Indiana State University - Sycamore Yearbook (Terre Haute, IN)

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8 THE NORMAL ADVANCE itYou didnt mean what you said a while ago? Miss Keating made no reply. iiDid you? he insisted. ' gAm I in the habit of saying things I dont meaniw she returned calmly. itNo-o, butel, Mr. Warner stopped. There didn,t seem to be anything else to say. Another Silence. , ttYou are letting me hold your handf, The member in question was promptly with- drawn, and Mr. Warner regretted his rashness. i4Beautiful night;7 he ventured finally. No answer. t2A trifle warm, though?7 Still no answer. Mr. Warner began to get uneasy. He wished it wasnlt quite so dark. tiMiss KeatingeAnne, Ilm a brute? ciGrlad to hear you acknowledge it? itI am. I had no right toeal ccOf course you didnitltl iiI am a wretched villain, a worm in the dust. I have no right to live at all, and I humbly beg your forgiveness?7 Miss Keatingk shoulders were shaking. Warner could not decide whether from laughter or weeping. So he had to move up a little closer to find out. It probably turned out to be the former, for, whereas before the moon had revealed two shadows, it now showed but one. Julia Ward Howe MARGARET LAHEY With Monday, October 17, came the death of one of wide reputation and interest, J ulia Ward Howe. She was ninety-one years of age. Her life has been one long chain of unselfish and untiring services to mankind. She is chiefly thought of in connection with her writings, but she is also identified with prison reform movements, the equal suffrage movement7 and numerous activities of a philanthropical char- acter. Her one great desire was to uplift man- kind, and when at the age of twentyufour, she married Dr. Samuel Grindley Howe, she found in him a companion of high ideals and cease- less activities. Mrs. Howe came of a family of culture and early showed great literary tastes. She was all her life a leader in thought and progress, and was at all times associated with men and wo- men of great attainments, among whom were Charles Dickens, Washington Irving, and the older J ohn J acob Astor. Mrs. Howets works are: ttThe Passion Flowers? WWorks for the Hour? ilA Trip to Cuba? itThe Worldls Own? tiFrom the Oak t0 the Olivef7 iiLater Lyrics? ctSeX and Edu- cation? ltMemoir of Samuel Grindley Howef, icLife of Margaret F uller,77 tiModern Society;9 tiIs Modern Society Polite?7 4iFrom Sunset Ridgefi c4Sketches of Representative New. Eng land Women? She is survived by four children, Mrs. Flor- ence Howe Hall, a prominent woman suffra- gist; Mrs. Laura E. Richards, an author; Mrs. Maude Howe Elliot, wife of the artist, John Elliot; and Prof. Henry Marion Howe, pro- fessor of metallurgy at Columbia University. It is given to few women to attain the heights which she reached and at the same time to remain as sweet, as unassuming, and as womanly7 as did she. A nation owes a debt to such womanhood, a nation has need of such citizens. But if Julia Ward Howe has no other monument, this will be suchientethat the words of her great song, cVIlhe Battle Hymn of the Republic? have rested and will continue to rest, on the lips of a nation from the merest child to the oldest veteran.

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THE NORMAL ADVANCE 7 going to encounter when you came up this evening? she unished. itYour deductions are entirely correct as usual? he returned, composedly. 4tI was in the same boat with the Iitle boy, who, having run to the garret to escape chastisement, had to choose between spending a night in the dark and exposing himself to probable punishment? The girl threw back her head and laughed in joyous abandon. ttAnd preferring known terrors to unknown, like the little boy, you decided to put on a bold front and come forth? she said, tears of laughter in her eyes. ttYes. And as was the ease with the little boy, I found that absence is a wonderfully ef- fective effacer of misdeeds? He drew up the corners .of his mouth in a characteristically ludicrous fashion, and looked at her ehallengingly. The girl laughed, she couldn,t help it. She didIft want to laugh, but his drollery was in- imitable. But she immediately assumed a severe expression and added: t4Perhaps you may discover, as did the little boy, that punishment is merely postponed? ttWell, in any case, I escaped a night in the dark, which is just cause for thanksgiving? he returned calmly. Miss Keating frowned slightly and turned her attention to the group of Italian musicians on' the lawn below. They were playing the low, seductive music of the Southland:the soft cooing of the violins rose lingeringly above the deep droning of the Violas, and the tingling of guitars. Miss Keating leaned far over the railing, absorbed in the music. Mr. Warner watched her interestedly. :41 didnt know you were so fond of music, he ventured finally. itWell I amfi she said, a little defiantly. 4tAnd I edon,t see that there is anything so re- markable about it?7 I Mr. Warner was silent, deeming that his safest course. ttI have never heard you play? tentatively. 7.7 i4I dont play. I wish I did. I Would give anything in the world to be able to play' like that ragged little boy down there?- Mr. Warner meditated. ciWhy don,t you learn? he suggested.- Miss Keating turned upon him impatiently. ttWhy doift I learn! There are any number of reasons, any one of which would be suf- fioient? ttFor instanceW icWell, in the first place, Pm too old to begin now; in the second place, I havenit time; and in the third place, I havent the money?7 Mr. Warner ruminated. I ttWell, the second two are easily disposed of? he said, judicially. Miss Keating looked around inquiringly. ttWhy donit you marry a rich husbandw he suggested. Miss Keating preserved a dignified silence. ttDid it ever occur to you that you might fall in love sometime?,, he insinuated. ttI have always considered it a possibility? uAndi you havent Changed it to a prob- abilityW itI have never had occasion to do so; ferently. tiDid it ever occur to you that a man might fall in love with you. W thes, it has occurred to me several times. Mr. Warner smiled,broad1y. Perhaps it was just as well that that corner of'the veranda was dark. ttDid it ever occur to you that I might fall in love with you W tiWelleeyes, since you mention it.,, ccIn case of such an emergency, what did you intend to d027, 4tNothingY, itShort, simple, and to the pointf, he mur- Inured. A silence ensued. The music vibrant, inex- plicably sweet, rose and fell. Miss Keating, her hands clasping the railing, leaned forward, tensely. Mr. Warner touched her hand, diHidently. ' i indif-

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THE NORMAL ADVANCE 9 Selections from it My Summer in a Gardent By CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER The love of dirt is among the earliest of passions, as it is the latest. Mudpies gratify one of our first and best instincts. So long as we are dirty we are pure. Fondness for the ground comes back to a man after he has run the round of pleasure and business, eaten dirt and sown wild oats, drifted about the world, and taken the wind of all its moods. The love of digging in the ground tor of looking on while he pays another to dig is as sure to come back to him as he is sure, at last, to go under the ground, and stay there. To own a bit of ground, to scratch it with a hoe, to plant seeds and watch their renewal of life, this is the commonest delight of the race, the most sat- isfactory thing a man can do. g: l: at t Let us celebrate the soil. Most men toil that they may own a piece of it; they measure their success in life by their ability to buy it. It is alike the passion of the parvenu and the pride of the aristocrat. Broad acres are a patent of nobility, and no man but feels more of a man in the world if he have a bit of ground that he can call his own. However small it is on the sur- face, it is four thousand miles deep; and that is a very handsome property. And there is a great pleasure in working in the soil apart from the ownership of it. The man who has planted a garden feels that he has done some thing for the good of the world. He belongs to the producers. It is a pleasure to eat the fruit of ones toil, even if it be nothing more than a head of cabbage or an ear of corn. One culti- vates a lawn even with great satisfaction; for there is nothing more beautiful than grass and turf in our latitude. The tropics may have their delights, but they have not turf, and the world without turf is a dreary desert. The original, Garden of Eden could not have had such turf as one sees in England. The Teutonic races all love turf; they emigrate in the line of its growth. To dig in the mellow soileto dig moderately, for all pleasure should be taken sparinglyaais a great thing. One gets strength out of the ground as often as one really touches it with a hoe. Antaeus tthis is a classical articlel was no doubt an agriculturist; and such a prize fighter as Hercules couldntt do anything with him till he got him to lay down his spade, and quit the soil. It is not simply beets and pota' toes and corn and string-beans that one raises in his well-hoed garden; it is the average of human life. There is life in the ground; it goes into the seeds and it also, when it is stirred up, goes into the man who stirs it. The hot sun on his back as he bends to his shovel and hoe, 0r contemplatively rakes the warm and fragrant loam, is better than much medi- cine. The buds are coming out on the bushes round about; the blossoms 0f the fruit trees begin to show; the blood is running up the grape vines in streams; you can smell the wild flowers on the near bank; and the birds are fly- ing and glancing and singing everywhere. T0 the open kitchen door comes the busy house- wife to shake a white something and stands a moment to look, quite transfixed by the de- lightful sights and sounds. Hoeing in the garden on-a bright May day7 when you are not obliged to, is nearly equal to the delight of go- ing trouting. Blessed be agriculture, if one does not have too much of it. All literature is fragrant with it, in a gentlemanly way. At the foot of the charming olive-eovered hills of Tivoli, Horace tnot he of Chappaquaa had a sunny farm; it was in sight of Hadrianls villa, who did land- scape gardening on an extensive scale, and probably did not get half as much comfort out