The
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Overturne
Man dox
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Iy rural mail route goes through a backwoods section where
happiness is a rare commodity. Once a year the highway
department cleans out the roadside ditches, upsetting some of the
mailboxes. Since it's against rules to dump mail on the ground, I have
to stop and blow my horn at the homes of the folks who haven't put
their boxes back up.
At one home one year, a youngster always ran out to get the mail.
"Bet you won't have to blow your horn tomorrow," he'd say, and each
day it became a game to see whether I'd get there before he did.
Meanwhile, his dad kept promising to replace the mailbox, but never
did. Finally, I gave notice that mail would have to be discontinued.
Next morning he met me. "Mister," he said, "Sammy gets a lot of
fun out of your visits. It's the best thing he likes. Every morning he
gets up and talks about meeting you before you blow your horn. So if
I put up that mailbox. ..."
"Skip it," I said.
Sammy's still racing to beat the horn. F. Neville, Denmark, Term.
The Best Discipline. A friend of mine has an odd hobby: bringing
together friendly dogs and angry boys.
"When I was 12," he explains, "one of my classmates was a sour kid
named Joe. He was always picking fights, never had a friend. I guess
it stemmed from a loveless home life.
"Then one day a big brown mongrel wandered into town and adopted
Joe. It followed him to school, never tired of playing with him.
Warmed by the dog's companionship, the boy began to thaw.. His
manners improved, and so did his grades. He went on to college."
This convinced my friend of the therapeutic value of dogs on small
boys. Now he seeks out juvenile delinquents and makes each a gift of
an affectionate puppy. Cecil F. Hanna, Santa Barbara, Calif.
Terse Tome. My daughter, one of those bright young moderns, shudders
when I use old-fashioned expressions. She recently invited me to visit
her, and instead of writing that I couldn't come because I was just
plain broke, I explained eloquently that my financial resources were
exhausted. Back came a two-word reply: "Income pooped?"
Mrs. Grace Watson, Eureka, Calif.
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0 SX3&dXDC'
... in a successful Broadway play a few years
back, the grandfather of the family rose at the be
ginning of each meal. He looked at the ceiling and
opined conversationally:
"Well, Lord, it's been a pretty good day."
The play was "You Can't Take It with You" and
the family's name was Sycamore. Sometimes I lie
awake trying to remember either the title or the
name or both. They fall constantly from their allot
ted slot in my mind.
I have never forgotten the words.
I have wondered why. They're not poetry nor lilt
ing prose. They couldn't move men to greatness nor
halt the hand of vengeance. They'll never be droned
aloud in classrooms, engraved on silver, or carved
on stone. They are written on my heart.
In the eyes of God, a year is as a day or a moment
or perhaps a microscopic fragment from the far
touch of time. I do not presume to call His attention
to insignificance. But I cannot relinquish the thought
that, on thit eve of new year, I wish to stand alone
here in my room end feel the words.
When the yer began, I had no great hopes for it,
but I hoped. Each year is for me the clean sweep
of excitement across the page of myself and each the
bright expectation of adventure.
Some years have held little, some much. Yet each
has been a turning point for me, as for all men.
Each has been memorable for more than pain and
less than tragedy. Each has contained a measure of
joy and delight and, if some have been other than
fulfilling, each has been other than disaster.
I could ask nothing more than to find myself here
in the last twilight with my eyes raised to the star
and on my lips:
"Well, Lord, it's been a pretty good year."
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I7t N. Micttoan Ave.. CMcM I. III. Ltofturtf 1. CjavVoW FMfither: Walter C. Dreyfui.
A...wla tMimr- aa K. cut-.!. I n:. 0.1-l O'OmI. A I il-m Birtftf MiiUni D Prat. Faad
Editorpt4)Am A.'fetur, Art Director; Mbftrf f itiq'blMMi Man: art: AaMCUrtf Mlon: Kevin V. Brown. Jack
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