14 WEBER LITERARY JOURNAL A Pessimistic View By Leslie J. Christensen. O POOR, beloved Mother Poesy! How haggard is thy visage and forlorn! And how thine ancient, dainty garb is torn! Where are thy virtues now that used to be: Of gentle meter, rhyme and euphony Of pleasant thoughts on softest music borne? 0 art thou now of all these virtues shorn, To perish in a worthless progeny? Tho oft I mark thy former goodliness, Decaying with the everlasting day, Each time I note, it seemeth to be less! 0 Mother, bloom again, the selfsame way Thou didst in youth, of yore, and blooming, bless This tongue once more with garlands of the May! WEBER LITERARY JOURNAL 15 A Perfect Day By Constance Miller. THE PERFECT companion, the truest friend, the most devout adorer, my dog! When I am lonely, a call brings him to me, his tail wagging with anticipation, his eyes scrutinizing my face, for he suits his moods to mine. I laugh and twist his ears gently. Then leaping in ecstacy, he bounds after the stick I throw out into the meadow. Hear him snuff and snort as he threshes about in the tall grass! Now he recovers it, brings it to me in triumph, his shining sides rising and falling with excited panting, challenging me with a joyous whine, to take the stick from him. Invariably a mad struggle follows, punctuated with sharp barks. The outcome is never certain, for Dick is quite as strong as I. Then, perhaps for a moment, I may not feel inclined to frolic. I pat Dick's head absent-mindedly, not speaking for a time. He gazes at me patiently, my every expression. He may be craving a tussle again, or a dash across the meadow, yet he stays near me in profound anxiety. To try him, I may sit motionless for an hour, but he continues to regard me, his head between his paws, his eyes full of adoration. I may spring up, and with a wild whoop, dash from the meadow, over the green and thru the sage-brush; but never will Dick remain behind. Uninvited he races before me, yelping and barking his delight. As far as I am concerned, the essence of a perfect day consists of the following: A day of perfect weather, a blue and gold, and misty green; a choice book, ancient romance or bold adventure; a chunk of bread and some butter, and an apple; and my chum dog. In one of my sagging pockets, I force my lunch and in the other my book. We march toward the hills, Dick scouting a few yards ahead, routing porcupines, or perhaps a badger. Here and there some object of beauty halts us a cedar, a sheaf of columbines, or a matted rock and I am lost in contemplation of the fair object, while Dick follows his nose hither and thither, making discoveries of his own. Many such pauses delay us, the sun is high when we reach the Spring, a smooth mountain lake, fed by a hundred sparkling streams, set in an idyllic scene of "willow trees" and flowers. We establish ourselves in our private nook a wide, flat rock, hid away near the