SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 1928
THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
4
37
PAGE THREE
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Oldest Kansas Editor Veteran of Civil War; Has Published Recorder 53 and a Half Years
4.6
A newspaper man for M3 and one half years and the object Kansas officer is the record held by Maj. M. M Beck of the Holton Recorder.
Although he has never learned to run a typewriter and never set a line of type in his life, Major Beck has written a book about news for these many years.
He in 89 years old and in November will celebrate his nineteenth birthday by the Majer never missed written age the Major never missed written age to three columns each week for his paper. Neither does he miss a daily morning and afternoon tea to the of-age class.
Horatio Alger missed an excellent opportunity of writing another story of "From Postmaster to Editor" for *The Times*. Frank Root becked travel. When he first came to Holton he was made postmaster. At that time the town paper "The Times" had no office, so Frank Root. After the Major had served a year at his position Frank Root became postmaster. Major Beck then went to Leavenworth where he worked on the publication game with him and the two went back to Holton to start work on the First Recorder. The connection paid off when he published on March 2, 1875. After the first six editions had been printed, with the result of over half of the connecting pages being added to the Recorder. Frank Root asked Mr. Root if he wanted to buy him out. Deciding that it would be cheaper to buy him out rather than pay the regular fee, the Express, Frank Root's paper, and his life-work began. He was optimistic as to the Recorder's outcome for the money to make him a Express parchment.
The Civil War brought note to Major Beck; his first published news being some letters he had written to his parents while in the service. The letters described these letters, which described the battles and the general army life.
"But after I bought Frank Rock's paper, he went to Topeka and they elected me post master again. I served in that office for 13 years."
Major Beck served as an Indiana soldier in the Civil War. He tells the story of his enlistment in this mm-
SOCIETY
The annual Shamai Phi Ephesus funeral and spring party was held Friday through Saturday, with decorations were used, and Hughes Porter of Knoxville City, furnished the balloons. Mrs. Claire B. Leonard, Mrs. C Woff, Eddie L. Levy, Mrs. A clock affair.
Kappa Eta Kappa fraternity gave an informal party last night at their house. The Welch-Simmons orchestra furnished the music for the dance
Decorations in lavender and gold were used in stars and spring flowers. The chaperones were Dr. and Mrs H, P. Cady, and Mrs. Blanche Dutch
Miss Violet Knapp, St. Joseph, was the only out-of-town guest.
An informal 1 o'clock party was held last night at Watkins hall and the evening was spent in dancing and shave braid.
Decorations were carried out in
swing colors, and flowers.
Marian Riley, Olathe, an out of town guest, was present.
Chaperones were: Mrs. R, C. M row, Mrs. Wattkins, Mrs. H, W. Gen obline, Mrs. Mendor, Mrs. Wilmot, and Dean Elizabeth Meguirn.
The formal party gave last night a Gordon hair wore apart in dancing. The two dancers refreshments were served between 11 and 12 o'clock (Reynolds or 'O'Donnell) and the musicians singing. The chaperones were Dean Eileath mazeburg. Miss Alice Alberta Cherry.
The Chi Omega sorority gave spring formal last night at the house. It was a 1 eckle party Kearney's orchestra farnished musically.
Decorations for the affair carrie out the idea of a spring garden.
Chaperson wore: Mrs. F. Mae
Gaudin, Mrs. M. F. Faust,
Mrs. Gault, Mrs. Margareth,
and Mrs. George O. Foster, Mrs.
noble, Mrs. John Latham of Chinnat
Island.
Out-of-town guests were: Misty Lillian Bushman, Toperka; Elena Davis, Council Grover; Josephine LaRue; David A. Bauer; Ms. Moise McCoy; Ms. Eden Eberhardt; Salima.
ner, "My father wanted to send me one book but he could not afford to do it. He said I was too young to earn my way through. I got a job as a clock in a store, but he saw four dollars in the window and $800 but about that time the war broke out and instead of going to the movies I would wouldn't trade my four years' experience in that war for any college education."
As he related his lifetime experiences, Major Beck sat back in his comfortable chair, smoking a cigar
cation of firefighters he was at first a private in the infantry. During the first sixteen months he was made captain of the battery. He was never more than two years away ever driven from any position during his four years of army life.
Buseum Dedication Ceremony
Will He at 2:30 in
Thayer Museum
Trowbridge Addresses
Fine Arts Convocation
Next Tuesday Morning
Alexander Buell Trowbridge, director of the American Federation of American Artists and a professor at annual school of Fine Arts conference which is being held in connection with Maine Week Festival and the Museum of Natural History, Tuesday morning at 10 in the new Anadoluium. Mr. Trowbridge will grow in architecture from Cornell University in 1880 and was dean and director of the College of Architecture
Special music by the School of Fine Arts will be given at the conventure. The dedication ceremony of the Thayer museum will take
VARSITY
Mon., Tues., Wed.
Her smile! ! = ?
It did more damage to a man's heart than a blow torch does to a chank of ice. And how!
Sweater Weather—
This is the time of year when you want to put on the old sweater and knickers and go for a hike.
Better look over the wardrobe and get out your sport clothes and have us clean them now.
PAGE TWO
THE MAGAZINE SECTION OF THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN for April 29,1928
Two years had passed since Carline had arrived in Elsie that freezing January morning, and since
X X X X X
DEN and SCROLL
Carlie was not old, nor was he young; he was past that notch of life, however, at which a man must decide what his future may hold for him and feel it with all the joy that only Youth supplies. Perhaps this explains why he felt that his jump from an ordinary limb to the sole proprietorship of a popcorn store was so much easier. The store was only a series of events, as monotonous and yet endurable as being a "man of the road."
Tramps the World Over By Embree Jallitte
It was winter. The ley bats of a new born year had enveloped the little New England town of Blairze in all its fury, leaving a trail of suffering or contentment nor joy, or enjoy according to the light or heavy snowfall that lingered for months. The fallen snow had bloomed with unwonted furry, and the sweeping cold had caught all nature's vulnerability with raid vengeance. Even the deepest spots were pierced with the lapping tones of ice chilliness, and the snow speared from the arm of the rightgy Greek warriors attached the ponderous shield of his worn antagonist.
"In medias rei," the 5 p. m. No. 8 freight train condescension into the station, parking perhaps near new cars and then more on; and after smeewing of her to the ground, nearly empty, the monstrous caterpillar came to a stop. An abrupt step it was, enough to throw a man running across against a supporting wall and thus awakened him.
On yes! he was睡 asleep, for does not a "man" not bed sleep when he's on the road and is always beckoned off, leaving so little time to snatch off a few minutes of heaven-gifted comfort? Then there was nothing else to do, except, perhaps watch the man rollby telling by, or maybe whistle a tune that you mentioned. There was about all, and that didn't amount to much thought "Carile," our world over-loved stereotypes.
Carleil was different from most men: He had almost all their vices and less than half their virtues, he was never discouraged about it, a bureal virtue in his life. But he was also the one who were "the I" in his inglorious name changed to a more graceful "y," he could almost claim ancestry of distinctly philosophical talent, even though he himself was a hobo. And, it must be admitted, his inexperience constant as the smell of cattle with which he rode.
The train had come to a dead stop, in the manner shown before. Carlie sat up and rubbed his eyes, more from habit than from necessity. It was cold, unbererkly pold, at least for the poor down-and-outs. It might be just as well if one Carille should wear a headband and undressed passenger until warmer weather arrived on her bed, weather. And thus began a most too readily acceptedibernation. It wouldn't, it couldn't last for long; it wouldn't because a good thing just naturally won't last long, and it couldn't because the brakeman was already tugging at his shoulder to remove him. God! There no rest in this world; it told if a person has to die if he wants peace and comfort, or it's not sure of what he's cutting, thought Carille.
"Get the hell out here, you good-for-math'bum," shouted the invented authority of the railroad. "Ya
The trajanman, who was a man of large and powerful frame, drew the shihering Carlie up to him. "If ya nain't got enough to work for yourself, don't try to burn off someone else, see?" The hobo came in a away but he was no match for the laborer; he wailed hard, like the stones in the wall of masonry.
Carile did not begrudge his offender; he know it was part of this game he played. And then the incident was quite forgotten—but curiously (and uncurious) at first, but soon the community liked Carile did not change at the suggestion, like the heroes of stories and become the community idol—he was not so romantic nor impractical. The course of his life was not changed or altered—only diverted from it and turned to a channel more deeply carved than before.
The train whistled and puffed and the mammoth wheels slowly began to turn under the force of volcanoes. They stumbled on, sliding into cars and then hopped on. He was gone, as quickly and as unheralded as he had come. Deatl is like a dragon.
"now beat him, and don't let me catch you around here again, or there'll be hell to say."
that time he had come to be the Junior partner of John Martin, of the newly-established firm of Martin and Carlie, Greens. It was only a small establishment of course, but gave promise to not a few possibilities. Among those, *new* Matilda Mathis, *old* Catherine Dunn, the First Congregational church. Beautiful she was, and lovable as the virgin grandeur of childhood extacy; rivaled by five, touched by none.
Carlie's partner, John Martin, as gallant as a knight of old, and more serious still, knew more than anyone about his associate, so much, in fact, that he wondered why he had ever allowed himself to join the ex-tramp in business venture. And it was from him that Carlie was forced to listen to protests when he, Carlie, first begin to pay his visits to such a tramp. Martin realized the impossibility of such an encounter, and urged his cause under the guise of "inability to attend to business where women are concerned."
When it was announced that Carlie and his bride-to-be would be married January 1, to celebrate the New Year, Martin said nothing. He thought that Mr. McKinnon had been wrong in matter; but he was wrong. The fool had not considered and not consider the girl! God, what a fool he had been! he should have known and warned the innocent child. Carlie was nothing more than a hobo, an half-way reformed inebriate, an unmorally inclined person.
There was a scuffing of feet on the threshold, followed by a bouncy cough and Carilele walked in. The pernicious odor of liquor was on his breath, and he drank with a scepticism that was one of the New Year's ebullitions, evidently.
Before Carlie came in, Martin was looking over the stock, turning over past events in his mind and trying to draw some definite conclusions as to what could be done about his partner. It wasn't really his business, of course, to interfere with another's love affair, but then business was involved. Carlie's periods of drunkenness were occurring more frequently, the gentlemanly obligation of offering assistance to a poor girl whom he admired, it must be admitted, with more reverence than carniness.
"An excellent business man you are, my dear Carlie. Under such management as you are now fit to give, our business is迫于proposal," be forced, "and we have said as needed to evoke a cursing reply from Carille.
John Martin was the futility of a heated argument. He did not want to argue, he was too much of a goodman. But he realized that beryl lay an easy path to him. He could take in marrying Matilda Mathis. Not because he was drunk did he seek the opportunity, for he well knew that his partner was no novice in controlling the unstabilizing effect of liquor, but because either he would have without regard for the other, such was the situation.
"What of Matilda?" You're to be married tomorrow, you know.
"What the hell is this to you? When you get to guard me," I'll let you know," replied Carroll, with all the bawls of a drunken sailor in a strange port.
"So sweet of you to remind me," said Carlie with a siper.
"Danny your dirty hide! You bastard! You scum of the earth, haven't you any regard for anything decent?" fung Martin with more vehemence than he thought himself capable of.
"You feel, you can't marry that girl. Have you forgotten what you ---"
Carile turned swiftly on his heel, paced across the small room, raised his arm, and brought down an agonized Martin with a single blow. The victim had a motionless heap. He had not been hard to silence.
Martin lost. Carrie didn't know at what he was driving, it was plain. He would tell everyone, save the car. It had been stolen.
"Oh, that's the way it works, is it? Well, there
"Oh, notn' going to hold it up now," Cartie
"Oh, notn' going to hold it up now."
Everything was quiet, save for the methodical ticking of the corner clock. The store lights Carlile had turned off, and now and then a hungry mouse would swarm across the floor, as if fleeing from the heat. He scampered down to the alone—utterly, immaculately, reflectively alone. He walked slowly to the door, paused to unlatch it and walked out. Before he left, however, he placed a scrawled note on Martin's limp form, a simple valemantel that would be right Martin; I nwilt bear it so. No long, and tell the same to Mädchla, but a lot tell her
everything." That was all — very plain, as any trump would have said the same thing. But between the lines, had a better man written it, could be seen. She is not for my uncle hands to touch. If you love her, take her, and give her all that unstinted virtue justly deserves.
It seemed to Carlie as if he had never left "the cars" as he wont roll along on No. 8, allow freight. Everything seemed just as he had left it, the same old grinding wheels and screws braking and snow-
It didn't take the freight long to stop, so slow did it travel. But this time it stopped all too soon—it didn't give sleepy honeys like Christmas time to stow them "for them" don't caverns gave them the boot.
we walk on man ever left it.
The train gave a long, bumpy sound just like old times. Guesses they were coming in.
Carlie raised up to look in an moshave, but familiar—yes, very familiar, face. The trainee was equally apprehensive; he had not forgotten, Carlie readily perceived.
"By God, if you aren't back agit, If I don't mistaken I promised you something last time, providin' I caught you. Well, here it is, and don't fergit next time."
Carille went sprawling on the snow-covered ground before the brakeman's massive fat, with more force than his partner John Martin, had crumpled to the floor. He was unconcious.
A half hour later found our protuge just recovering. He raised up and rubbed his eyes, as though awakening from a long sleep and somehow felt that he was.
Carlie shook his head philosophically, "Funny place, this world. If you're down, they say 'Up with you!' if you're up, they say 'Down with you.' Damn! funny world, this is."
A Would-Be Poet By Georgia Neiman
Did you ever try to write poetry? Well, don't. One attempts it in the excitement of an emotional mood when he is blue or discouraged, or when he is philosophical. The results read in the cold comedy. The results are, day after day, the same, a little amusing, rather painful, a good parody of real poetry. Would it entertain the philosophy I have attempted to work out in words? Don't laugh. I was serious in my attempts. The first is on the subject of life. Why do all would-be poets choose such impossibly broad sub-
Around and round in books I go
And try to find life's meaning,
I wonder if in any book
Of life we find a gleaning.
The next I thought was deeply philosophical.
Tell me. What is life?
to $1
Tell me. What is life?
Is it a toy
A passing joy
Tell me. What is work?
Or something to shirk?
To prove the best
Are life and work the selfsame things?
Or is it much what life is?
Answer me. Tell me these things
Answer me. Tell me these things.
The next is treasure, malady and madness.
it's not accurate and obscure.
It doesn't pay to delve too deeply into dogyel.
The next is tragic—moleculematic and obscure. It
does not match the dominant tone.
Everywhere
Visions of the past
visions of the past Float around me.
My eyes fill with tears.
My eyes fill with tears.
Of the endless years
That stretch before me.
I am caught in a trap,
Life has snared me
I cannot get out,
Oh! God!
If you are there
If you are there Help me!
心
When daisies pied, and viola blue,
And lady-arms mocks all silver white,
and cuckoos, birds of yellow bush
Do paint the meadows with light.
— Shakespeare.
Don't be too hard in your criticism. They have their fault but I still treasure them as records of
ERS
of
FRANCE
ES and his
PRICES
Matinee and Evening
25-50c
HE CROWD"