742 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
November 4 
A JERSEYMAN’S JOTTINGS. 
“ Truth is stranger than fiction ! ” We 
have a common habit of saying that, but 
few of us really know that it is so. Now 
and then, however, it comes home to us 
when some sad drama is enacted right in 
our own neighborhood, instead of away 
off somewhere ePe. Two cases right in 
our own town serve to illustrate this. 
One night the wife of one of our neigh¬ 
bors went down to the edge of the swamp 
to call the cows home. It was a chilly, 
raw evening "just at twilight, just such 
an evening as makes the home fire seem 
about the most desired spot on earth. 
While waiting for the cows, this woman 
heard some one in the bushes crying and 
praying in the most pitiful way. It 
turned out to be a poor, old, demented 
woman, gray-haired and feeble. She had 
evidently wandered into the swamp and 
was too feeble and sick to find her way 
out alone. The good people who found 
her carried her home and cared for her 
as best they could, making her warm and 
dry and comfortable. The poor, demented 
thing mumbled over and over to herself 
in German, but none of the Germans in 
the neighborhood could understand her, 
and nobody could tell what to do with her. 
Fortunately they found a Paterson paper 
containing an account of a poor old 
woman who had wandered away from 
that place. Their wanderer proved to 
be the one, and her friends came and 
took her home. Think of that poor, 
helpless thing wandering about for nearly 
three days and bringing up at last in that 
cold, wet swamp ! She would doubtless 
have died there had not those kind- 
hearted folks found and cared for her. 
This is one case where, as I said, the 
awful drama of human want and misery 
comes right home to us. 
Tns other case also happened in our 
neighborhood. Two years ygo one of 
my neighbors had a little boy living with 
him. He was a bright little fellow with 
a sad and bitter history. IIis poor 
mother died in the South. It is wonder¬ 
ful how she did love that little fellow— 
the only reason she had for wanting to 
live was that she might see this little 
chap grow up into a good and true man. 
She died, however, and the boy's father 
was not a very good man. lie left the 
little boy to his fate, and strange cir¬ 
cumstances brought him into our neigh¬ 
borhood, where he lived happily for a 
time. By and by his father sobered up 
and came to New Tork for work. Then 
he wanted his children again, and the 
little boy went to the city to live with 
him. That was two years ago, and we 
had lost all track of him. 
One night, after dark, there came a 
tap at the window, and there was a poor, 
pale little face looking in— that little 
boy had come back. He is not yet nine 
years old, but he had come alone through 
the cold and dark way out from New 
York to our place. When he got inside 
the warm, home-like room, he began to 
cry : 
“ You know I’s got a stepmother,” he 
said ; “ she doesn’t love me ; she heated 
me and I runned away. This was the 
only place where I knew they’d be good 
to me because you said if I ever got into 
trouble I could come and tell you about 
it!” 
Thebe was another hopeless drama of 
real life. I tell you it was sad enough to 
hear that motherless little boy just crav¬ 
ing and praying for somebody to love 
him and sympathize with him. There 
are lots of hard, coarse natures who can 
get along without being loved and made 
much of, but this little fellow was made 
of finer fiber and he could not live with¬ 
out at least the thought that somebody 
loved him. Had I been in that step¬ 
mother’s place I would have felt too 
small to live, realizing that a little, trust¬ 
ing nature like that could only hate and 
fear me. If a person does not feel like 
a villain in destroying the confidence of a 
little child, that person is simply in¬ 
capable of recognizing evil. 
They gave that little chap a good vaca¬ 
tion for the two days he was with us and 
then his stepmother came and took him 
away. We tried to make him under¬ 
stand that we were his friends and that 
no matter what might happen to him at 
home we wanted to keep hold of him. 
Of course his parents have the legal right 
to say what shall be done with him, but 
his home is not a happy one. Think of 
being forced to live among those who 
have no sympathy for you and can only 
try to crush you down into what they 
please to call obedience. 
While we have no right to interfere 
with the management of that home, we 
like to feel that the little chap has one 
bright spot to think of and a feeling that 
after all there are friends in the world 
who want to see him turn out a good and 
useful man. That feeling is about all he 
has to hang to now and I do hope he will 
not lose faith, but hang on and look 
ahead to happier times when he grows 
older. 
What an object lesson that is to par¬ 
ents ! Suppose your little boy should 
run away to others to try to find the love 
and sympathy he craved ! It seems to 
me that to most people who had much 
respect for themselves, that would mean 
a mighty big life failure. If parents 
can’t make their children feel that they 
arc about the best men and women that 
ever did live, something is wrong, I tell 
you, and there is a case where both life 
and marriage have been failures. The 
child crop is the best crop ever raised on 
the farm and neglect of it means death 
to the nation. jerseyman. 
COUNIY HISTORIES NOT ALL BAD. 
In a recent issue of The R. N.-Y. a 
subscriber condemns the publishers of 
county histories. What he says is true, 
except that the books, instead of being 
valueless, are very valuable. I have in 
my possession, six of those county his¬ 
tories, and with some knowledge of local 
history, must say that they are all veiy 
handsome and valuable books, gotten up 
in the highest style of the printer’s art. 
The recognized local historians have been 
employed in every case to write up the 
history. I think that the publishers give 
the subscribers full value every time. It 
is true that the publications are profitable 
to those who publish them, and largely 
so from the pictures of men and build¬ 
ings which are liberally inserted, and 
paid for at high figures. But who can 
say that the men and buildings are not 
representative ? and will not these pict¬ 
ures in future generations be most im¬ 
portant history ? It seems so to the 
writer, but the county histories owned 
by him are filled with pictures of his¬ 
torical buildings, and of men of note, 
which were inserted at the expense of 
the publisheis. The books are all well 
and honestly made. One man objected 
in my hearing because the picture of his 
neighbor’s buildings showed the rear 
and not the front view. In one case, I 
was told that I could have a $15 history 
for $5, but when I went after it, I was 
told that some members of the family 
valued it, and that I could not take the 
book, although I had bought it. It is 
true that farmers largely have thought 
these books a swindle, but it is the writer’s 
candid opinion, that they are entirely 
mistaken. hr. geo. g. groff. 
LET US WEAR UNIFORMS. 
I do not agree with Gold Bug Farmer, 
whose remarks were published in The 
R. N.-Y. of September 30. I do not think, 
as a rule, farmers arc any more coarsely 
dressed than their occupation requires. 
People should remember what they are 
to do when they choose their clothes. If 
I had my way, I would have a separate 
dress, suited to the work, for each class 
or occupation ; for farmers one style, for 
mechanics and laborers another, and for 
professional men still another. This 
should extend to the women as well, and 
would certainly save a great deal of 
effort, and all would be known immedi¬ 
ately for what they were. 
Neither do I think that boys or girls 
leave the farm because their occupation 
will not admit of much display in dress. 
It seems to me that the reason why they 
are crowding into the cities is that they 
are given no chance to take any real in¬ 
terest in the work at home. So many 
parents seem to forget that their chil¬ 
dren of 12 and upwards are individuals, 
each governed by different tastes, ideas, 
etc., and that it is their duty to allow, 
within reasonable limits, this individu¬ 
ality freedom for development. How 
long, do you suppose, a bright boy will 
take an interest at home if, every time 
he comes to his father with a new plan 
or experiment which he wishes to try, 
he is told to “go ’long ; what do you 
know about it, anyway ? ” Or, what 
girl is there who would exchange her 
position at home for that of a poorly paid 
country teacher or office girl in the city, 
if she had a share in the profits of the 
dairy or the poultry yard, or the products 
of a piece of land, the care and cultiva¬ 
tion of which was solely under her direc 
tion, while her parents cooperated in 
trying to make her work a success ? 
If fathers and mothers would give each 
of their children some responsibility, al¬ 
lowing them to bear the loss or to have 
the profit of their ventures, as the case 
might be, giving kindly advice without 
showing the iron hand of authority; in 
short, making friends of their children, 
not servants, martyrs or slaves, fewer 
farmers would grumble over the ineffi¬ 
ciency of hired help while their sons and 
daughters are seeking employment in 
the city. lucy taylor. 
A LANSINGBURG MIRACLE. 
A RAILWAY MAN TALKS. 
Literally half Dead ; his Case Pronounced 
Hopeless by Prominent Physicians. A 
Story of Surpassing Interest Verified 
under Oath 
[From Troy, (N. Y.) Times.] 
I am the most conservative reporter on 
the staff. I despise the chimerical, I 
court the real. 1 burrow in facts. I am 
from Lansingburg. We don’t o'ten get a 
good thing from here, but here is one. 
F. C. Kimball last night gave me the fol¬ 
lowing : 
“I am a p’ain, straightforward man. 
Originally from Lansingburg, where now 
reside my mother, brother and sister. 
Several years ago I moved to Rochester. 
There I was in the employ of the Erie 
Railroad as yard and freight superin¬ 
tendent. After a strain to my back, 
caused by heavy lifting, three years ago, 
I developed so-called rheumatism. It 
was an increasing thing for two years— 
at times worse, again better. I worked 
intermittently. If I would shut my eyes 
I would fall down. My feet and legs 
soon lost feeling—were numb. This ex¬ 
tended to my stomach and at times to 
my hands. Doctors Lee and Spencer of 
Rochester finally pronounced my case 
progressive locomotor ataxia, said it was 
incurable and that they could only ease 
my sufferings ; and so I lay. Up to this 
time I had been sick nearly two years. 
Before this and for several months I was 
confined to my bed. Fins stuck into my 
limbs the full length gave me no feeling 
whatever; my legs seemed wooden. To 
pound them gave off a noise like wood. 
So I say, as I lay there I was absolutely 
one-half dead —dead from the waist down. 
There was one word written in large 
characters all over that sick room— 
C-L-A-Y. Life departed from my limbs ; 
that word best expressed what was ieft. 
You, of course, have read of John Mar¬ 
shall. The reporter in describing him 
described me exactly. I sent for the 
remedy which cured him—for Dr. Wil¬ 
liams’ Pink Pills, to Schenectady, N. Y., 
and tried them. I took them irregularly 
for two months. They didn’t seem to 
help. All of a sudden one morning one 
of my legs began to prickle—seemed as 
though rubbed with nettles. Then, per¬ 
haps, you think I did not investigate 
that medicine. I began to mend fast; 
got some circulation, got control of my 
bowels, and after a few weeks got out 
of bed and tried to stand. At last I 
fetched it Could walk—now can run. 
And Pink Pills cured me. The doctors 
said I couldn’t be cured, but I am. What 
I am now telling you is merely a reitera¬ 
tion of what I long ago wrote to the Dr. 
Williams’ Medicine Company at Schenec¬ 
tady, and my affidavit to the same is now 
in their hands. Here also is a letter 
which my mother wrote to them and to 
which she has made affidavit, as you see.” 
186 Second Avenue, I 
Lansingburg, N. Y. ( 
Dear Sirs : My son Fred has just writ¬ 
ten you a letter concerning himself to 
which I desire to add a few words in en¬ 
tire corroboration of all he has said. He 
has told you of his agony and his cure. 
The remembrance of the whole thing 
makes me shudder as I think of it. It is 
all too wonderful for me. I was resigned 
to his fate. Now, as I look at him walk¬ 
ing about and feeling well, with his old 
health and ambition returned, it does 
seem that he lias been born again, and 
rescued from death for a fact. Could I, 
therefore, say too much to you of thanks 
in the fullness of my gratitude ? Can I 
well cease blessing you ? Yet the inten¬ 
sity of my feelings make my words of 
thanksgiving to you seem but empty in¬ 
deed ; for the lost is found, and he that 
was dead is alive again. 
Yours, Harriet J. Kimball. 
Sworn an 1 subscribed before me this 
fifth day of April, 1893 M. L Fancher, 
Notary Public. 
Mrs. Kimball said: “While I believe 
in answers to prayer, and prayed ear¬ 
nestly for his recovery, for I am a Chris¬ 
tian woman, and believe my prayers 
were answered, I do think Pink Pills 
were the means the Lord used to effect 
my son’s cure. I want you to meet my 
daughter, Mrs. G. H. Morrison, with 
whom we are living here, and the Rev. 
George Fairlee, pastor of Westminster 
Church, who lives with us, and hear 
what they have to say.” So Mrs. Kim¬ 
ball brought them in, and while the 
story as told was most complete, and 
could be added to by nothing they might 
say, yet the reporter heard from the lips 
of the sister and their pastor, corrobora¬ 
tive words of all that has been said. 
The reporter also ran across the son-in- 
law, Mr. G. II. Morrison, cashier of the 
National Bank of Troy, and 6poke to him 
of Mr. Kimball. He is a busy man, and 
though he could only be detained for a 
moment, he said: “I know nothing of 
the case technically. He says he was 
cured by Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills, and I 
think that is about the size of it.” 
Mr. William H. Flandreau, the drug¬ 
gist at 814 River Street, Troy, said : “It 
is the most wonderful cure from loco¬ 
motor ataxia—a so-called incurable dis 
ease. Mr Kimball tells me he owes his 
recovery to Pink Pills entirely, and I 
have every reason to believe him.” 
Pink Pills restore pale people and sal¬ 
low complexions to the glow of health, 
and are a specific for all the troubles 
peculiar to the female sex, while in the 
case of men they effect a radical cure in 
all cases arising from mental worry, 
overwork or excesses of whatever nature. 
These Pills are manufactmred by the 
Dr. W'lliams’ Medicine Company, Sche¬ 
nectady, N. Y., and Brockville, Ont., and 
are sold in boxes (never in loose form by 
the dozen or hundred, and the public are 
cautioned against numerous imitations 
sold in this shape), at 50 cents a box, or 
six boxes for $2 50, and may be had of 
all druggists, or direct by mail from Dr. 
Williams’ Medicine Company from either 
address.— Adv. 
A Handy Repairing Outfit. 
This comprises three iron lasts and 
standard for half-soling and heeling 
boots ; four packages assorted wire 
clinch nails; pegging awl and handle; 
sewing awls; shoe hammer ; shoe knife; 
bottle of leather 
cement; bottle of 
rubber cement ; 
half-dozen pairs 
heel plates ; as¬ 
sorted waxed 
ends, needles and 
bristles ; ball of 
wax. The iron 
last itself is one 
of the handiest 
of tools One 
may do his own 
half-soling, rub¬ 
ber, boot, shoe 
and harness repairing. No pegs needed— 
simply wire clinch nails. It is securely 
packed in a neat box ; weighs 20 pounds. 
Freight or express not prepaid. Price, 
$2. With a year’s subscription $2.75 ; 
with a renewal and a new subscription, 
$3.50. Given as a premium for a club of 
six new names. 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
Cor. Chambers and Pearl Sts., NewYork. 
