« ■ •• • « « •
j YES! LIFT A CORN
OFF WITHOUT PAIN!
1 _
*
J Cincinnati man tells how to dry
i up a cc n or'callus uc it lifts
* c with fingers.
You corDpostered men nno women
need suffer no looser. Wear the shoes
tlmt nearly Uillcf uu-before. says this
Cincinnati aiitho. ity. because a few
drops of fr ozone applied directly on a
tender, acting corn or callus, stops
soreness a1 once and soon the corn or
hardened callus hsiscns so it can ho
lifted off. root mid ail. Tlwut pain.
A small hot tie of free * costs very
little at any drug store, out will posi
tively take off every hard or soft corn
or callus. This should he triad. as it
Is inexpensive and is said not 'o Irri
tate the surrounding skin.
If your druggist hasn’t any freezono
tell hint to get a small bottle for you
from l:is wholesale drug house.—adv.
A Seed Waster.
*‘Tbt re’s it mint planting potatoes,"
said Farmer Corntossel, “when ’lie
ought to be playin' golf.”
“You don't approve of gardening?”
"Yes. I do. But If lie'll go ahead an'
play golf lie wouldn’t lie spoilili’ good
potatoes that somebody could use."
GREEN'S AUGUST FLOWER
hits been the most successful futility
remedy for the last lifty-onc years for
biliousness and stomach troubles, to
which tlte American people are addict
ed, musing sick Headache, nervous In
digestion, sour stomach, coining up of
food and a general physical depression.
2ii und 7f>c.—Adv.
An Unlooked-for Present.
Among iltrt* Willie’s numerous birth
day presents were a toy loinuhawk. an
utrgtni, and a lasso- these being sent
by a sport-loving ancle who knew
the youth's proclivities.
Shortly after breakfast Willie's
mother heard a crush In the green
house at the foot of the garden, und
went to investigate. On tin* way she
passed a few hprooted hushes and a
flower-bed trampled*out of recognition,
and in the greenhouse Itself many las
soed flower-pots. Following the trail,
site found Willie hilling behind a tree
stump.
“What are you,doing, Willie?" site
Tried lit horrified tones.
"Looking for Redskins," replied the
( youngster.
With it grim look site took Willie
•>y the ear and led him indoors. I
“Looking for red skins!" she repeat
ed ominously, as she took up a earn*.
“Well, I'll give you one." I
Back to the Goil.
The young k-nut. itnili for general
•ervifp, volunteered for work on the 1
land ll« went down to bis father's 1
“place" and began “fanning." A
friend passing that way spied him in
leggins and Norfolk Jacket striding
across a wide stretch of moorland, lie
hailed him.
“Hallo. Smutty!" lie cried as he
cattle up. "What are you dohtg in
tills forsaken land?”
'Fanning. I've gone back to the
laud.’’
“Any good atlt?" grinned the friend.
“I should think so! See tills piece
of moorland? Before 1 came it was
going to waste—no use at all; hut with
a lot of work I've turned It Into a rip
phi' golf links."—New York Globe.
Be Adaptable.
‘Tkin't he obstinate."
"Hull?"
“Some men spend their lives trying
to make silk purses front sows’ ears."
“Well?" •
"They might take the same material
and get rich manufacturing leather
specialties." _
• . ___
Nature of the Place.
"The British forces are fighting now
in Ghampagne."
“Then I don’t wonder they are put
ting so much spirit in it.” %
"You can’t distinguish saints from
sinners by their shiny hats.
— —..i... 11 M |
m ■
Pi
-- .
r *
\ ---—.. .- — ■ ■■ - .— ■
The Man Who Forgot
A NOVEL
By JAMES HAY, JK.
GARDEN CITY NEW TORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1915
CHAPTER XXV.
When Waller reached his office
the storm had broken in the news
paper world, presaging the hurri
cane of sensation, blame, acclama
tion, criticism and question that
would sweep the country that eve
ning and the following day. He
tried to start his story, hut could
not. Telephone calls came to him
one after the other. The news had
swept through the newspaper and
political part of the city as if by
magic. Correspondents were al
ready sending their papers bulle
tins announcing that they were
about to put on the wire the “big
story.” Men talked eagerly about
it in the hotel lobbies, at the eapi
tol, in the office buildings, on the
street corners. Waller, sitting in
his office, had a mental picture of
the excitement, the perturbation
among the prohibitionists, the ex
ultation of the whisky people, the
doubts of some of the Smith,sup
porters, the quick rallying to his
side of Ids most earnest followers.
And lie knew that nearly every
person was asking another:
“What will people think of it?
What will people say?”
He thought, a little grimly, that
few people have any opinions of
their own, that most of them mere
ly reflect the thoughts oi others,
that nearly :rll are too much like
sheep. The great tiling was to give
the sensation the right, twist, the
proper slant, to make them say,
“He's all right," instead of, “He's
all wrong."
The telephone calls multiplied
and piled up. To all of them he
answered that at 4 o'clock lie
would have his story ready. When
tile representatives <of the after
noon papers said, they could not
wait, he answered that lie was
sorry hut that they would have to
satisfy themselves with wlmt ev
erybody was saying about the in
cident. In his own mind, he know
that the verdict would come from
the morning papers, from the fin
ished anil complete stories, not
from the sketchy and necessarily
fragmentary articles shipped on
the wire by men who had not time
enough to reread their copy in
search of mistakes. Finally, he
locked his door, took the receiver
off the hook, and sat down at his
typewriter to get out the story
which, he hoped, would turn the
tide in favor of the agitator.
At the end of an hour and a
half, a few minutes before 4
o’clock, he arose from the ma
chine,‘stretched his tired arms and
shoulders, and began to put to
gether the pages of a story which
would cover two columns and a
half. He had made six carbon
copies of it. It was a good story.
He “felt” that. It had in it some
of Smith's fire and eloquence- -and
a great deal of Smith’s anguish.
Afterward, when other members
of his profession had time to corii
| merit, they said it vaas a great
I piece of dramatic writing,
j He called an office boy, gave
him one of the copies, and in
1 structed him to take it to a public
1 stenographer's office and have 100
. copies run off at once. He kept the
1 other copies he had made and
called up the Press club and the
I offices of several correspondents.
I “Now," he thought, “let them
! come! I'm ready for them!”
j They did come. In 15 minutes
the room was crowded with little
groups of men, their heads bent
over the various copies, heads
which, as the reading progressed,
were shaping; up the opening para
graphs and the structur: of the
stories they would get out, stories
which, in a few hours, would do
more than any other one thing to
determine whether John Smith
was to survive or go down in oblo
quy and blame. Cholliewollie hail
been right when lie had said to
i Smith that he would do much to
give the agitator the best of the
jjewsdispatehes.
At a quarter to 6 the writers
! were still coming in. lie had in
structed the office boy to delivei
copies 1o every newspaper and cor
respondent's office in town. Nov
1 he led the crowd to the ears or
their way to Smith's offices.
The agitator, stepping from the
inner office, confronted the semi
circle of eager faces and bowed hii
customary:
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.’’
20
There was nothing unusual in
his demeanor. Ilis smile was the
same. He did not even look tired.
Am always before, he impressed
them as a man vibrant with en
ergy. lie held in his left hand a
paper which, some of them ob
served, was a map of the city of
Washington. Evidently he had
just left his desk to meet them.
Every man facing him sensed to
a nicety how near John Smith
stood to tragedy and ruin. They
were trained to “get” and esti
mate the force of events, the prov
able consequences of national af
fairs, the results of clashing per
sonalities. And all of them, watch
ing him intently, thought thfit he
must be a brave man.
So keen was their appreciation
of what the thing meant, so accur
ate their prevision of the danger
threatening him, that for a few
seconds nobody put the question
they all wanted to ask.
He bowed slightly again and
asked pleasantly:
“ What is it you want to ask,
gentlemen?”
“They’ve got all the essential
facts, Mr. Smith,” Waller spoke
up. “They've seen my story, and
that covered everything that hap*
pened at Senator Mallon's house.”
“Perhaps,” Smith suggested,
“it might be easier for all of us,
might cover everything more
promptly, if I told you in my own
words all there is to tell. In fact,
what I said this morning in Sena
tor Mallon's lionse is all I could
say now. It is all that is, it is all
1 know. Naturally, a man with a
memoi^v five years old cannot
speak, either accurately or by
guess, of things said to have hap
pened six years ago. That seems
quite logical, doesn’t it? 1 realize
I he things you would ask, the
things you would like to know. Be
lieve me, gentlemen, your desire to
know them cannot be one-half so
great as mine. Here you are, be
fore me. > thrusting your heads
against (he stone wall of my ig
norance of my own past. Well ’ ’—
he spread out his hand in a hope
less gesture, and sftiiletl—“1 have
had my head against that same
stone wall for exactly five years.
Your concern about the facts this
evening may give you some idea of
what—how shall I say it—of what
I have suffered each day and each
night. You see. that is all. I told
my story this morning."
The sallow faced young man
who, by this time, Imd built tip a
reputation for his questioning
; powers, put tin* first querry :
“It is true that Mallon forbade
you his house?"
“Yes,” Smith said quietly;
“that is true.” <
“And are you engaged to be
married to Miss Mallon?” the in
terrogator went further.
“No," the answer came with the
same quietness, the same direct
ness; “that is not true.”
There was a stir among the men
facing him, as if, in spite of their
realization that a public man un
der fire cannot hope to keep'his
private life out of the publicity
glare, they resented his being
wounded unnecessarily.
Avery, tail, snappy, on the alert,
gave the conversation a new turn.
“Perhaps, Mr. Smith,” he sug
ested, “you might like to hear the
Les — the woman’s story as she
told it to me.”
“Yes,” he agreed quickly, “I
should like to, very much.”
Avery produced a copy of his
story.
“I’ll read you merely what she
said, her own words,” he ex
plained.
While Avery read, every man in
the room watched the agitator.
Apparently unconscious of their
scrutiny, he was listening, not so
much with eagerness as with a con
centrated, calculating interest, as
if he strove to remember, tried to
drive his brain to do a work ol
which it was incapable. It was
plain that he was groping in the
dark, beating aimlessly about ir
the sea of ideas brought forward
by what Mary Leslie had said.
Avery read her words*
I am his wife. My maiden name wai
Mary Leslie. I *jp born and brough
up in Des Moinwi, la. His name ii
Jack Gardner. I don’t know where hi
J was born, but it was somewhere in thi
south, in Virginia, l think. We met ii
Shanghai. I had gone out there as :
l trained nurse. He had some money
I and lie married me a week after h<
met me. Then he got to hitting th«
pipe—opium. He had been hitting ii
before he married me.
You know, without my telling you
what that meant. Things went to
pieces. He got me into the habit. We
used to go to a place on the Foochow
road. I guess it’s still-there. It was
j known as t.he House with tfie Red
I lacquered Balcony, and it was run by a
Portuguese we called Charlie.
As I said, things got worse, My hus
band's money tlave out. He didn’t
| liave much, after ail. Then I waited up
; one morning in Charlie’s place to find
j that I had been deserted. 1 never saw
| the man again until today when 1 went
j to sqe Miss Edith -1-11 Ion. I went to
| see her because I vu down and out.
I've been down and ut a good many
; limes. When Gardner left me in Shang
j bai. 1 had to work as a servant. I got
back to the states by coming over as a
1 lady’s maid. I came to Washington to
! try for a position as an army nurse.
| Those are the facts.
Averv stopped reading and
looked at Smith.
“That's her story, sir,” the cor
respondent said.
The agitator addressed himself
to Avery:
“It recalls nothing, absolutely
nothing, to my mind,” lie said.
Those who heard him recognized
the regret, the sadness, in his
voice. There could be no doubt of
the fact that he was sorry he
could get nothing from the story,
ft was evident that his great de
sire was, to get. light on the mat
ter from somewhere.
“Does she explain,” Waller
asked Avery, “why she is known
as Mary Leslie if she is really Mrs.
John Gardner?”
“Oh, of course, she explains it,”
Avery said carelessly. “It's the
obvious explanation: She pre
ferred to resume her maiden
'name.”
Smith put one brief question :
“And the proof of this mar
riage ? ’ ’
“She has no documentary evi
dence,” Avery replied,, “ but she
claims it was in Shanghai. Several
news associations have cabled to
Shanghai to get all that end of the
story.”
Waller explained to Smith:
“Under favorable conditions,
we ought to get something from
Shanghai in six or seven hours.
It’s 6 o’clock here now. It’s 9
o’clock in the morning there. We
ought to hear something tonight.”
“That is,’’ Avery modified, “if
the men there find anything.”
“Look here, Avery,” Waller
asked; “how did she strike you?
Don’t you know she was lying?”
Avery hesitated.
“You know.” lie said, “it’s
hard to tell when a woman like
that is lying—or how much. And
it struck me—I’m talking frankly
now, Mr. Smith—that she must
have some facts to go on. And the
way she sticks to her story is im
mense. Five of us put her through
a regular third degree, and she
told always the same thing. She’s
linn—and, if she is lying, there’s
another Bernhardt thrown away.”
Smith bowed, making no com
ment.
“Is there anything else, gentle
men’’’’ he inquired.
There was much else they
wanted to know, but, realizing his
helplessness, they filed out of the
room. Each one of them was in a
hurry. All of them knew that they
were about to write the strangest,
most fascinating story that had
ever come to light in Washington.
They were intent on the story as a
story, and did not think much then
of the probable effect of what they
would write. It was their business
to tell the news to the country, and
they wanted to tell it in the best
j way possible.
t names to Waller and to
Smith s own personality, the “best
way possible,” in their eyes, was
to describe the agitator's suffering
and to depict the day’s events in
a way that would create for him
sympathy and support.
Waller lingered with him for a
few minutes.
*11 wish you d tell me exactly
how you feel about this thing,”
th*e newspaper man asked him.
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t like to rush off and
leave you here with all this work
and the great burden of what the
day has brought forth. I’d like to
know just how you feel.”
“I don’t think I feel at all yet,’
Smith answered him, putting a
hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been
making a great effort to dissociate
myself, personally, from it, to keep
at the work. I can’t trust mysell
yet to consider what it may mean
to my personal happiness. And
I’m afraid—a little afraid of whaf
the country will say tomorrow. ’ ’
“Let us attend to that,” Wallet
cheered him. “You do the work—
and you’ll get by.”
“At any rate,” he concluded
“I would give almost anything ir
the world to walk this minutes in
to the house with the red-lac
quered balcony on the Foochow
road.”
He dined alone that evening in t
1 quiet little restaurant, where he
! knew he would not be annoyed bj
i the curious. As be left the place
' a man stepped up to him ant
mil i, in _ _ m M ii iiiin ii—ii -
l touched him on the arm.
stopped His thoughts had been
i such as to make him Welcome any
body he had never seen before.
There was in his mind for an in
stant the hope that this stranger
also might know something about
him. A second glance showed
’ that the man had been drinking.
“What can I do for you?’’
Smith responded to the touch on
his arm and to the close scrutiny.
The stranger was about 45 years
of age, seedy as to his dress.
! unkempt as to his linen and era
i vat. In spite of the onslaughts
'alcohol had made on his appear
ance, there was in his face the hint
of a bygone decency, the ghost of
a real intellect. lie was pudgy and
short of stature.
“May I walk a little way with
| you?” he requested,* his voice a
i little thick. “I can tell you some
1 interesting things;”
“By all means,” the. agitator
I agreed.
They fell into step together. It
was a crisp, clear evening. Over
| head the moon, dimming the street
i light, hung in a silver sash of
l fleecy clouds.
“I know who you are.” the
; stranger began, “the prohibition
leader. You can take a look at me
and know who 1 am. I ’m the Man
( Who Could Handle It. I belong to
; that noble army of sports who
, drink on" a system and have whis
! ky under perfect control.”
He spoke in a vein of broad sar
casm, in tunc with bitterness.
“That is, I used to* be the Man
| Who Could Handle It. I now efee
! orate the ranks of those who have
| gone down and out. As the Man
Who Could Handle It, I was a star
performer. My will power was
beautiful to behold. My physique
! was impervious to all ills aad
j pains. I could work and attend to
j business all the time—could do it
just a little better with a few
drinks under my belt. The alcohol
was what my system heeded. The
drinks gave me a whole lot of
bright ideas, and it made me so
ciable and popular.”
He stopped a moment, full in the
moonlight.
“You’ve heard that talk before
haven’t you?” he inquired sol
emnly.
“Many times,” Smith assented,,
falling into step again.
“I felt a real scorn for the fel
lows who got drunk. I studied)
some of them quite closely. They
were curiosities to me. The stuff
was meant to be enjoyed, not
abused. I thought the drunkards
were swine. That went on for 10'
years. For 10 years I was the Man
Who Could Handle It. Other men
admired me for it. One or two told1
me it would get me some day. 1
i laughed at that. I was a genius. I
could see all the others going eith
er to the uncomfortable gutter or
to the untimely grave, but I could
not see how I would ever take
either route. I watched the army
of wrecks and knew I had some^
thing on them. You se^, I «ouM
handle it.”
ms sen-contempt grew.
“Then one night I got drunk. A
year after that I waked up »«<?
morning and had to have a drink
before I could eat breakfast. Right
there occurred the full extinction
of the Man Who Could Handle It:
and there was born the Man
Whom It Handled. That’s a grand
metamorphosis, my friend. You
see I call you ‘my friend.’ dissi
pation makes us familiar. A
grand metamorphosis, I say, from
the Man Who Could Handle It to
the Man Whom It Handled. And
you can take it from me that its
| handling is rough.”
“Always,” Smith emphasized.
He was keenly interested in what
the man had to say.
“I’m a type,” the other eorttin
1 ned. “You can find me in any of
the cheap, dirty saloons or in any
of the swell eluhs. I belonged to
i a swell club once. However, we’ll
i let that pass. Yes, you can find
1 me in any of thosle places. There’s
; a big army of irte—an inspiring,
i lovely line of ine^ with their effi
ciency gone, their divers, hardened,
their kidneys raided, their brains
foggy, their waistline too big,
their reputations too little. They
are the boys wh© could handle it.
They’re the fellows who despised
the drunkards and the spreers.”
They had reaohed the entrance
to Smith’s office! building, where
they paused. >__
(Continued Week.)
A Cheaper anjd Better Way.
Girard, in the Phi lad jlphia Public Ledger.
Assuming that tlg\ res of the allies are
correct, 5,000,000 men Ihave died during the
war. It has cost $14,*M)0 to kill each man.
Properly invested, j the money already
spent on' war would! have yielded suffi
cient income to ikee\p 6,000,000 hoys and
girls of the world in' school and colleges
for all time.
It would much mdre than support all
, the churches of the y orld until kingdom
come. (
Instead of perraittifng the royal ambl
1 lions of a few dynastic families to kill
. 5.000,000 men at suclil a cost wouldn’t it
> he much cheaper for the rest of the fo*«v»
| to banish those bal^«y Queen monarohs?
The “rule of the rolad” for driven* in
• | England is to drive (to the left, whflf
1 j in the United States iit is to the riahu
f
j
- - Ml
t FACTS ABOUT RUSSIA, > */
♦ ♦♦ + f
And now the s-leeptr* Biant lia* been
awaked. The scale* have fallen Trow bis
eyes. Bonds tliat have held a nation
abject for centuries have <«v" bnA-'-n.
Czar-ridden Russia is freed and Iieiwe
forth the people upstanding wid go abcsaK
tlu.-ir iintl-s as men free-born and not an
slaves ami serfs. <m
Tii- Blorv of Russia Is in her future. W
The er. ... tasks aie yet to be performed. ’V
Hnwei'u. toe most uifticult one, that or a
making a loginning, has been success
fully achieved. This great empire and ■
its people who have played too inconspicu
ous ami too silent a part in the at fairs of
the world will, now be seen ana heard. 1
The Russian empire stretches over a -J
vast territory in eastern Europe and
northern Asia, with an area exceeding
\5i 0,000 snuarv miles, one-sixth ot the laint
sun ace ot h earth and nearly three
times the ar i of the United States, me
tr ial bugth of the frontier line by land .s
'.s'o miles in Europe and 10,000 miles in
Asia, and bv s«a 11,000 miles in Europe
and between* 10,000 and 2d,000 in Asia.
Within these vast boundaries there Is a
population of over 110.000.000, about 7j per
cent of which, according to the
pedia Britann.ca^ are peasants. The rten
soil of Russia is very capable of produc
ing tlie-grain supply for the entire world;
Eghty-hve per cent of the population a.ro
engaged in agriculture, yet the methods
employed have been so primitive that
only a bare liv .ng ii&s been realised. tne
soil is also rich in ores of all kinds, but
due to the tardv Ln4irod.uction of macnin
rrv and science* these have merely begun
to he developed. In European Russia
great forests cover 39 per cent of the area,
and in Asiatic Russia two-thirds of the
area is covered hy« forests. These vast
resources, in magnitude and variety
equaled by no other, nation, are scarcely
touched, nor are they fully conceived or
bv the mass of the Russian people.
The percentage of- illiteracy, in Russia is
very l?rtre, langing above 85 per cent in
some prov.nces. In Petrograd, the eapi
lal itself, half the population cannot read
nr write. The urban population is gen-'
.rally better educated. Including the
whole empire considerably more than half
the people are illiterate, though educa
tional movements have made remarkable i
headway in Russia during the pant lew ¥
years. ’ u
There ire no trustworthy figure** a» to f
the numlier of adherents of the different v
.•roods. However, according to-tiie* census
returns published in 1905 the eight leading
creeds are given as follows:
Orthodox Greek and1 United
church . 87,123,604
Mohammedans . 13,906.972
Roman Catholic . 11.1671,991
Jews . 5,215*805
Lutheran . 3,572,653
Dissidents . 2.204,596
Armenian Gregor ians . E 179,2-41 Jf
There are numerous other creeds with *
fewer adherents.
As this data indicates there are many
nationalities in Russia. This diversity of
nationalities is due to the amalgamation,
or absorption by the Slav- of a variety ot
Ural-Altaic stock. In European Russia*
the Slavs are in a ratio to. the other races
combined of about three to one. However,
in the other parts of the empire the Slavsn
are often outnumbered. This heterogen
eity of the Russian people, coupled with
the great amount of illiteracy has been,
one of the plausible excuses tor justify
ing the heavy-handed rule of the Russian,
czars.
The Russian people have been c.low,
none the less surely, discovering them
selves. The increased liberalism of Nich
olas H toward the people, the modern,
improvement in education, the Russo
Japanese war, and Russia's experience in
the present war—all these have been reve
lations for the Russians; they have felt
their strength, which is the first condi- y
tion of realizing it. 'V
The Almanach de Gotha for 1910 de- ft.
scribes the Russian government as “a* 1
constitutional monarchy under an auto
cratic czar.” But the Encyclopedia Brit
annica, article Russia, says that “this
obvious contradiction in terms well illus
trates the difficulty of defining in a single*
formula the system essentially transition
al and meanwhile sui generis, established
in Russia since 1905. Before this date,
the fundamental laws of Russia described
the power of the emperor as ' autocratic
and unlimited.” In the fundamental laws,
as remodelled between tne imperial man
ifesto of October 30 and the opening of
the first duma on the 27th of April. 1006,
the name and principle of autocracy was
Jealously preserved, though the word “un
limited” vanished.
And now the people have arisen to
break the principle of autocracy itself,
which from age could not easily bend;
Again a government based upon the corn
sent of the governed is to rise from the
people themselves and for themselves.
Not That Kind of War.
From the Milwaukee Journal.
The ingenuous proposal to establish a.
special joint committee of congress on.
the conduct of the war is a gem which
bears witness to the pork barrel intellect.
•This country is going to spend a lot of
money. It will be strange if there isn!t
something in it for the politicians.” So.
runs the reasoning.
The citizen's duty is to let his congress
man know that he doesn’t want that kindi
of war. We don’t want the kina of war
that means our boys going to camps that
are breeding places of typhoid, because
some state governor or other politician
was allowed to say wUat site he would,
like to have chosen, and have the boy*
hurried there to boost, local markets.
We don't want the kind of war that
feeds our boys on ‘‘emblaiiied” beef be
cause aomeon is using a political puli
Ltt furnish rotten supplies.
We don’t want a war in which untrained
hoys are sent, into battle to be sacrificed
by untrained officers, to fail while some
one makes a grandstand play to- help
later on in the game of pohtlcs.
We want a war for America, ancL not
for congressmen. Offhand; w.e don’t think
of any politician for whom we would sac
rifice one American life. Yet that was
done in 1898, and that will be done again
if congress succeeds in overturning the
constitutional method of carrying on war
through a meddlers’ committee.
Congressmen have to be told. A good
many of them, as Wisconsin knows,
either defy their constituents or are poor
guessers. But remember that the man
who wants something, whether it’s a po
litical war or a service to ‘Germany, is
letting his congressman and your con
gressman hear. The first battle is ora now.
Citizens who believe the president should
be suported should lose no time in letting
their congressmen know it. Write your
congressman today—or better, telegraph
him—that you believe in the principle that
all should share the burden, that you
want him to support the president.
Feeding the World.
It's up to you, oh, Mr. Farmer, although
you pack no sword or armor, to win this
crucial fight, for you must feed the allied
nations, provide the millions with their ra
tions, so hustle, day and night. Now,
keep the husky hired men jumping, and
see that all your mules are humpin, do
things with ordered haste; let every foot
of soil be growing some harvest for your f
future mowing, let no land go to waste. \
For every time you raise a pumpkin you
swat some kultured Prussian bumpkin
who lacks enough to eat; you push a har-'
poon in the kaiser, and make his nobleta
sadder, wiser, whene’er you raise a beet.
Our Uncle Samuel indorses the man who
leaves a swath of corses behind him aa
he scraps, but tye who raises wheat and
barley will soak those kaisers. Bill and
Charley, and change a lot of maps. Not 1
all of us can seek the battle, for some of
us must feed the cattle, and slop the
shrieking swine; and it is good to know
our labors will help the men who wield
the sabres, and form the battle line. So
let us not be heavy hearted if younger fel
lows have departed for great and thrilling
scenes; for we can aid our country’s
legions who face the foe in distant re
gions, by raising spuds and beans.
That Settled It,
From Judge.
“Just let me tell you this.” he said
when his wife had chided him for being
out. after 12 o'clock at night. l in no
longer a child. I’m old enough to take
care of myself, and I’m not going to he
tied to anybody's apron strings.”
‘Don't worry about that,” she replied.
“If you can afford to pay what h costs
to stay out this late I'll quit wearing act
apron.”
