Snow College - Snowonian Yearbook (Ephraim, UT)

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The End of the Vaudeville By RUBY LEWIS Dean I.arkin felt dazed—sort of numblike. He want cd to laugh, but a stab of pain prevented It. As he open cd his eyes, a face hovered over him, gravely and curi-usly. Feeling better?” the man asked. It- it doesn’t hurt so much now,” Dean replied, wincing at a new dart of pain. Did—did you send for Dorothy Allen, like I asked you.” He was assured that Miss Allen was on her way over to the hospital. After a thorough search of the city, the hospital authorities had found Drothy Allen batching, by herself, in a little two room apartment in the poorer district of the city. With a weak smile. Dean closed his eyes. Dorothy Allen,” he whispered. Of all people to ask for. when I am cracked up.” For five years they had teamed together in vaudeville, making audiences laugh as they had never laughed before. He would make a wise crack and she would answer. The audience liked that Theirs had been the biggest act on the circuit. They had been known from coast to coast -Dot and Dean, the two comedians. They had been sweethearts; he—had loved her. But this had all happened ten years ago. What had they quarrelled about. Some other fellow, he supposed: but that didn't matter now; he loved her and he wanted to see her. He had thought about her every day since that night when they had parted. The Teakettle’s Tale (Continued from Page 22) it were the Sandman coming, and then the teakettle slept. Old Copper, as it grew older, was always ready to give advice and consolation to anyone in its own modest way. It talked to the children, when they were not too impatient to listen, about all the big things to which one could look forward to in life; it talked rather instructively to the mother about how to handle the children, and even tried to discuss crop conditions and prospects with the father. When big sister entertained friends at a candy pull. Old Copper was right there to help with hot water and with the entertainment as well; and when the oldest boy went steppin’ out, the teakettle had a generous supply of instructions ready on how to behave—in his harried state of mind, it is doubtful if the boy heard them. Only after spending a few times home alone on a Sunday eve- and their vaudeville act had been broken up. Since then he had quit the vaudeville, quit everything that reminded him of her, tried to put her out of his mind. But he had failed while trying to do this, he had failed at most everything else, as well. The last year things had gone hard with him. He had taken any kind of a job to get his bread and butter. Today the automobile had crushed him. Oh! yes, he remembered, he had been crossing the street, the automobile had struck him, and then he had awakened in this hospital. Dean,” a small voice was saying. That was Dot’s voice cutting through the veils of grey mist. Hello, Dot. thought you'd never get here, he said, trying to smile in spite of a new pain. ‘Thought you'd never send for me, she answered. The room was growing dark. He couldn't understand why. Perhaps the doctor had turned down the lights to ease those new pains of his. But he was feeling fine now. Thanks to Dot. Still workin’ in the vaudeville? he asked. No, I haven't made a success of it since you left me flat” Want to start all over again, this time as Mrs. Larkin ?” More than anything in the world,” she whispered. He was happy for the first time in ten years. She loved him; she wanted him. He wanted to laugh, loudly, widly, but somehow he just couldn't laugh. The gray mist turned a deeper gray. The numbness left him. He smiled up at her, and then he closed his eyes for the last time. Dot knelt beside the bed; she took the still hand in hers. Wait for me, she whispered, we'll do our vaudeville sometime—not now—but, sometime.” ning did the boy calm down enough to listen to the sage advice that all is not merry-making in this world but that there is toil and suffering, and worry also, which we have to look forward to; then the teakettle picked up a merrier slant to the subject and told him it was all right to go out and have a good time sometimes; in fact, he must if he would keep a heart light enough to get along in this life. After the advice was given the children and all the childhood good times were spent, after the children had some day moved away and were probably listening to the newer song of a modern teakettle, Old Copper stayed behind and tried its best to hum Home Sweet Home” for the gray-haired father and mother left there alone. - Has Susie an impediment in her speech? —Yes, there are only 24 hours in a day. Although there arc many diseases prevalent in the country, by far the commonest is high blonde pressure. Page Twenty-threa

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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

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THE SNOWDRIFT THE OFFICIAL ORGAN OF THE STUDENT BODY OF SNOW COLLEGE STAFF Co-editors ...... Lynian Peterson, Veola Breinholt Scribbler Editor. ....................Vcrl Ogden Sports reporters—Eugene Peterson, Ray I. Johansen, George Smith. Snap shot editor .............................Reese Anderson Reporters — Millie Domgaard, Spencer Squire, Margaret Lund, Eleanor Peterson. Typist ......................... Frances Jennings Artists ........... Merl Knudsen, Joseph Crane Advisers Lucy A. Phillips, Fern A. Young Contributors—Zola Christensen, Alfred I iirson, Ixniisc Larson, Opal Christensen, Frances Jennings, Eva Olsen, Julia Modccn, Viola Madsen. Why Not Now that the year is practically over and this is the bust Snowdrift, the editor can make a few-wise cracks without fear of a return editorial making fun of them. The editor of this last edition hereby takes the opportunity to thank all those who have been so longsuffcring during this spring quarter in helping to make the ancient history of the school into modern news for each succeeding issue. No doubt it would even tax the powers of Will Rogers to make a two or even three week old assembly into an item that one out of ten students would read. This has been the job of some of the reporters, but these reporters can probably now-look back with pleasure to such occasions. The editor has enjoyed working for Snow-students, has learened a few things, and wants to pass them on as a heritage, though without obligation on the part of the receivers. To future Snowdrift editors: Develop a newspaper morgue which shall contain all the best material gathered from the English classes and elsewhere; improve the paper by getting a definite policy to follow; stir up enough interest among students that they will voluntarily keep one column hot with controversy, and perhaps divide the Snowdrift for the year between strictly news and strictly literary editions. To the students: Be more sympathetic in making news; don’t leave all your big doings until the end of the quarter or until the day after the paper goes to press; have a few more marriages (for the sake of job-seeking trainers), have elopments even, but please let your editor know before you let the parson. Seriously, when you have your class and club elections, do not elect reporters for the school paper but let the editor select his own. This year it took half the year to run down some of the reporters, only to find they were in training and had no time to report. Final Word No doubt some of the students of Snow College will be disappointed to think that this commencement edition of The Snowdrift is the best substitute for a yearbook we can have. The editor hopes it will at least partly fill his readers' expectations. He has tried to do his best to make this last issue what the students would like to have. If it satisfies, give the credit to the reporters from the Scribblers' Club, to all the other students of the school who willingly contributed pictures, writing or other effort, to the officials of the school who came to our aid, and to Miss Phillips who had the patience to persevere until the end in the making of this edition. Special credit is due Reese Anderson, who furnished the majority of snapshots for the edition. As to the mistakes in the issue, use them as objects to improve upon for another year, you who have the opportunity. Perfection is always in the distance. This year has been one act in the melodrama of life, a good act, for it has or should have taught us students that we can not always luive the things we want in life. We can if we will pay the price; anything may be had for a price, but sometimes that price is too dear. We students could have had a yearbook, but if that had been the case, some brother or sister at home or more likely some father or mother would have worn his or her coat another year in spite of its being worn and threadbare. Which is the most important? We hope this commencement edition will have a value to you worthy of the funds and efforts expended on it. It contains the pictures of those who arc willing to face the photographer’s gun, records of what all the students have done both in curricular and cxtra-curriculuar lines, a few scenes by which you can remember your Alma Mater as you dwell in near or distant lands, andd a few words of home-made literature to comfort you and cheer you on in your declining years. Bon Voyage. Patre Twenty-four