Bassetts Scrap Book, Vol 3, No 5
Articles in this issue
- p. 7
A poem by John Hay in which a lover sends his sweetheart two roses — a red one to signal her affection and a white one to signal rejection — and is terrified to see the white rose on her breast until she explains that white means surrender.
- p. 2
A July miscellany of quips and observations on fireworks patriotism, the cost of Fourth of July celebrations in money, life, and law-breaking, and whether heaven will be worth desiring if we take the firecracker along.
- p. 6
A natural curiosity about Colorado desert rainstorms in which rainfall is clearly visible falling from clouds but evaporates entirely in the hot dry air before reaching ground, in regions where the thermometer reaches 128 degrees in the shade.
- p. 5
A practical survival tip explaining how to determine north from a pocket watch by halving the hours since midnight, pointing that number at the sun, and reading off the cardinal directions from the watch face.
- p. 4
A poem arguing that however great a man's wealth, money cannot purchase the scent of a flower, a single sunbeam, or the spontaneous love of a child — some things remain genuinely beyond price.
- p. 2
A curiosity about the Latin phrase 'Sator arepo teret opera rotas', a genuine square palindrome that reads identically in every direction — forwards, backwards, vertically, and diagonally — while making passable grammatical sense.
- p. 7
A nostalgic poem by a city-dweller who longs for home in a small town where people know your name, slap you on the back, and smile instead of passing with a scowl and averted eyes.