There is probably the maddest minister living at Black River Falls, that
can be found in America to-day. He is a real nice man, and his name is
Burt Wheeler. He preaches good sound sense, and everybody likes him. He
has got friends at Neillsville, and all around there. At Black River Falls
there is no license, and liquor is unknown, while at Neillsville there is
license, and one can have benzine at every meal. The other day the express
took a jug from Neillsville to the Falls, directed to the reverend
gentleman, and on the card attached to the jug handle was the following
notice:
"Old Bourbon--We have license here, and knowing you have none in your town
we thought it but kindness to remember your wants."
When a jug, or a keg arrives at the Falls by express, every citizen
notices it, and they investigate, and when the jug came into the express
office the expressman winked, and in a few minutes half the population of
the darling little village was there. They read the note on the card and
winked at each other. One man as he took a piece of cut sugar out of a
barrel, said he had long suspected that Burt liked his toddy. Another
fellow, picking a mouthful off a codfish, remarked that you couldn't
always tell about these confounded ministers. Frank Cooper, the editor of
the _Banner_, though he looked pained when he saw the name "Old Bourbon"
on the jug, and noticed the immense size of the jug remarked that it was
the best way not to condemn a man till the returns were all in. The
reverened gentleman was interrupted in his preparation of his sermon by a
neighboring lady who just dropped in to tell the news, and when she sighed
and told him that his jug of whisky which he had ordered from Neillsville,
was in the express office, he could hardly believe his ears. He had
always, to the best of his knowledge and belief, tried to lead a
different life, and this was too much--too much bourbon. Scratching out
the last line that he had written, which was something about something
biting like an anaconda, and stinging like a ready reckoner, he put on his
coat and started down town, resolved to face the multitude, conscious of
his innocence. He approached the express office a little nervous. The
crowd filled the street, and as he passed a raftsman with red breeches on,
said he wouldn't have such a nose as that on him for a hundred dollars.
"He is full now," said another, as the Reverend gentleman put his hand on
an awning post to steady himself in the trying emergency. A man who was
sitting on a salt barrel, whittling a shingle, and who had one trousers
leg tucked in his boot, and a red sash around him, said if it could be
proved that Wheeler was a drinking man it would be a hard blow at
religion, but he didn't know as he cared a blank anyway. The elder went in
the express office and the crowd fell back to give the chief mourner a
chance to look at the late lamented. There was a different expression on
every face. Some looked as though they were glad he had been caught in the
act, while others wore a mournful expression, as though they had been
suddenly bereaved. He was pale, yet determined, and as he read the
inscription he said, so help him John Rogers, he had never ordered any
whisky, and never drank any, and didn't know anything about this jug.
Turning to those present he said: "This is some horrid nightmare." The
expressman said it was no nightmare, it was whisky. Wheeler said if the
charges were paid he would take it, and taking the jug out doors he raised
it high in the air and dashed it upon the pavement, amid the applause of
his friends. At this point Hon. Wm. T. Price come along, and was told what
had happened. He looked at the amber liquid oozing down between the stones
on the pavement, put his finger in some of it, smelled of it,
touched it to his tongue, and turning to the yet pale and excited
Reverend, he said:
"Wheeler, you have maintained a noble principle, but you have destroyed
four gallons of the d--dest finest maple syrup that was ever brewed in
Clark county."
It was true, Doc. French and Tom Reed, of Neillsville, two good friends of
the Rev. Wheeler, had sent him the syrup, knowing that he could use it in
his family, and being jokers they had put the Bourbon card on the jug,
just for fun, with the alleged result above stated. Temperance men should
always smell of the cork, at least, before smashing the jug. We have
practiced that a good many years, and never lost a gallon of maple syrup.