Arts and Humanities Commons^™

The Awakening, Harriet Bishop

Manuscripts

And there I stood, a useless, living form
With roughened hands in worn out pockets pushed
And felt some force, not mine, had changed my will,
I turned my face up toward a darkened night.
There at my feet was spread an ancient world,
While high above there whirled a universe;
And far within the depths of treasured years
Strange, kindly voices dimmed the call of space.
For far below was all that used to be
While out in space stood life's futurity.

Felice, Marijane Badger

Manuscripts

I had been working hard all summer. When my vacation finally came, I decided to get "away from it all" and rented a cabin on a small lake. I arrived at the resort in the late afternoon of a warm September day. The lake was choppy and angry, little waves slapped at the shore.

"You should have come up sooner, Miss Morgan, we had a lovely summer. All of the vacationers are gone now, although we have a man in the cabin next to yours. I didn't think you would want to be left absolutely alone. He won't bother you, …

Thinking Makes It So, Jean Pastor

Manuscripts

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."
The purpose of this paper is to analyze and evaluate the above statement, but before proceeding with the analysis, a backward glance at its history will prove interesting.
Although popular opinion generally attributes the origin of "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so" to William Shakespeare, this idea must come under the heading of a "popular fallacy." In this instance, as in numerous others, Shakespeare has merely articulated one of the commonplaces of the time. In other words, the Elizabethans might have been …

The Blind Man, Helen E. Hughes

Manuscripts

I know you as you walk among my rooms,
Your head turned thus, your shoulders moving so,
Your hands made busy with the sound of brooms,
The many little tasks that women know.
Dear brilliant lady, as you come and go,
Is light lent to my days. In you I find
A roof against the rain-let winter blow!
Look on me, love, with kindness; for my mind,
My heart, my searching hands that clasp you-are
not blind.

Tradition, Mary M. Schortemeter

Manuscripts

Katherine Schneider Sat in the large, ugly, black leather chair that stood by the parlor window. She touched the worn chair arms with hesitant, reverential fingers. This had been Papa's chair, and now he was gone. All she had left was the square oil portrait so faded from the suns of many years that she could scarcely define the stern lines of his German face.

She lifted her eyes to Papa's picture and saw how stubborn was his chin, how coldly keen were his eyes. He always looked just that same way, she knew. He never changed anything. He never …

Greek And Latin In College Curricula, John E. Ross

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One of the changes in college curricula has been the lessening emphasis upon the study of the classics in literature and language. R. Freeman Butts discusses the historical setting of this change in his recent book The College Charts Its Course. Mr. Butts places an emphasis upon two aspects of this condition in education: "the origins of the traditions that a liberal education should be predominantly linguistic and literary in character," and "the rapidly changing social and intellectual conditions of the nineteenth century weakened this conception of a liberal education in the American college and gave rise to many innovations …

They, Inc., Jeanne Gass

Manuscripts

"Well, look who's here. Our new tenderfoot himself." Abby eased gently into the big wine-colored chair.
The man across the room scowled and fiddled with his hands and looked at the floor.
Emmie sighed ever so slightly. "I told them we could handle this assignment ourselves."
The man muttered. "Well. This was an important case."
Abby sniffed delicately. Emmie put her hand up' to her mouth and whispered, "It's all right, Abby. They probably had to give him something to keep him busy. He won't hurt anything."
"Mustn't have professional jealousy, you know," the man added defensively.

After Diana, Mary Wiley

Manuscripts

The clink of coffee-cups is pleasant here.
See, I have drawn the curtains fast, and shut
The moon's distracting light from our bright hearth.
Your grave brown warmth is heightened so
And I do not remember with such pain how sweet
The star's carress falls on the traveller's face,
When first he lifts it up to worship them.

The Concert, Joseph Berry

Manuscripts

The small, quiet man sat before a great sparkling mirror and swore quietly as he rubbed prodigious quantities of rouge onto his sallow complexion. He surveyed his rosy cheeks in the glass, stood erect and made a mocking bow, very deeply, very slowly.

"And you also, you ass? I'm extremely delighted to hear you say so. Really, you're too kind. Really. Why, it couldn't have been that fine, you're just flattering me. You fool, you wouldn't know a bow from a mute. All you ever look at is my shoes. 'Performance in proportion to square of brilliance.' Is my tie …

Volume 9, Issue 1: Full Issue

Manuscripts

Full issue of the March 2014 issue of Manuscripts. Includes work by: Joseph Berry, Mary Wiley, Jeanne Gass, John Ross, Mary Margrette Schortemeier, Helen Hughes, Jean Pastor, Marijane Badger, Hariet Bishop, Jack Kilgore, Jean Bowden, Dean Wildman, Elizabeth Clark, Rachel Whelan, Robert L. Harris, Ed McNamara, Frances Shemelson, Josephine Rosenfeld, Geraldine Staley, Tom Wagle, Keith White, Betty Lee Snyder, James Hawekotte, Riley Sullivan, Ardath Weigler, John Rock, and Jim Mitchell.

Front Matter

Manuscripts

Front Matter includes: front cover, table of contents, and masthead

Volume 9, Issue 2: Full Issue

Manuscripts

Full issue of the January 1942 issue of Manuscripts. Includes work by: Joan Fuller, Jack Kilgore, Fred W. Michel, Betty Murnan, Isadore Camhi, Mary Wiley, Jeanne Gass, Alfred Brown, Ione Colligan, Jack Retherford, Catherine Cunningham, R. Gordon Moores, Alice J. Fisher, Norma Jackson, Thelma De Boer, Betty Lee Snyder, John Gumerson, Richard Jowitt, William Hickson, Bob Harris, Rachel Whelan, Edward N. Redfield, Anshelm Schultzberg, Willard L. Metcalf, and John Bundy.

Excerpts

Manuscripts

Excerpts of unknown authorship.

Dictator, Rachel Whelan

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We stood between the giant columns of the mighty triumphal arch high above the riotous crowd of rejoicing people. Three of us, the spokesman, Comrade Jones, and I, stood on the decorated platform waiting for the cheering to cease, for the bands to stop playing, for some semblance of order so that the ceremony might begin.

Soliloquy At Dusk, Bob Harris

Manuscripts

Turn low the lights

Half shut the shutters

Seek out the comfort

Of your favorite easy chair

And there

In the intermingled mists

Of lights and shadows

I shall relate to you

The Story

Of Robert Lee

Pity The Poor Artists, William E. Hickson

Manuscripts

Sometime, when I have a few years to spare, I am going to run down the fable that has grown up around artists. I always wondered just when and where the idea started that artists were a people set apart, not just a section of our race in general. Being an artist myself, I resent both the idealism and the degradation that the world has endowed upon this simple everyday man who has chosen art as a profession.

Flames Along The Thames, Richard H. Jowitt

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A thousand flames ascend on high;

A thousand voices shouting cry,

"Oh, God, why must you now deny

our homes!"

Memory Picture, John Gumerson

Manuscripts

It is a delicate, fragile picture - that first memory. It must be handled carefully like an important aged document lest it crumble to dust. Swiftly, silently it must be viewed, for too much revealing of it fades into an obscure mist which defies definite outline. Yet transparent it stands - that Christmas of my fourth year.

The Life Of A Pledge, Betty Lee Snyder

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Rush week, came, and after the whirl

I emerged a sorority girl

(Oh no-I mean a potential one--

My year as a pledge has just begun).

Lights Out, Thelma De Boer

Manuscripts

One night two lightning bugs were resting on the same twig. The first lightning bug introduced himself and started the conversation.

The Feel Of The Soil, Norma Jackson

Manuscripts

When we arose, the sun had not yet begun to send its warmth through the rich brown earth of this southern Indiana farm. However, we were to plant potatoes and had a big day ahead. Soon the equipment was ready, and off I ran beside the horses, loving every particle of soft, red dust that played between the toes of my bare, brown feet. The road to the field was covered with this powdery, fine dust. It was my childhood obsession to make footprints, handprints, and pictures in it.

Woodland, Northern Michigan, John Bundy

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Illustration by John Bundy courtesy of the John Herron Art Museum.

Landscape, Willard L. Metcalf

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Illustration by Willard L. Metcalf courtesy of the John Herron Art Museum.

Rhapsodically Speaking, Alice Jean Fisher

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Like timid pizzicatos riding a sustained legato, the cricket sounds outside my window are cradling themselves in the fused night noises. Rising in gentle crescendos above them are waves of wind; now they waken the leaves; soft bits of breeze sift through screen and curtain to move a curl across my cheek - shyly, like a child fearfully touching a dog; and shyly too, retire till the now tremulous vibrato of the crickets plays the nocturnal solo once more. The wind mounts again. It throbs against these brick walls; rudely musses my hair, disturbing my thoughts; the sleeper on the …

Gardenia Memories, R. Gordon Moores

Manuscripts

A dazzling stream of golden morning sunlight slants between claret coloured drapes to touch three gardenias on a mahogany dressing table.

The Forbidden Fruit, Catherine Cunningham

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There are few people who have not known the thrill of "tasting the forbidden fruit." The desire to indulge in this exciting adventure is usually at its height when one is about fourteen, at least, in my experience it was especially pressing at that age. One of the "fruits" forbidden by my father and mother was flying; so, quite naturally, I began to "scout around" for someone to take me up. My father had always said that he would never fly until it was absolutely necessary, and mother argued that as far as she was concerned it would never be …

Combat, Jack Retherford

Manuscripts

The place was a small clearing in a forest in British Columbia. The contenders were two buck deer of about the same build, but one was younger than the other. The time was early morning, and the prize at stake was a herd of four does.

Marbles, Ione Colligan

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Jerry thought a moment. Then "I can't remember any memory verse from last Thunday. If I'm not absent any Thunday this quarter, will I get a bag of marbles?"

Trite, Alfred Brown

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"Everything is trite; nothing is new." Such is the expression of opinion I have heard in regard to all written and spoken thought - barring science. Who told that to me? Was it Miss Beuret? Have I heard it or read it from some other source? Never mind, the opinion probably is true.

The Sisters, Jeanne Gass

Manuscripts

"Kathy! Kathy! There's horses down there. Right down there by the river!" Pete came running, red pig-tails flying. Her old brown coat was slipping off one shoulder, her rolled stockings were drooping, and she was breathless with running and the excitement of her news. "There're right down there."