Newspaper Page Text
Henry County Weekly.
J. A. FOUCHE, Publisher.
R. L. JOHNSON, Editor.
Entered at the postoffice at McDon
ough as second class mall matter.
Advertising Rates: SI.OO per inch
per month. Reduction on standing
contracts by special agreement.
■ ■ » ■ -♦
If prosperity is coming with a rush,
propounds the Atlanta Constitution,
the people will still keep the middle
of the road and give it a chance to
run ’em down.
The New Haven Register demands
to know has utter midsummer mad
ness seized the controllers of Amer
ica’s beef supply? Who cares, in
weather like this, whether meat is 20
or 50 cents a pound? The w'hole round
year could not have furnished a more
inappropriate time for announcing an
other raise in price. To raise the price
now simply makes more t>eople stop
buying it, that’s all. And the result is
the good health of the people, and
will eventually be the bad health of
the beef trust.
A difference of taste in jokes, as
Holmes has said, is a strain on the
affections. The practical joke is a
strain on the nerves and muscles be
sides. Its object is to cause pain, if
possible pain only in moderation, but
in any case pain, insists the New
York Mail. It finds its subject matter
for mirth in the confusion, grief, or
unmerited suffering of another. Every
community, however small, has per
sons who have been maimed, or whose
nerves have been permanently shat
tered, by some practical Joker. Hie
malice always approaches the line of
criminality and often crosses it. In
deed there are laws, if people would
only incoke them, which would send
half the practical jokers to jail, and
mulct the other half for damages suf
ficient to take all the laugh out of
them.
Accepting the motor car as one of
man’s most valuable mechanical con
tributions to the progress of civiliza
tion, there still remains the motorist
to deal with, asserts the New York
Sun. It must be evident from the
events and disclosures of the summer
that the right way to deal with him is
still to be discovered. The public has
no quarrel with the automobile. Rabßl
persons there undoubtedly are whose
madness takes the form of violent pre
judice against this very modern de
vice, but the usefulness of the automo
bile is too generally recognized for
their particular variety of rabies ever
to become epidemic. The public as a
whole has, however, a very serious ob
jection to the way in which the motor
car is very generally used. It is com
ing to see that it has a problem on
its hands which will have to be solved
effectively before long.
The chief gardener of the city of
Paris has been spending a two
months’ vacation in the United States,
studying American methods in devel
oping city parks and gardens. He
found much to praise, but had nothing
but condemnation for the American
city back yard. In New York, parti
cularly, he found the back yards in
credibly ugly and neglected—no grass,
no trees, no vines, no flowers. The
criticism would hold good of almost
any American city, but the matter is
one which young landscape architects
Are beginning seriously to consider.
One such man in Boston is making a
special study of the problem of con
verting a few sauare yards of brick
pavement into a little secluded bow
er of greenery, where the family can
have a restful hour or a pleasant
meal, in surroundings far more attrac
tive than the average roof-garden af
fords. A New Yorker has recently told,
in print, of the curiosity he felt at the
wording of an advertisement of some
apartments to rent. One of the at
tractions mentioned was the outlook
on real trees and back yards which
were gardens. Later conversation with
the agent disclosed the fact that the
modest attempt at beauty which the
windows commanded was a real as
set. It raised the rentable value of the
property.
GETTING THE HABIT OF Lit,. .A?
THANKSGIVING.
THERE is a beautiful legend of a
golden organ in an ancient
monastery. Once the monas
tery was besieged by robbers
who desired to carry off its treasures.
The monks took the organ to a river
which flowed close by and sank it in
the deep water in order to keep it
from the hands of the robbers. And
the legend is that, though buried thus
In the river, the organ still continued
to give forth sweet and enchanting
music, which was heard by those who
came near.
Every Christian life should be like
this golden organ. Nothing should
ever silence its music. Even when
the floods of sorrow flow over it it
should still continue to rejoice and
sing.
One of the secrets of such a life is
found in the cultivation of the habit
of thankfulness. Nothing less than
this will do. Most people have brief
hours in which their hearts are tilled
with grateful feelings, and when all
the world seems beautiful to them.
But these sunny times soon pass, and
then for days they give themselves
over to discontent and complaining.
Anybody can sing when walking amid
the flowers and in sunny ways; the
test of life comes when the garden
path becomes a bit of a desert road.
We are uot fully ready for living un
til we have strength enough to carry
us through the hardest places and the
deepest glooms.
Thanksgiving Day is not intended
to gather' into itself a whole year’s
thanks. By being full of gratitude
for the one day, we cannot make up
for three hundred and sixty-four days
of ingratitude. Every day should be
a thanksgiving day.
Of course, there is a difference in
the days. Some of them are dark,
while others are bright. On certain
days things seem to go wrong with
us and our affairs get tangled; on
other days life flows along like a
song. We want to learn to live so
that these changes in our circum
stances and experiences shall not af
fect us in our inner life. That is
what Saint Paul meant when he said
that he had learned in whatsoever
state he was therein to be content. It
was no easier for him to have to suf
fer and endure want and privation
than it is for us. There was no lux
ury to him in being cast into a dun
geon and having his feet made fast
in the stocks. But he had learned not
to fret when his condition was un
pleasant. Wherever we find him he
is singing, never despairing. The
habit of thanksgiving had been so
wrought into his life that nothing
could ever break it.
Just how to learn this habit of
thanksgiving is the question. One
thing is to learn to trust. The cause
of all complaining and discontent is
want of trust in God. If we believe
in God as our Father, that He loves
us and will care for us, and put at
once into His hands all matters that
would disturb or fret us, God Him
self will keep us in perfect peace.
Worry is death to the thanksgiving
6pirit, while nothing so drives worry
from the heart as a thanksgiving
song.
Another thing that helps in form
ing this habit of thanksgiving is to
make sure of seeing the good and
beautiful things in life. This is a
lovely world. It could not be other
wise, for it is our Father’s woild. He
made it beautiful because it was to
be the home of His children. Yet
some see nothing of the loveliness
which lies about them continually
everywhere. They are like men tour
ing through a country with glorious
scenery, in a stage coach, keeping the
T he Yumpkin
i3y John Gbeemlcaf Wiuttieu*
A II! — on Thanksgiving Day, rvhen from
East and from West,
From North and Jrom South come the
pilgrim and guest,
When the gray-haired New Englander
sees round his board
The old broken links r\f affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his
‘ .mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles inhere the
girl smiled before, '
What moistens the lip and what brightens
the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich
Pumpkin pie Y >
curtains fastened down all the time
and seeing nothing.
It is said that Mr. Russin’s guests
at Brantwood were often awakened
early in the morning by a knocking
at their door and the call, "Are you
looking out?” When, in response to
this summons, they would open their
window blinds, their eyes would be
charmed by the view that they saw.
It is not every one who sleeps at night
in such a place as Brantwood, and can
have a Coniston morning to greet his
vision when he awakes and opens his
windows. But there is glory enough
in the morning anywhere to start our
hearts singing at the dawn of the day,
if only we would look out. It would
be well if all of us could be awakened
every morning with the call, “Are
you looking out?” There is always
—l'rom Good Literature.
—From Collier’s.
something worth seeing if we would
draw our curtains and look out
This is true not only of nature, but
of all the experiences of life. We
allow ourselves to be too much im
pressed by somber views. We let the
troubles and the unpleasant things
bulk too largely in our vision. We
live too much indoors, with our own
frets and cares. If every morning
we would fling open our windows and
look out on the wide reaches of God's
love and goodness we could not help
singing. Some one writes: “Many
a day would be brighter if begun
with some thought in the heart that
might open the door to a nobler
vision of life, and would net some
of our less cheerful moods be dis
pelled by a wider outlook?”
Our lives are all too apt to run in
grooves, and often they are very nar
row grooves, indeed. Yet all about
us are scenes of beauty, not in na
ture alone, but in the lives of our
fellow men. Often in the most un
expected places, in some nook or
cranny of a nature that seemed only
forbidding, we shall find some blos
som of rarest fragrance. In those
quiet hours of meditation, when our
hearts reach up to the great heart of
God, we may stand upon the moun
tain tops with Him and catch glimpses
of that land which too often seems
afar off. “Are you looking out?” —
Rev. J. R. Miller, D. D., in Advocate
and Guardian.
A Thanksgiving Dinner Table Trick
This is a curious little experiment
which will interest everybody at the
dinner table, for it calls for nothing
except what you are likely to find on
the table.
Cut an orange into halves and from
one-half remove the pulp, leaving the
peel entire in the form of a hollow
hemisphere or cup. With a penknife
or a toothpick bore two holes in the
bottom of this cup and put it into a
tumbler, forcing it down about half
way.
The tumbler should be a little
smaller than the orange used so that
you will have to squeeze the peel-cup
a little in order to get it in.
Then it will press firmly against
the glass and stay where you put it
instead of dropping to the bottom.
Put the cup in right side up, that is,
with the yellow peel below, and pour
red wine into it. The wine will run
through the holes and you must keep
on pouring until the level of the wine
in the glass just touches the bottom
of the cup. Now fill the rest of the
glass above the orange cup with wat
er and await results.
Soon you will see a thin red jet of
wine rising like a fountain through
the water from one of the holes. At
the same time, though you cannot see
it so well, a colorless stream of water
flows downward through the other
hole.
The two liquids do not mix much.
|» ||
but merel.v exenange places, so that
in a few minutes the lower part of the
glass, below the cup, will contain the
water and the upper part will be filled
with wine.
This is as it should be, because
water is heavier than wine and natur
ally goes to the bottom. The curious .
thing is that the wine and water do
not mix, but each selects one hole for
itself. It is like the trick with the
candle burning in a lamp chimney
with a partition at the top, so that
cold fresh air goes down on one side
while the hot air and smoke escape
on the other.
Oil may be substituted for the wine
or you may fill the bottom of the glass
with water and then pour in milk or
some thin-colored syrup.
A Thanksgiving Conversation.
Turkey—“ Well, there’s this conso
lation about it the most distin
guished men on earth went to the
block.”
Possum (gloomily)—“Yes, but
they were not broiled and roasted af
terward for the benefit of block
heads.” —New Orleans Picayune.
Tn the British South African colony
in Natal residents in cities and towns
have fresh butter and eggs delivered
every morning by mail.
