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A New Year – A New Journal
The Yankee starts 1936 with the prospects of a new year shining before it. Monthly editions instead of quarterly ones, a jump in page size, a wider circulation, and more manuscripts predict a bright future. The Yankee will continue in its endeavor to supply the need for an amateur magazine which will reach the reading public. It will still try to present the critical eye of that public the efforts of amateur writers, will try to make the public conscious of the real worth of much of amateur material, and the value of amateur journalism as a hobby.
And so The Yankee repeats its previous invitations to amateurs – welcoming their contributions freely. To readers it extends a desire that they will wish to read it regularly and recommend it where they can. Because it is upon the support of these two that its life mainly rests.
Notice
by Verne W. Robinson
Starting with, and continuing through each issue of The Yankee hereafter, I shall in no way be connected with that publication. It has been a pleasure to co-operate with William Haywood in publishing the previous issue of the magazine. Due to my financial conditions, which are uncertain and limited, I am terminating our co-editorship. At such time as may be possible, I will publish, independently, an amateur paper.
A Country Store
A Sketch by Jack Coolidge
The calendar read February. The door of the old country store was barred to the cold without, and though it did its best upon the window panes, it could seem to make no difference in the warm and stuffy atmosphere within, except when an occasional farmer’s child left the door overlong ajar as she came to buy a pound of rice or coffee. Now the store was empty save for the lone and patient combined owner, manager and salesman, who seemed always to be cold, and huddled close to the old iron stove, casting his spectacled eyes upon an Almanac or Farmers’ Bulletin. A lanky, long-legged individual he was, yet strong and well-muscled, and with a bushy, black, Abe Lincoln-type beard and no mustache. His was a kindly, wrinkled face in spite of his dark formidable brows.
He gave a satisfied yawn, rubbed his eyes, tried to come closer to the fire, and again settled down to the well-thumbed bulletin. He was contented; owned the only store in the village, and was actually making money. Why shouldn’t he be contented.
First Aid Education
by Clarence L. Chandler, Jr.
In this modern world of ours, with speed as an essential and with every second counting to the utmost, it is necessary to have First Aid and the First Aider. Many injuries sustained can wait for a doctor’s care, but a great deal need immediate first attention, and that is where first aid should come in. In such injuries as are received from auto accidents, many persons have died from the lack of first aid or because someone of semi-official authority has rushed a bleeding person to a doctor or hospital before necessary first aid could be rendered.
Many people do not realize the importance of first aid. In a number of organizations and large companies, such as the Boy Scouts, Y.M.C.A., and the American Telephone & Telegraph Company, it is taught as a requirement, but the wide majority of people do not know what to do in an emergency. Therefore, in my opinion, compulsory classes in First Aid should be included in the curriculum of high schools and colleges. This would enable many more people to know first aid and how to apply it, and no doubt would lessen considerably the ever-growing amount of fatalities, accounts of which crowd the pages of our newspapers each day.
Sure-Fire Confidence
by Barry Herbster
Steve Crazek sat in his hotel room engaged in deep thought. Here he was, a good second-rate middle-weight fighter, and signed to fight Joey Morrison! In other words, he had to go ten rounds with a title contender. The thought held little promise.
Steve remembered that night in Omaha watching Morrison’s slashing left hooks and pile-driving rights stop Lew Weston in three rounds. He wondered if he could last two. Young Morrison was a cinch for Ferrio’s title. Suddenly Steve realized that he feared Joey. Not that he had anything to lose – he would never reach the top – but that strange fear of fighting Morrison tugged at his stomach. He tried to convince himself that he might stop Joey; and then the Omaha incident would creep into his mind – those cruel, lightening fast fists driving Weston to the ropes gasping for breath, and his bleeding nose crimsoning his chest. Morrison couldn’t be stopped.
Then he remembered Willie Thompson, his manager and best friend. He couldn’t tell Willie about his fear. Willie was a straight shooter, and he still had hope that Steve might reach the top. Steve ran a battered hand through his bristly hair. He’d go through with the fight, Morrison or no Morrison.
The door opened and he turned with a start. “Oh – oh, hello, Willie.”
Willie looked at Steve with questioning eyes, “What’s the matter, kid, jumpy?”
“No,” replied Steve, forcing a smile, “Just sitting here thinking. Say, I’ll bet ya I stay ten rounds with Joey.”
“Listen, kid,” Willie said, “you can lick that palooka with a feather duster and a ham sandwich. He’s been fighting third-raters for a build-up.”
“He stopped Lew Weston,” said Steve slowly. “Lew’s no third-rater.”
“You mean that fight in Omaha, eh?” laughed Willie. “Good gosh, Weston wasn’t in shape that night. A three-year old coulda beat him.”
“Yeah, but Weston’s good just the same,” replied Steve half-heartedly.
“Cut the worrying,” said Willie, slapping Steve’s broad back. “Get into the old duds and we’ll take a turn ‘round the park. It’ll do you good.”
Steve crawled through the ropes on the night of the fight leaving whatever confidence he had had behind him. Morrison sat in his corner cold eyed. Steve couldn’t look at him.
Five rounds passed swiftly. Morrison pounded Steve viciously. Lashing left hooks caught him in the face and stiff rights reddened his mid-section. Steve fought the five rounds on the defensive. His arms were swollen from stopping Morrison’s punches.
Steve stepped to the center of the ring in the sixth round and immediately went into his defensive shell.
“Look at him,” said Willie to the second. “Just keeps his left out. Don’t try to get a few punches in himself. I believe he’s afraid of Morrison. I notice he didn’t seem so happy about the fight. Suffering swordfish! With a little confidence he could kill Morrison. Steve! Use that right.”
Steve took a hard to the chin as the bell rang.
“What’s the matter with the right mitt?” asked Willie in disgust. “Somebody chop it off while you wasn’t looking?
“Didn’t have an opening.” breathed Steve.
“Well, start using it this round,” replied Willie. “You ain’t afraid of this mug, are you?”
“No-no,” lied Steve. “Don’t worry, Willie.”
Steve shot a glance at Morrison’s corner. Should he whale into him? Maybe Joey would get sore. That meant curtains. Why not take it peacefully? He might lose the decision without being hurt. The bell rang.
Steve soon learned that Joey was out for a kill. Heavy rights banged on Steve’s face; short lefts to the stomach took his breath; and a cut gradually opened over his left eye. Steve doggedly kept his left up, trying to stop what blows he could, while Morrison kept picking at the cut eye. Blood dripped tormentingly into his eye.
Willie was frantic. “He’s afraid of the palooka!” shouted a fan.
“That crack ain’t half wrong,” agreed Willie to the second. “Steve hasn’t any confidence. Noticed it before the fight. If he can only last this round…”
Steve came to the corner bleeding and breathing heavily after the bell sounded.
Willie cupped his hands and whispered into his ear: “Listen, kid, the fight’s in the bag.”
Steve stared unbelievingly. “You mean – you mean fixed?”
“Check,” said Willie sharply.
“Holy smoke,” said Steve, “why didn’t ya tell me sooner?”
“Wanted to give the fans their money’s worth. Joey’ll hit you three times over the cut eye. That’s your cue. After the third punch you put all you got behind your right. Give it all, you hear? Joey won’t mind. He’s been paid well.”
“Gee!” gasped Steve with relief as the bell rang.
He danced out of the corner confidently. He wondered how Willie had ever made the deal. Maybe Morrison was just a built up fighter who was willing to take cash for a beating! But Willie wasn’t the kind to fix a fight. Still… Steve was too relieved to ponder on this question.
Morrison clipped him over the eye with a hard right. That was number one. He didn’t have to throw ‘em so hard, though. Probably trying to make it look like the real stuff. Number two landed just as hard and nearly floored him.
“Watch this, Jack,” laughed Willie to the second.
The third punch over the eye slid across Steve’s forehead. He put everything behind his muscular right arm. He felt his gloved hand sink in under Joey’s jaw, and saw Joey fall to the canvas in a heap. With the crowd’s mad cry ringing in his ears, Steve went to a neutral corner at the referee’s command. At the count of six Joey rolled over. Steve watched his attempts to rise. Joey was a darn good actor, alright. At ten a roar swept the arena. Steve smiled as the referee raised his arm in token of victory.
Under the refreshing shower, Steve sang a love song in a husky baritone voice. Outside, Willie talked to the trainer.
“Well, my idea worked,” laughed Willie.
“And how!” answered Jack. Tellin’ a guy the fight’s fixed ought to give ‘im confidence. But why did you tell him to wait for three punches to land?”
“I knew Joey would pick at that cut,” replied Willie, “and I saw he was wide open after each swing. I told Steve to wait for three because it looked like a real cue. He believed it. The boy’s got a real right. All he needed was a little confidence. Not just any kind either. He needed the sure-fire kind. I guess I gave it to him!
Life Begins At Forty!
by Clarence E Heller
Life, they say, begins at forty,
I think that guess is rather low,
Men at fifty dress real sporty,
And some at sixty are not slow.
The same it is with women, too,
That aged are with hair of white,
Who dress the same as flappers do,
And wear high heels to boost their height.
I think that age is just the bunk,
It’s all a state of health and mind,
An auto is a lot of junk,
That brings good money when it’s shined.
Storm
by Jaroslav Chmelicek
Norway, and winter. In the warm kitchen Uncle Swen was already at work repairing a bridle. My sisters were preparing breakfast. It was a little past four o’clock.
“You had better not go for logs today, Swen,” said mother. “The weather will be very bad and father will probably not return from town until evening.”
But Uncle Swen, unheedful of the intuitive gifts of women, would go. We had logs to haul for the mill from a mountain valley six hours away – over lakes solid with ice and through deep, and narrow gullies and small ravines leveled with white snow. We had labored over two weeks breaking a snow path to the log piles.
The song of the wind rose in pitch, intensity, and power, packing our beaten path with hard snow. It was bitter cold, and the trip over the mountains to the valley took an extra hour. Hurriedly, we fed the horses, gulped our lunch down, hitched onto a couple of small logs apiece, and headed for home.
Now even higher howled the dirge of the pines through which our fading trail wound, precursor of the “Ausgardorei” – the old Norse gods with their retinues riding the storm and boding doom to man and beast struggling in the frost and snow. Hoifjeldt, the big, towering, mountain peak, was fading in a snow cloud, slowly, as if a veil was being drawn over it… if Uncle Swen had only listened to mother’s prediction! The fiends of the air were terrifying, even here in the shelter of the great forest. What of the two miles of bar slopes and large lakes ahead?
On the open slopes the union between earth and sky was complete – swirling snow, stinging like needle points. Would we try it? We shouted in each other’s ears. The shrill wind shrieked as if to prevent our hearing even. To spend the night in the forest was impractical. Altogether too cold. To start a fire was utterly impossible… we left the logs by pulling our front sleds, ourselves clinging to the cross-arms.
The force of the wind was titanic. The driving snow blinded and made breathing very difficult. I surrendered to the horse. He would keep the road, I no longer could see. I clung to the sled, head down, and fought for breath. On the lakes the fury increased, with darkness quickly dropping its black mantle. Sharp pronged snow wings bruised my face… icy arms of howling air squelched my breath, blinded, pulled at my rapidly weakening hold on the sled.
Growing numb, I could no longer feel my feet. I became conscious of freezing. I must do something, I thought, must walk to restore circulation. The sled was now barely moving. I tumbled off, fumbling with a rope, winding it about my waist so I could let the horse pull me, staggering, behind.
Darkness, and I conscious only of the elements in fury, unfeeling, as I stumbled on with ebbing strength. It was like swimming exhausted in icy water, groping for the bottom at every stroke, senses dizzy and dimmed. Vague forever shall be my understanding of how we survived. By degrees the cold, icy arms of the wind unloosed, the sharp, eerie wings dulled, and I began to feel, rather than see – trees around me. The horses stopped. My uncle was struggling toward me, for again we had reached the comparative safety of the forest. I could not have withstood the ordeal much longer…
The shelter of home, and the warmth of the kitchen. After a while I turned my head sharply and felt my ears flap. It was a peculiar sensation. But it turned to pain when Dad thawed me out with ice-water.
The storm had vanished. The moon shone as it does only in the Northland. Up in the mountains – quiet. And over the hard packed snow, shining in the night light, except where deep shadows were cast by the mountain crags – flashed the multi-colored Aurora Borealis, most beautiful thing in the skies!
What’s Up Your Sleeve?
by Mary Morgan Ware
We often hear about folks who have something up their sleeve. We puzzle ourselves about this something. We don’t know whether there is any connection between this certain something, and the brain cells, or not.
Why limit the something to just a few? It isn’t merely just an arm or two. Sometimes they are just arms, and occasionally they are more than ordinary arms.
There really is something up your sleeve. Perhaps you are not very well acquainted with it. If you are not, you should take immediate steps to remedy the situation.
We have second sight, let us say. We know what you have up your sleeve besides merely an arm, and we are going to tell you. Perhaps you won’t like it, but, nevertheless – it is a rare possession. It will help you through many tight places. It will cheer you through a dark day. It will pull you through disappointments. It will help to somewhat of success.
These things you have up your sleeves are funnybones. Don’t forget you have them. Go farther than that – use them for all there is in them.
On Subject Matter
by Linton Clark
Most writers are seemingly cursed by the blight of subjects about which to write. If a person be studious, a prolific reader, much in his scope will raise questions; thus opening trails to facts of which he is ignorant, facts which make fine essay materials.
To devote spare time to movies, or dancing, or kindred amusements, is worse than silly. Spare time, as Ben Franklin said, should be devoted to doing something worthwhile. Incidentally, Ben, you know, was America’s first amateur journalist!
Life is basically a schooling; how to live is the big lesson. The more we learn, the deeper our sensitivity of “getting more out of living.” One can not know too much of truth; but more often the majority of us store up too much of what is not truth – the inessentials.
That Babe Ruth made 12 home-runs in the last five games of 1927 is putty-brain knowledge; but to know facts which help us to earn a living, to appreciate finer things, or to help our neighbor – those are the worthwhile pursuits.
Such are the subjects on which to write.
Advice for a Bachelor
by Thomas Vaughan
She’s got business;
She’s got lands;
Look out, son,
Don’t hold hands.
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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 on request. Publisher is a member of the United and National Amateur Press Associations and other similar organizations.