SUNDAY, DECEMBER 15 1020
UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN, LAWRENCE. KANSAS
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PAGE FIVE
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During your Cl
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--leaves are fatly',
Callin' out its sorrow that the summer has to go?
THE MAGAZINE SECTION OF THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
The Wall By George Reynolds
PAGE THREE
QUILL
At a certain age in his life, a man casts aside his childish habits and prepares to think—seriously, and upon those subjects which are to concern his Being. The gifted ones immediately set down their thoughts and prepares to contend with the formulae of vast importance. Who of us who are of the mass has not read, at some time or other, at least one conventionally labeled oposis in which the author vanguorously flies categorical imperatives, for instance the sins of wounds? Invariably such accounts are but drab, historical sketches of the growth and development of the author's God given intellect. Perhaps one should say "T is well!" in regard to this primary source, while another could be the faculty of it all. Such drivel seems to be Twentieth Century Johnsonian "bow! wow!"
Ultimate reality, which seems to be the explanation to the universe, lies just beyond a Wall—long, high, and wide. Little is known of the material of this structure other than that it is impenetrable. A "thinking" man is maddened by the curiosity to discover what lies behind the barrier. He batters his only available tool, his head, against the Wall—all in vain; no apparent impression is made. The great philosophers are those who butt the hardest. What remains to reward their endeavor? Nothing! It is the matter of making it matter which they have smoothed on paper to verify their morphedm—and to refuel their naked heads.
Another class of "thinking" men would be crafty. Men of this sort would gain the coveted ground by walking around the barrier rather than by attempting to shatter it. Here again insurmountable difficulty appears; the Wall seems to be of infinite length, so sophisticated beldges need their weary way until they fall to the ground and expire, or until they run in desperate fright against the Wall and come to grief.
There is a third class of men who would settle themselves comfortably and wait for the Wall to crumble. These delightfully optimistic souls make up the great majority in our society of today. They live always, however, as physical decomposition always causes them before the miracle they wait occurs.
Thus does man's innate curiosity prompt him to drive at understanding that which is beyond him. He feels that the mystery of the ultimate reality must be solved—and by him. Through all eternity, we see how the universe works. In the Elysian Fields in a general state of ignorance as to where they are, why they are there, and as to where they are to go. Why all this drivel? Would it not be better for them all to play this realist game? If they do, they will not be hurt, and everyone will be happy. To occupy themselves, they might indulge in mental gymnastics of practical and constructive value; for example, they might speculate on the feasibility of the development of a defensive mech- net for aged Methodists who are approaching the grave.
HILL LULLABY
RHADAMANTHI
Be still now, my darlin', can't you hear the night winds callin'
Sighin' and a grievin' that the gum' bright leaves are fallin'.
Shinin' on the dusty road and down the little trail Where baby coma is playin' with his beady
Quist now, my honey, for the autumn moon is beinam',
Go to sleep, my baby, on the hills the hound is bayin'
Lonely down the ridges where the big pines grow.
Suifin' in the shadows and a scamperin' with the gale.
Trailin' the old 'possum that's a hidin' by the wall.
Happy that the summer's past and once again it's fall.
Rest in dreams, my darlin', for the little winds are bringin'
Eatin' the persimmon thick beneath the old tree layin',
Singin' like it used to do in autumn long age.
Clarie, Short
winds are bringin'
Sweet the smell of woodsmoke from a brush
fire diny' slow;
Listen in your dreams and you can hear the
night a singin'
Singin' like it used to do in autumns long ago.
ON RETIRING
I dropped my shoes upon the floor,
I gaved at them an hour or more—
Looking at me, you would have thought
I'd never seen a shoe before.
I turned the covers on the bed,
I fixed the pillows for my head,
And then I put my slippers on
And paced and paced the floor instead.
I drew my knees up on a chair,
I knelt a pious hour there—
But it was all false worship, dear
Unless God took you for a prayer!
Coliban
YULETIDE MAGIC
A Yuletide Magic arises
A Yuletide magic arises
From Mt. Oread's glistening height
Reflecting a generous spirit
Of ballet, vitalized light;
Of cheer and bountiful blessings;
Of plaid images; caroler gay.
Who breathe out a frosty and joyous,
"The Christ Child is on this Day."
—Berenice Tolm Stugard.
Fun to Go Hunting
By Dorothy Angold Bowers
To suddenly find oneself in the midst of an interesting happening is thrilling but to plan and make ready for a particular thing sometimes gives even more fun. I remember going hunting one Sat morning when the sun was out, putting the outing all week and thought happily of the duck we should bring in to roast. Had it been raining Friday afternoon I am sure we would have been two of the gloomiest persons in town. But there was no rain. The skies were perfectly clear when I arrived home, but when I went we were going hunting in the morning! Oh, what fun!
We dug down in the back part of the attic closet to pull out our heavy shoes. We piled layers of clothes out of dresser drawers to find our long woolen stockings and khaki shirts. We went to our laundry room, where everything we were satisfied that everything was as it should be we decided to go to bed. Clangor, our alarm clock was here drafted into service. We wound it, set the alarm for three-thirty, and put it on the floor by the door. It tucked in neatly to be used to "Hunt-hunt." "Oh, gue! pecks of fun!" Peckes-of-fun! Peckes-of-fun. Fam.
We sang toud as we cleaned our guns. We sang little tunes to ourselves as we held them alongside our noses and squinted down the long shiny barrels. Oh, what fun!
R-r-P-r. Re-r-P-r. Clangor ringing at 3:30 a.m. was a different Clangor from the one which rang at 7 o'clock during the week. Clangor at 3:30 a.m. m. mentions that we were having to wear our clothes. We were having a sort of silent yet understood race to see which of us could dress the quicker. The snap-sap jerking of shoe strings through eyelids—Oh, dear, I have not yet seen it. A little thing like that couldn't dunnight our dam.
We crept down stairs while all the rest of the
house was quiet with the laziness that lingers with darkness. There was some milk in the ice box, Good! Our crackers and milk to make a teaser for our early morning appetites. Apples! We stuffed our pockets with them. Then with our game bag, gum, and ammunition we climbed into the river bank, down the streets, down toward the river road; and in the whole town we seemed to be the only persons astir.
Having left the "coup" near the railroad track, we hiked across the field, crossed the almost dry slough, and followed the line of woods to a bend in the river. It was yet too early for ducks to fly so we lay down in a patch of long soft grass. There were no tall trees or shrubs, quiet peace we felt as we lay there and watched it through the cottonwood whose leaves and branches were sootly ruckling in the slight breeze which so often rises just before dawn. We watched the stars begin to fade into the lightening gray of the morning sky. Birds in the treetops began to awaken with each passing night, where across the river a creek raised his clarion voice to tell all the world to get out of bed. A dog barked.
We creep through the grass, nearer to the river. It was time for ducks to fly if there were any near. We waited, squatting in the tall grass; but there were no ducks. When the grayness of the sky had changed to the soft golden husk which presages the sun, we could not see it. If there were no ducks then we could have rabbit; for one large bunny was too venturesome and with a "hang-hang" he was ours. Carrying a gun and looking for something to shoot is as much fun as really shooting something. It is going hunting that really counts—not how much game is bagged. And we had, for a little while, been out under the sky morning or evening and that we were merely lying in the vast scheme of existence. And it was fun!
LEGEND
Vacation comes; We rush right home.
From 'round the heart, bright banners room.
Let's journey to a land I know. All gay with sun, instead of snow!
A very long, long time ago—God made a garden, fair;
And, in it, placed a man and wife
And left them standing there,
To overcome temptation
O'er all the birds and beasts, to be
A Master, Ruler, Lord!
But human will was far too weak; First Eve, then Adam fell
And thereby, then, created they
For all of us, a Hell.
But God's undaunted spirit then decoded his plans;
Right then began to create He, The glorious Rio Grande.
For centuries, the river worked To make alluvial soil.
God stirred and mixed the earth just right Of silt and white small-coil
And, when he finished, why He tucked it safe away.
White humans came into wreck, Neath caeci, it should stay.
To nobile Spanish Soldiers, once, He gave a fleeting glance.
Those first grandes neer guessed the wealth They'd won by faith and lance.
Now, one by one, God leads his flock To this palacal nook.
Where fairs hide among the trees They browl and cook the fruit.
The lemons and orange bloom Within this promised land.
The sweetest grapefruit ever known Emerge from fertile sand!
The pale moss hangs behind the palms; The soft gulf-breezes sigh, Because they have not force enough To warm the earth and sky.
Bereniece Tolin Stugard
REGRESSION
RHADAMANTHI
Old Thor rides over the hills tonight
Across the ridges his giant way
Is blazed by flashes of fiery light,
Marked by the path of the tall pine's sway.
Angry and swiftly across the sky
He rides in the storm cloud's towering height,
My bound soul sutters a pagan cry
For Thor rides over the hills tonight!
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