Page Two
HIGH LIFE
Thursday, May 21, 1925
I ■■ '"!
I THE SKEINS OF LIFE i
I
Bu HELEN ELISE FELDER
I
In the bedroom of a bleak little coiin-
try borne, Dr. Larry Hamlin felt the
child’s pulse again—slowly, sadly. The
fever-racked little body was hovering on
the brink of life; only the slightest thing
would snap the slender thread by which
it was feebly clinging on. All that med
ical skill could do had been done—but
to no avail—he sighed at his helplessness.
As he touched the thin wrist, the child
stirred. Eyes once a brilliant blue, but
now dull and glazed, gazed up at him.
At first there seemed to be no recognition
in the gaze, although he had always been
a favorite of the child, but finally a weak
smile hovered about the pain-drawn lips
in cognizance of the friends around the
bedside.
The child’s lips began to move, and the
doctor leaned over to catch the words.
“Doctor Larry,” came the faint mur
mur, “why is it so dark out there? I
am afraid.”
The kind-hearted old physician looked
out of the window into the fast-gathering
gloom of twilight. Only a very few
stars were visible.
“Why, there is nothing to be afraid of,
Derry,” he said, soothingly. “I am sur
prised at you. Look out there once more
now, what do you see?”
In obedient answer the young voice
came a trifle closer.
“Just some tiny stars. Oh doctor, they
are coming closer—closer. I hear some
thing different from anything I have ever
heard.”
Doctor Larry’s cheeks were wet with
tears by now, and he said softly: “Derry,
Derry, don’t you see? The angels are
lighting their lamps and singing to you.”
“Ah! I hear them—I hear them! An
gels, here I am! Take me with you!
I want to see Jesus, and it’s so dark!
Please, please, light my way!” The boy’s
pleading voice grew excited and he raised
himself in bed with arms outstretched.
“Dear Jesus, here I am,” he cried.
Suddenly the taut nerves relaxed. The
precious soul had taken its flight.
The time for medical aid had passed,
and the doctor turned and tenderly help
ed the sorrowing mother to her feet
from her place beside the bed. Taking
her by the arm he gently led her out of
the room.
As he closed the door, he attempted to
comfort her, his heart overflowing with
tenderness.
“I know it seems more than you can
stand, but you must try to be brave.
Take heart,” he begged. “The Lord hath
given and the Lord hath received. Bless
ed be the name of the Lord!”
Realizing that she must fight it out
alone and that he could not help her
further, he wended his solitary way home.
Several days later, as he sat meditat
ing, Dr. Larry’s thoughts recurred to
another time when a beautiful spirit had
also taken its flight and left the realm
of mortals. That time it had been one
who was very near and dear to him. It
was his boyhood sweetheart, who had
died in his arms. He had never for
gotten her, and, true to her memory,
had never married.
Sitting there he could remember her
eyes—truly the “windows of her soul.”
How they had gleamed when she had
been happy, but how heart-breaking were
they when she had been sad! And her
heart, too, had been as pure and sweet
as a baby’s smile. Everyone had loved
her. Everywhere that her lovely auburn
hair, her flashing eyes, and her bewitch
ing smile could have been seen, tears had
turned to laughter. The old grew young,
and the weak grew strong under her in
fluence.
But that had been when they both
were in their twenties. He was an old
man now, but that memory was as fresh
as though it had happened only yester
day. It was she, a wonderful Christian,
who had told him that the angels were
lighting their lamps and singing for her
and that she must go. His pledge to her
had been made as a death-bed troth of
their love—that he would give his life
to helping suffering fellowmen. And,
thank God, he felt that he had done it
thus far!
a. H. S. FLOWER
GARDEN
It was true that he was poor, for he
had never given much thought to that
side of life. He never felt that he was
working for money; his one thought was
to ease pain and relieve suffering, and
he had not profited by it in money.
With a sigh he raised his weary head
and started on his round of calls for the
day. There was little Beryl Maud, the
cripple, to be visited first. That visit
was not to be in the nature of a pro
fessional call, since it was a case where
a doctor’s skill could do no good. He
had a book for her, which he knew she
would receive with a shy but grateful
joy. He could picture her eyes when
he should place the little gift in her hand.
They would light up with happiness;
and he loved to see people happy, espe
cially children.
She would tell her mother that a “good
fairy” had arrived. Then her baby bro
ther would toddle up and demand enter
tainment, whereupon she would cheer
fully read to him from her new book.
Meanwhile, Doctor Larry would sliji out,
content in their happiness.
Next, there was old Mrs. Peters, who
would tell him all her woes—how her
husband refused to work, and such
things. He was taking her a new medi
cine for her rheumatism.
And so the day passed—with Doctor
I^arry fulfilling his errands of mercy
and bringing cheer to young and old,
rich and poor. He returned home at
night, exhausted in body but exalted in
spirit.
Though he did not realize it, his run
about was looked upon as a vehicle of
mercy by his friends. Wherever he went
he brushed away the cobwebs of sorrow
and pain, and let the sunshine of joy
pour in. Day in and day out he worked
untiringly to ease and comfort his fel
lows, forgetting his own aged and fast
weakening body. His hours of work
were unlimited, often pressing into the
early part of the morning. Soon the
strain began to tell on him, but only
through his eyes did he let others see
his feelings.
Then one day he fell ill with a very
serious disease, complicated by long over
work and self-neglect. The reverent and
loving villagers overwhelmed him with
their solicitous kindness, and even went
so far as to send for an eminent special
ist, but even he could not save him. The
doctor’s strength was gone, and with it
his life was slowly ebbing. His work
was done and he was content to meet his
Maker; but his friends wept and were
heavy-hearted when he was no more.
His funeral, like his life, was of the
simplest; yet the gathering there of
those who loved him would have honored
a king. Not whites alone but blacks
also were there to pay their last hom
age to him and lay their offerings of
flowers on his grave. The love poured
out for him was as balm to the sadness
of his loved ones. Gratitude was the
fountain from which tears sprang freely.
All about the last resting place of this
sweet but simple old man were the em
blems of calmness, which so befitted his
quiet nature. Moss hung about the trees,
and the green verdure of the earth was
at its loveliest age. The last beams of
sunlight from the dying day were re
flected, gleaming, on the smooth green
leaves of the trees, as though in final
tribute to a spirit whose cherry humor
had sparkled even in the twilight of his
life.
When the last sad rites were over and
all but a few of his loved ones had de
parted, sorrowing, to their homes, an old
darky was observed, shyly approaching
Doctor Larry’s grave. Advancingfi tim
idly, with hat in hand, he quietly and
reverently knelt beside his grave. As
those who lingered looked on, the doc
tor’s brother stepped to the side of the
old negro and tenderly placed his hand
on the kneeling black form. With bowed
heads they both stood for several min
utes; then the old negro spoke.
“Ef it hadn’t been for Marse Larry,”
he said, with tears coursing down the
furrows of his old cheeks, “dis old nig
ger wouldn’t be here now. Marse Larry
Evening Primrose—Louise McCulloch.
Marigold—Luna Byrd.
Skull Cap—Graham Todd.
Ragged Robin—Victor Jones.
Spring Beauty—Lois Gillespie.
Wild Ginger—Virginia Vanstory.
“Star Flower”—Helen Felder.
Goldenrod—Marguerite Harrison.
Sun Flower—Margaret Hood.
Trximpet Flower—Bernard Shaw.
Dandelion—Troy Ziglar.
Pansy—Martha Garner.
Monkey Flower—Margaret Irvin.
Tulips—Sadie Clements.
Scarlet Sage—“Red” Atwater.
Forget-me-not—Marion Walters.
Innocence—Violet Moore.
Daffodill—Henry Jobe.
Indian Pipe—Ivattis Johnston.
Brown-eyed Susan—Mary Lentz.
Blue-eyed Grass—Glenn B. McLeod.
Solomon’s Seal—Maddry Solomon.
Indian Paint Brush—Rachael Reece.
Bachelor’s Button—Bill Scott.
Wild Rose—Rose Lee Williams.
Snap Dragon—Mary Thurman.
Butter Cup—Billy Koenig.
May Apple—Nell Applewhite.
Dutchman’s Breeches—“Pat” Forbes.
Morning Glory—Esther Shreve.
Peace
The end of another day is fast ap
proaching. After a tiresome day’s jour
neying in the pathless heavens, the god
of beauty and love is driving at last his
golden chariot and fiery stedds into the
stables of the western horizon. As he
retreats further and further into the
crimson background, he tints the fleecy
clouds as if the immortal Artist had tak
en his best brush and given the finishing
golden touches to the day’s work.
The soft glow of an early twilight
falls silently over the river in all its har
mony of colors. A gentle evening breeze
is noiselessly but playfully blowing
sparkling riplets on the mirror-like sur
face. A hush has fallen over all things.
In the glory of sunset. Nature is offer
ing to God her evening prayer. Serene
ly peaceful rests the world.
Arthur B. PexVrce.
TO A BROOK
Overshadowed by an oak
Astotinding in its size,
There flows a brook, unconquered
And the color of the skies.
Its sound a joyous tinkle.
And color, clear as day.
As over moss it trickles.
Only to rush away.
Along the bank and in the grass.
The purple violets grow.
While meadow lilies, mass on mass.
Their gleaming colors show.
And as we follow down the stream.
It flows, a narrow path.
The sun’s refl.ected rays do gleam,
And sunlight takes a bath.
Then it widens and becomes
A dashing rapids, mad;
Over jagged stones it runs.
And sparkling, laughing, glad.
A frenzied, whirlpool farther down.
In raging, mad delight.
Is turning, swishing, swirling round.
And dragging all from sight.
MY LAST DUCHESS
No clearer mirror could be found
Than when a calm is come.
No swishing, swirling all around
Except where it is from.
cut
And now initials we find
Within a pierced heart;
Not only signs of lovers, but
Of friends from whom we part.
The Flapper
What a piece of zeork is a flapper!
Stich soulful eyes! What perfect lips!
In form and fa.diion how complete!
In action how like a whirlwind!
In apprehension how sophisticated!
How worldly in faculty! In mentality
How shallow! And yet, what is she to
me?
Does she delight me? Why, goodness
lie. of course she does! What am I?
Nothing but a tea-hound.
Vera Cagle.
Faerie Lullaby
Hush, my little one! Hush thy weeping;
Over the grass the sandman is creeping;
The dezvdrops fall on the crimson rose.
And over the hills the west wind blows;
The stars come out from heav’n’s dark
blue;
Till sleepy birds sing “good night” to
you.
The faeries o’er you their watch will
keep,
A nxl at dawn creep azvay to the cowslips
to .deep.
Hush, my little one, husy thy weeping!
Over the hills the twilight is creeping;
Sleep, my little one, sleep!
MxiR.TORIE VaJ^NEMAX.
Farther down it flows from sight.
No more of it is seen;
It dwindles into nothingness
And seems as if a dream.
Of boundless width and endless length.
Thus it does look;
Beauty, clearness, pureness, strength—
Thus is a brook.
JoHX Mebaxte.
A Parody
To bob, or not to bob, that is the ques
tion^-
Whether ’tis better for the head to suffer
The heat and burden of long hair.
Or to take scissors ’gainst a nuisance
And by shearing end it—to cut—to clip
Even more;—and by that act to say we
end
The headaches and the thousand other
pains
The head is heir to,—’tis an acquisition
Devoutly to be desired. To cut—to clip.
To clip! Perchance to shingle—ay, there’s
the rub;
For in that ruthless act what terrors
may come
When we have singled off this “crowning
glory”
Must give us pause.
Martha Jax^e Broadhurst.
A Senior
What a piece of humanity is a Senior!
how brilliant in scholarship! how well-
rounded in activities! with pupils and
teachers how great and influential; in
his own eyes how like an angel! in fresh
men’s eyes how like a god! the nobility
of the school! the paragon of nursery-
children ! And yet, to the world, what
is this choicest of pupils?
THE POTOMAC AND JACK FROST
foun’ him mos’ dead wif ’monia an’ he
stuck by him when nobody else cared
what become of him.”
The old negro could get no further,
for the sobs arising in his throat would
not be checked; and, with shoulders heav
ing, he rose. Laying on the grave some
thing which he drew from his pocket,
he hobbled away. Those remaining at
the grave watched the bent form of the
old white-haired darky shuffling slowly
out of sight and leaning on his gnarled
stick.
Verily, the tangled skeins of life can
be straightened by only One, as the gift
of the old darky showed. The object so
tenderly placed on the grave was a
ough, hand-carved, love-inwrought wood
en cross.
In the reign of Jack Frost some of the
most marvelous of feats are enacted.
The mighty Potomac which a few months
before had been navigable-, is now frozen
over in its stupendous winter array.
Truly one would think it a gigantic
mirror reflecting the glare of somber
clouds which line the heavens and giving
ofl’ an almost twilight glow to the sur
rounding country.
Winding and twisting like an immense
glossy reptile, the river runs its course
through the white, snow-mantled valley.
Either side of the river is fringed with
a thin cluster of bare sinister-like trees
which give voice to the bleakness of the
weather. The wind from off shore is
driving a thin mist of snow into the
trees.
The scene is disturbed by a black
winged airplane, seeming in exact har
mony with the environment, winging its
way wearily down the river. Distant,
so distant is it, that it is almost invisible
against the background of trees.
Drazv aside the curtain there, my friend.
From o’er her face, for fast I feel the end
Of life draw nigh; and fain would I be
hold
Her smiling once again, as in the days
of old.
Again I say, she was the fairest daughter
That ever woman bore. Her childish
laughter
Made the old house ring with its joyous
note.
No cares had she. Music poured from
her throat
Almost unconsciously, and like a lark
She sang from morn till night, changing
our dark
And, gloomy castle into a land of dreams.
But she zuas far too blest with smiles, it
seems.
Dearly she lozwd each crannied nook in
the old
Stone zvall. Each flower that sent its
fragrance bold
Into the balmy air, aroused a fathomless
delight
Wihin her poet’s soid. How coidd dark
blight
Descend on one so young and fair, on her
I loved
So dearly! So much I doted on her that
it moved
My very heart to tears to think of being
parted;
Yet never a fear had I. Shy as a bird
she darted
Unto my side at every strange approach.
Yea, verily.
Her face suffused with bhishes at the
slightest courtesy
Bestowed upon her. Thus, all uncon
scious of my danger,
A hawk disguised, a wealthy and enti
tled stranger.
Swooped down upon our happy nest and
bore
His prey away. Beast that he was! far
more
Than even I discerned, she loved him.
Oh, would it had been but a, maidenis
whim.
Not long nor lasting! Then her tender
heart
Had not so easily been broken. Why
do you start?
Did you riot know he killed her? Killed
her
I repeat, because she valued not the honor
That he bestowed upon her; nor cared
for name
Nine centuries old. How much am I to
blame
Who let her thus be borne away and
gloried
In her marriage! But zohen I far more
hoaried
Than I be, with dying breath
I’d send a curse upon him, that even
after death
He might endure blood-curdling torment.
O Thou Almighty Judge, Who wisdom
sent
In the hearts of men, can murder stalk
Ihus boldly on the earth? In prisons
dark
The villains sit who, with the naked
sword.
Have slain a fellow-man. Yet not a zoord
Is said to him that robbed me of my
child;
Although it was with suffering but mild
Compared to hers, they perished. O Hell,
I’ll gladly welcoine thee, wilt thou but
tell
lhat there I too shall find his son! Here,
friend,
Bend nearer o’er my bed. Attend
lo these last words I speak, and bear
My message. Say I cursed the very air
He breathes, with dying breath. O Death,
press
Me no more! I go with thankfulness
To join my little Duchess.
Elizabeth Smith.
When Jesus Was a Little Boy
Jesus’ mother looks like mine.
With smiling lips, and brown eyes kind;
I think she must have liked to sing,
’Cazise mine does, just like anything!
I think she tucked him in at night.
An’ kissed him soft, ’n’ hugged him tight.
Then turned the lamp away down low,
An’ slipped away on wee tip-toe.
When Jesus was a little boy.
Marjorie VANNEMAisr.
In England they never show comedies
on Saturday night. They are afraid peo
ple will start laughing in the churches.