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About The commoner. (Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-1923 | View Entire Issue (June 22, 1906)
JUNE 22, 1906 The Commoner. 13 lOor 3 books for litres tors miIM on rteeipi of 6 eu. sUn R,g.dcfl.U.Lmjtl,Washlnton,D.C. slanhs I Estab. 1869. I Central MIsflourl Forms. Wrlto for illustrated llstof 100 farms; each described and pricod. Fall in formation. Hamilton & Son, Fulton, Mo. cm All' every P Catalog TREES ARE FAMOUS wherever planted; are planted everywhere trees are grown. Freo itnlort of superb fruits Black Ben. King David, Delicious, etc.-SUkBro's,LoWa,Mt. PATENT SECURED! I OR PEE RETURN ED. FbkkOpihior as to rjatcnt&hllltr. Send for Guide Book and What to Invent. Finest FnblicaUon Issued for Fnxx Distribution. Patents Closured by us Advertised at our Bxponso. Kvan. WUkeni 4 Co., CIS F St.. Washington. D. 0. POLITICS IN NEW ZEALAND Is thotltloof a pamphlet of 11G pages whlph tolls all about.tho succoss of tho Torrons system of land transfers, government telegraph and tolopbono linos, government railroads, postal Bavlngs banks -and other reforms. Prlco 25c postpaid. Address TJ. TAYIiOlt, Baker JBldg., IMillft dolphin, Pa. CASH (CmMM ijiMi HSri This ELEGAKT Watch $3 Btfortyoa boT w(& cut thU oot and tud to ni with jour nun ut aaatwi, ana w win ena jou dj mi f of tximlBtUoa bandjoa U ATC H CHAIN C. Q.D. $3.76. banting cm, DtuitimlT nsta. ium vtnd and lUaMkBUMWlu arubiTjcwtitaniOTesiintaBa (ornate a ecRMt tUaikttpcr, with lang Gold rUltd analn fr ladlu or tm! ebaln for Otnti! t yon oaM H aqnal to any $15 OOI.D FILMED WATCH Warranted 20 TKAItS jjthiprMacat8.75aadlllJ yonit. Out 20 yaffuamit(nt with each watoli. Mention If Ton vast Q.nU er Ladlet' llw. AddrtM FABBKK A CO.,181 . S8 QmUejSL.CUICAOO, THE INLAND FARMER v Published at Louisville, Ky. One of the largest,- most Influential and substantial agricultural papers published in the south-central states. Sixteen to twenty-four pages weekly. Subscription grico one dollar per year. PECIAX. OFFER: For a limited time only wo can make rcadors of The Com' moner a special clubbing price of $1.25 for both papers for one year. Send all orders to Tho Commoner. Lincoln, Neb. Posts For Permanent Fencing The cement ago has developed noth ing of greater economic importance than the STEEL REINFORCED, CON CRETE FENCE POST. The Janesville Cement Post Co. has boon manufacturing theso posts for the last four years and they havo been general ly distributed throughout tho country for FARM, RAILROAD AND LAWN FJBNOKS, and havo given universal satisfaction. Thoy will not rot, burn or rust. When once sot you huvo a POST FOR ALL TIME. They Cost -But Little More Than Wood Tho Season for fenco repairs and building, Is now at hand. " Wrlto to us for booklet and prices. Janesville Cement Post Co., Janesville, Wis. OPENING OF THE SHOSHONE RESERVATION Special lowrates will be made via the Chicago and Northwestern to Sho ehoni and Lander, Wyo. For the opening of the Shoshone reservation, 1,500,000 acres of land free to the public. Tickets will be sold July 12th to the 29th inclusive. Final return limit August 15th, 1906. Stopovers Allowed west of Missouri river in both directions within Homeseekera' territory. Registration Will be made at Shoshoni and Lander, Wyo., commencing July 16th and ending July 31st, 1906. . . Drawing For allotment of lands will be held at Lander., Wyo., commencing Au gust 4th, 1906, and will continue for such period as may be necessary to complete. The only line that will land you on the reservation. Full Information In regard to train schedules and rates for tickets from various points in the country, freight rates on house hold goods, with maps and printed matter on application to S. F. MILLER, Assistant General Freight and Pas senger Agent,. Omaha, Neb. JiA ?5r i?iiwh$TIv3 i Hr f -- " J Br 11 i-m r I L. V m T fill ff " " ominwnfcf "Old Home Week" Back' to the home of childhood; back to tho old. old days: Back to the dear old wildwood; back to the old home ways, Where our young feet strayed in the sun and shade, And we gaily roamed in the flow'ry glade; When life was a dream in a gnome land laid, And all of the unsought future was bright to our youthful gaze. Through each field and glen of the golden Then Once more our feet are straying, And we catch the breeze in ithe old, old trees That sweet old chants are playing. We tread the paths through the dear old grove; And delve in memory's treasure trove, And the tired Now In the old Then blends And we grasp the hands of our playtime friends; And a new light shines in our weary eyes As the old, old tunes we're hum ming. For we've laid the load by the dusty road -To haste to the Old Home Coming. Through the quiet street our eager feet The way to the old house taking. To our eager sight on the left and right The old-time scenes are breaking. We stand once more in the dim old hall While memory's echoing voices call. We catch a glimpse of a sweet old face That .used to smile by the fireplace, And the old love lies in those dear old eyes That, memory bring to greet us. And we see once more that form of yore That memory brings to meet us. Back to the home of childhood; back to the old, old days; Back to the dear old wildwood; back z to the old home ways, Where we dreamed youth's dreams midst the golden gleams That playefl on waves of the rip pling streams; When life was as light as the noon sun's beams, And all of the unsought future was bright to our youthful gaze. Rambling Thoughts About a Variety" of Things Last week you went back to the eld home, persuaded by the beautiful and touching advertisements of the rail road companies about "Old Home Week' It hail been well nigh twenty years since you visited the old home town, and having a few days of com parative idleness you decided to re visit the old scenes. ' Of course you had a good time. That was assured before you started. But amidst the good times of that visit there appeared many a memory that saddened you. You discovered that the old court house which .seemed a veritable castle in your youthful days is merely a. very small building wholly lacking In architectural beauty. The residence of Judge Blank, which was -the pride of the community when you were a boy, is a very cheap cottage compared with the residences that surround you on every sldo at homo. Tho sidewalks on the business streets are narrow, the stores dingy, the streets dusty, and tho same old, di lapidated hitching rack surrounds the public square. You were at the old home town only a few days until you learned that most of your old companions long since moved away, that many of them are dead, and those who remain grown so old and sedate that it gives you a shock to think you are as old as tney. xou nave never reit your age so much as when one of your old chums introduces you to his son- or his daughter, and find that the boy or the girl is as old as you were when you packed up and struck out into the world for yourself. The old creek where you used to swim and fish, and which was a noble stream when you were a lad, is now a very insignificant, muddy and slug gish creek, and you can scarcely be lieve it when your old companions tell you that it is fully as bjg as it ever was. On your way back to the old home you hug yourself with joy at the thought of going down to the old swimming hole and taking another header from the oak stump on the high bank. But when you wander down to the old swimming hole you change your mind and wonder how anybody could ever have taken any pleasure in wallowing around In that dirty water. Then you wander back to the hotel and take a bath in a bucket In your room, muttering be cause you can not tumble Into a por celain bathtub and havo a real, gen uine, refreshing bath. You pause on the corner by the old grocery store and listen for a few minutes to the "village oracles." Then you pass on. The men you once thought the possessors of all wisdom, are discussing very trivil things with an air of great importance, and you saunter on, wondering how you ever conceived the Idea that those men were wise. When you left tho old town you had your forturro yet to make, and when you get back you are pros perous, well-to-do, and a factor in the business and social life of your homo city. It comes as a shock when the men back at the old home confess by their queries that they have not heard of you for years and really never know what became of you after you left the old home. Somehow or other you fancy that they would have heard of you and mentioned you with pride to strangers had they only been a lit tle more particular about keeping up with the times. As a matter of fact, unless you hap pen to have some near and dear rela tives at the old home your visit is likely to become somewhat of a bore after the first day. The really bright spot is In meeting some of your old school chums who have been content to remain near the home nest. You get off by yourselves in the shade of the old trees in the court house yard and spend a few happy hours recall ing the old school days and inquiring about the old schoolmates. But this pleasure is alloyed by the reports of the untimely death of this one or that one. "Jack" Welch died in the hos pital at Santiago. "Billy" Korns squeezed to death between the bump ers of a freight train. "Ted" Stanley the broken'down dissolute whose end was prophesied by his lack of restraint while a schoolboy. "Spike" McGraw and there you feel proud that you wero "Spike's boyhood chum, for "Spike" met tho death of a hero. Ho hold tho throttlo of his engine In a vain endeavor to save his train and its precious burden when ho might have escaped by deserting his post. You Just know "Spiko" was that kind of a follow,, for he was tho boy who invariably took tho part of his weaker playmates, and It was "Spike" that finally met the town bully in pitched battle and at last whipped him to a frazzlo, and all becauso the town bully "picked on" some of the littlo follows. There was a ball game while you wero back at the old homo, and you went down to tho old ball grounds the same old grounds you played on long ago. You felt young and spry an you walked over, but when you got there a lot of things happened to mane you realize your age. There was a brawny young follow behind tho bat, right whore you used to play. He was just about the ago you were whon you were making a record as an amateur catcher, and It cornea as a shock to learn that he Is the son of one of the boys who used to play with you on tho old team. Nearly every member of the team is a son of one of the old schoolmates, and somehow or other you forgot to watch the fine points of the game and let your mind hark back through more years than you want to acknowledge. One of the last places you visit is an old frame house that sits hack' from tho street in tho shade rjf peach and apple trees. You have saved that as the crowning pleasure of the visit, and yet, somehow, there is a pathos about tho pleasure that gives a pain. In those old rooms you wcrriecrfluCfc your lessons, or prepared your tackle for the Saturday fishing trip, or planned great deeds for your mature years. And in that corner bedroom the one whose window looks towards the east you were called one nover-to-be-forgotten night, and there re ceived tho farewell kiss and blesBlng of the best woman God ever made your mother. You wouldn't miss standr ing once more in that old room for all the wealth of the Indies, and yet it tears your heartstrings and the dry sobs make your throat ache. Through the mist that dims your eyes you look back through all those years and see again that dear old face. You see again the sister and tho brother, who knelt with you by the bedside while the wan and fevered hand of a noble woman caressed your hair, and you see again the bowed form and the stricken face of the strong man who stood there, tearless and rigid because ho did not want to make the parting hard er for you and the companion of his bosom through tho weary but happy years that had slipped into the past. You turn away from that little house and with weary steps and slow re turn to the hotel. You feel that your visit is over. There is nothing left there for you. Nothing? Ah, the grass-covered jnound in God's Acre, just over the hill beyond the town. And there 'you kneel and let loose the flood of tears that has been beat ing for egress ever since you caught the first glimpse of tho old town upon your visit. Then you pack your grip and take the train for home home where duty lies and where loved ones wait for you. The greatest pleasure of the visit back to the old home comes as your train is speeding homeward, for memory is busy. You close your eyes and see the old scenes Just as they were in those long dead years. You recall old friends whom you did, not recall while wandering about the vil lage streets. And amidst the troop '! r : r Tj !' Ifl ." jY jkv