--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Alberta Huish Christensen collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 33 number: 12 published: 1930-10 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Alberta Huish Christensen, “Trivial,” *Improvement Era* 33, no. 12 (October 1930): 795–795." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3312unse 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: improvementera3312unse start_page: 795 end_page: 795 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1930-10) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3312unse publication_year: 1930 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 1930, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Trivial T nviaJ By Alberta Huish Christensen 50 trivial these little tasks That claim the hour; So much a part of dull necessity, They seem to be Mere finite atoms of entirety. And yet one can't forget — Alluring chair, sun-varnished in a room; A bowl of blossoms in a window space, And tiny frocks, smooth-ironed into place; The clean swept walk inviting to my door His welcome step — his smile that mutely asks, Are they so trivial, these little tasks? -•nx'a^oi*- Me raories By Gladys Hendrickson WHEN you are gone And I'm alone I think of you. I live again The happy hours, The skies of blue. The crooning winds, The sudden showers That strike the grass And drench the road, But quickly pass — Raindrops that catch A ray of sun, Gold in the heart Of every one. Tall, nodding, trees, A camp fire's gleam, Bare granite peaks A sparkling stream. These are the things I dwell upon When I'm alone — When you are gone. Silver Gleams By Linnie Fisher Robinson TALL lilies in my garden take A frailer beauty from the night, And sway toward me in the peace Of gentle breeze and mystic light. The columbine now has the charm Of one grown in a fairy land, Petunias climb to greet a rose That borders on a silver strand. The space of lawn is velvet draped In darker hues and daisy shod ; The sky is close with placid brow And calmly views a silver sod. A. Poetry .NOTHER Autumn is here, marking the close of the first year of "Era" poetry and the dawn of a new one. The plan of devoting an entire page to one author has be- come increasingly difficult in the face of the great number of lovely bits which continue to appear un- der the names of more or less fa- miliar writers. Take those on this very page — a touch of homely phil- osophy; a wish and the thrill of trees; a glimpse of old Spain, and the patter of raindrops; memories and gleams of silver — these put in- to life new meaning and new charm. The heart-warming part about poetry is that it says for us the things which we, inarticulate, have been unable to say for ourselves. Raindrops By Grace Ingles Frost T) AINDROPS — hear them singing, JL\ singing to the grass! Like tiny silver elfin wings they tap against the glass Of latticed panes land skylight; they pat- ter on stone walks, And flit and flirt with blossoming del- phiniums and phlox, Zinnias and baby breath, hollyhocks and roses, And leave a mist like diamond dew on all the gay-clad posies. Raindrops kiss the rippling leaves and weave themselves in fancies Of little, gleaming fairy forms doing weird dances ; They dive into the pool or brook and magic circles fling, And leave with a reviving touch every growing thing; Then, with tiptoeing, twinkling feet, they all too fleetly pass, But leave their print of loveliness be- hind them on the grass. Pastoral By Joseph Hebec Smart WHAT are the things that thrill me? These: The lonely majesty of trees, — A partridge drumming to his mate, The cattle lowing at the gate, The mists that from far pastures rise, A rift of blue through rain-drenched skies, The swallows' last mysterious flight Into the spreading web of night, The breath of laurel on the air, White roads that reach to anywhere. But more than all the rest of these, The lonely majesty of trees. Roof Tiles from Spain By Grace McKinstry npHEY look so old, so dull, in scattered X piles Around that building rising from the sand You wonder why men brought them countless miles To roof a structure in a rich, new land. Docs not this land of ours make strong, new tiles Unfaded, smooth? But dream, and un- derstand! Dream that beyond each tile you see the man At work in Soain, some century gone by, Who formed it — artist, more than artisan: He molded its soft curve across his thigh, And when the firing followed, rose and tan Became the dull clay, — pleasing to his eye. Dream that a peaceful convent there in Spain Was sheltered by these very tiles you see, That patient nuns, to whom all pomp was vain, Beneath them made the cross and bent the knee. Or, if you will, dream of a scene less plain, Proud Dons, and old Seville's gaiety. Dream how the colors grew more soft and deep As centuries of rain and sun and mist Enriched the tiles, and made the tone they keep A blended russet, green, and amethyst; Now time's own roughness makes the sun- beams leap To catch the color in each groove and twist. America has her own yesterday Close-linked with Spain — arid in these ." rushing hours She can look back a moment, smile and ■ say, : < ■ "Once came De Leon to the Land of Flowers!" Old ■tiles; — her romance comes again to stay Wherever they shall guard her roofs and towers. «txt§%gyto- Wisk By Ardyth M. Rennelly TF I were to die now, x Tonight, in my sleep, I should want to remember The moon. I should want to remember The feel of the wind. And more than anything else I should want to remember Your hair, in the sun — Then I should not mind The loneliness of long winters — .