THE WEBER LITERARY JOURNAL Down through the ages, the phonetic alphabet was perfected which made possible the use of written records, without which man indeed would be lost. The art of printing was discovered, newspapers and books were made possible, and the carrying of messages not only from one town to another, but from one country to another became possible. The art of writing was for a good many years the only means of communication over long distances, but with the invention of the telephone, and of recent years, the radio, vocal speech is coming back to its own and will some day be the chief method of long distance communication. By it, messages can be sent around the. entire circumference of the world in less time than our medieval forefathers took to make up their minds to send a message. Yes, communication has been developed to a very high degree, but alas, because it was necessary, think of the work and worry that have followed. This very essay is a result of it. All we poor lads and lasses have to study this now formidable language for the major portion of our young lives. It is, in fact, so complicated that most youngsters after studying for sixteen consecutive years do not know much more about it than when they started. We would certainly be thankful for, and unanimously support some kind hearted person who would simplify things. But perhaps we have magnified our troubles a little. Perhaps things are not so bad as we like to think them. For complicated though it may be, it has its good points. Talking, writing, reading, all would lie impossible were it not for our highly developed art of communication. Gean Greenwell. 10 THE WEBER LITERARY JOURNAL George Alderbright, M. D. O GEORGE Alderbright, the second year of medicine, under Professor George Greenly was anything but a joke. When George first thought of a medicinal career, his only idea of it was dishing out pink pills and placing a thermometer in a good looking girl's mouth. That, however, was a thought of the past. His rosy dreams had vanished, and his second year at the University found him still patiently sawing cadavers and just as patiently taking an occassional note or two at the numerous lectures. One unusually tiring day, George along with a fellow medic was summoned to Prof. Greenly's office. As the two entered, the Professor handed them a newspaper from his desk and pointing to a certain spot, waited quietly while they read, "Joseph Reed died at the home of his brother, after a short illness. Funeral arrangements will be made later." The paper was dated a month before. Both boys looked expectantly at the Professor, who after a moment of silence, said: "I was just talking with Chief of Police Allen and it seems that something has come up that leads him to believe that this man, Reed, did not die through natural causes. He asked me to have two of my boys drive up to Glenberry where Reed is buried and secretly dissect the body. This is a strictly confidential matter, you understand, so whatever you do let no one at Glenberry know of it." Early the following morning George and Tiny Tim as the other medic was known, on account of his 200 and some pounds of avoirdupois started forth on what was to them a somewhat exciting adventure. They drove along in silence for some time until George, noticing a few stray black clouds creeping up over the mountain, remarked, "It looks like rain." "Yah". "Hope we get to Glenberry before it starts". "Yah". As they drove on, the clouds continued to grow blacker and more ominous looking each mile lightning was flashing frequently now and away off over the hills the low roll of thunder came nearer and nearer. 11