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Spaceways, v. 3, issue 5, June 1941
31858063101350_010
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10 SPACEWAYS 5 DESE FANS IN DE SOUTH as told to HARRY JENKINS, JR. by Rastus "Up from the South they came; whole hordes of them, descending upon a helpless fandom like a plague." This ambiguous statement does make a nice siesta subject, though. The first step has been taken; the first movement in profess and in the future...perhaps... Uh-oh, pardon the day-dreaming, but a dope can visionize, can't he? But back to the present, 'tis safer, or is it? Anyway, that's eight here nor there so let Rastus tell the story of the South.-- Y'all people ever heard tell ob de South? You is? Well, das fine, foe sho nuff, de South is akin' up, changin', marchin' onward, like de ol' uns in grey. De South is slow, ya, but den wen dey git started, jes' ain't no stoppin' 'em. Le's see, spec I better start somewhere, 'bout de Mason-Dixon Line, de boundary of Dixie. Up 'round Marylan' way, here's Mistuh Harry Warner, Jr., of Spaceways fame. He's one ub de most activist fans I'se ever knowed. Den movin' down de coast to Virginny, were dwells Chauvenet. De Happy Highwayman has changed send, Wyburn, an' mebbe a few othuh uns dat I dunno. In Washington day's a whole kitankiboodle ob 'em: Milty Rothman, Jack Speer, an' sum mo'. In de Volunteer State dere flock a swell bunch o' fans. Dere's Fred Fischer, de columnist; Art Sehnert of the Star; and Jim Tillman the 'rithmetic shark midst a whole litter ob um. Oos in Flordi day's Hanson, an' others scattered thick as fleas all ober de South, but in Columbia, South Ca'lina is whar dey bite mostest. Why de biggest conglomeration ub fans you eber seed is here. Fact is, Sissy says it's de Mecca ub Deep South fandom, whatever dem high-falootin' words is. De Columbia Camp, de Southern Star, an' one of de most doin'est paths ub de Dixie Fantasy Federation, which am South-wide, all bides deah. De big bosses is Joe Gilber, Lee Eastman, W. B. McQueen, an' Harry Jenkins, Jr. Dat bunch is jes' about de craziest people outside ub de 'sylum. But day's friendly; day's friendly. Dat were jus' 'bout cubers de scene, but--uh, oh--hear cums man wife, an' when day's fiuh in her eye, an' work threatenin', I jes' leaves without anythin' much. But you know doe, dat's jes' what's wrong wid de South. We's all too lazy. Day's a heap o' fans, a heap ub um, but day's too, too shiftless tuh becum active. But we's been stirred and ifen we don't go back tuh sleep, we'll jes' keep shufflin' 'long, till we's at de front. But har cums de wife agin, so long--gotta go hunt a watermellion patch. But you 'member de South, don't fuhget, 'membuh de South! ------------------------------------------------ WE'RE OFF FOR MARS by N. WILLMORTH We're off, we're off, we're off for Mars! Through a darkening sky atwirl with stars, On the rumbling rockets with a million jars, We're off! We're off! We're off for Mars! The earth, a globe of green, behind, The Moon, a slice of gold, ashine, And Mars, a glittering disk, afar, We're off! We're off! We're off for Mars! Through airless, weightless, stormy space, With driving thrust we fly apace, To desert lands with cannals abar. We're off! We're off! We're off for Mars!
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10 SPACEWAYS 5 DESE FANS IN DE SOUTH as told to HARRY JENKINS, JR. by Rastus "Up from the South they came; whole hordes of them, descending upon a helpless fandom like a plague." This ambiguous statement does make a nice siesta subject, though. The first step has been taken; the first movement in profess and in the future...perhaps... Uh-oh, pardon the day-dreaming, but a dope can visionize, can't he? But back to the present, 'tis safer, or is it? Anyway, that's eight here nor there so let Rastus tell the story of the South.-- Y'all people ever heard tell ob de South? You is? Well, das fine, foe sho nuff, de South is akin' up, changin', marchin' onward, like de ol' uns in grey. De South is slow, ya, but den wen dey git started, jes' ain't no stoppin' 'em. Le's see, spec I better start somewhere, 'bout de Mason-Dixon Line, de boundary of Dixie. Up 'round Marylan' way, here's Mistuh Harry Warner, Jr., of Spaceways fame. He's one ub de most activist fans I'se ever knowed. Den movin' down de coast to Virginny, were dwells Chauvenet. De Happy Highwayman has changed send, Wyburn, an' mebbe a few othuh uns dat I dunno. In Washington day's a whole kitankiboodle ob 'em: Milty Rothman, Jack Speer, an' sum mo'. In de Volunteer State dere flock a swell bunch o' fans. Dere's Fred Fischer, de columnist; Art Sehnert of the Star; and Jim Tillman the 'rithmetic shark midst a whole litter ob um. Oos in Flordi day's Hanson, an' others scattered thick as fleas all ober de South, but in Columbia, South Ca'lina is whar dey bite mostest. Why de biggest conglomeration ub fans you eber seed is here. Fact is, Sissy says it's de Mecca ub Deep South fandom, whatever dem high-falootin' words is. De Columbia Camp, de Southern Star, an' one of de most doin'est paths ub de Dixie Fantasy Federation, which am South-wide, all bides deah. De big bosses is Joe Gilber, Lee Eastman, W. B. McQueen, an' Harry Jenkins, Jr. Dat bunch is jes' about de craziest people outside ub de 'sylum. But day's friendly; day's friendly. Dat were jus' 'bout cubers de scene, but--uh, oh--hear cums man wife, an' when day's fiuh in her eye, an' work threatenin', I jes' leaves without anythin' much. But you know doe, dat's jes' what's wrong wid de South. We's all too lazy. Day's a heap o' fans, a heap ub um, but day's too, too shiftless tuh becum active. But we's been stirred and ifen we don't go back tuh sleep, we'll jes' keep shufflin' 'long, till we's at de front. But har cums de wife agin, so long--gotta go hunt a watermellion patch. But you 'member de South, don't fuhget, 'membuh de South! ------------------------------------------------ WE'RE OFF FOR MARS by N. WILLMORTH We're off, we're off, we're off for Mars! Through a darkening sky atwirl with stars, On the rumbling rockets with a million jars, We're off! We're off! We're off for Mars! The earth, a globe of green, behind, The Moon, a slice of gold, ashine, And Mars, a glittering disk, afar, We're off! We're off! We're off for Mars! Through airless, weightless, stormy space, With driving thrust we fly apace, To desert lands with cannals abar. We're off! We're off! We're off for Mars!
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