Shoshone journal. [volume] (Shoshone, Idaho) 1884-1931, 1903-08-21

somehow the rOuFln VI July VI ~
day seem tame and insipid compared
to the Fourths of our boyhood days.
We suppose it is dyspepsia, OF point
of view, but, anyhow, we are honest
when we casually remark on the utter
shortcomings of the celebrations OF
to-day. Now when we were a boy,
there was Bill Blunt. Bill was an old
soldier with several good streaks in
him, two of them being early yege-
tables and patriotism. William was
the town cannonader. He made an
annual canvass every July to secure
funds with which to buy powder for
the village cannon, an awesome bit
of ordnance that never failed to lift
up it's Humorous voice when primed
and rammed by William Blunt!
On the morning OF July 8, along
about the time ma was getting wor-
ried over Elite and her beau in the
hammock, Bill would let 'er loose for
the first time!
"Booml"
A defamation rent the air for miles,
echoing and re-echoing among the
bills we knew and loved. The town
hard to go to sleep, realizing that
Morpheus and Bill Blunt were started
on a battle royal Then the town
bad boys pulled the church bell ropes
until the sections had cataleptic fits,
the factory whistle was tied open and
the nigger-chaser fire alarm joined
General Blunt in making large able
bodied pandemonium with calliope at,
tachments.
And biggest batrachian in all the
puddle was William Blunt. Charge
after charge he fired, while early ped,
estrians gathered about and cheered
our hero in his army clothes. All day
long he held the fort, powder-stain-
ed, fiag-loving, noise-creating, wor-
SHIPPED saver of his country.
But, alas, as night came on and the
noise died little by little of WEAKNESS,
Bill Blunt would steal away to where
the adder lurked to seek false pa
triotism in the singing cup.
Late at night the veteran of the
warning field was taken home, mute
and helpless as the town cannon, but
he had done his duty WELL
Year after year he primed and fired
the shot that sent the Fourth of July
message around our little world.
Others endeavored to steal in upon
his honors by being wounded on the
T,,Jx 81 Of hof hut fr-;,, H. 81,
he held his own. Despite his lapses
from sobriety's path, public sentiment
accorded him the place of honor at
the touch-hoe of the town cannon. He
had his bad streaks, but when St.
Peter needs a cannonader up above,
we feel sure that Bill Blunt will wear
a crown above his soldiers blue.
But. anyhow, we know the Fourths
of to-day don't amount to much COM
pared to those we celebrated when a
boy.
David A. Curtis, in the Focus"
deprecates what is commonly called |
popular music" and longs for the |
simpler melodies that ring true
Wonder how this would suit him:
Give me the songs of yesterday,
The melodies that thrill;
The songs my mother sang to me-
The songs l reverence still
Listen. my heart, to memories
OF tender lays of yore,
The music of maternal love,
The songs of simpler score.
Give to my weary ear the airs
That stir me through and through,
The old-time songs, the heart-throb
songs,
The songs forever newt
Grant me the pulse OF ecstasy
] felt in ancient tune
My mother sang in quavering voice,
In words of simple rune.
Sound me no grand orchestral flights, 1
No peans of the tirne-