Thursday, December 11, 1924
Rev. W. T. Hogsett has perfected a music book holder and has applied for a patent on it. It consists of a light board on which to set the book, and a wire with two clothes pins to hold the book open at the right place. Mr. Hogsett is manufacturing the device and will offer it for sale at the popular price of $1 each. In his experience as a minister. He had seen the organists often bothered with books that refused to stay put at the right place. His holder will certainly and simply hold the book.
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Alfred McNeel, who accidently shot himself while hunting rabbits last week, is still in the Marlinton Hospital and is making a nice recovery.
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Joe Wooddell, of Greenbank, has installed an electric lighting plant in his farm home.
MARRIAGE
No man can either live piously or die righteous without a wife – Richter
In taking up the serious question of the state of matrimony, I take my text from the foregoing expression of Jean Paul Richter as being the strongest that I can find in the affirmative, and in order that there may be no mistake as to the side I hold a brief for. And it occurred to me to look up the history of Richter to see how he lived up to his high-sounding principles. The record is satisfactory. It seems that he was an attractive man to the opposing sex. One lady being married having fallen in love with him proposed to get a divorce so that she could marry him, but Richter refused to be moved by the compliment. Another, a young maiden, died of love for him. And he married the daughter of the university professor and lived happily for many years thereafter…
It is not a question as to the person that you can live with. It is the person that you cannot live without. And that is what they call love. Love with esteem, the piety of the affections.
One young woman in a recent article in a magazine says that she is anxious to find her man and walk through life with him. And it appears on reading the text that she has been twice married and twice divorced. She is a beggar for punishment…
MOTHER
She is my mother, said a young man, but I call her my baby. She is eighty years old.
Old people are very much like babies, and we ought to love them, for of such is the Kingdom of heaven. I have an idea life evens up things.
When I was young and helpless she took care of me, now I am taking care of her. I am paying my debt. She never left me alone when I was an infant. Now I do not leave her alone. She was patient with me then; now I am patient with her. She fed me, now I feed her. I clothe her; keep her. She sacrificed her young life for me; I am now glad of every chance I have to sacrifice for her. She loved me when I was ignorant, awkward, needing constant care, and all because I was hers, born of her body and part of her soul.
Now every feebleness and trait of childhood in her endears her to me, for no other reason except she is my mother.
By so much as she is a tax on my time, attention and money. I love her. She shall not triumph over me in the day of judgment, for my tenderness equals hers. She watched with me until I grew up; I shall watch with her until she steps into heaven. – D. Frank Crane, Grant County Press.
Editor Times;
I drop you a few lines to let you and all my friends hear that I am alive and enjoying good health. I am getting better every day in every way, and in many ways, I feel much better than I did twenty years ago – have a good appetite for my three meals a day; sleep like a baby and rarely ever feel a pain. I am amused at one of your correspondents intimating that he is getting old. I have passed my eighty-seventh birthday, and the time has been so short I can’t be very old. How swift the moments roll between the cradle and the grave. A man is just as old as he thinks he is, but my feet are getting so long I often hang my toe against something.
Well, well, I must hurry along, I am sending out a check to cover my delinquency and apply to my subscription. I don’t see how any Pocahontas man can reconcile himself without your valuable paper. It is a great big letter every week.
I do enjoy the letters so much. Andy’s letters are worth the price of the paper. Sometimes I have to laugh at his farming; he tells it so antic and home like. Especially those good sweet roasting ears with butter enough to grease both corners of the mouth. I would like to have a trial with him to see which could pile up the biggest plate of cobs. …
Yours very truly,
R. D. Silva
Mossy Rock, Washington