== -
Bellefonte, Pa., August 29, 1924,
WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM.
With big tin trumpet and ittle red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children’
‘come!
It’s this way and that way the circle and
file—
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
This way and that way and after awhile
They will march straight into this heart
of mine!
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb
To the blare of that trumpet and the
beat of that drum!
Come on, little people, from cot and from
hall
This heart it has welcome and roof for
you all!
It will sing you its songs and warm you
with love, :
Ag your dear little arms with my arms in-
tertwine:
It will rock you away to the dreamland
above—
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of
mine, :
And jollier still is it bound to become
‘When you blow that big trumpet and beat !
that red drum!
S80 come; though I see not his dear little |
face
And hear not his voice in this jubilant
place, :
I know he was happy to bid me enshrine
His memory deep in my heart with your
play—
Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than
mine
| mingled with ‘the patter. of the rain
Holdeth my boy in its keeping today!
And my heart it is lonely—so, little folk
come,
March in and make merry with trumpet '
and drum!
—Eugene Field.
JOHN JACKSON'S ARCADY.
The first letter, crumpled into an
emotional ball, lay at his elbow, and
it did not matter faintly now what
this second letter contained. For a
long time after he had stripped off the
envelope, he still gazed up at the oil
painting of slain grouse over the side-
board, just as though he had not fac-
ed it every morning at breakfast for
the past twelve years. Finally he
lowered his eyes and began to read:
“Dear Mr. Jackson: This is just a
reminder that you have consented to
speak at our annual meeting rare |
day. We don’t want to dictate your
choice of a topic, but it has occurred
to me that it would be interesting to!
hear from you on What Have I Got
Out of Life. Coming from you this
should be an inspiration to every one.
“We are delighted to have you any-
how, and we appreciate the honor that
you confer on us by coming at all.
“Most cordially yours, :
“ANTHONY ROREBACK, |
“Sec. Civic Welfare League.” :
“What have I got out of life?” re-
peated John Jackson aloud, raising up
his head.
He wanted no more breakfast, so he
picked up both letters and went out
on his wide front porch to smoke a |
cigar and lie about for a lazy half’
hour before he went down town. He
had done this each morning for ten
years—ever since his wife ran off one
windy night and gave him back the
custody of his leisure hours. -
ed to rest on this porch in the fresh
warm mornings and through a port-
hole i nthe green vines watch the au-
tomobiles pass along the street, the .
widest, shadiest, pleasantest street in
town. |
“What have I got out of life?” he
said again, sitting down on a creaking |
wicker chair; and then, after a long
pause, he whispered, “Nothing.” :
he word frightened him. In all his
forty-five years he had never said
such a thing before. His greatest
tragedies had not embittered him, |
only made him sad. But here beside !
the warm friendly rain that tumbled
from his eaves onto the familiar lawn,
he knew at last that life had stripped
him clean of all happiness and all il-
lusion. :
He knew this because of the crump- |
led ball which closed out his hope in
his only son. It told him what a hun-'
dred hints and indications had told
him before; that his son was weak and
vicious, and the language in which it
was conveyed was no less emphatic
for being polite. The letter was from
the dean of the college at New Haven,
a gentleman who said exactly what he
meant in every word:
“Dear Mr. Jackson: It is with
much regret that I write to tell you
that your son, Ellery Hamil Jackson,
has been requested to withdraw from
the university. Last year largely, I
am afraid, out of personal feeling to-
ward you, I yielded to your request
that he be allowed another chance. I
see now that this was a mistake, and
I should be failing in my duty if I did
not tell you that he is not the sort of
boy we want here. His conduct at the
sophomore dance was such that sever-
al undergraduates took it upon them-
JSives to administer violent correc-
on.
“It grieves me to write you this,
but I see no advantage in presenting
the case otherwise than as it is, I
have requested that he leave New Ha-
ven by the day after tomorrow. I am,
sir, :
i
i
" “Yours very sincerely,
“AUSTIN SCHEMMERHORN,
“Dean of the College.”
What particularly disgraceful thing
his son had done John Jackson did not
care to imagine. He knew without
any question that what the dean said
was true. Why, there were houses
already in this town where his son,
John Jackson’s son, was no longer
welcome! For a while Ellery had
been forgiven because of his father,
and he had been more than forgiven
at home, because John Jackson was
one of those rare men who can for-
give even their own families. But he
would never be forgiven any more.
Sitting on his porch this morning be-
side the gentle April rain, something
had happened in his father’s heart.
“What have I had out of life 7” John
Jackson shook his head from side to
side with quiet, tired despair. “Noth-
ing! :
#7 79
he must have started with Tom Mac-
He picked up the second letter, the
civic-welfare letter, and read it over;
and then helpless, dazed laughter
shook him physically until he trembied
in his chair. On Wednesday, at the
hour when his delinquent boy would
arrive at the motherless home, John
Jackson would be standing on a plat,
form down own, Selivering ane bu
dred resoun: ‘ es of inspira-
tion and cheer. io aners of the as-
sociation”—their faces, eager, opti-
mistic, impressed, would look up at
him like hollow moons— “I have been
requested to try to tell you in a few
words what I have had from life—"
Many people would be there to hear,
for the clever young secretary had hit
upon a topic with the personal note—
what John Jackson, successful, able
and popular, had found for himself in
the tumultuous grab bag. They would
listen with wistful attention, hoping
that he would disclose some secret
formula that would make their lives
as popular and successful and happy
as his own. They believed in es;
all the young men in the city believed
in hard-and-fast rules, and many of
them clipped coupons and sent away
for little booklets that promised them
the riches and good fortune they de-
sired.
“Members of the association, to be
gin with, let me say that there is so
much in life that we don’t find it, it is
not the fault of life, but of ourselves.”
The ring of the stale, dull words
went on and on endlessly, but John
Jackson knew that he would never
make that speech, or any speeches
ever again. He had dreamed his last
dream too long, but he was awake at
ast.
“I shall not go on flattering a world
that I have found unkind,” he whis-
pered to the rain. “Instead, I shall
go out of this house and out of this
town and somewhere find again the
happiness that I possessed when I
was young.” TEE
Nodding his head, he tore both let-
ters into small fragments and drop-
ped them on the table beside him.
For half an hour longer he sat there,
rocking a little and smoking his cigar
slowly and blowing the blue smoke
out into the rain.
II
Down at his office, his chief clerk,
Mr. Fowler, approached him with his
morning smile.
“Looking fine, Mr, Jackson. Nice
day if it hadn’t rained.”
“Yeah,” agreed John Jackson cheer-
fully. “Clear up in an hour. Any-
body outside?” :
“A lady named Mrs. Ralston.”
Mr. Fowler raised his grizzled eye-
brows in facetious mournfulness.
“Tell her I can’t see her,” said Jack-
son, rather to his clerk’s surprise.
“And let me have a pencil memoran-
dum of the money I've given away
through her these twenty years.”
“Why—yes, sir.” '
Mr. Fowler had always urged John
Jackson to look more closely into his
promiscuous charities; but now, after
Biase two decades, it rather alarmed
im.
When the list arrived—its prepara-
tion took an hour of burrowing
through old ledgers and check stubs
—John Jackson studied it for a long
time in silence.
‘That woman’s got more money tha.
you have,” grumbled Fowler at his el-
bow. “Every time she comes in she’s
wearing a new hat. I bet she never
Lin the city for a sor
ed MacDowell. happe
then doesn’t change the situation now. | 1 ¢ :
The city needs the station, and so”— | chord, a rich shrill sound of a hundred 4
there was a faint touch of irony in his : birds. John Jackson left the road and | the alarm was sp
hands out a cent herself—just goes
around asking other people.” |
John Jackson did not answer. He |
was thinking that Mrs. Ralston had |
been one of the first women in town |
to bar Ellery Jackson from her house.
She did quite right, of course; and yet
perhaps back there when Ellery was
i%tsers if he had cared for some nice
giri——
Thomas J. MacDowell’s outside. Do
you want to see him? I said I didn’t
think you were in, because on second
thoughts, Mr. Jackson, you look tired
this morning——"’
“I'll see him,” interrupted John
Jackson. :
He watched Fowler’s retreating fig-
ure with an unfamiliar expression in
his eyes. All that cordial diffuseness
of Fowler’s—he wondered what it cov-
ered in the man’s heart. Several
times, without Fowler's knowledge,
Jackson had seen him giving imita-
tions of the boss for the benefit of the
other employees; imitations with a |
touch of malice in them that John
Jackson had smiled at then, but that ;
now crept insinuatingly into his mind.
“Doubtless he considers me a good
deal of a fool,” murmured John Jack- |
son thoughtfully, “because I’ve kept
him long after usefulness was over.
It’s a way men have, I suppose, to
despise any one they can impose on.”
Thomas J. MacDowell, a big barn
door of a man with huge white hands,
came boisterously into the office. If
John Jackson had gone in for enemies
Dowell. For twenty years they had
fought over every question of munic-
ipal affairs, and back in 1908 they had
once stood facing each other with
clenched hands on a public platform,
because Jackson had said in print
what every one knew—that MacDow-
ell was the worst political influence
that the town had ever known. That
was forgotten now; all that was re-
membered of it went into a peculiar
flash of the eye that passed between
them when they met.
“Hello Mr. Jackson,” said MacDow-
ell with full, elaborate cordiality. “We
need your help and we need your
money.”
“How so?”
“Tomorrow morning, in the Eagle,
you’ll see the plan for the new Union
Station. The only thing that'll stand
in the way is the question of location.
We want your land.”
“My land 7”
“The railroad wants to build on the
twenty acres just this side of the riv-
er, where your warehouse stands.
you'll let them have it cheap we get
our station; if not, we can just whis-
tle into the air.”
Jackson nodded.
“I see.”
“What price?”
mildly.
“No price.”
His visitor’s mouth dropped open in
surprise. :
“That from you?” he demanded.
John Jackson got to his feet.
“I've decided not to be the local
Jost any more,” he announced steadi-
. “You threw out the only fair, de-
asked MacDowell
month for
and the country
If |ed h
cent plan because it interfered with
some private reservations of your
own. And now that there's a snag,
you'd like the punishment to fall on
me. I tear down my warehouse and
hand over some of best property
ong yo
made a little ‘mistake’ last year!”
“But last year’s over now,” protest-
“Whatever ned
1
| house where he was born seemed to
jn up to him on living feet. It was
a collapsed house, a retired house, set
! far back from the road and sunned
and washed to the dull color of old
|
u | wood.
One glance told him it was no long-
er a dwelling. The shutters that re-
Bained were closed tight, and from
i
tangled vines arose, as a single alarm. The authorities—of course | prophets and other weather sharp:
i It is a little late in the day for his-
torians to question the famous ride of
Paul Revere. Of late some authori-
| ties in eastern cities have precipitated
|a controversy by producing “newly
discovered” facts that the hero of the
the British before he could give the
they are in the minority—claim that
by an unsung
voice—“and so naturally I come to its ‘ stalked across the yard knee-deep in ' negro named William Dawes. Both
leading citizen, counting on his well-
known public spirit.”
“Go out of my office, MacDowell,”
Seid: John Jackson suddenly. “I'm
tired.” . :
_ MacDowell scrutinized him severely.
“What's come over you today?”
Jackson closed his eyes.
! abandoned grass. When he came
| near, something choked up his throat.
; He paused and sat down on a stone in
-a patch of welcome shade. semen
This was his own house, as no other
house would ever be; within these
plain walls he had been incomparably
{ happy. Here he had known and learn-
' men, it is related, were sentinels for
| the Minute Men. Both started out by
' different routes to inform the colonists
| of the British march. Revere, it is
‘ said, was caught, but Dawes got
i through and awoke the countryside.
| But most of us would rather “accept
the story as related in Longfellow’s
“I don’t want to argue,” he said ed that kindness which he had carried , Poem.
after a while.
“This is a funny attitude from you,”
l into life. Here he had found the se-
cret of those few simple decencies, so
| Anyhow we have Paul Revere's let-
“ter to the Massachusetts Historical
he remarked. “You better think it often invoked, so inimitable and so Society which tells about the disputed
over.”
“Good-by.” ) :
Perceiving to his astonishment, that
John Jackson meant what he said,
MacDowell took his monstrous body to
the door.
“Well, well,” he said, turning and
shaking his finger at Jackson as if he
were a bad boy, “who’d have thought
it from you after all?”
When he had gone Jackson rang
again for his clerk.
“I'm going away,” he remarked
casually. “I may be gone for some
time—perhaps a week, perhaps long-
er. I want you to cancel every en-
gagement I have and pay off my serv- .
ants at home and close up my house.”
Mr. Fowler could hardly believe his
ears.
“Close up your house?”
Jackson nodded.
“But why—why is it?” demanded
Fowler in amazement.
Jackson looked out the high window
upon the gray little city drenched now
by slanting, slapping rain—his city,
he had felt sometimes, in those rare
moments when life had lent him time
to be happy. That flash of green trees
running up the main boulevard—he
had made that possible, and Children’s
Park, and the white dripping build-
ings around Courthouse Square over
the way.
“I don’t know,” he answered, “but I
think T ought to get a breath of
spring.”
When Fowler had gone he put on
his hat and raincoat and, to avoid any
one who might be waiting, went
through an unused filing room that
gave access to the elevator. The fil-
ing room was actively inhabited this
morning, however; and, rather to his
surprise, by a young boy about nine
years old, who was laboriously writ- | yet familiar, came from what had |
ing his initials in chalk on the steel
es.
“Hello!” exclaimed John Jackson. °
He was accustomed to speak to chil-
dren in a tone of interested equality.
“I' didn’t know this office was occu-
pied this morning.”
“My name’s John Jackson Fowler,”
he announced.
“What?”
“My name’s John Jackson Fowler.”
“Oh, I see, You're Mr. Fowler's
son?”
“Yeah, he’s my father.”
“I see.” John Jackson’s eyes nar-
rowed a little. “Well, I bid you good
morning.”
He passed on out of the door, won-
dering cynically what particular ax
Fowler hoped to grind by this unwar-
ranted compliment. John Jackson
Fowler! It was one of his few sourc-
es of relief that his son did not bear
his name.
A few minutes later he was writing
on a yellow blank in the telegraph of-
fice below:
“Ellery Jackson,
Chapel Street,
“New Haven,
“Connecticut.
“There is not the slightest reason
for coming home, because you have no
home to come to any more. The
Mammoth Trust Company, of New
York will
e rest of your life, or for
as long as you can keep yourself out
of jail. :
“JOHN JACKSON.”
: “That’s—that’s a long message,
sir,” gasped the dispatcher, startled.
“Do you want it to go straight?”
“Straight,” said John Jackson, nod-
doing. 2
III
noon, while the rain dried up into rills
of dust on the windows of the train
nd became green with
vivid spring. When : the sun was
growing definitely crimson in the west |
he disembarked at a little lost town
named Florence, just over the border
of the next State. John Jackson had
‘been born in this town; he had not
been back here for twenty years.
The taxi driver, whom he recogniz-
ed, silently, as a certain George Stir-
ling, playmate of his youth, drove him
to a battered hotel, where to the sur-
prise of the delighted landlord, he en-
gaged a room. Leaving his raincoat
on the ging bed, he strolled out
through a deserted lobby into the
street.
It was a bright, warm afternoon,
and the silver of a moon riding al-
ready in the east promised a clear,
brilliant night. John Jackson walked
along a somnolent Main street, where
every shop and hitching post and
horse fountain made some strange
thing happen inside him, because he
had known these things for more than
inanimate objects as a little boy. At
one shop, catching a glimpse of a fa-
miliar face through the glass, he bes-
itated; but changing his mind, contin-
ued along the street, turning off at a
wide road at the corner. The road
was lined sparsely by a row of batter-
ouses, some of them repainted a
pale unhealthy blue and all of them
set far back in large plots of shaggy
and unkempt land.
He walked along the road for a sun-
ny half mile—a half mile shrunk up
now into a short green aisle crowded
with memories. Here, for example, a
careless mule had stamped perma-
nently on his thigh the mark of an
iron shoe. In that cottage had lived
two gentle old maids, who gave brown
raisin cakes every Thursday to John
Jackson and his little ‘brother—the
brother who had died as a child.
As he neared the end of his pilgrim-
ay you fifty dollars a
He rode seventy miles that after-
rare, which in the turmoil of competi-
tive industry had made him to coarser
men a source of half-scoffing, half-
admiring surprise. This was his
house, because his honor had been
born and nourished here; He had
known every hardship of the country
poor, but no preventable regret.
And yet another memory, a memory
more haunting than any other, and
grown strong at this crisis in his life,
had really drawn him back. In this
yard, on this battered porch, in the
very tree over his head, seemed still
to catch the glint of yellow hair and
the glow of bright childish eyes that
had belonged to his first love, the girl
who had lived in the long-vanished i
house across the way. It was her
: ghost who was most alive here, after
all.
| He got up suddenly, stumbling
through the shrubbery, and followed
| an almost obliterated path to the
house, starting at the whirring sound
! of a blackbird which rose out of the
! grass close by. The front porch sag-
ged dangerously at his step as he
- pushed open the door. There was no
sound inside, except the steady slow
, throb of silence; but as he stepped in
‘a word came to him, involuntary as
+ his breath, and he uttered it aloud, as
i if he were calling to some one in the
empty house. ;
“Alice,” he cried; and then louder,
“Alice!” :
From a room at the left came a £
short, small, frightened cry. Startled,
: John Jackson paused in the door, con-
i vinced that hig own imagination had
, evoked the reality of the ery.
“Alice!” he called doubtfully.
“Who's there?”
There was no mistake this time.
The voice, frightened, strange, and
. once been the parlor, and as he listen-
John Jackson was aware of a ner-
i yous step within. Trembling a little,
‘ he pushed open the parlor door.
A woman with alarmed bright eyes
and reddish gold hair was standing in
the center of the bare room. She was
of that age that trembles between the
| enduring youth of a fine, unworried
i life and the imperative call of forty
years, and there was that indefinable
loveliness in her face that youth gives
, Sometimes just before it leaves a
‘dwelling it has possessed for long.
Her figure, just outside of slenderness,
leaned with dignified grace against
the old mantel on which her white
j hand rested, and through a rift in the
shutter a shaft of late sunshine fell
through upon her gleaming hair.
When John Jackson came in the
“doorway her large gray eyes closed
and then opened again, and she gave
{another little cry. Then a curious
, thing happened; they stared at each
other for a moment without a word,
. her hand dropped from the mantel and
| she took a swaying step toward him.
{| And, as if it were the most natural
i thing in the world, John Jackson came
| forward, too, and took her into his
arms and kissed her as if she were a
little child.
“Alice!” he said huskily.
She drew a long breath and pushed
herself away from him.
“I’ve come back here,” he muttered
" unsteadily, “and find you waiting in
this room where we used to sit, just as
if I'd never been away.”
“I only dropped in for a minute,”
she said, as if that was the most im-
portant thing in the world. “And
now, naturally, I'm going to cry.”
“Don’t cry.” :
“I've got to cry. You don’t think”
—she smiled through wet eyes—“you
don’t think that things like this hap—
; happen to a person every day.”
John Jackson walked ‘in wild excite-
ment to the window and threw it open
to the afternoon.
“What were you doing here?” he
cried, turning around. “Did you just
come by accident Joday 1?
“I come every week. I bring the
‘children sometimes,
come alone.”
“The children!” he
“Have you got children?”
She nodded.
“I've been married for years and
years.”
They stood there looking at each
other for a moment; then they both
laughed and glanced away.
“ kissed you,” she said.
“Are you sorry?”
“And the last time I kissed you was
down by that gate ten thousand years
0
He took her hand, and they went
out and sat side by side on the broken
stoop. The sun was painting the west
with sweeping bands of peach bloom
and pigeon blood and golden yellow.
: J ou’re married,” she said. “I saw
in the paper—years ago.
He nodded.
“Yes, I've been married,” he ans-
wered gravely. “My wife went away
with some one she cared for many
years ago.” ;
“Ah, I'm sorry.” And a"‘er anoth-
er long silence—"“It’s a gorgeous even-
ing, John Jackson.”
“p's a long time since I've been so
happy.”
(Concluded next week).
exclaimed.
Raspberry Pruning.
If the old canes have not been cut
out of the raspberries, remove them
now and destroy them. Not only are
diseases communicated from the old
canes to the new, but the presence of
the old canes retards the growth of
the new.
i
but usually IP
to print in full
ride. It is too long Roe
nis account of the
| but here is part of
| gallop:
“When I got into town (Charles-
town), I met Colonel Conant and sev-
eral others; they said they had seen
our signals. I told them what was
acting and went to get a horse. I got
a horse of Dr. Larkin. While the
horse was preparing, Richard Devons,
Esq., who was one of the committee
of Safety, came to me and told me
that he came down the road from Lex-
ington after sundown that evening;
that he met ten British officers, all
well mounted and armed, going up the
road.
“I set off upon a, very good horse; it
was then about 11 o’clock and very
pleasant. After I had passed Charles-
: town Neck, and got nearly opposite
" where Mark was hung in chains, I saw
two men’ on horseback, under a tree.
When I got near them I discovered
they were British officers.
to get ahead of me and the other tried
to take me. I turned my horse very
quickly and galloped toward Charles- |
town Neck, and then pushed for the !
Medford road. The one who chased
me, endeavoring to cut me off, got in-
to a clay pond, near where the new
tavern is now built. I got clear of ;
him and went through Medford, over
| the bridge and up to Menotony. In
' Medford I woke the captain of the
Minute Men; and after that I alarmed
‘ almost every house, till I got to Lex-
, ington.
{ “I found Messrs. Hancock and Ad-
ams at the Rev. Mr. Clark's.
; them my errand, and inquired for Mr.
| Dawes. They said he had not been
there. 1 related the story of the two
| officers, and supposed that he must
have been stopped, as he ought to have
been there before me. After I ha
i been there about half an hour, Mr.
Dawes came. We refreshed ourselves,
and set off for Concord to secure the
stores, etc., there. We were overtak-
en by a young Dr. Prescot, whom we
found to be a high son of liberty.
told them of the ten officers that Mr.
Devons met and that it was possible
that we might be stopped before we
got to Concord, for I supposed that
after night they divided themselves,
and that two of them had fixed them- |
selves in such passages as were likely
to stop any intelligence from going to
Concord. I likewise mentioned that
we had better alarm all the inhabit-
ants till we got to Concord. The young
doctor much approved of it, and said
he would stop with either of us, for
; the people between that and Concord
i knew him, and would give the more
, credit to what he said.
| “We had got nearly half way. Mr.
- Dawes and the doctor stopped to
. alarm the people of a house. I was
i about 100 yards ahead, when I saw
two men in nearly the same situation
as those officers were near Charles-
town. I called the doctor and Mr.
. Dawes to come vp. In an instant I
was surrounded by four. They had
placed themselves in a straight road
that inclined each way. They had tak-
en down a pair of bars in the north
side of the road, and two of them were
under a tree in the pasture, The doc-
tor being foremost, he came up and
tried to get past them, but they, being
armed with pistols and swords, forced
us into the pasture. The doctor jump-
ed his horse over a low stone wall and
got to Concord. :
“I observed a wood ‘at a small dis-
tance and made for that. When I got
there, out started six officers on horse-
back and ordered me to dismount. One
of them who appeared to have com-
mand, examined me, where I came
from, and what my name was. I told
him. He asked me if I was an ex-
pres I answered in the affirmative.
e demanded what time I left Boston.
I told him, and that I had alarmed the
country all the way up. He immedi-
ately rode toward those who stopped
us, when all five of them came down
upon a full gallop; one of them, whom
afterward found to be a Major
Mitchell of the Fifth Regiment, clap-
pd his pistol to my head, called me
y name, and told me he was going to
ask me some questions, and if I did
not give him true answers he would
blow my brains out.
“We rode until we got near Lexing-
ton meeting house, when the militia
fired a volley of guns, which appeared
to alarm them very much. The Major
inquired of me how far it was to Cam-
bridge, and if there was any other
road, ete.
“I went across the burying ground
and some pastures and came to the
Rev. Mr. Clarke’s house, where 1
found Messrs. Hancock and Adams. I
told them my treatment, and they con-
cluded to go from that house toward
Woburn.”—Exchange. :
Naturally.
The inquisitive old lady was bend-
ing over the bed of a wounded soldier
whose head was swathed with cotton
and linen.
“Were you wounded in the head, my
boy ?” she asked.
“No’m,” replied a faint voice. “I
was shot in the foot and the bandage
‘has slipped up.”—American Legion
Weekly.
Prepare Fruit Storage.
It is a good plan to thoroughly clean
and disinfect the storage cellar. Re-
move the old rotten fruit, apply white-
wash or some disinfectant, and give
the room a thorough airing.
midnight ride had been captured by’
One tried |
A SAR oD TRI TSR Rs ei,
age his breath came faster and the, PAUL REVERE'S OWN STORY. EARLY AUTUMN IS
LIKELY SAYS BRAD
All signs point to an early autum
and a cold winter. Birds are migrat
ing a month earlier than usual, anc
i the bark on porch chairs is growing :
i heavy coat of moss on the north side
From Berks county, the stamping
ground of the Hex doctors, goosebon¢
comes disconcerting reports. Abe
Hosswassen, the seventh son of a sev
'enth Hex doctor, predicts four inche:
of ice in the ponds in Berks county by
| Thanksgiving day.
i. Reuben Sterer, a well-known goose
bone prophet, of Berks county, while
swimming in the feeder of the Lehigl
canal near Tumberville, Pa., noticec
two beavers making a home out of :
beer-keg of the pre-Volstead vintage
He infers from this that the water it
the canal will be frozen to the botton
this winter.
From other sections of Pennsylva:
| nia _similar conjectures and prognosti
cations. are forthcoming. Captair
Frank Moore, of Rome, Pa., and Stan
ley Wool, of Lake Meadows, Pa., bot}
weather prophets of repute, repor
finding crap dice in the horde of nut:
gathered by squirrels. They say i
looks as though northern Pennsylva
nia would be snowed in early—anc
often. Squirrels are wise little ani.
mals and are no doubt going to play
“seven come eleven” during the per
iod when snowbound.
i This behooves us. Though a hot
spell or two stands between us anc
the period of the rampant coal dealer
| an ounce of prevention in the shape
of a little more camphor in the ta:
‘bag where reposes the woolen under
i wear and the winter overcoat, will be
well attended to.
|
Whoo-ee! Whoo-ee, the wintry winc
blows—
Where’s our summer wages? Ah, nobody
knows.
3 The spirit will freeze in a carpenter’s level
We'll have a cold winter—as cold as the—
dickens.—Ex.
ANNUAL HEALTH
EXAMINATIONS URGED.
An annual examination of all per-
sons of middle age and older is urged
by Dr. William C. Miller, Bureau of
Public Health Education, so as to ex-
tend life to 70 plus.
{In the weekly health talk issued by
' the Department of Health, Dr. Miller
sounds the warning to those people
; Who are beginning to show a touch of
gray about the temples. It is a warn-
i ing, says Dr. Miller, that that person
| has used up more of his life than he
i has left.
“Men and women,” said Dr. Miller,
“are somewhat like machines. After
| a time the parts begin to wear, but if
: cared for, they can be made to last.
| Each year in Pennsylvania, thirty-
. three thousand persons of middle and
after middle life die of preventable
!" “The diseases responsible for this
great death toll may be enumerated
on the fingers of one hand. They are
Bright’s disease, cancer, diabetes.
heart disease and tuberculosis.
“With the exception of tuberculosis
: which may occur at any age, they all
belong to the gray haired period of
life. They are all slow of develop-
i ment; so slow in fact, that a medical
examination, which would give a clean
| bill of health in regard to any of these
conditions, would mean that the indi-
, vidual would be safe for at least one
year.
“The Pennsylvania Department of
Health is advocating annual health
examinations for persons of middle
i and after middle life, as a safeguard
iand a protection. When you receive
a letter from a friend and notice on
the back sign “70 plus” you will un-
derstand that that individual is in-
terested in the growing movement for
health examinations.
“An annual health examination will
extend your life to “70 plus.” Help
i the movement by putting the sign
“70 plus” on the back of each letter
Irs write and don’t forget, as soon as
, you have finished reading this, to call
«your family doctor and make a date
-for a health examination to find out
“how you stand with yourself.”
Huntingdon Has Largest White Oak.
What is believed to be the largest
. swamp white oak in Pennsylvania has
been found near Waterfall, in Clay
township, Huntingdon county, not far
from the Fulton county line.
At one foot above the ground the
tree is 19 feet 10 inches in circum-
ference; at two feet above the ground
it is 17 feet 4 inches in girth; and at
43 feet it measures 16 feet 5 inches
‘in circumference.
According to records kept at the of-
fice of the Department of Forests and
Waters this tree has the largest cir-
cumference of any swamp white oak
known in Pennsylvania.
The tree is entirely free from
branches for 40 feet from the ground,
where it is at least 3 feet. in diameter.
At this point two large limbs leave
‘the main trunk, the one extending
northward and the other westward.
Each of the branches is at least 2 feet
in diameter. The height of this
mighty monarch is estimated at 75
feat and it has a branch spread of 78
eet.
The history of the tree shows it is
only by accident that it is still stand-
ing. In 1899 Henry Roles purchased
the oak with the intention of making
it into shingles, and again during the
last winter another man bargained
for this tree.
Citizens are entertaining the idea
that the tree can be preserved as a
landmark, that funds may be raised
to purchase it and to open a roadway
to this matchless monarch. :
The tree is still in vigorous condi-
tion and shows little signs of decline.
Arrangements have been made to
have the tree photographed.
erm — A ———————
——Crop market reports sent out
by radio from Washington have in
many instances been the means of far-
mers literally picking dollars out of
the air. Also use of the air mail in
dispatching crop reports to the De-
partment of Agriculture at Washing-
ton will be a tremendous advantage
to agriculture and industry and means
not only a great saving of time, but a
shortening of the period between the
receipt of the reports and the date of
! their release at Washington.