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About The courier. (Lincoln, Neb.) 1894-1903 | View Entire Issue (March 31, 1900)
THE COUt-Stt. y h X arranged it so that women from every region felt a high degree of personal responsibility for tbo success of each undertaking. Mrs. Palmer ia the only woman appointed among the seventeen U-ited States commissioners to the ex position. President McKinley has made the appointment in the face of the op position of the French government to tbo appointment of women on the commission. Mrs. Daniel Manning, president of the Daughters of the American Revolu tion, has b?en appointed by President McKinley to represent the United States at the unveiling of the statue of Lafay ette at the Paris exposition. This com mission, however, is only a email part of the work which Mrs. Manning is plan ning to accomplish in France this sum mer. Sho hopes to organize a trans Atlantic D. A. R, which shall comprise the lineal descendenta in that country of the soldiorfe who fought in the Ameri can Revolution. Mm. Frederick Hanger, president of the A rkansas state federation Bays on the question of reorganization in the club department of a Little Rock paper, of which she is the able editor: "The consuming interest awakened in some people by the supposed bulkiness of the G. F. W. G. and biennial meetings ia very touching, especially when the offi cers, chairmen of committee and those workers on whom the burden, if any, would fall, declare that the general fed eration is in nowiso unwieldy or burden some, but is manageable to a woman. When the general federation becomes a close corporation with triennial meet ings the harp on the willow will become its eymbol." The COURIER And any One Dollar Club Magazine IS1.50 Dublin Howard. ''The wheel of fate forever turns its slow, relentless round, And some cling laughing to its upper sun- washe ? bound, While others grovel neath its ponderous weight upon the ground. But those who laugh must some time feel its .crushing, ruthless weight And take their places writhing on the ground ; but soon or late The wheel brings uppermost the broken ones - for such is fate.'' This ia not a tramp Btory. It is tbo plain, untinted life history of a man who saw more ups and downs than most of his fellow beings, who climbed higher than many men dare aspire and who descended far below the plane on which the average man would care to continue living. It is not hard to believe in Provi dence. Conversely, it is hard not to be Iievo in fatality. And there must have been something beyond the ordinary course of events that reduced "Dublin" Howard, Oxford graduate, British army ollicer, linguist, globo-ti otter, journalist, and man of means to the bumble lot of a picker of cranberries in a West Jersey bog. So reasoned his friends of the marshes; and one day he broke through the wall of will with which he had barred the path of memory, and, gazing back through the mist of years, saw standing at the turning point in his career a woman. "Some day I shall write the history of my life," he said. Then he repaired the breach with the cement of fresh determination, and re mained until death a man unfathom able, a man with a mysterious past, a man who drank much to wash away ever recurring phantoms of the half-for gotten, but withal a man. Far down amid the pine woods of Ocean county, New Jersey, where shrieks of locomotives never break the peace of nature and man in his solitude drawB close to the God of his fathers, there stands a rain-washed bouse in tbo middle of a wild, uncultivated tract known as "Tne Birches." Venture a few rods into the underbrush in any direction from the house and you plunge to your knees in the black mire of a swamp. Hither every year comes the owner of The Birches, Captain Martin Haines of Vincentown, with a large force of work men. At the height of tho cranberry season the place is full of life and ac tivity. When the last crate of plump, tart fruit in carted away over tho heavy, sandy trail to tbo nearest shipping point, the men return to their winter quarters and the lodge is left alone to face, un tenanted, the storms of another year. . In the season of 1892 a strange man knocked at the door of the house and asked lor work. Tall, straight, with an open countenance and a clear 6ye, he attracted the attention of Captain HainoB. "My name is Howard," said the stranger. "I am not a criminal- I drink rum that's all. I want a shelter for the winter. May I take care of this place for you?" Although the man wore the attire of. a tramp, his appearance spoke in his favor. And when the berry-pickers went away that year the house had a tenant. FroTi that time the people of the countryside came to know of the "Her mit of the Birches," a sad, disconsolate man whose yearning for a lodge in some wilderness seemed unaccountable, and whose sole pleasure lay in stalking abroad amid the desolation of bog and forest. For eight years he lived alone, per forming little errands for neighboring farmers, carrying an empty mail pouch once a week from one small hamlet to another, avoiding contact with his fel lowmen. For eight years he kept the secret of his life sacred from all save the man who gave him shelter; and he met an unpoetic death a week ago in a hos pital in this city. His soulless cadaver has since furnished valuable laboratory material for soulless students of struc tural anatomy, who wouldn't have cared, even if they could have known, that their subject was an Oxford graduate, an ex-British army officer, linguist, globe-trotter, journalist and man of means. One night last autumn the Hermit and Captain Haines sat together about the open tire place at tho Birches. "Dublin," said the captain, "you must have seen better days. A man of your intellect doesn't drift down into the bogs through choice." "Don't call me 'Dublin'" said the Hermit "The men here call me by that name because they know I was born in Ireland." "Ireland, eh?" said the captain. "That's a long way from New Jersey." "I've been farther," replied the hermit. Then he cast aside his reserve and un burdened his soul to his friend and pro tector. "There was a time," he said, "when might have had everything a man could ask. Fame, military advancement, wealth were mine. But a woman crossed my path, and rum did the rest. "I was born in Waterford. My family was one of the pretentious of Munster. It was wealthy, and the greater part of the wealth was to come to me when I reached the age of twenty-five. I was Bent to Eton and Oxford. 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