Arts and Humanities Commons^™

My Experience With Poetry, Rachel Whelan

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Poetry? A strange parade of multicolored, grotesque and unique figures begins its march through my mind. Far down a misty street of reminiscence it is headed by a gingham dog and a calico cat, and passing the reviewing stand at this moment is the pitiful crowd from the "Fall of the City" led by the mysterious woman. My parade is distinguished from all others because its end is never viewed, and the beginning never stops, for there will always be spectators for this parade, and though the street is winding and narrow in spots it never terminates.

Sun On The Steeple, Richard Moores

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The man rolled over in bed and woke up. He opened his eyes slowly and carefully and immediately closed them. Bright yellow sunlight came through the second story window and struck the bright yellow ugliness of the wall paper. The man put his hand in front of his eyes and blinked a few times, then he took his hand away and looked at the clock on the table beside the bed. It was 10:15 and the post man always came by at 9. The man decided to take it easy. He shook the last cigarette out of the pack on …

Credo, Mary Wiley

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In our sad days it is a woman's part
To keep alive the things that ease the soul,
All music and delight. It is her role
To pour out lovely songs to fill the heart
With tenderness again, and hopeful start
The hymnal in the church; amid the whole
Of dark, confusing time out of control
To sing, and let not loveliness depart.

Unfaltering faith is difficult to keep
When futile tears fall on the changeless earth
And still are dried by the recurrent sun.
Mankind may perish if its women weep
Too much, too long. We will allow no …

Professor Blank, Patricia Sylvester

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He walked into the room, hung his umbrella on the thermometer (on sunny days he used the umbrella as a walking stick) and turned methodically to the speaking stand. Then it came-laughter! laughter! The professor filed through his mind to determine if he "cracked" any of his jokes at the last meeting of the class. No, the last meeting was Thursday, second Thursday of the month. He always pulled his jokes on Tuesdays. Maybe it was the blackboard. Someone had written something on the blackboard, - something funny, maybe even about him. He turned to look at the board, but …

Spikey Evans, Myron Scarbrough

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In the afternoons, before most of The Sun's staff had come to work, the windows of the sports room were tightly shut and the radiator sizzled merrily. The room was hot to a point well beyond mere discomfort, and the copy boy with the two o'clock mail or the occasional match-maker with his notice of a boxing tournament never tarried long in its unwholesome atmosphere.

While the torrid room and its stagnant air drove copy boy and match-maker from its tropic-Iike confines in short order, it never got the best of Spikey Evans. Spikey was human, and he knew when …

My Hero, Glenn H. Fisher

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I wouldn't read this if I were you. Before you get any farther than this you should know that although I started to write a short story I never got it finished. I almost did though. It would have been a poor story any way - it's just the idea that I didn't finish what I started that irks me.

The Curse Of Sabina, Robert Dietz

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"Good evening, lad"
It was a strange voice. Loren stopped his work and turned. An old woman peered at him over the fence. She frightened him; he dropped his hoe. He wanted to run.
She spoke again. It was in slow, drawn syllables, "Have you seen Marna?"
Loren had never heard of Marna. And he had no idea who the stranger might be. She was old, her back was bent, her dirty gray hair hung long and loosely over her cheeks. In the setting sun it was difficult to see her face, but the features appeared sharp and hideous. She …

The Silversmith, Joe Berry

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The child was born unto a silversmith,
born son and grandson both of silversmiths
in the small room behind the dusty shop.

The old man stopped his pounding on his bench,
his son turned down the fiercely blasting fire
when the child was born. But when he breathed, cried
and howled, they worked again, as they had done
all morning - and as they had done
for years before, the old man and his son:
silver sculptors, bracelet makers, fashioners
of all small articles from gleaming blocks.
Now they were glad; not for two hundred years
had the house lacked …

The Eldest Of A Band, Esther Benjamin

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I am a P. K. I was born a P. K., and I suppose I shall die-a P. K. I have known the obligations and privileges, the sorrows and joys, the tragedies and comedies of membership in the Royal Order of the Society of P. K.'s, all because my father is a minister, and I-a PREACHER'S KID.

Living With The Angels, Jack Devine

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Pretty Joe Rainbow was not as pretty as his name implied. He had yellow teeth which were always visible because they lay over his lower lip. Whenever he opened his mouth to smile, which was often, one could see that the teeth were more like dog teeth than those of a man. They were pointed and spaced apart. On the tip of his tongue was a wart, and Pretty Joe liked to try to fit the wart in the spaces between his teeth. The left side of his face was swollen to about twice the size of a man's fist; …

April Thoughts In War Time, Helen E. Hughes

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Sonnet

Blue skies are cruelest now; immense, they bend
Over the lonely land, uncompromising,
Unconcerned, aloof. Unnatural friend!
Whose time is April when the sweet surprising
Daffodils spring up to rival such
A brave and tender blue! We who are used
To turning calm eyes skyward now see much
Of heaven that is alien and confused.
Where once we laughed into the sun's embrace,
Once welcomed friendly rain, once searched the broad
And democratic sky for Saturn's face,
And, searching, strained to touch the hand of God;
We now stand under skies that vomit fire.
Be angry at the blue …

Front Matter

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Front matter includes: front and back covers, table of contents, and masthead.

What I Believe, Jim Mitchell

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In the last two or three years, it has been extremely difficult for the peoples of the world to find anything strong, permanent, or lasting enough to withstand the ravages of war. Dreams and cherished hopes have been consumed overnight or in the space of but an hour or two by the ever growing blaze which is threatening to engulf the entire universe. Men have come to believe only in the strength and power of the sword and the maxim that "might makes right." The cries of the idealist that war can be banished from the earth are lost in …

Who, John Rock

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May I present a personage not exactly famous but who is widely known and carefully dealt with. He exerts a magnetic influence upon the life, love, and financial status of millions. Without doubt, fortunes have been made and lost in fickle gambles involving his undependable nature. Banking, insurance, brokerage, and the like are deeply entwined in his fateful web of behavior.

His character is quite electrifying. Many brilliant men have tried or are trying, to forecast his next stroke and to analyze him, that they might better combat him. In the many publications, and in the many stage and screen …

Poem, Ardath Weigler

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I Ivy and jew growing in pink and blue
mugs
Mugs meant for small children
Mugs settled primly on lace doilies
Atop a spinster desk ....

TWO MONTHS LATER
II He was standing there under the neon
sign-tall, hair rough in the wind-
broken outline of glasses and upturn-
ed collar ....
Dull tap of narrow black heels on
the asphalt.
He turned as they walked toward
him, to him, past him.
Her heart did a flat-footed ballet
as she thought, "This is the end, fool."
-tugging, choking, adolescent heav-
iness crushing her breath with its
vacuum.
He thought, "She's …

The Parting, Riley Sullivan

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I could imagine him coming in quietly, scarcely taking the effort to close the door securely. Yet, he might come in hurredly, slam the door, run through the house, throw his coat and books on the dining room table, and be up in our room almost before the echo of the noise had died away. He was moody and changeable; that was why I was leaving; that was what I disliked about him; and that was why I did not know how he would enter the house. In fact, I never knew how he was going to act under any …

Night Life, James Hawekotte

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In innumerable industries there is a night shift. A group of men whose day is the night; who live for weeks at a time and never see the sun. In a way this is a fascinating existance. I know, for I lived it all through the past summer.

Some people are shocked at the idea of sleeping through the day and then arising as everyone else goes to bed. I enjoyed starting to work at eleven o'clock. I had the streets to myself. There was no hurrying crowd, noisy traffic; Indianapolis was all mine; mine and a few others that …

When Tires Retire, Betty L. Snyder

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There has been a great deal of talk about the rubber shortage since the war began. Radio comedians have used it to an advantage; members of business firms are riding bicycles to work, and the old ladies who could never be convinced that the automobile was here to stay, are saying, "I told you so."

August Evening, Keith White

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It is dusk, almost dark: the fire flies are glowing intermittently as they flit over the wheat stubble; the sun has receded over the horizon leaving only a dull glow of color in the west; in the east the harvest moon is peeping through the blasted tops of beach trees. The mists are rising down in the river bottom and ease like ghostly ships up the creek bed while over to the south choir practice begins. The sonorous bass of the bullfrogs, the vibrant tenor of cicadas; the squawk of water fowl as they rifle, single file up the creek; …

Alone In The Fog, Tom Wagle

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I drove on forward into the fog - the gray, swirling, all enveloping fog. The peeping street lights appeared uncertain and dim on my either side as they feebly lit the hazy mist with an eerie, sleepy light. Often fingers of fog would reach out and suddenly snap about them, dimming them, shutting out yet more light. Queer, crazy, racing shadows leaped from nowhere in the all covering fog about me. An opening would yawn wide and inviting before me, my car lights would stab into it, I would follow. Slowly I drove on. Yet the fog, the fog - …

It Could Be, Geraldine Staley

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Well, sir, you're here again. I ain't agoin' to tell you anymore; instead, I figured you'd like to see some of the things she did later, written in her own hand. This is a journal that she started in college about a year after the war began. I've taken some pages out that I thought you might be interested in. The first I gave you, was made the night after Johnny, the boy she later married, went back to the Navy after a furlough.

Lines From The Night, Josephine Rosenfeld

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The vanity
of the trees leaning over the rivers
adjusting and readjusting their coiffures.

The solemnity
of the brook gliding by
laughing as the rocks tickle it.

The processional
of the moon
bringing in its trail the princesses
of the sky-the stars.

The strains
of music ascending to the heavens
carrying the heart and souls of the listeners.

An Open Letter, Frances Shemelson

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Dear Frank:-
You always were a tall girl in comparison with others your age. I remember you when you were eight-rather skinny, extremely long-legged, and long brown curls, not the warm vibrant brown of an autumn leaf, but a plain ordinary brown which was very common. And you haven't changed a bit, except to shoot up to five feet nine inches, and you've lost your long curls. You are still comparatively tall, still have those long legs, and that ordinary brown hair. And your eyes - they still look as if you had rubbed them too far into your face. …

On Entering Prize Contests, Ed Mcnamara

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"Now girls, here is all that you have to do to enter this exciting contest. Simply scrape out the inside of a five pound can of Pete's Peanutbutter and mail it together with a short essay of not more than five hundred words telling us 'Why I like Pete's Peanutbutter' to radio station E. A. T. Remember girls, this thrilling contest closes when the company has sold a certain amount of back stock. Act now girls, this may mean a down payment on a fur coat."

Two Pilots Of The Silver Wing, Robert L. Harris

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"She's ridin' high, okay."
"Yeah! Look down there!"
"What is it?"
"Can't make out?"
"Looks like a city 'bout a mile away.
Let's pull her 'round a bit!"
"Okay!"
"Down closer.
Not so steep!
Too steep!"
"There, pull her up a bit.
That's it."
"Yep, she's a city, big one too I'd guess."
"Looks kind'a dark.
So dark and dreary."
"Naw, just a fog.
Lift her up a bit."

Days' Ends, Rachel Whelan

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With shadow fingers of yellow and rose, Dusk slowly touches the marshland changing mucky water to molten gold, and dull green reeds to crimson spears. The golden wavelets dance and whisper to each other while the reeds bend and sway to overhear their secrets. Dusk holds her breath. Upon the mirror surface poises a dragonfly with silken wings motionless, an elfin airliner. With a final flap of wings the march bird glides to her well-concealed nest. A green striped snake slips silently and ominously through sand and seaweed disappearing into the silent ripples. Finally all is still as a moment …

Utopian Ideas And Everyman, Elizabeth Clark

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This isn't my house, nor his house; no, it isn't your house either. It belongs to us. When I live in it, it's mine; and when I move away it's his and then yours. By rights, it is Everyman's. The fields in back of the house that I have planned so carefully, and the young green things shooting up in them are not mine. I did the work, yes, it was my turn to do it. But that doesn't make the fields nor the crop mine. It too is Everyman's. Next month when I leave this house and the fields …

Broadening Your Education, Dean E. Wildman

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American minds have been coddled in school and college for at least a generation. There are two kinds of mental coddling. The first belongs to the public schools and is one of the defects of our educational system that we abuse privately and largely keep out of print. It is democratic coddling. I mean, of course, the failure to hold up standards, the willingness to let youth wobble upward, knowing little, and that inaccurately, passing nothing well, graduating with an education that hits and misses like an old typewriter with a torn ribbon. America is full of "sloppy" thinking, of …

The Old Market Woman, Jean Bowden

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A conservative air envelopes the old market woman. Her small oval face, deeply lined with wrinkles, is strikingly set off by the brilliant sparkle of her dark eyes. Her slightly rounded nose protrudes just enough to lend a small particle of curiousity to her determined facial expression. Her sunken cheeks add some noticeable shadows to her rough skin. Three deep wrinkles encircle her neck as an adornment of age. A thin horizontal crevice forms her firm mouth, which only supports her reserved personality. She is sitting quietly; perhaps, she is waiting for a passer-by to purchase the last of her …

Question On A Bus, Jack T. Kilgore

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"May I - ," George cleared his throat. "I wonder if I could take Jean to the show with me tonight." His words were engulfed by the silence that spread over the table. "(Why doesn't somebody say something'? They can't say no, they just can't. What are they waiting for?) I wouldn't be in late and there is no school tomorrow."

The mother looked up and smiled, and looked to the father for the first word. He said, "Jean who?"

"Jean Newcomb. She is in my English class. (And she smiles when she looks at me, and when she smiles …