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The Hour Glass of Life
by Harry S. Tordoff

Each day, like tiny grains of sand
In a shapely Hour Glass,
Life is getting out of hand,
And soon becomes “The Past.”
Each day’s the “Tomorrow of Yesterday,”
And “Yesterday” once was “Tomorrow.”
That is how quick life passes away,
With its happiness and sorrow.

So, when we’re tempted to be vengeful;
When our tempers start to flare;
When our moods are dark and hateful
And our attitudes “Don’t Care,”
Let’s think about Time’s fleeting hours
And how short our Lifetime’s Sphere;
Let’s make the most of what is ours
For Tomorrow’ll soon be here.

Each day recedes so very fast…
Their passing we cannot discern;
Each day goes faster than the last
And they never can return.
So, when we borrow “Tomorrow’s Trials”
As a human is apt to do,
We are drinking from poison vials
That will alter “Tomorrow’s” views.
So, think of the hour glass and learn
To make the most of each day;
The good in life, today, discern
And we’ll clear “Tomorrow’s” way.
As grains of sand fall unabated,
Taking with them hours of life,
Let not that life become deflated
By a bitter self-made strife.

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A Christmas Story
by Paul Burns

Billy stared at the other boys. Christmas Eve and five of the orphans already had performed for the group. It was Billy’s turn now. Multi-hued eyes gazed at him. Billy stared over at Mr. Everett, the boy’s cottage leader. Stoic, non-committal sitting there in his lumberman’s shirt and beaten-up corduroys, looking more like a farmer than a guidance counselor, Mr. Everett revealed none of the excitement that, not three hours before, had gripped the whole orphanage.

Excitement triggered by Billy’s explosive burst of rebellion at Mr. Everett’s strict discipline, the counselor’s whipping Billy with a belt, Billy’s running away from the orphanage farm… running into the woods in the blinding snow storm… Mr. Everett’s tramping out and finding near-frozen Billy huddled by a dead tree stump, picking the exhausted boy up and carrying Billy back to the cottage.

None of this showed on Mr. Everett’s unemotional face. The counselor’s eyes merely reflected the same boyish joy seen in all the orphans. Simple, primitive joy of a good meal just finished, cheery companionship, a warm fireplace, story-telling, boy-wrestling and Christmas Eve gift-giving: each boy displaying his unique talent for the entire group.

One lad sang a funny song; another performed a magic trick; a third told a ghost story: the fourth, a joke; and now it was Billy’s turn. What could Billy offer up to make the orphan cottage cheery this blustery Christmas Eve? Billy’s body still stung from Mr. Everett’s whipping and his own impetuous flight into the frozen woods. But his heart leapt with sudden gratitude to a Mysterious Maker who had still seen fit to make parentless Billy a boy among boys. One day, our Lord willing, a man among men.

Everybody watching… including stern Mr. Everett whose lips looked like they wanted to smile compassionately at Billy.

The boy stood up. Complete silence fell over the entire cottage room. Billy’s eyes bobbed from face to face, sensing in each boy they stared at a quality Billy somehow sensed in himself. Billy drew up his shoulders, sucked in his breath, and leaned his head forward slightly.

Then Billy started wiggling his ears.

Will Christmas Come?
By Velma Lamoreaux

Will Christmas come again this year
To our inflated earth?
Will lilting carols fill the air
And hearts enjoy the mirth?

Or, have our lives been so enslaved
In shadow-boxing fate,
That any thought of “Peace on Earth.
Good Will to Men” must wait?

Cinderella
by Max Barker

Ugly railroad yard
Wears a midnight gown of jewels…
Magic… beautiful…

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In The Long Ago
by Harry S. Tordoff

Over nineteen centuries ago,
Our Lord came down from Heaven
To accept rewards of earthly sin
That man might be forgiven.

He was blasphemed and spit upon;
He was abused, no end:
Forced to carry a heavy cross
But He remained a stalwart friend.

He came to earth to save mankind;
Came as a little baby…
But gave His all, as boy and man,
To tell His Father’s story.

A Sleigh Ride
by Harry Slocum Tordoff

The runners glide on hard packed snow
That muffles hoofbeats of our horses;
The late afternoon sun sinks low
And our image on the snow’s embossed.

Our breath comes forth as flowing stream;
Our faces are red with the cold,
As Old Jack Frost, so ornery and mean,
Sends his wintery winds so bold.

But we all enjoy a sleigh ride
Along snow covered roads and lanes,
And whatever the course of life betides,
It’s a thrill to hold those reins.

For a sleigh, though today a scarcity,
Gives a sense of exultation,
As those runners glide so silently
Toward our destination.

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Contents from U.A.P. Manuscript Bureau

Short Circuit 2 issues are behind due to no fault of my own. Harry S. Tordoff

Short Circuit 2
Harry S. & Etna L. Tordoff
Cranston, R.I., U.S.A. 02920
For U.A.P.

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