--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Stone, Ivy Williams collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 33 number: 1 published: 1929-11 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Ivy Williams Stone, “Spawners,” *Improvement Era* 33, no. 1 (November 1929): 58–61." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3301unse 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: improvementera3301unse start_page: 58 end_page: 61 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1929-11) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3301unse publication_year: 1929 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 1929, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Spawners Spawners By IVY WILLIAMS STONE yards. The creek was bone dry. Not even water to dampen the cob- bles which dazzled one's eyes in the white heat. T) LITTLE beads of perspiration trickled down John Gibby's face as he unharnessed the horses and turned their heads to- ward the barns. He loosened the neck of his blue shirt and shook the timothy chaff, but it did not fall loose. Instead, it formed in damp ridges in the creases of his neck, and lay in moist clusters on his shoulders and overall straps. He mopped his forehead with an already overtaxed handkerchief as he glanced down toward his fields, cleared of the last load of hay, then back toward the canyon or Draw. It was an odd canyon. He'd heard folks say so often. Spreading out into the valley by means of rolling, service-berry covered hills, it changed abruptly and rose skyward in rugged, bare peaks. Three stark, defiant peaks- challenging, uncon- quered. Their north sides held the snow banks which all summer fed the little creek that zigzagged through the Gibby farm. It had been like a bank account, that creek. Had never failed before. In all the forty years John Gibby could remember farming, first help- ing his father and later for himself, the creek had never quite dried up before. Now, however, there was no need for the foot-bridge which connected the house path and barn- HE sky was darkening off east- ward, behind the peaks. A sugges- tive, heavy cloud was slowly envel- oping them, soft- ening their rugged outlines. John Gibby glanced with tired satisfac- tion toward the neatly topped stacks of timothy. Lucky he was finishing haying, with rain threat- ening. He sighed and turned gratefully toward the house. It was a good house, three bricks thick, the sort of house that was always cool in summer, warm in winter. John Gibby felt tired. It had been a hot day — a hot sum- mer. He must be getting old. It had seemed hard, topping that last stack. He was glad it was done. Guessed he shouldn't've let the hay hands go after dinner. Finishing a job like that alone wasn't so easy. If Leslie had only been satisfied to stay home and work. He glanced again toward the lowering clouds and the defiant peaks, then quick- ened his step. Amelia would be waiting supper. H] complained in the gentle, mild voice which had characterized all her patient years. "Somehow the stove don't draw today." "Too hot," replied John. "Air's too heavy. We're due for a storm. Never mind the biscuits, Mother. Seems like it's most too hot to eat anyhow." "Go set on the front porch a minute or so," suggested Amelia. "You'll feel more like eatin' when you cool off. I'll quicken the fire with kindling." J OHN GIBBY passed through the dining room, cool and half dark. It would be pleasant to eat in there, but it was such a bother, now the children were all away. The big table seemed to beckon him, recalling the days when they had filled its ample sides — Amelia and he and the six kiddies. Eight plates r — -eight chairs. His throat tightened as he visioned the day when there were only seven plates. That day when Jimmy, of the weak heart, needed a plate no longer. They had spread the seven plates out so it wouldn't look like one was missing. The house faced east and the living room was cooler still. There stood the radio Albert had sent from Chicago and the ivory cuts Elsie had sent from her studio in New York. Pictures of Henry's twins smiled at him from the piano. Cute kids, first-born grand- children. We wished there were more grandchildren, living closer, so they could run in often. .E washed in the little tin basin on the back porch and combed his hair before the tiny wall mirror. No need to make extra work for Amelia by mussing up the bath- room. If Viola were home for the summer, instead of going off to summer school, it wouldn't make so much difference. The square kitchen table, once ridiculously small for their family, was now set for two. Amelia was peering into the oven, her brows puckered in disapproval. "The biscuits don't brown," she I N the restful shade of the front porch John Gibby relaxed and smiled, and reached into his hip pocket for a pamphlet which the visiting scientist down at the sum- mer hotel had given him. Nice fellow, but queer. The book was a story of salmon — must be a fish story. That man had come all the way from Boston to study rocks and mountains. Seemed as though the canyon, their little old canyon, was just the thing he'd been hunting. The way The Improvement Era For November, 1929 59 the rocks were piled up meant something special. A fault; that was the word. A fault in the earth's crust. He knew all about fish, too, that chap. Must have studied a lot. John Gibby read on in the pamphlet, engrossed in the story. Seemed there was a certain kind of salmon that hatched, made its way clear out to sea, and then re- turned to its native stream to spawn and die. Some of them had been known to leap falls eight and ten feet high. They had been bruised and hurt, but always they managed to reach the stream, the very identical stream, in which they were born. Queer things! "Them fish got some sense," mused John Gibby. "Home again for them all, after their wander- ings." 1 HE long, slanting rays of the August sun danced on the dust-cov- ered limbs of the blue spruce which spread wide branches over the lawn. "I'll have to dig that tree out of there one of these days," con- tinued the man musingly. "It's getting too big. Killing the lawn." But even as he voiced his threat, he knew it would never be ful- filled. The lawn had no possible chance within the radius of the low, thick branches. But Jimmie had sat under its perfumed shade for long hours, whittling the wooden chains which filled his days of enforced quiet. 1 HE kitchen was hot, but the biscuits were browned and the meal was good. John Gibby felt bet- ter. "Sure hot," he began, split- ting one of the biscuits to admit a thick wedge of butter. "Glad the hayin's done." "You should akept the men to help you longer," admonished Amelia. "You ain't so young now. Toppin' a stack like that is some job." "Well, it's done," sighed John. "And I beat the rain," he beamed. "Well, I'm glad I ain't tryin' to make butter these days," added Amelia. "It just wouldn't come on a day like this." "Any letters?" time to have it, though. And Vi- ola's school will be out sooner than she expected. She'll be home next week." "I been readin' 'bout some fish that always go home to roost," bantered John, reaching for his spectacles. "Fish? To roost?" repeated Amelia incredulously. "Why — " "Well, they swim home. They're a certain breed of salmon," he explained, smiling at her aston- ishment. "No matter how tiny the stream nor how far saway they swim, they go home to spawn and later die." "They would get lost. I don't believe — " "But they don't get lost," per- sisted John. "The men who work on this kind of things mark the small fish and they keep tab, and it's been proved the fish always go back." "Why, persisted Amelia, "Wa- ter is water anywhere, it seems to me, "And home is home," countered John Gibby. "They got sense — them fish. Sense enough to go home after their wanderings. May- be, someday, after they've tried their wings, our minnows will come back home. Maybe Leslie will be willing to try his college farm notions on the old home- stead." closed. They would enjoy the cool room as they read. They would re-read the letters and learn more about fish. John liked to study living things. He ought to rest more. He liked to fish too. She stacked the dishes in the sink, set out one lone milk pan and a strainer. No need for the separator any more. They only kept old Bess because John liked clotted cream on his mush. A; Hi .E finished another biscuit and started out for the barn. Only the two horses to feed, only one cow to milk. "Hurry with your work, Mother, and as soon as I finish we'll read some more 'bout them fish. Mighty interestin'." Amelia nodded and turned to her kitchen tasks. To keep the front rooms cooler she made sure the door to the dining room was Hi .ENRY'S boys has got chicken- pox." Even as she produced the letters for him to read, Amelia poured forth their contents. "Good I VY WILLIAMS STONE is one of the writers of Utah who has long been regarded as outstanding. Her first appearance in the "Young Y Oman's Journal" Was in 1917, with the story "Somewhere in France" and a charming variety of poetry. From the fact that she be- gan in volume 28 as "Ivy Wil- liams" and ended as "Stone", we conclude that she was married that year. She is now the mother of five children and the experiences of family life have only added to the strength and interest of her writing. She has promised a serial story in the eery near future which assures "Era" readers of something unusually fine. S she turned the hot water over the dishes, Amelia was aware of a queer rumble of thunder — distant, yet vibrant , and quivering, fol- lowed by quickening twilight. She hoped John would hurry. A thorough soaking might start his rheumatism again. Even as she glanced anxiously toward the barn, the rain came. No gentle shower this; but a steady sudden downfall. Drip, drip. No wind. Just rain, ceaseless, persistent, as if angered at delay. Amelia turned on the lights to finish her dishes, but as she wiped out the sink there came a terrific burst of sound, as though a thousand giants had loosed their anger over the valley. A prolonged sound, which rattled the windows and made the ground quiver. To Amelia it was surely peculiar thun- der. Then other sounds, rushing winds, snapping trees. Sounds constantly nearer and louder, frightful sounds, uncanny because unknown. Wishing John would hurry, she turned toward the porch, just as the house was struck by some unseen, horrible force, which treated the sturdy brick as if it were a cheap toy. A crash of glass, and a heavy, unknown ob- ject struck the closed dining room door, rumbled, grated, creaked and stopped. Amelia, transfixed with fear, saw a tiny stream of water begin to ooze under the door. Grimy water, gray, then brown, charged with a heavy deposit. The tiny stream spread out slowly but surely. Jt gathered around the stove legs, settled in a pool near the sink where the floor was low. She became conscious her feet were wet. The lights flickered and died; the house trembled again. Amid the confusion of darkness and protesting partitions, Amelia felt her way to the porch. She climbed to the wash bench and from there upon the wide mouth of the old separator which was firmly screwed to the floor boards. In the erratic flashes of lightning 60 The Improvement Era For November, 1929 she saw the creek bed change to a raging stream. Turbulent, angry waters rushed by, carrying rocks that grated, clashed and broke. Rocks that were swept on by the impetus of others behind; little rocks, big rocks, huge boulders. The lightning revealed the water slowly but steadily creeping over the threshold of the kitchen door. It came around the legs of the wash stand, covered the base of her iron perch. A crash in the front yard, and the top portion of the beloved blue spruce toppled into the rush- ing waters and dashed past, its branches bobbing and gesticulating like a ship in distress. A lantern flickered across the creek; then made frantic circles. Amelia knew John was signaling her for some sign of safety. But she could give no answer. 0 HI Unseen Power that rules and controls the destinies of the children of earth; teach me the sym- phony of life so that my nature may be in tune with Thine. Reveal to me the joy of being loving, self-sacrificing and charita- ble. Teach me to know and play life's game with courage, fortitude and confidence. Endow me with wisdom to guard my tongue and temper, and learn with patience the art of ruling my own life for its highest good, with due regard for the privacy, rights and limitations of other lives. * * * If in life's battle I am wounded or tottering, pour into my wounds the balm of hope, and imbue me with courage undaunted to arise and continue the strife. — From "The Optimist's Prayer," by William J. Robinson. Jf EAR of the unknown kept her confined to the cramped safety of the separator mouth. Presently more lanterns joined the solitary beacon, moved in precise file from the barn to the edge of the swollen creek. More rocks tumbled and rolled. More trees were pushed helplessly along. More rain, steady, monotonous. The lanterns flick- ered back and forth, continued to wave in circles. It was useless to call out; all other sounds were lost in the terrific crash of wind and rain. She could give no signal. She could only sit in her cramped but safe refuge and catch flitting glimpses of the cataclysm going on about her. She thought of earth- quakes, but they were followed by fire. Then when she glimpsed a mountain pine being dragged and pushed and jostled along the widening stream, she knew. A cloud burst had struck the peaks and their tons of rock and debris were pouring down the creek chan- nel and spreading out over John's fertile fields. Numbed with cold, she could only wait while the tedi- ous hours of darkness dragged by. Wind and *rain and darkness, and flickering lanterns. At least, John must be safe. The lanterns moved rapidly from barn to creek bank, and back to the barn. Amelia fol- lowed their line of march until her eyes ached. John must not try to cross; it would be folly, madness. W ITH the coming of dawn the rains ceased, the waters abated and daylight broke on a scene of calm desolation. Willing hands tore planks from the barn for a bridge over the creek. While the darkness had been full of unknown fear, daylight brought grim realization. A carpet of rocks and water, sticks and mountain debris spread out over the meadows. Pulverized rock, forming into crude but solid cement, had settled over the floor, hopelessly embedding all the furni- ture. Tiny pebbles to huge boul- ders had , taken up new resting places on the farm. The timothy stacks were gone and remnants of them were scattered over the now useless fields. The rock wall, which the night before had been heavy with promise of grapes, was buried in debris. Even as her res- cuers lifted her numbed and stif- fened body from her iron perch, Amelia's eyes took in the scene of desolation. "It will kill John," she muttered to the kindly neighbors who were all solicitude. And John Gibby, his face slow to relax the grim con- trol with which he had expected to meet death, tramped laboriously through the mire that enveloped his home. No vestige of the blue spruce was even visible. A huge boulder had passed through the front window, lifted the dining table on edge and braced it against the door that led to the kitchen. The piano and radio were half buried in the soft, spongy cement that covered the entire first floor. But thanks to the brick partitions and the three-brick walls the house structure had held. The old oak table had saved Amelia's life. The kitchen stove was already rusting beneath its coat of slimy water. The garage, built on the slope of the hill, was entirely buried. Viewing the devastation of his home and fields, John Gibby looked hopelessly up toward the canyon and the peaks. "It will kill Amelia," he muttered. "Her home. Babies all born here. Jimmie spent his last summer un- der that spruce. Funny 'bout them peaks," he continued to the neigh- bors who never left him. "That fellow down to the hotel said they'd catch a cloud burst some day." He glanced again toward the peaks. A faint, fresh scar on the face of the nearest marked the source of the desolation which had cut a deep, but narrow, path down the valley. JNEWS of the freak storm spread rapidly. The scientist from the summer hotel rejoiced that he was present to study the causes, to in- spect the results, to seek freshly re- vealed stratas, to find specimens for his laboratory. The metropolitan dailies featured the story. Pho- tographers came to get views of the wrecked home and photographs of the woman so miraculously saved from death. Feature writers came to interview John and Amelia, to ask their plans, to offer suggestions. The governor of the state started a relief fund to reim- burse, as far as possible, an aged couple who had lost their all through an act of Providence. V] IOLA rushed home, hysteric- ally rejoicing that her parents were safe. Telegrams from the absent children arrived. Close on the heels of his message, Albert came by air- plane from Chicago. Leslie came from the state's experiment farm, full of suggestions, eager to explain the futility of reclamation. Housed by a neighbor, wearing borrowed clothing, John and Amelia lived the following week as if entranced. "I don't care about the farm, Dad," Leslie explained for the fiftieth time. "It's gone. No amount of money or work could reclaim it. The soil is buried un- der rock. You and Ma — " "I'm taking them back to Chi- cago with me," interrupted Albert. "I need a cook. Ma. I've got the cutest little kitchenette you ever saw. Easy too. Gas stove, Ma. No ashes — no smoke — no wood The Improvement Era For November, 1929 61 to worry about. You'll like it. Dad can just read and wander round the town." 'They'll feel better living with us," suggested Henry. "The twins will take up Mother's time. The thin one looks like Jimmy, too, Mother." "My father and I built that rock wall," recalled John Gibby. "I remember a stone mason from England said he couldn't have done better. Little Jimmy helped me plant the grape vine on the south side of it. At least he thought he was helping," he added. "There was a good crop coming up, too." "I had a hundred glasses of rasp- berry jam in the cellar," Amelia explained in her patient, slow tones. "Seems like I couldn't learn to cut down. Always canning too much fruit." "Forget it! Ancient history!" cried Leslie, weary and taut from reiterated explanations. "It's gone I tell you, and that's that. Talk- ing about it doesn't help any. You were too old to farm anyway. I almost believe it was a blessing in disguise. Now you both come live with me at the experiment farm and watch modern methods. Not a horse on the place, Dad." "We're all three going to New York for a year," announced Vi- ola with the positiveness of youth. "Elsie telegraphed the price of tickets. With the relief fund we can live in style." "My father got this farm through squatter's rights. He was one of the first men to come into the valley," added John Gibby, not even answering Viola's asser- tion. "I perfected the title after- wards by homesteading. There was rocks on the place when father took it up. Most all the old rock fences hereabouts come from off our place." "There are rocks enough on it now to build fences from here to Chicago," scoffed Albert. "And the old peaks look as calm and un- disturbed as if nothing had hap- pened. We'll fix you and Mother up with clothes and start east right away. I can't stay long." "Mother's coming to supervise our twins," added Henry. "Dad's going to learn real farm- ing," persisted Leslie. "I could blast the biggest rocks with dynamite," mused John Gib- by. "I wish the blue spruce hadn't gone." "Seems like I can see little Jimmy lying under it, even now," Amelia brushed a persistent tear with a toil-hardened hand. 'You can get them full grown now, Mother. They move 'em in the winter, with soil frozen round the roots. I'll get you another." "O Mother, quit talking about the old farm," cried Viola. "Just think, in another week we can be selecting new clothes on Fifth Avenue." A- lT this point the scientist, weary and begrimed from his hike, stopped to explain his findings. "It's remarkable, Mr. Gibby. Simply remarkable. Most clearly defined fault it has been my good fortune to observe. Those peaks, too. Their tops rise high above the timber line. They are com- posed of rock, shale and loose soil. No roots to serve as a barrier against washes. It may happen again." "Guess maybe that was an old cloudburst my father and I cleared off the farm," observed John Gibby. "No doubt about it" added the scientist. "Whenever climatic conditions combine as they did last night, it will happen again," he continued. "Your farm is in the He Understood His Job 1 RESIDENT J. Robert Price of Maricopa stake tells of an ex- perience he and two other men had in California. They were accosted by a diminutive newsboy. The gentlemen were not interested in his wares, but President Price finally bought a magazine because the boy could tell all about the contents and the authors. Turning to one of the others the lad asked him to buy, but received a negative answer. "Will you take one if I tell you wHar your first and fast names are?" "Yes." "Well, your first name is Baby and your last name is Corpse." The man bought a magazine. The little chap addressed the last man. "Will you buy if I'll tell you how many birthdays you've had?" The man agreed, and the youthful salesman said, "You've had just one. All the rest have been anniversaries." natural pathway. Being located at the base of the draw, you simply can't miss it. It may be another hundred years before another such event, maybe only another week. We cannot tell." "We three are leaving for New York as soon as we can secure res- ervations." Viola intended to si- lence all further protests. "We should worry about future cloudbursts," added Henry. "Dad and Mother are leaving here to make their home with us." "We're staying on, Amelia and me," announced John Gibby with exasperating calm. "We're spawn- ers. "It's a menace," warned the scientist. "It's darned stubbornness," per- sisted Leslie. "They'll kill them- selves working and wpn't get anywhere, either." J OHN GIBBY reached into the pocket of the borrowed overalls and pulled out a pamphlet. Some of the leaves were glued together with the grime of that dreadful night, and the whole was soiled and rumpled. But the leaves which told the tale of the faithful fish had been carefully separated and smoothed out. "Saved this little book from my old clothes before they set with cement," grinned John Gibby. With the light of visioned achieve- ment in his faded blue eyes he ran a forefinger under certain lines of print and announced. "It tells here about a certain kind of salmon that goes back to its native waters to spawn and die. Sometimes it had a hard time getting back. Sometimes they jump falls and get bruised, but they return just the same. We're goin' to build again, Amelia and me. We'll plant grape vines along the fences we have to build, and we'll get a ready-grown blue spruce. We'll dynamite the rocks and plant pedigreed alfalfa, instead of tim- othy. It's better suited to rocky soil. What say- Mother?" Amelia gibby did not trust herself to speech. She moved her chair closer to John's. While her eyes gazed toward the devastated home and the inundated fields she reached for his hand and gave it a firm, trusting squeeze.