--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Baird, B. V. - Jones, Lorin collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 18 number: 9 published: 1915-07 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'B. V. Baird and Lorin Jones, "Snappy Sketches from Life," *Improvement Era* 18, no. 9 (July 1915): 824–827.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1809unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera1809unse start_page: 824 end_page: 827 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1915-07) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1809unse publication_year: 1915 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1915, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Snappy Sketches from Life Snappy Sketches From Life BY STUDENTS OF THE BRIGHAM YOUNG UNIVERSITY [Too often high-school compositions are drawn from secondary im- pressions — that is to say, impressions gained from books or lectures. Espe- cially is this likely to be the case where the teacher himself draws his inspiration from the library. But secondary impressions usually turn out third or fourth rank, in the student's re-telling; and the atmosphere, which alone can make literature real and virile, often fades to the vaguest com- mon-place The following short stories, furnished the Era by Prof. N. L. Nelson, of the Brigham Young University, will further illustrate how that difficult quality in literature, which, for want of a more exact term the Pro- fessor calls life or tang, may be developed even in amateur work, when the writer learns to trust what is within himself, instead of seeking what others have said and felt as a basis for inspiration. Editors.] The Wooden-Shoe Train* It was a little town in Sanpete. The United Order had been established for three years. In accordance with some very bad economic reasoning, all the hay and other forage of the community had been stacked within the same enclosure. Consequently, all the live stock had to be housed nearby. On one side were long rows of sheds for horses and mules on the opposite side, a mam- ; moth corral for about seventy-five cows, with smaller pens for the calves. Scattered about and roosting everywhere, or scratching and cackling, as the varying mood would take them, were about — two thousand chickens. Picture the glory of it all by sight and by sound! But all this is merely the setting. My theme is the "Wooden- shoe Train." Just as the sun is going down a dozen small boys, each armed with a stout stick, have turned loose two score calves, which gallop with many a bellow to as many waiting cows. Next comes the famous Train, entering at the little gate on the southwest corner of the corral. The Train is made up of perhaps fifteen maids and matrons each carrying two milkpails their feet keeping time, ker-flop, ker- ; flop, to a music very familiar to the peasantry of Holland and Den- mark. For this was a community of Danes who, in this intensely competitive and individualistic age, were honestly, but not very wisely, trying to live the social system of the City of Enoch.. *This sketch was dictated to the class by the teacher as a suggestion of the kind of work desired. From head to foot these good women were clad in home-spun, home-knit, and home-chiseled goods for the last description refers : to the clogs they wore on their warmly-stockinged feet. The boys aforesaid usually had a merry time getting the calves back into their pens, and took occasion to play many a prank on the members of the Wooden-shoe Train; receiving for reward sometimes a box on the ear, but oftener a drink of milk warm from the cow. At length, the milking done, the Wooden-shoe Train again falls into line; but the music of the return march is muffled as befits the heavy loads carried in the milkpails. The precious liquid is strained into a large vat, impartially stirred so as to mix the rich with the lean, then ladled out to each family in the community according to the number of mouths to be fed. A Case of Mistaken Identity BY B. Y. BAIRD Mr. Dodd was awakened in the middle of the night by his wife's kicking the covers off, and screaming with all her might that she had been bitten by a snake. Crawling carefully out of bed, and rising suddenly to his feet, Dodd found himself under the table, which, as it happened, had been set for breakfast. The dishes went down with a crash, and thus, for the moment, drowned the cries of his wife. No sooner had he emerged from the wreck than a fresh outburst proclaimed the fact that Mrs. Dodd had again been attacked by the venomous intruder. Terror striking at his heart, Dodd searched frantically for the matches, while his wife, between shrieks and moans, declared . she knew she was going to die, for the wounds were already swelling badly. When at last he succeeded in getting a light, he beheld his better half kneeling in the middle of the bed, holding her gathered night-gown on the small of her back with one hand, and nursing one heel with the other. "Do hurry and take him !" she wailed. "I have him here.' > Advancing cautiously, Dodd unfolded the bundled-up portion of his wife's gown but after careful examination no snake could ; be found. Thinking the reptile had escaped, the mystified couple were about to give up the search, when a badly-crushed wasp fell to the floor. This was too much for Mr. Dodd's sense of humor he sat on ; the floor and laughed till the tears came. Mrs. Dodd could not see the joke, however, and hurriedly adjusting the covers, ordered him to get in and keep still. The Dodds had just moved out on their homestead, where they had built out of rough boards a one-roomed cabin. The weather being sultry, they had made the bed down on the floor between the door and the window, in order to get the benefit of any passing breeze. They had been asleep some hours when the incident above referred to happened. Quiet having been restored, they were beginning to doze off again, when a yell that would have awakened the dead, burst from Mr. Dodd. Throwing off the covers he leaped to his feet and jumped around the room like one possessed. As quickly as her laughter would permit, Mrs. Dodd made a light, and saw her husband holding his night clothes away from his body as far as he could, and rubbing a rapidly-swelling red spot on his leg. After Mrs. Dodd's mirth had somewhat subsided, they made a thorough search of the bedding, and on one corner of a quilt which had been airing on some bushes for a few days, they found a nearly-completed wasp's nest, with half a dozen wasps hot and ready for further business. Having disposed of these enemies, they again retired. But the rest of the night was about equally divided between nursing their wounds and giving way, every few minutes to uncontrollable fits of laughter. A Mexican Bull Fight BY LORIN JONES "Where are they all going?" asked Rob, one Sunday as we stood on a crowded corner in El Paso watching the excited people clamor for seats in the already-filled Mexican street cars. "Why," said I, "they are going to that big bull fight in Juarez. You know Pablo, the new matador, is in the ring. They say he surely is a dandy, and that he never has to make more than one stab to get his bull." "Well," finally broke in Rob, "I hate to see the horses gored just as much as you do but I would like mighty well to see one ; fight. And if you are g'oing with me, we'd better be moving, be- cause here comes the next car." A half hour later we found ourselves in a great crowd, pushing with all our strength toward the grand stand. Hardly had we seated ourselves, when a bugler came out upon a small platform, high above the crowd, and with a loud blast summoned all of the performers into the ring. ; First came the matador and the fighters dressed in gaudy colors ;then the horsemen and attendants and last of all, a ; swarthy little fellow driving a scrubby pair of mules. After mak- ing their many bows to the spectators, all of the performers ex- cept the horesmen retired. These men rode poor, little, blind- folded ponies which were so frightened that their riders could hardly force them to move. Immediately after the next bugle sounded, the gates were opened and as the bull passed through, the gate-keeper thrust ; deep into its neck two small spears. With the blood flowing from its shoulders, the animal rushed into the arena bellowing like a lion. First it ran madly around the ring trying to get at the many spectators; finding that it could not reach them, it charged its nearest enemy. The horseman was well prepared, however and, inflicting a deep wound in the bull's shoulders, by means of a long brad, he caused it to wheel short on its haunches and charge its next opponent. This fellow was not so well on guard; for the bull broke the rider's brad and plunged its horn deep into the defenseless horse's paunch. In his effort to escape the horse fell upon his cruel rider. "Heavens," said Rob, "let's get out of here. I can't stand to see the poor horses killed!" "Don't get in a hurry," I replied. "This is the beginning of the first act. The chances are, if we wait awhile, we may see one of those greasers go to his happy hunting ground." There was, however, no such luck for another horseman now ; rode up and amid the cries of bravo bravo quickly enticed the ! ! bull out of the ring. With a club the brutal attendants forced the wounded horse to drag himself out of the ring, where he was left to die. The bull was admitted the second time, and the so-called sport now began in earnest. The maddened animal dashed at the man with the red blanket, in the centre of the ring but instead; of striking him it struck the blanket. It now turned upon its his next tormentor, a swarthy little fellow with a long pole in the and the poor hand; but the man vaulted lightly into air, beast's head splintered only the pole. After being further tormented for some time, the bull became sullen and would not fight. The impatient crowd from the grand stand now called out, "Kill him! Kill him!" and so the matador scene, and with one quick with his long sword appeared on the stroke dealt the death blow. amid the There were still five more bulls to be killed and so, ; spectators to "bring in another," the shouts of the blood-thirsty and his scrubby little mules did their modest little brown muleteer victim. part by dragging out the still struggling