A Far Country... walter preston cable I suppose that at one time or another each of us has come upon a strange road, and paused to let his thoughts follow their course until they became lost in the blue reaches of distance. Just beyond that curtain which blocks out sight lie cities and people and fields......a far country that beckons! Held captive for the moment by the mood such a road suggests, we reach far into the future, and turning in the direction from which it came, pierce the past. People have trod this way. In each obliterated footprint there is a story the simple tale of someone in quest of what lies beyond. Man's years have been a hungry turning from the here to there. We all share that quest whenever we stand before a gate that leads to a world of experience somewhat different from our own. Perhaps that is why man's history has been an upward climb toward something richer and greater than he himself could ever be. Our thoughts have itching feet, we say, and our hunger lends them wings. So is begun a journey. The prosaic will take a car, of course, and he who likes to hike will walk. But there is another "royal road to romance" we seldom think about. Alexander Woolcott de-scribes it best as certain "bypaths in the realms of gold." And by that he means those curious things we call books. Books do constitute a road, really. It is a strange road but a real one nonetheless that takes you all manner of strange places. I know of no other road that will lead one back to yesterday. No man in the course of an ordinary-lifetime can hope to encompass the sum total of human experience. It seems to be the role of books that they provide a sort of vicarious atonement for the days and years of human living which we have missed. What would it be like, I wonder, to have lived in our yesterdays? The courts of kings; the dim green hush of Sherwood Forest; the tortured agonies of human souls in search of freedom and of truth; the dark' ening, broken sky above Golgotha; and the sudden dawn! To live if only for a moment as other men have lived, to think their thoughts; by such experiences as these we plumb the past. And out of knowledge so gained, we turn with understanding eyes to envision the future. There is that about this road which creates a fraternity among those along its way. No chance encounter with a chap from the old home town calls forth quite such a fellow-feeling as springs up spontaneously between two people to whom a book is a mutual friend. Certainly the rest of the world is forgotten when two indurated Dickensians strike hands, and the same may be said of a host of other books whose tendrils reach deep into the human heart. A pipe perhaps, an open fire, a friend or two with whom to talk books; here is much of the richness of reading. If you have read this far in this rambling preamble, you may have already detected in your correspondent's eye something akin to the gleam of the proselytizer. And you wouldn't be far wrong! The gentle art of reading books can infuse a whole life with richness and beauty. Furthermore, it can be and is fun! Enjoyment of reading has its practical side, too. From what source, other than books, could we glean the wisdom of the years? Not from tradition, certainly, for that is constantly changing; nor by word of mouth, because the human element involved is too variable. But too much has already been said about books as a course of knowledge. I choose to extoll their charm. For books do have charm! The charm and personality of the human lives which unfold within them. To delve into hidden thoughts and watch the workings of the human mind is adventure indeed. Autumn Morning... dean jessop Purple mountains, misty in the morning glow, Float majestic on a lake; Golden sand-drops rush to drape their shiny heads With silvered lace along its wake. Mountain sunrise, sifting through mist swathed trees Bids autumnal glories now awake, And with ice-tinged breath upon a northern breeze Come soft, last looks of Summer joy to take. FOURTEEN An Open Letter... ruth packer Mr. Bob Pin, Net and Comb Street, Just East of Hairline, State of Thankfulness. Dear Mr. Pin: You may not think so, but we owe a lot to you. Yes, indeed, you have done a great deal for us girls, and to you, forsaking all others, we dedicate this time and effort. To you we give our last full measure of devotion, for you have proved your worth. To you also we owe many a thrilling occasion and thank you for saving us from obscurity and complete oblivion. Many times in our early childhood we heard the jingle of the ice cream wagon. Mother said it was too close to dinner for ice cream. Oh, what would we ever do? We must have some! While longingly toying with our precious bank which is loaded with pennies, an idea suddenly strikes us. Of course, this precious little fellow will fix things up fine for us. No one would miss a few pennies anyway. You, Mr. Bob Pin, used your sharp little fingers, and then, with an ice cream cone and only a slightly guilty conscience, we hastened to the garage to lick the cream long and lovingly. That is just one of the favors you have done for us. Remember the night we went to the lovely dance? We got in late and the family was in bed. We had forgotten the key, so, fumbling around, we found you practically sticking in our eye. Again you came to our rescue. Also, one afternoon after school we were slaving over a typewriter. We had been drudging for hours, just hoping we should at least get a "B" out of it. We were so tired, our hair was hanging like a damp mop, and our fingers ached from, the constant pounding. Someone slapped us on the back and informed us he would be up sometime after eight-thirty. It would be fun, but just look at us. Whatever would we do with our hair? And how about those grimy nails? Just as we were despairing, you, our wonderful, indispensable little friend promised to make us presentable once more. Thanks to you, we had a lovely time, and our dignity was spared. I shall never be able to repay you for repairing a rapidly-coloring countenance one night at a dancing party. The music was delightful, swishing dresses were like summer clouds drifting by. Everything was correct until something slipped. Once more little friend, you saw your duty and you promptly "done" it! ! ! We admit that a bobby pin sticking into one's shoulder isn't quite pleasant, but it's much better than being embarrassed and socially disowned. We girls could go on for hours enumerating things you have done and can do for us. However, just so you know how we feel about you and realize that we simply couldn't exist without you, I am sure you will accept our attempt to offer thanks for salvation. Our dignity will be safe as long as you rule the waves. So, to you, Mr. Bob Pin, we acknowledge our debt of gratitude. Yours truly, The Modern Girl The Simple Life... stanley johnson All I want is to Wake up and Live Alone with Orchids on my Budget and Like It. All I want is to Win Friends and Influence People. All I want is the simple life. All I want is to wake up between pink silk sheets and have a butler named Higgs help me out of my Mandarin silk pajamas and sterilize my tub and draw a bath for me and lay out my morning suit. All I want is a cook (a doughty fellow) and a serving maid (a pretty wench) and sausages and jelly omelet and pink perfumed tea from Ceylon every morning. All I want is a yacht named the Pluvarius with pink sails that will trim Vanderbilt and Astor or whoever has yachts. All I want is a swimming pool in pink tile with hand painted goldfish in it. All I want is the Nobel prize and a handful of Pulitzers. All I want is the simple life. All I want is to make a pretty splash when I die. FIFTEEN