$1.00 PER YEAR 
AUGUST 11, 1923 
PUBLISHED WEEKLY 
1 
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Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Their sober wishes never learned to stray, 
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
The short and simple annals of the poor. They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
—From Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” 
