Subscribe Today


March 18, 1915

G. H. VanReenan was a caller at this office Tuesday morning and told us he had a fine team of horses crippled up last week. His son was hauling rails on a sled on the ground steep and frozen. The roller in the sled broke and the sled ran on the horses and pushed them several hundred yards down the hill and over two fences.
The Bath county jail at Warm Springs burned down last Tuesday night. Origin of the fire is not known. About a year since the court house was burned.
A congregational meeting is called for Sunday morning at the Presbyterian church for the purpose of deciding on replacing the present church with a fine building.

Last week we made notice of the arrest of Glenn Lambert for the burning of J. K. Kramer’s slaughter house. It should have read Glenn Judy, who was arrested and held for trial for the crime.

The weather still continues very frosty and feed is getting scarce. Farmers are not making much headway with their plowing on account of the ground freezing so hard during the night.
The snow which fell more than twelve weeks ago is still several inches deep on the north banks.
Well, great gemima catherine, The Independent put off a whopper last week because Mr. Hull got the postoffice at Durbin. It is the sad truth that Mr. Arbogast is a helpless cripple and has been for years. How he became crippled this writer does not know. However, he has amassed no small amount of money, and like lots of other G. O. P. standpatters was always ready to yell hard times when a democrat was elected to office. If The Independent continues to keep up its calamity squawks, about the next election, the G. O. P. will be buried so deep that Gabriel will have to give about three toots on his horn to wake them up.

We have had one good day in March so far, while not so blustery. Feed is the cry and no money to buy with.
William Malcom, undertaker, sent out three caskets this week, one for Mrs. Phoebe Phillips, one for George H. Sheets and one for Mr. Hall’s child. He has a nice hearse for the business.
George H. Sheets departed this life at his home on Deer Creek, March 12, 1915, aged 60 years, after several years of great suffering which he bore with christian fortitude… The deceased was a son of the late Jacob Sheets, and was born September 17, 1855. He is survived by his wife, a daughter of the late John A. Gillispie. They raised six children, three sons and three daughters – Ira, Joseph and Samuel, Blanche, Rachel and Ellen.

We are sorry to learn of the death of our friend William Hiner at Green Hill last week.
John Pritchard is off to market.
We never saw so much plowing done. Now is the time to plow deep while lazy men sleep, you’ll have corn to sell and corn to keep.
Garfield Grimes’ little boy is home from the hospital and is doing nicely.
Austin Little moved into the Win McElwee house last week.

Nice sugar weather for making molasses; fine for plowing and grubbing up sprouts.
The big sawmill is on its job now sawing 30 to 40 thousand feet of lumber per day.
John Mills came very near losing his life last Wednesday by a wreck with his log train. One truck heavily loaded with logs jumped the track and upset over into the creek, throwing him in the creek among the logs.
George Rogers is breaking young horses.
President Wilson is having to watch all around to keep out of war. I suppose Mexico is vexing the President.

We don’t like to take the space here for such a lengthy item, but recently this department was asking what the present war in Europe started about. Now comes a reader and asks this department the same question, remarking that “as you are so darned smart in other things, perhaps you can answer the question yourself.” We can. We will be as brief as possible.
In the first place a Servian Socialist got drunk and killed an Austrian nobleman and his escort (or maybe it was his consort). Anyway it was some sort. Austria then got hot under the collar over the incident and said to Servia: “See here, now, we don’t want any of that rough stuff. I want to be a father to you. Come into the wood shed.”
Russia was peeking through the fence when she heard the conversation, and seeing what was going on, said to Austria, “Don’t you dare touch that child; he’s my kid, and anyhow, you’d make a hell of a looking daddy.”
“You’ve got another thing comin’,” answered Austria, “I don’t like the color of your eyes, anyhow, and your feet don’t track besides, and I can lick you with one hand tied.”
“Bully boy,” says Wilheim to Austria. “If you can’t lick him I can, and by gosh I’ll do it. I can lick anybody; I can lick everybody. We’ll take him on together.”
So Germany slips up on France when she ain’t looking and lands both feet in the middle of Belgium.
“Get off’n my belly,” says Belgium, “or I’ll bite your leg off.”
“Ouch,” says Germany, “but I’ll get off when I get ready.”
“That’s not fair,” says France. “Take that, you slob,” handing Germany a hot one on the snoot.
“I hate a scrap,” says England, but I can smash the jaw of the guy that slams my friend.”
“You don’t hate it worser than I do,” says Japan as she squares off for a hand in the game.
“Well, I guess you started if, anyhow,” says Wilheim to Nich.
Just then everybody begins to yell: “You started it yourself,” and each one sticks out his tongue at the other fellow and they all clinch, and the little fellows begin to dance around watching for a chance to get in a punch and run.
And, there you are.
Bartlette, Okla., Enterprise

more recommended stories