grimy walls and smoky ceiling. Cross lights from the six windows
shine upon rows of desks of varying sizes and in varying stages of
destruction. A kitchen table faces the door. Squarely in the middle
of the rough pine floor stands a jacketed stove. A much torn
dictionary and a dented water pail stand side by side on the shelf
below the one blackboard.

And this is the "little red schoolhouse" to which I looked forward
so eagerly during the summer--nothing but a tumbledown shack set in
the heart of a prosperous farming district.

(4)

(_New York Tribune_)

THE ONE WOMAN OFFICIAL AT PLATTSBURG

BY ELENE FOSTER


The tramp, tramp of feet on a hard road; long lines of khaki figures
moving over the browning grass of the parade ground; rows of faces,
keen and alert, with that look in the eyes that one sees in LePage's
Jeanne d'Arc; the click, click of bullets from the distant rifle
range blended with a chorus of deep voices near at hand singing
"Over There"; a clear, blue sky, crisp autumn air and the sparkling
waters of Lake Champlain--that's Plattsburg.