Verhovayak Lapja, 1940. július-december (23. évfolyam, 27-52. szám)
1940-09-26 / 39. szám
Page 2 Verhovayak Lapja Call for Mr. Burton Branch 430 By STEPHEN J. ROTZ Homestead, Pa. September 26, 1940 JUST A SMILE Just a smile when the road seems hard, Just a laugh in the gloom; Just a hope when the soul seems scarred, Like a light in a darkened room.. Just a touch of a tender hand And a song and a bit of prayer; Just the courage to understand, And the heart to truly care! Just these things—and your life And a perfect poem to the world; Just these things, and the earth can see Your mind like a flag unfurled; Just a touch of a tender hand And a message from God above; Just the courage to understand And the heart to truly love! Never a man will pass you by That does not take of your cheer; Never a woman will meet your eye That does not hold you dear. With a sigh of annoyance, pretty Diana Parker pushed back the stray wisp of blonde hair that insisted on falling over her forehead. She stood in the tiny kitchenette of her two-room apartment, expertly preparing her evening meal. Just then the buzzer buzzed. Diana looked up from the stove. “Darn,” she ejaculated. Why did someone have to come to the door just when she was busy? Again the insistent sound of the buzzer filled the apartment. Diana’s high-heeled shoes clicked on the floor as she passed from the kitchenette to the hall door. She grasped the door-knob with a firm hand and pulled it open. “Well.... oh!” A young athletic-looking man stood outside the door. His uncovered head loomed six inches above her own. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Miss,” he apologized. “I’m looking for Mister Burton, er—ah, Robert Burton.” “Burton?” she repeated She was admiring tne way his eyes looked at her—so clear and frank and honest. It was apparent that he was a gentleman. The young man’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Do you know er—er, Mister Burton?” he was saying. Diana started. “What? Oh ... oh, yes, Mister Burton. No, no, I...” The young man sniffed. Diana watched him, frowning at his peculiar behavior, “I say,” he said, “don’t you smell something burning?” With her dainty nose, Diana sniffed. Then, with a wail of horror and a swish of her skirt, she darted into the kitchenette. The tiny room was filled with smoke and the odor of burned meat. Diana stared wide-eyed at the smoky mess. “Ruined,” she said slowly. “My dinner is all ruined.” “It’s my fault,” said a masculine voice behind her. Diana whirled like a toe dancer. She had forgotten all about the young man at the door. “It’s my fault,” repeated the fellow. “If I hadn’t called you to the door when I had, everything would be all right.” Suddenly she smiled at him. He smiled right back. “Tell you what,” he said with enthusiasm. “We’ll clean this up and then we’ll go out to dinner.” He raised his hand as Diana started to protest. “And I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” “But—but—” She didn’t finish. “First, allow me to introduce myself,” he interrupted. “My name is O’Connell— William O’Connell. Bill to you.” He grinned impudently “What’s yours?” Diana told him. Her heart pounded wildly; and she wondered if its crazy thrumming was audible to the—to Bill O’Connell’s ears. “Diana Parker,” he mused. “Hmmm! A pretty name, young lady.” They both Laughed. Then: “But come, Let’s clean up the holocaust and be on our way.” For the next ten minutes they were busy cleaning up and airing the kitchenette. After that they chatted like old friends. You’d be surprised how well a young couple get to know each other while cleaning pots and pans in a tiny kitchenette. At last they were ready. He sat smoking a cigaret while she went to the bedroom to change her dress. Pretty girl, the young man reflected. A slow smile spread over his face at some secret thought. The bedroom door opened and it framed the whiteclad, slender figure of Diana. Bill O’Connell jumped to his feet. “You’re beautiful,” he cried, delighted with the vision confronting him. Diana glided across the floor and stopped before him. “Like me?” she teased. She turned slowly around like a model at a fashion show, then stopped and gazed up at him. Her eyes shone like stars, and her carmined lips were slightly parted. Suddenly she found herself in Bill’s strong arms. He held her close; smelled the faint but fragrant odor of her hair. Then he kissed her. Long, lingering kisses on her lips, on her eyes, and on her throbbing throat. “I love you, darling,” he cried. One gathered from his tone that he was treading on clouds. “I love you.” Diana’s arms slid around his neck. “I love you, too, Bill. I never thought that I would fall in love on such short notice—but I did.” Her smile was wistful. He kissed her again. Then: ’’Let’s go. We’re supposed to go out and get something to eat.” She placed a ridiculously tiny hat on the side of her head. Surveying herself in the mirror, she noticed the happy, misty glow of her dark-brown eyes; then smiled as she looked at Bill’s reflection in the glass. “I’m ready,” she said as she turned around so that he could gaze at her with a critical eye. “Let’s go.” “Gosh, honey,” he sighed as he closed the door. “When I look at you and see how gorgeous you are, I’m afraid that it’s just a dream and that I’ll wake up to find you gone.” “Hardly a dream,” she Laughed. “I’m real enough.” Arm in arm, they walked down the broad flight of stairs. On one side of the hall, near the entrance, there were a row of mail boxes. Each had a card on the front bearing the name of a tenant. As they passed these boxes Diana looked at them casually. Then her eyes narrowed thoughtfully and a frown wrinkled her forehead. “Bill,” she exclaimed. Bill looked down at her. “Do you really know Mister Burton? Robert Burton, you said.” Bill chuckled heartily at her question. “No,” he replied. “No, I don’t. Robert Burton just seemed to spring to my lips on the spur of the moment. You see, darling,” he continued, “I’d seen you before and I made up my mind to meet you somehow. So I just knocked on your door and asked for Mister Burton. Smart, huh?” Diana laughed shrilly. “Smart!” She laughed again. “Look!” She pointed at a white card on one of the mailboxes. Bill’s eyes followed her pointing finger. His jaw dropped; his eyes read the name on the card. “Robert Burton.” He turned to Diana who was vainly trying to stop laughing. “But—but—” he stuttered, “why didn’t you tell me that there was a Mister Burton upstairs? Why?” “Because,” came the -answer. “Because I fell in love with you when I saw you standing outside my door, and I—I couldn’t bear to have you leave me.” Tears shimmered in her eyes. And if anyone saw Bill kiss her in the dim hall, why—why she didn’t care.--------------O-------------An Italian railroad is experimenting with a train operated by two charcoal gas burning motors that can carry 56 passengers at a speed of 75 miles an hour. I WHY NOT A STAMP COLUMN? Having taken notice of the great and regular progress of the paper of our organization, I have often wondered why one of the most prominent interests of a large percentage of the American public has not been represented. I specify American public because we are members of this enlightened body, which is the only large group of reople on earth today who truly enjoy any liberty or freedom. Our paper has been steadfast in upholding and propagating the beliefs of our country, for which its editors are to be highly commended. It has taken interest in public matters. It has interested itself in the field of sports and aided its members in organizing and practicing the various athletic interests. But—it has overlooked one of the great interests which occupies a portion of so many Americans’ free time, namely, philately or stamp collecting. This is a hobby which has grown and is growing with accumulating speed, much the same as cur own organization, and I believe it behooves one leader to recognize the other. Stamp collecting in its various departments is an ultra-American activity. Various estimates place the number of collectors in the United States at from five million to ten million. Approximately 90 % of the postage stamps issued in the world are of historical and political significance and aid materially in compiling the histories of various eras. The hobby is instructive in various of the arts and sciences inasmuch as the true collector must understand thoroughly the methods and resulting varieties in the production of paper. He must also know of practically every method of reproduction on paper known to civilization. The general knowledge acquired in this hobby is enormous. This is entirely aside from the joy of personal accomplishment which accompanies the hobby. It would not be surprising if it were found that at least 50% of our members were collectors. Other organizations of far less importance than ours recognize this kind of hobbies with a page devoted to it in their house organ. Lets bring our own paper abreast of the times in this one department so that its progress will be 100%. —Mrs. Ben Nichols, Member Branch 134 Chicago, Illinois.
