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Bewooraic Baldy,
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Bellefonte, Pa., August 21, 1925.
Er ——————————————————
THE BUSY CITIZEN.
By Schuyler E. Sears.
I have not time to hear the birds
The seasons bring along,
For I must rush to operas
For prima donna song.
I have not time to look at bloom
In orchard, wood and field,
For I must hunt the movie films
To eye their latest yield.
I have not time to notice stars
In galaxy at night,
For I must hold my steering-wheel
And watch with all my might.
I have not time to cast my vote
On next election day,
For I have dates at our golf links—
I must take time to play.
I have not time to be a friend
To those whom I should cheer,
For I must use my time to pluck
‘When Mammon’s plums appear.
I have not time for folks at home,
I think they ought to know,
For why should I wait for their talk
And miss the radio?
I have not time to go to church,
Or ponder on God’s plan,
For seven days each week I trot
In hurried ways of man.
I have not time—it’s sadly true—
To really live and think,
When I have all the time there is
Between now and the brink.
—National Republic.
BLUE HYACINTHS.
In the double parlors of the late
Mrs. Talbot's boarding house, in Thir-
ty-seventh street, the window blinds
were up again and the windows dis-
creetly opened to the mingled odors of
the street outside, which included such
homely scents as fresh-grated horse-
radish from a passing peddler, the
smell of new-baked loaves from the
bakery on the corner, and Evie May's
hyacinths. These grew in two long
boxes that Jenkins, the pork-butcher’s
clerk, had built for Evie May and
painted green, down in the cellar last
autumn. The flowers were rearing
lovely heads of pink and white, and a
heavenly blue that had tints of violet
in it, like Evie May’s eyes.
They were talking about Evie May
now in the big gaunt front room where
the boarders had their “company,”
and where the late Mrs. Talbot's still
form had rested from Saturday till
Monday, the strong, work-worn hands
quiet for probably the first time since
Evie May had been born.
“What on earth about Evie May ?”
It was Mrs. Jake Daggert, other-
wise known in vaudeville as one of the
team of “Daggert and Walker,” who
put the question that all of*them had
been turning over while they waited
for dinner to be dished up. There was
Miss Flossie Merkle, who gave “Fa-
cials;” and little Miss Minns, who did
dressmaking; and Mrs. Rosenberg,
who lived on alimony and the movies.
Also, there was a pale young man
named Piggens, who sold safety ra-
zors on commission; Jenkins, the
pork-butcher’s clerk; and Mr. Jake
Daggert, who, in spite of his air of
youth, had seen Evie May grow up
from babyhood in those intervals when
he was not on the road. She had been
an awful sweet kid, Evie May.
“It ain’t as if Evie May had style,”
went on Cora Daggert. “Jake and I
might of got her a little stunt. * But,
my word, no matter what kind of a
make-up you used, you couldn’t make
her look anything but a sweet little
kid still doing her turn at Girls’
High.”
“I could of got her up at the Acme”
—it was Flossie Merkle’s good-natur-
ed voice speaking—“only for a beau-
ty parlor you got to have something
to show. When you do a facial you
got to show round curves yourself, and
keep any thinness you have for your
hips.”
“Gentlemen present, Flossie.”
Miss Merkle turned without the
slightest embarrassment to survey the
pale young man and the uncomforta-
ble Mr. Jenkins. “Why, so there are,”
she said smoothly. “Maybe you two
could give us ladies some idea of
what’s best for Evie May. Mr. Jen-
kins, you ought to be about ripe for a
proposition of some kind.”
This was so obviously another of
Miss Merkle’s constant side-steppings
toward matrimony as the safest way
out of anything that Mr. Jenkins was
at once covered with confusion, and
Mr. Piggens turned several shades
paler.
Perhaps it was fortunate that at
this embarrassing instant the door
opened and Evie May herself came in.
Hesitating on the threshold, she stood
a moment, trying to smile on them
witn her old manner, and not to look
at that empty room with the couch-
bed where there was still a hollow.
But what they saw was the strangely
disconcerting sight of Evie May in
her new pink gingham, the last thing
her mother had made, with a little
heap of black garments hung over
one arm.
“Miss Minns, I—I've brought them
back.” Evie May took two or three
steps forward and laid those small
borrowed garments of her first great
sorrow in Miss Minn’s lap.
“Why, Evie May!”
“I couldn’t wear them, really. it—
oh, how could I, when I believe that
for Mother it is * * * happier?” Eyie
May, her blue eyes bright with tears
that she would not shed, looked at
them each in turn, as she stood in her
little pink dress with the white collar
and cuffs, looking like a May blossom
rain, with drops still in its chalice.
“My goodness, Evie May, you got
to, child! Folks will think you don’t
care.” Miss Minns spoke almost
sharply. Evie May seemed such a lit-
tle thing to be deciding for herself.
Evie May sent another of her bright
glances about the somber room. “You
will know that I care,” she said, “and
just now it does not seem as if the
world matters!”
Mr. Jake Daggert stared fiercely at
the door knob. “You do as you like,
kid,” he said hoarsely, “and send the
bill to Daggert and Walker. We'll
back up any little act you got the idea
of putting across. Just shake your
feet to any tune you want the band to
play.”
“What I came in to say to you all”
—Evie May seemed to hunt for the
words—*“is that I'm going to give up
school and try to keep everything
going here just the way Mother did.”
“Good Lord, Evie May!” It was
Cora Daggert this time who voiced
the amazement of the rest.
“Evie May you always wanted to be
14a school-teacher.”
“Why, you hate the boarding-house
business, Evie May!”
“I know—but, you see, I love you!”
There was again that strange si-
lence, while they took in the fact that
for Evie May childhood had gone for-
ever, had been laid, with those quick-
ly fading flowers, back there on the
fresh-turned earth. Evie May had
grown up.
Back of the silence there was some-
thing that Evie May could not guess.
Miss Merkle, rolling her fine eyes,
said something across the room to
Daggert and Walker. “Tell her,
Cora.”
But Mrs. Jake Daggert shook her
head. “Go ahead, Jake,” she said
tersely, “She’s got to know.”
Mr. Jake Daggert reached for a
long blue envelope that he had tucked
that morning behind the clock on the
mantel-piece. He cleared his throat.
“It’s like this,” he said. “Kid, your
mother leased this place from the
Herrold Estates. Well, that means
+4that it’s a corporation, and that means
that it ain’t got a heart the size of a
split pea. The very day she died the
lease ran out, and they’ve went up on
her on the rent.”
“You mean,” Evie May said, “that
Mother would have had to pay more?”
“Such a darned sight more,” said
Mr. Daggert fiercely, “that it was
highway robbery. Not if you raised
the rooms on all of us, kid, you could
not manage it.”
Evie May still stood, her arms
straight at her sides. Her eyes, clear
now of tears, were troubled. Her face
had whitened, but her small chin had
taken a resolute line. ““But it’s your
home,” said Evie May, her voice grow-
ing more and more earnest, “and we
have just got to do what we can, all
of us. I can rent my room to some-
body and the back parlor, now that—
now that Mother won’t be needing it.
Oh. you say corporations have no
heart, but there’s got to be a head to
them, and perhaps the Herrold Es-
tates aren’t nearly so bad as—as you
all think. If Jake will go with me to-
morrow—"" She broke off, fixing her
blue eyes on Mr. Daggert. ak
“Sure I will kid. I'll go the limit
for you.”
“Then,” said Evie May, "we won’t
need to worry right now about it. And
maybe it will all come right. Because
—” here she made a desperate effort
to steady herself against that aching
sense of loss—” because nothing ever
fazed Mother.” "
Evie May, in her small straw hat
with the wreath of flowers on it, stood
in the dull vestibule the next morning
pulling on her worn kid gloves. Miss
Minns, shocked and solicitous, had
spent an extra fifteen minutes on her
way to work trying to persuade Evie
May that a flower-wreathed hat on the
day after a funeral was really unwise,
and made you “liable to be mistook
for a person lacking, if not heart, at
least due respect to your mother’s
memory.” All of which, said on a
breath and without commas, failed to
shake Evie May’s attitude toward her
everyday garments.
“Mother trimmed this for me her-
self,” she said. “And oh, Miss Minns,
can’t you see I'd rather wear it than
the grandest black one in the world ?”
“Well, I must say, Evie May, you're
a strange being, but as loyal a little
soul as ever lived. Only, you would
look well in black, dear, and Flossie
and I could fix you up so the expense
would be minus.”
Evie May put one hand to her
throat as if she would check in that
way the size of the lump there. And
just then Mr. Jake Daggert joined her
on the doorstep. :
“Which way, kid? Say the word.”
“Jake dear, I want you to take me
to the Herrold Estates.”
He looked at her quizzically.
“What's the great idea all about, little
one?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want
you to ask me anything, Jake, or to
go in with me. I want to say it all in
my own way.”
“They won’t do a thing for you,
Evie May, not a darned thing!”
“Tell Me, Jake,” Evie May went on,
“how much money did they say they
want, in that blue envelope?”
Mr. Daggert shook his cane moodi-
ly from right to left. “Look here, kid,
if you're bound to act, go and take
center front and do the ingenue. I'm
not going to give you any pointers,
see? It’s baby talk that gets those
fellows if anything gets ’em, which I
doubt.”
In silence he conducted Evie May
through a down-town district of nar-
row streets and towering stone fronts,
coming finally to a stop somewhere
near Bowling Green. “We park here,”
he said at last; and nodded to Evie
May, and said to an elevator man as
he nervously fingered a cigarette,
“Take her up, will you, and let her off
twelfth floor—Herrold Estates.”
The Herrold Estates, it seemed,
was heavily guarded. Railings with-
in and railings without, and barriers
to pass that seemed to Evie May hard-
er than the hard crust of a hard-baked
world. She found herself in an office
full of men, who stopped smoking to
stare as she went by. Finally she
managed to voice her timid question
to one of them.
“About a lease renewal? Where
does she go for a lease renewal,
Buck? Yeh. You're in the wrong
joint for that. There’s a man takes
care of leases up-town. Somewhere
in Fifty-fifth. Yeh. And he’s out of
the city, anyway.”
“Oh, but’s—it’s so very important,
please. All the boarders will have to
find another place.”
“What's it all about, Tim?” An in-
dividual had detached himself from
one of the brass railings and now
drew nearer, to stare, as the rest had,
at Evie May. He too wasin shirt
sleeves; but he had the grace to shift
his cigar from his mobile lips as he
looked at the small person who had
got into the “wrong joint,”
“It’s about our boarding-house,”
said Evie May. “You see, Mother
died on Monday, and I've had to take
it cover.”
There was an awkward silence. The
man looking down at Evie May sud-
denly took off his hat. He had busi-
nesslike eyes and a bored mouth.
“I thought,” she faltered, ‘If I could
tell Mr. Herrold about it—I mean the
head of the Estates.”
The man continued to stare at her.
“As a matter of fact,” he said at last,
“Mr. Herrold doesn’t handle these
things. You see,
tion.”
Evie May smiled ever so faintly.
She had practiced trying to smile ever
since the funeral, but any one could
see it was hard work.
“Suppose,” said the man bluntly,
“you come in where we can be quiet,
and give me an idea or two. I'm Mr.
Oliver. It’s just possible”—he spoke
guardedly—“I can put you on the
right track.”
Evie May looked straight ahead as
she followed him into a small office on
the left, but her cheeks were burning.
She could hear some of those back of
her saying things about her eyes.
Evie May sat on a small stool. The
man, Mr. Oliver, sat in a swivel chair,
and stared for a further period at Evie
May. She couldn’t tell whether he
was old or young. That is, his hair
looked young, being close-cropped and
crisply curling, but his eyes and
mouth looked old.
After a minute he spoke to her, a
little sharply, Evie May thought.
“Don’t think,” he said, “because this
happens to be my personal den that
I'm a high mokey-moke. Now cut in
and tell me what you're up against.
and er—make it brief and snappy.”
Evie May was brief. She told it in
three sentences with small gaps be--
tween. “It’s about our boarding-house
in Thirty-seventh street.”
“Yes? What's wrong with it?”
“Nothing. Only Mother has just
died, and I've had to take it over.”
“What has all this to do with the
Herrold Estates?” His curt gaze held
her hard and fast.
“The lease is out, and. they’ve sent
up the rent.”
The man tapped on the desk lid
with a lean, hard hand. “And you
don’t want to pay it?”
“Oh, I must, if it’s right. I just
want them to give me a chance to—
to make good.”
“H’m. You look to me like a bad
risk. The boarding-house game is a
pretty rough one. Did you—inherit
anything from your mother?”
Evie May’s chin trembled: “Just
the boarders.”
“That seems rather an incubus.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. Why don’t you soak
them for more pay? Go on ’em good
and hard, and get it in that way?”
Evie May shook her head. “Oh,
you wouldn’t say that if you knew
them. You see, except Daggert and
Walker, who go on the road, they are
all——quite poor!” Evie May flush-
ed, as if she were giving something
away that she shouldn’t. *
The man leaned back in his swivel
chair. “What do you bother with
them for, then? Why don’t you get a
lot of new ones?”
Evie May lifted the flower-wreath-
ed hat. “But, you see, I love these—"
There was a small silence. Evie
May fancied that the man’s lip curled.
She straightened, with that lump in
her aching thoat again as she remem-
bered their goodness—how Jenkins
had stayed from work all day to help
before the funeral, and how Flossie
had offered her best crepe de chine
* * * She drew up with a start to
hear Mr. Oliver speaking.
“H’'m. I suppose, as a matter of
return compliment, the boarders love
you?”
Evie May nodded. “Yes. You see”
—she was suddenly covered with con-
fusion—“they’ve known me such a
long time.”
“Really? I should say that would
rather break the spell for most of us.
However, let’s go to the business in
hand. What's troubling you now—
that extra rent 7”
“It troubled me all last night,” ad-
mitted Evie May honestly,” until I
had thought out a way. You see, I
can rent’ the back parlor, that—that
Mother used to have, and my room on
the second floor. I can perfectly well
do without a room, really, and—"
“I see. You would put up a tent in
the back yard 7"
“No, sir. There is a place under
the roof, where the skylight comes
through. When I was little I used to
love it up there, because I could see
the pigeons.”
“I understand. You'd rent these
two rooms then, and meet our in-
crease 7”
“Yes. And I thought, for the first
month, before I get them filled, that if
you wouldn’t mind taking these as—
as security—"” Evie May, groping in
the depths of her mother’s old shop-
ping bag, drew out a small tissue pa-
per parcel and nervously undid the
string. She held out her hand to Mr.
Oliver.
He stared down at the contents
spread on his man’s palm; a child’s
gold locket and chain, a turquoise and
pearl ring, a small gilt and enamel
class pin.
“I don’t imagine,” said Evie May,
feeling suddenly intensely anxious,
“that they are very valuable; but if
just until I got the rooms rented the
Herrold Estates would hold them for
me—because I should want them back
The lump was in her throat
again, but she fought it down fiercely.
”
Mr. Oliver laid them down on the
desk and looked again at Evie May.
His eyelids were drooped a little, as
if his gaze had narrowed to get the
whole effect. He cleared his throat.
“Suppose,” he said, “we allow you
thirty days—to turn in?”
Evie May smiled faintly. It sound-
ed so like a committal to jail or the
work-house!
“I'll do this on my own responsibil-
ity,” added Mr. Oliver. “But of
course, since it is a business transac-
tion, I shall want to hear a report now
and then.”
“I could write you every Monday.
Would that do?”
“Perfectly,” said Mr, Oliver. He
a ERR
this is a corpora--
was still staring at her with those
queer, drooped lids.
Evie May rose. She looked mourn-
fully at her treasures, and it seemed
to jerk Mr. Oliver into alertness. He
reached for a big yellow envelope,
dropped Evie May’s jewels into it and
carefully sealed the flap, locking it in
a small drawer of the huge desk.
There,” he said, “you can depend on
my looking out for them, er—er—un-
til we can square up that monthly dif-
ference.”
Evie May held out her hand. Wheth-
er it was the thing to do or not in a
matter of such pure business, Mr. Ol-
iver took it, dropping it, however,
rather quickly as he realized that
through the epen door the office force
seemed to think it a moving picture.
The next instant Evie May had turned
away. The world no longer seemed 2a
heartless place full of graves.
All the same, Evie May had enter-
ed into a business obligation that
must be met in thirty days!
Miss Minns, finding her at work
making the box under the skylight
into a place fit for sleeping quarters,
voiced tremulous disapproval.
“Evie May,
have been heart-broken to see you
cramming a chair and a child’s erib
into. that hole in the wall. And if a
Gerry Society agent saw you, darling, :
and found we were letting you run a
boarding-house,
would “happen,
look eighteen,
eighty.”
“Oh, please,”
“do let me try.
living,
know.”
It was Jenkins, however, who was
moved to the depths. For three years
now, he had seen Evie May in ging-
ham frocks tripping to school or to
the corner bakery. He had presented
her with a stiff bouquet when she was
graduated from Public School No. 35
and entered “Teachers’ Training;” he
said Evie May gently,
I have to earn my
and ‘this is the only way I
| had watched her over her dead moth-
er’s form, but he had never seen Evie
May cry. And now, when he found
her crying over her little white desk
in the room she was giving up for an
extra boarder Jenkins felt the time
for action had come.
“Look-a here, Evie May—"
“Oh, Jenkins, I must this once.
Mother gave it to me on my birthday.”
“What I got to say, Evie May, is
this—” Jenkins was frowning heavi-
ly—“there ain’t no call for you to
work for your living. Get the idea?”
Evie May shook her head. “But I
must, Jenkins.”
“Nothing doing. I'm pretty husky.
I'm in a good business. Well—it’s up
to me to earn enough for two of us--
Evie May.”
“Jenkins—"
“I mean for you to marry me, Evie
May.”
“Oh, it’s so dear and—and good of
you, Jenkins; but I couldn’. Evie
May’s tears had gone dry. She was
stirred, and strangely frightened.
Jenkins stared down at her. His
big hand twitched. His chest lifted.
But he was a gentleman! “You * * *
think it over, Evie May, and let me
know. You * * * think it over.” Still
frowning heavily, he precipitated him-
self down the stairway.
Evie May’s small notes to the Her-
rold Estates each Monday were at this
time a very good road map of her
soul.
Dear Sirs: I have advertised the rooms
in two papers. There are so many nice
people without homes! I ought to be sor-
ry for this, but at least I can try to make
it home-like for whoever comes to live
with us. I forgot to state that there is a
pearl out of my ring, which of course
makes it less valuable. Thanking you for
your consideration.
EVELYN MAY TALBOT.
Her second was shorter:
Dear Sirs: The rooms are not yet rent-
ed; but I feel sure they will be soon.
EVELYN MAY TALBOT.
Her third, written three weeks later,
was penned after discouragement had
stamped shadows under her eyes. The
thirty days were all up but three, and
the rooms were still empty of tenants.
Daggert and Walker had departed for
a summer tour, after paying six weeks
in advance, but that did not help Evie
May; and Jenkins, clumsy and kind,
did not help her either, because Evie
May knew she could never give him
the thing he wanted.
She wrote therefore, with a sink-
ing heart:
Dear Sirs: I have nothing favorable to
report. People see my hyacinths and come
in, but they all want to do light house-
keeping, and not to be a real part of us;
so I have to send them away, as the lease
reads, “no cooking must be done in the
rooms,” However, some one may be on the
way right now—it is the best way to keep
on hoping, isn’t it?
EVELYN MAY TALBOT.
(Concluded next week.)
JACKSONVILLE.
Services in the Reformed church on
Sunday afternoon.
Mr. and Mrs. Walter Daily, of Al-
toona, spent over Sunday at the Geo.
Ertley home.
Mr. and Mrs. Linn Ertley and chil-
dren, Isabelle, Violet and Rosella,
were Sunday visitors at the J. J. Vo-
nada home.
Mr. and Mrs. Robert Bennison, Miss
Nellie, Miss Virginia and Mac Ben-
nison, were Sunday guests at the Nev-
in Yearick home.
Mr. and Mrs. John Lucas and fam-
ily and Mr. and Mrs. John Condo and
family attended the Stover reunion, at
Aaronsburg, on Saturday.
Misses Isabelle and Violet Ertley
accompanied their aunt and uncle, Mr.
and Mrs. Walter Daily to Altoona, on
Monday morning for a short visit.
A chicken and waffle supper was
held at the A. A. Garrett home, Sat-
urday evening, in honor of Florence's
sixteenth birthday, which was on
Sunday. ;
Mr. and Mrs. Homer Yearick and
daughter, of Newberry, and Miss
Jeannette Winkleman and Miss Anna
Smith, of Williamsport, were Sunday
guests at the George Ertley home.
——Get the Watchman if you want
the local news.
your poor mother would
I don’t know what |
because you no more |
Evie May, than I do
Boy Had Good Idea
of Penalty of Lying
“You know where people go who tell’
Pes?’ said a court official at Newcas-
tle, England, to a small girl in the wit-
ness box recently. “Yes, but I don't
believe it,” was the reply.
This incident has suggested to an
English commentator an instance
where the converse of the Newcastle
Maule a few years ago: A small boy
was placed in the witness box and was
asked the same question, “Do you
know where people go who tell lies?”
on which Maule commented: “If he
knows that, it's a good deal more than
I do.” However, the boy did know, for
he was taken through a catalogue of
offenses from telling lies to stealing
apples, and replied “Hellfire” to all of
them. Counsel suggested that he was
not competent. The judge demurred.
“He thinks that for every willful fault
he will go to hellfire; and he is very
likely, while he believes that doctrine,
to be most strict In his observance of
the truth. If you and I believed that
such would be the penalty for every
' offense we committed, we should be
better men than we are. Swear him.”
~—San Francisco Argonaut.
Traditions Tell of
Many Sunken Cities
Traditions of sunken cities are al-
ways Interesting. Both Killarney and
Lough Neagh are reputed to have
once been the sites of famous Irish
cities, drowned as a punishment for
the wickedness of their inhabitants.
Holland boasts of several ruined towns
sunk at the bottom of the Zuyder zee,
while off the cost of Holstein lies bur-
fed the legendary city of Vineta,
whence (so fishermen say) the tolling
of the bells in the church spires comes
up faintly through the waters on quiet
days. Most famous of all is Ys, said
to have stood where now is the Bay
of Douarnency, a little west of Quim-
per, in Brittany. Ys was a magnifi-
cent city, built below the level of the
sea, and it owed its destruction to a
certain wicked princess named Dsahut,
who, to gratify an idle whim, opened
the sluice-gates and herself perished
in the ruin which she brought upon
the city.
Bear as Photographer!
A student of forestry was camping
with two friends in the wildest part of
Allegheny park. Taking his camera,
he rambled off alone to look for pic-
turesque subjects.
He had placed his camera on a
fallen tree, and had gone some little
distance to get a viewpoint, when he
saw a black bear browsing amongst
some berry bushes. He was scared,
and, forgetting his camera, sped back
to his camp and companions. With
them he returned to the spot, but, In
the meantime, the bear had disap-
peared.
Phe camera was still on the log, but
a plate had been exposed. When it
was developed it showed the frightened
young man in rapid flight down the
trail. The bear, Investigating the
camera, had touched the trigger with
its nose.
Sadler’s Well
A question as to the identity of a
person named Sadler has been sug-
gested by a recent appeal, sponsored
by leading men, for the restoration to
the nation of the historic theater
known as Sadler's Well. Sadler lived
in the time of the Stuarts, and was a
road surveyor and a property owner.
One day some workmen, while digging
for gravel on a piece of land belong-
ing to him in Clerkenwell, came on an
ancient well—one of the medicinal
springs to which pligrimages were for-
mefly made. The site at once became
a popular resort. Sadler built round
it a pleasure house, set in pretty
gardens and groves of trees. He pro-
vided music and other entertainments,
and in a short time the existence of
the waters was almost totally forgot-
ten.—Family Herald.
Excellence
Excellence may be considered an
axiom, or a proposition which becomes
self-evident just in proportion to the
clearness or precision with which it is
put. If it fairly exists, in this sense,
it requires no further elucidation. To
point out too particularly the beauties
of a work isto admit tacitly that these
beauties are not wholly admirable. Re-
garding, then, excellence as that which
is capable of self-manifestation, it but
remains for the critic to show when,
where and how it falls in becoming
manifest.—Poe.
Vision of Animals
Men and monkeys have far better
eyesight than any other animals, ex-
cept birds. It has been found that
most birds have powers of vision
about one hundred times as great as
that of normal man. Some birds can
gee a worm at a distance of .800 feet.
The eyes of birds are especially adapt-
ed to see moving objects at great dis-
tances, so that the approach of an
enemy is observed by them long be-
fore the human eye could detect it.
At Any College
Homecoming day is the time when
alumni come back to the old alma
mater, criticize the furniture, fresh-
men und architecture of the house,
reorganize the football team, weep
mildly at the ivy, declare things
weren't that way when khey were
in college, and express great wonder
as to svhere the younger generation
is going. Then i rains—~Caolorado
| Dodo.
episode occurred in the court of Judge |
sia rst ee orgmn
THADDEUS STEVENS—THE
LATE REPUBLICAN LEADER.
By Levi A. Miller.
. When Thaddeus Stevens was still
living, and the last time I spoke to
him, I regarded him as one of the
greatest living public men in the Key-
stone State. € was recognized by
many as the grandest American Com-
moner of the country. He was a cham-
pion, a leader, a chief. In Congress
he was regarded as a superior, promi-
nent as a logical debater and a fiery
radical, and in his home town of Lan.
caster he was a local king, his word
was law, and his suggestions were re-
garded as the shadow of a statute to
come.
He was at the time an old man, and
physically infirm; yet he could write
and speak with a vigor that few men
command at half his age. Over thirty
years of public life, fighting with the
minority against a fierce majority, for
Justice and liberty, had not bent his
form nor crushed his spirit. In his
contest for human rights he never
failed to honor the fact that “color is
not a crime.” Without flinching he
braved the odium which his love of
equal rights for all brought upon him.
He favored the education of black
children In our common schools, the
enlisting of black men for the army
and navy, and the lifting of the entire
race of Negroes in this country, out
of the chains and fetters and gyves of
slavery not only, but into the high
sphere of civilization enjoyed by the
whites. His voice and his vote had
always been on the side of oppressed
humanity, and he lived to see his ideas
grow into institutions.
When I called on him he gave me a
cordial invitation to sit down and chat
with him, and without reserve gave
his opinion of some of the men who
were public property, not in the sense
of being purchasable commodities,
but in the sense that they were then
alive and active in the domain of pol-
itics. In the course of his remarks he
applauded Horace Greely, the then
boss editor, for his ability and integ-
rity, but censured him severely for
bailing Jefferson Davis. He had little
affection for Senator Fessenden, be-
cause he regarded him as parsimo-
nious, and more especially disliked his
dealing so gently with Andy Johnson.
He did not regard Mr. Chase a great
statesman. In speaking of some na-
tional men, he said, “Trumbull is a
Republican perforce, while he is con-
stitutionally conservative.”
He thought Senator Sherman had
too high an opinion of himself. Ed-
munds, of Vermont, and Morgan, of
New York, were the subjects, with
others, of criticism, touched up with a
little coloring of commendation.
I found Mr. Stevens to be a very
positive man; one who would not at-
tempt to carry water on both shoul-
ders at the same time; not a “two
faced man.” He was six feet tall, but
rather slender. His gray eyes were
apparently full of fire and he looked
you fairly in the face when he talked.
He had the reputation of being a con-
genial neighbor, a true friend, a gen-
erous giver, and a thorough patriot.
He would carry the standard of stars
and march to the music of progress
over the continent, but he had little
patience with those who did not keer
step with him. He climhed the high-
est altitudes of progress, and beheld
with the vision of a seer a new civiliza-
tion without caste, without chains,
without injustice, with a free press, a
free school, free soil, and free men.
Mr. Stevens was born at Peacham,
Calidonia county, Vermont, April 4th.
1793; died in Washington, D. C., Au-
gust 11th, 1868. His parents were
poor and unable to help him, but
though he was lame and sickly his res-
olute soul enabled him to help himself.
By hard study he qualified for college.
and was graduated with honor at
Dartmouth in 1814. He at once went
to work teaching school and studying
law and speedily secured a large and
lucrative practice. In 1828 he entered
into the political field, and with great
ardor objected to the election of Gen-
eral Jackson, acting with zeal in be-
half of the Whig party. In 1833, and
for a number of years following, he
was a member of the Pennsylvanis
Legislature; and at all times distin-
guished himself as an opponent of
slavery.
In 1842 he moved to Lancaster, Pa.
opened a law office and devoted six
years to the practice of his profession
He was elected a Representative ir
Congress in 1848 and re-elected ir
1850. There he eloquently and per-
sistently opposed the fugitive slave
law and the Kansas-Nebraska bill
In 1858 he was again honored with ¢
seat in Congress and held it until he
died.
As a lawyer he easily distancec
many competitors, and took his place
among the first men of the nation a!
the head of the bar. As a manufac
turer and business man his enterprise
and diligence were crowned with
wealth, and when the rebels burnec
down his iron works, the loss of $100,
000 did not in the least cripple him ir
his affairs so that he had to stop bus:
iness. His voice was usually quaver-
ing and feeble, but when excitemen:
stirred him—as it did whenever a ple:
was offered from the south—he threw
a certain tone into it which made i
ring all over the House, and inspirec
those who had been presumptuous:
enough to oppose him with an extra:
ordinary dread of his influence anc
power.
No, he did not hate the southern:
people—he hated slavery as O’Conns!
did. A man may hate the sin and ye
not hate the sinner. His ways were
neither dark nor intricate, for he bat
tered breaches through the defenses o:
slavery and let in the light, and hi:
ringing blows echoed across the con
tinent. His voice may have quavered
but it was heard afar, and it made the
oppressors tremble as the roar of the
lion shakes the nerves of the travele:
in the desert. He may have been olc
and shrunken and lame and pallid, bu
he was able to defeat the stronges
man that dared to measure lance wit!
him in the arena of debate in th
House of Representatives.
“0, duty, if that name thou love,
‘Who art a light to guard a rod
To check the erring and reprove,
Thou art victory and law.”
——Wordswortl