Of our more modern writers, I can get more thought food from Elbert Hubbard, and this is what a reader wants. The writer who can make you think thoughts of your own, is the one who draws out the truth and the faith that is in you. Some can amuse and instruct without making you think along new lines. Unless you do some original thinking, after reading a book or a story, or a poem, you have not gained anything of lasting effect. The thoughts that do you the most good are the thoughts you can claim as your own. We are all looking at the world and into the mysteries of life from different view points. Others can tell us of a peep hole that brings to view many unknown things, but we must do the peeping ourselves. We must see things with our own mental eyes before we can size them up and grasp them and call them our own. However, it all depends on the trend of one’s mind. The books that gave me the most instruction and entertainment might have no value at all in the judgment of another. Each individual must read until he discovers the trend of his mind, and then read books that satisfy. Even the much abused ten cent novel whetted my taste for higher literature. Occasionally one would make me think. FORGOTTEN GRAVES During the seven years I lived in my present home, I have sat on the front porch and looked across the Susquehanna river to a bluff just beyond the P. & E. Railroad. White tombstones, looming up above the weeds, like the great white teeth of Death, indicated that human bodies had been laid there to rest, while the struggle with others continued for a little while longer. Mrs. Haiden often spoke of going over to visit the spot. To her an old graveyard appeals with stronger force than the most beautiful garden of flowers. Three years ago, when we visited Washington, the wise old faces of the Senators and Representatives of the people did not appeal to her. Neither did the political stench of the Capitol. Arlington cemetery and the Egyptian mummies in the National Museum took her fancy. They were flowers handed down to us from a former generation, as they say in the Declaration of Independence. Well, Mrs. Haiden’s curiosity to visit the old Quiggle cemetery overcame my laziness, and one fine Sunday we persuaded Professor Stevenson to accompany us, and we crossed the river at the ferry and walked through the fields to the place of interest. The cemetery is quite an old burial ground for this neighborhood. We could not determine how old, because the first graves made there were marked only with mountain sand stones, and only a few of them bore an inscription.