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*^ Vol. 7 DECEMBER. 1943 No. I 


YV make 


'^E'VE had quite a time getting the size, shape, and color which (we hope) 
ces Chimes rise up and ask you to read it. Now that you are reading it, 
we plead with you, as others have done before us, please to send in some of 
your carefully tucked away literature. The staff will love to read your essays, short 
stories, or poetry. With all the creative writing that the English classes demand of us, 
you should find something to submit. How about that poem you wrote the other 
night? Did you suddenly have the impulse to write; then after it was scribbled down, 
did you think it was silly and hide it? Well, it wasn't. Get it out, and polish it up. 
The Chimes staff dotes upon such. 

We had a wonderful response to our essay contest. There were quite a number of 
very good entries, but the judges decided upon "Reminiscence," by Fay Maples, a 
Senior-Middle, as the winner. Some of the runner-ups were Marie Mount's "Quote, 
Intellectuals, Unquote," which is written about the different types of the highbrow . . . 
"On Feeling Mean," by Jean Hager, a period through which all of us pass at times . . . 
"And I Complained," by Carol Bay, which should make every girl think twice before 
she gripes about her so-called hardships. 

The essay contest for Book Week is well represented in this issue. We have the 
two winning essays in each college class and those which received honorable mention. 

Judy Dunham's "Moron versus Molecule" is quite typical of those caught in the 
clutches of chemistry . . . Sue Russell wrote a very clever dissertation called "The Com- 
mon Cold," that well-known ailment. These are only a few. The others are just as 

We hope you like our new Chimes, and don't forget to help us make it better as 
the year goes on. ' 


Betsy Bishop . . • • '. . . . Editor 

Marie Mount Associate Editor 

Betsy An'ne Rowlett Revie<iv Editor 

Betty Barnes • • . . Poetry Editor 

Susan Russell • . ■ Art Editor 

Margaret Burk Exchange Editor 

Deckie Martin Business Manager 

Mary Emily Caldwell Circulation Manager 

Miss Elizabeth Sadler . Faculty Advisor 


Susan Russell Editor 

Betty Brooker Winky Andrews 


Title Name Pugi 

Mammon and Mr. Beamish D. A. Crane 3 

Ward, the Pure Betsy Bishop 5 

And I Complained Carol Bay 8 

On Feeling Mean Jean Hager 9 

Reminiscence Fay Maples 10 

Another Nudist Mary Madsen 11 

The Arch of the Future Jean Howerton 12 

Evolution in Reading Elizabeth Wailes 13 

On Bookshelves Mary Jane Sherrill 13 

Come Let Us Read Margaret Lawler 16 

Among the Many Betsy Bishop 17 

I Am His Retribution Joan Russell 18 

Journey Among Warriors Betsy Anne Rowlett 20 

Transcriptions Billie Hailey 21 

Quote, Intellectuals, Unquote Marie Mount 22 

Kinfolks Helen Suddoth 25 

Moron Versus Molecule Judy Dunham 24 

To a Haunted House . Ann Sharp 25 

The Common Cold Susan Russell 26 

A Prayer of Thanksgiving Betsy Anne Rowlett 26 

My Mother's Christmas Virginia Luebbe 27 

Transformation Genella Nye 28 

"Twenty-nine Iced Milks and a Plain Milk" • Jean Howerton 29 

A "Night" in Armor Marilyn Morrison 30 

Eyes Psggy Freeman 31 

Golden Leaves Peggy Freeman 31 


Mammon and Mr« Beamish 

By D. A. Crane 

• "D. A." is from WUson, Oklahoma. She 
<iid this story as an exercise in composition; it 
is patterned after a short story which appeared 
in an issue of Good Housekeeping magazine. 

Philander Beamish was an average man. 
He had three average children and a one- 
story house with modem conveniences. 
He lived in a town of four thousand five 
hundred people, paid his taxes regularly 
and infrequently bought on the install- 
ment plan. 

He was also a cashier at the Security 
National Bank, with a greater number of 
years of service on his record at the bank 
than any other of his caged brethren. 
Every morning at eight-thirty Mr. Beam- 
ish was there behind the gilded bars. He 
polished his brass nameplate, he polished 
the marble surface of the desk top, and at 
nine o'clock he polished his glasses. 

"Can't afford to make mistakes with 
money," he would smile elfishly when 
teased about this habit. Then he'd blink 
his gcndc myopic brown eyes, replace the 
fine gold wire curves about his ears (cup- 
ped like fluted pink shells, they stood out 
from his lightly covered head), and peer 
inquiringly through the thick lenses. Mr. 
Beamish always seemed to peer inquir- 

On one bright Oaober morning, Mr. 
Beamish rose as usual when die clock 
clanged boisterously at sbc-thirty, awak- 
ened his wife, threw open the window, and 
breathed deeply ten times. He sat down 
to a breakfast of orange juice, coffee, one 
egg and toast, after which he laid out a 
suit to be cleaned and pressed (it was 
Monday). He kissed his wife good-bye 
at the door, reminded the lesser Beamishes 
to be model children, and departed briskly 
for the bank. 

The date was October sixteenth (thank 
goodness, statements had gone out yester- 
day). Mr. Beamish awaited eagerly the 
moment when the doors would be thrown 
open and the business people surged in to 
deposit, withdraw, and ask loans. Mr. 
Beamish didn't like people who sought 
loans. He was glad he didn't work in 
the loan department. 

In the early middle part of the morning 
— about ten-thirty, that is — one of the new 
rich fanners whose land contained mineral 
wealth came in to make a deposit. Mr. 
Beamish held his pencil poised above the 
pink deposit slip pad and the man pushed 
a single bill inside the window. Mr. 
Beamish put down his pencil. He picked 
up the bill, frowning. He snapped it 
several times. He stared. It was a thous- 
and-dollar bill. 

"Control yourself. Beamish," he remon- 
strated with himself in surprise. "You 
handle that much money every day." 

Mr. Beamish mastered the situation, 
however, and wrote out the deposit slip 
correctly, and made the proper entry in 
the man's Uttle black book. 

Please do not misunderstand Mr. Beam- 
ish. His was not a covetous nature; he 
was merely fascinated by the bill. 
Through the morning and the lunch hour, 
Mr. Beamish glowed with the light of an 
inner flame. While he minced over his 
milk, he envisioned the bill, a tiny comer 
of it protruding from a stock of green, 
green money. He then saw it glowing 
quietly as if phosphorescent. He saw it 
wafted upon an April breeze and lighting 
momentarily upon a blossomed bough. 
Finally he arose, cast down his paltry silver 
and walked out, thinking, "How I pity 
you, you mere silver coins. How sad that 
vou are not green, soft, whispering." 


Throughout the day he moved with a 
new gravity. Philander Beamish felt 
lofty; he felt superior and exultant and 
whimsically pitying of the prosaic world 
about him. 

The day grew old as closing time ad- 
vanced upon it. As cashier, Beamish's was 
the duty of placing the money in the safe 
each night and withdrawing it each morn- 
ing. This particular night as he was 
counting the bills, one seemed to cling 
gently to his agile fingers. Unconsciously 
he tried to free it, and then he gazed more 
attentively. It was The Bill. With a sly, 
satirical cunning, it seemed to stare at 
him. He felt a certain affinity between 
his flesh and the slightly worn paper. He 
smiled indulgently and shoved it into his 
vest pocket, where it released its hold 
upon him and seemed to nestle in warm 
quiet felicity there. 

Quickly he looked up and about him. 
The clerks were busy helping in the count- 
ing. They bent over the stacks of bills, and 
showed no evidence of having seen that 
which would have aroused suspicion — nay, 

Philander Beamish loitered on his way 
home that evening. Not that he paused 
along the way. Oh, no. He merely 
sauntered along in his beaten path. That 
evening Mrs. Beamish and the wee Beam- 
ishes found Philander quite masterful. 
They were puzzled and rather delighted 
with the new Mr. Beamish. Once during 
the evening he transferred the bill from 
his vest pocket to the side pants pocket. 
He did not look at it, but now and then 
he fingered it unobtrusively and glowed. 

On the next day, October seventeenth, 
he returned it secretly to the company of 
the other common bills, but allowed his 
thoughts to stray to it, pluck it up lightly 
and smooth its wrinkles gently. That 
night he again purloined it and the next 
night and the next. For five nights he 
carried it away with him to a clandestine 

rendezvous, and returned it each morning. 
He always thought of Romeo stealing 
from Juliet at the ireak of day. 

Then he began to be afraid. Harsh 
thing, which spoke of man's belief in 
man's cupidity, of man's faithlessness to 
man's idea's, arose within him, and for one 
week he did not leave with it in his vest 
pocket. During this time he liked to 
think that he was as much missed as miss- 
ing, and this idea warmed him though 
not so much as the feeling of its proximity 
warmed him. 

Then suddenly he could stand it no 
longer, and he took it home again on 
October twenty-ninth. The joy of it had 
not diminished. It had grown. The next 
morning at the bank he was counting the 
money as usual, and he slipped his fingers 
deftly into his pocket and withdrew the 
bill to place it in the stack. 

Throughout the morning, during the 
pauses between customers, he allowed his 
thoughts to stray to it, mentally allowed 
his fingers to caress its soft pliant, slightly 
wrinkled surface. He could vividly re- 
call the sensation of touching it — it was 
like a good worn kid glove. 

As though by some deep-rooted primi- 
tive intuition, he decided to take it out to 
lunch with him. He could feel its radi- 
ance, the warmth of its jjersonality, its 
whole being lying at the bottom of his 

That afternoon the man came back. 
Beamish was assailed by a seething, chill- 
ing dread. He knew. He felt dead, 
empty, cold. Then he realized that he had 
known all the time that his wan sweet 
angel had allowed him his last rendezvous 
at noon and he felt that she too was now 
weeping quietly. 

The man took his bill. 

Mr. Beamish was Mr. Beamish again, 
but Mrs. Beamish felt both regret and re- 

But something went out of Mr. Beam- 
ish's life. 


Ward^ the Pure 

By Betsy Bishop 

* Betsy is a Senior in the junior college and a 
day student. She wrote this piece while sick 
in bed and was persuaded to bring it out of 
hiding only after much coaxing by her friends 
and the staff. She wants to write essays and 
short stories for her career, but on the side, 
the gal is "nuts" about horses. 



"Ccme in heah dis minute, an' carry 
out i^ese ashes." 


Montgomery, without exemng h'mself 
in the Ie?st. dragsed his sk'Tv, brown 
fonn toward the doorway of the cabin. 
When hft set c^e bare fo'^t in'-id* the bed- 
room of '■he little shack, his mother, Mag- 
gie, co"f'-o"ted him with. "You am the 
slowest b'ack nigger Ah ev?h seed. Looks 
!ak you ies' crawls erlorg when somebody 
asts you ter do sompin fa 'um. Caint you 
git env mo' fo'ce den dat behime vou?" 
Magsie stood there, with stout arms fo'ded 
across her ample bosom, ?nd g'ared at 
her son, vho was a twin and next to the 
oldest chi'd. There were four younger 
children after the twins, who were twelve 
years o'd. 

Montgomery said, "No'm, Ah ies' alius 
fee's tia'd." He trailed aro""d Maggie 
and went over to the stove. There, after 
due consideration of which would be the 
easiest way to do it, he shove'ed the ashes 
from the stove to a battered, rusty can 
and slowlv carried them out, as if each 
step would be his last. When he reached 
the fence at the back of the yard, he 
dumped the ashes on the ether side and 
leaned against a tree to get his strength 

Under that tree sat his four younger 
sisters: Gladioli, aged ten; Violet, aged 

nine; Chrysanthemum, aged five; and 
Narcissus, aged two. They were playing 
house. They liked to play there because 
it was near the trash pile and they could 
use all the odds and ends dumped on it. 
The tree was a big oak, which shaded a 
large space; and the grass was soft beneath 
it. The little girls were having trouble. 
Gladioli was the mother. Chrysanthemum 
and Narcissus were the children, and 
Violet was the visiting neighbor. It was 
supposed to be Narcissus' nap time, and 
she was flatly refusing to take a nap. She 
didn't realize that her older sisters were 
just playing and she only had to pretend 


that she was asleep. She only knew that 
it really wasn't time for her to take a nap 
and she wasn't going to miss anything by 
being asleep. Upon her refusal to take a 
nap, Chrysanthemum had shoved her 
down and was now blandly sitting upon 
the baby's bare stomach. The shrieks of 
outrage from the poor sufferer could be 
heard for miles around. Montgomery 
gazed upon this family scene with an ex- 
pression of disdain. He couldn't under- 
stand the sissy games of httle girls, es- 
pecially since he was twelve years old. 

"Why does yo'all alius wanter play 
house?" he asked. "Git up offen Narciss' 
stummick, er yo'U push her innerds clean 
outa place." 

Chrysanthemum, who thought her big 
brother knew everything, immediately got 
off Narcissus, who immediately stopped 
crying. Violet, who thought she knew 
more than anybody else, said, "Aw, that 
caint push her innerds outa place, 'cause 
they's 'tached onta her stummick." 

"It kin, too," said Montgomery. 

"It kin not!" said Violet. 

This could have gone on all afternoon 
if Maggie had not called to Montgomer>' 
to hurry on back with that can. After he 
had gone, the little girls resumed their 
playing, deciding that they would pretend 
it was later in the day and Narcissus had 
already had her nap. 

When Montgomery finally returned 
with the can, Maggie had already swept 
out the cabin. She was very tidy and 
prided herself on her clean cabin and yard. 
The bedroom was papered with news- 
papers, which, after they had begun to 
turn yellow, were taken down and replaced 
by new ones. There was a fireplace on 
one side of the room, and one could see 
daylight coming through the cracks where 
the stone chimney was beginning to lean 
away from the side of the cabin. At 

each end of the mantle stood tall, slender 
rainbow<olored vases filled with faded 
artificial flowers. In the center of the 
mantle was a clock, which hadn't run for 
at least fifteen years; but it was light blue 
with roses painted on it, which attracted 
Maggie, even if the paint was peeling off 
in places. Beside the clock was a chipped 
china tray which held odds and ends of 
broken jewelry, a curiously shaped top to 
a perfume bottle, and two red-and-yellow 
buttons. To the left of the mantle stood 
a dresser with a defective mirror which 
made a person look distorted if he didn't 
stand close enough. On the dresser were 
two brushes and combs, used to get the 
tangles out of kinky plaits, and another 
china tray containing a piece of red string, 
some straight pins, a Red Cross button, 
a nickel, and two pennies. In one of the 
double beds slept Maggie; her husband, 
Paul; and Narcissus. In the other slept 
Nasturtium, aged fourteen; Gladioli; Vio- 
let; and Chrysanthemum, the latter lying 
crosswise at the foot. In the single bed 
slept Montgwnery and his twin brother, 
Ward. In the center of the floor stood a 
pedestal table with a coal-oil lamp and 
some old magazines on it. Two straight 
chairs, one rocker, and a rickety, three- 
legged stool made up the rest of the room 
furnishings. Directly across from the fire- 
place was a door leading into the kitchen. 
This small room was not papered, and it 
contained a wood stove, a wobbly table, 
and five assorted chairs. There was a not 
unpleasant odor of clean clothes, scrubbed 
wood, cold food, and wood smoke always 
about the cabin. On the outside, the yard 
right around the house never produced any 
grass, because the chickens and seven pairs 
of bare feet continually pecked and 
stomped it. 

Maggie said, "Fo' Gawd's Sakes, Mcm- 
'gom'ry, howcum you caint move edong 


eny faster'n dat? Heah Ah's bin a-settin' 
evah since you lef, waitin' fo' dat can 
so's Ah kin tek some slop ter dem hogs. 
An' you gotta run up ter Miz Brady's 
ter fetch Ward. He's bin a-cuttin' kin- 
lin' fo' her. Dat boy's got some gumption 
'bout him. Dat's sho' mo' den Ah kin 
say fo' you." 

But Montgomery didn't have to fetch 
his brother, as Ward was just then seen 
running around the comer of the lot with 
a sack in his hand. Taken together the 
twins could not be told apart by a stranger, 
except that when one looked closely he 
saw that Ward had a more energetic ex- 
pression. Ward also had religion, which 
might have been the cause of his working 
harder. He was sanctified, and believed 
that idleness was the root of all evil. As 
he drew nearer, he shouted that Mrs. 
Brady had given him some candy to divide 
with the rest of the children, besides his 
twenty-five cents pay. 

"Looky yere," Ward said, "Miz Brady 
say dis am some kinc o' candy dat we ain' 
nevah hed. She say hit's dif'funt. 
Wheah's evahbody else? Les' eat it." 

The four little girls were promptly 
called. Everybody was there except Nas- 
turtium, who was out ironing for Mrs. 
Dillihay. Maggie said that the rest of 
the children had to save some candy for 
their big sister. So they started the divid- 

"Gimme th' biggest piece," shrilled 

"They ain' no biggest piece, pig," re- 
plied Ward. "The/s all de same size, 
wropped in lil' sHck papers," and he 
poured the caramels on the ground. 
"Now, Ah'll do em' out." 

"No sirree, no sirree, you won' do eny 
sech thing," shrieked Violet. "You'll 
keep de best uns fo' yo'sef." 

"They ain' no best uns, an' 'sides, Ah's 

sanctified. Ah caint do daj," said Ward. 

"Well, jes' hurry up an' 'give us some," 
said Gladioli. "Ah's hongry." 

At last the candy was evenly distributed, 
with the correct amount put away for 
Nasturtium. Grubby brown fingers "un- 
wropped" the papers and quickly thrust 
the brown squares into red mouths full of 
sparkling white teeth. At the first 
"chomping down" there were twelve wide- 
open, surprised eyes staring out from six 
tightly closed faces. The first one able to 
speak was Violet, who said, "Mah mouf 
dun stuck togever." 

Then Montgomery said, "They's stuff 
all ober mah teef. Wha' zat mean?" 

Sanctified Ward began to pray, "Oh 
Lawd, Ah ain' dun nuffin wrong. Wha' 
fo' does You do dis ter me? Ah's wukked. 
Ah didn' mean ter be bad. Ah's tried ter 
be good an' holy, Lawd." 

The little colored children might not 
have eaten the rest of the candy if Maggie 
had not heard Ward praying and come 
out to see what the trouble was. 

"Yo' chillun am goner be da deaf ob 
me yit," she fussed. "Heah Ah thot 
sumpin tur'ble were wrong, an' come ter 
fine out dat yo'all jes' don' know whut 
sticky candy am! Ought not ter let you 
eat da res'!" 

Convinced that the candy was supposed 
to be sticky, the children quickly ate the 
rest. That is, all the children except Ward, 
who unnoticed gave his to Mo, the yellow 
dog. The four little girls went back to 
playing house, and Montgomery and 
Ward were sent to the store to buy some 
meal. On the way Ward stopped to wait 
for Montgomery, who was characteristi- 
cally lagging behind. While sitting down 
in the shade, Ward looked up to the blue 
sky and said, " 'Scuse me, Lawd. Ah won' 
never tek no mo' candy fum offen Miz 
Brady's table. No sirree." 


And I Complained 

8y Carol Bay 

* Carol has already received recognition of 
her writing ability in that she won a bond 
for naming a war rationing pamph'.et and 
writing an essay explaining the title she chose. 
She was valedictorian of her class in Albia, 
Iowa, and she is a Senior-Middle at Ward- 

No butter on our toast again this morn- 
ing; no seconds of meat for lunch. We 
were told to "go easy" on the sugar for 

No metal-ringed notebooks; no rubber 
bathing caps for swimming; no weekend 
date because a long-awaited furlough has 
suddenly been cancelled; and to make 
matters worse, those "cute brown specta- 
tors" would just have to stay in the shop 
window, as the precious number 18 coupon 
had already been used. 

"But this is war," the shopkeepers and 
saleswomen teU us. "This is war," the 
grocer s'^ys. When I went to my room and 
switched on the radio to relieve the mon- 
otony of the oft-repeated words, a mascu- 
line voice boomed out, "This is war!" 

I started to turn the dial to some kind 
of music: it didn't make anv difference 
what ki"d, so long as it would take my 
mind off the grim, warring world. But I 
stopoed in soite of mvself; and, with my 
hand already on the dial, I stood and list- 

It was the story of a war correspondent 
just back from a scene of action some- 
where in the South Pacific. He was mak- 
ing an appeal for the people back home 
to stand united behind their fighting sons. 
He told of the conditions they had to 
endure on their island fortress: the hard, 
rough ground infested with poisonous 
snakes and covered with scratchy bushes — 
their only bed; the tasteless dehydrated 
foods they cheerfully ate, although with- 
out much relish; the streams, their baths, 

which they had to share with crocodiles 
and lizards; the inadequate hospital sup- 
plies; the exhausted sleep interrupted by 
the shellfire they were all expecting; the 
tense moments of complete silence, in 
which they breathlessly awaited the next 
move of their wily enemy; and, last of all, 
he told of the men themselves. 

There was Dick, the tall, husky blond 
with a Texas drawl, who kept talking of 
Jeanie and how she could bake apple pie 
that fairly melted in your mouth. The 
guys in the outfit all liked Dick, and they 
really missed his familiar drawl after that 
first encounter. 

And Ed, the one they thought at first 
was a coward. He was a professor's son, 
who wore thick glasses and didn't smoke. 
He could have finished at the university, 
but instead he enlisted after Pearl Harbor. 
They all thought he was a coward till the 
night he crawled out into an open field 
strafed with enemy fire in order to save a 
buddy. When his thick glasses fell off, he 
couldn't see the menacing Jap figure. He 
saved his buddy all right — but the next 
day the boys a'l got together and wrote 
the professor of his son's heroic death. 

These were just American boys, like 
the kid next door or the neighborhood 
grocery boy, who suddenly found them- 
selves fighters, heroes — and, above all, 
men. Men who would always respect the 
precious liberty for which they were fight- 
ing and dyi"g. Men who had sweated, 
cried, and died. Men who had bits of 
their buddies' bodies plastered onto their 
own, who had seen and endured incon- 
ceivable tortures. These were our Ameri- 
can fighting men at Bataan and Corregi- 
dor and every other outpost where the 
symbol of liberty was being challenged! 
(Continued on page 10) 


On Feeling Mean 

By Jean Hager 

• Jean is a Junior-Middle from Nashville. 
She is vice-president of the Pen Staff Club, 
and she wants to make something of her 

All of childhood is a mixture of vague 
memories and well-remembered emotions. 
Anyone can easily recall the breathless 
delight that accompanied any wonderful 
or exciting event, or the ashamed, hopeless 
feeling arising from a guilty conscience. 
One of my earliest memories is the way I 
felt the day I received my very worst 
spanking. I shall never forget that sick 
heat-wave that swallowed me when Mother 
picked up the hairbrush and shut the door 
behind us. 

I think I must have gotten up in a mean 
mood that morning. Playing in the back 
yard with the neighborhood children, I 
took an immense delight in pushing over 
sand tunnels, throwing dirt at the assembly 
of dogs, and occasionally whacking some- 
one with his own sand shovel. And it was 
a fiendish pleasure to send my company 
home, one by one, in tears or a purple 
rage. Mother had gone to town early in 
the morning, so for a little while at least 
I reigned in peace, alone with my nasty 
disposition. I was perversely happy. 

Everything was quiet during lunch, as 
Maggie, the maid, didn't especially care 
whether or not I ate my carrots. It was 
not until Maggie informed me that I was 
to practice my music for an hour that I 
blew up. I told her, very calmly at first, 
that I was going to do no such thing; I 
was going up and play with Sue. Maggie 
resented my flat statement. Soon we were 
shouting at each other. I yelled wildly 
that Maggie had no right to order me 
around, and she retorted, "I'll tell yo' 
mothah th' minit she get hyar." This 
threat quieted me in short order. I didn't 

want to play with Sue, anyhow; I'd much 
rather be alone. But I had no intention 
of practicing the music. 

I marched into my room, ejected my 
little sister, and slammed the door with 
all my strength. But instead of the loud 
bang I was expecting, a pain-crazed wail 
struck me like a brickbat. I turned to 
see Polly still in the doorway, her hand 
dripping blood. I was terrified. My 
meanness disappeared instantly when I 
realized that I had slammed the door on 
her fingers. Since Polly was much smaller 
than I, this, I knew, was a major crime. 
And I also knew that this episode could 
not be passed off as an accident. 

Polly continued to scream, and my gen- 
erous offer of my newest doll, two pieces 
of hoarded candy, and the personal pos- 
session of the kitten next week, did no 
good. I grew desperate and pleaded. I 
knew what was in store when Mother ar- 
rived — and arrive she did, just then. She 
(Continued on page 28) 


19 4 3 


By Fay Maples 

* Fay, whose ambition is to be a commercial 
artist, is at present concentrating on making 
a good record at Ward-Belmont. She comes 
from Gulf Port, Mississippi, and is a Senior- 

When it is raining or time hangs heavy 
on my hands, I take down my memory 
book from the shelf and thumb through 
the pages. Each faded token signifies 
something that cannot be erased from my 
memory. There is one page with just a 
bit of yellowed ribbon pasted in one corner; 
this ribbon brings tears to my eyes, for I re- 
member . 

I can see him now coming across the 
field toward me, his figure tall against the 
darkening sky. I was only a little girl, 
and I sat on the rail fence every evening 
waiting for Grandpa to come home. He 
used to toss me into the air, scolding all 
the while about my being out so late. 

Then there were the long summer even- 
ings when he would take me on his knee 
as he sat in the old rocking chair on the 
porch. While we watched the stars peek 
through, he talked to me about the beauti- 
ful things in life. Occasionally a whip- 
poorwill called from the vale; the sweet 
scent of pine filled the air. Lulled by the 
whispering breeze and the familiar, dron- 
ing voice, a little girl was soon fast asleep 
in her grandfather's arms. 

And there were the big collies, Shep 
and Dallas. Shep, a faithful servant, fol- 
lowed Grandpa to the field every day and 
slept under his bed at night. Sometimes 
the old dog would lay his head jealously 
across my lap, begging to be petted. Then 
Grandpa would reach down and scratch 
his ears affectionately. 

The ribbon came from a funeral spray, 
one of the many which lay clustered about 
a gray coffin. I had never seen death be- 
fore, and my beloved grandfather looked 
so pale against the satin lining. I just 
couldn't realize that never again would we 
laugh together, sit in the old rocker on 
quiet evenings, or watch the dogs race 
across the open fields. I leaned over and 
kissed him on the forehead — just as I 
had done when he said, "There are some 
things that God didn't mean for us to 

When summer comes and I return to 
the old house, a big collie greets me at 
the gate. Another collie lies by an empty 
rocking chair on the porch. His ears 
rise each time the gate creaks, and he looks 
hopefully at every newcomer; but I know 
his hopeful expression is in vain — I know 
he is waiting for a master who will never 

And I look at a bit of yellowed ribbon 
— and remember. 


(Continued from page 8) 

And then the program ended. There 
were no commercials, merely a significant 
silence followed by organ music. But I 
turned the radio off. I didn't want to 
hear music now. I didn't want to escape 
from this world of reality I had just 

For a long time I just sat on my bed 
and thought while twilight deepened. I 
have the plentiful food, clothing, and 
shelter of a land unmolested by bombs; 
I am untouched by the horror of battle. 
And I complained. 



Another Nudist 

By Mary Madsen 

* Mary is a Junior-Middle from Kewanee, 
Illinois. She wishes to be a foreign corres- 
pondent, but her main ambition in life is to 
write a "Fireside. Chat" for President Roosevelt. 

It all started one hot, one very hot, 
afternoon in July when I was three. My 
friend, Joan, and I were in my backyard 
building forts in the sandpile, which was 
located so we could see the automobiles 
whizzing down the highway and they could 
see us. We loved to sit and watch the 
speeding cars, though the occupants never 
so much as gave us a glance. 

This particular hot afternoon we soon 
tired of our sdnd forts, and being hot — 
very hot — we. took off our shoes and socks. 
Finding this very refreshing, Joan soon 
suggested we do the same with our sun 
suits. It was not difficult for us to slip 
out of them. We then found ourselves 
cool, and we also discovered it was fun to 
run around in just what God had given us. 

After a while we walked over to the 
spot where we always sat to play our game 
of watching the autos. We sat down on 
the grass, and to our astonishment we dis- 
covered the cars were no longer whizzing 
by, but going very slowly. We were quite 
thrilled when the occupants of the autos 
honked and waved at us. To our great 
glee every one of them smiled at us; in 
fact, some of them were even laughing. 

This notice from the public might have 
furnished an afternoon's entertainment, 
but as luck would have it, mother was 
sitting on the front porch knitting. She 
noticed the smiling motorists, the contin- 
ual honking of horns, and the repeated 

waving at someone or something. After 
about ten minutes of this, she drew the 
conclusion that the scene of interest was 
her very own backyard. Rushing out, she 
saw the two of us sitting on the grass with- 
out a stitch of clothing on. 

She didn't say a word; she just looked. 
Jumping up, we ran over and got into our 
clothes as fast as we could. Then my 
friend, Joan — my good friend, Joan — left 
for home. 

Mother and I walked silently into the 
house. Nothing was said till dinner that 
night, when she related the whole story to 
Dad. He managed to keep a straight face 
for a while, but he burst out laughing 
when she had finished. After a swift kick 
from Mother he stifled his laughter and 
tried to look reproving. He and Mother 
agreed, after sober discussion, that I was 
not to be punished this time, but if I ever 
did such a thing again, all my clothes 
would be taken away from me for ever 
and ever. That really frightened me and 
destroyed all desire on my part to be a 


^^r 7\ E^^^ 



D E C E M B E R , 19 4 3 





By Jean Howerton 

* Jean won her first literary prize at the age 
of nine, and went on from there to be editor 
first of her high school paper, and now of the 
Ward-Belmont Hyphen. Her hometown is 
Louisville, Kentucky. If asked her ambition 
she'll very earnestly answer "to be editor of 
New York Times." 

The slogan "Build the future with 
bcx)ks" makes one think about how im- 
portant a part books will play in tomor- 
row's world. Never before has such an 
avalanche of economic, social, practical, 
philosophical, governmental literature 
flooded the bookshelves of America. Never 
before have so many men already promi- 
nent in other fields taken pen in hand to 
convey to the masses the essence of all 
their thinking. William L. Shirer's Berlin 
Diary and Jan Valtin's Out of the Night, 
for instance, have helped to inform the 
people and make them cognizant of just 
what lies behind Germany's paranoiac bru- 
talities. One of these men writes as an 
observer, one as a persecutee. Wendell 
Willkie's One World has done a great 
deal to unite the people to one way of 
thinking and to instill in them the spirit 
of co-operation and the desire for a uni- 
fied world which is one in liberty, equality 
of opportunity and brotherhood. 

It is not such books as these alone 
which can be utilized to mould the world 
which is to come. The Bible must be 
the keystone in the arch of volumes. 
Christ's teachings can never be surpassed 

for use in establishing the future. Not 
only his, but those of men like Paul and 
Tychicus also. Take, for example, this 
thought from the latter: "For we wrestle 
not against flesh and blood but against 
principalities, against powers, against the 
rulers of the darkness of this world, 
against spiritual wickedness in high places. 
Wherefore take unto you the whole ar- 
mour of God . . . your loins girt about 
with truth . . . with the breastplate of 
righteousness on . . . your feet shod with 
the preparation of the gospel of peace, 
above all taking the shield of faith, the 
helmet of salvation, and the sword of the 
Spirit which is the word of God." 
(Ephesians 6:12-17.) 

It is such advice as this that will profit 
us more than any volume of economic 
problems could, for we need to know 
the basic things before we can learn the 
complementary ones. It is from the Bible 
alone that we will learn the basic things; 
from the Prince of Peace himself. 

With such a keystone as the holy book, 
we need in addition classics, reference 
books, periodicals, histories, geographies, 
science manuals, all sorts of informative 
volumes on every subject. The subject 
matter of these need not be entirely heavy 
nor purely factual. Any type of book or 
magazine which expresses contemporary 
thought of any period is required for the 
strong arch of nations which we are at- 
tempting to build. We must know why 
the League of Nations failed the first 
time in order to realize how to strengthen 
it this time. 



All authorities agree that to form a 
"better" nation, education of the masses 
is imperative. And how are these masses 
to become literate except through books? 
The primary debility of America's public 
is illiteracy. As long as it persists, there 
can be no government set up which will 
be entirely democratic. People who have 
not learned the value of books, or the 
thoughts which can be gleaned from them 
deserve no voice in the government. Ex- 
perience may be the best teacher but some 
things have to be learned vicariously. 

Even those who are literate are not 
above reproach, for they need to famil- 
iarize themselves with the library. Many 
are the persons who are considered in- 
telligent who actually do not know their 
way around the library, who are not even 
familiar with the card catalogue. Li- 
brarians can stamp cards and look up an 
occasional book for us but they cannot 
think for us. 

As for our arch, we need information 
not (Mily on modem problems but on 
ancient ones as well. We have the op- 
portunity to capitalize on the experience 
and conclusions of others. To turn this 
wealth to practical account we must be 
able to read and extract the most important 
thoughts which may be applied to our 
own situations. 

It is with painstaking study and care- 
ful selection that we will weld the arch 
of the future. We must choose the sound- 
est stones which leave no loopholes and 
each one of which will bear the weight of 
its fellow stones without cracking. We 
must cement these stones with the mortar 
of intelligence and deep thinking, of 
scanning and application. "Build the fu- 
ture with books" and make it a future of 
precious realities as well as glowing pos- 



By Elizabeth Wailes 

* Elizabeth hails from Long Beach, California. 
Her hobbies are music, cartooning, and sailing, 
and her ambition is to write a book and get 
it published. But get this, the gal wants to 
maJce law her career! We predict a full life 
for her. 

"Mama," I begged, trotting into her 
room carrying my worn old book, "Read 
me a story." She looked up from her 
letters, smiled like only Mama could 
smile, and lead me over to the love seat. 
We nestled comfortably together before 
the blazing fire and I opened the frayed 
volume to the story, "How the Leopard 
Got His Spots," complete with funny 
pictures and dirty finger prints smudging 
the pages. It was a hard thing to come 
down from that marvelous world I had 
been in for the past half hour. I sighed 
as I went back to my room to brush my 
teeth and go to bed, but then I thought 
gleefully — tomorrow night another won- 
derful story — maybe about the El'phant 
with the 'satiable cur'osity. I scampered 
happily into my little bed, to dream of 
marvelous animals and beautiful princesses 
that lived in marble palaces and ate ice 
cream all day long. 

This was my introduction to interest in 
literature — from a very early age to six 
years. There had been opened to me a 
marvelous world, complete with all the 
wonders of fantasy, through story books — 
with pictures. I loved to sit and look at 
the pages, trying to remember what they 
said, and I would watch the pictures, 
fascinated, expecting the characters to 
move any minute and speak to me. Like 
any young child, I found most appeal in 
the stories of the fairy kingdom and talk- 

OEGEMtER. 1943 


ing animals. I used to walk up to my 
pony and demand that he speak to me. 
And when all he did was snort sleepily 
and chew his hay with a meditative ex- 
pression, I would storm out of the barn 
and go tell Mr. Tom, the stableman, that 
my pony wasn't any good, he couldn't say 
anything. Mr. Tom vyould spit a dirty 
stream of tobacco juice, thoughtfully 
scratch his grizzled head and drawl, "Wal, 
Miz Betty Anne, I jus' guess he's been 
a-talkin' to so many other bosses he jus' 
don't want to do no talkin' to jus' an 
or'nary hooman." And I'd go off, very 
disgusted, and determined to make the 
poor Shetland talk to me yet. Yes, story 
books do much for the imagination, and 
no childhood is complete without these 
wonderful impossible tales. If the little 
girl or boy is given an early appreciation 
for literature, his cultural development 
has an excellent start and a well-rounded 
individual will normally result. 

With my learning how to read, the wild 
world of funny books opened to me. And 
in those days it was Dick Tracy, Tarzan, 
and Tailspin Tommy — thrilling, lurid, im- 
possible. I can well remember the nights 
I went to bed, shaking ^th terror as I 
expected some mad scientist to burst into 
my room and boH me in a test tube. Those 
pulp classics were our delight and we 
would often go down to the river bed and 
pour over the hair-raising adventures, try- 
ing to understand the words and clutch- 
ing each other's hands for fear. Later in 
this era however, I developed an inhuman 
love for Shakespeare. I would read him 
by the hour; I spoke in archaic English 
terms; I secretly wrote stories of deepest 
tragedy that I felt would make me im- 
mortal; I even wanted to stab myself 
because Juliet did. However, this latter 
attempt was luckily thwarted by my 
watchful father who. knew something was 

drastically wrong when I started to recite 
speeches or gloom and death. But to this 
day, I remember a startling amount of 
those once adored passages, and I cannot 
help but believe that I Jjenefited much 
from my Shakespeare complex, even 
though I had to be fitted for glasses the 
next year, and the parents truly worried 
about my sanity when at breakfast, for 
instance, I would despairingly cry, with 
gestures, "Oh, thou lamentable day, thou 
foul oatmeal ... Hi thee hence 'ere I 
become sick to my. tummy." 

From twelve to fifteen my age may 
be characterized as one of deep interest 
in the nineteenth century writers, wherein 
I was a great admirer of Dickens, lEliot, 
Thackery, and, of course, Poe. After 
patiently reading practically all of Dick- 
ens from the musty, leather-gowned, gilt- 
edged set left u? by some long, dead 
aunt, I felt that he was incomparable. I 
wanted to reform England; I fell madly 
in love with Sidney Carton; I wanted to 
hang Mr. Carker. And too, I scared 
myself half to death reading Poe. His 
stories of the supernatural, reeking with 
blood and heavy with death had an alarm- 
ing amount of appeal to me. On a certain 
night after reading "The Fall of the 
House of Usher," every mbvenient of thfe 
trees outside my window, the vague sigh- 
ing of the wind, the clammy slow-creeping 
fog, the distant howling of a dog put 
near the marshes — all served to make me 
oije truly frightened, little girl. I lay 
there in bed, expecting to see any minute 
before me the awful decaying figure of 
a shrouded corpse rise from the blackness 
of my room and twist my neck with 
maniacial, savage hands. Yet that story^ 
has a fascination for me today, and I am 
going to read it again^ust to see if I 
can take it! 

About this time studies really became 
concentrated, and I found less and; Icss- 


i T H f :; ^ a t M. ^ S; 

time for intensified reading. However, 
there came into my life the "Book of the 
Month Qub" with its novels clad in 
colorful jackets, the risque plots, and the 
modem style of writing. I really enjoyed 
them, the easy reading, the daring stories, 
but nevertheless I noticed the difficulties 
of a transition from the world of fine old 
literature to the one of the new and 
revolutionary writings. In Hemmingway 
I found too much sordid realism; in 
Lewis, a tiresome preponderance; in Shaw, 
a scathing and bitter contempt for all the 
\vorld. Nevertheless through reading 
many contemporary writers, I developed 
an appreciation for their styles and an 
understanding of the motives behind many 
of the plots. But it is the poetry of this 
age that really fascinates me. I love the 
fresh and salty tang of Masefield, the 
feeling of the wet sea wind and the danc- 
ing water; I thrill to the simple yet 
thoughtful beauty of Emily Dickinson's 
works. Sandburg's poetry is human and 
earthy with a great appeal for the masses, 
while Vachel Lindsey's ditties are charm- 
ing and whimsical and make a person 
want to laugh and laugh for sheer joy. 

At last I have come to realize that with- 
out all types of literature being appre- 
ciated, a person's cultural background 
would be lop-sided and poorly developed. 
An excess of the old school of writing 
can make a person take on something 
of that heaviness and become ponderous 
and boring, while too much of the new can 
result in a complex of dissatisfaction, sar- 
casm, and a lowering of mental standards. 
So we must be well-balanced if we would 
have a true love and appreciation for the 
literature of this earth. Fairy tales and 
involved essays, we must enjoy all forms 
of writing inclusive. 

Sir Edward Bulwer Lutton has expressed 
his thoughts on books beautifully, "Lo, 
the world so loud, and they, the movers 
of the world, so still." 



By Mary Jane Sherrill 

• "Jay" is from Little Rock, Arkansas, and her 
hobby is collecting perfumes. A history major, 
she may open a dress shop someday, but she's 
not exactly sure. 

Have you a bookshelf? Most everyone 
has. I do not mean the family library 
or some impersonal one in the parlor. I 
mean your own special one, the one where 
the books are kind of ragged around the 
edges from so much handling. Not at 
all like the grand, impressive encyclopedias 
or the very prettily bound set of Shakes- 
peare on the family shelves. 

Mine happens to be under a window 
(personally, I think everyone's should be 
there) right in the reach of an easy chair. 
This arrangement is cozy in the winter. 
I can curl up in the chair, read, and maybe 
sip hot chocolate, and ignore the blizzard 
outside. Dicken's Christmas Stories or 
a sonnet to snow just seem to fit. In the 
summer there is always a pleasant breeze 
blowing through the window, and it rip- 
ples the curtains just enough. For this 
season I shall choose a Coca-Cola and 
maybe poetry, for instance, Wordsworth's 
"I Wander'd Lonely as a Cloud." 

Of course, you realize that your book- 
shelves must be arranged according to 
your own ideas about the books that you 
choose for this special honor. It seems 
that even if one is not a very neat person 
he likes to be able to put his finger right 
on the book he wants. Some of them may 
be standing vertically and some horizon- 
tally, but they are in a certain place. If 
this bookshelf is really a personal thing 
(as it is to me) then there will not be 
an accumulation of dust because the books 
will be removed so often. 

My particular arrangement is almost 
a standard one, that is, I have my favorite 



books on the top shelf, where they may 
be reached easily. On this shelf I have 
several collections of poetry because, to 
me, poetry is something you can read any- 
time, no matter how many times you read 
it, you enjoy it once more. Novels are 
different; you tire of them easier. Also 
on this shelf I have an extremely ragged 
book called Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. 

This is used as a reference book. It 
is used to memorize quotations on a lazy 
day when you find a bit of wisdom, or 
just on its general contents. And I love 
it. Next to this is my Bible. This is not 
as worn as some of the others — as worn 
as it should be, I am afraid. But it is 
always there in case I need it. Funny 
thing, but the Bible always fits in with 
your favorite books. The next is quite a 
shock. Cone With the Wind is its name. 
It is worn because it took me such a long 
time to read it, but I do like it, and there 
is so much of it, I am always able to find 
something I can enjoy all over again. This 
is my first shelf. I could name the other 
books, but that would not make them 
mean as much to you as they do to me; 
so you had better pick your own first 

The second shelf has novels on it. These 
books are like friends. Take, for ex- 
ample, my old copy of Alice in Wonder- 
land. Even though I am in college she 
is still one of my best friends. Next to 
Alice stand Jane Eyre. They seem to get 
along beautifully, but confidentially, I 
do not know why, because to me they are 
very different. There are some more, and 
most of my novels are about people that 
I especially admire. It does not have to 
be the main character, but someone that — 
well, someone to whom I can almost tell 
my troubles. 

Now we come to the third shelf. This 
one is a little more dignified, and there 
is just a faint suggestion of dust about 
it. Here are my Encyclopedias American- 

na. They are very nicely bound and they 
really give my room an intelUgent air. 
Of course they are not read for pleasure; 
they are used entirely for reference work. 
They are not exactly friends, they are 
more or less teachers, and they can always 
straighten me out when I am on the wrong 

To me bookshelves are very important. 
A book on someone's desk is a guide to 
the sort of person the owner is, what he 
likes, and how he likes it. If I had to, 
I feel as if I could almost choose my 
friends by the books they read. As a 
matter of fact, I think a person that does 
not have a bookshelf has missed a part of 



By Margaret Lawier 

* A Kansas City girl, Bunny is an old tinier 
in this joumalistn game, having won several 
awards in high school. She has no particular 
hobby and her life-long ambition is to be a 
writer or actor. 

The first story in our Bobbs-Merrill 
primer was "The Gingerbread Boy," and 
oh, how proud I was that, due to much 
training and helpful prompting by my 
mother, I, on the initial day of my career 
in the first grade, was able to read "up 
to the part where the fox comes in." 

Since that first day in school, reading 
has been one of my greatest pleasures. 
To be able to pick up a book, open it, 
and begin reading is like being trans- 
formed into a completely different person 
living in a completely different world . . . 
a world full of new faces, new scenes, and 
new experiences. From "The Gingerbread 
Boy" to Cronin's The Keys of the King- 
dom (which, incidentally, is one of the 
most beautiful stories ever written, in my 
estimation) I have flown half way 'round 



tfie world with the Lindberghs; I have 
<een the horrors of the rape of Nanking 
with Pearl Buck; I have struggled des- 
perately through the Civil War with Mar- 
garet Mitchell; and I have lived a lazy 
life in the Florida swamp lands with Mar- 
jorie Kinnan Rawlings. Surely there is 
no greater pleasure than this. 

Also, reading is a diversion, and though 
I realize that I, at sixteen, am too young 
to seek an escape, reading is one for me. 
Books are an escaoe from t>eoDle as they 
are, to people as I would like them to be. 
People in books are never run-of-the-mill. 
They, like the little girl with the curl, 
are either very, very good or horrid. In 
fact, the two fictional characters that are 
my closest friends are at oooo<;tte poles 
of disposition. One is Father Fr^-ncis in 
Keyi of the Kingdom; the other is Scarlett 
O'Hara. This reveals another of my rea- 
sons for loving to read: variety . . . variety 
in person, place, and situanon. I like to 
meet new situations in stories and decide 
what I would do under like circumstances, 
dien read on to see how the character 
involved reacts to the experience. 

For me, each turning of a page is like 
opening a door to new adventures, and 
after I have finished a book, when I put 
it down, I feel for a few minutes that 
I have lost a friend. Then I remember 
that I have not lost one. because, like a 
true friend, the book will always be there 
waiting for me to come back and relive 
the exciting, happy, or sad times we have 
had together. 

When I was very small, my family had 
a set of bookplates on which a little poem 
was written. I have always remembered 
that verse, because it so aptly expresses 
my feeling towards a good book: 
"Books are the keys to wisdom's treasure; 

Books are paths that upward lead. 

Books are gates to lands of pleasure; 

Books are friends. Come, let us read." 



By Betsy Bishop 

It seems that no other subject has 
claimed an essayist's attention more than 
that of books. Writers, old and new, 
great and small, some time or another 
have put down their thoughts on this in- 
triguing subject. 

George Gissing, on surveying his book- 
shelves, writes in "My Books" of the 
struggle and triumph they recall — a strug- 
gle as to whether to buy the book or his 
supper. The book seems always to have 
won. Agnes Repolier writes "Books That 
Have Hindered Me" in direct contrast to 
Robert Louis Stevenson's "Books Which 
Have Influenced Me." Miss Repplier's 
essay is a salty accusation of those books 
which laid the burden of the world upon 
her young shoulders as she was growing 
up, instead of comforting and helping 
her as everyone said they should. G. K. 
Chesterton once wrote in "A Defense of 
Nonsense" of the absolute absurdity of 
Edward Lear's poetry in contrast to Lewis 
Carroll's intellectual Alice in Wonder- 
land. H. M. Tomlinson tells in "Bed- 
books and Nightlights" of the sheer en- 
joyment he gets from reading travel books 
in bed by candlelight. 

TTiere are a great many others. William 
Hazlitt's "On Reading Boob," Charles 
Lamb's "Detached Thoughts on Books 
and Reading," and Leigh Hunt's "My 
Books" are among the many. 

Though the essay is far more common, 
many of our clever authors have devised 
ways to write a charming book on this 
fascinating subiect. A. Edward Newton 
has written an illustrated volume which is 
in its fifth edition, called The Amenities 
of Book Collecting. In his delightful 
introduction, he tells how he came to write 
(Contintted on page 32) 



I Am His Retribution 

By Joan Russell 

* Joan is a Senior-Middle day student. She 
began to write when teachers began to require 
themes. Her hobby is conversation; her career 
is to be some sort of a job in South America; 
and her ambition is marriage and four little 

A recurring, throbbing pain hits sharply 
between my eyes. Something so transient 
as a pain, however, will not allow me es- 
cape from these pictures of a hideous clar- 
ity that keep playmg on my brain. I'll go 
mad if my thoughts keep threshing this 
thing over and over. Damn you, mind, 
if you would only become a nerveless 
blank, and let me stay here peacefully, 
waiting for the guards to come and lead 
me to the block. I can see it now, there 
on the hill; the cruel, blood-stained means 
for legal murder my exalted husband has 
so frequently used on others before me. 
They'll come marching in here, those 
Niachiavellian devils, their faces grim and 
determined — ready to take the head of 
their queen, Catherine Regina. Yes, the 
Judases, itching to kill for only the measly 
wage our liege lord, the accursed King 
Harry, metes out to theni. May the sin 
of this deed rest heavily upon the heads of 
all those who plot my death, and especially 
may God condemn Henry Tudor to the 
worst eternity that is to be. I hope He 
will have Satan's imps feed from the living 
flesh of our ruler, my spouse, until Henry's 
beefy fat face draws up in severest pain. 
I hope God puts him away into the remotest 
comer of hell, and sends down visions of 
the diabolical crimes of our King to prick 
his hardened conscience into a mass of 
writhing self-accusation. Curse him, God! 
I call upon you to put his slimy small 
soul through all the agony and torture 
that Thou hats invented for the punish- 
ment of wrongdoers! Humble him unto 
Thee — make him crawl on his ponderous 

belly and cry out for mercy just as the 
pitiful people he burned at Smithfieid 
cried to him! I hate this eighth Henry, 
King of England, with a passion in me so 
intense it almost amounts to an insanity! 
Perhaps it is better for you, my brain, 
to cull over my life to me now, for too 
soon who knows where you will be? With 
one swift blow of his as, the executioner 
will sever my head from my shoulders, 
and you, brain, will go rolling aimlessly 
into the bloody basket that has caught 
wiser heads than mine. Then, brain, they'll 
put my head on my shoulders again, stuff 
all the limp and gory mess into a box; and, 
if Henry is in a lenient mood, the remains 
of Catherine Howard Tudor will be 
buried in the chapel as were those of my 
overly ambitious cousin, Anne Boleyn. 
After that, if what the priests declaim is 
true, my soul will be beating its wings 
wildly against the bars of purgatory for 
a few thousand centuries. 
- I have not been a good woman. The 
charges of adultery my husband preferred 
against me in the courts are true." I have 
from youth been a willful, capricious, en- 
ticing enchantress. It is not from conceit 
that I term myself enchantress, for life 
has proved to me that I; possess some in- 
tangible power which draws men. Nor 
have I ever known why any man should 
be physically attracted to me — my face is 
not, provocatively beautiful, and there b 
no statuesque beauty to my figure. I am 
a frail and fleeting creature, possessed of 
a certain brittle vivacity which is my chief 
charm. I dance extremely well, I gayly 
and bewitchingly play the role of trusting 
girlhood, which farce inflates the ego of 
man to the bursting point, and he falls, 
like a ripe plum, into the plans I have-fbr 
him. True, I do know the tricks by which 


T H t i C H J W E S 

to snare men, but they are learned the hard 
way. The price I paid for this knowledge 
was far too high, for if I had not been so 
promiscuous in my loves and free with my 
favors, I would be the Queen of England 
for many years to come, instead of waiting 
in this chill, deep silence for the axmen. 
I have sinned many times and deserve my 
death, but Henry has not trod the straight 
and narrow path of virtue for one minute 
since he first knew how to crawl. There-, 
fore, my sentence does not rest fairly or 
justly upon me, coming from such a judge. 
I have contaminated the royal blood, he 
says. Contaminate a Tudor? 'Tis im- 

My greatest satisfaction in this ignoble 
murder of which I am the victim is that 
I serve as retribution to my husband. I 
am the fifth, and the most wicked of his 
wives. Who knows, with Henry's lust for 
women, whether or no there will be more? 
At any rate, he has caused much real and 
terrible suffering in the hearts of all those 
whom he has taken to wife. Poor old 
Catherine of Aragon, the Spanish lump, 
whose daughter is six years older than I 
at this very moment, and gloating at my 
demise, as she did at the others who fol- 
lowed her mother's banishment from court; 
the fresh, hard young Anne, whose am- 
bitions were tutored and nurtured first in 
the court of the French, and whose child 
Elizabeth is of the identical pattern as 
her father; sweet uncomplex little 
Jane Seymour, for whom Henry had an 
honest and a healthy respect, and who- 
gave him his only legitimate son; the 
great Flanders mare, Anne of Cleves — a 
fool, a simple fool, accepting what our 
black-hearted monarch decreed to her, as 
an unreasoning, well-trained animal acr 
cepts his orders from his master in the 
barnyard; and I, who was to have been 
the dearly loved wife of the King's old 
age, the woman around whom all Henry's 
thoughts revolved, and revolve still. The 

world, in years to come, will tell that 
Catherine Howard was the Jove of Henry 
Tudor's life, and to save hij face he needs 
must put her to death, though it take 
from him his last breath of youth, 

I'm Henry's equal, or superior, by line- 
age: One of the venerable and honored 
Howards, closely allied with the Nor- 
folks and many other powerful families 
of the English nobility. Indeed, if it 
had not been for my famed family, I 
would not have been obliged to carry 
out this disgraceful marriage. That is 
also true of Anne, the innocent. If our 
clan had not been glutted with the po- 
tentialities of the political powers almost 
within hand's reach, provided Anne and 
I cooperated, then both of us might have 
been happy. I, as the wife of my be- 
loved Culpeper, and she, the mate of 
our mutual cousin, Thomas Wyatt. I 
shall not dwell upon the happiness that 
might have been, for if I did, I would 
go mad with the hunger of my desire, and 
the futihty of that wish. My lover is 
dead, dead by Henry's wicked hand, and 
because of me! I do not mind death for 
myself, as much as I hate the thought 
that I instigated beheading; If it had not 
been for that damned serving woman who 
told of our lingering kisses, and lover- 
like intrigues, he would be alive today. 
I hope her soul scorches in hell, as will 
Henry Tudor's! Death would find me 
more brave, if only I might have gone 
to thie block first, knowing that my mem- 
ory would be revered in the mind of my 
lover; but perhaps he died easier by leav- 
ing me behind him on this earth to mourn, 
if it be but for a few days after he was 
butchered. A comforting thought. 

, ' I am calm now, and resigned. My 
mind has stopped its hellish turmoil, and 
is steeped in waves of peace. That is 
well, for I must die quietly and bravely, 

^- - (Continued on page 21)- 

P E;G.^M iE S,;; 19 4 3 












ly Betsy Anne Rowlett 



Eve Curie 

Doubleday, Doran, and Go. - 
Now York. 1943 

* Betsy Anne likes to write but her real interest 
is in photography. After the war she plans 
to go to Paris and do photographic work. She 
is a Nashville girl. She has a prize collection 
of classical music records. 

One of the most brilliant of the new 
books is "Journey Among Warriers" by 
Eve Curie. Daughter of Pierre and Marie 
Curie, co-discoverers of radium, Eve Curie 
is one of the foremost women journalists 
and authors. This is probably her last 
book for some time, since she is now a 
member of the women's auxiliary of the 
Fighting French Army. 

"Journey Among Warriors" is Mile. 
Curie's account of her recent trip through 
Russia and the Near East. Because of 
the prominence of her name, she was able 
to secure entrance into circles which the 
ordinary reporter is unable to penetrate. 
Her task was to learn more of two of the 
most important fighting fronts of this 
war. She is well equipped to handle this 

In Russia, she visited factories and 
talked with the man in the street as well 
as the leading minds of the government, 
among them Stalin. With some persuasion 
the authorities allowed her to make trips 
to the defense lines and interview Russian 
soldiers and their sullen Nazi prisoners. 

She suffered the hardships of a Moscow 
under seige, and witnessed the fortitude 
of her people under terrible privations. In 
China a talk with the Chiang Kai Sheks 
made her realize once again the incredible 
faith and tenacity of the Chinese people 
and most especially, their leaders. Realiz- 
ing the tenseness existing between the 
Chaing and Indian governments, she made 
her way to India to learn what she could 
of that country's questionable position in 
a fighting Orient. She was particularly 
impressed with the two great leaders, 
Mohandas K. Ghandi, and Jawarhalal 
Nehru, brilliant chief of the All-Congress 
Party. Between them these two men con- 
trol the great number of Hindus, which 
battle constantly against the Moslems un- 
der Mohammed Ali Jinnah. Mile. Curie 
was particularly charmed by the young 
handsome Pandit Nehru. She was for- 
tunate in attending his daughter's wedding 
which was celebrated during her stay in 
true Hindu fashion. The home rule ques- 
tion is also presented with sympathy to- 
ward the Indian viewpoint. 

Mile. Curie brings to a language not 
her own the clarity and force of French 
prose. Hers is a brilliant and incisive 
mind. She takes trouble to present the 
characters of the men who are shaping 
the destinies of these countries as she sees 
them. Gossip and hearsay have no part 
in her decisions. "Journey Among War- 
riors" contributes a great deal to the 
knowledge of this world war, its fighting 
fronts, and its ideals. 




By Billie Hailey 

• Billie, a day student Junior in high school, 
has longed to be a newspaper reporter ever 
since she can remember. She began to write, 
as others before her, because of required 

How many Americans would be well 
and happy today without the aid of 
transcriptions? These httle "helpers" re- 
quire only about fifteen minutes of a 
thirty-minute program. 

The murderer is approaching his victim; 
we hear a scream. At this crucial moment 
we pause for the transcription: "If you 
are embarrassed by dry, scaly skin, try 
our Woodbury Beauty Night Cap. If 
you do not have a lovlier complexion in 
seven weeks, your money will be re- 

A mother is telling of the telegram she 
received saying that her son was missing 
in action. The audience is deeply moved. 
The familiar voice of the announcer inter- 
rupts, "Are your nerves jittery and on 
edge? Try Carter's Little Liver Pills." 

Sighs and dreamy eyes characterize the 
audience as Bing Crosby croons. You 
go entirely out of this world when he 

starts whistling. But suddenly a shrill 
voice interrupts: 

"Rinso White, Rinso White, happy little 
washday soap. 
Its dazzling suds make it lots more fun. 
Buy a box today." 

Incidentally, have you ever tried Blue 
Horse notebook paper? It is marvelous 
for writing essays. 

Arc y»o tveftoooS ft H A vui^ doio-n % 


(Continued from page 19) 

Oh! Oh, my Christ, my God, there is 
the great ringing noise of the headsmen's 
boots in the corridor. My judgment is 
upon me! Give me strength, in these last 
few moments; a great abiding strength to 
hold me erect in the little time that is still 

mine. The door is opening. I see their 
hateful, vengeful faces! Catherine, control 
yourself. Do not become panic-stricken. 
Rise, and royally go to meet them; not 
as a captive, but as the Queen. Into 
Thy hands, O God, I commend my souL 



Quote, lntellecfuals> Unquote 

By Marie Mount 

* Marie is from Park Ridge, Illinois, and is a 
Senior in the junior college. Her ambition is 
to write fiction as a career. She is making a 
great start, as one of her sonnets has already 
been published. 

"Intellectuals" come in two varieties: 
the ordinary — or garden — type, and the 
super-superior — or long-haired — category. 
But before I discuss these groups in detail, 
the presence of the quotation marks fenc- 
ing off my subject must be explained. 
I wish it clearly understood that I have 
no bone to pick concerning the sincere 
scholar whose sole reason for seeking 
knowledge is the private and unproclaimed 
satisfaction he receives from the pursuit 
and cherishing of that knowledge; how- 
ever — the disagreeable individuals who 
harry university professors by sitting ip 
their classes semester in and semester out 
or who fiendishly globe-trot for the express 
purpose of later inflicting themselves on 
a defenseless public in the guise of some- 
one who knows something, no matter how 
irrelevant to anything in the universe, 
(just a moment, while I catch my breath) 
ought to take a walk in the Atlantic 
Ocean until their Stetsons, whose primary 
use is to provide an instrument through 
which to talk, float. These characters 
thus deserve the "quotes" as a substitute 
for pseudo. 

Now to elaborate upon my two classi- 
fications of this menace to society: 

First I will consider the garden variety 
"intellectual." Typical of this group are 
the more overbearingly energetic club 
woman and the armchair military strate- 
gist — she shrilly raving over John Stein- 
beck's latest pennings while in reality pro- 
foundly shocked and he stoutly maintain- 

ing that the only way to start an effective 
second front is by dumping an army on 
Berlin by parachute. Also included herein 
are the artists who cannot make a straight 
line with a ruler and the musicians with 
a tendency toward tone-deafness; of 
course, these are the first to offer (I 
should say force at the point of a six- 
gun) criticism of the really fine, but less 
self-laudatory artists. These intellectuals 
are usually graduates of a tmiversity who 
while there leaned toward such aesthetic 
pursuits as pasting together Jthe pages of 
the professor's text or carrying on experi- 
ments to discover how many exam notes 
could be crammed on a thumbnail. At 
least if not bound by "old school ties," 
this citizen is fiercely proud of his self- 
education which would be definitely more 
appealing if it didn't exist. Thb thirsting 
after and spreading of knowledge is with 
them a malady peculiar to more advanced 

Infinitely more complex is the member 
of the long-haired contingent. This in- 
dividual's desire to startle the masses with 
his Learning and Inside Information dan- 
gerously approaches sadism. He not only 
pesters his friends and neighbors but ac- 
tually issues forth on lecture tours so 
that he might be certain that an even 
greater number of human beings is having 
the benefit of his self-satisfaction. This 
personage is an inveterate wearer of the 
frock coat and striped trousers or, in his 
more informal moments, the loud tweeds 
three sizes too large and outrageously 
padded in the shoulders. Oxford spec- 
tacles are absolutely essential. He of the 
long hair assiduously cultivates a special 
lecture voice which soon becomes a habit 
as he grows more and more infatuated 
(Continued on page 30) 



Kin Folks 

By Helen Suddoth 

* Helen is a Nashville girl who writes only 
because the teachers demand themes. After 
graduating from high school she plans to 
study dress designing. 

Kin folks are a queer lot of people. 
Take Aunt Sarah, for example; she is 
never satisfied. All she does is complain 
about how fleshy she is; but if she loses so 
much as a pound, she thinks she is wasting 
away. To me,. Aunt Sarah is the epitome 
of all the idiosyncrasies of a maiden aunt. 

Cousin Agnes, however, is the one that 
I avoid. My heavens, I'd hate to be the 
person under discussion when she is pres- 
ent; for the way she gossips would baffle 
even Herr Goebbelsi When she fixes her 
keen black eyes on you, there are only two 
things to do: politely excuse yourself; or, 
if you have an unusual amount of pa- 
tience, perhaps you can outstare even- 
Cousin Agnes. 

Our most frequent visitor, however, is 
Uncle Wilbur, with never a penny to his 
name. My goodness, he has a job (or so 
he states) , but he is continually borrowing 
money. "Just this one time, I must have 
it for this or that," is his usual routine. 
Then the next time comes, and are you 
repaid? Don't be ridiculous. It would 
break Uncle Wilbur's heart to have to 
pay his just debts. 

Cousin Edgar is the type that comes 
for the week-end and spends the rest of 
the year, dyspepsia and all. Each day 
that dawns he is going to leave; but where 
do you find him that night? In your best 

bed snoring loud enough to rattle all the 

Last, but not least, is Aunt Ophelia, 
with her heart palpitation and assortment 
of medicine bottles. If she placed all of 
those bottles end to end, they would prob- 
ably reach half way to heaven. She is 
God's gift to the doctors, bless her. 

However, don't get me wrong! Kin 
folks are usually a jovial lot, and are not 
so bad as I have made my fictitious rela- 
tives appear. I have always found it ex- 
pedient to be on speaking terms with all 
of them at Christmas time, although I 
must confess that a majority of the gifts 
they place on the tree for me cannot be 
put to any practical use. 

D E C E M B E «.: .19 4 3 


Moron versus Molecule 

By Judy Dunham 

Just what this tiny mystic mite 
Can have to do with me, 
Can bring to bear upon my life, 
I fear I fail to see. 

Or do you think in later years, 
When kiddies wail and cry, 
I could amuse the little dears 
With gram-atomic formulae? 

I fear me that my survey 
Of the atom and his brothers 
Would be a little scurvey 
To inflia on saddened others. 

Where then apply the complex skills, 
I am so slowly learning, 
That will not heal my frequent ills, 
Or keep my home fires burning? 

That will not aid me in my quest 
For someone darkly handsome. 
Nor guarantee that he'll at best 
Be worth a rajah's ransom. 

How horrible to picture me " 
In some cobwebby lab. 
An aged "prof" of chemistry, 
A-stirring dab with dab. 

No longer caring for a world 
Where violets and sables 
Have proved to be more popular 
Than metric weights and tables. 

Oh, someone save me from this end, 
This inartistic fate. 
Who made this course compulsory 
That I might graduate? 

May down upon his head descend 
A stream of Bunsen burners. 
I wish one week could number him 
Among us suff'ring learners. 

So as I sit here strapped and chained, 
Within my padded habitat, 
Please weep for me, you stronger minds, 
For science put me where I'm at! 

• Judy is a senior from Los Angeles, CaJi- 
fomia, and she insists that this is her first 
serious attempt at writing poetry. She wants 
to make a career of poetry writing. 


To a Haunted House 

By Ann Sharp 

There by the turbulent river's bank, 
Watching its eerie rise and fall, 
I saw through Night's dull moonlit glow, 
Shrouding its stillness like a pall, 

A house where Time's destruction lay 
Her spectral fingers on the door 
And softly shook with withered hand 
An ancient dust upon the floor. 

They called it haunted and were afraid, 
They who dwelt in the city's light; 
Afraid of memories that never die, 
Afraid of dreams that star the night. 

They couldn't know those forms were real 
That drifted through the silver haze; 
They couldn't know the creaking floors 
Remembered steps of brighter days. 

And when the wind on lonely nights 
Would shiver down the dusty walls. 
They couldn't know an echo sighed 
Its empty note through shadowed halls. 

Like those who come and those who go 
To linger on that distant shore, 
It is not dead, nor can it die; 
A soul will live forevermore. 

* Aan, a high school Junior and a native 
Nashvillian, has picked a full career of artist- 
author. She began on both of these accom- 
plishments at a very tender age. So we may- 
look forward to seeing more of the gal in the 

0£ClMflER.i943 25 

The Common Cold 

By Susan Russell 

* A Senior from McMinnville, Tennessee, 
"Russ" has an art scholarship here at Ward- 
Behnont. Her ambition is to work on a news- 
paper or magazine. She started to write for 
fun, worked on the yearbook in high school, 
and she is a staff member of the three publi- 
cations at Ward-Belmont. 

That dread disease known as the Com- 
mon Cold is prevalent in all parts of 
North America, Iceland, Siberia, and 
probably Lapland and Greenland. It is 
characterized by an unpleasant, stuffy feel- 
ing about the nasal passages, a desire to 
sneeze and even cough upon occasion, and 
a maddening inclination of those not af- 
flicted to be unsympathetic and cold- 
bloodedly casual about even the most 
severe cases. 

One finds, upon consulting the dic- 
tionary, that there is no high-sounding 
name for the affliction. At least, if there 
is, Webster was so unimpressed by it that 
he neglected to include it in his book. 
Evidently he was not a Cold Sufferer. He 
does define "cold" as a low temperature, 
and this definition will serve our purpose 

The first definition of the word "cold" 
is: "Unemotional. Not easily moved by 
love or enthusiasm." Now really, how 
could one be expected to become romantic 
while grasping a damp Kleenex in a clam- 
my hand and sneezing violently at two- 
minute intervals? Certainly a Cold Suf- 

ferer could hardly be expected to cheer 
loudly at a football game or to exhibit 
any excitement at all. 

So we shall pretend we didn't see the 
first definition, as it does not really prove 
our point; and we shall go on to the next. 
It is: "Chilling, discouraging, dispiriting, 
and unenlivening." This is more like it. 
We are now coming to the point. 

The last definition, which Webster has 
so obligingly given us, is: "Of a color 
bluish or greenish in tone." I should hate 
to contradict the learned man who so 
explains the word, but if I were describ- 
ing the color which most Cold Sufferers 
of my acquaintance generally affect, I 
believe I should say, "Of a color reddish 
or pinkish in tone." However, we shall 
not quibble over so minute a detail. 

Suffice it to say that the Common 
Cold is a disordered bodily condition 
caused by lack of boots in rain or lack 
of protection from drafts. The cure is 
to take large quantities of soda, aspirin, 
Penetro nose drops, and anything else in 
the medicine cabinet not marked "PoiscMi" 
— and maybe a little of that. Helpful, but 
sometimes rather difficult to arrange, is 
a month or so in bed with a hot-water 
bottle carefully placed under the feet and 
a copy of Robert Benchley's Ten Years 
in a Quandary near die bed. 

A Prayer of Thanksgiving 

By Befsy Anne Rowleif 
I thank thee. Lord, for many things: 
The tormented sea and a strong wind, 
A sky at dusk and a silhouette remembered. 
Knowledge of a great love, not mine, 
Far places and strange countries, 
An exultant melody and a cathedral, hallowed, 
Hope for wisdom, love of fatherland. 
For peace and mercy, and the years to come. 



My Jllother^s Christmas 

By Virginia Luebbe 

* Virgioia's hobby is collecting classical music 
records. After the war she wants to travel ex- 
tensively. She has never before done any 

Short days of December; spruce pow- 
dered with frost; the watch in the eve- 
ning by an open fireplace; a distant ring- 
ing of bells; and I live over the Christ- 
mas of my childhood in a small moun- 
tain village a few hours, by rail, from 
the dty. 

The thick pine forest was like some- 
thing out of a fairy tale, and the snow- 
covered village street led directly toward 
the moimtain, which seemed unbelievably 
near. There by the moonlight the fir 
trees were silhouetted against the sharp 
whiteness of the snow. Deep in a crevice 
stood the church. In the house there 
was a smell of Christmas greens, baking 
ovens, and apple strudel to bring joy to 
a child's heart. 

This was the night the children did not 
have to go to bed early. They prepared 
goodies for St. Nicholas to eat when 
he appeared, while the elders were busy 
behind closed doors. At last the hour 
arrived — the children were led to an en- 
chanted room where stood the Christmas 
Tree widi its red and green candles, its 
gold and silver festoons, and the eternal 
mirade of those long-desired presents. 
There was a table arranged with pine 
branches which was laden with gilded 
nuts and Christmas delights. The glasses 
were filled with golden wine, and even the 
children were allowed to take a sip. Aimts, 
uncles, cousins, grandmother, and grand- 
father joined in the singing of "Silent 
Night, Holy Night," softly played on 
a zither. After the last strains of the 
hymn died away, the lovely wrappings 
were torn from the gifts. 

Midnight approached; hot punch was 
served; then all were snugly bundled in- 
to their coats and mufflers to set out to 
the village church. On the nearby slopes 
they saw dancing lights which slowly con- 
verged toward the sanctuary. They were 
the lanterns of the villagers, each a star. 
A pale moon sailing through the clouds 
watched as the children laughed and fell 
in the snowbanks along the way. Be- 
trothed girls walked on the arms of their 
gallants and followed the fiddler whose 
joyous airs scraped beneath the clear ring- 
ing chimes from the chapel. 

The members of the choral society 
climbed the spiral stairway in the tower. 
They passed the lovely window, glorified 
by candlelight, on which was pictured 
a miraculous virgin with a newborn babe 
on her knees. At her side a bearded peas- 
ant tended a donkey and an ox. Three 
kings, their robes seamed with gold, of- 
fered rich presents while a shepherd, lean- 
ing on his staff, prayed to the new Savior. 

Suddenly, from the choir came the 
swelling tones of "Silent Night, Holy 
Night" in which the congregation joined. 
Nowhere were the Christmas hymns sung 
with more vigor than in that litde chapel 
softly being covered with snow. 

After the service they went home through 
the cold night where the Christmas log 
was still burning. The children timibled 
happily into bed, as "Merry Christmas, 
dear people" was being exchanged be- 
tween parting friends. 

The dawn brought Christmas day and, 
for the well-to-do, the traditional tur- 
key and champagne. Tlie poor had beer 
and chicken, or perhaps sausage. But in 
every home there was mistletoe and red- 
berried holly and in the fireplace a warm 
Christmas log. 


9 4 3 



By Genella Nye 

• A senior day student, Genella has as a hobby 
collecting two very fascinating things: Jon 
Whitcombes and Frank Sinatra records. Her 
ambition is to make writing her career. 

He was sixteen, and I was twelve; and 
I developed a severe case of hero worship, 
high blood pressure, or whatever-you-call- 
it. I tried to persuade myself that there 
wasn't such a great deal of difference in 
our ages; but I was afraid, deep inside, 
that a boy of sixteen, practically a man, 
would never think of me as anything but 
a child. He didn't realize how mature and 
sophisticated I felt. Just being in the 
same room with him made me feel at 
least sixteen. Gosh, sometimes seventeen! 

One certain night stands out as a mile- 
stone in my life. I had been invited to 
eat suDDer with his family. Oh, happy 
day! Oh, divine ecstasy! I wore a snaky 
little number. Seersucker, I believe, with 
a kind of Hungarian stripe in it. Before 
supper we sat in the swing on the front 
porch and talked about a new orchestra 
just formed by a man named Glenn Mil- 
ler. The conversation seemed too imper- 
so-ial to suit me, and I did my best to 
direct it toward more personal topics — 
Bob and me, for instance. Things were 

going badly indeed. I had never felt so 
awkward and childish. I racked by brain 
to think of something brilliant and stag- 
gering to say. I had once read, "Just 
dazzle him in the glare of your p>ersonal- 
ity," but alas, my personality had retreat- 
ed, leaving me in a desperate situation. 
His mother rescued me from this difficult 
predicament by summoning us to supper. 
No time was lost in mobilizing, for al- 
though my personality had deserted me, 
there was no lack of appetite. 

And then my life was changed. Instead 
of diving into his chair and waiting im- 
patiently for the meal to begin, Bob came 
around and pulled out my chair for me. 
Oh, the thrill that was mine! My child- 
hood dropped away from me. At last I 
was old enough to be treated like a lady. 
At last Bob realized the true "me." I 
could actually feel the years pile them- 
selves upon me. And Bob smiled at me! 
Not the childish grin of the other boys 
I knew, but a kind of mysterious half- 
smile that was all for me. Well, anyway, 
I thought so. I sat on a cloud and ate 
the food of the gods. I walked out of 
the dining room that night a new person — 
a Woman of the World! 


(Continued from page 9) 

walked in the back door, arms full of 
groceries, to find her youngest child point- 
ing a bloody finger at me and howling at 
the top of her voice. 

I began to feel weak. After Mother 
had bandaged Polly's hand and quieted 
her, she started for me. I burst into 

tears. Mother disregarded this and con- 
tinued to advance. Of course Maggie's 
account of the day had not helped matters 
any. In a miraculously short time a hair- 
brush was produced. The rest was too 
painful to describe — but it was years be- 
fore I felt quite that mean again. 



Twenty-nine Iced Milks and a 
Plain Milk! 

By Jean Howerton 

"Aha!" thought I when informed that 
Seniors were to be table hostesses. "Here's 
where I get myself the choice cuts of 
meat and the end rolls and the extra 
dessert. Oh, boy, oh, boy!" It wasn't 
VERY long till I was aware that table- 
hostessing doesn't pan out quite like that. 

In the first place, I either get a table 
that diets collectively or one that gorges 
collectively. I really don't know which is 
more deflating to a hostess. The former 
are always thin as rails and they sit and 
shoot sparks out of their eyes at me, 
healthy little moron that I am, as I pro- 
ceed to stuff my face. Finally I become 
self-conscious after three dishes of ice 
cream (none of them having touched a 
morsel during the entire meal, mind you) 
and daintily wiping my lips (a la Prior- 
esse), I ask demurely, "Shall we . . ." 
Before my lips even form the g for "go," 
the little absteemers zoom out of the din- 
ing room in a cloud of hunger. 

But the gourmands are also very annoy- 
ing for when I lick my chops expectantly 
over a succulent morsel which I am re- 
serving for myself, they peer threatening- 
ly at me, toying suggestively with their 
knives. Finally one crude child will 
scream, "Gimme that piece!" Cowering 
and submissive, I slap what was to have 
been my tidbit on her plate with a sigh 
and bid it a lugubrious farewell as it 
travels down her eustachian tube. 

One of the main problems of presiding 

at a table is keeping the conservation go- 
ing. If there is a conversation. The two 
genuses here are the tobacco auctioneers 
and the clams. To the former, all you 
need to say is, "Well, what . . ." and 
they're off for the rest of the evening. 
This is a boon in a way but then again 
it becomes irritating if you find it neces- 
sary to ask for the salt. Of the latter 
genus, you can ask everything from "And 
where are you from?" to "How old is 
your Aunt Petunia?" and still receive only 
"yes" and "no" in reply. 

Nothing is more downright irking than 
to have the little girls get the drinks 
mixed up. The maid hovers disconsolate- 
ly about till almost time to bring the des- 
sert while they wrangle and exclaim, 
"Well, it was two iced milks and a butter- 
milk when it got to me!" or "I gave you 
two coffees and a milk," or "Did some- 
body order tea?" The ultimate solution 
is to bang importantly on the table and 
shout, "Now, girls, let's be calm! Start 
the drinks over!" By this time the maid 
has drawn up a chair and has wilted into 

After looking at the same people for 
three or four weeks a hostess feels a pro- 
nounced urge to wear at least a blind- 
fold to meals. But there's always the day 
tables change to look forward to. Then 
you can sit and slowly exhale as the table 
filk up with gourmands, absteemers, to- 
bacco auctioneers and clams. 


19 4 3 


A "Nighr in Armor 

By Marilyn Morrison 

* AlariJyn h a Nashvillian and a Junior in 
the preparatory school. Her primary interests 
are in the fields of science and music, and her 
hobbies are nature study and art. 

It was the night of the "open house," 
the most important night in the life of 
a Freshman; and I was in a plaster cast 
from neck to hips. Undaunted, however, 
I decided that attending a dance in some- 
thing not unlike the armor worn of old 
might prove an interesting experiment. 

The dress selected for the occasion was 
a high-necked creation, designed especial- 
ly to conceal that which needed concealing 
— in this instance a rather bulky shell. 
As I labored to get into the dress — a pro= 
cess requiring some time and endless pati- 
ence, I thought disparagingly of a certain 
horse named Blaze, who made this cast 

My spirits rose as we arrived at the 
scene of the dance. I was so excited I 

could hear my heart pounding against the 
interior of my encasement. I must admit 
I felt a bit self-conscious as I walked erect- 
ly onto the dance floor. Tlicn the fun 

When I was introduced to a strange 
boy, I made no mention of my little plas- 
ter jacket. As the music began, he placed 
his arm around my rigid form. An in- 
describable look crossed his face. All at- 
tempt at conversation ceased. We danced 
in silence for a while — and then I told 
him. A sigh of relief escaped his lips, 
the smile returned, and the conversation 
was reopened. 

Thus it was all evening. ... I had an 
unusually enjoyable time. There were 
some who could not understand how I 
had so much fun in a cast, and diere 
were doubtless many who would not have 
ventured out to a dance in such a fix. 
But we are valiant souls — we who wear 


(Continued from page 22) 

with its low-registered, sonorous casual- 
ness; however, it usually sounds much as 
if it had just barely survived a particularly 
acute attack of laryngitis. When the lec- 
ture booking agency is obliged to put the 
modem scourge of true culture out to 
pasture (vacation or retirement to the 
general public) by the extreme, but sadly 
belated indifference of the nation's 
women's clubs, he usually hits upon the 
highly unoriginal idea of writing a book 
or series of essays as vent to his egoism. 
These masterly opuses are intensely boring 
but all too often manage to find their way 

into print by sheer persistence in preying 
on the gullibility of Mr. Average Man. 

Ah! Wisdom! what despicable frauds 
go forth in thy name! To anyone who 
experiences die slightest symptc«n of the 
mental weakness described here, I respect- 
fully (and hopefully) submit rfiis pre- 
scription: Have your college diploma 
framed in gold, hang it over a candle- 
lighted altar, write in a journal everything 
you think, place this epistle on the altar — 
and leave it there for the doomed but un- 
suspecting posterity three milleniums in 
the dim future! 




By Peggy Freeman 

I watch your eyes to know 

What you are thinking: 

The way they glow and 

Sparkle — sometimes glinting 

With your private brand of humor; 

Ofttimes thoughtful, still, 

Holding a light that seems divine; 

Showing indomitable will. 

Then, too, they blaze with fire 

Which shows, better than words, 

Your anger — or the dusky glow of your desire. 

All these lights becoming merged 

Make your eyes as they are now — 

Daric, fiery, thoughtful. 

Filled with the light of your 


Golden Leaves 

By Peggy Freeman 

Golden leaves that flutter down 
Make a lovely autumn crown 
For the cool, daHc earth, 
A touch of red — the blood of years, 
A drop of rain — the flood of tears. 
Brown, crushed — to become dust. 
Leaves that in autumn must 
Crown the cool, dark earth. 

* Poetry seems to be one of Peggy's chief 
interests, as her hobby is collecting it. She 
is a Senior-Middle from Bramwell, West Vir- 

DECEMBER, r943 31 


(Continued from page 17) 

his first two papers, "Book G>IIecting 
Abroad" and "Book Collecting at Home," 
and to send them to the Atlantic. His 
essays hit upon everything from old cat- 
alogues to Oscar Wilde, and upon telling 
you to go buy a book, and finding your- 
self dissatisfied with it, he says that you 
have the inalienable right of damning the 

Virginia Woolf has given us a book 
called The Common Reader. It reflects 
the taste and sensibility of a talented 
writer, yet it is distinguished from merely 
competent journalism by the bite and tang 

of comment. Here she ranges from Greek 
literature and Chaucer to Joseph Conrad. 
The book is dedicated to Lytton Strachey, 
who himself wrote a collection of essays 
titled Books and Characters. 

Nor do all these people always write on 
fiction, poetry, biography or drama. The 
more one reads, the more one is conscious 
of this fact. Although you don't find 
many books on them, some delightful 
essays have been written on beauty pam- 
phlets, on love letters, on telephone di- 
rectories, on almanacs, on cook books, 



19 4 4 



Vol.7 SPRING, 1944 No. 2 




^}rsn't it grand that spring has come? You budding writers should find all the 
inspiration you could hope for. Just going outside and sitting and watching and listening 
and breathing should make you want to put your feelings down on paper — even if it is 
for that English theme due tomorrow. 

War was first on the list of subjects these past few months. It seems that everyone 
has been affected in some way or another by it. Ruth Dale Goldsby has written a beau- 
tifully sincere story about the death of her only brother, entitled "And the Planes 
Fly Overhead." Vanda Nelson's "Armistice Day" deals with the reflections of a cap- 
tain in the United States at the end of the last world war, and Joan Russell's "LJntil 
Death" is quite clear in showing the mature thinking of our youth today. 

But the entire magazine is not dedicated to the war. We have two hilarious, mock- 
serious dissertations by Sally Read and Mary Ann Hailey titled "How Door Knobs 
Came About" and "On Doodling." Belle Mead wrote a pleasant character sketch 
about a lovable old character called "Pop" Cochran. "Early Frost," a short story by 
D. A. Crane, shows the strange relationship between a college professor and a romantic 
young girl. 

Our poets are well represented; we must say that they have really blossomed. "Final- 
ity," by Peggy Freeman, questions the unknown and the unrecognizable, while Cole- 
man Douglas wrote a narrative poem in the style of the old Scotch ballads titled 

Our last issue of Chimes was sent to the National Scholastic Press Association for 
criticism, and the comments were very favorable on the whole, with special attention 
to the story "I Am His Retribution," by Joan Russell, and the poem "A Prayer of 
Thanksgiving," by Betsy Anne Rowlett. 

It's too bad that we can't talk about all of the articles in this issue, but in closing let 
me remind you all to be sure to enter that poem you wrote a little while ago in the 
Chimes poetry contest. This is an annual event for the last issue, and we really do want 
some exceptional poetry. Thank you. 


Betsy Bishop . . • • Editor 

Marie Mount Associate Editor 

Betsy Anne Rowlett Review Editor 

Betty Barnes • • . . Poetry Editor 

Susan Russell • . • Art Editor 

Margaret Burk Exchange Editor 

Deckie Martin • Business Manager 

Mary Emily Caldwell . . • • . . . Circulation Manager 

Miss Elizabeth Sadler . . • • . Faculty Advisor 


Susan Russell Editor 

Betty Brooker Winky Andrews 


Ann White Jean Howerton Genella Nye 


Peggy Freeman Mary Jane Sherrill Virginia Luebbe 

KiCKi Moss Bunny Lawler Kathleen Norris 

Mary Richards Elizabeth Wailes Nancy Ross 

Janet Fogarty Phyllis Harrison Fay Maples 

Shirley Hunt Carol Bay Edith Ann Williams 

Minnie Carter Bailey Joan Russell Ruth Hoe 

Hiffh School Representatives 
Jean Hager Martha Baird 


And the Planes Fly Overhead. A Story Ruth Dale Goldsby 3 

Nature's Revolt. A Poem Shirley Jeanne Hunt 5 

On Doodling. An Essay Mary Ann Hailey • 6 

Taking It the Hard Way. A Story Martha Jean Quinn 7 

The Land of the Living. An Essay Betsy Bishop 8 

100 "Airdales." A Story Emily Caldwell 9 

Armistice Day. A Story Vanda Nelson 11 

How Doorknobs Came About. An Essay Sally Read 13 

Until Death. A Story Joan Russell 14 

Lochniven. A Ballad Coleman Douglas 17 

From the Realms of My Wealth. A Poem Fay Maples 19 

Early Frost. A Story D. A. Crane 20 

Finality. A Poem Peggy Freeman 25 

"Pop" Cochran. An Essay Belle Mead 26 

I Remember. A Story Genella Nye 27 


—And the Planes Fly Overhead 

By Ruth Dale Goldsby 

* Ruth Dale Goldsby is a Nashville girl. She 
is a Senior-Mid, her ambition is to be a good 
housewife, and her hobbies are photography 
and men. This story is the true account of 
the death of her only brother, and we con- 
sider it a fine tribute. 

It was a peaceful Sunday morning. The 
world seemed to be lulled by the sunny 
warmth of mid-August. As we sat in 
church our souls were at peace, although 
the world was at war. The only reminder 
of the stress of the world was the mighty 
roar of engines as the planes flew over- 

These planes had grown to mean a 
great deal to us. A year before, my 
brother, Larry, had joined the Army Air 
Corps. For months he studied and strug- 
gled in preparation, and at the first of the 
summer he won his wings and bars. So 
proud he was to wear those wings; so 
proud he was to fly his plane; so proud 
he was to be one of those men who scorn 
the earth and prefer the sky. We, his 
family, were proud, too. Each plane in 
the clouds was an object of our pride. 
And on that Sunday morning we were 
thankful for Larry, and we prayed for his 
protection — as the planes flew overhead. 

As the morning had been beautiful, the 
afternoon was lovely. Several of my 
friends had planned a movie party for 
the afternoon, to be followed by a dinner 
at a little inn just out of town. We had 
a wonderful time that day. Every one 
of us was keyed to the slightest idea of 
pleasure. We laughed and joked, we 
were serious and gay, we were happy. 

After the movie the group stopped at 
the home of one of the girls before start- 
ing to dinner. As we sat there smging, 
playing, still in a gay mood, the telephone 
rang. Frances answered it. Very strange- 
ly the room hushed quickly. I heard her 

say, "Yes, she's here," and unconsciously 
I moved toward the phone. I don't know 
why, but a terror gripped my heart. And 
as I heard her gasp and saw her quickly 
look at me with eyes widening in horror, 
I snatched the phone from her hand. I 
heard the choked voice of my aunt say: 

"Ruth Dale, come home quickly, child. 
Larry has been killed!" 

I guess the message echoed in my eyes, 
for although no one else had heard those 
brief, heart-shattering words, each one 
knew what they had been. The boys 
stood as if they were petrified, and the 

SPRING, 1944 

girls began to cry softly. I do not know 
what motions I made. I do not know 
what words I uttered. I do not know 
what thoughts leaped through my mind. 
All I could hear was "Come quickly; 
Larry has been killed. Larry has been 
killed. Larry has been killed. 

I don't recall the trip to my home. 
I remember running across the porch and 
into the room where my parents were 
waiting. They were there, my mother and 
father, Larry's mother and father, the 
two people who had spent their lives mak- 
ing us happy — the two people who loved 
two children more than anything else on 
earth. And one of those children was 
dead. My father handed me the tele- 
gram. I shook as I read: 

"I deeply regret to inform you of the 
death of your son, Lieutenant Lawrence 
Alvin Goldsby, as a result of an airplane 
accident of the fifteenth of August, 1943 
. . . The officers of this command join me 
in expressing our sincere sympathy." It 
was signed by the colonel. I had read of 
such messages. I had imagined such situ- 
ations, but never had I dreamed what 
agony printed words on a piece of yellow 
paper could wring from the heart. 

Such news spreads fast, and within a 
few minutes our house was full of people, 
our friends who had known and loved 
Larry, our neighbors who wanted to help. 
It was very late when most of them left. 
About three o'clock in the morning we 
jjersuaded my mother to lie down. My 
father and I left the house and walked. 
The air was cool, the sky was soft, and 
the stars shone with a brilliant light that 
seemed to be trying to comfort us. As 
we walked. Daddy talked about Larry. 
He talked about the fat little blond baby, 
about the funny ways of the little child, 
about the tricks of the growing youngster, 
about the fun of the high school boy, 
about the young man in college, about 
the man who was a pilot in the army. 

He told things that had happened years 
ago, and he repeated words Larry had 
said during his last furlough. Thus we 
walked, the father pouring out his heart 
in memories, the daughter listening and 
remembering. And as we walked, the 
planes flew overhead. 

The next day and night were filled 
with waiting. This period was a haze 
of people who came in and went out, 
people who comforted us by being there, 
by sharing our grief. Finally, the mes- 
sage came that the body would arrive on 
Tuesday afternoon. At the appointed 
time we left for the station. So many 
times we had gone to this same station 
to meet Larry. So many times we had 
welcomed him home from trips or fur- 
loughs. This was the last time we would 
ever meet Larry; never again could we 
take him home. We stood at the top of 
the steps and waited for the train to 
arrive. As it pulled into the station, we 
grew tense. Then we saw the casket 
taken from the car, placed on a cart, 
and pulled to the waiting elevator. The 
men in the crowd stood uncovered, the 
women were quietly weeping, and the 
children gaped with wide eyes at "the box 
covered with a flag." This was Larry's 
last homecoming — and the planes flew 

The house was filled with flowers. A 
never-ceasing stream of trucks brought 
wreaths and sprays, the most beautiful 
tributes the living can make to the dead. 
For one so young — he was only twenty- 
two — he had an enormous number of 
friends. And each one loved him for 
what he was. The air that night was 
heavy with sweetness, the rooms were 
filled with beauty, and Larry slept in 
peace for his last night at home. 

The funeral was held early the next 
morning. The age-old music and prayers 
poured comfort into our souls. I thought 
of the Sunday morning, three days be- 


fore, when I had been in this same church, 
praying for his safety almost at the very 
hour of his death. The sun streamed in 
through the stained windows. Outside 
the birds sang a beautiful farewell. And, 
as if in mute tribute to one of their own, 
the planes flew overhead. 

We took Larry home to bury him. 
Home to us is a little tract of land in 
West Tennessee which we fondly call "the 
farm." Five generations of our family 
have called it home. Five generations of 
our family are buried at the little chapel 
near-by. There we took Larry. Sur- 
rounded by another host of friends and 
relatives, he was lowered into his final 

resting place. As the notes of "Taps"; 
died away on the still country air, the 
body of a man of the sky was -taid' tcf 
rest in the earth. 

Almost eight months have passied since 
those August days. Our life has attained 
a semblance of normality. We do our 
work, study our lessons, live in the pre-' 
scribed fashion; but part of us is not 
here. And though Larry's body may rest 
in the bosom of the earth, his spirit is not 
earth-bound. So when we hear the motors- 
in the air, we look up and smile. They 
bring back our sorrow and our grief; but 
more than that, they make us proud — • 
those planes that fly overhead. 

Nat ure^s Revolt 

By Shirley Jeanne Hunt 

Turbulent showers drench the creaking structures 

As the bare fingers of the trees scratch their nails on the 

aging planks. 
With sudden violence the rain beats down like thotisands 

of tapping feet. 
And the cowering trees bend as bows to shoot droplets 

released by the wind. 
Rolling, grumbling, the thunder makes known its entrance, 
Preceded by sporadic flashes of lightning. 
All human eyes focus on the raging sky. 
Things become silent now except for the voice of the storm. 
Scorning not the objects in its path, the storm continues: 
Then, as if all power had suddenly ceased, the clouds settle 

Milling to and fro, they slowly part, allowing a golden 

spear to descend to earth. 
Once more everything is peaceful; 
Only the echo of the rumbling thunder recalls nature's 

sudden revolt. 

• Shirley Jeanne Hunt is a Senior-Mid and 
comes from Staten Island, New York. She 
would like to be a poet and also to join the 
WAVES soon. Green is Shirley's lucky color, 
and from it she has derived her nickname of 

SPRING, 1944 

On Doodling 

By Mary Ann Haitey 

* Mary Ann Hailey is a Sophomore who re- 
sides in Nashville. Her attention is focused 
on art and music, her hobbies. Mary Ann says 
she has never written anything before; however, 
she is making an excellent beginning. Let's 
hope we hear more from her in the future. 

Everybody can sing. Of course, it may 
not sound like singing to anyone but 
yourself; but you call it singing. Similar- 
ly, anyone can draw. Most people's draw- 
ing, however, goes no farther than the 
particular phase which I shall discuss here; 
namely, doodling. 

One of the most convenient places for 
doodling is in a committee or club meet- 
ing, provided there is a speaker who does 
not particularly hold your attention and 
your chairman is thoughtful enough to 
provide you with pencil and paper. 

Another favorite place for this pastime 
is at the telephone. Usually you can find 
on a telephone table a scratch pad and 
pencil which will serve very nicely. The 
most entertaining things to doodle on a 
telephone pad are flowers and elaborate 
scrollwork with which you decorate the 
names and numbers. If your conversation 
lasts long enough, the numbers will finally 
become illegible and the whole page will 

become a mass of your owo personal 

Other familiar places for doodling are 
the top of a test paper when you can't 
think of the answer and — if you will 
excuse me — in church when a pencil just 
happens to be in your hand and there is 
a nice wide margin all around the edge of 
your program. 

They say doodling reveals character. 
I don't know what each type means, but 
these are some of the more common doo- 
dles. Of course everybody has his fa- 
vorite curlicues and geometric designs, 
but aside from these are others — stick 
figures, for example. Some people draw 
stick figures with extra large heads. 
Others draw them with large hands and 
feet. Stick figures are the best medium 
for expressing action, since they are much 
easier to draw than lifelike figures. 

Trees are another interesting doodle. 
You may draw trees without leaves, but 
trees with leaves are much more fun. If 
you are ambitious and are listening to a 
long speech or are unusually ignorant of 
the facts covered by a test, you might 
even attempt a whole landscape. 

Perspective can be a great deal of fun 
to doodle if you begin in the right way. 
I highly recommend that you use vanish- 
ing points (which will be referred to 
hereafter as V. P.'s) . Place one V. P. on 
each side of your paper. Now let all the 
lines in the same plane terminate at one 
of them. The best objects for this doodle 
are houses, boxes, and railroad tracks. 

If you are in an especially long com- 
mittee meeting, you might try to draw 
(Continued on page 10) 


Taking It the Hard Way 

By Martha Jean Quinn 

• Martha Jean Quinn is a Senior-Middle from 
Nashville. If asked her ambition, she will 
reply, "I would love to reach the state finals 
in tennis." She is planning a career as an 
air hostess and collects match covers as a 

Most of the men who fly fighter planes 
are in the air corps, but JefF Randolph 
wasn't. Jeff tested these planes before 
they were handed over to the army. 

On this May morning Jeff looked at 
the thin clouds that hung straight before 
the plane's stubby nose rather fixedly. The 
motor's roar was a vast, numbing noise. 
He found that he could think clearly 
enough about the tests outlined for the 
ship, about the new test suit he was wear- 
ing for its service tryout, about every- 
thing connected with his job. But these 
thoughts were only secondary. What he 
really knew was that Diana was dead. 
For three — nearly four — hours she had 
lain in quiet and peace. 

It made for ironic humor that, aloft 
in his combat plane to get just as many 
G's (miles per hour) as the human frame 
in the new suit could stand, he was safer 
than Diana had been, and he was a test 
pilot, which is supposed to be a risky job, 
while Diana had done nothing that thou- 
sands of other women don't do every day. 
But Diana was dead, leaving him with 
a numb aching. 

The altimeter said enough. Plenty of 
altitude for his dive. He was so high that 
the motor was gasping for breath. He 
pointed the small, fast ship's nose down- 
ward, with the feeling that everything was 
about to end. 

The sound of the engine rose in pitch. 
It became a bellow. A thunder. A part 
of Jeff's mind noted the instrument read- 
ing. A man should not be able to pull 
out of a dive at this speed. Not in just 

any ship. Not an ordinary test pilot. 
But this ship could stand it, and so could 
Jeff if he wanted to. This new suit would 
be a great help, too. Almost — almost! 
Jeff would have liked to try, for profes- 
sional interest alone. The instruments 
quivered over to quite impKWsible figures. 
No man before had ever moved to fast, 
even downward. Certainly no man had 
lived to report it. No man could. Jeff 
felt peace descend upon him. 

But then, very startlingly, a voice 
sounded in his brain. Not his ears. His 
brain. An illusion; it was not real. It 
couldn't be. But he heard it. The voice 
said tenderly but reproachfully, "Sissy- 

Jeff knew what it was. Unreal. Un- 
true. Imagination. But he finally said, 
"I'm not! I'm testing this ship! I have 
to make a good test for the other boys. 
And, too, I get a bonus for every extra 
G on this pull-out meter. Leave me 



The voice — and he knew it was imag- 
ination — said reproachfully, "You can't 
lie to me, Jeff. Sissybritches!" 

Then Jeff replied fiercely, "All right! 
What of it? No one will ever know." 

"I'll know," said the voice in his brain 
calmly, "and you won't like that, Jeff. 
And there's someone else to think of. 
He'll need you, and he'll know, too, when 
he grows up." 

"He will know I loved you," said Jeff. 
"That's enough, isn't it?" 

"No," said the imaginary voice. "He'll 
know that his father was a sissybritches 
who needed a woman to give him back- 
bone. A weak sister. I'll love you, re- 
gardless; but he'll know, Jeff." 

Jeff wavered, while the instruments 
(Continued on page 12) 

SPRING. 1944 

The Laeid of the Living 

By Betsy Bishop 

• Betsy is a Senior in the college and a day 
student. She wrote this piece for the Atlantic 
contest aiid says that it is quite appropriate 
to these last days of school. She wants to 
write essays and short stories if she has a 
career, but on the side, the gal is "nuts" about 

"College years are the easiest, happiest, 
most carefree years of your life." I think 
if I ever hear those misleading words 
again, I shall calmly walk into some quiet 
stream with a "Fare ye well" to humanity 
— that remarkable abstract idea in which 
one is supposed to have absolute faith. 

Easy? Happy? Carefree? Heaven 
forbid! Not that we don't stay up during 
the dull, tedious hours of the night trying 
to make grooves in the gray matter. Not 
that we don't find the next morning that 
those grooves have been smoothed out 
when we, unhappiest of creatures, sit 
down to a test. Not that every time we 
turn around we are put on a committee 
to collect notebook-paper covers for the 
paper drive or to decorate the mere twenty 
acres of campus or to write a skit for the 
Senior Class in one afternoon. 

And these creatures who make up hu- 
manity! I have never heard such a 
squabbling, loud, erratic mass of people 
in all of my life. Oh, for the peace and 
the quiet. As I sit in this clamorous 
classroom, I long for the country, where 
only last week I found myself sitting 
alone on a very high round hill, covered 
with tall dried Johnson grass and totally 
devoid of trees, slightly resembling the 
head of a rather large, sandy-haired 
giant. The view from the hill on a clear 
day is one of the best rest cures that I 
have found. I could see for miles around. 
The peacefulness of the place got into my 
brain and forced me to daydream. I sat 
with my arms wrapped about my knees 

and gazed across the patchwork valley 
and over to other blue-green hills. I 
could see tiny white houses half hidden 
in clumps of trees and whitewashed out- 
buildings in the distance. Some of the 
bams had red roofs, some green, and 
some just pure, shiny, silvery tin. Horses 
and cows and sheep were grazing in the 
fields or grouped in the cool shade, and 
tranquillity reigned. I heard the bewil- 
dered bleatmg of a wee, lost lamb, the 
gay chattering of birds in the field just 
below, and all the other indistinguishable 
sounds of the country at noon on a bright 
spring day. The things I saw and the 
things I heard brought on a gratifying 
feeling of relaxation, and I succumbed 
to my aloneness and my thoughts. 

Did I say aloneness? Whatever was 
that pinchmg at my shoulder? Surely 
there was no one there! But I distinctly 
had felt a nip from behind. So I turned 
around, a rock in my hand for protection, 
and gazed into the large, devilish brown 
eyes of that crazy black horse, Dan, who 
was apparently most insulted because I 
was not on his back tearing all over God's 
green earth. 

"Go away, Daniel. Go away! No, I 
don't have any sugar. OUCH! Oh, 
here! Take your old sugar, but just see 
if I ever give you any more. This is 
wartime. Can't you realize that? No, 
you just want to eat your sugar and to 
be loved fojr all your silly, idiotic little 
ways. Well, I love you. Now please go 
away! All right, all right. Eat all 
around my feet. Get in my way so I 
can't see. But don't step on me!" 

In order to keep from being trampled 
and still to enjoy the scenery, I turned 
around and looked toward the river bluff. 


There was a picture which takes one back 
to the old Greek myths. The trees were 
tall and covered with mists of buds and 
tender green leaves. The branches seemed 
to entwine themselves to form an arbor. 
On the ground were tiny shoots of young 
grass bravely coming from under their 
cover of dead leaves. The wild flowers, 
dainty and delicate, peered from behind 
rocks and tree trunks; and some quite 
boldly clustered in the middle of a clear- 
ing. The oddly shapyed rocks were 
grouped around and appeared to be wait- 
ing for the cupids to come and recline 
upon them. If I looked closely I could 
almost see a rather long rock change into 
a golden couch under the sun rays, with 
the fair figure of Adonis upon it waiting 
for his Venus to awake him. 

But while I was waiting to see the god- 
^ dess glide through the trees, I noticed 
that the world had grown gloomy and 
sultry. Then came the first drops of a 
cooling, sudden April shower. I had 
been brought out of my dreams and found 
myself racing down the hill toward the 
house, wondering all the time how soon 
it would be over so I could ride Dan 
before going home. 

It wasn't long, for April showers are 
short-lived, and I went out again into a 
bright world fresh with glistening grass 
and trees and rejoicing birds. Dan came 
slipping and blundering down the hill at 
my call and waited impatiently to be 
rubbed down. After a long struggle over 
whether the bridle would go on, Dan de- 
cided to give in just this once, so he held 
his head down. I then began to curry 
him off. 

"Oh, stand still, silly. I never saw 
anything like you. Stop shoving me 
with your head, idiot. I'll snatch on the 
reins! It's hard enough for me to stand 
on my own two feet without being 
knocked aroimd by you. Quit pawing. 
There's no use making holes in the barn 
(Continued on page 26) 

100 ''Airdales'' 

By Emily Caldwell 

• A native Nashvillian and a college Senior, 
Emily started to write because her loving 
grammar school teachers requested it. She had 
one short essay, forced from her by Mrs. 
Souby, published in Chimes and entered in 
the Girl's Hobby Fair to win second prize. 
She hopes to be a fashion or advertising 
writer, and she has a budding hobby of pho- 

She stared at the paper, seeing but un- 
seeing. It was only a brief item — "10 
planes missing and presumed lost" — and 
that was all. Not as bad as the thirty 
of a week ago or the frightening sixty 
on the raid of Frankfort. It was an 
autumn twilight as she sat alone in the 
living room. One foot slipped out of her 
loafer-moccasin and triangled under her. 
A favorite half-hour of dance music 
lulled over her consciousness. 

Ten times ten — a hundred lost on one 
mission — not even a battle, just a day's 
work. And 300, 600 the other times. 
Blond heads, red cropped heads, dark 
curly ones slipped through her mind; and 
despite herself, the film of a flattened-out 
tear flooded her eye momentarily. She 
blinked it back hurriedly, lest any of her 
family should see it and think her soft 
for feeling so about people she didn't 
even know. But was she sure they were 
people she didn't know? Then — 

Why should the radio pick just then 
to play "White Christmas"? That would 
never mean anything but Warren to her. 
It brought back a year ago, when the 
song first came out and they sat seeing 
the show it was featured in. Twice he 
left his hat for her to keep as he went 
out to try to put through his phone call 
home to Syracuse. She would take the 
hat and finger it — the large wings and the 
blue braid that covered the olive-colored 
band. All that constituted the change 
from cadet to second lieutenant was re- 

SPRING, 1944 

moving this blue band — and a little more. 
She fingered it out of a sense of newness 
— the first cadet she had dated since that 
reception center had been built near her 
home for the classification of wild, "blue 
yonder" boys. Warren was very young; 
they were to come even younger, and so 
obviously homesick. He never did get 
the call through, and now — maybe he was 
the navigator of one of those bombers. 
Navigators have blue eyes, he told her 
flippantly. I guess the psychologists saw 
behind his steel-blue eyes the calmness and 
intellect that bring home lost bombers 
through fog and mist and hells of flak. 

And then there was Frank from New 
York — Fordham. Very sophisticated and 
with a very deep voice, he was smooth as 
a Latin rhythm to dance with. But there 
was something little-boyish about him, too. 
Through him she came to know what the 
real Air Corps was. Flying had been bred 
into his blood, though he'd "been up" only 
once. At first he'd been washed out of 
gunnery school because of a minor back 
injury from baseball. The determination 
to be a pilot and nothing else, was back 
of his eyes; and he wasn't ashamed to 
admit it. This arrogant, defiant young 
American eagle was made cadet on a 
second personal interview. 

Frank wouldn't have been a bomber 
pilot, reflected the girl, but Wayne — quiet 
and reserved, yet friendly. Every 
other step down main street those August 
weeks, they would stop for him to kid 
a minute or so with fellows from the 

Now that she'd started, she'd finish her 
imaginary crew. Bombardier? Why, 
Chick of course. A chap with red-blond 
hair whose personality overshadowed his 
very obvious good looks. He was a curi- 
ous mixture of laconic energy — as South- 
ern as they come. Like Joe Wheeler at 
San Juan Hill, over his bombsight he 
probably forgot sometimes; maybe in con- 

tinuing his digs at the Yankees, the enemy 
probably assumed the Yankee form to his 

Chick's bosom-buddy would be Buzz at 
the turret guns. Buzz had two or three 
other nicknames, notably "Sleepy" and ~ 
"Texas." Washed out as a pilot, his 
motto was never to worry. He and Chick, 
despite their differences in rank, would 
keep the interphone system hot. They 
would be the ones to make all the clever 
cracks that the Air Corps is legended 
with, flippant remarks to keep them from 
thinking of a time when — 

And the girl's eyes, which had passed 
unseeing through the paper in front of 
her, refocused on the headline of the 
column. It mustn't be any of them; it 
mustn't! The gloomy dusk outside stifled 
any ray of optimistic thought. Suddenly 
"Coming In on a Wing and a Prayer" # 
burst forth from the radio. There were 
Buzz and Chick back and at it again, in- 
spired anew and pretending their near- 
fatal sorties to have been just another 
Sunday-afternoon picnic. 


(Continued from page 6) 

a head. I find ladies easier to draw be- 
cause you don't have to draw ears and 
you don't have to join the back of the 
neck to the head. My heads which face 
west are always better than others, a fact 
for which I have no explanation. If you 
like you may choose a model for your 
drawing, but don't expect your version 
to resemble too closely the original. Peo- 
ple with interesting noses, especially 
hooked noses, are excellent subjects. 

Don't make a habit of doodling, be- 
cause you might be sorry some day; some- 
one who could read your character might 
find a sample of it. By the way don't 
ever try to doodle a head front face, be- 
cause it just can't be done. 



Armistice Day 

By Vanda Nelson 

• Vanda is a Senior-Mid from Louisville, 
Kentucky, She started her writing while in 
the third grade, and it has grown into quite a 
hobby. She wants to use her knowledge of 
Spanish, which she is trying to acquire, in a 
job with a big firm's dealings in South Amer- 
ica. When it comes right down to her am- 
bition, she hopes to be married someday in 
the not too distant future. 

I woke up just a few moments ago 
from a deep sleep, a sleep with something 
of the depth that death must hold. It's 
funny, but I keep on thinking, eternally 
thinking, about the quick end of man's 
flimsy life. Perhaps mine is a morbid 
thought; how can I help it when I am 
surrounded by death and its companions 
— hatred, pain, filth, and despair? I 
know only that now dark shadows are 
weaving through my exhausted brain. 
Even though my mind seems clear, too 
clear, I am probably delirious; I don't 

My drawn and aching eyes are fixed 
steadily on the faint, wavering light that 
fitfully penetrates the room. How long 
have I been lying here on this high, white 
bed? Life is very intense, very new and 
strange to me. I feel as if I am bom 
again, am seeing the world for the first 
time. The realization that I am alive in 
a hospital somewhere in France and not 
in a lonely grave on a battlefield has 
slowly pierced my consciousness. 

I am an American, a captain in the 
United States Army, until now on active 
duty with Pershing at the front. When 
last I remember, I was at the front with 
my battery. My outfit is a heavy field 
artillery unit; the men who operate the 
big howitzers, until a year ago clear-eyed 
kids, are the finest group that an officer 
could command, good soldiers. 

Robert Mallory, my first lieutenant, 

came from a well-to-do family in Phila- 
delphia. He was an only son and had 
everything a man could ask for. Gradu- 
ating from Columbia, he became a prom- 
ising lawyer. I found this out from some- 
one else; Mallory would never have told 
me. Never complaining, he was quiet 
and very earnest about his work. His 
wind-tanned, brown face with its steel- 
gray eyes is the steadiest I have seen in 
a long time. 

Joe, top sergeant, joined the army after 
he left a farm in Iowa. He used to talk 
about brilliant sunsets, green fields of 
tall, waving corn, and his father's ex- 
cellent cattle. His most prized possession 
was the picture of his girl that he carried 
with him always in his worn wallet. He 
was a born leader, capable of taking on 

The others — why do I lie here thinking 
coldly of the things that I remember 
about them? How automatically I 
slipped into the past tense! They're dead, 
and I am mentally picking them apart! 
Why don't I feel any anger, any pain, 
anything? My heart is numb; I am be- 
yond all feeling. 

I still must force myself to believe it 
actually happened. German shells had 
been coming over all day; the thunder of 
the distant guns had rolled continuously. 
We hadn't been able to sleep for days, 
and the whining scream of the shells set 
every nerve in my body on edge. An 
electric tenseness, which seemed more un- 
bearable than usual, filled the air. 

Toward dusk, to my great relief, the 
order "Cease firing" was given. The 
noise of the big guns died away, a deep 
stillness taking its place. Eighteen of the 
men collapsed in tired heaps beside our 
gun. The late afternoon light played 
on pale, haggard faces; exhaustion had 
left its mark. 

My orderly came up and asked to speak 
to me. We walked slowly to a spot no 

SPRING. 1944 

farther from the emplacement than across 
a room. As we stood quietly talking, I 
relaxed for the first time in days. Sud- 
denly I heard with horror the long-drawn- 
out screech of a shell. I wheeled quickly 
just as a violent explosion rocked the 
earth where the gun had been. The 
ground came drunkenly up to meet me; 
blackness overcame my reeling senses. My 
last thought was, "Those filthy devils!" 
Now I am in a room in an overcrowded 
hospital. I have seen eighteen men die 
before my very eyes; there was nothing 
left of them to bury. It is only a miracle 

that I am alive! I shall never know why 
I alone was spared, but the question is 
torturing me. 

There is a coward in the bed next to 
me who yells in terror in the night. The 
thought of him makes me ill. I can't 
stomach contemptible weakness after what 
I have been through this last year. 

A newspaper, which I haven't noticed 
before, is lying beside me. Its glaring 
headlines proclaim, "The Armistice Is 
Signed!" I can't help laughing. What 
irony! What good will an armistice do 
Mallory and the rest? 


(Continued from page 7) 

trembled over to readings that were more 
impK5ssible — and more impossible still. 

The voice said, wheedlingly, "Make me 
proud of you, Jeff. Just sit still, and it 
will be simple. But pull out of this, and 
you won't be a sissybritches. It won't be 
easy! There's not another pilot on earth 
who could pull out of this dive but you. 
You're the only man in the world who 
could. Jeff, darling, show them what you 
really can do." 

Jeff said desperately, "Maybe I could 
pull out. But Diana — it's not only now. 
It's weeks, and months, and years ahead! 

"I know," agreed the voice serenely. 
"If you really were a sissybritches, I 
wouldn't ask you. It won't be fun. But, 

Jeff felt the peace leave him. His lips 
twisted bitterly. "Dam you, Diana, why 
don't you leave me alone?" 

But he began to fight savagely, resent- 
fully, and then with embittered fury. 

Men on the ground saw part of it — 

the latter and easier part. They saw him 
fighting his ship all over the sky, and 
their bones and muscles ached in sym- 
pathy. But their necks ached with better 
reason by the time they watched him come 
out of those last incredible evolutions, in 
which he put the ship through stunt after 
stunt. The men saw him come to a com- 
plete stop in his descent, a bare 500 feet 
from the ground. They saw him make 
a clean if groggy landing. 

He got out of the ship, staggering. 
His eyes were bloodshot. His hands were 
puffed and swollen. His heart pounded 
so that he shook visibly. But he was 
alive, and he glowered at them when they 
would have supported him. 

"What the hell were you trying to do?" 
demanded one of the army officers who 
was watching the test. "Trying to kill 

Then the man stopped short, because he 
remembered, and so did everyone else, 
that Diana had died only that morning. 
He looked apologetic. 

But Jeff said harshly, "I get a bonus 
for every extra G I put on that ship. I 
put plenty. I can use that money now, 
since I have a son to raise." 



How Door Knobs Came About 

By Sally Read 

• Sally Read, who comes from Pittsburgh, 
Pennsylvania, has not yet decided on a career. 
Her ambition is to be able to spell. Saliy, a 
Freshman in high school, says her hobby is 
dogs. She is not positive why she began to 
write, but she modestly claims "it could hardly 
be called writing, anyway." 

I don't suppose you ever stopped to 
consider how door knobs came about. 
Very few people ever have, stopped to 
consider I mean of course. But by care- 
ful, prolonged research over an extremely 
long period, I can state on authority that 
they were invented, and what's more that 
there is a past; of course you know of 
the present, and there is also a possible 


for th 


Let us first stop to consider the looks 
of a door knob. First there are many 
different sizes, shapes and colors, depend- 
ing, of course, upon, of all things, the 
door knob itself. Actually there are too 
many kinds in existence and it would take 
too long to describe them all, so let us 
skip that phase of the door knob. 

Now that you know what a door knob 
looks like, let us go on to something else 
on this fascinating subject. Mainly, v/here 
they are found. I quote from volume 
107 of a certain encyclopedia, page 1451, 
paragraph 4, line 6. "Door knobs are 
found on doors." Unquote. 

Now for the history of door knobs. In 
long ago days there were doors, transoms, 
walls and floors. You m.ay have noticed 
the omission of our subject. It is quite 
possible that you can realize how awkward 
having to climb up one side of the door 
and through the transom and down the 
other side might have been. But how 
could they open the doors without door 

Now it so happened that there was a 

certain Pubulos Dryos Hemlock Caesar 
who had the art of walking in his sleep. 
One night Pubby, as we shall call him, 
was parading around his room in his usual 
state of slumber when he accidentally 
banged into the door. I forgot to men- 
tion that he had a habit of walking with 
his head extended from his shoulders as 
far as possible. Thus you can see how 
his knoggon hit the door before he got 
there. Therefore he was unaware of his 
nearness and proceeded forward. Pubby 
had a very headstrong head and it went 
completely through the door. All of his 
servants came to see what the matter was, 
and being partly asleep, they began tug- 
ging vigorously at Pubby's head. The 
door opened and then began the trouble. 
Men from far and wide came to see the 
"open door." They hired men and 
pushed their heads through their doors' 
so that they might be opened. This was 
also the beginning of the well-known 

The wear and tear on heads was rather 
appalling, so some bright soul decided 
that it might be a good idea to put some 
large object through the door instead of 
the well-worn heads. Through the pass- 
ing years there have been modifications of 
these slightly overdone objects. Thus the 
door knob of today. . 

You of course know the present state 
of the door knob. No one can guess the 
future of them, so we have come to the 
end of our talk of how door knobs came 
to be. 

Look for your last CHIMES in the 
mail this summer. 

SPRING, 1944 


Until Death 

By Joan Russell 

* Joan is a Senior-Middle day student. She 
began to write when teachers began to require 
themes. Her hobby is conversation; her career 
is to be some sort of job in South America; 
and her ambition is marriage and four little 
boys I 

Slowly the clouds drifted over the sky, 
occasionally blotting out the sun. A bird 
warbled a few sad notes to the world 
beneath him. Silhouetted high on the hill 
was the Administration Building, a mod- 
ern monument to the alumni's love for the 

The girl sat there on the bench idly. 
A neat pile of books lay stacked on the 
grass. Gravely she surveyed the school 
grounds, as if she were seeing the place 
for the first time. Its beauty seeped in 
through the solemnity of her thoughts. 
Today a decision must be made that was 
to shape the rest of her life. The girl 
took cigarettes from her pocket and 
lighted one. As she inhaled, she let her 
mind slide back a year. 

It was early June again, a hot June, 
and she was at home. High school grad- 
uation had left her small group of friends 
bewildered by the sudden independence 
thrust upon them. There were so many 
things to do. The boys were leaving for 
colleges with accelerated programs, or 
were enlisting immediately in the armed 
forces. Some of the girls got jobs; some 
of them just loafed; and others, like her- 
self, studied diligently for their college 

The small Southern city in which she 
lived was surrounded by army camps, and 
war was a very real thing to the com- 
munity. Thousands of lonely and home- 
sick boys packed the town on week ends 
and filled the high school gymnasium for 
the weekly dances. 

She went to all of the U. S. O. parties 

religiously with her friends. She liked 
the smoke, the heat, and the excitement 
there. The boys were from such varied 
backgrounds, and meeting so many dif- 
ferent kinds of people was interesting. 
Her limited knowledge of America grew. 

The night, the magic night, was hot. 
The heady atmosphere hung heavily over 
the youthful gathering, the scent of mag- 
nolias was strong in the room, and the 
music was low and sweet. She was having 
a marvelous time. There was something 
intangibly provocative about her. She 
herself felt it; she threw back her head 
and laughed from the sheer joy of being 
alive. Her face was radiant. Then it 
happened. She looked up into the brown 
eyes of the boy who had just cut in, and 
a surge of anticipation shot through her. 

"Hello, darling," he said. 

She knew she would never meet any- 
one again who really mattered. She didn't 
say anything at all. When the music 
stopped, they looked at each other; and 
he motioned toward the balcony. 

"Would you like to go sit down?" he 

She nodded, and holding hands they 
walked up the stairs and sat side by side 
on the unstable little chairs. 

"My name's Jane Byrne," she said. 
"What's yours?" 

"Bill," he answered. "Bill Rowland. 
Home: Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania. I 
have a mother, father, sister, and brother. 
I love the South. Yes, I think Southern 
women are better looking than Northern 
girls. Winter is my favorite season, and 
skiing my favorite sport. I do not write 
good letters. College: Dartmouth. I 
don't jitterbug. T. Dorsey is the best. 
Please tell me about you, Jane." 

There was little she could say. She 
told him about the things she had done 
when she was a little girl: how odd it felt 
to have high school finished; how deeply 
she loved the South, and in particular, her 



own town. She asked him if he knew her 
cousin Lon at Dartmouth and found he 
did. Bill and she stayed there, talking, 
until the orchestra played "The Star 
Spangled Banner." At the door he asked 
her for a date the next Tuesday night. 

Every night for the next three weeks 
he had an of>en post she had a date with 
him. Bill was an Army Air Corps cadet 
in pilot's training, and he stayed in the 
city only four weeks after he was released 
from quarantine. They danced, played 
tennis and golf, and just sat in Jane's 
home, listening to records. Bill told her 
he loved her. When he kissed her, she 
caught her breath from the white singing 
beauty of it. She cried for hours the day 
he was shipped. 

The rest of the summer was empty. 
She still went to the parties, and danced 
and flirted, but it didn't mean anything 
to her. She became more and more 
anxious to get away from home. She 
looked forward to the day school opened. 

Fall came, finally. She spent hours 
shopping for bright skirts and sweaters, 
pretty shoes, and queer hats. Her trunks 
were nearly packed, and her thoughts flew 
frequently to the days ahead. Mrs. Byrne 
scurried around, adding last-minute 
touches to the clothes and muttering moth- 
erly admonitions. Mr. Byrne took Jane 
aside in the library and secretly gave her 
twenty-five dollars. Two days before 
registration her parents put her on the 
train for the long trip. Mr. Byrne cleared 
his throat several times, and Mrs. Byrne 
openly wept as they watched the train pull 
out, carrying with it their only child. 

She wasn't sad. She wanted to be 
somewhere, any place where she could get 
something done; somewhere that kept her 
so busy she wouldn't have time to think 
of Bill constantly. The trip was long 
and tedious. When she had gone as far 
as New York, she had consumed innu- 
merable sacks of popcorn and juicy red 

apples. Once she had left Grand Central 
Station, the other three states rushed pic- 
turesquely by the windows. Late summer 
still held sway. Chaperons with soft cul- 
tured faces met the train and herded the 
girls into cars. When she saw the stately 
old school, she knew she would love it. 
It was just as beautiful as the catalogues 
had pictured it. 

Her first few days were filled with 
meeting people and making schedules. 
Her roommate was a funny little fat girl 
from Ohio. After she became used to 
the newness of "dorm" life and the con- 
stant contact with strange girls, she set- 
tled down to her work in earnest. The 
professors liked her. Her receptive mind 
and willingness to learn gave them the 
rare opoortunity they welcomed. She was 
also popular with the students at the 
school. They flocked after her for help 
in their school work. Invitations from 
boys in the surrounding men's colleges 
came to her often. She went to all the 
Harvard games, the M. I. T. fraternity 
parties, and drove down to New Haven 
for a Thanksgiving dance. 

She wrote to Bill almost every day, and 
he wrote her often. His picture stood on 
the bookcase where she could see it the 
first thing every morning. He was in 
Texas now. When she went home at 
Christmas time, he was unable to get a 

SPRING, 1944 


furlough to come to see her. His gift to 
her came the day before Christmas. It 
was a massive silver bracelet with their 
names on it. 

After she returned to school, Bill wrote 
and asked her to try to come to his gradu- 
ation. She knew she couldn't, and told 
him so. In February he wrote her, and 
said, "Janie, I love you so very, very 
much. I haven't known you long, but I 
know you well. It's been eight months 
since I first met you, but it seems much 
more. Janie, I'm supposed to get a fur- 
lough next month. Will you marry me?" 

She put the letter under her pillow the 
night it came, and thought about it for 
several days. She knew she would marry 
him, but she wanted time to think about 
it before she answered. When she wrote 
him, she told him very simply that she 
would. She was only nineteen. Nineteen, 
so young; and nineteen, so old. 

Bill got his furlough in the middle of 
March and went directly to his home for 
three days. The school gave the girl a 
long week-end permission to visit her Aunt 
Leah in New York, and she went there, 
but not to see Aunt Leah. The train 
seemed to inch along; because she was so 
eager to see Bill she thought she would 
never get there. He met her at the sta- 
tion, and before she was really off the 
train steps, had her in his arms, kissing 
her hungrily. They were married that 
evening in the study of an old-fashioned 
little church, and their happiness was wild 
and exultant. It was a gloriously gay 
week end. She had never laughed so 
much and so deeply as she did then. It 
was so wonderful, just being with Bill. 
^ ^ ^ 

The girl on the cool stone bench stirred 
at the memory of Bill, tense and nervous 
in the little church; Bill and her, eating 
their wedding dinner on the roof of the 
Waldorf. His dark lean face was as vivid 
to her now as it had been then. 

No one had known of their marriage. 
She didn't write her parents, and Bill 
didn't tell his family. She wanted to go 
back to school, and married women were 
not admitted. Bill knew he was to be 
sent overseas almost immediately, and they 
both thought it wiser to keep the marriage 
secret for the time being. She went back 
to school, with her wedding ring on a 
chain around her neck. Bill went to 

Too soon after Bill had returned, a 
letter came, saying that he was under 
shipping orders to go across. 

She concentrated on her studies, helped 
in the Red Cross station, and tried to 
keep her mind from the fact that Bill was 
leaving. She wrote him daily, and in the 
evenings sent up little prayers for his 
safety. Several weeks passed, and she 
didn't hear from him. Eventually a V- 
mail letter came, sent from North Africa. 

There was nothing for her to do but 
wait while the lovely New England spring- 
time unfolded. Bill wrote to her infre- 
quently, always telling her how much he 
loved her, how much he missed her. 

Late in May a letter came from North 
Africa, but not from Bill. It was a brief, 
direct little message. 

Dear Mrs. Rowland, 

You've never heard of me, though 
Bill has told me so much about you 
that I really feel I know you person- 

What I have to tell you is a very 
hard thing to say. Bill was killed in 
action yesterday. I am his best 
friend and, I believe, the only person 
who knows that you are his wife. 
Please let me say I am sincerely sorry 
to have to be the one to tell you this. 
I think Bill Rowland was the grandest 
guy that ever lived. 

Ted Andrew 
(Continued on page 24) 




(A narrative poem in the style of the old Scotch ballads) 
By Coleman Douglas 

Whaur the heather blooms bricht i' the springtime 

And the ivy climbs dark a' the year, 

In a vale far awa' i' the Hielands 

Stands Lochniven; but nae mon cumes near, 

For a' the shepherds and peasants about 

Stand in awe o' this castle sae auld, 

For i' moonlight, they say, a spectre maid walks thaur; 

And this is the tale I was told: 

Oh, this maiden i' Lochniven dwelt lang agae. 
And white as the snow was her hand, 
And her lips were like roses, her hair was like gold. 
The fairest in a' the land. 

Oh, monie's the suitors fro' afar i' the land 

Wha courted and fought for her hand; 

But her heart luv'd but ane, a dashing young knicht. 

Though he was o' a hostile clan. 

But her parents, they hated young Robert of Doone 
(For such was the young knicht's name) ; 
They'd hae naught to do wi' his name nor his clan, 
Though daring and wide was his fame. 

But monie's the time he wad climb o'er the wa' 

To her garden to meet at midnicht. 

And thaur 'mid the flowers they'd pledge their true luve 

By the silvery, pale moonlicht. 

Ane nicht when the wind skiri'd o'er the moor 
And the moon shone pale o'er the lea. 
Young Robert came riding to his lady fair. 
And at her casement window was she. 

Thaur i' the moonlicht he tauld o' his luve. 
And thaur they pledged their troth; 
But the laird o' Lochniven found them thaur. 
And his brow was dark wi' wrath. 

SPRING, 1944 17 

"Oh father, dear father, pray let him be! 
Have mercy!" on her knees she cried. 
"Nae daughter o' mine will e'er wed a Doone! 
Varlet, tae arms!" he replied. 

He took three trusty men and true 

And placed them at his side; 

Young Robert fought and stood his ground. 

But "On, men!" Lochniven cried. 

His first blow sent the young knicht back 
Wi' blude flowing fro' his crown; 
But Robert drew his dirk and struck 
Sae hard it sent ane mon down. 

Oh, Robert fought baith brave and well, 
But the odds were a' too great; 
Lochniven was wounded, another mon killed. 
But alas! it was a' too late. 

For Robert had fallen whaur he stude, 
His heart's blude was staining the groond; 
His lady-luve saw and heard him not; 
In her father's arms she had swooned. 

Oh, from that day forth she ne'er did smile; 
She had become sick at heart; 
And ere the month passed her luver she joined, 
For but a while did they part. 

But Lochniven was like a haunted mon. 
In remorse for his deed did he suffer; 
Her face, it haunted him day and nicht, 
'Til a penance for his crime he did offer. 

The maiden would stand by his bedside, 
Like a ghastly pale shadow she stude. 
"I killed her, my daughter!" he'd cry in despair, 
"On my hands is my daughter's blude!" 

In a craze he threw himself o'er the cliff 

And was dashed on the rocks belowj 

And ere the year passed his wife died o' the plague. 

So o'er Lochniven the ivy did grow. 


The weeds and the ivy grew o'er the ruins, 

In the halls hved the wild-fowl and deer; 

And naught but silence and the ghosts of the past 

E'er dwelt or wander'd near. 

And e'en yet when the wind skirls o'er the moor 

And the moon shines pale i' the heaven 

And the fitful shadows flit across 

The moss-grown ruins o' Lochniven, 

Wi' the drifting mist, and the moaning wind 

That sighs round the towers ta'. 

Then the pale maiden floats o'er the loch 

And alang the castle wa'. 

Awaiting her luver wha never cumes, 

'Til her shadow is chased by the dawn. 

• Coleman Douglas wants to be a commercial 
artist or possibly to write, as she enjoys it so 
much. Coleman, a Freshman who lives in 
Nashville, has made drawing her hobby. She 
wrote this story for fun one day and then 
decided to hand it in for an English compo- 

From the Realms of My Wealth 

By Fay Maples 

Mother, were I a poet, I would sing 
your praises to the skies; were I a queen, 
you should have diamonds for your hair. 
But I am only your little girl, so to you 
I say: 

The moon kissed you with its soft light. 
The breeze blessed you with its whispering 

The night endowed you with serene peace, 
God gave you his heart. 

* Fay, whose ambition is to be a commercial 
artist, is at present concentrating on making 
a good record at Ward-Belmont. She comes 
from Gulf Port, Mississippi, and is a Senior- 

SPRING, 1944 19 

Early Frost 

By D. A. Crane 

• "D. A." is from Wilson, Oklahoma, and 
she did this story to send to the Atlantic con- 
test. The thing that D. A. detests most is 
athletics — any kind — while her hobby is writ- 

It wasn't right. The classic features 
were there, the jutting brow and noble 
nose, but there was no personality, no 
character. She laid down the charcoal 
and chamois and quietly folded her hands, 
musing, "Creative hands, yes, but not 
beautiful in a way termed graceful or 
exquisitely molded." She turned to the 
open window and regarded gravely the 
harsh, brilliant green of the lawns. The 
afternoon glare of the late May sun fell 
obliquely on the buildings of the campus, 
and the shadows were gradually extending 
their benign protection to the tired, bright 
flowers planted in static, formal patterns. 
"Like Victorian virgins passive in the face 
of convention," she thought. 

"Don't you care for our medium today. 
Miss Fielding? Or is it that Moses 
doesn't appeal to you as a model? We 
thought Michelangelo's sense of propor- 
tion rather good. You have achieved a 
faithful reproduction there. Too bad we 
can't arouse your full interest. Now 
about the mouth — the nether lip might 
be a little fuller . . ." 

March listened dutifully, blushing in 
the flare of the instructor's clumsy sar- 
casm. After making certain minor sug- 
gestions, he moved on, pausing momen- 
tarily at the other easels to recommend 
alterations. When the bell sounded, 
March hurriedly arranged the charcoal 
sticks and cloths in the light wooden box 
and left the studio. 

The shadows had claimed more terri- 
tory now, but the heat had abated none 
of its intensity. She thought again, un- 

willingly but inevitably, of other late 
afternoon shadows, shadows arriving slow- 
ly at an autumn sun's reluctant departure. 
The vivid old tableaux then came quickly, 
one upon the other, like the slides of a 
magic lantern appearing and passing in 
succession too rapid to allow lucid im- 
pressions of each but creating from the 
flying shades and shapes a singular effect. 
"Yes, I know I must think through it 
again, but why? There's no solution; 
why do I seek a solution?" Her throat 
was tight; it seemed swollen with the force 
of a captive cry. The heat was almost 
stifling as March hurried on. But it came 
as she had known it must and as it had 
before. It began at the beginning and, 
resigned, she knew again its natal peace. 

The first time the English composition 
class met, she entered room 208 feeling 
self-conscious because the newness of the 
textbook under her arm marked her as 
one of the Freshmen. She settled herself 
in an empty chair on the second row and 
looked about her curiously. It was a 
small class, the course being elective, and 
she wanted to survey these people who 
possessed her own inclinations and inter- 
ests. The blond boy next to her smiled 
shyly and began conversation by offering 
conjectures on the possible nature of the 
course. Dr. Larsen strode in and stopped 
behind the desk, bending over several 
mimeographed sheets. When he looked 
up, March was surprised at his compara- 
tive youth. A Ph.D. at his age? But on 
closer inspection she found no discrepancy 
between age and title. The features had 
lost none of their sharp definition, but the 
face wore a settled look of assured ma- 



"I had hoped to see more Freshmen 
interested in writing this year. I had 
hoped that my reputation for exacting 
certain standards of quantity and quahty 
had not yet been spread among the new 
students," he ventured. "But, actually, 
I'm certain that you'll find the work ex- 
pected of you in this course is not beyond 
your capacities. And certainly the actual 
study and use of the mechanics of com- 
position are not alone the aim. To be 
quite familiar with the qualities of an art, 
one must develop basic, innate apprecia- 
tion, for emotion precedes perception. . . ." 

As his modulated tones and careful in- 
flections broke the hot, still air of early 
September, March felt each implication 
of his words and believed them and was 
amused at this new step in her impres- 

"Your first paper — the subject is op- 
tional — will be due one week from today; 
and since we have no work for today, 
class is dismissed." 

March walked from the building across 
the soft, matted grass with a new sense 
of a significant, brave young world. Sen- 
sual impressions seemed to deepen spiritual 
responses until the sermons in stones and 
books and running brooks became some- 
thing too great, too complex to be ex- 
pressed with noun and modifying adjective. 

The brown and gold days were long 
and complete, made of moments busy 
dealing with growing awareness and mo- 
ments of leisurely and uninhibited self- 
regard. The weeks flew, however; and 
autumn, passing uncertainly from late 
summer, finally detached its form com- 
pletely and assumed its own distinctions. 
As autumn made itself steadily discern- 
ible, she established for herself a higher 
place in Dr. Larsen's estimation of the 
relative abilities of the individual stu- 
dents. Her talent was still young, still 
feeling its way in uncertain passages, but 
the potentialities there were nonetheless 

undeniable. It grew from no divine flame, 
no boundless joy of inspiration, but rather 
from a quiet elation in the satisfaction in 
a response successfully expressed. 

She was neither a Keats nor a Guest, 
but she expressed the potentialities of a 
kind of deceptively practical cerebralism 
— sleek, modern, superficially wise, yet 
containing beneath this lacquer a modem 
dissonance and sometimes a faint cry of 

Dr. Larsen quickly perceived her desire 
for experience proportionate to her de- 
veloping facility of expression; but Dr. 
Larsen, lofty as was his place in March 
Fielding's estimation, could not provide 
a substitute for the empirical deficiencies 
of some of her productions. There was 
so much time yet for maturity, which 
alone could give full remedy. Early 
dehiscence, he felt, would not be to her 
disadvantage. Precocious development 
could have no undesirable aftermath; the 
same materials, the same phases would be 
known, would be reviewed and discarded or 
kept, according to their worth. The only 
independent variable would be the sub- 
ject's capacity for enduring all of these 
essential metamorphoses in concepts, spir- 
itual, moral, intellectual, and social. He 
was anxious to aid March with every 
agent in his control, but was cognizant of 
the fact that only self-administered treat- 
ment would have the desired effect. 

Her early stories were beautifully 
planned and written. The first was an 
exquisitely subtle satire of pseudo-intel- 
lectualism, "Finite-Clod," and she had 
molded the theme into the figure of a 
supercilious pedant. There were no bitter 
invectives of a frustrated pupil but sly 
thrusts at a supposedly concealed Achilles 
heel. Dr. Larsen's lectures became a little 
more interesting and a little less abstractly 
didactic. March felt deeply the gratifica- 
tion of knowing one who experienced the 
same proud moments of an original idea 

SPRING, 1944 


perfectly perceived. When they went over 
the paper together, she was deUghted by 
his criticism, because to her Dr. Larsen 
was a second self, though one armed with 
far greater wisdom and a capacity for 
entirely objective judgment. 

"In His Own Inimitable Style," a psy- 
chological study of a frustrated esthete, 
and "Don't Spare the Horses," a humor- 
ous little story of her mother's Edwardian 
mind and manners followed and were 
received with the same unspoken com- 
mendation and the same mutual agree- 
ment on their relative values. March 
was charmed by this sense of an affinity 
of minds and found herself writing now 
under the direction of such thoughts as 
"He'll love my hero; he always likes 
character development that is subtle and 
gradual until the climax, when it bursts 
upon the reader, catching him almost un- 
aware" or "I know he'll like this de- 
nouement; he'll say it's really the most 
plausible solution." Their conferences 
were never uneasy with self-consciousness; 
there was no feeling of the distinctions of 
position; Dr. Larsen and Miss Fielding 
could have been author and all-important 
technical advisor. 

Her writing grew somewhat more mys- 
tical now, incomprehensible to an undis- 
ceming mind. A small group of 
philosophical poems, "Today Grieves; 
Tomorrow Grieves," was written next. 
Although Dr. Larsen was not quite sure 
of its message and its figures, he said 
nothing, fearing to restrain a natural bent, 
lest in doing so he abort a quite normal 
phase of development. These immature 
creators, he felt, will — and should — make 
their own little explorations into mildly 
radical ideology and experiment with un- 
punctuated free verse. When she tires of 
this experimentation, I must be ready with 
a plan for redirection of her energy. He 
interested himself in grading the papers 
of other promising students and found 

that a majority of them expressed the 
same young sobriety and wide-eyed earn- 
estness with the same somewhat confused 
figures. "A phase," he thought resigned- 
ly, "just a phase." 

March, too, saw it as a new stage, but 
she was fascinated by its mushroom 
growth and now wrote with an increasing 
excitement in the words which flashed so 
startlingly into her mind. 

A group of short stories and a few 
poems followed, among them the ques- 
tionable "Cry What I Can Cry" and the 
weird, dissonate "Dead Geraniums in the 
Hand." These selections made the transi- 
tion from meaning obscured to meaning 
incomprehensible. They were mystic, 
obtuse, often too consciously intellectual, 
and seldom possessed the old, lucid, sen- 
sitive, flowing style of the earlier March. 

Dr. Larsen felt that he must speak now. 
He must tell her that this radical surreal- 
ism, this obfuscation, must not get com- 
pletely out of hand, or if the thing was 
already loosed it must be leashed again. 
Nothing could be allowed to distort her 
fundamentally faithful concepts and ac- 
curate perspective. He reread a few of 
her earlier papers and felt reassured. 

"In a Brown Field Stood a Tree" was 



the name of the group of three poems for 
discussion at the next conference. The 
cycle began with the classic appeal to the 
Muses, then quickly and irrelevently de- 
generated into a discordant shriek of utter 
chaos of thought. Dr. Larsen had no 
idea of its original purpose, and he felt 
that the author herself was deaf to her 
own cry rising there. 

For some minutes before March arrived 
he stood at the window, gazing absently 
at the bare trees and the short dead grass 
of the campus. He tried to formulate a 
clear, constructive criticism of the poems 
and definite suggestions for directing fu- 
ture efforts. He wanted to make his com- 
ments casual but firm and sincere, matter- 
of-fact but not too unfeeling or aloof. 
"Oh, dammit," he thought, "she's upset 
me with this new incoherency of sense 
and style. What does it mean? Were 
there symptoms I should have recog- 
nized?" March came in then, and he had 
an uncomfortable feeling of total unpre- 
paredness. He passed his hand over his 
eyes and sat down in the light oak chair at 
his desk. 

March was trembling with suppressed 
excitement, and her movements were awk- 
ward, uneasy. She had been writing 
frantically in a chilling, white glow of 
desire she had not known before; and 
although "In a Brown Field Stood a 
Tree" confused her somewhat with its 
occult meanings and strange, angular fig- 
ures, she looked upon it in awed reverence, 
a mother staring at her genius child. 

She put her books on the desk and sat 
in the other chair, gazing fixedly at her 
tightly folded hands. Dr. Larsen was the 
first to speak. He cleared his throat and 

"March, I don't know what's happened 
to you." — Too harsh, try again. Softer 
now — "I think you've been reading too 
much of this modern hocus-pocus. . . ." — 

Then it came bluntly: "March, what's 
happened? You were going so well, and 
then this utter incoherency!" 

He was aware of her feverishly brilliant 
eyes fixed upon him and stopped. An- 
other possible solution came to him. 
"What have you been doing outside of 
school? You aren't getting yourself 
mixed up in any odd business, are you?" 

Her dry, racking sobs broke the 
strained stillness, and Dr. Larsen was 
horrified. She was shuddering and chok- 
ing on the harsh sounds from her con- 
stricted throat, and he gripped her arms 
with cruel strength, drawing her upright. 
She clutched the lapels of his coat and 
buried her face in his shirt front. 

"Oh God," he thought, "what do I do 
now?" The raucous sobs grated ujjon 
his ears, and he could feel the streaming 
tears dampening his shirt. This was his 
favorite tie, too. "She's exhausted with 
a kind of creative fervor. I should have 
perceived it and been more careful." 

He cursed himself and shook the limp 
form gently. Her cries were subsiding 
and she finally loosened her grasp of his 
wrinkled lapels and raised her wet, flushed 
face ashamedly. He saw then her pained, 
guilty expression and realized that no cre- 
ative fervor had caused this outbreak. 
He was shocked and agonized at the bare, 
mute testimony there; and he released her 

It was then that he saw the girl stand- 
ing at the door. It was Esther Leahman, 
a student in the third hour English litera- 
ture class. Her myopic eyes shone with 
an unnatural brilliance, and a faint flush 
suffused her round face. Her ill-concealed 
amazement bore a faint trace of delight. 

Dr. Larsen automatically regained con- 
fident composure and it was with an ex- 
pression of professional interest that he 
said, "Come in, Miss Leahman. What 
can I do for you?" 

SPRING, 1944 


Esther still stood uncertainly at the 
door. She was confused now, he knew 
from the faint frown. She managed to 
utter a few syllables which might be un- 
derstood as "Oh, excuse me," yet seemed 
hesitant to leave. 

Reassuringly he explained, his voice 
laconic, "Miss Fielding here seems quite 
upset over a rather poor paper, but don't 
let her lusty lamentations disconcert you. 
I beat my third hour students only on 

Esther smiled vaguely upon him, but 
returned her curiosity to March. "Well, 
I have a paper here you corrected and 
gave back to me today and. . . ." 

He smiled encouragingly, "Come in and 
we'll see about it now, or rather as soon 
as Miss Fielding collects herself. Of 
course, I'm glad to give all the encour- 
agement and criticism that will aid my 
students in their literary efforts, but at 
times this seems to be so construed as 
to entail more than I bargained for. It 
is enough to be engulfed in the penned 
outpourings of a mistaken sense of spir- 
itual heights without being engulfed in 
the melodramatics of the same." 

Miss Leahman seemed acutely uncom- 
fortable. "Well, I think I'll come back 
sometime tomorrow, maybe — when you 
aren't — uh — busy." She ducked out of 
the doorway, and he heard the receding 
staccato of her heels on the stairs. 

March gazed curiously at the crease of 
annoyance between his brows, at the stern, 
downward line at the corner of his mouth. 
He was, after all, a professor, rumored 
to be next in line for the chairmanship 
of the English Department. Although it 
occurred to March that she ought to feel 
some compunction for provoking the un- 
fortunate situation, she found instead a 
completely benumbed conscience, an utter 
lack of emotion. He was so careful to 
make Esther understand, to make it right. 

He was obstinately silent, flipping impor- 
tantly through his lecture notes. There 
seemed to be no need for words, and 
March left the room. 

She never saw Dr. Larsen again, except 
from a distance. Whenever she caught 
sight of the familiar, slightly bent shoul- 
ders, she didn't remember her face on his 
shirt, the nubby feel of his woven tie, but 
his face — bland, confident, regarding 
Esther Leahman with coolly cruel purpose. 


(Continued from page 16) 

She read it through twice, but she 
couldn't believe the words she found there. 
She was stunned so badly at the news that 
her whole being was numb. When the 
impact fully hit, she cried until no more 
tears could be wrung from her heart. Two 
days later a pitiful note from Bill's 
mother came to her, confirming Ted 
Andrew's words. Bill had told Mrs. Row- 
land about her, and that he intended to 
marry her after the war. Mrs. Rowland 
asked her to come down for a visit as soon 
as school was out. 

And now school was out. The train 
for home left tonight. The girl was mak- 
ing her decision. Only one other person 
in the world knew of her marriage. 
Should she go on with college, as Miss 
Jane Byrne, and make a career for herself, 
perhaps build an entirely different life, or 
should she go to Bill's mother, as Mrs. 
William Rowland, III, and live in the 
memory of Bill's love for her? 

There was no doubt in her mind. The 
girl broke the thin gold chain around her 
neck, slipped off the plain wedding ring, 
and put it on her left hand. She stood 
up, turned, and walked toward the dorm. 
She must write home tonight. 




By Peggy Freeman 

Is it soft and lilting, 

Tender as a babe's first smile? 

Is it harsh and sad, 

Painful as the first bum of a blazing fire? 

Is it age-old. 

This aching to touch — to hold — 

To realize? 

Is it twentieth-century, 

This aching to know, to feel 

That all is well, 

That we can still go on? 

Will it be overwhelming, 

Shameful because of so much feeling? 

Must we go on. 

Knowing and yet unknowing, sensing 

As we watch the last, last drop 

Of red blood pour from the wound. 

The last tear shed. 

The last fragment of a memory disappearing. 

The last rays of sunset. 

The last note of a lovesong, 

The last kiss — 

That this is the end? 

Still knowing, we must go on and on . . . 

Waiting and waiting . . . 

For oblivion, 

The unknown, unrecognizable . . . 

The Finality. 

* Poetry seems to be one of Peggy's chief 
interests, as her hobby is collecting it. She 
is a Senior-Middle from Bramwell, West Vir- 

SPRING. 1944 


(Continued from page 9) 

floor. Don't move over there, the wind 
blows dust in my face. Oh, all right. I 
hope you're satisfied. Now be still. Umf! 
There, the saddle's on. No, I won't 
buckle it too tight. Is that loose enough 
to suit you?" 

It's a good thing I broke this young 
gentleman or I wouldn't know all of his 
ridiculous ways. I'd have been left stand- 
ing there with my left foot waving in the 
air while he blithely strolled away. But 
we understand each other quite well, so 
I was prepared for the worst. We went 
off in a brisk walk which easily turned 
into a canter as we rounded a curve. 
After passing through a couple of gates 
and jumping a spring branch we came 
to the level, wide river bottom. There 
I let Dan have his head, and we seemed 

to fly from the ground — a black Pegasus 
and his rider. Oh, it was glorious! The 
wind blew my hair back and all of the 
cobwebs out of my brain. Finally we 
turned around and reluctantly went back 
to the house. I unsaddled Dan, kissed 
him on his velvety nose, and guiltily 
slipped him another piece of sugar. He 
was simply overjoyed — and licked my neck 
with a rasp-like tongue to prove it. 

A delicious dinner was waiting, and I 
enjoyed everything from the thick steak 
with its rich dark gravy to the fluffy, 
golden brown biscuits. After eating till 
we could not swallow another bite, my 
family and I packed up the old grip and, 
loaded down with milk, butter, eggs, and 
ham, we — 

What is that awful noise? Oh, the 
bell ringing to signify the change of 
classes. Maybe I can get through one 
more hour and then go to work on the 
Senior skit. Will this day never end? 


Pop^^ Cochran 

By Belle Mead 

* Belle, a Senior-Mid, comes from Odessa, 
Texas, and has had one or two of her early 
poems published. Mary Beth Mead, popu- 
larly called Belle, has chosen physical education 
for her career, and her main ambition is to 
teach it here at Ward-Belmont. Her hobbies 
are athletics and stamps. 

"I granny, that's right! Yes, sir!" 
Strange that I should remember this old 
Western expression. Yet it is even 
stranger that I should remember the per- 
son who said it. But when I connect the 
words with this person, a smile finds its 
way across my face. I smile because I 
remember an old "Jack-of-all-trades" who 
ran a fishing camp fifty miles above 
Creede, Colorado, and about a mile from 
the head of the Rio Grande River. 

"Pop" Cochran ran this camp and man- 
aged it well; that is to say, he made it pay. 

He had horses to rent, cabins to rent, 
food to sell, fishing tackle, flies, and all 
the other implements a fisherman would 
ever need. He also had his cribbage and 
poker games every night, in both of which 
he always won. But then his first name 
for a "Dude" was a "Sucker." 

Pop's physical characteristics were not 
outstanding ones, but put together, they 
made a colorful figure. He was medium 
in stature, thin, and he walked with a 
slight limp, credited to an encounter with 
a mountain lion. His playful eyes were 
not just an ordinary gray, but a gray that 
was colorful. His hair was also gray, 
with a decided thinness on top where his 
hat had rested so long. And this hat was 
no ordinary hat either, but a ranger's hat 
that sagged in the back as well as in the 
front. His clothes were just clothes, and 
old ones at that. No, he wasn't good- 
looking at all, just a typical old Westem- 



er, the kind that is so rapidly vanishing 

Pop's greatest pride was his Uttle tele- 
scope, kept in front of his store. He 
could be seen many times a day scanning 
the surrounding mountains for goats that 
were so numerous there. When he found 
a few he would joyfully yell, "I granny! 
Here's a bunch of 'em!" Quickly we all 
ran over and took our turn in line. After 
we had seen them, he would take the tele- 
scope again and find a bright patch of 
raspberries up on a nearby mountain. 
Off we went with our pails and spent the 
rest of the day trying to find that patch 
we had so clearly seen in the telescope. 

Pop always found some way to keep us 
busy, even if it was giving us a dime for 
every twenty-five grasshoppers we caught 
after our first seventy-five. My, but we 

thought he was generous! 

The stories he told us were just the 
right kind, very little fact and a lot of 
fiction. These stories were about his min- 
ing days, his ranger days, his trapper days, 
and his hunting and fishing days; when 
he told us a story about his fishing days, 
you could just see him teasing a demonic 
trout on the end of his line. If you were 
ever to doubt the truthfulness of his tale, 
he would always say, "I granny, that's 
right! Yes, sir!" So you took his word 
for it and went back to your attentive 

Pop is alive today, charming the East- 
em "dudes" with his humor and his tales 
of Colorado. If you were to meet him 
on a city street, you would think him odd 
and out of place. Nevertheless, like the 
lion, he is king in his own environment. 

I Remember 

By Genelia Nye 

• A Senior day student, Genelia has as a hobby 
collecting two very fascinating things: Jon 
Whitcombes and Frank Sinatra records. Her 
ambition is to make writing her career. 

Knowing you changed my whole life. 
You were older than the other boys I had 
known, and consequently your entire atti- 
tude was different. I had no doubt at the 
time that you were without flaw; now 
that I'm older, I realize the way I looked 
up to you was a kind of hero-worship. 
Now I see your faults and weaknesses, 
and yet I overlook them. 

When we were together we didn't talk 
about things that boys and girls usually 
talk about — orchestras, movies, and all 
manner of things that make up adolescent 
conversation. Somehow our conversations 
went deeper than that. It seemed so im- 
portant that we share our ideas about life 
with each other. I remember that you 
were the only one to whom I could tell my 
dreams without being afraid of being 
laughed at. No, you didn't laugh, be- 

cause they were your dreams, too. Only 
it was I who put them into words for both 
of us. 

I first met you when I was fifteen, and 
although that sounds terribly young now, 
I remember feeling very grown up. At 
that age things make a very deep impres- 
sion, and you were the one who made me 
grow up. 

At a quarter to three every day I started 
counting the minutes until the three 
o'clock bell rang, indicating the end of 
our class. I would jump up eagerly, im- 
patient to get outside and to cast off all 
thoughts of school. You arose more 
slowly, deliberately, having first put your 
pencil in your pocket and arranged your 
books. Your steps were long, steady, 
slow, with an athlete's natural co-ordina- 
tion and sense of timing. Mine were 
hurried, half-running, half-walking. That 
characterized our natures. You see, we 
were very different; but basically we 
shared the same ideas. It was I who 
worried and fretted over things. It was 
you who accepted life calmly, even when 

SPRING, 1944 


it seemed to deal you an extra hard blow. 
Always you recoiled and came back fight- 
ing. To me you were an inspiration, a 
symbol, making for me a goal to strive 
for and reach toward. 

As we grew older and left school, we 
became even closer. I can remember long 
rides in your car on summer evenings 
under a shower of stars and a full moon. 
We were together constantly that summer, 
but even then I had no illusions of your 
being in love with me. For that matter, 
I wasn't in love with you. I knew I was 
your friend, your confidant, and that was 
enough. Neither of us wanted, or sought, 
more. I knew other boys, of course, but 
compared to you they seemed shallow and 
superficial. You were my yardstick by 
which I measured every other man I knew. 

The day that war was declared you 
called me up and suggested dinner at a 
little road house where the steaks were 
thick and the music was soft. You were 

\ t 

very quiet, and I knew you were thinking 
the same thoughts that millions of others, 
including myself, were thinking that 

Suddenly you leaned across the table 
and said, "I guess you know that I've got 
to do somethmg about all this." I knew. 
We discussed it calmly, sensibly. No 
hysterics, no talk of parting. Two weeks 
later you joined the marines. 

The night before you left we took one 
last ride. Everything was very gay, and 
we toasted your going with Coca-Colas 
and popcorn. We joked about the situa- 
tion's being well in hand, the hardships 

of boot camp, the possibilities of O. C. S. 

Then our laughter died abruptly. I 
remember sitting very still, wondering if 
I could control the tears that had sprung 
to my eyes. With a sudden movement 
you turned the car around and headed 
toward home. You said briefly, gruffly, 
"You'll write, won't you? I'll want to 
know how everything is back home." 

And I did write, often and lengthily. 
I kept all your letters in a box and hardly 
a day passed that I didn't reread the last 
one and count the days on my fingers to 
see if it was time for another. 

I remember your joy when you heard 
that you were scheduled to go overseas. 
"I'll be back all the sooner," you wrote. 
Your letters, so vague in address but so 
real and like you inside, were full of your 
hopes for the future. And the "after the 
war" days. You lived for the future, and 
I think I was living for that future, too. 

But now I hold a slip of paper, short 
and to the point. "We regret to inform 

you of the death of ," and your name 

is inserted there. Suddenly I realize 
something that I must have known for a 
very long time. I love you. Oh, darling, 
I've loved you for so long. Ever since 
that history class, through all the sum- 
mers and winters, over the great oceans 
that separate us. And now you are dead. 

It is strange to say "you are dead" and 
feel absolutely no emotion. Tomorrow I 
shall get over this feeling of unreality. 
Tomorrow I shall cry. Tomorrow the 
tears will come uncontrollably and I, too, 
shall want to die. Perhaps in time I shall 
get used to the idea. For the present it 
is enough to realize my love for you. If 
I could only let you know. Somehow I 
think you do know. Didn't we always 
know each other's thoughts without put- 
ting them into words? You must have 
known, and I am glad. All your plans, 
all your bright hopes for the future— was 
I a part of them? I shall never know. 




S U MM £ R 

19 4 4 

'V .-•V 


Vol. 7 SUMMER, 1944 No. 3 




. erk up, gals, it's almost time to go pack to Ward-Belmont or to that other school 
if you were one of last year's happy graduates. Summer's nearly over, and haven't we 
had fun? The Ed. took a rather long, involved journey, and, after having promised 
people all along the way that she would write it up and print it, she had to do so, and 
at such great length since she had to mention all of the people she had seen and those 
who would see the finished product. But it was fun, and this vacation has been an 
eventful one for her along with the excursion and the arrival of her big brother from 
the South Pacific. Well, she liked to have never seen anyone quite so handsome, and 
he's to be stationed in Nashville for two or three months! If it's humanly possible, 
she'll try to drag him over to school to let some of those who have heard so much 
about him take a short look. However, this is far too much rambling about the private 
life of Ed., so we had better glance through the magazine. 

Hare Howerton's description of her visit back to the campus accompanied by one 
Winky Andrews will bring a smile and a tear to many eyes, while Phyl Harrison has 
done a reflecting sketch of the village. This year's Editor Freeman has contributed a 
snappy, little poem about spring and a short story about James Thomas Montgomery 
III and his lasting troubles. We happened to run across Vanda Nelson's character 
sketch of her father, and we decided that he must truly be a wonderful man. Kathleen 
Norris gave us a vivid picture of small town religion, and it's too bad that more peo- 
ple can't worship in that way. And Carol Bay wrote a heart-rending story of the 
war and the return of the soldier. It has a different twist from the usual homecoming 
tale. So there is a thumbing-through of the contents, and you'll like all of them 
we're sure. 

There has been lots of pleasure and lots of work for all of us who have helped to get 
out the magazine during the past year. We only hope that all of you readers have en- 
joyed reading it as much as we have enjoyed putting it out. And now this party bows 

out with a "Have a good time this year" to you all. So long. 



Betsy Bishop . ■ Editor 

Marie Mount Associate Editor 

Betsy Anne Rowlett Revievj Editor 

Betty Barnes ■ . Poetry Editor 

Susan Russell ■ . ■ Art Editor 

Margaret Burk Exchange Editor 

Deckie Martin . . . . ■ ■ Business Manager 

Mary Emily Caldwell . . • Circulation Manager 

Miss Elizabeth Sadler . . • ■ . Faculty Advisor 


Susan Russell Editor 

Betty Brooker Winky Andrews 


Ann White 

Peggy Freeman 
KiCKi Moss 
Mary Richards 
Janet Fogarty 
Shirley Hunt 
Minnie Carter Bailey 

Jean Howerton 


Mary Jane Sherrill 
Bunny Lawler 
Elizabeth Wailes 
Phyllis Harrison 
Carol Bay 
Joan Russell 

Genella Nve 

Virginia Luebbe 

Kathleen Norris 
Nancy Ross 
Fay Maples 
Edith Ann Williams 
Ruth Hoe 

Hiffh School Representatives 
Jean H.'vcer Martha Baird 


Lost — Two Youths Jean Howerton 

I'll Always Be Around Betty Hughes 

"Now Voyager" Betsy Bishop 

A Prayer Julia Carreker 

Sketch of the Village Phyllis Harrison 

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star Nancy Ross 

Night Charlyne Edwards 

A Still Small Voice Betsy Bishop 

Anything Else, Sir? Ruth W. Hoe 

Footprints JoAN Russell 

The Homecoming Carol Bay 

Journey into Light Author Unknown 

The One Rose Mary Richards 

The Three "Men" - DoRis Croom 

Was It Worth It? Vivian Moss 

Small Town Religion Kathleen Norris 

A Prisoner in Heaven Peggy Freeman 

Sketch of My Father Vanda Nelson 

The Last Night Anne Stahl 

The Forest Slumbers RUTH Hoe 

Superman KiCKl MosS 

Happiness AUTHOR Unknown 

Rain in the City Ellen Williams 

Spring Peggy Freeman 














Lost— Two Youths 

By Jean Howerton 

Oh, for crying out loud! (as they said 
in the last war) . Like you ever to have 
seen a summer toot by so fast? Why it 
was but a scant two months ago that my 
old school chum, the dear lolan the of my 
heart, Florence Andrews, and I paid a 
last and ultimate visit to what the letter- 
head designates as Belmont Heights in an 
attempt to recapture our so recently lost 
youth . . . lost, to be exact, on graduation 
day somewhere between the "Bells of 
Ward-Belmont" and the "Y" Room. 

Nonethehowever, we had managed to 
keep the flame of our youth aflicker (but 
blazing) while rowdying around McMinn- 
ville, Tenn., visiting poor ruing-the-day- 
she-ever-asked-us Sue Russell for two days 
immediately following gradge. (Informal 
reference, true, but you must remember 
that this is an informal article being tossed 
off by owl-eyed, Ian tern- jawed Bone How- 

Back to the flame ... we discovered, on 
our return to Nashville to catch our re- 
spective trains for our respective homes, 
the truth in the old adage "You can't 
burn your candle at both ends and eat it 

We clambered noisily aboard a "Bel- 
mont" and dangled our bobby sock and 
girl scout shoe-clad feet. It wasn't, you 
understand, that our bobby sock and girl 
scout shoe-clad feet didn't touch the floor. 
Not for nothing do we denote one another 
as "lolengthy." No, truth was that our 
rather elongated fibia (tibia? femur?) 
protruded through the floor and dangled 
down among the gears and such. 

A rather large tear rivuleted crazily 
down the side of Lodestone's rather large 
nose as we drew nearer our destination. 
We made Odom's our first stop since we 
have found it to be true on innumerable 
occasions that Florence Andrews, Jean 

Howerton and the Army move on their 
respective stomachs. Our ultimate aim 
here was to imbibe an ultimate and large 
fudge sundae which we did, jealously 
numbering one another's pictures in one 
another's MILESTONES all the while. 
Ultimately, I won! 

Sam Odom did not quite understand 
our presence but evidently decided not to 
resist and brotherly signed our annuals, 
which by this time were quite bespattered 
with fudge from his sundaes. 

Once more we traversed the well-trav- 
ersed path through the gate. The Wink 
insisted up>on convincing me frenziedly 
that we two unscrupulous rascals (where- 
upon I screamed at her piquedly "Speak 
for yourself!") had cut out first hour and 
that everybody else was in class, which 
explained the abnormal quiet. 

We two old school chums (even as Elsie 
Dinsmore and Tess of the Storm Country) 
sat in the swing by F. F. and fell a-remi- 
niscing, weeping in unison on one an- 
other's shirt fronts. 

Our next stop was Senior Hall but it 
wasn't the Senior Hall we had known, 
with the Roberts throwing water down off 
the roof or with the Ham Club perched 

SUMMER, 1944 

on the railing and laughing till they 
thought they'd split their sides. This 
wasn't the Senior Hall we knew with 
Mrs. Powell busily pinning dispatches 
from the Home Office on the bulletin 
board, and Polly leaning over the railing 
and shouting from third floor, "Anybody 
in the smoker?" 

A vain search for a transient tennis 
racket took us to third where the ab-solute 
end was the sight of Proffitt SC Sanders, 
Inc., with its cupboard for once bare. 

We betook ourselves up the Middle 
Walk one ultimate time to the P. O. 

Miss Lester was still functioning as a 
thriving concern and most willingly sold 
us a scrapbook and wrote in our annuals 
"Don't forget me." 

Ah! But lest I wax maudlin, I needs 
must close. Ultimately our respective 
train times approached so we bid one an- 
other adieu in friendly fashion. While 
Wink/s back is turned and while you're 
on your feet, let me caution you . . . 
never return to your alma mater with an 
old school chum who is sedimental. 
You'll end up being sedimental also. I 
found this to be true. 

I^ll Always Be Around 

By Bet+y Hughes 

He was young, really not yet a man, 
and yet he had seen the horror of war. 
He left home with a smile on his lips and 
a song in his heart. Yes, I was brave. I 
didn't let him see the tears that were 
about ready to spring from my eyes. 
Leaning over and kissing me he said, 
"Mom, be brave and don't worry. 'I'll 
always be around." That was all he said, 
but the look in his eyes told me all I 
wanted to know. 

After he left, I sat for a while with my 
eyes closed and head bowed. I asked 
God as every mother does to keep my 
son safe from all harm. 

I looked forward. with the greatest hap- 
piness to the letters I received from him. 
Often in the evenings, Peggy, his young 
wife, would come over and spend several 
hours with me. We would sit and knit 
while we talked about the one nearest to 
both of our hearts. 

A card arrived one morning with his 
A. P. O. number on it. He had finished 
his training and was now needed on the 
other side. I was dreadfully unhappy of 

course, but I knew he wanted to go. He 
had said he did so many times. 

Through his letters, I was able to see 
how it felt to go into battles, the way it 
felt to walk through mud knee deep, to 
see your buddies shot before your eyes. 
I saw my son turn from a still young man 
to a person hairdened by war. In one 
letter he told me about a particularly 
fierce battle. He said shells were falling 
all about them, but they had orders to 
advance and to take the beachhead. 
"Mom," he said, "I was rcared to death, 
but I am glad I was scared 'cause only 
fools aren't scared and fools don't make 
good soldiers." 

His letters no longer arrive. I have 
only full and pleasant memories and the 
sound of his voice when he said, "Be 
brave and don't worry, I'll always be 
around." I'll be brave because he was 
and because Peggy is. Peggy will soon 
have his child. She will have something 
of him for her own. I have nothing, but 
to me he will always be around because 
he will always be around my heart. 



Now Voyager 

By Betsy Bishop 

Grandmother plunked the mail down 
upon my peacefully sleeping body, saying 
rather disinterestedly, "Hmmm, three let- 
ters — one from Boston — Ken in Boston 
now?" I muttered, "Mulmphf, huh uh, 
don't think so, said he'd wire from Den- 
ver — mam? Boston?" And I, who at 
one moment was so quietly slumbering out 
on the sleeping porch, hit the floor the 
next with a house-shaking thud when I 
heard those mighty words. They could 
mean only one thing — an invitation from 
Ken's mother to come to Massachusetts 
and spend his furlough with him and his 
family. For months I had dreamed and 
made plans not really believing down deep 
in my heart that they would ever materi- 
alize, because everything was so uncertain. 
But here it was! Now I could go to work 
in earnest. But, no, in my wild moment 
of glory I had forgotten one thing, such 
an important thing — my brother. He had 
spent fourteen months in the South Pa- 
cific as pilot on a Liberator and was now 
on the way home. We didn't know ex- 
actly when he was coming, so I couldn't 
decide anything till I knew. I had to 
write a very indefinite, very pleading letter 
back begging them to understand and to 
still want me when I could get there. But 
at last my brother called from San Fran- 
cisco on, the night of the invasion. The 
Allies invaded France, but Captain Arch 
Bishop invaded the United States, which 
gave us just as big a thrill. Two days 
later we met him out at the airport, and 
I declared to myself that he was the best 
looking creature that had ever hit Nash- 
ville and I adored him. About a week 
later Ken's furlough started, and I pre- 
pared to take off for Boston. 

Take ofl? is right, except I didn't. After 
checking over my list four times, rummag- 
ing down to the bottom of my bag to see 


if I had put in that yellow handkerchief, 
and finally going to bed for all of two 
hours, I got up again, dressed, and along 
with Arch and my mother, went out to 
the airport. The passenger clerk met me 
with a sorrowful face. She didn't have 
to tell me, I knew. But 2:17 A. M. is 
such a disheartening hour to be put off a 
plane. So I dolefully turned and walked 
away. The clerk called cheerily that as 
soon as something came through she'd let 
me know. I was too despondent to an- 
swer. I felt that I would never get to 
Boston. I went home and to bed again 
knowing that I wouldn't go to sleep. The 
next thing I knew, my mother was shaking 
me awake clattering something about 
catching the 5:20 plane if we could get 
to the field in time. So again we dressed 
and rushed out and this time I was actu- 
ally given a seat; then the big airliner 
took off. I waited patiently and expect- 
antly for the much talked of sensation. 
None came. I only got deaf and I was 
dreadfully disappointed. I watched the 
sun come up over the horizon turning the 
earth blue with gold flecks and the sky a 
beautiful rose color. Looking down upon 
my beloved Tennessee hills, I thought, "I 
don't want to miss a minute of this," and 
then it was two hours later and the stew- 
ardess was waking me by asking if I 
wanted coffee or milk for breakfast. She 
served ham and it was the best meat I 
had ever eaten, which astonished me be- 
cause anywhere else ham tastes like dry 
pig leather, and I won't touch it. Maybe 
it was the climate. After a fifteen minute 
stop-over in Washington we were off 
again to New York, and half way there 
I had a terrible, sinking feeling. Why in 
heaven's name was I going on this wild- 
goose chase? I felt that I hardly knew 
Ken; I was going to spend a week in 

SUMMER, 1944 

stuffy, reserved Boston, and be shown be- 
fore his family hke a prize filly. I pulled 
out my air conditioner and almost asked 
for a parachute. At LaGuardia Field the 
terror finally wore off because a very 
pleasant lieutenant from Quincy calmly 
told me how nice the people really were, 
and that I needn't to be afraid, little girl. 
From the field I had to take a cab into 
Grand Central Station as my second res- 
ervations took me only as far as New 
York. And that cab driver! Well, I'd 
heard about them and seen them in the 
movies, but this was my first person to 
person contact. As we started off, the 
individual turned around and with a 
greasy, foreign leer, croaked, "Wher to, 
goilie?" I had to say "Grand Central 
Station" three times before he understood 
me, and he interestedly asked where I was 
from. I should have known better than 
to tell him I was from Tennessee because 
he looked as if he wanted me to take off 
my shoes. He asked, "Foist trip tuh New 
Yerk?" I answered yes but I had to 
catch the three o'clock train for Boston. 
He said he'd get me there, but he'd have 
to take the longer way with less trafiic 
and less lights. When informed that that 
was all right with me, just so I got there 
in time, he settled down to screeching 
through traffic and showing me the sights 
at the same time. Wheeling around and 
pointing over my head through the back 
window with one hand and steering with 

the other, he'd grunt, "Youse see that 
bridge over der? I soived muh toime 
der." What time, I'll never know. I 
was too busy dodging cars. After the 
wildest twenty minutes I've ever experi- 
enced, I arrived nerve-shattered at Grand 
Central, tipped the driver a quarter, and 
he drove off with his musical, "Cheez, 
tanks, goilie," ringing in my ears. With 
the help of a sympathetic red cap, I 
secured my ticket and a seat on the train, 
and for a very enjoyable five hours, talked 
to the people in the seats around me and 
lovingly looked at the roses growing along 
the tracks. Our roses are early in Ten- 
nessee and had long since withered away. 

Ken met me at the South Station and 
insisted that we go eat supper. I was so 
weak upon seeing him that I said that 
was perfectly all right with me. Then we 
were driving through Cambridge and he 
was pointing out the house he'd lived in 
while at Harvard and looking for a place 
where he used to eat. When the big 
sandwich was brought in, I foimd that I 
had absolutely no appetite, even without 
limch, which I had forgotten, so he had 
to help me eat it, muttering at times about 
certain chicken appetites. At last we 
walked around the comer and sent a 
slightly incoherent telegram to my poor, 
worried mama and papa. And then we 
set out to pick up his sister and her hus- 
band, who was a direct descendant of 
General Sherman and I from Tennessee, 
and at last on to Cohasset — to his summer 

It was 12:30 that night when we 
reached Cohasset, and I was a mighty 
tired, bewildered girl by then. Going up 
the steps to the house and meeting Ken's 
mother and Cynthia, his other sister, is 
still rather hazy, and Mrs. Moller soon 
took pity on me and led me to my room. 
There I slept dreamlessly all night and 
was awakened in the morning by a clatter 
outside the window. Dazedly raising my 
head from the cool, soft pillow, I squinted 


out into the yard. There stood Margie 
and Barbie, Ken's nieces, aged five and 
three. Margie looked up and twanged, 
"Who are you?" and after grumping 
something about Betsy, I heard Barbie 
shrill, "Is you sawn my rubber dolly 
Sherman?" In answer to my question of 
what does she look like. Barbie replied, 
"Rubber." I knew then that I was going 
to have a glorious time. 

That was my first taste of Cohasset, 
and I loved it. It was the beginning of 
the happiest and most fascinating week 
I've ever known. The rambling, white 
house was built "up in the trees," and the 
beach was just a short walk away. There 
the water was cold, the huge rocks were 
warm, and the people were nice, and who 
should I run into but Jane Gray Knowles! 
The New England food was different, and 
Mrs. M.'s fresh, baked salmon was a de- 
licious surprise to me. Margie and Barbie 
called me "Great Aunt Betsy" while 
Henry, their little brother, gleefully pulled 
my hair. Ken and I celebrated the Fourth 
of July by walking to the village and 
eating ice cream cones on the way back. 
We spent the one week-end in Weston 
with his brother and his family, stopping 
on the way to visit his Cousin Sarah and 
Cousin Mary who were delightful and just 
what I had been led to believe that all 
Bostonians were like. On the way back 
to Cohasset, we stopped at Ken's home in 
Milton which was built in the 1700's, and 
I adored its character with the wide floor 
boards and the huge fireplaces in nearly 
every room. The first of the week Cyn- 
thia departed for camp, and I began to 
think about leaving — leaving Massachu- 
setts and the people I had grown to love. 
And so the day came, and we were back 
in South Station. I told Ken goodbye 
and that I was happy, then when I got 
on the train and felt myself moving in one 
direction and saw him moving in the 
other, I began to think what had made 
me happy and proceeded to stagger up the 

aisle of the lurching train, feeling clothed 
in sack cloth and ashes. Oh, it was dread- 
ful almost all the way to New York 
until some poor, unsuspecting man turned 
a glass of milk over into my lemon pie, 
and I, wishing so hard for something 
funny, cackled hysterically. He was so 
upset and so frightened at my peculiar 
outburst that he gobbled up the rest of 
his supper, and scurried away, glancing 
back once nervously. 

In Grand Central Station, I was met by 
Titter and Anne and we went to a little 
sidewalk cafe and then to their home in 
Greenwich, Connecticut. The next day 
they went to work, leaving me alone, and 
I wept into quiet comers at odd intervals 
thinking about Cohasset, but soon decided 
that that wasn't exactly the right way to 
sf>end a vacation and stopped. That 
night Anne secured us dates and we went 
into New York to take in the big city. 
I was introduced to Russian food, Russian 
entertainment, "Nick's" in Greenwich Vil- 
lage, and A. Mumble Glump, who is the 
person you meet upon first waking up in 
the morning. Bill and I wanted to stay 
at the Cafe Russe for the "Intimate Enter- 
tainment in Enchanting Atmosphere," but 
that didn't start till 2:00 A. M., and Anne 
and Que thought that was a little late. 
The next day after sending a telegram 
home as to my time of arrival, we went to 
the beach, then to the boys' house for 
supper, and to my amazement I found 
that there were six boys there instead of 
two, and I had my first mint julep — in 
Connecticut of all places. Before eating, 
Roy took me down to the dock to see the 
fiddler crabs, and later Roger and Harry 
insisted that I eat the squash, which 
closely resembled Clapp's Baby Food to 
me. After dinner Jim and I praised the 
South to the rest of the group, Jim being 
from North Carolina. We had a won- 
derful evening. Benny Goodman's ver- 
sion of "Where or When" was almost 
worn out because the boys played it so 

SUMMER. 1944 

much for me. But at last we had to go, 
as it was getting late, and all of the girls 
had to get home. 

On Monday, while waiting in the Grand 
Central Waiting Room for Rose, the sister 
of Arch's radio-gunner on his bomber, I 
realized that I could spend a whole week 
in there just looking and listening. At 
first I happened to overhear a juicy bit of 
conversation behind me. Three women 
were talking intently, and as their voices 
became louder and louder I became more 
and more interested. Then to my horror 
I heard this choice bit of gossip, "Gia 
londo gron nothi morbe sempre expertial." 
I guess they were foreigners, but I'd still 
like to know who they were talking about. 
Next I nearly fell out of my seat as a 
sassy, little Pomeranian simpered on its 
hind legs across the floor sneering at 
everybody. A man was trotting happily 
behind it gently holding a leash, and about 
five minutes later the procession skittered 
by again. I began to wonder what the 
world was coming to — dog leads man 
through Grand Central Station. But the 
final and most tragic incident was a young 
girl tearing wildly through the crowd to 
catch a train — hair, coat, and suitcase 
streaming behind her, as in Winky's car- 
toons, when just as she got in front of a 
group of soldiers and sailors her bag fell 
open and the entire contents scattered to 
aU corners of the building, due to the tile 
floor and the shape, form, and fashion of 

the many different jars, wearing apparel, 
curlers, and so forth. She was in such 
a hurry that she skidded ten feet before 
she could stop, and then had to get down 
on her hands and knees to pick up all of 
that stuff, while the boys stood and looked 
and made remarks. If it had been me, I'd 
have just dropped my suitcase too and 
kept on running, because I couldn't have 
disappeared through the floor no matter 
how much I'd have wished for it. But at 
last Rose came in and after eating in the 
Hawaiian Room we spent the rest of the 
day shopping and trudging on Fifth Ave- 
upe. Jack, her husband, met us later, and 
we went to an Italian place to eat. Well, 
I simply gorged, and caused quite a sensa- 
tion when I ordered milk to go with my 
spaghetti. The waiter looked at me 
queerly, and in a few minutes came back 
balancing a beer glass full of milk mag- 
nificently on three fingers, while over a 
hundred pairs of eyes followed to see who 
that eccentric was who had ordered such 
a thing. I was terribly embarrassed, and 
hurried to leave. So after enjoying Radio 
City Music Hall we took a cab back to 
the station, and I, an old hand at it by 
that time, wondered why one picture 
wasn't used for all of the drivers' identi- 
fication cards as they all looked alike. I 
slept in exhausted jerks during the forty- 
five minute ride back to Greenwich, and 
was more than glad to crawl into my little 
bed in Titter and Anne's comfortable 
apartment. But the next morning Anne 
woke me with, "Betsy, don't you want to 
go back into New York today? I'd like 
to." We went. So I saw "Oklahoma!" 
and for once was not disappointed in at 
last having seen something that I had 
heard so much about. It was delightful. 
Upon arriving back in Greenwich, Tit- 
ter, pleasantly informed me that my plane 
reservations had been cancelled, which 
didn't bother me much except for the sad 
fact that I was rapidly running out of 
money. But we went to bed, not worry- 


ing about such a trivial matter, as I could 
always wire for more. The next morning, 
after eating a leisurely breakfast, I, in 
my melon-colored pajamas, leisurely sat 
down to read the paper intending to get 
dressea later. The telephone rang. A 
crisp young voice rattled to me that the 
American Airlines — bless their souls — had 
secured a seat for me as far as Cincinnati, 
and they were working on a clearing to 
Nashville. I stammered, "Do you think 
I ought to take it?" and The Voice 
snapped, "Of course, be at the city ter- 
minal by 12:50 today to catch the limou- 
sine out to the field." I called the train 
station to ask what train I would have to 
catch to get to New York by 12:50, and 
the good man sourly replied, "11:13 'un." 
I said, "Thank you" glancing at my 
watch, "11:00 o'clock, well, I'll just— 
WHAT? 11:00 O'CLOCK! OH, 
NO!" Oh, yes. And so I fumbled for 
what seemed fully ten minutes trying to 
find the taxi number only to discover that 
it was smack on the front cover of the 
telephone book staring me in the face. 
The man I talked to didn't mince words 
when he claimed that I was crazy and how 
in the world could he be expected to get 
me to a train in thirteen minutes; but he 
finally reconsidered when I almost wept 
into the telephone, and said, "Okay, if 
you're ready right now!" And I, an un- 
bathed, unpacked I, in my red pajamas, 
said "Well, of course I'm ready," wonder- 
ing desperately how in heaven's name I 
was going to do it. I did though — throw- 
ing clothes upon myself and into my 
smaller suitcase (the larger one being al- 
ready packed and checked at Grand Cen- 
tral) . I scribbled a hasty "Gone in a 
hurry" to Titter and Anne and hustled 
down in the elevator as fast as the little 
car would carry me to the waiting cab. 
We made it somehow and after buying the 
ticket I had to wait for the train for three 
minutes. And it was on time! After 
getting on and settling down, I noticed 

people looking at me strangely and for a 
terrifying second I wondered if I had for- 
gotten to put on my dress, but glancing 
down I was reassured. Then I realized 
that I had no make-up on so must look 
like mud, and my hair wasn't combed. 
Thus I hastily applied lipstick and a 
comb, and upon arriving in Grand Central 
I washed and fixed my face decently, and 
then went over to the airlines terminal. 
While checking on my ticket, I happened 
to step back on someone's foot, and 
turned around to beg her pardon. "Oh, 
that's perfectly all right," she quavered, 
flapping her hands around. Glory! Zazu 
Pitts! And then while standing in line 
waiting to board the plane out at La- 
Guardia Field, I peered over my shoulder 
to appraise the naval officer behind me and 
stared straight into the steely blue eyes of 
Lt. Commander Robert Montgomery. I 
gulped and smiled, and he — smiled. Then 
a reporter came up for an interview to 
which I listened unashamedly. But after 
we had gotten on the plane Commander 
Montgomery's seat was just across from 
mine, and he leaned over shortly and 
asked me if he could read my "Coronet." 
I was so excited I almost threw it at him, 
so he stayed buried in MY magazine all 
the way to Washington, and there he gave 
it back to me with a "Thank you ever so 
much," then smilingly said, "Well, good- 
bye," and he was gone. Maybe I should 
frame the magazine. 

From Washington into Cincinnati we 
ran into a storm. I looked out the win- 
dow at the lurching wing and had the 
same sensation as I had had about three 
years ago while riding a roller coaster in an 
amusement park near Chicago. Then I 
heard smothered moans from all around 
me and thought fearfully of what Arch 
had told me about the purpose of the little 
cup placed under my seat. But my dig- 
nity simply would not let me do it; and 
so I put the idea of being sick out of my 
mind forever and ever. 

SUMMER, 1944 

At 6:40 P. M. in Cincinnati we learned 
that the plane I might have been able to 
get a seat on was held up for at least 
seven hours in New York because of the 
storm that we were caught in. Many of 
the passengers had to get to a certain place 
by a certain time so they cancelled their 
reservations and took a train. L had all 
the time in the world, so — hooray — I got 
a seat, and spent a very conspicuous, very 
travelerish few hours in town at a movie 
and at the Gibson Hotel waiting for the 
12:00 o'clock taxi to take me back out to 
the airport. After sending another frantic 
wire home, I again got on the plane for 
the last lap of my trip. 

Of course, I went sound to sleep again, 
and didn't wake up till we were just a few 
miles out of Nashville. It gave me quite 
a thrill to be actually landing in Berry 
Field. I'd met so many people out there 
and watched them get off the plane, but 
this time it was I who was being met. As 
the big ship taxied to a stop, I could see 
my mother and grandmother bouncing all 
over the walk with excitement. And so I 
tried to glide off the plane and down the 
ramp as sedately and sophisticatedly as 
possible even though I was bubbling over 

We went home and all of us talked at 
once till almost daybreak. After going to 
bed I looked up to the window and the 
waning moon was shining directly in my 
face, and I had a sudden flash of my last 
night in Cohasset in a kayak on the ocean 
when the moon was full and I was so 
happy. Then it hit me — the trip that I 
had been living for and planning for for 
such a long time was over, and I had 
really been away nearly three weeks and 
back home. And then I began to 


lament, "like Niobe, all tears." 

And now it sort of seems like a dream, 
a wonderful day-dream that I've made up. 
But when I see the dress I bought in New 
York or the small photograph of Ken 
with his little boy look, taken just before 
he left Harvard, incidents come back to 
me. And when I'm listening to the radio 
and hear "The Surrey with the Fringe 
on Top," I'm back in New York enjoying 
the color and music of "Oklahoma!"; or if 
the song happens to be "I'll Be Seeing 
You" I'm living over the days in Cohasset 
when Ken and I were singing and would 
always end up with that one. Then I 
know it wasn't a dream. I know that it 
was something I lived and loved, and I 
only wish that I had it all to do over 

A Prayer 

By Julia Carreker 

Lord, would that I deserved one half 

Of all Thou hast given me — 

The friendships rare; the loving care 

Of p>arents sweet and true; 

The sight of home when evening comes; 

A summer sky of blue. 

These things my heart with gladness fill; 

But still, I ask, how can it be? 

Why hast Thou been so good to me? 



Sketch of the Village 


By Phyllis Harrison 

Spring night — 
Its warm coolness speaks — 
Softly, caressingly — 
The village throbs, screams — 
With distant nearness — 
In its great heart holding 
So many others — 

Young, carelessly, flippant, diverse — 
Yet held together 
By force and by friendship 
Voices — light, trivial, not caring — 
Trees — majestic silhouettes — 
Well fed by rich earth's generousness — 
Music — defiant, soaring 
Like a star-bound soul — 
Then tender, haunting — 
Hurting with poignant memory — 
Lights bright with nearness \ 

Dim with distance — 
A flash in the earth-touching sky — 
Ink — indigo — 

Ripped by a fickle whip of fire — 
Soft, sudden wind — an upstart — 
Murmurs sweet secrets to the grass 
That stirs with new tenderness — 
A plane overhead — 
Twinkling with far-away comfort 
And roaring protection — 
The young hearts hear 
- And longingly fly to a hundred "hims" 
With a humble, fleeting prayer — 
Please, God — 
The tower-ivy clinging — 
Reminiscent of other days — 
All-seeing — 

Stands — symbol of loyalty and courage — 
Like a fervent hope — 
Like a reverent trust 
In the lasting peace of all things to come. 

SUMMER, 1944 

Twinkle^ Twinkle^ Little Star 

By Nancy Ross 

Three nights ago I saw you fly over the 
city and out towards the ocean. As I sat 
on the steps and watched the stars, the 
Big Dipper suddenly became a squadron 
of planes. Your plane was the third on 
the right wing of the formation. Its 
light had a special brightness. It blinked 
with a rhythm all its own — the rhythm of 
the rain the day we met, the rhythm of 
the music the last night we danced, the 
rhythm of my heart beating as I sat and 
listened. The air vibrated with the con- 
tinual throb of motors. The sound radi- 
ated from those planes like tiny waves 
rippling from the spot on the water where 
you have thrown a stone. Each particle 
of night hummed with reverberating mo- 
tion until even the moon was shaken into 
a blur. When the roar of engines had 
faded off into the distance, its echo still 
rumbled in my ears. 

The tiny light of your plane hung mo- 
tionless in space. I thought of your 
cigarette as the light glowed and dimmed 
and then glowed again. Just as I have 
seen you in the darkness behind your 
smoldering cigarette, I saw you then in 
the blackness of the sky beyond that burn- 
ing drop of light. And the Milky Way 
formed a spiral of smoke. 

I wondered if the light would fade into 
the distance before it dropped over the 

horizon. It did not fade. It went up, up, 
until it had dissolved into a star and the 
star dropped over the horizon. 

I sat there watching the spot of empti- 
ness into which you had disappeared. 
Hours passed as I watched until, with 
the striking of the hall clock, the minutes 
caught up with me and I realized it was 
time to go to bed. That night I fell 
asleep with the whirr of motors still in 
my ears and a twinkling star of light im- 
printed on my closed eyelids. 

These three days I have watched the 
planes fly overhead, just as some one else 
must watch you overhead in some other 
upturned bowl of blue sky. A bomber 
flew over so low today that I could see 
the star stenciled on the fuselage and the 
broad gray wings dip in the undercurrent 
of air. The propellers spun a silver-gray 
web around each motor. 

These last three days the news reports 
have taken on a new significance. As the 
commentator told last night of Allied 
raids over Europe, I could picture the 
planes, hundreds of them, weaving a pat- 
tern between the threads of search lights 
and the splashes of anti-aircraft fire. 
Might not your plane have been one of 
them? "Five of our planes were lost." 
The words from the radio condensed like 
sleet in the still air. I had to keep busy 
or the tips of my fingers would freeze. 

Three days have passed. You said your 
cablegram would come in three days, and 
three days have passed. Tonight my heart 
began to feel as though it had frozen and 
left only an ice cube. 

I again sat on the steps to watch the 
sky; there were no stars tonight. My 
eyes ran along the horizon and found 
the notch I had cut in the hills to mark 
the spot where you had disappeared. The 
ice-cube feeling was still there. Three 



days have passed and I haven't heard. 
Then I looked up and saw that tiny, 
glowing Hght above the hills. For a sec- 
ond I thought it was your plane coming 
back, but it was only the star you touched 
three nights ago. It glowed and twinkled 
at me the way your plane lights did that 
night. And I realized that those lights 
on your plane were winking tonight in 
rhythm with that star, somewhere up in 
this same sky. 

You don't seem far away now. I think 
I could see your plane over there if I 

could only see beyond that notch in the 
hills. Three days have passed, and I 
haven't written to you. So now I'll send 
this letter sealed up with love and soft, - 
dark sky, and stamped with that little 
twinkling star. I can see the star from 
my window now, and some day I'll see 
your plane rise from behind those hills. 
I'll see the lights from your plane blink- 
ing in rhythm with that star. And when 
you come back that way and pass by that 
little star, reach up and pat it on the nose, 
won't you? 


By Charlyne Edwards 

It's dark now 
And I'm alone 
With the stars 
And the moon. 

Thoughts are vague 
At this hour. 
All that's earthly 
Seems far gone. 

Then it comes. 
Slowly, creeping. 
Dreams of other worlds 
Here to stay. 

Cool night air, 
Dreams and mist. 
No longer do I fear 
The vast unknown. 

SUMMER, 1944 


A Still Small Voice 

By Befsy Bishop 

The Greenwoods had built a new house 
in the lot across the road from the Ar- 
nolds, the lot in which nine-year-old Vicki 
Arnold for so long had played lost-girl-in- 
a-jungle because it had so many trees and 
vines; but many of these had now been 
cleared away. Although Vicki was sorry 
to see that happen, she had had fun play- 
ing in the new house. Now she had 
neither the lot nor the house because her 
neighbors had moved in, and Vicki was 
resentful of people's crowding her. All of 
her life she had had almost all of the 
country around to herself as she lived 
about eight miles from town. Now houses 
were beginning to spring up like toad- 
stools. She especially resented this new 
house across the road for two reasons: not 
only had it deprived her of a much loved 
spot, but there was another girl over there 
now, a too clean, too demure, too tranquil 
girl, who obviously did not fully appre- 
ciate that sacred yard. This strange child 
sat in the house almost all day, and when 
she was outside she quietly walked around 
and explained at the proper things if 
older people were present, and sometimes 
she picked a flower. What was worse, she 
carried a pocketbook everywhere she went. 

The very day that the new family ar- 
rived, Mrs. Arnold went over with some 
cold fried chicken, sliced tomatoes, cheese 
sandwiches, and lemonade. Vicki didn't 
go. She refused to have anything to do 
with them. She wasn't even curious for 
at least an hour, because she was engrossed 
in the laborious task of washing Junior — 
Junior being the dog. But finally, after 
having sat for fifteen minutes under a 
bush at the edge of the yard, her curiosity 
overcame her pride, so she threw a ball 
across the street and told Junior to go 
get it. Junior, of course, not having seen 
her throw the ball, ran around barking 

wildly at imaginary squirrels, cats, tramps, 
or whatever he thought he was supposed 
to see. Vicki shouted at him, informed 
him loudly that he was quite dumb, and 
glanced around to see if she had attracted 
any attention, then went over to get the 
bail herself. She had a hard time not 
finding it. Once she even had to kick it 
into the weeds because Junior and his 
keen-scented nose were getting too close. 
At last. Junior having given up in be- 
wilderment after knowing that he had 
smelled it once, the two of them stalked 
up to the porch, and Vicki banged on the 
door. Her mother came to open it, and 
before Vicki could offer a word of explan- 
ation, she was ushered into the house. 

Once inside she took everything in at 
a glance — the bare floors with rolled-up 
rugs in one corner, the scattered furniture, 
the pretty, unruffled, young woman, and 
last, the quiet, clean, little girl, who was 
meekly sitting in a small chair near the 
opposite door. 

"I lost my ball. Who got it?" were 
the first words that came from Vicki. 
After a firm prod in the small of her back 
from her mother, she remembered and 
said, "Hidee" to the room in general. 
The pretty, young woman smilingly said, 
"Hello, Vicki, I'd like for you to know 
my little girl. Lucy, this is your little 
neighbor, Vicki." Lucy got up from her 
chair and gracefully walked over to the 
other three without tripping over a single 
thing as Vicki surely would have done. 

"How do you do?" she said. "I'm so 
glad we have moved here. I have seen 
you playing in your yard with that great, 
big, awful, dirty dog. Aren't you afraid 
to get near him? I would be. Mother 
doesn't like for me to play with dogs. 
She says they're dirty and they bite. I 



By this time Viclci was fairly bursting 
with indignation. She loudly interrupted, 
"Dirty! Awful! Junior's not dirty! He's 
a lot bettem'n an ole sissy dog! An' 
anyway, I just gave him a bath, an' any- 
way, he don't even smell doggy like other 
dogs do — not even when it rains. You 
don't know wha' chur talkin' about. 
Why, Junior wouldn't even live with 
you!" To Vicki this last statement was 
the most degrading insult she could be- 
stow upon a person. 

But she had received a better aimed, 
more forceful prod and she vaguely heard 
her mother hastily apologizing, "I'm sorry. 
Vicki just loves that dog so. She has had 
him since he was a puppy, and we can't 
make her leave him alone. I don't know 
what we're going to do if she doesn't soon 
grow out of it." And Mrs. Greenwood 
answering, "That's perfectly all right. 
Vicki is only a little tomboy. She will 
soon get older and realize that she will be 
a young lady in just a few years." 

"Huh!" thought Vicki, "I'll never dress 
uv and put stuff on my face and act silly 
like those ole girls as long as I live." 

Lucy meanwhile had regained her com- 
posure and she said, "Wouldn't you like 
to come back in my room and see my new 
paper dolls? Mother and Mrs. Arnold 
have fixed it up. Or else we can sew on 
some clothes for my other dolls if you'd 

Paper dolls! Sew! Vicki thought, "I 
gotta get outa here. I don't wanna play 
dolls." She doggedly turned toward the 
door. "Excuse me," she said, "I gotta go 
find my ball. Junior's waitin'." She 
opened the door and scurried out of the 

"I'm sure Lucy and Vicki will become 
inseparable," said Mrs. Goodwood, a 
little optimistically, to Vicki's mortified 
mother; then as she saw Lucy looking 
longingly out of the door, "Come away, 
dear, you might get dirty." 

A few nights later, Mrs. Arnold was 

talking to her husband. Born and reared 
in Tennessee, she was a perfect example of 
Southern hospitality, and she felt that she 
must do something to show the Green- 
woods how delighted they were to have 
them in the neighborhood. Mr. Arnold 
found himself the unwilling victim of cir- 
cumstances, and after considerable discus- 
sion as to the disadvantages of dinner and 
bridge parties, they, with the help of 
Vicki, finally decided upon a picnic. Plans 
and preparations were thought about and 
made — the park or the country, fried 
chicken or hamburgers, lemonade or coca- 
colas, and at last the day arrived. Vicki 
was simply beside herself. She loved pic- 
nics better than any other kind of party. 
Her only blight was that stupid Lucy, but 
maybe she wouldn't always be in the way. 
The six of them piled in the Arnold's 
car and they drove out the highway about 
ten miles till they came to a narrow, 
shady, gravel road. Here they turned off 
and went their way till they found the 
place they had dreamed of. It was close 
to the farm that Vicki and her father 
visited, and was high on a hill, under two 
big oak trees. The view was overpower- 
ing. There was a magnificence in its 
quietness and its beauty — in the green, 
green hills and valleys, in the white toy 
houses and barns, and in the horses and 
cows grazing in the peace and quiet of 
their world. Vicki was speechless with 
the awe and fulfillment she felt. She sat 
absolutely motionless and just looked until 
she was rudely brought out of her trance 
by the shrill, thin chatter of Lucy, "Moth- 
er, we're so high! What are all of those 
things eating? Oh, Mother, look at the 
big hills!" The elders all exclaimed ac- 
cordingly. Vicki felt a shame and a pity 
for such people who could not feel what 
they saw. She wanted to be alone where 
she could sit and look and think and not 
have people desecrate something she re- 
garded as almost sacred. Then her mother 
asked her to spread out the cloth. All 

SUMMER, 1944 


of them ate the chicken and sandwiches 
and drank the lemonade with great rehsh. 

While the parents were cleaning up, the 
two little girls strolled off, Vicki in the 
lead. They were near a small, wooded 
spot and so they made their way in that 
direction. Lucy was a bit scared and bit 
expectant at this point. She was trying 
very hard to. remember what her mother 
had said about keeping her dress clean, 
watching out for snakes, and not getting 
near water — if they found a creek. Vicki 
found herself pointing out things to Lucy 
as they went, "See that yellow cup-shaped 
thing? That's a Jack-in-the-pulpit," or 
"Look over there by that rock, that's a 
toad. I'm gonna catch 'im." With that 
she began to creep upon the little creature, 
then Lucy shrieked, "Don't touch that! 
It'll make warts!" Vicki turned around to 
hush her up, but when she looked back 
again, the toad had hopped away. "Now 
look what you've gone and done," she 
reprimanded, "scared 'im. He won't make 
warts." But just then a squirrel came out 
on a branch and began to chatter furiously 
at the intruders. Lucy jumped and ran 
to throw her arms about Vicki screaniing, 
"What is that noise? Make it go away!" 
Vicki jerked herself from Lucy's grasp 
and said scornfully, "Aw, it's nothin' but 
a little ole squirrel. You're just scared 
of everything that comes along. It's not 
any fun playing with you." So she 
glanced around and saw a tree with low 
slung limbs. "Now, I can get away from 
her," she thought, "She sure can't climb 
trees!" Up she went, scraping her legs 
and staining her dress, but not caring in 
the least. 

Hanging by her knees from the waver- 
ing branch of the tree, the red-faced little 
girl screamed in a rather choked voice, 
"I'll bet you can't do this, Lucy Green- 
wood! I'll bet you can't do this without 
holding by your hands." The skirt of 

her wash dress was flapping under her 
chin showing scratched but sturdy, brown 
legs, and her small pigtails, one beginning 
to come unplaited, hung straight down- 

Lucy, meanwhile, was quietly leaning 
against another tree, her freshly starched 
dress smoothed just right behind her, the 
clean whiteness of her skin and her per- 
fectly waved, blonde hair contrasting with 
the bark of the tree. She was smiling a 
strange smile — half pitying and half envi- 
ous, but it was obvious that she had no 
intention of even trying to hang by her 
knees from the limb of a tree. Lucy was 
a little lady. Her mother had seen to 
that. It wasn't right for girls to get dirty 
and show off. From the time she was a 
baby, Lucy had been kept spotless and 
sheltered and she was only allowed to play 
with the "nice, little girls." Because of 
this she had a very mild imagination and 
not much sense where nature was con- 
cerned. She didn't know of the pleasures 
that came from wading a creek in the 
middle of March, or of crawling through 
dried Johnson grass pretending that her 
big shepherd dog was either an injured, 
young hunter or a traitorous spy, what- 
ever the occasion called for. But after 
watching Vicki and the fun she had, Lucy 
began to wonder what it was like. Vicki 
had her versatile dog, her cat that was 
quite resigned to his fate of being dressed 
in a gown and night cap and put to bed 
where he would patiently lie for hours, 
and she was also continually coming up 
with some other strange animal; such as, 
a baby pig with Saint Vitus dance. And 
the man who lived out in the country had 
a horse which Vicki had grown to love. 
Her daddy took her out there sometimes 
when he went to see the man about cattle 
for a sale. The man's horse, whose name 
was Satan, was a fine, black gelding, 
rather spirited and excitable, but without 



a vicious streak in him. Vicki loved to go 
stand on the lower rail of the white fence, 
talk to the horse and feed him carrots. 
Satan loved carrots, and between the two 
there grew up an understanding that is 
seldom found between such a small, de- 
pendent child and such a big, imperious 
animal. Lucy had none of these. She 
had only her dolls and her sewing just as 
her mother wished. So she wandered off 
alone to think about it, disregarding 
Vicki's dares of holding by the hands. 

Lucy soon found herself out of the 
thicket and in a clearing. She saw a 
black horse eating not very far away. 
Now was the time, she thought, to show 
Vicki that she was not afraid of animals 
either. She walked slowly and a little 
fearfully toward the beast, and just as she 
got very close to him, he flung up his 
head and let out the most terrifying snort 
that a small child could ever hear. Lucy 
screamed and ran as fast as she could 
toward the thicket. The horse, now really 
frightened, bolted to the other side of the 
field where the fence turned him and he 
headed directly for Lucy. The horrified 
little girl turned and ran back to the 
middle of the field, screeching loudly the 
whole time. 

Upon hearing her cry, both of her 
oarents dropped everything and ran out 
across the hill, with the Arnolds close 
behind, to look for her. When they 
reached the field, there was Lucy, face 
down on the ground, sobbing and scream- 
ing with every breath while the horse 
raced wildly around a sort of circle. The 
raising of voices, the flinging of arms, and 
the throwing of stones only fed his excite- 
ment all the more when they tried to stop 
him. Mr. Greenwood was starting to run 
over to his daughter when suddenly Mrs. 
Arnold shouted, "Vicki, Vicki! Go back! 

That horse will kill you!" For Vicki, who 
was forgotten at the time by the Green- 
woods, had emerged unseen from the 
grove of trees and was standing almost in 
the path of the disturbed animal, coaxing, 
soothing, with her hand stretched out and 
steadily saying, "Whoa, Satan, whoa, now. 
Nothirfg's going to hurt you. Whoa, 
Satan; easy, boy." The horse, at first not 
having noticed the child, began to look 
her way; then he dropped his gait into a 
trot. Finally he stopped altogether, and 
stood trembling and panting, obeying the 
kind, little voice. Vicki gradually and 
easily walked up to him still talking and 
with her hand still outstretched. As she 
stopped nearly in front of him, the great 
creature arched his neck, and when his 
nose touched her fingers, he started, then 
relaxed as the quiet voice kept on and the 
hand gently rubbed his nostrils. "You do 
remember me, don't you, Satan? I wish 
I had a carrot for you." 

Mr. Arnold had reached his precious 
little Lucy and had carried her back to 
her white-faced mother. Vicki's father 
was running toward her, but she called 
to him, "Don't come, Daddy, don't come. 
He's so scared." But Mr. Arnold in- 
sisted that he also protect his daughter, so 
Vicki hastily kissed the velvety nose beside 
her, and went to meet her frantic father. 

On the way home after such things as 
"Brave, little Vicki, you might have been 
hurt" and "Lucy, don't you ever go out 
like that again by yourself" had quieted 
down a bit, Mr. Greenwood remarked to 
his wife, "I think, my dear, that we should 
perhaps give Lucy riding lessons. She 
needs to know a little about such things." 
To which his wife replied, "Yes, Alfred, 
I think we might, and — Alfred — do you — 
well, do you happen to know where we 
can get a clean, reliable pure-bred dog?" 

SUMMER, 1944 


Anything Else^ Sir? 

By Ruth W. Hoe 

Slowly and unsteadily his large hand 
crept over the whiteness of the sheets, 
groping for some unknown friend. Gent- 
ly, yet firmly. Lieutenant Bryman touched 
his wrist, counted his pulse, and returned 
his hand to the darkness between the 

Looking into his half-opened, unseeing 
eyes, she said, "Are you all right now? 
Would you like a drink of water? Major 
Scrapple has been waiting for you to 
wake up for three days." It was not the 
subconscious condition of the patient 
which caused her voice to fall harshly 
upon his ear. Lieutenant Bryman spoke 
with deliberate and painstaking e£Fort, for 
it had been but two short months since 
a Japanese sniper had fired upon her. 

Forcing his lips to co-operate with his 
tongue, the patient whispered the word 
"water," took the proflFered glass with 
unsteady hands, drank as though he had 
never before tasted the waters of that 
tropical isle, and dropped exhausted upon 

his pillow. 

* * * 

The ward was quiet. Only the lantern 
on the desk was lighted. Moving along 
the silent rows of hospital cots. Lieutenant 
Bryman felt herself drawn to the side of 
the newly admitted patient. Colonel Row- 
lett was one of the many casualties of the 
Pacific Area. His right leg had been 
amputated above the knee, and he had 
temporarily lost his sight. As the lieuten- 
ant neared his cot, she heard the whispered 
word, "Alice." Turning, she fled into the 
soft moonlight of the outside. 

* * * 

Later, when she had been relieved from 
night duty. Lieutenant Bryman sat by the 
cot and wrote a letter for the young officer 
to his family. Sealing the envelope, she 
laid it beside him, smiled, and said, "Any- 

thing else. Sir?" She could not use her 
easy banter with this man. It was not 
because of his record of twenty-eight 
planes, nor of the fact that he had every 
medal presented by our country. It was 
not even his rank of colonel, although he 
was the youngest ever to attain this rank. 
A slow blush crept over the young 
officer's face and, turning his back, he 
replied, "Yes, there is a yoimg lady in 
Arizona I'd like to write to." 

Taking up her pen, she reminded him 
that she was not taking shorthand, and he 
began to speak in a slow, tortured voice: 
Dear Alice: 

It has , been a long time since I 
wrote you, and I realize that waiting 
has made my task more difiicult. 

Alice, you have known me for quite 
some time, and know that I am not 
one to change my mind without con- 
sideration of the consequences. Be- 
lieve me, I have thought this problem 
over thoroughly, and I see no other 
way out. 

You know, of course, that I was 
wounded in action, and that I will 
soon return to the States. Alice, I 
must ask you to understand my feel- 
ings toward you. I am sorry, but 
since I have been in the Pacific area 
I have found — " Slowly he turned 
toward Lieutenant Bryman, asked for 
water, waited to regain his compo- 
sure, and began again. 

"I have found that I cannot marry 
you upon my return to Arizona. You 
will laugh and say that it is only be- 
cause of my eyes. It is not. There 
is something else, which I cannot ex- 
plain. I cannot quite express my 
feelings; but I hope that, because I 
am attempting to express my true 



beliefs, you will not be too harsh in 
your thoughts of me. 

I have enjoyed the many hours 
spent with you, and I will never for- 
get them. 

In your last letter you mentioned 
the fact that you were being shipped 
to another base. I hope that you will 
like it there much better than your 
old station. The best of luck in your 
work. We could not get along with- 
out the Nurses' Corps. 

Give my kindest regards to your 
parents and to the ape you affection- 
ately call "Brother." 

I am sending this to your home. I 
am sure that your mother will for- 
ward it to you. 


Turning toward the window, he allowed 
the tropical breeze to fan his hot brow, 
and then he turned to give the address — 

Miss Alice Bryman, F Arizona. 

Fourteen months later Colonel Rowlett 
saluted Squadron 750, about-faced, and 
marched to the side of the runway. He 
watched the new squadron take to the 
air, accepted their salute of a dipped wing, 
and then started toward his office. 

He was lucky to be in the army still, 
and for the first time he was proud of his 
artificial leg and the weeks he had spent 
in darkness. It hadn't been so bad, ex- 
cept for — well, except for Alice. It still 
seemed strange that her father was his 
superior officer, but General Bryman had 
never mentioned Alice's name. 

Turning into the cool, darkened corri- 
dor, he saw General Bryman coming to- 
ward him with his daughter at his side. 
Seeing the futility of trying to evade 
them, he stopped, saluted the general, and 
spoke to Lieutenant Alice Bryman. 

Lieutenant Bryman smiled and said, 

"Anything else. Sir?" 

* * * 

Colonel Rowlett still remembers nothing 
except General Bryman's order, "Head 
directly for the target." 

It was five minutes later that he learned 
of the raid in which Ahce had been 
wounded. Her vocal cords had been 
severed, but she could now speak — not 
with her usual tone, but with a deliberate 

and painstaking effort. 

* * * 

Surgery is a wonderful thing. It can 
give a man his sight, a leg — and the 
woman he loves. 


By Joan Russell 

Big footprints. 

Little footprints, 

Fat footprints. 

Skinny footprints; 

Footprints going north, south, east and west. 

Footprints on the living-room rug; 

Footprints on the sands of time. 


aren't people more careful where they walk? 

SUMMER, 1944 


The Homecoming 

By Carol Bay 

To the white-haired conductor of the 
streamliner he was little more than just 
another fare — this soldier who was stand- 
ing on the observation platform of the 
swiftly moving train. True, he didn't 
laugh as much as the others and seemed 
to be more of a dreamer, but aside from 
that, he was more or less like all the rest 
— this one who was all alone. He took 
occasional drags from the cigarette dang- 
ling between his fingers; and with the 
eyes of an old man, although he was prob- 
ably still in his early twenties, he looked 
up into the blue depths of the evening 
sky. To him the air looked different 
without the white fingers of roving search- 
lights, and the atmosphere seemed deadly 
silent in the absence of motors droning 

Now the train was passing through 
a small town. Stocking-capped children 
stood on the station platform and waved 
at the engineer as the mighty engine 
plummetted on its way along the narrow 
parallel of steel tracks. Blinds on the 
village store windows were pulled down 
and the awnings rolled tightly up against 
the brick and wooden fronts of two-story 
buildings. In the houses lights were being 
turned on, and they shone merrily and 
bright through the panes of frosty win- 

"I wonder what the people behind those 
windows are doing now," he thought. 
"Which of these houses are filled with 
happiness and which ones are filled with 
grief? In how many are children laugh- 
ing; how many have vacant seats at the 

After a slight pause he mused half 
aloud, "Is she laughing now? With a 
reminiscent smile upon his lips, he added, 
"No doubt she's scrambling eggs. When- 
ever she was excited .or happy, she'd scram- 

ble eggs, but she always said she could 
never stand to eat them at any other 
time. . . . Funny kid . . ." 

Then he felt a tiny pain in his finger, 
for the cigarette he was holding, and had 
momentarily forgotten, had burned to a 
stub. Hastily flicking the short remainder 
over the rail, he leaned back against the 
door jamb, so as better to balance him- 
self on the rolling train. He hooked his 
thumbs over his leather belt, threw back | 
his head, and looked at the sky again. 
The night had suddenly deepened. The 
sky was now a threateningly black chasm, 
and nothing was visible except the tiny 
orange firefly-like glow of a recently 
tossed cigarette far down the tracks. Soon 
even that was not visible, and with a 
sigh he turned and entered the train. 

Slowly he made his way through the 
dark green curtained aisles of the sleeper, 
pulled aside the thick hangings of his 
own "lower," leisurely took o£F his heavy 
shoes, and stretched out with both arms 
beneath his head. There, in the silently 
sleeping car, he stared into space — and 
thought. He thought of only one thing — 

The funny tilted little nose, the loose 
mop of burnished chestnut hair, the 
dimple in her right cheek when she 
smiled, and the giggle that was so original 
and so contagious — all seemed close and 
dear. It had been so long since he had 
heard from her, five months now. Did 
she still care? 

"Of course she cares," he said assured- 
ly, and remembered what she had said the i 
day he left for camp ... J 

It was raining, and the whole office 
force had come down, to the station to 
see him off. She was there, too, proudly 
leaning on his arm. A new bright blue 



hat made 2 striking contrast with her 
chestnut curls and lent a note of festivity 
to the occasion. She wore her short gray 
squirrel coat, and in one hand clutched 
a bright plaid umbrelL. She had such a 
general appearance of blitheness that, in 
the whole crowd, he alone knew that 
under the lovely smile and lilting voice 
she was lonely and afraid. Uncertain as 
to what she would do without him, he 
could feel her hand on his arm grow tense 
as the whistle of his train was heard com- 
ing around the bend. As the gigantic 
engine puffed into view, she held him at 
arm's length from her and looked at him, 
searchingly, hungrily, deeply. 

Then very softly she said, "I know I 
should be original, darling, but the words 
I want to say have been said by thousands 
of others before me. Yet right now I 
can't think of anything better . . . Take 
care of yourself, for I'll be waiting and 
loving you — always." 

Blinking back her tears, in the best 
possible imitation of her usually cheerful 
voice, she added, "Here's a letter for you 
to read on the train," and thrust a large 
white envelope into his gloved hand . . . 

He still had that envelope in his breast 
pocket. Now it was wrinkled and soiled, 
almost a deep tan in color, but its intrinsic 
value had increased from the day he re- 
ceived it. It had been in his pocket the 
day he left for Africa; and he could feel 
the closeness of it the time he spent all 
of a tense, breathless night in a sandy, 
uncomfortably shallow foxhole. It had 
seemed a protective shield over his heart 
that night when they attacked the heavily 
fortified village. It was blurred and un- 
intelligible now, because of the four hours 
he had spent in the water before help 
came; but it didn't matter, for he had 
memorized the priceless words. Now he 
regarded it as a symbol of promise, hope 
— and home. 

He looked at his watch. It was ten 
o'clock on the radium dial. "At this time 

tomorrow morning, I'll be getting mar- 
ried," he thought jubilantly. 

Suddenly he became absorbed in the 
steady, rhythmical sound of the train 
wheels. In most of the magazine stories 
he had read, the hero or heroine could 
always hear the train wheels say some- 
thing. Now he tried to construct words 
that adapt themselves to that rhythm. 
"She's sleeping now, she's sleeping now," 
he thought; and the words seemed to fit 
the recurrent beats. He hoped that she 


SUMMER, 1944 


was now asleep, so that when she met him 
in the morning her eyes would be bright 
and sparkling and her step as lithe as ever. 
Secretly wishing they'd misfit the rhythm, 
he tried other words, exact opposites in 
meaning. "She's wide awake and danc- 
ing now," he said, and, to his disappoint- 
ment, found that they also fitted the 
steady beat of the wheels. 

"I guess you can make train wheels 
say anything you want to," he decided, 
as he turned over on his side and went 
to sleep, while the wheels beneath him 
sang happily, "She's sleeping now . . . 
She's sleeping now . . ." 

When the train pulled into the station, 
he scanned the waiting crowd anxiously, 
almost impatiently; but she was not there. 
Deciding that she had failed to receive 
his telegram in time, he concluded that 
it would be more exciting, anyway, to 
surprise her. After all, she hadn't seen 
him for over a year now, and he wondered 
just how many of his numerous letters 
were able to reach her hands. 

He entered the glass-enclosed florist 
shop there in the station. As soon as the 
heavy glass door closed, he was engulfed 
by the odor of flowers, permeating the 
small shop with an intoxicating, almost 
suffocating, fragrance. So different was 
this atmosphere from the stench and smell 
of the battlefield that he stood for a full 
minute in the middle of the room, just 
filling his lungs with the perfume-laden 

After purchasing his roses — deep coral 
ones to match her lips — he left the shop, 
and soon luckily found a waiting cab. 

Now the moments truly began to seem 
like hours. He kept urging the driver 
to "go faster"; and finally, after cen- 
turies, it seemed, he stood before the dark 
red brick apartment building. 

Bounding up the stairs, his heart sing- 
ing, he rang the bell of number 23A. 
Her roomniate, Cassie, opened the door, 
and he could tell, by the way she lowered 

her eyes as she greeted him, that some- 
thing was wrong. 

Knowing at once that she wasn't there, 
he asked haltingly, "Where — where is she, 

The wan-faced blonde slowly answered, 
"In OakhUI." 

She began to explain something, but he 
wasn't listening. Instead, he turned away 
and started down the stairs. He could 
hear the door above him close with a note 
of finality. "She didn't wait for me, after ; 
all," he muttered brokenly." "I — I guess J 
she just — just couldn't wait any longer." I 

The outside air sent a chill through his 
body, but he was unaware of the crisp 
weather. Impervious to the sounds and 
crowds of the busy street, he walked, as 
if numb, in the direction of Oakhill. The 
sky was getting darker, and from the 
depths of the hazy, gray atmosphere, 
feathery flakes of snow began to tumble, 
falling in riotous abandon, in tiny swirls, 
drifting lazily and languidly down toward 
the bare, unprotected earth below. 

Oakhill was not far from the apart- 
ment building, and already he had ap- 
proached the "richer" section of town. 
The large Colonial home on the corner 
was the personal property of the State 
Treasurer, and the gray stone mansion 
next to it bore the home address of the 
Mayor. On and on he went, past land- 
scaped yards and newly washed windows, 
stone and brick houses pillared and tur- 
reted, red and white, with numerous 
chimneys. This was where the wealthy 
elete of the town lived. In this large, im- 
posing yellow brick home lived Jans 
Carter, his most persistent rival, at whose 
cravat and pearly gray spats she had 
secretly laughed. 

Even to remember her laughter, now, 
made his heart feel heavy and leaden and, 
with measured step, he walked on while 
the snow fell harder. Now he had passed 
all the homes and was finally outside the 



city limits. The sidewalk had dwindled 
into a mere foot-path running parallel 
to the highway, and even that was partly 
obliterated by the drifting snow. 

The gateway to Oakhill was flanked on 
either side by tall, cut-stone pillars that 
formed a high arch under which the man 
in khaki slowly walked. The gravel on 
the wide, curving path beneath his "G. 
I." shoes made a harsh, grating sound 
that even the covering of snow couldn't 

Characteristic of its name, there were 
many oaks on the grounds, and after 
looking around him for awhile with 
vacant eyes, he went slowly, almost rever- 
ently, in the direction of one of the largest 
white-mantled trees. It was here that he 

stopped and knelt down. With his hand 
resting on the small, vertical slab of cold 
marble, he silently bent his head. 

A lonely sparrow in the branches of 
the great oak looked down and saw the 
coral flowers, bloodlike against the white- 
ness of the snow. Beside the flowers was 
a kneeling man in khaki, whose sandy 
head was bowed and whose lips were mov- 
ing in prayer. 

The snow kept silently falling. It gave 
a statuesque appearance to the immobile 
scene. A few blocks away the clock in 
the Bankers' Life Building struck ten, 
and in the distance, almost as if in an- 
other world, ironically train wheels were 
saying, "She's sleeping now . . . She's 
sleeping now. . . ." 

Journey info Light 

Author Unknown 

It was I and one black man 
Alone in desert spaces, 
Waiting for God's perfect light 
That would lead to heaven's oasis. 

He was tall and lank and ugly 

With a black, heavy face. 

And he walked with that slow, lazy rhythm 

That distinguishes his Negro race. 

I kept my yard of distance 

'Tween me and this one man 

For fear of catching the black contagion 

From the sweaty, black touch of his hand. 

Then the glory of God came upon us 
Like a ray of light from the sky. 
When I looked at my companion, 
Lo, he was fairer than I. 

SUMMER, 1944 


The One Rose 

By Mary Richards 

The most beautiful spot in the Mid- 
west is a tiny clearing about eight by ten 
feet in what was originally a man-made 
forest. To get to it you go up a grassy 
hill, follow the narrow path on your left 
for about twenty-five feet, then take that 
fork on the right; and after having ever- 
green and oak branches hit you in the 
face for fifteen more feet, you are there. 
The clearing is almost indescribably love- 
ly; the rich bluegrass is mixed with clover, 
and many varieties of wild flowers lend 
color to the edges. At the right of the 
clearing is a perfectly formed rose bush — 
and here the story begins. 

It was because of this bush that Joyce 
met Smitty. She had had to plant it for 
Arbor Day and had just happened upon 
this spvot. As she was in the midst of 
placing the dirt around it, a tall, nice- 
looking boy of her own age came into the 
clearing, having lost his way back to town 
after fishing all morning. Joyce showed 
him the right road, and each went his way, 
determined to meet again. Of course 
Smitty called for a date; Joyce eagerly 
accepted, and neither was sorry for his 


^ ^ ^ 

Now they had been going together 
steadily for a year and a half. They 
were together today in the clearing, which 
they called "Arbush." Smitty looked at 
Joyce solemnly. 

"It might be an awfully long time be- 
fore I see you again, honey. The army 
is a pretty indefinite occupation." 

"Funny" — but Joyce didn't smile — "I 
never really thought about it when other 
fellows left." 

"No, I guess you didn't." 



"I'll miss you." 

The boy put his arm around his girl; 
he didn't know why, but the world didn't 
seem quite so dismal that way. They 
looked at their bush; it bound them more 
closely together. One rose on the lowest 
branch was beginning to bloom. 

Weeks passed. Joyce was busy, always 
doing something, running here and there. 
She was kept very much occupied enter- 
taining the boys at U. S. O. dances. Lots 
of times she wondered if she was in love; 
she had fun with the other boys, but 
Smitty's letters filled her with a quiet 
serenity. He had such important things 
to say, such worth-while things; he was a 
man now, she thought. She missed him. 

May came. Smitty was to have a fur- 
lough! If you dared to plan, the spell 
might be broken. Living consisted of 
waiting and each breath brought him an 
instant nearer. Time passed so slowly 
that the hands on the clock almost seemed 
to move backward. At last he came. It 
was Monday; he was to be home for seven 
days. Being with Smitty, watching his 
eyes, loving the way his nose was made, 
feeling his hand on hers, was Joyce's life 
for a week. They were together con- 
stantly. Whenever it was possible, out 
they went to their spot near the river and 
the rose bush. Still there was only the 
one white rose, now in full bloom. Smitty 
talked for days about the army, about 
home, about life, and about Joyce. There 
was no longer any doubt; this was love- 
fine, beautiful, and lasting. Then sud- 
denly the week was gone and life was 
empty. Joyce watched every day for mail. 
There was always one letter, sometimes 
two. Once a week Joyce went out to 
"Arbush" with Smitty's letters. She read 



in the cool quiet, and dreamed. The bush 
seemed to bring Smitty near. Only the 
one white flawless flower bloomed. 

Telegrams don't always mean bad news! 
Maybe Smitty had another furlough. 
Maybe he couldn't get to her. Why 
would it be from his folks? Why would 
they put it in an envelope and mail it to 
her? Maybe it's a surprise. Maybe it's 
a trick. Maybe — or, why couldn't she 
open it? She would go out to "Arbush," 
that would reassure her. Without an- 
other moment's thought, Joyce jumped 
into the car and drove madly to the spot 

where she must continue on foot. Breath- 
lessly she ran up the hill and down the 
path, not glancing at the glimmering 
waters of the sun-kissed river, not noticing 
the swaying of the mournful trees till she 
came to the clearing. She stopped short 
— the rose, their rose, had been trampled! 
Someone had been there. TTie rose lay 
on the ground — crushed, broken, dead. 
Weakly she sat down, and without open- 
ing the telegram, through her screen of 
tears, Joyce looked at the roseless bush 
and knew that she had only the cherished 
memory of a lovely thing. 

The Three ''Men'' 

By Doris Croom 

One Saturday afternoon two other pri- 
vates and I had secured leave and, as was 
customary, we went to the nearest park 
for diversion. We were walking through 
the park when we saw a young man sitting 
on a bench. His head was cocked to one 
side as though he had nothing to do ex- 
cept listen to the chirping of the birds. 
He was dressed comfortably and seemed 
the perfect picture of an indolent son of 
the idle rich. This impression was further 
heightened by the fact that we could see 
the head of a beautiful dog protruding 
beyond the far side of the bench on which 
he was seated. As we drew abreast of the 
bench, I took my two companions by 
their arms and stopped them. 

"Well," I said sarcastically, "here's Mr. 
Playboy himself. Now wouldn't he make 
a beautiful soldier?" 

My two companions immediately fell 
into the spirit of the thing. "Yes," an- 
swered one, "but I wonder why he isn't." 

"Oh, that's easy," I replied. "His 
father knows the 'big shot' on the draft 

The civilian just sat there, not even 
looking at us. But finally he did move. 

"You boys are soldiers, aren't you?" he 

"Well," I cracked, "he h a patriot. 
Doesn't even know a soldier when he sees 

"I thought you were." He stood up. 
"God bless you, soldiers," he said quietly. 
He briefly motioned, and the dog sprang 
to attention beside him. Three dumb- 
founded, conscience-stricken boys, play- 
ing soldiers, watched them go — a proudly 
erect young man marching through life 
with his hand on the steel and leather 
harness that is the universally known in- 
signia of the seeing-eye dog. 

As I saw those two real soldiers reced- 
ing into the distance, I swore before God 
that never would I again judge a person 
by appearance or with a biased, prejudiced 
mind. Whether that boy knows it or not, 
those four final words he spoke made men 
out of three boys who only thought they 
were men. 

SUMMER, 1944 


Was If Worth It? 

By Vivian Moss 

I glanced feverishly back at the high- 
way, which stretched behind me like a 
beautiful ribbon shining in the dusk. My 
mind did not register the scene, however, 
for the one thought in my mind kept 
pushing me ahead. My foot pressed down 
on the accelerator, which by this time was 
against the floor board, and my eyes 
strayed toward a little square piece of 
paper and the writing on it; but I jerked 
by head away, determined not to read it 

"I must make it. I must!" was the 
prayer on my lips as I raced on. At 
twenty minutes till six, on the afternoon 
of July 8, 1942, I was twenty-one miles 
from my destination, and six o'clock was 
the fatal hour. 

Again I looked behind me. I cannot 
be stopped now, not now. I have come 
too far! Once again I caught myself 
gazing at that piece of paper, so little, 
yet so interfering and big to the law- 

I looked ahead and took a firmer grip 
on the steering wheel. I hadn't much 
farther to go, but there wasn't much time 
left, either. If I arrived a few minutes 
late, all would be lost. 

So many thoughts crowded into my 
mind in that brief race against time that 
I hardly remember reaching the obscure 
little shop called "Patton's." After stop- 
ping to regain my breath and to realize 
that the luck of the gods had been with 
me in helping me to arrive on time, I went 
inside; a small bell tinkled to announce 
my entrance. Behind the counter was a 
robust, spectacled little man whom any 
name but Patton would have suited better. 
He brought forth the prize of my journey 
— how beautiful and exquisitely made it 
was — so worth all my pains. 

I placed the money hastily on the 
counter and hurried out of the shop, 
anxious to be on my way again. The 
masquerade costume lay on the seat beside i 
me as I drove, where I could gaze and i 
marvel at its workmanship. I'd be the 
belle of the ball tonight; Susan Bracker ' 
would not have a chance beside me. ( 

It was dark now, and the road before J 
me was empty of the usual traffic; here 
and there I could see the dark outline of 
a farmhouse. Once again my eyes were 
drawn by some magnetic force toward the 
tiny bit of paper pasted in the right 
windshield — the paper that has an A on 
one side and "Is this trip really neces- 
sary?" on the other. I glanced down at 
the gas gauge; it registered empty. 



Small Town Religion 

By Kathleen Norris 

In the quiet coolness of an early Sunday 
morning a bird sang just outside of a 
stained-glass window. The sunUght fell 
in soft tinted pools on the worn floor rug. 
A bright warm shaft of light fell upon 
the alter and the old preacher, picking out 
beautiful glints in his white hair. Amidst 
this setting in a small-town Methodist 
church, I sat with my family and friends. 
It was to this quiet place that I came 
every Sunday morning and often during 
the week — it was our church, and we 
loved it. 

With a seating capacity of only about a 
hundred, this little church held the towns- 
people that everyone knew, and that every- 
one knew everything about. I often sat 
in the straight wooden pew listening to the 
old preacher, wondering how Mrs. Smith's 
little boy was getting along, or whether 
the preacher was going to have dinner 
with the Williams family again this Sun- 
day. Then again, many's the time, in ac- 
cordance with an urgent whisper from a 
friend, I've turned around to glance at 
a visitor in the church, and to discuss the 
possibilities of his being the man visiting 
the Smiths — or a stranger just passing by. 

It was here that I attended my first 
Sunday school class — separated from the 
other classes by a screen set up in the 
comer, because the church was only a 
one-room building. Finally it was here 
that I decided, along with my brother, to 
join the church, and become part of the 
great work and Christianity — and we were 
baptized in the river about a mile and a 
half away. 

Now, as I've grown up and come with 
my family to live in the city, I sometimes 
wander in thought from the sermon — 
back to our little church. When once 
more I listen to hear the little bird out- 
side the small stained-glass window, and 

SUMMER, 1944 

instead hear the screech of city bus brakes; 
when I look to find the small soft pools 
of sunlight on the worn carpet, and in- 
stead see the cold hardwood floor holding 
no sunlight because the building next door 
is too close; when I look across the aisle 
to see if Mrs. Smith's boy is well enough 
to come to Sunday school, and instead 
see a very smartly dressed, tired-looking 
woman, whom I do not know, and shall 
probably never know; when I look down 
over the hundreds of people to see the 
kind old face of our beloved preacher of 
the little church, and instead see just a 
young, but earnest, eager face behind the 
alter — I know that the old white-haired 
man has. passed away, along with so much 
of the good, plain living of our small 
town, and I, too, wonder about progress. 


A Prisoner in Heaven 

By Peggy Freeman 

James Thomas Montgomery, III, stood 
with his hands in the pockets of his black 
striped suit. The sun was smiling at her 
reflection on his pink, bald head; and the 
brilliant blue sky was losmg the contest 
with his blue eyes. Even the Pearly Gates 
before him could not pretend to be 
brighter than his own white teeth. Below 
him, below the mist, he saw his wife stand- 
ing by his mother, as always directing him, 
telling him what to do. 

"Thank God," he murmured, "I'm 
away from their bossing. When I get 
in here, I'll do as I damn please." 

Suddenly there was a fierce slap of 
thunder. The great Gate swung open, 
and James Thomas Montgomery, III, saw 
the bright streams of sunshine flowing 
into the heavens. A little old bent-up 
man with a wise, wise face, but no halo, 
no wings as he expected, stepped from the 
mist of spring flowers. His face was not 
only old and very wise, but it had a look 
that seemed to say "Everlasting." 

He spoke. "The prayers of your de- 
voted wife and your kindly mother are 
answered. You will spend Eternity with 
us. You would not be here in your own 
right. Come, let me show you your new 

"Thank you, St. Peter," Said James 
Thomas Montgomery, III, failing to 
notice the little twinkle in the old man's 

The couple began to wander, stopping 
occasionally to chuck a cherub under the 
chin, smell a dainty flower, or gaze in 
admiration at a far-off view. The Pearly 
Gate, much to the newcomer's amazement, 
was not a gate at all, but a wall which 
encompassed this space as far as the eye 
could see. It was perfectly smooth on the 

"St. Peter," asked James Thomas 
Montgomery, "how does one leave to go 
flying around — or do you fly? I want to 
wander about in space and drop in on my 
old friends on earth." He added con- 
fidentially, almost aside, "I've always 
wanted to be free. My whole life has 
been lived as my 'kindly' mother and 'de- 
voted' wife wanted it to be. Oh, how I've 
hated it!" His round, pink face was 
getting pinker as he grew more confiden- 
tial and more emphatic. "I've always paid 
them lip homage and have done the things 
they wanted, but in my mind I was free. 
There I did as I chose. And I need not 
tell you that my mind has been a busy 
place." And he laughed in the same way 
he had laughed when old Charlie Wil- 
liams told him that little story at the club. 
It was a sly giggle that had no place in 
the peacefubess of his surroundings. 

"Oh, those two women," he continued, 
"they were so good to pray for me. It's 
a wonder they did. Now I'll get to make 
up for all the things I've not been able to 
do." His blue eyes sparkled and his 
chubby cheeks wobbled as he bobbed his 
head up and down and repeated, "How 
do we got out?" 

"My dear fellow," said the old man, 
"there is no way out. The doors open 
only in. You cannot leave. Why do you 
think your wife and mother prayed for 
you, James Thomas Montgomery, III? 
They were not through ruling you. You 
died before they willed it." 

"You mean," cried James, "that I am 
chained to them even in heaven? Heav- 
en!" And he began to weep and implore 
the heights above him. "Heaven — a 
prisoner in heaven is in hell!" 

"Of course, my good man," replied the 
old one. "But where did you think you 
were? You have spent a lifetime in sin. 



You hid your individuality by woodenly, 
though unwillingly, obeying your wife 
and mother. You never really used what 
God gave you. Your Eternity must be 
spent following the same principles." 
And he smiled. Smiled at the men who 

paid only lip homage to everyone and so 
hid the candle under the basket that there 
was no longer any flame. He smiled his 
devil's smile, and the sky became black 
and overcast. "A prisoner in heaven is 
in hell!" he said. 

Sketch of My Father 

By Vanda Nelson 

He is tall and so slender that you can 
understand why in high school his nick- 
name was "Lanky." His shoulders are 
carried with an erectness that comes only 
from years spent in the army. You would 
not think him handsome or even good- 
looking, but he is distinguished looking. 
In his appearance and in his actions, he 
is a gentleman; he grew up in a formal 

He has a lean, wind-tanned, brown face. 
The hair around the bald top of his head 
is dark brown and gray at the temples. 
Below thick eyebrows, which eloquently 
express an inward question when he is 
worried or absorbed, his deep, hazel-brown 
eyes look straight at you through his rim- 
less glasses. They are wise, serious eyes. 
His nose, slightly crooked because he 
broke it playing football, is round and 
full at the nostrils. The firm line of his 
mouth and the strength of his chin reveal 
determination, purpose. As he laughs, 
the sobriety of his face miraculously dis- 
appears; devils begin to dance in his 
twinkling eyes. His years seem to slip 
away, and he looks amazingly like a small, 
mischievous boy. 

Like all people whose emotions are at 
the surface, he becomes angry very easily. 
Then a storm of masculine expressions 
continues until suddenly he is angry no 

longer. He plans his business and the 
management of his home carefully, but 
he likes to do little things on the spur of 
the moment. When he goes into a grocery 
store with a list in his pocket, he is very 
likely to come home with several boxes of 
cereal or cookies that weren't on the list. 
When he shops himself or with members 
of the family, he has definite ideas about 
clothes. More than generous, he would 
never be able to save pennies. The most 
dominant characteristic of his personality 
is, however, a reserve that often hides his 

His most prized possession is the farm 
where he spends his summers. As soon as 
he arrives home from the office, he climbs 
into old, paint-spattered trousers and puts 
on a ragged shirt. He immediately goes 
out to his three hobbies, the raising of 
several thousand chickens, of huge to- 
matoes, and of thoroughbred cattle. Per- 
haps a fourth hobby is his outdoor oven. 
He is at his very best when he cooks fried 
chicken, mush bread, steak, and French 
fried potatoes over an open fire. His 
farm with all that it brings him means 
more to him than city life ever could. 

This is a sketch of a man who is real, 
who is very human. This is a sketch of 
my father. 

SUMMER, 1944 


The Last Night 

By Anne S+ahl 

This is my last night. As I he here on 
my cot, waiting for the guard to approach 
our cell to abuse us again, the dirty gray 
mist becomes the rain at home, clear, 
bright and sparkling, and the leaking 
walls become the drainpipe outside the 
corner window of the workshop above the 
garage, where I tinkered with plane 
models and motors. 

I can remember the first day I saw the 
rain, like sparkling silver, stream from the 
sunny heavens. I ran home to Mom, 
startled and unhappy by this phenomenon. 
Later I realized that I wished the rain to 
appear always with the sunshine. The 
rain sounded so happy and warm, and the 
sun buoyed up your spirits. 

The sun could never shine here when 
it rained, though. There was no use in 
hoping for it, because the sun never shines 
on this land of misery. 

I don't want to think about where 
I am. I want to think about where I 
was — home. 

I can remember long tramps through 
the rain-drenched woods looking for rab- 
bits with Jim. Everything was so green 
and sparklincr and . . . and . . . clean. At 
that time the whole world seemed so to 
me. Now I know how cold, and bitter 
and dirty rain can be. I know now. 

Tomorrow I'll be home — home with all 
its clean, natural beauty. At long last 
I'll be home. It is about ten-thirty now. 
In twelve hours I'll be home, away from 
the guard who is walking down the long 
cell block now. I may not be home in 
body, no, but all bodies decay and rot 
in time. However, I'll be home in spirit. 
I'll be home to stay forever and an eter-' 

The Forest Slumbers 

By Ruth Hoe 

It is dark within the forest. The last 
rays of the setting sun are too feeble to 
penetrate the umbrella of leaves which 
forms a canopy over the undergrowth. 
The last small pool of sunlight has long 
since departed and has been replaced by 
the cool, dark robe of night. Within the 
forest there is little twilight, and that 
small portion no longer envelopes the 
majestic woods. 

The noise has also fled the forest. No 
longer does the excitement of day fill the 
enchanted depths. The sound of merry 
Scouts, the opening of picnic cans, the 

bark of a dog, the slam of car doors, the 
crunch of wagon wheels on gravel roads, 
the softness of moccasined feet, and the 
last crackle of the campfires have van- 
ished. As the ranger checks his stations 
and follows the path, which leads down 
into the valley, the hum of the insects is 

Rabbits scamper to their holes; birds 
settle in their nests; squirrels forsake the 
arduous task of seeking nuts; deer hide 
in briar thickets; the last plaintive call of 
the whippoorwill resounds from the walls 
of the mountains. 

The forest slumbers. 




By Kick! Moss 

Superman! That name given to the 
heroic man of our favorite comic strip, 
who not only flies across continents in 
split seconds, but dives, swims, and bur- 
rows beneath the ground at a speed never 
believed possible. Wherever there is 
trouble, there appears Superman, dressed 
in his characteristic uniform, with cape 
blowing behind him, and the huge "S" 
standing out on his mighty chest. Men 
cower before his piercing eye and run 
from the embrace of his muscular arms, 
ever more standing in fear of his presence. 

Dressed in civilian clothes in his role of 
Clark Kent, ace reporter, he appears to 
be just another person in the multitude 
of ordinary city folks; but on seeing 
through the use of his X-ray eyes, a gang 
of thieves planning murder in an old 
warehouse, he immediately rushes behind 
the building, and strips off his outer layer 
of clothes, revealing the famous suit of — 
ROW! His introduction to the people 
both in the paper and over the radio, is 
the well-known "It's a bird; no, it's a 
olane; it's Superman!", while plumeting 
toward earth comes the costumed figure 
of the world's mightiest man, his body 
shaped like a well-performed swan dive 
in order that his great chest might be 

foremost to break the flight of bullets 
and bombs that by chance would happen 
to stray his way. 

From the first publication of the deeds 
of this hero, he has kept himself before the 
eyes of the American public, commanding 
as much if not more sighs and moans 
from his admiring audiences than the 
songs of Frank Sinatra. His magnificent 
physique towering above mercy-begging 
Germans and Japanese has caused a feel- 
ing of pride mingled with one of strength 
to sweep over the people of the United 
States. It is as if we ourselves had taken 
the form of this Superman and were now 
engaged in the process of proving to our 
back-stabbing enemies that the United 
States of America would stand for no 
such treatment. He gives us that courage 
and spirit which is so important to a na- 
tion fighting a war. In the children who 
eagerly follow his adventures daily, he im- 
plants the knowledge of the necessity of 
kindness, mercy, and the prevailing power 
of right and justice to even the most 

Superman is a monument of strength 
and loyalty to all the people, and he sets 
the example for them to follow. Indeed, 
he is truly an American figure. 


Author Unknown 

I reached for happiness 
And greedily grasped it in my hands. 
It filtered through my fingers 
Like desert sands. 

I heard somebody laugh 
And stood listening quietly. 
It floated through the air 
And clung to me. 

SUMMER. 1944 


Rain in tlie City 

By Ellen Williams 

Slowly the glaring sun of an August 
afternoon was consumed by heavy clouds. 
Stubborn little rays struggled to make 
themselves seen through the dismal masses. 
They wanted one last glance at the soft 
tarry streets, the burning sidewalks, and 
the white-blindness of the many ofSce 
buildings. These beams of light played 
a game of "wink" with the office lights 
that twinkled in the ever-increasing dark- 

Eyes glanced skyward, apprehensive of 
the coming downpour. A feeling of tense- 
ness mingled with a damp closeness seemed 
to command the aim. A mask of sus- 
jjense was worn on every face, symbolic 
of the watching, the waiting — for the in- 
evitable. The minutes seemed to lag be- 
hind as a child not wanting to leave his 
toys of the day. 

At last the nimbus ball was filled. Its 
thunder made scores of stable foundations 

tremble. The very vibrations of its rumble 
split its walls. The condensed vapor 
gushed out, splashing over the torrid city. 
Great sprays bounded in the open win- 
dows, but were soon repelled by noisy 
slammings. The enormous raindrops 
raced each other down the steep walls of 
a skyscraper, and merged at its base, gurg- 
ling in the gutters of the streets. 

Fortunate individuals sported flashy 
umbrellas to protect themselves from the 
wind-driven water. Others darted from 
awning to awning, clutching desperately a 
soaked newspaper, or an improvised rain- 
hat. Motorists sat in stuffy cars, afraid 
to open the windows for fear of being 
drenched from pond-like puddles. Wildly 
they blew horns and raced windshield 
wipers in an effort to peer through the 
sheets of water. 

Momentarily the life of the city was 
put at a standstill by an over supply of 


By Peggy Freeman 

A risque little breeze 

Wheezed around the corner 

Lifting women's skirts 

And knocking off men's hats. 

A fresh little tree 

Slapped his leaves 

Against his sides 

And laughed. 

A busy little bird 

Whistled, and was hopping 

Mad when 

She didn't turn around. 

Spring makes everything 

So human. 











> i 








■ 'Js 



Vol 8 DECEMBER, 1944 No. I 



T . ' 

_£ he Fall issue of the 1944-45 Chimes is before you. We of the 
staff hope that you will enjoy reading it as much as we have enjoyed 
preparing it for you. i 

We have great ambitions for our magazine this year. We can 
hardly expect it to be an Atlantic Monthly, for Chimes is a student 
publication which contains only the work of Ward-Belmont students. 
It is ours. It should represent the best work we can do. To make 
it this, we invite your cooperation. If you are a reader, please let 
us know what authors and types of work you have enjoyed. If 
you write, don't be afraid to turn your writings in to us, for we 
promise to give careful consideration to each contribution. 

It is our aim to make Chimes a magazine worthy of the students. 
The more students who participate in it, both as readers and as 
writers, the better able we shall be to accomplish our aim. 


Peggy Freeman Edito 

Carol Bay -Associate Editor 

Kathleen Norris Rr-vieiv Editor 

Mary Grant .......•.• Exchange Editor 

Bonnie Friedman Publicity Manager 

Barbara Kemper Business Manager 

Dr. Minnie E, Wells Faculty Advisor 


Minnie Carter Bailey Ruth Hoe Vivian Moss 

Jeanne Driscoll Shirley Hunt Mary Richards 

Phyllis Harrison Rose Margaret Lawler Edith Ann "W^illiams 

Fay Maples 


On the Cultural Side. An Essay Bette Pierce 3 

Fighterpecker. An Essay Katherine Macneil 5 

Fire. A Poem Jeannette Smith 6 

Color Riddle. A Poem Peggy Freeman 7 

Essay Contest 

Unity Through Books. An Essay . Marilyn Harrell 8 

New Horizons Opened Through Books, An Essay Joan Forsythe 9 

The Right Change. A Story Mary Richards 11 

Thoughts at Night. A Poem Harvel Linde 14 

Peace. A Story Minnie Carter Bailey 16 

Book Reviews 

Between Tears And Laughter Kathleen Norris 17 

Pastoral. Kathleen Norris 18 

The Lone Traveler. An Essay Katherine Macneil 19 

Little Bits. A Poem Peggy Freeman 20 


On The Cultural Side 

By Itette Pierce 

College '46 

When I first arrived at Ward- 
Belmont I was under the impression 
(under the influence of the cata- 
log) that within the cloistered 
walls of said institution I would 
become educated, cultured, and re- 
fined to the highest possible degree. 
Two months of the school year 
have now passed and with them 
have gone my idealistic notions. 
Do I spend long hours in the li- 
brary stowing away the many facts 
to be found in its numerous vol- 
umes? Most definitely not. Do I 
sit in Acklen Hall admiring the 
relics of a dead civilization and be- 
coming imbued with Old Southern 
culture? Now really! No, I mu3t 
admit that I do not spend my 
many hours of leisure (any exag- 
geration found herein is purely 
hyperbolic) in these profitable 
ways. Instead I find myself con- 
stantly drawn to the most interest- 
ing place on campus . . . the 
smoker. Here life is real but not 
too earnest; here is to be found 
the true spirit of W.-B. Take, 
for example, a typical evening 
spent here. 

I lift my weary eyes from the 
closely-printed pages of Lucas's 

lengthy Short . 

History of Civili- 

zation and look 

at my roommate, 

who is busily being original for a 

required essay. 

"What time?'^ 




"Shall we?" 

' / i 

"Think we 

should take the 





"Got anv?" 






"O. K." 

And off to the smoker we go, 
wagging our books behind us. 

"Greetings, fellow internees. 
Anybody got a match? Thanks. 
Where's the ciggie, Nellie? 
What? Oh, nine o'clock. Bye 
. . . don't study too hard. Any- 
body have French for English? 
Well, did she give you all that 
nasty dictionary assignment too? 
Gosh, ni be up all night finding 
those words. A quiz! Oh, no! 
Well, guess the midnight oil shall 
burn again tonight. Who? Not 
her! What the heck was she doing 
en second floor of the Hermitage 
anyway? No! Think she'll be 
shipped? And she was just be- 


ginning to like that ^^^^ from 
Smyrna, too. That's reaf^ tough. 
Did I see him at the recital Thurs- 
day night! Kid, I darn near 
stomped! Of course he affects 
everybody like that. Why, Miss 
Owen's main duty is to revive the 
girls after their music lessons! 
Gee, makes me all weak just to 
think of it. Now, really, did you 
have to mention that he's married? 
Some people just like to take the 
joy out of life. Quiet, girls — 
here comes the proctor." 

(Five minutes of very studious 
silence) . 

"Well, guess we can relax now. 
Anybody got a ciggie? Thanks a 
million. Maybe next week I'll have 
some for a change. Well, you 
needn't be so sarcastic about it. 
What? Did I get sick? Honest, 

I nearly but I didn't. It isn't 

so much the cutting on Horace, 
(that's what I named mine) as it 
is the smell of that darned formal- 
dehyde. Why can't they pickle 
them in Chanel No. 5 or some- 
thing? Well, yours may have had 
a cute liver, but you should have 
seen Horace's gall bladder. Hon- 
est, Mrs. Dempster said that he 
was absolutely unusual. Going 
home! Who? Well, of all the 
lucky people! Me? Heck, I'll be 
doing good to get home Christ- 
mas. Some people get all the 

breaks. Jim's going to be there 
too? Well, isn't it too convenient 
that her tooth had to be filled just 
when he got his leave? Did some- 
body mention having a date? 
Honest, when I finally get back 
in circulation, all the men between 
fourteen and forty had better lock 
themselves in . . . they won't have 
a fighting chance! Woof, woof! 
Just know I've completely forgot- 
ten how to dance. I do take ball- 
room here . . . I'm the athletic 
type . . . but it just isn't the same 
pushing some girl around as it is 
to be pushed around by; a man! 
Well, you just quit bragging. If 
I ever got two letters in /one week 
from the Ensign, I would probably 
faint right then and there. Not 
that he isn't absolutely faithful, of 
course, but he just doesn't like, to 
write letters. You never get any 
mail! Honest, I never open my 
box for anything but to dust it 
out. It may be that I owe twenty- 
seven letters, but somehow I just 
can't get around to answering all 
of them. Who has food? Heck, 
we're in such a starving condition 
that we'd welcome even crackers 
and peanut butter! Guess I might 
get enough in the dining room if 
I liked lima beans and apples, but 
I just can't bring myself to it. 
Now everybody be quiet . . . I've 
(Continued on Page 15) 




By MfMtheritBe 3§acneH 

Preparatory School Freshman 

Of course I have had many pets 
of my own and among them were 
the usual run of dogs, cats, gold- 
fish and the Hke, but none did 
anything especially original. Some 
ran away, others came into tragic 
collisions with cars, and a few for- 
got their manners so constantly 
that they were given away at 
Mother's request, so I am telling 
about one of the pets my father 
had when he was a little boy. 

It all started with Daddy's rais- 
ing hens. Not that it wasn't good 
to raise hens — in fact, it was rather 
profitable at first, but that was be- 
fore the dauntless Holland Mc- 
Tyeire, the next door neighbor's 
rooster, came upon the scene. One 
by one Daddy's roosters became 
subject to Holland's prowess, 
while gradually all of the hens de- 
parted to join his increasing harem. 
In time this harem consisted not 
only of Daddy's hens but also 
those of the entire community. 
Holland McTyeire was indeed a 
proud rooster. 

Finally there was only one thing 
for Daddy to do, and that was to 
get rid of Holland McTyeire. 
Daddy did this in a very clever way. 

He wrote his uncle, who was at that 
time specializing in Irish Grey Game 
Cocks, and explained his troubles. 
His uncle sympathetically complied 
by sending a champion rooster, by 
name, Fighterpecker. ' 

When Fighterpecker arrived, 
Daddy thought he was one of the 
handsomest roosters he had ever 
seen, gallant and high-stepping. 
He immediately set about proving 
his superlative abilities as a fight- 
er. He fought most of the roost- 
ers in the neighborhood and de- 
feated them all. Daddy was jubi- 

It seems that one night Fighter- 
pecker was not confined to his 
coop. The next day Holland was 
found in the alley, lying on his 
back, surrounded by feathers with 
his toes stuck forlornly up in the 
air, the picture of a fallen hero. 
Poor Holland, he was at last de- 
feated, and a new victor, Fighter- 
pecker, had taken his place of 
honor. Meanwhile Fighterpecker, 
minus one eye, — plus the ad- 
miring group of Holland's widows, 
strutted proudly up and down the 
chicken coop boasting loudly of 
his triumph. 



By J^tMnnette Smith 

Preparatory School Senior 

What is this thing which glows before you? 
Define it, tell me, I implore you. 
Dancing, leaping, glowing brightly 
Something glorious, frightening, sprightly. 
Does it live, this thing before you? 

Men call it Fire, this undefinable. 
Glittering thing, not built, not minable, 
Sought not on the ocean's floor 
Present now, now here no more, 
Gaudy fire, so undefinable. 

The whole great earth revolves around it. 
No one built it; no one found it. 
A glowing ball which burns on high. 
The sun, a bonfire in the sky. 
Burning mass. Earth moves around it. 

We live by it 

Die by it ^ 

Give by it 

Cry by it 

Build with it 

Destroy with it 

Kill with it ; 

Employ it. 

We make it a slave 
We let it be master 
This bringer of grave 
And ghastly disaster 
Carefully hold it 


Cruelly use it 
Never embolden it 
Always abuse it. 
A dutiful slave 
A merciless master 
A bringer of grave 
And ghastly disaster. 

Oh, beautiful, wonderful, pitiless Fire! 
It can build up a nation, a glorious empire, 
But give it a chance, it devours your life, 
A blessing at peace, a demon at strife. 
This gorgeous, intangible fire. 

Color Riddle 

College '45 

A little black dog 

Trotted down the street 

Behind him 

And wagged its tail. 

He leaned over 

And patted its curly hair 

And smiled. 

A little black boy 

Trotted down the street 

Behind him 

And waved his "shine" box. 

He leaned over 

And patted his curly hair 

And smiled. 

"He" must have been a black man 
Or God. 




College '46 

This week is Book Week; and 
this year more than ever before 
Book Week should really mean 
something to all of us. Why with 
the war and all the big, important, 
real things going on around us 
now should we be concerned with 
books and Book Week? We don't 
have time to read. We're too busy, 
much too busy to spend our time 
in a land of make believe. Well, 
that is just my reason for thinking 
Book Week should be stressed in 
this war year of 1944; to show 
America how very important books 
are, especially now and in the near 
future; to show America that it is 
not wasting its time while reading, 
but storing up precious wealth to 
be used in the future. After this 
war there will be a lot of adjust- 
ing to do, a lot of understanding 
to do, a lot of tolerating to do, 
and a lot of knowing to do. And 
books, in bringing about unity . . . 
the unity between nations that will 

prove so necessary . . . will play 
their part in making this a better 

One of the most enchanting 
things in this world is reading a 
book. Can you imagine anything 
more delightful than living the 
long, cold winter days and the hot 
Canada summers with the White- 
oaks, sharing each joy and each 
sorrow with Finch and Renny and 
Grandmother and Alyane, loving 
and laughing and crying with them 
all? Or can you ever forget the 
tender and valiant story of The 
Robe? The story of gallant and 
dauntless men and women loving a 
true and living God and holding 
to their faith with an unmovable 
tenacity until death did carry them 
to a better world. I could go on 
and on citing experience after ex- 
perience I have lived in a book that 
I would not trade for gold. But 
today there's something more we 
should get out of a book than 
pleasure ... a knowledge, a 


knowledge that will help to bring 
about unity in this world. 

What do I mean by unity? I 
mean a state of harmony existing 
between nations for the greatest 
gain of all. But how can this 
harmony be established? How 
can we be unified with a country 
about which we know nothing? 
How, but through books — books 
which give us an insight into the 
lives and the ideas and ideals of 
another people, books which give 
us an understanding of another 
people so that we will have a com- 
mon base upon which to build. 
An example is Mission to Moscow 
in which we find vividly portrayed 
the true picture of the Soviet 
Union in all its fundamental great- 
ness. In it and other books about 
other nations we find hope for 
unity, we find that people all over 

honest and are striving for the 
the world are basically good and 
betterment of mankind just as we 
in America are. Thus we have a 
fundamental basis upon which to 
build with the bricks of tolerance, 
unselfishness, and understanding, a 
world peace. 

We are the younger generation 
and upon our shoulders soon is to 
be placed this troubled world with 
its complicated problems and com- 
plex life. And it is up to us to 
cut out the evil that has deformed 
the world into a cruel and thought- 
less place; and to add instead fel- 
lowship to make a peaceful and 
happy union of nations \yhere 
every man will have a chance for 
life, liberty, and the pursuit of 
happiness. I believe that we, aided 
by unity through books, can ac- 
complish the job set before us. 



College '46 

How well I remember a certain 
poem of my childhood, by Robert 
Louis Stevenson, I believe. Al- 
though I cannot recollect its name 
or full details, I shall never forget 
the beautiful colored picture and 

vividly writen poem on the page. 
The picture, I recall especially: 
a dreamy cloud picture of a pass- 
ing parade — Marco Polo, Ichabod 
Crane, Tiny Tim, The Three 
Musketeers, Romeo and Juliet, 


Peter Pan, Robinson Crusoe, the 
"Little Women", Long John Sil- 
ver, Queen EUzabeth — and lying 
stretched out below, gazing into 
an open story book, was a little 
freckled child. 

This mirage was her dream 
world. To her, through books, 
was brought the beauty, mystery, 
and excitement of other lands and 
other environments. Into her warm 
and peaceful American home was 
introduced the spicy mystery of the 
orient; the weirdness of a headless 
horseman galloping through the 
New England moonlight night; 
the warmhearted, cheerful, glow- 
ing Christmas of the Cratchit 
family; dashing cavaliers, tender 
young lovers, enchanted fairylands, 
fascinating life on a desert island 
or in a family crowded with noisy 
laughing girls, or tossing and roll- 
ing on the deep blue in a pirate 
galleon. She could almost feel the 
wheel's kick beneath her hands, 
the salty, clear air making her very 
blood tingle, the spray flung on her 
face, and the sea gull's cry. 

And now I see that little girl 

was I; that I too experienced all 

those things because of my vivid 

imagination. I thrill to them still. 

However as I grow older, I find 
these books hold newer, deeper 
meanings for me. Not only do I 
live temporarily in a filmy dream 
world, and thus find beautiful es- 
cape from the dull and common- 
place routine of everyday life, but 
also the world of books opens to 
me a field of realism: the lives and 
customs of peoples of other lands, 
whom, through literature, we come 
to know as brothers; the unpleas- 
ant, sordid, and naturalistic side of 
life, which although we refuse to 
think of it, nevertheless is greatly 
present in our life, which sets us 
to thinking along lines of social 
service, to correct such conditions. 

Thus books have become an in- 
valuable part of world living. 
Through books, we can better 
understand other peoples of other 
nations and so avert wars and all 
lesser misunderstandings. Also we 
are presented with problems of 
crime, extreme poverty, maladjust- 
ment, and all other economic, so- 
cial and political conditions so 
that, having thus been presented 
with the facts through literature, 
we are brought abruptly to earth 
and made capable of facing them. 



The Ri0 Change 

College '45 

"Two Adults, three children 
and one service man, please." 
Robin consulted the charts franti- 
cally, as the small man with twink- 
ling kind eyes waited for his 
change and his tickets. How con- 
fusing! Robin watched the group 
go into the lobby and smiled. It 
was fun having strange combina- 
tions, even though one did have 
difficulty computing the mathe- 
matical oddities and returning the 
right change. Now the foyer was 
empty; no one was coming up the 
street; Loretta, the blond seven- 
teen year old, was busy at the pop- 
corn machine, and Robin could re- 
lax for a few minutes. 

Directly across from the small 
town theatre was a garage, forlorn 
and empty. The remnants of a 
few antiquated cars could be seen 
dimly through the clouded glass, 
but it was just a building waiting 
for the time of new automobiles. 
Even the stop sign was battered 
and blithely ignored; its spirit and 
power were broken, its domineer- 
ing heart quite visably cracked. 
The "Safeway" parking space held 
only five vehicles, two bicycles. 
People were walking in small 

towns, too. Up on the next corner 
was a brick house, homey with age 
and friendly with living. In the 
front yard sat two people talking, 
waiting for postman, and missing 
the third member of their farnily. 
The couple faced St. James Epis- 
copal Church, a gray building con- 
structed for the comfort rather 
than the awe of its members. Rob- 
in loved to watch the scene change 
color as the sun went down, i The 
red bricks of the old house ' grew 
fainter until finally she couldn't 
distinguish bricks at all; then it 
got so dark that only the dim 
street light reminded her that 
there was anything more than a 
shadow there. Everything was 
hushed. It was as though every- 
thing were waiting. 

People, Robin observed, were 
waiting too. Either this suspended 
feeling was new for the masses, or 
she had never noticed it before. 
Perhaps spending a school year in 
another section of the country had 
brought as many changes to the 
Mid-western town as it had brought 
to Robin. Once she had known 
everyone, but now the faces were 
unfamiliar. Even though she 



didn't recognize people, she en- 
joyed watcliing them and invented 
names for them. The dirty giant 
of fourteen, who insisted he was 
still eleven, she called Pete. His 
visits to the theatre were regular, 
and watching him grin superiorly 
as his deception was overlooked, 
Robin wondered why Pete had 
learned to cheat that soon. Then 
one Sunday about seven she saw 
a life-weary couple in factory 
clothing come for their puzzled 
little boy who was almost bored 
with his ninth seeing of the be- 
loved Gene Autry pictures. 

The mental picture exploded, for 
people came in large numbers now. 
Mr. Wiffington was a wealthy 
man. He always looked very pom- 
pous and austere, as if he felt he 
were lowering himself to mingle 
with the dowdy mobs, while he 
waited for his factory to make 
more money for him. A large 
diamond squeezed his balloon-like 
finger and glared at Robin as he 
casually tossed the ten spot at 
her. Robin sometimes wondered 
if he went into the darkness to 
see the picture or to watch the 
diamond glisten. Following Mr. 
Wiffiinton was the short, thin, al- 
most bald Mr. Weldon. His 
small blue eyes peered from be- 
hind rimless glasses as he ^nervous- 
ly picked out the correct change 
from the combination of matches 

and keys he pulled from his 

"Two adults and . . . we'll hold 
one of the kids; do we have to 
pay?" Robin looked down to see 
a sad rather plump woman be- 
side him with a ragged baby grasp- 
ing each of her hands. 

"No. Two and a half. Thank 

"Hello, John, what do you hear 
from Jim?" A tall muscular crea- 
ture in overalls directed his remark 
to Mr. Weldon. ! 

"O, not so much these days, 
Bill, he's missing in France you 
know . . ." The group wandered 
into the theatre, and fill's guise 
showed he was sorry he 'had asked. 

Carefree youth came bounding 
in as the high school bridge club 
cluttered up the foyer. 

"Put some more butter and salt 
on my popcorn, will you?" 

"Jane, you get my ticket. I 
want to talk to Eddie." 

"Get your own ticket. I want 
to talk to him too!" As the name 
echoed through the foyer all the 
young women ran to talk to the 
bashful, formerly ignored boy, who 
had been known a short time ago 
as "not too sharp." 

"Hi, Chi Chi," Betty,' heavy 
pilot's wings obvious on her sweat- 
er, spied an older friend. "What's 
m : 



"Nothing new. Same old 

'Well, give us a buzz sometime, 
you big co-ed you!" Then they 
were gone, and the empty quiet- 
ness of the lobby was more ap- 
parent than before. Only the oc- 
casional music from the entertain- 
ment inside could be heard now 
and then. 

Robin glanced up to see Corp- 
oral Collins limp in. The expanse 
of ribbons on his chest told the 
student of today's war that his ad- 
ventures had taken him to North 
Africa, Italy, and China, but the 
careful observer could see the jun- 
gles and swamps in his eyes. The 
way his mouth moved and the 
dilation of his nostrils told Robin 
that he was waiting, trying to ad- 
just himself once more to the world 
of confusion and selfishness he had 
almost forgotten, but had dreamed 
of and worked for. He bought his 
ticket unobtrusively and entered the 

So Robin Marshall watched and 
found that everything and every- 
body was waiting. The world was 
holding its breath. Suddenly, she 
heard people laughing. At first it 
was only a scattered chuckle, and 
then it grew and grew until the 
whole building was echoing with 
sound of people's forgetfulness. 
Robin wanted to see them, to see 
their faces. Knocking for an usher 
to take her place, she hurried from 

her booth to the side aisle and 
slowly started down. It wasn't that 
the picture was very amusing, she 
found, but someone had laughed 
and everyone wanted to. It was the 
release that they all needed. Al- 
though all eyes were on the screen, 
there was a feeling of comradeship, 
of oneness. Pete wasn't proud any- 
more; he unconsciously offered his 
popcorn to the boy next to him. 
Holding the baby between them, 
the Weldons were laughing,:- to 
each other mostly, but with ireal 
happiness. For that few minutes 
Mr. Wiffington forgot his faqtory 
and stopped his mighty gufjraws 
only when he saw the wounded 
soldier next to him grinning (Quiet- 
ly. The bridge club were always 
screaming together, but this was 
different. They were laughing 
with everybody. Robin felt a 
change in them all. For a few 
moments they had forgotten them- 
selves, and in that releasing of 
their sorrows they were aware of 
each other. All the Weldons, the 
Petes, rich and poor, young and 
old were laughing together. For 
just that instant they had stopped 
waiting. They had felt God's hand 
for only that second, but Robin 
looked at these people in a differ- 
ent way. Smiling, she felt a 
warmth inside for all of them. A 
change had come over Robin, and 
this change really was the right 



Thoughts at Ni^ht 

Hy MtMrv>t»i E,in€it* 

Preparatory School Senior 

I sit at my window 

And I take in the night, 

The calm, the cool, the peaceful night 

That brings respite to minds ; 

And hearts. - 

Long since 
The lights have gone. • 

The people sleep ; 

And only the autumn moon l 

Gazing down serenely | 

And the softly whispering wind 
Are waking with me. 
Peace, peace on earth; 
That is the night 
Strong in its quietitude. 
Beneficent in its rest. 
The moon is a mystic goddess 
Giving to me of her pale silver beauty, 
Of her love. 
Ah, Endymion, 
The moon gives poesy 
Or madness. 

Near me 
The trees bow down before their god, 
The Wind. 

Whispering of his greatness. 
Trembling at his passmg 


Are the rustling leaves. 
Truly, the dryads speak 
At night. 

The night sky, 
Infinite, boundless, 
Holds in its heart 
The soul of God 
Looking up to it 
With faith. 
With love, 
I gather strength. 

Around me, close. 
Is the allness of the night. 
The allness of God. 
He gave the day for work 
And worry. 
He gave the night 
For peace. 


(Continued from Page 4) 

simply got to finish this chapter 
on the Etruscans." 

(Seven minutes of comparative 
silence) . 

"What time?" 




"Guess we'd better go up." 


"Well, 'night you all." 

And thus ends another evening 
of educational and cultural im- 
provement in a smoker of Ward- 
Belmont. All right, so it isn't. 
But who wants to be Hood and 
Gown anyway! 




By Minnie Carter Baitey 

College '45 

It was all just as he had planned 
^ . . . this homecoming of his. 
Through the tense excitement of 
two years, spent for the most part 
in the air, a dream had grown in 
some sheltered corner of his mind, 
of the way it would all be when 
he came back. The memory of 
his long stay in the hospital blotted 
out his dream for a while. He 
remembered ^uite clearly being 
wounded, but he could not remem- 
ber about the armistice ... it 
must have come very suddenly 
during these endless days when he 
had been so tired. Soon, however, 
his thoughts came back to the 
present ... he was home now, 
swinging quickly down the familiar 
street. The trees were misty 
green with new leaves, and the 
spring twilight gathered in hazy 
patches in the hollows of the not- 
too-distant hills. The house was 
shadowy and quiet, as it used to be 
at evening. A smile wrinkled the 
corners of his eyes when he saw 

the little light in the window. They 
had joked about that when he left, 
but how good it was to see it 
there. He clenched his fists hard 
in sudden fear of the reality of 
his old dream, and then he saw 
Ann at the door, wistfully, looking 
out into the dim garden. That 
first meeting after two >^ars was 
not easy. Tears and laughter vied 
with each other for attention, and 
there was much to say and much 
that could not be said. The 
night shadows hurried the hours on 
their way, and then came the bliss 
of the cool sheets in the old room. 
The clock chimed eleven, and 
peace was his at last. 

The nurse methodically pulled 
the sheet up, and, with a glance 
at her watch, noted "11:00 p.m." 
on the harsh card that meant the 
end of a life. Then she quietly 
closed the door, leaving a small 
light in the blacked-out window to 
guard the peace of the room. 




Kathleen IMorris 

Between Tears and laughter 

By i^in YaitEnff 

"While the American people are 
both friendly to China and sincere 
in their wish to help China in this 
war, the policy and acts of their 
government are such as to suggest 
complete indifference in the whole 
six years of the China War, both 
before and after Pearl Harbor." 

This is an excerpt from a col- 
lection of essays grouped together 
under the timely title, Between 
Tears and Laughter, by Lin Yu- 
tang, Chinese scholar and philos- 
opher. In it he discusses the most 
urgent issues of our time, the possi- 
bilities of an enduring peace after 
this war, and the future relations 
between Asia and the Western 

In what he terms a plea for 
understanding and fairness, Lin 

Yutang points out acts and policies 
of the leaders of the Allied gov- 
ernments that he says we thave or 
have had explained inadequately. 
In very plain language the author 
states his observations, ideas, and 
criticisms, and the reader is jarred 
from his complacency, and faced 
with facts probably unknown be- 
fore. The passionate earnestness 
of his appeal and the humor of 
the philosopher somewhat blunt the 
sharp critical atitude of the Chinese 
scholar toward our chosen leaders 
of the world. The book should be 
read, even in disagreement, for -its 
voice and passion and special plead- 
ing are of a reawakened China, 
who will play a great part in the 
peace of the world when it comes. 




By l\€>t^il ShMtt€^ 

In Pastoral, his latest novel, Mr. 
Shute has combined his knowledge 
of the English countryside, the 
English people at war, his under- 
standing of the personnel of a 
bomber crew and the technicalities 
of piloting a plane in combat, with 
the age-old device of boy-meet- 
girl to produce one of the first- 
ranking novels in the highly-com- 
petitive deluge of war-literature. 
As a Lieutenant-Commander at- 
tached to the British Admiralty in 
London, as an airplane engineer 
and aviator, the author knows what 
he is talking about when he writes 
of pilots and planes. A simple 
love story in a new setting, it is 
the romance of an English bomber 
pilot and a pretty WAAF officer. 
Peter Marshall, pilot of the "R for 
Robert," and his crew become inter- 
ested in fishing as a means of re- 
laxation between missions over 
Europe, and through this new- 
found interest he meets Gervase 
Robertson, also a fishing enthusiast 
and WAAF Flight Officer in 
charge of Hartley aerodrome. 

Before long Peter is proposing. 

and when Gervase doesn't respond 
properly the result is the demorali- 
zation of the pilot and his crew. 
He storms at his men, becomes un- 
reasonable, and on their next mis- 
sion almost brings them to disaster 
over a German city. As Gervase 
remains somewhat demure the crew 
of the "R for Robert" goeS' grad- 
ually from bad to worse, until the 
plans i: shot up on an important 
mission and is unreported; for a 

How much Peter means to his 
crew . . . and how much he means 
to Gervase is never fully under- 
stood until the crash-landing. The 
tenseness of the hour, the vivid 
relation of the circumstances, and 
the thoroughly human understand- 
ing of young people by the author 
give the conclusion an originality 
not achieved by the average writer 
of short stories. As F. H. Bullock 
remarked, "If you want to under- 
stand a bomber pilot's life . . . 
which is new . . . and a young 
man in love . . . which is old as 
the hills ... I commend to you 



The lone Traveler 

By KgMtherin^ JfWacneil 

Preparatory School Freshman 

When I was seven, I thought it 
was very necessary to see the 
World's Fair. In fact I considered 
it so necessary that my parents had 
no peace for weeks. Finally, after 
a good deal of discussion. Mother 
and Daddy decided to send me up 
to New York to be met by my 
aunt . , . alone! I was very much 
excited by this news and felt that 
I was most important. Even my 
brothers, who had traveled on the 
train to New York the year be- 
fore, had gone together and not 

The day of the departure I was 
quite sure that I was going to miss 
the train. Daddy and Mother just 
had to talk forever with the con- 
ductor and the porter. Finally 
they helped me on the train with 
many little pieces of advice and 
then, to my horror, got on with me. 
They stayed in the car so long that 
I was terribly scared that they 
might be aboard when the train 
pulled out and I wouldn't go by 
myself after all. At last the train 
did pull out and, very much to my 
relief, without my anxious parents. 

All went well for the first few 
hours while I industriously read 

the book Mother had provided for 
the trip until I got interested in 
the little buzzer. It took some time 
for me to screw up enough courage 
to ring it but I finally did, and to 
my surprise, the porter really 
came. I was so pleased with this 
performance that the buzzer be- 
came quite a game for me. After 
about an hour of constant ringing, 
the porter didn't come any more. 
This didn't bother me in the Ipast 
because there wasn't anything /else 
for him to bring me anyway. 

Since the buzzer game didn't 
bring the porter any more, I began 
looking around the car and dis- 
covered that almost all of the oc- 
cupants were Ward-Belmont girls 
headed home for a vacation. Later 
one of them told me I looked like 
her little sister and very kindly in- 
vited me over to her seat to watch 
a card game. From then on, my 
trip "alone" was very carefully 
chaperoned. I couldn't even order 
my own dinner because of vita- 
mins. As a matter of fact, left to 
my own devices, I would un- 
doubtedly have concentrated on 
chocolate ice cream, but as it was 
I had five amateur dietitians sup- 


9 4 4 


ervising my meals. All the rest of 
my trip they were my guardian 
angels who, I soon discovered, 
loved to talk about their life at 
Ward-Belmont. I was so much 
impressed, I then and there re- 
solved to be a Ward-Belmont girl 
when I was old enough. They 
didn't mention the homework and 
themes, I must admit! 

My arrival in New York was 
apparently very amusing to my 
aunt. It seems that I was quite 
the thing, all spruced up, with my 
gloves on, every curl in place. I 
even tipped the porter, being such 
model traveler. Little did she 
know that my perfection was the 
handiwork of the girls of Ward- 

Your smile comes so easily 
That I can almost see 
The little gremlins 
Pushing up the corners 
Of your mouth 
And running up to your eyes 
To leave stars and little tracks 
That the unpoetic would 
Call crows' feet. 

Raindrops cling to slippery leaves, 
Roll a bit, catch hold of their pants, 
And draw back. 

Then they smile in glistening glee 
At the poor old bent down tree. 

little Bits 

MMy Peggy Freewnan 

College '45 



Vol. 8 MARCH. 1945 No. 2 




With this second issue of Chimes we are presenting a greater 

variety of material from new contributors, most of whom are 

new members of our staif. We welcome them. I 

Settling down to real winter work, our writers have found 
many inspirations, and have worked upon them and polished 
them until they gleam most satisfactorily. From almost every 
class we have representative work. 

We hope you will find Chimes readable and worthy of your 


Peggy Freeman Editor 

Carol Bay Associate Editor 

Kathleen" Norris Revieiv Editor 

Mary Grant Excliange Editor 

Bonnie Friedman Publicity Manager 

Barbara Kemper Business Manager 

Dr. Minnie E. Wells Faculty Advisor 

Co-ver design by Elizabeth B. Hughes 

Minnie Carter Bailey Nancy Hollingsworth Fay Maples 

Elizabeth Bomar Cleveland Jean Horner A'ivian Moss 

Ruth Evans Margaret Houston Bette Pierce 

Margaret Anne Funk Shirley Hunt Jeannette Smith 

Phyllis Harrison Kathryn Keggin Mary RiCHAkos 

Mary Hendricks Nancy Kellogg Iris Turner .' 

Ruth Hoe - Margaret Lawler Edith Ann Williams 

Katherine Manier 


They Also Serve. A Story Margaret Lawler 3 

A True Fish Story. Essay Margaret Anne Funk 9 

We Are at War. Poem Nancy Hollingsworth 1 1 

Parable of Gateways. Story Jeannette Smith 13 

On Rationing. Essay Minnie Carter Bailey 17 

Or So She Thinks. Story Barbara Kemper 19 

Snow Fantasy. Poem Peggy Freeman 8 

So Young. Essay Jean Horner 22 

Fishing in a Deep Lake. Story Peggy Freeman 24 

Winter Mystery. Poem Bonnie Friedman 23 

Career Conscious. Essay Carol Bay 27 

Book Reviews 

Good Night, Sweet Prince Bette Pierce 33 

The Yearling Jean Horner 34 

The Razor's Edge Kathleen Norris 36 


They Also Serve 

College '45 

I only stood and waited last night 
and I believe, in doing so, I served. 
You know, Milton said, ''\ . . they 
also serve who only stand and wait." 
I hope he was right, but even if he 
weren't, I served myself at least. 
My wait gave me time to think 
over the past, something which I've 
been much too busy to do of late 
. . , much too concerned with 
"matters of consequence," as An- 
toine de Saint-Exupery called them. 

Mrs. McPherrin, a neighbor and 
friend . . . that sounds strange, 
like "your friend and adviser, David 
Copperheld," but it is very fortu- 
nate to be able to add "and friend" 
to "neighbor," nowadays . , . called 
and said, "Johnny's calling us from 
Alaska tonight, and would you 
come over and say hello to him?" 

"But, Mrs. McPherrin," I re- 
plied, "Johnny's calling to talk to 
you and his father. I don't want 
to take any of that valuable time!" 

"No. In his last letter he asked 
that you and Jay and Harry come. 
He just wants to hear your voices." 

I accepted rather uncertainly, re- 
placed the receiver and thought a 
while. Johnny just wanted to hear 
our voices! Jay, Harry, and my- 

self. It seemed strange to me. I 
couldn't quite comprehend it. The 
four of us had grown up on our 
block together . . . the three boys 
and myself. I laughed. "And my- 
self," like an "added attraction" at 
a movie. Well, added, but hardly 
an attraction. I was just a hui- 
sance: ". . . the only girl in ithe 
neighborhood, and she hasn't any 
little girls to play with, so you 
boys be nice to her," I remembered 
hearing Mrs. McPherrin herself , say, 
the day they showed me ho\|i' to 
climb a certain tree in Jay's back- 
yard and then left me with not 
even so much as a hint as to how 
to descend. All my life there had 
been the three boys, treating me 
like the proverbial sore thumb in 
grammar school; treating my house 
as Grand Central Station through 
high school, and now treating me as 
if I were a long-lost sister, an equal, 
at last. 

The three boys: Harry had al- 
ways been the least of the three 
evils. He was the one who offered 
to sell his scout flash-light to pay 
for the window they had been using 
for a bebee gun target. At least, 
I think they were using the window. 

MARCH, 1945 

The fact that I was sitting just 
inside couldn't have had much to 
do with it. Slender, blond Harry, 
never afraid to assert himself, just 
too lazy to do so; but never too 
lazy to grin out from under his eye- 
brows. Harry . . . always looking 
a little too thin in those corduroy 
pants that bagged at the seat, but 
now his blues certainly did justice 
to those slender hips. Funny, easy- 
going Harry, who never walked, 
but ambled. He had some excuse 
about conserving his energy. I 
wondered if perhaps he had known 
that some day he'd need it when 
he released the torpedoes from his 

Jay was the gay Lothario, the 
Casanova of the three. Even when 
I was ten and he was eleven, though 
he tripped me and attempted to run 
over me with his bicycle many more 
times than the other two put to- 
gether, when we happened to run 
into the same hiding place during 
one of our usual spring twilight 
games of Punch the Icebox, he was 
the first one to try to kiss me. 
Being quite young, I was outraged 
that he even attempted such a 
thing, and he was outraged that I 
refused him. Dark, almost to the 
point of being sinister-looking, gay, 
reckless Jay was my first love and ■ 
I was his. He led the other two, 
who followed as willingly as I. He, 
too, was tall, and though he lacked 
Harry's ready smile and gentle 

ways, he made up for it with quick 
wit, and a gracefulness of move- 
ment that stemmed from hours on 
the track and basketball court. Jay 
left us early to go east to school, 
but returned at the age of eighteen, 
holding an English-made pipe in 
one hand and a ticket to the Naval 
Training Station at Farragut, Ida- 
ho, in the other. 

Johnny was the oldest. When 
I entered high school, I was quite 
impressed by him, because I was 
only a freshman one; whereas he 
was a sophomore two. He was the 
middle-man. Being older, I sup- 
pose he considered it his duty to 
settle all the many squabbles which 
invariably followed ariy sort of 
game we began. Johijny, though 
ever-present, seemed t^ hold him- 
self a little aloof from us. His 
interests were always broader than 
that of the other two boys; he al- 
ways knew just a bit more than 
they; and Johnny must have real- 
ized what we had, the four of us, 
while we, the ignorant three, only 
took each other for granted. One 
of Johnny's main interests was 
guns; consequently he was very 
adept at imitating, by means of 
vocal chords and pantomime, the 
various sounds and reactions on 
both the "shooter" and the "shot" 
of the gun, as he called them. 
Many's a quite afternoon that was 
disturbed by sounds that were 
enough to cause the other neigh- 


bors to think that surely the Ges- 
tapo itself had descended en masse 
upon our block. Johnny wore 
glasses which accentuated the size 
of his brown eyes, because the 
lenses, of necessity, were quite pow- 
erful. However, they were not 
quite powerful enough to keep 
Johnny from going into the Army 
first — before the other two even 
reached their eighteenth birthdays. 

Now Johnny was spending his 
second Christmas in Alaska, I was 
home from my second year at col- 
lege, Jay was home on his last leave 
before shoving off, and Harry was 
. . . well, we didn't know where he 
was, but we did know how he was. 
Fine. Because wherever Harry 
went, he would be fine. His mother 
had expected him home for a few 
days during the holidays, but the 
Navy had had different plans. So 
that left Jay and me. 

I didn't know whether or not 
we were going to the McPherrins 
together. I had seen him only 
once while he was at home, and 
this was his last night; but he came 
over about five-thirty, to tell me 
about his New Year's resolutions, 
he said. I never heard the resolu- 
tions, but I felt them. Mother and 
Dad came into the living room with 
us, lit the Christmas tree, and, with- 
out being asked, Jay took out his 
cigarette lighter and did the same 
to the red candles on the piano and 
mantle. Then we turned out the 

electric lights. It was lovely. I 
have been proud of our living room 
at Christmas time always, but last 
night it seemed to be outdoing it- 
self for Jay. The fire-light had a 
rendezvous with the candlelight on 
the ceiling and their union pro- 
duced that soft warm glow that 
seems only to prefer to show it- 
self on a Christmas twilight. The 
blood flowed into our faces, aided 
by Dad's special egg-nog, and all 
eyes seemed to glow along with our 
cigarettes, making that interlude of 
friendship an even more shining 
jewel than it already was. The 
conversation was about all the fa- 
miliar things: Jay's new watch, our 
Christmas presents, Harry's ratiing. 
Jay's desire to be in the hospital 
corps, in order that later the train- 
ing might help him in medical 
school. I remembered that even at 
the age of ten, he had wanted to 
go to Yale and be a doctor. Not 
until Jay's father came after him 
... he had to make some good-bye 
calls . . . did Mother inquire about 
his cousin who had been reported 
missing in action the day Jay had 
arrived home. 

Jay came back at seven to walk 
with me to the McPherrins'. The 
operator had called Mrs. McPher- 
rin and told her that the call was 
scheduled for seven-ten that eve- 
ning. We had just finished dinner 
and were sitting at the table talk- 
ing, family-style, when Jay came. 

MARCH, 1945 

Mother previously had asked him 
to stay to dinner, so she called, 
"Come on in, Jay, and see what 
you missed." 

He went into the dining-room. 
"My," he replied, "isn't that beau- 

I glanced up at him and saw that 
he wasn't looking at the turkey, 
but at the candles' reflection in the 
mirror. During this, his last time 
there, Jay had learned the meaning 
of home. 

We left for McPherrins and 
though it took us only about three 
minutes to cover the half block, I 
began to find out what Johnny 
knew, through Jay. 

I began the conversation, since 
he seemed very quiet, unlike him- 
self. "I hope the call comes 
through in time. You should be 
home, since this is your last night to 
be with your family." 

"Uh, huh." 

"What'll we say to him? Hon- 
estly, it's going to be kind of hard. 
We haven't seen him for so long." 

"I don't know. We'll think of 
something. He just wants to hear 

our voices 

'But why ours? That's the part 
I don't understand!" I said almost 

"That's the most understanda- 
ble part to me. It should be to 
you, too. We all grew up together. 
We're the familiar. Don't you re- 
member all the times . . . ?" 

"Yes, I remember all the times, 
but we were always so nasty to each 
other. We never really got along 
very well." 

"Not always, no. But recall that 
we always stuck together if any- 
thing happened. Remember the day 
we'd been teasing you about your 
first permanent, and that fella' from 
Sixty-second Street came by on his 
bicycle and chimed in, too? We 
told him he was crazy, and that ' 
your hair looked darned good to 
us." I I 

I was beginning to feet ashamed 
for not understanding in the first 
place, so I merely nodded; and rang 
the McPherrins' doorbell.^ 

Then the wait began. : Johnny's 
aunt and uncle were theee, and one 
of Mrs. McPherrin's friends from 
her college days, to whom Johnny 
also wished to speak. At first we 
were quite gay, with Mrs. McPher- 
rin telling Jay that his duty was 
to step on the tail of Tux, the cat, 
at the correct moment, since Johnny 
had also asked that he hear Tux 
yowl. Seven-ten came and went 
as did eight-ten and nine-ten. I 
could see Jay growing restless. He 
wanted to talk to Johnny to hear 
Johnny's voice, to help Johnny, but 
he also wanted to be with his family 
on this, his last night at home. At 
nine-thirty the phone rang. As one, 
we all leaned forward in our chairs, 
Mr. McPherrin's eyes grew bright, 
and Mrs. McPherrin rose from the 


couch and walked almost mechani- 
cally into the dining-room and 
picked up the receiver. 

It was Jay's mother. They had 
held dinner for him ... his favor- 
ite: steak and French-fried pota- 
toes. So he had to leave. He left 
with a hope that he might return, 
but somehow we all knew that the 
call wasn't going to come through. 
We all knew, except Mrs. McPher- 
rin, and if she knew, she didn't be- 
lieve. I realized when Jay kissed 
Mrs. McPherrin good-bye and 
walked out into the snow, which 
fell with an almost beneficient gen- 
tleness on his blue pea jacket and 
on the gayly wrapped Christmas 
present which Mrs. McPherrin had 
given him and which he had tucked 
under his arm, that I wouldn't see 
him again before he left. That was 
when I came into full knowledge of 
what Johnny and Jay had known 
all along: that we were friends: that 
each one of us to the others em- 
bodied all that home and friend- 
ship and love meant: bicycle rides, 
trees especially good for climbing, 
roller skates, rings like the one Jay 
gave me when we were in seventh 
grade, cold cokes and chocolate 
cookies, the street light on our cor- 
ner which, when we were old enough 
to date, the boys hated so much, 
high school football games, whist- 
ling at the corner in the morning so 
we could all start to school together, 
trudging home through autumn 

leaves, winter snow, and spring 
rain, and all the time their laughing 
or not speaking to each other. I 
finally knew why Johnny wanted 
just to hear our voices, and sud- 
denly I wanted to hear his. I had 
an insane desire to rush out into 
the snow after Jay and call, "Come 
back! Wait a little while longer. 
He'll call, and we can pretend that 
Harry's here. Oh, please, Jay, 
come back, and we'll all be to- 
gether again for a little while!" 

That thought made me remember 
that a year ago that very night, 
Harry had been home on leave. 
He and Jay and I (Jay was still 
in school, then) , had gone to a 
party and at midnight we were sit- 
ting eating a hamburger in dne of 
our favorite coffee shops dowpitown, 
when we conceived the idea of 
thinking of Johnny at the same 
time. We thought that perhaps he 
could feel it, and think of us, too, 
and it would be as if he were with 
us. It had been Harry's idea, so 
now I realized that Harry had 
known, too. They all had known, 
except me, and now that I knew, 
it was too late, for I was the only 
one left. 

Perhaps it wasn't too late, though. 
What was it Jay had said when 
he left? "I'll leave you as Harry's 
and my representative. Do us jus- 
tice." Their representative! I felt 
as proud as I had the day so many 
years ago, when they had let me 

MARCH, 1945 

help them sail their boats in a toy 
sailboat race at the little pond up 
on Ward Parkway. 

So I remained: the fourth mus- 
keteer. While I stayed and waited 
I talked to Mrs. McPherrin and 
told her about all the things we 
used to do together. It grew late 
and I grew more certain that the 
call wouldn't come. The uncle 
and aunt left and Mr. McPherrin 
went to bed. They knew, too. 

At midnight we reached the over- 
seas operator. She told us that the 
call had been cancelled from the 
other end. There were no tears, 
because, somehow, we all had talked 

to Johnny. Mrs. McPherrin, Jay, 
Harry, and I. Jay had lost two 
precious hours with his parents, I 
had lost five hours in which I could 
have been writing an essay for my 
English composition teacher, but we 
had served, for we had talked to 
Johnny, and I had discovered that, 
in the words of George Du Marier, 
though "I have not talent for mak- 
ing new friends, but oh! such a 
genius for fidelity to old ones!" I 
had discovered that those three 
boys weren't just childish playmates, 
just people I once knew, when I 
was very young, but they were old 
friends. And what could be more 
important? | 

Snow Fantasy 

College '45 

The angels moulted late last night. 

Their feathers on the ground 

Are airy feathers, light and soft 

That blanket sleepy towns. 

They stop to shake their pure white wings 

And watch the fluffy down 

Drift lazily and dreamily 

To earth without a sound. 

The angels moult, then cry to see 

Their feathers on the ground. 

And make the coats of crystal ice 

That on brown trees are found. 


A True Fish Story 

College '46 

When I came back from bowl- 
ing, I walked down the hall in the 
dorm, and casually glanced into all 
the rooms, greeting the occupants. 
I walked on down the hall and 
heard sounds of sobbing and wail- 
ing coming from one particular 
room. I wondered what terrible 
tragedy had befallen my friends. 
There was not the sound of one 
person crying but of three or four. 
As I paused in front of the closed 
door, I saw there a sign printed 
with huge black letters which read: 




To the right of the door was an 
enormous spray of dandelions which 
was tied with gorgeous green ribbon. 

Reverently opening the door, I 
entered slowly and with downcast 
eyes. As I approached the bereaved 
group of girls, the foster-mother, 

whose name was 


eresa, saw me. 

She gave a little sob, ran to me and 
put her arms around me. Then she 
asked me if I didn't want to come 
and have one last look at . poor 
Popeye. t 

She took me to the place |where 
the girls were gathered, and there 
on a raised platform on the study 
table, was poor little Popeye, the 
dead gold-fish, lying in state. On 
the right of the bier was the glass 
fish bowl containing Popeye's wife 
and his three little sons swimming 
blithely around. Of course, they 
couldn't be persuaded to stop swim- 
ming, but in order to give a solemn 
note to the occasion, a wide strip of 
black velvet ribbon was tied around 
the bowl. 

I extended my sympathy to the 
bereaved foster-mother. She was 
so pitiful. She blamed herself for 

MARCH, 1945 

not taking better care of poor Pop- 
eye, and made a vow that he would 
have the most elaborate funeral any 
gold-fish ever had, immediately 
after dinner. 

As I left the dimly lit sanctuary, 
the stillness was broken only by an 
occasional sob. I went to my room, 
where my roommate told me that 
everyone invited to the funeral was 
supposed to wear black. She also 
provided a beautiful wreath for 
me which was to be taken to Pop- 
eye's room by the porter. 

After dinner we went to the 
room where Popeye lay in state and 
Theresa awaited us. 

We all stood around while she 
raised up the fish bowl so that Pop- 
eye's wife and children could have 
one last look at their beloved hus- 
band and father. We could see the 
tears that flowed like white wine 
into the fish bowl, 

Theresa produced a velvet cush- 
ion to which were attached eight 
streamers of black ribbon, and on 
it was placed Popeye. All the 
guests filed around to look at Pop- 
eye for the last time. To think 
that no longer would he look at us 

with those soulful, bulging eyes! 
no longer flirt with us by flipping 
his beautiful tail! Ah . . . life was 

Theresa now covered the cushion 
with a small flag symbolic of death 
at sea, and we proceeded to the 
bathroom at the end of the hall. 
From the sitting room came sounds 
of a mournful dirge that filled our 
hearts with sadness. We walked 
down the hall being very solemn as 
the occasion demandecl. It was 
rather difficult, because the stream- 
ers were so short we stepped on the 
heel of the pallbearer 'in front of 
us. But finally we came to the 
place where Popeye weuld leave us 
forever, and there the procession 
came to a halt. From our midst 
was heard a solemn prayer for all 
dead fishes read by Theresa's room- 
mate. Holding the cushion in one 
hand, she gently pushed Popeye 
down into the bowl of the water- 
closet, where he was flushed to his 
watery grave. It can certainly be 
said that Popeye had a most pa- 
triotic funeral, as was fitting to 
such a swimmer and sailor of the 



We Are at War 

By JVan«*y Mlaitingistvorih 

Preparatory School Senior 

I am a Belgian. 

We are at war. 

Songs and stories 

Are written on 

The horrors of war. 

In Belgium we are 

Acquainted with them. 

To travel 

We walk ... if we have feet. 

We walk in wooden shoes, 

Or barefooted. 

We eat once a day. 

We eat black bread 

And cabbage soup. 

We live in piles of rubble. 

We wonder 

What has become of loved ones. 

We work for the Boche. 

We are at war. 

I am an American soldier. 

I am at war. 

Songs and stories 

Are written on 

The horrors of war. 

I live them. 

I crawl on my belly 

MARCH, 1945 II 

Through slimy mud. 

I eat "K" rations 

And drink muddy water 

Sterilized with chlorine tablets. 

I live in a foxhole. 

I dream of home. 

I receive fifty dollars a month 

To die for my country's 

Forgotten ideals. 

I am at war. 

I am an American. 

We are at war. i 

Songs and stories j 

Are written on j 

The horrors of war. ; 

We know them ... ; 

Through two-inch newspaper headlines. i 

We sacrifice. / 

We drive on thin tires. 

We walk in two pairs of shoes 

In a year. 

We eat meat only once a day. 

We eat oleomargarine 

Instead of butter. 

We buy War Bonds. 

We yearn for our loved ones 

In foreign lands. 

We slave in war plants 

For one hundred dollars a week. 

We are at war. 

12 T H E C H I M E 

A Parable of Gateways 

By Jfvۤneitc Stnith 

Preparatory School Senior 

The morning had been a trying 
one. From an extremely early hour 
I had been vainly endeavoring to 
work but without success, until at 
at last I flung my pen across the 
room in despair and fell to read- 
ing a stray book which must have 
happened upon my desk by chance. 
It was a mysterious romance of 
times past, and I realized from the 
strange manner in which the char- 
acters of print were formed that 
the volume itself was ancient. The 
plot was intricate and the print 
tedious, and so it was that I must 
have fallen asleep and started 
dreaming, for suddenly strange 
things began happening. A voice 
addressed me from somewhere in 
the room, but I could not discover 
the speaker. Whose voice was it? 
I knew I had heard it a thousand 
times but where I could not say. 
The tones were those of a very old 
person, dry and cracked, and every- 
thing was said in a monotonous, 
whining verse with a completely ir- 
relevant refrain at intervals. The 
refrain, which had the same meter 
as the whole, was as follows as 
nearly as I can remember: 

"Death, my friend, is universal, 
Sleep is but its dress rehearsal 

Beset by eerie dreams. 
Shapes from out the shadowed 

Marching on in countless legions 

In dark enshrouded streams." 


The musical, nonsensical quality of 
all that the voice said almost mad- 
dened me. Fame, fame, fame, that 
word seemed to be repeated in 
every line of the verse. What did 
it all mean, and who, who wats it? 
I racked my brain for the aiiswer 
to this last question, but it eluded 

Suddenly I was surrounded by a 
multitude of voices, and they were 
all the same voice that had ad- 
dressed me before. They seemed to 
issue from millions of pieces of pa- 
per and inkwells and pens that 
danced crazily about before my 
dazed view screaming, "Fame, all 
you are seeking is fame!" I awoke 
at this point completely worn out 
and very much troubled. That 
voice in my dream, where had I 
heard it before? I saw clearly that 
I was going to work no more that 
day so I decided to take a walk 

MARCH, 1945 


through the hills surrounding my 
home to clear my mind and shake 
off the fit of unutterable depression 
which had settled upon me. 

My sleep must have lasted for 
some time, for the day had advanced 
to late afternoon, and a thin cur- 
tain of gray clouds had fallen be- 
tween the sun and the earth. As 
I walked, I tried to straighten out 
the events of the day in my mind. 
I fell asleep while reading and had 
a strange nightmare, a trivial inci- 
dent, true, but was that all there 
was to it? First, that book I had 
been reading, it was certainly not a 
part of my own library, and I had 
no knowledge of having borrowed 
it from anyone; yet, it was surely 
an old and probably valuable piece 
judging from the peculiar printing 
and the style of writing . . . one mys- 
tery which seemed insoluble. Then 
there was the voice of my dream, 
so very familiar and still beyond my 
mental grasp. Who had a voice 
like that? The answer was lurking 
in the back of my mind, but try as 
I would, I could not bring it forth. 
Scraps of what this elusive voice 
had said were whirling about in my 
brain, and I found my feet practi- 
cally keeping time to the rhythmic 
lines. I particularly found myself 
repeating, "Death, my friend, is 
universal. Sleep is but its dress re- 
hearsal." I quickened my steps to 
break the rhythm but to no avail; 

the lines seemed to adjust them- 
selves to my pace. 

It struck me suddenly that I 
had been virtually running, and I 
did not know from which direc- 
tion I had come. I stopped and 
looking about me discovered to my 
amazement that I was on utterly un- 
familiar ground. I knew that I 
must have traveled a long way, for 
I know every inch of ground for 
some distance from my home. The 
realization that I had no inkling of 
which way to turn came as a most 
unpleasant shock, for the ^ sun was 
drooping alarmingly clos^l to the 
horizon, and a thick fog was quickly 
blotting out the countryside. I 
paused and gazed about /me in a 
complete quandary and with grow- 
ing uneasiness. Then |[ became 
aware of voices not too far distant, 
and I started toward them with 
untold relief. But what had hap- 
pened to the landscape? Surely 
even the fog could not change so 
much; the country through which I 
was now passing was unlike any- 
thing I had ever seen in my life. 
I was surrounded by a forest of 
weird shapes in giant proportions 
only dimly visible through the mist 
and deepening twilight. I pre- 
sumed them to be boulders, but I 
could not be certain. 

I realized with relief that I was 
following a well worn path, and 
that the voices were coming closer. 
As I drew nearer to the commotion, 




I became less certain that i was 
approaching a haven for the night, 
for the shouts were furious in tone, 
and I judged that there was a 
quarrel or battle of sorts in prog- 
ress. I could not wander about all 
night, however, for the dusk was 
growing thicker with undeniable 
promise of rain, so I hastened to- 
ward the guiding sound. 

The trail looped and wound and 
retraced, but in general I think it 
was leading uphill, though I could 
not be certain since by now I had 
lost all sense of time and direction 
and stumbled blindly along in near 
darkness in the general direction of 
the voices. Just as I was about to 
lose hope of ever reaching the 
source of the sound, I rounded a 
sharp curve and came suddenly 
upon a scene unlike anything I had 
ever observed. For a second I had 
that odd feeling that it was some- 
thing that I had witnessed before 
at some forgotten moment, but the 
sensation was a fleeting one, and I 
fell to studying what now spread 
before me. I was standing on a 
piece of ground slightly elevated 
above the general plane; this put 
me in an excellent position to view 
the scene as a whole. A strange 
light seemed to hang like a mist, 
with no certain origin, bathing the 
whole in a dull reddish glow. The 
action or commotion was centered 
about a heavy wall which rose with 
impregnable grandeur at the op- 

posite end of the roughly rectangu- 
lar clearing from my vantage point. 
A motley group of people ranging 
from early youth to doddering age 
were gathered about the wall, but 
no one seemed to take note of my 
presence, so I stood watching in 
undisguised wonder. Some were 
kicking at or hurling themselves 
against various gates in the wall 
and cursing and emitting shouts of 
impotent rage. These sounds were 
what had led me through the dark- 
ness to the spot. The remaining 
members of the group were seated 
m various positions of utter de- 
jection and defeat watching , the 
futile efforts of their companions 
with languid half interest. I , had 
never seen any figures so deaalate 
and despairing. / 

I noticed that words of varying 
lengths were carved in ornate char- 
acters above each gateway, but I 
could not make them out in the 
hazy half-light. One gate at my 
extreme right was standing slightly 
ajar, but it was smaller and simpler 
than the others having the propor- 
tions and appearance of an ordi- 
nary door. Even the lettering above 
this opening was simple and clear, 
clear enough for me to read the 
inscription, PEACE. At the time, 
I saw no cause to puzzle at this 
word as an odd title for a doorway. 

My attention was drawn back to 
the actors on this scene by a sudden 
silence which came as a sharp con- 

MARCH. 1945 


trast to their former shouts and 
profanity. Several of the huskier 
members of the group had joined 
together for an assault on one of 
the two largest gates while everyone 
else stood by to watch. "What 
fools they are," I thought, ''to 
waste their energies and break their 
bodies against such a seemingly im- 
passable barrier when the small gate 
to the right is standing open invit- 
ing them." Then began a methodi- 
cal process to crash through the 
gate. The men fell back, charged 
forward, flung themselves against 
the door and fell back again. While 
this procedure was being repeated 
innumerable times, I drew nearer 
to make a closer study of the par- 
ticipants in the siege. One figure 
particularly caught my interest, for 
he seemed so very familiar to me. 
Who was it, though? The same 
sensation that I had had on hearing 
the voice in my dream returned, a 
thing so very familiar and yet its 
identity was just beyond my grasp. 
The figure was a powerful one, 
though very old and noticably tired 
from his vigorous activity. From 
my closer range I found it possible 
to decipher the characters, FAME, 
above the entrance in question. 

As I was about to approach and 
make my presence known, a loud 
splintering sound rent the air and 
a murmur arose from the crowd. 
To my amazement I saw that the 
seemingly immobile gate had shat- 

tered, and a single member of the 
party had fallen through the open- 
ing. All his companions stood 
around as if they were blocked by 
invisible bars from taking the fruits 
of their conquest. Why did they 
not help their companion who lay 
so motionless before them? He 
seemed sadly in want of attention. 
At last I could bear it no longer, 
so I started forward to administer 
what aid my small knowledge would 
allow. The milling crowd, which 
had by now turned its attention to 
other matters, took no more :notice 
of me than of the air about them; 
therefore I passed through the 
open gate unhindered, and knelt 
beside the prostrate figure, t noted 
with surprise that the form» before 
me was the same one whichfhad at- 
tracted my attention before . . , 
the familiar figure among the be- 
siegers of the gate. As I reached 
his side, he opened his eyes and 
murmured, "Death, my freind, is 
universal." That voice of my dream 
repeating its own words! I realized 
that the voice and the person be- 
fore me belonged together, but who 
could it be? I tried in vain to 
arouse him again, but all sign of a 
pulse was gone, and I realized that 
the character before me had died 
without disclosing his identity. 

I looked about for some form of 
help, and I saw that I was sur- 
rounded by numerous people sitting 
(Continued on Page 26) 



On Rdtionitt^ 

By 3§ittnio Cartt»r Mi€Miit*y 

College '45 

In the millions of years since the 
world's formation, it has passed 
through a series of so-called ''Ages." 
There has been the Ice Age, and 
there has been the Iron Age; geol- 
ogists, with a wise air, say that such 
and such rock strata was formed 
during such and such Age. It is 
my opinion that the world has en- 
tered an Age more terrifying than 
any before. This Age is undoubt- 
edly going to result in the gradual 
breakdown of men's minds, and 
thus lead to the gradual decay of 
the basic foundations of civiliza- 
tion. This is the Age of Ration- 

In the United States the first 
contact with "points" came with the 
issuance of Ration Book I. Few, 
if any, men realized as they viewed 
the rows of numbered stamps that 
therein lay the key to their destruc- 
tion. Not with the brutal instru- 
ments of war, but by a subtle un- 
dermining of his sanity was man to 
be destroyed. 

Vanished forever from the din- 
ing tables of the country were the 
cheerful little china sugar bowls 
and the graceful silver sugar shells. 
The housewives, with a wary look 
in their eyes, a newly acquired look, 

would take the sugar from its hid- 
ing place at mealtimes and nervous- 
ly watch the grains vanish into ob- 
livion in the bottoms of coifee cups. 
Thus, the housewife developed a 
strange side to her usually gen- 
erous nature. This was a more or 
less squirrel-like instinct to hoard 
. . . not nuts, but sugar. The man 
of the house was virtually unaffect- 
ed by rationing until a new .step 
was taken by the rationing bojards. 
One night men nodded before 
their fireplaces, after a dinners that 
had been very satisfying not to 
have had a dessert winding it up, 
with visions of spending the next 
afternoon chasing little white balls 
around a golf course ten miles out 
on the highway floating through 
their minds. The next morning 
they awoke to the harsh headlines 
announcing tire rationing. His golf 
game out of the question with tires 
worn as smooth as his were, man as 
a whole resorted to the pleasures 
of a nearby bowling alley. The 
owners of golf courses tore their 
hair and mumbled wild things about 
sabotage. They went out and 
kicked jagged holes in their beloved 
turf and wondered where they could 
get a job. 

MARCH, 1945 


Soon the owners of bowling al- 
leys met a like fate, when head- 
lines again destroyed man's peace 
with the news of gas rationing. 
Even if the bowling alley was 
nearer than the golf course, it was 
still too far away when one had 
only three gallons of gas a week. 
Men's minds became a jumble of 
A and B cards and hastily pushed 
aside thoughts of black markets. 

Did I say a "jumble"? Well, 
women's minds were in a worse 
state than that as red and blue 
stamps were issued. Sane women 
lost all control of their senses when 
the grocery boy demanded red cou- 
pons by the score, and they prompt- 
ly counted out the required num- 
ber, only to find they were blue. 
Normally well-balanced housewives 
drew dangerously near the border- 
line separating sanity from insanity 
when they spent hours figuring up 
"points" to be sure they had the 
right number for the day's shop- 
ping, only to arrive at the grocer's 
after a brisk walk of several blocks, 
without the blank-blank books. 

Children's lives were not to be 
untouched as the wave of rationing 
swept the universe. Little faces 
wistfully peeped out of windows at 

the deserted back yards. Mother 
said playing wore shoes out too 
quickly, and the next stamp wasn't 
good until some time in the far dis- 
tant future. The younger genera- 
tion thus felt the pinch of ration- 
ing, and their minds were already 
weakened, at that early stage, by 
the thoughts of points. Their 
bodies were likewise weakened as 
meat vanished from the table, and 
bewildered women hung round the 
meat counters, with despairing; eyes 
focused on the harassed butchers. 
This state of affairs has gradual- 
ly become worse; additional books, 
through Book IV with its orninous 
rows of stamps, have apjieared. 
Blue tokens were issued, and then 
cancelled, but a climax of some kind 
came at twelve o'clock Christmas 
night. After having advised the 
poor housewives to buy slowly and 
not use all their points as they came 
in, the mad little men of the OPA 
gleefully cancelled those points that 
had been saved. How long men's 
minds can stand the strain is a 
matter of conjecture. Scientists are 
puzzling over the problem now. As 
my mind, in its unbalanced state, 
needs rest, I will end my discourse. 
By the way, have you a few extra 
brown . . . no, I mean red stamps? 



Or So She Thinks 

College '45 

"Paging Mrs. Nolan, Mrs. Fred- 
rick Nolan." 

"Mrs. Nolan?" 

"No, no, I'm not Mrs. Nolan. 
Mrs. Nolan is a tall . . ." 

"Excuse me, m'am, but I must 
find Mrs. Nolan. The message 
is urgent." 

The bellboy was gone. Everyone 
seemed in a special hurry. Ordi- 
narily things moved with a little 
more composure in the lobby, but 
today every revolution of the glass 
door seemed to sweep in some of 
the confusion and scurry with which 
traffic moved outside. It was the 
crisp November air, Mattie de- 
cided, that filled the city with this 

"Now, may I do something for 
you, m'am?" The bellboy had re- 
turned, eager to be of service. He 
was off duty in another fifteen min- 
utes, and a dolar more in tips would 
mean that he and Janie could go to 
the big dance at Fairyland tonight 
where Tommy Dorsey was playing. 
He could just hear her over the 
phone when he told her! Janie got 
excited over even the little things. 
This would really send her. She 

was the cutest girl in his high school, 
and he took eighteen-year-old male 
pride in showing her the important 
things in their world. 

"I didn't want anything for my- 
self. I was going to tell you that 
Mrs. Nolan is a tall, black-haired 
lady in a grey coat and hat." Mat- 
tie was displaying naivete in her ef- 
fort to be helpful. 

The boy eyed her curiously. 
Where was this character sketch 
getting him? Here was only; a 
loquacious old woman who wasn't 
going to demand any service from 
him except his time, and he cer- 
tainly wouldn't get tipped for that. 

"Thanks, lady, but I found her." 
He hurried away, making it obvi- 
ous he didn't wish to be detained 
by further conversation. 

Taking his position in front of 
the desk, he thought about her. 
The woman didn't make sense, but 
a man was registering. He looked 
like the seventy-five-cent type. 
There wasn't time to think about 
an old woman . . . Tommy Dorsey 
was here, and he was still a dollar 

Mattie saw the man, too, but she 
didn't find time to pay close at- 

MARCH, 1945 


tention. Mrs. Nolan had just come hotel lobby and make believe she 

in from the cocktail lounge. This knew those who passed her. 

striking women had been Mattie's The man who was registering 

favorite all week. She sighed. Of when Mrs. Nolan came in stepped 

all the people she had observed re- o^t of the elevator. He was en- 

-1 ^L- 1 J ^U i^.,^l;^o^ gaged in serious conversation, tell- 

centiy, this lady was the lovenest. . ° , ■ i i ■ i • 

TT 1 XT VT 1 T 1 • ing the man with him something 

Had Mrs. Nolan only known it ,^ „ , , ^ 

, , , . , 1-1 about alloys and the government 

she had been paid a very high com- ^^^^^^g ^^^ g^y q^^,^_ Mattie 

phment according to Mattie's stand- thought they both looked bored . . . 
ards. The old woman had watched anxious to complete their business 
people for years, greedily gathering in the city and return to their 
up a few crumbs of happiness they homes. They joined a large group 
unconsciously scattered by moving that had congregated in aifi ante- 
in front of her. room not far from Mattiefs seat. 
Mattie existed meagerly. She The smoke from their cigars cir- 
had never married because the boys cled around her head. Duriijig these 
down in the south end couldn't give many years, she had learne^ to de- 
her what she had wanted. She'd tect an expensive aroma. This must 
been known as "Old man Fisher's be the lawyer's convention fhat was 
daughter, with the high ideas." scheduled on the hotel bulletin. 
Mattie hadn't been daunted, though Presently Mattie turned in her 
it had finally occurred to her that chair. The man was staring ab- 
she must accept for her own what stractedly in front of him while 
life and fate gave her. There had listening to his companion discuss 
been the son of the butcher at the a case that had held him in a 
district market, but she really wasn't county court for six months. His 
interested, and had gone on stitch- mind kept wandering back to the 
ing meticulously for people like youthful freshness of his lovely 
Mrs. Young and her children, only nineteen-year-old daughter, and how 
now all the children had grown up she had looked last night when she 
and were having children. To many came into his study to tell him she 
such an existence would have been was in love. The picture was 
wearying and endless but not to stamped firmly in his mind. What 
Mattie. She had given strange a child she seemed sitting there in 
vent to her desire to be a fine lady, jeans and a plaid shirt, her arms 
She could at least watch those who hugging her knees. A child . . . 
lived off the fat of the land. It and yet she was asking his per- 
stimulated her to sit quietly in a mission to take the adult problem 


of marriage upon her thin shoulders. 
Her hair was the identical shade 
her mother's had been twenty-three 
years ago. He missed Emily so. 
She hadn't lived to see her own 
delicate beauty repeated in their 
child. But what was Fred saying 
. . . something about a surprise 
witness from Baltimore appearing 
and swinging the case? He really 
didn't care; he was tired. 

How tall and distinguished he 
looked in well-cut English tweeds. 
His face was heavily lined and his 
eyes, deep set. Something, perhaps 
a look of discontent on his face 
aroused a pity in Mattie. Why 
did a man who apparently had the 
best of this world's goods show 
such definite unhappiness? She 
She felt an inward urge to console 
him in some way. Tired, worn 
hands wanted to smooth out the 
wrinkles in his forehead and bring 
a look of peace and satisfaction to 
those eyes. While watching him 
an old tune kept running through 
her mind. She began to hum it, 
and the man cast a preoccupied 
look her way. The refrain had 
caught his attention! What . . .? 
Fred wanted a drink. Fred would 
... he drank too much. Mattie's 
eyes followed them across the lobby. 

The late afternoon lull fell upon 
the lobby. Mattie looked at the 
dignified old grandfather's clock 
across from her. It was five-thirty. 
She must go. Regretfully she got 

up. If Mrs. Hemingway's dress 
didn't have to be finished perhaps 
she could come back tomorrow aft- 

Back in the unattractive, dull 
rooms Mattie couldn't see the law- 
yer's face when he received the news 
that his daughter had been thrown 
from her horse and killed that after- 
noon. Could she have understood 
the despair that filled the heart of 
a man who felt that he had been 
handed the world's worst rather 
than its best? That knowledge 
severed the last tie that had kept 
him from hating his useless exist- 
ence. His mind and soul had been 
weary for some time. Life was' fu- 
tility in its very essence . . J he 
didn't care. j 

The bellboy didn't understand 
why the man in 927 just sat star- 
ing at the wall and drinking. He 
had taken three bottles and mixers 
up there in the last two hours. Each 
time he watched him sign the check 
the effort seemed almost too great 
for the strong hand. He didn't 
know that a man was trying to 
waste away a life in those few long 
hours. Thoughts stalked like huge 
black beasts through this man's 
mind. Living was only a pretense 
at happiness . . . full of a tortu- 
osity that exhausted you . . . only 
allowing you to reach, never to 
grasp. If you could just hold on, 
sink your fingers deep within . . . 
(Continued cm Page 32) 

MARCH, 1945 


So Youn^ 

By Jeun Borner 

Preparatory School Sophomore 

My brothers were then at the 
ages of six and eight respectively, 
and consequently were into some- 
thing every minute of their dear 
little lives. I honestly do not see 
how Mother lived through it. 

One of the favorite tricks of 
Jimmy, the oldet, was to gather all 
the eggs out of their resting place, 
take them to the back porch, and 
there drop them one by one on the 
concrete floor. (Yes, he is quite all 
right now.) 

You may, therefore, be able to 
understand some of the concern 
Mother felt when she and Daddy 
were forced to take the boys with 
them to place flowers on an ancient 
relative's grave at the cemetery one 
Sunday. The boys had never vis- 
ited a burial ground before, and 
had that anything-can-happen-and- 
probably-will look about them. 

Mother's fears were somewhat re- 
lieved, however, when the two boys, 
like frolicsome, tumbly puppydogs, 
having sniffed the strange air and 
satisfied their curiosity, settled down 
on the comer of a dilapidated tomb- 
stone. Mother should have known 
them better than that. 

Of course, like the true blooded 
boys they were, and the mischiev- 
ous pups they resembled, they be- 
came restless and soon were seek- 
ing a way in which to satiate their 
wants. It would happen that at the 
very moment they were feeling idle 
and in a rather playful mood, they 
should spy a funeral proceeding 
down the road a bit. : Teasing 
Mothec, eventually they persuaded 
her to let them go and watch, since 
Mother had pictures (if i she made 
them stay around their car) of their 
falling into an open grave or tramp- 
ling down the lovely shrubbery 
which ornamented the well-kept 

Daddy and Mother finished 
draping the flowers and watering 
the plants which dotted that par- 
ticular plot, and prepared to leave. 
Now they really should have known 
things could not happen that 

Mother, beginning to feel a lit- 
tle wary, started to search around 
the bushes and even peered into a 
few freshly dug holes expecting the 
boys to be lodged in one playing 
''cops and robbers" or some such 



feat. But, no, it was not to be that 
easy. Fearing the worst, Mother 
proceeded to the spot where they 
had been seen last. This was the 
place where they had been watching 
the funeral across the road. They, 
of course, were not there; but 
Mother saw two little sets of muddy 
footprints tiptoeing across the road. 
(Following them with her eyes) , to 
her horror she saw they led to the 
tent on the opposite side of the 
road. Maybe they were just stand- 
ing on the outside of the canvas, 
(that would have been bad 
enough) ; but, no, down in the very 

front row on the mourner's bench 
sat, yes, Buddy and Jimmy. 

Leaning forward in their seats, 
practically falling into the opening 
which yawned at their feet, and eyes 
wide open, not missing a thing, they 
presented two very ridiculous fig- 
ures in spite of the seriousness of 
the affair. Meanwhile, the people 
who were authentically attending 
the burial were whispering, ''The 
poor little things; so young to have 
this come upon them." And I am 
told those words did not fit the 
situation so badly, when Mother 
got them home that night. ' 

Winter Mystery 

College '45 

The child knelt by the frozen pond, 
To gaze in wonder at the scene 
Of icy whiteness cold and still, 
Where once a flowing lake had been. 

The day before the sun had sent 
Soft rays to cheer this peaceful place; 
And fish's golden bodies shone. 
That swam about with slippery grace. 

The child more closely bent and peered. 
And silently she touched the snow; 
Her breath made patterns when she said: 
"I wonder where the fishes go." 

MARCH, 1945 


Fishing In a Deep Me 

Mitg Pefffftj Fre^wnawu 

College '45 

The sun shone with a dazzhng 
brightness on the still, small pond. 
From where she stood, Nellie saw 
the water as a silver plate with an 
occasional golden gleam on it. The 
day was hot, sticky hot, and beads 
of perspiration stood out on her 
upper lip. Her faded red dress had 
dark wet stripes down the back and 
deep circles under the arms. She 
looked down at her bare feet and 
watched her toes making patterns 
in the deep layer of dust on the 
path. As she looked up, she saw 
one of the pigs belonging to the 
Farner family ambling toward the 
little body of calm silver water, fol- 
lowed closely by another, the two 
finally reaching the pond and set- 
tling gently into its shallow waters. 
The effect of the silver plate van- 
ished immediately, and the water 
returned to its normal brown state. 

A shrill whistle sliced through 
the heavy summer air, coming from 
the left, up the hill, in the first 
sparse group of trees. She pursed 
her lips and replied, beginning to 
walk slowly toward the place from 
whence the sound had come. She 
walked silently, her eyes watching 

each step, her feet moving me- 
chanically upward. 

"Hello, Nellie," said the man, 
setting the two fishing poles and 
rusty tin can on the ground. "Bet- 
ter rest a minute." He smiled, his 
eyes shifting from her fac6 to her 
feet, then back again. "Didn't 
m.uch 'spect you this evenin'." 

"You knowed I'd come ^ffin you 
whistled." She smiled bac^ at his 
eyes. f 

"Come on, Petey. We fcain't set 
around here. Somebody inight see 
you. Enyway, I ain't tired." She 
shouldered one of the poles and 
stepped ahead of him. 

The trees were thicker and it 
was cooler as they began the long 
climb up. Occasionally a bird 
chirruped cheerfully. They walked 
silently, following no real path now, 
judging their direction by certain 
large trees. 

The man's dark eyes left the 
ground to look at the girl. 

"You ain't heard enything else, 

"Nope. Thing's pretty quiet 
now, 'bout you enyways." She 
turned to meet his eyes, looking at 



his coarse, straight hair, his heavy 
brows, his full, sensual mouth. 

"She died yesterday. The baby 
never breathed." 

"She . . . died?" His features 
stiffened for a moment, then re- 
gained their passive expression. He 
swallowed convulsively, looking 
straight ahead. 

"I shoulda married her," he said. 
"She wasn't nothin' but a little dim- 
wit, but I shoulda married her. She 
woulda at least had a husband." 

"Don't talk about it. Wanta set 
here?" She indicated a level spot 
on the shore of the lake. The 
water shimmered under the hot rays 
of the sun and made little slop, 
slop noises against the gray stones 
and slippery wet earth. All was 
still, except for the continual drone 
of insects which only emphasized 
the quiet. The couple sat down, 
baited the lines, and stuck the poles 
into the unresisting ground. The 
tall pine trees across the lake 
seemed to touch the blue of the sky, 
and their stiff straight shapes made 
fantastically caricatured outlines. 

The girl looked over at the strong 
brown hands with which the man 
hugged his kneecap. The blue 
veins twisted along them like ser- 
pents, rippled and writhed as he 
tensed and relaxed his hands. 

"We could go away from here, 
Pete," she said. "You and me 
could go over to Barstow, and no- 

body'd ever think of us agin. Why 
don't . . .?" Her voice faded as 
the man remained motionless, gaz- 
ing at the trees. The stillness set- 
tled over them. 

Suddenly there was a jerk on his 
line, and the water began to ripple 
and make miniature waves. He 
moved with alacrity, gathering in 
the string line with practiced sure- 
ness. The sun glistened on the 
plump body of a red-eye, which he 
grasped easily in his hand. In a 
moment he had the fish fastened 
to a short stick, ready to carry 
back. He eased into his place be- 
side Nellie without a word, i 

He didn't look at her or seem 
to feel her eyes fastened on ;him. 
Her mouth opened to speak- but 
she closed it and turned to jeilk her 
line up and down in the water. 
She didn't raise her eyes as she 
spoke again. 

"Pete . . . you said you was goin' 
to take me to Barstow after things 
quieted down. Ever'body's busy 
with buryin' plans and won't be 
thinkin' 'bout us now. Her paw 
put his gun up. They won't ketch 
us. We kin go now." She was 
looking at him. 

"We'uns kin git our own little 
house and have our own babies. 
You won't never have to think of 
her agin. Petey . . . Petey . . .," 
she was calling to the man who 
sat so close to her that he touched 
her, but it was as if he were deaf. 

MARCH, 1945 



He made no move, continuing to 
look over the water, 

Nellie jumped to her feet, pulling 
his hand up with her. The man 
rose slowly, his eyes finally resting 
on her face. She pulled his head 
down gently. 

"Ya gotta come with me. I cain't 
stand livin' this close to you and 
always bein' afeared for you. Git 
away whilst ye kin." 

His features showed the thoughts 
running through his mind. Here 
in the mountains was a moral code 

which demanded that a life be given 
for that taken of an innocent. The 
woman had died. He pulled him- 
self from her and shoved both of 
his hands deep into his pockets. 

"Ya know I cain't. I'm agoin' 
back to 'em. If she'd a lived that 
woulda ben different. . . ." As the 
last words were clipped from his 
lips, he turned from her and began 
to walk back toward the path. 

A heavy fish jerked at the line. 
Nellie leaned over and began to 
pull it in, I 

A Parable 
of Ijiate^ayis 

(Continued from Page 16) 

with their faces buried in their 
hands in despair and defeat. I 
tried to speak to several of them, 
but they remained unheeding ab- 
sorbed in their own secret griefs. 
I returned to the corpse, which I 
had turned face upward, and be- 
gan to examine its features again. 
Whose was this face so familiar to 
me? Suddenly a chill of terror 
swept me, freezing my very heart. 
I leaped to my feet and stared 
down aghast into the still, lifeless 
features of ... of my own face! 
The truth was now beyond all 
doubt; it had been my own voice 
that had spoken in my dreams, and 
my own self that had battered 

through the door of FAME. It 
was I, under a disguise of age, who' 
lay there so still and lifeless. Who( 
then was this creature staring dow|i 
on me and thinking with my owli 
mind? I knew that I, or at least 
one of me, must escape or lose the 
reason left me. I turned toward 
the wall, but the gate had vanished 
and a smooth, blank surface rose 
before me. At first I pounded upon 
the barrier and screamed for help, 
but my efforts were useless and my 
cries were lost on the deaf ears of 
my companions. Then slowly came 
the realization that I had wilfully 
lured myself into a trap . . . that 
I had forever shut myself off from 
PEACE behind a wall of FAME. 
I turned and staggered to a nearby 
stone like a drunken man to sink 
upon it limply and assume the po- 
sition of my fellow watchers. 



Career Conscious 

College '45 

The Seniors are just now . . . 
perhaps for the first time since 
their arrival at Ward-Behnont . . . 
reahzing that it won't be too long 
until this last year is finished and 
they will no longer be within the 
sheltered walls leading a more-or- 
less cloistered life. 

The world which faces them is 
not exactly a pleasant one, and is 
far diiferent from the future which, 
as children, they had planned for 
and locked forward to. But what 
... if anything . . . does this 
war-torn world have to offer? 

For the majority, it will probably 
be another two years at the college 
or university of our choice; for many 
it will be marriage, and the task 
of turning a house into a home; 
and for still others, it will be the 
opportunity to make their own liv- 
ing, to get a job, to become inde- 
pendent. It is this last with which 
we want to concern ourselves in 
this article . . . the problem of 
choosing the right job: the one that 
will give you the most satisfaction 
and pleasure. 

Perhaps you who are wisely plan- 
ning to continue your college work 
are not faced with the immediate 

problem of looking around at the 
various jobs oifered to women to- 
day: but you, as future business 
girls and ... as we all hope . . . 
business successes, must now begin 
narrowing your interests to a few 
specific occupations so that you will 
be better prepared to choose land 
concentrate on the subjects which 
will be of most benefit in your later 
occupations. . 

Looking at this picture of wom- 
en's place in the post-war busjiiness 
world, we discover that not only 
will the number of positions open 
to women be greater than anytime 
in the past, but many new occupa- 
tions will be introduced after the 
wheels of war turn once again to 
the peaceful production of civilian 
goods. Jobs which now seem dimly 
in the future will suddenly become 
a part of the practical, workaday 
present in which we live. Natural- 
ly, such occupations will offer num- 
erous chances for ready advance- 

And which of the many fields 
offer the best post-war opportunities 
for women? According to the Di- 
rector of the Women's Bureau of 
the United States Department of 

MARCH. 1945 


Labor, the greatest opportunities lie 
in the fields of human welfare and 
community service , . . social work, 
vocational rehabilitation, city plan- 
ning, occupational and physical 
therapy, teaching and medicine . . . 
as well as those in the constructive 
field which include such occupa- 
tions as interior decorating, archi- 
tecture, and landscape gardening. 
Many positions will also be foimd 
in the companies reconverted from 
war production to the manufacture 
of consumer goods needed in the re- 
construction of devastated countries 
and to replenish our own depleted 
supplies of such items as radios, 
washing machines, tractors, and au- 
tomobiles. These companies will 
not only offer jobs along the pro- 
duction lines, but also in the firms' 
business and administrative offices. 
Then there are always the service 
industries with such positions as 
restaurant hostesses, dietitians, and 
department store workers ranging 
from the salesgirls to buyers and 
store executives. 

As for the most promising sec- 
tions of the country in regard to 
the business girl's chance for ad- 
vancement, the War Manpower 
Commission Reports and Analysis 
Service has found the following 
areas will offer the best job possi- 
bilities: San Francisco, Washington, 
Miami, Baltimore, Detroit, St. 
Louis, Buffalo, Syracuse, Cincinnati, 
Columbus, Toledo, Providence, 

Kansas City, Houston, Seattle, and 
Richmond. The Commission's re- 
port is not based on sectional preju- 
dice or favoritism, but at the pres- 
ent time, it looks as if these cities 
could convert back to civilian pro- 
duction most quickly. Surprisingly 
enough, the two cities which have 
always attracted business girls . . . 
New York and Chicago . . . are not 
included in this list. 

Two relatively new industries 
which not only already show vast 
opportunities, but promise even- 
greater possibilities are: radio and 
the airlines. Taking last things 
first, we will concern ourselves with 
air travel and the opportunities fof 
jobs that it offers the modern col- 
lege graduate and future business 

girl. ^ 

There are numerous jobs on the 
ground, such as radio tower opera- 
tors, receptionists, and even me- 
chanics, as well as those jobs which 
you're literally "up in the air about." 
Lately there has been a surprsingly 
large increase in the number of test 
pilots who are women; and of 
course, the air hostess or stewardess 
is a necessary part in the expanding 
airlines industry. 

It has been only recently that the 
air hostess has truly gained the rec- 
ognition which she deserves. For 
over 15 years international air trans- 
port used all-male flight crews, but 
with the draft came the introducton 
of women to replace the plane 



stewards and live up to their estab- 
lished reputation for efficiency and 
tact. In the post-war world . . . 
a world that has become very air- 
minded indeed ... air travel is 
even more promising, and the job 
of being an air hostess more fasci- 
nating and appealing. At first, 
the hostess made short runs only, 
but now she accompanies the plane 
on long, oceanic flights, and the 
future promises many such trips to 
Europe, South America, and even 
the far East. 

On the more exciting interna- 
tional flights, the jobs for which 
the hostess is responsible are many 
and varied, for she combines the 
functions of a steward and the 
purser on an ocean liner. Vital and 
important state papers are in her 
charge, as well as passenger valua- 
bles and precious cargoes. She su- 
pervises the loading of mail and 
cargo before the take-off; handles 
code messages that deal with res- 
ervations; deciphers airway bills and 
government bills of lading, mani- 
fests, and consular invoices. She 
must also be familiar with our own 
customs and immigration service re- 
quirements as well as those of 
foreign countries. 

The hostess knows where the 
various items of regular and emer- 
gency equipment are aboard the 
plane, and how and when to ad- 
minister oxygen. She provides read- 
ing and writing materials, helps 

mothers traveling with children and 
elderly people making their first 
trip by air, serves three meals a 
day as well as light snacks between 
regular meal hours, sees that all 
passengers are aboard with baggage 
and effects, and that all personal 
belongings are delivered to them 
when the trip is finished. She must 
know how to answer any question 
about the plane, the airways, and 
points of interest in route. 

Naturally, a job which entails 
such responsibility also carries with 
it strict qualifications which ,the 
prospective air hostess must meet. 
She must have looks, charm, brains, 
poise, perfect health, and a char- 
acter record free from even a minor 
traffic violation. Different ainlines 
vary greatly as to their specific 
qualifications concerning height, 
weight, and previous experience. 
Most do not require any more than 
that the girl be a graduate nurse, 
but nearly all state that she must 
have two years of college work or 
its equivalent. The local branch of 
a main airlines would be glad to 
offer further information to those 

Before the hostess is given her 
cap and wings and fitted with a 
smartly tailored uniform, she must 
go to a school offered by the air- 
lines for a certain number of weeks 
. . . the length of time varies with 
the airlines . . . and there she is 
taken through every department of 

MARCH, 1945 



the company dealing with the hand- 
ling of freight and passengers. In 
the commissary she is taught how 
to prepare food attractively so that 
it is appetizing to the often air- 
sick passengers. At last, she must 
take a written examination which 
contains more than four hundred 
questions, and go through several 
practice flights. 

Thus, it can readily be seen that 
exciting and daring as the job of 
air hostess is . . . and it promises to 
be even more so . . . the girl who 
acts as stewardess has really earned 
those wings, and her job includes 
much mote than simply "handing 
out refreshments and smiles." 

In the world of radio, television 
is the big name . . . and one which 
offers numerous possibilities. Fu- 
ture circulation of television re- 
ceivers has been estimated as around 
30,000,000 within a decade; and 
already last fall, over eighty sta- 
tions had applications pending be- 
fore the Federal Communications 
Commission for new receiving and 
transmitting equipment. 

Television isn't just part of a 
hazy future, either. Right now there 
is a network relay service in opera- 
tion between the Philco Corporation 
in Philadelphia and the National 
Broadcasting Company in New 
York which carries programs to the 
General Electric Company in Sche- 
nectady. There are nine active tele- 
vision stations scattered over the 

United States and located in New 
York, Philadelphia, Schenectady, 
Chicago, and Fiollywood, and thea- 
ter television is also expected within 
a year or so after peace. Here 
the pictures will be projected on 
large 15 by 20 foot screens where 
major sports events, parades, and 
similar celebrations will be shown. 

It is rightly assumed that an in- 
dustry which shows such promise 
and vastness will naturally have 
many openings for the modern busi- 
ness girl. One authority estimates, 
in fact, that "television will offer an 
overall potential of 4,600,000 jobs 
within a decade after full commer- 
cialization." It also seems clear 
that those far-sighted girls wl^o 
wish to work with television will do 
well to get in on the ground flc|or 
while it is still in little more than 
experimental stages of development. 

There are many different branches 
of the industry, such as manufac- 
turing, broadcasting, servicing, and 
advertising; and the wise girl will 
begin now to prepare for the one 
to which her aptitudes point. For 
instance, perhaps the best way to 
get started in the broadcasting 
phase of television would be to get 
an office job now in a station or ad- 
vertising agency which has a tele- 
vision department and train yourself 
by part-time courses outside. For 
prospective actresses, the best advice 
would be to first get an established 
theatrical background, either by 



way of a stock company or a reput- 
able dramatic school. 

The stations now active employ 
women in widely diverse capacities: 
administrative, technical, and pro- 
gramming. The best way to find 
out about such jobs as secretaries, 
camera operators, studio floor work- 
ers, control room technicians, and 
production assistants is to apply to 
any of the active stations, some of 
which are: WNBT (NBC), New 
York— John T. Williams; WPTZ 
(Philco), Philadelphia — Walter 
Merkle; WBKB, Chicago— Helen 
Carson; WGXYZ (Paramount), 
Hollywood — -Klaus Landsberg. 

The few courses in television now 
being offered center around New 
York where evening courses are 
given at Columbia University, The 
City College, School of Business 
2nd Civic administration, and New 
York University. In the practical 
engineering side of television, there 
are privately operated schools all 
over the country which are off- 
campus, cold technical schools. 
Rated tops among these is R.C.A. 
Institutes, Inc., of New York, a 
subsidiary of Radio Corporation of 
America. Here the fundamentals 
of radio are first taught as a step- 
ping stone to television. 

In the choice of a future job, 
three questions seem to be upper- 
most in the mind of the modern 
business girl. These are: Which 
fields will offer the most security, 

the least turnover? Which fields 
offer the best opportunities to wom- 
en who wish to work abroad? And 
which ones offer women the highest 
individual earnings? 

It is generally thought that the 
fields offering the best security and 
least turnover are those with a sta- 
ble record and well established em- 
ployee policies in regard to sick 
pay, pensions, and retirement. They 
are usually conservative fields in- 
cluding large companies, examples 
of which are: banks, insurance com- 
panies, public utilities, teaching, and 
government service. 

In regard to the fields which of- 
fer opportunities to work abroad, it 
must be remembered that there 'is a 
general trend to hire or train native 
personnel wherever possible. Thus 
it is seen that the best chances are 
in some specialized training — pref- 
erably technical or scientific — where 
the skill you offer will be in de- 
mand, and yet is not likely to be 
found in the country where you 
wish to work. Examples of these 
fields are medicine and all its 
branches, economic and social re- 
search, accounting, agriculture, and 

And now we come to the question 
which is usually uppermost in the 
minds of prospective business girls: 
which fields offer the highest indi- 
vidual earnings? Obviously, the 
highest salaries are in the entertain- 
ment field, although top people in 

MARCH, 1945 


retailing and cosmetics run a close 
second. A study made some years 
ago by the American Association of 
University Women and the Wom- 
en's Bureau showed that best earn- 
ings were received, in order, by 
lawyers, business owners, personnel 
workers, and physicians; although 
very high salaries are also found 
among home economists, sales and 
advertising people, and executive 
editors. ■' , 

So there you have it ... a 

thumb-nail survey of the jobs avail- 
able both now and in the future. 
Perhaps the vast number of posi- 
tions available has you confused 
and you frantically wonder, "Will 
I ever find the one in which I'll 
be both capable and content?" But 
the question doesn't dangle hope- 
lessly in mid-air, for from a vast 
army of efficient, smart-looking 
business girls from Massachusetts 
to Montana comes back en mass 
the reply: "You bet!" i 

I-' ; 

Or So l§ilie Thinks 

(Continued from Page 21) 

His thoughts moved concurrently, 
it seemed as if to a tune. That 
song . . . God! There was not 
any room in his life for songs. But 
that woman in the lobby this after- 




had b 

een hum- 

ming it. Why did it bother him? 
Gradually his mind cleared. It was 
a long time ago. His mother used 
to sing that to him. What was it 
his mother always said, something 
about life being richer and more 
beautiful in a small country village 
in Iowa? His mother had believed 
that. She really had been happy 
there. Could he? Maybe if he 

went back . . . no, that was ridiciil- 
lous, and yet maybe . . . Iook 
around him, he could see that other 
men obtained what they were seek- 
ing. He should try once again. 
The man lifted his head, the refrain 
still running through his mind 
. . . the refrain and the picture of 
his mother. He had completely 
forgotten about the old woman. 

Early the next morning Mrs. 
Hemingway called Mattie. Her 
reading club was having a called 
meeting the following day, and she 
must have the dress to wear. Mat- 
tie sighed with disappointment and 
started on the buttonholes. The 
day was sunny and warm. She had 
so hoped she could go to the hotel. 




Good M§hi Sweet Prime 

By Gene Fotvler 

The biography of such a spicey 
character as the late John Barry- 
more would naturally be appetiz- 
ing fare, but Good-Night, Sweet 
Prince, written by Gene Fowler, 
Barrymore's friend and fellow Bac- 
chus-lover, is unequaled among re- 
cent biographies for sheer enjoy- 
ment. It is filled, but not crowded, 
with anecdotes and is in no way 
limited by inhibitions of the author. 
The life of the Barrymore clan 
and the personal drama of John 
are told in the robustly entertaining 
style of Fowler, the raconteur, and 
with the respect for factual detail 
of Fowler, the reporter. 

The author knew Barrymore well, 
but he has not made of his subject 
a sugar-coated idol. As Time com- 
mented: "No facts of Barrymore's 
character were left unexposed by 
Fowler." The actor's enormous ca- 
pacity for pleasure, his cutting wit, 
his passion for the theater, and his 
tragic inability to be understood — 

all are approached objectively and 
yet sympathetically by Mr. Fowler. 

This book is not only the life 
story of one great man but alsb a 
study of theatrical history. The 
author's aptitude for vivacious nar- 
ration is complemented by such /vig- 
orous characters as Louisa Lane 
Drew, Maurice Barrymore, anc| the 
three children — Lionel, John,/ and 
Ethel. Mr. Fowler's lusty tales of 
theatrical life and the Barrymores' 
love life passes at times into the 
risque, but, as the New Yorker 
commented: "the fuzzy, raffish style 
of the book had its special ap- 
propriateness to the subject." 

The book is alternatingly humor- 
ous and pathetic, but the final ef- 
fect is one of tragedy. If you like 
gaity, gaudiness, and tears in your 
laughter, I commend to you Good- 
Night, Sweet Prince, from which 
"the Great Profile emerges both 
more tarnished and more dazzling, 
more fantastic and more real." 

— Bettc Pierce. 

MARCH. 1945 


The Yearling 

IMy 3ttErfarit» Ml. iiatvlings 

The Yearling by Marjorie K. 
Rawlings has no outstanding plot. 
I would say it is a character study, 
with setting greatly emphasized. 
Yet being written in such a vivid, 
true to life way, it presents a 
moving, feeling picture of both hu- 
man and wild life in the forested 
marshy land of central Florida dur- 
ing the generation following the 
Civil War. ' ■ ■ 

The pattern for this book is a 
familiar one. The story compares 
the growth in mind and body of a 
little boy, Jody, who is the princi- 
pal character, to that of some ani- 
mal; in this case, a deer. That is, 
at the beginning of the story we 
find Jody a fawn, so to speak, 
escaping his duties for an afternoon 
by retiring to some favorite nook 
in the surrounding secluded Florida 
wilds. His life is a happy one made 
delightful by the presence of nature 
in all its magnificent dresses and 
colors. To strengthen the com- 
parison of Jody and a deer, the 
author has Jody adopt one after 
the opening of the story; and as 
the deer grows, so does Jody. 

One of the main attributes of 
this book is the lovely and vivid 

descriptions which fill practically 
every chapter. I think perhaps the 
most beautiful of these is the one 
describing the dance of the white 
cranes. This is truly a gorgeous 
thing, and one can really picture 
the strange group of white dancers 
performing their weird almost hu- 
man dance, with a pink sunset for a 
background. I 

Herein lies the secret of the book. 
The author depicts so vividly, inot 
only scenes of equal beauty /like 
the one heretofore mentioned,, but 
also such realistic illustration|i of 
the hunt and chase that one ' lives 
and breathes every minute of them, 
and finds himself thinking and cal-; 
culating, or being inspired, right 
along with the characters in the 
book. I feel the author, who to 
my surprise is a girl, most certainly 
lived in that region for many years 
to be so well-informed upon the 
characteristics, the ways of that 
land and its inhabitants. 

My favorite character is not Jody, 
however, but his father, Penny Bax- 
ter. Penny is so-named because of 
his small shape and bone structure. 
Having come from extremely strict 
parents, he never was able to satisfy 



and fulfill his boyhood curiosities 
and indulgences in nature and the 
peace thereof. Therefore he re- 
spects and understands Jody's in- 
terests, which seem more like pure 
idleness to his wife. Penny, when 
a young man, retired with his fami- 
ly to a secluded spot on an island 
seemingly surrounded by an ocean 
of trees and wilderness. One from 
a distance can see the small high 
piece of land protruding from the 
trees which is known as Baxter's 
Island. Penny is known and re- 
spected by all as the ruler of his 
island, the most skillful and the 
fairest hunter of these parts, and 
for his complete honesty, integrity, 
and down-right humaneness. 

I mentioned before that Jody has 
a fawn of his own. The warm re- 
lationship between the two is prac- 
tically that of brothers, Jody hav- 
ing no one else with whom to play. 
As the story develops so do the 
boy and the fawn. The fawn grows 
older and will soon be a yearling. 
Jody learns more each day and will 
soon be able to take his father's 
place in the care of the island as 
Penny's health gets steadily worse. 

The story, of course, cannot go 
along this smoothly to the end. It 
does not. The deer eats all the 
Baxters' spring crops in spite of all 
their eif orts to stop him. There is 
only one thing that can be done 

. . . destroy the deer. Here is the 
place for a great climax or rather 
outcome of the plight. By some 
miraculous way the deer could be 
saved and everything end well and 
happy. But no, nothing intervenes. 
The author has it happen as it no 
doubt would in real life, the deer is 
shot. It is a terrible let-down. 
Jody is greatly saddened and 
shocked by this, but eventually real- 
izes that life must go on, and thus 
the fawn becomes a yearling, a full- 
fledged yearling. I 

Some people may like this kind 
of story. I do not. After such a 
wonderful and beautiful build-u[^, it 
is a very sad let-down. This is ^ the 
kind of morbid material that mikes 
one have a strong desire to leap off 
a bridge or some such feat. In 
the long-run, though, I suppose it 
is good for us. One needs to real- 
ize that he must accept fate and 
hard knocks, and in spite of the 
personal blow, life must go on. 

When I finished this book I had 
the impression of Jody standing in 
the year, grinningly facing the tasks 
before him. He could see the wild 
eyes of the wilderness, and he must 
go on so as to keep the island a 
haven from that all around him. 
He must keep those hungry eyes of 
the wilderness, always in the wilder- 
ness. . . . 

— Jean Horner. 

MARCH, 1945 


Ihe Razor's Ed^e 

By S»wntfrsei JfMaugihaMn 

A current best-seller, The Razor's 
Edge, is a moving story of a young 
American who, being unable to for- 
get the horrors of the war, travels 
throughout the world in search of a 
faith. As an ordinary adventurous 
boy, Larry Darrell had joined the 
Air Forces during the first World 
War and had seen his best friend 
killed in a dog-fight with a German 
plane. Returning to the United 
States at the close of the war, he 
becomes aware of the superficialities 
of the society in which he moves 
and refuses to settle down and be- 
come a part of it, though it means 
giving up his fiancee, Isabel Brad- 
ley, who is unable to understand 
this strange man that speaks of 
death and the dead and his desire 
for knowledge. His quest takes him 
all over the world, but he doesn't 
find a satisfying answer to his ques- 
tions until he reaches India, where 
he attains the experience of the 
Absolute which he has been seeking. 

Having renounced his position in 
society and circle of friends, he 
eventually returns to exert a great 
influence over each of the them 
through his spiritual power; Isabel, 

who has married a very wealthy 
young man and is pleased in her 
role of riches — Elliot Templeton, 
her uncle with no aim except that 
of maintaining a prominent position 
in society — and the others, who, 
with such abandon accepted life as 
one whirl of cocktail parties afterf 
another. j 

Mr. Maugham tells the story in 
the first person. He has moved in| 
Larry's circle of friends and he i^ 
merely relating to the reader the 
incidents in a young man's li^ 
from the last world war to the 
present one. But the novel is much 
more than that — it is a challenge 
to this generation, to the young 
men returning from the present 
world war, and to those who have 
waited for them. There will be 
doubts and great sadness through 
which only faith in God can carry 
us. Somerset Maughdm has given 
us the beautiful story of Larry 
Darrell's quest for the Eternal 
Truth and its fulfillment, and this 
generation which seemingly has so 
little time for religion, might gain 
something from its reading. 

' — Kathleen Norris. 



i'-K • 


'nsi--y'^. ■ 





Vol. 8 MAY, 1945 No. 3 


Cover Design by Elisabeth Hughes 
Frontispiece by Natalie White 



We of Chimes Staff have enjoyed bringing our magazine to 
you this year, and sincerely hope that you have enjoyed your 
part in it, whether it was in writing or reading it. 



Peggy Freeman Editor 

Carol Bay Associate Editor 

Kathleen Norris Rcvieiv Editor 

Mary Grant Exchange Editor 

Bonnie Friedman Publicity Manager 

Barbara Kemper Business Manager 

Dr. Minnie E. Wells Faculty Advisor 


Minnie Carter Bailey Nanc\' Hollingsworth Fay Maples 

Elizabeth Bomar Cleveland Jean Horner Vivian Moss 

Ruth Evans Margaret Houston Bette Pierce 

Margaret Anne Funk Shirley Hunt Jeannette Smith 

Phyllis Harrison Kathryn Keggin Mary Richards \ 

Mary Hendricks Nancy Kellogg Iris Turner 1 

Ruth Hoe Margaret Lawler Edith Ann WilliAms 

Katherine Manier 




Not Too Bad. A Story Ruth Evans 4 

The Telegram. A Story Carol Bay 9 

Where Away. Book, Review Kathleen Norris 15 

A Criticism of The Works of Stephen Vincent Benet. 

Margaret Lawler 16 

Anything Can Happen. Book Review Kathleen Norris 21 

Color Impressions of Childhood Katherine Keggin 22 

The Snow Is You. A Poem Shirley Hunt 23 

Little Lost Pup. A Story Mary Hendricks 24 

Sonnet. A Poem Ann Sharpe 25 

God Said, "No." A Story Mary Hendricks 26 

Gun At Fault. A Story Mary Richards 28 

Washday. A Story Iris Turner 30 

I Will Return. A Poem Margaret Houston 33 

The Song of God. A Poem Nancy Hollingsworth 34 

Kauima. A Poem Claire Bissel 35 

Black Boy. Book Review Kathleen Norris 36 

MAY. 19 4 5 

Not Too Bad 

By Miuih M£v€Mns 

College '46 

"Now think about what I told 
you." The words "followed him up 
to the piano. One glance was suf- 
ficient to attain the vision of the 
scene ... a little different from the 
many others that had previously 
appeared in the course of his inter- 
minable eight years. 

To begin the program celebrat- 
ing Christmas vacation, a teacher 
had just led the singing of "The 
Star Spangled Banner." At the 
rise of the rocket's red glare the 
emotions in the room took a paral- 
lel ascent, and things were quiet. 

Ken modestly walked to the ap- 
pointed spot. He was a normal 
looking boy. His round face, 
capped and partly hidden by un- 
ruly brown hair, was formed with 
fine lines. Blue eyes shone above a 
pair of rosy cheeks, and his healthy 
countenance at once made you 
think of the country in the sum- 
mertime and apples in a trim or- 
chard. His lips were thin, his jaw 
had an obscure set to it, hinting 
that his short life-time had been 
spent in the presence of grown-ups. 
He did not present a sad picture; 
it was, instead, a rather deep one. 

His good clothes testified that 
he was no urchin; yet a loosened 
shirt-tail and a crooked collar as- 
sured you that he was a boy. His 
movements were not nervous, but 
they were somewhat lacking in 
grace. His knees, emerging from 
short pants, were rather thin from 
over-use, and his shins were bruised 
from misuse. He was well /built 
but thin from constant physical 
activity. He was strong but in- 
describably simple. i 

The back muscles of the tfeacher 
seated at the piano stiffened slight- 
ly. Seventy pairs of childish eyes 
turned towards the instrument. 
The gay flames of lighted Christ- 
mas candles winked and coquetted 
at the wind from a loosened win- 
dow pane. Tiny pieces of ever- 
green fell upon a cotton covered 
sheet. One child emitted a won- 
dering sigh as the ringed fingers 
at the keyboard sought the right 
notes. "Now think . . ." The 
words still echoed as the synco- 
pated introduction drew near a 
close. A mouth opened and a 
heart beat fast. 

"Say a prayer for the boys over 


there," a clear, childish voice pene- 
trated the very elements of the 
flame; the tree ceased shedding its 
coat; sighs were repressed. 

In a simple silence the room 
listened. The miniature chairs lent 
ear. The pictures leaned a little 
to one side . . . towards a piano. 
Presents surrounding the molting 
tree lost their gaiety as they 
stopped to hear. The scene be- 
came a unity, an atom, a single 
thing . . . the nucleus, a little boy, a 
little boy singing a song at a 
Christmas party. A little boy obey- 
ing his mother's words . . . "Now 
think . . ." 

A shrill ring, a shuffled walk, a 
sharp click, an exchange, and a 
voice. "Hello, Mother, how are 
you? Yes . . . No, it was melted 
by afternoon. No, Wyatt said it 
wasn't freezing when he came to 
work. Oh? Well, we plan to 
come by this afternoon. Yes, we 
got a letter today. We'll bring it. 
All right, goodbye!" 

"One, two, three, almost four 
hundred. We're doing pretty well 
today, girls. Our quota is much 
larger this month . . . European 
casualties, you know. I hear Eliza- 
beth has almost finished her Can- 
teen Course. Isn't she conscientious 
about this thing?" 

"Step back! Move to the rear 
of the car, please! Step back just 

as far as you can go! Come on, 
folks, have to save space these 
days, you know!" 

"Now think . . ." Amidst all 
the snatches of overheard conver- 
sation these words always come 
back. What is there so expressive 
about them? What so important? 
Maybe they have a story. 

The first time Ken had heard 
them was yesterday. Comfortably 
jostled by fellow street car passen- 
gers he had clicked along on |iis 
way to meet his mother. The 
street car man had kept yelling at 
people and repeating the same djill 
command over and over. "Move 
back, move back . . ." They'd 
soon be out the back door. Win- 
der what would happen if /the 
emergency door should open all of 
a sudden? Nice thought for a 
ride when there was more time and 
less confusion. 

His scurrying feet had carried 
him through to the door, and he'd 
managed to escape the booming 
voice of the blue-capped conductor. 
Oh, how stupid to ride on street 
cars! By instinct he had found his 
way into the foyer and caught him- 
self staring at the directory board 
as if he weren't definitely going to 
a very definite place. School was 
out for the day and the car waited 
outside the city hall to take him 
and Mom home. 

MAY. 19 4 5 

The ridged metal steps wound 
up to the second floor. One turn 
to the right, and a traditional pause 
at the water fountain outside a 
black door marked "Private At- 
torney." Wonder what's so private 
about it? Some day, when there 
is more time ... 

A slight push was sufficient to 
fling wide the next door . . . nothing 
private here. My! what a scene! 
Long, low tables, sewing machines, 
little signs about clean uniforms 
and no red nail polish, threads all 
over the floor, rulers and scissors 
scattered on the tables, a desk at 
the front of the room, and big 
women all over the place. Those 
white things on their heads! Try- 
ing to look like angels? Gee . . . 

It was no new picture, but each 
time it leered up before him it held 
a new fascination . . . and the 
words in the air "Two hundred, 
three hundred," "quota," "casual- 
ties." There's a word he under- 
stood. He'd heard Dad talking 
about casualties. If these old 
ladies were helping to ease up cas- 
ualties, they must be all right. No 
more time for speculation on the 
subject. Along came Mom, wish 
she'd hurry. 

As he was walking out to the 
car half an hour later, Ken was 
impatient. The day at school had 
been a long one with no recess out- 

doors since it had rained. Now 
that he had already wasted nearly 
an hour he really wanted to go 
home ... go home and get away 
from all those fussing, weeping old 

You see, he had had to sing for 
them. Mom's friend, Mrs. Colby, 
had requested it, and all her sup- 
porters had forced him into it. 
That was when he was first re- 
minded of those haunting words, 
"Now think about what I told 
you." He'd sung "Say A Pra)|er" 
. . . just about his mother's favofrite 
. . . and everyone had cried! But 
maybe they were like Mom jand 
had Toms in the service too. / 

And he'd thought all right/. . . 
about the time he and Tomf had 
gone out to get worms for fishing, 
about the time he'd stood for hours 
watching Tom make a model air- 
plane (it's right wing is broken 
ofl' now) . He'd remembered the 
basketball hoop on the garage and 
Tom's long arms. He'd thought 
of what his Dad had said about 
casualties. He'd thought while he 
sang a patriotic song. 

Yesterday, that was the first 
time she expounded her advice in 
those six words; and here it was 
again . . . right in the middle of 
the program at school. 

While remembering events of the 
day before, events of this day did 


not cease. Before long the pro- 
gram was over, and amid many 
Christmas greetings Ken and his 
friends parted with high hopes 
placed in Santa's direction. 

''Are we going home now, Mom? 
Are we?" 

"Yes, son, but we have to stop 
by Grannie's for a minute. I told 
her we would." 

"Oh, Mom, you always have to 
stop somewhere for a minute. Let's 
go home! Please, Mom, please!" 

"We have to go out and read 
her Tom's letter. I promise it 
won't take long." 

And it wasn't long until Mom 
was having an animated conversa- 
tion with Gran ... as usual about 
Tom. "I've decided he's still in 
France. You see, he talks about 
seeing Hank, and they know that's 
where he is. Yes, I was very glad 
' / hear. It's the first time in eight- 
.^en days . . . seems like months 
when you're waiting. Yes, we real- 
ly do have to go; Ken is simply 
pawing the air. I'll call in the 
morning. Goodbye now!" 

The drive seemed longer than 
usual, and there was a strained at- 
mosphere in the car. A feeling of 
dull and bleak living emanated 
from Mom, and a series of words 
played like hammers on the anvil 
of the child's brain. 

A long sweep up the worn 

asphalt driveway placed Ken and 
his mother at the back entrance 
of the large stone house. Dogs, 
cats, and maybe a few mice flew 
out to greet the homecoming hero 
of the barn. Ken was their dearest 
friend. Oh my! There's a car 
parked in front! Hope they're not 
fancy company . . . and we sure 
better not have to eat in the dining 
room . . . gee. 

Engrossed in these thoughts, 
Ken, with the nonchalance of youth^ 
trailed off to play, menagerie iri, 
tow. Lost upon his ears were thd 
words of his mother, "What a 
fright I look." i 

A hasty trip up the back stair^ 
and a few beauty pats transformea 
the "fright" into a calm, stately 
woman whose appearance never be- 
trayed the recent melancholy. 

Margaret's Buick . . . probably 
wants to see about the hospital 
fund. Don't know why it would 
be that important. 

A quick repair to a coiffure, a 
quick step down the hall, and a 
quicker change in the lines of Mrs. 
Thayer's face. She had caught 
sight of Margaret, and it was quite 
evident that her business here had 
nothing to do with the local hos- 

Hospital, hospital, local hospital 
. . . Tom . . . medical unit . . . 
same class . . . fraternity brothers 

MAY, 19 4 5 

, . . Purple Heart . . . what did 
it mean? Ken's song, "Say a 
prayer ..." 

She was praying, fervently, with 
all her heart; for before her stood 
Margaret's son, a veteran home 
from the wars. Fred Walters had 
been in Tom's outfit after their 
finishing "pre-med" together. He 
was home on leave! Why wasn't 
Tom home too, to surprise her as 
Margaret had been surprised? Bad 
news? Death? "Say a prayer 

"Hello, Mrs. Thayer, it's good 
to see you!" 

"Fred, Fred, I'm so glad you 
came; and how are you? We've 
heard all about your wonderful 
work, and we're so proud. When 
did you get in? How long will 
you stay? Do you have any news 
of . . ." 

"Now, now, Mrs. Thayer, not 
so many questions. Yes, it is won- 
derful to be home. I have thirty 
days for rest and recuperation. 
Thanks for your compliments. I 
didn't do nearly so much as most 
of the guys who are still over there. 
And to your most important ques- 
tion, yes, I have seen Tom. We 
were separated about two months 
ago, but just before I left there 
was a reunion. You see, I was 
working in a base hospital, and 
Tom . . . 

It had been good to see Fred. 
He was a fine boy ... or man now 
. . . and he had beaten the official 
report home. The other part 
hadn't been too bad. It was good 
of Fred to come out. He's a fine 
boy . . . and it's really not too bad 
. . . fine boy . . . not too bad. He 
must have been hit just after he 
wrote this last letter . . . not too 
bad . . . Maybe the bandages we 
made yesterday will be used to . . . 

"Mom, you know, I think Taffy 
needs a bath, don't you? Can^ I 
give her one, Mom, huh. Mom, c^n 
I, Mom, can I?" 

"Oh! Yes, Saturday when N^ra 
can help you." / 

"Mom, did you like the program 
today? Did I sing O. K.? l/did 
what you told me. Do you think 
the kids liked it?" 

"You sang very well. Ken. I'm 
glad that you did as I said, and 
I'm sure Tom knew you were 
thinking of him over there. Tom 
needs our thoughts now, and we 
must send him the right ones." 

"Do you think the kids liked it, 

"Yes, I think the kids liked it 
very much. You see, they have 
their Toms and Bills and Jimmys 
too . . . some of these boys have 
been lost because of the war, but 
their kid brothers and sisters liked 
(Continued on Page 14) 


The Teleirm 

By Carai Bay 

College '45 

So this is how it feels! Your 
heart suddenly nose-dives to your 
feet, the cup you hold in your 
hand clatters to the floor, all the 
blood rushes from your face leav- 
ing you a hollow husk of a person, 
and cold drops of perspiration un- 
expectedly appear at your temples 
and in the palms of your hands. 
Everything blurs for an instant, 
and you never quite realize how 
you managed to sign your name and 
murmur a weak "Thank you" to 
the messenger boy. The next thing 
you know, you're leaning feebly 
against the door while the familiar 
objects in the room spin crazily in 
front of you. 

Marie Blaydes was leaning 
against the door in just such a 
manner. Her whole body was 
numb, and in one hand she weakly 
held the crisp yellow envelope with 
the transparent section . . . the 
envelope inevitably characteristic of 
a telegram. 

"Telegram!" she thought wildly, 
"the one word I never wanted to 
hear . . . the one thing I kept pray- 
ing I'd never receive." 

Once she had lacked such a 
dread of telegrams, but that was 
before Travis left. Travis, with 
his laugh-crinkled eyes and sinewy 
hands; Travis, from whom she 
hadn't received a letter in three 
months . . . and that last to tell | 
her ", . . the fighting here is really \ 
jungle warfare." 

She knew somehow that today j 
she'd hear from him ... or about \ 
him. She knew at the first shrill t 
sound of the door bell, and by thei 
look on the messenger boy's face' 
as he asked "Mrs. Blaydes?" and 
pushed the pad at her for her sig- 
nature. In fact, she had known 
when she first sleepily opened her 
eyes that morning, and discovered 
the little sparrow that usually 
perched on the willow limb outside 
her bedroom window was gone, and 
the twig, now vacant, was scratch- 
ing mournfully against the glass 
pane. She felt a wet, cold nose 
nudge gently against her ankles, 
and looked down into thoughtful 
eyes which seemed to inquire: 
"What's the matter?" Absently, 
she stooped and patted the shaggy 
black- head of Kimmie. 

MAY, 19 4 5 

Kimmie, the little black scotty 
they had first seen in the fly- 
specked pet shop window that bore 
the imprint of many a sticky hand 
and childish nose . . . Kimmie, 
whose real name was Kansas City 
Kimmie, since it was in Kansas 
City that they had found him. 
Was it actually three years ago? 
It seemed more like three days, or 
even three hours. Everything was 
so clear . . . 

They were just two of many 
college students, both majoring in 
journalism. He was a senior and 
she a laughing, fun-loving fresh- 
man; and this was a holiday . . . 
their first together. Since the 
homes of each were too far away 
from the college to be reached in 
the time allotted for a Thanksgiv- 
ing vacation, they had decided to 
do the next best thing and spend 
the holiday with his aunt in not- 
too-distant Kansas City. 

What fun it had all been! The 
ample family dinner spread on the 
long oval table in the old fashioned 
dining room, the scarcity of chairs 
which was compensated for by 
using a long board laid parallel to 
the table . . . one side propped up 
on the second rung of the high 
chair, the other being laid on a 
piano stool for support; and the 
uncontrollable giggle of the frec- 
kle-faced cousin with pigtails when 
the make shift seat had very in- 

opportunely broken in two, spilling 
the librarian aunt and two uncles 
to the linoleum-covered floor while 
Uncle Charley was in the middle 
of a very religious and much too 
lengthy blessing. 

When the last dish was dried 
and put once again in its customary 
place within the glass cupboard, 
they slipped out of the house while 
the rest of the relatives either 
talked or cat-napped in the com- 
fortable, over-stuffed parlor chairs. 

The air was crisp and invigorat- 
ing, and they walked for miles bf 
city blocks, finally coming to the 
little park surrounding the soldier's 
and sailor's memorial monument on 
the hill. After climbing scores of 
cement steps, they took the eIevs[tor 
to the top of the monument tower, 
and peered over the rim at the 
buildings spread out below. 

''Just an overgrown country 
town," he said. 

"I like it!" she defended. "It's 
. . . well, kind of friendly." 

"Funny kid . . ." he laughed. 
"That's all you are . , just a kid!" 

She pursed her lips in a mock 
imitation of a pout; but assured 
that he was merely teasing her, re- 
laxed her face and laughed while 
the wind ruffled her short curls. 

Although their original intention 
was to walk all the way back to his 
aunt's house, after the first three 
blocks . . . which now seemed sur- 



prisingly long . . . they both pant- 
ingly decided to finish their "wallc" 
on the bus. Exhausted, they came 
to the bus stop, and had been there 
only a few minutes when both were 
aware of a whining, dog-like sound 
at their backs and turned around 
to find Kimmie soulfully looking 
at them through the dirty glass 

It was almost dusk when they 
got back; she, proudly leaning on 
his arm; and he, with a satisfied 
swagger and contented air, firmly 
gripping the suspiciously new-look- 
ing leash of Kimmie trotting on 
ahead . . . 

"Oh, Kimmie!" she cried, hold- 
ing him close to her. "He's dead! 
We're alone now . . . just you and 
I. He'll never come back, Kimmie 
. . . never!" 

All the tears welled up within 
her suddenly flooded forth, and her 
whole body shook with strangled, 
ugly-sounding sobs and gasps. 

The little black dog, confused, 
snuggled down into her arms and 
looked up at her as if she were a 
stranger. He cocked his ears and 
tilted his head to one side, and all 
the while watched her with that 
puzzled expression that only Kim- 
mie could have. Then, squirming 
from her arms, he waddled slowly 
over to the masculine looking, 
leather covered armchair near the 

fireplace and curled up on the 
floor beside it. 

After awhile, her strength 
drained by the gasping sobs, she 
weakly raised her head and looked 
at the room about her. There was 
his chair, next to his desk with the 
world Atlas on it, and above the 
fireplace was the charcoal sketch 
he had drawn of her and had had 
framed . . . her first wedding anni- 
versary present. On the top of the 
bookcase lay his "idea notebook" 
just as he had left it when he went 
away. In it were scribbled plots 
for stories that he was going to 
write "whenever he found the 
time." Plots which now, she knew, 
were never to be used. 

"Oh, God!" she cried, "I've got 
to get away from this room! I 
can't stand to stay here where 
everything reminds me of him. I 
can't! I'll go crazy. I've got to 
go somewhere . . . anywhere , . . 
just as long as it's away from 

Running to the closet, she 
grabbed a coat and mufller. The 
coat thrown loosely about her 
shoulders, she started toward the 
door without once looking back. 

Kimmie, suddenly jumping up, 
stood with an eager expression on 
his little dog face, both ears point- 
ed, his pink tongue stuck out, and 
his tail wagging furiously from 
side to side. However, when he 

MAY. 19 4 5 


saw he was ignored and that she 
didn't want him to go with her, 
he settled down once more as if 
saying disgustedly in his stiff black 
whiskers, "What funny things peo- 
ple are!" 

The only sound in the now still 
apartment house was the click of 
the street door closing behind her 
as she started down the steps. 

The day was beautiful ... in- 
congruously beautiful. It was typi- 
can Indian Summer weather, and 
in the tiny park across the street, 
the bright sun had edged with gold 
the vivid green and red leaves of 
many trees sharply silhouetted 
against the flaming sky. 

Children were streaming from 
the gray stone school on the corner, 
and the third graders had just been 
dismissed. Up the street they 
came ... a noisy, bubbly tide of 
childish humanity. Standing quiet- 
ly at the curb, she let them cross 
the street ahead of her . . . some 
of them dodging in and out among 
the passing cars, and others waiting 
patiently on the curb for the light 
to change. Hugging their books 
beneath their arms and occasionally 
dropping them on the pavement, 
they all talked and laughed con- 
tinually . . . babbling bits of news 
and using childish, unrestrained 
gestures to illustrate what they so 
animately told. Snatches of con- 
versation fell on her ears as they 

hurried past, ". . . at our house," 
and ". . . daddy said . . ." 

"Daddy," she muttered aloud, 
wanting to cry, and yet not able to. 
"Daddy. If only . . ." but her 
thought was uncompleted as she 
hurriedly dodged a semi-trailer 
which suddenly loomed before her. 

Now safe on the other side, she 
slackened her pace and her 
thoughts continued. "It might not 
have been this bad if we had had 
children, or even one child," ^he 
hastily added, but then remem- 
bered what Travis had always said 
whenever she mentioned having a 
child ... ; 

His eyes would suddenly become 
serious and steady, and he's sMake 
his head as if his mind were /defi- 
nitely made up on the subject. 
"Not until after this war is over. 
Heck, darling, this kind of world 
is no place to raise kids! And if 
they should start drafting married 
men, I don't want my son to watch 
me get on any troop train. No 
siree ... a family's all right, and 
mighty nice at times . . . but not 
now, honey. You do understand, 
don't you?" 

He would always look so con- 
cerned and earnest, and although 
at first she protested and argued 
with him, as time went on she re- 
alized that he would always remain 
adamant on the subject; so she 



would always half-heartedly agree 
and talk about something else. 

Then she stopped arguing alto- 
gether, for one day the doctor had 
told her she could never be a 
mother. Dazedly she sat in his 
office and heard snatches about "a 
cyst . . . blood clot on right ovary 
. . . would suggest ah operation 
. . . before infection spreads . . ." 
Almost as if already under the 
anesthetic, she numbly nodded her 
consent. For the next two weeks 
she seemed to be in a continual 
opiate sleep that could be per- 
meated only by sudden, intense 
pains which . . . even though se- 
vere . . . could never torture her 
body as much as the dread knowl- 
edge of her loss constantly tortured 
her mind. 

Now she was alone . . . really 
alone . . . walking in the park, and 
knowing that there was no one at 
home waiting for her but Kimmie. 
Oh, she knew he was entertaining, 
and very intelligent as dogs go, 
but he could never say "Mommy," 
or reach up rosy damp fingers to 
her lips, and at the same time 
touch her heart. 

A dead leaf fluttered down be- 
side her, and she stopped and 
watched it glide silently to the dry, 
brown grass below. Numbly, she 
dropped down to the hard wooden 
bench and sat there . . . listening 
and watching. 

A young sailor and a girl in a 
yellow sweater came walking arm 
in arm across the grass, absently 
shuffling the rustly dead leaves with 
their feet. Her eyes were watery 
. . . partly from the cold . . . 
and on her hand was a plain gold 
wedding band. She would look at 
it, and then smile up at the tow- 
headed sailor beside her, a smile 
more wistful than happy, while he 
reassuringly patted her arm and 
smiled back. As they passed, she | 
heard the girl mutter in a voice j 
surprisingly mature ". . . so little 
time left." | 

"But they're young," Marie | 
thought, "and evidently just newlyj' 
married. They don't know . . if 
they cant know . . . what it's lik^ 
to have loved someone for years, 
to go through sorrow and happi- 
ness with him, and then suddenly 
find he's gone and the home you 
built together is vacant and echoes 
loneliness. Your heart aches and 
your arms are empty, mere memo- 
ries all that are left." 

She got up and began to walk 
again and suddenly she realized 
that she could see her breath in 
the cold air. Her nose and fingers 
felt numb and she thrust her pig- 
skin-gloved hands deep into her 
large pockets. A little chill ran up 
her spine and, shivering, she turned 
her tweed collar up around her 

MAY, 19 4 5 


neck as protection against the 
frosty wind. 

It was getting darker and the 
park was now a dusty chasm. The 
cars speeding past had on their 
headUghts, and the street lamps 
began blinking on, one by one. 
As she walked up the steps to the 
apartment house, she could hear 
a train whistle in the distance, and 
an organ grinder playing some- 
where down the block. 

She switched on the lights to 
find Kimmie curled up on the 
leather cushioned chair sound 
asleep. On the floor near the door 
she saw the telegram, still un- 
opened, and she stooped and slowly 
picked it up. Turning it over and 
over in her hands, she went to the 
desk and carefully slit the envelope 
along the top with a letter opener. 
Hesitantly unfolding the paper 
within, she read: 

"Just arrived in states. Will 
pass through there at 7:30 to- 
night. Train has 20 minutes 
wait. Please be at station. 



Dazedly she stood as if trans- 
fixed. An electric shock seemed 
to pass through her body, and her 
hands trembled as she re-read the 
words to make sure there was no 
mistake. Convinced that it was 
the truth, she hastily glanced i at 
the clock, grabbed her purse frpm 
the end table, and started running 
for the door. " { 

With her hand on the knob, ^he 
stopped. Turning, she looked; at 
the clock once more, and thenfshe 
walked slowly toward the window. 
Wretchedly, she leaned against the 

It was eight o'clock. 

IVot Too Bad 

(Continued from Page 8) 

it too." Those boys . . . lost . . . 
Harry Carlton, Burma; Bob Wat- 
son, Saipan; Roy Thomas, Ant- 
werp; and Joe, and Walt ... the 
husband of the music teacher . . . 
an Air Corps Lieutenant . . . plane 
crash in Iceland . . . 

''No, not too bad," she muttered 
as she unconsciously began to hum 

"Say a prayer for the boys over 

When they play 'The Star Span- 
gled Banner.' 

Lift your eyes . . . 

And ask the Lord to watch over 
them tonight . . ." 



Whre A way 

By George S. Perry and 
Isabet M^eiyhton 

Reviewed by Kathleen Norris, College '45 

Dedicated to "the men who sea? The United States Navy, of 

brought the Marblehead home and which the Marblehead is a part, is 

to those who couldn't . . .," Where made up of individual people with 

Away is an account of the U.S.S. individual thoughts and emotions 

Marblehead, her personnel and ex- ... boys and men whom we've 

periences from two days before known in our own setting at home, 

Pearl Harbor until she landed but whom we do not know in their; 

again in the United States on May world of ships, battles, torpedoes,! 

4, 1942. George Perry and Isabel and heroism. George Perry and' 

Leighton have written in beautiful Isabel Leighton have given us a, 

prose the story of the lives of the glimpse of their world . . . not from? 

Individual men on the Marblehead a landlubber's biased point of view,^ 

gained through hours and hours of but one tasting of salt water anc| 

research. Though a true story. 
Where Away reads like a novel. 
Behind each man on a ship is a 
story ... of years of living, each 
in his section of the country, of 
homes and wives and mothers , . . 
of reaction to danger and tension 
of battle. 

sea-lore. "This was the ship they 
loved ... a ship a little too old 
for this war, her stacks a little too 
tall and too numerous. It was she 
who had drunk their sweat and 
demanded their labor," 

The crew members come to life, 
from Captain Robinson (now Rear 

What are the sailor's thoughts Admiral) down to the "Bull," a 
as he watches the white spray rise blond, stocky boy from Minnesota. 

Each one has a love and devotion 
for the Marblehead that reveals 

from the endless ocean . . . the 
ocean black beneath low-hanging 
clouds, or silver in the moonlight? 
What does he feel when he lies 
in his bunk below deck during the 

itself in the pride that every navy 
man has for his navy. "This is 
not the drama of one ship, one ac- 
early hours of the morning sensing tion, one group of men ... it is 
the tension of the quarter-watch the spirit of sea men at sea ... 
who searches for the first sight of our men, a great monument to the 
a periscope rising from the cold navy for all time." 

MAY, 19 4 5 


A Criticism of tlie Worlds of 
Steplien Vincent Benet 

By Margaret M^atvier 

College '45 

"Now for my country that it still 

may live, 
All that I have, all that I am I'll 

It is not much beside the gift of 

the brave 
And yet accept it since 'tis all I 

have." I 
This quatrain, "probably one of 
the last he ever wrote,"^ was found 
on top of a pile of penciled papers 
on Stephen Vincent Benet's desk, 
after his death on March 13, 1943, 
and seems to me to contain most of 
his purpose as a poet. For Benet's 
purpose seemed to be to instill in 
other Americans his own great 
adoration for, and pride in, his 
country. Since he did have this 
overwhelming feeling for his Amer- 
ica, it is not hard to see and feel 
that his works, if sometimes lack- 
ing unity, are absolutely sincere. 
He uses several methods, types of 

verse, and a great variety of sub- 
ject matter to achieve his purpose: 
poems about the greatness ;of 
America herself, as a country, 
poems about her natural beauties, 
and poems on her national heroes. 
"American Names,"3 a ballad, /re- 
veals not only his love for America 
in general, but his love for eyery 
little detail of her existence. ■' In 
fact, he begins, "I have fallen in 
love with American names." He 
goes on to describe some of those 
name as 
"The sleek names that never get 

The snakeskin titles of mining 

The plumed war-bonnet of Medi- 
cine Hat, 
Tucson and Deadwood and Lost 
Mule Flat." 
Benet's genius for painting word- 
pictures plus his absolute sincerity 

1. Stephen Vincent Benet, Western Star. New York: Farrar and Rinehart, Inc., 1943, p. v. 

2. Ibid. 

3. Stephen Vincent Benet, Selected Work! of Stephen Vincent Benet. Vol. II. New York: 
Farrar and Rinehart, Inc., 1942, p. 367- 



and simplicity of diction bring to 
the reader the ability to feel all of 
the courage of America's history, 
and this feeling is further height- 
ened by his contrast of those Amer- 
ican names to European names: 
"Siene and Piave are silver spoons, 
But the spoon-bowl metal is thin 

and worn, 
There are English countries like 

But I will remember where I was 

"I will fall in love with a Salem 

And a raw-hide quirt from Santa 

I will get me a bottle of Boston tea 
And a blue-gummed nigger to sing 

me blues. 
I am tired of loving a foreign 

In those nine lines Benet con- 
denses and makes vivid all the in- 
ordinate differences between Old 
World and New. How clearly he 
makes us hear the hunting born 
at dawn resounding over an Eng- 
lish countryside, followed by a 
"blue-gummed nigger" strumming 
his banjo on a bank of the broad 
Mississippi; or see the old dainty 
silver spoon lying beside a plumed 
war-bonnet! By the use of strik- 
ingly original and apt figures of 

speech, he makes us feel, and thrill 
to feel, big, spacious, crude, lov- 
able America, in contrast to sophis- 
ticated, dainty, smug Europe. 

Besides works of the type just 
discussed, to further his attempt to 
make Americans appreciate the his- 
tory and heritage of their land, 
Benet has written several short bal- 
lads on our heroes, and, as Edward 
R. Schauffler, of the Kansas City 
Star said in a feature written the 
day after Benet's death, "Benetj 
was the sort of poet who made] 
men and women of the past as 
much alive as the neighbors toi 
whom you have just been talking. 
This he accomplishes, again, by 
simplicity of diction and formi 
For example, in writing of Thoma^ 
Jefferson, he describes that tall, 
austere-looking gentleman's various 
talents as being: 

"From buying empires 

To planting 'taters. 

From Declarations 

To trick dumb-waiters."4 
And, when he tells of the many 
awards which John James Audu- 
bon received for his extensive stud- 
ies, he says: 

"Gave him medals and degrees 
Called him noble names, 
Lucy Blakewell Audubon 
Kissed her queer John James."5 

4. Ibid., p. 398. 

5. Ibid., p. 400. 

MAY, 19 4 5 


One would never picture Thomas 
JeflFerson "planting 'taters," nor 
would one suspect an artist-scientist 
as great as Audubon of doing any- 
thing so commonplace as kissing 
his wife. Benet did, though, and 
in so doing he helped us picture 
those things; thereby making those 
national heroes grow more real; 
and as they grow more real and 
more likeable, our history becomes 
more real too, and Benet has 
achieved his purpose. 

The poet's understanding of hu- 
man nature, then, adds too, to his 
ability to see that which he wants 
us to see and feel that which he 
wants us to feel. Under-state- 
ment, which is powerful because it 
allows the reader's imagination to 
play on and enlarge upon what 
has been said, he also handles beau- 
tifully. "Daniel Boone," which, I 
believe, is the best of his poem- 
portraits, is a good illustration of 
this technique. In only four lines 
it reveals all the beauties of the 
American wilderness and makes the 
reader feel a sharp pang of long- 
ing for the days in which men were 
strong enough to conquer that 
wilderness, simply because they 
were close enough to it to under- 
stand it. The poem is this: 
"When Daniel Boone goes by, at 

The phantom deer arise, 
And all lost wild America 
Is burning in their eyes."^ 

Benet's restraint merely leads us 
on. He states no regret for the 
fact that all wild America is lost, 
but because he cuts the thought 
short, we feel his emotion and it 
becomes ours, which is just as he 

His two greatest works, John 
Brown s Body and Western Star, 
ate, it would seem, the climax tto 
his American poetry. In fact, tjie 
minor poems could be combined 
and used as a preface to one |or 
both of the major works. Appro- 
priately, he has taken the ovo 
events which did the most to shape 
American history, the Civil War 
and the Westward Movement. 
John Brown s Body, the story of 
the Civil War, is certainly a great 
narrative poem, but it misses being 
an epic by a hair's breadth. An 
epic deals with either a national 
hero or a national event, and 
though John Brown s Body deals 
with the Civil War, I'm afraid 
Benet lost track of that fact several 
times. If he didn't, the reader 
does. He looks at the war be- 
tween the states from all possible 
view-points, using men and women 
from different sections of the coun- 
try to put those views across. That 

6. Ibid., p. 402. 



is all very well and good, but the 
draw-back lies in the fact that both 
the author and the reader become 
so much interested in each charac- 
ter's personal problems that they 
completely forget the primary ob- 
ject of the whole thing. Also, it is 
difficult to keep each of the men 
straight as to which side he belongs, 
which home problems he is facing, 
and which girl he is trying to 
marry. The entire works lack 
unity, though the historical bits are 
quite well done. 

The description, as always, is in- 
comparable. Little bits such as the 
metaphor describing a Negro slave 
who had been a tribal prince in 
Africa: "His eyes were savage 
gods,"7 and his description of John 
Brown as being "a tiny blackened 
scrap of paper soul,"^ are phrases 
that the mind remembers, though 
the eyes have seen them only once. 

His rapid changes from rhyming 
couplet to blank verse to free verse 
and back to rhyme again, though 
creating a definite effect, and 
placed there just for that purpose, 
only add to the confusion. Cer- 
tainly it is fascinating and as full 
of suspense and breath-taking with 
its changes from pure idealism and 
romance to stark realism, as any 

prose novel, but if Benet was at- 
tempting to write a poem intended 
to live as an epic of the Civil War, 
he over-shot the mark. 

In Western Star I find the same 
fault as in John Browns Body 
concentration on the individual per- 
son, used to carry the theme, rather 
than on the theme itself. However, 
since the Westward Movement was 
carried on by, and dependent upon 
individual people, that is not such 
a grievous fault. This work also 
lacks unity, but, again, the West- 
ward Movements were anything but 
unified, so Benet may have h^d 
method in his madness. Here, too, 
we find the powerful description 
and use of rhythm to set the mopd, 
which is sometimes fast and excit- 
ing sometimes slow and monoto- 
nous, then almost nerve-wracking 
in its suspense, which is heightened 
by the use of under-statement, just 
as those New England settlers 
must have found their lives to be. 
The poem is moving, but leaves 
one feeling as if it were a little 
overdone. Though his American- 
ism is great and admirable and im- 
pressive, anything in too-large 
doses grows tiresome, and, almost 
with relief, we turn to his "Night- 
mares and Visitants."9 

7. Ibid., p. 10. 

8. Ibid., p. 52. 

9. Ibid., p. 423. 

MAY, 19 4 5 


Benet's "Nightmares and Visi- 
tants" are in sharp contrast to the 
laudatory, exciting poems of Amer- 
ica, but still the things for which 
American democracy supposedly 
stand are the theme. Benet was a 
great advocate of democracy and 
this feeling of his is quite evident 
in works such as "Litany for Dis- 
tatorship"io and "Ode to the Aus- 
trian Socialists."" The sordid, 
stark realism of poems such as 
those and his nightmare poems, 
which are predictions of the future 
of mankind, come like a dash of 
cold water in the face, after his 
other idealistic American poems. 
Here he uses rhyme and meter to 
their greatest advantage, and as he 
used simple, loose-jointed words to 
set the tone of his earlier poems, 
the later ones are phrased so that 
one can almost hear the big city's 
rattle. When one reads "Night- 
mare for Future Reference," ^2 jn 
which he says that mankind will 
come to an end after the third 
World War, because babies will 
cease to be born, one wonders that 
he ever could have written any- 
thing as gentle as "Thomas Jeffer- 
son," because one feels that he 
senses an absolute futility in the 

existence of man; however, I feel 
that those poems are meant more 
as warnings than prophecies, but 
whatever they are intended for, by 
use of rhythm and words, he cer- 
tainly achieves his purpose. My 
blood ran cold. 

Another striking contrast we find 
in his "My Fair Lady" poems, all 
written to, and about, his wife, 
Rosemary. Though of no great 
depth, they are the kind of poems 
which are poems just for poetry's 
sake, embodying the word-picture 
at its best. "To Rosemary, on me 
Methods by Which She Might Be- 
come An Angel," n shows Rqse- 
mary, after death, not doing aiiy- 
thing conventional like playins a 
harp, but sitting on a "pufc of 
Autumn cloud," playing a tuba! 
There not only do we have a de- 
lightful picture, but we have Rose- 
mary's personality. Again, in de- 
scribing her, he says: 
"Her ears are pointed at the tips 
She stayed so long in Fairy."i4 

By the use of light, delicate 
words such as "puff," "tip," and 
"Fairy," Benet puts across the idea 
of a small, dainty, laughing person. 
The "My Fair Lady" poems make 
me think that to Benet they were 

10. Ibid., p. 429. 

11. Ibid., p. 432. 

12. Ibid., p. 457. 

13. Ibid., p. 357. 

14. Ibid., p. 354. 



a busman's holiday. He wrote 
his heavier works because he wished 
to put over an idea; he wrote to 
Rosemary because he wished to en- 
joy himself. 

Altogether, Benet's power as a 
poet lies in his ability to paint 
word-pictures, his use of rhythm to 
achieve an effect, his use of under- 
statement, his ability to make peo- 

ple of the past, or imaginary 
characters, come alive, but more 
especially in the moving force which 
lay behind both his major works, 
and most of his minor works, with 
the exception of the Rosemary 
poems. That force was his devo- 
tion to America, and that, in itself, 
was his greatest contribution to 
American literature. 

Anything Can Happen 

By Gear ye €Mnd Hfeten Papashvity 

Reviewed by Kathleen Norris, College '45 

Anything Can Happen is the 
record of George Papashvily's 
twenty years in America. Enter- 
ing the United States as a Russian 
immigrant, he married an Ameri- 

of the adaptations of a foreigner 
to our '^melting pot of the worldf." 
As an instance of this charming 
narrative there is the ridiculous in- 
cident where George found that he 

can girl and began his adjustments could not sleep on the grass in the 

to the new world, which he de- park because of the police, but the 

scribes so hilariously in his book, park benches were free. Yet there 

It is essentially a series of anec- were iron armrests every two feet 

dotes told in story form and writ- along the benches. "How could I 

ten down by his wife exactly as distribute myself under them?" 

he told them, with his florid Ian- Not yet having conquered the Eng- 

guage and contagious humor, and lish language, Mr. Papashvily's 

with the appeal of George's joyous idioms and attempted poetic 

philosophy of life. phrases add color to the already 

Delightful and humorous but hilarious anecdotes. A refreshing 

with the sincerity of an account of escape from the present-day war 

the experiences by which an immi- novels, Anything Can Happen is 

grant becomes a citizen, Anything recommended for a brief relaxa- 

Can Happen is an interesting study tion. 

MAY, 19 4 5 


Color Impressions ot Childhood 

By May Kt»ygiwB 

College '46 

Childhood is a bewildering time 
but a happy time. Luckily it can 
never be forgotten; the sense im- 
pressions of childhood remain 
through life to brighten a dull 
moment, give a crisis some full 
meaning, or recreate an impression 
within us. Childhood with all its 
haze, its fairy-like quality, and its 
glorious dreams of the future in 
which we expect complete fulfill- 
ment, can always be recalled hap- 
pily for all its precocious innocence 
and attempt at worldly knowledge. 
The complete satisfaction of the 
child at the few bits of information 
he has grasped give him a "heady" 
feeling never again experienced. 

My impressions through life have 
been linked with color and sensi- 
tiveness to its beauty. It was the 
huge scarlet ball on the Christmas 
tree that first occasioned my pop- 
eyes and slightly cross-eyed stare 
at the age of four months. 

Color, there was always color. 
It lay in the forbidding blue-grey 
dark before a rain and in the rain- 
bow that followed, the immediate 
flash of light at the touch of a 
tiny button and the soft glow of 

the nightlight in my room, the 
young green of early grass and the 
willows in our yard, the soft elfin 
green of the moss beneath my sand- 
pile, from which the forbidding 
green of a large toad blinked, his 
throat pulsating; the promising 
green of a pussy willow bud, and 
the fragrant shiny green of our 
Christmas tree ... on these things I 
came to depend as a child. / 

The colors of dresses excited rne. 
The softness of a lavender vewet 
party dress, the shimmer of' a 
lavender ribbon in my straight 
brown hair, and the soft glow of 
the silver Lorraine cross that my 
father had brought back from 
France gave me a feeling of age, 
though to an outsider it merely 
accentuated my youth. The warmth 
and sunniness of a peach cotton 
dress with bloomers to match, 
which I proudly displayed to all 
who passed by, pleased me. 

Color became alive in flowers. 
The deep color of golden rod, 
bittersweet, and fallen maple leaves 
quickly became a vivid and searing 
part of my childhood. Zinnias 
with their deep hues particularly 



appealed to me as lollypops stand- 
ing straight and tall. And why 
didn't roses taste with all their 
searing brave color? It puzzled 
me and I failed to accept it. With 
childish determination each rose 
was tasted and rejected. 

Other color sensations reached 
me. A lettuce grater and a box of 
crayons thrilled me, for when 
grated and allowed to fall upon the 
steps of the porch, they formed a 
varied if extravagant mass of tint 
and shade. 

Color; I sensed it and felt it 
even in sleep, I could close my 
eyes and tiny pinpoints of it swept 
before me. I could waken, and it 
was there reassuring me in the 
ivory of my bed, the rough tan of 

my teddy bear, the sober blue of 
my robe and the scarlet of my tiny 

The world is color conscious. It 
is the dull khaki, the "pinks," the 
forest greens, navy blues, and crisp 
whites. It is the silver and gold 
of wings and crossed rifles, the 
dark green and sienna of camou- 
flage, all too often the dull black- 
red of blood and the yellow and 
purple of a telegram, the red, the 
white, and the blue. 

To the child who first noticed 
a gay scarlet ball, it becomes some-, 
times sad, sometimes happy but it 
is the theme of my life, that thind 
which weaves itself in with all my 
dreams and all my recollections of 

The Snow Is You 

tSy Shiri&y JetEtmne BwMnt 

College '45 

Swirling, dodging, dancing with glee 
Flirting, winking at each stoic tree 
Tripping lightly across the ground 
Joyfully greeting a new playground. 
Silently, peacefully, flowing on, 
Mocking the summer recently gone. 

You are as beautiful, disturbing, and haunting, 
Shy and provocative, your powers flaunting, 
Always glistening, radiantly white, 
The snow is you in all its delight. 

MAY. 19 4 5 


little lost Pup 


By IMairy SMendrieks 

Preparatory School Senior 

^'Oh the saddest of sights in this 

world of sin, 
Is a Httle lost pup with his tail 
tucked in." 

He wasn't a beautiful pup, to 
say the least. He had more fox 
terrier in him, perhaps, than any- 
thing else. He was a tiny thing, 
not more than a few weeks old, 
and so dirty that it was impossible 
to detect his color. His ears were 
a little too long, his tail a little 
too short. His amber eyes were 
pleading as he gave a plaintive 
sniff at each passer-by, who either 
ignored him completely or cast a 
cold glance in his direction. He 
lowered his eyes and shuffled on 
his way, not unlike a poor tramp 
who has been refused a meal. 

I don't know what made me 
smile at him. Maybe I did it ab- 
sently, or maybe it was to reassure 
him that I was not an enemy. At 
any rate, his whole expression 
changed. His face lit up, his tail 
began to wag vigorously, and there 
was a new spring to his step. 

My heart sank at I noticed he 
was following me. I could not 
have that. No doubt he was a 

very nice pup, but I had been so 
devoted to my dog that died, I 
had made up my mind never to get 

"Go away, pup," I commanded 
firmly but gently. 

He was so pleased at my speak- 
ing to him that he actually quick- 
ened his pace. He thought I had 
beckoned to him, and although he 
was weak for want of food, he was 
trying to oblige me. ' 

I motioned him back with imy 
hand, and misunderstanding /the 
gesture, he trotted forward and 
licked my hand with his warm little 
tongue. I pushed him away. 

"Get!" I cried harshly, "go along 
now. Leave me alone!" 

I walked a little faster. Unable 
to resist a backward look, I turned 
my head slightly. Out of the cor- 
ner of my eye I saw he was hesi- 
tating. He took a few steps, 
stopped, then deciding to try me 
again, he continued. 

Becoming exasperated, I picked 
up a rock and threw it. The pup 
gave a pitiful little yelp, lifted one 
of his paws and limped away. The 
look he gave me revealed surprise, 



bitter disappointment in me and 
utter despair. 

''You didn't have to do that," 
his eyes told me. "I guess I had 
you wrong." 

His look shamed me. I handn't 
really meant to hit him, only to 
scare him. Making a sudden de- 
cision, I knelt and snapped my 

"Come on, boy," I pleaded, 
"come here." 

He eyed me distrustfully, then 
with a joyous yap he bounded into 
my arms. 

"Hey," I laughed as he licked 
my face affectionately, "cut it out!" 
"Oh the happiest sight in this world 

so fair. 
Is a gay little pup with his tail in 


e air. 


By J^nn Shnrpc 

Behind me there's a greener slope of hill, 

Where echoes from a merry laughter lie; 

The careless yesterday I loved until 

I saw your eyes and felt the laughter die. 

For love was young, and yet across my heart 

Fate flung his shadow o'er our glory day. 

But the thunder of the times that made us part 

Can never keep your soul from mine away. 

And though you leave, I shall not say goodbye, 

For there will be a dawn of deeper dreams, 

A dawn in which a laughing you and I 

May roam again the moors and mountain streams, 

And see beyond the dark horizon's rim 

The light a million tears could never dim. 



MAY. 19 4 5 


God Said "No 


By 31ary Hendricks 

Preparatory School Senior 

Through eyes filled with bitter- 
ness Scott watched the small chil- 
dren playing by the pond. The 
day was hot, but in the park it was 
cool. A huge oak shaded the pond 
while another shaded the bench on 
which Scott sat. A wide path lined 
with stones led to and from the 
pond. Today the path was fre- 
quented by many, old and young 

Poor kids! thought Scott, they 
are so young, so pitifully young. 
They see everything through rose- 
colored glasses. Too bad they have 
to grow up. 

He looked down at his wooden 
leg and his mouth twisted into a 
wry grimace. His eyes were filled 
with hurt, torture, and hatred; 
hatred for his wooden leg, hatred 
for himself, and hatred for God. 

Before the war Scott had been 
steadily gaining note as a poet. He 
had loved beauty and everything 
about nature. How could he help 
showing this love in his poetry? 
His joyous spirit had been so con- 
tagious that people felt uplifted 
when they read his verse. No won- 
der his poems were the delight of 

the public! ''Interpreter of beauty" 
he had been called, as, indeed, he 

Some time after Pearl Harbor, 
he had joined the Marines and 
after months of waiting, he had 
been sent to Guadalcanal. He h^d 
fought and fought until he had 
almost dropped with fatigue. He 
hated war. Lord, how he hated it. 
War was ugliness. He hated ugli- 
ness. ^ 

Then one hot, damp day, asihe 
ran for shelter, his leg was riddled 
by a Jap machine gun. In the base 
hospital the doctors had debated 
the question of saving his leg. 

"Oh God," he had prayed fever- 
ishly for what seemed hours, ''don't 
let them take my leg. Let me 
come out of this whole and sound 
that I might go back and fight 
again. Please! God, please!" 

They had amputated that night. 
He was sent home in a week. 
Funny, it all seemed Hke a bad 
dream now. 

His joy of living was gone. His 
love of beauty . . . gone. He could 
no longer write poetry. He was a 
dreamer, an idealist, with his 



dreams taken away, with reality 
forced upon him. He was of no 
use on earth. Why hadn't God 
answered his prayer? Why? Sure- 
ly, God had granted less important 
requests than that. Surely, God 
could see how important his leg 
and winning the war were to him. 
Why, then, had He not answered? 

Abruptly he looked up. A little 
girl with golden curls and a round 
dimpled face had seated herself 
beside him. 

'^What's your name?" she asked. 

"Scott," he answered, trying to 
smile, ''what's yours?" 

"Sally," she replied, then she 
grinned importantly. "I'm going 
to have a birthday Wednesday." 

"Oh, are you?" said Scott. 
"How old will you be?" 


"That's swell," said Scott. 
"What do you want for your birth- 

"I want a puppy; a little white 
puppy with a black spot over his 

"Do you think you'll get one?" 

"Mamma says I might if I pray 
to God every night and ask Him," 
said Sally. She cocked her head 
sideways. "Do you think so?" 

"I don't know," Scott said slow- 
ly, trying to hide the irony in his 


'I'll tell you whether I get him 
or not," Sally promised. "I'll come 

back Thursday afternoon and tell 
you. I come here every after- 

"You do that," said Scott. "I'll 
be waiting." 

What brought him back to the 
park that Thursday? Scott didn't 
know. He only knew that some- 
thing drew him down that stone- 
lined path to the bench beside the 
pond. Children were playing 
around the pond as before, but 
where was Sally? There she was, 
running down the path. She| 
skipped toward him eagerly. | 

"I got a doll and a new dress 
and a game — " | 

"Did you get your puppy?"| 
Scott interrupted. i 

"No." ^ j 

"Then God didn't answer your 
prayers, did he?" Scott said grimly. 

"Oh yes, he did," Sally said con- 
fidentially. "God said 'No.' " 

Scott stared at the child dazedly. 
What a fool he had been! He had 
believed that God had forsaken 
when actually he, Scott, had been 
the one to forsake. He had for- 
saken everything he loved; joy in 
nature, beauty, and even God. God 
hadn't turned His back on him; 
God had answered his prayers. 
God had said, "No." 

He had said, "No, it isn't my 
wish that you should go again to 
fight. Your leg cannot be saved; 
(Continued on Page 32) 

MAY, 19 4 5 


Gun at Fault 

By Mary Richards 

College '45 

The man's boots swished in the 
muddy water and a loose decoy 
floated down the swift moving 


^Burt, get it, will you?" 
''Pa, I couldn't. I'm sorry." 
The seventeen-year-old lad looked 
solemnly at his father, but the man 
seemed to ignore the incident, shift- 
ing the gun to his other shoulder, 
"Well, let's try over here, shall 
we?" The two went up on the 
bank and started to walk on in 
silence, waiting for a chance to 
shoot at a bird. The faithful, 
trained dogs followed closely too, 
and their dog faces had wrinkles 
on their foreheads as did the men's. 
It was more like four equal, alert 
hunters, than two men and two 

"There, shoot, Burt!" The boy 
pulled the gun quickly to position, 
aimed, and fired. As pilots react 
to flack, the birds didn't waver, 
but continued their flight in per- 
fect formation, looking like a 
squadron of bombers. Burt had 
been thinking about Jeanne and 
how much his father hated her and 
their relationship, when his father 

spoke. Failing to see the birds 
first, he was irritated and missed 
the shot. 

"Now look, son, you have to be 
quicker; you have to keep your 
mind on it. Watch me next time. 
You have to lead it more." Pres- 
ently the opportunity came and the 
older man shot. An expression of 
satisfaction and a feeling of a job 
well done came over him as the 
bird fell. He found a release in 
hunting that he was trying to shhw 
his son. Damn fool kid, getting a 
case on this Jeanne person. 

Fetching the mallards as instruc- 
ted, the pointers laid the dead 
ducks at their master's feet. 

"See how easy it is, son!" His 
expression was kind, and Burt re- 
solved to try harder. He kept his 
eyes open and his gun ready. 

"There!" The gun went off 
and the dogs brought back the 

"See, that's the way to do it!" 
Maybe the boy would make a 
hunter after all. Smiling to him- 
self, Mr. Wendel picked up the 
dead mallards. Since the quota 
had been reached, the four figures 



started back to the pick-up truck. 
Something about tramping through 
the country with the birds swing- 
ing from their sides makes men 
feel important. Burt was almost 
close to his father for those few 

"You know, son, hunting is kind 
of like life, when you stop to think 
about it. Your success depends 
upon such a little thing. A bullet, 
for example, just a tiny piece of 

Burt thought about the way 
Jeanne's eyes had become like steel 
when he told her his father had 
forbidden him to see her. Such 
beautiful eyes, like the softest gray 
of a frisking rabbit's tail, to be- 
come so cold. 

"That's like life, you know." 
Mr. Wendel was almost carried 
away by his analogy. "It is the 
little things that count!" 

Little things? Did it matter 
when Jeanne didn't smile at him, 
or forgot to thank him for some- 
thing? Of course not, he knew 
what she meant. What difference 
did it make that she sometimes 
forgot to listen to what he said? 
He must see her. Even if he had 
to run away! Even . . . 

"Are you listening to me?" 
"Yes, sir." 

"As I was saying, a bullet can 
mean so many things. It can either 

mean a duck for Sunday dinner, 
or I could hit a tree, or the bullet 
could go straight up and not do 
any good at all. On the other 
hand . . ." 

He almost gets a fiendish pleas- 
ure out of all this, Burt thought. 

"You might shoot your dog or 
even a human being. Now the 
vital thing here is: it is all in your 
aim and how good a judge you are. 
All of life is made up of situations 
like that. The explosion depends 
on a small finger pulling a tin)| 
lever that makes the bullet leavej 
the barrel, giving you either a dead 
mallard, nothing, or one less huf 
man being on the earth." The o\<f 
man chuckled at his extended 
cleverness. / 

If I'm hurt, think how Jeanrte 
must feel. Burt heard only an 
occasional word. 

"The most important thing, un- 
less you get your mallard, then, is 
the numbness in your finger and 
the bruise on your shoulder where 
the gun kicked, and your deter- 
mination to do better next time. 
Get the connection? In any situa- 
tion it depends on your aim, and 
your judgment which determines 
how and when you pull, which gets 
you your results. Kind of deep, 
isn't it?" 

"Yeah, deep." Burt had his 
clothes packed now and could see 
(Continued on Page 33) 


19 4 5 



By Iris T turner 

College '46 


It was Monday morning, wash- 
day at the Jansens'. It was a long, 
lazy morning with heat so heavy 
in the air that it seemed to have 
stopped the activities of everything 
on earth except children, "niggers," 
and flies. 

Out in the Jansens' back yard, 
the sounds of these heat-loving 
creatures were suspended in the air 
— the sudsy sloshings from the 
wash-house, big, black Angelina's 
mournful chant, a duet with the 
gutteral sounds of clothes being 
scrubbed over the tin ridges of a 
washboard, the buzz of flies around 
the kitchen door, the muted con- 
versation of the children playing. 

The Jansens' little daughter, Pa- 
tricia, and Angelina's "Bilbo 'n 
Elly" were parading around the 
yard in clothes which they had 
stealthily removed from the pile of 
dirty clothes Angelina was washing. 

The two little girls were sharing 
a pair of faded blue slacks, the 
legs of which were not meant to 
hold even one small girl apiece. 
Behind them flapped Bilbo, his 
small body enveloped in a long 
striped nightshirt. 

Suddenly Bilbo, growing tired of 
this performance, ran over to the 
high fence surrounding the yard, 
clambered up to the top of the 
fence and stood on the top rail. 

"Hey Elly," he shouted, "y'all 
watch me. Ah'm a parachute." I 

He held out the sides of the 
nightshirt and jumped. The little 
girls, not to be outdone, repeated 
his action until their loud squeals 
brought an enraged Angelina from 
the wash-house. I 

"You no-court chilun! You 
mus' think I ain't got 'nuff to do 
'thout yo sneakin' mah dutty does 
out 'n draggin' 'em all ovuh the 
ground. You get outen dem 

She snatched the nightshirt and 
slacks ofl' the ch Idren and stalked 
back to her work. .^ 

Deprived of their costumes, Pa- 
tricia, Bilbo, and Elly retired to a 
bare plot of ground out of Ange- 
lina's sight. They squatted down 
on the ground and began to draw 
pictures on the dirt with sticks. ■ 

After a glance in the direction 
of the wash-hou:e, Elly said, "Pu- 



trisha, is you evuh seed a daid 

Patricia's eyes grew larger and 
she answered, "No — but I've seen 
a dead cat." 

"Huh!" broke in Bilbo, "a cat 
ain't nothin's. Why, me 'n Elly 
has seed mo' daid people than we 
kin count. I know where they's 
a daid HI' nigger gal right now." 

At this, Patricia was completely 

"Oh my goodness, Bilbo! Will 
you take me to see her? Please, 
will you?" 

"Naw, Mama'd whup me good 
if'n I took you down to Nigger 

"Oh please. Bilbo. I'll get yovi 
a cookie from the kitchen if you 


With little more pleading {torn 
Patricia, and with a cookie in each 
hand, Bilbo was persuaded to take 
Patricia where the "daid gal" was,, 
and the little trio stole out of the 
yard, down the street, down a back 
alley until they came to Nigger 

They scuffed down the dusty 
road until they came to a shack 
with a crowd of negroes standing 
around in front of the building. 
Here Bilbo stopped, skirted the 
crowd, and crept around to the 
back door. He went in, assured 
himself that no one was in the 

room, and beckoned to the girls t»o 
come in. 

There in the dark room, lying 
on a broken-down sofa, was the 
figure of a small negro child. 

Patricia walked closer to the 
sofa. She felt no horror, no emo- 
tion at all — only curiosity. She 
looked at the child's kinky black 
hair, the starched gingham dress; 
then, feeling an irresistible desire 
to touch the child, put out her 
hand and touched the cold, black, 
face. She was filled with sudden,! 
wild terror, and she turned, ranj 
out of the house and didn't stop 
until she hit the broad mass of| 
Angelina, who was coming out oij 
the back yard to look for the 
children. I 

"Why, honey, what's the matter^ 
You runnin' lak a HI' scairt calf." 

"Oh, Angelina," gasped Patricia, 
"I saw a dead girl and I put my 
hand on her face and she was all 
cold and still. Angelina, am I 
ever going to be like that? Am I, 

Realizing what had happened, 
Angelina led Patricia over to th' 
back steps and sat down with her. 
She waited until the child had be- 
come quiet, and then she began to 
talk to her. 

"Now you hush cryin', Trisha, 
honey. You ain't got nothin' to 
be scared about. Don't you know 
that jus' niggers is like 'dat when 

MAY, 19 4 5 


dey die — all black 'n cold? White 
folks jus' lays up in dey pink 
cawfins and looks warm 'n purty. 
An' all dey frens sen' flowers and 
comes an' looks at 'em an' says 
'Don't she look natchel, tho'? 
Don't you be scared 'bout dat lil' 
gal down there." 

Just then Patricia saw two black 
heads peeping around the corner 
of the house. She saw Bilbo's 
skinny arms motioning frantically 
to her. 

Angelina was saying, "Now you 
jes' go on back an' play an' fergit 
'bout that black chile. I'se gon' 
whup dat Bilbo good for takin' 
you down there." 

Angelina went back to her wash- 
ing, and Patricia slipped around 
the corner where Bilbo and Elly 
waited for her. Bilbo, always the 
spokesman for the two, was first to 
voice his scorn of Patricia's fear. 

"Huh — I ain't nevuh gon' show 
you nothin' anymo'. You 'bout 
the biggest sissy I'se evuh seed. 
Runnin' away, an' den tellin' on 
me. I guess you're jes' an ole 
coward, thass all you is." 

Patricia answered him angrily, 
"You hush your mouth. Bilbo, or 
I'll tell Angelina on you. She's 
already going to spank you for 
takin' me down to Nigger Town. 
She said that white children don't 
have any business down there where 
there are dead niggers. Anyway, 
I wasn't really scared 'cause I 
knew that just niggers look like 
that when they're dead. If you're 
going to talk to me like that, 
though, I'm not going to play with 
you any more." 

With this, Patricia turned, ' 
marched back through the yard 
and into the house; Bilbo and Elly 
went to receive their "whuppin' " 
from Angelina. 

God Said "No" 

(Continued from Page 27) 

but that need not interfere with 
your work. Return home and con- 
tinue writing of beauty so that 
people will realize it is still on 
earth; so that they will realize there 
is something in the world other 

than ships, planes, bombs, guns, 
bullets, and factories. Make beauty 
live again." 

Scott rose unsteadily and, brac- 
ing himself on his cane, limped 
down the path on the leg he had 
not quite learned to use yet. His 
face radiated happiness. God had 
said, "No." 



/ Will Return 

By Margaret Bttuston 

College '46 

I will return 

And walk, once more, beside your tranquil shore. 

I shall listen 

To the roaring whisper of the waves 

As they break and rush precipitately upon the beach in the form of 

snowy, bubbling foam , 

To the serene, aquatic lore of your marshes. 
I shall gaze 
Out over your endless spaces, and dream of that which lay hidden from 

me beyond your horizon. 
I shall wonder 
At the various forms of life which you are forever creating and taking 

I shall wish 

Never again to part from the magic lure of your aquatic wonderland. 
I shall come back to you, someday, O Mighty Ocean, for you are my 

Yes, I will return. 

Gun at Faolt 

(Continued from Page 29) 

himself sneaking away. The hurt 
from the kick of the shot was all 
he had left and he was going to 
do better! 

"Well, Pa, we had a good day, 
didn't we? You know, someday 
I'll appreciate what you've done 
for me." 

Mr. Wendel was quite pleased. 
For the first time since that silly 
a£Fair his son seemed normal. He 
would have to have these little 
talks with him more often! Well, 
the bullet really got to the "heart 
of things" that time. He laughed 
aloud at his unspoken pun, but his 
son, holding his head high, didn't 
even hear him. Neither man knew 
that the gun had backfired. 

MAY, 19 4 5 


The Song ot God 

By barney MMnilingstM^ftrth 

Preparatory School Senior 

It is Spring in Tennessee. 

The sky is blue, 

Dotted with fleecy clouds. 

Yellow jonquils 

Wave gaily 

In the balmy breeze. 

Red-breasted robins 

Bob on the green grass. 

I stand at my window 

And watch all this loveliness. j 

And books on the table / 

Beckon me; / 

But I cannot reply; 

The song of God is stronger. 

It is Spring on the Rhine. 

The sky is gray 

With water-filled clouds. 

All the flowers 

Have been trampled 

Into the ground 

By marching feet. 

Shells sing death songs 

Through the air. 

I lie on my back 

And stare at all this. 

My comrades 

Beckon me to follow; 

But I cannot reply; 

The song of God is stronger. 



By Viaire Bisseii 

Preparatory School Senior 

The tangible hush of a tropic night, 
The sultry air and the whitecap's fright 
When the juggernaut roller shoves its way 
O'er the dancing waves and the veil of spray 
Where coral was once in sight; 

Moonlight caught in the thousand cups j 

Of the eager ripples where phosphorus sups 
On a meal of gold from a spangled sky, j 

While the trill of a night bird tries to vie ,- 

With the surf, and interrupts 

The crickets' song and the murmured gasp 
As wave strikes sand and slips back past 
Abandoned shells on the firm, black beach 
Which the yearning waters strive to reach 
And reclaim with coaxing grasp; 

The clouds forming lace across the stars, 
A spiderweb veiling Venus and Mars, 
An intricate pattern challenged by space 
As palm fronds whisper and breezes race 
Breathing mystery from afar; 

This is the scene a dreamer spies 
As he sits at a desk with half-closed eyes, 
'Til the oft-rebelling vagabond heart 
Is recalled to the present with a start 
And the picture fades and dies. 

M A Y, I 9 4 5 35 


Black Boy 

By Miichard JVriyht 

Reviewed by Kathleen Norris, College '45 

This vivid autobiography by heard of Fisk University or At- 

Richard Wright, who is considered 
the most brilliant young negro 
writer today, is a disturbing story 
of nineteen years in the South . . . 
from his birth until his "escape" 
to Chicago. Bom to poor parents 
of the lower class, Wright was al- 
ways an under-dog, and his story 
is that of a whole tragic race of 
people who have been stamped as 
inferior ... an unfinished story 
of a problem still to be met. 

The book is evidently an actual 
record as the author attempts to 
conceal nothing, even revealing his 
own emotional weaknesses and the 
tragic situation of his family un- 
relieved by any humor or bright- 
ness; but as bad as the world is, 
one can hardly conceive of such 
concentrated meanness and despair 
completely filling the life of a little 
boy . . . white or black. Mr. 
Wright's primary purpose seems to 
be to indict the whole "Jim Crow" 
system in the South, and he blames 
the brutalities and ignorance of his 
people on the fact that the Negro 
race is forever cut off from educa- 
tion and culture. It seems odd 
that through all his nineteen years 
in Mississippi Mr. Wright never 

lanta University or Tuskegee or 
Hampton, and surely the law of 
averages would have thrown his 
way a larger number of decent 
white people than he has known. 

In dealing with the racial ques- 
tion though, the South ... as a 
people . . . should know and try to I 
understand both sides of the situ- , 
ation, and here is a cry against the 
whites . . . which, though perhaps a ,' 
little extreme, is to be considered.' 
In reading Mr. Wright's document,; 
one should try to be guided h) 
one's intellectual side rather that 
by emotion alone. We who find 
the racial problem a sensitive spot 
on our emotions possibly may mis- 
interpret Mr. Wright's intentions, 
but even so, the book should be 

As a coming generation we are 
the ones to whom the problem has 
been given, and in order to come 
to any practical solution we must 
overcome sectional prejudice and 
personal emotion. Black Boy is 
the story, however extreme, of one 
Negro of the South out of thou- 
sands of Negroes . . . and it is well 
to know what the "other side"