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G. C. OF A., ATLANTIC COAST LINE RAILWAY. 2. A. HARPER, 557. J. B, WHITE, 210, G. W. BARNES, 256. E. W, RAWLINS, 309. A. II. LODGE, 256.
w. T. RRAMS, 532. J. J. JENNINGA, CHR., 265. J. M. DONLAN, SRC. 314. J. B. WOOTEN, 332.
Oh, brother of mine, in the battle of fe,
Just starting or nearing its close,
Will conquer wherever it goes.
But, brother, just honestly try
-John L. Shroy, in Saturday Evening Post.
When the green gits back in the trees, and bees
Is a-buzzin' round agin
Old gait they hum round in;
stood And the crick's riz, and the breeze Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,
And the green gits back in the treesI like, I say, in such scenes as these The time when the green gits back in trees.
---James Whitcomb Riley.
He Met His Match.
Boys, Read This.
“Never cross-question an Irishman from the old sod," advises one of the foremost railroad attorneys of the age, says the Detroit Free Press. “Even if he does not think of an answer, he will stumble into some bull that will demoralize the court and jury, and whenever a witness tickles a jury his testimony gains vastly in its influence.
“Yes, I'm speaking from experience. The only witness who ever made me throw up my hands and leave the court room was a green Irishman.· A section hand had been killed by an express train and his widow was suing for damages. I had a good case, but made the mistake of trying to turn the main witness inside out.
“In his quaint way he had 'given a graphic description of the fatality, occasionally shedding a tear and calling on the saints. Among other things he swore positively that the locomotive whistle was not sounded until after the whole train bad passed over his departed friend. Then I thought I had him.
· See here, McGinnis, said I, 'you admit that the whistle blew?'
"" Yis, sor; it blewed, sor.'
“Now, if that whistle sounded in time to give Michael warning, the fact would be in favor of the company, wouldn't it?'
" Yis, sor;,and Mike would be tistifyin' here this day. The jury giggled.
“Never mind that. You were Mike's friend, and you would like to help his widow out; but just tell me
now what earthly purpose there could be for the
When we see boys loafing on the streets and public places we often wonder if they know that business men are watching them. In every bank, store, office, there soon will be a place for some boy to fill. Those who have the management of the affairs of that business house will select a boy in whom they have confidence. When they select one of these boys they will not select him for his ability to talk “sassy," swear, use slang, smoke cigarettes, or tap a beer keg. These men have little to say, and some may have a few of these habits themselves, but they are looking for boys who are as near gentlemen in every sense of the word as they can find, and they are able to give you the character of every boy in the town. They are not looking for rowdies, and when a boy applies for one of these places and is refused, they may not tell him the reason why they do not want him, but the boy can depend upon it he has been rated according to his behavior. Boys cannot afford to adopt the habit and conversation of the loafers and rowdies if they ever want to be called to responsible positions.— Tomahawk Leader.
Make life a ministry of love and it will always be worth living.
All contributions to our Correspondence and Technical columns must be in not later than the ioth of the month to insure insertion.
Articles must be written on one side of the paper only. Noms de plume may be used, but every ar. ticle must be signed with full name and address of the writer to insure insertion.
We shall be glad to receive articles on any subject of general interest to the fraternity.
All communications are subject to revision or rejection, as the Editor may deem proper,
the Editor does not assume responsibility for the opinions expressed by contributors in this department. C. H. SALMONS, Editor and Manager,
It floats for Justice and for Right,
The Banner We Love.
Land of Wales.
'Tis forty years since masthead high A modest banner kissed the breeze, To float beneath a hostile sky, In all men's view this side the seas, a dozen, like those men of old, To spread the faith their names enrolled. Their creed was meditated long, While toiling under cruel wrong; And in the byways it was first In grim determination nurst; They were the mien to die or do, The seed they sowed they nurtured, too; Their fervid lips, with truth aflame, For justice called with loud acclaim; And soon recruits from every state, From May of '63 did date, The birth of a gigantic cause, Which dried the mourner's bitter tears, And won a hemisphere's applause, The Brotherhood of Engineers. The order had its bitter stabs, It quaffed full many a cup of woe, And faced externiinating jabs, Dealt at it by a haughty foe; Those true men bled at every pore; But never gave the struggle o'er; They had to fight with foes within As well as those without, to win; But confident their cause was just, They in it put their sacred trust, And buoyed with hope, they fought the fight, For what they knew was only right. By slow degrees they won their way, Until beneath the God of day The banner floated everywhere All o'er the land in freedom's air; And men who erst while fought them hard, Before their creed was understood, Now recognize, with kind regard, Our unstained flag of Brotherhood. How fares it with that flag today, Mastheaded forty years ago ? 'Tis star-lit, like the Milky Way, And floating gaily in the glow Of loving hearts and yearning eyes, Beveath our dear Columbian skies, And more than forty thousand men Salute it with admiring ken.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND., March 5, 1903. EDITOR JOURNAL: In the February JOURNAL I went through the little “ Land of Wales" with Sister Grand Vice-President of the G. I. A. to the B. of L. E. and her plucky little band of singers, and pronounced every one of those big words so dear to a Cambrian heart, including eisteddfod. Was with her, that is of the same mind, at her eisteddfod in
the March issue.
Not only the Brother engineers and our wives, but all Americans should glorify in this achievement and victory. But few of the American people realize the accomplishment required unless they are familiar with these annual festivities. As soon as the program is made and the prizes announced the strife is on. The one desire of the several competitors throughout the limited territory is to triumph in excellency; the interest and anxiety of each competitor's friends are always strongly manifested at the contest.
Little Wales must be a beauty to merit the name “Land of Poetry and Song."
Poetry lifts the veil from the beauty of the world which otherwise would be hidden." (Shelly.) "Music is a moral law. It gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to imagination, a charm to sadness, gayety and life to everything. It is the essence of order and leads to all that is good.” (Plato.) A fairly good translation of the word eisteddfod is, “a competition of Bards.” A favorite song at these contests in this country as well as in the native land is the national anthem,
Hen wlad fy Nhadau," or “Land of My
Fathers." To a Welshman the words are stirring and full of meaning.
HEN WLAD FY NHADAU. Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn anwyl i mi, Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, en wogion o fri; Ei gwrol rhyfelwyr, gwlad garwyr tra mad, Tros ryddid collasant eu gwaed. Hen gymru fynyddig, paradwys y bardd, Pop dyffryn,pob clogwyn, i'm golwyg sydd hardd, Twry deimlad gwladgarol, mor swynol yw si, Ei nentydd, afonydd, a mi. Os treisiodd y gelyn fy ngwlad dan el droed, Mae hen iaith y Cymry mor fyw ag erioed; Ni luddiwyd yr awen gan erchyll law brad, Na thelyn berseiniol fy ngwlad.
guages and is easily recognized as identical in sound and signification. But the original speech of man is a matter of mere conjecture and to us can be of no consequence for the best language is that by which a person can convey his or her thoughts with the greatest persistency and ease. May many thoughts of interest and encouragement be thus conveyed through the columns of the JOURNAL.
A. CYMRO OF DIV. II.
Gwlad, gwlad, pleidiol wyf i'm gwlad,
LAND OF MY FATHERS.
core, While bleeding for freedom of yore. Mountainous old Cambria, the Eden of bards, Each hill and each valley excite my regards; To the ears of the patriots how charming still
seems, The music that flows in her streams.
My country tho' crushed by hostile array,
CHORU'S. Wales! Wales! favorite land of Wales! While sea her wall may not befall, To mar the old language of Wales. The Welsh language on paper to those that are unable to read it has a most uncouth appearance from the number of consonants or double letters, such as dd, 11, ch, ngh, rh, ff, etc., but it must be remarked that the double letters represent only one sound in the Bardic alphabet called “Coelbreu y Beirdd.” An thusiastic Welshman, and there are many of them in the B. of L. E., will tell you his language was the language of antiquity because of its genius and the remarkable regularity of the language, its comprehensive powers, its adaptation to poetry, its capability of representing every object of imagination. With its simplicity and accuracy of structure, also taking into consideration that many Welsh words are to be found in almost all the known lan
HAMILTOX. ONT., April 6, 1903. EDITOR JOURNAL: Received the April number of the JOURNAI, this morning, and have just finished reading your beautiful description of the life of the coming Messiah. I never read anything in that line more interesting, or couched in more sublime language. What a graphic picture you have drawn of the “Holy City," with its historic surroundings. Especially striking is the scene from the top of the Church of the Ascension, as it stretches out like a mighty panorama; made more distinct by the clear atmosphere, which as you say is like a crystal lens. Then your description is strengthened and made more impressive by the clear-cut illustrations interspersed through the whole. There is one cheering thought that comes to us amid this scene of desolation--and it is the fact that this once beautiful land shall again shine in all its former glory and splendor. This is the promise which will no doubt be fulfilled to the letter before the return of the Messiah.
I am sorry that I did not get my Easter poem sent away in time for the April JOURNAL. I had forgotten that it came out so early in the month. I will, however, enclose it and would like to see it in the May number of the JOURNAL if you have the
From earth afar.
of all the year.
Let every heart conspire to raise Our thanks for thee O best of days, For thou art worthy of our praise
Till life shall end.
0, joyful day, thy praise we'll sing; What costly tribute can we bring To plume afresh thy golden wing,
Sweet Easter niorn.
This joyful day bring lilies fair, And every flower of beauty rare, Till perfume floats upon the air
In every clime.
Today He left the rock-hewn bed,
W. F. STUART.
FHILIPSBURG, PA., April 4, 1903. EDITOR JOURNAL: On this day, while the old soldiers are formed in line of the procession that go to visit the graves of their fallen comrades, we have been accustomed to hear the command, Forward, march! given in a soft, calm and quiet manner by the Post Commander. Forward, march! These are stirring words. And when submissively obeyed, they tell themselves, and have little need of the artifices of rhetoric, for they recount courage, valor and heroisin in every conceivable way. Forward, march! by the beat of the drum and blast of the bugle, to thousands of men with turbulent hearts and unconquerable spirits, means that the hour has come on whose heroic efforts the destiny of the nation depends, and that on yonder heights where limbs of men, horses, trees, wheels of cannou, pieces of timber and dust fills the air, the advancing enemy is to be met. Forward, march! at this appointed time has changed its signification, just as the shell-shattered trees, the cannon-rifled earth, the torn bastions, the field plowed by shot and shell, all, have changed their rude sad features. The wild flowers bloom where the deadly inissiles hurtled fast and furious; the riflepits have been smoothed over and their pathways covered with moss, creeper and verdure; the crimsoned soil of the battlefield has been plowed down and brought back into a smiling place of beauty and
plenty; the cities that were battered to pieces by war's dreaded enginery are now built up with schools and libraries diffusing knowledge, churches shedding forth celestial light, while mills and factories sing and play the songs of thrift. In all these changes true humanity has held in its embrace this land and that land alike, taking, as it were, an example from dear Nature, which has always kissed the graves of the North and the South alike with her persevering ray of sun and moonbeams. Her robes of verdure or of snow upon the graves of both are the proof of loving impartiality.
To the old soldier in the associations of this day, Forward, march! means: go on your tearful journey to the graves of your comrades, with no dissentient, discordant, dissatisfied element or sectional prejudice, but take with you the fairest flowers that the woods and meadows will afford, and with impartial hand, and hearts of love and sympathy, lay them on every grave whose occupant had courage to devote a life in defense of right as he saw it, no matter if he were right or wrong. He loved his country, and is entitled to tributes of honor in this respect from all those who love theirs more, that this we should consider, that after the grave we are no longer enemies, but members of one household. We all know the story how North and South fought side by side under one banner, first as loyal but protesting subjects, then as freemen that founded this great nation. But while memories live, let us not forget while at the graves of our comrades the thousands of mothers whose dear boys' graves will never be decorated, because there is no one to tell them to what spot their affections may cling; or where the solemn sepulcher may be found. Coffinless, the insatiable waves bore them down where they fell to the unsearchable grave of the sea. There are no flowers nor garlands for them; no slab to inscribe their name or epitaph upon-nothing but the storm, music of the breezy ripples or the shrill scream of the sea-gull, along with the melancholy roar of the surging waves lashed by the furious tempest over their secret tomb.
THAD S. KEATING.