Image provided by: University of Nebraska-Lincoln Libraries, Lincoln, NE
About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 5, 1942)
Becoming an American Within thrliist six years more than one million persons cut their last ties with the “old country" and became citizens of the United States. And note, with America at war, there is a rush to be American. !\or is there anything difficult about attaining citi zenship in the U. S. The following series of photos shows you some of the steps taken by the foreign-born in becoming American. Awaiting their turn to file first jmpers in one of the ante rooms of the naturalization bureau. Many of these applicants have known oppression ami are eager to cut ties with the jmst. RSl'P—This huge pile of ap plications is only a small part of the year's total. The girl is sort ing them for further action. Here are clerks checking ap plications for citizenship against an index containing confidential information. A courtroom scene during the naturalization of a group of ap plicants. The judge (hack to camera) is administering the oath of allegiance to the I'nited States of America. Last step. Accompanied by tuo witnesses, an applicant for naturalization is shown taking the oath at time of filing petition for citizenship. 1 his is the application for the final papers. A veritable tower of babel is this room of a naturalization bureau, where skilled linguists question the applicants. (gaMiniMir j?aCTa®i^ Eight Years Are Not Too Many By BARBARA ANN BENEDICT (Associated Newspapers—WNU Service.) THE girl had chestnut-brown hair and brown eyes. There was something tantalizingly familiar about her. Bennett Wood plumbed his memory, but he could not recall her. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I don't believe I remember you. Though I should. There’s—something vague ly familiar." The girl smiled at him. Looking at her, Bennett cursed his lapse of memory In that moment he didn’t understand how he could have for gotten anyone so beautiful. “I’m Marsha Porter. We must have met at Ellen's wedding.” Bennett frowned. The name, too, had a disturbingly familiar sound. Yet he couldn't connect the two, and his failure to do so was very annoy ing. Ellen Cushman's wedding had taken place eight years ago. That in itself was an excuse, because a lot could change in eight years— even people. "You’re Bennett Wood.” The girl's eyes were twinkling at him. “You see, I haven’t forgotten.” Bennett gestured, half apologetic ally, half helplessly. His disturbed state of mind seemed to amuse the girl. "You’ve been away for eight years—abroad. They say you went directly after the wedding, because you were in love with Ellen and you wanted to forget. When Ellen de cided to have this party, this re union of those who participated in the wedding, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to reach you. But she did, and you came. And—and I think you were very nice.” Bennett bit his lip, and almost hated the girl for her frankness. It was all true. He had never been able to forget Ellen. But it was because he hated himself for not Bennett tell In step beside her, frowning, trying to think of some thing to say. being able to put her out of his mind, when she married Jerome Murdock, that he had gone away. And then when she had written, in viting hiip to her party, he had de cided to come—because he couldn’t suppress the longing to see her again. When he looked at the girl again he saw she hadn't intended to hurt him. It was unfair to condemn her for her frankness How could she have known that he still loved Ellen? They were standing alone near a little table on which was a punch bowl. Near by an orchestra had started to play. “Marsha Porter,” Bennett said, ”1 haven’t seen Ellen yet, and I don’t want to—until after she’s greeted all the others. Will you take a walk with me in the garden?” “Of course." She smiled at him and started along the path at the foot of the terrace Bennett fell in step beside her, frowning, trying to think of something to say, wondering why he had that impulsive desire to be alone with Marsha Porter. “Ellen was too young to marry anyhow." Marsha said suddenly. "Too young? What do you mean?” She looked at him curiously. "Do you mean you haven't heard?” "Heard what? I haven’t heard anything. My boat got in only last night.” "Of course. I should have known.” She was suddenly sober, looking away from him. "Ellen and Jerome were divorced two years after their marriage." Bennett stopped. Ellen divorced! Free? All these years, free, and he hadn’t known? It seemed a little incredulous, a little like mockery. After a moment he went on, thoughtful, forgetting the girL Pres ently she spoke again. “It was all such a mistake. Ellen was so young. How could she know that she didn't love him? It wouldn’t be fair to condemn her.*’ “Of course not” Bennett looked at her quickly. “What—happened to her? Has she married since?” “No. She went back to her old job—on the stage. Assumed her old name and became quite famous. She worked steadily for six years— and then decided to rest awhile—and to hold this party. She's changed.” Bennett suddenly wanted to see her, talk with her, wanted to ask her why she hadn't let him know. She knew that he loved her, would have come in a minute had he but known. But then—forgiving—he re membered it would have seemed strange had she written him, after all which had happened before. Impulsively he turned back toward the house, then stopped, remember ing Marsha. “I’ve got to go back.” he said apologetically. “I—I want to see Ellen. All this that you’ve told me doesn't seem quite real." “Of course.” There was under standing in the girl's tone, and a faint note of pity. She went with him back along the path, quicken ing her pace to suit his, without comment. Bennett left her near the dance I floor and went toward the house. Un-i accountably his heart was thump ing. He wondered -What Ellen would be like Marsha had said she’d ; changed He told himself he didn't care, that it made no difference what J she was like or how she looked. He wanted to see her, to tell her of all those dreadful, bitter, hopeless years he’d spent abroad trying to forget. He reached the veranda and paused, wondering how he’d an nounce himself. It seemed a little foolish. Ellen wasn't ready, or j she’d have appeared long ago. But ■ he wanted to see her before she met the others. He wanted to know j whether there was still a chance.! He could tell after one glance. She wouldn’t be able to hide it. Not the j way he felt. The fear of what he might discov er, when he looked into her eyes struggled against the joy and hope which had caused the blood to pound in his veins when Marsha had told him Ellen was free, and had been for six years. Bennett paused, trying to adjust his thoughts. He didn’t want to ap pear the fool, especially if Ellen had forgotten him as completely as it might seem because of her six years of silence. There was a footman in the hall, and Bennett decided to send word by him to Ellen. He started toward the door, and turned as a hand rest ed on his arm. It was Marsha Por ter. Something about the way she looked at him compelled his atten tion, caused him to turn about and forget for the moment it was Ellen he wanted to see. There was still that familiar something about her, now seemingly more pronounced. Bennett frowned and felt goosepimples stand out on his skin. His nupd was confused. He wondered wt^ he didn't leave her abruptly and go into the house. He wanted to, he thought. “Hello, Bennett." Marsha’s voice was strange, different. There was a wistful something in the way she looked at him. The manner in which she cocked her head on one side and smiled struck a familiar cord. The wrinkles on his forehead deepened, and he felt maddeningly bewildered. “You’re not very flattering, Ben nett, not to remember me.” Then abruptly he knew. She was Ellen! "Marsha Porter” was Ellen. It all came with a rush. Marsha was her stage name. He had heard it once or twice, long ago, before he knew her very well. That was what made it familiar. She had changed a lot. Why shouldn’t she? She had been very young when she married Jerome. Much too young. Bennett groped for words. He took her hand in his and stared dumbly, wishing he could say something, knowing he loved her even more: than he had eight years ago. She laughed up into his face and came close to him. “Not very flat tering, Bennett. But I have changed, and really shouldn’t have blamed you. Will you forgive me for not revealing my identity? I’m sorry. Bi*t—but I had to know." “Know what? Had to know what, Ellen?" He leaned toward her eagerly. “Know whether you still cared, Bennett. I—it’s been so long since j I’ve seen you.” “But why didn’t you send for me, let me know?” She smiled. “I did. That’s why I planned this party. I was afraid you wouldn’t come. It was such! a poor excuse.” Bennett’s arms went about her and suddenly his thoughts were no long- j er confused, and a great sense of peace came over him. - $100,000 in Dead Letters Twenty billion stamps are sold ev ery year. This doesn’t count me tered mail or that handled by bulk without using actual stamps. Thir teen million dead letters, without deliverable — or returnable — ad dresses on them, are destroyed an nually. But, first, the average of $100,000 found in them is retained by the post office. In a round-up of statistics, you find unexpected things. Among such items are $10,000,000 worth of gaso line lor delivery trucks, $7,000 worth of mucilage, $50,000 worth of soap, 500 lawn mowers to cut post office lawns, and 200,000 tons of coal for heating purposes. And, no matter what you may think of the quality of the pen points furnished in post offices. 5,000,000 are bought each year. It isn’t possible to store in any one place the actual accounts of this business. So they are recorded on microfilm—nearly 3,000,000 tiny photographs ire made annually. (Released by Western Newspaper Union.) He'd Bow to No Jap! /"^N FEBRUARY 1. 1824, a little boy was born at Fort George (formerly John Jacob Astor’s post of Astoria) on the lower Columbia river in the Pacific Northwest His father was Archibald McDonald, a young Scotch clerk in the employ of the Hudson’s Bay company, and his mother was the former Koale Koa, or Raven, daughter of Chief Com Comley of the Chinook Indians. February 1, 1942, finds the United States and Japan engaged in a life and-death struggle. Although, on the face of it, there is no connection between these two events on dates 118 years apart, the fact is that such a connection exists. For this little boy, to whom his parents gave the name of Ranald, grew up to be a great adventurer, went to Japan and became the first teacher of English in that ‘‘Hermit Kingdom.” “Indeed, it may be said that Ranald MacDonald, halfbreed son of Oregon, owns a place among those who introduced Japan to the ways of the western world, a world of ideas Japan has never fully un derstood and with which she is now at war.” Those are the words of a Portland, Ore., historical writer, M. Leona Nichols, whose book, "Ranald Mac Donald, Adventurer,” published by the Caxton Printers, Ltd. of Cald well, Idaho, is the first full-length biography of this little-known but significant American. In 1848, he was a sailor on a whaler, the Plymouth, commanded by Capt. L. B. Edwards. When the RANALD MacDONALD (From a woodcut by William Klamm in “Ranald MacDonald, Adventurer” by M. Leona Nicbols.) Plymouth reached Asiatic waters near Japan, he determined to visit the “Hermit Kingdom.” Although Captain Edwards warned him that he might never get out of the coun try alive. MacDonald persuaded the captain to give him his discharge and supply him with a small boat and enough supplies to reach land. Nearing the shore, the daring young American capsized his boat and allowed himself to be rescued by some Japanese fishermen. Taken before the governor and other court dignitaries, MacDonald was ordered to bow low before them. He refused, saying “I kow-tow to no man!” Then, according to Mac Donald, ”1 looked the governor full in the face, so did he me; man to man . . . say for 20 or 30 seconds, in dead silence, at length, rising slowly, from a sitting position, to his knee, leaning toward me, he ad dressed me in a few words I did not understand.” Later the Ameri can learned that the governor had said “You must have a big heart.” instead of being punished for his boldness, MacDonald was treated respectfully and given a house in which to live, although he was still | looked upon as a prisoner and close ly guarded. The Japanese authori-; ties realized that he could be useful to them so they s<=nt some of their j most intelligent and promising men to him to learn to speak English. For seven months he served as their teacher. Then he was set free. ‘‘The seeds sown by this first teacher of English in the Land of the Rising Sun were planted in soil that was fertile,” writes Mrs. Nich ols. "The harvest came during Com modore Perry’s visit to the island empire, when he made his memora ble treaty between Japan and the outside world in 1854, when Ran ald’s pupils acted as important links between the Americans and the Jap anese, serving as interpreters and liaison officers.” At Macao MacDonald left the ship which had rescued him and went to Singapore. He became a sailor on a ship bound for Madras and although it was wrecked he managed to reach land in safety. Eventually he went to Australia, made his fortune there and, once more succumbing to the wanderlust, took ship for Italy. From there he went to Paris and London, then decided to return to America. Arriving in Canada, he learned that his father had retired from the serv ice of the Hudson’s Bay company in 1844, settled near Montreal and died there in 1853. (PATTERNS SEWING 11 CIRCLE V_—_^ P)0 YOU like to sew? Then here is a grand new pattern to try your talents on—an apron which is as simple to make as ABC! Pat tern No. 1518-B shows too, an apron which is different, slender izing, unusually becoming and as efficient as a modern kitchen! The shoulder straps continue as side panels and end as good sized, properly placed pockets—and the side panels are so shaped that they give a wonderfully slenderizing ef fect right where you want it most —at the waistline! Side sashes hold the apron firm across the front, tie smartly in back. The straps stay up because they are fastened directly in back and the wide side pieces give your dress full protection. , • * * Barbara Bell Pattern No. 1518-B is de signed for sizes 14, 16, 18, 20; 40, 42, and 44. Corresponding bust measurements 32, 34 , 36, 38, 40, 42 and 44. Size 16 (34) re quires 2 yards 35-inch material, 5 yards trimming—ric-rac or bias fold. Send your order to: SEWING CIRCLE PATTERN DEPT. Room 1324 311 W. Wacker Dr. Chicago Enclose 20 cents in coins for Pattern No.Size. Name ..... Address . 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Whenever you go into a store and buy an item of ad vertised merchandise, it doesn't make any difference what, you are getting more for your money—more in quality and service—than you would getifyou spent the same amount for something which was not advertised.