The first published poem after the accident
'Tis morning, sing my heart, all's blue
Ay, sing my heart, for the rain bow dew
Lies pearled in brooches on the rose
And strung on strings, o'er the frail bam-boo,
Ay, sing my heart, 'tis morning.
Sing my heart, life's love is true,
Ay, sing my heart, take the manly view,
'Strong sap is surging up all that grows,
The unfurling bud breaths hope is new,
Ay sing my heart, 'tis morning.
Is there a teacher or student of the
Bradley Polytechnic of a few years
ago who does not remember "Bobbie
Woodward?" A tall, lithe, lad, dark
and active; the boy who found the
first violets, the cunningly hidden bird
nests and could make the younger
students stare with amazement at the
things he could whittle out of scraps
of wood. He was the out of door sort
and everybody liked him. The family,
his mother, father and himself moved
to California to live and one morning
when cleaning his gun, he was shot
accidently. The bullet struck a delicate
spot in his back and since then
he has been paralyzed from the waist
down. The once active boy is compelled
to sit day by day in his chair,
at his window, and some times he gets
blue and discouraged, and is it
strange? He passes the time away by
sketching little things in water color
and occassionally he writes a verse or
two. Last week the above verses
came from his own pen, and seem a
message from a young soul that like
the "Wood Carver of 'Lympus" is
doing his best with his days.