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Things That Are And Things To Be
SPRING is scheduled to arrive this month, and The Yankee is keeping in step with the season by adding four more pages. This is not a temporary increase, but an indication of permanent progress. Further increases in size will follow if the amateur journalists can catch on to the Spring spirit and send in their manuscripts in greater numbers. It would also help us get ahead with our efforts to popularize amateur literature if you readers would get a few more subscribers. Much as we dislike to dwell on so mercenary a topic in this pleasant season, we feel compelled to remind you that all this printing costs us quite a few shiny pennies. So if you will excuse this little sales-talk we will get on to less delicate matters.
Starting with this number, the editor’s column, “Amateur Activities,” will be a regular feature each month. All amateur news-hawks who think they have good first-hand “copy” are hereby urged to write us a letter all about it. Any item about, or interesting to, amateur journalists will be appreciated.
Next month we will have a little contest for amateur fiction writers. No, not an April Fool’s joke, but an honest-to-goodness contest. First prize will be a genuine (in these days we have to specify thus) dollar bill. There will be other prizes, too. It happened like this – I started to write a story, honestly, and then decided I’d like to see how some other writer would finish it. It’s somewhat of a mystery yarn, and – but I think I’ll keep it a mystery till then.
Wanted – one columnist. Only simon-pure amateurs need apply. Believing nine persons out of ten, or even larger percentage, are interested in sports, we would like to contact a capable writer definitely interested and informed on amateur sports. We don’t want a re-hashed account of professional sports, covered very well in professional publications, we want a reviewer who will be able to conduct an interesting column on amateur athletics. If you believe you are possessed of the necessary qualifications, get in touch with The Yankee. We guarantee that you will receive no salary, but get a lot of valuable experience, fun, and perhaps a reputation.
Too Far Away
by Neal Hathaway
Two men are walking down the street. It is midnight and they are talking. About what? I know not for I cannot hear them. I am too far away.
They both seem very determined, and they stop before a doorway. The doorway is dark, and so is the house into which it leads. I stop also, for I am going to watch them. They do not see me, I am on the other side of the street.
They are quarreling about something. I hear one of them say in a loud tone, “She is mine.”
“She is not, she is mine,” the other one shouts.
They must be two men in love with the same woman.
Louder words. More vehemence. A blow is struck. They are wrestling in the gutter. One of them rises, a knife in his hand. It is bloody, for he has stabbed his opponent. He wipes the blood on the coat of the man in the gutter. He goes into the doorway.
Presently the ambulance arrives, then the police. They question me. I tell them what has happened. The police go into the house and bring out the man with the knife. “You are a murderer,” the police tell him.
“I don’t care,” he shouts, “he deserves it.” To the electric chair for him.
For the other? I know not, for I cannot hear. I am too far away.
Aussie and Yank
by Maurice Grimwood
Most Australians think of the United States as a place where you hear nothing but “O.K.,” “Oh yeah,” “Says you,” but although I have never traveled outside good old Aussie I have a different opinion of the people there.
After all, most Yanks, and people who have never traveled to sunny Australia, think of it as a place of a few scattered villages with tribes of aborigines running around throwing boomerangs at each other, and the Kukaburra laughing high in the gum trees. It is indeed a very rare sight in Australia to see an aborigine outside his own native camp. And these camps are few and far between.
Out of seven million Australians there are approximately two thousand blacks, of these only half are full-bred. It is a fast dying race of people.
Americans are far ahead of the Australians, perhaps because of our remote position in relation to the rest of the world, and further, because the United States was civilized far before us.
Amateur Activities
As Reviewed By The Editor
In Milton, Mass., there is a youthful amateur that I greatly admire. He is a young fellow named Jack Coolidge, whom you will probably remember as the author of a short sketch in the January issue. Jack is very young, and very modest. He is so shy that one would rarely suspect such a fund of energy and ambition as he possesses.
He is the editor and printer of the Bay State Bugle and is now starting another journal, The Newenglander. He designs many of the cuts that grace his journals, and frequently contributes to other papers. At the conventions of the New England Amateur Press Club he said very little in the presence of older and more talkative companions, and when asked to speak at the banquet was terribly confused. But in spite of his confusion in being thus spot-lighted, he was able to speak very capably on a well-chosen topic. His ability to draw upon a well of words impressed all of us who attended. I am sure that all of those present on those convention days will agree that Jack is bound to make a success of The Newenglander for he has the fundamental powers that mark ability in him.
Because of a need for localized press clubs, there have been formed recently a number of regional groups offering to amateur journalists a more active and closer association than either national organization has been able to give. Most recent examples are the New England Amateur Press Club and the Central States Press Club. A club for the Middle Atlantic States is now being organized. Membership in the club in your region is recommended. Enjoy to the fullest the benefits of a local club organ, an annual convention in your own region, and contacts with other amateurs near you. If you want information on any of these clubs named, I will be glad to furnish it.
Ray Albert, smiling Southern amateur, has a press now, and has decided to edit and print a journal of his own. The first issue of Just Rays introduces this 29-year-old to readers the breadth of amateur journalism. The introduction creates a good impression, as did Ray’s presence at the convention of the United Amateur Press Association held here in New York last July. We hope that every amateur will learn to know Ray better now that his personality has broken into print at last.
Percy L. Crosby
by Santo Giampapa
You have certainly all read, at some time or other, the famous comic-strip, Skippy. Percy L. Crosby is responsible for this character, who brings joy into millions of homes with his daily antics.
Mr. Crosby was born in Brooklyn, N. Y., in 1891. He began drawing at an early age and upon the completion of his public schooling he enrolled in the Art Students’ League. After graduating from the League, he managed to obtain a position as a cartoonist with the New York Globe, but was fired when nineteen. Previous to this he had entered a contest for professional cartoonists and after he had left the Globe, it was announced that he had won first prize. The Globe was willing to rehire him, but he went to the New York World.
Skippy was created in 1923 on the pages of LIFE magazine. He worked harder on these drawings than on anything else he ever did. Crosby was finally rewarded with a syndicate contract.
Unlike most cartoonists, Crosby can work in any medium, being noted for his oil and water color paintings, his lithographs and etchings. Crosby has the distinction of being the first American artist to have his work included in the National Gallery of Modern Art in Rome. He also has three drawings in the British Museum, and has held one-man exhibitions in Boston, New York, Richmond, Washington and Paris.
Proving that he is as good a writer as an artist, Crosby has written six books, three of which he has published himself. The most notable of his books is A Cartoonists’ Philosophy, which attacks gangdom and prohibition. It was turned down by eight publishers, and he finally published it himself in 1931.
Crosby is always five or six months ahead on his comic-strips. He is married and has three girls and a boy, who is called Skippy by everyone. Crosby resides in McLean, Va.
Gossip
by Mary Morgan Ware
Tall grasses in the winds that sway,
They gossip thru the livelong day,
It matters not how much they know,
They whisper oft, “I told you so.”
It pleases them strange tales to tell,
Tea-party talk is deep, as well,
But why care I what grasses say,
As they gossip thru the summer day?
Driftwood
by Kenneth Hills
Today I stood upon the bank of the Chenango River, watching the flood waters sweep by. The river has somewhat subsided, but the debris is still floating with the current.
As I stood watching the water flow past I noted various articles of furniture, boards, and even refrigerators floating along, It reminded me that life is a sea, and that there are lots of people floating along like driftwood. That kind of people are never going any particular way in life.
Perhaps not all driftwood is decayed, as much of this was, but it might as well be, because it is not doing anyone any good. Those people who are drifters just exist without living. They do not know what living means.
We must do more in this life than merely exist if we wish to get anywhere. If we wish to get anywhere we cannot be drifters without a goal for which to work. The current will not be strong enough to carry us to our goal in life, we must use a little energy.
You will get out of life just what you put into it. If you put in a lot you will reap the benefits. A drifter never puts anything into life, so, of course, he never gets anything out of it. Work worthy of appreciation is a very good insurance policy because it will always be paid back in full. It is something hard for us to realize that our work is appreciated but life is just that way.
We must do the best we can. Not only must we do good work each day but our work must be along a channel toward the goal for which we are working. There are no short cuts to a high goal.
You have dreams of the future; all of us do, and if you want them to come true, work hard to make them real. If you have a definite mission in life, stick to it. Don’t give up no matter how hard the task may be.
The Corporal Cussed
by Maurice E. White
The Corporal cussed as he shuffled the deck
For some one had stacked the cards.
And he was getting’ mad, by heck,
The Corporal cussed as he shuffled the deck.
He wanted to twist the Sergeant’s neck
As he looked a hole thru his pards.
The Corporal cussed as he shuffled the deck
For some one had stacked the cards.
Independent Clubs and the U.A.P.A.
This begins a series of symposiums compiled by Barry Herbster, to be published in this magazine. Amateur journalists will be invited to write articles dealing with some phase of their organization. If YOU receive such an invitation, the compilor and The Yankee would appreciate an early reply.
The following discussion is based upon an assertion made by Dr. C. F. Noel, of the U. A. P. A., in a recent United Co-operative. He stated that independent clubs are “killing off” the U. A. P. A. We asked a representative group of members to give their views on Dr. Noel’s belief.
THE cause for the Crusader Amateur Press Club’s existence has been clearly stated: ‘For the advancement of the United Amateur Press Association and amateur journalism in general.’ It is not in existence to ‘disrupt the United, pass it over to the NAPA wolves’ or anything of that order.
“We are not formed, what is more, for the purpose of gaining political power in the UAPA or for the personal advancement of any individual. It is, in short, just what the name implies, an organization to advance a. j. Our members as individuals are the most active in the hobby and deserve to organize for the cause that they believe to be right, if they so desire, regardless of the attempt by certain members of the association to put a ‘damper’ on their activities. It is my sincere belief that the Crusader Amateur Press Club is gaining maturity and experience which will mold it into one of the most helpful and progressive bodies in a. j. history.
“At this writing it is impossible for me to foretell just what our stand will be in the next UAPA election. But whatever we do, we will do with forethought and sincerity of purpose which will be worthy of the time-honored history of our noble United Amateur Press Association.
“With this in mind, is it necessary for me to make excuses for our existence? Certainly not excuses, but apologies from our antagonists are due!” – Walter Ward Hamill.
“Are independent clubs injuring the United? Every member of the UAPA who has the interest of the association at heart must answer ‘yes’ to that question. If our association is to prosper it must have the undivided support of all its members. The organization of independent clubs divides that support.
“The time and energy expended in organizing new clubs would be of greater benefit to amateur journalism if it were used to advance the United. There is nothing in the program of the independent clubs which is not a duplication of the United’s activities; therefore, in organizing these independent clubs those who sponsor them lay themselves open to the suspicion that they want to be known as ‘big shot’ presidents of this or that group. To engage in amateur journalism for that purpose is to bring the hobby down to the level of a child’s game, wherein some spoiled child won’t take part in a game with his playmates unless he can be the leader.” – Ted Schirm.
“Dr. Noel has stated that the formation of independent clubs will eventually kill the United. I say to Dr. Noel that, on the contrary, independent clubs will prove to be the life-savers of the hobby. They will welcome the amateur journalist who contemplates abandoning his hobby because he is so completely disgusted with the tactics of the politically-minded, half-baked journalists who run the leading national organizations. This is directed to only those of the officers of the associations to whom it applies. If the coat fits: climb into it.
“The independent clubs all over America are functioning much more efficiently than either of the two major organizations. You are making assertions, Dr. Noel, without explanation or proof. I would suggest you look about you and discover that there are other fish in the pool… and they’re not all blowfish, either.” – Verne W. Robinson.
“Dr. Noel will have to prove that independent clubs are killing off the United before I will believe it. I always thought independent clubs worked for the good of the mother club and not against it as Noel’s statement says.
“The Crusaders are stated as an example. The Crusaders’ main idea is to oust Dr. Noel from office for the betterment of the association. I doubt if anyone has given up their UAPA membership to join the Crusaders, and I know that nearly every Crusader is a member of the UAPA.
“Not only the Crusaders, but also the New England Amateur Press Club are striving to get rid of the miser Noel.” – Edgar M. Hanson.
Attention! The year’s free subscription to The Yankee will be given for the best topic submitted for discussion in this column. Send to Barry Herbster, St. Louis, Missouri.
Poetry
by Ella Warner Fisher
It may be a rift
In the sky’s deep blue,
Or a strain of music
Filtering thru.
It may be whispered
By a small soft breeze
Adventuring lightly
Among the trees.
Or the gold of a flower
In the morning sun,
Or the flame of sunset
When the day is done,
Or an evening star
In the blue moonlight
When the world is wrapt
In the arms of night.
Forget!
by Jaroslav Chmelicek
Installment two of this exciting serial by Jaroslave Chmelicek… Continued from the February issue.
NOT in the least did the Egyptian government suspect that a man of Professor Swartz’ reputation would attempt to carry out such a diabolic plan. So positive of this were they, that they had not even sent an investigator to accompany us and record the tomb’s contents. And I had been cleverly drawn into the professor’s plan – which was being executed perfectly.
Why had Swartz not told me of his intentions? Had he taken me along as a part of his great disguise, later cleverly disposing of me? I turned and carefully looked at my followers. Why hadn’t I noticed before the ruthlessness upon their features? Turn back now? No, they would immediately suspect, then I would be lost without a fighting chance for life. Why had I been so falsely tricked? Why had they spoken of their plan before me? Did they forget for a moment I was with them, or… did they not care, knowing escape was barred for me?
Our darting shafts of light revealed suddenly the entrance into a large chamber ahead of us. The party became strangely quiet as we approached it. I, too, felt a bit uncomfortable inside.
Then happened the unexpected. Oh, if it only was possible to blot it all out of my memory! But I find great relief in revealing it upon paper, and I must tell all, no matter what happens to me after it is complete.
The professor entered the room first – as he was the leader he naturally did take the lead, and as he did so there was a high-pitched twang, as if from a plucked guitar string.
The professor whirled sharply around, a choked cry bursting from his lips, and fell at my feet. As my light flashed down to aid him, for I thought he had stumbled, I let out a cry of horror. For in the glare of my light lay the professor in a twisted heap, a long, thin arrow through his chest, dead.
The men behind me saw it, too, then; they surged forward, I carried in their midst.
“There’s someone here,” whispered one of the men.
“You fool,” another cried out, “there’s nobody here, this tomb has been shut up for hundred of years – thousands of years.”
“Then who shot that arrow that killed Swartz?” inquired one rogue, flashing his light back upon the body of Swartz, whose distorted features were a terrible sight.
“Come on,” urged still another, “let’s get out of this place. I don’t like it, and I’m not going to fight what I can’t see. Why, any second more of those arrows will come flying at us!”
A burly fellow whom I knew only as Ross, then elected himself boss, and argued with the frightened bunch.
“Listen,” he shouted sternly, “what do you think that warning was put up back there for?” He indicated the passage with a sweep of his torch.
“Then there is someone here?” several asked.
“I didn’t say so, did I? Those Egyptians were pretty clever at rigging up contraptions to put a scare into guys like you!”
“I wouldn’t wonder if this was one of their tricks,” muttered one, regaining his bravado.
Ross gave a sharp command for the walls of the large chamber to be searched for a mechanism resembling a bow.
“Probably,” he said as the men scuttled off to look for the contraption, and resuming in an authoritative voice, “that stone leading into this room is so counterbalanced that when disturbed it disconnects an arrow by some means – the arrow, which would be so aimed, would –”
“Nothing here,” came a call from one side of the room. From the opposite side came a similar statement.
“Hmmm,” muttered Ross, hiding his dissatisfaction, “it is so constructed that after releasing the arrow it swings up into a secret compartment and…”
His talk was interrupted by a gigantic crash. Immediately all lights were fixed upon the corridor from which the crash came. I gasped, and so did the others, for where once was a corridor, was a blank wall.
(Continued Next Month)
I Can’t Refuse
by Katherine K. Rucker
You tell me when I say I care
That I bring Heaven to you;
I can’t refuse to whisper then
The words that help me too,
I love you, dear,
And you love me;
How can I bear to choose?
Your soul is just;
You plead my trust –
Sweetheart. I can’t refuse!
There’s one small word that I can say
My heart would gladly lose;
And since I’ve learned what love can mean,
Sweetheart, I can’t refuse!
He and She
by Morna Irene Rowley
He and she went out together,
Quite often in the daytime.
She always did behave quite well,
Especially during their playtime.
But when he took his family out,
They thought her rather rude,
For you see they had never met her,
When she was in a good mood.
When out in company they did go,
She made him quite ashamed.
She never could behave quite so,
And he was always blamed.
Once out in company they did go,
Again she was bad behaved.
She hit and knocked, kicked and coughed,
Until he almost raved.
At last one day as he was driving,
He pushed the feed to the board.
The roads were slippery and they were sliding,
And they bumped into a Ford.
He only got a few scratches,
But she was hurt quite bad,
When they took her to a hospital,
It made him very mad.
He thought that he could give first aid,
Although it would leave a scar;
For he was just a chauffeur,
And she – was the chauffeur’s car.
Old Glory
by Norman Hathaway
Floating proudly above the soil of a real nation,
Stretching out in friendly greeting.
With open mindedness and charitable feeling,
A symbol of belief in God and fellow man.
Young Amateurs Need Encouragement
by James Francis
The young journalists who have decided to join an amateur press club are usually eager, enthusiastic persons. They are beginning to realize that the dormant talents within them are in need of development. They find it a good plan to become active in the amateur clubs to best prepare themselves for professional careers. Their one desire is to forge ahead and carve for themselves a niche in journalism’s hall of fame. Great are their dreams of the future. But what will come of them?
There are, of course, many obstacles in the way of these newcomers. One of the problems to be overcome is the fear many of them experience when they first obtain membership in an amateur club. They receive journals published by the club membership and study them with much interest. Many of the stories, essays, and poems that they read are written by older members of the club who have been writing so long that their work has assumed a professional atmosphere.
It is at this time that the new members become a little frightened. They begin to feel that their attempts at writing will look so poor that they may even be laughable compared to this better type of work. When such a feeling as this comes upon them they are badly in need of encouragement. Just a few words will tell them that their work will improve and take on a more professional appearance as time passes. Though they know this in their hearts they do not seem to believe it until it is told and explained to them. They should receive all support and strength it is possible to give.
If this article seems to condemn the veteran amateurs it is certainly not the intention of the author that it should do so. Such an act would be entirely without foundation. The idea back of this writing is to give the new amateurs that little push that helps them so much to launch their ships of ambition upon the mighty sea of journalism.
Singing in the Rain
by Mary Morgan Ware
If I stand singing in the rain,
A cheering song for all who hear,
My song is surely not in vain;
If I stand singing in the rain,
My song my cheer some on again;
Perhaps some think that I am queer,
If I stand singing in the rain,
A cheering song for all who hear.
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The Yankee, Edited and published monthly by William Haywood, New York City, to whom all manuscripts and correspondence should be addressed. Manuscripts to be accepted must be original and previously unpublished. No other requirements are necessary. Subscription rates are 50 cents per year, 25 cents for six months, 5 cents per copy. Advertising rates upon request. Publisher is a member of the United and National Amateur Press Associations and other similar organizations.