The sun. [volume] (Newberry, S.C.) 1937-1972, October 25, 1956, Image 7
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THURSDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1956
THE NEWBERRY SUN
PAGE SEVEN
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THE BAFFLES
By Mahoney
♦r/VA,BILL. WHAT ) PLAYING
ARE YOU DOING J THE HORSES.
THESE days?
AND IM MAKING A
SWELL LIVING AT IT,
TOO. YOU KNOW-
MOST PEOPLE SAY
THAT YOU CAN'T
EARN A LIVING
PLAYING THE
BANGTAILS...
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BUT THEY'RE
WRONG!
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TYPICAL CARRIER . . . Pres. Eisenhower greets Andy Williams,
14, of Ames, la., who represented nation's 600,000 newsboys in his
White House visit.
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I—
REV. ROBERT H. HARPER
Jays and Squirrels
In our back yard there is a
great live oak with wide-spread
ing branches that shade half the
place. The place is usually alive
and vocal with blue jays and other
birds. Two gray squirrels live
somewhere in the tree and appear
at intervals. One morning last
August there was a raucous cry
of jay birds that sounded some
thing like kieg, kieg, kieg!
The appearance of a squirrel
had upset the jays and caused
their loud chorus. And why? I
decided it must have been due to
the direction of the squirrel’s
movement—toward some food that
had been placed under the tree.
I have never known of a blue jay
and a squirrel having a fight, but
I can testify that the rodent great
ly upset the winged creature.
Now human beings ought to be
wiser and kinder than blue
jays and squirrels. They ought
not be upset, be filled with wrath
and bitterness if some other gets
what they wanted for themselves.
Bitter indeed is the envy that
steals away a man’s peace of
mind and leaves him the prey of
his own selfish thoughts. Let us
be content with what we have.
"I REMEMBER”
BY THS OLD TIMERS
From E. Sne Woof ter, Clarks
burg, W. Va.: I remember when
we used to make sorghtun molas
ses by grinding out the Juice from
cane stalks. We would take the
cane mill down by the creek and
set it up. A horse was hitched to
a long beam and someone would
ride the horse, usually a little
tyke like myself, around and
around all day grinding out cane
jUice. Don’t know whether or not
the horse ever got dizzy.
The boiler that the cane juice
was cooked in was near the creek,
too, and the skimming s were
poured into the creek. How the
Qsh ever survived is a mystery,
for they were of the dirtest green
color until the syrup was nearly
done. The finished product was
mflugh we put it in kegs
for winter use on hot buckwheat
cakes and also to make ginger
bread. It sold tor around fifty
cents per gallon, now if one could
purchase it at all, it would be
four dollars a gallon.
PRINTING: The Sun la well equip
ped to handle all your printing
orders. We specialise in letter
heads, envelopes, billheads and
statements, invoices. We print
any kind of receipt book, numb
bered or plain. Ruled forms, vou
chers, and many, many other
items. Try us for quality print
ing with prompt aarvice- Phone
No. 1. Well be glad to calL
<QUAW MAN’S CHOICE
By J. Reed Ruff
V INCE CHADWICK lowered his
head allowing the broad brim
of his worn stetson to shut out the
early morning sunshine. He liked
the sun, but not in his face, and
this morning its brightness seemed
to dim the images he wanted to
draw from the past.
In his shabby trousers and faded
shirt, old Vince didn’t look like he
had ever shared a close associa
tion with ambition, and he cer
tainly didn’t like a man who
had once won the affections of the
prettiest girl in the state. Seated
on a nail keg in front of the store
that had been his father’s, Vince
looked exactly like what he actual
ly was; an aging, small town hard
ware merchant.
He drew a deep sigh, remem
bering Naona Whitefeather, slim
and proud, that day long ago when
he presented the trophy that titled
her the prettiest girl in the state.
There were a lot of memories of
Naona, but there were memories
of his mother too.
“Vincent, you’re the youngest
Commissioner this county has ever
elected, and in time you’ll gain
state offices. Think of it. Son, the
state’s youngest Governor! Doesn’t
it mean anything at all to you,
Vincent?” She drew a deep
breath, pleading, “Were the sac
rifices I made to give you a proper
education, made in vain?”
It meant a lot to him, and she
knew it. He owed the sedate,
white haired woman more than he
could ever hope to repay.
“You can’t give it all up to mar
ry an T"<n»n girl!” His Mother’s
way of saying ’Indian’, reduced
the word to an obscenity.
“But I’m in love with Naona,
Mother!” He still remembered
how cramped his feet felt in the
narrow, patent leather shoes, as
he paced the floor of his small
office. “She’s not like some of the
Indian population. She’s well ed
ucated.
“You’ve lived in tills country
all of your life, Vincent.” Moth
er’s penetrating glance compelled
attention. His Mother never cried,
but she had a way of showing how
hard it was for her to keep from ^
crying, and that was even worse.
“Do you want to be called a
‘Squaw Man,’ Son? Do you think
they will ever elect a ‘Squaw
Man* Governor?”
His thoughts were not bitter.
For him, being prodded by the
sharp goad of his Mother’s ambi
tion was normal, because it was
ati he knew after his Father
died. But loving Naona was nor
mal too.
The musty coolness of the store
was welcome after the blazing
sun and the smell of metal and
leather was pleasantly familiar.
He stood for a moment in back of
the scarred wooden counter with
the zinc nad bins bulging across
its front. He could hear his wife
and his mother clattering around
the Uving quarters at the rear of
the store, engaging as always, in
the sharp thrust and parry of petty
bickering.
Well, he’d been warned. He
couldn’t have Naona and be Gov
ernor too, but who wanted to be
Governor or anything else with
out Naona?
Vince glanced down at the
morffing paper where he had left
it, lying open on the counter.
Naona hadn’t changed much. She
was still slim, and although her
rich, dark hair had lightened to
gray, even the poor newspaper
photography couldn’t dim the
warmth and dignity in her face or
mar the proud way she stood at
her husband’s side. Vince read
the caption above the picture for
the fourth time, tracing the black
letters with a gnarled finger:
NEWLY ELECTED GOVER
NOR JOHN MONTE AND HIS
LOVELY WIFE GRACIOUSLY
ACCEPT KEYS TO GOVERNOR’S
MANSION.
With a far away look in his pale
blue eyes, Vince folded the paper
and laid it on the end of the count
er. His Mother would want to
read it when she found time.
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