Harmon's What It Did For Him and Education. What John Gregg Learned. + W. R. Rose, in Cleveland Plain Dealer. The local bumped its way to a full stop alongside the little railway sta- tion. The few passengers rapidly scattered, the frantic appeals of the barker for the Hooper House ’bus falling on unheeding ears. One pas- Senger was a little slower in his move- ments. He had cast a quick glance at the loungers on the platform, and then turned back to the truck that was drawn up beside the baggage ear. : He pointed out his trunk to the baggage master as he handed over the claim check, and just then a voice hailed him. “Over here, Harmon,” it said. The young man looked across the platform. A bearded man in a farm wagon drawn by a restless team had hailed him from the highway. The young . man waved his hand and picking up “his trunk carried it to the waiting wagon and put it in behind the seat. Then he reached up his hand to the bearded man. “How are you, father?” The older man ignored the prof- fered grasp. “Get in,” he hastily directed, “this team ain’t none too easy to hold. Th’ nigh horse there is likely to bolt if the engine toots.”” The young man swung himself into the seat. “Let me drive them, father.” “Forgotten how, haven’t you?” : “No, father.” “Wait a minute.” The engine hoarsely tooted and the nigh horse went up in the air. “What did I tell you—whoa there, whoa!” The team clattered up the main street, the driver finally bringing them down to a safe pace. As they struck the highway beyond the vil- lage, the gray eyes turned toward the younger man. "Well, son, you've got : an educa- tion.’ - “Yes, father, and a very good edu- eation it is.” ~ “An’ you're through college for ‘good and all?” “For good and all.” The older man clucked to his team. “Well, I've done what I promised “your mother I'd do. I've sent you through.” “I’m very grateful, father.” * Just grateful in words.” “In every way.’ There was a little silence. “%¥An’ you think the education pays?” ¥Yes, indeed. No matter what I may do my education will be a help to me.” “Even if it’s farmin’?” “Yes, father.” “That sounds all right.” He gave * the young man another quick glance. ~ “You know this schoolin’ of yours pinched me a good deal.” ¥I know, father, and I did my best ~ fo make the expense as light as pos- sible.” “But it pinched just th’ same. An’ you feel as if you were in debt to me ° some, eh?” “I owe you a great deal, father.” “That’s th’ right spirit. An’ you’ve ~ eomeé back to work it out, eh?” * “Yes, father. I've come back to do my best to show you that I appreciate your kindness and your self-sacrifice.” ¥Prove it,” said the older man " tersely. He turned the team into a driveway "that led beside an old gray farm- * ‘house. “Let me put up the horses, father.” He leaped down lightly and put the + trunk on the back porch of the farm- ‘house, then drove the team across the yard and into the barn. The older man looked after him. “Seems strong an’ good-natured,” ~ he said. “I wonder how long his good-nature will last.” He turned abruptly and entered the house. ‘When he had informed the old house- . keeper that his son had come home, --'he came out on the porch and washed . his hands and face,in the tin basin. “Th’ boy takes after his mother,” . he murmured. “I never noticed it so much before. Well, I did what I - promised her I'd do. The boy’s got his college education—an’ thinks well of it. Though how it’s goin’ to help him in farmin’ I don’t quite see.” He looked toward the barn. The young man had come out and was just clos- ing the doors. “He’s quick enough,” muttered the old man. “I'll get out . to th’ barn a little later an’ see if he’s fixed things right. Hullo, what’s - that?” A cry from the broad pasture at the - left had startled him. Across it he saw a little girl running. Her hat . was off and her hair flew about. The young man heard her, too. He ran to the fence. “What is it?” he cried. The older man could not hear the child’s reply. But the young man . leaped the fence and started across - the field at a remarkably rapid pace. As he passed the girl she turned and followed him. Almost in a moment ~ he had dipped into the hollow beyond the pasture and disappeared from the older man’s view. “Harmon!” he cried, but it was too late. The old man growled beneath his breath and crossed the yard, scowling angrily. “That was Jim Parker's little girl,” he muttered. “I s’pose Jim’s on one of his tantrums. But th’ boy had no business to-mix in it. Jim is likely to hurt him. I'd go half a mile out of my way to avoid Jim when he’s drunk. I wonder what’s happening?” It was nearly a half hour before the boy came back. He was walking briskly with his hands in his coat pockets. “Sorry to have Kept you waiting, father,” he said in his easy way. The old man looked him over. “Where have you been?” he de- manded. The young man laughed. “Been making a hurried call on one of our neighbors,” he replied. He filled the tin washbasin at the pump and the old man noticed that the knuckles of his left hand were bleeding. “See here,” he cried roughly, “you mustn’t mix in matters that don’t con- cern you.” “But this did concern me, father,” said Harmon, lightly. “Our neighbor was drunk and ugly and was shame- lessly abusing his poor little wife.” There was a brief silence. “Well?” demanded the old man. “He is sorry he abused her,” re- he's got a sort o’ literary club goin’] down there. It’s really more of a school. He gets up an’ gives little talks on interestin’ subjects, an’ the room’s crowded every Tuesday night. ‘| I went down with the boys las’ Tues- day an’ it was just wonderful th’ way he handled things. Never had no trouble but once. Pete Mullins an’ a couple of his Inlet gang came up to hoot an’ break up th’ meeting’ an’ your boy went out an’ got Pete—you know how big he is—an’ fetched him in an’ made him sit in th’ front row all th’ evening. Your boy’s been re- organizin’ th’ fire department, too. It was a good deal run down, but he’s got th’ broken engine tinkered into shape, an’ the two companies recruit- ed up, an’ he’s run a telephone wire from th’ hotel to th’ engine house. Th’ boys wanted to make him chief, but he wouldn’t take it. An’ there’s a lot o’ talk about ’lecting him school trustee. If he keeps on th’ way he’s going—piling up _friends—he can have anything he wants. Better go down an’ hear him talk nex’ Tuesday night—his subjec’ is ‘The Advantages of a College Education.” Well, so long.” He lifted the reins and clucked to the horse. As he passed beyond ear- shot he growled under his breath, “Derned ol’ grouch, he don’t deserve to have a son.” And Harmon’s father turned and slowly walked up the driveway. He was thinking deeply. Of course he hadn’t asked his boy’s confidence, but the ‘lad might have told him some- thing about his work in the village. It wasn’t right that the information should come to him from Abner Sim- mons, a man who had never liked him. He even fancied Abner took -a special delight in giving him the news —a delight born of dislike. It was the college education that was to blame for it all. To blame for POIROT OTS Foo BDO bain di i h Atorvgin nn ti l €® 0 You can try; 00 Only give the plan a trial, co Test 1t with a hopeful smile } ¢¢ Something that is worth the while. eo 3 3 00 For at least one credit mark “3 You can try; ¢¢ At misfortune never rail, 00 Tho’ you often fall and fail an Rise again and trim your saill— as You can try. You Can Try. very day thos core comes to you You can try. Something worth the while to do You can try. Even tho’ the day be dark You can try. —CCleveland Plain Dealer. oco0e® TOTO PDP OIOBOIIOIIDd>T CLT OTS DIO IOIIIDODIIDOD TOTOITOITO Sis enen OVOP VOT PCO OOOO OTC plied Harmon, gravely, “and I don’t believe he will abuse her again.” The old man stared hard at his son. “Did you learn that at college?” he asked . “Yes, father.” “Come in to supper.” They ate in silence. “Son,” said the old man presently, “I'm sorry I couldn’t come down to th’ school th’ day you got your papers. I was too busy to get away.” “I was disappointed,” said Harmon, “put I knew it was a considerable journey and that you have but little time.” “You got through all right?” “Yes, father.” “Guess we'll go up to the north woods to-morrow an’ cut some winter wood.” “All right, father.” So Harmon Gregg’s life on the farm began. He was a steady worker and a great help to the old man. When the day’s work was ended he ate his supper and tramped down to the vil- lage. Once the old man remonstrated. The boy laughed. “I must have a little variety, fa- ther. All work and no play makes Jack a much poorer worker.” “No carousing, boy.” And the boy laughed again. It was like the old man to make no inquiries concerning his son’s do- ings in the village. But one day he was at the foot of the driveway when Abner Simmons drove by. “Hullo,” said Abner, as he drew in his horse, “how are ye, Gregg?” “As well as usual,” the old man re- sponded. The neighbor leaned down. “That’s a great boy of yours,” he remarked. “Th’ boy’s all right,” said the old man sharply. “Both my boys think he’s the finest thing that ever walked.” Abner chuckled. “I s’pose you know what he’s up to?” “I know pretty well what he’s up to in th’ daytime,” said Harmon’s father. “Don’t he talk to you about it?” “He talks to me about things he knows I'm interested in.” “Well, mebby you’ll be more inter- ested in learnin’ it from me. First, ! you, Mr. Gregg,” what? For his boy’s being helpful and popular? And then he suddenly contrasted Harmon with Abner Simmons’ simple ‘but well meaning lads, and a chuckle came from his tightly drawn lips. ~ The next Tuesday night he went down to the village. He waited a half hour before he followed his son. When he reached the little hall over the postoffice he found it filled. He went up the stairs part way and stopped and listened. He could hear Harmon's clear voice and then a Aiek burst of applause. He waited a moment longer and then went down the stairs heavily land slowly walked home. It was like the man to say nothing to his son concerning his village con- nections. But there were times when he sorely wished his boy would show a little more confidence. And then one day in the late fall he had a surprising visitor. Harmon had gone to the grist mill six miles away. The trip would take the entire morning. The old man was in the driveway when an automobile stopped in the highway and an elderly man alighted. He was an elderly man of distinguished appearance, gray bearded and spectacled. “Is this the home of Mr. Gregg?” he asked. “I am John Gregg.” “The father of Harmon Gregg?” “Yes. ” “I congratulate you, Mr. Gregg. 1 am Dr. Endicott, president of the col- lege your son attended. Is he at home?” “No. He will not return until late in th’ afternoon.” “I am sorry,” said the visitor. “I hoped to meet him. We think very favorably of your son at our school, Mr. Gregg.” “I am glad to know it,” said Har-/ mon’s father. “No doubt you know, too, that his fellow classmates voted him the most popular man in his class?” “No,” replied Harmon’s father, didn’t know that.” The keen gray eyes of the college head studied the farmer a moment. “1’d like to ‘have a little talk with he said. | He stared at his visitor. “1: “Come up on the porch,” replied Harmon's father. He led the way and offered his vis- itor a chair. , “I want to say to you frankly, Dr. Endicott,” he suddenly remarked, “that I don’t believe in a college edu- cation.” i “So much the more to your credit,” said the college president lightly, “for letting the boy enjoy its advantages.” Harmon’s father, on the defensive. The visitor gravely bowed. has harmed your son?” “No,” replied . Harmon’s father. “1°11 admit that it hasn’t changed him any. - The boy came home and went right back to farming as if nothing had happened. He’s a good boy and a useful boy.” “We can agree on that, Mr. Gregg,” said the visitor with a quick smile, “But I must talk fast. -My friends are waiting for me. They made a little detour in order to give me a chance to meet Harmon's father. I will ask you to convey two messages to him. Tell him, if you please, that I met the President one day last week and he sent your son his regards.” “What President?” “The President of States.” “He sent my son his regards?” “Why, yes. He met Harmon dur- ing commencement week and was much taken with him. They are both Phi Beta Kappa men, you know. He wanted me to say to Harmon that there is a certain consulate which re- quires a young, energetic and healthy incumbent—and he intimated that your son possesses the necessary qualifications. » Harmon's father breatnen hard. And the the the United keen twinkled behind glasses. “Now for the second message. A certain man of great wealth has for- mulated a scheme for civic and social betterment. He is willing to give a large sum of money for this worthy purpose. Those of us who are in the secret have been looking about for a young man to serve as executive sec- retary. His field of usefulness will be wide, his duties many and we are pre- pared to pay him a handsome salary. On my recommendation the name of your son has been favorably consid- ered for the place. It is the sort of work he would like and I have every confidence in his ability to fill the position. I am quite sure he would prefer it to the consulate. Ask Har- mon to let me hear from him as soon as possible. I am glad to have met you, sir. Good day.” The old man watched the automo- bile disappear and was still sitting on the porch when his son came back. “Come up here, boy,” he called to him. “Leave the horse in the drive- way.” Harmon came up wondering. “What is it, father?” “Sit down, son.” He hesitated a moment. “Boy,” he began, “I'm a narrow man an’ full of bitter preju- dices.” . “Father.” “It’s th’ life, I think—an’ th’ hard work. The only beautiful thing that ever came to me was your mother, an’ after she went I grew still harder. You mustn't blame me too much, son.” “Why, you. ” “You're a good boy—there never was a better. I hear it on every side —an’ they're reaching for you from out in th’ world, son—an’ what am I that I should prison. you up on this poor old farm?” “Father, my first duty is to you.” “An’ have I no duty? Oh, I've been thinking it out this afternoon. I'm all wrong. An’ there's one comfort— I believe I knew I was wrong from the very start. I'm going to surrender. I’m proud of you, lad, proud of your eyes father, I'm not blaming cation. farm any Songer, son.” They stood up with their hands clasped. “Wherever you go, however you rise, man to man, we must ever be good friends.” The young man’s voice broke a little—the simple earnestness of the appeal touched him. “Always the best of friends, father.” But you can’t stay on this Give me your hand, my On Getting a Civil Answer. F. Hopkinson Smith, talking to the Southern Society the other night, complained of New York’s bad man- ners. “We live in the most insolent city in the world,” he said. ‘We can’t get a decent answer from a car conductor or a policeman.” A not uncommon complaint, this, and one that always surprises persons whose experience has taught them that courteous inquiry rarely fails to brine a like response. 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Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers