1913_01 The Prospect Yearbook, January 1913

              know we can't either one help it. That's
why it's so awful. And I don't mind the
work so much and the lonesomeness or
the looks it's taking from me, but it's the
spirit, Ed—it's making me lifeless—
we're getting old and worn in spirit.
Why, we'll be old, old, old before Eddie
and Bess grow up. Think how we were
going to enjoy them and live with them
when they got big—and here we are—
losing the joy of life and they're only
babies."
The outburst over, her head went
down on her folded arms and the drooping shoulders slowly rose and fell in
great, deep sobs. The lamp sputtered
and smoked; a coyote call howled and
moaned out upon the night—and the
man sat breathing deeply, and the
woman's shoulders rose and fell with
sobs.
Then, putting his hand awkwardly on
her head, "Why, girl, I never knew you
felt like that. Why, you always seemed
so   brave   and   cheery   and   you   know   I
never could have done without you. I
guess it's true.    I never realized—I—"
"Oh! Ed, let's get out alone together.
That's the trouble. It's work, eat, sleep
and work some more. Of course, we
appreciate each other, but we never have
time to show it. This cramped house
stifles me.    Let's go."
And Ed, a new light in his eyes, flung
open the door and they stepped out under the winter stars, in the midst of
their black plains and vast silence.
An hour later they came in the room
laughing. "Well, girl, I'm afraid our
neighbors'd say we were going crazy—
wandering around and learning how to
make love all over, wouldn't they? But
I guess it might help them just like it
has us."
"Yes, Ed, it would if only they could
find it out. And it's all right now, isn't
it? And we've still got each other and
Eddie and Bess, so what do we care if
the old account book refuses to behave?"
CLEO EASTON, '13.
^.'^»"S',»a«»*"aa«^ai^a'-»»,*>'"»a»*W»^a#*««»»*^ •*»•>»"
TO MY LADY'S COLLAR
O, thou entrancing bit of laces fine,
That round her snow white throat so
soft enfold,
How daily do I wish thy place were mine,
That  I   might thus  protect  thee  from
the cold.
And when I look on thee, my rival there,
Methinks some fairy fashioned thy fair
form,
And   spun   for   thee,   a   web   of   lace—a
snare,
To  capture  maiden's  hearts  on  every
morn.
Where'er I look I thee behold so gay
In  countless  shapes  and  forms—such
mystery,
I go perplexed on my weary way
And sigh that I know naught of sorcery.
Enchantress  thou!—but,   oh,   thy  fate   I
see
Should I in open combat meet with thee.
—Effie Timanus.
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