Journal Stories From The 2000's

L.U. No. 230 Victoria, B.C.
Editor:

I was reading the April Worker, which by the way, like the rest of its monthly brothers, contains between its covers more information and facts vital to labors cause than any similar magazine on this North American continent, and realizing as I read the grim, hard fight that our International is making for labor’s rights my thoughts became somewhat depressed, and then I came to the “Whistle of Willow,” that exuberant little gem of Brother Dale B. Sigler, and to one reader at least that poem revived an almost forgotten memory.

Once there was a willow tree at the side of a brook which meandered lazily through a country village. The green shimmering leaves of the tree mirrored in the quiet waters beneath, cast a welcome shade for weary wanderers to rest in and children loved to gather there. Little birds perched on its swaying branches and made the air resound with their full-throated music.

One brilliant spring morning a small bare-foot boy broke off a limb and with his trusty “Joseph Rodger” jackknife, without which no school boy’s life of that period was complete, carved himself a whistle. He placed it to his lips and blew such a clear, sweet note that the birds paused for a moment in their roundelays to listen and the small boy was entranced. The school bell rang. Placing his treasures, the knife and the whistle, in the pocket of his coarse, brown denim trousers the boy made his way into the school to the rude wooden desk on which his name was carved, with ink well rubbed into the letters, to prevent their freshness from being noticed by the grim ogre who presided at the teacher’s desk. For a short time the boy conned the pages of his dog-eared reader, but his mind was on the whistle, and at last he gave in to the temptation to have a look at it, following which he placed it to his lips, and just breathed gently on it. To his dismay a clear note sounded above the subdued hum of the school. Instantly there was a dead silence and then he heard his name called out by the grim ogre to come forward. With beating heart he answered the summons, never noticing that he stubbed his pet toe on the understanding head of a nail in the worn, wooden floor and added a fresh crimson stain to the white rag in which it was tied. Surely the ogre could never have been a boy for he said in harsh tones, “Gimme that whistle!” Reluctantly the boy handed up his treasure and with a sharp pen knife the ogre slit the bark and handed it back to the boy motioned him to his seat.

For a while the sun ceased to shine, but school boys’ hearts are elastic. When the four o’clock bell rang and school was dismissed, the boy, with patient skill, made himself another whistle, and the kindly spirit of the willow tree entered into it, and some who heard its joyous music saw a picture of the tree in all its beauty, and felt the cool breeze through its branches temper the heat of the day. As the boy limped slowly along the wooden side walk he kept playing upon the rustic pipe of Pan. The sick man in his chamber heard it and brought fresh courage to him like the touch of a cool hand on his fevered brow. The little, round-shouldered bookkeeper in the grocery store office paused in his adding of the long columns of dreary figures in the ledger as he heard it and caught the vision of the tree. The tired laborer plodding homeward heard it and the weariness left his limbs. The wealthy man, as he gazed upon the little musician, said fervently to himself, “Oh, that I were a boy again!” and would willingly have given up all his wealth to have exchanged places with the player of the inspired whistle.

May the thousands of readers of the WORKER see the vision of the willow tree and catch the joyous uplift of the “Whistle of the Willow,” and be thankful that we have a member like Brother Sigler to chase away the clouds and cheer us on our way.

The poem “For Easter Morning,” is well worthy of a reprint. This old world has strayed far away from the teachings of the “Master Carpenter,” whose life was a life of sacrifice for the poor and meek, and who, in righteous indignation plaited a scourge of cords and with it drove the money changers out of the temple. Today the money changers perch like vultures, high on their seats in Wall Street, and as they plan their selfish schemes at the expense of their fellow man, they wag their heads and piously say, “Let us prey.”

May the clean, pure sentiments of Brother Daw’s poem carry their message out into the world in these days when greed and selfishness run rampant over the land.

Shappy.



	Published in July 1932 - I.B.E.W. Journal L.U. No. 230 Victoria, B.C. Editor: I was reading the April Worker, which by the way, like the rest of its monthly brothers, contains between its covers more information and facts vital to labors cause than any similar magazine on this North American continent, and realizing as I read the grim, hard fight that our International is making for labor’s rights my thoughts became somewhat depressed, and then I came to the “Whistle of Willow,” that exuberant little gem of Brother Dale B. Sigler, and to one reader at least that poem revived an almost forgotten memory. Once there was a willow tree at the side of a brook which meandered lazily through a country village. The green shimmering leaves of the tree mirrored in the quiet waters beneath, cast a welcome shade for weary wanderers to rest in and children loved to gather there. Little birds perched on its swaying branches and made the air resound with their full-throated music. One brilliant spring morning a small bare-foot boy broke off a limb and with his trusty “Joseph Rodger” jackknife, without which no school boy’s life of that period was complete, carved himself a whistle. He placed it to his lips and blew such a clear, sweet note that the birds paused for a moment in their roundelays to listen and the small boy was entranced. The school bell rang. Placing his treasures, the knife and the whistle, in the pocket of his coarse, brown denim trousers the boy made his way into the school to the rude wooden desk on which his name was carved, with ink well rubbed into the letters, to prevent their freshness from being noticed by the grim ogre who presided at the teacher’s desk. For a short time the boy conned the pages of his dog-eared reader, but his mind was on the whistle, and at last he gave in to the temptation to have a look at it, following which he placed it to his lips, and just breathed gently on it. To his dismay a clear note sounded above the subdued hum of the school. Instantly there was a dead silence and then he heard his name called out by the grim ogre to come forward. With beating heart he answered the summons, never noticing that he stubbed his pet toe on the understanding head of a nail in the worn, wooden floor and added a fresh crimson stain to the white rag in which it was tied. Surely the ogre could never have been a boy for he said in harsh tones, “Gimme that whistle!” Reluctantly the boy handed up his treasure and with a sharp pen knife the ogre slit the bark and handed it back to the boy motioned him to his seat. For a while the sun ceased to shine, but school boys’ hearts are elastic. When the four o’clock bell rang and school was dismissed, the boy, with patient skill, made himself another whistle, and the kindly spirit of the willow tree entered into it, and some who heard its joyous music saw a picture of the tree in all its beauty, and felt the cool breeze through its branches temper the heat of the day. As the boy limped slowly along the wooden side walk he kept playing upon the rustic pipe of Pan. The sick man in his chamber heard it and brought fresh courage to him like the touch of a cool hand on his fevered brow. The little, round-shouldered bookkeeper in the grocery store office paused in his adding of the long columns of dreary figures in the ledger as he heard it and caught the vision of the tree. The tired laborer plodding homeward heard it and the weariness left his limbs. The wealthy man, as he gazed upon the little musician, said fervently to himself, “Oh, that I were a boy again!” and would willingly have given up all his wealth to have exchanged places with the player of the inspired whistle. May the thousands of readers of the WORKER see the vision of the willow tree and catch the joyous uplift of the “Whistle of the Willow,” and be thankful that we have a member like Brother Sigler to chase away the clouds and cheer us on our way. The poem “For Easter Morning,” is well worthy of a reprint. This old world has strayed far away from the teachings of the “Master Carpenter,” whose life was a life of sacrifice for the poor and meek, and who, in righteous indignation plaited a scourge of cords and with it drove the money changers out of the temple. Today the money changers perch like vultures, high on their seats in Wall Street, and as they plan their selfish schemes at the expense of their fellow man, they wag their heads and piously say, “Let us prey.” May the clean, pure sentiments of Brother Daw’s poem carry their message out into the world in these days when greed and selfishness run rampant over the land. Shappy.