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MIRON DINGS, Editor and Prop’r. ' • A LOCAL JOURNAL, DEVOTED TO THE INTEREST OF ITS PATRONS. i TERMS—$1.00 PER TEAR. VOL. 1. GILBOA, SCHOHARIE CO., N. Y., APRIL 10, 1879. Ac NO. 44. T Gilboa Monitor. PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING. M I ^ O N D I N G S , E d ito r a n d P r o p r i e t o r . ^ ■ tot ADVERTISING RATES. Somebody’s Sen Rut Girl* SPACE. | j lW. 2w. lM. ( 3 m . | O m . | lYEAB. 1 Inch ,1 5 0 c .. 75c. 1.25, {2..0O, 3.50, 5.04), 2 „ 1.00, L50, 2.00, ‘2.50, 4.50, 8.00, 4 „ , 1.50, 2 . 0 0 , 3.00, L00, 7.00, 12 . 00 , 6 „ 2.25, 3.50, 4.00, 6.00, L 0 . 0 ( 16 . 00 , iC o l. L 00 , 6 . 00 , L 00 , L 0 . 0 < L 6 . 0 L 30.00, I „ 7.00, 10. (X) 12.00 L8.(M 30.0< 50.00, Terms, Cash, Quarterly in Advance. fusituss Ilrrecforo. J . i . JA C K S O N , ATTORNEY a n d COUNSELLOR a t LAW. OUboa, K. Y. W. L . B A L D W IN , ATTORNEY a n d COUNSELLOR a t LAW, G ilb o a , N . Y . J . H . M ATTICE, ATTORNEY a n d COUNSELLOR a t LAW, L e v i n g s t o n v i l l e , N . Y . W m , B A G a DOJKN, Physician and Surgeon. Office opposite the Hotel, Gilboa, N. Y. P.J. ZEH, M. D. \ Office at his Residence, third house above The M. E. Church, Gilboa, N. Y. FRANK BALDWIN, M. D., O ak H ill , G reene County, N . Y. Iircin c e , near the Post Office. ltf BENJAMIN, OAK HILL, G r e e n e C o u n t y , N. Y., At the Old Place Lower Eiad Church Street. , l l t f a T chinson h o u s e . . m i d d l e b u r g h , n . y . First-class accommodations, G. & M. Stage House, E. D. ATCHINSON, Proprietor. G e o r g e W . F a c e , Blacksm ith. Shop, foot of Church street, Gilboa, N- Y. L. HILDRETll, T 33 A M ! S T 33 3=b, jr. r. Job Teaming of All Kind done alt Living Prices. < C h a s . Z e l i e , G -Z L B O ^ ., *T .“3r. Shop over Zelie & S tryker’s Store. IRON CLAD MILK PANS, PREMIUM PANS OF AMERICA Send for Catalogue Price List, GEO. C. SHALER, Manufacturer, Gilboa, N. Y. L U M A N R E E D , D E A L E R IN General Merchandise, GILBOA, N. Y. M.D. S pencer , BOOT & SHOE HIKER. G ilboa , S choharie C o . N. Y. Repairing neatly done. , ltf30 DENTISTRY ! I). F. W ilcox, M. D. S, c a t s k u l L, ipr. y . Office in the Selleck Building. * 11 ly E . T. G R I F F I N , U N D E R T A K E R , -AND- rpze.A TJBEs xzsr All Kinds o£ IMrnitiire, Piaints, Oils, Var nish, Putty, Glassr*&c., <fcc., GILBOA, N. Y. She stood there leaning wearily Against the window fram e : Her.faqe was patient, sad and sweet, Her garments coarse and plain: ‘ ‘Who is she pray ?” J asked a friend, The red lips gave a curl— “Really ! I do not know h er name, She’s some one’s sertant girl.” Again I saw her on the street With bundle, trudge along, Her face was sweet and patient still, Amid the jostling throng: Slowly but cheerfully she moved, Guarding, with watchful care A market-basket much too large For her slight hands to bear. A man, I thought a gentleman, Went pushing rudely b y,' Sweeping the basket from her hands, But turning not his eye : For there is no necessity, Amid that busy whirl, For him to be a gentleman— Tor “ some one’s servant girl.” Ah, well it is that God above Looks in upon t.ue heart, Aud never judges u^y one By ? just the outer part For if the soul be pure and good; He will not mind the rest, Nor question what the garments were' ~ Iu which the form was dressed. , And many a man and woman fair— By fortune reared and fed, Who will not mingle here below With those who earn their bread; When they have passt-d away from life, Beyond the gates of pearl. Will meet before their F ather’s throne With many a servant girl. That Unfortunate Baby. The city is a strange place. Wealth and want stand side by side. Mirth anS misery jostle each other. The jewels of the million aire’s wife flash mocking before the eyes of jthe pauper’s widow. I leave my wife, and jmy smiling infants, my little cherubs, of I whom T am remarkably fund, ahd 1 saunter pleasantly down Broadway, smokeing a fine cigar. I know I shall make a large sum of money by a business arrangement to-day, and I intend to take Clara tp the opera this evening. This is my programme; b u t what is his who stops me on the corner, and, with skinny hand extended, begs, in a tone that is almost ferocious, for something to _ buy food with. He, poor wretch, will shiver in his rags until sun goes down, and then slink away to hide in some wretched hole, unbless- ed by hope even in his dreams. Probably he has no wife or children. It is to be hoped he has not, for they would only be helpless companions of his misery. I feel as though I wei e doing wrong to flaunt my prosperity in his eyes, and I blush as I give him charity and hurry on. There are so m any of them—so many of them. There goes a thief to prison; two stout policemen clutch his arms—a croiw follows them. Guilt and misery together this time. ' And here a woman hurries past, with a child in her arms. What A woeful expres sion on her face! What a terriable story must be hers, and if she could curdle the blood in oiir veins if she should stop and tell it in all its blank, unvarnished horror n o w ! I feel a thrill of anguish as I look a t her. Ah, how delightful it would be, if all the world were happy and prosperous. I was led into this train of .reflection by my morning’s walk to my place of business. I have rather a tender heart, I believe, and scenes of sorrow make a great impression upon me., Oh this p vrticular occasion I re membered the face of the beggar, the thief and the destitute woman.so vividly, that I may say they haunted me. The woman’s face; especially, seemed to hover before me in the air. “ Where was she going?” I asked myself. “ What was she about to do ?” The street into which she turned led directly to the river. Perhaps, driven to despair, she was going there to drown herself—about to take her *• life, because the task of sustaining it had become too hard for h e r ; and I and a thou sand o the: Christains, who could have help ed her, h id let her pass unquestioned. “God forgive us for our sins of omission, I said to myself; ‘‘for they are very, very great.” , These thoughts troubled me all the morn ing, and at noon-time I went out to lunch rather in the hope of casting away my dis mal refle etions that because I had an appe tite. However, I stayed longer than usual. I met a friend who buttenholed me on the corner. And it was half-past one before I came back to the offic e Even then I was not myself. A present- ’ ment of evil was upon me. I felt asj though were about to see some terrible sight, and the face of that woman*flirted in the air a- gain. That horrible face, with wild black eyes, showing the white beneath the pupil, i * j ■ the small, <* tightly-shut mouth, the.- hollow cheeks, the pinched chin, and the floating^ tangle of black hair, framing it all in. '-\As I puahed the dfor open, I half expect- to see it4up m wt- in actual bodily presence^ there, tint, ^ instead, my eyes met a sight equally surprising. \gsual. Generally I found him a t some di abolical mischief on my return. To-day, as I\cast my glance toward the desk, I ' missed his shock h e a d ; b ut looking about me, I spied it lower down, and saw that he was sit ting oh the floor in a corner with something in his arms, and a ! very uncomfortable ex pression on his face. In a moment more I saw that what he held was a baby. with a pen behind his ear, bearing the in fant, who still shrieked wildly, in p u r wake. I was glad to reach the court of justice nearest us—glad to find that, the affair was an every-day one there. Shadrac told his tale. I corroborated it. The child jwas registerejd in a book as num ber seven thousand eight 'hundred and fort y- four. My statement and address were re corded, aWi as ah invoice of deserted infants was just being taken away in a sort of wagon B ingipK for t h e W a ter Boy* I had left, my boy Shadrac in charge, as by an old woman, seven: thousand eight hun- % /u ii r # i i » . • ■« i 4 . m - j *ii .1 “Hello!” cried L “ Young u n ,” saidS “ Whose ? cried. ’s that ?” W W re'didjt come from ?’’ I * “ Most the minut.e you went out, % worn- lb **' ^ ; . * ' an come dong^Zl^iftifliaS&adrab; “and says she, ‘You Mr. Pacldoi&’s boy?* Says I, ‘yaas.’ Says she, ‘Catch a hold, and hold the child till I come back.* And she ain’t never come back. I dunno what she means by it. She had cheek anyway, whoever she is.” “ What kind of a woman was she ?” I ask ed. i.. ‘ “She had on a shawl,” ' said Shadrac. “She a furriner. What- right have I got to take care of her young’un, eh I sat on a chairf and put my hand to my forehead. I knew now why that poor wom an’s face haunted me: so long. .. She had tracked me to my (office. Perhaps I had looked kindly a t her. ■ Who knew ? I felt pity. I might have exhibited i t ; and before\ def^ro^ying Iba4 the infant f a t t h e tame time upon my charity. It was romantic, was inconvenient. I looked at the child. It wiwrVery pre and very cleen. I jEelt attracted toward it ty it. I5 began to wonder whether it would be right for me to adopt a child, with my fam ily; whether Mrs. Paddock would be willing that I should do so. I felt doubtful of that How often did she pace the floor nearly all nighGstriving in vain to lull it to repose. As for the baby’s maid, Gretchen, it was not likely that she would be willing to be addi- tionly burdened. The charitable impulse almost before it was fully formed. What should I do ? A thought struck me. I would send for my friend, Professor Grill, who had an offic^on the same building. He knew my w iffiyelL .He was a sage who read-the human \character thoroughly, and could be looked to for an opinion on any sub- ject. ; ’ Shadrac was holding the baby. He could not take the message. I caught a small boy on' the stairs, and gave him a ten cent stamp. The result was the hasty arrival o f the Pro fessor with a lancent, under the impression that I had been taken with a fit of some kind. He was greatly relieved to sbe that nothing was the matter—at least he said he w as; but he is particularly fond of amateur surg ical experiments, and Pin not sure the Pro fessor listened to my account af affairs. “The old story, my dear fellow,” he said; “the old story. Shadrac, my son, never take an infant from the same of an unknown woman again.—Tfcgs -thing is done every day, every day. As for your benevolent dream of adopting the child, it is—excuse me—absurd. Your wife-wouldn’t hear of it. Oh, no, no, no, no I H$ 1 ha ! n-o-o-o! not for a moment. Besides, how do you know what this deserted child will grow up to be ? I saw your noble infant at your happy home yesterday. The intellect of his father and he sweetness of its mother are already stamped upon its brow. I can see in her the vices of its parents already written on the features of this poor waif. Mark how low its forehead i s ! How large its under-jaw! Look at the rage in its eyes! Listen to the cruel ring in its c r y ! Beware of this child ! Give it to the proper charities a t once. I’U go with you. , ShadrOe, bring the baby. I must save y<v*j5|^feaftie overwhelming year nings of yourqyrii too charitable heart, my benevolent friend. Come Vntji me.” I went with him. We attracted some at tention as we walked down the street togeth er. The professor, who. is of gigantic stat ure, whose white hair floats abroad bn the breeze, and whose big collar was alluded to by a Bowery boy as a cape, clutching me by the arm as though nty long-vanished impulse to adopt that stmbge foaby were a material power which w o tddbearm e away bodily, if not- resisted - and‘ Shadrac, in his office-coat, the the the dred and forty-four went with them. “S j much for human hearts!” said I. “The baby was cast upon my charity. I hand i t over to the city.” “A h !” a “You are a tax-payer, my friend,” said the Professor. * ‘I t is well you have common- sense, in my person, a t your elbow.” We had reached the office building as he went o n : “The offspring of the criminal classes show their hereditary vices in their counte nances almost at birth. I could see in that yet unchiseled face a—” “Ah, there they come,’* screamed a voice. “ Oh, they haven’tfgot him ,” cried an other. “I g[ave him to the boy there,’’cried first. “Ye little devil, where’s the baby. “Horace, speak ! my child ?” sobbed other, clinging to my neck. It was my wife who clung to m e ; baby’s maid Nora, who shook Shadrac. “Baby 1” said I, gasping, “what baby ? where ? when ? which !” ^ “Oh.” said my wife, “Nora and; I were going to Brooklyn, and I sent Nora first to wait in your office for me. I had some shop ping to do, and baby shriek^ so in the stor es ; and she—oh, I ’ll give hor warning !— she left the baby with the boy while she went out to buy some peanuts,. And when she c&tiid back the office wOi I6cke^'up, -and I found h er crying on the s tairs: “Where is the angel ? Oh, what have you done with him ?” I sat down on the stairs then. Professor Grill glared and said nothing. Shadrac told the awful tale. He revealed to my wife that I had. given my own baby to the city authorities, under ' the impression that it was a stranger ; and as ray wife was of the belief that this was a thing that, once done, could not be undone, we had a fine tirn^ of it. I don’t lik^ to recur to those moments when I made explinations to the authorities and excited their suspicion thereby. Nor to the time spent in her recovering the poor little one, who was alreaidy attired in a blue- check slip aud yellow flannel petticoat But, after all, humiliating as all this was, it was nothing to what I afterwards endured from Mrs.B—who,’ by the--way, never could be brought to be on friendly terms with the professor again. It is in vain to point out to her that babies are all exactly alike, and that I did not noti ce what the child wdre; she will not listen to reason. Business* There is a good deal of talking here a- mong the brokers about a certain fast young youth whose father is overburdened with millions. » * . i The young .man would hot work, and the old man could not bear an idler, and many were the quarrels between them. At last the old man, quite out of patience, said : “Now, Jack, I give you one week to make up your mind to what kind business you are; to go in. No son of mine shall be a lounger, and go to work you sha&?*^A.t the end of this week, if you have made no choice, I will stop your allowance altogether, and make, you take a stool in my office, and work e- uough you’ll have of it there.” ' Well, Jack promised to look* around and make up his m ind., A tthe end of the week, sharp and pre- emptory, as his way, the old broker sung o u t: “WelJ, Jack, time’s u p ; have you made up your mind to make your own living ?” “ Well, father, I ’ve been thinking of it, and something in mind, but it will re quire considerable capital.” “Capital, J a c k ! capital, my boy!” said the delighted father. “ Only try to make your own living, and i’ll buy you a national bank, or a line of steamers? What is it, Jack? What is it?” “Well, father, I was thinking that if you would only advance me three or four hun dred thousand dollars, J could invest it in government bonds, and make my living by cutting off the coupons The old man nevertalks to -^ack any mere about “business.” A good story is told of a verdant one who was a passenger in a railroad express, train, and became jhirsty. “Where’s |th a t ’ere boy with the water can ?” he queried of his next neighbor. “ Hfe has gone forward to the baggage ear, I suppose,” was fhe reply. “ Wal, d’ye s’posb I kin get him back here again?” “Certainly,” said the other, “ you have on ly to ring for him,” and he noded toward the bell-line that ran above their heads. No sooner said than done.. Before any one could prevent it, Rustic had seized the line and gave it a tremendous tug. The consequences were at once obvious; three shrill whistles were heard, half a doz en brakeman ran to their posts, and the train came to a standstill with a suddenness that startled half the passengers with aston ishment, and caused every man near a win dow to hoist it and look out to see what was tbe matter. In a few minutes the conductor, red and excited, came foaming into the car to know who pulled that line. “Here, mister, this way ; I ’m the man, shouted the offender, drawing all eyes upon him. f* “You!” said the conductor. “What did you do it for?” “Cos I wanted some water.” “Wanted some water?” “Sartin; I wanted the water boy, and my partner here in the seat said I ’d better ring for him, as we do at the hotel, an’ s o l yanked the rope. “Will he be along soon ? An’ by- the-bye, what in thunder be you stoppin’ for?” I The shout of laughter that greeted his honest confession was too much for the conductor and he had to wait until he got his'train under way before be explained the jmysteries^of the l^ell-rope to his yerdant Customer. T w o T riflin g Accidents* Dr. Brown, a Greene county physician, while o n his way to attend a law suit,, was thrown from a horse and his leg brok en. Hearemounted the animal again, went on and attended the trial, rode home, a dis tance of four miles, and with the assistance of his wife and a neighbor, set the limb. Later in the evening he rode four miles more to attend a lady in confinement. The Bee vouches for the story, and we agree with that paper that it is somewhat remarkable, but not the most wonderful thing that ever hap pened. There is a doctor in this county who fell from a freight train and nineteen heavily-loaded stock cars ran over him, besides three empties, two engines, a way j car and a brakeman. He was slightly stun ned, and it was several minutes after the last wheel passed over his prostrate form before he fairly came to himself. When he did the train was over a mile away, but al though both legs and his neck were broken, he ran and caught up with it, boarded the way car, attended to several patients, and returned to town on foot the same evening. At his request and in accordance with med ical ethics we suppress his nam e !—Carroll Herald. S o l i d A d v i c e * Here is some advice to drinking men, which strikes us as so practical that we re gret that we cannot give credit to the un known author:— Bar-keepers pay on an average $2 per gallon for whisky. One gallon contains an average of sixty-five drinks, and at 1/0 cents a 'drink the poor man pays ($6.50 per gallon for his whisky. In other words, he pays $2 for the whisky, and $4.50 to a man for handing it over the bar. Make your wife your bar-keeper. Lend h er $2 to buy a gallon of whisky, and every time you want a drink pay her 10 cents for it. By the time you have drank a gallon she will have $6.50, or enough money to refund the $2 borrowed o f you, to pay for another gallon of liquor, and have a balance of $2.50. She will be able to conduct future operations on her own capital, and when you become an inebriate, unable to support yourself, shunned and despised by all respectable persons, ‘your wife will have enough money to keep you until you get ready to fill a drunkard’s grave. 1 - “ What does ycjur husband do ?” asked the census man, “He ain4t doin’ nothing at this time of the year,” replied the young wife. “Is he a pauper ?” asked the census . man. . £>he blushed scarlet to the ear. “Lavs, n o ! ” she exclaimed; somewhat indignantly; “ we ain’t been married more’n „ six weeks/’ , ■ <' -
