Prairie Gold.
by Various.
Preface
This volume, from the land of the singing corn, is offered to the public by the Iowa Press and Authors" Club as the first bit of co-operative work done by Iowa writers. The antic.i.p.ated needs of the brave men who have given themselves as a human sacrifice to the establishment of a world-wide democracy, make a strong heart appeal, and the members have come together in spirit to do their bit toward the relief of suffering.
Many members of the club could not be reached during the short time the book was in the making; others doing work every day on schedule time had no opportunity to prepare ma.n.u.script for this publication, while still others preferred helping in ways other than with their pens.
The whole is a work of love and representative of the comradeship, the spirit of human sympathy, and the pride of state, existent in the hearts of Iowa authors, artists, playwrights, poets, editors and journalists.
_Officers of the club for 1917-18:_
Hamlin Garland, Honorary President.
Alice C. Weitz, President.
J. Edward Kirbye, First Vice President.
Nellie Gregg Tomlinson, Second Vice President.
Esse V. Hathaway, Secretary.
Reuben F. Place, Treasurer.
_Editorial Board:_ Johnson Brigham.
Lewis Worthington Smith.
Helen Cowles LeCron.
The Creed of Iowa--
I believe in Iowa, land of limitless prairies, with rolling hills and fertile valleys, with winding and widening streams, with bounteous crops and fruit-laden trees, yielding to man their wealth and health.
I believe in Iowa, land of golden grains, whose harvests fill the granaries of the nation, making it opulent with the power of earth"s fruitfulness.
I believe in Iowa, rich in her men and women of power and might. I believe in her authors and educators, her statesmen and ministers, whose intellectual and moral contribution is one of the mainstays of the republic--true in the hour of danger and steadfast in the hour of triumph.
I believe in Iowa, magnet and meeting place of all nations, fused into a n.o.ble unity, Americans all, blended into a free people. I believe in her stalwart sons, her winsome women, in her colleges and churches, in her inst.i.tutions of philanthropy and mercy, in her press, the voice and instructor of her common mind and will, in her leadership and destiny, in the magnificence of her opportunity and in the fine responsiveness of her citizens to the call of every higher obligation.
I believe in our commonwealth, yet young, and in the process of making, palpitant with energy and faring forth with high hope and swift step; and I covenant with the G.o.d of my fathers to give myself in service, mind and money, hand and heart, to explore and develop her physical, intellectual and moral resources, to sing her praises truthfully, to keep her politics pure, her ideals high, and to make better and better her schools and churches, her lands and homes, and to make her in fact what she is by divine right, the queen of all the commonwealths.
--_J. Edward Kirbye._
The Wind in the Corn
_By Alice C. Weitz_
There stands recorded in the Book of Time a fascinating legend of the Sun, whose golden throne allured but for the day; and when the day was ended in great glee he hurried forth beyond the broad horizon toward a secret trysting place. All his impa.s.sioned love, it is said, he poured upon the idol of his heart, the boundless plains. Long years were they alone, the Rolling Prairie and the Golden Sun, until at last they found themselves spied upon by curious Man, who, captivated by the beauty of the two, remained and blessed the tryst thereby.
Here Sun and Soil and Man wrought out a work of art; and here Dame Nature smiled as was her wont, and brought rich gifts and blessings manifold. In sweet content Man"s children toiled and wrought until upon the bosom of the sunlit plains there nestled close great fields and prosperous abodes.
And since that time a ceaseless music steals throughout the land in wooing cadences, now crying out in weird and wandering tones, now softly soothing in sweet rhythmic chant.
"Tis the music of the wind within the corn--Iowa"s Prairie Gold.
It sang itself into the lonely heart of the pioneer with its promise of golden harvest; it became the cradle song of restless souls that even in their youth longed but to free themselves in verse and song; and down through all the prosperous years it steals like a sweet sustaining accompaniment to the countless activities which have builded a great commonwealth.
He who has stood upon the hilltops in his youthful days and listened to the soft, alluring rustle of the wind-swayed leaves retains the music ever in his soul. It draws upon the heart-strings of the absent one, and like the constant singing of the sea insistent calls upon him to return.
Today in spirit come we all to Time"s sweet trysting place with story song and jest, to add sweet comfort to the braver ones whose paths lie wide before them, and whose return lies not within our willing. G.o.d grant that even in their pains their troubled souls may yet to music be attuned, may know again the solace of that sweetly floating song, the rustle of the wind within the corn.
The Graven Image
_By Hamlin Garland_
Roger Barnes, son of an elder in the little Iowa Society of Friends and himself "a man of weight," found his faith sorely tried by the death of his young wife, and as the weeks pa.s.sed without a perceptible lightening of his face, the Meeting came at last to consider his deep grief unseemly and rebellious. He remained deaf to all words of comfort and occupied his Sabbath seat in moody silence, his heart closed to the Spirit, his thought bitter toward life and forgetful of G.o.d"s grace.
The admonition of the elders at last roused him to defense. "Why should I not ache?" he demanded. "I have been smitten of the rod." And when old Nicholas Asche again reproved him before the a.s.sembly, he arose, went out, refusing to return, and several of his friends were greatly troubled, for it was known that for a long time he had been increasingly impatient of the "Discipline" and on terms of undue intimacy with Orrin Bailey, one of "the world"s people."
As the spring came on his pa.s.sionate grief calmed, but a new consideration came, one which troubled him more and more, until at last he opened his heart to his friend.
"Thee knew my wife, friend Bailey. Thee knew her loveliness? Well, now she is gone, and does thee know I am utterly disconsolate, for I have no portrait of her. No image, no shadow of her, exists and I fear I shall lose the memory of her sweet face. Already it is growing dim in my mind. What can I do?"
This was in the days when even daguerreotypes were rare, and Bailey, who had never seen a painted portrait and could not conceive of an artist skillful enough to depict an object he had never known, was not able to advise, and the grieving man"s fear remained una.s.suaged till, some months later, on a trip to Decorah, he came by accident past the gate of a newly established stone-cutter"s yard, and there, for the first time in his life, he saw human figures cut enduringly in marble.
Cunning cherubs and angels with calm faces and graceful, half-furled wings surrounded granite soldiers standing stiff and straight.
Roger was amazed. The sculptor"s magic was an astonishment to him. He had never seen the like, and as he looked upon these figures there came into his sad eyes the light of a startling purpose.
"I will have this workman cut for me an image of my dear Rachel," he resolved and, following this impulse, approached the stone-cutter.
"Friend," he said abruptly, "I would have thee chisel for me the form of my dead wife."
Although an aspiring and self-confident artist, Conrad Heffnew was, nevertheless, a little shaken as he drew from his visitor the conditions of this commission. "The lack of even a small drawing or portrait of the subject is discouraging," he said. "If she had a sister, now," he added slowly, "someone about her build, to wear her clothes, I might be able to do the figure."
"She has a sister, Ruth," Roger eagerly answered. "She is slimmer than Rachel was, but her cast of features is much the same. I am sure she will help thee, for she loved Rachel. I will bring her down to see thee."
"Very well," replied Conrad. "If she will sit for me I will see what I can do for you."
Resting upon this arrangement Roger drove away to his prairie home lighter of heart than he had been for many weeks. "Truly an artist is of use in the world after all--one to be honored," he thought.