National Lumber Trade Extension Advisory Council

The Trade Extension Committee of the National Lumber Manu.facturers Association has announced the appoint- ment of an Advisory Council on Trade Extension ivhich is to fill the function of keeping the Trade Extension Committee -and the management of the trade extension wor! fully advised of the views, wishes and suggestions of the lumber industry regarding the trade promotion effort now being inaugurated. The membership of the Committee is made up by the regional associations and states.

The California Redwood Association and the California White and Sugar Pine Manufacturers Association are represented on the committee by the following:

California Redwood Association

Johnson, Union Lumber Co., San Francisco, Calif. Hammond, Ifammond Lumber Co., San Francisco,

Hotchkiss, Hobbs-Wall Lumber Co., Fife Bldg., 1 St., San Francisco, Calif.

Guild, Finkbine Guild Lumber Co., San Francisco

$. !.-Cole, Little River Redwood Co., Crannel, Calif.

R. F. Hammatt, California Redwood Ass,n.. San Francisco, Calif.

Fred Holmes, Ifolmes-Eureka Lumber Co.. San Francisco. Calif

Henry Hink, Dolbeer & Carson, San Francisco Calif. California White & Sugar Pine Mfrs. Ass'n.

California:

W. J. Walker, Red River Lumber Co., 307 Monadnock Bldg., San Franciscrr, Calif.

D. H. Steinmetz, Pickering Lumber Co., Crocker lst Nat'l. Bank Bldg., San Francisco, Calif.

J. M. White, Weed Lumber Co., Weed, Calif.

R. D. Baker, Lassen Lumber & Box Co., 405 Monadnock Bldg., San Francisco, Calif.

B. A. Cannon, Sugar Pine l,umber Co., pinedale, Calif. .

C- Stowell Smith, Califor. White & Sugar Pine Mfrs. Ass'n., 600 Call Bldg., San Francisco, Calif.

Oregon:

A. J. Voye, Big Lakes Box Co., Klamath Falls, Ore.

W. E. Lamm, Lamm Lumber Co., Modoc Point. Ore.

Shackles

I who dream of slender masts against a crested sea, Sit upon a stool and add up figures in a row. Count the cost of cigarettes and sugar-cane and teaI, who long to take a ship, and go, and go, and go! Gold of Montezuma and the shade of southern palms Grinning idols hidden in the shrines of Yucatan, Beggars at the temple gates who stretch lean hands for alms, How I want to see them but I know I never can.

I who long to hear the winds that lash the angry skies, Hear the feet of shoppers and the bang of trolley cars, Checking rows of figures till they dance before my eyesI who lo'ng to sail a ship, and steer her by the stars.

-Gwen Bristow.

Tradition

Tradition is not a fetish to be prayed to-but a useful record of experience. Time should bring improvements'but not dl old things are worthless. \Me are served by both the moderns and the ancients. The balanced man is he who clings to the best in the old-and appropriates the desirable in the new-Richard Steele.

Just An Empty Bottle

George Meredith, the Eaglish author, loved to make plays upcnr words. Richard Le Gallienne says that seeing an empty wine bottle on the table, Meredith spoke as follows to the house maid:

"Mary, you behold here a body from which the soul has departed. A body without a soul ! Mark it there, empty and useless, of no value to Gods or men ! Once full of genial fire, golden warmth for heart and brain, alive with inspiring ichor, the Hymettian fount of noble talk and soaring thought, the elixir vitae of wit, making of man's dull brain a thing of magic and dreams, lifting our dull mortality into the highest heaven of invention ! But behold it now, a hollow, echoing shell, a forlorn cadaver, its divine life all poured out of it, no laughter in it, no wisdom, no human kindness in it, any more forever. What shall be done with it, Mary? A body from which the soul has departed! What do we with such? What is there to be done, but to hurry it out of sight of gods and men-mournful reminder of feasts that are at an end, and dimming candles-."

Nonchalance

A college student rose from his table in a fashionable dining room and walked toward the door. He was passing the house detective at the entrance when a silver sugar bowl dropped from his bulging coat. The guest glanced calmly at the officer, then turned with an expression of polite annoyance toward the occupants of the room.

"Ruffians!" he exclaimed. "Who threw that?"

-Stanford Chaparral.

To The Unknown Mother

I believe with all my mind and heart and soul that Coleridge spoke only sober truth when he said that a mother is "the holiest thing alive."

Men often ask one another, "'What would you wish to have said of you in the end?" I have but one answer. I would have it said of me that I lived as my mother wanted me to live, for I can conceive of no higher destiny for a man than always to have been faithful to the ideal image of him that lives forever in a loving mother's heart-the heart that outweighs the ruriverse.

I stand beside the tomb of the Unknown Soldier who sleeps withirr this hallowed gtound. Though we know not his name the sacrifice that he made at his country's cdl in the bloom of his young manhood, has left in our heart's memory an incense sweeter than all the perfume of Arabia. FIe, too, let us remember, had a mother who had guided his tender feet in infancy, and whose prayers had doubtless followed him through all the days of his young life. The heroism that he manifested on that blood-stained field of battle where he died, was the masculine counterpart of the heroism that his mother displayed in bringing him into life. Let us then on this day, remember them together-the Unknown Soldier and the Unknown Mother-hero and heroiqe of our national life."-(From the Mother's Day address of Hon. James J. Davis, at Arlington Cemetery, May 9, 1926.)

A Memory

So little a thing, that tiny fash of fire, When for a moment like a fower you swayed, Frighteqing us both, and were a shaken maid Under the urge of half-revealed desire;

So little a thing, so little a thing and gone. The brave eyes cleared, you gave a stifed laugh, Letting me know there was no cup to quafr, And I went out to walk until the dawn.

So little a thing, so brief a bliss, and yet

I shall not find the same lilt in a song

Nor even win the power to forget

By any magic that creation knows:

Slave to a memory my whole life long, That you'd forgotten ere the white sun rose.

-Lupton A.

Wilkinson in Vagabond.