T 13,1943 7
SECOND THOUGHTS
By javie aiche
Not since they cut down the old whipping-post had I put away a sou-
venir.
Elder members of the Durbin, VanHorn, James, Yaple and Brown
families will remember the whipping-post. It was the elm tree in the
front yard of the Elm Congregational Church on Main street facing Elm
street.
had their home almost next door to¢
Cooney Hendershot’s blacksmith
shop, and the shop was in the shade
of the elm’s branches. So, when
it was decided the old tree must
come down for the future safety of
Plymouth pedestrians there was
quite a lot of ceremony about it.
I haven’t the least idea what be-
came of the souvenir. It was an
inch-thick slice from one of the
branches. Duly varnished it was
intended that for years untold, even
to the seventh generation, it would
excite inquiry as to its meaning, so
that its youthful possessor and those
to follow after him would wax elo-
quent on the history of Old Shaw-
nee, with the tree from which the
souvenir was taken the last land-
mark of the red-man’s tenacity,
still accurately fixed by the stump
left abaft the Congregational par-
sonage gate.
The next souvenir presented to
me was a chunk of iceberg. Cap-
tain Lemuel Edwards, of the U. S.
Cruiser Birmingham, handed it to
me at League Island when I sought
from him the story of how the U.
S. Navy had attacked but had not
vanquished the frozen ghost-moun-
tains which a few months before, in
the year 1912, had sent to the bot-
tom of the Atlantic the supposed-
to-be unsinkable Titanic. That one
decisive defeat in the entire history
of Uncle Sam’s seafaring crusaders
led to the formation of the Inter-
national Ice Patrol, still operating.
The souvenir was put into a pan of
water and we toasted the blunder
of whatever Washington dumbkopf
it was who sent the Navy on its
chase after wild icebergs.
The best the Navy guns could do
was chip off the bergs a bit at a
_ time, the six-inch shells doing a be-
ter job than a broadside from the
sixteens. Once, when the balance of
a berg was changed by the chipping,
it reared over, missed the Birming-
ham by eighten inches, and every-
body resumed interrupted breath-
ing. Conservatively estimated, the
berg’s butt measured 217 feet un-
der water; if it had struck the
cruiser it would have been the cruis-
er’s end. It would have been tossed
out of the Atlantic ice-lanes as you
might toss an egg-shell with an oar.
Then there was Babe Ruth. My
job was to interview Babe on the
source of his mighty power. All he
could give me of information was a
look at his massive shoulders. “I
guess that’s the source,” he said.
But, he did give me a baseball. He
sent out for it and autographed it to
the young lady then the pride of my
life. It disappeared. Not only the
* autographed baseball disappeared,
but with it went the opium pipe,
fan and dagger that had been given
me by Dan Cattell, the White King
of Philadelphia’s Chinatown, back
in the days when tong wars and
murders had police and reporters
threading the mazes of underground
Vine street and the mysteries of
the House of a Thousand Rooms.
And so souvenirs went out of my
life. They stayed out until I met
John Maloney, in Springfield, Illin-
ois; John, with car and a full gaso-
line tank, and with a Denver bank-
er sitting beside him. The pair were
on their way to New Salem and
Petersburg. I was going there, too, to
confirm the only good knowledge I
have ever had of William Randolph
Hearst. Hearst, I was told, had sup-
plied the funds for final rehabilita-
tion of the New Salem that Abe
Lincoln knew, making possible even
the wool-carding mill with the
round-table engine. A brace of ox-
en trod the round table, the table
turned a wooden shaft, and the mill !
worked. It still does.
Ann Rutledge’s gravestone at
Petersburg announces that hers and
Honest Abe’s was a marriage of sep-
aration and not of union; that, I
suppose, being a poet's idea of a
suitable epitaph for the maiden be-
loved by the greatest of all Amer-
icans, and by him lost to eternity.
Well, the Denver banker took three
leaves from the tree that shades
That's an elm-of-a-lot of elm, isn’t it?
Dike Brown’s parents
one would miss the leaves. At New
Salem there were State Police to
put into effect the warning that not
so much as a blossom is to be pluck-
ed from the files of hollyhock, not
a leaf from the herb garden of the
village doctor who brewed and dis-
tilled his own medicines, not a twig
from the plants of cotton, tobacco,
hemp, peanut, broom-corn and all
the diverse seedings that made
the primitive community a complete
entity.
“Well,” said the Denver banker,
“I have the three leaves from the
tree that shades the grave of Ann
Rutledge. I shall treasure them as
long as I live, and when I die, my
heirs will find that I name the leaves
among the bequests I most highly
regard. I wish you could be with me
when I show the leaves to
my wife back in Colorado. Noth-
ing I have ever given her were so
much welcomed as these will be.
If I had my choice between picking
up a thousand-dollar-bill in Peters-
burg and getting those three leaves.
I'd take the leaves.”
And Ed Gibbons, who also had a
car and a full tank, wanted to know
why I insisted on a return trip to
the grave of Lincoln's lost sweet-
heart! I told him to wait and see.
I had noticed a solitary flower on
the grave, a flower that didn’t be-
long there. It was a daisy, only a
small daisy, but very sedate and
distinguished-looking in its. lovely
sway over the moss the caretakers
keep eternally green and perpet-
ually molded to a perfect outline.
Not only would the daisy not be
missed; it would be eradicated when
next the caretakers made their
rounds.
I gathered the daisy. If three
leaves from the tree over her grave-
stone are worth more than a thou-
sand dollars to a Denver banker, I
figured that one daisy from the
bosom of Ann Rutledge ought to be
in Fred Keifer’'s Lincoln Alcove. I
hope Fred will understand.
POET'S CORNER
When MacArthur Goes
Home To Bataan
I am thinking tonight of MacArthur
And our gallant young boys o'er
the sea.
How they've fought for the fame of
Old Glory,
In fox-holes, in jungle and lea.
“I'm going back to Bataan,” said
MacArthur.
And he’s plowing his way through
the foam.
With his faith in the Lord, he will
| make it,
How we'll cheer, when MacArthur
gets home.
There's his ship, with its prow in a
typhoon—
But his saber is drawn in his
hand—
There’s our boys up on deck fighting
bravely,
And they're headed for home and
Bataan.
“I'm coming back to Bataan!” said
MacArthur;
From the Little Rock down in the
Bay.
! Give me some Yanks and some guns,
we will show them—
That sneaking attacks never pay.”
Oh! I am thinking of God and His
mercy—
How He hears all the prayers of
this man.
And I know He will guide and pro-
tect him,
And lead him back home to
Bataan.
Ann Rutledge’s grave. It was a big
tree and profusely vegetated. No
—Virginia Harding.
——
‘ out the world.
A Surprise
THE OUTPOST
Where those at home and she men and wonten in the armed =:
services from the Back Mountain Region—in camps and om z
the fighting fronts—keep contact with their fellows through-
July 31, 1943.
Dear Editor:
I received your paper yesterday
and was surprised but very happy
to get it. Our family has been get-
ting it for as long as I can remem-
ber. It is a very good weekly paper
and covers so much news that a
soldier a long way from home most
sincerely enjoys feading it.
c. W. Montross,
Camp Carson, Colo.
® Show us the editor who isn't
proud to get a friendly letter like
that. Many thanks and good
wishes from us.—Editor.
From Camp Shelby
July 21, 1943.
Dear Sir:
I just received a July copy of the
Post and enjoyed and appreciated
it very much. It sure is good to
hear news of my friends in the
Back Mountain region.
I am a mechanic in the Motor
Pool and sure do enjoy my work
as it follows along the same line of
work that I did in civilian life.
For the last two months, my wife,
the former Margie Brown of Edge-
wood Heights, Trucksville, has re-
sided with me in Hattiesburg. If
you would like to know how we
boys like the South just ask Margie
her opinion of it. I am sure she
will tell you that it could never
compare to the North. And as for
Southern hospitality, why I don’t
think there is such a thing. If
there was it must be off for the
duration. :
The weather down here is ter-
rible. It is hot, sultry, and it rains
every other day after which we
have to plod around through a sea
of mud.
Tonight I am Sergeant of the
Guard and I have one of the Dallas
boys on my relief. He happens to
be Bud Sutton. As usual he is
lying down, also reading the Post.
He has been pestering me to men-
tion his name so I had to do it to
please him. We also have another
ism — Editorials Are Timely
One, Norway Street,
Name
The World’s News Seen Through
THELCHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR
An International Daily Newspaper
is Truthful —Constructive— Unbiased — Free from Sensational-
Features, Together with the Weekly Magazine Section, Make
the Monitor an Ideal Newspaper for the Home.
The Christian Science Publishing Society
Price $12.00 Yearly, or $1.00 a Month.
Saturday Issue, including Magazine Section, $2.60 a Year.
Introductory Offer, 6 Saturday Issues 25 Cents.
in ——
and Instructive and Its Daily
Boston, Massachusetts
Address
SAMPLE COPY ON REQUEST
boy from that vicinity. He happens
to be Charles Moore, who is our
motorcycle operator and messenger.
We three certainly have a lot of
fun when we go out together.
By the way, Bud was looking
through the Post and glanced at the
Birthday Column and he was very
peeved to find that his name was
not included. As you know, his
birthday was August 5th.
I would like to say “hello” to all
my friends in the Back Mountain
region.
Well, it is now time for me to
check my guards so I will sign off.
lt you again, I remain,
: Vii Watson,
“Camp Shelby, Miss.
Lah hi iit
“More than a newspaper,
a community institution”
THE DALLAS POST
ESTABLISHED 1889
A non-partisan liberal
progressive newspaper pub-
lished every Friday morning
at its plant on Lehman Ave-
nus, Dallas, Penna., by the
Dallas Post.
Entered as second-class matter at
the post office at Dallas, Pa., under
the Act of March 8, 1879. Subserip-
tion rates: $2.50 a year; $1.50 six
months. No subscriptions accepted
for less tham six months. Out-of-
state subscriptions: $3.00 a year;
$2.00 six months or less. Back
issues, more than ome week old, 10c
each.
Single copies, at a rate of 6c each,
can be obtained every Friday momm-
ing at the following newsstands:
Dallas—Tally-Ho Grille, Hislop’s Res-
taurant; Shavertown, Evans’ Drug
store; Trucksville—Leonard’s Store;
Idetown—Caves Store; Huntsville—
Hontz's Store; Harvey's Lake—Ed-
wards’ Restaurant; Alderson—Dea-
ter’s Store.
When requesting a change of ad-
dress subseribers are ask to give
their old as well as new address in
order to prevent delay.
We will not be responsible for the
return of unsolicited manuscripts,
hotographs and editorial matter un-
ess self-addressed, stamped envelope
is epclosed, and in no case will we
be responsible for this material for
more than 30 days.
National display advertising rates
60c per column inch.
Local display advertising rates
40¢ per column inch.
Classified rates
Minimum charge 25c.
Unless paid for at advertising
rates, we can give no assurance
that announcements of plays, par-
ties, rummage sales or any affairs
for raising money will appear in a
specific issue. In no case will such
items be taken on Thursdays.
Editor and Publisher
HOWARD W. RISLEY
Editors
% S/Sgt. Howell E. Rees, U.S.A.
% Lieut Warren Hicks, U.S.A.
Associate Editor
MYRA ZEISER RISLEY
Contributing Editors
JOHN V. HEFFERNAN
MRS. T. M. B. HICKS
EDITH BLEZ
DR. F. B. SCHOOLEY
MARTHA HADSEL
War-Time Correspondents
MRS. J. GORDON HADSEL
Advertising Department
HELEN BOOTH
% Harry Lee Smith
American Red Cross Foreign Ser.
2c per word.
Mechanical Superintendent
HARRY E. POST
Mechanical Department
+ S/Sgt. Alan C. Kistler, U.S.A.
Y Norman Rosnick, U.S.N.
+ S/Sgt. Alfred Davis, U.S.A.
% Pvt. Wm. Helmboldt, U.S.A.
% Pvt. Joseph Riehl, U.S.A.
% In Armed Serviee.
P. S.: There is a slight ghange /
pi a SA SR 53 ST
in my address. It is now Sgt. Don-
old S. Watson instead of Pfc. Don-
ald S. Watson.
® We've had a lot of complaints
about Southern hospitality both in
prose and poetry, but have so far
kept them out of the Post because
a great many of our papers now go
to Southern camps. Sorry we over-
looked Bud’s birthday on August 5.
The slip-up came because no one has
ever completely filled out his Free
Posts for Soldiers coupon. Give
him our best and tell him it won't
happen again until next year.—Ed-
itor.
Still In Denver
July 21, 1943.
Dear Folks:
Am still out here in Colorado. The
building pictured here is only a
tiny part of the whole set-up here.
It’s the most beautiful, best equipped
hosiptaly I've ever seen.
/ Best regards to all,
§ i Estella M. Prushko,
Sat AN.C.,N. 703779,
Fitzsimons Gen. Hospital,
Denver 8, Colorado.
® Thanks for the card.—Editor.
Address Change
July 23, 1943.
Dear Mr. Risley:
Please send the Post to my new
address which is Lt. Woodrow A.
Ruth, F. S. R. P., Atlanta Ord. Depot,
Atlanta, Georgia. The weather here
is really hot and we wish we were
back in Pennsylvania. Thank you
for the Post.
£ Yours sincerely,
W. A. Ruth,
2nd Lt., Ord. Dept.
® 0. K., we will.—Editor.
Navy In Action
July 17, 1943.
Dear Editor:
From along the coast of Africa.
Just a few lines to let you know
I still receive the Dallas Post; but
for some unknown reason it comes
very late.
At the present time I just re-
turned from the Island of Sicily.
While we were there, I had some
great experience in exchanging
| shells with German Messerschmits
and later seeing them come down
in smoke. Bombs were dropped
very close to our ship, but none
scored. On July 12 I was on the
mainland of the island, but just
for a few minutes. All I can say
is that our boys sure did a great job.
By the way, I have been advanced
in rating and now I'm Boatswain
Mate 2nd Class.
I also wish to send my regards to
all my friends and say “hello” -to
my mother, who is at home waiting
for me to come back. Don’t worry,
THE SENTIM
to the right of me. I am completely
season because the peach season is
THE LOW- DOWN|
HICKORY GROVE
I guess with most of us there
ts something that gives us a
pain in the neck. With me, it
is when some windy gent rises
up and says the U. S. A. is such
a bogged-down kind of unman-
ageable and difficult country
that we gotta look out or we
are sunk and mobody can save
the day except the ones who
have been saving it. If the ones
who have been saving it have
let it go to the dogs, almost—
how come they can save it
some more? That is where I get
riled.
Jeffries or Fitzsimmons or
Dempsey—mnone of them were
champions forever. Better and
new men always showed up, to
put a haymaker on the slipping
champions.
But I am straying off my
subject of a pain in the meck.
When I stop to think that these
talkative gents take me for a
sucker, my blood.. pressure
zooms. The world will be re-
volving 2000 years hence—and
no present living person will be
there then to give it super-
management.
With 130 million people in
our U. S. A., I can’t savvy how
any ome person can be indis-
pensable—dingbust if I can.
Fact is we could dispense with
a few—and I would mot over-
look the omnes telling us they are
our only hope and salvation.
Yours with the low down,
JO SERRA.
Mom, I'm safe, but I won't be home
until we clean them all up.
As ever,
Chet Rusiloski, B. M. 2/C,
c-o Fleet Post Office,
New York, N. Y.
® Congratulations, Chet, and many
thanks for a letter written at a time
when we know you must have been
very busy. Many people ask about
you.—Editor.
Cheerio
July 19, 1943.
Dear Editor:
Just a few lines to let you know
that everything is fine in “jolly old
England” and it is a very nice place
over here now that the flowers and
everything are in bloom.
I guess you heard of Bob Hope
coming over here to put on a show
for us. He did last night and it
was a swell one. It was the best
I've seen since I've been in the
army. He also had Frances Lang-
ford and what a singer she is. All
the boys fall for her. And he had
Jack Pepper and Tony Romony. It
was broadcast to the States. May-
be you heard it.
I want to thank you for your
paper very much and I am sending
you a letter with an application
form. I have met a bunch of fel-
lows from Pennsylvania and we
have some swell times over here
so far. Now I am closing and will
say ‘“Cheerio.”
{ t. Don Metzger,
Somewhere in England.
Via V ...— Mail
® It’s nice to know you are having
such a swell time in England, Don.
It’s a great experience, isn’t it?—
Editor.
From Sicily
July 19, 1943.
Dear Editor:
I am no longer in Africa, but in
a place just about the same for
climate and terrain features. Sicily
is close to Africa so the living con-
ditions and farming are about the
same.
The people treat us better here
than they did in Africa. The civil-
ians here were glad to see us take
over. We would give them a cig-
arette and they would think that
a great present. They hadn’t had
any real cigarettes in three months.
I had a barber give me a shave
and paid him three cigarettes for
it. You would think I gave him a
‘dollar the way he acted. He told
me he hadn’t been able to get any
for three months. They were very
hungry also. Anything we gave
them they would eat so quickly it
seemed unbelievable.
I don’t know if the news report-
ers mentioned the important part
we played here. I could tell you
quite a story if it wouldn't be cut
out by the censor. Well, I can tell
you when I come home.
ENTAL SIDE
By EDITH BLEZ
Peaches, peaches, peaches! There are peaches to the left of me, peaches
surrounded by peaches. Evidently all
my work on the farm this summer has been mere practice for the peach
really terrific. It is a little difficult
to realize that Jersey can boast of such a peach crop. The farmer has
the nerve to tell me that it isn’t
much of a crop in comparison with
previous years. The packing house
is so jammed with peaches every-
thing else is blotted out. Little did
I suspect I would be wading in
peach juice. In my wildest dreams
I couldn’t have possibly pictured all
the peaches which come into the
packing house each day to be sort-
ed and packed and sent to market.
I haven't seen much of the fields
since the peach crop ripened. I see
the farm from the open doors of
the packing house. At noon we rush
out to relax under the trees because
now our days are spent packing
peaches. My days are just a mad
mess of peaches. ‘Many times dur-
ing this summer I have wondered
what the machine was which seemed
to take up so much room in the
packing house. The farmer did tell
me it would be used for peaches
but I didn’t pay too much attention.
There are so many things on the
farm hiding in corners but the peach
machine has become very important.
It fills my day with a terrific noice
which only comes to an end when
all the peaches are on their way to
New York or Philadelphia and
sometimes Boston.
The peaches begin coming into the
packing house early in the morn-
ing. As fast as they are brought in
they are poured into the sorting
machine where the worst of the fuzz
is taken off. Have you ever been
in a cloud of peach fuzz. The re-
sults are almost as bad as poison
ivy. It itches as much. Cornstarch
is the best remedy we have found
so far. You should see the deadly
white faces in the packing house.
White faces and tired feet are the
order of the day. We aren’t used
to standing on a hard floor. We
have been working out in the fields
where the ground is soft and easy
on the feet. We complained a lot
about the mud but it was really
nothing to contend with now that
we stand for long hours on a hard
floor. We fuss a lot but we like it.
You should see the French sailors
who have been working in the pack-
ing house. Their boat is statioped
their furloughs on the farm. They
speak very little English but the
farmer speaks fairly good French
and several of the High School girls
speak a little French. It is amazing
how well the boys get along. They
sing all day long. They work very
hard and seem to be having a fine
time. They eat peaches until you
wonder where they put them all,
but we all seem to have a large
capacity for peaches.
Packing peaches is hard but we
have plenty of fun. We get a big
kick out of shouting to each other
above the roar of the motors. The
place is a beehive of activity. There
are crowds of people going in and
out all day long. The telephone
rings incessantly and something ex-
citing is always on the verge of hap-
pening. Every now and then the
packing machine breaks down. The
farmer doesn’t like it, but it means
You should see us all rush out to
the pump to get a drink and wash
our faces in the cool water. Yes-
terday afternoon as we stood at the
pump getting a drink a young puppy
was standing in a mud hole trying
to catch the shadow of a butterfly
which was flying overhead. He was
still there when we went home. He
had a very busy afternoon.
THE
FIRST NATIONAL
BANK
DIRECTORS
R. L. Brickel, C. A. Frantz, W. B.
Jeter, Sterling Machell, W. R. Neely,
Clifford Space, A. C. Devens,
Herbert Hill.
OFFICERS
C. A. Frantz, President
Sterling Machell, Vice-President
W. R. Neely, Vice-President
W. B. Jeter, Cashier
F. J. Eck, Assistant Cashier
Vault Boxes For Rent,
No account too small to secure
: careful attention.
}in Philadelphia and they have taken .
a pleasant recess for the rest of us.
Sil
4
1
3
aq
2
¥
8g
4
&
bl
a
ry
as
\
ra