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
HIDDEN God stood aside and laughed. The philosopher, looking far beyond his power to see aright Debated learnedly, “Is there a God?” Struggling to find the answer with the little mind The Lord of Power had lent him. And God just stood, and watched. and laughed, And maybe wept. ——MAnn.YNN... Show moreHIDDEN God stood aside and laughed. The philosopher, looking far beyond his power to see aright Debated learnedly, “Is there a God?” Struggling to find the answer with the little mind The Lord of Power had lent him. And God just stood, and watched. and laughed, And maybe wept. ——MAnn.YNN HALVERSON SPRING Spring When the sun Shows its looe To the earth; It loves Till it makes The very heart Of the earth Melt. Rioulets Dance Down miniature Banks of snow Melted and frozen. Knifelike blades Of grass Peep through For an early glimpse home. —CLARICE THINGELSTAD. Snowflakes are the ashes of stars That a little while ago Were glowing and bright; Just as the memory Of a once-burning love Is beautiful. but cold. —H1-:u:N HAUKENESS Show less
W They say they shall find The secret of the Universe Some day. Wide searching arms grope out Bringing in the knowledge of the skies; Loose particles break against another Seeking out the knowledge of the earth And how it is made; Keen minds reach into the ruins of the past Peering for the... Show moreW They say they shall find The secret of the Universe Some day. Wide searching arms grope out Bringing in the knowledge of the skies; Loose particles break against another Seeking out the knowledge of the earth And how it is made; Keen minds reach into the ruins of the past Peering for the knowledge of the men Who live upon the earth. They say they shall The secret of the Universe, The reason of man’s being From these. They have forgotten that one day Some thousand years away. There was a Man Who gave the secret of the Universe. —D0R0THY SWANSON RATIONALIZING Oh, that I could comprehend as the poets of old, To exist at times as far from reality as they. They lived in realms where I dare not tread. They dreamt of things which I cannot dream. Their lively imaginations carried them away an ethereal clouds of fancy. From day to day they lived as spiritual creatures lost in a reverie of the interrelation of the past to the present and the future. But are we not similar today? We say the same things, we strike the same notes as they. Some think anyone can write poetry, And I am one of them. Poetry is that part of yourself you put into it. —ARNE SIMENGAARD Show less
REBIRTH Surely all this is mine, he thought, as, flinging his hair back with a sharp motion of his head, he ran, half-bounding, through the hair- like tufts of grass. Between his half-closed eyelids, the sun sent long rays and the air was filled with vibrant aliveness. He veered sharply to stop... Show moreREBIRTH Surely all this is mine, he thought, as, flinging his hair back with a sharp motion of his head, he ran, half-bounding, through the hair- like tufts of grass. Between his half-closed eyelids, the sun sent long rays and the air was filled with vibrant aliveness. He veered sharply to stop before his destination. Tenderly he stooped and knelt to touch the petals of the rose, feeling the soft texture under his finger tips, smelling the exquisite fragrance. I would like to keep it always in its perfection, he thought as he twisted the f10wer from its stem. I want it—to see, to smell, to touch. He placed it on the grass and stretched full length, his hands supporting his chin as he gazed at the flower. His thoughts wandered. All the world was so inexpressibly beautiful: the hills wearing the rich verdure of spring; the wind that caressed his face with tender fingers; the odor of spring that held the secrets of new life. I want it all to be mine forever and ever. He rolled over on his back, feeling the yielding earth be- neath his shoulders. Lifting up his hands, he held the globe of the sky in his hands, supporting it with his elbows planted in the earth. The feathered clouds flew serenely through his universe. I touch the sky and it is mine; I hold it and it belongs to me. Slowly his eyes opened. The audacity of his words fell upon him as the Infinite forced itself upon him. The awe and terror of creation arose and filled all, while he was nothing, his empty arms encompassing the empty air. His mind struggled as the terror gripped his throat. This was Everlasting to Everlasting, that which, having no beginning nor end, by human necessity must, must have a beginning and an end. Who was he, to fling his smallness into the face of the Infinite; there was no forgiveness. Before, my existence was nothing; in realization of it I have be- come less. He rose violently, ignoring the dead flower; his former possession was nothing and empty. He ran, the terrible fear pur- suln . Egery time he raised his eyes the Infinite crushed him. The vaulted heavens pressed him down and mocked him. The things that he had loved recreated the fear that was now part of him. He wanted to be again as he had been; to stand upreaching to the stars; to feel the frenzied ecstacy of the storm, the white fingers of the slanting rain; to smell the poignance of the new spring. And suddenly, out of his terror and despair, he was recreated. To him was granted the miracle of forgiveness; to him was given the strength to stand in his smallness before the great vastness and to look up. All was his now. No longer the fleeting perfection of the instant, for now, once seen and understood, all things beau- tiful were part of him in this participation of understanding. He was immortal. —-DOBOTHY SWANSON Show less
_—7 DREAM DRAMA The Time is from everlasting to everlasting. The place is a dream world of soft blue and white with puffs of downy clouds as carpeting and the vaulted blue of the infinite as ceiling. Decorations of rainbows entwine the seats of ermine and the pillars of gold. The stage is a... Show more_—7 DREAM DRAMA The Time is from everlasting to everlasting. The place is a dream world of soft blue and white with puffs of downy clouds as carpeting and the vaulted blue of the infinite as ceiling. Decorations of rainbows entwine the seats of ermine and the pillars of gold. The stage is a mosaic of diamonds, and light from myriads of stars reveals its mystic worth. I mount the glowing stairs in a flowing gown of ethereal white and sing the Majesty of God. Before me sit the people of the world, and they listen to me . for I am Eternity. —Doms SWANSON He said he loved me. And tenderly I echoed every Word. Then one day he came And said he loved me Not. And scornfully l echoed every Word. Pumas. DALE Show less
Grandma Grandma was never sick. The whole community could have the flu or be stricken with some other epidemic. Still she would be on her feet. “Iron constitution” is what they call it I guess. But she didn’t look like a person of "iron". She was small and stooped with pale skin and white hair.... Show moreGrandma Grandma was never sick. The whole community could have the flu or be stricken with some other epidemic. Still she would be on her feet. “Iron constitution” is what they call it I guess. But she didn’t look like a person of "iron". She was small and stooped with pale skin and white hair. However. her deepShow less
Here again the telephone shows its superior functions. It is direct- ly responsible for developing poise and broadening character. If it causes suffering, that widens the outlook of those it affects. From all of these wonderful advantages, it is clear that much of present day convenience is owed... Show moreHere again the telephone shows its superior functions. It is direct- ly responsible for developing poise and broadening character. If it causes suffering, that widens the outlook of those it affects. From all of these wonderful advantages, it is clear that much of present day convenience is owed to Mr. Bell and his hard-working assistants who gave us this remarkable machine. —]0HN HANSON TO MY BLIND FRIEND Our eyes cannot meet. nor our thoughts, dear friend, Yet, you, who build mansions of sound from the night I know can feel more sincerely than I The beauty that music and song can send. I admit that I watch you, your face enrapt As the melodies slip from the master’s hands, And my mind is enriched and stirred by the sight Of one who, through fibers of darkness, sees light. When the echoes have faded, your vision remains, While I sink again. in reality’s pain And swiftly am torn from the magic mood; Dear friend, how I envy your solitude! ‘Yet I flick from my eyelids a vagrant tear For you who in midnight must face all fears, But the love in your radiant face seems to say, Through the eyes of your mind it is always day. —GLADYS V. CABMAGER Fancy paints blue and violet on the drab of life. Underneath is brown, but why notice that the paint has chipped and is falling off? -IRENE M. JOHNSON Show less
Impossible! People couldn’t have actually lived before the in- vention of the telephone. Just a casual survey of American life today forces one to realize that Mr. Bell’s invention greatly en- hanced human existence. To us of present-day America the date March 10, 1875, means little. Yet it was... Show moreImpossible! People couldn’t have actually lived before the in- vention of the telephone. Just a casual survey of American life today forces one to realize that Mr. Bell’s invention greatly en- hanced human existence. To us of present-day America the date March 10, 1875, means little. Yet it was on that day only slightly more than seventy years ago that the marvelous convenience was first used to transmit speech. From that day until this continual progress has been made improving the mechanics of the device and expanding its useful- ness to humanity. The Minnesota housewives who devote hours, morning and after- noon, to gossiping with neighbors over the ’phone, certainly would not venture outside in temperature below freezing, to convey their tidbits of trivia. What a mark of achievement it is to have a convenience which allows the homemaker her characteristic ex- pression within the warmth and comfort of the home. Not only does the telephone permit more comfort for the gos- siper and gossipee, but it also affords greater privacy. As yet party lines in many parts of our country menace this privacy, but with further improvements which will make private and two-party lines almost universal, the mouthpiece will gain the confidence of all gossips. Tremendous forward steps have been made to improve the lot of the gossips, but the future holds even greater possible strides. An otherwise quiet dinner can be completely disrupted by the musical ring of the telephone bell. The black instrument seems to take special delight in interrupting onc’s enjoyment of pork cut- lets, fried chicken, or beef stew. The cold food left after a long conference is not appetizing. This is obviously advantageous for in these times one must help feed the world by eating sparingly. It also prevents indigestion, heart burn, excess acidity and gas pains. Here again the telephone has proved its great worth to humanity. For a few fortunates the telephone has been a source of unex- pected treasure. The answer to the “jack pot" question, the name of the tune, or simply a conversation with the quiz master often earns sizable sums of money. Even if one does not win, he gets the sympathy of the quizzer in a sincere “Oh, I am sorry.” Girls, teen-age and up, merely exist between two hour conver- sations. For a time the telephone is their only means of com- munication. A busy telephone is their criteria of popularity. Naturally, a silent one causes mental anguish of a terrific intensity. Show less
Puts all lovers To shame. Happy eyes Look between bars Of a gate White-washed And bright. They see the man Cheerful in giving. They beam In gratitude, Silent, But from the heart. —CLARICE THINGLESTAD My heart would beat in sadness If ever we should part If ever love should vanish If ever hate... Show morePuts all lovers To shame. Happy eyes Look between bars Of a gate White-washed And bright. They see the man Cheerful in giving. They beam In gratitude, Silent, But from the heart. —CLARICE THINGLESTAD My heart would beat in sadness If ever we should part If ever love should vanish If ever hate should start. A smile would be an effort, A hurt I could not bear. And all the dreams we gathered I never once could share. —DON HEGG CUP OF CALL “We must pay the price of peace,” The leaders say. . And calmly gathering up that price, They reach into young lives to find it. They sit back in their comfortable chairs, And push pins on a map, And mourn for what it is costing— In property—in money—in lives. But it is not their lives. The strong young men pay that Because the leaders say, ‘We must pay the price.” MARILYN HALVERSON Show less
agave Sad eyes Look between bars Of a gate And bright. They see the dog. Brown, With gold glints, Sleeping by A little house Of white-painted wood, With red roof. They gaze with Longing, But in vain. Each day at four The eyes come again Gaze at the dog Eating, sleeping, Barking, playing. The dog... Show moreagave Sad eyes Look between bars Of a gate And bright. They see the dog. Brown, With gold glints, Sleeping by A little house Of white-painted wood, With red roof. They gaze with Longing, But in vain. Each day at four The eyes come again Gaze at the dog Eating, sleeping, Barking, playing. The dog learns To watch For the eyes To appear. He dashes Toward the gate, Licks the fingers Poked through the bars. One day The master comes. He sees the aching heart And makes A little sacrifice, And lo, The dog is gone. A mass of brown fur Darts through the gate Meets the owner Of the blue eyes In an embrace That surely Show less
The next Sunday the family went as usual to the ski meet. Krygg won all the contests; then came the jump. Krygg’s parents begged him not to try. They knew how disappointed and angry he be— came. But Krygg insisted. He had an air of desperate expecta— tion. The jumps were especially good that day.... Show moreThe next Sunday the family went as usual to the ski meet. Krygg won all the contests; then came the jump. Krygg’s parents begged him not to try. They knew how disappointed and angry he be— came. But Krygg insisted. He had an air of desperate expecta— tion. The jumps were especially good that day. At last Krygg stepped forward ready to take off. His jump was clean and fast; he went over the take-off cutting through the air as if he were wearing wings instead of the wooden skis. Suddenly the watching crowd became tense—he wasn’t making the graceful swoop that would bring him to land. He was going out until it was impossible not to fall straight to the ground. They waited tensely for the crash. There wasn’t any. Instead a sudden red flash seemed to envelope the boy and he was gone. In Telemarken they say Krygg had made a bargain with the devil. The story is given support by the other contestants who were at the take-off with Krygg. They said that just as he got ready to jump his body became stiff, his eyes terrified. They screamed after him to relax—they felt sure he’d crash at once in that rigid stance—but he didn’t relax. The whole unbelievable jump was made while the skier stood frozen and straight upon his skis. This is an old, old story. I don’t know if it’s true. My grand- father says it is. -—M. HALVERSON Men are Superior. Master men, Scorning women. Brave men, Flirting with Death. Hard men ' Going to war, Killing, Annihilating. And the women sit home, Crying, Praying. Women are soft. Men are Superior. —Prmm: -DALE Show less
This story was old many years before I was born. It was told to me by my grandfather who remembers it being told to him when he was a small child. I don’t know if it's true. My grandfather f says it is. . In south-central Norway, in the region called Telemarken there are many mountains. Because... Show moreThis story was old many years before I was born. It was told to me by my grandfather who remembers it being told to him when he was a small child. I don’t know if it's true. My grandfather f says it is. . In south-central Norway, in the region called Telemarken there are many mountains. Because of this all the natives are expert skiers. In the winter all travelling is done on skis; men and women use them to go to work, boys and girls to go to school. Naturally in such a place ski jumping became a great competitive sport. Every week after church the people of the whole countryside would gather at the nearest high mountain and hold ski contests. For most people these Sunday meets were just good fun. Even for the contestants (only the most expert took part) it was chiefly a di- version—exciting, rather pleasant to win, but not at all important. But for Krygg it was different. Krygg was twenty, tall, very blond, very handsome, and a fine skier. Krygg loved to win. He was the fastest skier in Telemarken; his style was the most grace~ ful. He was known through all the community as the best. That is, Krygg was best in everything except jumping. He could win any of the other ski contests easily but when it came to the big jump he would lose. It was hard for Krygg to take and he would brood over it all week, practicing jumping from the mountain near his father’s farm, but never seeming to improve. One Sunday after the meet, Krygg was especially bitter. He had been third in the jump. He started for home gloomy and sul- len. He refused to talk to his parents and skied some distance ahead of them all the way home. The family was quiet and the clear frozen air carried sounds distinctly. Suddenly Krygg began to talk. He didn’t turn around, but stopped as if paralyzed, stared straight ahead, and spoke in an excited voice. His parents could hear him, but they couldn’t make out his words which were run together. There was no one they could see but suddenly, very clearly, they heard their son say, “All right, I’ll do it. If you can ” Here his voice, choked with excitement and fear, broke off, and the boy, who had stood rigid all this time became limp and fell to the ground. His parents had stopped when he did but now they hurried to him and tried to revive him. They couldn’t. They had to carry him home. All the next week Krygg was excited and nervous. The slightest sound made him jump and twice during the week his father found him, rigid and staring as he had been before, saying desperately, “Yes, yes, I promise I will.” Show less
IlfBlll “Driver, I think this is it. You can stop right out in front.” The cabby obediently did so, my sister and I alighted, and after the insignificant matter of fare was taken care of, we picked up our luggage (several hat boxes, a typewriter, three suitcases, a couple of handbags and a... Show moreIlfBlll “Driver, I think this is it. You can stop right out in front.” The cabby obediently did so, my sister and I alighted, and after the insignificant matter of fare was taken care of, we picked up our luggage (several hat boxes, a typewriter, three suitcases, a couple of handbags and a portable sewing machine) and gracefully made our debut at West Hall, Augsburg College, Minneapolis, Minnesota, U. S. A., World . . . Somewhere in Space. I suggested to my sister, after our mutually painful arrival at the front steps, that we try the north entrance, after several girls’ an- swers to our inquiry that Room 9, West Hall could be better reached by going through that door. Faithftu we followed their advice, then concluded that they were as green as we-Room 9 was not to be found. We retraced our steps down the stairs and across the porch and entered the south door. What to our wandering eyes shOuld ap- ear but a lounge. No room for the wicked. “Turn left,” someone offered. Our heads turned. A stairway. Our bodies followed our heads—our luggage dragged behind. Bang, bang, bang, up the stair until at last—Room 91 “Oh woe is me and salve for my breaking heart.” Something was needed to ease the disappointment we felt at first sight of Room 9. It more than faintly resembled a shoe box—with five doors! (One was a fire escape . . . oh, oh.) All the room left after the fur- niture had been settled added up to about the capacity of my brain—a pea. “Augsburg, I love you,” I convinced myself. Our suitcases landed in the middle of the floor, along with their friends the hat boxes, typewriter, handbags and sewing machine. “Well, dear, let’s get the rest of the stuff,” my sister volunteered. (by “other stuff” she meant our ironing board, radio-phonograph, scrapbooks, records and boxes of stationery. Our trunks would ar- rive later.) We departed. —Dorus SWANSON CONFETTI She laughed. a careless bubbling sound, And tore the human passions near her Like confetti. into shreds. I laughed too, but hoarsely For I was part of the confetti lying there. —InENI-: M. JOHNSON Show less
REMINISCENCE Only the rains of yesterday— The clouds, the swelling flood’s mad rush; Only the winds that would not cease— These things alone, I want to hush. Days so shiny with answered prayer Which only faith in God can bring,- The day we gave our lives to share A richer life, with Christ as... Show moreREMINISCENCE Only the rains of yesterday— The clouds, the swelling flood’s mad rush; Only the winds that would not cease— These things alone, I want to hush. Days so shiny with answered prayer Which only faith in God can bring,- The day we gave our lives to share A richer life, with Christ as King; The day we reached the mountain’s top And looked upon a peaceful land Unconscious, in our perfect bliss, Of war and hate on every hand; Days when we lived and planned and hoped, The days which cannot ever cease— These are the days that keep my soul— These and a God Who giveth Peace! —]OHN OLSON A fragile snowflake winging Softly to the ground, Gay stars winking slyly, Dark shadows all around. The night, a laughing spirit, A joyous snatch of time, Miraculous discovery— Your world is the same as mine. HELEN HAUIENESS Broken pieces of sunlight are scattered carelessly on the still sleepy river. The wind is brushing clouds into soft angora piles against a sky too blue to be real. Grass blades are hung with tiny necklaces of dew. A knife of sun has sliced open the morning, and it lies sparkling like a freshly cut orange. IRENE M. JOHNSON — Show less
strained and subdued it. Their night seemed disconnected, isolated. It hung, a quiet, rounded crystal apart from all the rest. It came as a shock, then, the knock on the door. Loud and brutal it rang and the sudden sound of hoarse, pushing voices was even more terrifying. In the complete... Show morestrained and subdued it. Their night seemed disconnected, isolated. It hung, a quiet, rounded crystal apart from all the rest. It came as a shock, then, the knock on the door. Loud and brutal it rang and the sudden sound of hoarse, pushing voices was even more terrifying. In the complete isolation of their moments they had heard no one approaching. For a moment they sat, horror- stricken at the rage in the shouts that became more and more nu- merous. They heard one word, “Nigger!” and they knew—prayed they were wrong—but knew surely what it was. A second, a tight clinging to each others’ hands, a wrenching blow against the unlocked door, and a mob of cursing, hate-filled faces shoved into the room. The two black people before the many white stood clinging together, by the clean table with the tall dishes. The crowd ran toward them and at the same time, with a sudden swift push, the girl was protected by the body of the man. The table jolt- ed and tipped the dishes. They shattered tinkling and no one heard or saw as the white faces, the red, staring eyes came close. Then he was jerked into the mob. The twisting dark face turned, the whitened lips spoke the name “Loulie” before a hand, hard with hate, smashed blood out of them. The brutal act brOught another inward surge as each hate-gorged white man sought to feel the spurt of black blood. The violence was stopped by a cry “Save him for the rope!” re-echoed from man to man. Now they yanked him, as a dead thing into the street. The yards were deserted as the dark ones hid. They couldn’t see their neighbor ]im but they knew he was there, they knew his face was torn, they knew his body was limp with death terror. They knew, too, what would happen as they heard the savage yells: “Watch now, you niggers! This is what happens to you dirty blacks who dare touch a white woman! Watch him hang!” And they sunk back, sick with fear, anger and impotence. Longing to weep, and curse, and pray! The parade ended at a tree in the park. It lasted only a minute, the rope was strong and the body was left lying under the tree. And the men went home. “Black nigger! Knew it was him! Good we saw him down near the white part of town. Those dirty blacks come out of shanty town for only one thing, and after that there’s one less nigger!” They went home, satisfied they’d done justice, or at any rate had revenge, and the hell of hate was gone from their white faces and their red eyes, sunk back into ashes in their hearts. Until the next time. And Loulie St. James lay, black and knotted with despair, at the foot of the white covered table, and the tall, thin dishes lay shat- tered on the cloth, and dripping noiselessly down to the floor was the remains of the special hand packed ice cream. MARILYN HALVERSON Show less
