MAGAZINE SUPPLEMENT
UNIVERSITY OF OREGON, EUGENE, FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1980
VOLUME XXXII
NUMBER 11
"A Girl Who Died
For a Dead Dog
Diminished Seventh
A Short Short-Story
Mazie was living now, partly as a
tsken of what a long line of prize
fighters and bar-tenders could do, and
partly because she was stock-girl in
“coats” of a store that was too big to
ever have all its departments clean en
tirely and at once. Sometimes she won
dered if the latter were a reason for liv
ing or a reputable excuse for not living.
But it was wrong to think things like
that. One day when she had decided that
she hated everybody and that life was a
dirty gyp anyway, she caught a glimpse
of herself in the long triple mirror by
the windows. Her image stared back at
her, so grim and sullen that she was
terrified
“Oh, come on, Mazie,” she said to her
self quite aloud, for she was alone at
that end of the floor. “Get over it. God
gave you something to save you. No
matter where you are, you can always
pretend that you’re somewhere else.”
She felt strangely moved and even up
lifted to teary heights which might have
been tragic but for the fact that Mazie
was not a great spirit; this was a reflec
tion, not on herself, but rather on the
salesladies, who had given her too much
of Ruth Dewey Groves and Beatrice
Burton to read. But even if she did
exaggerate her feelings to dramatize
them, she was thinking of the idea that
was hers honestly, the particle of phil
osophy that kept her still a good Catho
lic instead of a bubble on the surface of
the river. Because if she could be a dra
gon hiding behind the rows of coats
hanging on the stock-room rod, quite
able to jump out and absolutely terrify
the meanest saleswoman and even dis
rupt the entire department in a minute
—; or if she could be a monkey-trainer,
with the elevators full of customers for
*cages full of monkeys, to do whatever
she commanded them, what difference
did it make if she got only sixty dollars
a month with a clank-clank for small
change because she had charged? What
difference did it make if the monkeys’
chatter was enough to make her
scream, and if Mr. Downing, the floor
manager, was the ugly ape who turned
on her suddenly with a cutting comment
that no good monkey-trainer could have
tolerated? She tried to think only of
the days when she could be alone in the
worlds she made for herself, saying
automatically to the other world: “Are
you through showing these, Miss Red
mond''’’’ and “Just a minute, please;
I’ll call a saleswoman for you,” and
“The coat you want is on the reduced
rack.” The coats were docile creatures,
all with her and for her. Even the
tweeds had a rough comfort. And she
could carry them from the iron cos
tumers to their places on the rods with
no more than a quick touch and a glance
r'at the ticket. And she could be anyone
she wanted, so it was no wonder that
she rarely chose to be Mazie, the stock
girl.
She was all alone in the world now.
’She couldn’t object to carrots, or she
couldn’t cry at dark nights when the
wind blew and paper rattled against
black gutters and little cats shot around
corners with blue sparks snapping off
their fur. She couldn’t say that she
wouldn’t go half across the town alone
when she was suspecting a thunder
storm—oh, she could, of course, except
that there was nobody, now, to give a
damn. Not even Hughie.
Hughie was the big black dog who’d
played about the red hut by the tracks
in the daytime and guarded it by night.
^ They had all moved out—Mazie to a
(Continued on Page Four)
“He built a skyscrapin’ hotel wunst. . . . That thar Hotel spread
over ten er more acres an’ he had the last seven stories put on hinges
so’s they could be swung back fer to let the moon go by.”
■—Illustration from “Paul Bunyan Comes West,’*
produced and printed at the University of Oregon.
Collecting the
First Edition
This is the first of a series of articles
on book collecting and its possibilities
in this state.—Editor’s Note.
When a copy of the Gutenburg Bible
was sold at the Anderson galleries in
New York some time ago for $106,000,
people commenced to ask “How long
has this been going on?” Some time
later the oleograph copy of “Alice in
Wonderland” was auctioned off for
$76,000. Dr. Rosenbrach of New York,
who bought both books, was looked upon
as a little queer for paying so much
for only two books. After all, you could
get the Harvard Classics for something
like $100. It is conceivable that soon
it will be as fashionable to say “Oh yes,
I’m in books” as it is, “I’m in the mar
ket.”
With the unprecedented demand for
first editions, families are hiding old
cook books, dictionaries, and Bibles.
Even rursery rhymes are gathered as
a matter of investment. Almost every
collector has the dream of finding one
of the earlier “children books” by Oliver
Wendell Holmes.
For the sake of the absolute novitiate
an explanation of the first edition might
be in order. What is it on ? and why does
it command a high price? It is not al
ways a beautiful book and seldom is it
free from typographical errors.
Why a first edition should be more
valuable than later printings is mysti
fying to most people. Why anything old
is valuable is more mystifying. Still in
the highly mechanized America, “junk
snipers” collect Colonial beds, old nails,
furniture, and even complete farm
houses. It is obvious that not all of this
(Continued on Page Tuo)
He Created News
But Ruined Kings
Bicycles and Wars
A Short Short-Story
Michael was a newsboy and like most
newsboys wise beyond his years. He was
12. Although quite mature in most re
spects, he still had one adolescent de
sire—a bicycle. The one that he wanted
bore a price tag of $30, which was 30
times as much as he ordinarily had in
his ragged pocket.
Michael sold many millions of words
eyery day. He had learned during the
course of his 12 long years that some
combinations of words brought more
money than others. For instance, just
two words like, ‘‘Aimee Found” might
bring ten dollars in one day, while
“Peace Pact Signed,” although longer,
might net only a dollar and a half. For
the past two weeks there had been noth
ing more exciting than "Explorer Lost”
and seemingly people were getting tired
of lost explorers.
Michael wished desperately that some
thing would happen. He wanted that
bicycle. It was bright and shiny with
red wire spokes.
The King of Wulmatchia was a great
and powerful monarch. He was four
times as old as Michael. Although quite
mature in most respects, he had one
adolescent desire—fame and glory. But
there was no way to attain it. His coun
try was prosperous and at peace with
its neighbor, Halkania, of which Michael
was a small but conspicuous citizen. His
minister of war, Count Von Straskhoff,
was a rather violent man but ineffective.
He bored the king. Out of his boredom
grew the idea of sending the cause to
Halkania. Perhaps someone there would
(Continued on Page Two)
God Kills Those
■Who Fool Him
The Fish Man 1
A Short Short-Story
Finny Elkins became a side-show
freak. He had been a gob. But Finny,
strolling down the Pike on shore leave,
with each arm around a "navy woman"
attracted by his huge shoulders and
sailor’s pay, saw crowds handing out
their dimes to see “The Man With the
Iron Foot,” or “The Man With the Hole
in His Back,” and Finny, jeering at the
“damn dime-paying fools,” decided to
become “The Fish Man.”
So Finny built his ten by ten pit with
the side railing to hold back the spec
tators, hired a “caller” out front, ap
plied clear, oiled onion paper to his body,
attached shells to his finger and toe
nails, and then settled down to attract
ing the crowds. He did well the first
two weeks, but he couldn’t be satisfied
until he had completely eclipsed the suc
cess of his competitors. Figuring in his
slow clumsy way that amusement seek
ers wanted, primarily, sensationalism,
he finally hit upon advertising his own
death.
“Sure I’ll die, in about a year. These
scales shut off me perspiration. See?
Can’t get no air, so I’m goin’ to die."
When persons refused to believe him
Finny called their bluff. “Bring your
doctors, see? The greatest of ’em in
Europe say I can’t live no more’n a year,
but come on ... . bring yours.” The
bluff wasn’t likely to be called, and still
it gave his statements a semblance of
truth, so that his business grew, and to
his delight, at the expense of his
neighboring freaks.
The noon of the day he hired an
extra “caller” out in front, he swag
gered to the back of his shack, stood
among the bottles and cans, tipped back
on his heels, thrust out his stomach, and
laughed.
The laugh bared his tobacco-stained
teeth, relaxed for a moment the cruel
lines about his mouth, but contained in
its ringing tone all the malevolence it
took from his face.
As usual, his right hand neighbor,
“The Man Who Could Pull a Wagon
With His Teeth,” came rushing out,
clicking his money-making teeth to
gether savagely. The fraud to Finny’s
left, “The Man With the Iron Foot,”
came more slowly because of his
cramped muscles, but he came to main
tain his professional pride.
“Ha, ha, ha," Finny laughed. ‘“Man
With the Cramped Foot,’ eh? Guess
you’re goin’ to have to be gettin’ you
an easier job? Mebbe if ya’d try ‘iron
ing’ out the whole of ya, ya’d get mora
business, eh?”
The “Man With the Iron Foot” just
gritted his teeth, and glared at him
through bright beady eyes. Finny sensed
a subtle difference in his competitors
this morning. He turned Co the "Man
With the Strong Teeth.” "And you, ya
tooth mouthed jackass, yer teeth ara
goin’ to fall out because you ain’t got
no body to watch ya exercise ’em,
Ha, ha, ha.”
“Shut up, you fool,” the other replied
grimly. “We’ll get ya somehow.”
“How? By starvin’ In your own cor*
ner?”
"Naw. We don’t have to do nothing.
Something’ll just happen to you without
us.” “Iron Foot” spit, and shot a glanca
at “Strong Teeth" who took up the
theme with a mysterious air. “Sura
thing. We ain’t foolin’. Things happen
in this game more'n ya think.”
“Yeh?” Finny rasped, but his manner
was less assured. “Iron Foot’s” small
eyes gleamed. "Yep, Finny. I remem
ber .... the ‘Golden Dancer’, a long
(Continued on Page ZVSJ