America The Beautiful
By
Thomas Freeman
“Old Sol” rose majestically over the
eastern hills and . shed his rays like a
mantle of joy over the earth. A call—I
know not whence it came, even though
I had heard it before—stirred my soul
and impelled me from the noisy city out
to my nook of meditation, my rendezvous
with the Spiritual, here, on the soft
breast of nature with her cool breath
caressing my face, here where my inner
self would meet with its Creator to get
stimulation and food for growth.
Suddenly I was startled by a louder,
harsher note, being wafted over the vale
from the city to me. Our brass band was
blaring out the strains of America the
Beautiful. I had forgotten that it was
the Fourth of July. I felt elated with the
music and softly sang over the words.
“0 Beautiful for spacious skies.
For amber waves of grain.
For purpled mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!”
“0 America,” I shouted in my ecstasy,
“what a privilege it is to be one of your
sons.” “Surely,” I mused when I had
settled down again, “surely Katherine
Lee Bates was inspired when she penned
that wonderful piece. No mortal hand
could do that unassisted.” As I mused,
the city before me grew indistinct, and
in its stead I saw our beautiful national
parks, and our great cities, our splendid
schools and colleges. I saw our beautiful
farms, our tremendous natural resources
which made possible our great industrial
system, our railways, aircraft, autos, and
ships.
“What a wonderful country I have,” I
mused aloud. “Why, it’s the greatest in
the world.”
“Pardon me,” spoke a voice behind me.
“but I couldn’t help overhearing your
soliloquy.” Startled, I turned to see a
simple but dignified country gentleman.
“Oh that’s all right,” I said. “I was
just glorying in our beautiful scenery,
and unrivalled culture. We have a wonder
ful heritage, but I sometimes regret that
it is just a heritage.”
“Why, what do you mean, man? We
are not living off our heritage, we are
progressive! We have built parks, high
ways, cities, and our great army and
navy in recent years. What do you mean,
heritage?”
“Just what I say, my young friend. All
of the natural beauty of our country is
the gift of God, who keeps it up and
changes it every season to avoid monotony.
Our government is the work of humble
men, and Christians. God-founded and
Christ-sustained it is. Praying men, like
Washington, whose plea on bended knee
in the bitter cold of Valley Forge was
answered by this, have given us a heritage
which we seem to be wasting. We have
ceased to regard Him who gave us all
we have. As a result we are not produc
ing the great writers, philosophers, states
men, lawyers, doctors, teachers, and
musicians which we could and should
produce. American youth are trained to ■
make money, and waste the greatest
heritage in the world. Those who do not
waste it let it decay from lack of use.”
As if a burden had been lifted from his
shoulders, the old man straightened and
walked away.
In a little while the strains of the song
came to me again. This time I joined the
refrain, not in pride, but in prayer.
“America! America! May God thy gold
refine
Till all success be nobleness, and every
gain divine!”
On Heroes
(Continued From Page 2)
portunity of owning land and building his
own home, and in an honorable means
of providing crude comforts and the ne
cessities of life for himself and those he
loved.
What a change has come over our
country in the brief centuries since its
discovery! The forests are gone; the
mountains and plains are populated; a
strong government affords protection and
offers the freedom for which our fore
fathers died. Roaring industrial plants
all over the nation stand out in striking
contrast to the self-sufficient homes of
pioneer days. Huge ocean liners, power
ful automobiles and airplanes, efficient
radios and wireless telegraphy link our
nation with every part of the known
world. Instead of 5,000,000 struggling
colonists, as there were when the Con
stitution was signed, the inhabitants of
our country now number more than 125,-
000,000. And with this enormous increase
in population and the accompanying ad
vance of civilization has come a quicken
ing of the national pulse. A sound world
consciousness has caused a nervous strain.
The talk about heroes of America! One
has to be a hero to live in America to
day and live uprightly. Beneath the so
cial pressure exerted upon us we are
restless, dissatisfied, absorbed in shallow
cares. In this modern age, to be con
temporary—to keep pace with the rest
of our reckless, racing, purposeless world
—is our dominating desire; and we have
all but lost sight of those principles for
which our forefathers paid so dearly.
Existence has been made easy; life has
been made hard.
Sadly our thoughts wander back to the
Page Three
We Are So Weak
By
Eugene Brissie
We stood silently just a pace from each
other, each expecting a word from the
other. He seemed to hesitate as he thumbed
the rejection notice, expecting me to say
something. He seemed ashamed of his
obvious unhappiness, because America
was a happy land.
“Maybe you’ll find a job in another
plant,” I said trying to imagine his feel
ing. He only looked into my eyes, and I
shot a glance toward his face, which was
bronzed from the sun.
“Perhaps,” he said. Perhaps; it seemed
so doubtful. He cast a glance back to
the gate of the mill yard where his timid
wife and six year old son awaited his re
turn in nervous anticipation.
I noticed that he was of foreign nation
ality, German, I concluded from his Teu
tonic features. With his head bowed he
kicked at the loose gravel of the walk. I
wanted to say something, but I couldn’t
find words to replace the lump in my
throat. Defeat was clearly portrayed in
the expression that seemed frozen upon
his profile.
Yes, he was foreign-German, and he
came to America ten years ago—to escape
being dictated to; here he had not been
told what to do, but what not to do—
because he wouldn’t join a labor union,
he told me in broken English.
“Life is still good,” I told him, reas
suringly.
“Yes, good”, he responded without
raising his head, “but we are so weak.”
He turned slowly to leave, and I al
most reached out to grasp his hand, but
I feared no more could be said. With
light, almo^ tragic steps he strode to
the gate. Soon he disappeared behind a
fence, gone, yet his still ghost stood
before me and murmured, “Life is good,
but we are so weak.”
stalwart pioneer who lived by a simple
code of honor and who cherished the
integrity of his own character above
every other possession. We are almost
persuaded that the days of heroes are
written into dim history. But wait! With
the changing conceptions of modern
civilization, shall we retain our old-fash
ioned ideas of heroes? Strength and
bravery are still the fundamental requisites
for a hero—but it is moral strength he
needs today. If it took courage to live
two hundred years ago in the simplicity
of pioneer days, it takes heroism now in
our complicated civilization. That boy
lacks nothing of being a hero; that girl,
of being a heroine who dares to defy
public opinion, to rise above confusing
temptations, and to strive toward a real
purpose in life, adhering always to the
principles upon which American de
mocracy is founded.