61w fitidge BETTY PLOYHAR Her heels made a hollow clacking sound as she walked towards the middle of the bridge. Her hands were clenched tightly, the palms wet. She bit her lip nervously, almost afraid to go on, but she had to go on. After she had come this far there was no back- ing out, no... Show more61w fitidge BETTY PLOYHAR Her heels made a hollow clacking sound as she walked towards the middle of the bridge. Her hands were clenched tightly, the palms wet. She bit her lip nervously, almost afraid to go on, but she had to go on. After she had come this far there was no back- ing out, no looking at what might have been. She might never have an opportunity like this again. All that mattered was that she end it as soon as possible. It was useless to waste time; it would only mess things up more. She automatically walked faster, for she could see the wide spot in the center of the bridge. She moved closer to the railing and looked out over it. Close to her were bright spots of lights, but farther out it was black. The darkness seemed comforting, though she knew that in reality it was treacherous. It looked safe, yet it could end all her hopes and ambitions easily. She felt alone. If only someone would come by. She knew bet- ter than to expect anyone; the bridge was hers alone tonight. Her lips moved, but she didn’t know if she had actually spoken or not. It would do no good to worry now. This was so well-planned that her subconscious self would carry her through to the finish. Her arms were no longer tense. The relaxation made them al- most ache. It was hard to lift herself up to the railing. She was breathing heavily when it was at last accomplished. The railing seemed to waver beneath her, but it must be only her imagination. Maybe she was swaying herself. She must be. Her body tensed, for this was the decisive moment. It must be accomplished, and now. She ached inside with the quiet. She couldn’t stand the silence a second longer. Almost without effort her scream sliced out into the air, echoing again and again. Her eardrums, unaccustomed to the sharp piercing sound, throbbed. Then she stood still, poised for the headlong plunge into the darkness. Then she could relax. Now it was over. There was a roar of applause as the curtain came down slowly. 20 Show less
Forsahing Others MARILYNN HALVORSON Her name was Robyn. Funny how that pleased me so very much, almost as if I had thought of it myself. It was a good name for her; it suited her. It went well with the way she wore her brown hair, parted in the center, just slightly curled on the sides, and with... Show moreForsahing Others MARILYNN HALVORSON Her name was Robyn. Funny how that pleased me so very much, almost as if I had thought of it myself. It was a good name for her; it suited her. It went well with the way she wore her brown hair, parted in the center, just slightly curled on the sides, and with her face, an ordinary face that still was attractive, the kind we call “nice.” Most of all the name went with her voice, clear, high, sweet. It seemed right that she should be named for a bird. Robyn was our church soloist. She was going to the University and majoring in business. She used to bring her books on econ- omics along to choir practice and study. All of us laughed— Robyn a business woman! She saw how foolish the idea was, too, but her father, a well-to-do business man, wanted her to follow in his steps; he didn’t have any sons. Since Robyn was always faithful in coming to choir practice, we were puzzled the night she didn’t come. We found out later that her father had died of a heart attack that afternoon. After that Robyn couldn’t get to choir practice and from then on I saw her very seldom. When I went away to school I lost track of her entirely. I thought of her, though, and wondered if she were majoring in music now that her father was dead. I was quite certain that if Robyn ever got the chance she would be a great singer. Maybe it was the certainty of this and the de— sire to say "I knew her when—” that made me look her up. It had been about ten years since I had heard of her. I went out to her home. It was evening; the house was very large but there was light in only one room. I rang the doorbell and wait- ed; almost immediately the door opened. It was Robyn. Her name still fit—I would have known her anywhere. Her voice was the same, too; I was sure of that when I heard her speak. "Oh, yes, I remember you! Come in! I’m alone for the evening and it’s so nice to have company.” While we were passing through the “how are you and every- one” stage which seems so necessary in all such meetings, I got a chance to look more closely at Robyn. She hadn’t changed; her 14 Show less
Impressions on a Rainy Night A misting rain-filled night is meant, it seems, For solitude; a silence filled with thought and waking dreams. Those solemn thoughts in sunshine’s reign abhorred, Come trudging in and will not be denied. Defense collapsed, I yield to them and slip away from time,... Show moreImpressions on a Rainy Night A misting rain-filled night is meant, it seems, For solitude; a silence filled with thought and waking dreams. Those solemn thoughts in sunshine’s reign abhorred, Come trudging in and will not be denied. Defense collapsed, I yield to them and slip away from time, Absorbed in meditation on problems old, yet to each man a challenge fresh. Perplexing to ancients, unsolved in modern times, These questions reoccur. In the dim gray shades of dark, As the mists press softly by, Ever rises above all one thought: that on life, And what we are in it. How limit it, what qualities ascribe, that we may speak And others know it is of life we talk? Where came it from, and are there days When its touch we’ll feel no more? Why so much shadow? So far between those gleams of light we catch And try to hold, but which like sunbeams slip away? Wise men these times, content with what they have, Rebuke my reveries with staunch good words well spoken: "H ere now, my lad, why ponder you on riddles not meant for man To muse upon, but only to observe, And seeing these, to understand how great that Power must be Which lies beyond, where reason fails and only faith can reach. But rather think on solid things, if you’d some honor win; Apply yourself to what is known, child’s dreams for children leaving.” Insolent I’d be, without respect, should I these wise ones query As to who can see, what one can say The heights man’s thought may reach. There’s a problem yet, and maybe more, Within our power to solve. How wise these men, but if they know the limits to which man can see, Why come these misting rain-filled nights to trouble me like this? —J0HN R. HALEY 10 Show less
THE WOLI: RUTH PEDERSON Gudrun looked at the calendar. It was now the Thirteenth of February. Lars had been lying in bed for three weeks, but it seemed much longer. The same snow had been on the ground since before Christmas. Gudrun had looked out the window, wishing the weather would change, but... Show moreTHE WOLI: RUTH PEDERSON Gudrun looked at the calendar. It was now the Thirteenth of February. Lars had been lying in bed for three weeks, but it seemed much longer. The same snow had been on the ground since before Christmas. Gudrun had looked out the window, wishing the weather would change, but knowing that it would not. She had seen "sun-dogs” that morning. Very soon, complete darkness would again fall. She hated the night and the darkness; yet the day was not much better. She looked out over the expanse of snow into the woods. The trees stood like skeletons, black against the overcast sky. Then to the West was what in the summer-time was called a lake. Now it was only a much larger expanse of snow than the rest—cold. Gudrun wondered how she could ever have thought the lake and the woods beautiful. She wondered how she and Lars could have decided to come out in this wilderness in the first place. Gudrun’s mind wandered back five and a half years. She could see a small grey house standing beside a lake. On either side of this house were two elms, their branches spreading. The house snug- ly fit between these trees as though it had always been there. Near— by was a brook that descended in a little waterfall to the lake. Only a few yards from here, one could find woods as primitive as those man might find anywhere. In the spring, wild columbines blossomed on the hillsides, a glory of color. Red and grey squirrels scampered up and down the tree—trunks, their pouches filled with golden acorns. A ground-hog might be seen hurrying through the underbrush. Woodpeckers, tanagers, bluejays, and perhaps a blue- bird or two filled the woods with their songs and peculiar bird- noises. A deer could sometimes be seen gliding across a fence or a bush. Mink and foxes were two kinds of rather unpopular wild- life. They often stole the chickens from an unsuspecting farmer, but coyotes or wolves had not been seen in the territory for years. Yes, that was what they thought they had bought. A woods, a babbling brook, bluebirds, and deer. Nothing but beauty. Gudrun laughed ironically as she came back to stern reality—the isolation and the loneliness. The last three weeks had been particularly 18 Show less
it was wet. She took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Clara was amazed. She couldn’t feel herself crying, yet she knew she was. It was as though she were miles away from here watching someone else at Mark’s side holding tightly to his hand and crying. She realized vaguely that doctors and... Show moreit was wet. She took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Clara was amazed. She couldn’t feel herself crying, yet she knew she was. It was as though she were miles away from here watching someone else at Mark’s side holding tightly to his hand and crying. She realized vaguely that doctors and nurses went in and out, murmuring quietly as they did so. When the door opened she heard typical hospital sounds coming from the hall. This much of it was stark reality to her. Otherwise she was moving and acting without conscious thought. Was this a nightmare or was it real? "If it’s a nightmare, I hope I wake up soon,” she thought, her practical side still on the surface. Only dimly was she aware that more activity was going on in the room. Mark must be getting worse. She held on to his hand tighter. It was cold and moist. "Mark—say something. Mark!” She was shocked to hear her own voice. It sounded loud in the small room. She almost felt she should apologiZe for being noisy. Above her head one nurse looked at another. Her lips formed the words, ‘.‘Pulse much slower.” Clara was oblivious of everything in the room. She and Mark were sitting in the living room planning what to give the kids for Christmas. It had been so wonderful; they had planned on so many nice things. Of course, they had never been able to get them. Mark had felt bad when he realized what he had done. "I’ll never say a word about his drinking again. Just let him get well. Mark, oh you have to be all right!” She felt sick inside for somehow she knew. Mark wasn’t going to be any better. He’d die without ever regaining consciousness. He’d never know she didn’t care if he had liked to drink. The thought that he’d never know obsessed her. She had to have him know. “Mark!” she screamed. "Mark, I don’t care! Do you hear me! I don’t care!” There was a low moan. Then the room was completely quiet. One of the nurses took Mark’s hand from hers. “I’m sorry.” Tears flowed down her cheeks unchecked. It was a relief to let herself go. It didn’t matter if she did cry. Mark wouldn’t know anyway. 62 Show less
LINDA IRENE JOHNSON Her hair is brown and bends upward around her face, making her look like a leprechaun fairy. Her eyes, the blue color of my American Poetry book, are two tiny mirrors reflecting her whole- hearted enjoyment of life, things, and people. If one looks closely, deep-rooted humor,... Show moreLINDA IRENE JOHNSON Her hair is brown and bends upward around her face, making her look like a leprechaun fairy. Her eyes, the blue color of my American Poetry book, are two tiny mirrors reflecting her whole- hearted enjoyment of life, things, and people. If one looks closely, deep-rooted humor, loyalty, frankness, and a keen sense of under- standing can be seen in them. Linda’s personality is much like a frosted glass of lemonade after a two-mile hike in the sun. From deep within her, laughter surges forth into her lips, her hair, her cheeks, and her gestures. It is al- ways there, waiting to break forth at a moment’s notice. An un- derstanding and love of human nature smooth down the corners of her humor, however, so that she laughs with and not at people. Beneath the laughter and the frankness is a blueprint of sensitivitv where the thoughts and fears of others are indelibly imprinted. With this storehouse of human emotion, she is able to understand and be in sympathy with the feelings of other people. Linda does not attempt to balance herself on the bigoted tight- rope of convention. Rather, her rainbow-striped fancy causes her to do all sorts of delightful, surprising things. It is fun to be with her, for one never knows just what will happen. Life will always be a song to Linda, for she is singing. + STORM DON HEGG Hark to the call of a seething wind That tells of a coming storm. Gaze awhile at the distant fiend And praise its very form: The churl of its tail, the white of its brow And the chilling sigh of its eerie wail. It may east me out of a sheltered nest And all my treasurers flaunt, But the chance of its coming I’ll forever taunt! 4s Show less
To be sure, our home-coming was a good one. Pa was there waiting for us. “Go break a switch,” he commanded. My brother obeyed. Our whimpering chorus began, but—. That afternoon was as usual except that I never sat down on the empty rack on the way out to the field. The road was too bumpy, I guess.... Show moreTo be sure, our home-coming was a good one. Pa was there waiting for us. “Go break a switch,” he commanded. My brother obeyed. Our whimpering chorus began, but—. That afternoon was as usual except that I never sat down on the empty rack on the way out to the field. The road was too bumpy, I guess. M +W RAIN SHOWER The rain is singing to the world, Humming a lilting, laughing tune. Silver notes are tumbling down from Clouds that try to hide the moon. Can’t you hear them, as they beat Staccato on the muddy street, Say goodnight? —HELEN HAUKENESS + 8 UN SET Spectrum on the skyline Casting tints and shades Fearless of tomorrow— Another day’s been made. —DON HEGG + FAILURE A candle in a holder Waiting to be lit In vain, For it is broken. —BETTY PLOYHAR 42 Show less
"His wife is nice, though,” the man with the younger voice said. "Y’know she used to call Ed every single morning right after K. G. had drove away and say, ‘Mr. McMorency has just left the house.’ Pretty white of her, eh?” “Yeah, she’s a swell one—too bad she had to marry a stuffed shirt like K.... Show more"His wife is nice, though,” the man with the younger voice said. "Y’know she used to call Ed every single morning right after K. G. had drove away and say, ‘Mr. McMorency has just left the house.’ Pretty white of her, eh?” “Yeah, she’s a swell one—too bad she had to marry a stuffed shirt like K. G.” "You know,” said the older man, “the new kids in those service stations don’t always recognize him. On Labor Day K. G. had his stations open when everybody else was closed. ‘K. G. sure is roll- ing in the dough today’ one of the kids said as he polished the windshield of a bright shiny Cadillac. Then the guy in the car spoke up and said, 'I’m sorry you boys had to work today, but it seemed only logical to keep the stations open. I’m Mr. McMoren- cy!’ ” I’ll bet the kid had goose-pimples for a week after that. That guy just pops up everywhere. When the waiter came with their dessert, the conversation switched to more general subjects. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was getting late. There was just time enough to inspect three more stations before six o’clock. So Anne has been warning the men. I’ll speak to her about that. + diluea Heard them by the river one dark and lonely night Never thought they’d find me, I tried with all my might. But now that they have found me, there’s nothing I can do But settle back and listen to these melancholy blues. To think I could have missed them by never going out Makes me want to cry and all my troubles shout. Why don’t you go and leave me—I never wanted you, The down and lonely feeling of these melancholy blues. —DON HEGG 48 Show less
Jt’a Elma .(i‘ule Ulu'nga KENNETH FAGERLIE Last night as I walked towards the office to do a little extra work after the regular working hours I noticed that it was quite cold outside. A dog shouldn’t be out in this weather, I thought. Just as I had walked in the door I noticed a little kitten. If... Show moreJt’a Elma .(i‘ule Ulu'nga KENNETH FAGERLIE Last night as I walked towards the office to do a little extra work after the regular working hours I noticed that it was quite cold outside. A dog shouldn’t be out in this weather, I thought. Just as I had walked in the door I noticed a little kitten. If it was too cold for a dog, it surely was no place for a kitten. I picked the little thing up and took it into my office. I put it on my sweater on the desk top and started in on the work. After I had finished I noticed the little kitten. It sure looked peaceful and happy laying there all curled up so nice and warm like. It made me feel kind of good. When I was ready to go, I didn’t think it would make any dif- ference; so I left the kitten sleeping on the desk. When I woke up the next morning, Helen, my wife, was pre- paring breakfast. I was cleaning up and getting ready when I re— alized that I was still thinking about last night. It’s funny how such a little thing like that can make you feel 50—. Before I could finish Helen came in. “Did you read the morning paper yet, dear?” “No, I didn’t,” I said, “Why?” "I just hate to read things like that,” she replied. "There is an article here about a little six year old girl who went out looking for her kitten because of the cold, and froze to death. It was right down by your office, too.” "It was! Why that must have—.” “What did you say, dear?” uNothing.” It was no use telling Helen or any one else. They would never understand how I felt. + SPRING FANCY Hus/J up, Ob! Little one! She stumbled Spring is coming, Over the back fence And if you’re quiet And dropped You can bear her. A bane/o of dandelions. —HELEN HAUKENESS 26 Show less
A Thought When city streets and country roads Become just thoroughfares And all the traflie dull, I’ll know I’ve lived enough. + She stood that night upon the bridge Unmindful of the stares Telling me her fondest dream, The one I could not share. She said that I was bitter With a hard and vicious... Show moreA Thought When city streets and country roads Become just thoroughfares And all the traflie dull, I’ll know I’ve lived enough. + She stood that night upon the bridge Unmindful of the stares Telling me her fondest dream, The one I could not share. She said that I was bitter With a hard and vicious air Building dreams to smash them And laughing when she cared. ——D0N HEGG + TRANSITION RUTH PEDERSON The street-car was crowded. People were standing in the aisle and along the sides. To the observer, it looked as though every per- son on that car had had a hard day, whether it was in an office, working in a restaurant, or in school. I wondered when the lady at the front of the car had had her last bit of sleep. Suddenly something happened. The passengers relaxed. Like magic smiles appeared. A little girl about three years old had boarded the car with her mother. The tired business man thought of his little boy at home. The waitress thought of her little girl just returning from school. Faint smiles played upon the face of the factory worker. He had three young ones at home who would hurry to the door to welcome him. The mortorman yelled off the subsequent stops in a more cheer- ful voice. A man gave up his seat to a middle-aged lady who had been standing for a long time. You know, if God had made little children only to make others happy, I think it was highly worthwhile, don’t you? 38 Show less
“I’ll tell you what’s the matter,” she continued. "It’s the movies. All our young people see these painted, wicked women in the movies and they think it’s glamorous.” The girl’s face was blank and bored. She began to speak but Mrs. Fowler went on. "But I can see that you’re not that kind. It is... Show more“I’ll tell you what’s the matter,” she continued. "It’s the movies. All our young people see these painted, wicked women in the movies and they think it’s glamorous.” The girl’s face was blank and bored. She began to speak but Mrs. Fowler went on. "But I can see that you’re not that kind. It is certainly a relief to see a sensible girl nowadays.” "I can’t wear makeup because it’s hard on my face. I have to wear so much of it where I work,” said the girl defensively. "My, that’s a shame,” said Mrs. Fowler kindly. "It certainly is a pity a person can’t even get a job nowadays without being all painted up.” The girl looked tired and bored. uAnd then we have all this jazz and swing. It’s getting so that young people can’t go anywhere except to one of these night clubs. They drink and then they get into trouble and their parents won- der what’s wrong. My, it’s a shame.” The bus had entered the business district. They were caught in traffic and waited in the middle of a block. On the right side, against an old building, large posters of scantily dressed women were hung. Mrs. Fowler took a look and gasped. “Just look at that,” she said. Right here in the middle of the city. I never saw anything so disgraceful in my life. I’m ashamed to ride on this bus with my friends having to pass that place. Something ought to be done about those places.” The girl’s face became hard. She closed her mouth tightly. Mrs. Fowler con- tinued in a righteous tone. “I just can’t see why people stand for those awful show places. Just imagine, girls walking around on the stage naked. And men looking at them. Such wickedness here in our own city.” She paused for breath. “I just can’t imagine a woman being so low as to do something like that. It‘s disgraceful. They should be put in jail.” The bus stopped at the corner. The girl moved to get up. "It does me good to see somebody who has some sense,” said Mrs. Fowler. "Goodbye, and you’d better wear stockings from now on.” The girl made no acknowledgment. She got ofl the bus and went into a side entrance of the old building hung with posters. 28 Show less
your 9’ clock ‘Rendezvous RUTH PEDERSON Last night I awakened with a feeling that I was cold. Soon after closing the window, I became conscious of forms moving about in the room. When my eyes became used to the darkness, I recog- nized some of those forms. Spud, Doris’ yarn dog, was no longer in... Show moreyour 9’ clock ‘Rendezvous RUTH PEDERSON Last night I awakened with a feeling that I was cold. Soon after closing the window, I became conscious of forms moving about in the room. When my eyes became used to the darkness, I recog- nized some of those forms. Spud, Doris’ yarn dog, was no longer in his customary place on top of the bookcase. Instead, he was sitting on my desk talking to Pete and Repeat, my book-ends. He seemed to be reprimanding Pete and Repeat for naughty behavior. On the floor I noticed John Henry. He was quacking lustily. In answer to his call, two little ducks from the neighboring rooms waddled in. Then Oofta, the biggest rabbit in Sivertsen Hall, made a grand entrance, followed by six rabbits of assorted sizes. It was comforting to see all the animals of one kind together. It had always bothered me a little to see the cat and the mouse sit- ting side by side on Thelma’s bookcase. I knew they must have felt terribly uncomfortable. Suddenly chills ran up and down my spine. Phil, the worm, was crawling along the edge of my blanket. For the first time since awakening, I wished the animals back in their daytime inanimate stage. Phil finally dropped off onto the floor, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief. There was a flutter of wings. First one bird, then another, ma- jestically sailed through the open door. I shuddered to think that these beautiful creatures had formerly served as flower pots. For a long time, Kitty quietly watched the birds. Her attention would be focused first on one bird, then on another. She would carefully plan some strategy by which she might catch her prize, but all was vain. When Kitty was ready to spring, the bird would nonchalantly fly to another corner of the room. In despair, Kitty turned her attention back to her age-old enemy, the mouse, Whom she had neglected all evening. If she could not dine on the delec- table meat of birds, she would settle for the next best—mouse steak. She made a spring and was about to commence her meal. I held my breath; I hated to see our little friend, the mouse, leave us in such a manner. Just then Jake, the dwarf, grabbed Kitty 32 Show less
plead ignorance and ask the lab instructor to help you. He’s rather cute anyhow. Latin is the only assignment left. You suppose you had better do that. But by now you are decidedly hungry. The mental activity involved in making such difficult decisions has left you starved. You return in half an... Show moreplead ignorance and ask the lab instructor to help you. He’s rather cute anyhow. Latin is the only assignment left. You suppose you had better do that. But by now you are decidedly hungry. The mental activity involved in making such difficult decisions has left you starved. You return in half an hour, your weight increased by a cold chicken sandwich, a glass of milk, four cookies, and an apple. Just as you have begun to mumble, “Hic, haec, hoc, huyus, huyus, huyus,” your mother becomes aware of your presence. "Are you studying, dear?” she inquires in a surprised tone of voice. You reply, very aggrieved, uOf course!” You are irritated. Mom sounds as though she’d never seen you studying before. Then Father looks up and adds, “You ought to study, young lady!” Father has just seen your grades. But such rude interruptions do not quench your eager thirst for learning. You attack your Latin book with renewed intensity, wondering how anyone could be so savage and sadistic as to in- vent such a language. Suddenly you realize that the variety of sounds in the living room has lost a peculiar tone quality. A plaintive voice behind you soon solves the mystery. Mary has abandoned her piano practic- ing and is now asking, “Will you help me with my arithmetic?” Somehow, she doesn’t realize that it is five long years since you took algebra and your knowledge of said subject is exceedingly dim. But you would rather choke to death than acknowledge your stupidity, and you begin vigorously to solve her equations. An hour later you are still in throes of agony, attempting to discover the value of x. Now you must admit defeat, and you send Mary up to bed, her faith in your mental powers sorely shattered. Somehow the bout with the unknown quantity has left you strangely tired. It is 11:30 and thoughts of struggling out of bed in the dark morning hours make you lose all interest in any fur- ther study of Latin. Your mom finally comes to your rescue with a gentle suggestion. “Perhaps you had better go to bed now. You know you have to get up at six tomorrow morning.” You need no further persua— sion. With unusually swift obedience, you decide to go to bed. 51 Show less
W Aloof, unkind, impulsive, Without a thought to share, You loathe the sight of fine things And prize the word despair. The world is your plaything, Its finesse is your toy; And not for wealth or’riches Would you concede to joy. —-DON HEGG + Noontide, heralded by the masculine chorus of factory... Show moreW Aloof, unkind, impulsive, Without a thought to share, You loathe the sight of fine things And prize the word despair. The world is your plaything, Its finesse is your toy; And not for wealth or’riches Would you concede to joy. —-DON HEGG + Noontide, heralded by the masculine chorus of factory whistles, finds the city pausing from its labors. Like a perspiring, panting giant, it dofis its work gloves for a few minutes of midday rest. The afternoon records itself with a dulling sort of routine in the log of the day. Late day movie-goers from slowly moving queues, in an attempt to escape that afternoon let-down, by spend- ing an hour or so in the world of fantasy unfolding within. —QUENTIN QUANBECK + LIFE Life is a wind, A fickle wind, That smooths our cheeks With practiced hand, And laughing, twists us like a straw Lulling us asleep. IRENE M. JOHNSON + Forget the days and hours that pass Before we know they’re gone; Look beyond to other days And follow with their change;— But let this moment stay. —DON HEGG 35 Show less
"I wanna drink of water!” he announces in the tone of a man dying from thirst in a desert. You can, of course, absolutely re- fuse to give him any water and threaten him with dire conse— quences if he doesn’t go to bed immediately. But your best course of action is to get the water, and usually,... Show more"I wanna drink of water!” he announces in the tone of a man dying from thirst in a desert. You can, of course, absolutely re- fuse to give him any water and threaten him with dire conse— quences if he doesn’t go to bed immediately. But your best course of action is to get the water, and usually, his thirst quenched, he will crawl into bed. Then you crawl downstairs, your annoyance considerably heightened by the fact that your magazine has fallen to the floor, and you have lost your place. By this time, you feel sadly in need of nourishment, so you go into the kitchen and explore the refrigerator’s interior. You dis- cover a bottle of coke, and then you make a trip to the cooky jar, returning with a handful of chocolate chip cookies. You sit down at the kitchen table, and your eyes travel to the clock. It is nine, and you congratulate yourself on a job well-done. But a familiar voice behind you startles you and you turn to View the little imp standing in the doorway. "I’m hungry,” he proclaims gravely. You could sternly refuse him, but you fear he may make an un- favorable report to his mother if you do. Besides, he really does look wistfully appealing in his little white pajamas. You feed him One of the cookies and then lead him up to bed for what you sin- cerely hope will be the last time. Thirty solid minutes have passed, and not a sound has been emit- ted from the upper regions. You may now be reasonably certain that he is sleeping. Settle back comfortably in your chair, and finish your story. It is twelve o’clock now. You hear the front door being opened and realize that the parents of your little darling are home. They enter, and mother asks the inevitable question, “And how did my little boy behave?” Now you have no choice. There is only one answer. In your most earnest and sincere tones, you quickly and unhesitantly reply, “Perfectly, Mrs. Jones, just perfectly.” + Two hands without perfection Folded into mine Turn away each sorrow And change the rough to fine. —DON HEGG 54 Show less
NIirror, Mirror On the Wall HELEN HAUKENESS I am looking in the mirror. I do not shrink from what I see, but rather cock my head, and try to see which way my hair becomes me most. For this round-faced, thin-lipped image in the glass is all I have that is mine. Green eyes stare at me—pale,... Show moreNIirror, Mirror On the Wall HELEN HAUKENESS I am looking in the mirror. I do not shrink from what I see, but rather cock my head, and try to see which way my hair becomes me most. For this round-faced, thin-lipped image in the glass is all I have that is mine. Green eyes stare at me—pale, expressionless, and heavy-lidded. Do they show the thoughts that are crawling around behind them? I shudder at their coldness and cover them with my hands for a moment. I lean closer to the mirror. (Maybe my hair would look better if I parted it in the middle). I peer at myself out of half-closed eyes, and suddenly an involuntary laugh shoves its way out of me. (I wonder, maybe a side part would be best after all). + Now You Lay Him Down to Sleep! PHEBE DALE To the uninitiated the task of putting a small child to bed may seem like a relatively simple one. “You have to be firm,” say some. "One must use psychology,” say others. “Be gentle,” says still another group. But despite this confusing array of opinions, there is a definite manner of procedure. Suppose you are left in charge of a small boy. His parents have gone out for the evening, after sundry ad- monitions to you regarding bedtime and sleeping habits of their son. The first difliculty you encounter is the problem of how to in- troduce the subject of going to bed. There are two approaches to this problem, the blunt or direct and the diplomatic or tactful. The latter method is usually the better, although it is true that you can use the first approach with extreme effectiveness. Let us say you are reading that charmingly ingenious tale of Goldilocks and the three bears to your young charge. Abruptly you throw the book on the floor, leap to your feet, and announce, firmly and loudly, “We’re going to bed now,” with the emphasis 52 Show less
Spring Morning IRENE M. JOHNSON Morning sat on the hill resting a minute before touching the countryside with her warm, soft fingers. As she slid down from her perch, she laughed, scattering the dew pearls which evening had hung around the necks of the grass blades. Her bare toes warmed the cool... Show moreSpring Morning IRENE M. JOHNSON Morning sat on the hill resting a minute before touching the countryside with her warm, soft fingers. As she slid down from her perch, she laughed, scattering the dew pearls which evening had hung around the necks of the grass blades. Her bare toes warmed the cool earth and aroused a baby rabbit from sleep. She rustled the leaves of a cottonwood tree and kissed a wild rose bud. Birds saw her coming and started to sing. It was a sparkling, fruit salad da 'n earl M . 1“ x Y x y ay «fl/p. 1% ("1 PUSSY-WILLOW Pussy—willow, soft and small, You have heard the south wind call; You know they’re gone—winter, fall— Lore of nature, you know all. Pussy, pussy-willow. Out of your little house you peep, List’ning for the birds to cheep— The earth awakens from its sleep As farther out your house you creep—— Pussy, pussy-willow. The sun is shining—here is spring, Bees are buzzing, robin: sing; Winter’s cover of you fling—— Oh, you lovely furry thing—— Pussy, pussy-willow. —JOAN WICKLAND + DARK Squirming strips of shadow Blending into one, Twisting, turning, Stirring up the whirlpool we call dark. -—-BETTY PLOYHAR 30 Show less
