The Weber Literary Journal Winds Today, as I was coming to school, The biting wind blew fiercely And hurried The powdery snow before it In a line like the tide on the seashore Over and away from the crusty snow That lay beneath. And as the thin white layer Was driven helter-skelter from the banks I saw what they were really. I saw the dark, soot-speckled places That had been all white before The staunch, ice-ribbed plateaus And the thin glittering frame works That sparkled bravely to the sun. And, as the wind blew, It also revealed in many places Under a gray, forbidding layer, A great white drift, purely deep. And I thought, How, when life's great tempests blow, They truly scatter our outside covering And show what really lies Beneath. 20 The Weber Literary Journal Our Street By Mrs. Laura Eccles Romney HEN one turns into our street, he sees it literally paved with humanity. They are forty in number, from corner to corner, the majority of them being half-day eligibles or too young to go to school at all. These reign supreme. Over here the passers-by will see two or three in a struggle over a kiddie-car, tricycle or doll buggy. There, this one is receiving a shower of rocks or sticks. A drenching with the hose is a common sight. Too frequently a kiddie-car, doll buggy or wagon versus an automobile is in combat for the right-of-way into some garage; the motor car invariably gives in, and a vexed motorist alights from his seat to do homage to the smaller vehicle. A kettle some mother is looking for, spoons, all kinds and sizes, egg beaters and most every thing else that really belongs in a kitchen are always to be found scattered about our street. Yes, we not only boast of the view from our street, and the fine air, free from soot and smoke of winter fires, but also of its prolificness. Two wee bits of this humanity live under my jurisdiction. The younger, being just fourteen months, is scarcely old enough to add much hilarity to the street. But the other, with his big blue eyes, his little freckled pug nose, his full lips extending most of the time farther out than they should, and his sturdy little body, is all that a street could wish for for I fancy, if streets could talk, they would tell us that they love most the child who loves them. This little fellow of three is no longer the pride of his parents for his display of gentlemanliness and proper speech; since graduating from the yard to the street the latter's vernacular holds sway. It is rarely that he will tell of any of the day's happenings. And on these few occasions he persists in using the dialect of some neighborhood child; the one most used is that of a little 21