Making Martial Millinery
For today’s lesson tee take you to the Detroit plant of the McCord
Radiator company where steel helmets for our bigger, better army
are being turned out at the rate of 12,000 a day. The new model is
pot-shafted. It comes down ot er the forehead and covers the back
of the neck, giving added protection to the entire head and sides of
the face. Vofr how the martial millinery rolls off the assembly line.
SEff l\G . . . If hat spu ing can there be on a steel helmet? The
chin-strap. Strap-hooks have already been welded to the steel shell,
and the women shown in this picture are sewing on the straps.
EDGING ... The brim of a
steel helmet is practically non
existent, but there's a tiny turned
up edge, arul you see that edge
put on here. Machine that does
the job is called a spank press.
WEIGHING . . . Here s some
thing different in government in
spectors — pretty Marjorie
Thompson, uho checks finished
helmets for weight. Nothing
goes over 2 pounds, 7% ounces.
QUADRUPLE CHECK . . . Finished helmets pass on a conveyor
bidt before the critical eyes of no less than four government inspec
tors. Flans don't get by.
HAT RACK ... In this store room at the McCord plant are some
of the thousands of helmets that await shipment to army centers.
ON T HE MARCH .. . And here are some of the new helmets in use.
A Dog’s
Affection
Bs R. If. WILKINSON
Associated Newspapers—WNU Service
A GROUP of us were gathered
in the lounge of the Winston
club and as usual someone
had an esperience to relate.
Philip Marlin, whose ability as a
story teller is rated high, told us
this tale.
It happened (Philip began) two
summers ago, up in Maine. A bunch
of us had gone up to spend a fort
night at Freddy Damon's camp,
wrhich is situated on a small lake
near the base of Mount Mohawk.
Young Vic Moylan was with us that
year. Of course, he was much
younger than the rest of us, but he
had a craving for the outdoors, and
his delight and joy at being allowed
to accompany us was ample reward
for any inconvenience he might
cause.
Young Vic, we discovered shortly
after reaching camp, possessed two
traits of character that were ad
mirable. First he wfas good na
tured, a willing worker, and was
eager to learn. And second, he
couldn't bear to see anything hurt.
The first trait, or traits, if you
will, became apparent shortly after
our sojourn at the camp got under
way. The second came into evi
dence about three nights after our
arrival. We were awakened about
midnight by the most plaintive, rest
disturbing noise I believe I’ve ever
heard. It sounded for all the world
like a child or woman shrieking in
Vic’s face was a ma^ of wretch
edness and pity.
mortal agony. We knew it wasn’t,
however, and when Joe Tucker, our
guide, sleepily advised us there
were probably a couple of bobcats
fighting over a kill somewhere up
on the slopes of Mohawk, we dis
missed the thing from our minds
and returned to sleep.
That is, we all did but Vic Moylan.
The kid lay awake listening to that
wailing and wondering what it could
be. He'd never heard a sound like
it before, but some instinct the rest
of us didn't possess told him that
Joe Tucker, seasoned woodsman
though he might be. was wrong.
At any rate, after an hour had
passed, young Vic slipped quietly
out of bed, dressed, found and light
ed a lantern and set off toward
Mount Mohawk alone and unafraid.
Two hours later we were awak
ened by a pounding on the front
door. Joe and I went dowm to in
vestigate, and found Vic standing
on the veranda outside with his
arms full of dog. Literally. The
mutt that he hud carried three miles
down that mountain in the dark,
after first liberating its forepaws
from a stT'el trap, was the biggest
and most vicious-looking mongrel
canine on which I've ever laid eyes.
‘lie Carried the Brute Inside.’
Vic's face was a mask of wretch
edness and pity. Without a word he
carried the brute inside, laid it on
the divan and ordered Joe and me
to heat water and procure ban
dages. We W'atched them, mutely,
while the kid went about the busi
ness of setting the broken bone and
adjusting splints. After it was
over Joe Tucker emitted a great
sigh of relief and whistled through
his teeth. I looked at him curiously,
and he beckoned Vic and me into
the kitchen.
Don t blame you for being
tender-hearted, kid, but you’ll have
to get rid of the beast in the morn
ing.”
Both Vic and 1 looked surprised,
and Joe said: “That's Ray Thorn
ton's dog. His name is Rusty and
he's got the meanest reputation in
the county. He’s ugly and vicious.
A mongrel. He's bitten half a doz
en kids, and there's at least fifteen
farmers who would shoot him on
sight.”
Vic was astonished. “Why, that
can't be so,” he protested. "If he
were as mean and ugly as all that
he'd never have let me take him
out of the trap or set his leg Why.
he never moved a hair.”
"Probably too exhausted,” Joe
avowed. "I tell yuh that critter is
a man-killer.”
Vic’s face grew worried. You
could plainly see that he was
skeptical about Joe, yet at the
same time he didn't want to
overrule his advice. Presently an
answer to the problem suggested
itself.
“I’ll tell you what," he declared,
keep him inside till his leg's cured,
and he won’t bother anyone. It
would be murder to turn him loose.”
Joe argued, then turned to me and
pleaded. However, I couldn't forget
the look in Vic’s eyes when I firs'
saw him standing on the veranda,
and frankly, I had a soft spot in
my heart for dumb animals myself.
At any rate, we all three consulted
Freddy Damon, and when I re
fused to support Joe, Freddy de
clared that if Vic would promise tc
keep the dog locked up at all times,
it was all right with him.
And so that very night Vic and
Rusty moved into the guide's cabin.
The next day Freddy and I went
down to the village and made in
quiries. All that Joe had told us, we
learned, about the ugliness of Rusty
was true. We returned to camp that
night determined, despite Vic's
fondness for dumb animals, to get
rid of Rusty, thereby eliminating the
possibility of beir.g killed in our
sleep by a maniacal dog.
However, we might as well have
determined to blot out the moon.
Upon arriving at camp we discov
ered Vic had gone off fishing, and
decided that during his absence
would be an excellent time to re
move Rusty.
Freddy and I strolled o%er to the
guide's cabin and opened the door
—and closed it again immediately.
A snarl, resembling the war cry of
a Bengal tiger, set the goose pim
ples to racing up and down our
spines. We consulted and agreed
to abandon our plan till Vic re
turned.
Vic got back at sundown and lis
tened to our story. His attitude was
disquieting. It would be inhuman,
he informed us, to turn the dog loose
in its present condition, and under
the circumstances he'd have to re
fuse.
The Situation Became Delicate.
Well, to make a long story not
so long, the situation became deli
cate, and in a sense amusing. Rusty
remained as our—or Vic’s—guest
for the remainder of our stay.
And long before we departed he was
hopping around on three legs, tag
ging at the heels of Vic. The friend
ship between the tw'o was something
to run the flag up about. It was a
friendship greatly accentuated by
the contrast of Rusty’s attitude
toward the remainder of the group,
an attitude which was not only ugly
but downright hostile.
Now there was something hard
to understand. We had done noth
ing to arouse the brute’s animosity,
yet he hated us as he hated all
other men, except, possibly his
owner. And if ever an animal loved
a man Mongrel Rusty loved young
Vic Moylan. You could see it in the
beast’s eyes, you could feel it in
the way he acted when Vic was
about.
Joe Tucker was skeptical. He
didn’t trust mongrels at all and he
positively accused Rusty of playing
an underhanded game. “Wait,” he
said, “wait till the brute’s leg is
healed, and see. He'll kill the kid,
sure as shootin’. He’s got the killer
streak in him.”
Joe’s prediction worried us. We
were inclined to agree with him
and we were afraid for Vic. For
Mongrel Rusty wasn't pleasant to
look upon. But Vic only laughed.
He said we didn’t understand dogs,
and that our methods were wrong.
I tell you we all breathed a sigh
of relief when the day for departure
came and Vic took the car and
drove Rusty down to the farmer who
owned him and left him there. He
came back with a long and sad face.
No one said a word. We all piled
into the car and drove away toward
home. At the village we dropped
Joe and said good-by. “You’re
lucky,” he said, in parting, to Vic.
“If you’d kept the brute till he got
fully well he’d have slashed your
throat. Those mongrels are tricky.”
We tried to put the incident from
our minds, glad enough to be away
and have Vic with us, alive and
well. And so we returned home and
settled back into the routine of our
everyday lives. Things went along
serenely for a week, and then Fred
dy Damon received a letter from
Ray Thornton which he read to us.
The letter said the dog Rusty had
died, and as far as he could make
it had died from nothing more than
a broken heart. Ray, its owner,
was puzzled. For Ray, like every
one else, thought the dog was a
man killer.
Philip paused, and sighed. “Only
young Vic Moylan," he finished,
“understood. And the kid never
tried to explain to us.”
Mountain Peak Named
For Confederate Soldier
A hitherto nameless peak in the
Great Smoky Mountains National
park. N. C.-Tenn.t has been desig
nated Mount Lanier by the United
States board on geographical names.
This action was based on the request
of the United Daughters of the Con
federacy that Sidney Lanier, whose
centennial occurs this year, thus be
honored.
Mount Lanier, elevation 3,145 feet,
is a peak on Hannah mountain. A
few miles distant is Montvale
Springs, where Lanier spent many
boyhood summers. "Tiger Lilies,”
his first novel, depicts the Great
Smokies and their people.
Sidney Lanier, poet, musician.
Confederate soldier, was born Feb
ruary S, 1842, at Macon, Ga. He
died September 7, 1881, at Lynn, Pike
County, N. C. During his life’s brief
span, the social order in which he
was born and reared was overturned
and his personal fortunes ruined. Yet
his record for nationalism and his
influence in the New South were so
well recognized that in 1876 he was
chosen to write the words that
inaugurated Philadelphia’s Centen
nial exhibition, marking the 100th
anniversary of American independ
ence.
(Released by Western Newspaper Union.)
Echo of a Forgotten ‘War’
A PRIL 9 of this year marks the
50th anniversary of an event
that was a high spot in the history
of the West—the battle which took
place at the KC ranch on the Powder
river in Wyoming on April 9. 1892.
Perhaps “battle” is too pretentious
a word, for it was only a frontier
gun fight in which few men were
involved. But in so far as it was a
case of a man fighting to the death
against odds of nearly 50 to 1, it had
a certain Homeric quality which
raised it above the level of such af
fairs.
The man's name, appropriately
enough, was Champion—Nate Cham
pion. His enemies said he was a
rustler—and he undoubtedly was. So
they killed him and, all unknowing,
they also gave him a certain kind
of immortality. For after his death
he became a sort of Robin Hood
hero, an almost legendary figure
whose name and fame have been
perpetuated in song and story.
The living Nate Champion was not
an important person. But Nate
Champion, dying, became a kind ol
symbol and as such was more sig
nificant. For the fight at the KC
was the first battle in a “war” which
j “marked the dividing line between
the Old West, under the rule of the
cattle kings, and the New West ol
j the pioneer homesteader.”
The story of this conflict has been
told many times and it is related
again in a book published recently
by the Caxton Printers, Ltd., ol
Caldwell, Idaho—“The Longest Rope
| —The Truth About the Johnsor
; County Cattle War,” by D. F. Baber,
as told by Bill Walker. The prin
cipal interest and value of this ad
dition to our store of Western
BILL WALKER
Americana lies in the fact that the
story is told by one of the few sur
vivors of the “war” and possibly the
only survivor of those present at the
KC ranch fight.
The Johnson County war, also
known as the “Powder River war,”
the “Rustler war” and “The Inva
sion,” was the result of the cattle
stealing that was prevalent in Wyo
ming in the late eighties and early
nineties. The big cattle outfits, the
principal victims, decided it must
be stopped and, rightfully or wrong
fully, fixed upon their own method
of doing it. Accordingly, a group of
these cattlemen, accompanied by
hired gun men from Texas, set out
early in April, 1892, to invade John
son county, which they regarded as
the stronghold of the thieves, and
to summarily execute certain men
whom they looked upon as the lead
ers.
Their first objective was the KC
ranch house on the Powder, occu
pied by Nate Champion, the “king
of the rustlers,” and his companion,
Nick Rae. Bill Walker, “cowpoke”
and trapper, and his partner, Ben
Jones, had spent the night there and
when they set out for an early start
on a trapping expedition the next
morning they were made prisoners
by the “regulators” who had sur
rounded the ranch house.
Thus it was that the co-author of
“The Longest Rope” became an
eye-witness of the historic fight that
followed. He saw Nick Rae shot
down as he came out of the door
a little later. He saw Nate Cham
pion rush out, amid a hail of bul
lets, and drag his dying companion
back into the cabin. He tells of
Champion’s rifle duel with his ene
mies, which lasted nearly all day,
until they set fire to the cabin and
forced him to flee. He “came out
shooting” and died under their fire
in a little gulch nearby. The leader
of the “regulators” looked down at
him—“Give me fifty men like that
and I could whip the whole state!”
he said.
After Nate Champion was killed,
his assailants found on his body a
little book in which he had written
an account of his desperate last
stand. A newspaper reporter, Sam T.
Clover of the Chicago Herald, who |
had accompanied the “regulators," !
made a copy of this account which
has been frequently reprinted un
der the title of "The Diary of the
Rustler King" and widely circulat
ed. It has perpetuated the fame of
j Nate Champion as has a poem, “Our
Hero's Grave,” written by one of
his friends and set to music soon
| after his death.
[new ideas for
HOME-MAKERS
/By RLTH WYETH SPEAKS (
LONG before we were threat
ened with the necessity of
1 blackouts window draperies were
hung well over walls to give rooms
a sunny spacious effect. The same
idea may now be used to keep
light in at night. A cornice taking
the place of a picture moulding is
smart for both modern and tradi
tional rooms and gives anchorage
near the ceiling for rod, or pole.
+» before
mew DRAPERIES
lined with old
ONES MAY BE
DRAWN TOGETHER
AND FASTENED
WITH SNAPS
*VTER*
BOARO
WITH
MOULD
ING AT
TOP
MAKES
CORNICE
AROUND
ROOM |
This sketch shows how one
homemaker made cheerful, soft
green sateen blackout draperies,
repeating a tone in the chintz of
the new' slip covers. They are
edged with cotton cord fringe in
a darker tone.
• • •
NOTE: Use your head and your hands
to keep up morale on the home front.
Mrs. Spears’ new BOOK 8 will help you.
It contains 32 pages of step-by-step direc
tions for novel economical things to make
from things you have on hand or from
inexpensive new materials. Send your
order to:
MRS. RL'TH WYETH SPEARS
Bedford Hills New York
Drawer 10
Enclose 10 cents for Book 8.
Name ...
Address ...
• Follow your favorite recipe
to the letter when you use
Clabber Girl Baking Powder.
You can depend upon Clabber
Girl’s positive double action.
Enjoy perfect baking results
with Clabber Girl.
Don’t waste baking powder by
using more of Clabber Girl
than your recipe directs. You’ll
be delighted with the way your
favorite recipe, your cake in
particular, turns out.
Join the 'War on Waste'
Ask Mother, She ktioivs...
Grandmothers' Cals
Baling Secret...
Clabber Gin f
Farmer’s Daughter
73:1942!
SHE'S A “SELF-STARTER”
• “SElF'STflR"R \
IHfc breakfast** L
ySStt!*® \
0t roi'K- i viU^tNS
1^'gsJ
\
i » p04;'* l0u W vo«'
I (fte. n'4kes \ .^h, iupf*';
\ ~*r;~— ***_
CORN
FLAKES
_1U* gti/iW -
\——
\i.,....—■■■ —.
JEANNE KILMER
does her part of the work in
the house and on the farm.
Jeanne is a Majorette in the
high school band. She says:
"I've got lots to do, and I
eat pretty early in the morn
ing. That’s when the ‘Self
Starter Breakfast'* tastes
wonderful—and it helps keep
me going strong till noon
recess.”
★ ★ ★ Bonds or Bondage — It’s Up to You!
Buying U. S. Defense Bends Will Tell
i'm sending
" HIM CAMELS
REGULARLY THEy'RE
, FIRST WITH MEN <
r IN THE SERVICE
SPECIAL CARTON
for men in the service -
Your dealer has Camels
already wrapped_with
complete instructions
for mailing
Actual sales records in Post
Exchanges, Sales Commis
saries, Ship’s Stores, Ship’s
Service Stores, and Canteens
show that with men in the
Army, the Navy, the Ma
rines, and the Coast Guard
the favorite cigarette is
CAMEL
THE CICARETTE OF
COSTLIER TOBACCOS ^
