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Page 136 text:
118 Tm: BITTER Rom'
"It dived." he said, almost tearfully, to his mother when she attempted to
condole him for the loss of the product of his painstaking work. She gave
him a doughnut and a penny and sent l1i1n to his friends, shouting through a
mouthful that "he was goin, down to the corners and y 'u better come. too. if
y 'u want any."
And so. if any of you wish to recall your own boyhood, go down the street
some summer afternoon and bribe any barefoot ten-year-old to lend you the
contents of his pockets for an hour and set your imagination to work.
IIAROLD SHAW. 328.
There are those who say that nothing left to explore. No new countries,
no distant seas, no mountain rangesg nothing is left for today. But I know of
some dark caverns in which untold treasures lie. These treasures are seldom
seen except by the guardian and perhaps his closest companions. for though
they might mean nothing to others. they are life itself to him. But at times
these are left unguarded. and we may see what it is which he prizes so highly.
Here, of course. is a knife. with handles chipped and one blade broken.
A mouth-organ, so grimy that no one but a boy would put it to his mouth.
comes into view next. Now we see a watch. The crystal is cracked, one
hand has been lost, the spring is broken, and the case is battered, but what if
it is? Surely a person who carries a watch is far superior to one who does
not, even if it does not run. There is a "genuine tiger's toothw purchased
from a farmer boy. Truly "ignorance is bliss." for if our boy knew of the
countless other "tiger teeth" which that same farmer boy had extracted from
the mouths of the dead farm animals. he would lose all faith in the wild beasts
of Africa and Siam. Nails, matches, marbles. notes received in school, and
various other articles help fill the space. This horse-hair ring never sees the
light of day except when the owner is alone, for it was given to him by a small
girl playmate to patch up their quarrel. Last of all, stuffed down in the
farthest corner, still folded as it was when his mother gave it to him one month
before, is a handkerchief.
JOHN HOLLENSTEINER, '29,
Page 135 text:
THE BITTER Roo'r 117
Things in a Boy's Pocket
QPreliminary Extemporaneous Essay Contestl
What a story could be told by the things in a boy's pocket, those little
trivial articles that mean so little to the grownups and so much to the little
fellow. They speak sometimes of tragedy, sometimes of joy, sometimes of
leisure, and sometimes of haste, but they always tell an account of his everyday
That little ball of fishline, knotted and snarled, with perhaps a lump of
lead or even a nail for a sinker, and a rusted hook impaling the mummied
remains of a grasshopperl It speaks of sunlit paths through cool shady woods
to a placid pool that gleams and glimmers and glistens in the noonday sun,
where other youngsters cast their lines or, disdaining the angler 's art, dive and
duck each other, until, forced by lack of breath to desist, they throw themselves
upon the sandy beach to bask in the sunlight.
Perhaps an agate, "genuwine" moss, prized for the images which youthful
ingenuity calls up, is present among his treasures. A marble or two, all that
are left from playing "keeps," tells of defeat and victory. It brings to mind
a vision of barefooted, hatless boys, kneeling in a ring, intent upon the aim of
the young aspirant for honors as Hchampeenu player. In the background
you hear the crack of wood on leather and voices urging on the runner in
the spring quiet.
An old broken knife recalls your own boyhood, when a Barlow was es-
teemed beyond all the treasures of Arabia. Its one rusty blade has seen better
days, days when the young owner, cooped up in the house because of storm, to
his mother's dismay, strewed shavings all over the house as he paced from
window to window, watching the dreary rain drip from the eaves and splash
into the rain barrel, in whose shelter stands a half-drowned rooster, regarding
disgustedly the dreary drizzle. It could tell of days spent in the barn with
his young confederates, when it was used to whittle out a bow-and-arrow or
a scalping knife.
And the old Watch that would not run-its cardboard face. stained with
wet, and the watch's nickel worn off-it still was a source of pride to its owner
and the envy of the adolescent neighborhood. Perhaps some day it would be
taken apart and its Wheels would make tops to spin in school behind the con-
cealing shelter of a geography book.
Perhaps that tangle of string is all that remains of his kite-cord, lost in
the top of the tree where his kite now flaps disconsolately in the breeze
Page 137 text:
THE BITTER ROOT
At the Dawn
The day awakesg
The stars fade one by one
Into the deep.
YVeisee but one dim li
In Eastern skiesg
A dying ember yet
Remains, a brief
Memorial of the
The moon grows sick,
And skies blush red with fire!
The portals swingg
Apollo takes his flight
And tops the hillg
Down into vales below
The sunlight streamsg
All darkness turns to light
The night has pastg
Our dizzy dreamings cease.
VVe hear the sweet
Good morning of the Wre
VVith soul afresh,
With visions fair and sweet,
We rise once more,
To start life new again.
HARRY H. STETSON, '30.
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