WRITER’S JOURNAL it . . . watched it yet as he heard Mr. Hubbart say they'd benei DC getting home . . . saw it swerVe towards the billow of green and soar upwards . . . saw it circle as goodbys were said with the Caileys. . Goodby . . . Goodby. . . . It was growing darker and the mysterious... Show moreWRITER’S JOURNAL it . . . watched it yet as he heard Mr. Hubbart say they'd benei DC getting home . . . saw it swerVe towards the billow of green and soar upwards . . . saw it circle as goodbys were said with the Caileys. . Goodby . . . Goodby. . . . It was growing darker and the mysterious softness and gentle— ness of dusk was massing the woods into one big shadow. In the West the sky was red and yellow and green and blue. Mr. Hubbart picked up his spade and the four turned homewards. One last look at the Caileys, going down the edge of the field towards the river and then east along the fringe of another wall of green. . . . Unlike the preacher, the Caileys did not look back and wave. Susie jogged along on the horse as Lawson strode past the tall corn which Jamie's father had planted . . . past the stumps which lay across the path from the field . stumps Jamie's father had pulled out with Jud. their horse. Jamie wished that Susie had looked back and smiled and waved. Suddenly he thought of the hawk and turned quickly to the west woods. It was hard to see in the twilight shadows. Jamie stopped a moment to hunt for the bird; the Hubbarts kept on walking. But it was gone . . . it had fled. He couldn’t see it any longer . . . circling and swerving . . . dipping and gliding. . . Jamie turned and ran, a more terrible gust of grief welling up within him and the tears blinding him. Mrs. Hubbart looked back. “Come, Jamie,” she said softly. “We’ve got to hurry. . long way home.” . It’s a —BR\'CE SI—IOEMAKER BOOK REVIEWS THE VVRITER’s BOOK, presented by The Authors Guild; edited by Helen Hull. xiv. 355 pp. Harpers & Brothers Publishers, 1950. “The I’Vriter's Boo}? presents Hull in the Foreword to the an unusual assembly of writers book. And the list of contribu— of our time. men and women whose names are among the most distinguished and the most fa— miliar in the profession of writ— ing, as contemporary as tele— vision and the secrets of the atom. as well established as the Nobel Award." Thus writes .‘inss tors is impressive: Pearl Ruck. Thomas Mann. John Hersey. Rex Stout. W. H. Auden, Paul Gallico, Lionel Trilling—to men- tion only a few. The book ought to be a valuable and usable vol— ume for all sorts of people. especially for would-be writers. _3()_ Show less
VVRITER'S JOURNAL all it is claimed to be, why isn't it used. if not exclusively, at least more widely than it is ?" The answer is of many parts. Edward Dickinson suggests that the Chorale of the 16th and 17th centuries began to fade as religious fervor waned. False tastes crept into the church:... Show moreVVRITER'S JOURNAL all it is claimed to be, why isn't it used. if not exclusively, at least more widely than it is ?" The answer is of many parts. Edward Dickinson suggests that the Chorale of the 16th and 17th centuries began to fade as religious fervor waned. False tastes crept into the church: hymn tunes took on a quality of effeminacy and sentimentality in no way related to genuine religious emotion; harmonies and melodies were fashioned upon the prettiness and languishing graces of Italian opera; they inclined strongly to the light, artificial strains of the then “fash- ionable" world. Not until there is a revival of spirituality, says Dick- inson, the equal of that which shook the world of the Reformation, will the Chorale be sung again or will a worthy successor arise. There are other reasons why the chorales aren't used. Here are seven: 1. Many of them are relatively unknown, and we don't tend to sing what we don’t know. Familiarity is not only the music lover’s, but also the Chorale lover‘s, first commandment. 2. Often those charged with the responsibility of selecting and leading the congregational singing operate on the assumption (usually passed on by oral tradition) that the Chorale is not liked (as if whether it is liked or not is the final test of a good hymn) and. therefore, it is difficult to “put over.” a. This is especially true when the leaders deal with the children in Sunday and parochial school. They will be assuming that the child must be treated as an adult of lowest intelligence, and then proceed to feed him the lollipops which grace the “Children’s Section" of most hymnals. \Ve ought never to forget that the child. whose mind is not bound by the prejudices of adults. will sing and will love to sing the good as well as the inferior: and that, excepting a few, there are no hymns which are too diffi- cult for the technical ability and the appreciation of the child. Often what the children are asked to sing is much more diffi— cult than the good they should have sung. The quality and use— fulness of the music employed in church schools is not neces- sarily determined by the vigor and loudness with which it is performed. The Sunday school is not a pep fest, and its music ought to make the difference clear. \Vorshipful singing should be joyful and fervent. but always reverent. “Religious devo- tional joy," as Joseph Ashton points out, “is not sheer excite— ment. nor iis it the same as secular enjoyment. The singing should have animation and spirit: but rather than the evuber- _30_ Show less
\NR‘ITER’S JOURNAL shifted his feet, Jamie looked from one face to another. Everybody was looking down except Susie Cailey: she had turned and was looking over towards the wall of trees which marked the limit of James Little's fields. Jamie followed her gaze and saw that the hawk had returned and... Show more\NR‘ITER’S JOURNAL shifted his feet, Jamie looked from one face to another. Everybody was looking down except Susie Cailey: she had turned and was looking over towards the wall of trees which marked the limit of James Little's fields. Jamie followed her gaze and saw that the hawk had returned and was soaring. down towards the trees again. “Well . . It was the Elder‘s voice. “Well? Now? . . . .” Mr. Hubbart looked up at the Elder and then at the spade which lay beside the pile of dirt, yellow on top and black on the bottom. The Elder nodded and Mr. Hubbart went over and picked up the grade. Mr. Williams glanced up with a start and then quickly walked over and put his hand out for the spade. “Let me. . . You dug.” Mr. Hubbart gave up the spade silently and Mr. Williams stuck it into the soft earth. A shovelful of clay came up and went down. The coffin resounded hollowly. Susie Cailey started forward and laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “Lawson . . The next shovelful went down carefully and the dirt only rustled on the wood. So this was Death: :1 great loneliness descended on Jamie. Quiet cries tore at his throat and he hurriedly brushed his rough shirt sleeve over his eyes. “Jamie,” Elder Meharry came the short distance from the grave to the boy. He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and bent over. “Jamie, you’re but a lad . . .” He hesitated. “Try and be a man now. Jamie. A man like your father . . . big and strong and not afraid. Your father was a Q'OOd man: but God saw fit to take him home." Home? . . . Where but here? "Your father'll be watching from heaven to see that his boy grows up to be the way he wants him to . . . like I want you to. But. Jamie . . . you're much too young to go on alone from here. You'll need some- body to help you along for a while yet." Jamie nodded. biting his lip and looking down. He prodded a stone with his foot. . . And you know of no one of your father's kin that’s near?" the Elder asked gently. Jamie shook his head to a question that had already been asked of him that morning. No one. no one. . Elder .Vleharry pursed his lips and smiled reassuringly. “Mr. _28_ Show less
listening for sounds of the guitar. In answer to our thought, somebody Bail, "Where's Dewey?" Everybody agreed he wasn't anywhere in the house and Mother said she'd go outside to look for him. We ran from the bed to the side window and watched her go down the steps. Not ten feet away we could see... Show morelistening for sounds of the guitar. In answer to our thought, somebody Bail, "Where's Dewey?" Everybody agreed he wasn't anywhere in the house and Mother said she'd go outside to look for him. We ran from the bed to the side window and watched her go down the steps. Not ten feet away we could see Dewey sitting on the running-board of the old truck. EVen in the dim light we could see that he was holding his guitar tight against him and crying into it. Mother said, "Come on in, Dewey. They want you to play for them." He didn't answer.‘ "What's the matter, Dewey?" Mother asked. He looked up at her and we could see his face was all wet. He choked when he talked but we could understand what he said. "It's my fault. All my fault. She used to Work hard for me. She didn't deserVe a son like me. I ran away with a threshing crew when I was fourteen. And do you know how old I am now, Esther? I'm twenty—two. I havenft heard from her so long I don't know if she‘s living or dead. It's all my fault F He picked up his guitar and threw it on the ground. Then he sat down again and buried his face in his arms and cried. Mother said nothing. She walked into the house and we could hear her saying that Dewey wasn't feeling well. Tne Show less
WRITER’S JOURNAL men in the field, the book con- tains a highly satisfactory selec- tion of American writings from the colonial period to the present time. All of the major writers are included; but the minor authors are not omitted. It is in the selec— tion of representative works, however. that... Show moreWRITER’S JOURNAL men in the field, the book con- tains a highly satisfactory selec- tion of American writings from the colonial period to the present time. All of the major writers are included; but the minor authors are not omitted. It is in the selec— tion of representative works, however. that the book is out- standing: no other one—volume anthology is as rich in literary types. Ballads, folklore, the drama, and the novel are included together with the customary poems, short stories. and essays. The editors have divided American literature into six per- iods: The English Colonies (1588-1765), The New Republic (1765-1829). The A m e r i c an Renaissance (1829—1860), The Civil War (1850—1865), The Rise of Modern America (1865— 1914), and USA. (1914 to the present). Each period is intro- duced by a chapter on “Intel- lectual Currents" and “Literary Trends”; these essays are espec— ially helpful in relating the lit- erature to the history of the time. Biographical sketches disclose the more important aspects of the authors’ lives, and brief in- troductions to the various selec— tions give added insight into the works. Sufficient footnotes are included to explain the more dif- ficult allusions and passages. The only criticism one can make is that once in a while the editors tell too much of the article, re- veal too much of the story or poem's interpretation. Attractive in format with type that is easy to read, the book has an added attraction in its abund- ance of authentic illustrations. A study of American litera— ture can be very rewarding to the college student: from the pens of American literary mas— ters the student can obtain added insights into the problems of life; he can acquaint himself with the history of American thought. There are many books he can read, many anthologies he can page through; but in The Lit- erature of the United States he can get one of the clearest and most balanced presentations avail- able. THIs GENERATION, Revised Edition, by George K. Anderson and Eda Lou Walton. xv, 1065 pp. Scott, Foresman, and Company, 1949. No person can hope to read all of the literature that rolls off the presses year after year; at best he can make but a small begin— ning. Yet there are ways of keep— ing in touch with the various literary currents and trends, the outstanding authors. An anthol- ogy can be of great help: if it is well prepared, if its selections are well chosen: it will give the reader an insight into the chief movements of the period. This Generation will prov1de the reader with an insight into the more significant British and American works written during the period from 1914 to 1948. Much could be said for and against the selections the auth- ors have made. Here it is suffi- cient to recommend this anthol— ogy of contemporary literature. _32_ Show less
SPIRITUALIET The angel—spirit danced in a wild bul-hu; The man up front said, "A message is coming, Coming for you! Who, who, who does it want?" "I W said a woman with a dirty black hat And a tinsel star on that. ( She found it in a rummage sale And thought it was so nice) "I see the spirit and I... Show moreSPIRITUALIET The angel—spirit danced in a wild bul-hu; The man up front said, "A message is coming, Coming for you! Who, who, who does it want?" "I W said a woman with a dirty black hat And a tinsel star on that. ( She found it in a rummage sale And thought it was so nice) "I see the spirit and I know He's called me twice W "Good Angel-spirit," said the man Up front. "Tell this woman Why her mind you haunt." 51's 3F ‘5‘ "The spirit," said the man, "Says he must Tell you that your brother is living and Your mother is, too, dni he's hippy in his World and the skies are always blue, And he says he's your brother who died when He was two F "Oh, yes W cried the woman with The dirty black tan (and the star In her crown from a rummage salc jam) "Yes, he's my brother who died When he was two. Praise the Spirits for my messuge coming through!" The spirit disappezrcd with contented sighs And Slipped chk into his spirit paradise. -—Patricia Razook Show less
N IGHT—T IME SONG I sit at my window And listen to the night song. A drizzle swishes down, And the drizzle becomes pellets Making tiny noises when they Bounce on the window sill. It stops; it dies and There is no sound Except a whooshing whiSper. In little gusts, With false ferocity, it... Show moreN IGHT—T IME SONG I sit at my window And listen to the night song. A drizzle swishes down, And the drizzle becomes pellets Making tiny noises when they Bounce on the window sill. It stops; it dies and There is no sound Except a whooshing whiSper. In little gusts, With false ferocity, it crescendos Eb repeat, now and over again, "Til the morning comes. There is no remembrance Then of the night—time song. -—Maurine knderson Show less
from DEAR SPECUL‘iTOR (This poem is an excerpt from a larger prose work “which portrays a Christian caught by the confusion of rational philosophies and his return to faith.) But is it nonsense But are it nonsense But is it nonsense But who can sayf But is it really But what is really For I am... Show morefrom DEAR SPECUL‘iTOR (This poem is an excerpt from a larger prose work “which portrays a Christian caught by the confusion of rational philosophies and his return to faith.) But is it nonsense But are it nonsense But is it nonsense But who can sayf But is it really But what is really For I am fickle in full array, But this is nonsense But not is nonsense For nonsenaee is not astray, But this is rhythmic But not a rhythm But what is rhythm But mindless play, But mindless play In full array, For what is rhythmic is mindless But what is mindless is not rhythmic But what is brainless is not mindless But what is mindless is not brainless But is this nonsense all astray, Show less
MAUD ANDERS It was windy the night I went to Maud Anders’ house. Dust and pieces of scrap paper were being blown into the air. find across the street the Standard Oil sign rattled as it swung back and forth in the wind. I knocked on Maud Anders’ door thinking that 9g50 was a strange time for a... Show moreMAUD ANDERS It was windy the night I went to Maud Anders’ house. Dust and pieces of scrap paper were being blown into the air. find across the street the Standard Oil sign rattled as it swung back and forth in the wind. I knocked on Maud Anders’ door thinking that 9g50 was a strange time for a woman to be going to the country to get' pota- toes. But probably she had had to work until new, I decided. Maud answered the door and for a moment I just stood in the entry blinking my eyes and trying to get used to the light. After I did get used to it though, the house seemed very dull and cold. Maud was standing in front of me saying something about the baby. Hbr voice was high and she talked fast. She told me that the baby's milk was standing on the window> sill in the back porch and that probably I could givev it to him about 10:30. Then she talked about her mother's garden in the country, and how her cousin was going to drive her out there to dig some potatoes, and ham lucky she was to be able to get this food new that her husband was overseas and couldn't support them. She told me this as I followed her through the front hall into the kitchen. The kitchen was big and high. At one end of it was the stove and at the Show less
make sure...Yes, there were thirty~four big smooth ones across the top and nineteen tiny ones on the down pieces just for enough apart to fit one finger between all the way down to the spring. You’d start to count the bows in the curtains. They looked like butterflies when you looked at them with... Show moremake sure...Yes, there were thirty~four big smooth ones across the top and nineteen tiny ones on the down pieces just for enough apart to fit one finger between all the way down to the spring. You’d start to count the bows in the curtains. They looked like butterflies when you looked at them with your eyes half-shut. You'd lose your place before you'd get halfway across one row and-— wasn't a tiny breeze beginning to wave them? You'd sit up in bed to see. You'd look out the window at the white sky and bright green grass and watch twilight creep in from the pines down in the pasture,over the stone wall, and up the field past the swing hanging in the apple tree to the lawn. You'd wonder why the colors changed to such bright shades. The pines were getting black now, and the pasture hill was beginning to turn a grayish colcr. Now you couldn't see the swing ropes——just the dark narrow seat hanging just above the ground. It would make you feel creepy to think about it, so you'd grab your pillow, pull up the covers, and make yourself as small and flat as you could be. Now you'd listen to the night sounds begin. The birds were giving a little contented chirp once in a while. Then you'd notice the soft crse—cree of the crickets in the grass down under your window. The song of the frogs had started in the swamp. It got louder and louder as if they were having a contest Show less
FUNERAL The day was gray. Fog blanketed us in an air of mystery. Everything Seemed uncanny, almost unreal. Someone was dead. Long, mournful tones of a funeral bell were heard out over the town. The sound of feet shuffling over the pave- ment drOWned out the bell and the pro— cession maved slowly... Show moreFUNERAL The day was gray. Fog blanketed us in an air of mystery. Everything Seemed uncanny, almost unreal. Someone was dead. Long, mournful tones of a funeral bell were heard out over the town. The sound of feet shuffling over the pave- ment drOWned out the bell and the pro— cession maved slowly toward the church. The church, too, seemed to be different The walls were the same—-so was the ceiling. But yet it was different. Many times I'd sat in these same pews. Many times I'd knelt at that same alum} But now everything took on an airof unreality. Songs were sung. Words were spoken. The casket was closed. Once again the procession started to move. Half melted snow crunched under our feet as we; passed into the cemetery. The tomb stones looked at us--some were big and proud, others were small and humble. The casket restcad above the open grave. Dust was sprinkled and the words to dust shalt thou return" echoed across my mind. The people left, and I IOWered Shim into the grave. --Sanford Syse +4 Show less
I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING Stand there on the street corner with scorn in your eyes. I know what I'm doing. I'm puking all over the sidewalk because there's too much whiskey in my belly. I'm hanging on this post because if I don't I'll fell. I've spent my paycheck. and now I'm going home to my wife... Show moreI KNOW WHAT I'M DOING Stand there on the street corner with scorn in your eyes. I know what I'm doing. I'm puking all over the sidewalk because there's too much whiskey in my belly. I'm hanging on this post because if I don't I'll fell. I've spent my paycheck. and now I'm going home to my wife and kid. I'm going home without any bread, and they're hungry. I'm going home without any money for gas, and they're cold. Next Week when the money comes, I'm going to do it again. I'm going to drink for one hour. For one hour a week I don't live on a street full of broken glass And stinking garbage cans. For one hour a week there are no back stairs to climb to the sixth floor Of a rotting tenement. For one hour a week my kid doesn't Wear a rag, And she doesn't Show decaying teeth when she smiles. In fact, for one hour a week I don't have any wife and kid. Stand there on the street corner with scorn in your eyes. I know what I'n doing. -—Gloria Ostrem Show less
