and 
 cupola appears. Here Amy Robinson, with ways to charm the infant 
 mind, taught urchins how to climb the knotty tree of knowledge. 
 Here later still, fair Mary Stone has trained the opening mind along 
 the devious road that leads where knowledge dwells. 
 
 But here a weariness come over Frank. His willing feet had 
 moved obedient to his will to force the treadles round, but now they 
 craved a rest. His energy was gone, not for all time, but only for a 
 season, like those who writhe and bend the body in the ring where 
 wrestlers meet to test their skill and strength, grow weary for a 
 time. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 453 
 
 He spied the inviting step that led into the school house yard, 
 and turning toward it his inanimate steed, he gracefully did light, and 
 rested on the step. His thoughts were various, but mostly of the feet 
 of damsels fair, who, in the days gone by, had crossed the steps, for 
 being young, and yet scarce versed in love, it was but natural that 
 visions of fair damsels flitted through his brain. 
 
 Just westward from the school house a slough crosses the road, 
 a treacherous slough, thick set with quags, and mires of most deceit- 
 ful mud ; a bridge is over the slough in height twelve feet or more, a 
 steep descent is all the approach. At length he mounts, in listless 
 mood. Perhaps his nether limbs are stiffened by repose, or has 
 he lost his skill? Or is it that the thought of damsels fair, excludes 
 all other thoughts? We may not know. But down the steep incline 
 the bicycle did rush. He lost control and wildly clawed the air. 
 The vile machine a "header" took, just as it reached the bridge; a 
 flutter of blue cloth shot through the air, a sound between a thud 
 and splash was heard, and Frank was in the vilest mud slough ever 
 contained. One hip had made a dent in oozey slime, as if some 
 aeriolitic stone from bursted meteor cast, had fallen where fields were 
 plowed. 
 
 Poor Frank first breathed a prayer to make it right with God, 
 if he the end of life had found. Then looking up he saw impending 
 o'er him the bicycle, one wheel fast in a treacherous crack the bridge 
 contained, and hanging out over him in threatening attitude. 
 
 And succor came. The sage of Pease Hill was on his way to Yates 
 to see if Blaine did hold his own, and found young Thomson. He 
 took him from the slough, the mud was scraped away, the bicycle 
 secured, and Thomson journeyed on, resolving in his mind what mis- 
 haps rare o'ertake us in this world. 
 
 Two Ways of Studying Astronomy 
 
 Last Sunday we listened to a minister telling from the pulpit that 
 the night before he had "looked up to the beautiful blue concave of 
 heaven, and noted the constellations, and the planets, and thought that 
 while in heaven all Christians will be in a beautiful place, yet they will 
 not all be alike, but that they will differ from each other 'even as one 
 star differeth from another star in glory.' " He no doubt went out 
 from a comfortable home, and gazed up at those stars in .order to get 
 inspiration for a sermon that he was to preach from a comfortable 
 pulpit, to a sleek, well fed and well dressed congregation, who were 
 expected to pay him for entertaining them for an hour. And it was 
 no doubt all true, and perfectly right, for we would not see one church 
 the less, but rather many more. But as we listened, a fancy came to us 
 
454 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 — it may have been but the suggestion of the Evil One, or it may have 
 emanated from an entirely different source — to contrast this way of 
 studying astronomy with that given us in that touehingly beautiful 
 poem written by Phila A, Case, and the title of which is "Nobody's 
 Child." After describing the poor little homeless girl, with torn, 
 ragged dress, and cold bare feet, wandering in the pitiless streets of a 
 great city, and looking into homes of heat, and warmth, and light, and 
 love — herself a bit of wreckage on the illimitable ocean of life — no 
 father, mother, brother, sister, or other friend on earth, a poor little 
 despised, shunned, rejected beggar whom even the dogs refused to 
 fellowship, the author puts these words into the hunger pinched 
 mouth : 
 
 Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes when I lie 
 
 Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, 
 
 Watching for hours some large bright star, 
 
 I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. 
 
 And a host of white-robed, nameless things, 
 
 Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings; 
 
 A hand that is strangely soft and fair 
 
 Caresses gently my tangled hair. 
 
 And a voice like the carol of some wild bird, 
 
 The sweetest voice that ever was heard — 
 
 Calls me many a dear pet name 
 
 Till my heart and spirit are all aflame; 
 
 And tells me of such unbounded love. 
 And bids me come up to this home above, 
 And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, 
 They look at me with their sweet blue eyes. 
 And it seems to me out of the dreary night, 
 I am going up to the world of light. 
 And away from the hunger and storm so wild — 
 I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. 
 
 These two both looked up at the same cerulean concave, studded 
 with stars, and planets, and clusters, and constallations, gemmed by 
 a hand Divine, but viewed from totally different stand points, the one 
 gets from the scene an inspiration, the other a gleam of hope to 
 penetrate the gloom that hedges in a cheerless life. 
 
 Frank D. Thomson 
 
 Frank D. Thomson, who, for the past fourteen years, has been 
 Principal of the Galesburg schools, has given up that position to accept 
 a similar one in Springfield, the capital of the state. Mr. Thomson 
 is a product of Yates City, was educated in her schools, and went out 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 455 
 
 from here after being Principal here for some time, simply because 
 his capabilities were intended for a wider field than was afforded here. 
 It is doubtful if there is a more capable, or a wider known educator 
 in the state today. He has a combination of all those characteristics 
 that mark the successful man in the educational field. He not only 
 knows things, but he has the faculty of making others know them. 
 He has the genius for leading young people and arousing them to do 
 the best work they are capable of doing. He is honest in his dealings 
 with patrons and pupils. He is a noted example of Illinois manhood. 
 He is an earnest Christian man, broad minded and far seeing, is honor- 
 able, moral and always a worker. Lacking even the semblance of an 
 aristocrat, he is a mixer among people who are intellectual and learned, 
 is a type of the very best citizenship of America, and commands the 
 respect of all. He has never outgrown his love for the little town 
 where happy boyhood days were passed, where character was formed, 
 where by toil and care and diligence, he won his way up the steep, 
 and planted his feet where he could look out over that wider field in 
 which he is now such a prominent worker. Nor has Yates City for- 
 gotten the manly boy, the noble youth, the successful man whose 
 achievements reflect so much honor upon her. 
 
 Fine Solo 
 
 Miss Emma McKeighan, daughter of James and Elizabeth Mc- 
 Keighan, executed a solo on the occasion of the festivities at the Pres- 
 byterian church on Christmas eve that won the admiration and elicited 
 the encomiums of all present. The best musical critics in the city 
 were loudest in their praise and warmest in their commendations. 
 
 Miss McKeighan has a clear, strong, musical voice which she is 
 cultivating with a commendable degree of care, and her solo on this 
 occasion was by far her most successful effort thus far. She has 
 abundance of talent, a well cultivated ear, and above all she has 
 learned to do what so few can accomplish, that is to create a tone. 
 She is free from that affection which detracts so much from the true 
 merit of many singers, and she pours a simple, soul-stirring pathos into 
 her song that can be given only by those who know, feel and appreciate 
 the divine melody and power of real music. 
 
 We know that we but voice the sentiment of all who had the 
 pleasure of hearing Miss McKeighan, when we say that no finer piece 
 of music was ever rendered by home talent in Yates City than her 
 solo on Friday evening. 
 
 A Fine Church Service 
 
 The editor and Mrs. McKeighan are indebted to the thoughtful 
 kindness of Mrs. A. A. McKeighan, of Maywood, 111., who is visiting 
 
456 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 her parents, John and Mrs. Cullings of Elmwood, for the pleasure of 
 hearing Rev. B. Y. George deliver an able and interesting lecture on 
 the occasion of the centennial of the poet Tennyson, who was born 
 August 6, 1809. When Mrs. McKeighan learned that Rev. George 
 was to preach a special sermon about the poet Tennyson, for whom 
 she knew we had a predilection, she drove over after us, and thus we 
 had the privilege of hearing the finest eulogy on one of the greatest 
 of the poets that we have ever listened to, and we doubt if we will 
 ever hear a better one. Rev. George is thoroughly competent authority 
 on English literature and is especially conversant with its poetry, and 
 it was the touch of the master's hand that pictured the life and the 
 poetry of this eminently great writer. That sermon was full of knowl- 
 edge, wisdom and pathos, and many of the touching descriptions un- 
 locked the sacred fountain of tears, and tell-tale moisture dimmed the 
 vision of half that entranced and rapt congregation. It is very seldom 
 indeed that we enjoy an hour as we did this one, in which we listened 
 to one of the great and gifted men of the present talk of one of the 
 great and gifted writers of the past. 
 
 The size of the congregation would indicate that all the good 
 people of Elmwood do not appreciate the ability of the pastor of their 
 Presbyterian church, and as we were being so delighted in listening, 
 we could but regret that the speaker was talking over some rows of 
 empty chairs. 
 
 But those present were appreciative, and the cordiality of the 
 greeting they gave us at the close of the service was certainly ap- 
 preciated. 
 
 W. S. Bliss 
 
 W. S. Bliss of Laporte, Ind., arrived here Wednesday morning of 
 last week, making the trip in order to be present at the golden wed- 
 ding of A. H. and Mrs. McKeighan. We cannot express how much 
 we appreciate his coming, nor the pleasure his presence gave us. Such 
 friends are worth having, and are well worth every effort to retain. 
 We believe he fully enjoyed the occasion, and also the visit with his 
 mother and his brother and sisters here. We will not say that this 
 action on his part enhanced our good opinion of him, for years ago 
 we learned to respect him for his many noble qualities of head and 
 heart, and our opinion of him has been considerably above the 100 
 mark. 
 
 Birthday Surprise 
 
 R. B. Corbin, or as he is familiarly called, "Dick," is the largest 
 hearted man in Yates City. It does Uncle Dick more good to give some 
 one something, or make some person a present than though he had 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 457 
 
 cleared a cool thousand for himself. Everybody knows this who knows 
 him. This week he discovered that Wednesday would be the 61st 
 birthday of Aunt Lavina Marchant. Aunt Lavina is pure gold. She 
 has the care of a blind husband, whose mental powers are somewhat 
 shattered, and who is deaf; she has a charge that but few realize the 
 dimensions of and she does it well and washes for a living. Dick 
 started out among the business men and raised a sum of money; he 
 bought her a nice glass set, pitcher, spoon holder, cream pitcher, sugar 
 bowl, butter dish, set goblets, and a half bushel of apples, and had 
 $3.10 in cash left. Dick then invited a body guard to go with him. 
 Mrs. North was the oldest, Mrs. A. Kerns, Mrs. A. B. Taylor, Mrs. E. 
 Rogers, Mrs. D. Corbin, Mrs. A. J. Jacobs, Mrs. W. B. Robinson, Mrs. B. 
 Bevans, Mrs. J. Atkinson, Mrs. W. H. Nash, Mrs. Arrowsmith, Mrs. 
 Dr. J. W. Hensley, Mrs. A. H. McKeighan, and Miss M. A. Corbin. 
 To keep these ladies in proper decorum went Uncle Dick, A. J. Jacobs, 
 and A. H. McKeighan. Never was surprise more complete ; it was fun 
 to see Aunt Lavina as this crowd filed in; but she was equal to the 
 occasion; she made a warm fire, furnished chairs for all, and made 
 every one welcome. The presents were presented, and she was made 
 as happy as any woman in town. To represent the young element, 
 Jesse and Gracie Bevans, Archie Atkinson and Freddie Jacobs made 
 part of the merry company. No one can ever blot out that glorious 
 declaration of the Bible, "It is more blessed to give than to receive." 
 
 A Triple Birthday Celebrated 
 
 Thursday, May 13, 1909, witnessed a very peculiar and remarkable 
 birthday celebration at the beautiful home of A. E. and Mrs. Mont- 
 gomery, at what is known as Blue Sky, a short distance north of 
 Douglas. That day was the 74th birthday of Mr. A. E. Montgomery, 
 the 64th birthday of his wife, Mrs. Clara Montgomery, and the 33rd 
 birthday of their second son, Mr. George Montgomery. 
 
 It was a surprise, the ladies bringing the finest kind of a dinner 
 with them, which was served on improvised tables among the trees in 
 the front yard, and around which were seated forty-three relatives and 
 friends, outside of their own family, among the guests being Mr. A, K. 
 Montgomery of Canton, the venerable brother of A. E. Montgomery, 
 who is still hale and hearty at the age of 92 years, and whom we were 
 all delighted to meet. 
 
 A fine rocker was given to Mrs. Montgomery by her relatives, and 
 a similar one was given to Mr. Montgomery by the invited guests and 
 the G. A. R. Post of Yates City, of which he is a member. Also a 
 shower of postal cards came to the three, numbering 150, all with con- 
 gratulations and best wishes. 
 
468 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 A Birthday Surprise 
 
 Wednesday was the 78th birthday of Mr. Wm. Corbin. A surprise 
 was planned and it was held at the handsome farm residence of Wm. 
 Goold, Mrs. Goold being his daughter. This was done in order to keep 
 any extra trouble or care from Mrs. Corbin, whose health has been 
 feeble for the last few months. Mr. Corbin became aware of the in- 
 tended surprise before the day came. The party was one of the most 
 pleasant we have ever attended. One of those sumptuous dinners that 
 only the well-to-do farmers have the facilities to provide, was served 
 and heartily enjoyed by all. Mr. Corbin received the hearty con- 
 gratulations of those present. It was a joyous time, and yet a tinge of 
 sadness crept over every heart as the thought obtruded, "Where will 
 we all be in one year from today." Mr. Corbin came to Illinois in 
 1836, and has thus spent over 50 years in this community. He com- 
 pleted his 78th year on Wednesday, Jan. 5, 1887. He has done much 
 to develop this great state, and is an honored citizen. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Wm. Goold and their son William made the guests at home and at 
 ease ; they have that happy faculty of entertaining company, a faculty 
 that is natural to a few, and is seldom acquired, and it was largely 
 due to their efforts that the time was so delightfully spent. With many 
 kind wishes and many deep regrets at parting, the company took 
 leave of each other, bade their generous entertainers good-bye, and 
 departed to their several homes. 
 
 Sixty-Two 
 
 Last Thursday, May 26, 1887, was the sixty-second birthday anni- 
 versary of Mrs. Wm. Corbin. Her daughters, Mrs. C. C. Arrasmith 
 and Mrs. Wm. Goold, planned a surprise, and conducted it so slyly 
 that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Corbin suspicioned it until the company were 
 there. At 11 o'clock they gathered at the cozy residence of the worthy 
 old couple, and spent as pleasant a day as one could wish for. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Wm. Goold, Mr. and Mrs. R. B. Corbin, Mrs. David Corbin, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Sylvester Goold and three children, Mr. Peter Bjorn, Mr. 
 and Mrs. F. T. Corbin and son, Mrs. W. H. Robinson and Mr. and Mrs. 
 A. H. McKeighan. The dinner, under the charge of Mrs. Arrasmith 
 and Mrs. Wm. Goold, assisted by Mrs. F. T. Corbin, was elaborate, 
 substantial and splendid. The day was spent in social intercourse, 
 and we do not remember a more pleasant, agreeable or profitable day. 
 All were glad to see the hostess able to join in the pleasures of the 
 occasion. She is an excellent woman, one who has succeeded in filling 
 a position that is difficult to most women in such a manner as to retain 
 the love, esteem and confidence of all the members of a family a part 
 of which, only, is her own. The company took much interest in looking 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 459 
 
 over Mr. Corbin's garden, one of the finest and best kept that is to be 
 found. We but speak for their large circle of friends when we say we 
 hope that there yet remain many such happy events to the aged couple. 
 
 Married 
 
 Married, at the M. E. Parsonage in Elmwood, Wednesday evening 
 at 8 o'clock. Earl B. Runyon and Miss Norma J. Pittman, Rev. Nelson 
 J. Brown, pastor of the Elmwood M. E. Church, performing the cere- 
 mony. 
 
 Both these young people whose lives are thus joined together in 
 the sacred bonds of matrimony are well known and highly esteemed 
 in this community, and when we say that they are among our very 
 best young people, it is not a meaningless platitude, but is the state- 
 ment of a truth that is known to all, and one that everybody endorses. 
 We have known both of them since they were children, and we are not 
 mistaken in the character and worth of either, and we take pleasure 
 in giving expression to the hearty and sincere congratulations of the 
 editor of this paper and his family, and we join in wishing them the 
 greatest possible happiness and the largest attainable success in life. 
 
 The bride is the second daughter of Mrs. Alice Pittman, residing 
 northeast of the city, and is educated, accomplished and charming, and 
 the groom is the only son of Frank J. and Mrs. Runyon, residing just 
 east of the city limits, is well educated, is a thorough farmer, progres- 
 sive, moral, of good habits, industrious and honest. 
 
 It is the intention of these young people to look up a location in 
 the west — probably in Nebraska — where they will begin their married 
 life on a farm. 
 
 James Dunn 
 
 James Dunn of Pontiac, 111., was in the city Monday forenoon and 
 made a most welcome call at the home of editor and Mrs. McKeighan. 
 It has been over 40 years since Mr. Dunn left the old Middle Grove 
 neighborhood to locate at Pontiac, and this is the first time we have 
 had the pleasure of meeting him in all these years, so it may be easily 
 understood that we had an enjoyable time while he was here. We 
 take a peculiar pleasure in meeting these old time neighbors and pupils, 
 and Mr. Dunn was both. It seems just a little hard for us to realize 
 that James is a grandfather, and yet he tells us that he has five grand- 
 children. He came to Farmington Saturday to visit his father — now 
 past 92 years — who was sick, and he made the stop here in order to 
 see us. Wasn't that thoughtful in our dear old friend? 
 
460 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Why Is It? 
 
 A married couple who have not long been residents of the city, 
 attended church last Sunday evening and Tuesday the man met the 
 editor and asked him if all the women in Yates City are widows. He 
 said that he thought most of them must be, as only two other men 
 besides himself were at the church that evening with their wife. It 
 does seem as if a fine new church, comfortable pews, steam heat, and a 
 pipe organ ought to have called out more than three married men. 
 This gentleman did not say whether the charms of the young ladies 
 had a more potent effect on the young men, causing them to be in a 
 more worshipful spirit, but we have noticed that some young men just 
 love to have the privilege of attending church until — they are married. 
 
 Eighty-Fifth Birthday 
 
 Sunday, Jan. 21, 1887, was the eighty-fifth anniversary of the 
 birth of Mrs. Irene Eagen. Some thirty of her relatives and friends 
 gathered at residence of her daughter, Mrs. A. B. Taylor, in this city, 
 and spent a pleasant day, partook of an excellent dinner, and had a 
 splendid time, marred only by the fact that the aged recipient of the 
 honors of the occasion was suffering from the effects of a fall, on 
 Christmas eve, in which one of her arms was broken in two places, 
 above and below the elbow. Among those present were her son, Wm. 
 Eagan, of Kansas ; her daughter, Mrs. Sherman ; Anson Geer, wife and 
 daughter; Delbert Taylor and family, Caroline Geer, Stark Taylor, 
 wife and two children, Miss Edith Reiplinger, Farmington; John 
 French, Farmington; James, Fred, Frank, Maud, Lew, Rena, Lona 
 and Lottie Blakslee ; Frank Stanton, Trivoli ; Ed. Taylor, Farmington ; 
 Valeria Sherman, Wilber Taylor, Kansas. Wm. Eagan presented her a 
 new dress and a pair of shoes ; Valeria Sherman a lace cape ; Mrs, 
 Harry Taylor a cap. Mrs. Eagan is enjoying a well preserved old age, 
 rich in good deeds well done, happy in the love of her relatives, and 
 rich in the esteem of all her neighbors. 
 
 That Conver Baby 
 
 Last Saturday morning, about the time the 3 o 'clock train arrives, 
 a young lady came to the Banner Hotel. She is rather below the 
 medium size, has golden hair, keen blue eyes, a well shaped nose, 
 small hands — indicating the lady — small ears, slender waist, and feet 
 that, for size, would satisfy a society belle. She did not appear to be 
 "stuck up" or "tony dressed;" in fact, she did not wear any bustle 
 at all. From her actions it is supposed she is a stranger in this part 
 of the country, and it was learned that she had never been in Yates 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 461 
 
 City before. As she seemed to be of unblemished character, and not 
 given to gossiping, Mr, S. I. Conver, the proprietor, consulted his wife, 
 and they concluded to board her for a period of eighteen years. The 
 only trouble about her board is that she insists on a milk diet ; but as 
 she seems willing to do her own milking, Sam says that he won't kick 
 about that. She forgot to bring her teeth along, but she has promised 
 to send for them as soon as possible. As she refused to register her 
 name, Sam and Mary call her Nora Elizabeth. She is the smallest, 
 best looking and most amiable young lady now boarding at any hotel 
 in this city, her weight being only 6 pounds gross — that is with all her 
 togging on. On Monday we called and paid our respects to the hand- 
 some little lady ; she signified to us that if she boarded there as long as 
 they wanted her to, Mr. Conver would have to take the Banner, as she 
 considered it the best paper in the city. 
 
 A Mistake Corrected 
 
 When Rev. S. A. Teague was giving a ten minutes' sermon to the 
 children in the Presbyterian church last Sunday morning, he was 
 illustrating with a story about an eagle. He asked all the little boy§ 
 who has seen an eagle to hold up their hands. Squire J. A. Hensley 
 was the first one to get his hand elevated. Now, in the first place the 
 Squire was by no means the smallest boy present. In the second place 
 — while we think the Squire was sincere, and really thought that he 
 had seen the eagle — we happen to know that the bird the squire took for 
 an eagle was just an ordinary buzzard. Now the Squire is a good 
 man, and we have a genuine respect for him, but as an orinthologist we 
 have no faith in him. We have been told that at one time he held 
 to the opinion that the horned owl should be classified with Durham 
 cattle. But the Squire is not the only great man who has made mis- 
 takes. It occurs to us now that Oliver Goldsmith, an author whom we 
 admire, when he wrote his Natural History, gravely stated "That the 
 cow, like the deer, shed her horns annually." Part of the edition 
 was printed that way, but Dr. Johnson discovered the blunder and 
 had the statement corrected, and the books already off the press 
 destroyed. So it is small wonder that the Squire mistook a buzzard 
 for an eagle. Next Sunday we are going to sit in the pew with the 
 Squire and like Aaron and Hur held up the hand of Joshua, so will 
 we hold up the Squire's hand at the psychological moment. 
 
 Married 
 
 Joseph Cecil of Yates City and Miss Edna Ennis of Elmwood were 
 married in Peoria Tuesday, Sept. 12, 1911. The groom is a member 
 of the Yates City Hardware Co., and is one of the active and energetic 
 
462 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 young men of this city, while the bride is the daughter of J. A. and 
 Mrs. Ennis, who were former residents on a farm northeast of Yates 
 City. They will begin housekeeping in the Maxwell house on North 
 Union street, where they will be at home to their friends. 
 
 These young people are both held in high esteem in this com- 
 munity and are receiving the hearty congratulations of all, and the 
 Banner joins in wishing them long life and success. 
 
 Montgomery- Smith 
 
 Seldom has two more worthy nor prominent young people of their 
 respective communities been more honored than were Mr. George E. 
 Montgomery of Douglas, 111., and Miss Edna M. Smith of Bradford^ 
 111., when on Tuesday evening, September 14, 1911, at Lewistown, 111., 
 they were united in holy wedlock. 
 
 The groom is well and favorably known in church, social and 
 business circles as a splendid type of Christian manhood, being an 
 active elder and worker in the Presbyterian Yates City Church. He 
 is also active in Sunday School work, having been the efficient super- 
 intendent of the Douglas and Elba M. E. Sunday Schools for nearly 
 three years. He is fortunate in securing such a queenly woman to 
 preside over his home. 
 
 The bride is a sensible, talented and accomplished young woman 
 from Bradford's best families, that knows how to make a home of real 
 value. She is now recording steward, president of the Epworth League 
 and a teacher in the Sabbath School of the Boyd's Grove M. E. Church, 
 each of Bradford, 111. 
 
 The bride wore a Jap silk dress trimmed in white applique. The 
 groom wore the conventional black. They were unattended. The 
 wedding march was played by Paul Dunlevy. After congratulations, 
 the guests sat down to a three-course supper given to the bride and 
 groom by Rev. and Mrs. Dunlevy of Lewistown, 111., who are friends 
 of the contracting parties. 
 
 Rev. G. E. Alford of Cisina Park, 111., a former pastor of the 
 bride, spoke the magic words. They will be at home to their many 
 friends after March 14, 1911, at the groom's home north of Douglas, 
 111. They enter upon their new career amid the congratulations of 
 their many friends. 
 
 Married 
 
 At the residence of the bride's parents, on North Burson street, 
 Yates City, on Tuesday afternoon, Jan. 11, 1887, by Rev. J. L. Hen- 
 ning, Mr. Harry T. Dobbins, of Lincoln, Neb., to Miss Mary Highlands, 
 daughter of Mr. and Mrs. S. A. Highlands. The young couple took 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 463 
 
 the 6 o'clock train the same evening for Lincoln, Neb., where the 
 groom is engaged in the newspaper business, and where they will at 
 once enter on the active duties of life. It is thus that the Yates City 
 girl goeth west, and gathereth into the drag net of her affections the 
 noblest and best, not sparing even the innocent newspaper man. 
 
 A Birthday 
 
 The editor of this great Moral Pendulum passed his 75th mile- 
 stone in his life journey last Sunday, August 13, 1911. 
 
 He was born in the wilds of New Jersey, August 13, 1836, of poor 
 but — strange as it may seem to the most of our discriminating readers 
 — respectable parents. We received 18 postal cards, which showed the 
 immense popularity we have attained with a people we have lived 
 among for 32 years, loving them as a toper does his bottle, a smoker 
 his pipe, a pig a mud-hole, or a lean hotel bed bug a fat traveling man. 
 A people for whom we have labored, suffered and lied consistently 
 during all that time. Part of these cards came from neighboring 
 states, where the facilities for knowing our real character were far 
 more limited than they were here. We thank those who have long 
 know us, and yet were generous enough to forget our faults, and send 
 us such beautiful cards and such lovely compliments. We thank those 
 who from distance states sent us the evidences of such confidence and 
 esteem for one, whom we realize, will never be able to make good in 
 a tithe of what they have so nicely said of us. 
 
 Seventy-five years do not seem so very long to us. We realize 
 that they must have seemed much longer to our enemies, who out of 
 respect to their own private opinions, have refrained from wishing us 
 even another "return of the day." If we have our own way we will 
 probably be here another 75 years. Don't be bowed in grief, it is pos- 
 sible that the old gent who carries the scythe over his shoulder, will 
 curb us in our wild career. But this is a card of thanks, and so we 
 thank you, all our dear friends, card or cardless. And we thank our 
 enemies. They have done noble work for us. Without them, what 
 would we ever have amounted to? 
 
 If we are spared another year, or ten, may they be marked by 
 gentler ways, by kindlier deeds, with more of tolerance, and if we 
 linger not so long, may it not be that some may come, and standing 
 by the narrow house in which we dwell, may say, "He had a kindly 
 heart, he did some work to make glad a sorrowing soul, he hated wrong, 
 he loved the right, his memory craves a tear." 
 
 Did Pine Timber Grow^ in Knox County? 
 
 A great many people would answer this query in the negative. 
 But we think that we can prove that pine timber did grow in Truro 
 
464 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Township, and not only that, but that in the year 1839 saw logs were 
 actually cut and sawed from the pine trees, as many as four logs 
 being taken from one tree, and 40-foot barn sills, one foot square 
 were sawed from them. 
 
 Our attention was first directed to this subject, by learning that 
 a bet of $5 had been made between D. B. Coykendall and John Norris, 
 in regard to the matter. Norris bet $5 that no pine timber ever grew 
 naturally in Knox County; while Coykendall bet $5 that it did so 
 grow, and further that it was cut into saw logs and sawed into tim- 
 ber. 
 
 The parties agreed to leave it to Isaac Lambert, an old settler 
 of almost 50 years. Mr. Lambert says that nearly 40 acres were 
 covered with pine, that he did cut as many as four saw logs from one 
 tree and that it was sawed into lumber at John Whitter's mill, sit- 
 uated at the old Knoxville and Peoria crossing. 
 
 Besides Mr. Lambert the following witnesses can be produced 
 that know of it from their own knowledge: D. B. Coykendall, when 
 a boy helped to saw some of the logs. Pet Thomson helped to saw 
 some. B. B. Shaffer and F. T. Westfall kncAv of it. J. A. Irving 
 built fence on the Lambert farm with pine rails; some of which are 
 on the farm. If anyone wishes to test the matter, they do so by call- 
 ing on Wm. Whitten, near Brimfiled, whose father then owned the 
 mill, and whose old books are in William's possessions. 
 
 This pine grew on the west side of Spoon River, near what is 
 known as Trenton, and was formerly Pine Bluff. Of course the timber 
 was soon used up and many people never knew of it, while others 
 have forgotten it. The ICnox County History makes no mention of 
 it, and we are glad to rescue such an interesting item from the 
 obscurity of the past so that it can go down to posterity as part of 
 our County History. 
 
 On July 4th, Mr. Norris told the holder of the stakes to deliver 
 the money to Mr. Coykendall as he was satisfied that he had won 
 the bet ; and the money was handed over. 
 
 Married 
 
 A letter received from our friend, Paul Schoenberger, informs us 
 that his sister Minnie was married to Jack Renter, February 6, 1911. 
 We send hearty congratulations as do all of the many friends of Miss 
 Minnie, who spent so many of her childhood days here, and whose 
 girlhood days were so full of pleasure, and who was missed here 
 when she went to the far west. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 465 
 
 A Christmas Present 
 
 In Fairmount, Tenn., on Walden's Ridge, is the summer home of 
 Mrs. A. P. Smith and her two daughters. They are fine types of the 
 intelligent Southerners, well informed, kind, generous, social and hos- 
 pitable. Part of the year they reside in Chattanooga, and there they 
 became acquainted with Albert A. and Mrs. McKeighan, and the two 
 families became quite intimate. Mrs. Smith is a widow, and after the 
 death of her husband she became sad, sorrowful, listless and grieved 
 over her loss, never regaining her former cheerfulness until she became 
 devotedly attached to Victor Cornell, the second son of Albert A. and 
 Aura McKeighan, a mere child, but who seemed to divert her mind 
 from her sorrow, and turned her thoughts into new channels. 
 
 The Smiths heard from Mrs. Albert A. McKeighan, of Albert's aged 
 mother, in her far Northern home, and they planned to send her a 
 Christmas present, and one of the daughters made a handbag, wrought 
 in the genuine Irish Crochet stitch, requiring sixty-three hours to com- 
 plete it. It is not only a very beautiful piece of work, but it is a 
 valuable present, and coming — as it does — from those she does not have 
 the privilege of knowing, Mrs. A. H. McKeighan prizes it beyond any 
 expression of words, and it has added a joy to her Christmas pleasure 
 that nothing else could give, and her wish is that those who so lovingly 
 remembered her may have the merriest Christmas and the happiest 
 New Year of their lives, and may He whose advent woke the echoes of 
 Judea's hills with the glad angel songs, doubly reward them for this 
 deed of love. 
 
 But the beautiful present was not the only gift they sent to her. 
 With it she received this exquisite gem of a letter, whose noble senti- 
 ments, expressions of love and words of praise for her dear son and 
 family have awakened emotions in the mother heart on earth to with 
 her enter heaven. No mother heart could fail to respond in loving de- 
 votion to the expressions of such a rare gem as this letter is. 
 
 In order that all her dear, good friends may understand how much 
 she is indebted to these dear Southern friends she places before them 
 the letter, that all who read it may realize the generous, loving spirits 
 of these gifted Southern ladies : 
 
 Mother McKeighan: — 
 
 Our family were taking Thanksgiving dinner with Mr. 
 and Mrs. A. A. McKeighan, and we gave Mr. Mc. a "Xmas" 
 present for you, his mother. He wished me to send my card, 
 or to present the gift. For a few short years it has been our 
 privilege to know your son and his beloved family, in genial 
 friendship. They have contributed abundantly in making life 
 pleasant for us, and unselfishly allowing us the unalloyed 
 
466 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 love of their three beautiful children. We are justly proud 
 to have known a father so thoughtful and unselfish, a husband 
 so true, a man of business with unlimited ability. To the 
 mother of such a man we are sending a small "Xmas" token, 
 just to say her boy is with friends. 
 
 Wishing you a joyous "Xmas," 
 
 Mrs. A. P. Smith and Daughters. 
 
 Wanted Statement 
 
 Some days ago we got a postal card from a subscriber asking for 
 a statement of his account. We turned to the book and finding that 
 he owed us $1.15, we sent him the statement. By return mail we 
 got a letter stating that he did not have the money to spare just 
 now, and that we had better stop his paper pretty soon. Before we 
 got his letter last week's paper was mailed, but we promptly crossed 
 his name off the list. Monday we got an official notice that our paper 
 addressed to this subscriber was refused. It is evident that he 
 thought that we wished to force our paper on him, but he is mistaken, 
 "We always stop the paper promptly when notified to do so. It always 
 affords us pleasure to get a person out of misery. We are aware 
 that taking the Banner must be a terrible infliction to some, much I 
 like having the colic or being jilted by a pretty schoolma'am, or being 
 visited by one's mother-in-law, or running a nail in one's off hind 
 foot, and we sympathize with all of them. The fact is that we send 
 them the paper just as we poison potato bugs, kill rats and cut the 
 heads off of chickens, not because we take pleasure in it, but because 
 it is absolutely necessary, and we have no desire to continue the 
 punishment after the victim squeals. In the meantime permit us to 
 call attention to the fact that we print sale bills to beat anything. 
 
 Card of Thanks 
 
 It is with much pleasure that I return my grateful thanks to all 
 the many dear friends whose shower of birthday cards brought to me 
 so many, many, almost one hundred, loving greetings and kind good 
 wishes on my 72d birthday. I do appreciate every one of them, from 
 that of Ellen Goold with her name written with her own little hand, 
 to that of dear, good, Sarah Enochs, now 93 years of age. 
 
 Mrs. A. H. McKeighan, 
 
 Accidentally Shot 
 
 Sunday afternoon, January 17, 1909, while Mrs. Fred Beale was re- 
 turning from the home of her brother, Frank Smith of Elba, accom- 
 panied by her brother, Ray Smith, and when south of Mrs. Bailey's 
 house, Mrs. Beale was struck by a bullet, which hit her on a finger of 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 467 
 
 her right hand, ploughed along the bone, and then went through the 
 overcoat and under coat of her brother. It was a narrow escape for 
 Mrs. Beale, for if the bullet had struck her body in all probability- 
 she would have been killed. The shot is alleged to have been fired 
 from a gun in the hands of Steve Doubet, who was chasing a wolf, 
 at which he fired the shot. He was a long distance off, but the gun 
 is a long range rifle, and carries a ball a long ways. The accident 
 occurred between four and five o'clock P. M., and Dr. H. J. Hensley 
 was called to dress the wounded finger. Mrs. Beale is the daughter 
 of Alfred Smith of Elba, and she is to be congratulated on her escape 
 from a more serious injury. 
 
 Only a Dog 
 
 Just a dog. A yellow dog of the feist variety. The property of 
 A. J. and Mrs. Lawrence. He is dead. 
 
 The end came during the night of September 1st, 1908. The 
 morning of September 2nd, he was found in the wicker basket that was 
 his bed, cold, stiff, stark and helpless. He had been mopy for several 
 days. Time had laid its heavy hand upon him, for as a dog's life 
 goes, he was old. He was nearly as old as the family in which he had 
 his home. He had wiggled himself into the good graces of the entire 
 family as well as the good graces of all the immediate neighbors. He 
 was neither a sneak nor a hypocrite. When he visited the neighbors 
 he always wanted a piece of meat, and he asked for it — in his dog 
 language — a language that all recognized — and honored — if they had 
 the meat. He will be missed at Macklin's, at Smith's at Corbin's, at 
 the editor's home, and others. 
 
 It can be said of him that no harm was in him. We think there 
 have been more useful dogs, for his was negative goodness, but it 
 did not take a microscope to make it apparent. He filled his allotted 
 place, and did it well. 
 
 His name was Dewey, and he lived up to the name, for he did 
 his duty, and that only made the name he bore illustrious. 
 
 His owner placed the dead Dewey in a box, and buried him, and 
 not without regrets. And the neighbors will miss Dewey. Will we 
 be missed when we die? 
 
 John W. Smith 
 
 John W. Smith is our neighbor, and a good neighbor too — all our 
 neighbors are good neighbors — and we have dwelt in amity up to the 
 present, but John is acting queerly of late. We are a long suffering 
 cuss — we have been married almost 53 years — but there is a point 
 beyond which forbearance ceases to be a virtue. For instance — John 
 
468 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 and I both had fine Burbank plum trees; our tree is dead as Julius 
 Caesar, while John's tree is bending under a wealth of fruitage that 
 would bulge the eyes of a wooden Indian; we each had on our home 
 lots a strawberry patch ; our patch is bare as the desert of Sahara, and 
 is as devoid of berries as the head of a full fledged Presbyterian Rul- 
 ing Elder is of hair, while John's patch is so full of great red berries 
 that an ant committed suicide because it could not get through 
 between the berries ; he has lettuce with leaves broad as the pendulous 
 ears of elephants ; radishes tender and crisp ; cherry trees blushing 
 as the cheeks of a sweet girl graduate. John raised the largest pump- 
 kin we have ever seen. Envy large as a woodchuck is lodged in our 
 gizzard; discontent is gnawing at our "innards" like a wood worm in 
 a hickory billet. The situation is critical. Let us hope that when 
 stern Winter touches vegetation with his icy finger, and all nature 
 slumbers dormant as the dead, when the moonbeams slant a world 
 shrouded in virgin white, covering the hideous blots on nature's face, 
 may the white dove of peace hover this heart, and Smith and we still 
 amicably meet. 
 
 A Delightful Visit 
 
 Last Saturday evening Editor and Mrs. McKeighan went to 
 Knoxville, to visit their old time friends and neighbors, B. N, and 
 Mrs. Chapin. On our arrival at the depot at Knoxville, we were met 
 by Mr. and Mrs. Chapin, who had a surrey in readiness, and they 
 took us to the home of Crutz Sanders, one of our neighbors when we 
 lived near F'airview, but who for 26 years has had charge of the 
 buildings and grounds at St. Mary's Academy, and who has made 
 for himself a reputation as a careful manager, that is a very great 
 credit to him. At the time of our call he was absent, but learning 
 of our being in town, he came to the Chapin home after supper, and 
 remained a couple of hours, which we enjoyed very much. 
 
 From the Sanders' home they took us to view the buildings and 
 grounds at St. Mary's Academy, and then out to the Knox County 
 Alms House, and then back through the city to Gilbert's Park, and 
 after viewing the town in this pleasant way, we were taken to their 
 pleasant home, where we received such a cordial welcome, and were 
 so royally treated that we regretted that our stay was limited to 
 Sunday evening. 
 
 We were particularly interested in the genealogy of the Chapin 
 and Culver families, which they have very complete, dating back to 
 the Puritans, and with the comforting knowledge that not a member 
 has ever been charged as a criminal. It certainly is a remarkable and 
 honorable history. Then there was a trip of our friends to California, 
 where they spent the Winter a year ago, with all the souvenirs and 
 
M I S C E LLANEOUS WRITINGS 469 
 
 curios to see and admire, and the things presented to them at their 
 golden wedding, which was celebrated the 22nd of September, last 
 year. 
 
 Sunday we attended the church of which Mr. and Mrs, Chapin 
 are worthy members, the Presbyterian, and heard a very fine sermon 
 from the pastor, Rev. A. R. Mathews, whom we have known for years, 
 and whom everybody loves. 
 
 The table prepared by Mrs. Chapin was just fine, but it was no 
 surprise to us, as we have long known her reputation as a planner 
 and preparer of appetizing and tempting meals. The ice cream and 
 cake that closed that remarkably short Sunday were simply delicious, 
 the cream being from the restaurant of their son-in-law, Mr. McClure. 
 
 It was, to us, as delightful a visit as anyone can expect to enjoy 
 in this world, and as we bade these dear friends goodbye at the depot, 
 the thought came to us so forcibly: 
 
 "The old friends are the dearest, 
 After all, after all." 
 
 Card of Thanks 
 
 Last week when we returned home from Chicago, we found nine 
 more birthday post cards. Three of them were from the Hunter 
 family, who were all formerly of Farmington, one from Arthur Hun- 
 ter, of Chariton, Iowa ; one from Celia Hunter Robertson, of Farming- 
 ton, and one from Lizzie B. Hunter. We prize these highly because 
 they are from former pupils, who came to school when we were teach- 
 ing, and one card shows the Carnegie Library at Farmington, and 
 Celia sent us that dearly loved old building, the Presbyterian Church 
 at Farmington. Then there were two beautiful booklets from our 
 loved cousins, Janie and Mary Torrens, and such a beauty of a card 
 from our esteemed friends, B. E. and Mrs. Barrows, one from our 
 friends, J. W. and Mrs. Maxwell, one from our valued friend, Mrs. 
 Dora Hoxworth of Galesburg, and one from out thoughtful friend, 
 Mrs. S. A, Teague. Then the next day came one from a loved brother 
 and sister, Geo. R. and Mrs. Brown of Grand Junction, Iowa. Tues- 
 day morning we received a card from Mattie, Rosa and Mary Wal- 
 lace, of Farmington, expressing kindliest regards and best wishes for 
 many returns of the day, and signed, "Your friends and old pupils, 
 Mattie, Rosie and Mary Wallace." What a flood of memories this 
 card brings up before us! It would be a great pleasure could we call 
 on each of these friends, clasp hands with each and express our heart- 
 felt thanks, but as that cannot be, we take this method to thank you 
 all, along with the other loved ones whose congratulations came 
 earlier. May the Heavenly Father have rich blessing in store for 
 every one of you. A. H. McKeighan. 
 
470 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Fourscore and Three 
 
 Monday, May 11, 1908, was the eighty-third birthday of our valued 
 old friend, Newell Livermore. We say, our old friend, but so far as 
 we can see, he is the valued friend of all who know him. His friends 
 are numerous, and this was very vividly brought to his mind Monday, 
 when so many of them called during the day to congratulate him, 
 express their kindly regards and wish him many happy returns of 
 his natal day. 
 
 In the evening a company of his Masonic brethren came in and 
 spent the evening with him, and greeted him with such cordial con- 
 gratulations that the worthy old gentleman felt that he was "not 
 alone in the world," nor yet "sad." Light refreshments were served, 
 and the time passed merrily, and when the parting time came, as it 
 always must, all wished him health and happiness with many, many 
 such cheery greeting yet to come. 
 
 The Banner joines sincerely in congratulations, and best wishes 
 on the completion of Mr. Livermore 's 83rd year, and hopes that in 
 the years to come he may retain the strength to climb the office stairs 
 and greet us with his cheery "good morning." 
 
 We admire him for his rugged honesty, his sturdy manhood, his 
 advocacy of right, his loyalty to God and his example of right living. 
 May the sunset of his useful life peacefully merge into the bright 
 effulgence of the eternal morning. 
 
 Married at High Noon 
 
 At high noon, on Wednesday, March 17, 1909, at the fine home of 
 the parents of the bride, on North Burson street, in Yates City, 111., 
 Mr. Will Humphrey of Elmwood and Miss Sadie McKinty of Yates 
 City, were united in marriage. Rev. James Wyckoif, an uncle of the 
 groom, being the officiating minister. Only the families of the con- 
 tracting parties were present to witness the ceremony, with the excep- 
 tion of Miss Vada Griffith, a friend of the bride, who played the wed- 
 ding march. 
 
 After the ceremony and the congratulations, a very elegant wed- 
 ding dinner was served, and in the evening the bride and the groom 
 went to Elmwood, where they had a home already furnished, and 
 began life in the new surroundings. 
 
 Both are worthy young people, and both have many friends 
 whose congratulations are hearty and sincere, and who wish for them 
 a long, happy and prosperous wedded life. 
 
 A Very Beautiful Home Wedding 
 
 April 27, 1909, at eight o'clock P. M. at the home of the bride 
 at Yates City, 111., occurred the marriage of Mr. Arthur G. Codey of 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 471 
 
 Jacksonville, and Miss Charlotte E. Bird of Yates City, 111., in the 
 presence of the immediate friends of the contracting parties, Rev. 
 W. H. Clathworthy of Yates City being the officiating clergyman. 
 
 The bride was charmingly gowned in soft light mull and carried 
 a beautiful boquet of bridal roses. 
 
 After congratulations a two course lunch was served. The bride 
 and groom left Yates City Thursday morning for Meredosia, 111., 
 where they will spend some time visiting friends, after which they 
 will return to Jacksonville, 111., where the groom has a home furnished, 
 and they will begin housekeeping. The happy couple received many 
 beautiful gifts from their friends. 
 
 Miss Bird is one of Yates City's most charming young ladies, 
 and the groom is an undertaker in the city of Jacksonville, and is 
 held in high esteem, and we predict for them a bright and prosperous 
 future. 
 
 Married 
 
 At the home of the parents of the bride, in Milo, Iowa, Wednes- 
 day, March 10, 1909, at the hour of 6 o'clock P. M., was solemnized 
 the marriage of Clinton J. Reed, of Peoria, and Miss Maude Spencer, 
 of Milo, Iowa. The bride and groom arrived in Yates City, Wednes- 
 day forenoon, and went out to the home of C. M. and Mrs. Bliss, 
 uncle and aunt of the groom, where a fine dinner was served to the 
 immediate relatives. The young couple went to Peoria at 6 P. M. 
 Thursday, where the groom has a home already furnished, and where 
 they will begin housekeeping at once. 
 
 Both the young people are well known here, the groom being the 
 son of Mrs. D. M. Enochs, of this city, and the grandson of Wm. and 
 Mrs. Carroll. The bride is a grand-daughter of Wm. and Mrs. Mur- 
 dock of this place, and she attended school here two years ago. Both 
 are worthy young people and have many friends who join in wish- 
 ing them happiness and prosperity. 
 
 Accidentally Drowned 
 
 Last Sunday William D. Sweeney was drowned in a pond at 
 Monmouth. The accident occurred at 1:30 o'clock P. M. With three 
 companions he went swimming in the pond, and though a good swim- 
 mer he sank, and was dead before his companions realized that he 
 was in distress. The body was brought here Monday evening and 
 was taken to the family home, where the funeral was held at 2 o'clock 
 P. M. Wednesday, Rev. S. A. Teague, of the Presbyterian church, 
 conducting the services. 
 
 The funeral was largely attended, and the floral offerings many 
 and beautiful. He leaves an aged mother — now blind — and several 
 
472 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 brothers and sisters, who have the sympathy of all in this sudden 
 bereavement. 
 
 A Welcome Call 
 
 Homer Randolph, of Canton, was a business caller in Yates City, 
 last Tuesday afternoon, and made the Banner office a very welcome 
 call. It made us sensible of the swift flight of the passing years, 
 when we recalled the wedding of his parents, W. F. and Mrs. Ran- 
 dolph, when we were teaching school, near Canton, and for four years 
 was a boarder at the home of the parents of Mrs. W. F. Randolph, 
 Homer and Mrs. Moore, and where we attended the wedding. No 
 more estimable or worthy young couple ever plighted their troth in 
 marriage, nor do we know friends that we more highly respect than 
 W. F, and Mrs. Randolph. Homer Randolph may well be proud of 
 his parentage. But his office call brought memories of those happy 
 days when we gathered around the table, and knelt at the family altar 
 with those dear friends. 
 
 But Few Left 
 
 There are but five of the voters left in Yates City of those who 
 took part in the first election held to vote on the proposition to incor- 
 porate the town. They are T. L. Long, Smith Rhea, B. Bevans, David 
 Corbin and Isaac Rynearson. In fact there are only four left here 
 now, David Corbin leaving here last Monday to make his home with 
 his son Geo. H. Corbin, at Liberty, Nebraska. 
 
 At this election 78 votes were cast, 39 being for incorporation 
 and 39 against it. The vote being a tie, the proposition to incorporate 
 was defeated. Of these 78 voters, 26 are known to be dead. This 
 election was held in 1866, and Oliver McKee was president and David 
 Corbin was clerk. Three years later, in 1869, another election was 
 held and the town was incorporated. 
 
 Found 
 
 A switch — not the kind the schoolmaster used on us when we 
 were a kid — but a hair switch such as ladies wear to assist in making 
 them look "purty," was found on Burson street, and has been left 
 at our office. In order to live peacefully with our wife, we will 
 positively state that we did not find this switch — though we remem- 
 ber that the schoolmaster's switch used to find us regularly every 
 day, and in order that Dr. Parker may avoid internecine strife, we 
 positively refuse to state that he found it. In order to avoid compli- 
 cations that might arise from having it in possession we hereby insist 
 that the owner call and relieve us of the responsibility that we do 
 not feel — at our advanced age — we ought to be required to carry. We 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 473 
 
 desire to state that this switch will not be delivered to any red headed 
 lady — unless she can show a power of attorney to secure it for some 
 very handsome brunette. "Asleep at the Switch?" Not on your 
 tintype! we have not slept good since it has been in our custody. 
 
 Courage 
 
 Whether on the gallows high. 
 
 Or in the battle's van. 
 The fittest place for man to die 
 
 Is where he dies for man. 
 
 Read these lines if you are becoming faint and weary, and feel 
 as if the masses were not alive to their own interests. 
 
 It may be that we do not yet comprehend just the way in which 
 we ought to work. Human sacrifices have ever been necessary to 
 placate the insatiate avarice of man. The bones of martyred ones 
 direct the student into the roads that lead to human progression. And 
 bones are thicker strewn as we, advancing, come to the contested fields 
 where man has finally resorted to the last stern argument, and has 
 fallen while nobly battling for human rights. But shed no useless 
 tears, as you remember that : 
 
 Whether on the gallows high, 
 
 Or in the battle's van. 
 The fittest place for man to die 
 
 Is where he dies for man. 
 
 Then let your faint heart gather courage from the noble lessons 
 taught by past experience. Let no lingering trace of cringing cowar- 
 dice lurk in hearts that should be fired by the pathetic story that 
 comes to us from the oppressed laborers of this and other lands. And 
 let us, with renewed vigor, and a firm reliance on the justness of our 
 cause and its final triumph, that God's eternal justice must gild with 
 the glory of victory, resolve "never to give up the contest," never 
 to abandon the struggle, but to say, welcome even death, in such 
 a cause, for Oh ! is it not true, that : 
 
 Whether on the gallows high. 
 
 Or in the battle's van, 
 The fittest place for man to die 
 
 Is where he dies for man. 
 
 That Odious Dance 
 
 We mean the one that was held in Union Hall on the night of 
 Decoration Day. It is odious to the Grand Army Post, not one mem- 
 ber of which sanctions such a desecration of the day. It is odious 
 
474 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 to all good citizens, without regard to party, creed or profession. 
 There are those who believe in dancing, and no one questions their 
 right to that belief; but it is most certainly in bad taste on this day 
 in which a nation meets to weep over the graves of its dead heroes, 
 and to scatter the beautiful flowers of spring over the mounds where 
 are hidden their honored dust. It is certainly an outrage on common 
 decency to thus desecrate the day on which an entire people engage 
 in funeral rites. It is a most shocking and inhuman exhibition of 
 groveling avarice that some are so lost to the better instincts of a 
 common humanity that they prostitute this occasion to making money,' 
 the miserable pittance derived from a dance, or the rental of a hall 
 in which it is held. There is only one other instance that approaches 
 it in ghoulish mendacity and that is where the cowardly camp fol- 
 lower went about the battle fields rifling the pockets of the slain, 
 and cutting off the fingers of the dead in order to possess themselves 
 of the rings that affection had placed there as the soldier bade adieu 
 to home and friends forever. We envy not the one who makes a 
 paltry dime in such a way; we know of no language adequate to 
 express the loathing and contempt in which such vandalism should 
 be held. We a»e glad that in the days gone by, before the grace of 
 God come to soften and subdue our heart, no such arrant and ruth- 
 less desecration of sacred sorrow called for our denunciation, for 
 we fear that in that case we should have been betrayed into saying 
 something harsh in regard to those guilty of it. And even now in 
 the presence of such a wrong, such a burning shame, we are compelled 
 to pray earnestly that God may prevent us from saying all that unre- 
 generate nature prompts us to express. Let us hope that civilization 
 may speedily carry us beyond such heathenish practices. 
 
 Every Day Thoughts 
 
 Ah, how sad and vain a thing is regret. When too late, some 
 past wrong-doing will burden the memory, and the bitter truth we 
 tried to veil, even from our own hearts, is revealed in all its undisguise. 
 Who has not to repent some slight, thoughtless omission of duty or 
 kindness toward those whom they love? What even are regrets com- 
 pared with the anguish of feeling of having parted from a friend — 
 perhaps from our best beloved — with unkind and cruel words? It 
 may have been those words were uttered carelessly, lightly, as the 
 wild and wanton breeze sweeps by, but they leave a pain, as the 
 breeze leaves some scattered rose-leaves to mark its track. Or it 
 may have been they were purposly spoken, prompted by pride and 
 passion and imagined wrong. Such has been an episode in many a 
 life. The cause we know not, any more than that of the little frag- 
 ment from which I quote, whose actors and whose story are alike 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 475 
 
 unknown. But what a fitting place and time was that for such a part- 
 ing! 
 
 By the seething main, 
 While the dark wrack drives overhead. 
 
 And one is drifting out into the mist and storm — the other left 
 to mourn the embittered past, pleading from the far spirit-land for 
 that forgiveness earth cannot accord. 
 
 The Show 
 
 Thursday was show day and the children enjoyed it immensely. 
 We believe in letting the children see the show. It may grow old to 
 old people, but it is all new to the kids. We can remember what a 
 day it was for us when a boy we saw Barnum's great menagerie and 
 circus at Farmington, with the wax figures, the baby elephant, the 
 wonderful ponies, Tom Thumb and the armless man who wrote with 
 his toes — and a thousand other things — to say nothing of the big 
 boy who traded his old jack-knife for our new one — did all the trad- 
 ing himself, and came near licking us because we kicked. Oh, that was 
 a day to be remembered! And the future Mrs. Mc. was there too — 
 though we didn't know it, as she was looking after Sarah Enochs — 
 now Mrs. J. A. Hensley — her father, Samuel Enochs, buying Mrs. 
 Me. a ticket on condition that she look after Mrs. Hensley, who was 
 younger. Ah! the changes the years have brought — but — let the chil- 
 dren see the show. 
 
 Revealed Religion 
 
 It is our opinion — deliberately arrived at, and stated without 
 hesitation — that there are but few who do not believe in revealed 
 religion. People may be indifferent, careless, unappreciative, while 
 in the glow of health, and the flush of prosperity and comfort; but 
 when something occurs to call out the better feelings of the human 
 heart, something to stir its inner depths, the cloak of indifference 
 falls off, the mask of carelessness is removed, the covering of unap- 
 preciativeness is stripped off, and man stands forth as a believer in 
 the religion of the Bible. When disappointments, when dangers, 
 when sickness, when death come, most of them begin to be true to 
 themselves, true to humanity, true to God, and are ready to acknowl- 
 edge that there is a want in the human soul, a vacuum in the human 
 heart, that nothing but the religion of revelation can satisfy. They 
 are ready to own up that man's depravity, and Christ's power to 
 save souls, is not only possible, but probable, and, indeed, necessary. 
 It is natural to despise shelter when the sun shines; but when the 
 storm rages it is just as natural to turn to some higher power for 
 
476 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 protection. There are but few infidels or skeptics in the time of real 
 danger. 
 
 Revivals 
 
 We notice that an effort is being made to get up a revival in this 
 place, and there can be no doubt in regard to the need of it. But 
 there may be grave doubts about the good done by a "gotten" up 
 revival. In our own case this doubt comes by experience and observa- 
 tion. In our younger days we thought that the best plan to circum- 
 vent the devil was to go at him rough shod, and that the "kingdom 
 of heaven must be taken by force." In fact we were surprised that 
 "auld clootie" did not go out of business after we had helped in a 
 "gotten up" revival, and we have been astonished to find some of 
 the most promising of the converts helping the old scamp in some of 
 his nefarious work in less than six months afterwards. Ah! that 
 "auld clootie" is sly, and it takes a convert in a revival God has 
 gotten up to make people better. 
 
 Special Mention 
 
 Yates City has spent some money on her schools and her library. 
 But it has not been lost. We know of no other town that has sent 
 out a better class of young people. We are sorry that we do not have 
 the data to give them all, but we remember Omer Barker, Frank 
 Clancy, Douglas Barker and Wm. Clancy, now doing grand and suc- 
 cessful work in California ; S. W. Burson, now a doctor of note, prac- 
 ticing in Chicago ; Luela Burson, now married, and teaching in an 
 Iowa college ; Henry Flanegin, now principal of the Roseville schools, 
 in Illinois; Presson Thomson, now teaching at Summit; LeRoy E. 
 Flanegin, now a Prof, in the Central Normal at Lewistown, 111. ; Robert 
 E. Bird, a teacher of experience, but now attending Knox College; 
 Lee Flanegin, now teaching at Williamsfield, 111. ; Robert Anderson, 
 now a student at Lombard ; F. D. Thomson, now Principal of the 
 Yates City schools; Miss Lydia A. Corbin, now — and for some time 
 past — a teacher at Princeton, 111., Miss Inez S. Long, who taught 
 several successful terms, but is now at home on account of a throat 
 trouble ; Miss Lulu M. Hensley, now married and living in Peoria ; 
 Miss Clyde Bevans, now teaching the Corey school; Claude Ander- 
 son, now at Lombard College ; Miss Mary Stone, now married and 
 living on a farm; Miss Jennie Bird, now teaching near Bennington; 
 Miss Bert Hensler, now married and living in Elmwood; George H. 
 Pease, now teaching at Pease Hill; Samuel Stone, now teaching 
 at Salem Centre ; George Tennery, now teaching at No. 1 ; Miss 
 Bessie Robinson, now married to Editor W. 0. Butler; Lizzie 
 Spickard, a successful teacher; Miss Lillian Bliss, now at home; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 477 
 
 Miss Maggie Clancy, the valued teacher of the primary department 
 of the Yates City schools ; Miss Nellie Robinson, now married and 
 living on a farm; Miss Fannie Knable, now married and living 
 here; Miss Annie Lund, now teaching at the Nicholson school; 
 Robert D. Hill, now teaching at Rapatee, 111. ; Miss Kate Chase, now in 
 Galesburg ; Miss Amy Robinson, now married and living in Galesburg ; 
 Miss Nannie Beal, now teaching; John Tinen, now engaged in farm- 
 ing; W. S. Bliss was for two years in the grammar department of the 
 Yates City schools, now in the lumber yard here; Grace B. Hensley, 
 now married and living in El Paso, Texas; Agnes Montgomery, now 
 teaching at the Spickard school; Alva J. Norris, now an eminent 
 physician at Russell Springs, Kas., Ada Norris, now married and liv- 
 ing in Denver, Colo. 
 
 The Garnered Sheaf 
 
 On Saturday last, at his home in Farmington, died Luther Birge. 
 He had been for upward of 50 years a resident of that town. The 
 whole story is told when we say that humanity has lost a friend. 
 Deacon Birge was a radical of the radicals, but he was radically right. 
 He knew no compromise with wrong, and hesitated at no sacrifice 
 for right. One of the original abolitionists, he was, of course perse- 
 cuted for his opinions, and the brave old hero and martyr — for shall 
 we not call him such — was rotten egged in more than one school 
 house in Fulton county. But he had the courage of conviction, and 
 by tongue, and pen, and personal acts he worked for the emancipa- 
 tion of a race. As a high official on the "underground railroad," he 
 has aided in the escape of many slaves from the free soil of America, 
 to the juster laws of Canada. 
 
 But Deacon Birge was not a narrow minded bigot; he was rather 
 the large hearted philanthropist whose energies were active for relig- 
 ion, morality, temperance, virtue, honesty and truth. Such being the 
 case, it is not surprising that he commanded the respect of even his 
 foes, and won and kept the admiration and love of his friends. 
 
 He lived to rejoice for almost two decades in the freedom of an 
 emanicipated people, for whose welfare he had counted no sacrifice too 
 great, and no personal sufferings too severe. Death has stilled the 
 pulse, and palsied the brain, and shrouded in darkness the intellect 
 that once was so active for man's weal. The withered body finds 
 repose, and the tired limbs are at rest. If knowledge was universal, 
 four millions of former slaves would today be bowed in solemn grief, 
 and their children would make pilgrimages to honor the dust of the 
 true emancipator — not he who demanded it as a war necessity — but 
 he who demanded it in the name of right and justice, and who, spurn- 
 ing all human enactments, squared his actions and life by the teach- 
 ing of a "higher law." 
 
478 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 The world has, in our opinion, produced no greater apostle and 
 martyr of freedom than John Brown of Harper's Ferry fame; and 
 Deacon Birge was a John Brown under different circumstances. Such 
 men ''make our faith in goodness stronger;" and we realize that men 
 now in a more exalted sphere of usefulness, these noble souls — whose 
 immortality can never be for a moment doubted — are rejoicing in the 
 opportunity of doing greater works for God than was theirs to do 
 here on earth. 
 
 An active participant in the affairs of men for more than 60 
 years, the memory of Deacon Birge will be an incentive to duty so 
 long as the simple story of his pure and honest life finds a place in 
 the history of his country. 
 
 The Library Entertainment 
 
 The Annual Entertainment for the benefit of the Yates City 
 School and Public Library, was given in the opera house, Thanks- 
 giving night, and called out a very large audience of interested, 
 cultured and critical people, so that the seating capacity of the build- 
 ing was overtaxed, and many were turned away who sought admis- 
 sion. 
 
 From a financial point of view it was a great success, the proceeds 
 being $95, the largest, we are told, since 1892, and we think this 
 financial result is due to the judicious advertising, wise management 
 and persistent efforts of Dr. J. J. Parker, 
 
 The Yates City Orchestra furnished the music, and they did it 
 in such a manner as to win new honors for themselves, delighted the 
 audience and sent them home feeling that their 35 cents had not been 
 entirely a donation. 
 
 Then the night! Wasn't it beautiful! The air mild, balmy, salu- 
 brious, intoxicating, making one take in great draughts of it, a la an 
 old toper drinking from the bung of a beer barrel. Then, too, there 
 was the moonlight, that lesser light that rules the night, glinting, 
 and gleaming, coruscating and shimmering over the loveliest of land- 
 scapes, scattering the gloom, chasing the dark shadows along the 
 valleys, up the steep declivities, and driving them far away beyond 
 the hills, those grand and picturesque old hills that skirt the Kicka- 
 poo, and French Creek, and pouring so much of beauty, and poetry, 
 and esctasy, and love over young humanity that one beautiful School- 
 ma'ams of Yates City became so exuberant and exultant that she 
 fished out of her dainty purse the following exquisite and suggestive 
 motto that she had unwrapped from a candy kiss, thrust it into the 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 479 
 
 hand of her escort who was paying her way into the entertainment 
 and said, "read it, read it, my Honeybird!" and he read as follows: 
 
 "Wanted, a hand to hold mine own, 
 
 As down life's stream I glide; 
 Wanted, an arm to lean upon, 
 Forever by my side." 
 
 Oh ! but that was the daisy night, and so the crowd, the finances, 
 the orchestra and the night, all were fine. 
 
 We are told that a certain counterpart of Joe Jefferson was to 
 give a theatrical performance, but unfortunately he was called out 
 of the city, and as even so fine an actor as Donald Root is reported 
 to be, is not gifted with ubiquity, we draw the veil, and say vale, 
 entertainment, vale! 
 
 Christ's Teachings 
 
 Yes, some may all the better see 
 
 For pain and blight and fears; 
 But, oh, so many eyes there be 
 
 Cannot see God for tears. 
 
 Peruse those lines again, gentle readers; they are full of mean- 
 ing, a meaning that is a bitter, bitter reality to thousands of dwellers 
 on the earth today. We are a boasting people; abundant crops have 
 been garnered ; those who have raised, need not go hungry, and those 
 who have money to buy need not lack. But even this applies only 
 to our own country, a small part of God's universe. And even here 
 John G. Ingalls has said ten thousand people never have the craving 
 of hunger satisfied. It is well to look on the beautiful picture as a 
 whole, but it is better not to forget that objects in the picture taken 
 singly, are distorted and hideous; it is well to look on the silver lin- 
 ing of the darkest cloud; but it is better to see that it is but a dark 
 cloud that makes the lining seem all the more brilliant. It is a small 
 matter to the starving peasant on the steepes of Russia, whose glazing 
 eye is closing on a world that did not meet the demands of his animal 
 wants, that somewhere, in a land called America, there is bread 
 enough and to spare. A shudder went through us when we heard a 
 minister rejoicing that while our granaries are bursting with their 
 abundance, that prices are high because of the scarcity elsewhere; 
 and at the same time we knew that where that scarcity existed, help- 
 less, innocent babes were wailing the feeble cry for food that could 
 not be given, helpless women were weeping in agony over the chil- 
 dren they could no longer satisfy, and emaciated fathers were mak- 
 ing a heroic, a desperate, an unavailing fight to beat back the wolf 
 of hunger from the door of his miserable hut. If giving thanks for 
 such conditions be any part of Christian religion, then we would say 
 
480 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 deliberately, but candidly, let it perish from the earth, and let it hide 
 its deformities in the darkness of complete oblivion, and let us have 
 a religion that acknowledges the brotherhood of man, and the uni- 
 versal fatherhood of God. We do not so comprehend the grand 
 teachings of Christ, in the scriptures: 
 
 Go stand where he has stood; 
 
 Go feel what he has felt; 
 Go view where human sorrows brood, 
 
 There let thy proud heart melt. 
 
 God made a world. He divided it into continents, islands, oceans 
 and seas. Man has made empires, kingdoms, and republics. "We doubt 
 if God notices the lines that man's ambitions, revenges and vagaries 
 have established. The daily dweller by the Nile, the swarthy Mon- 
 golian, the copper-hued Indian, the classically intelligent features of 
 the European, all are alike in the sight of Him who spake worlds 
 into being, and who notices the atom as it floats in the sunbeam. If 
 religion has a mission it must be to clear away doubts, and remove 
 obstruction, and help frail humanity to reach up its hand and place 
 it in the hand of God. 
 
 Yes, some may all the better see 
 
 For pain and blight and fears; 
 But, oh, so many eyes there be 
 
 Cannot see God for tears. 
 
 The Farmer's Dinner 
 
 Did you ever go out to the home of one of our prosperous farm- 
 ers, and did he prevail on you to take dinner with the family? If 
 you have had any experience you are not hard to persuade. The 
 lady who presides over the farmer's house, gets on her big apron and 
 her "poke" sunbonnet, seizes a missile of some kind, and gives chase 
 to a couple of young chickens that her practical eye tells her are about 
 right to fry. Of course when she throws the missile hits most any- 
 thing but the chicken, but she just "tries, tries again" until she bags 
 the game. In an incredible short space of time they are picked, 
 dressed, cut up and in the oven in a dripping pan of wonderous pro- 
 portions. Then there is jarring on the clean kitchen floor as the 
 heavy table is wheeled into place, a snowy cloth is taken from a 
 bureau drawer, the plates are laid, the napkins placed, and a won- 
 drous lot of dishes, knives, spoons, etc., are ranged in order. There 
 is a hurrying up and down the cellar stairs, a rattling of chairs, and 
 before you think it possible, a matronly face appears at the sitting 
 room door and a smooth, sweet voice says, "Pa, dinner is ready." 
 In a moment you are seated. How the cutlery shines! How the 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 481 
 
 dishes burnish. What an aroma comes from the steaming coffee-pot! 
 And there are the lima beans, just too nice to describe ; there is the 
 whitest and lightest of bread, flaky as it can be; there is a great 
 platter with the fried chicken, brown, and crisp, and tender, fit dish 
 for the epicure ; there is the dish of mashed potatoes, with a great 
 roll of butter slowly melting in the cavity that has been hollowed 
 out in the middle ; there is the roll of butter, pure, sweet, yellow, fresh, 
 making one think of broad pastures and sleek, clover fed Jersey 
 cattle; there is the "cold slaw," floating in, and covered with cream — 
 not make-believe cream — but thick, rich, luscious, just taken from 
 the pans of milk ; there are the fruits, and the preserves, and the 
 gravy, and the sugar in bright bowls, and real cream for coffee, and 
 goblets of pure, bright, sparkling water, and you look over the 
 heaped up table, and realize that here is a feast fit for the gods, and 
 you feel thankful that the gods are not here, and that you are. And 
 you see the things passed around, and you eat until you feel like a 
 stuffed toad, and you regretfully quit, and as you look over the table, 
 there sits the woman apparently unconscious that she has done any- 
 thing, and actually you begin to doubt if indeed she did get up that 
 dinner, but you know she did, and your admiration for her rises, 
 and you give her a place above all other mortals, and she has a 
 charm that wealth, education nor station can give, and yet she sits 
 there, a gentle, unassuming, quiet matron, clad in calico, a check 
 apron, a bow of ribbon at her throat, and yet she is a queen. 
 
 The Change of Years 
 
 Those who were familiar with the country between Yates City 
 and Canton fifty years ago, are surprised at the change these fifty 
 years have wrought. Along the line of the C, B. & Q. from Farm- 
 ington to Canton there is a succession of clusters of buildings centered 
 around the different coal mines, that give one the impression that 
 it is one continuous town. The editor of this great moral pendulum, 
 when a boy in his teens, made prairie hay where the coal shaft at Two 
 Town now is located, and there was not a fence or a house anywhere 
 near, and when the jug of water became warm, almost nauseating, 
 there was no well in reach where it might be replenished. About the 
 only indications of a settlement adjacent were the flocks of cattle 
 that were wont to swoop down and get among the new made hay 
 cocks, and toss them to pieces with their horns. And it even took a 
 hint given by the sharp tines of a pitchfork, to induce some par- 
 ticularly audacious old cow to desist from what was evidently sport 
 for her. Nor have we yet forgotten how slowly those long summer 
 afternoons wore away, nor how the hot sun persisted in hanging over 
 the same spot for so long a time, and so exasperated us with his snail- 
 
482 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 like motion that we were ready to believe that some modern Joshua 
 had arrested his motion and was causing him to stand still while he 
 took a poke at the enemy. It is just surprising how slowly the sun 
 can go down when a boy is weary of work, and visions of summer 
 evening come to him, when all the neighbor boys would congregate 
 to play "high spy" around the hay stacks and straw shed, turn sum- 
 mersaults off the straw stack, chase the elusive lightning bug, and 
 indulge in very mild shouts — all boys shout mildly — and forget all 
 about the weariness of the long afternoon out on the lonesome prairie 
 where Two Town now is ranged in two picturesque rows. As we rode 
 over the Q. on a recent afternoon, and looked out at the coal shafts 
 with their immitation towns, it seemed to us that "time had turned 
 backward in its flight," and that we were the careless, tired boy again, 
 standing among the cocks of prairie hay, and that Two Town was 
 but a dream. There came back to us too, companions, the playmates 
 of those long ago days, and we found ourselves tracing them along 
 the intervening years, and found that their paths led to "the silent 
 city of the dead," and saw those old familiar names carved on great 
 granite blocks, and as memory recalled them "one by one," a feeling 
 of sadness came over us and a moisture — no doubt due to the evening 
 atmosphere — gathered on the car window, and the shafts and clus- 
 tered houses of Two Town seemed indistinct and obscure. Truly 
 the years have wrought many changes. 
 
 Mother's Day 
 
 Last Sunday, May 9, 1909, was "Mother's Day." If we under- 
 stand it, it is comparatively a new observance, but it is certainly 
 a very beautiful and most appropriate observance. It is also an 
 observance that calls out the noblest and the best traits in humanity. 
 
 The individual whose feelings are not touched, whose heart is 
 not warmed by such an observance, is most certainly to be pitied. 
 A mother's love is the sweetest, the most unselfish thing that exists 
 outside of heaven. 
 
 The day was fittingly observed at the Presbyterian church, by 
 a special service, and by music. The weather was not propitious, 
 as it rained nearly all day Saturday, and the morning opened dark, 
 gloomy and foreboding, with the roads heavy and muddy, but the 
 attendance was fairly good, despite all this. 
 
 A committee of young ladies stood at the church entrance, 
 and pinned a pure white carnation upon every mother as she entered. 
 
 The special music was a very pleasing part of the service. Not 
 only did the choir rise to the occasion, but the solos were extra fine. 
 The first was given by Mrs. Jay McLaughlin, and we do not remember 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 483 
 
 when we have heard anything so finely rendered, or that was so 
 tender and touchingly beautiful. It was exquisite in the manner 
 of its rendition, and it touched the tenderest feeling of the congrega- 
 tion, and during its progress many were silently weeping and the 
 eyes that were undimmed at its close were few. There is no truer 
 test of ability of the singer than the fact that she reaches the hearts 
 of those who are swayed by the feeling, and the pathos and earnestness 
 that she has conveyed to those who are moved by her song. 
 
 The second solo was given by L. A. Lawrence, and it is high 
 praise to say that it was fully up to his high standard. Only a few 
 are privileged to retain so fine a voice, so clear a perception, so fault- 
 less a rendition, at his age as does Mr. Lawrence. 
 
 The sermon was one of the best things ever heard from that 
 pulpit, and there have been fine ones before. It is characteristic of 
 Rev. S. A. Teague that he speaks off hand, and while all that we have 
 heard him preach have been most excellent, we thought this exceeded 
 them all. It was not so grand-eloquent as to get into the region of 
 fiction, and draw a fanciful picture, but was practical, dealing with 
 the mothers in a manner that appealed to the personal experience of 
 all, and was an appeal to the practical, every day life of this com- 
 munity, and of every other community as well. The person who 
 listened to it could not but have a higher conception of what we 
 owe to our mothers, and a deeper sense of what we owe to the loving 
 self-sacrifice of those dear mothers — many of whom are in heaven, 
 watching and waiting for us, and anxious — Oh, how anxious ! that we 
 lead pure, honest, upright lives, and be welcomed by them in that 
 better land. 
 
 The writer appreciates the privilege of being present at such a 
 grand good service, and wishes to state that he came away with higher 
 resolves for a closer adherence to duty and right living. 
 
 Yates City Scenery 
 
 From several view points in and about Yates City, can be 
 seen some of the most beautiful scenery that Illinois affords. The 
 lover of the beautiful will be well paid for the trouble, if he, or she, 
 will go out to the top of the ridge just north of the residence of Sam 
 and Mrs. Ramp, and spend a half hour in looking over the stretch 
 of country that lies to the north and northeast within the range of 
 the vision. It is a panorama that, once seen, cannot easily be for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Or let one go out on North Burson street, until the crest of the 
 ridge is reached, about where the well kept homes of John Chantry, 
 John McKinty, C. M. Corbin, E. C. Shaw, T. J. Kightlinger, P. Gar- 
 
484 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 rison, M. W. Thomson, R. C. Mathews, and Dr. J. J. Parker are 
 situated, and they will see, over to, and reaching far beyond the 
 confines of French Creek, as enchanting a landscape as poet or painter 
 ever dreamed of, or the eye of mortal ever rested upon. We have 
 sometimes thought that these favored people who live along this 
 ridge, or just beyond the slope of it on the north, and who are per- 
 mitted to view such entrancing natural scenery day after day, do 
 not deserve much credit for being the good people they really are, 
 for the beauty they see to the north of them can but be a powerful 
 incentive to high ideals, pure thoughts and noble lives. Nor is it 
 great wonder that the wives and daughters of these residents should 
 be beautiful, talented and witty, for beauty develops beauty, and 
 people tend toward their invironments. If such scenery doesn't 
 tend to bring out all that is noble, all that is good, all that is pure, 
 all that is holy in men and women, then have we been mistaken in 
 why God has placed such landscapes before mankind. 
 
 Or let one get over in the southeast part of town, where the 
 hills and groves of the Kickapoo, the Mound over toward Elmwood, 
 the glimpses of Elmwood itself, nestled on the bank of the historical 
 stream, that winds its sinuous course, hugging the southern bluffs 
 until its waters are lost in the Illinois, and there is beheld a vision of 
 natural scenery that must have an influence on the minds and hearts 
 of those who are privileged to look upon it daily. 
 
 Or let one get out toward the southwest part of the city, and 
 look over toward Pease Hill, snuggled there in the midst of as fine 
 a prairie farming country as the world produces, see the evidences 
 of thrift and prosperity, behold the distant fringe of woods that mark 
 the bank of Littlers Creek, and farther west, beyond Uniontown and 
 Douglas, discern the dim outlines of the heavier timber skirting the 
 windings of Spoon river, and how can it be possible for the beholder 
 to remain gloomy, grouchy or sad, where nature has been so lavish 
 in providing that which is beautiful, grand and inspiring, and placed 
 it even at our very doors. 
 
 Think of it, that line of grand old trees that the eye follows,, 
 trending to the southwest, marks French Creek, in its flow to Spoon 
 River ; facing southwest we see a similar marking showing where 
 Littlers Creek holds its course northwest to Spoon River, whose 
 water joins the Illinois at Havana, and finds its way to the gulf. 
 
 Facing the southeast we trace the Kickapoo, in its flow to the- 
 gulf, perhaps a little later than those of French Creek and Littlers 
 Creek. These creeks skirt the confines of Yates City, as the Jefferson,, 
 the Madison and the Gallitan Rivers skirt Boseman, the beautiful, 
 in the lovely Gallitan Valley, in Montana, whose waters forming the 
 Missouri, mingle with those of our own beautiful creeks, as they are- 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 486 
 
 all borne on the bosom of the Father of Waters, and mingle together 
 in their descent to the gulf. 
 
 It may be that some day a painter able to delineate, will put this 
 beautiful natural scenery on canvas that speaks in mute voice, to 
 the heart of men and women. It may be that some poet will put 
 this wondrous beauty and grandeur in a poem that will stir the hearts 
 of those who read, and open for them these pages of beautiful pictures, 
 so that they will appear as they really are. It may be that some more 
 gifted writer, following him who realizes that he lacked words to 
 tell of this beauty as it should be done, may touch this Yates City 
 scenery with the hand of a master, and do justice to the theme. 
 
 As for us, 
 
 "In vain have we essayed it, 
 And we feel we cannot now." 
 
 Dr. J. A. Brown 
 
 Died — In Farmington, of typhoid fever, after a lingering ill- 
 ness of several weeks, Dr. J. A. Brown, aged 55 years. 
 
 "How pure at heart and sound in head. 
 With what divine affection bold. 
 Should be the man whose thought would hold 
 An hour's communion with the dead." 
 
 Deceased was born at Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1830, and was left 
 fatherless at the age of two years, after which he removed with his 
 mother to Morton, Tazewell county. 111., in 1835, where he resided 
 with his uncle, Robert Roberts. At the age of 16 he left the farm and 
 took up his abode in Peoria, where he learned the plasterer's trade, 
 and acted in the capacity of reporter for one of the daily papers. At 
 about the age of 20 he went to Cincinnati, Ohio, where he was also 
 engaged as a reporter, and in a little over a year after his removal 
 to that city he was united in marriage to Miss Lottie "Ward, March 4th, 
 1852, and immediately returned with his bride to Peoria, where he 
 resided and commenced the study of medicine, with Dr. J. M. Evans. 
 He graduated at Cincinnati, Ohio, and began the practice of medicine 
 at Lancaster, this state, and then removed to Peoria and continued 
 the practice, where all his children, four boys, were born. He came 
 to Farmington in 1862 or 1863, where he followed his profession; but 
 believing his health would be better by less night riding, he removed 
 to Peoria, and engaged in practice with Dr. Evans, at No. 4 North 
 Adams street, under the firm name of Evans & Brown. He afterwards 
 removed his family to Cincinnati, where he continued the practice 
 of medicine with a partner engaged in the drug business. Four years 
 afterward he removed to Indianapolis, where he built up a good 
 
486 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 practice, and was editor of the Indianapolis Medical Review, pub- 
 lished by the Indiana Eclectic Medical Society, and also, at the same 
 time, editor of the Modern Eclectic, published at Macon, Ga., and 
 a year afterward gave up the practice of medicine to accept the chair 
 of obstetrics, in the College of American Medicine and Surgery, at 
 Macon, which he held for two terms, still acting as editor of the two 
 publications. This he found was more laborious than his profession, 
 and returned to his family at Indianapolis, but shortly came back to 
 Farmington, the place that always seemed most dear to him. This 
 was in 1876. 
 
 Such is a brief sketch of Dr. J. A. Brown. But to those who 
 knew him intimately, he was much more than is indicated in these 
 few sentences. That he was a man of more than ordinary ability, 
 his career evinces conclusively; but while he was a success as a 
 doctor, and an adept as an editor, he failed to achieve the full measure 
 of his fame, because he did not enter on that field of labor for which 
 he was pre-eminently fitted by nature ; and the reason he did not was 
 that he made a martyr of himself to the profession of medicine ; had 
 he given this up and left the drudgery of scientific writing and com- 
 piling local news, and entered upon a purely literary career, he would 
 have held no mean place among writers. In that style of writing that 
 is poetic, and yet is not poetry, he excelled. In cases where his 
 genius was stimulated by some of the sadder occurrences of life, he 
 has left specimens of composition that are not excelled by any writer, 
 ancient or modern. It would be difficult to pick out a man who better 
 understood the merits of true poetic thought and diction; and there 
 is now among his papers, some gems of his own composing, that would 
 do honor to the head, the heart, the learning, the skill and the genius 
 of any who are enumerated among the great poets. Most men are 
 overestimated ; but Dr. Brown was underestimated. He was a learned 
 man, scientific, warm-hearted, pure in thought, chaste in expression, 
 a hater of oppression, a lover of liberty, felt keenly the sufferings of 
 the poor, and was an ardent lover of the human race. All these 
 traits were well developed, and were recognized by those who were 
 intimate with him. But none of these were the most marked feature 
 of his character ; his modesty transcended every other trait, made dim, 
 or entirely obscured many of his more prominent virtues, and many 
 times prevented him from receiving that degree of meritorious praise 
 that properly belonged to him. His wit was inclined to sarcasm, 
 but his aversion to inflict even a deserved pain, prevented his shafts 
 from becoming too pointed. In a controversy with a person of wisdom, 
 he was bold, fearless and honorable; when attacked by ignorant per- 
 sons, void of understanding, — as he sometimes was — he suffered them 
 to malign him, rather than to descend to their level. He scorned all 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 487 
 
 pretense, but ever paid the tribute to his respect to genuine merit 
 and true manhood, no matter where he found them. It is needless 
 to say that such a man took the deepest interest in the welfare and 
 good name of his children. He would not have been himself had he 
 not done so: 
 
 "For by the hearth the children sit 
 Cold in the atmosphere of Death, 
 And scarce endure to draw the breath, 
 Or like to noiseless phantoms flit; 
 
 But open converse is there none, 
 
 So much the vital spirits sink 
 
 To see the vacant chair, and think, 
 How good! how kind! and he is gone." 
 
 No one can read his sad and touchingly beautiful thoughts, 
 penned on the death of his friends, and not realize that he was imbued 
 with a deep religious reverence, a faith that was born of his love for 
 God's grand and wonderful works on earth, and led him up from 
 
 "Nature to nature's wondrous God." 
 
 It is no wonder that many hearts saddened when he was stricken 
 by disease, or that many eyes were dimed by tears when it was 
 whispered, *'He is dead." No wonder that a multitude mourned 
 at his funeral, and bowed their heads in sorrow about his grave. It 
 was loving hearts and willing hands that wove a crown, a harp and 
 a cross of those sweet flowers, and laid them on his casket. The 
 cross — emblem of hope ; the crown — emblem of victory ; the harp — 
 emblem that he was rejoicing with expanded powers, among higher 
 intelligences. It was fitting, too, that the day of his funeral was one 
 of those peculiar, sad, mournful days that come in November; the 
 wind sighed, and moaned, and wailed, as it sang a requiem among 
 the nearly denuded trees, and scattered dead leaves about the feet. 
 Yes, it was meet that on such a day we should again stand face to 
 face with the greatest of all human mysteries — death. Why did 
 disease strike him down in the strength of his manhood, and in the 
 prime of his intellectual powers? Why did human skill fail? Why was 
 prayer unavailing to stay the career of death? Why could not the 
 great love of his children hold him from the embrace of the grave? 
 Ah, we can not answer. In the presence of the King of Terrors, every 
 lip is dumb. We only know that 
 
 "God's finger touch'd him, and he slept." 
 
 And standing by his open grave today, we feel that 
 "Death is not an eternal sleep." 
 
488 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 And now, farewell, dear friend, our bursting hearts can scarcely 
 say the word; thy feet shall tread the ways of life with us no more; 
 for thee the mystery is solved ; we grope in darkness yet ; but standing 
 here between the eternities, with shadows all about us, we see celestial 
 light flash up the peaks on either side, and burnish every glittering 
 crag with gold, a token that our dear friend dwells in the light, and 
 God is light. Farewell. Could our poor words but do thee justice, 
 more we would gladly say; but they but mar the picture we would 
 paint. Farewell, we walked together here until 
 
 "As we descended, following Hope, 
 There sat the Shadow feared of man; 
 
 Who broke our fair companionship, 
 
 And spread his mantle dark and cold, 
 And wrapt thee formless in the fold, 
 
 And dull'd the murmur on thy lip, 
 
 And bore thee where I could not see 
 Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, 
 And think that somewhere in the waste 
 
 The Shadow sits and waits for me." 
 
 Farmington's Old Settler's Picnic 
 
 The fourth annual old settler's picnic was held in the beautiful 
 park in Farmington, Thursday, September 5, 1901. Between 2,000 
 and 3,000 people were in attendance. C. C. Butler, who is president, 
 presided in a graceful, easy and able manner, and welcomed the 
 old settlers in a happy speech. The Barstow band, fresh from a 
 signal triumph at Galesburg on Labor Day, rendered their finest 
 selections: A quartet did the singing, and were heartily applauded, 
 the members being Mr. and Mrs. Rolo, Mrs. Clayton Brown and Elmer 
 Barstow. Master George Saunders sang a solo in a manner that was 
 very pleasing. Miss Mollie Butler, who is a beautiful and charming 
 young lady as well as an accomplished musician, presided at the piano 
 and was highly complimented. 
 
 W. T. Davidson, the able and brilliant editor of the Fulton 
 Democrat, made a fine address in his own humorous and inimitable 
 style, and held the closest attention of his delighted hearers from 
 start to finish. After a song by the quartet, A. H. McKeighan made 
 an address. Milton George of Chicago, then spoke for a short time. 
 After this the games and amusements were given, all being good, and 
 all hotly contested. 
 
 There was a surprisingly large number of old people present, 
 and they all enjoyed themselves immensely. The old settler's picnic 
 was a decided success. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 489 
 
 A Misfortune 
 
 At the risk of touching the funny bone of the smart guy with 
 the fish cultured brain who has charge of a department in the Chicago 
 Record, we venture to state that the W. A. McKeighan family had 
 the misfortune to lose their cow, which died Sunday morning. We 
 are painfully conscious that this information is infinitely lacking 
 in importance when compared with the statement of what composed 
 the elaborate wardrobe worn by Mrs, Flush, the wife of Fuller Flush, 
 the noted "Punkin" ward aristocrat, at the automobile show, but it is 
 a part of the "simple annals of the poor" that may not be entirely 
 devoid of interest to W. A. 's friends. If the smart guy of the Record- 
 Herald does hold this item up to ridicule we ask that his artist refrain 
 from putting in the picture of the twin calves that died a few days 
 before the mother cow, for we fear that some of the unsophisticated 
 readers in the rural towns, not being educated to discern nice dis- 
 tinctions in the pictures of the different breeds of calves, might mis- 
 take the drawing for the picture of the wise guy and his artist, 
 which we should very much regret on account of the two dead calves — 
 that, by comparison — were two very intelligent brutes. 
 
 Our Excuse 
 
 In this issue we publish a letter that we received Tuesday, from 
 San Diego, California. The writer is Mrs. Nellie Silliman, of Toulon, 
 who, with her husband and her youngest daughter, Ruth, are now 
 in California for the winter. Mrs. Silliman was a McKeighan, and is 
 a cousin to all the McKeighans about Yates City. Her letter was not 
 written for publication, nor do we have the permission of our fair 
 cousin to publish it, and our only excuse is that we wish all our 
 friends to share the pleasure we enjoyed in reading this fine letter. 
 
 Leap Year Party 
 
 The party par excellence of the season was given at the hand- 
 some and commodious residence of Dr. and Mrs. J. D. C. Hoit, on 
 Tuesday evening, April 5, 1892, and was one of the most enjoyable 
 of all the parties ever given in the city. It was run by the young 
 ladies, who invited the young men, went after them, looked after 
 their welfare during the evening, and at the close escorted them to 
 their homes. Refreshments consisting of ice cream and cake were 
 served, and everything was in elegant shape. Below we give the 
 names of the couples who attended. 
 
 Frank Thomson, Ellen Roberts, Frank Wilson, Mae Blake, George 
 Tennery, Jennie Hoit, Presson Thomson, Belle Hoit, Gilbert Lehman, 
 Maggie Clancy, Owen West, Georgie Roberts, Albert McKeighan, 
 
490 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Addie Rogers, Robert Anderson, Blanche Roberts, Fred Camp, Onie 
 Long, Artie Lawrence, Fode Cunningham, Ed. Wilson, Carrie Soldwell, 
 Percy Lawrence, Mettie McKeighan, George Dikeman, Ella Hoit, Roy 
 Flanegin and Lida Rogers. 
 
 Lincoln Smith 
 
 Lincoln Smith of Chicago, was in the city last Saturday, calling 
 on his relatives and friends, and spent an hour or two in the Banner 
 office. He is another Yates City boy, who has made good in his 
 battle with the world. For ten years he was instructor in penman- 
 ship and drawing in the high school at Canton, then held the same 
 position for seven years in the Normal school at Macomb, and now 
 for four years he has been in charge of similar work in several 
 schools in Chicago and its suburban towns. In addition to this, he has 
 established the business of making historical pictures and statuary, 
 fresco and friezes for schools, having thirty-two artists employed. 
 He has a fine new home at LaGrange, on the line of the C. B. & Q. 
 daughter and son live in cozy comfort. It is a most pleasing task 
 for us to record the success of our boys who, by their ability and 
 faithfulness are "Climbing the ladder round by round." 
 
 Married 
 
 Married, at the home of the parents of the bride, at Mattoon, 
 111. at high noon, Wednesday, September 14, 1904, James Leslie 
 McKeighan of Yates City, 111., and Miss Sarah Rice of Mattoon, 111., 
 Rev. D. H. Switzer of Wichita, Kansas, a cousin of the bride perform- 
 ing the very interesting ceremony, in the presence of only the imme- 
 diate relatives of the contracting parties. 
 
 The groom is the son, and the only child of R. J. and Mrs. 
 McKeighan of this place, and is a young man of blameless life and 
 spotless character, a model citizen in every way, and has the brightest 
 prospects before him for successful life on the farm. The bride is the 
 daughter of Amos Rice, and is a member of one of the oldest and best 
 known families in that part of the state, and is a lady of many accom- 
 railroad, seventeen miles out from Chicago, where he and his wife, 
 plishments. 
 
 The bride and groom left for St. Louis at 2 p. m. where they 
 will spend a few days at the fair, and they will arrive here some time 
 next week. 
 
 The Banner has always entertained the highest respect for James 
 Leslie McKeighan, and it joins his many friends in congratulating 
 him and his lovely bride, and in wishing them the largest degree of 
 happiness in the new relationship, and the largest measure of success 
 in life. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 491 
 
 Farewell Party 
 
 On Thursday evening, September 15, 1892, the young people of 
 Yates City gave a farewell party for the family of Editor A. H. 
 McKeighan, at the pleasant home of Miss Carrie Soldwell. A large 
 number were in attendance and the evening was pleasantly and 
 profitably spent. After the amusements were indulged in, a most 
 elegant lap supper was served. At the end of the repast the company 
 gathered in the parlor, and Prof. F. D. Thomson read a paper in 
 which he paid a high tribute to the Banner and the influence for good 
 it had always exerted. Mr. McKeighan responded, as well as his 
 feelings would permit him to, on behalf of himself and family. There 
 were few dry eyes in the company, as the thought of parting came, 
 and at the close the young people sang the beautiful hymn, "God 
 Be With You, Till We Meet Again," as only the young people of 
 Yates City can sing it. It was one of the most pleasant social events 
 ever given in the city, and those who were honored by it will cherish 
 the memory of it as long as life lasts. 
 
 The Following Is Thomson's Paper: 
 
 It was assigned to me to write the valedictory on this occasion. 
 It is the first time that such an honor has been conferred upon me, 
 and no doubt it is the last time it will ever happen. 
 
 Not long since there appeared in the columns of our illustrious 
 Banner a valedictory pronounced by our worthy editor, in which 
 he reveals his feelings in severing his connection with the child of 
 his brain — the Banner — and his associations with his trusted friends 
 in Yates City. Since he has thus spoken, it seems fitting and proper 
 that we, the young people who have grown up under his notice, should 
 express some of our feelings and emotions at losing a familiar friend 
 and his esteemed family from our midst. We wish him and his to 
 feel that his work among us has been appreciated, and though he 
 leaves us, yet will he live in our memories in the truest and best 
 sense. To show him that his words have left impressions, and that a 
 man's works do live after him, may the following allusions suflSce: 
 
 Among our earliest remembrances, when sitting at our mother's 
 knee, are the stories she used to read to us. They were not those 
 Andersen fairy stories that have delighted so many boys and girls, 
 nor were they the famous adventures with genii and imps and goblins 
 narrated in the Arabian Nights, nor the entertaining fables of the 
 deformed ^sop. The stories were not contained in a bound volume, 
 but they have since been so bound together in our being that they will 
 never be forgotten. They are familiar to you all, and no doubt are 
 household topics of conversation. Do you not remember those "Poor 
 
492 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Fences" that used to infest Yates City? Our impressions from those 
 stories are so vivid that an old pine board or a rotten post is never 
 seen without the thought coming to mind: "You belonged to those 
 Poor Fences." But the question now is, where are they? And echo 
 answers, Where? 
 
 The fences improved, and as we grew and noted the improvement, 
 the influence of the local paper impressed itself upon us, and we 
 naturally felt that the "pen is mightier than the sword," and we 
 wondered in our childish way "what a pen that editor must have 
 to think up such things with," Then in boy fashion we were glad 
 that the fences were poor so that we could read about them, for now 
 we had learned to read the Banner and enjoy it. But one shadow 
 crossed our path, and that was' the time coming when the fences 
 would all be good and we would have no stories to read about them 
 in the paper. 
 
 One day after these philosophical musings we were sent down 
 town after a stick — of candy — and we thought that something had 
 been turned loose or else we were in Texas, for the streets and alleys 
 seemed full of cows. We had never noticed them before, nor had we 
 been bothered by their presence; but this time they greatly annoyed 
 us — we don't remember seeing our cow among them — and as we came 
 down to Clancy's corner we met Jake Bird, and said to him: "Jake, 
 just look at the cows. Aint they a nuisance?" "Oh," replied Jake 
 with his characteristic smile, "you must have been reading the 
 Banner." And sure enough the town-cows had taken the place of 
 the poor fences, and that is why we had noticed them. 
 
 There is little doubt but that the town-cows would give a vote 
 of thanks to the Banner, and I believe that they were holding a con- 
 sultation to that effect north of the school house yesterday afternoon 
 when one venerable cow took her position before the rest and said: 
 "Let's thank Mc. for his untiring efforts in securing our deliverance 
 from the inconvenience of carrying close clinging to our necks the 
 clanging cow-bells." And they all shook their heads in assent. 
 
 Those "cow-bells" are not the only "belles" in the town that have 
 received admonitions from our paper. From the Banner of January 
 4, 1883, in reference to young ladies, we clip the following sentence: 
 "A lady's manner always controls that of a gentleman; and if she 
 does not respect herself he will not respect her." Such expressions 
 as the above have appeared from time to time as warnings to those 
 who practice loose street manners. We cannot mention all the good 
 things found in the Banner, as time will not permit. Some of them 
 are the cause of the library, temperance campaigns in our town, im- 
 provements in our school house, abatement of the slaughter house 
 nuisance, etc. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 493 
 
 The Banner has stood for a principle politically, and outside of 
 its own party has exerted no small influence. It has caused the 
 political bee to buzz — yea, even hum — in the hat of one of our honor- 
 able men, whose emphidextrous perambulations circumscribing a 
 quadrangular portion of our urban domain are performed in modo 
 Vivendi a swinging his armbi. The ambiguity attached to these osten- 
 tatious manifestations of ambulatory tendencies is clarified by an 
 understanding of the governmental delivery of certain enveloped 
 documents at the capacious apartments of our worthy representative 
 of the postal service of the United State of America. 
 
 And now I have reached the time that all of you are anxious 
 to experience — the Hour Alone, the true poetry of Banner literature. 
 How much it has revealed to us of the inner life of the editor and of 
 those sublime thoughts that come to all who contemplate the universe 
 in its relations to themselves or in their relations to it! To say that 
 we have enjoyed it is putting a very low estimate upon it. In its 
 last few hours there are evidences of a younger hand at the pen that 
 wrote its contents. The long years of experience have made our 
 editor look upon life in a far different manner than the author of its 
 final columns. Yet in this we cannot but see the stamp of poetic 
 genius revealing itself as the author is "a gittin' a' quainted with 
 his reeders" in the last fifteen minutes of the last hour. "What could 
 'Uure to brighter worlds and lead the way" more persuasively than 
 this poetic strain: "It'll be pleasant tu sleep on the mountain side, 
 with the green pines a wavin' over a feller, an' the birds a singin' an' 
 a twitterin' all day long, an' silvery mountain streems a dashin' down 
 by my lonely bed, makin' music sweeter than ^olian harps." 
 
 No doubt I have left to the last the narration of the thing for 
 which our editor will be remembered by multitudes in the future. In 
 ancient times a certain man gained great fame because he secured 
 the entrance into a great city of a wooden horse, and that to bring 
 war and pestilence to its inhabitants; but what manner of greatness 
 then should be attached to him who, in our day, brought to our city 
 a score of wooden horses for the pleasure and amusement of our 
 people? Think you his name shall perish as the grass? It cannot 
 be. To those who availed themselves of that golden opportunity 
 of mounting a wooden horse and thus linking themselves to classical 
 antiquity, it will prove the event of their lives ; and to those who 
 failed to grasp time and one of those horses by the forelock, the 
 question so often asked will recur again and again: Is life worth the 
 living ? 
 
 It seems that this time of year in our community is one of many 
 changes among the young people. But most of them are to return 
 soon. Those whose last meeting we are tonight to celebrate are going 
 
494 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 to leave us to make their future home in a distant state. It is given 
 to youth to more easily accustom itself to the new circumstances of 
 a new county and new society, and as they leave us we will follow 
 them with our best wishes for their future welfare. We have 
 associated together for many years, and formed our record of each 
 other in the memories of the rest. Our associations are to cease. 
 The record stands as made, to live in our recollections. Should we 
 never meet, the "faces kept in memory, knowing neither time nor 
 change, will remain as we last saw them. We all hope that it will 
 not be unpleasant to recall the past, and for you who are going to 
 leave us to remember with pleasure the many friends you have in 
 Yates City, and this assembly gathered here to say good-bye. 
 We wish you all God-speed! 
 
 Juvenile Lawn Party 
 
 Mrs. Harold Cullings was the hostess of a delightful lawn party 
 given in the honor of her little ten months old niece, Ethel Vera 
 McKeighan, of Chattanooga, Tenn., Wednesday afternoon, June 14th, 
 1911, at her pleasant home, north of Elmwood. 
 The invitations read : 
 
 "Come Wednesday afternoon at two, 
 And bring your mamma along with yon, 
 To meet a lady very wee, 
 Who lives in Sunny Tennessee." 
 
 Twenty-four happy children were present, ranging in ages from 
 ten months to ten years, and about a dozen mothers. 
 
 Soap-bubble blowing and other amusements dear to the youthful 
 heart, were provided for their entertainment, and dainty refresh- 
 ments served. 
 
 It was an afternoon long to be remembered by all the happy 
 guests. 
 
 Parting 
 
 Tuesday evening of last week, the editor and Mrs. Albert A. 
 McKeighan had the pleasure of entertaining Rev. and Mrs. S. A. 
 Teague and their son. Master Homer, at a six o'clock dinner, at the 
 editorial home. It was to us of the home a most pleasant and 
 enjoyable time, the only regret being that these valued friends were 
 to leave here the next day for their new field of Christian work at 
 Altona. During the three years that Rev. Teague and family have 
 been in Yates City, we have admired his ability as a man, his 
 sincerity in his work, his efforts to do his best for his church and 
 the community in all of which his talented wife has been co-worker 
 and we part with them with no small degree of regret and we hope 
 the largest success for them in their new field. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 495 
 
 Card of Thanks 
 
 I wish to express my sincere and heartfelt thanks to Mrs. Barbara 
 A. Mathews and her Ladies' Bible class of the Presbyterian Sunday 
 School, for the exquisitely beautiful bouquet of elegant cream roses 
 and ferns received by me Thursday morning. As a token of love and 
 friendship they are beyond value, and then as they bring the sweet 
 breath of balmy June into my sick room, they bring to me a pleas- 
 ure that I can find no words to express, and I can enjoy them while 
 yet I can realize what a blessing it is to have such dear friends. May 
 that God whom I serve, and in whom I trust, bless you each and 
 every one. 
 
 MRS. A. H. McKEIGHAN. 
 
 A Pleasant Call 
 
 While in Maywood last week, the editor called at the home of 
 Mrs. Hamilton, and it proved to be a very pleasant call indeed. She 
 was formerly Miss Lillie McKissick, daughter of James and Mrs. 
 McKissick, who were former residents of Salem township, owning 
 the farm now owned by Nead Bear. She has a lovely home at No. 3 
 North Third avenue, Maywood, 111., a beautiful suburb of Chicago. 
 Her husband is manager of an office of the Northwestern Railway 
 Company in Chicago, She is a sweet, intelligent, lovely woman to 
 meet, has three nice children, living, her oldest daughter having 
 died some seven years ago, at the age of thirteen years. 
 
 She has not forgotten her old home near Yates City, and inquired 
 about several of our people here, among them the Hensley families. 
 Dr. J. W. and J. A. and wife, C. M. and Mrs. Corbin — the latter of 
 whom she knew as Miss Nettie Jaquith — B. and Mrs. Bevans, Lucy 
 Bevans, now Mrs. Low, of Ft. Scott, Kan., Mrs. Ida Peck, Mrs. Emma 
 Lawrence, — formerly Miss Emma McKeighan, and others. The time 
 we had allotted to her home was not long enough, but the call was 
 certainly one of the pleasures that we enjoyed during our recent 
 vacation trip. 
 
 A Runaway 
 
 Tuesday forenoon Mrs. Chas. Westbay and her two sons, Willie 
 and Charlie, drove a young horse to Yates City hitched to a tojJ 
 buggy. They started to go from here to Elmwood, one of the boys 
 driving. When near the M. E. church on Main street, the horse 
 became frightened at a mower George Bowman was operating on 
 the streets, and became unmanageable. Mrs. Westbay and the boys 
 got out, and the boy clung to the lines until his mother, fearing 
 he would get hurt, made him let go. The horse went up the steps 
 
496 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 at the front of the church, but as the door was shut he backed 
 down, and tried to pass between the church and the fence on the 
 east side. He again backed out, came around on the west side, 
 having upset the buggy, and dragging it on the side. Here the harness 
 broke, and he left the rig, and ran into the alley at the P. W. Thom- 
 son residence, where he stopped. The harness was badly broken, and 
 the buggy somewhat injured, but no one was even scratched nor 
 was the horse injured in the least. 
 
 The Park 
 
 It is a great source of pleasure to the Banner to see the new 
 park an accomplished fact. For long years we hoped for it. Some- 
 times we almost felt as if we would not live to see the work under 
 way. But we were not alone in the work. The good, intelligent, pro- 
 gressive people were all working, and we feel like thanking them, for 
 permitting us to see the work under way. It gives us satisfaction 
 when we reflect that we tried to do just a little to help the work 
 along, and we have no idea of claiming that it came through our 
 efforts. The honor of this important step forward belongs to a great 
 big majority of the people among whom we have our home. We 
 congratulate them on this achievement, and we certainly do hope 
 many of you will enjoy the beauty of this splendid park long after 
 we have laid down the cares and duties that we have so loved to 
 share with you for so long. 
 
 Visited the Editor 
 
 Edwin M. Brown, of Pleasant Hill, Mo., arrived in the city 
 Wednesday evening, and is visiting the editor's family, and other 
 relatives and friends here. He came here from Chicago, having left 
 Kansas City late Saturday evening, with a shipment of cattle, reach- 
 ing Chicago early Monday, since which time he has visited with his 
 cousin, Albert A. McKeighan, in Chicago. 
 
 Wolves Captured 
 
 Tuesday, April 2, 1907, while Henry Sandall, who lives on the 
 R. C. Mathews farm, some three miles northwest of Yates City, was 
 engaged in plowing on the farm, he discovered a den of young 
 wolves near a hay shed, containing seven young wolves. Mr. Sandall 
 went to the house, got a gun, and hid himself near the den, and soon 
 the old wolf appeared and came to within twenty steps of him, when 
 he shot and killed her. He then secured the seven young ones, and 
 brought the lot to town, where many gathered about the rig to see 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 197 
 
 them, as it was township election day. This capture is a good day's 
 work for Mr. Sandall, as the bounty is ten dollars for the old one, and 
 five dollars each for the young ones. 
 
 The Banquet 
 
 Social circles here were all agog for the past two weeks over 
 the banquet to be given at the Commercial hotel, in honor of L. P. 
 Wertman, who had so long been cashier of the Farmers' Bank, but 
 who now goes to Galesburg to take a position in the Farmers' and 
 Mechanics' Bank. 
 
 Before entering on a description of the festal occasion, permit us 
 to say that he who was honored by it has long held the esteem and 
 confidence of the entire business community of Yates City, and of 
 all the country around it, while several of the business men of adjacent 
 towns did their banking business here because they had the fullest 
 confidence in him. As a man he is above reproach ; as a citizen he 
 stands high, always being on the side of right and justice, and 
 opposed to all forms of lawlessness ; as a neighbor he has no superior, 
 and few equals; in short he is the kind of a man who is invaluable in 
 a town, and whose removal will leave a vacancy not easily filled. 
 
 By diligent labor and patient industry on the farm he first 
 acquired a competency, and when he left it, it was to take the position 
 of book-keeper in the Co-operative store, which he filled to the satis- 
 faction of all concerned. When the banking firm of J. H. Nicholson 
 & Co. was formed he was selected for cashier. For eleven years he 
 has been faithful in that place. Amid all the defalcations and failures 
 and business disasters of that period he was always found true as 
 steel, faithful in every duty, and vigilant in guarding every trust 
 reposed in him. It is not to be wondered at that all respected him. 
 He is in the prime of life, has no "pumpkin ward aristocracy" about 
 him, has good sense, sound judgment, is quick to reach difficulties, 
 ready in his conclusions and a consummate judge of men. When we 
 add to these his rugged honesty and high sense of justice, we have 
 the characteristics that go to make up the successful business man. 
 
 Mr. Wertman has been, for a number of years, a member of the 
 School Board, and has done much for the cause of education by his 
 tact and wisdom in the discharge of the duties of that office. 
 
 He has a wife who is his equal in all that is good, true and noble, 
 and a family of four interesting and promising daughters. The 
 removal of the family is a break in the business and social circles 
 that will be felt and regretted long after they are gone. 
 
 As soon as it was known that they were to leave us the subject 
 of some appropriate manner of showing the regard in which he is held 
 was discussed, and the banquet decided upon. 
 
498 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 The preparation of the repast was given to Mr. and Mrs. Wilson 
 Adams, of the Commercial Hotel, and those who were present know 
 how admirably they succeeded in eclipsing all their former efforts 
 in that line. The tables were marvels of beauty in arrangement, and 
 were literally loaded down with every delicacy that the range of the 
 market afforded. The dining room was hung with two rows of Chinese 
 lanterns so arranged as to cross above the center of the table, and 
 the effect was at once unique and pleasing. Every room, both above 
 and below, was comfortably heated, well lighted and furnished with 
 chairs and tables on which were appliances for various amusements, 
 and the guests were made so welcome, and entered so thoroughly 
 into the spirit of the joyous occasion that the allotted time seemed all 
 too short. 
 
 As soon as Mr, Wertman and family had arrived the long table 
 was seated with the guests, and Rev. C. C. B. Duncan invoked the 
 Divine blessing. A. H. McKeighan then arose and in a few words 
 presented Mr. Wertman with a splendid cabinet photograph album, 
 stating that it contained the photos of several of the donors, and 
 is designed to finally contain them all. This part of the programme 
 was a complete surprise to Mr. Wertman, but he made some feeling 
 remarks in acceptance, and said he should value the beautiful present 
 as a mark of their esteem. 
 
 Before the departure of the guests Mr. Wertman made a nice 
 little speech in which he spoke of his regard for his many friends, and 
 his regrets in severing his business relations with the people of 
 Yates City. 
 
 The retiring guests shook hands with the family, wishing them 
 abundant success, and the most noted social event of the season was 
 ended. 
 
 Among those who were in attendance were: Mr. and Mrs. W. 
 Bailey; Mr. and Mrs. Henry Potts; Mr. and Mrs. Frank Douglas, of 
 Elmwood; 'Squire C. L. Roberts and daughter, Miss Georgie; Super- 
 visor J. Mason, wife and two little daughters ; Police Magistrate 
 J. A. Hensley and wife ; Mr. and Mrs. I. C. Enochs ; C. A. Stetson and 
 daughter. Miss Nelly; Prof, and Mrs. L. E. Harriss; Dr. and Mrs, 
 J. W. Hensley; Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hare; Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Leh- 
 man; Mr. and Mrs. W. H. Longden; W. H. Houser and daughter, 
 Mrs. Martha Soldwell; 'Squire and Mrs. T. J. Kightlinger; Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hugh A. Sloan; Rev. C. C. B. Duncan; Mr. and Mrs. Nelson 
 Cunningham ; Mr. and Mrs. D. M. Carter ; Mr. and Mrs. Frank Adams ; 
 Mr. and Mrs. Steve Johnson ; Miss Sadie Cunningham ; Miss Merrettie 
 McKeighan; Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Ransom; Mr. and Mrs. G. W. West; 
 Hon. and Mrs, R. G. Mathews; Mr. M. S. Jordan; Mr. Chas. Barker; 
 Mr, and Mrs. A. H. McKeighan. 
 
 ■i 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 499 
 
 It was the coldest night of the winter, so far, and the roads were 
 very rough, but it did not deter those invited from the country 
 from being present. The way in which they responded must have 
 been very gratifying to the one in whose honor the banquet was given. 
 
 The only drawback to the enjoyment was the fact (frequently 
 mentioned and regretted during the evening) that the illness of Hon. 
 John Sloan, prevented he and his wife from attending, and that Mrs. 
 M. H. Pease was too indisposed to admit their being present; Mrs. 
 Duncan also ill, as was Mrs. L. A. Lawrence. 
 
 Six O'clock Dinner 
 
 On Tuesday evening Mr. and Mrs. A. J. Lawrence entertained 
 at their beautiful home on Burson street a party of young people, 
 consisting of the Misses Effie Johnson, Lottie Bird, Nellie and Edna 
 Mason, Prof. Tsanoff and Albert Skinner. A delightful three course 
 dinner was served to which all present did ample justice. After dinner 
 the guests exercised their wits in guessing games, puzzles and cha- 
 rades and at a late hour all departed for home, feeling in their hearts 
 a decided warm corner for their host and hostess, by whom they had 
 been most royally entertained. 
 
 Fire 
 
 On Monday, between 11 a. m. and 12 o'clock, noon, the barn on 
 the farm of Hugh A. Sloan, situated one mile north and one mile 
 west of Yates City, was discovered to be on fire, and was soon 
 reduced to ashes, together with his farm implements, harness, four 
 head of horses, a cow and a calf, some pigs, a lot of hay, and a corn 
 crib, 24x48 feet, with a drive-way of 8 feet, in which was cribbed 
 4,000 bushels of corn. Some days before they had been sawing wood, 
 and the engine was in the yard. It was to be moved to W. G. West's 
 and was fired up for that purpose. As it was being turned around a 
 spark flew into the open door of the barn, and started the fire. It 
 was discovered by A. J. Kightlinger and Henry Larson, who were 
 passing, and the alarm given, but it was too late to save anything. 
 Three of the horses were cremated, and the fourth got out, but so 
 badly injured as to be worthless. The wind was blowing almost a 
 gale from the south, and fortunately carried the flames away from 
 the house. The fire engine at Elmwood was telephoned for and 
 promptly responded, and did good work on the burning corn. A 
 large crowd soon collected, and worked vigorously to prevent the 
 spread of the fire, and stayed by the work until along in the night. 
 There was no insurance on the property burned, and the loss will no 
 doubt reach close to, if not altogether $4,000. The engine from 
 which the fire originated belonged to Robert Marshall. It is the most 
 
600 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 disastrous farm fire that has occurred in this township for years. 
 Mr. Sloan is a son of the late John Sloan, and is one of the most 
 energetic young farmers in Elnox county, and his immense corn crop 
 of last year is thus swept away in a few hours. 
 
 Almost a Fatality 
 
 Thursday evening, about 5:30 o'clock, Mr. John Hensler was 
 knocked down by a car, on the side track, near the Union street 
 crossing, and seriously injured. He is the wheel tapper and car 
 repairer here, and has been in the employ of the company for per- 
 haps nearly 30 years. An extra freight returning from Peoria was 
 doing some switching, and a car had been set out on this track, and 
 Mr. Hensler was standing on the track close to it. Some other cars 
 were kicked against this one, and Mr. Hensler was knocked down, 
 falling outside the track, with both feet across the rail. It was a 
 car with a low brake beam, and this beam caught him and pushed him 
 along the rail until the car stopped. When rescued it was found that 
 while no bones were broken he was seriously bruised and injured. 
 Had it been a different car, the wheels would no doubt have crushed 
 both of his feet. Mr. Hensler is a sober and faithful employee, and 
 much respected. 
 
 The G. A. R. Entertainment 
 
 A fair sized audience gathered in Union Hall on Saturday even- 
 ing to hear the Phelps Sisters, Misses Margarett and Violet, of Elm- 
 wood, and those who went were not in the least disappointed. It was 
 an entertainment of a high order, and the young ladies are not only 
 good as amateurs, but immeasurably above many who pose before 
 the public as professionals. The older of the two young ladies is 
 an easy, graceful and sweet singer. The younger is an adept at 
 handling the violin, and both are expert on the piano. "The Song 
 That Reached My Heart" was wonderfully sweet and pathetic. The 
 only piece that Miss Margarett rendered, outside of the music, was 
 "Biddy McGinnis at the Photographer's," but on that one piece she 
 rests her claim as one having no mean share of histrionic ability. Miss 
 Violet is one of the best delineators of character that we have ever 
 seen. Her pieces were, "Here She Goes and There She Goes," 
 "Nace," "Mice at Play" and "Buying a Feller," and the manner 
 in which she did her parts showed that she is not only a close student, 
 but that her natural ability is by no means common. Besides those 
 enumerated above she gave "Selections from the Delsarte System of 
 Physical Expression," that highly delighted those whose knowledge 
 on that subject made them capable of appreciating anything so fine. 
 It would be idle for us to state that the performance gave entire 
 
 I 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 601 
 
 satisfaction, because there are those whose tastes do not run in that 
 line; but to those who have such tastes it was a grand treat. 
 
 Went Home 
 
 Miss Orpha Heller and Miss Lucy Heller returned to their home 
 in Cuba after a pleasant visit of two weeks with Miss Mettie McKeig- 
 han, who accompanied them to Cuba, on Thursday, where she would 
 spend the night, and then go to Lewistown to attend the Galesburg 
 District Convention, Y, P. S. C. E., which met on Friday evening. The 
 Misses Heller are two charming girls, intelligent and really such good 
 company that we miss them very much, and hope that they may 
 often repeat the visit. 
 
 Rev. S. L. Guthrie 
 
 About two years ago we wended our way to the M. E. church. 
 There were but a few, a very, few people present, yet it was the day 
 on which the new preacher was to speak from their pulpit, having 
 been just assigned to the charge by conference. We do not know 
 how the preacher felt as he looked at those empty pews. He was a 
 young man, a mere boy in appearance, but he took hold of the busi- 
 ness in hand as if he were mauling rails or mowing grass. And he 
 did preach a most excellent discourse. As we left the church we 
 remarked to a friend, ''That boy is a talker, at any rate." Last 
 Sunday evening we listened to him speak from the same pulpit, and 
 what a change! Not in the preacher, for he was talking in the same 
 earnest, thoughtful, eloquent manner; but in the congregation. The 
 house was full of people, all eagerly listening to his rapt and burning 
 words. These two years have witnessed a glorious resurrection in the 
 M. E, church at Yates City. It was then inactive, cold, listless, 
 indolent, conservative, dead. It is now active, warm, energetic, work- 
 ing, aggressive, living. The Sunday school is booming; the prayer 
 meeting is well attended; the children's meeting is eagerly looked 
 forward to, and the young people of the church have an organization 
 of their own. There has most certainly been a shaking among the 
 dry bones of Methodism in these two years past, and there now stands 
 up for the Lord an army, ready and willing to do battle for the cause 
 of the Master. We are sincerely glad to see this amazing change. 
 We are glad to know that the change has come by earnestly and 
 persistently preaching the gospel. We believe the preacher has tried 
 to hide himself behind the cross of Christ, while he presented the 
 truth as it is in Jesus. Not only is the M. E. church proud of Rev. 
 S. L. Guthrie, but Yates City is proud of him, is attached to him, and 
 earnestly desires his return by the conference. 
 
602 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 Were Entertained 
 
 Mrs. A. J. Lawrence entertained the Ten Little Injin Boys, the 
 Overall, Boys the Sunbonnet Babies and her Sunday school class, at 
 her pleasant home on Burson street, from 4 to 5 :30 p. m. There were 
 over 40 of the little people present, and they were served with ice 
 cream and cake, and had a wonderful good time. Miss Edna Mason 
 and Miss Ada Cunningham assisted Mrs. Lawrence. 
 
 Hasselbacher-Bird 
 
 At the home of the sister of the bride, Mrs. Charlotte Cody, in 
 Jacksonville, 111., on Sunday, September 25, 1910, at 4 o'clock p. m., 
 occurred the marriage of Miss Zella May Bird of Yates City, and 
 Mr. Harold Hasselbacher of Galesburg, Dr. Harker, president of the 
 Jacksonville Woman's College, performing the ceremony that made 
 them man and wife. 
 
 Only the immediate relatives of the bride were present to witness 
 the interesting event, they being C. V. and Mrs. Bird of Yates City, 
 parents of the bride, and their little daughter Eleanor; A, C. and 
 Mrs. McLaughlin, of Franklin, the lady being a sister of the bride. 
 
 Both these young people are too well known to need special 
 mention. Both were raised in Yates City, and both are numbered 
 among the best people here. The bride is the third daughter of 
 C. V. and Mrs. Bird, and is a sensible and charming young lady, 
 while the groom is the oldest son of S. P. Hasselbacher, the C, B. & Q. 
 agent at this place, and is a noble young man, who holds a good 
 position with the Q. Co. at Galesburg, where he has a house already 
 furnished, on East Main street, where the happy couple will be at 
 home after the 1st of October. 
 
 They went from Jacksonville to Franklin, to visit the sister of 
 the bride, and they came to Yates City, Thursday, and from here 
 they will go to their future home in Galesburg. 
 
 Both these young people are numbered among the esteemed 
 friends of the Banner, and it joins in wishing them a long, happy 
 and prosperous wedded life. 
 
 A Family Reunion 
 
 Squire C. L. Roberts is one of the oldest citizens in Yates City, 
 having been a resident almost from the time the town was laid out. 
 His family, consisting of one son and four daughters, is one of the best 
 and most highly respected in the city. The son, Charles, has been 
 in the employ of the Q. company for a long time, and for the past 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 508 
 
 several years has been station agent at Elmwood. Two of the daugh- 
 ters are teaching, Miss Ellen at Oregon and Miss Blanche at Williams- 
 field. They were home for the holidays, and Sunday the family had 
 a reunion at the home of Charles, in Elmwood, all being present 
 except Miss Georgia. It was a very pleasant affair, and the day will 
 long be remembered by those who were privileged to enjoy its 
 pleasures. 
 
 What a Change! 
 
 A few days ago the editor and Mrs. McKeighan had occasion to 
 drive out a few miles on the road southeast of the city, past the 
 beautiful farm homes of C. M. and Mrs. Bliss, and of Wm, and Mrs. 
 Goold — and both of these farms are good specimens of the ideal Illinois 
 stock farm — and we enjoyed the fine picture they present to the 
 passers along that picturesque highway. But we were far the most 
 surprised — and pleased — at the change that has been made in the old 
 Camp farm, just south of the city limits, and lying along the west 
 side of this road. Last fall this farm became the property of County 
 Clerk Frank L. Adams, of Galesburg, who placed his father and 
 mother, Wilson and Mrs. Adams, in possession of it, in order to 
 have it put into first class condition. The unsightly old hedges have 
 been pulled out and new modern wire fences put in, the land has 
 been put into fine condition and seeded to clover, all the barns and 
 outbuildings put into most excellent repair, and the old ram-shakle 
 house has been transformed into a fine up-to-date farm residence, 
 and a full complement of the best in horses, cattle, hogs and poultry 
 has been placed on the farm. Wilse is as busy as a bee in a tar 
 barrel, is as happy as a Coon in a hen roost, and has only made one 
 **kick," and that was when the Banner failed to reach him on time, 
 when he called up the editor by phone, and sent the following char- 
 acteristic message : "Say, I didn't get my Banner. Is my credit played 
 out? How the devil do you expect me to be religious and run this 
 farm without the Banner?" Since that Mr. Adams has got his 
 valued Banner on time, and his farm shows that he has struck a fast 
 gait in that honorable calling. 
 
 A Large Funeral 
 
 Last week the Banner announced the death of Lewis W. Kay, a 
 member of Company C. Sixth Illinois Infantry. The funeral took 
 place from the home of his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Kay, three 
 miles west of town, last Friday afternoon, October 14, 1898, at 2 
 'clock, Chaplin Ferris, of the Sixth regiment conducting the services. 
 More than one hundred carriages were congregated at the house, and 
 about that number were in the procession that followed the hearse 
 
604. MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 to the cemetery, making it one of the largest funeral trains ever seen 
 on the streets of Yates City. 
 
 When the cortege reached Kent street, all the pupils of the schools 
 took position in the lead and marched to the cemetery. Following 
 the schools came the Modern Woodmen camps of Douglas and Yates 
 City, the deceased being a member of the former camp ; behind these 
 marched the members of Company C, who belong here, while on each 
 side of the hearse marched the firing squad in charge of Captain T. L. 
 McGirr. Following these came the long line of carriages. 
 
 When the cemetery was reached the casket was lowered into 
 the grave, the ceremonies concluded, the volley fired, taps sounded, 
 and the first dead soldier of Company C was left to his last sleep. 
 
 It was not only one of the largest funerals ever seen here, but 
 it was one of the nicest, and reflected great credit on our funeral 
 directors, Messrs. Taylor and Chamberlain, who made all the arrange- 
 ments and carried them out so that there was no break in the pro- 
 gram from first to last. 
 
 John Chantry Sells Horses 
 
 John Chantry sold three head of fine draft horses to Robinson & 
 Eshball, and delivered them at Elmwood last Monday. They were 
 grays, two of them being five years old, and one three years old. 
 The amount Mr. Chantry received for the three horses was $800, and 
 Mart Robinson says it is the most money any one man ever got for 
 three horses in Elmwood. It shows that John knows how to feed 
 horses, as well as raise corn. 
 
 Truth Stranger Than Fiction 
 
 Truth is stranger than fiction, and Yates City has the material for 
 at least two first class serials, if there were but a Dumas, a Dickens 
 or a George Eliot to shape them up, and dress them in words of 
 burning tenderness. Here is George Love, who in the fair, bright 
 morning of youth won the innocent affections of a girl, a sister to 
 Lewis and W. C. Series. They were married, and five little responsi- 
 bilities followed each other, and five mouths craved for food, ten little 
 toes demanded protection from stub nails and frosts, and five little 
 tow heads were in need of hats. The old problem — never yet solved — 
 of large demand and small supply, confronted the Love household, and 
 28 years ago he toiled over the plains, and saw the salmon leap up from 
 the pellucid waters of the Columbia, and the wave break in peaceful 
 grandeur on the golden shores of California. Here were incentives 
 to seek wealth, and in two years he saved money enough to send for 
 wife and babies. He directed them to go to New York, take the 
 steamer, and brave the dangers of the deep. But the relatives of the 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 505 
 
 wife persuaded her that the journey was too great for her, and 
 asserted that she never could accomplish the task, and she sorrow- 
 fully gave up the attempt. Time drifted on, the little breach thus 
 caused widened, and a divorce was the result. The husband mar- 
 ried again, and so did the wife. He obtained an affluence, and she — 
 well, she is Mrs. George Wright, and lives in the little red cottage on 
 the Wm. Corbin place, just south of the corporation line. But time, 
 with all its changes, did not change the fatherly affection, and so 
 this summer Mr. Love determined to see again his children. He 
 arrived in Yates City the latter part of June, and went to the resi- 
 dence of Mr. Series, where Mrs. Wright met him a short time after- 
 ward. Those who were present will not soon forget the actions of 
 husband and wife — so no longer — after 28 years of separation. She 
 did not recognize him at first, but in a few moments the tide of 
 memory rolled back over those 28 years, and — but we are not writing 
 a novel. A day or two later they went together to visit a daughter 
 in Iowa. This is the simple story, but it would have formed the 
 basis for eighty-seven chapters, had Ned Buntline dipped his fertile 
 pen to narrate it. 
 
 Then there is another, more prolific in wonder, and better fitted 
 for the pen of the novelist. Every one here knows Lewis N. Corbin, 
 he of the auger and the plane. But he is a detective as well. All 
 will remember Mabel Golliday, the handsome young lady who was 
 here with her parents last year. Away back in the mystic past a 
 gambler out in a frontier country of Kansas, whose wealth was great, 
 made provisions to give a portion of his wealth to the first child born 
 in the county. Mabel's parents heard of it, and in that identical 
 county she first saw light, and breathed the gentle air of heaven. 
 The family came back east, and the thing was forgotten. But Corbin 
 was not one to forget. He got on a clew, and with the persistency of 
 the sleuth hound, he followed it to success. He located the fortune 
 that awaited the young lady, and then he determined to find her. 
 A few days ago he was rewarded by seeing her, a pretty waitress in a 
 Peoria restaurant, and now she is about to step into possession of 
 a farm worth $8,000, and $1,000 in cash. Where in the realms of fancy 
 can you unearth a better plot ? Corbin is the ideal hero. Tall, graceful, 
 swarthy, brave, cunning and loquacious it would be as natural for 
 a girl to fall in love with him, as it would be for a ripe pear to fall 
 to the ground, or a son of Adam to sin. And where is there a heroine 
 invested with more of beauty and romance than is pretty Mabel 
 Golliday? The hero is a brother to City Marshall Corbin, and the 
 heroine is a niece of G. W. Golliday, of this city. It needs but the cun- 
 ning pen of the versatile novelist to weave from these two incidents 
 a pair of twin stories of absorbing interest. 
 
506 MISCELLANEOUS WRITING S 
 
 For Better or Worse 
 
 Last week we received a wedding announcement from far away 
 Indian Territory, stating that the daughter of A. J. and Mrs. Conderay, 
 Florence Myrtle, and Geo. L. L, Bentley were married July 2, 1906. 
 Mr. Bentley is editor of the Porter Enterprise, published at Porter, 
 Indian Territory, and is well known here, having held the position of 
 local editor of the Elmwood Gazette for two or three years. But 
 George had the editor-in-chief notion in him bigger than a wood- 
 chuck, and so he went west, spied out Indian Territory, saw it was 
 a goodly land, selected Porter as the ne plus ultra, bought the Enter- 
 prise, and has flourished like a huckleberry bush. But alas! while 
 Bentley was coruscating, and looming up in the newspaper world 
 like a lightning bug on a liberty pole, Cupid spied him and "marked 
 him for his own." Alas, my Brother! that the matrimonial noose 
 should have dangled so long before, and thou shouldst have run thy 
 head into it at last. May matrimony have called thee, like a wanderer 
 to a pleasant, happy and prosperous home, my good, bright, genial, 
 kindly friend, George L. L. Bentley. 
 
 Cashier Mason 
 
 A week or two ago we stated that Mr. J. Mason had been selected to 
 fill the position of cashier of the Farmers Bank, to succeed S. C. 
 Eansom, who has the nomination for County Superintendent of 
 Schools, and who will be elected. Mr. Mason is personally one of the 
 most popular men in Salem township, is its present supervisor, and 
 is well qualified to fill any position in his reach. As soon as it was 
 known that the position of cashier was to be thus made vacant a 
 petition signed by the business men was sent to Mr. Nicholson urging 
 him to appoint Mr. Mason to fill the place. It was done, and Mr. 
 Mason has been in the bank for a couple of weeks. It is no little 
 honor to Mr. Mason that Mr. Nicholson has already advanced his 
 salary $100 for this year above what the contract originally was. We 
 are glad to see that Mr. Nicholson recognizes the ability and worth of 
 the man he has chosen to fill so important a place, and we feel sure 
 that his friends will be glad to know that he has so soon been compli- 
 mented by having an increase of salary, voluntarily offered him. 
 And what makes it all the more gratifying is that it is merited, as 
 Mr. Mason's well known integrity, honesty and business ability will 
 give the bank the confidence of this community. We join with Mr. 
 Mason's numerous friends in congratulations on his success, and 
 earnest wishes for its continuance. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 507 
 
 Our New Advertisers 
 
 Monday morning this quiet town was startled by the sound of a 
 horn. The first thing that occurred to us was that Gabriel was out 
 on a toot, and that this editor man, J. A. Hensley, and Dr. Parker 
 would be called upon for a final accounting. We were beginning to 
 frame excuses, and thought we had better just say "Please, Mr. St. 
 Peter, let me in for indeed I didn't mean to," and we felt sure that 
 Hensley would say "I think my wife is the main partner," and we 
 were just wondering if the doctor wouldn't walk up and say, ''Hello, 
 Peter, no excuse from me, if I get in it must be 'just as I am,' " when 
 we ventured to peep from behind the job stone, and behold it was not 
 the end of the world, it was just the Elmwood High School students 
 advertising their class day. They had a Gypsy wagon loaded with 
 the prettiest, sweetest, smartest lot of student girls we ever beheld, 
 and with them a number of innocent looking young fellows — but those 
 fellows will bear watching, for they have the appearance of those 
 who might break into the legislature, or even into congress — if no one 
 was looking. Then there was equestrian beauty, or beauty on horse- 
 back. One "Bonnie soncie lassie" had lighted with one leg on 
 either side of her horse, and sat there more beautiful, as regal, as 
 proud as the young queen of Spain, and we believe she is several laps 
 ahead of any titled queen of any king cursed land. All these young 
 people carried horns, a la Roderick Dhue, which they blew with ter- 
 rific power, while one young bundle of beauty made some kind of a 
 proclamation, in a tongue that was unknown — so far as we were con- 
 cerned. We afterward appealed the case to the supreme court of 
 Yates City, then sitting "en banc" on the corner of Main and Union 
 streets, and Chief Justice T. J. Kightlinger handed down the opinion, 
 stating that it was the decision of the court that she was inviting the 
 citizens of the best town in Knox county to come over and enjoy the 
 pleasures of their class day. We were glad to see these bright, repre- 
 sentative young people of Elmwood. It is a good town, and has as 
 many good people in it as there are dandelions growing in our lawn. 
 But it was a lucky thing for Hensley and the doctor, for between you 
 and I and the gate-po^t, we fear that had our first surmises proved 
 correct, we should have been parted from them. 
 
 Birthday Party 
 
 Friday evening, August 7, 1906, was the 18th birthday of Mary 
 Goold, daughter of S. S. Goold, and it was made the occasion of a 
 surprise party of about 100 of her young friends, who gathered at 
 the farm home of the family, one mile southwest of the city, and 
 spent an enjoyable evening. 
 
508 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 She was made- the recipient of several valuable and beautiful 
 presents, among them being a fine gold watch with diamond set from 
 her grandfather and grandmother, Wm. and Mrs. Goold; a beautiful 
 gold chain set with pearls from her uncle, W, C. Goold, while her 
 schoolmates gave her a handsome gold ring and her aunt gave her 
 a bracelet. It was one of the most imposing social functions of the 
 season. 
 
 A Rare Case 
 
 We are informed by one of the best citizens of this county, that 
 there are two brothers living in Salem township, who were in the late 
 war, and both of them declare that they were neither killed nor 
 wounded, nor yet lost their health. Both of them are well to do 
 farmers, and neither of them has applied for a pension. Of course 
 we are aware that this story will be doubted by many, but we have 
 the fullest confidence in our informant. Still more strange, neither 
 of those brothers claims to have killed a Confederate General or cap- 
 tured Jeff. Davis. It gives us pleasure to make this statement as it 
 is — so far as we know — the first authentic case of the kind on record. 
 The names of these brothers are Robert and Ren Kelley, and they are 
 well known to many of our readers. This forever sets at rest the foul 
 slander that every soldier was killed, wounded or missing, and vindi- 
 cates the brave boys from many vile aspersions. 
 
 A Sorely Tried Family 
 
 The family of John McKinty seems to be having more than its 
 share of trouble and care. Mrs. James McKinty is dangerously sick; 
 Mrs. Thos. Stone, a daughter, was recently severely burned while 
 lighting a gasoline stove; Mrs. Rena Conver, a daughter, is in a hos- 
 pital in Peoria, where last week she submitted to a dangerous surgical 
 operation; W. D. Miller, a son-in-law, has been sick all summer. It 
 would seem as more trouble, anxiety and worry than usual falls 
 to the lot of this family at one time. Let us hope that these clouds may 
 soon scatter, and happy days came to them once more. 
 
 Mack Beale Will Lecture 
 
 W. M. Beale will lecture in the opera house in Yates City, Friday 
 night, March 16, 1906, for the benefit of the Yates City School and 
 Public Library, his subject being, "That Little Bud of Humanity." 
 The lecture will be illustrated by stereopticon views. Admission, 
 children 10 cents, adults 15 cents. Let everybody come and help in 
 adding something to the library fund. 
 
 1 1 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 609 
 
 Born 
 
 To J. Leslie and Mrs. McKeighan, a daughter, at 8 a. m. Thursday 
 morning, June 28, 1906. This event places R. J. and Mrs. McKeighan 
 in the same class with the editor and wife — the grandparent class. 
 We congratulate the happy parents, and our best wishes go out to 
 the little stranger, our youngest relative, and we hope that life has 
 more of happiness than sorrow for her. 
 
 Golden Wedding 
 
 Mrs. Jacob Lehman and Mrs. W. G. Lehman went to Canton last 
 Friday morning to attend the golden wedding of Nelson and Mrs. 
 Cunningham. They returned Saturday evening. There was a large 
 number present, and Mrs. Jacob Lehman was the only one present 
 who was at the wedding of the aged couple, in Pennsylvania, 50 years 
 ago. There is but one other of the original guests living, a lady in 
 Pennsylvania, who could not be present. 
 
 Died 
 
 We are called on to record the death of little Lulu Nelson, daugh- 
 ter of Mr. and Mrs. John Nelson, which occurred at the home of the 
 parents, in Galesburg, on Wednesday night. She had been sick but 
 three days. Her ailment was lung fever. She was a sweet little girl, 
 aged 9 months. The family and friends arrived here Thursday even- 
 ing with the corpse, and the funeral is being held today. 
 
 Class Reunion 
 
 Back through the sere and yellow of the past, sixteen members 
 of the class of '90, Yates City High School, traveled last night. The 
 occasion that brought them face to face was their first reunion, cards 
 for which were issued to the twenty-eight surviving members thereof. 
 
 To this invitation Messrs. C. A. Vance and E. J. Corbin, Elm- 
 wood; Lora Kleckner, Farragut, Iowa; Frank P. Anderson, Kansas; 
 F. E. Barnhill, A. E. Lower, George E. Montgomery, B. B. Lawrence, 
 W. G. Lehman, Dr. E. M. Carter, G. W. Anderson, C. W. Bird, Edwin 
 Ekstrand, Yates City; A. C. McLaughlin, Douglas, and W. L. Kight- 
 linger, Galesburg, responded. Letters of regret were read from 
 Arthur Lawrence of Galesburg and Lynn Stetson of Peoria. As 
 guests of the class Messrs. T. J. and A. J. Kightlinger and a Banner 
 reporter were present, enjoying the occasion to its fullness. 
 
 As early as eight the merry crowd swooped down upon the good 
 host and fair hostess of Hotel American and ere long had placed their 
 feet beneath the mahogany and discussed in a thorough and appre- 
 
610 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 ciative manner the choice viands, that in tempting variety were spread 
 before them. This over, the class repaired to the parlors, where 
 Master of Ceremonies Frank P. Anderson, in a happy manner related 
 the causes that brought them together. He referred with regret to 
 those who were absent and unable to be present, speaking with pathos 
 of those who had been borne to the golden yonder and whose lips 
 forever sealed are now sleeping on the hillside. The speaker said: 
 *'I believe we, as a class, have done well and are not only a credit to 
 ourselves, but to the old building in which our minds were trained 
 and our courses shaped." He then introduced in a felicitous manner 
 Mr. Kleckner, who, as historian, delivered himself as follows : 
 
 A brief history of the noted men of the High School of Yates 
 City, Knox County, Salem Township, Illinois, most of whom were dis- 
 covered about the year 1890. The High School Room. Who discovered 
 it? To what nation it belongs. "Who settled it, and acts of its dwellers, 
 both in the past, and the will be of the future. 
 
 This High School was supposed to have been discovered, but 
 why it was discovered is a question that has never been explained 
 to the human race ; but one thing is true, it was our own little Frank 
 Barnhill who discovered it. But who is this Frank? Oh! he was a 
 little Italian going to the foreign court of Kightlinger seeking aid to 
 discover this unnamable room. He was our little Columbus, and after 
 many ups and downs on the sea of life the calm came at last, and he 
 was chained in the happy bonds of matrimony, and is now living a 
 happy life with his little family in our city. 
 
 Next after discovery came the settlement of this beautiful Island, 
 which was inhabited by the Indians. The Indian never made any 
 advancements. To be a warrior and make the women work were his 
 highest aims in life; but when our own little "lover of women and 
 great Indian fighter," Willie Mac Beale, stepped upon the stage of 
 life, and with a wave of his right hand and a determined look upon 
 his Plaster of Paris brow, and says "begone! begone!" they all be- 
 goned. And now if we will stop for one moment and look away back 
 into the future we will see Willie Mac as Professor of one of our 
 greatest colleges; then from that college we can see him going to his 
 beautiful little home, and at his doorway stands his long loved one 
 with a smile on her sweet lips like a crack in a pie. On entering we 
 see him with a red-headed, cross-eyed baby on each knee, singing his 
 beautiful song to them : 
 
 "Hush, babies, my darlings, I pray you don't cry, 
 
 And I'll give you some bread and some milk by and by; 
 
 Or perhaps you like custard, or maybe a tart; 
 
 Then to either you are welcome with all my heart." 
 That is the last we will have seen of our own little William the Con- 
 queror. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 511 
 
 Next we have the landing of the Pilgrims, and whom do we see 
 stepping his big feet from the beautiful little ship Mayflower upon 
 Plymouth Rock? It is our own big, bloated Chillis Bird. He is our 
 own Miles Standish, and when we will have a desire in our hearts to 
 read poetry we will go into the library, slide down the stair railing in 
 the same way in which little Edgar Tennery used to slide down and 
 soil his trousers, and from the upper shelf take down a book of orig- 
 inal poems, written by our own little poet, Fred L. Camp, who is now 
 married and living in Galesburg as a noted druggist, and on the first 
 page we will see in big letters the "Courtship of Chillis Bird." 
 
 Next in our history we have a Capt. John Smith. John is born 
 to adventure. When but a boy he leaves home to engage in foreign 
 wars, and once a big fellow wanted to scrap somebody to please the 
 ladies, so Johnnie done up three of them smarties, and also won the 
 hearts of the ladies, and will be forevermore a ladies' man. Then 
 another time a big Indian had Johnnie's head down on a big rock 
 and was goin' to smash Johnnie one, when Pocahontas rushed in and 
 saves Johnnie's life. Some may wonder who our own Capt. John 
 Smith was, and Old Lynn Stetson, now a banker in Peoria, 111., tells 
 us that he is little George Anderson, the will have been chicken king 
 of Yates City. And now Frank Hensler, a C, B. & Q. fireman, of 
 Galesburg, tells us that this little Indian girl, Pocahontas, has grown 
 to be a beautiful woman, and that our own little English farmer, Asa 
 McLaughlin, has won her love and they are soon to be joined together 
 in the holy bonds of matrimony by our own Rev, Paul Montgomery, 
 now of Parkville, Missouri. 
 
 Next in our peaceful history comes witchcraft, in which innocent 
 people were accused of doing wrong, were beaten, ears cut off, tongues 
 cut out and twenty people hanged. This matter was investigated by 
 our own noted and most elegant lawyer, Neal Vance, now of Elmwood, 
 111., and upon investigation finds a crowd of wild, murderous, roaming 
 boys to be guilty of so much crime that Walter L. Kightlinger, editor 
 of the Galesburg Sentinel, does this day openly and secretly publish 
 the names of the following evil doers of our country. First, as leader 
 and plotter of this wouldbe witchcraft is Arthur J. Lawrence, Gales- 
 burg, 111.; Hutchison Wasson, Galesburg, 111.; W. E. West, Chicago, 
 111. ; Lester Lawrence, Chicago, 111. ; Frank E. Gates, Elmwood, 111. ; 
 Harris Lawrence, Yates City, 111.; Chas. Bearsdley, Stronghurst, 111., 
 and he furthermore begs Judge Clifford Goold, of Yates City, 111., to 
 instruct Dr. Thomas W. Thomson, of Chicago, 111., to prescribe for 
 tkem in such a way that they may live forever and their names 
 never die. 
 
 But Alfred Lower, Yates City, 111., tells us of the awful life of the 
 writer of the declaration of independence, our own little Edwin Eck- 
 
512 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 strand, who is now living at 1927 Crow street, Yates City, 111,, with 
 his wife and 17 as cute little darlings as could be found anywhere. 
 But such is life, so says our State Senator, the Hon. George Mont- 
 gomery, Yates City, 111. Next Burly Lawrence, of French Creek fame, 
 tells of our own little George Washington, how he cut the cherry 
 tree, and how his Pa scolded him, and frightened George so badly 
 that he told the truth, and the old man wanted to trade the hatchet 
 off for a pair of suspenders, but George set up an awful howl and now 
 since he is our own postmaster the hatchet is for sale at any old price. 
 The next epoch of our history gives the soliloquy of our own most 
 noted artist, which is as follows: 
 
 When I was a bachelor I lived by myself, 
 
 And all the meat I got I put upon the shelf; 
 
 The rats and mice did lead me such a life, 
 
 That I went to Galesburg to get myself a wife. 
 
 The streets were so broad and the alleys so narrow 
 
 I could not get my wife home without a wheelbarrow. 
 
 The wheelbarrow broke, my wife got a fall, 
 
 Down tumbled wheelbarrow, wife and all. 
 
 — Col. E. J. Corbin. 
 
 Then comes our own great philosopher, Socrates, who explains in a 
 scientific way why the boy stood on the burning deck. Some say it 
 was because his papa told him to stand there. But Socrates says that 
 is not reasonable or true, 'cause boys don't obey their papa's that way. 
 Some say he stood there 'cause it was too hot to sit down and others 
 say he stood there to hold his feet down, but our own Socrates says this 
 is not true 'cause he was only a boy and wasn't heavy enough to hold 
 two feet down. But Our Socrates, who is our own little Dr. Earl Carter, 
 says to sum it all up it doesn't matter in what position that poor boy 
 was in, if it hadn't been for the old man's overcoat that poor boy 
 would have frozen to death on that cold December night. 
 
 The last epoch of our history is one which is recorded in the 
 hearts of all. It was ''Queen Anna's War." How well do we remem- 
 ber on that cold wintry night in February when over 300 French and 
 Indians came down upon the defenseless slumberers as we were awak- 
 ened from our dreams to death or captivity. Then we were forced to 
 march to the wigwam of the heartless Indian. The horrors of that 
 march can never be told. Just as we were about to pass out of sight 
 of the fields of childhood, our farewell look told us that the beautiful 
 buildings were burned to ashes and the fields laid to waste, and one 
 of our number left behind. But the good proprietor of the Hotel Amer- 
 ican and his good wife tells us that this student, being an industrious 
 farmer, has turned these fields to the production of rice and has lately 
 formed a trust with the only Rice in existence, and this lonely student 
 has proven to be our own Little Frankie Anderson, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 518 
 
 And now, my dear friends, in our hours of happiness do not let 
 our hearts forget our dear schoolmates who have been called to their 
 home by Him whose eye is ever upon us and guides us through life to 
 a final resting place and 'tis true, my schoolmates, that like them 
 we must die. 
 
 The God who made us says we must; 
 
 And every one of us shall lie. 
 Like our dear schoolmates, in the dust, 
 
 And as down the stream of life we float, 
 May our song like the dying swan's, be 
 
 "Death darkens his eye and unplumes his wings. 
 Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings." 
 Live so, my schoolmates, that when death shall come, 
 "Swan like and sweet it may waft thee home." 
 Farewell! Farewell! 
 
 Amidst perspiring applause he concluded, and after a handsomely 
 rendered selection by Messrs. Carter and G. W. Anderson, who per- 
 formed on the mandolin and guitar respectively, Mr. Vance replied 
 to a sally that had been thrust at him, relating to an experience of 
 the class in chemistry that evoked much merriment. He, however, 
 neither denied or affirmed the fact that he had uttered a supplication 
 for his safety at the time, thus standing convicted as charged. 
 
 Mr. Beale, next up, thought the occasion was one that should be 
 perpetuated and a permanent class organization effected. In speaking 
 individually of the class, his belief was that Messrs. Bird, Bert Lower 
 and Ed. Corbin were the meanest. 
 
 Postmaster Lehman declaimed in a pleasing manner and at th6 
 close of his effort fell lifeless to the floor — that is, the chair in which 
 he aimed to seat himself capsized and spilled him in a promiscuous 
 manner. 
 
 Mr. Bird vied with the toastmaster in telling Kansas stories, offer- 
 ing a handsome illustration of his ability in that line. Said he : "Back 
 of the levity of this meeting there must be something — a permanent 
 organization should result." 
 
 Messrs. Lower and Corbin held the boards for a few minutes and 
 contributed to the occasion in a lavish manner, 
 
 Mr. Kightlinger was full of reminiscence. He nagged the toast- 
 master and accused him of having been exceedingly studious and one 
 who had devoted much of his time to the ladies. He scored Messrs. 
 Bird, Lehman and Lower and referred to Mr. Beale 's admiration of a 
 color not found in the raiment of the rainbow. He further deposed — 
 for everything said and done was under oath, the truth and that alone 
 being the prevalent feature — that once the teacher asked each scholar 
 
514 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 
 
 to write on a piece of paper what he would like to be when he became 
 a man, Mr. Barnhill declaring that the highest ambition of his life 
 would be to become a clown. How well he has succeeded you well 
 know. 
 
 Then came the fun, for in his own inimitable way Mr. Barnhill 
 arose and said he was about to begin his maiden effort and asked the 
 boys to be indulgent. To report him with any degree of accuracy is 
 next to impossible. He resumed his seat amidst the heartiest applause 
 of the evening. Mr. McLaughlin spoke of the two absent members and 
 of the sorrow and gloom their deaths had caused. 
 
 Mr. Eckstrand was happily received, as was also a vocal solo by 
 Mr. Montgomery. 
 
 Dr. Carter told a hummer on Mr. Bird and recalled a time when 
 Miss Hitchcock closed out a job lot of "gads" over that young man's 
 back. The class toasts concluded with a brief talk by G. W. Ander- 
 son, after which a permanent organization was formed, Frank P. 
 Anderson being chosen president, Asa McLaughlin vice-president and 
 C. W. Bird, secretary. The chair upon motion appointed a committee 
 of arrangements, giving to them power to select time and place for 
 next meeting. 
 
 The evening's program concluded with a brief address from T. J. 
 Kightlinger, who expressed the hope that the boys would make the 
 organization a permanent one, and in the course of his remarks called 
 attention to the fact that "the schoolboy of today becomes the busi- 
 ness man of tomorrow," closing with the fervent wish that they might 
 all be spared the reaper's hand and be returned another year. Follow- 
 ing him came A. J. Kightlinger, who also believed in the organization, 
 and told of the pleasure the meeting had given him. 
 
 To Prof. Frank W. Thomson, of Galesburg, a vote of thanks was 
 given for the many kind offices he had performed while preceptor of 
 the class. Much of the spirit of the class as infused in it by him was 
 made manifest upon this occasion. 
 
 A vote of thanks was tendered the host and hostess, after which 
 adjouiriment was taken. 
 
JUL 19 1913 
 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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