Steele High School - Annual Yearbook (Dayton, OH)

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Page Twenty-Eight STEELE MAGNET Now, according to our belief, slavery was morally wrong and to aid in helping off a fugitive was an act of mercy, else why did our good old Quaker ancestors so zealously run the risk of fine and imprisonment for operating the Underground Railway? Born in the South, an abolutionist was scorned and considered among the worst of sinners, while a nigger stealerv was held in about as high esteem as a horse thief in the West. What, then, should he do-inform on Jim and be respectable, or help him and be despised? His conscience and training told him the latter was the course to take, but his sympathies and promise were with Jim. Perhaps the state of mind tha.t Huck was in will be made evident by a short ex- tract of his mental soliloquyz U. . . It got to troubling me so I couldn't rest, I couldn't stay still in one place. It hadn't ever come home to me before what this thing was I was doing. But now it did . . . and scorched me more and more. Next comes that wonderful passage of a.ttempted self- deception. Huck did not know anything of ethics from a scientinc view- point, or its relation to sophistry, but he did know that he was not play- ing square with himself, for he continues: HI tried to make out to myself that I warn't to blame, because I didn't run Jim off from his rightful owner, but it warn't no use, conscience up and says every time, 'What had poor Miss Watson done to you that you could see her nigger go off right under your eyes and never say one single word? What did that poor old woman do to you that you could treat her, so mean? Why, she tried to learn you your book, . . . she tried to be good to you every way she knowed how. Tha-t 's wha.t she done! As a result then of the dictates of his conscience, Huck decides to inform, and straightway is at ease. That he does not do so is not due to the ultimate action of true conscience, for in giving up his purpose it caused him mental pain and dejection, and these are not the accompany- ing feelings of obedience to conscience. In this, then, you have set before you in miniature a counterpart of the struggle between human desire and training. To write it took the skill of a grea.t author, to translate it from real life was the work of a genius. And so it is with all Mark Twainis other books. Roughing It, or the story of his Western life, is full of bits of humanity interspiced with the keenest of fun, and if you read his other works you cannot fail to 'rind Mark Twain a friend of humor, the soul of wit, and the faithful scribe of human nature. UI FRAU STEINBRUNNER'S LETTER AUSTIN F. ZICHT NY mail for Frau Steinbrunner?,' inquired a weak, little voice at my elbow. I turned and surveyed the questioner. She was an old woman, wrinkled, and thin of frame, with a faded remnant of a shawl thrown about her shoulders. Her yellowed hair, twisted and rolled into a tiny knot at the back of her head, was partly covered by a black bonnet with strings tied in at neat little black bow benea.th

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STEELE MAGNET Page Twenty-Seven come familiar with them, is a favorite trick of the author 5 but still there is not that feeling of absolute equality, because the author is not striving after the same ends that his companions are. With Mark Twain it was different 5 he was one of their number. Not until he had returned to the East did he consider his experience in the light of so much capital from which to draw an income. But when he did, the world was given one of its best delineations of American life. Perhaps his best-known work is The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. In this book Tom is not the description of one boy, but of several known by Mark Twain in his childhood. At first one might think that this would spoil the character, but it only serves to increase the life-like nature since the reader, if he were ever a boy, will surely recognize some trait of real boyishness. For instance, who has not nursed in solitude a broken heart, wished himself dead, and then wondered if mother and the rest would not grieve their eyes out for not appreciating such a noble but misunderstood lad? But nature does not allow the spirit to part so readily from the body, and after a time sends little snatches of more nour- ishing food for meditation, even to the disgust of the would-be martyr. Or perhaps the reader can remember some Becky Thatcher for whom he would have taken the severest iiogging and have been glad of the chance. But, mayhap, he was of sterner stuif. Then, too, with Tom Sawyer he would have liked to sail the Spanish Main with skull and cross-bones Iioating before him. The companion book of Tom Sawyer is The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Here the character is practically reversed, for the hero aspires not to the emotional, for the commonplace was good enough for him. This very easily fits in with the boy, who was one of the ignorant ffwhite trash of the South. Just the same, we find the philosophy of a sage often proceeding from his lips all unconsciously, and when we hear it we are reminded that we can learn something from the humblest per- son on earth. Take, for example, the case of Huck and Jim, the run- away, on the raft. After wearing himself out with grief and exertion dur- ing a fog, Jim is overjoyed to see again his friend Huck, but the latter makes him believe he has dreamed it all. Then according to the preva- lent negro superstitious, he proceeds to interpret the dream, embellish- ing it highly to suit his fancy. When he had finished, Huck pointed to a broken oar, and demanded to know how he accounted for that. As soon as it dawned on Jim that he had been the victim of a cruel joke, he silently took himself to the little Wigwam on the raft in shame. Then, to use Huck's words, It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and humble myself to a nigger, but I done it and I warn't ever sorry for it afterwards, neither. Can you find anywhere a truer picture of the courage it ta.kes to acknowledge one's faults, or the peace of mind afterward? One more illustration from this book: There have been those, though their number is rapidly diminishing, who have held that one's, conscience is infallible and that it will dictate the true course to follow Whether educated or not. Be it as it may, Huck Ends himself in the middle of the Mississippi helping a runaway slave to secure his liberty.

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STEELE MAGNET Page Twenty-Nine her pointed chin. There was a tender appeal in her withered face, which was intensified by the sad expression in her jet black eyes as they intently followed the postmaster in his search among the morning ma.il. ' At last, his search finished, he faced Frau Steinbrunner and dropping his spectacles to the end of his nose, gazed solemnly over them and si- lently shook his head. Immer nichtsj' she sighed brokenly 5 loam wort von Karl? The light died from her eyes, a tear hung on her lashes, and drawing her tattered shawl about her, she hobbled away from the window. I became suddenly curious to know more of the sorrow of the sad old woman. Who is she? I asked of the postmaster. Mein, H err, he began, 'fit is indeed a pitiful case, yet she is but one in a million vainly seeking news from their beloved at the front. Every morning at ten o'clock her head peeps up before my window and she asks the same question. Then I pretend to look carefully for the letter that I know is not there. Just to please her, one morning, I felt an unusual pity for the poor old dame and put the question, 'Are you looking for a letter from your brother, husband, or son?' Her grief so long pent up broke in a torrent of sobs and she told me all about him. He was her son, a tall, handsome boy, well built, with red cheeks, blue eyes, and blonde hair. The rest of her sad tale consisted mainly in reiterated motherly exaggerations of his high and noble character and how she hoped day after day for the letter which did not come. At last, partially regaining her composure, she dried her eyes and turned to go away. 'Maybe to- morrow it will come,' she said, 'Karl would not forget his mother! Karl Steinbrunner, Karl Steinbrunnerf' I repeated, trying to re- member where I had heard the name before. Yes, answered the postmaster, perhaps you have heard of him. Report is that he died valiantly during the siege of Liege, but I had not the heart to tell her. As I left the post-oiiice, I could not shake off the memory of Frau Eteinbrunner. A vision of that pale face and sad eyes 'filled with a vain hope, rose before me at every step. I saw in my fancy her beloved Ka.rl, mangled by schrapnel, or perhaps torn to shreds by a bursting shell, a wasting corpse on a deserted battle-field. How much longer could she stand the anxious strain of waiting? She should wait no longer, for to-morrow the cherished letter would come. I would write it myself. A few minutes later I was at my desk. A tra.nsformation took pla.ce. I became at once a mighty hero, and a loving son writing to a doting old mother. What marvels I accomplished! It was my brain that mapped 'the plan by which a whole army of prisoners were captured. Who tended the wounded and nursed them to gradual recovery? Where would the army have been without me? Honors and medals had been heaped upon me. How proud I was, not of the laurels, of course, but of such a kind mother to whom I felt indebted for all my fame. I appended a last en- dearing phrase and deliberately signed below it, Karl Steinbrunneri' At nine-thirty the next morning I was at the post-oiiiceg at nine- forty-five I paced anxiously back and forth counting the granite blocks in the floor. Each squeak of the door brought me to a standstill.