--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 30 number: 2 published: 1926-12 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations, “The Picture with a Story,” *Improvement Era* 30, no. 2 (December 1926): 130–133." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3002unse 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: improvementera3002unse start_page: 130 end_page: 133 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1926-12) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3002unse publication_year: 1926 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 1926, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # The Picture with a Story THE PICTURE WITH A STORY The broken stile, the deserted path, and the empty house. See August Era, pp. 963, 992. WINNING POEMS IN THE CONTEST I — Fond Recollections The old man stood beside the dreary cabin; The sunset touched his bent, gray head with light; His feeble step and dim, blue eye proclaimed him Some sad, lone specter of the coming night. He watched the shadows fall upon the pathway, The sunset tint the purple hills with gold ; From o'er the old, stone wall a wondrous glory Of crimson lights the cabin, drear and old. While gazing on the sadness of the picture, The log house with its empty, cheerless walls, He sees again his old home in the sunset ; From out the long ago a mem'ry calls. He seems to see the cabin, newly furnished, And filled with wondrous joy, and hope, and love, The trusting, happy wife, his dearest treasure, A gift of love to him from God above. The morning comes, and forthwith from the cabin They start, the laden basket held between: They reach the stile, and there, with sweet endearments, He leaves her, fondly waving, on the green. WINNING POEMS IN THE CONTEST 131 So pass their early days in this dear cabin, Until at length their fondest prayers are heard; One morn a little babe, all love and sunshine, Enriched their happy lives and made the third. And soon with childish patter down the pathway A baby runs to greet her daddy dear. While close behind her comes his love — her mother. He stops his sad, sweet thoughts to drop a tear! Again he sees the beauteous, golden sunrise That lit the fatal morning long ago, When with a happy heart he left his loved ones, Who faced alone that awful, deadly blow. A swollen stream — a baby's frightened screaming — A current, fierce, and then — alas! 'twas o'er. Back to her home the lonely, stricken mother Bears their dear child, asleep to wake no more. And even now he sees again with terror The deadly fever fasten on his wife; She cries for babe still in her wild delirium. And then, her arms about him, leaves this life. An outcast, then, he leaves the lonely cabin; Heartbroken now, he wanders o'er the West. His heart lies buried even where he's standing, But bitterness has left; his heart's at rest. For now he knows that, though a glorious Wisdom Has deemed it best for him to be alone; Yet, somewhere now his loved ones wait to greet him. With outstretched arms, to take him to that home Where lives his God — the God who for some purpose Has taken them so soon unto their rest; And there with wife and baby he will mingle, And with eternal comfort will be blessed. Springville, Utah. JOSEPHINE MOWER. II — Desire Oh, little Brown Cottage of dreams that were sweet, Where I came long ago with my bride, Down the path from the stile, on winged, jubilant feet, 'Neath thy sheltering roof to abide. And in all the wide world, over hillside or sea, There was never a couple more happy than we. Oh, little White Path, by our glad footsteps worn, Down the walk to that old-fashioned stile, Where my sweetheart would walk with me always at morn, For one more parting kiss and a smile. And time brought the cadence of dear baby feet, Till all the bright promise of dreams seemed complete. 132 IMPROVEMENT ERA Oh, little Gray Mounds, on the neighboring hill, Where Time constant vigils shall keep, Through the long Summer heat and Winter's dull chill, While my cherished ones silently sleep; And I journey, heart-closed and dream-broken, the while, Like the Brown Cottage there, and the crumbling stile. ***** Oh, path of our dreams, ling'ring on through the years, With weeds overgrown, and dim-visioned by tears! Once more from yon silent, brown Cottage I'd go To the mounds on the hill that are beckoning so; Once more, from the top of Life's crumbling stile. Seek my Sweatheart's caress and my Little One's smile. And the boon of Eternity. St. George, Utah. MABEL JARVIS. Ill — The Pioneer Heart The years have scored since faithful men Were forced from Eastern lands; They came out West in search of peace, And worked in valiant bands. 'Twas one of these who chose to live Near by a mountain tall. And there he built a cottage rare, Besides, a stony wall. His helping mate was young and fair, With yielding soul and heart; And always, when he went away, Caressed and loved they'd part; Through charming scenes about the place Wherein they chose to live, Their souls were held attuned with God, And pledged themselves to give. In later moons a path was marked By tiny little feet; A baby boy was born to them, Their joy was more complete. While standing on the stony wall, And holding to the stile, They waved goodbye to daddy dear, And watched him for a mile. One night the sun was sinking low When daddy came from work; The smiling faces met him not; The path was barren dirt! To his alarm he found them dead! Who did this awful deed? He found the babe in Mother's arms! Oh. how his heart did bleed. Winning poems in the contest Hi The broken stile, deserted house. The path now faint and dim, Where loved ones lived in beauty rare, Were now abhorred by him! The wild Redman who did the deed Is not alone to blame, For wicked men did wrong to him, And caused the unjust claim. The sturdy man who stood the test Was faithful all the way ; And, though his heart was shrunk with pain, To God he thus would pray : "Exalt my soul; forgive the man Who hastened on the life Of those I hope to meet again, My cherished babe and wife." Mink Creek, Idaho. ' CHRISTEN HANSEN. IV — As a Day Comes and Goes The chipmunks play on the broken stile, With scamper and chatter and squeak; They frighten the mourning dove off her nest. With their games of hide and seek; Till even' falls with a western glow Of red from the sinking sun, And out from the vacant, old, stone house The bats fly, one — by — one. Then do the ghosts of memories Drift out from the vanished years, Like floating bits of driftwood In some dismal sea of tears; Till out from the empty soul of time Their consorts wane, and pall, Stalk out into the stillness, And sit on the old stone wall. Living in silence the hours through That once had been, but now Are only a part of the ocean That wrestles their wave- worn scow; Wishing that past were present, Until a streak of gray Casts a shroud on their temple And frightens their hosts away. ***** The chipmunks play on the broken stile, With scamper and chatter and squeak; They frighten the mourning dove off her nest, With their games of hide and seek; Till even' falls with a western glow Of red from the sinking sun, And out from the vacant, old, stone house The bats fly, one — by — one. Salt Lake City. OWEN WOODRUFF BUNKER.