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Mail Tribune 100, Nov. 22, 1919

The following news items were drawn from the archives of the Mail Tribune 100 years ago.

Nov. 22, 1919


Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, being fond of playing with fire, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, while left alone in his father’s cottage. The straw kindled and quickly spread over every part of their poor hut, until it was reduced to ashes.

What was of much more importance, a fine litter of new farrowed pigs, no less than nine in number, perished.

China pigs had been treasured, all over the east, from the remotest period; but the Mosaic law forbade eating them.

Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation.

While he was thinking what he should say to his father, and running his hands over the smoking remnants of one of the untimely sufferers, an odor assailed Bo-bo’s nostrils, unlike any scent which he had ever smelled.

What could it be? Not from the burnt cottage — he had smelled such before, this unlucky your firebrand. Much less did the odor resemble that of any know wood, herb, weed, or flower.Stooping down again, he felt another pig, if there were no signs of life in it. This burned his fingers, and to cool them, he stuck his hand, booby fashion, to his mouth.

Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers — and for the first time in his life (in the world’s life, indeed), he tasted crackling!

Againhe felt and fumbled. It didn’t burn him so much now. Still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit.

The truth at length broke into his slow cranium that it was the pig that smelled so, and it was the pig that tasted so delicious.

Surrendering himself to the newborn pleasure, Bo-bo fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the skin with the flesh next to it, and was cramming it down his throat in beastly fashion, when his angry sire entered, among the smoking rafters.

“Eat, eat!” he shouted. “Eat the burnt pig, Father. Only taste — oh, Lord!”

The father trembled in every joint, while he grasped the abomination, wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural monster. Reaching out to snatch away the horrible food, the crackling scorched his fingers, as it had done his son’s.

Applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted some of the flesh which, make what sour mouths he would for a pretense, proved not altogether displeasing to him.

In conclusion, both father and son fairly sat down to the mess, and never left off until they had dispatched the remainder of the litter.

Those who have, during holiday season, caught a glimpse of a crisp, juicy, nicely-browned porklet bedecked with holly, spices, and with a luscious baked apple in its mouth, can fully sympathize with Bo-bo.

Doubtless your own mouth is watering right now for a bit of this dainty morsel!

But to the housewife, roast pig means more than just something to eat. There is the cooking —accidental cooking was alright in Bo-bo’s time, fuel and gas was good enough for Grandma, but we must keep in line with the times.


Would you exchange your electric light for any other kind of light?

If you knew the Electric Range as well as you know you Electric Light, you wouldn’t exchange the “Electric Way” for any other kind of cooking.

It will be almost a revelation for you to stop at our show room and see what cooking on an Electric range really means.

Any time, any hour.

Paul’s Electric Store.

Corner of Main and Central. Adv.

News from 100 years ago