Franklin College - Almanack Yearbook (Franklin, IN)

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my .. . , i I' v .........., ,..,.. - ,,,..,,.. ,. ,.,,,. .I ,.,,, 5 if ,....,,,,,.,,.,,,,, ,.,,,...........,,.,..,.,.,,,,,,,,,,, A 1 'xx ---- fs W S S, ' Q Q. ETSI..- .............. . ,.,.,,..,,...,, ......,...,. .,k, jx 0 Uh? gint!-I By CLYDE BISHOP W1LsoN ULES govern all conduct-fighting, writing, loving. If, for instance, a girl likes a boy pretty well she may, if not stubborn, take it as a reciprocal sign if he comes first to her with his joys and triumphs. Lois Trouch was not stubborn, therefore, when she saw Duncan Wall take the three veranda steps at a single hurdle, a little thrill stirred the color in her cheeks and warmed her welcome. Are you glad, Lois? panted Duncan. It is splendid, Dunk-Mr. Editor of the Annual. How does it sound?'l It will sound better when I've made goodfl 'fYou will. UI'll make it the best the old college has ever crowed over! he pronounced. 'fNeed any help? quizzically from Lois. Duncan, full of a fine zeal, missed the mischievous re- buke. Oh, I won't have time to do it all, he replied seri- ously. HI will have to have contributions, of course. A sudden animation marked Lois' reply. Let me write a short story for you, Dunk, she cried, eagerly. Duncan smiled indulgently. f'All right, he replied. 'fBut I am in earnest. lVIay I try it? she persisted. f'Be serious, girl. You have never written anything, have you PH he asked, absently. 'fWell, nothing but practice stuff. But I know I can. I just know it. I feel it. And I have studied some, too. lEleven I have never talked about it much, but,-won't you let me try, Dunk? This made it awkward. Duncan was a little vexed to note that she was in earnest. Why, Lois, I-I can hardly reserve space for you on such an uncertainty. You see I have to make this An- nual a winner. Do you really know anything about short story writing: the technique, the rules, and all that sort of thing? You know I can't let it be filled up with a lot of amateurish and unskillful stuff. I'm only going to run one short story, anyway, and I've already asked Pro- fessor Carstadt to contribute it. He knows the game. A super-serious estimate of his official character plus a pardonable ardour, rendered the boy a little tactless. Lois was piqued. Spirit, closely akin to temper, spiced her reply. 'fThere's a difference between knowing the game and playing it. I haven't seen his name on any magazine covers or Tuxedo advertisement. 'fNow, Lois, do be sensible. Why, Carstadt knows every rule of technique ever laid down, from Aristotle's Poetics to the modernized principles of hrlelville Davis- son Post. I-Ie knows by heart the combined treatises of hlathews, Perry, Pater and Pitkin, Poe and Stevenson are his class by-words. And you have to follow the rules, too- HYou talk like I might never have seen even the title of a text book, retorted Lois, warmly. 'WVell, but you have to know all the rules. Do you

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' o ,. . ,. ny Roscoe GILMORE srorr, '04 Let me carol Today! The hope and the dream of it, V' '1 - he The sweep and the depth of it, wild, weird crash of it, The sob and the sigh, The resonant shout, The clanging of chains, The maddened engines, che its belts, its gears, its rods, And its giant spans! God, I was made for Today! I am its breath and its food, I am its slave and its cog, A cog in its wild whirring wheel I am an atom of wine, A joyous atom in its full cup, Today claims me, seizes me, tireless spinning of its wheels, 3 Thrills me, cheers me, loves me,- Today sends me forth! Let me carol Today! Tho men jeer at my caroling, Tho fools prate of beflowered Pas Tho the impoverished old VVeep in their places. Bid me sing with a full throat ts, Glnhag In its mammoth market-place, Or cry its praises in the people's halls, Or shriek it forth To the vibrant, echoing winds! Bid me lift up my voice, Bid me reflect my passionate joy, Bid me waken the dead, Today hath anointed me- I am a prophet! Today is Life's herald and reformer, Today is a ministering spirit, Whose food is Hre, And whose drink sparkles With the dye of heroic blood, Today is Who has Today is Who has Today is Who has Today is lvlanls great giver, taught him to give, Manls exacting task-master, prodded him to duty, Man's impartial judge, taught him justice, Man's holy example, His sacred pattern, His unfailing chart! Let me carol Today! Yesterday was a coward who fled, Who mocked us in fleeing. fe X ,gjgm H ,vw-N YQQVVVVQ 7 YVVV Y www .UVV r e. Qs! QYYQQWQ ef-2 , - Tomorrow is fickle, Tomorrow is Time's mirage, Fatels hollow smile, Death's banquet. Let me carol Today! Let me sing of this precious hour! It is a marvelous and composite Thing Made of the sacrifice of patriots, Of the blood of pure women, The The The The The The brain cells of the inventor, dream of the inspired poet, song of the ancient plowman, despair of the pioneer, retreat of the savage, sword of the brave, And the prayer of the pious. God, I claim Today- Today only is mine! Crowd into my knowledge its mystery Point out its quality, Measure for me its sacred worth! Today's sun lights up the whole world! God, bid me carol! fCourtesy The Man Sings .l

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,, . ,. -I .-,,-.w,,- , , H. . 1 know what a short story isg the double ideal g the three unitiesg what consti- tutes a plot, and all that sort of thing? Half mastery is slavery- Yes, some o l d r u I e Pardon me for mentioning it, but what you don't know about the short story would certainly make a very short one. What I don't understand is why you editors don't write your own stories. Isn't it ethical? or don't the others know how, like you, and Professor Carstadt, A. IW. P. IW. N. B. P. S., Department of English- Nliditors don't have time, snapped Duncan, rising. The atmosphere was growing sultry. Some of them ought to have time, the full limit, re- torted Lois, following him to the door. I'Il copyright that one if you don't care, taunted Duncan. Then, in a conciliatory tone, he continued: But, seriously, Lois, you know I can't take'any chances with the Annual. It's my chance to show the college what I can do. If you want to write a story, go aheadg but I can't reserve space for it, not knowing-3' You're right, Dunk. You lzzzou' what Prof. Alphabet Carstadt can do, because he's professor of English and writer said that, cut in Lois, insiduously. 'tt' jjj, 'rx' '..iiii1j :: maa'r ''N knows what a dead Greek and forty or a hundred text book fictionists have said. Don't you reserve any space for me. I wouldnlt know a 'double ideal' if it came in here right now and jumped down my throat. But I do know one thing that probably you have overlooked: these writing rules you rant about were not inventedg they were discovered, and somebody wrote by them before that old shoe-shiner, Aristotle, learned his Greek hieroglyphics. I know something else, and-Dunk, wait a minute- you don't want to forget that it's a long, long way from the English chair to pay space in the Red Bookfl Duncan was gone and Lois fulfilled the destiny of her sex: she cried. Then she tore into snowflake fragments a theme she had been writing for class. Then she began to think. To her astonishment she found this was nearly a new process for her, and after several days of pious ap- plication she was able to measure the full value of her encounter with Duncan. It had taken the shock of his arrogant attitude to exhibit to her the pitiful limit of her knowledge along the line of her longing. She realized now that what she had considered study and thought had been little more than cursory reading and sophisticated dreaming. If she hoped to justify her dreams, she knew as well as Duncan or Profesor Carstadt that she must master the rules-techniqueg less tangible, perhaps, and more elusive, but as well defined as thought determining any artistic endeavor. She always had felt that she di- vined the rules. Now she was abashed at this pretense to genius. Resolve was the result, calm and stubborn. Authorities for her guidance were easily available and these she crammed, ravenously. This work, in addition to her Twelve' A.....4 5