The Farmer Candidate.

Farmer Carter H. Harrison, the Democratic candidate for governor, went out to the State Fair yesterday in his honest old lumber-wagon, drawn by a couple of steers. He was received with intense enthusiasm by the simple country-folk, who seem to regard him as the modern Cincinnatus. Much to his chagrin, however, the sturdy old farmer discovered, through the shrewd tactics of the Hon. John W. Bunn, chairman of the State Republican Executive Committee, the fair had assumed the air and appearance of a Blaine and Logan ratification meeting. There were Jim Blaine squashes, John Logan pumpkins, Plumed Knight butter, Black Jack preserves, Magnetic pears, Mulligan potatoes, to say nothing of the cattle, sheep, swine, horses, mules, goats, roosters, drakes, and ganders that bore the inspiring names of Blaine, Logan, Black Eagle, Pride of Maine, Our James, Eloquent John, Little Rock Jim, Sunstroke, etc. In a word, it was evident that the determination on the part of Bunn, and other Republican managers, to give none of the premiums to any exhibiter who was not a reliable Republican, had converted the State Fair into a mammoth Republican ratification meeting. Farmer Harrison’s bosom was perturbed by the contending emotion of wounded pride, righteous indignation, horror, 323and scorn. His eagle eyes flashed, and an ominous scowl clouded his sunburned brow. He determined to do something at once that would counteract the effect of this infamous trickery, and confound the conscienceless Republican managers upon their own vantage-ground. So he approached one of the stock-stalls, where a guileless-looking old rustic was lazily chewing tobacco, and watching over a fine, fat specimen of the bovine kind.

“Ah, my good friend,” said Farmer Harrison, in his oiliest tones, “what a superb animal that is!”

“Yes,” replied the rustic, “a very clever critter.”

“What do you call him?” inquired Farmer Harrison. “Do you call him Jim Blaine?”

“Naw,” replied the rustic.

“Logan or Oglesby?” asked Farmer Harrison.

“Naw.”

“Perhaps you have named him the Plumed Knight, or Black Eagle, or Uncle Dick?” suggested the farmer candidate.

“Naw,” said the rustic: “’tain’t got no name ’t all.”

“I thought not,” cried Farmer Harrison. “There was an indescribable something about your appearance, my good friend,—a certain candor, dignity, and valor,—that told me, ‘This man is no tool of the corrupt ringsters who are now attempting to foist themselves upon the honest yeomanry of Illinois.’ Your erect figure, your manly face, your hearty voice, and your ingenious manner, bespeak your independence of all the subtle influences of 324corruption. You are a Democrat, sir,—a grand old Jacksonian Democrat,—unless your honest looks belie you!”

“Waal, I am, by gosh!” said the rustic earnestly.

“Now, I’ve a proposition to make to you,” said Farmer Harrison softly, “and it is this: you name this noble animal after me, and placard him ‘Carter H. Harrison,’ and I’ll do something for you after I’m elected governor.”

“Waal, now, gov’ner,” said the rustic, confused like, “I’m drefful sorry, but I can’t conscientiously do it.”

“What!” cried Farmer Harrison. “Do you mean to say that you, an old Jacksonian Democrat, decline to perform this simple duty at a moment when the hand of corruption is outstretched to throttle our fair republic? Do you mean to say that in this emergency and at this supreme moment you refuse to name this sleek brute ‘Carter H. Harrison,’ and thereby redeem this State Fair from eternal ignominy?”

“Now, really, gov’ner, I can’t,” persisted the rustic.

“And why not?” demanded Farmer Harrison.

“I don’t care to say: I don’t want to hurt your feelin’s.”

“Speak out, old man,” cried Farmer Harrison. “‘Hew to the line, let the chips fall where they may.’ At this moment, let there be no equivocation, no hesitation, no concealment: speak out, old 325man, that your answer may be recorded, and go thundering down the ages!”

“Waal, then,” said the venerable rustic, “if you insist upon knowin’ my reason, I can’t do it, ’cause the critter’s a heifer!”