Democratic watchman. (Bellefonte, Pa.) 1855-1940, October 09, 1925, Image 2

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    Bone fn
Bellefonte, Pa., October 9, 1925.
Eee eee eee eee eee eee eed
If you put a little lovin’ into all the work
you do,
And a little bit of gladness, and a little bit
of you,
And a little bit of sweetness, a little bit of
Not a day will seem too toilsome, not a
day will seem too long;
And your work will be attractive, and the
world will stop to look,
And the world will see a sweetness like the
tinkling of a brook
In the finished job; and then the world
will turn to look at you
‘With a world’s appreciation of the thing
you've found to do.
Just a little bit of lovin’ and a little bit of
And some pride to sort of make it straight
and true and clean and strong;
And the work that you're a-doin’, pretty
near before you know,
‘Will have the world a-talkin’, and the lit-
tle winds that blow
‘Will bring echoes of it to you, and you'll
see that you have done
More than you had dreamed or hoped for
when the task was first begun;
And you’ll find the bit of lovin’ you have
put into the same
Has come back to you in lovin’, and come
back to you in fame.
Them that strive for fame shall miss it;
and that's what they ought to do;
But if you put some gladness, and if you
put some of you
In the task that is before you, and you
put a bit of pride
Into it, and you go at it glad of heart and
You will find the world is turnin’ pretty
soon to look your way,
And you'll find that there's a sweetness in
the tasks of every day;
And the world will see your work, and
pretty soon will speak your name;
And you'll find you have found lovin’, and
you'll find you have found fame.
—Houston Post.
When the great war was over Fin-
lay married the young V. A. D. who
had nursed him in London, and
brought her out with him to South
Africa. He acquired, for two thous-
and pounds, an interest in a farm in
the Northern Transvaal, and learned
how to grow oranges, paw-paws and
tomatoes. Six years later Baden-
horst, his partner, died, and he wrote
to his friend, Riss Matheson, to join
him; or at least to come and see the
farm and consider joining him.
Matheson had been here now for
three months, and had decided not to
remain. He wished, indeed, he had
gone away some weeks ago.
The trouble, of course, was Mrs.
He had not realized how simple she
was. Girls of eighteen would not, in
the world he knew, have taken him
seriously. And here was this woman
of thirty, her fair English prettiness
already faded by the South African
sun, and within a month she was look-
ing at him with shining, frightened,
happy eyes, and her voice, when she
spoke to him, was breathless.
Partly, Matheson realized, it was
this farm life. The monotony was
eating away her thin soul. She had
no intellectual interests. She was ex-
hausted for lack of romance. He
should not have behaved to her as he
behaved to other personable women.
He knew it. But he could not help
himself, It was a kind of artistic
urge, He was like that—ardent.
Women evoked in him a genuine feel-
ing that forced him to expression.
From far away his not unintelligent
mind watched anxiously his emotional
antics. He disapproved of himself,
but he meant it when he locked at
them—not deliberately, and yet not
unconsciously—in that abashed, over-
whelmed, adoring way. He meant it
when, in their quaint or charming mo-
ments, he said to them, with a little
smile and a hesitating voice: “I like
you—terribly, I do.” The word he
used was this little word “like,” but it
seemed to express something better,
something more unique and precious
and irresistible than love”’—as if
“love” were rather cheap and obvious.
The trouble was that he meant these
things so frequently and so temporari-
ly that they had very little particular
But how was Eve Finlay to know
And yet she should have been safe
against his tricks. Matheson himself
felt it. She had a husband, he was
prepared to acknowledge, worth a doz-
en of her. How Finlay, whom he had
loved from boyhood, could have se-
lected, of all women in the world, pre-
cisely this trivial affair, he could not
imagine. It was all very well for him,
Matheson, to find in her refreshment
for an occasional mood. But to build
the house of one’s life beside this fit-
ful and meager spring, and depend on
it for perennial assaugement—for the
very reason that he admired Finlay,
he also despised him for his paltry de-
mand and easy satisfaction.
Nor was this the only safeguard she
had, the possession of Finlay. She
did more than possess Finlay—she
cared for him. She was forever at-
tending to his comfort, and working,
in small, uninspired ways, for his hap-
piness. She hovered over him, anx-
ious for his approbration. She honor-
ed him openly. She was proud to be
his wife.
And yet there was just this; and
Matheson realized it without under-
standing it. She loved her husband
in every way except in one way. She
did not love him or, grown indifferent
through custom, she had ceased to
love him—as a woman loves a man.
In that way, as soon as she saw him,
she loved Matheson, She was not al-
together blinded. She knew her hus-
band was the better man; even, actu-
ally, the more manly man. She knew
she was making a mistake, But the
air quivered around her when Mathe-
son was there, her organs melted in
her body, her skin sprang to a new
gensation of life. She was prepared—
she was anxious—to give up every- |
thing for Matheson. She did give up
what she considered everything. Now,
she hoped, Matheson would be hers
forever, and yet she dreaded that he
might not be.
It was the dread and not the hope,
that was justified. Matheson hated
her. He hated himself, too, and he
hated Finlay. Finlay should have had
it in him to satisfy the emotional de-
mands of this easy woman. Finlay
should not have been so unquestion-
ingly complacent. Matheson told him,
as soon as he could, that he had decid-
ed to reject his offer about the farm.
“I thought you liked the life,” said
Finlay. ;
“I thought so too. But I find—not
as a permanent thing.”
His friend looked at him wistfully.
“It would have been rather jolly,” he
said. “Still, I won’t try to persuade
you. In the meantime, there is no
need to hurry home, is there?”
“I’m afraid I must.”
“Must? But why?”
“Well, of course,” said Matheson
with difficulty, “I ought to see a bit of
Africa before I go back, don’t you
think 7” ;
Finlay smiled his comradely smile.
“Yes, I suppose so. Yes, certainly,
you ought to do that. However, we're
not going to let you run away from us
too soon. Africa will have to wait
Matheson struggled for finite words.
“To begin with,” continued Finlay,
“there’s that little shooting trip of
Yes, there was the shooting trip,
and there was the necessity of not
surprising Finlay. Matheson made an
effort to smile. “I'm not forgetting
it,” he said. “But when we come back
I think I must set about packing my
He told Eve so. “And is that all?”
she said.
“What then?” he asked.
“You are to go away and forget me,
forget everything, and I am to remain
with George as if nothing were differ-
Involuntarily Matheson found him-
self making the appropriate gesture.
“Forget?” he whispered.
“Won’t you?” she whispered back.
He looked at her—shook his head
“Ross,” she said quickly, “take me
with you.”
“My dear—I don’t want to ruin
your life.”
“I am prepared to sacrifice every-
thing for you.”
That was the trouble. She was so
eagerly, traditionally ready to sacri-
fice everything. Matheson wondered
how she interpreted the word “sacri-
fice,” and again, how she interpreted
the word “everything;” and sighed
with impatience.
But he said: “Our greatest sacri-
fice would be to give up our happiness
for George's sake.”
His watching brain loathed the false
and mawkish words.
But they fed her romantic spirit.
“Does anything matter besides
love 7”
He thought of several things that
might. “Must I expose you to the
world’s cruelty?”
“I could bear it—for you.”
Matheson stood up suddenly. She
might bear the world’s cruelty, but he
could not bear her clinging platitudes.
“Let me think,” he said. Away
from her, on the veld, he would, he
imagined, be able to think.
But as he sat beside Finlay in his
car that was laden with shooting and
eating and sleeping material, he found
it extraordinarly difficult to appreci-
ate that he had wronged his friend.
They had not left the farm twenty
miles behind them when Eve, it seem-
ed to him, had lost all substance, and
there was nothing to hinder the old
The car hurried along the yellow
road on the yellow winter veld. All
around them were mountains, bedded
in dark green, crested with rocks, but
themselves naked except for their col-
or and for the stiff trees that went
marching up their sides. The moun-
tains looked as if they had once been
great malleable masses, and enormous
hands that kneaded them into shape.
Every now and then they came upon a
colony of cactuses; thrusting upwards
flaming spikes. Little streams of
water trickled across their path.
Sometimes they saw a group of Kaf-
firs, clad only in garish blankets, with
bundles on their heads or, if they were
women, with babies slung across their
backs. They matched the savage
and primitive mountains.
The sky was fiercely blue, with
translucent clouds.
At intervals they sighted game;
wildebeest, duiker and sceenbok; hare
and partridge once a zebra.
The day passed and the color and
the loneliness of Africa sank into
Matheson’s heart. Now it was even-
ing, and he felt poetry awakening in
him—a yearning towards sacrifice and
holy experience. He began to remem-
ber the sins of his life. There was an
urge of confession on him.
He sat beside Finlay, struggling for
words, barely speaking.
Pilg very quiet,” said Finlay to
“This is too big for me,” answered
Finlay smiled at him. Matheson
had always been an odd little fellow.
He felt about him as if he were a
woman and needed protection.
“Is that why you wont stay?” he
The tears positively came to Mathe-
son’s eyes, He scorned them with his
mind, but they did come.
“No,” he said. “For heaven's sake
don’t ask me, Finlay, or I'll tell you.”
“Don’t you want to tell me?”
“I want to—yes; but I musn’t.”
“Well, forget it then. You'll be
safely out of it quite soon.”
On their third morning Matheson
woke to see the sun as it rose from
behind the tallest mountain. Eve was
far away, out of his thoughts.
Presently Finlay woke too. “We'll
have good shooting today,” he said.
“How about coffee? Have you made
it yet? Or is it enough for you to
drink in the scenery?”
“I'll see about it,” said Matheson,
skin, stood up. “You get on with the
It may have been half an hour later
that Matheson suddenly wondered
what had become of Finlay. He look-
ed about him for a few minutes long- |
er, and then decided to follow him. He
had little sense of direction and was
afraid to go too far from the camp,
but soon he was recklessly extending
his area, shouting his friend’s name as
he went along. Another half-hour
passed, and then it seemed to him he
heard a human sound. He stood very
still and heard the sound again. He
thought it might be Finlay’s voice,
but he could not locate it. It seemed
close at hand; and yet it had, too, a
distant quality.
He cried: “Where are you Finlay,
where are you?”
The word “Here” seemed to rise
faintly towards him. He sprang at
the word, and then, instinctively, back
again. Before his feet—he had al-
most fallen inte it—lay a deep, narrow
chasm; and, at the bottom of the
chasm, he saw dimly something white.
As he looked he knew the something
white to be his friend’s face.
“Matheson!” He hardly recognized
the straining tones.
“Finlay—Finlay—are you hurt?”
“Done for.”
“Can’t you move?”
“I'll get down to you.”
“You can’t.”
And, as Finlay spoke, Matheson
knew it was true. The cleft was quite
perpendicular, smooth, without foot-
hold. He remembered that there was
a rope on the car and hurried away to
fetch it. But it was far too shart.
When he returned he heard no sound, |
could see no movement. He knelt |
down and shouted in an anguished
fear that he might never hear Finlay’s
voice again. But it answered his call.
* Xk»
“Awful *
Matheson tried to think coherently. |
How was he to help Finlay? Was he
to leave him and go in search of as-
sistance? It was more than two days |
since they had seen Finlay’s own farm. !
He knew of no other farm nearer. He
would proably lose his way and go .
wandering fruitlessly around, and his
friend would lie there, locked between
* 2. awful * it
the rocks, moaning. No, not le there, |
That was wrong. For he was horri-
bly upright.
Finlay was calling him. “Mathe-
son. You haven’t gone away?”
“No, I am here, Finlay. My God,
Finlay, what can I do?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I'm finished.”
The minutes passed away in utter
silence. Then Matheson heard his
name called again.
“I'm still here, Finlay,” he respond-
ed. “I've not left you. I won't.”
“I can’t stand it any more. Can’t
stand it. I'm smashed to bits * * *
Matheson * * * Ross, old fellow
* x 7 There was a curiously plead-
ing not in his voice, a ghastly wheed-
ling. “Help me.”
A familiar sentence came to Math-
eson’s mind. He was about to say,
like a shop-walker, “What can I do for
you?” But prescience kept him dumb.
“Help me.” It was Finlay’s voice |
again. “Your gun.” £1 ny
Matheson uttered the word “no
many times, in terrible haste. |
“Yes * * Shoot me.”
He had known that was coming as
soon as Finlay had asked him for help.
He could not answer him.
“Matheson, are you there? What
did you say?”
“Yes, I'm here.” ;
“Matheson * * * old friend.”
That terrible wheedling * * *
silence followed. :
He hoped with all his heart tha
Finlay was dead. .
But no. The shattered voice still
there, supplicating.
Matheson went for his gun,
came back with it to the cleft.
It was not clear in his mind that he
could do this thing that Finlay de-
manded, but even to fetch the gun had
been some kind of action. Better than
merely to sit and wait, with that voice
coming from below:
He passed his trembling hands up
and down the weapon. And then, for
the first time that morning, he
thought of Eve—not with pain, but
with a desperate relief. His sin was
to be his saviour.
“Can you hear me, Finlay ?” he said.
“I've brought the gun. But I can’t use
it. Finlay, listen. Your wife and I—
your wife and I——"
Could he make him understand?
Hate suddenly pushed through his ag-
ony. Why had this thing to happen
between him and Finlay’s wife; why
had this unbearable misfortune to hap-
pen to Finlay himself; why had this
haunting burden to be laid on him,
Matheson? He had been so gay and
care-free a few months ago. Now the
Finlays had involved him in a trage-
dy. That was the way it always was
with Matheson. A light pity he could
almost enjoy. It made him feel good;
it warmed hi
his sense of romance. But
a pity that affected him deeply, that
caused him real sorrow, was compli-
cated in his mind with resentment
against the suffering one who had
caused him this pain, who was spir-
itually spattering him with the blood
of his own wounds. He felt that he
must tell Finlay the truth as nakedly
as he could.
He began to explain, shouting bit-
A cry interrupted him. “You fool!
My wife. Love. You say—lovers.
Talk to me about—Ilove. What is love
—to me—now ?”
With a shock, Matheson stood erect.
He was right. Finlay was right. He
was a fool. He was not only a fool.
He was a villain, A man was pray-
ing for death at his hands, and, in
very cowardice, to escape this guy
whose phantom was forever to wal
with him, he was urging his own
crime. No, here, he could see now,
was his chance of expiation; hers was
a punishment which would be sweeter
than empty remorse. He must give
Finlay the death for which he begged.
The radiant morning sun had es-
caped the mountains now. From a
clear sky it sent its shafts of light
down the cleft. He could see at last
the face of his friend, the skin in
strips,. the bleeding flesh. Except for
but did not move,
“I suppose I'd better g and collect
some firewood,” said Finlay; and
throwing off his karosses of jackal
one broken arm, Finlay was
he to consider consequences? Let
there be consequences—accusations—
heaven knew what. It gave him a
martyr-like satisfaction that his own
suffering was only now beginning.
He lay flat on the ground and sight-
ed carefully.
“George. Are you ready?”
“God bless you! Yes.”
“Now!” Matheson lifted a steady
finger. “George * * * George!”
An hour later, as he still sat beside
the chasm, the thought of Eve return-
ed dully to his mind—By Sarah G.
Millin in the Cosmopolitan.
Gasoline Substitute.
Operation of automobiles and air-
planes with motor fuel made at the
government Muscle Shoals nitrate
plant is possible 20 or 25 years from
now, in the opinion of Dr. Gerald L.
Wendt, dean of the school of chemistry
and physics at The Pennsylvania
State College. He has recently re-
turned from Europe and an investiga-
tion of moter fuel manufacture in
Germany where the government am-
monia fertilizer plant is being utilized
in part to make grain alcohol in such
| quantities as to have ruined that in-
' dustry in this country within the past
few months. Research pointing to-
ward the removal of oxygen from
| alcohol will be started at Penn State
| this year and efforts made to find a
i cheap substitute for gosoline use
a condition expected within 20 years
| at the present rate of consumption.
i when the world’s oil supply gives out, :
a A A RN,
Fall is the most tempting time of
the year for autoists and other rural
travelers to climb the fence into farm
orchards, melon patches, and gardens
for a few red apples, melons or juicy
Secretary of Agriculture, F. P.
Willits, warns all who are thus tempt-
ed to remember the law passed last
Spring, Act 259, which makes it
larcency to steal farm property and
subjects the offender to a fine, not to
exceed $500 and possibly imprison-
ment by separate or solitary con-
finement at labor not exceeding three
Stealing such farm property is,
therefore, no longer a trifling matter
Mr. Willits emphasizes. The law does
he explains. It applies to any person
not being the present owner thereof
“who shall wilfully and unlawfully
steal, take or carry away, or be engag-
ed in stealing, taking or carrying away
any kind of property whatsoever,
growing or being on the land of an-
Farmers have just as much right
to receive the protection of the law as
any other class of citizens. It is
| just as illegal to take peaches from a
farmer's tree or melons from his
melon patch, as to steal a loaf of
bread from a bakery or a sack of flour
from a grocery. The enforcement of
| the new law should do much to im-
| press this fact upon the public.
not apply only to fruit and vegetables,
‘Stage Annual Poultry Show at State
The third annual State standard
production poultry show will be stag-
ed at The Pennsylvania State College,
November 5, 6 and 7, according to R.
H. Strait, secretary.
Varieties eligible for the show in-
clude Barred Plymouth Rocks, White
Plymouth Rocks, single-comb Rhode
Island reds, single-comb white Leg-
horns, single-comb mottled Anconas,
and white Wyandottes in the egg pro-
ducing classes, and Light Brahmas,
Cornish, and Black Giants in the meat
classes. Entry fees will be 25 cents
for a single bird or a dollar for a pen
consisting of one male and four fe-
males. Varieties not listed will be el-
igible for ribbons providing sufficient
: entries are made.
"There will be a class for young
capons and also one for old capons.
The classes in egg and meat produc-
tion will consist of cock, cockerel, hen,
pullet, old pen, and young pen.
special class for hens producing more
than 250 eggs a year will be a feature
of the show this fall.
Silver loving cups, special ribbons,
birds, magazines, and some cash
prizes will be awarded winners. Col-
lege teachers and extension specialists
in the poultry department will be the
judges. The college poultry depart-
ment and the poultry club, composed
of students specializing in poultry
work, will conduct the show. Last
year’s show was one of the largest in
the country.
to the Men and Women of Centre County, from
Harry Keller, (Candidate for Judge
ent generation.
voter before he or she goes
our county,
gress polled 172 votes,
for State Representative.
any question of argument
ly no one section or group
cally for these principles.
My father, Daniel S.
He never handled a liqour
cause of that fact—and it 1
box on election day.
ly and loyally accept their
immovably between two boulders.
He felt a ghostly calm,
Who was .
Political Advertisement,
In addition to the Republican and Democratic nominees,
Judge who was placed on the Prohibition part
referring in any personal sense to the Prohibition
ples of the Prohibition party, it is nevertheless pro
be called to the actual voting strength of that party in our county,
on the present contest for Judge. A situation exists that should be understood by every
State or county office. In 1912 the
and the nominee for State Representative polled 129 votes.
hibition party polled 8o votes for Governor in the county, while the party candidate for Con-
and the nominee for State Senator received 149 votes.
ongress, and 240 votes for State Representative.
overnor received 122 votes, and the candi-
bition party in the county polled 273 votes
the Prohibition party polled 149 votes for C
In 1922 the Prohibition party nominee for G
date for Congress 126 votes. In 1924 the Prohi
These figures are official.
for enforcement of not only one law,
for all sections of the county an
He was a pioneer in the temperance cause ino
herence to, what constitutes the obligations an
guide during my whole life.
Since the one who will be elected Judge on November 3rd will be either the Republi-
can nominee or the Democratic nominee, he will
Harrison Walker. A vote cast for the nominee of the
make possible his election,
nominee will in effect contribute one-half a vote
fact is considered the better it will be understood, and it shou
ly by every man and by every woman before he or she mar
ty. My whole life record is in keepi
lingly and gladly submitting my record
polls and render a decision that they honest
interested in the matter.
to the polls.
The official records show that at no election in Centre county in a long period of years
has the Prohibition party polled more than a few hundred votes for any candidate for a
Prohibition candidate for Congress polled 159 votes in
Keller, was a
license application.
there is a third candidate for
y ticket with a total of 110 votes. Without
party nominee, or to the merits or princi-
per and timely that your attention should
One need but consider them for a moment to realize beyond
that it is not even reasonable to anticipate that the Prohibition
party nominee for Judge standing on that ticket only, can or will be elected.
Because of this situation, the question that presents itself to t
is this: As between the nominee of the Republican party and
ocratic ticket, which do you prefer to become your Judge?
Do you want to elect as your Judge one who is “dry;
total abstainer; who has never handled a liquor license application; who stands squarely
but all laws; who is qualified by 34 years of exper
jence in the practice of law; whose one aim and pledge is to serve faithfully and efficient-
of citizens, but to administer justice,
d for all of the people of the county. I stand umequivo--
’ who is and always has beer a
On November 3rd, just three weeks from next
Tuesday, you will be called upon to select a Judge who
will serve for ten years. It is reasonably certain that
the personal or business interests of a very large num-
ber of those participating in this election, or their de-
scendants, will, in one way or another, be passed upon
during those ten years by the Judge now to be chosen.
For this reason, if for no other, every man and woman
in Centre county is, or at least should be, personally
Three candidates for Judge have been nominated.
Each is on a separate party ticket, and no one of the
three is on more than one ticket.
judgment of experienced, unbiased observers that the
one elected will be either the nominee of the Republi-
can party or the nominee of the Democratic party.
This will at once become apparent to the voter who
TT a TT gives the matter his thoughtful attention. We have in
our county a definitely established political division. Virtually all of the votes cast at elec-
tions in Centre county are divided between the Republican and Democratic parties. It is a
matter of record that no candidate for a State or county office has ever been elected in Cen-
tre county on the ticket of any other party alone; certainly not in the period of the pres-
It is the candid
because of its bearing up-
oI yt or Th
In 1914 the Pro-
In 1918
he people of Centre county
the candidate on the Derr
honestly and impartially;
practicing attorney in Centre county for 21 years.
ur county. He, also, was a total’ abstainer:
His broad understanding of, and’ rigid ad-
d duties of a Christian citizen have been: my
be either myself or he will be Mr. W.
Prohibition party for Judge cannot
as the figures I have given show clearly and conclusively. Be-
s a very well founded fact—every vote cast for the Prohibition
decision on
for Mr. Walker. The more this
1d be understood’ thiorough-
ks a ballot and places: it in the
I know and understand in the fullest sense the prevailing sentiment in Centre coun-
ng and accord with this sentiment.
to the people of Centre county, and I shall cheerful-
November 3rd. I ask only that our citizens go to-the
ly believe will be best for themselves. and’ their
I am very wil-