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Vol. 12 DECEMBER, 1948 No. I 



^j^OR most of you this is the first CHIMES you have had an opportunity 
to read; therefore, I shall give you a brief summary of what CHIMES is and 
does. First, we on the staff want you to feel that CHIMES is your magazine. 
The selections you will read in each issue were written by you, or your class- 
mates. Material does not come from the staff alone. Second, you are its 
critic. If the material you read in CHIMES does not appeal to you, we wel- 
come all suggestions that will make our magazine more interesting and better. 

We are beginning the year with a very limited staff, but new members are 
admitted throughout the year, according to work handed to us and the interest 
shown in the magazine. Together, we, the four members of the literary staff, 
have combined our efforts to present you with a magazine you will enjoy. Our 
larger art staff has worked eagerly to illustrate the stories and poems for you. 
As a whole, we are one organized unit, striving to compile the best literary work 
done on campus into one complete issue for your reading pleasure. 

Monday night is a lively night for our staff. The lights burn brightly in 
the Publications Office, and we put our heads together trying to decide which 
selection you would like best and discussing contributions handed to us by you. 
We believe, sincerely, that creative writing plays a major part in school life, 
both for the writer and the reader. 

The first issue of CHIMES for the year 1948-49 is here in your hands. It 
is much more than paper and black ink; it is the soul of the group of people 
who have helped complete it. Read carefully, and perhaps you will find some- 
thing here that adds a little to your life in making it well rounded and full and 
beautiful. It gives us greatest pleasure to present to you our fall issue of 


— Jet 


Jane Ellen Tye Editor 

Neilyn Griggs Poetry Editor 

Mary Martin Business Manager 

Kathleen Bond Exchange Editor 

Mary Louise Buechner Business Secretary 

Mrs. Ruth Taylor Faculty Advisor 


Helen Tainter Art Editor 

Nancy Iler Susan Shireman Rosemary Locan 

Janet Zerr Frances Mitchell 

Peggy Muessel Typist 


Primavera , Jean Bloom 3 

As Long As I Have You Jane Ellen Tye 6 

A Second's Time Helen Laura Tainter 7 


Eyes to the Future . . . , Nancy Wilson 9 

The Big Fellow Jane Ellen Tye ii 

Intermission Mary Martin 12 

I Am No One Carol Kessler 15 

This Thing Alone , . Jane Ellen Tye 15 


Autumn Matinee Jane Ellen Tye 16 

Memory's Skirts Joan Hays 16 

Time Passed Carol Kessler 

Definition of Love Mary Elizabeth Cates 

Night Meeting Neilyn Griggs 

Four Thoughts Jane Ellen Tye 

Vanishing Peoples Adeline Horton 

Rebirth Anne Ferber 

Autumn Reverie Joan Hays 25 

"Have You Ever Been Called a Gossip?" Betty Kelley 26 

Nocturne Carol Kessler 26 


Five in the Morning Kathleen Bond 

Civil War to T. V. A Betty Kelley 


The Priwnavera 

By Jean Bloom 

Big Ben chimed eight. In. the streets 
the early morning London traffic crawled 
with frequent bleats from the crowded 
automobiles. Along the sidewalks pushed 
the workers and bargain-eager shoppers, 
jostling each other in their desire to be 
on time or to be the first. 

A bit to the side of the crowd which 
moved on the Fleet Street sidewalk there 
limped a shrunken figure who seemed to 
be just as much in a hurry as the other 
pedestrians. This man could not move 
as swiftly as the other travelers, for his 
left foot was pitifully distorted and he 
dragged it as he moved. He was clad 
in a worker's jacket and ragged overalls. . 
On his head a miner's cap was crammed. 
Though a chilly blustering wind blew, 
he did not seem to be affected by the 
penetrating cold, which made the other 
men clap their mittened hands together 
and hunch their shoulders against the 

His face was not that of a young man, 
nor was it one which people looked at 
with much pleasure. His nose was long 
and hooked, his brow, low and sloping. 
Bits of wiry grey hair were showing be- 
neath the hat. His skin was dotted with 
pock-marks, rough, and weatherbeaten. 

Yet in his eyes there was not the same 
nonenity that prevailed in the eyes of the 
other pedestrians who were merely dashing 
some place to be dashing. Instead there 
gleamed a spark of eager desire which 
grew with each block he struggled down. 
This spark, this fire of youth, was in strik- 
ing contrast to the shrunken body of the 

"One more block, one more block," he 
hummed under his breath as he waited 
for a break in the traffic on the corner 

of Fleet Street and Shoe Street. "Ten 
more minutes," he thought, "ten more 
minutes and I will see her again! But 
today will not be like the other Saturdays 
when I merely placed the money on the 
counter and watched Mr. Aspe put '15 
shillings pod.' on the bill, took one last 
look, and then left without being allowed 
to touch her. Today she will be mine, 
all mine!" and he said the beautiful word 
over and over, "mine, mine, mine . . ." 

Then he thought of the space he had 
cleared for her on the table in his dingy 
room, of the blue scarf which had meant 
going without a second meal, meager 
though it usually was, and burning no 
fuel in the fireplace for over two weeks. 
He tried to picture her resting on the 
scarf, disgracing the bowlegged table, the 
threadbare sagging chair, and the hard 
iron bed. She seemed to be out of place, 
too elegant to be in such a lowly abode. 
"Yet tonight she will be there," he assured 
himself. "Is it possible that she will at 
last be my very own after so many 

As he reached the curbing of the last 
block, a terrible thought suddenly struck 
him. "What if the money should be 
gone, lost or stolen; or perhaps I left it 
in the room?" He groped in his pocket, 
his fingers perking with panic. There his 
fingers touched the worn leather of the 
purse and his fears were quelled." But 
the sculpture, would it be there? Had 
it been sold? Surely, Mr. Aspe would 
not let anyone have it with the payments 
almost finished." This thought was im- 
possible, foolish. Yet, in his mind's eye 
he saw the wizened face of Mr. Aspe, the 
shopkeeper, and his hard, vicious, greedy 
eyes that seemed to see down to the very 

depths of every customer's soul. And he 
remembered the reluctance with which 
Mr. Aspe had granted him the ownership 
of the statue as soon as the last payment 
was completed. Seized with alarm, he 
moved faster, almost hopping on his one 
good leg. 

Ah, at last there loomed above him the 
familiar sign. 

J. G. Aspe, Proprietor 

Through the plate glass window he 
saw the shelf that held his beloved sculp- 
ture. As usual, she was not visible from 
the sidewalk. He had asked the boy in 
the shop to hide the figure behind the 
grandfather's clock to lessen the possibility 
of someone else's buying it before the last 
payment could be made. Without paus- 
ing to gaze at the antique displayed in 
the window, he hobbled to the door and 
opened it. The bell above the door tink- 
led gaily, and the shriveled shopkeeper 
behind the showcase looked eagerly over 
his glasses at his first customer of the 
morning. The half-smile which twisted 
Mr. Aspe's lips for the purpose of im- 
pressing a prospective buyer quickly 
vanished when he recognized the cripple. 

Mr. Aspe abhorred this man just as he 
hated all ugly things, living or inanimate. 
He disliked, also, to see the piece of 
sculpture, which this creature wished to 
own, pass into the hands of one so detest- 

"Good morning, Mr. Aspe," gasped the 

The proprietor nodded. 

"Is is it here? You haven't sold it?" 

Seeing the worry written on the lame 
man's face Mr. Aspe deliberately waited 
a minute before answering. Gazing about 
the room as though he did not remember, 
he said, "Do you mean the Primavera?" 

"Yes yes." 

"No," Mr. Aspe at last replied, "I 
haven't sold it." 

"Thank God," sighed the cripple. 
"Today is the last day, you know, the 
last payment." His voice trembled with 
excitement and his eyes danced with joy. 
"I have come for it!" 

"Do you have the right amount, fifteen 
shillings?" said the proprietor, eyeing his 
customer suspiciously. 

"Just a minute." Digging into his 
pocket the cripple pulled out the leather 

As the coins poured out on the counter, 

the boy who had been sweeping when the 

lame man entered left his broom and 

drew near the two men. He was Roger 

Brannum, the nephew of Mr. Aspe. Roger 
had been there the first day when the lame 
man came to the shop. He remembered 
how the man had stood for a long time 
before the window, gazing at the Prima- 
vera. Then the cripple had entered and 
had asked the price. When Mr. Aspe 
told him, the man suddenly grew pale 
and hobbled out of the shop without say- 
ing another word.. The next week he had 
returned and asked Mr. Aspe to let him 
pay for the Primavera by the week. After 
the third trip Mr. Aspe had agreed, but 
he had raised the price. Every Saturday, 
rain or shine, the cripple had come to the 
shop to give Mr. Aspe his meager savings. 
Throughout the months the boy had come 
to like this ugly, misformed creature, and 
to admire him for the sacrifice he was 
making just to possess a piece of stone. 
The boy realized how much the weekly 
fifteen shillings meant to this man; for, 
by judging from his habitual garb, the 
cripple was a miner, and mining was an 
occupation which payed very little. Fifteen 
shillings was a large sum to save out of 
a miner's pay. 

The boy noticed that his uncle took a 
great deal of time counting out the coins. 
He seemed to enjoy torturing this poor 
man. When the money was counted, Mr. 
Aspe scowled and reached in the cash 
register for the bill. He walked to the 
desk behind the counter, sat down and 
began to add up the figures. 

The poor lame man was almost beside 
himself with worry. He opened and 
closed his hands nervously, his mouth 
twisted convulsively, and he leaned heavily 
against the glass of the showcase in his 
attempt to see how the auditing was 

Finally Mr. Aspe turned to Roger. "Go, 
bring down the Primavera." 

Roger ran for the ladder. Propping it 
up, he climbed to the second shelf from 

the ceiling and gently took down a por- 
trait bust of a woman. It was not large 
nor was it a very great work of art, yet 
the tinted head had a delicate soft beauty 
which radiated from each sharply defined 
feature. The golden hair was held in 
place by a wide blue band with a stripe of 
darker blue on each edge. The softly- 
waved tresses were drawn back elegantly 
to a smooth knot at the back of her head. 
Her brow was high, and there was a 
suggestion of an upward tip to the other- 
wise straight Grecian nose. The lips were 
tiny but sharply formed, and her chin was 
strongly pronounced with a bit of a dim- 
ple at the base. 

A blue dress covered her shoulders, leav- 
ing the graceful neck and gently sloping 
shoulders exposed. The figure rested on 
a simple black base. On the base there 
was carved an elaborately decorated scroll 
on which was written "Primavera." 

Holding the sculpture close so as not 
to drop it, the boy noticed for the first 
time the remarkable eyes of the Primavera. 
Though small and pale blue, they were 
the most striking feature of the sculpture. 
They seemed to be actually alive. In 
them there was a love and compassion 
which was echoed in every curve of her 
body. No wonder, thought the boy, that 
the unloved and unlovely cripple adored 
the Primavera. 

When he reached the floor, Roger 
carried the sculpture to the counter and 
placed it before his uncle. For several 
seconds the proprietor looked at the piece 
of stone; then he scowled at the lame man 
who was adoring the Primavera with his 
eyes; finally he gazed at the pile of money 
lying before him. His eyes reflected the 
shining coins. Touching them, he said 
without looking up, "The Primavera is 
yours." Unbelievingly the cripple looked 
at Mr. Aspe. Slowly the man's face 
brightened. His eyes sparkled with com- 

plete happiness and then filled with tears 
of joy. Hesitatingly he reached for the 

"Can I wrap it up in a box for you?" 
asked the boy kindly. 

The lame man did not reply. He had 
not heard. He was oblivious of his sur- 
roundings, the scowling proprietor and 
Roger, the small shop bristling with color- 
ful art pieces, the noise of the hurrying 
shoppers and the traffic which permeated 
the thin walls of the shop, and even the 
bill stamped "Paid in Full" which was 
lying on the counter before him. He was 
only conscious of the fact that the Prima- 
vera was in his grasp. It was at last his 
very own. Cradling it in his arms, he 
hobbled out of the door, never taking his 
eyes off the Primavera's face. 

Mr. Aspe tore up the stamped bill and 
threw the pieces in a wastebasket. Notic- 
ing that Roger had not returned to his 
broom, the proprietor started to reprimand 
him. Suddenly, above the noise of the 

cars and the hurrying footfalls of the 
pedestrians, there was a high pitched 
scream, a screech of brakes, and then a 
sudden scurry of the people into the street. 
Roger dashed out the door before his 
uncle could catch him and pushed his way 
into the street. People were talking 
loudly, giving varied versions of what had 
happened. Roger pressed forward. 

" 'E wasn't looking where 'e was goin\ 
'E didn't see the truck at all." 

"Lord! What a lot of blood there is!" 
"Poor thing, 'e niver 'ad a chance." 
At last the boy broke through the edge 
of the mob. Someone was covering up a 
body, or what was left of a body, with a 
lap robe. Bystanders were beginning to 
turn away, the excitement being over, to 
go on about their day's work. 

Stooping over to pick up the stained 
miner's cap that lay next to the shrouded 
form, Roger's foot touched something 
hard. He looked down. There lay the 
Primavera, unharmed. 

~Atd oLona ^fd ^r ^htave Ljou 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

As long as your hand is warm in mine, 
I could endure the stormy night 
When there are streets without a light 
And no still stars above to shine. 

As long as your eyes remember love 
What should I care for moody seas, 
Or melancholy melodies, 
A cloudy rage of sky above? 

As long as your heart repeats my name 
With every beat — And you are there . . . 
Let earth and sea and sky turn bare. 
Our love would keep our smiles the same. 
Our love would keep our smiles the same. 

A. Seeond*& Time 

By Helen Laura Tainter 

"Be careful," his mother had told 
him . . . just as if he couldn't drive, just 
as if he weren't seventeen! Old people, 
always so sure of themselves, always cer- 
tain that they were the only ones who 
could do anything right! The gears made 
an ugly noise as John shifted into first — 
no use stopping for that stop sign, noth- 
ing was coming for miles. Gee, it would 
be good to see old Ted again! He hadn't 
seen Ted since they had chummed around 
together in North High School and 
"souped" up that '38 Ford. Ted sure 
knew his cars; that "hop-up" they had 
rebuilt had edged one-hundred miles on 
the straight- away more than once. That 
wagon had had everything: full racing 
cam, duocarburetor, aluminum flywheels, 
and a stroked shaft. What a car! Ted 
knew how to drive it, too. He'd never 
had an accident, even racing on the de- 
serted army road. Ted had never let him 
drive in a race, but never mind. Some- 
day he would have a rod of his own. 

Damn, he wasn't going to get through 
that traffic light on yellow. Have to wait 
here a whole minute, and in a hurry, too. 
The car bucked to a stop as the brakes 
caught. Look at that fat old woman! 
It was going to take her all day to waddle 
across the street at the rate she was going. 
He was going to have to wait for her 
when the light turned. That fool in the 
car behind was honking — couldn't he see 
the old girl going along at a mile an hour? 
Ah, out of the way at last. Guess it 
wouldn't hurt if he had shaved off some 
of her behind with his fender; she could 
surely spare it. 

A girl sailed past him in a new model 
convertible, red as a firewagon. Woman 
driver in a fancy car — what business did 

she have with a car like that? Probably 
dent the fenders up first thing. Just like 
a woman, conceited things they were, and 
none of 'em knew anything about driving. 
So Ted was visiting his uncle out of 
town a little way, and would be here a 
couple of days. Wonder if he still had 
his hop-up, or if he had sold it for some 
dizzy price? Hot rods that good pulled 
in the money, all right. Silly, all this fuss 
over rods. A fellow who drove a "souped" 
model was almost a juvenile delinquent, 
and the cops hated him. Hell, cops were 
worse — young guys, most of them, show- 

ing off their pretty uniforms to the girls 
and ramming through traffic like crazy 
just because they were the law. Probably 
they didn't know the difference between 
a hesitated valve and an ordinary one, and 
couldn't put an engine together to save 

Well, look at that guy cut in! Not a 
soul in back for miles, and that guy has 
to get in front now! John leaned on the 
horn and squeezed out a raucous blast. 
Guess that would show the old coot some- 
one was behind him! The idea! Slowing 
up people that way! Didn't even know 
enough to cut in close to the curb, but 
he has to take the left-hand lane; and 
older people think they can drive! 

Not very far now to Ted's — good old 
Ted would be glad to see him after so 
long. Let's see, about a mile down the 
highway now before the turn-off. Ted's 
uncle must have a nice place up here in 
the canyon away from the noise of the 
city. Pretty steep grade in the road here, 
climbing up the mountain along the edge 
of the canyon. Motor would take it 
pretty well if he could get up enough 
speed and momentum to carry the car up 
without pulling into low. Ye gods, there 
is some sissy from Illinois up ahead who's 
probably never seen a mountain road 
before. He must be poking up about 
twenty-five miles an hour, scared stiff of 
the curves. Couldn't stay behind him, 
or wouldn't get up all day. Motor's got 
enough poop! Pass him right here and 
get it over with. He pulled out, feeling 
the power of the engine throbbing, feeling 
how smoothly the wheel turned under his 
hand as the car picked up speed. 

He only caught a glimpse of the other 

car as it came fast around the curve to- 
ward him. Then metal grappled against 
metal, roared and screamed. It was over 
in a second. There was quiet once more, 
while oil and gasoline and thick red stuff 
crept out in puddles on the pavement. 
Rather sooner than might be expected, 
police arrived and pulled out the corpses 
and the near-corpses. They removed 
quickly and efficiently the heap of twisted 
metal from the road. They waved on the 
eagerly curious so that they would not 
stop in the middle of the highway and be 
killed. Later in the day they answered 
questions for some reporters. Yes, three 
cars had piled up; they were almost com- 
pletely demolished. An old woman had 
been decapitated very neatly, if you could 
call that sort of thing neat. A man about 
forty had been crushed dead. A little 
girl had had her face peeled off, died on 
the way to the hospital. There were a 
young woman and a boy in the hospital. 

JjC % >fc 

John felt horribly sick. He felt as 
though he ought to be dead, and he won- 
dered why consciousness swam on before 
him and wouldn't stand still long enough 
for him to catch up. His eyes rolled and 
would not open. He tried to think, but 
he could only tremble and throb. His 
legs felt funny, or was it that they didn't 
feel at all? That was it, they felt funny 
because they didn't feel! Strange, that. 
He struggled with his eyes for a long, 
long time. His lids lifted and fell. Every- 
thing was white, white, much too white. 
He looked down at himself and there was 
covering only over his upper body. Below, 
two great, white lumps stuck out. Funny, 
funny ... his legs were gone. 

Far Magazine Readers 

One of Dr. Ivar Lou Myhr Duncan's 
first assignments to the Advanced Com- 
position class was to write a character 
sketch of a magazine reader, or a "type" 
person who reads certain magazines such 
as The Yale Review, The Atlantic Month- 
ly, and The New York. Times Magazine. 

The staff has selected certain sketches of 
these "types" for your enjoyment because 
we think you, too, will enjoy meeting the 
people who read first class literature, if 
you have not already met them in your 
personal experiences. 


Eyes Ta The Future 

By Nancy Wilson 

The air of the November night was 
sharp and cold. The old McLain Man- 
sion, sitting high atop the town's only 
hill, looked like a stately queen watching 
over her children, who slept peacefully 
under a fresh blanket of snow. The house 
itself was silent except for the crackling 
of the fire in the huge, formal library. It 
seemed a shame to find that no one was 
there to enjoy its silent warmth. The 
grandfather's clock in the main hall struck 
ten times, and then all was quiet again. 

Outside, a long black car drove slowly 
up the driveway and stopped at the main 
entrance. From it stepped a grey-haired 
gentlemen, who appeared to be some 
forty-five years of age. He signaled the 
car on and walked briskly up the front 
steps to the thick-panelled door. The door 
was opened by a tall thin man who ad- 
dressed the gentleman as "Doctor" and 
inquired how the evening had been. The 
Doctor removed his overcoat, walked to- 

ward the warm, inviting fire in the library, 
and sank into the leather overstuffed chair 
that was twice his size. The serious, tense 
expression of his face softened into a sat- 
isfied smile, and his eyes half closed with 

This was the time of day he most 
looked forward to, because this was the 
only time he could rely on peace and quiet. 
This was the time he could call his own. 
As president of a college, he had to put 
aside all thoughts of the businessman's 
hours, that end each day at five. He 
could never be that kind of executive, 
for his position at the college was not 
merely a job, but a family institution. It 
had been his great-great-grandfather who 
had founded the college. The doctor 
himself had received the position from his 
father, who had received it in his turn 
from his father, and so on. College tradi- 
tions had been left in his hands to guard 
or destroy. In guarding them he had 

given moire and more of his personal time 
to the students, who learned to love the 
school through their love for him. He 
grew to be each student's private tutor, 
love advisor, and family jury. Doctor 
McLain opened his eyes slowly; he won- 
dered how long he had been sitting there 
thinking of his life and of the wonderful 
young people who made it so complete. 
In three months he would lose some of 
these young people. They would pass on 
into the outside world, to join the multi- 
tudes of people upon whose shoulders the 
problems of the world were now resting. 
Questions filled his mind — how would the 
older generation accept these members of 
the new generation, who had their own 
ideas and theories on how the country 
and world should be run? Did they 
know what to expect from this new genera- 
tion? These young people had spent the 
past four years of their lives learning 
what mistakes their fathers and grand- 
fathers had made, in governing the world, 
so that in their lives, efforts could be made 
to correct these mistakes. They would 
leave with their minds and hearts filled 
with new and better ways of governing 
the world. Now, of all times, these stu- 
dents need the help and advice of their 
elders, who had grown wise through per- 

sonal experiences. These young people 
could not be expected to cope with the 
problems such as the new scientific devel- 
opements and inventions. They thought 
they were ready for this serious job, but 
it should be the duty of each older one 
to stand by without taking the limelight. 

Doctor McLain did not notice that 
hours had flown by; he knew only that he 
had come across the very subject that 
would help determine the future of the 
world. He felt a definite inspiration to 
bring the matter before all adults. Unless 
they knew what to expect from the new 
generation, the new generation would not 
know what to expect from the world. 

The fire in the huge fire place had be- 
come nothing but embers, the sun burst 
forth its warm hellos, the old house atop 
the hill was silent. Slowly a car halted 
at the main entrance. The door opened 
to reveal two figures, the tall thin man 
and the gentleman who was called 
"Doctor." In his hand was a Manila 
envelope containing notes for an article 
he was writing, with the hope that every 
well-educated adult would read and absorb 
it. The address on the magazine read: 

To the Editors of the Yale Review 

Drawer 1729 

New Haven 7, Conn. 


The Big Feitow 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

Max reached for his glass and took one 
long swallow of the warm beer, heaving 
a strange sort of sigh as he set the empty 
container back in its place on the piano. 
His fingers were hot and sticky, and the 
lines in his face were tense. Dave, the 
bartender, was whistling some monotone 
melody as he wiped the counter, and glanc- 
ing back over his shoulder to the form of 
the big guy slumped over the well-worn 
upright, stopped long enough to yell, 
"O.K. Max, let's have 'My Baby Don't 
Love Me No More!'" But Max didn't 
move, and because Dave understood the 
big guy now he kept silent, running the 
cloth with extra pains over the already 
glossy bar. He remembered that first 
night. He'd said something to Max about 
biting his jaw while he played, and had 
gotten told "where to get off." He'd 
figured by this time that Max was a 
pretty sensitive fellow, and that he'd best 
mind his own business. 

The cold February wind was whistling 
around the corners outside and seeping 
through the windows. Dave opened the 
closet door and took his overcoat off the 
hook, making as little noise as possible. 
"Comin', Max?" No answer. Dave shut 
the door behind him and left the big guy 
alone in the cold, dim, empty room. 

For fifteen silent minutes Max sat 
motionless; then he straightened himself 
on the bench and began to play. With 
his eyes shut he let his fingers write dreams 
and poems across the keyboard. His 
tight mouth became gentle, and the 
muscles in his back relaxed. All day he'd 
played their cheap, vulgar pieces, cring- 
ing with every note, and now he would 
play music — real music. Max had a soul 
that hungered for beauty . . . When he 

was a kid he used to read books and hide 
in the back of theaters and dream. His 
folks began to call him no-good and he 
left, but he never looked back to those 
days. He never thought of home or the 
old days; it was always now. The future? 
What a laugh! He was a man with no 
past and no future, only a couple of hours 
after the bar closed to live. 

If DeBussy could have heard Max 
play his music there in the dark, the great 
man himself would have felt the chills 
run through his body. The big guy was 
an artist, but his mind was a tangled and 
confused web of self-pity and ambition 
and dissatisfaction. Only when the "Rev- 
erie" filled the room with its magic did 
Max forget this harsh, ugly, stark naked 
world and drift into his own world of 
cool forests in spring where damp mosses 
crowded about deep blue streams and all 
was beautiful, and kind. 

He played with new, vigorous energy 
until his eyes began to burn and his fin- 
gers grew numb and cold. The teeth 
bit the inside of his mouth again, and his 
eyes lost the gende look. His magnificent 
hands closed the piano top as if they were 
tucking a child beneath a blanket. He 
put the coat on, turned the collar up and 
set the hat on his dark head, flicked out 
the last light and went out into the dark 
street. Only a few people that night saw 
the tall, broadshouldered man walking 
through the wind and sleet back to the 
cluttered room on 89th street where he 

The room looked like its occupant, in 
that it was cluttered and needed straight- 
ening. Like Max's mind it was messy, 
but like his heart, it held beauty. The 

books and scattered sheets of music that 
had cost him his weekly pay checks were 
stacked and scattered about the floor. He 
sank into the shabby but comfortable 
chair and, takings the yesterday's edition 
of The New York Times from his over- 
coat pocket, began reading. He passed the 
sport page with hastiness, and barely 
skimmed through the rest, saving the 
magazine section for last, as one saves 
the cherry on a fruit salad. This was his 
time. He was glad he could sleep late 

in the mornings. That was a main reason 
he took the job with Dave. He loved 
sleep and he slept like a man drowned in 
peaceful water, but before that time came 
there were the precious hours in which to 

The big fellow made some coffee with 
hot water from the faucet and sat back 
down with the magazine. He was ready 
to go back to the cool forests where 
damp mosses crowded about deep blue 
streams and all was beautiful, and kind. 


By Mary Martin 

Mary Martin, an O sir on from Goshen, Indiana, is not only the Business Manager 
of CHIMES, but one of our brightest contributers and critics. Always dependable 
and enthusiastic , Mary gives our weekly meetings a most literary atmosphere with her 
subtle humor and originality. This versatile staff member is an officer of Phi Theta 
Kappa, and believe us, she's a swell, all-around person to know. 

First nights were always rather trying 
affairs; crowds, furs, jewels, "tails," a 
distinct element of tension. But tonight 
there was one blessing; the play showed 
possibilities of success, that is if it didn't 
go flat in the last act. Always before 
Cranbill's inner soul had rebelled at two 
act plays; whether it was that he thought 
the author should have had enough ori- 
ginality to write three good acts or that 
he liked two cigarettes instead of one he 
had never quite decided. 

It was now toward this first cigarette 
that his thoughts were running, it and 

the fresher air out on the sidewalks. 
Jostled by the crowd, the rather decorative 
crowd, Cranbill moved past groups of 
friends with only a slightly warm, "Hullo, 
how are you." There would be plenty 
of time for friends after the play; right 
now he planned to indulge in his favorite 
sidelight of the theater: standing alone 
on the curbing, smoking one cigarette, and 
mulling over the details of the drama in 
his mind. 

Finally defeating the lobby's gatherings, 
Cranbill's stepped out into the evening. 
Ah, a splendid atmosphere! The air had 



cooled considerably, perhaps from the 
sudden rain at 8:30 which had stopped 
early enough to allow full attendance; 
what had promised at first to be a dread- 
fully balmy night had become delightfully 
refreshing. Stars had come out overhead, 
and the lights of the city seemed rather 
dulled. Over Cranbill rested an omni- 
present stillness, silence. 

Pulling out a cigarette from his mono- 
grammed case, he turned his thoughts at 
once to the drama. Cranbill, he thought, 
you've been exceedingly lucky tonight. 
"Melancholy Unbounded" is indeed a 
drama. After so many trials with the 
abundance of shortcomings that this sea- 
son's plays had had so far, he had almost 
f<nst hope. Tonight's "Melancholy" had 
«omething; whether it was a remarkable 
mixture of tragedy and wit, or that it had 
given a ray of hope, Cranbill hadn't yet 
decided. By 11:30 he would know; right 
now he was well pleased, very well pleased. 

It was time, he supposed, to return to 
join the crowds, the rather giddy opening 
night crowds that had always repelled 

He turned, flipped his cigarette to the 
sidewalk — . 

"Say, fellow, how's the tragedy?" 
Cranbill turned. He distinctly did not 
like his thoughts interrupted by young 
men with upturned coat collars. "Very 
good, so far." 

This "stranger of the night" was not 
the usual vagabond — indeed not; he was 
dark -haired, or so his hair was tinted by 
the night, and from what Cranbill could 
see, had very well defined features — al- 
most handsome. But enough of this! 
Courtesy didn't require anything more 
than a civil "good evening," especially 
when the second act was beginning. 

He remained to chat with the man a 
few seconds; the fellow seemed interested 

in the play. "Would it be a flop?" 

"Indeed not! my dear fellow; this is 
going to connect!" 

"Good evening, sir. May I see your 
stage bill?" Cranbill handed his to him. 
The fellow pulled out a lighter, flipped 
through the bill to the title page. By the 
small flame, Cranbill had a much better 
view of the man's face. It was a face 
that showed the intelligence and culture 
that Cranbill sensed was there. He was 
glad now that he had stayed. He watched 
the fellow's expression change as his eyes 
ran down the page of names — director, 
producer, author; his expressions changed 
to a wry, almost incomprehensibly grim 

The stranger returned the booklet, 
thanked Cranbill, and the two parted, 
nameless to each other. Cranbill had just 
touched the door when he heard the 
screech of cab brakes. He turned and 
rushed back to the curbing; his friend of 
only a moment before had been instantly 
killed — crushed. 

During those confused and terrifying 
minutes that followed, Cranbill realized 
that he could be of little aid. Wondering 
if he should ever know who? why?, he 
returned to the theater and resumed his 
seat. "Melancholy Unbounded" was 
proceeding well; the last act made its 
success a surety; he felt certain its name 
would light Broadway for many seasons. 

Cranbill looked down at his playbill 
and was struck by a sudden revelation. 
He flipped hurriedly through the booklet 
to the title page as the stranger had done, 
and stared at the printed words. 

Cranbill rose half in realization, half 
because the audience had risen to shout 
"author." Upon the page his eyes were 
fixed, for the letters opposite formed only 
one word instead of two — anonymous! 
Did this howling audience expect a dead 
man to walk down the aisle? 


I A.m iVo One . . . 

By Carol 

I have fought in the wars of the world. 
I have been wounded many times, but it 
is not the physical pain that brings me a 
bitter heart against war. My dislike for 
war has grown since man began fearing 
man and the power of man. I disliked 
most intensely Cain's battle with Abel. I 
have disliked it ever since. As I watched 
that event with unaccustomed eyes, my 
mouth became dry and bitter. My eyes 
could not behold this sight without be- 
coming filled with wetness; they were un- 
able to watch. But now, my eyes have 
been educated to death. I can watch now, 
but my mouth yet becomes dry and filled 
with that same bitterness which is yet 
strange to my most acute senses. My ears 
are used to the strained last cries for 
mercy, those cries filled with a fear un- 
forgettable — but even now, the impulse to 
close my ears with my hands still remains 
with me. I have long known, though, 
that holding the ears cannot shut out the 
dreadful sounds. I was almost relieved 
when man's fear built the cannon. The 
cries did not murmur on in mutterings as 
they did in older days. I was relieved 
when man put explosives in his cannon 
shells. That way, few really had time 


to know what had happened. But remorse 
yet filled my heart, for I knew that, if I 
had been one of those, I would have 
wanted to speak with God in my last few 
hours of mortality. But then, I was even 
sadder when the shells did not find their 
mark, entirely. The screams of terrori2ed 
agony that developed into senselessness 
seemed as dreadful as the day Cain killed 
Abel. But even in this case, the senseless- 
ness did not afford man one last prayer. 
At long last, though, I have found real 
relief. The modern inventions such as 
the atom bomb leave fewer maimed for 
life. I don't think now that after all of 
these hard and bitter centuries I shall 
mind being destroyed. Surely there is 
no other end but death unless man 
changes. But then, man has never 
changed, except for the good to become 
convinced by the bad. But since man has 
ceased believing in his own creation, he 
might as well perish with his conviction. 
Nay, I shall not mind being destroyed 
after all these reckless centuries. There 
is such little good, that it is worth sac- 
ficing that good for the destruction of the 
bad. Nay, I shall not mind after all these 
centuries, for I am no one . . . but man- 

^Jltid ^Jnlna ~stil 



By Jane Ellen Tye 

Of all life I ask this thing alone of God . . . 

To let me know laughter. 

All else, passion, beauty, even love, 

Can leave me 

Insensitive ugliness without affection — 

But if I can sit, throw back my head and laugh, 

I shall still possess the greatest of all gifts, 



The Poet's Page 

^Arutumn if fat 


By Jane Ellen Tye 

And so life's little drama moves 
Across the stage of Autumn. 
Yet, when the sky is overbright 
And blue winds toss crisp leaves 
About a frosty earth, 
I forget my lines. 



emoru J 



By Joan Hays 

The silken skirts of a memory 

Whisper through the corridors of the soul 

And gently glide across the mosaics of my mind; 

Pale, sibilant skirts of strange shades 

That vanish around unfamiliar corners 

When I try to discern clearly 

The figures they clothe. 

•Uime f-^added 

By Carol Kessler 

Time passed, 

And time, being wrapped up in time, 

Became lonely, 

And cried. 

Le temps passait, 

Et le temps, etant eveliope dans le 

Se sentil seul, 
Et pleura 

^Definition of cJLove 

By Mary Elizabeth Cates 

You wish for love, 

And it comes to you 

Strained with the silence of music, 

And uttered in spontaneous song — 

It thrills your heart with a new note, 

Springing heavenward 

Through the everlasting rays of the golden sun. 

It leaps through the clouds 

Upon each star and continues until 

The moon rises with a silver lining, 

And carries its shadows 

Over the still earth. 

Night Meeting 

By Neilyn Griggs 

Tonight was no exception. "No," I 
thought, "there is a slight drizzle, but I 
have walked in worse." I adjusted the 
hood on my rain coat, felt its folds, and 
finding my wallet, cigarettes and lighter 
in their usual right pocket, doomed my- 
self prepared for the long walk that had 
become the only redeeming factor in my 
drab, narrow existence. 

Unconsciously I locked the door to my 
small apartment and walked into a world 
choked by the fog that slithered like some 
impossible phantom into every niche and 
crevice of the buildings that stood like 
staunch defenders threatening the invad- 
ing rain with a thousand smokestack bay- 
onets. There were many people in the 
streets for such a belligerent night, but 
they were called by the warmth of their 
fires and, hearing, hurried each to his 
private world. 

After buying an early edition from the 
newsboy at the corner, I turned down the 
long tree-lined path that lead to the point. 
My point, as I called it, was a section of 
an ocean park that extended for miles 
along the cliff, which towered a thousand 
feet above the waves that beat against its 
giant rocks, as the hopes I had held when 
youth had once surged within me but 
with the years had fallen into obscurity. 
The palms stood teasing the wind with 
a hundred slender green fingers while the 
eucaliptus, breathing its fragrance into the 
air, heard the ocean sing an obligato to 
my dreams. 

Yes, my point, protected by its fence of 
rustic logs dulled to a dirty brown by 
years of exposure to ocean winds and 
softened by its carpet of emerald green, 
was perfect for dreaming. In fact it was 

there that he first entered into my 
thoughts. "Who was he?" you will ask, 
and I will answer, "He was my knight 
in gleaming armour, my handsome, unat- 
tainable and definitely fictional savior, 
who was to deliver me from an existence 
of fog and rain, lone walks and dreams 
into the world of blue-green mists and 
violets and summer dew; a world that 
lonely women long for, where dreams are 
made by two, not one. 


The point was deserted as usual, I 
thought, and as I crossed the plot of grass 
that separated me from a small rustic 
bench, the rain, collected in the hollows 
of the bench, looked at me with grotesque 
eyes that reflected the light from a distant 
street lamp. I blinded them with one 
slow movement when I placed myself 
between them and their sun. I groped 
for my cigarette case and lighter in my 
pocket. The green snake skin was clam- 
my to the touch and the silver mechanism 
of the lighter sent a chill through my hand 
and arm. As the small flame lept toward 
its brown-tipped goal, I became acutely 
aware that I was no longer alone. In 
the darkness beside me a resonant voice 
asked, "May I have a light?" 

I handed him the lighter, and as the 
flame sprang forth again, I saw that the 
features of the man were in complete ac- 
cord with his voice. He was large and 
compact and the blueness of his eyes 
which reflected the small flame, contrasted 
with the extreme darkness of his hair and 
complexion. He returned the silver 
object, now warm with his touch, and as 
I turned it again and again in my own 
palm, he leaned upon the fencing and 
fingered a piece of loose bark. Suddenly 
he turned and like a rather embarrassed 
college boy asked if he might sit down. 

"Certainly," I said, "if you like." With 
my answer he settled himself on the bench 
and drew heavily on his cigarette. I tried 
to dismiss the stranger from my mind 
and return to my reverie, but with his 
every motion, my attention was drawn 
away from my thoughts to the way the 
light shone on his high cheek bones and 
the slight wave in a front lock of hair that 
was touched occassionally by a whiff of 
wind. We sat in silence, each absorbed in 
his own reflections. The parkway behind 
us vibrated with traffic. Air escaped from 
brakes as a moving van stopped and the 

tiny voice of a streetcar's conductor urged 
the late returning people of the city to 
move back in the car. 

The throat of civilization was dulled 
when at last the man spoke. "Good beach 
weather tomorrow; look's as though the 
rain has let up, for a while at least." 

He was right. The clouds were being 
pushed south by a strong north wind that 
was not felt on earth. The clouds were 
flying south as the geese fly south before 
the first hard frost, and they scattered 
small stars in their wake like the birds 
they mimicked lost downy feathers in 

That was his overture to conversation 
and from it our talk drifted to and fro 
and finally settled upon our backgrounds, 
our common acute loneliness, our mutual 
respect for the works of Katchaturian 
and Renior, the probability of Darwin's 
theory and the other topics peculiar to 
darkness and the company of someone 
newly met. The traffic on the parkway 
thinned, and as I arose to say goodby, 
my friend suggested coffee at Jack's, a 
small all-night place catering to members 
of the artist's colony close by. I had 
passed the place many times but had 
never had occassion to stop. As we 
entered, I noted that the interior was 
totally in keeping with the somewhat 
poorly kept frontage of the building. It 
was the usual beach cafe; there was an 
atmosphere of stale tobacco smoke, old 
coffee and beer. The wicker chairs were 
stained with the colors lost from many- 
hued wet bathing suits, and the tables 
were branded by cigarettes pressed hard 
against them by damp hands. The walls 
were the only appealing features of the 
scene. They were hung with a wide 
variety of paintings, impressionist, cubist, 
surrealist; all had their place upon the 
knotty pine. Some were excellent, but 
for the most part they were mediocre. 


They were given to Jack, I learned, in 
return for the many meals he, ever faith- 
ful to the struggling unknowns, had 
given the artists when they were waiting 
for the next auction. 

Lingering over the steaming coffee, we 
discussed the look in the waitress' eyes; 
it was one that had known hope, attempt, 
and then utter failure; and the drunken 
lifeguard who had cried piteously for 
that last forbidden drink, only to be 
denied it without sympathy. My com- 
panion and I returned to our private 
thoughts only to rouse at an observation 
or an opinion expressed by the other. The 
man commented on the boistrous group 
of boys and girls that wandered in from 
the casino several blocks down the street 
where a name band was playing, the harm- 
less swagger of the young men and the 
bobbing of the girls' long hair as they 
hurried to push the already closely set 
tables even closer together. They half 
demanded sandwiches and soft drinks, 
only to give their attention to a darker 
liquid that came in a flatter bottle. 

A mixture of white and red tipped stubs 
filled the ash-tray, and the heavy porcelain 
cups had been emptied many times when 
at last we walked into the pleasingly crisp 
air. A thick fog was dashing against the 
cliff and a small spray of it was thrown 
over to feel the way for the general in- 
vasion. A eucaliptus blossom fell from 
a branch overhead. The stranger knelt 
and lifted the pink and yellow flowers to 
my hair. I tried to sense every pressure 
of his hands as he placed it, as a jeweler 
places a new-cut stone in what might have 
been, for that night at least, a queen's 
coronet. I clung desperately to the sound 
of his muffled step upon the damp side- 
walk, the touch of his coat brushing 
against my arm, the words that tumbled 
from his mouth, the hurried manner in 

which he breathed in order to keep our 
rapid pace. I frantically tried to memorize 
it all. He stopped. "Why, why," I 
thought. "Was he going to leave me 
here? No, we were at the bench again." 
We sat down. I was tired but disregarded 
the fact. He sat close to me and at last 
took my hand. I trembled from the cold 
and excitement. 

"You are very tired," he said, "I see it 
in your eyes." 

I protested. I fought for every minute 
that I could obtain. He rose, walked a 
few steps and then turned. 

"It is very late," he said. "May I walk 
with you?" I was tired, but even that 
very weariness seemed wonderful. 

He walked toward me. He swerved 
and walked around the bench. I felt the 
pressure of his hand on my shoulder. Not 
as one whole, but as five separate hands 
combined to make one. I glanced upward 
and waited. 

"Ah, ca'mon lady." A thin, shallow 
voice sounded from the mist behind me. 
"How many times d'l have t' tell ya', 
the park closes at nine-thirty?" 

This is Neilyn Griggs' second year of 
work, on CHIMES, and in her two years 
she has shown both interest and capability. 
This year Neilyn is our Poetry Editor, 
and say, can she write the stuff! We love 
it! A Penta Tau, Neilyn holds so many 
campus positions we could hardly find 
room to tell you about them, but Neil 
does like writing, especially poetry, and we 
know the folks back home in Los Angeles, 
California, are "busting buttons" when 
they read her work in CHIMES. We, 
too are proud to have her with us when 
Monday nights roll Wound. 



By Jane Ellen Tye 

Piece by piece the jig-saw fits together 
As the hours fall into a heap in the hourglass. 
So the Eternal Riddle shall weave itself 
Into its own answer. 
Let me not be sorrowed, then, 
For this hour, too, will vanish into 
Lavender mist. 

The air licks with its tender tongue 
The spilled wine, 
And time nurses the tears that 
Drop to the floor. 
There is so little time for sadness, 
And so much time for laughter. 


From the damp, cold earth I arose 

And shook the dust from my eyes . . . 

Once more I stood where air is fresh 

And sunlight warm, and flowers, oversweet. 

There, along some unnamed street, 

The people of the centuries ahead passed by, 

Searching, dreaming of this thing: happiness. 

This thing, oh God, that one can only find 

When one has left it. 


At the dark corner table sit two men, 

A poet and an architect, 


One of dreams, and one of stone, 

Yet the two of them speak 

With one tongue saying: 

"I build." 


Vanishing Peoples 

By Adeline Horton 

In the early eighteen-hundreds slave 
built plantations, villages, mills and fac- 
tories sprang up and down the country- 
side of middle Tennessee. Here amid 
the pounding of hammers and hoeing of 
cotton, cooking of tasty Southern dishes, 
and pressing of voluminous skirts and 
petticoats, the dusting and scrubbing of 
the gigantic homes, this vast army of 
dark-skinned peoples sang their way into 
the hearts of their masters. Thousands of 
chanting negroes covered the Tennessee 
valleys and slopes in 1858, but in 1868, 
comparatively speaking, only a small 
number remained. Today, in 1948, a very 
few are still within the villages and planta- 
tions built by the bare, black hands of 
their fathers. Thus the climax in negro 
population in the central Tennessee agri- 
cultural area was reached about 1858, and 
was immediately followed by a sharp 
decline beginning with the Civil War. 

When the call to duty was issued to the 
Southern white boy the slave also an- 
swered, as every aristicrat was accom- 
panied by one or two "body servants" who 
had been with him since childhood. 
Valuables were carried by these negroes 
as the Yankees rarely suspected the confid- 
ence that master had in slave. Through 
death or sickness the loyal slave stood by 
his master, dying, or perhaps being cap- 
tured never to return. 

As the Yankees advanced, burning 
homes, destroying man and animal, much 
was suffered by the black race. The loyal 
negro often was forced from his home and 
into labor encampments. In one Southern 
home young Mrs. Bullock was left with 
only two Negro servants. Upon the 
approach of the Yankees, the young 
negro boy ran to protect his "missus" and 

took the baby in his arms. The smirking 
Northerner jerked the child from the 
arms of the boy and grabbed the negro 
by the collar. As long as the clicking 
boots could be heard, the darkie's voice 
cried, "I'll be back, Miss Catherine, I'll 
be back." 

When these things became known to 
the boys at the front or to those in the 
retreating army, many made every effort 
to help the slaves, now freed, to find new 
lives and to become adjusted in safer 

Old letters bear record that a certain 


Rebel wrote his Mother requesting her to 
send all the servants (with exception of a 
very few household servants) to him by 
a Mr. Forrest, the brother of the noted 
General Nathan Bedford Forrest. The 
colored families gathered their belongings 
and set out for Alabama with Mr. Forrest. 
Passes to each of the Generals along the 
way were in order. After reaching Ala- 
bama they were employed in iron works 
and received a reasonable salary. 

When such treks South are considered, 
we can understand how such vast numbers 
of Negroes left Tennessee in a brief span 
of time. Most of the loyal servants left 
at home can be exemplified by the old 
cook in the Wilhoite home. Mrs. Wil- 
hoite had journeyed to recover her 
son's body, leaving Narcissus, a six- 
teen year old cousin in charge of the plan- 
tation. When the coats of blue were 
sighted, frightened Narcissus hid. The 
Yankees paraded through the house and 
after some time requested the cook Lizzie 
to prepare a meal for them. Lizzie refused 
saying, "I ain't gonna cook when a no- 

body tells me to." Her stand was main- 
tained until Narcissus reassured her that 
in this case she could proceed with the 

Such loyal servants as these remained as 
long as possible. Their children, how- 
ever, slowly succumbed to the enticing 
wages of cities in the industrial North. 
Although many faithful negroes remain, 
few original slaves remain. 

The funeral for the last negro slave in 
our community was in 1940. She had 
been a "black mammy" to the entire fami- 
ly for many generations. When the last 
bit of dirt had covered her grave the final 
note of the spirituals had died away. Her 
grandson returned in his black Buick to 
Akron, Ohio, and her daughter stood 
looking at the other family graves in the 
little clay cemetery. 

Death and materialism through the 
years have called Negroes from the slopes 
of Tennessee until today the once fami- 
liar black face has become a rarity re- 
served for tales of tradition and enchant- 
ing leaves of history books. 

By Anne Ferber 

I can remember my first impression of 
Victoria as our small ship rounded one 
of the many points. A small bit of Eng- 
land lay before me, reclining in the brisk 
breeze and warm morning sun. The small 
cottages lying crouched around the rocks 
seemed to suggest serenity and quiet. The 
immaculate gardens partly hidden from 
view by extremely tall hedges revealed 
the pride of the Victorians. Here was 
gentility and beauty. 

Soon our ship was nosing its way into 

the inner harbor, inching past ancient 
water tubs of the "good old days." The 
first thing we saw rising above the wharfs 
was a large, ivy-covered castle — The Em- 
press Hotel. Indeed, she did resemble 
an Empress, fat, yet immaculately dressed. 
I was soon to discover the charm of this 
famous place. 

However, it was the people who im- 
pressed me the most in this city. A quiet 
and reserved clan, they asked for nothing, 
gave much. The cab driver, for instance, 


was not typical of cab drivers. A tall, 
distinguished Englishman, he spoke in 
clear, low tones, explaining the points of 
interest as we drove by. He was the sort 
of person you might ask to dinner on 
Saturday night, serving meat pie and 
potatoes. Afterwards he might light his 
pipe, and, as we sat around the fireplace, 
tell us the story of the real ghost in Hurs-- 
tiuonceau castle. 

Victoria, the capital of British Colum- 
bia, is inhabited for the most part by 
retired Englishmen. For this reason it is 
a quiet, reserved city, abounding in parks 
and golf courses. It seemed to fit any 
needs, for I was tired and discouraged. 
I needed to find myself again. The Vic- 
torians had found themselves. I can 
remember how the man next door would 
pick up his golf clubs every morning, 
rain or shine, to play his habitual game 
of golf. He let his main interest in life 
uphold his morale. 

I can remember a retired English army 
officer telling of one of his experiences as 
a gardener in Victoria. He was a gardener 
on one of the large estates. The mistress 
of the estate, very conscious of her sta- 
tion in life, complained about the manner 
in which he was spading the soil. Since 
he was master gardener, this gentleman 
inquired as to the source of her informa- 

"Sir Robert Fields, in his famous book 
on gardening, says . . . , " and she went on 
to explain a scientific theory. 

"Madam," he replied, "if you wish me 
to continue as your gardener, you must let 
me garden as I see fit." 

"And what is your source of informa- 

"My book," came the terse reply. 

Of course, the man had never written 
a book in his life; however, he impressed 
the lady. He knew he was right, and 

he was willing to sacrifice his job in order 
to do his work in the best manner. This 
incident impressed me, for I was not sure 
of myself. I needed self-esteem. 

There is a difference between self-love 
and self-esteem. Self-love is an interest 
in one's own happiness and benefit, regard- 
less of the feeling of others. Self-esteem 
is respect for oneself without the harming 
of anyone. 

For instance, I soon discovered that I 
was a marked individual in this English 
settlement. My gabardine suit, trailing 
skirt, and three inch heels were very much 
out of place. I can remember a tweedy 
woman asking "what part of the United 
States" I was from. I believe that the 
people in this country place too much 
stress upon style and fashion. Cleanliness 
and neatness were the important factors 
which disclosed a person's character in 
Victoria. The women dressed in mothy 
tweed suits, walking shoes, lisle stockings, 
and tarns. A shingle bob was the coiffure 
of the day as it had been for inummerable 
days before. There was an inexplicable 
charm about Victorians. 

One afternoon we went to tea at the 
Empress. Afternoon tea was served in a 
high vaulted room with settees and arm 
chairs. It was brought in a silver service 
with delicious sandwiches, devonshire 
cream, scones, and eclairs. The conversa- 
tion was hushed by the height of the 
room. There was no need for juke-boxes, 
wit, noise and smoke. The atmosphere 
was too beautiful to be modern. 

Mountains are too beautiful to be 
modern. They stand impenetrable, ever- 
lasting, and awe-inspiring. I could see 
Mount Baker on a clear day in Victoria. 
It stood alone like a sugar loaf, making 
me feel that there is strength and beauty 
in everything, Mountains give me a feel- 
ing of insignficance, yet happiness that I 


can enjoy the greater power of something 
else. The flat terrain at home gave me 
exactly the same feeling; flat. 

It is a great thing to be able to look 
up, and to reach always for something 
higher. Victorians, while satisfied with 
themselves, were always able to look up. 

Now I'm back, reborn, and looking for- 
ward. I'm listening to the juke-box, living 
in a busy modern city, wearing trailing 
skirts, and high heels, and under-estimat- 
ing the common man. Someday, I'll go 
back to the land of my rebirth. I don't 


By Joan Hays 

Design by Janet Zerr. 

The apple orchard in the fall is a 
symbol of tranquillity and contentment. 
Around the rows of trees is an aura of 
fulfilled promise, for in place of the deli- 
cate flowers of the spring, the gnarled 
branches are laden with ruddy fruit which 
by its very weight threatens the proud 
trees with destruction. In some sections 
of this forest of fruit, stalwart country 
boys with cheeks as rosy as the crop they 
harvest are busily robbing the trees of 
their offspring; in another quarter one 
hears the chug of a tractor hauling the 

apples to grading and packing sheds. The 
playful autumn wind, still a youngster 
and not yet grown to the proportions of 
a windy gale, pokes along the wide porch 
of the orchard-keeper's house and stops 
to tease the hair of his wife. She, in turn, 
pats her white head, sighs contentedly, and 
turns to survey the tapestry of color which 
Nature has painstakenly worked through 
the centuries. To her faded eyes the 
golden trees, scarlet fruit, and azure sky 
echo again the joyous promise as old as 
the ages. 


**MIave You Ever Been 
Called A Gossip?" 

By Betty Kelley 

You have no doubt in your lifetime 
been called a gossip, and you probably 
resent the accusation very much. Had 
you lived a few centuries ago, you would 
have been pleased to have people know 
you as a gossip. 

The word gossip has sadly degenerated 
in meaning. It originally denoted a per- 
son bound to another by a religious cere- 
mony, especially a sponsor in baptism. 
The old Anglo-Saxon word godsibb was 
derived from God, "God," and sib, 
"related," a relation. From this comes 
Middle English gossib, modern gossip. 

According to the New English Dic- 
tionary, gossip means "to give a name 
to — " One who had contracted spiritual 
affinity with another by acting as a sponsor 
at a baptism. A familiar phrase used 
hundreds of years ago was, "The parents 
being so poor they had provided no gos- 
sips at the baptism." 

The first meaning, "sponsor," "god- 
father, or godmother," are obsolete. We 
have several different meanings for the 
word gossip. "A familiar companion, 
acquaintance, friend, or chum. Formerly 
applied to both sexes, now only to women." 
A more general sense developed — "a com- 
panion, or acquaintance, especially a talka- 
tive one" — and finally "a person, mostly 
a woman of light and trifling character, 
especially one who delights in idle talk." 

So you can tell that to be a gossip back 
in the fifteenth century would have been 
a privilege and pleasure. Today we re- 
sent being called a gossip because even 
though we spread news, both bad and 
good, we do not like being thought of 

as a tattler who delights in idle talk. So 
I guess all I can say is, unless you can 
turn back the years, which I'm afraid is 
impossible, you had better not repeat 
rumors or you will surely be called a gos- 
sip in the modern sense of the word! 

If locturne 

By Carol Kessler 

For there was nothing at all 

But the darkness, 

And a tiny point of light; 

A thin ray 

Which split one band of black from 

And stopped against a gray wall 
In one small dot 
Of light. 

There was no sound at all 
But lingering, faint tones 
Of music. 

For there was but one ecstasy 
Built upon that moment; 
That time; 
Upon that setting. 

There was none but me, 
And for that moment, 
Not even me — 
For I was removed hence 
Into another setting in black; 
Into another lingering, dying, 
Faint melody. 



Fire In The Morning 

Reviewed by Kathleen Bond 

By Elizabeth Spencer. Dodd, Mead & Co. Pub. 
N. Y., N. Y. 1948. 

All through the night Rome went burning. Put 
that in the noontide and it looses some of its 
age-old significance, does it not? Why? Be- 
cause it has existed to the eye of the mind all 
these years against a black sky. 

— Djuna Barnes, Nightivood. 

During the Civil War there was, in 
Tarsus, Mississippi, a lovely home that 
was burned by the invading soldiers. But 
it was done in an unusual way. The 
soldiers were first given breakfast by the 
occupants and treated with courtesy. After 
accepting what his host had to offer, the 
leader walked calmly into the kitchen and 
ordered all the extra pile of wood to be 
heaped on the stove.. This done, he took 
a lighted fagot offered by his host, lit 
his pipe, and used it to set fire to the 
immense pyre before him. The efforts of 
the family to extinguish the fire were use- 
less. They stood a little way off and 

watched their home burn that morning. 
And they saw something they loved de- 
stroyed. But people in Tarsus don't 
think about it any more or even remember 
it at all. "Fire in the morning burns as 
thoroughly as another fire, but it has no 
efficacy in the memory which must ever- 
more look upon it through a veil, un- 
reasoningly conscious that here is some- 
thing which should not be." This is the 
theme of Elizabeth Spencer's Fire in the 
Morning. This, her first novel, tells of 
a series of events which", though in a dif- 
ferent time and with different people as 
characters, portrays a situation comparable 
to the wanton burning of the old southern 

When the Gerrard family first moved 
to Tarsus, they were straight from the 
country. They had nothing to recommend 
them to the people they had chosen to 
live among. But these people of Tarsus 


gave them jobs and even showed mild 
interest in, and no little curiosity about, 
their welfare. The Gerrards, by dint of 
much pinching and saving, managed to 
accumulate a goodly store of wealth which 
they kept in a safe in their ramshackle 
house. At the death of a very prominent 
citizen of Tarsus the Gerrards, enlisting 
the aid of a member of the family of the 
deceased man and a clever lawyer from 
Memphis, wrested the entire estate from 
the rightful inheritors. By right it should 
have gone to Daniel Armstrong and Felix 
McKie. In a short period of open feuding 
immediately following this action, Felix 
McKie was blinded, and one of the Ger- 
rards was killed. After this first flare of 
fighting the outward symbols of the feud 
almost disappeared for a number of years. 

But the sins of the parents are visited 
upon their children, and the feud was 
carried on to its finish by the second gen- 
eration. It is about this second genera- 
tion that Elizabeth Spencer tells us. Not 
knowing the definite pattern of animosity 
between the two families, yet feeling his 
own inward distrust of them, Kinlock 
Armstrong digs up the old feud. Eliza- 
beth Spencer tells in a vivid and human 
way of the mental struggle involved, of 
the effects on Ruth, Kinlock's beautiful 
young wife. She tells of the difficult 
problems and trials that Kinlock is faced 
with through no fault of his own. And 
she tells us how Kinlock, after a series 
of heartbreaking events, solves his prob- 

In this novel Miss Spencer has not given 
us a pretty picture of the cultured, mint- 
julip-drinking South that makes such a 
lovely fairy story. Rather she has shown 
us people as they might be in any small 
town in Vermont, California, Tennessee 
— anywhere, for there are basic human 

characteristics that are universal. And 
there are also situations that are age-old. 
She has picked one of the oldest of these, 
dating back to the earliest tribes and 
clans, family feuds. Yet using this ordi- 
nary plot and writing about ordinary 
human beings, Miss Spencer has produced 
a superb novel. Perhaps her secret is in 
observing those unusual elements in ordi- 
nary people and events. Or perhaps her 
secret lies in her acute realism. 

The characters in Fire in the Morning 
are nothing if not realistic. Her down- 
to-earth portrayal of Justin Gerrard and 
her constant swearing is at times some- 
thing of a shock. Ruth Armstrong is, on 
the other hand, one of the "good char- 
acters." Miss Spencer draws a very lively 
mental picture of her. Even so, however, 
the realism is not lacking in Ruth's make- 
up. This is evinced by the fact that 
Ruth hides a serious crime for which she 
was partly responsible. 

While the theme is universal and the 
people are ordinary, there is local color 
throughout the novel. It is altogether 
obvious that the author is a Southerner 
herself and knows what she's talking 
about. Elizabeth Spencer was born and 
reared in Carrollton, Mississippi. She 
attended Belhaven College and Vander- 
bilt University. For a year she worked 
for the Nashville Tennessean, and at pres- 
ent she is teaching in the English depart- 
ment at the University of Mississippi. 
With this background, her familiarity 
with the Southerners and their ways is 
certainly understandable. In this book 
she brings in certain characteristics of the 
South that give the story a valid certificate 
to show its origin. One specific item 
places the writer and the book as nothing 
else could. She says, "Politeness is thin 
as a tissue paper wall, but the Mississippi 


levee and the dikes of Holland are nothing 
compared to its strength." 

This book is comfortable reading. It 
isn't a tear-jerker because Elizabeth 
Spencer didn't write it that way (nor 
intended to, I imagine) . Nor does it have 
a series of highly breathtaking events. 
But it is a book that you can not put 
down. You become absorbed in it. You 
identify yourself with Kinlock Armstrong. 
And, most of all, you read to find out 
what this thing is like, this "fire in the 

Kay Bond, a Senior from Lookout 
Mountain, Tennessee, holds the position 
of Exchange Editor of CHIMES. This 
is Kay's first year as staff member of the 
campus magazine and frankly, we don't 
see how we did without her last year. 
Kay is a T.C. and is a member of Dr. 
Duncan's Advanced Composition class. 
She likes to write and we're mighty glad 
she does, 'cause Kay has brought us some 
fine work this year. A pillar to support 
the CHIMES, she has proved herself one 
of our most valuable workers. 

Civil War To T. V. A. 

Reviewed by Betty Kelley 

THE TENNESSEE. Donald Davidson. 363 
pp. New York: Rinchart and Company, Inc. 
1948. $3.50. 

This second volume of The Tennessee 
in the Rivers of America series tells the 
story of the "new" river. The "old" 
river's history was published in Volume 
I, Frontier to Secession, in 1946. 

The entire history of the Tennessee is 
one of drama and excitement, but perhaps 
its greatest story is told in Volume II, 
The New River: Civil War to T. V. A. 

In his second book about the Tennessee, 
Mr. Davidson begins his record with the 
Civil War. Not only is the grim saga 
of the Civil War in the Tennessee Valley 
contained in this great volume, but the 
school in which Grant and Sherman 
learned the art of war is discussed, and 

the river's own participation in the war 
in the waterborne expedition to Pittsburg 
Landing and the battles of the gunboats 
is described. The river became a water 
way for transporting troops, and for gun- 
boats, mostly Union troops and their gun- 
boats. In Tennessee Sherman rehearsed 
for his march through Georgia. Raids by 
Forrest and attacks by guerrilas so en- 
raged Sherman that he retaliated against 

The Tennessee was the strategic key 
to the conquest by the Northern armies 
not only of Kentucky and Tennessee, but 
of Mississippi and much of the Deep 
South itself. It was in defense of this 
section that Confederate General Albert 
Sidney Johnston fell at Shiloh and here 


that the Confederate Cavalry genius, Na- 
than Bedford Forrest, made his name. 

In one chapter the author sums up the 
cost to the Tennessee Valley of what is 
now known as "total war," a cost so great 
that when the war ended only the river, 
the wilderness, and the unbroken spirit 
of the people remained. What happened 
to the spirit in the half century after the 
war is told in the middle third of the 

Despite the devastation and ravages of 
the war, which left the Tennessee Valley 

a wasteland, the mighty Tennessee rose 
to a new day of industrial expansion with 
the final conquering of Muscle Shoals. 
The entire exciting controversial story of 
the T. V. A. is told by Mr. Davidson in 
his historical document of one of our most 
interesting and important American rivers. 
The beginning of the story was slow, with 
Wilson Dam long in the building at 
Muscle Shoals. In telling what the 
T. V. A. has done, Mr. Davidson indicates 
that he approves, though not without 



VOLUME I 2, NO. 2 


Vol 12 APRIL 1949 No. 2 



^\ PRING in all its glory has come at last to Ward-Belmont and to the world. 
Everywhere tiny buds are awakening from their dormant homes to turn the gray 
earth emerald green. The sky is overblue and the air becomes scented with the 
perfumes of fresh new flowers. Dandelions dot the lawn with yellow, and the 
classroom windows are thrown open at last to let the Spring come in. Within 
ourselves there is an awakening, too. We see the beauty that is about us and 
somehow we absorb some of it, becoming part of what is beautiful and good. 
Spring is the time to appreciate, for no other season holds so much lovliness — 
no other season is so highly praised by poets, and artists, and man. 

The second issue of CHIMES has a Springtime theme. We hope some of 
you will take it outdoors to read it, looking up often to recognize more clearly 
than before how wonderful life is. To be young, to be alive, to be a part of the 
Universe should give us a happiness and gratefulness that compells us to give 
of ourselves more richly . . . more fully. 

Each day we realize that the days are growing longer yet are moving closer 

and closer to graduation and to goodbyes. This fact is another challenge to 

us, for there is much to be done these last weeks. There is much to learn and 

much to give, and so little time to do it in. This issue is the Springtime gift to 

you from our staff and from each girl who has contributed toward making it 

a thing to enjoy now that all is AWAKENING. 



Jane Ellen Tye Editor 

Neilyn Griggs • • • Poetry Editor 

Mary Martin Business Manager 

Kathleen Bond . Exchange Editor 

Mary Louise Buechner . . . • Business Secretary 

Mrs. Ruth Taylor Faculty Advisor 


Nancy Wilson Helen Walton 


Helen Tainter . Art Editor 

Nancy Iler Susan Shireman Rosemary Logan 

Janet Zerr Frances Mitchell 

Peggy Muessel Typist 

Gina Campbell Typist 


A Turning From Truth? Mary Martin 3 

Julia Kathleen Bond 4 

One Night Adeline Horton 8 

Resistence En Retard Helen Walton 12 

Aftermath Carolyn Mansfield 12 

Ninety-Second Street Incident Jane Ellen Tye 13 

Three Poems Neilyn Griggs 16 

The Observer . Mary Jane Lotspeich 17 

The Story Book Witch Nancy Wilson 19 

The Mississippi Jane Adams 20 


The Morning Dew Valere Potter 21 

Song For A Rainy Night Joan Hays 21 

Chrysilda Joan Hays 22 

Jack Frost Eda Larsen 25 

On Winter Marjorie Schock 25 

Essay on Education Valere Potter 26 

The Executioner Helen Tainter 27 

When My Poem Is Ended Jane Ellen Tye 30 

Polly Takes Her Place Helen Walton 31 

Too Bad Mary Lee George 32 

Sounds From The Scarlet World Jane Ellen Tye 35 

Kathy Nancy Wilson 37 

Three Types Of Hands As Seen By A Bank Teller Annette Irwin 38 

The Lord's Little Messenger Nancy Wilson 39 

The Fountain of Youth Betty Quillen 41 

A Winter Melody Carolyn Mansield 42 


A. Turning From Truth? 

By Mary Martin 

It seems that at the present time there 
has been a general turning from the 
humanities toward the sciences. Perhaps 
such action is due to the discovery of 
the atom bomb and its more or less 
natural result, an emphasis on science. 
Perhaps it is due to the almost complete 
mechanization that our modern world is 
undergoing. Many scientists of today 
would have mankind believe that there 
is nothing in the world aside from the 
real and the material. The scientists col- 
lects cold facts, analyzes them, and then 
theorizes. Science does not ask the "why" 
and the "wherefore." But mankind does. 
At least mankind did until the discovery 
of the atom bomb. Now it appears almost 
as a direct by-product of this discovery 
that man has immersed himself in a 
philosophy purporting that there is pur- 
pose in nothing, that death is death, and 
that life is meaningless. 

This idea seems to have invaded the 
colleges and the universities and today 
the trends of education appear to be only 
toward scientific studies. It is very evi- 
dent that there has been a marked decline 
in interest in the humanities. Literature, 
the fine arts, and philosophy have been 
forced into the background while science 
has come to the fore. The coming gene- 
ration seems undeniably on its way to 
belief only in the cold, hard facts, to a 
belief in nothing. 

The aim of education is to fit the 
individual to cope with every facet of 
life. Too many people have the confused 
idea that scholarship and education are 
the results of only the mere accumulation 
of facts, and that the educated man is 
the one who has the most keys hanging 
from his watch chain. Unless the human 
being comes to realize that real education 

stems from the eternal truths of the uni- 
verse he is lost. Of course, a part of this 
truth may be found in science, but it is 
in the humanities that one finds its real 

Too many college students have en- 
lightened themselves only with the 
factual, paying little regard to the arts, 
to music, to prose and poetry. They do 
not realize that it is only in these that 
that certain something, perhaps the 
philosopher's stone that the alchemist 
sought, can be found. Music had its 
place in the earliest civilization, poetry 
its beginning in even the most barbaric 
tribe. Every interpreter of the humanities 
has tried his hand at translating for man- 
kind the hidden idealities of the spheres. 
People, young people especially, should 
again associate themselves with the sen- 
sory arts, whether it be dabbling with a 
palette and paintbrush or writing sonnets 
to the works of nature. Education should 
lead man to want to know and to dis- 
cover, not to be satisfied with the fact? 
and rules that his predecessors have laid 
down for him. Such a plan could never 
lead to a philosophy of nothingness. 

College should teach its students the 
principle of selectivity. It should teach 
its students to reason; but not to the 
exclusion of the realm of the imagination. 
The mysticism of the Middle Ages need 
not necessarily be left only to them. It 
is not the working of an immature mind 
to believe in God. Even the scientist as 
he progresses into what he supposes to be 
reality finds many phenomenon that pure 
fact cannot explain. The student must 
come to realize that there is purpose in 
this world. Man is not educated in books 
alone. He must come to realize that 
there is a "Why" hidden in the universe 

and that he can find it only by his own 
searching. Science can never find God 
any more than could Faust discover all 
the knowledge of the world. 

The college student must not turn from 
the humanities but toward them. For it 
is only in them that he can find the faith 
and hope that he needs to face a world 

governed by the atom. Through wisdom 
gained by this association with the 
humanities one realizes that there is a 
purpose behind the universe, although it 
seems so splendidly hidden. Even though 
truth appears so remote man must not 
turn from it — for the philosopher's stone 
has many forms. 


By Kathleen Bond 

"In nature there is nothing melancholy 
But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced 
With the remembrance of a greivous wrong 
Or slow distemper, or neglected love 
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself, 
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he, 
First named these notes a melancholy strain." 

William Wordsworth 

I am sitting on Julia's front porch 
now . . . just sitting here, because Julia 
isn't here and I really don't know exactly 
where to go or what to do. Julia's parents 
are inside in the living room, but I doubt 
that they even realize that I am still out 
here. I suppose Hugh will be here soon; 
he called a few minutes ago and said 
that he'd be over. 

There is no human sound, and yet the 
night is noisy with the shrill cries of a 
million crickets. The frogs down in the 
pond are crying with the crickets for the 
loudest notes in this huge orchestration. 
There was a storm this afternoon — beau- 
tiful and intense — yet short-lived. Now 
as a postlude raindrops from the lean, 
shiny leaves are falling in a melancholy 
pattern of gloom. Why gloom? It is not 
the gloom that comes from the elements, 
for there is never real gloom in nature. 
There is sadness, perhaps, but never 

gloom. This, I think, is that deep per- 
vading, malignant feeling that comes 
from within oneself . . . that empty, yet 
satiating sensation of unbearable grief 
that comes to one few — yet far too many 
— times in a lifetime. 

I get up and shake myself trying to 
get rid of this feeling that has taken 
hold on my very being . . . that suffuses 
my brain, my body . . . that cling to me, 
that sickens me, but that is indifferent 
to me. The night air is stifling in its 
wetness, and yet the perspiration on my 
forehead is cold and my hands are 
clammy. I pace the damp floor of the 
porch, but there is no escape. No escape 
from what, I ask myself. The answer 
is all too ready . . . escape from thinking. 
For we may avoid external stimuli, but 
there is no escape from that which our 
own mind would have us heed. I walk 
to the corner of the porch and look out 

at the road that is splotched with 
puddles of water that gleam in the moon- 
light ... its emptiness is almost frighten- 

"Why doesn't Hugh hurry up and 
come?" This I say half aloud, and the 
sound of my own voice, shrill against the 
monotonous background of the frogs 
and crickets, send a chill of panic through- 
out my body. But I know that I don't 
really want Hugh to come. No, for what 
will I say to him? What can I say? 
Retracing my footsteps, I cross the porch 
and sit down in the swing. If I can just 
relax and forget for a few minutes. If I 
can just stop asking myself why . . . 
why? The swing moves rhythmically 
back and forth . . . back and forth. Its 
harsh tone blends with the grotesque 
melody of the frogs and crickets. And 
now I know that thought is coming, for 
I can avoid it no longer. Slowly at first, 
then more quickly, my body relaxes, be- 
comes limp; and the combined noises of 
the night fade into an imperceptable 
drone. And I think. 

Thoughts, images, sensations ... all 
rush through my mind in a confused, 
disjointed haze. Then they take sequence 
and shape. 

I see Julia; Julia when she was a little 
girl and first invited me over to play in 
her sandpile, Julia when we were in 
grammar school together and she used 
to star in all the school plays, Julia in 
high school when she was football queen 
two consecutive years, but most of all 
I see Julia in her first year at state col- 
lege . . . Julia and Hugh. Julia met 
Hugh about this time last summer, but 
somehow it seems as though it has always 
been Julia and Hugh. Funny, in the 
beginning I had never thought that those 
two would hit it off . . . They were so 
entirely different. 

When did it all begin i . . yes, that 
day last summer when Emmitt called me 

and asked me to get a blind date for 
a friend of his who had just moved to 
town. I had brought Julia for the blind 
date. That was the natural thing to do; 
I always thought of Julia first. Hugh 
turned out to be a nice boy but not at 
all Julia's type. Julia was gay and care- 
free, and Hugh at that time seemed 
almost diffident in his silence. Besides, 
he was too old for her; Julia was only 
seventeen and he was twenty-six. We 
went to the picture show that night and 
had a fairly enjoyable time. I was 
amazed at how well Julia and Hugh 
seemed to get along. 

Julia had spent the night at my house 
that night, and after we had gone to 
bed, we had talked, first generally, then 
of Hugh. And I had been so astonished 
at her reaction to him. Funny, when I 
think about it now, it seems only that 
she should have liked Hugh immediately. 
In a rush of enthusiasm she had declared 
that she was crazy about him. Just like 
Julia — always too impetuous for her own 
good. She had confided that she was 
going out with him the following eve- 

"But, Julia," I had said to her, "he's 
much too old for you, and besides he's 
so serious. You two don't have anything 
in common." At that she had become 
very grave. 

"I know," she had said, "he is a great 
deal older." And then she had told me 
about him . . . that he was a veteran, 
that he was putting the finishing touches 
on a collection of war poetry that he had 
done while he was over-seas. She told me 
of his plans to complete his senior year 
of college in the journalism school at 
State and of his ambition to be a writer. 

"I know he's a great deal older and 
more mature than I am," she had said, 
"but I've never known anyone quite like 
him. I think . . . yes, I'm sure that I'd 
like to know him better." 

Yes, that's the way it had started. 
Hugh had liked Julia from the very first, 
and from then on they had been a steady 
couple. After people around town had 
grown used to the idea of pretty, gay 
little Julia going with the quiet, serious 
Hugh, they had accepted it just as I 
had. Everybody had liked them — at first 
because of Julia — she had always been 
popular with young and old alike — but 
eventually because of Hugh, too. There 
was something about him that made you 
feel drawn to him ... a warmth perhaps, 
and a deep understanding that seemed 
to show in his eyes. 

They were always together, Julia and 
Hugh, and it seems now that it could 
never have been otherwise. One was the 
complement of the other. And ever so 
slowly yet very definitely they were be- 
coming more alike. It seemed as though 
Julia were giving Hugh some of her 
gaiety and love of life, while Hugh was 
giving Julia deepness of thought and a 
kind of beautiful seriousness. Each 
seemed to inspire the other, and it was 
a wonderful experience just to be with 
the two of them. 

"Oh, Julia!" My mind seems to con- 
tract at the name. The reality of the 
present breaks through my remembrance, 
and the drone of here and now becomes 
louder with crickets and frogs and the 
porch swing. And then with the speed 
of sudden pain relieved, it grows faint 
again. For thought is too strong. I 
must think and remember. 

And Julia and Hugh went to State 
together last fall, and they were together 
over there as much as possible. Julia even 
took beginners' composition so that she 
could learn something of the art that 
Hugh loved so dearly ... I didn't see 
very much of the two of them last winter 
because I stayed at home and worked. 
But I remember the week-ends when they 
cam home to celebrate the publishing of 

Hugh's first book of poetry ... I don't 
think I've ever seen such a happy couple. 

And the year went on like that with 
me seeing them only on the occasional 
week-ends that they came home. Then at 
last school was over, and Julia and Hugh 
came home. As yet there had been no an- 
nouncement, but everyone in town was 
expecting them to get married before the 
summer was over. And with Julia back 
home everything was just as it had been 
before except that now there was Hugh. 
We were together constantly just as we 
had always been . . . especially in the day 
time, because that was when Hugh was 
working down at the paper. Julia was 
somehow different these days. Now that I 
think of it I don't know exactly how, just 
more serious and somehow very gentle. 

At night sometimes we'd double-date, 
but every now and then just Julia and 
Hugh would come over and we'd spend 
the evening together. What was it that 
Julia said about that . . . yes, something 
about her wanting Hugh and me to know 
each other well because we were the two 
people that meant the most to her. That's 
how I got to know Hugh for what he 
really was, a sensitive, high-strung genius, 
yet with it all a very gently understanding 
person. That's how I came to know how 
very important they were to each other. 
And I remember thinking at the time . . . 
I wonder what would happen if anything 
should separate those two. I dreaded to 

And now, just a week ago tonight, 
Hugh asked Julia to marry him. She came 
over to my house the next morning to tell 
me about it. She was so happy that it was 
wonderful to see her. Yet as we talked 
there seemed to be a shadow of sadness in 
her voice. She tried to explain to me what 
she hardly understood herself. 

"I don't know ... I just don't know," 
she said. "I am in love with Hugh but I 
have to be sure. Hugh has told me that I 

needn't rush into it, but somehow I feel 
that I must. I have to hurry; don't ask me 
why. It's just an odd feeling that I have 
that time is running out for me. But I'm 
so afraid to go ahead and get married 
until I'm sure, because I do want ours to 
be a good marriage. If I should ever do 
anything to hurt Hugh, I don't know 
what I'd do. That's what frightens me. 
Hugh is such a sensitive person and I 
could so easily hurt him. For some reason 
I feel that my just being around somehow 
keeps him from getting hurt. That's why 
I want to always be around as long as he 
needs me . . . and I know that he needs 
me. I don't know exactly what I'm trying 
to say except that I pray to God that I 
never do anything to hurt Hugh." 

The drone becomes louder, and once 
more is the sound of crickets and frogs 
and the porch swing. But now there is 
another sound, the sound of footsteps out 
in the street. Now they turn into the 
walk that comes up to the house. That 
must be Hugh. Half in a daze I rise and 
walk to the top of the porch steps. And 
now I am becoming tense again, for re- 
membrance is leaving me and the cold 
gloomy present is invading my mind and 

body, growing more intense with each for- 
ward footstep that Hugh takes. 

Hugh slowly climbs the steps, and in 
the dim light I can not see his face clearly; 
but I know that his thoughts are akin to 
my own. He comes another step closer 
and then stops. He looks as though he 
has aged twenty years. His eyes express 
the hollow grief of those who cannot cry. 
And now as he stands before me, beaten 
emotionally, my mind silently crys out for 
him because I share his despair . . . and it 
is terrible. 

For Hugh has been hurt, mentally and 
perhaps spiritually. Julia didn't mean to 
hurt Hugh. She was always afraid it 
would happen, and now she has hurt 
Hugh ... so much. She has left him. Late 
this afternoon as the brief, wild storm 
came to its abrupt ending, Julia left Hugh. 
And now as I look at his face, I know 
that we share the same feeling of un- 
bearable grief, of unrelieved gloom. And 
the monotonous disjointed sounds of the 
night become an insane mockery. 

"Hugh, I . . ." but there is nothing that 
I can say to him, no word of comfort, for 
I have found no consolation in my own 
mind, no reason. For I had not known, 
nor had Hugh, that Julia had been suffer- 
ing from an incurable heart condition. 

One Wight 

By Adeline Horlon 

I stepped off the bus into an early 
spring drizzle. I stood there in the cold 
and wet facing a rambling, farm house 
that was shrouded in a cloak of damp, 
white mist. It was a peculiar old man- 
sion, and it amazed me that I felt as 
though I was simply coming home. I had 
never lived behind those white columns 
with their added mid-Victorian ornamen- 
tation. In fact, I had rarely even visited 
here. I stood on the soft green lawn and 
just looked at the old structure. The 
house was the reason that I was here. 
We were going to sell it to complete the 
division of my great-grandfather's prop- 
erty. He, William Bullock, had bought 
the house shortly after my grandmother's 
wedding and upon his death it had been 
left to her and to her brother John. Funny, 
how I had heard and remembered about 
each plan for division that had been 
almost completed and then had failed. 
Usually family feuds or distrust had pro- 
hibited the division. Usually those feuds 
were centered about this very house. At 
last it had been decided to sell the house 
to some one outside of the family, and 
then to divide the profits. This plan 
was succeeding. The lawyers a.nd the 
prospective buyers were to be present 
the next morning to seal the contract. 
Johnny, the great-grandson of old Wil- 
liam, and I were going to at last succeed. 
My steps were certain as my shoes 
clicked on the brick walkway. I could 
even hear a note of triumph in the tone 
of the door bell as I pressed it beneath 
my cold, wet fingers. 

Then suddenly the big door swung 
open and three giggling children ushered 
me inside, while my beaming cousin 
Johnny slapped me on the back, picked 
up my bag, and charmingly introduced 

me to his round faced, jovial wife. Her 
bright blue eyes were matched only by 
those of the children's. Everything seemed 
happy inside the house but I could hardly 
shake off the deep melancholy that had 
overcome me when I first saw it. The 
deep warm carpets and the bright, clear 
lights made me relax in old-fashioned 
comfort. Soon a lavish meal was spread 
upon the long, antique, dinner table. It 
was one of those dinners that you read 
about at the family home, the kind I 
would have had here when I was a child. 
"But this is no longer your home," my 
mind spoke. I brushed this thought 

After the kingly dinner I relaxed by 
the big fireplace and reviewed the events, 
the history of the house, the whole affair. 
A lifesize portrait of our ancestor Wil- 
liam hung above the mantle and for 
several minutes I watched the flickering 
firelight on the face of the man. He 
almost seemed alive. Funny, I thought 
that he should be staring down from 
the wall to supervise the whole proceed- 
ings. It seemed as though he was really 
there and . . . "Blast it, we'd better get 
down to business, Johnny," I shouted to 
interrupt my reminiscing. We worked 
and talked until a distant clock struck 


Johnny showed me to my room and 
with little preparation, I climbed into the 
big four poster bed. Dead tired from 
the trip from the concern over the im- 
pending transaction, I fell immediately 
asleep. The clock chimed three. It blared 
into my semiconsciousness and I awakened. 
The clock was one of those big, old jobs 
with funny hands and quaint lettering. 
I can never figure out why it was facing 
my bed, but there it was right across the 

room from me beating its life out. It 
ticked on after its three mad strokes and 
I lay there making every effort to lose 
again consciousness. Then I heard some- 
thing. Funny, the way it sounded like 
a man in his leather boots was coming 
down the stairs. "Hell," thought I, 
"don't tell me that John gets up at three. 
The cows I suppose." Then I realized 
that the steps were uneven. The man 
had a limp. That wasn't Johnny. Who? 
Oh well, none of my business. I turned 
over, but the steps came toward my room. 
A knock sounded on my door. 

Well damn, thought I, as I exposed 
myself to the chilly room and fumbled 
with the lock. "John?" I asked. No 
answer. "John?" No other man lives 
in this house. It couldn't be the children. 
Just a dream. I must not be awake. 
I'll just go back to . . . 

Knock. Knock. 

"Blast it, I'm coming." I snapped on 
the lights and jerked the door open. An 
empty room lay before me. I blinked. I 
squinted, but nothing appeared. Another 
wide-eyed ancestor peered down at me 
from a dark painting and I being some- 
what puzzled banged the door closed. 
"My nerves are shot. That ignorant 
doctor must have given me dope for 
vitamin pills," I thought. Clicking off 
the light I sank beneath the eiderdown 
comfort determined to go to sleep. Then 
it happened. Oh Lord, it happened. The 
very devil must have been out on a mis- 
sion to torment me that night. 

I began to hear knocking, soft flesh- 
padded knocks on the doors, walls and 
on one particular wall — behind that 
pounding, noisy clock. I breathed nad 
then I sniffled. Perfume! Heady, oppres- 
sive, sickening perfume filled the air. It 
came to me as thought a hundred drams 
of the fragrant mess had been spilled in 
this one room. I started to get from my 
bed to raise the window and then I 

heard again something new, a soft swish, 
swish of a taffeta skirt, and padded steps 
tripped lightly across the room toward 
my bed. I was paralyzed. I reasoned. I 
begged myself to awaken and find this 
but a horrible nightmare, but I was al- 
ready awake. I was sensing all. I 
squirmed; I pinched myself; I was awake. 
I sat there dreading every breath, know- 
ing that each breath consumed the sweet 
oppressive smell. I gasped for breath. 
Then startled I recognized the pungent 
odor of a match. Then, while I tossed, 
feared, shuddered, the full warm, mellow 
tobacco of a cigar filled my nostrils. 

I sat amazed. The steps began again. 
I say "began" because I don't remember 
their continuation. Oh, Lord. I don't 
remember anything. I was too weak and 
afraid to move. What damn thing could 
this be? People had said that there were 
such things, such supernatural things and 
I had scoffed. Could this be? I must 
not lose my sanity. I must not. I . . . 
then I felt it, cold clammy soft, but firm 
. . . soft flesh. How could I tell you? 
How could I make you know? The per- 
fume swept by again and soft, cold 
fingers grasped my shoulders, braced my 
back with a pat and then . . . DEAD 

My heart pounded to the tick of the 
clock. I gritted my teeth and counted to 
ten. My feet hit the ice cold ash flooring, 
then the carpet. Then my fingers touched 
the plastic switch. Lights came on. My 
bed was covered with a heap of scrambled 
coverlids. The door was unlocked, and 
the hands, the weird hands of the old 
clock marked the passing of sixteen 
minutes. While dressing I stared in the 
mirror at a tired, mature man. My lined 
face was shadowed with a two days' 
growth of beard, but my nervous fingers 
warned against a shave. I packed my 
bag, slowly, but neatly. I had to get con- 
trol of myself, but all the time I thought. 


Oh damn, I thought. Why did I have a 
memory? Those fingers! Could I be 
insane? Could I have been asleep? Oh, 
if only I could have slept through it! 
I straightened up the room, then reached 
for the phone. The country phone was 
silent. Then more than ever, I realized 
the loneliness of it all. At last the opera- 
tor answered. I called the bus station. 
"When does the next bus north leave? 
Five-thirty? Thank you." The clock 
hands pointed to four-fifty. I scribbled 
a note to John. 

Got a call from home. Will explain 
in letter. Have to make the five-thirty 
bus. Love to all the family. 


I left that "lie" lying on the spread- 
up bed. I grabbed my bag, straightened 
my tie, looked around. The cold knob 
of the door was in my hand. Was I 
running away? What made me act this 
way? I stood there undecided. What 
about tomorrow? 

They'd have to have my signature. 
While pondering the subject, I walked 
over to the clock, looked at my watch. 
It was five minutes fast. Automatically 
I opened the big glass door, set back the 
weird old hands, and reached for the 

key on the top to give it a wind. Junk, 
dirt, soot covered the unseen top. I gave 
it a brush. The dey, a letter, an agate 
marble, a broken pair of tiny gold 
rimmed spectacles, and a handkerchief 
fell to the floor. Picking them up one 
at a time, I mused over the yellow letter 
addressed to my grandmother. I opened 
it and scanned the pages. My eyes paused. 

"Today Maggie, I bought a new home. 
It is out in the country near the river. 
You remember the one that we looked 
at before your wedding. It's yours 
Maggie as well as John's, and it always 
shall belong to you two children and 
your children's children. I'll see to that! 

Do tell me about the new baby. I am 
so glad . . ." 

I could see no longer. My mind was 
too confused. To sell the house was out 
of the question. Twenty after five — I 
grabbed my bag, opened the door, heard 
it bang to behind me. I stalked through 
the hall, lifted the heavy brass lock and 
went out into the fresh morning air. 
After crossing the road I looked back. 
The sun was rising behind the house that 
now had a halo of morning mist about it. 
The bus stopped, then pulled away, and 
I had left that peculiar old mansion. 

Resistance En Retard 

By Helen Walton 

The bitter fluid slid down my throat 
leaving it stinging and raw. It was done, 
I thought, and already the poison seemed 
to be tearing madly at my brain. I sank 
into a chair and regarded my reflection 
in the window which the cold, dark rain 
was beating against. I shivered. The 
slow dull ache that was beginning to 
blind me changed quickly to sharp and 
panging throbs. 

It was better that way, I thought. 
Better to let them think I had turned 
yellow and done it myself than to see 
him wasted away under the strain and 
tension I had endured for the past three 
days. Better to get it over with quick 
than to live a lifetime in constant fear 
that I would be found out. 

Doc'll kill me, I thought. Kill me, why 
that was funny. I gave a feeble laugh. 
Doc never quit. He was the sort of 
fellow that was all for taking a chance 
when there was a chance to take. To 

Doc, life meant hope. So far they couldn't 
prove a thing. We had been careful to 
dispose of all the evidence. But then, 
they say there is no perfect crime. 

God, the pain was terrible! It was 
harder to think now. My arms and legs 
were beginning to tingle, but the distant 
sound of a siren somewhere made me 
start, and I thought of the times in the 
last few days I had heard them and had 
sat alertly anxious until they passed. I 
relaxed. Jean had been a girl with class. 
I must have been insane — but why think 
about that now. Why think at all for 
that matter. It was getting harder and 

harder . The door — someone was 

coming in the door. Through the haze 
and dim light I saw Doc standing there. 
He was shaking me now and screaming. 
"We didn't kill her . . . we didn't kill 
her . . ." Why didn't Doc do something? 

The pain . . . the gnawing pain . . . 


By Carolyn Mansfield 

In the streets of Rouen 
The solemn children play 
In black. 

The silent children of Rouen 
Sleep in blackened rooms at night 
And dream 
Dark dreams. 


Ninety-Second Street 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

My name's Otto Sclovinsky. I come 
from Hoboken, Jersey. I met up wit dis 
guy, Hugo, one night in The Gloria, 
which is a neat little bar over in the West 
Side. Here I am, minding me own busi- 
ness, drinkin a mug of ale, conversin wit 
Gussie, de bartender which is a friend o 
mine when all of a sudden dis guy walks 
up to me out o nowhere ... A big guy he 
is, wit a scar dat runs across his face and 
slanty eyes . . . He says to me, "Buddy, 
ain't I seed you somewheres before?" 

"Can't say as you have, Mister," says I, 
"I ain't seed you nowhere before." 

"Skip it," says dis big guy . . . "Set me 
up a beer man." 

Me curiosity is all the time gettin the 
best of me, and I knows it, but I can't 
hold it back no further, so I says . . . "Is 
dere a guy you're lookin fer . . . Maybe 
I knows him?" 

"Yeah," says the strange guy, his eyes 
kind of laughin . . . "yeah, maybe you 
know him. Name's Al Welsh . . . Used to 
be a school buddy of mine. Ain't seed him 
in fifteen years though ... We was to 
meet at this joint tonight ..." 

"I getcha . . . and you thought him was 


I shut me big trap long enough to swal- 
low the rest of me drink and was gonna 
ast this character if he was new around 
these parts, when the door opens and an- 
odder guy busts tru de door and walks up 
to me buddy drinking beer on de stool 
next to me, and knocks the mug smack 
outta his mouth . . . spillin the brew all 
over him and me. "What gives!" the guy 
turns around and faces dis odder guy 

which has hit him. "Why Al, you ole son 
of a gun" . . . The two guys grabs each 
other and stands there sayin nothing and 
pattin each odder on de back. 

"Scuse me all over," says I, and starts 
wipin the beer off me pants . . . 

The two guys break up de clinch, have 
a stool, and order two more beers. I was 
keepin me ears open while these birds 
talked on account of it's a habit o mine 
to listen to people ... I ain't no fool. 
Gussie, de bartender I was speakin of, 
was eyein dem up and down ... he ain't 
too unsuspicious of strange guys which 
bust into his bar after twelve p.m. and 
den start holdin a family reunion like 
these birds was doin. 

I picks up me paper, but I ain't readin 
a line of it, see. I was gonna hear what 
these guys was up to. I hear this Al call 
the odder guy Hugo, and I kind of laughs 
to meself at de name, Hugo . . . Onst I 
had a mutt which I called Hugo. Anyway, 
dis Hugo finishes his beer like he was 
dyin o thirst and pulls out a big cigar 
which he offers to his buddy, and de buddy 
don't smoke evidently, so Hugo sticks it 
in his kisser, spits off the butt, and lights 
it. Now I ain't never been one fer readin 
faces, but this Al's face strikes me as 
bein on you couldn't trust further'n you 
could throw de Jersey freight . . . also he's 
got little eyes and a big nose that appears 
like one which somebody knocked flat . . . 
Cauliflower ears and a two day beard, but 
he had on a sharp suit . . . striped, which 
myself would wear on Sunday if I was 
going to Choich. 

All this time de two birds continue their 
conversation. Al tells Hugo he just blowed 


in from L.A. Was cussin like a sailor on 
account of a train went off and left him 
in a little town out in Kansas and he had 
to wait a day to get outta the dump. Al 
ain't laughin about it, but Hugo knocks 
himself out . . . Ho Ho Ho, he hollars so 
dat de room shakes, and Gussie grabs his 
toupee and gives dem a mean look. "Let's 
get outta dis firetrap," says Al, but beins 
its already past midnight, Hugo talks him 
into stayin there cause there ain't no other 
place open on ninety-second street, and 
Hugho is ready for another beer anyway. 

I sees them lookin over at me like they 
wishes I'd beat it, but I ain't no dumbbell. 
I just sits der and keeps lookin at de door 
like maybe I'm expectin somebody . . . 
which I ain't. Dey go on chattin' about 
nothing and I'm about ready to sign off 
and go home when this Al reaches in his 
hip pocket for a billfold and I see he's got 
a gat. Then I really gits suspicious and 
decides to hang around awhile longer to 
see what these birds is up to. Always I am 
wanting to be a detective, see . . . Got it 
in me blood I guess. 

Al lays de billfold on de counter and 
Hugo scoots his big hand right over to it, 
flips open de cover and sees a picture of a 
dame, I guess, cause he looks up at Hugo 
fast and says, "Where'd ya get dis picture 
of Margie?" His tone ain't friendly like 
before, either. 

"What's it to you, big shot?" answers 
Hugo. "I figured it was all over between 
you and the kid . . . My God, man, you 
ain't had a liken fer her since back at C.U. 

"And you ain't so bright, joyboy . . . 
We been writin . . . I'm looking her up 
tomorrow . . . Came up here to start that 
ball rollin again . . ." 

"Well, I got news for you, scarface . . . 
She's my girl now. We're gonna get 
hitched when me pay check comes around 
. . . We been goin steady, see? And I ain't 
plannin on no interference from you or 

Harry Truman or nobody." 

"Oh, yeah?" 

"Oh, yeah!" 

"Well, Mr. Clark Gable the second, 
you might as well start huntin you a new 
girl friend, cause Margie and me's plenty 
thick . . . She's my dame." 

"Let's give her a ring," says Al, "and 
we'll put the cards on de table. I ain't 
never been played for no sucker by any 

"Now ain't dat just like a tramp . . . 
Wantin to get a lady outta bed at his 
hour to ast her a silly question like does 
she love you or me. I can tell you myself, 
sweetheart, she's my girl, and if you're 
planning on seeing that big sun come up 
tomorrow you'll forget what you used to 
feel like and leave us be." 

"Dis is Al Mason you're speaking wit, 
lamebrain ... I ain't no mouse and I ain't 
given up nottin without no fight, see?" 

Der voices was gittin louder . . . Den Al 
goes to de phone and dials a number 
which he don't have to look up in the di- 
rectry. Hugo is chuggin the rest of his 
beer and tappin his fingers on the counter. 
His big white teeth are gnashin . . . 

Al comes back and says dat Margie is 
on her way over and Hugo coughs nervous 
like. I figure he ain't so hot on dis idea 
he was so hepped up on awhile ago. 

In about fifteen minutes de door opens 
and I turns to see Margie which is breakin 
up this beautiful friendship . . . "Wow," 
says I to meself, "that tomato could make 
me argue, too." She was a classy goil, wit 
blonde hair and a nifty little figure stacked 
like the Congressional Library . . . She 
had on a black dress and a mink coat 
which says she is but def in the upper 
bracket . . . both guys lets out a long 
whistle and even Gussie gives her the up 
and down as she meanders up to the bar. 

"Hi Margie," says the two guys in one 


"Hello boys . . ." and Margie is given 
them the Ipana full speed ahead. She 
parks herself on the stool between the two. 
I was about as welcome as a cop during a 
crap game, but I don't move and goes on 
turning the pages like I was readin every 
word . . . Already I've had time to read 
the whole paper tru a dozen times ... So 
dey ignores me again and begins to shoot 
the questions at dis baby which looks like 
Miss America . . . 

De guys are choiping so fast she don't 
have time to open her mouth yet . . . Den, 
all of a sudden, der is a crash which 
sounds like the Empire State done fell 
flat . . . Hugo, sittin on de far stool turns 
a somersault back off de stool into de 
floor and like a flash there is blood coming 
outta his head and smearin up the floor 
somethin awful. I looks up and a tall guy 
which looks like the Green Hornet without 
a cape is standin in the door with a smokin 
gat, just standing there smiling. Den he 
says softly, "Come on, Margie, let's go 
home." But Margie is screamin "Sam, you 
shouldn't have done it" . . . and she dou- 
bles up like it was her that was shot in- 
stead of Hugo. Al ain't moved an inch 
and his mouth is hanging open like the 
Grand Canyon . . . and I heard Gussie 
sobbin like a baby on de floor behind the 

I ain't had time to collect meself yet 
when de sirens are blowin out in de street 
and de room is suddenly filled wit coppers. 

Dey nab Sam in a jiffy and starts astin us 
questions right and left. Gussie can't quit 
sobbin long enough to say anything 
though and the commotion sets me to 
shakin like a scared dandelion in the 
snow. De people outside is starin through 
de window and I ain't doin much of nothin 
but sittin there shakin. Right then I says 
to myself . . . "Otto, you ain't never going 
to be a detective, junior . . ." and Lord, I 
meant it too. 

An hour later de place was quiet except 
fer Gusses teeth which ain't quit slappin 
each other yet . . . Der is Gussie, sittin on 
a stool drinkin a triple Sasperilla and 
smoking three cigarettes and a cigar. Mar- 
gie and her boy friends were in de cooler 
by now and just me and Gussie was in de 
bar like nothin had happened at all. 

"Gussie," says I, "I ain't never seed 
such a night. I knowed all the time those 
birds was crooked . . . Like I says, Gussie, 
to be a detective you gotta know faces, 
like me here . . . The first minute I laid 
eyes on that guy . . ." 

Den I sees Gussie ain't payin a bird of 
attention to me, so I gets me lid and leaves 
him sittin there on the stool, shakin like a 
wet dog dryin off . . . 

"See ya tomorrow night, Gussie," says 
I . . ., but he don't answer, so I wanders 
out and on down Ninety-Second street to 
see if Sargeant Kelly wants to get up a 
little poker game before bedtime. 





By Neilyn Griggs 


A birch and a riverlet talked one day 
In strangely muted and lyric tones 
And though I listened, I could not say 
Whether their whispered sighs and moans 
Was talk about man or talk about God, 
But these things alone I do know: 
The tree began to bow and nod 
And the voice of the stream murmured low 
And it echoed the wind from Northern caves 
Who told me that I was not wanted there 
And knelt to the snow as her humble slaves 
Glaring at me with an icy stare. 

Perhaps in that warmer time to be 

The birch and the brook will talk again 

And share their secrets and dreams with me 

While muttering they tell what they said when 

My very heart did not feed the tree 

And my tears to the stream were not yet akin. 


The hopes and dreams of men 
Are as the countless waves of the sea 
That beat incessantly on the rocks of shore, 
Then fall exhausted into obscurity. 


Will whatever angels that may guard 

This faltering, wayward spirit 

Bestow on me this one thing 

That I do ask of them: 

A firm conviction laid upon my heart 

To set my eyes upon a star 

And climb to reach it 

Though its light may blind my eyes, 

Though its heat may scorch my body 

And though its power in the end 

May overwhelm my very being. 

Oh, let me know the sight of a goal, hard sought, 

Set dimly in the distance, 

Just out of reach, yet always present, 

An ever yielding source 

From which my thirsty 

Soul may come to drink of courage. 


The Observer 

By Mary Jane Lotspeich 

Claire rushed into the room, upsetting 
the waste basket and everything else that 
stood in her path. At last she bounded 
onto the bed, eyes round with excite- 

"What do you think?" she exploded. 
"Betty's watch is gone!" 

I exclaimed with the rest of the girls 
present. This was the most recent of 
many thefts in our hall. Stolen articles 
ranged from cigarettes to a diamond 
ring. A small fortune in jewelry was 
missing from the second floor. This floor, 
my floor, seemed to be the only one the 
thief had attacked, and a small group 
of us at the end of the hall had been 
hit the hardest. 

A few of the girls wandered in to 
discover the cause of Claire's excitement. 
She told them in high pitched squeals 
and gestures that would have done Ethel 
Barrymore justice, ending with "some- 
thing has got to be done!" 

There was a general mutter of assent 
from the assembly. Someone repeated 
Claire's statement, and we looked at each 
other in question. Claire was right, but 
what could we do? We had to devise 
a plan. I remember Jean's story of a 
black-clad woman who had stolen from 
this hall last year. It seems this woman, 
while the hall was deserted, had ran- 
sacked the rooms and taken a great deal 
of valuable jewelry, and escaped through 
the basement in twenty minutes' time. I 
had an idea. 

"If it's an outside person, we can trap 
her." I continued in this train of thought 
until I had outlined a scheme. It wasn't 
original, but would possibly work. 

Each floor would post two girls in a 
room directly opposite the entrance. Three 
of the tallest would stand by the door 

of the dark basement. Because I am 
five feet, ten inches tall, I was directed 
into this classification. It was with not a 
little misgiving that I accepted my posi- 
tion, but I did not wish to appear 
cowardly; so I agreed. 

There were ten of us; Claire was cap- 
tain, of a sort. Claire is always captain, 
president, chairman, or a kind of leader 
in any group; I wondered how her room- 
mate stood it; I paused to gloat over the 
fact that I had a single room. Claire 
herded us down to sign out for that 
night's dinner. There was a hint of glee- 
ful expectancy in our crew. Imagine cap- 
turing a criminal. Each, I am sure, had 
a mental picture of newspaper publicity. 
We marched back upstairs almost in 
rhythm, for we were now a secret army, 
pondering our secret, exhibiting our 
secrecy and gloating over the effect it 
had over others. 

After an eternity the dinner bell rang. 
The "army" sat on my bed and listened 
td the footsteps that passed the door 
and hurried down the steps. At exactly 
6:03 o'clock we adjourned to take our 

I followed Mary and Jean down the 
steps at a distance, for I was not as 
eager for worldly fame as they were. 
Mary opened the basement door and 
stepped into position. An absolute silence 
had been requested by our leader, no one 
spoke. Thus we waited, in silence, each 
with her separate thoughts, each in nerv- 
ous anticipation, half hoping that noth- 
ing would happen. I could hear Mary's 
watch ticking. What time is it? I tried 
to use mental telepathy. Tension height- 
ened with each passing minute. Visions 
of a small woman, dressed in black, wear- 
ing flat heeled, soft soled shoes, ran across 


my mind. Would she be small, or a 
large, powerful woman? 

More minutes ticked by. My ears were 
beginning to ring from the silence. Wait! 
Did I hear footsteps? Yes! A soft 
padding, at first barely audible but grow- 
ing louder as it neared the basement 
stairs. I heard Jean's gasp and wondered 
how she would react when the footsteps 
walked through the door. She has three 
more steps to go; two more; one more. 
She is walking toward the door. I could 
sense my companions steeling themselves, 
ready to pounce. The door swung back 
toward us. Claire's face appeared. 

"How's everything going?" 

We sighed mingled relief and disgust 
in one accord; Claire, seeing that we 
had heard nothing, crept back up the 
steps. The tension was lessened and when 
distant voices buzzed and came closer we 
dashed up the stairs and hurried to the 
smoker. Comparative data were ex- 
changed, and disappointment was preva- 
lent. When study hall bell rang, the 
students scattered to their rooms. One 
by one the girls crept to my room to 
discuss the night's adventure. As ex- 
pected, no one had seen anything, but a 
few imagined noises were discussed. We 
resolved to continue the procedure until 
the thief had been captured. 

The following day passed as usual. 
Conspiritive glances were exchanged 
among my fellow detectives. 

We adopted the same procedure for 
that night. Our criminal obviously did 
the same, for that night proved as un- 
eventful as the one preceding. And 
dogged in our determination, we followed 
the plan religiously for a week. Then 
one by one, through hunger or boredom, 

our "army" dissolved until something 
further developed. 

Friday night came and still no thief. 
We decided to do nothing further until 
some clue appeared. 

Friday night I dressed for dinner, but 
when the dinner bell rang I did not go 
to dinner. Instead, I wandered aimlessly 
around the hall. I walked toward Jean's 
room, Room 230. I opened the door and 
admitted myself into the room. Jean had 
forgotten to turn off her radio; it blared 
forth in frenzied jazz. I turned it off. 
I gazed around me. My eyes lit on the 
dresser; there sat Jean's gold lighter- 
cigarette case. I picked it up and studied 
it; I had always admired it. With the 
case still in my hand, I walked from the 
room, closing the door behind me. I 
entered my room and walked to the 
dresser. Kneeling, I opened the bottom 
drawer and inserted the case between the 
folds of my blue sweater beside Betty's 
watch and the diamond ring. 


The Story Book HVitch 

By Nancy Wilson 

Mrs. Drake was the very picture of 
the story book witch who prowls around 
after dark in long, black, mysterious 
clothes. As far back in our childhood as 
we can remember, we can recall the cold 
chill that passed through our bodies every 
time she came into view. 

She was a little woman, about five feet 
in height when she stood up straight. 
Her hair was smoky white, worn long 
and unkept, swaying across her back 
as she hobbled along. Her face, which 
had once been young and lovely to look 
at, was now old and shriveled from her 
eighty-three years. Her cheeks and lips 
were sunken in to outline the smooth 
gums, where pearly white teeth had once 

Her legs were covered by the long-out- 
of-fashion black wool skirt, which she 
wore from one January to the next, but 
her slow, unsteady steps, and the ever 
present cane, told us that age had played 
its part on them, too. This was our only 
consolation when we saw her; we knew 
we could outrun her if she ever did set 
out to get us. 

Mrs. Drake lived alone in a dirty-white 
house, three blocks west of ours. Perhaps 
it was the mysteries of her darkened house 
that frightened us more than she, her- 
self did, for inside her huge eight- room 
home were more secrets and mysterious 
looking chests and boxes than one has 
ever seen elsewhere. 

After dark we would sneak up to the 
cracked side window and peep into the 
candle-lit room. Every evening we 
would hear and see the same sight; in the 
far side of the once-called living room 
sat Mrs. Drake high on a stool playing 
soft, weird notes on one of the two organs 
that sat side by side in the big room. 

Then she would open her shriveled mouth 
and sing in a high-pitched, strained voice 
long forgotten songs that told sad, tragic 
tales. Suddenly one of the boys would 
giggle or one of the new comers would 
become frightened and begin to cry. This 
was the fate we dreaded, for the least 
little sound could be heard by her sensi- 
tive ears, and before we could move she 
would be out on her swaying porch, wav- 
ing her fists at us, swearing loudly, con- 
remning us all to Nell for our sins. We 
never waited to hear any more but would 
dash to the security of our homes. 

It was always to my sisters and me 
that the cursing and condemning was 
shrieked, because she had a special dis- 
like for our family in particular. It 
seemed that when we were very young — 
too young to remember — her husband and 
she lived normal, happy lives. They were 
the picture of a sweet, happy old couple. 
Everyone loved Mr. Drake; he was a 
person who did for others but never ex- 
pected praise or glory in return. 

At the age of eighty-two (he was con- 
siderably older than Mrs. Drake) an 
incurable illness that he had for some 
time finally sent him to his sick bed. The 
neighborhood was immediately in an up- 
roar. Everyone made long visits to him 
and offered their help to Mrs. Drake. 
One of these was my Grandmother, who 
cooked a pot of hot chicken broth for 
him soon after she learned of his illness. 
Grandmother knew of his illness, knew 
it was then incurable, but Mrs. Drake had 
no inkling of the seriousness of her hus- 
band's health. In fact, she didn't even 
know what ailment he had. 

One week later he died a not too pleas- 
ant death. It broke Mrs. Drake's heart, 
and, so they say, her mind. Only one 


thing remained in her mind. My Grand- 
mother had given him broth — poisoned 
broth. It helped not at all to console her 
or try to explain his sickness. It was the 
one thing that she would always remem- 
ber. I can't recall how many times I 
would awake in my bed on our huge 
sleeping porch to find Mrs. Drake peep- 
ing through the window, chanting, "Your 
Grandmother killed my husband." 

To us, all these strange actions were 
nothing less than witchcraft or black 

magic. She frightened us but still fasci- 
nated us at the same time; so much, in 
fact, that our parents finally forbade us 
to trouble her every evening. Finally, at 
the age of ninety, she passed away in her 
sleep. With tears in our eyes we reverently 
filed in to see her for the last time. We 
never understood her strange ways or 
customs, but we already missed the crabby 
old lady who added local color to our 

The Mississippi 

By Jane Adams 

Have you ever missed a thing so much 
that it takes on the proportions of your 
longing for a human being? Or have 
you lain in bed at night and heard it 
speaking to you as the voice of a loved 
one? If you have ever had this feeling, 
you will understand mine for the Mis- 
sissippi River. 

I have sat on its banks in the heat of 
summer and felt the cool of the lush, 
green grass and heard the lapping of the 
water on the bank and the fresh breeze 
rustling in the tree tops. On days like 
these the water seems just peaceful. I sit 
and think that it is slowly flowing to the 
Gulf and maybe, in some foreign land, 
some other person is sitting on a serene 
bank, similar to the one where I am, and 
in seeing that same water flow by and 
is thinking the same thoughts. 

And I have been down to "My River" 
in the fall, when the leaves are red, 
golden, and orange and watched them 
fall gracefully from the tall cottonwood 

trees on the bank into that swirling, busy 
stream. Then I have begun to feel an 
excitement and anticipation for the season 
that is to come. 

When I go down in the winter, the 
river is no more my peaceful, friendly 
place to meditate. Instead, it is a tur- 
bulent, frothing body of water that sends 
a chill through my entire being. I try 
again to recapture my thoughts of sum- 
mer, when I wondered where it was going. 
Then suddenly, I do not care where it 
is going, but I want desperately to go 
with it, to tumble furiously past the fields 
and towns and then empty submissively 
into that great body of water, the Gulf. 

But I come back to my senses and 
know that I can never do anything but 
go on living my everyday existence, worry- 
ing about everyday matters and going 
everyday places. I am just a human 
being, and only in my dreams will I ever 
be a part of the greatness that is the 


From the 

^Jne fvfornina <JZJ 

By Valere Potter 

What mysteries are hidden in that time 

Before the day when night has fled beyond 

The distant hills? 

What mystic phantoms hide their treasure from 

The eyes of mortal man beneath a flower 

Dr in a song? 

'Tis then the unborn souls awake, and grieving 

For our earthly sorrows, leave their tears 

Upon the grass. 

^ona for a f\ulnu f/iant 

By Joan Hays 

Oh, give me a wet and windy night 
On a patent leather street . . . 
With silver curtains 'round me blown 
And silver puddles at my feet. 

Oh, give me a wet and windy night 
In a breathless, silent wood, 
With barren branches, crystal clothed 
That stand as all such ladies should. 

Oh, give me a wet and windy night, 
Let me walk in the sparkling rain 
And drink of it like champagne's spume — 
My heart is diamond bright again. 



By Joan Hays 

Once long ago, in that misty past 
when each princess had her prince, there 
was a wonderful land which lay to the 
east under the first rays of the rising sun. 
This kingdom was a fairyland and so 
lay far underground, hidden from the 
eyes of mortal folk. It was called Chrys- 
talandia and was ruled by a wise old king 
and his young and beautiful daughter. 
The inhabitants were peaceloving and 
sweet tempered, never doing any harm; 
but living and working happily in their 
crystal caverns and grottoes. 

Now these caverns were beautiful in- 
deed, with lofty vaulted ceilings so high 
that one had to tip his head far back 
to see them, and endless shining crystal 
tunnels leading back into the hills. Every- 
thing was crystal — houses, streets, furni- 
ture — everything, in fact, except the 
people. They were not crystal, nor yet 
were they flesh, their bodies being com- 
posed of a smooth, glowing substance 
which was more lovely than any flesh 
imaginable. Their hair was made up of 
exceedingly fine glass fibers and their 
voices, when they spoke, tinkled with the 
clarity of a bell. 

One day the happy way of life of 
these peaceful folk was menaced by the 
appearance of a malicious sorcerer who 
threatened to destroy the city unless he 
was given the princess for his bride. 

The unhappy king, dismayed at the 
choice he was required to make, turned 
to his daughter and said, "Chrysilda, my 
dear, you have been a good and dutiful 
daughter. How can I choose between my 
two most prized possessions, my kingdom 
and my child." 

And bright-hearted Chrysilda, sad- 
dened by her father's grief, said, "My 
father, need you choose? Perhaps you 

can put off the sorcerer with excuses for 
a short time while I seek the Lady of 
the Inner Earth to ask her help." 

So the brave little princess kissed her 
father goodbye and started through the 
labyrinth of crystal tunnels which led 
into the inner earth. 

All too soon the sorcerer returned and 
demanded his bride, but the king could 
only spread his hands helplessly and re- 
peat that he did not know his daughter's 

Upon hearing this the wicked magician 
flew into a rage and threatened the imme- 
diate destruction of the city. 

To this the king answered, "Destroy 
us if you will, but you'll never have my 
daughter. Even now she seeks the Lady 
of the Inner Earth who will help us!" 

And so saying, he smote his hands 
together and the entire city and all its 
inhabitants vanished from the cavern as 
utterly as a broken bubble. The green 
sea rushed in, filled the grotto leaving 
only a few groups of crystal rocks above 
the pounding spray, and the sorcerer dis- 
appeared into whence he had come. 

Meanwhile Chrysilda had been hurry- 
ing through the tunnels on her search for 
the regions of the inner earth. Now she 
gave a glad cry and hurried toward an 
opening in the tunnel where there shown 
a greenish glow. Great was her surprise 
and dismay as she recognized her home 
cavern, and greater still her sorrow over 
the destruction of her home. 

She picked her way from rock to rock 
until she reached the large center group 
of jutting boulders, and there she sat 
and wept crystal tears that mingled with 
the seafoam and were cast back against 
the rocks to add their melancholy chime 
to her sorrow. 


Long years passed, and Chrysilda, since 
fairies never really grow old, merely grew 
more beautiful with each change of the 
tide. Sometimes she talked to the fairies 
of the sea for although she had never 
seen them, she knew they were there. 
And they were kind, and did what they 
could to ease her grief; now and then 
leaving her a lovely shell as a token of 
their sympathy and friendship. 

And then one day as she sat on her 
customary seat on the crystal rock, look- 
ing sadly into the dashing spray, she was 
startled to see a lovely face taking shape 
in the foam. She half arose in some 
alarm, when the sea- fairy (for such it 
was) spoke: 

"Dear little Chrysilda, do not be 
afraid. You have been brave and patient 
throughout the years. Know now that 
the Lady of the Inner Earth knows of 
your grief, but, she is unable to break 
the powerful spell which holds you cap- 
tive here. That can only be done by a 
mortal man. Now attend me and do as 
I shall say." And so saying, she draw 
near to Chrysilda and gathered up a 
double handful of the crystal tears that 
the little princess had wept. 

"Take these," she said, "and make a 
necklace of them. When you have fin- 
ished I shall take it to the mortal world, 
and then — well, we shall see!" 

Chrysilda did as she was told and art- 
fully wove a necklace of seaweed. In it 
she set the tears as rare jewels are set, 
and when she had finished, she gave it 
to the seafairy who vanished into the 
ocean's misty depths. 

Many leagues away, a mortal king, 
his household, and a goodly part of his 
subjects were having a holiday celebra- 
tion at the boundary of his kingdom. 
In front of the royal pavilion a strip of 
sandy beach unrolled itself like a ribbon, 
golden in the sunlight, silver in the moon- 
light. Beyond the beach stretched the 

restless seas whose ceaseless boom wove 
itself into the dreams of the merrymakers. 

Tiring one night of the continuous 
clatter of the celebration, the king's son, 
Prince Cristopher, left the riotous crowd 
and sought a quieter happiness by the 

Walking quietly down the beach, he 
suddenly stubbed his toe. He dropped 
quickly to one knee to examine the offend- 
ing object. 

Why, he thought to himself, it seems 
to be a ring of seaweed. It's braided, 
and every so often there is a stone that 
shines like none I ever saw before. Surely 
no mortal hand made this! And yet . . . 
What can it mean? 

Sadly perplexed, he picked it up and 
continued a short distance up the beach. 
There he sat down, and for a long time 
gazed fixedly out to sea. He dozed fit- 
fully and dreamed vague dreams of 
delightful colors and delectable odors. 
Suddenly he awoke. The moon was 
swinging slowly across the sky, and by 
its light he saw a shape forming itself 
in the spray at his feet. Surely I am 
dreaming still, he thought, and closed 
his eyes. When he opened them again 
our friend, the sea fairly, was standing 
beside him, pale and shimering in the 
soft light. 

"Who might you be lovely creature?" 
asked the prince. 

"My name is Foama, but that is not 
important. What do you have in your 

"Why, it's a necklace," he said without 

"Then you really are the one. Yes, 
it is a necklace, one made by a beautiful 
princess who waits in sorrow to be 
rescued. Will you help? Only you can 
break the spell that binds her." 

"I? I can help? But I am only a 

"Will you try?" 


He nodded. 

"Then put the necklace around your 
neck and follow me into the water." 

Doing as he was told, the prince waded 
into the water, and taking Foama's hand 
was borne swiftly down through the 
lowest regions of the sea. Down, down, 
they swam; and then, just as he thought 
they would swim straight through the 
earth, he found that Foama was now 
pulling him upward as quickly as she 
had dragged him down. 

A minute later he was standing on a 
cluster of crystal boulders in the center 
of an immense flooded cavern. Foama 
had vanished, but the necklace remained; 
and so great had been its power that his 
body and clothing were as dry as they 
had been when he had walked the beach. 
What do I do now, he wondered, gazing 
around helplessly. 

But just then he heard someone 
sobbing, and coming around a par- 
ticularly large rock, he saw Chrysilda. 

"Come, lovely one. You must not cry. 
Who are you, and why are you so sad?" 

Chrysilda lifted her pretty head. "Ah, 
at last! At last you've come! Foama was 
right — my necklace did bring you!" 

"But I don't understand . . ." And 
so Chrysilda told him her story. And 
maybe it was the necklace, or maybe it 
was just her dainty self; but by the time 
she finished, Prince Christopher was 
deeply in love with her. 

When she finished speaking, the prince 
stood up. "My dearest little princess," 

he said, "how can I break the enchant- 
ment that holds you here? I have noth- 
ing possessed of magical qualities, except 
your necklace." 

And so saying, he took it from around 
his neck and put it around hers. There 
was a blinding flash of light as the cavern 
melted away from them like mist, then 
a momentary sensation of lightheadness. 
An instant later he found himself back 
on the beach. But this time he was not 
alone, for at his side Chrysilda smiled up 
at him. 

"You have succeeded, my prince, for 
the Lady of the Inner Earth has helped 
us. Look, the sun is rising. Wait and 
see what will." 

The great yellow ball climbed slowly 
over the rim of the horizon. As its first 
fingers of light caressed the princess, she 
changed. She was the same, yet different; 
for although she retained her lovely color- 
ing, her body was now made of flesh and 
her hair was real hair, not fibers of glass. 

Putting her hand in the prince's, she 
gave him her mortal's heart, and as the 
sun rose higher, they started toward the 
royal camp. 

'Tis said that she married Christopher, 
and that they ruled wisely and well for 
many years. It is also said that when 
she died, the crystal tears left the crown 
into which they had been set, and rose 
to the sky where they became stars. And 
so, when you see an unusually brilliant 
group of stars, you may be sure that they 
are the crystal tears of the lovely princess, 


Aack +jrrodt 

By Eda Larsen 

Softly he comes now 
In the night, 

Swiftly he dabs his colors 
Painting leaves 
Flaming with 

Deftly he sketches 
Fronds of lace 

Elf-like his lips quirk 
As he goes 
Seen not. 

\Jn Winter 

By Mariorie Schock 

Trees stand naked against the wintry sky 
Aloof and proud, challenging the unwary; 
Their infinitely perfect twigs 
Stand out in bold relief, 
Weaving endless patterns 
Each imperfect without the other 
Yet completely within itself. 
The wind, that whimsical artist, 
With a stroke sweeps them along 
And creates a million more 
To take their places. 

Essay on Education 

By Valere Potter 

Why is it that so many people have 
lost sight of the true value of education? 
To me, a full education is a gem to be 
treasured among my most valued posses- 
sions. Too many have come to think of 
education as the laborious acquisition of a 
mental library of facts all indexed and 
catalogued for easy reference and ready 
to be brought out from the cerebral stacks 
at a moment's notice. My idea of educa- 
tion, however, is simply the training of the 
mind by the use of mental calisthenics so 
that it will be able to take on easily any 
task set before it — just as a soldier prac- 
tices gymnastics, not to the end that he 
will be able to perform those same exer- 
cises all of his life, but so that he can meet 
the rigid physical requirements of battle 
when he is called upon to do so. 

You may ask how memorizing dates for 
history can train the mind. It can't. In- 
stead, it is the process of accumulating 
facts and fitting them together to form a 
concrete picture of human advancement 
that trains the mind by teaching it to 
draw conclusions from known facts, and 
by using these, to track down other facts 
upon which to work as the modern chem- 
ist does in the laboratory. 

There is another purpose of education 
other than that of training the mind to 
think, and that is to teach the mind to 
find more enjoyment in life than it could 
without that training. The truly educated 

man does not lose his capacity for the en- 
joyment of simple things; instead, he 
learns to appreciate and nd beauty not 
only in great symphonies but also in sim- 
ple melodies. The educated man learns to 
wonder and to ask questions, and thus to 
find beauty in what is to others cerely an 
ugly stone or an uninteresting book. In 
this, education may be likened to an x-ray 
which enables the eye to look beneath the 
surface of the obvious and to see the un- 
derlying wonder of life itself. 

Of course, attending school is not the 
way to obtain a full education; there are 
many classic examples of this. However, in 
our modern world, school offers the easiest 
and best method of doing so. Perhaps this 
is a bad state of affairs, because too often 
the world accepts a college degree as a 
mark of education and turns away the 
man lacking this as one incapable of meet- 
ing the requirements of the position of- 
fered; and too frequently the possession 
of a degree makes a man feel himself 
above the "crowd." This man is not yet 
educated. True education humbles a man, 
for it alone can show how little one knows 
and how much one has to learn. 

Education is, in the words of Webster's 
Dictionary, "the act of enlightening the 
understanding of; of cultivating and train- 
ing the mental powers of." How can one 
better gain this than by a formal educa- 




By Helen Talnter 

The executioner of St. Aliquis castle 
descends the gloomy stair of the donjon, 
carrying in his hands a hunk of black 
bread, a vessel of water, and a lantern. 
Its light illuminates his face showing a 
boy who could not be much more than 
sixteen years old, yet his face is grey and 
his forehead is twisted slightly with the 
force of thoughts that lie behind it. His 
nose and sensitive mouth are wrinkled 
against the foul air of the dungeons be- 
low. The boy takes the stair slowly, one 
by one, with a reluctant movement until 

his process is halted by an iron door 
heavily barred. Setting down the lantern 
he forces the rustic barricade open and 
admits himself to the inner chamber. A 
feeble light glows on a dark shape which 
is huddled on a crude wooden stool near 
the wall. As young Arn Gamier enters, 
the dark shape moves slightly — a tousled 
head is raised, and dismal eyes meet those 
of the boy. The latter's eyes drop and 
come to rest on the slimp, putrid floor of 
the dungeon. Then he says gruffly, "I have 
brought you food." 


The prisoner stretches out his hand 
which is attached by a metal chain to a 
large ring in the stone wall. He clutches 
the bread and for a few seconds crams the 
course, dry material into his mouth. As 
the hunk diminishes the fellow glances 
hopefully at the young turnkey. "In the 
name of God, lad, can't you get me a little 
ale? When a man is in this place he would 
give his very soul for something warm 

The boy shakes his head. "No — you are 
lucky that I have not taken your clothes 
and that I have brought you water. My 
father was not always so kind." With 
these parting words, the boy turns his 
back on the chained wretch and makes his 
way up the wet stair of the donjon. 

As he emerges into the bright daylight 
of the inner court, he blinks his eyes and 
breathes heavily, ridding his lungs of the 
fetid air of the cell. He then continues 
to the baily of the castle. There the 
hubbub of the morning activities resounds. 
Dirty children play and shout, horses 
neigh, and the folk of the castle chatter 
and cry to one another. Adela, the young 
daughter of the master armorer, is taking 
a loaf of bread from the baron's great 
oven. She calls gaily to him, but he scolds 
and quickens his pace. It is not for him to 
care about the gay blue eyes, the black 
curls and the ruddy lips of Adela. He is 
the son of a hangman, and hangmen's 
families must marry among themselves . . . 
the sons of hangmen must in turn become 
hangmen. Lord, that poor fellow in the 
dungeon who is to be dispatched! As his 
thoughts take hold of him, Arn Gamier 
hastens his pace. A great shudder shakes 
the boy from head to foot, and his sensi- 
tive face twists as if in agony. Memories 
of his newly dead father swarm into his 
senses, memories of his father's contempt 
for him because of his aversion to vio- 
lence; because he had turned white at the 
screams of poor wretches on the rack, be- 

cause he had once watched his father chop 
off a criminal's hand and had vomited for 
no reason at all. 

His mother's words rang in his ear, 
meaningless: 'Arn, you are well off. The 
position of the executioner is assured and 
there is not much work to it. If only you 
will forget your silly nonsense! Your fa- 
ther was a good, pious man but he did not 
shrink from administering justice." 

What could she know? What could 
any of them know . . . those fools who 
trooped after the carts of death, who 
gaped in mixed enjoyment and horror as 
the twisting, turning bodies flipped into 
the air, suspended by the noose — those 
fools who forgot the dangling, crow- 
pecked forms though they swung at the 
side of the road and were horrible as their 
features crumbled away. As the familiar 
sight rises before him in his imagination, 
he flinches as he stands. His brown eyes 
widen with repugnance. Then he stares at 
his hands — strong, brown hands, with blue 
veins and dirty fingernails. These hands 
will turn the rack, will swing the two- 
handed sword, will apply hot pinchers, 
will hang men at the baron's command. 
He flexes his hands, staring at them in- 
tently. Then he buries his face in them 
and is immovable for a long time. A 
trickle of sweat slides slowly through his 

A cart rattles and jolts over the rough 
ground. Inside huddles a dark form, 
bound tightly into a human package. 
Moans escape cracked lips at intervals, 
and shudders rack the limp body. On the 
man's filthy flesh are numerous red wounds 
where sharp dice have been thrust beneath 
his skin, for he has been stubborn and 
has needed encouragement before confess- 
ing to several fearful crimes which have 
been penetrated on the baron's fief. Be- 
fore the cart comes the provost and two 
assistants, riding great strong horses while 


behind trail numerous peasants gazing at 
the criminal with wide-mouthed fascina- 
tion. Buzzings of anticipation and conjec- 
ture as to the execution pass between them. 
Now and then an awed glance is directed 
at the man who drives the cart. He is a 
strong built fellow dressed in a curious 
yellow garb. His brown hands, blue-veined 
with black crescents beneath the nails, are 
firm on the reins. His face is deeply lined 
about the brows while his hair is streaked 
with gray. Before the village Church he 
halts the cart and the provost prepares the 
criminal for the "amende honerable." A 
candle is thrust into the poor man's hand; 
he is dragged forward by a rope and is 
made to throw himself before the door of 
the Church. He cries out in choked and 
desolate voice, "I have grievously sinned 
against heaven. My punishment is just. I 
beg pardon of God and man. May heaven 
have mercy on my soul!" At this he col- 
lapses in a groveling heap on the ground, 
and is prodded to his feet and again 
thrown into the cart. His anguished glance 
meets the narrow brown eyes of the driver 
of the cart and they fall before their cold, 
detached gaze. The cart jolts on. 

Near the gallows the procession stops; 
the driver of the cart steps down and 
with the help of the provost, attaches 
strong ropes to the criminals arms and 

legs. These ropes are in turn secured 
to the four strong horses which have 
been brought for the purpose. The man 
in the yellow garb mounts one of the 
horses and raises a sinewy arm. "Now!" 
he shouts, and the four horses are lashed 
into a gallop, each running at right 
angles from the one next to it. The 
horses are stopped short and strain under 
the heavy lashing. The wretch attached 
in the middle emits a few strangled 
gurgling screams; and with a splatting 
dull sound, parts with his arms and leg* 
— death by quartering. 

A sickening silence follows as the 
echoes of the screams fade. The execu- 
tioner turns on his horse. His gruff voice 
bellows loudly to the provost and the 
assistants. "Hurry, get the fellow hung 
up where he may be seen. I am anxious 
to get my dinner." The shattering pieces 
of body are hung from the gallows that 
all may see the results of crime. As the 
four men start off in the direction of the 
castle to partake of the feast the baron 
gives them on such occasions, the peas- 
ants and servants return to their various 
labors. One of the women leans toward 
her companion and says in an awed 
whisper, "Adela, that Arn Gamier is a 
man without emotions ... I wonder if 
he has ever felt anything in his life?" 


When slim f-^oem <J^J C^nded 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

I have laid aside my pen, 
And the white sheets, 
(On which I have lived for an hour or so) 
Are folded away, 

And now the blood of a beast has welled up 
Strength within me 
Strange to understand. 

I might reach up and touch the surface of the moon, 
Or bend that maple tree with a fingertip . . . 
Or call to some loon off in the high wood 
To hear it answer. 

I pray for some wild wave to beat on me, 
Some wind to tear my clothes and lash my back . . . 
A savage, passionate tiling has crept into me, 
And turned me mad. 
Standing on tiptoe I can see beyond 
The highest mountain where the flaming sun 
Is hiding. 

Leaning low I can hear 

The earth breathing, hear its thundering pulse 
Beating lovesongs. 
Yes, when my poem is ended, 
For an instant 
I am god. 


Patty Takes Ber JPiace 

By Helen Walton 

Polly is a parrot. She is 
a double yellow-headed 
Mexican bird and truly 
beautiful. Her green body 
is offset by a multicolored 
tail and wings, and her 
head becomes increasingly 
yellow as she grows older. 
For all her beauty, she can 
be the most despicable piece 

of matter God ever created. She is as mean as a snake and squaks 
with the most nerve-racking noise possible. Her spells sometimes last 
for days. Polly was not always this irritable though, and I think that 
she has changed a lot in the last few months. Let me tell you why. 
Eight years ago my father brought home the most adorable, little 
Boston terrier imaginable. Never having been allowed to have a dog 
before, I gave him all my attention. Immediately he won the hearts 
of our whole family, and for eight years he was under our feet every 
minute. He lay under the stove while my mother cooked and in her 
lap in the living-room at night. He went with us to our cabin on the 
lake every week-end and tramped the hills with me by the hour. He 
understood when no one else could. All our attention was turned to 
him, and Polly was miserably left out. She became cross and 
she squaked; when she talked, he howled. And thus it continued for 
eight years. 

This summer Tippy died, and we had his little body laid in his 

favorite napping spot under the weeping willow tree. We 
were broken-hearted. The house was achingly quiet and 
empty, and we found ourselves expecting to find him 
everywhere. Memories lurked in every corner — his biscuits 
in the cabinet, his dog hairs on the bedspread, his bone 
in the yard. We missed his yelps when the ice wagon 
passed and his faithful welcome when we came home. 
We had settled down to mourn when Polly suddenly 
became alive again. She went from one to the other chirp- 
ing and cooing sympathetically. She climbed on our 
shoulders and rubbed her fuzzy head against our cheeks. 
She was everywhere; she walked up and down the piano 
keys singing to us. There was a tender sad air about her. 


I think she missed him, too. Her haughty 
manner seemed to change overnight. For 
the first time in years she failed to squak. 
This was not our old Polly, but a new 
one altogether. She lives an entirely dif- 

ferent life now. She accepts our attention 
becomingly and unaffectedly with an occa- 
sional slight relapse of her ole vanity — 
merely a "Pretty Polly, caw — caw — 

By Mary Lee George 

I dropped off the freight car at the 
Genessee Street crossing. The sun was 
just beginning to crawl through the hazy 
smoke of the industrial district, and all 
I could hear was the rumble once in a 
while of a street car coming down the 
Wyoming Viaduct and snatches of jazz 
music from an all night hash house. I 
lit a cigarette and stood there on the 
corner, taking in the sights. 

To the west as far as I could see lay 
the stockyards, long rows of pens with 
six foot board fences around them. Now 
and then a ramp led up from the brick 
alleys to the wide, covered passages which 
criss-crossed back and forth above the 
pens. It made me feel kind of funny 
to think of the millions of fat steers 
that had started their last mile up one 
of those ramps and had ended, throats 
cut, hanging in a packing house ice box. 
Looking north down Genessee Street, I 
could see the West Side business district. 
The Livestock Exchange and the Stock- 
yards Bank were still deserted, and there 
weren't any loafers in front of the Stock- 
man's Hotel. A colored boy was swabbing 
the windows of Shipley's. Later, I knew, 
ranchers and cowpokes from all over the 
West would flock in to buy everything 
from two-dollar lariats to silver mounted 
saddles costing thousands. East of me, 
up on the bluff, were the blunt sky- 
scrapers of down-town Kansas City. 

I turned and headed down a side street 
toward the cafe where I had heard the 
music. The steak and french fries I ate 
here made me feel a little more like a 
man. I figured that by that time they'd 
have switched the cattle car onto the 
American Royal siding, and I didn't want 
the kid to get panicky out there by him- 
self, so I took a short cut through the 
yards. Sure enough, when I got to the 
siding, it was full of cars. I read the 
names on them as I walked down the 
tracks — Rio Grande and Denver; Gulf, 
Mobile, and Ohio; Sante Fe; Northern 
Pacific; Minneapolis and Saint Paul; Illi- 
nois Central; Frisco; Missouri, Kansas, 
and Texas; and Burlington. I waved to 
the fellows in them as I passed. Finally 
I caught sight of the kid. He had a 
worried look on his face, just like I ex- 

"Lookin' for somebody?" I yelled. 

"Oh! Hi Skip! What happened to 
you? It kind of scared me when I woke 
up and missed you." 

I couldn't help grinning. Boys on the 
show circuit usually grow up early, but 
the kid seemed more like ten than six- 
teen. Sometimes I wondered if Stan was 
crazy for hiring him. You got to be able 
to take it in this racket, and the kid was 
soft, mighty soft. Right then, he was 
saying, "Skip, do you suppose I could 
take off this morning. I'm awfully tired 


of being around these cattle, and I've 
read about the art gallery here, and I'd 
like to go out there and — well, just look." 

"Rats," I told him, "we've got eighteen 
head of show cattle to take care of, and 
everyone of them is worth more than you 
or I will ever be. And if they aren't un- 
loaded and bedded down when Stan's 
plane gets in at noon, he'll skin us both 
alive! Let's get busy." 

We worked like mice in a wheat bin 
all morning, and by eleven o'clock I 
figured we were due a siesta. I stretched 
out on a cot and looked around me. The 
big gleaming windows let in the sunlight, 
and it sparkled against the spotless white 
walls and clean yellow straw. The long 
rows of slick black cattle lay soaking it 
up. They reminded me of patients in a 
hospital ward. I sniffed and almost ex- 
pected to find that sharp antiseptic smell 
instead of the mixture of leather polish, 
creosote dip, and lespedeza hay that I 
breathed in. It was a good smell, though, 
and, lying there in the sun, I felt it 
carry me away like ether in an operating 

When I woke up, the kid was sitting 
across from me. He was shiny clean like 
a dude ranch cowhand, and on his face 
was a dreamy look. I figured he was 
thinking about the championship that we 
had cinched and didn't pay him any atten- 
tion. He had our radio on, and a woman 
was creeching in a foreign language to 
some of that highbrow, classical music. 
Somebody in the far end of the barn 
yelled, "Cut out that lousy racket!" I 
reached over and changed it to the Sons 
of the Pioneers. The kid looked hurt, 
like he'd really been enjoying all that 
commotion. But then, he always was a 
great one for getting crazy ideas. 

It wasn't long until Stan ambled in 
with Pamela, his wife. I never could 
figure why Stan married that girl. She 
wasn't our kind — always wanted to drag 

him upstairs to the Hoof and Horn Qub 
instead of staying down in the barn — 
had to have a box at the horse show 
instead of sitting in the exhibitors' sec- 
tion with the rest of us. Well, she and 
the kid took up right away. While Stan 
checked over the show string, the two 
of them were talking a blue streak about 
operas and ballets and poetry and stuff 
like that. Later on, when Stan took us 
all down to a hamburger stand for some- 
thing to eat, they were still at it. I heard 
her say, "What this show world of theirs 
needs is a Carl Sandburg or perhaps a 
Vachel Lindsay to immortalize it." And 
the kid smiled, just like he knew what 
she was talking about. Maybe he did; 
I don't know. 

We spent the first part of the week 
in the routine way. Up at five in the 
morning. Exercising, cleaning, bedding 
down, feeding, and watering by eight. 
Then breakfast. At noon, feeding and 
then dinner. At night, the same thing 
again. In between times us cowhands 
over the other livestock, played poker and 
shot craps, or just fooled around. A 
lot of the time, the kid disappeared as 
soon as the work was over, but he always 
showed up again in time to help do the 

The night before show day, Pam came 
out again. She told me that she was 
catching a plane home at midnight. It 
made me kind of disgusted, but it was 
just like her. Not even staying to watch 
Stan's show! The kid was busy helping 
me, and he only stopped to talk to her 
for a minute. I saw her hand him a 
piece of cardboard and heard her say 
something about not having any use for 
it now. I didn't think anything more 
about it at the time. 

The next morning we were up long 
before daylight working on the cattle. 
At ten the bulls were ready to go in the 
ring. When the show started we were 


on the run all the time. While Stan was 
in the ring showing one class, I would 
be back in the barn putting the last polish 
on the next entry. The kid took each 
one when I finished, led him into Stan, 
and brought back the one that had 
showed. By one o'clock we had shown 
in six classes and won four. Sunbeam 
Farms led out the champion bull, but 
we didn't mind because we knew we had 
the best heifer in the barn. 

It wasn't until two when we fouled up. 
The kid was missing! Nobody knew 
where he was. That put us in a rough 
spot. Stan and I had to do our own 
running back and forth. That meant that 
he couldn't concentrate on showing and 
I couldn't concentrate on fixing. We got 
more confused as the show went on, and 
we lost a lot of valuable time. To top it 
off, Stan was so mad at the kid that he 
was seething, and you have to be cool 
to make a good show. When the time 
for the female championship class came, 
we still were in a jam. Neither one of 
us had had time to dress up our heifer. 
We lit into her as fast as we could, Stan 
cussing the kid all the time. It didn't 
take us an awful long time to finish her, 
and we headed for the arena in a trot. 
"We'll win it yet!" Stan hollered as he 
tore through the gate. But the blare of 
the loudspeaker stopped him in his tracks. 
"Ladies and gentlemen, I have the judges' 
final decision. The champion heifer of 
the American Royal is number 1011, Lady 
Bess of Green Ridge, owned by Green 
Ridge Farms." It was all over . . . 

When the kid finally came in, I knew 
something big had happened to him. His 
eyes looked sort of watery, and he was 
smiling all over his face — a shiny smile. 
Stan got on his feet and walked over to 
the kid. His face scared me; I wished 
I could get out of there and not see what 
was going to happen. "Where in the 
sam hill have you been this afternoon? 
Don't you know we were in the show 
ring? What do you mean by walking 
out on me?" Stan wasn't yelling like he 
usually did when he got mad. His voice 
was soft, but there were icicles hanging 
on every word. For an answer the kid 
pulled a folded piece of paper out of his 
shirt pocket. He handled it tenderly, like 
it was the championship ribbon that he 
had lost for us. Stan looked at him for 
a minute; then he grabbed the paper. He 
read the words on it. "Symphony," he 
said in that quiet, flinty voice, "You 
walked out on me on show day to hear a 
lot of fool stuff that's not even music." 
He looked down at the paper again, and 
all of a sudden he ripped it apart. He 
tore it and tore it until there was nothing 
left. Then he reached out for the kid. 
There was the blunt noise of flesh and 
bone meeting bone and flesh. The kid 
didn't even blink — I don't think he knew 
Stan had hit him. He stood and stared 
at the pieces of paper scattered on the 
floor. To look at his face, you'd have 
thought he was dead . . . 

When I woke up the next morning the 
kid was gone. Too bad. But he never 
would have made a cattleman anyway. 


Sounds from the 
Scarlet W^orld 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

The trapdoor gave way and I was 
hurtled down, down, and down into mor- 
phine-granted sleep. Somewhere, up there, 
a clock was timing me, but I saw it not 
nor heard its unceasing ticking. Vague 
green circles had begun to swarm and spin 
before me until it seemed they rose and 
rose and rose and upon reaching the 
inside surface of my closed eyelids burst 
and began again their incessant climb. 
A sharp, keen, high treble note began to 
ring in the back of my brain's sensitive 
cavity, faintly at first, then screaming 
at a head-splitting pitch, and it did not 
stop. The distorted, multicolored bubbles, 
resembling moving cells, jerked and 
crowded about the circles until a con- 
glomerated massive form became itself. 
Clearly I remember every detail of this 
figure as if now its indelible imprint was 
branded upon my mind like the scar from 
the heated iron. The head of this figure 
was puffed and bulged disproportionately 
above a drawn, tiny dwarfed body. Eyes, 
gleaming, piercing white, ghostly white, 
viley white, nauseatingly clear, stared 
through the moving circles into my inner- 
most soul . . . And there were no pupils 
in these eyes . . . nothing but the milky, 
white, moist surface surrounded by bloody 
membrane. There was hair upon this 
being's face, black and coarse, and curl- 
ing. The nose was pushed flatly against 
the rest of the face and spread outwardly 
in uneven parts. The mouth — God, the 
mouth, the drooping, hairy, foam-wet 
mouth, was twisted and bent and gnashed 
until it was hardly distinguishable. This 
whole form was of foulest color, a sicken- 
ing hot electric copper bronze before a 

background of coiling inky circles. Yet, 
the eyes compelled my attention, and I 
could not escape their glassy glare. In 
trying to push away, I, in my sleep, fell 
again, and upon losing my balance was 
sent still further down until it seemed 
I had passed the domain of Hell and 
Hades a billion miles. A stinking, slimy 
smell of burnt flesh seeped through my 

nostrils and choked me . . . my body 
wrenched, even unconsciously I knew that, 
for I felt something more terrible than 
pain, more horrifying than physical bruise 
or puncture. It was as if a hundred thou- 
sand spiders and tarantulas were tickling 
my entire body, and silently, schemingly 
robbing it of its blood. 

There was nothing kind or merciful in 
this world. The heat of damnation's fur- 
naces possessed my being . . . the odor 
of stale corpses . . . and the color . . . 
the repulsive scarlet color of my sin that 
would not leave me. 

And the red and the red and the red. 
Fire and blood had never known this hue 
of the color. I fought, cringed, tried 


vainly to call upon the name of God and 
Christ or Dante or whoever it was people 
prayed to, but the high, screeching treble 
note only magnified its intensity until I 
could not hear my own thoughts and 
ideas or hold onto them. 

Then, too suddenly, it stopped. The 
peak, the ultimate climax, the height was 
reached. First, the note — the throbbing 
slicing note halted so quickly that it 
shocked my body and left it trembling 
and weak. The red began to fade. Thank 
God, Christ, it was going away; it was 
becoming dark, soft and dark, and then 
there was no color at all. The face and 
the white pupiless eyes went with the 
red . . . the circles and the fantastic 
bubbles. Then, what was more than pain 
became only pain . . . and I welcomed it. 
I was being swept upward ... I was 
rising, up and up into blessed life and 
light . . . slowly up. 

Tick tock tick tock. It awoke me. The 
air I breathed was cold and sour after 
the sweet sticky air of the world below 
hell. Realization socked me, punched my 
body, jerked and shook me. I moved my 

hand and felt the sweat covering my face 
. . . sweat, and tears unconsciously wept. 
When I opened my eyes there was no red. 
A pale green wall, a white enamel basin 
in the corner, a vase of dead flowers on 
the neat dresser, and a closed hospital 
door . . . that was all. 

I heard the sound of footsteps coming 
closer and closer to my room. They 
stopped outside . . . the knob turned, 
and a white-clad nurse walked to my 
bedside. She was smiling, and in her 
hand she held the hypodermic. My mouth 
opened . . . my vocal cords strained to 
utter but no sound would come. My eyes 
screamed, pled, begged . . . my hands 
reached to fight her. I drew my body 
tense and rigid ... a miserable, pleading, 
writhing body. The nurse's face came 
closer, smiling . . . her white teeth like a 
leopard's jagged fangs. My being re- 
laxed, gave way, surrendered. There was 
no use. The cold, steel needle pricked 
my arm, the footsteps went back through 
the door and echoed down the long, quiet 
corridor, and I began to fall, back down, 
down, and down into the living death, 
the hell's hell of the scarlet world. 



By Nancy Wilson 

The moon was smiling down on us 
as we stood side by side at the back gate. 
It was one of those nights that poets 
write about — the summer night, the full 
moon, and the girl and boy standing side 
by side. It certainly gave the appearance 
of a romantic scene. Neither of us spoke 
a word; after a few moments I turned 
and looked at her. I saw the tears slide 
slowly from her eyes. I spoke very 

"Kathy, dear, we must go inside. Are 
you feeling better now?" 

She looked at me for a few moments 
and answered me in the same quiet tones 
I had used. 

"Yes, I suppose we had better go in. 
I feel fine now, Dave; please don't worry 
about me." 

We said no more; slowly we walked 
into the house. Although the lights were 
dim, the house was filled with many faces. 
As I entered the room I glanced over 
them; many were familiar, but most of 
them I had never seen before. As we 
entered, everyone's eyes rested on us, filled 
with questions. I took Kathy by the arm 
and quickly walked through the room 
before anyone could stop her in conversa- 
tion. The next room we entered was the 
living room. Still more unfamiliar faces 
stared in mine; automatically I spoke 
hellos as we made our way through the 
room. The room was so silent it seemed 
that the smallest sound could do more 
harm than an explosion. Why didn't 
someone say something, I thought, why 

doesn't someone break this horrible 
silence? I smiled at a familiar face as 
I steered Kathy to the place where her 
mother was sitting. No word of greeting 
was spoken; would this awful silence 
never be broken? 

Kathy did not sit down as I expected 
her to, but instead remained standing at 
my side. We looked at her mother, her 
mother looked at us. Suddenly Kathy 
spoke. She spoke softly, but the sound 
of a voice in that silent room seemed to 
shake the walls. 

"I'd like to go now, Dave; will you 
please take me?" 

I said nothing, but merely held her 
arm as we walked to the other side of 
the room. As we approached the big bay 
window that faces the main street we 
stopped, but we didn't see the window 
or the street. 

"Kathy, my dear," I whispered, "I love 
Jim very much; brothers have never been 
closer friends. The love you two have 
shared and will always hold first in your 
hearts is the most beautiful thing I have 
been fortunate to know. I know that 
love will never die and I want you to 
know that I will always be here just in 
case you need help or advice." 

She smiled then and looked into my 
face as if to thank me. I wanted to say 
more to let her know how deeply I felt 
about this too, but what else can a man 
say to the woman he loves when she is 
standing in front of the coffin of the 
man she loves? 


Three Types of Hands as 
Seen by a Bank Tetter 

By Betty Quillen 

I am a teller in a modern bank, com- 
ing in contact with many different types 
of hands. They come either bringing 
money to be deposited or to be with- 
drawn from my window. The three most 
common types would be the hands of 
a worker, a woman, and those of a well- 
to-do man. 

I came to work early this morning, for 
it was Saturday, and I knew the bank 
would be crowded. The only thing that 
made the crowded Saturdays bearable was 
that the bank closed at twelve, instead 
of at two. The clock struck nine, and 
I watched Henry, the janitor, walk over 
to the bank doors and open them. He 
was quickly shoved aside by the over- 
anxious pedestrians as they rushed over 
to the teller's windows. 

In my direction a laborer quickly ap- 
peared at the window first, but not before 
he had rudely jolted the lady behind him. 
He was embarrassed and jammed a dirty 
hand in his pocket. His head turned 
slightly sideways to see what actions the 
lady would take, but she was staring 
nonchalantly ahead. He turned to me 
and stated his business briefly in a mono- 
tone; all the while he scratched his ear. 
Occasionally he was not able to find the 
right word to say, and he would clumsily 
tinker with the buttons on his blue 
overalls. I looked at his hands. They 
were tanned from the hot summer months 
and calloused from hard work. He wore 
a cheap ring on his left hand, but his 
fingernails were so dirty and broken it 
was hard to notice much else. When he 
realized that I was looking at his nails, he 
quickly took a splinter of wood from his 

pocket and hastily cleaned them. I 
counted his money and handed it to him. 
He took it carelessly, not bothering to 
count it, and walked away from the 

The next person came up to the window 
quickly. She was in her early thirties and 
looked like any other woman. While 
explaining her business to me, she nerv- 
ously twisted a string of pearls around 
her neck. Her hands were well cared for, 
and their whiteness was in contrast to the 
red of her nail polish. I started to count 
her money, and she impatiently dug her 
longest nail into the wood of my counter. 
This left a white scratch on the varnished 
surface as she reached for her money. 
Our hands touched. Her's were as cool 
and soft as they looked. She abruptly 
started away from the window after 
ramming her money in a green leather 

"Next," I called, and a plump, well 
dressed man waddled up to my window. 
He wanted to make a deposit, but needed 
information before doing so. His hands 
clutched a pamphlet and his feminine- 
like finger quickly pointed out things of 
interest. His nails were neatly cut and 
filed. His whole hand looked protected 
and well cared for. He brought out the 
money he was going to give me and 
counted it several times. His nervous 
fingers prevented his counting it quickly. 
His hands greedily caressed the money 
and held it in a most possessive way. At 
last, when he was satisfied, he gave up 
the money reluctantly, bade me good- 
bye, and left the window. 

"Next," I called a little impatiently. 


The Lord*s Little Messenger 

By Nancy Wilson 

Years ago when I was young enough 
to call myself an "old country school 
marm" with a jolly smile on my face, I 
prided myself on the fact that I could 
handle any type of child with the greatest 
of ease. In fact, I could handle people 
in general. As I told my family when 
they worried about my leaving home 
alone, some people are gifted by God to 
help others and understand them. I felt 
sure that I was one of these people. 
Maybe I was, but it wasn't too long 
before the Lord himself sent me a "mes- 
senger" to unbraid my self-confidence. 

At the time of my "messenger's" arrival 
I was living alone (usually huddled by 
the old stove so I wouldn't freeze to 
death) in a four room house, next door 
to Luckville's white-frame school build- 
ing. My real home was in the East, over 
one thousand miles away from Luckville, 
Missouri, but not once in my years of 
teaching (two whole years) had I felt 
desperately homesick or discouraged. My 
students minded me well — better than 
they did their parents (so I was told) — , 
my lessons were always entertaining and 
good, I liked my little private home, and 
above all I was madly in love with my 
problem-child's widowed father. 

By the early part of November Dickie 
had become my first and only problem 
child. Of course, I will admit I encour- 
aged him on until finally I found myself 
"forced" into the usual procedure of talk- 
ing him over with his father, who con- 
veniently enough, was the very person 
with whom I fancied myself in love. Mr. 
Warner was very friendly when I called; 
I might venture to say he seemed anxious 
to make the appointment as soon as 
possible. Somehow it never occurred to 

me that his anxiety was for his son — not 
at the thought of seeing me. In a state 
of complete bliss and confusion I some- 
how managed to stammer that Tuesday 
night I would expect him to call at eight 


And so it was that when Tuesday night 
slowly crept around I found myself sing- 
ing in the bath tub, discarding clothes 
from my wardrobe, at last choosing a 
white lace blouse with the black full skirt, 
and finally primping before my long bed- 
room mirror. Who was it that had told 
me once I was too pretty for an old 
school marm? My vanity agreed with 
him that night. As my hands worked, 
my mind was working, too, planning out 
the evening — the remarks I would make, 
and, of course, what he would say. The 
house looked lovely; I had seen to that, 
too. Fresh white doilies I had crocheted 
myself, flowers from the school yard I 
had picked myself, little cakes and cookies 
I had made myself. How could a lone- 
some man resist all these domestic accom- 
plishments of mine? I felt sure I really 
was too pretty to be a school marm; now 
I had only to convince Mr. Warner. This, 
however, was to be the least of my 
worries. I never worried about people or 
occasions; I had no need to. I could 
manage people well; in a way it was my 
hobby; and as for managing an awkward 
situation, why lands, there wasn't a situa- 
tion in the world I couldn't cope with. 
Then like a bolt of lightening, my 
theories and self-assurance were trampled 
before my very eyes. Why? Because at 
that moment the Lord sent his "mes- 



The clock struck 7:45 as I saw a car 
pull up at the school gate. Silly of him 
not to pull closer to the house, I thought. 
But then, dear reader, if you can remem- 
ber those heavenly autos we drove way 
back then you can very well see why it 
didn't disturb me too much, since the 
chances of getting stuck in a slight dew 
was nine out of ten! Minutes passed and 
nothing happened. I was sitting at my 
desk, playing tit-tat-toe on the top of 
Susie's spelling paper. Finally I could 
stand the suspense no longer. I walked 
to the front door, threw it open. My 
mouth dropped open. "Oh, dear Father, 
help me," I prayed silently. I understood 
grown people and school children, but my 
knowledge of infants was only as far as 
seeing their pictures in magazines. The 
little tot was wrapped in four blankets, 
crying its little heart out. Someone had 
placed the bundle between my storm and 
front door. 

Minutes must have passed before I 
came to my senses. Suddenly I heard 
some one say, "My Lord, Miss McBride, 
what are you doing standing here in the 
cold wind?" 

I stopped him by pointing at the little 
bundle at my feet. 

"It is a baby. I don't know what to 
do with it." 

"Well, my God, woman, pick him up 
and get him inside before he freezes to 

I was so confused. I reached down 
for the little bundle and almost dropped 
it in my sudden realization that I had 
never before held a small baby. 

"Damit, give that poor thing to me 
before you drop him on his head." 

As I closed the door behind me, I 
struggled to regain my senses and poise. 

"Mr. Warner, will you kindly stop 
using profanity in my presence? If you 
had a little control of your temper you 

wouldn't have to use such vile language. 
And another thing, Mr. Warner, it so 
happens that that child is a girl. Just 
look at the girlish little face she has." 

"Miss McBride, after the display of 
unintelligence you just showed out on 
the porch, I am very much surprised you 
can even tell the difference between a 
puppy and a baby, much less name the 
sex of this child. I have never heard of 
a woman who did not know how to hold 
a child properly. You really are a school 
marm, aren't you? Over the phone I 
would have guessed you half school marm, 
half woman. Sorry I was wrong." 

"How dare you call me a school marm!! 
Give me that child! How dare you say 
I know nothing about children?" 

I was close to tears by now, but I 
choked them back as I reached for my 

"Give her to me this instant and 

"Watch out! You'll drop her." 

"I will not drop her — leave Mr. 

"Hey, you're choking her!" 

"I certainly am not!" 

"Damnit, you're hurting her, you 
clumsy fool!" 

"Stop cussing. I'm not hurting her." 

"I've reared a child, Miss McBride; 
you know nothing about babies. Now 
please give her back to me before she 
smothers in those blankets." 

He had lowered his voice; no trace of 
anger was left. He smiled at me rather 
apologetically. Meekly I handed the 
child to him. She was still sleeping un- 
aware of the happenings around her. As 
he unwrapped the child, he turned to me. 

"By the way, Miss McBride, I'm 
Dickie's father. In the confusion I forgot 
to introduce myself. I've seen you be- 
fore but never had the opportunity to 
meet you properly. Just lost my last 
chance, too, I guess." 


I'm sure my face turned fire-engine 
red! Before I could answer he started 

"Look here, clean diapers, bottles, for- 
mula, clothes, and everything. Here's a 
note — 'Please name my baby after you 
and love her always.' Just like a story, 
isn't it?" 

Again before I could answer he said 
(with safety pins in his mouth, I might 
add), "Now about that little tyrant of 
mine. What seems to be the matter with 
him? He seems to like you enough. He 
talks about you every night at the dinner 
table. Bet you didn't know you ate dinner 
with us every night, did you?" 

"Mr. Warner, please forgive me, first 
of all for tonight, and next for Dickie. 
Dickie is a smart lad, full of spunk. 
Every child of his age has it — nothing 
at all to be alarmed at." 

"But you said it was necessary to dis- 
cuss his conduct at once." 

"Look, little Amy's asleep again." 

"Who? Oh, is your name Amy? Nice 
name. Like your house, too, nice and 
friendly. These cakes are wonderful, you 
make them?" 

Men!! Oh well, some one told me 
once that I was too pretty to be an old 
school marm. 

By Betty Quillen 

Our grandparents took pride in grow- 
ing old gracefully; we strive to keep per- 
petual youth. Even before Ponce de Leon, 
men have sought perpetual youth — 
whether by doses of mineral water, or by 
marrying younger spouses. Nearly every 
daily newspaper carries such an item as 
this: "Man 95 takes bride 45." Some 
business men may play golf, swelter in 
steam baths, and stay "on the go," boring 
his wife with a younger crowd at the 
Country Club. That man is a success — 
the type found dead of a heart attack 
or apoplexy. Then there is that doctor 
who just never found time for a vacation. 
We have all known the dare-devil whose 
philosophy of life is "here today — gone 
tomorrow." He skiis in the cold, races his 
yacht in the regatta, speeds his coupe 
down the highway. Oh yes, his youth is 
grand, but he never grows old — we hear 
of the tragic crack-up of his plane. 

There is the charming society matron 
who diets strenuously, entertains frequent- 
ly, and follows an extensive social calen- 
dar. During the trying period in a middle 
aged woman's life, her nervous system 
completely "goes to pieces;" she is forced 
to take seclusion at a rest home. There is 
another pitiful case of a woman, married 
to a man several years her junior, who 
regularly dyes her hair, and spends a 
small fortune on the finest creams and 
cosmetics for her toilet. Many laugh at 
her efforts and say, "Why doesn't she act 
her age?" Too many of these examples 
are present in the hurried, modern world 
of today. 

The little old couple we love and 
cherish, our grandparents, are truly re- 
freshing. Their hair has turned to silver, 
their eyes have dimmed; yet their depths 
hold much wisdom. Their love has grown 
richer and mellowed through the years. 


They have quietly spent a life of service; 
it is nearly over, and instead of trying to 
hide their age, they are proud to be the 
"old patriarchs of the tribe." Their con- 
ception of growing old was the right one; 
they have laid up many treasures in 
heaven. Perhaps the two are living on 

borrowed time, but they are the ones who 
have attained eternal youth. They may 
linger awhile longer, listening for their 
call. Then when God speaks, they will 
answer, and enter into a place where 
youth will forever be theirs. The Foun- 
tain of Youth stands before them. 

-A Winter flUJ. 


By Carolyn Mansfield 

Be silent — the snow is falling; 
Walk softly, for the world is still. 
The river's a spear of silver; 
White marble incrusts the hill. 

This is a fragile moment; 
God has placed the grace 
Of silent, perfect beauty 
On earth's disfigured face. 

4 2 


VOL 12, NO. 3 

In my beginning is my end, 
In my end is my beginning 

— T. S. Eliot 


Vol. 12 MAY 1949 No. 3 



Editor's Note — And the inevitable note of* sadness . . . the last word, the signing off 
. . . the most difficult task of the editor's year of work. It is the time when she must 
sit down in the big chair behind her desk and think back . . . back to the scurry of 
Orientation and picking her staff, back to the Monday night meetings, the hurried trips 
to the printer, the sleepless nights wondering whether or not the magazine would meet 
its deadline, and finally the excitement upon seeing the bundles arrive from downtown 
that means the CHIMES is "off the press." There is even more than that to look back 
upon, however. . . . There are the little things that add up and must be concluded 
here, here in this editor's note. If there were time and space I could enumerate these 
little things, but there is neither, so I shall look on to the future ... to next year and 
to the years that will follow. 

Wherever I am, next May, I shall think back to this year and now; for an editor, 
more capable than I, will be sitting here doing this same piece of writing. She will have 
completed her last issue, as I, and will feei the same satisfaction and happiness I am 
feeling now, for her staff will have contributed their many new ideas to her as my staff 
has to me. Those new ideas mark progress, for year after year this magazine moves for- 
ward to become a better magazine. I believe in creative writing as much as I believe in 
life. Creative writing is the expression of life, and that in itself justifies the value of 
literary magazines. The stories and poems that go into the completion of each issue are 
as milestones along the road of creative living and creative writing. Each year, each is- 
sue, the milestones take you a little farther along the road of life. 

The honor and the pleasure of editing a magazine is inexpressable. The fun of put- 
ting one together makes you forget the headaches and disappointments. It has been an 
experience I shall never forget because I shall always be grateful for that opportunity. 
In the first "Foreword" I wrote, I stated the purpose of the CHIMES, to be a magazine 
that is opened with expectation and closed with profit. I sincerely hope it has lived 
up to that aim. 

Let me take this opportunity to thank every reader and contributor for invaluable 
cooperation, and to say, "It's been more than wonderful, and I will never forget it." 



Jane Ellen Tye . Editor 

Helen Walton Associate Editor 

Neilyn Griggs Poetry Editor 

Mary Martin Business Manager 

Mary Louise Buechner Business Secretary 

Mrs. Ruth Taylor Faculty Advisor 


Nancy Wilson Mary Lee George Mary Jane Lotspeich 

Helen Tainter Art Editor 

Nancy Iler Rosemary Logan Janet Zerr 

Hester Bodenstein Frances Mitchell 

Peggy Muessel • . Typist 

Gina Campbell Typist 


Mountain Music, Miller Style Rosemary Lawrence 3 

Man Made Night Carol Kessler 7 

The Case of Muscles and Cousin Sally Kay Bond 8 

From the Notepad Helen Walton ii 

Fog Fantasy . Jean Bloom 12 

Poem Pictures Jane Ellen Tye 15 

Non, Merci! Anne Ferber 19 

Poems Neilyn Griggs 21 

Time To Go Back Helen Walton 24 

Sophisticated Satire Ann Pingon 26 

Men . Janie Lotspeich 29 

Home Again Janet Lancaster 31 

Horseplay • Hester Bodenstein 33 

The Lost Planet , . Jane Ellen Tye 34. 

New York Central Train No. 68 ... . Mary Martin.. 39 

Spoon Style Kay Bond 44 

The Note Nancy Wilson 47 

The Spring Dance Marilyn Gardner 51 

The Eyebrow , . Helen Tainter 53 


"Predestined" Men reviewed by Adeline Horton 55 

The Unconquerable Soul , reviewed by Jane Ellen Tye 57 


rosemary itauprence 

Mountain music, miller style 

This is a true story 

My Grandpa Miller was truly a remark- 
able man. Had he been a person of na- 
tional fame no doubt there would be many 
books recording his life's experiences. Al- 
though his fame was not so widespread as 
to be termed national there are few people 
in existence today in the vicinity of Mt. 
Sterling, county seat of Montgomery 
County, Kentucky, that cannot easily recall 
to mind memories of Joe R. Miller. 
Almost everybody in town had some of 
Joe Miller's money in their pocket, for 
Grandpa was great for lending money, 
whether it be to the town banker to play 
a hunch on the stock market or the starv- 
ing Negro in the shanty across the tracks, 
anybody — as long as the cause was right 
and just. 

Grandpa was the kind of person that 
might be called a "jack-of-all-trades." 
There was very little he couldn't do. When 
he married Grandma and came to Mt. 
Sterling — some fifty-odd years ago — he 
opened a bakery because he could make 
better pies and cakes at his early age than 
most housewives can at forty. As time 
progressed he became owner and manager 
of the best grocery in town. Later on he 
owned a restaurant and after that the only 
theater in town. Finally, after he had 
started each of his three sons in their own 
business, the doctor told him he'd better 
sit back, take it easy for awhile and exert 
himself only to the extent of inspection of 
some of his many real estate investments. 
This doctor also gave Grandpa a diet 
which he expected the grand old man to 

follow. Grandpa tried his durndest to live 
up to the doctor's expectations, but my 
Grandpa Miller was a man of typical 
masculine appetite and soon he grew so 
cranky over what he wasn't eating that he 
abandoned the diet entirely. As Grandpa 
explained at the time, "I may as well be 
dead if I can't enjoy living." So he went 
back to work helping his sons to establish 
themselves as he had established himself — 
something which, I believe, can never be 
done. Two years and three months after 
the doctor's diet — which was supposed to 
keep him alive for the next six, possibly 
twelve months — Grandpa Miller died. 
Many adventures and experiences give his 
life history a most colorful hue, but the 
one that will always stick in my mind as 
being most typical of Grandpa and his 
all too famous Irish humor is the tale that 
is told yet by his family and friends about 
"the time Joe Miller took his phonograph 
hunting". In the following story I en- 
deavor to relate to you the incident as I 
know it must have happened, having been 
wrought by the never forgettable Joseph 
Royal Miller — my Grandpa. 

My Grandpa Miller always managed by 
some endeavor to be the first to acquire the 
latest improvement for easier living that 
happened onto the market. When a pony 
trained to take all buggy and saddle com- 
mands by voice took ill and had to be dis- 
carded by the circus to which it belonged, 
Grandpa offered the highest bid on the 
sick animal and took home the only horse 
in the county that didn't need a bridle. 
When Mr. Rountree died and the shot- 
gun Jesse James had stolen from him was 
auctioned off, Grandpa thought that it 
must have been pretty good for Jesse to 
rely on so he bought it — it leans yet in the 
corner of my brother's den. He was also 
the first person in town to own a horseless 
carriage, an eight-passenger Buick, and a 
motorcycle, so it was only natural that he 
was also the first one in that vicinity to 

own the latest improvement, the phono- 
graph. Grandpa was like a serious-minded 
little boy with each of his new possessions 
and the fascination they held for him was 
long in disappearing. 

Grandpa, although he did not often find 
time for the sport, was quite an enthusias- 
tic hunter. He was an excellent marksman 
and derived great pleasure from exercising 
his skill. Therefore, when his duties per- 
mitted and he found time for some relaxa- 
tion, it was not unlike him to accumulate 
his camping equipment and take to the 
nearby mountains for a week of hunting 
and fishing. At one such time when the 
opportunity for this type of trip presented 
itself, Grandpa had just acquired one of 
the latest new improvements of the phono- 
graph and he decided to take it with him 
as a means of companionship. 

When the specified day of his departure 
arrived he packed all of his equipment 
atop a sleepy-eyed burro, rented from the 
town livery stable, and took to the narrow 
winding paths that led to the heart of the 
mountains. At last he arrived at a desirable 
spot, some ten or fifteen miles away from 
any form of civilization, and prepared to 
pitch his tent. Just as he drove the last 
peg in place he noticed the clouds gather- 
ing and knew that before long the sky 
would loose an avalanche of raindrops 
that, no doubt, would continue to fall 
throughout the night. Grandpa spread the 
tent canvas over the frame, fed the burro 
and stabled it beneath the tent. Then he 
picked up his "Jesse James" gun and his 
prize phonograph and set out in the hope 
of finding a mountaineer settlement some- 
where in the vicinity. 

His knowledge of the mountains being 
near perfect he did not have to go far be- 
fore he found a cottage. The sky, black- 
ened both by oncoming night and promis- 
ed rain, was a much darker hue than 
usual as Grandpa walked rather casually 
toward the porch of the cottage, which 

was fashioned a great deal after a log 
cabin. My Grandpa was five-foot nine, de- 
cidedly plump, thoroughly Irish, always 
tidy and a profound believer in the clean- 
shaven face. He, no doubt, was a most 
unusual sight against this particular setting 
as he approached the cottage with his slow, 
strolling walk, gun in one hand, phono- 
graph in the other. 

He ascended the rickety steps, crossed 
the quaking porch and knocked on the 
hard, rough-surfaced door. For a few min- 
utes there was complete silence. Then the 
door opened slowly, in an agonizing creak, 
and a tall mountaineer stood before him. 
The man was at least six-foot four. His 
wooly, ebony hair was not unlike the 
matted tail of a collie, and the features of 
his face were well camouflaged by a thick, 
bushy beard. His clothes had, undoubtedly, 
been in long and constant use. As the two 
men confronted each other a simile may 
have been drawn with reference to the ant 
and the elephant. 

The dark, beady eyes stared unflinching- 
ly into Grandpa's twinkling, blue ones, and 
with a voice much like the thunder that 
now rumbled in the sky the mountain-like 
human spoke. "Whatcha want?" he 
grumbled, and in reply Grandpa told him 
of the predicament he had found himself 
in. The mountaineer stood there eyeing 
Grandpa, his gun and his strange looking 
box with suspicion. "We ain't got no more 
room," he said, and was about to close the 
door when Grandpa leaned his gun 
against the house and reached for his bill- 
fold. He handed the man a ten dollar bill 
and at once the door was opened, and he 
was admitted entrance. 

As Grandpa stepped through the door 
he was immediately aware of the fact that 
the house consisted of but two rooms, a 
general room and a kitchen. As in most 
mountaineer cottages there were wide 
cracks between the floor boards, and the 
meager furniture present was hand made. 

There was an open fireplace near the front 
part of the room and in the back portion 
of it stood a very, very antique coal stove. 
Hovered around the fireplace were some 
fifteen or twenty men, women and chil- 
dren of all ages. In the corner opposite the 
coal stove stood a hand made, oaken bed 
in which lie a small, feeble, white-haired 
old lady. 

Grandpa greeted all present with a 
friendly "Howdy," but no one returned 
the greeting. Instead he was met with pairs 
of staring suspicious eyes. He walked 
slowly, casually across the room to where 
the coal stove stood and seated himself in 
the rickety rocker beside it. He set the 
phonograph on his knees and proceeded to 
wind it up. When this was done he de- 
posited it on the floor and raised its lid. 
"Whatcha aimin' to do, stranger?" asked 
the man who had greeted him at the door. 
Grandpa smiled a bit, and then in the 
dialect in which he had been questioned he 
answered, "I aimed to play a bit on my 
music box a spell." "Can't have none o' 
that, stranger," said the mountaineer, cast- 
ing his eyes toward the aged woman in 
the bed, "That ole' lady's gotta sleep 
some." Grandpa made no reply, but leaned 
back in the rocker, took out his tobacco 
pouch and filled his pipe. He lit the pipe 
and set the rocker in motion. 

Back and forth, back and forth he 
rocked. The creak of the ancient chair was 
the only sound in the room. Every eye was 
upon him. The men and women eyed him 
suspiciously, the children looked upon him 
with an expression of awe, and from her 
bed in the corner the little, old lady peered 
curiously at him from behind her covers. 
But Grandpa sat there very calmly, quite 
at ease with his pipe and rocker. At 
length one of the women rose and dis- 
appeared from view as she went into the 
kitchen. All others continued to stare — and 
Grandpa continued to puff and rock. 

Finally, Grandpa discovered one of his 

shoe laces to be untied and, with much 
difficulty because of his size, bent over to 
tie it. As he did so he quickly slipped the 
needle onto the record and brushed his 
hand against the lever of the phonograph. 
At once the still of the room was shattered 
by the floating strains of "Nearer My God 
To Thee". Immediately all attention was 
focused on the strange looking music box 
and the sweet sounds and voices that arose 
from the throat of the odd shaped, metal 
arm that rode with an easy up-down 
motion on the revolving black disc. Never 
in their lives had they seen or heard any- 
thing so wonderful. 

Grandpa fumbled at his shoe a moment 
and then, as though in great haste, turned 
the phonograph off. As he looked up from 
the phonograph to the occupants of the 
room he found quite a different expression 
on their faces. There was a hushed mur- 
muring amongst the women and children, 
and the strange noise produced by Grand- 
pa's music box had drawn the woman from 
the kitchen; she leaned against the frame 
of the door, a huge apron covering her 
dress, and a dripping wooden spoon in her 
hand. The fellow with whom all of Grand- 
pa's former dealings had been transacted 
stepped forward. "G'wan," he said, "p^v 
it some more." 

Grandpa immediately drew in a breath 
and with the expression of an innocent 
devil lighting his face replied, "Oh, no! I 
wouldn't dare think of disturbing the little, 
old lady." 

There was a sound of rustling covers 
from the corner of the room where stood 
the ancient bed, and a shrill, squeaky voice 
cried out, "Ain't gonna bother me none. I 
dasent care. Play it if ye will. Ain't gonna 
bother me." The little old lady was sitting 
upright in bed and her ancient eyes 
sparkled with eagerness. So Grandpa 
played the phonograph for them and they 
all listened, bewildered, mystified, enrap- 
tured. First he played the side containing 

"Nearer My God To Thee", then he 
turned the record over and played "On- 
ward Christian Soldiers". His hands grew 
weary flipping the record back and forth. 

There was talk now in the room and the 
environment was warm and cheery. One of 
the younger mountaineer men sided up to 
Grandpa and expressed his surprise that 
the music was of a religious nature. "We 
hear tell that all the folks in the cities has 
durn near sold their souls to the divil", he 
told Grandpa. Grandpa frowned a bit and 
explained to him the untruth of such a 
statement, clarifying his answer by naming 
some of the religions by which men wor- 
ship, "hich one o' them d' you b'long 
to?" asked the mountaineer. "I'm a 
Catholic," answered Grandpa. As he did 
so all the mountaineers began to look 
closely at the upper part of his forehead. 
Finally one of the men turned to the rest 
of them and said in a low tone, "He ain't 
got none". Then he turned back to Grand- 
pa. "We always was led to believe 
Catholics had horns," he explained. In- 
wardly Grandpa was beside himself with 
laughter, but he managed to keep a very 
sober face while he answered, "Well, I've 
been de-horned." They accepted this as a 
logical explanation and were satisfied. 

At length Grandpa turned off the 
phonograph and looking toward the wom- 
an with the dripping spoon he exclaimed, 
"I smell something burning", wherewith he 
was led straightway to the kitchen and 
supper. When he returned from supper he 
found the room filled with people, old, 
young, crippled, strong, handsome, home- 
ly, all sizes and shapes. They had been 
called in to see the ©dd-looking music box 
and partake in the hearing of the wondrous 
music produced by it. Grandpa played the 
phonograph for them all night, and when 
the dawn came and he told them he must 
go their faces bore openly the signs of 
great disappointment. "You don't wanna' 
go deeper in th' mountains," they told him, 

"them folks back there is pore'. Stay here 
with us and work your music box and 
we'll make it worth your while." (Grandpa 
looked at the cracks in the floor, the net- 
work of patches on the covers of the old 
lady's bed, the creaky furniture, and won- 
dered what these people meant when they 
said "pore".) Despite their pleas Grandpa 
had made up his Irish mind and as his 
Irish constitution was of a very strong 
Irish will he would not stay. So, as the say- 
ing goes "since Mohammed would not go 
to the mountain, the mountain came to 
Mohammed" — and the mountaineers came 
to Grandpa. For three days and nights 
wherever he went he was followed by the 
mountaineers. And as he visited each 
mountain settlement the number of his 
followers increased, until at last, on the 
fourth day, he was forced to return to 

Mt. Sterling and civilization for need of 


But he did not return without being 
well thanked in the way of mountaineers. 
The sleepy-eyed little burro was not cap- 
able of carrying ail these "thanks" and the 
mountaineers gave him a sure-footed old 
mule, laden down with all varieties of 
vegetables, fruits, garments woven by the 
women and all sorts of mountaineer handi- 
work. In return Grandpa left with them 
his wonderful music box and invitation to 
visit him sometime in Mt. Sterling. Then, 
as my Grandpa made his way back to 
civilization down the narrow, winding 
paths he could hear the strains of "Nearer 
My God To Thee" as the mountain folk 
joined in with the voices on the record. 
And the whole side of the mountain 
seemed to be singing — mountain music, 
Miller style. 

VlHun IfViade I liqht 


By Carol Kessler 

The rounding search-light 

Haunts the sky o'ercast. 

It trails and softly penetrates 

the thick mists and clouds. 

Old earth below it sleeps 

In sweet forgetfulness, 

Heedless of the city's roar and din, 

Forgetting man as man forgets 

The life of things that is his kin. 

Ah sleep, sweet peace of eve, 

Dost thou encounter darkness as thy light? 

Or must the busy roar of men 

In earth and sky 

Disturb thy natural quietness? 

Somewhere afar a plane must soar, 

Somewhere near a train must move; 

Man-made night without quiet; 

Materialistic time without light; 

Such is and will be, man-made night. 

hathleen bond 

The case of muscles and cousin sally 

(Also Concerning Tommy) 

Tommy stared nonchalantly out of the 
window of the sixth grade class room. 
Golly, that snow sure looked good. He 
could hardly wait to get out and play in 
it. Why, already he could practically 
feel the nice, crunchy slush under his feet. 
After school there was going to be a big 
snow fight between the two gangs: 
Muscles' gang and J. C.'s gang. Tommy 
was in Muscles' gang; so naturally he 
thought that one was better, but then 
Muscles was a better leader. Muscles 
was in the eighth grade and J. C. was 
only in the seventh grade. Gosh, that 
ought to be a good fight this afternoon. 
Then the thought struck him like a 
thunderbolt. He had to stay after school 
this afternoon! Friday afternoon! Just 
because he had had a little fun with his 
teacher, Miss Strong ... the old bat! 

Now he turned his attention from the 
snow outside to Miss Strong. What a 
droop! And he had a pretty good idea 
of what she would make him do: write 
"I must not be impudent to my elders." 
Boy, SHE really WAS an elder ... old 
as the hills and twice as big. H-m-m-m, 
that was pretty good. He's have to re- 
member that one to tell to the boys. Then 
it occurred to him that he would prob- 
ably be there all afternoon writing that 
silly sentence. 

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. 
That's what Muscles always said when he 
got mad. That was a pretty good word; 
it sort of made him feel better to say it. 

"Damn," he said again. The effect was 
wonderful; he felt a hundred per cent 
better. Then through the fog of his 
thought he realized that the old bat was 
speaking to him. "Damn," he muttered 

again because he knew all the rest of 
the class was looking at him; and then 
looking impudently at Miss Strong the 
way he thought Muscles would do . . . 

"Mam-m-m," he drawled in an imita- 
tion of Miss Strong's Southern accent. 
The class tittered; they always did. 

"Tommy, you aren't paying attention. 
I asked you, where are the white marble 
deposits found in England?" Tommy -made 
a pretense at deep thought. 

"The White Cliffs of Dover?" he beam- 
ed innocently. The class roared. Tommy 
slouched down in his seat enjoying him- 
self thoroughly. 

"Tommy," she was really mad now, 
"it seems that you have taken it upon 
yourself to entertain the class . . ." She 

"Well," Tommy looked down with 
mock humility, "Ah tries." The class 
roared again. She didn't call on him 
again after that; so Tommy contented 
himself for the last few minutes until 
school was out in drawing pictures of the 
"old bat." 

Then school was over. As the rest of 
the kids rushed out for the big snow fight, 
he began to feel bad. He saw Muscles 
pass by the door on hs way out, but 
Muscles didn't even look in. As the 
building emptied, Tommy began to feel 
worse and worse. Mike slapped him on 
the back as he rushed out "Sorry, old 
man. Wish you could be at the snow 
fight. Come on over IF you get out 
before dark!" 

Tears welled up in Tommy's eyes as the 
last of the kids left the room. "Damn," 
he said, but it didn't give him any satis- 
faction. "Damn-it-to-heli!" he said ex- 

perimentally. That's what Muscles said 
when he got real mad, but somehow it 
sort of shocked Tommy; so he just sat 
there and stared out of the window. 

"Tommy," said Miss Strong, "you 
know the sentence. Two thousand times 
this time. Maybe that will get it into 
your hard little head. And don't think 
I'll let you out of it either. You're go- 
ing to write every single sentence no mat- 
ter how long we have to stay here." 

"Well, Miss Strong," Tommy drawled, 
"Ah can stay heah as long as you can 
... if you don't think people will talk." 
But that fizzled out completely because 
the kids weren't here to laugh at him. 
Miss Strong simply ignored him. So he 
started scribbling as fast as he could. 
First I's all the way down the page. Then 
a column of must's, and so on. 

It was nearly dark when a weary, dis- 
gusted Tommy turned in two thousand 
"I must not be impudent to my elders." 
and started home. Of course the snow 
battle was over. Oh, well, he could talk 
his Mother out of making him go to 
dancing school tomorrow afternoon, and 
he would talk Muscles into getting up an- 
other snow fight between the two gangs. 
He began to feel better. 

When he got home his Mother seemed 
so preoccupied that she didn't even ask 
him why he was so late. Tommy breath- 
ed a sigh of relief, and immediately set 
out for his room to finish that book 
Muscles had lent him. Boy, was that 
ever good! All about gangsters and 

"Tommy," his Mother stopped him, 
"your Aunt Ethel and little Cousin Sally 
are coming tomorrow morning to spend 
the weekend." Tommy groaned, but not 
very whole-heartedly. That wouldn't be 
too bad; Sally was his own age, and she 
was a pretty good kid. She could play 
football, climb trees almost as good as a 
boy, and everything. He could take her 

to the snowball fight tomorrow afternoon. 
His Mother continued . . . 

"Since you last saw Sally, she has 
grown up to be quite a young lady, so 
you must treat her as one. She has been 
taking dancing lessons lately and just 
loves it. You will take her to Miss 
Hyder's dancing class with you tomor- 

This time his groan held genuine agony, 
"But, Mom . . ." Just then his Dad walk- 
ed through the room and gave him that 
final look; so there was nothing to do but 
to stalk with sulky but dignified silence 
up to his room. He muttered as he 
stalked upstairs, "Some people get all 
the bad breaks;" 

The next morning when Sally and her 
Mother got there, Tommy let an audible 
sigh. What his Mother had said was 
true; Sally had changed. She obviously 
wasn't going to be any fun anymore. 
"Too bad," Tommy thought, "and she 
was a real good kid." Now she looked 
almost like a grown-up woman. She had 
on a neat blue skirt and a kind of soft, 
fuzzy yellow sweater. Her hair wasn't in 
pigtails any more. It was curled, and 
it hung down almost to her waist. Gosh, 
it was kinda pretty! And she wasn't fat 
like she used to be; she was kinda skinny. 
Tommy gazed at her with mixed ad- 
miration and disgust. She was pretty, but 
after all she was nothing but a down- 
right GIRL now. 

Her first remark to Tommy was, "My, 
Tom, you really haven't changed, have 
you . . . except in height. Why you 
must be nearly a half-foot taller than me, 
and we used to be the same height." 
Tommy started to stick out his chest with 
pride, but then he stopped himself. He 
wasn't going to have no truck with this 

Just the same he took care to get nice 
and clean to go to dancing school. He 
even rubbed some of his father's after- 
shave lotion on his face. He didn't even 

start dreading the class until he got to the 
door of Miss Hyder's. Then he got right 
sick thinking about it. Grimly he opened 
the door and let Sally go in first. She 
took off her coat and nonchalantly handed 
it to him. Tommy looked blankly at it 
for a moment; then it occured to him that 
she meant for him to hang it up for her. 
He scowled at it for a moment. He 
knew that he was blushing and that didn't 
help matters any. The other girls hung 
up their own coats. After he had hung 
up the coats he went back over to Sally 
and whispered brusquely, "You go over 
there with the other girls." And then 
before she had a chance to say anything, 
he darted over to the little cluster of 
boys standing uncomfortably in the cor- 
ner. As he approached the group, he 
was astonished to see Muscles standing 
there ... all clean and everything! 
Tommy strolled over to him and slapped 
him heartily on the back. 

"Well I'll be damned," said Tommy in 
a voice that was much deeper than his 
own, "what' re you doin' in this torture 

"Thought I'd look in on the joint and 
see how the peons live," Muscles snarled 
out of the side of his mouth like Humph- 

rey Bogart. Tommy chuckled appreci- 
atively. "Say, kid," Muscles nudged him 
sharply in the ribs with his elbow, "who's 
the blond dame sittin' over there by her- 

"Oh, her," Tommy's tone was disparag- 
ing. "She's just a cousin of mine that's 
here visitin' for the weekend." Muscles 
let out a long low whistle. 

"Damn pretty," Muscles said, "damn 
pretty." Just then Miss Hyder clapped 
her hands. 

"Now, children, let us begin. Each of 
you little gentlemen go ask one of the 
nice little ladies to dance with you." 
Tommy groaned and started shuffling 
his feet. Then in complete amazement, 
he heard Muscles saying, 

"Think I'll ask your cousin to dance." 
As Tommy followed Muscles over to the 
girls' corner, he heard Muscles saying to 
him, "She's a cute little number: just my 
type. I like my women dainty and ma- 
ture like her." Then almost in a dream 
Tommy heard himself saying to the skin- 
ny, freckled-faced little girl that followed 
him around at school, 

"Come on, Henrietta, let's dance. 
You're just my type!" 



^jrrom the I lotepad 

By Helen Walton 

Bursting Bud 

A wondrous world awaits you 

Burst, bloom, love 

And die 

While the world's still wondrous. 


Sallow moon 
Faith pale and waning 
A colorless morrow 
Blends with my heart 
Bled white. 

• • ■ 


Relentless rain 
Patter never ceasing 
Steady and sure . . . 
Can you never be violent? 


Wavering, unsteady 

Shiftless, unsure, 

Lying, deceitful, 


A drunkard, 

Yet he knew 

The meaning of a sunset. 

/«*«» bloom 

Fog fantasy 

There was a slight breeze from the sea- 
She could feel the moist air rustle her 
grayish hair as she climbed. Her deep 
gray eyes furtively gazed with sad in- 
tensity at the familiar landmarks about 
her. Looking down toward the breakers 
which fragmented into bits of spray upon 
hitting the black rocks along the shore, 
she noticed, far on the horizon, a faint 
mist which only experienced eyes could 
detect from the pale gray sky overhead. 

The path she followed was not a rough 
one, but overgrown with weeds and grass; 
much different from the wide stony path 
she had trod as a child. With a rush, 
memories of her childhood crowded about 
her. Memories of the days she used to 
run gaily up the hill eagerly anticipating 
the first view of her father's boat as he 
sailed into port; and more numerous 
memories of the times she had stumbled 
along the path with tear-dimmed eyes 
as voices calling her name resounded over 
the country-side. Her mouth twisted in 
a queer sort of smile as she recalled those 
former trips up the deserted hill. 

Pushing aside the bushes which sepa- 
rated the utmost of the hill from the 
path, she was struck by the familiar 
sights; the rolling sea far below, Hanset 
harbor on her right, and there at her 
feet the barren rock. How much smaller 
the white rock seemed now than when 
as a child she had flung herself upon 
it, cried a little and then, propping her 
head in her hands, gazed out at the fog 
which was slowly creeping in. What in- 
finite peace she had received in those 
days as the fog had softly hidden all 
from her. She had become entirely 
isolated from everyday existance. To 
the mournful accompaniment of the 

foghorn she had created a world of her 
own. Out of the mist come dreams 
of trips to far away countries. In fan- 
tasy she sailed to exotic India, tasted the 
fragrant fruits of the Western isles, saw 
the magnificent castles of Europe, and 
smelled the pungent odors of the Orient, 
just as her father had described them all 
to her. As a climax to each voyage her 
return home was welcomed with great 
rejoicing by the family; and while relat- 
ing her experiences to the open-mouthed 
brother and sister, she felt the envy which 
they tried to conceal from her by exag- 
gerated affection. Often her fog dreams 
ended on a note of melancholy. She 
fancied a glorious death at sea — a mar- 
tyr's death in which she gave her life 
to rescue her father from disaster. Then 
the moisture of the fog became the tears 
of the brother and sister as they learned of 
this great sacrifice and repented for the 
cruel way they had treated her while she 
was with them. 

These flights of her imagination had 
been her only means of escape from the 
noisy and cruel household where her sis- 
ter, Abby, ruled with an iron hand and 
her elder brother, Rod teased her inces- 
santly day and night. Now she could 
think back on those two with pity and 
kindness. How blind she had been in 
her youth to the toils and troubles of poor 
Abby. At her mother's death, fourteen- 
year-old Abby had taken on her hands 
the duties of a grown woman. She had 
run the family of four and taken in wash- 
ing to carry the household from one of 
their father's voyages to the next. The 
woman unconsciously crossed herself as 
thoughts of those two, many years dead, 
surged through her mind. 


With a start, she realized the fog had 
crept almost to the sandbar. She had 
been so carried away by her reminiscences 
that she found herself listening for the 
shouts of, "Penelope, Penelope, where are 
you?" which so often had broken upon 
her dreams fifteen years ago. She stood 
and watched the world disappear now, 
under the cover of the fog, while the 
bleats of the foghorns were the only 
sounds which reached her ears. The wind 
pushed the mist gently. It had swallowed 
a tiny sailboat which had bounced on the 
choppy sea not far from the point where 
she stood. The rocks of the lighthouse 
were also vanishing as the lava-like flow 
of the mist overtook them. 

Cold shivers crept up Penelope's spine 
at the sight of the approaching fog. She 
started to turn away and take the path 
down, but almost immediately she straight- 
ened her back and faced again the rolling 
mist as though it were an adversary. 
"Strange," she thought, "that I should 
hate the fog so when it was my only balm 
in childhood. Strange, how one incident 
can change the deep love to uncontrollable 
hate." Her thoughts raced back over the 
years once again to those last weeks she 
had stood on the point watching for her 
father's ship, long overdue. She recalled 
how each time she saw a ship resembling 
his the detested mist had covered it, and 
she had waited and watched for the fog 
to lift, often to no avail. Her father's 
ship had never appeared. Weeks later the 
report came that it had been lost in the 
North Sea. After this shocking news she 
had never again returned to the point to 
watch the fog roll in; she feared the fog 

and blamed it for the loss of the one she 
loved. Then her uncle had come and 
taken the orphans to live with him in 
Boston. There she had perfected her sew- 
ing ability and was completely inde- 
pendent. She thought of the dingy little 
room in the city where her busy fingers 
flew day and night as she worked over 
the clothes of her clients. She was alone 
there, too; alone in a multitude of noisy 
people. However, there was little com- 
fort in that loneliness. The sunbonneted 
child of long ago had been happy in her 
solitude; the sad-eyed woman of today 
was miserable in hers. 

Once more she looked about her. The 
red rooftops and the old ivy Church 
tower which now pierced the top of the 
fog were being hidden by the infinitessimal 
progress of the misty drifts. Gradually 
the fog reached the point. Faint wisps of 
it circled about her. The trees in the 
background became ghostly pale and at 
last she was surrounded by nothing. 

Penelope stood enchanted. All hatred 
and all fear was gone. For a moment her 
face gladdened; she was a child again, lov- 
ing the dampness and the gray impene- 
trable cloak about her. Then her deep 
eyes lost the sparkle which had filled 
them momentarily; the mournful expres- 
sion passed again over her face. Yet her 
eyes had lost the look of a hunted ani- 
mal seeking rest. At last she was home 
and alone no longer. 

She stepped to the edge of the point. 
The fog did not lift until morning. It 
hid the body from all intruders until the 
spirit had fled. 



by pane eiien tye 

poem pictures 

centered sun 
casting no shadow 
pauses on the skyway 
for an instant 
at high noon 

that wide glass window 
is the portrait 
of a bronze world 
tied with golden threads 
that are webs 
caught by the spider 
who weaves 
at sunset 

black hour 

black as the breast of a falcon 

would I could be 

as lost in your arms 

as is the infant bird 

lost beneath the wings of a falcon 

twelve anthills 

and the watching hundred eyes 

daring my feet 

rain on my roof 

is like the gypsy spring 

tapping her tamborine 

with gentle fingers 

and jingling her bracelets 

and crying softly 


I know a child who loves you 

though you smell 

like the breath 

of a parrot 

spring intoxicates 

the world 

with cups of strawberry wine 

very old 

given us while we are busy 


the willow fingers 

touch the sky's forehead 



lifting her petticoats 
made rustling music 
up December's stairway 


left hurriedly 


her paint brushes 

pussy willows 

You were listening with me 


when we heard March 

reading love poems 

to April 

I thought I saw sunlight 
pouring into a pitcher 
but it was only May 
brushing her hair 
early this morning 

the north wind did not 

mind leaving 

for I heard him laugh 

as he turned 

the last corner 

April has brown eyes 

that are soft to look into 

as soft as the ear 

of a field mouse 

or the paw of a new kitten 

Indian summer 
sits at the loom 
outside her tent 
making dreams 
of gray and silver 

awaking from violet sleep 

late last night 

1 heard June 

in sandals 

dancing on my porch 



June is dozing 

in my yellow hammock 

as I was writing my poem 
the candle moth 
shook colored powder 
on my white paper 
and painted a picture 
of summer's face 


at twilight 

a stranger passed 

beneath my window 


a rune as lonely 

as the cry 

of a turtle 


was I 

to hear at midnight 

word that the katydid 

was back 

in the mulberry patch 

when I first saw the cocoon 
of a moth 

I thought some fairy lady 
had dropped her glove 
on the lilac bush 

Afraid I was 

at first 

to take the honeysuckle's 


in my mouth 

have you seen 
the ballet 

danced by sunbeams 
on the moss rose's 

a blue egg fell 
from the high spruce 
scattering pieces of life 
about the ground 

last summer 

I heard a firefly 

tell a secret to the first star 

but I did not understand 

all the words 

under the white birch tree 
in the damp field 
a boy sits 
making music 
with a hollow reed 
the swamp grew 

God likes best 

to talk with poplar trees 

see, they are tallest 

and they have a million voices 

on every limb 

I know a street 

with a thousand eyes 

that are blind 



through the harp strings 

were really 

water flowers 


in my blue brook 

now east 

now west 

now north 

now south 

the wind has not forgotten 

to dust 

any corner 


who love the night 
weep dewdrops 
when morning comes 

see how bright the moon is 

the rain storm 

washed his face 

very clean 



on my back step 

I saw the lavender ribbon 

dropped by the queen snail 

high on the craig 
where the white rock gleams 
they say the eagle sleeps 
with one eye open 


are puffs of smoke 

from God's pipe 

very much afraid 
I hid in the grasses 
and heard the child 
talk with a green snake 
about God 


anne ferher 

IVon, merei! 

Because of the irreproachable qualities 
of products on the market today, describ- 
ed by full page advertisements in maga- 
zines and newspapers, I often wonder 
what I am missing in life. This new 
atomic age has swept past me at a high 
speed of molecular motion, and I am left 
in the dust. The conservative manner of 
my customs and habits has deprived me 
of enjoying the difficult art of living. Al- 
though I do not consider myself a "doubt- 
ing Thomas," perhaps if I would keep in 
step with the moving world of today, this 
deficiency would manifest itself in artful 
living. Unfortunately, my mind has not 
collaborated with my eye concerning the 
helpful hints of comfortable living, freely 
contributed by advertisers. 

Thus far, I have ignored the advice of 
the Proctor and Gamble Company, The 
American Tobacco Company, The West- 
inghouse Electric Corporation, Towle 
Manufacturing Company, The Sunshine 
Biscuit Company, Libby, McNeill, and 
Libby Company, Pepperell Manufactur- 
ing Company, Ponds Extract Company, 
Cannon Mills Incorporated, R. J. Reyn- 
olds Tobacco Company, The Nash Motor 
Company, General Motors Company, and 
many other infallible producers. The ob- 
servations, suggestions, and earth-stirring 
facts which these companies offer to the 
public have sadly gone unnoticed by my 

If I were an observant and up-to-date 
person, I would not be driving my world- 
weary 1932 model Chevrolet car. In- 
stead, "the bullet nose, and airsplitting 
sweep of line" of the 1949 "Nash Airflyt" 
would have me in its thrall. "Here's the 
room everybody's been waiting for . . . 
amazing more head-room . . . and seats 

so wide they can become beds at night." 
"Here in Nash alone, Cockpit Control 
and Uniscope." Here is the "curved 
sweep of a one-piece windshield, and dials 
near eye-level." "Here is the thrill of en- 
gines with Uniflo-Jet carburation." Here 
is the "softest, levelest ride you ever had 
in an automobile, every whel pillowed 
with super-softcoil springs." "Here is 
the super-safety and quietness made pos- 
sible only by the Nash Girderbuilt Util- 
ized Body-and-Frame." Here is a car 
whose qualifications could ease my mode 
of living, and there in the driveway is my 
1932 Chevrolet, boasting only of its dur- 
ability. On the other hand, if I preferred 
another make of automobile, I might drive 
the "fabulously fine Studebaker Cham- 
pion or Commander." "Sleek and low — 
agleam with gay, exciting color — appoint- 
ed and upholstered to the peak of perfec- 
tion — there isn't another car with style 
of this one. Surely, no one could resist 
such adjectives. 

Now, the various possibilities offered by 
every manufacturer astounds me. Al- 
though the soap which I use is of the 
pioneer type, it is surprising to note that 
Proctor and Gable is offering a soap called 
the new "lifetime Oxydol," "washes your 
very whitest clothes to a new white." Ac- 
tually, white is not a color, but a pure 
shade which exists in all matter. There- 
fore, there are no varying shades of 
white. A so-called off-white is not at all 
white, but an entirely different color. In 
the light of this fact, Proctor and Gamble 
is offering a product which can make 
white clothes whiter, and whiter clothes 
whitest — a certainly amazing accomplish- 

Speaking of soaps, I am reminded of 


an experience I had with several types of 
bar soap, each loudly extolling its own 
merits. Upon hearing that "Now in 
Palmolive's famous 'Beauty Lather' you 
get something!" I immediately gave this 
soap a try, for if "you use it for tub or 
shower for the loveliness all over," "the 
alluring new fragrance of Palmolive's 
'Beauty Lather' leaves you even lovlier," 
I was grievously disappointed, for I pos- 
sessed the same face. On the other 
hand, "Camay, the soap of lovlier wom- 
en .. . shows the way to lovlier beauty." 
I needed only to go on a diet — "the 
Camay mild-soap diet." I found that 
Cashmere Bouquet "odorns your skin with 
the fragrance men love," and "9 out of 
10 screen stars use Lux Toilet Soap," for 
"Lux girls are lovlier!" (Screen stars 
would remain enchantingly lovely if they 
used tar soap!) After trying each of 
these promising soaps, I found that my 
face would remain unconquered. Only a 
plastic surgeon could help me. 

Because of this loud boasting of many 
producers, I am often torn between one 
product and another. Since "more in- 
dependent experts smoke Lucky Strike 
regularly than the next two brands com- 
bined," I feel that I am obliged to follow 
suit and "smoke the smoke tobacco experts 
smoke." What could prove the popular- 
ity of Lucky Strike more than this fact? 
On the other hand, "more doctors smoke 
Camels than any other cigarette." Should 
I follow the example of the tobacco ex- 
perts who have a great deal of knowledge 
about the world of tobacco? Should I 
follow the example of the doctors who 
know a great deal about the effects of 
smoking on the human system? Or 
should I follow the example of those who 
have tried everything and have given up 
the habit of smoking? 

Even the efforts of Emily Post are 

thwarted in the advertising world. The 
idea of "keeping up with the Jonses" is 
magnified to such an extent that it be- 
comes desirable and proper. Use "the 
new Sterling pattern for women who are 
first with the very smart and very beauti- 
ful." Reed and Barton offers their ster- 
ling to those who get there "fustest with 
the mostest." On the other hand, "if it's 
Community . . . it's correct," and when 
"you bring Towle into your home, you 
bring the pride, pleasure, and prestige 
that go hand in hand with lovely things." 
The merits of such silverware have cer- 
tainly changed since the day that grandma 
brought her flatware over from the old 
country where it had been a fixture in 
the house. 

The advertising world of today has 
gone far ahead of the average individual. 
The days of Thoreau and Emerson are 
long since gone. The age in which things 
advertised themselves under their own ad- 
vantages or disadvantages has been re- 
placed by an age in which over-statement 
and vainglory are accepted as right and 
true. In advertising the Concord River, 
Thoreau might have written "Here lies a 
Utopia where the grass is so green its 
reflection can be seen on the wing of an 
over-flying airplane. There are enough 
golden colored, delicious fish to feed Na- 
poleon's army. Come to the gorgeous, 
restful haven of solitude, and rest by 
the lazy waters of paradise!" 

I shall take the attitude of Cyrano de 
Bergerac and say "Non, merci!" to the 
Polyanna persuasions of advertisements. 
I'll take truth and purity in preference 
to the "delicate, natural flavor of All- 
sweet Margerine," "a lovelier complexion 
with Palmolive Soap," or "a pattern for 
happiness" by using Reed and Barton 
fine Sterling. 


btjf neilyn grig&s 

Oh, crawl into the hut of my poor fancy 

You few who feast upon a simple phrase, 

And though our fire burns low for now, 

Our food still but half-cooked, 

Know you that we, of all 

Dwell in a place more firm 

Than all the halls that echo 

Clanking metal and resound 

With tinkling glass. 

Know that around us 

Grows the forest that is life. 

Let this then be our second home, 

An inginate abode, 

And from it shall we gather 

Fuel with which to kindle 

Our poor flame into a blazing thing 

And over it shall roast our meat 

Pierced by the spit of conversation, 

Until the heat has mellowed, 

Changed the flavor 

Into an essence, sweet and satisfying 

Of which we shall partake — all equally. 

I am as a feather 

Drifting on the 

Inconsistency of a spring wind; 

I am lifted, tossed, then dropped 

At the slightest whimsy of my mind 


• » * 


Today I say, "Think no more of yesterday. 

No more of foolish lamentation, 

Dwell only on the things 

That are on hand 

Or on the things that in the future 

May yet lie." 

Yet as the days must ever age, 

Grow gray in mists of evening 

So must the liquid thoughts of yesterday 

Seep through their thin-walled vessels 

In my mind 

And slowly rise to fill the emptiness of 



Come not to me with even one gem 

Though it shines with the polishers dust 

For of it I can only say, 

That it is beautiful. 

Come not to me with just a rose 

Though it be white and crying 

With morning dew, 

For of it also I can only say, 

That it is beautiful. 

Yet come to me if you must with both 

And bring with you but one fine thought; 

For then the jewel will outhsine the sun 

And the tears of the rose 

Will water my soul. 

Then only can I give to you 

One low-voiced word 

Of welcome. 



My spirit trails above 

Like the thin coil of smoke, 

Which presently climbs 

On high and seems to become 

One with its brother, the cloud. 

But with a gust of the winds 

That blow from the darker niches 

Of the gray sphere that 

Surrounds me, it 

Defuses and becomes 

The mists 

That softly lie 

Over the wilderness 

Of my eternity. 


Do you with in some dark pocket 
Of your mind 

Select and rearrange the clues 
That one upon the other 
Will form themselves into a 
Golden thing, that can 
Undo that tightly locked 
Compartment in my thoughts 
Which guards its musty store 
Of well-worn hopes and dreams, 
And releases them from their 
Stagnant vessel of the past 
Into the radiant sphere of 
What may be. 

Who holds the key to my tomorrow, 
Is it you? 


Helen meaitan 

Time to go back 

The boat rocked crazily as it plowed 
across the wake of a shrimper and swung 
out into the blackness, leaving the lights 
of the bay in misty circles behind it. 
Stephany shivered and pulled the robe 
more closely around her and tucked it 
under the cushions of the deck chair. 
The spray was cool on her face, and 
the wind and the deafening roar of the 
engine numbed her senses, and her eyes 
blurred with the vibration of the boat 
closing out the objects surrounding her. 
The sound of the motor and waves took 
her back into a world of several years 
before, a world of growing up. It was 
the last summer at the lake, and she had 
said bood-bye to Mike. She hadn't known 
then that it was actually good-bye, but 
there had been a sort of final note about 
it, and she had not seen nor heard of 
him since. Mike's folks had had the 
cabin in front of theirs on the bend that 
overlooked the main bed of the lake and 
the entrance to the river that wound its 
way back through mountains to the start 
of Pigeon Creek. They had been a funny 
lot — only Mike and his step-mother and 
father. They had never mixed with the 
other campers and had showed a positive 
dislike for anyone who tried to mix with 
them. Mike wasn't so much that way; 
it was almost as if they had a strange hold 
on him. He often sat wistfully watching 
the other kids racing around in their in- 
boards and riding each other's waves. 
Maybe that was what had drawn her and 
Mike together. They had both had small- 
er and slower boats, and the races were 
a little useless to them; so when the 
rest started unloading their boats to race, 
Mike and Stephany climbed the hill to- 
gether to the fork in the path which led 

each to his own home. When they 
weren't going to race and everyone piled 
into the biggest boats to go down the 
lake to find a place to swim where the 
water was cooler and deeper or to go to 
the bridge to fish, Mike went; but he 
never seemed to enjoy it. He showed a 
distaste for these people who shouted and 
splashed the still waters of this lake he 
seemed to regard with a sort of reverence 
and even personal ownership. He cringed 
when he saw someone yank the plug out 
of the mouth of a baby bass or a turtle, 
and he once flew into a rage when he came 
upon a string of sunfish someone had 
caught just for the sport of it and had 
left tied to a root to die. As far as 
Stephany knew Mike had never killed 
anything. Once when she had been squir- 
rel hunting alone in the woods, they had 
met and gone on together. She had 
seen a squirrel sitting in the fork of a 
tree and had aimed while Mike was turn- 
ed the other way. Turning quickly, he 
had knocked her gun aside spoiling her 
aim; and the squirrel had scampered away 
unhurt while he breathed a sigh of relief. 
Then he had blushed and stammered 
something about how he had thought it 
was only a chipmunk; but she had known 
that knowing the woods as well as he 
did, he had not been mistaken. That 
was what made her wonder when he start- 
ed out in the morning with his gun and 
returned empty-handed in the evening if 
he had had any intention of hunting or 
if he had just tromped all day or maybe 
just sat and thought in his beloved hills. 
Several times before, from the boat, she 
had seen him sitting high on the point of 
a cliff overlooking the lake. 
There were other things about Mike, 


too. The follows didn't like him. They 
made fun of him when he wasn't around, 
and they got pretty mad sometimes when 
he refused their invitations to go in their 
big boats and would go off by himself 
in his own boat which he had made him- 
self. But they didn't really want him 
around. It was plain that they were ill at 
ease when this strong silent boy of the 
woods was along. They had to be care- 
ful not to shoot at a bird or tear down 
the beaver's dam or cover up ant holes. 

Another thing that was different was 
that Mike stayed at the lake all the time. 
On Sunday evening when everyone else 
had to pack up the cars and go back 
to the heat of the city, Mike was still 
tramping around the mountains with five 
more days to himself before the dreaded 
weekend when they would all return to 
turn his serene world into tourmoil. They 
had all sort of pitied him for not being 
able to go back to the parties and life 
in town. For any one else it would have 
been boring to stay there during the week 
when the other people were not around, 
but not Mike; he had too many fascinat- 
ing things to do. All day he had to 
work hard around the house. Mike's 
folks had built their own cabin and even 
now, after several years, their basement 
was still only partially dug out and their 
lot only partially cleared. Mike built a 
house in the back yard in which to keep 
snakes for study purposes. The neigh- 
bors shuddered for fear that some might 
get loose some day; but because every- 
body was a little afraid of those peculiar 
people, nothing was ever said. 

Stephany had had company one night 
and the house was full of people when 
Mike came to the door and asked to see 
her for a minute. Stephany felt her 
mother's cold stare as she walked across 
the front porch and down the bank to 
the rock steps that broke at intervals the 
steep trail to the lake. The sweat had 
been pouring off Mike, and in the dark- 

ness she could detect a tremble in his 
voice. The night was cool and breezes 
from the lake tossed the pines with a sort 
of humming hound while the noises of 
the woods and an occasional cry from 
the screech owl played an eerie back- 
ground to Mike's voice as he spoke. He 
was not crying, but his voice caught from 
time to time, and he would take a deep 
breath before starting again. He was 
scared stiff. His father had been drunk 
and had threatened his mother until she 
had left the house. Then there had been 
a horrible fight and his father had torn 
up the things Mike had worked so hard 
to make — his carved picture frames, his 
leaf and flower collections and lastly his 
snake cave. Finally Mike, who could 
stand it no longer, had struck him. That 
had been the story, year after year, father 
insanely drunk, threatening his mother, 
and destroying all he loved; and now 
Mike had had enough. He had gotten 
his father to bed, and revived him, had 
told him that he was leaving; and now 
he had come to tell her. He did not stop 
there, though; he went back further to 
tell her of his love for the water and the 
woods and his one aim in life — to have a 
big boat in which he could set out on his 
own to India, to Africa and to hidden 
coves of the ocean to find the world that 
must exist somewhere away from sorrows 
and complications. And then, to her sur- 
prise, he had turned to her and asked her 
to join him in his struggle to find it. Her 
heart had beat wildly for an instant, and 
she had known that he had realized that 
she was the only one who had ever under- 
stood him and probably ever would; and 
she had also seen that he had looked 
straight through her and seen what she 
herself had never realized, her own de- 
sire to break away from the conventional. 
But she had sat there amazed and almost 
in his power, her mother had called and 
she had turned and climbed the hill back 
to the house. 


The sound of the engine made Steph- 
anys' ears throb wildly with her heart, 
and she blurred her eyes to see the hand- 
some tanned face of the man in the driv- 
er's seat take on the wild hardened 
features of Mike, and for a moment they 
were racing together over the road that 
would lead them to Singapore and Siam 

and a thousand other places. Then the 
man spoke. 

"Steph, dear, don't you think we'd bet- 
ter go back? There is a hard day ahead 
of us tomorrow — your bridge club, my 
dinner speech and tea dancing at Gran- 

"Yes, Ronald," Stephany sighed, "It is 
♦ime to go back." 

ann ptngon 


Sophisticated satire 

Seldom is found in this age of the five 
page short story and the twenty page essay, 
on the same story a critical essay whose 
topic is a magazine in which these stories 
along with numerous articles, reviews, 
poems and cartoons are printed. If there 
were more such essays perhaps Mr. Ameri- 
can Public's discriminating reading taste 
might be improved, perhaps he could take 
more interest in perfecting to a greater 
degree the art of literature; therefore, by 
improving what he read, Mr. American 
Public might improve his thoughts and 
thus improve his life. One of the most 
interesting criticizers of Mr. American 
Public and his modern life including his 
literature, art, drama, music, horseracing, 
politics, foreign affairs, domestic troubles, 
styles, and fads is the New Yorker, a 
twenty cent weekly, which is continually 
ridiculing with subtle humor Mr. Ameri- 
can Public's frailties as a human being. 
Interesting though it is because of its 
polished wit, its smooth prose, its odd com- 
ments, it is, to me, still sophisticated satire. 
As such it should be read with a grain 
of salt for both the sophisticated and the 
satirizer tend to lose track of the good in 
life and tend to see nothing but the evil. 
An example of what to me is this sophisti- 

cated satire appeared in the February 5, 
1949, issue and is as follows: "The woman 
called Axis Sally must be puzzled at the 
serious situation in which she finds herself. 
Almost all she did was tell our boys to 
stop fighting and go home to Mom!" 
There are numerous other such examples. 
To find them just read the New Yorker. 

Read the New Yorker! In so doing 
you will find a great deal of variety built 
around the same general outline to give 
the same general effect — sophisticated sa- 
tire; which as Sabatini used the same 
"happy ending" plot for a variety of dif- 
ferent settings and characters in his his- 
torical novels. 

This general make up of the New 
Yorker which is used for each issue is 
divided into sections and begins with the 
cover. This cover, rarely twice in succes- 
sion by the same artist, manages to convey 
either as cartoons or as straight art the 
interesting, amusing, and varied character- 
istics of man. Only one a year, in Feb- 
ruary, is the cover the same; then it is a 
picture of a man in high silk hat and 
formal clothes whom the editors call 
Eustace Tilley. Mr. Tilley was the cover 
of the first issue and thus it is in honor 
of its origin that one issue a year is de- 


voted to Mr. Tilley who is, indeed, a most 
suave looking old gendeman. 

On opening the magazine you at once 
rim into the ads, expensive, eyecatching 
ones of expensive eyecatching articles — 
the things smart looking people own- 
Interspaced among the ads is a section 
entided "Goings on About Town". "The 
Goings On Department" briefly reviews 
without criticism all the movies, plays, 
radio shows, operas, recitals, art shows 
that are taking place in New York Gty 
for that particular week. It also included 
brief dope on popular restaurants and 
night clubs. 

After the "Goings On" comes the maga- 
zine proper which begins with "The Talk 
of the Town" "Talk" consists of the first 
five pages of each issue. It might be com- 
pared to the editorial page of a newspaper 
although it has no editorials and contains 
rather anecdoted, dope stories, personality 
sketches, and interview writeups; however, 
it sets the tone of the magazine, that of 
suave, polished wit. An anecdote from 
"Talk" is "Inflation Intelligence: The 
price of the Dime Mystery magazine, 
which went up to fifteen cents a year ago, 
is at present twenty cents." from the De- 
cember 18, 1948, issue. "Talk" begins 
with the "Notes and Comments" of E. P. 
White whose name is never signed to it. 
All the information that I have been able 
to find out about the New Yorker staff 
I found in an article from the Saturday 
Review of Literature, "Tilley the Toiler" 
by Russell Maloney. Mr. Maloney fur- 
ther described "Comment" as being "mod- 
est, sly, elliptical, allusive, prim, slightly 
countrified, wistful, and (God help us) 

Following "Talk" are usually one or 
two well written, worthwhile short stories. 
After which comes either a "Roving Re- 
porter" or a "Profile", article. The 
"Roving Reporter" article discusses small 
people and little things; the "Profile", 
famous people and important affairs. 

Both originally were brief sketches but 
have grown into ten page, two issues af- 
fairs. Each takes a subject and developes 
it to its fullest extent. 

After the "Roving Reporter" or "Pro- 
file" come the reviews, "Of All Things," 
more short stories, and the letters. 

The weekly reviews consist usually of 
theatrical, movie, book, and musical ones. 
Less frequently appear the art and horse- 
racing sections. To me these reviews are 
always witty and clever but rarely kind. 
Perhaps that is not the review's purpose 
in life; but such eternally, everlasting dis- 
approval as the New Yorker's reviewers 
spout in their dipt, caustic prose seems 
sad to me. Sad in the fact that men can 
be so cold, so cynical — Even the few nice 
things that I have read in these reviews 
have always been phrased in such terms 
as to make you feel it wasn't as good 
on second thought as the reviewer first 
thought it was. To illustrate my first 
point here is a review of a show criticized 
by John McCarter from the December 25, 
1938, issue: " 'Every Girl Should Be Mar- 
ried" serves to introduce a young actress 
named Betsy Drake, who has an inability 
to stand still for more than a second at a 
time. I was often afraid that she was go- 
ing to become hopelessly hysterical, but 
although she approached that state often, 
she did manage to keep from tottering 
off the emotional deep end. The picture 
has as its theme the problem of an over- 
wrought maiden who has designs on a 
man who wants to be left alone. In a 
tired attempt at originality, the script calls 
for the male in question to be a pedi- 
atrician, and you may be sure that none 
of those trying jokes about bachelors and 
babies is neglected. In her initial effort, 
Miss Drake is supported by Cary Grant, 
Franchot Tone, and Diane Lynn. I wish 
her and them better luck next time." And 
on Christmas, too! 

My second point may be illustrated 
from the December 18, 1948, issue. It 


is as follows: "The Seven Miracles of 
Gubbio and The Eight," by Raymond 
Leopold Bruckberger (Whittlesey 
House) . A quiet little religious parable 
set down by a Dominican who was the 
Chaplain General of the French Resist- 
ance. Written in an unadorned and lucid 
manner suitable to its content, it concerns 
a wolf to whom Saint Francis of Assisi 
has granted the power of performing 
miracles. At first sensible to the dangers 
of this strange ability, the animal is later 
betrayed into employing his gift of effect 
such useless feats as putting on fireworks 
displays and making people fly. He is 
finally, however, obsolved quite gloriously. 
Happily free of embroidery and dogma, 
and a fitting gesture to this season." I 
read the "Miracles" on Christmas Day 
when the ice on all our trees sparkled in 
the sunshine like fairyland and to me the 
"Miracles" sparkled in the same delight- 
ful, refreshing manner. Could it be that 
genuiness seems more genuine to the un- 

"Of All Things" is a section which 
gives brief comments in an ironic manner 
on current affairs. Again I quote some 
samples, this time from the January 8, 
1949 issue: "From Washington comes 
word of a scientific discovery of great 
value to the nation. The Bureau of In- 
ternal Revenue has found a way of ex- 
tracting gold from radio comedians," and 
"Business leaders are optimistic about the 
prospects for 1.949, but they realize that 
the price structure has weak spots. In 
some places, consumers are beginning to 
make a horrid noise." 

The letters are from foreign correspon- 
dents. Every two or three weeks there 
is one from England discussing all phases 
of English life from the House of Com- 
mons to the price of eggs in Devon. In 
between are letters from various geo- 
graphical points on the continent — France, 
Spain, and Germany. 

Throughout the latter part of the maga- 

zine the ads make a reappearance. While 
in the first part of the long newsprint 
columns are broken up for the human eye 
by poems of modern poets as Ogden Nash 
and by the cartoons. 

To me the cartoons are the best part 
of the New Yorker. It was by them that 
I was first seduced into looking at the 
magazine, which my mother, by the way, 
swears by, and I have yet ceased to enjoy 
them although to be perfectly frank I 
am not subtle enough to catch on to some 
of them. Of the individual cartoonists I 
think perhaps Adams, Thurber, and Arno 
in order are my favorites. There is some- 
thing about the witch and the ghoul car- 
toons that appeals to my more cynical 
nature. Thurber's queer little men with- 
out clothes and with puzzling, worried 
faces are almost equally appealing. While 
Arno's pompous figures are bound to draw 
a smile from just such as me. 

There are two omissions to be found in 
the New Yorker's make up. One, there 
is no mention anywhere in any issue of a 
sport other than horseracing. Two, there 
is no mention anywhere, anytime of a 
title page Who is the editor? Who is his 
staff? If I hadn't read "Tilley the Toiler" 
frankly I wouldn't now know. Conjure 
over these two facts, if you so wish, while 
I skim over the few facts that I have 
found out about the New Yorker's staff. 
The owner is R. H. Fleischmann and as 
such he collects a tidy sum of money 
yearly; for the New Yorker has a circula- 
tion of about three hundred thousand and 
a collection of some of the best advertisers 
in the country as well as some of the 
most sophisticated ones. The circulation 
is no larger because of the New Yorker's 
guarantee to its advertisers that at least 
half of its readers shall live within New 
York City. Mr. Fleischmann rules the 
business side of the New Yorker, but as 
for the contents of the magazine — his 
sayso is nil. 

The New Yorker in the last few years 


has become more and more of a legend, 
a legend standing for fine art expressed 
in well written articles. This legend has 
been definitely boosted along by the edi- 
torial staff which works hard at being a 
legend. The editor in chief is Harold 
Ross who has one requirement of his 
writers, that he be able to understand 
what they write, and one of his cartoon- 
ists, that he be able to understand where 
he stands in relation to the drawing. Two 
other men who have greatly impressed 
their personalities on the magazine, and 
its legend are E. B. White, the writer of 
"Comment," and James Thurber who is 
famous for his drawings but who original- 
ly was one of the editors and writers. 
After these the personalities become just 
names to me although it seems that the 
excellent writing found in the New York- 
er is due to the excellent editing done by 
the untitled, unknown, men who do the 
proof reading. 

Mr. Malloney believes that an editorial 
job on the New Yorker is the quickest 
way to have a nervous breakdown for 
several reasons. One, Ross's belief in per- 
fection not as an ideal but as his personal 
property. Two, the number and variety 
of items in each issue. There are no two 
similar articles. If "Talk" has an anecdote 

about a dog, the dogs aren't so much as 
mentioned again in that issue. And three, 
the complex action involved in obtaining 
information, writing it, rewriting it, and 
printing it. It would seem that my 
opinion of the New Yorker's being so- 
phisticated satire isn't all sophisticated be- 
hind scenes. 

The predominating style of the New 
Yorker is still sophisticated satire to me. 
On further analysis, however, I find its 
writings clear, smooth, free, flowing, pol- 
ished. Its subtleties, its wit, its irony are 
never ending sources of interest, thought, 
and imitation. In trying to compare it 
with another magazine I can think of 
none that is even faintly similar in the 
United States. There is Life? It has re- 
views, articles, personalities! Yes! It 
also has photographs and simple language 
that appeal to all kinds of people. There 
is the Post? Yes! But are the Post's 
stories and articles as well written as those 
of the New Yorker? Well — Time or 
Newsweek? Do they have satire? No I 
know of no magazine that is the New 
Yorker's peer. It is literary, intellectual, 
witty, and though I don't like the reviews, 
their caustic remarks, even they are amus- 
ing to read just as one laughs when a wit 
pokes fun at a fool. 

fan if* iotspeich 


Since the beginning of time, woman has 
been conjuring an effective way to make 
advances to man, at the same time leading 
him to believe that he is the aggressor. 
This accepted truth leads to the question, 
"Are men naive enough to believe this?" 
We of the weaker sex answer an emphatic 
"Yes!" How does the female do this? 
There are various approaches; all become 

equally effective when practiced enough. 
Girls nowadays discard the handkerchief 
trick as dated, and go in search of more 
novel or sure-fire methods. Despite these, 
first and foremost is the opportunity for 
advance. This presents a problem; the 
girl must first meet the boy. Aids to the 
conquest are such trifles as bobby-pins, lip- 
stick, mascara, and above all, perfume. 
With all this, how can we miss? Here we 


may stop and ponder the problem of Daisy 
Mae. Daisy Mae, if cartoon pictures don't 
lie, needs none of these aids; yet through 
ten years of continued effort she has failed 
miserably in an attempt to convince LiT 
Abner that she is an attractive woman, or 
even that she is a woman. From this we 
may conclude that "Beauty isn't every- 
thing." There are far more subtle ways 
than Daisy Mae's to attract the male's at- 
tention. Not long ago, while attending a 
concert, I was spectator to an old approach 
that nevertheless, proved effective. A girl 
was sitting next to an attractive but 
strange boy. She asked to borrow his pro- 
gram, which he handed to her without so 
much as glancing in her direction. The 
first try being unsuccessful, she asked him 
how to pronounce a name on the program. 
The result: she has had several dates with 
him every weekend. I do not doubt that 
Cleopatra must have used a similar attack 
on Anthony or Caesar with her cleverness 
and with her wit — even going so far in the 
first stages as to have herself delivered to 
him bodily in a carpet roll, or so says 
George Bernard Shaw in his play, "Caesar 
and Cleopatra". This move was slightly 
obvious, but the carpet roll and Cleopatra 
turned the trick. After further thought on 
the matter it can easily be seen that this 
would fail to impress any modern gentle- 
men. It seems that modern men are catch- 
ing on to long used approaches and are be- 
coming more and more cagey. 

After this first step half the battle is 
won; but it takes sheer force of will, men- 
tal telepathy or what-have-you to induce 
the boy to call. This takes time, as some 
boys are shy, and others need to be remind- 
ed constantly of your existence. Boys are 
all different; therefore no two dates can be 
exactly alike. There are those that are so 
hopelessly boring that all one can do is to 
sit and wish for time to pass, asking the 
hour at regular intervals. A little of this 
time can be passed in inventing excuses to 

leave early. When Knighthood was in 
flower, the fair damsels regularly sent their 
knights out on quests for dragons, witches, 
tyrants and so on, I imagine these were 
exceedingly hard to find, but a brave 
knight always managed to complete the 
task. A shining example was England's St. 
George. To aid in the hopeless combat 
these heroes were usually equipped with 
the superhuman strength of Beowulf, 
Roland's magic horn, or more famous 
Excaliber, King Arthur's singing sword. 

Men of today have none of these instru- 
ments; this makes them easier to cope with. 
Worry over men is age old, and men sel- 
dom occupy their minds with the problem 
of the fatal attraction; this, then, falls to 
women. An often quoted expression says, 
"Love to a man is only part; Love to a 
woman is all her heart." Famous among 
fenagling methods is the blind date, 
which falls into many categories; more 
often than not it results in disappoint- 
ment on both sides. This is a well known 
fact, and realizing boys are timid about 
them; but girls eager to the end will usual- 
ly go. Rarely do blind dates turn out well, 
but a date with Mother's best friend's son 
would be even more deadly, or so I 
thought. I was wrong. When such an event 
was arranged, I entered the bargain with 
caution. When my date arrived, my 
theory was quickly disproved, as he was 
over six feet tall and handsome. All 
turned out well. 

The success of theories such as these de- 
pend upon personal experience alone. Ideas 
on the treatment of men are widely varied. 
There are some women who can hold full 
sway over a man's actions. Delilah had this 
power, and in cutting Sampson's hair de- 
stroyed his strength and self respect. This 
was a fatal step as a man's ego is his most 
vulnerable spot. Flatter him! We of the 
weaker sex adopt the motto of the Royal 
Mounted Police: "We always get our 




janet laneamter 

Home again 

The road ahead was dusty, warm and 
hilly. The sun gently sprayed its warm, 
brilliant rays over the country side, now 
and then disappearing behind a fleeting 
cloud. The hills and grass were now 
green, nourished by the spring air, not 
ugly from shell shots and trampled by 
feet. War had not laid its terrifying 
hand over this land but only on its in- 
habitants. Even the trees with their grace- 
ful swaming branches and colorful leaves 
sustained the picture of peace so different 
from what lay deeply hidden in the back 
of Krag's mind. 

Krag walked slowly down the winding 
road, glancing to neither side. The broken 
down fence that he had followed for sev- 
eral miles suddenly ended, leaving him to 
choose one of two dusty roads. Krag 
knew the way well, for here he and the 
boy next door had fought many a real- 
istic battle. He passed without emotion 
for Krag had seen many battle fields and 
many dead. His pace quickened to a 
brisk walk, for he was nearing home. 
Home after even four months was still a 
thrill to approach. Home after nearly 
four years of death and war, of fighting 
and killing, of hate, jungle, rain and heat 
was a blessing so great he would never 
leave again. Krag thought of the days of 
his short life before, which had hardly 
given him a moment to enjoy the peace, 
the full days of youth. There was no 
use glancing in the past: at the gay and 
happy days, the Saturday night dances 
with the swirling, colorful dresses of the 
girls, the quiet parties at the club houses, 
the walks down the path to the river on a 
moonlite night: this was all gone and 
never would the boy Nick see them 

"Oh, let me forget," he cries, "Oh, 
let me forget!" The same feeling of 
guilt crept over him as he remembered 
the night he had escaped from the Japa- 
nese prison camp. 

It was a very natural night in the dark 
jungle, no different from most except to 
the four men who sat huddled around a 
small candle in a dingy room. 

Outside the red-orange ball called the 
sun had quickly settled behind the sky- 
line. Shadows, showing the approach of 
darkness, were reaching out from the 
dense thickets and clumps of trees. High 
into the trees the last chattering monkeys 
climbed to find refuge and safety for the 
night. Back in the opening of a cave a 
panther blinked its green eyes, getting 
slowly to its feet, and stretching the rested 
muscles of its body. Stalking back and 
forth before the entrance of the den, the 
beast waited impatiently for the closing 
in of complete darkness, for then it could 
venture forth, and start the never ending 
search for food. A swarm of mosquitoes 
rose from a stagnant pool, and then 
they too went in search of blood. Thou- 
sands of jungle sounds which were almost 
unheard during the day seems dto multiply 
in the steaming darkness. A jackal gazed 
at the moon, half hidden by the branches 
and leaves above, and from his throat 
came a blood curdling howl. Thus night 
closed in on the jungle dense and black. 

But even the jungle seemed safer to 
Krag, Jack, Steve, and the young boy 
called Nick, than the Japanese prison 
camp. Every move was dangerous. The 
one named Jack was speaking. The plan 
was for the four to cut the wire fence 
(Continued on Page 52) 



hester hodensteim 

jane etten tye 

^Jhe cJLost J-^utnet 

A Sonne* Sequence 

Beyond the realms of Universal height, 
Hidden by atmospheric veil of space . . . 
Secluded from the sun's gigantic light 
And from the moon's less incandescent face 
Dwells the lost planet, named Deloraloom. 
God, in Creation Time, excluded her 
From the solar system's limited room 
That she, unbound, might soar and stir 
With hind'rence not, nor telescopic eye 
To peer through lens upon her virgin form 
And seek her lustfully through sacred sky. 
'Twould bring to her the everlasting storm. 
She has been promised, lost Deloraloom, 
Silent sleep, and peace before her doom. 


God's angels know the legend yet by heart 
That one day mortal eyes shall find the place 
Where trembling there abides Deloraloom 
A bride behind her cloudy robe of lace 
And man shall lift the veil and cry, "Behold, 
I've found a land mysterious to see 
Where time is steeped in silver, locked in gold." 
Then shall Deloraloom in agony 
Cry out to God or to her sisters far . . . 
To Saturn and cold Pluto, deaf and mute, 
To comet red, to meteor and star; 
Her voice will be but then a weakened flute 
Lost in the music of the aerosphere 
With none but God himself to stop and hear. 


• • • 


Some bold discoverer shall drink her wine 
And suck the nectar from her budding mouth 
Bring to her mortal space and measure time 
And map her with his north and east and south, 
Compelling her to join the sun's round course 
With Earth and Mars and torid Mercury . . . 
Dissolve her solitude and stake his claim 
And plot her life with Fate and Destiny. 
The man will give her some familiar name 
and teach her devastation, strife and war. 
The act will bring him praise and earthly fame . 

"He found a planet, past the final star." 
The angels sigh and wait the coming doom . . . 
Of the hidden planet, lost Deloraloom. 


Through the omnipotent window let us look 
Down on the planet we have labeled Earth . . . 
As easily as one reads the printed book 
We see all life, and death, and love and birth . . . 
We see the newborn babe grow wise to learn 
Of astronomy. And on his bright young face 
The Gleam! And in his wondering eyes 
The lust to search for newer realms of space. 
This carefree boy lies long awake at night 
To watch a lurid moon parade the skies . . . 
His heart-beat quickens, catches, grows more light 
And sleeping there he dreams of that which lies 
Beyond. There in the quiet, four-walled room 
He sleeps and dreams of lost Deloraloom. 



And so the boy throughout his passing years 
Kindles the flame until it bursts with fire . . . 
Nurses his woe and joys, his care and tears 
By vowing himself to win his long desire, 
Deloraloom. That name he did not know 
But sure was he that somewhere, heavens high, 
Spun a lost planet, waiting for his hand 
To grasp. And he would grasp it, else he die. 
The wise astronomers laughed loud at him 
When his wild dreams he spoke out trustingly . 
Yet their eyes now were growing weak and dim, 
No longer held the Gleam . . . the certainty. 

The boy becomes a man, and very soon . . . 

Comes nigh the time to seek Deloraloom. 


He built a ship, a rocket fast as light . . . 
That shone, steel-glistening, in the noonday sun, 
And smoked through nostrils, jerks of jet and steam. 
Glorious the hour when this great ship was done! 
The man, equipt with every tool and need 
Set forth to conquer his most maddening dream. 
Up, up went he, higher than the swiftest bird. 
Up, up more rapid than the sun's gold beam. 
Four hundred nights, four hundred hurtling days 
Found him still climbing. Light itself was gone. 
Something within him pushed and gave him strength, 
Something within him called him on and on. 

At last . . . the rocket slowed and swirled and dropped. 

At last . . . the zooming rocket slowed and stopped. 


Half dead with weariness and pain and fright 

The man let go the pilot's rigid wheel 

And fell exhausted to the metal floor; 

Too tired for sleep he let his brain's mind reel. 

In coma long he lay and could not stand 

'Til hours had passed, and then he found his feet . 

Opened the vessel's door . . . breathed in the sweet 

Intoxicating vapor of this land. 

But was it land? Soft as the feathery clouds. 

Windy the air and gentle on his face. 

Music from nowhere wafted from the dark 

And he thought him dead in Paradise's place. 

The dreams, desires of childhood were forgot . . 

He'd found Deloraloom, and knew it not. 


Hark to the choir of angels singing low 
In voices sweeter than sweet opium wine . . . 
Hark to the cool fresh winds that come and blow, 
Hark to the scent of flowers born divine. 
Deloraloom's high caverns ring with sound . . . 
That echoes o'er the velvet sands of time . . . 
Deloraloom's deep valleys seem to swell 
With heavenly poems in tinkling waterchime. 
All silent sleeping things come now awake . . . 
All nothingness comes now absorbed in time 
All emptiness comes now absorbed in space. 
And o'er the way Light creeps upon the place. 
Dawn, dawn breaks forth on Night's Deloraloom 
"And after dormancy shall come her doom." 



The prophecy fulfills and Man has won 

The prize his youth fond fashioned and begun . . . 

The prophecy fulfills, Deloraloom 

Awaits in terror her oncoming doom. 

But No! The seraphs hush their holy song 

And Light returns its course and disappears . . . 

Vanishes sound from every nook and cave . . . 

Follows the music, fading from his ears. 

He gasps to breathe. He cries last words in vain. 

Then loses hold, falls backward down the spheres, 

And fair Deloraloom is safe again. 

The pioneer adventurer has lost 

And downward into death his form is tossed. 

In heaven the angels sing the legend still. 
On Earth the bright-eyed souls are being born 
To grow and wonder of the Universe . . . 
Of planets that have never seen the morn. 
Yet none have dared defy the law of space 
As did the brave discoverer, who died. 
And none have seen that high forbidden place 
From earthly eye forevermore denied. 
Yet, God has said that oneday man will seek 
To find the planet lost from curious sight . . . 
To take it for his own and build a world 
And turn eternal darkness into light. 

THIS HOUR, somewhere, awaits Deloraloom 
Her destiny, her fate, her dawn of doom. 


many martin 

New york central train no. 68 

"That will be line porter, just put the 
two bags there, and the hand case here 
on the seat. It's the only one I'll be 
needing tonight." 

"Yes ma'm. Thank you ma'm." 

"One thing more. How soon is the 
train pulling out?" 

"At five-thirty-five, about twenty more 

"Fine, I should have plenty of time to 
walk back to the station and pick up a 
few magazines." 

And so with that thought in mind Miss 
Sylvia Wehmeyer descended from the 
Pullman platform and hurried back 
toward the interior of Perm Station. She 
had hoped by taking the Commodore 
Vanderbilt to avoid the parvenues who 
now traveled only the Century; and she 
felt that so far she had been successful. 
One learned after much travel that often 
the truly interesting and more cultured 
people were most often found not on the 
railroad's crack train. And it had always 
seemed to her that could a train possess 
character the Commodore's would far out- 
shine that of the Century. 

Reaching the magazine counter Sylvia 
thumbed through a few magazines, final- 
ly deciding on Fortune and the New 
Yorker. Lee Ingersoll had mentioned 
something that morning about an excel- 
lent article on the fixed ratio for world 
currency exchange in Fortune. Since that 
was her favorite economic point, perhaps 
she had read it before the San Francisco 
conference. Tonight for the first night 
in oh, so many months she wasn't going 
to touch her briefcase of notes. No she 
would read a while in the club car, then 
retire early; and try for one evening to 
forget that she was head of the U. S. 

delegation to the Economic Money and 
Exchange Conference. Sometimes lately 
Sylvia Wehmeyer wondered if she were 
really alive or — not? Perhaps she was 
merely an automatom envolving theories 
and plans, plans, plans. 

Slowly she ambled back toward the 
gate. She had fully five minutes before 
train time. At times it seemed that all 
humanity converged on the gates, but 
now there were only a few stragglers. 
She leafed through the New Yorker and 
wondered what openings she would be 
missing in the next few weeks. Nothing 
looked too good. This was the slack 
time of the season for plays. The con- 
ductor had begun calling "All aboard" 
when she reached her car, "The Moor- 
lands." For one long second she wished 
with all her soul that instead of this train 
she were catching a steamer on the way 
to the Scottish moors, where — oh, could 
she get away from humanity? 

The Commodore pulled slowly through 
the underground tunnel and then emerged 
out in the suburbs. Twilight had fallen, 
but it seemed a much happier sort of 
twilight here than in the depths of the 
city. Sylvia noticed a few ragamuffin 
children playing by the side of the tracks, 
football she guessed — or rather hoped. 

Thus she spent about an hour in her 
compartment, alternately reading and 
watching the telephone poles and church 
steeples that passed outside. Here and 
there a few lights were slowly showing 
themselves. She had always thought that 
this was indeed a lovely sight; just so 
many candles being lighted in a world 
of darkness, just so much intellect in- 
vading ignorance. She smiled to her- 
self. "Of course, Sylvia, anything with 


a philosophic turn always pleases you, 
doesn't it? Come on — for once leave all 
your pet theories in the briefcase; be care- 
free, be gay, be human. Of course you 
can do it on a date or especially at the 
theater but why not give it a try before 

She relaxed and thought of dinner. 
Hmmm, their roast beef should be good 
this evening, or perhaps a lamb chop. But 
she knew perfectly well that no matter 
how certain she was of what she wanted 
before she looked at the menu she would 
turn up having sea foods in the end. Mus- 
ing a while over food, and a few epicu- 
rean's delicacies, she finally turned her 
mind to San Francisco. She'd not been 
there for almost fifteen years, when she 
went for the first time with her parents. 
A little girl sees a city quite differently 
from one of her age, but Sylvia knew that 
when she would catch her first glimpse 
from the ferry through the fog she would 
feel exactly as that same little girl. She 
remembered the cable cars, Telegraph Hill, 
the Cliff House, Knob Hill, everything as 
if it had been only a week ago. Would 
Market Street look the same? Perhaps 
not, but still it would be San Francisco! 
She thought again of Telegraph Hill and 
how brilliant lights of the city below had 
thrilled heir — and of the taxi that had 
waited for them with ticking meter while 
they sauntered slowly around the base of 
the building. What fun it had been! 

She came back to real consciousness 
when she heard the waiter walking through 
the car calling "First call for dinner." She 
rose, flicked on the light, and reached for 
the handbag at her side. Pulling out her 
compact, she opened it, and lifting the 
puff gently to her probably shiny nose, 
powdered it. She returned the case, and 
giving a swift brush to her hair, unclosed 
the door. 

Sylvia stepped out into the vestibule, 
and turning in what she hoped was the 
right direction for the diner, walked 

briskly through the next few cars. Had 
she been five minutes sooner she might 
have made the first seating, but now she 
must wait. To pass the time she chatted 
with the woman standing next to her. 

"Why, yes, she was Sylvia Wehmeyer 
— on her way to the conference." 

"Oh, don't you think that that is pos- 
itively thrilling?" 

"Yes, definitely." 

"Oh, my dear, you don't know how I 
admire you. Why, when I was in college, 
I could hardly understand economics. 
How do you do it? 

"Well, of course, I might say that I 
was born with a passion for it, and to 
be truthful I guess that that was partly 
the case, or should I say that perhaps it 
just grew on me?" 

"Oh, charming, utterly charming. I 
suppose you have simply scads of theories 
with you?" 

"Yes, but tonight they are locked up 
in a briefcase." 

Before she had finished the head waiter 
approached, and she turned to follow him 
as if he were a saint freeing her from 
a prison cell. 

Sylvia ate in peace. The elderly gentle- 
man across from her seemed quite occu- 
pied with his turkey, and so they did not 
even exchange the latest news of the 
weather while passing the salt and sugar. 
She ordered lobster, and a beauty he 
turned out to be. Juicy and delicious. 
Sylvia enjoyed herself thoroughly. This 
was probably the last meal that she 
would have alone for a long while. For 
the next few weeks every night would be 
filled with a different committee chair- 
man. Some would be handsome, some 
ugly, some gay, some definitely boring — 
but it would be exciting and she, of 
course, would be charming. 

While she waited for her dessert she 
noticed across the aisle and a little ahead 
a young man slightly older than herself 
she presumed, she sat quietly and stared 


continuously out of the window. Sulvia 
doubted if he had even the smallest no- 
tion of what he ate, for surely he had 
the most serious and dejected countenance 
of anyone she had ever seen. "He looks 
more melancholy than I have ever looked 
in even my most depressed moments. 
Somehow — somehow he looks familiar." 
She mused a second, but her dessert ar- 
rived and she thought no more of the 

Sylvia returned to her compartment in 
"The Moorlands" and read until almost 
9:00. Ingersoli's suggested article in For- 
tune had turned out to be only another re- 
hashing of the same timeworn subject. The 
author offered no new ideas. The New 
Yorker proved to be of little more inter- 
est; so for some time she sat staring into 
the utter darkness of the night. Then, un- 
zipping the hand case beside her, she 
hunted through the various articles that 
she invariably tossed into it for her jewel- 
ery case. She felt along the bottom and 
pulled out what she thought was the case. 
But, no, it was only a book. She hadn't 
put in any book. She looked more closely 
at the title. It was — oh, joy, the fifteenth 
century edition of the Koran that she 
had been trying for over two years to 
procure. It must have come this morning; 
and then, of course, Nanny had smuggled 
it in as a surprise. No wonder she had 
looked so smug when she asked if there 
had been any mail. Holding it in her 
hands, she felt almost as if it were a 
piece of solid gold only a hundred times 
more dear. She turned its yellow pages 
carefully; had they been brown they could 
not have been more beautiful. 

Sylvia was so happy she felt almost 
like celebrating. Book in hand, she left 
the compartment and walked back to- 
ward the club car. Not that the Koran 
and a drink seemed an appropriate mix- 
ture, but she did feel like celebrating — 
and at the moment there seemed no bet- 
ter way to do it. 

The lounge didn't appear to be as 
crowded as she had expected. Sylvia or- 
dered a Tom Collins and while she waited 
scanned a few of the opening phrases of 
the Koran. Her drink arrived and she sat 
staring into the icy glass. In the morning 
she would be in Chicago, the Windy City. 
Sylvia laughed silently, remembering the 
cold mornings when she had walked along 
Michigan Avenue toward the Art Insti- 
tute. She would feel at home there she 
hoped. All was so different now; could it 
be that there would be something familiar, 
if only just a trifle — that way? Sylvia 
looked up suddenly as if she had returned 
from the dead, of memory; that melan- 
choly man in the diner was coming to- 
ward her. 

"Pardon me, I hope I'm not intruding, 
but seeing you with that book I thought 
that perhaps I'd found a friend." 

"Why, surely, won't you sit down? "It 
was this same sad man. His eyes seemed 
now to hold the slight ray of a smile. 
Strange! such a handsome face, but how 
torn by emotion. 

"You are Sylvia Wehmeyer, aren't 
you? I am Mathew Alexander, assistant 
to the late — 

"Mathew Alexander — of course, I re- 
member, Dr. Cobb's assistant. I was al- 
most heart-broken at his death. I've al- 
ways felt that his, your work is one of 
the most splendid volumes of our time. 
I first knew him when he was a professor 
at Oxford. As he was something of an 
exchange teacher and I an exchange stu- 
dent, we became quite well acquainted. It 
was he who always planned my weekend 
excursions in the country. I had always 
hoped that he considered me as one of his 
friends; I could never have wished for a 
better one. I last saw him at a tea in 
Boston. He went to great lengths to tell 
me about your latest troubles with the 
book — and how dearly he wished to live 
until it was finished. 

"Doctor has told me about you so 


often that I do believe that there is as 
much of you in our Essentials as either 
one of us. He sincerely hoped that we 
might become acquainted — strange that it 
should be here." 

Now Sylvia remembered, Mathew Alex- 
ander! A beaten young man whom she 
had caught only a glimpse of at the fu- 
neral. Many times Dr. Cobb had been to 
see her at her office, at home, but Mathew 
was either working at the time or doing 
research at some obscure place out of 
town. And, of course, their work had al- 
ways centered in Boston while she rarely 
got away from New York. 

This was Mathew, the subject of so 
much concern after Dr. Cobb's death. She 
understood now why his face was so hag- 
gard. He had almost killed himself finish- 
ing their book, trying to get it in the 
hands of the publishers before the world 
had gone too far for even religion. Ma- 
thew had for ten years been Dr. Cobb's 
constant companion. He had looked upon 
him as a father. Little wonder that Cobb's 
death had almost killed him, too. The 
last she had heard was that he was ill, 
and indeed he looked almost that now. 
Perhaps, though, he may have recovered 
in these past few weeks since the book 
had been published. 

"You are going to San Francisco, are 
you not?" Mathew asked. And he seemed 
to have a way of asking that would have 
made her almost wish she were going 
wherever he might say. 

"Why, yes," she answered. "And to 
what parts are you headed?" 

"I am going" and then he seemed to 
lose himself in his mind, in space; for a 
few long minutes he sat staring before 
him as if Sylvia, the car, the windows had 
nothing material about them. Finally he 
recovered, a bit bewildered at first, then 
looking at Sylvia if not as a comrade in 
arms as one in beliefs he began to talk. 

"I am going to return to the college 
that I first attended, the one which ante- 

dates all that I am now — or to a few 
months ago was. 'Twas there, before I 
came East, before I met Dr. Cobb that 
I first picked up the thread that has un- 
raveled into my life. I studied the Koran; 
in fact it was the first real taste that I 
had had of cultural beliefs. Of course, 
before I went there I had had experience 
with nature — and enough to believe, but 
actually it was there that I found the 
primary cause. You wonder why I am 
returning; that is why. I have lost my 
way — that is all, no more, no less." 

To this Sylvia could say very little, but 
being encouraged by the other's frank- 
ness she turned their thought on to other 
channels. They touched religion, art, 
philosophy, poetry, literature, all the things 
that naturally run through hyper-sensitive 
minds. Sylvia told some of her pet the- 
ories, Mathew spoke of mankind and 
humanity as if he himself had been twice- 
born. They talked on and on much as two 
interested students under the same pro- 
fessor talk of things said and done. To 
them there was no world of reality, only 
the world of the intellect. 

The club car was now almost empty 
except, of course, for a few waiters sweep- 
ing or washing the table tops. The bar- 
tender was cleaning the bar, clinking bot- 
tles as he put them away in the cabi- 
nets. The ice that had long ago become 
no more than cold water was poured into 
buckets. Straightening the bar was not an 
uninteresting task, and the bartender ap- 
peared to be enjoying himself. He lifted 
the bottles to inspect their contents. 
"Nothing like what Joe uses on the Cen- 
tury," he muttered. "Guess my substan- 
tial customers haven't as many troubles 
as his." He flipped the dial on the radio. 
Another station going off the air, and he 
had had about enough of "The Star 
Spangled Banner." It was far past mid- 
night. But all this made little difference 
to Sylvia and Mathew, who might have 


been as easily transported to a mountain 
top, and indeed they may have been. 

"Mathew, is it true that your book was 
only a little more than half finished at 
the time of Doctor's death?" 

"Yes, I had the outlines and the notes 
on most of the rest but as for actual writ- 
ing I suppose the last half is my work. 
I'm sorry that it's not as good as the 

"But Mathew, I believe — that it's — bet- 

"After Doctor's death I couldn't work, 
but then following the funeral I began 
again to look at the unfinished manu- 
script. Almost as if a spirit were guiding 
me I knew exactly what to do, and how 
to say everything that had before been so 
hard to put into words. I worked at light- 
ning speed. But when I finished I was 
alone and lost. For weeks I've felt empty, 
as if I had no friend. But this morning 
when I awoke it seemed that something, 
I know not what, had returned. And 
though, of course, there was still that 
deep sense of lonliness, a certain quan- 
tity of calm had pervaded my soul. And 
now tonight — perhaps what I write is 
actually true." 

Sylvia smiled. Mathew! She had never 
known that the world produced such as 
he. She looked toward the window. Rain 
was pitching itself against it, and up to 
that point neither of them had even no- 
ticed it. How strange! There were bits 
of lightning piercing the darkness. Had 
they been watching this storm from its be- 
ginning it would not have seemed of a 
sudden so eerie. Now it appeared as if the 
whole world were experiencing terror 
while they were completely immune. As 
safe as those high in a building watch- 
ing a riot in the street below. They sat 
for a few moments watching the fields 
outside, seeing them only when they were 
illumined by the electric flashes. Both 
were awed, too confused to speak. It 
seemed that a spirit had walked between 

them as two and spoken of that cer- 
tain ethereal quality, life. 

Mathew turned and gazed at Sylvia, 
"Perhaps," he began, but he never fin- 

The bright sun shining into her berth 
woke Sylvia the next morning. She thought 
immediately of Mathew. She would al- 
ways have sun in her eyes just as long as 
she insisted upon going to sleep watch- 
ing the stars — and sorry to say, that 
necessitated the shade's being up. The 
whole landscape looked greener this morn- 
ing. At first she would have said, "but, 
of course, the rain," then she wondered 

She dressed quickly — only twenty min- 
utes until their breakfast date — and 
trains made dressing so almost impos- 
sible. Sylvia shut the last lock on her 
suitcase at 7:58, even if someone were 
holding the doors between cars all the 
way she couldn't walk through three cars 
in two minutes. Her "sea-legs" hadn't 
come back to her yet. She would prob- 
ably have them back by the time she 
reached San Francisco, but what good 
would they be to her then? 

Mathew was already seated when Sylvia 
came into the diner. He looked happier, 
she thought, probably because he was 
getting nearer Chicago and the end of 
his trip. They had an excellent breakfast, 
Sylvia's favorite, wheat cakes and maple 
syrup. Mathew chatted about various 
topics, the scenery outside, what time they 
would be in Chicago, Sylvia's taking the 
El Capitan to the coast, what she in- 
tended to do in California, and other 

early morning pleasantries. 

About nine they parted, making indefi- 
nite plans to meet for a publisher's din- 
ner in the East a few months off. Sylvia 
said goodbye, feeling quite unable to ex- 
press how pleased she was that they had 
finally met. She walked back toward her 
compartment to get her things in order. 

The Commodore was already pulling into 
the railroad yards. The porter had put 
her luggage on the platform and Sylvia 
was ready to descend the second the train 
stopped. "Le Salle Street Station." Sylvia 
pulled her hat on just a bit more. The 
"wind," she thought to serself, and 
stepped down. 

Sylvia was already disappearing through 
the crowds when Mathew stepped to the 
platform of his Pullman. He hurried over 
to the passenger agent. 

"Will I have any difficulty getting on 
the El Capitan, Santa Fe, this afternoon?" 

"No, sir, you'll have no trouble at all." 

kt§y bond 



By way of introduction, I just want to 
say that my name is Elaine Morgan; and 
I live in Sikesville, West Virginia. That 
doesn't really matter though, because this 
isn't my story. This is Janie's story . . . 
Janie West, my best friend. We grew up 
together; so naturally I know her pretty 
well. That is, I claim to know her pretty 
well, but one thing I'll have to admit — 
I never am quite sure what she'll do next. 
Janie's a funny girl, crazy as they come 
and lots of fun. She's one of the friendli- 
est people I've ever known, and I can re- 
member how she always used to speak to 
everyone she knew and sometimes even 
people she didn't know. That, however 
was because she was near-sighted and 
could never tell for sure whether she 
knew people or not until they got close 
up. Her idea about that was, as she 
used to say, it's better to speak to a 

stranger than to speak to a friend. 

Janie was never serious very long about 
anything, that is, except nursing. As 
long as I've known her, she has always 
declared that if he didn't ever do anything 
else, she was determined to be a nurse. 
So after we graduated from high school 
a couple of years ago, no one was par- 
ticularly surprised when Janie immedi- 
ately enrolled in Vanderbilt School of 
Nursing. Evelyn, one of the girls in our 
crowd, followed Janie's lead, and to- 
gether they invaded the hospital. Evelyn 
did all right and passed, but Janie simply 
took the place by storm and went straight 
to the head of the class. 

Last time I saw Janie was this spring 
when she and Evelyn were at home for 
Easter. But I haven't heard from her 
since then — not, that is, until her letter 
came yesterday. As I said before, I 


never know quite what to expect from 
Janie. But here's the letter I got yester- 
day so you can see what I mean about 

Dearest Elaine, 

These last two months have been so 
busy, I simply haven't had time to write. 
First there were exams, then graduation. 
(Please be impressed; I am now officially 
a trained nurse, R. N.) But the most 
interesting thing of all is my latest faux 
pas. Remember how I used to be con- 
tinually mistaking a stranger for someone 
I knew because of my nearsightedness? 
My latest mistaken identity could hardly 
be attributed to bad eyes. I think maybe, 
it was just fate. Anyway, here's the way 
it happened. And sit down when you 
read this, Honey, cause it's really one for 
the books. 

As you no doubt remember, when we 
(Ev and I) got on the train to come 
back from Easter vacation, it was freez- 
ing cold and black as the ace of spades. 
I guess it must have been about midnight 
when the train finally pulled out. Any- 
way, Ev was sleepy so we decided to turn 
in right away. Sleeping was anothir 
thing, though. Ev and I were sharing 
a lower, and the train was jerking, and 
it was freezing cold; and all in all any 
chances of getting sleep were yuite slim. 
Well, I decided to get up and go into 
the ladies' room to smoke a cigarette. As 
you know, Ev never did start smoking, 
so she decided she'd stay there and make 
a futile effort to get to sleep. As I was 

crawling out, she asked me if I knew 
the number of the berth. 

"Yeah," I said, "Number Six." "No, 
you idiot," she laughed. "Number eight." 
Oh well, I never could remember num- 
bers. So I hopped out and pattered into 
the ladies' room bare-footed. I guess I 
hadn't packed my bedroom slippers. 
About half-way through that cigarette, 
my feet began to turn blue. As I was 
shaking all over and my teeth were chat- 
tering so much I kept biting the cigarette, 
I took stock of the situation and decided 
I must be cold. Having made this marvel- 
ous deduction, I started back for that 
cold berth and Ev. I counted the num- 
bers as I passed them. 

"One, two, three, four, five, six — ah, 
here we are," I said to myself. "Now, 
why on earth did Ev button up the cur- 
tain when she knew I was coming right 
back? By this time I was shivering so 
hard you could practically hear me; so I 
simply pulled up the heavy curtains and 
climbed in. Heavens, I was about to 
freeze. Ev didn't move, so I punched her 
with my elbow and whispered loudly, "I'm 
cold. Let's sleep spoon-style." She turn- 
ed over and there was a omunous silence. 
"Evelyn," I repeated, "I'm cold. Let's 
sleep spoon-style. 

Then everything happened at once. 
Suddenly, I sensed tha something was 
wrong. In a split second Evelyn's words 
of a few minutes ago shot through my 
mind — "Not number six, idiot. Number 
eight." The figure beside me moved 
again, I gasped, and then I felt a large, 


smothering hand covering my mouth. I 
tried to scream but I couldn't. I was 
paralyzed with an uncontrollable horror. 

And then a man's voice, strangely 
gently and slightly amused, said, "I'll 
take my hand off your mouth when you 
decide not to scream. You've gotten in 
the wrong berth." I half relaxed. Then, 
"Now climb out and run along to your 
own berth, little girl." Well, you can 
imagine I wasted no time in doing ex- 
actly that. As I plunged out of number 
six, I heard the occupant laughing softly 
to himself, but as you can guess I was 
hardly amused myself. Chalk that us 
as one of my biggest mistakes as to 

But that isn't all. The next morning 
Ev and I were eating cold eggs and 
burt bacon in the dining car when young 
men walked through. I happened to be 
sitting by the aisle; so I got a pretty good 
view of them as they approached. They 
were all nice looking boys — about twenty- 
two or twenty-three, I'd say. One of 
them I noticed particularly. He was darl- 
ing looking. He was about six feet, with 
a divine build, dark curly hair, and eyes 
that I guessed to be gray (though I 
couldn't see them very well) . 

"Hm-m-m," I thought to myself, "him 
for me." The boy that I had my eye 
on didn't even look my way, however, 
and I turned my attention back to my 
breakfast. Then it happened. Just as 
they passed my table the above mentioned 
young man reached down and without a 
word took one of the spoons that was 
beside my plate and placed it on top of 
another. Talk about being embarrassed 
— I nearly went through the floor. But 
when I turned back around he did not 
even look back but went right on talking 
to his companions. Chalk another one up 
for Janie. What a train ride. 

But back at the hospital, routine made 
me forget the incidents on the train. Only 
two months til exams and graduation — so 

life was pretty usual for a while. But 
you know me; I couldn't keep on having 
a routine life for long. I'm just not the 
type. Exactly one week after I had gotten 
back to school, life became un-routine 

Ev and I had been eating lunch in the 
cafeteria they have here for the doctors, 
nurses, interns, and student nurses. Ev 
had gone because she had a class, and I 
was just enjoying my after-lunch cigar- 
ette before going to the charity ward. A 
bunch of interns walked in, but I didn't 
pay any attention to them until one of 
them detached himself from the rest and 
started over in my direction. As I 
looked down at the table, I saw out of 
the corner of my eye that he was coming 
over to me. When he stopped at my 
table, I sensed, rather than saw, that he 
was smiling down at me. I don't know 
why I didn't look up. I simply sat there 
and watched his hands as they took one 
of the spoons that was on the table and 
placed it on top of another. For an 
eternity I blushed all possible shades of 
red. Then, deciding to try to be casual 
about the whole thing, I looked up at 
him. That did It. I know I always said 
I didn't believe in love at first sight, 
but forget it. He smiled and asked if 
he might sit down with me. I think I 
managed to gasp a weak yes. 

Then he started apologizing like mad 
for embarrassing me so much. We sat 
there and talked a long time. His name, 
he told me, was Jimmy Crutchfield, he 
was from Cartersville (just think — fifty- 
two miles from home) . He was about 
to finish his interneship here at Vander- 

Well, it would take too much time to 
tell you all about him, but I had a date 
with him that night, and the next, and 
the next, and so on into the present. 
Elaine, he's the most wonderful man in 
the world and is going to be the most 
wonderful doctor. And he has informed 


me that he will very likely have a nurse 
to be his assistant. 

Anyway, to make a long story short — 
as of day before yesterday at graduation 

I am a registered nurse. And, as of yes- 
terday I am 

Your ever loving, 
Janie (Mrs. James B.) Crutchfield 

nanvif wii&on 


The note 

I'm going to die. Yes, in thirty min- 
utes I'm to die in the electric chair so 
that the public will be minus one "enemy 
fjf£ of society". I haven't thought about it 
all day, at least not until the guard 
brought me this paper and pencil to write 
my "farewell note" on, but now I can't 
help thinking about it. If only I didn't 
have to be reminded of the awful truth 
— that I have no loved ones to say good- 
bye to — no sister, wife, mother, sweetheart, 
not anybody except the gang. The gang, 
all my dear companions who loved me so 
much they didn't ever bother to come to 
the trial. Well, that's all over now; so 
what difference does it make which one of 
us dies? It might as well be me this 
time instead of next time. 

I haven't anything to write about my- 
self; I guess I've always been rotten, no 
good, and so on down the list; I won't 
bother to write it down. I'm no good at 
fancy story writing anyway, but I am go- 
ing to try my best to tell you a story 
about the most beautiful thing I've ever 
seen happen in my short but exciting 

About one year ago I was transferred 
to the state pen to wait for my execution. 
Lord knows it's no fancy place, but I 
looked forward to seeing new faces, new 
walls, and new bars. Especially I wanted 


to meet new people in my one last year; 
so I guess I was awful damn friendly for 
a convict on my first day. Some of the 
fellows joked around with me, everyone 
was pretty swell, but the one guy who 
lived in the little "apartment" next to me 
especially caught my attention — not be- 
cause of his jokes or wit, but because he 
looked and acted like a perfect gentleman. 
Yeah, George was sure young to be in 
here for a murder rap; I guessed his age 
as around thirty. Anyway, he was young, 
handsome, and even kinda suave in his 
own way. 

A couple of mornings later I found out 
from some of the other guys that my 
friend, George, had only a little over 
two months to live. No wonder the poor 
guy was so quiet and reserved — he was 
probably shaky and nervous. That after- 
noon I was sent for by my new psychia- 
trist, those damn nosey guys who butt in 
on all your personal business. I stalked 
into the office only to find a gorgeous 
little number about twenty-five years old 
sitting behind a desk four times her size. 
She looked nervous, like she was scared 
of being alone with a convict, but I soon 
found out it was her first case since she 
had gotten her degree. This could prove 
interesting, I thought, as I sat down in 
the big easy chair. Imagine a good look- 
ing doll like her inside these barren four 

When I got back to my cell I raved on 
and on about my Doctor Reed. Everyone 
thought I was crazy, raving over a prison 
official, but when George got back from 
his interview I could tell he felt the same 
as I did. The only difference between us 
two was that he didn't blow off the mouth 
like I did about her. "She's damn pretty, 
ain't she?" I said. 

"Yeah," he answered, "and only 29 
years old." 

I left him alone then, as I did many 
times after that, while he stared moodily 
into space. 

I don't know much about their meetings 
after that; George never had anything to 
tell about them, but I could tell by the 
why he acted and the way he looked that 
he was happier, more content, even in 
these terrible four walls. Dr. Reed was 
different too — more at ease, more willing 
to be friendly, more everything. I wasn't 
so dumb that I couldn't tell something 
had happened between those two. I 
wasn't the only one who noticed either; 
the warden and his crew seemed to take 
a sudden interest in my two friends, 
watching every step they made. I wouldn't 
doubt if they even peeked in on their 
meetings a few times. That was all right 
too, because Kathryn (Dr. Reed) told me 
later that there was never a word spoken 
between them that didn't have something 
to do with his case. 

The only catch was that time was get- 
ting short for George, less than two 
months in fact. Kathryn knew this too, 
and because of this she tried her best to 
make him talk. I've never seen a person 
more convinced of another person's in- 
nocence than she was of George's, and 
the funny part of it was that I felt the 
same way. She tried every rule and 
method she ever learned in her text books, 
and a few of her own, but George didn't 
want to tell anyone his story. 

"Read the papers, they have the whole 
story," he'd say and then turn his back 
to her. 

He was so proud, so stubborn. Didn't 
the fool realize she was in love with him, 
wanted to help him? 

George was no fool, however. He could 
see the guards watch him when he walked 
into her office, laughing behind his back. 
One night I saw him write a little note 
and ask the guard to take it to the ward- 
en. After supper I found out what it 

About seven o'clock the guard came 
and told me that Dr. Reed wished to see 
me at once. I was puzzled but mightily 


pleased. I found the poor kid in tears, 
sitting behind that huge desk of hers. 
When she saw me, she tried to compose 
herself, and naturally I acted as if I 
didn't notice those tears. 

"You wanted to see me, Doctor?" I 
said as politely as I knew how. 

"Sit down, Jim," she almost whispered, 
"I have an odd request to make of you." 

It didn't take much encouragement to 
make her tell me the whole story after 
that. She was tired of keeping something 
like that wrapped in her heart. She need- 
ed someone to talk to, and it just hap- 
pened to be me. She told me how much 
she loved him, and how much he needed 
the help she could give him. She cried 
on my shoulder for a while. Then sud- 
denly she straightened up and looked at 
me square in the eyes. 

"I could stand it, Jim, all of it, even 
to the point where he doesn't love me." 
I started to deny that but she kept right 
on going, "But now everything I had be- 
fore is gone; he asked the warden for a 
transfer of doctors tonight." 

I stared at her; I couldn't believe my 
ears. That fool, I thought, that fooL, 
robbing himself of the only beautiful 
thing he had left to love. Kathryn went 
to explain. 

"We talked it over last night. You see, 
Jim, the warden thinks we're getting too 
intimate; I don't know how he knew but 
I guess it wasn't too hard to guess. George 
refused to see me twice yesterday, until 
finally I had him brought in by force. 
He refuses to get me involved in this 
whole rotten mess. Doesn't he see that 
he is the only thing I care about? Doesn't 
he know my job means nothing to me 
without him? Oh, Jim, doesn't he know 
how much I love him?" 

I didn't exactly know what to say; I 
couldn't tell her why George was George. 
I couldn't even tell her that he was guilty, 
since no one but God and he knew that. 
All I knew was that he had been found 

guilty by better men than me, but men 
I absolutely disagreed with. 

"I want you to talk to him, Jim," 
Kathryn continued; "get him to talk. 
He's bound to talk to another convict 
easier than to me." 

Her frightened look dismissed me. I 
walked silently back to my cell. How 
on earth did I get caught in this hell of a 

George was anything but talkative when 
I got back. I tried to think of a million 
ways to make him tell me. I told him 
I was lonesome and wanted to talk. He 
listened patiently while I told my life 
history but not a word about his did I 

"Married," I asked. 

"Nope," he answered. 

Finally I got sleepy and gave it up as 
a futile attempt. 

I saw Kathryn only once after that. I 
went to her the next day to tell her of 
my failure. She didn't say anything but 
I could tell she had made up her mind 
about something — little did I guess what 
it was. 

George was unhappy again, silent, al- 
most pitiful. He had only three short 
weeks to live. I tried to talk to him, tried 
to make him smile, but he was wrapped 
up in a world all his own. A week drag- 
ged by. Finally George called me over 
to the bars. He looked terrible, almost 
to tears. 

"Have you seen Kathryn this week?" 
he asked. 

"No," I had to answer, "I guess this 
is her week off or something; I've been 
seeing Dr. Bradly." 

"I've got to see her, Jim." He almost 
broke down. "I have to see her just once 
more and tell her I love her. I can't 
stand going without kissing her just 

I stood there looking at him, wonder- 
ing what to say when a bright idea came 
to me. 


"Listen, George, write her a note. Tell 
her you have to see her. You know she 
wants to see you, too, but is just to proud 
to make you come in if you don't want 

That was all he needed to hear me say. 
He walked back to his bunk to write the 
note. About ten minutes later the guard 
brought her reply. George read it and 
silently handed it through the bars to me. 
It read: 

"Dr. Reed was transferred two weeks 
ago. May I be of any service?" It was 
signed Dr. Bradly. 

I couldn't look at George. I knew he 
didn't want me to. No man likes to be 
caught weeping like a disappointed child. 

How George lived through those next 
horrible days I'll never know. How he 
stood the gaiety of the other boys I'll 
never know either. I know now how it is 
to stand and listen to guys talk who will 
probably be walking the streets free in a 
few years when you are going to die 
within hours. The last week it was worse 
than ever; everything seemed to represent 
time. The prison clock seemed to scream 
out "tick-tock" louder and louder. Seven 
days left . . . six . . . five . . . four . . 
three . . . 

Three days left — seventy-two hours — . 
It was shortly after dinner when the guard 
came after George. The priest, I thought. 
Why did they have to start so early? 
But it wasn't the priest, he told me later; 
it was Kathryn. He had walked into the 
small office that the guard had pointed 
out, only to find it empty. He sat down 
and the door quietly opened. He looked 
around to find her standing behind him. 
I can't do justice to the rest; I need 
George to tell you the way he told me, 
but it was beautiful, very beautiful. I 
knew all along that Kathryn wouldn't 
just disappear; she wasn't that kind. 

George was in fine spirits again, as he 
related the touching scene to me later. 
He had at last told her of his love for 

her. The only words I remember as 
as George said them were — 

"Jim, she asked me again to tell her 
about the murder; I wanted to, but I 
can't while I'm here. I hurt her, I know 
that, but its just something a guy can't 
do. I promised her this though, Jim, 
that I would write her a note right be- 
fore I ... I go, and tell her everything. 
Oh. Jim, I wanted to tell her so bad; she's 
so sweet and good, and, Oh! God. . ." 

Men get jumpy when they're under a 
strain, until finally there is nothing left 
of them but a shell. 

"Jim, I told her I would give you the 
note and that you would see to it that 
she gets it right after I'm gone. I don't 
want the warden to get his hands on it — 
see ? It's just between Kathie and me." 

"Sure thing, George, don't you worry 
about a thing. You just go get some 

I walked over to my bunk. In a few 
minutes I glanced over at George and he 
was sound asleep. I wondered how long 
it had been since he had had a decent 
night's sleep. 

It took George all day to write the 
note. I saw him write, erase, thear-up 
and start over a dozen times. It was a 
thing for him — kept his mind occupied. 
Finally they came for him; he walked 
over to the bars. 

"Here, Jim, and thanks a lot." 

He waved and walkedout with his head 
high. Now it was my turn to bawl. 

I sent the note shortly after that. It 
had three hours to reach Kathryn; George 
had three hours to live. 

I lived and died a million times in 
those long one-hundred and twenty min- 
utes. Finally, at five after twelve, the 
loud speaker came on. I sat tense waiting 
to hear, I could see Kathryn sitting in 
her apartment, with the radio on, listening 
to the announcer saying, 

"Justice again took the upper hand 


when George Bryne, well-known murder 
of Henry Hay, was pronounced dead in 
the electric chair at 12:03." 

She would switch off the radio, then 
take from her lap the unopened note from 



The spring dance 

She was sitting alone on the moonlight 
steps when he ambled out of the crowded 
house. He stood just outside the door 
a few moments; obviously he had come 
to get a breath of fresh spring air. Spring 
dances are always hot in Mississippi. She 
had come only because it was her sorority's 
biggest dance of the year. 

His eyes rested on the graceful, girlish 
figure for a moment; then, following his 
glance, he walked slowly toward her. 

"Hello, there," he said in his most as- 
sured manner. 

"Hellow," she answered softly in a 
calm voice. 

"What an ordeal! It's much cooler out 
here." He sad beside her on the top 

"Yes, I know," she smiled. "I was suf- 

"But you're much too beautiful to be 
out here alone." 

He laughed at her from the corners of 
his eyes. 

"You're so right, Casanova; and I'm 
so, sorry that I can't remember where 
we've met before." 

From her amusement and his embarrass- 
ment they managed to laugh. Then con- 

versation came easier. It was light con- 
versation, gay and clever — a small talk 
she seldom found easy to carry on with 
a man. 

should have returned to his date, inside, 
who was, no doubt, the idol of the stag 
line. Yes, he was charming, goodiooking, 
sweet tempered; naturally he would be 
with a campus "queen." 

Yet she was dizzy with joy. Here he 
was, content to be with her, trying to 
amuse her, commenting now and then on 
her beauty. 

Oh, she was lucky to have met him! 
He felt the same, too. Hadn't he said 
he felt lucky? Yes, and he had whispered 
the words very softly and with tenderness 
into her ear. 

An hour passed. 

She dreaded the time when they would 
part, but said nothing. At his mention 
of their going inside a shiver ran over 
her shoulders. Thinking she was cold, 
he insisted that they return to the dance. 

"Oh, no!" she looked frightened. "I, 
ah, promised my date I'd wait for him 

"Look," he said, "I can't leave you 
here as prey for another wolf like me. 


Come on; we'll find the guy who left 
you here in the first place. "Just re- 
member this," he was tender again, "I'll 
see you again soon — very soon. I'll call 
you. Right now let's go in." 

"All right." Then very calmly she did 
it. "Will you hand me those please?" 
Her arm was outstretched, her head, high. 

He looked in the direction her hand 
was pointing. In the darkness he could 
barely discern the crutches lying incon- 
spicuously in the grass alongside the con- 
crete steps. Gingerly he helped her to her 
feet. His head had jutted forward from 

Together they entered the noisy hall; 
there he turned to her. She was pale. 

"Look, it's like I said before; I'll call 
you soon.' It, a, it really has been swell." 

"Yes, hasn't it?" she whispered. 

Through her tears she saw him dissolve 
into the crowd. 


Borne again 

(Continued from Page 31) 

around the barracks and escape in the 
middle of the night. They had planned 
for months; yet all were nervous. 

They had all the equipment, but there 
was only one flaw in their plan. The 
guard was sure to discover the hole in 
the fence on his round at three o'clock. 
The men could only hope that they would 
have time to get away. Failure would 
mean an end that none of them cared to 

They sat and smoked to keep calm. 
Suddenly Nick jumped up and ran out- 
side. It was too much for him; his 
nerves were shattered. They all talked 

badly of him, calling him the usual names 
of "yellow" and "coward." Time elapsed 
but Nick did not return to leave with them 
and still the worst was said of him. Even 
he, Krag, had added to the criticism. 
Finally the time came and the three of 
them who remained cut their way out and 

The next morning the sentry had not 
discovered the hole. Some one had gone 
out in the night, after the men had 
escaped, taken his life in his hands, and 
bent back the wire to its original design. 

Krag sank to his knees and cried like a 
baby as he remembered. Overhead the 
moon gradually pushed the sun over the 
horizon and the night over shadowed the 
light of day. 


Helen Maura taimter 

The eyebrow 

You have probably observed, both upon your own visage, and that of others, two 
tufts of hair directly above the eyes. These are commonly known as eyebrows or, re- 
moving the prefix, brows. 

Many varieties of brows exist, but the majority fall into one of the following classifi- 

cations: (1) the slanted, "i *" ; (2) the bushy, J • ; (3) the 

aristocratic, ~. -» ; (4) the determined, J " ; (5) the sorrowful, 

©j *» ; the wavy, °y o ; and the very blond, °^ * 

The eyebrows are certainly the most important feature of the face. They determine 

the character of the individual, serve as ornamentation, and also express the emotions. 

Here are several positions of the eyebrows, familiar even to the layman: anger, 

ft » ; laughter, ■ "i "* ; sorrow, I ; and surprise, 

y ■ 

More subde movements of the brows are: quizzical, y a ; haughty, 

*. - dreamy, ^ ; and calm, "y "" 


Movements of the eyebrows are also used to punctuate speech. In the usual idle 
chatter, the eyebrows move up and down with rather remarkable rapidity. The interest 
of any conversation may be measured by the fluctuation of the brows. 

Commas, question-marks, and exclamation points are all indicated by a slight rise in 
altitude. Careful distinction must be made between the different heights in elevation; 
interest, question, surprise, and fear may be registered with only a fraction of a milli- 
meter's difference between levels. 

In the person reading aloud, especially, can the different positions of the brows be ob- 
served. Up and down, up and down they go, and occasionally knit together over a diffi- 
cult word. 

The singer provides opportunity for resarch: high note, *y -» ; feeling, 

O "^ marching song. *j * ; low and sweet, *y <•• ; force, 

/ ; and fiat note y o 

Here we end. 




Predes-tined" men 

Reviewed By 
ndelino hortan 

A review of "Home to The Hermitage." Al- 
fred Leland Crabb. The Bobs-Merril Company. 
New York. 1948. 

"I think He's been predes-tined," neigh- 
borly Dr. Hume rolled forth in his rich 
Scottish tongue. In his visits or in the pul- 
pit of the little brick church near Jack- 
son's home Dr. Hume defended the name 
of both Mr. and Mrs. Jackson and un- 
ceasingly encouraged Jackson to the task 
that lay predestined for him in future. 
Destiny rules supreme in the pages of 
Dr. Crabb's latest novel, "Home To The 
Hermitage." Both Rachel and Andrew 
fight the impelling force of this destiny, 
which becomes the one victor that ever 
loomed above unconquerable Andy Jack- 
son. A purpose far too great for the full 
understanding of Old Hickory forces 
him to be a leader of the West, im- 
pelled him to weld a great united land 
from the varied peoples of the adventur- 
ous frontier and to convert these inde- 
pendent pioneers into citizens — good citi- 
zens of the United States of America. 

After service to his country in the War 
of 1812, after the tiresome journey home 
by Natchez Trace, and the jubilant cele- 
bration of Nashvillians in his honor, a 
weary Jackson reverently said, "Thank 
God, we're home and I'm going to stay," 
but home-loving Rachel saw in his deep, 
far-away eyes what every woman sees in 
the "deep grey-eyed men of destiny," a 
force far greater than either of them, 
leading him not home to the Hermitage 
but back to the front, whether it was the 
war of guns or politics. 

It was on the return from New Orleans 
that destiny in the person of hero-wor- 
shipping David Hunt appeared on the 
scene. It was under his wise counselling, 
which lasted without reward for more 
than thirteen years, that Jackson was able 
to soar to the presidency. It was Hunt 
that saved Jackson's life by giving his 
own. Dying at the Hermitage, David said, 


"You told me (to General Jackson) that 
God arranges everything. I have remem- 
bered that. He does ... I was afraid that 
I would be lonesome (with you in Wash- 
ington) but now I can't be lonesome . . . 
Well, it has all been arranged. Remem- 
ber that morning on Natchez Trace? That 
was arranged. Everything the world was 
filled with flowers then . . ." David Hunt 
was buried in the little cemetery near the 
brick church which the Jacksons attend- 
ed. The winter progressed and definite 
news of Jackson's election came. At last, 
he turned his eyes toward the White 
House. Rachel had been hesitating about 
whether to go or remain at the Hermitage. 
This was decided for her. In the cold 
snowy ground of January her tired little 
body at last rested in peace where the 
hating, biting tongues of men could no 
longer reach her. 

Fame in the White House only inten- 
sified the loss of his two closest compan- 
ions who guided and counciled him 
through the years. The presidency only 
denied him the right to be at home in 
the Hermitage. The reader feels with 
Jackson the loss of home and friends 
but finds in the enjoyable book one de- 
lightful character after another. Of 
course, the inevitable driver of Crabb's 
stories is present in black-faced Hag. 
Many historical people such as Grundy, 
Lewis and others are woven into the 
story. The fact that Crabb can paint suc- 
cessfully these delightful characters and 
make them old, familiar friends of the 

reader can only be explained with the 
notation that Crabb had to write. 

Andy Jackson had no monopoly on 
destiny. The author is one of the men 
who share destiny with Jackson. Dr. 
Crabb, an incurable Kentuckian since his 
early days in Bethel and Kentucky Nor- 
mal, after securing his B. S. in Peabody 
and A. M. and Ph.D. in Columbia, after 
his years among the rural children of 
Kentucky and Louisiana, still writes. Dr. 
Wrenn of Peabody says, "He has to 
write and he does continually in church 
and class. His first interest here in Nash- 
ville was the old University of Nashville 
and that interest has grown into a devo- 
tion. Here at Peabody he teaches history 
and philosophy. These are his loves that 
have blossomed into "Dinner at Belmont," 
his first novel, "Breakfast at The Her- 
mitage," "Supper at the Maxwell House," 
"Lodging at The Saint Cloud," and lastly 
into "Home to The Hermitage." The 
readers of Dr. Crabb can see how a man 
who has to write could write the destiny- 
controlled life of another man. Rumors 
hint that "Home to The Hermitage" is 
not the last of his series but that Chat- 
tanooga has been chosen as the site of 
his next novel. This latter novel may be 
an improvement and may not have a few 
of the limited weaknesses found in Dr. 
Crabb's first chapters. However, it is be- 
lieved that whatever is to follow, "Home 
to The Hermitage" will stand forth as 
a great novel, great in its characters and 
setting and delightful in contents and au- 
thor. "I think he's been Predestined." 



The unconquerable soul 

Reviewed By 

jane eiten tye 

"William Ernest Henley." Jerome H. Buckley. 
234 pp. Princeton, New Jersey, Princeton Uni- 
versity Press. Price . 2.50. 

Leslie C. Corn ford and Kennedy Wil- 
liamson, both biographers of William 
Henley, wrote their books presenting pic- 
tures of Henley, the literary giant, and 
Henley, a man who suffered intensely and 
struggled bitterly against debt and dis- 
ease. Because Jerome Buckley felt that 
Henley's broader social, aesthetic, and in- 
tellectual backgrounds were slighted in 
these previous biographies, he set out to 
portray an author who was not only 
gifted with amazing speaking ability and 
creative composition talent, but a man 
who was also a critic, politician, and a 
man of means. 

"All too frequently has Invictus been 
regarded as the sum total of its author's 
accomplishment," Buckley says. "By vir- 
tue of a single poem, William Henley re- 
mains at once the most fully quoted and 
the most thoroughly neglected of Vic- 
torian lyrists." Above all else Buckley has 
tried to convince his reader of Henley's 
versatility and to condemn the general 
opinion that this poet is an eccentric and 
atheist. Although a large portion of this 
book is dedicated to Henley's misfor- 
tunes and physical sufferings, a larger 
space is given to discussion of the poet's 
relationship with Robert Louis Steven- 
son, his home life, and his accomplish- 
ments in the literary field. The Henley 
that Buckley presents to us is indeed a 
man of great courage and determination 
and by no means a disbeliever in God. 
During his youth, Henley endured the 
torture of amputation of his foot, the 

loss of many jobs, the breaking apart of 
his beautiful friendship with "Bob Ste- 
venson, the death of his daughter, Mar- 
garet, and later the failure of his maga- 
zine, The National Observer, but always 
he was striving to make the place for 
himself in history which today we find 
he undoubtedly has won. 

Henley was a brilliant man who led his 
class at Gloucester, studying under Thom- 
as Edward Brown, the noted scholar and 
radical, who had much influence upon his 
worshipping student. However, college 
was not to be finished for the young and 
eager student, Henley, for his leg caused 
him much pain, and he was forced to 
leave school and to spend a great deal of 
time in a hospital under the care of Jos- 
eph Lister. It was here that William 
Henley began writing poetry such as this: 

". . . waiting for the knife. 

A little while, and at a leap I storm 

The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform' 

r \ . . pass me in endless procession: 

A pageant of shadows, 
■ Silently, leeringly wending 

On — and still on — still on!" 

From the hospital an embittered cripple 
fought his way to the heights of literary 
achievement, never once whimpering or 
feeling self-pity. Through all failure he 
remained "the master of his fate and the 
captain of his soul." 

Throughout this book the author of 
"William Ernest Henley" holds his reader 
intrigued, for he writes with vigor and 
swiftness, presenting fresh and impor- 


tant information about the "neglected 
genius." Buckley never omits Henley's 
faults and human qualities. He shows us 
Henley's intolerance of opposition and his 
fiery temper, but he proves to his reader 
that the poet was deserving of this biog- 
raphy. The historical background alone 
is invaluable, and the sketches of such 
writers as Stevenson, Oscar Wilde, Yeats 
and others who happened to be intimate 
friends of Henley. 

The bits of poems and quotations 
which the writer has scattered through- 
out this book have been carefully planned 
and selected. Even lines from Henley's 
plays were included in these chapters, al- 
though few have been recognized by Eng- 
lish critics. 

One completes the reading of this biog- 
raphy feeling closely acquainted with Wil- 
liam Henley, and probably finds himself 
liking the poet despite Henley's firm 
resolutions and radical convictions. Buck- 

ley tells us, for example, that Henley re- 
fused to write Stevenson's obituary after 
being appointed the honor. (The two were 
stubborn enemies at the time of Steven- 
son's death.) Henley was killed by a 
railway carriage a few years later and 
was given a warm tribute in the Crypt of 
St. Paul, where a bronze bust of the 
writer was placed. George Meredith said 
of Henley: "He was one of the main 
supports of good literature in our times 
... a man whose inspiriting heartiness 
and inciting counsels gathered about him 
a troop of young writers who are proud 
in acknowledging their debt to him." 

Although with the coming of "mod- 
ernists" Henley's name has suffered al- 
most total eclipse, such biographers as 
Jerome Buckley, who have a keen appre- 
ciation of this man, will see to it that 
William Henley's name lives as he de- 
sired it to live. 



! I 


Vol. 13 DECEMBER 1949 No. I 



i HE jingle of bells in the dining room and the first few flurries of snow announce 

the approach of another Yuletide season. This to a few means more than last minute 

shopping efforts; to the CHIMES staff it means the impatient waiting for the first issue of 

CHIMES to come off the press. We hope that in the hustle and rush of the last minute 

cramming you will have time to sit down and enjoy the efforts of those who have 

written to make this magazine possible. Perhaps it will be a story of your roommate's, 

or a poem of your best friend's, but we hope that you will be experiencing the thrill of 

seeing your own work in print. But whatever your purpose, we hope that you will enjoy 

the selections, learn a little, perhaps, or maybe think of something that you have not 

thought of before. For after all is that not our primary purpose in every phase of college 

life — to expand, to grow, to develop our ideas? And speaking of ideas, here are the 

developed ones of a full quarter of a college year. You are the judge. Are they worth 

remembering, worth printing; were they worth writing down? It is your job to decide. 

This is your magazine; you are its contributors, its readers, its critics. It is the work of an 

inexperienced staff and inexperienced writers, but to us it is our experience, and we hope 

that by the next issue others will be sharing that experience with us. Now is the time 

to begin if you haven't begun before. It is time to begin to think, to feel, to find out what 

you really think and what is important to know and to take with you. It is the time to 

learn to appreciate. How many of us will really appreciate the privilege of eating that 

turkey at Christmas, much less the privilege of being able to have our own ideas and the 

privilege of writing them down? From the Russian situation to the modern poetry, these 

are our ideas. What are yours? We are interested. Hand us what you think is the very 

best work you have done this year. Remember this is your magazine. It can only be what 

you make it. 



Helen Walton 

Jane Zerr 

Art Editor 

Mrs. Ruth Taylor . . . 


Mary Lee George 

Mary Jane Lotspeich Marilyn Gardner 

Ann Pingon 

Mary Evelyn Smith Peggy Creagh 



Mary Eda Larson, Sen 


Harriet Provine, Junior 

Rosemary Logan 

Marilyn Menauchton Ada Marie Oakly 

Sharon Turner 


Christmas Goo Rosemary Lawrence 3 

The Agnes Vaile Tragedy Rosemary Younger 5 

Knowledge Sue Mason 7 

Faint Silver Lining? Ann Pingon 8 

Acceptance Peggy Creagh 9 

Beyond the Sea Betty Hightower i i 

The Passing Eternity Mary Evelyn Smith 14 

Moon Madness Mary Lee George 15 

The Wisdom of Bobby Mary Evelyn Smith 16 

The Living Dead Helen Walton i 8 

Morning Marilyn Gardner zq 

The Battle of Franklin Betty Lou White 21 

The Piercing Arrow Ann Buchanan 23 


Allegory Marjorie Schock 24 

Mentioned in Passing Ruth Eleanor Corn 24 

A Mississippi Cotton Field Lavivia Neill 27 

The Skimmer Mary Eliza Southall 28 

Day Dreamer Betty Lou Williams 28 


The Brave Bulls . reviewed by Mary Jane Lotspeich 29 

Reflections reviewed by Peggy Creagh 30 

Of Beauty Helen Walton 32 


Chrisimas Goo 

By Rosemary Lawrence 

I guess Moma is glad, more or less, that 
Thanksgiving and Christmas come so 
close together. It means that she can make 
one holiday housecleaning serve two pur- 
poses, or, perhaps I should say, two holi- 
days. This gives her more time to buy 
Christmas presents and write Christmas 
cards and make extravagant plans for 
Christmas merrymaking. But I guess the 
closeness of Thanksgiving and Christmas 
serves its worst purpose by allowing more 
time for the annual collection of Christmas 
goo. Yes, this is what we call it in our 
house, and it seems to accumulate into 
appearance every Yuletide season. 

Christmas goo usually makes its first 
appearance when the Jewel Tea man pays 
us a visit sometime during the first two 
weeks of November. The Jewel Tea man 
is a house-to-house grocery salesman, but 
then, you probably know all about him 
from his presence in your own neighbor- 
hood. Well, anyway, one day in early No- 
vember, he will walk into our living room 
and set his wire basket containing groc- 
eries, premiums, and Jewel Tea literature 
on the floor. And there, in the corner of 
his basket, tightly packed and crammed 
into a big, square jar, will be the first item 
on our list of Christmas goo. A jar of hard 
candy. The colored, sticky kind of all 
sizes, shapes, varieties and flavors that 
seems to always show an amazing increase 
in population right at Christmas time. 
Now, no one in our house eats hard candy. 
Moma and Poppa eat chocolates; my 
brother dislikes candy; and Grandma's 
teeth couldn't stand the ordeal of crunch- 
ing down on its hard surface even if she 
did like it. But the colors will look pretty 
peeking through the peaks and crevices 
of the candy dishes, and you never know 

who just might drop in that likes that 
kind of stuff; so we buy a jar of hard 

The next item that we find classified 
as Christmas goo is more or less inflicted 
upon us, and we are really not fully to 
blame for its presence in our home during 
the Christmas season. But, nevertheless, it 
is there. Moma has a friend who makes it 
a practice to bake and sell fruit cakes 
every Yuletide season of the year. Shortly 
after the Jewel Tea man's visit, speaking 
in terms of weeks, of course, the telephone 
will jangle and Moma will be trapped into 
conversation with her fruit-cake-making 
friend. Always before the receiver has been 
returned to the hook, we have placed an 
order with this person for one of her 
Christmas fruitcakes. And, in the course 
of the conversation, she has succeeded in 
convincing Moma that ours is a great 
privilege to be able to get one of her 
cakes; after all, she doesn't make everyone 
this offer. But Moma just sighs and with 
a smile in her voice places the order. It 
never fails. Now, I'm not saying that 
Moma's friend isn't a perfectly capable 
cook, nor am I saying that her fruitcakes 
aren't any good, — somebody must like 
them. Otherwise how would she ever have 
obtained the recipe? I'm merely saying 
that her fruitcakes and our family's sense 
of taste just don't get along very well to- 
gether. Oh, her cakes are beautiful to look 
at, but, then, so is wax fruit. But, as I 
said, somebody must like that kind of 
fruitcake, and you never can tell just when 
such a person might drop in. Besides, it 
never does any harm to have some extra 
fruitcake in the house at Christmas time. 
Se we push the jar of hard candy aside 
and make room for the fruitcake. 

Poor Moma! In a roundabout way I 
seem to have made her responsible for our 
stock of Christmas goo so far, but she 
certainly is not to blame for the next item 
on our list. Poppa, and none other, can 
take all honors due him for having this 
item under our roof. Comes Christmas, 
come friends and visits, with joyous con- 
versations around a blazing fire to the 
tune of gurgling wine, or a fizzing rum- 
coke, or just the placid flow of a cup of 
egg nog. Poppa anticipates the likes and 
dislikes of all our acquaintances when he 
buys the case of Christmas liquor to suffice 
the needs of our Yuletide visitors. From 
Cuban rum and French wines right down 
to a bottle of Jax beer runs the variety 
found on our liquor shelf. Drinking in 
our household occurs only on such oc- 
casions as birthdays, anniversaries, special 
dinners, and those jolly evenings when 
Moma and Poppa have friends in before 
departure for a dance or party. Our usual 
supply of liquor is very meager indeed 
compared to that of the Christmas season. 

But Poppa will not be unprepared. So 
grows our list of Christmas goo. 

Moma, trying to keep pace with Poppa's 
preparedness, then goes to the grocery 
store and makes certain purchases which 
add still more items to our Christmas goo 
list. Our cracker shelf is stacked and 
stocked with everything from Cheez-its 
and Slim-Jane pertzels right down to those 
horrible, little, mustard-brown crackers, 
that one is supposed to munch, oh so 
daintily, while sipping some odd concoc- 
tion containing rum in its chemical make- 
up. But Moma is just as excellent a hostess 
as is Poppa a host; so is made this pre- 

Next on the list is an item that I am 
sure can be found in most people's homes 
at Christmas. This item consists of those 
many prettily wrapped and ribboned 
packages that sit beneath the tree with a 
nameless card attached. For these I can 

blame no specific person. Nobody, I be- 
lieve, is ever quite sure that he has re- 
membered everyone while buying Christ- 
mas gifts. All of us possess that fear of 
receiving a gift from someone whom we 
forgot to remember when making out our 
gift list. So, there, beneath the tree, sit 
these unaddressed packages, just in case. 
Of course, it always turns out that our 
memory is better than we gave it credit 
for being, and we fall heir to our own 
gifts. Personally, our house always suffers 
an overabundance of hankies, stationery, 
and toilet water immediately after Christ- 

Of course, this last item shouldn't really 
be classed as Christmas goo, because in the 
long run it does serve some purpose. But 
as for the hard candy that always sticks 
to the candy dishes and has to be soaked 
out, and the fruitcake that eventually 
winds up in the maid's package of stuff 
Moma gives her to take home, and the 
liquor that could complete its aging pro- 
cess on our pantry shelf, and the crackers 
that grow stale within their unopened 
seals — these are definitely Christmas goo. 
Now, don't get me wrong. I love Christ- 
mas, and the Christmas tree, the mistletoe, 
the poinsettas, Midnight Mass, the won- 
derful turkey dinner, the thrills, excite- 
ment and joy of the season. I would not 
trade all the other seasons in the year for 
one Christmas morning. But one thing I 
would appreciate, and appreciate greatly, 
is a solution to the problem of the ac- 
cumulation of Christmas goo. You may 
think my word, goo, is not. a very fitting 
one for the items I have placed on this 
list. Perhaps it is not a very appropriate 
word. But, if you could experience the 
feeling that I do when Christmas clean-up 
rolls around and I am confronted with the 
muss and clutter created by the unwanted 
left overs, perhaps you would understand 
why I refer to it as goo — Christmas goo. 

The Agnes Vaile Tragedy 

By Rosemary Younger 

As far as I can determine, no complete 
account of the Agnes Vaile tragedy has 
ever been written. It was on February 12, 
1912, close to twelve midnight that news 
of what happened first reached the world. 
And it wasn't until the following May 
that the entire story could be pieced bit by 
bit together. Still some parts of it are lack- 
ing, and we can only suppose what really 

It was from "Granny" Mac that I first 
heard the story. Granny used to be the sole 
owner of Long's Peak Inn, which was ap- 
proximately two-hundred yards from the 
beginning trail up the North Face. Since 
then Granny and his son have operated a 
ranch, raising and breeding western horses. 
I used to go into the corral and watch 

him work out the horses. Sometimes he 
talked as he worked, and I was hoping he 
would today. I sat down on an oats bin as 
he inspected the shoes of a young colt. 

He began talking of the time he had 
been at the inn, and had acted as guide up 
Long's Peak. Both he and his son operated 
a type of rescue service, going up after 
fatigued hikers and bringing them safely 
down. Many important people used to 
stay at the inn. Some came for the 
atmosphere which, was honestly rugged, 
and others came as tourists or hikers. 
Agnes Vaile was one of the latter. She 
was a mountain climber all the way. She 
had done the Matterhorn in Switzerland, 
several difficult peaks in South America, 
and some in the Canadian Rockies. She 

had done everything that was a challenge 
except Long's Peak, on the East Face, in 
the dead winter. And this was what she 
proposed to do now. Foolhardy? Wait. 

Two others were to accompany her on 
the trip. They were Walter Keener and 
Herbert Sortland, both veteran climbers. 
They planned to start early in the morn- 
ing, having prepared all their equipment 
the night before. They were scheduled 
to make the top by dusk or before then, 
eat, and rest about an hour on top, starting 
down the Fried Egg Trail by six-thirty 
that same evening. They prepared the 
equipment and laid it out where it would 
be easy to get in the morning. They were 
taking food and first-aid boxes along with 
two small back-packs. On the outside of 
the packs they strapped ropes and ice- 
picks; then they retired early for the most 
essential thing — rest and sleep. 

At four-thirty the next morning they 
were all three up. No, all four up — 
Granny was there too. The weather looked 
good. The sky was clear. By five o'clock 
they were on the trail. 

Granny stood on the porch and waved 
them goodby and good luck. The news of 
such a climb was bound to interest many 
people, and soon the porch was filled with 
spectators peering through spy glasses and 
speculating as to the difficulties the party 
would encounter. It was a mixed group 
who stood watching — some housewives, 
trappers, reporters, and a general crowd 
of what-have-you. 

By five-thirty the sun was up on the 
ridge and was shining brightly. No clouds 
were in sight, a good sign. Even peaceful, 
puffy white clouds can mean rain or 
weather change in the mountains. 

Through the spy glasses and small tele- 
scopes the watchers could see the climbers 
until they dropped behind Stettner's 
ledges. Then again Agnes Vaile was seen 
as she was lifted by her two companions 
to the second high ledge. All on the porch 

relaxed a bit when that point was safely 
passed, for that ledge and the one directly 
below it are considered the most dangerous 
obstacles. Then, unnoticed by many, 
huge, fluffy white clouds drifted over the 
range and settled like halos on the peaks. 
Given another hour and the group would 
make the top, but slowly the sun grew 
dim and the sky darker. Light flurries of 
snow fell down into the faces of those 
watching on the porch. Telescopes and 
spy glasses were dismantled and put away. 
Everyone went inside, tense and worried. 

The afternoon dragged and crawled into 
evening and the evening into night. Eight 
o'clock came . . . then nine, ten, eleven, 
and twelve. Those who were sitting inside 
by the fire dozing fitfully jerked to alert- 
ness and listened, then dashed to the door 
and outside. Coming slowly and painfully 
up the front steps was Walter Keener 
alone. He was lifted carefully, almost 
tenderly, inside near the fire where he 
weakly told what happened. 

"We had gone about five hundred 
yards past the second high ledge when it 
started to sleet and hail. We nearly froze; 
our hands were too numb to grasp the 
rocks. By pulling and pushing each other 
we made it to the top. The sleet was even 
worse up there, and the wind lashed it 
against our faces; so we could hardly 
breathe. We decided not to rest at all but 
to start down quickly. We had just come 
through the keyhole when Miss Vaile 
slipped and fell. I crawled along the rocks 
back to her. Her leg was broken. Sortland 
was tiring fast; I told him to stay with 
her while I came down for help." With 
this Keener stopped speaking. 

Granny with four others organized a 
rescue party. They needed Keener to direct 
them, but it would mean he would have to 
hike back almost eight miles, and his 
strength was nearly gone. He himself in- 
sisted on going back; so with Keener in 
the lead the party set out. Keener's en- 

durance was amazing! He plodded stead- 
ily on mile after mile, faltering only when 
they reached the Boulderfield. There he 
wavered, stumbled, then pitched forward 
face down in the snow, exhausted. It was 
impossible for him to go any farther. The 
others set him up and he described the 
place to go. Granny then told him to 
stand up, rest awhile, and start back down. 
It was wrong to leave a man in his con- 
dition out alone on the mountain, but 
what else could they do? 

The four men and Granny picked up 
their emergency aid equipment and 
trudged on up. The rest of the story you 
already know. They found Agnes Vaile 
frozen. Herbert Sortland was lying some 
yards away from her unconscious, but 
alive. He was removed, but Agnes Vaile 
had to be left. It was too late for her now. 
It was not until three weeks later that men 

with ice picks reached her. Sortland lost 
all his toes and four fingers and considers 
himself lucky. He was in a hospital for 
eleven months. 

That night when Granny and the others 
reached the inn, they expected to find 
Keener, but there was no news of him. So 
again they went out. It was no use. The 
storm had wiped out even their own tracks. 
It was not until the following May that 
news of him was found. The wood was at 
the base of a huge snowdrift. As the cook 
removed a log it revealed a black glove 
tightly clenched. That was what happened 
to Keener. Had he been able to go just 
thirty yards more, he would have been 
safe. This is all that Granny told me. To 
me it seemed foolhardy at first, and then 
a realization came to me. Agnes Vaile 
loved mountains, and those who love 
mountains will never be apart from them. 



By Sue Mason 

A blinding comet streaked across the sky, 

Illuminating all; 

And, as it fell 

One jagged edge 

Cracked loose, 

Broke off, 

Fell down to earth, 

And soon was covered 

With the dark and dust of ages past 

And ages yet to come. 

Men — futile humans — 

Dig and search in vain. 

For even though this fragment 

Can be found, 

It is forever lost. 

That star was KNOWLEDGE. 

Faint Silver Lining? 

By Anne Pingon 

Pick up a magazine! Turn the pages! 
Glance at the pictures! Laugh at the car- 
toons! And notice the articles! Yes, be 
sure to notice the articles; for in all mag- 
azines from Life to the Atlantic, although 
you will find many articles about many 
subjects, you will always find one about 

This article may be about any one of 
the innumerable problems that the Rus- 
sian Bear presents to Uncle Sam's citizens. 
Maybe it will deal with Russian diplomacy 
in the U.N. or with Russian mismanage- 
ment in Germany, with Russian autocracy 
behind the Iron Curtain or with Russian 
affairs in the Balkans. But no matter what 
phase of the Russian problem our article 
discusses, it will, in all probability, man- 
age to convey to the reader the implied 
belief, the hidden conviction, that Russia 
is going to gobble us up some night if we 
don't gobble her up first. And for writers 
to write such a thought, for readers to 
believe such a thought, shows all the ear- 
marks of a dire tragedy — another war. 

In the August issue of the Atlantic 
Monthly may be found an article that 
states far more than the fact that some- 
time soon Americans may have to fight 
another war. It states that our democracy 
is already fighting a war, The Cold War, 
and that it is not fighting this war as a 
democracy but as a communistic autocracy. 
In fighting the Communists with their 
own weapons — propaganda and intrigue — 
with a negative attitude, in a defensive 
response to each advance Moscow makes, 
we are taking big steps along a road that 
can lead only to disaster — the fall of our 
democracy. For whether the U. S. will fall 
to conquering Russian aggression or to the 
American Imperialism built in the hope of 
preventing this dreaded aggression, our 

democracy with its purpose, freedom for 
all peoples, will nonetheless be gone, swept 
away by the uncontrolled fears of little 
men. All of this sounds most appalling 
and very alarming, perhaps because it 
seems so very plausible. One thing that 
Archibald MacLeish's article, "Overloaded 
Democracy," decidedly accomplishes is — 
to make its reader think. 

Another article found in September's 
Harper's is one that discusses a small 
island in the Adriatic, Saseno. Russia has 
fortified this island so that it is practically 
an impregnable fortress, a veritable second 
Gibraltar. This Saseno is in Valona Bay 
off the coast of Albania. Loaded with sub 
pens and airbases, it is within all-too-close 
range of the sea lanes that carry Arabian 
oil to Western Europe and England. 

These two articles and many more, per- 
haps not as well written but equally as 
terrifying and depressing, are to be found 
in our recently published magazines. And, 
on reading them, you, the reader, must 
surely think that in so much talk of arma- 
ment, so much discussion of war, so much 
danger, so much fear, so much hate, sure- 
ly somewhere in our weary world there 
must be some encouraging action, some 
deed that will give us a clue to the fact 
that things are not as bad as they seem. 
We humans are such optimistic creatures. 
We are such eternal searchers for the 
silver lining. And maybe in this case a 
small silver lining is beginning to appear. 

This silver lining is explained by Ham- 
ilton Fish Armstrong in his October At- 
lantic article, "Tito and Stalin." Here in 
a very level, clear headed manner Mr. 
Armstrong discusses a recent aspect in 
Russian internal affairs that should be a 
bright star in our torch of hope, a bright 
gleam in our silver lining — the secession of 

Tito and Jugoslavia from Stalin and Rus- 
sia. Here in the first rebellion of a 
U.S.S.R. satellite from its master we may 
find encouragement in the belief that our 
way of life will live while Russia's dies. 

In this compact, concrete, understand- 
able essay Mr. Armstrong shows the causes 
behind the Tito-Stalin split. He explains 
the secession, which he calls a formal 
schism of the Communistic Church, by 
giving a brief history of the last three or 
four years of Jugoslavian history; and he 
concludes the article neatly by giving a 
summary of Stalin and Tito's relations to 
each other with a suggestion of what our 
own attitude should be. In so many words 
he explains that we cannot support Tito 
either diplomatically or politically, not 
because we might thus provoke another 
war, but because in supporting Tito we 
would support a form of government es- 
sentially and fundamentally opposed to 
our own — an autocracy. He believes that 
the most we should do is to encourage 
enough trade between our two nations to 
keep Tito's plans from collapsing econom- 

ically. For here, it is true, is the first ex- 
ample of rebellion against the Russians, a 
rebellion, which we, their spiritual as well 
as material opponents, should not allow 
to be stifled; yet, the fact that we are both 
Russia's antagonist does not mean that 
Jugoslavia and ourselves should try to be 
close friends. 

Other articles about Russia by Dr. Arm- 
strong are to be found in many magazines. 
All of them offer more encouraging views 
about the world situation. Their authors 
are by no means out and out optimists, 
but their ideas and facts seem to present 
more hope for the future not only because 
they present rosier proofs of Western- 
Russian cooperation but also because they 
offer definite, basically sound solutions to 
our complex problems of world relations. 
To me they illustrate a way in which we 
may successfully combat the Russian ideal 
of all for one without selling out to the 
militaristic and autocratic elements our 
own ideal of all for all. May the silver 
lining grow ever wider! 


A. cceptance 

By Peggy Creagh 

"What is to be will be." 

That familiar phrase starts my thoughts 
on a backward journey to my earliest 
childhood memories. It symbolized a be- 
lief, a way of life. Vividly it recalls my 
Chinese amah and her attitude of ac- 

Amah was a typical Chinese of the 
lower middle class, and the beliefs com- 
mon to those people were instilled in her. 
She was a fatalist, to use modern termin- 

ology; she accepted whatever happened as 
the inevitable. This acceptance of what 
ever life has to offer stems from the fact 
that the Chinese, as an individual, is al- 
most non-existent. China is a vast, unde- 
veloped country, and the people are a 
trivial, insignificant part of a grand yet 
barbaric pattern. It may be, too, that na- 
ture herself is to blame; for she brings 
typhoons, draught, disease, death and fam- 
ine. The Chinese bow before her with 
complete acceptance. 

Close association with Amah brought 
me in contact with this fatalistic outlook. 
She would remain calm and unperturbed 
through anything. During the famine, 
when scores of people lay dead or dying 
along the roadside, Amah remained placid. 
Her only acknowledgement was, "Missy, 
what is to be will be." I loved and re- 
spected Amah to such an extent that un- 
consciously I absorbed this attitude, in 
part through imitation, in part through 

I had always taken it for granted that 
Amah would go with us to the States. 
When I found out to the contrary, I went 
to her in tears. Until the end she remained 
reserved and unemotional. I knew that 
she, in her way, loved me as much as I 
loved her. Her last words to me before I 

left contained the fatalistic acceptance, but 
beneath was a note which I had never 
heard before. 

"The icy, chilling days of winter, the 
windless, scorching days of summer, will 
all be the springtime of life for you." 

This fatalistic childhood environment 
has had a lasting effect on my entire out- 
look on life. Throughout life we come to 
rough places where we have to push a 
little harder. I learned, through experience, 
that the doctrine of fatalism completely 
drains the drive to stand up against hard- 
ship. My solution to each failure was the 
familiar, "What is to be will be." When 
I awoke to the fact that I had been left 
behind, I suddenly realized that the fatal- 
istic approach is the approach of weak- 
ness, and ignorance, the blind approach. 
Through this same fatalistic approach I 
have been prepared to meet whatever life 
holds, either good or bad, with complete 
acceptance. An equal balance between 
driving ahead and following behind seems 
to be the right compromise. 

Maybe it was Amah's idea to prepare 
me for accepting life. Nevertheless, I real- 
ize that as long as I live I will never be 
able to rid myself completely of the at- 
mosphere of my childhood. 

"What is to be will be." 


Inspiration is as fleeting as a bird, 

As brief as a day, 

So catch it while you can, 

If you can. 

Anne Pingon 


Beyond The Sea 

By Betty Hightower 

There is a place on the coast of Florida, 
not far from a famous resort beach, where 
the waters of the Atlantic and the quiet 
flow of a river meet. The sand fades from 
a deep yellow into an almost pure white 
on the little jetty that goes out into the 
water. There are few cottages here; and 
these few are small, and far apart, out on 
that little piece of land that reaches to- 
ward the sea. There is no shade there, only 
the glaring sun; the telephone poles are 
thin black lines against the white of the 
sand and the blue green of the water. The 
cottages, except for the different-colored 
roofs, are almost alike. Looking toward 
the northwest, one can see the scrub palms 
growing close to the yellow sand. About 
half a mile away an abandoned lighthouse 
breaks the flatness; its brick color adds a 
new note to the landscape. Farther on 
there is nothing to be seen but the beach, 
and eastward there are only the blue, 
green, and white . . . ever moving, ever 
stretching outward. To the west the water 
tank of the small village may be seen above 
the red and blue roofs and the dark green 
of the scrub. 

Despite the sweltering heat and the 
lack of shade in Florida in the summer, 
the little peninsula is amazingly cool, due 
to the continuous breeze from the sea. 

In the narrow streets of the village the 
breeze is hardly felt. The low buildings 
block its path, and little waves of heat 
shimmy a foot above the hot cement side- 
walks and the sweltering asphalt streets. 
The stores are small and junky for the 
most part, with the usual assortment of 
sun tan oil and sun glasses. Children, 
their skin a deep brown from the summer 
in the sun and their feet toughened to the 
scorching heat of the sidewalks, chase each 

other through the stores dripping colored 

Outside the post office, which is little 
better than any of the other buildings, a 
boy about nineteen years old sat impatient- 
ly blowing the horn of a new station 
wagon. His hair, naturally blond, had 
been bleached even lighter in the weeks 
he had been at the coast; his blue eyes 
made his bronze skin seem darker than it 


At the last toot of the horn, a young 
woman amazingly like him came to the 
door and told him she wouldn't be long. 
Soon the attractive blond girl, smiling at 
her brother, came down the wooden steps 
of the post office; with her was a young 
woman a few years older than she. 

When he had first met this girl, Pete 
had thought, "I wonder whether she is an 
eccentric writer or painter; maybe not, 
maybe Bess has found someone new this 

His sister, Bess, was well known for 
gathering strange people to her heart. 
When she had first met Shawn Ferrell, 
she thought, "She looks so unhappy; I 
think we should get to know her." 

The young woman looked at the two 
from wide green eyes that contrasted 
strangely with her jet black hair and tan 
skin. If she was unhappy, her smooth, 
placid voice revealed nothing as she 
greeted Pete. Although their cottages were 
closer together than any of the others on 
the peninsula, they rarely saw each other 
unless they happened to be going to the 
village at the same time. 

As he turned the station wagon around, 
Bess's familiar voice broke out with tales 
of what she had seen and bought. As 
usual, Shawn listened in a preoccupied 
manner with that curious half-smile that 

gave the impression that she had seen 
something no one else had and had no 
intention of letting anyone in on the 

The highway stretched before them in a 
hot, gray line; Pete stepped down im- 
patiently on the accelerator. Bess was 
talking now about the party she was 
planning to have next week-end when her 
fiance would arrive, and how she would 
love for Shawn to come. The green eyes 
turned to the gay young woman and 
thanked her for the invitation. Pete 
thought, "As green and cool as that streak 
out there in the ocean. That streak you 
can see but that's too far to swim to." 

As the car turned from the highway, a 
cloud of fine sand stirred up under the 
wheels, and they continued along the shore 
to the last cottage on the peninsula, some 
two blocks' distant from the one where 
Pete and Bess Willard were staying with 
their mother. They slowed down, and 
Shawn got out with her packages. She 
thanked Pete for the lift and Bess for the 
invitation. As the station wagon moved 
inland to the Willard cottage, the young 
woman placed her packages on the step 
and turned toward the sea. She stood 
there fully five minutes, her legs and arms 
a golden brown in the sun, her dark hair 
pulled to the back of her head by a 
brightly colored scarf of oriental silk. She 
turned, and reaching in her pocket, pulled 
out a letter addressed to Mrs. John Farrell. 
For a long time she looked at the letter 
as if she weren't quite certain she was the 
right person. Her eyes went to the return 
address, "United Insurance Company;" 
then she walked back to the cottage, the 
letter in her hand. 

If you have ever stood and watched the 
water o fa river as it flowed into the sea, 
you know that it is a fascinating thing. 
The river, calm and peaceful, moving 
gently along through thick, vine-covered 
banks and prickly shrubs, loses its identity 

quickly. It flows out a little way and is 
met and swallowed up by the ocean . . . 
powerful, strong, surging. The sea is living 
and throbbing with its bigness and beauty. 
There is a strength in the sea, a strength 
the river lacks and readily yields to. The 
sea is all that matters then, the sea and its 
living restlessness. 

Later in the afternoon when the sun had 
finally fallen behind the palms in the dis- 
tance and the water had exchanged some 
of its blue for streaks of red, orange, and 
purple, a young woman with eyes as green 
as the sea and as placid as the river walked 
toward the water; her black hair was pull- 
ed back by a bright piece of silk. In the 
montonous sigh of the sea on the shore, 
she seemed to hear something. She smiled 
as she listened. Then she laughed, not 
loudly, but as though she laughed with 
someone over a private joke. She bent over 
then and with one slender leg beneath her 
she rested her cheek on the other knee. 
With one long finger she traced a word 
in the damp sand. She rose, stood for a 
moment looking out to the sea once more, 
the nwalked back to her cottage. The low- 
flying pelican saw the gentle waves wash 
away the fragile letters spelling "Johnny" 
in the sand. 

The next morning about ten the blaring 
horn of the station wagon carried across 
the sand. Bess and Pete Willard drove up 
to the last cottage. Pete's strong voice 
called out, "Shawn, let's go." Before she 
could come out, Bess bounded into the 
living room of the cottage with news that 
they were going to the "Big Beach," as the 
resort some twenty miles away was called 
by those on the peninsula. The two young 
women came out of the house together, 
and Pete thought, "How strange that they 
should be so different . . . Bess and her 
laughing, somewhat wild ways, and 
Shawn, so calm, so distant, so lost in some- 
thing we will never know." With a start 
he realized that he was staring blankly 


at the oriental scarf that held back the 
blackest hair he had ever seen. 

Pete laughed with his sister as they sped 
down the highway, and the three of them 
joked together as they pushed along the 
crowded streets of the resort town. At 
lunch, however, and while he waited for 
the girls to finish their shopping, the 
strange mood that had hit him back at the 
peninsula returned and, try as he might, 
he couldn't shake from himself the sight 
of those green eyes with no limit to their 

That night Pete told Bess and his 
mother that he was going to walk down 
the beach. The night was cool and 
luminescent in the light of the three quar- 
ter moon. The little cottages looked out of 
place on the flat sand, like strange mush- 
rooms placed there, the joke of some mons- 
trous elf. As he approached Shawn's cot- 
tage, he heard the faint music from her 
radio. Softly he called, "Shawn ..." 

From the direction of the water he 
heard, "Over here, Pete." 

For no reason at all, he wondered why 
she wore that silly, bright scarf to hold 
her hair. Now that he was there, he could 
think of no reason for his coming except 
the strange mood that held him even 
stranger now. He sat beside her on the 
sand, not speaking at first; then he said, 
"You love the sea, don't you?" After he 
said it, he realized it was a foolish state- 
ment and added, "I guess you do, or you 
wouldn't spend the summer here." 

She turned to him and then looked out 
toward the sea, "I used to hate it, Pete." 
There was something in her voice, a hard- 
ness he had never heard before. "I hated 
it with all my heart and soul," she con- 
tinued. "Then I began to understand it 
and how like him it is." The green eyes 
looked farther and farther; they saw 
nothing other than the white waves billow- 
ing in the moonlight. 

"How strong, how gentle, how fierce 

and proud, and in its own way, carefree 
and restless. I am like the river," she 
nodded her head slightly in the direction 
of the river which was out of sight, "un- 
able to resist the magnetism, becoming a 
part of him, flowing and moving at his 

She was silent after that, and Pete won- 
dered whether she was actually looking at 
the waves or at something beyond the sea. 
He got to his feet; she didn't look up. It 
was as if she didn't even know he was 

"Where is he now?" he asked. 

She seemed to come from out of a 
dream at that. Immediately he wished he 
hadn't asked, but she rose and looked 
straight at him, her voice as placid as 
ever. "Johnny?" she said, that same half- 
smile on her face. "Johnny is at sea." 

There was something about this last 
statement that made Pete decide to change 
the subject. They talked pleasantly along 
for awhile; then Pete realized he must go 
home. As he walked down the beach, he 
suddenly turned and looked back. He 
could see that same dreamy smile that 
puzzled him so. He realized that his mood 
had become deeper. 

Shawn, Bess, and Pete, weren't together 
the next few days. Pete was working on 
the cottage, and Bess was on a dress-mak- 
ing spree. Once Pete looked down the 
beach from the roof of the cottage, where 
he was making some repairs, and saw in 
the distance a deeply tanned figure with a 
bright piece of oriental silk at the back of 
her neck. Shawn Farrell was walking 
slowly down the beach, her white bathing 
suit setting off her amazing coloring in an 
extraordinary manner. She splashed her 
feet in the surf, stopping now and then 
to look out at the far line of blue and 
green and then up at the sky that had 
a dark gray color towards the horizon. 
That distant smile moved over her face, 
and she let an almost audible laugh escape 


her lips. Turning suddenly, she ran back 
toward her cottage, her dark head lifted 

It was late afternoon before the rain 
came, spattering down first in large drops 
the size of a quarter, then as the wind rose 
changing to little stinging pellets. It lasted 
the afternoon, a typical midsummer rain 
storm that turns the blue of the sea a 
treacherous gray, and makes all the shore 
smell of dead seaweed and not of salt as it 
usually does. The sand is lashed inward 
toward the dunes, and the scrub palms 
are beaten flat. The wind is relentless . . . 
driving, driving the sea inward; the waves 
reach forth only to be drawn back to 
recoil and strike again. The rain con- 
tinued all the night, and the strength of 
the surf was heard against the beach. 

The next morning dawned bright and 
clear, and the clean beach was strewn with 
bits of seaweed and soggy driftwood . . . 
the only evidence of the summer fury of 
the night before. Pete drove up before the 
last cottage and blew the horn ... no 
answer. He got out and walked down to 

the surf, but he saw no one. As he turned 
to go, something bright caught his eye, 
and he picked up a piece of oriental silk. 
He slowly walked back to the cottage and 
saw a white envelope stuck in the door 
and spattered by rain drops. He tore it 
open; it was simple enough, and Pete was 
inwardly glad as he read the short mes- 
sage: "Pete, I'm going to sea with Johnny. 
Shawn." Now, he thought, maybe that 
sad, distant smile will be different. 

He drove from the peninsula and went 
in for the mail. As he was looking through 
the letters, he said to the ancient post- 
master, "That Johnny Farrell must be 
quite a guy." 

"Yep," the old man replied, "he was 
one of the best." 

Pete looked up, "Was?" 

"Yep, young fellow's boat capsized in 
that last big blow we had a couple of years 
back; ain't heard from him since." 

Pete paled; he looked down and in his 
clenched fist he saw a brightly colored 
piece of oriental silk, still damp with sea 




By Mary Evelyn Smiih 

Years are nothing. Nor 
Days nor weeks nor mounting 

Quick-sprung from hourglass' 

Filling the myriad measures. 
Nothing, nothing, for 
Life is only moments: 
An eternity of seconds and 

half -breaths 
In whose fleeting hesitation 
A friend is lost, 
A dream regained — 
A heart broken. 


3M&&M $§6B€im&S$ 

By Mary 

My mare figited protestingly as I stood, 
moon-mad on the hilltop, looking out 
across the fields. A little to the north and 
far below me the lights of Fayette cast a 
weak glow into the sky. The harvest moon 
was still leaning on the Bonne Femme 
levee, but already it made the walnut trees 
throw long, sharply-defined shadows on 
the ground. The pasture land beckoned 
to me invitingly to take a moonlight can- 
ter along its ridge and down into the level 
bottom. Beyond it, though, was the timber, 
and it had a black, forbidding aspect. 

Nevertheless, I mounted and turned my 
mare in that direction. The high, white 
haven of the barn almost caused me to 
abandon my foolish fancy. I pushed on, 
though, spurred by curiosity and the 
romance of the situation. The mare caught 
a little of my adventuresome spirit and 
stepped briskly along the hard packed 

I hesitated at the railroad track. This 
seemed the logical place to turn back. But 
now the moon was hanging idependently 
in space, and the woods looked friendlier. 
On we went. 

At the banks of Bonne Femme Creek 
I dismounted. Leaping precariously from 
stone to slippery stone, I let the mare pick 
her own footing over the treacherous cross- 
ing. Together we scrambled up the steep 
side of the levee, sending clods and peb- 
bles hurtling down behind us. I remount- 
ed, and we continued toward the woods. 
We paused involuntarily at the old creek 
bed. Only a moment elapsed before we 
plunged into the underbrush. The mare 
instinctively chose the right path. 

A few minutes later she threw her head 
up with a surprised snort and stood dead 
still on the edge of the clearing. The 
moonlight, filtering down through the 
leaves, had a luminous, translucent quality 

Lee George 

as it hung in the damp air. It seemed to 
separate into tangible particles, each sus- 
pended in space. The tali monument 
shimmered eerily with a whiteness that 
was not its own. The deer-like animal at 
its top seemed almost alive, and the words 
on the side were plainly illuminated. 
"Hampton Watts— Killed by a Pet Elk— 
1876." Perhaps Hamp Watts had come 
here in the thick, sweet moonlight. Here 
to his iron-fenced park to catch a glimpse 
of the buffalo, or the antelope, or, perhaps, 
the elk that roamed its confines. It might 
have been a night like this that he lay 
here, battered and dying, a lump of sugar 
still clutched in his outstretched hand. It 
was certainly a night like this that a 
hunter saw a lithe, graceful elk step slowly 
from the woods, hang his head before this 
monstrosity of stone, and then race to the 
steep banks of Bonne Femme. A cry of 
pain tore out from his heart before he 
plunged into the swirling black waters be- 

And now, on nights like this, the story 
goes, a watcher may see a spectral form, 
dripping creek water, approach the cold 
granite monument. This phantom elk 
moans audibly in an uncanny, mournful 
tone before he turns frantically and 
rushes to the water's side, where he re- 
lieves his terrifying leap. 

There was a ghostly silence in the moon- 
light. I waited tensely, frightened yet 
anxious. The mare seemed subdued, even 
awed, by the weird surroundings. All at 
once she tightened beneath me. Tossing 
her head wildly, she drew a deep, shudder- 
ing breath and fell to trembling. A long 
whispering moan echoed through the 
darkness of the timber, sounding like the 
frail east wind in November. We stood 
there on the edge of the moon-swathed 
clearing, watching, waiting. 


The JVisdotn of Bobby 

By Mary Evelyn Smith 

"Granny, what are thoughts before peo- 
ple think them?" . . . "Granny, where do 
the days go when the sun goes down?" . . . 

"Oh, hush, Bobby, can't you see that 
I'm busy?" she addressed the fair-haired 
boy beside her. Inwardly she rebuked her- 
self for her impatience with Bobby and 
his endless questions. But she was nervous, 
jumpy, irritable. As if she didn't have 
right enough to be! 

She looked out of the window above 
her kitchen sink at the early spring rain 
beating against the pane. The trees in the 
little grove beyond the house appeared to 
share some secret within their dripping, 
newly green bowers, as they stood almost 
conspiratorially together in the gathering 

She sighed and turned from the window 
to the child, now quiet, sprawled on the 
kitchen floor. Two childish hands clutched 
a well-worn little book as he read, eyes 
intent and face thoughtful. Wtih that slow 
sinking of heart that had become so fa- 
miliar to her now, she watched him, think- 
ing how he resembled his father. How 
often, in evenings many years past, she 
had watched her son lying so identically 
on her kitchen floor, with that same pen- 
sive expression, those same thoughtful eyes 
concentrated on a book. 

"What are you reading, Bobby?" she 
asked, drawing closer to see more careful- 


"It's — it's something of Daddy's, I 
think, Granny," he answered, handing it 
to her with a look she could not read on 
his thin, sensitive face. "I found it in a 
corner of the bookshelf." 

Mist gathered in her eyes as she turned 
the small brown book over in her hand. 
She could barely make out the fading 

title: Reflections. She had given her son 
Robert this book long ago on his twelfth 
birthday. All during his childhood he had 
lived by it, thought by it, worked by it. 
She remembered now, turning the dog- 
eared pages slowly, the look of pleasure 
that had crept over his features when she 
gave it to him that spring night many 
years ago. It had been so perfect a gift for 
him. A baseball or catcher's mitt might 
have seemed more proper for a boy of 
twelve, but not for her son. He had always 
been a deep, religious child, reading and 



thinking and asking innumerable ques- 
tions. At night, after the evening meal, 
he would take the little book and spend 
hours pouring over it, talking to his 
mother about it. In young manhood, when 
he was troubled, he would go to the little 
book and find solace there. Even during 
the war, while he was overseas, the little 
book was able to abate his fears and 
anxieties; for he had the deep conviction 
that in it he might always find the reason, 
the answer, the justification for whatever 
was concerning him. When, at last, he 
felt that there was no reason for life any 
longer, that God and the little book had 
failed him, without comfort, without sol- 
ace, without reason, he had given up, tak- 
ing his own young life and leaving Bobby, 
whose mother died in childbirth, to the 
care of his grandmother. How the still- 
fresh wound pained her empty heart! She 
tried to justify these things to Bobby; but 
could a child ever understand? 

She thought of all this as the rain beat 
steadily, softly upon the window panes 
and her weary fingers turned the pages. 
Phrases caught her eye here and there . . . 
"When a dark day dawns, be glad that 
there is a chance that you may see plainly, 
for pain and grief clear the mind and help 
man to know himself ..."... "It is God 
who gives and God who takes away, and 
He gives and takes away for our soul's 
sake ..."... "Out of suffering comes 
all good." But these words had meant 
nothing to Robert; they had been power- 
less over him. And would they to Bobby, 
the child of his father, some day come to 
mean nothing? The thought left her 

Abruptly she closed the book and laid 

it on the table. "Come, Bobby, it's time 
you skipped upstairs to bed. Young gen- 
tlemen of nine must get their sleep." 

He rose obediently and, throwing a 
good-night kiss, started out of the room. 
But at the foot of the stairs he paused 
and turned to his grandmother. 

"Granny, why do people get mad at 

Her heart leapt to her breast. "Bobby," 
she said gently, "why do you ask this?" 
But if he heard, he did not answer; and 
as he turned, he seemed far more mature 
than his scant years. Somehow she knew 
what he had meant. 

She sat down in the old rocker and 
moved slowly to and fro, cradling the 
little book in her hands. Opening it, she 
ran a finger down one page, trying to 
read. But the words blurred before her 
eyes, and after a little while she turned 
out the lamps and started upward. 

As she reached the half-landing, she 
thought she heard the murmur of a voice 
and hesitated there for a moment. Then 
the voice came more distinctly. 

"And God bless Grandmother, and be 
kind to my mother and try to understand 
about my Daddy for I know he didn't 
mean to be angry with you. And — make 
me a good boy, always and always, Amen." 

The tears ran down her face in joyous 
release. She opened the little window be- 
side her and looked out into the night. It 
was still raining, but there was a cool 
breeze that came in upon her face, blow- 
ing back the white curtains, promising 
sunshine and happiness and spring flowers. 
She turned, and with a step in keeping 
with a heart lighter than it had been in 
many weeks, she started up the stairs. 

Everybody's mean 
Everybody's kind, 
And everybody takes a turn at having either mind. 

Anne Pingon 


The Living Dead 

(A Dialogue) 
By Helen Walton 

Setting: A busy street scene, people 
rushing to and fro. John tries to stop peo- 
ple going and coming who pass on as if 
they do not see him. A little man is sitting 
on a little wall apparently very much 
amused with the whole situation. John 
wanders after people helplessly, finally 
making his way to the wall where the old 
man is sitting. Giving up hope, he flops 
down on the wall without speaking to the 
old man whom he apparently cannot see. 

MR. ZANE (chuckling) : Well, well, 
young fellow, seems you are having trou- 

John, surprised, looks around, and see- 
ing no one, assumes his former position. 

MR. ZANE: Yes, you lad, it's John 
Smith, isn't it? 

JOHN (thoroughly astounded) : Hello! 
Did I hear someone talking to me? 

MR. ZANE: Yes, but don't be con- 
fused. I'm right here beside you even 
though you can't see me. My name is Mr. 
Zane and I find it only fair to break some 
news to you gently. You don't quite seem 
to understand what's going on around 
here. It isn't that those people are too busy 
to talk to you; you see, they can't see you. 

JOHN: Can't see me? Oh, but you 
must be mistaken; why, I saw several look 
right straight at me. 

MR. ZANE: No, John, not at you, 
through you. You see . . . well, I don't 
know how to go about this but ... oh 
well, maybe we'd better skip this for now. 

JOHN: No, no, tell me. I feel that 
there's something I ought to know. I feel 
so foolish talking to someone I can't see. 
Can it be intuition that is trying to tell me 
something is wrong, or am I going crazy? 

MR. ZANE: No, I'm not intuition, and 
you're not crazy. The fact of it all is, even 

though you probably won't believe it, you 
are no longer an inhabitant of earth; you 
see, you were killed this morning in a car 
accident at the corner of 12th and Broad. 
JOHN (feeling himself) : But you 
must be mistaken; here I am. See, I'm 

MR. ZANE: No, not really, just grab 
this man as he comes by and ask him. 
(Points to a man entering left stage. John 
rushes up to him and takes him by the 
arm but he walks right on, ignoring John.) 

JOHN (going back to Mr. Zane, still 
amazed) : But can it be? How can I be 
still on earth and yet dead? Why do I feel 
so alive? 

MR. ZANE: That's highly possible; 
you've just been dead a few hours. You're 
only in the first phase of a cycle. You'll 
leave this earth a little farther behind each 
day until time for you to start back down 
again. You see, I've already been up and 
am merely awaiting my turn to go back 
to the world again. You'll be forgetting a 
little more day by day. I consider myself 
lucky to have the remotest idea of what 
my name was, and even then I can't be 
sure. Perhaps tomorrow you'll be able to 
see me. 

JOHN: I just can't believe it. 

MR. ZANE: Then go down and look 
in the 12th Street morgue. I wouldn't ad- 
vise it though. You were pretty badly 

JOHN: But how can you be preparing 
to enter the world again when your voice 
sounds so old? I don't understand. 

MR. ZANE: Don't worry; I'll be born 
just like anyone else. Only I do hope I get 
to come back here at an earlier age than 
last time. 


JOHN: Last time? Have you done this 
many times before? 

MR. ZANE: Why certainly, and you 
have too. You'll be able to remember when 
you've been around a few days and things 
begin to look familiar to you. 

JOHN: But how long will it be till I 
can go back? I have so many important 
things to do. 

MR. ZANE (laughing): I'm afraid 
the things you have to do will have been 
settled many times before you get back. 
Sometimes we're here over a thousand 
years. That's why I say I hope I die 
younger this time. Waiting is trying for a 
man of my age, but it's altogether different 
when you're young. 

JOHN: But why should I have to die? 
I was so young and just getting settled. 

MR. ZANE: I suspect you were recall- 
ed for a special reason. They usually don't 
take the happy ones until they're needed. 
You're probably here to get in shape for 
a special job that is seen in the future. 
Who knows? You might be a great scien- 
tist or something someday. 

JOHN: Really? (interested) 

MR. ZANE: Now you see, you're al- 
ready beginning to look forward instead 
of back. When you get along up your 
cycle a few steps you will forget all about 
the past. In a few days you will be able to 
see other too, and life will be more inter- 

JOHN: And will I forget the past en- 
tirely? I mean, won't I even know I lived? 

MR. ZANE: Oh, I wouldn't say entire- 
ly for quite a long time. Every once in a 
while, even after you're back on earth 
you'll see something or hear something 
that will make you stop and wonder if 
you've seen or heard that thing before. It's 
just an extra special memory that was 
too important to be erased. I dare say 
that you've had that feeling on earth this 
last time — you know, that feeling of I've 
been here before, or I've seen that before. 

It's only natural, I mean it happens to 
most everyone. 

JOHN: But tell me, am I always so 
close to the people on earth? Will I al- 
ways be able to see them? 

MR. ZANE: Oh, my, no! I should say 
not. In a few more steps you won't even 
know they exist. 

JOHN: But how did you know so much 
about me? 

MR. ZANE: Well, you see, I'm so 
close to earth again, waiting around to be 
born and observing the family I'll be 
going into that I can see what's going on. 
I just happened to be down near the 
corner this morning when you were killed. 
I was going to the meat market with my 
future mother. You see, I have to stick 
around pretty close these days; I might 
have to go any minute. 

JOHN: Would you walk down to the 
factory with me? I want to see how things 
are coming along. 

MR. ZANE: I will, but I wouldn't 
advise it. It hurts a man's pride to see that 
things may still go along smoothly with- 
out him. 

JOHN: But things are in such bad 

MR. ZANE: There's nothing you could 
do. Why don't you sit quietly here with 
me and wait. If I should have to go it 
should be very amusing for you to see the 
expressions on my parents' faces. They 
are sure I'll be a girl. Look, there's a 
newsboy. Let's go take a peek at the head- 

They read the headlines over the news- 
boy's shoulder and both emitted a low 
whistle and read aloud softly: 

Car wreck on 12th and Broad, though 
killing one, miraculously saves thousands 
as traffic is stopped before mysterious 
explosion destroys 12th Street bridge. 

They look at each other and a look of 
understanding crosses John's face as the 
old man chuckles knowingly. 



By Marilyn Gardner 

Have you ever heard the song 
Of the hills in the gray morning? 
Solemn, isn't it? Quiet with pensive 
Melody of the coming day. 
Happy tunes from the bird 
Concert cannot defy 
The brooding 

Of the 


Soft eyes and dove calls, 
Crickets and whispering leaves 
Are busy with today. 
But the hills 

Shivering waters and faint breezes 
Call for the sun. 
But the Blue Mistress 




The Battle of Franklin 

"The Lost Cause" 
By Betty Lou White 

The crisp, November night was undis- 
turbed. The only sounds were the crickets 
and tree-toads. The horses, moving about 
quietly, made small noises. The Army of 
Tennessee, under the command of Gen- 
eral Hood, slept in exhaustion around the 
campfires. But the apparently quiet night 
would have looked very different to any 
wakeful watcher. For, along the Columbia 
turnpike, within sight of the campfires of 
the slumbering rebels, General Schofield's 
Federal forces were silently marching. He 
had safely slipped through Spring Hill, 
and after a personal reconnoiter of the 
road on to Franklin, he found it unob- 
structed. Now his weary men pushed on, 
hoping to reach Franklin, fifteen miles 
away, where they could face the enemy 
behind fortifications. The changing light 
of the moon revealed the silent ranks of 
men marching along with their hearts in 
their mouths. Meanwhile, Hood's camp 
slept on, secure in the knowledge that 
Forrest was holding the turnpike, and 
that in the morning there would be a 
complete surrender with no fight. 

Imagine Hood's rage when he discovered 
the next morning that the enemy had 
slipped through his fingers! By now, Schol- 
field's men were waiting behind earth- 
works on the Southern outskirts of Frank- 

As the Tennesseans plodded along that 
dusty fifteen mile march toward Franklin, 
some of the rage which filled their com- 
mander spread to the men; and they began 
to march with more spirit, determined to 
overtake and whip the enemy who had 
tricked them. The Army of Tennessee was 
to prove that day that it needed no forti- 
fications to give it courage and that they 
were not afraid to charge the enemy. 

When the rebel forces arrived on top 

of Winsted Hill, the whole view lay down 
before them. Franklin lies on an elevated 
piece of land within a curve of the Har- 
peth River to the north. The Federal forces 
had set up the breastworks when they 
came through before, and now they were 
hastily strengthened into a crescent with 
the strongest part across Columbia Pike. 
There was a barricaded opening left for 
the wagon trains and artillery. The main 
fortification came from the Carter House 
which stood just inside the Federal lines. 
This large, grey brick house with its red- 
brick smokehouse still stands today as one 
of the historic landmarks. The house was 
left intact even though there are pieces of 
shell still in its walls. 

As General Hood stood with his staff 
on the hill above the town, he could see a 
gentle slope of unfenced pasture land roll- 
ing down to the Federal lines. There was 
not even a small bush to break the ad- 
vance of the rebel troops. Hood considered 
a few moments, then snapped crisply, "We 
will make the fight." All of his staff were 
against the attack. The Federals were too 
strongly entrenched, and the rebels them- 
selves were too outnumbered; they had 
no protection and not enough artillery. 
But by now Hood was determined to make 
Scholfield suffer for his trick. He also 
knew that it was getting late. Already, be- 
hind the blue lines, the wagon trains were 
slipping across rude brdiges made of 
planking laid on the cross-ties of the rail- 
road bridge; and the troops were ordered 
to follow on to Nashville if no attack had 
been made by six o'clock. Hood knew it 
would be better to have the fight now 
while the enemy had had little time for 
preparation rather than wait until they 
got to Nashville where they had been pre- 
paring for three years. 


Hood wouldn't wait for complete pre- 
parations to be made, or even for Lee's 
artillery, which would have greatly helped 
the weak confederate lines. He gave the 
order to advance. And so it was that at 
four o'clock of a late fall day, a line of 
gray-coated men advanced across an open 
field into the very face of death. But their 
tattered flags were flying in the November 
breeze and not a man would have turned 

As the gray lines moved relentlessly 
along, a covey of quail whirred up before 
them, settled, and rose again. Rabbits 
bounded in all directions. As soon as the 
lines came within range the Federals open- 
ed fire. But as the shells burst and the 
wounded fell, the ranks closed and moved 
on. The Confederate right wing met the 
first opposition as it met Wagoner's forces 
holding the bridge. The Yankees here were 
soon defeated and turned to run in con- 
fusion for the main fortifications. This 
halted the fire of the entrenched blue- 
coats for they had to wait for Wagoner's 
men to get out of the way and into the 
barricade. By this few moments' advan- 
tage, the confederates were able to advance 
over and into the breastworks. This victory 
was short-lived, however, for Federal re- 
serve troops forced the rebels back to the 
edge of the barricade. Here the gray line 
held fast and wouldn't be moved; and so 
the Yankees were forced to throw up 
their barricade across the Carter gerden. 
Now neither side could advance in the 
face of fire. 

It was during this time that the youngest 
Carter son, who had not been home in 
three years, slipped through the lines and 
into the back garden of his home. Before 
he had even gotten a glimpse of his mother 
and sisters who were trapped in the house, 
he was shot down, and fell halfway be- 
tween the smokehouse and the big house. 
This was one of the many ironies of the 
war — that he should have survived three 

years of front rank and fighting and then 
die on his own doorstep. This story has 
always been a favorite one around Frank- 
lin whenever the subject of the Battle of 
Franklin comes up. 

Now, the weary Confederates were 
pushed back by the arrival of a division 
armed with repeating rifles. In those few 
minutes more men were killed and wound- 
ed than ever before recorded by a division 
of its size. This one repulse was not 
enough, however, to defeat the Army of 
Tennessee. As fast as it fell back it re- 
formed and charged again with a desperate 
energy and an absolute disregard for 
death. The fight went on into darkness, 
each attack stumbling over the dead and 
wounded. At last when Hood's artillery 
came up, he gave the order to fire a 
hundred rounds into the Federal works. 
But there was no answer. Scholfield had 
given the order to evacuate at 11:00 P.M. 
and the Yankees had filed quietly over the 
bridge and were on the way to Nashville. 

Scholfield counted the battle as a vic- 
tory, but in reality it was a drawn battle, 
an unnecessary, murderous battle — one of 
the bloodiest of the way. It has been call- 
ed "the greatest drama in American his- 
tory." More generals were killed in the 
Battle of Franklin than in any other bat- 
tle. On the morning before five generals 
sat down to breakfast together. The next 
morning all five bodies were stretched on 
the back porch of "Cairn ton," the beauti- 
ful McGavock home just outside Franklin. 
Today the house still stands overlooking 
the Confederate cemetery where all the 
unknown dead are buried. The house still 
has blood stains on its porches and in its 
rooms showing its use as a hospital. 

A perfect description of the battle is 
given in the words General Strahl spoke 
just before the first charge, when he said, 
"Boys, this will be short but desperate." 
That is just what it was. 


By Ann Buchanan 

Ah, Pysche take thy arrow from 

my heart, 
And plunge it deep within the 

untouched breast 
Which knows not love — pure and 

So it may soar toward realm 

where Aphrodite 
Imparts full knowledge, peace, and 

boundless joy 
To those who venture forth her 

arts to seek. 

Ah, naughty nymph, thy 

arrow's merged too deep 
For this wayward mortal's 

Take back thy glowing spear! 
And from the pierced spot let 

Firm resolves and good intent 

toward man. 
If all could but thy wondrous arrow 

Then vengeful Mars could not his 

malice wreck 
And Venus' reign o'er all 

the world could flow 
To open men's eyes to never-ending 






By Marjorie Schock, Senior 

The leaf dons her costume 

For the dance of death, 

Looking forward joyously 

To her days of peace; 

The wind catches her playfully 

By the hand; 

She lets go her earthly home 

And leaps for the sky. 

Mentioned In Passimg 

By Ruth Eleanor Corn, Freshman 

The car dragged its weary way to a stop 
on the side of that endless ribbon of mud 
laughingly referred to as the road. Pausing 
uncertainly, the car was a lonely, desolate 
speck floundering hopelessly in a labyrinth 
of dripping foliage and soggy earth, while 
that monster, the road, seemed to laugh 
mirthlessly at its plight. The very beauty 
of the countryside was a hideous mockery, 
for the rain, which had but an hour ago 
refreshed nature, had changed the road 
into a mire, making travel difficult if not 

One of the passengers, a well-dressed 
man of fifty more or less, descended from 
the car, grumbling under his breath, and 
gazed desperately over the deserted land. 
Even under more favorable circumstances 

the scene that met his eyes would have 
been a cheerless one to a man of his ob- 
viously esteemed position. For a short dis- 
tance there was only an expanse of gently 
undulating land dotted with trees and 
bordered by abruptly rising mountains em- 
purpled with mist. Beautiful? No, not to 
a man who finds beauty only in the busi- 
ness melee of the city or in the luscious 
green of our reliable folding money, who 
hears music only in the confusion on traffic 
and the hum or groan that marks the rise 
or fall of the stock market as seen by in- 
vestors. Maybe his policy was mercenary — 
so what? It meant possessing all the nec- 
essities of life and some of the luxuries. 
Therefore, it was self-explanatory and 
needed no defense. 


"Well?" An inquiring, cultured voice 
broke the monotonous silence as a middle- 
aged woman joined her husband. Obvious- 
ly in no better humor than her spouse, she 
made no attempt to be either encouraging 
or helpful. "What does it look like?" 

"Like the end of the world," the man 
barked fiercely. 

"It is certainly disgustingly uninhabit- 
ed," the woman agreed with sarcasm. 
Then, turning angrily on her husband, she 
added, "You and your short cuts! Oh yes, 
you knew this country like the palm of 
your hand! We'd be in New York before 
dark! Well, what do you suggest now?" 

"I suggest that you be still long enough 
for me to think!" the man was obviously 
irritated to the point of exasperation. 

The woman immediately fell silent while 
her husband paced back and forth, deep 
in meditation. 

"How's prospects of leaving this for- 
saken hole?" A third person, a girl of 
about sixteen, advanced toward her par- 
ents, stumbling into a stray mud puddle 
on the way and splattering her trim tweed 
suit, a fact which did little to increase the 
affability of her disposition. 

"Not very promising, I'm afraid," her 
mother replied, "unless your father has a 
brain storm." 

"Which isn't very probable. Well, what 
are we supposed to do — pitch camp and 
play Robinson Crusoe?" 

"Please refrain from the sarcasm, young 
lady." The man had ceased his hopeless 
pacing and was now planted firmly in the 
center of the road. 

Ignoring this remark as much as was 
possible, the girl turned again to her 
mother. "Look at these clothes, will you!" 
she complained. "Ruined! And if we don't 
get to New York soon, my theater tickets 
will be useless. Some vacation this is!" 
With those cheerless remarks, she turned 
back toward the car, still mumbling with 

the bitterness which is, unfortunately, 
prevalent among the young. 

Each of the unhappy party was too 
absorbed in his or her own problems to 
notice the appearance of a newcomer to 
the scene. An old man, clad in patched 
overalls and a straw something which bore 
no resemblance to a hat except that it was 
placed upon his head, had pushed his per- 
sonage through a nearby grove of scraggly 
trees and was standing by the car as the 
young lady approached. Upon seeing this 
fantastic figure of the hills, the young girl 
drew back a short distance, surveyed the 
stranger, and called noisily to her father 
to come and see this curiosity of the back- 
woods. However, before that astounded 
gentleman could make any suitable com- 
ment, the uninvited guest said, "You folks 
in trouble?" 

"Obviously," the man retorted shortly, 
and assuming a dignified self-confidence 
that he did not wholly feel, he added, 
"Can you give any assistance?" 

"If you mean can I lend a hand, I 
reckon I can." The stranger stared at the 
car for a while in silence. "What's your 
trouble? This thing ain't stuck." 

"I'm quite aware of that," responded 
the gentleman, attempting to give the im- 
pression of a long-suffering soul who is pa- 
tiently enduring the stupidity of an in- 
ferior. "My family and I were on our 
way to New York, but we seem to have 
blundered onto the wrong road. Could 
you direct us?" 

"New York, eh? Well, I reckon I can 
help, then. Lots o' tourists git lost up here 
takin' short cuts. Livin' jis' beyond them 
woods," he nodded to the trees through 
which he had made his entrance, "I always 
git asked fer directions." He paused to 
spend a moment in concentration. "Jes' 
keep travelin' this way 'til you come to a 
fork in th' road. Turn right an' if you go 
straight from there, I reckon you'll git to 
where you're goin.'." With these sage re- 


marks, the mountaineer walked back into 
the trees and disappeared, leaving the 
travelers to resume their journey. 

Shortly afterward, the car slowly 
ascended a mountain which seemed to have 
appeared out of nowhere to form a new 
obstacle to be overcome. It seemed hours 
before they reached the peak and came, 
as the stranger had predicted, to a fork in 
the road. Following directions, they turned 
to the right, expecting to advance merrily 
to New York. Imagine their dismay when, 
instead, they arrived at a deadend with 
only an undersized rail fence between them 
and a two-hundred foot drop into space. 

"So this is New York!" the young girl 
exclaimed. "My, my, what a surprise!" 

"I should have known better than to 
listen to a hick from these mountains," 
muttered the man in disgust. "All that 
long drive for nothing!" 

"For less than nothing!" the woman dis- 
puted, determined, apparently, not to agree 
with her husband on any point. 

The car having been abruptly brought 
to a standstill, the man stepped out onto 
the earth and gaped unbelievingly at the 
end of the trail, trying vainly to unearth 
a road that was not there. He was joined 
by his family, who likewise stared ahead 
into the yawning abyss. 

The vision that lay before them was 
that of the strange, unearthly beauty 
found only after a shower in the moun- 
tains. Enough mist was rising from the 
surrounding peaks to give the rough out- 
lines of the distant mountains a flattering 
softness, yet the fog was not sufficiently 
dense to obliterate the picturesque details 
of the countryside. Ahead lay a towering 
wall of mountains high-lighted by rocks 
and covered with dark green fir trees. Be- 
low lay a region of tablelands and high 

pastures. On every side was solemn majesty 
brightened by the colorful rhododendren 
and blue lplines accented by wild roses 
and some unidentified flame-colored plant. 

Not even the most skeptical of persons 
would fail to mark the grandeur of these 
steeply sloping fields, and forest-coated 
mountains with jagged rocks for teeth, em- 
broidered with those tints of nature which 
continue to baffle our greatest artists. The 
man started to make some comment to his 
wife, but she was paying no attention. She 
was gazing at the blue-shadowed gap be- 
low, the soft purple and gold of the peaks 
above and the smoke-white haze all around 
them . . . True, it was a road to nowhere; 
but it was a road to peace, splendor, and 
a glimpse into the finer things of life both 
now and hereafter. It seemed almost 
sacrilege when the woman said softly, 
"We'd best be starting on again; driving 
at night is a dangerous business." 

Silently, the group re-entered the car 
and began the treacherous task of descent. 
No one dared to break the wondrous quiet 
that hung over the mist-shrouded world. 

It was almost dark when the group 
found themselves again on the muddy road 
where they had first paused and again 
confronted with the strange old man of 
the mountains. The car rolled smoothly 
to a stop, and the mountaineer smiled in 
recognition. "Did you folks find New 
York?" he queried with a secretive smile. 

"Afraid not," replied the woman, "but 
we saw some real scenery." 

"Yep," the old-timer agreed, "this is 
right purty country." 

"Yes sir!" The gentleman's voice rose 
from the car like an echo. "Mighty pretty 
country! You know, if I were a dreamer, 
I'd say it was almost good for the soul." 


A. Mississippi Cation Field 

By Lavinia Neill, Senior 

Stretching forth to the pale horizon, the 
level fields of cotton are simmering in the 
heat of the July sun. Row upon row of 
green, glistening, young cotton stalks stand 
quivering occasionally as a lazy summer 
breeze drifts by. Healthy, growing young 
cotton plants — work for many, wealth for 
a few. 

Scattered aimlessly over the landscape 
are a dozen or so grey, unpainted tenant 
cabins, their bright tin roofs gleaming in 
the noonday sun. Each cabin is surrounded 
by a rickety fence; each has a pigpen, a 
tiny vegetable garden, and a few scattered 
bushes and flowers. 

On one front porch an old Negro man, 
his white hair in startling contrast with his 
ebony skin, is sleeping contentedly in the 
swing, while from the dull red chimney a 
wisp of grey smoke is rising, lingering a 
moment, and disappearing into the clear 
summer sky. 

Sprinkled over the scene more profusely 
than the cabins are smaller shacks of the 
same grey, unpainted hue, where cotton is 
stored until it can be carried to the gins. 
Winding about the fields, connecting the 
shacks and the cabins, are the wagon trails, 
two parallel threads of tawny earth, 
separated and bordered by a foot-high 
growth of dusty Bermuda grass. Not far 
away, the gravel road forms a yellow 
streak across the fields, leading to the 
silver ribbon of highway shining in the 

An occasional oak stands sentinel over 
the land, its grandeur enchanced by its 
solitude. These few oaks, spared because 
of their singular majesty many years ago 

when the land was being cleared, are the 
only trees visible in the whole of the 
scene. Above them, the sky is that shade 
of deepest blue seen only on such a sum- 
mer day; and on the horizon hovers a little 
patch of fluffy cloud, resting in the heat 
of the day. 

Land — loved by some above life itself — 
the life blood of economy in the Missis- 
sippi Delta land. And yet, the wealthy 
planter contentendly sitting on his cool 
porch plays such a minor part in these 
scenes. The Negro — man, woman, and 
barefoot child, tired, hot, and sweating, 
create this scene. 

Out across the level fields of green, 
simmering in the mid-summer sun, can be 
seen little groups of Negroes hoeing the 
white man's cotton. Small groups, only a 
half a dozen or so, scattered throughout 
these vast acres, appear to be motionless, 
but are nevertheless moving steadily up 
and down the dusty rows. Their faces are 
hidden by yellow straw hats, and their 
black arms glisten with sweat. Each has a 
hoe, relentlessly chopping the weeds from 
the young stalks. Little pickannies, hardly 
big enough to walk, are learning at an 
early age to toil and sweat in the merciless 
summer sun. If one is close enough, he 
can hear the slow, melancholy wail of their 

The endless rows of green, growing 
cotton, the burning yellow sunlight, the 
grey unpainted shacks, the gleaming roof- 
tops, the winding wagon trails, the solitary 
trees, and the sweating Negroes — beauty 
for some — work for others — wealth for a 


ZJne +^m 


By Mary Eliza Southall, Senior 

At dusk, 

A black and white skimmer 

With scarlet eye, 

Went slipping low over the water. 

The small frightened fish 

Raced before him. 

He dipped, 

And became a silhouette 

Of angles. 


By Betty Lou Williams, Senior 

Diamonds set in shells, 

Line a throne of gold; 

Deep and mystic wells 

Where crimson lava flows; 

Meek and timid bells — 

Melodies in the air, 

All visible to a dreamer of the day. 

A free and willing lad 

Perched upon a ring, 

Rose resembling maidens 

In misty thread of mint, 

A new and coming fad 

Of fuchsia tinted gowns, 

Ail visible to a dreamer of the day. 



The Brave Bulls 

Reviewd by Mary Jane Lotspeich 

A review of The Brave Bulls. Tom Lea. Little, 
Little Brown and Company. New York. 1949. 

The hot Mexican sun smiling down on 
a glorious, but savage, pageant below, the 
wit of man pitted against the strength of 
beast . . . the bellowing of an enraged bull, 
the arrogant nonchalance of the torero, 
and a crowd screaming in wild excitement; 
all of this and more is described in Tom 
Lea's best seller, The Brave Bulls. 

Mr. Lea has dipped below the surface 
to bring up the glory, the fear and the 
punishments of a bull fighter's life. Luis 
Bello, eminent torero, leaves both admira- 
tion and sympathy in the minds of the 
readers. Luis, oldest boy of a large family, 
has climbed to the summit of the bull ring. 
And the change, skillfully described, of 
the Luis Bello, torero, to the Luis Bello in 
his home environment, is remarkable. The 
family is large and quarrelsome, ungrate- 
ful to their provider, Luis. Despite all ap- 
pearances, however, Luis is both a plenti- 
ful and wise provider; yet his mind is 
occupied with bullfighting, and with the 
problem of his younger brother, Pepe, who 
is also embarking on the same road . . . 

the road to fame or failure. Luis is slipping 
from his position. Bullfighters, to be ex- 
cellent, must be young, fiery, worshiping 
the bulls they kill; Luis is hardened, wor- 
ried about his livelihood and fearful for 
the family he must support. Bullfighting 
to him, as to many others, is a business 
rather than a game. To Raoul, Luis's man- 
ager and closest friend, there is no enter- 
tainment in the fierce spectacle, but he 
unconsciously thinks, eats and sleeps toros 
and toreros. 

Other characters important to the plot 
are Luis's beautiful and unfaithful mis- 
tress, Maria, and Martin Ruiz, who is 
more to the story than an addition to the 
list of characters. Ruiz is the owner of a 
small bull ring in a small town. His pa- 
trons want fiery toreros with distinguished 
bulls to fight, but Ruiz can afford neither. 
The business side of bullfighting is fol- 
lowed through Martin's search for both 
bulls and fighters. Pepe Bello, young 
torero, is last to enter, and through him we 


see the contrast between the young and the 
worn torero. 

The story is centered around the in- 
fluence wrought by an ugly, short-tailed, 
bewhiskered bull on the characters, and 
how he served to bring them to an ultimate 
victory over weariness and fear. Martin 
Ruiz is seeking a remedy for the apathy 
of his patrons; he engages the Bello 
brothers for the grand anniversary of his 
bull ring. But this alone is not enough . . . 
he must have aristocratic bulls for them 
to fight. Through his visit to the Estrello 
Farms, the reader may trace the bullfight 
from the breeding of the bulls, the train- 
ing of the toreros, to the final result . . . 
the bullfight. Ruiz is forced to take the 
ugly bull in addition to the two beautiful 
bulls that he has chosen. Heartsick over 
the proposition, he must accept the bull 
that molds the destinies of Luis, Pepe, 
Maria, Raul, and many not so immediate 
characters. The climax reaches a dramatic 
peak in the war of toro against torero. 
The ugly, courageous bull will restore in 

Luis love for the bulls and for the battle, 
assure Pepe's fame and Ruiz's prosperity, 
and indirectly causes the deaths of Raul 
and Maria. 

The fateful match is painted in all its 
vivid, forceful splendor. Never has a bull- 
fight been more realistically dramatized 
than in The Brave Bulls. The sport, as 
the author endeavors to convey, is not 
merely killing a bull; it involves complex 
emotions which Tom Lea skillfullyy trans- 
mits in the excitement, tenseness and 
drama of the spectacle — the struggle be- 
tween the savage brutality of the enraged 
bull and the graceful mastery of the 

Not only does Mr. Lea portray the 
Mexican bullfight, but he gives us much 
interesting information about the breeding 
of bulls and their training, which is a 
science in itself; the schooling of a torero; 
and above all the life of a torero, that 
short period of fame and glory that re- 
cedes into a faint remembrance, or death 
at the horns of an angry bull. 


Reviewed by Peggy Creagh 

A review of Life and the Dream. Mary Colum. 
The Doubleday and Company. New York. 

"The President was very handsome, 
very distinguished-looking, and very 
powerful ... an extreme source of psychic 
strength . . . Yet he lacked something 
that the men around us, particularly the 
foreigners, had: it was not temperament 
exactly, but he seemed to be all vigor and 
intelligence and lacking in emotional 
r as I understood it — a power of 




feeling for people as individuals, ine 
same impression of strong intelligence, un- 
impassioned intelligence, that one finds 

common in America prevaded the White 

In this description of her first meeting 
with the President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, 
Mary Colum has unconsciously revealed 
her capacities as a writer. She has a keen 
knowledge of people, for she divined im- 
mediately the source of the President's 
power and magnitude as a well calculated, 
self-made enthusiasm. Her esthetic senses 
recognized, on the other hand, the ex- 
quisite fineness of the disciplined and ac- 


complished mind. Through intellectual 
comprehension she has seen beyond the 
President as an individual and has allied 
him with all Americans. With this same 
clarity of thought and intenseness of ob- 
servation, she reflects the great Irish 
literary movement. She has magnified and 
cast its reflection with a skill that speaks 
for itself. 

A great mind must walk hand-in-hand 
with education, and Mary Colum's mind 
is no exception. Without the benefit of 
highly idealized boarding schools and real- 
istic university days, she would never have 
been equipped to visualize with foresight 
the greatness of the poets and writers 
around her. Boarding school demanded a 
ceaseless search for perfection and self- 
analysis. Long periods of silent meditations 
were physical and mental discipline, while 
endless translations from Latin and Greek 
cultivated an intense mental capacity. The 
emphasis on fine arts, especially poetry and 
literature kindled the first spark of inter- 
est which blazed higher and higher. Uni- 
versity days developed practical applica- 
tion and a thinking mind. The Irish 
literary movement was having growing 
pangs, and Mary Colum grew with it. 
Because she was not born with the gift of 
leadership, she never became an outstand- 
ing name as a poet or writer, but her 
idealism and critic's understanding gave 
her the key to the innermost movements 
in a great contemporary literary movement. 

More than a great mind, Mary Colum 
is an electric personality. She personifies 
standards of unselfishness, magnanimity, 
devotion to beliefs, and high-mindedness 
rarely found in our world today. The 
power of the master-hand, at the concep- 
tion of the artistic and esthetic, is hers 
through intellectual training nurtured 
under such high ideals. When introduced 
to the vigorous intellectual life of Dublin, 
the Abbey Theater and its satelites, and 
the Irish literary movement revolving 

around Yeats, Mary Column responded 
with characteristic enthusiasm and an in- 
tellectual keenness which placed her on a 
level with Yeats, Synge, and Lady Greg- 

Padraic Colum, a poet and writer, was 
the last link in the almost perfect chain 
of Mary's life. Together they became an 
intimate part of literature the world over. 
Padraic was commissioned by the Ha- 
waiian government to survey and organize 
the traditional folk stories in a form for 
children to read and enjoy. Mary Colum 
absorbed the beauty and graciousness of 
the Islands, and this interlude in the book 
is a delightfully entertaining contrast be- 
tween the soft caressing literature of the 
Islands and the deeper philosophical writ- 
ings of the continent. Her knowledge of 
the world's literature, after that period, is 
almost complete. The Colums moved in 
literary circles in Paris, Dublin, London, 
Munich, Italy, the Riviera, and America. 
With an inside view on American litera- 
ture and education through her friend- 
ships with Albert Einstein, Elizabeth Bar- 
rett Browning, Robert Frost, Amy Lowell 
and countless others, she saw the Ameri- 
can emphasis on education and literature, 
so different from the old world. With her 
usual precision in striking the right note, 
she observed the American education was 
a preparation for living, whereas European 
education was idealistic. The old world 
education has been "to know," while our 
American education has been "to do." 

Through her own eagerness and spon- 
taneity her autobiography, which is a 
reflection of an otherwise heavy literary 
movement, has vitality, clarity, and in- 
dividualism. A long and distinguished list 
of literary personalities, each with con- 
flicting emotions and contrasting ideas, 
links and unties her autobiography to the 
Irish movement. These people are clearly 
and concisely woven into a pattern which 
unfolds with a precise overlapping, making 


each figure a definite part of the fascinat- 
ing literary pageant. Whether she was 
writing of humor, pathos, tragedy or 
description, Mary Colum's vivid expres- 
sion and rich enthusiasm is in harmony 
with her subject. 

This is a magnificent book because it 
deals with a magnificent period and pre- 
eminent people of literature. The author 
developed the personalities of those about 
her vividly, but there she stopped. Her 

own reactions were described entertaining- 
ly but impersonally. She probed to the 
innermost thoughts of others but went no 
farther than the outward surface of her 
personality. Friends and literature were the 
means by which she showed herself. Her 
personality is seen, not as an intense living 
spirit, but as a flat reflection, mirroring 
exactly the image in line and contour, but 
void of the vital spark which is the heart 
of a soul. 


\Jp d5eau 



By Helen Walton 

Soft are the winds that toss the leaves 
Soft are the waves that lap the shore 
Soft is the song of the nightingale 
Who sings to the world 
Of beauty. 

Gentle is the touch of the paw of a kitten 
Gentle the voice that speaks of love 
Gentle the dance of the summer breezes 
That whisper to the world 
Of beauty. 

Sweet is the breath of the early May morn 
Sweet the tendril of honeysuckle bloom 
Sweet the softness of summer moonlight 
That lights the world 
With beauty. 

Sad is the heart of an unwanted lover 
Sad is the patter of dismal rain 
Sad is the toll of a distant bell 
That tells the world 
Of beauty. 


! I 

L 13 NO. 2 


Vol. 13 MAY 1950 No. 2 



"To see a world in a grain of sand 
Or heaven in a wild flower 
Or hold infinity in the palm of your hand 
Or eternity in an hour." 

— Blake 

This is an odd sort of a way to begin an editor's note, especially a last editor's note; but 
I cannot simply say it's all over and goodbye. In fact, I cannot feel that it is over at all, 
because there can be no finality in something that will go on. And CHIMES will go on, 
for it stands for something that cannot be stopped. As long as people have ideas, they 
will continue to write them down; so creative writing will exist. Next year and the next 
and the next other staffs will be reading and attempting to put together something that 
is representative of the creative writing on this campus. And ideas will progress and con- 
tribute to the overall progression of thought, and people will continue to try to "see a 
world in a grain of sand" and capture what they see on paper. And others will see 
through what they have written new worlds and will seek their own. I was thinking as 
I picked up the manuscript for its last trip to the printers how simple it is to hold a 
year's work, two simple books, in your hand and how much there is behind that cannot 
be grasped. And yet how much more important than the actual script or the work behind 
it is the chance that some potential spark may perhaps exist in this little magazine that 
will someday kindle. Is that not to "hold infinity in the palm of your hand"? Yes, pos- 
sibility is infinite; so there is nothing final here. With these last thoughts, we want to 
present to you this last issue of CHIMES in the hope that you will enjoy it as we have 
enjoyed working on it. Read it and take with you that which is worth remembering. If 
there is but one thing that will stick, the job was worth doing. 



Helen Walton Editor 

Jane Zerr Art Editor 

Mrs. Ruth Taylor Faculty Advisor 

Mary Lee George Mary Jane Lotspeich Marilyn Gardner 

Ann Pingon Mary Evelyn Smith Peggy Creagh 

Mary Eda Larson, Senior Harriet Provine, Junior 

Rosemary Logan Marilyn Menauchton Ada Marie Oakly 
Sharon Turner Typist 


Busman's Holiday Mary Lee George 3 

The Wearing of the Glove Jean Holiman 7 

That Myopic Malady Mary Evelyn Smith 8 

Passing Beauty Helen Walton 9 

The Return Nancy Harkless 10 

Wednesday Night Adventure Janie Lotspeich i i 

Hope Mary Evelyn Smith 13 

Tan Nada Ann Pingon 14 

"I Got Spurs . . ." Marilyn Gardner 18 

Seek Not, Oh Life Rosemary Lawrence 19 

The Modern Perspective Peggy Creagh 20 

Wanna Linga Helen Walton 22 


The Traveler Joyce Cooper 25 

Gossip Betty Grey 26 

Sonata Mary Eda Larsen 27 

The Sentinel Martha Pierce 30 


The Fascinating Lady reviewed by Jean Morris 3 1 

A New Heroine for History reviewed by Ann Buchanan 33 

•nifiwnnininwTHTTiiii am 

Busman 9 s Holiday 

By Mary Lee George 

Those things they call busman's holi- 
days. Don't never take one. They don't 
cause nothing but trouble, take it from 
me! My case for instance. There wouldn't 
have been no trouble if I'd a left business 
behind me that day. My job was with the 
most reliable betting establishment in 
Kansas City. (We don't call 'em bookie 
joints no more!) No sir! We had more 
suck — er, patrons than any establishment 
in the city. Raking it in, that's what we 
were doing. We didn't only make books on 
the bangtails, you see. Anything on the 
sports page of the Star was fair game for 

It was the middle of August when I de- 
cided to pull up stakes and make my little 
trip down state. I figured it'd be a thrill to 
buzz into the old home town in my new 
Cadillac convertible. You know the old 
line — small town boy makes good. How'd 
I know that the county fair would be in 
town? And how'd I know that those con- 

founded old white mules would pack such 
a wallop? No sir! I was outclassed before 
I ever started that bout. 

I roiled in about the middle of the morn- 
ing. The main drag should have been full 
of beat-up trucks and jalopies, and the 
benches on the courthouse yard should 
have been full of loafers and hayseeds, but 
there wasn't anybody in sight except an 
old geezer in a wheel chair in front of the 
hardware store. I slammed on the brakes 
and screeched up to the curb alongside of 
the old boy. "Where's the sidewalk 
brigade?" I asked him. 

"Haah?" he wheezed. 

"The local yokels. You know, the boys 
that hold the courthouse steps down. 
Where are they?" 

"Well, sir, I reckon they're all out to 
the fairgrounds. Yes siree, I reckon every- 
body as can hobble along is out there." 

I pulled out without hearing any more 
and headed for the old fairgrounds. Sure 

enough, everybody and his Aunt Lil was 
there. Tinny music was blaring, and the 
small time racketeers were skinning the 
hicks right and left. I kinda felt fairish, 
too, until I saw that the dust was ruining 
the shine on my two-tones. Then I saw that 
the crowd was drifting toward one of the 
barns. "Aha," I thought, "bangtails! Right 
down my alley! Here's where I'll pick up a 
catfish or two off of these jakes." And I 
took off for that barn. 

When I got there and saw what was 
inside, I should of had marbles enough to 
lay off. But those teams of great big work 
nags looked so country that I got to re- 
membering about when I was a little punk 
on my granddad's farm. If I'd a known 
then what was going to happen to me, I 
wouldn't of got so soft headed. But all I 
could think was, "Yeah, man! Here's 
where I'll clean up." I nosed around, and 
pretty soon I had the dope. The pulling 
contest was coming off the next day. The 
distance was fifteen feet. In the first heat 
each team had to heft sand bags as heavy 
as its own weight, and from then on, five 
hundred pounds would be slapped on for 
every heat until all the teams but one 
played out. But that's not all I found out. 
The local boys were out strong to beat a 
team of big grays from across the state. 
The grays had a lot on the ball, all right. 
A week before, their trainer tipped me, 
they had pulled ten thousand pounds in an 
exhibition meet. They were old campaign- 
ers, too; it was their sixth summer on the 
road with logging experience in the slack 
season. It was as safe a bet as I ever saw, 
even for a guy like me who didn't know 
nothing about pulling plugs. The competi- 
tion was nothing but a bunch of old farm 
nags that didn't have a chance against 
special trained pullers. The home town 
boys couldn't see that, though. They were 
all rooting for the local products, and it 
wasn't no trouble at all to stir up betting 
odds. I let all of them take the field 

against my grays, and the odds were even 
Steven. That's the only kind of bet those 
yokels would understand. A five here and 
a ten there count up fast, and I had almost 
three hundred placed out before I knew it. 
Then I settled down to take in the sights 
and let old lady Luck drop that pretty 
green stuff in my lap. 

I headed for the carnival on the other 
side of the race track. "I'll stay away from 
the bangtails," I thought, "so's not to 
queer the pulling deal. If I made anything 
off of the eat burners, the jerks might get 
wise." I guess thinking about the pullers 
was what made me look back over my 
shoulder. That's when I saw the truck. I 
couldn't see what was inside. I knew that 
none of the teams entered at a hick fair 
like this could give my grays trouble, but 
just the same something made me walk 
over there to find out the score. 

The truck wasn't very big, but it was 
clean and shiny. On the door was painted 
"Glen Echo Farms — Registered Aberdeen 
Angus Cattle." There weren't no fancy 
cows in that truck, though. Instead it held 
two of the mangiest, most fleabitten, flo- 
peared, hammerhead, old white mules that 
I ever saw. About that time a man got out 
of the driver's side. He had on gray whip- 
cord shirt and pants, and on his back were 
the same words that were on the truck. 
He went around and opened the other 
door, real polite like. Out hopped a little 
doll that was a slick number. She must of 
been about nineteen or twenty, but the way 
her hair curled around her face made her 
look like a little kid. She had on a linen 
shirt as good as one of my twelve buck 
jobs and some breeches and boots that 
yelled dollar signs at you. The man let 
down the back of the truck to make a 
kind of ramp, and the little doll climbed in 
with the old mules. He backed off with a 
funny look on his face. 

A crowd had gathered by then, and a 
kind of gasp went up when the girl walked 

right up behind those mules. A big dudey- 
looking fellow in levis stepped up. "Let me 
help you, ma'am," he said, just like 
Charles Atlas talking to the ninety-seven 
pound weakling. While he was talking, he 
started to walk up the ramp. The next 
thing, he was sitting in the middle of the 
crowd with a dazed look on his face and 
a mule shoe six inches across neatly out- 
lined on his front. 

"Oh, dear!" said the doll. "Please don't 
pay any attention to Whitey. He's just 
playful, and I'm sure he didn't mean it!" 
And she patted the big brute. Whitey 
curled his lip and gave a toothy grin and 
said, "Heee-howh!" He looked pretty 
pleased with himself. 

Now she really got busy. She picked up 
the lead ropes and said just as soft, like 
she was talking to a baby, "Back, Whitey. 
Back, Jim." The old devils backed out of 
the truck as easy as if they was walking 
on bird eggs. The crowd backed up too, 
fastlike. When they got on the ground, 
they stopped and rubbed their bony noses 
against her sleeve. 

"Here, Henry, you lead sweet old Jim," 
she said to the fellow in the gray outfit. 
Henry reached out kind of gingerly for 
the rope and jerked his hand back just in 
time to keep sweet old Jim from taking 
a hunk out of it. "Jim! Aren't you 
ashamed?" scolded the doll. "After all 
Henry does for you!" Jim hung his head 
down and looked at her out of the corner 
of his eye. "Oh, all right, you old re- 
probate! Come on!" He looked up at her 
and laughed — I'll swear that he did. Then 
he followed her off to the barn. 

Those old mules weren't nothing but a 
joke at the barn. They were a funny sight, 
all right, when you were far enough away. 
When you got up close, they looked as 
mean as rattlesnakes and twice as crooked. 
Even Henry wouldn't touch them with a 
ten foot pole. He carried water and feed 
as far as the stall door, but Chan, the little 

doll, took it from there. The old sinners 
sure played up to her. They were careful 
where they put their big clodhoppers, and 
they never bumped her the least bit. 

The big gray horses I was betting on 
were taking life easy. They knew what 
was coming, and they were getting ready. 
The local boys had centered on a team of 
heavy sorrels. All afternoon they hung 
around, giving the sorrels' handler the 
dope on how to hitch and drive and every- 
thing else. 

I turned in at the town's crummy little 
hotel after a game of five-card draw with 
the room clerk. Card-sharking isn't my 
specialty, but I did work him over pretty 
good, if I do say it myself. I rolled out a 
little after noon. The post time for the 
pullers was one, and I didn't want to miss 

I slid into my fifty-yard-line box seat in 
time to see all of the teams parade by the 
grandstand. I counted thirteen of them. 
"Brother," I thought, "that's a bad luck 
sign for the local hicks." It was funny to 
me then, but later on I wasn't laughing 
so hard. The grays had drawn twelfth 
position. The first pair of nags were 
hooked on to the sled with the sand bags. 
Their driver, an old boy in overalls, walked 
alongside of the sled and picked up the 
lines. "Get up there," he bellered. The 
skinny old plugs heaved against their 
collars two or three times and finally start- 
ed the thing moving. Even this guy could 
tell that they weren't going to hang on for 
many heats. That's the way it went, most- 
ly. Some pairs pulled together better, but 
it was easy to see that they were all second- 
rate pikers. Then the grays were hitched 
on. When the driver slapped the lines on 
their round rumps, they eased up against 
their collars and pulled the sled without no 
trouble at all. The crowd clapped a little; 
they weren't going to yell much for a 
foreign outfit. 

The loudspeaker bawled out for the last 

team. And out ambled those tough-looking 
old mules. The crowd and the announcer 
and the judge snickered. "Whitey and 
Jim, owned by Glen Echo Farms and 
driven by Miss Chancellor Glen," the loud 
speaker said between howls. The doll 
didn't pay anybody any attention. She 
hooked that ugly pair on to the load and 
laid the lines on the sled. Then she walked 
out in front of them, held out her hand, 
and started backing up. They waggled 
their lop-ears and walked toward her like 
there wasn't nothing behind them. The 
crowd snorted, the announcer dropped 
his jaw, and the judge put his handker- 
chief over his face and had an awful 
coughing spell. 

By the time three heats were done, all 
the home town teams had given out, just 
like I knew would happen. But what I 
didn't figure on was that little doll out 
there, not even driving, just walking in 
front, saying, "Come on, Whitey. Come 
on, Jim." And the big white rascals just 
walking off. Still, I didn't worry. I knew 
they couldn't win. 

Now the judge started shoving on a 
thousand pounds every heat instead of five 
hundred. It still didn't get to be a hot race 
until the eighth time around when both 
teams were hefting about seventy-five hun- 
dred pounds. The mules were kind of 
jumpy when they hitched on, and the grays 
had lather all over their shoulders. 

My grays were backing up to the sled 
for the tenth heat when a wicked-looking 
cloud covered up the sun, and the sky 
opened. Rain scattered that bunch of peo- 
ple like a police whistle at a boot-leg joint. 
I hit for the barn, myself. I hadn't no 
more than walked in when a big country 
boy slapped me on the back. "Well, mis- 
ter, I reckon you've lost your money." 

"All the cards aren't down yet, Hezzie," 
I told him. It made me wonder, though. I 
wondered more when I saw the grays in 
their stall. Their heads were hanging way 

down, and they were panting heavy. I 
heard a yell and walked back to where the 
mules were. Jim had Henry's hat, and 
something like a gray shirt sleeve was 
hanging out of Whitey's mouth. They 
didn't look anywhere near as tired as they 
should of. 

The pull-off was coming off at ten the 
next morning, if the track was dried off 
enough, that is. All the way back to town 
I stewed about it. "These grays have got 
to win!" I thought, "I can't afford to let a 
bunch of small town hicks take me." It 
wasn't the cash, you understand. It was 
the principle of the thing. Me, one of 
K. C.'s top agents, skinned by a bunch of 
hayseeds! Just think how it would sound 
to the boys at the Baltimore Bar and 

Pretty soon an idea hit me like a fist full 
of brass knucks. I waited until about 2:30 
before I risked sneaking down the back 
stairs. Nobody saw me ease the car away 
from the hotel. I was too slick for that. I 
kept to the back streets and didn't turn 
the lights on. My pants got ripped when I 
was getting over the fence at the fair- 
grounds, but I didn't pay that no atten- 
tion. All the drivers were dead and gone 
on their cots at the far end of the pulling 
barn, so I was safe to do what I had to. 
I wasn't worried. The hype in my pocket 
was an old pal of mine, and I knew just 
how to use it. One shot would pull the 
punch, because you got to have two mules 
to make a team. One of the monsters was 
standing up, but he was sawing wood just 
like the one laying down. The stall door 
creaked a little; I waited a minute and 
nothing stirred. Then I slipped in and 
started to jab the needle into that devil's 

The next minute, all Hell broke loose! I 
thought the roof was going to cave in, I 
hit the wall so hard. I tried to make it to 
the door, but one of them grabbed me by 
the seat of the pants and slung me along 

side of the manager. The other one sunk 
his teeth in my middle. I was yelling like 
Tom Pendergrast was after me, but those 
mules were lifting the rafters, they were 
heehawing so loud. A big bunch of people 
came running, but not any of them had 
nerve enough to wade in and help me out. 
Just when I was kissing Tenth Street 
good-by forever, the doll came tearing in. 
"Whitey! Jim! Stop that!" Right away 
things were quiet as a church. I was just 
pulling myself together enough to limp 

out of that place when Whitey walked 
over to me. He had a Boris KarlofF grin on 
his awful face. In between his teeth, for 
everybody to see, was my hypo! 

Easy there, Sawbones! Careful how you 
slap that leg around. Yeah! You think I 
don't know there's fifty-two teeth marks 
in it? Just wait till my lawyer gets here, 
and you jerks will be a little more care- 
ful. No sir! No two-bit county jail's going 
to hang on to me. I was meant for the big 

The Wearing of the Glove 

By Jean Holiman 

In the world of today with its busy 
career women and its demands for equal 
rights of the feminine sex with those of 
the masculine, one may see the well-dressed 
woman without hat or stockings but never 
without gloves. With them she is the 
poised, domineering temptress; without 
them she is thrown completely off balance 
and becomes a timid, self-conscious intro- 
vert. Every shopping spree ends with the 
purchase of at least one pair; for what 
normal female could resist the delicate 
tints and fashions of the common glove 
which was once used, surprisingly, for 

Why, with all of the radical changes in 
female life since grandmother's day, 
should this one habit have survived in all 
of its glory? Only the woman knows, and 
she is very slow to reveal her secret. 

The wearing of gloves most frequently 
means now the "carrying" of gloves, for 
it is a common belief that a glove dangling 
nonchalantly from a well-manicured hand 
is the utmost sign of sophistication and 
superiority. With this the woman is un- 
conquerable. She assures herself that she 
is the possessor of the graces of Cleopatra 
and the cunning of Madame de Pompa- 
dour. If she is wearing her gloves, she 
may make her grand entrance into any 

gathering by slowly removing her gloves 
in the doorway while casting a disinter- 
ested eye over the assemblage. 

Another type of glove-carrier is the 
woman who needs something to clutch to 
prepare herself for the onslaught of criti- 
cal feminine eyes. To this woman the 
glove is only a means by which she may 
retain the small shred of self-assurance she 
was blessed with. The glove used in this 
way is usually good for one wearing only, 
for it returns home a wrinkled, lifeless 
mass of threads which is seldom able to 
regather its dignity even after several 

Still others use gloves because it is con- 
sidered the proper thing to do. Older wom- 
en wear them because in their girlhood 
leaving the house without them was "just 
not done," while younger ones wear them 
because everyone else does, and all fashion 
magazines feature them as a necessary part 
of any ensemble. In truth, there are about 
as many reasons for wearing or carrying 
gloves as there are women who wear or 
carry them; but I am sure that no matter 
how unstable other articles of clothing 
may be, the glove will remain with us until 
time unknown and will forever retain its 
place as the basis of a woman's dress. 

That Myopic Malady 

By Mary Evelyn Smith 

"Men don't make passes 
At girls who wear glasses" 
Or so goes the general rule. 

But I'll say my blinking 
And thusly my thinking 
Evolves from a different school. 

For I don't think it's tiresome 

Or even just iresome 

To see less than other folks do — 

I don't want to see clearer 

When I look in the mirror — 

This way's prettier me, prettier you! 

Remember the girl you saw not so long 
ago — the one with the big, misty eyes and 
the lost, gently bewildered look on her 
face? She was doubtless one of the million- 
odd band of myopics, of which I am a 
charter member. In case the term leaves 
you unenlightened, it simply means those 
who suffer from nearsightedness, a condi- 
tion of the eyes in which objects at a 
distance — and in later stages, all objects 
— appear fuzzy and indistinct, and which 
causes its victims to mistake their morning 
scrambled eggs for the butter plate, blithe- 
ly appear for company with mustard 
adornment on their clothes (completely 
overlooked) and cut their best friends 
dead at five paces. The latter complica- 
tions develop for the most utterly hope- 
less of the clan — the non spectacle wear- 
ers. These are the poor, deluded, vain, 
foolish creatures who refuse to wear their 
glasses; and I, it must also be confessed, 
fall into this category. 

But don't pity us! We feel quite sorry 
for you other 20-20 human beings, for- 
ever doomed to a world of clear-cut sharp- 
ness and dazzling concreteness — you will 
never know what wondrous visions you 

miss by being normal. It's a rosy, soft 
world we live in, full of strange sights, 
yes, but always interesting. There's an 
iron horse on the college campus I thought 
was a bush, and upon whose unique oddity 
I had remarked, until I discovered its true 
identity quite by accident . . . my trusting 
friends point out passing airplanes at 
night, which I convincingly claim to ob- 
serve also, but which often turn out as 
lights on nearby radio towers — much more 
colorful, I may add in defense, than any 
modern airships. Another advantage to my 
land of myopia which I might include are 
my experiences with the mirror, which is 
no point of frustration with me. From 
more than three feet away, it reflects such 
an unblemished, satisfying image that had 
I the measles I'm certain I'd smile con- 
tentedly after one glance at my counte- 
nance, which while appearing perhaps a 
bit noseless and mouthless, would be quite 
measleless, too. 

I am, however, not unaware of the often 
hilarious, vexing, and sometimes dangerous 
disadvantages to my condition. Much to 
my chagrin and the amusement of on- 
lookers, I recently walked up to a sup- 

posed date of mine, and then flashed my 
most scintillating smile on what was a 
total stranger. This is becoming such a 
common occurrence that I merely assume 
an air of imperturbability, murmur bright- 
ly, "Oh, I thought you were someone 
else!" and march off purposefully in the 
opposite direction. 

As to recognizing my acquaintances, the 
best and safest policy, I've discovered, is 
simply to speak to everyone I pass, regard- 
less of whether their dim shapes appear 
familiar or not — after all, they may be 
my best friends. With spontaneous charm 
I greet everyone within view and then 
whisper furtively: "Who was that?" At 
least I may gain a reputation for friend- 
liness through my efforts and no one will 
be the wiser. 

There must be, I realize, little things 
I'm missing in life — a meaningful glance, 
a half-hidden flick of an eye across the 
table — these would escape me completely. 
They say a girl knows by the look in a 
boy's eye that he loves her . . . from all 
appearances I am afraid I shall be com- 
pelled to settle for less visual proof. To 
make life further vexing, there was the 
occasion I enveloped myself in a coating 
of violet ink, after trustfully upturning 

a mistaken bottle of Vicks Nose Drops . . . 
or for even more dangerous game, there 
remains in memory the evening I failed 
miserably to notice an oncoming automo- 
bile, and was saved from accident only by 
a quick-thinking but utterly horrified 

One might suppose with such formid- 
able drawbacks I might be induced to don 
the spectacles, and join the more usual 
folk who really see where they're going. 
But then, what would happen to my lovely 
rosy world, my wondrous visions, and 
worst of all, my misty look at dances 
(which results from a difficulty in locat- 
ing my partner across the floor.) ? . . . 
Why should I, I ask myself, want to be 
thrust into a world that is completely con- 
crete and most unchangeable? No, thank 
you, I like my land of myopia . . . And re- 
member, the next time you see that be- 
wildered-looking female and wonder for 
the dozenth time, "Why won't that foolish 
creature wear her glasses?" that there's 
something in it for you, too ... as one 
myopic writer (whose name I have forgot- 
ten) expressed it in a leading magazine a 
few years ago: "Don't forget that al- 
though I may see me pretty, I see you 
pretty, too." 

J^atoina d5eauL 


By Helen Walton 

From out of the clammy darkness 
A white rose swells and bursts 
While the clock ticks 


And the eye of a snake 
Watches its prey 
As the rose blows and shrivels 
And fades into the blackness 
Of the inevitable eternity. 

The Return 

By Nancy Harkless 

Hannah Clarkston stood motionless 
under the oak tree whose wide spreading 
branches made the area they were shading 
a cool and restful one. It was a late sum- 
mer day, the time of year that caused the 
honey bees to leave off from their food- 
gathering to buzz drowsily through the 
air aimlessly. A slight breeze began to stir 
the leaves above Hannah's head as an- 
other small group of people started up the 
narrow path a slight distance away. She 
had been standing there for quite a while 
now — just watching and waiting with only 
the breeze ruffling her hair. Now, however, 
the moment had arrived; she also must go 
up that narrow path and enter that same 
door that those others were entering. Han- 
nah moved lightly from under the shelter- 
ing branches of the old oak, who had been 
witness to so many of these same occasions, 
and, unnoticed by all, fell in with another 
group who was starting up the path to 
the small, white building at the end of 
the walk. As Hannah entered through 
the door the sweetish odor of too many 
flowers rose to meet her nostrils, and a 
look of disdain passed swiftly across her 
face only to vanish as she entered the 
chapel where the funeral was to be held. 
There at the front of the room could be 
seen a cheap and highly adorned coffin 
banked deep in a too bright field of 
flowers. Hannah sighed deeply, and once 
more that same look of disdain was ap- 
parent upon her wind-beaten face. A few 
simple garden roses would have been much 
better instead of those artificial gifts of 
sentiment, she thought as she walked 
slowly over to the side of the room where 
a group of people were murmuring among 
themselves. She stepped and listened for 
a moment. 

"That dear woman!" one lady was say- 

ing. "She and I were close friends, you 
know, since we were neighbors." 

Hannah smiled thinly. "Yes," she 
thought, "you would say that — now that 
your 'neighbor' is dead. It was only last 
week that you made some false excuse 
when 'your neighbor' asked to borrow a 
cup of sugar. Dear friends, umph!" And 
Hannah moved away distastefully. 

This time she stopped by the side of 
two small children, one a girl around nine, 
the other a boy of seven who was as fair 
as his companion was dark. The tiny 
boy, with tears in his saucer-brown eyes, 
was speaking sadly about the "leaving" of 
the woman who had died. 

"Now we'll never have any more fun 
with Aunty, for she has gone away and 
will never come back again. I heard 
Daddy say that he was glad she had left, 
for now she might have some peace! What 
did he mean, Sue, when he said that?" 
the small tot asked his sister. 

"I guess he meant that she never would 
have to clean and cook any more for 
Uncle Bob," Sue answered. "Besides she 
has her pink dress now, so she must be 
having peace wherever she has gone." 

Sue and the small lad then moved away 
from Hannah, who had listened to all of 
this with a full heart. 

"Yes, 'Aunty' had her pink dress at 
last," Hannah thought, "but what could 
it mean to her now? How many times she 
had asked her husband for it, and how 
many times had he said no — 'only due to 
lack of money, of course,' he said. And 
then when she could not make her good 
dress last any longer 'Uncle Bob' would 
come home with a 'surprise' tucked under 
his arm for her. The 'surprise' was always 
a dress, but never a pink one that he 
knew she wanted so much. Once it had 


been a bright yellow, another time a drab 
brown, and the last one," Hannah remem- 
bered, "had been a dull grey." 

Now Hannah was standing at the side 
of the gaudy casket which was to be this 
sleeping woman's last resting place. Her 
thoughts ran on. "Yes," she said to her- 
self, "pink had been a wise wish of this 
woman's, for the color gave a warmth and 
a flush to the face browned by the prairie 
sun and wind. It lent to the softly curled 
brown hair a richer, more woody look 
that could so easily be lacking in luster 
and life if the wrong color were present — 
such as yellow, brown, or grey. The dress 
oddly enough was simple and plain, caus- 
ing it to look out of place in such tawdry 
surroundings. But on the face of the wom- 
an was a serene smile full of tenderness, 
and Hannah smiled also, for the little 
Sue had been right, peace was there too. 
The woman seemed to know that she 

could now rest forever since her duties 
had been finished and laid aside. 

With a start Hannah became aware 
of her surroundings once more. She 
glanced around at the faces of the per- 
sons standing near her, and then with a 
sigh of contentment moved toward the 
doorway again. Out into the sunlight she 
walked and back up the path. Suddenly 
she stopped, turned, and gave one final 
look through the open doorway of the 
church. As she stood there she was illumi- 
nated by the blazing sun which caused 
her to stand out in bold relief against the 
prairie sand. Her simple pink dress shone 
with a shining mist and her brown hair, 
curling softly around her weather-beaten 
face, had a rich woody color that only 
came when she wore pink. Finally, after 
one last smile, Hannah Clarkston moved 
into the sunlight and was gone from view. 


JVednesday Might 

By Janie Lo+speich 

From seven-thirty until ten-thirty on 
Wednesday night, I must insist on silence. 
There are approximately thirty minutes 
in which you may be allowed to speak; 
the remainder of the time, Peter Salem, 
Sam Spade, Sherlock Holmes, The Fal- 
con, The Saint, and The Fat Man are in 
grave danger. They are searching a kil- 
ler's room, they are walking down dark 
alleys, followed by strange hoodlums, they 
are being unmercifully beaten at the hands 
of tough mobsters. The aforementioned 
men are tough, they are bold, they are 

smarter than any man they may happen 
to meet; they are the heroes of weekly 
detective mysteries. 

Their adventures are exciting weekly 
occurrences to which they remain uncon- 
cerned. The detective is always the same. 
He is large, and usually handsome; the 
one exception to the rule is The Fat Man 
who is, although large, not handsome. The 
detective is super-intelligent and wise in 
the ways of the world, both high society 
and the world of mobsters. The Saint and 
Sherlock Holmes are especially literary, 

but so are the others in a peculiar way. 
Peter Salem and Sam Spade insert orig- 
inal if not earthy similies into a constant 
flow of narrative punctuated by the sound 
of hard fists striking solid jawbones, and 
groans, then a thump as the corpse of 
the badly mauled detective hits the floor. 
It is after he awakes, and finds that he 
doesn't feel up to par, that the detectives 
insert a simile describing a headache. 
Other apt comparisons follow a meeting 
with a new woman, or the description of 
a sinister character. Besides indulging him- 
self in peculiar literary fancies, the de- 
tective has an independence all his own. 
He seems to be free of the bondage of 
society, and takes delight in proving this 
to his listening audience. He uses the 
same superior tone to inferiors and su- 
periors alike. Yet the detective is leary of 
the police. He is able to continue his 
activities, however, through the aid of an 
understanding cabby, or a sympathetic 
bartender. These people, from ordinary 
walks of life, are awed by the detective's 
genius; they are always willing to con- 
tribute in any small part to the solving 
of the case. (It is understood that the po- 
lice are mere simpletons.) Rarely does the 
detective ask for aid, but he always gets 
it when he climbs hurriedly into the taxi- 
cab, one eyebrow quizzically raised, and 
gives the driver the address. The driver 

"Say, ain't I seen you someplace be- 
fore? Oh, I get it, sure. Them are cops 
behind you, you're the Saint! Bein's it's 
you I'll get ya there!" 

They are whisked away into the obliv- 
ion of traffic on Times Square. 

The usual reason for the desperate haste 
is that the detective has just found a dead 
body; he has, noticing the situation, found 
clues essential to the discovery of the mur- 
derer. He must escape with the clues be- 
fore the inevitably red-faced, bewildered 
police sergeant arrives on the scene. I have 

never understood why it is so important 
that the police be kept unaware of the cir- 
cumstances and clues of the killing, unless 
the detective is glory-bound. (I suspect 
this is true.) But this is beside the point, 
as critical analysis must only detract from 
the enjoyment of detective mysteries. The 
listener must accept what comes, no ques- 
tions asked. 

To continue with the hero in a speed- 
ing taxicab, he is found either contem- 
plating his next move aloud to the lis- 
tener in terse, abrupt dialogue, or en- 
gaged in spirited conversation with his 
new found friend, the cab-driver. The des- 
tination may be any one of three places: 
(sometimes there are variations) a water- 
front dive, an uptown bar, or an apart- 
ment. It is usually the apartment. Wher- 
ever he is going, he enters the room to 
find a beautiful woman. She is usually 
searching the room, but the listener knows 
she isn't guilty. How? No reason, we just 
know. She is horrified at the interruption, 
and reaches into her purse for the gun 
which the detective dissuades her from 
using. Sometimes a grapple may ensue, but 
this is usually not the case, as the detective 
is, by nature, a gentleman. The mystery 
has progressed to an important point, a 
character has been introduced. The de- 
tective is no longer alone; this time he 
follows up clues with a beautiful woman- 

Now the woman does not remain totally 
unimpressed by our hero. He is large, 
tough and handsome, and he can help her 
unravel her snarled-up life. Together they 
hunt the killer. (Once, to our surprise, 
the detective's and mine, the lady was the 
killer.) Somehow, in the course of events, 
the two are separated and the detective 
encounters a group of thugs, or one thug, 
who ushers him to a sHe street or vacant 
room to "work him over" — more simply, 
to beat him up. 

After this episode, the detective has be- 


come actually involved in the case. The 
guilty party or parties are after his skin. 
He goes quickly to the character, without 
which no mystery program would be com- 
plete — the detective's friend, the walking 
Who's Who in the underworld. He knows 
all, sees all, hears all; he loves the de- 
tective with unswerving devotion. Hating 
to admit his affection, he gives the hero a 
bit of trouble before he will supply the 
missing piece of the puzzle. This is Mugg- 
sy, Butch, Spike, or whomever you like. 
The detective can also speak his language 
well. Filled with Muggsy's vital knowl- 
edge, the detective hurries back to the 
right place and, after a frightening gun 
battle, catches the killer single-handed and 
presents him to the police, a bit smugly I 
might add. 

Now we have come to the part of the 
program which the more romantic listener 
eagerly awaits. After the commercial, the 

detective visits his ever-waiting girlfriend, 
who is usually, also, his secretary. He ex- 
plains the case to her between endearing 
phrases. She coos. 

The program may end on either of two 
notes; an affectionate scene between the 
detective and his sweetheart, or a hint 
about next week's adventure. 

I love these detectives. They are real 
men, fearless, independent, geniuses at 
crime, love and society, witty and tough. 
I will not let myself think about the ob- 
viously unanswered questions at each 
broadcast. Why is the detective always 
smarter than the police? How can he take 
a beating week after week? Why does he 
sneer so in conversation with other char- 
acters? Don't the police know anything, 
especially the New York police? 

If it were not for these "obstinate ques- 
tionings" I would sincerely enjoy detective 




By Mary Evelyn Smith 
Despite how dead a soulless world may grow 
Or how decaying may become the clime, 
Or how a bland indifference may slow 
The steps of Progress' steady tread of time, 
From out the crumbling heights of honor's sky, 
Emerged from stalwart morals, turned to dust, 
In deep revolt, a feeling heart will cry: 
There are ideals that cannot ever rust! 
There are true dreams that dreamers will not give 
Unto a clutching earth; nor will they share 
The spoils of trampled pride, with rot to live 
Immune — as out of winter's deadness dare 
One timid blossom, peeping forth to bring 
The first glad herald of a coming spring. 


Tan JVada 


By Anne 

The hammock swayed slightly to and 
fro in the dark, hot quiet. Far out in the 
low thickets a jaguar howled. Awake, star- 
ing at the blackness that in the dawn 
would be a thatched roof, Tan Nada 
heard the cry and moaned. The time had 
almost come. There would be no stopping 
it now. Not even Kukulcan with all his 
might and wisdom could do that. In an- 
other hour the dawn would arrive. The 
heat pressed in on Tan Nada, and he 
hated it, hated it for still hovering over 
Chichen Itza, hated it for impressing the 
Maya with the knowledge that the su- 
preme Chaclord and giver of rain — walked 
no more in the skies above the great 
stone pyramids. 

Tan Nada shut his eyes. The silence 
filled his ears. The silence in which no 
monkey jabbered, no parrot squawked, the 
silence in which the jaguar had screamed 
but once. Was this Kukulcan's way of 
sending sympathy? Tan Nada wondered. 
Was this deathly quiet the earth god's 
consolation? No! This could not be, Tan 
Nada knew, for this gave no comfort, no 
hope. This gave only a sense of impend- 
ing pain. No! This forboding stillness 
could not be the work of the beneficent 
Kukulcan. It could only be torment from 
the all powerful Chac! 

"Oh! You foolish one! You stupid one!" 
Tan Nada whispered to himself. "Drive 
such thoughts from your mind. They can 
but displease Chac — Chac who needs so 
much to be pleased — Chac whose pleasure 
will bring the rain that fills the cenotes 
and feeds the corn. It is best to arise if 
such thoughts fill your mind." And Tan 
Nada rolled from his hammock to the 
hard, packed dirt floor. 

He stretched his short body to its full 
height, then he bowed his head. "Give me 
strength, Great Kukulcan! Give this priest 



of your Caracol strength!" he prayed. 

There was no answer but the silence. 
And through this Tan Nada glided over 
to the blackest corner of his hut. Here 
lay the mahogany chest which held the 
treasured symbols of his priesthood — the 
holy girdle, the white mantle, and the 
feathered serpent. The girdle he wrapped 
around his waist, and the serpent on its 
gold chain he hung around his neck, but 
the mantle he thoughtfully fingered. Gent- 
ly he rubbed the mantle's soft heron feath- 
ers, then he lay it on his hammock. 

"Now," Tan Nada's body stiffened at 
the thought, "Now it is time to awaken 
Anya Payan." And he pulled aside the 
curtain that led to an inner room. Sur- 
prised, he blinked as he stepped across 
its threshold. For the little room was filled 
with a faint, but warming light caused 
by a bit of hemp burning in a dish of 
goose fat. 

Tan Nada frowned — he was a frugal 
man, provident for the future. And, too, 
this was a time of great drought, of much 
hunger among the Maya. But an inert 
voice within him whispered, "Would you 
deny the girl this last, too?" 

At once, as a thrusting sword releases 
blood, this inner stab erased Tan Nada's 
anger. Subdued and conscious of dread 
in his heart, he stooped to touch his 
daughter's shoulder. 

"Asleep, Anya Payan? Asleep?" he 
questioned. "It is time to arise. One does 
not keep the powerful Chac waiting, you 

Immediately Anya Payan opened troub- 
led black eyes that looked as if they had 
but shut. She stared drearily at her father. 
"It is time?" Her voice was low and re- 

"It is time," he answered. "You will 
find your mantle on my hammock. I go to 

the temple now. You must hurry. The 
others will have finished their prayers be- 
fore you are ready if you do not." Tan 
Nada turned and quickly left the hut. 

He could feel his daughter's tired eyes 
follow the small of his back. He heard 
her soft call, "You have not eaten yet, my 
father." Then he heard no more, for he 
was beyond all hearing, out in the hot, 
quiet dark that pressed down on the 
plains of Chichen Itza. 

Abruptly he stopped. He had forgotten 
his sandals. "I must go back," he thought, 
"for who has heard of a priest of Kukul- 
can not wearing sandals? But no! There 
must be another pair at the Caracol." And 
Tan Nada hastened on down the parched 
path. To his right loomed a ponderous 
mass, blacker than the black sky. It was 
the Temple of the Moon, deserted, for- 
saken at this hour. Beyond it lay the Cara- 
col, its short, round tower indistinct 
against the dark eastern sky. The stair- 
case leading up over its foundation of ter- 
raced pyramids lay on the other, the east- 
ern side. 

Again Tan Nada paused. His head 
bowed, once more he prayed to the earth 
god for strength to find the stairs and 
the courage to climb them. For once he 
had reached their top and had entered the 
sacred rotunda there would be no turning 
back. "But there is no turning back now," 
Tan Nada recalled grimly. And firmly 
enshrouding himself in the dignity of Ku- 
kulcan's priesthood, he moved toward the 
squat, barely visible mass that was his 

On reaching the last step on the Cara- 
col's other face he crossed the terraced 
top and entered the holy of holies, the 
sacred rotunda. There he dropped to his 
knees in prayer before a massive statue 
of the feathered serpent, the symbol of 
Kukulcan. His own jade symbol rubbed 
against his chest. 

Earnestly Tan Nada petitioned the 

lordly Kukulcan to intercede with the ef- 
ficacious Chac, whose rain was so needed. 
Fervently he prayed that the Maya might 
have the water that meant life. Dutifully 
he begged the great Chac to send the rain 
as a token of his gracious acceptance of 
the sacrifice the Maya would this day of- 
fer him. 

Then he arose from the cold limestone 
floor and stepped behind the feathered 
serpent. Here in a chest similar to his 
own were the most sacred emblems the 
priest of the Caracol wore — the aigrette 
headdress, three arm lengths wide and 
three arm lengths tall; the great square 
mantle of parakeet wings; and the tur- 
quoise scepter around which writhed an- 
other feathered serpent. 

With these and the extra pair of san- 
dals he bedecked himself. Then bowing 
low to his god, he stalked out of the hall 
onto the terrace. At its edge he stopped — 
a grave, barbaric figure gazing into a star- 
less blackness already beginning to fade 
into gray. Here he waited, while Xiuta, 
god of day, fought his battle with Monas, 
god of night. And as Xiuta, once again, 
graduallly won his fight, Tan Nada's eyes, 
once more, could see his city of limestone 

Below him, leading straight east from 
the steps of the Caracol, lay the Oliba — 
the great white road of oblation. To his 
left rose the Chichanchob, its coral walls 
a dull read in the fading sky. On his right 
lay the Great Cenote. A woman was draw- 
ing water from its side. She had to drop 
her pitcher many arm lengths down for 
the well was almost dry. Feeling utterly 
alone, completely separate, Tan Nada 
watched her; he had to watch her for she 
was life. But soon there was more life, 
more and more. For the Maya were gath- 
ering this day at dawn, gathering to march 
down the Oliba, gathering to pilgrimage 
down the great, white road that would 
end at the other cenote. 


Lifeless as the jade serpent around his 
neck, Tan Nada watched them assemble, 
watched them hurry and bustle around the 
Caracol's base like a flock of chickens. 
Each one was carrying some bit of precious 
wealth — a grain of cocoa, a bead of gold, 
a piece of jade. Each bit, a gift, a muchly 
prized gift; each bit a gift for the great 
god, Chac. 

When the Maya had all assembled, they 
ceased their bustle and waited quietly, 
glancing now and then at their somber, 
aloof priest — the stoic Tan Nada. And 
he, unflinching, returned their look. 

At last all the bamboo huts were empty; 
finally all but six of the Maya had ar- 
rived. Then Tan Nada nodded to a 
group of drummers gathered below him 
on the steps; and they struck one note, 
one vibrant note that echoed among the 
limestone temple, one commanding note 
that summoned the missing six. 

Tan Nada turned to the north to look 
for them. And he saw them coming, com- 
ing from the sacred altar of Chac — the 
sacred altar that lay buried within the 
narrow walls of the rosy Chichanchob. 
One behind the other, they were walking 
in a single file, walking to the tune of a 
wailing flute. Nurcado was playing this 
flute — the slender, sinewy Nurcado, the 
daring, courageous Nurcado, the Nurcado 
who was to have been Tan Nada's son-in- 
law, Anya Payan's husband. 

Tan Nada watched Nurcado lead this 
group of six slowly through the silent 
crowd. At last they stood below him at 
the foot of the Caracol's steps — six youth: 
three men, three maids. Six youth — six 
youth from the noblest of the Maya clans 
— chosen because of their rank to carry 
the prayers of the drought-burdened peo- 
ple to the great god, Chac. 

From his remote terrace Tan Nada 
stared at them. Nurcado's flute had 
stopped. All was hushed, expectant. Tan 

Nada's heart was cold, but his face was 
a blank, for he was a priest of the Maya, 
priest to the God of the Earth, Kukulcan, 
and what was ordained for the life of 
Chichen Itza must be accomplished. He, 
too, must obey its laws. Yet, once again, 
he glanced down the straight oliba, down 
the great white road that led to the power- 
ful god, Chac, Chac who lived beyond the 
bottom of the other cenote — the cenote of 
sacrifice. In this last minute before the 
sacrifice could not the venerable Chac 
mercifully send the rain? No! He could 
not, for the sun was already a fiery disc 
on a cloudless horizon. Tan Nada's gaze 
flickered over the six standing so straight, 
so stiff below him. These could not see 
the corner of his mouth quiver, not even 
the last of the six. This last was a maid 
who looked as if she had slept little the 
night before, a maid clad in a heron 
feather mantle, a maid who was the only 
child of this priest of the Maya, the last 
of his house — Anya Payan. 

Slowly, majestically Tan Nada spread 
his arms far out over the waiting people. 
He blessed them with the scepter of the 
feathered serpent. Then in stately tones 
he chanted the prayer of sacrifice to the 
all powerful Chac: 

We have gathered today, oh Lord of 

We have gathered on thy brother's 

Gathered together with all we hold 

most cherished, 
In this hour before the dawn 
We are ready, great and honorable 

Our jade, our gold, our youth await 

And our prayer goes down to thee 

through them, 
Our prayer that the fields may have 

Our prayer that the great cenote may 
be filled, 


Our prayer that life may come re- 
newed, abundant to this land of 
the Maya. 
Again the drums began to beat — note 
after throbbing note. And the mourning 
flute of Nurcado sent its shrill melody 
high to greet the azure sky. Tan Nada, 
soberly descended the steps. With infinite 
dignity he marched down the great white 
road. The Maya turned to follow him — 
down past the Temple of the Tigers, down 
past the Temple of the Warriors, on to 
the beat of drums, on toward the rising 
sun, on to the end of the Oliba, to the 
cenote of sacrifice. 

Before them it stretched — a broad, cir- 
cular pit — and far below, eighty arms 
lengths below, oozed its stagnant water. 
The Maya surrounded its brink watching 
their priest. And he, one by one, called 
upon the families of Chichen Itza to throw 
their sacrifice to the waiting waters. And, 
as each family's chief dropped his treasure 
into the all powerful Chac's collection 
plate, Tan Nada recited the final prayer 
of oblation: 

God of the waters, Lord of the clouds, 

We are here at thy door, 

And we knock on thy door with the 

gifts that we bring. 
We knock on thy door with our 

gold, our jade, our youth, 
God of the waters^ Lord of the 

Great, Mighty, Mysterious Chac, 
We pray thee with these gifts grant 

our prayer, 

Send us the blessed, the holy rain 

of life. 

The drums never ceased, the flute never 

faltered. And all the families had given 

their gifts, all except those of the noble 

six. Now their turn had come. One by 
one a father and a child stepped forward. 
Nurcado was the first. With a hand that 
barely shook he handed his flute to a 
younger brother who immediately began 
to warble a piteous tune. For a brief sec- 
ond he looked at Anya Payan. Then, as 
impassive and calm as the intoning Tan 
Nada, Nurcado stepped over the edge. 

Thus, with the sounds of the wavering 
flute and the droning priest in their ears, 
each man plunged into the abyss. The 
first girl followed, then the next. Now 
only Anya Payan remained. Her turn had 
come. She glanced indifferently at her 
father, before quietly moving to the side 
of the cenote. But Tan Nada — Tan Nada 
drew the feathered serpent from his neck. 
"My other gift to the great Chac," he 
said gently as he placed it around her 

Anya Payan touched the smooth jade 
snake, for a second she rubbed it, then 
she stepped over the edge. 

Tan Nada began the final prayer of 
sacrifice. Unfalteringly he intoned, 
"Great, Mighty, Mysterious Chac, We 
pray thee with these gifts grant our prayer, 
Send us the blessed, the holy rain of life." 
Far below he heard a faint splash. But he 
did not look into the cenote's vast depths; 
instead he turned from the pool and led 
his people back up the great white road, 
back to the limestone temples shimmering 
now under an early morning sun. He 
marched steadily on — a Maya priest in a 
sacred mantle. 

Behind him the rays of the rising sun 
were striking the cenote of sacrifice, chang- 
ing its slimy waters blood red. Beyond the 
cenote in the dense thickets another jaguar 


"I Gat Spurs . . . 


By Marilyn Gardner 

"Marilyn, I want you to meet . . ." 

But I didn't listen to the name, for 
standing before me was my first glimpse 
of a dyed-in-the-wool cowboy. 

My family and I had just recently 
moved to the ranch; and so far I hadn't 
met any riding, roping, rocking cowpunch- 
ers. The one I refer to was young, tall, 
skinny, good-natured, and (as I now 
know) typical. 

It sounds rather harsh on a bod/s in- 
dividuality to class him as typical right 
at first, but in a sense I believe that every 
cowboy may be so classified. Every cow- 
boy, whether good or bad morally, has one 
specific quality that makes him typical 
with every other coffee-drinking, calf- 
roping, tobacco-loving cowboy that ever 
wore boots. This quality is his love for 

Watching a cowboy ride his "hoss" is 
comparable to watching a graceful dancer 
or a trim sailboat skimming across a gentle 
bay. There is a perfect harmony of rhythm 
between the man and the horse as if one 
mind controlled the movements of both. 
While riding is of primary importance in 
a cowboy's work, it is really just a means 
to an end. This is an added reason for 
admiring his skill. A dancer and a sail- 
boat skipper concentrate their entire ef- 
forts to produce a satisfactory perform- 
ance; but, while thundering over rocky 
brush country, a cowboy's main concen- 
tration is probably to outwit mavericks. 
His art is a part of him just as his 
gnarled hand is a part of him. 

When a cowboy rides the range, his 
vocabulary of howls and curses is totally 
unfit for young, tender ears. When he 
trains a horse, however, it is fairly safe 
to say that no one would be influenced 
for the worse. 

Before training, the cowboy gets ac- 
quainted with the horse and learns to de- 
tect its whims and moods. When actual 
training begins, the cowboy consistently 
purrs to the beast with low whistles and 
soft words; he teases it and plays with it. 
Occasionally, the cowboy may beat the 
horse to keep it disciplined; but, he does 
this only when he is in the saddle. It is the 
disgusting mark of a "city dude" for a 
man standing on the ground to beat a 

Throughout the long months of train- 
ing a cow-pony, the cowboy is infinitely 
kind but firm. He sees that the animal is 
kept in good condition. He worries about 
his "hoss" as if it were a failing crop. 
Later, however, when the "critter" is ready 
to work on the open range, the cowboy 


digs his spurs deeply into its sides and 
howls like a trapped mountain lion. The 
poor "hoss," scared almost to death, runs 
and twists wildly in every direction; and 
the cowboy is considered a "real man" as 

he finally controls his "hoss" and growls, 
"Damn you! Why cain't you behave!" 

Don't let this act fool you though. A 
typical cowboy will walk a mile any day 
to saddle up and then ride half a mile. 


^eek V lot, \yh cJLiPe 

By Rosemary Lawrence 

Seek not, Oh Life, to solve 

Those mysteries wrought by thee. 

Leave care and want 

To poor unlearned fools like me. 

Show me the pleasures and joys 

That, through partaking of thy sins, are mine; 

And, then, instill in me the barriers of righteousness 

To make them ever thine. 

Seal within thy armoured door 

The answers to the mysteries that ever haunt me. 

Then laugh, Oh Life, at this poor fool 

Who seeks eternally the magic key. 

Be gay, Sweet Life, for gayness is thy only sword 

To fight the wickedness wrought by thy mortal lords. 


The Modem Perspective 


By Peggy 

Art is a reflection of the perpetual 
growth and development of man. It may 
reach a peak according to one measuring 
stick and then seem to deteriorate only to 
rise again to heights of perfection as 
measured by different principles, all of 
which are related to man's development, 
both intellectual and spiritual. Thus, we 
find ourselves today in a new and exciting 
trend toward modern art — that is, an emo- 
tional and individualistic expression. It is 
a search for the fundamental forces, ig- 
noring the confines of strict realism, imi- 
tation, and convention. 

To the majority of critics, both profes- 
sional and amateur, modern art is still a 
radical, confusing, and unethical by- 
product of "true" art. "True" art, until 
lately, has been incased in a harness. As 
Henry Poore says in The New Tendency 
In Art, modern art requires a violent coun- 
termovement to protest the ideas that "Imi- 
tation is the business of art; that technique 
is the goal where the efforts of the artist 
must finally stop; that the result must be 
beautiful; and that art's pleasure is sensu- 
ous rather than intellectual." In these for- 
mulas we see a similarity to the restraints 
by the priesthood on the Egyptian artists, 
a regimentation which kills the beauty of 
true art and expression. Art has a scope 
which reaches beyond the technical limi- 
tations. Subconscious emotion and imagi- 
nation give broad perspective, while the 
vision of the obvious is narrow. 

Today, art should be viewed from the 
outlook, "What does it create within me?" 
not, "What do you suppose the artist is 
trying to reproduce and represent?" Many 
adverse critics point to abstract art as 
ridiculous and gawky. They fail to think 
of the basis for the abstract. If the artist 
had attempted to reproduce realistically 
and could produce nothing better, the 

critic would then be justified in making 
such a statement. This attitude shows the 
critic to be too much within the confines 
of imitation and realism, and he is fail- 
ing to approach modern art from an un- 
inhibited point of view. Any form of ex- 
pression is legitimate for the artist's per- 
ception or emotion. Any medium, which 
carries with it the tone of the creation, is 
used today, and I use creation to mean 
the product of an uninhibited mind, rec- 
ognizing only truth and feeling. Form is 
no longer the means to an end, but the 
end in itself — an object of emotion. Mod- 
ern art does not imitate form, it creates it. 
The goal is "pure feeling," unhampered 
by association with preconceived ideas or 

The basis for the argument against mod- 
ern art is the idea that technique and art 
are an integrated whole, not to be sep- 
arated. Yet they do not recognize a new, 
broader technique — the ability to create 
visual emotions. For so long painting has 
meant a visual expression reproduced on 
canvas, that now the critic claims the cre- 
ation of an emotional or non-visual ex- 
perience is impossible on canvas. The critic 
fails to recognize, too, that pure feeling is 
restricted by the regimentation of imag- 
ination through depicting familiar patterns 
of thought or form. Modern artists can 
go beyond the point of creating an object 
which has caused an emotional reaction in 
them, and they actually create the emotion. 
Critics point to public monuments and 
memorials, the statesman, soldier, hero, or 
moment in history, and point out the ab- 
surdity of impressionism in this field. If 
a monument is dedicated to a cause or 
historical moment, think how much more 
personal and dynamic the idea would be 
if intensified with the power of abstract 
concentration and expression. 


Art is an expressive reflection of the 
people, and will follow their growth and 
development. The conflicts which we have 
today are to be expected, especially when 
modern art brings merely an image of dis- 
torted figures, parts of anatomy, or up- 
setting splashes of color to the majority 
of the people. We seem to be emerging 
from the last effects of the Victorian Era. 
No longer is the mind to be hemmed in; 
it seeks recognition and expression. Only 
when more and more people tire of the 
emphasis on beautiful, the perfect replica, 

and realistic and systematized imitation, 
will modern art come into its own. 

Art will be a flexible thing with no set 
patterns; it will have only interest in 
rhythm and design, space, mass, move- 
ment, and expression. Realism will be un- 
important — and what is more — it will be 
an art which is felt and shared by every- 
one. Art will catch the vigor, spirit, and 
depth of living, for it will be universal — 
an art of all mankind. Each man will be 
an artist, for everyone has the potential 





By Helen Walton 
At last the surging soul is weary, 
Worn of drama, 
Sick of strife, 
Ready to accept the calling, 
Stripped of glitter, 
Gone with life. 

Now the cards are on the table — 
That your ace? your jack? your trey? 
Fast the false screens are falling, 
Melting bubbles burst away. 
No time now to don the make-up, 
Too late to cover wrinkle's ridge — 
Life's play is over, the curtain's falling, 
Costumes void, 
And drama dead. 

Nothing left but matter, bone, and marrow- 
That, the actor. 



By Helen Walton 

The snow fell hesitantly from the bleak 

December sky, covering the already white 
countryside with a new layer of down. 
It was cold, almost too cold to snow; but 
the threatening clouds promised some real 
weather by morning. It made a pretty pic- 
ture — the rugged Vermont mountainside, 
the snow-burdened spruce showing blue 
from underneath, and the log lodge 
nestled in the shelter of the cliff, overlook- 
ing the frozen lake against the gloomy 
grey of the heavy sky deepened by the 
light grey of the smoke rising from the 
chimney. Inside the lodge, however, the 
fire was burning brightly, producing a 
cheery red glow on the elk's head that 
hung over the mantelpiece. The crackling 
of the fire and the chattering of the guests 
made evident the excitement and expecta- 
tion of vacation. Mrs. Spence, buxom and 
stern as ever, stood at the door giving 
orders as to where to put the luggage. 
She always gave the impression she was 
doing people a favor to allow them to stay 
at the lodge; and perhaps she was> for no 
place had atmosphere and food like Wan- 
na Linga. And, indeed, Mrs. Spence was 
a good manager, a little too efficient to 
allow full enjoyment, but a splendid or- 
ganizer and, one might add, a rigid chape- 
rone. She had tried marriage once and 
wished to keep all others from making the 
mistake she had made. Not in her lodge 
were there cozy private corners where a 
tired business man might "pitch a little 
woo" with someone else's wife or go on a 
three day "binge" to forget the cares of 
the world. Mrs. Spence knew where every- 
one was at all times and what he was 
doing. Take, for instance, Mrs. Muse. 
For three years she had spent vacations at 
the lodge in the hope of finding a hus- 
band to replace the one she had lost thirty 
years before, but with Mrs. Spence's rigid 

eyes she would have been better off at the 
beach. Not a soul had Mrs. Spence fooled. 
She knew Mrs. Muse was husband-hunt- 
ing, Mr. Arney was soured on the world, 
Mrs. Nance was expecting, Mr. Allison 
was having wife trouble, Mr. Bush was 
secretly working on a novel, and what 
the letter Miss Carson left on her dresser 
that morning said. Now it wasn't that 
Mrs. Spence was nosey, for she hated gos- 
sip as much as anyone and stopped it 
promptly when she heard it going on. It 
was just that she felt responsible for her 
guests, and she wanted no shady "going- 
ons" on her premises. She ruled the lodge 
sedately from her straight back chair be- 
fore the fire, knitting furiously all the 
time. She hated the idle hands she be- 
lieved were the creator of all monkey 
business. She befriended no one, she 
trusted no one; to her, all were wayward 
people who must be watched. She made it 
clear she had no use for romance and 
lesser vices such as infatuation and flirta- 
tion; she did not believe in love and did 
not tolerate it. Why the guests kept com- 
ing back it is hard to say unless it was to 
enjoy trying to see what they could get 
by with, because every season she had 
enough demands for reservations to be able 
to select her visitors. And it was indeed a 
privilege to be allowed to come back. 

This season would prove to be an inter- 
esting one. Any guest that had ever vis- 
ited Wanna Linga before could tell that. 
Already Mr. Burk, the handsome young 
artist, could be seen casting longing looks 
at pretty Miss Ronson, whose pink cheeks 
hinted she was not altogether unaware of 
her admirer. Mr. Arney was back; but 
then he got to come every year. His miser- 
able disposition and hatred for Mrs. 
Spence, who took pleasure in antagonizing 
him to the limits of his endurance, fur- 


nished him a standing invitation to the 
lodge. It was generally known that one of 
Mrs. Spence's best tricks was failing to 
send him his acceptance slip until the last 
minute. She knew it afforded him untold 
inconvenience. Mrs. Muse, too, was back 
with her obviously vacant left fourth fin- 
ger. There were other additions that prom- 
ised to prove interesting. Tall, striking, 
sophisticated Miss Muron, editor of a 
fashion magazine, was the object of ad- 
miring glances from two elderly million- 
aires. It looked as if she was going to be 
able to take her choice. It is highly prob- 
able that she was receiving glances from 
Mr. Allison, too, the one with wife trouble. 
But if anything came to pass from any of 
these potential situations it would be over 
Mrs. Spence's dead body. 

Already it was evident that Mrs. Spence 
was on the job. At the dinner table she 
had placed Mr. Burk at the opposite end 
from Miss Ronson on the same side so 

they could not look at each other, Miss 
Muron's two millionaires together but far 
away from her, and worst of all Mr. Ar- 
ney beside herself so she could make him 
miserable. All the women had rooms on 
the second floor and all the men were on 
third (she even separated husbands and 
wives) while her own room opened on 
the landing so she could hear anyone 
passing from one floor to the other. But 
despite the inconveniences and embarrass- 
ments that were sure to come, everyone 
was cheerful and expectant. It was always 
interesting to see who would be reproved 

The next morning all hopes of a hunt 
were destroyed. The heavens opened up 
and dumped the biggest snow that Ver- 
mont had witnessed in December in thirty 
years. This meant that the whole party 
was to be cooped up in the lodge unless 
an unexpected thaw came to deliver them. 
For three days the guests found outlets 


for their energy in vigorous card games 
and in the basement game room; but it 
became evident this could not last forever 
or even another day, for they were begin- 
ning to bicker and quabble over bridge 
scores and shuffleboard sticks. The tension 
between Mrs. Spence and Mr. Arney was 
becoming unbearable. They almost came to 
blows over who said "rummy" first; they 
swore fiercely over politics and elaborated 
on every difference of opinion they could 
find. Something was bound to happen. It 

On the evening of the fourth day Mr. 
Burk and blushing Miss Ronson left the 
dinner table obviously early. Mr. Burk 
threw a triumphant glance at Mrs. Spence 
as he followed Miss Ronson into the empty 
den and shut the door. Mrs. Spence was 
speechless; in fact, the whole table was 
speechless. All eyes were on Mrs. Spence. 
She sat rigid for a moment and drawing 
herself to her full majestic height, she 
marched stiffly to the door and rapped 
firmly. SiLence. She rapped again. From 
within came three distinct words in reply 
to her knock. 

"Go to hell!" 

If Mrs. Spence was stiff before, she 
was stone now. She gave an audible gasp, 
and then her shoulders slumped and she 
began to shake. Mrs. Spence was going to 
cry. Sobs shook her defeated person while 
the guests sat at the table too stupefied to 

move. Mr. Allison looked at Miss Muron; 
Miss Muron looked at her two million- 
aires, who in turn looked at Mrs. Muse; 
but Mr. Arney did not look at anyone. 
He pushed back his chair and stalked 
awkwardly to her side. Everyone held his 
breath waiting for the blow to come. Mr. 
Arney jerked her around and shook her 
violently. Then he gathered the invincible 
Mrs. Spence into his arms and tenderly 
stroked her hair. After a moment he led 
her gently into the music room and shut 
the door. 

When they came back into the room, 
Miss Muron was sitting between her two 
millionaires on the sofa; Mrs. Muse and 
Mr. Allison were at the window watching 
the snow; while Miss Ronson sang softly 
to Mr. Burk who was leaning on the 
piano. The love seat in front of the fire 
had been too obviously left vacant. Mrs. 
Spence smiled timidly at the others as 
she was led gently towards the fire. The 
shadows lengthened as the light from the 
glowing embers dimmed as Mr. Arney 
talked softly to Mrs. Spence, who was 
nervously unraveling the bedspread she 
had been knitting for twenty years. Now 
and then a word or two were heard from 
the deep conversation on the love seat. 
Miss Ronson was sure she heard Mr. Ar- 
ney mention the name of the lodge, but 
what he really said was, 

"Wanna Linga?" 




The Traveler 

By Joyce Cooper, Senior 

Released from the numb, empty feeling 
that had grasped him, Jeffrey realized 
that he had regained consciousness; and 
with this realization came first and fore- 
most a sigh of relief. He had pulled 
through, he thought. He had been so 
afraid of the darkness and the falling 
into endless space. Still not opening his 
eyes, Jeffrey breathed more slowly now 
and relaxed a little. It was all over now, 
all but the recovery. The crisis had ended 
— the operation a success. 

Still groggy, Jeffrey knew the power 
of that strong anesthetic; but he also knew 
that Celia would be waiting, probably 
outside the hospital door, or perhaps — 
yes, of course, she would be there in the 
room beside him, as she was always beside 
him. He would open his eyes> wanting only 
to see his wife and child. Defying his 
heavy eyelids, Jeffrey forced them open. 
It was hazy at first, as he had anticipated. 
His head ached a little, but he did not 
expect miracles. It was unbelievable that 
he should be alive at all. The doctor had 
promised nothing — a possibility perhaps, 
but it was more probable that . . . 

His thoughts were interrupted when 
the objects about him slowly took station- 
ary places. He seemed to be regaining his 
equilibrium. Suddenly becoming aware of 
what surrounded him, Jeffrey was startled. 
This was no hospital room, no doctors, 

nurses. It seemed to be an airplane. His 
first emotion was one of complete terror. 
His heart began throbbing madly as if it 
would burst. The aching returned to his 
head. Almost immediately the terror was 
replaced by utter confusion as he tried to 
rationalize. There was no doubt about it. 
It was a plane moving through the night 
with great rapidity. 

No longer oblivious to those around 
him, Jeffrey tried to catch snatches of a 
conversation, searching almost blindly for 
an explanation. How did he, Jeffrey Wal- 
ton, get here? It was impossible, irritating. 
All at once he realized. He had the an- 
swer. Of course, there was a logical ex- 
planation. He was still under the influence 
of the ether. Recalling what Doctor Blake 
had said about delirium and the effects of 
the anesthetic, Jeffrey smiled and relaxed 
a little. He felt better. Certainly that was 
it. He was dreaming. That was all right — 
better this than the falling, the darkness, 
numbness. Yet he could not help feeling 
that the roar of the mighty engines in his 
ears, the cigarette smoke, and the noisy 
passengers were too realistic for a dream. 

Sitting back to rest his head, Jeffrey 
attributed his not being bandaged to the 
fact that this was a dream and was not 
supposed to be logical. Accepting this, he 
then decided to investigate the passengers 
around him. Strange he had not noticed 


before — they all seemed so far away — not 
actually, but as if they were preoccupied. 
Searching for a familiar face merely to 
occupy his time until he awakened to see 
Celia and Baby Jeff, his glance suddenly 
halted at the seat across the aisle from 
him. A strongely familiar face captured 
his vision. Perhaps he was one of the 
doctors or a friend. No, this was not the 
face of a friend — the visage hardened by 
a bitter scowl, a scar not long but deep, 
in the cheek, and that glassy stare. It 
began to upset Jeffrey. Where could he 
have come in contact with such a man? 
The man seemed to ignore his existence 
completely, as all the other passengers did. 
Jeffrey decided to read a newspaper to 
take his mind off all this. It was becoming 
weird. "A real nightmare," he thought. 
"Won't the kid's eyes stand out when I 
tell him this one?" The stewardess very 
obligingly brought the newspaper for 

which he had asked her. Jeffrey noticed 
her sombre uniform, her listless appear- 
ance. Opening the newspaper and noticing 
that it was yesterday's, he eyed a large 
photograph of the man who, a few mo- 
ments before, had been the object of his 
attentions. Yes, he had seen the man. 
"Probably some traveling dignitary," he 
mused, although not interested enough to 
read farther, for he was getting anxious 
about waking up. He flipped the pages 
nervously, never noticing the headline 
above the picture of the man with the 
scar. It read: 

And below the picture was the story of 
the execution of public enemy number 1. 
The gigantic flagship roared on louder 
— farther away into the night, into obliv- 


By Betty Grey, Senior 

Tiny cat-like mews, 
Claws showing, 
Carrying all the latest news 
Without knowing 
True facts. 

Silly sounds of idle chatter 

Always going. 

That is all that seems to matter. 

Ever crowing 

Women talk. 



By Mary Eda Larsen 

I always have said Val is a good girl 
even if she is my older sister, but at times 
I wondered. You see Val and I (my 
name's Midge) have been pals except for 
a few knock-down, drag-out fights which 
are really just minor things, even if the 
last one did remove a good fistful of Val's 
hair, and left me without my longest fin- 
gernail. You see, she insisted I'd torn a 
run in her best stockings; but I really 
hadn't. All I had done was to put it back 
in the drawer with her scatter pins, and 
it was her fault if she ripped the thing 
getting it out. Well, that which followed 
had best be left out for the peace of all 
harmony-minded citizens. 

Anyway, Val is one of those people that 
are blessed with looking like a goddess; 
but you'd never catch me telling her that 
— heck no! Life would be too tough! As 
it was, she used to have a very underrated 
opinion of her looks. And who could ex- 
pect anything else, because I imagine even 
Greek goddesses would look like the dick- 
ens if they wore blue jeans or old smelly 
jodhpurs and a baggy shirt all the time. 
And her hair! Val's hair can look like a 
murky brook in the sunshine, sort of 
smoky-like with jet black ripples in it, 
but she used to let it string down her 
neck at home and then it merely looked 
like a stagnant pond. 

Val's tall and graceful in a powerful 
sort of way, like a saddle-horse is graceful 
even though he's pretty heavy. You know, 
you feel like he's surely going to trip or 
lose his balance or something — well, it's 
the same way with Val. She's a good size 
I must admit, but it's well spread out and 
when she walks she just sort of glides. 
Maybe that height gave her a complex 
or something, but Val managed to get 

the notion that she didn't want to be a 
girl. Personally, I think the woman al- 
ways comes out on the good end of the 
deal if only because she doesn't have to 
part with her allowance in order to see a 
movie. But Val took to being stand-offish 
and superior. Not only that, but she pro- 
ceeded to learn about machinery — of all 
things. Any creep knows girls shouldn't 
be intelligent on that subject because if 
they were, boys wouldn't have anything to 
explain to them. Val could lecture on any- 
thing from spark plugs to fluid drive, 
though, and she took a smug sort of satis- 
faction in out-talking every male she came 
into contact with. 

Which brings to mind the episode with 
Buz Martin. Now Bob, Buz's brother, is 
my very best Saturday-night boy friend 
and the day Buz got a new convertible 
they hotfooted it right over to see me. I 
was so excited that I fell over the door- 
step and twisted my ankle. Maybe it's 
babyish, but I don't know of anyone who 
wouldn't yell if something like that hap- 
pened. Of course, it is possible that I hol- 
lered a little louder than was necessary, 
'cause Buz and Bob leaped out of that 
car like a stampede of buffalo, while Val 
came around the house on the double. By 
that time my ankle didn't hurt any more, 
but I had to put on an act, because Buz 
looked suspicious; and I figured Buz 
would be all too capable of turning me up 
and paddling me. 

Bob and Buz could almost be twins 
except that Buz is about six inches and 
fifty pounds bigger than my five foot, 
ten inch boyfriend. He has black hair 
too, while Bob's is red, and there's a look 
in his eyes that often makes me feel like 
I used to when my Sunday school teacher 


used to catch me reading "Superman" in 
church. But when Buz took that first look 
at Val, I could almost feel electric shocks 
run through the air. I felt like patting 
myself on the back, because I had forced 
her into wearing that flame colored sport 
shirt by the simple method of putting all 
her messy, beige ones in the wash. She 
even had on a silver-concha belt and clean 
blue-jeans that fit like a kid glove, al- 
though I don't believe a kid glove could 
do as much for anyone as those pants did 
for her. In that light, it didn't surprise 
me when Buz asked her to come along 
with us. Bob tried to hop in beside Buz 
and put the two of us in back, but Buz 
simply informed him that as the car be- 
longed to him, Val was riding up front 
and that he, Bob, could crawl in back. 

Everything would have been beautiful 
if the car hadn't decided to stall right out 
in the middle of nowhere. Buz tinkered 
with it for a while, then Bob rattled 
around inside the hood, but neither of 
them could make it budge. 

When they decided to walk back to the 
station, Val butted in saying she could fix 
the balky thing. And when they laughed 
at her she got mad as a wet hen, so the 
first thing I knew she was flat on her 
back under the body with a monkey- 
wrench in her hand. When she finally 
stood up, I wanted to throw a blanket 
over her. She looked like a picture of a 
day laborer, the kind that you see posters 
about. You know, the "Keep this from 
happening to America!" type. 

The worst of it was that Val was feel- 
ing very proud of herself and she spent 
the entire drive back to town giving a 
lecture on the inner workings of a gas- 
powered vehicle. 

When we finally eased into our drive- 
way I was actually speechless with embar- 
rassment. Buz looked kind of horrified 
when we asked the boys to come in for a 
while and made a dash for the car. Of 

course Bob had to go too and by that 
time I was mad as well as ashamed, but 
I knew it wouldn't do any good to fuss 
at Val. She just never would catch on to 
anything at all. In short, she was hopeless! 

I walked upstairs, slammed the door, 
and turned on the radio. 

A little later I heard Val crying in the 
other room. I didn't care. If she wanted 
to go into one of her deep moods, that 
was strictly out of my territory. Finally 
I heard water running in the bathroom, 
and figured that her depression couldn't 
have been so bad as to keep her from 
feeling that gooey automobile grease she 
had all over herself. But Val wouldn't 
come down for dinner. She refused to 
even answer when we called, and the folks 
thought she was asleep. I knew better than 
that, but my life wouldn't have been worth 
shucks if I'd opened my mouth. 

Mom and Dad went out after dinner 


to a movie and I began to plow through 
my algebra lesson. 

I heard the piano a little later. Val's 
feelings had reached the point where she 
felt called upon to play all the utterly 
hopeless music like Clair de Lune and 
Tchaikowsky's Pathetique Sonata. I must 
admit that sonata sounded pretty good — 
too good. I began to feel morbid just lis- 
tening to it, but there were cold chills 
running up and down my spine too. 

All of a sudden the house nearly fell 
down. Somebody had knocked at the door 
and our knocker makes enough noise to 
be the original atomic bomb explosion. I 
ran downstairs and opened it — but quick! 
Buz stood there glowering like the taxi- 
cabs in New York do when you are trying 
to cross a street and the light changes. It 
seems Bob had left Buz's new hunting 
jacket at my house and Buz had been 
forced to come after it. I knew very well 
why Buz came. Bob had given that jacket 
to me. I thought he was getting mighty 
generous, but I suppose anyone can be 
generous with his brother's things. I was 
as gracious as anyone could expect me to 
be under the circumstances, but I was 
none too overjoyed, and Val kept right 
on playing as though nothing were going 

I held Buz's jacket out to him, but 
strangely enough, he didn't seem to notice. 
Then I realized what had happened. He 
was staring into the mirror that reflected 
part of the living-room and the piano, 
while his expression made me think of the 
pictures of the men who had seen a mir- 

Val had on a wine satin robe, and her 
hair was loose on her shoulders. Her eyes 
were deep and mysterious and even 
though she didn't have a speck of lipstick 
on, she was beautiful — more beautiful 
than I had ever seen her. As for Buz — 
he just started moving toward her like 
like a sleepwalker. When he got half- 
way across the room she looked up and 
smiled — warm and a little shy. The sonata 
was still filling the room, only when she 
smiled at Buz it forgot to be sad. 

I left the jacket on the nearest chair 
and went back upstairs. I knew when to 
disappear all right; I was no numbskull. 
But I could hear their voices above the 

The sonata was almost finished when 
the music stopped. Everything was com- 
pletely silent in the living room and my 
curiosity was rapidly breaking down all 
my defenses. I simply couldn't resist 
sneaking downstairs to see what was going 

I peeked into the hall. Not a sign of 
either one of them. Then my eyes wan- 
dered toward the mirror Buz had noticed 
earlier in the evening. Then I nearly 
dropped my teeth! Buz was kissing Val, 
and Val seemed to think it was a good 

I tiptoed back upstairs in a hurry, being 
as I most definitely didn't want to be 
caught spying. Besides, I figure there's a 
good chance that I'll get to keep that 
hunting jacket, if only because a brother- 
in-law wouldn't want to seem stingy with 
his wife's little sister. 



+Uke Sentinel 

By Martha Pierce 

Oh, Sphinx: 

Thine eyes have looked for centuries past 

Across this silver desert, 

Across this timeless sea of sand, 

And seen the centuries pass. 

What infinite knowledge thou must have; 

What secrets thou must know; 

What great mysteries has time unveiled to thee? 

I wonder 

What mortals have stood before thee 

And asked as I do now 

The same eternal questions? 

And have they guessed thy riddle, Sphinx? 

I wonder. 

You smile upon us mortals, 

For thou art old indeed compared with us; 

And yet the stars look down and smile on thee, 

For thou art but a child as yet to them. 

And yet thou seemst to understand 

And comprehend their thoughts. 

Could thou indeed guard some great secret, 

Which mortals must not know as yet? 

Thou sitst in ceaseless vigil alone in the silent desert, 

Gazing into the infinite regions above, 

Whose starry sentinels guard the secret of eternity. 

Couldst thou indeed be their sentinel here on earth, 

Who guards their great secret from mortals such as I? 

I wonder. 

Ah, now I know thy secret, Sphinx. 

Thou art the sentinel whose outpost is 

The earthly gates of time, eternity. 

Thou guardest the sands of time. 



The Fascinating JLady 

By Jean Morris, Prep 

A review of Queen New Orleans. Harnett Kane. 
William Morrow and Company. New York. 

Harnett Kane is a contemporary Amer- 
ican writer who has attempted in his books 
to make history appeal to the average 
reader. A native of Louisiana, he has made 
that state and its people the main subjects 
of his writings. In his latest book, Queen 
New Orleans, he concentrated upon his 
own home, the city of New Orleans. He 
has a natural patriotism, even worship, for 
this great city — looking upon it as a beau- 
tiful, fascinating woman with human qual- 
ities and a human soul. Seeing "her" from 
this viewpoint, he has painted an authen- 
tic, realistic, and truly beautiful portrait 
of his "Queen," New Orleans. 

In his first chapter Kane gives, through 
an artistic personification of New Or- 
leans, a complete summarization of his 
"Queen's" characteristics. Through the 
pages which follow, he proves each of her 
traits by giving colorful, picturesque de- 
tails in her history. He said in his opening 
chapter, "She is no anemic Puritan; she 
has seen a great deal in her day and 

doesn't shock easily." To accentuate this 
immoral side of his "Lady," he has related 
various tales concerning her lawless gamb- 
ling casinos and her corrupt politics, ac- 
centuating mostly the wickedness which 
appears in the world-famous French Quar- 

He also said, "She can look fate in 
the face and make the best of what be- 
falls." To illustrate this courageous spirit 
he has given numerous historical facts 
concerning her survival through plagues, 
wars, and countless changes in govern- 
ment. Through all of these trials she re- 
mained the same unconquerable "Queen." 

Kane used the modern journalistic style. 
His descriptions are not long and flowery 
but brief, concise, and bluntly realistic. 
Especially in his descriptions of the vulgar, 
sinful phases in the city's background, he 
seems to look upon incidents with a some- 
what crude coarseness. This style, however, 
is very effective in creating an unforget- 
table picture. 


In order to make his "Lady" more alive 
to the reader, Kane went back to the city's 
"birth," and brought her through the 
stages of her history. He accomplished 
this task, which would otherwise seem 
boring to the reader, by presenting a color- 
ful character, symbolizing each phase in 
New Orleans' growth. 

The first portion in the "Queen's" life 
was represented by Philippe de Marigny 
de Mandevisse. He was the last of the 
ancient Creoles who developed young 
New Orleans. 

The next period in the history of New 
Orleans began when Louis XV turned 
Louisiana over to Spain. Kane uniquely 
illustrated the conflict between the French 
and Spanish by contrasting two charac- 
ters — a Frenchman and a Spaniard. The 
first of these was Pere Dagahery, the 
French leader in New Orleans at that 
time. He was fat, good-natured, calm, 
lenient. He had "grown up with the town" 
and had become a part of it. He knew 
New Orleans' every secret and she loved 
him for it. 

In contrast to Dagahery was the thin, 
dark, narrow-minded Spaniard, Padre 
Crillo. He hated the "easy-going" city. 
He wanted to convert the entire town, to 
give it discipline. He was symbolic of that 
strict Spanish rule with the "iron hand." 
New Orleans was not to be changed, even 
by the cruel Spanish. They were soon con- 
sumed by the unchanging spirit of the 
"Lady" and were contented to bide time 
until the arrival of the Americans. 

The American phase in New Orleans' 
history is very interesting in that Kane re- 
vealed the actual attitude of the "man on 
the street" toward the Americans. In this 
manner he is able to give a very clever 
analysis of the "invading" American. His 
blunt style is again illustrated by his re- 
mark, "The Creole looked at the Ameri- 
can and saw a pig." 

The beginning of American rule was 
represented by William Clarborne, the 
first American governor of Louisiana. In 
him, Kane personified the slow-witted, 
coarse American as seen through the eyes 
of the Creoles. Through him Kane also 
brought forth the tolerance and generosity 
of American rule. Soon the American was 
also to be swallowed up in the traditions 
and spirit of New Orleans. She remains 
today still unchanged by time or man. 

Kane's next task was to "tint" his por- 
trait of the "Queen" with rich, bright, 
colorful traditions and customs. Any 
American will first connect New Orleans 
with its unforgettable Mardi Gras. Few, 
however, know the traditions actual ori- 
gin. Kane went back over numerous stories 
of interest pertaining to its customs and 
pattern, giving that festive occasion a 
deeper meaning for the reader. 

He devoted a whole chapter to the 
world-famed food of New Orleans. Good 
eating is a tradition to the "Queen." To 
her, it is an art. He inserted comments by 
Mark Twain, William Thackeray, and 
Jenny Lind increasing the reader's interest 
on this subject. He has cleverly written 
out several recipes and given the story of 
how that dish originated. Not only is the 
reader educated in foods, but also he 
learns to appreciate them more. 

Kane used a great deal of skill in com- 
pacting in each chapter a phase of the 
"Queen's" character; each one of them 
could be read singularly. His masterful 
conclusions to each of these chapters is a 
work of art within itself. He generally 
inserted an ironic statement, or perhaps a 
philosophical note. A very good example 
of this is in the last paragraph of his 
chapter on Mardi Gras. He said, "He 
who taste Mississippi water; he'll be back. 
He who taste Mardi Gras, he will also 
return. It's the maddest, fastest, giddiest, 


most absurd, most magnificent thing in 
New Orleans. Yes, you'll be back." 
Kane succeeded in inciting in the reader 

reverence and respect for that great city. 
He has truly made his "Queen" live in 
the minds of all his readers. 

A. New Heroine far History 

By Ann Buchanan 

A review of Woman With A Szvord. Hollister 
Noble. Doubleday and Company. Garden City, 
New York. 1948. 

Woman With A Sword, by Hollister 
Noble, is a book for the modern reader 
who likes historic fiction presented real- 
istically, simply, and objectively — void of 
the mystic, the elaborate, the sentimental. 
Hollister Noble gives a new heroine to 
history in his novel. The exciting factor 
about Noble's heroine is that she actually 
lived. She fought for a cause, sacrificed 
for ideals, worked tirelessly, wrote bril- 
liantly, influenced politics, lived danger- 
ously, and loved humanly. This heroine 
is Anna Ella Carroll of Maryland whose 
famous military strategy, the Tennessee 
Plan, won the Civil War for the North. 

Such a task seems impossible for a 
mere woman, but Miss Carroll is more 
than a mere woman. She is a heroine, sac- 
rificing love, marriage, and personal hap- 
piness as Antigone once did. She is a 
warrior-champion of a cause, like Joan of 
Arc. Her sword is one of flaming political 
influence. Through this influence Mary- 
land was drawn to the Union cause. Thou- 
sands of copies of her pamphlet, War 
Powers of Congress, were published by the 
State Department, and proved detrimen- 
tal to many states' rights' indoctrinations. 
Miss Carroll, the visionary, looked be- 
yond her age to see equal rights for wo- 
men. She continually fought to hold equal 
political prestige and respect with such 
contemporaries and friends as Senator 

Wade; Secretary of War, Stanton; Col- 
onel Scott; and Secretary of State, Seward. 
Her life symbolizes attainable heights, pos- 
sible for the ambitious woman of today. 

The author could exploit such noble 
deeds in elevated style; but he chose to 
shun the stately, the pompous, and the 
formal, taking rather the simple, the di- 
rect, the everyday language. Noble 
heightens the dash and color of Civil War 
secession, conditions, triumphs, and dis- 
asters through understatement and brief 
glimpses at historic events. He uses ex- 
cellent discrimination in painting with a 
slight brush the touchy political and eco- 
nomic differences. These sectional and 
petty political quarrels are avoided so that 
the possible prejudice, resentment, and 
emotional fire of the reader will remain 
submissive in order that the mind can re- 
main free, catch general truths, rational- 
ize, and reach a greater understanding of 
a black period in American history. 

The simple, direct style of Woman 
With A Sword does not indicate that Mr. 
Noble splashed his words about carelessly 
and without thought. The book is based 
on historic events and records. All char- 
acters actually lived, except Harry Hey- 
ward, who is a dramatization of several 
of Miss Carroll's southern suitors. Mr. 
Noble is careful to place all major mili- 
tary and political events very much in the 


same order in which they occurred — start- 
ing with secession and ending directly 
after the death of Lincoln. Research was 
done from historic documents at the Na- 
tional Archive at Washington, from let- 
ters in the Library of Congress, from the 
Historical Society at Baltimore, and li- 
braries in California, Texas, Tennessee, 
and other states. 

Woman With A Sword can be reviewed 
from two standpoints — from the surface 
romance and personal side, and from the 
political view. Miss Carroll is the heroine 
in either approach. Taking the personal 
view, Miss Carroll is depicted as a south- 
erner dedicated to the northern cause. 
Catching political fire from her father, 
once governor of Maryland, she entered 
state politics, rising to national politics 
through her extremely intelligent and pow- 
erful writing. Romance entered her life 
when she met Lemuel Evans, a special 
agent of the State Department. Harry 
Heyward, a former southern suitor, was 
enraged at Miss Carroll's political activi- 
ties, threatened her life, and added excite- 
ment to the novel. His change of senti- 
ment for Anne is one of many exemplary 
affects of Civil War on friends and loved 


The outstanding factor concerning the 
political approach to the novel is the rela- 
tionship between Miss Carroll and such 
outstanding figures as Lincoln. Miss Car- 
roll saw Lincoln as Sandburg did. She 
recognized his unrefined manners, laughed 
at his rude sallies, but above all, under- 
stood Lincoln, the man, and respected his 
sincerity of purpose. Her admiration ex- 
tended to the point that on Lincoln's as- 
sassination she felt a personal responsi- 

bility to carry on the fight for his beliefs, 
which the following expresses. 

"I want to make sure that in Maryland, 
at least, the old bondage broken by this 
war will never be restored. That is what 
I promised Mr. Lincoln. I intend to work 
for and with the Negroes, to see their po- 
litical rights assured, to work with the 
Maryland Republicans until this is 
done — " 

Lincoln was on the verge of publicly ac- 
knowledging Miss Carroll as the author 
of the Tennessee Plan when he was assas- 
sinated. Military envy, prejudice against 
women, and Miss Carroll's modest nature 
kept the truth from public knowledge. 

The over-all view is excellently given. 
Mr. Noble presents his book from the 
northern viewpoint without offending his 
southern reader. The novel shows the diffi- 
culties faced by the North in securing 
sufficient power over military operations, 
in securing cooperation between jealous 
military and congressional leaders, etc. 
Through understanding that the North, 
too, had severe problems, the southern 
reader may better comprehend their ac- 
tions and reactions. 

Conditions wrought by secession, sec- 
tional differences, and scenes of bloodshed 
and violence flood the book, but above all 
stands the character of a great heroine. 
A lasting tribute is paid to Miss Carroll 
by Stanton. 

Hers was the greatest course in the 
war. She found herself, got no pay, 
and did the work that made others 

— Edwin M. Stanton 
Secretary of War 



! I 

^rS ^Jhls liKectlC 

By Helen Walton 

Is this real, 
This passing moment, 
What we can touch 
or not 
Or only feel? 
Am I me 
Or just a shadow 
Appearing real to only you? 
But what's a shadow 
Or a spirit 
Or a soul 
Or what's a heel? 
Who can distinguish? 
He who condemns may not be real. 



VOL 14 NO. I 


Vol. 14 DECEMBER 1950 No. I 



The falling leaves of autumn have scarcely settled, only to be covered with 

the snow of a new winter — and unbelievably it is Christmas again. With the 

cold blasts and the mistletoe comes the first issue of the 1950-51 CHIMES, 

a little bit of our hearts that we hope you will take to yours. We of the staff 

have tried to present to you a cross-section of the literary talent on the campus 

— a talent that we earnestly hope will catch and flame still higher. To that end 

we wrote, we read, we criticised, we typed, and somewhat breathlessly we closed 

our eyes and took this book to the printers. But behind each page we feel there 

is so much more that cannot be be catalogued, a dream, an idea, a thought that 

may mean a new light or a new understanding for some of you. That is our 

purpose; and if we accomplish through you even a fraction of it, then our work 

will not be wasted. We want you to think of CHIMES as a living thing, a part 

of every girl who has helped make it . . . and it will be, as long as it can live with 

you. Here's CHIMES — it's all yours. 

Mary Evelyn 


Mary Evelyn Smith 

Ada Marie Oakley 

Art Editor 

Mrs. Ruth Taylor 


Ann Sinclair 

Faye Lowery Maureen McDonald 


Ann Smith 

Louise Cronenwett Patricia Price 


Harriet Provine, Senior 

Martha Foutch, Senior Carolyn Rawlins., Junior 



Black Eternity Faye Lowery 3 

Snow Marilyn McDaniel 4 

Washington and Official Business Ann Sinclair 5 

Tragedy Rides the Bus Martha Foutch 8 

The Moon Betty Bullard 8 

Preludes Mary Evelyn Smith 9 

Once More June Oliver 10 

The Cup of Life Dee Dee Bullard i i 

Letter Ann Smith i i 

The Brook Mary Evelyn Smith i 3 

Jack Frost Frances Cheek 14 

American Melody Nancy Frederick i 5 

Realization of Love Marcia Fobes 15 

Three Pen Sketches 

Uncle Marjorie Nancy Frederick 16 

Portrait of Peace Carolyn Rawlins i 6 

Babe Cordette McCracken i 6 

Sunday Morning Ann Sinclair 17 

The House Jeanne Jacobs i 8 

The Words Nancy Rule 19 

The Bargain Maureen McDonald 20 

None Shall Return Ruth Eleanor Corn 21 

Challenge Sally Jordan 24 

A Lesson In Salesmanship Martha Foutch 25 

Longing „ Sally Duke 26 

Autobiography of a Driver Louise Cronenwett 26 

Constitution Peggy Smith 27 

I Wish Ann Sinclair 28 

Black Eternity 

By Faye Lowery, College Senior 

Edward shivered as he gazed out across 
the black expanse of water. The deathly 
stillness of the night was broken only 
by the incessant splashing of the waves as 
they hurled themselves against the rocky 
cliffs. He looked upward to the sky. There 
was no moon, and even the stars seemed 
to fade and die as the inky blackness en- 
gulfed them. He felt empty inside: empty 
and black like the night. The old house 
loomed up back of him, but he could not 
look at it, for it too was dark and alone. 
Once cheerful lights had shone from its 
great windows, and the sound of laugh- 
ter had echoed throughout the huge 
rooms. But all this was gone forever. Now 
there was only darkness and gloom. With- 
out knowing why, Edward turned and 
walked slowly toward the house. 

The door moaned in protest as he 
opened it. The long valley was musty and 
damp. He suddenly felt as if someone 
were watching him, and he turned quickly 
to look behind him. No one there. Only 
blackness. His hands grew cold; beads of 
perspiration formed on his upper lip and 
tasted salty as they trickled into his 
mouth; and his head pounded violently 
as if a hundred hammers had begun to 
strike against his skull. The icy fingers of 
fear wound themselves around his heart 
in an attempt to squeeze the breath from 
him. Edward stumbled blindly to the liv- 
ing room and flung open the door. He 
fumbled in the darkness for the light 

The lamp cast odd images upon the 
wall, and huge, dark shadows slunk across 
the room in an effort to find hiding places. 
At one end of the room, over the fireplace, 
hung a huge portrait. As he advanced to- 
ward it, Edward felt the blood drain from 

his face. Bitter tears stung at his eyes, but 
he could not cry. Words formed on his 
lips, but he could not speak. For there 
before him was the man whom he loved 
more than anything on earth. There be- 
fore him was his father. The portrait 
stared back at him blankly, but suddenly 
the soft eyes became hard; the slight lines 
in the forehead deepened; and the gentle 
mouth became firm. The lips formed the 
word "Edward." But Edward could not 

"Edward," they said again, "you shall 
pay dearly." 

The eyes once more were soft; the lines 
in the forehead vanished; and the mouth 
smiled gently. 

Edward did not move. There before him 

was the man who had taken his hand and 
led him safely down the jagged rocks to 
the sea. There was the man who had taken 
him in his arms and comforted him when 
his mother had gone away never to return. 
There was the man who had punished him 
and praised him. There was his father. 
Suddenly Edward threw back his head 
and laughed. He laughed as one gone mad. 
The laughter ended as abruptly as it had 
begun. He turned and ran from the room 
into the blackness of the hall. Without 
slowing his pace he climbed the stairs two 
at a time, and burst into his room, fling- 
ing himself upon the bed. He wept. 

* * * 

Long ago there were a man and a boy 
who were happy. They were happy be- 
cause they loved and respected one an- 
other. They walked by the sea together, 
and talked of the many places they would 
go when the boy was older. They were 
alone, but they were not lonely; at least 
the boy was not lonely. As the years 
passed, the man became restless. He was 
short tempered, and had little patience 
with the boy. One day he left. 

The boy was lonely. He walked by the 
sea alone, and made friends with the 
black, swirling waters, for it was in their 
depths that he saw a man. He spoke with 
this man because he knew him well. The 
boy loved the sea; it too was lonely; it 
was his only friend. 

The man returned, but not alone. With 
him he brought a beautiful, delicate wom- 
an. The boy hated this woman, for she 
had taken the man's love. Some day he 
would destroy her. 

The night was black. The woman, man, 
and boy walked together beside the sea. 
The woman spoke softly to the boy, but 
received no reply. The man struck him 
across the face. Deep, black hatred welled 
up in the boy, and before anyone was 

aware of what was happening, the woman 

was falling from the rocky cliff and being 

devoured by the hungry, dark waters. 

The man went away, never to return. 

# * * 

Edward awoke suddenly to a loud crash 
of thunder. The rain beat furiously against 
the window panes as if seeking entrance. 
The lightning flashed in jagged streaks 
across the sky. Edward sat up. His heart 
beat fast, and his breath came in short 
gasps. Fear engulfed him. He went to the 
window and looked out into the empty 
blackness. Nervously he paced the floor. 
The walls of the room began to close in 
on him, and he fled from the room down 
the stairs. As he ran through the hall, he 
glanced toward the living room. 

"You shall pay dearly, Edward. Ed- 
ward! Edward!" 

The rain was cool against his hot face, 
and Edward felt a wave of calmness pass 
over him. He held out his hand as if being 
guided. Slowly and deliberately he de- 
scended the rocky ledge to the sea. 



By Marilyn McDaniel, Junior Prep 
Shimmering crystals of delight 
Fall on uplifted faces, 
Spelling a gay holiday, 
A holiday from work. 

Icy white fragments bearing death 
Making traps for speeding wheels 
Spelling a gray holiday, 
A holiday from life. 

Washington and Official Business; 
Columbus and Ashes 

By Ann Sinclair, College Senior 

There are certain principles that one 
must understand before traveling alone. 
One is that there are thousands of various 
and divers personalities that may be en- 
countered on any itinerary. Another, hing- 
ing upon the first, is that some of these 
personalities, rather than being in the in- 
dustrial age in which they find themselves, 
should be back in the cave man era; for 
the industrial age has created more com- 
plexities than all the other ages — hunting 
and fishing, pastoral, agricultural, and 
handicraft — put together. It has made 
more men associate with other men than 
perhaps any other stage in development; 
it has created more strain on the individ- 
ual than any of the other ages; it has 
made many people, who in themselves feel 
able to cope with the strain and stress of 
this age, feel that perhaps the speed at 
which they are now living is too much for 
some of their fellow men. And indeed, 
some of the personalities met while travel- 
ing certainly make one wonder if perhaps 
the strain and stress of the industrial age 
are not too much for some of these various 
and divers personalities. 

Last summer, for instance, I became to- 
tally convinced that my fellow-traveler was 
wholly unable to realize and understand 
the impact of the industrial stage of de- 
velopment. He seemed to have the attitude 
and mentality one might expect from a 
personality of the man in the first stage of 
development, eons ago. On the other hand, 
perhaps he felt the same way about me. 
At any rate I had better tell you a little 
about this fellow-traveler. 

This meeting with a man who seemed to 

be between the first and second stages of 
development occurred at the municipal air- 
port in Denver, Colorado, August 19, 

I had gotten on the plane at the first 
call to board it, and by the time the stew- 
ardess was ready to close the door, I had 
settled down comfortably with a book of 
short stories in anticipation of having a 
quiet, restful, and worthwhile journey. 
There was a vacant seat beside me, which 
pleased me very much; for I knew that I 
would be able to read with a minimum of 
interruption. But my calm, quiet surround- 
ings and peaceful state of mind were soon 
shattered. Fate was playing games with me, 
and I had no choice but to accept the fact. 
At the precise moment when the steward- 
ess began to close the door, a voice yelled, 
"No, wait for me!" And a few seconds 
later one of the oddest characters I have 
ever seen or ever hope to see breezed down 
the aisle and could not have been, but 
was, addressing me with, "Young lady, do 
you mind if I sit next to you?" 

Tact, good manners, consideration for 
others almost flew out the window; but 
the sight of this gorilla-like man carrying 
a handful of sandwiches stunned me so 
completely that I could think of nothing 
to say which would serve as a feasible 
reason for his not sitting next to me; so 
I just sat there with my mouth hanging 
open, and in the laws of the jungle an 
open mouth must mean yes; for the man 
waited for no answer but immediately sat 
down next to me. 

Having recovered from the initial shock, 
I tried to read my short stories, but the 
little man would not have it. Just as Jabez 

Stone accused the stranger of having 
Miser Stephens in his handkerchief, a 
third character barged into the story with, 
"Young lady, I hope you don't mind if I 
eat my sandwiches." 

"Oh, no. Not at all," I said with a 
forced smile. 

"That's good," was the reply, "because 
I didn't have time to eat on the plane 
from Chile. Long trip. Pretty hungry 

"Good," I thought. "Hope you're hun- 
gry enough to eat all the way to Kansas 
City." But such was not the case, for 
before long, in fact before the plane was 
completely off the ground, my companion 
had gobbled down all of the sandwiches 
and was ready as ever to talk. When I say 
that he "gobbled" the sandwiches, I do 
not exaggerate, for, rather than take the 
time to eat one sandwich at a time, he 
held one in each hand, alternating to the 
right and then to the left hand for each 

"Sure do like to fly," he said. "How 
about you?" 

I told him that I thought it was the 
only way to travel. 

"It sure is," he replied. "I wouldn't 
travel any other way myself. Matter of 
fact, I've been in the air corps for twenty- 
five years." 

"Making you a tail-gunner on a peanut 
butter sandwich, no doubt," I thought; but 
I said, "Oh? That's very interesting. Just 
what do you do in the air corps?" 

"Sergeant on a rescue squad. We've 
been doing rescue work on the great disas- 
ter in Equador. It's very interesting work, 
especially when you get to go on special 
assignments like I'm on today. I have to 
be in Washington by Monday so that I 
can catch a government plane back to 
Chile then. . . . With this ticket I can 
catch any plane that happens to be going 
my way. Special duty, you know." 

"No, I don't know about that, but I'm 
certain of one thing, and that is that 
you re crazy, mister." It would have been 
rude to say that, even though I wanted to; 
so instead I asked the sergeant what South 
America was like. 

"It's just beautiful," he said, "but ter- 
ribly lonely. The ratio of men to women 
is twenty to one. Now isn't that awful?" 

"If they're all as bad as you, yes," I 
mused into my book. 

Not receiving an audible answer, the 
sergeant continued. "Yes. It's mighty lone- 
ly down there since my wife died. I'm 
taking her ashes to Columbus, Ohio, 

"Oh?" Washington, special assignment, 
Columbus, his wife's ashes. ... I was 
then certain that this man was definitely 
"off his rocker." "I'm sorry about your 
wife," I said. 

"You don't have to be. She died in 
June; this is August. Why don't you help 
me keep from getting lonely? Why don't 
you write to me? I'll send you some pretty 
picture post cards of Chile if you do." 

"Oh?" (That seemed to be the only 
sound I could utter, and as time went by 
the "Oh's" became more and more nu- 
merous and more and more questioning) . 
"Well, you see, I don't write letters." 

"You don't write letters? Well, in that 
case, I'll write to you. What's your name 
and address? Write it down for me, and 
take my card here." 

I had to think fast; so I said, "You 
don't need my address. I have yours, and 
if I write to you I'll send you mine." 

That seemed to satisfy the old boy, for 
he did not have much more to say until 
the stewardess came to ask if we would 
like to have coffee, tea, or grape juice. 

"Black coffee, please," I said. 

"Make it two," chirped my little com- 

The stewardess was back in a few sec- 

onds with two cups of steaming, black 
coffee. "You know," said the sergeant, 
"you're the first one I've ever known who 
likes their coffee the way I like mine." 

"Black?" I asked. 

"No, HOT," came the retort, in a how- 
can-you-be-so-stupid tone. 

"Oh, maybe it's strange, but my entire 
family and all my friends drink their cof- 
fee hot, too," I replied. 

The sergeant had no reply; undaunted, 
he continued, "You know, we have awful- 
ly good coffee in South America. You 
should come down to visit me sometime. 
It's really God's country!" 

"Oh???" By this time I had begun to 
wonder if perhaps the stress of the times 
was beginning to wear upon my nerves, 
too. I began to feel like a broken record, 
but "Oh" was the only sound I could mus- 

"Yes, you should come to Chile. Why, 
Elizabeth Arden has a factory about a 
block from my house where you can buy 
her lipstick for ten cents a tube and per- 
manents for a dollar. You don't have to 
worry about flowers, either. I grow orchids 
in my yprd." 


"Yes! That's not so strange, young lady, 
considering the country." 

"No. I guess not." 

"Too, you don't have to worry about 
barking dogs at my house. I have a 
trained mountain lion for a watch dog." 

"What? Aren't you afraid of him?" 

"Me? Oh, no. He likes me." 

Believe me, I was turning into a nervous 
wreck. I glanced down at my watch and 
noticed that it was 4:30. "We'll be in 
Kansas City in about forty-five minutes," 
I said; "so until then I'll have to read my 

"Well, then," said the sergeant, "we can 
finish our conversation then." 

"I'm sorry," I said, "but I have only 
thirty minutes there, and it will take me 
all that time to change planes." 

"No, it won't." 

"Oh, but I'm sure it will," I leveled off 
at him. "I'm sorry." With that I turned 
STER, but I could not concentrate upon 
the content. The character sitting on my 
left had offered some thought-provoking 
ideas. Washington, official business, Co- 
lumbus, his wife's ashes, a mountain lion 
watch dog, pretty picture post cards, orch- 
ids, ten cent lipsticks, and such things ran 
through my mind until the plane landed 
in Kansas City. 

Needless to say, I was the first person 
off that plane. The administration build- 
ing was being repaired, and as a result 
there was a detour of about three blocks 
from the field to the ticket office. I had 
gone about half way when suddenly a 
familiar voice said, "See, rugs from Chile." 

"Oh, yes," I said, looking at the arm- 
load of furs the sergeant was carrying. 
"Very nice." With that I would have 
dared anyone to race with me to the ticket 
offices. I did, however, take one look over 
my shoulder before opening the door into 
the administration building, and I saw 
the sergeant standing forlorn, mouth gap- 
ing, in the center of the ramp. 

I often wonder if he ever arrived in 
Washington, Columbus, or wherever it 
was that he was going. Perhaps he won- 
ders the same thing about me; for he did 
look at me as if I had just walked out 
of the cave man era and didn't quite 
know how to face the problems of the 
present-day world. At any rate, never 
again will I start out on a journey alone 
with the idea that all my adventure will 
come from a book. You had better not 
either; who knows? Perhaps the next time 
you travel alone, you will meet someone 
out of the past, or at least out of this 

Tragedy Rides the Bus 

By Martha Foutch, Senior Prep 

The girl sitting next to me on the bus 
started suddenly, then squared her shoul- 
ders as if she had come to an important 
decision. I followed her gaze to a tall, 
good-looking boy standing toward the 
front of the bus. By his cap I knew he 
was a Vanderbilt freshman. Ignoring her 
smile and nod, he turned his attention to 
the toothpaste ad in front of him. I saw 
her lips quiver and I sensed, rather than 
saw, that her eyer were filled with tears. 

Just then, the driver bellowed out, "Ev- 
erybody please move to the back of the 

The boy was pushed closer and closer 
to where we were sitting until finally he 
was standing beside her. 

"Hi, Bill!" 

"Oh, hello, Sue." He did not seem par- 
ticularly interested. I wondered why he 
did not like her. She was cute enough to 
look at: about five feet tall, she was wear- 
ing a blue raincoat that matched the blue 
of her eyes and emphasized the blondness 
of her hair. After a few minutes she tried 

"Let me hold your books, Bill," she 
said, hopefully. 

"They aren't heavy," he insisted, though 
he was carrying a large number of thick 

"I really don't mind, Bill." 

"That's all right, Sue," he said, and 
there was a note of finality in his voice. 

She waited for what seemed a long 
time before she spoke again. 

"You should see Banjo — you'd never 
know him now. He's not the puppy he was 
when you gave him to me, but I bet he'd 
still remember you." 

"I don't see how he could, it's been so 
long," he answered reluctantly. 

However, she was not that easily de- 

"What courses are you taking this term, 

"What? Were you talking to me, Sue?" 

"I asked what courses you're taking 
this term." 

"Oh. Nothing very interesting — just re- 
quired stuff." 

"Do you have to study hard?" 

"Doesn't everybody?" 

"I guess so. I've been trying to decide 
where to go to college, Bill. There isn't 
much time, you know. Would you advise 
me to go to Vanderbilt?" 

"Well, I suppose it's no worse than any 
other college." 


That subject exhausted, she searched 
frantically for another, but to no avail. 
A few seconds later I heard him say, 
"Bye, Sue." 

He stepped off the bus and called to 
a girl several feet ahead of him, "Just a 
minute, Nancy, I'm going your way." 

Sue watched him as he quickly covered 
the distance that lay between him and the 
other girl. Just as the bus pulled off, I 
caught a glimpse of her laughing uproar- 
iously at something Bill had told her. 

Sue's "Goodbye" had been only a whis- 
per; she bowed her head as if to admit 


By Betty Bullard, Senior Prep 

The moon rises over the water. 

Her silver nails clutch the inky blackness 

And leave long lines glittering against the 

That turn from quicksilver into moondust, 
Then are swallowed up into oblivion. 


We stood on a windy hill, 
And I heard music in the 

trees. You held my 

hand . . . 
I wonder now if the song 

was in the breeze, 

the lofty view, or 
Only in my heart. 


The mixture was the 

The time of year, the place, 

the common heart; 
The formula identical. 
How could we know that memory's 

dead — 
A moment past, lost to eternity? 



By Mary Evelyn Smith, College Senior 


Dying leaves fall on an empty 

bench — burnt-orange, brown, 
Where once summer's sweetness 

filled with soft laughter. 
A barren dream shivers on the 

wood, cold with winter's 
Too numbed to half-hope for 



Silence . . . 

nothing was said; the 
only sound, a lone cricket 

Singing in distant grass. 

And yet so clear, meaningful, 

One thought of herald bells, 
a falling star. 

Once More 

By June Oliver, College Senior 

The crowds were gathering at the the- 
atre. She stood on the outside and 
watched; soon she would have to go in. . . . 
She wanted to stand once more and catch 
the excitement of the opening night. Sev- 
eral long, black shining cars drew up out- 
side with gay and glittering people, who 
gracefully climbed out. She watched the 
hundreds that gathered to see the new play. 

Opening nights were always the best. 
The play-goers wore their most beautiful 
gowns; expectation was in the air. She 
watched the women as they tossed back 
their capes to show oif their attires. Prob- 
ably these gowns had cost a pretty for- 
tune. And the men — they, too, were arro- 
gant with delight over being first-nighters. 

She could always type the people — at 
least she thought she could. The very so- 
cially prominent stood in their own circles, 
flashing their diamonds. The "middles" 
usually spoke quietly to one another. 
Strange, how glamorous people could look 
on first nights. She could tell the critics 
from all the rest. They avoided each other 
and went from circle to circle, talking a 
moment with everyone, delighting in spicy 
anecdotes for their columns. They all felt 
that they knew so much about the theater; 
to them, it was all glamour. 

But they did not see behind the scenes. 
They did not know what it was to work 
for months, days, hours, trying to achieve 
perfection. They did not know the thrill 
of working hard, first feeling that you 
have nothing, and then later gaining a 
little security that is still filled with worry. 
They had no idea what an opening night 
really was. They had no idea how it felt 
to sit for hours before a mirror, working 
to prepare your face for the lights. They 
could not know the thrill of bouquets of 
flowers of "good luck." They could not 

possibly realize how it felt to hear the 
stage boy yell, "Five minutes, Miss." It 
was indescribable to walk out on the stage 
and see the hundreds of faces waiting and 
then to hear the applause after the final 
act. They could not imagine the day after, 
which meant waiting with anxiety to find 
what the critics had to say. No, they could 
not understand. They could not know the 
rich blessings of success, the joys and the 
excitements that came with it. They could 
not know the failure that sometimes came. 
But she knew it all. 

The curtain was called, and she walked 
into the theater. It was strange how her 
mind could be peaceful and restful at that 
moment. This was the first time in many 
years that she had come to a theater as a 
spectator. She felt relief within her mind. 
Somehow she knew that now there would 
be no more worry and humiliation; she 
asked God only for this last night. She 
laughed to herself as she thought how 
angry her doctor would be if he knew 
where she was. 

She sat through the first and second 
acts; then, during the middle of the third, 
she began to feel feverish and tired. Her 
head was aching and her breathing short. 
Thinking that she should get up and find 
a place to lie down, she left her seat and 
went up the aisle, swaying a little from 
side to side. As she walked past the door, 
the boy nodded to her with a slight sign 
of recognition. She smiled and went on. 

The next day the papers were filled with 
reports of the brilliant play; people read 
the reviews with interest. Some few caught 
the tiny article at the bottom: "Angelia 
Black, former Broadway actress, died last 
night in the lobby of the theater where 
she had been a star for many years. Doc- 
tors report that she died of an incurable 


^Jke C^up of cJLiPe 

By Dee Dee Bullard, Sophomore Prep 

The silver cup is overturned — 

Out spills life. 

It spreads quickly over the black marble of fate, 

And seeps into the cracks of oblivion, 

A sacrifice to eternity. 


By Ann Smith, College Freshman 

High winds dancing in singing breeze — 
Brown river rippling 'neath waving poplar trees; 
A thought, a word, all so true 
Expressed through infinite time by you. 

Hard wind driving from silver grey sky — 
Brown river swirling its white-capped reply; 
Your hand, holding the distant pen, 
To give me each day a glistening gem. 

Angora skies with pinpoints of light — 
Brown river, calm in the breathing night; 
You, thus not so painful the day, 
To give me life, to guide my hand along the way. 

Alive! Alive the single mind, 

The one idea through infinite time. 

The cool grass drinking by shaded streams, 

Brown river flowing through night-filled dreams. 

Real! And true, this single thought, 
By love and faith — and trusting wrought. 
Small light shining along the trail, 
Brown river, blue river — infinite tale. 
The sudden smile, and quick, warm glow; 
The answer to all, the truth — I know. 

By Mary Evelyn Smith, College Senior 

"Look at that no-count, good-for-nothin' 
boy, Mammy — jest a-settin' by that brook, 
wastin' time — don't never do one lick o' 
honest work around this place." The huge, 
brawny Negro, Big Joe, leaned against the 
unpainted shack as he spoke, wiping a 
faded orange rag across his face with one 
hand to stop the trickles of sweat. He was 
the big, obedient, hardworking type of Ne- 
gro that will never vanish from the race 
while there is a South alive, or a cotton 
plantation still in existence. His life fol- 
lowed a constant pattern of toil on the plan- 
tation of a wealthy planter, this pattern 
broken only rarely by diversions. 

"Boy!" the big negro called, cupping two 
brown hands to his mouth. "Lazarus! Git 
yo' self up and go see Mister John. There's 
plenty work to do while you set there day- 

"Don't nag at the boy, Joe," admonished 
the wrinkled, gray-haired old woman, his 
mother, who sat rocking on the narrow 
porch. "He ain't good-for-nothing . . . he's 
a thinker, that's what he is. Just wait, he'll 
get someplace one of these days that ain't 
none of us ever got before." She slapped at 
a fly on her blue figured skirt with a folded 

"Well, he'd better get started quick, 
iffen he even wants to get down to the big 
house before dark — Lazarus! Did you hear 
what I said, Nigger?" The rumbling bass 
voice sounded across the field. 

From his grassy spot by the cool little 
brook he called his "own" Lazarus sighed 
resignedly and began to rise slowly. Work 
again! He loved to sit here by this quiet 
water, under the shade of a great tree, 
pitching smooth, flat stones into the rip- 
ples and dreaming of the day when he 
would be older, when he would make some- 
thing of himself and prove to Big Joe, his 

father, that he was more than a "no-count 
good-for-nothing boy." Yes, someday, some- 
day, he would show them. Not yet, but 
someday. . . . Right now he was content to 
stay here on the cotton plantation, here in 
the sunshine, by himself as much as possi- 
ble — with only the little, quiet brook for 
company. The brook gave him all he could 
ask — companionship, comfort, no demands. 
And it even offered adventure — for his 
brown face and his dark eyes lit up with 
excitement as he looked to where the brook 
disappeared beyond the cottonwoods, 
where, he had always fancied, it led to big- 
ger brooks, and still bigger brooks, until 
the stream reached finally the mighty Mis- 
sissippi. He raised his eyes toward the cot- 
tonwoods now, as he got up, as if to find 
an excuse to remain longer from them; but 
there was none. He stuck a hand in the 
pocket of his tattered jeans and began 
trudging down the sun-burnt, dusty road 
between the cotton fields, down the road 
to the big house. 

Day always came early to these three 
simple Negroes — grandmother, son, and 
grandson, but this summer more so than 
ever. Long before the sun had risen on an- 
other hot, sultry day, Mammy would be 
up fixing breakfast for the menfolk, stir- 
ring about the aging shack which she kept 
spotlessly neat and clean. Soon the land 
would be bright with the yellow glare of 
morning, and everyone would be in the 
fields. The cotton must be chopped; there 
was work to be done. Sunny day followed 
sunny day, and scarcely a drop of rain fell 
through the weeks. The heat was heavy and 
oppressive, and even the land and the cotton 
itself were beginning to appear dried and 

But Lazarus was kept busy through the 
long days, so that he barely had time to 


sit by his little brook and dream as he 
would have liked. Big Joe frowned on this 
that he called idling; and there were fewer 
and fewer occasions when he might slip off 
unnoticed to spend an hour in thought by 
the brook. But still visions of its cooling 
beauty would flash across his mind during 
the hottest parts of the sticky days. And 
he thought of it, waiting for him to come 
back, living as long as he lived, just as he 
would be alive as long as the little brook 
survived. And so his mind was at rest about 
his own affairs, for there was nothing to 

do, yet, about the life he wanted to make 
for himself . . . no, nothing yet. But some- 
day, he would follow the brook's path be- 
yond the cottonwoods to the world outside 
. . . someday. The weeks passed and he 
thought no more about it. 

One twilight when Big Joe had gone to 
the big house to talk to Mister John, Laz- 
arus and Mammy sat rocking silently on 
the porch, trying to keep cool and ward off 
the persistent mosquitoes. 

"Lazarus," his grandmother said sud- 
denly, "when is you going to do something 


'bout all them wonderful plans you always 
had for when you growed up? You never 
tell you' mammy 'bout them anymore. Is 
you lak your father, jest toil, toil, toil, and 
nevah git anywheres? Yo' is sixteen, now, 
boy. Almost a man. Time yo' is makin' you' 
own way." 

"No, Mammy," he answered, turning to 
look in the distance at the lights of the 
large, two-story house of Mr. John, which 
made pinpricks in the gathering darkness, 
"I haven't forgotten my plans . . . but I'm 
not ready yet . . . someday, but not yet. 
Nothin' is changed, not yet, Mammy, I 
wants to think more, to plan more. Some- 
day soon I'll go to the city, though, and 
don't you worry — then I'll come back and 
show you and Big Joe what I really is." 
He turned a brown face full of still boyish 
boastfulness towards her. 

"But things is changed, Lazarus," she 
answered sadly. "Things is nevah the same, 
from tonight till the sunrise in the morn- 
ing. Nothin' lives that don't get nourish- 
ment — you don't, and nothin' else will. 
Have you looked at your brook lately? It's 
dryin' up. There ain't no water to feed it — 
and it's gonna die, too, 'cause it can't do 
nothin' about it. Jest lak yo' plans and you, 
is gonna die, Lazarus — " 

The boy was no longer listening. With 
a bound he was off the porch, and running 
with rapidly beating heart down the dusty 
road between the cotton fields. He reached 
his destination and stopped. So, then, it was 
true. His brook was drying up. Already the 
quiet water was becoming only a trickle; 
the parched bed would soon show itself all 
over. And he knew why. So many days had 
passed since he'd visited there that he hadn't 
realized that the absence of rain was af- 
fecting his beloved brook. No cooling 
showers had replenished its dwindling sup- 
ply, and it was dying to almost a dark 
muddy ditch before it neared the clumps 
of cottonwood trees. It had had no life- 
blood, no nourishment, and no power to 

give itself life; so it was dying, as it must. 
Lazarus stood silent for a moment, his 
hands hanging limply at his sides. Then he 
turned and walked away. 

It was hardly light a few morning later 
when a young boy slipped out of the little, 
aging shack and went down the dusty road. 
He wore jeans and carried a small bag over 
one shoulder. He paused for a moment, 
half-turning in a gesture of farewell, and 
then walked on — past the little brook, 
toward the cottonwoods far beyond, where 
he would find, perhaps, bigger brooks, and 
still bigger brooks until he reached, some- 
where, the mighty Mississippi. 

h ^J-rost 

By Frances Cheek, Freshman Prep 

We shiver and we criticize 
when old Jack Frost is about. 
He nips our fingers and our toes 
whenever we go out. 

He makes the pavement slippery 
and does the meanest tricks. 
He freezes up the water pipes 
and puts us in a fix. 

Although he's such a nuisance 
he's an artist — you'll agree. 
He paints the finest pictures 
just you look and see. 

On your window pane tomorrow 
in a lovely silvery-white 
There will be the magic showing 
that Jack Frost was there last night. 

He makes the world look beautiful 
that's more than we can do 
So let us praise him for his work 
and then we'll bid adieu. 


American Melody 

By Nancy Frederick, Junior Prep 

"Take me out to the ball game . . ." 
Take me out to Yankee Stadium or 
Sulphur Dell, Fenway Park or the Onion 
Bowl. Anywhere where there are four 
rocks to use for bases, anywhere where 
there are nine boys to make a team, any- 
where where there are a ball and a bat 
and a catcher's mitt. 

"Take me out in the crowd . . ." 
Yes, let me mingle with the grandstand 
managers and the awe-stricken fans. Let 
me cheer the Babe Ruths and Ty Cobbs 
of today and let me pick the Joe DiMag- 
gios and the Bob Fellers of tomorrow. 
"Buy me some peanuts and crackerjack; 
I don't care if I never get back . . ." 
I like the sportsmanship and the jeering. 
I see life in the success and failure of each 
ball and bat. I want to stay and share the 

importance of the holiday that is a base- 
ball game. 

"So it's root, root, root for the home 
team . . ." 

I've watched "my" team and I know 
every player and the score of every game. 
I am certain it is the best team and I 
cannot fail it with my support. 

"If they don't win it's a shame . . ." 

It's a shame when I see loss in the play- 
er's walk, in the fan's face, in the home 
town newspaper. But, I won't forget to- 
morrow — I know we'll win tomorrow. 

"For it's one, two, three strikes you're 
out at the old ball game!" 

Three strikes, three hits, three bags of 
peanuts; three races, three creeds, three 
walks of life enjoying America's national 

ion of Love 

By Marcia Fobes, Senior Prep 

"Marcia, my dear little daughter, 

There were so few words spoken be- 
tween your Daddy and me all day yes- 
terday, and when we did chat, it was 
to talk about you. We both felt let 
down and rather empty. I believe 
mentally I wrote this letter a dozen 
times yesterday in order to say the right 
things to you. 

I don't believe I've ever shown any 
partiality to you children. I shouldn't 
have because I feel none, but a Mother 
cherishes her first born because she is 
her first child; and you, Marcia, have 
surely proved yourself to be more than 
I ever dreamed of in my hopes for a 
daughter. Your Dad is so proud of 
you, and I feel I got more than my 
share when you came to us." 

This was the first letter I received at 
Ward-Belmont, and this letter I will keep 
as long as I live. Mother's words seemed to 
release from inside of me all the love, de- 
votion, and worship for her that I have 
accumulated for sixteen years. It all seemed 
to surge forth at once, and it left me with 
the most forlorn feeling I have ever expe- 
rienced. I wanted to cry, to run someplace 
far away from everyone, to call for my 
Mother at the top of my lungs; but all I 
could do was sit, hold on to the letter with 
all my might, and think "Mama, Mama, 
Mama," over and over. Perhaps I sound 
very dramatic, but not the best actress in 
the world can capture the feelings of a six- 
teen year old girl who has just had the 
realization of love for her Mother hit her, 
all alone, and all at once. 


Three Pen Sketches 


By Nancy Frederick, Junior Prep 

My Aunt Marjorie would feel more at 
home in the role of uncle than in that 
feminine part assigned to the sisters of 
married women with children. Charging 
out the front office of her parking lot in 
Hollywood, California, she greets Greg- 
ory Peck and Joseph Cotten with a rug- 
ged slap on the back and a husky, "Hi, 
fellows!" Her brisk walk matches the 
early morning breeze as she approaches 
each newly arrived car of filmtown nota- 
bles, and it takes but a single movement 
to set her six-foot frame behind each 
wheel. This bachelorette member of our 
family wears a closely bobbed haircut to 
top off her slacks and a man's shirt to 
complete the masculinity of her appear- 
ance. If independence is a characteristic of 
the stronger sex, then Marjorie climbs a 
step further from her fellow women. Nei- 
ther family advice nor family bargaining 
made my mother's sister sole owner and 
operator of a small roosting ground for 
the princely vehicles of the cinema queens 
and kings of our western movie mecca; 
Marjorie Swift set up business by herself. 
And to her fancy did not fall the epistles 
of gossip that make up the sap of an or- 
dinary family tree, for the strong silent 
descendant of our ancestry has severed 
her branch and forced it to grow alone 
and stand equal with its chosen competi- 
tors. Between a moderate apartment in 
western Los Angeles and her Hollywood 
workshop, she fills each day with her home 
cooked meals, her private enterprises, and 
her own robust friendships. In her pre- 
ferred environment, "Uncle" Marjorie is 

making a life for herself, and as for her 
family, we can only quote Rudyard Kip- 
ling, "And — what is more — you'll be a 
Man, my son." 


By Carolyn Rawlins, Junior Prep 

As he sits on the bunkhouse steps after 
a hard day's work, Dummy, our deaf and 
dumb ranch-hand, almost reflects the tran- 
quility within him. Gradually the weariness 
leaves his face, and you can see complete 
happiness take its place. He cannot hear 
unkind remarks or harsh words which 
might be exchanged around him. Dummy 
has never been outside the boundaries of 
our ranch, where he was born, and too 
illiterate to read a newspaper, he lives in 
quiet contentment, unconscious of the tur- 
bulent confusion which reigns in the world 
outside our barbed wire fences. On he 
floats, down the placid little stream of his 
own life, whose waters no stranger can 
enter. Nature is his refuge, and there in 
the woods he absorbs the peace of the 
trees and the sky. I shall always remem- 
ber Dummy, for he is one of the few left 
in this troubled world who is able to live 
on in complete serenity. 


By Cordet+e McCracken, Junior Prep 

On a crisp November afternoon I 
strolled into the combination entrance hall 
and sitting room of my invincible grand- 
mother's boarding house. When grand- 
father died, ten years ago, she changed 
her title from the usual "grandmother," 
and now she is known throughout the 
friendly little town of Springfield as just 


plain Babe, the server of good food and 
dry wit. When I called her by name — she 
hates for her younger generations to ad- 
dress her as grandmother — I got for re- 
sponse a lusty "I'm in the kitchen. Who- 
ever you are, come on back." 

On entering the spacious, aromatic, 
workroom, I saw my only living grand- 
parent in the last stages of biscuit making, 
with flour spread from top to bottom of 
her grain cloth apron. I stood silently 
aside, observing her deliberate movements 
until she vigorously slammed the oven 
door on a large tray of her handiwork 
and suddenly turned to me. With the 
usual birthday greeting, I handed her a 
small package and jokingly, for I knew 
it was to no avail, I asked her how old 
she was. Babe only grunted a reply — not 

even her sons know that answer — and 
peered into the box. I watched as she held 
up the contents to the light and drawled 
"Well, ain't these nice ear-screws." her 
face was void of all enthusiasm, but I 
knew that inside she was probably quite 
pleased if she would only admit it. 

The tingling of the phone interrupted 
what could never have become a tender 
scene. She ambled over to the small table, 
unhurriedly picked up the receiver, and 
recited into the mouthpiece, "Best Bootery 
at Brown's — so come on down." This is a 
sacred ritual with Babe, for she is con- 
vinced that if she persists, some day she 
will hit the jack-pot. Leaving my invin- 
cible grandmother to argue goodnaturedly 
with the butcher over the price of meat, 
I walked unnoticed out the front door. 

+2)undau / Hit 



By Ann Sinclair, College Senior 

Sunday morning I walked into church 
Strangely aware of the awe and mystery 

surrounding God's house. 
But soon the spell was broken, as I 

gazed upon clergy and laymen 

so intent upon impressing others 

with their importance. 

The woman who knelt to pray not more than four 

So conscious was she of her new attire . . . 
The choir boys flirting with the girl in the 

first pew . . . 
The minister paying more attention to how 

rather than what he said . . . 
The recessional was sung, 
The congregation filed out, 
Buzzing with chatter. 
Only when void of human form 
Did the peace of God descend once more upon His house. 


By Jeanne Jacobs, College Senior 

It was late afternoon, almost dusk, when 
I came out of the front door and saw that 
Holland house was gone. "Gone! Gone!" 
I cried as though I'd been hit in the stom- 
ach. Why hadn't someone told me? Per- 
haps I was a bit dramatic; but I've always 
been about things that mattered. 

I knew I would have to go across the 
street and finger what was left. I could 
see already that there wasn't much. The 
men had done a good job of wrecking or 
tearing down. They had torn down every- 
thing — everything except the old wooden 
steps. Nine steps were all that remained 
of a house that had weathered the Civil 
War to be killed by the hands of men. 

I did say killed; didn't I, for isn't that 
what they did? You see to me this house 
was a living thing. It had always been 
there — right across the street. Why 
shouldn't it always stay? 

I reverently crossed the street and start- 
ed up the front walk as I had done so 
many times before. As I walked I talked 
to myself — somehow that made it better, 
for I had to tell someone how I felt. 

"This old walk is made of brick that 
was made by hand. Wonder what they will 
do with it? Probably dig it up and throw 
it away. That's right. Just throw it away. 
This old v/alk, where ladies' dainty feet 
scurried from beneath hoop-skirts; where 
ladies tripped along, trying to keep their 
balance despite the hobble-skirts; where 
my playmates and I fell and skinned our 
knees, tried to skate without success, and 
walked quietly to see the man we loved. 
This all will be gone forever. Here where 
the sandpile had once been is a pile of 
scrap lumber. There is nothing left at the 
back, not even a step. Only the row of 
boxwoods tells where the back door was. 
That's funny. You know, the healthiest 

boxwoods you ever saw are here kept in 
good condition by a daily bath of dish- 
water. Strangers even stop and try to buy 
them. They will never be sold now, for 
the workmen have seen to that. Each one 
of those trees is precious. Each one holds 
certain memories of a child's play in one 
of those few big shady yards that are left. 
Memories! But you can't live on memories! 
That's what Mr. Holland said over and 

I'd inspected the whole yard, all the 
wreckage. Each corner of the yard held 
a special place in my heart, but most of 
all I loved these old blue-grey steps. When 
I sat down on the steps I was almost in 
tears, but I couldn't cry. The hurt was 
deeper than that. I cried inside but not 

"If only Mr. Holland were here. If only 
I could turn my head and see him once 
more on the pprch sitting in the swing, 
tapping his cane. He had always been 
there to take the place of the grandfather 
I'd never had. He was always there to 
joke with me, to advise me, and to lean on. 
Whenever I was blue, I went to see Mr. 
Holland; he was so much worse than I. 
Imagine not having left the house in nine- 
and-a-half years! Whenever I went over to 
see him I came home feeling better, wiser, 
and very much happier. It seemed as if I 
had soaked up some of his strength." 

"Come in, Miss Jenny," Daddy Holland 
would say. "Let's see what's that you have 
on? Something new, eh? Did you buy that 
pretty dress for that young fellow I see 
hanging around your house?" 

"Oh, no, not that one. It's for you, 
Daddy Holland." 

"Well, Jenny, honey, you are a beauti- 
ful liar. Tell me how is your family? Has 


ole Ross been tough on you as I told him 
to be?" 

"They're fine, and Daddy is sort of 
mean at times. He is a big one for me get- 
ting in on time. You know, he is much 
more old-fashioned than you ever could 

"Now, Jenny, go easy on Ross and re- 
member that when children are little they 
step on your toes, and when they are older 
they step on your heart strings. So don't 
throw his age at him; he's just a boy to 
me, you know." 

"That's right, isn't it? Say, Daddy Hol- 
land, do you mind telling me just how old 
you are: 

"Eighty-seven this July 22, and proud 
of it, Jenny." 

"Goodness, I'm sure you have a lot to 
tell. Do you remember the Civil War?" 

"Not much. You see I was born in '62. 
Can't say I remember anything." 

"Well, tell me about what you do re- 
member and how things were when you 
were young." 

"Let's see, that was long ago, and as I 
say I don't recall much of it. When I was 
a young man things were basically the 
same as they are now. You'll learn, my 

child, that you remember only flashes of 
the past. And 'tis better, too, for we must 
not look backward." 

"Why is that?" 

"Well, Miss Jenny, sometimes our mem- 
ories are colored and we recall only things 
as we want them to be. Then, too, if you 
try to probe into the past, you find a hurt 
that is hard to withstand. It is good never 
to turn back — I know. Now what is this 
I hear about your going to California?" 

"Never turn back! Never turn back!" 
The phrase echoed in my mind as I sat on 
the blue-grey steps. That's what Daddy 
Holland had said only a few months be- 
fore he died. 

It had grown dark now, and I was cool. 
I started down the walk toward my house. 
I started to look once more at the ruins, 
but I knew it would be wrong. Hadn't 
Daddy Holland said not to? Already I felt 
better; in fact I felt a new strength as I 
walked down the old brick walk to cross 
the street. I heard a faint tapping like 
that of a cane on the sidewalk beside me. 
Yes, I like to think it was a cane and that 
beside me walked this great man I loved 
so well. I knew I would never look back 
at what was once the Holland House but 
I would never forget — never. 

^Jne Words 

By Nancy Rule, Junior Prep 

Across the sand you wrote my name, 
Then three words 
Glowing under it. 

The evening breeze caught up your phrase 
And it was lost. 

Remembering when summer comes, 

I realize — 

You never spoke the words to me. 


The Bargain 

By Maureen McDonald, College Senior 

Swamp frogs creaked their disapproval 
and the slippery snakes, sunning them- 
selves on the rotten ledge, slid nonselessly 
away as black clouds covered the sky. A 
cold wind swept the stale air of the swamp 
and stirred the stagnant waters. It lifted 
the dry mess from the limbs of the cypress 
and oaks, exposing their nakedness. The 
swamp birds screamed like a pack of dev- 
ils and flew for cover as the first rain- 
drops fell. 

In the middle of the swamp on the only 
piece of dry land was a cabin, old and 
weather-beaten. The door hung limply to 
the weak walls; from the outside the cabin 
appeared to be forsaken. Inside, the single 
room was bare except for a few pieces of 
broken furniture. A rocking chair with one 
rocker gone leaned against one wall; a 
table sat in the middle of the room. On it 
were a tin plate and cup and an over- 
turned bottle. In one corner stood an an- 
cient chest of drawers. On the top there 
was a comb, a tiny lace handkerchief, yel- 
lowed with age, a picture of a girl in a 
frame, and an ebony, gold-bound box. 
Across the room in the other corner was 
a bed, the sheets dingy and dirty. A man 
lay across the bed, his huge arm thrown 
across his face. His head hung at a peril- 
ous angle over the side of the bed, and 
his red curls moved slightly as the breezes 
touched them. One of his booted feet fell 
to the floor, making a dull thud as the 
leather struck the wood; the other lay 
limply on a green blanket. His bare chest 
heaved as if he were having trouble breath- 
ing. Over his heart there was a deep 
wound; the hair on his chest was matted 
with blood. His left arm hung from the 
bed, and his large hand rested on the floor 
beside a switch-blade knife. Near the 
knife lay a bullet. Both were covered with 
the red blood of a human being. 

A gust of wind slapped the torn shade 
away from the open window. A streak of 
lightning bolted in and danced around the 
edges of the tin plate. A peal of thunder 
rocked the small shack. The chest of the 
giant stopped heaving and his gasping 
ceased. The room smelled dank and musty 
and reeked of torture and pain. 

Outside a group of weary men pushed 
their way through the swamp. Their faces 
were grim; but the guns over their shoul- 
ders were grimmer. The pack of dogs 
picked up the scent of their quarry and 
the lead dog bayed his warning. The men 
mumbled among themselves and quick- 
ened their steps. In the lead, a tall bland 
man shouted to the dogs. He cursed the 
drizzling rain that soaked his clothes; he 
cursed the murky waters that slapped his 
boots and left a green slime clinging to 
them. He cursed his only childhood ambi- 
tion, to be sheriff. He cursed the man who 
lay dying in the shack up ahead. He 
cursed the man's gall and his ability to 
avoid death. Four times Red Howe had 
been reported mortally wounded; twice 
men had sworn they had seen him dead. 
How could a man, a human, be dead one 
minute and in the next whole and living? 

Merriel raised his head and sniffed the 
wind. It was going to storm and here they 
were in the middle of this hell-hole, look- 
ing for a man at least a hundred years 
old, yet with the face and body of a man 
thirty-six. A man with more lives than 
a cat. 

They were at the cabin door, which was 
rickety and worn. Merriel Terry had to 
bend his tow head to enter the shack, his 
men crowding behind him, anxious to see 
the freak man. This man without age . . . 
without conscience . . . without fear of 


The sudden blackness of the room froze 
his eyesight, and for a long minute he 
could see nothing. He could only hear the 
mad mumblings of the swamp. He didn't 
know what to expect. He had never seen 
Red Howe; he had only heard stories of 
his plunderings and ravaging. Some said 
he ate the hearts of his victims. Others 
said he kept their hearts in a box which, if 
he ever died, he would take to the devil, 
his only master. 

The sheriff's eyes grew used to the 
strange darkness. He saw the bed with the 
inert form on it, and crossed over to it. 
In all appearances Red Howe was dead. 
Merriel examined his bullet wound; it 
seemed to have penetrated the heart cham- 
ber. He had received the wound yesterday, 
but the body was still warm and thirty 
miles from where he was shot. 

Merriel and the rest of the men crowded 
near to see this legendary man. Someone 
said dryly, "He looks just like we do. I 
expected something different." 

"You silly fool," thought Merriel. "You 
see before you a man who should have 
died hours ago — a man who has twice 
been buried and twice before returned to 
rob and steal and murder. And you ex- 
pected to see something different." 

He bent forward to lift the massive 
shoulders and straightened the head of 
curly red fire. He placed the huge hands 
over the broad chest and wondered at the 
delicate features of Howe's face. One 
could almost say he had a baby face, ex- 
cept that the square chin was set and de- 
termined and there were two deep furrows 
on the forehead. Here was a beautiful 
specimen of man. Up to now, healthy as 
the ocean, strong as a lion, with the tem- 
per and determination of a bull. He felt 
for pulse; there was none. 

"He's dead," Merriel turned to his 
men. "Stone dead." The pause grew heavy. 
His men shifted from one foot to the 

other. "You all go back to camp and get 
the stuff we'll need. I'm gonna stay and see 
this devil when he rises from the dead." 
Muttering to themselves, the men turned 
and filed through the door. The room was 
quiet with the silence of death. 

Merriel sat by the body, watching the 
rain come down, hearing it beat on the 
roof; seeing it fall from the leaky roof 
into little puddles on the floor. A drop 
fell onto Howe's nose and ran down his 
cheek. Unconsciously Merriel wiped it off. 
He drew back his hand sharply. The skin 
was warm — it should have been cold or 
at least cool! But it wasn't; it was warm, 
almost hot. Merriel raised Red's eyelids. 
Yes, he was dead. "Well then, why is he 
warm?" Merriel shouted to the rickety 
walls. A peal of thunder laughed at his 
fear. He ran to the window. He was a 
fool. Why had he let the men go? He 
might need them. This was foolish! No 
man could return from the dead — every 
man had to die. 

He turned and for the first time glanced 
about the room. He walked over to the 
dresser. The frame of the picture was old, 
very old. The picture was old, too. The 
girl in it wore an old fashioned dress; her 
blond hair was pale and piled high, held 
with blue combs. He nose was pert, and 
her eyes were as deep blue as the sky after 
a rain. There was writing on it. He held it 
nearer his eyes and read, "To my Red, 
Forever Angela, February 24, 1816." This 
was 1948! 

No sooner had he finished reading than 
a streak of lightning again bolted in 
through the window and danced around 
the edges of the tin plate. Again thunder 
rocked the shack. Merriel whirled around 
and stared at the body. 

Howe's eyelids flickered, and a moan 
escaped his lips; his right arm fell across 
his eyes. He slung one foot to the floor. 


Merriel stood glued in his tracks. The 
man had moved! He was dead three sec- 
onds ago, and now he lived and breathed. 

Howe's deep voice whispered through 
the room, "Angela, Angela. Don't go. I 
need you. I'm coming this time. I swear 
I am. Wait for me. I won't be long." He 
turned and saw Merriel. 

"I'm glad you waited. I was afraid you 
wouldn't. I have a story to tell and you 
must listen." 

Merriel came over to him and sat beside 
him. The bed squeaked under the two 

"I haven't much time . . . Some people 
say I can't die. They were right. You see 
I made a bargain ... a bargain with the 
Devil — a bargain with my soul to pay. As 
long as I did his work, I feared not death. 
He protected me from harm. The bargain 
was made in 1812; I was 36 then. In 1814 
I met Anglea. She was the only thing I 
really ever loved, but I should never have 
loved her. I told her of my bargain. She 
said she would go to the Devil and strike 
her bargain for my soul . . . and my heart. 

"We were killed the next day in a train 
wreck, and she went to Hell to raise her 
bargain. Satan laughed and said he would 
have her, too. He said only when I buried 
the hearts of my victims would I die; 
then I would live in Hell for an eternity. 
My Angela offered her soul for mine. I 
begged and threatened her, but nothing 
would work. The Devil finally agreed that 
for as many days as she remained with 
him — for that many days we could be 
together after I buried the hearts. So she 
stayed, and I returned. 

"Tonight she called. She said she want- 
ed me. And I'm going to her — maybe — 
You see, I forgot it was the Devil we bar- 
gained with. I have just returned from 
him. From the moment I left him, three 

minutes ago, all my years have come upon 

The deep voice had weakened and 
cracked until it was barely audible. Mer- 
riel turned to look at the man. He gasped 
with shock. The giant had shrunk and 
become aged and gray and dying. 

"You see," the thin voice whispered, "all 
my victims are buried in one cemetery 
forty-five miles from here, Windy Pines. 
I could never make it. I want my Angela 
. . . please bury them for me. Say you will 
while I can hear you." 

Merriel stared in wonder. His throat 
was dry. He was seeing a man shrivel and 
die before his eyes, a man who that morn- 
ing had been in perfect health. 

"Please say you will. PI - -." And the 
voice broke. 

Merriel stood silent, speechless. 

The old man's eyes were pleading. They 
were filled with an agony unknown to 
normal beings. And then slowly — they 
closed. The crumpled body sank to the 

Merriel shook all over and cold sweat 
ran down his neck. He closed his eyes 
tightly. When he opened them, he saw 
the pale form of a tall straight, red-headed 
giant rise from the withered heap at his 
feet. The pale blond girl who ran toward 
him didn't even reach his shoulder. They 
stopped and looked down. Merriel looked 
down, too. On the floor between them lay 
the black box. The man uttered a cry and 
held out his arms. A tear fell from the 
girl's eye and rolled down her wan cheek 
as she began to fade from sight. Merriel 
broke from his trance. He grabbed the 
box and ran from the shack. Outside he 
paused to look at the sky. The rain had 
stopped. If he hurried, he could have the 
hearts buried by morning. Tucking the 
box under his arm, he ran into the swamp. 


None Shall Return 

By Ruth Eleanor Corn, Sophomore Prep 

The car paused at the crossroads for 
one barely perceptible second as its impa- 
tient driver scraped the gears and again 
pressed the accelerator firmly against the 
floorboard with the anxious determination 
which had marked the preceding part of 
the journey. For the thousandth time I 
glanced furtively at my grandfather and 
prayed that his return to the rickety town 
which had been his home would not end 
in a crushing disappointment. He, how- 
ever, was obviously entertaining no such 
doubts, for his brilliant blue eyes shone 
with the joyous anticipation of a child's. 

"You know these parts pretty well, 
don't you?" I ventured, almost afraid to 
break the black velvet silence that hung, 
star-studded, over the car. 

"Ought to!" came the laconic reply. 
"Why, these were my old stompin' 
grounds when I was a boy. Women and 
children! The scrapes I used to get into 
along this road!" 

That, I reflected, wasn't hard to believe, 
for although my companion was crowding 
84, Charles Corn retained all that was es- 
sential to youth; the years had transformed 
his unruly hair to hoary whiteness, but 
left his dauntless spirit visibly unmarked. 
That in itself was little short of a miracle, 
for, in my community and his, life was 
an easy-going affair in which love and 
anger were so intermingled that one could 
scarcely hazard guessing where the one 
joined the opposite. In such a place, it was 
conventional to grow old gracefully after 
the glow of youth had passed, but my pa- 
ternal grandparent, always the exception 
rather than the rule, simply refused to 
grow old at all. If you still have doubts, 
allow me to impress upon you that west- 
ern movies, wild, horses, and straight shoot- 
ing are hardly accepted pastimes for one 

advanced into that abyss of years from 
which there is no returning. 

Very shortly, the Buick slid to a resting 
place between two yawning gaps in the 
dusty road, and I found myself gazing at 
the forsaken shambles which had one time 
been a small village. Likewise, Grandaddy 
stared about him, but his eyes saw, not a 
lonely four-store main street, but Estill 
Springs as it had been, a fashionable, 
quaint resort, his home town, before train 
smoke, time and neglect had marred its 
glory, and his eyes were fiery bright. 

Ravenous after the journey, we climbed 
from the car and sought out a dingy res- 
taurant, which, I hoped, offered more 
nourishment in its interior than beauty of 
exterior. How often since I have wished 
to cancel that episode! As I slid gingerly 
into the rough booth, my companion 


walked across to the cashier to discover the 
whereabouts of some former cronies. From 
my uneasy bench, most of the conversa- 
tion was quite audible. 

"Good afternoon," Grandaddy began, 
"I'm Charles Corn — used to live here." 
There was no faint smile of recognition 
on the young cashier's impassive counte- 
nance. "I was wondering what became of 
the big flour mill here. I looked for it; 
maybe I missed it coming in." 

"Big flour mill? That old shack! Why 
it burned down years ago! You must have 
been away a long time," countered the 
man, who couldn't have known that the 
"old shack" had been Corn and Company, 
or that my grandfather had operated and 
gloried in it. 

"Oh!" I saw the smile fade from my 
beloved grandfather's eyes. "Perhaps it 
has been — longer than I realized." An un- 
certain gleam crept back into the sad blue 
pupils. "Say, do you know Henry Thom- 

as? He an I were big buddies way back 
when . . . Good old Hen — why, I remem- 
ber the time — " 

"You mean old man Thomas? He died 
back in '42 — better off, too, I reckon. Just 
couldn't get used to finding out his day 
was past!" 

Grandaddy opened his mouth to speak, 
but closed it slowly and soundlessly into a 
hard, tight line across his haggard face, 
and walked wearily to the booth. I guess 
the final blow came when the young man 
at the counter muttered with vile face- 
tiousness, "Hey, Joe, see that guy over 
there — yeah, the old fellow with the kid. 
Some character! Wonder if he remembers 
the Civil War?" As a matter of fact, he 

After that, it would have been nothing 
short of folly to have remained. Perhaps, 
it was only my enraged and vividly in- 
flamed imagination, but it seemed to me 
as I left, that I walked beside a very tired 
old man. 

By Sally Jordan, Junior Prep 

Do now what can and must be done, 
Lest from a selfless life deterred 
You cannot give the purest love, 
The comfort of a steadfast heart, 
A deeper faith, a warmer smile, 
An understanding word. 

Do now what can and must be done 
While still in shining rays of dawn. 
Don't wait, for to delay too long 
May blot the stainless life of love, 
'Till death will come, unyielding, cold, 
And then your chance is gone. 


A Lesson in Salesmanship 

By Martha Foutch, Senior Prep 

Mr. Brown marched confidently up the 
steps of the little white frame house on 
Ash Street, rang the doorbell, straightened 
his tie, and waited expectantly for the door 
to open. In a few seconds a sweet-faced 
middle-aged woman came in answer to his 

With a broad smile, Mr. Brown said, 
"Good morning, Mrs. Thomas. My name 
is Bob Brown, and I represent the Farley 
Furniture Polish Company. That's 
F A R L E Y — Farley Furniture Polish. 
Could I interest you in buying a bottle?" 

"I'm sorry, but I don't think we need 
any. . . . What company did you say you 
were with?" 

"The Farley Furniture Polish Company, 
ma'm," he said, easing his way into the 
house. "Would you like me to give you a 

"Well, all right, but you must promise 
to be very quiet, so you won't wake the 

"Can I polish this rocker first, Mrs. 

"Don't you touch that rocker! That's 
what little Billy cut his first tooth on. You 
should see Billy now, Mr. Barley .That's his 
picture on the mantle there — isn't he a fine 
looking boy? And he's on the football team 
at school, and just yesterday he made a 
hundred on a geography test. Like I told 
Jim — that's my husband — last night, it 
isn't every mother that has as fine a son as 
our Billy." 

"Yes Ma'm. Is there any other piece of 
furniture I could use to show you how well 
this polish works? What about this coffee 
table? It's all scratched up." 

"Why, Mr. — er — what did you say your 
name was — Farley?" 

"Brown, Mrs. Thomas. I'm selling Far- 
ley Furniture polish." 

"Well, Mr. Farley, those aren't scratch- 

es on that table. That's where Betty wrote 
her name the day she learned to write at 
school. I wouldn't take anything for it. I 
guess all mothers are sentimental that way." 

Glancing about the room hopefully, he 
said, "Mrs. Thomas, do you by any chance 
have some little place about an inch square 
that doesn't have any scratches on it that 
I could scratch up and then fix with my 
furniture polish?" 

"Now Mr. Browley, you don't really 
think I'd let you carve on my furniture! 
The very idea — wanting to scratch up my 
things just to show off your furniture pol- 
ish. Just wait till Jim hears about this. And 
what would be the point of using that fur- 
niture polish if it won't make things look 
better than they did before you started. 
Young man, I think you've chosen the 
wrong career. Why don't you study to be a 
butcher? Think of all the carving you could 
do then!" 

Mr. Brown slowly backed out the door. 

"Good day, Mrs. Thomas." Mr. Brown 
walked down the steps of the little frame 
house; opening his record book, he wrote 
opposite that address: COULDN'T 




By Sally Duke, Junior Prep 

A gull screams 

over living water. 

Waves reach; then 

Sink in futile resignation. 

Rocks stand 

Godlike — witness to the meager 


The gull screams again — 

Then wings its way 

Into opaque obscurity. 


Autobiography of a Driver 

By Louise Cronenwett, College Freshman 

In the estimation of a junior-high school 
girl, the car is the most important inven- 
tion since time began. In the eyes of the 
parent of this girl, it is a nuisance that 
should never have been bought. When a 
girl reaches that age, in her eyes she be- 
comes a young lady and is entitled to all 
the rights and privileges as such. These 
rights naturally include the family car. Be- 
lieving myself to be a young lady, I started 
thinking about these rights during the sixth 

Upon my graduation from the sixth 
grade, I began to dream of dashing around 
town with a group of girls in my own car. 
When school began, I bravely told my fa- 
ther of this wish. His answer stopped me 
asking for the car for another year. By that 
time, all my friends had started to ask their 
parents to teach them to drive and to let 
them use the family car. All returned with 
the same answer — NO. 

After receiving this answer several times, 
I started to go with a young gentleman who 
had his own car. He taught me how to shift 
gears, how to work the pedals, and he let 
me drive a little. All this was without my 
parents' knowledge, for they would have 
considered it very dangerous. I did not men- 
tion driving to my parents during that time, 
for I was afraid that they would learn of 
my driving lessons. That is one reason that 
I was very much surprised when my father 
asked me if I would like to take a driving 

It happened one afternoon as I sat read- 
ing a book. My father calmly asked if I 
would like to go driving. I sat there dumb- 
founded; then I heartily agreed. My mother 
and father got into the car, I backed it 
out of the driveway, and off we went to the 

traditional country roads. For some reason, 
my parents did not seem greatly surprised 
at my driving or at the ease of my backing 
from the driveway. I had always imagined 
that they would be definitely surprised and 
would immediately decide that I could use 
the car whenever I wanted it, but this dream 
did not work out that way. When we got 
to the country, I was told to stop, start, turn 
off the motor, give signals, turn around, 
and park time and time again. My parents 
sat there giving instructions while I drove 
and tried to forget my smoke dreams. Then 
we started home. 

After driving across the main highway, 
I pulled over to the curb and asked my 
father to drive the car into the driveway. 
You see, we have a three-foot fence sur- 
rounding our yard except for a small space 
left for a driveway. He insisted that I con- 
tinue; on I went. I gave my handsignal and 
pulled out to turn — Suddenly two dogs 
dashed in front of the car and started fight- 
ing; a girl and boy dropped their bicycles 
in the street and ran to separate the dogs. 
I stepped for the brakes and started to stop. 
My father grabbed the wheel and turned 
to the left; my mother tried to turn to the 
right — we went straight ahead. The brakes 
that I had stepped for turned out to be the 
accelerator. We hit the fence once, again, 
and then the motor died. The dogs, chil- 
dren, and bicycles had disappeared by this 
time, leaving only three dejected people, a 
broken fence, and a car with a ruined 

After this episode I didn't drive for a 
year. This year was used trying to get my 
big brother to teach me to drive again. He 
finally tired of listening to me and took 
me to the country to learn to drive. His 


little Model T Ford was so battered that 
I wouldn't be able to harm it in any way 
and it was the car in which I learned to 
drive. Although my parents knew of these 
lessons, they said nothing for them and 
nothing against them. Gradually I learned 
to drive and began the long process of re- 
gaining my parents' confidence. 

I thought that I had progressed very 
much the day that my mother let me drive 
her to town; and the day that my father 
let me drive him to a neighbor's house was 
a red-letter day in my life. They did not 
trust me too much and were always warn- 
ing me of intersections, cars, and traffic 
lights. I was very careful to give all my 
handsignals, look at every intersection, and 
follow every rule in the rule book. 

I didn't realize that they trusted me until 
the day my mother asked me to go to the 

grocery store for her. It was only a round- 
trip of four blocks, but she had ordered a 
lot of groceries and was unable to go for 
them at the moment. After careful instruc- 
tions, I started off and made the first "solo" 

Soon afterwards I began to get the car 
regularly both day and night. Then came 
another victory day when they let me take 
the car to a neighboring town — ten miles 
away. It had always been a short trip; how- 
ever, on this special day it was the perfect 
distance. By this time in my life my friends 
could get their cars; so there was no par- 
ticular need for mine! 

The unsuspecting junior high girls still 
believe that the family car is a wonderful 
invention — but the girls that have gone 
through the complete cycle know better. 



By Peggy Smith, Junior Prep 

By two things only do we live: 


Memories pinned in a flowing hand: 


hope lighting unknown paths. 

By two things only do we die: 


Deeds splashed in scarlet type: 


Sombre fog engulfing all. 


J Wisk 

By Ann Sinclair, College Senior 

I wish I could write 
A sonnet — 
A good poem. 
I have only thoughts 
Put down on paper. 
They mean little, 
They are trifles, perhaps, 
But they are mine. 






Vol. 14 No. 2 


Vol. 14 MAY 1951 No. 2 



It seems strange to think as I write that this, my last editor's note, will perhaps 
be the last editor's note for the last Chimes, ever. In that sense I feel somewhat 
responsible not only for my goodbye, but for the goodbyes of a generation of girls 
and of Chimes. It's hard to say my own farewell without becoming sentimental 
— sentimental over the school, the wonderful times, the people — all the things 
we've grown to cherish; and over-sentimentality seems to be the trend of the hour. 
But in doing it, I want to say sincerely that beyond the sentiment, I feel proud 
and grateful. Proud of the talent and originality that have been discovered on 
the campus this year, that may blossom into something fine and lasting; and grate- 
ful for the cooperation of the staff and members of the faculty. Particularly am I 
grateful to Mrs. Ruth Taylor, our sponsor, for her guidance and the unselfish giv- 
ing of her time and efforts, and to Dr. Ivar L. Myhr Duncan, who has been helpful 
in countless ways toward making Chimes better for all of us. 

It is with these feelings, then, that I say goodbye, closing the final chapter. It 
seems rather cruel, cut and dried. But somehow, happily, it is with the sure con- 
viction that the spirit of Chimes — the girls who have made it from past to present, 
and the words they have written — will, as that of Ward-Belmont, live forever. 

Mary Evelyn 


Mary Evelyn Smith 
Ada Marie Oakley . 
Mrs. Ruth Taylor . . 

.Faculty Advisor 





\urine McDonald Faye 
College Seniors 


Jean Holiman 



Louise Cronenwett 
College Freshmen 

Pat Price 

Harriet Provine, Senior 

Martha Foutch, Senior Carolyn 
High School Representatives 

Rawlins, Junior 

Jenny's First Day Barbara Hicbard 

High in the Night Marty Peterson 

Gossip Harriet Anderson 

Ink On My Fingers Louise Cronenwett 

Contrast Mary Evelyn Smith 

Sprawling Harriet Provine 

The Transient Life Patricia Price 

Alexander Jean Holiman 

The Hermitage Sally Jordan 

My Son Marcia Fobes 

Day Dreams Nancy Frederick 

My Pillow Debby Luton 

The Seeds of Humanity Ann Sinclair 

Child of Joy Ann Sinclair 

The Four Winds Polly Jordan 

Two For a Nickel Mary Evelyn Smith 

The Fool Peggy Smith 

Me — 1 971 Margaret Bralley 

My Country Memories Margaret Thompson 

A Week at the Mission Sue Winters 

Life Jane Ward 

Paradox in Puddles Anne Mashburn 

Three Pen Sketches 

First Venture Margaret Thompson 

Hoop-Dee-Doo Cynthia Rushing 

God's Country Frances Caldwell 

The Moon Corinne Scales 

Jenny's First Day 

By Barbara Hi 

The rapid tap, tap, tap of feet echoed 
through the near-empty streets, shattering 
the stillness. The city, in a drowsy state of 
awareness, seemed to be gathering courage 
to meet the new day. Only the quick light 
steps of Jenny and the slow shuffling gait 
of her mother broke the silence. Jenny 
skipped along the sidewalk like a spark of 
electricity following a wire. She would trot 
along at the side of Big Sarah, then im- 
patiently surge ahead, then wait for her 
mother to catch up with her. 

"Step on a crack, break your mother's 
back. Step in a hole, break your mother's 
sugar bowl." 

Jenny happily chanted these lines in the 
sing-song manner typical of this game so 
often played by six-year-olds such as she. 
The early morning smells of coffee and 
freshly baked bread were exhilarating to 
Jenny, and the crisp chill of an early Michi- 
gan morning shot into her like so many 
electric needles, spurring her patent leather 
slippers over the rough cement. Big Sarah 
slowly followed in the wake of her small 
daughter, carefully picking her way 
through the newly fallen leaves. Wrapped 
in a colorful shawl that competed with the 
red and yellow hues of the leaves for atten- 
tion, she warded off the chill of the morn- 

Jenny felt cool, crisp, and clean in her 
freshly starched gingham dress. Big Sarah 
had braided her kinky black hair so tightly 
that Jenny felt that her scalp clung to her 
head only through sheer will-power. The 
pressure pulled her big brown eyes upward 
into almond shaped slits, giving her the 
appearance of a Chinese who had perhaps 
stayed too long in the sun. Jenny could no 
longer keep back her impatience at her 
mother's slow, plodding steps. 

"Hurry, Mama, hurry! School starts 

bbard, Senior Prep 

soon, and you have to enroll me. Hurry, 
hurry, first day of school, first day of 
school for me." 

Jenny's shrill song floated back to Sarah's 
ears, and her footsteps quickened. As they 
came within sight of the weathered red brick 
building, Sarah saw other mothers with 
their children. They were going to the same 
school, on the same morning, and their chil- 
dren were just as excited as Jenny, but there 
was a difference, and Sarah realized it. Sa- 
rah had done her best to prepare Jenny for 
the cruelties she would encounter in this 
new adventure, but all had been forgotten 
in the excitement. 

Sarah and Jenny went up the sagging 
steps hand in hand, the patent leather shoes 
skipping, and the worn leather moccasins 
with reluctance. Sarah's heart sank when 
she saw the person who was to have charge 
of Jenny for the next nine months, for she 
was a mousy, watery-eyed woman, and Sa- 
rah knew her type. Her capacity for toler- 
ance would be as thin as her blue-hued skin. 
Perhaps Sarah had been wrong in enrolling 
her daughter at this school, but she wanted 
her to have the chance for the education 
she herself had missed and now regretted. 
Sarah settled her huge bulk into a nearby- 
chair and prepared herself for the inevi- 

table wait until the other parents had talked 
with the teacher. Jenny could withold her 
impatience no longer. Forgetting her moth- 
er, she rushed off to survey her new sur- 
roundings. Jenny's eyes grew large with 
anticipation when she beheld the sand box 
and the play house with its wonderful dolls 
and miniature equipment. Then they nar- 
rowed in distaste when they fell upon Virgil, 
the only other colored child in the room. 
She knew him well, but that only made her 
dislike more intense. Her mother had 
warned her about Virgil, son of those loud, 
drunken Browns. He was a big, gangling 
boy, older than the rest of the children in 
the room, and he had a sneaky, furtive air 
about him. Sarah had told her to keep away 
from him, and she did not question her 
mother's judgment. Even the appearance of 
Virgil, however, did not deaden her excite- 
ment, for she would not let her thoughts 
linger on such an unpleasant boy. There 
were so many other wonderful things to en- 
tertain herself with; and there, her carrot- 
top bowed in concentration over a miniature 
stove that really cooked, was Kathy. Jenny 
ran to meet her. Many times they had played 
together and made mud pies, and Jenny 
looked forward with anticipation to more 
good times. Kathy and Jenny greeted each 
other with squeals of excitement. Together 
they flitted like young sparrows from one 
new delight to the next. First in and out of 
the playhouse, then to the sand box, next 
to the blackboard with its fascinating array 
of colored chalks, and finally back to the 
sand box. Black head and red were bent 
together, secrets were exchanged, and 
friendships were strengthened. 

Time had passed quickly for the two, 
and Jenny had not noticed Sarah's depar- 
ture nor the disapproving stares of the 
adults and the watery-eyed teacher. The 
teacher, however, had not forgotten Jenny. 
She came toward the front of the class with 
quick determined steps. With a tap of her 

ruler she shattered the aura of contentment 
in the room, establishing authority and de- 
manding silence. She attempted a nervous 
smile and began her speech of "welcome." 

"I'm sure we're all going to get along 
together splendidly. My name is Miss Ag- 
nes Tinch . . . you will please call me Miss 
Tinch. We have certain activities during 
the school year that require that the stu- 
dents be paired oif in twos. I'd like to leave 
it up to you to choose your partners for the 
school year. Of course, if this doesn't prove 
satisfactory, I'll have to make a few 

Jenny and Kathy did not heed the re- 
minder that had been tacked on to the end 
of the little speech, but rushed joyously to 
each other and clasped hands tightly. Miss 
Tinch, seemingly unmindful of the flutter, 
continued . . . 

"I have found, however, that to avoid 
unnecessary chatter, it is best to divide the 
closest of friends. Kathy and Jenny seem 
to know each other quite well, so let's give 
them a chance to become acquainted with 
the other children, shall we?" 

"Jenny, you will be paired off with Virgil 
for the remainder of the year." 

Tears rose to Kathy's eyes and Jenny's 
lower lip quivered, but Jenny reluctantly 
advanced to the corner where Virgil was 
sitting. Through her tears, Jenny beheld 
the insolent expression on Virgil's face. His 
shifty eyes glanced mockingly at her, and 
his thick lips were curled in a sneer. Her 
features froze into an impenetrable mask. 
Jenny dropped her head as if to cut his view 
from her sight, but she could not forget 
the thoughts that his glance implied. His 
mocking eyes seemed to say that he knew 
something she did not know, but she didn't 
want to know . . . she didn't. 

It was Jenny's first day at school . . . and 
she had learned a lesson. 

High in the Night 

By Marty Peterson, 

The plane maneuvered easily through 
the tiny twinkling lights and the now in- 
visible plots of grass in the landing field. 
It whirled to face the north, strained its mo- 
tors to the limits of its ability, and began 
its ascent into the formidable blackness of 
the night. Linda shifted uncomfortably in 
the diminutive seat to catch a glimpse of the 
blazing neon sign reading "Atlanta," watch- 
ing it grow smaller and smaller and smaller 

The tiny window beside Linda was a mir- 
ror until the light above it was flicked out; 
then she lay back in her seat and watched 
the green light which was a pin point on 
the wing tip of the plane. It was as if she 
were a companion of the stars and excluded 
from the earth below. She looked down on 
the world with no dizziness at the height, 
for the night was like a blanket holding her 
high in the air. All below was black and 
dismal, except for the few automobile lights 
glowing like minute suns in their own par- 
ticular orbits 

Soon the earth became a myriad of lights 
— they were everywhere, not in a confused 
mass, but symmetrically arranged. These 
were the homes and the buildings of Louis- 
ville, each scaled off in squares, as the street 
lights told. Through the sparkling and 
glittering mass slipped the Ohio River, si- 
lently making its way westward. 

Linda's mind awoke from its reverie, and 
she became conscious of the monotonous 
droning of the plane's motors. It wouldn't 
be too long now — Indianapolis, Chicago, 
and then Minneapolis. And then what? She 
shook her curly blonde head, drew out a 
cigarette, and inhaled nervously. There 
wasn't really any reason to be nervous, Lin- 
da told herself sternly. He'll either be there 
or he won't. 

College Senior 

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Miss?" 
asked the steward gently. 

"Yes, yes, of course." 

She clasped the steaming coffee, drink- 
ing it slowly, listening indifferently to the 
murmuring of voices around her, wonder- 
ing if they had ever suffered the torment 
of being young. The pungent odor of the 
coffee made her complete master of her 
senses once more, and the cool air from the 
ventilator blowing against her face brought 
forth involuntary shivers. For a nineteen- 
year-old girl she had an astonishing appear- 
ance of maturity. And yet in her eyes, like 
the flicker of fireflies, were the rays of youth 
perceptible only to those who truly knew her 
— her mother and father. 

"The Bird of Time has but a little way 

To flutter — and the Bird is on the wing." 

Linda knew she was young, too young 
for marriage; but that had slight effect any- 
more. With life swaying on a tiny golden 
chain, as all life was now, who knew when 
that chain would snap? The present was 
too precious, too momentary to be wasted. 
Linda was obsessed with a frantic pessim- 
ism, paralleling that of young people 
through the centuries. The blonde girl sud- 
denly relaxed; the intensity of her thoughts 
and hopes had left her taut and intent. 

But then there were Mother and Daddy. 
Linda smiled, as a mother smiles at her mis- 
behaving children. She knew they would 
object to the marriage. In spite of the fact 
that Linda was now returning from her 
second year of college, she was their baby; 
and Mother and Daddy had some anti- 
quated ideas concerning the proper age to 
marry. They had grown too secure and 
complacent to realize the futility of waiting. 
And they hopelessly ignored such factual 

evidence as Korea, the draft, and Bob's 1A 

"And Lip to Lip it murmured — 'While 
you live, 

Drink! — for, once dead, you never shall 
return!' " 

Upon the decision made today, every- 
thing would depend. Linda would never 
marry without her parents' consent, despite 
her love for Bob; but could her parents fail 
to see the blinding light of Time rushing 
toward their daughter and her generation? 
The same piercing light which had rushed 
toward them when they were young? 

In the last letter she had written: "Bob, 
if it's okay and they say *y es >' meet me at 
the airport; but if the answer is 'no,' let me 
alone and don't make me face you with my 
heart torn in shreds." Linda reminded her- 
self again, "There's no sense in worrying; 
he'll be there or he won't." 

"A Hair perhaps divides the False and 
True — 

And upon what, prithee, does Life de- 

It was a foolish agreement to make and 
yet a final one. She would know the answer 
the instant she stepped off the plane. Some- 
how Linda felt her parents wouldn't forget; 
they would remember the intensity of life 
when life was young. What was the de- 
terminant, Linda wondered, the fear that 
maturity carried with it which attached 
such cautiousness and wariness to life? She 
felt the paternal desire of sparing her the 
recklessness of youth; this desire has no 
part in youth. 

"Drink! for you know not whence you 
came, nor why: 

Drink! for you know not why you go, 
nor where." 

A bell rang, like two tiny dots on a white 
piece of paper; a precise sign flicked on; 
and the steward announced: "Fasten your 
seat belts, please; Minneapolis approach- 
ing." Linda placed her hat slowly on her 

blonde head, pulled on her clean white 
gloves, and tried vainly to control the weav- 
ing sensations in her stomach. The plane 
dropped, dipped, and thudded to the 
ground. It taxied slowly to the brilliantly 
lighted airport and stopped. The motors 
had died away into the night before Linda 
could move toward the door. She placed one 
unsteady hand on the rail and trembled as 
she stood there in the cool air. The lights 
ran together in streaks before Linda's tear- 
filled eyes; the world of the young was 

"And when like her, oh Saki, you shall 

Among the Guests Star-scattered on the 

And in your blissful errand reach the 

Where I made One — turn down an 
empty Glass!" 



By Harriet Anderson, Junior Prep 

Let them say what they will; 

Let them talk. 

I care not what evil minds conjure, 

Or what the low-born gossips whisper. 

(Whisper, though they know I hear!) 
I am an outcast. 

Their only power is to make me so, 
To make my life a living death 
In all material things. 

I hear their cries: "Unclean, unclean!" 
And smile, because 

(Though I be social leper, 

The innocent diseased by their society) 
Lies touch not the virgin soul. 
And they forget 
That I have many memories, 

(Memories they cannot steal!) 
Of yesterdays with you. 

Ink On My Fingers 

By Louise Cronenwett, 

Some people are unlucky enough to be 
born into the newspaper business, while 
others choose it as an occupation. Through 
some quirk of fate, I was chosen to be in 
the first group. My father had been in that 
occupation since I could remember, but it 
was not until my junior year in high school 
that I realized that I was predestined for 
the newspaper business. It was at this time 
that the editor asked me to write the school 
column for the coming year. 

This column was something that was 
treasured by the school. The writer was 
classified as a "special person," for through 
her the students could have their names in 
the paper. With this new outlet to social 
fame, I agreed to take the job. This was my 
mistake. In April of my junior year I 
started this new job which was to include 
only the school column — I thought. In the 
course of a week, I learned that I was to 
file cuts, mail cuts, receive cuts; write the 
birth column, the death column, the movie 
column; to act as secretary, as guest con- 
ductor, as information clerk. With all these 
duties, I thought I would have nothing else 
to do. Again, I was wrong. I was also 
doomed to become a reporter. 

This new job appeared one Saturday as 
I sat at my desk. 

"Run over to the Chamber of Commerce 
and get the news on the election!" Think- 
ing the editor was talking to another re- 
porter, I kept on typing. "Hurry up! It's 
got to be in by twelve." Again, I continued 
typing. "Louise, will you leave that damn 
typewriter alone, and go get that story?" 

Not until then did I realize that the edi- 
tor was speaking to me. What was I sup- 
posed to write on elections? I could not 
vote and did not even know that there was 

College Freshman 

to be an election. Seeing the editor glaring 
at me, I decided that it would be best if I 
learned something about reporting in a big 
hurry. Obediently I trotted over to the 
Chamber of Commerce to get the story. 
Luckily the secretary guessed that I was 
new at the job and gave me all the neces- 
sary information without my asking a ques- 
tion. Back at the office, I stared first at the 
paper and then at my typewriter. The ed- 
itor must have noticed my bewilderment, 
for he told me how to write the story. When 
the story was written, I proudly handed it 
to the editor for proof-reading. For some 
reason, he slashed different passages, put 
dashes through others, and inserted many 
words. There was no similarity between 
the finished product and my original story. 
That was my first attempt at reporting. 
The second came during the summer 

For two weeks each summer the society 
editor took a vacation. It was the custom 
for the school reporter to take over the 
"soc section" during this period, and it was 
with some misgivings that the editor told 
me to take over that section. 

The stories were simple things to write, 
for all followed the same pattern. The part 
that delighted and intrigued me was the 
receiving of the society pictures which were 
to appear in the section. The first picture I 
received was that of a Mexican girl with 
long, kinky hair, and of her husband who 
also had long, kinky hair. They were stand- 
ing together, ready to cut the cake with a 
long machete — a knife similar to our meat 
cleaver. My hysterical laughter rang 
throughout the office until everyone turned 
to stare. Somehow I managed to get the 
information fiom the bewildered bride be- 

fore I collapsed from my laughter. As she 
left the office, the editor came to my desk 
to give me a little information. Needless to 
say, I was not supposed to laugh at the pic- 
tures which were brought to me. 

This laughter was suppressed during the 
next two weeks as picture after picture 
came in. I soon learned that the pictures 
were divided into five main sections. The 
first was the type already described. The 
second was the birthday type, in which the 
child was dressed in a cowboy suit. The 
third was the posed picture of the wealthy 
married woman, while the fourth was the 
typical party picture in which everyone 
gazes directly at the camera. The fifth was 
the type that I enjoyed almost as much as 
the cutting of the cake. This was of the 
woman stuffing the first piece of wedding 
cake into the man's mouth. Goggle-eyed 
from the effort and with protruding teeth, 
the man stretched his mouth as wide as pos- 
sible to wait for the piece of cake that 
never arrived. Perhaps it was my amuse- 
ment at these pictures that made the editor 
change me to the general news desk. 

Here, I received the job of writing the 
accident stories. The photographer would 
bring in an accident picture in which a leg 
was missing, or where blood was splattered 
over the scene, or where charred bones ap- 
peared in a burned car. From these I was 
supposed to tell that there had been a slight 
accident. With a fiendish delight, I wrote 
a typical mystery story and took it to the 
editor. He evidently did not approve, for I 
received another lecture. As I moved from 
the general desk to school sports, from 
sports to hospital news, from hospital to 
movie reviews, these lectures followed me. 
For each type of story, I devised a novel 
method of writing. The editor evidently 
did not approve of my originality, for he 
seemed increasingly angry each time I ap- 

My head was soon crowded with infor- 
mation from these angry lectures — infor- 
mation that I hoped would never prove of 
use to me again. My graduation in May 
ended this job, and my newspaper career 
(I hoped.) After three months of loafing, 
my college career began. 

In college it became even more evident 
that I was predestined for the newspaper 
business. Learning of my former news- 
paper work, my schoolmates quickly drafted 
me into the ranks of the newspaper staff, 
the magazine staff, and the writing club. 
Through these I learned that I had best 
surrender to the occupation which would 
never surrender to me. It is now understood 
that I will enter some field of journalism, 
and who am I to argue? After all, Fm just 
the draftee. 



By Mary Evelyn Smith, College Senior 

I live in wonderland, a child. 

Outside my window grows a 

Magic jungle, deep and wild 

With foreign fragrance, faught 

With dangers close. And strange 

Mad horses carry me beyond 

My looming castle, to a land exotic. 

Midnight brings the sound of birdsong, 

The call of my fast steed. 
Only I can hear . . . 

I live in country clean and solid. 
An apple orchard stands by 
Noontime at my pane. 
I see the budding greenness there, the 
Arched yet normal beauty of 
My trees, staunchly sane. 
I live in sunlight, my horse 
And heart are deaf to fear . . . 
And silent, from my man's eye, 
falls a tear. 


By Harriet Provine, Senior Prep 

Nothing in my opinion is more enjoy- 
able than the wonderful feeling of sprawl- 
ing. Sprawling is, according to my defini- 
tion, any extremely comfortable arrange- 
ment of one's limbs in no normal fashion. 
Consequently, there is nothing more satis- 
fying than draping my lazy form sideways 
over a plushy chair. My insatiable longing 
for this cheerful pastime is so great that I 
am terrified when I appear at a tea lest I 
unexpectedly drop my calling manners, then 
joyously and tragically double up in some 
wide, overstuffed chair. 

Again, the more intricate the position, the 
more pleasure I derive, because these ad- 
ditional bends afford such luxurious ease 
and delightful complications when I un- 
fold. In other words, I love to hang a leg 
over a pillow and hook it under a nearby 
chair while my other foot is entirely lost in 
a pile of colorful socks and my arms are all 
askew amongst many squishy cushions. In 
this manner I taste all the sweetness of life 
and can do nothing but relax and be abso- 
lutely content. 

Moreover, types of furniture are not the 
only things that magnetize me; for heaped 
yellow hay, piles of dusty leaves, clean 
sheets just off the line, drifts of snow, 
stacked innertubes, damp furrows mellow 
with daffodils, and long, fragrant grass all 
beckon and make me long to throw myself 
into their intoxicating depths. There can 
be nothing more free and glorious than be- 
ing spread quite loosely and very irregu- 
larly about. 

It is impossible to be arranged thus too 
long, however, because I am either struck 
with a splendid idea or rudely interrupted. 
Usually my idea is so exciting I just can't 
stay still and I feel compelled to leap up 
from all sorts of entanglements and burst 
into impetuous action. More often, though, 
I am jerked away from my delicious happi- 
ness by the voice of duty or the ever-ticking 
clock. Therefore, it is easily seen that this 
delightful treat of sprawling is rarely but 
always breathlessly enjoyed. 

^Jhe ^Jrandient rJLlfe 

By Patricia Price, College Freshman 

Life is such a transient thing: 

An idea that almost bursts into being, 

A thought, a hope, a failure; 

A youth's first love, 

A song that flutters — then dies, 

Something wished for, received, unremembered, 

A passing thing; 

A lazy leaf wending its way to earth, 

The cool clean sweep of a bird in flight, 

The scent of honeysuckle mingled with that of spring, 

The ice covered tree that becomes a twisted, black-veined hand; 
Life is little things. 


By Jean Holiman, 

Walt and Anna Hunt were an excellent 
example of a completely happy couple after 
one year of the proverbial "blissful married 
life." Even their closest neighbors in ad- 
joining apartments had never heard a cross 
word or angry phrase seep through the free- 
transmitting walls, and all were sure that 
this was due to the fact that the Hunts, 
entirely against human nature, never dis- 
agreed. Although the ever-perfect accord 
was reached without apparent effort on the 
part of either, Anna could not help but be 
a little smug about it when she thought of 
all the warnings her mother had so carefully 
given her about disagreements which were 
bound to come and how to cope with them. 
The possibility of anything resembling dis- 
cord seemed so remote that Anna never 
seriously considered it at all. 

Therefore, when the crisis came, she was 
totally unprepared, both physically and 
mentally. Just as any young wife, Anna 
was especially proud of her husband's busi- 
ness activities, and always carried in her 
purse one of his calling cards which stated 

Walter J. Hunt 

District Salesman 

The Cat's Whiskers Cat Food 

He was indeed a successful salesman, and 
Mr. Harbison, the fanatic cat-lover who 
was district manager, had highly recom- 
mended him to the main office for both a 
promotion and a salary raise. In Mr. Har- 
bison's opinion such superior salesmanship 
as Walter's deserved the highest reward, 
and therefore Mr. Harbison presented him 
with a gift of the two things he considered 
virtual treasures: a Persian cat and an 
ample supply of The Cat's Whiskers cat 

When the unsuspecting and happy Wal- 
ter brought home the prize, Anna, after 

College Senior 

staring silently for a brief, horrified mo- 
ment, gasped, "Oh, no!" The cause for her 
complete consternation may be attributed 
to the fact that Anna hated all felines in 
general, and precocious, strong-willed fe- 
lines in particular. Alexander, as the won- 
drous gift was named, was an excellent ex- 
ample of the latter group and immediately 
asserted his power — an act prompted by his 
intuitive assurance that no one would dare 
invoke the displeasure of Mr. Harbison by 
harming his gift even in the slightest degree. 

The next few weeks were ones of total 
bliss for Alexander, combined despair and 
hatred for Anna, and complete ignorance 
for Walt, who was called into the main of- 
fice the day following the fatal arrival. The 
entire household was necessarily rearranged 
in order that the more valuable, easily 
broken possessions could be placed suffi- 
ciently out of the range of the long-reaching 
paw of Alexander. The silently pleasing 
goldfish had to be transferred from their 
usual resting place on the end table to the 
top of the refrigerator because that object's 
slippery surface prohibited a climbing at- 
tack. The glass top of the coffee table was 
grudingly replaced after a playful spree in 
which the candy jar had been knocked over, 
sending a long crack from end to end, and 
even the ivy bowl was unsafe, a fact readily 
discernible by the remaining wisps of green 
scattered over the floor. Anna was dream- 
ing fondly of mayhem when a sudden knock 
on the door one day interrupted both 
thought and forthcoming action. 

Calling pleasantly, "Just a minute," and 
thinking unpleasantly, "This is the last 
straw," she hurried to the door, opened it 
with apprehension, and with well-founded 
disgust greeted the visitor, Lily. As official 
gossip of the apartment house, Lily's visits 
were greeted with dread, for it was never 



quite clear whether she had come to spread 
information or gather it. Nevertheless, An- 
na firmly believed in the laws of common 
decency and therefore exclaimed in true 
womanly fashion, 

"Lily, I'm so glad you came over. I was 
just going to call you." 

Lily, taking all of this to heart, imme- 
diately changed her mind about the pur- 
pose of her sudden visit. In fact, she ex- 
perienced such a feeling of well-being that 
she decided to impart to this, her dearest 
friend, the latest bulletin on the Bradley 
feud, the adversaries being Mr. and Mrs. 
Bradley in 201. 

Meanwhile Alexander, having ceased his 
gleeful swinging on the formerly crisp or- 
gandy ruffle of the curtain, purred and took 
a sudden interest in the one-sided conversa- 
tion. Lily had barely finished the last de- 
tails of the Bradley trials when both the 

bored Anna and her animated guest were 
shocked by a malicious, prolonged "me-ow" 
from Alexander as he leapt into the lap of 
his unfriendly mistress and settled into at- 
tentive silence. Although the steady feline 
gaze was rather disturbing, Lily proceeded 
to explain how the Bradleys were spoiling 
their child by giving him a new sled for the 
brief snow. 

"By the way," continued the never-ceas- 
ing Lily, "doesn't she dress in the poorest 

The second feline outburst carried a 
quality of subtle but definitely audible 
viciousness and was not as easily passed off 
as coincidence as the first had been. Anna 
unconsciously and surprisingly stroked the 
animal's furry back, ending with a reward- 
ing pat on the head. Lily's polite sugges- 
tion that "the kitty might like to go out 
for a while" was just as politely ignored. 
However, the animal's disapproval was soon 

forgotten in the enraptured narration of 
her favorite subject, the private business of 
the community. 

It may be said to Alexander's credit that 
he tried, though in vain, to stop the wave 
of angry response which engulfed him, but 
finally in overwhelming anger he easily 
jumped the distance between his resting 
place and the chair of the unwelcome guest, 
and with a background of raised fur and 

a deep throated "me-ow" ending in a spit, 
he quickly sent out one unsheathed paw, 
leaving a crescent-shaped scratch on Lily's 
gesturing hand. 

The visit ended immediately with insin- 
cere apology and indignation. On his re- 
turn that evening, Walter found both wife 
and cat eating hamburgers, cooked and 
uncooked as the tastes ran, in perfect com- 
panionship and affection. 

^Jke ^rrermliaae 

By Sally Jordan, Junior Prep 

Beneath the stately sweep of cedar woods, 
Whose dignity still guards the avenue, 
The Hermitage, long loved and lovely still, 
Remembers with a smile the youth she knew. 
Within her halls and over clovered sward, 
Where joyous laughter raced with dancing feet, 
The gracious host Old Hickory welcomed all 
With Rachel by his side. Life was complete 
Until the years in darkness mocked that joy. 
The aging soldier, heeding fate's command, 
Still played his noble part in nobler strength, 
Then upward reached for Rachel's waiting hand. 

The spirit lives, close sheltered by the trees, 
A homestead's heart, secure in memories. 


My Son 

By Marcia Fobes, 

David B. Devereaux, Sr., reached into 
the inner pocket of his banker's grey suit 
jacket and took out his fountain pen. He 
poised it above the monogrammed station- 
ery for a moment and then began writing: 
Dear Sirs: 

I have waited as long as possible be- 
fore answering your letter. I feel quite 
certain that you understand the diffi- 
culty of my position and will forgive 
my lateness in responding. Never be- 
fore have I been called upon to make 
such a painful decision. I can only 
hope that I am doing the right thing, 
and that I am justified in thinking that 
I may place my entire trust in you. I 
expect you do everything in your power 
and then some. As I told you in my 
previous letters, the symptoms are de- 
lusions of persecution, fixed suspicions, 
and dominant ideas. Undoubtedly 
your diagnosis is correct, and in my ef- 
fort to be absolutely positive, I sin- 
cerely hope I have not waited too long. 
Mr. Devereaux paused a moment and 
looked out through the french doors at the 
tall, slim boy standing on the patio. He 
whispered, "My son," and then hurriedly 
finished the letter and left the study. 

David B. Devereaux, Jr., stood on the 
patio staring at nothing, yet seeing much. 
His hands, resting in the pockets of his 
slacks, unconsciously jingled out a rythmic, 
metallic melody from coins, a pocket knife, 
and the car keys. 

The drum-tight skin over his temples 
throbbed noticeably, as David's thoughts 
caused his eyebrows to knit together in a 
slight frown. He was deeply absorbed in 
his own meditations. 

Beside the wrought iron coffee table an 
old wagon cart, painted white, rested on 

Senior Prep 

two large wheels. David's eyes traced the 
pattern of the spokes without breaking from 
a stare. There were many spokes, and al- 
though they were widely spaced at the rim, 
they gradually drew together to form an 
axle. The axle was black. David's thoughts 
seemed to be symbolized by the wheel. 
Spokes and spokes of memories and 
thoughts, individual at first, but then be- 
coming closer and closer together, until they 
were all jumbled into something black. The 
cart was filled with geraniums — geraniums 
grown by a gardener. They were colorful 
and beautiful, but they had no warmth, no 
life. When his mother was alive, there were 
geraniums. There would be still, if it hadn't 
been for . . . David's memory reached the 
axle. He closed his lids, and not realizing 
how tense his body had been, he leaned 
forward, struggling to keep his balance. 
Everything in his head rushed to a space 
right above his eyes, leaving everything else 
black, black with white streaks. Steadying 
himself, he thrust his left foot forward, 
grating the tap of his heel against the ce- 
ment. The sound of the grinding metal 
against rock volted through his body, leav- 
ing in its wake a mental and physical sense 
of utter fatigue. David felt as if he had been 
running, running away. A drop of perspira- 
tion slid down the back of his neck. Strange 
how it felt like frigid metal, like the letter 
opener on his father's desk. It pressed 
against his skin. He ached all over. Auto- 
matically his hand shot toward the direc- 
tion of the sensation and then faltered. It 
was almost as if he were afraid of what he 
might find. 

He jerked his body in the direction of the 
french doors and walked silently into the 
room; his gaze took in the book cases filled 
with his father's books, the Venetian blinds 
designed especially for the room by his 


father, and the tremendous, solid walnut 
desk. Here he paused for a moment. There 
it stood challenging him, threatening him. 
David felt helpless and small in its presence, 
as he felt when he was in the presence of 
his father. How much the desk and its 
owner were alike! How much the whole 
room and his father were alike! 

David's eyes passed on to the big, leather 
swivel chair. It was not tilted, but precisely 
perpendicular. It seemes to dominate. That 
was it: dominance, dominance, dominance. 
It was all around him; the room lived it and 
breathed it. Everything dominated; every- 
thing beat David down and down and 
down; everything was against him. He 
jerked his hands to his face and as he did 
so, his right arm struck the swivel chair and 
tilted it forward. He watched it like a cat 
watches before he springs upon his prey, 
and then he sat down. The chair slid back- 
ward, and David heavily and defiantlv 
placed his feet on the face of the desk. 

His eyes followed the crease of his pants 
down to his brown oxfords and then 
switched to the paper weight. It was white 
around the outer edge with a black center. 
It looked like the wheel with the spokes and 
axle. His father had placed it there on pur- 
pose. His father was trying to drive him . . . 
David stopped. A chill prickled over his 
body. His eyes narrowed and widened and 
then narrowed again at the incredible sight 
on the desk. The black spot in the paper 
weight was distorted and bleary, yet it was 
very plainly taking the image of a face. 
David cried out. It was his mother's face. 
All around the apparition the curves of the 
glass ball looked blurred; they looked like 
waves. David could see very clearly now. 
There were a sail boat and a storm. He 
clapped his fists over his ears to drown out 
the roar of the wind, the crash of the splin- 
tered mast, and the cries of his mother, as 
the mainsail beat aaginst her like a maniac 
till she fell backward. He watched her go 

down. He couldn't help her. His arms 
ached, as they desperately clutched the 
edge of the sloop. He couldn't help her. He 
screamed. The wind beat his cries into the 
water, and she drowned. He couldn't help 
her. He had watched his mother drown. He 
had killed his mother. David closed his eyes 
until the waves divided into grey and black 
circles. His hand went over the business- 
like letter lying boldly before him on the 
desk. He clenched it, until it was a wad. 
Only the last sentence was visible. 

Therefore, since the symptoms very 
definitely point to a severe case of 
paranoia, I wish to request that, for 
the sake of all concerned, a place be 
made in your asylum for my son. 
very sincerely, 

David B. Devereaux, Sr. 

eJJjClll oDr 

By Nancy Frederick, Junior Prep 

The voice keeps droning on . . . 

I am Juliet, so loved by all the world — 
I am Joan of Arc; all France is mine — 
I am Sister Kenny; children walk agaii 

The voice has stopped; 

I am Mary Smith and English class is over. 

W ¥ Pittow 

By Debby Luton, Junior Prep 

Clawing fingers clutch your sticky softness 


Unknown terrors scream from your defense 


Tender tunes refresh romantic dreams 


While dancing shadows closely cuddle 


Sleepless, endless nights, forbidding morrows, 

You have felt my passions, known my sorrows. 


The Seeds of Humanity 

By Ann Sinclair, 

"Gee ap, boy. The faster we finish this 
last row, the faster we'll get back to the 
barn, and the faster we'll settle down to 
some chow and rest." 

As if uncannily understanding the im- 
plication of his master's words, Joe's bony 
old plow-horse, Rags, redoubled his efforts 
in pulling the ancient plow over the rocky 
hillside. Joe smiled as he watched the old 
horse huffing and puffing away. "That's all 
right, Rags," he said. "You don't hafter 
pull so hard. Guess I'm not in such a big 
hurry as to make you have a heart attack. 
Take it easy." 

Rags, however, seemed to enjoy the 
thought of a trough of corn, for he kept 
on at the strenuous pace. "Whoa, boy," Joe 
yelled. "Hold up a minute there. 'Nother 
one of those blasted rocks caught in the 

Both horse and boy halted as the latter 
bent down to dislodge a piece of limestone 
from in front of the blade. Any stranger 
in that part of the Ozarks inhabited by 
Joe, his family, and Rags, would have won- 
dered how in the world any crop could pos- 
sibly grow on such rocky, sandy, poor soil; 
but, strange as it may seem, strawberries 
and corn could always squeeze a living on 
the rough terrain. Of course, Joe's land was 
a little poorer than most, but because of his 
dauntless efforts he managed to grow 
enough on the land to support his maw, 
paw, and seven brothers and sisters. 

"There, now, boy. Guess that takes care 
of that one. This field was a little worse 
than the others. Sorta figgered that we 
could start planting the corn late this after- 
noon, but those durned rocks was agin it all 
right." Rags nodded his shaggy head in 

College Senior 

acquiescence. Joe took up the reins once 
more and continued, "We should be able 
to get this one and the northeast one plant- 
ed tomorrow. Sure hope it don't rain, 'cause 
we shoulda had 'em planted last week. If 
Paw hadn't got sick we would have, but it 
ain't no use worryin' over that now. We'll 
just have to work fast and pray that it 
don't rain to hold us back any longer . . . 
Say, looks like we're almost through this 

Ten minutes later, Joe turned around to 
survey the day's labor. His pale blue eyes 
brightened as he gazed upon the land he 
loved. "Gol, but this is purty land, Rags. 
About the purtiest thing I know." He took 
a red bandana handkerchief from his over- 
alls that were paled from the strong lye soap 
his mother used on them. His strong young 
body grew straighter as he restated proud- 
ly, "Yep, it's about the purtiest thing I 

After having drunk deeply of the beauty 
of his field, Joe turned the horse and plow 
onto the washed out road that led to the 
barn. The sun was just sinking behind the 
far hill, casitng a sanguine glow on the red- 
bud and dogwood trees on either side of 
the rough road. Rags started to go at a 
fast rate. "Hey, boy, whoa there. Ain't no 
use to be in such a hurry. No use to get all 
hot and tired. That field was enough for 
anyone. Take it easy." 

Joe wondered what his maw would be 
doing when he returned. Poor Maw. She's 
had a hard life somehow. Paw ain't never 
been much count. Seven children and he 
ain't never done a lick o' work in his life. 
Sorta like a bad seed. Funny how seeds and 
people is alike. Some of 'em grow and 


some don't, even with plenty of help. Take 
Paw for instance. He's had a fine wife and 
kids, a plot o' ground, and a good body to 
make somethin' out o' life. But he didn't do 
nothin' with what he had. But Maw — that's 
a different story. She ain't had nothin' but 
a lot o' misery, and she's one o' the best. 
Been able to grow better and kinder and 
stronger in spite of the rocky land she was 
planted in. Poor Maw. Hope the crop turns 
out all right for her. She needs so many 
things. Maybe I kin git 'er a new dress if 
the corn grows right this season . . . Won- 
der what Paw's up to tonight? Hope he 
ain't been out to the still agin. He's gonna 
break Maw's heart if he don't quit all that 
foolishness. He's gittin' too old to act the 
way he does. 

I remember the first time I ever seed him 
drunk. Came home all likkered up when I 
was about six. Maw cried and asked him 
not to act up in front of us kids, but he 
didn't seem to care. Told her to shut her 
d?mned mouth, that he'd act the way he 
wanted to anytime and anyplace and treat 
us kids the way he wanted to. After that 
it got worse. It didn't take me long to know 
that I'd have to make it up to Maw some- 
day. Maybe I kin someway. Maybe this 
year if the corn grows and if the chickens 
do all right and if Paw don't sell the chick- 
ens and tak the corn money from Maw. I'll 
just have to keep it, that's what. 

Joe continued to think of the tragedy of 
his father's life and the hardships it had 
heaped upon his Maw and his brothers and 
sisters. He knew that it was wicked, but 
aloud he said, "If there ever was a time for 
Paw to git drunk, I hope it will be the day 
I sell the corn. That way he won't git his 
hands on the money. I'll put it in the bank 
where he can't touch it." 

By this time Joe and Rags had reached 
the barn. Joe looked toward the ram- 
shackle house and noticed that there was 

no light. "That's funny," he said. "Maw 
generally has a light in the kitchen. Guess 
she's asavin' kerosene, though. She ain't 
complained none, but I'll bet Paw took her 
egg money and that's the reason he ain't 
been home since yisterdee mornin'." 

He opened the barn door and led Rags 
into a stall after having disconnected the 
plow. "Here, boy, some good ole corn for 
a good day's work," he said as he placed 
some corn in the manger. "Be back for you 
early in the mornin'. You won't have to 
work so hard tomorrow." 

Rags turned to look at him as he shut the 
door and left. 

As he approached the kitchen door, he 
heard the steady creak of his Maw's old 
rocking chair. "Maw?" he said as he opened 
the door. 

"That you, Joseph?" a warm voice called 
from the kitchen. 

"Yeah, Maw," Joe answered as he opened 
the door. "What you doin' settin' in here 
in the dark this way?" 

"Oh, Joseph," his Maw answered. "I'm 
so glad you're back from the field." 

"Maw, what is it? Youre cryin'." 

"It's your Paw, Joseph. Frank Jones 
came over a bit ago and said Mr. James 
called to say your Paw had a stroke in his 
store. They're bringin' him home. Wouldn't 
let me go with 'em. Told me to stay here 
and get things ready for him. I wanted 
them to get you, but they said it wasn't that 
bad. I sent the children over to the Jones. 
I'd hate fer them to see Paw sick. Joseph, 
what' re we goin' to do? I think you'd bet- 
ter start down the road. Maybe you can do 
something to help. They said not, but I 
know you can." 

His Maw broke down completely. Joe 
could think of nothing to say to comfort 
her. Awkwardly he said, "Ah, Maw, don't 
cry. He'll be all right. I'll start down the 


L^nlld of- /jou 

By Ann Sinclair, College Senior 

Blue trees, 

Silver with shadows; 

White foam on the misty sea. 

A child lies crying in a crib 

Unmindful of the day that now begins. 

Green trees, 

Breathing leaves, strong branches; 
Sunlight glancing on a bubbling stream. 
A child is running, playing hide-and-seek 
Mindful of life and its ecstacies. 

Black trees, 

Wizened branches, bent and bowed, 
Gray mist on the meadows, sea, and fields. 
A child lies prone in the bloody mud 
Unmindful of life, and its ecstacies. 

road to meet 'em. You know he's had these 
spells afore and he'd got all right. Don't 
cry, Maw." 

"It's different this time, Joseph. I know 
it is." 

"Here. Let me light the lamp. You'll 
feel better with a little light in the room." 
Joe struck a match and turned on the kero- 
sene lamp. "There. How's that? Feel bet- 
ter now?" 

"Fine, Joseph. Fine. You're a fine boy." 

Joe walked to the door. "Maw, they must 
be acomin' now. I hear footsteps outside." 

He opened the door; his Maw drew close 
to him. Frank Jones emerged from the 
darkness of the yard. "Frank, where's 
Paw?" Joe's Maw asked. 

"Let me come in Miz Linkern," Frank 
stated. "I'd better come in to tell you." 

"Oh, no!" she asked, "He ain't . . .?" 

"I'm sorry, Miz Linkern. We did all we 
could, but it was just one of them things. 
He had another attack when I got there. 
We called the doc, but he wasn't able to 
save him. He was such a good man ... If 
ther's anything I can do to help . . ." 

"No, thank you, Frank. You've been 
kind enough already. No thank you." 

Joe looked at his Maw as she sat in the 
rocker sobbing softly. He thought of what 
Frank had said . . . "such a good man." 
His Paw? Nope, Paw was one of the bad 
seeds. One of the bad seeds that didn't 
grow. Just rotted and died. But Maw, she's 
made the trip through the rocks. She's a 
good one. Paw didn't make it. Funny how 
seeds and people is alike. Mighty funny. 

^Jke *jrour UUlncid 

By Polly Jordan, Sophomore Prep 

How many ways does the wind blow? 
Fierce and cold and strong, 
Stripping the leaves from the shivering trees 
When the nights are black and long. 

How many ways does the wind blow? 
Bitter and wild and free, 
With a whoop and roar to the ocean floor 
Lashing the sullen sea. 

How many ways does the wind blow? 
Harsh and hot and dry, 
Keeping the rain from the parching grain 
Whirling the dust on high. 

How many ways does the wind blow? 

Gentle and fresh and fair, 

Bringing sun and rain to field and plain, 

Bringing the soft spring air, 

Promise of flowers and fruit and grain, 

Promise of spring again. 


Two For A Nickel 

By Mary Evelyn Sm 

The warm dishwater in the corner sink 
sloshed in whirling ripples as Sister Teresa 
mixed suds with her gentle fingers, scrub- 
bing the cookie pans thoughtfully. Now 
and again she glanced to the large table 
in the center of the room where Sister Mary 
Matthew counted audibly to herself as she 
stood kneading dough about in a bowl. The 
pungent odor of baking filled the large old- 
fashioned kitchen of the convent, and 
wafted through the open door into the still 
warm September air. Outside the sounds 
of muted hammering could be heard, inter- 
mingled with voices giving directions and 
trying to establish a sort of frenzied order 
among the chaos of half finished booths 
and crepe paper streamers. Tonight the 
grounds of St. Joseph's parish school would 
be, with the help of God and the congre- 
gation, miraculously transformed into a 
wondrous Araby, and the annual carnival 
would be underway once more. The corners 
of Sister Teresa's soft mouth crinkled up- 
ward in approval. 

"Sister Mary Matthew," a small boy 
burst breathlessly into the kitchen, "the men 
are here with the bale of cotton to be raffled 
off. Where'll I tell them to put it?" 

"Don't slam doors, Bobby." She turned 
to look at the red-haired boy who stood, 
legs planted wide apart, on the worn lino- 
leum floor. "Just tell them to put it next 
to the steps of Father's house." She wiped 
her hands on the apron that covered her 
dark, immaculate habit and bustled over to 
peer in the ancient oven, crowded with spicy 
smelling cinamon cookies on trays and a 
large yellow cake. As she bent over, the 
sudden onrush of heat brought a flush to 
her cheeks and clouded slightly the spec- 
tacles she wore across her strong nose. The 
door slammed behind her again, followed 
by a muffled "I'm sorry," and Bobby 
O'Hara reappeared. 

ith, College Senior 

"Can I have a cinnamon cookie, Sister?" 
he begged. "Can I, please?" 

"May you have a cookie, not can you, 
please. And no, you may not. You know 
perfectly well that these cookies are to be 
sold at the carnival tonight." She stared at 
him sternly. "How will we ever get money 
enough to build a new school if boys like 
you eat all my cookies free?!" 

"Aw, all I wanted was one," he sulked. 
"Anyhow, I like the apple tarts better." 

"Thank you, Bobby," came Sister Tere- 
sa's soft voice from the sink, where she had 
been watching quietly. "It's very sweet of 
you to say you like my tarts." 

"Humph! It seems to me that some peo- 
ple who claim to be deaf can hear very well 
when they want to!" Sister Mary Matthew 
turned back to her bowl with a flounce. 
"Now get along with you, Bobby O'Hara. 
Go on out there and make yourself useful!" 


"Don't be so harsh with the boy," mur- 
mured Sister Teresa as the door slammed 
for the third time. "He's really a good boy 
at heart. I wonder sometimes if he doesn't 
go a little hungry occasionally . . . Denny 
O'Hara isn't the best of providers." 

"That's quite beside the point, and you 
know it," came the reply. "God intends for 
us to have this school, but we have to help 
— it's our duty. He wouldn't like us to be 
wasteful this way, that's a certainty. St. 
Joseph's would never have a school the way 
some people would manage things — " 

"What's that?" Sister Teresa turned an 
ear. "I can't seem to hear you." Well, I 
won't listen to you anyway, she thought to 
herself, detecting nevertheless a disgruntled 
"Oh, never mind!" from the direction of 
the stove. Sister Mary Matthew, she 
mused, the good Lord forgive me, but you'd 
better mend your petty, selfish ways. Imag- 
ine! Being so stingy that you couldn't give 
one of your measly old cookies to a hungry 
child . . . Duty! You don't know the mean- 
ing of duty, my dear. 

"I suppose I'd better start my apple 
tarts," she said aloud. "Is that cake out of 
the oven yet?" She reached for the pan of 
soaking apple slices and began cutting them 
into still smaller sections. 

"Just about," said the other. "And sister, 
must you take such pains with those tarts 
this year? We positively have to be out of 
the kitchen in an hour so the ladies can start 
the spaghetti for the benefit supper. You 
know how nervous it makes Father Shan- 
non when everything doesn't run on sched- 

"All right, all right," Sister Teresa re- 
plied frowning, as she mixed up the pastry 
ingredients with studied calm. "I just want 
to be sure I make enough tarts . . . last year 
I ran out before the evening was half over. 
Never saw anything sell so fast." 

Sister Mary Matthew's rosy cheeks 
turned a bit pinker. "The cinnamon cook- 
ies sold quite rapidly, too, I recall. Which 
reminds me . . . how should we sell them 

this year? Two each for a nickel?" She 
paused, waiting. 

"I suppose. The people seem very chari- 
table this year . . ." The very idea, thought 
Sister Teresa, biting her lip to keep her 
temper in check. How downright greedy! 
Two of your small cinnamon cookies for 
a nickel and two of my huge apple tarts 
also for a nickel. In that case, the tarts 
ought to sell for fifty cents — She smiled 
sweetly at Sister Mary Matthew. 

"That's very sensible of you, Sister. How- 
ever, charitable isn't the word I would 
choose for people who simply happen to 
like my cinnamon cookies!" 

Sister Teresa smiled again and hummed 
a little of the piano solo her old fingers 
would teach Mary Jane Nick, beginning 
tomorrow, at her music lesson. "What's 
that you said, Sister? You certainly do 
slur your words!" She jumped a little as 
Sister Mary Matthew turned on her heel 
and slammed the kitchen door as she left. 

Temper, temper, thought Sister Teresa, 
left alone in the big kitchen. She placed 
her tarts one by one on the large pans and 
slid them into the now empty oven. As she 
waited, she worried over the evening ahead, 
hoping for its success. Just one big boost, 
as tonight might prove to be, and the finan- 
cial gain necessary for beginning the won- 
derful new school might be realized. She 
allowed herself a moment of reverie, enjoy- 
ing the visions of the well-lighted new class- 
rooms, the solid desks and chairs, the real 
auditorium . . . and best of all, the lovely 
music room, all to herself and her pupils, 
with even a new piano! God would smile, 
she knew, when that room was filled with 
Bach and Mozart. He would like, as she 
would, to see a young heart playing music 
there, learning truths that could never 
come from books or sermons. 

It was not long before the tarts were 
golden brown and crisp, and she lifted them 
from the oven and into the sink. Sliding 
the delicacies into a mammoth tin, she was 
struck by a sudden impulse: why not take 


two or three up to her room to eat later? 
She loved them, and she did get so hungry 
at night! After all, even if the good ladies 
of the parish had furnished the ingredients, 
she had made them. It really couldn't hurt 
the new school much to lose a nickel or two. 
But, of course, Sister Mary Matthew would 
violently disapprove. Completely fanatic 
about honesty, that one . . . Not that she 
herself had any objections to being honest. 
But all this moralizing — what good did it 
do? Ever since Sister Mary Matthew's ar- 
rival at St. Joseph's there had been a glint 
in her eye that said, "Sister Teresa, you're 
old and lax and a little dishonest." Oh well 
— she was young and did not understand. 
Someday she would; Sister Teresa felt sure 
of that. Sometime she would know that 
God not only was awesome and all power- 
ful, but also was someone near and close 
and intensely personal . . . that was it, A 
Personal Friend. Sister Teresa smiled con- 
spiratorially at an unseen Deity and slipped 
four tarts into a napkin, putting them be- 
hind the breadbox to be retrieved later and 
taken upstairs, after she scoured the pans 
and swept the crumbs from the faded car- 

The night was perfect, pleasantly cool, 
and without the slightest hint of rain. The 
September moon winked through the elm 
trees from behind the sternly disapproving 
Protestant parsonage across the street, cast- 
ing silver shadows on the sidewalk, pale 
beside the bright carnival lights. Already 
at only seven o'clock the crowds from all 
over town were coming through the gate 
that led into the school yard. Spaghetti- 
stuffed patrons were streaming down the 
steps of the parish house from the benefit 
supper into the rakishly colorful grounds, 
laughing and talking. Booths had sprung 
up everywhere: from the hot-dog stand 
came the tinkle of iced drinks and the fried 
smell of the hot dogs; the cake raffle booth, 
strategically in the center, displayed cas- 
cades of delicious looking concoctions; over 
to the left were arrayed the usual grocery 

raffles, chicken rafflles, candy and cake 
stands, and penny-pitching galleries; far in 
the back came the twang of "Now on B, 
fifty-one! Now on B, fifty-one!" from the 
bingo announcer. People called to one an- 
other, eating and joking. Sister Teresa hur- 
ried through the noisy throng, her black 
robes flying behind her, almost tripping 
over Betty Jones, who was selling large 
packages of confetti and streamers. She 
reached the cookie booth with Sister Mary 
Matthew inside, deciding as she glanced 
upward to firmly ignore the surge of an- 
noyance at the sight of the bold TWO FOR 
A NICKEL sign tacked above. 

"How's business going?" she inquired, 
noticing with secret pleasure the decrease 
of apple tarts on the tray. 

"Oh, fairly well, I suppose," answered 
the Sister. "I just sold two dozen cinnamon 
cookies to Mrs. W. Smith, the Methodist 
minister's wife." She fingered slightly the 
cross she wore about her neck. 

"Well, that's fine," Sister Teresa smiled 
back in sweet benevolence. She settled down 
behind the booth and looked about com- 
placently. As she spoke and smiled and 
sold, she let her mind wander to other car- 
nival nights, in her parade of years at St. 
Joseph's. She'd always loved carnival time, 
from her very first September in this little 
town. It had been different then, though, 
she thought . . . gayer and more carefree, 
somehow. So many of the nuns today 
seemed so young, to have such radical ideas. 
Or maybe it was just that she, herself, was 
getting old, and had forgotten the mind 
and thought of the young. Fifteen years 
ago, perhaps she had been a younger and 
more wistful Sister Mary Matthew, but 
nevertheless with the same notions of duty 
and honesty. Would tarts hidden upstairs 
have been appalling and unthinkable then? 
It had been a long, long time . . . With the 
passing of the cookies from the trays the 
evening progressed; she realized with a little 
shock of surprise that with her reverie the 
crowds had thinned, and she could distantly 


hear the announcement of the winner of the 
cotton bale raffle, one of the last events. 

"Hello, Sister Teresa," said a small voice 
suddenly at her elbow, and she looked down 
to see a boy with mustard on his lip and 
confetti falling from his thatch of red hair. 

"Hello, Bobby O'Hara," she said. "Want 
to buy some tarts from me? I know they're 
your favorite pastry!" Sister Mary Mat- 
thew looked around and then turned to- 
ward the street, frowning. 

"Uh, huh, guess I do. Can I have a bag 

"You certainly may, young man." She 
turned her robed back and reached for a 
bag, mentally counting the few remaining 
tarts to drop into it for Bobby. This would 
be the last of them. A slight sound behind 
her drew her attention; she whirled about. 
All to be seen was a totally empty apple tart 
tray and the vanishing confetti-littered 
head of a small boy. 

The protest that almost made its way 
out of her mouth she stifled with one firm, 
conclusive hand. You little scamp, she 
thought. St. Joseph's apple tarts! In one 
panoramic second she thought of the wist- 
ful, conscience-stricken girl she had been 
and of the wise, gentle woman she had be- 
come; she thought of duty, of righteous- 
ness, of honesty, and then, as always, of her 
Personal Friend. 

Sister Teresa forgot Bobby O'Hara and 
turned to Sister Mary Matthew. Her tray 
still held two cinnamon cookies . . . the race 
was over. "Sister," she spoke with friendli- 
ness for all mankind, "your cinnamon cook- 
ies look delicious. Every one of my apple 
tarts is gone . . . may I buy the rest of your 
cookies?" The last strains of the now as- 
suredly successful carnival confusion could 
still be heard in the background; that silly 
Betty Jones was giggling somewhere. 

But Sister Mary Matthew's back was still 
turned. Then she said, in a tone somehow 
faintly reminiscent, "What's that, Sister? 

I can't seem to hear you . . . You do slur 

your words so 

By Peggy Smith, Junior Prep 

My heart is so full 

I fear it will overflow, 

Pouring out all the words 

I've yearned to tell you. 

No — but that would never do, 

Not now. 

There was a time, 

Yes — (Blind fool that I was) 

I could have said it then, 

And should have. 

Yet, afraid it would be wrong, 

(I tried to be so perfect) 

I waited and watched a gulf flow 

Between us. 

The perfect lady I was, 

No doubt of that. 

A perfect lady? 

A perfect fool! 

I never thought that maybe 

You were waiting for — 

A spark, 

Something to let you know 

I did care. 

(How much I cared!) 

Oh, this foolish bog! 

A young heart doesn't break, 

And bruises heal. 

Yes, my heart is full, 

But it can't overflow. 

I'm a perfect lady, 

Not a fool. 

Only fools cry to no avail. 

Why, I never cared; so 

Why should I cry now? 

(Never cared? 

Oh, God, if you but knew!) 

But is it so improper for a lady 

In the presence of her soul 

To open her heart to a memory? 



By Margaret Bralley, 

"Let's go to the movie tonight?" 

"No, honey, I'm so tired. I had a hard 
day at the office. It's so quiet here with the 
children out; let's just stay here and watch 
television," says my husband. 

"All right, dear." Why am I always so 
accommodating? He never does anything 
I want him to. Why didn't I marry Bur- 
ton? He would have taken me out any 
time I wanted him to. 

Ah, but that was a long time ago. I was 
in college and far from Joe. Since then 
nearly everything has changed. Here I sit. 
Forty years old and white headed. I have 
a wonderful husband — even if he won't 
take me out tonight — two children, a boy 
seventeen and a girl sixteen, and a home 
with a servant. 

I left my home in Virginia and put my 
roots in North Carolina soil. At first it 
was hard to get adjusted to the new sur- 
roundings and settle down to married life; 
but everybody was sympathetic, and I soon 
felt right at home with all my new friends. 

Joe and I settled on plans for our home 
which was to be overlooking the river. Then 
we watched our plans mature. In the mean- 
time we had two children, Mark Douglas 
and Stephanie Patricia. We moved into 
our home fifteen years ago, and immediate- 
ly the children took over. It seems that 
they've had the run of the place ever since. 

Ring. The telephone, won't it ever stop 
ringing? It always rings at the wrong time, 

"Hello . . . Yes, this is she . . . I'm sorry 
but I can't understand you . . . Oh! Mama! 

ere are you 
? . You 

? ... In Altavista? What's 
re coming down? Mama, 


can you stand the trip? It's a long way 

College Freshman 

down here . . . When will you get here? . . . 
All right. If I'm not here, come on in. I'll 
leave the door unlocked. I have to go to a 
meeting that day . . . How is everybody? 
. . . How are Mikal and her baby? . . . Fine! 
. . . Well, I'll see you Tuesday. Goodbye." 

"Who was that?" 

"Mama. She and Daddy are going to 
come to visit for a few days." 

"Shoo. I want to hear the news." 

Well, of all things! He didn't even say 
he was glad they were coming. Most hus- 
bands would have said something, whether 
they meant it or not. You know, I believe 
he's been working too much lately. He's 
not like he used to be. Could it be that he 
is getting older, but not old. Maybe we 
should take a trip. I'll say something to 
him after the news broadcast. 

What was I thinking about when the 
phone rang? Oh, yes. My, but Mark and 
Stevie have grown since then. I'm glad we 
didn't spoil them. We've let them have a 
lot of things, but they've had to do without 
a lot, too. 

I wonder why Joe keeps looking at his 
watch so often? He hasn't got a thing to 
do all evening except watch television. Time 
should be immaterial to him. 

Oh, dear! I've got to call Mrs. White 
to see if she's done anything about those 
tickets for the dance. There's a lot more 
to being chairman of the German Club 
than I had anticipated. Joe thinks I ought 
to give up the chairmanship of one of my 
clubs. I think I'll stay chairman of the 
German Club because I'm more interested 
in its purpose than the Cotillion Club. 

Ring. That's the doorbell. Why doesn't 
Joe answer it? He knows I don't like to 


answer the door at night. Oh, well, if he 
isn't going to answer it, I guess I'll have to. 

"Mama! I thought . . . You just called 
me . . . Oh, dear, look at everybody! Dad- 
dy! Doug! Dott! Boots! Henry! Jim! 
Martha! Ed! Oh, how wonderful! Where 
did you all come from? Barbara! and 
Cedgy! What are you doing here? . . . 
Well, I'll be . . . 

"Joe, why don't you tell me these things? 
I look a mess!" 

Ring. The doorbell again. There are so 
many people I can't begin to name them. 

Everything has quieted down now. Ev- 
erything was so much fun. Come to think 
of it, I don't suppose that Joe is getting 
older after all. 

Oh, my goodness! The bridge club is sup- 
posed to meet here tomorrow. What will I 
do with the house full of company? Let's 
see. I'll just set up another table and let 

the "girls" play, and Joe can take the men 
out for a round of golf. 

"Who's that?" 

"It's me, Mama." 

"Say, 'it's I.' Mark, what are you doing 
coming in so late? You should have had 
your date home two hours ago. Now, be 
quiet when you go upstairs because we've 
got company. No, you have to sleep in the 
den because your grandparents are in your 
room. Good night, son." 

How am I going to live through the next 
few years? How did my mother stand it 
with four of us to worry about? I'll ask her 
in the morning. 

"You know, Joe, I've been thinking to- 
night. We both have traveled a long road. 
It hasn't been too hard, and it was fun. 
You're president of the firm now. We've 
raised a family, we've made many friends, 
and we still have a long way ahead of us. 
This is just the beginning." 

"Come on, let's get some sleep." 

///m L^ountru fr/emoried 

By Margaret Thompson, Senior Prep 

This is my catalogue of lovely things: 
Octobers, Junes, my country memories — 

I love a tractor's purring far away, 

My horse's hoofs resounding down the lane, 

The patient clock that ticks upon the shelf, 

And waterfalls where ferns grow in the mists; 

Alfalfa drying in the noonday sun, 

July that drones with katydids and bees, 

And sparks that upward fly from burning logs; 

A sunset streaming hues across the west, 

A brook which babbles low in shaded nooks, 

And raindrops drumming on the roof of tin — 

When days are long, and winter's gloom pervades, 
I think of these, my country memories. 


A Week at the Mission 

By Sue Winters, 

Clare opened her eyes to a beautiful June 
morning, but it seemed not quite right to 
her. Then she sat straight up in bed and 
angrily counted to ten. She had promised 
her friend, Jenny, to help teach tenement 
children in Vacation Bible School all this 
week; now she was realizing that she had 
to spend this beautiful day with grimy 
seven-year-olds. She growled at the maid 
for some breakfast, fell over her own clean 
little sister on the stairs, and finally left the 
house in irritation. "Good gosh," she mum- 
bled, "why on earth did I tell Jenny I'd do 

Later in the morning the two girls drove 
into a part of town known merely as "over 
the river." In one of the grimiest, most 
crowded slum sections stood a dingy, one- 
room building which served as the Mission. 
Clare looked with disgust at a frowzy, gray- 
haired woman pulling a wagon of clattering 
bottles and filthy rags along the sidewalk, 
and almost gagged at the smell of stale cab- 
bage and city smoke which permeated the 
murky air. She was disgusted at the sight 
of men lounging on the porches and at the 
sound of a woman's shrill laughter echoing 
from an unpainted beer hall. Almost as irri- 
tating as these was the discordant sound of 
children singing at the top of their lungs 
"Jesus Loves Me." 

Clare's steps dragged as she and Jenny 
walked into the Mission. She saw dirty chil- 
dren with runny noses and ragged clothes 
and wondered why she ever let herself in for 
this. They pawed her starched summer dress 
lovingly and she had to clench her hands 
to keep from pushing them away. Looking 
at her friend who was surrounded by the 
eager, chattering children, she suddenly 
wanted to get out — to get away from the 
dirt and want. Watching Jenny making 
friends with the laughing children, she won- 

Senior Prep 

dered, "How can she stand to touch them?" 
"Well, she thought glumly," I suppose if 
she can, I can too." 

Jenny finally coaxed the children to listen 
to a Bible story, but had to pause twice to 
tactfully stop a fight going on over a stick 
of candy. Clare stood by and watched. 
Later, after finishing the simple craft per- 
iod, the children brought their work to the 
two teachers for approval. Clare forced a 
smile at the sticky messes they had made 
with paste and paper, and then watched 
wonderingly as Jenny gave a word of praise 
to all. 

The morning dragged to an end. The 
girls left the Mission after thirty minutes 
spent cleaning and putting it in order. Clare 
plopped in the car with a sigh. 

"Oh for a nice warm bubble-bath to get 
these germs off. Those little beasts covered 
my dress with paste." 

Jenny said little on the way home, but 
the next morning, as they started out, she 
bubbled with plans for the week. Clare was 
the quiet one now as she thought of days 
in that squalid atmosphere. 

That morning little Doris Sue became a 
problem. She was too backward to catch on 
to the way the handwork was done. Clare 
watched as Jenny persuaded, coaxed and 
taught the dull-eyed child to weave a simple 
mat. When Doris Sue's mother came after 
her and the little girl gave the mat to her, 
she and Jenny exchanged a look which 
Clare did not understand. She watched the 
little girl leave, clasping her mother's hand, 
and then turned and gritted her teeth to 
keep from screaming, "Quiet, you brats!" 

Clare was so tired on the way home that 
she could hardly move. "Only four more 
days," she remarked happily to Jenny. 

The week dragged by. Clare listened to 
the children with suppressed disgust; Jenny 


with understanding. Clare learned that the 
happiest days of Menefee's life had been 
spent in the children's hospital, and that 
Dorothy had fifty-two "sores." Dorothy 
said her daddy had "stuck one with a nee- 
dle," and, to Clare's horror, pulled the same 
needle out of the back of her dress where 
the button should have been. 

The last day was finally ended. Clare left 
the building in a hurry and tooted the horn 
impatiently for Jenny to leave the clamor- 
ing children and go home. She chattered 
busily on the way home about the party 
that night. Then she switched to the Mis- 

"Well, Jen, it really wasn't too bad I 
guess, if the little apes hadn't put their dirty 
hands on you. I honestly don't see how they 
live like that — I mean all those horrible 
clothes and all. Oh well, I guess they get 
along well enough. After all, they don't 
know any better." 

Jenny only continued to stare out of the 
window with a strange look in her eyes. 

"Why are you so quiet, Jen? Got a head- 
ache?" said Clare impatiently. 


By Jane Ward, Senior Prep 

A man screams. 

A child dies. 

Above this hectic dream 

An eagle soars the skies. 

A car crashes. 

A cannon explodes. 

Yet in the rushes 

A beaver carries his load. 

j^aradox in J ucLcLleA 

By Anne Mashburn, Freshman Prep 

Puddles, to long braids and curls 

That soon appear as little girls, 

Are mirrors for a wonderland, 

Where pink bowls hang and pigtails stand 

Where cotton clouds float high above 

And teach the world of God's great love. 

But puddles to a boy are rain 
From which small waders can't refrain; 
He disregards his clean new clothes 
As overhead the breeze e'er blows, 
And steps into the puddle there 
To wade as far as he may dare. 

For boys see rain while girls see skies, 
But still this age does take the prize; 
Besides — 

Who'd want them otherwise? 


^Jkree f en Sketched 
First Venture 

By Margaret Thompson, Senior Prep 

As Mr. Wade Lawrence rode along the 
narrow country lane, he breathed deeply of 
the brisk early morning air, delighting in 
dreams of what the day would bring him. 
He was well aware of the splendid sight he 
presented — his new black broadcloth suit, 
bought especially for this occasion, fitted 
his slender, rather tall body to perfection; 
his shiny new stovepipe hat topped his glow- 
ing face with a jaunty air. The mingled 
fragrance of a profusion of wild roses and 
honeysuckle elated him. What an impres- 
sion he would make in Waterbury! After 
securing there a large order from Mr. Brad- 
shaw, his first for his firm, he would return 
home a very successful young businessman. 

His lively, gleaming chestnut mount, 
seeming to sense his master's feeling of the 
importance of this venture, pranced skit- 
tishly as they neared their destination. With 
a slightly unsteady hand, Mr. Lawrence 
settled the chestnut to a trot. Then, catch- 
ing sight of the buildings of the town, he 
raised his hand to tilt the stovepipe at just 
the wanted angle; and again he felt confi- 
dent of both his sales ability and his ap- 

Mr. Lawrence trotted into Waterbury 
with an assured air, his mind divided be- 
tween thinking of the splendid impression 
which he must be creating and wondering 
where Mr. Bradshaw's store was located. 

Noticing a large white building on the 
other side of the square, he examined the 
sign, which read "Bradshaw's General 

In front of this store he drew reign; and 
leisurely dismounting, he caught sight of a 
somewhat shabbily dressed old man who 
was standing in the doorway. He called, 
"Say, old man, hold my horse, will you," 
and tossed him a coin. The man meandered 
over and took the proffered reins, as Mr. 
Lawrence hurried into the store. 

Despite the early hour, he found the 
store swarming with housewives, farmers, 
and children busily chatting, inspecting the 
merchandise, and milling about. Walking 
over to the clerk, he announced that he 
wished to see privately Mr. Bradshaw, the 
proprietor. The clerk excused himself to 
search the store for his employer, but re- 
turned with no knowledge of his where- 
abouts. Then, looking out the door, he 
exclaimed, "Why that's him over there, sir 
— holding that chestnut horse!" 

His mouth agape, Mr. Lawrence fol- 
lowed the clerk's gaze. He felt his face 
grow ruddy and headed stumblingly for 
the door. "I think you kindly, sir," he mut- 
tered, as he hastily took the reins and 
mounted. With a flick of the reins, he sud- 
denly disappeared around the corner. 


By Cynthia Rushing, Senior Prep 

Never will I forget my first big formal 
dance. How could I? A date with my latest 
crush, my first orchid, and a beautiful new 
formal! The boy was wonderful, the orchid 

beautiful, and the dress simply dreamy — 
lavender organdy with a strapless top and 
a full, full skirt! It had one of these new 
fang-dangled hoops that you can fold up. 


It was adjustable to any size, but the most 
impressive thing about this unusual crea- 
tion was that mother had ordered it all the 
way from New York. 

The night of the dance arrived, and 
what a night! A full moon, millions of 
stars, spring weather, and a green Pontiac 
convertible (the courtesy of Dad) . Off we 
went, my date in his white dinner jacket, 
and I in my new formal with the hoop from 
New York underneath. 

When we arrived at the dance, we met 
all our friends, and off I dashed to the 
little girl's room to compare dresses, cor- 
sages, and so forth with the girls. The usual 
small talk was exchanged, and I returned 
to my date. 

The orchestra was simply wonderful, and 
with a smooth dancer like "The Boy" a 
good time was had by all. The orchestra 
struck up a fast piece, and I found myself 
in the center of a circle jitterbugging and 
having the time of my life. All of a sudden 
I had a peculiar feeling around my feet, 
and I noticed everyone was laughing. "The 
Boy" and I had just started doing a new 
step which was quite clever and unusual; 
so I just thought they were laughing at us. 
The next thing I knew I was sitting on the 
floor, and my legs were bound together by 

some mysterious contraption which made it 
impossible to move. A few seconds later I 
managed to get down off my pink cloud 
and back to reality where I realized what 
had happened. My hoop which came all 
the way from New York had folded up 
with me inside. AH the puff and fullness in 
my dreamy dress was gone, and I was tem- 
porarily paralyzed from the waist down. 
The word embarrassment doesn't cover a 
fourth of the condition I was in. I looked 
up and saw a million smiling faces. With 
this I just drifted off in a trance, and the 
next thing I knew a dear chaperone was 
pouring cold water on my face. 

Everything was fine except I was still on 
the floor, and my hoop which came all the 
way from New York was still wrapped 
around me. I couldn't walk, and I couldn't 
fix the hoop because in order to open the 
hoop I would have had to pull my dress up. 
The problem was finally solved by the dear 
chaperone picking me up bodily and carry- 
ing me to a private place where I could fix 
my hoop. 

The very next day the hoop which came 
all the way from New York went all the 
way back to New York just as fast as pos- 

Gods Country 

By Frances Caldwell, Senior Prep 

I am guilty of a crime. But the wrong- 
doing I committed is not one that causes me 
to be a recipient of punishment adminis- 
tered by law. My crime was taking for 
granted the world I live in — the miracle 
that enthralls me. Too many times I have 
walked in the woods or roamed the daisy- 
carpeted meadows without bothering to 
look around me at the delicate beauty to 
which I should be nothing less than a slave. 

But a few summers ago, I realized my 
sin for the first time. I and my family have 

a summer home on a small river in Ten- 
nessee. One day we decided to go as far up 
this river as we could without running 
aground in the boat; so that morning we 
set out. It was late afternoon when we 
reached shallow water, and the sun was 
making its final appearance in the sky be- 
fore it settled for the night. Because of the 
time, we were forced to leave immediately 
after our arrival to this remote region and 
start for home. As we very slowly drifted 
down the shallow waters, I happened to 


glance back, and for the first time I noticed 
the true beauty around me. 

The flow of the river was interrupted by 
a group of rapids whose fluffy white foam 
glistened like diamonds as the rays of the 
near-twilight sun played on it. Past these 
rapids the river resumed its full depth and 
ran along its course until it rounded a 
bend and was out of sight. On both sides of 
the deep turquoise waters were high hills 
that sloped all the way to the surface of the 
stream. The dense trees on these hills made 
them appear to be one mass of green — a 
greeen made even richer by the heavy sum- 
mer rains. The sweeping branches of the 
lowest trees lay gracefully along the edge 

of the water, occasionally dipping their fin- 
gers into the deep jade when a faint breeze 
compelled them to do so. The hills were 
darker in places with weird shadows caused 
by the slowly fading, out-reaching arms of 
the sun. But the crest of the hills still 
gleamed golden, for the sun had not yet 
completed the last lap of its daily journey 
across the azure sky. The river too was al- 
most ebony in patches because of the re- 
flection its majestic banks had cast over it. 
All was still, peaceful, and cool. 

I was captured by this picture, and I 
hated to leave. But I look forward to the 
day when I can return, and I will return to 
what is truly God's country. 



By Corinne Scales, Junior Prep 

Christ walks the sky, 

Shouldering his silvery cross of moonbeams, 

The radiation wide-spread for the world to see. 

But men forget, 

And the full moon passes, 

In its place a diminishing bowl 

Pouring the stars 

To a selfish and tinsel-loving world. 

The tiny sliver of the moon 
Is covered by clouds. 

Fearful men, 

Who pray only in time of need, 

Cry heavenward. 

The kaleidoscope turns, 
And the brilliant pattern 
Is apparent again, 
Letting us know 
Christ still walks the sky.