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Show Miiiiiiiiiiciiiiiiiiiiuirjii iimciimmiiiiic iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMtjiniiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiiciiiiiiiiniiirjiiiui.:. I The Moving Finger j "The moving finger writes, and having writ Moves on: nor all your piety nor wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it." ' Omar Khawam All right, all right so it was corny! Last week's column, I mean. Lots of people LIKE corn. I do, myself. Though I prefer bourbon . . . Anyway, I had a couple phone calls from girls on the brink of matrimony, asking if Sunday was REALLY like that. Naturally, I said no; sort of pushed push-ed 'em over the brink, so to speak. But I did advise them to start right out in married life with a written contract, signed by their husbands, entitling them to dinner out, every other Sunday, first chance at funnies, breakfast in bed once a month, and a muzzle on the telephone until 8 a.m. . . . Well, they can dream, can't they? This marriage business is funny. Fellow meets a girl, chases her till she catches him, marries her, and settles up I mean down. Then he spends the next ten years wondering if he's not missing something. If he decides he is, nine times out of ten he leaves the little woman for a life of freedom and fun, takes a quick look around, and marries the first babe who flutters her eyelashes at him and starts wondering again. The holy bonds of deadlock, a bachelor bache-lor friend of mine used to call it. He held out till he was thirty-five, but one day he began to hear funny fun-ny noises in his head . . . Come to find out, it was wedding bells. And women are just as bad . . . They stick to a fellow like dog hair to a davenport, and if he hasn't has-n't proposed inside of a month, they begin to wonder if they have B. O., or decide to try another beauty shop . . . The prospect of spending the rest of their lives in their own little home cooking and sewing, and spanking the kids, sounds beguiling; And So They Are Married . . . Comes The Dawn . . . and the bride goes to work in a grocery store, or gets a job selling sel-ling girdles. She must develop her own personality; she has decided upon a Career. Yep, men and marriage are funny fun-ny .. . and women and marriage are 'funny, too. How do I know? Hell, why do you think I'm writing writ-ing this stuff? A girl's gotta develop de-velop her personality, hasn't she? Reminds me of the guy who married his stenographer . . . Discovered Dis-covered that she was fast in type, but wouldn't take dictation. Good gravy! It's almost five o'clock, and look at my hair! And me due at a party at eight, for Margaret Keller Mrs. Tom Keller, Kel-ler, in private life who is leaving our town for greener pastures. Og-den, Og-den, to be exact. The girl must be mad; everybody knows Springville is far superior to Ogden, as a place to live. Probably even Mr. Robertson knows THAT. Anyway, Marge is our favorite Career Woman Wo-man and we hope she'll soon be back. Speaking of Mr. R. and it seems as though I am doing just that quite frequently of late did all you folks, I mean BOTH you folks, read his column on Sunday? (Note to editor: They have to read some other paper once in a while, silly; else how would they know this one is better?) I never knew Mr. R's brother, Chauncey, but a lot of you Springville people did; and from all I can gather, he was the kind of man that has made the West what it is. The column in Sunday's paper was one of the finest tributes I ever read. It is in the same category as William Allen White's tribute to Mary and I know that the man whose untimely death occasioned it knows what it says, and smiles in his long sleep. Well, August is almost over, and the school bells will ring again in about a week. Wish I were one of the lucky kids who will go to the new school brother, it's a far cry from what things were when I was in the sixth grade! Those elegant ele-gant closets that beautiful light tile the soft grey and green floors the rest rooms; oh brother, those rest rooms! When I was a kid we scurried outside, and our small posteriors didn't thaw out til June! G'bye, you lucky brat-lets! brat-lets! I |