The Weber Literary Journal The Storm By LaPriel Stock WE were amid a sea of waves. The launch seemed to assume a cautious and watchful movement. It squirmed its way in the hollows lying close to the very waves that threatened to swallow us. As if riding on a Ferris wheel we were swung over the top and dropped to the bottom. Then we hung immovable while high above our heads the next wave was upon us. It seemed as if the whole of the lake was coming toward us in one monster roll. It is strange what absolute faith can be put into a sturdy little launch. I had no doubt but that it would carry us safely to shore; I scarcely gave it a thot. Standing facing the wind, my ribboned braids flapping at my back, I was enjoying the plight. I reveled in the battle with the waves and wind. Altho I was only a child my whole soul was stripped bare in the combat. I drew in a sharp breath of air and gloried in the fact that I was there; I forgot there was peril. Each wave had a new fascination; it was not fear, it was a sort of breathless joy. Years lapsed between the waves. Eagerness rushed forth, oh, to climb to the top of the large waves and look into the fathoms below! The boat seemed to be human; I strained with it. Excelsior! What an attainment to reach the top of a huge lake giant with the motor panting for breath, then to descend with a swishing sound showering white spray far to each side! My pulse beat with the rhythmic movement and the blood rushed thru my veins so fast that I could feel its throb. "Child, why aren't you seasick?" shouted a voice in my ear. I turned and remembered with surprise the other passengers; I had forgotten their existence. Women were leaning over the side of the launch seasick and very concerned young men hovered near. I did not try to interpret the expressions on their faces; they did not interest me. I turned back to revel again in the waves. They were growing smaller. We were getting near to shore and to the big 12 The Weber Literary Journal breakers. My moment of joy had passed. It was as if the largest of the waves had splashed over me, taking my breath and leaving me saturated. Even now I cannot forget it. To Lincoln By Helen Wilson The honesty of your soul has been Like a staunch green pine that stands - Firmly, bravely, outlined against the sky, And weathering all storm and shock By the very reason of its staunchness and greenness Or like a vein of pure gold Lying deep in gray-ribbed granite. Your honesty to self to higher self Your honesty and trueness to all men And, over-reaching, over-shadowing all, The pureness of your honesty to God Ah, Lincoln, it was a heritage sublime, A heritage to be striven for and prized, That you left to the nation For which you died. 13