| passed seemed rather dreary, the “Quite so,” agreed Darrelson, but fairly put the lid on it. Because LOW WAGES AND around the corner from another
'village two miles be it boasted vaguely something in the voice, so Flossie on our buying that A MAN'S MORAL SIDE. friend of mine who has been on and
only an alehouse. t three miles like his own, irritated him; and a motor car we'd always talked about, —— off his job intermittently for the
more him suddenly round a little later, as they neared their des- and I'd seen a new house I rather “A man can't oe the moral past eighteen months, but who every
ES | pg yy to a village of dreams. tinamon, whose lower windows were fancied; and one way and another, side of himself at wages we're day of his idleness was looking for
Bellefonte, Pa., October 28, 1931. There was a real green in the the only ones still alight in the vil- before we knew where we were, the getting now,” said a friend of mine some little odd jobs to do. * This
— middle of that village, and on the he said: “But, of course, a whole five hundred had gone up the a day or two ago, whose wages have would be called exercising his moral
YOU NEVER CAN TELL. green men were Shavie a rustic ow’'s got to worry about his job.” spout, and our savings with it. But been cut to the lowest known any- side, I suppose, by the philosopher
cricket match, beyond every To Ww! the man Willie retorted. I didn't care. I thought it'd be all where for thirty-five years. shoe worker.
You never can tell when you send a little cottage showed trim and tidy “Oh, you're one of thst sort, are right as long as I went on working. “When a fellow can't pay his I met this other friend just a
word, behind its holl And infront you? So was I once,” and again And so it was—in a way. taxes and his ordinary bills he gets short time ago—in fact, within two
Like an arrow shot from a bow of the largest of those cottages— fell silent till they were throughthe “Only Flossie didn't think so. discouraged in his soul, and he weeks of the time our high schoo!
By an archer, blind, be it cruel or kind, “They've knocked two into one—the gate and into the tearoom, where She wanted something different. doesn't care what happens to him,” was to open for this vear's work.
Just were it may chance to go. same as I did,” thought Claude Dar- he sat down, once more res hiz And, of course, being able to drive was his added comment. His daughter woule be a junior.
It may pierce the breast of your dear- relson—was planted a sign which elbows at one of the tile-top tables, herself about all day, and I too This was new language to me, She had to put her summer in at
est friend, read, “Travelers Rest. Motorists and looking up at Darrelson, tired to ask her where she'd been but unusually expressive. And the factory where her mother works
Tipped with its poison or balm;
To a stranger's heart in life's
mart
It may carry its pain or its calm,
great
You never can tell when you do an act
Just what the result may be
But with every deed you are sowing a
seed,
Though the harvest you may not see.
Bach kindly act is an acorn dropped
In God's productive soil;
You may not know, but the tree shall
grow
With shelter for those who toil.
You never can tell what your thoughts
will do
In bringing you hate or love,
For thoughts are things, and their airy
wings
Are swifter than carrier dove.
They follow the law of the universe—
Each thing must create its kind—
And they speed o'er the track to bring
you back
Whatever went out from your mind.
OF INDEPENDENT MEANS
They had paid him-—that very
morning, at the pistol point of the
law, and unconditionally—£25,000.
And £25,000 invested as he Knew
how to invest it would bring him in
£1250 a year, free of income tax and
with never a stroke of work to do
for it as long as he lived.
There was the cottage, too. Free-
hold. Unmortgaged. And with only
about £20 a year taxes to pay on it,
and Lorna.
But aithough nearly twelve
months had gone by—and the de-
cree been made absolute in the
meanwhile—since he had consented
to his divorce from Lorna, the recol-
lection of her still rankled; and
Claude Darrelson, ex-managing di-
rector of Darrelson’s, Ltd, saw his
own face frowning at him from the
badly adjusted driving mirror of his
sport coupe as he left the last of
the London traffic behind him and
headed for the west.
There was no particular reason
why he should be driving west—or
east, or south, or north, for that
matter. But his mood, the com.
bine's check once paid into his bank,
had been all for escape.
After all, £25,000 or no £25,000,
they'd beaten him; robbed him of
his life's work; stolen the business
he'd spent all those years since the
war in founding. And that, too,
rankled, even more bitterly than
Lorna's defection, in his mind.
And again, the recollection of his
own marriage troubled him. For
there, too, he had been beaten, rob-
bed of his life's happiness—the wom-
an he had spent all these years since
the war making money for stolen
from him.
“So I'll be damned if ever J
start making money for another
woman,” he decided. “Or start
another business. After all, I'm
free. Free. No more work. No
more wife. No more worries. And
I'm barely 40 yet. And my golf's
handicap’s only 6. And I don't play
a bad game of lawn tennis—when
I'm fit. But a chap can't keep fit
in London. So I'll live at the cot-
tage. Always did like my cottage
—and my books, and my garden.
Don't need a wife to look after the
cottage, either. Because there's al-
ways my mother. Dear old hard:
working, efficient mother—"
And, smiling now, Claude Darrel-
son drove on.
After all, it was pretty good to
be free—and for life—from money-
making. Take today, for instance,
and what a day it promised to be,
with the sun shining from a cloud-
less sky, and all the June flowers
out, and the birds chirping (one
could hear them chirp if only one
drove slowly enough) from the way-
side gardens.
Today, and tomorrow, and the
day after, old Mowlem and young
Henry and pretty Miss Butters and
the rest of the staff would be slav-
ing in the office. But neither to-
day, nor tomorrow, and the day af-
ter, need one oneself slave in any
office. Today, and tomorrow, and
the day, after, and all the days, one
oneself had liberty—liberty and the
open road.
He came through another town
and another, to a village and be-
yond the village to a lone inn,
whose name, the Peaceful Plough-
man, atttracted him; and there—
though all the inn could offer was
cold meat, pickles and bread and
cheese—he lunched pleasurably.
For Claude Darrelson’s tastes had
always been simple; and the reali-
zation of this was also pleasurable
to him as he consumed yet another
pipeful of the popular tobacco he
affected, walking the while between
the beansticks of the little vege-
tzble garden behind the inn.
“Twelve hundred and fifty a year
ought to be ample,” he thought
then. “And mother's got her own
income. Reckon I can afford to
take it easy.”
Soon, however, the unaccustomed
idleness fidgeting him a little, he
had called for his bill and was head-
ing west again, driving faster and
always faster, till the suitcase he
had brought began to rattle in the
dickey. Whereupon he drew brake
and spent a good five minutes try-
ing to wedge the thing more secure.
ly: finally deciding that it would be
better, after all, to take the suit-
case on the seat beside him.
“Got to learn to take
easilyy, now I'm of independent
means,” he told himself, and began
looking for some place where Le
could spend the night.
The next town through which ke
things |
Cared For. Good Bedrooms. Coun-
snapdragon-
ed path to a gabled porch,
which stood a woman—gray-haired,
and smiling, and a little (it seemed
to Darrelson) like his own mother.
“Could I see one of your rooms?”
asked Darrelson, cautious now that
the first allurement of the place
was over.
“Surely,” answered the woman,
and led him through a neatly ar-
ranged but empty tearoom, up a
flight of oak stairs into a narrow
landing, off which opened several
doors.
“You can have your choice,” she
went on. “We don't have many
folk staying, except for over week-
ends.” After Darrelson had chosen
the largest of the four bedrooms,
she showed him, not without pride,
the bath.
“But you'll have to let me know
what time you want it,” she contin.
ued. “Because we've no running
water. And I hope you won't be
wanting it too early. Because I'm
single-handed here and the fire takes
a lot of getting going in the morn-
ing.”
But Darrelson, for the moment,
had no devices—his mood being still
the same in which he had reached
Idlehurst. And it was only witha
distinct effort that he finally made
up his mind to unpack before eat-
ing.
His washing, too—though he did
just manage to wash—was a per-
functory affair.
Outside twilight was just falling
through the leaded windows, he could
see a few couples strolling here and
there, arm in arm, across the green.
Lovers again. Like the boy and
girl whom he had let pass him on
the road that morning. But what
was the good of love? Or of work
either? A man was happier with-
out them.
“And I'm happy,” decided Darrel-
son. “For the first time in my
life I'm really happy.” And justas
he reached that decision the gate in
the wall clicked and up the snap-
dragon-bordered path lounged the
man, Willie, hands in pocket, pipe
between his teeth.
He passed through the tearoom,
gave Darrelson “Good evening,” dis-
appeared through the door leading to
the kitchen whence, presently, came
the sound of subdued voices, the
clink of plates.
The voice fidgeted Darrelson, and
after a little he arose, filling his pipe
as he did so, and walked out onto
the green.
Twilight had almost fallen by
then. Lights twinkied behind the
cottage windows. Above, a sky
almost Italian gave promise of
another perfect day.
He strolled as fav as the turn-
pike, watched a car pass another
car, a lorry, turned back again, al-
ready sleepy, toward Travelers Rest.
“Might stay here another day,”
he thought. “Might stay a couple
of days. Might stay a week, for
that matter.” And so thinking,
encountered a man, named Willie
again, who said, in a voice which
despite the faint country accent—
rather resembled his own: “There's
not much to do here of an evening,
I'm afraid. But the Angler's open
till half-past 10. And their beer's
not so bad—if you'd care for a
nightcap.”
“I was thinking of turning in,”
began Darrelson, but, after a little
pressure, yielded—being at heart &
companionable chap.
There were three men-—one ob-
viously country type-in the bar.
And each of these Darrelson's com-
panion greeted cherrily by his Chris-
tian name.
“The usual for me,” he said tothe
girl behind the bar; and to Darrel-
son, “I expected you'd be liking a
bitter, too.”
Their beer drawn, they sat down
at a small table, on which the man,
Willie, put his elbows before asking:
“Have you come a long way?”
“From London,” answered Darrel.
son, sitting bolt upright, according
to his habit.
“I used to live in London.”
“Really 7”
“Yes: Up to a year ago.
I had enough sense to chuck it.
fellow's happier in the country.”
“You don't miss London, then?”
“So you're a woman-hater?”
“No.
a man can do without 'em.”
All the time the girl behind the
bar watched Darrelson and if Dar-
relson had been more observant, he
might have noticed the interest in
her eyes.
“I wonder who he is,” the girl
was thinking. “He's awfully like
Willie. Their hair's the same color
—-brown. And their eyes are the
same color-—hazel. And they've
got the same kind of mouth. Only
he's clipped his mustache—and Wil-
lie's is always so untidy. Oh, dear,
Then
A
I wish I wasn't always thinking
about Willie. He'll never ask me
to marry him. And if I did marry |
‘him, I'd only be miserable. He's a
‘waster, is Willie.”
Aloud she said: “It'll be closing
time in another ten minutes.”
Stars were shining when they
emerged from the public house. A
| full moon, riding high over the
green, showed Idlehurst at it lov-
liest.
“Better than London, eh?” said
the man Willie. “I was never well
in London, you know. Too much
|work. And too much worry. What
|I say is, it's no use worrying one-
| self.”
Not exactly. But I reckon
. I could tell ‘you a story
'about that if you'd care to listen.”
And still vaguely irritated with
the man-—yet interested despite ir-
ritation—Claude Darrelson, too, sat
him down.
The woman, apparently, had gone
to bed. From the kitchen came no
sound.. Upstairs, too, all was quiet,
not a foot moving. In the far cor-
ner of the room a grandfather's
clock chimed lazily. And the man's
voice also sounded lazy as he began.
“It's my own story, of course,” he
began. “Mother ana I aren't Idle-
hurst folk. We're from Salisbury.
Father worked in one of the shops
there, provisions, till he died of
pneumonia. Just before the war,
that was the winter before it start-
ed, as a matter of fact. I was 23
then. And I'd been working since
I left school. In the provisions,
too. Same shop. They gave me
father's job when he died. ‘Then
the war came and I had to chuck
it. Were you through the war?”
“Yes.” Darrelson nodded. “Three
years in the Warwickshires.”
“Dorsets—I was. And a sergeant
by the end of it. Ever read any
of these war books. Lot of rot, I
call 'em. The war wasn't so bad
—except in patches. Anyway, I'm
not grumbling about it. Or about
the peace, either. Though I've had
as bad a time as most, I suppose.
Till I learned my lesson.
“Learned my lesson,” repeated his
man through the cigarette smoke.
| Took me the best part of twelve
years, though. Ending up the war
as sergeant, you see, made me kind
of ambitious. And then, of course,
|there was the girl. Salisbury girl,
she was. Didn't want to stay there,
though. Any more than I did. A
bit of a high flier, if you know what
I mean.
“High flying.” He broke off.
“Hell—what's the use of it? But of
course I didn't know that. How
should I? With me not yet 28, and
demobbed as a sergeant; and drive
round in her own motorcar. ‘And
so you shall, Flossie’, I used to tell
her. And she did.
“Mother had put her savings into
a business and so she was off our
minds. And with £3 a week as un-
der manager and a spot of commis-
sion if the sales went up, which
they were bound to do with all the
new houses being built round us, I
might have taken things a bit
easier. But I didn't. I wasn't
that sort then. I wanted my £5a
‘week and Flossie wanted that mo-!
torcar. We hadn't got a kid, you
see. Not that I wanted one. As
I was saying, I wanted my £5 a
week. And I didn't care how hard
I slaved for it either. Work! I tell
you I used to work like a galley
slave those days. Used to think it
worth while, too. Used to be up
at 6 in the morning. Used to go
to bed so tired I'd just fall asleep
the moment my head touched the
pillow. Flossie got a bit bored with
that after a while. Women do.
She wanted it both ways—like the
rest of 'em. You know? The high
flying—and the other thing.”
At which Darrelson's
hitherto perfunctory, quickened a
little. Since had not his Lorna,
also, wanted it both ways?
“Yes, I know,” he said, and again
the voice, so like his own, except for
the laziness, went on.
“We didn't exdctly quarrel,” it
went on. “We were neither of that
sort. But I got a bit bored with
her, too. Only the more bored Igot
with Flossie, the keener I got to
earn Hove money for her,
was rather queer if come
consider ft yu is
“Not in the least,” thought Dar-
relson, his mind once more with his
own strangely similar experience.-
But this time he said nothing, for he
had always been a better listener
than talker. Hardly pausing, the
man Willie continued his tale:
“Well, I got a promotion and with
it more money—£5 and a bonus,
“So, although Flossie and I weren't
getting any happier with each oth-
er, I had enough money to go about
with my pals, and she had enough
for whist drives and the cinema,
and a new hat whenever she felt
like one. We were still sa a
(bit every week, having no children.
| Not that Flossie usen't to say every
‘now and then that she rather wish.
ed we had had children.
At which, had the man Willie
been more observant, he might have
seen Darrelson’s square teeth clutch
on the stem of the empty pipe he
was now sucking. Since had not
Lorna, also, in those years when he
had at least begun to succeed in
‘ business—and those years, too, had
(Seen them drifting farther and
farther apart on the tide of his
money making—been wont occasion-
(ally to express a similar wish?
“If I'm boring you,” interpolated
his companion.
“You're not.”
“Sure ?"
“Certain.”
| And with the clock still ticking
| the only other sound, it seemed, in
(all the midnight silence of Idiehurst
| —the man Willie resumed:
“If only people'd learn to take
things easy, and not worry them-
/selves. But that's the worst of
high flying. It's a habit. And
|like all habits, it grows on one. I
‘could have stopped working so hard
{when I got to three pounds a week,
lor four, or five. But I didn't. I
|got up to six. And then—then I
{won that crossword competition I
| was telling you about. And that
interest,
of an evening *** Anyway, to cut
a long story short, one evening she
‘never got back till all hours. And
‘that time I did ask her where she'd
been. But all she said was: ‘You
mind your own business, Willie.
That's about all you do mind these
days.’ And the very next day,
when I got back from the shop,
there was no Flossie-—only a note
telling me the name of the chap
she'd gone off with, and asking me
to divorce her as soon as I could.”
Whereupon-—since that incident,
also, so nearly paralleled the end of
his own marriage- Claude Darrelson
scowled at a moth that was flutter-
ing round one of the oil lamps that
illuminated the tearoom, but the
man Willie only laughed.
“We'd been married nearly ten
years,’ he laughed; “and all’ that
time I'd been slaving my insides
out. But what did she care? Not
a rap. That's a woman all over.
A chap can work his head off for
her. But when another chap comes
along—And there was I, earning my
6 quid a week, with a house and
furniture I'd only jus: started pay-
ing the installments on and no wom-
an to look after them for me; and
a damned motorcar I didn't really
want because I've always been a
simple sort of chap in my tastes.—
But the car paid for my divorce,
anyway. You don't get all your
costs back, though the bally law-
years pretend you do. And once
I'd got through with the divorce, I
began to ask myself whether the
high flying was worth while,
“And I moved into lodgings. And
that, having nothing to worry about
except paying my bill each week,
gave me more time to think. And
the more I thought, the more I
came to the conclusion that if only
I had a few bob a week of my own,
and a roof over my head, and a bit
of sport to amuse myself with, and a
book or two to read of an evening,
I'd be a jolly sight happier than I'd
ever been high flying with Flossie.”
And on that the voice, which had
been growing lazier and lazier, pe-
tered out; while the man Willie
lit a last gasper, and Darrelson
watched him, puzzlement in his
eyes.
“But if IT understand you,” said
Darrelson finally, “your savings were
all gone.”
“That's so,” agreed the man Wil-
lie. “But I wasn't in debt. And,
of course, I always had this place
to come to. And,” he winked large-
ly at the lamplight, “my insurance
card had always been stamped reg-
ular; and knowing, of old, what a
temper the old major had, and how
keen he was on only keeping chaps
who had ambition and all that sort
of rot—And besides, there'd been
another combine by then.—So the
chances were they'd be cutting down
the staff, anyway.——Rationalization,
you know.—OCne shop instead of two.
As a matter of fact, they gave me
50 quid compensation; and the old
major promised to find me some-
thing if I'd write him. But, of
course, I didn't write him. Why
should I? With 50 quid in my
pocket, and my insurance cards all
stamped, and me only having to
take them to the labor exchange to
draw 15 bob a week pocket money
for the rest of my life.”
On which the man Willie, rising
languidly from the table, made to
turn down one of the lamps, repeat-
ing as he did so:
“The trouble with most people is
‘that they don't know when they're
well off I do. I've got 15 boba
week for life—and though they call
it the dole, it's nothing of the sort.
It's unemployment in:urance, and if
I'm not legally entitled to it, after
paying my good money inte the
fund for twelve years, I should like
to know who is.”
Whereupon with a last “Gosh, but
I'm feeling sleepy,” Darrelson's com-
panion signified his intention of go-
ing to bed.
As he turned down the lamp and
they went upstairs together, the
grandfather's clock chimed mid-
night.
Claude Darrelson still standing by
his open window-—his mind no long-
er empty, but seething with a thou-
sand questions.
“That man-—this man?" ran some
of those questions. “He? I? Where's
the difference? But there must be
a difference. Am I not legally en-
titled to my £1250 a year? Yes, but
isn't he legally entitled to his 15 bob
a week? Nobody can take mine
away from me? Quite—but can
anybody take his away from him,
either? But he's a waster. Got
slack once his wife left him. I
didn't. Didn't I, though? Must
have slackened off a bit—or the
combine wouldn't have put it across
me. Fifty pounds, and the dole,
compensation. Twenty-five thousand
pounds compensation. Where's the
(difference? But there must be a
difference. He's a liar—said he
| was working for his wife. But was
I working for my wife? Anyway,
‘I did work. Twelve years. ' So
did he, though. I fought in the
war, too. But so did he. Paral-
lel cases? But, damn it, damn it
all, we can't be parallel cases!”
And on that Claude Darrelson
started to get into bed.
It took him—because his unpack-
ing before supper, to say nothing |
of the wash, had been so perfunc-
tory——rather longer than usual to
get into bed.
inserting himself between the sheets,
with the questions still nagging at
him, he began to think, about Eileen
Butters.
A jolly good worker and a jolly
But a full hour later founc
'swer to his question,
ship.
every American will be alert to do
his share to change a situation like
this.
In a few specialized industries
wages were 80 high before the slump
that they were thought by some to
be hurting a man's moral side, but
now the hurt is coming from the
other end of the scale.
“There's only one way out of all
this mess,” said a farmer who sold
me—no, he almost gave me—a wa-
termelon recently. Actually the
price of a fair-sized one was fifteen
cents.
“What's that?” I said, eager for
every man's view on this preesnt'
economic situation.
“Why, we've all got to veer round
and go the other way. Now I'li
tell you quickly what I mean. You
know my big boy. Well, he's been
takin’ my big Hudson to gad around
with his girl, gaddin’ around just
nowhere, too. That's about the ex-
act of it. Well that's over at my
place. I've run out of money for
such stuff. That girl'll either do
without the rides, or she'll have to
get a fellow whose daddy is an
easier mark than I've been the past
few years. We've just all been
goin’ too fast, and this is the way
God has of bringin’ us back to our
senses.”
I got a good watermelon cheap as
dirt, but I got a world of common
sense, and, although some readers
may not agree with me, some pret-
ty good religious philosophy with it.
But—and this is a »ig But—how
are we going to “veer round,” and
better ourselves on too little with-
out hurting the moral side?
Every man out of a job who has
rudimentary sense will jump at a
job that buys beans, bread and
bacon—if I can use these common
old words without appearing to be a
booster for a new kind of politician
who has just loomed up—in short.
at a job that pays a bare living
wage. But though he may have
bread to eat, it was the Master of
men Himself who said, “Man can-
not live by bread alone.”
The highest glory of our land was
our steady progress toward the cul-
tural wage. And I think my friend
and neighbor, the humble shoe
worker, who stirred up this train
of thought with his striking phrase,
“my moral side,” adds much to
defining this hitherto rather vague
expression—a cultural wage.
Isn't it the wage that leaves a
man a little something over, with
which to buy some of the better
things of life? Or a wage with a
n. .
Up to the hour of this slump
every man responsible for another's
wages who was aiming to pay a
‘cultural wage was the true idealist
in our cultural development.
The
men at the treasurer's end of the
industrial fame who believe in pay-
ing a cultural wage are the hope of
industrial society. Every such man
whom I know has the utmost good
will of his employees. He is more
than a manufacturer of the neces-
sities of life, he is a manufacturer of
a finer brand of Americanism. He
is a maker of moral character as
well as a maker of boxes, of lumber,
of dresses, of iron and steel.
We are all agreed that to restore
again a living wage to every man
who wants to work will be a mighty
big step back to national happiness,
but industrial leadership should be
united in its effort to make the
merely living wage as temporary as
necessary, and to go on as rapidly
as possible toward the goal of a cul-
tural wage for every toiler.
Who hires the soul of a man
hires the whole man. Who hires
only a man's muscles hires but half
of the creature made in God's own
image. {
Nothing has brought home to me
the tragedy of merely the beans-
bacon-and-bread wage so forcibly as
the philosophy of my friend, the
humble shoe worker, spoken be-
tween attempts to knock out a fly
ball that his big boy, a high-school
senior, couldn't connect with.
“What'll happen to that boy if 1
have to let myself down?” he ask-
ed me.
‘God only knows,” is the true an-
which I an-
swered only to myself. He lives
ee
pretty girl, Eileen Butters. Nothing
Lorna-ish nothing Flossie-ish
about Eileen Butters. Not that one
‘could really blame Lorna. Or Flos-
sie. A woman needed more than
| Just money. She needed companion-
And children. Yes, but if
¢ne had children, 15 bob a week.
| But, dash it, one had £25 a week.
I Not very much, that, with children.
Ard even if one didn't have, as, of
course, one mightn't have, children,
one had always made double. Treble.
More than treble.
But if ever—as seems to the pres- |
ent writer, who knows them both, |
highly probable—Eileen Butters be-
comes Eileen Darrelson, she will
have her own maid to turn on her
boiling bath water. And if Eileen
Butters does not become Mrs. Dar- |
| relson it will only be some other
‘girl. Nor will Darrelson’s retire-
| ment—though he swears himself
‘happy as a king and his golf handi-
{cap is already down to four—last
‘more than a few months longer.
For some men Nature rides through
| life with her two sharpest spurs—
land the name of one of those spurs
| the other ‘habit of matrimony." f
| Let the present reader, especially
{if he is married and of the male
| Sex, decide. —Coypright, 1931, by
Gilbert Frankau. |
to provide the beans, bread and
bacon necessary for the six of them
(there are three children younger
than the daughter.) His daily
search for the odd job missed one
as often as he found one, and moth-
er's small wages kept them from
going hungry.
“This is the bluest day I've seen
in a long list of Sundays. I'm a-
tellin’ you,” he said:
“You know my girl.”
“Yes.”
“You know she's wright.”
“Yes.”
“Well, she's over there in the fac-
tory, working and crying, too, 1
guess, right now, because when the
high-school bell rings next Monday
she's afraid she can't go. I tell you
that's tough. I didn't have the
advantages. Everybowy who knows
me knows, but I want my children
to have them. And so does every
man that's worth anything these
days.”
“Yes, I left him bluer than any-
one I have seen for a long time,
and almost crying, too, even if he
had put in ten years on a Wyoming
ranch.
Here was another man who was
blue because the moral side of his
life was threatened. And blue be-
cause he saw the blow to the moral
side of that girl if the school bell
rang and she couldn't go.
Happily, when Monday came, two
high-school boys gave up their jobs
and he took their places. This will
help to safeguard his daughter's
moral side.
But his wages! Even if he gets
as much as both boys got they are
so low that I fear for his moral side
as his fellow worker, the philoso-
pher, fears for his.
Every sensible American will put
his shoulder to the wheel of our
material progress; will help to drive
the ship of state back into the chan-
nels of the steady job at any pay;
and only the mean, the low, and, I
am almost moved to say, the trai-
torous among us, will refuse to put
their shoulders to the spiritual
wheel, too.
From the living wage for every
man to the cultural wage for every
man must be the ultimate goal of
our industrial organization and so-
ciety, with the capacity and will to
progress that have characterized the
first 150 years of our short history.
'—From the Christian Advocate.
NEW YORK WOMAN HID
FORTUNE IN PETTICOATS.
+Mrs. Ida Mayfield Wood, the little
old lady of the Herald Square hotel,
New York city, who tearfully sur-
rendered $400,000 to her guardians
early last week, had another $500,-
000 in cash concealed in her petti-
coats, it was revealea later.
The 93-year-old recluse accidental-
ly dropped a leather pouch on the
floor of the hotel room where she is
being attended by a nurse. The nurse
picked it up and handed it to her.
“Let me show you what's in it,”
said Mrs. Wood, who once danced
with Edward VII when he was
Prince of Wales. She drew the
strings of the pouch and spread
fifty $10,000 bills on the table. The
money promptly was turned over to
the guardians.
There was no great fuss and both-
eration about it then as there was
earlier in me Week, when Mrs,
Wood wept ter at ving to
hand over the $400,000.
Or like the occasion about two
weeks ago when she went to her
bed, pulled a sugar bag containing
$50,000 in bonds from under the
mattress and flung it in the face of
a lawyer, appointed as temporary
guardian.
Nor was it like the occasion when
she pulled out $5000 faded cur-
rency from a pocket in her dress,
threw it on the floor, stamped on it
and kicked it all over the room.
Most of the bills found in the
leather sack and in the paper bag
were faded, many of them being
more than 50 years old.
It had been known that Mrs.
Wood, once the belle of New York,
had sufficient money to take care of
herself. But no one imagined she
had nearly $1,000,000 hidden in her
room and about her person.
She was held to be incompetent
recently and the courts appointed
distant relatives to be her guardians.
The aged woman's friends say she
objects to being bothered. Now
that they have taken away her
money she weeps in her modest
hotel room.
For years she has lived at the old
hotel, cooking her own meals in her
room on a tiny electric stove. Few
persons ever went to see her and she
did not go out.
RAISE GIANT OYSTER
An oyster as large as a pancake!
Fried, baked or broiled oyster—a
half-dozen for a family, not for one
nerson—may be the future of this
famed delicacy if scientific work on
the oyster proves successful. .
A half-dozen such oysters wil
have far more food value and finer
flavor than a five-pound roast of
beef, and they will be served ir
much the same way.
Among the many mysteries about
itself, which the oyster holds with:
in its tight-lipped shell, is it's owr
personal diet.
It seems incredible that althougt
And just as he was (is “habit of money-making” and of the oyster has been in existence fo
some thousands of years nobody has
ever found out what it eats. So
science is busily studying sea-wate)
diet with the idea that alot may be
accomplished in oyster cultivation.