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
Way down the road, two small lights pricked the blackness. Automatically she stepped further over to the edge of the road. She had a sudden urge to crouch out of sight until the car had passed. How stupid of her. She must remain calm. Keep on walking until the car had passed. It couldn’t possibly... Show moreWay down the road, two small lights pricked the blackness. Automatically she stepped further over to the edge of the road. She had a sudden urge to crouch out of sight until the car had passed. How stupid of her. She must remain calm. Keep on walking until the car had passed. It couldn’t possibly be no, it couldn’t possibly be him. He would be coming from the op- posite direction if he had decided to follow her. No, it just c0uldn’t be Dick. Could it? The car was coming upon her quite fast. The lights were like magnets; her eyes refused to pull themselves away from their bright glare. The car came closer and the lights became more blinding. She tried to look away into the restful darkness, but her eyes would not move. Nearer and nearer roared the car and the fierce lights pushed against her. She kept on walking . . . faster . . . faster . . . those terrible lights . . . why didn’t he dim them? Kill me, kill me; but dim your lights. She screamed. There was a crash. Dimly she heard a woman’s voice, “My God, my God. I turned to avoid her, but she walked right into the car.” She heard the woman’s voicc. Then she slipped into eternity. —PHEBE DALE DEATH The flowers lie in dust along the meadow road. The dew, fresh caught in the parched cups Of autumn’s leaves, shines broken to The dying sun. The seeds of death have grown To blooming time, Their blossoms cast long Shadows over the shrouded earth Embracing all But me. A horror rends my throat, And turning, I flee Across the meadows Blackened by this gloom. I will not, can not die! But here Is death. —DOROTHY SWANSON Show less
She didn’t know when she first realized he intended to kill her. Perhaps there was no definite moment of realization; rather it was a gradually growing knowledge, insidious, tightening around her until she couldn’t stand to stay in the same house with him any long- er. She had to get out. She had... Show moreShe didn’t know when she first realized he intended to kill her. Perhaps there was no definite moment of realization; rather it was a gradually growing knowledge, insidious, tightening around her until she couldn’t stand to stay in the same house with him any long- er. She had to get out. She had to get out quickly. Where she would go, she didn’t know, but she must go. She casually let her magazine drop to the floor. “I’ll think I’ll take a little walk, Dick, it’s so nice out.” I must be very matter- of—fact about it, she thought. I mustn’t let him suspect I’m leaving for good. She walked over to the closet, pulled her tan spring coat off the hanger, and flung it carelessly over her shoulders. She turned to say that she wouldn’t be gone long, when she noticed that he was get- ting to his feet. “Do you mind if I walk along? I’d like to stretch my legs a little.” I mustn’t get panicky, she thought. Quickly, quickly, I must think of some reason why he can’t come. Some very legitimate reason so he won’t suspect. “Well, no I don’t mind, but to tell you the truth I was planning to ‘ drop in on Sally for a few minutes . . . she has a new recipe for angel cake which she claims is super-luscious.” She knew how he detested pompous Mel, Sally’s husband. Certainly he wouldn’t want to come with her now. Dick dropped his long body slowly back into the chair, picked up the paper again. “On second thought, then, I guess I’ll finish read- ing the paper. I’m not in the mood to be tolerant of Mel tonight." Did Dick hear the sigh which she thought was inaudible? There was something in his eyes when he said, “So long, don’t be gone long,” which sharpened the old fear. She tried not to walk too fast to the door. She tried not to grasp the door knob too hard. “So long, Dick.” Outside, she started to run. No, he might be looking out the win- dow. She forced herself to walk slowly, leisurely, until she turned the corner at the end of the block. Then she started to run again. She was only a block and a half from the carline before she felt safe enough to slow down to a walk. She was glad for once there were no sidewalks out here in the suburbs. No street lights either, except every mile. She felt secure and hidden somehow, walking on the dark road. It was early, but completely dark, and there were few cars. She felt in her coat pocket. Good. Her billfold was there. And Dick had just given her her weekly household allowance. That would be enough to buy a train ticket to . . . to . . . to any- where, anywhere, just so it was far enough and unknown enough so he would never find her, never. Show less
But what of the strap-hangers, you say. Surely we can’t expect to see them read transfers, however interesting they may be. The only solution would be in the advertising cards. Change them. Now I would be the first to admit that trolley-riding would be more pleasant if they were replaced, say, by... Show moreBut what of the strap-hangers, you say. Surely we can’t expect to see them read transfers, however interesting they may be. The only solution would be in the advertising cards. Change them. Now I would be the first to admit that trolley-riding would be more pleasant if they were replaced, say, by Degas Ballet Girls, or conservative designs done in soft blues and greens, but we shall have to learn from the great reform movements in history. Those that are accomplished slowly last the longest. And I’m not at all sure that the advertising card is not part of the White Man’s Burden and will forever remain one of the evils to which civilized man is heir. There are three general attitudes concerning trolley-riding. The first I shall call the “Rather-walk” philosophy, which, while it ad- mits of a certain will power, is rather more inconvenient where long distances are involved than actually fighting one’s way into the car. The second, or left-wing positiOn, is that of the rabid enthusiast. Most of this group is composed of small children although on oc- casion I have encountered otherwise intelligent adults who have a passion for street-car riding. I remember especially one sweet gray-haired, lavender-shawled addict who confided to me that she just couldn't stay away from the streetcars. ]ust when she thought herself cured, she would have a moment of weakness and find herself back on the rails. The last time I saw her she was run- ning, her skirt pulled up, with a frenzied look in her eye, for the Como-Harriet car. The third attitude is the one of passivity; one either suffer the inconveniences gracefully, or has become so inured by constant exposure to the discomforts that he no longer notices them. I am in neither of these groups, but consider myself an excep- tion. When I visit my dentist, or must buy more handkerchiefs, or go downtown for whatever reason, I buy six tokens. One of them gets me there, another brings me home, and four of them go in my middle desk drawer. Over a period of time I have ac- cumulated an amazing lot of them. So my reason for riding the trolleys is one of economics—I can’t afford not to use my tokens. Some afternoon I am going to fill my pockets with tokens and ride until I have used them all. Then I shall write a book. ' OLIVER OLSON Out of fear a moment came When all my strength was gone, And I was but a weakling Alone among the strong. -—DON Hacc Show less
00¢ 22¢ When I was young and innocent yet of logarithims and sphyg- momanometeres I thought the profession of a street-car motor- man clearly most interesting of all. Motormen were a special sort of mortals, sitting upon their thrones, casually dispensing bits of their overwhelming knowledge of... Show more00¢ 22¢ When I was young and innocent yet of logarithims and sphyg- momanometeres I thought the profession of a street-car motor- man clearly most interesting of all. Motormen were a special sort of mortals, sitting upon their thrones, casually dispensing bits of their overwhelming knowledge of municipal geography. pilot- ing the great yellow vessels through the floods of lesser traffic and admitting of no peers among the vans and the delivery trucks and the automobiles. And “streetcar barns” had so pleasantly rural a sound. I’m sure now that I have grown old and can vote that they must have families and gas bills like the rest of us. I’m not sure at all that they aren’t self-conscious when they clatter past the arrogant limited trains, all sheathed in chrome and garnished with rosebuds in the diner windows. I heard once of one motorman who grew a petunia bed during the five minutes he had at the end of his route. I don’t care for petunias. Maybe that is why I never became a conductor. But I still like some things about the trolleys. Transfers, for instance. I always demand a transfer, whether or not I intend to use it. Not that I have ever actually found a good joke on one, but as my maiden Aunt Harriet (may she rest in peace) used to say while exploring with her fork in her oyster, one can never tell when one may find something worth while. Some day, when I am caught up with my school work, I am going to write a letter to the company with my recommendations on the text of the transfers. Someday we may find “Twas brillig . . or the one about the villain who had the nasty habit of “Hitting little children on their head ’Till they’re dead.” and made “Puddles of blood In the mud. . . ” Or, if that is offensive to sensitive souls, they might print “F in- negan’s Wake”, which won’t harm anyone’s morals because no one can understand it! Also in my program of reform will be a system of graduated sizes of transfers, varying according to the length of the ride. The smallest for three and four-block rides will be printed with maxims from Poor Richard, and the largest, for the St. Paul line, would have the unabridged text of “A Tale of Two Cities”. I’m sure, however, that since the ride to St. Paul takes so very long you had better take two or three magazines along, too, if you intend to have enough to do for the whole trip. Show less
A WRITER’S FAITH T 00 much To put down Too fast. Words, words. Ink on gloss, Scribbled, scrawled, Lead on pulp, Art is mauled, What have I written? Words! —RAYMOND L. HOLDEN Memories are hollow things, Empty things. Like eggshells. they break Into little bits If you hold them Too tightly. —HELEN... Show moreA WRITER’S FAITH T 00 much To put down Too fast. Words, words. Ink on gloss, Scribbled, scrawled, Lead on pulp, Art is mauled, What have I written? Words! —RAYMOND L. HOLDEN Memories are hollow things, Empty things. Like eggshells. they break Into little bits If you hold them Too tightly. —HELEN HAUKENESS If I could hold the gift of beauty In the working of my hands, And add a share of something more Than what the world demands. No creature born or being dead ' Would be without my touch. -DON Hmc Show less