Fire Destroys Stock Barn on Foreman Farm, April 23, 1926

Fire Destroys Main Stock Barn on Foreman Farm

The main barn of the Foreman Stock Farms, about 7 miles from this city on the Foreman-Bundy Road, was totally destroyed by fire early last night. A nearby water tank and silo were damaged also. The farms are owned by the Foreman family here, with J. Wesley Foreman in active charge.

The fire broke out just as the stock was being drive in from the pastures. If it had occurred 10 minutes later, after the animals had been housed, it is believed that most of the 250 cattle and 100 sheep it housed would have been lost also.

The origin of the fire was undetermined today.

The Elizabeth City fire department was notified promptly after the fire broke out, and one truck left hastily to render whatever aid was possible. A short distance from the farm, however, it stalled at a point where the road was being widened and never reached the fire, despite strenuous efforts on the part of firemen and volunteer assistants to pull it out of the mud.

Discussing the fire today, J. Wesley Foreman stated the loss probably would exceed $10,000, and that it was partially covered by insurance. He said that the origin of the fire had not been determined, and that he had not even an idea what caused it.

In contradicting an earlier report that corn huskers were at work in the building, and that it was believed that the fire might have been caused by a spark dropped from a cigarette, Mr. Foreman stated that no corn husking was going on at the time, though workmen were “blowing” cornstalks in the barn late in the afternoon. He explained that he did not in any way attribute the fire to possible carelessness on their part.

The loss was confined principally to the building alone, according to Mr. Foreman, there being little feed stored in it.

From the front page of The Daily Advance, Elizabeth City, N.C., Saturday evening, April 24, 1926

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Family Disputes Will of Charles Overton, April 24, 1926

Fight Over Aged Man’s Property Flares Up Again. . . Kith and Kin of Charles Overton, Who Died at Hospital a Few Days Ago, Battle Over Body. . . Litigation Likely. . . Granddaughter Concerned Over Intimation Adopted Daughter’s Husband Is Executor of Will

The fight over the worldly assets of Charles Overton, aged resident of the South Mills section of Camden County, which began in Camden County Superior Court, began all over again this week after the death of the old man in the Elizabeth City Hospital.

Mr. Overton was nearly 90 years old at the time of his death. In the course of his long lifetime, he had accumulated considerable property, this said to have included several valuable farms, and a considerable sum invested in bonds, together with a substantial amount in cash.

The contestants in the present squabble over the property are Mr. Overton’s granddaughter and nearest surviving relative, Mrs. Mary Rhodes, and his adopted daughter, Mrs. Charles L. Albertson. Both live in the South Mills section.

Mrs. Rhodes instituted an action in the Camden Superior Court last summer before Thomas H. Calvert to have a guardian appointed for her aged grandfather. She lost the suit without it ever having reached a jury, Judge Calvert deciding that Mr. Overton was capable of administering his affairs. The old man himself took the stand during the trial, and answered the barrage of questions fired at him such fashion that Judge Calvert apparently was convinced that he was fully competent mentally.

Mr. Overton died at the hospital last Tuesday night from a complication of ailments ascribed to advancing age. Immediately the Albertson and Rhodes families demanded the body. The aged man had been taken to the hospital by the Albertsons, and they won out, the hospital authorities deciding that, inasmuch as they carried him there, they had the right to carry his remains away.

The body was interred in the Overton family burial ground near South Mills. Scarcely had earth covered it when the old controversy over the property broke forth again.

Mrs. Rhodes and her husband claim that the Albertsons have made away with much of the old man’s property in the last few years, and that they have exercises an undue influence over him which has militated against the rightful claims of the granddaughter. They are much concerned over an intimation that Mrs. Albertson’s husband was named executor in Mr. Overton’s will, and are preparing to carry their quarrel again into the courts, unless some satisfactory adjustment can be reached in the early future.

Thus, while Old Man Overton rests in such peace as he may find in the sanctuary of his grave, he has left anything but peace among those of his nearest kith and kin left on earth.

From the front page of The Daily Advance, Elizabeth City, N.C., Saturday evening, April 24, 1926

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Wife Rules Undisputed When It Comes to Spring Cleaning, April 24, 1926

Wife Rules Undisputed. . . Husband Is Mere Worm at Housecleaning Time. . . Annual Epoch of Disorder, Hurry and Discomfort at Zenith in Elizabeth City This Week, With Arrival of Balmy Spring Weather at Last

That epoch most dreaded by masculine members of every household in Elizabeth City is at its zenith now. Woman is undisputed sovereign of all she surveys—within the confines of the home, at least. Man is out of it. He is a galley slave, a mere worm, to be trod upon when his better half so elects. He is no better than a piece of furniture which he moves reluctantly, but often, these days.

Spring housecleaning is at hand. Delayed by continued bad weather, the general run of housewives have just gotten around to this annual obeisance to the deities of cleanliness this week, as the most casual investigation will disclosed. Home is turned topsy turvy. It is no longer a sanctuary from the outside world, but rather is a place of confusion and hurry, of moving this and that, of energetic, remorseless pursuit of the cobwebs and dust that have accumulated during the long winter months just passed.

The wife is hurried, harried, flustered. She has a thousand things to do, and if Friend Husband is around, she finds at least 999 tasks for him. That awful crayon portrait of Uncle Edgar, which has hung in the front parlor for so many and so many years, until nobody else pays any attention to it, has smitten harshly upon the aesthetic sense of Friend Wife. It must be taken down and re-hung on the opposite wall, where the shadows will soften its harsh outlines proclaiming that Uncle Edgar was not the handsomest of men, and that besides his batwing tie was crooked when the picture was made.

Page The Stovepipe

The parlor furniture must be moved into the dining room. The dining room suite must go into the kitchen. And so on. The kitchen stove finds peaceful haven on the back porch, with the unwieldy sections of stovepipe, burdened with soot—faugh! Friend Husband must move it all. No wonder he assumes a long suffering air, even before the exigencies of the occasion demand that he be content with makeshift meals served hurriedly whenever there is room enough.

Turmoil reigns while the brushing, scouring, polishing and painting goes on merrily. All sorts of spreads and slips and curtains and bedding and so forth, usually screened discreetly from the public gaze, now flaunt themselves shamelessly from the lothes line in the back yard. One learns much about one’s neighbors’ possessions during house cleaning time.

Friend Husband sneaks in unostentatiously to dinner, hoping he may grab a bite and depart with attracting attention. No such luck. “Before you sit down,” sweetly but imperatively the voice of his helpmate suggests, “I wish you would move this wardrobe Grandmother left us. It’s too heavy for me—and I must sweep behind it.

Obediently, he tackles the job. The wardrobe is of that old fashioned variety and weighs something over a ton, he estimates, after gingerly tackling it. He tugs and sweats. A suspender button pops off. He tugs again, and at last the thing budges a little. With utter disregard of the havoc to his clothes from its dust covered surface, he goes at it with might and main, and finally moves it sufficiently for the household ceremonies to go on unimpeded. It is a great life.

Many Paint Up, Too

Nowadays, there is much painting at housecleaning time. Caught in the inevitable confusion of cleaning, many families take advantage of the occasion to refurbish walls, floors and furniture before restoring the home to its normally well ordered state. Thus, two jobs are finished at once, usually to the great belief of everybody concerned.

The lady of the house talks as though she dreads spring housecleaning and, if her own wishes in the atter were considered only, she’d rather leave the dirt undisturbed. There are those, however, who contend that she glories in it—wouldn’t miss it for a half dozen ordinary-sized worlds. They tell you that the average woman will say she doesn’t like flattery, and would prefer that her husband wouldn’t waste his money on little gifts for her, et cetera, et cetera. All of which, they declare, is applesauce.

No discourse on housecleaning would be complete without a mention of its one redeeming feature. When the job is done, and one properly, the old place does have a brighter look about it—a freshness that it hadn’t had for many months. And, after all, that may be fair recompense for the work, worry and inconvenience that the job entails.

From the front page of The Daily Advance, Elizabeth City, N.C., Saturday evening, April 24, 1926

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Bion Butler Enjoys Pinehurst Station Path Through Pine Thicket, April 24, 1926

Following the Paths

By Bion H. Butler

The other day I was at the Pinehurst station, coming across to the General Office. As that section of the village is new, I had not learned the way except by the roads. But I was afoot, and as I came away from the station I noted a path entering the pine thicket through a gap in a rail fence, and leading in the direction I wanted to pursue. Now, there is nothing under the sun that is more fascinating to me than a path. One thing I have against the automobile is that it is a follower of main traveled roads, although wherever I can beat that game I do, for I take the unusual roads that are going the direction I want to go. But when you are on foot you are the master of your own route of travel, and you can cut cross lots and follow the path, and work out the puzzles of a path, and have all manner of diversion in doing it.

I saw the foot tracks leading away from the road, and through the gap in the rail fence. That is positive evidence that people have been going through the fence, for a track is testimony that some one has passed that way, and as the track goes on forward you know that some one has found a way through. As the direction of the path was toward the office it was clear enough that I would be on my way if I followed the path. For 60 years I have been nosing out the lure of the path when I find one, especially a path that I have never been acquainted with. A path is a sort of cross-word puzzle with humanity as the constant page of development. Where you find a path people have passed along, and they have explored an area that is more or less undiscovered, for many paths lead through the woods, across the field, up the hill, opening many interesting disclosures of Nature, and they all the time tell of people and of people’s actions.

Well, I crossed the fence by the gap, and I followed the trail through the pine woods, and it was a cheery bit of woodland there, with here and there a seat provided by some kindly fellow where the traveler may sit down to rest and watch the development of events. Through the trees I could see a bunch of golfers heading toward the Country Club. Out another direction a party of riders were bumping up and sitting down in their saddle, bumping up, sitting down, bumping up, sitting down like they do. Some children were among the trees, and a flock of wax-wings were chattering on the shrubbery where they seemed to be attending a dinner party. There is one thing about a path that is pleasing Every think about these social affairs of the birds? I think about two or three hundred wax-wings were attending an afternoon on the shrubbery in front of the General Office on day in February and they attracted as much attention as a gold tournament. You see a bird happens to see a good looking sissy bird and he stops to talk to her, and that naturally inclines one of the other sister birds to fly over and join the chat. And then of course some of the Willie Boys gather about, and before you know it the dancing about on the tree tops and the branches and the gossip and the persiflage that goes on is as noisy as the popping of firecrackers the day before the Fourth of July.

I can’t understand the bird language, but I often stop and listen to the talk when a lot of them get together, for the language is not of great consequence. I know what they say in a general way. It is just that the rest of us say, and that is the same things that have been said for the last fifty million years. One chap says to his honey girl that there never was such another, and she tells him that he is the greatest kidder that ever lived, and another honey bunch inject a gentle kick into the dialogue, and around and around the world movement goes, and they all have a tongue in the commotion. Whether it is birds, humans, or anything else that were made in twos and sent up to Adam to be named, they all say the same thing, no matter what the language, so I can keep a fair run on the conversation just by looking at them. I don’t care much what people or birds or anything else says. I know what they mean, and that is what they want to say whether they get it said or not.

Ever drive along in a car and come to across street and knot know which way to turn You catch the ye of a fellow sitting on a cracker box under an awning, and you point your finger down the right hand fork and yell at him “Hagerstown?” and he nods his head up and down a couple of times and you have had a real interesting visit with him. You have said to him that you ae headed for Gettysburg and that you intend to go the Hagerstown road, which is the only one to get there and that you are a stranger here at Podunk Cross roads, and you would love like a dog to gain some information which you know he possesses. He is tickled to death that you recognize how wise he is, and flattered that you came to him for counsel, and two nods of his head says that the right hand road is your route, and that you are making food time, but will be there in plenty of season to get on out the road you aim to go, and before you have got over your agreeable meeting you are ten miles down the road and remembering what a nice acquaintance you made there at the forks.

On a path you strike in with a lot of these agreeable encounters with folks and cats and birds and a new dogwood tree in blossom, and a lot of things that are highly informative and friendly. You saunter along for it is a crime to rush through a path and not see what is bountiful to be seen on all sides. That is one of the charms of life, and that is why at my age—for my head has grown clear up through my hair until the scalp sticks out—I can see ads much in life as I could see 60 years or more ago. So I wandered along that path through the pine grove and after a while I came to another break in the rail fence where the path led through the gap, and to make things perfectly natural just before the gap was reached a mudpuddle obtruded there in the way. It was not wholly objectionable, for a mudpuddle is land and water and that is what this big earth is made of, yet if the pathmaster, as they say in New York, will fix that place with a load or two of sand, it would maybe be better for those with light shoes.

I had a lot of pleasure out of that little journey, for it alle du so many things that are just as interesting as falling in with new ones. Memory could look down through the open pine forest and catch a glimpse of a big buck that crossed a path in the Pennsylvania mountains half a century ago, and the short cut to the lumber camp with its many variations, and the path down from the barn to the wood lot and pasture field where we used to drive the cows and sheep in those days when the grown men were away in the army with Meade and Sherman; and no doubt if we could lift the veil sufficiently we would see paths far in the distance with the legions climbing over the moors and highlands, and the plains of Thessaly and the deserts of Mesopotamia until we have traced our ancestry to the morning of light and creation. Some days when I can again break away from the everlasting senseless hurry of the flivver I am going to walk one more from the station to the office along that path. It never fails to have some new things to show a fellow, just as faithfully and new as the stars at night or the moon in its changes. A path is about the highest achievement of mankind, for it is the one thing that is done without design, and one in natural and unaffected style.

From page 4 of The Pinehurst Outlook, Saturday, April 24, 1926

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Repair Bridge Across Pamlico River Until New Bridge Started in 1927

Washington to Get Bridge Over Pamlico

Washington, N.C., April 24—This city’s hopes of having a new bridge started across the Pamlico River before the year 1927 draws to a close, seems bound to be fulfilled. In an interview for The Daily News yesterday, Honorable F.C. Kugler, district highway commissioner, stated that the State Highway Department on his recommendation has decided to put in temporary repairs on the bridge not to exceed $3,000. This, Mr. Kugler said, will last till 1927, when it will be possible to arrange for a permanent concrete bridge.

From page 4 of The Daily Advance, Elizabeth City, N.C., Saturday evening, April 24, 1926

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Astounding Changes in Legal Rights for Women, Aapril 24, 1926

The talk in chapel Wednesday concerning the rapidly increasing privileges of women was inductive of considerable thought, because the development shown is not confined to North Carolina, but finds a parallel in every other state. Astounding changes have been made in the legal rights of women, and every years, they approach more nearly the rights of men. This is a cause for thankfulness, but it is also a stimulus for thought. Every privilege involves an equal responsibility. As woman secures the right to vote, she incurs the duty to vote; and it is no light inconsequential responsibility but a real share in the welfare of the nation. Women then must be prepared, and college women in particular, for theirs is the task of leading the women of America and of teaching the children right principles and high ideals. Every college woman should seriously consider this subject before she graduates, and make up her mind to take over her share of the responsibility as soon as she becomes a voting citizen.

From the editorial page of The Salemite, Winston-Salem, N.C., April 24, 1926

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Classmates, Faculty Gather at Memorial Service for Elsie Harris, April 24, 1926

Memorial Service for Miss Elsie Harris

A memorial service for Elsie Harris, who met death by accident last Saturday night, will be held tomorrow, Sunday, April 25th. It is to be a vesper service, to take place in Memorial Hall, at the usual vesper hour, 6 o’clock. Very appropriately, the program is in charge of the music faculty of Salem College and will consist of selections by students and faculty. The senior class will attend in a body, and all other students, faculty and friends are invited.

From page 2 of The Salemite, Winston-Salem, N.C., April 24, 1926

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