The Sauk Centre Herald (Sauk Centre, Minnesota), 1867-06-27

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VOLUME I.
SAUK CENTRE, MINNESOTA, THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 1867.
NUMBER 4.
t!J» fault itafa* MmUL
PtBLISHED   EVERY  THURSDAY HORNING,
At   gaiik Centre,   Mlimui.,
BY J. H. SIMONTON.
.SS" Office on Third street, one door east of
the "Farmer's and Traveler's Home."
Subscription t
TWO DOLLARS A YEAR IN ADVANCE-
Rates of Advertising s
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Legal advertisements 75 cents per square for
the first insertion, and 37^ cents per square
for each subsequent insertion.
Special place advertisements Inserted at
rates agreed upon.
Yearly advertisers to pay quarterly.
Strangers must pay in advance, or give satisfactory reference.
JOB PRINTING
of all kinds executed on short notice in the
best style.
PROFESSIONAL CARDS
m
H. MINER,
Attorney and Counselor at   Law,   Notary
Public and Conveyancer,
Sauk Centre,        -        -        Minnesota.
*.«"=:: Office over the Post Office.
,R. B. E. PALMER,
. PHYSICIAN & SURGEON.
■M3° Residence pear the Mill, Sauk Centre. -=©3.
ILLIAM J. PARSONS,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
Saint Germaine street, over Burbank Bros.,
St. Cloud, Minnesota.
CHAS. WALKER,
Attorney at Law.
%R.P. EDSON,
„ Attorney at Law and
Notary Public.
Edson <8s Walker,
REAL ESTATE AGENTS,
Office over Philadelphia Store on Third street,
Sauk Centre, Stearns County, Minnesota.
Business Property, Houses and Lots, Farms,
Farming Lands, etc., etc., bought and sold on
commission.
ATTENTION!
i is called to the fact that our facilities for making out Pre-emption papers and for locating
<ahd entering Government Land with Cash,
Scrip or Land Warrants, are unsurpassed by
any office west of St. Cloud. A large assort-
nieiit of Town Plots for the use of seekers of
. Claims on hand and kept constantly corrected- uy correspondence with the Land Office.
We have in our hands for saie some of the
.finest Farms and Farming Lands in this
upper countjy.
BUSINESS   CARDS.
XJILLIAED SALOON,
A. L>E GROAT, Proprietor.
Third street, Sauk Centre, Minnesota.
Has first class Phelan & Collender Billard
Tables.
Choice Wines, Liquors, Ale, Porter and Cigars. < PmSsHn
■QALOON AND BAKERY.
O. M. RENNOE, Proprietor.
Main Street, Sauk .Centre,   Minnesota.
.Bread, Cakes, Pies, &c, always on hand. Hot
Coffee and- Meals at all hours.   Good
Wines and Liquors and the best
brands of Cigars^s
II. miner:
Insurahco Agent,
'   Sauk Centre, - - Minnesota.
Represents the ssundest and most reliable
Fire, Life and Accident Insurance Com- "
panies of the Eastern and  Western
States.   Office over the Post Office.
J. WHITEFIELD,
House .fie Sign Painter,
■Graining, Glazing, Paper Hanging, &c, done
•with neatness and on reasonable terms.
Work warranted equal in quality to that
agreed upon or no charges made.   j6®~ Paint
Shop next door to Thomas & Co's.
Sauk Centre, Minn., June 5,1867.
OHN CHRISTGAU,
Boot &z SHioo Maimer,
Main Street, Sauk Centre, Minn.,
A complete stock of Boots and Shoes kept
' constantly on hand, and made to order on
$hort notice.   Good fits warranted.
Repairing promptly done, at reasonable
-prices.   All kinds of Shoemaker's Tools for
sale.
P. EDSON
Is Agent for sound and reliable
FIRE,   LIFE,   ACCIDENTAL    LIFE  AND
LIVE STOCK INSTJRANE COMPANIES.
He insures LTve Stock against Death and
Theft, in the Hartford Live Stock Insurance
Company—the soundest and only reliable
Live Stock Company on this continent.
E
_,.DWARD DEEBLOW,
Cabinet Maker.
"Main street, Sauk Centre, Minnesota.
■Keeps constantly on hand a complete stock
of Furniture, Coffins, &o.
All orders will receive prompt attention.
LAND OFFICE & EEAL ESTATE
AGENCY. j*v|?
2V. H.  Mluei-,
Lands sold on commission. Farms composed of Prairie, Meadow and Timber Land
for sale.
.Persons desiring to enter Land, with Cash,
Scrip or Land Warrants,  can do so at
j»y office and avoid the time and
expense of a trip to St? Cloud.
Office over the JPost Office, Sank Centre',
Minnesota.
■Mt%%,
EiAHCttJrtT   E.ANSS.
BY ROBEBT BItOWNING.
In all the land, range up, range'down.
Is there ever a plaee so pleasant and sweet
As Langley lane. In London town,
Just out of the bustle of square and street?
Lttue white cottages all In a row,
Gardens where bachelor buttons grow,
. Swallows' nests in roof and wall,
And up above the still blue sky,
Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by—
I seem to be able to see it all!
For now, in summer, I take my chair,
And sit outside in the sun and hear
The distant murmur of street and square-,
And the swallows and Sparrows chirping
near;
And Fanny, who lives just over the way,
Comes running, many a time each day,
With her little hand's touch so warm and
kind.
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my
cheek;
And the little live hand eeems to sit and
speak—
For Fanny la dumb and I am blind.
Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she
■ Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear,
And I am older, by summers three;
Why shouldn't we hold one another so
dear 7
Because she cannot utter a word.
Nor hear the Eiuslc of bee'o? bird,
The water carts splash or the milkman's
call?
Because I have never seen the sky,
Nor the little singers that hum any,
Yet know she is gazing upon them all?J
For the sun is shining, the swaUows fly,
The bees and blue fly murmur low,
And I hear the water cart go by,
With its cool, splash, splash down the rusty
row;
And the little one close to my side perceives
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves,
Where birds are chirping insummer shine,
And I hear, though I cannot look, and she,
Though she cannot hear, can the singers see,
And the little soft lingers flutter in mine!
Hath not the dear little hand a tongue
When it stirs, on my palm,for the love of
me?
Hath not my soul any eye to see 7
.'lis pleasure to make one's bosom stir,
To wonder how things appear to her,
That I only hear as I pass around;
And and as long as we sit in tlie music and
"   lMht, i. $*-
She is happy to keep in God's light,
And I am happy to keep God's sound.
Why, I know her face, though I am blind—
I made it of music long ago!
Strange large eyes and dark hair twined
Bound the pensive'light of a brow of snow;
And whfen I sit by my little one.
And hold her hand and talk in the sun,
And hear the music that haunts the place,
I know she is raising her eyes to me,
And guessing how gentle niy voice must be,
And seeing the music upon my face.
Tho' if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer
(I know the fancy is only vain>
I should pray Just once, when the weather Is
fitirl
To see little Fanny and Langley lane;
Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear
The voice of the friend that she holds so dear,
The song of the birds, the hum of the bee;
It is better td"be as we have been—
Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen
To make God's Heaven more strange and
near.
Ah! life is pleasant in Langley lane!
There is always something sweet to hear,
Chirping of birds or patter of rain!
And Fanny, my little one, always near;
And though I am weakly and can't live long,
And Fanny, my darling, is far front strong,
And though we can never married be,
What then? since We hold one another so
dear,
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot see,
And the pleasure that only one can hear.
*,
.f$mlg;ttg
Tlie Story of 4Sie Bad  IiJtile Boy \y3io
jDldnt Come to Grief.
BY MASK  TWAIN.
There was a bad little boy whose
name was Jim—though, if you will
notice, you will find th&t bad little
boys are nearly always called James in
your Sunday school books. It was very
strange, yet it was true that this one
was called Jim.
He didn't have any sick mother,
either—a sick mother who was pious
ahd had the consumption, and would
be glad to lie down in the grave and be
at rest but for the strong love she bore
her boy, and the anxiety she felt that
the world would be harsh and cold to
him when ghe was gone. Many bad
boys in the Sunday school books are
named James, and have sick mothers
who teach them to say, "Now I lay me
down," etc., and sing them to sleep
with plaintive- voices, and then Kiss
them good-night, and kneel down by
the bedside and weep. But it was different with this fellow. He was named
Jim, and there wasn't anything the
matter with his mother—no consumption, or anything of that kind. She
was rather stout than otherwise, and
she was not pious j moreover, she was
not anxious on Jim's account. She
said if he were to break his neck, it
wouldn't be much loss. She always
spanked Jim to sleep, and she never
kissed him good-night; on the contrary, she boxed his ears when she was
ready to leave him.
Once this little bad boy stole the key
of the pantry and slipped in there and
helped himself to some jam, and filled
up the vessel with tar, so that his mother would never know the difference,
but all at once a. terrible feeling didn't
come over him, and something didn't
seem to whisper to him, " Isit right to
disobey my mother ? Isn't it sinful to
do this ? Where do bad little boys go
who gobble up their good, kind mother's jam?" and then he didn't kneel
down all alone and promise never to
be wicked any more, and rise up with
a light, hajrpy heart, and go and tell
his mother all about it, and beg her forgiveness, and be blessed by her with
tears of pride ahd thankfulness in her
eyes. No; this is the way with all other bad boys in the books ; but it happened otherwise with this Jim, strange?
ly enough. He ate that jam, and said
it was bully, in his sinful, vulgar way ;
and he put in the tar, and said that
was bully also, .and laughed, and observed that " the old woman would get
up and snort" when she found it out;
and when_she did find it out he denied
knowing anything about it, and she*
whipped him severely, and he did the
crying himself. Everything about this
boy was curious—everything turned
out differently with him from the way
it does to the bad Jameses in the books.
Once he climbed in Farmer Acorn's
apple-tree to steal apples, and the limb
didn't break, and he didn't fall and
break his arm, and get torn by the farmer's great dog, and then languish on
a sick bed for weeks, and repent and
become good. Oh, no ! He stole, as
many apples as he wanted, and came
dt»wn all right, and he was all ready for
the dog, too, and knocked him end-
wavs with a rock when he came to tear
him. It w*a very strange—nothing like
it ever happened in those mild little
books with marbled backs, and with
pictures in, them of men lyUh swallow-
tailed coats and bell-crowned hats, and
pantaloons that are short in the legs,'
and women with the waists of their
dresses under their arms and no hoops
on. Nothing like it in any of the Sunday school hooks.   .
Once he stole his teacher's penknife,
and when he Was afraid it would be
found out and he would get whipped,
he slipped it into George "Wilson's cap—
poor widow Wilson's son, the moral
boy, the good little boy of the village,
who always obeyed his mother, and
never told an untruth, and was fond of
his lessons and infatuated with Sunday
school. And when the knife dropped
from the cap, and poer George hung
his head and blushed, as if in conscious
guilt, and the grieved teacher charged
the theft upon him, and was just in the
very act of bringing the switch down
upon his trembling ahodklers, a white
haired, improbable jftstice of the peace
did not suddenly appear in their midst
and "strike ah attitude and say, •' spare
this noble boy—there stands the cowering culprit 1 I was passing the school-
door at recess, and, unseen myself, I
saw the theft committed." And then
Jim didn't get whaled, and the'venerable justice didn't read the tear&l-BChool
a homily, and take George by the hand
and say such a boy deserved to be exalted, and then tell him to come and
make his home With him, and sweep
out the office, and make fires, and run
errands, and chop wood, and study law,
and help his wife to do household labors, and have all the balance of the
time to play, and get forty cents a
month and be happy. No; it would
have happened that .way in the books,
but it didn't happen that way to Jim.
No meddling old clam of justice dropped
in to make trouble, and so the model
boy George got thrashed, arid Jim was
glad of it; because, you know, Jim
hated moral boys. Jim said he was
" down on thern milksops."   Such was
the coarse language of ffoisbad, neglected boy.
But the strangest thing that ever
happened to Jim was the time he went
boating on Sunday and didn't get
drowned, and that other time that he
got caught out in the storm when he
was fishing on Sunday', and didn't get
struck by lightning. Why, you might
look and look, and look through the
Sunday school books from now till next
Christmas, and you would never come
across anything like this. Oh I no;
you would find that all the bad boys
who go boating on Sunday invariably
get drowned} and the bad boys who
get caught-out in storms, when they
are fishing on Sunday, invariably get
struck by lightning. Boats with bad
boys in them always upset on Sunday,
and it always storms when bad boys go
fishing oh the Sabbath. How this Jim
ever escaped ia a mystery to me.
This Jim bore a charmed life—that
must have been the way of it. Nothing could hurt him. He even gave the
elephant in the menagerie a plug of
tobacco, and the elephant didn'teknock
the top of his head off with his trunk.
He browsed around the cupboard, after
essence of peppermint, and didn't make
a mistake and drink aqua fortis. He
stole his father's gun and went hunting
on the Sabbath, and didn't shoot three
of four of his fingers Off.
He struck his little sister in the temple with his fist when he was angry,
and she didn't linger in pain through
long summer days, and die with sweet
words of forgiveness upon her lips that
redoubled the" anguish of his breaking
heart. No; she got over it. He ran
off and went to sea- at last, and didn't
come back and find himself sad and
alone in the world, his loved ones
sleeping in the quiet churchyard, and
the vine-embowere'd home of his boyhood tumbled down and gone to decay.
Ah! no; J^came home drunk as a piper,
and got into the station-house the first'
thing.
And he grew up and married, and
raised adarge family, and brainedHhem.
with an axe one night, a»d got wealth/
by all manner of cheating and rascality,
and now he is the internalist wicked
scoundrel in his native village, and is
universally respected and belongs to
the Legislature.
So you see, there never was a bad
James in the Sunday school boo£s that
had such a streak of luck as this sinful
Jim with the charmed life.
■rattling on ! Your D. D. is dwindled
down; your P. M. is .past minding;
your M. C. is a microscopic curiosity.—
B. F., Taylor. jfc.
A   THUttLMG   SCENE.
Characteristic
OT8TAIJCE.
Did you ever creep"' gingerly up to
the deck of a railroad car, when the
train was moving say twenty-five or
thirty miles an hour ? And did you
ever look away on beyond the train
where two iron bars—that noblest couple in the great epic of time—were
welded lovingly togelftrer without hammer, or furnace, or fire, but just below
the wonderful fingers of Distance, till
they lay there, a huge V upon the bosom Of the prairie ? And how marvellously, as the train moved on, those
bars swayed round to a parallel, as
lightly and noiselessly as a brace of
sunbeams flung from a mirror swinging
in the wanton wind, sweep round in
the blue air ? And did you mind—not
a spike wrenched -from its good hold;
not a tie wrctied ; not a timber splintered. There must be a eharra in those,
fingers indeed I
There new?, a brood of little haycocks, escaped from their native mea-
doW) have clustered dowri in the track,
righi'before.the engine. Heedless little things I But age will bring wisdom,
and one of these days they'll be discreet hay-stacks. WW. be 1 Why they
are getting to be stacks already. How
they expand and " get up In the world "
as we near them! And they hear the
train ; for see they are wheeling in a
sort of Knickerbocker waltz to the
right and left, over the fence and back
Of the barn, and beyond the orchard ;
and there they are, dignified and'im-
perturbable as hay-stacks ought to be.
And those little Bushes—a capital B,
if they are bushes—exactly in the way,
whispering and all of a flutter, dodging
up here and nestling down there like
" truants" in the entry during school
hours. On thunders the train, and up
jump the bushes.
Bushes'indeed I Trees, forest trees;
trees of a century; " columns in God's
first temple." The, trees are on the
track, eh ? By the holy rood-they are
rods away, just where they were before
railroads were dreamed of.
And the worker of all this diaHeriei
You can see the fluttering of her blue
robe just above *he horizon. She has
gone on to conjure again. It is Distance.
" Stop the train 1 Let us off) Conductor, Captain, somebody, anybody!
There's a village dri the track; born,
christened and grown since last night.
There's a meeting house, and a grave
yard, and a block of stores in the way!
On we plunge—dispelled at the first
whistle 1 The church moves gravely away)
as churches should. The grave-yard, with
its sleeping tenantry, is whisked out of
sight like a trundle-bed; a martin-box
of a cottage scuds round the corner of
the meeting house; the row of brick
stores very much flushed, steps six
paces to the rear; the cars jar on, and
Distance and Motion axe in the secret.
Look behind you, and they are adjusting the machinery for the next
train. Back goes the - village, that has
been frightened away by the whistle,
and the stacks and the trees grow
"beautifully less;" and so it is every
day and all day, and everywhere, when
Motion and Distance are partners.
There's something on the the track
again ! It^s a fly—it's a frog—it's a
child-—it's a man—six feet high—a P.
M.—an M. C. On we go. We have
passed him. Five feet high—four
feet high—a child—a bug—a nothing!
What pranks Distance can play-with a
man and his dignities as the cars drive
A correspondent of the New York
Independent, writing from Rochester,
says':
" It was a thrilling seen* in the Assembly when Dr. Adams, of New York,
•read the report of the reunion committee. Most of the delegates were ignorant of its contents. It was an admirably drawn document—largely from the
pen of Dr. Patterson, of Chicago. The
Assembly was full, and during the
readingjof the paper you could have
heard the drop of a handkerchief. Dr.
Adams, with his manly figure and fine
white head, stood by the. Moderator's
side, and read it with a solemn and sonorous emphasis. As he went forward,
tears began to start in the eyes of the
old men who had witnessed the disruption of the church, just thirty years,,
ago. The fountains werfe breaking up ;
and, in the blessed,- full-banked flood
of christian love, the ice-floes of controversy and prejudice were swept
away in the irresistable torrent.
When Dr. Adams finished, we all sat
in mute, tearful joy, and in adoration
of the majestic hand of God that had.
wrought for us such a glorious issue,
Dr Wiener rose and offered a few tender words. He was followed by Dr.
Lyon, of Erie; and then the whole Assembly came "to their feet, and joined
in a. fervent prayer of thanksgiving!
It was a scene to be remembered to the
dying hour, and to be recalled in the
memories of Heaven. Henceforth the
Presbyterian church is to be one ; and
what God joins together let no heresy-
hrlnters ever put asunder 1 ' I-venture
to predict that ..this hurried epistle is
one of the last that you will ever receive from a New School General Assembly in the. church of Calvin and
John Knox—the «huroh that follows
even those mighty men only in so far
as they follow ChrinW'
YOTJKG   AMERICA  WONDERS.
Wonder why mamma keeps Bridget
home from church all day, and then
say to me it is wicked to build my rabbit house on Sunday.
Wonder why our' minister bought
that pretty cane with the yellow lion's
head on the top, and then asks nie for
my cent to put in the missionary box.
Don't I wa«t ajewsharp just as well as
he wanted a cane ?
Wondefr what makes papa tell such
nice stories about hiding the master's
rattan when he went to school, and
about his running away from the school
mistress when she was going to Whip
him, and then shut me up all day iu a
dark room because I tried just once to
be as smart as he was.
Wonder what made papa say that
bad word when Betsey upset the ink
all over his papers, and then, slap my
ears because I said the same thing
When my kite string broke.
Wonder why mamma told Bridget
the other day that she was not at home
when Tommy Day's mother called, and'
then pute me to bed without my supper every night I tell a lie.
Oh dear 1 there'are lots of things I
want to know. How I wish I was a
man.—Fanny Fern.
Quotations of Gold.—The quotations
of gold as given in the money articles
of the daily papers, convey no fixed
idea to the common mind ; the information needed by the generality of the
people ia, what is a paper dollar worth ?
We have been furnished with the following, which those that care to do so
can cut out for reference:
When gold is quoted at $1.10, a paper
dollar is worth 90 cents nearly.
When gold is quoted at $1.15, a paper dollar is worth 85 cents.
When gold is quoted at $1.25, a paper
dollar is worth .80 cents.
When gold is quoted at $1.30, a paper
dollar is worth 77 cents.
When gold is quoted at $1.35, a paper
dollar is worth 74 cents.
When gold is quoted at $1.40, a paper
dollar is worth 71 cents.
When gold is quoted at $1.45, a paper
dollar is worth 69 cents.
When gold is quoted at $1.45, a paper
dollar is worth 66§ cents.
A preacher in Berks county, Pennsylvania, discoursingabout Daniel in the
lion's den, said: "An thar he sot all
Ijight long a lookiu' at the show for
Ajjthin', and it didn't cost him nary a
cent.
From the WatertoWn "Reformer.
A few days since a small, fine looking bright boy came into the cars and
, took a seat. Shortly after a minister
came in and took a seat before and
facing him, when the following conversation ensued:
" Well, my little lad, what is your-
name? " said the,minister.
" My name is James, Footy 'what Us
your ? "
" William Hand," was the answer,
"Where are you going?" asked the
minister, y '       cli -
* To Rome, sir, and where are you
going -?" Was the -respcmse'of the boy.
,The minister could 'So no .less"than
answer '• to Camden." " How old are
you ? " was the next question of the
minister.
'• Eight years," replied. the boj\
" HoW old are you, sir ? "
The minister hesitated but gave aft
answer.
'" Are you alone?" Was the riext
question of the minister.
"Oh,»o,"*aad the teoy, pofiatiAg tS
the minister, " I have plenty of com-
P*uy»*\"
'" But have you' no friends oh boarci
'to look afteV yon?"   asked the minister.
" No, sir," said the boy, a have you 2^
This was not answere'd. but followed
by a little history.
" When! I was a little bay," said th6
minister, *• my parents Would net allow
me to go off the farm alone."
. At this, the.boy, with an indescriba-
ble,look, said; "it is different now."
A   SOAP   STORTi
.  The Rockford Gazette tells the following of a Chicago soap drummer :
One of these gentlemen the -other
day Walked into the store, of our friend
S. W. Stone, and after opening up his
kit, informed Mr,' fttone that he WafcL
soliciting orders for a Chicago Soap
Manufacturipg Corhpany, and wished
to get his order" for twenty.-five or fifty
boxes of his " Erasive, detersive soap-,
and no family could keep house without it; it washed several men ashore
when lost on Lake Michigan^", and so
on. Mr. Stone was quite busy at the
time, and had been extremely annoyed
by several drummers during the dayj
and remarked that of all traveling men-,
he most disliked to see a soap man, for
they could never be induced to " dry
upy' most likely on account of -the lye,
(lie) used in manufacturing their goods-.
The soap man replied, " Yes, that is
what a Freeport merchant' told me
yesterday. After showing my samples
I commenced talking, when the merchant, with hair erect, his 'eyes starting from their sockets, bawled out at
the top of his piping voice to one of his
clerks—Joe ! bring the club i here's
another soap man I''"
It is needless to sayj. Stone came
down and ordered —-m- tf Sin itnnyi    .
A burly Irishman called at th.e telegraph office during the heavjr storm
of last Week, says the Red Bluff Independent, and desired to send a message
to Shasta. Lyon told him he would
have to wait a few hours before it could
be transmitted, as the line was temporally disarranged by the storm-.
" What difference doea that make ? J*
says Pat. -.
"Why the wire is down—underwater—and we have to wait till it is put
up," says Lyohi
" Undher wather, is It?" said the
Fenian; " that don't hinder it at all, at
all. Shure,-4rB only forty miles from
here to Shasta; an it's five thousand
miles from here to ould Ireland. ' Ah*
begorra, I read iu the Sacraininty Uj*»
ion yesterday a whole lot iv late news
from Dublin an' 6-B-r-k^about the Fay-
nians, an' more about Louis Napoleon
writin' to the O'Donahue to borry the
loan of Brian Boru's blackthorn shtick
to bate Garibaidy ami restore the Poap;
an' that kem all the way under wather,
so it did. To the devil wid yur ould
fresh-wather teiegjaph that can't spake
forty miles."
<l Dad's DriN'."-^As a remarkable ila*
stance of filial affection and juvenile
philosophy, we present the following:
A lad of twelve or thirteen years of
age visited Caledonia for a doctor; He
found Dr. Riddle at home taking his
siesta," and woke him up with : ^Doctor, I want you to come and see dad—
he's dyin'." " Well," says the doctor,
" if he's dyirr1 I can't do hrm any good.'1 <
" That's so," rejoined the boy ; *he"ll
be dead in less than an hour;" and
turning on his heel, added; "Well,
by jing, we've all got to die some time
or other, and dad might as wejl die
now as any time."
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