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About The Henry County weekly. (McDonough, GA.) 18??-1934 | View Entire Issue (Dec. 24, 1909)
Henry County Weekly. R. L. JOHNSON, Editor. Entered at the pestofflee at McDon ough as second class mail matter. Advertising Rates: SI.OO per inch per month. Reduction on standing contracts by special agreement. A millionaire isn’t such a hog, chirps the Louisville Courier-Journal, if he knows us 'well enough to grunt as he passes. "Pie baking is an art,” says Charles I and, general organizer of the Jour neyman Bakers’ International union. Then why strike? Art has a soul above money. High prices are now ascribed to the scarcity of coni. Of course, this hag nothing to do with the matter in most instances, asserts the Philadel phia Ledger. The real reason is the scarcity of the milk of human kind ness. Everybody has heard of the absent minded professor who threw a stone at a pretty young girl and politely raised his hat to a yowling cur. Chi cago university has set out to prevent any such thing in tue future, notes the New York Tribune. The forget ful professor, so long considered legi timate prey for the jokesmiths, is to be eliminated from the field of edu cation. The university is preparing to open a department that will make ab sent mindedness a thing of the past Pedagogues of the future are to be trained so that they will have no in clination to wipe their foreheads with a text book or • try to read Greek verse from a handkerchief. All other psychological ailments are to be cured by the new department, which will be a branch of the school of edu cation, and the project will be con ducted as a sort of psychological lab oratory under direction of Professor Judd. That New York Is one of the ci ties that make a strong impression upon the visitor has long been ad mitted. The impression may be agree able or disagreeable; but it is not easily forgotten, preaches the Provi dence Journal. At a time when it is crowded with guests, when its pic turesque water front is vivid with shipping of every kind, naval and merchant, when its streets are gay with bunting, when its skyscrapers blaze at night with thousands of elec tric lights, it certainly seems to be no mean or ordinary city. There are those who say that its new skyline is in itself more striking, if not more beautiful, than the old was at its best. Yet it must be admitted that to most observers the general effect is not one of beauty. Indeed, to the imag inative mind there is a touch of ter ror in its outward aspect, as of a greedy monster lying in wait for hu man victims, like Zola’s Paris. 9 Scarce heard of yesterday the hook worm occupies today the very top of evil eminence among the parasitic enemies of mankind. The hook-worm of the south, explains the New York Evening Post, is the American coun terpart of the African tsetse fly. Its bite, however, induces only a state of general debility without causing death. Thirty percent of the students in a Georgia college are afflicted with the disease. Two million poor whites in the south are its victims, have, in fact, remained poor whites because of the hook-worm’s steady sapping of strength and ambition. But the two million shiftless whites of ._e south do not represent the worst ravages of the disease; nor do the 30 college stu dents out of every hundred who find it impossible to get on in their class es. The hook-worm has attacked the college football teams; at least, the doctors are sure this is the reason why one particular team has been go ing steadily ahead scored upon, but not scoring. Here therefore, we have a peril compared with which the rav ages of cancer, the white plague, ma laria, pellagra, and the sleeping sick ness sink into significance. If the hook-worm’s invasion of the gridiron remains unchecked, we might as well olose our colleges. ■ FOR CHRISTMAS DAY. There’s a bustle in the kitchen And a rattle and a din, And such peculiar goings-on You’d heat not venture in; ' The eggs are being beaten. And the butter’s being dripped, And the .flour’s being shaken And the cream is being whipped; The nuts have had their heads cracked, » The jelly’s all a-quake; Outsiders, keep your distance— Daisy’s making Christmas cake! Don’t say she’s lost her ribbon And her apron's all awry- Don’t speak of flour upon her nose And smut above her eye; Don’t tell her that the pans aren’t greased, The powder’s quite at fault, That the heaping cup of sugar Was a heaping cup of salt; Don’t mention that the fire is out, 'Twoukl be a grave mistake— Onlookers, keep your distance When Daisy’? haking cake! “4 —Nancy Byrd Turner, in St. Nicholas. BRIGG’S GIRL’S SANTA # A C/irJjtmaj About this time every year 1 wish I had the knack of story-telling. That Is, telling things so other people could see ’em, too. I’d like some of you to see that Christmas eve as I remember it: ’Twas a bit over ten years ago a crowd of us boys had hit Denver with our heavy sample cases. Nasty weather outside, mighty nasty, and we sat around the office of the hotel, smoking, reading, not talking much, and all a bit grouchy because we were where no sane man, not even a drum mer, wants to be —away from home on Christmas eve. The place was getting blue with smoke and the wind was banging at the windows, when somebody’s coughing made me sort of wake up to the fact that I was reading my paper upside down, and mostly thinking about Tom Briggs. Briggs was from our State, too — we were mostly Empire Staters —all- round good chap, meant to be in the running to the end. Right sort of a wife and dandy kid, but it seemed like all the hard luck in the country had been drifting his way, and to cap it all, consumption—the doctors gave it some name, but that’s what it was —moored him in the end. We fel lows always have a feeling that the best way to sympathize with a man in Briggs’ run of luck is to keep your mouth shut and your wallet open. So when the doctor said: ‘‘Rare at mosphere, high altitude, Colorado mountains,” and all the rest of the simple remedies they always pre scribe, why, knowing the size of Briggs’ bank account, we never Ithought of it that way. Well, Briggs went to some sort of a cure place in the Colorado mountains, and the wife and kiddie stayed back East. Some how, I couldn’t get the three of them out of my head, so when Mackenzie put down his paper, lighted a fresh cigar, and said: “Who knows any thing about Briggs?” ’Twas almost as if I’d spoken myself, and he went on: “Mighty glad Briggs isn’t out in this kifernal weather. Where is that rare place? We might take a run up to-morrow, cheer Briggs up a bit. How is it, boys?” Johnson put down his paper, went over to the window, then came back and sat down, then he spoke: "Why, he is out in—l thought you hoys knew —I've been here a week—- Briggs died the day after I got in. Some of us went up. He started last day before yesterday. Tough luck, isn’t it, boys?” Not a man of us spoke, only the cigars. While we were smoking away like mad, the clerk over by the desk began to cough, and when we looked his way, he shook his head, leaned over the desk, and asked: “Well, little lady, and w-hat can I do for you?” By George, standing right in front of the desk, looking like she’d lost something very important, was the . - <.-, • ?••*••»« »* & * •*' fff , 4. 'VraK^o^v«h > .‘-Ar &&*'&'■'*> i iL' ; «r"* W^ g SfniC iLk ~v <’b^ l SS![>s<^?^*^ ; v cutest kid you ever saw. About four years old, I reckon! long brown curls, cheeks as red as fire, big brown eyes, just In her long white nightie, reach ing up to the tall desk with one hand and holding tight in the other a bit of a black stocking. With a little anxious kind of a laugh, not a bit scared of us all, but trying to look through the smoke as if we might be hiding the very thing she was hunt ing, she said: “I’m just looking for the fireplace. You know, Santa comes to-night, and we’ve only but just came ourselves, and I can’t seem to find the place to hang my stockings. Please ’scuse me for bothering. I waited a long time to ask mamma, but she’s talking and I mustn’t int-rupt. You mustn’t ever int-rupt people when they’re talking specially”—and the youngster spoke so softly we all leaned over to listen —“specially when they’re talking to God, like my mamma is. She’s been talking to God over by the window a and looking up, so I think He’s talk ing back to her. If you'll only just show me where my stocking goes, I’ll run back and let my eyes go shut,” and the kiddie tiptoed to look over the desk. STAR OF BETHLEHEM. That clerk wasn’t what you’d call a man quick to size up a situation, but the way he sized this one made in all sit up and take notice. He came ’round, lifted the youngster up and stood her on the desk, right between the gas jet and the big register, and said: ‘‘Well, you’ve been looking for the wrong place and found the right one. You see, when Santa Claus comes to a hotel, he doesn’t use the fireplace —not he! Just comes rjght in the door, walks up here to the big book, and writes his name, just as mamma did.- Then he looks right up here at this gas jet, to see if there are any children In the house. All the chil dren hang their stockings here, and It saves Santa a lot of time, not hav ing to hunt all over the house. Got a pin’? Good work. Here she goes, pinned tight on where Santa can’t help seeing her. Now, then, little lady down you come, and good- night. Hurry upstairs! He may be here any minute.” ■y ■. „ - . ■ i . -1 •.V 4. v . L * v r : || ■ v W • i-i ■m£3r - Getting Ready For Christmas. Off went the baby and there dan gled the stocking. Before any of us had time to speak, the clerk said: “Boys, that’s Briggs’ little girl. Wife and baby came on to spend Christmas with him, passed him on the road. We had to tell her when she got here this afternoon. Here’s the baby’s stocking, you—” “Shut up!” growled Mack. “Boys, I’m going out,” and he got himself into his overcoat. “Bad night outside,” said Miller. “I’m going to turn in.” As he passed the gas over the desk something yel low slid from his hand, and the toe of the little black stocking stretched a btt. One after another the rest of the crowd followed, and, somehow, with each passing the little black dangler got heavier and longer. All the while I kept seeing the things my kid sister used to pull out of her stocking Christmas morning, so when I’d put in a bit to make the stocking heavier, I got' on my coat and went out to see If there wasn’t a toy shop in Denver. Found one all right, and if you’ll believe me, there was Mack, and Johnson, and Miller, and every last living one of those fellows that had turned in hack at the hotel—all sneaking out the back way. “Beat it!” said Mack; “we’ve bought all this stuff the kid wants. You go get candy, and candy, and then some more candy, and some oranges—little fellows, mind, to go into the stocking.” Tell you what, Santa never did a better job in his whole career than we did that night. The stocking was right heavy and dragged round the toe, but it plumped out above with oranges and stuff, parcels all stacked below, and a big sign done by the clerk: ‘‘The Little Lady in Room 40.” One of the boys wanted to open the parcels, but some one sang out: "Oh, let the kiddie open her own parcels.” So we left ’em. Before we quit for good that night Brown turned around to the clerk. “Now, listen. We don’t know Briggs, and we don’t know his wife, and we don’t know the kid, and you don’t know anything about anybody—that is if you ever want to see any of us The Time of His Life. “How did you enjoy the holidays, Willie?” “Oh, fine! I broke my drum, over ate myself twice, got tonsilitis and set the Christmas tree afire.” —Pittsburg Press. again. What say, boys?” We all agreed, for you see any of us might have been in Briggs’ place. We shied the office next day, but that clerk was all right; he got the two of them off for home that after noon. Don’t know any of the partic ulars; never heard any. But some how to this day I can’t go by rooiji 40 in that hotel without going a bit quieter for thinking of the woman who had been by the window there that Christmas Ere, and the kiddie with her little black stocking hunting the fireplace.—E. M. Wheelock. To the Pure in Heart. God stood upon the altar-stair, Unseen of all the throng, Across the wreathing incensed air They watched the myriad candles flare, They heard the holy song; And low they knelt, and last they prayed, Calling on Christ and Mary Maid— ‘‘Oh, keep us from all ill,” the; said— “ Thy servants’ love make strong.” But all this time God waited there, Unseen upon the altar-stair. God stood beside the altar-rail Unseen of all but one — And she was a mere thing of sale; Her cheeks were stained with tears and pale; She knew what she had dons. The gentle folk paused in their prayer To eye the creature weeping there; ‘‘Preserve us, Christ and Mary Fair!” —Thus did their swift words run. But she—so may pure hearts prevail— Had seen God standing by the rail. —Harry James Smith, in Harper’s. TO, A “'i' IA r/ MLr Olidy Celery Cream of Tomato houp Roajf Duchlin& With hate Vujrjmk'] 1 Homitw hquare; Apple jauce , Baked s'Jeer Potatoes JjtcWca Celery l , J DakcThquash Fruit/' iJopbonj Nut; Coffee. J Greeting. , Christmas greetings, One and all! Christmas seems to Have the call. Here’s a wish that You and I May get o’er it By and by. Here’s a wish that You may eat All the good old Turkey meat That your stomach Will contain, With no fear of Future pain. Here’s a wish that. You may be Always brimming Full of glee. It’s a cinch to Pen a rhyme In the joyous Christmas time! —Birmingham Age-Herald. A Real Santa Claus. You always think of Santa Claus In furs and woolly clothes. Just riding in his reindeer-sleigh In winter, I suppose. I think a busy workingman He certainly must be, In early spring’s warm budding-tim® To graft ana bud each tree. The pines, the hemlocks, cedars, too, With curious kinds of fruit, To have them bear the toys and things Each Christmas-child to suit, pw* Why, yes, of course he has to work, And then to feed his deer, Or we should miss his jolly face And lose our Christmas cheer. —Mary E. Merrill, in Christian Register.
