THE O. H. S. TIGER, JANUARY 31, 1923 Page 3 LITERARY "SILAS MARNER, LIMITED" I always thought I was an idealist. My friends always told me so, and now I know I am. I am a man born before my time, my dreams are too fine for this materialistic world of today, but at last I have come to realize my greatness. I realize it with the same clear perception that Socrates possessed when he con¬sidered his brilliance and superiority over his fellow-men; and like him I am not appreciated. I have always said that it is the dull unimportant things in life that reveal to a man his true worth. Mr. "Meg" Dooly has served that purpose in my life. I met Mr. Dooly at a Los Angeles studio where I was watching the making of a large mo¬tion picture. Being disgusted with the inferior acting and lack of technique shown, I determined to form a company of my own and produce a photoplay that would be the very acme of perfection. Mr. Dooly, who seemed to possess a wide knowledge of the moving pic¬ture industry, consented to act as director and arrange for the hiring of assistants and for other details while I devoted my time and skill to the choosing of a suitable story to film. Having but recently inherited the fortune of my uncle, I was amply supplied with the funds needed to produce a picture. After some research in my library I came upon that rare gem of litera¬ture, "Silas Marner." The very back¬ground for my art! The ideal photo¬play! 1 hurried to Dooly's office. "Look here," I cried giving him the book, "at last I have found it, the apothesois of literature and dramatic art." "Huh!" he grunted, turning the fly¬leaf, "Silas Marner, the Weaver of Raveloe—sounds like a psalm. By George Eliot. Well, I'll read it over a little, professor, and see what we can do for George. By the way, why didn't you bring him along with you?" "Why Dooly I'm surprised!" I ex¬claimed, "George Eliot was a woman and I did not bring her with me because she has been dead for a long time." "George—a her!" Dooly looked at me queerly and turned away. The next day he announced that, although he knew lots of live writers who could shake a snappier pen, maybe Silas could be fixed up. "Now take the name, f'rinstance," said he "we'll change that but they's other things first. This Silas bird will be Nickolas Nickeljoy, the heartless miser. The village of Raveloe's gonna be right here in the U. S. only it'll be a nice live Western town an' besides—" "But Dooly," I interrupted, "I won't stand for that. This must be a masterpiece—a—" "Aw, be yourself, professor. You can't unwrap that stuff for an audi¬ence straight from—from—er—Mrs. George. You've gotta put a kick in it. You've gotta hit 'em between the eyes. Then it'll be a knockout. Just leave it to me, professor, and I'll make a real picture for you." After some argument I consented, thinking Dooly knew how best to make a motion picture, although my skill was invaluable outside of the mere technicalities. After much preparation Dooly an¬nounced he was ready to begin "shooting" scenes. He had the seats built and was anxious to get the big scenes completed first; so one morn-ing the entire company set out in automobiles to Raveloe which Dooly had renamed "D u s t v i 11 e-of-the- Plains." "I've changed the title to 'The Vengence of Nickolas Nickle- joy,'" announced Dooly. "This is the scene where Silas got robbed in the hook, an' this is the way it is now," After due preparation the cameras begin shooting the scenes of a con¬ception of "Silas Marner" that left me dazed and open-mouthed. First the representations of Silas, a bold, , bad Westerner, was taken, counting .'his gold. In the meantime Dunstan was leading his gang of bandits up to the counting house. ' After a lurid gun-fight, Dunstan seized the money, captured the miser and, just for fun, chained him to the railroad track. He was rescuued in the nick of time by Eppie, a beautiful Western girl in somberero and riding-skirt, assisted by her Adonis-faced hero, Aaron,—- 'TWAS EVER THUS Mary was a good girl, Sally was a flirt; Mary wore just lots of clothes; Sally wore— A skirt. Mary learned to cook and sew, And Mary learned to sweep; On Sundays Mary went to Church, While Sally went— To sleep. Sally used to be up nights, Attending all the dances, But Mary didn't stay out late, She never had— The chances. Sally learned to drink and pet, She was a sporty kiddo, And so she'll be for some time yet, Like any— College Widow. But wedded bliss is Mary's lot, Her hubbie's rich as dirt; He says he married Mary 'cause She never learned— To flirt. —O-H-S— HONOR My horse is shod with silver shoes, My armor if of gold, But my honor, not my riches, Is wealth to me untold. —Chester Christenson. —O-H-S— THE LAME TURTLEDOVE The flute-like notes I hear each day, Are a wood bird's mournful call That seems more fitted to sylvan glen Than gilded cage upon a wall. —Conrad Stanley. —O-H-S— SPRING'S CALL When the warm spring sun dismisses the snow, And the grasses are bidden to view, The pussy willows shake out their soft silky heads What effect does it have on you? Does it bid you worship at Nature's shrine, And dance through the woods like a gnome, Or all down the long city streets, run and cry, "Oh, do you know Spring has come?" For Spring is a fresh page in life's picture book, The brightest, most lovely of all, And now that the winter is melting away, We must all try to answer Spring's call. —Myrtle Philpott. POETRY vs. PATHOS Gosh its hard to write a poem When you don't know what to say, When your mind ain't just a workin' And you'd rather be at play. Why is it that the teachers Always give us at this time, Lessons of all descriptions, And one—a burdensome rhyme? I've thought of this for three days now, And know I'm not exempt; So if this verse is not O. K. Just grade it on—attempt. —B. Rubenstein. —O-H'S— LAUGH! Build for yourself a strong box; Fashion each part with care; Fit it with hasp and padlock, Put all your troubles there. Hide therein all your failures, And each Sitter cup you quaff, Lock all your heartaches within it, Then—sit on the lid and Laugh! Tell no one aught of its contents, Never its secrets share; Drop in your cares and worries, Keep them forever there. Hide them from sight so completely The world will never dream half, Fasten the top down securely, Then—sit on the lid and Laugh! —Louise Zeller. That was too much for me. I dis- olved the company that day and gave up the attempt. As I said before, my talent cannot be appreciated in this age; I was born before my time. —John O'Neill, CELERY I have a passion fondness for cel¬ery. Late in the autumn when the frost has silvered the gay colors of the autumn leaves and turned the last blades of grass to slender silver rapiers, I begin to hunger for celery. How my eyes delight in the smooth slender whiteness of the stalks, and what is sweeter to the ear than the crisp, snapping sound when one tears the stalks apart! I love best of all, the heart. It is round and slender and waxen white and the pale yellow leaves at the top of it are like little yellow flames from a candle. Only one smooth bunch, but the largest I can procure, do I allow my¬self until Thanksgiving. Then my friend, who has quaint habits, sends me ten of the finest bunches in all L so to fully appreciate the gift I allow myself but one bunch until then. It is a guaint habit, yet a delightful one my friend has. We l were at dinner one night when I asked him why he sent me celery on Thanksgiving and our friend B a basket of huge yellow chrysanthemums. "Well," said he, "all year long I delight in the loveliness of nature and it seems that Thanksgiving is the appropriate time to pay the bill." "But my dear fellow," I protested, "God does not charge us so much a head for every flower that delights us, nor for the gorgeous coloring of the sunset. Those are a few of the things in the world that are free for the taking." "That is just it," he replied, "I cannot take them, I feel as though I owe an enormous bill and Thanksgiv¬ing is the day to give thanks so I settle the bill then as best I can. Of course I do not count the sunsets or the flowers or the clouds or anything for that matter, but I charge them up to my friends." "And why," said I, "do you send me the celery?" "For much the same reason as I send the other things," he said, "To our friend B I send chrystnthe- mums, it helps me to even the flower bill. To my friend X - I charge the sunsets. A friend in China sends me driftwood chemically treated by ithe Chinese to produce the colors of the sunset when it is burnt in an open fire and that pays X 's bill. To the widow A I pay the cloud bill, to our friend C I charge the rain and to you I send the celery as payment for the frost on autumn leaves and pumpkins and grass blakes. And after all," he finally reflected, "Thanksgiving was the day set aside to show our thanks and appreciation for the things we re¬ceived throughout the year." Yes, my friend has quaint habits, but of all the quaintest I like this one best. It is a unique way of celebrat¬ing Thanksgiving and affords ray friend great pleasure and this time when he sends me the celery, I shall not only delight in its whiteness and crispness, but in the many scenes of autumn beauty that led my friend to send it. —Madeline Reeder. "STARS OF THE EVENING" The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking siiently, All silently, the little moon, Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars. And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. And earnest thoughts rise within me, When I behold a-far, Suspended in the evening skies The shield of Mars, the red star. The star of the unconquered will It rises in my breast, Serene, resolute, and still, And calm and self-possessed. O fear not in a world like this And thou shalt know ere long. Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. 0 star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with they mailed hand, And I am strong again. —Arthur Thinnes. —O-H-S— MYTH OF THE SAND LILY There should be some myth found¬ed on the eternal beauty of the sand lily. There are not many things in nature more striking to man's eye. It is such an eloquent representation of purity; and to see the soft snowy petals of the lily growing in the hot sands and with coarser plants is enough to make any human think of the ways of life. Perhaps they signify the few pure people living in this hard, selfish world. Perhaps they were planted in the cool of the evening to indicate that people who have always lived easily, if they are pure, can endure the uncomfortable things of life. But I believe the myth that the Indians bestow on this pure flower, seems the most beautiful. They are the guiltless eyes of their departed relatives peering up from the "Happy Hunting Ground." —Louise Richardson. —O-H-S— SUNSET 1 gaze out over the city With its roofs of somber gray To the sky, like a lovely painting, The colors so vivid and gay. A cloud crosses my line of vision; But it's pierecd by the sun's bright rays. It brings back the joys of childhood, With chatter and laughter and play. —Nona Wallace. —O-H-S— PEALED Red: "You know that I heard Harriet was the belle of the town." Mike: "Yes, I passed the laundry and saw her wringing." For Those Who Care Brown's Delicia Ice Cream More than satisfied. It's smooth Velvety taste has :reated a perpetual demand. Brown Ice Cream Co. PHONE 315 PRINTING FOR ALL OCCASIONS At Dee Practical Printer "Service Grocers" Free Delivery We have the Best—try us Washington Market A. MILLER, Prop. 2472 Washington Ave. Phone 2800