Just when they taste the best! Plucked as they hang sun-ripened, juicy and tempting on the vines! Made into soup on the very same day, in the prime of their delicious freshness! Every tomato is washed five times in crystal-clear running water. It's only the richest and finest parts of the fruit that go into Campbell's Tomato Soup. The pure tomato juices and plump tomato "meat" are strained to a smooth puree. Golden butter enriches the blend. Delicate seasoning perfects the flavor. What a treat awaits your appetite when you catch the delicious fragrance from a plate of Campbell's Tomato Soup. Serve it often, too, as a cream of Tomato. I've one little motto concerning tomato JOHNNY WEAVER is fortunately not wedded to his idols of untutored speech. lines by Alfred Noyes in the Sunday Times That neither treason nor mischief is hatched in It is no barbarous alien who signs here (London). Edmund Gosse put his greeting in prose, calling Hardy "St. Thomas of Max Gate," for "according to the laws of the Brahminical religion the man who reaches his eighty-fourth year becomes, by that occurrence, a saint." TO THOMAS HARDY ON HIS EIGHTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY BY ALFRED NOYES A breath of hope, for those who have known despair: Of victory, for those who have drunk defeat; Of harvest, when the wounded fields lie bare, Or but a mist of green foreruns the wheat; A breath of love, when all we loved lies dead: Of joy. when sorrow veiled and bowed the head; His music breathes it. for his wrestling soul There is a real nostalgia in the scent of a familiar home-grown flower, and the pang of it is caught by these lines from Woman in China (Tientsin). HOME FOLKS BY GENEVIEVE WIMSATT Although they spread from Tung Ting to the Wall Hibiscus red and white. song-scented, blue Lan blossom, Lotus jade-white, pearled with dew, Paulownia whose purple petals fall When heart of friend to absent friend would call, So said my heart until the spring-time came, Gold petals that bestrewed the spring-house floor. THERE are other ways of lifting off the rooftops than that employed by "the devil on two sticks." This one from the London Spectator is not lacking in human sympathy. DUSK BY ALEXANDER GRAY When the daylight fades, and the moths flutter over the phloxes, And the bats come from secret places, and wheel round the elm-trees. This way and that, jerking and diving in silence, Then in the cool of the day I walk in the garden, Thinking of next day's task or it may be of nothing, Watching the lights appear in the houses around me, Or in the streets below or beyond on the hillside. Sometimes the blinds are drawn with a snap and a gesture, Screening the hearth from the eye of the curious passer, this dwelling. And as I look all around at the lights in the windows, Dumbly my spirit pleads at each house for admission, Like a moth vainly beating the pane in meaningless envy. And I lose my way in imaginings idle and baseless, Asking myself of what drama each light is a witness, Of love and regret, of hatred, of sorrow and meanness, Of striving and toil, of weariness never far distant. Here, I say to myself, in this room are two lovers Wondering still at love, and warm in love's laughter, With bantering speech dissembling the love that consumes them. And there, it may be, are twain whom the years have tormented, Fretting now in each other's presence, and knowing The music of love changed into harshest discordance, And awaiting, although unconfessed, the great Reconciler To bring an uneasy peace-alas, for one only! And here, I say, is one who lives for to-morrow, Deaf to the world and the intercessions of pleasure, With eyes intent on the distant summits of glory; And there is one whose days are spent in remembrance, We have it on the authority of both G. S. B. and a native of Durham that the versified tale in our May 12 issue is to be found in the annals of that Connecticut town. We shall then accept this other Cherishing, unsuspected, the words once spoken "Conning Tower" (New York World) But whose soul has been choked by the cares of A RIME OF AN ANCIENT GENTLEMAN the things that perish. READERS Who spend a sigh or more over the death of Maurice Hewlett (June 15, 1923) will read in the New York Evening Post this memorial of past delights: MAURICE HEWLETT BY MARJORIE C. WEIRICH He hung a tapestry and hid the dark. Words were made flesh And breathed in books. Dead queens came crowding round to tell their wrongs. Scots Mary veiled her sea-green eyes Bludgeon kings and heroes, slow of speech, That was the Hewlett of my youth. And bitter sweet it was In Sanchia's way, The old delusion, And the old, old pain. Pinkish purple moths that flutter And settle down in clouds along Devon lanes, He breathed his soul into these wraiths. BY G. S. B. Timothy Dexter of Newburyport The critics might rave or readers complain. Some persons denounced him and others jeered, Timothy Dexter of Newburyport His comment was merely, "We aim to please." He removed the lids with a right good will, For molasses ladles. "Bring all you've got!" And he sold the lids to the native beaux, Who wore 'em suspended from ear or nose And asked, "Can you furnish some more of those?” Timothy Dexter of Newburyport Was a stanch old blade of a fine old sort. They begged him to stay. "My regrets," said he, So he sailed back home, where he lived in state. And he set up statues of men of fame, With Timothy Dexter among the same: This blithe old fellow of a high old sort, FORD'S PLATFORM OUT: "NO PLACE LIKE HOME" ENRY FORD may have some unusual political views and business methods, but he seems "hopelessly" oldfashioned in his ideas on how to have a good time. Certainly the vociferous exponents of the Younger Generation will be unable to suppress a titter upon learning that this richest man in the world finds his chief delight in the inexpensive, staid, and quaint nineteenth-century custom of staying at home with the family at night and gathering the clan around an organ to sing a few hymns. Henry believes that there is no place like home, and believes it so earnestly that he devoted much time and money recently to rehabilitating the house at Dearborn, Michigan, in which he was born. After the work of restoration was complete he took there his friend, Edgar A. Guest, "the people's poet." As the two were standing in the parlor the following conversation occurred, as recorded by Guest in the current American Magazine (New York): "It's just about as it was in the old days," said Henry Ford quietly. "The sofa stood over against that wall and the organ in the corner. We used to have good times around that old organ, possibilities and actually enters the race. Americans seem to be incurably sentimental over the dear, dead days when the family circle was more than a figure of speech, and it doesn't take much imagination to conceive of voters flocking to the standard of that candidate who chooses and exemplifies some such campaign slogan as "Home, Sweet Home," or "God Bless Our Home." The "down-on-the-farm" appeal, which is somewhat similar, already has been used successfully in many election battles. Who does not recall the countless photographs and stories of Calvin Coolidge, now Vice-President, helping cut hay in his father's fields? It doubtless would be unfair to insinuate that Henry is parading an affection for the old homestead as a mere political maneuver, for we are told that behind and above this attachment to his birthplace is an enduring love for his mother, who died in 1876, when he was only thirteen years old. It is a description of this love which forms the basis of the article by Guest. To him Ford said: "I have tried to live my life as my mother would have wished. I believe that I have done, as far as I could, just what she hoped for me. She taught duty in this world. I believed her then, and I believe her now. I have tried to follow her teaching." In fact, it was 'as a tribute to his mother that Henry Ford has restored the home she loved." Guest observes: Illustrations by courtsey of "The American Magazine" and Edgar A. Guest "BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE" Henry Ford delights in family gatherings around the organ in this old-fashioned too. Young folks of to-day have different times, but no better times. This old house meant something to us all back then. "Mother presided over it and ruled it; but she made it a good place to be. I don't know whether mothers of to-day are different, but it seems to me that a lot of people don't make use of their homes as they should. When they want a good time they go down-town, or to the club, or some other place to get it. That's all a mistake. The best times I have now I have at home with the family, and sometimes right here." "Right here?" I questioned. He evidently noted the surprize in my face. "Yes, right here. We were all over here last Sunday evening." "All?" "Yes, all. Mrs. Ford and I, and Edsel and his wife and their two little boys. We had the cook put up a supper for us, and we bundled into the car and drove over here for a good time." "What did you do?" He laughed at the question: "Oh, we sang a few hymns and talked and played with the children and lived over the week and all that had happened, and had a real good time together." "Any visitors with you?" "No. We don't need visitors when we have each other." He looked at me intently for a few seconds as tho pondering a thought which had just come to him. "Maybe, Eddie," he said, "that's what it is-what the modern family needs to learn-the art of being happy with each other. It was Mother's idea. More than once I have heard her say in this room that if we couldn't be happy here in this house, we'd never be happy anywhere else." A deep-rooted fondness for home life may seem incongruous on the part of a man like Ford, who probably has done more than any one else to make home little more than a stop-over place, to be occupied in the intervals between automobile trips of one kind or another. However incongruous, this glorification of the family hearth may be a big asset to Henry if he finally decides to stop playing eeny, meeny, miney, mo with the Presidential 66 It stands to-day exactly as it was in 1876: if not with the same furniture, with exact reproductions. There is no evidence that she is no longer here. The rooms are dusted every morning; a cheerful fire is kept blazing on the hearth; the dishes in the kitchen cabinet are in their places, clean and ready for use. All that is missing is the mother's living presence, and those who are occasionally privileged to visit there must feel that her spirit is very near. Can you remember the name and model number of the stove which stood in your sitting-room when you were a boy? Henry Ford could and did, and it took him eighteen months of constant and diligent search to find its duplicate. But perhaps the stove was easy to remember. Then, can you remember the exact pattern and coloring of the Brussels carpet which covered the parlor floor of your home when you were a boy? If you wished to find one like it to-day, could you describe it to another so exactly that no mistake could be made either in pattern or color? Henry Ford could and did, and a woman near Rochester, New York, was able to find for him, following months of seeking, the very carpet he was after, with the big urn of the roses he had counted and admired as a boy. A little to the left and center of the sitting-room stands the old Starlight Stove, Model No. 25, made by the Detroit Stove Works in 1867-not the same one Henry Ford had filled as a boy, but its exact duplicate, for which he conducted a nationwide search. The doctor in Stockbridge, Michigan, who sold a year or so ago a long-discarded stove for twenty-five dollars, has probably wondered since then whatever the purchaser wanted it for. If he should read this article it may come as a surprize to him and to all the citizens of Stockbridge to discover that the stranger WHEN From Sea to Sea Authorized Service Assures Buick Owners This map indicating the location BETTER AUTOMOBILES ARE BUILT, BUICK WILL BUILD THEM |