The difference between "Chariton" and "Churdan"

The humor here, taken from The Chariton Democrat of June 10, 1886, obviously is contrived and most likely embroidered --- the attempted suicide in an empty cistern seems unlikely ---  but there's no reason to doubt the basic outline.

And goodness knows we need humor anywhere we can find it these days.

So far as I know, "Chariton" and "Churdan" are rarely confused these days. Chariton, Iowa, and Sheridan, Wyoming, are, however.

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A horrible little misunderstanding occurred  in one of the dove-like abodes of a Chariton household last Monday, which came near wrecking the lives of those between whom the dark shadow came.

The loving husband's name is --- but no, we promised him we wouldn't give the name. We  will therefore call him by the assumed name of T.T. Jones. Mr. Jones went to his office last Saturday morning, and in looking over his mail threw aside a letter addressed to Mrs. T.T. Jones. Being a good husband, he allowed his wife the blessed privilege of opening her own letters, and the innocent little missive was sent down to the house.

After the usual toil with which his every morning is beset, he started homeward bearing in his soul no thought but conjugal love, while his beaming countenance was aglow with a ten-cents-a-box-strawberry-short-cake smile as he contemplated the sweet wife and the sweeter dinner.

But, alas! There was no dinner and no sign of love. The voice that hitherto was sweetest music in his ear came from the cavernous depths below in maddening accents of deep despair like a soul in endless woe. She was trying to drown herself on the cement bottom of an empty cistern. With great effort he fished our out. Disheveled hair,  bloodless face, eyes red with weeping, and the evidence of a great grief on every liniament of her features bespoke the anguish of her soul. In her hand she clutched a crumpled piece of paper. "Read it," she shrieked; "read your guilt and my shame, and then despair and die as I shall die."

He read an affectionate letter commencing, "My Dear Mary," and lovingly signed, "your own loving hubby, T.T. Jones." But our heroine's name wasn't Mary and so she knew he had another love --- an unholy love.

He bade her be calm. Assured her there was some horrid mistake. She knew there was. Consciousness of guilt had weighed heavily upon his soul not yet used to treachery and directed his hand into the awful mistake of addressing the envelope to her instead of the Mary for whom it was intended.

Then they got the envelope. A careful examination showed that it was addressed to "Mrs. T.T. Jones, Churdan, Iowa" instead of, "Chariton,  Iowa," to which latter place it had been sent by mistake. The truth began to dawn upon her that there were two T.T. Jonses, and that probably the other fellow had a  perfect right to address his dear Mary.

To make assurance doubly sure she locked her husband in the cellar while she rushed out and telegraphed the mayor of Churdan: "Does T.T. Jones live  in Churdan and what is his wife's name?" The answer came, "Yes, Mary."

Then she went home and turned her husband loose.