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We Dome ?im Wrong
(A Short-snort Story*
The Rev’rund Kirkwood, as Shorty, my partner in the pastime
at Crane Junction used t’ say, was probably the right-rev’rundest son
of-a-gun that ever set foot in Crow county. They can all tell you about
the day he first come to town, his skinny black suit grey with dust
from the old Ford bus that brings folks over the mountain from Can
yonville where the railroad station is. He had a old black bag in his
hand that I reckon was as old as Jake Huggins’ spotted cow that’s
been in Jake’s family fer two generations. Jake swears he drank
milk from that ’ere cow when he
was jest a baby, and Jake ain’t no
spring chicken now you can bet.
Well, this ’ere preacher feller
came into town that day with his
black bag and his collar on back
wards and everybody knowed that
it meant trouble.
“Jeez,” Shorty grumbled to me,
“Reckon we’re in fer another spell
o’ reformin’.”
Shorty Was Right
Well, Shorty was right! Th’ Rev
erund Kirkwood didn’t no more
’n get moved into Maw Pierce’s
boardin’ house over next to th’
grange hall than the next thing
we knowed he was down ’t the
pastime one mornin’ askin’ us why
none of us never goes t' church.
“Tell ya partner,” Shorty says
up t’ him right smart, “Tell you,
when y’ start passin’ good ’tater
licker ’round with th’ c’llection
plate I’ll gar-ntee ever’ man of
us ’ll be there.” Laugh! Why th’
fellers playin' poker in th’ back
room like t’ died.
Well, th’ town didn’t take to
him none. After that first day he
didn’t come around the pastime
very often though so he didn’t
bother me ’n Shorty much. He
couldn’t very well preach nowhere
but in the church, and they wa’nt
no law a-makin’ people go to
church. Besides they was enough
righteous folks a’ aimin atter re
ligion to keep the Rev-runds
church full.
Rev’rund Not Satisfied
But the Rev-rund wa’nt satis
fied. Fust thing we knowed he
was cornin' out on the streets a
tryin’ t’ reform everyone. He took
t’ settin’ on the pastime porch an’
grabbin’ all 'ar reg-lar customers
till business fell off somp’n tur
rible.
“Liquor is the beverage of the
devil,” he told Shorty ’n me one
day when he was a-settin’ with
us on th’ pastime steps, “and to
swear is a sin.”
Maybe th’ collection plate start
ed a-fallin’ off, ’er maybe th’
preacher decided he could give
more, of us religion by printin’.
Anyhow one day the news got
around that he’d bought th’
Globe-Telegram, Crane county’s
newspaper and was aimin’ t’ put
it out a’tween Sundays when he
wa’nt preachin’.
Globe Changes
Right then a change come over
the Globe. In place of th’ news
about th’ prize fights Joe, th’
blacksmith and big Mink, the
Swede that hauled logs fer th’ j
mill, was stagin’ ever’ Sat-dy1
night in th’ back room of ’ar pas
time they was a lot o’ stuff about
Ladies Aid Sassiety meetin’s an’
church socials. By this time we
was purty dawgone cartain th’
preacher wan’t human an’ he wa’nt
none too popular around Crane
City no more.
Carr Was Close-Mouthed
We use t’ try t’ get Carr, th’
feller that run th’ type settin’ ma
chine fer th’ Globe to talk, but he
wouldn’t tell us nothin’. We could
i stood the preacher if he’d
3howed a sign o’ bein’ like th’ rest
a’ us, but as fer as we could find
jut he was too damn pious to live.
Carr was a close-mouthed devil.
Ever’body thought that he was
cracked. Ol’ man Priestly that
run th’ Globe afore th’ Rev’rund
got his hands on it, used t’ cuss
him up one side ’n down th’ other
on account of him bein’ s’ dumb
about settin’ type.
“Th’ damn low-lifer,” Priestly
used t’ rave, “I have to put all my
directions on the margin of the
copy in red ink and circle it three
times ’er th’ first thing I know
he’s got them set up in the story,
too.”
Well, I reckon ol’ man Priestly
plumb forgot t’ tell th’ Rev’rund
that when he sold him th’ Globe
causa there use to be some darw
gone funny things printed in the
paper after the preacher got a-hold
of it.
Rev’rund Slips
“My Gawd,” Shorty use t’ say
t’ me, “Looks as if even a Rev
rund c’n make mistakes.” It used
t’ make us feel a little better
about all th’ preachin’ he done, but
it didn’t make us like him none th’
better. We was gettin’ purty sick
o’ his pious ways. ’ *
(Please turn to page seven)
QUESTION
You tell me if I play with fire
I will get my fingers burned.
But ah, dear friend
How was it that you learned?
BLIND DATE
Tonight I had a blind date,
He had a car, a wonderful line, I
All the requirements of a good
time.
Oh, why am I five feet eight ?
ACTIVITIES
It’s over—
I’m through—
Activities, not any more!
I’ll do some playing too.
“Oh, a meeting, you say, at
four?”
WISDOM
I went to college for several
years
One thing I tell you through my |
tears:
Only those who go to class
Are those who finally pass.
FINAL APOLOGY
My poetry, I know, is very bad,
But it’s consolation when I am
sad.
And lots of fun to write in
classes.
My friends say they’ll be very
glad
When this phase of creative
effort passes.
—By ELIZABETH STETSON,
White Gold
By MARY BURTON TURNBULL
i Lela sat in her invalid’s chair
and watched her mother tuck the
knitted afaghan over her knees. “I
can’t bear to see him yet, Mother.”
! ‘‘Better get it over. You have to
face him sometime.”
‘‘All right,” Lela leaned back,
“tell him to come up.” She looked
a picture which Harold had paint
ed.
The girl in the picture was vivid
ly beautiful. Her hair was glinting
gold with deep yellow shadows.
Sunlight caught in its softly wav
ing tendrils and sprakled there.
It was that beautiful hair which
everyone saw first; that sparkling,
glinting mass of molten gold which
had been her treasure all her life.
Now it was no longer yellow.
It was white; white as the silk
floss in the sweater she wore.
This was the mark the weeks of
fever had left on her.
Harold would soon know. Harold,
whom she adored ‘with every breath
in her body. Would he care so very
much? It was his love of beauty
which had brought them together.
Into the bookstore where she work
ed he had chanced to come one day
to ask about a small black and
white etching. He had looked at it
and said “It is beautiful.”
Well, she was no longer beauti
ful. Without the brightness of her
hair, her face showed dull and
plain. The blue of her eyes seemed
a faded blue, and her cheeks and
lips were colorless.
She wheeled her chair to the
window in the full light and waited
for him. By the first unguarded
look in his eyes, she would know
how deeply he was shocked.
Then he stood in the doorway.
Facing hin^, she * watched his
eyes. Tenderness and love. Noth
ing else.
“Darling!” He came toward her.
“No! No!” she cried, “Mother
must have told you!”
“Told me? Told me what?” The
surprise qn his face seemed genu- j
ine.
“Don’t be cruel,” her voice broke.
“My hair. The color. Tell me, do
you mind so very much?”
“The color? Is the color chang
ed?”
She looked at him amazed.
He smiled at her tenderly. “You
see, my dear, I do not recognize
color. I am color blind. To me
your face is just as beautiful as it
,has always been.”
The End.
Best Selling Books
Now on Reserve
In Browsing Room
A little known service extended
to students by browsing room li
brarian Ethel Sawyer is the col
lection of popular new books.
These books may be read at any
time in the room, but must not be
taken out of the library.
The purpose of this group of vol
umes is to allow several people to
read the new books at a single
time. For instance, eight people
are now reading “Gone With the
Wind,” where only one person
could read it in the course of a
month if it were kept in the regu
lar circulation department.
Some of the books on the shelf
are Hervey Allen’s new “Action at
Aquila,” Dr. Victor H e i s e r ’ s
“American Doctor’s Oddessy,”
Noel Coward’s “Present Indica
.Book Review
Luc ret ia Mott: The Greatest American Woman—Lloyd Custef
Mayhew.
Lucretia Goffin Mott—who was she? It seems rather strange that
a person who played such an important role in United States history
has escaped almost completely the interest of biographers. In her
own day she was considered one of the most radical of the radicals.
But interestingly enough, every one of the reform movements for
which she vrorked' and suffered so valiantly we now take for granted,
and the only interest she had which has not stood the test of time was
phrenology, and that was considered very respectable in her day.
She was born of one of the important families of Nantucket in
Educated
Dabbler
By A SENIOR
Four years in the glorified at
mosphere of a university—and I
have obtained the full growth of an
educated dabbler. The only limits
to my opportunities for dipping,
superficially, into many branches
of knowledge have been those of
time and of energy to explore the
endless possibilities in every field.
Today I am faced with the neces
sity of getting a job. Who will pay
cash for my ability to enjoy life?
The world wants experts—people
who have perfected their skill in
some field, no matter how small a
one. Such people command my re
spect. In school I have sought their
company rather than that of the
dilettantes. They have given me
the material I sought, predigested,
ready for my consumption. In high
exaltation I have discovered, under
their excellent guidance, the pat
tern of knowledge. I have caught
glimpses of the part psychological
forces play in economic life and
have touched upon the social and
political aspects of our western
civilization. But at no time have
,1 focused my attention for more
than a brief moment for I have
disciplined myself against too great
absorption in one thing. Such en
grossment might result in omis
sions and I have been determined
to omit nouung.
Now, pygmy high, I stand offer
ing my full worth to some pros
pective employer. Selfishly I plan
ned my college program. Today I
wonder if I will be able to find
some one who will gamble on the
result.
It will be a long shot, for as an
immigrant I’ll enter the working
world. Although an admirer of the
connoisseurs of words, I have not
,even developed the sophomoric ten
dency to imitate them, and with
faltering English speak and write.
Responsibility hasn’t been my long
,suit. It would have resulted in my
carrying burdens which no dab
bler could take time to assume.
Honesty and accuracy haven’t
grown out of my habit of being “al
most right.”
There is little, besides my en
thusiasm for what life has to offer,
to be found on the asset side of my
balance sheet. I have lived beyond
my income. Only a wealthy per
son could afford to have spent his
time becoming such an educated
dabbler. All I can hope for now
is that I have the luck to meet that
gambler who will take me on my
solemn promise to balance my life
accounts.
tive,” and other hard-to-find cop
ies of students’ favorites.
University of Wichita municipal
administration students govern the
city of Wichita for a day as one
of their class projects.
1793 and lived to see in 1880 the
enormous changes brought about:
by the War of 1812, the westward
movement, the industrial revolu
tion, the Civil war, and abolition
of slavery. Some of the changes
she indeed initiated, and it was
her vision, her persistence and
courage that contributed largely
to the ultimate realization of
them.
The abolition of slavery, the
emancipation of women, the peace
movement, all of which were most
unpopular then, owe an incalcu
lable debt to the charming little
lady whose keen mind, appealing
manners and magnetic voice were
the constant subject of comment
by critics and enemies as well as
friends and admirers.
Begins Relief Work
Lucretia Mott’s Quakerism was
a revolt against the materialism
of the times and led to practical
expression in humanitarian work.
During the depression that fol
i lowed the War of 1812, with a few
| other Quaker women, she organ
j ized a society for the relief of the
poor — her first philanthropic
work.
Deeply moved by the death of
her father and small son from ty
: phus fever, her utterance of a
brief prayer in Friends’ meeting*
was the beginning of the preach
ing which was later to make her
I famous.
i She began to preach against
slavery, at first in the colored
church in Philadelphia, in 1829,
thus antedating the activities of
William Lloyd Garrison. This
meant braving the bitter opposi
tion of all the “better element”
backed by mob violence. For we
must remember that “slavery was
the economic life blood of the
South and the bone and marrow
of northern industrialism.”
Saves Convention
When Garrison called a conven
tion in Philadelphia to form the
American Anti-Slavery society,
members were discouraged by
their failure to obtain backing
(Please turn to page seven)
No Time for
Small Talk
Have to order
ray Oregana
"Streamliner”
Have You Ordered
YOURS?
Educational
Activities Bldg.