The Howe Messenger (Howe, Tex.), Vol. 18, No. 17, Ed. 1 Friday, May 16, 1941 Page: 2 of 4
four pages : ill. ; page 23 x 15 in. Scanned from physical pages.View a full description of this newspaper.
Extracted Text
The following text was automatically extracted from the image on this page using optical character recognition software:
THE HOWE MESSENGER
Friday, May 16, 1941
Memos of a
Girl Friday:
Dear W. W.: Quentin Reynolds
has arrived safely via convoy.' He
made it that way to do an article
for Collier’s on convoys . . . FDR
and John L. Lewis haven’t exactly
buried the hatchet, but the things
they say of each other privately
aren’t as nasty as they were.
Mrs. T. Roosevelt Jr. resigned
from that “Women United for
Peace” outfit. She was a speaker
along with Senators Reynolds and
Bennett Clark at Carnegie Hall. She
said in her talk that America had
no room for intolerance. The com-
ment met stony silence—so she re-
signed. Hurray for her.
You wanted me to remind you to
say something about the Ism gang-
sters who pin themselves onto
Americans who are popular. Will-
kie sure was brave when he threw
away the votes of many by publicly
announcing that he didn’t want
Fronters, Bundists et al on his side
. . . Dare the Dept, of Commerce
to deny this . . . That our oil ex-
ports to Japan are still averaging
about 400,000 barrels weekly and
have been as high as 600,000 per
week!
The spending by the visiting Brit-
ish tars has saved many a joint
ready to fold up . . . Eliot Janeway
has a honey of a piece in the new
Life called “Hitler vs. Roosevelt”
. . . Soandso just phoned. Said
that SDR’s jaw is “longer than
ever” and that his knuckles are a
little whiter when he clenches his
fist—and that his policy henceforth
will be “action or dismissal!”—
Your Girl Friday.
Notes of an
Innocent Bystander:
The Story Tellers: Edmond Tay-
lor’s Fortune piece is a must for
Americans who don’t think Hitler
is a menace here . . . Pic runs a
warning that homely gals are the
safest, and gives examples of beau-
ties who got into trouble with their
looks. A few pages later it shows
Vwhat a grand time Hope Carroll,
the blue book’s glamour mascot, has
because “she’s got everything.”
Make up your mind! . . . Morely
Cassidy shows, in Coronet, how a
legacy caused a crime wave and a
rush in Philly. He reports
25,563 persons claimed a $17,000,000
legacy. Already it has inspired
such crimes as forgery, perjury,
wife desertion and two murders . . .
John Cudahy is easy on King Leo-
pold of the Belgians for surrender-
ing under fire. The former U. S.
Ambassador, writing in World
Digest, recalls that the French were
blundering all over the front, and
Leopold had a choice of giving up
or facing revolt of his troops . . .
Ann Sheridan confides in Liberty
that the word “oomph” was parent-
ed by a wheeze in here. Any
chance to buy back that unfortunate
sentence? . . . Reader’s Digest ob-
serves: “The reason a lot of people
do not recognize an opportunity
when they meet it is that it usually
goes around wearing overalls and
looking like hard work.”
The Front Pages: The Times of-
fered two and a half columns of good
sense in an editorial picture of a
possible Hitler victory. The Nazis
needn’t even make war on us to
ruin our liberty, said the editorial.
Chesty after a win over Britain, Ger-
many’s threat would make us live
in an armed camp—where liberty
can’t live . . . The H-Trib rebuked
FDR editoriallly for his “intensely
personal” remarks about Lindbergh.
Why not personal? Lindbergh takes
bows for the malcontents he heads,
so why not the raps, too? Mr. Roose-
velt takes them for the New Deal—
and the H-Trib knows that well. The
last campaign was so personal it
didn’t even stop with the President.
It took in his wife, his children, and,
if you remember the campaign but-
tons, even his grandchildren . . .
Who is France for? Three Vichy
papers were suspended for giving
prominence to the speeches of Cor-
dell Hull and Sec. Knox. Another
paper, published by Jacques Doriot,
the agitator assaulted Roosevelt.
His sheet wasn’t molested.
Typewriter Ribbons: C. V. R.
Thompson: Washington is the only
place where sound travels faster
than light . . . Clyde Fitch: A flat
with rooms like a string of buttons
. . . Jack Warwick: Love of coun-
try: Eighty-five per cent sweat and
15 per cent Star-Spangled Banner
. . . Daniel Webster: God grants
liberty only to those who love it
and are always ready to guard and
defend it.
This from H. L. Mencken: We
must be willing to pay a price for
freedom, for no price that is ever
asked for it is half the cost of doing
without it . . . Steele: Etiquette is
the invention of wise men to keep
fools at a distance . . . H. W. Shaw:
Error will slip through a crack,
while truth will stick in a doorway
. . . Ray Thompson: A free coun-
try should mean one in which those
who don’t like the way things are
run are free to live elsewhere . . .
Anon: Sincere kicks-in-the-pants
are better than phony pats-on-the-
back.
INSTALLMENT ONE—The Book and the Author
Mr*. Harry Pugh Smith’s stories of
the American family have endeared her
to thousands of readers. In “Handmade
CHAPTER I
Slap, bang, bumptey-bump! Kath-
leen Maguire smothered an eloquent
“Damn.” A rear tire had gone flat
and was smacking the pavement
with loose rubber. It was no more
than she expected. The family se-
dan was on its last legs. Nothing
could do it any good except to jack
it up and run a new one under it.
“And a fat chance there is of
that,” muttered Kathleen, attempt-
ing to steady her wabbling vehicle.
But she had been hitting a smart
pace and the pike was badiy worn,
as full of holes as the sedan’s dilapi-
dated roof. With a little wheeze
and a groan the car slid off into the
ditch to the right and coasted gently
half up the other bank where it
hung, precariously poised on two
wheels, in the thick tangled under-
growth of blackberry vines and dog
fennel.
She had been to the country for
flowers. Because they were cheaper
than hothouse products. On the front
seat, carefully balanced beside her
to keep from damaging their tender
tips, was a bucket full of purple
irises. She had thought it a bril-
liant idea at the time. Now the
bucket proceeded to upset.
“It would,” she muttered with a
vindictive thought for the perversity
of things in general.
Everything lately had come un-
raveled at the. least excuse. Due
to the sedan’s perilous slant, she
was wadded down in the farthest
corner under the steering wheel and
drenched with the contents of the
bucket. There were purple irises in
her hair and a spray of fern in her
mouth. Even her white sports shoes
squished unpleasantly when she
tried to wriggle out from under the
deluge,
mouth.
It was no time for the young man
lying supine in the meadow beyond
the ditch, to snigger. Kathleen
glared at him, her red-brown eyes
alight with furious sparks. She had
never seen him before. She was
sure he had no business to be where,
he was. Nevertheless he had the
most maddening air of seeming per-
fectly at home. A limp leather vol-
ume lay near his hand. But she
thought he had been asleep. His
lazy gray eyes were both drowsy
and quizzical in his sunburned face.
And Kathleen had never seen a grin
which she considered more exas-
perating.
“I suppose you think it’s funny,”
she said.
He laughed, and sat up. He had
startlingly broad shoulders.
“You must admit it is rather ex-
traordinary to have a maiden in dis-
tress barge in on a feller’s dreams,
literally cockeyed with water lilies,
or whatever those things are you’re
wearing for a necklace,” he
drawled.
Kathleen colored and made a rab-
id effort to retrieve a clump of wa-
ter-soaked foliage that was bent on
sliding down the neck of her red
and white sports dress.
“They’re irises, and they’re cold
and wet. And if you believe in being
useful as well as ornamental,” she
said with a curl of her red lips, “you
might lend me a hand.”
She saw with triumph that he did
not like being twitted with the fact
he was decidedly decorative. He
was in fact provokingly indolent
about coming to her rescue. But
although he did not seem to exert
himself unduly, he proved a sur-
prisingly efficient person in the
pinch. Kathleen gathered the im-
pression that he did well anything
he cared to do. Certainly with a
minimum of effort on his part he
extricated her from the undignified
position of being jammed under her
own steering wheel, by the simple
expedient of opening the door and
lifting her out bodily.
“All I asked was a hand,” splut-
tered Kathleen.
“Don’t worry,” he said grimly and
set her down on her feet in the short-
est practicable space of time. “I’ve
no urge to clasp you to my manly
bosom. If you must know, you feel
like a cross between a damp garter-
snake and a very clammy frog.”
The Depression com-
pletely upset the Maguire
family. But, then, there
was mother. * She pitted
herself against all odds
—and won!
# • •
In This Newspaper
Rainbow*’’ she tells of a newspaper edi-
tor’s family during the depression. Oth-
er books by the same author: "Jewels
“Thanks,” said Kathleen, and
realized she had not after all suc-
ceeded in doing anything to his
abominable self-assurance.
“Being one of these southern dam-
sels,” he went on, scowling at the
sedan, “I suppose you expect any
male in sight to fix that tire.”
Kathleen surveyed him through
long curling black lashes. They were
quite her best feature and she could
do a number of interesting tricks
with them. But the tall rangy young
man beside her did not notice.
“You don’t need to advertise that
you arrive from north of the biscuit
line,” she told him with what she
hoped was a cutting little laugh.
“We don’t grow them that casual
in these parts.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I
was warned about small-town Dixie
flirts; Sprry.” He grinned at her
again, poking under the sedan’s
back seat in search of tools. “I
don’t suppose you have any idea
where I’d find a jack to remove that
tire, have you?”
Kathleen made a grimace. “The
car’s six years old. If there was
anything on it where it ought to be,
I’d drop dead.”
“I see,” he said briefly.
“You are touring, aren’t you?”
she asked, eyeing a small roadster
“I was warned about small town
Dixie flirts.”
drawn up under a tree some dis-
tance away. “I thought at first you
must be a hitch-hiker.”
“I’m touring. And thank the Lord,
I’ve got wrenches and things in my
old tin can.”
He left her in search of these, but
returned at once with a case of in-
struments. Whistling under his
breath, he set about the delicate
task of jacking up the sedan’s rear
wheel without precipitating it again
into the ditch. Kathleen found a
small spring of water down the road
and refilled the bucket. There were
loads of gorgeous purple blooms still
intact. She produced her compact
and endeavored to repair a little of
the damage. But the powder was
wet through.
“And I was trying to save a three-
dollar florist’s bill,” she cried,
throwing the vanity case as far as
she could reach while she morosely
surveyed a rent in one of her two
best pairs of hose.
He grinned at her over his shoul-
der. “Don’t mind me,” he said.
“Go on and cry if you feel like it.
Only I can’t lend you a shoulder to
weep on. I’m sort of hard-boiled
that way.”
“From New York, aren’t you?”
she hazarded after a silence which
did not disturb him in the least.
She had identified the license plate
on the roadster.
“By way of more recent stops at
Cleveland and St. Louis,” he vouch-
safed.
“You don’t take life very serious-
ly, do you?”
He eyed her with sardonic gray
eyes. “I’ve been fired off three
newspapers in the past six months
for thinking a lot of things are jokes,
myself included.”
“Newspapers!” Kathleen laughed,
a short mirthless sound. “I might
have known that you’re a tramp
newspaper man.”
“You don’t sound as if you thought
much of me and my kind.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I can tell you why you were fired.
You couldn’t be bothered to do dull
stories that pleased the editor or
wouldn’t offend the big advertising
accounts. You preferred to walk out
if things got too tame. Or if the
fish were biting. Or if the city desk
cut down your pet yarn and made
you pad one about some pill of a
leading citizen who was a pal of the
owner.”
For the first time she had his
acute attention.
“So you know something about
newspaper men,” he observed.
“My father’s one,” she flung at
him with bitterness. “He owns the
Covington Clarion. A daily in a town
of eighteen thousand people. He’s
owned it fifteen years. And he’s
For His Crown,” "So Many Worlds,”
"Hearts Walking,” "Beau,” "Peter
Pan’s Daughter."
» •
never made more than just a living.
Recently he and it have been one
jump ahead of the bloodhounds. You
know there's been a depression. Or
do you? Probably you think that’s
funny too. Dad does. Is he down-
hearted because collections have
dropped fifty per cent? Is he? I ask
you.”
The poling man who was manipu-
lating the jack lever grinned.
“He’s probably having the time of
his life trying to pull through by
an eyelash.”
“He is. He’s turned down dozens
of brilliant offers in the past fifteen
years. Offers that stood for big pay
and a name for himself.”,
“Maybe neither of those things
means a lot to him.”
"They don’t. But—” she broke off
abruptly. “He’s aces really. He has
everything. Only—” she looked
away, then back at him defiantly.
“He could have gone to the top if
he had tried.”
“What of it?” His lips curled.
“I suspect you are two of a kind.
I suppose you’d rather be your own
typesetter on your own news sheet
than draw ten thousand a year and
take orders?”
“Absolutely.”
“I dare say if the biggest store in
town underpaid its employees, you’d
insist on writing it up no matter
what it cost in advertising?”
“Sure.”
“You’d love to print the truth about
a dirty political deal although it of-
fended subscribers right and left and
cut your circulation in half?”
“Positively.”
Kathleen nodded. “Yes, you and
Mike are two of a kind. Have you
finished?”
“Yes.” He stood up, brushed his
dusty hands on his soiled trousers
and grinned at her. “If you’ll stand
out of the way I’ll release the brake
and see if I can hoist her back to
the road.”
The old sedan rocked gently down
into the ditch and then under its
own momentum and some muscular
persuasion from the young man at
the rear climbed sedately back onto
the highway. Gravely he deposited
the irises on the front seat.
“Don’t get your values mixed,”
he said, and his voice was a little
griff as if he was a trifle embar-
rassed. “I’m not so hot when it
comes to moralizing. But a fat sal-
ary check doesn’t compensate for
everything. Not by a hell of a lot.
Believe it or not, there is such a
thing as selling your soul for thirty
pieces of silver. Or thirty thou-
sand. And living to hate them and
yourself.”
He gazed at her silently. And
abruptly his gray eyes were lazy
and mocking again. “Your perspec-
tive is distorted and I can’t say
much for your childish tantrums,”
he remarked with his old exasperat-
ing grin. “But you’re a cute young-
ster,. And I guess you owe me this.”
He stooped suddenly. She could
never get accustomed to the swift-
ness of his apparently languid move-
ments. He cupped her round, dim-
pled chin in his hand, and kissed
her.
CHAPTER II
Laura Maguire carefully set the
flaky timbales which she had just
taken from the oven on the window
ledge to cool. The kitchen was hot
and it showed signs of a strenuous
engagement. But everything was
done except, of course, those things
which had to be left to the last min-
ute. Laura fervently hoped that
Hulda would not put too much flour
in the cream sauce for the aspara-
gus.
Hulda did her best. As well as
anyone could who came into some-
one else’s kitchen at six to serve a
four-course dinner at seven. Every-
body in Covington who could not af-
ford a daily maid had Hulda for
special occasions.
Laura, who had urgent reasons to
want this particular dinner party to
go off beautifully, had been up since
six. There had been literally a hun-
dred things to do. She had gone to
market herself to select the chicken
and the strawberries. The house
had been cleaned from front to back,
silver polished, the best china and
glass washed, the lace and linen ta-
blecloth and napkins dug out and
pressed.
The aspic salad had to be made
early to leave time for cooling. And
Laura had set it in small individual
molds which she decorated with tiny
rings of red and green peppers. It
had been tedious work although she
admitted the results were gratifying
when she peeped into the big old ice
box on the back porch. The Ma-
guires had no electric refrigerator.
They hadn’t i lot of things which
Laura’s women friends had.
She was thinking of that as she
carefully arranged olives in a slen-
der hand-painted dish so as to con-
ceal the crack in the bottom which
she had mended with sealing wax.
A party was trouble if one had
trained servants and plenty of ev-
erything to do with. But it assumed
the proportions of a major operation
in a house which had to be ran-
sacked to find ten crystal goblets
to match, to say nothing of salad
plates and forks.
“Poor folks have poor ways,”
Laura grinned to herself, quoting old
Aunt Julia, the black mammy who
had presided in the big kitchen on
Laura’s father’s plantation.
Like all Negroes, Aunt Julia had
loathed “poor white trash.” Laura
thought probably the old colored
woman turned over in her grave
every time “Miss Lolly” patched a
three-year-old dress or dyed a sea-
son-before-last slip to wear with a
$7.95 model from Blumer’s base-
ment.
Laura had been a beauty as a girL
She was still at forty-three almost
as pretty as either of her daugh-
ters. Although she would have
strenuously denied the fact There
were a few silver threads in the
smooth black hair above her tem-
ples, and laughing wrinkles under
her clear topaz eyes. Nevertheless
she had on several occasions been
mistaken for her older son’s sister.
“But not today,” she thought with
a glance into the wavy mirror above
the sink which she was trying to
clear of an accumulation of soiled
cooking vessels. “Do I look like a
hag, or don’t I?”
“You don’t! You couldn’t!”
Laura dropped a stew pan. She
hadn’t heard Kathleen come in.
“Darling, you startled me.”
Kathleen eyed her mother somber-
ly. Laura did look tired.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare
you. I came in the back way to
leave the irises on the porch. They
spilled and are sort of messy, I’m
afraid.”
Laura surveyed her daughter and
giggled. “You haven’t been wres-
tling with them or anything?”
Kathleen grinned ruefully. “The
old bucket up and socked me in the
eye. Am I a holy sight?”
“You do look a little bedraggled.
Better run right up and change.”
“Nothing doing. I’m helping you.
I should have been here an hour
ago. Only I wasn’t,” Kathleen fin-
ished lamely.
She had no intention of confessing
to the mishap which had delayed
her. In the first place Laura would
worry. It really wasn’t safe to risk
the old sedan far from town in the
state of its tires. And there simply
wasn’t money for new ones. Fur-
thermore, her rescue by the young
man in slacks had left Kathleen’s
pride considerably impaired. She
had no desire to expose the painful
details. But it hadn’t seemed a
laughing matter to Kathleen. It'still
didn’t. She tackled the overflow of
dirty dishes with a vehemence that
made her mother glance at her.
“Don’t bother with those things,
darling. Let them alone. I’ll be all
washed up in a jiffy.”
Kathleen doggedly wiped a sauce
pan. “You don’t like kitchen po-
lice a bit better than I do,” she
said in a fierce voice. “You just do
it and don’t gripe because you’re
the grandest sport on earth.”
Laura’s firm, rather wide mouth
curved upward. “Thanks for the
flattery, darling.”
“It isn’t flattery. It’s the fright-
ful truth. Only you oughtn’t to have
to drudge like a slave. It isn’t
fair. Where’s Shirley?”
“Upstairs pressing my dress. And
melting into her shoes, I daresay,”
Laura’s amber eyes suddenly loqked
jaded. “Do try to get her to lie
down for an hour when you go up,
Kathleen. She really mustn’t look
as if she’d done the family wash
when her future in-laws arrive.”
Kathleen sniffed. “You know very
well that Jaird’s mother will find
something to be catty about no mat-
ter how Shirley looks. Honestly,
that woman’s poison ivy to me. How
did as nice a boy as Jaird ever
draw such a wash-out for a moth-
er?”
“I expect,” said Laura with a grin,
“if he had had his rathers, he would
have chosen differently. But unfor-
tunately, mothers are sort of forced
on you, aren’t they? And there’s not
a lot you can do about it.”
“None of us ever want to do any-
thing about you.”
Laura laughed. “Are you sure
you wouldn’t prefer a sweet, de-
mure, silver-haired old lady with all
the traditional virtues? Isn’t it a lit-
tle trying to have a slightly giddy
mother who can beat you swim,
ming?”
“You can’t.”
“I did Saturday.”
“You won’t tomorrow.”
“We’ll see.”
Kathleen realized suddenly that
she didn’t feel depressed or appre-
hensive any more. And the world,
her world, was no longer on edge.
She glanced at Laura with narrowed
eyes. Had her mother suspected
that Kathleen needed to be kidded
out of the blues? One could never
tell about Laura. She didn’t miss
anything, though she seldom re-
ferred to matters she was not sup-
posed to see. But Kathleen had
watched her mother laugh Mike out
of the doldrums without his ever
dreaming she knew he had them.
"Do come and look at the table,”
said Laura when they had the kitch-
en shipshape. “Really it looks very
hi-de-ho, if I do say so as shouldn’t.”
Kathleen agreed but without a
great deal of enthusiasm. Privately
she thought Jaird Newsum’s mother
wasn’t worth all the nerve strain it
entailed to give a dinner party in
her honor. Even if Shirley was en-
gaged to Jaird, and mad about him.
“It looks K. O. to me,” she said.
"And then some. Only that old snob
will find something to patronize. See
if she doesn’t”
Laura laughed. “I only hope no
one decides to move the centerpiece.
It’s right over the darned place in
the cloth.”
mi—f
Washington, D. C.
MEDITERRANEAN KEY
Key to the fateful battle of the;
Mediterranean which is about to
burst in full fury is not the Suez
canal, but Britain’s great naval base
at Alexandria, 125 miles west of
the canal entrance.
The loss of Alexandria would de-;
prive the British of their key,
“bridgehead” in northern Africa;
and ensure Axis domination of the
eastern Mediterranean.
Actually, the Suez canal itself haa
been of little value to the British'
for months. It went out of use as
the so-called “life-line of the em-
pire” when the Axis air attack that
severely damaged the air carrier I1-;
lustrious proved it was. suicidal to;
attempt to convoy shipping through
the long and narrow waterway.
Since then the Mediterranean has
been a “no man’s land” for all the
belligerents. While 2,000 miles in
length, its narrow width at certain
places has ma.de it extremely haz-
ardous for both sides, and the Brit-
ish have been routing their shipping
around the Cape of Good Hope for
some time.
Loss of the Mediterranean would,
of course, be a serious blow to the
British; but it would by no means
end the war or mean victory for the
Axis. With her fleet intact, Britain
would still be able to carry the fight
to Hitler and Mussolini.
* * *
MACHINE TOOLS
Chief reason behind the big cur-
tailment in auto production was the
release of urgently needed machine
tools for defense. The machine tool
bottleneck could be broken over-
night if all the machine tools owned
by the motor industry were turned
to the making of planes, tanks and
other armament.
Defense experts estimate that
there are around 1,500,000 machine
tools in the U. S., of which more
than half are in plants making mo-
tor vehicles or parts for them, and
in the allied metal fabricating in-
dustry. The list includes grinders,
milling machines, lathes, boring
machines, presses, gear cutters,
drillers, and shapers, all vital in the
production of defense equipment.
New output of machine tools is
now speeding at the rate of 14,000
a month. This is a spectacular
achievement and a great tribute to
the industry. But it is only a drop
in the bucket compared to the
750,000 machine tools already pos-
sessed by the auto and metal fab-
ricating industries, which army men
say would increase defense produc-
tion to full f^ow immediately if
pooled and devoted entirely to this
purpose.
HIDDEN COLLEAGUE
A stocky, gray-haired man,
flanked by a groups of sightseers,
approached a Capitol (policeman and
asked directions to th£ office of Sen.
Hiram Johnson of California.
Tucked away in an pbscure cor-
ner of the north side o!f the Capitol
where tourists never tread, John-
son’s office is one of the hardest to
find in the great structurie.
“I’ll do my best to explain how
to get there,” said the ppliceman.
“Are you a tourist?” \
“No,” grinned the inquiry, “I’m
the other senator from California,
Senator Downey.”
FERRY SCHOOL
\
Everybody is wondering how the
swarms of fighting planes which
U. S. factories will produce for the
British in the next 12 months will
be delivered overseas. The answer,
for the big ships, is that they will
be flown across—and in such great
numbers that the British are setting
up a special pilot training school for
that purpose, in the United States.
The school will give an intensive
refresher and training course to vol-
unteer pilots to qualify them for
“ferrying” the big bombers across
the Atlantic.
The volunteers may be British,
Canadian, or American. However,
it is expected that the largest num-
bers will be Americans. The British
can use 250 of them.
* m •
GOOD NEIGHBOR PILOTS
Another “Good Neighbor” gesture
will soon be made to our immediate
neighbor to the south, Mexico. The
state department will offer pilot-
training courses to a number of
Mexican youths in the United States.
Initiator of the idea was Vice.
President Henry Wallace. When he
visited Mexico last year, one of the
problems discussed was the short-
age of aviators in the Mexican
army. Wallace was told that Mex-
ico wanted to undertake a pilot-
training program similar to that in
the United States, but lacked planes
and instructors.
• • •
* MERRY-GO-ROUND
Leading economists rate the in-
dustrial and financial surveys com-
pleted by the O’Mahoney monopoly
committee as the most valuable
source material on the economy of
the country wer compiled.
Department of agriculture is rec-
ommending a new plant to hold soil
in the gullies—but they wish the
Japanese would tell how to produce
the seed. Known as kudzu, it is one
of the plant secrets of Japan. It
serves not only as a soil binder but
also as a feed, surpassing alfalfa.
'X
Upcoming Pages
Here’s what’s next.
Search Inside
This issue can be searched. Note: Results may vary based on the legibility of text within the document.
Tools / Downloads
Get a copy of this page or view the extracted text.
Citing and Sharing
Basic information for referencing this web page. We also provide extended guidance on usage rights, references, copying or embedding.
Reference the current page of this Newspaper.
Bryant, Russell W. The Howe Messenger (Howe, Tex.), Vol. 18, No. 17, Ed. 1 Friday, May 16, 1941, newspaper, May 16, 1941; Howe, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth848038/m1/2/: accessed July 11, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; .