Bellefonte, Pa., September 7, 1923.
EAS RAR.
THE GREATER THING.
However humble the place I may hold
Or lowly the trails I have trod,
There’s a child who bases his faith on me;
There's a dog who thinks I am God.
Lord, keep me worthy—Lord, keep me
clean
And fearless and unbeguiled,
Lest I lose caste in the sight of a dog
And the wide, clear eyes of a child.
Lest there shall come in the years to be
The blight of a withering grief,
And a little dog mourn for a fallen god
And a child for his lost belief.
—C. T. DAVIS, in Arkansas Gazette.
A LAW UNTO OURSELVES.
(Concluded from last week).
“And aren’t you glad we came—
that we're here? Aren’t you?”
“You know I am!”
“We've been so free—able to come
and go exactly as we pleased—yet we
haven't wanted to do a thing apart.
Suppose we’d stayed in New York—
married and settled down— listened
to the dictum of our conventional an-
cestors! By this time we’d be living
in a conventional apartment, probably
north of Fifty-ninth street, doing the
movies every night for a diversion or
sitting at either side of the gas logs,
you with your evening paper and I
with mine. Every now and then I’d
grunt out some news or you'd regale
me with servant troubles. Domestici-
ty—it’s a dirge!”
For the first time since the encoun-
ter at the table a smile touched her
lips. “I think I'd be happy with you,
even married and north of Fifty-ninth
street. That’s the way+I love you. It
doesn’t matter how or where—so long
as we're together.”
“You think that because we've
found romance—this way. Wedding
bells are its knell.
She did not answer and the anxious
look swept once more across his dark,
intense face.
“You're not sorry, sweetheart?”
“No—of course not! Why, when
your arms close round me, all the rest
of the world is shut out. As if it and
its laws had never been made! As if
you and I were alone—for always—in
eternity.”
“And you’re all I want!” came from
him. “Without you, there’s nothing
for me. Beloved!”
The cab creaked as it stumbled
through the curious gray light that is
the veil dropped by night before the |-
dawn. Inside there was stillness.
Outside all Paris danced.
They stopped before 2 house that
leaned forward out of the shadows
like a weary old ghost. It was of
wood, with a pointed roof and case-
ment windows, a rickety relic of old
Paris. He got out, liffed her down,
paid the sleepy cocher and led the way
through a small courtyard and up two
flights of wailing wooden steps. At
the top he unlocked the door to a
large studio room. The draught of
air reached out long arms and drew
them in. Emery looked toward the
stove that stood before the mantel.
The fire had gone out. He shivered
as he picked up a brass scuttle and
heaped coal into its yawning mouth.
“Dearest, I wish you’d let us move
into more sensible quarters. This de-
Crom old place is artistic but nerve-
racking. It’s so draughty that the
fire’s always going out.”
Jean went to the windows and
stuffed strips of newspaper into the
cracks where they closed.
“Don’t forget that we took it not
for art but for the price.”
“And that’s so unnecessary,” he
protested, “when I could give you
everything. When I want to give you
everything!”
“You're giving me things all the
time—every chance you can make to
buy me presents. I can’t stop you
from doing that. I—I don’t want to.
But you know our agreement—you
must let me pay my own way, we
must share equally the expense of liv-
ing—and this is all I can afford.”
“But it’s so galling, when I want to
spend all the money I have on you.”
“Then spend it on my lessons, dear.
Yoy know—there’s one thing that
troubles me a lot. I’ve wanted to talk
to you about it.”
“Yes?” he prompted, going to her
as she paused in the act of putting a
match to the wick of the lamp on a
small table. The flame flared up and
traveled along the stick until it al-
most burned her fingers.
“Well?” He blew it out, struck one
of his own, and lighted the lamp. Then
he cupped a hand under her chin, lift-
ing the vibrant face to his.
“No—wait! I can’t tell you if you
kiss me. And it has been bothering
me—the only thing our coming here
has interfered with!”
“What is it, my love?”
“That's just it! Your love! Being
your love has made me forget every-
thing else. If we'd stayed in New
York, I should have gone on study-
ing. I wouldn’t have let anything in
the world keep me from my singing
lessons. Not even you, dear, could
have made me neglect the thing that
for so many years has been my one
aim—my one goal. But here—living
in this dream-world, with everything
about me so new and wonderful, I
keep putting off my arrangements.
We're sure to say, either you or I,
that we’ll wait until tomorrow—and
tomorrow there’s always something
else to do.”
“But you do practice.”
“No—I sing for you when you want
to hear me—during the day for an
hour or at night when we’re not going
out. Practice is going over monoton-
ous little scales again and again and
again—tuning up the voice exactly as
one tunes up a violin. It would drive
you insane—that’s why I haven’t done
much of it.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart! I'll get
a studio outside soon—only I hate to
be away from you all day. Let’s have
this wonderful, carefree dream of ours
a while longer. Your voice will
more beautiful for it. We'll have de
Reszke ‘take you in hand then. Prom-
ise not to worry—promise!”
% She went into his arms lifting her
ips.
“I always promise what you want,
don’t 17”
“And when we both begin work ser-
iously, you can practice those scales
from dawn till dark. They’ll be mu-
sic because it’s your voice!”
The first faint rays of morning
touched like timid fingers the black
painted floor. Jean drew back pres-
ently and went toward the little hall
that led to the rear room.
“We must get some sleep—and I
shouldn’t be a bit surprised if the
bedroom were an icebox, too. Stay in
here while I light the stove. Thank
heaven it’s an oil one!”
When he was alone, Fred Emery
went to the casement windows, in his
troubadour costume fitting curiously
into the frame they made. Paris had
stretched her beautiful body for a
final nap before dawn. The streets
were somnolent, deadly quiet, much as
they had been that night in the Square
when he and Jean decided to come
away to live their own life according
to their own will.
He raised his two hands and pushed
back the heavy shock of hair that
swept over his eyes. It had been
heavenly, this long stretch of holiday,
months without a care, without a
thought of the world outside them-
selves. But the incident at the ball
tonight disturbed him. That was be-
cause he knew it was disturbing Jean.
He had sensed in the cab her tense,
nervous recoil from Felix’s insult, the
surge of tears to her throat controlled
only because she knew how distressed
he was and wanted to spare him. Had
he subjected her to that humiliation ?
Had he? In spite of her dismissal of
it, he had felt her still trembling as
he lifted her from the cab, even as
he held her in his arms just now. She
was so sensitive—that sort of thing
must make her suffer. It was sacri-
lege. But she would try not to let
him sense the wound. She always
put him first—thought of him before
herself.
That very afternoon a letter had
come from her mother and she had
don her best to keep him from read-
ing it.
“Dear, you're not crying ?” he had
asked as her face bent over the page.
“N-no! But somehow these letters,
so full of faith, always make me feel
like a beast. Not that I don’t think
we're doing the right thing,” she ad-
ded hastily, “but I wish I had the
courage to tell her the truth.”
He turned now from the window to
the table where the letter still lay,
open as she had dropped it. The fin-
gers of morning moved toward it as
he did and picked up the fine, careful
writing under his eyes.
My dear Jean—
It seers such a long time sinec
you went away, yet I am so glad
that things are coming so nicely for
you that I feel I must not complain.
I rejoice, my dear child, that you
have found some one to give you
the oportunity you deserve. It is so
much greater than we had ever
hoped for that even though I miss
your little visits, I do not want you
to hurry back. I hope some day to
meet your friend and thank him for
all his kindness. But he is sure to
be rewarded, for, after all, doing
things for others is the greatest
“happiness-+
He looked up as a gust of wind sud-
denly flung open both windows with
the bang of giant hands. It lifted the
paper from under his eyes, tossing it
to the far side of the room. It played
with the soft curtains, plunged over
a vase, scattering the foliage, and
tried its strength against Emery him-
self. Instinctively, as the wind tore
past, he reached out to steady the
lamp. But half way, his hands closed
convulsively. His breath stopped.
From the rear room came a roar, a
blinding flash, and the anguished cry
of his name fell across the silence. It
all happened in one breathless second,
but the crack of burning wood, the
glare of flames were upon him even
before he crossed the miles of space
that made the short hall.
“Jean!” he called.
God!”
He struggled down the hall.
A cry uplifted was his only answer,
and the awakening of those on the
floors below to the alarm of danger.
The flames danced across the room
to meet him as he reached the door-
way, leaping gaily up the cracked
plaster of the walls. In their midst,
close to an overturned little oil stove,
stood a girl in warrior costume beat-
ing at them with hands too stiffened
with terror to do more than add to
their fuel. The fiery tongues licked
the white flesh. They ate up her hair,
playing about her helplessness until
she became a tortured part of them.
She was sobbing his name over and
over, and as he came near her hands
stopped their beating and reached out
to him,
Fred Emery fought through to the
bed, tearing at the comforter tucked
into its sides. It ripped as he pulled
and dragged the bedding from under
it and flung the mass around her, lift-
ing her into his arms while he stamp-
ed on the flames.
“Fred—save—save me!”
“I will! Oh God—let me!”
Unconscious of his own pain, with
the fog of smoke pressing into eyes
and nostrils, he tried to choke out the
fre, It laughed and leaped at him in
urn,
Somehow he knew, as his desperate
hands pressed the quilts and blankets
round the quivering form, that he was
fighting eternity, grappling with a
power greater than his puny grip
could grasp, a power that could prove
to him how quickly the strength and
beauty of flesh might be consumed.
He did not look down into the face
beneath his—he did not dare. But the
low, long moans were like the jagged
thrusts of a bayonet that had reach-
ed his heart. All he loved, all he long-
ed for was there, in his arms, and a
gust of wind might tear it from him.
The flames, cloying their way along
the spreading oil on. the floor, follow-
ed him as he went stumbling back to
the other room. He pressed the burn-
ed and blackened bundle closer and
kicked open the door shouting “Fire!”
Already the students who occupied
the lower floors were pushing and el-
bowing one another down the shaking
“Jean—my
be | stairs that must collapse and go up in
smoke at the first touch of red heat.
The old tinder box of a house was like
so much wood heaped together in a
chimney place.
Fred Emery stood at the top of the
ures in ‘the cavernous space belcw,
den into smoke filled darkness than of
the glare that sprang from the open
door behind him.
“Oh God,” his lips muttered, “if |
only I hadn’t brought her to this hell
hole!” And again, suplicatingly:
“Let me save her!”
The low and constant moaning from
his arms
breath, plunging downward, the light
form held close to him relaxed and he
had the sudden sense of a dead, un-
conscious weight.
Against the charred skeleton of
what had been a house in a narrow
old Paris street, the girl who had been
Jean opened her eyes as far as she
could and looked up into the agonized
face that bent over hers.
“Fred—dear—I—I’'m going to die.”
“No! No—no, I say!”
The doctor on one knee beside her
put a quick, warning finger to his lips.
“I am! Couldn’t suffer—Ilike this—
and—and live——" The voice trailed
off. The eyes closed. When she spoke
again in a whisper, they did not open.
“Ired-————1
“My darling!” It was inaudible.
“Wouldn’t want—Ilive—all burned—
like this. »
“But I want you so! Oh, Jean—my
little Jean!”
“——not ery! Musn’t—don’ ”
“Oh God—if only I hadn’t brought
you here!”
“Happy, dear—musn’t be sorry!
Rather die”—the words came slower,
more halting, as if only the will of
the spirit were bringing them forth—
“than have your love—die. Might
have happen 2
“Jean—my Jean!”
“Arms round me”—and as they
closed swiftly, convulsively, as if to
hold her against death itself—“hurt
not matter—now—only 44
“Jean—Jean!” his eyes clung des-
perately to the fluttering lids.
“Home—want to go—after——"
The fluttering stopped. :
The man caught her up to him.
“Oh my God—no!”
A great sob broke from him, a sob
full of the anguished impotence of
man’s will against the Divine. With
the coming of the white light of early
morning, another light had gone out.
III
New England! A little cemetery in
one of those veiled and bonneted
towns that stand with eyes downcast
while the world rushes by. From it a
man and a woman walked side by
side, both with heads bowed, his hand
supporting her elbow, her step un-
steady, her eyes looking out dazedly
as if to question why things happened
that one could not understand.
They were quite dry, those eyes,
and looked as if, at one time, they
might have been very blue. All about
them were fine-drawn lines like
scratches from the hand of Time. Yet
she was not old, not yet fifty. Through
the streaks of gray that deadened her
hair were strands ef soft brown. Old
before God meant her to be—old with
the look of one who had never been
permitted to be young. In her tight
little black hat and coat, she moved
with the timid, furtive movements of
a bird from which freedom has ldng
since been barred.
She looked back at the fresh muond
of earth they were leaving and her
eyes met those of two gaunt, grim
men, Jean’s father and brother, who
walked behind without the slightest
trace of emotion.
Jean’s mother moved closer to the
man at her side, almost as if for pro-
tection.
“Mr. Emery—would you mind stay-
ing awhile? Don’t go back to New
York until tonight. I can’t bear to be
alone. I want some one to talk to—
about her.”
Fred Emery’s head bent lower in si-
lent assent. At the moment it was im-
Possible to bring words to his lips.
“Thank you—oh, thank you! It—it
will mean so much to talk to some one
who loved her the way I did. You—
you did love her, Mr. Emery, didn’t
you?”
“God knows I did!”
from him.
Jean’s mother tried to smile.
“I thought so. A young man like
you couldn’t have done all you did for
her without loving her. I was so sur-
prised when you arrived yesterday. I
had an idea you were going to be a
much older man. My little Jean—of
course you couldn’t help loving her,
could you? No one could—she was
so sweet and good.”
“She was——"" He hesitated over
the verb that must now always be in
the past tense. It seemed so strange
not to think of his Jean alive, and vi-
brant—*“She was wonderful.”
“I suppose one of these days you
would have married her—wouldn’t
ou?”
He looked down into the blurred up-
raised eyes.
“Yes,” he lied hoarsely.
“Then you don’t mind listening to
me? You see, I can’t ery. I don’t
know how to cry—any more. I've
never been able to express anything
I felt—never been allowed to—and
gradually the power has gone. That
was why I made up my mind when
Jean was a very little girl that she
must never be cramped and—and hurt
as I had been. - She represented all I
had hoped for in girlhood—she was
the one bright, hopeful thing in my
life—and I felt her. life musn’t be
spoiled the way mine had been. It
was just a mother’s foolish dream.
And now—why do you suppose this
has come to me Mr. Emery ?”
He dared not again meet the up-
turned eyes. He did not answer.
“It’s hard to know, isn’t it? It
seems so—so cruel, when I had noth-
ing else.” :
They turned up the path that led to
a conventional white painted house
with green shutters and a square of
porch at the top of the steps. On
either side of them was a precise,
well kept grass plot.
She shivered a bit as she mounted
the steps. ;
“Do you think it’s too cold to sit on
the porch?” she asked, her timid eyes
raised pleadingly to his. “I-like the
air.
But he knew it was because the men
who followed were going indoors. She
apologized to them as they came up
the steps and said she would be in
presen J to prepare dinner.
was still that look of apology as she
was wrung
ceased. As he caught his|——
There |
i ————————————S———————————————
steps, seeing the vague trooping fig- turned back to Emery, indicating the sod had fallen in the
‘most comfortable chair while she
more fearful of falling with his bur- |
“You—you took her abroad—that
pulled close a smaller one with a stiff, | way 2”
straight back.
“Don’t misunderstand—please! Jean
“You know, it was selfish of me, of | and I were brave enough to live the
course, but I used to think some day | thing we believed in. We were a law
when Jean was a great singer—and I | unto ourselves—” :
knew she would be—that I'd go to
New York and live with her—away | interrupted brokenly,
from here—where there would be a
little corner for me and—and love
” She choked.
Instinctively he reached over, took
her hand. But said nothing.
“It would have been so wonderful
to see her succeed—my baby. I want-
ed so much for her. She was so full
of life. I used to save every penny I:
could—even steal it from John some-
times so that when she was old
enough she could go to New York and
study music. She was always singing
—except when her father was at home !
—and I wanted her to have the chance |
to keep on singing—no matter what I
had to give up.” Her hand, with nails
roughened and the whiteness of a fine
skin long since scarred, closed con-
vulsively within his. “But then—
mothers love to give up things for
“But—a law unto yourselves?” she
gropingly, like
: some one stumbling in the dark. “No
one in the world can do that. There's
always somebody dependent on you in
some way—somebody who will suffer
; through what you do—the way I was
dependent on Jean for any hope—for
any happiness or comfort I might
ever have. Didn’t—didn’t either of
you think of that?” I
e
No words came to his aid.
merely looked down at the quivering
little figure with hands outstretched
and for the first time it came to him
how completely he and the girl he
loved had kept that little figure out of
their calculations. It stood now so pa-
thetically alone.
“We didn’t think——"
“Didn’t Jean ever think——”
broke in with a sort of wonder.
“Jean wanted to tell you—from the
she
their children—daughters particular- | beginning.”
ly.
And she was all I had, you see. |
“And you wouldn’t let her. You
That’s why I can’t understand——" knew I—her mother—could have kept
Her voice caught as if afraid to go on. | her from you.”
“Why, do you suppose, Mr. Emery— |
why ?”
. |
His husky answer came, scarcely a!
whisper.
“No—she came of her own free will.
No one could have kept her from me.”
“So all you thought of was your-
i self. You took her as far away from
“That’s the question I've been ask- | me as you could—took her over there
ing myself ever since—it happened. —to die.”
God alone knows!”
Silence settled between them. Then |
“For God’s sake—don’t say that!”
“It’s true! You never gave a
with the look of one steeled to meet | thought to anyone but yourself. And
the inevitable, her eyes lifted again
to his evading ones.
“How did it happen? I haven't
asked you yet. Somehow I couldn’t.
You understand—don’t you ?”
He dragged a hand across his hair.
If only he could banish the nightmare
of how it had happened! The re-
proach that was always with him
“If only I hadn’t taken her abroad *
* * If only we hadn’t taken those
rooms in that rotten old shanty * *
If only I'd made her listen!” It was
a litany his brain sang all through the
sleepless hours of the night. The lit-
tle woman sat waiting. Unconscious-
ly he voiced the agony of it to her,
Jeans mother, who was suffering with
im.
“It was—horrible! We’d come in
from a ball—Jean and I. She went
back to the bedroom to light an oil
stove. I was in the front room—a
window blew open and the wind came
tearing through. It must have upset
the stove—because the place caught
fire in a second. It was full of
draughts—an old shanty.”
He had spoken as if to himself, and
absorbed in the misery the words
dashed about him like an engulfing
sea, he did not meet the eyes opposite.
They were still raised but to their
expression of fear was added a vague
bewilderment.
“Was no one else there? Were you
all alone—with her ?”
“We'd just come in—it was nearly
fi ”
vel. |
“Five in the morning ?”
“Yes.”
“And she had gone into the bedroom
—to light the stove ?”’ came the trem-
bling voice.
“Oh God, if only she had listened!
If only she had let
all the rest of my life I, who lived
only for her future—who would have
died gladly for her—will suffer for
it.” Those eyes that had not left his
wandered out over the flat fields and
out to the empty horizon, back to the
empty, still, white house, and then to
him. “Remember that, Mr. Emery,
always. Carry it away with you.
There’s nothing you can ever do to
make up for it. You ” She got
uncertainly, shakily to her feet,
thrusting away the hands stretched
out to aid. Her lips were as white as
{ the skin around them. Her voice was
the voice of prophecy. “You, who
took my baby away to die, took away
the only thing I had in the world. May
God let you never forget it!”
Fred Emery was silent, staring
down at the stricken figure that seem-
ed to have crumpled even as the white
lips moved. And suddenly as he stood
there with gaze fastened to her, he
| knew that in the dark nights of years
{ to come the face that would rise be-
fore him would not be the one that
had been with him through the days
of torture in Paris, through the week
just past crossing an endless sea—not
Jean’s face lifted to his with the love-
light in her eyes, but the face of the
woman before him whose life was
i done even while she must continue to
"live, whose life his will had brought
to a close.—From The Cosmopolitan.
|
|
GREEN DYE FROM CORN COBS
| Science Has Added Another Achieve
ment to Its Record in Use of
Raw Material.
me do what I
wanted and take rooms fit to live in!” '
The timid, tired eyes shifted uncer-
tainly—then came back bravely
though they were almost closed. It
was as if they tried to shut out the
vision that rose before them, as if a
veil had suddenly been lifted and what
they saw beyond was revelation they
could not bear to look upon. They
settled on the bent head, on the hands
that had withdrawn from hers and
were clasped against the forehead.
And anguish followed by numb hor-
ror swept across those eyes. Her lips
moved silently. “It can’t be true!”
was what they were saying.
“Mr. Emery,” came after a moment,
spoken very low, “you don’t mean that
you and—and Jean were living in
those rooms—together ?”
Too late he looked up and caught in
the terrified eyes the revelation his
self-absorption had made. Too late
he made a desperate attempt to rec-
tify it.
“No—you don’t understand.”
“But—but at that hour—you would
not have gone up with her—other-
wise.”
“I,” he mumbled, “I had a place in
the same house.”
“But just now you said she wouldn’t
let you take rooms fit to live in——"
“Don’t you see?” He tried to sum-
mon some plausible excuse—to meet
those pitiful eyes. “Don’t you see?
She wouldn’t take anything from me.
She insisted on paying her share of
everything and that miserable place
was all she——"
“Mr. Emery—please don’t lie to me.
You can’t—to a mother, you know.
You must tell me. I’ve borne so much
—I can bear this. Only—don’t lie!
What—what were you and—and my
little girl to each other?”
He made a last attempt to satisfy
her by evasion.
“I loved her more than anything—
or anybody—in the world.”
“I want the whole truth—please.
You can’t keep it from me, so don’t
try. I'd find out—sooner or later. I
—I’d have to.”
She said it without moving those
blurred eyes from his—the eyes that
had once been deep blue like Jean’s.
And sudden rebellion against the ar-
raignment in them made him face
their judgment.
“I won't lie to you-—there’s no rea-
son why I should. Jean and I were
not ashamed of what we did. It was
a principle with us. We loved each
other more than most peorle who re-
peat the marriage service. But we
didn’t believe in marriage. She had
seen your misery—I had seen that of
my parents. Both of us knew more
unhappily married couples than hanny
ones, e made up our minds that
our lives belonged to ousselves, that
we must live them as we thought best.
And we were happy—we never re-
gretted for an instant! Even when
she——"" The words caught. He did
not go on.
Jean’s mother drew a shaking hand
across her brow. She had said she
must bear whatever revelation he had
to make, had said she must face it.
“It—it doesn’t seem possible.” And
her frightened face was whiter than
it had gone ‘when the first spadeful of
Re
Science has found a way of utiliz-
ing all corn cobs, short or long, in the
| manufacture of various chemicals. As
| the corn cob consists
of cellulose,
which is valuable for making many
products, such as cellulecid and paper.
it is considered desirable to save the
substance of the cob. The furfural.
therefore, is taken from the extract
which is obtained by boiling the cob
in water and the cellulose can thus
be kept for other purposes.
This liquid is employed for many
purposes in industrial chemistry, and
can be so treated that it will yield a
bright green dye, which is much liked
by women of fashion, says the De
troit News.
Mote and Beam.
Senator Moses, apropos of a certain
monopoly, said at a dinner in Wash-
ington:
“] am no muckraker. Have you
ever noticed that muckrakers as a
rule are slightly incrusted with muck?
“A politician was taking a swim the
other day in the swimming pool of a
big ocean liner. A great New York so-
ciety lady—one of those well-pre-
served society ladies with golden hair,
able bridge—well, this lady was taking
a swim, too, and she soon:had the pol-
itician engaged in talk. Sitting beside
him on the marble rim of the pool, she
gave politics the very old deuce.
“4 ¢politics are man-managed,’ she
ended, swinging her legs girlishly in
the water, ‘and every man has his
price. He lets the world know it, too.’
“The politician glanced sidewise at
the society lady in her ultra bathing
dress. Then he said:
“ ‘Well, every woman has her figure,
and she doesn’t mind letting the world
see it, either.)”
Rare Event Put on Record.
At Fifteenth and I streets one after-
noon last week an old gentleman driv-
ing a new car got stage fright when
his car got stuck in the middle of the
street.
He jammed at thi: ard pulled on
that, but ‘the car refused to budge.
Behind him the cars began to pile up.
in front and in rear and to the sides
motorists took cognizance of him.
His éyes popped from his head. He
wore a strained look, as if he would
like to have sunk through his car and
into the ‘earth beneath. He plainly
was rattled.
And, strange to state, not a moter
ist hollered at him. Nobody *cussed”
him. Nobody laughed. Everybody
seemed to be sympathetic. And when
the man's car finally got under way,
relieving the traffic jam, everybody
seemed tremendously happy.
Yep, such cases do happen~\Wash.
fngton' Star.
—Get your job work done here.
low hills beyond which had lain hope, |
four divorces and a platinum remov- |
churchyard. | HARRIS TOWNSHIP'S DEBT TO
ITS YOUTH.
Consolidation of schools is the term
used when two or more school dis-
tricts are made into a single district,
one school in one building replacing
two or more small schools in several
buildings. Consolidation in its best
form takes place when schools not
forced to close for lack of pupils are
deliberately abandoned for the pur-
pose of creating a larger school where
more efficient work may be done, or
equivalent work at less expense.
The two primary motives in the
movement for consolidation are (1)
for the purpose of securing better ed-
ucational facilities, and (2) for the
purpose of decreasing the cost of ed-
ucation on the school district.
When consolidation began in the
United States is difficult to say. Prob-
ably in the older States from very
early times schools had been abandon-
ed for the sake of economy and the
children sent to neighboring schools.
In Massachusetts enough such instan-
ces had occurred previous to 1869 so
that a question came before the Leg-
islature in that year as to whether or
not children from an abandoned school
district might be transported to anoth-
er district at public expense. The
Legislature acted favorably and
school trustees were authorized to pay
for the transportation of children to a
neighboring district out of the school
funds.
The school law in Pennsylvania in
regard to consolidation reads as fol-
lows: That whenever graded schools
{can be made to accommodate the pu-
' pils of one or more ungraded schools
| by consolidating such ungraded school
{ or schools with another school, either
| graded or ungraded, it shall be the
duty of the school directors to aban-
don the one-room schoolhouse or
{ school houses, and they shall erect a
| suitable modern building for the pur-
i pose of consolidating and properly
: grading all of the said schools. Pro-
vided; that no pupils of the abandon-
ed schools shall be required to walk
more than two miles to the new school
building.
The great objection which must be
met in consolidating our rural schools
is transportation. Where the unit of
consolidation is not too large trans-
portation of pupils has made attend-
ance large, more regular, and elimi-
nated tardiness. Transportation has
been a great aid to the health of the
children. They are not compelled to
walk through the rain and in the mud,
wearing wet shoes all day. In the
majority of places where we have con-
solidation the school officials have been
very careful to get responsible men
as drivers of the school wagons. Con-
sequently the pupils are under the
care of some responsible persons all
day, and the girls are protected to and
i from school, and the boys inflienced
{from the temptation to quarrel and
; other misconduct.
The success of the consolidated
school depends in very large measure
upon transportation. If the transpor-
tation is safe, comfortable, rapid, and
in charge of men of high character no
troubles result from it. When men of
low ideals are in charge of transpor-
tation or when transportation is slow,
or when the distance is too great,
‘then certain evils are at once seen,
.and just complaint is made against
i the consolidated schools. These evils,
however, are remediable. If the peo-
! ple demand drivers of high characters
they can be secured. If the officials
| insist upon rapidity of transportation,
that too can be done, none of these
evils in any way affect the real work
{ of consolidation.
The Harris township schools are in
great need of consolidation. Some of
| the far sighted people of the township
i tried several years ago to establish a
! better school in Harris township, but
| the movement was defeated by some
near sighted people who were opposed
to the betterment of schools on gen-
eral principles.
Some of the opposed argued in this
| way: The schools we have were good
i enough for us they are consequently
| good enough for our children. Why
i not deny that farmer his automobile ?
| Why not take away all his farm ma-
; chinery; his reaper, his hay-loader,
i his tractor, and a dozen other conven-
i iences, which have come to him in the
‘last thirty years? His father did not
' have these, so why can’t he get along
without them? Every person who is
| half awake knows why he can’t and
{ likewise every clear thinking person
. knows why the children should have
| better schools today than children fif-
ty years ago had. It is because we
| are in an age of advanced civilization.
And civilization is advancing, contra-
ry, it seems, to the wishes of many of
our rural inhabitants. The enterpris-
ing farmer today is raising blooded
stock, or at least he is striving to have
the best stock he can get under his
particular circumstances. But alas! -
there are so many people who are giv-
ing very little thought concerning
their children’s welfare. Perhaps in
time to come the children of rural
communities will occupy as high a
place in the average man’s mind as
his stock.
Why are not the schools of Harris
township consolidated at some central
point? It seems to me this question
is or should be in the mind of every
wide awake father and mother and
every one interested in the welfare
of the children as well as in the wel-
fare of the community at large. JAl-
low me to point out the petty things
that have kept our schools from get-
ting together, and having one good
school instead of the three inefficient
schools we now have; after which I
shall discuss the things that quection
every community which contemplates
consolidation.
I have before mentioned the bhack-
ward person who thinks the school
good enough for his children because
it was good enough for him. when it
is a question whether or not it was
good enough for him. When we hear
this particular person talking and giv-
ing his views on certain matters, we
rather doubt whether the school was
even efficient in his dav. Certainly
there was either something the mat-
ter with the school then, or something
radically wrong with many of the
people who attended them. Again we
have the man who wants the little
school to stay, so as to give his daugh-
ter, son, or friend employment as a
teacher; he knows. well: enough that
(Continued on page 6, Col. 1.)