Washington Seminary - Facts and Fancies Yearbook (Atlanta, GA)

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THE ADVENTURES OE A BOX By IVIARTHA FosTER July, 1492-What's wrong? has thc whole world gone mad? The Queen has given almost all her jewels to an insane man, called Columbus, who thinks he can reach India by sailing West. Of course we all know it can,t be done, but the Queen has agreed to let him try his luck. Has anyone ever returned who ventured too far? Everyone knows the world is flat. I, who formerly held Her Majesty's most beautiful jewels, am empty. August, 1492-Mercy on us! They've taken me on this doomed boat. Instead of jewels, lim holding food-miserable, sticky, smelly bread. I don't like this voyage at allg Iim down in a horrible, messy galley and what's worse, Iim sea- rlick-ugh! It's an awful feeling. Why f!on't we turn back before it's too late? October, 1492-No, we didn't fall off. Instead, we arrived in India, at least that's where we are supposed to be. Honestly I never thought we'd get here. I cell you I was scared. We've been here for several days now. This is a beautiful country- Dlenty of trees and spices and lots of gold. Everything is so peaceful that I'd like to stay here the rest of my days. December, 1492-Well, we're packing up now and guess what I've got in my pockets? Gold! It feels so good! Colum- bus put some in my hidden pockets, too. I feel so big and proud now. Won't all those other boxes in the Queen's safe be jealous when they hear about my ad- ventures. I've traveled and have seen plenty, but I can hardly wait to see their faces. They don't know weire even alive. January, 1493-Well, the worst thing of all has happened. I'm at the bottom of the deep blue sea. I'll tell you how it happened. We were loading up and the Indians were helping us take things to the big boats in those funny little tipsy crafts of theirs. Well, when my time came to be taken I was scared to death. I knew it would turn over the minute they put me in it. Just as I thought, when we got about half way there, some- body moved and over we went-Indians, food, and everything. Now I'm on the bottom of the ocean. March, 1693-Two hundred years. Why doesn't something happen? September, 1753--Something did hap- pen today. Oh, itis so grand! There's been an awful storm-the worst I've known-and it washed me up on the beach. I haven't had much time to look around yet, but what I've seen looks good to me. This rope around me is getting old and rotten, before long all my gold will be falling out. Oh, wellq I'm tired of holding it anyway. Wouldn't it be nice if someone poor found me? May, 1770-My life is changing fast. A little boy came down on the beach to- day and stumped his toe on me. Later he and his father came- and dug me up. Just as they did my rope broke and the gold fell out. Yes, they were poor. It is so good to see their happy faces now. July, 1776-War has been declared, and the good father has gone to fight for his country. I hope he wins. As this country needs money, I wish they could touch the spring of my hidden drawer. August, 1890-For some years I've been the property of a farmer. He has divided his estate among his three sons. Iive been given to the youngest boy, who says he is going to be a great man in the city. October, 1929-Oh, how the world has changed. My master is a big business man. He has lots of money. That's not my idea of a success, though. I'm now sitting on his desk holding cigars. December, 1929-The m os t awful thing has happened. The stock market has crashed and everybody is either faint- ing or committing suicide. What fools! It's all over money, too. My master looks so tired. Why can't he find my hidden treasure? Money, money, money! The whole world has gone money-mad. Why don't the poor creatures learn that money won,t amount to anything hereafterg that the only thing that counts is how honestly one has led his life here. January, 1934-After the crash I was put in an antique shop, where I saw life go on in much the same way. One day the shopkeeper gave me to a young lawyer who admired me. He is nice, poor, proud and in love. She's in love with him, too, and would marry him, but, of course, it's the usual thing-money! June, 1934-Well, sir, I believe it's a case of true love. The girl discovered my secret store of gold just as they were about to give up hope, for her family was trying to make her marry someone else. I'm old and broken now, but I've seen and enjoyed life. I know that money is of little consequence, but that work and love are all that really matter. I hope my happy young owners profit by my experi- ence.

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TI-IE NEW AGAINST TI-IE OLD By M The taste for modern poetry is acquired with effort and patience. Appreciation of the older poets seems to come much more naturally. Possibly it is because every school child, even from the first grade, is taught that such men as Milton, Chau- cer, and Shakespeare are geniuses and whether or not he enjoys reading the classics he must recognize them as such and say he likes them. This is apt to be very harmful as it tends to develop the attitude that because certain things are said to be good they must be accepted as a matter of course. Nothing is stronger than the force of the majority-especially to the unformed mind. Through the freshman and sophomore years in high school the older poets are stressed. Modern poetry to a boy or girl of that age is usually some little verse the newspaper prints and the page of Current Poetry in the I.i.'c'rui'y Digrxf. Neither of these ever makes an impres- sion. Suddenly like a bolt from the blue the names of Henley, Bridges, Noyes, and Maseneld are hurled at him. The first reaction is one of surprise to think that men of this age are important enough to spend valuable time in studying. Next a feeling of annoyance develops over the newness of the whole thing. And finally there appears actual antagonism toward men who have dared to upset well- formulated ideas of years' standing. Wlhat is to be done about this unfortu- nate situation? And it ix unfortunate. There is absolutely no reason for wor- shipping the past to the point that one cannot appreciate the present. There are just as many fine things being written today as there were yesterday. Until the victim of such a sad delusion can be con- vinced of the narrowness of his view nothing can be done. But once his be- fuddled brain is cleared, let him not begin with the extreme in strange, exotic crea- tions of the present day, but, rather, with IRIAM MOON M Oh moon, Mother of artists, Vflhy do you cradle only those few Nlflho first saw life from The silvery radiance of your smile? Wliy' have you breathed Only into your children The joy and ecstasy of expression? Bow the conservative expressions of the modern. Rupert Brooke might be the first selection. His was a healthy yet fasci- nating personality which shines through all his work. His poetry reaches one through the imagination. lt is gentle, thoughtful, beautiful, and normal with- out being pessimistic. Rudyard Kipling would be an excellent second attempt. He is modern in that he is realistic. His writing is vivid, strong, and appealing. The heart-stirring Buffuzl of flu' Eaxf uml flu' Wr'.vf and the simple tribute to a faithful soldier, Cillllgll Din, are probably the best known of his poems and the most enjoyable to a person just encoun- tering realism in poetry. George W Russell will do well as a little advance- ment into the realm of spiritual and im- pressionistic verse. He writes exquisitely beautiful descriptions of nature which have a higher significance. They are symbolic of religion. As a dessert for this light diet, try Stephen Phillips, who is noted for spectacular lyric poetry and a dramatic and highly eloquent style. Mzliywxsa is the most beautiful of his works in spite of the too ornate, often artificial diction. A Dream and Beuulifzzl Lie flu' Dvarf will bring tears to the eyes of the hardest hearted. Approach this strange creature known as modern poetry with an open mind and a firm determination to conquer it at any cost. It is nothing to fear: it is merely a sympathetic reflection of life today. Read every word, no matter how dull, meaningless, and boresome the com- position may seem. Soon you will find yourself getting something out of it- enjoying it. Perhaps I ought to go back and read it again, you will say. Do it. Beauty will seep into the lines. In the end you will be as ardent an enthusiast for modern poetry as the writer. A G l C Oh moon, Step-mother of dreamers, Is there no love, no understanding Left for your step-children? Those who know beauty, Yet, knowing, must always Watcli and listen while Your favorite children play? -Emily T1lll1Il1t'l'lllLlll.

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: ,J fe ,X ,ny f Qi? N ZAZXIM f f QI fl? Xflle- A c, J - until' IT 1 POSSIBLE I ,. ,W a. . a 8 K 1 a E54 fSecond Place in the Short Story Contestj in 1 I b - V WK, f By JOAN ROOT lx, A Q 3 Tlllgl l I S' J If f'f,46 f Here! I've got it! ActuaIly? Sure, I knou' this is the one. Let's see . . . Oh, johnny, you're wrong again. It fits, all right, but that sunbonnet 1'an'f go on the pig. Doesn't it look funny? Half a dozen boys and girls crowded around the table which was set up in one of the Pullman sections. As they saw what one of their chums had done to the community jig-saw puzzle, they laughed so heartily that the other occupants of the car turned around to smile in sym- pathy,-that is, all except one. She sat quietly looking out at the monotonous landscape-woods, a small village, a bar- ren field, a shack on a hillside, a field, a cow-then woods and a barren Held again. She sighed and turned away. Surrepti- tiously she glanced across the aisle, then she quickly dropped her eyes and blushed. The effervescent Johnny looked up just as she had peeped at him. Excuse me a minute, gang. I think I,ve found a recruit, johnny conhded, pushing his way through to the aisle. He approached the girl. Pardon me, but you look lonesome. Wouldn't you like to join our happy throng?I' he grinned. No, thank you,,' frigidly. 'Tm quite all right. Johnny stared a moment, raised his eye- brows and shrugged his shoulders, then turned back to his friends. The girl let her unseeing gaze return to the window. A tear welled up into each eye and she swallowed. Why couldn't she be easy and natural like those interesting boys and girls around the table? Why did l- 'wi - she HCI like such a prude when, inside, she really wasn't? Would she ever find the way to friendship-and happiness? Richmond, Richmond! Shaken out of her self- analyzing reverie, the girl gathered her bags to- gether, placed a neat but uninteresting hat upon her head, and allowed thc porter to help her off the train. LucilIe! We're so glad you could come up for a few days. How's your mother?,' Immediately the girl was sur- rounded by interested, questioning rela- tives. The questioning continued all the way from the station to the home of Lucille's grandmother, where she was to stay. In fact, it was still in progress when, a few minutes after Lucille's ar- rival, the door-bell rang. Miss Lucille Hayes. Why, Lucille, it,s a special delivery for you from home! Who do you suppose it is? All eyes were turned on Lucille as her grandmother handed her the letter. She glanced at the envelope. G.T. Why, it's from George Tay- lorl' she exclaimed. Blushing, she turned to explain, He's a boy at home. Ah, it must be lovely' sighed an uncle. Oh, no! Lucille turned a deeper red. George was her brother's chum and had written her to collect all the circulars about historic places that she saw, as he had to write a theme on that subject. However, he had helped her make a good impression on the family. They thought she was popular. If they only knew how wrong they were! The relatives had all gone home, and Lucille, lying in her old-fashioned bed, gazed at the quaint canopy above her