"There's a lonely old house on a far-away hill." page ten Despondency By Valeta Purrington There's a lonely old house on a far-away hill, Where there's nothing that moves and everything's still, And the robin hushes his cheery song, The hours drag and the day is long. There's never a moon or stars in the sky, The sun never shines and there's clouds always by. I'm going to live in that house on the hill, For my heart is lonely, hushed and still. There's an untraveled road that nobody knows, And it winds and it twists as onward it goes. The crickets don't chant and the ditch has dried, And the flowers that grew have withered and died. The fence wires are sagging and covered with rust, And the hot wind is blowing the fine dry dust. I know of that road and I'll travel again, For my heart is dry and twisting with pain. My love song now has changed to a dirge, And painful memories slowly emerge, The tune is a chant, not a melody, And its words are taunting and mocking me, I can't forget even though I try, My eyes are wet, and I want to cry. I'll sing that song now slowly at last, My dead heart is buried deep in the past. Prediction By Joan Allred Son, I give you hard toys Of leather and steel, A hunting-knife wound And a spur bruised heel; These things can hurt you Little enough: You'll be a hunter, You will be tough As a Cheyenne quiver Marked with hawk's blood, Sumach and gunpowder, Pine-pitch and mud. Son, I give you bright words To make you wonder, Small heart impaling bits Of splintered thunder: Here is a black star Burnt to the socket And a blue jay feather To trouble your pocket. You'll feel a poet's need Like wry sweet sin Wearing the flesh out From within. In Memorium: SERGEI RACHMANINOFF By Van Nance Oft have I heard thy music, pale and pure, And through its magic essence I have seen The steppes of Russia, when the vibrant spring Brings to their barren grounds again new life. Then do they blossom like a dormant flower Wakened by the clear warm light of dawn And breathe again, a new and living thing. Soul of Russia, whither hast thou gone Do you now rest with other kindred souls? Or does thy gaunt magnificent naked shade Now haunt those barren, bloody, lifeless steppes That spring can never wake to life again. Quietly have you passed from out this world And, like the swan, when death is drawing nigh, Sings most sweetly as it glides slowly by, So have you sung, great vulture of a man. Thy music is thy only claim to fame; But thine doth put the Nightingale's to shame. page eleven