Jimmy He’s a freshman in college, but he's always been just “Jimmy.” If you called him “Jim,” you’d be talking about the man he will be ten years from now. He’s everybody's friend, so—by common consent—he’s “Jimmy.” Appearances are not deceiving in Jimmy’s case. It‘s his smile that betrays his... Show moreJimmy He’s a freshman in college, but he's always been just “Jimmy.” If you called him “Jim,” you’d be talking about the man he will be ten years from now. He’s everybody's friend, so—by common consent—he’s “Jimmy.” Appearances are not deceiving in Jimmy’s case. It‘s his smile that betrays his whole personality. To accompany the smile, Jimmy has a typical Auggie heinie, a generous sprinkling of freckles, and an athletic sweater. No one knows much about Jimmy’s past, except that he came from a small Minnesota town, and that he loves trout-fishing, and that he’s a real American boy. He doesn't talk about him- self —he’s more interested in his friends. Although Jimmy is a real American, he doesn’t exercise the American prerogative, “griping.” Often, when I see him, I am reminded of Washington Irving’s tribute to Sir Walter Scott, “Everything that comes within his influence seems to catch a beam of that sunshine that plays ’round his heart.” Jimmy’s cheerfulness never fails him—even in unpleasant situations, as, for instance, an hour before the “Echo” deadline. An ejaculation from the editor—“Another blank space!”—and Jimmy is on his toes, ready to go to Robbinsdale or Richfield for a cut of next week’s convocation speaker. Sometimes I think Jimmy must be annoyed by the assumed sophistication of his classmates, but he seems not to mind even this “new environment where sentimentality is frowned upon by schoolmates who are anxious to affect the sophistication so highly valued by undergraduate tradition,” as Hadley Cantril says . That’s the Jimmy of yesterday. It was this Jimmy who opened PO. box 257 after chapel this morning and pulled out of it a long government envelope. But it was Jim who said, “Well—- tomorrow I’ll be in.” —RUTH WELTZIN DIAL 26 Show less
Per/WM O God, let me again see Thee! My eyes are dimmed by mortal strife, My heart is shaded o’er with sin, My soul is dark, so dark within. Let me see Thee. O God, let me again see Thee! Let me behold Thee dying on the Cross, Atoning there for sins of mine, Giving for me Thy life Divine. Let me... Show morePer/WM O God, let me again see Thee! My eyes are dimmed by mortal strife, My heart is shaded o’er with sin, My soul is dark, so dark within. Let me see Thee. O God, let me again see Thee! Let me behold Thee dying on the Cross, Atoning there for sins of mine, Giving for me Thy life Divine. Let me see Thee. This I pray, God, That I may know again the strength and grace Which comes from long beholding Thy dear face. -——CLARA GUDIM Contrast Dull-glowing, misted radiance Above yon city Declares with ominous hush That ’neath its gaze, Wild crowds dash madly to and fro— Seeking only pleasure, Finding only nothingness. But here, in quiet countryside, With only stars to light our way, With solitude unbroken by the roar and din of mobs, Here is fulness of joy, here—pure peace with God. —RUTH WELTZIN DIAL 24 Show less
23 00 Milton? lie/l More horrible than raging Vesuvian vomit, Belching forth with waves of ruin, lies This infernal region of Hell eternal; here Is no redemption, grace, or mercy shown, No joy, or peaceful bliss, only anguish and despair. The howling of countless, scorching, licking flames, As... Show more23 00 Milton? lie/l More horrible than raging Vesuvian vomit, Belching forth with waves of ruin, lies This infernal region of Hell eternal; here Is no redemption, grace, or mercy shown, No joy, or peaceful bliss, only anguish and despair. The howling of countless, scorching, licking flames, As they cruelly torment the souls of thousands damned, Can scarce be heard above the screaming terror Of those enchained. All around arise Sulphuric odors, smoke, and salted tears. And from his lofty throne—where never yet A ray of light doth reach or air doth stir Save from his subterranean furnace —sits The dreaded ruler of all this horrid vale. And each time one, with cry of terrible anguish Would move the hinges of the iron gate, This huge Arch—Angel hurls him squirming anew Writhing within the lake of liquid fire. What hideous fiend, or monster, or rare brute Could bear the heat of this tumultuous sea, This endless range of horror, stench and smoke? Milton, the gods of Hell are living yet! —NORMAN NIELSON DIAL Show less
DIAL Snowflake Snowflake, you are so white and small. Upon my window sill I saw you fall. You’re like a precious grain of truth that came To us below who knowledge seek to gain. Snowflake, you are a lovely thing! How wonderful that you were sent to bring In such a quiet, gentle, graceful way A... Show moreDIAL Snowflake Snowflake, you are so white and small. Upon my window sill I saw you fall. You’re like a precious grain of truth that came To us below who knowledge seek to gain. Snowflake, you are a lovely thing! How wonderful that you were sent to bring In such a quiet, gentle, graceful way A speck of beauty to us on this day. Snowflake, you are so clean and pure. You came to this dark world of sin and care. You strive in your small way to tell us how Our lives may be as clean and pure as thou. —- ARLENE OLSON In our Woods Lofty logan bushes, Berry patches too, Hickory nuts and maple trees, And birds with brilliant hue. The green velvet moss, Clover so sweet, And pink-tinted mushrooms, Gathered ’round our feet. Over ’neath the willow tree, Hear the rippling brook, Where polly-wogs and snails and fish Are swimming as we look, In our woods. —OTHELIA CARLSEN 22 Show less
how, I bound the two pieces together. Now my hopes were high again. Maybe Trixie could be saved, maybe we wouldn’t have to kill her, maybe— The days passed by slowly; they seemed to linger and drag on as do entire years. Not being able to endure the suspense any longer, I started to remove the... Show morehow, I bound the two pieces together. Now my hopes were high again. Maybe Trixie could be saved, maybe we wouldn’t have to kill her, maybe— The days passed by slowly; they seemed to linger and drag on as do entire years. Not being able to endure the suspense any longer, I started to remove the bandage. Scarcer had I begun when I smelled the odor of decaying flesh. That seemed to be the waning of the last hope. Undoing the bandage I saw that the wound showed no signs of healing. Grief-stricken I picked up an old burlap sack near at hand and a heavy piece of iron. Yes, Trixie must die. The sooner, the better. I called my uncle, who fully agreed with me, and so, while I tremblineg held the sack over Trixie’s head, he raised the iron above his head, poised and motion- less, as though reluctant to strike. Then suddenly he let the blow fall, and it struck with a dull thud on poor Trixie’s head. Wrapping her in the sack, I carried her into the midst of the woods where I prepared a shallow grave for her. Gently I placed her lifeless body into the earth, and slowly, so slowly, I covered her with the black dirt. I thought then of God, and dimly won- dered if He had made any provision for dogs to enter heaven. If he did—then my speculation stopped and these somewhat reas- suring words of an old western folk song rang in my ears: “Now if dogs have a heaven Then there’s one thing I know— That old Shep (Trixie), has a wonderful home.” ——JUSTIN TORGRIMSON 21 DIAL Show less
suddenly spring out into the air out of the sickle's way. “is oc- curred again and again, and finally I relaxed my vigilance and payed less attention to where she was. About half-way through my third round I noticed that Trixie had stopped in front of the sickle and was curiously watching the... Show moresuddenly spring out into the air out of the sickle's way. “is oc- curred again and again, and finally I relaxed my vigilance and payed less attention to where she was. About half-way through my third round I noticed that Trixie had stopped in front of the sickle and was curiously watching the noisy “thing” move toward her. Closer and closer it came! Trixie turned to go at last, but alas, too late. I saw her foot slide into the teeth of the bar, then I heard the sickening sound of a knife cut- ting through bone. Instantaneously with a bark of pain she jerked away and hobbled toward the middle of the field. By this time I had stopped the horses and had started to follow Trixie. How— ever, I couldn’t leave the horses alone, so I had to wait for an opportunity to attract my uncle who was working in the next field. After some time, I managed to get his attention and hurriedly attempted to explain what had happened. He quickly ran to the place where the dog lay, and came back with the report that the leg was cut through—clean through—and that the foot was attached by but a thin piece of flesh. Needless to say, I was horri- fied and pained beyond words at the thing which I had done. Then, right at this inopportune time, it started to rain. My uncle ran to his tractor shouting over his shoulder that we should go home, then return in the car to pick up poor Trixie. Jumping on the seat I slapped the horses hard, and set off at a dead gallop across the field. Home, I feverishly unhitched the horses, jumped into the waiting car, and drove down to pick up the dog. Arriv- ing at the field, we found Trixie bravely trying to hobble home on three legs, while the fourth flopped and bobbed in a most gruesome manner. Tenderly, lovingly, I placed her in the car and in spite of intense pain she looked up at me, and feebly wagged her tail in appreciation. My uncle had said little since the accident. Now, however, he informed me that we would have to kill Trixie. “No!” I cried. “No! Give me a chance to try to help her. The leg might mend together again.” Although my uncle was not convinced, I pleaded as I had never pleaded before. Finally, my uncle weakened and agreed to let me try. So, breathing a prayer for help I took Trixie out of the car and carried her into the barn. I rushed to the house, and with the help of my aunt, mixed some disinfectant, found some cloths, and made some splints. Then, as tenderly as I knew DIAL 20 Show less
Pastoral Drama A dark, heavy blanket of clouds hung low over the landscape. The morning had been stifling and oppressive—a sure sign that we would soon have rain. The morning passed, the afternoon wore on, and I tinkered with my uncle’s mowing machine, flying to get that obstinate piece of... Show morePastoral Drama A dark, heavy blanket of clouds hung low over the landscape. The morning had been stifling and oppressive—a sure sign that we would soon have rain. The morning passed, the afternoon wore on, and I tinkered with my uncle’s mowing machine, flying to get that obstinate piece of machinery in working order. Finally, after what seemed an age to me, I neared the completion of my task, and glancing up at where I thought the sun was, or ought to be, I calculated that it must be time for afternoon lunch. As I made my way to the house I thought to myself, “Perhaps I can get some hay cut right after lunch, if the rain will only hold off a little longer. It wouldn’t take long to finish that piece of millet southwest of the barn.” While eating my lunch, I obtained my uncle’s permission to mow the rest of the hay, while he took the tractor to do some plowing in the adjoining field. Happily I led the horses out of the barn and hitched them up. Perhaps I could get a breath of fresh air out in the open fields. As usual, my dog, Trixie, was eager to go along; for going out into the field meant lots of fun for her— chasing rabbits, gophers, snakes, pheasants, and even grasshoppers. Now, although Trixie was not a pedigree dog, she had many of the fine characteristics and qualities that pedigree dogs possess. She was small, perhaps not more than a foot and a half tall, slim, and exceedingly active. She moved with a quickness and grace that few dogs could equal. Her jet black fur fell in waves over her back and was interrupted only by four brown-stockinged paws, two tufts of brown above her eyes and the brownish tip of her bushy tail. A mere look or remark to her caused her to respond in a way which made me feel she understood. I loved Trixie with all my heart, because I knew that she was my friend and faithful companion wherever I should a g Arriving at the field some ten minutes later I immediately be- gan to make the rounds. Trixie, of course, as all dogs do, persisted in running in front of the mower—the most dangerous place. There were countless times when she stopped right in front of the sickle, and just as I was prepared to stop the horses, she would 19 DIAL Show less
I Was Glad It had snowed hard all moming—not the kind of snow that is light and fluffy, like feathers, but the kind of snow that is soggy and wet. I had cleaned my house that morning, and now only one task remained to be done, that of shaking my rugs. I opened the door and proceeded with my task.... Show moreI Was Glad It had snowed hard all moming—not the kind of snow that is light and fluffy, like feathers, but the kind of snow that is soggy and wet. I had cleaned my house that morning, and now only one task remained to be done, that of shaking my rugs. I opened the door and proceeded with my task. As I looked out upon the snowy street I saw a child stumbling, shivering, crying. “Little girl,” I called, “won’t you come in and get warm by my fire?” She stopped crying and came in. Inside, I found a chair for her, and moved it closer to the fire. “What’s your name?” I asked as I began to unloosen her scarf and well-wom cap. “Kathleen,” she said. “Do you live far from here?" “About ten blocks,” she answered. I stooped to take off her shoes that her feet might get warm. She had no overshoes, so her feet were very wet. I laid out her things to dry; then gave her a banana and a cookie to eat. Finally, Kathleen was warm again. I helped her with her coat, tied her scarf tightly around her neck, pulled her cap down over her ears, and started to draw on her steaming wet mittens. Then I stopped. The mittens were in shreds, and at least two or three sizes too large for her tiny hands. “Just wait a minute,” I called as I began to ascend the stairs to my bedroom. Returning, I handed her a pair of my old mittens which I had now outgrown. She smiled with delight as I pulled the soft, dry, white mittens onto her red, chapped hands. “See,” she shouted, as she pointed to her left mitten, “it’s got a red heart on it!” I led her to the door, said good-bye, then watched her trudge slowly down the street. “God bless you, little girl,” I breathed as I closed the door. Then I turned to straighten my rugs and finish my cleaning. Now it was easy to work, for I was glad. —MARIE G JENVICK DIAL 18 Show less
17 My friend Sometimes I feel that I am all alone, With none to share my care or dry my rear. ’Tis then a smile can ease my saddened heart And make me glad that you are close and dear. Sometimes I’m hungry for a word of love, I come with ready ears to hear your voice. ’Tis then I’m glad to call... Show more17 My friend Sometimes I feel that I am all alone, With none to share my care or dry my rear. ’Tis then a smile can ease my saddened heart And make me glad that you are close and dear. Sometimes I’m hungry for a word of love, I come with ready ears to hear your voice. ’Tis then I’m glad to call you my dear friend, That in your fellowship I can rejoice. Sometimes I fear a task I have to do, With trembling heart I come to you for aid, ’Tis then my task is made light by your words And fears and doubtings from my heart soon fade. Sometimes I fall—temptation is too strong I weep and ask forgiveness for my sin. ’Tis then your prayer can cheer my breaking heart And help me fight temptations, help me win. -—NORMA SATEREN RIM/3 Drops of rain ’gainst rays of sun, Tiny prisms, one by one, Gently stealing from the blue, Daring beams to fade from view. Beams, defying raindrops’ threat, Plot a triumph even yet. See a rainbow, dance with glee— Banish friendly rivalry. -—LORRAINE WELTZIN DIAL Show less
humility which becomes, always (P), the priceless possession of small people. We look up to everyone. (No matter that it is a humility born of necessity and not of choice.) Oh yes, I like being mall—really. With the passing of the years I have become resigned to and even pleased with the inevita-... Show morehumility which becomes, always (P), the priceless possession of small people. We look up to everyone. (No matter that it is a humility born of necessity and not of choice.) Oh yes, I like being mall—really. With the passing of the years I have become resigned to and even pleased with the inevita- ble. DIAL —ARABELLA DIMINU’I'IV‘ESON amt/“fade Where’er we look upon this earth, We see the work of God, Who in the likeness of a man Upon this earth once trod. We see the tiny blades of grass, That perfect seem to be, And smell the sweet and fragrant rose, God’s gift for us to see. The sun and moon, the rain and stars, Their duty gladly fill. The robin sings a heavenly song From yonder window sill. Each voice in nature joins the song, And this is what they say, “ ’Tis God who giveth life to us, And Him we praise today.” And we who love him should unite In praise to God in Heaven, For all that He, in His great love To us on earth hath given. — PHYLLIS ENGLUND 16 Show less
THE CELESTIAL CITY A city of stars Lay there ’Before my feet; Smoking sthrs, Burning stnrs, Strrs of fire Building a city, A celestial city Of love And hate And fear; Drifting'up and out Like the tide, With people Like sparks Flitting down the streets Of glittcr~stuff From stars.‘ A puff of wifid ... Show moreTHE CELESTIAL CITY A city of stars Lay there ’Before my feet; Smoking sthrs, Burning stnrs, Strrs of fire Building a city, A celestial city Of love And hate And fear; Drifting'up and out Like the tide, With people Like sparks Flitting down the streets Of glittcr~stuff From stars.‘ A puff of wifid _ Lifts them ; And twists them upwrrd Into the hesvens, Lenying only The essence And embers Of stars.';‘. The celestial city ’ " Destroyed Before my eyes? Oh; no—— _ Only the dying ashes Of a oncc~great straw pile . Burned Beneath deep October skies. “T‘n %% (- Qfl'rnp fin Show less
ELEGY T0 SPRING My heart in heaviness Observes the spring's new flower, Observes a hundred thousand springs In every dying” flower. So will it always "be—— A hundred thousand sprian In ever dying; flower. My heart in dness would Observe a. spring that never ends And flowers that never die But all... Show moreELEGY T0 SPRING My heart in heaviness Observes the spring's new flower, Observes a hundred thousand springs In every dying” flower. So will it always "be—— A hundred thousand sprian In ever dying; flower. My heart in dness would Observe a. spring that never ends And flowers that never die But all it lmows Are springs that die With every dying; flower. ___Dorothy Swanson DRAMA A cheering mob-— A gentle Man-— A lowly little beast. The waving palms-— The shouts of joy—— From the greatest and the least! A scoffing nob-- A humble Man—- A crown, a thorny crown. The accusing people-— The innocent Man- The cross that weighs Him down! Golgotha—— Three crosses there—- Christ, the crucified! The Son of God—- Died for our sins—— And gave us Eastertide! . ~"Pee Wee" Baker Show less
HOSPITAL BED Old man, With slack jaw And fog cycs Waiting In a corner bed. For what? Hands, Outmodcd ships Of noble years Huddled, rusted On his breast. How long? Skin, Disarranged Like kneaded putty; Dull sap Lives there. Why? Pain, Disciplined By pain, Grinding thoughts To sand. Forever? Nearby... Show moreHOSPITAL BED Old man, With slack jaw And fog cycs Waiting In a corner bed. For what? Hands, Outmodcd ships Of noble years Huddled, rusted On his breast. How long? Skin, Disarranged Like kneaded putty; Dull sap Lives there. Why? Pain, Disciplined By pain, Grinding thoughts To sand. Forever? Nearby Pale throats Of youth Choke Through narrow doors. ~For reason? Old man, Death discriminates. Clasp life Yet awhile; He comes. When? —~G1 :1.de Gamer Show less
.A:»_‘. A _,~ “(Ljupziag A J OTTIIIGS IN A J OUle Sunday, Feb. 13: , What are Sundays for? Are they drys for writizg home? Are they days to chat with our friends? Are they days for reading our favorite books, or are they days for catching up on current events? Are Sundays days for skating in... Show more.A:»_‘. A _,~ “(Ljupziag A J OTTIIIGS IN A J OUle Sunday, Feb. 13: , What are Sundays for? Are they drys for writizg home? Are they days to chat with our friends? Are they days for reading our favorite books, or are they days for catching up on current events? Are Sundays days for skating in winter and swimming in summer? Are they for hiking; in the "winter wonderland" or for 'bruising devm the river" in June? Are they dress—up— in—Sunday—best days, or are they days for taking the family for a long ride in the “#9 Ford? Are they days to spend wi th your best been or gal—friend, or days of quiet at home with the family? Are they for the study- ing you should have done on Saturday; days to rest from the worries of the weeks, to catch up on lost sleep? Are Sundays for any or all of these things? Is there possibly any other reason for the existence of Sunday? Couldn’t they be days for worship? Couldn't they be days for singing to the Lord; days of humble prayer for real nourishment of the soul? Couldn‘t they be days for work in the King— dom, for ,helping the needy and comforting the sick? Days consecrated to the Lord, the maker of all days? Couldn't Sundays be all of these things? . Mon Febrm 11}: What do you know—it's Valentine‘s Day! The day of tradition hearts end cupids. It means a lot of things to a lot of people, I guess. In second grade we made our own Valentines-*out of red and white construction paper rationed out by the teacher. When our allotment was gene we used crayola and nickel—tablet paper. In fifth grade I sent 3. Sears- ~Roebuck Valentine to every one of my country-schoolmates. By the time I reached the eighth grade I sent paper hearts only to my girl friends. As a sophomore in mg: school I received valentines from "Secret Admirers"— and several others,_too. When I was a senior I got a beautiful qumter valentine, a. very special valentine. Yes, Valentine‘s Day means a lot of things. And I guess it will never end. I guess fifty years from now my grandsons will still be serxiing‘red paper hearts to the pretty little girls next door." ~Kathm Thorsg'xrd Show less
‘WINDY DAYS I have no peace of mind On windy days. The wind tears at my thoughts 4nd leaves them scattered High upon the tree tops, Twisted on the grass. There is no rest, no rest On windy days; No questions can be answered With the relentless wind Forever humming past me. First whispering, then... Show more‘WINDY DAYS I have no peace of mind On windy days. The wind tears at my thoughts 4nd leaves them scattered High upon the tree tops, Twisted on the grass. There is no rest, no rest On windy days; No questions can be answered With the relentless wind Forever humming past me. First whispering, then shouting That the world is full of lies. It mocks the smallness of my soul, Then capers on. I have no peace of mind on windy days. ~—Helen Haukeness PREPARATION FOR DEBATE Pygmies of thought Warring on the battleground of reason. . . contending for supremacy; struggling for survival. Reason, like a general, Sifts from the good the bad, shuffles then into order, and files them away in the cabinets of the intellect; storing them for a later day, saving them for the big battle of mind against mind. —-Doris Swanson Show less
we- inn-24. ;.;, A. A1, out. The pheasant-slept here. This Was where the fox headed when hunted. It nemt refugee. It meant security. It represented nature‘s love for her creation. It understood then It whispered, "Thor, I love you. I understand you. I am your only real frien1.. Gone to me. " Thor... Show morewe- inn-24. ;.;, A. A1, out. The pheasant-slept here. This Was where the fox headed when hunted. It nemt refugee. It meant security. It represented nature‘s love for her creation. It understood then It whispered, "Thor, I love you. I understand you. I am your only real frien1.. Gone to me. " Thor seemed to melt into the scene as he entered the bog, stepping lightly and guiekly from mound to mound, gripping his rifle tigh 1y, leaving the trail, the fence, anihis tracks behind. m-Rud.y Engleman RETROSPECT A night, A son , A 111 of voice, A flower. A star, A word, A 91oz; to call Within an hour. A fray, A silence, A romance Gone sour. You. -< ~ . "Doris Swanson WHITE BIRDS White birds flying, flinging; into endless skies Arching up in boundless flight—— Fly for me, white birds! Mysoul' would fly with you} My body loves the earth So caxmot fly Nor understand The lorging of my soul To fly with you. w—Dorothy Swanson «: " s r in 3"." M . M--“w§'f ozwv‘ .' n: “‘24 . , .WW . 45 ‘ :~ ‘31 {.5 r" m‘k yr 7‘ «r: v1 '9 5:531:41! 17f "7.35 ; rm Iii ‘- —_—:;_-mx:‘m mmsw‘vfi'il‘a W‘fifii ‘ Show less
small circles of water. There was no bottom. A big, long pole wouldn‘t find bottom, and neither would a whole ball of twine, dad said. Better keep out, he said. Dangerous. Don't go near it. But if the deer did, what choice had he? And that‘s just what it was doing. It was darker now. You couldn't... Show moresmall circles of water. There was no bottom. A big, long pole wouldn‘t find bottom, and neither would a whole ball of twine, dad said. Better keep out, he said. Dangerous. Don't go near it. But if the deer did, what choice had he? And that‘s just what it was doing. It was darker now. You couldn't pick out the sun through the thick haze above. The wind Was coming lower and picking up pufts of snow. Pretty, cold little swirls went circling about the trunks of trees. The puddles of water on the bog's edge were frozen and covered. He liked to think that maybe he was the first every to step here. Suddenly a squirrel tore out of an old coon hole and up along the branches of a tree. The wind caught him, thr< him off balance as he leapt for the next tree. He missed his mark and barely caught himself on the branch below. He hung there for a moment by two feet, the wind rocking him, and then he clambered back on, and up the trunk to thc very peak of the tree, where he remained perfectly still. This playing possum is smart stuff. But-Thor saw him. There were no leaves up there to hide the body swaying slowly back and forth in long arcs, in black, bold, relief against the gray, dull sky. It seemed funny, almost, that anything warm and alive should be way up there, alone with the sky. Thor raised his rifle and sighted long, following with his sights a great number of arcs. Finally he lowered it without shooting. He gripped the gun, hard, squeezing it, and watdhing his live fingers play with the cold black steel. The gun looked so harmless, yet it could do so much. That was why he liked to handle it. It made him lord and ruler. All creatures owed their lives or death to him. The squirrel was thankful he was alive. A111 the chicks.- dee. Here Thor was supreme. There was no one better, and none to catch his errors. And everyone trusted and respected him. The wind hummed songs of far away places to him. The drifting snow made live figures. The bushes concealed Indians. And new the bog was a friend. The deer had come for cover. The chicadee had his playground here. The squirrel lived in a nearby elm. The ducks came here when they were hunted. Thousands of rabbit trails led into the bog. The joy dashed in and Show less
so he didn't waste any. Take all you want, but eat it all. - Dad was a good far: r.- ijr‘t so was Mom r-md. If only they would understrnd. Ho c9111 do 'tthga. He wasn‘t a kid anymore. He could drive atractor. just as well as anyone. Just give him a chance. It wasn‘t so dangerous as Ha made out. ... Show moreso he didn't waste any. Take all you want, but eat it all. - Dad was a good far: r.- ijr‘t so was Mom r-md. If only they would understrnd. Ho c9111 do 'tthga. He wasn‘t a kid anymore. He could drive atractor. just as well as anyone. Just give him a chance. It wasn‘t so dangerous as Ha made out. 'Gol'y only knows how hard a time he got to do anythizrr, Just luck he got the .22. Thct's why he had to make good today. He had to prove that he could use the .22 right. Maybe then he would get a bicycle, maybe then he could drive the tractor, maybe then. . . A dash of brown and gray above and then a little bird bubbled out its confidence in sang. ’ Chick a dee—dee—dee. The Chickadee trusted him. He was so tiny and friendly. All furry. Nothing; left if you took away his feathers. Nothing but a warm little heart full of friendship. Have some more crumbs. And some meat, too. Hal You climb right up on me for it, just like it was you made me sit down here. You‘re a little giant, you are. Don't fly away. 911, just a couple of feet. Like my gun barrel? Much nicer than an old branch to sit on. I'Jey'be you wouldn‘t be so frierflly with it if you knew what it could do. If you knew. But its time to get away. You can come along; if you want. Through the fame and down the trail to the bog. Come on, but don't get tired. It's a long, long: Way home. He had been to the bog twice before, last summer. Then you had to keep moving; or you would break through into bottomless water. Your feet always sunk in. They made a sucking sound when you pulled. them out. rBhere was lots of brush, not the prickly kind. Most of it was dead. So were most of the short pine trees. Once in awhile you'd come to a wide patch of water, almost a lake. You had to be Careful here. This was where tie ducks went in hunting season. You couldn't get at then .111 here. Hundreds of them used to lie in the thick rushes. You could jump on a tiny piece of land by a dead tree and Watch more trees move up and down later, a. long ways away. Sometime your foot slipped into 7. \‘4 :5: 157‘, v)‘ ’ ‘ ‘ FL: , «53% "71 z a; meeflflfif 'e l A _ ___.,..... mo:va amuisby‘lfimt Show less
SOMEONE TO UNDERSTAND The Deerslayer would have tracked like this, crouching, swiftly moving, making no noise. Each step was Carefully placed. No branch was broken, and none slapped him in the face. If only there were some Indians, sore Hohnwks. The heroes in books always had the sun shining.... Show moreSOMEONE TO UNDERSTAND The Deerslayer would have tracked like this, crouching, swiftly moving, making no noise. Each step was Carefully placed. No branch was broken, and none slapped him in the face. If only there were some Indians, sore Hohnwks. The heroes in books always had the sun shining. There was always a chance to do something. There were Indians, captured girls, and treasures. But the deer would be enough. Look at the size Of the tracks! Dad would laugh at him. Always making fun of him. Everybody was. Just because he w. always hunting without getting anything. Could he help it if his luck was bad? And who else could singc theibathers off a circling hawk with a .22? Ma had said, "Thor,_when you are big enough to handle a gun, we'll get you one." And I guess a seventh grader is big enough. Everything was so friendly you'd never think that there was a rifle in these woods before. Most likely not. Only a few deer hunters ventured in this far and none ever dared to go into the old cranberry bog, where the deer was heading. This was the line fence that separated wolf‘s woods from Hermanson‘s pasture. The pasture was full of prickle brush and scrubby, crooked, oak trees, that were still holding most of their leaves. The poplars scattered about were all bare. You could see how crooked and full of knots they were. What a job to pile wood like that, on a summer day, when the squirrels and rabbits were waiting for him and Poochie would nose him gently and wag his tail, and Thor would kick him, hard, and go back to piling the wood. According to the line fence, the sun was starting down already, and the deer was still up ahead. The wind wasn‘t right in the woods it bummed, for he was going to get that deer. He must. He just must, that's all. The snow stopped coming down. The wind left him for just the very tops of the trees, seeming to declare a truce while Thor sat down to eat. Four big sandwiches with thick neat between. Mom was thtt way. So was Dad. Every kid of their could have good food, lots of it, no matter haw poor they were, Just Show less