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Tlie Commoner.
VOLUME 5, NUMBER 45
12
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A Boy's Complaint
"Wlion I was jus' a little boy," pa
often says to me,
"I had more fun a goln' t' school
than anybody roun';
An, If there wuz some mischief up
T'1 mirtv shore t' bo
Mixed up In it worse than th' rest
uv all th' boys in town.
I recollect onct on a time" An' then
ho tells a tale
Uv how him an' some other boys
jus' played a orfle trick,
But now, if I jus' bat .. eye in school
ho says he'll whalo
Th' very stuflln' out o' meSay,
that jus' makes me sick.
A few days jus' 'fore Hollere'en pa
lays his paper (lorn
An says: "Ma, recollect th time
we young kids in Bluo Hill
Jus tore up sidewalks, fences, gates,
an' purt' nigh wrecked th' town?"
Then up an' told 'bout how 'twas
done, an' laughed nigh fit t' kill.
So Hollere'en I done th' same, . an'
gee, 'twas lots o' fun.
But pa caught on an' he wuz mad
I saw that at a glance.
He says to me, says ne: "Look here;
that's gotter stop, my son,"
Then took me t' th' woodshed
where he dusted off my pants.
One night last watermelon time pa
brung a buster out,
An' while we wuz a eatin' it he
says: "Ma, recollect
Th' time mo an' th other kids snaked
some from or Bill Stout?"
Then told th' tale 'tween lushus
bites that his shirt bosom flecked.
An' pa he laughed n st fit t' kill
about that melon raid,
So on that night some boys an' me
went out an' swiped some, too.
But pa found out an larruped me
Gee, how that hlck'ry playeu!
Now I don't think it's hardly fair
t' act like that. Do you?
Tain't fair f'r pas V talk about th'
.. fun they had, an then
Turn roun' when they've boys uv
their own an' say we oughter be
Ashamed t' act so orfle bad, an' tell
us t' be men
. An' quit such wicked things like
that. It don't look squai. t' me.
Pa's had his good tiiuo. but if I jus'
undertake a trlclc
He tells us havln' played when he
was jus' about my size,
He scowls an says: "Will-yum, you
go an' git that hlck'ry stick "
An' when pa whips yc . better bet
th' fur jus' fairly flies.
It ain't no fun t' be a boy now-days,
cause parents say
The things they done when they wuz
young ain't right t' do no more;
'An they expect their kids to be Lord
Fauntelroys each day-
An' then they talk uv the!. good times,
an' that's what maices me sore.
No melon raids, no Hollere'en; jus
sft aroun'. O, pshaw!
Ain't wo boys gotter right to Icicle
th' way they're treating us?
.When I grow up to be a man an' git
t' be a pa
TTpu bet my boy can have his fun
an' I won't raise no fuss.
Just Thoughts
'"What has become of the old
fashioned rag carpet?" queries an
Iowa editor.
There are a few of them left, and
you will find them in the quiet and
peaceful homes of the old-fashioned
folk in Missouri and Illinois. And you
couldn't make a room look as rest
ful with Turkish rugs, r.nd melton
carpets and Assyrian dewdads, as
you can with a warm, thick "hit-an'-iniss"
rag carpet like our grand
mothers used to make. When you
walk in on one of those rag carpets
you just feel like kicking off jour
shoes, flinging your coat in a corner,
and flopping right down in front of
the stofo to get a re .1, genuine rest.
None of your dinky little old dingy
rugs that decorate a polished floor
like a postage stamp on a No. 10 en
velope. Not much! When you step
on that rag carpet you know it's
tacked down and that it won't slip
out from under you and throw you
up against a lot of ' bric-abrac piled
in artistic abandon on a wobbly
onyx table that stands precariously
on three legs right where it will
smash the gold fish globe if it top
ples over. Not much it won't. You
know that carpet, made by a bright
eyed old mother whoso cheeks were
rosy and whose mouth always wore
a smile, and not by a sore-eyed Turk
sitting cross-legged on a dirt floor and
weaving impossible designs out JL
rags that came from, nobody knows
where I say, you know that carpet
will stay right there under your feet
and not go to forcing you into a
gymnastic exercise that will betray
your stiff old joints and ypur forty
four inches around the waistband.
The old rag carpet Is a perpetual
invitation to a good time!' When you
see it you know you' are welcome.
But when you enter a room with a
waxed floor and a job lot of imported
rugs scattered here and there you
just feel in your bones that the host
is wondering if the ails in your
shoes are going to scratch the floor
or break a thread in the rugs.
Ever drink cider and eat apples
and crack walnuts ana hic':orynuts
and pop corn in a room that had a
waxed floor and a lot of dingy rugs
from Abbyssinia or Hindoostan or
Turkestan or some other foreign
parts? Not a bit of it. But in a
low-ceilinged room whose rough floor
was covered with a rag carpet you've
done all those things and had more
fun in a minute than you could have
on a waxed floor and :. lot of rugs
in a whole generation. And you re
member just such a room, too. And
you'd give all the imported rugs and
waxed floors and electric lights and
artists' proofs and modern plumbUg
and everything else in your house if
you could just slip nack into that
room for one evening and sit there
surrounded by the same loved ones
that surrounded you, O so many years
ago. You remember every stripe In
that old carpet. That red was a
part or your sister's dress. And
right over there is a dull gray that
recalls a pair of pants mother made
for you and which father dusted off
one day because you forgot to pull the
weeds out of the onion patch. And
thut stripe was a part of father's
old overcoat the one he discarded
the winter he sold the. hogs at such
a good price. And that one, and
that one, and that one yes. you re
call 'em all. Talk about imported
rugs!
"What has become of the old
fashioned carpet?"
It has gone out with a lot of other
good things to make way for tawdry
display of ostentatious wealth. It
was a luxury that lu to give way
as a sacrifice to foolish pride; a
comfort that had to be put behind in
order to satisfy a foolisr fancy lor
"artistic sense."
When our ship comes in we're go
ing to dig right down into the hold,
and if there isn't a big rag carpet
there we'll refuse to receive tho ship.
If there is, then we're going to put
that carpet right down on the par
lor floor, and tho first visitor who
turns up his or her probocis in a
sneering way is going to fail to re
ceive an invitation to take a chair.
That's what we think about the
old-fashioned rag carpet.
Failure
The Great Financier sat in his sump
tuous office and thought earnestly.
"My life has been a great success.
I have secured everything that the
heart of man -could desire, money,
fame, power everything."
"But you have not secured me,"
whispered a something from out the
surrounding silence. &
"What are you?" queried the Great
Financier.
"I am Love."
"But I have secured control of the
money of the country. I have se
cured control of the coal mines of
the country. I control the grain mar
kets, the railroads, the mills and the
factories."
"But you do not control me," said
a chilling voice from out of the sur
rounding silence.
"What is it that I do not control?"
queried the Great Financier.
"I am Death."
And when they found the Great
Financier in the morning they found
him captive instead of captor.
Regrettable Mistake
Hearing a noise in his room the
president of the ExcitabU MutuaMn
surance company sprang from his
bed, turned on the electric switch
and saw a masked man standing by
the safe.
"How dare you invade my prem
ises?" demanded the awakened
sleeper.
"I beg pardon, boss," said Bill the
Bug. "I got twisted in me bearin's
an' didn't know wncre I was. I
didn't mean to butt In an' work your
side of th' street."
Bowing gracefully and begging par
don for his unprofessional conduct,
Bill the Bug retired hastily through
the window.
The Difference
The czar of Russia is worth forty
million dollars and has ten millions
a year to spend.
My bank account 1- in red ink and
the czar's income for a day would
make my yearly wage look like a
busted toy balloon.
But I can walk whistling down the
street, while the czar hikes under
the bed every time he hears a fo-t-step
in the hall, anj he is so busy
dodging poisoned food that he
couldn't enjoy a dinner of boiled corn
beef and cabbage if he tried.
Tajdng it all in all, we'd rather
whistle and enjoy corned beef and
cabbage than to have 'steen millions
and be afraid to come out into the
open.
A Greater One
"Say, Billson; what wa.the riddle
of the Sphinx?"
"I don't know, but I'll bet it wasn't
a marker to the puzzio of trying to
patch up my busted automobile In a
rainstorm on a muddy road eleven
miles from home."
Brain Leak3
bureau. Chmt7 haS n aavtrtIsl2
loreBtZCmCQ deSn't mean sacriflc
We always envy a boy who ha aa
old maid aunt. p
Life is made up of trifles, but it In
unwise to trifle with it.
Some fathers think that in order
to be fair they. must fume.
Some men woudn't know what to
do if it were not for their brass tags.
The man who is always well often
wonders how so many doctors mako
a living.
It is hard to sit before a steam
radiator and call up recollections of
a happy past.
Some people start into save for a
rainy day and then become frightened
at the first little cloud.
What has become of the old-fash
ioned woman who always had a few
"pem'mint lozengers" in her reti
cule? When a man complains that he is
"down on his luck" it is pretty safe
to guess that he is also down on his
pluck.
One of the easy marks is the old
fashioned gentleman who still thinks
that it is a lawyer's business to settle
disputes.
When a man gets the notion in his
head that the world is against him
he is very apt to be willing to let
it be against him.
Once in a while we meet a man
who boasts that he neve: whips his
children, but we reserve judgment
until we know the children.
The worst feature about being sick
is that when you are just getting well
and want to tell your friends how sick
you were, he turns in and tells how
much sicker he was a few years ago.
Why is it that when these cooking
school "experts" give a demonstra
tion they usually broil a porterhouse
steak that would put the average
workingman's weekly wage Into a
crimp for thirty-six hours?
Unfair
"How much do you make a week?"
asked the visitor of the office boy who
was guiding him into the inner office.
"I make about nine bones a week,
but de boss keeps six of 'em."
HOW
Mrs, Keith Made
Christmas Money
MRS. GEORGE KEITH, of
Scranton, Pennsylvania, writes:
"For three years I have paid for
my own clothes, bought Christ
mas presents for the children and
earned my own spending money
by representing The Ladies
Home Journal and The
Saturday Evening Post among
my friends and neighbors. The
prize money received each spring
has been added to the fund
which we are saving to buy our
own home. Any mother will
appreciate how much satisfaction
this has given mc."
IN ADDITION to paying
liberally for every subscription
secured this winter, we shall give
$42,000 SSS&
Each month not less than 3B0O0 wjl
ho triven to 326 persons who do tno
beat work durlntr that month. Bvory
thine necessary wM bo snt 0Q rea
THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
E 72 Arch St, PWIadeipnia, . -
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