L. W. llocDonold Co.

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Rcprcscntfng lccr Llvcl lgmbcr Co., Sontlr Fork, Collf. Douglas Fir and Redwood Dry Pondcrosa Pine

4/f4 N. Bedford Drive, Room 2OlBeverly Hills, Colifomio

Telephones: BRqdshow 2-5l0lCRestyiew 6-2414

Hordwoods!

"NOTH'NG BUI THE BESI''

Religion

They have killed in this ancient town (Jerusalem), killed until every alley was fooded with blood. Not a wall in all this maze of walls but has rung with the groans of the dying. Skulls beyond counting have been cracked on these flags; throats unnumbered have been slit in these dark doorways. They've murdered, and pillaged, and raped in this old holy town till now it is all but one Golgotha, one bloody Hill of Skulls. And if you would know why,'you need only look into the eyes of these hurring phantoms. Readily they will tell you; explicitly. Men have slaughtered and ravished in Jerusalem because they had religion. Men have gouged eyes and ripped bellies because they-believed. Believed in what? In God? Hardly. No, they have believed only in mere vocables-Yahveh, Christ, or Allah; those vocables that are the fingers wherewith men try to point to God. Strange potency, this thing we call religion. It has made man do barbarities quite beyond the reaches of credence. For it, men have done foulnesses below the foulnesses done even by beasts. Yet for it also men have done benevolences such as transcend the benevolences of angels. If men have killed and died for religion, men have also lived for it. Not merely for it, but by it. That cowering Jew slinking in the shadow of the archways sloughs pff his terror and becomes a king when he enters his synagogue. His bent shoulders straighterl his sagging knees becorne firm and the blessedness of peace lightens his eyes. That blind Arab beggar, a mere frame of bones, hung over with smelling rags, becomes a sultan when, he stands at prayer in his mosque. He stands there healed of his ailments; he becomes a changed man, with vision reaching his world to Paradise. That dark-eyed Syrian girl, poor trull whose lips have carassed the flesh of twenty races, becomes clean once more when she kneels at the feet of the virgin. Strength foods into her tortured bones, healing comes to her fesh. Strange potency, this thing we call religion. It came into man's world untold centuries ago, and it is still in man's world today. It is still there, deep and tremendous; a mighty draught for a mightier thirst, a vast richness to fill a vaster need. No matter where one turns in time or space, there seems to be also a spirit or God; wherever there is human life, there is also faith. One wonders about it. What is it, this thing we call Religion? Whence did it come? And why? And how? What was it yesterday? What is it today? And what will it become tomorrow?Lewis Browne in "This Believing World."

Robert Burns

What Raphael is to color, what Mozart is to music, that Burns is to song. With his sweet words "the mother soothes her child, the lover woos his bride,_ the soldier wins his victory." His biographer says his genius was sQ overmastering that news of Burn's arrival at the village inn drew farmers from their fields and at midnight awakened travelers, who left their beds to listen, delighted until morn.

One day this child of poverty and obscurity left his plow behind, and entering the drawing rooms of Edinburgh, met Scotland's most gifted scholars, her noblest lords and ladies. Mid these scholars, statesmen and philosophers he blazed "like a torch among the tapers" showing himself wiser than the scholars, wittier than the humorist, kinglier than the courtliest. And yet, in the very prime of his manhood, Burns lay down to die, a broken-hearted man. He had sinned much, suffered much, and being the victim of his own folly, he was also the victim of ingratitude and misfortune. Bewildered by his debts, he seems like an untamed eagle beating against bars he cannot break. The last time he lifted his pen upon the page it was not to give immortal form to some exquisite lyric he had fashioned, but to beg a friend in Edinburgh for the loan of ten pounds to save him from the terrors of a debtor's prison. By contrasts with the lot of other worthies Robert Burns seems to have been the child of good fortune. In the last analysis the blame is with the poet himself. Not want of good fortune without, but want of good guidance within, wrecked his youth. Save Saul alone, history holds no sadder tragedy than that of Burns, who sang "the short and simple annal's of the poor."-Newell

Dwight Hillis.

No Lingering

Let me live out my years in heat of blood !

Let me die drunken with the dreamer's wine !

Let me not see this soul-house built of mud

Go toppling to the dust-a broken shrine.

Let me go quickly-like a candle-light

Snuffed or,rt just at the heyday of its glow;

, Give me high noon-and let it then he night !

Thus would I go !

And grant that when I face the grisly thing, My song may trumpet down the grey perhaps;

Let me be as a tune-swept fiddle-string

That feels the master-melody and snaps !

Musicol AnywoY

..Salesman: "Did you like that cigar I gave you? Five hundred of those coupons and you get a banjo."

Clerk: "If I smoke five hundred of those, I'd need a harp."

DIRECI

Douglos Fir Ponderoso Pine Associoted Woods

Lumber

'DURO" BRoNzE

"DUROID" El".tro Galvanized

"DURALUM" Cladded Aluminum