The Temple Times. (Temple, Tex.), Vol. 14, No. 32, Ed. 1 Friday, June 28, 1895 Page: 6 of 8
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WHEN I WAS
Ohm all things on earth
Were for pleasure and mirth.
Bach morn I awoko to new Joy.
1 loved all God gave
And had nothing to crave,
In those days when I was a boy.
For In those sweet days
I knew nanght of tho erase
That money has mado In my brain.
I loved tho things pure
That will always endure
And cared not for losses or gain.
The song of the bees,
Of the birds in the trees,
Of tho brook that murmured in glee,
Auentered my heart
And wore there made a part
Of the anthems that life sang to me.
By measure of time
I am now in my prime,
With cares of life’s hurry and strife,
And I knew that the joy
That I felt when a boy
Will never more enter my life.
When time bids me go
From the world liore below
To tho land of eternity’s joys,
I hope G-od abovo
In his Infinite love
Will make me just one of bis boys.
—Buffalo Express,
A DIVORCE SUIT.
Little Dick stopped short, executed a
sort of pignou wing, snorted, humped
his back a little ns though about to
buck, then he stood still, puffing nerv-
ously, and with head high in air and
his tawny ears cocked forward indicat-
ed “danger” us plainly as a well train-
ed bird dog shows tho near presence of
game in the covert.
A sharp thrill shot through Boston’s
frame as for a Hooting second he thought
“Indians!” But very brief reflection
told him that under present circum-
stances—the reds having been very re-
cently thrashed and sent back to their
reservation as children spanked and sent
to bed—was impossible, yet he pulled
his winchester from its scabbard with
some celerity, and his voice was not
quite clear as he asked:
“What is it, Dick?”
The cayuse snorted again and trem-
bled slightly, and then his rider saw
what alarmed him. A big black bear
was just coining from behind a sharp
turn in the canyon, ut a place known as
“the Elbow,” some 50 yurds from
,where Dick had halted. He was not
' such a very big bear, comparatively
speaking, but there arc circumstances
under which even a small bear assumes
alarming proportions, and this one, ap-
pearing suddenly as he did, seemed about
as big .is an ox. He was about as much i
surprised, however, as Boston was, so
lunch so that in his astonishment he for-
got all discretion, and roaring up on his
hind feet ambled toward the horseman,
will: the obvious intention of hugging
him.
Roston was a bit “rattled,” for ho
had never before encountered a bear
alone, but his nerve did not desert him.
“.Steady, Dicky boy, steady!” he said
gently us he sprang from the saddle and
rested his riiio across its pommel. In a
trice he had bruin covered where he
wanted him, just under the left shoul-
der, and then he began pumping lead.
At the first shot the bear saw his error
and came down on all fours for the sake
of speed, but he was too late. Boston
had his range, and at the third shot Mr.
Boar fell into the road in a heap and be-
gan kicking the dust and biting himself
in Ids death struggle.
Presently, as his slayer leaned over
him and congratulated himself on his
marksmanship, there came a fresh sur-
prise that caused Boston to whirl on
his heel and stand panting, peering all
about to see whence had come that trem-
bling, unmistakably feminine voice in
the query:
‘Oh, sir, are you sure he’s quite
dead?”
Boston rubbed his eyes and looked
again. There she wus, the owner of the
voice, standing with clasped hands on
the highest point of “the Elbow” and
looking down at him appealingly.
“Tenderfoot. Pretty, too, by Jove!”
thought Boston. But he said very
sharply, for he did not like sudden
shocks;
“Wlmt on earth av» yon doing up
there?”
“Are you sure he’s quite dead?” the
fair tenderfoot responded irrelevantly.
“To be sure he is,” was the short re-
ply ns the bear slayer gave his fallen foe
a vicious kick.
The stranger disappeared, coming
again into view just where bruin had
first, shown himself to Boston's star-
tled eyes. The latter had somewhat re-
covered himself and repented his seem-
ing rudeness, and as lie advanced to
meet her, bis handsome head uncovered,
the lady could not Indy noting what a
romantic appearance he had.
“1—I’m-' glad y<ra came," she fal-
tered as he ' one up to where she had
Hupped and was Wiling against the
nek. “I've been up there ever since
about 11 o', lock, and it must be quite 5
by now.''
“But—er— how”—
“Oil, I went up there to sketch, and
when I started to conn' down there was
that horrid bear, right at the bottom of
the rock! Ugh!”
; ” Did he see you f"
“No; if he had just looked ut me, I
should have died, 1 know! 1 shan't dare
go out again in that way, all alone. ”
“You don’t seem io have lost your
nerve very badly,’’ said Boston, looking
at her admiringly. How pretty she was,
.Mild what a figure, to be sure! “Er—
pardon me, but where are you stop-
ping?” he queried.
“Over at Mr. Wheatley's. I urn Mrs.
Harlan,” answered the fair rescued.
“Yes? I am—or was, back in the
States—Mr. Bendixon. Out here,” and
lie smiled grimly, “I am Boston, be-
cause probably I do not come from there.
By the way, whore is your horse? 1 am
going to Mr. Wheatley’s to get a wagon
to bring in Mr. Bear, and I will see you
*afcly home, Although there’s probably
not another bear within 50 miles of
But Mrs. Harlan had come out afotffT
the Wheatley ranch house being only
about a mile distant, so they walked
over together, Diok ambling along in
the rear with his usual meekness.
When they returned for the bear, Mrs.
Harlan monnted a horse, and nothing
daunted rode back to the scene of her
6caro, despite the protestations of Mrs. j
Wheatley, who had been worrying about
her ever since she had failed to appear (
at the luncheon hour. If she was charm-
ing on foot, she was doubly so on horse-
back, Boston thought, as ho compared
this tenderfoot with the Gila girls, who
all rode splendidly in their way, but
were not, as a Yule, particularly grace-
ful in the saddle, or out of it, for that
matter.
Fred Bendixon was still thinking of
the charming tenderfoot as, after taking
dinner with the Wheatley’s, he rode
slowly homeward through the gathering
darkness. He had been in New Mexico
three years now, and she was the only
civilizod being, as he told himself, that
he had talked with in all that time.
She was really delightful, he decided.
Were it not, for her vivacity, she would
be much like—
“Bah!” said Bendixon, so viciously
that Dick gave a little jump. “I wish
she weren’t.”
For the last year he had given less
thought to her—that proud, stately girl
who had ruined his life; that creature
with the Madonna face and the deep,
serious eyes that gazed steadily into his
and protested passionate devotion while
their owner’s lips lied straightforwardly
and solemnly declared her love for him.
That was before his father’s failure and
the loss of most of his fortune. Then—
“Bah! D—n her!” said herself ex-
iled victim as he dug a spur into poor
Dick and turned the unwilling little
beast off tho home trail and on to the
one that led to the little mining camp,
three miles away. “We’ll forget her,
Dick,” ho added gently, feeling a pang
of remorse for hurting his pet.
******
Ho entered the camp saloon quietly,
merely nodding to two or three miners
and a couple of his own cowboys who
spoke to him. Fred Bendixon was not a
“sociable” chap, according to the south-
western acceptance of the term, until ho
had had a few drinks and forgot what
had brought him where he was.
One of the Three Line outfit’s men
was talking to the bartender, and Boston
listened to him, carolossly at first, but
presently with interest.
“Seen that tendahfoot heifer th’t’s
stayin ovah t’ Wheatley’s t’duy, Dan—
an say, boy, she’s a sho’ rampageous
beaut, she is. I was ridin through Wind
canyon, an jes’ comin out intuh th’ val-
ley, w’en all of a suddiut I meets up
with ’er, an her afoot. She says, ‘Good
mornin, sir!’ by gad, an smiled’s sweet
’s ef I was th’ Dook o’ Bilgewater, an I
was that rattled I most f’rgot, I had m’
hat on an e’d ha’dly say ‘Mornin!’ an,
say, my heart beat fast f T a hour, ”
“Who is she, Pete?” asked the bar-
boy, with languid interest.
“Cousin T somethin o’ Mis’ Wheat-
ley. Como out yore f’r t’ git a de-vorce
fr’m 'er oie man. Wheatley tolo Pel
Hynes, an Pel tolo me. Guess Mis’
Wheatley’d ruin Wheat’s face ef she
knowed he piped it. ”
So this fresh faced girl, hardly more
than 20, had had her sorrows too! From
that moment Fred Bendixon felt drawn
to her. She was braver than he, he re-
flected, for she concealed her griefs un-
der the cloak of well assumed cheerful-
ness, while he—well, every one knew
that, as one citizen phrased it, “Boston
had a sho’ nongh kick comin, ef 'enevah
does le’ goof it—likely some heifer done
kicked him.”
Bendixon ('ailed upon his new ac-
quaintance the next day, and they had
a long ride together on the Silver City
trail, Boston showing her the points of
interest—that is, where this or that per-
son had been murdered by Indians or
Mexicans, or where Jones or Smith had
been held up once upon a time. There
was little else, beyond an occasional
view at a distance of some spot made
historical by the Jesuits, with whom the
history of the country began. It was
late when they returned to the ranch.
“Let me thank you for a very, very
pleasant day,” said Mrs. Harlan softly,
as Bendixon, declining her invitation
to join the group in the gallery, bade
her “good night” at tho gate. “It is so
pleasant to meet some one—that is’’—
“The obligation is on my side, Mrs.
Harlan,” answered Bendixon, with the
glamour of tho southern moon, if ho had
only known it, hovering about his un-
covered head. ‘‘ Do you know what three
years without the pale of civilization
mean to one who—good night, Mrs.
Harlan. ’ ’
“Good night. ” And she stood watch
ing his retreating figure, noting lviw
superbly he sat his horse, but forgetful
of the abruptness of his departure.
“Divinely handsome,” she thought
complacently, “and delightful company.
Since he has so little to do, l don’t
think it will be such a dull time, afte:
all.”
“Harlan must he u brute,” thought
the one time unsusceptible B. nd;.. .:i as
Dick galloped up the trail, “or els" he’s
a fool. Probably lie’s both, for an intel-
ligent brute couldn't fail to come under
tho influence of a woman like that. ”
She had asked him to call tlm.next
day, and he had promised to do so—
gladly at the time. As he rode home,
however, he usked himself: “Why? To
what end?” But his hungry soul au-
swered, “For the sake of intelligent
aonipunionslup while you may have it. ”
And of course he went, not only that
day, but the next, and thereafter there
were few days during the next two
mouths that they did not see each other.
• •••••
The rains had been very light that
season, and hardly a cattleman, or, for
(hat matter, any one else, but was well
nigh in despair. Cattle by scores lay
dead on the plains and ity the valloys—
dead for want of food mid water. Not
so many of Bendixon's. tyis were unu-
sually well provided for, bii\ hardly an
outfit in the county but counted its loss
uy hundreds, and even thousands.
“It’ll come heavily, though,Vhen it
does come. ’ ’ said Boston to Mrs\Har
lan, m together they rode one hot after-
noon through Wind canyon on their way
to call npon a sick man at the Two Bur
X ranch. “Yon never saw a storm in
this country, did yon? Well, it is some-
thing worth seeing and keeping ont of
the way of. It comes up suddenly—very
—and the rain falls in ohnnks for a lit-
tle while, theu it suddenly ceases, and
one thinks that’s the end of it, but it
isn’t. Presently the canyons and ravines
become flooded with water, and each
one becomes the bed of a torrent. And
the waterways on tho lower levels—I
have seen rocks weighing tons carried
down throngh them by the wall of wa-
ter. As a matter of fact—by Jove!” he
interrupted himself suddenly, “that
storm we noticed over in the Burro
mountains awhile ago is coming this
way.”
He was right. Inside of five minntes
the storm hod broken over them, and
they had to seek what shelter was afford-
ed by the lee of a rock that partially
overhung the trail. The storm was over
presently, the clouds, apparently with-
out any impelling breeze, passing over
qniokly and leaving tho clarified atmos-
phere and a dim rainbow as reminders
of their visitation.
“Come,” said Bendixon, “we must
hurry and get back to where we can
strike the hills. Hurry!”
Mrs. Harlan looked at him quizzically.
“The idea!” she said. “I do believe
you’re guying me. ” And unassisted she
mounted her horse and was off up the
canyon before her companion could pro-
test.
In a moment lie was after her. She
saw him coming as she glanced behind
her, but she only laughed merrily and
urged her horse the faster. But little
Dick had other accomplishments besides
docility and intelligence. He could run,
and he ran now, bo that presently he
was alongside Mrs. Harlan’s mount.
“Come!” cried Bendixon hoarsely.
“There is no time. Turn your horse!”
Mrs. Harlan, seeing the look in his eyes,
tried to obey, but her horse had his
head and she could not stop him. She
turned a white, Beared face toward
Bendixon, and he, nudging Dick a bit
closer to the gray, reached ont his arm,
grasped the slight form firmly, then
“Back, Dicky, back!” — and Dick,
wheeling like lightning, was running
like an antelope, despite his double load,
down the canyon.
“How silly wre are!” ejaculated Mrs.
Harlan as they reached the top of one of
the hills back near the canyon’s month,
and Bendixon released her. “I think
you’retryling to frighten me. Really”—
“Hush!” said her companion solemn-
ly. “Do you hear that?”
The rocks of the canyon echoed a low,
terrible roar, now loud, now more sub-
dued, as the great body of water found
a narrow or a wide passage. It came
rapidly nearer. Mrs. Harlan, alive now
to the possible danger she had escaped,
sat with ears and eyes alert Wondering
how long—
Just then her horse came in sight,
turning a bend a quarter of a mile
above, racing for his life, and behind
him, not 100 yards, came a rolling,
tumbling wall of water 40 feet high.
Tensely they watched tho unequal race,
but not for long. In a few seconds the
flood overtook the poor animal, and
presently, a shapeless mass, he was roll-
ed by them in the torrent, along with
all the rocks and debris at the forefront
of the watery avalanche.
“Now,” began Bendixon, “you
see”—
But his companion did not see. She
was crying.
It was too much for Bendixon. In a
second lie was beside her, his arms were
about her, and she finished her cry on
his shoulder. And that afternoon they
told their stories to each other—jnst
enough for each to know that the other
had suffered—as, the woman awkward-
ly sitting sidewise on Dick, and the
man walking beside, they went back to
the Wheatley place together.
******
“Some duck gives it out t’ me,” said
Dan, the bartender, to oue of Bendix-
on’s men who dropped in one quiet
evening, “th’t Boston’s got a riv’l over
t’ Wheatleys.”
Boston’s men were loyal, and this one
merely gave the bartender an inquisi-
tive look.
“Ya-as.” continued Dan, setting up
the whisxy bottle, “I gits it straight
th’t this bloke is th’ same oue th’t her
an ’er ol man splits up on, an th’t she’s
go’n t’ marry ’im soon’s she gits er de-
voree. ’ ’
Mr. Bendixon’s cowhand merely
vouchsafed noncoinmitally, “Th’hell!”
and went out to where his cayuse was
tied, mentally resolving, however, to
learn more about the matter.
******
Boston had met the distinguished
looking stranger two or three times, but
tonight he noticed, or thought he no-
ticed, for the first time a certain con-
straint in tho manner of his sweetheart
toward himself, and a vague, wonder-
ing jealousy took possession of him.
Who was this fellow Bement anyway
—this gray haired, blase man of the
world? What was he doing at the
Wheatleys? He had not thought to ask
—rather he had lnvl no opportunity.
It was late when he started home-
ward and began wondering over these
tilings, and there came a sudden pang
as he remembered that he had not had
a chance to say his lover’s good night to
Bertha.
“She might have made an opportuni-
ty,” lie said to himself. Then, sudden-
ly halting Dick: “Poor little girl! She
lias to be careful, of course. That fellow
may be her—that is,.Harlan’s lawyer. ’’
And wondering why he had not thought
of this before he wheeled Dick and rode
quietly back toward tho ranch. He
would see the light in her window at
least.
He saw his arm about her—that man
Bement's. Re could see them plainly as
they walked slowly toward him-—him,
her dupe, who was supposed to be near-
ly home by now. They came directly on.
They would pass close by the clump of
brush where he aud his horse were con-
cealed. He heard the woman say;
“How shocked Cousin Mattie and
Horace will be when they find we’re
gone! And Bendixon—poor fellow, he’ll
be awfully cut up I He’s tried to make
it so pleasant for me this summer.”
A rush of horse’s hoofs—a whirring,
sinuous something that clasped them
both—and a frightened, frantio' pony,
with a frenzied rider, dashed across the
valley and up a rooky canyon,dragging at
the end of a lariat a squirming, scream-
ing mass, whose cries were soon stilled.
******
1 * Let ’em go!” said old man Wheatley,
who rode over to camp next morning to
see if be could get any trace of the sup-
posed fugitives. “Goodriddance, I says,
when we finds her note this mornin, bnt
why’n thunder didn’t they take no bag-
gage,an why’dtheygo afoot? Iwouldn’t
V keered f’r a couple o’ hosses.”
******
In a little mining camp in New Mex-
ico the landlord of the hotel pointed
out to me a dirty, dejected looking
specimen of the genus bum. “That there
feller’s got a hist’ry. Few years back ’e
had a good ranch np country a piece an
was well fixed. Well, he got stuck on a
grass widder th’t was stayin with one
o’ th’ neighbors, an I reckon they had
it all fixed np when along comes a sho’
star lookiu jay fr’m back east, an him
an th’ grass widder turns up missin.
Ever’body thought they’d skipped, but
the’r bodies—what was left of ’em—
was found in a ol’ d’serted shaft a few
months later. An Bostoii he h’ain’t nev-
er be’u right sence. He’3 tried ranchin
an minin an gamblin, but it don’t do
uo good. Poor ol’ Boston! He’s a sho’
’nongh all time loser. ”—Lester Ketch -
um in San Francisco Argonaut.
Not Disturbed by Trifles.
I was walking up the village, when I
saw, to my dismay, that the entire gable
end of one of the cottages had fallen
bodily out, of course exposing the rooms,
both np stairs and down stairs. My first
thought was naturally for the safety of
the family, a young agricultural labor-
er and his wife. Bnt there were my
friends just returning from an errand,
and this was the conversation which fol-
lowed :
“O. B., what has happened to your
cottage?”
“It’s only the end have a-falien ont,
sir,” cheerfully.
“Only the end, bnt when did it hap-
pen?”
“Last night about 1 o’clock. My
misses and I were sleepin in one of
those bedrooms, when she suddenly heard
a noise. I do sleep very hard, sir, bnt at
last she Woke mo and said, ‘What be
that, Bill? Oh,’ says I, ‘it be this ’ere
blessed end of t’ house have a-fallen
out.’ And, sure enough, so ’twere. But
then w6’d been expectin of it some
time. We know he wer’n’t very safe. ”
“But what did you do?”
“Well, I fried to light a candle, but
’twere blowin and rainin very hard, and
the wind blew her out every time I
lighted ’im. So we just lay quiet till 5
o’clock, and then we got up, for ’twere
gettin a bit publiclike. ”
“Weren’t you frightened?”
“Oh, no, sir. You see we’d been ex-
pectin of it. ’ ’
“But what are you going to do?”
“Oh, Mr. -will send some bricks,
and he’ll be built up again in a day or
two.”
“Bnt you’re surely not going to stay
here tonight?”
“Oh, yes, sir (from the woman). Bill
says he don’t want to move. I could go
down to my father’s, bnt I may just as
well sleep along with Bill. ”
Aud so they did. A friendly neighbor
nailed np a sailcloth to make their rooms
a little less “publiclike” and to afford
some protection from the weather, and
there they staid oue more night at least,
after which some of uh succeeded in in-
ducing them to move until the wall of
their home was rebuilt.—Loudon Spec-
tator.
Legend of the Panay.
A pretty fable about the pansy is cur-
rent among French and German chil-
dren. The flower has five petals and five
sepals. In most pansies, especially of
the earlier aud less highly developed
varieties, two of the petals are plain in
color aud three are gay. The two plain
petals have a single sepal, two of the
gray petals have a sepal each, aud the
third, which is the largest of all, has
two sepals.
The fable is that the pansy represents
a family, consisting of husband and
wife and four daughters, two of the lat-
ter being stepchildren of the wife. The
plain petals are the stepchildren, with
only one chair; the two small, gay pet-
als are the daughters, with a chair each,
and the large gay petal is the wife, with
two chairs.
To find the father one must strip away
the petals until the stamens and pistils
aro bare. They have a fanciful resem-
blance to an old man, with a flannel
wrap about his neck, his shoulders up-
raised and his feet in a bathtub. Tlie
story is probably of French origin, be-
canso tho French call the pansy the step-
mother. —Household Magazine.
Clitld Language.
Does anybody know of children who
today use a language apart in the com-
munication of their thoughts, a language
that puzzles linguists, aud yet is under-
stood thoroughly by the youngsters?
There was a remarkable case some years
ago in Albany. Two boys of a well
known family—the father was a cele-
brated politician—whenever they talked
together used invariably—that is, in the
presence of other members of the family
—a language that was not to be discov-
ered among pagan or Christian people.
The boys never gave an explanation aft-
er they reached the age of 15 or 16. Up
to that age they chattered with volubil-
ity in this singular tongue. Here is an
instance that points toward the sanity
of the theory udvanced by Charles God-
frey Leland in “Gypsy Sorcery“I be-
lieve that a company of children left
entirely to themselves would form and
grow np with a language which in a
very few years would be spoken fluent-
ly. ’’—Boston Journal
Temples Great Celebration '
Thursday, Friday aid Saturday, Jane 27, 28 and 29, 1896.
1
The Temple National Bank
Extends a cordial welcome to all its friends and customers. v|
Signed:
W. Goodrich Jones, Pres.
W. S Rowland, Cashier.
J.Z.MILLEB, S, B.Belton
W.E. HALL,
,J. 7. MILLER, JR. Beltoi
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T. ©.
Undertaker Embalmer
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Crow, J. D. The Temple Times. (Temple, Tex.), Vol. 14, No. 32, Ed. 1 Friday, June 28, 1895, newspaper, June 28, 1895; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth585510/m1/6/: accessed July 17, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Abilene Library Consortium.