Concordia College - White and Blue Yearbook (Milwaukee, WI)

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SS} ee Sie BBN A a emmmaninctiyer sper ww Ae in B” SARIN st SSS TA ea eA IRN Ye eR EAS ave ne RAK GpmimAM ANDOU HANNE MAIO cosmo Suns ONS henselae fore heat Peeled eT a SR REN A IRS RN TRS ANNEAL C= ; NOG IOSD TA ere aensmnngtennueaen: eS Nenganhemaancencecsuaseasees sen cei et oe et eter teeters meee oe 9 ss Vg TIER UPHIP ER AND BLU (ze ) SleeploucnunG Cit nepotanommn Menem ea necexperlencenOn yous (Or ineastent when it rains and the roof leaks. Thunder rolls, lightning flashes, the wind howls and shakes the canvas sides. You can’t sleep but you sort o’ dose off. The next morning the sun shines. You never saw it shine until you see it after a storm in camp. Me iealthyeliiem Oipallelivess thisvis! = Air toMimtoxicate a mummy. Think of being environed in blooming fields, shady woods, sequestered vales, and the clear blue sky above—nothing to disturb you or din into your ears. All your soft sofas and feather beds can’t give you a wink of the rest plain rough nature does. And appetite!—not the spoiled, finical, city-bred kind, but real, unaffected, eat-anything appetite, that’s the kind a fellow gets out here in the open. You can have your gas buggies, your parties and feasts, your city comfort and luxuries; but as for me, Vll-take the great out-doors. “Just sky and clouds overhead for us, forest wind in our faces, wild per- (UmlemimmouGmaOs ilo mmUucheomeOtlmrcctuinars the lite fon us, Remember reading that in the Harvester? Well, the gang is bringing in some fish for me to clean, so I'll set the period. See you with me next summer, Camping out, Ee Page Fifty-five

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NS FS wan Anne » Me - mm ee Wx PASSAT Ree te ee rere earns an ne tare nearness NY THE WF WE r Ke AN o BLU Kr IN } SF 3 A SQ ib = PANE Sm mmmnannnota wr arenema Mi oat S a nPno'y Ainge tion rice eethe BA MANNANIMSORUAN NS SN ae Sem pve 8 srere snag eens me AS = 5 aaa seen ara ee rcererannaneaeetT |, |, hmaneaaalbanenasemereesmeanneaensnennunnsnnensere —— N tx 2 % 2 Camping Ort Dear Chump, “L’ve bartered my sheets for a starlit bed; I've traded my meat for a crust of bread; I’ve changed my book for a sapling cane, And I’m off to the end of the world again.” Here I sit and dream and live, whether at the end of the world or where in the world it is, it makes no diiference, it is out of the world you are in, poor citified stay-at-home. You swelter in the heat; I lie on the smooth sand and let the cool waves lap over me. You sip the artificial beverage of the soda-fountain; I let the pure nectar of the crystal spring gurgle down my throat. You inhale dust and smoke; I breathe the washed zephyr off the bay and the sweet aroma of the clover-field strained through a forest of pine. The crowd jostles you and dins into your ear; I am alone, but for a few pals out in the boat lazily drift- ing and all about me is stillness, broken only by the notes of a feathered flute back in the woods, the swish-swash on the shore, and the hum of an old re- frain coming over the water. The long trail, the cool dip, the crackling fire, the bunk o’ leaves, the open sky, the pole and line, the wholesome grub, all these are words that belong to me. I’m wrapped up in fresh air, sunlight, and beauty, and know why they call nature “Grand.” If you want a thrill out here, get up early in the morning—I beg your pardon, get up any time you like—but in this instance, if you want a thrill, get up early in the morning, squat down on the shore, and behold the dawn. Morning birds sing a prelude, the misty veil floats away, and great beams of light illumine the scene, poking like silvery rafters out of the clouds. Then a shining disk as big as a cart-wheel appears, the bay glitters, and old Sol’s golden rays penetrate your being. You exult and throw yourself upon the glassy surface of the water with a splash, come up tingling, smell bacon and eggs, and race for your plate, ravenous. For adventure, not the aboriginal, primitive kind, but still real adventure, follow the trail. Take it through the deep woods, over a carpet of leaves and moss, and into the glade of fern and wild flowers. You come upon a sunny floor, matted with grass. You while a moment there, and then plunge into the shade of a ravine. The trail leads up, pokes into the gaping mouth of a cave, and then reaches a point from where the world lies stretched out below you. Or get up early some morning (remember you don’t have to, but it is your privilege) and take in forty miles of landscape, coming back when the trail is getting dark and the sun is setting in the west among the trees like a great red ball of fire. Stroll at night along the beach in the moonlight, gather the driftwood for a merry blaze, sit around, sing songs, tell stories, and dream. Page Fifty-four

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