KANSAS UNIVERSITY WEEKLY.
7
A red rose and a white rose,
And a dream in my heart of you;
These three throb in their long repose
Each May all the long years through—
These come back e're the spring-time goes,
And each to the others is true.
The red rose died when the south wind blew;
And the white flower's flecks, they rose,
And danced to the June rain's sad tattoo,
And sank in a thousand throes.
And the dream it bleached to an ashen hue,
And life droned on in prose.
Then who cares what death may disclose;
For as long as Time we two
Shall live in the spring, when the south wind
blows—
And whene'er May skies are blue,
There'll be a red and a white rose,
And a dream in my heart of you.
--William Allen White.
MAY DAY SCRAP.
THE school of Lyons District was alive with excitement, and all that week a restless spirit had prevailed the student body which made study almost impossible. But why should this not be the case, for was not May Day close at hand, and was not this the greatest day of all the year—with all due respect to Christmas and the Fourth of July? For on this day, in the little glen back of the school house, a great fete was held, at which the Queen of the May was crowned. But the crowning of the Queen was not what was the cause of the excitement, for everybody knew that little Sadie Thornton, the most lovable as well as the most popular girl in school, would undoubtedly be queen; but to the queen was given the privilege of choosing the king who should rule in state with her, and many a little lad's heart beat faster when he thought how proud he would be if this honor should be conferred upon him!
Little Jack Mitchell was more anxious than all of the others, for he knew he stood well in Sadie's favor, and was even conceited enough to believe that he had a good chance of being the highly favored one, if only Charley Watson were out of the way! He was quite confident that he had never before seen so officious a boy as Charley was; morning, noon and night, he was hovering about Sadie and playing the gallant to perfection, which Jack would never have believed him capable of doing. Jack only hoped that Sadie could see through his transparent motives as clearly as he,—but he had his doubts about this, for Sadie seemed to thoroughly enjoy his company and receive his homage with a dignity, which was very becoming to the future queen.
The last day of April had arrived; the next morning they were to meet at the school house, where they would crown the Queen of the May. She would then choose the king, and together they would lead the proud triumphal procession down the winding path to the brook-side in the glen, and here the throne would be set up. Clearly something had to be done, and done quickly. After supper that evening, Jack wandered off, by himself, down to the woods back of his home; he did not take even his mother into his confidence, for she could not understand how
much was at stake. It was dark when he came back, but his whistle had a merry note which had been lacking for the past week, and there was a triumphant gleam in his eyes which surely boded no good for Charley Watson.
The next morning was an ideal May morning, and nothing more can be said in praise of any day. The children were wildly and unrestrainedly happy, with the joy that only children can experience. Charley Watson's confident air and self-satisfied expression would have irritated Jack beyond endurance if he had not been in possession of some inner knowledgo, which gave him a secret power over his enemy. He had been endeavoring all morning to win a smile, or even a glance, from the Queen-to-be, but in vain, and crowded out by Charley's obtrusive attentions, he wandered off disconsolately toward the old swing under the elm. But suddenly his steps were arrested by screams and cries, and he turned in time to see Sadie standing almost petrified with fear, while Charley was fleeing in the distance. With a bound, he was on the spot, and in less than a trice he had crushed under his heel the offending snake, which had been the cause of all the trouble; it was a well known fact that Charley Watson was deathly afraid of snakes and he had been teased more than once on this account, at the hands of his braver companions. He soon re-appeared, pale and trembling, with an enormous club in his hands, only to find, however, that all the excitement was over, and Jack was occupying his former position, and basking in Sadie's favor.
As Jack and Sadie, conscious of their position of honor, led the little procession down to the scene of the fete, a little self-satisfied smile played about Jack's mouth, as he vowed to himself that no one should ever know what he had brought with him in his pocket that morning.
HARD LINES.
IT WOULD seem that everything that could be written about Mrs Nation had been written and printed. Local reporters have recounted her exploits until they are sick of her very name; staff correspondents have filled columns about her; and impecunious space writers have made enough to re-establish their credit at local restaurants.
But there is one little story, of which Mrs. Nation's advent in Topeka was the occasion, which has up to this time escaped the newspaper writers. And yet it occurred right in a newspaper office and newspaper men figured in it.
The word had come one night that Mrs. Nation was headed toward Topeka, but no one knew when she would arrive or over what road. The jointist were wary, the newspaper men alert. Every morning newspaper man was secretly praying that she would "start something" that night, and so give his paper the story in advance of the evening papers.
It so happened that on that night a reporter on a certain morning paper had found on his desk a note signed with the all-potent initials of the business manager, stating that his services were no longer required.
It isn't the custom in that particular office to "give notice," so when the note said "no longer required" it meant from that hour. So the reporter picked up his things and started home. Almost at his own gate he was accosted by a
little commonplace woman in a black bonnet and shawl.
"How-de-do," she said cheerfully, "what's your name?"
The reporter replied promptly, "Andrews," which was not his name.
"Well, Mr. Andrews," and the little woman patted him confidentially on the arm, "I want to find a newspaper reporter, and I want you to take me to one. You look like a nice man and you haven't been smoking and I like you. I'm Mrs. Nation "
The reporter's heart went into his throat. Here was the story of months and it was his.
"I am a reporter myself' he said, "and I will take you right to the office."
Now if Jesse Lynch Williams had been making this story, the reporter would have been welcomed to the office with a brass band or so would have scored with a front page story in the morning, would have been taken back on the paper and his salary raised.
But that isn't the way things happen in Kansas.
Mrs. Nation and the reporter climbed the dingy stairs to the still dingier local room where half a dozen type writers were clicking and the air was blue with smoke. No one looked up as the reporter left his companion at the door and walked over to the city editor's desk.
"Mr. P." he said calmly, "Mrs. Nation is out side. I met her up the street and brought her up here."
"Mrs. Nation?" exclaimed the city editor, jumping to his feet, "by George, where?"
In five minutes the local room was crowded. Every one was there from the editor-in chief to the janitor, including half a dozen special correspondents. Mrs.Nation sat beside the city editor's desk and talked voluably, occasionally guided into the desired channel by a question from the city editor, who was taking rapid notes of what she said.
She announced her intention of visiting the joints that very night. That settled it. It was the story of months.
The city editor and the managing editor exchanged appreciative glances.
Just then the reporter edged up to the desk.
"Is there anything more for me Mr. P." he asked.
"No, I guess not," replied the city editor resuming his note taking. "Thanks for bringing her up here." Then, as the reporter turned up his collar and started for the door, "Hope you get along all right."
GENTRUDE HILL '00.
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"A story is going the rounds of a golf match between Rev. Dr. Sterret and Justice Harlan of the United States Supreme Court," says the Detroit Free Press. "The doctor discovered that his ball teed up in tempting style for a fine brassie shot; and, with the utmost deliberation, he went through with the preliminary 'waggles,' and with a supreme effort missed the ball. For fully a minute he gazed at the tantalizing sphere without uttering a word. At length Justice Harlan remarked, 'Doctor, that was the most profane silence I ever listened to.'"
The window has two little panes.
And only one have I.
The window's panes are in its sash.
I wonder why. Gettell Burgess.