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UNCLE EPHRAIM AND THE CORN CURE
UST after the war, there lived in
the town of 0 , an old Dr.
Killens, who, despite his murder
ous name, was famous in those
parts as the administerer of the
famous “corn cure for rheuma
tism.” This treatment consisted
in digging a deep trench in the
1J1• . 1 . •
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* ground, standing the patient or pa-
tients therein, the trench being deep enough
for the head only to protrude, after the ptaient
had been covered with hot-corn and dirt. It
was a gruesome sight if one came upon it sud
denly—the patient appeared to be “coming
up” like a plant. However, the fame of this
treatment spread far and wide and the doc
tor’s practice became lucrative indeed.
Old Uncle Ephraim had migrated slowly
from farmer to farmer, and towards the town
•of 0 , until he finally decided to transfer
his commercial transactions to the town of
<0 seeking new pastures of credit, and
his first trip carried him past the famous patch
for rheumatism.
It was a fine June morning as he drove
■along, his enormous white head looked like a
huge cotton boll ready to be plucked. His out
fit was remarkable, a wobbly cart, drawn by
an old mule, as thin as the attendance on a
prayer meeting. The harness was a marvelous
assortment, a shuck collar, belly band of an
•old suspender, hickory bark “britchin’,”
traces of well rope and copious extracts here
and there from an old hoop-skirt and a wire
fence.
Mike had two gaits, a slow walk and run
ning away.
As Uncle Ephraim neared the town he lifted
up his voice in song, shutting his eyes and
heating time on the back of the unmindful
mule.
“ ‘ David play yon yo ’ hahp, halleloo, halleloo —
David play yon yo’ hahp, halle ”
“Loojerwo!” Whut de debbil you doin’
stoppin’ right yere in front uv a gemmun’s
house, jes’ like I uz Balaam and youse er mule
right outen de Bible. Dey ain’ nuttin’ ter git
skeered uver—yes, dey is! Whut in de worl’
is dat ober dar in dat yard? Fo’ Gawd, taint
nuttin’ but des’ haids, pyore haids, lyin’ loose!
Tarn erroun’ here, mule, you sho is one mule
wid sense, —dis nigger ain’ gwine by dares
Ed. Note: These beautiful and timely
thoughts on “Peace on Earth,” were handed in
for our Christmas issue, but by some means
got misplaced, only being unearthed this week,
and we feel they should not be hid away for a
whole year.
“It came upon the midnight air
That glorious song of old
When angels bending o’er the earth
To touch their harps of gold,
'Peace on earth, good will to men,’
From Heaven’s own gracious King,
The world in solemn stillness lay
'To hear the angels sing.”
So sang the sweet English poet Milton.
Christmas time reminds us of the angel’s
song, and it is well to let this note ring out
midst the unbelief and discord of the times in
which we live.
Thank God, the song was “Peace on Earth.”
Everybody expects peace in Heaven. There
is one place where the din and horror of war
are unknown. Its streets of gold have not
been stained by blood; its walls and towers are
beyond the range of •bullets and shells; its in-
PEA CE ON EAR TH:
The Golden Age for January 16,1913.
By MARVIN WILLIAMS.
he know ’isself. Lawser mussy, look at ’em,
turnin’ dey haids an’ grinnin’, Sah! You say,
mawnin’! Yassir, I say mawnin’, an’ dat
ain’t awl, I saw ’fah-ye-well.’ You jes’ watch
me and dis mule.”
As Mike went flying back down the road to
ward home, Uncle Ephraim appeared greatly
dissatisfied with his exertions, and belabored
him frantically. “Git out’n heah, Mike; git
out’n heah! You ain’ movin’! Move, mule,
move! Youse jes’ practisin’! Dey ain’
no tellin’ but whut dem haids ’ill
ketch us ’fore night. Dems debbils’ haids!
Dey don’t need no laigs, dey kin fly thoo de
air!. Dey ain’ no tejlin’ but whut dem haids
’ill ketch us ’fore we git home!”
When he got home, Aunt Milly gave him but
scant comfort, insisting that she “didn’t be
lieve no ghos’ tales whut happened in de day
time.”
So, after a week of harness patching and re
flection, Uncle Ephraim plucked up courage to
venture the journey anew, though this time,
by a route that left the haunted territory far
to the side.
All day he feasted his soul on the glories of
a “Satday in town.” Late in the afternoon
he was regaling some old-timers, who stood up
on the sidewalk in front of Dr. Bones’ drug
store, with an account of the “magical heads”
experience. The Doctor chanced to overhear
much of it. Seized with a spirit of mischief,
he beckoned the old darkey in for further fun.
While he was eliciting an account of the in
cident, more red-hued than ever, a devilish
clerk slipped behind the old darky and drop
ped into the pocket of his frayed old coat, a
black forefinger, which the Doctor had ampu
tated that morning.
“Why, Uncle,” commented the Doctor,
“that’s nothing remarkable. Why I frequent
ly cut off people’s heads that way, and leave
them alive awhile. Or I can take their ears
off or their noses or take their eyes out! For
instance, Come here, Charlie,” calling a clerk,
who happened to have a glass eye, “I might
take this man’s eye out for illustration, if you
promise not to run.”
“Who run? Me run? Boss, you know I
ain’t gwineter have no reason to run sum no
sich circumstantiation as dat. Uh, 0, Boss,
don’t do dat po’ man dat way, please, suh! Oh!
Lawd hits bulgin’! Stick it back! Good-bye
en farewell. Lawd help me ter git home. Gib
habitants have no fear of a despoiling army to
bring to it famine, pestilence and death.
But the song is: “Peace on Earth.” This old
earth of ours, where at least fifteen billions of
human beings have fallen on battlefields! Here,
where war has slaughtered a mighty host of the
bravest and best of the children of men.
We seem a long way off from Peace on earth,
for never were the preparations for war so ap
palling as they are today. There is a perfect
craze for armament. Here in America we are
spending one million dollars each day for past
wars, and preparation for war to come. Sev
enty-two per cent, of all our Federal income,
outside of the postal receipts, which is a busi
ness of its own, goes for the maintenance of
the army and navy and pensions, and but twen
ty-eight per cent, for all other purposes! That
is to say, in one year, the government spends
$423,000,000 for war, and but $181,000,000 for
all other purposes!
But, why go to war? It never settles the
right or wrong of any question. It is an ap
peal to force and not to reason. One time if
two had a dispute they settled it with a
me and my mule wings, Oh! Lord, ter git
home.”
Around the fire that night sat Uncle
Ephraim, Aunt Milly and six little pickanin
nies, with their ebony shanks glistening in the
firelight.
Uncle Ephraim reached over into the fire
place, raked out a coal, balanced it on his
crusty palm, dropped it over on his pipe, and,
after three mighty puffs declared, “Milly, I’s
conjured! ’Taint no us ter wall dem big
black eyes at me; I tell you, I’s conjured. I
sees things.”
“Whut else you been seeing sides dem
haids?”
“Pshur, Milly, dat ain’t nuttin’! I wuz
in Doctor Bones’ drug store, an’ he say ‘lo, and.
behole’ I take dis man’s eye out! And, bress
Gawd, he ain’t moren’ tetch dat man’s eye
’fore hit bus’ out his haid like er darning egg
bus’ out de heel of an ol’ sock!”
“Aw, hush nigger! You is de bigges’ liar!
What else you see?”
“Pshur! Dat ain’ nuttin’, nuttin!_ He des’
kep’ on takin’ ’em out tell he had a wash-pan
full right out’n’ de same hole, and den he
unscrew his nose an’ take it off an’ he twis’
his Adam’s apple roun’ until it wurk up and
down under his lef’ ear.”
About that time, Uncle Ephraim ran his hand
into his coat pocket for more tobacco, jerked
out a clammy object and let a yell that might
have been heard a mile.
“Whut in de worl’ is dat? It’s de finger ob
de debbil,” hq shrieked, as he dropped the fore
finger on the hearth, and fell to his knees.
“Git on your knees! Everybody git to yore
knees! 0, Lawd, fergib dis po’ nigger whut
ain’ neber done nuttin’, no wuss dan lyin’ or
stealin’, (Milly, some er dem wuz lies I wuz
tellin’ you),—and fergib us all our cruspasses
and tek de conjure off uv dy po’ sufferin’
chile.”
And there that poor old darky prayed a
prayer that echoed to the skies.
When they arose the black forefinger was
gone. Uncle Eph. insists to this day that it
disappeared in answer to prayer, but little
Jeff, who kept one eye open throughout his
father’s petitions, insists that the omniverous
yaller cur rose from his place by the chimney
corner, sniffed it for a moment, and then bore
it between his teeth to some remote corner of
the back yard.
By J. J. HALL
duel. That day has gone by, now they appeal
to law, and carry their grievances to a court of
justice.
Can not nations do this?
If we would have peace on earth we must
be peaceful ourselves; abhor that which is evil
and cling to that which is good. Yes, we must
practice peace and pray for peace. The day
of the Prince of Peace is at hand.
4* 4* 4*
A “HURRAH” FROM ALABAMA.
Hurrah! for a David who is not afraid to hit
the Goliath of Sin in high places, even the
mighty Hearst, when his paper declares that
“Drink does not cause poverty—poverty
causes drink,” and other “yellow” things!
“Here’s hoping” that The Golden Age
will become a great daily and step into the
breach made when the one time Prohibition
“Georgian” fell from its high position.
I do believe you could handle it, Upshaw,
and make it a mighty engine of power for God
and right!
Here goes one vote for you, anyhow!
Pine Apple, Ala. E. B. FARRAR.
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