Newspaper Page Text
Never allow cold water to run
into an aluminum pan while it is
hot. If done repeatedly, this rap
id contraction of metal will cause
pan to warp.
* • •
Cream cheese mixed with a little
chili sauce or catsup makes a
piquant filling for sandwiches.
They are especially appealing with
a hot beverage.
• • •
A large banana and two ounces
of cream cheese mashed and
mixed together makes a delicious
spread for crackers.
* • ♦
A scrubbing brush with stiff
bristles is invaluable when wash
ing badly soiled collar bands, mud
splashed hems or other stains on
white clothes. Lay the cloth
smoothly on the washboard, wet
the brush, rub it across a bar of
soap, then scrub the garment with
strokes of the brush.
ARTISTS WANTED
WANTED ARTISTS AND CARTOONISTS
with piuctlcal or art school training who
want work, write NATIONAL ART BERV-
Id: LEAGUE, Box Kill, I'orthmd, Maine.
Princes of India
The territories and incomes of
the princes of India vary tremen
dously, says Collier’s. There are
662 of them, and they range from
the Nizam of Hyderabad, who
rules over a rich area the size of
Minnesota and has an annual in
come of $25,000,000, down to the
little fellow who rules over a poor
village in the Simla hills and has
an annual income of only $5OO.
Without Thinking
Many a man fails to become a
thinker for the sole reason that his
memory is too good.—Nietzchc.
due lo Constipation/
Dr. Hitchcock’s All-Vegetable
Laxative Powder an Intestinal
tonic-laxative —actually tones lazy
bowel muscles. It helps relieve
that sluggish feeling. 15 doses for
only 10 cents. Large family size 25
cents. At all druggists.
Best Administered
For forms of government lei
fools contest, whatever is best ad
ministered, is best.—Pope.
OWN TOUR HOME I
• Complete plans and specifications nt
nominal cost. Designed to comply with
H. H. A. requirements. The leading con
tractors use our services.
For complete information write
SOUTHERN PLAN SERVICE
>«om TIT. Zmhcr Bldg.. 1000 P'tree SI., Atlanta. 6a
Evil From Habit
How many unjust and wicked
tilings are done from mere habit.—
Terence.
I) BEACONS of]
—SAFETY—
• Like a beacon light on
the height—the advertise
ments in newspapers direct
you to newer, better and
easier ways of providing
the things needed or
desired. It shines, this
beacon of newspaper
advertising—and it will be
to your advantage to fol
low it whenever you
make a purchase.
Lamp *Yalleyl
BY ARTHUR STRINGER JL W. N. U. Service /
Carol Coburn, Alaska-born daughter of
■ “bush rat" who died with an unestab
lished mining claim, returns North to teach
Indian school. Aboard ship, she la an
noyed by Eric (the Red) Ericson and is
rescued by Sidney Lander, young mining
But I refused to stay put.' There
was too much to be done. I didn’t
want to seem a slacker when every
body was so busy. And in looking
after the others I could pretty well
forget the pain of my own flame
blistered face.
Where the rambling old school
house had been was a stretch of
smoldering ashes with the skeleton
like iron bed frames and a stove
or two standing there as melancholy
as tombstones. And everything I
owned lay consumed in those ashes.
All I had left were the few scorched
clothes that hung about my tired
bones.
But I hadn’t time to feel sorry for
myself. A special train, I was told,
was already on its way from Anchor
age, to pick up our homeless school
waifs and carry them on to the In
dian orphanage at Fairbanks. From
the pile of emergency clothing Katie
commandeered for me an oversized
pair of corduroy trousers, a patched
plaid Mackinaw, and a caribou par
ka that had seen better days. To
these Doctor Ruddock (who’d given
up his little wooden-fronted office as
sleeping-quarters for Katie and me)
added socks and pacs and an old
bearskin cap that made me look
like a lady-huzzar in a busby.
“What are we going to do?” I
asked the ever-hurrying Doctor Rud
dock when he dropped in, next day,
to anoint my scorched epidermis
with ambersine.
“Toklutna’s off the map,” he pro
claimed. “Katie will stay on here,
probably until the breakup, to look
after the old folks.”
“Then where do I fit in?” I ques
tioned with a sudden feeling of
homelessness.
“You fit in very neatly,” he said
as he listened to my heart action.
“I’d the Commissioner on the wire
this morning and he agrees with me
that this country owes you a berth.
So you get the school job at Mata
nuska.”
It took some time for this to sink
in.
“When?” I asked.
"As soon as you get sense enough
to take care of yourself,” he said
with a barricading sort of curtness.
“1 told you to rest up, after your
fire shock, and you didn’t do it. So
roll up in that bunk and stay there
until you get a release from me.”
He stopped in the doorway, with
his dog-eared old medicine case in
his hand, as I none too willingly
shook out the blankets of my floor
bunk.
“And there’s a long-legged engi
neer waiting outside to see you,” he
added as he watched me dutifully
crawl into my bunk. “But ten min
utes is his limit, remember.”
I had my second shock to digest.
For the waiting visitor was Sidney
Lander.
He stood very tall in that small
office-surgery. And my appearance
must have startled him a little, since
he stared down at me, for a full
half-minute, without speaking.
“Are you all right?” he finally
asked. I had to laugh a little at his
solemnity.
“Just a little scorched around the
edges,” I said with an effort at levi
ty. But my heart was beating a
trifle fasten- than it should have been.
“I flew over, as soon as I heard,”
he rather clumsily explained. He
looked out the window and then back
at me. “That was good work, sav
ing those children.”
“But I lost my eyebrows,” I re
minded him.
Lander walked to the window and
back.
“We’ve at least saved those citi
zenship papers,” he announced. I’ve
shown them to John Trumbull,” he
explained, “and Trumbull claims
they’re not backed up by the rec
ords. That led to an argument that
ended in a split-up. The Chakitana
Development Company has lost its
field engineer.”
“What are you going to do?” I
asked.
His laugh was curt.
“I was tying up with the Happy
Day outfit,” he explained. “But
Trumbull’s just trumped my ace by
buying up the Happy Day.”
“Does that mean you’re going out
side?” I asked, trying to make the
question a casual one.
“Not on your life/’ was his prompt
reply. “We’ve got to wait until the
records show who’s right in this.”
“But that’s my problem,” I ob
jected.
“I happen to have made it mine,”
he retorted with an unexpected light
of battle in his eyes.
CHAPTER VII
I began to understand the mean
ing of what they call “the deep
cold” before I set out for Matanus
ka. For the snows of midwinter
soon buried the ruins of our lost
school. The storms along Alaska’s
one stretch of railway also brought
slides and broken snowsheds enough
to block the line and keep trains
from moving for over a week.
That cloud had the silver lining
of giving me a chance to make over
my nondescript wardrobe, to which
bif-hearted Katie added a sweater
cf Scotch wool and a pair oi wolf-
HOUSTON HOME JOURNAL, PERRY, GEORGIA
THE STORY SO FAR
engineer. Lander, working for the Trum
bull company, which Is fighting Coburn's
claim. Is engaged to Trumbull’s daughter.
Lander breaks with Trumbull. But the
engagement to Barbara Trumbull stays.
Christmas day. a fire breaks out at the
INSTALLMENT VI
skin gauntlets, a trifle over-sized.
She was, I think, genuinely sorry to
see me go.
So when traffic moved again and
I mounted my day coach I found it
crowded to the doors with leather
faced old sourdoughs and cud-chew
ing trappers and Mackinaw-clad log
gers, along with a homesteader’s
wife who carried an undersized pig
in a slatted crate.
I wasn’t sorry when the conduc
tor, pushing his way through that
overcrowded day coach, blinked
down at my still heat-blistered face
and said: “Next stop Matanuska,
lady.”
“Could you tell me,” I asked one
of the men at the station, “where
I’d find Mr. Bryson, Mr. Sam Bry
son?”
His face, when he peered up at
me, impressed me as both sour
and sardonic.
“I’m Sam Bryson,” he said.
“The school superintendent for
this district?” I persisted.
“I be,” he retorted, plainly re
senting my incredulous stare. “And
ain’t it fit and proper, seein’ I hap
pen to own that doggoned school
house over there?”
I meekly acknowledged that it
was. And with equal meekness I
“Next stop Matanuska, lady.”
told him that I was the new teacher
sent on from Toklutna.
“But you wasn’t to turn up here
till Easter,” he said testily. “We
ain’t got nothin’ ready for you.”
I showed him the Territorial Com
missioner’s letter, which he held
close to his seamed old face, his
lips moving as he labored through
the undisputable message therein
contained.
“Well, you should’ve got off at
Wasilla,” he complained, “where
you could’ve found lodgin’ until
things was ready.”
“But I’m here,” I said with a
smile that was entirely forced. And
as he pushed back his wolfskin cap
and stood scratching an attenuated
forelock I quietly inquired: “Just
where is my school?”
He studied me with a lack-luster
eye.
“You ain’t got no school,” he pro
claimed.
“But I was sent here to teach,” I
contended, trying to keep my tem
per.
“Sure you was sent here to teach,”
acknowledged the old-timer. “But
it ain’t our fault we wasn’t rigged
out with a noo schoolhouse this win
ter. Gover’ment’s so danged busy
with a heap o’ highfalutin’ plans for
this valley it ain’t got time to look
after our needs. Spends a half-mil
lion on that noo Injin school at Ju
neau and lets us hillbillies scramble
for our book-larnin’ as best we can!”
“Then what am I to do?” I asked,
feeling more interested in my own
immediate future than in the mis
takes of governmental expenditure.
“I guess you’ll just have to siwash
it,” he said, “the same as us old
timers did when we hit this valley.”
“Just how will I siwash it?” I
demanded.
“By froggin’ through as best you
can, the same as our circuit-ridin’
sky-pilot does, without a meetin’-
place. We was figgerin’ on you cir
culatin’ round the valley homesteads
and ladlin’out the book-larnin’ where
it was most needed. Instead o’ them
cornin’ to you, you’ll have to go to
them.”
“Why can’t that old schoolhouse
be used?”
“She needs a noo roof and noo
floor sills,” was the listless answer,
"And I’m danged if I’m goin’ to dig
down for ’em.”
“Are you trying to tell me,” I
quavered, “that I’ll have to go from
farm to farm, like a mail carrier,
and give my lessons in a kitchen?”
“You’ve guessed it,” he wearily
acceded, “Only you’ll be plumb
lucky to be stretchin’ your legs out
in a warm kitchen I’ve got a girl
over home right now, rarin’ to git
school when the children are playing rount|
the Christmas tree. The school burns down.
Carol proves the heroine, saving the chil
dren. The doctor orders her to bed.
The fire left Carol without clothes and
without definite plans.
polished up a spell on her readin’
and writin’. And if you ain’t willin’
to do your teachin’ on the wing that
away, until this valley gits a real
schoolhouse rastled together, I
guess, lady, you’re mushin’ up the
wrong trail.”
There was no mistaking the finali
ty of that statement.
“But where am I to live?” I asked
as I stared at the snow that stood so
white between the gloomy green of
the sprucelands.
“We was figgerin’,” he explained,
“on settin’ you up in the old 'Jansen
shack. That’s just over the hill
there behind that tangle o’ spruce.
But you’d sure have some tidyin’ up
to do afore you got set there.” He
looked with a frown of disapproval
at my sprawl of luggage. “ ’Bout
the best thing for you to do, lady, is
to leg it over to the Eckstrom farm
and see if they’d take you in for a
day or two.”
I had, however, no desire to go
wandering about that snowy world
asking strangers to take me in. I
wanted my own roof over my head.
And I so informed the morose Mr.
Bryson.
Just then I became conscious of
a strange figure making its way
down the opposing hillside.
It was a man carrying the carcass
of a deer, a ragged and shambling
man with a rifle and a tined head
above his stooping shoulders. It was
Sock-Eye Schlupp.
“I’ll be hornswizzled if it ain’t
Klondike Coburn’s gal,” he said.
“What’re you doin’ back in these
parts?”
I told him why I was there.
“Where you goin’ to bunk?” he
demanded.
“They tell me I’m to live in the
Jansen shack,” I explained.
“They’re plumb locoed,” said
Sock-Eye. “You sure can’t den up
in that pigsty.”
“I’m north born,” I reminded him,
j( “Mebbe you are,” he retorted.
“But this is a plumb lonesome val
ley for a chalk-wrangler t’ take root
in. I reckon you’d better come along
t’ my wickyup until things is ready
for you.”
That, I told him, would be out of
the question.
“I s’pose you knowyoung Lander’s
swingin’ in with me?” he said with
the air of an angler adjusting a
gaudier fly.
That, I knew, made it more than
ever impossible. “And if that Jan
sen shack’s not ready, I’ll have to
make it ready.”
“Quite a fighter, ain’t you?” he
observed.
After a moment’s silence, he add
ed: “I’ll give you a hand over t’
that lordly abode o’ yours.”
He left me standing there, to re
turn, a few minutes later, with a
hand sleigh borrowed from the sta
tion agent. On this, with altogether
unexpected dispatch, he piled my
belongings. Over them he draped
the deer carcass, thonging the load
together with a strand of buckskin.
“Let’s mush,” he said.
I took a hand at the towing line,
and, side by side, we made our
way along the trodden snow, as crisp
as charcoal under our feet. The
valley seemed strangely silent. But
I felt less alone in the world with
that morose old figure beside me.
“Why is Lander swinging in with
you?” I asked.
“Seein’ this valley ain’t bristlin’
with hotels,” answered Sock-Eye,
“he deemed my wickyup good
enough for a college dood until they
could build him up-to-date livin’
quarters at the Happy Day.”
“But I thought outsiders bought
up the Happy Day,” I ventured.
Sock-Eye stopped to gnaw a cor
ner from his chewing plug.
“They sure did,” he admitted.
“And left young Lander out on the
limb. But, as far as I kin make
out, that hombre ain’t no squealer.
And I reckon Big John Trumbull’U
find him as full o’ fight as a bunch o’
matin’ copperheads.”
We went on until we came to a
solitary small figure standing knee
deep in the roadside snow. It proved
to be a Swede boy in an incredibly
ragged Mackinaw, with a blue
woolen scarf wrapped around his
waist as high as his armpits. His
eyes, I noticed as Sock-Eye asked
him about a short cut to the Jan
sen shack, were even bluer than his
encircling sash.
“But ol’ Yansen ban dead,” he
announced. “He ban dead of the
flu over three months ago.”
“Which same makes room for you,
little cheeckako,” snorted my grim
eyed trail breaker.
But I stopped to ask the sash
wrapped youth his name. I liked
the feeling of warmth he carried
under that cocoon of wool and
rags.
“Ah ban Olie Eckstrom,” he said
with the friendliest of smiles.
It wasn’t until we came to the
edge of a clearing that Sock-Eye
stopped for breath.
“There be your wickyup,” said
Sock-Eye, with a wave of his mil
tened hand.
(TO BE continued;
PATTERNS
) SEWDNG CDRCLE ~
p\o YOU take a large size—any
where between 36 and 52?
Then this dress will simply delight
you. It’s so becoming and suc
cessful that two neckline styles are
suggested in the pattern (No.
1333-B). One is the plain v-neck
line cut to smart new depth, and
the other is turndd back in narrow
revers. Make the dress in house
hold cottons, trimming with braid
ftp*' SSS?S“'
« HINDS
HONEY & ALMOND CREAM /
■fflWuA Regular $ 1 size
limited time only / I
Misused Necessity
Necessity is the plea for every
infringement of human freedom.
me.. • |
Jfibx
h / frU '& S /
Wk / QtaM 6 * (JJP® tHERr-Yi /
I
/ | *HE PUBLIC nature of advertising bene-
JL fits everyone it touches. It benefits the
public by describing exactly the products that are offered. It
benefits employees, because the advertiser must be more fair
and just than the employer who has no obligation to the public.
These benefits of advertising are quite apart from the obvious
benefits which advertising confers—the lower prices, the higher
quality, the better service that go with advertised goods and firms.
— z..
and adding a couple of pockets
and it will be one of your most
comfortable work-a-day styles.
Make it of light, inconspicuous
prints, flat crepe or spun rayon
for street wear, with plain neck
line, softened by a narrow touch of
contrast.
The detailing is perfectly
planned to create the high-busted
slim-hipped line most becoming to
large figures. The skirt has a
gradual flare. It’s one of those ut
terly simple dresses that has loads
of distinction.
• • •
Pattern No. 1333-B is designed for sizes
36, 38, 40, 42, 44, 46, 48 , 58 and 52. Siz«
38 requires, with short sleeves, s>/ a yards
of 39-lnch material without nap; long
sleeves, 5'A yards. yards braid or %
yard contrast for neck fold. Detailed
sew chart Included. Send order to: ,
-
SEWING CIRCLE PATTERN DEPT.
Room 1321
211 W. Wacker Dr. Chicago
Enclose 15 cents in coins for
' Pattern No Size
Name
Address
Early Glass
The manufacture of crude glass
by the using of sand and soda is
supposed to have been accidentally
discovered by the Egyptians some
4,000 years ago. Beads and amu
lets of colored glass have been re
covered from Egyptian tombs that
were dug 6,000 years ago.
Stained glass was first made in
the Ninth century, and the earliest
references to stained glass win
dows were found in a document
stating that Rheims cathedral was
fitted with them some time be
tween the years 969 and 988. It
is thought that the Romans, who
were experts in glass making,
were the first to use glass in win
dows. At Pompeii several exam
ples dating back before A. D. 79
have been found.
According to Dr. Alexander Sil
verman of the University of Pitts
burgh, the United States manufac
tures enough window and plate
glass each day to make a ten-lane
boulevard (roughly 80 feet) round
the world.
It is the argument of tyrants; it is
the creed of slaves.—Pitt, tha
Elder.
