Humour in the Beacon
Keep to the Left
What Befell a Yankee who disobeyed the Injunction
(Correspondence Boston Traveller)
My first experience while driving over one of the splendid roads surrounding SA, NB, causes the above to be firmly implanted on my mind. I had read so much recently regarding the fine roads there that immediately after my arrival at the Algonquin I ordered a horse and buggy that I might ride forth and prove that man in this 19th century is proven to exaggerate. Turning down one of the broad gavelled driveways leading from the hotel, I found myself upon a street of the old town. Upwards of 60 feet wide, its sides lined with shade trees, this street bore but little resemblance to streets as we of the city know them A green sward covered its width from fence to fence, not showing upon its surface the slightest indication of wheels ever having passed over it. Here, thought I, is the best evidence of a smooth, unruffled repose, and what must be the life led by the 1700 inhabitants of the village that can permit nature’s carpet, unharmed to cover a public road. I soon emerged, however, upon a travelled way, which I later learned is the road to SS, 28 miles distant. Following its even, smooth surface for some two miles I found myself on the band overlooking the lovely St. Croix River. Now I was beyond the boundaries of the ton, and expected soon to strike the ordinary country “rut:” road, but being disappointed I had almost determined to drive on until I did find it. At last I discovered some distance ahead an old-fashioned school house.
From its driveway appeared a horse and wagon, and in the latter a nice looking girl, arrayed in a white calico gown. Here, thought I, is a chance to show my city ways, so whipping my horse into a trot, I prepared to pass the young lady with uplifted hat. Her horse was now on the highway, and had assumed a gait somewhat faster than a walk. She kept however on my side (the right) of the road, but I anticipated that as we neared she would turn out. My horse seemed determined to give her the right of way, but to show “my horse knowledge” I yanked the right rein, and in another instant my buggy was in collision with hers, upsetting it, and throwing her upon the roadside. I lay sprawling upon the opposite side, but immediately regaining my feet, I went to her assistance; partly stunned, but not otherwise inured, she had assumed a sitting posture. I offered my regrets, but only received in reply the admonition, “Keep to the left.” I begged her pardon and said I was on my own side. “You were not,” she said; “don’t you know that in NB you should keep to the left?” Offering every excuse for my ignorance, I explained that if she were from “the States” as I was, and accustomed to the ways of a great city like Lynn, she would probably have committed the same error.
“A great city like Lynn,” and she laughed. “Why bless your innocent ‘Johnnie’ soul, I’ve been teaching school for my sister today while she went to town, but when I’m home I’m in the doll department at Macy’s, corner fourteenth street and Sixth avenue, NY, but I was born in St. Andrews and come home every second year to build up.”
I righted her buggy and helped her in, and as she drove off toward St. Andrews a mischievous twinkle came in her eye, and turning her head toward me as I stood in the road feeling very cheap, her parting salutation was: “Remember Johnnie keep to the left.”
Feb 20, 1890
Routed by the Enemy
Mrs. Keezer is not Allowed to Narrate her Battle Experiences. Her Husband has an Exciting Experience with the Mob, and is Compelled to Seek Cover
“What means this eager, anxious throng?” was the first question a stranger would have asked if he had been in Saint Andrews on Saturday night, and had seen the crowd of men and boys that surged about the entrance to Stevenson’s Hall, between 7 and 8 o’clock.
The explanation of this unusual stir was to be found in the hand-bills that were posted about the fences and in the shop-windows, announcing that Mrs. David Keezer would deliver a lecture on “Experiences in the late United States rebellion.” Those of the crowed who had a dime in their pockets—and there were few who hadn’t that night—and who were eager to hear Ms. Keezer’s thrilling war experiences hustled upstairs, dropped the aforesaid dime into the waiting hand of the lecturer’s husband, who officiated as door-keeper, and then stepped inside the hall. By 8 o’clock there were probably one hundred and fifty persons in the room, all of them of the masculine gender, and of them apparently expecting some startling “experiences.”
The lecturer was on hand in good time, and occupied a seat on the platform for half an hour before the lecture began. She was neatly attired and made rather a favorable impression upon those who had come to hear her. She had on a pretty black bonnet, and well-fitting black jacket, and a dress of brown material. In front of her on a small table, covered with a white cloth, reposed her back fur cape and pocket handkerchief.
When the hour came around for opening the lecture, Bradford Boone, Esq., was moved into the chair, and at once took her station on he platform. He was followed by a score of others, whose hearing appeared to be defective, and who seemed anxious to get as near the lecturer as possible in order that none of her “experiences” might be lost to them. After a little parleying, the chairman arose, and called the meeting to order. He then introduced Mrs. Keezer as “one of the most remarkablest [sic] women of the age,” and intimated that the audience would hear a lecture, the like of which they had never heard before and would never hear again. Vociferous applause followed Mr. Boone’s brilliant effort.
Mrs. Keezer began her lecture very nervously, but in a good voice. She used no notes. She wasted little time in useless introductions, plunging at once into her narrative. In April, 1861, her first husband, Charles Norwood, who was an American soldier, came home on a furlough. At the suggestion of the chairman, she went into particular as to the period of the furlough. It was six weeks long. At the end of the six weeks, he persuaded her to go to the wars with him. She went as a nurse, and at the same time to look after her husband. She commenced to describe the battles she had seen, when some young scamp, in the rear of the hall, no doubt to give the battle sketches a realistic effect, began discharging fire crackers. Mr. Keezer at this juncture rushed in and threatened to “cal her off” and “dismiss the meetin’” [sic] if such disturbances were not ended right there.
As soon as order had been in a measure restored the lecturer returned to her narrative, and was describing with a master hand the “ghastly sights,” “the terrible scenery” and “the wild demons” she had seen on the battle field, when another cracker exploded at her feet. She uttered a faint scream, assumed a tragic attitude, and then sat down, declaring she would not speak another word. Her husband, who had reason to be justly indignant, again burst into the room, and in a voice of thunder, said that “the meetin’ was dismissed.” He then called upon “Mary” to come off the platform. Instantly, there was a demand from a score or more that their money be returned to them, and to add to the bedlam the cracker fusillade was renewed. The fire appeared to be chiefly directed to Mr. Keezer. There were “crackers to right of him, crackers to left of him, crackers all around him.” He boldly held his ground, however, and his cash, too, and declared that if they would call upon him the next day he would give very cent back. He said he did not want their money. He could get along without it. Finding the atmosphere was becoming too hot he endeavored to get outside the hall, and after a good deal of jostling he got to the door. By this time an enormous crowed had gathered, and the noise they made sounded as if bedlam had been let loose. To go home, with such a howling mob after them, was madness, so they both very wisely decided to seek shelter in Miss Moore’s saloon, until the crowd had dispersed. Every effort was used to coax Mr. Keezer out by the crowed, some young villains even going so far as to bring his sloven down to the saloon door, but her refused to appear. Subsequently the sloven was thrown over the wharf. When eleven o’clock had come around, and the streets appeared quiet, they determined to start for home. A number of prominent citizens offered to accompany them as a body guard, which offer was accepted. Mr. J. T. Ross acted as advance guard, bearing on his shoulder a rusty sword, which he had fished out of somewhere. Immediately behind him came Mr. and Mrs. Keezer, hand in hand, determined to fall together if the worst should come. Mr. Arthur Moore and Mr. Wm. McQuoid occupied the right and left wing. The rear was protected by Con. Lamb, Mr. Owen Rigby and Mr. B. F. Estes. Mr. J. M. Hanson did outpost duty with a lantern. Mr. Keezer and his chosen band had scarcely entered upon their dangerous march when the enemy appeared, every corner and every alley yielding its quota. Despite the sturdy efforts of the body guard, their ranks were frequently broken by some bold youth, anxious to get within reaching distance of Mr. Keezer. A few of them succeeded, but fortunately without doing him any serious injury. One cowardly scamp struck him square in the face as he turned a corner. The crowed did not molest them after they got into the home.
Mrs. Keezer declared that when next she lectured it would be in St. John, where she would be protected by the law. She said there was no law in St. Andrews. It certainly looked that way on Saturday night.
The Scott Act.
Inspector O’Brien Opens fire on St. Andrews.
He Gains Two Easy Victories but is Repulsed by Pop in Two Other Battles
Among the guests who have been gathered around the board of the International Hotel, the past week or two, has been a tall man, with iron gray hair and side whiskers, keen, yet pleasant blue eyes, and shaggy eyebrows, whose age might safely be placed anywhere between fifty and sixty years. More than usual interest has been taken in this stranger’s advent, from the fact that he is none other than Mr. Edward O’Brien, the Scott Act Inspector for the County.
Although the general public were not expecting a visit from Inspector O’Brien, there were some people who appeared to know of his coming, and who were closeted with him soon after his arrival. It was not long before rumors of contemplated prosecutions were on the wing, and it became an absolute impossibility to obtain anything stronger to quench their thirst than plain pop or ginger beer.
Not until Friday was any positive move taken b the Inspector. Then two informations were laid, and summonses were issued for the afternoon of the following day. Mrs. Ann Hatch’s case was the only one tried on Saturday by Justice Hatheway. Mr. Grimmer, the County clerk, appeared in the inspector’s behalf, Mrs. Hatch being undefended. She pleaded not guilty, and intimated to the court that “since the sneaks were going to run the town it was about time to put a fence around it and turn it into a goose pasture.” Mr. Thomas Storr was the first witness. He did not know of Mrs. Hatch selling liquor for a period of twenty years. His business as truckman frequently called him to her store, and quite often he drank pop and ginger beer there. He never got any whiskey, or brandy, or gin there, and as for lager beer, well, his opinion of that beverage was not very high. Mrs. Hatch had a bar, with bottles on the shelves, but what they contained he did not know. As the other witness, Mr. Fearby, was not on hand, the further hearing of the case was adjourned until 8 o’clock. Mr. Fearby’s evidence was no stronger against the defendant than that of the previous witness. He had been in the habit of visiting Mrs. Hatch’s shop, but for six or more months past he had obtained nothing stronger than pop stuff or sarsaparilla. She had refused to sell him liquor, and he heard her refuse it to others. No intoxicating liquor was mixed with the pop or sarsaparilla he drank. He could have detected it if he had been there. At the close of this witness’s testimony, Mr. Grimmer applied for a further adjournment until Monday afternoon, so that other witnesses could be summoned, but the justice would not grant it and dismissed the complaint.
The other cases were set down for Tuesday afternoon, the defendants being Patrick Donaghue and William Sheehan. The former acknowledged a violation and paid his fine. Sheehan pleaded not guilty and several witnesses were examined without any evidence of guilt being disclosed. The further hearing of the case was deferred until the evening. The witnesses examined in the evening all drank “pop,” so that there was nothing left for the court to do but dismiss the complaint.
The Inspector went upriver on Wednesday.
A Miserable Business
Rev. A. Gunn Fires a Shot at “Pop” Drinkers
A Danger that Dorchester will Receive some of Our Citizens
When Rev. A. Gunn arose in the Presbyterian pulpit on Sunday evening to deliver his usual discourse, he state that at a future day he proposed to make some remarks upon Sabbath desecration, a sin, he remarked, that appeared to be increasing rather than decreasing in this community.
There was another subject upon which he proposed saying something about, and that was “this miserable pop business.” On previous occasions he had pointed out that the man who sells intoxicating liquor in the County of charlotte violates the law of the land. He is a criminal. The man who buys the liquor and rinks it has also committed a grave wrong. He is an accessory in crime. In this case the law does not punish the accessory, but there are cases in which the accessory is very severely punished.
The facts, said he, which have come out at late trials here, show a low state of moral sentiment in certain quarters. They show that some men have lost much of the honor the Creator endowed them with. On more than one occasion, the preacher said that he had shown that drink demoralizes a man and deprives him of honor. If there was false swearing at the trails to which he alluded, he would not say, but this he would say—things do not look well. A man may afford to pay a liquor dealer’s fine, but he cannot afford to get the dealer clear by swearing falsely. The price was too much. It was high time that the moral sentiment of this community was raised. If it does not, Saint Andrews will lose some of her citizens, and the population of Dorchester will be correspondingly increased. There will be a short turn some day. He had raised his voice, he had given a warning. His remarks were not directed particularly to his congregation. We want a high moral sentiment here. It is time the moral sentiment was raised. If a man has done wrong, let him like a man acknowledge his wrong. The law does not punish the man who buys; it does not punish the accessory. The moral guilt remains however. If a man is guilty, let him not attempt to conceal it by a greater crime. When a man takes an oath it requires of him that he shall tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. If he endeavours to conceal facts, or employs subterfuges, he has violated his oath, and punishment awaits him.
The reverend gentleman then proceeded with his sermon, the pith of which was that if men employed the same diligence in seeking after spiritual things as they do in seeking after gold, or silver, or hidden treasure, it would be better for their eternal welfare. During the course of his remarks he stated that if he offered two dollars per day to people to attend church, he had no doubt that the church would be crowded, but, because he had something better to offer them, but few attended. Yet there were people who would accept a dollar and a half per day to go out on the lake at the Sabbath day and work. [directed at the Chamcook Ice business, it seems]
How to Send Kisses By Mail
The incident that we are about to relate did not happen in Saint Andrews, but as it contains information which might be made use of here, we think it will not go amiss.
The plot is laid in the vicinity of Bangor. The young postmaster of the village was hard at work in his office one day, when a gentle tap was heard upon the door, and in stepped a blushing maiden of sixteen, with a money order which she desired cashed. She handed it, with a bashful smile, to the official, who, after closely examining it, gave her the money it called for. At the same time he asked her if she had read what was written on the margin of the order.
“No, I have not,” she replied; “for I cannot make it out. Will you please read it for me?”
The young postmaster read as follows—“I send you $3 and a dozen kisses.”
Glancing at the bashful girl, he said, “Now, I have paid you the money and I suppose you want the kisses.”
“Yes,” she said, “if he has sent me any kisses I want them, too.”
It is hardly necessary to say that the balance of the order was promptly paid and in a scientific manner.
On reaching home, the delighted maiden remarked to her mother:
“Mother, this Post Office system of ours is a great thing, developing more and more every year, and each new feature seems to be the best. Jimmy sent me a dozen kisses along with the money order, and the Postmaster gave me twenty. It beats the special delivery system all hollow.”
It Ended in Tears
In the vicinity of Black’s Harbour there lives an old man named Thompson. He has a daughter, who is married to a sailor lad named Wallace. Some time ago, during the absence of her husband on the briny deep, the daughter returned to her father’s home to live. The old man raised no objection until the husband came back from his voyage, when he, too, announced his intention of making his father-in-law’s house his habitation. The old man refused to give his consent to the arrangement, and the daughter endeavoured to influence by means of a club.
But the club argument was of no avail, for as soon as the daughter showed her hand, the old man hitched up the mare and drove to St. George to invoke the aid of the law. The necessary legal papers were issued, and on Wednesday, father and daughter and son-in-law were before Justices Wetmore and Davis as Plaintiff and defendants in an ejectment suit. When the old man began to state his case, he burst into tears. The daughter’s heart was melted by this display of feeling, and she, too, began to weep. Even the eyes of the justices began to grow moist. Fearing that the court might dissolve altogether, a reconciliation was proposed. The olive branch was eagerly grasped by both parties, and when court fees had been paid over, they all drove off together.
Conquered by a Hair
On the CPR train from Montreal, on Wednesday last, there was a group of college students from Ohio, who were about to enjoy an outing in Cape Breton. They were up bright and early for breakfast, but for some reason or other the waiters on the train would not serve a meal for them. After coaxing in vain for some time a foraging committee was appointed whose duty it was to go out at each station and endeavour to purchase biscuits and cheese. Towards sinner time a special effort was made for a change in the bill of fare. Stopping at a station where it was thought another course could be added to their simple, meal, one of the students allied forth, and before the whistle of the locomotive had sounded for a start, he rushed into the car, bearing triumphantly aloft a huge mince pie. “rejoice and be glad,” he shouted to his companions, “salvation has come.” The boys hailed the change with great glee, and they all gathered around while the ceremony of dividing the pie was being conducted. One of the students, more eager than the rest, snatched up his piece, and put his teeth into it. A horrible expression of disgust overspread his countenance, as he yanked from his moth a hair about a yard and half long. This discovery caused a general cessation of hostilities, for hungry as the youths were they were not hungry enough to masticate a pie that was held together by hairs like a section of wall plaster. Each one looked sadly at his piece for an instant and then with one accord the remnants of the pie were dashed through the open window, and scattered to the four winds of heaven. The circumstance seemed to blight the hopes of the young men, for they abandoned their foraging, and never taste a bite until they reached Vanceboro.
The incident afforded no little amusement to the passengers.
The bean game was introduced to the Algonquin guests on Monday evening for the first time. And this is how they played it. Two captains were selected, Mr. Nazro, of Boston, and Mr. Tasse, of Ottawa, being the chosen ones. Each of these "chose a side," as the boys, would say when playing ball. These "sides," numbering about 15 persons each, were arranged opposite each other in rows. At the end of each row was a table, and on the head table of each was an equal number of bean bags. When the referee, Mr. Carter, gave the word "go," the captain on each side seized the bags one by one and passed them down the line, and as they reached the end they were placed on the table there. Any bags that were dropped by nervous players had to remain on the floor until all the other bags had passed, then the captain picked them up where they had fallen, and continued them on their journey. When all the bags had reached the foot of the row then they were started back, and the side getting them all back to the starting table first won the heat. The first heat was declared won by Capt. Nezro's side. Then Mr. Lewis, of Washington, assumed the captaincy of Mr. Tasse's side, but he had no better luck, for in the second heat, Capt Nazro was once more the winner. A third heat was declared a draw, and a fourth was won by Mr. Nazro, who thus captured the laurel wreath.
Jan 8, 1891
Some curious things happen at public dinners occasionally. It is narrated that at the close of one of these festive occasion sin St. Andrews some years go, one of the guests got down on his knees to put his overshoes on, and was horrified because he could not find his feet. He caught sight of them once, and tried to catch them, but every time he turned his pedal extremities turned too, and at last he was obliged to give up the struggle in despair. Another guest, who had been taking too much “turkey,” created a good deal of merriment by endeavoring to get his cuffs on over his feet.
A brilliant idea flashed through the brain of one of our local practical joker the other day. He was seated in the railway office, waiting for the return of the agent, when he conceived the idea of giving the latter a scare by feigning suicide. As soon as the agent hove in sight, the joker spread himself out on the floor with a revolver at his side, and he had no difficulty in coaxing a party in the office to spill a bottle of red ink on the spot where his brain was supposed to be. Then he waited developments. They came much sooner than he anticipated, and when he hurriedly lifted himself from his recumbent attitude to escape the agent’s No 11’s, he was horrified to find that the red ink would not wash off his face. He rubbed for an hour or two before he could make any impression on it, and finally he concluded to let I wear of. He is in doubt now as to the whether he had the joke on the agent or the agent had the joke on him.
A dead baby! There could be no doubt about it. In the slimy ooze, at the base of the market wharf, lay the tiny lifeless form. Over the upper part of the body a muddy cloth was spread, hiding from view the sightless eyes, and the pinched, drawn face. The body appeared clothed in a light cotton material. Some young men first discovered the figure, and almost in a trice the word flew around. The lawyer hurriedly dismissed his client and jumping on to a passing vehicle drove with all speed to the scene; the barber abandoned his half-shaven customer, and followed were the lawyer led; the coroner dropped everything and ran, as fast as his legs could carry him; a dozen other followed in his wake. With saddened face sand voices subdued they gathered around the pulseless babe, none daring to examine it until the coroner had arrived. That functionary wasted no time but at once removed this cloth from the face of the body. He gazed but a moment, and then with a disgusted look turned away. “A doll! Well I’ll be hanged!” And a doll it was.
A bridegroom and bride, who came to the Algonquin a few days ago to spend their honey moon, and who thought nobody could detect their new relations towards each other, were just a little chagrined when, on entering the dining hall for their first meal, the bright young ladies who compose the orchestra began playing Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. As the familiar strains fell upon their ears they both blushed, and then burst into a hearty laugh. They evidently appreciated the joke.
Howells in one of his novels, says that a “woman is a natural born smuggler.” Perhaps that is the reason why a little store in SA, where Wedgewood ware is sold has such an attraction for American lady visitors.—Eastport Sentinel
The President’s Vacation. His Travels, Pleasure and Adventures. Pittsfield, Mass., Sun.
A most charming old town is SA, NB. We go down from Calais by the “Rose Standish,” a sail of about three hours, the boat stopping at one or two poets en route to take on freight and passengers. There are a great many holiday people like ourselves. The freight includes the usual variety of merchandise and in addition huge blocks of red granite, much like that from Mr. Allen’s quarries in Missouri. The “Rose Standish” is not a “fast girl” and her timetable allows a leisurely pace which we greatly enjoy. River and bay are in a smiling humor and we sit in the shade of the upper deck and watch the panorama of the shore slide by. It is ten o’clock when we climb to the wharf and pass up the quiet street.
The town occupies the west slope of the long peninsula, on one side the wide St. Croix River with its beautiful scenery and spreading away to the south and east the bay whose charm has but one equal in the world, it is said, the famous bay of Naples. “Sad, isn’t it?” said the President, “that so charming a picture should have for its name “the Pesaka.” I give it up but it is spelled “Pesakadamiakkanti.” The title means in Indian, “Leads up to open places.” It is simplified (?) in the modern guidebooks and geographies to Passamaquoddy. Some say the latter word means in the Indian tongue the “Place of the pollock” and that the bay was so named because of the abundance of this kind of fish in its waters. The President would name it “Holiday Haven.”
Quaint little houses border the streets, shingled mostly from ground to ridgeboard, weather-beaten and old. There was formerly a great business done here in shipping, lumbering, boating and fishing, and these odd little houses are the former domiciles of woodmen, mechanics and sailors. The business seems to have largely died away, but the cottages are here and most of them have windows filled with flower pots and little door yards with old-fashioned flowers and tangles of wild rose. Shops are not many-- simply the country stores to supply the practical wants of the population but every summer an art crockery store is opened to sell souvenirs to tourists. The shop is well filled by exquisite things from French, English and Irish potteries and as there is no duty the prices are very tempting. The shell-like Belleck Ware, the Worcester, Devonshire, Wedgewood and other fancy wares are not above half Boston prices. Wedgewood is the favorite with buyers. Pittsfield people will see some good examples of it at Mr. Mills’ store on North street, and the President is so captivated with its beautiful blue color and its cameo like carvings of mythological gods and goddesses that he defies the law and buys an armful. Old Josiah Wedgewood, who invented this ware in 1600, and made fame and fortune with his bowls and cups and vases and pitchers with their profiles of kings and statesmen and actresses upon them, would have smiled out loud if he could have seen the President guarding his treasures from the inquisitive eyes of the customs men. It transpired that the revenue guards knew all about it, but at their discretion let slip the little samples and presents the tourists buy. His teacup and bowl, wreathed with exquisite carvings telling a tale he will have to look up in the Iliad or the wanderings of Ulysses were perfectly safe, and he need not have carried them so furtively and secretly in his high Derby hat.
. . .
It is quite half a mile, and a sunny, warm half mile at that, from the wharf to the Algonquin, a grand summer hotel which crowns s knoll overlooking the town and the waters round about. Stages run but we preferred to walk along the streets and up the winding road, stopping to “take in” many beautiful views of bay and island and ship. By our side, as we stroll up the slope, walks one native here, and in a kindly way he gives us the various points in view—Joe’s Point, running away cut into the St. Croix, and far beyond, in the same direction the woody crown of the “Devil’s Head.” The Maine highlands with Kendall’s Head, Point Pleasant with its Indian village, remnant of the Etchemins who were the lords of the land, before the white man’s advent; Deer island, Minister’s Island, Big Latete, Little Latete, the pretty harbor of Chamcook, and near by the town Navy Island. This a very tame in print, perhaps, but to view on this clear July day, with a brilliant sky and sea, the flitting of white sails, the beach stretching its long yellow line fringed with foam, the blossom-bedecked cottages, the quaint old houses, the sleepy haze that lies far down the bay, the quiet streets—with all these and more allurements that we can describe, it was an half hour’s walk that left an indelible picture on our memories and that stroll up the slope of St. Andrews was one of the most delightful incidents of the vacation.
The “Algonquin” is a vast structure built for the summer boarder business and it is first-class in all its appointments. It stands 150 feet above high water, and commands the whole circumference of view, shoreward and to sea. The parlors are spacious and handsome, an elevator, baths and all sorts of comforts are provided, the rooms are large and beautifully furnished and the dining hall is an apartment of fine proportions with an outlook over e town and the bay. The hotel will accommodate 150 guests. We found nearly a hundred although the season is hardly in its height until August. Landlord Albert Miller is a Franklin county man, from Athol, I believe, and has ample experience in hotel management. He receives us with most courteous hospitality and makes us a present of the house, so to speak, and when, an hour later we sit down to a luncheon fit even for royal palates, the President is (so) glad he accepts the gift. After the lunch comes cigars on the piazza. Big easy chairs are here by the score and we take two of them where the breeze and shade are best and sit listening to the orchestra, three bright young women with cornet, violin and piano in the parlor just behind us. How perfectly happy the president looks! The blue smoke blows from his cigar in a fragrant cloud. He rocks gently in the big chair to the time of the waltz the musicians are playing; his eyes are bright with the beauty of the picture before him and he says softly, “No wonder that, when He looked upon the land and the sea He had made He said it was good.”
We sit here till well into the afternoon. Guests all about us are enjoying the luxury of peace and rest “far from the madding crowd.” The music rises and falls; there are long halts in the program, the alternate union Jacks and Stars and Stripes which decorate the columns of the piazza flutter lazily; there is an irresistible drowsiness falling upon all of us and in his sleepy hollow chair the President nods—and snores! “The boat is coming,” some one says, and far down the bay is a cloud of smoke the flash of roam from side-wheels and bow of a steamer. It is the “Rose Standish” on the return trip and we must go. Very reluctantly, we leave, and with many backward glances at the wide sweep of lawn with its gorgeous flower beds and its neat walks; at the groups of guest her and there, the women in pleasant summer costumes chatting an gossiping and laughing in contentment and delight, and at the fair landscape all about.
“A very good dinner indeed,” said the President to Capt. Ryan, as he talked with him about the Algonquin. “I should say so,” remarked the captain, “and if you will be kind enough to sit in the middle of the boat she will not be so apt to run on one wheel.” The President had indeed “filled well,” but he rather resented the imputation that he had weighted himself to such an extent that he could be used as ballast for a big ship.
Every baby is he sweetest baby in the world. You were once considered the sweetest thing in the world, although you may not look it now.
Ex-bell ringer Keezer lingered long and lovingly over the bell-rope on Saturday night—0the lat day of the Keezer regime. The new bellman made his debut very quietly on Monday morning.
No one knows the amount of genuine, side-splitting fun a newspaper editor has during the course of a week. Monday morning he starts out, humming a psalm tune he has heard in church the day before, and before he has traversed two blocks he meets a man who wants to take his life because his name appeared in the paper the week previous. Tuesday finds the editor with the old, placid smile, but the day is not ended before a fellow with ‘blood in his eye” stops him and wants to know why in “scheol” his name is not good enough to be published in “your blankedly-blanked paper.” By Wednesday morning the traces of the precious days’ conflict have been dispelled from the editorial countenance, and its former seraphic appearance has returned. He greets his subscribers smilingly, but in one case the smile is not returned. “Stop my paper,” says the disgruntled subscriber, “you put in a paragraph about Mrs. So-and-So’s cow having died, and you wouldn’t say anything about my cow,” which was a better cow than Mrs. So-and So’s ten times over.” Then on Thursday, the light-hearted man of paper is dragged over the coals by somebody because he has not given a column to describing an entertainment, which he has served up in a half a dozen lines, and all sorts of sinister motives are hinted at. On Friday, the editor is waylaid by another, who has discovered that an opinion expressed by the paper does not agree with one he holds on the same subject, and he wants to argue the editor out of it. Saturday is “pay-day.” there is the usual number of kickers to be met with, but the news paper published is so absorbed in trying to solve how it is possible to get $50 out of $20 and have any left that the complaints pass unheeded through his ears. On Sunday, he goes to church—like all good editors do—to pay for these who despitefully use him and persecute him, and he catches “fits” there at the hands of the preacher, because he, the aforesaid editor, is no better than he ought to be. Thus the days slip by, and the weeks roll around, and the years pass away--each day, and each week, and each year, adding to the newspaper man’s large and growing stock of fun. No wonder he is such a happy mortal.
A Border Tough
Who Has Something to Show for His Experiences
Among the visitors who drifted into St. Andrews last week was the famous William Pierce. A few years ago, William was one of the toughest of the border toughs. Nothing was too hot or too heavy for him. As strong as a bull, he was known to lift immense weights that no one in the neighborhood could budge. As brave as a lion, he feared nothing. And when a couple of fingers of gin were added to these attributes, “bill” was a holy terror. He would fight anything that stood in shoe leather. Numbers made no difference to him—the more the merrier. It is related of him that on one occasion, a St. Stephen policeman sought to effect his arrest, and knowing the kind of material he had to deal with, the officer struck him a blow on the head with his baton that would have felled an ox. For an instant bill was dazed. Before the policeman could strike another blow, Bill’s strong right arm was getting in its work, and if a posse of citizens armed with weapons of various kinds had not come to the policeman’s rescue, eh would have been the land of dreams in a very short time.
Another time, Pierce performed the fire act in a very thrilling manner. He had been placed in the lock-up for drunkenness, with two boon companions. Full of rage at being imprisoned, he set fire to the interior of the lock-up, and then, like demon, he danced among the smoke and flames, calling upon his companions to pray as they had never prayed before, and likening them to the three men in the Scripture story, who occupied the fiery furnace. When the smoke was seen from the outside and help arrived, Bill was glued to a hole in the wall, sucking in a little fresh air, apparently as cool as a cucumber, while his half-smothered companions were on their knees, praying for all they were worth. On the door being burst open, Pierce’s first act was to rush at the policeman and knock him down.
One day, Pierce and a drunken companion occupied the train going into St. Stephen. They began quarrelling, and Conductor Stewart—not Superintendent Stewart—locked them up in an empty box car. When the train reached town, both men were running with blood and scarcely a stitch of clothes covered their bodies. They had fought like wild cats the whole way in, each doing is level best to clean out his antagonist.
Pierce fought through American Civil War, and can relate many hair breadth escapes.
Beneath his roughness, bill always had a tender, generous heart. In his seafaring life, he found abundant scope to exercise this good quality. On one of the ships that the was a sailor on, there was a brutal, big mate, who showed a disposition to act very cruelly towards a pale, emaciated young fellow, who was in the same watch with him. Bill stood it as long as he could, and then he sent an ultimatum to the mate, which prevented any further display of cruelty of the voyage.
The exciting experiences through which this border tough has passed during the past fifty-six years have left their impress on him in several ways. His close cropped head is slashed and furrowed with scars which point in every direction, while a little piece of gold-plate that covers a hole in his cranium marks the spot where a revolver bullet got in its work. His nose is broken several of his teeth have also disappeared. His hands are knocked out of shape, and worse then all, he has but one leg, having lost the other is some trouble aboard ship. To raise money to purchase a cork leg was the ostensible object of his visit to St. Andrews. A mission of this nature very soon brought him into contact with corks that were used for other purposes, and it was not long before he was feeling in a very happy frame of mind. He remained here for a day or two and then deported for Eastport.
The hotel parlour was a scene of hilarity on Thursday evening last, caused by a number of prominent artists engaged in portraying, on white paper, through the medium of crayons, the following subjects, which were given in the following order: Flea, Mr. Day; Kid, Miss Lewis; Beaver, Mr. Merrill; Katy-did, Mrs. Lewis; Tarantula, Miss Benson; . . . To say these drawings were unique but faintly expressed it. . . . As a mirth provoking was of passing a few hours in a social way, it was more than successful. The guessing as to what each figure represented was very funny, more particularly in the case of Mr. Cobb, who did not recognize the result of his own handiwork, naming in a goat instead of a gnat.
A series of terrible, ear-splitting shrieks came from the region of the St. Andrews foundry on Tuesday. Some people thought that the enterprising proprietor had recently added a steam siren or calliope to the foundry plant, and hastened down to examine it. They were considerably surprised to find that the noise was not caused by a siren or calliope, but came from the stentorian lungs of the foundryman, who had discovered a neighbour’s cow floundering in his well, and was anxious to get her out before the water became mixed with her milk. The cow was owned by James Heenan. By the aid of a rope, she was extricated from her uncomfortable position. The next time she goes browsing around the foundry-yard, toning up her system with iron filings, she will give the well a wide birth.
Oh the cow, the cow, the vagrant cow,
‘tis now she meandereth in search of a row;
if gates are left open, she is bound to get in,
and will masticate anything from rag carpet to tin;
she dedaubeth our yard, our street, our walk,
and seems knowing enough to be able to talk;
‘tis dangerous to leave one’s front door ajar,
for in it she’ll bolt, fine furniture to mar;
she respecteth no person, pound-keeper or law,
and all that seems left us is to jaw, jaw, jaw;
unless, like the man whose name we don’t tell,
we keep in our back-yard a deep, deep well
when that cow comes a nosing about,
whisking her tail and depressing her snout,
we’ll drop her so deep in that cool, shady retreat,
that henceforth and hereafter she’ll keep off the street.
Jan 5, 1893
John Nicholas, patriarch of the Indian camp at Indian Point, Sa, thinks Mr. Beverly, of Saint John , a “very bad injun.” John took a bundle of fancy baskets to Saint John Christmas time to sell, and was doing a nice trade, when he says Mr. Beverly told the police authorities he was an “Eastport injun,” and he was bounced out of the market. A licence fee of $20 was demanded from him, but instead of paying it John visited his friend, Sir Leonard Tilley who promptly vouched for him as a Canadian thoroughbred. He succeeded in getting restored to his former status in the city market, but he lost a good day’s sale. His loss was Mr Beverley’s gain, and that’s what makes the latter such a “bad injun” in John’s eyes.
Mr. Van Horne’s aide-de Camp
He figures as a speculator in Indian Opium sand Straw Hats. Article.
There is no man connected with the CPR who has had more experiences to the square inch than Jim French, the “cullud gemman” who does the honors so gracefully in President Van Horne’s private car, and there is none who can relate his experiences more quaintly or more forcibly, or who can interlard them with more swear-words, than the aforesaid James. In fact, from the rugged cliffs of Cape Breton to the ocean-laved shores of British Columbia James French stands out alone and unique, the ne plus ultra, as it were, of all that is scientific and quaint in latter day profanity.
Yet Jim is not bad, or vicious. On the contrary, he is as meek as a mouse, as generous as a lord, as sharp as a steel trap, and his heart is as big as the car in which he drives. Surrounded by wealth and luxury, Jim has had his dreams of greatness, but alas, many of them have not panned out as he had anticipated.
One of these, he related to the Beacon, while the President’s car was waiting on the track at the Bar Road, the other day. It was while he was in Victoria, BC, some years ago, that Jim experienced one of these ecstatic dreams. Somebody had whispered in his ear that if he invested his spare cash—he had about $225 in his inside pocket just then—in opium that he could treble his money back east. The vision of the wealth that was to roll in upon him as a result of this speculation nearly turned his head, and after a feverish night he pocketed his wealth next day and invested the whole of it in opium at $7.50 a point. He got back to Montreal with his investment, and lost no time in seeking out the leading druggist. “I told him that I had about $300 worth of the stuff, and asked him what he would give me for it. He looked at a little book, and then told me that it was worth $4.50 a pound. Geewhilakers! How my heart beat! only $4.50 a pound and I had paid $7.50 for it! I thought he was mistaken, but he showed me it in black and white. You see, the market for opium’s something like wheat—it—it—what in—do you call it—oh, yes—it fluctuates. One day it’s up and the next day its down. I struck it on the down grade. And how my heart beat!
“I tried every dealer in Montreal, but not one of theme would give me a cent more than $4.50. Then I took it home and stowed it under the bed, and told the old ‘ooman not to let any of the children tech it. She wanted to know hat it was. ‘Dynamite! Dynamite! says I. Don ‘t you let them children tech it! Then she screamed, and told me to take it out, or we’d all be blowed up. At last, I told her all about it. She looked daggers at me, but none of them children teched it.”
“Some time after this I was in Chicago. I took the stuff with me. Only $5 a pound there! How my heart beat! I tried in other Yankee towns, but it was no go. And all this time I might have been getting 4 percent for my money if it hadn’t been for that ----- ----- ---- ---- ---- villain in Victoria! A shame, wan’t it?
“Next year, I was going to British Columbia, and I took it along with me. Tried to sell it to all the Chinese camps we passed, but couldn’t do it. None of them would give me what I had paid for it. At that time, the track stopped at Port Moody. Of course, you know where Port Moody is. Well, there was a big Chinaman there and I hooked onto him.
“How muchee givee me? I asked.
“Givee you seven dollar hop!” said John.
“Seven dollars and a half! Geewhilakers, how my heart beat! Just to think I was going to get my money back! Then I thought I’d strike for more, just for interest, you know!
“Worth more than that,” said I.
“Seven dollee hop,” all I givee. Gettee it in Victoria for seven dollee hop.”
“But I have nearly three hundred dollars worth.”
“Allee sammee thousand dollee; me take it seven dollee hop.”
“And you ought to have seen me ‘hop’ for that car. Geewhilakers! How my heart beat! I took every blessed ounce of it and sold it to John. And it’ll be a cold day again before you see me buying opium.
“Got salted on hats, too! yes, I did. You know those straw hats, those cheap hats, those ornery hats, those ----- ---- ---- ---- things that farmers wear in the fields! Of course, you do. Well, a friend told me in British Columbia that there was a bonanza for me in it, if I took a lot of them out. I could get fifty cents apiece for them. Went to a Montreal dealer, and asked him the price of them wholesale. “Four cents,” said he. “I’ll take all you have,” said I. His eyes got big as saucers, and I guess he thought I was crazy. He sold me about three hundred of the ---- ---- ---- --- ---- ---- things on s string. They filled my room near about. When I got to Donald the man that was to give me fifty cents for them had busted up, skipped out, vamoosed. And there I was with a half a car load of the --- --- --- --- --- things to sell, and only an hour or two or sell them in! How my heart beat! I hustled around, and at last found a chap that offered to take them off my hands for five cents apiece! A cent profit after lugging them for nearly three thousand miles! Whew! I’ve had quite enough of opium and hats. No more of them in mine, l please. But here s the old man.
And Jim scurried off the kitchen to arrange a tempting repast for the president.
May 25, 1893
Puritanical Boston is terribly shocked, we are told, because some of the advanced thinkers among its female residents have begun to wear pants—or rather bloomers. Several of such “blooming” costumes have appeared on Bostonian streets and have excited a great deal of attention. One woman’s bloomers caused a blockade on Washington street. Man may well tremble over the inroads the women have made into his sphere. They capture his shirt, coat and hat several years ago, and now that they have grabbed at his pants, he might as well give up the struggle, or else turn the tables by adopting the crinoline.
If Mr. Van Horne, in his capacity as a tax-payer and resident of SA, would use his powerful influence with President Van Horne, of the Canadian Pacific Railway, we think he might be able to accomplish a good deal in the way of an improvement of our port facilities.
Two Skippers Break the World’s Slowest Record on Wheels
Two well-known skippers—Capt. Pratt of the Dominion fishery cruiser, Curlew, and Capt. Nellie Clarke, who is home on a furlough—made a desperate attempt on Wednesday to break the world’s slowest record on bicycles. The contestants were about evenly matched as to experience, Captain Pratt having been a wheelman of four days’ standing—or falling, while Capt. Clarke had been making a close inspection of the gutters, sidewalks and fences with his wheel for about an equal length of time.
The start, says the Beacon’s marine editors, was a flying one, each craft passing the starting buoy with hatches tightly battened down, and every stitch of canvas spread. The skippers grasped the tillers with the grip of desperation. Of the two, Capt. Clarke was the first to get on an even keel, and with the wind on his quarter he was able to lay a straight course for the first buoy. His opponent meanwhile was steering wildly. Opposite Cockburn’s drug store he mis-stayed and was carried across the bow of a turnip “dingey,” narrowly escaping the loss of his job-boom and head-gear. He lost several seconds by this mishap, but it was evident from the determined look that settled down on his face as he brought his craft up in the wind again, that he had made up his mind that his prestige as a commander of a warship would be forever gone if he allowed himself to be whipped by an ordinary everyday merchantman. So, hauling in his weather-braces, and pressing on his craft all the canvas she could carry, me hade attack in the direction of his rival, who was now floundering in a heavy cross sea on the cross street. He succeeded in running up under his stern, and in a trice was on even terms with him. Both crews were now laboring heavily, their figureheads being drenched with spray and their decks at times awash. Rounding the second turn, the wind died away, and both skippers were in the “doldrums.” Capt. Pratt was the first to get a breeze, but his steering chain became entangled in his pants leg, and he was almost thrown on his beam ends. When he righted himself, his opponent had again passed him, but it was not long before they were bow and bow once more. Capt. Clarke tried to give his rival his back-water, but the attempt nearly ended in splitting his main-sail. The wind dying out, it was a drift the balance of the course.
The umpire decided the race a tie, declaring the world’s slowest record smashed beyond repair, and ordered the race to be sailed over gain. The racers agreed to carry out eh decision, as soon as they had taken in water and ballast and made necessary repairs, but up to the present writing it has not come off.
The Country Editor
The woes of the weekly newspaper publisher, or “country editor,” as the daily papers sarcastically terms, him, form the theme of a readable sketch by “Octave Thanet” in the May Scribner. “Octave Thanet,” who is known in private life as Miss Alice French, is a lady of charming manner, and gifted and observing withal. When at home her address is Davenport, Iowa. On one occasion she visited SA, and so pleased was she with the manner in which the Beacon championed the “cause of the place, that she became a yearly subscriber. Whether she has drawn any inspiration for her article from reading the pages of the Beacon we know not, but she certainly appears to possess an intimate knowledge of the trains and tribulations that the editorial flesh on a weekly paper is heir to. For the weekly editor has troubles that the city writer wots not of. the idea the city man possess that life with the “country editor” is one perpetual holiday exists only in his imagination. The successful “country editor” has to have an “all-roundedness” about him that is not required of the toiler on the daily press. he must be acquainted with every department of his profession, and be a combination of editor, reporter, printer, proof-reader, press-man, engineer, financier, circulation-boomer and “devil,” all in one. When the city writer sends his “copy” to the printer that is the last he sees of it until it appears in print, but not so with the “country editor,”; he has to follow it through all of its stages. Frequently he has to “set up” the matter himself, and frequently he has to ‘grind” the press himself. he is expected to be able to indite editorials equal to any of the gild-edged writers on the city press. His “locals” must be written up spicily, and when he descends to humor he must supply something equal to the best that Mark Twain or Bill Nye has produced. Being brought into closer contact with his readers than the city writer, he has to be more circumspect in his writings, otherwise he will be in perpetual hot water. if he says a good word for the “Grits” his Tory subscribers, who are thin-skinned, at once elevate their spinal columns and intimate that they will stop their paper and withdraw their advertising, and if he should err in the opposite direction, a like disaster is threatened by his “Grit” readers. If he keeps on the even tenor of his way, and does not allow these trifles to disturb his serenity, he is accursed of being too blamed independent for his own good. he is expected to publish all the local news of the neighborhood, but Heaven help him if he should tread on anybody’s corns in so doing. If a leading citizen misbehaves, the editor is expected to overlook his offence or deal lightly with his “eccentricities,” but if some poor devil, who has not a groat nor a friend in the world, commits a misdemeanour he must be “lashed” within an inch of his life. If John Brown gets drunk and destroys his neighbour’s property, the fact must be written up in such a way that none of the aforesaid Brown‘s friends will take offence. if the opposite should happen there is a vacuum on the subscription list at once. If Bill Smith breaks into a store and steals everything he can lay his hands on, the editor will be blamed by Bill’s friends if he takes any notice of the fact, and if he fails to do so, a score of others will be after him. the editor is expected to expose all the humbugs, denounce all the wrong-doers, hold up to public view all misdemeanants, censure all public officials who fail to do their sworn duty, do all the “dirty work” of the community , subscribe to every scheme of benevolence, be patient with al the cranks who daily assail him, fight for the community in season and out of season, and all this for the honor of it, a few shekels in advertising. and $1 a year.
Yet there is a bright side to the “country editor’s” life. Perhaps “Octave Thanet” will write it up in her own charming manner. If not, we may do so ourselves on some future occasion.
Van Horne and the Telegraph Boy.
An amusing incident in which President Van Horne and a check boy in the employ of the CPR Telegraph Department figured, took placed, in the Company’s office, in Victoria one evening last week, says the Montreal Star. The railway magnate entered the office to send off an important message and as there were several customers sending messages at the time, he quietly waited his turn. As soon as they had finished their business, he handed his message to the boy, who carefully counted the words. In the corner Mr. Van Horne had written “D. H.,” and when the boy saw this he seemed puzzled for a moment or two, but quietly asked: “Will you please show me your pass, as I have to put the number on the message?”
A look of astonishment passed over the president’s face which soon gave place to a smile. In reply he asked the lad how old he was. “Fourteen years old, sir,” was the quick reply. “And how long have you been in the company’s employ?” was asked. “About four months, sir,” the boy replied with a somewhat puzzled look. “Well, my lad,” said Mr. Van Horne, putting his hand in his pocket, and pullout a $5 bill, which he gave to the boy, “you are the smartest boy I have ever seen, and some day you will be president of the CPR. Send that message as soon as possible, and never mind the number of my pass, as I haven’t seen it this year. But it will be all right.”
Mr. Van Horne with a smile then left the office, while the boy didn’t seem able to realize the situation at all, and when told by one of the operator, who had quietly enjoyed the scene, that he had been talking to the President of the CPR, his amazement may be imagined.
Some people profess to believe that an Irish named Quinn was the innocent cause of the word “Algonquin” being turned loose. They say that Quinn and a number of thirsty Mic-Macs sat down one day to polish off a square-face of gin, and that when it came to the Irishman’s turn to drink he found the bottle empty. “all gone Quinn?” asked one of the Indians sarcastically, and out of this grew the word “Algonquin.” But this story on the face is a lie, for no Irishman was ever stupid enough to let an Indian get the better of him that way.
The Fever is Raging
The golf fever in its most virulent form has attacked the hotel guests and has even extended among the strangers outside the bounds of the hotel. It makes no distinction of class or profession. The clergymen have it quite as bad as the lawyers, and the lawyers have it as bad as the doctors, and all the other professions are similarly affected. Even the women are not exempt from it, some of the latter having the fever very bad. In its early stages, the patient evinces a desire to carry a stick with a crook on the business end of it. Then he wants to strike something with the aforesaid stick. As the disease becomes acute he throws off the ordinary habiliments of man, and dons knee breeches and queer sorts of leg adornments. Coats are cast aside, shirt sleeves are rolled up, and all day long through cold or heat, with the perspiration rolling down his face and trickling in dusty streams under his shirt band, he pounds an innocent little ball, not much bigger than a quinine pill, over a ten-acre field, chasing it out of one hole into another and endeavouring with each stroke to force it farther on its journey. If he can corner it in a bed of thistles or among a pile of rocks he takes special delight in hammering the poor thing out of its hiding place. There are other symptoms in connection with the disease, but these are most prominent, and render a diagnosis of it very easy. The only remedy for it seems to be an application of snow to the affected spot, but as such can only be obtained in the winter season, the disease must be permitted to run itself until then. The patient must be kept cool and as his appetite becomes very vigorous it is absolutely necessary that he should be well dieted. By carrying out these instructions the disease can be kept pretty well in check until the cold weather sets in. There is grave danger, however, that if grip does not get its work in the meantime the patient will have a more malignant attack the following season.
Denies He Was Dead
One Hundred Years of Age and Still Able to Hustle About
A rumor somehow got into circulation on Monday that Andrews Sampson, St. Andrews’ “oldest inhabitant,” was dead. But Dame Rumor for once was wrong, for, when the Beacon paid a visit to Mr Sampson’s domicile, he found the old gentleman, shovel in hand, “busy “banking” his house so as to protect it from the wintry blasts. He was told of the report of his death and in very vigorous language denied it. There was nothing for the reporter to do but believe it. The old man supposed the report had arisen because he had not been out of his home for two days.
“But,” said he, “there was no reason why I should get up. The snow as on the ground, I had plenty to eat in the house, and so I laid in bed.”
Asked how old he was, Mr. Sampson promptly replied “About a hundred.”
And how do you know that?” queried the interviewer.
“How do I know that! Well, I was born in Ireland about the time of the Rebellion, and that was in 1798. You can figure it out for yourself.”
“It is not true then that you remember incident of the Rebellion?”
“What queer questions people ask! How in --------- would I know anything about the Rebellion when I was only born that year!”
[Mr. Sampson stated some years ago, that he was able to walk around holding his mother’s hand when the Irish Rebellion broke out, and that he remembered seeing a fight between the two factions. If that statement was true, then he must have passed the hundred mark two or three years ago.]
Continuing is queries, the Beacon reporter learned that in 1816, Mr. Sampson immigrated to this country from Minnemore, in the North of Ireland, “where you can place your foot on three Counties.” He spent a short period in St. John, also at Vanceboro, and in upper Canada, and then drifted to St. Andrews. Almost everybody is dead who was alive when he came here. He said that there were good docks in St. Andrews at that time, but there were very few roads out into the country. Where the “commons lands” now are was a dense forest and he well remembers a law suit which arose between two men respecting ship timber cut on the “commons.”
Mr. Sampson does not go behind the bush to tell people what his politics are. He is one of the grittiest of Grits. He opposed confederation tooth and nail and still thinks it was a great mistake. The old man has been living alone since the death of his partner a few years go. She was ell on to 100 years before the summons came.
A valuable chicken was killed by Miss Bernice Lawson, of Sheffield, last week. Some months ago this young lady lost a diamond pin. Search where she would she could not find it. She had abandoned hope of ever seeing it again, when, on killing ht chicken aforesaid, she found the diamond pin in its crop. There is a moral in this story for other vain little pullets.
A Naughty Parrot
Hotel Life was More than it could stand.
“Hotel men meet with amusing experiences sometimes,” remarked Manager Weeks, of the Algonquin, to the Beacon. “One of the funniest incidents I remember was occasioned by a parrot, the travelling companion and bosom friend of a maiden lady, one of the guests of the house. the bird was quite well behaved when it first entered upon hotel life, but evil communications soon corrupted its goof manner and it became terribly depraved. the bell boys seemed to have a special mission to tease the parrot and to teach it to use naughty words. Finally, it became such a nuisance that I was forced to tell the lady that the hotel or the parrot would have to be removed. Of course, she was indignant, and of course she protested that Polly was not a nuisance but a “dear old chap.” But the order had gone forth and there was no recalling it. the morning that we parted company the corridors of the Hotel were crowded with guests. never shall I forget the sensation that the bird cause as its owner carried it through the hotel to the coach. All the cuss words in its vocabulary were trotted out for he occasion to the secrete amusement of the boys and the horror of the ladies. “Polly won’t go,” it screamed. “Polly’ll be ------------- if she’ll go,” were the last words I heard it utter as its horrified owner hustled the naughty bird into the cab. Since then I draw the line at parrots.
March 28, 1897
“There’s a divinity which shapes our ends rough, hew them how we will.” It was a country editor who placed the comma as above.
A Tramp Printer
He was a tramp printer—as poor as Job’s turkey, and as proud and independent as an Indian prince. His breath had about it the perfume of gin and garlic, and his garments savoured of the box car and the barn. All his worldly goods were represented by two weather-worn and sadly wrecked grips, strapped together for the sake of convenience,--pillows by night and companions in arms by day. He looked as if he had floated in with the tide when he struck the Beacon office, but it was soon learned that he had come by rail. At St. Stephen he had ensconced himself in a box car bound to Saint John , but the car was side tracked at Watt, and he had to hustle out and seek for grub. Somebody let him tackle a wood pile, and by this means he got the cravings of the inner man satisfied and a chance opened up to get to St. Andrews. He made a bee-line for the printing office the first thing, and the editor, recognizing in his weather-beaten countenance an old Saint John typo, offered him a chance to lay in a store of provisions. But he wouldn’t accept. “I’m as independent as a hog on ice,” said he. “I’ll work for my grub, or I’ll starve. I’ve been feeding on wind pies and snow pudding for the last six days, and I can get along a day or two longer.”
Seeing that he could not be moved, a “stand” was assigned him, and decorated his sun-burned proboscis with a hug pair of spectacles, he went to work. He was coaxed to take a lunch, and finally accepted, by saying it would keep his stomach from rubbing too hard against his backbone. Under the influence of the food and rink he became communicative, and said that after the fire of ’77 he left Saint John and struck out for Galveston, Texas. He labored there until he got a little pile together, when he began travelling, and he has been travelling ever since.
he worked the afternoon out, and then having received his wage, hustled off after a store of provender and a “little stimulant.” Tuesday morning he was on the sleepers again with his nose turned in the direction of Saint John.
Sixty Years Too Late
A few weeks since, The Beacon reproduced from the files of the St. Andrews Standard several advertisements that appeared in that paper sixty years ago. Among the advertisements was one of a lady who advertised to give private lessons to young ladies in a variety of subjects. One lady who read the advertisement, and had not noted the fact that it belonged to a period sixty years ago, thought it would be nice to send her children to this private tutor. She spoke to some of her lady friends about it, and they, too, were pleased with the idea. Then she broached the subject to her husband, and when he told her that she was sixty years too late to take advantage of the offer, she was very much disgusted. Equally sincere was the disgust of the young man who read from the same column the advertisement of 400 men wanted to work on a railway building at Calais, and who drove to Calais to look for a job, only to find that he was sixty years behind.
There has been considerable good-natured rivalry between the two “solid men” of the Algonquin as to which one was the faster. Mr. Jules S. Thebaud, of Paris, whose running weight is in the vicinity of 260 pounds, was positive that he could cover the ground in quicker time than H. G. Phinney, of Waterbury, Conn., who carried about with him 230 lbs of flesh, bone and adipose tissue, and Mr. Penney was just a confident of his ability to run. Solid ground was found in front of the hotel, and the two started. Mr. Thebaud was easily able to sustain this claim, Mr. Penney finishing in rather groggy form.
Nov 18, 1897
The Fenian Raid
Some of the Gallant Fellows who were Called Out to Repel the Invaders
Last week the Beacon was able to give a few extracts from a diary of a St. Andrews gentleman bearing upon the historical Fenian raid, interest in which as been revived through the statement that it was the intention of the Government to present medals to those volunteers who turned out to repel the invading foe. This week, through the kindness of Mr. E. S.
Polleys, who played an important part in the stirring events of thirty odd years ago, we are enabled to present our reader with the names of some of the St. Andrews ken who did soldier duty on the occasion referred to. [names here]
. . . Even the youths of the town were fired by patriotic zeal, and were as eager to fight for their country, as were their elders. They formed a company of cadets, forty strong, with James Haddock, now of Ashcroft, B. C., as commanding officer. James Coakley was their drill sergeant. The cadets had a very natty uniform of red, with blue facings.
Some very amusing incidents are recalled in connection with the troublous period.
It is related that in one instance a sentinel challenged one who was approaching his post. “Halt! Who goes there?” challenged the sentinel. “bottle,” was the reply. The sentinel, recognizing the voice, ordered:--“Advance Bottle and draw the stopper!” A moment or two afterwards a gurgling sound might have been heard, followed by the smacking of two pairs of lips.
On another occasion, two bibulous volunteers withdrew into a yard at night to finish a bottle. The mistress of the house, hearing a noise outside, opened the door, and the light falling upon the two men, she observed that one was her husband. Fearing that “accidents” might happen, she disarmed both men, and took their guns in the house, where they remained until the effects of the potation had passed away.
It is narrated that a private in the “Home Guard” undertook to take charge of the company while it was marching on the street. The captain ordered his arrest, whereupon he made tracks for his home. He was fleeter of foot than his pursuers, and reached his door first. One of the officers in pursuit grabbed the coattail of the fugitive, just as the door slammed in his face. The coat-tail remained in his hand, while the owner of it made good his escape—for that time.
The Jail Bed-straw
Fragrant as were the memories which Mr. James Brayley carried away with him from he County Jail, after his Scott Act imprisonment, they were not half so fragrant as a lot of bedstraw which he brought out with him. It was no particular fondness for he Jail beds that moved him to do this, but rather a desire to le the public know the kind of stuff that the County compels its prisoners to lie down upon. The Beacon was invited to partake of a sniff of the straw aforesaid, and we are quite safe in saying that a bed or roses could not be more fragrant. But the fragrance was of the wrong kind. Mr Brayley says that he will submit the straw to the inspection of the S. P. C. A. and it is possible that he may also carry a sample of it to Premier Emmerson. Sheriff Stuart, who was spoken to about this matter, said that every prisoner, on entering the Jail, is furnished with fresh straw and clean bed clothing. He declares this was done in Mr. Brayley’s case.
An esteemed reader of the Beacon propounds the following conundrum: Why is St. Andrews like a man bereft of all his kindred? Because of its Al-gon-quin. We understand that the manufacturer of the above article is prepared to give instruction in the art or science of conundrum making. Our only comfort is in the thought that very few will survive the agonizing discipline necessary to a business of this kind.
Jan 12, 1899
Specialists says kleptomania can be cured by a surgical operation. We believe them. Removal of the patient’s head would effect a cure in the worst case.
The old hulk which for many years has disfigured the beach near the steamboat landing, was floated last week in the ice and drifted across the harbor and now lies on the island bar opposite the light house wharf. the summer artist will now be able to view it from a different standpoint.
A Dainty Summer Girl
Mr. Charles Beard, of Boston, has chosen as a summer companion a dainty little lady. Trim and graceful is she, with a bewitching figure, which bespeaks at once her patrician birth. Though belonging to the smart set, she does not stick her nose in the air when she is approached. Mr. Beard is very proud of his Summer Girl, and the two are fast friends. Almost daily they may be seen in sweet communion together, either on the beach, or on the placid waters of St. Andrews Bay. In a few days, when her wardrobe has been completed, the two will sail away o’er summer seas together. By the way, she is the possessor of a very pretty summer rig, which was specially selected by Mr. Beard in Boston. She looks very net init, and behaves well, too, though it is hinted that she is a little fast. But this is a quality in a Summer Girl such as Mr. Beard owns that is not to be despised. He is yet uncertain whether he will enter her in the yacht races at St. John this summer or not.
Maine Press Association
Conclude Very Pleasant Outing by Calling upon St. Andrews
The Maine Press Association—a distinguished-looking party of ladies and gentlemen—invaded St. Andrews on Thursday morning last. They were out on their annual excursion, and as no excursion “down East” would be quite complete without a visit to St. Andrews, they determined to come hither and enjoy for an hour or two the bright and balmy sunshine and the pure, invigorating air of Canada’s famed watering place. . . .
On arriving here the newspaper men and women “distributed” themselves about the town, getting their “cases full” of information about the place. Some visited the churches, others explored the court house and jail and paid their devoirs to the lion and the unicorn, while the remainder through force of habit, instinctively meandered towards the newspaper office.
All hand, however, were ready for the “make up” when Manager Harvey, of the Algonquin, announced at 12:30 that luncheon was awaiting them. As they disposed their “forms” about the well filled tables, one and all were agreed that the Algonquin’s dining hall was “nonpareil” and its fare the finest and “fattest” that they had ever struck. The pretty, white-aproned waitresses smiled as they saw the quantity of “inside matter” that the pressmen and women “edited.” Some took “takes” of “solid” matter; others favored it “leaded” with a few “scareheads” thrown in. The “Roman punch” proved a great favorite. Some insisted upon a first and a second “proof” of this delectable dish, while one bolder than the rest requested a ‘revise.” Even some of the press-women with white ribbons “at top of columns,” could not resist the charms of the confection with the “roman” head. Though generally opposed to “pi,” the knights and ladies of the quill were generous patrons of the Algonquin pastry. They kept the “galley” busy for a few minutes in attending to their wants in this line. The clock had almost reached the second hour before the diners felt “justified” in abandoning their “takes.” Then they repaired to the office, where they dropped their “coins” into the hotel “coin box.” After this very necessary performance was completed some of the visitors adjourned to the roof for a “period” to enjoy the delightful view that the hotel affords. “Exclamation points” were then in order. Some of the pressmen ran completely “out of sorts” in their efforts to find adjectives to fittingly describe the magnificent panorama that was spread before their astonished gaze.
The appearance of the carriages at three o’clock warmed them that they must start on their “run” to the Eastport steamer. This they accomplished safely, though one veteran though he had left his “stick” behind.
At 4 o’clock the Jeanette arrived at her wharf, the visitors with their “furniture” hastened on board in “single column” and were soon speeding towards Eastport, taking with them many favorable “impressions” of St. Andrews-by-the-sea. Owing to the “press of matter” at the Eastport hostelries the excursionists had to go to Hotel Ne-ma-ta-no, North Lubec, to get their “forms imposed” for the night. Their itinerary called for their return home on Saturday.
A Witty Lawyer
Mr. Donald MacMaster’s witty address before the Insurance Society of Montreal brings out an amusing story of a visit Mr. MacMaster paid to Sir William Van Horne’s Minister’s Island last summer. When Sir William had shown Montreal famous K. C. his big horses, his belted cattle and his Tamworth pigs he took him over to his poultry house to look at his ducks, his geese, his guinea hens, etc. The lawyer fixed s stony gaze upon a Muscovy duck that was ornamented with a very red and rummy beak and then turning around to Sir William, remarked very seriously. “I wouldn’t have that duck about the place.” “Why?” asked Sir William, in a surprised tone. “Why!” replied the visitor, “the beggar drinks! Just look at his nose.” Sir William’s hearty laugh might have been heard across the bar.
A modest little dandelion reared its yellow head in front of The Beacon doorway, on Tuesday, as if inviting newspaper recognition.
Sir William Van Horne
Some Anecdotes of the Great Railway Man
New York, Aug 11:
A civil engineer now in New York, but formerly employed on the construction of the CPR in Manitoba, tells the following anecdotes of Sir William Van Horne, then Mr. Van Horne, when the latter was in charge at Winnipeg:
One of the construction engineers named S---, a somewhat original character, running short of hay for his horses, had foraged a little from a neighboring farmer. The latter magnified the incident and entered a bill against the CPR for very considerably more hay than was taken. The account eventually reached Mr. Van Horne who wrote with business briefness across the back. “What do you know about hay?” and sent it to Mr. S--. The latter replied with a four page treatise on hay, explaining how to clean land, plough, sow, harvest, ship and sell hay. Shortly after Mr. S--- left the company, presumably to take up farming.
The following shows a side of human nature rarely seen. After the CPR construction was completed, the directors were moved to especially reward certain of the engineers who had done particularly good work, by the presentation of a little check for one thousand dollars. Among those to get this welcome souvenir was one Major Mc--, a good-hearted Hibernian, who had a very modest idea of his own attainments, had never pushed himself forward much and had always been content with a small salary and usually was penniless a few days after he got it, the receipt of this check caused the major much wonderment, he wouldn’t understand why it had been sent to him. The company, on the other hand, were equally astonished, for several weeks had passed yet the check had never been presented for payment. They then sent a deputy to interview the Major; and the latter explained how he couldn’t understand why the chick had been sent him, and besides he had never before seen so much money at one time and that—well, that he had framed it; and he pointed to the check neatly framed over his bed.
Shortly after this the Major received a summons from Mr. Van Horne who told him that the Company were so pleased with his work that they had decided to present him with a small token which they hoped he would accept in the spirit in was offered; and with that Mr. Van Horne took from his desk a gold watch with the Major initials engraved on it, and laid it in front of him. When the recovered from his astonishment he murmured his thanks, and reached over to take the watch; but Mr. Van Horne quickly covered it with his hand, saying, “But I have strict orders from the directors, Major Mc---, not to give you this watch until you cash that check.”
Santa Claus In Danger
Santa Claus had a hot time in the Baptist church on Saturday evening last. The children of the Sunday school, with their teachers and parents had gathered together for a little Christmas entertainment. A pleasing programme of song and recitations was carried out. Then Santa Claus (Mr. Theodore Holmes) with fur coat and trailing beard made his appearance, and proceeded to distribute gifts from a Christmas tree. He was assisted by some of the older children. Suddenly one of the candles on the Christmas tree brushed up against the tissue paper ornaments. At once there was a blaze. Santa Claus made a dash for the burning paper and his beard caught fire. Others rushed in and the burning ornaments were quickly pulled down. Little damage was done, but for a moment here was some excitement.
March 4, 1904
&&&A tramp by the name of Moran, who has started on a walking tour some what early in the season, struck St. Andrews on Monday, having “hit the sleepers” all the way from Saint John. He put up at the Alms House for the night and being fortified with a hearty breakfast, headed for St. Stephen next morning at a pace that would have turned a shore Line train sick with envy.
A Letter to the Bell Boys
From the Guests’ Point of View—“Old Bachelor” is Sarcastic
My Dear Young Friends
After a week of reflection, I have decided to address you on a subject which naturally has not given you much thought. You are still at the stating place in life, and though each may have dreams of hat the future has in store for him, none of you have “arrived”—and so, without help, can have no idea of the suffering and profanity you cause. If you could put yourselves in the places of the nervous, weary, overworked, brain-gagged men and women, who visit summer resorts in hopes of rest an sleep, you would not make life such a burden to them from daylight until, through your utter thoughtlessness, they are obliged to give up hope of a little more rest and forgetfulness. The cheerful whistle may give vent to the joy of your soul. It also serves to awaken a dozen in your vicinity, and they do not whistle. They too often say that which endanger their souls—think of the responsibility. Stringing pitchers on a broom handle may be very amusing to you, but the man who has had no sleep till near morning, fails to see in that light. He would like to see you string something more substantial than a broom handle. Boots are very useful articles in their place but stamping through hotel corridor early in the morning they are not nearly so soothing to a nervous man as felt slippers (which are not expensive). To be sure, when all is said, one house maid with tin dust pan, carefully placed at an angle which will bring it rattling down at every movement; can cause more discomfort than tell bell boys, and little noisy flirtation between man and maid means temporary madness to a sleepy man or woman. I am convinced that the first summer resort conducted on the principle that people who leave their busy lines in the hot city for rest and quietness, must have it, will bring in an enormous fortune to its proprietor. It only means a quiet voiced, felt shod staff, rubber slips about the door casing, to prevent the endless clacking of closing doors, some method o calling up early traveller beside the too noisy knuckles and rubber or wooden dust pans. Voiceless women I suppose we shall never have. Now me dear lads try to grow into enlightened hotel proprietors with improved hotels and in the mean time mend your man ways.
Two disreputable looking brooms and a pitcher that might have done duty in an inebriate asylum were dropped at the Beacon door the other night. Now that they have sobered up will the owner please remove them.
One of our upriver editors played in hard luck the other night. Just as he was about to step into his new $5000.00 car, two of his bed slates broke and he woke up.
A Hasty Burial
A Kodak fiend stationed himself alongside a deep “cut” near the station on Friday last, to get a snap shot of the snow plow as it plunged through the drift. Presently the plow came along at a thirty mile-an-hour gait, with two big puffing locomotives pushing it along and struck the drift a mighty blow. When the Kodak fiend had been dug out the train had been at the station for several minutes.
The universe received a staggering blow the other day when it was announced that the price of golf balls will be advanced to $12 a dozen. Since then it has been revealed that the old price will prevail. Humanity can breathe freely again.
To the CPR
The stock market poet of Toronto sings thusly:
Twinkle, twinkle, CPR,
How we wonder what you are,
Up above the world so high,
What a peach you are to buy.
To which the more conservative sweet singer of the Montreal Exchange adds:
Twinkle, twinkle, CPR,
How we wonder what you are,
Up above the world so swell,
Will we buy or will we sell.
The Beacon would add this doggerel:
Twinkle, twinkle, CPR
Won’t you tell us where you are?
What’s in store for old SA?
Tell us, please, without delay?
The jail is empty. This does not mean that there are now law breakers in Charlotte County—not by a jug full.
Fought with Wolves. Desperate encounter near St. Andrews. Hilarious parody by Armstrong of lurid accounts of wolves in the vicinity with a pro Scott Act twist.
Don’t tell me that there are no wolves in Charlotte county, remarked a well-known resident of the rural districts to the Beacon a few days ago. I had an experience with them going from St. Andrews not long since that I will not forget in a hurry. I had been in town buying holiday supplies and enjoying myself and had postponed by departure until well on in the night. I had not gone far on my journey when I began to see wolfish shapes all about me. They made no noise but crept stealthily after me, stopping when I stopped and quickening their pace when I tried to escape from them. Try as I would I seemed unable to get out of their sight. M actions emboldened them, and at last one, bigger, bolder and uglier than his fellows, leaped upon me and bore me down. Ina twinkling I was surrounded by snapping, snarling fiends. To my frightened vision they assumed all sorts of monstrous shapes. The one that held me by the throat was a terrible monster. His fangs dripped with bloody froth as he tore at me. His breath fairly overpowered me, while his blood-shot cruel eyes threw baleful glances at me that caused my frightened tongue to cleave to the roof of my mouth. I tried to scream for help but my feeble cries were drowned by the weight of the brutes that held me down. They trampled over me, ripped my clothing in tatters, dragged at my ears and bit me in a score of places. I felt that my last hour had come. I thought of my wife and children waiting expectantly for me and my promised Christmas gifts at home. I wondered how they would get along without me. I even wondered what my friends would say when they found my mangled body and what tune the band would play as they planted the fragments. All the sins of my life, and they seemed to be legion, came trooping up before me. The thoughts of my family gave me fresh strength and hope and I fought as I had never fought before to escape from the clutches of the blood-thirsty pack. My struggles were successful and I had the satisfaction of seeing my foes retreating one by one into the forest. When I awoke my sled was lying across my body and the empty flash of Scott Act whiskey, which I held by the neck in a deathlike grip, bore mute yet eloquent testimony, to the desperate struggle I had made to over come it. “Don’t tell me, please, that there are no wolves in Charlotte County because I know better. (cf. not by a jugful)
The Old Trapper Trapped at Last
David Slater, who will be recalled as the “star witness” in the famous Scott-McLaughlin murder trial of October, 1901, died at the residence of his sister, Ms. Samuel Clark, Baillie, recently, aged 76 years.
TRAPPER WOULDN’T BE TRAPPED
(Extract from the Beacon, Oct. 17, 1901)
A quainter character was never found outside the page of a dime novel than David Slater, the grizzled old trapper who was called as a witness in the McLaughlin murder case.
A giant almost in height, with his head and face covered with an unkempt mop of hair, he looked like a veritable wild man of the woods. The fierceness of his aspect was enhanced by a huge pair of spectacles which were tied with a string behind his head and pulled high up over his forehead. He appeared at his best in the witness box when he was fondling along old fashioned rifle that had been presented him by the prisoner. “It’s a beauty,” said he, as he drew it toward him, stroked his fingers down into the muzzle.
No mother ever gazed upon a child with more loving eyes than this lean old veteran gazed upon this rifle. And when he took it in his hand and brought tit to his shoulder, he made a picture for an artist. Every movement showed the keen-eyed, alert hunter. Some of the spectators trembled a little lest the eccentric old gentleman might look upon the court as fair game for his rife, and they breathed more freely when the weapon had been returned to the crown lawyer.
His trapping instincts were clearly sown in his evasive replies to the court. He had never seen the inside of a court room before, and he had entered it with the fixed belief in his mind that he was being led into a trap. He knew nothing and cared less about the dignity of the court or the respect due to it. When the lawyer questioned him a little closely, he replied: “you don’t get me into a trap; no sir. I have been a trapper myself; yes, sir.”
One question he evaded by saying “This is the place where you hang people aint it? You don’t hang me, no sir. You don’t twist an old man up; no sir, because I won’t be twisted. There’s enough scotch in me for that; I won’t stay, sir; I’ll go home, sir.”
He would have seized his hat and fought his way out of the court room if the judge had not calmed his fears. He declined to say why he had chipped the wood off the stock of one of the guns. “I did it to suit myself—and that’s all you’ll get out of me; yes, sir. If it suits me it’ll have to suit you, sir.”
Asked whether it was by chance or by appointment that he had called upon the prisoner at his house, he replied: “Yes, just by chance, sir, as the cow killed the rabbit, when she tossed it in the air, sir, and caught it on her horns.”
The climax of ludicrousness was reached when he asked the court; “Where’s George?” meaning the prisoner. “Don’t you see him?” queried the judge. “No. I don’t;” and the old man peered on the bench, among the jurymen and over the lawyers. Failing to discern the prisoner, he called out in stentorian tones, as if he was in the woods: “Where are you George; speak for yourself, man!”
The prisoner answered with a faint halloo from the dock, and the old man was happy.
It would be difficult for those who looked upon this uncouth, shaggy old veteran of the forest, and listened to his quaint answers, to imagine that he had at once figured in an affair of the heart, and it was owing to the unhappy outcome of love’s young dream that he had become the eccentric individual that he now is.
In his young days, David Slater was one of the finest specimens of sturdy manhood in the countryside. He was a giant in stature, as strong and as brave as a lion and as tender as sucking dove. He fell deeply madly in love, and gave the object of his adoration all the affection that was in his manly heart. She proved faithless.
When she jilted him, he fled to the forest, vowing that he would never again look upon the face of womankind.
For over 50 years he has kept his vow. In the deep solitudes of the forest, far from the haunts of man, with only his dogs and his gun for companions, he lived the life of a hermit. Once in a while, one of the male relatives would seek him out and leave him food or reading matter, but beyond this he was dead to the world. He was a great reader.
For eight or nine years he had a huge bear as the sharer of his forest life. He caught the bear in a trap when it was two years old, dragged it to his cabin and tamed it. For several years it was his constant companion. At night it would drag its huge bulk up to the “dingle” and lie down with the dogs, while the old trapper disposed himself in the bunk.
On one occasion, when Slater came into the settlement, the bear, then of enormous size, followed him in. It grew frightened when it reached civilization. Its master tried to coax it along, but it became ugly and in its ugliness it leaped upon him and tore his hand. In its rage it would have rent him into fragments, but the old hunter seeing this, crew his revolver and placing the muzzle in the bear ear blew out its brains.
The defection of the bear, which he had come to regard as one of the dearest friends, was to him a source of keen sorrow for a long time.
There is probably no man in the province who has killed more game in his days then David Slater. On the witness stand he declared he “had left his mark in the woods” by killing between 250 and 300 animals. His friends say that he has a game book in which he entered every animal killed by him, whether it be mink, otter, deer or moose.
Though more than half century has passed over his head since his heart was shattered by a faithless woman, the old man has not forgotten his vow. When he came to St. Andrews on Thursday last, he refused to enter the hotel for his dinner because there were women in the house. His food had to be brought to him out of doors. He ate it sitting in the wagon.
The constable who captured the old man and brought him to St. Andrews had to seize him in his bed at night. He fought with the officer of the law and had to be fairly dragged to the court. On the witness stand he vented his wrath upon the constable and detective Ring. When his examination was over, he refused to remain in town over night, or to trust himself to the “new-fangled” railway train, but struck out for his 36 mile tramp homeward on foot.
The Passing of the Old Bellman
Beacon, April 24, 1890
It is curious with what tenacity we cling to the customs of the by gone ages.
To a stranger dropping into St. Andrews nothing awakens more interest than the quaint old custom, which has descended from our forefathers, of “belling” the town when an auction it to be held. For a couple of hours before the auction, the bellman travels the main thoroughfare with slow and measured tread, his feet keeping “time, time, in a sort Runic rhyme” to the jingling and jangling of the auction bell, which he swings in his hand. At every street corner he halts, and proclaims in as loud a voice as he can command the nature of the sale, terms, and names the auctioneer, concluding his harangue by the usual “God Save the Queen.” Tradition has it that one of the old bellmen of the town, was in the habit of extending his proclamation by uttering after the words “God Save the Queen,” “And Garret the tailor.” This was, no doubt, an ingenious advertising dodge, which both the bellman and the tailor found to their mutual advantage to perpetuate. The present knight of the bell, who has held his position for a number of ears, never fails to conclude his oration by holding out the expectation of great bargains. No matter what the nature of the sale is, “great bargains” may always be expected according to the bellman’s story.
[the town is still belled on auction days to some extent but the old bellman with his quaint proclamation has passed away for ever, leaving many fragrant memories behind.]
At Last the Sea Serpent
Seen In St. Andrews Bay on Thursday Last
The sea serpent has arrived!
There is no longer any doubt about his serpentine majesty holding court in Quoddy waters. On Thursday evening last, about 7 o’clock, the great serpent was seen by light-keeper Theobald Rooney disporting himself quite close to the Sand Reef Light. He had driven two schools of herring ahead of him in the direction of the Holmes weir, when his attention seemed to be suddenly drawn towards the light-house. He moved around quietly for a while, and having satisfied his curiosity, stated off in the direction of Clam Cove head.
Keeper Rooney looked at the serpent trough his glasses and judged he was between twenty-five and thirty feet long. The head was small and kept up a bobbing motion. That part of the body that was visible looked about the size of a large weir stake. Mr. Rooney at first thought it was a shark, but he could see no fin such as shark have in their back. As the serpent moved out of his range of vision he flipped up his tail in a “bye-bye” sort of way and then glided out of sight.
This not the first sea snake Mr. Rooney has seen in St. Andrews bay. Several years ago, a large one appeared before him and other local fishermen and made a great noise as it scudded through the water. The serpent he saw on Thursday night was moving along in less strenuous fashion and made no noise whatever. Mr. Rooney is a reliable man who is not given to seeing “snakes” other than sea serpents.
The Sea Serpent Again
Capt. Miah Mitchell Sees His Snakeship
Another reputable boatman has come forward to testify to the existence of a sea serpent, or something of that nature, in St. Andrews Bay.
Capt. Miah Mitchell, sailing master for Mr. J. Howe Allen, of East Orange, New Jersey, is the last man to make the acquaintance of the big snake. “I was skipping along with a nice breeze on Thursday afternoon,” said Capt. Mitchell, “when I saw something ahead of me about a quarter of a mile from the Sand Reef Light house which attracted my attention. It seemed to me about thirty feet long, and was leaving a wake behind it such as would be caused by a boat in motion. I got within twenty feet of it when it suddenly, became aware of my presence. Lifting it head, which seemed to be about the size of a barrel and greyish-brown in color, it looked about from side to side, and then with a rush it was off in the direction of Clam Cove head. Talk about speed, there isn’t a gasoline boat in Quoddy that could hold a candle to this sea serpent. The ‘Evelyn’ wasn’t in it at all. I have seen many fish in my day,” remarked Capt. Mitchell, “but I have never seen anything like this before and don’t expect to again.”
Asked if Mr. Allen had seen the monster, Capt. Mitchell said that Mr. Allen was sleeping in the cabin at the time and he didn’t care to wake him, fearing that he thing would be out of sight when he got up and he would have the laugh on him.
A man who sent a dollar for a “potato bug killer” received two blocks of wood with the following directions: “Take the block which is No. 1 in the right hand, place the bug on No. 2 and press them together. Remove the unfortunate and proceed as before.”
Prompt Sir William
A good many years ago a prominent railway contractor was in Sir William Van Horne’s office at the CPR headquarters at Montreal talking over some work that was in progress. The contractor and Sir William, says the Montreal Star, had a pretty lively discussion, and the former suddenly said: “Who is your chief engineer?” “I am the chief engineer,” said Sir William. “Well,” said the contractor, “you had better get another. You are going to have a bad accident, and the first thing you know you will be sent to jail.”
Sir William punched a bell, and Mr. P. A. Peterson responded. “Peterson,” said Sir William, “you have served us long and faithfully, and you are hereby appointed chief engineer of the CPR.” Home Journal.
Sir Thomas in New Role
Sir Thomas Shaughnessy has played many parts—and played them well—but it is doubtful whether he ever acted the role of a Boniface until the 12th of July. He was seated on his broad verandah at “Tipperary,” enjoying the warm sea breezes which waft across the peninsula, when one of the excursionists from up country meandered in and took a seat alongside him, remarking that he felt pretty tired. Sir Thomas was sympathetic and the stranger prattled on. Presently he discovered that he had a thirst. “Can I get something to drink?” asked the stranger. “Why yes,” was Sir Thomas’ courteous reply. “Will you have a glass of water; or perhaps you would like some cool lemonade?” “Guess I’ll have the lemonade,” replied the thirsty one. The lemonade was brought and speedily disappeared. The stranger smacked his lips with great gusto, then plunged his hand into his pocket and offered to pay for the drink. Sir Thomas, who saw that the man was under the impression that he had struck a hotel, smiled affably and courteously refused the proffered dime.
Sir William Likes Men Who Do Their Duty
Sir William Van Horne has gone to England. It is rumoured that the object of his visit is to finance the Grand Falls pulp scheme. The St. John Times, in speaking of his departure from that port, says of Sir William:--
“An incident that gives an insight into the character of the man, occurred as he was walking from the train to the steamer, smoking a cigar. A policeman stepped up to him and politely informed him that smoking was not allowed on the docks. Sir William promptly threw away his cigar. When a reporter who was with him remarked that the policeman evidently did not recognize him, he replied curtly: “He was perfectly right. That’s what we pay him for.”
“St. Andrews Night”
A “St. Andrews Night” at “Elm Corner” is always san evening of rare delight, but that of Monday last, under the auspices of the Canadian Literature Club, was even more delightful than usual. Well-written and well-told stories of the St. Andrews of long ago by such inimitable story-tellers as R. M. Jack, Charles Campbell, the late I. Allen Jack, Rev. A. W. Mahon, John Campbell, and Judge Cockburn made the hours slip by most pleasantly
There were stories of old school-day battles, of the troublous day of 1818, of the Fenian raid, and of the many quaint characters that St. Andrews in its early day possessed.
One amusing narrative was that of Frank Lynn, a mischievous lunatic, who, on his way to the asylum at St. John, possessed himself of the warrant of commitment, and, when he reached the asylum, persuaded the physician that the constable was the real lunatic. The constable was detained for several days while the roistering lunatic drove gaily back to St. Andrews.
Then there was the story of the late Dr. Caleff, who, on a very foggy day in 1818, thought he heard a noise like a Yankee gunboat out in the bay. The Home Fencibles were brought out and remained on duty for two days. Then it was discovered that the mysterious noises had been caused by a stately old turkey gobbler.
The story of a dainty little silver trowel, which had been handed down from the misty past, was among the stories told by Rev. A. W. Mahon.
A most amusing story was that of a youthful British officer, who was hoodwinked into rowing down to Deer Island to fight a duel with the brother of an Eastport young woman he had flirted with. As the “brother” was a myth, there was no duel. The joke was not discovered by the officer until years after, when he was at Constantinople on his way to the Crimea.
Among the Loyalist stories that were told was one relating to the history of the British coat of arms in All Saints’ Church, which had been brought from Wallingford, Conn., by the first rectors, Rev. Mr. Andrews.
Many laughable incidents connected with the Fenian raid were narrated.
Mr. John Campbell, during the narration of his reminiscences, declared that St. Andrews had not been so prosperous for 75 years as it is today.
A feature of the evening was the display of “relics” of St. Andrews, among which were a venerable sampler; a wedding message of 1786, written upon birth bark; the family bible of the late Dr. Cassels, the first teacher of the grammar school, and the first Presbyterian clergyman of St. Andrews; the first bible used in Greenock church; a communion token of 1825; a gold signet ring bearing he Bredalbane crest; a medallion brooch; the banner of Hibernia Masonic Lodge, the first Masonic lodge to be established here; a ponderous old watch; an old picture of St. Andrews in its very early days, and a number of other most interesting and historic antiques.
One of the most interesting “exhibits” made at the meeting was an autograph letter recently received by Rev. A. W. Mahon from the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Miss Mowatt read the birch-bark wedding messages, which was a most unique production. During the evening Miss Gwen. Jack sang solos. Dainty refreshments were served by the hostesses, Miss Mowatt and Miss Campbell, and a most delightful evening was concluded by the singing of Auld Lang Syne and the National anthem.
Auto Dives in River
Fortunately River was out at the Time
If Waweig River had been at home on Thursday afternoon last instead of cavorting around St. Andrews Bay, there might have been a serious auto accident.
During the afternoon, three young physicians from Calais, Drs. Lawson and Brown and another, were telling off the miles in their auto, on their way to the Pythian picnic at St. Andrews, when their power gave out in climbing the hill on the eastern end of Waweig Bridge. The moment the power gave out the machine began to back up. In a twinkling almost it was over the steep river bank on the upper side of the road. Its occupants, finding themselves helpless, leaped out and let the machine go. It ran down into the river bed, and coming in contact with a huge boulder, was capsized, with considerable injury to its anatomy.
The physicians held a consultation over the dismembered machine and concluded that it could be saved by a number of surgical operations. They employed a double horse team, dragged the machine out of the river bed and towed it sadly back to Calais, where the needful operations were performed.
St. Croix Courier
An exchange recalls that it is only twenty two years since Sir John A. McDonald passed from life’s activities and yet Sir John never dodged an automobile, never heard the stuttering of a motor bike, never held a strap in a trolley car, never posed for a motion picture, never mailed a latter regularly for less than three cents , never listened to the squeaky voice of a phonograph, never saw an aviator capering around in the atmosphere with a heaver than air machine, never despatched a message by wireless and never was mobbed by suffragettes.
A series of arc lights has recently been added to the streets approaching the Algonquin Hotel and is a very decided improvement. A walk through the town at night now gives a splendid object less on “Lights, Ancient and Modern.” There are the gasoline lights of our stores, the electric lights of the picture houses, the dazzling brilliance of the street oil lamps [sarcasm], and, last but not least, the Algonquin’s new arc lights. It is clearly shown how the darkness of discontent could be turned into glorious daylight.