Noel's Souvenir of the Fortieth Annual Picnic 
 
 F 572 
 .B5 N7 
 Copy 1 
 
 Berrien County Oia oeiuers Association 
 
The Rose of 
 
 Copyrighted, 1914, by Theo. Noel. 
 
•:^6-/vr 
 
 at Ihe Indian 1 iilils, l^il'.l 
 
 ©CI.A;J8(J075 
 
 SEP l^ 19!4 
 
Personal Preface 
 
 On the occasion of the fortieth annual 
 celebration of Old Settlers Day at Indian 
 Field, 19 14, I was privileged to listen to an 
 address delivered by Mr. R. W. Reese, of 
 Sunnybrook Farm, Eau Claire, which so 
 impressed me that I arose from my seat 
 and addressed the president in substance 
 as follows : 
 
 "Mr. President: This has been the 
 grandest talk ever delivered on these 
 grounds, and one of which we are all proud, 
 and if you will procure for me a copy, I 
 will have it published in pamphlet form 
 and have it sent to every old settler who 
 will request a copy. 
 
 Mr. S. M. Clawson, of Pipestone, 
 moved that the request be complied with. 
 
 and the vast audience voted unanimously 
 in its favor, thus expressing their appreci- 
 ation of the most generous offer. 
 
 Mr. John Johnson, ex-sheriff, secured a 
 copy of the address and it has been printed 
 in a neat souvenir edition, illustrated with 
 scenes of some of the most beautiful spots 
 found in the world of nature. 
 
 This souvenir is dedicated to the Pio- 
 neers of Berrien County, living and dead. 
 It has for its chief object the building up 
 of a sentiment in the hearts of the people 
 that will stimulate them to greater rever- 
 ence in memory of those who were fore- 
 most In car\ing from a tt-ilderness the ban- 
 ner county of the state. 
 
 They were great benefactors whose ser- 
 
vices were so transcendently great that we 
 honor ourselves by remembering to honor 
 them. 
 
 They were as grand and noble as any 
 souls that ever wore the clay of earth about 
 them, and to rightly estimate the superb 
 dimensions and nobility of their characters 
 we ought to study their lives in connection 
 with the times in which they lived. 
 
 With supreme courage, and an unfalter- 
 ing faith in the Right, they became public 
 benefactors and bathed their names in im- 
 mortality. 
 
 Every age has her great characters, 
 e\erv land her great heroes. 
 
 Backward across the centuries of the past 
 we can see a few sunken mountain peaks 
 jut out from oblivion's sea. The telescope 
 of time, as it sweeps the historic heavens, 
 
 still shows the greatest souls of all history 
 — those who have defied fate, and all that 
 fortune, death and danger dare — hitched 
 their chariots to the star of hope and trans- 
 fomied a wilderness into a land of homes, 
 a garden spot of the world. 
 
 Berrien County is the home of my birth. 
 She holds in her history a gentle memory- 
 of many, who long ago became weary of 
 life's burden and fell asleep by the wayside 
 and entered into eternal rest. 
 
 I am forcibly reminded that I am grow- 
 ing old, and shall soon pass on to my 
 reward, and with me the memory of all the 
 grand past of Berrien County's old settlers, 
 who in my esteem shall live in song and 
 story as long as the noble race lives to in- 
 habit God's globe. 
 
 I desire to perpetuate in everlasting re- 
 
gard those who by birthright or adoption 
 identified themselves with the creation, de- 
 velopment and permanency of all the in- 
 stitutions of which we, as good citizens, are 
 justly proud. 
 
 Let us rehabilitate the organization of 
 Old Settlers Day; reorganize and re-estab- 
 lish it on its original plan. Let common 
 interest guide in conducting the exercises 
 of that day, so that good fellowship will 
 reign supreme, and that the memory of 
 those gone before may be exalted. 
 
 I am sending this little souvenir to those 
 who are loyal to the traditons of our his- 
 tory as a county and with the firm belief 
 that it will exercise a potent influence in 
 
 observing one day in each year when fitting 
 services will be held in honor of our pio- 
 neers — both living and dead. 
 
 Let it not be degraded to the level of 
 common things, but elevated always to that 
 plane where noble ideas, elevating influ- 
 ences and uplifting sentiments shall prevail. 
 
 With ardent hopes for a most inspiring 
 future, I am, 
 
 Yours for success. 
 
 Berrien Springs, Michigan, 19 14. 
 
Foreword 
 
 Pioneers' Day belongs to the people. It 
 is essentially a day when we revive and re- 
 new the memories of our illustrious sires — 
 the pioneers of Berrien County. 
 
 Pioneer Day should be a day when all 
 the people of the county, regardless of po- 
 litical affiliations, religious enthusiasm or 
 secular interests, should meet on a common 
 level, divested of all personal interests, or 
 pecuniary gains, and celebrate by fitting cer- 
 emony the real object for which Pioneer 
 Day was instituted, namely, to perpetuate 
 the memory of the pioneer fathers and 
 mothers of Berrien County and to instill 
 into the minds of the rising generation a 
 spirit of patriotic pride in fostering and 
 
 maintaining a reverence for the memory of 
 them. 
 
 It is impossible in the space allotted to 
 mention the names of those who were 
 largely instrumental in reclaiming Berrien 
 County from its primeval wilderness and 
 making it the banner county of Michigan; 
 yet we, of this generation, must see to it that 
 what they gained by their labors and deter- 
 mination shall be emblazoned upon the 
 scroll of progress and illumined by a spirit 
 of loyalty on the part of those who are to- 
 day enjoying the fruits of their conquest. 
 
 Green be their memory, and verdant to the 
 judjrment day. 
 
 Pioneer Day belongs to all the people 
 of Berrien County; the old, the middle-aged 
 
and the young. The interests of those who 
 must soon assume the reins of government 
 must not be forgotten, and they should 
 prove the objects of special attention. 
 
 Those in charge should make special in- 
 ducement to have the youth in attendance 
 in the celebration of Pioneers' Day, and 
 those who speak should make special prep- 
 aration to interest and instruct them in the 
 great work of good government and social 
 reform. 
 
 The Great Creator has given us a com- 
 mon interest in the things of this earth life; 
 
 in the air, the water, and the land. Indian 
 Field is a grand park fashioned by the hand 
 of the Great Architect, and in that delight- 
 ful spot we should all feel at home. There 
 let us gather on the second Wednesday of 
 each June, with our children and our neigh- 
 bors, and spend the entire day. 
 
 Let us take our dinners, and under the 
 leafy canopy, and cooled by the refreshing 
 breeze from Lake Chapin, regale ourselves 
 and be glad we live in grand old Berrien 
 County. 
 
 R. W. R. 
 
The Address by Mr. R. W. Reese 
 
 Mr. President and Fellow Countrymen: 
 
 This day we meet to indulge in our an- 
 nual greeting of old friends, pioneers and 
 neighbors. This is a day on which we re- 
 count our manifold blessings, and also pass 
 in quiet review the forty years which have 
 gone into history' since "Old Settlers" day 
 came into existence. This custom of gather- 
 ing once each year in this beautiful grove 
 should always be inspiring and clothe us 
 with greater zeal to foster and encourage it. 
 
 It is well that we stop in the mad rush 
 through life and live once more in the days 
 that are gone forever from us. 
 
 Not long ago, as I sat by the open win- 
 dow looking out into the moonlight, there 
 came borne upon the still night air the sound 
 of voices, of boys and girls. They were 
 singing: 
 
 "AVhere are the friends 
 That we knew in our youth, 
 
 Ix)ng. long ago. long ago? 
 Gone to their homes 
 In the mansions of truth, 
 
 Long, long ago. long ago. 
 Homes that were brightest 
 \\'ere shrouded in gloom. 
 Hearts that were lightest 
 Were laid in the tomb. 
 
 Long, long ago, long ago." 
 
 This old and familiar song was repeated 
 over and over again, and the music was 
 harmonious. Yet it carried me back so 
 many years that it seemed like a song my 
 mother sang in my infancy, when it was not 
 easy to separate dreams from realities. 
 
 That song carried me back to a time 
 before those young voices had an existence, 
 and it impressed me that the heart of those 
 youthful singers contained the principle of 
 a faith that is as old as the everlasting hills. 
 It is the primal force that lies at the bottom 
 of every \enture and Is an exponent of 
 
strength in the world today. Faith is the 
 substance of things hoped for, the evidence 
 of things not seen, and its truth is verified 
 in every department of hfe. 
 
 Go with me back to those childhood 
 days and we can see the result of labor ac- 
 complished with faith as a guiding star. 
 Our pioneer fathers and mothers entered 
 the wilderness away out on the frontier. 
 The soil was rich, but to make it subservient 
 to the needs of the husbandman, mighty 
 labors were performed, and they were re- 
 warded by seeing the forests give way to 
 cultivated fields, and the primeval cabin 
 replaced by modern homes. Thus they 
 continued from year to year, and you who 
 have long since left the paternal roof can 
 look back upon a scene that is dearer to you 
 than any other place. 
 
 There is where you first saw the light of 
 life. There is where your youthful days 
 were passed. You can remember the old 
 
 school house with its ancient furniture, and 
 your first teacher to give you instruction. 
 You can remember the creek which flowed 
 by back of the school house, and the hill 
 where you coasted. You can look back and 
 see the many changes made since you left 
 home. The fathers and mothers who laid 
 the foundation for the old home, and who 
 brought it to a stage of perfection, may 
 have long since been gathered to their 
 fathers, and are enjoying their well-earned 
 reward. 
 
 Our pioneer fathers and mothers were 
 progressive, and, in a large measure, they 
 transmitted that virtue to their posterity, 
 yet faith was the magic touchstone that led 
 to success. 
 
 That same potent factor guided the in- 
 ventor to success ; led the mariner in quest 
 of fame and fortune; gave vigor to the 
 arms, nerves and hearts of the soldier boys 
 on the field of battle; induces the husband- 
 
Showing the Indian I'i.l.ls ..n the opiinsilc siilc- of the 
 
man to sow the grain, and spurs the student 
 to other conquests in the fields of lore. 
 
 As often as we wander back to those 
 early days, and, in imagination, try to live 
 again as we lived then, to think as we 
 thought then, and to revel in all those youth- 
 ful sports as we revelled then, memory 
 carves a heaven on earth out of the sweet 
 remembrances which come trooping forth 
 to greet us, 
 
 "And forever and forever. 
 As long as the river flows. 
 As long as the heart has passions. 
 As long as life has woes." 
 
 such memories will bring to us a picture of 
 the sunny days of youth where we recognize 
 the old-time simplicity and the old-time 
 virtues that gave strength and vigor to the 
 early settlers of our country. I seem to 
 hear the old-time songs, and in a spirit of 
 exuberant joy join in the chorus which 
 rounds out in hosannas of glad acclaim. 
 The old-time religion and the old-time 
 
 faith are in evidence, and no man or woman 
 was ashamed of his profession. Just notice 
 the contrast between the early customs and 
 religious zeal with modern usages and 
 advanced thought. I was reading in a 
 metropolitan paper recently that one of the 
 fashionable churches had adopted a rule 
 that at each Sunday evening service all the 
 worshippers must appear in full evening 
 dress, and at a recent Congress of Religions 
 a Chicago minister made this statement: 
 "I believe in dancing and card playing. I 
 would turn the church vestry into a hall for 
 dancing. I'd have billiard and pool tables, 
 and I'd have card playing under the aus- 
 pices and supervision of the church." This 
 Chicago clergyman heralds a new dispensa- 
 tion, and we need not be surprised if some 
 other exponent of modern religion will 
 advocate a saloon in the basement and a 
 poker table in the attic as valuable adjuncts 
 to a modern church. 
 
Dean's Bluff, overlooking St. Joseph Valley, Berrien Springs in distan 
 
There is a world of difference between 
 the theology of today and the theology of 
 fifty years ago, and a conviction is steadily 
 working in the hearts of the people of today 
 that the account of the Creation is a myth, 
 and the gospel of the Evangelists a super- 
 stition. I am glad, however, that these 
 tendencies and their influences have little 
 hold as yet on our country people. 
 
 The hope of the nation and of society 
 and of religion lies in the vigor and honor 
 of the great medial classes, and these are 
 found in our country homes; around the 
 family hearthstone away from influences of 
 modern social conditions; away from the 
 hypocrisy and snobbery of modern society; 
 where every woman is a queen, every man 
 a king; bubbling over with sturdy, robust 
 manhood, ready to die for his honor, his 
 home and his country. 
 
 I have many times read with wonder 
 and awe of the hanging gardens of Babylon 
 which Nebuchadnezzar reared In graceful 
 
 terraces high above the brazen gates of the 
 city to remind his Medean wife of her 
 mountain home, but to me the sight was 
 grander when I looked through youthful 
 eyes and saw the garden spot of the world 
 right here in the valley of the old St. Joe, 
 with its sun-kissed banks, and its gentle 
 undulations of field and forest. Right here 
 in majestic Michigan, with her blue sky, 
 pellucid streams, her balmy air, silver\' 
 lakes, gorgeous sunsets and most productive 
 soil. 
 
 And now after a half century has 
 passed into history, and I have many times 
 gazed on the masterpieces of Raphael, 
 Rembrandt, Angelo, Reynolds and Van 
 Dyke, I have come to the conclusion that 
 no painter's brush ever has or ever can pro- 
 duce on canvas half the glory and majesty 
 and sublimity of an autumn sunset as the 
 great orb of day sinks slowly to the west 
 and is lost in the waters of Lake Michigan, 
 and the fading sunlight gilding the forest- 
 
Fairfield Karm, Krnslus Murphy. Proprietor, near Berrien I entre. Michii 
 
girted banks of the winding St. Joe and 
 throwing over the variegated foliage its 
 soft and mellow radiance. 
 
 We talk about music and know that it 
 is grand and inspiring. We know that 
 Mozart, Mendelssohn, Handel and Wag- 
 ner have poured forth a flood of melody 
 and harmony which will delight the musical 
 ear of mankind while civilization lasts, but 
 it can never inspire that feeling of buoyancy 
 and exhiliration, that bubbling joy and 
 gladness which is felt by the barefoot boy 
 as he listens to the morning song of the 
 mocking bird and the robin as they flit from 
 limb to limb while the sunlight glistens on 
 the dew and the very air is full of life and 
 gladness. 
 
 A thousand fond associations throng 
 upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. 
 In this delightful grove rest, like sweet 
 dews of the morning, the gentle recollection 
 of our early life; around these hills and 
 
 gentle undulations cling, like gathering 
 mists, the mighty memories of other days, 
 and far away on the horizon of the past 
 gleam, like our own northern lights, the 
 gentle virtues and heroic characters of our 
 pioneer fathers and mothers. 
 
 Mr. President, the true history of our 
 county is told in the lives of our citizens 
 who lived and struggled, wrought and suf- 
 fered to create it. We revere them for what 
 they did; we love them for the sacrifices 
 they made. They braved the perils of for- 
 est and flood, and made is possible for us to 
 enjoy today's blessings. Their's was not an 
 age of speculation, but an age of action; 
 simplicity marked each effort, and broad- 
 gauged honesty circumscribed each life. 
 Then, too, the children of those early days 
 were inured to toil and attained their prime 
 embellished with strength of mind and 
 body, brain and muscle, so necessary for a 
 useful and happy life. The food was plain 
 
Mr. and Mrs. John Johnson at their residence at Berrien Centre, Michigan 
 
but palatable. In my own experience, our 
 family used no sugar, except from the sap 
 of the maple tree, and we knew nothing 
 of the dainty breakfast foods and rich 
 pastry of the present day. Our clothes 
 were extremely modest. Our mothers spun 
 the wool of the sheep into yarn, and wove 
 it into cloth, from which she fashioned the 
 garments we wore. Blue jeans cloth for 
 our pants was considered something fine. 
 
 Fine soft underwear was not known, 
 and when the winter time came, if one pair 
 of pants was not enough to keep us warm, 
 another pair was added, and another and 
 another, if necessary. 
 
 In those days the people were happy. 
 Neighbors were separated from each other 
 by long distance, but they were neighbors 
 in the broadest sense. They chose for their 
 motto, "Be right and stand together." "All 
 for one, one for all and all for all." It was 
 the spirit which made Berrien County forge 
 
 to the front in all matters. It was the spirit 
 which has made Berrien County equal to 
 e\ery emergency in its history. It was the 
 spirit which created the ambition and pro- 
 gress which are born and bred in the bone 
 of her people. 
 
 In the battle of life we have all faced 
 life's mistakes with manly courage. Mis- 
 takes are the inevitable accompaniment of 
 the greatest gift given to man — individual 
 freedom of action. If man were only a 
 pawn in the fingers of omnipotence, with no 
 self-moving power, he would never make a 
 mistake, but would be degraded to the 
 ranks of the lower animals and plants. An 
 oyster never makes a mistake. Mistakes are 
 the pains of wisdom, the raw material of 
 error that we transform into higher living. 
 Without them there would be no growth, 
 no progress, no conquest. Mistakes of men 
 and women are the knots and tangles, the 
 broken threads and the dropped stitches in 
 
the web of their living. They are the mis- 
 deals in judgment, the unwise investment in 
 morals, the profit and loss account of wis- 
 dom and the misleading by-paths from the 
 road to truth. Mistakes are always a part 
 of learning, and life is simply giv^en us that 
 we may learn how to live. A man or a 
 woman who never made a mistake never 
 accomplished anything else worthy of men- 
 tion. Men and women become great not 
 by making mistakes, but by profiting by 
 those they do make; by getting from them 
 the courage of a new regenerating influence 
 and inspiration with no irritating sting of 
 useless regret; by building a glorious today 
 on the ruins of a yesterday, ^^^hen a cap- 
 tain finds his vessel is out of the right course, 
 he wastes no time in bemoaning his fate, 
 but at the first sunburst takes new bearings, 
 changes his course, and with renewed cour- 
 age heads toward the harbor and endeavors 
 to make up the time he has lost. 
 
 Musing over the dreams of youth is a 
 dangerous mental dissipation. "It might 
 ha\'e been" is the lullaby of regret which 
 often puts to sleep the best efforts of men. 
 We need tonics in life more often than we 
 need narcotics. 
 
 We may go back in memory to some 
 fork in the road of life and imagine what 
 would have happened and how much better 
 off we would be, if we had only taken the 
 other road. We sigh and wish we had done 
 differently and say: "If I had onlv learned 
 some other business!" "If I had married 
 some other woman!" "If I had bought 
 telephone stock at 30!" and in this manner 
 run our empty train of thought over the 
 slippery "Ifs." Even if these courses had 
 been wiser, it is as impossible to change 
 them now as for the human race to return 
 to the original bit of protoplasm from 
 which science declares we are evolved. The 
 past does not belong to us; it is only the 
 
S. M. Clawson's Residence 
 
golden present that is ours to transform 
 into a new past that will be a joy to look 
 back to in the years to come. 
 
 The other road always looks attractive. 
 Distant sails are always white; far-off hills 
 seem always greenest. The other road 
 might have meant wealth with no happi- 
 ness; fame might have filled our ears with 
 the sweet melody of praise, but the dearer 
 things of earth might ha\'e been denied us. 
 What the other road might have meant for 
 us, no eternity of thought can reveal. If 
 we were impatient yesterday it should in- 
 spire us to be more patient today. Our un- 
 fairness to one may open our eyes to greater 
 fairness to others. 
 
 The world may condemn us for not 
 making a success in life. What does the 
 silly, babbling world know about our lives? 
 What does it matter what others think, if 
 we have done our best? The past is gone, 
 the present only is ours. 
 
 In every heart is a secret chamber where 
 the walls are covered with the drapery and 
 memorials of the past. Rare treasures fill 
 the cabinet of ebony. Sweet faces long ago 
 forgotten by the world smile tranquilly 
 from golden encasements, and voices are 
 heard whose musical cadences were sweet 
 to our ears long years ago. A drawer yields 
 to the impulse of a mother's hand, and there 
 lies a tiny stocking, a little shoe, a white 
 plume nodding on a snowy hat, or a broken 
 toy, and the secret door opens. A mother's 
 eyes are looking. She is living again in the 
 buried years that have no resurrection ex- 
 cept this. As it is with the mother, so it is 
 with all. There is not a mortal who does 
 not, at times, enter and stand among the 
 broken images, dethroned idols and buried 
 hopes of years gone by and gaze upon the 
 relics of other days. 
 
 This world is made up of yesterday, to- 
 day and tomorrow. Yesterday contains all 
 
the battlefields on which we fought and won 
 a victory, or suffered defeat ; yesterday holds 
 in gentle memor}' all the pioneers who, with 
 hopes high and faith strong, settled in the 
 wilderness of Berrien County and built up 
 their homes. This day is ours. Memory 
 holds before us the fragrance of the past 
 which is reflected from a multitude of noble 
 characters to whom we of the present gen- 
 eration owe a debt of gratitude. Cicero 
 calls gratitude the mother of all virtues, and 
 we as grateful children must show to the 
 world the affection and reverence we owe to 
 our pioneer fathers and mothers of Berrien 
 count}'. Gratitude is not only the memory 
 we carry in mind, but the homage of the 
 heart. 
 
 It is our supreme duty to preserve inxio- 
 late the inheritance won for us by our illus- 
 trious sires. 1 he children of today should 
 be taught to appreciate the pri\ileges they 
 enjoy, made possible by those who have 
 long since been gathered to their fathers. 
 
 They should be taught that the reins of 
 government must soon pass from the hands 
 of the fathers and mothers into their hands 
 and the true dignity and value of good gov- 
 ernment made a part of their education. 
 
 The world is now going at too great a 
 pace, and love of good government is being 
 smothered under an avalanche of money 
 madness. 
 
 William J. Bryan, as Secretary of State, 
 declares that he cannot live on his $12,000 
 salary and he must resort to the lecture 
 platform to raise more money. It is not 
 the high cost of living, but the cost of high 
 li\ing. Br^'an's predecessors did the same 
 thing. So it goes, and for what? Just to 
 make a show of royalty like European 
 countries. Just to satisfy the cra\-ings of a 
 lot of society parasites who demand expen- 
 sive functions that they may show oft their 
 wealth and make the boast of kuazviug 
 public men. 
 
 If our iHiblic men spent their salaries in 
 
studying questions that would be beneficial 
 to their constituents it would be a demon- 
 stration of patriotism, but as long as it is 
 squandered in wining and dining, and mak- 
 ing a display for social reasons only it shows 
 a tendency to create a government by wealth 
 instead of by brains and ability. 
 
 I do not care where a man comes from 
 or what his ancestry may have been, if he 
 rises as near to the perfection of that divine 
 standard as his human foibles and weak- 
 nesses will permit, then he is as good as 
 anybody who does not acquire greater per- 
 fection. 
 
 American manhood has always stood 
 
 for the recognition of the standard of right 
 and it is our duty and privilege to attain to 
 that perfection every day. 
 
 But I must hasten to a close. This day 
 is yours to enjoy. This day is yours to bring 
 back from the distant shadows those whose 
 voices are hushed forever in eternal sleep. 
 We have all pondered on the life that lies 
 beyond the walls and windows of our world ; 
 the life into which our friends have entered. 
 Their lives were beautiful and in their death 
 was left a gentle memory to those who sur- 
 vive them. 
 
 I thank you for your patience in listen- 
 ing, and bid you hail and farewell. 
 
Noel Range. Berrien Sprincs. Michiitan 
 
A Count of Losses 
 
 Life is a count of losses, 
 
 Every year; 
 For the weak are heavier crosses. 
 
 Every year; 
 Lost Springs with sobs replying 
 Unto weary Autumns' sighing, 
 While those we love are dying, 
 
 Every year. 
 
 The days have less of gladness, 
 
 Every year; 
 The nights more weight of sadness, 
 
 Every year; 
 Fair Springs no longer charm 'is, 
 The winds and weather harm us. 
 The threats of death alarm us. 
 
 Every year. 
 
 There come new cares and sorrows, 
 
 Every year; 
 Dark days and darker morrows, 
 
 Every year; 
 
The ghosts of dead loves haunt us. 
 The ghosts of changed friends taunt us, 
 And disappointments daunt us, 
 Every year. 
 
 To the Past go more dead faces, 
 
 Every year; 
 As the loved leave vacant places. 
 
 Every year; 
 Everywhere the sad eyes meet us. 
 In the evening's dusk they greet us, 
 And to come to them entreat us. 
 
 Every year. 
 
 "You are growing old," they tell us, 
 
 Every year; 
 "You are more alone," they tell us. 
 
 Every year; 
 "You can win no new affection," 
 "You have only recollection," 
 "Deeper sorrow and dejection," 
 
 "Every year." 
 
 Too true, Life's shores are shifting, 
 
 Every year; 
 And we are seaward drifting. 
 
 Every year. 
 Old places, changing, fret us. 
 The living more forget us. 
 There are fewer to regret us, 
 
 Every year. 
 
 But the truer life draws nigher, 
 
 Every year; 
 And its Morning-star climbs higher. 
 
 Every year; 
 Earth's hold on us grows slighter, 
 And the heavy burden lighter. 
 And the Dawn immortal brighter. 
 
 Every year. 
 
. B. MORSE COMPANY, ST. JOSEPH, HICHrOAN 
 DESIGNERS-ENGrlAVERS-PRINTERS