CHARLOTTE MESSENGER.
VOL. I. NO. 38.
THE PEOPLE'S SOHO OP PEACE.
BT JOAQUIN MUM.
The gnsa is srreen on Banker Hill,
The waters sweet in Brandywine;
The >word sleeps in the scabbard still,
The farmer keeps his flock and vine;
Then who would mar th? scene to-day
With vaunt of battlefield or fray?
Hie brave corn lifts, in regiments
Ten thousand sabers in the son;
The ricks replace the battle tents,
The bannered tassels toss and run.
The neighing steed, the bugle's blast—
These be the stories of the past.
The earth has healed her wounded breast,
The cannons plow the fields no more;
The heroes rest: Oh let them rest
In peace along the peaceful shore.
They fought for peace, for peace they fell;
They sleep in peace, and all is well.
Hie fields forget the battles fought.
The trenches wave in golden grain;
Shall we neglect the lesson taught
And tear the wounds agape again?
Sweet Mother Nature, nurse the land,
Ami heal her wounds with gentle hand!
Lo! peace on earth! Lo! flock and fold,
Lo! rich abundance, far increase,
Vnd valleys clad in sheen of gold,
»Hi rise and sing the song of peace !
For Theseus roams the land no more.
And Janus rests with rusted door.
—Southern Exposition Programme.
THE FRONTIER WAIF.
“The blood; villains,” muttered
'.indy McGovern to himself, as he sat
>n his horse .surveying the scene of
desolation and death; “the Moody,
murderin' scoundrels!”
In front of a little knoll on which
sandy had reined his horse in was a
confused heap of broken wagons. Here
uni there a dead horse, already par
daily stripped by the coyotes,and scat
tered up and down the line of wagons
the ltodies of men who evidently died
lighting. It did not need the hideous
red patches on top of the skulls, where
the scalps had been torn off, to tell the
•Id frontiersman that he saw before
him all that was left of an emigrant
train that had been surprised by In
terns. To his experienced eyes, the
•light signs which would have escaped
t man new to the plains, told him that
.he massacre had taken place, at the
most, but two days before.
As he rude slowly along he suddenly
heard a faint sound. With iris nerves
•trungbythe scene which lay before
•ini, the frontiersman, whose senses
•vere always alert, found his attention
ttra teil at once, and stopping his
horse he listened intently. In about a
minute he heard it again, and noticed
that it came from one of the wagons.
Unmounting and walking to the place
Me list- ned once more. In another
minute he heard it again. It was some
thing like a faint cry. and it seemed to
■e smothered in some way. Sandy 1
■food close liy the wagon, his hands
resting upon the footboard in front. 1
'gain he heard it, and this time more 1
atainly than before. Fairly leaping to
" foot-board he opened the long box
a fr.ml, the top of which forms in a
r.iirie schooner the driver’s seat, and
ov lying in it a little child.
The big frontiersman lifted the baby .
for it was scarcely more—out of its
‘range resting-place as tenderly as a
o iier. He saw that the child was
“ry weak from its long fast, an 1,
el.icing it gently on his blankets, he ,
“g.in to search for something fit for
tto . at. Finding a hag of flour, he
made, with a little sugar, a kintl of
inn gruel, heating it over a fire he had j
w-tily kindled. Taking the baby in |
m s arms, he fed it si >wly and cau
jously. With infinite patience the
»ig-bearded man went through this
orange task, until, after some time.
Me had the satisfaction of seeing the
little one refuse to swallow any more.
Then sitting on the tongue of the
* tg"n, with the dead lying all around
him. sandy ricked the baby in his arms
“util it went to sleep.
I'lueingit in his blankets and cover
ing it up ■ arefully,he examined the
h”t in which he had f mod it In the
'■oth.ni was a rough horse blanket.
r<in»n over the edge was a piece of
mpe, placed there to prevent the lid i
■hutting tight. A1 jogsideof tbeehild I
M-f. .mid half of a bracelet, evidently a !
heap im tation onp, which looked as
hough it had b in torn <ff from the
•'-her half. At the lower end of Oip
>x there was a confused heap of
• doting, thrust in hastily. All of
11" se things Sandy teik. He found
•cj, the water in the spring beside
"I. I ell the train had camped, to give
1 is newly-discovered treasure a bath,
which seemed to do the little one a
great deal of good.
CHARLOTTE, MECKLENBURG CO., N. C., MARCH 24, 1883.
For one week Sandy stayed there,
spending his whole time looking after
| t.ie baby. He saw the child grow
strong and bright, and he found that
the feeding, washing and dressing of
the “kid," as he had already christ
ened it, a source of ever-incrpasing de
light. At the end of that time, hav
ing the broken bracelet carefully
stowed away in his saddle-bags, Sandy
mounted his horse, and, taking the
“ kid ” in his arms, left the scene of
the massacre never to see it again.
******
What a wonderful change sixteen
years make in men and women. The
gossy brown hair may have become
thin in that time, and on the once
smooth face time may print more than
one fine wrinkle telling of the deep fur
rows to come. Sixteen years have
somewhat whitened Sandy McGovern’s
hair and bis figure is more portly than
it was when he rode away from the
s< ene of the desert massacre. And six
teen years have transformed the “kid”
into a tall stalwart lad of eighteen, full
of health and strength. Robert Mc-
Govern, as Sandy had called the baby
he found in the old wagon-box, looked
magnificently as lie rode up to the
house, crossing the little stream in one
| easy leap of his horse. For the sixteen
l years had brought wealth to Sandy
1 with the gray hairs. It really seemed
; as if everything he touched prospered
j alter he rescued the baby. He
! made more" money in trapping that
year than he had in any two before!
He got contracts to supply the stage
line with horses and made money out
of them. He bought a share in a
claim for almost nothing, and it turned
out to be enormously rich. “ Lucky
Sandy.” as he was called, began to lie
noted for his uniform success. Finally
h“ turned his attention to cattle, and
purchasing a large tract of land,
stocked it and became a ranchero. He
placed the “kid” at school as soon as
he was old enough to go, and alter
giving him a good education, brought
him home to live on the. ranch and
learn to manage it.
“ Father,” said Bob (Sandy never
called him “kid” unless they were by
themselves), “there’s a party down
there on the road and the stage lias
broken down. I told them I'd ride up
here and send a wagon down to bring
them up. I said you’d be glad to have
them as long as they'd stay.”
“That’s right, my boy; of course
we’re glad to have ’em. Here you,
I’edro, harness up an’ go down to the
road. Bring up all the passengers on
the coach. How many is there of
them. Bob’'”
“ Five in all. There’s the prettiest
girl, father, you ever saw, an old lady
who kept looking at me, and three
gentlemen.”
•“ Well, my boy, we’ll try and make
’em comfortable. You better go an’
see ’bout rooms being got ready for
’em, an’ I’ll ride down to bring ’em
up.”
Bob dismounted, and, throwing the
bridle-rein over the liitching-post,
w alkcd into the house.
Sandydooked after him, and mutter
ing to himself, “ I declar’ that boy gets
better every day,” prepared to ride
down to the rescue of the passengers.
It was not iong before the whole party
reached the house, glad enough for the
chance of staying there until they
could go on with their journey. It
consisted of Mrs. Bamst n and Mr.
Barnston. his niece, Miss Edith Ilovee,
and two friends of theirs, Messrs.
James and Flynn. Sandy’s welcome
was so cordial, and he was so unaf
fectedly glad to see them, that all idea
of formality vanished, and before sup
per time the whole party had become
as familiar as old friends. Bob
seemed to get along very well with
.Miss Edith, anil while Sandy and
the other gentlemeD chatted to
gether, the young piople talked
about anything and everything
that could furnish a topic of conversa
tion. Both Sandy and Bob noticed
that Mrs. Barnston was very silent,
and that she did not seem to be able to
keep tier eves off the young man’s face,
.-lie would’look at him with a half puz
zled and most anxious expression until
she saw that she was noticed by the
others, when, with an effort, she would
join in the genetal conversation.
| After supper the whole party went
I out upon the piazza, when the men lit
i their cigars and talked. At length
Sandv, who never missed a chance of
showing his boy off, called up Boh to
sing, and he at once,began. in a beauti
ful tenor voice, some simple melody*
As be sang. Mis. Barnston became
more nervous, until suib'e ily starting
! up, she hastily left the piazza. Her j
; husband followed her and after a short
I absence returned. Turning to Sandy,
I he said;
1•• You must excuse iny wife, Mr. Mc-
Govern; but she lost her first husband
; and her boy many years ago under pe
culiarly distressing circumstances, and
your son’s singing has reminded her so
of her first husband’s voice that she was
unable to stay with us.”
Sandy paused for a minute before re
plying, and then in a deep tone said :
“ Bob ain’t my son.”
“Not your son! Why, I thought—
\ but I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Barn
ston.
“ Pardon’s granted,” said Sandy, sen
tci tiously. “What I mean is, I ain’t
Bob’s real father. Ile’B my son in aftee
tion and in love, but lie ain’t my natural
son.”
“ Well, if you’ll excuse my curiosity,
where did you get him ?”
“It’s sixteen years ago now,” said
Sandy, slowly, “that I was riding
along the South Platte. One day 1
came across a place wliar the red
fiends had been fightin’ a train. When
I come thar ther’ weren’t no man alive
nor no horses nor nothin’. I rode
along an’ I hearn a kind o’ wail, feeble
like. 1 stop fieri an’ listened, an’ then
I looked wbar t ie sound come from,
and I found Bob thar, nothin' but a
kid he were then, in a—”
“ You found him in the wagon-box !
Oh, for God’s sake, say you found him
there I” and Mrs. Barnston fairly ran
from the door in which she was stand
ing and threw her arms about Bob’s
neck, turning her head toward Sandy
as she spoke.
Sandy started, and half rose from his
chair. Then looking at Bob with an
iye full of affection for a moment, he
allowed his gaze to rest upon the eager
face of the woman. Then he said,
slowly:
“Thar wer’ somethin’ as I found
alongside o’ the little one.”
“ I know,” said Mrs. Barnston, “the
half of a bracelet.”
Sandy nodded, and in a wild, inartic
ulate cry of delight Mrs. Barnston fell
fainting on the Door. The spectators
of this intensely dramatic scene hast
ened to her assistance, and when she
recovered it was to find the arms of'her
son around her. She hugged him, kls>ed
him, laughed and cried at the same
time over him. She called him her
boy, her Willie, her darling—every
term of endearment ever heard she
lavished upon him. Bob or Willie
Thorndike, as his name really was,
behaved very well. While it was im
possible for him to realize that he had
found anew name and a mother, lie
yet showed a great deal of affection.
He was the first to realize, however,
that Sandy had left them.
“Mother,” he said, “father must be
told that this makes. no difference.
Come with me.”
Mrs. Barnston got up, and holding
her son’s arm tightly went with him.
They found Sandy walking to and fro
outside the house.
“Mother,” said Will, “you must
speak to father. He ha 3 been a true
father to me.”
At the sound of the title he had so
long been accustomed to, Sandy turned
toward them.
“ Father,” continued Will, “ I have
found a mother, but I have not lost
you.”
“ I do not know wliat to say to you,”
began Mrs. Barnston; “ words would
be poor and weak. God bless you, Mr.
McGovern, and He will bless you for
what you have done. I cannot thank
you, J>ut I can pray to Him that He
will. Do not think that I wish to
take Will away from you. You have
been a father to him, and it is right
that he should be your son. But he is
my boy, my darling—”
“Wa’al, marin,” said Sandy, as his
face softened into a smile as full of
pleasantness as a May morning, grasp
ing, as hespoke. Will’s hand,“thar ain’t
no reason,as i knows,why weean’t both
love this youngster, lie’s a good boy,
as good as they make'em, and I reckon
we can ’range things so as to suit all
parlies. You an’ your husband had
better stay on the ranch for a month or
two, anil we’ll have plenty of time to
talk it all out. I was afeared,” con
tinued Sandy, titter a pause, “ as how
I might hev lost the boy long o’ your
coinin', but I sees that ain’t so, an’ I
bless God for the joy Hellas given you
this day. Let’s ail go into the house
and talk it over.”
And so it was arranged. Mr. and
Mrs. Barnston and Edith stayed at the
ranch for three months. During that
time Will’s mother had a chance to tell
how she hail been carried off by the
Indians and rescued by the United
States troops within it week;
how she had mot her then
husband some eight years
afterward aud married him, and how
she hail never ceased thinking ‘about
her hoy that liaddiisl, as she supposed,
in the desert. During the three months
Will discovered the fact that he was
very glad that Edith Hovee was not
his relation by blood. When the
Barnstons did leave, they did so two
days after Mr. and Mrs. William
Thorndike had taken the cars on their
wedding tour. Sandy gave Will one
half the ranch, stocking it for him,
and the last time I saw Will he told
me he was going to run for Congress.
He was full of the pleasure he expected
to have in getting his mother, his wife
and babies, and his father, as he al
ways called old Sandy, together once
more in his home at Washington.—
Alfred Balcli.
A Hainan Body Turned to Chalk.
At the office of Leiteli Brothers’
steam printing works, in the city of
Cineinnatti, 0., are the remains of the
mother-in-law of Mr. A. L. Leitch,
one of the members of the firm, in a
thoroughly petrified condition. The
woman lias been dead about twenty
live years. The body, according to the
statement of a prominent physician, is
in a state of adipocere. Mr. Leitch
lias been keeping it in his office since
it s arrival in Cincinnati, undetermined
wli t to do with it, but his brother
informed a reporter that they were
contemplating placing it on public ex
hibition for the benefit of science. Sev
eral physicians, he said, who have ex
amined the body, consider it a rare
specimen of adipocere, and they have
broken off little pieces, a toe or a
finger, and put them in their cabinets
of snails and crawfish and other in
teresting articles. The lady died of
apoplexy, and she was buried in the
graveyard of Dupont, Ind. She
was seventy-two years of age at the
time of her d atli. The ground in
which she lias lain for the last two
dozen years is mainly of limestone for
mation. and small streams of water
trickled through the limestone and
came in contact with the body. A sci
entist stated that it is unknown just
what it is in the water that petrifies
flesh, but it is some kind of mineral.
Last November relatives of the de
ceased decided to take up her bones
and rebury them at Cincinnati. AVhen
the grave was opened their surprise
was great to find instead of only de
cayed and crumbling bones, a well pre
served box, an apparently new cotlin,
and above all a corpse which requires
no less than six men to lift. Itis lit
erally a chalk woman. The limbs and
body" are preserved almost perfectly.
The limbs are there, but liaveshrunken
and changed so much as to be barely
recognizable. Tlie flesh, or rather
what was once the flesh, is discolored,
is dark, and lias an unnatural look.
Taking a knife and cutting and scra
ping this dark substance away the sub
stance is found to be almost exactly
like white chalk. The back of the
bead is slightly decayed, but this is
the only part where decay is indicated.
Some parts of the body are not brittle
like the rest of it, but are waxy and
tough.
Remarkable DneL
One of the most remarkable duels
on record was recently fought in the
suburbs of East St, Louis, ill., and,
though it did not result fatally, it was
by no means bloodless. Two negroes,
Bill Molack and Mike Vanderberg,
were out rabbit-bunting, and met with
poor success. They stopped in a sa
loon in tiie edge of the town, where
they met several of their friends, who
twitted them about having no game,
and got up an argument as to which
of the two hunters was the better
marksman. The argument became
a hot and angry one, and it was de
cided that the only way to settle it
was to shoot, and each man was to be
the other's target. They repaired
to a field, and, taking position back to
back, started at a given signal from the
third negro, the agreement being to
‘walk twenty steps, wheel and fire.
Vanderberg walked faster than Mo
lack, and, turning first, fired just as
Molaek turned. Molack dropped his
gun and staggered. Seeing this. Van
dent rg ran, but Molack braced up,
seized His gun, and gave chase, shout
ing, “1 must have my shot.” Seeing
he was about to be overtaken, Vander
berg turned, and as he did so Molack
fired, and then sunk exhausted in the
snow. Vanderberg also fell. Both
negroes were bleeding profusely, aud
the field where they fell looked like a
slaughter-house. Friends cared sos
them. Both had their faces and armr
filled with shot, and each lost an eye.
The building of several woolen mills
is in contemplation in lowa, Missouri
and Illinois, the farm ra thinking it
will be more profitable to manufacture
their own goods then to wnd to East
ern markets.
f. C. SMITH. Mistier.
Railroad “Beats.”
A man who has been aecuatomedto
traveling on railroads by hook or crook,
without paying fare, has been detail
ing some of his experiences to a Chi
cago Times reporter. “A great
scheme.”said he, “is to fee the yard
master and have him seal you up in a
freight car. The party must have a
sharp knife. With this he cuts a round
hole nearly through in the vicinity of
the lock while on bis journey, and when
he arrives he knocks a hole through
the door and pulls out the piug, or
breaks the seal fastening to the door,
and walks away. On t.be Louisville
and Nashville, Illinois Central, Atchi
son, Topeka and Santa Fe, and many
other roads, ‘empties’ are run with
open doors, affording ample facilities to
travelers, though sometimes the tables
are turned by a trainman, who slyly
locks the door which the traveler has
closed in order to be more solitary. I
remember coming over the Iron Moun
tain once in a box car filled with cot
ton bales. Some officious meddler
shoved the end door together, and I
remained in that car four days, finally
gazing upon God’s glorious sunlight
once more in the city of Cincinnati.”
“Did you ever get caught?”
“Not often, though I cannot tell ft
lie. Ido not wholly deny the soft im
peachment. A"ears ago it was a com
mon thing for twenty or thirty toughs
to board a train in Californi i and ride
as far as they wanted. It was a strange
sight to see the old miners, each with
a blanket, riding on top of the freight
cars. The Central Pacific, however,
succeeded in getting some vory strin
gent legislation through, and when fel
lows in small numbers accepted the
courtesy of a ride without pay, they
were suddenly, severely and heavily
sat down on. The scheme there among
the knowing ones was for the three or
four, or as many as happened to be
captured, to swear that they bad each
paid some trainman half a dollar, and
the justice usually dismissed the case,
for if the allegation came to the ears
of the general officers of the Central
Pacific they forthwith dismissed every
man on that train. Tlie doors of
loaded freight cars are frequently
‘sprung’ witli fist plates. The ‘fakir’
gets in, taking bis fist plate with him,
and an outside party springs the door
back. When the traveler has gone far
enough he springs the door open with
his fist plate, and walks forth. The
interiors of mail cars, too, it is said,
furnish excellent facilities for free
riding if the mail agent is properly fed.
The emigrant trains are all easy to
work, and a man who can’t work his
way in a high-toned emigrant car from
Chicago to .San Francisco in ten days
has not the stuff in him out of which
milliouaires are made. If a fellow lias
a little money with him with which
to tip the conductor his journey will
be as smooth and pleasant as the ab
sence of rude remarks and unpleasant
forebodings can make it. The last and
highest form of free traveling is on
passes. I usually go to the general
managers of the roads direct. Some- .
times I’m a missionary, at other times
I’m on my way to locate huge paper
mills on the line, and again I am the
editor of a leading metropolitan paper.
Very often I approach a man, repre
senting myself as the general manager
of the Sitka, Panama and Horn
route,- or some other line. Sometimes .
I boldly announee that my name is the;
same as that of the general manager
whom I address, and then suggest that
I have forgotten his name. Ths'
freight departments can usually
be worked in case of failurs
with the general manager. 1
quietly say to the general freight agent
that 1 have one hundred cars of string
beans that I want to ship in a week,
but must arrange for their reception
at destination. Will he give me a pass
over his line and connections to Yoka
homa and return? To be sure ho
will.”
Speaking with a general .superin- •
tenileut of one of the leading Western
roads, he told the reporter that a
freight train had not left Chicago for
ten years that did not carry a deadhead
either under the trucks, in some freight
ear, on the engine, In front of the en
gine, or just back of and behind the
cowcatcher, in a vacant place in which, '
if a tramp once gets snugly stowed, he .
is safe for a ride until the train stops*
The number of passes issued by the
railroads lias of late years grown to
enormous numbers. Some of the great
Western roads, it is stated, issue as
high as five thousand annual passes,
while trip parses are munificently
handed over to almost anyboJy who
has the assurance to apply.
It is not necessary to use water ift ■
pouring over a bonk.