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Radio Mirror's Prize Poem COUNTRY MOTHER
She saw her children off to school for
ihirty years Right from the first who walked the road
alone — Sometimes she scarcely saw her go for
tears — Down to the eighth and last, whose young
eyes shone Watching the golden path the school bus
made Along tlie hill. Mornings her house became Bedlam, with noise and search for things
mislaid. Their loud return at evening was the.
^ame. But, since the last tall son is grown and
gone. One day I saw her watch the school bus
"o; She waved, pretending she had someone
on And brightly smiled, then hurried off
as though She had much work to do — but, motherwise, I saw her dab her apron to her eyes.
— Violet Emslie Osier
Hello There:
When the time came around for us to have a September page of poetry . . . one thing stood out somehow over all the things that mean September.
A whole world of school day pictures came together . . . boys and -'■girls trudging off on the first day tvith an apple in their pocket and a lunch box packed ivith loving care by mother . . . and after school, raking up the leaves or skating up the hill with the gang.
If sometimes you long for those days again, or for the fragrance of frying apples and sausage . . . and the first autumn dusk . . . then here are some September stories especially for you.
TED MALONE
BONFIRES. OR BETTER
First love makes a pretty flame When no one is about. But it is always flickering. And easily goes out.
Second love is quick and hot; its flame is over-bright; For rtie its end came suddenly. With half the world in sight.
But third love^ah! This is the one To build your hopes upon; For it will keep a steady flame Until its life is gone.
And M there be another (ove,
I shall not speak of il —
Except to say the flame would serve
To warm the hands a bit.
— Faye Chilcote Walker
SCHOOL JANITOR
His hands are knotted, his step is slow.
The children run past him, and never know
He looks at the boys on the playground rings
And thinks of trapezes and aerial swings.
When the children sing, in the afternoons.
He hears the calliope's" shouted tunes.
He washes the windows and sweeps the floor.
He remembers arenas where lions roar.
If you should speak, and he doesn't answer.
Perhaps he dreams of a slim, gay dancer
And the young acrobat in love with her.
Mr. Brown wasn't always the janitor.
—Mildred Soff