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Little Wit, issue 5, August 1940

Front cvoer

L I T T L E   W I T
No. 5   August 1940

Which is I?
   This body I'm wearing
   Just couldn't be small,
   There are so many I's
   Down inside of it all.
                CECIL BONHAM

   And there would be more I's in LITTLE WIT this time if I had not limited all of us to six pages so that there would be some chance of getting the issue out three months if not two months after the preceding issue. Also, a ream of mimeo paper costs $1.50. Copyright is another thing that costs money. And I must see Treasure Island once more before the fair ends.
   Having exchanged pomes with my rival at mimeography and put off putting hers in until now, I'll have to crowd it in here on the first page, done last.

Black Ride

When I have grown so old and spent, my heart no longer speeds
At stirring sight of open range and waiting saddled steeds,
When memories are growing dim and seldom I recall
The golden scenes of sandhills and the warm, brown days of fall,
When I forget the gripping knees, the mud slide down a dune,
The masculine kiss of the wind in my face, and the sting of sand on my cheeks,
And the sudden slash of a cut in the banks leading down to hidden creeks,
The sleepy scent of hay in stacks where sun has camped all day,
And the sharp, sweet rush of a ride by night, and the pearl-flushed Milky Way,
When even the rolling, crashing storms are powerless to thrill,
And the siren voice of the strong north wind has dropped to a dying chill,
From somewhere deep within my soul will swell to a dying roar
The symphony of thundering hooves I have heard but will hear no more,
And lips will tremble at ghosts of shouts, and hands strain at the rein,
On the black horse, Death, I'll be off and away, astride on the range again.
                 WILLIAMETTA

Mimeoed by Edmund Kelly Janes, P.O. Box 506, Oakdale, California
   Gratis to NAPA members: Others pay 10[?] an issue, $1 for 13

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L I T T L E W I T No. 5 August 1940 Which is I? This body I'm wearing Just couldn't be small, There are so many I's Down inside of it all. CECIL BONHAM And there would be more I's in LITTLE WIT this time if I had not limited all of us to six pages so that there would be some chance of getting the issue out three months if not two months after the preceding issue. Also, a ream of mimeo paper costs $1.50. Copyright is another thing that costs money. And I must see Treasure Island once more before the fair ends. Having exchanged pomes with my rival at mimeography and put off putting hers in until now, I'll have to crowd it in here on the first page, done last. Black Ride When I have grown so old and spent, my heart no longer speeds At stirring sight of open range and waiting saddled steeds, When memories are growing dim and seldom I recall The golden scenes of sandhills and the warm, brown days of fall, When I forget the gripping knees, the mud slide down a dune, The masculine kiss of the wind in my face, and the sting of sand on my cheeks, And the sudden slash of a cut in the banks leading down to hidden creeks, The sleepy scent of hay in stacks where sun has camped all day, And the sharp, sweet rush of a ride by night, and the pearl-flushed Milky Way, When even the rolling, crashing storms are powerless to thrill, And the siren voice of the strong north wind has dropped to a dying chill, From somewhere deep within my soul will swell to a dying roar The symphony of thundering hooves I have heard but will hear no more, And lips will tremble at ghosts of shouts, and hands strain at the rein, On the black horse, Death, I'll be off and away, astride on the range again. WILLIAMETTA Mimeoed by Edmund Kelly Janes, P.O. Box 506, Oakdale, California Gratis to NAPA members: Others pay 10[?] an issue, $1 for 13