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
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