The Alaska daily empire., 1915-12-07
OLD SONGS, oLo FLOWERS AND MOTHER
 - By pr. Frank Crane. in the W. Y Globe and Commercel

Simeon Ford. said the Sentimental Man, when he used to run the old Grand Union Hotel. now demolished by the bosom of progress, was won't to say that he didn't care how many NEW hotels his competitors built, SO tong as none of them put up an OLD hotel
 There are other things beside hos teleries castles. institutions, habits, and wines where old ago is an asset.
 And the greatest Of these is song. The cleverost musical genius in the world might compose Q song of such surpassing originality and charm that lall experts and critics would be be- side themselves with admiration. Yet most of us common mortals would pass it by it would leave us cold, while some little, old, dinky melody, without genius or art. just because it is old would sweep all our heart strings with @ wild gust of passion. unstop our tear fountains, and send through us the keenest sweetness of love and tenderness.
 That melody flies swiftest into the soul. and Is surest to it's mark, which s feather by time.
 It is not the tune alone. but the ov- ertones the swift passing, cloud-liko, of forgotten faces, the echoes of voices now forever still, the pensive tinge of kinds of happiness now never more possible the fragrance as of itrange lilies blowing in the twilight easements of the past.
 The higher values of anything lie in those intangible, evanescent quali ties that cannot be defined The rich est treasures Of love are most elusive. The strongest comforts of faith are beyond reason. And a little scent-la- den breeze of heaven blowing in the back window of memory will break the heart more certainly than the most mashing guests of melodrama.
 Rock Me to Sleep. Mother!" That 's Q poem that used to be In the Fourth Reader when ! went to school.
 Whether 1t is good poetry or not ! haven't the slightest Idea. Prob. lhly not lt bears the same relation 70 great poems that marlgold, hol- yhock, and princess's feather bear 70 the Rose Duchess de Brabant or he Gladiolus Brenchlyensis.
 But it was down in the garden lmong the petunias and cosmos, the purple asters and nre-brush. that used to walk with my baby hand lightly clutching mothers finger, while she talked to me precious nonsense and laughed at my swarming fancies; and somehow big boxes of American l Beauties and SIP punches of violets To not connote that sort of thing. Simple old things have their niche
 ] don't remember much about her views of voting nor her social pres tige. and what her ideas on child training. diet. and eugenics were lcannot recall. The main thing that sifts back to me now through the thick undergrowth of years is that SHE LOVED ME. ! don't think she knew how to bring up children; she was too much of Q child herself and ! seemed to like to lie on the grass with me and tell stories or Go run and hide and scream and laugh with us chil- dren, than to homilize us along up the straight and narrow path.
 She was always hugging me. She would wake me up to play with me She would kiss me inordinately. She loved me in rather fierce way And ! liked it. She had Q sunny race. To me it was like God and an the beat itudes saints tell of Him.
 And singl or all the sensations lpleasurable to my life nothing can compare with the rapture of crawling up into her lap and going to sleep. while she swung to and fro in her ! rocking chair and sang.
 Thinking of this. ] wonder if the woman of today. with all her tremen- dous notions and plans, realizes what an almighty factory she is in the shap- ing of her child for veal or woel
 l wonder if she realizes how much sheer love and attention count for in Q childs life?
 ] wonder # she knows what it means to create memories that are going to stay green when life's hotter impress sions have gone?
 Thus unused the Sentimental Man