bors; old men stoop painfully over their work; the women cast frequent anxious glances toward the shed where the crying babies have been left. The snap of the berries as they are pulled from the vines keeps up a continuous patter, like rain falling on still water. Soon the carriers of the swifter pickers are filled and they start down between the rows (no boss would let a picker cross a row) for the shed, and the work of the packing department begins. Each picker, as he comes in with his six quarts passes the ticket woman, who gives him his ticket, a cardboard, crediting him with the proper number of quarts. If the boxes are not full she "docks" him, that is, gives him a ticket for only four or five quarts, as the case demands. After he secures his ticket he passes on down the shed, takes the boxes from the carrier and puts them on the bench, refills with empties and returns to the patch. It is while he is disposing of his berries that he meets the czar of the whole business. This man is the shed boss. It is this same man with the quick eye who sizes up each picker and his berries as they pour in in a constant stream. Here he takes out a green berry, and with a meaning look shows it to the picker; there he punches off a long stem and tells the culprit to be careful in the future; he fairly jumps on to the awkward fellow with telltale stains upon his knees, and scolds the girl with like stains upon her lips. He dumps the boxes of a suspicious looking tramp to see that they are honestly filled, and if found otherwise, he points to the fence, telling him to "git, and git quick!" From no one does he brook an answer. Behind the bench upon which the pickers place their berries stand the packers, women who take the quarts from the bench, place them in the cases and dress the tops. The work requires neatness and despatch, for with four hundred pickers working as fast as possible, a short delay in the shed would cause a confusion entirely demoralizing. From the packers the cases go to the mailers, and from the mailers to the marker, a man who brands each case with its destination and sender. The berries, now ready for the shipment, are hauled away to the train. Since the pay depends entirely on the amount picked, and the work must be stopped and the berries shipped by the middle of the afternoon, dinner is a rather neglected function except with the children about the shed and those worn out with work and heat. When the work is finished or the time is up, the pickers are called in, and the final rush for tickets tests the skill and patience of the woman who dispenses them. Some have boxes partly filled, others 559 have picked unripe berries in their efforts to make out even quarts, and all want full pay for the ragged results. The confusion ends at last, the pickers straggle away, talking of their successes and aspirations. The rosy girl in the sunbonnet takes her tickets from the pocket at her breast and compares them with the checks of him in the hickory hat, with the curious result that the gallant youth spends his surplus with her at the ice cream festival that night; the tired woman, with hair unkempt, lugs home her crying baby and does her household work; the young men repair to the store for a game of horseshoe; the tramps to the same place for bread and coffee; the shed hands, bosses, and owner rattle homeward in the empty wagons, and the day's picking is done. THE COLLEGE GIRL'S VOCABULARY THE influence of environment seems to leave nothing untouched; it sets the direction not only of one's thought and habit of life, but determines in large measure one's manner of speech. Girls that spend several consecutive years in a preparatory school and in college become so accustomed to surrounding conditions that unconsciously they develop a vocabulary typically different from that of other people. To a person who has been away from college for some time and who has mingled with other than college girls, this difference is decidedly noticeable. It is not a question of slang, as one might hastily suggest, but simply of the abuse or misapplication of perfectly good, legitimate words. In our language, as in many other things American, the prevailing character is extravagance. Any adjective that makes the trifles of conversation appear interesting or exciting is not only permissible, but imperative. The most commonplace remark is splashed with the high color of adventure; and an incident is scarcely worth listening to if it is not "the most exciting thing you ever heard in your life". the last three words uttered with an inflection gradually rising to a shriek on "life." Naturally, the speaker "nearly died" under the stress of it all. "Exciting" and "killing," however, are mild descriptives. To obtain a ready listener, events must be "thrilling." Girls are "thrilled" at seeing each other after a short absence; they are "thrilled" at the idea of a cut, of a good mark; and above all things, they are "thrilled" at a "spread." In regard to a tennis appoint ment I overheard a sophomore say to an unsophisticated freshman, "Oh, I am so thrilled at the idea of playing with you." "I don't know why you should be," said the freshman, "for I'm not at all a good player." "Oh, yes, but don't you see, if I win I should be thrilled with triumph, and if you win I should be thrilled with eagerness to play better." To keep up an existence of thrills steadily for several years must be very hard on the system. This life surely requires strong nerves! "Weird" and "ghastly" both are words often dragged from their proper surroundings into broad daylight, but, fortunately, not as yet with such frequency and boldness as the word "wonderful.” This adjective is perhaps the most abused in the college vocabulary. Of course when one thinks about it, everything in the universe is really wonderful; nevertheless some things are incomparably more amazing than others, and if we describe mere nothings as "wonderful," how can we express the really vital somethings? Twenty times a day we hear, “Oh, we had the most wonderful time at Katherine's last night!" and "Really, it was perfectly wonderful ice-cream." Surrounded by such intemperate absurdities, is it strange that any attempt adequately to express genuine wonder is almost hopeless? It is as baffling as to try drawing music from a useless worn-out instrument. The result of all this extravagance is ruin to our vocabulary. Strong words are deliberately stolen from their places and are used to express trifling nonsense. When we need these words, they are no longer at hand, and in our weakness we shrink into silence rather than venture terms that have no meaning. Not only is our expression weakened but our mental poise is threatened. The constant use of highly exciting language tends to keep one in a state of nervous agitation, of irritability. During the student period, when perhaps mental composure is most needed, it is least encouraged. FUZZY: THE IDEA MAN UNDER an obscure "Obituary" yesterday's paper published this notice: "Lorenzo F. Woodward, 42, single, County Hospital, alcoholic heart failure." Many of the deceased man's friends who glanced ignorantly over "Lorenzo F. Woodward" would have gazed through tears at that announcement had it read "Fuzzy Woodward." And had it stated that Fuzzy was a newspaper man it would have been unnecessary to state that the cause of his death was alcohol; for his avocation was news-gathering. With his love of liquor, however, this journalist had combined a talent for "the news game" that might have developed into a genius for literature had not alcohol enfeebled his hand and pinched his heart and gnarled his brain. Some years ago there ambled into the "local room" of our daily newspaper a lean, lank, loose-jointed man with greenish gray eyes. Several clean-cut wrinkles creased his face, which bore a look of premature age. The little, old face started out from under a shock of yellow curls. The awkward figure shuffled toward the city editor: "Need a man? I'm ready for work." The editor, after many procrastinations, finally hired this persistent applicant, one of those many journalistic victims of the wanderlust. And a week later this same Lorenzo Fuzzy Woodward had a regular staff job on the Leader. It was there that I began to know him. He seldom mentioned his early years, of which we knew nothing. Evidently he had been once an omnivorous reader, for he was well versed in learning of various sorts. The Ptolemaic astronomical theories, Xenophon's Anabasis, Euclid's problems were topics intimate and dear to him. I remember one instance in particular which showed his knowledge and luck. It was his night "on the desk," while the city editor was taking a vacation. The reporter assigned to write up a famous mathematician's lecture on "The Theory of Functions" had failed to return to the office. At a late hour after all hope of his return had fled Fuzzy began to fabricate report of the lecture. He audaciously concocted a resounding effusion and hurried it out to the linotypes. He thought no more about it until two days later the editor received a letter from the mathematical lecturer thanking and congratulating the paper for the intelligent and accurate manner in which the Leader had reported his address. It was on account of such marvellous luck and skill that seven months later Fuzzy became the Leader's Idea Man. He would do anything for a "good story." Profligate, reckless, unscrupulous, he never considered the means, but ever the end. He was a successful "yellow journalist" of the deepest dye. And as such he was recognized by West, who found in Fuzzy another keen-edged tool to use at his infamous craft of chiselling out morbid details upon which to build the framework of yellow news. Some months after Fuzzy took up his duties as Idea Man, he had occasion to display this talent for "yellow journalism" in a way characteristic of all his work. Basing his story on some unusual event, he had to fill a two-column space on the front page of every morning's paper. Not the slightest spark of news had appeared to kindle his explosive imagination on this particular night. Everything was dry politics. The clock ticked, the printers scurried more and more rapidly, the heavy iron "forms" banged louder and louder. Fuzzy sat down in the corner of the room. Two columns to fill with what? His eyes stared a ghastly gray at the inkstand, which they did not see. He gnawed his lower lip. At twenty minutes past the hour, the dull roar of the huge steel presses, grinding out the first feature section, began to throb through the walls. Fuzzy twitched. His greenish eyes swept from ceiling to wall to floor to paper ah, there! He paused a moment, then eagerly examined a despatch from a country correspondent: "Jonesboro William Jenkins, prominent Tutt A clumsy account of details followed. Fuzzy began to write furiously. He was there when I left the office. The titanic presses devouring bundles of paper, screaming from below, in muffled groans for "more copy!"; Fuzzy scribbled speedily over a farmer's death notice. All the way home I wondered what possible interest he could see in that despatch. The next morning I looked to see Fuzzy's space occupied by an account of some political convention. I was disappointed. His space was filled by his own story. It was his all his; no one else could have done it. His headline read: THE OLD FLAME REKINDLED! Prominent Tutt County Farmer Killed While Ploughing With Former Below that he had treated the death as a minor incident, despite the fact perhaps that he has mercilessly doubled the grief of some bereaved family; but what of it? - he had "scooped 'em on a good story." For the article Fuzzy received a personal letter |