21
SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 1938
THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
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Oldest Kansas Editor Veteran of Civil War;Has Published Recorder 53 and a Half Years
A newspaper run for 63 and one half years, and the oldest Kanada editor is the record held by Maj. M. M Beck of the Holton Recorder.
Although he has never learned to run a typwriter and never set a time of type in his life, Major Beck has been a key player weekly news for these many years.
He is 89 years old and in November will celebrate his nineteenth birthday, which he said will be the biggest never pressured from two to three columns each week for his paper. Neither does he miss a daily morning and afternoon trip to the office.
Horatio Alger made an excellent opportunity of writing another story of "From Postmaster to Editor," for which Frank Root traveled. When he first came to Holton he was made postmaster, At that time the town paper "The Times" called him Frank Root. After the Major had served a year at his position Frank Root became postmaster. Major Buck Root found a man who was willing to start into the publishing game with him and the two went back to Holton to start work on the first Recorder. The second edition was published on March 2, 1875. After the first six editions had been printed, with the result of over half of the book sold, Frank Root asked over to the Recorder, Frank Root asked Major Buck If he wanted to nay him out. Deciding that it would be cleaner to buy him out instead of asking Frank Root the Express, Frank Root's paper, and his life-work began. He was optimistic as to the Recorder's outcome Frank Root money to make the Express purchase.
"But after I bought Frank Root's paper, he went to Topeka and they elected me post master admin. I served in that office for 13 years." The soldier in the Civil War. He tells the story of his enlistment in this man
The Civil War brought note to Major Leek; his first published news being some letters he had written to his parents while in the service. The letter was so pungent that these letters which described the battles and the general army life,
The annual Sigma Phi Epsilon foeal spring party was held Friday night at the country club. Spring decorations were used, and Hughes Porter of Kansas City, furnished the music for the function. Charlevoix presented the music by Mrs. W. Eoff, and Mrs. W. L. Hiley. The party was a 1 o'clock affair.
Kappa Eta Kappa fraternity gave an
participation last night at the
house. The Welch-Simmons orbis
trailed the music for the dance
Decorations in lavender and golf were used in stars and spring flowers. The chaperones were Dr. and Mrs H. P. Cadty, and Mrs. Hincelech Deich
Miss Violet Knapp, St. Joseph, wa the only out-of-town guest.
An informal 1 o'clock party was held last night at Watkins hall on the opening was spent in dancing an playing bridge.
Decorations were carried out in spring colors, and flowers.
Chaperones were: Mrs, R. C, M-row, Mrs, Watkins, W. H, G-goldine, Mrs, Meador, Mrs, Wilmot, an Dean Elizabeth Megnail.
Marian Riley, Olathe, an out of town guest, was present.
The formal party given last night by Corsinian was spied in dance at the Renaissance Festival. Refreshments were served between 11 and 12 and Mr Reynolds' aide, Dennis Clementi, inscribed the hymn for the ing. The chapwicks were Dean Elijah Elizabeth Mossia Miss Alberta Cortina
The Chi Omega sorority gave spring formal last night at the house. It was a 1 i elbow part Kecarah's orchestra furnished me.
Decorations for the affair curri out the idea of a spring garden.
Chaperones were Mrs. Floria M. Marquardt, Mrs. Jacqueline Gault, Mrs. Margaret Perkins, and Mrs. George O. Foster, Mrs. Roibold, Mrs. John Latham of Chami
Out-of-the-crowd guests sure! Miss Lillian Humbard, Topeka; Miss Lillian Daucel, Council Square; Miss Lillian Donahue, Ibanez Hall; Miss Clyde Bannon, Kahn City, Ma; Eleanor Elbaer, Salina;
per, "My father wanted to send me to college but he could not afford to do so and told me that I would have to earn my way through. I got a job as a clerk in a steel mill up between $400 and $300 but about that time the brake broke and instead of going to college I went to war. And I would not be able to experience this war for any college education offered then or now."
In the service he was at first n private in the infantry. During the last sixteen months he was made captain of the battery. He was never wounded new beforehand, nor ever wounded near any position during his four years of army life.
As he relait his lifetime exper-
ences, Major Beck sat back in hi-
mountable chair, anning a cigar
Trowbridge Addresses Fine Arts Convocation Next Tuesday Morning
Museum Dedication Ceremony
Will Be at 2:30 in
Thayer Museum
Alexander Ruell Trowbridge, director of the American Federation of Artists will make the address at the opening of a new exhibition which is being held in connection with Music Week Festival and the dedication of the Spencer-Thayer museum, Tuesday morning at 10 in the morning. He received his Bachelor of Science degree in architecture from Cornell University in 1890 and was dean and director of the College of Architecture Stouffel music by the School of Fine
VARSITY
Special music by the School of Fine Arts will be given at the concession. The dedication ceremony of the Concert Theater museum will take
Mon., Tues., Wed.
Her smile! ! ! !
It did more damage to a man's heart than a blow torch does to a chunk of ice. And how!
"You're not well. Let me call a doctor," I said, purposely evading his question.
"This is too real—too real. You're not lying to me, are you?" he continued, tixing his steel grey eyes on mine. "NotIFY! I heard the march feet—the march feet."
Sweater Weather—
This is the time of year when you want to put on the old sweater and knickers and go for a hike.
"You were merely dreaming." I replied soothingly.
THE MAGAZINE SECTION OF THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN for April 29, 1928
Better look over the wardrobe and get out your sport clothes and have us clean them now.
6 ten Closed 500 to $1
"Tramp, tramp, tramp . . . . . . . . . . don't you bear them—our soldiers?" . . . On, on, on to Washington! Listen . . . on —or—Where am I?!" he demanded.
PAGE THREE
PEN and SCROLL
The Last Rebel By R. C. Li Beau
One evening last December, as I was settled down in my easy chair, the telephone rang. Irritated at the thought of leaving this comfort for only a minute, I resolved to let the call go unanu-
However, the bell seemed to have a peculiar tone. Annoyed at that, I finally rose, and with muttered spiethits against the person who had disturbed my peace, and strode over to the telephone.
"Hello, this Henry Clyde?" I heard from the receiver in the unrecertained agents of an old man.
he heard from the seeder in the uncertain accents of an old man. "Yes, this is he. Who are you, an adult you want, demanded rather brusquely, for I still cannot argue against this unknown man for having a disfigurement."
I made no mention of his attire. I acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary, not even asking the object of his attention. I did not suddenly a strange light came into his eye.
"This is John Ramsey, Can you come over right away?" questioned the shaking voice.
What! John Ramsey, my friend who but last week had been so hearty in spite of his eighty years of age? What a change in his voice. A strange feeling of foreboding shuddered through my frame, or was it a bust of cold air from some window accidentally left open?
This buckle bore the image of an eagle, with the letters C. S. A. belt in it raised characters. On the breast of the blouse of the uniform was a large blackened blood-stain, marking the location of his old wound. On his shoulders were the spun-gold epaulets of a staff major. He now braces, not the common street衣帽. These together with the old uniform was an old contrast of yesterday and today; he is past and present. By his side, on a table, rested a battered green camauit.
I walked rapidly. Only two blocks more. What could he want. What change from his firm commanding voice of before to this feeble mockery of it that had spoken to me over the telephone.
I decided to go. He might be in need of me.
"I would be over as soon as possible," I answered.
"Good-bye."
An indescribable sensation of oppression bore upon me as I prepared myself to back the war, for a night wind. John Rimsey-a veteran of the Civil war and was wounded for the Confederacy, but in its archives he was noted with distinction. He had one of the youngest staff officers of Lee himself.
I went out into the silent and deserted street, how cold it was! He had turned the tide of battle to Confederate victory at Sliholyh, his dogged defiance of the reinforcements arrived. He had won that battle.
I regarded him closely. He was dressed I n a tattered uniform of grey and his arms around his waist, a half-fallen-to-piece arm. In a tumble, with a tennis silver and gold buckle.
Ah!！ At last! I knotted at the door of his usually cherry four-roomed cottage. a weak voice called, "come in", and I entered. The very atmosphere of the room seemed changed. Even the war relies that had served to brighten the old man's living room seemed, in the dim flickering light of the hearth, to peer at me like ghosts from the walls. Ramsey was seated in a rocking-chair before the fire, nuddled
he's trying to rid himself of a coldness she could not leave him. He asked me to lay my coat and hat on the table and to draw up a chair before the fire. I did so.
"Hush," he hissed. "The bugle . . . Taps . . . Taps . . ."
Taps . . .
I began to feel alarmed. I called a doctor on the telephone. After being assured that he would come are soon as possible, I returned to the side of the door. I saw the crying from which I could not arouse him. Minutes passed.
Suddenly he jumped to his feet, pulled the ragged campaign hat over his head, and commenced to issue imaginary subordinates in a firm voice—different from ever heard—like a voice from another world.
"Order Captain Robbets to storm Boggs Hill . . .
The wall will until relieved . . . send reinforcements
in salute. "THE CONFEDERACY FOREVER"
With these last words he suddenly, convulsively,
brought his right hand down, and clapped it to his
breast, over the exact spot covered by the blood
stain, which in the dying light seemed to become
red again. He slumped to the floor.
**B. ADEE DÉE.**  Send reinforcements
they give back to him. He raised his hand in
salute. **THE '40 FORMAN'**
**THE '40 FORMAN'**
When the doctor ate them too late, the last breast bad fought and lost—the greatest battle.
The Lie
I can believe the maddest things,
That ever madman told;
The smile of gods, the wrath of kings,
Mountains that nod or beasts with wings;
A princess with two wedding rings,
And a moon once bought and sold.
And I can doubt the sanest truth:
Rain on a rainy day,
An empty pear, an aching tooth,
A slarning word or shrug unnucct;
A fever and a cry called youth,
That came—and went away.
But how can I believe this lie
the gossips love to spread:
"Some day," they say, "when Spring comes by,
Twirling her skirts and stepping high,
Jugging the earth and a bit of sky—
'why you?' You will be dead!"
Hortense Flexner.
I wonder which is the wiser part:
To love so deeply that love is a pain,
Or to love so lightly my guarded heart
Will feel no loss as it felt small gain?
The Bells of Haworth By Marion Pinkham
Outside a November dusk is settling fast. A high wind which sprink up at sunset is shivering the ground, graveyard wall, and carries down from the edge to the heath the unmistakable scent of snow coming.
The grim grey house stands like another tombstone, larger, drier than them all. But—no, not entirely cheerless for in the window at the left of the door a candle winks and then burns steadily. Soon the diamond-shaped panes are rebuilding the gleams of several tapers, lighted by a quiet hand.
And now the door opens and a figure comes out and walks to the end of the gravel path. She turns her head toward the rolling moors behind the house, watching for someone. At length there is a baited fish decapitate of a dog's bark. The little grey gowned woman looks at the newcomers run toward her, standing against the candle light, she smiles and holds out her arms. Her voice is strong with a decided Irish accent.
"Come in, sisters," she says. "Emily, little Anne,
Scones tonight." The door closes.
Now the wind may rush in discomelous among the tomatoes or bring down the snow upon the roof. The cold and the wind and the darkness are sharp, the warm and therage where the fire burns in the grate and there is it. The rain and Tabby is trotting in with the promised scenes, which she sets before Charlotte, who is poaching.
In eighteen-twenty the tail link beared Patricia Bronte and her "not pretty, but very elegant" little wife, with their six subdued children had cooties the Parsonage. The there father had a "boring" the fragile wife found a death and three of the daughters found their heritage on the moors.
Charlotte and Anne and Emily Brontë lived in a stark house whose windows looked out in dismal watch over the graveyard. The door in the wall opened to let in the dead. But there was another path beyond—"a little and a lone green lane" and "the free places, the purple moors." They held the heart of immortality and after the Bronte had given their heart's spirit of the place" the secret was relinquished to Charlotte once expressed her love for them in the line:"I feel the conservation of their loneliness."
oblemens.
When in the year eighty-forty eight the young author of "Jane Eyre" and the beautiful craftsman of "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" made a holiday delight lark of going to London to
view their publishers, they were really children still. Picture them tramping through the streaming darkness of the lounge to Keighley, where they take the trip to Cairnburrow, are for biddying business like and self-service on the outside, and make careful plans to take a cab to Cornhill. They cling to one another in the breathless realization that they are alone, and must contour their shyness in meeting Mr Smith and Mr. Williams. Patatern Rowow, how confusing it all is, wonders, the crowds—oh, dear, perhaps Amnie, we had better go to the Chapter Coffee House . . . Our names? Charlotte, Charlotte, not our own . . . Let's be the Misses Brown . . . And then to the plush Mr. Smith and Mr. Williams are confused with astounding information that these amazing young persons are Carrer and Actor Bell . . . And now they are here and the business is transacted, what would they be for entertainment in the lively London? We express a selerite wish to the present audience Croly. However, they go instead to Convent Gardens . . . What an engaging air of maturity, what pretty play of judicial consideration given to each motion quapon during their entire stay. But they are really just as child-like as in the Islanders," who Charlotte gravely pronounced that "Best plays are secret plays."
The years pass unveillonely enough at Haworth. There are years of exile from home in households which employ the Missouri students, and periods of study for Charlotte and Emily
(Continued on page 4)
lers
is of
ARRANCE
RES and his
PRICES
Matinee and Evening
25-50c
THE CROWD"
.