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General Research
The Richmond Christian Advocate
Pages 13 to 14
August 27, 1936
THE RICHMOND CHRISTIAN ADVOCATE
| The Richmond Christian Advocate; 27 Aug 1936 |
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| Contents |
Page 5 |
Page 6 |
Page 9 | Page 10 | Page 11 | Page 12 | Page 13 | Page 14 | Page 15 | Page 16 |
Fannie Coles Nottingham of Culpeper, Va. They had a happy and full life together as co-workers for fifty-four years.
It is very fitting that the Board of {paper torn}tees of the Virginia Conference Or{paper torn}anage should honor him by erecting {paper torn} tablet of bronze, the material is ever-{paper torn}sting and it will stand to remind {paper torn}ture generations of the man who so faithfully served his day and generation, the influence of his service will be felt by generations to come.
"BUT WHY NOT, MOTHER? HORSES DO!"
A Study in the Finer Instincts.
(Editorial in Michigan Christian Advocate.)
A Study in the Finer Instincts.
(Editorial in Michigan Christian Advocate.)
It was a Michigan preacher's kid, a real "P. K." who spoke the words. His years numbered four, but he had good vision and for the first time watched the horses drink from the public drinking trough that looked to him like a big bath tub.
That night when his mother gave him his bath, he started in by taking a good long drink from his tub.
Chided by his mother, he countered with the words, "But why not, Mother? Horses do!"
That's a good story, because it is packed full of real philosophy and thought promoters. That is really the problem of life, the development of the finer instincts that help boys to become true Christian gentlemen and not horses or hogs.
On the Train.
The next day, on the train, we thought of those words. A woman, fat and forty, was sitting with an old lady and talking rather loudly. Presently she lighted a cigarette and smoked vigorously, puffing the smoke into the old lady's face and making quite a picture
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for the memory. Forty, and yet living on the philosophy of the boy of four.
"But why not, Mother? Horses do!"
A Hotel Party.
One of our itinerant friends reports being at the hotel in Battle Creek the night of a recent convention of veterans. It was a night of carousing that was never equalled in the saloon days and in the room next to his it continued until eight the next morning when the bunch was too drunk to peep. Drunken women in the lobby, drunken women in the hallways, "a night of liquid fun for them," literally soused.
"But why not, Mother? Horses do!"
Low Levels.
Very few of us realize the low levels on which thousands of people live. The tragedy of living like horses is a double tragedy when it affects youth.
Dr. S. M. Shoemaker, Jr., in a recent sermon in Calvary Episcopal Church, quoted from a letter written by a young woman of twenty-two who had found only bitterness on the low level:
"Our father who is in heaven . . . is dead! . . . I haven't a God, I haven't a job, and I haven't a single pink-ruffled ideal . . . There is nothing left but sex . . . Beneath our wise-cracking cynicism lies . . . desolation of doubt as to life's value . . . We are scoffers, drunkards and wastrels . . . We have little to live for, because we have found nothing we would die for . . . We must have something in which to believe, something in which to pour out our lives . . . "
Yet, in the beginning, we have no doubt but that this same girl started out on this low level with those words:
"But why not, Mother? Horses do!"
High Schoolers.
At a recent high school party in Michigan, in a supposedly high class community, the drinking was only equalled by the damage to windows and furnishings from flying bottles. It
{column 3}
was one grand and glorious night of more or less liquid fun! The couples grew more amorous with each drink. Whoopee!
"But why not, Mother? Horses do!"
Sometimes this "kid" question is asked seriously by adults who are living on the horse level. One such young woman, who cannot quite satisfy her conscience, writes Ruth Alden, in the Free Press:
"I have found myself part of a crowd of young people who are quite prosperous, in fact, one of the boys I date at least once a week is considered very well-to-do, and consequently we go to the more fashionable places.
"There is one club in particular which was open all winter. One could not find more refinement anywhere. There is never any rowdyism. People there speak well, are polite, refined and of good professional and business standing here in the community. There is a bar, an orchestra and small dance floor. I have always felt that I was being a perfect lady while there and never felt I was in a disreputable place. Frankly, we usually go there after a movie, or before dinner, for cocktails. I feel that were I to say, 'No, I do not approve,' I would soon be dropped from the crowd and left to myself. Naturally, I don't want that.
"I realize I have a job to hold and consequently, if for no other reason than that, I never drink too much. Besides, intoxication is thought really quite stupid and old-fashioned by the so-called 'fashionable drinkers.' I think I have a good reputation and am usually invited to the most important and nicest places and parties.
"I smoke because I enjoy it. I have lots of dates -- enough so that I can pick my company.
"Maybe I am a bad girl. What do
(Continued on page 18.) {Unfortunately, I do not have page 18 -- the last one I have is page 16}
<< The Family Circle >>
Mollie Gray had been on a visit to her friend Margaret Dane, who lived in a lively manufacturing city. Now she was on her way home. As the train pulled into the home station, Mollie hurriedly gathered up her belongings, and was the first one to descend the car steps.
Would Father be there to meet her? Yes, there they were, all the dear home folks, Father, Mother, and Carl. Even little Dannie, her pet dog, was on hand, frantically wagging his tail and straining at his leash.
Mollie made a dash for them, as delighted to see them as if she had been away a month instead of over the weekend.
"Glad to be back, Daughter?" asked Mr. Gray.
"Glad as glad can be!" answered Mollie with a beaming smile.
All the way home in the car she chattered, hardly giving any one else a chance to speak. But at the farmhouse once more, Mollie looked about her with critical eyes.
Was the living-room rug really as shabby as that? She didn't remember to have noticed it before. And Father's easy chair! Why, it looked positively disgraceful.
"I left supper all cooked, before we started for the station," said Mrs. Gray "and it {will take only a few min}utes to put it on the table, so hurry and get yourself ready, dear. I put some fresh water in your pitcher."
Mollie ran upstairs to her room, and as she washed her hands and combed her hair thought longingly of the finely appointed bathroom at the Deane house.
The supper was excellent, with scalloped oysters as a special treat for her home-coming. The supper table was neat and attractive, set in a corner of the roomy farm kitchen.
It was all very pleasant, yet -- the Deanes had dinner at night, their dining room was all that a dining room should be, Mollie thought, and there was a maid to wait on the table.
Margaret, who had visited Mollie several times at the farm, always seemed to enjoy the place, but now Mollie worried herself by thinking it might be only politeness on Margaret's part.
For the next few days Mollie looked for blemishes and shabbiness. Not a crack in the wall-paper or a worn spot in paint or upholstering escaped her eye. She said nothing about it, but described the perfections of the Deane home in glowing colors.
"What's the matter with our own home?" burst out Carl, interrupting his sister as they sat on the piazza steps one evening. "From the way you talk,
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any one would think the place wasn't fit to live in!"
"Well, really, Carl," said Mollie, flushing a little, "you can't deny that it's shabby -- in spots! And --"
"It's a regular home -- that's what it is!" said Carl. "I wouldn't live in a grand, shiny place where I didn't dare to move for fear I'd spoil something, I can tell you!"
Carl rose from the steps and went off upstairs to bed.
Mollie listened a while to the mournful plaint of a hidden whippoorwill, then went inside. She paused at the door of the living room where Mother was reading aloud to Father, to say good-night.
Mollie went up to her room, dissatisfied with everything -- home, Carl, herself. Had she really been snobbish and unpleasant, as Carl had implied? She got into bed, and lay there listening to the whippoorwill.
It seemed to Mollie that she had been asleep but a few minutes, though it was really almost morning, when she was roused by a loud pounding on the door below her window.
A voice called out that terrifying cry of "Fire, fire, fire!"
Mollie listened, half dazed with the sudden waking and the terror of it.
The telephone was ringing.
She heard Carl go clattering down the stairs.
Mother {was answering the telephone.}
Then Father's voice. The outside door banged.
Mollie sat up. There was no red glare, no smell of smoke. But the house was on fire, she thought sickeningly -- oh, yes! Fire, fire!
She sprang out of bed and began dressing hurriedly.
She heard the car start. Father meant to save that, at any rate, it seemed. But what about the safe, his desk, the house furnishings? Strange everything was so still!
Mollie ran down the stairs, calling, "Mother, Mother!"
"Yes, dear!" answered Mother from the kitchen. "Come here, and look from the west window. The Carters' house is all afire. I'm so sorry for them -- and with all those children! Father and Carl have gone over. I told them to bring the whole family here. We'll make room for them, somehow."
Mrs. Gray had started a fire, and soon had an early breakfast cooking for whoever might come.
Mollie looked from the window to where, a mile away, the leaping flames from the Carter house rose lurid and fearsome. They could never save it. With all that fire, the house must be nearly gone already.
Gray dawn was beginning to break.
{column 3}
Mother came and stood by the window, slipping her arm around Mollie.
Mollie turned suddenly and laid her head against Mother's comforting shoulder.
"Poor things," said Mollie, wipin{paper torn} away starting tears, "to see their home going like that! And I thought it was ours burning! Oh, Mother! since I went to visit Margaret, I've been -- I didn't say anything to you, but -- I've been ashamed of our home, Mother." Mollie's voice was low. "But now, after I thought it was burning, I know how I love it -- every last speck of it. Why, it's it's home, Mother!"
"Yes, dear," said Mrs. Gray understandingly, "I saw how you felt, but I knew your good sense would make you see things in the right way after a little. I hear a car -- they're coming, dear. Now, help me all you can!"
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The flute-like song of the birds, The tattoo of a partridge drumming; The gentle whir of the bees, And the smallest bird's dull humming; The rising light of the sun O'er pasture, hill, and brook; The delicate fragrance of flowers, And a fern in a stone wall's nook; The velvety green of the moss, And the shining crystal dew; The beaded splendor of cobwebs, And the summer sky's bright blue; The many colorful flowers That grace the budding wood; And the long and moving shadows Where the old oak tree stood; The {paper torn} butterfly, And the {s}queaking, wee field-mice -- These wonders wrought by God Make Nature's paradise. |
Grandma sent small Grace to the doctor's office for a box of pellets. When she delivered the box to Grandma she said, "The distractions are inside."
Choir Boy: "What made you give up singing in the choir?"
Ex-Choir Boy: "I was absent one Sunday, and some one asked if the organ was mended."
-- Dragon.
A little boy was challenged by a young friend with these words: "Listen to your dad snoring."
Then came the answer: "Dad is not snoring; he is dreaming about a dog, and the dog is growling."
-- Ex.
The Groom: "You can't imagine how nervous I was when I proposed to you."
The Bride: "You can't imagine how nervous I was until you did."
One Guy: "Did you mark that place where the fishing was so good?"
Guy Two: "Yes, I put an X on the side of the boat."
First Guy: "That's silly. What if we should get another boat?"
Submitted & transcribed by Susan Shields Sasek.
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