The Nonpartisan Leader Newspaper, August 23, 1917, Page 13

The “McKinzie-House” at Bismarck 18 doubtlessly well named, but, on the square, there was a time when that would have been a more appropriate name for the state capitol building. * * * With beef at the present price Old Brindle is apt to develop “proud” flesh. * * * THE PESSIMISTIC ‘WEATHER PROPHET The prophet was perched on the edge of the curb ob- serving the dust of the street; his face wore a look of prophetic concern as he talked of the drought and the heat. “The country is ruined,” he solemnly drawl- ed, as he shifted his quid in his mouth, “its hotter by half and its drier by far than it ever has been in the South; the grain will be scorched till it withers away, the corn will be burned on the stalk — there’s not enough fruit in this part of the state to furnish dessert for a hawk! The driest I've seen it since *74, when everything parch- ed in the ground—burned to a cinder, not moisture enough to moisten the tongue of a hound! My advice to the farmer is: Get ‘'what you can and sell off your stock and your land, then go where there’s rainfall enough for a crop; you can’t make a living on - sand!” There came on a soaker the very next day; the water descended in sheets; the prophet, now perched on a counter inside, looked out at the mud in the streets. “The country is ruined,” he drawled with a sigh, “potatoes will rot in the soil; the fruit will de- cay where it hangs on the tree, the barley will mould- er and spoil! The wettest I've seen it since '76 when all of our gardens were drowned; the hay stood in water and couldn’'t be mowed, so we left it to spoil on the ground! My advice to the farmer is: Sell off your laryl, don’t wait till you're caught in a f]c%)d, then go where the sun shines a part of the year—for you can’t make a living on mud!” * * * Perhaps Nonpartisans should not feel too exultant over the “passing” of the Old Gang; it might be well to keep in mind the remonstrance of Captain Philips of the Texas at the battle of Bantiago: “Don’t cheer boys; the poor devils are dying!” A simple digging into the records will show that Senator Kenyon's majority over the “Immutable Lafe” Young in the senatorial race some years ago was so large that they might as well have made it unani- mous. The Nonpartisan league has nothing to fear from the muscular twichings of a corpse. THAT’S THE WAY WITH SOME PEEPUL— PLAYING AN ACE WHEN A JACK WILL DO 70U AINY GOIN 1 KoweD 1T woup, o CRUE MAY (RN ACHED AT SUPPER- TIME ~ LE'Yy GO THIS TOUuNG VEWER HAS THERE BEEN ANY EXTRA LAND PUT INTO SPUDS THIS YEAR ON ACCOUNT OF THE WAR? YES, LOTS AND LOTS! * * *® . THE NONPARTISAN LEAGUE HAS OFTEN BEEN WELL ROASTED BUT IS NOT “DONE” YET BY A LONG SHOT. * * - # RETROGRESSION MEANS A GO- ING BACK TO FORMER TIMES: THAT'S WHAT KEEPS “LAFE” YOUNG. I’ Allegro and Il Pen’sefoso Last spring I was jolly, last spring I was blythe, as I sharp- DON'T GET LONESOME DOWN THERE, BAER; DRAW PICTURES TO AMUSE YOURSELF DURING SPARE MOMENTS, AND WELL S8END YOU SOME COMPANY AFTER A WHILE. . * * * "Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And puts the farmer with the chosen few; Thus with delight the dear late Dr. Guild Looks through the haze with which his eyes are filled; Thus from afar he squints along the beach, And spies a car that surely is a peach; “A bloomin’ farmer!” yells this prince of men, “T'll write him up!”—so seizes on his pen. * * * The editor of a well known WHERE (N THE NAME O ToPHET. T WENT HoME AFTER MY WMGAHTIE ——— ZEKE-ME AYMA'S Golk’ vP AN’ FiIx uP THE SPAREROOM FER YoU T STAT ACLMIGAT-INICL WHT SENDAS Now that all the farmers from North Dakota are in the habit of spending their winters at Long Beach, a good way to take the rural census of this state would be to count the automobile licenses issued at Sacramento. .The chairman appoints Dr. Guild teller for the evening, * * ¥ What is there in a name? Every- thing! |If the first syllable of a name is WIL, it makes all the dif- ference in the world whether the last syllable is SON or HELM! * * * IT IS REPORTED THAT LYNN J. " FRAZIER IS BALD HEADED, AND IT APPEARS THERE IS CONSIDERA- BLE IN IT. : * * * War will come home to us with a vengeance when the old line politi- cian finds all of the Northwestern states be-League-ured. * * * Evidently the people of Dickinson, North Dakota, use good horse sense in choosing their officials. The chief executive three times elected, is A. White, Mayor. * * * If you wish to know something of the cali- bre and capacity of the. man who is traveling the road ahead of you, take note of the dis- tance between the cork and the empty bottle which he threw out be- side the road. * * * ONE GOOD QUALITY IN A LOAN SHARK IS HE SELDOM EVER LOSES HIS INTEREST IN A POOR MAN. * * * A man who had left a certain community did not realize how popular he had been there until he received the following word from the merchant at that place: “Will you not please come back and settle with us FSU WAt 57 rai ” fuisz'g‘ ;:‘z o again? WE HEVE So *, ¥ * The sarcastic editors who have so much to say about Governor Frazier being absent too much from duty at Bismarck have forgot- ten how delightfully interested they were in Governor Hanna’s per= iodical trips to Eu- 2 e \_."‘p__,:"\ @(% Fia * * * —Drawn by “Billican” expressly for northwest newspaper is advocating a political movement of farmers— a real farmer movement—and he says he will get behind.it. The trouble with that guy is he is just three years behind it now. * * * More taffy while alive and less “epitaphy” after death would be a pleasing change for most of us. * * * FIRST CALL FOR THE WHEAT- LESS, SWEETLESS, MEATLESS MEAL, 7 Select rather than elect was the policy of the dead bosses. * * * WHEN YOU STEAL THE INTEN- TION OF A MAN'S VOTE YOU DIS- FRANCHISE HIM EVEN AL- THOUGH HE RETAINS THE PRIVI- LEGE OF THE BALLOT. * * * Dad and mother can’t dictate to me which girl 1 shall marry; that’s a personal matter and very import- ant. | accept without question their views on politics and religion; those are secondary matters. (P. S.—This is sarcasm!) the Leader ened my plow-share and whetted my scythe; I sang as I labored, T whistled old tunes, I felt like a school boy in new pantaloons. I romped with the children, and never grew tired; my heart, and hopes, and ambitions were fired. I petted the calves, and I patted the colts; life ran on sublimely without any jolts. I breathed in the fragrance of fresh-furrowed sod, and saw life a-budding in every moist clod. I drove back and forth on my rounds in the field and every new furrow new treasures revealed. My wife seemed so happy, my neighbors seemed kind—our blind little Cupid was never so blind! The prospects were good for a wonder- ful crop—it knew when to rain, and it knew when to stop. ‘‘My wheat will go ‘thirty’ and number one hard, if nothing occurs to prevent or retard; my oats will go ‘sixty’ and weigh forty pounds; my barley is growing by leaps and by bounds; I have fifty porkers—all early, none late—I’ll sell them at Christmas for ‘seven’ or ‘eight’)’’ All life was a-leaping, all nature tip-toe, whatever the ‘soil kissed seemed happy to grow. ‘‘Ha-ha,’’ sang the birdies; ‘‘O, joy,’’ sang the flowersiN“Me next,’”’ sang the blossoms; ‘‘New life,’’ sang the showers, New hymns of ereation sprang fresh from my soul, my life was all tropic—no equator, no ole! g E ‘What now is the trouble? Just listen a while! I've sung a high mass over every spring smile! When June came to see me her face wes SO sweet—but she planted chinch bugs in the joints of my wheat; she battered my barley with hail big as eggs, and knocked my young turkeys right off of their legs; she washed out my garden with torrents of rain, and raised the old Harry with all of my grain! July was a scorcher! The wheat wouldn’t stool, like wheat always does when the weather is cool; the brick-dust appeared on the blade of my oats, and cholera settled the fate of my shoats; six colts got the glanders, and turned up their toes while pip-slaughtered chickens lie buried in rows; two heavy work horses got cut in the wire; my barn underwent a baptism of fire; my poor little bossies—I weep for them still—they sleep with their fathers just over the hill! And August—that month of poetical lie—was a rare combination of June and July! It rained, then it shone. TFirst a scorch, then ,a soak; a poetic harvest, but prosaic joke! The whiskers on shocks of the grain I got cut, grew lusty and green from the head to the butt! ' I threshed a few bushels (I needed the straw to fill a few ticks for my mother-in-law), but—number one hard? How dream-like that sounds!—it graded ‘‘rejected’’ and weighed forty pounds! My barley was sour with a ‘‘cellary’’ smell; my flax was all ‘“dock- age,”’ and mouldy as welll Ineed two more horses—have no colts to break; my poultry consists of one bachelor drake! If I crop again next year I’ll have to buy seed; but where is the money to buy what Ineed? I can’t pay my bill at the grocery store—I doubt that my credit will stretch any more. Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud, with April hopes draped in a September shroud ? J.E. T.