Nebraska Newspapers

    Leap City Northwestern
J. W. BURLEIGH, Publisher.
LOUP Cir;, - - NEBRASKA.
China Aska for Seeds.
Another proof of the awakening
going on in cftna is furnished by the
statement that the government of the
Flowery kingdom has, through repre
sentatives at Washington, applied to
our authorities for seeds and, samples
of every variety of plant of recognized
importance raised in our .country.
China is on the search for desirable
crops, and apparently has learned a
lesson by recent experience with
famine, due to the failure of products
on which the people rely for food.
Nor is this all, says Troy Times.
China will experiment with the prod
ucts of other countries as well, and
as she has a wide variety of soil and
climate there is no reason to doubt
that many new and valuable food arti
cles will thus be secured. Further
more, in coming to the United States
she gets expert advice and friendly
and effective cooperation. The de
partment of agriculture has labored
long and successfully in the same di
rection and has done a vast amount
of valuable work in developing and
Improving crops. The hints borrowed
from Washington bid fair to serve
most beenficent ends in China.
Witches Still Believed In.
Neglected by the powers, witches
ceased to be so notorious, but the be
lief continued to exist, and does exist
now, in rural parts of Scotland and
England; and in England and France,
even in the towns, fortune tellers,
whether they charge a guinea or a
shilling for their advice, are witches
under the terms of the old statutes,
and flourish abundantly, but as they
are not burned they are supposed by
superficial observers to have been ex
terminated by school boards and elec
tric lighting. The blacker sort of
witch who “overlooks” and casts
spells on man and beai t may be found
in many rural regions north and
south. One of them was brought be
fore a squire and J. P. of my ac
quaintance as a dangerous nuisance.
He said to her, solemnly; "You know.
Betty, the Bible says ’Thou shalt not
suffer a witch to live in the parish,’ ’’
and she migrated, under certain con
diions of compensation, to another
parish.—Andrew Lang, in the London
Post.
One way Americans of the present
day have of honoring the immigrants
of the past was illustrated last month,
when a statue of Commodore John
Barry, the father of the American
navy, was unveiled in Philadelphia.
Barry was an Irishman, born in 1745.
It was not till 1780 that he reached
America as a sailor, coming here
from the West Indies. He was em
ployed by Philadelphia merchants and
owned some ships in 1776, when he
was put in command of the Lexing
ton, after volunteering to serve the
colonies on the sea. He captured the
first British warship taken by a rev
olutionary cruiser. He had been in
America, or, more correctly, in busi
ness dealings with Americans, only
ten years when he began to fight for
them. John Paul Jones, another of
the revolutionary naval heroes, was
also an immigrant, but he began to
fight for us wyhen his connection with
America and his interest in it had
been much less than those of Barry.
The foreigner to whom the land of
the "free heart’s hope and home” has
appealed has nearly always been
reanly to take up arms in its defense;
and when he has done heroic things
the whole nation has applauded.
A little sentiment which Mr. Cleve
land put forth on his seventieth birth
day, and by vfhich the occasion might
well be remembered: “I believe that
we must set ourselves against the fal
lacy that a city life is the easier and
more productive of happiness." Mr.
Cleveland has had ample experience
of life, both in the city and in the
country.
An Lvauston, 111., minister is fixing
up a marriage ceremony in which the
girl will not have to promise to obey.
That is a good idea. It will be lots
easier for some wives to obey if they
have to when they have not promised
to do so.
A minister in South Dakota was
held up by two cow boys, who tried to
force him to drink with them. He
thrashed both, and muscular Chris
tianity is now at the top notch of
popular veneration in that section.
Consternation was caused all over
the English-reading world not long
ago by the report that the Valparaiso
earthquake had destroyed Juan Fer
nandez, Robinson Crusoe’s island. The
terrible rumor has been denied au
thoritatively by the secretary of the
Royal Geographical society.
John D. Rockefeller Jr. is to be su
perintendent of his father s country
estate on the Hudson. It is learned
from a reliable source that he will not
be compelled to live on his salary.
The assertion of the Topeka Jour
nal that "honesty is spreading,” re
minds t:s that it does seem to be get
ting somewhat thin in places.
If the automobiles wish to retain
•$e their popularity they should be care
|p . ful about starting to run over people
N so early in the season.
A woman stabbed a man in the
head with a knitting needle. A little
painful, but in future he will be able
to knit his brows.
1
CHAPTER I.
The Tragedy.
My feet touched the narrow ledge.
I was safe. But Willoughby? Brave
Willoughby?
I tried to call to him. No sound
came from my lips. 1 was too ex
hausted. The last atom of strength
was. spent. For the moment I was
paralyzed—body and mind. I could
only lean helpless against the moun
tainside, gasping for breath. And al
most immediately Willoughby’s voice
came, quite cheerfully, quite steadily:
“All right? Bully for you. Look
out, here’s the rope. Now if I have
decent luck. Be ready to bear a hand.”
Again I tried to cry out, to warn him.
If he would wait, five minutes, three
minutes, one minute, I might be my
self again. Still no sound came from
my frozen lips.
The rope fluttered over the over
hang. It struck the icy ledge of the
jutting rock to which I clung. Then
slowly it fell over until it swayed
loosely in the wind, still suspended
from my body.
I did not attempt to draw it in. I
was too exhausted lor an exertion so
slight as that. It swayed gently to
and fro, and it seemed to me that
presently an unseen force would grasp
it and pull me headlong to destruction
to the glacier below. In the mean
while Willoughby was started.
Now I dared not cry out. I could
only look up and wait, still struggling
fiercely for my breath. But if I had
been too exhausted to warn him, to un
fasten that rope from my waist, how
was I to give him the assistance he
would surely need presently?
A stone fell, and tten another, as he
fought for a foothold. I could hear
him breathing deeply, though as yet I
could not see him. I stood rigid, look
ing upward, a prey to such fears, to
such terrors as no man can imagine.
Now he came slowly into sight, his
feet feeling with infinite caution. The
difficulties of the descent were appall
ing. Even for me, supported by the
rope held by Willoughby from above,
they Had been all but impossible. Wil
loughby was no amateur; but without
assistance—no, I could not hope to
save him. It must be death for us
both. But, and this was the agonizing
thought, when the crisis came, would
the awful stimulus release my impris
oned will? Or would horror still hold
me?
And still he came. I could almost
touch him now. He was actually near
me—and then, what I had feared, what
I had known must happen, did happen.
His feet lost their foothold. He was
hanging by his arms over the ragged,
blue-green glacier that yawned to re
ceive him a thousand feet below.
A moment he struggled frantically.
Then he hung absolutely still.
“Can you reach me?” he panted.
“Brace yourself and reach me if you
can. But be quick.”
I did not move. I was not afraid to
die with him, though the world has re
fused to believe me. I did not move
because I could not. Horror for the
moment bereft me of my very reason
to think and act. My will was frozen.
My brain was numb.
Then the nightmare passed. Sud
denly I was calm. I took in a deep
breath. I braced myself against the
grim cliff for the shock as he should
fall into my outstretched arms.
But at that instant Willoughby
quietly loosened his hold—even while
I gathered all my poor strength for
that last fight; and before he per
ished he cried one word, without pas
sion, without despair:
“Coward!”
His body Drusnea my own as it ien.
I heard it strike brutally the glacier
below. Then there was stillness.
He was dead, and I lived.
The stillness was awful—and a soli
tude still more awful—vast, savage,
and frozen, and always the whiteness
of the eternal snows. And then dark
ness eame.
Hours later guides found me still
lying there. I saw them scrambling
toward me. I gazed at them stupidly,
indifferently. When they called I did
not answer. They bcre me back to
the Alpine village we had left the day
before. There were black nights of
delirium. And in my delirium I cried:
“I might have saved him. 1 am a
murderer. He died cursing me as a
coward.”
And so they judged, me. When I
was convalescent and crawled into the
sunshine again, it wis too late to
make excuses even if I wished. Peo
ple had already passed sentence.
No one spoke to me I was looked
at askance. If any pitied, it was a pity
tempered with scorn. iMore than once
a kodak was snapped in my face. I
was a curiosity. I was a coward.
CHAPTER II.
The Beacon Light.
To return to America, to work; to
forget if possible—that was the fever
ish impulse that dominated me now.
And yet I lingered a week at Grindel
wald. It was Quixotic, perhaps, but
at least I refused to run away.
It was not a pleasant week. If I
walked up the village st reet the guides,
loafing about at the corners, nudged'
each ether and indulged in brutal
jests at my expense. 3a their stupid,
if honest, eyes I had committed the
unpardonable sin. I hud failed a fel
low-cr.mber at a moment of peril.
They relighted to buttonhole the tour
ists—make me still more notorious
by reciting to them the story of my
disgrace. I was completely ostracized.
No one took the trouble of asking if
the blame were wholly my own. I was
labeled the coward. That was the end
of it
But when I had lived through the
interminable seven days, each marked
With an Insult, I packed my things,
vaguely hopeful after all. I was going
home. I was going to America, and
America is a long distance from
Grindelwald. It was unlikely, I tried
to persuade myself, that the story and
the kodaks would follow me there. But
If so, at least my fellow-townsmen
would give me the benefit of the doubt.
For once there had been a fire and a
panic in the theater, and I had been
lucky enough to help a little. So, if
the story reached them, they would
listen before they condemned.
When my luggage was placed on the
roof of the omnibus, and I was already
seated inside, ihe proprietor of the
hotel, who had hitherto held himself
discreetly aloof, deigned to wish me
good-by.
"Adieu, Mr. Haddon. It will not give
you pleasure to remember my hotel. I
am afraid,’’ he said with a mournful
diflidence.
“That would be too much to expect,”
I answered, cynically amused at his
embarrassment.
He hesitated a moment, one foot on
the steps of the omnibus.
“Mr. Haddon, may I say that I have
sympathy for you? Do not let the lit
tle accidents spoil your life. None of
us are always brave. And certainly
there is a courage of the spirit as well
as of the body. The world condemns
hastily, but it will doubt its verdict if
you refuse to accept it. And you go
now?"
“To America,” I replied grimly,
“where at present there is no verdict.”
“But not at once?”
“Why not?” 1 asked in surprise. i
“It is your affair of course, mon-1
of gaudy brilliancy. A procession of
floats was passing as I took my seat,
each float distinctive of some incident
of Swiss life or of Swiss history and
glory.
I looked out on this stereotyped
scene of gavety with a resolute show
of interest. I was determined not to
let the incident of the photograph rum
my digestion, as the littie innkeeper
had said. Perhaps it was my morbid
fancy, but already I though people
were regarding me curiously. And
then I was sure I heard my name
spoken by a woman. 1 refused to look
around. I smoked my cigar deliberate
ly, looking out toward the lake.
Suddenly from the Rigi mountain,
far off on the left, a dot of light
pierced the black gloom. Another and
another ■ quivered, until there was a
double row of them burning some dis
tance down the mountainside. Then
on the right, on austere giant Pilatus,
its shaggy head crowned with stars,
other lights blazed. And then, very
far off, up in the silence of the snows,
one solitary beacon light shone like a
star, steadily and alone. This little
light comforted me, though ft glowed
from the very region of the tragedy.
I liked to think it an emblem of hope.
Out of the gloom and despair it burned
steadily. It gave me a sort of courage.
My elbow was jogged, and not with
deference.
“Pardon, but this seat is reserved."
It was a waiter who spoke, and he
was insolent. But I answered quietly:
"1 was given this place by another
waiter. There was no placard on the
table nor were the chairs turned up.
Why do you say it is reserved’”
As I asked this question 1 glanced
over my shoulder to see for whom the
man was demanding my place.
On the steps leading to the terrace
from the dining-room stood two ladies.
One of them was a handsome, distin
guished woman well passed middle
age, and saying that of her, one has
said everything.
Of the other, one might say every
thing, and yet feel that one had said
nothing. It was not the air of proud
distinction that arrested my gaze, for
she shared that quality with the
other. It was not that she was mere
ly young and beautiful. Other women
are young and beautiful. It was rather
“Coward!”
sieur, but at least"—he was seeking a j
pretentious expression of sympathy, J
but he ended lamely—“but at least do i
not let this simple affair spoil your 1
digestion.”
“Perhaps I shall linger a day or
two at Lucerne,” I said good-naturedly
“Ah. yes,” he nodded in approval,
"monsieur will retreat slowly.”
And so 1 came to Lucerne instead of !
sailing immediately to America as 1 |
had intended. It was not exactly [
bravado that sent me there to meet |
the scorn and sneers of those who may !
have heard of my disgrace. It was the
sympathy of the little innkeeper.
When I arrived, Lucerne was en I
fete. The Schweizerhof was crowded. !
Rut. in the restaurant I was not recog
nized. I began to hope that I might !
not be. In the writing-room, however,
a London weekly advertised to the
world the story of my disgrace; and
one of those cursed kodaks adorned
the first page. It was only a question
of hours before I should be known. I
walked out on the terrace for coffee,
profoundly discouraged.
The terrace, screened by bay-trees
and cedars from the broad road that
ran along the lake, swarmed with the
people who came to Switzerland, not
to see but to be seen. They were
chattering in every tongue in Europe.
I stood in full view of everyone until
a waiter beckoned to me; for there
were few tables unoccupied.
From the railway station to the
Hotel Nationale the quay was ablaze
with the flare of multicolored lights.
Placed in screenlike receptacles at in
tervals against the facades of the great
hotels, the white monotony of outline [
was transformed into a fairy fabric of
blue and green and red. The black
masses of the people at the windows
and balconies, eager to see the proces- ■
sion of the lake, were thrown into
garish relief. Beneath the double rows
of chestnut trees flowed a boisterous
stream of Swiss peasants, arm In arm,
shouting and singing as they marched,
and a more sedate crowd of townsfolk ,
and cqrious tourists.
that there breathed from the quiet
presence of this woman a noble seren
ity and calm that is as adorable as it
is rare. The assured, direct look of
her eyes was truth itself. She had
not seen me. She looked beyond the
laker—at the solitary little beacon
light that had comforted me only a
moment ago.
I gave up my seat at once, of
course. I walked slowly to the end
of the terrace, and took a less desir
able place.
I refused to allow myself to be inter
ested in these people. And yet I was
strangely interested in them. It was
as if I were waiting. When my ell >w
was again touched; I felt no surprise.
It was the waiter who had spoken to
me a moment before.
“Pardon—the ladies who took your
seat—”
Limit to Sense of Animals
John Burroughs Scouts Theory That j
They Commit Suicide.
“I do not believe that animals ever
commit suicide. I do not believe
that they have any notions of death. !
or take any note of time, or ever put ;
up any bluff game, or ever deliberate ;
together, or form plans or forecast ,
the seasons.
“They may practice deception, as
when a bird feigns lameness or par
alysis to decoy you away from her
nest, but this, of course, is instinct
ive and not conscious deception.
“There is at times something that
suggests cooperation among them, so !
when wolves hunt in relays, as they ;
are said to do; or when they hunt in j
couples, one engaging the quarry |
in front while the other assaults it i
from the rear; or when quail roost j
upon the ground in a ring, their!
tails In the center, their heads out
ward; or. us when cattle or horses
form a circle when attacked in the
open by wild beasts, the cattle with
their heads outward and the horses
with their heels.
“Of course, all of this is instinctive
and not the result of deliberation,
writes John Burroughs In Outing.
The horse always turns his tail to
the storm as well, and cows and
steers, if I remember rightly, turn
their heads."
Humane Law of the Desert.
One of the oddest humane laws in
this country is in force in Nevada. In
that section of the American desert
which lies in Nevada, traveler? in dis
tress may flag the limited passenger
trains and compel the train crew to
give them water to drink. The law
makes it a felony to refuse to comply
with the traveler’s request
The younger of the two women had
risen. She stood at the table, leaning
forward slightly, her expression at
once startled and eager. To my aston
ishment she was smiling at me radi
antly, a smile of charming surprise
and welcome. Hut as I stared at her
stupidly, the smile was succeeded by
an expression of dismay. She ad
dressed the elder woman in an agi
tated whisper.
Wonder held me spellbound as well
as they. I turned vaguely to the
j waiter. He had already left my side,
| summoned imperiously, no doubt, by
i the ladies who had certainly mistaken
j me for another.
j I had half risen. Now 1 seated my
self again, and every nerve tingled
| with excitement. The adventure was
! not yet ended; 1 was sure of it. And
I welcomed the diversion, even though
pain and humiliation were to be its
price. I hatl come to Lucerne on a
momentary impulse, so I thought.
What if fate had guided that impulse?
For the third time the waiter spoke
to me. I looked up at him calmly; I
had known he would come.
“The ladies wish to speak to mon
sieur, if monsieur is at liberty."
The summons had come, as 1 knew
that it would. I drew in a deep
breath. My heart was beating fast,
though outwardly I was calm enough.
I turned; 1 advanced toward them.
CHAPTER III.
The One Woman.
I scanned each face intently as I
approached them. There was a high,
delicate color on the cheeks of the
elder woman. She was frowning
slightly. I could not be sure whether
curiosity or annoyance was the domi
nant note of her bearing. But pres
ently I saw that it was rather resent
ment and thinly veiled contempt.
During the past week scorn and con
tempt had flashed from too many eyes
that I should misinterpret that look.
They knew, then, the story of my dis
grace. That fact would explain the
expression of contempt; but why this
strange resentment, this indignation?
The younger woman, the daughter,
for the likeness was unmistakable, sat
motionless as I approached. The atti
tude was significant of a feeling more
hostile and deeper than that which
agitated the mother.
It was the mother who spoke, not
without evident reluctance;
"Is it true that you are Mr. Haddon
—Mr. Ernest Haddon?
“It is true,” I replied quietly.
‘Then you were with Mr. Lawrence
Willoughby when the tragedy oc
curred?” she continued in a deep,
even voice.
"Yes, madam.”
“I am Mrs. Bretf. -This is my daugh
ter, Miss Brett.”
Again I bowed gravely. The girl
made a slight inclination, but her
eyes still gazed intently at the little
beacon light that still burned on the
mountain.
j I heard the name at first with an
1 idle curiosity. Then vaguely I re
| peated it to myself. I had heard it
I before. It awoke startled memories.
! I vainly tried to place these people
who were compelling themselves to
speak to me with so evident a reluct
! anee and hesitation,
i "I am sure I have heard, only late
I Perhaps, assented Mrs. Brett bit
terly, “it was Mr. Willoughby him
self—“
“Mother!" The daughter touched
the mother's arm appealingly.
“Yes,” I said in a low voice, “I re
member now.”
“Then, sir," and the question rose
to a crescendo of restrained feeling,
“when we were informed only a mo
ment ago that you were Mr. Haddon,
you will understand why we have sent
for vou?”
i
“Yes, madam, 1 understand. You
wish to hear from my lips—the lips
of the survivor—of the tragedy?”
Willoughby had loved the daughter.
When death had faced us together, he
had spoken of her. At such a time
one opens one’s heart, even to a
stranger. And he had told me of his
heart's desire; he had told me of his
despair that she had not returned his
love. At least not openly. But now,
when it was too late, perhaps she
realized that she had loved him after
all. If that were so. with what ab
horrence must she regard me. And if
I were to tell her everything—that he
had died reproaching me for cow
ardice— Yes. pain and humiliation
were indeed to be the price of this
meeting.
Yet outwardly I maintained a stoic
calm. I knew there must be no ex
cuses for myself. Whether this wom
an had loved him or not, at least his
memory must be sacred to her. The
man who was dead had paid the last,
penalty of presumption and folly. But
that must not be hinted at; it was my
weakness and cowardice that I must
emphasize.
"Helena," Mrs. Brett turned to her
daughter, “would you prefer that Mr.
Haddon speak to you alone?”
“Yes, mother, I should prefer that.”
“I shall wait for you, Helena, in the
writing room. Good evfening, Mr.
Haddon.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
TWO BIG QUESTIONS
THE “MORAL OBLIGATION” AND
“DOES IT PAY?”
SHOULD BE CONSIDERED
An Honest Answer to These Will
Keep the Trade with the
Home Merchant Every
Time,
(Copyrighted. 190<;, by Alfred C. Clark.)
When the thrifty person or his wife
sits down for the first time—or any
time—with the mail order catalogue
and its temptations, there are two,
and only two, points to be taken into
consideration.
One of these is moral obligation,
and the chances are that that will be
dismissed as sentimental nonsense.
The other Is—Will it pay? and to
that the thrifty person will be in
clined to interpret an answer from the
prices quoted in black-faced figures in
the catalogue.
Neither of these tjuestions should
be lightly dismissed. Moral obliga
tion is not sentimental nonsense, and
black-iaced figures sometimes lie.
The duty a man owes to his own
community and his obligation to trade
at home are so often reiterated in the
country press that, possibly like some
of the preaching, it has a tendency
to harden the hearts of the sinners.
Nevertheless, the principle is true as
gospel.
What has your neighboring town
given you, Mr. Farmer? A market for
jour produce. What has made 25 to
50 per cent, of the present value of
tage. And this brings us to the sec
ond point in the argument-—the para
mount question in this commercial
age—' Will it pay?”
By most people an affirmative an
swer to that question is accepted as
the call of duty. As a matter of fact.
"Will it pay?” is a good test to apply
to any project or proposition. There
are commercial, as well as political,
demagogues, and the man who is ap
pealed to on the score of patriotism
or profit, duty or dollars, can scarcely
do better than to sit down by himself
and submit that question—"Will it
pay?”—to his own best judgment.
Provided always, that he goes to the
very bottom of it.
I believe that every mas ought to
know why he does so and so. Too
many of us travel in ruts. We get the
habit of buying certain goods or trad
ing at certain places when we might
do better by changing. This will ap
ply sometimes to people who trade at
home as well as to those who buy
abroad. It is always well to investi
gate!. I have known people to make
expensive trips to the city to buy
goods that the village merchant would
have sold them for less money. They
hadn't taken the trouble to investi
gate.
What are the relative advantages of
buying at the local store and ordering
from a catalogue house? Advantages,
understand, that figure in the ques
tion, “Will it pay?” Don’t get e.way
from that question. It certainly is
very comfortable to sit down by your
own fireside and select a dress pattern
or a sulky plow from a printed des
cription and a picture of the article:
much more comfortable, in fact, than
hitching up and driving to town on a
raw day.
A consideration more important,
perhaps, is that the printed price in
V V /'
The fire of publicity is the medium the mail-order houses are using to
destroy this community. It is up to you, Mr. Merchant, to fight the devil
with fire. By the aid of the local press you can hold him over the scorching
flames, and put a stop to his devastating competition ro far as this com
munity is concerned. Will you not assist in the good light?
your farm? The accessibility of a
market. You know what your grand
father did on that same farm? Drove
his hogs and hauled his grain 30, 50,
maybe 75 miles to the nearest market
town, and received prices for them
that would make you howl about the
trusts. And he hauled back the fam
ily supplies for which he paid what,
you would consider monopolistic
prices. Do you happen to know what
th.e old farm was worth then? Well,
it lacked a good deal of being $75 or
$100 an acre.
Yes, the home towi», with its handy
market, has advanced the value of
your property and made you worth
several thousand dollars more than
your grandfather was worth. The
home town affords schooling for your
children, and perhaps social and j
church privileges which your family I
would not otherwise enjoy. The rural j
mail routes and telephone systems, j
radiating from the home town, as !
spokes from a hub, bring to your
home the greatest conveniences of
modern times.
V\ hsit would your tarm be wortft
and how many of these advantages
would you be enjoying now. if the
city from which that mail order cata
logue came were your nearest market,
your most accessible trading point,
your only post office and social center,
the only place to which you could look
to connect you with the outside
world?
Have you ever noticed that the first
thing the settlers of a newly-opened ;
reservation do is to send for a wagon 1
load of mail order catalogues? Well, I
haven’t. They lay out a town site
every six or eight miles, start two or ,
three general stores, build a school
house, a church, a blacksmith shop, a ;
grain elevator, petition the depart- |
ment for a post office, and start a
newspaper. They know, from former (
experience that, with these things
close by, life will be endurable, what- ,
ever hardships may come. They know. ,
also, that without them they must live -
lives of isolation and endure an exist- £
ence that is contrary to all natural ,
human instincts. ,
On the other hand, it goes without ,
saying, that the average country town ,
cannot exist without the support of t
its tributary territory. Then, if that (
town affords the advantages for the ,
rural citizen that have been enumerat- •
ed, there exists what we may call an -
interdependence and a moral obliga- s
tion between the two. Ace. you, Mr. £
Thrifty Farmer, living up to that ob- .
ligation when you do your trading ,
with the mail order house? (
To this line of argument the farmer
may answer that his greatest obliga
tion, his first duty, is to his immediate
household, and that among the duties
to his family and to the heirs of his !
estate is that of practicing judicious i
economy—buying where he can buy 1
the cheapest anti to the best advan- 1
L Vji ‘l , ; |V, * ■_
the catalogue seems, in some cases at
least, to be lower than the price
quoted at the local store. Isn't that
conclusive? Let's see. The catalogue
describes the goods and quotes a
price; maybe it gives a picture of the
article also, but you don't see the
goods. The local merchant shows you
the goods; you may examine them
critically; he may allow you to test
them or to call in an expert to advise
you. Is it fair to conclude that the
catalogue article is the cheaper just
because the price is lower?
An element that must enter into the
comparison of goods and prices is.
that in any attempt to fool the; cus
tomer, the local merchant Is decided
ly at a disadvantage. He must show
the goods, not merely describe them.
His business depends wholly upon the
limited trading area of his town and
tiis ability to inspire confidence within
that circle. He cannot afford to make
i practice of misrepresenting his
;cods.
ine mail order house is not so tied
Jown to the maxim that ‘‘Honesty is
he best policy.” It has no neighbors,
to fellow citizens, no mutual interests
with its patrons. Its trade area is
wide and always shifting. Naturally
:hese conditions do not demand extra
ordinary vigilance in supplying hon
3st-niade goods. And where Vigilance
is not a needed employe in the busi
ness he is generally taken off the pay
■oil, which makes a saving in expense,
is well as in the cost of the goods. If
o-wer prices are quoted by the cata
pgue house, may not this account for
t?
“Will it pay?” Is it a matter of
economy to buy inferior and damaged
;oods when the same money, or even
i little more, will pay for goods of the
test quality? Which course does a
nan s first duty to his own household
lictate?
But to get at the bottom of that
[uestion, we must consider the far
eaching general efTect of mail order
rading. If single catalogue houses
re to be capitalized at $40,000,000.
hey must be reckoned with along
rith Standard Oil, the beef trust and
ailroad mergers. If they are allowed
o suck the blod from our country
owns, your grandchildren will fln<j
onditions much the same as those o£
our grandfather’s time. Their ma*
:ets will be 30. 50 or 75 miles away
'he towns and villages will be de
erted, and the “hubs" will be toe dls
ant to send the radiating spokes of
ural mall, telephone lines and othe
aodern conveniences far into the
ountry.
CHARt.ES BRADSHAW.
Cunning ahd Ignorance.
Cunning always has been the of
ensive and defensive weapon of i~.
lorance. “Match cunning with cun
ling” only as a If st resort.—John a
lowland. * a **
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