_
V_ABO}^vT0RT daily independent
PERCY H. YAH DYKE, Publisher mi Edlttr.
< ' •• —■ ■■■
NEWPORT. - - ARKANSAS.
THE OLD FIDDLER.
Guess I must a ben asleep some—s'pose
the way you're laughin’ now.
I said somethin’ in my dreamin', some
thin' silly I suppose;
But go on and have your laugh; T ain't
earin’ anyhow,
I've been back, away back yonder in
among the cotton rows.
An' been set tin' by a fire in another time
an’ place.
By a big ol’ fashion hearthstone in an
, ol' time chimney nook;
An' I seen the light a-fiieker on a dear ol’
fashion face,
An’ blue eyes a-lookln’ at me jest the
same's they useter look.
Wisht you'd hand me down my fiddle, for
my longin' sort o' moves
Down ol’ ways with her besides me to
the tunes I played fer her,
An’ my heartstrings are a-throbbin’ in
the ol’ remembered grooves,
_ An' Tt^ro ■vVafJNn’ in the medders that
the breezes useter stir.
An’ I wish yeh ail'd (leave me when yeh
see my eyes shut tight.
An’ the fiddle’s softly croonin', jest
sneak out an’ shot the door;
Don’t yeh stop ter whisper nothin’; don't
yeh even say goodnight;
Jest go softly, softly, softly, leavin’ me
in fields o’ yore.
There's n somethin’ comes ter soothe me,
dreams o' half forgotten things;
There's a presence sets besides me an'
a hand is on my knee,
When the bow Is softly strayin’ up an’
down tho throbbln' strings,
An' a voice comes down the distance an’
it whispers thing’s ter me.
An’ I'm settln* like I useter in tho ol’
time ingle-nook.
An’ the firelight th'ows shudders an' its
gleams across her face,
Where It beams f’m out the darkness
with the old-remembered look,
All’ I hear the logs u-crackin’ In the
wide ol’ fireplace.
Go an’ leave me hero with Mother settln’
like we used ter do
When we started out tergether, ’fore
she wearied by the way;
Let me wake the ol' time melody she liked
ter listen to;
Let me coax her back beside ine with
tlie tunes I useter play.
—J. M. Lewis, in Houston Post.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
] Tie Fear of Fear. I
1 ►
^ By Charles Dwight Willard. ►
▼YVYYYYYYYYYYVYYYYYYYVYYYY
WHEN a man has passed his fif
tieth year, is unmarried, lias
no near and dear relatives or friends
to whom be is especially attached,
when his life, whether in business or
in leisure, is methodical and un
changing, and when things that divert
and give pleasure to others have be
mr . Y‘lln,> =<t»iirit.»n— Ulc» h I Hr tkW lie
of liis^^Wfc1 for he knows
what triek it may be making ready
/to play upon him.
It- is with souls as with animals—
starvation and ill-treatment will ren
der even the most gentle of them un
manageable, eccentric and danger
ous.
1 am moved to set down these re
flections by the peculiar fate that re
cently overtook Andrew Dawley—a
man whom 1 had known for ten years
or more with some degree of inti
macy, lint whom 1 hesitate to de
scribe as a friend of mine, for the
reason that I have once or twice
heard him say—coolly and without
bitterness—that he had no friends.
There were 20 years between our
ages, an interval that would be likely
to forbid close relations between two
men who were without common
tastes and interests. Propinquity
gave us acquaintance, for I occupied
at that time the room next out one
to liis, on the fourth floor, in the cast
wing of the Hotel MucMahon; but
it was tin acquaintance that was as
^ akga- of growth and almost as frigid
as a glacier.
The first year, 1 think, we merely
nodded when we met in the hall.
During the second and third years
we exchanged an occasional word.
About that time, 1 remember, he cap
tured a sneak-thief on the stairway,
overcame his fierce resistance and
held him until the police came, and
I, hearing of it, went to his room to
talk it over.
Then I left the hotel for a matter
of five or six years, and on my re
turn found Dawley the only one 1
knew in the place- still occupying the
same room, and living the same un
varying life. And now, at rare inter
vals, we spent an evening together,
usually on his invitation, and in his
room, lie seemed to be ill at ease
elsewhere.
Up to the time that he explained
to me his peculiar theory on the sub
ject of fear, I had regarded him as
a dull and commonplace character.
Conversation with him was difficult,
by reason of my apparent inability
to discover a topic in which he was
genuinely interested. There were in
terminable pauses, during which he
drew slowly and regularly at his pipe,
and stared into the fire.
Our discussion on the subject of
fear began with my commenting on
the fact that a light was burning in
his room the night before at tine
o’clock, which I had noticed, coming
in tit that hour, after a dance.
"I keep a light in my room all
night,” said he; “I hate the dark.”
Now this had not been his custom
when 1 was a neighbor of bis some
years before, and I commented upon
the change.
“i suppose *t is an evidence of the
weight of years,” said he; "but 1 ntn
troubled of lute with peculiar fancies
and dreams. Sitting alone here is the
evening, things somehow get on my
nerves, and tlie thought of suddenly
waking out of a sound sleep to find
myself shut in by blackness is quite
intolerable to me.”
Now this sentiment was so utterly
at variance with my conception of
Andrew Duwiey—a cold, practical
man of business, and of the world,
as I know him—that instead of drop
ping the subject, as I might have
done with a more sensitive man, I
pursued it somewhat farther.
“As a child,” i remarked, “I had a
great terror of the dark; but it
ceased entirely when 1 was old
enough to reason with myself.”
“What was the course of your rea
soning?” he nskd.
“Well. I had become convinced that
supernatural beings did not exist—
such as ghosts and goblins and
gnomes, and, on the other hand, 1
knew that in a well-protected house
there was practically no danger from
burglars or wild animals. So, having
completely assured myself that there
was nothing in the dark, any more
than there was in the. light, I ceased
to be afraid of it.”
“Good logic,” said Dawley, with a
smile. "I remember working out the
same conclusion when I was about
12 years old. And it has held with
me ever since, until recently I discov
ered a flaw in Hie reasoning. Oh, it
doesn’t apply to anyone else,” he
added hastily, as 1 undertook to
speak. “f1 is purely personal, and I
hesitate to disturb your equanimity
by describing it.”
“Never fear,” said I, with a laugh.
“These sentiments are largely based
on temperament, and I don’t believe
anything is likely to change my point
of view.”
“Our boyish logic,” said he, after a
pause, “disposed of everything that
was objective—from the outside—
whether real or supernatural; but
it did not touch the subjective ele
chief is fear itself. Now, 1 do not
believe 1 am physically a coward-”
“I know you are not,” 1 interrupt
ed. “I remember your capture of
that thief, lie was armed, and re
sisted fiercely, but you hung on.”
“Yes,” he said, “a man finds out
whether he is a coward or not by
the time he reaches my age; and I
have good reason to know that my
courage is not deficient. And 1 have
no superstitions—which disposes of
ghosts and supernatural things. So
there is nothing for me to fear.
Here is where the reasoning faculty
stops, and somthing else—you eall it
temperament, do you?—begins. I do
suffer from fear—at times to the
very edge of my self-control. What
is it? Why is it? I believe that what
1 fear is fear itself.”
1 shook my head. “That statement
is meaningless to me” 1 said.
“Is it?” he asked almost wistful
ly; “can’t you imagine being in terror
of a great fright that may overtake
you some time even though you are
unable to anticipate a reasonable ex
cuse therefor? Let me give it to
you in more concrete form. A year
or two ago l had a dream of a pe
culiarly vivid and impressive charac
ter. It was of my sudden awakening
here in bed, in this room, to behold a
man leaning over me. He was in
strange, uncouth dress—not of the
modern day, I should judge—and he
was surrounded by, and seemed to
give out, a fierce red light. He
shouted some words to me—I don’t
know what they were; only, at the
sound of them, such a mighty and
overwhelming terror came upon me
that l lay paralyzed as to motion and
thought. Then I awoke, realy awoke
this time, and 1 found my body wet
with perspiration, and my heart beat
ing so fiercely and with such great
pain that I feared some blood-vessel
must ffive wav.”
At (his point I interrupted him, for
ids voice was trembling with excite
ment.
“You say you are not supersti
tious,” I said. “Then you surely are
not going to allow yourself to be af
fected by a dream. An over-loaded
stomach is always likely to disturb
the heart. Its rapid movement causes
a sensation exactly similar to fright,
and the wandering brain conjures up
a scare situation to tit it. Did you
never dream out an elaborate series
of events culminating in a pistol shot,
and then awaken to find that a win
dow' sash had dropped, and you had
pieced out the dream backwards, as
it were?”
‘‘How do you account for my hav
ing this same dream, without an iota
of change, half a dozen times since
that first experience?” asked Hawley.
“It results,” 1 answered with the
easy confidence one shows in dispos
ing of the problems of others, “from
the profound impression the first
dream made upon your mind and
memory.”
He smiled, and looked at me with
his half-dosed eyes. Then he re
lighted his pipe, which had gone out.
and 1 remember that the hand hold
ing the match trembled a good deal.
lty this time the subject had be
come distasteful to me, revealing a
mental weakness or eccentricity in
Hawley that was not pleasant to con
template. So I turned the conversa
tion into other channels.
Only on one other occasion did we
speak again of this fear and the
dream, and then, as before, it was
brought up by a careless question.
Entering his room one night, 1
noticed a powerful bolt that had been
newly fastened on the inside of his
door, and 1 asked if the lock had been
broken.
It was a natural inquiry, and there
seemed to be no cause for the tremble
in his voice and the peculiar light in
his eyes as he replied to me.
“A lock can be picked. I wished to
satisfy myself that it was impossible
for a human being to enter this room
while I sleep.’'
\
I glartced up at the transom. It
was held shut by a heavy iron bar.
Then I looked out of the window. It
faced the court between the wings of
the building, with a sheer drop of
nearly 40 feet.
“Utterly impossible, said I.”
Then I noticed for the first time a
certain waxiness in the texture of the
skin over his forehead, and a sunken
depth to his eyes.
“Has the dream re-appeared?” I
asked.
“Frequently.”
“The trouble with you, Dawley,” I
mused aloud, “is that you are too
much alone.”
“I have no friends,” he said, in a
calm, dispassionate tone, such as one
might use in speaking of some trivial
matter of business.
“You should make them,” I said,
with emphasis.
“I am over the Divide,”he answered.
“My course of life will not change
very readily, 1 fear.”
Then lie deliberately and pointedly
changed the topic, and I did not recur
to it again at any time. As I say, he
was 20 years my senior, and we had
little in common. I had many friends
and many interests, and Dawley and
his oddities formed an unimportant
episode.
But it was only a week after this
conversation that the terrible event
took place, which every newspaper
reader in the city will remember.
It was at two in the morning that I
awoke suddenly from a profound
slumber, with the consciousness that
some one had run past my door,
screaming.
1 sprang out of bed, and as I did so
heard the crash of breaking glass in
the court below, and saw a brilliant
red gleam through the blinds at the
window. I looked out; the kitchen
and dining-room in the rear of the
hotel had already burst into flame,
and a great volume of smoke poured
out of the lower windows of the east
wing.
My own room was on the second
noor, in me center or me uuiiumg,
and I saw that thete was plenty of
time for me to escape, and to help
others in that vicinity. I jumped
into a bath-robe and slippers, and,
rolling my clothes into a bundle un
der my arm, ran out into the hall.
1 hammered at each door that I
passed and yelled in a frenzy of ex
citement and horror. The place was
rapidly filling with smoke and the
light grew brighter. Presently I no
ticed that my clothes were gone. I
had dropped them while helping a
woman who seemed to be unable to
walk through pure terror. The man
who had first roused me had gone up
to the fourth floor, and the people
were pouring down the stairways, in
their night-robes, or wrapped in
blankets, some carrying children—of
which, thank Heaven, there were few
in the house—others bird cages and
some dragging trunks, bang, bang,
over the steps.
I had several good friends in the
hotel, and now that the alarm seemed
to be generally given. 1 ran to their
assistance; but I did not think of
Dawley, nor did I at any time at
tempt to get over into the east wing
of the building. It was on that side
that the flames were fiercest, and
the elevator shaft and stairway be
tween that wing and the main build
ing were roaring like a furnace.
Suddenly the halls began to fill with
firemen in long coats and helmets,
some with axes and others dragging
up hose.
There seemed to be nothing more
for me to do, so 1 ran down the main
stairway and out into the street,
where a great crowd was assembled.
I noticed that their faces were turned
toward the east wing, and as I in
stinctively glanced in that direction
I Tpmpnihprpfl Dnu’lf'V n nrl 1TH1T1
of his fearsome dream.
The man was on his way—a huge
bulk of a fireman, running up the
long ladder that lied been hoisted
from the wagon and now rested
against the wall, just below the win
dow of Daw ley’s room.
But was it possible that he still
slept, through all this uproar and the
glare of the flame, and the odor of
burning wood’’ Surely, he must be
asleep, else he would have appeared
at the window. Then, it suddenly
flashed into my mind what was the
meaning of the white skin and sunk
en eyes—a narcotic! Without doubt,
he was still sleeping.
The fireman made his way through
the heat to the top of the ladder,
and swung into the open window.
Streams of water played upon the
flames beneath him, to protect his
retreat. Two other men ran up the
ladder, and had just reached the top,
when he returned to the window car
rying a human figure wrapped in a
blanket. The others assisted him, and
they made their way slowly down
the ladder again.
“Overcome by the smoke,” said a
man standing near me. But I no
ticed that no smoke came out of the
open window.
I ran forward to a pile of mat
tresses and bed clothes that had been
carried out from the hotel, and ar
ranged a place for him to be laid.
The call for a doctor flew along the
line of spectators, and presently
one came running. 1 asked the fire
man what had happened.
"He was sound asleep when I en
tered the room through the window,”
he said. “I had to shake him hard to
wake him up. lie just stared at me a
moment, and said, ‘Ah! You have
come,’ and then his face turned kind
of black, and his jaw dropped, and
he went into a dead faint.”
“How is it?” I asked the doctor,
as he rose from stooping over the
prostrate figure.
“Heart action ceased entirely,” he
replied “Man is stone dead from
mere terror.”
The fear of fear had triumphed
at last.—San Francisco Argonaut.
STEAMBOAT AUTHORITY.
Engaging Phraseology of *lie Cap
tain in Comninmienting His
Wishes to Inferiors.
Authority on board of a steamboat
is an interesting study. It runs on a
sliding scale, but, unlike the gamut,
it slides only' one way. This is bad for
the lower "C” on the steamboat, but
he has to stand it. A good illustration
of how the thing works was given not
long ago in a boat on the Delaware,
says London Tit-Bits.
The captain of a steamboat was try
ing to make a landing at the dock, but
the operation was attended with some
difficulty. .V line from the bow had
been run out and made fast to a post,
but the vessel’s stern was swinging off
into the stream. The skipper, with a
scowl on his brow, stood on the bridge,
abaft the wheelliouse, and stared at
the first" mate, who was hustling
around on the hurricane-roof amid
ships. Down below on the quarter
deck the. second mate was helping the
third mate and a deck-hand to take the
turns out of the stern line, which was
snarled up on deck instead of being
fast on the dock.
“Mr. Olsen,” said the captain, in a
gentlemanly tone of voice, to the first
mate, “why in thunder don’t you get
that line out, you long, lean, lank,
knock-kneed, tar-stained wreck of re
turning reason? Don’t you see we’re
swinging off?”
“Aye, aye,, sir,” Mr. Olsen replied,
respectfully, touching his cap to the
skipper.
Then Mr. Olsen leaned far over the
rail, and, raising his voice, he called
the second mate’s attention to a mat
ter of very great importance.
“.Mr. Peterson!” he yelled, “what’s
eating you, you tow-headed, block
eyed lubber? Do you want to choke
the stream? Get a move on you, and
be quick about it!”
“Aye, aye, sir,” was Mr. Peterson’s
response to the delicate attention re
ceived from his superior. He then gave
tne tnmi mate some instructions.
“Swanson,” lt'e gently but firmly re
marked, “I’ll crack your blooming
skull if you don’t move yourself, you
gaunt-eyed, bow-legged, stock-fish
feeder. Bear a hand there. Lively
now, and get that line out.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Swanson, in a
humble voice.
Then Swanson give the deck-hand,
who gets £3 a month, a clout on
the side of the head that knocked him
spinning. Then he shouted: “Why
in the name of the other place don’t
you pay out that stern line, you
low-lived, white-livered, mule-eared,
hog-backed, slab-sided, bench-legged,
feeble-minded chicken robber? What
are we paying you for?” And he
finished the unfortunate man with a
kick in the ribs.
The deck-hand ran the line out and
made the boat fast. Then he went
down in the hold, where he anointed
his person and clubbed himself with a
handspike.
AN OLD-FASHIONED MOTHER.
A Mnoh-I.oved Familiar Figure That
"W Ml Abide in Hiatory
Forever.
“Where is the old-fashioned mother
who, with her innumerable duties,
found time to devote to her children;
who felt that they were intrusted to
her for a brief time only; that they,
in turn, were to be history-makers and
that she was responsible for their
eavly training; who was mother, sister,
friend?” Thus wails a Jeremiah of
the press, bemoaning the substitution
of hired nurses for maternal care and
attention, and continues: “Whence
will come the strong men and women
of our nation if the mothers are to
fritter away the futures of their chil
dren at clubs and bridge whist and so
cial aspirations? The queen-mother
nas abdicated the mightiest throne in
the world, that of the nursery, for a
kingdom for other than that where
righteousness rules.”
To the old-fashioned mother the
mighty manhood of America doffs its
hat. 1'or the old-fashioned mother is
still with us. and to stay, declares Bob
ert Webster Jor.es in the Housekeeper.
Modern science lias brought many im
provements that would make our an
cestors stare could they return to
earth, but one familiar figure they
would still find here; that of the old
fashioned mother. For she cannot be
improved upon. Before the mighty
mystery of motherhood man stands
hushed in awe; this silken cord of sis
terhood that binds the mothers of to
day to those of ail the ages. What
hag been the mightiest power since
the world began? The mother’s influ
ence. And is it likely that at this late
hour the queens of America would
willingly relinquish the jeweled scep
ter for a torch wherewith to chase
the will-o’-the-wisps of social delights?
But there are no fashions in mother
hood, so why speak of the old-fash
ioned motherhood'? The dictators of
women’s wardrobes who send forth
their royal commands from season to
season issue no such bulletins of ad
vance styles as these: “The correct thing
for mothers this winter is to be seen
frequently with their children in pub
lic. The latest fashionable fad is for
mothers to kiss their children on bid
ding them good-night.” Or; “The new
est wrinkle indulged in by fashionable
mothers is telling them stories on Sun
day afternoons, gathered together
about the fireside. Even ultra-fusliion
able mothers now permit their chil
dren to clamber upon their laps.” No,
the duties and the privileges of moth
erhood are dependent upon neither
time nor the whims of fashion. Moth
ers faithless to their sacred trust there
may he, but how happily few they are
in comparison with the millions of no
ble mothers who to-day share the mag
nificent honor of training up the com
ing generation of American men and
women.
-
*
> /
W. Lindley Pres. L. T. Slayden Vicse Pres. E. V. Holt Cashier.
/
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JACK HERRON. '
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THE BANK OF NEWPORT
OFFICERS AND DIRECTORS.
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R. M. Johnson, Cashier. T. D. Kinman, Ass’t. Cashier.
V. Y Cook, Thos. J. Graham, A. E. Shoffner.
Jno. T. Flynn, J. W. Grubbs, Jos. M. Stayton.
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