Bellefonte, Pa., July 14, 1916. A TRIBUTE TO CENTRE COUN- TY, PA. BY A NATIVE SON. Hail, Hail! Renowned is Centre county, Star of the Keystone Constellation! Adorned with honor, and far famed art thou! Afar thy name is heralded in story. Vast mineral wealth thy terra firma yields, ‘With forests thou art lavishly adorned; Thy emerald vales are gems of nature, all; Thou'rt grand and beautiful in every part. How limpid are thy brooks and beauteous streams, Pure, deep and grand thy numerous foun- tains are; Great are thy caves, yea, truly wonderful! In nature’s handiwork thou art sublime. But nobler far, and long enduring The many deeds thy sturdy sons have wrought ; : In war, none ever fought more truly val- iant, Yet no less able are thy Sons of Peace. Thy heritage is rich in noted statesmen, Among the foremost of the land are they! No less thy pride are all thy charming daughters! Angelic souls, homes. blest guardians of thy Thy Counsellors, Historians and Poets,— Likewise thy famed Musicians and Com- posers, And Artists, Artisans and Teachers,— All, all are ’mongst the foremost in the a. land. Thy schools are of the finest to be found, Academies of thine are thy just pride; “Twere vain a College to denote more famed Than thine, since none exist within the State. \ In types of yeomanry “Old Centre” leads Her sister counties, one and all; They're first in poise and greater sturdi- ness, : True patriots, who their country well de- fend. Hail! Dear Old Centre county, Hail! Thy fame among thy sisters is secure. A gem art thou in Penn’s sylvania, Thou standest peerless ’mongst thy ters, all. sR AN way eo. sis- Make felt thy power for progress and for truth! No deed too high and noble for thy aim; From off thy throne thou canst not be de- posed ; A beacon light art thou throughout thy State. Proud mother of four famous Governors, What endless honors, well deserved, thine, No other sister of Penn's Commonwealth Such glory and renown may e’re acquire. are The years of honor in thy train mount high! A million beauty bowers deck thy domain; Thy glory all the ages will endure, ) Hail Queen! We lay fresh laurels at thy feet. We offer thee sincere, heart-felt devotion, Our hearts unite to laud and honor thee; For lofty is thy greater, nobler station, Resplendent and enriched is thy domain. Thy people are in truth highly renowned, Great scholars thy full history adorn, Thy patriots have proved themselves valor, And each one bears a proud and honored name. in Hail, Centre county! Noblest gem art thou Of Penn’s sylvanian, beautiful domain; A Princess fair, art thou, of richest splen- dor, Exalted thus, mayest thou for aye endure. - ALFRED BEIRLY, Doctor of Music. Chicago, Illinois, June 24th, 1916. THE GOOD LOSER. Bam!—pop—Ping! . Bam!— pop—Ping!” Over and over again the tennis ball, brown and frayed with usage, thudded against the side of the barn, rebounded to the ground and rose to meet the meshes of the boy's rac- quet fairly in the centre. The rac- quet looked far too large and heavy for his slender brown wrist; his fin- gers stretched barely half way around the thick handle, but the S)rokes were free, full, precisely tim- Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, nine- ty-nine, hundred !—hundred’n one hundred’ n’ two—" : The boy had not heard the auto- mobile pull up at the gate nor was he aware of a stranger who stood watching him a few yards behind. “Hundred’n’ three, hundred’n’ four hundred’n’ five!” The ball hit some little protuber- ance in the barn wall and bounded over the boy’s head. He jumped, swinging the racquet desperately but missed the shot. Turning he saw the man catch the ball deftly in one hand. Swiftly the boy appraised the stranger. He was a long, lean man, neither young nor old, in a Norfolk suit and motor cap, with goggles pushed up over the visor. There was rather a grim set about his mouth and jaw, but the keen gray eyes were smiling. The way the newcom- er had ‘caught that ball proved him one of the elect, with whom a fellow , can discuss the important issues of life sympathetically. “Whew!” said the boy, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. y “I broke the rec dred’n’ Wea i five.” “Fine business. Yo Swing a Facquet Like that 7” y much, d i to teach me—but he didnt iw “How old are on stranger. you pursued the “Almost ’leven.” “Your father Plays 1 e stranger lo “How do You mean re ale 2 Got creditors,” explained the boy. I heard him and Mother talkin’ about it lots of times. Gee! It must be fierce to get creditor, . Daddy got L, anyway—hun- it’s a hundred’n’ Who taught you tennis 7” is After that he most lived at the factory. Never played tennis or nothin’—jus’ worked all the time. An’ las’ winter he used to tell Moth- er he was goin’ to pull through somehow. But I guess it’s gettin’ worse’n ever now, ‘cause jus’ before we lef’ Boston an’ come up here 1 heard him say this summer would prob’ly see him bankruptured.” “Too bad,” said the stranger. “Yes,” said the boy simply. “This is Dad’s old racquet,” he added irrel- evantly. The stranger took the racquet, a queer light in his eyes. He gripped it, tested its balance, and swung it | ago. strokes. “I bet you can play some,” ventur- ed the boy admiringly. “Used to,” grunted the stranger. “Good old bat, this. But too big and heavy for you. Ought to have a light one with a small handle.” “I know it,” said the boy. “But we can’t afford it, Mother says. It’s all we can do, now Dad has the creditors, to make meat at both ends, she says. That's why we come to this old place, stead of a big hotel like we used to. Gee! It’s tough, ain’t it?” “Let’s see you bat ‘em more,” suggested the stranger. some The he walked. : “Bam! pop Ping! . . . Bam! pop—Ping!” went the ball against barn, ground and racquet while the Sirenger stood watching the boy's ay. “Best natural stroke I ever saw in a kid,” he muttered. The boy missed a fair try at a back-hand shot. “You don’t take those back-hand- ers right,” said the man, “Here let me show youl!” The stranger took the racquet, turned his right side to the wall and with full, graceful strokes drove the ball again and again in straight whizzing flight against the barn. “Qh, sufferin’ Mike!” exclaimed the boy. “Can I learn to do it like that?” “Sure. Practice, that’s all. No; stand sideways, right foot out— right foot—well out—farther. That is it. Now start the swing from above the left shoulder—that’s the stuff. Let the racquet go right on through. No—too close to the body that time. Bounce the ball a little farther away. That's the idea— follow through—that’a boy, that’a boy! Try it again.” The stranger sat down on a wheel- barrow and urged the boy on with crisp phrases of criticism and en- couragement. There was a new glint in the man’s eyes, and the grim set about his mouth and jaw had relaxed. At times he almost laughed. “Rest a minute,” he called at last; and the boy, his smooth round face shining with exertion and happiness, dropped beside him on the old bor- row. “Whew!” breathed the pupil; “I bet you play a dandy game.” “Not any more,” said the stran- ger, the old grim look returning. “Before you—hurt your ' foot,” ventured the boy, hesitantly. “Yes,” grunted the stranger. “It’s all over now.” “Won't your foot ever get well, so you can play?” “No,” said the man bitterly. “An- kle’s busted. Never be much good. Mustn’t run around on it too much.” After a long silence he suddenly rose. “Well—I must be going on,” he said. “Are you stoppin’ down t’ the In- tervale House?” asked the boy. “No; I'm just touring around through the mountains—not stop- ping anywhere except to sleep and eat. Well—so long, son.” But he didn’t go. He stood as though fascinated by the little downcast figure on the wheelbarrow. The boy had suddenly lost his vivac- ity. He looked forlorn—and lonely. “What's the trouble, son?” the man asked at length. “Nothin’, I guess,” said the boy, coming out of his reverie. “I was just iffin’, that’s all.” “What’s iffing 7” “Don’t you ever if?” Why it's like wishin’, only you put ‘if’ before everythin’. Like this—I was just iffin’ if you was livin’ down to the In- tervale House—an’ if you wanted to —you could come over and play with me lots of times—an’ teach me about tennis—an’ if you did I could be- come a good player—if you wasn’t goin’ away.” ” “Oh, I see,” mused the stranger. “But it’s this way, son: Since I broke my ankle and couldn’t play tennis any more, I've been driving around the country trying to forget my troubles. Tennis is one of the things I was trying to get away from—altogether. You see it's pretty hard on a fellow not to be able to play any more—and—and— Understand ?” “I guess so,” said the boy slowly. The stranger studied the ground for a moment. “I might stop over here a few days—if you think they'd let me have a room,” he said finally. The boy Jumbed up with a shout. “Gee! ould you? That'd be swell! Sure, you can get a room, Mrs. Fletcher—she’s the landlady— she’ll do anythin’ for a friend o’ mine Come on—I’ll interdooce “Say, Bill,” said Mr. Kendrick, three days later,—he was no longer the stranger—as they sat resting on the barrow between bombardments of the barn wall, “this old tennis court wouldn’t take long to put in some kind of shape.” “Wouldn’t it?” The boy’s sensi- tive face lighted with a strange ope. : : “You and I could fix it up in a few days, if Old Man Fletcher would get us a couple of wagon loads of fine sand.” “Gee! Could We?” : “Sure. This back-stop practice is all right as a starter; but you'll nev- er learn to play tennis s way,” pursued Kendrick. “Suppose I stay on a while—send down to Boston for this way and that in big sweeping | bo boy noticed his new friend limped as |e some tennis things, and make this{Th —rrrr rr — = — ‘hard and learn the game?” “Would I?” almost shouted the boy. “Ask me!” The man seemed to consider a moment. “All right,” he said. on.” : Whooping with delight, dashed off to tell his mother, while Kendrick limped over the lumpy, grass-grown old court, testing the soil with his heel. The years seem- ed to have slipped from his shoul- ders. His face was almost as boyish as Billy’s when he lifted it to greet the quiet, patient figure being drag- ged toward him by the exuberant “You're Billy vy. “Billy tells me you are going to stay over a while,” she said, with the quick, warm smile he had noted in both their faces so often. “If you don’t mind.” “Mind? Of course not. It’s awful- ly good of you to take such an inter- est in my lonely little boy.” “Not at all; a pleasure! Er—er, Bill, run over and ask Mr. Fletcher —there he is in the barn—if he can get us the sand,” said Kendrick. “He’s got the stuff in him to make a fine tennis player,” he added as Bill scampered off. “I hope he has the stuff in him to make a fine man,” said Billy’s moth- T. “It takes the same quality of goods, as a ruc,” said Kendrick. “You think so?” she asked dubi- ously. “I know so. Tennis develops a fellow’s self-control, courage and sense of decency and, more than anything else, it teaches him to be a modest winner and a good loser.” “A good loser?” repeated Billy's mother, questioningly. “How to lose gracefully—in life or just in the game.” “I’m afraid you overestimate the value of any mere sport,” she doubted. “Maybe I’ll have a chance to prove it to you with Billy,” said Kendrick. For three long days the lame young man and the: boy tilled the soil of the old tennis court. Side by side they spaded, plowed, harrowed, and raked the surface. They spread the wagonloads of sand, and with the heavy stone road-roller they found in the barn they went over and over the plot, rejoicing as they felt the ground grow firmer and firmer to their feet. Meanwhile, in response to various telegrams and letters, mysterious parcels and boxes arrived and were deposited unopened in the barn. At each end of the court, with the aid of Old Man Fletcher and the “hired man,” the back-stops were erected; on each side the net posts were sunk well into the ground. “Now we'll see what’s in those packages,” said Kendrick at last. Billy was trembling with excite- ment and Kendrick was almost as eager as they ripped the covers from the boxes and tore the wrappings from the packages. Wonders were unfolded: A new white net with atent stretchers to lower or raise it y turning an iron crank; a gor- geously painted tin contrivance on wheels to mark the lines with lime- mixture; a couple of boxes of snowy- white, wooly “Championship” balls, and then—oh, frabjous day!—a twelve and a half ounce “Gold Med- al” racquet in a waterproof cover and wooden press. The string of white and black gut hummed to the boy’s strumming fingers; the handle felt slim and firm in his small, hard grip. In his joy Billy failed to notice the i expression on Kendrick’s face as he | bent over a battered leather racquet case. He looked like a violin virtuo- | so who had been kept away from his i beloved instrument a long time. i “Feels more like it, eh?” said Ken- | drick, looking up at the boy, who : swung the racquet to and fro in ec- static abandon. “Am—am—I goin’ to play with this one?” asked Billy breathlessly. “That’s what I got it for, kid. It's yours for keeps.” “Gee! S’pose Mother won’t let me keep it.” There was sudden conster- nation in his tone. “Sure she will. birth-day 7” “Next month—sixteenth gasped Billy, his face lighting. “That’s the idea,” laughed Ken- drick. “It’s your birthday present in advance.” The next day Kendrick began to teach Billy the intricacies of lawn tennis as ar art. “We've got to go slowly at first,” he told Billy. “You have already managed, Lo knows how, to learn to swing at the ball. The first thing I'm going to teach you is a simple service, with some ‘top’ and spin on the ball. Speed will come later, when you grow older and get more strength.” And so for hours at a time he kept the boy hammering out over- head service strokes, while he stood in the outer court, collecting the balls and making no effort to return them. Then came days spent in mastering the rudiments of the long, low drives down the side-lines. “Until you are old enough to put speed on the ball, you must depend on your accuracy in placing to win your points,” he explained. “Half the game is put-ghsming the other fellow, catching him out of position, When’s your where he can’t reach it.” He taught Billy the short, tricky chop-stroke across the court close to the net; how and when to play the dangerous but effective lob; and kept him plugging for many hours on long back-hand drives and diffi- cult back-hand half-volleys. The days slipped into weeks and the weeks into a full month before ‘| Kendrick responded to the boy's oft- en repeated question: “Aren't we ever going to play a real game?” Then one morning at breakfast, he brought the boy to his feet in de- lighted surprise by saying: “lI guess we'll play a regular game today, Billy.” It ag seemed a regular game to the , though Kendrick, as he hobbled slowly about the court, appeared to find no difficulty in an- 1pating the youngster’s returns. e master, holding his power in em something awful—mor’'n a year court over for you—would you work | constant reserve, maneuvered his i and slipping one down the court]li ' pupil across the net. shots so as to bring into play every variety of stroke he had so labor- iously drilled into the ardent little “That’s the stuff, Bill,” he would shout encouragingly. “You picked the right spot that time. Try it again.” Slowly as the days passed the boy grew surer of his stroke, more accu- rate in his placement, until before the middle of August he could keep Kendrick limping from one side of the court to the other as fast as his crippled ankle would permit. “I beat him two sets this morn- in’,” Kendrick heard Billy telling his mother one noon as they were wash- ing up for dinner. “I'm sure he must have let you win,” suggested the mother’s sweet voice. “No, Ma, honest he didn’t. You see, he’s so lame that he can’t run fast, an’ when I place ’em down the side-lines I get him out o’ position an’ pass him, really I do.” Kendrick, drying his face on a towel, smiled grimly to himself. “Billy seems to be coming on as a player,” said the mother at dinner. “How’s the character-building work- ing out?” She smiled teasingly. “I'm going to give him his first lesson in that after dinner,” said Kendrick, looking seriously at the astonished boy. They finished the meal in silence. After the hour’s rest Kendrick al- ways ordered for the digestion’s sake, he beckoned to the boy and si- lently led the way to the court. “Say, Bill,” he said finally, as they took their places, “one of the worst things a young player can do is to get the swelled head and think he can beat the world. Understand?” “Yes—sir,” said Billy meekly. “I Lope you do,” continued Ken- drick, picking up three balls deftly with one flick of his racquet; “but to make sure, I'm going to give you an object lesson. Ready—play!” What followed was a revelation to the bewildered Billy. He suddenly found himself tied to the ground waving a vain and useless toy in the air. Tennis balls lost their accus- tomed proportions and became mere white streaks that whizzed by one’s head like great angry hornets or struck viciously in all parts of the court where one wasn’t. Point upon point, love-game after love-game, Kendrick, hardly appearing to move from one spot, piled up the score, un- til, with a final lightning drive down the side-lines that missed Billy's frantic swipe by three feet, he end- ed the object lesson at 6-0. Kendrick stood quietly in his court and watched Billy’s rueful, crimson countenance. The boy wavered for a moment, and looked toward the house. He felt a big lump rising in his throat and his eyes became mis- ty. He wanted to run to his mother —to bury his face in her lap—and be comforted, as of old. But he didn’t. Slowly he turned his twitch- ing face toward the silent man across the net. Then with a quick gesture he drew his sleeve across his eyes and dripping forehead. “I— guess—I—was gettin’ stuck on—m- my-self,” he blurted uncertainly. Kendrick’s heart leaped and his own eyes became strangely dim. With a great laugh he climbed over the net, grabbed the boy around the shoulders and hugged him. “You're all right, kid!” he cried. “Don’t let that worry you for a min- ute. I could do that trick with lots of full-grown men who think they can play tennis. I just wanted to take you down a little. Now we’ll go back to the regular stuff and give some real practice.” Billy pulled himself together. He liked to feel his big friend’s arm around him—but it seemed to weak- en his resolve not to cry, and so he drew himself slowly away. “What —what shall I try next?” he asked, a little quavering. “That’s the boy!” said Kendrick. “Cone on and try the reverse-twist service a while. If you get that down this summer you’ll have all the kids your age whipped to a stand- still.” That evening, Billy, before the good-night hug and kiss he had nev- er known his mother to overlook, made a little confession. “Mother,” he whispered, “I guess —you was right—when you said he let me win. I had the swelled head, all right. But he took it out of me this afternoon. Gee! You ought to see him hit that ball when he : wants to.” Billy’s mother looked tenderly at the tired, healthy little figure in the big feather bed. There was a special fervor in the good night hug and kiss that time, and then she went down to the porch and told Kendrick about it. : “I'm beginning to see that tennis isn’t all mere play,” she said. One other lesson, and a more seri- ous one, Kendrick found necessary to instill into his pupil. He often no- ticed a tendency on Billy’s part to miscall balls. At first Kendrick at- tributed it to lack of experience. But this day there could be no mistake: three times in one set Billy deliber- ately called one of Kendrick’s art- fully placed returns “outside,” when Kendrick could see plainly that it struck just inside, or dead on the ne. After the third offense Kendrick smashed one down the side for the winning point and turned on his heel to leave the court. “We won't Say any more today, Billy,” he said quietly. Without looking back Kendrick limped around the house, leaving the boy, racquet in hand, moodily bounc- ing a ball up and down. Kendrick immersed himself in a book on the veranda and awaited developments. Slowly, with dragging footsteps, a forlorn little figure in khaki blouse and knickers came around the house and mounted the veranda steps. Kendrick fastened his eyes on the page before him, reading the same paragraph over and over. The foot- steps dragged nearer and nearer. Kendrick felt the pressure of a small shoulder leaning against his; a little brown hand pulled at his coat sleeve. Presently a weak, uncertain voice spoke in his ear: “I knew those balls was—was good.” The next instant Kendrick found himself holding a quivering figure, while a small round head buried it- self on his arm and spilled big tears on his hand. For a while Kendrick silently held the shaken boy in his arms. When he started to speak he found it difficult. “Billy,” he said at last, “I don’t think I'll ever have to tell you this again: Tennis puts a fellow on his { honor more than any other game— when there’s no umpire or linesmen to watch where the balls hit. It’s good to play winning tennis, but the next best thing to winning a square game is to lose one. The worst thing is to win by cheating, or tak- ing a mean advantage of the other fellow. Always remember that. Anytime in a game that you are in doubt as to whether the ball is in or out, give the benefit of the doubt to the other side of the net. Under- stand 7” From the huddled figure in his arms came an inarticulate affirma- tive noise. “You’ll have lots of chances in tennis to do the crooked thing— when your opponent isn’t expecting it and you can win a point by cheat- ing. But you'll find it doesn’t pay. Real tennis players don’t do it. They're a clean lot of fellows. They haven’t any use for a chap who cheats. Why sometimes—it even happens in a big match that the um- pire or linesman will call a ball ‘out’ or ‘in’ and give you a point when you know he is wrong. If you're a regu- lar guy you won’t stand for such a play, you’ll see that the point goes to your opponent—or even it up on the next point, anyway. Under- stand ?” There came another mumbled as- sent. Followed minutes of silence, broken only by those gulps and retchings of the painful aftermath of tears. Neither heard the screen door shut softly and the quick rustle of footsteps scurrying up-stairs. Up in her room Billy’s mother found it difficult to keep back the tears and swallow the rising lump in her throat. (Concluded next week.) Back to Vegetable Dyes. A virtually forgotten industry is be- ing revived with frantic haste as a result of the discontinuance of Ger- many’s world commerce in aniline or coal tar dyes. The United States, like many other countries, is locking longingly once more to Avignon’s madder root for its “Turkey red,” to India’s indigo for its blues, to Mexico’s cochineal for its scarlets, to Central America’s logwood for its blacks and browns, to our own oak forests for their quercitron yel- low, and—no, not to the peculiarMed- iterranean seashell for its purple, for the manufacture of the Tyrian shade once beloved by emperors - is one of the socalled lost arts. But these ancient vegetable dyes, some of which were in use when the mummy cloths were being made for the pyramid builders of Egypt, can never replace the coal tar dyes, which, during the sixty years since they were accidentally discovered, have revolu- tionized the art of adding color to our clothes, our houses, our inks, our shoes, our wall paper, our hats and our book bindings. In fact, aniline dyes furnish almost all of the modern tints for which man is responsible. It was in 1865 that a young English chemist, while trying to produce arti- ficial quinine, distilled from coal tar a substance which had a beautiful mauve tint. This was the first of the aniline dyes, dyes which have now been produced in nearly a thousand commercial shades, 400 of which are widely used. This young chemist, William Henry Parkin, secured capi- tal from his father and began the manufacture of dyes, as a result of which he was knighted and amassed a fortune. His discovery immediately attractived the attention of German manufacturers, who aided by far- sighted bankers, employed university chemists, and established dye plants on the Rhine and Main rivers, inaugu- rating an industry which has enjoyed phenomenal success. ‘At the outbreak of the present great war twenty-one manufacturing establishments, most of them within an area of 130 square miles, had a practical world monopoly of the aniline dye trade.—National Geographic Society. Peach Tree Borers. Reports from several sections of the State indicate that peach tree borers are unusually active at this time of the year. One correspond- ent'in writing to Zoologist H. A. Surface, of the Pennsylvania De- partment of Agriculture, calls atten- tion to “many slender worms, white and quite active, acting a good deal like very minute, quick-acting angle worms.” ' Professor Surface says: “The slender white worms found in the gum at the base of peach trees are the larvae of flies. They feed in the gum and do not attack the trees. They do not cause the gum to exude and therefore are not injuri- ous. The presence of gum does not mean the presence of borers, as gum may come from several causes, but when there are fine grains, like sawdust in the gum, it is a sure evi- dence of the presence of peach tree borers. “The only thing to do is to go after them with a knife and cut them out, or dissolve one ounce of cyanide of potassium in two gallons of water and pour this around the base of the tree and cover it with earth. Begin- ning about the latter part of June, wash the base of the tree once a month for three applications with lime-sulphur solution containing some sediment, and this will keep other borers from entering. Her Own Fault. Mistress—Mary, don’t let me catch you kissing the grocer’s boy again, Mary—Lor’ mum, I don’t mean to but you do bob around so.—Boston Transcript. Courtesy Lessens Auto Accidents. Virtually every automobile club in every city in the United States has this year adopted new and more stringent rules with reference to safety regulations in the driving of motor cars. Some of the clubs place more emphasis on one point than the others, but the feature of nearly all of the instructions to members is the necessity of automo- bile drivers being courteous to othre drivers with whom they share the road and also to pedestrians who happen ta cross in front of them. “There are thousands of driving rules which have more or less sig- nificance from a ‘safety first’ stand- point, but if every driver would sim- ply be as courteous to other drivers and pedestrians as he should be to his own mother at home, a great many of the more complex regula- tions could be dispensed with,” says Morgan J. Hammers, general man- ager of the Consolidated Car Com- pany, of Detroit. Mr. Hammers, who is personally an enthusiastic tourist when he can spare the time from his factory, has made a close study of automobile traffic rules and his opinion on the subject should be of interest to all motorists. “The danger of automobile driv- ing is greatly exaggerated,” he says: “The careful and courteous driver is in no more danger of an accident than the pedestrian who crosses the street. The Wolverine Automobile Club, of Detroit, has issued a list of suggestions to its members which in my opinion covers the situation as fully as possible. Some of the points it makes are to this effect. “Be courteous at all times. Don’t hog the road, give the other fellow room to pass. “When another driver comes in from a side street, give him room to turn the corner--don’t crowd. He has as much right to turn a corner as you have. . “Do not dodge in and around cars lined up in dense traffic. Remember they were there first and are proba- bly just as anxious to get ahead as you are. “When a pedestrian does not heed your warning signal, remember that hundreds of deaf persons use the street as much as you do. “When you have an almost insane desire to speed, remember that the fellows you pass have just as much right to break the law as you have. Think of the accident which may happen by your hitting some other fellow coming in from a side street. Also be courteous to the passengers in your own car, who, are filled with fear, but are trying to be game and not let you know it. “When a pedestrian deliberately pays no attention to your signal think of the thousands of mentally deficient. You' would not injure one who is helpless to defend himself. “Slow up when you see a child on the curb. Remember that the child can start quicker than you can stop. “And, lastly, be courteous to po- lice officials and in 99 cases out of 100 they will more than repay it. You may not like their rules, but re- member that the traffic officer him- self had very little to do with mak- ing those rules—he is simply there to enforce them. He must do his duty, the same as you would do it if you were on his beat.” rt 1 Arms Exports to Mexico. Treasury Department figures on the export of arms and ammunition to Mexico during the present year show the following valuations: January—Firearms, $11,755; car- tridges, $123,985; dynamite, $120,- 105; gunpowder, $1220; other explo- sives, $10,386. February—Firearms, $523; car- tridges, $116,370; dynamite, $411,- 081; gunpowder, $400; other explo- sives, $10,076. March—Firearms, none; car- tridges, $202,774; dynamite, $25,919; gunpowder, $1099; other explosives, $13,318. : April—Firearms, $150; cartridges, $51,875; dynamite, $61,143; gunpow- der, $369; other explosives, $24,812. Figures for May and June are not available. Practically all the ex- ports were for the Carranza Govern- ment. World Famine in Needles. The world famine in needles al- ready sorely felt in the United States, China and Japan, has reach- ed France, according to a dispatch from Commercial Attache C. W. A. Veditz at Paris to the Bureau of Foreign and domestic Commerce. He says the underwear and knit goods industry of France is passing through a critical period because of the difficulties ercountered in obtain- ing knitting needles. They were for- merly purchased mainly from Eng- land and Spain, but their exporta- tion is now prohibited by these coun- tries. The situation is further aggravat- ed by the fact that Switzerland has also recently enacted a similar ex- port prohibition. Limestone Quarries are Deep and Dangerous. A limestone quarry which is about a mile loess picturesque in appear- ance, and dangerous to work in is lo- cated near Rockland, Me. There 300 laborers, chiefly foreigners, toil in chasms having perpendicular sides 500 feet high and no way of entrance or egress except by means of the derricks which hoist and lower about a dozen men at a time. Approximate- ly 1,000,000 barrels of lime are pre- pared in the vicinity of Rockland an- nually. Interesting views of these quarries appear in the July “Popular Mechanics Magazine.” There Was a Reason. Bridges—I wonder how Henpeck came to buy an auto. Do you know? Rivers—Yes. He said he thought maybe his wife wouldn’t be so free to find fault with him after she saw how much trouble he was having with his car.—Life. | S—
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers