rtificiality. We all love the "know" kind--the sweet,
simple, sensible girl who knows.

So here's my hand, little sister, little daughter, little girl, and to
you here are also the sweetest thoughts of mine heart, for I picture you
through eyes, and through a heart, that sees two sweet little girls of
my very own.

I am going to stick mighty close to my girls and try to bring them up to
be real girls who will be loving, lovable and loved.

So then here is the hope that you, girl, will start right, keep right
and end right. I want you to think of sense, sentiment, and simplicity
rather than dances, dollars, duds and doings.

I want your life to be one of poise, happiness and serenity instead of
noise, worry and nerves.

This little message is all for you--GIRL.

SPECULATION

You Can't Earn Your Board on the Board of Trade

I've been riding through the golden wheat belt of Kansas, and estimated
the new wealth; for that which grows is the only real profit or wealth.
All else are trades, speculation or bookkeeping accounts.

The farmer plants the wheat. God makes it grow and we eat it.

But in a big building in an amphitheater in the city, is a crowd of wild
men in shirt sleeves, perspiring, shouting, making signs, clawing the
air. This crowd never raised wheat, but they raise pandemonium. It's the
board of trade; its job is getting the wheat from the farm to you and me
who require it to live.

I've recently visited the biggest food market in the world, the Chicago
Board of Trade. Below the gallery sat a nice dignified elderly man who
wrote a note on a slip of paper, folded it and gave it to a boy.

The boy was off like a shot to the wheat pit; he gave it to another
white-haired young-faced man of cultured, refined, even scholarly
bearing, so different from the row raisers in the pit.

This nice man was the floor man for a big grain commission house; he
read the message, and then did the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde act. He
turned red, purple, and green. His neck swelled, he threw back his head
and screamed while he held up his hand and five fingers. Each finger
meant 5,000 bushels of wheat; five fingers meant 25,000 bushels to sell.
In an instant, like a pack of wolves, the other crazy men raised their
hands with bent and twisted fingers, the sign language of the pit.

The old man made a sign, the wheat was sold. He was Dr. Jekyll again; he
yawned and was composed once more.

Soon a boy came with anoth