Haverford College - Record Yearbook (Haverford, PA)

Page 139 text:

spelling: kissed but tha t doesn ' t make it any better. All we can say about this verse is Rotten! What would that girl with the pink snood think — and a Haverford man too. Breath from the pines Lightens the lines Smoothing out wrinkles of care Under our feet Breathe we the sweet Odor of mayHowers rare. We are certainly glad to get that breath from the pines, but it would have to be pretty strong to lighten the lines any. Smoothing out icrinkies of care is interesting. It shows how the author is getting worried. Don ' t worry, Cuthbert we are with you on this. Umhr our feet breathe we the sweet odor of May flowers rare. The inverted order proves that this must be visualized to be appreciated. We have stepped on some Mayflowers, and we have bent over to smell them under our feet. This is not a comfortable position to be in, but it is poetic. All art ought to be universal. Face we the lake Joy in the quake As winds through the tree tops wheeze Far in the wild I am a child Of brown aborigines. The dope on this verse is as follows. As we smelt the Mayflowers ' neath (poetic for beneath) our feet, we look between our legs and face the lake. That is how we get joy in the quake. We knew there would be an earthquake somewhere along in here. Quake is short for (luiver which rimes with shiver. Ak winds through the tree-tops wheeze. This is the summit of inspiration. Any common man like u. would slip the word sneeze in after a line like this. Did you ever hear the breeze wheeze through the trees? Take it from us, electric fans are a poor imitation of the beauties of nature. 131

Page 138 text:

Ah now, quit that. Really it is embarrassing to criticise such a poem. Did you ever see the blood sparkling in the wood? Snood would be a better word than blood. Blood and wood don ' t rime anyways. And a snood is so much better because a snood is what a girl ties up her hair with to keep it on straight. A pink snood would be a better color than blood — more delicate, and you can wash — I mean lave it with gasoline when it gets dirty. The woodchuck digs is a pretty line and very inspiring. Keep on digging old woodchuckie and vou ' ll get there. Now any man who is not poetic in his soul would rime something about pigs with this line. But this is the real inspired poetry. No Peruna in this. Pigs wash. — they do not lave, and so they don ' t get a look-in on this poem. Guinea pigs might, but the word guinea is an anapest sylla- ble, and we need a dactyl. Siveet guinea pigs might do if there were no music in your soul. As u ' c pass where wood doves coo — come on now, do you notice that first person plural? There is a woman in this somewhere. Our own critical instinct about the snood shows this, and notice that v ' ord home-planning in the third line. I knew a man who had wood doves. He fed them salted peanuts once and they didn ' t coo after that — they croaked. Here there is calm Brought with the balm Borne from the bending pines Veiled in mist By green leaves kist Mellow the soft sun shines. This poem resembles a slot machine. Every time you bite off a piece there is something to chew on. Here there is calm — how much better that is than Here there is balm. The balm comes from the pine trees, do you get that? Balm is a species of liniment. Balm is the real article, no antiphlogis- tine or New Jersey mud. Balm is sort of slippery elm. Ask for Balm the next time you go to the barber shop — it will make you feel like writing a poem on Inspiration. By green leaves kist. Green leaves don ' t grow on pine trees but the author of this poem is above finicky points. This is called poetic license. Kist is the important word here. The author was cer- tainly slow if he let the green leaves kiss that kid with the snood tied around her head. Never let any- thing like that get by or they will know you are from Philadelphia. Kist is the new acoustic way of 130

Page 140 text:

am a child of brown aborigines. Don ' t be too credulous, dear reader. This is a little off- color, and is to be interpreted mystically like Plato. Believe me, I knew his father and mother, and they run a dairy farm in New Jersey. But soft, what now. Then ho far a life Wiih an Indian wife Safe in the solemn waste Here we may run Soft in the sun Swifter than Amazons raced. Indian wife, what? With a wife like that we would have to be pretty far back in the solemn waste. A lovely spectacle she ' d make at an afternoon tea. Who would want to talk jargon to some old black-haired squaw? She would shy at an automobile, and she would not lave unless you threw her in. And then she would be apt to cut your whiskers off some night, or throw a tomahawk at the cat. As for me I ' ll spend my wampum on the girl with the snood. She might scorch the oatmeal for breakfast, but she could act like a lady at Delmonico ' s. An Indian wife may be all right for poetry, but as for me give me the kid that chews with me on the same stick of spearmint, and sings kind of soft like cuddle up a little closer. A meeting of The Heofordostor Club was held last evening. The purpose of the meeting was to talk as much and say as little as possible. Honorary member, Jas. A. Babbit, dosted to each mem- ber privately, patting him assuringly on the back, and addressing him as ole fellah. Dostor Hin- shaw meanwhile sprayed an excellent line of Dost in the atmosphere, and though the members appeared to believe everything he said, no one really listened. Chief Heofordostor Seller also attempted to make a speech, but Babbitt and Hinshaw retired, the former to run over to Atlantic City before supper, the latter to mould public opinion among Heofordost swallowers. President Schoepperle, Grand High Heofordostor and Founder of the Organization, tore off a little concentrated Heofordost to the empty seats, and elected A. G. H. Spiers and J. K. Patrick regular members of the Club. 132