Gloucester County Democrat. (Woodbury, N.J.) 1878-1932, 1901-12-12
; ROMANCE OF
/ JOSH KINNEY,
! EnITAD BY JOHN
3 EUlAOk HOWARD TODD

@~@%9~9%0~@~O0% %S@0~0%9~9~0
1t was an odd name for a newspaper
The Sangamon Boy-but it's career
was so full of oddities that nobody
minded that. The easy going country
folk of the Lower Corners said it was
good paper. Anyhow, like the good
boy, it died young. It's editor-there
was man who never was duplicated
In or out Of the newspaper business.
''That fellow was a queer one," said
old Eph Edwards, "but he was smart
er'n chain lightnin'. Did ye ever read
about Ichabod Crane? I've forgot who
it's by, but this Josh Kinney was a
good deal like Ichabod."
Josh Kinney was a farm hand by
day and an editor by night. Somebody
said his nerves were made of iron. he
rested his brain by busying his body
and rested his body by busying his
brain. The eyes that were set far back
under the shaggy brows never lost
their keenness In the shadows of his
protruding brow. They were the unfail-
ing signal lights that flashed the mes
sage of a vigilant, alert, observing
mind. Kinney was patient, else he nev-
er would have learned the printers
art at odd moments. He was plodding
and persistent, else he never would
have toiled far into the night to bring
out the weekly issues of The Sanga-
mon Boy.
His Office was even older than the
man. To see it one could almost guess
what manner of man was it's presiding
genius. 1t is standing today, a plain
square cabin on the very crown of a
desolate hill five miles removed from
any town. Behind it and sheltering it
from the spite of the winter winds
and the afternoon sun is a grove of
great towering oak trees, lifting their
branches high over the head of a tan
gled mass of forest shrubbery. Its one
door is nailed shut, and strong boards
cover the two squares on either side
where windows once let in a timid
light by day and sent out a ghostly
glimmer of oil lamps by night.
For ten years not foot has been set
inside the door. The little old hand
press was removed long ago and the
worn type. One might find a rusty
stick nesting here and there in the
cracks of the board floor, and he might
see bit of yellow paper tackled near
the door bearing the words in Josh's
own handwriting:
aoFore oro I.Ioa1~
smith shop down the road. This is a
printery."
Coming from anybody else this hint
might have invited trouble, but respect
for Josh Kinney's iron muscles and his
teeming brain brought it only silent
obedience.
I Lower Corners, which, by the way, is
not village, but a farming commu-
nifty, made sport of Josh when he first
came and started his newspaper. That
was before they knew anything about
the big brain that dominated his an
gular body. He managed to get some
thing into every issue that set hig
neighbors thinking and made them re-
spect him for his learning.
In Lower Corners today there are
men of families who were boys ten
years ago-big, lusty, mischievous boys
who loved fish fry in the summer and
bobsled ride when the snow was
knee deep on the Rochester road. OF
course, they remember the night when
a dozen Of them, playing the gallant
to as many country girls with ruddy
cheeks, rode past Kinney's little Office
and bombarded the door with snow
balls.
Kinney never forgot it, because the
crash of those snowballs sent shock
to his heart that changed the current
of his life. All night long he had heard
nothing but the monotonous beating of
the little press which his foot kept in
motion. How prosaic 1t was against
the rollicking Jingle of the sleighbells,
how harsh against the musical laugh
ter of the girls in the sled! And what
O strange thrill went through him as
he heard one Of these cry out: please
don't throw any more. boys. You
oughtn't to disturb Mr.. Kinney when
he DuSy. 1ledSe uOIl [.
"And is there really somebody who
cares enough about me to think of
that?' he asked himself. Am doing
right to shut myself up here when l
might be out with those boys and girls?
/ wonder whose voice that was. 1t
sounded like-but what reason have
to think that?''
Maybe he didn't have any reason TO
think it. but vague, tender hope rose
above reason. "Mary"-what a pretty
name it was, he thought-"Mary Man
ning-Kinney." So timid was this big,
strong man that he actually blushed at
his own audacity when he coupled her
name with his. MARY Manning Kin
neyw 1t kept ringing in his spiritual
ear like the melody of favorite song.
When the last issue of The Sangamon
Boy was run off and Josh Kinney crept
into bed, host of sentimental fancies
kept him awake until far into the
morning and then wove themselves in
to the fabric of his dreams.
Mary Manning was the only daugh-
ter of the richest farmer in Lower Cor
ners and the one girl in the community
who had tossed aside the blue bonnet
of the district school and become a
seminary girl abroad She saw in Kin
ney something more than clod. some
thing higher than the creator of a
weekly rural paper. She respected him
for his wide fund of information, for
his rugged sincerity, for his physical
and mental power. She-but she her.
self could not have told by what proc
ess she came to hold tender regard
for this modest giant among pygmies.
Possibly it was because he was at once
so gentle and SO strong.
Lower Corners was suspicious enough