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Page 16 text:
“
The American Scene The American scene is kaleidoscopic. From smoke and bustle, grime and labor, my thoughts often travel to other scenes . . . Spring on Cape Con: There is nothing lovelier, more refreshing, than to tramp over the friendly sand dunes, digging bare toes into the dry cleansing sand, the eel grass nipping sharp against my heels. Nauset Harbor is perfection-cool, calm, clear water lapping up the damp, hard sand; there is music in these waves, soft, harmonious and soothing. Later I walk through the short, stubborn, scrub-pines, firm inde- structible symbols of the staunchness of the Cape. Stopping by an oak tree, I kneel on the dry crispness of the leaves, gently shoving aside the tiny growth of vines and plants until a fragile cluster of arbutus appears, its fragrance blending with the damp- ness and the freshness of the earth. The mayHower, like dainty, pink polka dots, is barely showing while the sun beats down on the surrounding world. Summer in Northern California: Bright, glowing, golden poppies cover the hills. Each poppy is unfurled to precisely the right degree, yellow banners dipping in the wind, — mirrowing in the sunlight. The eucalyptus trees arc stately and majestic; their shade covers me as I lie on my back, watching the wind chase the clouds across the sky. The untamed grass feels good, vibrant against my back. I turn over on my side nibbling on the tender, sweet-green stems. Now I can see Lake Laguina and the |uiet, roving foothills that silently reach from the valley and pull themselves up to the sky. The branches of the eucalyptus trees sway in perfect rhythm with the west wind, the olive-colored buds drifting to the ground. It is warm-hot, but such a free warmth that it engulfs the entire visible world. You can feel it. feel the beauty of California through and through you. Autumn in the Old Smokies: Crisp, fall leaves crackle, snap, and pop like corn- flakes, as I kick them along the scheduled trail on the three-hour hike. The colors dazzle my eyes. Even the quartz in the massive rocks reflects the autumn coloring. The pungent smell of the falling leaves and the dead limbs of the trees, blends with the air, the dry earth, and the damp moss. This is a day for dreaming, a clay for the future. The air is breathtaking, as 1 scramble from rock to rock, tasting some blue- berries or tart mountain cranberries, laughing freely that I should be top of the world. The blue sky is covered with cotton clouds, forming intricate patterns. Reaching the top of the mountain, I look down upon the valley, and the peaks of lower mountains. Different hues have been majestically spread while the entire world is so brimming full of color, that it overflows and paints each object. I stand still, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my slacks. Winter in Northern Maine: Early twilight when a small, slice of moon peeks shyly over the earth’s rim. sending pale rays of yellow across the .glistening whiteness of the snow, I walk up the hills absorbing the grandeur of the pines, shellacked with flawless crystals, a few of which fall on my dark mittens. Trudging along. I finally reach the peak of the hill, where the snow seems to encase all that is within my range of vision. Distinc tly the mountains are silhouetted, — Sugar-loaf and Mount Blue. As I put on my skiis, my cheeks burn from the rawness of the wind. What a superb feeling to be gliding, gliding with such ease and smooth speed. The stars are coming out. and in the moonlight, the weather-beaten fences cast odd shadows on the snow. Rhoda McCord Humorist...........................................Bob Hope
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Page 17 text:
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BLUES IN THE NIGHT Agony! Intense, unrelenting agony! The air is thick with nauseating squeals and groans that taper into sickly moans. Shrill crescendos, Implanting visions of dire chaos: Of Knights in armor clashing in mortal combat; Of savage revelry; Of mournful wailings of banshees: Of wild c ries of beasts in the jungle; Of Heaven’s thunderous rebellions. And then, Silence. Band rehearsal over! Robert Fruzzetti Illustrated by the author FEBRUARY SNOW By night The sleeping city—luminous Is draped in a shawl of snow. The snow disappears into puddles and slush Revealing the dirty streets By day. Phyllis Lamkri Subject ........... Men
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