…Otto J. Feucht, Jr. (Indianapolis, Indiana) is on the staff of the Shortridge Daily Echo, “one of three high school dailies in the nation, and the oldest known paper of its kind in the world. It celebrated its 50th anniversary this year.” The true story submitted by Otto will be entered for the Moss award.
In a medium-sized Ohio metropolis lived a man, his family, and his two dogs. Every night before retiring he would let them play with each other for about fifteen minutes.
In the back yard, where the dogs exercised, were a number of flood lights, which illuminated the entire yard. The man switched on these lights each night. Sometimes he strolled about the yard so he could be refreshed by the cool night air.
After a few months of this procedure, he became aware of an airplane which flew over his house each night. This plane, he reasoned, was a passenger plane on route to his city from Cleveland.
One night, as he was watching the progress of the plane across the star-studded Ohio sky, he saw its wings dip once, twice before it disappeared behind the tall trees surrounding the back yard. The next night of this peculiar behavior on the part of the plane and its pilot, the man was certain the pilot must be saluting him. The next night he returned the salute by blinking the yard flood lights three times, after which the pilot dipped his wings thrice.
A year passed. Every night passers-by could hear the dogs bark, see blinking lights, dipping wings, and a man waving his arms – a conversation without words between men who had never met.
As a result of these lights, the pilot knew his exact position in the night sky. There was no chance that he might miss the airport or lose his way.
Then one night the man and his family were not home. They were visiting friends. There were no back lights to blink in friendly greeting to the airplane and its pilot.
That night, as was their usual custom, the friends with whom they were chatting tuned in their favorite 11 o’clock news broadcast. It was announced that an airplane had crashed into high tension wires, bursting immediately into flames, in their city.
The next night the dogs were put out, and silently the man walked out into the yard with them to switch on the back lights. An airplane roared high overhead. The man looked upward. The dogs stopped their play. The man switched the lights off and on, but there was no response from above. He frantically repeated the action several times. Still there was no wing dipping. And the plane passed out of sight.
Tears came to the man’s eyes. And the dogs snuggled against their master’s leg, as though they sensed something was wrong.
The next night there was still no recognition from the now strange pilot and his different plane, high in the Ohio sky.
The man, his family, and his dog, felt they had lost a friend, a very dear friend, for never again was there that friendly “hello” between a man on the ground and a man in the sky. Never again did those back lights guide a man and his airplane to a safe landing at the airport. For they had been off the one night the man in the sky had needed them the most – the night he had lost his course.
My Little Book of Verse is an attractive 34-page booklet by Pearl Davies (Gobles, Mich.) which we have wanted to review for some months. It contains thirty-one pieces of verse, which could have been written about you or any member of your family. And six halftones, including one of the authoress, add to the friendliness and beauty of her booklet.
Copies are available from Mrs. Olson at $1.00 each.
This issue was begun in April, 1948. First page printed on a 5×8 Kelsey, remainder printed on Segal’s Pearl in March, 1949. Private publishers: Send new members your paper. Give them an opportunity to become acquainted.
… Mrs. Olive Teugels (Brighouse, Yorkshire, England) is an active and well-known member of the B.A.P.A. We have a supply of prose and poetry written by Mrs. Teugels, which will be sent to those requesting any of the mss. The following poem is a piece of her work.
Forget the Moonlight
When comes the morning,
Abandon the night.
Greeting the dawning,
Forget the moonlight.
Kisses that linger
Throughout the next day;
Touch of a finger
Forever will stay.
Abandon the night
When morning is near;
The day is too bright
For memories dear.
The passionate kiss
With trembl’ling reply;
Caresses in bliss
With morning must fly.
Hands that spoke volumes,
Eyes playing their part
As passion moved closer
The breathless young heart.
Now that the dawning
Heralds the day.
Leave thoughts of moonlight
For new part to play.
Edwin C. Harler, Jr.,