Illustration Commons^™

The Parting, Riley Sullivan

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

"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

Manuscripts

"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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

"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 …

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

Manuscripts

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

Manuscripts

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