JOBE IS SCARED.
JOBE he is in a critical condition. Day before yisterday, when Jake
Stiffler brought our mail out from town—it consisted of the two
noosepapers that we have took for years, that is, the _Ohio Dimicrat_
and the _Tuscarawas Advercate_—I played a trick on Jobe that nearly cost
him his life, and nearly made me a weepin and mournin widder.
For years and years we have took them two “stanch and substantial”
noosepapers without ceasin. We have took them simply because one was a
Dimicrat paper and the other a Republican. We have took them when payin
for them kept me from gittin a new dress or Jobe a change of pants.
We have took them though durin all them years they have said the same
things over and over agin, aginst each other and aginst the party they
wasent, jist at the time, gittin any campaign money or county printin
from.
The _Dimicrat_ has allers called the Republicans rascals and sich, and
the _Advercate_ never fails to show how the Dimicrats are worse still.
Always, when the _Advercate_ comes, Jobe he sets down and reads out loud
all the abuse agin the Dimicrats; then, lookin over his specks at me,
says:
“Now, Betsy, you see what kind of a party you belong to. You see now
what kind of leaders youve got,” &c., &c.
Its a regular thing for Jobe to read the same things week arter week and
then to criticise me and the Dimicrat party time arter time, until for
years Ive been in the habit of goin in and settin down and a listenin to
Jobe read the _Advercate’s_ abuse of the Dimicrats, and a waitin for my
regular weekly tongue-lashin. Ive done it jist for the good it seems to
do Jobe.
[Illustration: “‘Now, Betsy, you see what kind of a party you belong
to.’”]
Sometimes to answer him I jist read from the _Ohio Dimicrat_ the same
things he has read from the _Advercate_—only where the _Advercate_ says
“the Dimicrat party,” the _Dimicrat_ says “the Republican party.”
Then Jobe will flare up and say:
“The _Ohio Dimicrat_ is a dum dirty sheet, and full of lies.”
He knows that I dont swear and wont say that about his _Advercate_, even
if I know it is the same kind of a paper as the _Ohio Dimicrat_ is,
except in the name at the top of the fust page. Of course it gits its
campaign money and public printin from the office-seekin canderdate
fellers of the other party.
Now, when Jake brought them papers, I happened to pick up the
_Advercate_ (a thing I seldom do), and one of the fust things I read was
a article a praisin Mr. Cleveland for workin to git a “gold basis” and
“gold mortgages” and sich. I was so surprised to find a word of praise
for a Dimicrat president in a Republican noosepaper that I looked twice
at the headin to make sure it was the _Advercate_ I had instid of the
_Dimicrat_. Sure enough it was the _Advercate_, but I dont want you to
blame Editure McIlvaine for sich a article appearin in his paper. He
couldent help it. It was in that part of his paper that he dont print.
It was in the patent part what is printed in Cleveland—the part, you
know, which them fellers down east, the fellers what gits rich by havin
on this gold basis bizness, pays to have in all papers, Dimicrat,
Republican, Methodist, Prisbyterian or any other kind except them howlin
Populist papers. Them Populists seem to be so sot agin that “gold
basis,” and a “contractin of the money to make it scarce and hard to
git,” that they wont put anything a favorin the “gold basis” in their
papers for love or money. They are jist that mean.
So I dont want you to blame Mr. McIlvaine or any other feller for sich
articles a bein in their papers. They cant help it. They jist have to do
it or lose their rich money-lendin friends.
But the feelin I felt when I seed sich a article in a Republican
noosepaper prompted me to do the thing that, as I said afore, nearly
made me a weepin widder.
I jist thought Ide have some fun with Jobe.
So I went to work and cut the headin off from last week’s _Tuscarawas
Advercate_ and pasted it over the headin of this week’s _Ohio Dimicrat_.
Then I cut the headin out of last week’s _Ohio Dimicrat_ and pasted it
on this week’s _Advercate_. I then folded the papers up nice like and
laid them on the table in the settin-room, where I had laid them week
arter week for near onto fifteen years.
[Illustration: “So I went to work and cut out the headin.”]
Arter supper, when Jobe had his chores all done up, he says, as he come
in from the barn:
“Betsy, has the mail come?”
A question that he has asked about that hour, on that same day of the
week, fifty-two times a year for these many years. The mail alluded to
meanin the _Tuscarawas Advercate_. I told Jobe, as usual, that it was in
on the table. He took his specks down off the kitchen mantel, and, wipin
them as he went on the corner of his coat tail, approached the table.
He sot down, rared back in his split-bottom rockin cheer, put his feet
on another, then picked up the _Ohio Dimicrat_ (with its name changed),
and begin to read, as he expected, Editure McIlvaine’s slaughter of
Dimocracy.
It started out with:
“There never was a more corrupt gang in control of any State government
than the Republican boodlers at Columbus.”
Then:
“Every Republican officeholder in this county seems to exist for no
other purpose than to suck the life-blood out of our hard-working
tax-payers. We must turn the rascals out.”
[Illustration: “‘IT IS ALL OVER, BETSY,’ SAYS HE.”]
And so on and so on, clear through the paper. Jobe he read a minit or
so; then looked at the name of the paper; then read another item; looked
at the top of his paper agin; took off his specks; rubbed them hard; put
them on and read, or started to read, another item; laid the paper down;
got up and went to the lookin glass; stuck out his tongue and shook his
head in a troubled manner; then he felt his pulse, shook his head agin
and fell over on the lounge that was near him. He groaned once or twice,
then hollered, “Betsy, Betsy!” dyin like.
I went a hurryin in. There he laid as white as a ghost, and drawin
short, quick breaths.
“Why, Jobe, dear,” says I, pleadin like, “what on airth is the matter?”
“It is all over, Betsy,” says he, “all over; Ime a goin to die. The end
is near. Betsy, Ive tried to be a good husband, but at times I know Ive
been a little cross and contrary. Betsy, I want to hear you say you
forgive me before I go.”
“Why, Jobe,” says I, “what in the world is the matter?”
“Oh, Betsy,” says he, “the end is near. I know it is. Editure McIlvaine
is changed, or my mind is shattered. My mind is so onbalanced that I can
no longer read my paper and understand it, or the leopard has changed
his spots. Betsy, its me. It must be me, for where my paper has been
praisin, it is now abusin; and where it has been abusin, it is now
praisin. Betsy, I want to die. I want to die a believin that its me and
not the _Advercate_ that has changed. You must do the best you can,
Betsy; and if you marry agin arter Ime gone, remember my last wish is
that you do not marry one of them wild Populists. Betsy, will you
promis?” says he.
At that I began to laf out loud, as hard as I could laf.
“Oh my! oh my!” says Jobe. “Is my wife crazy or do my eyes deceive me
agin?”
I took holt of him and jerked him off the lounge, sayin:
“Here! git up and have some sense. That is all the truth you read in
your paper to-nite. The office-seekers of both parties are corrupt, and
if the papers were honest they would say so. Neither of them dare tell
how the people have been betrayed, and so they fill up their columns
with abusin the party they dont happen to belong to.”
[Illustration: “That nite he slept in the barn.”]
Then I explained what I had done, and he jumped to his feet and swore
awfully. That nite he slept in the barn, and for the second time in her
married life Betsy Gaskins slept alone. Jobe is still critical and
sleepin in the barn.