{ title: 'The East Hampton Star. (East Hampton, N.Y.) 1885-current, April 03, 1886, Page 1, Image 1', download_links: [ { link: 'http://www.loc.gov/rss/ndnp/ndnp.xml', label: 'application/rss+xml', meta: 'News about NYS Historic Newspapers - RSS Feed', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83030960/1886-04-03/ed-1/seq-1/png/', label: 'image/png', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83030960/1886-04-03/ed-1/seq-1.pdf', label: 'application/pdf', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83030960/1886-04-03/ed-1/seq-1/ocr.xml', label: 'application/xml', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83030960/1886-04-03/ed-1/seq-1/ocr.txt', label: 'text/plain', meta: '', }, ] }
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TW O T J O U A R S A V K A R PKV O T B O TO T U B 1NTBRBHTW O F T U B TOW N O F FA N T -IIA M I’TON. B flW U I ? - C O P IE S 3 (? F N W V o l u m e I- E A 8 T . H A M P T O N , IV . Y . , S A T U R D A Y , A P R I L 3 , 1 8 8 0 . N u m b e r 1 5 . Tlio Impossible. cannot draw water from an empty well, r trace the stories that gossips tell, T gather the sounds of a pealing boll. an never can stop the billow’s roar, or change the winds till thoy blow no more, or drive true love from a maiden’s door. \an cannot o'er take a fleeting lie, hange his wheat to a field of rye, or call back years that have long gone by. ’ n cannot a crnel word recall, letter a thought, l>e it great or small, \or honey extract from a drop of gall. \an never can bribe old Father Time, ain the peak that he cannot climb, or trust the hand that hath done a crime. 'an never can backward turn the tide, or count, the stars that are scattered wide, \or find in a fool a trusty guide. 'an cannot reap fruit from worthless seed, ely for strength on a broken reed, Tor gain a heart he hath caused to bleed. on never can hope true peace to win* ]ensure without and joy within, ring a thoughtless life of sin. JIM CHURCHILL. It was dusty, hot and badly ventilated !ndoors, although out of doors a cold rain vas beating cheerlessly against the car windows,. and the damp, raw wind was ns fresh as the brown hills and ice cov ered marshes it blew over. It was an ac commodation train on one of the trunk lines in the central part of this State and therefore a better condition of affairs could not have been expected. No mat ter how cold the weather or wot, it is al ways hot and dusty on an accommoda Ition train. The colder and wetter it is outside, the hotter and dustier inside, and the more unpleasant it is the slower the train blimps over the rails, the more frequent the stops it makes, the larger the crowd of on-coming passengers, and the greater the throng of goers-out. At Palatine Bridge tlie train came to another stop. On the uncovered platform of the railway station there were gathered a few sliiVering would-be-passengers, eager to barter one condition of discomfort for another almost equally, as disagreeable and impatient at the delay, f, for whoever knew an accommodation train to be on time? Among them were a man dressed like a farmer and two little girls—the el der less than six years old and the young- her junior a year or so—with fresh, smiliug, dimpled faces and sweet, prat tling voices, which even the rumbling of the train, the sticky dust, the plashing rain, the smoke, the heat and the crowd ed load of ill-tempered passengers could not cloud or silence. Thoy came intd the car where I sat. The farmer and the younger child found a vacant scat in front of me. I moved nearer the aisle to ' let the other climb over the parcels by ,my side next to the window, out of j which she gazed into the rain and ■ through the blinding clouds of smoke , which covered the soggy fields with an ' intensity of delight that was so unaffect ed that the train ought to have feltflut- , tend, had it hud sense enough to feel J anything. “1 dess love to ride on the cars, don’t 1 you?” she asked after the train hud re- ; Burned its tiresome journey. “Sometimes,” I replied. “I do all the time. My papa is an cn- I gineor.” “Then you ride a good deal?” I ven- ■ lured. “Not very much,” she answered with I a littiesigh of discontent; “not as much I om I want to. Since Mamina went away, I won’t let me and Grandma always ■ cries when I go on the cars.” “All?” “Didn’t you know that? You know I my Papa?” she remarked with such con- I fidenec in my knowledge that I was al- i most ashamed to say that I didn’t: “Don’t bother the gentleman,” inter rupted the farmer as he turned half around in his seat and faced me. “She is a big talker. “She doesn’t bother me in the least,” I made haste to say. So, reassured, the little maiden turned her face to the win dow, and in a moment was too much ab sorbed in the fleeting panorama to re member anything but the passing pleas ure. ‘Tier father wus an engineer on this road—Jim Churcliill. Ever heard of him?” continued the fanner after a short pause. “No. Well, I ain’t surprised. \c t he deserved to be known more’n lots of men that gets their names before the public. Jim and I was schoolboys to gether up country near Palmyra. We was both raised in the same township, and we used to think when we was men we’d be partners, and so we was—almost. Jim was bigger’n me, stronger and a year or so older. I was always a runt among the boys, and if-it hadn’t been for Jim Pd probably been licked every day in my life. But Jim wouldn’ stand nothing of that sort. He was as brave as a giant and he never allowed anyone to be im posed upon while he could prevent it, and when the boys learned that he meant what he said they let nlc alone. So wo grew up together like two brothois. lie loved me because I was weaker then he was, just as a father loves a baby, and I just worshipped him. I’d a’ died for him, stranger, just as easy—if he’d only said the word. You ought to have kuow- ed Jim Churchill. One Jim Churchill would make up for a half a million such fellows as me and the ordinary run of folks. “When we were about sixteen yenrs wo had our fir9t trouble. She was the prettiest girl in the county, and she was just as sweet and good as she was pretty. She was the dominie’s daughter; and when she came to school Jim and I both set our caps for her at the sume time. Funny, stronger, how a pretty girl will come between old friends. Two men can live like twins a whole lifetime, but just let a pretty woman come in and they will fight like brothers-in-law over a will. When little Phillis came to school, and Jim and I ran races to ask to see her home or to fetch her to singing school or Sunday night meeting, then, stranger, we knowed the first trouble of ogr lives. Somehow we grew cold like, and before that year was ended wc did not speak. One night Jim and I met at her house. I was seventeen then, and Jim was over eighteen and as big as a man. He had a beard, almost, and he was as handsome as a picture. He didn’t know that I was there, or I don’t think he’d a called. I had been there about an hour, and just before the knocker sounded Phillis had told me the old story wc all of us love to hear so well, and I felt as happy and light-hearted as a lark. When Jim came in and saw us sitting in the little old par lor he seemed to know just what had happened like a flash. For a moment I thought he’d do something he’d regret sometime. His face got so black and sullen and his eyes got tigly. Phillis saw it, too, soon as I did. H *‘ ‘Jim, ’ said she, her voice trembling just a little. ‘Jim, I want you and Bob to shake hands and be friends.’ “Then I got up and held out my hand; though, to tell the truth, I felt sort of nervous. ‘Jim,’ alic went on, hor voice get ting stronger and her face getting sweet er and sweeter. ‘I want you to love Bob again just ns you used to, because—be cause—I love him so much. Won’t you, Jim? for—my sake.’ “I wish you could have seen Jim just then, stranger. I never saw the good iii a man fight so hard with the bad and come out ahead in all my life before or since and never expect to nguiu. He stood there by the open window just as if he’d been carved out of stone. I didn’t know whether he’d heard what she said or not, he was so still. Then just as I was about to take back my hand Jim took it in both of his so hard 1 almost dropped. Then he threw his arms around my neck, kissed me on my lips, flopped down on a chair, stranger, and cried like a baby. Phillis, the little woman, cried too, and there wc all were with our arms around each other crying like women and not any of us knowing what we was crying about. “That settled things with us. After that we was brothers just like wc used to be. Well, it’s a long story, and I guess you won’t care to hear it all. So I’ll cut it short. When I was twenty-one I was married. Jim was our best man, and my oldest boy is named James Churchill Brown. About a year or so later Jim married. She was a cripple and sup ported her mother doing sewing. But if she had been a royal princess Jim couldn’t have treuted her any better. After he got on tho road he built her a little house near us and there they lived and there these little tots camo into the world. About a year ago u little boy came to their cottuge, but he ouly stayed a day or so, and when he went back to where he came from ho took tho little mother back too, and these little ones were left behind. Jim never lost heart though, but the blow nearly killed him. He stood up under it as brave as a lion, and you’d never have known from his face, except that ho didu’t smile the wuy he used to, that he knew what sorrow was. One evening last week—rit was an off-day with Jim—ho and Pliillis was out walking by tho creek that runs through my meadow by the red burn4. It was just dusk and my little boy was running on ahoud playing in the snow when they came to the railroad crossing. Just as they got there Jim heard a whistle. It wasn’t time for the regular train, so he wasn’t watching for danger. It was a special and it was coming ’round tho curve like lightning. My little Jim was playing on the culvert. Phillis heard tho whistle, she saw the boy on the track, and beard the rattle of the engine just as if it was a dream. Then she gave a little scream and fell down an the road in a faint—” “East Crock 1” called out the conduct or, as the train stopped again in tho storm. “Oh! Uncle Bob 1” cried the little maiden by my side. “Look out the window. There’s Aunt Phillis and cous in Jim and there’s grandpa and grandma and what a funny long black wagon that is! Look! Look 1” she continued as the farmer gathered together his charges aud started for the door. “Thoy are putting a black box in the wagon, and Aunt Phillis is crying awful hard.” “Yes,” replied the farmer as he brush ed away a tear from liis eyes. “Yes, that’s Jim Churchill, stranger, in that box .”—Benjamin Northrop in Graphic. HORSE “SHARPS.” S w i n d l i n g U n w a r y C o u n t r y m e n in N e w Y o r k . Single Worthlo 38 Animal that Changed Owners Many Times. has A London Public School. One of tho miserable districts of Lon don is to bo found in Somers Town. Blocks of “Improved Dwellings” and sundry measures taken by the parish au thorities have receutly reformed it to a considerable extent. Yet it remains a haunt of poverty. The petty tradesman is the aristocrat of the neighborhood. The police in its streets are all picked men. The swells who go “slumming” through it, according to the fashion of the season, are looked ut by the patient- eyed poor with the same wronderment thut butterflies in its alleys would create, In the midst of this sordid district stands a handsome new Board School. It is as large as an average fortress of an cient times. Its bounding walls contain a space of two acres. Within tho iufcri cacies of the play-grounds and covered courts and ground-floor passages the visit or becomes bewildered. 1 It. reaches t height of many stories. And here, every day 2,200 poor children are being endow cd with tho inestimable benefit of a sound education. It is indeed quite a town in itself, filled with Lilliputians, who can exhibit at times remarkable free dom of speech and action. Their parents chiefly come under the following catego ries: laborers, 355; cabmen, 1)7; coalmen, 1)3; charwomen, 78; joiners, 50; porters, 45; painters, 44; carmen, 44; stokers, 82; bricklayers, 31; gas stokers, 25; stable men, 25; blacksmiths, 25; factory men. 23; needle-women, 22; shoemakers, 92; {jlaugUtermen, 21; railway scrvunls, VI; costermongers, 19; bakers, 17; milkmen, 10; tailors, 10. Among the others are sweeps, potmen, cat’s-meat vendor-, hucksters, drovers, barmaids, barbel’s, plumbers, sailors, mangle-women, etc., etc. The social state of the people send ing children to this school may bo indi cated by the single fact that, out of their number, 415 families inhabit only one room apiece, and 1,030 inhabit homes of two rooms. The families number six in dividuals on the average. Theodore Thomas. Theodore Thomas, whose name sounds so Anglo-Saxonish, is a native of Hanov er, the son of a noted musician, and bc- lougs to a numerous musical family. He was a child prodigy, and astonished everybody by his violin playing whim ho was only 7 years old. At 8 lie gave a public concert at the capital, and was highly praised by the most careful critics. Not long after he was brought to this country. His whole life has been devot ed to the cause of music, and his devo tion has borne good and abundant fruit, lie has unquestionably done more for musical culture and advancement in the United StateB than any 20 men who might be named. The orchestra which he carefully selected and has drilled for years is not only the best, by all odds, in the country, but is not surpassed by any in Europe. Competent critics who at tended the Bayreuth festivals during Wagner’s life, where everything was as nearly complete as possible, declare tlmt tho famous orchestra was not a whit bet ter than, and some think it was not so good as, the orchestra of Theodore Thomas. He lias made New York one of the great musical centres of the world. Every new composition of any value ho introduces to us as early us practicable. Enthusiastic admirers of music who have spent years in Germany ore often sur prised to hear in New York compositions they have never heard in any of its capi tals .—New York Commercial Advertiser. What She Feared. “I understtuid, Mr. Softley,” said Miss Muffin, “thut you play tho violin.” “Well, yes, Miss Muffin, .1—a—try to play the violin.” “That’s what I bourd. You see, Mr. Softley, we ure going to have a little sociable at our house next Thursday evening. I wanted to invite you, but ma—she is so very anxious not to give anybody any trouble—ma wras afraid that” ----- “Oh, no trouble at all, I ussure you, Miss Muffin,” eagerly interposed Softley. “It will be a positive pleasure to me to bring my violin.” “Ye-e-s—that’s what ma was afraid of.”— Traveller'* Gazette. Everybody admits that prevarication, to put it mildly, is a never absent factor in a horse tTado. But there is a limit to sharp play there. A certain combination of1 individuals, that might very appropri ately be called “a gang,” arc operating jhst now very successfully on the other Nlde of tho litnit, and gentlemen who tjiink that mankind is naturally prone to J)e honest are being seriously affected by ijt every duy. 'The victims arc generally men who %ear soft felt hats. Men of that, kind ^re not indigenous to Manlmtten Island. They are the noble sous of agriculture, who are tho mainstay of the blithesome bunco man. They come to the city to b\\y horses, and they go home firmly con vinced that there is nothing between the ,Battery and Harlem River that will ever gptinto heaven. (A-Thc “gang” have stables in two streets. At ouc it is always announced that seven hprsos are for sale, while at the other the number is nine. Perhaps these numbers are chosen because they arc considered Iticky— not because they represent the number of horses, as each stable can bbast of but one animal, and that of such a kind that in a good fair count it would be set down as only half a horse, q When the unsuspecting purchaser ap- inrs at the stable he is promptly “spot- 1.” and half a dozen gentlemen, who we previously been lounging around corner with their hands in their ickets suddenly become very deeply in terested in the prospective purchase of the one horse. Nobody pays the least at tention to the real purchaser at first. He thinks business must be very brisk iudeed and his chunces of getting a horse at what lie begins to believe must be a bar gain quite as slim. Finally lie edges into the conversation and becomes the central figure. “ VY'liore are the other horses?” lie asks. “Just sold four this morning, and the rest arc out on trial. A gentleman is coining around to try this one in an hour, if he is not sold before,” replied the dealer. “All right; let me take him out on trial?” “I am sorry, but I can’t. I promised to hold him for that other fellow unless some one bought outright.” At this point tho decoys evince further signs of purchasing, and the result is that the victim makes an offer. After a little haggling the price usually settled on is in the vicinity of $100. The money is paid and the Countryman drives off, happy in the consciousness of having a good bar gain. When about two blocks distant his joy wilts down to several degress be low freezing point. The horse begins to wheeze and cough, and finally chokes and falls down. Then the sml faced farmer leads the horse back to tho stable and de mands his money. At first he gets no satisfaction whatever. The dealer insists that the horse wus all right when ho left and he can’t understand it. At last a compromise is made and the victim thinks himself lucky in getting $50 of liis money back. “I tell you wlmt,” said one of the de coys to a Herald reporter, “that old horse is a dandy. He’s got that chokiug rack et down to u line point, and plays it ele gant.” “Has lie been sold many times?” asked the reporter. “Many times? Well, I should cough up a cat. Every day, sure, and some times twice. Oh, you cau gamble on his knowing his business now. Funny, now, ain’t it? Tlmt horse, as a horse, ain’t worth two ccuts; but as a piece of prop erty, I’m a gilly if he don’t bring the old man in $50 a day, easy. Yes, sir; he don’t look it, but he’s one of the most valuable animals in New York.” At both places the same modus 'operan di is pursued and with the same profita ble results to the dealers. They have now been carrying on the fraud for some months aud as yet have not met with any serious setback. The average man does not like to admit that he has been “played,” und prefers to pocket his loss and keep quiet rather than air the affair in court, few victims, more brave than the rest, have caused the heavy baud of„iho law to drop on the dealers. The heavy liuml clutched savagely enough for a while, and then, after the usual manner, let go and the dealers serenely went back to their business and their faithful old trick horse.— New York Herald. The Parrot as an Artlelo of Furniture* For eight years an African parrot has been one of the fixtures of my library* I have slowly evolved from my conscious ness the fact that I regarded him as a piece of furniture. His gray coat and red tail so correspond with the gray walls and red frieze of tho library ns to suggest that he was made to match the room, liis stability and wooden-headed health confirm the suggestion. He has seen generations of canaries flourish and fade, the breasts of immemorial bullfinches pale, the chirrups flicker and die in their throats, mocking birds beat their restless lives out against gilded bars, and whole roostfuls of idiotic love birds doze them selves away. Amid it all he has been as changeless as the knob on the door. Death has apparently inventoried him with the majolica vases and the picture frames. He has even outlived a stuffed owl that went off in a curious post-mor tem moult. So inseparably is he con nected with the furniture in my mind that I should be no more surprised to see my clock growing a set of whiskers or my book-case down with a headache than to see him vary one iota of mien of mood. The furniture effect is heighten ed by tlic knowledge that ho has at least a century of this changeless life to live, which gives him in advance a kind of antique flavor. The occasional words that with an abstracted and ventriloquial air he utters are quite ns wooden in sound und as irresponsible in delivery as those ejaculated from the cuckoo that periodi- nlly appears in the top of the Swiss clock. His food is chucked through the bars of his castle pretty much as I throw poems in a waste-basket, and he receives it with no more emotion than is displayed by the metal-headed man who surmounts the savings bank and drops his lip for nickels. Ned is a good bird, and he does liis level little best to be considered one of the family. But he can’t make it, any more than the piano or the table cun. He is a piece of furniture—nothing more or less. Even when he bites you—about the livest thing he docs—you can’t tell him from a pair of tongs .—Atlanta Con stitution. My Hero* tVhat signifies the outward show! W hat signifies his weal h or plaoS|u When we the heart have learned tcrioaoflVt] What do we care for form or focal And what care we for name-or creed That buried ages may unroll, If under ail we clearly read Tho record of a dauntless soul! «. If loyal to his sense of right, If prompt and sure a t Duty’s call, He walks, as walking in God’s sight* His aim the manliest man of all; If helpful as the sunbright day, * If pitiful of other’s woes, , He follows in tho master’s way And bears a blessing where lie goeff If, gaining much, he loses all, While summer friends go coldly b y , He proves his courage by his fall Resolved to win tho-day or die; With hope alive, in God his trust. He keeps a spirit kind and true, And rises bravely from the dust To fight his weary battle through; i If, working on through pain and loss* His earnest soul be not cast down; He beareth patiently his cross, While winning steadily his crown; Tho man’s hero! and we give The meed of love, which is his duo, No idle praise! b ut w’hile we live, Tlie wreath of b a y ! the knot of blue! —Helen Keith* j HUMOROUS. A harmless American ship of war may be called “aho” properly enough, but a fine mail steamship ought to be called “he.” Gough’s First Temperance Speech In tt NeW York fetter to tho Troy Times the writer thus alludes to the late John B. Gough, the gifted temperance orator: Gough wa9 probably the most gifted orator the world ever saw; at any rate, wo have no record of any other man who had equal power over au audience. Thw was a born gift, which was as great a surprise to himself ns to all others. The last time I met him I referred to the time he made his first temperance speech, and the allusion brought a smile to his wearied countenance. Ho then gave me some additional information on the sub ject, and the incident may be mentioned as follows: Gough had been drinking and got out of work (bookbinding), and, in fact, bad sunk to so low a condition that he was obliged to keep his ragged coat buttoned und pinned as closely as possible so us to conceal the lack of a shirt. 'While in this condition he was led to enter a temperance meeting, and being very cold he got as near tlie stove as possible. During the meeting an op portunity was offered for volunteer re marks, and the poor loafer felt moved to venture a few w’ords. In a short time the w’hole house was electrified, and the cry wus heard, “Fetch him out,” “Put him on the stand,” etc., but Gougli did not dare move lest the coat should burst and disclose liis condition. He continued to speak until bodily excitement and the lieut of the stove threw- him into a violent perspiration. Tlie sweat streamed dowu his face, his body trembled and his tale of misery moved all to tears. Such was Gough’s entrance into public oratory, and they cleaned ldm up and lie became the world-renowned apostle of temper ance. Painful as this memory inny have been, Gougli always loved to allude to it. It was the crisis in his life. Makiug Money. “Hello, Frank! Where have you lieen? I haven’t seen you for a great while?” “I have been in San Francisco.” “Making any money down there?” “You bet. I make more money in a day than you do in a year.” “Great Scott 1 You ure fooliu, ain’t you?” “No, I’m telling the truth.” “ Where do you work?” “lu the Sau Francisco mint.”— Paei/ic Jester. Tho Difference. “Papa,” said an inquisitive youth, “what is tho difference betweeaa banker und a broker?” Papa is puzzled, but brings expcrinco to his aid. He finally tells the difference “A broker is oue wh« breaks you to pieces by degrees; a bunker takes you in at a gulp.” “I smoothed everything over,” as‘th6 laundress said. People who wear pepper-and-salt suifci are always in season. The selfish man has most presence of miud. He never forgets himself. ‘Buffaloes are bred in Kansas,” it it said. They ure meat elsewhere. It would seem as if “rifle matches’* were the right kind for burglars’ use. “This is my sphere,” said a happy wife* as she patted her bald-headed husband on tho pate. A rule that works both ways—Whe® a fleet goes out on a cruise the crews g® out on the fleet. “Brass bands are on tho increase throughout the country.” Even the doga wear them on tlieir necks. Teacher: “ What animal is mo9t ca* pablc of attaching itself to man?” Head of the class; “The leech.” Can the sound in a man’s head, when his wife hits him with a rolling-pin, be described as a “marriage ring?” When a young lady tells a young ma» that she will not have him, does it tie him up in a beau knot, as it were? Little Boyi—Pa, why does the world move? Pa (tliinking of something else} —Because it finds it cheaper than to pay rent. “Well, that beats me,” the boy ex claimed when his teacher sent him to tha principal’s room to borrow the master’s rattan. The School of Patience. My dear boy, if a man can only cult!- vate patience and strength, it seems to mo he will ho a good neighbor, a pleasant man to do business with, a safe man to trust and the kind of a man the world loves, even though he lack wisdom, and hath no genius, and can’t tell a good story or sing a note. How much docs tlia fretful, restless, hurrying old world owo to the patient man, who finds his strength “in quietness and confidence,” who can be patient with our faults, our fancies, our wickedness; who can be quiet when the softest word would have a sting; who cau wait for storms to blow over and for wrongs to right themselves; who ca® patiently and sileutly endure a slight un til he has forgotten it, und who cau eve® bo patient with himself. That’s the fel low, my boy, who tries my patience and strength more than any man else with whom I have to deal. I could get along with the rest of the world well enough, if lie were only out of it. I cun meet all my 6tlier cures and enemies bravely and cheerfully enough. But when myself comes to me with liis heart aches and blunders and stumblings, wdthhis own follies and troubles aud sins, somehow ho takes all the tuck out of me. My strength is weakness aud my patience is fo*y, when I come to deal writli liira. He tireo me. Ho is such a fool. lie makes tho same stupid blunder in the same stupid way so miuiy times. Sometimes, when K think I must put up with him und his ways all my life I want to give up. And thou the next tirno he comes to me with his cures und tlie same old trouljle ho seems so helpless aud penitent that I feel sorry for him, and try to bo patient w ith him, and promise to help him all I can* once more. All, my dear boy, as yo® grow older, that is the fellow who will try you aud torment you, aud draw on your sympathy, and tax your patience und strength. Be patient with him, poop fellow, became I think ho docs love you* and yet as a rule you are harder on him Yhun any one else .—Burdette in Brooklyn^ Eagle. * [AY
