Puslapio vaizdai
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He had not made the team. The family waiting
His wire, up State; the little old loyal town
That had looked to him year by year to make it famous,
And laureled him each time home with fresh renown;
The men from the house there, tense, breathlessly watching,
And, after all, once more, he 'd thrown them down.

He had not made the team, after years of striving;
After all he had paid to try, and held it cheap,-
The sweat and blood and strain and iron endurance,
And the harassed nights, too aching-tired to sleep;
The limp that perhaps he might be cured of some day;
The ugly scar that he would always keep.

He had not made the team. He watched from the side lines,
Two days later, a part of a sad patrol,

Battered and bruised in his crouched, blanketed body,
Sick and sore to his depths, and aloof in dole,
Until he saw the enemy's swift advancing

Sweeping his team-mates backward. Then from his soul Was cleansed the sense of self and the sting of failure,

And he was one of a pulsing, straining whole, Bracing to stem the tide of the on-flung bodies,

Helping to halt that steady, relentless roll;

Then he was part of a fighting, frenzied unit

Forcing them back and back and back from the goal. There on the side lines came the thought like a whip-crack As his team rallied and rose and took control:

He had not made the team, but for four long seasons,
Each of ten grinding weeks, he had given the flower,
The essence, and strength of body, brain, and spirit,
He and his kind-the second team-till the power

To cope with opposition and to surmount it
Into the team was driven against this hour!

What did it matter who held fast to the leather,

He or another? What was a four-years' dream?
Out of his heart the shame and rancor lifted;

There burst from his throat a hoarse, exultant scream.
Not in the fight, but part of it, he was winning!
This was his victory: he had made the team!

went with him knowing that he was going to demand of her relentlessly a supreme devotion.

She had wanted power, he was seeking a greater power. She was unscrupulous, but to gain his ends he would have let his children die. She was hard as steel, but Grayson was as relentless as death itself, as relentless as any force of nature. She had loved the most difficult thing, and he challenged her to do the impossible, to let him walk over her heart to gain his purposes in life, and not only to do this, but to be unaware that he even demanded any sacrifice. So, having formed an ideal, she worked toward its fulfilment even though its fulfilment came in a form of which she had not dreamed. That is my explanation.

Mrs. Nevers's is that Vivian fell in love with Grayson's youth, like any schoolgirl, and McAndrew thinks something like the same thing.

"Women can't starve their primitive impulses without paying," is how he put it. "You can't count on them. But that young man will go far. He 'll have to," he added.

The world shared their opinions. It did n't forgive Vivian what it termed her anticlimax, and showed its lack of forgiveness in its deadliest form by losing all interest in her.

Here are the two explanations of the affair. You can take your choice, or Sydney Grayson's, who still naïvely believes that they were intended for each other from all time.

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He had not made the team. He was graduating:
The last grim chance was gone, and the last hope fled;
The final printed list tacked up in the quarters;

A girl in the bleachers turned away her head.
He knew that she was trying to keep from crying;
Under his tan there burned a painful red.

He had not made the team. The family waiting
His wire, up State; the little old loyal town
That had looked to him year by year to make it famous,
And laureled him each time home with fresh renown;
The men from the house there, tense, breathlessly watching,
And, after all, once more, he 'd thrown them down.

He had not made the team, after years of striving;
After all he had paid to try, and held it cheap,-
The sweat and blood and strain and iron endurance,-
And the harassed nights, too aching-tired to sleep;
The limp that perhaps he might be cured of some day;
The ugly scar that he would always keep.

He had not made the team. He watched from the side lines, Two days later, a part of a sad patrol,

Battered and bruised in his crouched, blanketed body,

Sick and sore to his depths, and aloof in dole,

Until he saw the enemy's swift advancing

Sweeping his team-mates backward. Then from his soul Was cleansed the sense of self and the sting of failure,

And he was one of a pulsing, straining whole, Bracing to stem the tide of the on-flung bodies,

Helping to halt that steady, relentless roll;

Then he was part of a fighting, frenzied unit

Forcing them back and back and back from the goal. There on the side lines came the thought like a whip-crack As his team rallied and rose and took control:

He had not made the team, but for four long seasons,
Each of ten grinding weeks, he had given the flower,
The essence, and strength of body, brain, and spirit,
He and his kind-the second team―till the power

To cope with opposition and to surmount it
Into the team was driven against this hour!

What did it matter who held fast to the leather,

He or another? What was a four-years' dream?
Out of his heart the shame and rancor lifted;

There burst from his throat a hoarse, exultant scream.
Not in the fight, but part of it, he was winning!
This was his victory: he had made the team!

went with him knowing that he was going to demand of her relentlessly a supreme devotion.

She had wanted power, he was seeking a greater power. She was unscrupulous, but to gain his ends he would have let his children die. She was hard as steel, but Grayson was as relentless as death itself, as relentless as any force of nature. She had loved the most difficult thing, and he challenged her to do the impossible, to let him walk over her heart to gain his purposes in life, and not only to do this, but to be unaware that he even demanded any sacrifice. So, having formed an ideal, she worked toward its fulfilment even though its fulfilment came in a form of which she had not dreamed. That is my explanation.

Mrs. Nevers's is that Vivian fell in love with Grayson's youth, like any schoolgirl, and McAndrew thinks something like the same thing.

"Women can't starve their primitive impulses without paying," is how he put it. "You can't count on them. But that young man will go far. He 'll have to," he added.

The world shared their opinions. It did n't forgive Vivian what it termed her. anticlimax, and showed its lack of forgiveness in its deadliest form by losing all interest in her.

Here are the two explanations of the affair. You can take your choice, or Sydney Grayson's, who still naïvely believes that they were intended for each other from all time.

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HE

Revelation
By

RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL

E had not made the team. The ultimate momentLast practice for the big game, his senior yearHad come and gone again with dizzying swiftness. It was all over now, and the sudden cheer That rose and swelled to greet the elect eleven Sounded his bitter failure on his ear.

He had not made the team. He was graduating:
The last grim chance was gone, and the last hope fled;
The final printed list tacked up in the quarters;

A girl in the bleachers turned away her head.
He knew that she was trying to keep from crying;
Under his tan there burned a painful red.

He had not made the team. The family waiting.
His wire, up State; the little old loyal town
That had looked to him year by year to make it famous,
And laureled him each time home with fresh renown;
The men from the house there, tense, breathlessly watching,
And, after all, once more, he 'd thrown them down.

He had not made the team, after years of striving;
After all he had paid to try, and held it cheap,-
The sweat and blood and strain and iron endurance,—
And the harassed nights, too aching-tired to sleep;
The limp that perhaps he might be cured of some day;
The ugly scar that he would always keep.

He had not made the team. He watched from the side lines, Two days later, a part of a sad patrol,

Battered and bruised in his crouched, blanketed body,

Sick and sore to his depths, and aloof in dole,

Until he saw the enemy's swift advancing

Sweeping his team-mates backward. Then from his soul Was cleansed the sense of self and the sting of failure,

And he was one of a pulsing, straining whole, Bracing to stem the tide of the on-flung bodies,

Helping to halt that steady, relentless roll;

Then he was part of a fighting, frenzied unit

Forcing them back and back and back from the goal. There on the side lines came the thought like a whip-crack As his team rallied and rose and took control:

He had not made the team, but for four long seasons,
Each of ten grinding weeks, he had given the flower,
The essence, and strength of body, brain, and spirit,
He and his kind-the second team-till the power

To cope with opposition and to surmount it
Into the team was driven against this hour!

What did it matter who held fast to the leather,

He or another? What was a four-years' dream?

Out of his heart the shame and rancor lifted;

There burst from his throat a hoarse, exultant scream.
Not in the fight, but part of it, he was winning!
This was his victory: he had made the team!

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