Screenland (May-Oct 1937)

Record Details:

Something wrong or inaccurate about this page? Let us Know!

Thanks for helping us continually improve the quality of the Lantern search engine for all of our users! We have millions of scanned pages, so user reports are incredibly helpful for us to identify places where we can improve and update the metadata.

Please describe the issue below, and click "Submit" to send your comments to our team! If you'd prefer, you can also send us an email to mhdl@commarts.wisc.edu with your comments.




We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.

Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.

Greatest Sports Thrill FIVE knicker-clad boys knelt around a circle etched roughly in the soft, damp ground. It was the first day of spring many years ago in Beatrice, Nebraska, and the sharp tang in the air made one of the five, blackhaired Spangler Brugh, dead sure he could fight and lick a lion. "Remember, we're knucklin' for keeps," the biggest of the boys crouched around the circle warned, but not too forcefully. "Sure, for keeps. I know," Spangler answered. Confidence rode high, for in his pockets jingled musically a fine collection of marbles fit for any battle of the ring. Aggies, glassies, dobies, steelies, megs, and one treasured bull's-eye. The pride and joy of his life, acquired by sacrificing many a Saturday nickel that might have bought jaw breakers or gum. Half an hour later he rose from the ground, fighting desperately now to keep back the 'tears that welled in his eyes. Every last one of his marbles reposed in some other pants' pocket, probably "for keeps." Even the prize bull's-eye. Disconsolately he pawed through his possessions packed in an old cigar box at home that night, seeking anything to take his mind from its sorrow. He came upon one dobie, lowest of the low in marbles, a breed utterly without caste. Its paint was chipped here and there and all in all. it was pretty bad, even for a dobie. But suddenly it seemed precious to the boy ; it gave him 18 hope. With it, he had a chance. The chance he wanted. _ Diligently, furiously he practised in the privacy of his own back yard until he could shoot that dobie from the ringside and make it do everything but jump through hoops. Then, with it in his pocket, he quietly awaited opportunity. It came in a few days. Another game, and in it, the same boys who had pocketed his beauties. Into battle went the dobie, colors flying. By dinner-time, every one of the fine marbles were back in the pockets of their rightful owner, jingling the sweetest music in the world. That black-haired Nebraska boy, Spangler Brugh, now of course is Robert Taylor, but even stardom, and such sports as riding and baseball he enjoys so much now, haven't given him a thrill to match that marble