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Note: The current Tattler does not endorse the opinions published in historical Tattlers.
The strikes of this country are at present assuming an alarming attitude and it is no more than fit that some mention of this condition should be made through the Tattler. What is more conducive to Bolshevism than idleness? It bespeaks this nation, therefore, to do away with the unemployed as soon as possible. Could some law be passed similar to the “work or fight” act that would compel men to either work as usual or accept governmental positions? It is ridiculous for men to strike for high wages when only those already well paid and who have bank accounts can afford to strike. The poor man must continue to work, no matter what the condition, because, if he quits, his only means of livelihood stops, too. Many of the men striking proclaim themselves as backers of the League of Nations. If they are, why don’t they put into practice the one great principle involved, that or arbitration? Think it over.
Manual Training, Sewing, and Cooking Courses for the Ithaca High School
By MISS ANNA KENNEDY
In has been said that the greatest social curse of modern times is that false gentility which makes a man ashamed to work. Many of our young men never enter the high school but fly to anything that will enable them to be “gentlemen” and not vulgar mechanics. If we should establish manual training, sewing and cooking courses, our pupils would become familiarized with work and take a greater interest in their studies. The decay of the apprentice system is rendering industrial education in schools an absolute necessity . . . under the London School Board, the girls receive instruction in needlework and cookery . . . some knowledge of these arts is essential to the comfort of the working classes. . . .
A Legend of Cayuga Lake
A story of old Cayuga
You ask that we should give,
Of the brown-faced sons and daughters,
Who upon its shores did live.
There may be many a legend of the times long- long ago
when the brave Cayugas gathered
To meet their dusky foe.
But the story of this people
Lies buried in the past,
Its history all unwritten,
Its memories fading fast;
And we have but little knowledge
Of the tribes upon its shores,
Who lived, loved, warred and vanished
In the centuries of yore.
There’s a story and a legend
Which old settlers used to tell
Of a maiden bright and joyous,
Who upon these shores did dwell,
Of a maid of wondrous beauty,
Fair of form and face,
Sweet and charming, kind and gentle
Though of dusky race.
Many chiefs of lineage proud,
And fame of high degree,
Whose name was sung among the tribe
For deeds of Indian chivalry,
Did for the maiden strive,
But her answer to their wooings,
To these sons of dusky race
Was a challenge fair and honest,
Naming neither time nor place,
Just a challenge pure and simple
For a canoe race.
A daring chieftain of Cayuga’s tribe,
In war the leader, and in peace the guide,
Whose words of wisdom ever wise and true,
In council honored of that chosen few,
Whose name in tribal history will stand
As noblest ruler of Cayuga’s land,
He to the maiden’s challenge answer gave
In words befitting chieftain proud, and warrior brave.
On the shore the tribe is gathered,
Fixed the time and place,
With the patience ever needed,
They wait the coming race.
The word is given, the light canoes
Speed o’er the water clear and blue,
While from the shore wild cries are given,
As ever greeted college crew.
Now the chieftain, now the maiden,
Seems to set the pace,
And the birchen-barks and driven
Swiftly o’er the glassy waters
Of the rippling lake.
The turning point is nearly won,
The maiden gliding swiftly on,
When round the chieftain’s birchen bark
The waves in whirling eddies dart,
Where all before was still and calm,
As if to nerve his sinewy arm.
Now the wild waves with angry roar
Force his bark backward to the shore.
In vain is all his strength and skill,
Backward the water’s force him still,
While on the shore fierce shouts arise
In guttural accents to the skies.
With frantic shouts, and loud acclaim,
They urge the chieftain on again.
And every tree-clad hill and glen
Echoes this answer back again,
“Chieftain, the prize that thou wouldst gain
No mortal man may ere attain.”
The while the maid with charming grace
Awaits the issue of the race,
And her love song in sweet acclaim
Echoes from shore to shore again,
Urging her lover tried and true
The contest to again renew.
Huge billows rear their snow-white crests,
Dark whirling waves around them prest,
And when the sun’s bright rays dispel
The darkening shadows which ‘round them fell,
Chieftain and maiden, lovers true,
Had found a grave ‘neath the waters blue.
On the western shore
From the old Indian camp,
This chieftain and lover so true
May be seen at the hour of midnight damp
To cross the lake to the maiden’s tomb
In his birchen-bark canoe.
When night robes the sky,
The maiden leaves her tomb,
And glides along in her birchen-bark
Over the waters blue and dark
To the sport where she met her doom.
And side by side these shadowy forms
In their birchen-bark canoes
Glide over the surface of the lake,
At the starting-point their places take,
And again the race renew.
And this is the legend oftimes told
On Cayuga’s shores in days of old,
While the Indian yet held domain
O’er wooded hill in shore and plain,
As the settler stood at his cabin door
And marked the spot in the waters blue
Where the dusky chief and maiden true
At the midnight hour appear.