MY HEART A Sr; ‘LL 1260M my heart is meal}. I'uCfl occupied so; elf '0; 2:133:51 ».' w m. ire;‘.:i:~;' "Io-"22:11] tedious 1'1 Li'blo' a ccllfv-I 5. 775.31% :73“; to but will n'o’c 10", 331'. ~ share it with m) for (unbeknown to me) you slip in anbther and therefore 1311 carefully lock and seal _... Show moreMY HEART A Sr; ‘LL 1260M my heart is meal}. I'uCfl occupied so; elf '0; 2:133:51 ».' w m. ire;‘.:i:~;' "Io-"22:11] tedious 1'1 Li'blo' a ccllfv-I 5. 775.31% :73“; to but will n'o’c 10", 331'. ~ share it with m) for (unbeknown to me) you slip in anbther and therefore 1311 carefully lock and seal _ the door and keep you out. v ’ .— 14.. ALLY; KL l. UU_.L ~—James Parke r TIE HIS ER Gleefully, like a miseri- She puts her memories ' Into little rows And fimers them Every day. She polishes The tarnished ones, With cara She wipes away The dust of ye ars, And the sinks: Are the prettiest of all w--H len..~Haul:eness THUS WOULD LEE; '; Like a swirling undercurrqn’c. ‘ 'Neath the surface, neVervs‘howing; Like a palpitafiirg, fervent, Surgent warmth, without glowing; Like a heavy, heady atmosphere We feel but do not s ee; Thus do I want myself to 'be. -""RaymOnd Holden Show less
Everything looked sad in the grey afternoon light. The { bare trees looked especially suds . -'JaMCs Parker AFTER VIEWING HE 323123 MASTERPIECES-- A Communion of Awareness and Beauty I had not known before what color is, or that men are such acute reflectors of beauty. I had not observed before... Show moreEverything looked sad in the grey afternoon light. The { bare trees looked especially suds . -'JaMCs Parker AFTER VIEWING HE 323123 MASTERPIECES-- A Communion of Awareness and Beauty I had not known before what color is, or that men are such acute reflectors of beauty. I had not observed before the balance of the human form, or that its moving parts are poems of symmetry. I had not before seen laughter, tangible and caged, such that my lips must quiver in response. I had not before seen history living on men's mouths and captured in a twist of cheek. I had not before perceived the perfect weave.ef nature's “fabric, or_its sublime integrity. ‘ ” I had netlbefore beheld emotions, Walled and roofed with sympathetic inspiration. ' I had not-before experienced esthetic joy ns-this exhausting_of my senses into raw edges of fever. I had not before felt‘sorrow, till facing His Lifeless Form I looked within myself. And looking deep within myself, I spw the plains of my potentiality, like minute brush strokes on a canvas-of reality. ~~Gladys Gamagor WHEN BODY FAILS When body fails And mind betrays Decisions of the heart, What holds and keeps? When fear denies Full strength of life And love and faith depart, What holds end keeps? . -—Don Hogg 5* l A VAWVHV 7#77 i ,_. ,7“, Show less
shadows." "I've got to write a theme on one of these pictures for school," the blond girl said. "I think I‘ll write about this one. I wonder why he had a golden helmet, though; If it was really made of gold it wouldn't step a sword. Gold is too soft a metal." "The shadows are the thing" said the... Show moreshadows." "I've got to write a theme on one of these pictures for school," the blond girl said. "I think I‘ll write about this one. I wonder why he had a golden helmet, though; If it was really made of gold it wouldn't step a sword. Gold is too soft a metal." "The shadows are the thing" said the thin girl. "The helmet is there just to contrast with the shadows. Don't you like his shadows, Arline?" "Not specially. The helmet is what I like about it. I can't see how Come the man had a helmet made of gold, though. . ." A Still Life “Look at that orange, would you," said a high- school boy to his girl friend." "And get a load of that glass knife handle. Some painting, isn't it?" "I hate oranges," she said. "Evoryday Ma puts an orange in my lunch. I usually give it to my girl friend, but some days she won‘t take it. Then I throw it away. Ick, just looking at that orange reminds me." "But what do you think of the painting?" he asked. "Ain‘t it fine-~snooth, I mean? It seems like it means something. Like maybe somebody was eating breakfast and had to get up and to in a hurry and leave everything laying. Maybe he was a doctor and he got a sudden telephone call that someone was dying and had to leave in a hurry. See what I mean?" ‘ "If it didn't have that orange in it it wouldn‘t be so bad." she said, wrinkling her nose with disdain. He grinned at her. "Do that again," he said. "What?" "Wrinkle your nose like that.“ "Oh, you're so silly!" she laughed. She took his hand and they moved on to the next picture. ~ The Guard A young man called his friend's attention to one of the guards. "Pretty soft lick that guy's got, eh, Billy? Gets to trayel all around with no work to.do besides Show less
watch these old pictures. Pass every night, I suppose. Wish I'd get a soft lick like that when I was in.1 "Yep," srid his friend Billy. "I was two years on one island. That, two boats and a training base in Texas was all I ever saw in the army." The guard, a nineteen year old boy from Idaho,... Show morewatch these old pictures. Pass every night, I suppose. Wish I'd get a soft lick like that when I was in.1 "Yep," srid his friend Billy. "I was two years on one island. That, two boats and a training base in Texas was all I ever saw in the army." The guard, a nineteen year old boy from Idaho, watched them, wondering what they were saying about him, and wishing thrt he could go out and have a cigarette pretty soon. The Martyrdom of Saint Agatha Two young men stood before a masterpiece of Tiepoli, studying it with interest. They were dressed alike. Eash wore a,b1ue overcoat and a yellow scarf and carried a grey snapbrim in his hand. But the one was a little taller than the other, just a little. "New ain’t that somethin'," said the taller.- "Yeah, it sure is." , "The Martyrdom of Saint Agathor—Typoli," read the taller out loud. He shook his head with disgust. "Imagine working day after day on a thing like that. Morbid stuff, huh?" "Sure is. Notice the knife. The thing gives me the willys. If that‘s whet they cvll art give me the pictures on calendars any day. Now take Varga for instance~*" "I bet that bird Typoli-or however they pronounce it——was a sadistic jerk," said the taller, turning away. "Any guy that would sit end point a thing like that must have been a little queer. I'm going to make it a point to read up on that guy." They walked out of the room slowli. "Our English teacher made it an assignment that we write up a theme on one of these pictures," said the shorter one. "Two bits nobody writes about that one." "I guess not!" said the other, smiling at the idea. 311% Outside the air Was damp and chill. The streets were slushy and passing Cars threw up the slush in waves. The sky was grey and low, and it looked as thong: it would either rain or snow before nightfall. Show less
the Sign A big am wearing a tan overcoat nudged his wife and pointed at a 8151. “Isn't that notice mite?" he said. "What difference could it wire if people did point at then? I can't-see the meaning» of that.’I . - His wife looked at the sign. Wes, it is strange, isn't it!“ she said. 1 young men... Show morethe Sign A big am wearing a tan overcoat nudged his wife and pointed at a 8151. “Isn't that notice mite?" he said. "What difference could it wire if people did point at then? I can't-see the meaning» of that.’I . - His wife looked at the sign. Wes, it is strange, isn't it!“ she said. 1 young men with a notebook overheard then. “Pardon me,” he intruded, “but I heard you mention that sign there. The reason for it is quite irteresting. It seems that at some time or other a fellow was pointing: at one of the paintings when the crowd jostled him suddenly from behind and he stuck his finger right throng: the old canvas.“ ‘Oh. I see.” arid the big man, nodding his head. 'Stuck his finger right snack through it, did be? Well. I'll be!“ He chuckled quietly at the idea. The young man moved army. I'I'D. bet the any that did that felt like a foel,‘ the big am said to his wife. I'I can imine,“ she said. Stile Man With a Golden Helmet ml Isn't this one just perfect 1" exclaimed a pretty blond-haired girl. "I could reach right out and me hold of it, it's so real.“ Ear oompanioh, a. thin girl with thick glasses, wrote in her notebook: “The Men ‘2ch a Golden Helmet-— Rembrandt“. Eben she looked up at the picture studiously. "This is a good example of Benhrendt's thick—thin painting," she said. "Where the light fell strenpst he painted thick and where there were shadows he painted thin. notice how you can seem to see right into am his darkest More?“ 'Ies, that‘s really marvelous.” said the blond 5111. W, I've never seen anything like this before. flint helmet is the realest thing!“ be thin git]. stunned the picture dreanily. 10W owi- um that could point shadows the way Mandi: did,‘ she said. "Such were, secretive Show less
AFTER VIEWING THE BERLIN MASTERPIECES The Art Lovers I ' Entrance "I know I won't like it," the wife of the stall, bespectacled man said as she watched the people go up the steps to the Art Institute. "I don't know anything about art. You have to know a lot about art to appreciate anything like... Show moreAFTER VIEWING THE BERLIN MASTERPIECES The Art Lovers I ' Entrance "I know I won't like it," the wife of the stall, bespectacled man said as she watched the people go up the steps to the Art Institute. "I don't know anything about art. You have to know a lot about art to appreciate anything like this," * He shut off the ear motor and glanced over at her with azmoyance. "Is there anything you do like ammore?" he asked. ' . "Well, there's a good show with Bette Davis in it downtown. I wish we had gone to it instead of this. You don't lmow anything more about this than I do. Only you like to think you do." I married beneath myself, he thought, going around the car to open her door for her. "It so happens I paint a little myself, " he‘ said, "or didn‘t you know?‘' "Oh yes-you do paint, don't you!" she said scorn- fully, climbing out. "Two or three water colors that I won't even let you hang on the wall, and you call your- self a painter. Sure, you play the piano, too-a. regular Rubenstein with two fingers." All right, all right, he thought as they crossed the street toward the steps, let her carp. Don‘t pay any attention to her. All she knows how to do anymore is carp. No use getting sore at her. . .Wish she were Genevieve down at work. Genevieve would enjoy going to something like this. "I feel almost like going back to the car and wait- ing for you," she was saying. "What do I went to waste time looking at those old paintings for? Look, it's going to be crowded, too!" . Well, by all means go back and wait in the car. then, he felt like saying. But he didn't. He didn't say any- thing. They walked up the steps with the crowd. The steps were sprinkled with yellow send, although most of the ice had melted from then Already. I wish she were Genevieve, he thought. They went into the building. i a l i J i \ Show less
PRAYER Out of this grayness take me, Lord, Show me Thyself, They light, Thy word, Oh let me see Thee, great and good And the precibus gift of They dear blood. Don‘t let me waver, Lord, I pray, In lasting faith help me to stay. Naught would I ask but they dear hand To lead me to the promised land.... Show morePRAYER Out of this grayness take me, Lord, Show me Thyself, They light, Thy word, Oh let me see Thee, great and good And the precibus gift of They dear blood. Don‘t let me waver, Lord, I pray, In lasting faith help me to stay. Naught would I ask but they dear hand To lead me to the promised land. Help me to glorify Thy name In peace or trouble, always the same. And, though other may be sad, Lord, make me ever 5 ad. -Kathryn Thorsgard WASTE A leaf Downtrodden In the dust Beneath my feet. . . . .An hour Dedicated To Eternity—~ But for me. ~—Doris Swanson ON WIND The wind is a thieving Vandal Emptying my sphere With sweeping, final motion, Tearing gashes In the wall of solitude, Pushing, pulling, snatching, Revealing secret sadness of the soul. “‘Helen Hankeness 5;. E E A 4 Al-_._._ ..__‘—.r m c. - Show less
FRAGMEE‘IT Have you forgotten, You, of tired backs And dry lips—— Night juice is :1 fine rubbing oil. It is easy to make. Crawl on a. roughened shadow And strain the darkness Through the moon—- Or squeeze night fog You will remember, then, You, with soothed backs And cooled lips, The peace of... Show moreFRAGMEE‘IT Have you forgotten, You, of tired backs And dry lips—— Night juice is :1 fine rubbing oil. It is easy to make. Crawl on a. roughened shadow And strain the darkness Through the moon—- Or squeeze night fog You will remember, then, You, with soothed backs And cooled lips, The peace of renewal In dark silence. Truth with recur In bold scraps; And dreams quiver From silver pellets Called stars. ~Gladys Garmger IDEAL How can she be so sweet, so pure, So wise, so gay, with life aflane? How came she by the traits that I, So much desire but cannot claim? If she is less than I suppose, God, keep that fact unlmo'an to me. If not in truth, in my mind‘s eye Let her remain what I would be. -—Elaine Olson Show less
OWINZD 0 Wind, who with mournful Wnil As passing us by You undulate 'round the crosses of Death, Weep for us. Feign not a caressing hand As lilacs under your hand you touch And stir in the evening mild. Sigh for us. Fling your bouyancy and youth Like the wild strains of a tribal march To those... Show moreOWINZD 0 Wind, who with mournful Wnil As passing us by You undulate 'round the crosses of Death, Weep for us. Feign not a caressing hand As lilacs under your hand you touch And stir in the evening mild. Sigh for us. Fling your bouyancy and youth Like the wild strains of a tribal march To those who crave you. Laugh for usl And when peace like an ointment soothes the powers of will And puts you at rest, Die for us. / Die for us Who in our human ways Squander our rights To pastures pleasant and meadows quiet, And can only wait, Like sun-scarred flowers, For Death. , 0 Wind, Weep for us. -—Deris Swanson BEYOND NOISE I leave the realm of noise And quickly seize The profile of your voice From off the breeze; Then stand impaled with longing tossed Too deep to fade though sound is lost. *Gladys Gamager Show less
INTRODUCTION The exact date of Pudinorel‘s Ripple 9: fig Last Wave is not known. The usual assumption by the most reliable authorities places the date approximately within a period just after the Great Gradual Slope-and just before Dapsuapor. Some authorities go so far as to put it immediately... Show moreINTRODUCTION The exact date of Pudinorel‘s Ripple 9: fig Last Wave is not known. The usual assumption by the most reliable authorities places the date approximately within a period just after the Great Gradual Slope-and just before Dapsuapor. Some authorities go so far as to put it immediately after the G.G.S. because of a word in line forty-four, fragment six; group C, which has a connotative implication toward the word "nyantpikth" as it appears in the Indorane in its oririnal A.L.P. (Ancient Language Paradox). Some of the more conservative men of literosity cling to the more probable period, that which is closer to Dapsuapor, because of Pudinorel's relationship*to the Duchess of Waspeormas, who lived at Kre—ant during Pudinorel's period of prolifigation. It is only fair to mention that recent archeological discoveries prove that the papyrus being used, at least in the locatiOn of Pudinorel’s immediate vicinity, the Oleoleolpth Area, was the same as that on which he wrote his Shimmer oi Right Waves, S.P.W. (Sans Pure Water) during his late period that we must place correctly between his Early Late and his Later Late period of his later years. If we accept the former to be true, we would do so only on the basis of its secondary elements of historical backlog; whereas, the latter would be more plausible if we consider the validity of Hertogdike's fiiliotakathaurausis Liberosis. Ouf'denOUncegfiht of either of these would not deter from our deduction—-or inductiOn, as the case may be——that group F of Fragmmt FF 1 is written in the same mood of cohesion as his Apocryphallia, Third Translation. *Note that "relationship" in this sense does not mean proximity. ~éRaymond Holden To the noon, perhaps, and on. To a star, and on, And on, and on, and on. -Raynoni Holden Show less
Backing toward the door she looked at him half full of pity. “Well, good bye. Imagine you have to go." Wilbur was too deliberate to be pushed off that easily. But he had no time to lose. “May I kiss you?" he asked her bluntly and dispassionately. His thoroughly unromantic approach was so ex-... Show moreBacking toward the door she looked at him half full of pity. “Well, good bye. Imagine you have to go." Wilbur was too deliberate to be pushed off that easily. But he had no time to lose. “May I kiss you?" he asked her bluntly and dispassionately. His thoroughly unromantic approach was so ex- tremely repulsive to Jean, she could hardly keep herself from screaming, “No” in his face before running back into the house, but she didn’t. All she said was, “No, Wilbur, you better not.” Then she watched his face, expecting to see that hurt, disillusioned expression. “No?” he asked. “N0 ,, Wilbur brightened. “I told Ma you wouldn’t kiss me,” he said triumphantly, “but she wouldn’t believe me.” “Wilbur Polesky,” Jean shouted furiously. “You mean it was a bet?” She didn’t wait for Wilbur to answer. She had been sure that he was hopelessly in love with her. Now she was insulted and mad—good and mad. “You tell your mother that I’d never kiss you—ever.” Jean’s flaming eyes snarled at him briefly as she turned away slamming the door behind her. Wilbur and Jean never see each other anymore, except across the fence when they both are cultivating corn. Jean heard that Wil- bur is going to marry Helen Bottles, daughter of a rich farmer near Jamesville. According to her father, she can “follow any man as far as work goes.” Lately at the Ladies Aids, Mrs. Polesky has been quite a popu- lar woman. “I always told Mr. Cravens,” she gossiped between sips of coffee, “that he should have kept his snippy little daughter home on the farm. That education has just ruined Jean.” —-VINCENT HOVERSTEN Show less
Finally the trend of the dispirited conversation switched to tractors, cornpickers, and the new four row cultivator. “Do you think it easier to cultivate corn lengthways than to cross it?” he ask- ed her. She had cultivated quite a bit of corn, but it had never occurred to her whether or not it... Show moreFinally the trend of the dispirited conversation switched to tractors, cornpickers, and the new four row cultivator. “Do you think it easier to cultivate corn lengthways than to cross it?” he ask- ed her. She had cultivated quite a bit of corn, but it had never occurred to her whether or not it was harder to cross corn. “1 don’t know,” she said. “What do you think?” “Oh, Pa,” he exclaimed proudly, “plants his corn pretty straight, so I never have much trouble.” During the Heart’s game, the conversation proceeded in the same channels. All Wilbur could talk about was the farm and his grade school days. Didn’t he ever do anything else or think of any- thing else? Jean was disgusted. How ashamed she would have been to be seen with him! Lucky they stayed home. At least no- body else would know, that is unless Wilbur’s mother would gossip about it. However, that his “Ma” seldom did, at least if it involved her little “Sonny.” They were in the middle of a game which Jean was winning when it happened. Will took an alarming stare at Jean’s watch. “It’s almost twelve,” he announced breathlessly. “I’ve got to go home.” “Oh, is it?” returned Jean, suppressing a yawn. “We better quit,” Wilbur continued. “I got to get up and help the Turners hay tomorrow morning.” “Oh, Wilbur,” Jean asked regretfully, but unconvincingly. “Do you have to go now?” “Five bells comes around pretty fast in the momin’ you know.” “Oh, yes, it does come early,” she agreed hastily, “and especially if you must get up so terribly early.” Wilbur took his hat and began to leave. “Hope Ma hasn’t lock- ed the door yet,” he drawled worridly. Jean didn’t intend to delay him by comforting remarks. “Thank heavens he’s going,” she thought as she followed him to the porch. “Probably shouldn’t leave in such a hurry,” he told her when he got out on the porch. Jean smiled prettily. She could be nice now, at least when he was leaving. “He’s a nice kid, even though he is backward.” She looked at him and saw his big, brown hands hang through his too-short suit coat, twisting nervously. Even his black, unpolish- ed shoes wouldn't be still. But Jean didn’t realize his intention until she saw the determined but frightened look in his docile blue eyes. “Very good lunch you made,” he stammered. “I—I—” Show less
“Why, yes, she’s in the living room. Won't you come in?" “Spose I better,” he replied obediently. Jean could hear his heavy footsteps and visualize his long, awk- ward strides as he came through the kitchen toward the living room. Now more than ever she hated herself for accepting the invitation... Show more“Why, yes, she’s in the living room. Won't you come in?" “Spose I better,” he replied obediently. Jean could hear his heavy footsteps and visualize his long, awk- ward strides as he came through the kitchen toward the living room. Now more than ever she hated herself for accepting the invitation to go with Wilbur. Just before she went to college she had told her- self that then was the last time; yet, here she was—doing it all over, being nice and going out with Wilbur, just to prove that education didn’t make her a “high mucky-muck”, Mrs. Polesky’s favorite term for college students. When Wilbur appeared in the living room, his dark hair was slicked down to his head and his red face smiled, but reddened when he spoke. “Guess I’m early, huh?” he asked. Jean triedto be sweet. “Hello, Wilbur. You are early." “Thought I’d surprise ya!” he grinned again, “so I came early." “Nothing could surprise me,” Jean thought to herself as she tried to smile at him nonchalantly. “You never are late though," she said flatteringly. “I shouldn’t be too surprised.” Uncomfortably squirming in his white shirt and blue worsted suit, Wilbur tried to tell Jean that since the Christy O’Bright show was in town he thought they’d go to that. Jean knew if they went there together everyone, including Amy, would know about it im- mediately. Since that would be suicide, she ignored his suggestion and gave her own instead. “I had really thought that we might stay right here and play cards or something. You know we haven’t played cards together for so long,” she added dramatically. “Wouldn’t you like to do that?” Right then the only thing Wilbur could do was to accept the suggestion, even though he wanted much more to see Christy’s shows. That was something he didn’t see very often. Morally de- feated and disappointed by Jean’s apparent distaste for Christy, he resigned himself to the easy chair, reading the Farmer Magazine, while Jean made things ready. “She sure has a mind of her own," he thought to himself as he scanned the John Deere advertisement. For awhile they played rummy. Jean was a little shocked that Wilbur always won, but she guessed it was because he had played it so much at the pool hall in town. They talked about their old school days, how he’d drowned so many gophers and how he’d carved his initials on every desk except two in the old country schoolhouse. “Them were the days,” he told her. Jean nodded ap- provingly, hiding her annoyance at his ill used grammar. “He must be terribly dumb,” she convinced herself. Show less
make a good wife in spite of her education and that even though she didn’t show it, she really liked him. It had always been Mrs. Polesky’s wish to have her son marry Jean. Wilbur needed some- one who could drive the tractor for him and help do the chores. Hired men were awftu hard to get now and... Show moremake a good wife in spite of her education and that even though she didn’t show it, she really liked him. It had always been Mrs. Polesky’s wish to have her son marry Jean. Wilbur needed some- one who could drive the tractor for him and help do the chores. Hired men were awftu hard to get now and expensive too, and besides Jean was a strong, capable girl. Yes, it would be ideal if Jean and her “Willie” could some day be matched up. Polesky's land joined Craven’s quarter and some day probably Willie could be running both places. Mrs. Polesky beamed at the thought. “Ya,” she sighed, “Willie, you better call Jeannie right now.” Encouraged and inspired, Wilbur took the phone and rang two longs and a short. “It’s lucky the meeting was postponed,” his mother mused with an air of satisfaction, as she poured the rich, brown gravy in the flowered bowl on the table. Jean’s heart sank when the phone finished its last ring. No one but Wilbur ever rang their number quite like that. Leaving her fork half cut through the lemon pie, she groaned painfully, made several tortured grins at her father, and took down the re- ceiver of their wall telephone. ‘ “Hello,” she said dryly. “Ya-oh, well, I really should . . . ” Jeannie’s mouth was twisted in an agonizing look as she talked. “Well,” she continued, “I could do that. No, yes, I imagine . . . about eight o’clock . . . okay . . . I’ll be ready. Goodbye.” She put up the receiver and sank into the davenport. “Morn,” she said sarcastically, “guess who called? Yes, Wilbur. Luckily his charming mother had read the locals this morning. I couldn’t possibly get out of it.” “Did you try?” her mother teased. “Try,” Jean shouted. “How could I after telling him last night that the only reason I couldn’t go was because of the Y.W.C. meet- mg. Her mother chuckled. “You’d better eat now. You’ll have to get ready for Wilbur this afternoon, you know.” Jean had just taken her hair out of the pin curls when Wilbur drove into the yard in his ’46 ford. It was only 7:30; Wilbur was early. “How nice,” she said to herself, “an extra half hour of misery.” When Wilbur’s timid knock was heard at the door, Mrs. Cravens went out to usher him in. Jean, still lamenting her misfortune, was waiting to hear the rude blare of his three tone born, the usual duck call to his awaiting maiden, so she didn’t expect to hear Wilbur’s low, unsteady voice. “Is Jean around?” he asked Mrs. Craven slowly. Show less
PM "find 70% Jean Cravens sat sweetly on the davenport of her father's farm home reading the Jamesville Mascot. With the paper in her lap and one hand twisting a lock of her long blonde hair, she was eager— ly devouring Lakeview township news on the society page. “Holy Cow!" she groaned as she... Show morePM "find 70% Jean Cravens sat sweetly on the davenport of her father's farm home reading the Jamesville Mascot. With the paper in her lap and one hand twisting a lock of her long blonde hair, she was eager— ly devouring Lakeview township news on the society page. “Holy Cow!" she groaned as she slapped her hand across her forehead. “What will I do now?” She reread the small news item: “The Y.W.C. Club will be postponed until next Tuesday night. It will be held as previously planned at the home of Mrs. Albert Cohalt.” “Postponed—ugh,” Jean sounded helpless. Last night she had told Wilbur, the husky lad on the neighboring farm that she could not go with him to the movie because she had to be at Y.W.C. Club, but now the Y.W.C. meeting was postponed. Soon he would be calling again, asking her awkwardly if she, Jean, “would- n’t like to go to the movie with him since the club ain’t meeting’ anyhow.” Unless she wanted to make herself “a stuck up snip who was ruined by the good for nothing Hanover College educa- tion,” she knew she had to accept his invitation, or think up another excuse. Any excuse that both Wilbur and his domineering mother would accept, Jean knew, would have to be absolutely intact. Of course she could go with him, but what if Amy Cantor, the lawyer's daughter should find out. Why, she’d have the big scandal all around Hanover campus five minutes after she got back. “Jean Cravens out with a hickey ol’ farmer during her vacation!” What a juicy tidbit that would be. The dilemma was serious and Jean was puzzled. O 9 fl Wilbur Polesky just came in for dinner. His round, ruddy face was poorly shaven and greasy. Wilbur’s mother was busy mashing the steaming potatoes setting on the reservoir of the stove. The stomp of the masher somewhat muffled her high pitched voice. “I read in the paper that the Y.W.C. was postponed. Going to call Jean and ask her about that date?” Wilbur was soaping his face, throwing the water up at it, try- ing to dissolve the sticky dirt clinging to his whiskers. While rub- bing the soap into his face, he managed to mutter a weak, “I‘ spose.” “You spose?” his heavy set mother blurted out. “Don’t you know? That’s no way to court a girl. You got’a keep asking her.” “I asked her once,” Wilbur defended. His mother was persistant. She reminded him that Jean would . Vw-fidv-v!‘ Show less
