,
UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA.
Vol. XXVI.
LINCOLN, NEBRASKA, SKPTEMHER 24. 1896.
No. 1.
THE FLITTING.
The blackbirds name from the hills today
Shouting farewells from the dawn 'till dark,
And all through their twittering, far away,
Struck in the call of the meadow lark;
Tomorrow, imder the cottonwoods gray
Empty nests will be hanging stark.
Tomorrow the eobweb of wires and wires
Will taugle the sunset high in the west.
And the sky will be fenced with tall church spire
Thai reach up out of the smoke for rest,
And in every Hash of the strange hearth-tires
I will see the swing of an empty nest.
A Sketch.
This makes me yawn ; and by the time
I finish a pipe-full of Old Perique (I never
smoke anything else), I will be in fine
shape to roll in and slumber righteously.
This is the first time I have read the crit
ic's notes on current literature for let
me see how long. How it does all come
back. Little straws tickle.
Most i ritics of today write as though
they thought their duty lay in calling a
man down if his freshness of style made
an interesting story out of what
would be a drowsy narrative, told as it
occurred, untrimmed.
That spring in the Fifties, when we
left Washington and Lee, at least one
third of us had the usual soulful yearn
ings to love and be loved. Of course, we
wrote rank verse; but of course, too, we
were simply being initiated into the joy
ful mysteries of puppy love. When a
matured man loves, he never mocks the
divine passion with wordy fripperies; but
what more could you expect from a lot of
world-wise infants, fresh from the arms
of a loving Alma Mater! But the serious
part about our rubbish was that some
of it was read actually read.
Well, that is neither here nor there,
except that it goes to show what may be
accomplished by using a very fresh style;
so am inclined to believe that even our
modern author's style captures his read
ers more than does what he tells them.
Why, if I could pad and polish all I've
seen and heard, I could use cold records
of hard knocks in a beef-steak world, use
them to make a standard modern im
pressionist. If I could paint life pictures
with my gummy old gold pen, so as to
blot over and hide the lines of horror, I
would never tackle another engineering
job, - never make another winter camp.
Strange, but I used to think I could
acquire an adorning style of writing. I
hoped some day to leave something read
able for infants yet to come; but I guess
all that comes under the head of boyish
fancies; for I remember that the theory
is that what is in a man will come out if
be gives it a chance; and surely I have
done nothing to stultify myself.
I have worked hard and faithfully to
win my little mess of pottage; and little
has occurred to me since I left the old
college campus that I cannot recall in
perfect order. I believe I have not been
a poor observer but simply a truthful one.
Today I can give you detailed accounts
of most anything you wish in the line of
comedy or tragedy; and my friends say
I, sometimes, can tell and take a joke.
I can tell you of great battle-scenes, of
mangled, bleeding men: for as a young
engineer on Uncle Robert's Field Corps,
I saw more hellish scenes than any man
can comprehend. Today I eould con
jure up enough faces, pallid in death
agony, to drive mo wild; but God be
thanked, I amgiventheiowerof remem-
KJITT.irTu
