Democracy
Bellefonte, Pa., Oct. 6, 1905.
EE ————
‘LITTLE MYSELF-AS-1-USED-TO-BE.’
Sometimes, when the work of day is done ;
When the ebbing light from the west is gone,
When the present loosens its fetters fast,
And the freed heart leaps to its longed-for past;
When the twilight gathers, and shadows grow
deep ;
Out from the silence will timidly creep.
A dear little girl whom I clearly see—
Little Myself-As-I- Used-To-Be !
She talks of her school days, her lessons, her
toys ;
Her daily duties, her daily joys ;
Her holidays glad, when no work is done 3
Vacation-time with its frolic and fun 5
Thanksgiving and Easter ; the Christmas-tide ;
With stockings hung at the chimney side ;
Laughing aloud, as she stands by my knee—
Little Myself-As-I-Used-To-Be !
Often she prattles of childish plays,
And the little friends of those by-gone days.
Some are wanderers, some grown old,
With weariness, labor and sorrow untold }
Some in life's joy, their youth yet keep ;
And some in the churchyard, are fast asleep.
But she talks of them all, with childish glee—
Little Myself-As-I-Used-To-Be !
Oh, fair is the world in which she dwells,
Where goblins and witches yet weave their
spells ; :
Where mirth and laughter all clouds dispel,
And tronbles, like fairy tales, all end wel! ;
Her days are all bright ones; her skies ever i
blue,
Her lovers are faithful, her friends all are true.
Never a care nor a sorrow knows she—
Little Myself-As-I-Used-To-Be !
But sometimes—sometimes she lifts her eyes
To my face, with a kind of puzzled surprise,
“What have you done,” she asis of me s
“With my faith and my truth and my purity ?
‘With the trustful love for God and your kind,
That I gave to you when you left me behind 2°
These are the questions she puts to me—
Little Myself As-I-Used-To-Be !
‘Oh, dear little girl” I answer low 3
*I lost them all, long years ago.
Amid life's bustle, its heat and its dust,
I lost your innocence, truth and trust 3
And I found, at an hour when I needed them
most,
That your faith and your love were also lost.
Little remains that you gave to me—
Little Myself-As-I-Used-To-Be !"
“But we'll both creep out of this life, some day;
I—tired of work ; you—tired of play ;
And perhaps we'll find on that other shore,
Things we have mournad as lost, before -
Simplicity, innocence, love and truth,
The trustful faith that belongs to youth,
And, clothed in these, through eternity
I'll be Myself-As-1-Used-To-Be.”
—Mrs. Carrie Crosby Fulton.
cen
ee ——
ARBUTHNOT'S AMEN.
——
The back windows of the first floor of
the Hotel Rockingham were exactly on a
level with the back windows of the third
floor of the tenement house behind it,down
the hill. Mrs. Arbuthnot, by way of re-
lief from the black radiator and the sewinge
machine, which were salient points in the
tenement furnishing, fell into the way of
sitting in the dark when her day’s work
was over, and watching a certain sitting-
room in the Hotel Rockingham, whose
blinds were never down, :
There was an open fire; a lamp, instead
of electric light; and more than that, on a
writing-table stood candles. Mary Arbuth-
not felt childishly that she could bear her
unbearable life if ouly now and then she
could afford a wax candle. Every evening
the occupant of the room made coffea over
a spirit lamp, and then settled to his work
at the table in the window. Bye
and bye he would light his pipe; to-
ward ten o’clock clouds of blue smoke
would blur the sharp picture of comfort
and well-being, but not so thoroughly as
the tears which filled the lonely watoher’s
eyes. She bad been ashamed, at first, of
spying on her aristocratio neighbor, but as
the winter evenings darkened she forgot
that. She sat boldly at her draughty win-
dow in the dark, and looked into the oppo-
site room till it grew tobe a spurious home
to her. Incidentally, she iooked upon its
owner. Sometimes he had visitors, She
was jealously glad when they left. She
wanted no one in that room but the man
who sat and smoked and wrote so far into
the night. k
Mrs. Arbuthnot had lived once in juss
such a room, and never would again. Her
husband had dragged. her with ease and
rapidity down a hill she could never. re-
ascend. Hand to mouth and the third floor
of a decent tenement was the best she could
do for herself; even that was only just as-
tained, and she had not outgrown the
haunting fear thas Bill Arbuthnot might
find her ont some day, and take her back
to the depths with him. To get rid of it
now she tried to haddle comfortably in her
uncomfortable rocking-ohair, and looked
again at the luxury opposite, at the bent
black head and foreshortened face of which
she knew every line; an unpleasant thrill
ran through her as she looked. .
A stranger bad entered her Periviewed
paradise—a man in an overcoat. The own-
er of the room dropped his pen, and rose—
sharply, as though he, too, had felt a dis-
agreeable. }
‘‘Business’ thought Mrs. Arbuthnot.
She wished the unwelcome visitor would
20; she liked to watch the one quiet figure,
which had a lonely look, not unlike her
own. But suddenly she started. bolt ap-
right in her chair. There was surely a
familiar something about the visitor over
the way! Was it possible that he reminded’
her of—Bill? Bat it was nontense. She
bad not seen Bill for seven years; would
not know him if she did see him.
The two men were talking, standing.
The strauger had his back to her. He was
a litle bald, just as Bil] might be hy this
time; he gesticnlated, just in Bill's way.
The owner of the room was facing her; she
could see his shaved lips move as he lacon-
ically answered the excited speeches of the
other mau. Presently he turned around,
than back again,and stooped over a drawer
in the writing-table, looking for some-
thing. The overcoated visitor faced round
where he stood behind the owuer,
Mrs. Arbathuoot leaped from her seat. In
two minutes she was downstairs, ous, and
in the side door of the Rockingham, which
wae used by her, for she did mending for
the gaests. In three she was on the first
floor, noiseless and unobserved.
Breathlessly she turned the handle of
the room she had never expeeted to enter;
with marvelous quiet set the door ajar; she
meant to stand there and shriek for help
while abe stopped the wav of anyone who
tried to rash past her. Bus ehe did noth-
ing of the kind. She stood dumb. Through
the crack of the door she stared at the visi-
tor, who had apparently chauged occupa-
tions with his host. He stood bent over
| so pretty, Mary, and if—?’ even
the same drawer, searching the same mass
of papers in which the other bad been fum-
bling. With thickish, shakish fingers he
picked out a paper, and turned round with
a grunt of relief—to see the door ajar,
Before he could spring to it Mrs. Arbath-
not had opened it boldly and was in the
room. Before he could lay a hand on her
she had called him by name.
‘Bill!’ she said.
He had raised his arm to strike her, but
be did not do it. He said something, in a
fierce, astonished whisper.
“Yes, it’s I,”’ she spoke more low, more
fiercely; and locked she door behind her
without taking her eyes from him. The
owner of theroom said nothing;he was lying
sprawled across the writing-table, over a
litter of written and virgin pages. ‘I saw
you!” I’ve come round to give you away.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot’s eyes had never wavered
from the face of the man who had once
been ber husband; a swollen, tired face,
handsome still. He bad been drinking,
but he was sober now. ‘You fool!’ she
said. She looked for one flash at the man
she would never watch again where he
wrote in his fancied solitude. *‘I loved
him; my God, I loved him!" she broke
out.
For a year he had been her silent com-
rade, her unconscious comforter; and he
lay dead under her eyes.
‘‘He was your lover?”’ Arbuthnot’s hand
clutched at her, and missed.
‘No,’ she said heavily, ‘‘I was his, He
never spoke to me.”’
If she bad seen his sneer he would have
swung for it, but she did not look at
him. :
‘‘Where did you come from?’ he de-
manded. i
She pointed to the window.
‘Ilive behind there. I saw you!’ she
whispered. She was so faint and sick that
she closed her eyes at his quick step to-
ward her. She was hardly sensible of his
hand on her shoulder.
‘Who else saw me? Who else?
body?’
“I don’t know.”’ :
Arbuthnot turned to the prostrate bod
and cursed it. - *‘I don’t know why I did
it,”’ he finished sullenly, ‘‘only he drove
me crazy. I’ll get out of this now.”
“It I let you.”
But she knew she would let him; she
felt a guilty woman standing there, though
she had never spoken to the dead man.
“You will let me, Mary,” Arbuthnot
spoke like a gentleman, as he had been
used once to speak, ‘‘you’ll help me, You
must!’ his eyes traveled slowly to the
body at the table, comprehending it for the
first time. ‘Take me home—with yon—"’
he appealed, “till is—blows over.”’
Home—to the room whence she had been
wont to look on the living man, who was
dead? She crossed the room and closed the
blind.
“That would run your neck into the
rope, ’’ she said. She felt pitiless, ‘My
place is full of people; any of, them may
have seen you as well as I. Their rooms
have windows.” But she shivered as she
eaid it. ‘Why did you—do it?”’ she end-
ed faintly. She had not meant to shrink
from the word.
‘‘Becaunse he'd ruined me. He'd made
it 80 I counldn’t show my face anywhere.
He had a paper of mine he held over me,
and when I saw it so-night I—. He was a
pal of mine once, though yon mightn’t
think it! I came to borrow money from
him, and all he did was to turn round and
drag out that carsed paper.’’ :
Mis. Arbuthnot did nos answer him; she
was looking at the dead. His head lay
sideways on the table, his eyes were open;
be looked uncomfortable. She had known
he was dead from the moment she entered
the room, yet she could not leave him like
that. She went to him and, with shaking
fingers, closed his eyes. A soft sound at
the door made her wheel. It was Bill,
turning the handle to leave the room, and
she looked at him triumphantly: the key
wae in her pocket.
‘You can’t do it! I’m going to give
you up; have you arrested !’’she said softly,
and the blood beat in her head like a ham-
mer.
Arbuthnot did not move. The doorknob
was useless, and hLe dared not make the
noise of bursting the lock.
‘Do,’ he said. ‘‘Make a good headline,
‘Wife Hanging Her Own Husband,” and
once the word was out he thought it echoed
round the sroom. But it was the other
word that made the woman start away
from him.
‘Husband! You’re no hushand of mine;
you deserted me. It’s seven years.’’
*‘All the same, I’m your husband.” If
he were afraid, be did pot show it; he wens
on speaking quietly, mindfnl that in a
hotel the walls are parchment. ‘Yon
swore once,’’ he said, ‘‘to love me.”’
‘And what did you swear, you—?’’
somewhere in the corridor there was a
noise that took the words out of her
mouth. Arbuthnot’s sodden face went
gray. .
‘I know—Ilet that alone,”” he muttered.
‘Only the child—think of the child! Don’t
go back on me.” And the steps outside
passed as be waited for her to answer. ,
“‘The child!’ It was ber lass, worst
count agaiust him; the thought thai she
fought off night and day. To have her
child again, even to know it was safe and
well, she conld almost—— ) ;
‘Where is she?”” She had her work out
out not to scream it,and he saw his advans-
e.
*‘At mother’s. She’s doing well. She's
Arbuthnot
Any-
bad not the nerve to finish.
Hie wife stood silent. Ever since the day
he had vanished with her two-year-old
ohild a terror had maddened the woman he
had deserted. What would become of her
baby, at the tender mercies of a man like
him? And he had had tender mercies, alter
ull; there had been that much good in
him. She almost wavered. And he saw
it.
“It will all come out,’’ he said thickly,
*‘my record and yours. With thas kind of
a father and mother, who will have any-
thing to do with ker? But give me up if
you like. I’m a worse man, I suppose, than
you are a woman, bus,’”’ he swore, ‘I
couldn’s do this by youn!”?
In the silence the dead man’s watch
ticked loudly in his pocket.
Nerveless. limp, the woman leaned
agaivst the door for support. Fifty bang-
ings, fifty lives like Bill’s, could nos make
the wan she loved breathe or move again.
It was all the ,same sine he was dead; all
the same to him. The threat about her own
past had no terror for her; it was a past of
poverty, not sin—Bill had made a bad shot
there—bus it had deadeved, numbed her.
Right and wrong and expediency had all
grown oneindistinguishable hlur, Who had
made her a jodge to send a man to the
gallows, and stamp with that ineradicable
die the child who called him father?
**‘Come, then,” she said heavily, “I'll
help you. Bat it’s for her sake not yours;
I'd not stir one finger for you.” There
were steps again past the door,and Arbusth-
not knew they would stop there. His heart
echoed them longafter they had died away.
‘‘Come,’” she repeated. It wasno matter to
her how many people went by; she knew
they never came in. ‘‘That’s no one!
Come.”
‘The knife! It’s mine.” He went over
and took is from the olose-lipped wound
with a sound that turned her faint even be-
fore he wiped it on the tablecloth. No, no!
She would not save him. He conld hang.
‘“You promised,” he cried quickly.
She could not answer him. With sudden
terror she feared the dead man who could
not trust her. She took the Joorkey out of
ber pocket, and it fell on the floor. It was
Arbuthnot who fitted it in the lock, and
turned it again when they were outside. But
once away from that silent, accusing pres-
ence the woman led the way,down a light-
ed hall, and ous the little side entrance of
the building. They met no one. In five
minutes they had turndd into the dark
alley that led to the tenement, but once in
it she stopped.
‘‘Have you no where to
loathing him.
He shook his head. ‘‘I came here on the
train tonight. I haven’t a cent to get out
of the place.’
‘‘Money,’’ she thought. He wonld want
money and she bad none. By the time she
received her week’s wages every train and
steamer would be watched. Like light-
ning she.remembered a place where a mur-
derer—the word had come to ber mind in-
£0?” she asked,
bered it was the right one—might lie hid-
den for weeks. ;
‘Wait here,”’ she said; and wiped the
damp of horror from her lips.
Arbuthnot grasped her arm. ‘“‘You're
playing fair with me? You won't give me
up??? ‘
‘‘Yon’re her father or I would,” she
sobbed fiercely. is :
She broke from him and ran down the
alley. He waited. He did not trust her,
but he waited, chiefly because: he conld
not run; his legs had begnn to shake the
instant he was left alone. He felt a kind
of dull surprise when she returned alone,
with a bundle. : : ’
‘‘You must be quick,’ she said.
She led the way through al abyrinth of
dark lanes, carefully avoiding the electric
lights that mark out the thoroughfares.
Gradually they drew out into the open
country, having met no one all the way.
It was very cold; the ground was like
stone, as after a couple of miles of walking
they came out on a bare field. Bevond it
the sea rolled thick with cold under the
cloudveiled sky; in the midst of it, grim
and hulking, loomed the deserted prison,
left to the bats and the four winds these
thirty years.
The woman "drew a breath of relief.
Nearby was a fishing village; every day
boats came and went. It wasnot a serup-
ulous village; it.wounld be easy, compara-
tively, toget Bill safely away. The man
recoiled at the sight of the black pile. '
‘‘Here,’’ he cried; ‘‘it’s a prison! You—"’
‘It’s the only safe place I know,’’ she
answered, unmoved by the epithet. ‘‘I
found it ont by chance. No one ever comes
here, and—it’s a prison without a door;”?
she pointed significantly to a black and
empty archway.
Arbuthnot flinched in front of it like a
frightened horse. ‘I won't go in,” he
swore nervously. ‘Do you mean to keep
me there forever? How’m I to get
away?’
She told him, slowly, as one tells a
child. :
“Why not now—tonight?’’ he demand-
ed. And she told him all over again.
‘‘Because it’s winter, and there mayn’t
be a boat going out for a week.’
And her thought was how she hated him,
and that she had better finish before she
repented.
She went before him into the dark arch-
way. The winter moon crept out from
them as they - disappeared; sent another
through the narrow-slit windows of the
prison, and found them,husband and wife,
standing in the corridor encircling the
whitewashed square of black-doored cells
which rose tier on tier to the roof. At each
corner a stout stair wound to the four iron
galleries that surmounted one another.
The moon’s rays fell on the nearest stair.
‘“We must go up to the highest ow; it's
‘most out the way,’ ’said the black shadow
of the woman to, the black shadow of the
man, io the chill silence of -the vaulty
place. : :
Once more she led the way, carrying her
bundle. Arbuthuot’s steps rang on the
granite as he followed her, and she stopped
in terror, though there were no ears with-
in a mile.
“Walk quietly, ’’ she snapped, and went
on like a cat up the icy stone steps. She
felt her way in aster darkness, because
the moon had vanished; and the murderer
clung to ber skirts. A
- Into the first cell on the highest gallery
they turned, and she struck a match from
her bundle. There was the wooden shelf
which bad held the convict’s bed ; shespread
her shawl on it, put on the slab that stood
for a table the loaf of bread that had been
meant for her own breakfast, and turned
to go. But to be alone was beyond Bill
Arbuthnot, and he said so. To his surprise
she gave in without a struggle. Side by
side the two who bad not met for seven
years sat through the long hours till dawn,
their intolerable burden between them.
Once he huddled close to her for warmth,
and she pushed him off, violently. When
day broke she rose shivering, though their
bodies and breaths had warmed and made
close the narrow cell.
‘Where are you
clutched her dress.
{‘Home; to my work.’
“Why couldn’t you have kept me in
your room where you work, instead of this
beastly place?”
‘Because I've a girl there working with
me. And because theie isn’t even acup-
hoard there where I could put you.
‘‘When will you be back?’ He kept
hold of her, like a child. -
‘‘After dark.’’
*‘I suppose you’ve got to go!’’
“Or you starve,’’she retorted harshly.
‘““There’s bread for today; you can walk up
and down to keep warm.”
Arbuthnot made no answer, except to
les go her dress, till she was halfway down
the stair. Then he called her,and she went
back.
“Find out—you know—’’ he said, “‘and
bring me something to smoke.’”?
Mrs, Arbuthnot staggered against the
railing of the gallery. She bad forgotten
the horror of talk she would have to face.
She could not do it; shé turned on him
frantically.
‘I can’t go! I'll get you things some
other way. I can’t go—home."’ :
‘‘Then they'll suspect you!" angrily.
**No. I often go over to Northway for a
week’s upholstering withous telling the
girl. ‘I was there yesterday. I left word
for ber last night that I might go there to-
day for a week; I won’t be missed.” And
her bard mouth shook on it. It had al ways
been a wrench to go away,even for a week,
from her unconscions comrade, and now he
going?’ Arbuthnot
had gone away from her forever. She conld
never go home.
advertently; she staggered as she remem-
the clouds, and sent a piercing shaft after |
She sat that day in silence. Arbuthnot
wailed uninterruptedly that be bad no to-
bacco; when evening fell he said he was
starving and had as soon hang and be
done with it. When at last she rose he
acquiesced with a word to her leaving,
since she was going for food. He never
even asked where; but she had bad all day
to ask herself.
On the outskirts of the town stood a
house where every evening bread and soup
were given to all comers. If bad the high-
sounding name of The House of the Guar-
dian Angel. Frequenters kvew it as ‘‘the
Angel,” a restaurant where there was
nothing to.pay. Mrs. Arbuthnot was
going there, since she could neither go
home nor walk seven miles to Northway.
She bad twelve cents, and she went toa
shop and bought a tin pail; the bread was
given away in paper bags. She fairly ran
to the place. What if she were late and had
to go back empty-handed?
But the dole had not hegun when she
took her stand among the ragged women
and children banging about the door. They
stared at her indifferently, as she had
known they would stare; and the sister in
charge, when at last the door opened,never
looked at her at all. It was peifeotly safe;
she had only to hold oat her new pail and
turn away, bread in hand. :
For three nights she came, took her por-
tion and fled. The fourth night there was,
adelay; she was kept waiting sill nearly
eight o’clock. As she stood, someone, not
a sister, but a passer-by, eyed her keenly.
If she had turned round she wonld have.
seen the girl who sewed in, her room, but
she did not turn. The gil stared astoand-
ed, then stepped back into a doorway and
watched in amazement. Mrs. Arbuthnot
was in Northway ! Yes here she was among
the beggars. ; ; :
‘‘Whas on earth I” the girl ejaculated.
She saw her companion of every day go
away with her provisions, aud followed her
with cheerful curiosity sill she turned off
into the country. As Mrs. Arbuthnot
crossed the bare field to the deserted prison
she was in clear sight against the skyline,a
black shape against the winter stars, The
girl wens back to the tenement, and talked
—without malice, but for conversation.
Somehow her talk ran like wildfire through
the ward.
Arbuthnot met his wife as she climbed
the weary stair, but he did not snatch, as
at first, at the food she carried. Instead
be sat down beside her on the plank bed.
‘Did yon hear—anything ?'’ he said.
She shook her head listlessly. “I was
kept; the sister was late. Eas your soup
while it’s hot. There’s no schooner in the
bay yet.”’
, With a sharp gestare he thrust away the
ood.
“I wish I'd never done it,”’ he startled
ber. ‘‘I wish I'd been dead first.”
In the dark his wife stared at him.
repentance here did nots mean much,
“Oh, you don’t understand,” he cried
out. “I know what you're thinking. But
it’s not this place nor the cold that makes
me sorry. Somehow it’s you !”
- “Me on ?
He nodded. ‘‘You’ve put yourself out a
good deal for me,” he said, and the ludi-
crously inappropriate phrase struck neither
of them.
“You can put me out of it,’” she turned
on him savagely. “I don’t believe you
care a straw what you’ve done; I don’t be-
lieve you realize it. Oh, I'm nota pray-
ing woman, butif I conld. say a prayer
that would undo your work I’d say ib, if I
bad togive my life for au Amen !”’
.*‘Why do you say that?’ A long shiver
interrupted him, till he felt his flesh must
come off his bones. *‘What’s life got to do
with it?”
“I don’t know,” she could hardly speak
for crying; ‘‘but don’t you know that when
you've once done a thing you can never get
away from it ? If there were only some—
some expiation ! Bill,” she leaned to bim
suddenly; her thin face was distorted as
she clasped the knees of the man whom
three days ago she hated, whom she had
not seen for seven years, “Bill, can’t you
pray? Can’t you do something? Do you
even, truly, care?"
He did not answer the
dark his face hardened. ‘Why are you
orying?”’ he asked roughly. ‘Is it for
him ? It can’t be for me.”
“I—I—"" she could get no further at
first, “I swear I never spoke to him, Bill !
But I used to sit and look at him. The
room was #0 lovely. He looked kind. I
badn’t anyone else.’
- “I don’t see, then, why you didn’t give
me away !”’
“I couldn’. I don’t know why. Bill,”
sharply, ‘‘we’rea pretty bad pair to have
bad a child ! What if— ?’? the words stuck
in her throat. : ;
‘‘Hold your tongue!’ he said harshly,
sweating in the icy cell. It was getting
late, and so pitoh-dark that he conld not
even see the dim outline of her, but ha
could whisper. ‘‘Mary,’’ he set his teeth,
‘ ‘if you like I’ll—give myself up !”’ rd
‘‘You sha’n’t,” she sobbed, ‘‘you must
get away. Think of the child up there in
the country, with all the papers calling
you a murderer—her own father I” and as
the word the two who had not met for
seven years locked fast in each other’s arms
in the black dark. ce ;
*‘God forgive you, oh, God forgive you!’
she sobbed. *‘Bill, can’t you-—can’$ you
say Amen ?’’
Downstairs in the corridor round the
tiers of celis there was a soft sound. It
floated upward unheeded ; came again, like
a rustling sigh,and entered the cell through
the inch-opened door.
‘What was that ?”’ said Arbuthnot. He
listened, He kept his arms round her.
‘‘Nothing ! The wind.”’ For a long mo-
ment she spoke the truth. Then the sound
came again, cautions, unmistakable. There
were feet on the stair.
*‘Keep still,’” she breathed. ‘It’s some-
one !"’ She opened the door and peered into
the dark gulf below the gallery. Down-
stairs, far down still, there shone for one
second a white flash, that made her spring
like a cat to Arbuthnot. ‘‘Police,’’ she
said, ‘‘don’t run! Come slow.” It was
side by side they crept along the gallery to
the furthest stair : there was a door half-
way down it that opened on a ladder to
the yard; they might reach it yet. ‘‘Go on,
Bill; quick 1”? :
She gave him a little push; she could
hear feet distinctly in the whispering gal-
lery of the place. But he did not answer
to her voice. :
Ons of the darkness at her elbow started
a shadow. It touched her, let her go, tried
t0 spring past her—and she knew she had
it in the clutch of the strength that comes
to women once in their lives. :
‘‘Goon !” she screamed, holding fast to
a heavy coat, ‘‘don’t be taken ! The child
—’?.and then all she knew was that she
But
question; in the
was holding on still, fighting like a cat. |
This man should never paes her.
Arbuthnot went on. But halfway down
two more men were posted. The full light
of a lautern glared on him and confused
him; he bad been used to the dark. He
stopped; and the men stood. They were
ten steps below him on the slippery stair,
C
and Arbuthnot knew it; but he wade no
rush. He was thinking in that blinding
shaft of light as he bad never thought in
his life; thinking of the child—-of banging
—-with a dead stoppage of his heart, of
Mary. And at the thonghts he made his
rush, but it was not at the stair.
To the men below him there was a quick
spring, and a silence. After the silence a
thud, far below. But no cry, no whisper
where Bill Arbuthnot lay unrecognizable
on the scones of the great corridor. He
bad said his Amen.—By 8. Carleton, in
Tom Watson's Magazine.
Keep A-Pushing.
One step won't take you yery far ;
You've got to keep on walking.
One word won't tell folks all you are ;
You've got to keep on talking.
One inch won’t make yon very tall 3
You've got to keep on growing.
One little “ad.” won’t do it all ;
You've got to keep ‘em going.
———————
Renewing Lost Forests.
Indiana is entering actively upon the
work of compensating for that improvident
waste of timber which went up in smoke
from thousands of log heaps in the early
stages of the State's development, and the
statement of Fred Danlap, an expert from
the United States Bureau of Forestry, to
the effect that the work in Indiana ‘is the
only real forestry work of a practical kind
being done in the country.’ This state-
ment was made after a careful investigation
vear Henryville, Clark county, where
thousands of hardwood ‘trees have been
be under cultivation by next spring.
The State Board of Forestry entered up-
on the work two years ago and the first
season 23 acres were planted. This was
increased to 187 acres ‘last year ‘and by
spring there will be 500 acres planted in
bardwood seeds. Thisis to be the hard-
wood nursery of Indiana. These trees rep-
resenting every species of hardwood that
will grow in the State, are to be given
away, and as fast as they are removed and
set ont other seeds will be planted and thus
the supply continued ill there is some-
thing like a restoration of hardwood tim-
ber to the denuded lands of the State.
FARMERS HERE LEARNED A LESSON.
“Indiana farmers have received some very
pointed object lessons in the past few years
in respect to the value of timber and now
see they might have reaped a harvest that
will come to them now only through years
of effort.
One year ago a Johnson county farmer
sold two black walnut trees for $350. They
were the last of a grove of hundreds which
he had cut down from time to time for fire-
wood, fence rails and the like. At the low-
est estimate his grove would be worth $25,-
000, or three times as much as his entire
farm.
The same thing is true, but ina less de-
gree, of the oak timber that has become so
popular in recent years for making furni-
ture, for the inside finish of houses and for
making hardwood floors. Indiana oak has
a reputation East and West for its beanti-
ful grain, and in New York, Phila., Boston
and other seabord cities it ranks along
with imported woods for that purpose.
Twenty-five years ago there were thousands
of acres of land covered with this growth.
VALUABLE TIMBER WASTED.
It was ruthlessly cut down, piled into
great heaps and burned and the farmer
tuined tothe cultivation of the land in
corn, wheat and oats. So completely has
the land been denuded of this product that
the price has doubled, then tripled, then
quadrupled in the past ten years. To-day
quarter-sawed Indiana oak is worth from
10 to 12 cents a footat the mills. The
lumber in the rough is worth from 5 to 77
cents and an average white oak tree, rela-
tively free from knots, is worth to the far-
mer from $50 to $65.
The State is now making an effort to
compensate in part for the waste of the
last 50 or 60 years,and farmers everywhere
are putting out trees where Nature once
planted them in such abundande.
A Case of Want.
. A prison visitor recently asked ore of the
prisoners how he came to be there.
‘‘Wans,’”’ was the answer.
‘‘How was thas, pray ?”’
‘‘Well, I wanted another man’s watch.
He wasn’t willing I should have it, and the
judge wants me to stay here five years.”
Lawyer—Yon say yon know this man to
be an absolutely honest and reliable
friend?
Witness—VYes, sir. I'd stake my life on
him! He’s the kind of fellow that would
lie like a pickpocket to get a friend out of
a tight place!— Detroit Free Press.
"Business 1s Bnsiness.
THEIR TRUE MISSION
‘‘Heaven first taught letters for some wretch’s
aid,
Some banished lover, or some captive maid.”
But now we know they're handy for devising
Good, up-to-date, effective advertising.
————
The Real Tests.
‘‘Is he a thoroughly honest man ?'’
“Idon’t know,”’ answered the man from
Missonri. “I have trusted him with hun-
dreds of thousands of dollars, but I never
tried him with a book or an umbrella.”
FEVER CAN'T STOP PRESIDENT
Will Go to New Orleans October 26
Despite Epidemic There.
Washington, Oct. 3. — President
Roosevelt will go to New Orleans de
€pite the yellow fever epidemic. This
official announcement was made at the
White House by Mr. Loeb, after a con:
ference with the president, at which
the arrangements for Mr. Roosevelt's
trip through the south were arranged
finally.
In order to avoid any complications
over the quarantine regulations of the
various states in the south, the presi.
dent has decided to make New Orleans
the final stop on his trip. He will be
in New Orleans on the 26th instant
After the ceremonies in that city he
will go aboard a cruiser of the Cleve
land type and make the journey from
New Orleans to Washington by water.
He is expected to arrive here either
on the 30th or 31st instant.
Yellow Fever Report.
New Orleans, Oct. 3.—Yellow fever
report up to last night: New cases, 19;
total to date, 3042; deaths, 2; total,
394; new foci, 6; under treatment, 204;
discharged, 2444.
officials feel greatly encouraged by a recent
planted and where at leas 1,000,000 ‘will’
William H.
Brief Sketch of the Life and Achievements of the
People’s Candidate For State Treasurer.
Berry.
The biography of William H. Berry,
Democratic nominee for state treas.
urer can be briefly written. His life
has been one of endeavor and achieve.
ment. He has been a worker from
earliest manhood and whatever of suc-
cess he has attained has been the
fruit of his own effort.
Mr. Berry was born in Edwardsville,
Illinois, September 9, 1852, and was
educated in the public schools of that
village. He served am apprentice-
ship as a machinist in Buffalo, New
York, where he acquired a technical
education in the night schools, giving
his evenings to study after his days
of labor. Upon the completion of his
apprenticeship he served seven years
as a journeyman machinist at the
bench.
In 1874 Mr. Berry located in Ches-
ter, where he had obtained employ-
ment as a machinist. Subsequently he
worked there as journeyman, assist-
ant-foreman and foreman for 17 years, ,
during which time he invented several
lahor-saving devices, some of which
have proved profitable as well as
useful. 3
In 1902 Mr. Berry established a
plant of his own in Chester for the
manufacture of steam specialties, un-
der the title of the Berry Engineering
company. He became president and
general manager of that company, and
incidentally, as its title invited, be-
came consulting engineer of several
large manufacturing plants in Chester
and adjacent cities and towns.
Mr. Berry is essentially a self-made
man. From the proceeds of his labor
and the fruits of his inventive achieve-
ments he has enjoyed during recent
years sufficient income to properly ed-
ucate his children and create for his
family a comfortable home. One of his
sons has been schooled in the sciences
sufficiently to take his place in the fac-
tory and another is serving honorably
as a lieutenant in the Marine Corps of
the United States navy.
Mr. Berry joined the Methodist’
church in 1876 and was made a local
preacher in 1879. He has preached ac--
ceptably and with advantage to the
church in all the churches in the vicin-
ity of his home. He lectures frequently
on scientific and economic subjects
-and is actively identified with all the
charitable and philanthropic move-
ments in the city in which he lives.
In politics Mr. Berry is a disciple
of Thomas Jefferson, and though ad-
verse to holding office has always been .
faithful to civic obligations and active
in public affairs. He has served in
the Councils and School Board of his
adopted home with great satisfaction
to the people.
The first political office ever held by
Mr. Berry was that in which he is now
in commission. The city of Chester had
been ring ridden far beyond the limit
of peaceful endurance for many years,
and public protests were literally
laughed down. Last spring, however,
the people determined to make one.
great effort at rescue, and the Demo-
crats nominated Mr. Berry for Mayor.
The prospect of sucess was not promis-
ing when he was notified that the
honor had been bestowed upon him.
At the November election prevoiusly,
Roosevelt had nearly 6000 majority out
of a total vote of a little more than
10,000, and in order to .win, therefore,
it was necessary that he should get
all the Democrats, every Prohibition-:
ist in the city and nearly half the Re-
publicans. Most men would have been’
appalled at such a condition, but it
didn’t frighten him. He accepted the
nomination, and promptly set about to
secure the election. After the most
exciting contest in the history of the
city, the vote resulted in a substantial
majority for Mr. Berry. : .
. And he has “made good.” During the
campaign Mr. Berry declared that in
the event of his election the iniquities
which were disgracing the city should
cease. Just as he asserts now, that if
‘he is elected State Treasurer the graft
in the finances of the state will be
stopped, so he said then that if elected
Mayor the gambling dens, speak-easies
and vice resorts should be eliminated
from the life of the city. That pledge
has been fulfilled, moreover. The mo-
ment he entered upon the duties of the
office he set himself to the task of ful-
filling his promise and found it ex-
ceedingly easy of achievement.
Probably no man in Pennsylvania
had less thought of the Democratic
nomination for State Treasurer on the
day of the Democratic State Conven-
tion met than Mr. Berry. But the revolt
against civie uprighteousness had just
begun in Philadelphia, and all minds
were turning toward reform and re-
formers.
In this state of public opinion the
name of William H. Berry, the reform-
er who “does things,” was mentioned,
and it ran through the body like “fire
in an August clearing,” and he was
unanimously nominated. As he de-
clared in his speech of acceptance, he
had nothing to do with the matter up
to that time, but he has taken a hand
since, and is now leading a triumphant
army to certain victory.
Mr. Berry has always been pecu-
liarly fortunate in his relations with
workingmen and organized labor. In-
dead, he freely ascribes his success in
the mayoralty campaign to the cordial
and earnest support of the artisans in
the community. He has been an em-
ployer of labor for many years, and
during recent years extensively so.
But he has never had a labor strike
or serious difficulty with his employes
on account of wages or differenges of
any kind.
~ - ~The Client.—Yon seem to keep the
recording angel pretty husy.
The Lawyer— Recording angel ?
The Client—Yes; your typewriter.