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Gilman, James W. (ed.) / The Wisconsin literary magazine
Volume XIX, Number 5 (March 1920)

Schwinn, Walter K.
Album leaves,   pp. 117-118

Hubbard, Carol
The girl,   p. 118

O'Meara, Walter
The girls talk,   p. 118

Page 118

stood back from the heat of the flames creep closer
again, and watch the lighting of a new heap.
Finally all have been burned and nothing remains
but a glowing crimson strip along the curb. Now and
then a few leaves burst into a quick flame, but they
fade out and leave only a curl of gray smoke floating
in the air.
Nine o'clock strikes; one by one the children slip
away, until all is still and nothing is left but a heap
of dead white ashes beneath a cold white moon. The
wind hums among the dry branches. It is almost
Hallowe'en . .
THE girl lay in a hammock under an apple
tree-waiting for the water to heat for the dish-
washing. It was summer twilght. As she lay
there, she dreamed-and always the dream was the
A voice spoke to her-"Come, Girl, come with me."
"But who are you-where shall I go?"
"I - why I am the Dream Spirit - but come
The voice faded, and the girl followed lest it should
disappear. Ahead of her swift feet she heard it-
"Come, Girl, come!" On she went, thru familiar
fields and into unknown woods-on and on-always
with the guiding voice ahead-"Come!"
Suddenly the voice stopped drawing away-it
seemed close to her-she looked around.
She stood among the pine trees bordering a small
clearing. About fifty rods in fronts of her was a
small, clear blue lake, on the edge ,of which was up-
turned a slim green canoe. A small cabin, containing
(as she discovered quickly) many books-some fami-
liar and some new to her-books everywhere. Noth-
ing of startling interest was there-only the shining
water and the trees-and the books. Yet-
"This, Girl, is your place.-Come as often as you
can-don't forget that this belongs to you-only you.
For you it was created-yours it will always be -For,
Girl-it is you!"
The girl lay under a pine tree beside the lake,
dreaming still-
"Jo, the dishwater is boiling all over the floor-
and incidentally you have no monopoly on the ham-
The Thirtieth named its machine-guns-
Fannie, and Sue, and Nell;
Painted in neat white letters
Elisabeth, Marilyn, Belle.
Sweethearts in Iowa and Kansas,
Girls in Duluth and Lead,
Sleepy gray towns and the cities-
Innocence, charm, and speed.
So the Thirtieth christened its pieces,
And Corporal Dopey McVeigh
Blushed like a girl 'neath his freckles
And christened his Mary O'Day.
They tell of the fight at the bridgehead,
Of Fogarty, Harris, and Kuhn;
And the crosses awry by the river
Witness the work was done.
They tell how the "girlies" chattered
With hardly a stop for breath,
Woman-like, purring, and sweetly-
And every syllable death.
They tell of a bridge and a pivot,
A still, huddled group of dead,
A jammed gun stenciled "Mary"-
And a river running red.
Oh, the moonlight's cruel in Argonne wood,
And the moonlight's fair at home;
Its glow is soft on slender throats
And cold on new-turned loam.
Miss Mary O'Day danced divinely.
About seven shimmies from dawn
The sleepy-eyed Swede with the 'cello
Heard her say as she stifled a yawn:
"Joe, remember that guy in the stockroom-
The boys called him 'Dopey', I think;
Queer duck we were all the time kidding--
Well, Lu says he's been killed, poor gink!"
March 1920

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