Page 16—SUSQUEHANNA TIMES
Poems
by Wittell
Casus Belli
Ghannewaugah brave;
Ghannewaugah strong;
Ghannewaugah say
White man wrong.
White man say
Ghannewaugah thief.
Ghannewaugah say
He big chief;
No need steal;
Look in eye.
White man say
Ghannewaugah lie.
White man angry;
Grab his gun.
Ghannewaugah brave;
He no run.
White man swear;
Say bad name;
Point his gun;
[ake good aim.
Gun go ‘‘Bang!”’
Hit ‘im head.
Ghannewaugah he
Fall down dead.
White man now
Look at sky:
Lock his door;
Wonder why
All thing quiet;
Smoke on hill.
Maybe Indian
Come to kill.
Autumn -an Indian Legend
The Indians had a legend—so we're told—
About a sachem who was growing old.
Seeing his life was drawing to its close,
And fearing lest he be forgot, he rose
A supernatural power to invoke,
And to his god, imploring favor, spoke:
““O great one! from whose bow-string through the sky
The fiery arrows of the lightening fly—
Whose voice speaks in the thunder, and whose breath
Impels the wind—few are the moons ere death
Shall summon me. Vouchsafe that there may be
Some visible memorial of me
When | am gone—some universal sign
Of the power and dominion that were mine
On Earth.”
Whereat the god was moved, 'tis said,
And laid his hand upon the sachem’s head,
Saying: ‘‘So shall it be: in peace depart;
And may faith keep thee, faithful thou who art.”
Then solemnly, as godhood ever wills,
The Great One set his seal upon the hills,
And gave divine decree that once each year
The mountains and the vales these hues would wear:
Red, for the color of the sachem’s skin;
Buff, for the color of his moccasin;
And as a sign of his devotion, gold;
For such, intruth, most precious all men hold.
Thus was the favor of the Great One shown
To one on earth, now nameless and unknown.
Manuscript unearthed in Marietta
Ed. Note: The following
manuscript, penned in a
spidery hand on crumbling
papyrus, was unearthed
from the recently restored
basement playroom of Mr.
Pharos Diletannto, a New
Jersey-based Kremlinol-
ogist who has spent the
summer restoring an 18th
century mansion on Mari-
etta’s historic Front Street.
The once-elegant edifice,
often called simply ‘‘The
House’’ by local history
buffs owing to the colorful
use to which it was put
in the naughty old lumber
boom days, is now cheer-
fully illuminated by flicker-
ing electric candles. The
fake wood paneling and
tasteless plaster have been
stripped away to reveal
authentic crumbling brick
and the original lathe.
Rustic prints of old-time
slave auctions, debtor’s
prisons, and TB sanitor-
iums complete the charm-
ing decor.
“In spite of all the work
I've done,” Mr. Diletannto
admits, ‘‘the joint still
gives me the creeps.
‘*Anyhow, this manu-
script, which is signed by
Edgar Allan Poe, proves
once and for all that this
place was built well before
1875, the date that some
of the so-called ‘experts’
around here have been
whispering behind my
back. This place was built
in 1790, just like I always
claimed it was. You can
quote me on that.”’
The manuscript follows.]
be ——
Late one evening, finding
myself in a state of the
utmost funk, as 1 pored
over many a quaint and
curious volume of forgotten
SS — I ED py
FI 1 EE WAI Ww. + pr
LA A mn nd
Pharos Z. Diletannto [drawing by Vicki Fogie]
lore, and stared deadpan
out the frame of my garret
window onto the lunarly
illuminated and ominous
mists of the Susquehanna
River—while 1 so sat,
morosely considering the
crypt of my beautiful dead
sister, Maybelline—my sis-
ter, who, even in death,
possesed that beauty which
quickens the pulse of the
inquisitor into things un-
natural, things uncanny
and corrrupt—even as | sat
and gazed at the oppres-
sive mists, 1 bethought me
that I heard...a sound!
Yes, a sound! A sound,
in whose tintinabullating
timbre one might hear the
iron knell of death itself—
this 1 heard in a manner so
distinct, that, at first, |
imagined it came from my
very inner ears.
But No! —this evil
tinkling did not arise from
my conciousness (for con-
ciousness cannot produce a
thing other than that
which, in effect, is itself
an affect effecting the
mind’s affections) but had
come, like a lizard crawling
over a window-pane, thro
the blackened framework of
my garret’s portal.
This sound—this extra-
ordinary confabulation of
decay and putrescence—Iled
me to rise with a start—
with a cry of terror! Off I
wrenched my tattered bath
-robe, and, flinging on a
seedy suit, such as is
suited to one who, like
myself, dwells in the
blackest depths, never
looking on the pallid beams
of Sol—so I rushed down
the stairs and into the
dampened and depressing
thoroughfare.
Again! And again! That
awful sound embellished
the fantastic charioscuro of
the shades of night. I
followed its direction, obli-
vious to the goulish vege-
table faces that peered
upon me from every win-
dow I passed, so distracted
was my brain with dank
humors—those leering, ter-
rible faces cut from the
native gourd, and lit with a
dripping, flickering candle!
For some minutes I
continued onward, till I saw
the ‘‘S-bend’’ (a landmark
in the quaint town of
Marietta, wherein | reside-
ed), and not far off, a man
of cadaverous demeanor
approaching.
‘““Go back!’’ he cried
though parched lips, ‘‘Go
back! —or be prepared to
lose your mind from fear!”
And yet, the sound—
which I now discovered to
be the terror-ridden howls
of young children—so at-
tracted me that, ignoring
the entreaties of the sage
stranger, like Caesar I
pushed on... and on... into
the very depths of the
Jaycee building... until I
heard that sound—that
horrible, nerve-grinding cry
—until I heard, not another
but myself...
SCREAM IN THE DARK!
ree 9S
[Editor’s note: as in
Poe’s day, the Jaycees
still hold their ‘‘Scream in
the Dark’’ around Hallow-
een time. It’s every night
at 7:30, starting on October
21st and running through
the 31st. So don’t miss it,
kids!]
October 18, 1978
John Loose
Jack Loose writes
a history of
Lancaster County
John Ward Willson
Loose, President of the
Lancaster County Historical
Society, Vice President of
the Pennsylvania Federa-
tion of Historical Societies,
Secretary of the Heritage
Center, etc., author of four
previous historical books,
etc.— in other words, our
own ‘‘Jack’’ Loose, teacher
of history and social studies
at Donegal High School,
has written an authoritative
history of Lancaster, which
will be in the bookstores on
November 20.
The Lancaster Associat-
ion of Commerce and
Industry commissioned
Jack to write the book. It
will sell for $14.95, but
Jack has refused to take
any royalties from its sales,
which should be impressive
among history-loving Lan-
castrians. Jack told the
Lancaster Intelligencer
Journal, *‘I get a salary for
teaching, and that's it.
Everything else is free. It's
my own little campaign
against all the people who
always have their hands
out.”
The book reflects Jack's
professional respect for
facts. It also reflects Jack's
amusement at some histor-
ical facts, such as the
superb counterfeiting of
two Lancastrians named
Kendig and Jacobs back in
the Gay Nineties.
There aren't many histo-
ry books that are accurate
and also entertaining.
But that’s Jack—object-
ive, with a sardonic sense
of humor.
Michael Kohler
to give recital
Michael Kohler
Michael Kohler, a Junior
Music Major at Lebanon
Valley College and a ‘76
Graduate of Donegal High
School, will be giving a
voice recital at the Blair
Music Center of the college
on Thursday evening, Oct.
26, at 8 p.m. The program
will include the music of
Bach, Purcell, Mozart,
Schumann, Chabrier, Saint
Saens, and Niles. There
will be no admission
charge. Many local resi-
dents will remember
Mike's D.H.S. perfor-
mances in brigadoon and
CAMELOT and, recently,
at the PUFA concert. Mike
is the son of Rev. and Mrs.
W. Richard Kohler, for-
merly of Mount Joy and
now of Palmyra, PA.
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