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Second-hand Store
by J. Ed. Newman
Antique Shoppes thrive. The collector obtains his prize, the dealer his sale and everyone is happy. Apart tho’, given the ‘gift’ of detecting it, a second-hand store exudes pathos as it displays remnants of broken homes and lives. Unhappily I have the gift.
As I enter the door I hear weeping. Even louder than the clanging bell, it greets me. Always busy at the rear, the proprietor delays coming, and as I wait my ears are filled with tales of remorse and tragedy. A slightly used sofa cries softly as it speaks of forgotten vows; an old bedroom suite mourns for shattered dreams, and, an almost new end table tells of disillusionment. Soiled teddy bears and faded puppy dogs mutely convey the agony felt in the small breasts of former owners as they witnessed the collapse of their tiny worlds. I try not to listen and I close my eyes but I cannot shut them out. Each one crowds forward to tell its story and I wish I hadn’t come. Then the voice of the shopkeeper says, “Aren’t they all lovely? They almost speak, don’t they?”
Evening Grace
by Svea Alice Yeager
As I scanned the heavens of steely gray –
While stretched on my bed deep in thought;
My eyes caught sight of a sea gull in flight,
Home bound for his long night’s stay –
How effortless his flight seemed to be.
Not a muscle twitched in his body so perfect –
Silhouetted against the sky in a gracefully arched V.
Gliding, soaring, drifting with the currents –
What fun it looks to fly so free!
But soon he is gone – departed from me –
And my life must resume as was meant to be.
The Favorite Roomer
by Gustave Kiss
There is a roomer in my house
Who’s not quiet as a mouse.
He wants his meals whene’er he wishes,
Though I am busy with the dishes.
He sleeps the living whole day long
And wakes with his idea of a song.
Whatever hour he does awake,
I must be there for his own sake.
I wait on him with both my hands
But I need four for his demands.
My habits have quite a range,
Now must be altered for quite a change.
But in my heart there is no sting;
This grandchild is my world, my King!
The Tryst
by Lea Palmer
Most women are faithful to their husbands and their wedding vows. Even if their hours are filled with endless chores beginning with the letter ‘C’, cleaning, cooking, carrying and changing, women are apt to remain faithful. They know the worth of a good husband and are rarely anxious to change their mate.
Yet every morning I wait like a schoolgirl in the first flush of love for a man in uniform to call. As I hurry to get the children ready for school and my husband off to work, my thoughts are of this man.
Frankly, I now confess there has been more than one such man in my life and I have transferred my affection from one to another without a single regret. But I am not alone in this love affair, I share this man with millions of other women, who await his coming every day, some as anxiously as I.
If he is late in calling, I find myself wondering why. I’ve been known to frantically pace the floor until I see him coming up the hill. Then the magic moment of the long awaited arrival. We speak no word of endearment or display any sign of emotion. I simply accept his offering, turn and close the door on his retreating figure. Then casually drinking my second cup of coffee, I read the mail.
Yes, my husband knows this man and so do you! He is the man who drops notes of lively interest in my mail box – the postman.
* * * *
The manuscripts of The Tryst and Evening Grace were obtained from the Manuscript Bureau of NAPA.
The Printer’s Primer
by J. Ed. Newman
“Lost time is never found again.” – Poor Richard
B. Franklin, printer, author, inventor and statesman. He preferred to be called printer. His press was the most famous of Colonial America. Poor Richard’s Almanac established his fame. ‘Poor Richard says’ became a popular cliché and was heard daily in all parts of the Colonies. The almanacs were published every year from 1732 until 1757. His wife, Deborah Read, assisted him, binding and stitching the books.
Departing to become a statesman, Franklin continued his interest in printing. He set up his private press in France while ambassador in 1780, and visiting the famous Didot in Paris, he struck off several impressions on a press with such skill that all were astounded. “Don’t be surprised,” he said. “This is my real trade.” His grandson was apprenticed to Didot.
His epitaph is the most familiar in American history: “The body of B. Franklin, printer, (like the cover of an old book, its contents torn out, and stript of its lettering & gilding) lies here, food for worms. But the work shall not be lost; for it will, (as he believ’d) appear once more, in a new and more elegant edition revised and corrected, by the author.”
Here’s Your Chance
Thank you – all for your very kind words regarding The Web. We try to answer every letter & hope you will keep them coming. But nice as they are, compliments are poor proof readers; so how about spicing them up with some good, honest, constructive criticism? Pretty please?
Mysterious; Fascinating; Impossible?
Oh! you must read The Shroud by John Walsh. This Random House book gives a complete account of a linen burial cloth said to be the actual shroud used by Joseph of Arimathaea for the burial of Jesus. The shroud has stains resembling the likeness of Christ. Skeptical? Well read it first, then let me know.
Grateful Acknowledgment
The wood engraving used with The Tryst is by V. Le Campion from the book Woodcuts by John R. Biggs and is used by permission of the copyright owner, Blandford Press, Ltd. London. Sterling Publishing Co. Inc. NYC is the U.S. distributor.
Vy 73 & 30
Composed & printed at
The JEN Press
Roanoke, Va. 24014