Snow College - Snowonian Yearbook (Ephraim, UT)

Page 23 text:

A Child’s Answer My Blue Delight A baby dead— Where did it go? “I don't know. It was just snuffed out I guess? 'Snuffed out--out where,’ you ask ? Ah, Child, that baby went Where the whiteness goes When snow melts. Spenser Squire. March Welcome March, thou month of prophecy. Thou changeling! Thou, winter’s last convulsion Before the birth of spring. Welcome March, good friend of mine! You'll soon restore The summer songsters once again To homes among the pines. The green things wake and give a glad Adieu to winter's reign, To see you usher out the gloom And bring the spring again. Spenser Squire. Sleep Sleep comes And all cares cease, The conscious life fades out. While in my soul the clamor dies Away. Spenser Squire. At Night Street lights break the dark Into weird shadows That take peculiar forms. Forms that mould my mind In moments of reverie. As I pause and sec the shadows Interplay upon the grass: I see black diamonds shaped Where shadows of the tree bowls cross, And sec beyond the diamonds, Myriad fingered, shadow branches Caress the tender blades. Spenser Squire. “You” You're not an airy, fairy queen— You're not a magic, mystic dream— You’re not a saintly, angel child— Or dainty elf, from forest wild. But you are you, a lovely reality— Living and learning, a human specialty— Loving and laughing—free- unafraid: Sighing and dreaming—a typical maid. —Dorothy Jcssen. the A cloud of girlish sweetness— A vision of feminine neatness— A mist of heavenly completeness -In blue tonight A dance of elfin grace— As though moving softly through space— A smile of a pretty face— My blue delight. —Dorothy Jcssen. Tears Cool, soothing, sorrowful tears— Like refreshing rain, we find: Quick smarting, humiliating tears — An opportune veil to hide behind: Hot scalding, angry tears— Impulsive, rushing, smypathctic tears— Like Lava from a volcano: Like soothing balm of Gileo; Steady, flowing, patient tcars-As from a flower doomed to die; Bright, glistening, happy tears— Like a rainbow in the sky. Tears—useless? Well, they arc to the soul and heart As the rain is of the earth a part. Refreshing then, as summer rain Washing clean the earth again. Rain- useless? The earth cries- never! Tears- futile? The heart cries- never! — Dorothy Jcssen. Values Life's forms arc nothing. If no higher being they attain Than is attained by dust Of earth. Spenser Squire. Snow College Home of high hopes, Earnest endeavor, Cherished dreams. Challenging comradeships. And mellowing memories. We would save you From the fell hand Of dissolution; We would keep you intact Down through the years That we might return to you As to a shrine. —F. Y. Don't worry if your job is small And your rewards arc few; Remember that the mighty oak Was once a nut like you. Shun idleness, it is the rust that attaches itself to most brilliant metals. Page Twenty-one

Page 22 text:

On Nothing: By ROBERT FUNK About the most difficult task I can think of is the writing of an informal essay. It is an easy matter to scribble together a few words, but when those words are supposed to be arranged in a logical, and yet interesting manner, upon almost any subject, the task joins that category of problems known as “hard.” In the first place, that almost any subject” has to be limited to only one, and that one must be upon something with which you are thoroughly acquainted”—so thoroughly acquainted that you can write it with wit and fluency. All this is quite true, but if you have no such subject, what then? I have run the entire gamut of possible topics for informal essays, and as yet, I have found no Inspiration. Of course, having nothing to write upon. I could choose that as a subject, but whoever heard of nothing as a subject for an essay? Still, if I am to write an essay, I must have some sort of topic, and as nothing is as good as something, in this case, it is the subject with which I shall attempt to show that I am well qualified to join that immortal band of workers known as willing but useless authors.” There is something fascinating and yet ominous about that word nothing and the things associated with it. For instance, my teacher gave me about a half dozen clean sheets of paper and then told me to answer some questions which were written upon the blackboard. I pondered over those questions for a few moments and then began answering them as rapidly as I could. After writing for an hour, I succeeded In filling each sheet with some well-spaced words. I handed my paper in and then confidently waited for the ICO per cent such a paper should receive. Days linked themselves together to form a processional chain before my teacher saw fit to return my paper. I looked all over that paper Inside and out— but found nothing. With heated Indignation. I took my paper to the teacher and asked for my grade, and when he said that I had received nothing, I became fully convinced of the liberality of teachers in giving nothing. Nothing does not only plague me in my lessons, but I also find it everywhere I go. Hats, heads, door knobs, apples, and eyes all present that non-cornered square, which Is the sign of nothing. Even my sleep Is troubled by nightmares of nothing. I go to bed and dream that I am a king, a hero, a scientist, or an inventor; but since these are only dreams built from my imagination, they are really nothing. But my sleep is not always troubled with dreams, for often I have tired myself so completely with the day's activities that I fall into a void so deep, so like death, that only one word can explain it nothing. In geography I learned that the earth is round, and in algebra I received conclusive proof that a curved line ending in itself stands for nothing. That being the case. I must be living on a world of nothing: but if I am. then I am nothing, which is impossible: and so I am left In a controversy with the left half of my brain debating with my right over nothing. However, I have one consolation; if I am nothing, my fellow bipeds arc also nothing. When I came to this conclusion in my reasoning, I decided to put It to a test. I have a very antagonistic enemy. Every day he manages to make my life miserable in some way or another—hence I received the happy thought of using him to prove my theory on nothing. The next time I saw him, I did not give him the opportunity to pester me instead, I walked up to him and then put all my force behind my right fist, which was aimed In the general direction of his head. The blow landed all right and Mr. Enemy stretched his form on the sidewalk. All that was as it should lx ; but instead of proving to lx nothing, he proved to be something as my battered frame and a hospital bill show. This was rather a set back to my reasoning: however, I wasn't wholly discouraged. I re-checked my reasoning and then tried various other experiments to prove its validity. I stuck pins in myself, I pounded on doors. 1 kicked trees, and I leased animals. In every case, I fount my reasoning to be at fault, since each experiment proved nothing to be something. And so, looking at it from all sides and from all conceivable angles, I am sure that to make this world safe and sane nothing” must be eliminated from it. To do this, all great scientists, religionists, mediclsts, economists. sociologists and teachers should be called together to hold a council on how to rid the world of nothing. Think of the history, the inventions, and the arguments that would arise from a meeting on nothing. Worlds would be created, conquered, and destroyed; space would be used up; and man made infinite in his greatness— which of course, would be nothing. It would be safe to say nothing in such a meeting and yet to keep on the subject— in fact, it would be a inecca for the deaf and dumb, for they would be able to talk and hear about nothing without altering their condition. Animals, men, children, and women could get along in perfect harmony at a meeting on nothing and thus it would carry over into the animal world, but also into the only-here-for-a-minute abodes of the humans. Thus peace would descend upon the earth, carrying for its banners, peace, prosperity, and happiness. All this would be from nothing, and hence the results obtained would be nothing, resulting in a cycle; for one would have to start again at the beginning, which was nothing, and so would continue to be nothing until somebody could have the happy inspiration to call nothing something,” and thus cause the world to run on in its usual way. A Threat Snowflakes So white and soft Sink to a bed of down: If old Sol catches you. you'll roast Or drown. —S. S. MEN ARE FOUR: He who knows, and knows he knows— He is wise follow him. He who knows, and knows not he knows — He is asleep wake him. He who knows not, and knows not he knows not-He is a fool shun him. He who knows not, and knows he knows not— He is a child—leach him. Selected. Type department motto. 1932: SMILE, but don't let it gel the best of you. Page Twenty

Page 24 text:

The Teakettle’s Tale By LYMAN PETERSON Everyone knows that all living: creatures from the great tenor. Caruso, down to the unseen cricket in the grass, have some form of music to express their experiences and their emotions, whether happy, forlorn, lonely, or dejected. But when we come to the field of inanimate objects, which includes teakettles, well— . There arc teakettles and there arc tea kettles. Some arc big and burly ones with a characteristic base voice. Others aren’t nearly so large and neither do they sound so low a note as the larger ones, except on special occasions. Some teakettles which have served through many a day have holes in the rim around the top which causes them to sing in a rather broken voice. They dare not sing too loudly, for experience has taught them that, should they do so, their voices would break, causing some little embarrassment, assuming of course, that teakettles have feelings. Of all the teakettles I have known, there is one which stands out in my memory as being most apt in expressing its experiences, moods, and attitudes. This one was a copper teakettle which occupied a position, sometimes on the center of the stove in our kitchen, or rather, in its living room. This teakettle saw the whole family reared from babyhood to manhood, from the time the first baby was washed with part of its cooled-down contents until the youngest boy doused himself for the last time before going out to seek his fortune. Now let’s start at the beginning. On that first morning of importance, on being returned to the center of the stove, Old Copper,” as the teakettle was familiarly called, sang with delight to think that it had been of such service to the new-born youngster. At intervals during the day, this song continued; and in the weeks to follow, every morning brought its repetition. Later in the forenoon of each day, the teakettle settled down to a rather thoughtful mood, seemingly as if it were quietly talking to itself about the days, not far off, when a child would be romping around on the floor. When the days came, the old teakettle had its songs of glee ready, and sang them in its best voice, at the same time dancing up and down on the stove in rhythm with its own music. All was not singing about babyhood, however. Time out for thought was taken. Many a long afternoon in midwinter Copper spent humming away to itself; sometimes loud, at other times nearly silent as if reflecting upon the future and what was to be expected in this life, what those children were going to do in the next dozen years, and what the parents would do after they were gone. This thinking aloud even sounded melancholy on afternoons when all the boys and girls had skipped off to school, leaving mother home alone to darn stockings or to make school dresses for the girls. She who could anticipate the future laid aside any regrets she might have had for the past and started to hum a tunc as she sewed, making the teakettle ashamed for feeling so blue. It realized then, as she did, that the best times are those expected rather than those which have happened. When towards supper time, the fire was stirred up, the teakettle began quite often to buzz like an angry bee, probably because it had been disturbed from its peace of the afternoon; however, this anger, by and by. cooled down to a moderate tone which might have indicated that all had been industry rather than dissatisfaction. Days passed and this teakettle saw more and more of life, saw holidays come, Christmas and Thanksgiving, when aunts and uncles from the city visited; on such days the crowning effort at singing was put forth but Seemed to go unheaded amidst the bustle and preparation for the feast. Only for a minute when things quieted down so that grace could be said over the food, did anyone take any notice of the effort being put forth by the teakettle to be sociable. On Christmas evening while the young folks were all in the living room playing with their toys after the Danish fashion, with the older ones looking on or Joining in on the games, Old Copper would sit and think or quietly talk to itself, only being heard when, in the course of the evening, the father of the family came out in the kitchen to stir up the fire. It seemed then to be half contented to think everyone else was so happy and half sorry to think it couldn’t play with the children in the other room. When everything else was going on in routine, the teakettle made its own entertainment and even interested those of the,family who were not so busy with worldly things but that they had time to listen. On an evening while the chores were being done and the wood was being brought in, a good imitation of a saw was set up, which showed that the teakettle remembered the sounds which came in through the open door the time a tree was cut into stove length in the back yard. It even remembered the variations in pitch: as the saw sank deeper into the tree, base notes resulted, then as it struck a knot, the pitch rose higher, then fell again as the saw passed through into plain wood. If at this time the baby cried, the teakettle set up a rather sympathetic tune as if trying to console the young one, but when the six-year-old whimpered, the teakettle immediately reprimanded him for his impatience. Whole afternoons were spent in mimicking the meows of cats: the pleading of one for food under the kitchen table, the contented purring of the one which has just caught a mouse, the brazen meowing of Tom as he sits on the back fence where he is heard, especially on summer nights when the window is left open, and even the pathetic pleadnig for its mother of the little kitten which hasn’t yet opened its eyes, even though the young one has strayed only a few feet from its home in the old box behind the stove. All these the teakettle practiced on, seemingly deriving more joy from so doing than most mortals get from blowing up and down the scale on any musical instrument. Yet enjoying the baby’s prattle, imitating saws, mimicking cats, entertaining company, and doing other things it liked to do did not last forever; some days nothing suited Old Copper and it would keep silent just as some humans do when things don’t go to suit them. At other times, the old teakettle would be more like an irritable person, would get its Irish up. as they say. and tell everyone what it thought of them, just as one should expect an auburn-headed teakettle to do. Times when Old Copper could talk for hours to an interested listener seemed to give it the most satisfaction. When grandfather lounged in the arm chair with his feet on the oven door on long winter evenings, the two seemd to converse as if they understood each other. The teakettle expressed more moods than ever before as it told of all its past experiences, of joys and sorrows, of pain and pleasure, of excitement and contentment. At last a long blast from the teakettle, as if it were mocking the north wind which came whistling through the keyhole, sent grandfather off to bed. This teakettle knew the charm of entertainment: quit at the peak so there would be a desire for everyone to return again. A few more gusts like the wind, a few lulling sounds as if (Continued on Page 23) Page Twenty-two