The Weber Literary Journal Spring Fever By Grant Lofgreen WE ALL have our childhood trials, quarrels, and castor oil. We break the dishes, throw balls and rocks thru the windows, hide from our parents on Saturday (bath) night, tease the baby, and, last of all, we have to take piano lessons; but these are only dim candles in the Great White Way of troubles when it comes to considering our petty and humorous diseases. Well do I remember how I would hold my nose and breath as I passed by a house bearing that dreaded colored sign proclaiming to the entire world "mumps," "whooping cough" or "measles." Now as we advance into middle age or the age of marriage, family worship, and double chin, little do we think of our minor trials or our first experiences with disease germs. Yet we are still sorely afflicted with a contagious disease that shows a red label. We all have it and under the present weather conditions we no sooner get it than it begins to snow. There is no doubt but what it is dangerous, for during the period we are afflicted we fall in love, begin to scratch, want to cut the lawn, fix the Ford, water the grass, go swimming, and, last but not least, get into our B. V. D's. This suffer-causing disease makes us forget our lessons, our teachers, and most monstrous of all forgettings our meals. We all have it about the same time, and during this period, school should be held in Lester Park. For here we find the majority of students, and here we can study man in his most natural position, that of sleep. Now you have three guesses as to what this dreaded thing is. Look at yourself. Are your eyes half closed, are you dead from your belt both ways, are you up in the hills, back on the farm or off in space somewhere? If you are, you have it! Don't go home to the family, but dash off to Antelope Island where you will be safe from giving the disease to others. Be careful. There is no cure for such an ill. Doctors fear it, operations cannot cure it, you and all men are powerless before it. It is Spring Fever. 26 The Weber Literary Journal The Resurrection By Kate Fenton All brown and bare lay the stricken world; For Winter's cruel blasts had chilled And wounded sore; her voice was stilled And listless; drear, her flag was furled. Life ebbed away in frozen vein And loud laughed Winter in his glee To see Earth's troops before him flee While onward marched his ghoulish train. Then came the still small voice of Spring And spoke of Faith, of Hope and Power; Life stirred and woke in bud and flower, And strength surged up in the lifeless thing. To An Easter Lily By Pauline Mathews Oh, sacred symbol of Easter-Tide, Today I reverence thee; As thy white leaves unfold to me, Thy purity I see. You came forth from the darkness, In beauty here to bloom; You tell me of a Christ reborn In glory from a tomb. Oh, sacred symbol of Easter-tide, You give new birth to me; Til try as leaves of time unfold, To bloom as pure as thee. 27