--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Johnston, H. L. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 31 number: 5 published: 1928-03 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "H. L. Johnston, “Lung Power,” *Improvement Era* 31, no. 5 (March 1928): 411–413." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3105unse 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: improvementera3105unse start_page: 411 end_page: 413 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1928-03) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3105unse publication_year: 1928 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 1928, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Lung Power Lung Power By H. L. Johnston We were gathered around the blazing, crackling logs of our camp-fire. Now and then the flame died down for a brief moment, casting our faces in dickering shadows, and then flared higher, lighting up the trees and casting a ruddy glow upon the laughing, leaping waters of Snow Creek, and giving all objects in the neighborhood a dancing, grotesque ap- pearance. It was our first night in Camp Hoodoo; so named by Dad Johnson, the oldest member of our group, which consisted of George. Buck. Dad, and the writer. For months we had planned this trip into the rugged beauty of San Jacinto's desert side. It was our very first venture after deer. With the exception of Dad, we were all healthy youngsters, around twenty- four or five, while Dad was a man near- ing sixty. We sat around our glorious camp-fire, smoking our pipes — that is, all except Dad. As far as any of us knew, he had never smoked in his life. We often won- dered what enjoyment he could possibly get out of a night like the one I am de- scribing, without a pipe. He didn't seem to be missing anything, however, and we sat and listened to his tales of hunting and trapping until nearly midnight. At last he got up from his seat, stretched himself and said: "I reckon if we are going to take the trail at daylight in the morning, we'd better turn in." We carefully extinguished the fire, as instructed by Dad, and turned in for a night's sleep on our bed of pine needles with blankets spread on top. As we lay there, George said: "Listen to the creek. Its singing us a good-night song, but I don't know what it is trying to say. Doesn't it sound like voices?" We listened, and as the sound of the murmuring waters lulled us. it did sound as though voices were speaking, but in strange weird tones. As we lay listening, the magic of the voices did their work so well that the first thing we realized it was dawn, and Dad was calling us to breakfast. I'll wager that on this morning, as we ate our meal, we three youngsters never felt better in our lives. Here, in the very heart of the towering San Jacinto, Nature was at her best, and we felt a strange exhilaration as we laughed, jested, and sang, and joked Dad about his great growth of chin whiskers. At last we were fairly started up the steep trail to the hunting grounds. We carried a light lunch, a canteen filled, and our guns and ammunition. Dad was in the lead, and we wondered at his spryness, and the gait at which he started out. We wondered how long he could keep it up. Soon we started won- dering how long we could keep up with Dad. In thirty minutes we called a halt; for a smoke, so we told Dad. We took great pains to make that smoke last as long as possible. Once more the climb was commenced, with Dad not saying a word — just lead- ing on sturdily and as chipper as ever. He was always in the lead, and to our amazement seemed to have caught his sec- ond wind and was growing stronger every minute. For an hour we climbed; silent, with the exception of our noisy breathing. Our lungs were laboring. Huge drops of sweat started streaming over us until our very clothes were as wet as if they had been thrown into Snow Creek. We were eagerly watching for some sign of a let up from Dad. It was hopeless. The old guide and hunter showed not a sign of stopping. At last we could stand it no longer. Dropping into the grateful shade 412 IMPROVEMENT ERA of a boulder, wc managed to gain enough breath to tell Dad that we were going to rest. "I've heard that mountain climbing is hard on the wind," panted Buck. "Must be caused by so high an altitude." "The air is pretty rare, up this high," said George, fanning himself with his hat and reaching for his canteen. He took a long drink, washed his mouth with the water and then spit it out. He looked half sick. "What's the matter?" I asked. "I don't know," faintly; "that water even makes me sick. I just naturally feel all gone." Dad joined us and stood smiling as he noticed our plight. "What's the matter, youngsters? Out of wind?" He was breathing as naturally as if he had been walking on a sidewalk, and we marveled. "Well, we'll take it easier from now on. Don't drink too much water, boys, it'll make you sick." As we gained our feet, and once more started the climb, I, for one, felt that all the strength and snap had left me forever. Gone was the exhilaration of early morn- ing. Gone was all the joy of being per- mitted to be out here in God's big out- doors, in so wonderful a setting of forest, stream and mountain. I would have liked nothing better in the world, at that time, than to have been allowed to stay in the shade of the boulder, or even to have been in the stuffy little office back in Los Angeles. Some difference now, and then. I remembered how eagerly I had counted the days back in that stuffy office, and marked them off the calendar as they passed, and the time drew around at last that released me from my slavery of routine work for a four weeks' stay in the mountains. Well, here I was, and unable to enjoy myself. It seemed strange, for I had always considered myself no weakling. I drew a little satisfaction when I knew that George and Buck were in the same fix I was in. How I envied Dad. I would have given my left hand at that time if I could have followed wherever he led without falling by the wayside. What would I not have given if I could have been with him now, leading the others and as fresh a9 a daisy. We managed to reach the hunting grounds some way, but we were too tired to hunt. It was Dad who killed the buck, dressed him and led the way back to our little camp below. We had no thoughts for anything but our blankets, where we rested and at last, feeling better, sat up and lit our pipes and smoked while Dad cooked us our first meal of venison. That evening, once more around the camp-fire, feeling somewhat better, our pipes going, the day's grind forgotten. George asked Dad to join in and smoke with us. Dad smiled a very knowing smile as he refused. "Haven't you ever smoked Dad?" I asked. "Yes; long ago." "What made you quit?" "The same thing that happened to you boys today," replied Dad. "Oh, go on. What has that to do with us? That was because the air was so light up yonder," said George. "The air makes a little difference, I'll admit," agreed Dad, "but not to the ex- tent it worked on you fellows today. If it hadn't been for your pipe smoking, you'd have made that climb as easy as could be. It took me a good many years to find out that smoking cuts down a man's lung power until he starts panting for breath at the least exertion. That's why I quit." "What would a fellow do, Dad, if he was all alone in some place, couldn't see anybody, or go any place?" asked Buck. "He'd go crazy if he couldn't get a smoke." "If he didn't have the habit, he'd never think of a smoke in the first place," replied Dad. "You are right," admitted Buck. "If it was smoking that made me feel the way T did today, I'm going to throw this pipe away. What do you say, boys? LUNG POWER 413 let's give Dad's idea a try-out." air. and healthful exercise helped us out: We started the next day. and although and I. for one. was never so happy as the there were times when our nerves felt day I climbed the trail leading to the frayed and we seemed at outs with the hunting grounds and finished neck and whole world; pure mountain water, fresh neck with dear old Dad. Shaffer. Nevada. The Song of the Cricket Trill, trill, trill, trill, song of the soft afterglow, Trill, trill, trill, trill, but one single song dost thou know. Steady and strong is your evening song, Cheering the night when the sun's glare is gone. Stars for your lamp, and a thin pale moon, The whispering is your orchestra tune. Sing on, O singer, both steady and strong, We minstrels of night sing your one-note song. Not like the Lark in the morn's grey dawn, For with several clear notes he buildeth his song: But thou, wee dark cricket, your pulsing note lends A charm to the night and a thought to my friends: And the feeling that comes with the lilt of thy lay Gives peace to the soul and drives trouble away. No singer but thee, with a measure so strong. Could sing such a classic with one note to his song. Oft in the gloaming when quiet doth reign, I wonder and pause at so simple a strain, Thy song and the breeze and the gleam of a star. The night and the day, the peace and the war, All tell but one story, all sing but one song: That we cannot turn back, but must ever move on. Then, sing, tiny minstrel, from your home 'neath the clod. The one note of your lay is the work of our God. Could mortals, like crickets, in unison sing. And each do his part with so measured a swing. The whole song of life would be a sweet lay, And millennial dawn would not be far away: A nation would grow and a city would spring, And a task would turn quick to a more pleasant thing. From the ant, then, O sluggard, a lesson I bring. To the cricket, O mortal, and learn how to sing! Ogden. Utah. M. CHARLES WOOD