Weber State University - Acorn Yearbook (Ogden, UT)

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jfrom un$et to Sunrise orace Winters drew the covering over his masterpiece and left the studio. At last this picture was completed—this pic- ture. the dream, the work of years. To- morrow it would he placed in the exhibit. He imagined even now that he heard the people, the artists, and the critics praising it. and above the murmur of their voices he seemed to hear. “How wonderful! How true to nature! W hat a picture! How no- ble and uplifting! And the artist—he is greatly blessed by the Creator.” “Blessed!” That word brought him out of his reverie. “That is just the word they will use. he thought bitterly as he entered the room, lie caught sight of his haggard face in the mirror—it was worn and pale from overwork and insufficient rest. “Blessed? he repeated. “It is not bless- ing that has painted this picture; it is work and sacrifice. Impatiently he paced the floor, thinking of the morrow. He crossed the room and threw open the western window. The glowing embers of the closing day were beginning to burn out. The last crimson bar in the west was slowly fading into the mysterious gray which mantles the world in the hour of peace. Somehow the scene did not appeal to Morace tonight and tired and weary lie threw himself on the bed to rest. Still the thoughts of his picture haunted him. “They will praise the picture and the Creator who has so blessed tin painter, but the praise belongs to me. I have sacrificed home, parents, love—everything for my ambition. It is not blessing, it is work—perseverance has made me a creator. 'Phc.se were his reflec- tions as he fell asleep. When he awoke it seemed that he was being strangled, lie could not breathe. What was this choking sensation? The truth dawned upon him. It was smoke. 'Pile building was on fire! lie rushed to the door, but it was not the thought of reaching personal safety that possessed him—he remembered that bis studio was on tin floor below and that bis picture was there. He rushed down the stairs maddened by the thought that his work might be destroyed. Ilis progress was stopped by a wall of flame. He was too late. l or weeks and months after the fire Morace was melancholy, lie

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Cf)f St eamer A fair child sat beside his mother's knee. And dreamed great things of what he’d do and be. Some day his fellow-men should call him great, A leader in the nation and the state; Some day in history they should write his name With those who were already known to fame. While listening to his talk, the mother smiled And whispered soft responses to the child. Years came and went. The child a youth became. But still his hopes and dreams remained the same As when he sat beside his mother’s knee, A lisping child, and dreamed of what he’d be. His place was at the top, among the few Who have the high and lofty things to do. Thus he built up air castles to the sky While all around, his schoolmates passed him by. As time rolled on, the youth became a man. Still dreaming dreams, although he now began To wonder why they were not realized, Why others gained the fame he sought and prized. But suddenly from dreaming he awoke, For near his side it seemed a soft voice spoke: “Why waste in dreams the time God gives to you? Arise! Go forth and make your dreams come true! And that was all. It was enough; the man Went forth to find his place in God’s great plan Of busy life. At last he knew the way And reaped success by toiling day by day. So with us all, as on through life we go. ’Tis what we do; not what we think or know. That wins success in this great world of ours. The sharpest thorns surround the sweetest flowers. LEE PUR KINGTON.

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| U ye ACORN ]® Pag'e lO felt that all has work had been in vain, lie tried to paint another picture, but his soul would not enter into the work. The heavy sadness threatened to drive him into desperation. 11 is old haunts did not appeal to him now. He was not the same, and he knew it. At last he decided it was perseverance he had lost. He determined to regain it. He decided to begin a new picture and to complete it. lie began, but his work seemed tiresome, and when the picture was completed he was not pleased. hat is the trouble ” He asked himself that question and the answer came. “Mv work does not de- light me. There is no soul in my pictures. The life is gone.” He was awakened from these thoughts by a gentle voice. He looked up into a woman's face; she was neither young nor beauti- ful. but her face wore a sweet, motherly expression. “Mr. W inters, the artist? she asked. He nooded. “Mr. Winters. I should like you to paint me a picture. My only son is going away to school. I want a picture to hang in his room— a picture of the Christ Child.” “1 understand. lie answered briefly. The Christ Child.” Then he repeated, “The Christ Child. “You will paint it. will you not? she asked. 1 will try,” he answered, “but things are not the same as they were before the lire; yet I will try. After she had gone he began to wonder. What did the Christ Child look like? lie had forgotten. hat was the vision that he had seen at his mother's knees when she told him of the Child Jesus? Gradually the vision came back to him—his childhood’s dream of the Christ, lie determined to place it into the picture for the sake of this mother and for the sake of the mother lie had known long ago in the home of his childhood, lie worked his dream into a pic- ture. He hoped, he prayed, and when it was do te he knew that it was the work of a master. The day came when Morace was to part with his picture. He arose early and watched the sun rise. It is a new day—new hope. Ilovv strange. he mused, and thus it has been with me—a sunset when I began to doubt that God had blessed me. a night wherein I groped about blindly and. not finding what 1 sought, determined that I had lost it. Hut now comes the sunrise of hope. How wonderfully I have been blessed. I have lost nothing—I have found faith.