Weber State University - Acorn Yearbook (Ogden, UT)

Page 29 text:

The Acorn [ | 15 j THE BOX-ELDER SWING The ropes are decayed with a cover of moss, The swing-board is worm-eaten, dingy and cracked, And 1 gaze from a world full of evil and dross Where the box-elder swing seems to beckon me back; Back, back to my happy young boyhood once more To wander again where the meadow larks sing, Back, back to the old times and the pleasures of yore, To the primeval woods and the box-elder swing. I can hear its faint creak in the summer winds sigh As it longs for the sweet thirty summers ago, And the robin seems singing a faint lullaby As Time softly rocks the old swing to and fro. The brook babbles on in its journey to Fate But its echoes remain thro the woodlands to ring Fancy hears the same blue-bird respond to his mate That I heard when I played at the box-elder swing. The wild summer-roses are smiling again, The sweet little mary golds nod to the breeze;

Page 28 text:

[ 14 j |THe Acorn AT THE SUMMIT OF THE SIERRA MADRE MOUNTAINS Picacho Grande, dotted here and there with sharply contrasting patches of glistening snow and clumps of dark brush, lay before us. It was scarcely higher than the surrounding peaks and was such a mod- est, round topped affair that the name Picacho {Peak) seemed very inappropriate. The grade was so easy for the last half mile that we galloped our ponies right to the summit; but, on reaching it, we stopped short and drew back aghast—we were high above everything and in front of us was a mist-filled chasm. It seemed that the highest breeze from behind might topple us head long into space. Across to the west, shrouded in a blue haze, was a black wall of mountain with a still blacker rent breaking its evenness. Soon the bright sun partly cleared the mist from below and we could make out, down, down, almost di- rectly under us, a winding thread of silver. By means of field-glasses, we saw that the tiny thread was a tumbling, surging river, leaping high cataracts here and racing down smooth rapids there, or spreading out in a wide quiet stream. On the banks, in little canyons, were clumps of tropical trees and we could easily imagine that rich fruits hung from the branches, and that gay colored birds hopped from limb to limb, making the valley echo with their wild cries. We thought of sunshine and warmth, but the dazzling sun only mocked us; the light breeze which began to blow caused us to button our over-coats tighter and to seek a protected nook where we lighted a roaring fire.

Page 30 text:

They heartily welcome the same summer rain, And bow their good wishes to neighborly trees. The bright yellow dandelions fresco the ground, The honey-bees swarm where the ivy-vines cling; All swarm as my thoughts where sweet mem’ries surround The picture of youth and the box-elder swing. The old wood-land pathway that curves thro’ the glade. The path that has so often guided my feet,— Will no longer lead to the elder's cool shade Where I sat to repose from the mid summer heat. Tis now over-grown with an acre of weeds Where the nettle lays low with his treacherous sting, But with food for the dreams my good memory feeds On the scenes that surround the old box-elder swing. The sweet crystal spring at the foot of the path Darts upward and down with a transparent flow. And the same happy sparrows indulge in their bath As they did in the sweet thirty summers ago. I can hear the same mourning dove cooing his pliant, I can hear the same whip-poor-will trimming his wing What a picture ’twould be for an artist to paint! This picture of life at the box-elder swing. The glorious sun broke its smile through the face Of the oak and the aspen, the elder and ash, And the ground was a net work of intricate lace Daily bathed in the spray of the brooklets’ cool splash. The swing told its secrets from mom until eve,— The secrets so precious to boyhood’s bright spring; ’Tis a a treasure and gem that behind me I leave: This sweet charm of childhood,—the box-elder swing. From a world of contentment, good times on a farm— I have memories treasured that gold cannot buy. About them my heart holds a hypnotic charm ; The stream of Rememb’ranee shall never run dry.