FROM THE COUNTRY PRESS.

Samples of the Journalistic Fodder Which Is Handed Out for Daily Consumption Among the Children of Nature Who Inhabit Some of the Quiet Places in the Tall Timbers.

'LIGE GOUDY'S CORN.

'Lige Goudy, a well-known and popular passenger engineer, who lives at Seymour, is raising some corn this year. A few days ago a gentleman called at Mr. Goudy's house to see him, and was informed that he had gone out to look at his corn.

The gentleman went down to the field, which he found grown over with weeds of a gigantic growth, with a sickly looking stalk of corn peeping forth here and there. The gentleman looked across the field, but could not see the proprietor thereof.

Finally the man climbed upon the fence and shouted:

"Oh, 'Lige!"

To his surprise, a reply came from among the weeds near by, in the familiar voice of Mr. Goudy.

The gentleman took a second look, but could not quite locate 'Lige, and after a moment's hesitation said:

"Shake a weed, so I can tell where you are!"—Exchange.

WITH COMPLIMENTS TO FAY.

The Bulletin is in receipt of a copy of the Fay Observer. Notwithstanding the fact that it has the appearance of being printed on a cider-mill with three-penny nails for type, it is a credit to the town.—Geary (Oklahoma) Bulletin.

HABITS OF THE CODFISH.

A correspondent of the Evening Post says that the codfish frequents "the table-lands of the sea." The codfish no doubt does this to secure as nearly as possible a dry, bracing atmosphere. This pure air of the submarine table-lands gives to the codfish that breadth of chest and depth of lungs which we have always noticed. The glad, free smile so characteristic of the codfish is largely attributed to the exhilaration of this oceanic altitoodleum.

The correspondent further says that "the cod subsists largely on the sea cherry." Those who have not had the pleasure of seeing the codfish climb the sea cherry tree in search of food, or clubbing the fruit from the heavily laden branches with chunks of coral, have missed a very fine sight.

The codfish, when at home rambling through the submarine forests, does not wear his vest unbuttoned, as he does while loafing around the grocery stores of the United States.—Laramie (Wyoming) Boomerang.

THE PLACIDITY OF BOSWELL.

G.B. Boswell, while trying to ride his young mule after plowing him all day, was thrown to the ground. In the accident Mr. Boswell caught his leg over the hamestick and tore his new overalls, which he paid forty-two cents for. We are glad to know that Mr. Boswell was not hurt except that he struck the funny bone of his elbow and his mule got away, which worried him, and had it not been for his Christian disposition he would probably have been a sinner in the sight of God.—Wilson (North Carolina) Times.

IBSEN IN NEVADA.

Ibsen's Norwegian play of "Ghosts," with one setting of scenery, no music, and three knocks with a club on the floor to raise the curtain, was presented last evening.

The play is certainly a moral hair-raiser, and the stuffing is knocked out of the decalogue at every turn.

Mrs. Alving, the leading lady, who keeps her chin high in the air, has married a moral monstrosity in the shape of a spavined rake, and hides it from the world. She wears a pleasant smile and gives society the glad hand, and finally lets go all holds when her husband gets gay with the hired girl, and gives an old tar three hundred plunks to marry her and stand the responsibility for the expected population.

Oswald, the mother's only boy, is sent to Paris to paint views for marines, and takes kindly to the gay life of the capital, where the joy of living is the rage and families are reared in a section where a printer running a job office solely on marriage certificates would hit the poor-house with a dull thud.

Regena, the result of Mr. Alving's attentions to the hired girl, also works in the family, and falls in love with the painter-boy on his return from Paris. They vote country life too slow, and plan to go to Paris and start a family. The doting mother gives her consent, and Pastor Menders, who is throwing fits all through the play, has a spasm.

The boy, on being informed that the girl of his choice is his half-sister, throws another, his mama having also thrown a few in the other act.

Engstrand, who runs a sort of sailors' and soldiers' canteen, sets fire to an orphanage, and the boy, who has inherited a sort of mayonnaise-dressing brain from his awful dad, tears about the stage a spell, breaks some furniture, and upsets the wine. He finally takes rough-on-rats, and dies a gibbering idiot, with his mother slobbering over him and trying to figure out in her own mind that he was merely drunk and disorderly.

As a sermon on the law of heredity the play is great, but after seeing it we are glad to announce that Haverly's Minstrels will relieve the Ibsen gloom on November 6—next Monday night.—Carson (Nevada) Appeal.

PROFESSIONAL OBITUARY.

When an editor dies in Kansas, this is the way they write the obituary: "The pen is silent; the scissors have been laid away to rust; the stillness of death pervades the very atmosphere where once the hoarse voice of the devil yelling 'copy' or 'what the hell's this word?' was wont to resound. The paste-pot has soured on the what-not; the cockroach is eating the composition off the roller, and the bluebottle fly is dying in the rich folds of the printer's towel."—Exchange.

THE WIDOW'S GRATITUDE.

A newly made widow of Geary County sent this card of thanks to the Republic for publication:

"I desire to thank my friends and neighbors most heartily in this manner for the united aid and cooperation during the illness and death of my late husband, who escaped from me by the hand of death on Friday last while eating breakfast. To the friends and all who contributed so willingly toward making the last moments and funeral of my husband a success I desire to remember most kindly, hoping these few lines will find them enjoying the same blessing. I have a good milch cow and roan gelding horse, five years old, which I will sell cheap. 'God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps on the sea, and rides upon the storm'; also a black-and-white shote, very low."—Junction City (Kansas) Republic.

ALL OFF.

A Card from Miss Sallie McCants.—To Whom it May Concern: The engagement which existed between Miss Sallie McCants and R.N. Jordan, of Cottageville, has been mutually dissolved, it being their aim to disappoint those who reported the news of their marriage. This will allow anxious mothers with marriageable daughters the chance of opening their doors again to this esteemed young man. Respectfully, S. McCants.—Walterboro (South Carolina) Press and Standard.

AN AGGRIEVED SUBSCRIBER.

The following letter was received recently:

"Dear Sir: I hereby offer my resignashun as a subscribber to your papier, it being a pamphlet of such small konsequenc as not to benefit my family by takin it. What you need in your shete is branes & some one to russel up news and rite edytorials on live topics. No menshun has bin made in your shete of me butcherin a polen china pig weighin 369 pounds or the gapes in the chickens out this way. You ignor the fact that i bot a bran new bob sled and that I traded my blind mule and say nothin about Hi Simpkins jersey calf breaking his two front legs fallin in a well. 2 important chiverees have bin utterly ignored by your shete & a 3 column obitchury notice writ by me on the death of grandpa Henery was left out of your shete to say nothin of the alfabetical poem beginning 'A is for And and also for Ark,' writ by me darter. This is the reason why your paper is so unpopular here. If you don't want edytorials from this place and ain't goin to put up no news in your shete we don't want said shete.

"P.S.—If you print obitchury in your next i may sine again fur yure shete."—Holdenville (Indian Territory) Tribune.