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Southern Star, v. 1, issue 4, December 1941

Page 33

PASSENGER

The 
LOW HISTORY
of
"Panurqe[[?]]"
?

LIST

Dixie

Fantasy

Federation

BIOGRAPHIES of D.F.F MEMBERS NEXT: Harry
WARNER

When he was just about big enough to toddle half-way across the yard without falling smack on his face, he occasionally visited his grandmother, who lived on a farm. He was wont to take with him a little red wagon that he pulled along with apparently no purpose at all. Thus from the very beginning he showed himself energetic in doing things that didn't matter a damn.
In the beginning, too, he gave promise of that rare discernment which now enables him to separate the wheat from the chaff among magazine stories thirty years old; for whenever they showed him flowers, no matter what their color, he'd solemnly pronounce them {Pitty boo f'owers."
On the farm one sunny afternoon he wandered a bit astray and made a discovery. Numbers of little red and yellow globules were growing on the leaves of a bush, close to the ground, and their prettiness so struck his fancy that without further ado he had his first rassling match with the collector's instinct. After due cogitation he removed all the globules from the bush and stowed them in the back of the red wagon, where, because of rolling around and bumping against each other, they looked even prettier. He considered his handiwork, and it seemed good, and he said "Ph--!"
When his mother asked him what he intended to do with the globules his obscure and fumbly reply made it clear that he didn't want to do anything with them, particularly. He just wanted to [[underline]]have[[end underline]] them.
Later, since he was an only child, with no playmates after dark, his mother read to him almost nightly. One story concerned a toy soldier who sailed down a gutter in a paper boat. That one impressed him; he liked it even better than "The King of the Golden River," or "The Rose and the Ring."
So he collected lead soldiers. He collected 'em by the hundreds, and still couldn't get enough. Finally he bought castingforms and made the things by the thousand. To this day, he is unable to pass a dime store window without stopping to see if, maybe, there are lead soldiers on display. Of course he no longer buys them, but he would, if he could do it without feeling ridiculous.
At length he read his first book, all by himself, and how proud he was! It was a chronicle of the Boy Scouts of the Wolf Patrol, which was all well and good; but in the back of the book the accursed publishers had filled up blank pages with Edgar Allan Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart." In all innocence he waded into it, and it scared the living hell out of him. He dropped the volume like a hot cake and ran for his mama. (By this time he was faster on his feet).
At the age of nine he edited a home-made newspaper that had a circulation of about fifty copies wherein, with permission from nobody, he incorporated as a serial one of the classic Russian tales for the very young. He also entered on the production of a Western novel, got all the characters lined up for a devil of a fight, became himself afrighted at the extent of the projected bloodshed, and deserted them. Several years later, when he stumbled across them again, the characters

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PASSENGER The LOW HISTORY of "Panurqe[[?]]" ? LIST Dixie Fantasy Federation BIOGRAPHIES of D.F.F MEMBERS NEXT: Harry WARNER When he was just about big enough to toddle half-way across the yard without falling smack on his face, he occasionally visited his grandmother, who lived on a farm. He was wont to take with him a little red wagon that he pulled along with apparently no purpose at all. Thus from the very beginning he showed himself energetic in doing things that didn't matter a damn. In the beginning, too, he gave promise of that rare discernment which now enables him to separate the wheat from the chaff among magazine stories thirty years old; for whenever they showed him flowers, no matter what their color, he'd solemnly pronounce them {Pitty boo f'owers." On the farm one sunny afternoon he wandered a bit astray and made a discovery. Numbers of little red and yellow globules were growing on the leaves of a bush, close to the ground, and their prettiness so struck his fancy that without further ado he had his first rassling match with the collector's instinct. After due cogitation he removed all the globules from the bush and stowed them in the back of the red wagon, where, because of rolling around and bumping against each other, they looked even prettier. He considered his handiwork, and it seemed good, and he said "Ph--!" When his mother asked him what he intended to do with the globules his obscure and fumbly reply made it clear that he didn't want to do anything with them, particularly. He just wanted to [[underline]]have[[end underline]] them. Later, since he was an only child, with no playmates after dark, his mother read to him almost nightly. One story concerned a toy soldier who sailed down a gutter in a paper boat. That one impressed him; he liked it even better than "The King of the Golden River," or "The Rose and the Ring." So he collected lead soldiers. He collected 'em by the hundreds, and still couldn't get enough. Finally he bought castingforms and made the things by the thousand. To this day, he is unable to pass a dime store window without stopping to see if, maybe, there are lead soldiers on display. Of course he no longer buys them, but he would, if he could do it without feeling ridiculous. At length he read his first book, all by himself, and how proud he was! It was a chronicle of the Boy Scouts of the Wolf Patrol, which was all well and good; but in the back of the book the accursed publishers had filled up blank pages with Edgar Allan Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart." In all innocence he waded into it, and it scared the living hell out of him. He dropped the volume like a hot cake and ran for his mama. (By this time he was faster on his feet). At the age of nine he edited a home-made newspaper that had a circulation of about fifty copies wherein, with permission from nobody, he incorporated as a serial one of the classic Russian tales for the very young. He also entered on the production of a Western novel, got all the characters lined up for a devil of a fight, became himself afrighted at the extent of the projected bloodshed, and deserted them. Several years later, when he stumbled across them again, the characters