Cowley College - Tiger Daze Yearbook (Arkansas City, KS)

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College Pens Sonnet to Friendship When bursts of fury springing up within, lmpell a fretful fit of clark despairq Wheii signs of scorn or sneers are brought to bear Upon some action of our fellowmengff How futile are manls struggles! Left to chance His life, his light, his joy, his faith, his hope All count for naught and he is left to grope Amid the teeming tides of circumstance. Then, thanks to God, friends hearts are still alive The magic oil of friendshipls peaceful psalm On roughest ragings that can ever rive Our foolish souls, will worlq a tranquil calm Upon our surging hearts, and sweet relief Proves Love triumphant over every grief. -- Everett Garner And Life Begins The long pathwayis windings fail my memory-- A blaze here, a twig snapped there remain-- All its twisting weariness is lost to meg Ahead is a hilltop yet to gain .' -Douglas More Philosophy for Living On one of those first gorgeous autumn days that give a feeling of crispness and a hint of frost 'tMommy sat on her porch, her hands idly folded in her lap, French born, her skin has the swarthiness of the Latin people and her wrists and ankles clearly show the peas- ant strain. Although she has passed her seventieth birthday only thin ribbons of grey are in her luxuri- ously coiled black hair. Her face is furrowed in a mold that be- speaks a life that has known hard- ship and frequent sorrow. Yet as I approach her, there is a lighting up of eyes and a humorous quirk to her usually mobile mouth that tells me she is glad of my presence. Perhaps that is why I find this woman, whom I call Mommy so interesting. Her welcoming smile enfolds me like a cloak and her friendliness anoints me like a sweet scented oil. Our conversation, trivial at first, soon dips into the past. My reward for being a patient and interested listener are stories, she relates, so rich with stark drama and reality that the shadowy characters become real in my mind's eye. Mommy as a child- bride, innocent and ignorant of life. A year later, the mother of a baby girl. A quick succession of babies until there were seven of them added to her household. The deep and lasting loss of one of her children. A husband who has taken to drink and no longer feels his responsibilities. A houseful of boarders to feed in an effort to make a living for the large family. Cries for help from friends and neighbors in time of sickness. Calmly laying out the dead in pre- paration for burial. Sharp spanks for the lusty new born babes and reassuring pats for the wan and and fatigued mothers. Sponge baths for tiny fever-racked bodies. Slowly, she reviews all these things to me as if living and savor- ing them again. Where could this fortitude and courage come from, ask I? Frail human mind could not have born such a burden. My answer comes, when Mommy looks far into the east with eyes that see things that I cannot see and says without bitterness, The way of the Lord is good! Such conviction and sincerity in this simple faith rings in her voice, I am humbled in her presence and feel unworthy even to touch the hem of her dress. Alida Armstrong PAGE

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Last Load Sitting high up in the rustling wheat-sheaves, I looked about my bundle-wagon at the stripped fields. Tch! tch! giddup! I said to my mares, then realizing that this was my last day in the harvest fields- perhaps forever-that this was the last load I should haul, I let them plod as slowly as they wished. Dusk was slowly sifting from the cold, blue ridges far in the West. I deter- mined to hoard this last scene, these last impressions for the enrichment of some distant time when I should remember these days of contact with a more natural life. Somehow I admired those rustic men who were artists with pitchfork and team as I thought of their hearty humor, their rough comradeship, their stoic philosophies. Yonder at the thresher I could see tall, jovial Luke and some young farmer who had just joined our crew. Their bodies swayed in rhy- thm as the bundles, caught on their fork-tines, arched into the separa- tor. Far behind my wagon I saw old John and Shorty chatting as they leaned on their fork handles. tOld John had taught me how to harness, pitch, and drivel. Now they were waiting for the last emp- ty wagon. Two more wagons fol- lowed me at a distance. Loaded high and swaying threatenjngly, they crawled in the twin ruts- looked like artistic miniatures from where I sat. As I turned the fence corner and saw their sides, I thought they appeared to be loaded with soggy shredded-wheat, packed heavily into their racks. As I drew nearer the thresher, I bethought me kindly of those patient horses who pulled resignedly at their traces. I had worked for days on the culti- vator with only their sagacious companionship. They had worked hard for their daily oats. Now the sun looked like a giant moonstone, soaked with pure blood and illumined from within, settling into a torn. inflamed sky. The hori- zon was almost white, fading up- ward into the darker blue, etched keenly by the blackening ridges. Pale mist was seeping in the dis- tant contours. A farewell glance at the scenery as I smelled the chaff. -Miles Harvey There was plenty of work to do on the farm. I could not do much when I was six, but I watched my father go about his work of feeding the live stock and getting the soil ready for the wheat crop, hoping some day that I might be able to share in his hard labor which seemed never to end. My main task was gathering eggs which I usually hroke while I was carrying them from the poultry house to the kitch- en. The work on the farm for my mother was as much a drudgery as my father's work was in the boiling heat of the summer sun. -Lester Neal PAGE 24 From Junior Morniiig Frost I know God painted the world last night, Each leaf and tiny limb, And corn stalks standing up so straight Pay tribute real to him. He used no color to paint his scenefff All was purest white. lt took evil quite away, And left a radiant light. Sunflower seeds in rusty balls, Hung on long, coarse stems, And the lace on the fragile foxtail Was full of the rarest gems! White tinsel was wound on each wire fence, Worked in perfect squares, And all the flowers left outside Bowed their head in prayers. Some artists use their vivid colors, And leave me deaf or blind, But God can take just pure. clean white, And give ine peace of mind. -Lola Mae Stocking Fleeting, silver truth touched earth, lllumined it for one bright inonientg lts lucent light burned clean And flashed with sudden promise. lllusively it lighted worlds, Gave fortaste yet of beauty Waiting in our westering years, Promised sunsets rich with bounty. - Douglas More

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Did you ever try to keep up with Albert Lambert and Sara Stanley telling jokes? The hostesses for the dinner club meetings usually try to put Miss Stanley and Lambert at opposite ends of the table, for if they were put together there's no telling who would win the Verbal race and certainly it would be bad to have a feud within the club. The club meets around the dinner table once a month and there puts to practice the principles of social speaking they study in class- the members of the Dinner Club are in the public speaking class. These speakers are busy people. Besides eating they work up several plays during the year, sponsor at least one chapel program, and sponsor the Misner Players, who bring Shakespeare to students. One of the most interesting meetings of this club year was a Christmas dinner eaten in room six. Miss Pauline B. Sleeth, sponsor, had decorated the room with candles and a Christmas tree. In the flickering light the group told of their favorite Christmas memory, Yuletide stories, and exchanged gifts. Virginia Holman was president of the group for the year 1938. Fredrica Hutto was vice-president, Captola Shelhamer, secretary, Veda Burks, GY S PGEBC E n G E at treasurer and Albert Lambert general handy-man. One of the outstanding projects of the year was the presentation of choral readings. This is the third year Miss Sleeth has coached her class in this art, and it seems to grow on those who study it. Choral reading was started in England several years ago by a woman who wished to give poetry back to the common people. Poetry was meant to be read aloud but we have gotten into the habit of always reading it silently. In a choral reading the variety of tone color in pitch creates an unusual and interesting effect. Members of the class are Doris Easterly, Verneda Kittrell, Esther Weekley, Ogla Bays, Merna Wright, Ruby Counts, Sara Stanley, Albert Lambert, David Holland, Clarence Rambo, Dorothy Heathman, Mary Jane Ralf, Edith Rymph, Captola Shelhamer, and Virginia Holman. . J z