Man and a Candle
There is a marked similarity between the career of a man and that of a candle. The steps that mark man's progress in life are matched by those of a candle. "Ah," the reader may say, "you are wrong. What comparison can there be between a smooth, slim, tapering candle and man as a baby, a youth, and a full-fledged adult?" Nevertheless there is similarity. Although man's body is small at birth, his soul is ready for development. It is just so with a candle. A film I saw in chapel last summer showed a Mexican candle-maker at his work. From a circular rack hung rows of wicks. He went from one to another pouring wax upon each one. Some wax clung to the wick, forming a thick coat. The remainder flowed off the wick into a large tub on the ground. As each coat dried and became firm, a new one was applied. Finally the finished candle appeared: long, strong, and capable of giving much light. Man's development matches this process. First he is a baby, a mere wick or soul with a thin coating of body. Then coat after coat is applied until he becomes a child, a youth, and a man. He is ready to perform his mission in life. A sparks light him, and he becomes all fire, bringing light to his fellows. As the time of his service goes by, his tall stature is diminished, but his light glows brighter. The drippings of past experience run down into middle age and make his flame stronger and steadier. Finally, as the time of his service comes toward its end, the flame grows smaller and less bright. Then it flickers and goes out, leaving only a reminder of the body that once was. The soul has burned itself out and departed. Thus man and a candle, similar in creation, service, and life, are alike in the ending of their careers.-JOSEPH RIESER
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A Dream of Riches
Some people say that dreams come true, but I do not believe it. I shall tell you why I do not. One March evening, after I had eaten a dinner of fried potatoes, chili con carne, lettuce salad and pineapple, I felt sick and went to bed early. I was not long in bed until I was asleep and dreaming. I dreamt that I was digging up the ground along the sandy bank of a river, when all at once I discovered a nickel half covered with sand lying at my feet. As I uncovered the one nickel, several others appeared. Suddenly, as I dug into the sand with my fingers, a stream of nickels gushed forth from the ground and flew in all directions. First I filled my pockets; then I ran to a near-by store and secured three bushel baskets which I also filled with nickels. At last, the gusher having subsided, and my baskets having been safely hidden away in some elderberry bushes a few yards away, I started home to tell my mother of my good fortune. My pockets jingled at every step. When Mother opened the door upon my arrival, I hugged her and cried, "We're rich! We're rich!" And then I awoke to hear Mother calling, "Harry, get out of that bed this instant and quit screaming like a maniac!" I started, and jumped out of bed still yelling mechanically, "We're rich!" This is one of my dreams which I am reasonably sure will never come true.-HARRY EASTON
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How I Select and Read a Book
I am one of those people who believe that a good book is a good friend. When I go to the library to select a book, I get one of that I think will interest me. I like books with a few pictures to illustrate the story. This I find helps me greatly in choosing an interesting story, as I can usually tell by the pictures what a book is like. I then leaf through the book and read a little here and there; I always read some of the conversation to see what the characters are like. If the book suits me, of course I take it out. When I get home and have some time for reading, I pick a comfortable spot and a comfortable chair, where I think I cannot be easily disturbed. I take an apple and if I am lucky enough to find some candy in the house, I set it on the arm of the chair. I curl up and uncurl until I have a comfortable position. I then open the book and start to read. I say to myself, "Hum! that sounds funny," or, "That doesn't make sense." I then read the first paragraph over again and think, "This book is going to be dry." Nevertheless I give the book a fair trial and keep on reading. The book grows so interesting that I forget about the rest of the world. Finally I come to the part when the girl is tied to the burning stake and the hero's horse's hoofs are heard in the distance. I am very much excited now and can hardly wait to find out if the hero will reach the girl in time to save her. By the time the girl is rescued, I wake up to the fact that I have been stuffing more candy into my mouth than I can chew. Mother calls, "Say, can't you hear? I have called about six times." -MARJORIE FUELLER---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Nephew Harry
When I read the "funnies" to my nephew Harry, I am both annoyed and flattered. "Hey, Blanche," he begins, when he finds me on the front-porch swing these June evenings, "will they kill Spud? Will Klem kill the pretty girl? Does Roy really forget everything?" On and on goes his everlasting questions. I sometimes wish they would publish the whole adventure at once; then Harry would not be left in an agony of suspense. And I am the one who feels the brunt of his suspense. Every evening it's the same tale. Up stalks Harry, comic sheet held fast in his dirty hands, his brown eyes hopeful. "Blanche, please read me Tim," comes his meek request. I continue munching carrots. "I---I---I'll get you a glass of cold water," he offers, grinning shyly. Resigning myself to my fate, I grab the paper from him and begin to read about Tim, stopping frequently to explain at length situations he doesn't understand. When I have finished, I rudely hand it back to him and turn a cold, ignoring shoulder to his thoughtful face. I know, however, what is coming next. "Blanche, will he get away? Do you think the old man in the cave will torture him?" Hardening my heart against his appealing voice, I turned round to glare at him. Alas! His eyes are so wistful that I can't resist. And the result is another half hour spent in answering eager questions. Though I am always annoyed by these daily episodes, I confess that satisfying Harry is no mean reward.-BLANCHE ORPELLI
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My Aunt
Breathlessly I waited for the nurse to admit me to my aunt's room. As soon as I had heard that July morning that my aunt was ill, I had rushed from home to the St. Francis Hospital, only four blocks away. She was a sour old lady, but I liked her for all her gruffness. Plain stubbornness the family called it, but I insisted on calling it sourness, that made her sniff and turn up her nose at the actions of others. Still she did so many good things for others that I love her. My thoughts were running in such a fashion when the nurse came and led me to Aunt Amelia's room. I opened the door and walked in. "Hello, Aunt Amelia. How nice your room looks." "Yes, I have had a regular fight. I just told the nurse that they weren't going to have any old medicine bottles around me, and have people look in and pity me." And she was right. Every nook and corner of the room was filled with flowers. There was a basket of roses under the window; yellow roses they were, just opening among the ferns that surrounded them. Fragrant blue phlox decorated the washstand to my left; on the dresser and pink geraniums. As the window blind flapped, the soft light shone through, lit up Aunt Amelia's curly gray hair and weary white face. As I looked down at her, a small frail woman of about sixty, I noticed her thin wrinkled hands picking nervously at the back covers as she talked. "It is too bad you couldn't have come to see me before this," she complained, fixing her piercing gray eyes on my face. "You don't know what might have happened to me. I might have died. Why don't you ask me how I feel? Sit down, child; you make me nervous." I pulled the white chair up to the bed and sat down. "How are you, Aunt Amelia?" "I'm not even so well as I was yesterday. I am sure pneumonia is setting in." And then she talked of Aunt Jane, Uncle Tom, and her sister, my great-aunt Martha, all of whom had died of pneumonia. "Well, child, I am getting tired. I wouldn't mind if you'd leave." And for the first time I saw Aunt Amelia's stern face relax into the only kind of smile she could give as I kissed her good-bye. Poor Aunt Amelia! Her heart was in the right place even if her tongue was sharp. Looking back as I slipped out the door, I saw that she had closed her eyes, and that her brow was furrowed again into a frown.-BERNICE MARTIN
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