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Fanfare, v. 2, issue 1, whole no. 7, August 1941
Page 7
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fanfare vii STF RECOLLECTIONS On coming to the brook, which was one of the route's more fascinating points, he was amazed to see a book crammed in beneath one of the rocks in the stream. Book bug that he was, it got immediate rescue, a sodden mess of paper and glue. It would be hard to place a value on the quality of the response forthcoming, once he had carefully pulled one page from another and caught a glimpse of the title...A PRINCESS OF MARS...Yeeeowweee! Someone else had written something DIFFERENT! Impatience was kindled to a bonfire before he came to, enough to realize that the only way it could be read was to let it dry out. It is beyond description to adequately show to what extent the kid lived on Mars for the next two weeks. Not that it took that long to read it, but it was such a dream world that he could not be torn from it. School and its associated nuisance, for the first time that he could remember, became tolerable. That poor, watersoaked volume became the foundation stone of a collection that is still growing, although all this took place over twenty years ago. The great question asked at the end of it remained unanswered for a long time, as even yet the idea of asking for more was among these things not done, because of the pipe-dream accusation that was sure to follow on such a question. It would be hard to describe exactly what processes went on until the kid suddenly found out the power of money, and of the postal system. Book catalogs were for the asking -- a penny postcard worked wonder, and here it was that first an appreciation of what school was all about came to the kid. Why -- he could write! -- no one need know did he want another catalog...and that was that. Then came the discovery, from one of the catalogs, that there was more about Mars, the question therefore must be answered, and from then on the kid was electrified by the need of some money. Today's pitiful sum of 75c seemed like more than twice the contents of the US Treasury. But somehow it was gathered together, and the mile and a half trek to the local booksellers was made -- through strange country, occupied by unknown kids of doubtful looks and even more doubtful behavior. Still nothing to look at in the matter of clothes, he went in an was not noticed for a long time, but was finally asked what did he want in here, and as soon as his tale was told, and the fact that he had the money for it became apparent, all sorts of bewildering attention was paid him. His order was taken, and no remarks about pipe-dreams were forthcoming, much to his amazement. Told when he could come and get it, he was on hand before the package containing the precious book came, and so had a long wait. Then he managed to get all tangled up with the clerk when it did arrive, and practically got slapped down because of it. A bitter disappointment -- that cost that bookseller dear in later years, for the kid found out that there were other booksellers, and that they wouldn't snap at an over-eager kid. IT was long years before the kid entered that store, and then only under compulsion from others. A chance discovery that there were sometimes stories in magazines brought that field into eager exploration. So gradually, he began to get a story once in a while, by no means enough, but still enough to assure him that somewhere there were others like him who wanted to get away from the humdrum, run-of-the-mine romances and soft soap that characterized the book world of that period. This era of occasional stories held on until early fall of 1926. An innate love of science had been stimulated beyond compare by a first-year high school course in general science. Came that summer
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fanfare vii STF RECOLLECTIONS On coming to the brook, which was one of the route's more fascinating points, he was amazed to see a book crammed in beneath one of the rocks in the stream. Book bug that he was, it got immediate rescue, a sodden mess of paper and glue. It would be hard to place a value on the quality of the response forthcoming, once he had carefully pulled one page from another and caught a glimpse of the title...A PRINCESS OF MARS...Yeeeowweee! Someone else had written something DIFFERENT! Impatience was kindled to a bonfire before he came to, enough to realize that the only way it could be read was to let it dry out. It is beyond description to adequately show to what extent the kid lived on Mars for the next two weeks. Not that it took that long to read it, but it was such a dream world that he could not be torn from it. School and its associated nuisance, for the first time that he could remember, became tolerable. That poor, watersoaked volume became the foundation stone of a collection that is still growing, although all this took place over twenty years ago. The great question asked at the end of it remained unanswered for a long time, as even yet the idea of asking for more was among these things not done, because of the pipe-dream accusation that was sure to follow on such a question. It would be hard to describe exactly what processes went on until the kid suddenly found out the power of money, and of the postal system. Book catalogs were for the asking -- a penny postcard worked wonder, and here it was that first an appreciation of what school was all about came to the kid. Why -- he could write! -- no one need know did he want another catalog...and that was that. Then came the discovery, from one of the catalogs, that there was more about Mars, the question therefore must be answered, and from then on the kid was electrified by the need of some money. Today's pitiful sum of 75c seemed like more than twice the contents of the US Treasury. But somehow it was gathered together, and the mile and a half trek to the local booksellers was made -- through strange country, occupied by unknown kids of doubtful looks and even more doubtful behavior. Still nothing to look at in the matter of clothes, he went in an was not noticed for a long time, but was finally asked what did he want in here, and as soon as his tale was told, and the fact that he had the money for it became apparent, all sorts of bewildering attention was paid him. His order was taken, and no remarks about pipe-dreams were forthcoming, much to his amazement. Told when he could come and get it, he was on hand before the package containing the precious book came, and so had a long wait. Then he managed to get all tangled up with the clerk when it did arrive, and practically got slapped down because of it. A bitter disappointment -- that cost that bookseller dear in later years, for the kid found out that there were other booksellers, and that they wouldn't snap at an over-eager kid. IT was long years before the kid entered that store, and then only under compulsion from others. A chance discovery that there were sometimes stories in magazines brought that field into eager exploration. So gradually, he began to get a story once in a while, by no means enough, but still enough to assure him that somewhere there were others like him who wanted to get away from the humdrum, run-of-the-mine romances and soft soap that characterized the book world of that period. This era of occasional stories held on until early fall of 1926. An innate love of science had been stimulated beyond compare by a first-year high school course in general science. Came that summer
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