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PAGE SIX
The Americus Times-Recorder.
ESTABLISHED 1879.
Published by THE TIMES-RECORDER CO., (Inc.) Arthur Lucas,
President; Lovelace Eve, Secretary; W. S. Kirkpatrick, Treasurer.
WM. S. KIRKPATRICK, Editor; LOVELACE EVE, Business Manager.
Published every afternoon, except Saturday; every Sunday morn
ing, and as weekly (every Thursday.)
OFFICIAL ORGAN FOR:—City of Americus, Sumter County, Rail
road Commission of Georgia for Third Congressional Districct, U. S.
Court, Southern District of Georgia.
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in advance; by carrier, 15c per week, 65c per month, $7.80 per year.
Weekly Edition, $1.50 per year in advance.
Entered as second-class matter at the post office at Americus, Geor
gia, according to the Act of Congress.
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MEMBER ASSOCIATED PRESS. The Associated Press is exclu
sively entitled to the use for publication of all news dispatches credited to
it or not otherwise credited in this paper, and also the local news pub
lished herein. All rights of republication of speial dipatches herein con
tained are reserved.
’TODAY, in starting a column of pure ramblings, we might observe
* that Dr. William J. Hickson, criminologist, has given a name to
the most troublesome class of people in the world.
The men who resort to crime when they are out of work, who ,
desert their families, impose upon their friends, are a burden upon
others from the cradle to the grave —these are borderland defec-,
lives. ,
They cry out that “the world is against them.
And it is. . . , .
Nature is against them, because fhey are inefficient and anti-so
cial. Science can view them with detached understanding, their
mothers can pity them, but everybody else dislikes them.
When the shifty-eyed youth with a morbid twist in his mind, a
taint in his soul and bitterness in his heart comes along, he brings
>WOe To confine all the borderland defectives would be impossible.
Improving conditions of living and thinking among all classes
of people is the one sure way to get rid of them.
This will be the work of generations.
• • •
“VEARS ago a credulous man bought a "farm” in what the Northern
* people call ‘“down South.” He had visions of a Southern plan
tation, with darkies singing, and all that, but the spot was finally ,
located toward the middle of the Dismal Swamp.
Today it is estimated by C- C. Osborn, in the Bulletin of the
United States Geological Survey, that the Dismal Swamp contains
<>72,000,000 tons of. peat available for fuel.
This swamp lies in Virginia and North Carolina.
It is not as dismal as it was before the digging of the Dismal
Swamp canal, along with various other ditches, has drained 700 of
its 2,200 square miles.
.Much of this drained land is now under cultivation.
In the remaining 1,500 square miles are found great beds of
peat, in deposits ranging from one to 20 feet. The peat is best in
the deep deposits; here it is black and comparatively free from im
purities. The thick beds lying in the region east and northeast ol
Lake Drummond have been excavated somewhat recently and peat
18 feet deep has been exposed.
Morals—(a) there's hope in even a Dismal Swamp, and (b) ■
there's peat for heat when coal has gone.
* * *
V" ANS AS CITY court of appeals rules that "uh huh does not
legally signify consent, and connot be translated (legally) as
“yes." The matter before the court was a wedding ceremony; the
bridegroom gave his assent to the marriage by saying uh-huh.
From time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the
contrary it has been the custom to place less strain upon the vocal
chords by substituting "uh huh" for "yes.
But no more! Not in Kansas City, Mo.
Os course, this doesn't signify that the court there is right.
Other courts have ruled that a speaker’s language may be translated
into that used in the courtroom. They have interpreters for that
purpose- Evidently this Kansas City court needs some one to inter
pret English as it is spoken outside the court room.
The duty of a court is not tai hand down language decisions—
leave that to the school teacher—but to pass upon the law in the
case.
And most everybody knows that "uh huh" means "yes.
¥ ¥ *
j)O NOT BOAST, "1 am not superstitious, in the hearing of a real
student of the human mind.
He may prove to you that you are.
Wheat growers in the arid Northwest are demonstrating that
they are superstitious by hiring Hatfield, the Rainmaker.
Hatfield has been a rainmaker for 20 years, yet according to
the United States weather bureau, making rain can’t be done.
Whether or not he can make rain, Hatfield is living proof of a ■
mighty truth. Because he believes in himself, he is convincing.
San Diego, Cal., once paid Hatfield the compliment of suing
him for damages when a cloudburst followed his experiments.
. What science says doesn’t seem to matter when it is offset by i
personal experience.
• • •
a man who has made much money out of the display of the ■
female form comes out and says: "I want to see more clothes
on women; 1 want them to dress more modestly; I want to see
longer skirts and more of them,’’ there’s surely hope for the world
That’s Lee Shubert, theatrical producer.
When Dr. Bowlby, a leader in the Sunday reform movement,
declares ‘‘l believe in kissing. It is wonderfully delightful as an ex
ercise, and I m not against it either on week days or Sundays,” he
touches the human side of things. And it is hard to believe that
he favors the removal of the sun from Sunday, the hushing of the
gladsome song of the canary on that day, or the enjoining of the flight
of the bluebirds and swallows on a day set apart for. rest.
It is fair to presume that there is much good on each side of
almost every question. If Shubert favors a return to sanity in dress
ing it is not fair to question his motives by even expressing opinion
that with more clothes on the women outside, greater crowds will
pack his theater to see the girls in the ordinary garb of musical
comedy.
If dear old Dr. Bowlby and Mr. Shubert keep on moving in
their present direction, at no late date the millenium may arrive
♦» ¥ ,
Bergdoll says America has nothing to attract him. Never saw
Leavenworth all lighted up and the band playing
* ¥ •
Jess Willard says he cares nothing for money and apparently
he cares less than that for his facial contour-
¥ ¥ ¥
Having brushed against the stars in a balloon, Lieutenants Kloor
Jealous ‘Pote’ Takes Crack At
Our Home-Made Versifier
A jealous versifier has submitted the following for publication.
We leave it to the public whether his rhymes and meter are of supe
rior quality to those of the lyre twanger whom he derides:
EDITOR, we thirst Tor information.
In order to cOol our indignation,
Who is this “Mason,” the rhyming man
Who writes nomes. or thinks he tan?
Some “stuff” he’s handing out
Slings words, and things about ;
Tries very hard to make them rhyme
But the result is a horrible crime.
Does he really think he can write, z
Or pei] a! single line that is bright?
If so his jazz wheel is took and busted
And his main spring is badly rusted.
Or perhaps he has “bats in the roof
For his lines are of ample proof.
If he really thinks it a good sort of prose
I really wonder where the thought arose.
He tries to make it sound very jazzy,
But when I read it I wonder has he,
For he jazzed all the jazz out of jazz
But didn’t jazz, though he thinks he has.
Now this “Mason’s” good at evolutin’
As well as slingin’ words high falutin,’
So listenj I will “a tale to you unfold’.’
As said William S., the poet of old.
First he appears as C. M. Aitch
And starts a jumble 1-4 and a skimpy eigth.
His so-called pomes and doubtful rhymes
Proven the worst in modern times.
I’ll tell you friends, who he is,
Whose jazz sounds like a “Liz.”
With wheezes, sneezes and noisy knocks
Plunging down a hill over the rocks.
I’ll tell you who has brung you the pain
While wasting time, but all in vain.
Looking for rhymesj that never were there
Till you gave it up inr utter despair.
A. G. Sucirema, just blame it on him,
It’s neither a guess, nor is it a whim.
C. M. Aitch and he -are the same,
So he is the one who is to blame.
Americus. Ga. Spell it to the left.
Some name with plenty of heft.
Nevertheless I know, and firmly assert,
A. G. Sucirema did you the dirt —G. L. W.
OLD DAYS IN AMERICUS
TEN YEARS AGO TODAY
(From the Times-Recorder, Thurs
day, February 16, 1911.)
Postmaster Frank P. Mitchell en
ters today upon another term in the
capacity which he has so ably filled
for many years, to the satisfaction
of the business public of Americus
and of the section served by this post
offfice, and the city is to be round
ly congratulated thereupon.
The new Methodist church at
Plains was thronged with a large as
semblage Wednesday evening who
gathered to witness the marriage of
Miss Ophie Markette and Mr. George
Stafford Addy.
Sheriff W. H. Feagin, armed with
requisition papers upon the gover
nor of Florida, left Americus yester
day for Pensacola to bring back
Julian J. Griffin, a young man want
ed here for larceny after trust, pre
ferred by the Americus Coca Cola
company.
No free lunches with your glass
of beer, or near beer, in Americus.
This was the ruling when the city
council adopted the near beer license
ordinance, and that is the ruling the
city council will adhere to. Any near
beer dealer who gives a pretezl, or
a piece of cheese and a cracker with
CbnfessionsoFa Bride
r* ■’<
THE BOOK OF MARTHA
Madeline Marche Remembers
IUTADELINE MARCHE regarded ,
Ann and me curiously.
'‘Lorimer girls—both of you?” she I
asked abruptly.
We nodded and offered flowers and
fruit with our nicest smiles.
“Why do you bring expensive
white grapes to me? And lillies-of
the-valley in February!” She held
the slender stalks delicately like a
true lover of rare blossoms. “I guess
you don’t know who I am!”
‘‘Oh, yes we do! Morrison told
us!”
“Morrison? Humph! He knows
me all right! Times have been
changing,” she rambled on. ‘‘You
girls don’t seem to feel that calling
on me will hurt you. You can bet
your mothers wouldn’t have come!”
“Nobody can hurt us but our
selves!” I replied. It was an awful
platitude, bald and old, but it took
with Madeline Marche.
“True!” she murmured. “True!
Nobody knows better than I!”
I marveled, not only at the cor
rectness of her speech; how had this
ancient creature come by her mod
ern habit of introspection and frank
confession?
“I guess you girls pay for this
nice white bed I’m going to die in?”
“You’re not going to die!” I pro
tested.
THE AMERICUS TIMES RECORDER.
a glass of Hofbrau, Schlitz’s “Blue
Ribbon” or Budweiser—beg your
pardon, with a glass of near beer,
is apt to have his license revoked
TWENTY YEARS AGO TODAY
(From the Times-Recorder, Sat
urday, Feb. 16, 1901.)
John W. Jordan, for many years
a citizens of Americus, but now of
Atlanta, has just celebrated his 98th
birthday.
The Americus Silver Cornet band
is no longer an organization and the
costly instruments, which are own
ed by the city, were returned to the ,
city hall yesterday.
John W. Shiver went to Macon
yesterday to attend last night an
elegant reception at the home of
Judge and Mrs. J. P. Ross.
Mrs. H. K. Randolph, of Ports
mouth, Va., is visiting her sister,
Mrs. E. L. Guerry, at her residence,
No. 50 Lee street, this city.
F. E. Johnson, residing at 168
Church street, corner of Dudley, has
recently purchased from F. E. Nevin,
of Landenburg, Pa., a bunch of the
prettiest Jersey cows ever seen here.
THIRTY YEARS AGO TODAY.
(Sunday morning, no paper is
sued.)
“She wants to die mainly because
she can’t get any dope here,” quoth
a cynical young intern who had
stopped by her bed as soon as he
saw my ingenue sister-in-law.
Madeline heard him and once more
the profanity which had shocked me
in the jail poured from her lips.
As suddenly, she stopped in the mid
dle of an invective. Her eyes were
fixed on her white lilies. She ignor
ed the young medic and addressed
Ann and me:
“Lov<ly girl, you two! Good girls,
both of you! Young and pretty—and
good!” She studied one and then the
other of us. “Make the most of
beauty while you have it, my dears,"
she rambled on. “Youth is so short a
part of life. And a woman who has
been loved because she was beautiful
gets mighty weary of the years after
the wrinkles come. Love dies—like
these’!’ She returned to the con
templation of her lilies. “It should
last—or it’s a farce.”
“Tell, us how to keep love?” I
asked impulsively.
“Keep love? Who can'do that?”
She shook her head impatiently.
“Don’t you girls know a woman’'
only road to comfort and joy in her
old age?”
“No! Tell us!” Ann and I ex
claimed together.
* (To Be Continued.)
DR. BARTON’S
J DAILY LETTER)
) >
MONOTONY.
I have never been a soldier, but 1
have hear that the
i hardest tasks of a
soldier’s life grow
not out of its dan
gers but out of its
helpless monot
onies. Kipling has
interpreted this ex
perience in lines
which some people
think are doggerel,
but which seem to
me to be greatly
rythmical and full
of the weary spirit
lof the heavy
march:
BARTON
“We’re foot-slog-slog-slog sloggin’
over Africa!
Foot-foot-foot-foot-sloggin' over Af
rica—
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin’ up
and down again!)
There’s no discharge in the
war!
“Try-try-try-try—to think of some
thing different—
Oh-my-God-keep me from goin
lunatic!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots movin’ up
and down again!)
There’s no discharge in the j
war!
“I-’ave-marched-six-weeks in 'Ell and'
certify
It-is-not-fire-devils dark or anything
But boots-boots-boots-boots moving'
up arid down again,
And there’s no discharge in
the war!”
It is not the soldier along who feels
this maddening sense of monotony. 1
I have heard that among people who!
go insane an abnormal proportion'
are farmers’ wives. I should think it'
might be true. The glory of nature|
has no fair chance of inspiring lives
that, with the ceaseless iteration of
three meals a day, breakfast-dinner-i
supper, grow depressed and hopeless;
with the up-a'nd-downward motion of j
the boots.
More or less we all have that|
march. No task in life is free from.
its element of monotony. We can 1
make ourselves as misearble as we 1
like dwelling upon these aspects of,
our pilgrimage. But besides these
there are other considerations. Our
march is not footless; we arrive. Our;
battle is not forever; we fight and
conquer. The boots do more than'
move up and down; they move for-'
ward. And at the day’s end we camp,
in the language of the good old
hymn—
“ And nightly pitch my moving tent
A day’s march nearer home.”
MULE EATS CAT POISON.
DAWSON. Feb. 16.—A mule be-J
longing to Harris Peddy helped him
self to an egg filled with strychnine
which had been put cut for cats, the
dose having quite a serious effect.
Prompt drenching with antidotes for
the poison, however, brought the ani
mal around all right.
The average college girl of today
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of 1860. say scientists.
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The Jinn changed his shape again, this time into that of a you
man.
A FTER the wicked Jinn had taken
away the Green Shoes and given,
I the little Red Slippers of Forgetful-,
, ness instead, he changed his shape ■
I again. This time he became a young ■
■ man, the form he most preferred. I
; Then he turned to Nick. What have;
1 you in the little carved box? he ask- ■
! ed, although he knew perfectly welli
I that it held the children’s most prec- '
! ious treasures.
i Nick looked down in surprise at I
! the box he was still clutching tight ;
: ly. He had forgotten that he had it. I
I “I—l don’t know,” he said slowly.!
i “Nancy, "do you know what it is? ■
I Where did I get it?”
i But Nancy was as much puzzled
ag her brother. “I don’t remember
Nickie,” she said. “Perhaps it isn’t
ours.” Then she noticed Nick’s feet
and her own. “Did you give these
slippers to us?” she asked, turning
an eager face to the Jinn, who was
enjoying the success of his last wick
ed act so much that he was actual
ly smiling. Nancy took it for kind
ness. She had forgotten that they
had worn the Magic Green Shoes
when they entered the ice-palace,
and that the old woman who had '
made the exchange has disappeared.'
“Yes,” nodded the wicked Jinn.
“I gave them to you and you may!
keep them as long as you wish.”
“Think you,” said Nick, looking ’
’round. “This is a nice place and
I should like to stay.”
“Then you certainly may,” nod-:
ded the Jinn. “I shall see to that.
Now give me your box and I shall ;
put it away carefully in my Strong!
safe.”
Without a word Nick handed it
over. He had not only forgotten that
it contained the precious Map, the
Golden Key and the Language |
Charm, but he had forgotten why
he had them. Nancy, too, had never!
thought of their errand.
Day after day passed and not!
once did the little adventurers, Nancy '
and Nick, think of the errand upon j
which they were bent. JThe wicked;
Jinn had them prisoners in his ice
palace, or rather in his iceberg palace!
with its turrets and towers, ffloating ]
around on the ocean. So much did it i
look like an ordinary iceberg, dhow- '■
ever, that the gulls and sea-birds fly
ing near, perched on its ledges, call
ing hoarsely to one another that the
weather was fine, or that it looked
like a storm and they’d better be
making for land, never dreaming that
the great mass of ice was really an
enchanted palace and that two little
LG• President T. E. BOLTON. Asst. Caahi.r
C M. COUNCIL, V.-P & Cashier. JOE M. BRYAN, Asst. Cashier
(Incorporated.) '
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Organized Oct. 13, o 1891.
OFFICERS AND DIRECTORS:.
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John Sheffield. V.-Pres’t. C. R. Crisp.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1921.
children were prisoners within.
The little Red Slipper of Forget
fulness had put everything out of
the minds of the little travelers. The
Jinn had taken their own Magic
Shoes and all their charms, which
were to help them on their trip to the
South Pole.
He brought a checker-board, and
from morning until night the little
folks played. Sometimes Nancy
would win, and sometimes Nick, and
the Jinn kept a great long list of
how many games each had won. Not
once did the twins mention their er
rand, because they forgotten it; but
the wicked wizard, as he watched
them play had not forgotten, and he
took good care that they did not kick
off the bewitched Red Slippers.
Things were going to suit him very
well indeed, now, for he had prom
ised the wicked fairy Snitcher-
Snatch at the South Pole that he
would do all he could to keep the
twins away.
Outside, the walrus lay patiently
on the ice, waiting. He had promis
ed to help the children and he had
not forgotten. Just now he was
watching some whales in the sea.
(Copyright. 1921.)
Last year, $25,000,000 worth of
sweet potatoes rotted instead of be
ing eaten.
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