MGfi fOUR
THE FRANKLIN
PRESS AND THE HIGHLANDS MACONIA^
€\xz ^mnklin
n.nit
^ntxinmn
Published every Thursday by The Franklin Press
At Franklin, North Carolina
Telephone No. 24
VOL. LI
Number 51
BLACKBURN W. JOHNSON EDITOR AND PUBLISHER
Entered at the Post Office, Franklin, N. C., as second class matter
SUBSCRIPTION RATES
One Year
Six Months
Eight Months
Single Copy
Obituary notices, cards of thanks, tributes of respect, by individuals,
lodges., churches, organizations or societies, will be regarded as adver
tising and inserted at regular classified advertising rates. Such notices
wrill be marked “adv.” in compliance with the postal regulations.
George Bulgin
DECALLING the warm, bright memory of
■■^George Bulgin, we call to mind, too, another
memory—the stalwart picture of manhood painted
by Henry W. Longfellow in “The Village Black
smith.”
Re-reading the familiar poem, we are impressed
by the striking similarity of character between our
friend and the man who inspired the immortal
poet’s pen.
Even though George Bulgin’s physical strength
was diminished by a stroke of paralysis several
years before his death, one watching him at his
work at the anvil and forge could not fail to notice
“the muscles of his brawmy arm” and recall the
lines:
“His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat.
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face.
For he owes not any man.”
And, again, as Longfellow tells of the children
watching the smith at his work we remember that
it was not an unusual sight to find Franklin young
sters, homeward bound from school, lingering
around George Bulgin’s shop absorbed with inter
est in and admiration for his amazing skill in shap
ing iron and steel to his purpose. The analogy con
tinues :
“He goes on Sunday to the church.
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and^ preach.
He hears his daughter’s voice.
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin.
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done.
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend.
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.”
the first CHRISTMAS
By B. M. Angel
"5is the ^eek 'before ehrismas” by A. B
chapi
•AND ALL
TUE +IOUSE —
i-TO UKJCLE JUDD SHOULD
f^VE BEEN MA'UED LAST WEEK
I AUM-r AHM1£S tS ^ATE TOO-H
' rr'S ALWAYS tviis WAY /
every YEAP > THlVlli ^
ISTAK-T EARW —- - - ^
■ bulMYPEET— ;
•
MIMETV TVrfO—-
^ SUOCkCS,V/aY T>0 \ HAVE TtJO
ADOClESS THESE CARDS
Sou've HAD ALL PALL
TO PO I'LL BE
DURMED
To THAT MISSUS S^YDE—
v«e ousHT t' send one
TO TH'CLYMERS \ SlPoyC,
— ^HEYSEnTUS
(WTIIErI
JlMMVl!
WHO &NE
SANnY ClA'*iS
PWcSeNT ?
tAMY,
'O
'■£
J
or the breaking of dawn, “when
jocund day stands tiptoe on the
misty mountain top.” The joyous
greeting, “A merry Christmas,” like
a refrain, goes ringing down the
corridors of time.
It is far cry from the gladsome
tidings of the Nativity at Bethle
hem Ephratha foretold in ancient
story and the cry of despair from
the Cross on Golgotha hill. No jub
ilations are heard from the angelic
host on high; darkness shrouds
a quaking earth; the world is in
the throes of a monstrous tragedy.
The agony, the torture appal the
stoutest heart. The terror of the
scene on Calvary is not relieved
until the evangel of the first Easter
morning. We turn and flee from
the groans on Golgotha to hear
the rapturous songs at Bethlehem.
No art can make sheer misery de
lectable. We gladly attune our
hearing to the music of the spheres,
but are shocked by the discord of
IN the long, long ago, while the
solemn hours of night were
brooding over the hills of ancient
Judea and the drowsy shepherds
were keeping their lonesome vigil
over their flocks, there was herald
ed an event that never yet was on
land or sea. The glory of the Lord
shone round the frightened shep
herd and an angel said, “Be not
afraid, for I bring you good tid
ings of great joy which shall be to
all people, for there is born to you
this day Ln the city of David a
Savior who is Christ the Lord; and
this shall be a sign unto you; ye
shall find a babe wrapped in swad
dling clothes and lying in a manger.”
Suddenly the heavens were vocal
with hallelujahs—“Glory to God in
the highest, peace on earth, good
will to men.” The shepherds went
to Bethlehem and found as had
been told to them.
This short and simple story of
the birth of the Christ-child and
his first hour of babyhood has giv
en Christendom its most joyous and
popular festival and the theme of
its most beautiful hymn:
“Cold on his cradle the drew-
drops are shining,
Low lies his head with the
beasts of the stall;
Shepherds go worship the babe
in the manger.
Maker and monarch and savior
of all.”
This most pleasing story has all
the freshness and charm of the
first morning of creation, “when
the morning stars sang together,”
crashing worlds. It is the beauty,
the poetic essence of the old story
that comforts and cheers. “A merry
heart doeth good like a medicine.”
If suffering has conquered its thou
sands, a love that tliinketh no evil
has won its tens of thousands.
Meditation on the glorious birth
that brought wise men from the
far quarters of the world to show
er the new-born infant with gold,
frankincense and myrrh, and start
ed the heavens to unwonted ecstacy
of song such a glorious theme as
this has more religion than a thou
sand sermons. It is too heroic for
most of us to plant our feet on
the road to Calvary; all can go
merrily with the shepherds down
to the 'humble cradle at Bethle
hem “where once the angels trod”
and there, as in .a mystic vision,
find truth, mercy and goodness;
love, light and life, and listen to
the lullaby over the babe wrapped
in swaddling clothes and lying in a
manger.
BRUCt
Barton
the employment is intoli
them; and, I think, writini
and more a terror to old
A famous American noi
asked: “Does writing »
easier as you get older?”
ed horror stnuck. “Ea
moaned, “easier! Every !
life and death struggle, a
ever I have finished one
mys.elf: “That’s the last
old. I never can do it ag
he keeps on with the t
his books are still best i
Irvin Cobb remarked
ing is a job which no hii
will understand unless d
by dire necessity. He say
never writes for fun.
Most old scribes agre
hardest part of writing
started. .If one will sit
gedly, put a sheet of ps
typewriter and begin to
thing, even a letter to
folks, it starts the bio
through the brain and w
forward. But the writer
around the room, pid
newspaper or fusses wt
traction, is lost.
There are some days,
when you just can’t writf
is no use to try. The on
do then is to put on yo
go out and get yo,ur
sneak off to the circus,
the words will come.
(Copyright, K. F
LET’S LOOK AT THE
RECORD!
An ardent young siientist com
pleted a long series of experiments
only to find that the result he
sought to achieve simply could .not
be produced. Imagine his mental
distress when he learned that the
identical experiments had been car
ried through in another university
some years before. If he had known
about this previous attempt he
could have saved two year’s 'hard
work.
He said; “There ought to be a
careful record of the failures as
well as the s.uccess in scientific
research. Some institution should
maintain a graveyard where young
scientists could go and find a rec
ord of every research that has
proved no good.”
If this would be a good thing
in scicncG it would, b.6 even more
useful in business—^and in states
manship. In business we seem to
learn so little from the past. We
go through the same vicious circle
of optimism, expansion, inflation,
collapse, depression, and despair.
There is hardly a single detail
of the economic experience of the
past seven years that cannot be
matched in _ the record of every
description since the industrial s,ys-
tem began. Yet the human mind
refuses dumbly to remember. Each
fresh burst of prosperity is hailed
as a “New Era,” and each bust is
regarded as something unprecedent
ed and irreparable.
So with statesmanship. If yo,u
read the history of the Roman 1^-
peror Diocletian you will learn that
practically all the measures of mod
ern government were tried out in
his day—-with results that are sad
to remember.
France tried most of them after
the collapse of the Mississippi Bub
ble, and English hurried them onto
the statute books when the South
Sea company collapsed.
All this informatio,n is in the
Congressional Library, but unfor
tunately our law makers seldom
visit the Library,
They should be compelled to
spend at least a day a month in
it, and there should be a Perma
nent Committee of Congress called
“The Committee on Things That
Sound Good but Won’t Work,”
I’LL TELL YOU
HOW TO WRITE
Emerso,n in his diary says; “I
have heard that the engineers in
locomotives grow nervously vigilant
with every year on the road, until
Muse^s Coi
Country Chris
By GRACE NOLL CF
The cities have their J
Their streets
Their 'high wiW be'’*’
spires.
But here tonight
Upon these wide ^
One light is
The glorious silver g
From one white sta ,
And there are clearer
. it,p town-
Than any m the
The angel’s song, unhin
Comes drifting O'
The silver silence
These riders foHo«
xiriV is COM '
The frost JJ'Ji
To those who
The plains are a
This