A Picture with a Story

964 IMPROVEMENT ERA see her, — there he paused and waved — and she replied, throwing a kiss. * * * * * Anon little feet pattered along that path; wife and mother was she now; nor was her affection divided from him by the babe, their babe; with added cares his soul was strengthened to the task to provide — he the stalwart, the brave, the high-souled man — she the sacred enshrinement of that highest of all femininity — wife and mother. ***** The path they trod — the path she ran down aglee to welcome him home on — that path, the path to a woman's heart, now disused — the path that once led to love, affection, cheer, ties of family, now no longer trod — the path that led to the home that was, now leads to an empty house. And the heart that once beat aglow, now forever stil-1-e-d. Aye, mayhap, the twain of them — that of her and that of babe. Who can set this to rhyme? Who can breathe the spirit of the story into verse? Who can cause the heart strings of our readers to vibrate in unison as the chords of a great tradegy sound their iron tones through a once happy home? Who can tell the story, the story of the path that once led to a woman's heart, now a path grown o'er with weeds? The cadence of verse is needed and the majesty or rhyme to unfold the sentiment to be conveyed — verse, a better vehicle than prose — for sublime heights can be attained only by poetry. Who can choose the music and select the words which fit the meter whereby the story of this picture will be sent surging through one's being? To the reader who will give to the Improvement Era the best verse rendition of their own conception of the story told in the picture, whether that rendition follow the suggested inspiration given above or not, limited iri length \to five or six stanzas, the author will send an 8 by 10 enlargement, beautifully hand colored in oil, and framed in wood — a handsome ornament to any home. The offerings are to be submitted to the Improvement Era, who will have judges pass on each contribution, to select the one deemed best; they will also decide which three rank next in merit to that one. When the selections are made, the editors will send the name and address of the winner of the first prize to the author of this article, who will immediately mail the enlargement to the person so adjudged to be winner of first place; to each of the three next in merit, a contact print, size 4 by 5, in wood frame, with appropriate margin, untinted, will be sent. All manuscript should be in the hands of the editors not later than September 15, 1926. Authors are requested to keep copies of their writings, as no manuscripts will be returned. It is suggested that the rendition be as highly idealistic as the poetic mind of the versifier may mount in its grasp of the subject:

A PICTURE WITH A STORY 965 the meter, the form of verse, the conception, the machinery to effect the end, may be your own choice, adaptable to the expression of your own individuality. No correspondence should be held with the author. Address all communications to the editors, with a note stating that you wish your offering to be entered in the contest of "The Picture With a Story" Even though the tenor of the sentiment be sad — even though it induce a feeling much akin to pain — yet, wouldn't it be a nice dis- cernment of taste, and very appropriate, to have the last stanza mount to a high strain of exaltation that, though an Inscrutable Wisdom test our mettle with a grievous blow before the full weight of our mission is placed on our shoulders, in surmounting that test, our mounts and rills, our valleys and shadows bring us back in happiness singing anthems of praise to Him who led us hither to live in a Zion so favored? A Toast Here's to the place where dreams come true, The land of the open plain; Where the sage brush grows with the fragrant rose And honor and manhood reign. The land where the water runs cold and pure; Where the snow stays through the year; Where the day is bright and the starry night Makes you feel that God is near. 'Tis a place where the Indians once were free To roam o'er the plains and hills; Where the briny lake killed many an ache And rid them of untold ills. The place where the Rockies rise tall and grand, And pierce through the azure skies; Where canyons are deep, and the sides so steep That you climb them with naught but the eyes. Then, too, the haunts of the wild are there, And at times, when the stars shine bright, The wolf and the owl blend a screech with a howl To shatter the silence of night. Yes, that is the land where men are made; Where they live in hope and prayer. For God is their power, their strength and their tower And his Church is established there. Then, here's to the land where the West begins; The land of the welcome smile; Where hearts are bright with love's sweet light And you want to linger awhile. Salt Lake City. ASAHEL D. WOODRUFF.