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PAGE TWO
THE POST, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1949
You Know Me - By Al Himself
It certainly is funny coming
home to Harvey's Lake from
Wilkes-Barre after it has snowed
all day and sitting down after
supper and reading in the paper
that all the roads have been
thoroughly plowed. We suppose
the editor gets his information
from the State Highway Depart-
ment, but surely the person who
gave out that information couldn’t
have taken a trip around the state
highway that encircles the lake be-
cause a plow didn’t pass our house
until seven o'clock last Friday
evening. It had snowed all day.
It used to be that when a plow
didn’t come along in two hours
after a storm started one
knew positively the precipitation
would not be serious, but no more.
We have known snow to start
falling at 2 a. m. and when we
left the house at 6:30 a plow
would have been out ahead of us.
That service we bragged to our
Wilkes-Barre friends about. We
didn’t expect such good service
then, nor do we now, but surely
one could expect a plow to come
through a state road in less than
twenty-four hours after a storm
starts; or if it can’t be done, we
think we are entitled to know from
the State Highway Department as
to why.
We are not criticizing Russell
Rogers or George Searfoss, the
couple that have charge of the
lake road. We know from past
experiences that those men would
have the road cleared in a reason-
able time if they had the equip-
ment, but they just don’t get the
plows. So what do they do?
They spend the day cindering -and
then when the plows are delivered
to them twenty hours late the road
is cleared of both snow and
cinders. By that time the road is
packed down so hard with ice that
all of it cannot be scraped off and
the cindering has to be done all
over again.
We called the State Highway
Department Sunday afternoon at 4
when it began to snow and got
Fred Griffith on the phone. He
said he was a state supervisor of
roads. When we told him of the
conditions here Friday he explain-
ed about the number of hundreds
of miles of highway that had to
be taken care of and how long it
took men to get around to second-
ary roads. We agreed with him,
by asking what became of the plow
that used to be stationed here and
he said one was housed here—in
East Orange.
Well, that’s nice,” we said,
“but we are afraid by the time
equipment gets here from East
Orange, if we have a heavy storm,
that one of us may lose a life.”
We asked as to why a plow
could not be left at the lake as
in former years and he replied that
a plow was offered us but the
fellow wouldn't take it.
We asked, “What fellow?”
He replied, “That he had for-
gotten his name.”
Then Mr. Griffith left the phone.
We were not disconnected. We
thought, at first, that Mr, Griffith
had gone to the record books to
look up the “fellow’s” name, but
after calling “hello” into the
mouth piece for three minutes we
decided that Mr. Griffith had be-
come exasperated with a blithering
idiot that was trying to get the
facts as to why two local men
who used to give us excellent ser-
vice were no longer able to do so
because of lack of equipment.
We know of a lake resident who
couldnt get up the incline on the
Tunkhannock highway at Kunkle
at nine o'clock last Friday morn-
ing. We had no trouble making
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Every vehicle we have will be at your disposal during the pre-
holiday season. For weeks we have been inspecting—over haul-
ing—and preparing for the additional service you will require
for your Xmas shopping.
By arranging your trips to and from the shopping centers be-
tween the hours of 10 A. M. and 4 P. M.—you will avoid the rush
hour crowd. There will be a comfortable seat—and plenty of
room for packages too.
Your neighbors—who must ride to and from work during the
rush hours—will appreciate your cooperation.
WILKES-BARRE TRANSIT CORPORATION
WE WANT TO
SERVE YOU
BEST!
H THE
THE DALLAS POST
“More than a newspaper,
a community institution”
ESTABLISHED 1889
Member Pennsylvania Newspaper
Publishers’ Association
A non-partisan liberal
progressive newspaper pub-
lished every Friday morning
at the Dallas Post plant
Lehman Avenue, Dallas
Pennsylvania.
Entered as second-class matter at
the post office at Dallas, Pa., under
the Act of March 3, 1879.
tion rates: $2.50 a year; $1.50 six
months... No sul a
for less than six months. Out-of
state subsoriptions: $3.00 a year;
$2.00 six months or less. Back
issues, more than one week old, 100
Single copies, at a rate of Go each,
can he obtained every Friday moen
on at the following, neamtande:
Dalias— T
Restaurant ;
of ad-
eked. to give
their old as well as new R dros:
Allow two weeks for cheuges of ad-
dress or new subscription to be placed
on mailing list.
We will not be responsible for the
retarn of unsolicited manuscripts,
photographs and editorial matter un-
less self-addressed, stamped envelope
Is enclosed, and in no case will we
be responsible for this material for
more than 80 days.
National display advertising rates
68¢ per column ineh.
Local display advertising rates 00e
per eolumn ineh; specified position 60c
per inch.
Classified rates 8¢ per
Minimum charge 50c.
Unless paid for at advertising rates,
we can give no assuranee that an
nouncements of plays, parties, rommage
sales or any affairs for raising momay
will appear in a e issue. In mo
case will such items be taken on
Thursdays.
Preference will in all instances be
given to editorial matter which has not
previously appeared in publication.
Editor and Publisher
HOWARD W. RISLEY
Associate Editor
MYRA ZEISER RISLEY
Contributing Editor
MRS. T. M. B. HICKS
Sports Editor
WILLIAM HART
word.
the same hill three hours earlier
as the snow was then soft, but by
nine it was packed into a solid
sheet of ice. The Tunkhannock
highway is not a secondary road.
We are sure, Mr. Griffith, that
if the State Highway Department
will offer us a plow that Lake
Township taxpayers will find a
“fellow” that is willing to house
it.
Township Seniors
To Present Play
Dallas Township High School
Senior Class will present a three-
act play, “It’s A Date” on Friday,
December 9 at 8.
Under the direction of Daniel
Williams, members of the cast are:
Lois Klien, Peggy Decker, Marion
Parsons, Elsie Andres, Theresa
Polachak, Gladys Bell, John Han-
sen, William Henninger, Edward
Kraft, Mimi Livengood, Carolyn
Morris, Henry Trimble and Joyce
Carey.
Stage manager is Larry Shupp.
Chairmen of other committees are:
costumes, Lois Ward; property,
Dorothy Edwards; publicity, Bar-
bara Brace and Mary Kozick; print-
ing, Joyce Carey; ushers, Marcia
Trimble; make-up, Carl Varnek,
Nelson Ashburner.
Kansas City and St. Louis, Mo.,
are two of the largest railroad cen-
ters in the U. S.
The Book Worm
The Bookworm is conducted for
and in the interest of Back Moun-
tain Memorial Library.
Indolence, the only limitation
to knowledge
Fred M. Kiefer
I~
The great men and women of
the world have become great be-
cause they continually slaked their
thirst and satisfied their hunger
for knowledge as the average mor-
tal quiets the desire for sensual
pacification by drinking and eating
the necessities for physical func-
tioning.
Since education is another word
for knowledge it may be interest-
ing to point out its sources and to
try to define it.
Education flows from two springs
of human contacts; books and ex-
perience. While some experience
can be accrued from books, all
books are written from experience:
either physical experience or dy-
namic or commonplace action, or
imaginative experience which is
birthed from reading books.
It is more difficult to define edu-
ation. There are, however, men
who have attempted it and in this
writer’s conviction, rather well, al-
though divergent in their opinions.
Let them be quoted: you may
then decide which authority, or
group of students, you prefer to
accept. Once accepting the mean-
ing, it becomes, I would suggest,
the duty of all of us to strive for|
the fulfillment of knowledge to the
maximum of our abilities. As du
Noiiy says in his remarkable work,
“Human Destiny’, man is the only
animal to have developed the high-
est gift in life—the brain. It is
only through exercising the brain
in the endeavor to gain supreme
knowledge that human beings will
reach that utopian pinnacle of
civilization—the full acquisition of
conscience. And then, and then
only, will there be ,“Peace on
earth, good will to men”.
The Harvard Committee submits:
“General education is to think ef-|
fectively, to communicate thought,
to make relevant judgements, to
discriminate among values”.
Dr. John G. Hibben, former
President of Princeton University
states, ‘Education is the ability
to meet life’s situations”. Herbert
Spencer puts it this way, ‘The
great aim of education is not
knowledge, but action”, while
Davis in “Years of Pilgrimage”
countenances that we ‘Regard
thought as the most intense form
of action.”
William James of Harvard, be-
lieves none of us use our advant-
ages to the utmost. He says,
“Compared to what we ought to
be, we are only half awake. We
are making use of only a small
part of our physical and mental
resources. Stating the thing
broadly, the human individual thus
lives far within his limits. He
possesses powers of various sorts
which he habitually fails to use.”
And philosophy, the deep crav-
ing to be informed of all things is,
according to Will Durant, “ . , . .
the desire for knowledge so great
that a person will go to any ex-
treme to gain it.”
Finally, I like Felix Frankfurter’s
(Continued on Page Six)
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Ten years ago last might, on December 9, 1939, a few hours:
after the paper had gome to press, my father died. What he
meant to The Dallas Post and its editor, none but his son knows.
Because his spirit continues to pervade The Post wherever we:
turn, we republish here the tribute. paid to him by Howell Rees.
Postseripts
DECEMBER 15, 1939
He was a man who liked sunsets. Often, when we'd go home in
the evening, he would be standing on the tiny, white-pillared front.
porch, silently watching the western sky, where God’s paintpot was.
spilling down across heaven’s vault toward the purple hills.
More than once, looking up the terraced slope to the frail, defi-
ant figure we thought of him as a captain, the red brick house be-
hind him his study ship, and the thick, green foliage before him the-
waves which were leaping high toward the lonely quarter deck
where he kept his twilight vigil.
His eyes, fixed on the horizon, would catch the movement as we:
climbed the long steps to his porch and he would brighten, “Hello.
boy,” he would say, and it was as if he had put his hand on your
shoulder, “Hello, boy.” Never “Good evening” or “What's new ?”’ or-
anything that other people said. It was always the same, “Hello,
boy.” Then we would both watch the sunset and talk.
He was a man who could, when it suited his purpose, use words.
as a lash, deep-biting, and acid-dripping, but in those rare hours the
tense energy went away and his voice was gentle and wibrant and.
his words were filled with mystic wonderment.
He wondered what had happened to the world of his own youth,.
not because he was opposed to physical change, but because he:
feared that something spiritual had been mislaid in the confusion
of physical progress.
Men of less imagination and less understanding would have ac-
cepted the machinge age for what it could give them; but he needed
to understand things. He questioned the new world, but he did not
defy it. He tried to penetrate its significance, He had heard some
one speak of John Steinbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath”, the story of the
impoverished share-croppers’ descent upon California, and wanted to
borrow our copy.
“You won't like the language Steinbeck uses”, we warned, know-
ing his deep-rooted modesty, and his bewildered shock whenever
he encountered one of the harsh, crude words which a new genera-
tion tosses about so lightly.
“I know,” he said, “but I'd like to read it, anyway.” He thought
in a book which reflected 1939 so clearly he might find some clue
to the meaning of the world which bewildered him so. He might
have, too, had he lived long enough to read it.
More and more, as weariness took the place of his energy, he
sought refuge in memory. Sitting on his front-porch, watching the
sunset; talking the hours away in the broad living room; sitting
across the table from us at breakfast, when the sun streamed in the
window and touched the flowers his wife loved, he would speak of
customs and scenes which were as strange to us as the world into
which we were born was to him.
Then he would be back on the homestead at Springville, where
the passenger pigeons came overhead in clouds so dense they would
darken the sky; where a boy with a gun taller than he, and a dog
named Old John went out. hunting for pelts which brought silver
coins to jingle in the pockets of his tattered pants; where a sturdy
lad«in a fur cap coasted down hill on a home-made sled; where snow
piled higher and higher until it covered the fence and hid the roads
and the teams pulled the sleighs across the meadow instead of
around the curves of the road; where a worn doorsill was all that
was left of the loved ones who once passed in and out of that farm-
hovygse.
Many of those tales found their way into this column, but the
best we could do was less than his average. He had a way with
words and he used them as vessels for his thoughts. Invariably, the
word was exactly the right vessel, and the thought came to you
vital and concise, implanting a clear picture in your mind. That was
the miracle about this man, that this penetrating understanding, this
simple intimacy with language could have been born in him, for
he was not educated to it, and few men with whom he came in con-
tact even understood it, let alone contributed anything to it. *
So far as we know, there is nothing he wrote to survive him except
business papers. And yet, had fate deflected his course when, at
16, he went to clerk in a country store and so launched his career
as a merchant, we believe he could have given the world more of
himself than he did. Most of his friends will remember him as a
businessman. Superficially, he was a businessman, But his senti-
ment, his great heart and. his boundless capacity for love conflicted
almost constantly with the demands business made upon him,
In the sense that he knew how to enrich reality through feeling
and significance and singularity, he was a poet. There were times
when his love of life became so exhilarating it could no longer be
confined; when, flooded by happiness, he would have burst if he
could not have sung. Often, when we worked all night at The Post,
he would come at dawn, bringing coffee, and we shall not soon for-
get the sound of his voice, absent-mindedly lifted in some tune-less,
ridiculous, happy fragment of song, as he busied himself at some
simple task. Yes, we are sure Walter Byron Risley was intended to
be a poet.
We were among the last to leave the cemetery last Sunday after-
noon. The funeral cortege had left long before, A chill drizzle was
falling and it was almost dark. It was lonely.
From where we stood, by the new grave, the hill sloped gently
down to a walley, and beyond that there were more hills and, in the
distance, the misty outline of a mountain. Suddenly, we realized
that it was the west, of course, and that behind the black, rain-
laden clouds the sun was setting.
There would be days, we thought, when warm breezes would
caress that slope and when spearheads of grass would peek out and
cover the hill with green fuzz and when the sun would touch that
grave gently with a finger of golden light before saying good-night.
For him, there would be an eternity of sunsets but from down
where we were, splashing through the rain, you couldn’t see the
sun. —Howell E, Rees. ,
PLACE YOUR CHRISTMAS CRDER EARLY
Com Fed White Holland
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Hens 10-13 lbs
Toms 18-22 lbs.
HAROLD BERTRAM
Chase, Pa. — Dallas 485-R-11
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