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Page 31 text:
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The Scribbler 25 SCRIBBLER SCRAPS [The editors regret that lack of space forbids them to publish much excellent material which is handed in. By taking “scraps” from stories or poems we have made a medley which we hope will give you an idea of the manuscripts we have on hand and also an idea of the editors’ task in selecting from good material the best.] UNE in Marketown! The sun was creeping over the horizon. Its rays flooded the valley, transforming the dew which had fallen on the long blue-grass the night before into a shining lake, reflecting all the colors of the rainbow into the pure morning air. The birds were singing in the tall green pines. The murmuring little brook, as it wound its path between the hills and across the meadow, sparkled and danced. For it was spring (Dudley Allen, ’24). ’Twas the dawn of a new day When the sun did appear, Out from the pitch black darkness Into the sunny sphere. ’Twas the dawn of a new spring When the violet was spied, Rising from bleak white winter Into the blithesome tide. (Elizabeth Gooch, ’22). Beside a quaint and stony wall, Untouched by cold and cruel winds, There sprang in answer to Spring’s call Two slips of green, like fairy wings. (Frances Beckwith, ’23). Yes, it was June, the tenth of June in Marketown. And Marketown was happy, very happy. No town had ever been happier. The sun seemed to shine brighter than usual; the birds seemed to sing more lustily. The air was flooded with romance. Romance burst forth from the trees; romance bloomed in every flower; romance rocked gently back and forth in every breeze.
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Page 32 text:
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26 The Scribbler There was not a home in Marketown that did not feel it. Even those whose occupants were wont to hurl things at each other’s head felt its light touch in their midst—and rejoiced. (Ella Brooks, ’23). The sunlight burnished still brighter the bright red hair of a queer-looking little man coming down the street of Marketown at this early hour. He was a solid, substantial citizen, who had the respect of all his fellow citizens and was proud of it. You could easily tell that by the way he swung his highly ornamental little cane and peered through his two pairs of spectacles at every passerby. He had only one weakness. No, two—a taste for green plaid and a lack of sense of humor. The former he indulged in on incognito trips; the other was with him always. He was “Irish,” the town’s only real estate dealer. He thought not of the beautiful stretches around his home as “meadows pied with daisies trim” or the “violet-embroidered dale”; but as “Lots For Sale.” He thought not of the tumble-down shack as a “Little Grey Home,” but as “House to Rent.” The very spring in his walk spoke of complacency. (Agnes Marsh, ’23). The “Bounce! Bounce!” of his walk as he left town and started into the country seemed to say: At dawn upon a mountain height; At dusk upon the sea; All day long in the bright sunlight; Come, rove the world with me. (Elizabeth Ellerbe, ’22). After several miles of bouncing “Irish” finally reached his goal, the “Old Stone Mansion,” as it was called by all the people who lived in the little village. It was one of the oldest houses in the community. Generation after generation it had been occupied by the Stewarts. They had always been and still were proud people; and in truth they had a right to be. You could always tell a Stewart by the way he held his head. It was innate in them, from the old Major down to his great-grandson, the young-
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