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LYRASIS IVIembers and Sloan Foundation 

NOVEMBER • 1945 

>T HI E C 



Vol. 9 NOVEMBER, 1945 


No. I 



'fter many discussions and consultations about the size, shape, and color that 
would make Chimes demand to be read, we mentally crossed our fingers for luck and 
put the book into the hands of the printer. We hope you like our decisions. The, 
staff has two hopes for the first issue of our magazine. We want you to read it ea 
gerly from page to page, finishing with, "I just can't wait for the next issue!" W 
hope it makes you search for all the essays, poems, and short stories you've written in 
moments of inspiration and have been forgetting to send to Chimes. We love to read 
your work, and you'll find it amazing how literary and professional a rough bit of 
writing can become with a little polishing. Don't hide your work under a bushel or 
a stack of books ... at least not until we have read it! 

This year the staff departed from tradition to introduce a new assistant editor from 
the Senior-Middle Class with each issue. This time the editors chose Joanne Jeans, 
whose work is well-represented by her sonnet, "To A Rose" . . . "Sea," dashing salt 
water and foam . . . "Simple and Black, Please," which should make everyone ask, 
"Where is that wonderful place?" 

Inspired by Sally Flowers' clever "Rhyme and Time," we have started a separate 
poetry section. "Clair de Lune," by Camille Hancock, translates Debussy's magic from 
the language of lines and spaces to that of nouns and verbs. . . . "How Temporary," 
by Ann Marshall, retells a very well-known experience. 

Although poetry seems to be highlighted, humorous and intellectual prose was also 
submitted. Betty Cleveland wrote a lucid sketch of a fascinating character, "Juju." 
. . . "Wishful Thinking," by Priscilla Bailey, shows a different view of a feeling you've 
probably had many times. . . . Dot Hailey wrote an unusual explanation of "Why 
Chairs Have Legs." . . . "Transition," by Jane Erwin, is timely and thought-provoking 
to girls away at school. 

I wish I could mention all the good essays, poems, and reviews, but you will have 

to explore those for yourself! We hope you like our new Chimes and will help us 

make it better with each issue. 


nmuM ig 


Bette Pierce Editor 

Joanne Jeans Associate Editor 

Priscilla Bailey Review- Editor 

Ann Marshall Poetry Editor 

Iris Turner Exchange Editor 

Betty Cleveland Business Manager 

Margaret Anne Funk Circulation Manager 

Miss Martha Ordway Faculty Advisor 


Kay Keggin Editor 

Beverly Williams Pat McGauly June Brown 



Pat Shillings Kicki Moss Peggy Loving 

Ruth Evans 


Sally Flowers Hancock Bettye Jane Erwin 

High School Representatives 

Dot Hailey Clare Ann Drowota 


Dear! Dear! Author Unknown 3 

The Transition Betty Jane Erwin 4 

Preface to Poetry Iris Turner 5 

The Intangible Ann Marshall 5 

Simple and Black, Please Joanne Jeans 6 

Doubt Pat Shillings 7 

The Finale Kicki Moss 8 

Wishful Thinking Priscilla Bailey 10 

Why Chairs Have Legs Dot Hailey u 

To A Rose Joanne Jeans 12 

How Temporary Ann Marshall 12 

Clair de Lune Camille Hancock 13 

Rhyme and Time Sally Flowers 13 

"Juju" Betty Cleveland 14 

Yankee Faith Clare Anne Drowota 15 

No Genius • , Bette Pierce 16 

My Man Margaret Ann Funk 17 

Coronado Was A Sissy Priscilla Bailey 18 

Sea Joanne Jeans 19 


Barefoot Boy \W'n\\ Cheek Pat Shillings 

Rickshaw Boy Peggy Loving 

Ud Front Ruth Evans 

Guerrilla Wife Priscilla Bailey 




Dear! Dear! 

Author Unknown 

July 20 
Dear Diary, 

I thought that tonight, at last, I'd 
gotten that old feeling and could really 
put on paper some copy to go in the 
Chimes; but I tried my best and it was 
bad, so I'll sit back and wait a little while 
longer. You know how it's been? For 
two months now every time I thought I 
had it, it slipped away before I could 
find the tools for its capture. Tonight 
my trouble seemed to be the lack of prose 
to write in .... it always turned out 
poetry, little for one to delight in. I'll 
try again, but one never knows what re- 
sults I'll glean from my work. So just 
hold tight and patient be, my job I re- 
fuse to purposely shirk. 

August 1 
Dear Diary, 

This evening my trouble seems, as ap- 
parent as I was able to discover after 
lengthy and long-considered deliberation, 
thinking hard all the time, sitting calmly 
at my desk where the light is so poor I'm 
dreadfully ruining my eyes, which by the 
way are blue instead of green as I 
thought, that I, for some reason or other 
completely and undeniably unknown to 
me, am, by dint of my broad yet not so 
beautiful vocabulary, which I cultivate by 
spending an hour a day with the diction- 
ary, writing sentences that are stringy 
and full of absolutely unnecessary, irrel- 
evant, and irrevelent words, all of which 
I have no idea what they mean .... 

August 19 
Dear Diary, 

I really feel good, good, good tonight, 
so I don't care if it takes even until the 
end of time for me to get something writ- 
ten especially for you — the Chimes. I 
should care if I don't get to bed till 

three o'clock in the morning, but it's 
gotta be this or that and I prefer for it 
to be this so that when I get to Nash- 
ville, completing my sentimental journey 
on the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa 
Fe next Saturday night (the loneliest 
night in the week) I'll get by without any 
trouble or stuff like that there from 

However, as twilight time draws near I 
hear some good radio programs coming . 
on. If I loved you, Chimes, I'd concen- 
trate and write something like I said, but 
I think instead I'll just give the typewriter ; 
a kiss goodnight and listen to the Hit 

August 30 1 
Dear Diary, 

We girls lead a hard, hard life. Today 
I have washed windows, cleaned the house, 
done the laundry, polished the silver and 
the brass, cleaned out the pantry, canned 
twenty quarts of tomatoes, cooked three 
super meals, made a darling dress, an- 
swered the phone, mended fifteen socks 
(lost the sixteenth one somewhere) , 
scrubbed the kitchen floor and been ex- 
(Continued on Page 9) 

The Transition 

By Bettye Jane Erwin 

• Bettye Jane Erwin, versatile Senior-Middle 
from Little Rock, Arkansas, has but one ambi- 
tion .... to write a book and illustrate it 
herself. In addition to writing she likes to 
draw and eat chocolate eclairs. Her one 
great dislike is coffee cups without saucers! 

An hour ago at the station I left yes- 
terday behind me; I have nine hours until 
I arrive at my tomorrow. Nine hours be- 
tween yesterday and tomorrow .... 
this is my transition. 

I must think of so many things. I 
must plan and find a purpose for to- 
morrow so that, when I arrive, my feet 
will be planted firmly and safely on the 
ground. It is I who must do this plan- 
ning with no thought of help from those 
I left at the station. Now I must think. 
The wheels are chanting, "Seven more 
hours, seven more hours." 

An unfamiliar girl across the aisle of- 
fered me some candy. I smiled, thanked 
her, and we were no longer strangers. This 
caused me to look around at the other 
girls for the first time. I can tell by 
their appearance that we are going to the 
same place. 

One girl is sitting nervously on the 
edge of her seat with her eyes sparkling. 
There is such a radiant look of expec- 
tancy in her eyes that I find myself 
praying she will find everything she 
wants in her tomorrow 

Across the aisle sits a girl with her 
eyes closed though I know she is not 
asleep. Clutched tightly in her hand 
is a damp handkerchief. Her chin has 
a pathetic set of determination. She is 
trying so hard to be brave, but it is pain- 
ful to tear away from yesterday. I am 
sure she has left a large part of herself 
at the station. The wheels are saying, 
"Five more hours, five more hours." 

It is strange. I am experiencing all 
these emotions and many more, and yet I 
feel that I have no expression on my face. 

I got up to get some water and passed 
an old lady sitting across from one of 
the girls. She had such a frank expres- 
sion that I could read her thoughts at a 
glance. As I passed she looked at me 
with eyes that said, "And this one too 
.... so young, so healthy, with the world 
and life before her. I am old and life is 
behind me, but I am not envious. God 
bless you, my dear." I felt very un- 
worthy. The wheels are repeating, "Three 
more hours, three more hours." 

I see a little girl watching us with big, 
worshipful eyes. She must be thinking, 
"I wish I were a big girl. Then I could 
do anything I wanted to do. I would be 
smart and wear pretty clothes like they 
do." I can remember how many times I 
have thought that. If she only knew 
what little difference there is between a 
"big girl" and a "little girl." The wheels 
are saying, "One more hour, one more 

Tomorrow will be a time of learning, 
learning what life is all about. Part of it 
will come from books which will open to 
me the minds of men and women who 
have learned what I must know. Most 
of it will come through living with people. 
The most valuable lessons of all will be 
those I gain through experience. I must 
learn to be patient, tolerant, reserved, and 
so many other things. Above all I must 
learn to make the best of my opportu- 
nities, this one in particular. 

The chant of the wheels is slowing 
down. The harsh scream of the brakes 
sends my heart to my stomach with the 
sudden realization. I walk to the back 
of the car and open the door .... the 
door of opportunity. 

Preface to Poetry 

By Iris Turner 

• Idy Turner, Exchange Editor of Chimes and 
a member of the Senior class, resides in a con- 
densed area of our country called Philadelphia, 
Mississippi. Her main purpose in life is to do 
as little as possible, and her pet passions are 
riding, modern music, and orange wool blouses. 

Poetry is the literi's concession to 
man's emotional nature. Plans for world 
peace, history, short stories . . . anything 
which appeals to man's intellect .... 
may successfully be set down in prose, 
but when a person has experienced a great 
tragedy, love, or inspiration, it is in poetry 
that he seeks expression. A writer may 
put his experience into a story, or a novel, 
but he tells the story in the third person; 
it is only in poetry that he loses all inhibi- 
tions and bares his own soul for high 
school pupils to memorize. 

Poetry is primitive. It is significant 
that the literature of the ancient Egyp- 
tians, the Sumerians, and the Persians 
was chiefly poetry, that only as life be- 
came more complex did essays and other 
prose forms appear. As long as a child 
is chiefly concerned with passive living, 
with exploring the new world in which he 
finds himself, his literary inclination is 
satisfied, or even delighted with nursery 
rhymes. When he is indoctrinated to 
the plans, the wisdom of other men, and 
his interest is centered on arithmetic and 
spelling, as his life becomes more complex, 
he loses interest in rhymes and concen- 
trates on comic books. It is only fair to 

say that this metamorphosis is incomplete 
. . . after a few years he returns to ele- 
mentary things such as love and spring 
and finds himself once more expressing 
himself in meter such as ''How do I 
love thee." 

At any period in history in which free- 
dom, patriotism, emotionalism, and stress 
on the individual have been prevailing 
sentiments ... in the Classical, Romantic, 
and Modern periods .... poetry has 
been the mirror of the age. Homer, Pe- 
trarch, and Benet ... all writers of pe- 
riods of which these feelings were char- 
acteristic .... have chosen poetry as 
their medium of expression. 

Only recently poetry has lost its timid- 
ity about its subject matter and has ven- 
tured from the classic theme of eulogy, 
adventure, nature, and death to subjects 
more typical of our own time. Under the 
expert hand of such poets as Walt Whit- 
man and Carl Sandburg, the sights, smells, 
and sounds made by a locomotive and the 
beauty of a blast furnace have been trans- 
lated into powerful poetry. 

Even though it degenerates, or pro- 
gresses, according to the critic, to prose 
broken up into printed form, poetry, be- 
cause it is natural, primitive, and intimate, 
will continue to be the instrument with 
which men express their views on sub- 
jects which are vital. 

The Intangible 

By Ann Marshall 

Smoke floats by magnolia leaves; 
''You are lonely," sighs the breeze .... 
Rain falls in transparent spots. 
Hits the roof and changes shape. 
So must my day dreams fall, 
Evaporate, change, and 
Vanish like the smoke and rain. 

Simple and Blacky Please 

By Joanne Jeans 

. Joanne Jeans, Senior-M.ddle from Kan^a 
City, Missouri, is the Associate Editor of ths 
Lue of Chimes. She has a special fondness 
for minute blown-glass animals and hopes to 
go "id in the field of dramatic wntmg one 
Ti These days. Pineapple and "Night and 
Day" utterly send her. 

Have you ever walked unsuspectingly 
into one of New York's fashionable dress 
salons where a gown marked seventy-nine 
ninety-five is shoved into the corner to ^ 
make room for the ''better dresses? 
Well, I am entering such a shop right 
now Won't you come along? 

Stepping through the glass doors, held 
open by a doorman dressed in red with 
elaborate gold braid, I am greeted by a 
staunch French mademoiselle, attired m 
black silk, peering at me through a lorgn- 
ette, with a pile of very blue curls drip- 
ping from atop a towering pompadour. 
I have only a fleeting glance at this 
buxom, smiling creature, for my attention 
is immediately caught by her dazzlmg 
backdrop. On one wall chartreuse satin 
is draped from the powder blue ceiling 
to the thick mat of rose beneath; on an- 
other a mirror of enormous dimensions re- 
flects the shocking-pink couches which 
surround several multi-colored tile pools, 
where goldfish swim among tiny china 
castles. After a quick survey of this 
setting, I once again rivet my attention 
on "Frenchy," who is eagerly motioning 
for me to be seated on a billowy cloud 
of pink satin. Looking about anxiously, 
I realize that polite escape is impossible. 
"Frenchy" inquires as to what I would 
like to see, and I request an evening dress, 
fairly simple and black. Disappearing be- 
hind a curtain, she presently returns, 
arms laden. Apologetically, she explains 
that black is not so popular this season; 

that I should accentuate my youth with 
gay colors, which she proceeds to flash 
before my eyes. 

She first holds up a dazzling little 
number of pea green crepe sprinkled with 
dark green sequins, quite lovely, I de- 
cide, for the Beaux Arts Ball, but hardly 
suitable for an evening of dancing with 
Hubby. Next she displays a gown of 
pink feathers, in which I can imagine 
myself looking quite like an ostrich in 
full plume. 

A model, tall and slender, strolls by and 
is hailed by my attendant. Hands on hips, 
she parades up and down before me, 
looking very much like a young tigress 
in her costly yellow and black striped 
silk creation. Inwardly, I shudder, but 
smile pleasantly so as not to offend her 
feline feelings. 

Then Frenchy displays a rose and 
beige jersey ensemble with great gold 
buttons, quite Chinese in style; a rus- 
tling, blue taffeta formal covered with 
wide' silver scrolls; and a yellow lace cos- 
tume with enormous black bows . . . • 
all the essence of style, according to 
Mam'selle, who points out their exact 
duplicates in the recent copies of Rogue 
and harper's. Anxious to fit me into 
this lush merchandise, she rushes me down 
a spacious hall, walled in turquoise vel- 
vet, and sends me wide-eyed into a tiny, 
mirrored cubicle, where she soon pulls 
me in and out of at least half a dozen 
equally ridiculous frocks. 

Peering into the mirror, I see yards and 
yards of filmy, blue chiffon, decked with 
screaming red taffeta streamers. When 
"Frenchy" sticks a red flower in my au- 
burn hair, a flower which exactly 

matches the red roses encirchng my 
shoulders, the picture is complete. Is 
that atrocity in the looking glass really I? 
Quickly I slip into another gown, this 
one of rose crepe. It fits well enough; 
a few inches off the bottom and a slight 
waist adjustment are all it needs. Step- 
ping back, I survey this creation. At the 
waist is a small bunch of white lilies, the 
sleeves are short and capped, and the 
neckline is round. The longer I look at 
this one, the better I like it, that is, until 
I glance at the price tag. Oh, Oh! I 
might have known! The store has to 
make a good-sized profit to buy food 
for all those goldfish! 

As I smile in vague approval, Mam'- 
selle, deeming it necessary to have a 
fitter, rushes out and returns, breathless, 
a few moments later, dragging behind her 
an equally French and equally corpulent 
seamstress. Not too anxiously, of course, 
Mam'selle draws out her sales book, and 
her accomplice begins ripping and pinning 
and tucking the rose crepe until I despair 
for the life of the gown. At last I see 
my reflection. Here I am, practically 

sewn into the sleek crepe, neither simple 
nor black, but charming and gay, 

Mam'selle walks to the street door with 
me, chattering gaily about "how lovely 
ze gown she looks on, and how ze hus- 
band he will be so proud of his charmink 
wife." But I am wondering all the 
while "how ze husband he will like it 
when he zees ze price tag" "I bid au 
revoir to Mam'selle, who, happy at the 
extent of her recent sale, implores me to 
return soon and, no doubt, wonders why 
I ever bothered to ask for a simple, 
black dress. 


By Pat Shillings 

That night I walked beneath a bloody moon 

Half-hid v/ith sullen storm clouds. 

Walked alone ,: 

And felt beneath my feet 

The great earth tremble in a silent agony. 

And then I heard a scream 

That tore the whole throat of creation with its pain. 

For faith was gone, and certainty, 

And in the emptiness was doubt. 

And in my loneliness and fear, 

I cried once more to God. 

And the stillness was more terrible than death. 

The Finale 

By KIckl Moss 

• "Just lazy" is Vivian Moss' description of 
herself, but this Senior, who has often written 
for Chimes, plans to major in journalism and 
to work toward her master's degree. "Kicki" 
loves to read, and her selection ranges from 
history to funny books. "All sorts of lady- 
like sports," meaning football, basketball, and 
baseball, receive this girl's nod of approval. 

Here I commence an account of my 
last days on earth. Continue reading, if 
you will, for this is the last that shall ever 
be written. It is here on this day that 
the last part of the living world shall see 
death; the birds, beasts, and all creatures 
have been exterminated, their bodies cast 
aside carelessly as one would discard bits 
of paper and other lifeless objects. They 
are all gone save one lowly animal .... 
and that animal, I. The others fell where 
they were when this plague struck, quick- 
ly, mercilessly, and it took but a second 
to transport them from the world of the 
living to that of the dead. I look about 
and stand transfixed with horror at the 
scene before me. I have circled the earth 
in a frantic endeavor to escape this 
wild-eyed, maniacal Death (for that is 
how I think of "It") , and now I am 
back at the place from where I started. 
The road of life which once stood firm 
and straight in front of me is there no 
longer, for I have trod its weary path and 
stand now at the point where Death is 
the climax. Though all be dead and rot- 
ting about me, yet I am not alone; wher- 
ever I am, there "It" will be also, hover- 
ing in the dead bushes and sitting at my 
feet, laughing into my terrorized face, 
taunting me for my fear of the unseen 
and the unknown. Two days have elapsed 
since the last living thing, besides myself, 
died; he was a small ground squirrel, and 
as the last two with all-seeing eyes re- 

maining on this planet, he and I had be- 
come boon companions. And now nothing 
stirs; the breathless stillness is ringing in 
my ears, and I hear my heart pounding, 
pounding. Oh, for some mortal being 
to see, to talk to, merely to watch. Any- 
thing but this! This can't be happening, 
yet it is. There is proof of it in any 
direction I look; they are there . . . those 
decaying corpses and staring eyes, gro- 
tesque and unbelievable. This is one of 
those times when one is distrustful of 
^ his own senses. I tell myself I am mad, 
yet my mind countermands this statement 
and insists I am sane. I have reached 
down for large sticks with which to beat 
myself. Why, I don't know, perhaps to 
strike my head in an effort to shock my 
mind back to normalcy; however, the 
sticks were rotten and crumbled at my 
touch. There is no way out of this 
world save with the will of "It." For 
four days I have had nothing to eat, but 
I am not hungry. It is as if I, alone, have 
been selected to stand by and watch, tor- 
mented by my thoughts, while my human 
companions and all other living creatures 
were being locked behind barred doors of 
death. I searched for something to di- 
vert my mind. I can do nothing active; 
if I run, I stumble over the long-dead 
bodies; I cannot swim, for the multitude 
of lifeless fishes would hinder my prog- 
ress ... so I sit, and my thoughts are 
driving me out of my mind. I have 
searched my pockets and have found this 
dirty sheet of paper and a stubby pencil. 
While I am waiting for Death to strike 
me, I shall seek to create on this paper 
the diversion I need. Perhaps this paper 
will be found by someone; more likely it 
will remain obscure. I do not care. 

I can see the effect of this paper on my 
mind, for it is obvious to me that I am 
thinking more rationally. I feel a linger- 

ing terror of Death rather than madness, 
even though there be none to see the deca- 
dence of my brain. I still feel "Its" 
breath on my neck as it looks over my 
shoulder to read what I am writing, and 
I hear its infuriating laughter. You think 
I am mad? I shall not challenge the 
authenticity of your belief. All I know 
is that my mind is dulled with what is 
happening, and I can seldom think of 
more than the one hammering fact of the 
truth of the events that have taken place. 
It dominates and possesses me. Were it 
not for this paper Ii^Would have no outlet 
for my emotions and thoughts. I can 
hardly see to write. My watch says 6:20, 
but I know not if that is afternoon or 
morning. For many hours there has been 
no light in the world except a reddish 
glow that radiates from the heavens. It 
is probable that only when I, the last liv- 
ing mortal on this earth, die, that light 
will vanish, and the planet will be en- 
veloped in a heavy darkness, as is a 
stage when a curtain is drawn across it 
so that it can be made ready for the com- 
ing scene. I wonder how long it will be 
before I am taken up away from my life- 
less earthly companions. 

The writing of this has been over a pe- 
riod of days. I must write slowly and 
small, for there is not much paper and 
no eraser on this pencil. I still have had 
nothing to eat; there isn't anything alive 
... no grass, spiders, or flies . . . nothing. 
"It" no longer laughs but glides around 
with impatience and fills the air with 
tenseness and expectation. The end will 
soon come and the last of the human 
race shall perish, but it will be born 
again. It shall live and reproduce until 
the Almighty destroys it. Even now as 
I am writing, the sky grows darker, the 
red glow becomes dimmer. The wind, 
which died long ago with the stricken 

beasts, comes alive and brings cool com- 
fort to my body like an angelic creature 
from another world. There is a distant 
sound of thunder, like the grand finale 
of a symphony. I can no longer see to 
write. I sit here in the midst of a body- 
strewn no-man's land with the eerie light 
fading, and I can imagine I hear voices 
.... heavenly voices .... humming to- 
gether. I look about me and see no mov- 
ing thing, yet the music seems nearer. 
Suddenly I can see, and I look up to a 
ray of light penetrating two clouds. I 
understand. I must leave my writing and 
go, for they are waiting for me at the 
top. The world, the universe, is black, 
but this one beam is a hope and a prom- 
ise, and, like the rainbow, it will bring 
faith, peace, and eternal life. 

Dear! Dear! 

(Continued from Page 3) 

tremely domestic. Too tired to write 

(But YOU know the way to a man's 
heart, and after all the post-war ratio is 
seven to one!) 

September 1 1 
Dear Pierce, 

That last entry in the diary just goes 
to show you that having a Chimes as- 
signment hang over you all summer isn't 
healthy. The doctors say it's complete 
loss of mentality, but I don't believe 
them. Do you? You know how many 
long, luscious articles our school mates 
produce for the Chimes, don't you? Pub- 
lish these excerpts from a diary and then 
they'll let you join me in my new draped 
straight jacket. 


Reporter number 0500 


By Priscilla Bailey 

9 Priscilla Bailey, who hails from Omaha, 
Nebraska, has Hved there all of her eighteen 
years. Our Senior Chimes Review Editor has 
special interests in journalism, her major, 
bridge, and dancing. Pris, always the wit, 
admits her weakness for golf but says she does 
a better job of mowing the lawn! 

The dolls sat in stiff rows, their painted 
faces shining, their jointed arms out- 
stretched, waiting in vain for their mis- 
tress. If dolls could talk, perhaps mine 
asked over and over again where I was, 
and probably they wished that they be- 
longed to another little girl who would 
play with them lovingly. 

While my dolls waited forlornly for 
me, I played cop-and-robbers, dug caves, 
built tree houses, and played football. I 
had always wanted to be a boy; there- 
fore, early in life I decided that I would 
try to do everything the neighborhood 
boys did and do it just as well without 
saying meekly, "I'm iust a girl." 

I wonder now how many factors influ- 
enced that decision. Was it environment 
or heredity that made me such a tom- 
boy? Truthfully, it must have been a 
combination of both that caused me to 
ignore the happy faces of my dolls and 
hurry outdoors. 

We lived in a rapidly growing residen- 
tial district. When I first played in my 
yard and ran up and down the block, 
there were only a few houses. As years 
went by a fascinating change took place 
.... mechanical shovels scooped the 
earth from the ground, foundations were 
laid, workmen pounded and sawed, and a 
new house was built. Oh, the excitement 
of climbing down a rickety ladder into a 
damp new basement, of running the slip- 
pery sawdust shavings between my fingers, 
and of smelling the clean odor of newly- 
cut wood. I would talk to the men by 

the hour, and from them I learned some 
of my first lessons. They told me where 
the wood came from and how it was pre- 
pared in the mill; I learned that thick, 
heavy lumber could be transformed into 
huge sheets of paper, and even then I 
knew something of the chemical process 
involved in making cement. Day after 
day I sat watching and listening, and the 
saddest days of my life then were the 
ones on which I had to say goodby to 
those rough, kindly men. 

However, soon a new family moved into 
the house and there were new playmates. 
But when I went to the door to intro- 
duce myself, I found that boys lived in 
the house. During the thirteen years of 
my life that we lived in that neighbor- 
hood, I had no girls to play with me. An 
active child cannot play by herself, and 
so I turned to the boys' gang and tried 
valiantly to prove myself worthy of mem- 

Friends would often say to my parents, 
"Do you think it best that Priscilla play 



with those rough boys?" To these in- 
quiries they would reply that it was the 
best thing in the world for me. How 
could they have said otherwise? Mother 
received her university degree in architec- 
ture, and Daddy his in physical education. 
I have never known a time when my 
mother could not fix any mechanical de- 
vice in the house; she was far happier in 
drawing plans for houses and supervising 
their building than in running a house. 
No, Mother knew that those traits had 
been inherited by her daughter, and she 
also knew that th^y were intermingled 
with many traits of my father. 

When other httle girls would tell me 
about the new fairy stories their fathers 
had told them, I was bursting to tell them 
about the Nebraska-Pittsburgh football 

game. I would tease my father for stories 
of exciting sports events. I knew about 
lateral passes and the Notre Dame back- 
field before I had heard of the Bobbsey 
Twins. Dad would draw diagrams of 
different plays, and how proud I was 
when I could teach the gang a trick play! 
It was hard to grow up. I didn't un- 
derstand why I couldn't play tackle with 
the older boys. I didn't mind the bumps; 
it was far worse to have to sit on the 
sidelines. But I had to be content with 
carrying water and oranges to the team 
and cheering them on. A lady once said 
to me, "Aren't you glad you aren't being 
thrown around on that muddy field?" 
She didn't know that I still wish with all 
my heart that I too could slip and slide 
in the mud, for I still wish I were a boy. 

Why Chairs Have Legs 

By Dot Halley 

There are many things in this world 
that we take for granted, never realizing 
that there is a story of interest connected 
with each of them. For instance, why do 
chairs have legs, why don't people still 
sit on fat cushions on the floor, as was 
the custom long ago? Here is an instance 
that may or may not have happened. 

Once upon a time, in the distant land 
that is today called Afghanistan, there 
lived a very jolly little king. He was 
just and kind to all his subjects; conse- 
quently everyone loved him.. The wealth 
of this king was incalculable. His palace 
was splendidly built and gorgeous to be- 
hold; its carpets were especially woven in 
Persia to fit each room. 

One room in particular was acclaimed 
the most beautiful in all the kingdom. 
The rug was of all-colored fruit design 
woven on a deep gold background. Rich 
purple drapes were hung at the windows; 

great gold candelabra were placed at in- 
tervals along the four walls; incense of 
a very delicate spiced scent burned in the 
incense burners at all times. The dining 
table was a long wooden box three feet 
tall, and always it was covered with a 
white linen cloth and laden with all 
things good to eat. The chairs were 
merely cushions which were covered with 
wine velvet. 

In the midst of all these luxuries the 
king lived happily for many years; but 
eventually he began to gain weight. The 
fatter he became, the merrier he was; and 
the merrier he was, the more he ate. Soon 
he became known as the fattest little man 
in all the kingdom. 

This did not bother the king; every 
month he gave a banquet for all his 
noblemen. At the end of one of these 
feasts a most embarrassing situation arose. 
The king started to rise to address his 
(Continued on Page 14) 

Rhyme and Tim< 

To A Rose 

By Joanne Jeans 

When sunlight streams into the garden space, 

And beckons forth the rose's tiny head 

Of yellow velvet, purest white, or red, 

'Tis nature's own that lifts its dainty face. 

And opens wide its petals to embrace 

The soft, June breeze, which stirs the leaves o'erhead. 

Such fragrant perfume scents its summer's bed, 

And draws the passer-by unto that place. 

Oh, lovely rose! You are as fair as youth. 

Your tender bud is like the blushing maid. 

While she grows into womanhood, in truth, 

You blossom into velvet folds; then, fade 

Away. And woman, too, soon finds her hour 

Of life has fled, as in the roses' bower. 

How Temporary 

By Ann Marshall 

Enamoured soul, so much in love, 

I find we're now apart. 

Blue ink flowed through your every vein; 

An ink well was your heart. 

Your letters used to come each day 

With pages of affection .... 

You loved my hair, my eyes, 

My height, and even my complexion. 

Because of what I said, you've changed 

From love to adversary. 

Your letters came, the past was sweet, 

But yet .... how temporary! 


Clair de Lune 

By Camllle Hancock 

What place is this? 

Some Eden far from earthly spheres? 

A lonely stretch of emerald grass, 


Moonlight like a silver stream 

Silent, unmoving, utterly lonely. 

A pan's pipe's echo hanging breathless 

On the air . . . and yet, unheard. 

Gentle stars .... serenely caught 

In the infinite velvet of the night sky. 

Something profound and lonely stirs 

Deep within me .... 

Memory's fancy perhaps 

Shall cause me to forget this silent grandeur. 

Oh, God .... let me keep it ... . 

Let me forever keep it ... . 

I shall return in my thoughts a hundred limes 

And here my bitterness, my sorrow. 

Innumerable worldly hurts 

Shall find succour. 

Rhyme and Time 

By Sally Flowers 

When I want a little verse, 

N'er a word will seem to I'hyme. 

I sit and fume and cuss and curse, 

The meter's most uneven time. 

I feel it in my heart and soul, 

Emotion sweeps me from above, 

I strive in vain to reach the goal, 

There're so few words that rhyme with love. 



By Betty Cleveland 

• Betty Cleveland, Chimes Business Manager, 
is definitely the most Senior member of the 
staff because she worked as a Penstaff girl for 
three years before graduating to Chimes. Betty 
lives in Wartrace, Tennessee, and just "can't 
keep from collecting stamps and studying polit- 
ical science!," 

Unlike the traditional antebellum 
"mammy," "Juju" neither wears a ban- 
danna nor possesses excessive avoirdupois. 
One would think that her smallness were 
a sign of fragility. On the contrary, / 
there is no job around the house of which 
"Juju" is not capable, no matter whether 
it is "totin' " heavy lard stands or balanc- 
ing a tray of empty fruit jars. 

But "Juju" is more than a cook. As 
a member of the family she has been 
major-domo, housekeeper, nurse, and even 
more important, "father-confessor" to the 
family's tribulations. 

There has never been any service too 
large for "Juju" to do for "her" family. 
Though she eats little herself and seldom 
acquires new recipes and menus, there is 
no end to her recipe repertoire. If some 
member of the family is ill, it is never 
too troublesome for "Juju" to prepare 
extra dishes which she herself often brings 
into the sickroom. In the same spirit, she 
loves for us to have guests as she says 
she had rather be at home with us, than 
at her house with nothing to do. 

Some day the old-fashioned darky may 
be extinct. My sister and I will remem- 
ber Julia when telling our grandchildren 
of the joys of being spoiled by a Negro 
"mammy." We will tell them of the 
little things she did, her love of plants 
and her abhorrence of feeling small kit- 
tens and baby chicks, and of how she 
pulled down all the shades at night and 
always locked the front door lest some 

stranger come in without her hearing. We 
will remember then her stately moving 
about the kitchen on a winter's morning 
preparing breakfast for us to eat there on 
the stove. We will remember her com- 
forting words after we had received some 
well-deserved spanking and her asking us 
to read her mail aloud. 

Some day the last of the old coloured 
retainers will be in another world, and we 
will know "Juju" is happy in a heaven of 
flowers, watermelons, and small children 
for whom to make muffin cakes. Her 
loyalty will not go unrewarded. Having 
never missed a day of work or even been 
late, she is known in the Wartrace com- 
munity as a truly great lady. 

Why Chairs Have Legs 

(Continued from Page 11) 

guests; but to the dismay of everyone 
present, he was unable to get up from 
his pillow. Such a calamity! It took 
three of his servants to boost him up, and 
by that time the king was too flustered to 
speak. All the noblemen went home sor- 
rowfully. Their king was unhappy; he 
could not rise unless he lost weight; and 
he could not diet because eating was the 
essence of his life. He lost his dignity 
and refused to see anyone. Something 
had to be done! 

Finally one day a young man came to 
the gates saying he must see the king 
because he had a solution to the problem. 
He was instantly shown into the throne 
room where the king stood waiting. Every- 
one held his breath as the lad unveiled the 
object he carried. There stood a chair 
with four sturdy legs! The king sat down 
and then stood up all by himself. Every- 
one cheered. Here indeed was the solu- 
tion, and everywhere in the kingdom 
people were soon sitting in chairs with 


Yankee Faith 

By Clare Anne Drowota 

Aunt Julie's faith in God was really 
amazing. Despite her advanced age, a 
Sunday never passed, rain or shine, that 
did not find her seated at the front of 
the church in the red plush armchair kept 
especially for her. 

We smaller children were not repelled 
as our elders often were by Aunt Julie's 
tapping cane and fierce glances as she 
hobbled leisurely dj^wn the church aisle 
.... we knew that hidden beneath the 
billowing folds of her five petticoats and 
two skirts Auntie had hidden a plentiful 
supply of chewing gum and peppermint 
sticks which were most tempting to our 
greedy eyes, though usually quite gummy 
from long exposure to air. 

The only word that can fittingly de- 
scribe that dear, old lady is that of char- 
acter. One would have to look far and 
wide to find another like her. Aunt 
Julie had the distinction of being the only 
woman to hold a pension from the United 
States government, and she was extremely 
proud of her war record, her sightless eye, 
and maimed left hand that gave evi- 
dence of that struggle many years ago 
when Julie, then a girl of sixteen, fought 
and killed a Confederate soldier. It was 
not an easy task, but Aunt Julie treated 

the whole affair nonchalantly until one 
day I asked her about it. 

"Aunt Julie, haven't you ever been 
afraid God would punish you for that 
act?" I inquired timidly for I knew the 
old lady's temper had not decreased with 

But she replied with a relish that made 
me forget any former misgiving. 

"Child," she said, "the United States 
is still paying me for that deed and if 
it's all right with them, I guess maybe 
God will understand too." 

And with that the conversation ended 
and I dared not broach the subject further. 

A few days later we heard that Aunt 
Julie had gone to meet the God she 
trusted so implicitly. After ninety-eight 
years she was quite ready to die. Some 
of us, looking down on that pitiful, wan 
figure, pathetically thin without her five 
petticoats and skirts, had to smile a little 
as we saw her lying there in death. For 
the first time she looked utterly at peace, 
and we knew her faith had upheld her. 

Twelve years have passed since then. 
Twelve years in which many forget the 
stooped figure that sat in the plush arm- 
chair every Sabbath morn; but to those of 
us who remember it seems as though we 
can still see her tapping down the aisle, 
glaring at the congregation .... with her 
pockets filled with peppermint. 



No Genius 

By Bette Pierce 

• Bette Pierce, Editor of Chimes, is from 
Texas . . . i. Corsicana to be exact . . . and 
quite proud of the fact. A Senior, she loves 
and adores good music, sleep, and books, and 
she thinks people who don't are absolute dodos! 
Bette is majoring in English and German and 
plans to make a career of executive journalism. 

It's discouraging, infuriating, and posi- 
tively maddening. If it isn't chemistry, 
it's English; if it isn't that, it's music; or 
swimming; or keeping out of trouble. 
Perhaps you know how it is when you stay ^ 
up all night studying for a quiz only to 
make a grade that isn't mentionable in 
print, while the carefree character sitting 
on your right, who has taken in a movie 
and played bridge the night before, comes 
up with an A with no effort at all. You 
can call it fate, luck, or Wyrd if you like, 
but I call it genius. 

Somehow or other I was behind the 
door when they passed cut this quality, 
and I've been suffering ever since. I can 
still hear my determined mother telling 
her friends that while I might not be as 
mentally alert as other children, I could 
sing a little. Then my voice changed. 
When I was old enough to pick out 
"Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum" on the 
family piano, I was told that I was very 
musical. When I wrote my first high 
school theme and made a passing grade 
on it, I could write. Only when I 
reached college did I discover that I was 
the victim of foul circumstance and opin- 
ion. I am no genius .... dodo might 
be a better word for me. 

When I entered this institution of 
higher learning, I was still misguided 
enough to believe that my future .... 
bright and shining .... lay in the field 
of journalism. In a frenzy of endeavor, 
I tried out for the newspaper staff. My 


only answer was the disgusted look on 
the editor's face when she had read my 
first offering to the gods of "heads and 
types." Undaunted, I spent many hours 
working on a potential write-up for the 
annual. The editor was very kind and 
let me do odd jobs around the office. 
(Have you ever tried to type the activ- 
ities of five hundred seniors?) There 
was one more faint glimmer of hope .... 
Chimes. In a last desperate attempt I 
drug out my trusty Webster's Abridged 
and spent my final bits of creative energy 
putting its words together. When the 
editor told me that my essay had been 
accepted .... with the usual few revi- 
sions that I was expected to make .... 
I collapsed completely and spent my in- 
firmary days eliminating participles and 
adding gerunds. I was hysterical with 
joy! But this joy has died slowly, for I 
have not written one bit of acceptable 
poetry or prose since. English teachers 
always tell me, "There's nothing gram- 
matically wrong with this, dear, but it 
just lacks the Vital Spark." No genius. 
Sadly I turned from the world of 
Shakespeare and Saroyan to that of Rach- 
maninoff and Iturbi. Perhaps here lay 
that glittering future of which I dreamed. 
I practiced scales and arpeggios. Bach and 
Ravel, minuets and gigues, sonatas and 
tangos. My life was devoted to the fifty- 
two ivory keys of the Kurtzmann in prac- 
tice room 23, and my innermost soul 
reached out to grasp the intangibility of 
musical art. Then one sunny day (ah, 
cruel nature, you mock me even now) 
the blow came. I had played as I had 
never played before; I had swayed with 
the rhythm, torn my hair in passionate 
tribute to Apollo, and broken three fin- 
gernails besides. When I had finished, 
my teacher looked at me pityingly and 
said, "There's really nothing wrong with 
your playing .... it just lacks the Vital 
Spark." No genius. 

My future was bleak, utterly desolate. 
My dreams were in shambles, my type- 
writer was worn out, and my hands 
bulged with muscles from practicing. The 
only thing I could possibly become was a 
good citizen, so to this star I hitched my 
beaten and battered wagon. My lights 
were out at nine, I had social hours to 
spare, I was fifteen minutes early to all 
classes, my cuts mounted up, I was a 
GOOD girl. But, as always, misfortune 
caught up with me. The only time I left 
my room after the light bell to get a 
drink of water, I f^l over the monitor as 
she was making her check. I playfully 
pinched the girl in front of me in the 
Tea Room line only to find that it was 
an important member of the personnel 

staff instead. The cab in which I was 
riding was caught in a traffic jam, and 
I reached campus thirty minutes too late. 
This sort of thing happened once too 
often, and now I find myself with a 
three-week campus sentence just for try- 
ing to be good. I don't even possess the 
genius that some lucky girls have for Not 
Getting Caught. 

It's infuriating, maddening, and posi- 
tively discouraging. I'm a failure and a 
bad citizen as well; my life is lying about 
me in shreds and tatters. There is only 
one course of action left. Therefore I 
shall draw the remains of my shattered fu- 
ture about me and start again. Journal- 
ism? NO! Music? NO! My studious 
days are behind me. My future is clear. 
I'm going to have FUN! 

My Man 

By Margaret Anne Funk 

• From Henderson, Kentucky, comes our Cir- 
culation Manager, Margaret Anne Funk, who 
yearns to teach English eventually. She has 
a passion for green peas, sirloin steak, and 
dancing. To get on the bad side of Margaret 
Anne, just refer to her as "Blondie." 

Let me tell you about this most amaz- 
ing incident! You, I know, have heard 
of all the things known as embarrassing 
incidents or impossible situations. Well, 
I have one here I should like to relate 
which was thrilling and embarrassing at 
the same time, and it really did happen. 

I was riding (or should I say stand- 
ing?) on the bus one calm Sunday morn- 
ing when the vehicle gave a lurch as it 
rounded a corner, and I was thrown bodily 
against a tall young man dressed in khaki. 
After picking up my hat and bag and 
putting myself together again, I looked 
up at the young man for the first time 
.... and it was love at first sight. 

I didn't say a word. He was speech- 

less. After all we had never been intro- 
duced, and both being shy we couldn't 
bring ourselves to ask the other his name. 
We just looked at one another . . . that 
was enough. As he was pushed farther 
into the back of the bus, he still looked 
adoringly at me, but no word was spoken. 
My heart stood still ... he was getting 
off at the next stop. What should I do? 
Pleadingly his eyes searched mine, but 
I was rooted to the spot. He started off 
the bus; in fact he backed out the side 
door still looking at me. I could see his 
haunting eyes as the bus driver, no longer 
being able to see him, closed the door 
and started on. There was my lovely man 
in the street running along side the bus 
trying to keep up with his head. Yes, 
believe it or not his head was caught in 
the door; his eyes were still looking into 
mine. What should I do? I screamed 
and the door was flung open immediately. 
My friend fell back into the street and 
we drove on. I never saw him again. I 
was crushed! 


Coronado Was A Sissy 

By Priscllla Bailey 

Who said Coronado discovered the 
Grand Canyon? 

Oh, we do beg the history books' par- 
don, but all he did was stand safely on 
the edge and triumphantly exclaim, "Men, 
we have discovered the grandest canyon 
in the world." 

We found the Grand Canyon too .... 
in fact we were so anxious to find it that 
we almost found ourselves in the muddy 
Colorado river with no chance to contra- 
dict Mr. Coronado's statement. The books 
don't know it, but we discovered this phe- 
nomenon of nature in the year of our 
Lord 1935, and had a far more exciting 
time than all the bands of Spanish ex- 
plorers whose names are recorded in the 
pages of time. 

The great explorer must have dreaded 
our intrusion and bribed the gods to help 
him keep us away. That summer night 
he shook with anger and the heavens 
roared with his wrath. The damp, cold 
rain was falling in torrents as the dim 
headlights of our car penetrated the ob- 
scure roads. In the back seat three fright- 
ened little children pleaded, "Don't go 
boom, Daddy." Daddy, at this point, was 
ready "to go boom" on three little pairs 
of pants. 

On either side of us were dark chasms 
plunging straight down ten miles or 
more. The road wound over the very 
tops of mountains, straight up and then 
barreling swiftly down, down, down. 
Then we were chugging up the last 
stretch toward the lights of the resort. 

With a faltering cough, we sputtered to 
a stop before the office and inquired 
about reservations. With a lurch we were 
off again just as a little Indian boy 
jumped on the fender and shouted, "Di- 
rect you, mister? Straight ahead." 

Coronado must have befriended that 
lad's ancestors because we took a ride that 
was worse than any on a run-away horse. 
We bumped over rocks and boulders, 
swung perilously on bridges that swayed 
miles above the yawning canyons, and 
finally stopped just as a huge pine rose 
threateningly in front of us. 

"Quarter, mister, quarter," called the 

boy and disappeared into the night. We 

/ stretched our travel-weary limbs, carried 

our bags in, and sank gratefully into soft, 

clean beds. 

Morning awoke in all her splendor 
.... the sun rising over the mountains 
touched their peaks with halos. At last 
we had arrived at the Grand Canyon. 
Mother was up first and stepped out on 
the porch. Her loud scream brought the 
family running to the doorway. 

Did Coronado discover the Grand Can- 
yon? Oh, no! The wheels of our car 
were over the edge of the cliff. We didn't 


iscover it 

we were m iti 



By Joanne Jeans 

Peaceful, calm, the water faintly quivers, 

Now and then, as gentle breezes lift 

The glassy surface, slightly rolling, iiever 

Fully breaking into white-capped waves, 

Just stirring lightly, oh, so lightly rolling! 

Endless, on and on and on. And then 

The sun pulls o'er its golden, radiant self 

A curtain, grey and thick. And presently 

A rumbling, low, reverberates throughout 

The heavens, A jagged streak of lightning cuts 

Its^way across the darkening sky, and 

Then the raindrops fall, tiny drops 

At first, but soon the clouds pour forth 

Their content, fast and hard. Once-gentle breezes now 

Begin to twist and whip across the surface, 

Lifting high the foaming, churning swells, 

Dashing frothy waters forward, onward. 

Roaring, deafening echoes of a thousand 

Thundering drums; racing, wildly screeching 

Blasts of wind stir up the whirling froth and 

Carry up the ocean's crest to mingle 

Water from the earth with those from heaven, 

Letting both descend together. 

On it rages, 'till one tiny 

Beam of light, one small reminder 

Of the sun, breaks through the dark, low-hanging 

Clouds o'er head. The surging waters slowly 

Quiet, less they swirl, and less becomes 

The wind. Much less it tosses, swerves, and dodges, 

In and out, among the frothy, white-capped 

Waves, until, at last, the rain begins 

To fall more lightly, softly, dying down, 

'Til nothing comes but flick'ring rays of hazy 

Light. The stage is set. The curtain, rain, 

Has risen. The floor, once swept by rushing gales. 

Is steady, smooth. The stage is ready now. 

The sun appears to cast its glowing warmth 

Upon the quiet stillness of the sea. 


Barefoot Boy With Cheek 

By Max Shulman 

Reviewed by Pat Shillings 

Barefoot Boy With Cheek, is a hilarious 
satire on the American university system 
and its adherents. Written by a former 
University of Minnesota student, it re- 
counts the misadventures of Asa Hearth- 
rug during his first year there. 

Nothing escapes Mr. Shulman's vitriol- 
filled pen. He particularly delights in 
ridiculing the fraternity system. Roger ,{ 
Hailfellow, the president, traps the unwit- 
ting and naive Asa with a cunningly con- 
cealed sidewalk pit; proudly displays their 
B. M. O. C, a chained and illiterate ath- 
lete; recounts the virtues of the brother- 
hood with misty eyes; and finally invites 
Asa to become one of them. Almost 
overcome with the honor entailed, he 
chokes out his acceptance while the broth- 
ers chant their mystic rites, ending with 
"rimba, rimba, richard himba." After 
Asa becomes a member, he is run for a 
campus office against Petey Loadsafun, 
one of the campus glad boys. After the 
results have been tabulated, the independ- 
ent votes being matter of factly dis- 
carded, Asa loses. Crushed by this blow, 
he loses further face among his fraternity 
brothers by failing to live up to their 
standards of campus behavior. He con- 
sistently rides in a convertible with the 
top up, and insists upon calling a homely 
girl homely, instead of the prescribed 
^'^grand kid, loads of personality, lots of 
fun when you get to know her." 

Asa also finds romance. He is torn 
between Noblesse Oblige, a lovely co-ed 
with fraternity pins her main objective, 
and Yetta Samovar. Yetta is one of the 
campus Communists, who feels that she 
can yet save Asa from being a tool of the 


fraternities and become one of the workers 
for the Movement. 

The incidents and characters are ridicu- 
lously funny, and as pure entertainment 
the book is excellent. The purpose, how- 
ever, goes deeper than that. The triv- 
ialities and petty politics of campus life 
are bared completely, and your laughter 
is often a little uncomfortable. 

Rickshaw Boy 

By Lau Shaw 

Reviewed by Peggy Loving 

Rickshaw Boy is the poignant story of 
Happy Boy, a young Chinese who moved 
to Peking, and his efforts to gain security 
and happiness in that city. The age-old 
problems of social injustice and economic 
disorganization are the forces which he 
has to combat to obtain this contentment. 

Lau Shaw, the author, has written of 
China as the Chinese see it, and yet it 
is a story which could have happened in 

any land at any time. Not only are misery 
and suffering portrayed but also the pic- 
turesque character, humor, customs, and 
thoughts of this strong and unwavering 

Typical of most Chinese farmers, 
Happy Boy is big, handsome, muscular, 
and slow-witted. Though illiterate he 
lived his life by the code of the Chinese 
philosophers, believing in right actions 
and the good results of good. From 
this way of living he received his name, 
Happy Boy. 

His one ambition is to own a rick- 
shaw instead of having to rent it from 
Fourth Master Lin at the shed called 
Human Harmony. Here he works to earn 
the money, but he is constantly annoyed 
and pursued by Tiger Woman, Lin's un- 
attractive daughter, Happy Boy manages 
to evade her, however, and after several 
years saves a hundred dollars with which 
to buy his rickshaw. He is now a mem- 
ber of a noble profession and becomes 
one of the best rickshaw men in Peking, 

But his luck is not good. Poverty 
and Tiger Woman are too much for him. 
She schemes so that he will have to marry 
her, but their life together is far from 
happy. Tiger Woman soon dies due to 
the terrible living conditions, and Happy 
Boy rescues his love, the weak and dis- 
eased Little Lucky One from enslavement. 
The strong spirit of Happy Boy wins 
over evil and misery. 

The simplicity and lucidity with which 
this book is written, and the character 
and personality of Happy Boy are so mag- 
netic that it is more like listening to a 
story than reading a novel. As Henry 
Seidel Canby said, "In short, this seems 
to be not only a very interesting, but a 
fine and memorable novel, significant of 
a new literature for China." 


up Front 

By Bill Mauldin 

Reviewed by Rufh Evans 

Willie and Joe have been the subject 
of much discussion among varied circles 
of present-day readers. These dirty, be- 
whiskered dogfaces, U. S. Infantry, are 
the product of writer-cartoonist Bill 
Mauldin, and they personify the Amer- 
ican G. I. in the new book Up Front. 

At first inspection the sardonic car- 
toons, accompanied by running text, seem 
crude and dirty and unreal; but if you ' 
read a few lines of Mauldin's simple 
narrative you will see in these pen-and-ink 
heroes the boy across the street or the 
fellow you met last year at the U. S. O. 

Admittedly these drawings in black and 
white were not created to entertain local 
civilians. They were a way of talking 
CO the common foot-soldier of things well- 
known to him. 

Sgt. Mauldin, himself an overseas vet- 
eran of several years' standing, did not 
expect us non-combatant home-folks to 
approve or appreciate his tragically down- 
to-earth humor. However, his work has 
made a hit with all of us. It has won him 
a Pulitzer Prize and made him famous as a 
writer as well as the "G. I.'s favorite car- 

Ernie Pyle in his last book, Brave Men, 
early recognized Mauldin as the war's 
outstanding combat artist. He saw the 
war as it really was, and he drew it that 

The reason this book is so effective 
might be a combination of many things. 
First is its direct and sometimes brutal 
and extremely bitter reality. This hits 
hard at the reader, but it is the truth and 
it is well-done. Mauldin does not shun 
poking fun, or even ridicule at some of 
the "old Army" customs so repulsive to 
the buck private. He does not spare the 

details of the mud and grime or the dan- 
ger of war. He does not ignore the fear 
or the devil-may-care attitude likely to 
fill the hearts of the American fighting 
man. He does not cover up their hatred 
for the shysters of war, the draft dodgers 
the unfaithful women, the peace-time pa-, 

Much of the book's humor does not 
provoke gay laughter from an unknow- 
ing civilian, but it was funny to the 
G. I.'s because they had to laugh at them- 
selves or go mad. By reading his litera- 
ture we can see the trend of a soldier's 
sense of humor. 

Although criticizing the actual art work 
is really immaterial, I might say that his 
characters are very real and he achieves 
superb facial expressions. To me the 
most fascinating part of the book was the 
text. In it the author re-created the sit- 
uation in a manner comparable to the 
style of Ernie Pyle; but his viewpoint was 
different. Pyle wrote as a war correspond- 
ent going along with the doughboys. 
Mauldin wrote as a doughboy. 

Up Front succeeds startlingly in taking 
you up front, humorously and grimly. It 
is short and easy to read. It is real. I 
recommend it to any person who is even 
somewhat conscious or interested in the 
fact that we Americans did fight a war 
.... and that our greatest representatives 
over there were the doughboys up front. 


Guerrilla Wife 

By Louise Reld Spencer / 

Reviewed by Priscilla Bailey 

Little did ''Spence," a young engineer 
from IXL Mine on Masbate, realize the 
dangers that lay ahead for him and his 
young bride-to-be as he stood on the dock 
at Manila waiting for the ship which 
would bring Louise from Canada. It 
was four years before Pearl Harbor .... 
war seemed far away from the Philippines 
that day, but all too soon those remote 
islands found them^lves drawn into the 
tightening net. How this happened is 
told in the exciting narrative of a modern 
young woman living in the jungles of the 
Philippines who suddenly found herself a 
guerrilla wife. 

Louise Spencer found her life on Mas- 
bate an interesting one .... she and 
Spence rapidly made friends with the 
other Americans and English gathered 
there, and it was almost like life in Can- 
ada had been. But the chatter of the 
monkeys in the treetops and the brilliant 
flash of color as the parrots flew over 
the trees reminded her that the teeming 
gold mill kept the jungle only a step 
away. Then the world was at war .... 
December 8. It was a complete surprise 
and meant that miles away across the 
ocean people were fighting. They stayed 
on Masbate .... help would certainly be 
on the way; there was no reason to worry. 

Two days after New Year's they were 
in the hills, and for months they dodged 
and hid, keeping only a few breaths ahead 
of the Japs. 

The number of refugees increased; as 
the group pushed farther inland, they 
were joined by teachers and missionaries. 
Women, as well as men, tramped miles 
at a time .... no one grumbled or com- 
plained; no one ever gave up. Life goes 
on even in the midst of a war, for scarcely 
had Louise helped to deliver her friend's 
baby during one of the hurried stops be- 
fore she found that she was going to be- 
come a mother. Always they pushed on 
.... through the dense undergrowth, over 
cliffs, and across rivers. The men were 
guerrillas; they kept in touch with the 
women and came whenever they could. 

For two incredible years they had been 
hiding but finally a submarine took them 
off. They had lost many of the original 
group in their race for freedom. Louise's 
baby was the first to be born in an army 
hospital in the Southwest Pacific theater 
of war a few weeks after his parents had 
reached safety. 

The publisher has said that Mrs. Spen- 
cer is a born writer. She is, but she is 
more than that. She is a woman who 
has put down exactly what happened and 
has had the sense to let the story build 
itself at its own exciting speed. Guerrilla 
Wife is a thrilling story .... its stark 
truthfulness is the highest recommenda- 
tion for exciting reading. 




Vol. 9 FEBRUARY, 1946 No. 2 



^_^y^ nother year has come and with it we bring to you the second issue of Chimes. 
The compliments/ we have received on our first magazine more than compensated for 
the mistakes which glared so brightly in impartial black and white. Our favorite peo- 
ple are those who placed something besides class cuts in Chimes box and all who en- 
tered essays in our contest. Without you we would never have been able to publish 
what we hope is a better magazine than the last. 

Again after those "many discussions and consultations," the staff decided to make 
a definite change of policy. So much interest has been taken on the part of the stu- 
dents and so many good writings have been received that the former policy of adding 
to the staff each girl who has contributed to one issue of the magazine had to be 
abolished. From now on the staff, which will be announced in the spring issue, will 
consist of last year's members and five girls chosen on the basis of the quantity and 
quality of work they contribute and the recommendations of their English teachers. 

Before I run out of space, the red roses of congratulation are extended to Jane 
Erwin, associate editor for this issue, and to all the contest winners, both of the Book 
Week and Chimes essay contests. 

If I were to begin recommending articles for special reading, I would probably 
never stop. However, if you've never been on a moonlight excursion down the Mississippi 
or attended a Mardi Gras or done any of the fascinating things peculiar to different 
sections of the country, the "local color" section is especially for you. 

Thanks again to everyone who contributed, worked, and typed for this issue, and 
many words of encouragement to all of you who haven't yet found time to write that 
essay, poem, or review that will make the next issue the best yet. 



Bette Pierce Editor 

Jane Irwin Associate Editor 

Priscilla Bailey . Review Editor 

Ann Marshall . . • Poetry Editor 

Iris Turner . Exchange Editor 

BoMAR Cleveland . . . . . Business Manager 

Margaret Anne Funk Circulation Manager 

Miss Martha Ordway • . . . • Faculty Advisor 


Kay Keggin Editor 

Beverly Williams Pat McGauly June Brown 

Ruth Evans Joanne Jeans Kicki Moss 


Grace Sheila Kennard 3 

Forgetting Camille Hancock 4 

What Price This Land Priscilla Bailey 5 

Discovery Jane Erwin 6 

The Gentleman Nancy Simpson 6 

Fable — 1946 Bette Pierce 7 

Is Communism the Coming Order ? Clare Ann Drowota 8 

;ie-Woogie Laurel Cuff 10 


And This, Too, Shall Pass Away n 

Wherein Lie All Our Hopes 12 


Digging Diamonds Barbara Thorne 16 

Detasseling Corn Shirley Nichols 17 

Now and Then Beverly Stevens 19 

Baptizing Sunday • . Mary Alice Cooper 26 

A Tower Ruth Evans 27 


Books During Battle Martha Baird 22 

The Only Immortals Eileen Springstun 23 

A Never-Ending Journey Maryjane Hooper 24 


Evil Atmosphere Ann Marshall 20 

New Love Ann Marshall 20 

The Spiral of Smoke Adelaide Thornton 21 

Storm Pat Shillings 21 


Country Come to Town Jeannie M. Watson 28 

Enemy Kicki Moss 28 

On Sleigh Rides Jackie Koon 29 

Louisiana Fairyland • ■ ■_ Mary Dixon 29 

The Legend of the Piasa Bird Mary Ann McCaskill 30 

Youth and Ole Man River Jeanne DeMoss 31 


So Well Remembered Shelia Kennard 36 

A Bell for Adano Kicki Moss 


Let Us Consider One Another Margaret Ann- Funk 38 

The WTaite Tower Leotus Morrison 39 

Cass Timberlane Bomar Cleveland 40 


By Sheila Kennard 

In consulting my Webster's Collegiate 
dictionary . . . Fifth Edition ... as to the 
meaning of the word "grace," I was as- 
tonished to find almost a half of a col- 
umn devoted to its definitions. For ex- 
amfile, I found that grace, meaning in- 
vocation, is said before meal. Now 
please, do not misunderstand! Since com- 
ing to Ward-Belmont, I have been well 
aware of the fadt that, following the tap 
of the bell, something was said previous 
to each meal, but precisely what, I was 
at a loss to say. It was impossible to 
either see or hear on the steps leading to 
the dining room, and even when I made 
an effort to be in the hall early, there was 
so much confusion that, try as I might, 
I could never for the hfe of me hear. 
After numerous attempts, I gave up and 
simply bowed my head following each 
tap of the bell. This system was far 
from fool-proof. I know I sat for a full 
ten minutes once with my head reverently 
inclined following the fifteen minute 
breakfast bell, until the hostess, when 
leaving, kindly touched me on the shoul- 
der and asked if there were anything she 
could do for my terrible headache. 

Grace also means any characteristic en- 
dowment, either natural or acquired. I 
suppose this means that Mr. Henkel is 
graceful in playing the organ so well; in 
fact, I seem to recall someone's saying 
that he could play grace notes particular- 
ly well. Then too, I imagine that every 
mother who named her daughter "Grace" 
was hopeful of great beauty, since its 
meaning here is "to adorn or embellish." 
Yes, I was really astonished to find so 
many meanings for "grace," since I had 
always pictured only one. 

To me, the only requirement for being 
graceful is the ability of a person to keep 

his two feet on the ground, come what 
may; in other words, the graceful person, 
in my estimation, is one who never falls 
down. My admiration of such a person 
often assumes the proportions of hero 
worship, since such a quality is complete- 
ly out of my reach. As you may have 
guessed, I am not of the elect; I am far 
from being graceful. Try as I may to 
reduce the quota, I still somehow manage 
to keep my average of one fall per day. 
Only yesterday, while playing basketball, 
I stepped on the ball as it rolled down the 
gymnasium floor. The damage to the 
ball has not yet been estimated, but it is 
quite evident to any interested and sym- 

pathetic person who happens to steal a 
glance at my knees. 

My mother says that as a baby I fell 
quite a bit, as babies do. At the age of 
fifteen months, however, when most babies 
begin to walk, / still fell. Two months 
after my seventh birthday, I tripped over 
the threshold of Irving Grammar School 
and greeted my nervous-looking teacher. 
It seemed she was extremely sensitive to 
loud noises, particularly those made by 
falling objects. Consequently, when I 
fell oS the stage tightly clutching my 
grade school diploma, she quietly suc- 
cumbed after seven years of fortitude and 
was taken carefully to a waiting ambu- 
lance. All through my high school ca- 
reer, I astounded my classmates by seem- 
ing to be made of India rubber; no sooner 
would I fall than I would bounce up 
again, seemingly unhurt, only to fall 
again not five minutes later. 

Try as I may, I can never destroy the 
illusions people seem to entertain regard- 
ing my sense of balance. With each new 
surrounding, each new group of people. 

I receive a new lease on life. Everything 
runs along extremely well for the first 
few days; I am exceptionally careful and 
my new associates look at me as though 
I were actually a normal human being. 
Then suddenly something happens. Per- 
haps I am excited and forget to walk on 
one foot at a time; at any rate, I fall. 
Once more, and immediately the barrier 
is up. I am an outcast; no one trusts me 
for fear I shall pull him with me into the 
dismal depths which I visit following each 

I can vaguely remember in the far dis- 
tant past one particular visit which our 
minister made with the Kennard family. 
It was a very ordinary pastoral call, but 
on leaving he said something which has 
lingered with me 'til this day. Putting 
his hand on my head, he turned to Mother 
and remarked: 

''A beautiful child, Mrs. Kennard. 
She reminds me so much of a little nymph 
tripping through the forest. I can just 
picture her tripping through life in the 
very same way." 

How little he knew! 


By Camille Hancock 

They said "You must forget him." 

Simple words. . . . They could not understand 

How raptures shared ... a summer dawn, a sun-lit space 

Can hold a heart in silent, stern command 

In longing for a near, familiar face. 

Forget you? Sooner could I lose my soul 

And all my life unto eternity; 

Forget your smile . . . your eyes . . . your quiet strength? 

Your laughter like a bird set free? 

Ah, no, beloved, I should much prefer 
A heart in bondage 'til my days be through 
To the emptiness of lonely days 
Without my memories of you. 

What Price This Land? 

By Priscilla Bailey 

He received the news of the accident 
on a mine destroyer in the South Pacific. 
This is what he wrote: 

"I know you'll pull through, Dad. It's 
a tough break; you remember how we 
worried about that old combine steaming 
up? You always said that some day it 
was going to get too hot and then there 
would be trouble. We were going through 
a lot in those days. Sometimes I wonder 
how you kept going . . . you didn't ever 
show discouragement or defeat. Your 
face always looked the same ... a little 
tanner each year, the lines a little deeper, 
but lips always firm and head held high. 

The sea is the color of your eyes, Dad; 
it's your eyes that I remember now. One 
night I watched you walking up the road, 
dirty and tired and dejected. That was 
the summer we had such hopes for the 
com, and then . . . Why, that very morn- 
ing the fields were green and the corn 
was knee-high. Then, out of nowhere, 
a cloud appeared on the horizon; there 
was that buzzing, droning sound; and a 
million grasshoppers were swarming on 
our corn. We couldn't do anything; you 
can't fight nature. By sundown they 
were gone, and with them our hopes of 
buying Mom that new stove and Sis that 
dress she saw in Portwood's. When I 
saw you trudging in from the fields, I 
wanted to say something, Dad, but your 
eyes stopped me. They were looking past 
me at the house. I now know how it 
hurt you to see Grandpa's house in need 
of paint; it was always a matter of pride 
that you kept it up just as neat and clean 
as he had left it to you. All winter long 
we had said, "The corn will paint the 
house," and now there wouldn't even be 
enough money for next year's seed. Oh, 
Dad, there were tears on your cheeks. 

I'd never seen a man cry; maybe others 
cried, but not you. I hurt you when I 
spit out bitterly, "Let's leave the farm; 
I hate it!" 

Thank God for a dad like you. You 
put your strong, sunburned arm on my 
shoulder and said, "Billy, this is our 
land. We can't leave it anymore than 
we can leave God. We can work and 
sweat and cry over the land because it is 
ours, but we can't leave it. Your heart 
and mine are here . . . we've got to stick 
with the land and it will come through 
for us." 

We stuck, Dad, and you were right. 
The good years just about balanced the 
bad years. Lots of people moved away, 
and I still wanted to go. But something 
held me there. We froze in the winter 
and almost suffocated in the summer, but 
we stuck. I've finally seen the world, 
but whenever I close my eyes, I always 
see our fields . . . yes, even stripped and 
parched by the broiling sun . . . but I 
know something of me is there and al- 
ways will be. 

No matter what anyone else says, I 
say that farmers have more guts than 
anyone else in this world. Don't worry. 
Dad. I know it doesn't do any good to 
tell you that because you will be thinking 
about harvesting and caring for the stock. 
But something you told me long ago 
keeps running through my mind. You 
said working so close to God brought a 
farmer closer to people; it made him 
kinder and more sympathetic. And a 
farmer always is the first one to help an- 
other. Floyd and George will be looking 
out for things at home, and I can just 
see old Green dragging his rusty plow 
over to help out. 

(Continued on page 9) 


By Jane Erwln 

It was one of those days when the air 
outside seemed to be asking to be 
breathed. The sky was a smooth, mys- 
terious grey; and the coldness sent a 
thrill up my spine that was more than 
coldness. I headed straight for the woods 
where I could be free to take in every 
bit of the beauty. The wind playfully 
pushed me back as I ran down the path, 
and I laughed at the idea of having the 
wind for a playmate. A low-hanging 
branch joined in our game and held my 
hair as if to make me stay with him 
awhile. Even the inanimate things seemed 
to be as happy as I about the beauty of 
the day. 

Everything around me was beautiful. 
The bare trees wove a delicate black lace 
pattern on the grey that changed with 
every push of the wind. There was green 
velvet on the rocks, and rainbows where 
the sun found the ice. There was the 
smell of coldness mixed with pine, and 
the same pine telling secrets over head. 
It was more than my senses could absorb 
at one time. 

I must have walked and run for hours, 
because I was tired when I sat down on a 
rock to rest. Suddenly I laughed at my- 
self. Why did I think this bleak De- 
cember day was beautiful? I usually 
hated cold dreary days like this. Could 
it be that all these days have been beauti- 
ful, and I have never known it? 

I sat and meditated for a while on a 
subject I had never touched before. It 
was rich with possibilities, and soon I 
discovered a wonderful fact. Beauty is 
not limited to June, but goes on every 
day of the year. Beauty, in fact, is noth- 
ing more than God's presence on earth, 
and He does not forsake us, and if we 
(Continued on page 9) 

The Gentleman 

By Nancy Simpson 

What makes a gentleman? Not 
clothes, of course. And not any outward 
thing, even manners and smooth words. 
A monkey might also be trained to sip 
soup from the side of a spoon, not to eat 
with his knife, and to enter a room prop- 
erly. And a man may have breeding and 
QUlture and wisdom and still miss being a 
Gentleman. What, then, constitutes a 

There are two essential elements. First, 
there must be a man; and second, he must 
be gentle. 

First, then, he must be brave, not with 
physical lack of nerves, but unafraid in 
his heart; seeing the laws or truth and 
goodness and committing himself to them 
with utter indifference to consequences. 

Second, he must be gentle; that is, he 
must have learned to use his courage 

Bravery is the masculine characteristic; 
gentleness the feminine. The man comes 
first, we say, the woman after. True 
enough, but the woman is the finishing, 
perfecting element. What we call civiliza- 
tion is nothing but the womanization of 
a race. 

When you have a brave man who is 
not gentle, you have a barbarian; noble, 
possibly, great and strong, but still a sav- 
age. When you have a gentle soul that 
is not brave, you have no man at all. 
When you have a man who is profoundly 
fearless, and who has also learned to be 
gentle, then you have that finest product 
of God's handiwork of which we have 
any definite knowledge ... a Gentleman. 


By Be+te Pierce 

Once upon a time there were three 
mice named, appropriately enough, Per- 
civel, Abner, and Hector. These three 
rodents dwelled in the walls of a large 
brick dormitory on the campus of a 
girls' school. When the school year be- 
gan, they were very much alike . . . the 
same curly whiskers, flashing black eyes, 
and silky tails. , But as the year went on, 
sad changes took place. Percivel remained 
the gay gallant, Abner came laughing to 
breakfast every day, but poor Hector! 
His curly whiskers began to droop; heavy 
lids covered his once-glittering eyes; his 
tail dragged the floor behind him. 

Percivel and Abner noticed the changes 
in their friend; the girls noticed the 
changes; finally the news spread over the 
entire school. Plans were made for a 
mass meeting to discuss Hector's case. 
On the night of the great occasion Per- 
civel and Abner, faces wrapped in gloom, 
took their places on the platform with 
the other members of the panel. The 
president of the school rapped sharply 
upon the table with his gavel, and an ex- 
pectant hush came over the great crowd. 

"We are gathered here tonight to dis- 
cuss the unhappy predicament of Hector, 
the mouse. Since his arrival at school 
misfortune has claimed him. He has 
lost all interest in his personal appear- 
ance. His spirit and vitality have waned." 

(A general murmur of sympathy) 

"Does anyone have a suggestion as to 
the cause of this calamity?" 

A student ventured, "Perhaps a severe 
vitamin deficiency?" 

But no, the rooms well-stocked with 
such vitamin-rich foods as crackers, pea- 
nut butter, and grape jelly. 

"A lack of sleep?" This from the 
professor of psychology. 

Percivel and Abner squeaked excitedly, 
"That's it!" "I live . . ." "He lives 
. . ." ". . . our lights out . . . " "they 
never . . ." 

"Order! Which of you will explain 
this to the audience?" 

Percivel rose and began. "We three 
live in rooms directly above each other 
. . . Hector on third floor, Abner on sec- 
ond, and I on first ... so that we can 
visit between the walls more easily. On 
first floor our lights are out at eleven 
o'clock each night; although the girls in 
Abner's room have occasional light cuts, 
he usually gets in eight hours of sleep, 
which is all that growing mice require. 
But Hector! The poor boy staggers to 
breakfast every day, sleeps through clas- 
ses, and has even been known to sleep 
through a concert!" 

A voice from the audience: "But 

The crowd took up the question. 
"Why? Why? Why? We want Hector! 
Hector! Hector!" 

But where was Hector? He was not 
on the stage; he was not in the audience; 
he was not in the smoker; he was not in 
the Tea Room drinking a coke. Frantic 
messages were sent out. The wires 
hummed with telegrams and long dis- 
tance telephone calls. The watchmen 
were questioned. The school's military 
organization began a complete search of 
all the rooms in the dormitory. Hours 
passed, and still no Hector. Finally, just 
as the people were about to hold services 
for their dearly-beloved mouse, a breath- 
less girl dashed onto the stage and whisp- 
ered something into the president's ear. 
He turned pale. The message was retold 
to everyone on the stage, and they all 
turned pale. The sad news was an- 
nounced to the audience which, as a body, 
turned pale. Hector had been found 
lying in a stupor beneath the coke ma- 

chine and had been carried to the infirm- 
ary, where he now lay on the brink of 

Hector passed away that night, and 
those who were near on that sad occasion 
reported that as he breathed his last, he 
was heard to mutter wildly, "Those girls, 
sleep, lights on, sleep, eleven o'clock, 
Chaucer, twelve o'clock, binomial theo- 
rem, one o'clock, oxidation and reduction, 
two o'clock, Espanol, das Deutsch, parlez 
vous Francais, three o'clock, one diamond, 
four o'clock, Winslow, five o'clock, sleep, 
lights, sleep, sleep . . ." 

Moral: Be kind to the dumb animals 
that may inhabit the walls of your room. 
Slip them sleeping tablets in the cracker 
crumbs you leave on the floor so they 
won't experience Hector's sad end just 
because your light got in their eyes. 

Is Communism the Coming 

By Clare Ann Drowo+a 

We, as American youth, should look 
frankly at the question of Communism. 
I present the following ideas to you as a 
basis of thought in contrast with those of 
our own Democracy. The decision and 
subsequent future security of the world 
is in our hands. 

For the last decade the Red threat has 
hung over the Democratic nations of the 
world. We realized its menace in 1939, 
but when Germany broke her treaty with 
Russia a year later; we immediately cast 
aside all our former fears and misgivings 
and plunged into whole-hearted coopera- 
tion with this nation. It is not my pur- 
pose to drag down an ally and present a 
highly dramatized picture of Communism 
in our present world, for Communism 
has succeeded in Russia today. I simply 
give to you these facts. They are of in- 
terest to us because here is another total- 
itarian system which seeks to shape not 
only state and industry but the thought 

and life of a people which include one- 
tenth of the human race. It is a social 
experiment that is profoundly affecting 
the thought and life of other lands. 

The Communists, as we know them, 
are extremely materialistic. Their govern- 
ment dominates the minds as well as the 
bodies of their people. The main idea of 
the Russian peasant today is to produce, 
to suffer, and to die if necessary for the 
State. In Russia there are no conflicting 
political parties. They have no church, 
capital, or labor problems with which to 
deal. The control is autocratic. Here we 
find a frank acceptance of the method of 
force, not only in the initial revolution 
but in the continued suppression of in- 
dividual groups and classes that stand in 
the way of the movement or the leader 
momentarily in control. 

For those who would delve a little fur- 
ther into this method of government, we 
would bring in the religious outlook, for 
Communism has a certain religious quali- 
ty. Quite frankly their leaders state that 
religion is a drug to dull the minds of the 

people, and as an antidote they are fur- 
thering ideas and actions as a substitute 
for Christianity. Here is a call for sacri- 
fice and absolute devotion that will appeal 
to many individuals who are seeking a 
feeling of self-importance. 

Since Stalin and his government came 
into power, we cannot deny that Russia 
has shown her ability to achieve much in 
forward progress. If then, this revolu- 
tionary idea has succeeded for these peo- 
ple, will it not be tempting to other na- 
tions who are struggling to their feet 
frc«n the throes of war? Quite obviously 
the answer is "y^s" unless we can think 
of a better solution. There are countless 
starving millions in Europe today who 
would willingly give up their freedom for 
a sense of security. 

What then, can we offer in the face of 
this problem? America was founded by 
men who believed in a few fundamental 
ideals . . . that human personality is 
sacred, and that we may have confidence 
in man and in the power of truth and 
right to be ultimately decisive. Democ- 
racy involves the idea of social solidarity 
and the principles of obligation, but we 
are told that Democracy has failed be- 
cause people are ignorant, incompetent, 
and indifferent. Here the fault lies in 
the wrong conception of what Democracy 
is and what it demands. 

The road to true Democracy is a long 
and hard one, but whatever the present 
situation, a humanity that has once en- 
visioned these ideals and tasted these 
goods will not permanently surrender 
them. What were those words of Abra- 
ham Lincoln? "That a government by 
the people, for the people, and of the 
people shall not perish from the earth." 
Can we take these ideals and find the 
right solution? Perhaps if Capital and 
Labor would cooperate with one another, 
if men would strive for a common goal 

. . . but we find ourselves blocked by a 
series of contradictory statements. No 
one can foresee the future clearly. The 
facts are before us; the question is domi- 
nant and challenging. Is Communism 
the coming world order? 

What Price This Land? 

(Continued from page 5) 

I'm not much for saying things; we 
don't have to talk much when we're work- 
ing with the soil, just a prayer now and 
then, but I get kind of choked up inside 
when I think of those fields and the house 
and the people at home. When I got 
Mom's cable about your accident, I be- 
gan working on my leave papers. The 
war will be over in a few weeks. We 
haven't seen a Jap ship since the fifteenth 
of July, and I belong at home. I want 
to be there to work with the land and 
make it mine as you have. My job out 
here is done; it's time for me to go back 
to our prairie farm. Don't you let down, 
Dad. I'm coming home." 

Item dated September 16, 1945: 
"Lt. Junior Grade William Leitsch, 
Carleton, Nebraska, killed at sea in a 
typhoon September 14, on a transfer ship 
sailing for San Francisco." 


(Continued from page 6) 

do not see them, it is because we are 
blind. Whenever we open our minds and 
hearts to them, they come flowing in with 
eagerness and bounty, whether it be June 
or December. I was happy in my dis- 
covery, but I could not help but regret 
the days like this that I had wasted when 
I was blind. 

It was a beautiful day. I walked home 
with happiness in my heart, and I think 
God, too, was pleased with the day he 
had created. 

By Laurel Cuff 

Once there was a man named Pinetop 
Smith, who started something. Although 
he wasn't aware of it, when he began to 
pick out a fast base that sounded like 
tom-toms, he was playing Boogie-Woogie. 
In those days a Boogie was simply a 
party. In Harlemese, Boogie-Woogie 
was party music, played by such men as 
Romeo Smith, Cow-Cow Davenport, Pine- 
top, Speckled Red, Cripple Clarence Lap- 
ton and scores of others, mostly "cullud" 

About twenty-five years ago, before 
prohibition, the house-rent party flourished 
on Chicago's South Side. When rent day 
came around and funds were low, the 
only way to pay the land-lord was to 
throw a party where everybody brought 
a sack of sandwiches or a jug of gin and 
paid fifty-cents to get in. This was known 
as "pitchin' boogie" and meant open- 
house for the entire neighborhood. One 
person who never had to bring either 
sandwiches, fifty cents, or a jug was Jim- 
my Yancey, Jimmy is an old vaudeville 
trouper, the life of the party, and a 
Boogie-Woogie pianist second to none. 
Jimmy's powerful left and amazingly 
swift right hand made him one of the 
most distinctive boogie pianists of all 

But Boogie-Woogie stayed in the back- 
ground, circulating through the dives of 
Harlem and South Chicago, for a decade 
. . . until Pete Johnson, Albert Ammond, 

and Meade "Lux" Lewis came along. 
These men with their solid base and so- 
phisticated breaks took New York, then 
the rest of the country and set them to 
beating time in Boogie-Woogie. 

None of these men I have mentioned 
were the originators of the style, though. 
No, in all probability no one person can 
be called the '^'Father of Boogie-Woogie." 
It is a style that just grew and developed 
with tinie. It contains all the basic primi- 
ti^^ rhythms and harmonies of the Ne- 
gro, which he brought from Africa. 
Boogie-Woogie must have been one of 
his first attempts to express himself with 
a musical instrument. 

A great many changes have come about 
in American music since the rough 
"honky-tonk" days of the nineties and 
house-rent parties of the middle twenties, 
but Boogie-Woogie has changed but lit- 
tle, and doesn't show much promise , of 
changing any in the future. 






There is an old legend of a king who 
wanted an answer to all of life's problems 
and questions, and the wise man who told 
him that that phrase would be "And this, 
too, shall pass away." Sorrow will pass 
away, but so will joy, all of the things 
that we hold so dear today will be nothing 
but a memory tomorrow, so we must 
realize how precious they are, and not let 
them slip past without ever knowing how 
much they mean to us. For having the 
opportunity for happiness, and experienc- 
ing it without realizing it fully, is one of 
the greatest tragedies that can befall us. 

So, now before too many tomorrows 
have become yesterdays, find what it is to 
love your school. Listen to Ward-Bel- 
mont. Hear it in the "Bells of Ward- 
Belmont" on the Chimes at sunset, and in 
the shouts from the athletic field. See it 
when you sit in the swing at twilight, and 
see the buildings blur and the stars come 
out; in battered books on the steps of 

Several limes fhis year editorials and feature articles written by members 
of the HYPHEN staff and printed in the paper have been of such real 
literary value that the members of CHIMES staff concluded that they should 
be reprinted in the magazine. Even as the writers of these articles were 
previously anonymous so must these same writers be unnamed here. Included 
in this section are the timely, "And This, Too, Shall Pass Away" as well as 
excerpts from the newspaper supplement "Wherein Lie All Our Hopes." 

Academic; and white pillars shining in 
the rain. Find it in a thousand little 
ways: around the fire at a slumber party, 
songs in the smoker, and a burst of 
laughter from the tearoom. 

Find that love in your friends. Girls 
that friends of your mind and of your 
soul, with whom you can laugh, and 
work, and sing, and talk, and who can 
also understand those silences that words 
would shatter. Dream together, and find 
in a familiar smile the fulfillment of all 
those dreams. 

Find peace and fullness from these 
things, and also a goal; a desire and a 
hope to be worthy of it all. Remember 
always that what we have here is more 
than a group of buildings on a campus. 
Into Ward-Belmont has gone the work 
and spirit of generations of girls, each 
striving for perfection, and each falling 
short of that goal. But in that failure 
there is triumph; for the greatest failures 
in the world are those who stop, thinking 
that they are successful, rather than those 
who stop because they can go no further. 

Wherein Lie Ail Our Hopes 


Today the world is saying, "Look to 
the youth." I believe that youth is, and 
should be, the natural reservoir in which 
the hopes and faith of older people are 
walled up. I'd like to know that older 
people believe that too; that they gave us 
credit for being the rightful recipients of 
the worthy heritage they offer us. I am 
asking that they expand their words of 
trust to attitudes and actions. Many of 
us, despite the pride which prevents our 
saying it, feel the condescension and "talk- 
ing down" that often sprhigs from our 
superiors in age and experience. We 
would lilce to be treated with a reason- 
able amount of respect as individuals, 
and as near-adults. 

When I say we want to be given a 
chance to think and try our ideas, I do 
not deny or lessen the importance of 
guidance. We sincerely recognize the 
value of adult advice, and we do not 
v/ant it to discontinue. 

We cannot fly all the way on our first 
excursion from the nest, but we want to 
use our own wings to cushion the fall. 
We need the mother bird to show us our 
mistakes and to warn against unsound 
calculations of the dangers and dimen- 
sions of the flight. We might easily fail 
to see a tree for looking at a single 
i branch; or miss the forest in our vision of 
the tree. It is a common fallacy of 
young thought. 

People have to think something. Scarlett 
O'Hara thought "tomorrow." Matthew 
Arnold thought "never." Most of us will 
not produce immortal thoughts, but we 
must decide the fundamental things for 
ourselves. We have to evaluate the ele- 
ments of life; we have to decide our role 
in society and history. Why doesn't this 
thinking naturally begin in college? It 
does! We think! Many of us do not 

give the appearance of mental or spiritual 
depth, but that is because we are afraid. 
Perhaps we are afraid of others' opinions, 
probably, conscious of our traditional 
childishness, we are afraid of being wrong. 
That cowardice must be discarded. 

The youth of today wants to live up 
to the hopes of the world. To do our 
best we must think. To think we must 
abandon laziness and feel the support of 
our elders. Together, youth and adult 
can produce something genuinely worth 
"looking to." 


You've heard of the standard college 
"bull session." Doubtless you have sat 
in one. Perhaps it wasn't like this one. 
Perhaps you have never talked like this 
with a group of girls. Perhaps you have 
wanted to, but have been afraid. 

Ward-Belmont girls discarded text- 
books and typewriters one night and be- 
gan talking. More than that, they began 
thinking . . . thinking together. They 
sincerely used the grey matter and offered 
for the attention of their companions the 

Those offerings create an honest picture 
of these traditionally blue-jeaned students 
who work with their minds. On request, 
they put on paper some of the important 
ideas that entered their minds when they 
were presented with the subject of "think- 
ing . . . thinking about anything." This 
is the paper they put it on. Their 
thoughts seem to reach a little farther 
than the scope of college life. They are 
reflections on big things. School spirit, 
friendships, loyalty, all those subjects of 
college editorials are very important. They 
have a place, but they are not the biggest 
things that must be faced and seen. Here 
are thoughts that go beyond. 

These are Ward-Belmont girls talking 
and thinking. Why not think along with 



And then we spoke of music. And I 
say that every musician is an artist to 
himself. What matters the outward dem- 
onstration or the opinion of the crowd? 
It is nothing. Music is not performance, 
it is not notes on a page that technical 
virtuosity transforms into glittering pas- 
sages. It is two souls . . . one giving, the 
other receiving. 

A man was once endowed with the 
genius of knmving and of transmitting 
that which he knew to others by the short- 
hand of musical notation. His life went 
into what he wrote; it was his life, his 
love, his anger, his joy, his remorse, his 
hatred, his friendship. And other men, 
to whom the genius had not been given, 
read what he wrote, and felt what he had 
felt. They knew his every mood; these 
became their moods. They knew his art- 
istry, and by their interpretation of it, 
they too became artists, not always out- 
wardly but to themselves. Through his 
elevation, they too became elevated. 
Through his power they became powerful 
and were able to accomplish, fn the 
meeting and growing together of the 
souls there came friendship, and I say 
that the friendship of music has no equal, 
except in the friendship of man and God. 
And who is to say that music is not from 
and of God? Is it not God's own most 
powerful means of searching all that is 
man and lifting forth the good he finds 
there from the base? 

And someone said, but how does this 
music apply to our lives? We are inartic- 
ulate musically and are unable to read 
these wonders from their notation. And 
I say that the artistry of the musician 
does not end with his ability to translate 
music's symbols. Once a great orchestra, 
directed by a world-famous conductor, in- 

terpreted a Tschaikowsky symphony in 
concert, and in the audience sat two men, 
a musician and a lawyer. As these two 
listened, the musician heard magnificent 
progressions of chords and beautiful de- 
velopment of a melodic theme, and he was 
inspired to great aims of accomplishment. 
The lawyer listened to the same passages, 
but he heard a man's soul crying out for 
justice in an unjust world, and he was 
filled with the urge to remove that in- 
justice. The next day a street urchin 
stood entranced while an organ grinder 
played the theme of the symphony, and 
as he listened he was Hfted from the filth 
and grime of his surroundings. 

And who is to say which one gained the 


Why are you at college? Are you heri 
because you want to know more about 
the world, the people in it, their emotions, 
and the expression of those emotions? Or 
are you going to college merely to grad- 
uate so that you can say you have a 

But what good is that diploma? Cer- 
tainly the material value isn't enough to 
brag about. Possibly it will help get a 
job that pays a better salary and has 
more prestige than one which doesn't 
require a college diploma, but what is 
that piece of paper worth if there isn't 
anything in the brain to show the time 
and energy spent in securing it? 

Larry, in Somerset Maughan's The 
Razor's Edge, felt the urge in him to 
travel and study until he did not feel so 
inadequate in his own mind. He knew 
that no person can know all, or even a 
part, of everything in the world, yet he 
wanted to learn as much as he could in 
his lifetime. 

While reading this summer, I came to 
an excerpt from an essay we had read 


last year in English. Immediately I rec- 
ognized the source and the author, and it 
gave me the greatest feeling of pleasure 
and exhilaration to know that I had ac- 
complished that much and had profited 
from the course. It doesn't matter to me 
if I spend fifteen minutes or two hours 
on a lesson if, at the end of that time, 
I feel that I have gained something . . . 
that I know one more httle thing that 
goes to make up the world. 

It seems to me that people who merely 
work for a grade in a course are missing 
the whole point. Naturally we aren't 
going to be vitally interested in every 
subject in school, but then everything in 
our lives isn't going to interest us either, 
so we might as well profit by it as much 
as we can. 

Opportunity is an over-used word and 
we sometimes want to rebel when it is 
mentioned because we have heard it so 
much. Yet we must take advantage of 
every chance we have to progress and 
reach our goal. 


I walked into the office and the dis- 
cussion flared up in my face. I stood 
there for a full fifteen minutes before its 
importance became clear to me. TTie talk 
was fluctuating around the abstract sub- 
ject of thinking. After sitting and listen- 
ing for ahnost an hour, suddenly I real- 
ized that I was capable of developing 
ideas. I could think. Perhaps my ideas 
and thoughts will mean nothing to any 
one other than myself. Still they are 
mine, and I will have gained something 
within myself by synthesizing my nebu- 
lous conceptions. 

Throughout my life I have had a kind 
of mental inferiority complex. I have 
been content to let others do the objective 
thinking, while I sat by and nodded my 

head in agreement. This has been 
changed. Because of a single experience, 
by listening to one conversation, I under- 
stand now that I am capable of making 
important decisions. I can think! 

To some, so-called ''thinkers" are mere- 
ly objects of ridicule. That should not be, 
for thinking is not in the least ridiculous. 
At some time or other, all persons are 
forced to think. And thinking should 
go deeper than saying, "That's a pretty 
sunset," or "I think autumn is the nicest 
seaspn." It should be carried to the very 
depth of one's being. 

All individuals are endowed by their 
Creator with the ability to think. A vast 
majority unfortunately do not take time, 
or do not want to put forth the effort re- 
quired of any type of thinking; they use 
ideas set forth by others. I realized that 
I had been guilty of this. When I dis- 
covered the fact, I set about to correct 
my error. I was able to clarify my ideas 
and I found that there were certain fun- 
damentals in my life upon which I placed 
great emphasis. 

To me a philosophy of life had always 
seemed something quiet apart from my- 
self, something for great minds, not for 
me. A friend of mine told me recently 
her code of living was dependent upon 
this quotation: "Yesterday is past, and 
tomorrow may never come, but this day 
is ours." 

Living in the past is foolish, and living 
in a dream world of one's own making is 
a deplorable waste of valuable time. But 
this day is mine, and I must make of it 
what I can. 


People are sponges. All but the great 
among us are content to absorb our 
opinions, ideas, and customs from books 
and from persons above our intellectual 


scale until we are not individuals, but 
merely carbon copies of the books we 
have read and the people we have known. 
Our opinions . . . political, moral, and 
trivial . . . are not the result of inductive 
reasoning, but a product of environment. 

Why is the "Solid South" the backlog 
of the Democratic party? Surely it is 
not because each Southerner has analyzed 
the platform of the Democratic party and 
found that it supports those policies which 
will benefit his section and his country 
most. Not one voter in ten, regardless 
of his party, can explain what policies his 
party advocates. He supports that party 
simply because he is bombarded with its 
propaganda more frequently than with 
the campaign of the opposing political 
faction. Why do we consider democracy 
the perfect form of government? Why 
do we wear sweaters this year instead of 
middy blouses? We happen to live in a 
democratic country, so we accept this 
theory of government as absolute. Vogue 
and Mademoiselle feature sweaters for 
the "college set"; therefore, we don't 
consider middy blouses in selecting our 

This mental inertia, this passive ac- 
ceptance of the beliefs and opinions of 
others, may be attributed to the vastness 
and complexity of our modem world. We 
are largely dependent upon others for our 
opinions because we have not the time 
or the resources for accumulating facts 
and basing our opinion on them. Still, 
we must become individuals with active 
minds instead of sponges. 


Into the existence of any civilization 
or individual, comes a time of disillusion- 
ment . . . when the ideas and concep- 

tions of the past, that were the founda- 
tions, crumble into worthlessness. It came 
to our civilization when the advance of 
science and education seemed to lead to 
proof that man stood no longer as a 
creature come from a Creator, but as a 
creature who came from a happy chance 
in a larger accident. This leads to a loss 
of faith, a stumbling, and finally to bit- 
terness and disillusionment. It comes 
too in the life of each individual, no mat- 
ter in which age he lives. 

It comes when he begins to realize how 
little he knows. He too, can cry out that 
life is then a void, as he has lost his 
cherished pattern, but better than that, 
he can find new hope. Hope for existence 
in a larger scheme. 

With the destruction of preconceived 
notions, that have come usually through 
ingrained and early taught prejudices and 
creeds, emerges the Individual ... a 
thinking, rather than an obedient per- 
sonality. He can now see things in a 
larger light, and can pick and choose and 
discard, build a faith and way of life 
free from all inhibitions and fears. He 
can believe now what he wants to be- 
lieve; instead of what he feels he must 
believe, or what is the accepted thing to 

This new individual is a thing of tre- 
mendous potential power. He can see 
now what he wants to build, and he has 
new, fresh material to build with. He 
can raise the cathedral of himself as 
high as he chooses, for he knows what he 
was yesterday, and knowing that, can 
build better tomorrow. 

So, there need be no fear in the loss 
of the old . . . Regard it rather as a 
blessing, find God and immortaUty and 
power in yourself, to make your life what 
you will. 



on led 

Digging Diasnonds 

By Barbara Thorne 
First Place 

How amazingly simple life is through 
the eyes of a child. Each is sure that he 
will be rich and famous. Everything 
has a happy ending, and everyone lives 
happily ever after. Looking at the world 
through rose-colored glasses? No, look- 
ing at it through the eyes of youth. 

I remember one sunshiny afternoon 
when I was four, a rare occasion on which 
I was allowed to wait on the school 
grounds for my big sister, who was at 
that moment seated at the school desk 
struggling with a first grade primer. 
Sprawling lazily on the warm asphalt to 
wait, I noticed a tiny object that sparkled 
in the sunlight. "A diamond," I thought 
to myself. Excitedly I looked around. 
Yes, there were more diamonds, ten or 
twelve, maybe even fifteen. Frantically 
I dug with a little rock until I pried one 
loose. Finally succeeding in freeing it 
from its black bed, I tied it in the corner 
of my handkerchief the way I did my 
penny for Sunday School. Entranced 
with the beauty of my "jewel," I dug 
feverishly at another, and another until I 
heard my sister's voice scolding, "For 
heaven's sake, get up off the ground. 
Just look at your dirty knees." Heedless 
of the scorn in her tone, I jumped up 
excitedly and showed her my new-found 
treasure. "Silly, those aren't diamonds 
that you have found," she laughed, and 
shrugging her shoulders with a grown-up 
air, she started home. I followed silently, 
squeezing the "diamonds" in my hand 
because I knew they were diamonds. 

I remember, too, the first time I saw a 
butterfly. I was playing "exploring" in 
the vacant lot, pushing my way through a 
forest of tall grass in a hunt for wild 
animals, when suddenly I beheld a gold 
and crimson butterfly floating lazily 
around just above the surface of the tall 
grass. "This is it! This is the fairy tliat 
Mother has told me about," I assured 
myself in childish ecstacy. With my eyes 
glued to its fragile gossamer wings, I 
followed the "fairy" until it flew out of 
sight, and then I ran home as fast as I 
could. "Mother, Mother, I have seen it! 
I have seen the fairy that leaves a nickel 
under my pillow and takes my tooth." 
Mother smiled in understanding. She 
must have been thinking about the time 
when she was a child; the time she was a 

Then, at last, came the time when two 
and two were supposed to make four, 
and they didn't. Being myself a sincere 
believer in everything and everybody, it 
did not occur to me that other people 
were not so sincere. Those were the bitter 
days of confusion and disappointment, 
the days when I was not sure of any- 
thing. Sitting cross-legged in front of 
the radio listening to the Saturday after- 
noon "Story-Telling Man," I began to 
wonder about this great piece of magic, 
the radio. For a long time I had 
"known" that there was a man sitting 
back there who talked and played the 
music, but I had never ventured so far as 
to pay him a visit. The truth of the mat- 
ter was that the thought had never oc- 
curred to me. Now, anxious to meet 
this mystic person, I pulled the radio 
away from the wall a crack and squeezed 


myself through. There were Uttle lights, 
tin boxes and a lot of wires . . . but no 
man. Could this be? Wasn't there really 
any man behind the radio? I sat right 
down on the floor and cried. Why? Be- 
cause I was lost; not like Alice in Won- 
derland, but lost in a new world called 
realism, and I wanted very much to go 
back to the land of make-believe. 

When I finally reached high school, I 
had lost most of my sureness about 
things. It seemed as the years went by 
that instead of knowing more, I knew 
less. There wasn*t a question in a thous- 
and that I could answer with the childish 
simplicity of "Yes, I'm sure that I'm 
sure." With each new revelation came a 
hundred unanswered questions.- One day 
as I stood in my chemistry lab with a few 
pieces of silica in my hand, I realized 
that this was what my "diamonds" really 
were: a compound of the element of 
siUcon. Yes, I was certain of that now, 
but I found myself groping about blindly 
into this new sphere of chemistry and 
asking myself, "Will diamonds someday 
actually be made from silica? Who will 
do it? Has it already been done?" All 
these questions whirled through my mind 
and left me dizzy with wonderment. 

Long before I took biology I discov- 
ered that the "fairy" I had seen in the 
vacant lot was a butterfly. That was 
simple enough, but when I became a 
sophomore biologist in high school, I 
learned that a butterfly was no less than 
"a slender-bodied lepidopterous insect with 
large, bright-colored wings." I under- 
stood this, but could anyone tell me 
whether, a thousand years from now, the 
butterfly would be extinct, or as many 
scientists believe, would rule the world? 
I did not know. I still do not know. 
Maybe I shall never know, but always I'll 
keep on searching. 

In this same way I learned, much to 

my amazement, how a radio worked. A 
simple matter of transforming sound 
waves into electrical waves. Still my be- 
wilderment about electrons and electrodes 
increased. Will anything ever be clear? 
Thus, delving further and further into 
the mystery of life, we find more and 
more unanswerable questions. Would it 
have been better never to have found out 
about the diamonds, the fairy, and the 
man behind the radio? No, of course 
not. This continuous search for knowl- 
edge is the secret of progress. Had it not 
been for "curious" people, we might 
never had the radio, the telephone, or the 
electric light. As we grow older we may 
be sure of less, but we know more. From 
the seed of childish curiosity sprouts the 
plant knowledge. Above all let it not be 
thought that there is nothing more to 
learn, for we have not yet touched the 
surface of life's many secrets. Vast areas 
of knowledge lie undiscovered and un- 
explored. Thousands of "diamonds" lie 
ready to be dug. What will some curious 
child of tomorrow bring forth? 

Detasseling Corn 

By Shirley Nickels 
Second Place 

In Iowa, corn is king. Even modest 
lowans, if there are any, admit that our 
corn is greener in the spring, taller and 
thicker in mid-summer, more prolific of 
ears in the fall than any other. And 
how do we keep it that way? By com- 
bining different types of com to form an 
even better kind, which is called hybrid 

To grow this special brand of corn, the 
process called detasseling is applied. 
There are two basic kinds of com — male 
and female. The female corn is detas- 
seled; that is, the tassel at the top of 
each stalk of com is removed and left to 


be pollinated by the male com. One 
row of male corn pollinates four rows of 
female. So in the field you find one row 
of male com, four rows of female, an- 
other row of male, and so on uniformly 
all through the field. 

The job of detasseling the corn has to 
be done by hand, and all the people in 
my crowd at home have adopted the de- 
tasseling idea. It is not done so much 
as a job but because of the fun of it. 

The wearing apparel is, of course, simi- 
lar for all. The older the clothes, the 
more style they are for this job. The uni- 
form we all wear consists of old, faded 
jeans; ancient shirts; a hat of any kind 
to ward off the hot sun; old, wom-out 
shoes; and sunglasses. Of course, it goes 
without saying that everyone wears her 
hair in pigtails, and this adds greatly to 
the charming efFect of the costume. 

During the detasseling season, one day 
is the same as the rest. We rise and shine 
in the midst of the black night in order 
to get to the truck by seven o'clock, 
quickly leap into our clothes, and spend 
the remaining time trying to stuff our 
enormous lunches into tiny boxes. Once 
in the truck and on the way to the field, 
we sing songs and have a gay time laugh- 
ing and joking with each other. How- 
ever, if it has rained the previous night, 
the crowd is rather gloomy, for we all 
know we will have to walk the distance 
from the highway to the field, which is 
usually two or three miles on mud roads. 
Otherwise on arriving at the field we 
gaily leap out of the truck, throw our 
lunch under a shady tree, and head for 
the field. 

Usually when we start to work in the 
morning there is dew on the leaves of 
corn, and as we walk down the long, 
half-mile rows, we become soaking wet 
from the dripping leaves slapping against 
us and leaving the sweet odor of fresh 

corn floating around us. Then slowly the 
sun begins to beat down, the clods of 
dirt under our feet harden, and we grad- 
ually dry off. About the middle of the 
morning everyone's gaiety begins to jade, 
and at the end of every row we drop to 
ground for a few moments rest until 
everyone has completed her row. Then 
we start on new rows. Slowly, as the 
sun continues to rise, our high spirits 
wilt, and we settle down earnestly (o 
work. The only noises then heard are the 
slight breeze that blows the leaves of corn 
to and fro making them rattle like paper, 
the chirping birds, the sleepy crickets, the 
voice of the foreman, and an occasional 
laugh from those who have stopped work 
to rest for a minute. 

After what seems an eternity, the fore- 
man blows his whistle that calls us to 
lunch. The spirit of the crowd revives 
at the sight of food, and everyone scram- 
bles for her own lunch, gobbles it down 
quickly, and spends the rest of the hour 
basking in the shade of the trees. 

Once again comes the foreman's whis- 
tle, and we all trudge back to the field, 
well knowing how hot the afternoon will 
be and how long it is until time to quit. 
Right after lunch is the zero hour of the 
day, and we all keep the water boy busy 
bringing us water, water, and more water. 
To work then is really an effort, and 
everyone has to apply herself to it. Once 
again silence reigns. The only voice heard 
is the foreman's. Everything is quiet; 
the corn stalks rustle in the very slight 
breeze; and now and then one horse 
neighs to another. Steam seems to rise 
from the dry earth as the sun boils every 
little bit of moisture from it, and the odor 
of the drying com stalks drifts pass us 
as we work steadily on and on. The tiny 
particles of the com stalks here and there 
cling to us more and more, and we start 
itching and become sticky all over. We 

longingly dream of a warm bath to re- 
lieve us of all our minor catastrophies. 

After what seems an eternity, the after- 
noon comes to an end, and we all slowly 
tramp back to the truck and fall into it. 
On the way home there is little singing, 
for all are exhausted. 

Once home I leap into the bath tub 
and happily soak in hot water until sup- 
per is ready. After eating I go to my 
room, pull down all the shades, for it is 
still daylight, and crawl blissfully into 
bed. So ends a typical day of detasseling 
corn. We all know that we have done a 
good day's work, and we are proud of it, 
for we are detasseling to keep our corn 

IVowv and Then 

By Beverly Sfevens 
Honorable Mention 

Have you ever stopped to think about 
all the things you just loved to do when 
you were little, but shiver at the thought 
of now; or of little everyday happenings 
that delight you now, but were childhood 
dreads? For example, dinner time now 
is my favorite time of day. A servant's 
quiet announcement, a dinner bell, or 
just a shouted "soup's on" are such 
beautiful music. Even the occasional 
sour disposition, worry, or physical ache 
can make a temporary exit by floating 
away on the delicious smell of cooking 
food. Boil it, fry it, stew it, bake it, or 
bum it; it doesn't make any difference 
to me, for I'm so fond of any kind of 
food that I could sincerely flatter the 
poorest cook. 

As a little girl, however, the typical 
dinner time pictures was a bit different, 
I remember sitting high at the table on 
my pillow-stacked chair with a plate of 
finely-chopped food shoved hopefully in 
front of me, each horrid vegetable in its 
familiar position. Next would come the 

contrasting, coaxing tones . . . Father 
threatening no dessert and Mother sweet- 
ly saying that this or that would make 
my hair curly or cheeks rosy. Waves of 
nausea would accompany the appearance 
of fresh peas on my plate. I had a fairly 
painless system worked out, however. By 
alternately gulping down peas and follow- 
ing quickly with milk, I was able to choke 
down my quota. 

My feeling towards sandy beaches has 
also changed somewhat as I've grown 
older. I've spent all my summers on the 
East coast; and the ocean, as you know 
or have heard, is extremely cold. It 
would make goose-pimples pop out all 
over to run shivering from the water and 
dive all but head first into hot sand. It 
gave the same sensation as coming in 
from a snowy night and warming chilled 
bones by a cozy fire. I especially liked 
to stretch out my arms and then pull the 
sand in close, making a pile to rest my 
chin on. If I began to feel too warm, I 
could scrape away the hot top layer and 
run my hands and arms through the cool, 
moistened sand underneath. When the 
time came for more swimming, it was al- 
ways such a delight to jump up and find 
myself fully dressed in a gray suit of 
clothes all made of sand with hands, face, 
and hair to match. 

To say that I dislike sandy beaches 
now is wrong; it's just that a girl wish- 
ing to make the proper impressions does 
not rush from the water, dive head first 
into the sand, and then wear a gray suit 
to hide that painfully acquired tan. Be- 
sides its beauty-hampering quality, sand 
has a way of clinging to, falling into, 
and mixing with almost everything. I 
would try so hard, for example, to keep 
two clean fingers with which to hold my 
candy bar, but one small grain finding 
its way into the first bite is impossible to 
(Continued on Page 26) 




By Ann Marshall 

The evil glowing amber 
Of the glass in candlelight; 
The sharp metallic gleam 
Of the fork upon my right 
Make me shiver. 

I see tli^ butter smeared 

On a greasy limp string bean; 

I see potato shadows 

On the plates that aren't clean 

And I quiver. 

Surrounded by my foes! 
There are plates in front, and glasses 
On the shelves right by the sink; 
There are spots, and dark molasses . . . 
Oh, the fear. 

Ten minutes have gone by . . . 
All's changed and now b'gosh 
The knives have changed to monsters, 
The food's gone: I have to wash 
Every dish here. 

1/ lew cJLc 


By Ann Marshall 

I met someone who thrilled in 
The shortness of quick hours . . . 

He made that time a separate gem; 
The sparkling seconds ours. 

I thought my former love still firm, 
But with a sweeping blow 

His brown eyes sent it far away, 
And shattered it below. 

^ke ^pis^cti of ^mohe 

By Adelaide Thornton 

Rising up and up through a fog-hazed sky 
Climbed a solid, blue spiral of smoke. 
It circled the heads of the passers-by, 
Then, hitting the sky, it broke. 

This cysrl of smoke was the dust of toil. 

And the cares of a worker's life; 

The dust which the farmer plows up from the soil; 

And the smoke from the factory strife. 

It's the smoke which comes from a black wood stove 
It's the smoke from the wealthy man's pipe; 
It's the smoke from the hearth of a Negro's hut; 
It's the smoke that comes with the night. 

In a spiral of smoke climbing up to the sky, 
In a solid, blue spiral of smoke, 
Lived the hopes and the cares of passers-by, 
Dwelt their dreams in that small curl of smoke. 



By Pal Shillings 

The winds of change are raging through the land 

Beating wild and free 

So weak souls creep to caves. 

And hide their faces in their quivering hands. 

Weeping; until the storm be past. 

Yet, some stride forth. 

And hold their faces upward to the cleansing rain 

Exult in Hghtning's sword, that slashes through the night 

And when it's through 

Pass by a shattered altar without pain. 

By Mar+ha Baird 

Senior First Place 

Line after line of black type marching 
across white paper. Hundreds of these 
papers compiled between two walls of 
pasteboard, and what do you have? A 
book. The particular book of which I 
am speaking will fit anything from a G.I. 
pocket to the cold steel shelves of a battle- 
ship's library. It has a slick paper cover 
which fairly shrieks the title in blazing 
red and yellow letters, or it is a thick, 
heavily-bound volume lying sedately with 
its dull grey cloak. It is the book of 
servicemen, not one specific book, but any 
one of a hundred which can be found 
from Fort Bragg to Pearl Harbor. Dur- 
ing the war I think that books become 
more valuable than ever. They continue 
to educate and to broaden one's knowl- 
edge, but during such a great upheaval, 
they do more than help train the mind. 
They find so many, many ways in which 
they can serve the American fighting man. 
The men have needed mental diversion 
no matter what their duty and no matter 
where their battle station. To many of 
them books have been just that diversion, 
for they found it was soon possible to 
lose themselves within the pages of one 
book or another. 

The war has brought a new opportunity 
for education. Men of all types are 
thrown together on board ship, and those 
long hours are usually not spent idly. At- 
tention demands diversion; they want to 
do something besides think what they've 
left behind them because that only brings 

on homesickness, or what's before them 
because no one knows the answer to that. 
So they wander into the ship's library and 
casually look the contents over. There is 
something for everyone. That rough- 
looking yeoman may soon be seen reading 
Keats, or that kid with the school girl 
complexion completely absorbed in Ho- 
mer s 7/W. Books, like other things, will 
suit an individual's personality, and only 
the person himself can ever know the 
type of book in which he can invariably 
become lost. 

Perhaps many people do not under- 
stand why books have been of such im- 
portance to the serviceman. Perhaps they 
don't realize that books serve as an outlet 
for the deepest, most carefully concealed 
emotions; they bring back home in a mil- 
lion ways; they divert the mind and relieve 
tension; they soothe and comfort; many 
times they solve problems when nothing 
else has helped. They educate and broad- 
en and deepen as they have always done 
and always will do. They are priceless, 
and yet they are free. 

Think about all the posters you have 
seen depicting the hardened, worn, ex- 
hausted soldier, sailor, and marine. Pic- 
ture him during a moment of relaxation 
after his mail has been read for the fourth 
time. See him doubled up in that damp 
foxhole with a grey, smoke-filled sky 
above him and the tense silence crouching 
around him. See his grimy hands ten- 
derly touching the pages of a small, bat- 
tered book, the momentary forgetfulness 
and relaxation stealing carefully across 
his face. He may be in a kitchen, work- 
ing feverishly over a fast-sinking patient 
with A. J. Cronin in The Citadel, or 


standing silently amid the wild crowd with 
Demetrius when he first saw Jesus in 
The Robe. 

In the tiny pup-tent on the desolate 
shores of some island, there may have 
been a dim light. Hovered around it in 
mud-caked dungarees were possibly four 
or five battle-weary marines, their eyes 
staring dreamily, intently, or sadly, into 
the darkness; their minds a thousand 
miles away. One of the group would 
have been reading almost reverently, 
speaking softly, and lingering over each 
word as he read: 

" 'Twas many and many a year ago in 
that kingdom by the Sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you 
may know by the name of Annabel 
Lee. . . ." 

And on board ship, lying flat on his stom- 
ach on a stainless steel six-layer bunk, 
is a young sailor in a T shirt and shorts, 
his bristly head buried deep in some form 
of hterature. You can see him slowly 
turn the pages with careful, deliberate 
movements. It could be the September 
issue of "Popular Mechanics." It could 
be Moby Dick- It could be The Prin- 
ciples of Law. v= 

All of these are only examples that 
show the part which literature has played 
in the lives of the American serviceman. 
I hope that the men who have so recently 
learned the value of books will not for- 
get, and that those who have always seen 
life itself threaded through those lines 
of black type have developed a deeper 
sense of value and have gone still further 
in cultivating the unquenchable desire to 
read and read and read. Such a feeling 
if widespread enough, could perhaps put 
an end to war itself. And what greater 
service could be rendered by the inani- 
mate or the living to the whole of man- 

The Only Immortals 

By Eileen Sprlngstun 
Senior-Middle First Place 

Man is bom, he lives, and he dies. 
His existence and habitation on this earth, 
in this great universe, is of no significance. 
This matter that makes up living people 
is impartial; it cares not a bit for the 
person it creates and is part of. So 
when it chooses, the whole organism sud- 
denly stops and becomes again matter in 
the sense that earth-dust is. But during 
his short span of life, man holds one 
very precious possession ... a brain. 
Man dies, but the products of his mind 
live on. 

A book is the only immortality. Books 
are the embalmed minds of the miserable, 
insignificant creatures who have struggled 
in darkness through the ages to find a 
glimmer of light, to touch the truth, how- 
ever tentatively. Books are a message to 
us from the dead . . . from human souls 
we never saw, who lived, perhaps, thou- 
sands of miles away. And yet these, in 
those little sheets of paper, speak to us, 
arouse us, terrify us, teach us, comfort 
us, open their hearts to us as brothers. 

They speak to us. Through the pages 
of books we listen to the voices of the 
world's great thinkers, and a little of 
their profound wisdom is transplanted in 
us. The best of a book is not the thought 
which it contains, but the thought that it 
suggests, and what wonderful thoughts 
can be gleaned from the black and white 
of a printed page. 

Books arouse us. The influence of 
books is a mighty power in the world. 
Silent, passive, and noiseless though they 
are, they yet set in action countless mul- 
titudes and change the order of nations. 
They inspire us to the greatest heights, 
and cause us to sink into the darkest pits 


of degradation. They instill fear in our 
hearts, and shake the very foundations 
of our souls. We are stunned by the 
thoughts and theories set forth in them. 

They teach us. Dead counsellors are 
the most instructive, because they are 
heard with patience and reverence. Books 
provide us with valuable information 
about a myriad of subjects, but we must 
read with an open mind . . . neither ac- 
cept blindly nor condemn hastily, but 
rather absorb, ponder, and evaluate. Upon 
books the collective education of the race 
depends; they are the sole instruments of 
registering, perpetuating, and transmit- 
ting thought. 

They comfort us. They bring us 
laughter and tears, and a quiet feeling of 
contentment. Through them we are able 
to realize our groping ambitions, our sup- 
pressed desires. They comfort us in our 
sorrow, and enable us to escape from the 
meager existence in a war-torn and shat- 
tered world, surrounded and engulfed by 

Books are magic carpets. We can delve 
into their pages and be whisked to other 
countries, other lands . . . lands of our 
dreams and fancies of our imagination. 
We slip into the bodies of other people, 
and we savor in the experiences we will 
never have. Through books we live a 
thousand lives, sharing the hardships and 
happiness, the lots of people of every 
race, of every walk of life. We are made 
to understand our fellow men the world 
over, to sympathize and help them when 
they are dealt a cruel blow and to share 
in their rejoicing in happier moments. 

Books open their hearts to us as broth- 
ers. They are our friends, always pres- 
ent and never changing. They are innate 
objects . . . only a few sheets of unim- 
pressive paper bound together in an un- 
impressive cover, but one has only to open 

this cover, and life itself will spring from 
the pages. 

"When we are weary of the living, we 
may repair to the dead, who have nothing 
of peevishness, pride, or design in their 

A Never-Ending Journey 

By Maryjane Hooper 
Senior-Middle Second Place 

"Twas the night before Christmas and 
^d all through the house, not a creature 
was stirring, not even a mouse." The 
full moon shone down on the glistening 
white snow, making all of outdoors a 
perfect setting for the hoUday season. 
On this same beautiful night, I was cud- 
dled up in Daddy's lap while he read the 
concluding paragraphs of Dickens' Christ- 
mas Carol to me. How well I remember 
the apparitions of the miser Scrouge, and 
poor Tiny Tim! I'll never forget him 
... he is immortal. This beautiful, 
touching story that Daddy read to me 
when I was only five or six is my first 
recollection of any of the works of the 
English language. 

Much has occurred since that Christ- 
mas evening of years ago, and my in- 
terests in reading have undergone gradual 
changes too. Books have always been my 
companions; from my enjoyable kinder- 
garten days through high school and now 
college. They have been ever present. And 
during these years my interests varied, 
each new type of reading adding to my 
enjoyment and appreciation of life. Cin- 
derella, The Three Bears, and Alice in 
Wonderland led me down the slowly- 
winding pathway to the land of enchant- 
ment. And what a beautiful land it was! 
I can still vividly see the calico cat and 
the gingham dog, the sugar plum trees, 
and the talking flowers. It was such a 


wonderful place to visit just before bed- 
time. Raggedy Ann held my hand tight- 
ly as we climbed the next pathway; at the 
middle of the path we parted, only to 
meet again during our free hours. From 
there to the land of hills, rivers, and un- 
occupied lands, Father Marquette was my 
guide. As we journey along the roads 
and rivers of bookland. Father Marquette 
told the history of the Indians and their 
daily life, the way they raised their food, 
how they traded and worshipped. I cer- 
tainly did acquure some basic knowledge 
of the way other people lived. At the 
top of this hill. Father Marquette bade 
me goodbye, and said that Mercury, the 
messenger of the gods, would be with me 
in a few minutes. Scanning through the 
book he gave me was more interesting 
than any fairy tales, for you see, it was a 
collection of world poetry. The musical 
lines made me conscious of the wonder- 
ments of nature's inventions. Unnoticed 
beauty of a God-made tree and even the 
tintinnabulation of bells now excited an 
aesthetic pleasure in me. The little toy 
dog that was covered with dust brought 
tears to my eyes, and I laughed with 
childish merriment as I scampered after 
Jerry the lamplighter up and down the 
now well-lighted streets. The world of 
poetry was inspiring, portraying to me 
the httle simplicities that have no mone- 
tary value but are so necessary to com- 
plete happiness in life. While perusing 
the latter half of this book. Mercury ar- 
rived and told me a few of the myths 
that are generations old. In a few hours 
he gently carried me to the next hill, from 
which I could easily see the hills I had 
previously climbed. Here I had the ex- 
treme pleasure of being introduced to 
Chaucer, Byron, Shelly, Keats and 
Shakespeare. What lengthly discussions 
I had with the man who wrote Macbeth 

about the man who was "too full o' the 
milk of human kindness." Shakespeare's 
expressions and truths are often so beauti- 
ful .. . "the air is delicate," being one 
of my favorites. His lines have become 
universal truths, accepted as such by all 

From this hill, I ambled without any 
guide to a near-by knoll, thinking of the 
part books had played in my life. 

In school, I was shown the different 
types of literature and the values of each. 
This was my opportunity to choose the 
styles of writing that I thought were most 
interesting. Reading from varied sources 
helped to broaden my outlook on life, 
helped to increase my knowledge of 
words, and helped me to express my ideas. 
Understanding words enables one to dis- 
tinguish between propaganda and truth 
... an ability much need in the present 
day. The quotation: 

"For of all sad words of tongue or pen; 
The saddest are these. It might have 
V been." 

states the value of reading the finest 
books always. Your life is what you 
make it, and reading makes your life the 
kind you want it to be. 

Whether the book be one of fairy tales, 
history, geography, mythology, or poetry 
it is important to me . . . important be- 
cause it is the basis of all my thoughts 
and part of my life. 


(Continued from Page 19) 
single out, and thus grates against your 
teeth throughout the entire bar. 

Washing-hair-night also is no longer 
the gala occasion it was in childhood. It 
takes a full fledged contortionist to bend 
double over the small bathroom sink and 
then suffer the various discomforts of 
bumping my head on protruding faucets, 
aching back, and feeling cold soapsuds 
crawl down my neck. 

As a little girl, however, I used to love 
to have my hair washed, for it meant 
that I wouldn't have to worry about 
straightening finger curls and could play 
self-invented games such as holding my 
breath under water and forming gorgeous 
church steeples and soap waves. The 
length of the wet hair always surprised 
me and, feeling just like a lovely mer- 
maid, I would swish it around and let it 
lightly tickle my back. 

As a child I held no affection for dolls 
whatsoever. Nevertheless, I had at least 
a score that sat on display untouched by 
dirty, affectionate hands, but only ad- 
mired by fellow collectors. 

Now my bed has been turned into a 
menagerie where lounge a most delapi- 
dated variety of beasts. At least, to those 
who do not appreciate each one's related 
sentiments, they appear delapidated. 
Mother, who outwardly calls them disease 
carriers, has seriously suggested crema- 
tion; but she knows how I love each one 
and that sleep for me would surely be 
impossible without them. 

This has been fun excavating and dig- 
ging up little-girl sensations. Some say 
that childhood is the most wonderful time 
of life, and some maintain that grown- 
up joys are not surpassed. However, the 
good and bad in each period of my life 
have been so evenly balanced that I say 
neither is the better. 

Beptizisig Saisiciay "**■ 

By Mary Alice Coopeir 
Honorable Mention 

A summer Sunday in our town is a 
drowsy thing. All is peace and rest be- 
hind shuttered windows. Some of us 
read, some of us sleep, and some of us 
just sit. However, this is an unusually 
busy day in the kitchen for Aunt May, 
for this is her baptizing Sunday. 
^This colored baptizing is a solemn rit- 
ual. The church members gather at sun- 
set and wind their way down the banks 
to the Little Harpeth River. At the head 
of the procession is the preacher, tall and 
thin in his clerical black with even his 
head wrapped in a dark scarf. Behind 
him are the church mothers. Their long 
white robes, hanging loosely to the 
ground, signify their spirit of faith. Each 
carries a blanket in which to wrap the 
candidates, who come next. Their mark 
of candidacy is a long thin scarf wound 
tightly about their heads. Aunt May 
said that this is to keep the wool on their 
heads from shrinking when they got wet. 
They are usually staring blankly ahead 
in a state of repentence. 

The congregation follows, singing stir- 
ring spirituals, often "There Will Be No 
Shadows." This emotional fervor burst- 
ing spontaneously into deep resounding 
tones is magnificent. 

As soon as the procession reaches the 
spot where the bank slopes between two 
willow trees, the ceremony begins. The 
strongest deacon wades out into the water 
to sound its depth. He places an ancient 
carved cane where the preacher will stand. 
The singing grows louder as he takes his 
place and then stops entirely. 

When the candidate feels the water on 
her ankles, she begins shouting, ''The 


Lord has saved a sinner," "Lord, I hear 
you call, and I'm comirg." She bends 
backward and forward to get closer to the 
saving water, even patting it with her 
hands and pulling it toward her with the 
strong feeling of reverence for the water 
that will cleanse her. 

The preacher ducks her backward into 
the water saying the baptismal words, 
"I baptize thee in the name of the Father, 
of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, 
Amen." She is "so overcome with emo- 
tion that she is almost wild and must be 
pulled out of the water by force. She 
wants to stay under longer to be cleansed 

of more sins. On the way back to the 
bank her praises are louder and more 
fervent. "I'm a daughter of the great 
and mighty, all powerful Lord," or "I'm 
saved. The wonderful Lord has saved a 

After all the candidates have been bap- 
tized, the singing begins again. The pro- 
cession goes to the church yard, where a 
fish fry or a watermelon cutting is given 
in honor of the new members. 

We can go with Aunt May on Sun- 
days, but we always must remain on the 
bridge, for this is a way of life we can 
only watch. 



By Rufh Evans 

I've heard of towers reaching to the sky, 
And now I know what they are meant to mean. 
With walls of brick and ivy climbing high, 
Such mystic beauty I myself have seen. 
The windows long and lean let through the light, 
A most translucent glow of purity. 
That in its explorations through the night 
Found steps that led to God and surety. 
I gazed enraptured on the vision here, 
A cloistered passage ending in the stars; 
And ever since I've felt a peace so clear 
That nothing Time can do will leave its scars. 
A tower is a strength, a hope, a prayer; 
I put my faith in such a sheltered stair. 


To Town 

By Jeannie M. Watson 

The hot morning sun beams down on 
the familiar sunbonnet so typical of the 
country wife. The stifling heat and dust 
rise slowly from the scorched pavement 
and linger throughout the day, waiting 
to choke those who dare enter the crowded 
square. Another Saturday has come to 
the litde town, and with it come the 
swarms of country folk from their re- 
spective farms dotting the Kentucky hill- 

Beginning in the early morning you 
may hear the mixed sounds of the horses' 
slow "clic-clak" on the street and the 
grinding of the wagon wheels behind. 
In the wagon are the inevitable split- 
bottom chairs, usually reserved only for 
the comfort of the old folks. Six pairs 
of overalled legs dangle from the back of 
the wagon accompanied by six pairs of 
heavy, high-top shoes. Each sunburned, 
freckled faces beam with expectancy of 
the thrills and adventure to be had in 
the "big city." Adding to the scene are 
several yelping coon hounds tagging along 
at the horses' feet. 

(Continued on page 32) 

By KIcki Moss 

The water laps and gurgles with a 
pleasing monotony of beauty and quiet. 
The wave-scalloped Gulf of Mexico rolls 
over the sandbars, swells slightly as it 
meets a wind current, passes through an 
opening between two low cliffs, and be- 
comes the Bay of Copano. Outlined over 
the horizon is the beginning of dawn, 
discernible only as a light patch of color 
in a darkened sky. There is no thunder 
to accompany it, no aspiring poet to set 
into rhyme a noble subject that no pen 
can reproduce accurately. A work of 
God, for man is so very small and incom- 
petent that no amount of words may 
serve to give a full and real effect. 

As the sun rises on wings of glory, the 
grey shadows of night are usurped by the 
bright shadows of day and placed under 
the refraining hand of Time. On a path 
of scarlet splendor, with heralds of crim- 
son clouds running before, the light of a 
(Continued on page 32) 


^our \Q^uarier6 



On Sleigh Rides 

By Jackie Koon 

If you have never enjoyed the fun and 
beauty of a winter night from the top 
of a generous mound of hay piled high 
on a sleigh, then you have missed a won- 
derful experience. The setting must be 
perfect; and being slightly prejudiced, I 
would choose a place in the North, pref- 
erably Michigan, where the snow has been 
blown in great drifts, leaving only a very 
small space for the passage of the runners 
of the sleigh. There is something fas- 
cinating about moving along in the 
country on the horse drawn rack, fully 
equipped with tinkling sleigh bells. It 
has always given me the feeling of being 
free from all worries, and every minute 
is enjoyable. 

At first, there is much confusion when 
(Continued on page 34) 



By Mary Dixon 

As Marco Polo was entranced by the 
fabulous wonders of the Far East, as 
Aladdin was fascinated with the results 
of his magic lamp, so was I completely 
spellbound with the magnificent spectacle 
of Mardi Gras in New Orleans. So 
anyone is equally enthralled with the won- 
ders displayed there in luxurious profusion. 
Riotous spirit, rich colors, and people of 
every class, for once on an equal level, 
whole-heartedly reaping the pleasures of 
the marvelous fete after weeks of prepa- 
ration. It has no equal! 

Mardi Gras is supposedly a religious 
festival. The only obvious purpose is to 
have one last fling before the long, solemn 
Lenten season. 

The wealthy upper classes do the major 
part of the decorating, and they are the 
ones from which the various queens are 
elected. Each clan tries to outdo the 
others in extravagant display. The re- 
sults are stupendous. Such opulence is 
almost beyond the limits of imagination, 
(Continued on page 34) 

The Legend of the Piasa Bird 

By Mary Ann McCasklli * 

Even more amusing that the Hoosier 
school days and far more amazing than 
the stories of Pompeii are the famous 
legends that center around the Indian 
tribes along the Mississippi River. These 
legends have been drilled into the mind of 
every small child in my home town and 
have completely taken the place of fairy 
stories. As these children grow older the 
romances, tragedies, hopes, and desires 
told in these legends become deeply im- 
pressed upon their minds, just as they 
have been impressed upon mine. 

The legend of the Piasa Bird is per- 
haps the most interesting of all around 
my section of the country to me. It is 
the story of a noble Indian tribe which 
lived in peace and feared no one until a 
gigantic bird came into their village. The 
creature swooped down, picked up one 
of the brave warriors, and carried him oif. 
Each day this Piasa Bird came and car- 
ried off another. The tribe hated the 
creature and lived in constant fear, not 
knowing who was to be next. 

The Indian chief ordered his braves 
to kill the Piasa Bird; but when attempts 
were made, the braves found, to their 
amazement, that their arrows would not 
penetrate his thick skin. The situation 
steadily grew worse. Small children were 
now the prey. Something had to be done, 
and quickly. The Indian chief went into 
his wigwam, and there he stayed for two 
days and nights, thinking and planning. 
He came out, pale and weak, and called 
before him his six best braves. When 
they were assembled, he carefully repeated 
his plan to rid the tribe of this bird 

Each warrior did as the chief had asked 
and prepared his poisoned arrows. The 
chief himself painted his skin a bright 
color to attract attention. When all was 
ready, the seven of them climbed to the 
highest bluff overlooking the village. The 
warriors placed themselves beneath the 
underbrush and waited with their arrows 
rtady. The chief threw himself face 
downward on the ground and clutched 
the twigs at his side. 

The flapping of the mammoth wings 
could be heard for miles around and gave 
warning of the Piasa Bird's approach. 
When the chief heard the warning, he 
clutched the twigs even tighter. The bird 
saw his gleaming skin in the sun light 
and swooped down upon the chief, dug 
his claws into him and started to take 
flight. Tighter and tighter the chief 
gripped the twigs; his muscles grew tense. 
As the bird struggled to pull its prey 
loose, six poisoned arrows swiftly and 
accurately pierced the breast, the only 
vulnerable spot of the devil. The bird 
relaxed its grip and fell into the river to 
be swallowed up in the swift current. 

The Piasa Bird was gone forever, but 
the beloved chief of the tribe lay in a 
serious condition. His six brave warriors 
carried him back to his simple hut where 
they watched and cared for him. But the 
cruel claws of the Piasa Bird had left 
another mark; death was inevitable. As a 
memorial to the great chief who gave his 
life to save his tribe, the Indians painted 
a picture of the Piasa Bird on the side 
of the bluff to mark the spot where their 
leader was killed. 


Youth and Ole Man River 

By Jeanne DeMoss 

The posters appear in every store win- 
dow weeks ahead of time. The children 
gleefully plan for the occasion; the high 
school boys begin making dates with their 
best girls; the elders kept an eye on the 
skies hoping for clear weather. It is an 
event that is important to everyone, this 
first river excursion of the summer. 

The big boat plows into dock in the 
late afternoon bringing with it sensations 
that are associated with only the Missis- 
sippi and its river boats, the smell of fish 
and oil on the water, the sight of the scur- 
rying workers polishing brass and scrub- 
bing decks, and best of all the tunes of 
the calliope passing the town, routing 
out the most disinterested individuals and 
pushing them to the river front until it 

seems the whole town is gathered for the 
arrival of the "big boat." 

Soon, however, the wharf is cleared 
away and everyone is at home getting 
ready for the ''moonlight excursion" on 
the river from nine until one that night. 
It is impossible to measure the anticipa- 
tion of that boat ride! 

When at last the plank is drawn up 
and the anchor heaved in, the shouted ex- 
citement has settled down to a matter 
of complete enjoyment. The children 
scamper from top to bottom of the three 
decks, finding on each adventure and a 
new unequalled joy. The young set dance 
and hum to the music of the mediocre 
orchestra. The older people sit quietly 
talking, or just thinking, out on the open 

Lined up on each side of the dance 
floor are gambling machines of every de- 
scription. Such lotteries cannot be oper- 
ated in Missouri, but as soon as the boat 
reaches the channel of the river, they are 
thrown open on the assumption that they 
are riding as much in Illinois as in Mis- 
souri. Photo booths are crowded with 
boys and girls and their new-found love. 
Root beer is smeared over the dance floor, 
and children are found here and there 
crying because they spilled theirs and 
Mother won't provide a dime for another. 
The stairways are jammed with people 
crowding from one deck to another to find 
something new to do. 

Later in the evening a sort of hushed 
calm falls over the river and the excursion 
boat. Its previous sparkling merriment is 
exchanged for smooth-flowing peace. The 
softness of the summer's night becomes 
too beautiful to disturb. People begin 
drifting to the open air of the top deck, 


holding hands and dreamily humming 
along with the orchestra. The banks of 
the river seem to smile their aproval on 
the subdued gaiety of the party, the trees 
straining out as if to catch a note of the 
music or listen to some very tender con- 
versation. It is then that each person 
reflects on the greatness of the Mississippi 
River and claims it for his very own. 

Countfiy Come to Town 

(Continued from page 28) 
By now the square is a regular hub-bub. 
On the corners stand groups of farmers, 
each equipped with his usual corn-cob 
pipe and straw hat. The conversation 
tends to run on the things most important 
to every farmer, that, at the moment, be- 
ing early corn and tobacco planting. In 
front of the groceries and the "five and 
ten" linger the women. Their freshly 
starched prints smell strongly of home- 
made laundry soap. Their long hair is 
sleekly pulled straight back and pinned 
in a precise knot at the neck. There is 
nothing fancy either in dress or speech 
about these women. Their very plainess 
seems to match their plain, wholesome 
living. In their arms one sees a bag of 
flour, sugar or meal, but never vegetables, 
meats, or cakes. They seem to be entirely 
independent of such articles. 

At high noon there is a standstill, and 
during this time each hungry family 
gathers around the appointed lunch spot 
to get their portion of fried chicken, cold 
biscuits, and jam. This is the only time 
of the day when pedestrians may travel 
the streets without fear of being crushed 
among the crowds. 

As the afternoon drags on you see the 
horses standing at the curbing with heads 
drooping patiently but anxiously waiting 
for their masters to return and start for 
home. The noisy crowds begin to dwin- 
dle, and the worker makes his way 

through the streets with supper in mind. 
As the sun sinks behind the buildings, 
the cool evening air creeps into the square, 
settling the smoke and dust and remind- 
ing those in their summer clothing that 
the night is near. With the shopping 
done and the parting phrases of "Wal, 
you come when you git time" said, the 
families again assemble in their convey- 
ances, each with his own story of the 
day's adventures. You see them tired and 
exhausted but happy and contented as 
they slowly wind their way down the road 
and are lost in the blue haze of the hills, 
lost for another week in a type of peace- 
fulness so few people experience. 


(Continued from page 28) 
world is ushered in. For all the praises 
sung of a particular sunrise, this one is 
no difi-erent from the one yesterday or 
the morning before. Awareness of a 
great beauty heretofore gone unnoticed 
may be due to a sudden or gradual 
thought, inspiration, or revelation, but 
whatever it is, there comes with it a surg- 
ing desire for peace. Nowhere can it be 
found with the same breathless, uncompro- 
mising temperament as that which drifts 
with the sea into the lives of men. It 
adds an individual quality to the sky, to 
the very air, to the land itself, which, as 
the waters change from a cool, imper- 
sonal black to a soft, inviting blue, is 


mirrored with all its crevaces, niches, and 
overhanging peaks. The waters swirl and 
turn, forever restless, twisting lightly, 
speaking softly and alternately roaring, 
smelling sweetly of a perfume of its own, 
aware of its magnanimity. 

In a great sweep it dashes itself against 
the rocks footing the cliifs, and then falls 
back as if amazed at the strength of its 
attack. Thrown by the momentum of 
the sea and the sudden shock of its impact 
against worn crags, spray envelops the 
cliifs in a thin, cgol mist of summer hap- 
piness. Continuously, tirelessly, it rolls, 
and beats rhythmically; monotonous but 
never exhausting, deceitful to some, and 
treacherous, therein lies its power and 

Guarding the entrance to the Bay are 
twin bluffs known to tourists and natives 
as "Abner's Peak" and "Annie's Peak," 
the result of a legend which we believe 
and protect from the jeers of sophisticated 
outsiders. Unlike most legends, the story 
begins with a hate and closes with that 
hate more intensified. 

In the latter part of the eighteenth cen- 
tury, when Texas was almost entirely un- 
settled, Abner Young crossed the Red 
River and slowly traveled southward. He 
pasesd the site that was later named for 
Samuel Houston, defender of the Re- 
public of Texas; he continued across low- 
lands that Zachary Scott was to cross in 
defense of Texas against the Mexican 
army. An adventurer, spirited with the 
love of beauty and mystery, his first 
glimpse of the Bay of Copano was on a 
storming, starless night; the sea was rag- 
ing and beating out its anger on which 
he stood transfixed, his eyes staring on 
the scene below. The thunderous roar 
engulfed all other sound as the water 
swept in to the beach. Abner Young 
gazed and was oblivious to the wind and 

He built his home, a crude affair, of 
whatever materials could be found, on 
the edge of the cliff. He would look 
down into the vast depths of foaming 
water and know that with all his heart and 
being he hated it. It was a place of in- 
trigue to him; for hours he would watch 
it clamor greedily toward him, seeking, 
eternally seeking to reach and enfold him 
in its grasp. He derived a sadistic pleas- 
ure in denying the sea its prey. He saw 
it as a creation of beauty and power, but 
also as a menace to be overcome. Stand- 
ing outside its reach, he sneered at it and 
repulsed its attacks; it became an ob- 
session, and he, a fanatic. 

In the course of time, Abner married 
and raised a family. The years of his 
married life, usually the most colorful in 
the lives of other people, were the most 
drab and tedious Abner had ever ex- 
perienced. He found little companion- 
ship with his wife and children and was 
angered at their arguments against his 
feeling for the sea. Annie, the youngest 
of his children, was his favorite, for she 
shared with him his hatred. She often 
accompanied him on his strolls and be-^ 
came engrossed in his varying moods. 

And so it was, that when Annie was 
claimed by the despised sea one blustering 
November night, Abner believed that it 
had committed the deed because of resent- 
ment of his one pleasure in life. He gave 
away his life to the enemy at the foot of 
his home. He died grimly, but with the 
knowledge that he gave himself willingly 
and was not taken forcibly. Knowing 
also that he would soon rest with his 
daughter allowed him to make an unre- 
pentant exit from the world. 

We who live within the influence of 
that legend do not doubt its truth. One 
has only to look down from the top of 
either cliff to see the same black tossing 
waters, greedily reaching out, and to 


listen to the murmurings of its voice, to 
know the power that existed in tliat same 
sea when Abner Young looked down from 
that exact place a century and a half ago. 
It is still there, and we know. 

(Continued from page 29) 
everyone gathers for the ride. Warm 
blankets, ear muffs, extra pairs of mittens, 
and other essentials are thrown on the 
large sleigh. The noise of heavy boots 
striking the crunchy snow and the aimless 
chatter of newcomers fill the air. The 
driver fastens swaying lanterns to the 
sides of the rack, harnesses the horses, 
bedecked with leather bell strips, and 
climbs aboard. There is a wild dash to 
get the best positions on the sleigh, the 
driver's whip cracks, the rack lurches, 
and we're off. 

The countryside is beautiful. Each tree 
is bending over from the weight of snow 
on its limbs, and the smaller branches, 
encased in a thin coating of ice, look like 
myriads of stars as the light of the moon 
reflects on them. The moon casts a faint 
blue haze on the clean sparkling snow, 
and long dark shadows of farm buildings 
stretch out in all directions. The brightly 
lighted farm houses stand ostentatiously 
on the distant hills, and the whole coun- 
try looks like a winter scene from a Christ- 
mas card. 

The air is very crisp and cold enough 
to take one's breath away, but this is 
hardly noticeable to all of us who are 
enjoying the ride. Our thoughts are of 
winter fun. The entire group bursts 
forth in a chorus of songs, and with 
each utterance our breath emerges in the 
form of cloudy vapors. Occasionally 
some slip quietly from the rack for a few 
moments to pack and hurl snowballs and 
to tumble in the deep snow behind the 
sleigh. Before they are missed, they 

catch up with the others and rejoin the 

After riding for quite some time, the 
sleigh halts before a low rambling lodge, 
and there is a scramble to get off the 
rack and into the house, where a warm 
crackling fire awaits chilled sleigh riders. 
The white fluffy snow is shaken from 
heavy clothing, and it quickly melts in 
large puddles of water near the door. 
Red faces and cold hands being warmed 
by the fireplace, we eagerly await the hot- 
aogs, doughnuts, and hot chocolate which 
will soon be served. The end of a perfect 
evening has been reached, but before we 
leave, plans are made for another sleigh- 
ride. Can you see why? 

(Continued from page 29) 

yet these are not the people who make 
Mardi Gras what it is. They are not the 
ones who leave the outsider dazzled with 
the whole spectacle. 

This can be attributed to the lower 
classes, who get much more fun out of it, 
and therefore put more into it for others 
than the fat plutocrats who sit on their 
balconies above the masses and revel in 
their display like bejeweled toad stools. 

To be sure, the thrill one gets when the 
majestic floats appear in a seemingly end- 
less procession is incomparable. It is 
as if you had opened Arabian Nights and 
instead of words, all the characters appear 
before your eyes in a dazzling panorama. 
You want to seize a portion of the dream- 


like pageant. You know it can't last 
much longer, and yet there is so much 
that you don't know what to reach for. 
You snatch a piece of crepe paper and 
jump up to catch some of the costume 
jewelry that the queens throw among the 
crowds. When everything is over though, 
you look at the cheap pink necklace and 
the shred of pink paper. It seems tawdry 
and insignificant; the spell is gone. Yes, 
Mardi Gras is definitely not a tangible 
thing. / 

The high spirits of the crowds are con- 
tagious, and soon everyone is enveloped 
in a feeling of reckless gaiety . . . every- 
one from Aunt Carrie down to the dig- 
nified Negro butler, Jehosephat. Tiny 
children jump around like animated ping 
pong balls. Old ladies forget their care- 
fulful gait and skip as merrily as if they 
were sixteen, inevitably to pay for such 
conduct with severe attacks of arthritis 
on the morrow. Old gentlemen wink at 
the young belles with all the bravado of a 
Beau Brummel. The old praline woman, 
long an institution on Royal Street, re- 
ceives a jovial kiss from an established 
gentleman of New Orleans gentry. Any- 
thing is likely to happen and usually does. 

The saloons profit more on this day 
than on any other throughout the year. 
All New Orleans seems to be reeling. 
Bacchus rules. Everyone has a wonder- 
ful time, forgets his ailments, and all is 
right. That is, until tomorrow. 

The climax of the festival is a magnifi- 
cent ball at which the King and Queen 
of Mardi Gras are crowned and every- 
one dances until they drop either from 
fatigue or inebriation. This dance is 
rather select, however, since tickets, or 
invitations as they are called, are ex- 

The next day the streets are cleaned, 
the persistent revelers jailed, and the gor- 
geous costumes carefully laid away in 
sachet and blue tissue paper. Not one 
vestige of the previous day's joyous cele- 
bration is left. 

The people of New Orleans settle 
down into their normal routine at once. 
Ladies go shopping and to lunch; men go 
to work; hypocrites to church for re- 
pentance, old ladies to bed with arthritis, 
and the praline woman takes her place 
again on Royal Street. All that remains 
are nebulous, filmy memories like those 
of a dream . . . lingering, poignant, 


§o Weil Hesnei^bered 

By James Hilton 

Reviewed by Shelia Kennard 

James Hilton, already famed for such 
books as Goodbye Mr. Chips, Random 
Harvest, and Lost Horizon, once again 
takes a place foremost on modern book- 
shelves with his new novel, So Well Re- 
membered. A story of England and Eng- 
lishmen, as most of Hilton's works are; 
So Well Remembered covers the better 
part of three generations in its telling, 
and weaves into its narrative a wide 
variety of fascinating characters. 

Principally, however, it is the story of 
George Boswell, a typical small town re- 
former whose chief aim is that of giving 
his children and grandchildren a "better 
Browdley" to live and work in. The son 
of a poor day-laborer, George well re- 
members the struggles his family en- 
dured — how his father toiled in the Chan- 
ning mill, how, orphaned at an early age, 
he was sent to live with his drunken 
uncle; how, having worked for an educa- 
tion, he rose to the editorship of one of 
Browdley's newspapers, then to the posi- 
tion of councillor, and from there to 
mayor. It is in remembering the evils 
and occupation of his early life that ideal- 

istic George finds the courage to attack 
and conquer disease and poverty; it is in 
seeing such enemies go down before his 
onslaughts that he gains personal satis- 

George Boswell is very typical, very or- 
dinary. Were his reforms all the material 
at hand, Hilton could hardly tell such a 
fascinating story; however this only serves 
as a background for George's personal 
life, the most interesting and important 
element of the compound. As a small- 
town newspaperman, George meets and 
falls in love with Olivia Channing, daugh- 
ter of the owner of the mill for which 
George's father had worked. A very 
strong-willed and fearless woman, Olivia 
is a victim of psychological circumstance. 
When only a young girl, she had been 
deserted by her mother and left in the 
care of a father just returned from serv- 
ing a prison sentence for embezzlement — 
an embezzlement which had earned for 
him and for Olivia the everlasting hatred 
of every Browdley citizen. It is through 
Livia's powerful guidance and George's 
likeable personality that he is able to rise 
high in Browdley's political world, but 
Livia is not satisfied with her husband or 
her life. When George refuses to leave 


Browdley, she leaves him, marrying a 
member of the nobility several years her 
junior. George now devotes himself en- 
tirely to his work to fill the vacuum this 
created, and hears no more of Livia until 
years later when he by chance meets 
Charles Winslow, son of Lord Winslow 
and his wife, the former Livia Boswell. 
Through helping this boy to discover a 
solution to his problems, George solves 
his own, and it is at this point that the 
book reaches its climax. 

So Well Remembered is an excellent 
book for thoughtful, leisurely reading. 
While it does not abound in adventure, or 
even arouse the emotions, it presents char- 
acter studies and gives a good example of 
the current trend in literature toward 
rational thinking. 

By John Hersey 

Reviewed by Kick! Mo$s 

The story of Broadway's latest hit be- 
gan with a cable from John Hersey about 
an AMG major in Sicily. After Hersey's 
return he fictionalized the major and other 
people into the best-selling novel, A Bell 
for Adano, which is considered the best 
fiction of the war. 

The plot of the book is concerned 
chiefly with the differences between Major 
Victor Joppolo and General Marvin. It 
is absorbing, spirited, and strong as is the 
struggle between good and evil; between 
democracy and fascism. 

Major Joppolo entered the town of 
Adano, Siciliy, and took his position as 
the American mayor. The people of 
Adano, long accustomed to the tyrannical 
rule of the fascists, were slow in adjust- 
ing themselves to the new leader. Born 
of Italian parents in New York, the major 
spoke the language and was able, during 

the course of his stay there, to help the 
people and to lead them in such a way 
that he was admired and loved. 

His first problem was to find a bell 
for the town. The old one had been 
taken away to be melted for guns and 
bullets, and the people wanted another 
even before the major started to work on 
the food problem. The bell to the people 
was more than just a bell; it called them 
to assembly, it rang for church, it an- 
nounced the time, and told the people 
when to eat. When the bell spoke, their 
fathers, and their fathers' fathers spoke 
to them. 

The incident of General Marvin and 
the mule cart was one of significance. 
The general was a man who acted and 
seldom thought. As he was being driven 
to Vicinamare one day, his car was forced 
to stop because of a mule cart which was 
blocking the road. After many shouted 
curses, the general, who was a man of 
violence, ordered the cart turned over and 
the mule shot. Without thinking of the 
consequences, he immediately commanded 
Major Joppolo to keep all carts out of 
the town. The results of this were no 
water for the people and no food, both 
of which had to be brought in from out- 
side the village. When finally the situa- 
tion demanded some relief, the Major 
countermanded the general's order and 
allowed the carts to come in. This act 
was eventually to lead to his being taken 
from his post when General Marvin 
learned of his disobedience. 

This book shows the Italian people in 
all their simplicity, loyalty, and sincerity. 
Their real and primary desire is for a bell 
to take the place of the one that was 
carried away. This is one of the struggles 
of the Major through the whole book, 
and it helps to earn him the respect of 
the town. Major Joppolo is a quietly 
firm, unassuming man; his physical ap- 


pearance would not make his stand out 
in a crowd, but his quality of inner good- 
ness and kindness would help him to sur- 
pass many others. It was his character 
and not his office that allowed him to lead 
the people. In contrast is Captam Purvis, 
a man of filthy words and thoughts; there 
can be found none of the refinement in 
him that is apparent in the Major. In the 
home of a friendly non-English speaking 
Italian family, he said some of the most 
vile things ever written in a best-seller 
novel. There is nothing whatsoever that 
is admirable about him, and he serves 
only as a contrast to Major Joppolo. 

The people of this Italian village are 
portrayed excellently and it is natural 
that the reader is affected by the things 
that happen to them, and also by they 
themselves. This book is not a great 
book, but it is a good book, and an in- 
teresting one. It will disappoint you at 
the end, but you will close it knowing that 
you have read something worth reading. 

Let Us €®ei§id@r 

By Josephine Lawrence 
Reviewed by Margaret Anne Funk 

One of the most timely, unusual, and 
all 'round good books is the recent Let Us 
Consider One Another. This book takes 
a typical American family, puts them in 
the setting of the modern world, and 
gives a bare realistic picture of all their 

Cecelia, the main character, is a Cath- 
olic because her mother married a Cath- 
olic and became one herself. Cecilia has 
fallen in love with a Jewish boy named 
Tag Silverstein. Her mother's family, 
who were staunch Protestants, never ac- 
cepted her conversion to the Catholic 
faith, and they talk and gossip with 
bits of sarcasm and meanness about the 

outcome of Cecilia's approaching mar- 
riage to Tag. Since the death of her 
family, Cecilia lived with her Catholic 
grandmother, who offered Tag a large 
amount of money if he would change his 
name. He was strong enough to refuse 
the offer; because, as he said, he wasn't 
ashamed that he was Jewish. 

Tag and Cecelia were married and 
were very happy. She went with him to 
his Sabbath Day devotions, and he went 
to Mass with her on Sunday. Although 
j^heir own little world was a peaceful one, 
daily prejudices were thrust in her face 
for her to overcome. 

The whole family is pictured in the 
book, but their only importance lies in 
the fact that they are examples of the 
hypocrisy of the human race. This is 
shown in many different ways by both 
adults and children. Not only is the 
religious prejudice shown, but racial prej- 
udice as well. For example, one of the 
children did not want to go to the birth- 
day party of another whose birthday was 
the same as Hitler's. 

Probably the most outstanding charac- 
ter, and the one most to be feared, is 
Tobias, the grandfather. On the outside 
he is the most broadminded and upright 
member of the family, but as the reader 
learns to know and understand him, his 
outward lack of prejudice dissolves in thin 
air, and he is seen for what he really is. 
At the very end of the book old Tobias 
goes to Church, and the minister chooses 
for his sermon a verse from the Bible, 
"Let us consider one another." Instead of 
applying the line to his family, he thinks 
about his disapproval of the foreign fam- 
ily who run the local laundry. After 
seeing the sadness that has been brought 
about by all the insignificant prejudices; 
the reader also sees that the danger to the 
world lies in the subtle and deep preju- 
dice of a man like Tobias. 




By James Ramsey Ullman 
Reviewed by Leotus Morrison 

In a book memorable for freshness, 
vitality and pure entertainment, James 
Ramsey Ullman has created thoughts that 
will linger. The story of The White 
Tower begins when Martin Ordway, 
American bomber pilot, crashes in the 
Swiss Valley of Kandermatt where he 
spent many vacations in his youth. Once 
again he meets 'nis boyhood companion, 
Carla Andreas, the guide for many of his 
past climbs; and Nicholas Radcliff, a 
geologist. Physically and mentally ex- 
hausted, Martin Ordway believes that he 
is unable to return to a world filled with 

Rising from the valley of Kandermatt 
is "a wild, radiant white shape unmoving 
and immutable in the sky" which had 
challenged many climbers who had never 
succeeded in reaching its summit. In the 
village there are six people who want to 
climb the "White Tower" to satisfy their 
individual desires. Andreas, the guide, 
had dreamed from boyhood of climbing 

the mountain on whose slopes his father 
died. Nicholas Radcliff, the geologist, 
had failed to reach the top of Mount 
Everest and wanted to climb the 'White 
Tower" in order to wipe out that failure 
of his youth. Paul Delambre wished to 
escape from himself and to achieve that 
which would destroy the memory of his 
failure as a writer, while Siegfried Hein, 
Wehrmacht officer, hoped to gain glory 
for the Third Reich by conquering the 
mountain. Martin and Carla dreamed 
to climb it merely because it was there. 

Because of the flaws of their person- 
alities each of the climbers fails to reach 
the top. Nicholas Radclift was weak 
physically and unable to stand the strain 
of the climb; Delambre was weak men- 
tally. Martin became snow-blind and Carla 
would not continue without him. Hein 
failed to reach the mountain's peak be- 
cause the beliefs instilled in him by his 
country forbade his accepting help. 

This book symbolizes the eternal fight 
of man to accomplish something worth 
while and illustrates clearly that interde- 
pendence of all peoples is necessary for 
achievement of that dreamed for peaceful 


By Sinclair Lewis 

Reviewed by Bomar Cleveland 

Sinclair Lewis surpasses his former lit- 
erary triumphs, which accorded him the 
Nobel Prize in 1930, with his latest novel 
Cass Timberlane. Again Mr. Lewis crit- 
ically examines the contemporary middle- 
western panorama with a discerning eye. 
He does not hesitate to apply to Amer- 
ican marital relations the biting irony 
and sarcasm made famous by Arrow- 
smith and Babbitt, As in his previous 
successes, he delves into the lives of every- 
day people, pointing out satirically their 
flaws and weaknesses. This results in a 
type of wit adding zest to the story. 

The author has drawn upon his rich 
resource of psychology, and his knowledge 
of the American idiom to realistically 
create the story of a modern marriage. 
The central narrative deals with the rela- 
tionship of middle-aged Judge Timber- 

lane and young Virginia Marshland, 
whom he loved at first sight. The theme 
relates the conflict of their personalities, 
their separation, and their final union. 

Of interest to young journalists are the 
seeds for other novels planted by minor 
characters in every chapter. Yet so skill- 
fully is the tale developed that these inci- 
dental plots only enhance the thread of 
the main story. 

Sinclair Lewis's candid and frank ap- 
praisal of society will captivate the reader 
^ho likes an interesting story, technically 
perfect in its structure. There is power 
and charm in this novel of human frail- 
ties and passions; there is sensitiveness to 
be found in the tender descriptions of 
Minnesota landscapes; there is a motivat- 
ing reality which intrigues the reader who, 
horrified, recognizes in the two main 
characters personalities of his own ac- 
quaintance. Mirrored in this story of 
twentieth century American manners are 
the bitternesses and satires of life depicted 
as only Lewis can. 


VVAKiJ-li^kLMUiN'; UiiHAKI' 






19 4 6 


Vol. 9 


MAY. 1946 No. 3 



t isn't easy 4o type this, the last bit of copy for the 1946 Chimes, and 
know that I'll never again sit behind the desk listening to Idy make ''funnies" 
and hearing Evans say, "But it would be perfect for the Hyphen!" It was 
fun — living our ambitions before they were fulfilled. 

To us this magazine has been more than so many pages of print. It has 
been Shillings, sitting amidst the bedlam of a meeting and writing those won- 
derful poems; it has been Keggin, wondering "how shall I put the girls on the 
cover this time?" Pris, never talking much, but writing the "caustic comments" 
that made us howl with laughter; Margy Ann and her "Men"; and all the 
rest of the stafF helping so much by working hard — and just being interested. 

We bring you this issue as a "so long" to a year of writing, typing, proof- 
reading, selecting cover colors, putting the magazine in your boxes, and being 
pleased when you said nice things about it. We have tried, not to publish a 
magazine to be compared with those of other years or other schools, but to 
select what you would like to read — to make interesting for you "short stories, 
poems, and essays — they all go into Chimes." 

Thanks to all who helped fnake this year's Chimes a more complete record 
of student thoughts and achievements. 



Bette Pierce Editor 

Joanne Jeans and Jane Erwin Associate Editors 

Priscilla Bailey Review Editor 

Ann Marsh.all Poetry Editor 

Iris Turner Exchange Editor 

Bomar Cleveland Business Manager 

Margaret Ann Funk Circulation Manager 

Miss Martha Ordway Faculty Advisor 


Kay Keggin Editor 

Beverly Williams Pat McGauly Jane Erwin 

June Brown 

Ruth Evans Pat Shillings Sheila Kennard 

KiCKi Moss Clare Ann Drowota Camille Hancock 

Barbara Thorne 



An Older and a Wiser Man Iris Turner 

A Matter of Opinion Helen Kane 

Take These, My Sons Dorothy Bradley 

Ben Doggin and the Cabbage Heads Mary Alice Cooper 

One for Another Jeanne De Moss 

Peace Celeste Craig 

Fragments Eileen Springstun, Sheila Kennard 

Night Phases BoMAR Cleveland 

Circles Eileen Springstun 

As I Remember Him Jane Irwin 

There in the Doorway Ruth Evans 

Wild Party Beverly Stevens 

Mood Camille Hancock 

Noon Lull Camille Hancock 

Front Row Bette Pierce 


Symphony p^T Shillings 

f*°^"^ Bomar Cleveland 

Lmes to a Polish Child Louise Prothro 

^^^E^^. Pat Shillings 

A Trip From the Moon Thaniel Armstead 

The "Snapper" ^^^^ Frederick 

^hastelot KicKi Moss 

Another Man Margaret Ann Funk 

I^ i'.ght jo^^.^.^ j^^^3 

T^i!^ c M T ' v' ■ ir ■• Priscilla Bailey 

The Soil Is Your Heritage YLicvii Moss 

"^^ "°"^^ Barbara Thorne 


The King's General T>avh^^ du Maurier 

Cannery Row j^^^ Steinback 

Captain Caution Kenneth Roberi^ 

The Black Rose Tuouas B. Costain 

ine Signpost Eileen Robertson Turner 






^nort *^toru s^ontedt 


An OEder and a Wiser 

By Iris Turner 
First Place 

Henry skipped down the hot, dusty 
road kicking a battered tin can. A warm 
happiness ran through him, rising in 
spurts of excitemenrwhen he remembered 
that today was Sacf dy and he was going 
to play with Winkie while his daddy 
mowed the lawn. Why him 'n Winkie 
had been playin' together on Sad'dys 
ever since Early had been the Glovers' 
yard-man. He felt in his gritty overall 
pocket to see if the sling shot was still 
there. Winkie'd sho be proud to git dat 
sling hot. Henry'd been a-whittlin' on it 
all week, and it'd kill any ole sparrow in 
the trees. 

Henry stopped and waited for his daddy 
to catch up with him. Early plodded 
along the road, guiding a lawn mower with 
his one good hand, the stub of his other 
arm resting on the handle. One-handed 
Early was a familiar landmark on most of 
the lawns in town, and he was as adept 
at amusing the children in the block with 
his fabulous stories as he was at maneuver- 
ing the lawn mower. 

Henry hopped impatiently from one 
foot to the other as he waited for Early. 

''Daddy, you 'spose Winkie'll like dis 
sling-shot? He ain't never had a good 'un 
like dis." 

Early answered gruffly, '1 'spec he 
mought like it. Now dojti't you 'n him 
go chasin' all round shootin' at birds tho'. 
You don' have no business playin' with 
white boys nohow." 

Henry was too happy to let his father's 

talk worry him. He ran on ahead of Early, 
and they were soon in sight of the Glovers' 
big white house. As they came nearer, 
Henry saw Winkie and was about to call 
to him when he stopped suddenly. There 
was another boy with Winkie, and they 
were shooting sparrows with an air rifle. 
Henry saw that the other boy was George. 
He'd played with George before, and he 
didn't like it one bit, but Winkie did. 
All the happiness seeped out of Henry. 

Henry dropped back to his father's side 
and then followed him up to the house. 
Sitting down on the steps, Henry watched 
the two little boys with their air rifle. That 
wuz a mighty fine B-B gun they wuz 
shootin'. He guessed Winkie wouldn't 
have no use for a sling-shot now, even if 
it wuz a good one. 

Finishing her instructions to Early, Mrs. 
Glover called, "Boys, do you know any- 
body who would eat some cookies for me?" 

George and Winkie immediately 
dropped the air rifle and ran toward the 
house. Henry grinned, stood up, and 
waited for them. Mis' Glover always 

give him 'n Winkie cookies in the mawnin'. 
When the boys went in the door, Henry 
moved to follow them, but Early jerked 
his head toward the lawn and muttered, 
"You come on heah, boy. She never said 
nothin' to you. Heah, take this grass 
blade and go long in front of me to cut 
down dat ole Johnson grass." 

Reluctantly, Henry took the grass blade 
and began to slash at the tall grass. He 
couldn't see why he couldn't have some 
cookies, too. Didn't him 'n Winkie always 
have cookies on Sad'dy? Early always had 
to ruin his fun. He whipped at the grass 
viciously until George and Winkie came 
whooping out of the house and, having 
tired of the air riiie, began to trail after 
Early, begging him to tell them a story. 

Winkie, wishing to "be nice" to Henry 
as well as to hear the story, was most in- 

"Aw, come on, Early. Tell us 'bout 
when you got your hand cut off in the 

"Go long heah, Winkie. You think I 
ain't got nuff to do 'thout tellin' yall 

The little boys begged until Early felt 
justified in telling the story. 

"Well, it wuz when I wuz a Cunfederate 
sojer, oh 'bout a hunderd years ago, and 
I wuz a-ridin' thro the woods one day 
when I seed a Yankee sojer a little ways 
off with his back turned towards me. I 
got off my hoss and started sneakin' up on 
dis heah Yankee, so's to stick him wif my 
sword. Well, dere I wuz a-crawlin' along 
on the groun' when I beared a noise, and, 
what do you think? Dere wuz seven Yan- 
kee sojers comin' up behin' me. I jump 
up and Starr fightin' wif 'em, and had 
jes about killed 'em all when one snuck 
up behin' me and cut my hand clean off. 
But dat didn' stop me, I — 

"Oh, I don't believe that," interrupted 
George. "My grandaddy was in the Civil 

War, and he's a millun times older than 
you. Why, I bet you weren't even living 


Winkie, amazed by George's disbelief 
in the story, which had fascinated Henry 
and him for so long, began to protest, 
but he was interrupted by Henry's fierce 
reply to George. 

"Don' you call my daddy a liar, boy," 
he said, his face contorted in a scowl. 
"Ah'll knock you clean into the middle of 
next week." 

"You just try it," George retorted. 
"You're just a lil ole black nigger and" — 

George stopped suddenly when he felt 
a bony black list hit him. In a second, 
Henry had thrown htm on the ground and 
was sitting on top of him, flailing him 

Half crying, Henry screamed, "You 
better not call me a nigger, you no-count 
trash. I ain't a nigger, I ain't, I ain't." 
He punctuated these exclamations with 
short jabs at George's face. 

By this time, Early, who had gone on 
mowing when the boys had stopped, had 
heard their cries and turned around. See- 
ing his son pounding a kicking and scream- 
ing George, he ran over to the two and, 
grasping Henry by the suspenders of his 
overalls, lifted him off George. 

"Heah, Henry, whut you fightin' Mr, 
George for, you worthless buzzard?" 

Between sobs, Henry gasped the reason 
for the fight. Early's face changed. He 
hated these boys and everyone like them 
for the punishment he was going to give 
Henry. He shook Henry roughly and 
said, "I don't care whut he called you. 
Come on back heah, and I'll leam you 
by the seat of yo britches to fight white 
boys. Winkie, ya'll go on an' play." 

Winkie looked at Henry, but frightened 
by Early's anger, went off with George. 

Early propelled Henry around to the 
back yard, where he picked up a small 

stick and proceeded to whip Henry until 
his own anger and resentment had quieted. 
Then he began to talk to Henry in a low, 
bitter tone. 

"Now you lissen heah, Henry. I whupt 
you 'cause you wuz fightin' with Mr. 
George, and you got no business fightin' 
a white boy even ifen he does call you a 
nigger. Thas jes whut you is, and don't 
you forgit it. You's black, and he's white 
— hear — and I'se goin' beat you till you 
know dat if I spen' the rest of my life 
doin' It. If I don't, somebody else will. 
Now shut yo' mouthy and let's go home." 

Early grasped Henry's wrist roughly 
and was leading him out the gate when 
Winkie ran up to Henry and rather 
hesitantly said, "Henry, uh, George has 
gone now. You not mad at me, are you?" 

Henry shook his head, but refused to 
look at Winkie, who made another effort 
to redeem himself with Henry. 

"Henry, did you bring that sling shot 
like you said? Come on, and let's go 
shoot some with it. Want to?" 

Henry looked quickly at his daddy, 
then answered, "Naw, I didn' bring the 
sling-shot, and Fse got to go now anyway. 
Daddy's gon' buy me a B-B gun. Bye, 

Henry shuffled out the gate, around to 
the front yard. He waited while Early 
picked up the lawn mower, and the two 
walked down the road to the quarters. 

A Matter off Ogiiniosi 

By Helen Kane 

Second Place 

The bow, precariously placed on the 
saucy little hat, was suddenly, desperately 
flattened against the window. The train 
was moving; soon it would be too late. 
It wasn't a good idea. She had known 
it all along. She was getting o£F right now 

before this train took her farther from 

Then the dear, familiar, shabby figure 
on the station platform wavered, merged 
with the little black spots on her flirtatious 
veil. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed 
to keep the tears from falling. When she 
had gropingly taken out her handkerchief, 
not the linen monogrammed one, but the 
faded, neatly darned one, and dabbed her 
eyes dry, the outskirts of town were re- 

No, it was too late. There was just no 
sense in suddenly reappearing when the 
whole neighborhood had seen her leave. 
There was no sense in acting as if there 
was anything formidable about a train 
trip to a sleepy little Southern town, 105 
miles distant. Heaven's above, she had 
prepared for it long enough. 

Prepared for it since last May, to be 
exact, when the final letter of acceptance 
had come. She had planned that, on Octo- 
ber 17, she would be there for Snellen's 

Two weeks ago she had bought this suit. 
The first ready-made one she had had 
since Snellen's eighth grade graduation. 
It was a good suit. It would have to be 
good long enough to pay dividends on the 
money invested. It would also be her 
next spring suit. As soon as she returned 
home, she would brush it and put it away. 
By April she would have forgotten she had 
ever worn it one week-end in October and 
it would be as good as new. 

She had to have the new suit for this 
week-end. After all, it wasn't everyone in 
the neighborhood who was going to visit 
her daughter away for her freshman year 
at college. 

And, all alone, Alice could admit it. 
This visit was frightening her. She had 
never been to a college before. She had 
never known people who took college for 
granted. She could not let Suellen down. 

She had to look as well as the other 
mothers. There was no doubt about it; 
clothes could certainly give much needed 
confidence to a woman. 

That was why she had been so insistent 
and determined that Snellen's college 
clothes should be all that Fred's money 
and the combined talents of Springfield 
could produce. 

Not that Springfield had so much to 
offer, but the same Mademoiselle that was 
sold in the big cities was sold in Spring- 

So she had collected and analyzed and 
pruned the magazines for all college 
clothes. Holding her clippings in a manila 
folder with one hand and Suellen with the 
other, Alice had made exhaustive drains 
on Springfield's fashion resources. 

Miss Milly in the Junior Sports of the 
largest department store had been untiring 
in selecting skirts and suits and accessories. 
Miss Abby in "piece goods" had carefully 
matched taffetas and nets for Suellen's 
two necessary formals. Mrs. Judd in "Af- 
ternoon Frocks" had helped choose Su- 
ellen's few dresses for teas and dates. 

But it was the Junior Sports that fasci- 
nated Alice. To her those plaid pleated 
skirts and plain flared skirts, those butter- 
cup yellow and dawn blue sweaters were 
symbolic of "college." They were college 
and Suellen should have them. 

Neither Suellen nor Alice completely 
forgot that college at the most meager 
was stretching a point. But, a woman 
was dependent upon her clothes. 

Alice had spent the money she allotted 
herself for the ready-made clothes. Then 
with Miss Abby's help she bought up some 
of the fall stock of woolen and flannel 
materials. She cajoled friends and rela- 
tives out of goods they were saving for 

Then, with the pictures from the maga- 
zines and a good idea of Suellen's meas- 

urements, she spread her material on top 
of wrapping paper over the living room 
floor. With Fred helping to stick pins 
in, she cut out and sewed skirts. She 
bought woolen yarn and distributed it to 
different maiden aunts and they and 
Suellen and she knitted. 

By fall, Suellen had a wardrobe. It was 
a college girl's wardrobe. Alice had stud- 
ied campus pictures and the girls wore 
sweaters and skirts. Suellen had them. 
They wore little white collars. Suellen 
had them, too. 

Returning from these memories, Alice 
grinned across the aisle at a most unat- 
tractive child. The child promptly stuck 
her tongue out, and Alice's smile grew 
more tender. The child was wearing a 
precious little collar with a bright canary 

Alice thought of Suellen in one of her 
sweaters and one of her collars. She hoped 
Suellen would wear them to the train and 
not dress up in one of her "afternoon 

She could just see her now. Pier smile 
grew more wistful until the little girl across 
the aisle, wondering if she were never 
going to get a response, crossed her eyes 
and stuck her tongue out a fraction of an 
inch farther. 

Suellen was a daughter to be proud of. 
All Springfield said that. Everyone would 
love her. 

Of course they would. But people just 
naturally judged people by appearances. 
And young people could be cruel. Cruel 
especially to those who did not conform, 
Suellen must have the clothes that other 
college girls had. 

Having reestablished her proper perspec- 
tive regarding inner worth and outward 
appearance, Alice went the length of the 
car for a drink of water. Coming back, 
she was thrown off balance by the little 
girl, now desperate for attention, who went 

gamboling madly by. A steady hand re- 
stored her balance and propelled her to her 
seat as the conductor called out they would 
be in University Center in ten minutes. 

Alice took a deep breath to recover her 
heart that she had suddenly swallowed. 
Gripping the green scratchy-covered chair- 
arms with her newly-manicured nails, Alice 
looked composedly around, as a mother 
well used to visiting her daughter at col- 
lege. Her eyes met the frankly admiring 
gaze of the man who had helped her to 
her seat. 

Heaven's above! i-Ie wasn't looking at 
her as if she were anybody's mother. 

Alice's eyes went in pleasant confusion 
to the tips of her neatly polished specta- 
tors. They were definitely old. The new 
suit would have to divert attention from 
the shoes. She began to feel that old 
frightened inadequacy at visiting the col- 

She looked up and met the still admir- 
ing eyes of the man across the aisle and 
immediately felt better. She laughed self- 
consciously to herself and tilted the saucy 
little hat at a more provoking angle. 

Opening her compact she carefully in- 
spected the line of her rouge. She was a 
little dubious over it, but Fred said her 
cheeks were as pink again as the girl's 
he had married twenty years ago. She 
gingerly smoothed a little more on, then 
smoothed almost as much off. She straight- 
ened the slim skirt over her nylon knees, 
fluffed up the jabot at her neck, and stole 
a look under her lashes at the man across 
the aisle. 

He bowed courteously as one would to a 
charming woman, and Alice settled con- 
tentedly back. She could hold her own 
with any coed's mother. 

She thought of her coed. She could see 
them walking over the campus. The coed 
would be collegiate in her sweater and 

skirt. She, charmingly dressed in her suit, 
her make-up subtly applied. 

The train coughed to a halt. 

Alice, with the bow on her hat again 
flattened against the window, looked 
aghast at the creatures on the platform. 

Everywhere she looked there were girls 
in shirts that were only a trifle shorter than 
grandad's nightshirt. 

Picking up her bag, Alice descended the 
steps. Clutching the bag with both hands, 
she gazed at what were coeds, she sup- 

Gay and confident, she had imagined 
them. But there were no skirt and sweater 
outfits. Everywhere there were shirts. 
Striped and checked, bow ties and open 
necks, but always they were voluminous 
and untidy. 

The bag was snatched from Alice's hand 
and arms encircled her neck. 

It was Suellen. For a long second Alice 
held her daughter close, then pushed her 

They held each other at arm's length. 
Slowly Alice's eyes went over her daughter. 
The only familiar thing was the smiling 
little face. The rest was a baggy, worn, 
faded, size 44 shirt. 

Alice looked at her daughter. She 
thought of the well-dressed mother and 
coed strolling over the campus. She 
thought of the many nights on the living 
room floor. She thought of long hours of 
knitting, the long hours shopping. 

Alice's mouth tightened and her eyes 
had a strange glint. She intended to 
know how this daughter could so forget 
herself and her training that she could 
dress like a disheveled yokel. 

Then she noticed the glint in the blue 
eyes opposite and the tightened mouth so 
like her own. 

Then she heard her only daughter: 
"Mother, for goodness' sake! Your 
rouge. You look as if you had ambitions 

for a spot in the Vanities. You look posi- 
tively shocking." 

Mother and daughter looked at each 
other. Both pairs of eyes echoed the word 

Take Th®se9 iliiy Soais 

By Dorothy Bradley 
Second Place 

Fran Strass put her arms around her 
twin sons, drew their carrot-topped heads 
to her ample bosom and shook with sobs. 
She held them for a long moment and 
then, when the older of the two moved 
with an embarrassed cough, she released 
them and rose resolutely. Her stifHy 
starched skirts crackled and gave forth a 
clean, sweet odor of the sun they were 
dried in when she moved. She dried her 
eyes with the comer of her shawl and 
reached into her apron pocket. When 
she brought out her hand and extended it 
toward her sons, there was in the palm 
two tiny silver chains, each hung with a 
round disk that caught the red glow from 
the hearth and sparkled like frozen fire 
on the walls. 

"Here, my sons," she said, "take these 
and when you need help, pray, and may 
the Holy Virgin pity this mother's heart 
and aid you." 

The boys exchanged glances, then took 
the pendants from their mother and 
slipped them around their necks. Eric, 
because he was the older and heir to his 
father's belongings, strode to the mantle- 
piece and took down the gun his father 
had so recently carried. Eric was proud, 
for tonight he would slip from his child- 
hood home and go west over the moun- 
rains to join Marshal Tito's Partisan 
forces. Evan, the younger of the twins, 
was to carry his mother's pearl-handled 
revolver, of which she was very proud, and 

go to the hills on the south with the vil- 
lage burgermaster and other new recruits 
for the guerrilla forces. As the time ap- 
proachd when they must leave, their 
mother gathered them to her heart once 
more, kissed their cheeks and left the 
room. In the silence that fell, the boys 
could hear her sobs that she tried vainly 
to stifle. Eric turned and placed his hands 
on Evan's shoulder, their eyes met and 
they gazed at one another for an interval. 
Then Eric dropped his hand to his side, 
turned away and said briskly, "It is time." 
They gathered their meager belongings, 
looked once more around the room that 
held all they knew of life and love and 
home, then filed quietly out of the house. 
Eric mounted the only horse the family 
owned and headed off into the west- 
Evan threw his bundle over his shoulders, 
watched until his brother was out of sight, 
then turned his face toward the south and 
the hills. 

Some months of bitterest fighting passed 
and the systal and diastole of battle raged 
around the two brothers, but always they 
dreamed of going home. For some weeks 
Eric had been engaged in conflict in a 
narrow pass not fifteen kilometers from 
his home. Finally he could stand it no 
longer and, going to his commander, he 
asked permission to go home if only for a 
few hours. Permission was granted and he 
began a tedious journey home, made more 
difficult because he must hide by day and 
take cover at every sound even after night- 
fall. It was very cold and when he saw 
a shack that had been used for the stor- 
age of silage in one of the fields he was 
crossing, he went inside to warm himself 
for a few minutes. As the warm blood 
began to flow through him and a soft, 
warm, dark fog settled over his tired 
mind, he thought, "Only a few minutes 
sleep and I'll be on my way again." He 

stretched himself on his blanket and closed 
his eyes,. 

In a firelight circle not far away, Evan 
and five other guirrillas made plans for a 
foraging party as soon as the moon went 
down. It was as bright as day and the 
white frost reliected the cold light of the 
moon in a thousand sparkling globules. 
In the valley far below them, the men 
ivatched each moving shadow as the wind 
swept down over the pines from its icy 
perch in the snow-clad mountains. The 
trees clutched with black fingers at the 
frosty cliffs as though to prevent their 
rising to such dazzling heights. No night 
bird lent its solitary call to the listening 
ears of the group, but down a ravine they 
heard the wild, high yelp of a hungry wolf. 
As though at a signal, each man slipped on 

his cartridge belt and quietly crept down 
the face of the gorge in the direction of 
the outskirts of a nearby village. They 
descended in silence for a few minutes 
until one of the men nudged the leader 
and pointed toward an abandoned shack 
in the middle of a field. The leader 
nodded and they swung sharply to the left 
in order to come upon the hut from the 
rear. Suddenly the leader put out his 
hand, palm down, in a signal to halt. 
They listened and clearly on the still night 
came the sound of a cough — once, twice 
and then, again. The men looked from 
one to the other and the moon shone dully 
on their bearded, dirt-blackened faces. 
"Germans," the leader barely whispered- 
One of the men in the rear slipped behind 
a boulder and gave a high plaintive call — 
long and wierd. When no answering cry 
came from the shack, he called twice more. 
The hand. of the leader silenced him and 
the men dropped to their stomachs on the 
rocks, raised their guns and at a hoarse 
yell of command, six guns fired directly 
into the walls of the house. Instead of the 
curses and return volley of shots they had 
expected, there came on the silence that 
followed, a single, piercing shriek, a cough, 
a choke, and then quiet. 

Motioning the men to follow, the leader 
made his way slowly and by a circuitous 
route to the door of the crude lean-to. 
With the butt of his gun, he pushed it 
open and stepped quickly to one side. No 
gun greeted him so he stepped into the 
aperture and stopped short. The men 
crowded up behind him and one lit a 
torch and held it aloft. The light fell on 
Evan's face, the leader of the small band, 
and he raised his hand and pointed. The 
figure of a man crouched by a tiny slot 
in the wall, and as Evan watched with 
fascinated eyes, it slowly toppled forward 
in the dust on the floor. One arm was 
doubled under the body. No one in the 

group of onlookers moved or scarcely 
dared to breathe. The fingers of the dead 
man slowly uncurled and with a tiny metal- 
lic sound a small, round, silver disk 
rolled from his senseless grasp, caught 
the light from the torch, struck Evan's 
boot, and lay winking up at him like an 
evil eye. 

Ben Doggin and the 
Cabbage Heads 

By Mary Alice Cooper 
Third Place 

Ben Doggin was my father's name. We 
could always tell how the evening meal 
would go by the way my mother said it 
when she called him to the table. If the 
Ben Doggin were run together and clipped 
oflF short, we knew that he had stopped by 
Uncle Denn's to have a "wee drap" be- 
fore he came home. Then we would eat 
in silence while my father retold Uncle 
Denny's stories in spite of my mother's 
ahems. If the first syllable were raised 
a half a note and the last held long enough 
to catch the smile in her voice, we knew 
that he had come straight home and the 
meal would be a pleasant one. 

My father was a contractor. Though 
he only built small frame houses, he used 
the title proudly. When my mother was 
maddest, she would call him a plain car- 
penter. He would stand silent for a min- 
ute then turn to me and say, "Jim boy, 
my hat and cane." We never knew where 
he went, for Uncle Denny firmly denied 
having seen him on these nights. 

These nights were rare, however, for my 
mother and father were still in love as only 
the Irish can be. On Sunday nights when 
we all sat in the parlor together, my 
mother and father on the divan looked ex- 
actly as they did in the album pictures of 

their weddbg. It was something nice in 
their eyes that brought the years together. 
EInora, our oldest sister, played hymns 
while we all sang from one hymn book. 
She played, "Oh, Lord, I Am Not Wor- 
thy" last as it was the slowest and made 
us so sleepy that we didn't mind being 
sent off to bed. 

I was the youngest boy. Just too old 
to be interested in my sisters and too young 
to be interesting to my brothers. My only 
family privilege was that of marketing 
with my father on Saturday night. 
'^' We went late Saturday near closing 
time because the bargaining was best then, 
and how my father loved to bargain! 
There was a certain Mr. Tuttle from 
Lebanon that my father had bargained 
vv^ith for years and not once in those years 
had he outtraded Mr. Tuttle. 

The two wicker baskets sat on the back 
porch ail week. Saturday morning I emp- 
tied the few small potatoes or turnips left 
in the bottom into a pan and took the 
basket out under the peach tree to clean. 
It was fun to run the soft cloth through 
the interlacing wicker. I counted the 
holes as I went along, 520 in one, 896 in 
the other. Sometimes they had a tiny 
split and I got to fix it. I carried the two 
baskets and followed my father down the 

My father came home at noon and sent 
me to the tub. I washed myself as clean 
as the baskets and dressed with as much 
care as I did on First Communion Sunday. 
My father and I ate early, alone. While 
he ate, he told me stories about Mr. Tuttle. 
I heard about the time Mr. Tuttle sold my 
father a little bantam rooster which died 
on the way home, and how my father had 
bought a dozen boxes of strawberries 
sprayed with bug-killer. By the time we 
were ready to leave, my father's face was 
so red and his breathing so fast that my 
mother would say, "Lord be merciful to 


Ben Doggin tonight," and "J"^> ^^^^ ^^^^ 
of your father." 

When we reached the square, I walked 
closer to him because there were so many 
people and my father said that farmers 
packed little boys up and took them back 
to the farm to grow into watermelons. 

The red and yellow wagons were lined 
up side by side with crates of cherries and 
strawberries propped against the wheels. 
I sampled these while my father talked 
with the farmers. We bought some pota- 
toes from Epp Harlan, some apples from 
Mrs. Shea, and becatise Sid Gay caught 
me eating them, some cherries from his 
wagon. By now my father was beginning 
to finger his shillalah and glance toward 
Mr. Turtle's. 

We had carefully avoided him until 
now, but Mr. Turtle was packing up and 
so my father and I crossed over to his 
wagon. My father looked straight at Mr. 
Turtle, and Mr. Tuttle looked straight at 
my father. 

"Well, what'U it be for you, stranger?" 
Mr. Tuttle said. 

"Sure 'tis no strange face you're looking 
at, and well you know it. 'Tis the same 
face that Ben Doggin's been wearing from 
County Cork to Davidson County, and 
'tis the same one that's tried to buy an 
honest potato from you for these many 

'T'm running short of potatoes tonight, 
stranger, and my price will be a mite 
higher than you'll want to pay." 

"And how do you know I'll be wanting 
to pay. Will Tuttle?" 

My father had begun feeling the vege- 
tables with one hand, for he always kept 
the other on his shillalah. Mr. Tuttle was 
just about out of everything as he said, 
even the cherry boxes were empty. I 
thought my father was going to leave 
without any more words when suddenly 

I saw him bending way over looking under 
the wagon behind the cherry crates. 

" 'Tis the good friend you be saving 
this for. Will Tuttle?" he said as he held 
a head of bright green cabbage up to the 

"That cabbage is for sale for 10c a 
head, which I reckon is a mite higher 
than you'll want to pay for it." 

My father said nothing. He took out 
his long purse, opened it, and counted his 
money. Mr. Tuttle set the cabbage bag 
upon the stand and said, "One or two?" 

" 'Tis a fine big family I have, Will 
Tuttle, and you be putting plenty in that 

Mr. Tuttle counted out four heads, 
looked at my father before dropping in 
the fifth, then put it back in the bag. 

"And why not you be putting that one 
in my basket? I can pay for that fine 
head and five more like it." Mr. Tuttle 
put six more cabbage heads into my fa- 
ther's basket. I wished to myself that 
Mr. Tuttle had hidden cherries because 
all we had bought from Sid Gray were 
gone by now. 

That night my father and I brought 
the ten heads of cabbage home to my 
mother. She looked at them, at my father, 
and then at me. She reminded me to say 
my prayers and sent me upstairs to bed. 

Sunday for lunch we had cabbage, Mon- 
day we had slaw, and Tuesday we had 
cabbage soup. Wednesday night when 
we had cabbage again, I asked my mother 
if she weren't getting tired of cabbage. 
All she said was that my father seemed 
to like it. 

By Saturday when my father and I were 
eating lunch, I think he had gotten tired 
of cabbage too because he couldn't even 
eat one helping." 

"Jim boy," he said, "we'll not be hav- 
ing any time for Will Tuttle tonight, the 

I was glad because I didn't want to cat 
cabbage another week, and Einora had 
said if she saw it on the table again she 
would leave home and marry Tom Martin. 

The square was crowded as we pushed 
our way through to Epp Harlan's. Epp 
had had some trouble with his brown cow 
during the week and my father spent about 
an hour discussing her. Mrs. Shea had 
brought her tomatoes in. My father felt 
and tested one after another until he found 
a dozen "fine, ripe, red ones." Sid Gray's 
wagon was empty except for a few shriv- 
eled up cherries in the bottom of a crate 
and a bag of potatoes which my father 

There was only one wagon left now. 
My father stopped, rested the baskets on 
the curb, and pulled at his mustache. I 
asked him if we were going home now. 

"Yes, Jim boy, we'll be going home 
now," he said, but instead of home we 
were heading straight toward Mr. Tuttle's 
wagon. T certainly hoped that Mr. Tuttle 
had some cherries left this week. 

By Jeanne De Moss 

Third Place 

"No, Mrs. Wilkerson, I'm afraid I 
shan't be able to work Saturday at the pie 
supper. My mother has come to Casper 
with me, you know, and as she is an 
invalid, I feel I should spend as much 
time with her as possible. Yes, I'm sure 
the P.T. A. work is a great deal of fun. 
Thank you very much, however. Yes, 
I certainly shall let you know if I find 
that I'm able to take on the job. Good- 

She slammed the receiver on its hook 
and grimaced at the instrument to display 
the wholehearted disgust she felt — disgust 
for this school, for this ridiculous village 

in which she was making a new start, and 
disgust for the circimistances that impris- 
oned her here. 

Frances Ashley and her mother, an 
arthritic cripple, had arrived in Casper 
only three weeks ago, Mrs. Ashley eagerly 
anticipating the new life, and perhaps, 
relief from the pain in this warm, dry cli- 
mate; Frances rebelling already against the 
small town and what it stood for. 

It had turned out just as she had ex- 
pected, she reflected now, remembering 
every incident since her arrival, each more 
discouraging than the one before. Her 
first day at the small, bare high school 
and the interview with the superintendent, 
a round, robust fellow with too-small spec- 
tacles resting on his nose and a mid- 
western twang in his voice that irritated 
what she considered the artistic sensitivity 
of her ears. 

The classroom assigned to her was 
crowded with a murmuring, shuffling 
group of sophomores, who were no more 
interested in learning about English lit- 
erature than she was in trying to teach it 
to them. She had always known what she 
wanted, and had intended to drive and 
push until she got it. That was until her 
mother's illness and the doctor's advice to 
take her to a new atmosphere, one of quiet 
and simplicity and clean, fresh air. So 
they had come to Casper, probably the 
plainest and dullest town in the world, 
Frances decided bitterly, leaving behind 
the city's gaiety and charm and its oppor- 
tunities for success, real success, the kind 
that meant your name on the fly-page of 
a best seller, your photograph in the roto- 
gravure section of the Times, and admir- 
ing eyes following you in and out of the 
best restaurants. Yes, she had given them 
up, all her aspirations and dreams, and 
had replaced them with two rooms in a 
bungalow and a position in a second-rate 
high school. 


Then she had written the letter. That 
/as the day she had overheard Jimmy 
■larlow, the class smart-aleck, announce 
hat English teachers were all alike. "Hope 
hey aren't as dull as their classes are!" he 
Irawled. She had decided that she could 
lot go on like this. Certainly she had 
ler own life to consider. What she would 
lo about Mother she did not know. Her 
nind somehow had not been able to grasp 
inything more than the fact that some- 
hing had to be done. She had pulled out 
I sheet of fine white paper and meticu- 
ously typed a letter to a publisher who 
lad once given her at great deal of en- 
rouragement. It had been short and direct, 
he sort of letter that should appeal to a 
vriter's sense of conciseness and appro- 
jriateness. She had sealed the letter with 
I sense of release such as she had not 
oiown in weeks. Placing the letter in her 
xxrket, she had hurried down the footworn 
lement steps of the school and up the 
itreet, oblivious of the flashing brightness 
>f the newly-turned trees or the pungent 
>dor of the burning leaves. 

She had found her mother sitting out 
n the yard in her wheelchair, her head 
ilted at an angle watching the antics of 
I lingering robin, 

"Hello, Mother," she had called gaily. 
'Isn't this a perfectly gorgeous day?" 

"Frances, dear, I'm so glad you're 
borne. My, yes, this has been a fine after- 
noon. I had a visitor earlier, Mrs. Barson 
from across the street. She brought me a 
piece of fresh apple pie — I saved you a 
bit — and we had a real nice visit. Frances, 
r think we're going to be very happy here; 
the people are so friendly and nice. Did 
^ou have a good day at school?" 

Mechanically Frances answered, "Just 
the usual thing," and went on to relate an 
insignificant incident that might interest 
ker mother, all the while thinking as she 
ivatched her mother's face that here, at 

last, was the beginning of renewed vitality 
and sparkle in the older woman's spirit. 

"Mother," she had hesitated. "Never 
mind." She had walked into the house, 
her short-lived gaiety dissolved now in the 
difficulty of announcing her intention to 
rebel to this brightened, now-hopeful 
woman, her mother. Soon, though, she 
had determined. 

The days had passed and it had become 
more and more unthinkable to destroy her 
mother's new-found purpose in living. 
The older woman had taken up crochet- 
ing and was methodically stitching a cov- 
erlet for her friend's expected grandchild. 
She even began to talk of the day when 
she would walk again. Frances was trou- 
bled. She had not mailed the letter to 
the New York publisher, but had put it 
in her desk at school waiting until she 
could gain the surety and courage to com- 
plete the act of revolt. And there it lay 
now. She picked it up and stared at it for 
a long time, thinking it strange that so 
innocent an object could mean the fulfill- 
ment or the destruction of her life's plans. 

As she sat there she looked around die 
room, at the chairs joggled out of place by 
the violent departure of her last class, 


at the red stuff on the wooden floor 
strewn there by the janitor to settle and 
collect the dust before he swept at five 
o'clock. It all looked just as it had yes- 
terday and the day before and the day 
before that. Yes, she thought, I am see- 
ing it now as I have seen it before and as 
I will see it in the future, for I shan't 
leave Casper. Somehow I haven't got 
the courage or whatever it is that one 
must have to make a life at the cost of 
another. I am here and here I shall stay, 
and if I stay . . . The year flashed through 
her mind, faculty teas, P. T. A,, sopho- 
mores and Mrs. Wilkersons to be con- 
tended with. She saw that these things, 
much simpler ones than those of her 
dreams, were the stuff of which her life 
was to be made. They were things which 
she must not resist; things she must accept 

at face value. She was filled now, not 
with defiance, but with determination. 
She was beginning. ■■ 

When at length she made ready to 
leave for home, she went first to the tel- 
ephone and picked up the receiver. She 
had to wait for some time, for there was 
only one operator on the Casper switch- 
board. She spoke the number and when 
the call was through, she said, "Mrs. 
Wilkerson? This is Frances Ashley. I've 
called to tell you that I find that I will 
have time to give to the Parent-Teachers' 
committees, after all. Yes, my work is 
beginning to run on a more regular sched- 
ule as I become accustomed to things and 
. . . three pies? All right. Seven-thirty 
in the Home Economics room. That's 
fine. Oh, you're very welcome. Thank 
you Mrs. Wilkerson. Good-bye." 

By Celeste Craig 

I stood upon a lonely, windy hill, 

And saw the pow'rful hands of God 

Reach down and change the peace of that midsummer day 

To chaos wild. I felt His presence near. 

I knew His wrath when thunder roared 

And rain beat down upon the darkened earth; 

And His compassion when the golden sun 

Shone through, creating diamonds in the grass, 

And rainbowed archways reaching heavenward. 

I heard a hallowed choir of angels sing. 

Melodious chords of gleaming, golden harps 

Unlocked the chains bound 'round my heart, and set 

Me free to hear God say, "Come, follow me. 

Be not afraid, have faith, have hope, and when 

Thy work on earth is done, I'll guide thee Home." 

Today, upon a hill, I talked with God. 




By Eileen Springstun 

The snow made its gentle descent to the 
earth, interrupted only by the searching 
limbs of the bare trees, extended like the 
arms of old women praying in vain to a 
God that is not there. All was silence; 
the silence of death, as the snow slowly 
concealed the clean, fresh soil of the new 

By Sheila Kennard 

The majestic gray clouds did battle 
with the fragile pink ones, forcing them 
nearer and still nearer to the edge of the 
distant horizon. The sun, like a defeated 
monarch, gracefully abdicating, slowly 
bowed from view. Dusky fingers of twi- 
light gloom grasped possessively at every 
nodk and eave of thfe lifeless house. 
Wrapped in its solitude, it welcomed the 
concealing mists as they slid over it and 
became . . . darkness. 

The automobile pulled to a stop in 
the drive beside the twilit house. Merry 
voices sounded as lights flickered first here, 
then there, till all was lit magnificently. 
The house was no longer an ally of dark- 
ness; it was now a small fortress, resisting 
bravely with its glittering brightness the 
darkness which had befriended it . . . 
resisting until the coming dawn should 
relieve it. 


Night Phases 

By Bomar Cleveland 

To some folks of yesterday, night was 
a scary time when witches and unfathom- 
able eerie beings were abroad and good 
folks had best stay indoors, although even 
there, they could, at times,, hear the 
squeaking of boards as if "someone" were 
prowling, and the rattling of window 
panes even when the wind was still. 

Fortunately, modern life has, in the 
main, abated such superstitions by j&lling 
our night lives with mechanized enter- 
tainment, such as pleasure driving down 
lighted boulevards. Thus, modern nights 
hold no "Terrors" except for those imag- 
inative creatures, who persist in delight- 
ing in tales of graveyard murders and 
haunted houses, of the Tom Sawyer va- 

There is, however, between these ex- 
tremes of realists and romanticists, a 
group of persons commonly known as 
poets, who look on Night as neither the 
setting created mainly for night clubs 
nor for haunted houses, but rather as a 
lovely and picturesque phase of Nature. 
These poets have expressed their feelings 
for Night in many ways. 

In "Nocturne in a Deserted Brickyard," 
Carl Sandburg has shown moonlight on 
sand and a pond under the willows. This 
brief fantasy gives one a clear picture of 
shadows (anachronism?) and "fluxions of 
yellow," creating a pansy out of the calm, 
old pond. 

From a brickyard to a pine woods one 
is transported by Sara Teasdale through 
her poem, "Stars." Amidst the beauty of 
the still, pungent trees, one gazes awed 
at the "myriads with beating hearts of 
lire," which march "stately and still . , . 
up the dome of heaven." 

Another star-watcher is Walt Whit- 

man, who, with his "When I Have Heard 
the Leam'd Astronomer," aptly expresses 
an intense love of beauty, which strikingly 
opposes man's effort to analyze Nature. 
A rebellion against the mechanized world 
of everyday life is sensed in this poem; 
Whitman makes good use of contrast in 
these lines: "When I was shown th^e 
charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and 
measure them," and "Looked up in per- 
fect silence at the stars." In this verse, 
the poet has clearly shown the repudiation 
of the soul for conventional formalities in 
favor of unadorned Nature, in this in- 
stance, "the mystical moist night air." 

This same desire to commune with Na- 
ture is voiced also by Robert Frost in 
"Stopping by Woods on a Sno^vy Eve- 
ning." One is instantly carried to a New 
England forest where "the sweep of east 
wind" is felt against one's face, and the 
silver tinkling of the snow bells is heard. 
Against the background of deep black- 
ness, the lovely downy ilakes fall softly. 
One awakens rudely with a start from 
this reverie. The feehng of pain which 
exquisite beauty has fostered is now the 
sorrow of leaving such a lovely spot. 

Even the materialistic thought of "A 
Lodging for the Night" may hold aes- 
thetic beauty and rapture! James Rorty's 
"blind wind" blows one to "wild hills" 
with "moon-washed trees." In such a set- 
ting, v/ho can help but wonder where the 
wind began, this same wind which has 
been blowing since before even houses 
were erected. "Where are we? Where are 
we, Wind?" is all our transitory and 
minute brains can mutter as one gazes in' 
silent adoration at the planets and stars, 
which have been up there in the ether 
blowing, blowing since before there were 
candles or lamps. 

From such perplexing mental queries 
our racking minds yearn for Peace . . . 
for that peace and rest of which Long- 


fellow speaks in his "The Day Is Done." 

Oddly enough, it is to that same Night 
which so antagonized and bewildered our 
thoughts that we now turn to receive a 
respite from our problems. "Darkness 
falls . . . lights of the village gleam 
through the rain and the mist." Truly, 
our "night shall be filled with music." 
Yesj one can agree with the poets that 

there is something profound and majestic 
about the Night which sheaths the Earth 
in her ebony blanket every twenty-four 
hours. There is something fantastic . . . 
a quality of mysticism about her moon- 
lit glimpses of slumbering life, there is 
something challenging about her exotic, 
uninhabited spheres, and there is some- 
thing bold about her eternal Peace! 


By Eileen Sprlngsfun 

Old man, sitting there in the sun all 
day long, drawing imaginary circles in the 
dust with your cane, what are you think- 
ing? Each morning when the blazing 
Bphere rises from the East, you slowly 
make your way to your rocking chair, and 
there you remain until the spent sun dis- 
appears beyond the horizon. Motionless 
you sit there all alone. What are your 
thoughts? Are you conscious of the 
-mad multitude that makes their way past 
your door, never pausing to glance your 
way? Do you care that they have no time 
for you? Do they stir in your heart 
scorn, pity, or compassion; or does your 
mind, closed to them, dwell on deeper 

You take no notice of me, but you are 
my companion. You are always there 
when I glance up from my book, never 
changing, always tracing your eternal cir- 
cles in the dust. The long, drowsy simi- 
mer afternoons are filled with you, al- 
though you don't know that anyone cares. 

There, across the road where the world 
in all its futility passes in review, you have 
found peace, and I wonder if old age will 
bring that to me, too. 

You have found in old age an oasis for 
contemplation. Old man, have youc 
thoughts brought you any nearer to truth 

As I Remember Him 

By Jane Erwin 

I only wish I had known my grand- 
father better. He died when I was twelve, 
but the impression he left on me the few 
times I saw him are as indelible as India 

I shall never forget the £rst time I ever 
remember seeing him. I had arrived with 
my parents at the little country village 
where my father had spent his boyhood, 
soon after church had begun. When we 
were settled on the unpainted benches in 
the back, I looked up to see from whom 
the rich, convincing voice was coming. 
The white-haired man I saw was as 
rustic as the pulpit in which he stood, 
and he seemed not a person in the church, 
but the central part of it, as the crucifix 
in the apse. He was as much a part of 
these rough, yet holy surroundings as a 
king is a part of his court, and as much 
the center of it. The words he was speak- 
ing are a part of the oblivion in my mem- 
ory of him, I only know that his voice 
sounded as though it came from the rock 
of ages. They must have come directly 
from God, because only the words of 
God could put such a light in simple eyes. 
I wish I could have those words now. 

My grandfather took an interest in me 
as he did all the children of his eighteen 
sons and daughters, perhaps a little more 
since he considered my father the most 
level-headed of the lot. He considered 
this characteristic very important, because 
although none of his children lacked intelli- 
gence, most of them lacked stability. Their 
intelligence was prone to overbalance their 
power to apply ir, but this was not so with 
my father. At any rate he seemed to like 
me. He took me for a walk in the woods 
that afternoon. I was usually shy with 
older people at that age, but no child 

could be shy in the presence of my grand- 
father's kindly humor. When he had 
been in the pulpit I admired him; as I 
walked beside him, I liked him, and there 
is a great difference in the two. 

He talked td me of common things in 
such a manner that I, then eight years 
old, understood him perfectly. He 
showed me that trees are not just trees, 
but perfect works of God; as he passed a 
wild tiger lily, he quoted scripture some- 
thing like, "Solomon in all his glory was 
not arrayed like one of these." I did not 
know I was learning; I only knew that I 
was laughing and loving things I had 
never enjoyed before. It seemed we were 
laughing because we were both young, 
and we were, though his age was ten times 
that of mine. 

We walked upon a small circle in the 

woods where there were no trees; only a 

ground of tiny pink flowers, and in the 

center a freshly cue stump. Without a 

(Continued on Page 27) 


There In the Doorway 

By Rufh Evans 

June 5. 

Tomorrow we leave for Kentucky 
again. Every year whien the summer 
comes we make our pilgrimage home, and 
I'm already beginning to anticipate the 
arrival at the big white house. 

First of all will be the welcome of the 
two rather elderly people standing in the 
doorway. One of those two is a white- 
haired man. He, has a soft, gentle face 
glowing with an active appreciation of 
life. I suppose most people would not see 
it so clearly as I, but I can designate his 
hands as those of a physician. That is 
what he is, a family physician, a country 
doctor. His ever-ringing telephone, his 
battered "case," his reassuring smile, his 
relaxed but powerful posture, all are typ- 

I say that he is gentle . . . and I think 
that is the thing that has always impressed 
me most. The father of three daughters, 
he might easily be overcome by such fem- 
inine influence, but he is the even-tempered 

and respected patriarch, firm in a calm and 
sound way. 

He is the center of a large family; the 
plans of four famliies are colored by his 
likes and dislikes. He is often quiet, but 
he never misses anything. 

He loves to read, and this reading is 
worth while as a means of his always keep- 
ing abreast in the field of medicine. About 
that medicine revolves his whole life. He 
is not the doctor whose office hours extend 
to a specific time and whose work is fin- 
ished when he goes home at night. He 
works all day and all night; and he does 
not give the appearance of always being 
tired. He will smile as he stands there 
in the doorway tomorrow with his tiny 
smiling wife coming to his shoulder. 

June 7. 

It's good to be home again. Grand- 
father was there in the doorway just as I 
expected. He smiled, then the telephone 
rang and he left. Seems that thb time 
it wasn't a patient. John Jones, an appro- 
priately named colored man. who claimed 
us as his "people," had gotten into some 
trouble. There is grandfather's nature 
again. He has a vast weakness in favor 
of any under-dog. The bills on his ac- 
count marked "charity" number equally 
with those that were "paid," and this rec- 
ord is found in all his activities. In 
financial matters he is generous in mak- 
ing loans to someone down and out; yet 
on occasion he has rightfully been called 
stingy. He is slow to indulge in new 
luxuries, home improvements, or personal 
effects, but he enjoys seeing the people 
he loves with new things. I hope old 
John gets straightened out all right. It 

(Continued on Page 42) 


Wild Party 

By Beverly Stevens 

"I know, I know, I shouldn't have done 
it; but I was scared — so scared I didn't 
think or care about what might happen 
afterwards. I just had to get away from 
him with his sly, snickering smile, that 
patent-leather slick hair, and those hands 
— those long, cold, delicate hands. I 
think it was the thought of them maybe 
touching me that made me do it. Yes, 
that was it, his hands. 

"We must have been married about 
12:00 — I don't remember anything; that's 
the time I heard him say. Oh, it was a 
wild party — an older crowd. I must have 
had pretty much to drinlc 

"When I was somewhat myself again, 
I noticed he wasn't laughing with me 
like all the others — he just sat twisting 
and fingering his ring with those horrid 
white hands. He showed me the papers. 
Yes, he had them right there. At first I 
laughed, but it was forced and died out 
with a shiver, for the past few hours were 
a total blank, and that horrid little wretch 
kept saying, 'Sure you are, deary, I was 
your witness.' 

'^He kept looking over at me in that 
way of his. He hadn't been drinking; 
there was no guilty shame in that smile. 
'We're going now,' he said, 'I'll get your 

"When he was out of sight I must have 
run to the powder room because I was 
panting when I leaned against the closed 
door. I was being chased by a beast, 

and was barring the door with my own 

"I asked the maid if there was any way 
of getting out besides through the door 
I came in — any windows — anything at all; 
there wasn't. Lord, I was scared, and 
felt so sick to my stomach. 

"The maid was staring at me, I know, 
so I sat down at the dressing table with 
my back to her. That's when I saw the 
scissors. I wasn't going to use them, 
really. I wasn't going to use them. But 
the thought of just having them with me 
gave me the strength to go out and leave 
with him. 

"He was leaning casually against the 
wall with my wrap slung over his arm, 
and his hand was fumbling with the but- 
ton. As he helped me on with my coat, 
I remember saying over and over again 
to myself, 'Please don't let his hands 
touch me — I'll die if they do.' 

"We must have driven for miles. My 
whole body fairly ached, for my muscles 
were all tight with fear. I can't remem- 
ber taking the scissors from my purse, 
but I realized suddenly that I was clutch- 
ing them under a fold in my coat. 

"The car was stopped — it must have 
been for a few second before I even no- 
ticed. All I remember after that was his 
long stretching yawn that ended in reach- 
ing for me. I don't even know where the 
scissors stabbed him. I don't even know 
if he's dead. I don't care— getting away 
was the important thing." 



By Camilie Hancock 

The agonized sky blackens, and the winking stars 

Become devoured in the thickly-moving overcast of grey clouds. 

Shadows of the time between dusk and deep night 


Winds moan through bleak branches; 

They writhe, they toss, 

They shiver with the greatness of it. 

The sky blackens, and no light 

Pengjtrates the dense atmosphere. 

Surf pounds. 

Birds hasten to shelter on frenzied wings — 

The creatures of the wood slink to hidden homes — 

The wind beats and tears; it challenges man to defeat it. 

It is the supreme power, and we the vanquished. 

From whence shall come the light? 

And yet, the light is here. 

Hidden, overshadowed, but here. 

For generations untold the same driving wind has come, 

Chill and bitter. 

There has always been a conqueror and a vanquished. 

The bound and chained people 

Bleed, and die, 

And the conquerors grow fat on the spoils of human suffering. 

And yet, the light burns on. 


i loon cJLuii 

By Camilie Hancock 

Insects hum over green fields. 

The sun overhead 

Pours hot and sultry 

On the fertile earth, and on the deep-moving river. 

A drowsy numbness settles on the land; 

The dusty road lies still, as the heat 



Rhyme and Time 

By Pat Shillings 

A flow sweet agony of strings, 

Frail smoke whirling, 

Became a flame of ecstasy 

Whose fingers searched 

And reached my heart. 

The fire lept high, then died, 

Its glory spent. 

Then from the ashes rose on beating wings 

A golden bird 

Who fought to reach the sun. 


By Bomar Cleveland 

My design in life is not to build 
A castle high upon some hill 
And from it view the world around, 
The tears and laughter which abound. 

But rather with some common clay 
Fashion an humble cottage gay 
With cheerful aspects. Here and there 
May sorrow also be my fare. 

Though others wish to be unique 
And strange, new pleasures always seek 
The common herd has recompenses 
Enough to satisfy my senses. 


ined to a 

J-^oiidh l^ltild 

By Louise Prothro 

Turn upon me, once again 


Stricken deep with pain, 

Tearful eyes . . . hurt, wild eyes, 
Eyesf^'too fearful of disdain. 

That I may sense, once again 

In the stillness of a glance, 

AH the longing ... all the anguish \ 

You have tried so to restrain. 

Turn upon me, once again 

Gentle, shy, and tortured things. 

Eyes that one would feel have seen Christ crucified 

In vain. 

By Pat Shillings '""'^ 

I hear the rush of wild birds' wings 
Free, against the quivering golden air 
And know that I must follow. 
For, far away, there waits a world unseen: 
Strange scarlet flowers flame in green-gilt fields. 
Stars bum white above the desert's throbbing wind, 
Pale pillars gleam, still monuments to tears. 
Thus, far away I'll search, and yet may find 
And understand; the voice of life that speaks 
To all men, in a long forgotten tongue. 


Front Row 

By Bette Pierce 
English 22 (MWF2) 

The underworld was in a frenzy. 
Homer brushed past me on a tandem 
bicycle and shouted back over his shoul- 
der, "Have you seen him?" "Who?" I 
screamed in return, but he was already 
away in a cloud of dust. Grendel stalked 
by shouldering his nail-studded club, and 
grunted something vaguely intelligible as 
"Ugh. Him where?" Again I tried to 
get information, but received only a light 
blow on the head that left me uncon- 

scious for several hours. When I re- 
vived, the turmoil was even greater. Sit- 
ting on a bench of hot lava Beaumont and 
Fletcher were tripping the passers-by and 
asking the same question, "Where is he?" 
Shakespeare, walking faster than usual, 
took time out from writing his seventeen 
hundredth sonnet to remark, " 'Sblood, 

but 'twould be proper and fitting were he 
to make his appearance." I was amazed. 

The lumps of hot coals on which I 
had been standing were becoming even 
too warm for Hades comfort, and I be- 
gan threading my way through the mill- 
ing crowds. Suddenly I noticed a side- 
walk cafe complete with tables of men 
deep in discussion. Hoping to throw 
some light on the mystery, I seated my- 
self at one of them, ordered the customary 
cup of coffee, and proceeded to listen. 

"But Addison, old boy, he just can't 
have disappeared with no warning what- 

"I know it seems illogical, Steele, but I 
think there was a reason. Of course I 
hate to tattle, but there was a story about 
a fight he and Goldsmith had over a 
beautifully romantic concrete detail. I 
heard that he lost the battle, and the 
shame might have been enough to send 
him up to Heaven — hut I don't know." 

At this point Gray, still wide-eyed with 
wonder that all path* lead but to the 
grave, joined the group and demanded 
to know what was goingr on. A whisper 
passed between him and Addison (I 
dragged my new periwig in the coffee 
trying to listen) , and his face became suf- 
fused with sardonic glee. "I just hope 
the old boy got caught between the gates 
trying to get out . . . would serve him 
right. Imagine, calling me a plagarist!" 
(He was now spewing curses.) The . . . 
the neo-classicist!" 

Delivering this, the worst of all epi- 
thets, Gray purchased a picnic lunch and 
started his return trip to the churchyard. 
Soon Addison and Steele decided that 
they had best go back to the office stnd 
type copy for the deadline; and my hopes 
of learning just what in Hades was going 
on were virtually shot. 

As I pushed and shov«d my way 
through the throngs on the sidewalks, I 


passed several other cafes. In one Milton 
and Spenser were seated at a table play- 
ing parlor games and seemingly unaware 
of the rough, uncouth world beyond. 
Later I saw Byron and Shelley toasting 
each other in vodka and howling over the 
fate of the "old man who just didn't have 
a chance as soon as we came along." 
Keats sat by, looking at a carved martini 
glass, and smiled. I was impressed. 

A great mass of people had gathered 
in the middle of the street, and I rushed 
to join them. Perhaps the missing had 
been found! But ofo, it was only a grey- 
haired saintly man, leaning on a cane for 
guidance, who was standing there. Words- 
worth, who had been standing beside me, 
shook his head sadly and said, "Poor 
Bach. Since he has become bUnd he's 
always losing his way and getting in 

The end of the street was in sight, and 
still no one had told me the cause of the 
turmoil. Just as I reached the ferry sta- 
tion and was trying to find the money 
to pay Cerebeus, I noticed a thin, under- 
nourished, pale, wreck of mankind. He 
was sitting on an electric cooker with his 
hands hanging limply beside him. There 
was in him such an air of utter dejection 
and complete disillusionment that I was 
drawn to him automatically. As I ap- 
proached, he, unconscious of being 
watched, lifted a trembling hand to wipe 
away the huge tears that were coursing 
down his haggard cheeks. I couldn't 
stand it any longer. i 

"Egad man, it can't be that bad no 
matter how bad it is," said I in the usual 
"come now, I know I can help" speech. 

No answer except a choking sound 
from the region of his throat. Silently 
he handed me a notebook, and I opened it. 
Nothing but blank pages! Finally he 
tore the book from my hands and began 
tearing the pages out and throwing them 

about as if he were completely mad. 
Then he took the empty book, shoved it 
into my face, and screamed hysterically. 

"It's empty! Empty! And my life is 
empty! For days I have been alone. I 
haven't been able to take a single note. 
I haven't been able to ask him one of the 
questions I've found. How will I ever 
learn his opinion of the Hope diamond 
... or of the Dodgers' chances in the 
World Series ... or of the new bathing 
suit styles? I have nothing to do, no one 
to listen to, and I'm going mad, man, 
mad I tell you!" 

With this the man dissolved into hid- 
eous sobs and disappeared into the river. 

My poise was shaken. 

I returned to the boat, stopping long 
enough to buy a newspaper from Dryden, 
for those ferry trips are so boring when 
you haven't anything to read. The bold 
black headlines shrieked the news! John- 
son Disappears: Boswell Contemplates 
Suicide. That little man . . . that was 
Boswell! I rushed back to the river, but 
was, alas, too late. Only an empty note- 
book floating along the river remained of 
the faithful scribe. 

Then a most peculiar thing happened. 
Cerebus ran down to the river bank, threw 

(Continued on Page 42) 


A Trip From the Moon 

By Thanlel Armstead 

Dong! Dong! Dong! 

As the notes from the bell echoed 
through space and reached the moon, I, 
the youngest goblin, could hardly believe 
that after nine more dongs the long 
dreamed of moment would arrive. As 
far back as I could remember I had 
wanted to go with my mother witch and 
goblin brothers on their annual trip to 
earth for Halloween, but, until this year, /' 
I had been too young. 

When the last note of twelve o'clock 
reached us, my brothers and I jumped 
upon a broomstick behind our mother 
and shot off into space. As the dark 
night, lighted only by the weird light of 
the moon, and the glimmering stars closed 
in upon us, I could feel the cool night 
breeze fanning my cheeks, which were 
hot from excitement. As I heard the 
racket of horns and drums resound 
through space, my suppressed excitement 
soared so high I felt as if I might burst 
if we did not reach earth soon. I could 
see on all sides of us other witches, gob- 
lins, and citizens of the moon also hurry- 
ing on their way to earth. Down below 
me I could gradually make out some odd 
looking houses and queer humans cos- 
tumed as clowns, gypsies and skeletons. 

We landed in a graveyard, some dis- 
tance ouc from the city. The moon was 
playing peek-a-boo through the leaves and 
was casting strange shadows over the still 
and sombre tombstones, while the silence 
surrounding us was ominous. All of a 
sudden out from nowhere a skeleton, 
"Death,"' appeared with his violin. He 
told us that it was almost time for the 
party they had every Halloween and he 
asked us to stay for it. Looking about, 
I wondered where the guests were that 

were coming to the party. Out of the 
comer of my eye I saw one of the graves 
open up, then another one. A tomb- 
stone moved and suddenly the once silent 
graveyard was ahve with ghosts, spirits, 
and skeletons. Death played a weird piece 
of music on his violin and for some reason 
no one could keep still. As hard as I 
tried, I found myself dancing a fantastic 
dance with everyone else. 

We had been dancing for nearly three 
hours when we heard a cock crow. One 
minute everyone was having a happy time 
and the next minute every ghost and skel- 
eton was scurrying to his grave. In the 
excitement my mother and brothers left 
me, and, when I found them gone and 
saw that the sun was rising, I was terri- 
fied for fear I might see some human 
being. Running wildly, not knowing 
where to go, I fell into an open grave. I 
could feel myself falling, falling, falling. 
As I hit the bottom, I felt something 
piling in on top of me. I knew that I 
was being buried alive, but I was afraid 
to open my eyes. Finally, gathering my 
courage, I did open them. Staring about 
me, stupefied with fear, I was amazed at 
the size of the grave. It was huge! I 
could barely make out the dark outlines, 
the queer shapes and forms against the 
sides of the grave. Thinking I had fallen 
into the home of some of the spirit ghosts 
whom 1 had met earlier that night, I was 
about to utter a happy cry of recognition 
when I heard a small thud; and, looking 
around, I saw to my horror a shape in the 
form of a human girl lying beside me. 

Unable to suppress my terror, for I was 
sure she had seen me, I uttered a loud and 
terrifying scream. As I waited for what 
seemed an eternity, I became conscious of 


an incessant ticking in my ears. I broke 
out with a cold sweat and could feel my 
goblin ears twitching as they always do 

when I am afraid. I put my hands over 
my ears, trying to shut out the horrible 
kicking noise, but it was of no use. I knew 
I was going to die shortly, because I was 
told on the moon that everyone can hear 
his last minutes ticking away before death. 
Just as I gave up hope, I heard scurrying 
footsteps which I knew had come to take 
me away. Suddenly, the grave burst open 
and everything was filled with a warm 
and blinding light. Standing over me 
were my mother and daddy, both hur- 
riedly asking what was the matter and if I 
were all right. I was dazed, but realized, 
to my surprise, that I was in my own 
room, on the floor by my bed, with my 
covers partly over me. 

As I Remember Hint 

(Continued from Page 18) 
word the old man knelt beside the stump, 
and as though it were the most natural 
thing I had ever done, I knelt beside him, 
but I had never knelt to pray before in 
my life. I cannot remember the words of 
his prayer; I doubt if I heard them, for 
my mind was confused in the newness of 
kneeling in the woods to pray. When 
he finished, 1 asked him if I was supposed 
to kneel whenever I prayed. I had never 
been told. The Scotch came out in his 
eyes and he tried to suppress a smile as 
he told me that someday my prayers would 
mean a great deal to me, and I would 
feel God's presence so strongly that I 
would kneel in humility and no one would 
have to tell me. I asked him about pray- 
ing the woods. It seemed almost wrong 

to pray anywhere other than church or in 
my bed. He looked around him with 
great reverence and my eyes followed his. 
After a time, he asked simply, "Is God's 
presence more deeply felt anywhere than 
is a temple built by His own hand- 

His rough hands and sun-burned face 
showed he was a man of the soil, yet there 
was something in his carriage that showed 
he was also a man of God. One could 
see he had been a farmer and a preacher 
for a great many years. His knowledge 
of the soil had come from his father, and 
his knowledge of theory had come from 
the Bible and perhaps from God Himself. 
He had only what literary knowledge he 
had been able to give himself, and yet he 
was the wisest man I have ever known. 
(Continued on Page 30) 


The '^Simpper^^ 

By Anne Frederick 

Even at mooring, the sailing sloop 
"Snapper" was queen of all the boats in 
the bay. Her graceful white hull rested 
on the water like an immense sea gull 
pausing from flight, and her slender mast 
reached high into the air, adding a quiet 
dignity to her aristocratic aspect. On the 
serene waters of a sheltered inlet she lay 
in silence, waiting for the times when, 
with lines uncoiled and sails hoisted, she 
glided forth upon the open waters. 

In full regalia, the "Snapper" was no 
longer a quiet queen, but a triumphant 
conqueror. Rumiing before the wind with 
sails filled, she was the lake's greatest 
beauty and the pride of Mallett's Bay. 
She seemed to proclaim to all the world 
"I am the swiftest sloop (mi Lake Cham- 
plain. I can take the calmest waters and 
the roughest winds in my stride and leave 

the others far behind. Until rny timbers 
rot and I sink to the bottom of the bay, 
the race and the victory shall be mine." 

TTie "Snapper" wds champion of the 
lake until the day of her great misfor- 
tune. Caught in a high wind with an in- 
experienced sailor ax the tiller, she was 
swung before the wind with tremendous 
violence. The great force of this sudden 
impact cracked the high mast and left 
the boat too crippled to make her way 
back to port. The illustrious "Snapper" 
was towed back to her mooring place by 
a motor boat. 

Now, lying useless in that sheltered 
cove, she is still a breathtaking sight. Like 
a wounded warrior she waits, and in 
defiance of her disability she calls a chal- 
lenge to all comers. 



By Kick! Moss 

Over the tumbling, torn terrain of the 
moorlands, over the mountain where sleep 
the gods, across the arid plains where 
dwells no man, and beyond, there Ues the 
kingdom of Chastelot. Beautiful and 
serene, it lives idly by the waters of the 
river Larrod; the land of a thousand 
myth , . . mysterious, haunting Chastelot. 
It is as an oasis between two steaming 
deserts, invincible to the might of wind 
and sand and storm, eternity-old, with an 
eternity to come. Polished by the weather 
of ages past, it stands gaunt and fearless, 
calm, carefully cultured by generations of 
its people. Within its realm are fertile 
lands and rich crops, nursed through their 
growth by coarse, peasant hands. A mel- 
ody is played by the wind as its fingers 
of spring stroke gently the waters of the 
river and fill the overhanging willows with 
song. Chastelot is magical, for it is hap- 
piness; it is mighty because there dwells 
within a contented people; and it is myth- 
ical because no one attains true happiness. 
It is a fairyland of color, of mystery with- 
out intrigue, of dances with skirts sway- 
ing in rhythmic motion, of sullen faces 
closed to intruders who might wish to 
force upon them something better from 
the outside world. Chastelot is myste- 
rious, for in the hearts and minds of its 
people is truth. One seeking happiness 
must first know truth, but he rejects it, 
pushing it aside, because it is not always 
what he wishes it to be. Chastelot lives, 
girded in splendor and surrounded by an 
endless stretch of grey sand desolation 
and purple mountain mysticism, guarded 
well from hate and wars, uninterrupted 
by changes and time. 

Shops line the sides of the wide streets, 
and vendors go about their business. The 

market place thrives, and life contmucs 
unimperiled as it has for centuries. Ha- 
mil, a realistic, weather-stained farmer, 
carrying a load of fruit, grins fondly at a 
harassed merchant and staggers up a 
slight incline toward a group of women. 
As he lowers his basket from his shoul- 
ders, they pass him, laughing and chat- 
tering, their sandals flapping the ground 
with scuffling sounds of loose stones. Mule 
carts thread their way through the idly 
moving afternoon gatherers. Men with 
bundles and women with sleeping chil- 
dren crouch against the scarred walls of 
the streets, shading their eyes with thin, 
brown hands, squinting into the crowd 
of passers-by, immobile. 

Looking down upon the people and 
watching over them is the monument to 
Gabon-the-Wise, wizard-advocator of the 
customs and of the solitude in which 
Chastelot lives. It stands, ageless, as a 
symbol of the strength that has enabled 
this land to exist through centuries and 
civilizations. Chastelot is a city, a land, of 
simple people, from whom come no great 
scientists or writers or musicians. Their 
only science is that of living; the only 
writing that is done is in the form of logs 
or diaries, which are passed from gen- 
eration to generation. They have no mu- 
sic other than that of a lute, one wood 
pipe, and the wind and rain. Their only 
belief is that living should take place in 
the heart, and that gives the key to their 
philosophy and happiness. 

They pray to the gods Zeus, Apollo, 
Venus, and they, watching over Chastelot 
from their home in the wind-swept top of 
O'ynipus, send Mercury with messages to 
the v/inds: blow gently, for that which is 
dear to us lies in your paths ... to the 
thunderheads of white majesty: let not 
thy tears tall too roughly, for a queenly 
land doth dwell in thy sight; ... to my 
(Continued on Page 43) 


Another Man 

By Margaref Ann Funic 

Woe is me! Life is a problem. I just 
know that everything happens to me. 
I'm the type who steps on a banana peel, 
or the type who dives into an empty 
swimming pool, and of course the per- 
son who had to fall on her head when a 
wee child. 

Seriously, though, I did fall on my 
head when I was a child, and it pushed 
my neck out of joint, not permanently of 
course, but just bad enough so that it 
would come out of place at the most em- 
barrassing times. It is one of these times 
I should like to relate to you. 

Once upon a time I had a date with 
the most handsome man imaginable. He 
was so tall and strong, and I was a wispy 
little thing that barely came to his shoul- 
der. One moonlight night we were sitting 

down in the park looking at the moon to- 
gether, when all of a sudden he took his 
arm and pulled me close to him. Because 
he was so tall, I had to put my head back 
to look into his beautiful eyes. Just as 
he bent down to kiss me, my neck came 
out of joint, my pearls broke hitting him 
in the eye, then on the nose, and finally 
falling to the ground. 

There I was, my neck out of joint. 
This deformity was slight since it only 
threw my head back at a 45 degree angle. 
I didn't mind that except that I looked as 
if I were searching the sky for a rare spe- 
cies of bird. There was do more romance 
that night. Never did I wear a pearl 
choker again. Never did I see my hand- 
some man again. I was still picking up 

As I Remember Him 

(Continued from Page 27) 
There may be other men who could fit 
his description up to this point, but I have 
not finished. There were his eyes. They 
had a blue German fierceness and a lively 
Scotch twinkle. They seemed to see and 
understand everything and more often 
had sympathy than anger at what they 
saw. I have never seen any eyes to com- 
pare with his and I doubt if I ever shall. 
His eyes were the windows to the mind 
behind them, and I doubt that there will 
ever be, within my knowledge, another 
mind like his. 

When he died in his eighty-fourth year, 
it would be an understatement to say that 
he was mourned. There were those who 
cried at the news of his death, but theirs 
were humanly selfish tears. No one could 
be sad at his passing to his reward, and 
no one could doubt that he was in the 
presence of his Lord. His earthly realm 
was as small as the few hundred people 
who loved and trusted him, but I daresay 
his realm in the Kingdom of Heaven is 
more vast than many men of world-wide 
good report. He was the greatest man I 
have ever known; I only wish I had known 
him better. 


^ke cJLiahi 

Joanne Jeans 

Slowly a hand raised high a light 
And held it up through the dark of night, 
A lantern, the rays of which might show 
The path of life to the child below. 

The tiny child, at the door of life, 
Whose road would wind through care and strife. 
Looked hard and long at the wondrous glow 
That came from heaven to his world below. 

What could it be, this heavenly beam? 
A silver-winged bird, a key to a dream, 
A prism of crystal, a teardrop of pearl, 
A crown full of diamonds upset on the world? 

It guided his footsteps along ways of right. 
This glistening glow from afar in the night. 
Until his pathway of life branched out 
And in his mind there arose a doubt. 

Did the light from above show the only way 
His feet could tread from day to day? 
He raised his hand and lowered the glow 
To guide himself on the path below. 

A rutted and rocky way it ran. 
For the tiny child was now a man. 


Play Ball 

By Priscilla Bailey 

Early November brought crimson-yellow 
leaves tumbling to the ground, bushels of 
Johnathans into the fruitroom, and bas- 
ketball into Bill's life. The three were 
strangely related as he found out the eve- 
ning he was late for dinner. 

Dad had just finished carving. The 
family waited eagerly for him to push 
aside the platter and pick up his fork. 
Just as he looked up, Bill slid sheepishly 
into his chair to be confronted with a 
stern, "Young man, do you what time it 

"Sure Dad, I'm sorry I'm late, but you 
know what? The neighborhood guys — " 

"Boys, Bill, boys." The exasperated cor- 
rection came from Mother. 

"Boys then. Anyway we've got a bas- 
ketball team. We're goin' to enter the 
Scout League and golly, we've just gotta' 
make a good showing against the other 
guys — boys, I mean." 

Dad forgot his parental scolding; some- 
thing of his own love of basketball was 
reflected in the shining eyes and freckled 
face of his son, and his mind slipped back 
thirty years to the time when he had first 
told his dad about the team at District 
Number 13. 

Bill's words tripped over his tongue as 
he explained about the team, the league, 
training, and trick plays until Mother's 
watchful eye noticed that his favorite 
mashed potatoes were soggy, his vegetables 

"Bill, you're not eating. Forget basket- 
ball for a minute, dear, and finish your 
dinner. Will, why do you encourage him 
to talk so much. You'd think basketball 
was the most important thing in your 

"Gee, Mom, I'm not hungry. Honest. 

Can I be excused to go over to the gym 
to practice?" 

"May I, dear. No, you haven't touched 
you dinner. Have you been eating this 

"All I had was some apples." 

"Well, I see now. You probably had 
more than 'some.' If you're going to be on 
the team, you'll have to eat more substan- 
tial food than that. Better make it no 
m.ore than two apples after school. Oh, 
and after school reminds me. Bill, would 
you please take care of the lawn for me 
tomorrow afternoon? The leaves are all 
over it." 

"Aw gosh. Mom, we start practice to- 
morrow afternoon. What do the old 
leaves matter anyi-vay — the grass is dead." 

"Bill, you heard your mother." Now 
Dad was remembering milking and gath- 
ering eggs which had gone with his bas- 
ketball season. "It will only take a few 
minutes; you rake them and don't for- 

The next day was one of those trying 
ones for Bill. When he came meekly to 
the dining room that night, his woebegone 
face said, "I'm in for it." 

Dinner waj, halfway over before it 
came. He had been toying with his food 
and avoiding his father's eyes. He was 
forced to look up as Dad questioned, 
"More potatoes. Bill? Look here, son, 
you haven't eaten anything again. Have 
you been in the apples?" 

"Yes, sir, I uh — " 

"What did your mother tell you about 
that? Bill, you disappoint me; besides 
that, I noticed you neglected to do some- 
thing else." 

"Gee, I was so busy I forgot all about 
the yard." 

"It seems to me you're forgetting too 
many things lately. Mother told you last 
night about the apples, and we asked you 
to rake the lawn. I guess I'll have to in- 


sist that you come home after school and 
look after your jobs." 

"But, Dad, they start practicing right 
after school. They'll put someone else in 
my place if I'm not there." 

"I know that, Bill, but you can still 
make it if you work harder. If we can't 
trust you to keep your word, the team 
won't be able to either." 

Those words rang in his mind. Dad 
was being unfair; he didn't understand 
at all. He couldn't play if he wasn't there 
all the time. His team had a good chance, 
and he wanted./ to be in on it. Raking 
leaves wasn't important — the important 
thing was to learn how to plav the game. 

He wouldn't obey him. He was unjust, 
so why should he. He'd come home every 
afternoon, tell Mom. he was going out to 
rake the lawn, and then cut across the 
alley and back to school. The leaves blew 
all over anyway, and he'd never know he 
hadn't raked them. 

For a month he reported home every 
afternoon, pulled on his jeans and gray 
jersey, and disappeared. He managed to 
reach the dinner table just as Dad bowed 
his head each night; his breath would come 
m sharp pants during the blessing. Dur- 
ing the meal Dad would question him 
about the team, but Bill would keep his 
eyes on his plate and answer with a brief 
"Yes" or "No." After dinner he would go 
down to the basement to practice. Last 
winter Dad had helped him put up a wire 
basket in the game room, and they would 
laugh and shoot baskets together. Now 
Dad wanted to be asked for advice or 
coaching but Bill avoided him. Both 
tried to act as if they were unaware of the 
change, but Bill wore a defiant look which 
didn't quite cover the different one in his 
eyes and Dad often puzzled over the 
change in his son. 

One night in December Bill didn't ap- 
pear until the meal was almost over. He 

intended to slip upstairs, but Dad's "Bill, 
dinner," forced him to come to the dining 
room. It was a full five minutes before 
he appeared in the doorway — a pathetic 
figure in dirty, torn corduroys and a feded 
plaid shirt. His face was dirty and 
streaked; he blinked his eyes hard and 
rubbed a grimey hand across his cheek. 

"You're late again, Bill. Have you 
been playing? Say, wasn't this the day 
of the big game?" 

Bill could only nod his head. He didn't 
trust himself to speak. 

Dad had forgotten the restraint of the 
last month and was questioning Bill about 
the game, but the answers could not 
squeeze the lump in Bill's throat. He dug 
first one toe and then the other into the 
rug and blinked his eyes even harder. 
"What happened. Bill? Did you make 
any baskets? What was the score?" 

The only reply was a smothered gulp, 
and then he choked out the words, "We 

The tears he had tried so hard to con- 
trol were tumbling over his cheeks, and 
he was pouring out the whole miserable 
story — the desire to win, the stolen prac- 
tices, everything. 

"I couldn't be on the team if I didn't 
come after school. Mostly the guys just 
fooled around and didn't really work. I 
tried to tell them about the plays we 
worked out last year — " 

The tears had stopped, but the words 
came between convulsive sobs. 

"I remembered about working together, 
but the team just didn't. I didn't play 
right either, nothing went right, and we 

When had the older man first learned 

the same lesson? Thirty years seemed 

like yesterday, and the heartache of that 

first loss was as real as that of the boy. 

(Continued on Page 43) 


The Soil Is Your Heritage 

By Kick! Moss 

Tim parted the swaying branches of 
the firs and lowered his head as he stepped 
through. His nose quivered and his eyes 
brightened, and he made a small leap over 
a broken limb. He glanced at the sicy 
and started humming, for it was a day 
made for singing. The sky was that deU- 
cate blue that inspired all poets, but for 
children it was a day of dreams of pirates 
and adventure. Tim paid no attention 
to the chattering squirrels or to the little 
white flowers that gasped for life through 
a tangled jungle of weeds. He saw instead 
a heavy-chested man coming down the path 
toward him. Tim ran to him and threw 
his arms around his waist. Together they 
turned and walked up the increasing in- 
cline of the hill. Tim skipped and danced 
beside the older man. 

"When did you get here, daddy? How 
long you gonna stay? Why didn't you 
come by school for me?" Tim laughed 
happily, and his father's coarse face re- 
laxed as he looked at him, but the body 
inside the sergeant's uniform twitched 
nervously. He interrupted his son's stream 
of questions and said gently, "I was just 
sort of passing close by and got permission 
to come see you for a few minutes. I 
want to talk to you, Tim." Tim gazed 
at his father questioningly and held his 
hand tighter, 

"You mean you can't stay, daddy? 
Even for tonight?" 

"That's about it, son. There are things 
a person can't help or change. I'm lucky 
to get here at all." 

Tim nodded, but he did not under- 
stand. It wasn't fair. After two years of 
waiting his father had come back^ and 
now he had to leave again. 

"W — will you be back soon?" He 

looked at the ground so that the tears were 
hidden that spilled from his eyes uncon- 
trollably. There was a deep, painful sigh. 
"No, it won't be soon, Tim. It won't be 
very soon." They were silent then. Tim 
bit his lip and his father looked, unseeing, 
toward the birds that arose from the 
ground as they approached- 

"Here, Tim." They jumped together 
&S the path down a small embankment 
into a world of thistles and briars that 
caught at Tim's blue jeans and knotted 
themselves In his shoe laces. He knew 
where they were going. He'd stopped 
there often on his way from school. They 
walked single file, Tim behind his father, 
who brushed away spider webs with the 
back of his hands and held aside the droop, 
ing branches. There was a barely notice- 
able path that they followed- In the shad- 
ows of the trees they stopped and looked 
down into a valley filled with sunlight. 
Below them grew the tall golden corn with 
its red heads that moved gracefully in a 
circle above a lone Rhode Island Red. Far- 
ther over was the orchard that Tim 
proudly called his own. Even from this 
distance could be seen the yellow and red 
specks that were oranges and apples sprin- 
kled over the trees. And then there was 
his home, painted a white that glared 
blindingly is the sun. Tim's eyes sought 
his window and he saw the ivy growing on 
the trellis, ahnost reaching into his room. 
He saw the old bam, recently reshingled, 
and Dick, the hired man, getting the milk 
ready to take to town. He saw the road 
and followed it until it was out of sight 
behind the cliff where he stood. 

The two did not speak as they gazed 
down at the farm they both loved. Tim's 
father put his hand to a tree and leaned 


against it, and his eyes never wavered 
from the scene below. Tim looked up at 
him and was startled to find an extraordi- 
nary expression on his face. He could not 
describe it accuartely, even to himself. 
In a way it was the same expression Tim 
had seen before whenever his father 
looked at the farm, but it was more than 
that now. He did not know what it was; 
he only knew he had never seen it, even 
when his father went away the first time. 
He glanced away quickly. The older man 
shifted his weight and cleared his throat. 

"This isn't anything new to you, Tim. 
I . . ." He stopped and then continued 
in a soft voice. "God put this land here 
for us, and we've got to take care of it, 
son. Remember that. Man is a part of 
nature. Some feel it more than others, 
and those are the ones that work with it 
and live close to it. We are that kind. 
You know what I mean, Tim. You feel 
it too." Tim nodded silently, his eyes 
fixed on the Rhode Island Red below. He 
knew what his father was talking about, 
yet he was puzzled. They had never men- 
tioned such things before. It had always 
been as if there was an understanding be- 
tween them that needed no words. Why 
was he saying this to him now? 

"I never said much about this to you, 
Tim. There was never any reason to. I 
guess you know anyway how much this 
farm means to me. I've loved every crop 
we've raised, and every chicken we've sold. 
I loved coming back to the house at night 
with black soil under my fingernails and 
knowing that I had done a good day's 
work. All this because it was the work I 
was bom to and needed." 

Tim was quiet. He hooked his thumbs 
around his belt and listened to the words. 
In his mind he was picturing his father 
as he used to look in faded overalls hoeing 
the garden or pitching hay. "You'll take 
care of the farm, I know, son. I'm not 

worried about that. I'll miss being with 
you when harvest times come and when 
you plow the west acre. I'll remember how 
I could look out the bedroom window and 
see the sun coming up over this cliff. I'll 
miss lots of things, Tim, but I won't 
worry, because I know you are here. And 
because you love them as I do, you will 
take care of them." 

There was another silence, prolonged 
until Tim became uneasy and wished his 
father would slap him on the back and 
lead him home for supper. He wondered 
if he was expected to say something. What 
could he say? He looked up expectantly 
to his father and felt tears come to his 
tyts again. He brushed them away 
quickly with the sleeve of his yellow flan- 
nel shirt. What a time to turn sissy. His 
father had not seen the movement, yet he 
must have known, for he said gently, 
"Don't be ashamed to cry, Tim. All that 
stuff you hear about men not crying is 
nonsense. Men cry too, only they don't 
always cry tears. I cried the day my 
mother died, and when the bam burned, 
and the year we lost all our crops. The 
important thing is not the tears but in be- 
ing strong enough to continue your life 
and trying to overcome the setbacks." 

The wind rustled the trees and Tim 
became aware of the silence when his fa- 
ther finished speaking. He had never 
thought of his father crying. He had be- 
lieved that men never cried, and for that 
reason he had always tried to hide his 
tears. What he hadn't realized was that 
there was more to being a man 
than that. Perhaps that was what 
his father was telling him. He looked 
at his shoes and scratched the earth with 
his heel. These were his last minutes 
with his father and he wished desperately 
for something to say. He would have 
liked to change the mood that had covered 
them, yet he did not know how. He rea- 


soned that this was not solely his time, 
but that it was the few minutes left for 
his father. In a little while he would be 
gone. For how long, Tim did not know. 
For another two years, maybe, and to him, 
two years were forever. He could not 

"Daddy . . ." 

"Yes, son.*' 

"When you come back I guess Mandy'il 
have had her colt. It might even be 
grown, won't it?" 

"Might be, son. What are you going 
to name it?" 

"I don't know. Dick wanted to name 
it some crazy name, but I sort of thought 
of 'Bobbie Jo.' That can be a girl's name 
or a boy's." He stopped and then went 
on. "There's a girl at school named Ro- 
berta Joanne, and everybody called her 
Bobbie Jo." He flushed darkly. His fa- 
ther was serious. 

"I think that would be fine, Tim. Bob- 
bie Jo would be a great name." 

Tim grinned. He hadn't meant to tell 
about Bobbie Jo, but it was all right be- 
cause his father didn't laugh. It was all 
rather silly anyway. Bobbie Jo was just a 
friend. Why, she could play football bet- 
ter than lots of boys he knew, even if she 
was younger. 

Abruptly he was snatched from his 
thoughts back to his father. It was time, 
and suddenly he was afraid- 

"Daddy, who'll take care of Mandy?" 
he almost cried. 

"You and Dick, son. You don't need 
me. Come on nov/, chin up. We'll walk 
back to the road together." Tim was 
isick with despair, still he knew that his 
father could not stay. They scrambled up 
the embankment, sending an avalanche 
of pebbles down. Tim put his hand in 
his father's, hung his head, and kicked 
rocks out of his way until they reached 
the road. 

"We'll say good-bye here, Tim." 

"Aren't you coming back to the house, 

"No, son. I said good-bye to your 
mother a long, long time ago. I'll wait 
here until Dick comes by in the pick-up 
and ride to town with him." 

They stood looking at each other, not 
knowing what to say. Tim followed his 
father's eyes as he turned suddenly and 
scanned the mountains and the sky. 

'''It's getting late. You'd better go 
home before mother gets worried about 
you." He put his hand out to Tim, but 
Tim's arms came around his neck and a 
wet face pressed his momentarily. Then 
his son stepped back, smiled, and gave a 
salute. "I'm still the man of the family 
until you get back. Dad. Dick and I will 
take care of Mandy all right, and I'll 
help drive the plow. You won't have to 
worry." He came forward and shook 
hands with his father. 

"Good-bye, daddy." And then he was 
gone, down the road toward home that 
they both had traveled so often. The older 
man watched him until he was out of 
sight around the curve of the hill. Tim 
v.'as almost grown up, and his father was 
proud. His eyes were fixed on the curve, 
as if hoping to catch one more glimpse 
of his boy. He remembered a poem he 
had once read. Most of it he had for- 
gotten, but it was written in the voice of 
a dead soldier, \vho said, "We are the 
shadowy whispering rows of unplanted 
fields of corn. We are the thousand glo- 
rious things that living hands would have 
done, but we perished there on the battle- 
field, between a sun and a sun." The tall, 
heavy-chested figure paused on the edge 
of the road and looked in the direction 
his son had gone. There was, as Tim 
said, no cause for him to worry. Tim was 
his son and he would plant those rows of 
(Continued on Page 43) 


^y^ld ^-Arc 

By Barbara Thome 

/A lonely valley held the little church 
To which the tiny folk of Ireland came 
To worship Him by Whom their bread was given. 
Inside this tiny structure was the beauty 
Of the world, collected by the fairy folk of Erin, 
The smallest flowers of the forest green 
Were used to seat these charming fairy nymphs, 
And mosses from the clearest woodland springs 
Took place of heavy carpets of the rich. 
Thin cobwebs, spun by artists, hung in folds 
About the stained glass windows filled with light, 
And from the nearby singing, tumbling streams 
Came music for the organ's golden chimes. 
Upon the sheltered altar lightning bugs 
Provided candles as an everlasting light. 
And many multicolored petals formed 
The sweetest picture painted by a soul. 
For Nature put into this masterpiece 
Her heart's contests and ever-cherished aim, 
And like a human mortal showed her love 
For that so holy virgin of the earth. 
The mother and adorer of our Christ. 
And here the reverent came from far and near 
To pray and seek His guidance through their lives. 
So when their summons came that they in awe 
Might enter to His honored house above. 



The King^s General 

By Daphne du Maurier 
Reviewed by Kay Keggin 

Garden City, N. Y.: Doubleday, Doran & Co., 
1946. $2.75. 

To a generation aching for a real peace 
comes the book, The Kings General, 
a story in which life is once again driven 
by a conflict, the Cromwellian Wars. 
However, the fact that the reaUsm dwells 
in another almost unknown era of 300 
years ago combined with the fact that 
Daphne du Maurier uses almost the same 
style of her famous Rebecca, weaving into 
her tale the fascinating part a house can 
play in the lives of those who live within 
it, the element of almost fictionalizing a 
shattering event, not only redeem her 
book but also make it one of the most 
popular recent publications. 

The Kings General is above all a ro- 
mance, a romance which has much of the 
suspense of Rebecca, the depth of Hun- 
gry Hill, and the swashbuckling of French- 
men s Creek; yet stands apart, a different 
story, an unknown story, and one in 
which the author has succeeded in making 
the reader feel as if he were a part of 

the plot — a minor character moving in the 
series of events which seem always to 
build upward. 

The characters stand as does spring — 
undefinable, poignant, with a great un- 
recognizable force behind. A clue to the 
General, Sir Richard Grenvile, lies in her 
dedication, "To my husband, also a gen- 
eral, but, I trust, a more discreet one." 
Sir Richard Grenvile, the King's general 
in the West, born to a heritage of resent 
and pride which remained bitter to the end; 
Honor Harris, the woman he loved, whose 
youthful injury which made her a crip- 
ple also turned her precocious love of na- 
ture and kindness to a patience which 
alone could bear these traits of her lover 
— these two alone share the secret hidden 
by the ivy covered walls of Menabilly — 
a mansion standing desolate on the Cor- 
nish coast. 

In 1824, Mr. William Rashleigh of 
Menabilly ordered the buttress on the 
northeast corner of his home to be de- 
molished. Masons knocking away the 
stones came upon a stair leading to a 
small room in which they found the skel- 
eton of a young man seated on a stool, 
a skeleton dressed in the clothes of a cav- 


alier as worn during the period of the 
civil wars. Consultation of family rec- 
ords led to the belief that the young man 
might be one of the Grenvile family who 
had taken refuge at Menabilly before the 
uprising of 1648. These circumstances 
led Miss du Maurier to her exciting blend 
of fact and fiction. 

The entire work has the beauty and 
depth of sea descriptions though the sea 
lies only as an imperceptible element that 
removes Grenvile from England only to 
return him once again in a strange uneven 
flow of time. The novel is one of deep 
blues and violets emerging at times into a 
bright, white light — once read, one is cer- 
tain that it is a story which can stand 
alone. It does not need the inscription 
which lies on the cover, "A novel by the 
author of Rebecca" for The King's Gen- 
eral is a story in itself. 

Cannery Row 

By John Steinbeck 

Reviewed by Priscilla Bailey 

New York: The Viking Press, 1945, $2.00. 

Cannery Row is just a few blocks long 
— it is backed by the rolling, blue Pacific 
and the sardine factories which gave it a 
name. It might have been nameless — it 
might be anywhere, but it so happens to 
be in California. It is the setting for John 
Steinbeck's new book. Cannery Row is 
another Steinbeck novel; this statement 
will be quite clear to those who have read 
his other books, and those who haven't 
will find that it is not a great book or an 
exciting book. But Cannery Row is worth 
the time that it takes to read it. 

On this street there is the grocery store 
of Lu Chong where almost everything can 
be found — food, clothing, firecrackers, a 
four-month old whiskey, Old Tennessee, 

commonly referred to as "Old Tennis 
Shoes" by those who live in Cannery Row. 
There is the Palace Flophouse inhabited 
by Mack and the boys, "True philosophers 
who know everythnig that ever has hap- 
pened in the world and possibly every- 
thing that will happen. In a time when 
people tear themselves to pieces with am- 
bition and nervous covetousness, they are 
relaxed. They are healthy and curiously 
clean. They can do what they want." 
There is the busy house presided over by 
the orange-haired madam, Dora — coarse, 
vulgar, kind. Then there is Doc, about 
whom the story centers, with his face 
"half-Christ and half-satyr." He runs 
the marine laboratory, collects frogs and 
tomcats, plays Gregorian music, admin- 
isters to sick puppies and children and 

Steinbeck has given another picture of 
a world set apart from our everyday one. 
It is much the same sort of picture as 
Tortilla Flat. It has a warmth, an under- 
standing, a knowledge of human values, 
and in places it is hilariously funny. The 
readers will chuckle long over the frog 
hunt which Mack and the boys, aided by 
corn whiskey, stage. 

Cannery Row in Monterey in California 
is "a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a 
quality of light, a habit, a nostalgia, a 
dream. Inhabitants everybody." 

Captain Caution 

By Kenneth Roberts 
Reviewed by Bomar Cleveland 

Garden City, N. Y. : Doubleday, Doran & Co., 
1940. $2.50. 

Kenneth Roberts, well-known historical 
author of New England, has portrayed ac- 
curately in this novel sea life during the 
War of 1812. In doing so, he has made 


use of many sea terms which may prove 
tedious to the landlubber, but are enUght- 
ening at that. 

Elihu Marvin, better known by his last 
name, was dubbed "Captan Caution" by 
his friends rather ironically. Although he 
was cautious, he would attempt the most 
foolhardy ventures after carefully weigh- 
ing all considerations. Many French terms 
and passages, used in connection with Lu- 
cien Argandeau, Marvin's faithful though 
bragging friend, and their stay in France 
prove intriguing to the connosieur. French 
customs, such as the calling of women 
"pigeons" and "rabbits," prove prevalently 
amusing. The very powerful, dramatic 
writing which pictures the British hulks, 
the prisoners, and their escape sets Ken- 
neth Roberts apart from the rest of the 
historical novelists, of whom there are not 
a few. Captain Caution can only add 
laurels to the wreath Mr. Roberts has won 
from his attempts to set forth chapters in 
the history of his country with which every 
American should be acquainted. On the 
flyleaves, this book is made even more en- 
chanting by a map of the English channel 
surrounded by diagrams of the then ex- 
istant ocean-going vessels. 

Captain Caution is not as well known 
as many other of Roberts' books, but it is 
very fast reading aside from the nautical 
terms previously referred to. In fact, the 
deepest thing included is the following 
quotation from George Washington, "It is 
a maxim, founded on the universal expe- 
rience of mankmd, that no nation is to be 
trusted further than it is bound by its in- 
terest; and no prudent statesman or poli- 
tician will venture to depart from it." In 
relation to the foregoing, the corrupt rela- 
tionships between the United States, 
France, and Great Britain at that time 
are revealing, as well as pertinent. 

By Thomas B. Costain 

Reviewed by Priscilla Bailey 

New York: Doubleday, Doran &c Co., 1945. 

Heading the best-seller list for many 
months has been an exciting historical 
novel, The Black Rose, by Thomas B. 
Costain. Mr. Costain has depicted that 
colorful period following the Crusades, 
and the setting of his novel moves from 
England after the Crusades to the Orient 
of Kubla Khan. This period of history 
has always appealed to the imagination 
of men, and The Black Rose has succeeded 
in capturing the color and romance of the 
thirteenth century in this story of a young 
Englishman who fights his way to the 
heart of the Mongol empire — Cathay — 
and returns to find that he must choose 
between an English heiress and a girl of 
the East. 

After hearing the foremost thinker in 
England, Roger Bacon, lecture on the 
advancement of civilization in the East, 
Walter of Gumie and his best friend, a 
tall, blond archer, Tristram Griffen, left 
Oxford in 1273, and set out to discover 
the mysteries of that legendary land. They 
gained the favor of a rotund, omnipower- 
ful merchant in the Middle East, Anthe- 
mus, who arranged for them to travel in 
his camel caravan to the borders of 
China where they would meet Kubla 
Khan's great general, Bayan of the Hun- 
dred Eyes, who would take them to the 
emperor himself. With them as presents 
to Khan was a harem including Maryam, 
daughter of an English Crusader and a 
Grecian woman. 

As the journey progressed, both men 
found themselves falling in love with the 
beautiful Maryam. In helping her to 


escape, Walter was captured and tortured 
by tKe ingenious Rope Walk of Khan's 
armies. However, his courage and his 
success in overcoming this punishment re- 
stored him to Bayan's favor, and he was 
made emissary to Kinsari. 

Here he found Maryam again; they are 
married, but in escaping from the city, 
they are separated, and Walter and Trist- 
ram made their way back to England 
where they are welcomed as heroes. For 
years Walter waits for Maryam to find her 
way to England, and then almost gives 
up and turns to Kis childhood sweetheart. 
How he solves this conflict of double-love 
climaxes a stirring and dramatic novel. 

The Black Rose is one of the best his- 
torical novels to appear in the last few 
years. It is beautifully but not sentimen- 
tally done. The period could easily lend 
itself to a highly imaginative story, but 
Mr. Costain has woven a picture of the 
period with warmth and tendecenss. Here 
is the Middle Ages in a thrilling yet real- 
istic light. 

¥h© Sigeip®st 

By Eileen Robertson Turner 

Reviewed by Bomar Cleveland 

New York: The Macmillan Company, 1944. 

By means of two closely woven plots, 
this book portrays the factions contending 
in neutral Eire. The central theme of the 
story, which is a love affair, connects the 
whole tragi-comedy which unfolds in Kil- 
dooey, a fictitious, though realistic, hamlet- 

Tom Fairburn, the recipient of the D. 
F. C, is on brief leave from the Battle of 
London. Being Irish by providence, he 
goes to neutral Ireland, hoping to restore 
his nervous equilibrium. On the way, he 
meets Denyse Messagere, wife of a French 
banker who has "gone" collaborationist, 

leaving her to provide for their child and 
to escape through the horrors of the refu- 
gee-crowded road. The two in an old car 
head for Donegal. They camp in a quarry 
on the outskirts of Kildooey, which en- 
meshed them in the village life. 

There is a signpost in the village which 
points toward Dublin, and that is the sym- 
bol of the Irish domestic woe. The young 
long to escape the narrowness of their en- 
vironment, which, nevertheless, they love. 
The goal may be the heaven which the 
boys and girls of Kildooey imagine Dublin 
to be, or the hell that Father Keith says 
it is. 

Birdie, a well delineated character, is to 
be married to Sean, a fanatic Irish nation- 
alist, but she first desires to see the great 
world, which to her is Dublin. Helen, her 
sister, has tragically returned from her 
Utopia, America, at the command of Fa- 
ther Keith to fulfill her marriage promise 
by marrying one for whom she still cares, 
though her longing for Boston is greater. 
Wallace, the Gambeen man, also affords 
interesting character study, because his 
position of loan shark combmed with an 
inflated ego allows much for controversy 
between him and Father Keith. 

Hospitable Aunt Mary Sullivan in- 
finitely prefers talk to food or money. 
She excels even the villagers in supplying 
Tom and Denyse with the daily groceries 
next to gratis. Her cabin is the unofiicial 
assembly place for the nightly telling of 
ghost tales and tragic memories of the 
Irish Repubhcan Army's futile sorties. 

Father Keith learns that Tom and 
Denyse are unmarried and rationally asks 
of them not to affect by their presence the 
status quo of his villagers whose morality 
is more important to him than even the 
crisis of the world outside. The good 
priest did not realize how much of the 
impossible was his request. For Tom and 


Denyse had brought life to the cramped 
existence and limited horizon of the vil- 
lage, set Birdie on the right path, won 
even Sean's respect in showing him how 
he could have plumbing in his new cabin, 
and protected the helpless against the 
Gambeen man. 

The story's freshness and vigor lies in 
the fact that it deals with the picturesque 
lower class of a too long exploited country, 
which endeavors to maintain a neutrality 
against the world while at the same time 
it is seething to annex the Six Counties. 
The narrative points out many little things 
not only about Ireland but about England 
and France as well which should interest 
the American reader. One learns for in- 
stance that the British "queue" instead of 

"stand in line" and that they refer to their 
domestics of both sexes by their last names. 
The Irish peasant like the American dirt 
farmer is slow in coming to the point of 
bringing forth a request for information, 
but unlike his American contemporary, the 
Irish agrarian literally lives next to the 
soil. It may also surprise the reader to 
know that the Roman Catholic Church 
encourages the study of Gaelic by the 
young in order to further its domination 
among the peasantry, that today Cromwell 
is more hated in Ireland than was Hitler, 
and that seals inhabit caves on the east 
coast of the Emerald Isle. Although the 
plot at times becomes a trifle far-fetched, 
the atmosphere and human interest more 
than compensate. 

Tliere lia tlie 1I®®fw®j 

(Continued from Page 19) 

June 8. 

"Pa-Pa" came in late last night, but 
he was up and out at six as usual. That 
means that we were all up and out at 
six. He insists on having his whole fam- 
ily around him at breakfast, and in spite 
of the enticing comfort of the big beds 
upstairs, we are quite flattered and always 
appear, curlers and all. He is pretty set 
in some of his ways. We don't mind 
a bit. 

June 15. 

I was going to bed early tonight, but 
instead 1 indulged in one of my favorite 
pastimes . . . going "on a call" with the 
Doctor. We went to two completely dif- 
ferent places, but he did not change with 
his surroundings. The first was Walnut 
Ridge, the old family mansion of the law 
firm executives. The second was a negro 
tenant's hovel. "Pa-Pa" ministers to 

them all . . . and he loves it. Fm sleepy, 
but I like to go along and see real people. 

August 4. 
It is almost time to go home again. My 
journal has been neglected . . . too busy 
havmg fun. But I shouldn't say that 
because I'm not the least bit busy com- 
pared to grandfather. Fm afraid he's 
working too hard. But that is his life, 
his love, his peace. 

(Continued from Page 25) 
off two of his three heads, and whispered 
gleefully, "So he's really gone. So that 
little squirt's really gone!" With that 
Dr. Johnson, for it was indeed he, drew 
the real Cerebeus out of the electric cooker 
and restored his heads. Then, in leaps 
and bounds and singing "I'm a little tea 
pot" at the top of his lungs, he disap- 
appeared in the distance. 
I was astonished. 



Plaj Ball 

(Continued from Page 33) 
Would he be able to say the right thing; 
would his son meet the test; would he? 

He shook out his handkerchief and of- 
fered it to Bill. As Bill blew his nose on 
the big, comforting square, Dad cleared 
his own throat and it was several minutes 
before he began. 

"You know, son, you really didn't play 
that game all the way. That's why you 
feel so bad — not because you lost but be- 
cause you didn't play fairly." 

"But, I tried — I went to all the prac- 
tices — " 

Then he knevv^. He knew why those 
practices hadn't gone over, why he had 
such a sick feeling just like he had when 
he'd eaten too many apples. He hadn't 
been playing "square" with Dad, and 
somehow Dad had known it all along. 

Suddenly he knew that Dad hadn't 
been talking about the game at all. 

Tlie Soil I® Your 

(Continued from Page 36) 
corn and do all the things he would do if 
he were there. He sighed, but it was not 
a painful sigh this time. He felt rested 
and light and good. His body seemed to 
weigh nothing and he almost floated down 
the road toward town. Then once again 
he stopped and looked back as if he had 
just remembered something. 

"It is time to leave," he said. "I had 
almost forgotten. My time is up and my 
truce with Death has ended" 

He stepped off the road just as Dick 
came by with the milk. And Dick, homely 
and honest, as he bounced from side to 
side on the shredded grey that covered the 
seat, felt suddenly as one does who looks 
up to discover an unexpected guest, who 
answers, unseen, unheard. 

"Queer," he muttered. "Mighty queer." 
The rattle of the old car was the last 
sound the sergeant heard as he stood 
there, unseen. He smiled after it and 
waved his hand in a final gesture of re- 
spect to something that had helpd him 
faithfully for many years. A feeling of 
peace and happiness settled upon him and 
throughout his body surged a relief un- 
bound by fear and pain- He knew no 
anger or sorrow, only peace and content- 
ment. His eyes were bright and he began 
to hum, for it was a day made for singing. 
The sky that had been a delicate blue was 
darkening as the uniformed figure climbed 
a hill and disappeared forever into the 
shadows of the trees. 


(Continued from Page 29) 
lord Death, messenger of Pluto: stay thy 
sting from striking too sharply, for a sin- 
less people lie within thy might. 

Thus is preserved the beauty of a land 
called Chastelot, forever endurable, for- 
ever enduring, lost from a world because 
of its remoteness, but focused in a world 
of its own; a rare, rich jewel, set in a 
mounting of brass, but encased in a pro- 
tective coating of goodliness and godli- 

Chastelot ... 






Vol 10 NOVEMBER, 1946 No. I 




ovember and the autumn season have almost passed, and a new school year at 
Ward-Belmont is in full swing. With these events we are bringing you the first issue 
of your 1946-47 CHIMES, containing the best writing done by you and your fellow-j 
students during the past three months. We of the staff have tried to put into this firsr 
CHIMES essays, short stories, and poems that will make you wake up to the fact that 
there is quite a bit of ability in the literary field right here on campus, maybe sitting next 
to you in math class! We want to make you laugh, think, and appreciate — appreciate 
the fact that the very word ''literary" doesn't of necessity mean something dry, boring, 
or dull. Quite the contrary! We want you to read CHIMES for fun, and then we'd 
like for you to think, "If reading can be so much fun, maybe writing can be that way 
too!" It is, and we want to see more and more of your work . . . CHIMES is yours, 
and your contributions keep it going . . . 

We think we've managed to include in this issue something which will appeal to every 
reading taste . . . Just a few examples: Ruth Marie Walls' "Liagiba" is especially de- 
signed to endear itself to the heart of every ghost story lover, and for you people who 
savor dramatic endings we recommend Marion Frederick's "But Then There Was The 
Girl Back Home" . . . Guaranteed: that Nancy Fuller's essay on the typical small town 
will provoke quite a few heated discussions ... 

But please don't think that CHIMES is all prose! Camille Hancock has written 
some fine poetry for this issue . . . "Midnight Phantom," as an example. Jane Ellen 
Tye's "Because You Understand" has expressed for many of us that which we could 
not say ourselves, and Bob Needs' "Outlook" will leave you with a contemplative feel- 
ing of having discovered something. 

The reviews for this issue are certainly worthy of your notice, also . . . Two guest 
reviewers, June Michelson and Ruth Marie Walls, have given us their opinions on a 
recent book and play, respectively . . . 

Here, then, is the result of those many Monday night meetings in the Publications 
Office: your new CHIMES! We hope you like it! 



Sheila Kennard Editor 

Camille Hancock Poetry Editor 

Eileen Springstun Exchange Editor 

Mrs. Pauline Smith Faculty Advisor 


Jane Erwin EdUor 

June Brown Pat McGauly 



The Squirrel Hunter Jane Erwin 

Introduction Jane Ellen Tye 

The Strange Liagiba Ruth Marie Walls 

Summer Storm Camille Hancock 

Rainbows Eileen Springstun 


The Woman's Home Companion . Eileen Springstun 

The Man on the Bus and His Time Jane Erwin 

Madame Davis Frances Newport 

Poor Wretch Eileen Springstun 

Midnight Fantasy Camille Hancock 

The Purse Shirley Nickols 

Leavetaking Camille Hancock 


Outlook Barbara Needs 

Because You Understand Jane Ellen Tye 

Nothing To Do? Nancy Fuller 

Arthur Q. Dillon BETTi' Neil Sheppard 

But Then There Was the Girl Back Home Marion Frederick 

State of the Union Ruth Marie Walls 

Thought Eileen Springstun 


The Stranger Albert Camus 

All the King's Men Robert Penn Warren 

GeoflFrey Chaucer of England . Marchette Chute 



"Nothing is constant but change." 
This statement was once made by one 
who saw, who understood, the fact that 
even in the most radical of human beings 
there is some reactionary tendency, a need 
for something definite to chng to when 
everything about us seems to be shifting 
in the never-ending kaleidoscope of time. 
This person named the one thing on 
which we can depend through any and all 
things — change. During our early years 
we, in the security of our homes, do not 
feel or understand the perplexities which 
the "grown-ups" seem to regard as beyond 
all hope or remedy; and even through our 
adolescence we find it difficult to believe 
that in only a matter of a few short years 
our homes, our families may be taken 
from us, our values of friendship may 
change, our ideas may be forced to ad- 
just themselves to different surroundings 
and conditions. With the coming of our 
first years in college, away from all fa- 
miliar things and under new influences to 
which we must fit ourselves, this realiza- 
tion strikes us for perhaps the first time. 
It is this sudden comprehension which, 
I believe, leaves people of our age with 
that "mixed-up" feeling spoken of by 
psychologists as characteristic of anyone 
passing through this period. ". . . this 
sudden comprehension . . ." In reality, 
it is not so sudden; it is a transition, a 
transition from the period of childhood, 
untouched by serious problems or thoughts, 
to the period of adulthood, which is in 
itself a security against all that we could 
not understand before and are just barely 
beginning to discover now. 

This is only my opinion. What do others 
have to say on this subject of change 
and transition? What better place to 
turn than literature, where men and 
women through the ages have expressed 

and preserved their ideas? John Ruskin 
well expresses his views in his essay 
against the coming of the machine age. 
Far from reconciled to progress with 
its many portents, he is one lone individual 
battling against an irresistible and over- 
whelming tide of change, change from the 
old way of doing things to a new, strange 

It was this same attitude toward the 
subject which caused Milton to say, 

"In dim eclipse, disastrous twihght 
sheds ' 

On half the nations, and with fear 
of change 

Perplexes monarchs." 

It was this which caused Robert Brown- 
ing to write, • ' 

"I detest all change. 

And most a change in aught I loved 
long since." 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning's idea was 
quite different, however. It was she who 
wrote these lines from "Autumn": 

"Come autumn's scathe — come 
winter's cold — 

Come change — and human fate! 

Whatever prospect HEAVEN doth 

Can ne'er be desolate." 

Robert Frost supports this view and 
goes even one step farther in denying the 
true existence of any form of change: 

"Most of the change we think we 
see in life 

Is due to truths being in and out of 

And Marcus Aurelius says, "Observe 
always that everything is the result of a 
change, and get used to thinking that 
there is nothing Nature loves so well as 
to change existing forms and to make 
new ones like them." 

Change is all around us now: our sur- 
roundings and places of living have 
changed, our ideas may have already 
undergone change . . . the very season 

of the year is changing about us. No- 
where can we look without daily seeing 
some difference from the day before. 
Change is hard to accustom oneself to; 
reconciUation seems to be the only answer. 

Change is a rebirth; autumn becomes 
winter, which blossoms into spring. Who 
can say which is best? 

"The universe is change; our life is 
what our thoughts make it." 

The Squirrel Hunter 

By Jane Erwin 

Of all the unnoticed creatures which 
madly run about us on the Ward-Belmont 
campus, the most unnoticed is the squirrel. 
Therefore, in deepest sympathy with these 
ungloried animals, we have dedicated this 
first issue of Chimes. But wait, this is 
not all I have to say of squirrels. Besides 
being the most unnoticed creatures on 
campus, they are also the most modest. 
When our most worthy staff decided that 
a portrait of a squirrel was to grace the 
cover of our magazine, I mentally reserved 
the following Saturday afternoon for the 
sole purpose of observing squirrels. With 
my copy of The King's Henchmen to fill 
in the empty spaces between squirrels, I 

planted my sketch book and me in a swing 
well surrounded by trees, the logical 
habitat of the creature under discussion. 
For two long hours I waited and watched. 
I saw people, dogs, cats, even birds, but 
squirrels — no! Not one squirrel, not even 
a nut appeared upon the scene. And 
what's more, I have not seen a squirrel 
until this day and the magazine is going 
to press this afternoon. So now, kind 
readers, if you see some vague impression, 
but no actual resemblance to a squirrel 
upon this cover, please treat us kindly in 
your minds and take to heart this lament 
of an unsuccessful squirrel hunter. 


By Jane Ellen Tye 

I'd like to live with myself awhile 
And kind of "get acquainted," 
To hear the songs I've sung, and see 
The pictures I have painted. 
Little black footprints in the white 
Wandering over time, 
I see them and I wonder if 
Those patterns could be mine. 
I cannot take mistakes apart 
And set them on a shelf. 
But just the same I'd like to get 
Acquainted with myself. 

The Strange Liagiba 

By Ru+h Marie Walls 

* Ruth Marie Walls, Pembroke Hall president 
from Bristol, Tennessee, is majoring in English 
and plans to devote her time to writing after 
she finishes school. She "just loves" dogs, all 
sizes and types . . . but woe be unto the person 
who talks in a movie and tells the plot before 
Rufus has a chance to figure it out for her- 


I, Dean of Women at Memorial Col- 
lege for Women, after a year's leave of 
absence from the school, place on paper 
the facts I have discovered during this 
year that are connected with the story I 
am about to tell. I am sound of mind, at 
least the doctors say I am, but sometimes, 
when my thoughts dwell too long on the 
story, I wonder. Neither am I a super- 
stitious soul, but all the facts point to only 
one answer. After I have finished this 
statement, I am going to resign from my 
office of Dean of Women and take a tour 
around the world hoping to rid myself 
of the awful fears that are ever around 
me and even invade my dreams. I am 
writing this because I hope by putting 
it on paper, it will leave my mind forever. 

First, I will tell you the story as it was 
told to me and as I know it to be true. 

Jane Parker sat quietly on the banks 
of the old stream. She knew she was well 
hidden behind the bushes that grew along 
the banks, and crept down to touch the 
creek; so she remained still, waiting and 
watching the old mill. 

But while her body was motionless, her 
mind ran at a break-neck speed. Why? 
Why? Her mind just seemed to ask ques- 
tions to which there seemed to be no 

Everything had been queer since Jane's 
best friend and room-mate Dorothea Al- 
lan, had been murdered. She had been 

killed right there on the campus of Me- 
morial College, a New England school for 
young women, which was located outside 
of Salem, Massachusetts. The school was 
an old one, and though it did not date 
back to the early seventeenth century as 
did parts of the mill, it was old and stood 
proud and ancient in the cold moonlight. 
The death of Dorothea was unusual, i 
She had been strangled, but beyond that 
nothing seemed to be known. 

Jane sat up a minute and listened. It 
was just a wandering rabbit that she had 
heard;^ so she sank back to the grouna. 
She knew it was still too early to expect 
Liagiba Grey; so she just waited quietly, 
her mind busy. 

Why she suspected Liagiba, Jane didn't 
know. There had been something strange 
about Liagiba since she had first come 
that fall. That long black hair which 
was always worn in two neat, thick braids, 
those wild black eyes! Yes, there was 
something strange about her. But why 
Jane should connect her with Dorothea's 
death, Jane herself couldn't tell. Perhaps 
it was because, though Dorothea had never 
seen Liagiba before the beginning of the 
school term, Liagiba seemed to know 
Dorothea and hate the very ground she 
walked on. But Jane believed it was those 
visits to the old mill that first made her 
wonder. Nearly every Friday night since 
the beginning of school Jane had seen 
Liagiba creep out and visit the deserted 
old mill. How she had escaped notice so 
many times Jane didn't know, but Liagiba 
always seemed to be in her bed asleep 
when the teachers passed. 

The deep-voiced clock from the tower 
rang out. Jane could clearly see the clock 
from where she sat, because, though the 
old mill was some distance from the rest 
of the buildings, it was still on the school 
grounds, and the large clock could be 
seen from anywhere on the campus. Jane 
could both see and hear the clock strike 
twelve. The hour was midnight, and she 
knew that soon, if Liagiba did as she 
usually did, this girl would be making 
her visit to the mill. Yes, even before the 
last tone of the twelfth chime faded out, 
Jane saw her. Through the dark Jane 
could barely make out Liagiba's form 
stealing through the bushes, up the bank 
to the old mill. 

The old door creaked open, and Liagiba 
entered. On silent feet Jane followed, 
until she reached a shuttered window. She 
could see a dim light shining through, 
but a light so dim that at any distance 
at all it could not have been seen. Silently 
Jane opened one shutter and peered in. 
What a sight met her eyes! 

By the dim light of the lantern Liagiba 
had lighted, Jane could make out the 
form of the girl, but she was so different! 
Her hair was no longer in neat braids 
around her head, but was loose and wildly 
fell below her knees. Her eyes seemed 
to be alive with hate and fire. 

But it was the other occupants of the 
mill that made Jane stare unbelievingly. 
There stood around the walls eight other 
girls all about eighteen. The resemblance 
between all of these girls was striking. 
Their features were all very similar, but 
their clothes were quite different. Each 
dress was from a different period, each 
about thirty years apart, starting with the 
Purtain dress of the late seventeenth cen- 
tury and continuing to the modern clothes 
of 1946. 

The girl dressed in modem clothes 
caused Jane's heart almost to stop, for 
that girl was Dorothea Allen! But Doro- 
thea was dead! Jane knew she was, be- 
cause she herself had found the small 
crumpled body. But Dorothea stood there. 
A quite different Dorothea, however, for 
there was no expression on her face and 
no color in her cheeks. 

Jane then noticed the girl that stood 
next to Dorothea. She was dressed in 
the clothes worn around 1914, and Jane 
was sure she had seen her before. It took 
several minutes for her to remember, but 
when she did, the results were startling. 
Dorothea had once shown Jane a picture 
of the girl that now stood so white and 
silent. She was Dorothea's aunt for whom 
the girl had been named, and who had 
died very mysteriously when she was only 
eighteen. Jane had noticed when she saw 
the picture that Dorothea resembled her 
aunt a great deal, and now she saw six 
other girls who had similar features to the 
dead Dorothea Allan. 

The eight girls stood silently as if 
chained to their places, and there was no 
(Continued on page 24) 

Summer Storm 

By Camille Hancock 

It is late afternoon in the country, and 
suddenly the distant black clouds are no 
longer distant. The thickly moving over- 
cast and cooling air indicate rain. Trees 
bend in the wind, and little twists of dust 
rise from the dirt road in miniature cy- 
clones. Everything is noiseless and expect- 
antly taut. The wind becomes stronger, 
and light pellets of rain begin. Lightly, 
lightly, and then harder and quicker. The 
moss-balmed creek dapples with them, the 
dirt road lies thirstily — slowly becoming 
satisfied. The foliage becomes greener. 

From the distant farmhouses come 
sounds: the lowering of windows, the 
bringing in of freshly laundered and dry- 
ing clothes ojBP the line; menfolk busy in 
the bam. The rain becomes more in- 
sistent. Harder, quicker. Thunder rum- 

bles in the distance, and suddenly a blind- 
ing flash of lightning rips its jagged path 
across the sky. Harder, quicker; harder, 
quicker. Minutes pass. The earth is wet 
and green. Inside the house children play 
games among themselves. The women pre- 
pare supper. Perhaps there is one dreamer, 
one poet in the household. He slips care- 
fully away — to some distant window where 
he will be undisturbed, and watches the 
rainfall. Torrents of it. Something loosens 
inside his frame. Cool air and rain melt 
into his being. He watches the gushing 
flow of the drain, the moist verdure of 
the pear tree by the window; and when 
the beauty becomes a poignant longing in 
his soul, he slips back to the every-day 

The rain slows. It is no longer hard 
and quick. Now it is soft and softer. 
Slowly it ceases. The outside world is 
bathed in a yellow-green light. The rain 
is over. 


By Eileen Springstun 

Music blares loudly from a box on the wall. 

Dancers sway drunkenly. 

The clink of ice in glasses is heard. ' '• 

Laughter rises and falls in waves. 

The bartender, wise and bitter, 

Is oblivious to all. 

He cares not for the drunk sprawled over the bar, 

Nor the sleek woman with the vermeiled mouth. 

In the midst of this leather upholstered sordidness, 

He calmly pours the scotch and soda. 

His sad eyes intent only 

On the rainbows caught in the small cube of crystal. 

3or Wa 





One day while we were sitting on the proverbial train enroute to Nashville 
we began to wonder what those intellectual people who are so absorbed in the 
Encyclopedia Britannica would read in the privacy of their boudoir. Across 
the aisle was a tired businessman in a crumpled pin-stripe suit chatting with a 
psuedosophisticate in a sleek black ensemble described in last month's Vogue as 
''the thing" for traveling. Facing these two was a window-gazing man with 
his bedraggled wife who wore a "good black dress" she had obviously bought 
instead of the red-checked curtains the kitchen needed last spring. Our imagi- 
nations began to place them in their own surroundings, but these thoughts would 
never have crystallized had it not been for Dr. Myhr's assignment in advanced 
composition class. 


The Woman^s Home Companion 

By Eileen Sprlngsfun 

Julian lighted a fresh cigarette from his 
glowing stub and leaned back in his enor- 
mous chair. He stared at the copy of 
Schopenhauer his finger was caught in, 
and contemplated suicide. Plato, lying on 
the floor by the side of the chair where 
he had been so cruelly dropped, was being 
utterly ignored. No, suicide wouldn't do. 
Julian abruptly shut off Schopenhauer's 
flow of words and condemned him to 
share Plato's fate of utter silence and 
uselessness on the floor. Julian tried to 
relax; he let his heavy lids drop and made 
a vain attempt to think of nothing but 
green grass. It was no good. A shadowy 
figure with shaggy gray hair kept creeping 
into the space between his closed eyes and 
his brain. The shadowy figure had un- 
knowingly lost his shoe in the mud puddle 
he had plodded through. He was carrying 
something in his hand. Instantly a clear, 
quiet lake floated into view, and the 
shadowy figure began to empty the con- 

tents of his hand into the lake. He was 
holding pebbles, and he thoughtfully 
dropped them one by one into the water 
causing series of small circles, which grew 
larger and larger, to disturb its calm 
surface. Quickly Julian opened his eyes 
and scowled. Damn Einstein! Why didn't 
these philosophers leave him alone? None 
of them were any good anyhow. They 
made a good pretence of possessing wis- 
dom; they all propounded ideas they 
thought would cure the evils of humanity; 
Schopenhauer even went so far as to sug- 
gest that we completely rid the earth of 
it's horrible disease life, but none of them 
were any good. Everyone of them had 
plagarized and re-hashed somebody else's 
ideas. As a matter of fact, a few of them 
had even stolen Julian's ideas! And act- 
ually, what did any of them know? Abso- 
lutely nothing. Juhan smirked. 

He sat there. Having rid his tormented 
brain of the wandering Einstein, Julian 

began to think of his wife. It occurred 
to him that she had suggested it was time 
for him to come to bed several hours ago. 
Wives. Always nagging. Never content 
to let a man think. They always fretted 
and fumed and worried if they didn't 
get the dining room dusted every morning. 
What did it matter? In a few years she 
would be dust like all those philosophers, 
dust like that on the dining room table. 
Julian chuckled. But his wife didn't real- 
ize that. Even if she did, she wouldn't 
appreciate the joke. Besides, women don't 
think, at least Julian had seen little evi- 
dence of it. But occasionally he had found 
his wife reading, and people, even women, 
find it difficult not to think even when 
they read good books or good magazines. 
Slowly, Julian became intrigued by the 
idea that his wife might think. Now, 
where was that magazine she had been 
reading today? Perhaps he, Julian, would 
find it interesting too. 

With an effort, Julian pryed himself 
loose from the carressing arms of his 
chair and stepped on his glasses. Un- 
fortunately, he had not put them far 
enough under the table. Oh well, he 
never thought to put them on, anyhow. 
Aha! there was the magazine. He recog- 
nized it by the screaming colors and the 

insipid looking girl whose picture adorned 
the cover. It looked extremely uninterest- 
ing. Gingerly, Julian picked up the maga- 
zine and sank back into his chair. He 
began to examine it. Across the top of 
the cover, in large black letters, were the 
words. Woman's Home Companion. Jul- 
ian began turning pages; he saw the ad- 
vertisements, the hints to the housewives, 
the recipes, and the clothes. Julian was 
not impressed. Finally, he turned to the 
stories and stared at the illustrations for 
a few minutes . . . then he began to 
read. Julian's eyes grew larger and a 
startled expression crept in. He read a 
few more lines. He was horrified! It . 
was inconceivable that anyone could have! 
written that, and even more preposterous 
that his wife, although she didn't think, 
would read it. Julian was stunned; again 
he closed his eyes to shut out the grotesque 
figure of the girl in the yellow bathing 
suit who, from the page, looked at him 
from under droopy lashes. 

His eyes were closed. It was dark and 
quiet. Peace descended. Out of the dark- 
ness, a shadowy figure wandered into view. 
The figure had shaggy gray hair and he 
was carrying a handful of pebbles. Julian 
sighed. Welcome home, Albert. 

The Man on the Bus and His Time 

By Jane Erwin 

Of all the people who push off the 
bus at their respective stops after having 
survived the madly mutilating five o'clock 
rush, the slumped, bedraggled man with 
his I - work - in - a - successful - office suit, 
desperately trying to maintain its air of 
importance in spite of its wrinkled seat, 
is the most unnoticed. Regardless of which 
of the various paths his weary feet may 
take after descending the steps of the 

public vehicle, his walk is always the 
same. His steps are measured to a never 
varying length, his torso merely floating 
to keep up with his moving feet, his head 
alone turns slightly from side to side serv- 
ing as a retainer for his dull, expressionless 
eyes. Under his arm is tightly tucked his 
weekly purchase from the newsstand in 
the office building lobby — Time magazine. 
For no particular reason let us follow 

the venerable Mr. L — as he walks away 
from the unindividualLstic rhob, non-car- 
owners, to the one spot on earth where he 
is lord and master — his home, I refer to 
him as the venerable Mr. L — because that 
is exactly what he is. He never fails to 
cast his vote in the most unimportant 
election, he never puts the paper boy off 
until tomorrow, and his garbage fee is the 
first on the street to be paid. Most im- 
portant of all, he feels it his civic duty to 
keep up with the affairs of the day, and 
this he does religiously by means of — yes, 
you guessed it — his weekly edition of 
Time. By this time his respectful though 
modest dwelling is in sight of his unseeing 
eyes. As he entered the yard via the 
driveway, he is gently side-swiped by his 
devoted son who respectfully asks his 
usual question: ''Hi Pop, you home?" 
With this event, the one and only family 
town car, a faithful 1940 Chevrolet, 
though faded, sets out on its three-block 
journey to the corner drug store. As the 
lord and master of the house, the vener- 
able Mr. L — enters the door of his family 
dwelling, he is greeted by — utter silence. 
He places his hat on its habitual spot in 
the hall closet and moves across to the 
living room, pausing only to deposit his 
copy of Time on the table beside his 
personal armchair. His consecutive steps 
carry him into the kitchen where he is 
met by his wife's embracing words: 
"Henry, did you call the plumber?" 

After running several errands, pedes- 
trian style, for his doting wife, he is in- 
formed by his watch-pocket watch that it 
is six o'clock and time for dinner. He 
leaves his personally-repaired light switch 
with a feeling of satisfied completion, and 
proceeds to wash his hands for the forth- 
coming meal. The dining room is in- 
habited by his son, recently returned from 
the drug store, who is already consuming 
a ridiculously buttered slice of bread; 

his wife who is still bringing in dishes 
from the kitchen; and, in a matter of 
seconds, his daughter wears her new black 
dress into the room and becomes the first 
articulate member of the family with an 
original exclamation; "Hi Pop!" The 
dinner proceeds in its customary fashion 
of complete silence with the exception of 
a few remarks from Mrs. L — who is 
kindly guiding her husband's actions for 
the coming day. 

After dinner, the son leaves for the 
movies, the daughter swishes away with 
her most recent swain, and Mrs. L — aids 
her husband in washing the dishes. Event- 
ually, Mrs. L — 's mother arrives to take 
her daughter to the bridge club, and Mr. 
L — is left alone with his armchair, his 
slippers, his glasses, and Time. From this 
point until eleven o'clock he is lost in 
a series of reminders that there is another 
world outside his happy home. 

The next morning, the wrinkled-seated 
suit, containing Mr. L — , made its ap- 
pearance in the bright world at precisely 
seven A. M. The floating body and 
moving feet, topped by the oscillating 
head, made its way to the bus-stop to await 
the arrival of the mob, and the moment 
it would join them and dissolve into ob- 
scurity. Only his now rolled copy of 
Time reminded him that after a day of 
taking orders from another man, he could 
return to his home and be lord and master 
again. He put his dime in the slot and 
became one of the bus-riders. 

Madame Davis 

By Frances Newport 

The most unlikely of habitats for 
habitual readers is a beauty shop. Con- 
trary, however, to first impressions, these 
are literally packed with a divergency of 
readers. The reception room of a semi- 


exclusive salon is decorated usually in some 
bizarre fashion. Zebra stripes madly chase 
each other around the room, while brightly 
colored chromium chairs squat frigidly 
against the walls. 

Leaving the jungle-like decor of the 
reception room, one sees the less comfort- 
ing, individual shampoo rooms. Under 
the helmet-shaped dryers of the salon, 
heads bristling with bobby pins are bent 
in fascination over the slick-papered fash- 
ion magazines. Mademoiselle, Harper's, 
Vogue . . . these three are at the very 
peak of their field. They command re- 
spect and utter devotion; their word is 

Pseudo-sophisticates flock weekly to the 
Mecca of beauty ... the sleek salon. A 
typical member of this set is the young 
married woman. Her name, perhaps Jill 
Davis, connotes no special manner or no 
outstanding attribute. Her husband is a 
"rising young business executive," but the 
rate of his rise is considerably lessened 
by the amount of money necessary to 
maintain Jill in the desired sta:te of stylish- 
ness. High on her budget is an allotment 
for beautification. One morning each 
week 'is devoted to this process. She ar- 
rives punctually at nine and remains until 
eleven. The mechanics, such as shampoo, 
set, manicure, facial, and arch, are dis- 
pensed with as soon as possible. Her 
greatest enjoyment is derived from Har- 
per's. On its pages are found the ultimate 
in sophistication. Jill awaits her turn un- 
der the chromium dryer with eagerness, 
for while under it she forms the ideas 
with which she later bombards her hus- 

Slowly turning the slick pages filled 
with fashionable clothes, Jill assumes an 
attitude of relaxed boredom. To one un- 
familiar with the financial position of the 
young Davises, it would seem that she 
could have any or all of the clothes she 

is admiring. Indeed, her casual tweed 
suit does not betray its lineage of pre- 
trousseau days. But the beauticians know. 
Through long hours spent discussing the 
affairs of their clients, they are aware of 
the exact standing, both financial and 
social, of Jill Davis and her promising 
young husband. The know that often she 
does not tip them well, and that the Davis 
bill is one difficult to collect. They know 
that the Davises are attached to the outer 
fringe of the "smart set." And that Jill 
is striving always to advance the position 
she holds. The know that beautiful 
clothes are the betraying weakness of Jill . 
Davis. What they do not know, however,; 
is the struggle with which she attains those' 
clothes. / 

An operator approaches Jill's dryer. 
After feeling her hair to determine its 
dryness, she turns off the current and 
directs Jill to a small table. The uni- 
formed girl dexterously slides the pins 
from Jill's head and combs the curls in 
place. If she pulls a trifle hard, Jill does 
not notice. She is contemplating the best 
technique to be used on Steve that evening. 
The perfect dress for the Club dinner next 
Saturday has been discovered. One quick 
trip into the city with an increased al- 
lowance is all that would be necessary. 
Surely, Steve won't be difficult. And be- 
sides, doesn't he like to be proud of her? 

As Jill deposits a dime and four pennies 
on the table, she concentrates worriedly. 
"I wonder if I can find two nice T-bones 
for dinner?" 

Poor Wretch 

By Eileen Sprlngstun 

In spite of her wretchedness, a wife 
is the most necessary of all the essentials 
of humanity. She is the spinal column of 
the nation, the perpetuater of mankind. 

the slave to drudgery, the respected citizen 
in the community, the envy of frustrated 
old maids, the scorn of successful business- 
women, the shoulder to cry on, the gossip, 
the idol on a pedestal, a comfort to her 
children and husband. A wife rises early 
to cook breakfast for an irritable husband 
and children; she washes dishes, grimy 
clothes, and diapers; she irons; and she 
dusts, cleans, and scrubs. She plays bridge 
in the afternoon with dishpan hands; she 
is a solid and dependable member of the 
Thursday literary club and the Tuesday 
home economics club. She; rides in the 
back seat of the family Ford on Sunday 
afternoon outings. Over the back fence, 
she discusses the morning headlines, her 
husband's business, financial affairs, and 
distinguished friends, little Susie's popu- 
larity (Susie is going on 16, has problem 
hair, bowed spindly legs, and wears 
braces) , and the young and handsome 
divorcee who has just moved into the old 
Watson house. The wife tolerates and 
occasionally admires her husband whose 
advice she follows second only to the wise 
counsel of the Woman's Home Com- 

Although the wife is recognized on the 
street by the nondescript black hat she 
bought seven years ago on sale in the 
basement of Waltham's Department Store, 
and to which she added a new red bird's 
wing last fall so that it would blend with 
the red nasturitiums on her new dress; 
she is most characteristic when surrounded 
by the four walls (newly papered last 
spring) of her home. Her home is her 
sun; the center of her small and compact 
universe around which she, her husband, 
her children, and scant interests revolve. 
Here she dwells, in a domicile which 
through years of loving, patient care has 
acquired her characteristics and fused with 
her personaUty. 

A wife's work is never finished, but 

frequently, after the noon meal is eaten, 
her husband has driven back to the office, 
and the children have dashed back to 
school, she leaves the dirty dishes on the 
table and sinks into her husband's chair 
in front of the radio to absorb the con- 
tents of this month's Woman's Home 
Companion. Even this is relevant to her 
guiding purpose. The Woman's Home 
Companion is part of her life — her friend 
and adviser, her method of escape. The 
magazine is gleaned for new recipes and 
suggestions for preparing leftovers which 
are then put on mental reserve until 
Wednesday when the family ominously 
ignores last Sunday's baked chicken. 
She picks up suggestions by an unknown 
psychiatrist on how to rear children to 
be well-balanced and upstanding citizens, 
and constantly she is amazed when she 
finds that Dr. Wulfstein's suggestions 
will not apply. The magazine also tells 
her that she can cheaply and ingeniously 
redecorate her bedroom to look like Hedy 
Lamarr's simply by knocking out several 
walls and buying a complete new set of 
furnishings. The wife can also look like 
Hedy Lamarr if she will try the 14 day 
Palmolive plan, use Pond's, enroll in the 
DuBarry Success course, and the Singer 
Sewing Center where she can learn to 
make all the latest styles in clothes shown 
in the Woman's Home Companion. At 
this point in the reading, the wife, realiz- 
ing that her old brown coat is not only 
frightfully out of date, but also badly 
worn in the elbows and seat, begins to 
devise means by which she can subtly 
convey to her husband her need of a new 
winter coat. 

Yes, the Woman's Home Companion 
is the housewife's bible. From it she gets 
information on how to be a better house- 
wife, rear her children, and keep her 
husband in love with her; but more im- 
portant, it provides a channel of escape 


from the everyday drudgery and monotony 
of her Ufe. It brings romance and ad- 
venture into an existence that is devoid 
of it, because through the pages of her 
magazine she experiences the more ex- 
citing Ufe of fiction. 

Mrs. Brown, who lives in the second 
house from the comer on Maple Street, 
is an avid reader of the Woman's Home 
Companion. By the time the first of the 
month rolls around and the postman with 
her new copy is due, last month's magazine 
has been perused beyond recognition, and 
Mrs. Brown is in a state of perpetual con- 
cern over the fate of Judy Eliot, the 
principal character in the continued story 
"Summer Romance." Each month the 
postman arrives with the Woman's Home 
Companion on Monday, the day Mrs. 
Brown does her washing. So on that 
Monday afternoon, after lunch is over, the 

baby is in his crib for his nap, and the 
clothesline is dressed in rows of wet 
diapers, Mrs. Brown tucks her precious 
copy of the Woman's Home Companion 
under her arm, and droops to the arm- 
chair in front of the radio. With her 
shoes off, and her plump back comfortably 
ensconced in the chair, Mrs. Brown begins 
to read. A far-away look creeps into her 
eyes, and a slight smile adorns her plump, 
nondescript face which is surrounded by 
a new permanent. Her ample bosom under 
the faded flowered print dress, which 
clings desperately to her plump shoulders, 
heaves a sigh of contentment which indi- 
cates her transference from wretched, in- 
sipid reality to the beautiful land of make- 
believe via the Woman's Home Com- 

This is the full-blooded American of 
today — the housewife, poor wretch. 

Midnight Fantasy 

By Camille Hancock 

No shape, no vague unsettled forms 
Pervade my deep, my silent langour. 
An opiate weariness I find in this, the cloistered hour. 
Somewhere, far back in depths I cannot fathom. 
The unreal world its orbit turns 
But I am far from there. 

A spirit, I, half dreaming, half awake, half sleeping. 
My eyes are heavy lidded, soon my consciousness shall die. 
In space far-reaching I shall sweep the Stardust 
And let the chilling winds of space moan by. 
White light shall penetrate my being, shall freeze my blood- 
Yet it will pulse, nor cease to flow; 
A gentle, wafting wind return me, 
As all dream children, to the earth below. 


The Purse 

By Shirley Nickols 

• From Shenandoah, Iowa, comes Shirley 
Nickols, who flatly says she has no plans 
whatsoever for the future w . . When asked 
about her major, she assumes a contemplative 
frown and says, "English, I guess . . . but my 
composition teacher is really going to be sur- 
prised!" Nicki likes apple pie, and hates dis- 
honest people . . . "sneaks," as she calls 'em. 

One often hears that food, clothing, 
shelter, and perhaps even the can opener, 
are the principal factors in sustaining the 
life of man; but for wQman, there is 
another and equally important factor, 
which is rated superior even to a can 
opener — her purse. 

From childhood, our existence has re- 
volved around a purse. Early in life we 
tottled off to Sunday School in a frilly 
organdy dress and a little straw hat, al- 
ways clutching a small purse clumsily in 
our chubby hand. Being deceived at that 
time by the idea that it was more of a 
nuisance than a blessing, we bowed down 
to our inevitable fate with a smile and 
grimly kept the purse in our unwilling 
grasp. Later, during the know-it-all period 
of early adolescence, the purse was looked 
upon as an abhorred object, carried only 
by the very dainty type of girl whom we, 
being essentially tomboys, passionately 
despised. Gradually, however, the mist in 
front of our eyes and mind cleared, and 
once again we turned to a purse, only 
this time as a sacred belonging in which 
we placed our comparatively few needs 
of the moment. It became again a neces- 
sity. Science prevailed. Everyone in our 
highly-active civilization is acquainted 
with the fact that our universe is governed 
by physical laws. The purse being no ex- 
ception to the rule, we find that in ac- 
cordance with the Law of Direct Propor- 
tion, as we have grown older, our purse 
has grown in size and importance. 

Thus being brought up to the present 
moment, we see that the purse has cap- 
tured enough importance to have necessi- 
tated the buying of more and more purses 
which now overflow dresser drawers, closet 
shelves, and cedar chests. Afternoon tea- 
purses, formal purses, go-to-work purses, 
and sport purses are put under the head- 
ing of That Which We Cannot Live 
Without. The apprehension the mascu- 
line mind holds for the increasing number 
of these monstrosities is not entirely with- 
out reason, for though many purses are 
added to our wardrobe, few are ever sub- 
tracted from the collection. Never should 
woman be guilty of the crime of discard- 
ing a purse, for no matter how worn or 
battered it may look, no matter how many 
battles it has survived, whether it be a 
shopping tour, a bargain basement raid, 
or a good beating from an active puppy, 
there is always one more occasion on 
which it may be revived before the public 
eye. May I mention here that there is 
only one deviation from the aforemen- 
tioned sacrament? If there is no way of 
closing the purse, if the bottom acts as a 
sieve, or if the sides are not connected to 
the top, socially acceptable is its destruc- 
tion, or at least it may be given to the 

Assuming, however, that our purse is 
in a healthy condition externally, we will 
turn our attention to the dark, mysterious 


caverns of its interior. Sometimes we have 
jokingly noted that if the need arose, we 
would be able to keep alive with only the 
contents of a purse to aid us. Consider- 
ing this problem seriously, however, there 
is more truth in the idea than fiction. I 
once was traveling on a train with a girl 
who had lost her luggage. Undaunted, 
and holding her purse more closely to her, 
she lived from its contents for two days 
until her luggage caught up with her. 

Not long ago I attended a party at 
which, for the sake of entertainment only, 
the guests were asked to write on a slip 
of paper the items each one's purse con- 
tained. One of the typical lists consisted 
of the following items: 

1 check book 

1 address book ' 

3 match books 

1 fountain pen (no ink) 

1 cigarette case 

cleansing tissues (no number given) 

1 comb 

1 compact 

2 tubes of lipstick 

1 mascara brush 
car keys 

shoe repair check 

4 letters (unanswered) 

2 3-cent stamps 
change purse 

small collection of snapshots 

1 pencil (point broken) 

1 pair of glasses ' ' 

1 nail file 

driver's license 

1 pair of gloves | 

1 pair of earrings I 

billfold 1 

Was Shakespeare so wrong, then, when 
he said, "Who steals my purse steals 


By Camille Hancock 

FIl leave you gently — so I can't disturb 
The quiet, self-composure of my heart. 
I'll smile, and say it had to be, 
And gaily we will drift apart. 
You'll never see my bitter tears. 
Or know how slowly hearts can mend; 
Or how the first faint twilight star 
Conjures your face to me again. 
Oh, gently, tenderly I'll leave; 
And softly turn the final page. 
Regretfully, I lay aside young love 
And grasp the solitude of age. 


Rhyme and Time 


By Barbara Needs 

I saw a little girl with pale, fragile face, 

Leaning 'gainst a railing 

That was wrought like iron lace. 

Apartment house child with daffodil hair, 

Seated near the bottom of a steep, stone stair. 

Rusty brick buildings, shutting out the sky, 

Summer turns to winter, 

Who's to know why? 

Wonder in her eyes, hands about her knees, 

Who's to know the spring, when you never see the trees? 

Lonely little girl, heard a sound far up the street, 

The sharp metallic ring of a heavy horse's feet. 

He jogged around the corner. 

Proudly stepped with care. 

The flower vendor's Suffolk 

Had violets for its ware. 

I saw a little girl, who knew the song of spring, 

Because she held the secret that lonely hearts may sing. 

March was flung before her. 

As if she walked a country lane, 

For the vendor's shining horse had flowers in his mane. 



Because You Understand 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

Eyes that penetrate my deepest thoughts, 

Lips that speak the words I cannot say ... 

Knowing my heart better than myself, 

For we only follow our secret dreams half-way. 

How can you sing the song I made myself, 

And find the melody I lost one time? 

How can you understand my heart and know its longing? 

And understand its complicated rhyme? 

I smile, and yet you see the tears behind it, 

And still the throbbing with your tenderness; 

You tell me that a tear is not of sorrow 

But is the jewel that falls from happiness. 

How do you know the times when all I need 

Is the simple touch of someone's gentle hand; 

And when I need a moment's silence 

How can you know? How can you understand? 

How can you be a friend and ask not friendship? . 

Loving and yet you ask me not for love. 

Grasping my hand when I am falling downward. 

Helping my careless feet to walk above. 

Teaching me in simple ways life's meaning , 

And on the darkest road taking my hand, 

Two hearts entangled, mine and yours together . . . . -\ 

I love you so because you understand. 


Nothing to Do? 

By Nancy Fuller 

• Nancy Lou Fuller, or just "Fuller," as she 
prefers to be called, is a Senior from Quincy, 
Illinois . . . and an ambitious one, tool Our 
Hail Hall prexy is an English and creative 
writing major, and wants to write books, poetry, 
or just anything. Her hobby is people, and 
she's extremely fond of dancing and eating . . . 
BUT, her pet aversion is any species of cock- 

"We hate this town! It's dead! There's 
nothing to do!" 

They cry impatiently, the young and 
hurried, and their mouths droop with 
discontent while their eyes turn and re- 
turn to the vividness of the bright cities. 
They hurry off as soon as they are able, 
new dreams carefully packed with last 
year's suit and some gay new coat in 
a suitcase, a trunk, or perhaps only a 
box tied with string. And so a small 
town huddled on a river bank echoes only 
faintly to the sounds of youth, and won- 
ders why. 

The small town wonders why the bright 
cities call so compellingly, and what it is 
that causes it to be forsaken by the hurry- 
ing feet of youth. Is it a driving urge 
for knowledge? Is it a search for new 
horizons? Is it ambition? Is it discon- 
tent? Is it perhaps the eternal search for 
life? But life pulses as deeply through 
the veins of the little town as through the 
steel girders of the city. The echo re- 
mains in the still air, "We hate this town! 
It's dead! There's nothing to do!" 

Nothing to do. A clover-covered hill 
facing the mighty river stirs softly in the 
breeze. Blooms of clover, blanketed with 
bees, bask in the torrid summer sun, and 
grow more closely over the narrow path 
leading to the crest of the hill. It is a 
path so neglected that its lines are hard 
to find between the flowers. Soon the 
white blooms will have covered the path 

and will have hidden the dreams of many 
years; for youth has forgotten a clover- 
bordered trail. Too few feet seek the 
narrow lines of earth between the flowers; 
too few hearts remember a hill white be- 
neath the moon, and fragrant in the sun- 
light. And so the hill stands, forgotten. 
Nothing to do. The river slumbers on, 
dreaming of boats and swimmers, rous- 
ing itself perhaps to look for the boats, 
to look for the swimmers. Only rough 
barges with their black loads of coal and 
their sweating, burly masters interrupt 
the peace of the river. Turtles splash 
along the banks, undisturbed, and sun 
themselves on the rotting timbers of small 
boats, neglected and discarded. Driftwood 
floats aimlessly in the old swimming hole, 
and the only poles tempting the fish are 
held by old men, who wonder too, per- 
haps, why the air is not gay with young 
voices and rippling with young laughter. 
The paddle-boat sits at the dock, with its 
skirts drawn tightly about its stocky 


figure, waiting for the crowds to throng 
aboard as they did in years past. The 
paddle-boat grows old and the river slum- 
bers on. 

Nothing to do. The main street of the 
town lies quiet at the noon hour, listening 
for the echo of young feet, released from 
work or school. Businessmen tramp slowly 
towards their lunches, housewives teeter 
along the hot walks wondering why last 
year's dress seems snug. Stores shine with 
displays of necessity and luxury. An oc- 
casional bicycle rolls along the streets, 
dodging cars and turning corners against 
the light. There is a dog asleep in front 
of the comer bank building. But the feet 
of youth come slowly, turning ever to- 
ward the hurry of the city. With their 
passing the small town stops to wait for 
their return. 

Nothing to do. An old stone fireplace 
beside a creek looks disconsolately down 
at long dead ashes, practically disappeared 
into the earth. Squirrels play merrily 
along the arms of the grill, occasionally 
displacing a stone, which drops to the 

ground and is forgotten. A rickety hay- 
rack sits in a barn, dreaming of October 
moons, and cider, and laughing people. 
The music droops from the door of the 
town's night club, coming slowly because 
only youth can follow the gay new tunes 
with dancing feet. The hamburger stand's 
shuttered eyes stare out at the blank street. 
The three good theaters seem to wear their 
gaily colored advertisements less brightly 
since the lines at the ticket window have 
grown shorter and more stooped. A fudge 
recipe in a housewife's cupboard stays 
fresh and unsoiled, and electric logs have ' 
been installed in the old smoke-blackened 
fireplaces. Christmas trees are silver now, 
with blue lights, or are small artificial 
trees with almond-shaped dots of colo* 
on the tip of each branch, geometrically 
arranged. Only the young spend hours 
decorating an old-fashioned tree. 

Nothing to do. And so youth hurries 
oflF toward the bright light and gay sound, 
leaving behind a small town huddled on 
a river bank that echoes only faintly to 
the sounds of youth, and wonders why. 


The momentary fusing of one soul into 

another . . . 
The perfect alchemy of minds and feel- 
ings . . . 
An insight into divine wisdom and for- 
giveness ... 

Sheila Kennard 


Arthur Q. Dillon 

By Betty Neil Sheppard 

• At the present moment, Betty Neil Shep- 
pard claims Beckley, West Virginia, as her 
place of abode . . • She must like Nashville 
pretty well though, since she plans to start to 
Vandy after finishing W-B this year. She ad- 
mits her favorite pastime is a picnic, or even 
numerous picnics . . . and her future? She 
wants to be a psychiatrist! 

Dr. Martha Brewster, striding purpose- 
fully up the grey stone steps of the Aca- 
demic Building, felt springy enough to be 
a freshman. This morning the humblest 
underclassman received a sparkling greet- 
ing from the Dean of the College. On 
the top step she paused. Loquatious coeds 
drifted by in a swish of gay plaids. She 
decided that the family of birds raising 
such a hub-bub in the old magnolia tree 
were disputing the itenerary of their ap- 
proaching trip south. Side-stepping, she 
escaped being run over by an aspiring 
football star whose eyes blinked searching- 
ly into the face of an open book which 
he carried. Filling her lungs with the 
good air, she started for the interior of 
the building. 

for Mind and Body" — the words chisled 
in stone over the doorway bolstered her 
feeling of well-being with a dependable 

In the anteroom of her office, Dean 
Brewster stopped to review the day's 
schedule with her personal secretary, who 
informed her that the new teacher was 

Shutting the door of her office behind 
her, she pounced over to throw open the 
window and let the shade fling to the top. 
Her eyes followed a beam of sunlight to 
a corner, in the vastness of which it lost 
itself. The ray expired on the slight figure 
of a sickly-looking young man. The 
startled dean stood back a step, hands on 

hips, to inspect the unexpected visage. 
He sat on the outer half of a straight- 
back chair, his feet placed flat on the 
floor. His well-manicured hands clasped 
a portfolio which stood upright on his 
bony knees. When her eyes traveled up 
to his face, she was certain that the man 
was sick. There was an unnatural green 
look about his mouth, and his eyes looked 
too vague. With a concerned little gasp, 
she pulled him up from his chair and 
ushered him to one beside the window. 
Running to a stand in the corner, she 
poured a glass of water which she shoved 
into his hands on her way out the door. 
Dr, Brewster fairly galloped from the 
first-aid room with the hastily prepared 
dose of ammonia. Her visitor had moved 
back to his original chair in the corner; 
and when she approached he barred both 
semi-transparent hands in front of him in 
a gesture that said, ''Halt." With an 
impatient little twitch of the nose and in 
a surprisingly masculine voice, he in- 
formed her, "I am not ill. I always look 
like this." 

The possibility had never occurred to 
Dr. Brewster; therefore it took her a few 
minutes to regain her composure. 

He went on, 'T am Arthur Q. Dillon, 
your new professor of mathematics." Dr. 
Brewster threw back her head and gulped 
down the ammonia. 

"You shouldn't go around frightening 
people so, young man," she observed. 
Continuing her scrutiny of the mathe- 
matics teacher whom she had hired for 
a year at the small college, she took note 
of his conservative navy blue suit and a 
black tie that constricted his neck under 
a small but prominent Adam's apple. He 
seemed to have done to his hair whatever 


it is that old matrons do to make them- 
selves look so prudish. She concluded to 
herself, "He looks too clean to perambu- 
late in the atmosphere." 

Mr. Arthur Q. Dillon, totally unruffled 
by his unorthodox reception, said, "And 
now, madam, if it is satisfactory to you, 
I shall repair to my quarters where some 
very intriguing mathematical problems 
await my attention." 

At dinner that evening, Mrs. Brewster's 
manufacturer husband and her nineteen- 
year-old daughter Cynthia listened with 
va^ue interest to her description of Mr. 
Dillon. "He looks as if his last four 
years have been spent in a cellar," she 
told them with concern. "It might help if 
he could get his mind off mathematics. 
I must have him out for dinner some 

"What a bore!" Cynthia remarked. 
"And I'll have him for algebra." Dr. 
Brewster was afraid that the young woman 
would not appreciate Mr. Dillon. 

Arthur Dillon's classes at Merrit Col- 
lege couldn't have been more properly 
conducted in a morgue. The nearest he 
ever came to intimacy was a curt intro- 
duction of himself the first day, after 
which he launched immediately into a 
discussion of the beauties of his chosen 
field. The young professor's manner was 
as precise, as cut-and-dried, as one of his 
algebraic equations. Aside from a certain 
windiness caused by a slight malforma- 
tion of the upper teeth, his diction ex- 
hibited not a flaw. The scant, ram-rod 
figure seemed almost ethereal, an illusion 
emphasized by the black-board on which 
he demonstrated problems. He pushed 
the chalk across the board with great 
prowess. From day to day he proceeded 
deeper and deeper into his abysmal sub- 
ject, apparently oblivious of the increas- 
ing number of crap games that flourished 
under his nose, never affected by flirta- 

tious remarks made by attractive coeds. 
Cynthia Brewster, a girl of no little de- 
termination, seemed to be the best student 
in the class. Accurate observations ven- 
tured by the young woman were rewarded 
with, "Quite correct. Miss Brewster." 

Dr. Brewster fulfilled her conjecture 
of entertaining the scholarly lad, in whom 
she had developed a somewhat maternal 
interest. She invited him to dinner, one 
evening, along with several of Cynthia's 
school friends and Mr. and Mrs. Max 
Catweiler. Max Catweiler was a taxi- 
dermist who had recently come to work 
with the Merrit department of natural ' 
history. The booming stalker of animals ' 
certainly was not the pride of Merritj 
cultural circles; but Dr. Brewster always- 
entertained her personnel. Dillon, sitting 
between Catweiler and Cynthia, made a 
quite affable dinner partner. Cynthia, 
who seemed to have acquired a rabid 
interest in mathematics, had engaged 
Arthur in a discussion of the fifth di- 
mension. Before the soup course was 
over, however, Max Catweiler had cap- 
tured Arthur's attention and was describ- 
iny with relish a trip which he was plan- 
ning. It seemed that the boisterous gentle- 
man was consumed with the notion of 
visiting Egypt where he would study 
ancient taxidermy methods. 

"The Egyptians that we see today as 
mummies," he explained, "used to have 
their favorite animals stuffed when they 
died and the pets went right along with 
the master to the tomb. There are secrets 
in those tombs that would revolutionize 
my game." He paused, intent on a huge 
T-bone steak which he had divided in 
one operation into six or eight slightly 
larger than bite-size portions. 

Stabbing a piece of meat, he declared, 
"Ah, the taxidermy game in the States is 
too crowded with stuffed shirts. Besides, 
I feel cooped up in this college atmos- 


phere — too much inactivity! "Why, right 
now," he roarecl, "I would like to grapple 
with a tiger! Do you ever feel like that, 
Dillon?" The slap on the back which 
accompanied the query was sufficient to 
divert the water traveling down Arthur's 
esophagus and to send him into a spasm 
of coughing. Cynthia insisted on taking 
him out to get a breath of fresh air. The 
rest of the evening Cynthia concentrated 
on monopolizing Arthur, who seemed to 
prefer staying with the crowd. When it 
was time to leave, Arthur made a curt 
little bow to Mrs. Brewster, saying, "Your 
hospitality has been charming." 

If Cynthia had expected any change in 
Arthur's class-room behavior, she was dis- 
appointed. He made no allusion to her 
personally or to the evening before. 

It was commonly known that Cynthia 
Brewster, the tall, comely daughter of the 
dean, was very interested in the "prissy" 
math teacher; but few saw any hope for 
Cynthia. As one "joe" put it, "She might 
expect to get somewhere with a confirmed 
bachelor, a woman-hater, a mole-hill, or 
a rock wall; but with Arthur Dillon — 
not a chance!" 

One morning, before Mr. Dillon had 
arrived at the classroom, Cynthia and a 
good friend, Marg, were talking quietly 
in a front seat which they occupied. 
Marg with concerned finality declared, 
"Honey, that ghoul doesn't know that 
you exist — or any other woman for that 
matter. I don't know how he ever got 
this far along without waking up, but 
that algebra book is the love of his. . . ." 
She stopped short. Mr. Dillon had en- 
tered the room. Only it was not the 
usual pale Mr. Dillon who stalked in; 
it was a bright red one. It was quite ap- 
parent that he had had a scorching en- 
counter with a sun lamp. Guffaws of 

laughter were concealed by sudden fits of 
coughing. When the buzzing in the room 
subsided, Mr. Dillon, with a strained ex- 
pression on his face, resumed his lecture 
from where he had stopped the day before. 
The red-faced Mr. Dillon seemed to have 
much more success in holding the atten- 
tion of his students than the old, pale Mr. 
Dillon. Maybe it was the questions which 
were running through their minds. Had 
Cynthia brought the old boy around? 
Was he making a bid for attractiveness? 

The day that he appeared with his 
formerly plastered-down strands shorn 
into a crew-cut, their suspicions were con- 
firmed. Cynthia, like ihe others, couldn't 
quite fathom the happening. Soon, how- 
ever, an expression of triumph was hers. 
She heard a boy half -whistle, "Say, he's 
going to be a regular fellow yet." In the 
middle of his lecture, that day, Arthur 
slammed the beloved algebra book down 
on his desk. Stomping to the rear of the 
room, he virtually stood up two crap 
players on bended knee. 

"Get out!" he shouted. "I don't allow 
such activities in my classes." The boys 
were too startled to do anything other 
than creep humbly out of the door at 
which Arthur pointed murderously. 

The greatest surprise of all came the 
day when Arthur faced the class to an- 
nounce, "Young ladies and gentlemen: It 
is possible that you have discerned slight 
changes of appearance or attitude in me 
recently. These are possibly the manifesta- 
tions of a trip which I have been antici- 
pating. I have a friend who is interested 
in the taxidermy of the ancients, and as 
you might assume, I am vitally interested 
in their mathematical knowledge. My 
friend has invited me to join him in his 
expedition. Tomorrow, I leave for 


But Then There Was the Girl 
Back Home 

By Marion Frederick 

• Marion Frederick from New York City is a 
Senior transfer and an English major also . . w 
She's interested in writing — "just writing. I 
plan to be versatile," she says . . . She not 
only dislikes oranges, but is alergic to them, 
and thus can't bear even the color. She doesn't 
care for coflFee either, "except for the Arabian 
cofFee I found once in a little Armenian 
restaurant in Boston." She thinks very simple 
clothes are the thing . . . but unfortunately, 
they also have to be very expensive. 

There I was trapped like a rat in a 
trap. There was a big, fat one next to 
me and I couldn't open a window more 
than three inches. The bus churned along 
Constitution Avenue picking up heat from 
the pavement and government girls from 
the lines of civil servants broiling on the 
sidewalks. Two of them finally got set- 
tled behind me. Then my tender ears 
had to bear the brunt of a high-pitched, 
mid-western twang along with the inside- 
ously grating city sounds already driving 
me to drink. They were old friends who 
hadn't seen each other since either one 
had left that small town all government 
girls seem to come from. After gushing 
news for awhile, they started to talk about 
a brother in the Air Corps. There was 
a time when I felt quite firmly that every 
girl who had a brother had a brother in 
the Air Corps. . Then I met a boy in the 
Air Corps who had no sister; but that 
was beside the point then and is now. 

Well, anyway, the girl's brother had 
been drafted. He kissed his girl good- 
bye and left to fight for God and coun- 
try. College was where the girl wenL 
Cadet school and pilot training began to 
take up the time of the brother. The 
rest of the time he spent thinking that 
he wasn't good enough for her and that 

he would be spending the best years of 
her life going through college after the 
war. Unfortunately, as you will see, he 
didn't let her know the result of his deep 
and serious thinking. She received simple 
newsy letters devoted to the topics of the 
day instead of to what she had been ac- 
customed. He just thought she would get 
the point. (Apparently college is sup- 
posed to do everything for a person.) 
But from what I could gather (and st|[l 
be sitting on the seat in front of them), 
he still loved her but was biding his time 
until the future seemed more certain. 

"Biding his time" is an old Army ex- 
pression which means, "Let's see what the 
U.S.O. has to offer." The U.S.O. at 
Elgin Field offered a rather attractive 
solace in the very pleasant form and shape 
of a bit of talented local talent. I began 
to worry less about the poor, befuddled 
boy and a great deal more about his girl 
stuck away in some female seminary. He 
went out with the girl from the U.S.O. 
steadily and took her to the cadet gradua- 
tion dance. 

But, there comes a time when all pilots 
get a leave and then are shipped over- 
seas. This girl's brother was no excep- 
tion and he wired the family to meet him 
in New York for ten days. He said he 
had a big surprise for them. (Oh, 
Brother!!) So . . . the brother and the 
girl from the Elgin Field U.S.O. started 
for New York. And . . . the family with 
the old girl started for New York. 

On the way up the brother received a 
cancellation of his leave and was ordered 
overseas immediately. The D-Day plans 
were calling for more pre-invasion pound- 


ing and, hence, more pilots. So, the won- 
derful brother in the Air Corps sent the 
girl from the U.S.O. on up to New 
York telling her that the family would 
just love her and that she would be sim- 
ply crazy about them. And he took off 
for England. 

"And now," my nasal friend concluded, 
"nobody knows what to do, which girl 
he wanted, or if we're obligated to the 
girl from the U.S.O. in any way. He 

never said anything definite to her, you 

"Why doesn't your brother straighten 
things out?" her friend asked. "Why 
doesn't he write and clear things up?" 

"Oh, dear, I thought you knew. His 
plane went down on the trip over. He's 
been dead for six months now." 

I was shocked into a blank void along 
with a lot of passengers on that bus as 
it hit a bump and lurched. 

The Strange Liagiba 

(Continued from page 6) 

Liagiba Grey stood before them laughing. 
It was a long, low laugh, a hideous, mock- 
ing, and frightening laugh! 

Jane had never seen nor heard anything 
to compare with the terrifying sights and 
sounds in the old mill, and she turned 
and fled back to her dormitory. She was 
not far from the building when, in her 
panic, she tumbled over the unseen root 
of a tree and fell exhausted on the grass. 
How long she lay there in a dazed state 
she never knew; but when she finally 
picked herself up, she saw the shadowy 
form of Liagiba returning. Her hair was 
again in neat braids around her head, 
and she didn't look like the same girl 
Jane had seen in the mill. 

Jane knew she must have it out with 
Liagiba. She must know what it all 
meant. Slowly she walked toward the 
mysterious girl. 

"Liagiba." She spoke softly even 
though her heart pounded within her. 
"Liagiba Grey, I must know the truth. 
I've seen you leave your room to go 
to the old mill. I couldn't help but 
know since your room is so close to mine. 

Tonight I decided to watch you. I saw 
you enter the old mill, and I looked 
through the window. Those people were 
all dead! I know they must be. Tell me 
what it means!" 

Liagiba looked at her with her wild 
eyes flashing, and then she smiled, a crazy 
little crooked smile. "Jane." Her voice 
was menacing in its very quietness. "Of 
course they're dead. And I have power 
over them because I killed them. Yes, I 
killed Dorothea, and I killed her aunt, 
and within the last two hundred and fifty 
years, I've killed all the other Allans in 
the mill. But," Liagiba laughed as she 
continued, "you can't do a thing to me, 
because I am dead too. I was killed two 
hundred and fifty years ago, but I return 
to kill those I hate, the Dorothea Allans, 
and those who get in my way." 

Jane waited for no further words but 
fled, and Liagiba was right behind her. 
Where she was running to, Jane didn't 
know. All she knew was that she must 
get away, or she too would join those girls 
she had seen in the old mill. Liagiba was 
getting closer behind her, when Jane saw 
the chapel. It was a small church, that 
had been built on the campus for the girls 
to worship in during the week, and the 



door always stood open. Like a frightened 
deer, Jane ran up the path, crossed the 
doorway, and then sank exhausted on the 
floor of the chapel. She could go no 
farther, and she waited expecting any 
minute to feel the cold hands of Liagiba 
about her throat. After a few moments 
Jane looked up and saw Liagiba standing 
at the doorway but unable to enter the 

"Sanctuary," Jane mumbled. "I have 

Liagiba stood a minute or two more 
trying to cross the doorstep, but finding 
herself unable to do so, she, before Jane's 
very eyes, slowly vanished until there was 
nothing there except the gray stones of 
the path and the cold moonlight shining 

When consciousness returned to Jane, 
she still lay on the floor of the chapel, but 
it was morning. She slowly raised her tired 
body and walked out of the church. The 
clock in the tower said seven, and Jane 
realized that she must have fainted after 
she had seen the strange Liagiba vanish. 

In the light of morning, the events of 
the previous night seemed too fantastical 
to be true; so Jane told no one of what 
had happened and tried to consider it 
a dream. But everything seemed to prove 
that it really had happened, for she had 
awakened in the chapel, and when she 
returned to the dormitory, she found that 
Liagiba was gone, clothes, furniture, every- 
thing gone! The teachers were so worried 
over this that they failed to notice that 
Jane had been out all night. 

Since it was Saturday, Jane was free 
after her few morning classes, and she 
decided to go to Salem for lunch and 
to see a movie in an attempt to forget 
the things that had happened. As she 
walked slowly towards town, she passed by 
an ancient cemetery. Many of the people 
who were believed to be witches and were 

killed during the period of Salem Witch- 
craft were buried there. Now the graves 
were all being removed to another grave- 
yard, since this land was needed for the 
expansion of the city. All the graves had 
been moved except one, and men were 
working at this one when Jane passed. 

Jane noticed the name on the grave- 
stone. ABIGAIL GREY— a witch— died 
1692." Abigail Grey, Jane knew had been 
a witch, but where had she heard that 
name before? Grey. Liagiba's last name 
was Grey. Liagiba — Abigail — the same, 
just turned about! No. it couldn't be, 
and yet, Liagiba herself said — ! On a 
sudden impulse Jane walked into the 
cemetery and toward the digger. f 

"Pardon me," she said, "but is that th 
grave of Abigail Grey?" 

"Yeh," answered the digger. "I am sure 
of this one. That's strange, but this is 
the only one of these old gravestones you 
can read. This one is quite plain. On the 
others, you couldn't even tell where the 
words had been." 

The only one that was plain! Why 
should that particular one be clear un- 
less — . Jane sat down on a nearby bench 
and tried to gather her senses. The 
diggers left to bring the truck to move 
this last grave, so Jane was in the grave- 
yard alone with the casket of Abigail 

Suddenly Jane felt she must open the 
wooden box and look in. Why she didn't 
know, but she must. Her common sense 
told her that after two hundred and 
fifty years there would be nothing but 
dust and bones, but something else told 
her, something made her feel, that there 
would be more. Jane lifted the lid and 
stared in! 

There in the box, in ancient Purtain 
clothes, was the perfectly perserved body 
of Abigail Grey. It was also Liagiba 
Grey! Jane would recognize that black 




hair, which lay in two thick, neat braids, 
anywhere. Liagiba was Abigail Grey who 
had died, had been hanged for a witch, 
over two hundred and fifty years before! 

Jane's mind began to go in circles. She 
shut the Hd and sank down on the bench. 
She knew there should be just dust in that 
grave. But yet how — ? 

The diggers returned and carried the 
box out of the cemetery. It was then that 
Jane heard it again. The diggers didn't 
seem to hear it, but Jane heard it clearly. 
Yes, it came from that very box! It 
seemed to be mocking Jane's struggle to 
clear the tangled thoughts, in her mind. 
It was that same low, long laugh, that 
hideous, frightening laugh. 


This was the story that a very fright- 
ened Jane Parker told me ten minutes 
after the incident in the cemetery. I know, 
without a doubt, this story is true. 

I sent Jane home for a much needed 
rest, and I told no one of the happenings. 
I received a year's leave-of -absence from 
the school, and during this past year, I 
have found all the facts I could on the 
period of Salem Witchcraft. 

Tucked back behind some volumes of 
long forgotten books, there was an even 
older and dustier book called The Trials 
of Salem Witches. In this volume I 
found an account of the trial of Abigail 
Grey, the facts that led up to the trial, 
and her sentence and execution. Accord- 
ing to this book Abigail Grey and Doro- 

thea Allan, two Purtain Maids, were very 
close friends, imtil they both fell in love 
with the same lad. Because this boy loved 
Dorothea, Abigail Grey bewitched and 
killed her friend. The Allan Family 
brought the girl to trial, and without hesi- 
tation, she admitted she was a witch. She 
was tried and found guilty, and when she 
was sentenced to be hanged on Gallows 
Hill, she made this statement before the 
entire court. 

"I am a witch, and I place a curse upon 
the Allan family. I shall come back from 
the grave and kill the oldest daughter of 
the oldest son in every generation of the 
Allan family." 

The next day she was hanged on Gal- 
lows Hill. 

After reading of the amazing curse, I 
traced the family tree of Dorothea Allan, 
the schoolgirl, and found that she was 
the oldest daughter of the oldest son and 
a decendant of the first Dorothea Allan. I 
also discovered that the oldest daughter 
of the oldest son in that entire line had 
met a mysterious death when eighteen. 
These are the facts, the unchallengable 

Was it really Abigail Grey, or better 
known to us as Liagiba Grey, fulfilling 
her curse, or were all these deaths just 
accidents, and these happenings just co- 
incidents? I don't know, but I do know 
that I must leave and get these awful 
happenings out of my mind, for now, even 
in my dreams, I too, hear that low, mock- 
ing, frightening laughter of the strange 



state of the Union 

By Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse 
Reviewed by Ruth Mane Walls 

One day, out of a war-torn sky, a 
post-war world swam into our ken. We 
welcomed it; but it was not the rosy- 
colored, peaceful world of which we had 
dreamed. Instead it was a prospect chal- 
lenging us coldly and honestly to examine 
ourselves and to take stock of both the 
good and bad. Howard Lindsay and 
Russel Crouse have found a most enjoy- 
able" and effective way of making us brave 
this future. Their current play, State of 
the Union, gives us a good look at our- 
selves, an understanding look which makes 
us laugh and at the same time fear for 
our fate unless we change. In this comedy 
of politics, we, the American people, are 
paraded across the stage, analyzed and 
dissected with penetrating humor and 
sympathy; and we love it. State of the 
Union, Pulitzer Prize Play of 1945-46, 
merits its long run on Broadway. 

Grant Matthews, portrayed on the 
stage by Ralph Bellamy, might be any 
one of us who wants something out of 
life. Though his ambition is no less than 
that of being President of the United 
States, essentially he is one of us, a victim 
who is pulled and pushed around hy those 
who achieve their own selfish or unselfish 

ends. Again, he is urged by others to 
compromise and straddle the fence on all 
issues. It won't hurt, they agree, to sub- 
due principles for just a little while. 

Grant, however, is aided in his fight by 
his wife, who might represent every man's 
instincts, the deep-down desire to follow 
the honest way. Ruth Hussey, currently 
appearing in the role, makes the modern, 
clever, and witty woman very vivid, and 
true to life. 

State of the Union is a play about 
politics. All the clever and underhanded 
methods used by our big-time poUtical 
bosses to unite or divide a people are 
exposed. But we are all in this play, for, 
as the authors want us to realize, we 
are all in politics. A powerful appeal is 
made for, us to get out of our armchairs 
and do something about running this 
country, our country. Politics, we are to 
remember, is the art of governing our- 

Against the background of a light 
comedy, with its real living characters and 
clever dialogue, Howard Lindsay and 
Russel Crouse have presented serious 
problems. These authors have tossed 
grave truths over to the American public. 
Yet how delightful is the lesson! 


By Eileen Springstun 



What can this mean, this mad race? 
Why do you hurry? Is it so important 
That you make a successful bid for fame? 
Don't you know that soon you will die, 
And then in that eternal darkness it vill 
Not matter if you caught the eight o'clock bus? 




The Stranger 

By Albert Camus 

Reviewed by Eileen Springsfun 

Albert Camus, one of the leading 
writers of the French Resistance which 
has developed into the pessimistic philoso- 
phy called Existentialism, has written a 
short novel called The Stranger that is 
the essence of the philosophy he embraces. 
Camus, who lectured in the United States 
last year, is the editor of Combat — for- 
merly an underground paper, now an im- 
portant Paris daily. The fact that he is 
in a position to influence the thinking 
of the French people makes his book and 
the philosophy embodied in it frighten- 
ingly important to the French people and 
to the people of all countries where this 
creed is spreading. Existentialism is espe- 
cially dangerous because no one under- 
stands completely its meaning, including 
many of the Existentialists themselves. 
Even those who profess to understand it 
have arrived at varied conclusions. 

The Stranger is the story of an ordi- 
nary little man living quietly in Algiers. 
Slowly but relentlessly life begins to stalk 

him. The pace quickens until the little 
man commits a useless murder. The 
climax is reached after his trial. Camus 
presents an indelible picture of a helpless 
human being drifting through life with- 
out volition. From the very first sentence 
of the first page of the book it is ap- 
parent that the hero, Monsieur Meursault, 
is not alive . . . alive, that is, in the 
sense where living consists of taking ad- 
vantage of and using to the fullest extent 
those potentialities latent within man. 
Monsieur Meursault experiences little 
more than the primitive impulses of 
"Birth, copulation, death." He merely 
exists. But existing, living one's own life 
in a certain way, is not enough to satisfy 
others. The power of public opinion and 
the uncontrollable circumstances in which 
the hero becomes enmeshed are too great. 
The fact that Monsieur Meursault had 
impulsively killed an Arab is of no par- 
ticular concern to the jury and the people. 
Meursault's stoical attitude and his un- 
assuming way of drifting through life are 
the evils that the people see. After the 
jury condemns him to hang, and he has 
refused to see the priest, Meursault muses, 
"I'd passed my life in a certain way, and 
I might have passed it in a different way, 


if I'd felt like it. I'd acted thus, and I 
hadn't acted otherwise; I hadn't done x, 
whereas I had done y or z. And what did 
that mean? That, all the time, I'd been 
waiting for this present moment, for that 
dawn, tomorrow's or another day's, which 
was to justify me. Nothing, nothing had 
the least importance, and I knew quite 
well why. From the dark horizon of my 
future a sort of slow, persistent breeze 
had been blowing toward me, all my life 
long, from the years that were to come. 
And on its way that breeze had leveled 
out all the ideas that people tried to foist 
an me in the equally unreal years I then 
wsis living through. What difference 
could they make to me, the deaths of 
others, or a mother's love, or his (the 
priest's) God; or the way a man decides 
to live, the fate he thinks he chooses, 
since one and the same fate was bound to 
'choose" not only me but thousands of 
nillions of privileged people who called 
:hemselves my brothers. Every man alive 
(vas privileged; there was only one class 
>f men, the privileged class. All alike 
(Vould be condemned to die one day. 
\nd what difference could it make if, 
ifter being charged with murder, (a man) 
vere executed because he didn't weep at 

his mother's funeral, since it all came to 
the same thing in the end?" 

Perhaps Existentialism is incapable of 
being understood or explained, but it is 
not incapable of being felt. The first 
sentences of the book are perhaps shock- 
ing at first to the reader, but the feeling 
of calmness, passivity, and resignation 
from the very first sentence begins to 
permeate the consciousness of the reader 
and enables him to sympathize with and 
sense the essence of Camus' philosophy. 
The opening paragraph is this: "Mother 
died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can't 
be sure. The telegram from the Home 
DEEP SYMPATHY. Which leaves the ^ 
matter doubtful; it could have been yes- 

Camus has power. He has given us 
stark realism. He has a gift of descrip- 
tion and a gift of telling a story that is 
little seen in the best sellers of today. 
Camus puts the story in the mouth of 
the hero, Monsieur Meursault, who tells 
it in the only effective method . . . stream 
of consciousness. What more will Camus 
and the Existentialists produce? They 
show great promise in the field of litera- 
ture, and the world is waiting to judge. 

Ml the King^s Men 

Jy Robert Penn Warren 

leviewed by Jane Erwin 

"For his poetry and two earlier novels, 
Robert Penn Warren has had popular 
icclaim, but with All The King's Men 
le emerges as probably the most talented 
vriter of the South and certainly as one 
)f the most important writers in the 
:ountry. . . ." Sinclair Lewis reflects in 
his statement the opinion of any reader 

who is capable of receiving with any 
degree of invigorating pleasure the shock 
of stark realism contained in Mr. War- 
ren's novel. Robert Penn Warren, one 
time Rhodes scholar who has studied at 
Vanderbilt, Yale, and Oxford in close 
association with such men as John Crowe 
Ransom and Donald Davidson, is a mas- 


ter of realism. Any reader who has felt 
the power of All The King's Men will 
admit that the boldness of the language 
would be unadulterated vulgarity were it 
not for his profound understanding of his 
subjects and his masterful way of inter- 
preting his understanding. Herein lies 
the worth of this story about human be- 
ings great and small, but always essential- 
ly human beings. 

This is the story of corrupt politics in 
a backward state of the solid South. It 
is the story of two men, the observer and 
the observed, the insignificant and the 
great. The insignificant observer is Jack 
Burden, a sardonic, cynical newspaperman 
who has become the Boss's right-hand man 
in a number of left-handed dealings. The 
Boss is the giant, half villain, half saint, 
the observed Willy Stark. 

We see the story through the thoughts 
of Jack Burden, the narrator, as his 
stream-of-consciousness goes through a 
series of flashbacks. He reviews his life 
and Stark's life in an anti-chronological 
order which holds the reader in suspense 
to know the "why" of things. Burden's 
dialogue is of the coarse, vulgar variety 
one expects from a man of the press- 
room, while his thoughts are the intelli- 
gent, intellectual words of a man who has 
had an excellent education, even becom- 
ing poetic at times (a feature the author 
can hardly omit) . This contradiction is 
explained by Jack Burden's strange life. 
He was born with family background, 
money, and opportunities. His childhood 
was full of the companionship of Anne 
and Adam Stanton, the daughter and son 
of Governor Stanton, and of Judge Irwin, 
who taught Jack to shoot, read, and ap- 
preciate the arts. His college life was 
normal; but as the time to face life ap- 
proached, his fear forced him into gradu- 

ate work, almost attaining a Ph.D. for 
him. When we first meet Jack Burden, 
he is a hardened newspaperman with more 
disgust than love for life. 

Willy Stark is a country red-neck who 
gets mixed up with a group of crooked 
politicians, thinking they are agents of 
the Lord who has called him to be Gov- 
ernor of the State. He is being used by 
the politicians to split the rural vote, in- 
suring the election of the machine's candi- 
date. When Willy learns he is being 
framed, he withdraws from the race swear- 
ing to come back someday and be gover- 
nor. He does. 

In connection with a political intrigue, 
Starks sends Burden out to find something 
shady in Judge Irwin's past. After six 
months' research, he uncovers the informa- 
tion which brings about the climax of the 
story and consequently the end. The Boss 
is shot on the capitol steps to end a strik- 
ing parallel between the fictitious Willy 
Stark and the late Huey P. Long. 

Although political corruption is the 
most obvious feature of the novel, Mr. 
Warren does not try to preach. He mere- 
ly accepts the situation as the reader un- 
consciously accepts the coarse language. 
Every line is bold realism, even to the fact 
that the characters themselves are ideal- 
istic. Were it not for the strange order in 
which the story is presented, sometimes 
anti-chronoligical and sometimes with no 
pattern at all, the marked amount of 
repetition would bore the reader. It is 
necessary, however, to repeat for the sake 
of coherence between the scattered events, 
and the scattering of the events is part of 
the charm of the book. 

This is a story of blood and thunder, 
of men who live in the pages of a truly 
great novel and in the conscience of the 
reader long after the last page has been 


Geoffrey Chaucer of England 

By Marchef+e Chute 
Reviewed by June Michelson 

As interesting as fiction, Marchette 
Chute's biography is significant for both 
the student of history and the student of 
Hterature. Equipped with an extensive 
bibliography and footnotes as colorful as 
the actual text, the narrative is rich in 
humorous anecdotes and comments. Es- 
pecially interesting historical sidelights are 
the accounts of the little-known economic 
freedom of medieval women, the ex- 
tremely well-advanced sanitary conditions, 
and the position filled by members of the 
king's household in the affairs of the 
nation. The influence on the poet's de- 
velopment by writers such as de Machaut, 
Froissart, Dante, Boccaccio, and Petrarch 
is clearly presented. Of much historical 

value, too, is the account of Chaucer's 
relations with his contemporaries Gower, 
Strode, and Wyclif . 

Henry Noble MacCraken in the Satur- 
day Review of Literature objects to cer- 
tain disfigurations in the quotations used. 
The average reader, though, satisfied with 
detailed information as to sources, mean- 
ing, and style of Chaucer's work, will note 
few flaws. However, since the book was 
designed for popular audience, one ii 
tempted to wish that Miss Chute had 
given more appreciative study and less 
argumentative detail. 

For the college student who hesitates to 
plunge into non-fiction for fear of bore- 
dom, here is an ideal start. 







Vol. 10 MAY 1947 No. 3 




HEN the month of May rolls 'round, it is generally conceded to be every 
editor's prerogative to become a bit morose about what been and is no more. 
To the editor of Chimes this takes the form of an omission of the customary 
"Foreword" in favor of a line or two of personal sentiment entitled "Editor's 

The "baby elephant," as the staff has affectionately called this last monster 
issue, is in your hands now . . . and out of ours. I suppose you might say 
it's the culmination of a year's work ... a year of hopes and prayers and 
playing around in the office ... a year of watching the skeleton staff of three 
grow to one of sixteen. It's been a year of laughing at Freddie's shaggy dog 
stories and being intellectual with Sprung, of watching Camille's inspirations 
put themselves on paper and urging Fuller to "please read that," It's gone by 
in never-failing admiration for June's dependability de-luxe, for Newpie's abil- 
ity to make us believe it was "an All-American" issue. . . . It's been a good 
year, and we won't forget it. 

As someone else once said, it isn't easy to type this last bit of Chimes copy; 
and it was fun living our ambitions before they were fulfilled. 

Thanks muchly ... for your help, your appreciation, and for everything. 



Sheila Kennard Edkor 

Jane Ellen Tye /Associate Editor 

Marion Frederick RevUto Editor 

Camille Hancock Poetry Editor 

Eileen Springstun Exchange Editor 

Nancy Fuller Business Manager 

Mrs. Ruth Taylor Faculty Advisor 


June Brown Edit-or 

Jane Harte Margaret Ann Webster 

Pat McGauly Elaine Craig Barbara Benson 

Frances Newport Barbara Needs 

Susan Hoyt Marjorie Gilmore 


The Seed Beity Latham 

The Unforgettable Professor Jane Ellen Tye 

Gone Barbara Smith 

Buried Treasure Jeanne Bryant 

Atomic Power (To Be Sung) Frances Newport 

Christopher Smart Bktty Neil Sheppard 

Only the Night Jane Ellen Tye 

"For I Have Learned To Look Upon the Theater. . ." Bkiti' Neil Sheppard 

The Resistance Eileen Springstun 

The Hall of Life Jane Erwin 

Lovable Eva Ann Morgan 

Like a Little Flower Marion Frederick 

Dreams Barbara Smith 

The Flight Barbara Benson 

To the Stars Joan Hays 

A Laughing Soul Camille Hancock 

The Living Things Eileen Springstun 

Of Horses and Men Barbara Needs 


The Land Beyond Marion Frederick 

Meditation on a Rainy Afternoon Marjorie Gilmore 

I Sink Upon the Sands of Time Eileen Springstun 

Over There a Spare Maryjane Hooper 

Interlude Nancy Lou Fuller 

Any Place He Hangs His Hat Barbara Needs 

Dreams . Jane Erwin 

On Being Public Property Susan Hoyt 

Lady of the Roses Jane Ellen Tye 

Four Women Camille Hancock 

The White Parrot Jane Ellen Tye 

Anti-Semitism and the Seamstress MariOiV Frederick 

Alien in This Life Gloria Dandridge 

After Long Years of Parting Jane Ellen Tye 

The Ballad of Armageddon Marion Frederick 

Lament Jane Ellen Tye 

Jessie Eileen Springstun 

Song of Death Barbara Smith 

The Den Marjorie Gilmore 

The Unexpected Jane Ellen Tye 

Of Trunks and Memories Eileen Springstun 

Man of the Mountains Jane Ellen Tye 

Dav^-n Nancy Fuller 

"\Vor-ry, Wor-ry" Frances Newport 

The Sonnet Nancy Fuller 

Bits of Immortality Eileen Springstun 

Reason Nancy Fuller 

Dust Eileen Springstun 

First Love Dudley Brown 








The Seed 

By Betty Latham 

It was raining outside — a slow drizzling 
ooze. Dark shadows crept about devour- 
ing each object slowly, savouringly. The 
moon was hidden by a thick, swirling 
mass of blackness, and the stars had been 
frightened away by the rat-gray rain and 
the sultry, evil air. Even the katydids had 
crept into their dingy hideouts for refuge. 
The night was ugly, gloomy — forbidding. 

But inside the wide, high ceilinged 
gymnasium it was gay. It was gay with 
dazzling white lights dimmed only slight- 
ly by their ivy shouds. Ivy was being 
used to decorate the gymnasium for the 
dance that night. Ivy and bright red 
cardboard hearts with frothy wisps of 
delicate paper lace — the kind you always 
get on your first valentine. Your first 
valentine is quite an event, and this, the 
Valentine Ball, was going to be quite an 
event, too. At least the frothy laced red 
hearts and dark green twining ivy were 
sweet promises of a beautiful evening. 
It would be beautiful with swishing pink 
net and rustling black taffeta and yellow 
satin whirling about slender hips of slen- 
der, fresh-cheeked young girls. It would 
be gay with the scent of dewey gardenias 
perched in floating, sweet-smelling hair 
that has probably just been washed. And 
it would be gay with tuxedoed young 
men smiling from one fresh-cheeked, 
floating-haired young girl to the next. It 
would be a gay and beautiful and thrill- 
ing as Valentine balls with frothy lace 
and ivy always are. And the girls with 
the swishing skirts, and the boys with the 
newly-pressed tuxedoes, and both with 
their bright, flashing-white smiles would 
be happy. 

But the boy who sat at his desk in his 
little average college dormitory room 
would not be happy. The boy who sat 

at his desk and gazed blankly out of the 
window hardly seeing the rat-gray rain 
and black, moonless sky would not be 
happy because he would not go to the 

dance. He would not go because he 
could not dance. And if you cannot 
dance, you might as well not go to a 
frothy laced Valentine Ball. So the boy 

sat at his desk and gazed out the win- 
dow at the rat-gray rain and thought his 
rat-gray thoughts until his dreary reverie 
was interrupted by one of the smiling 
young men who would don his newly- 
pressed tuxedo and dance with the float- 
ing-haired young girls. It was his room- 
mate, Drake England. 

"Hi ya, boy," Drake greeted with an 
absent-minded slap on the frail-looking 
back turned toward him. "How's Homer 
making it these days?" 

"Homer?" Philip was vaguely puzzled, 

"Yeah, your pal there," Drake indi- 
cated the open book on the desk in front 
of Philip Snell. For that was the frail- 
backed young man's name. But he evi- 
dently did not expect an answer for he 
went on. "Sure you won't change your 
mind and come to the dance, fellow?" 

The frail-backed young man turned 
from his occupation of scrutinizing the 
dark landscape spread out in front of the 
window, and his face was as frail-looking 
as his back. He turned his hungry, black 
eyes on Drake but ignored the question, 
watching the struggle in which his friend 
was engaged. He wondered dispassion- 
ately whether the wayward bow tie (the 
kind that comes already tied on a piece 
of stubborn elastic) or Drake would come 
out the victor. The tie did, and Drake 

"Dammit t' hell! These things aren't 
ties, they're th' devil. Damn! See what 
you can do, will ya?" 

So the hungry-eyed young man fixed 
the tie and queried, "How's the gym 
look? The spotlight get here?" 

"Yeah. Jack brought it up while ago. 
Was over at the Phi house. Damn Phi's." 

"What's th' matter with the Phi's?" 

"Damn Phi's." That seemed to be all 
Drake thought was necessary to describe 
the fraternity, and it satisfied the hun- 
gry-eyed young man because he really 
did not care what was the matter with 
the Phi's. He, himself, was a Sigma Chi 

(because of Drake^s influence he sup- 
posed), but he really did not care. He 
really did not care whether he was any- 
thing at all — Sigma Chi, Phi, or the 

'^ou be over at the house for the 
breakfast?" Drake brought him out of 
another reverie, 

"I dunno." But he did know. He 
wouldn't go to the breakfast. He might 
not even finish the Homer assignment. 
He might just sit there. Sit there and 
stare at the darkness and the rat-gray 

"Oughta come./" his friend advised. 
"Gonna have some swell chow — eggs and 
stuff. Say, you seen my other shoe — 
oughta be around here somewhere. Damn! 
this place looks like hell! You couldn't 
find an elephant in it." 

"You kicked it under the bed, I think 
— and if you wouldn't sling — " 

"Yeah," Drake interrupted, "here it 
is." Then grinning sheepishly he added, 
"I'm a helluva roommate, I guess." 

Philip wanted to say yes he was, but 
he liked Drake. He liked this tall boy 
with his lithe, compact body so different 
from Philip's own, and the long, straight 
legs that moved like quick silver. He 
liked the funny, whimsical, little-boy 
smile that did not fit the bold frankness 
that was Drake. But he especially liked 
the long, straight, strong legs. Legs that 
could dance, play tennis, jump hurdles, 
and run a football over the goal line. (For 
the now-tuxedoed young man was as at 
home in a football uniform as a tuxedo, 
and, from his momentary grimmace, per- 
haps even more so.) And the legs could 
go for long walks when the leaves were 
yellow, red, and rust-colored, and the 
crocuses were peeping out of the black 
earth without getting the least bit tired. 
Those legs — those long, straight, strong 
legs — those legs belonged to Drake, and 
he did not find it a bit extraordinary or 
wonderful that they were long and 

straight and strong. He just took it for 
granted But Philip, the frail-backed, 
frail-faced, hungry - eyed young man, 
found them extraordinary and wonderful. 
Philip foimd them wonderful because he 
did not have long straight, strong legs. 
He had thin, bony, twisted legs. And his 
thin, bony, twisted legs could not do the 
things that Drake's legs could do. So 
Philip found Drake's legs — that could 
do anything it seemed to Philip — extra- 
ordinary and wonderful. Drake had not 
had infantile paralysis at the age of 
nine. Oh, no. But Philip had. 

The time Philip roused himself from 
his contemplations. "It's gettin' late — 
eight-thirty — aren't you — " 

"Damn! Is it that late?" Drake inter- 
rupted and wrinkled his good-looking, 
untroubled face into a not-so-good-look- 
ing, troubled frown, and his long fingers 
fumbled with the shoe strings he was at- 
tempting to tie. ^'Judy's gonna raise hell 
— says I'm always late, but I'm th' one 
that always does the waiting. That girl'll 
be late for her funeral." But his face 
looked happy again as he thought of 
Judy. Judy was his, Drake's, own par- 
ticular fresh -cheeked, floating - haired 
young girL She wore his fraternity pin 
on her soft sweaters and clinging, black 
crepe dresses. And she scolded him, 
smiled at him, and kissed him according 
to the provocation. Someday she might 
have smiled at him over a morning cup 
of co£Fee, or scolded him about working 
late, or kissed him as they watched a 
Uttle straight-legged Drake or a little 
fresh-cheeked Judy play — she might have 
done all this some day if only . . . But 
she would not. And this knowledge 
brought another look to Drake's good- 
looking face. It was not the smile that 
usually accompanied the thought of Judy, 
and it was not the wrinkled, troubled 
frown. It was a strange, sad, wistful 
look. A look that the face of a tuxedoed 
young man about to go to a frothy-laced 

Valentine Ball should not wear. A look 
that somehow touched the heart of one 
who saw it as even the bitterly despairing 
looks of the pitiful, frail-faced, twisted- 
legged young man could not. But the 
frail-faced young man did not see the 
look, for it was gone in a moment. Philip 
did notice, however, that his friend 
seemed to move with a litde less exuber- 
ance, a little less vivaciousness than usuaL 
He had noticed lately that sometimes 
Drake would change like that in the 
middle of a conversation, in the middle 
of a word, in the middle of a thought. 
Sometimes he observed the transition, and 
sometimes he just looked up, and all of 
a sudden there it was — a look in the 
snapping, brown eyes that had not been 
there before. A look that matched the 
whimsical, little-boy smile. The whimsi- 
cal, little-boy smile that did not fit the 
exciting, fast-moving, carefree Drake, but 
with that look in his eyes all of a sudden 
did fit. However, the next moment Phil- 
ip could not be sure that he had seen the 
look that fit the smile and made the 
smile fit Drake. He was not sure; so he 
forgot it. He forgot it and never won- 
dered what caused it. And Drake never 
said anything. If it — the look — had been 
there perhaps he, too, had forgotten it. 
Perhaps. At least it seemed so now, for 
the look was gone, and the calmness that 
had suddenly descended on Drake was 
gone, too. 

'Well, guess I'll be shovin'," he 
grinned, "see ya later, and tell Homer 
liello' for me." 

"Have a big time," and a thin-lipped 
smile was offered by the frail-faced young 
man. Yeah, he thought, I'll tell Homer 
hello, and you'll have a helluva good 
time. Yeah, a helluva good time. 

*Try to make the breakfast, fellow," 
Drake flung over his shoulder as he began 
to cover the distance down the dormitory 
(Continued on Page 70) 

The Uniargettahte ]Pro>tes8ar 

By Jane Ellen Ty* 

In a small country village in biuegrass 
Kentucky an extraordinary prodigy was 
bom. A lad named Wayne Ellison Craw- 
ford, who in the early days of his youth 
showed signs of unknown powers and 
brilliant perception of ideas far above his 
age of knowing. He was equally gifted 
in several talents. At the piano, he was 
the wizard, at the violin, the artist, and 
at the catechism of science, the genius. 
He was as witty as Dickens at the pen. 
and as eager as Defoe at the brush. Be- 
sides these brilliant accomplishments, he 
was a philosophist, and the horizon of life 
to him was ever a goal to be achieved 
before the next horizon. He was con- 
stantly striving for the unknown, per- 
haps to capture some fantastic dream of 
the universe. He was indeed a dreamer,, 
and yet, so rapid in thought that in the 
expanse of eight years he had been re- 
warded with hss high school diploma plus 
several awards in the Study of Science 
and Art. 

Being from a not too poor family, he 
entered Harvard University where he 
was graduated with highest honors. The 
decisicm of his life's work was at hand, 
and although he could have perhaps been 
widely known in Art, Music or Litera- 
ture, he chose the field of teaching, and 
became a professor of Philosophy at Har- 
vard. Still in the prime of life, he 
became more and more possessed by the 
yearn for knowledge, and studied con- 
tinually the deep books of bygone cen- 
turies. His pupils became famous law- 
yers, doctors, and teachers under his wise 
guidance. And the next decade won him 
recognition throughout Northeastern 
United States. 

Also human, the great and promising 
genius fell in love, and with the daugh- 

ter of Kentucky's governor, an aristocrat 
of high education and rare beauty. It 
was a worthy match, and completely sat- 
isfactory to friends of the pair. Often he 
visited the mansion in Frankfort and the 
two had spoken of marriage. What a 
glorious and happy life the Professor 
had lying stretched in front of his eyes. 

On one occasion when he was visiting 
his betrothed, he was bothered with a 
severe headache, possibly from his long 
hours of reading and concentration. The 
girl offered to find some remedy to soothe 
the pain and returned with some small, 
white capsules which she explained her 
mother had taken for the same distur- 
bance. Several minutes after he had taken 
the medicine his head was relieved, and 
felt in the pink of condition. 

A few days later when he returned, he 
asked for the name of the pills in order 
that he may purchase some for his own 
use. Producing the bottle it was without 
label, so he visited the family doctor to 
get the tablets which had proved such 
help. In the early days narcotics could 
be purchased without prescription, and 
so the educated scholar with a golden 
future began on the long, cold road that 
lead to destruction, and upon the indul- 
gence of narcotic morphine lost first, his 
position at Harvard and second his be- 
loved sweetheart. His ladder that had 
before stretched so high into the heavens 
of success, was slowly crumbling to later 
lie sober and dead upon the damp dark 
earth of reality. 

From his handsome characteristics and 
strong athletic body he grew bitter and 
sad, and his eyes that were once so keen 
and alert took on the appearance of a 
man half dead and mentally unbalanced. 
With the thought that there was nothing 

to live for he indulged steadily in the 
dope and yet, in the few hours of sober- 
ness he could still outwit any other. 
He established a small schoolhouse in the 
mountain district and gave several moun- 
tain boys an education and start that 
today makes them high-class citizens in 
the state and country. 

The pupils that studied beneath him 
had days when they would accomplish an 
unbelievable amount of learning, and 
then there were days when the professor 
would nod and fall asleep on his desk in 
the shoddy schoolhouse. 

The years went by, slow, weary years 
for the professor. Soon his schoolhouse 
plan failed and no longer would students 
pay the unusually small tuition to learn 
beneath his dim educated mind. His 
house, back in the green-gladed mansions 
of hills had the same appearance as he. 
Wayne Crawford, once the handsome, 
well-dressed leader, now the thin, bent, 
frail body of a human, wandering up and 
down the streets to be pitied by the folk 
who knew him. Here was a man, made 
in the Image of God, torn of garment 
and bitten of mind. Here was a human, 
perhaps who would have been President 

of the United States, or a million other 
things. He died, and his grave lies some- 
where in these hills, marked only by a 
pine and rich blades of grass. He had 
not a friend or a penny to pay for the 
coffin in which he lay. Yet, this does 
not mark the end of our story, for our 
story has a moral that will live on in the 
hearts of the people who knew the pro- 
fessor, and understood his mood and 

I like to think of him as a lover of these 
hills, just as I, for he must have loved 
them, and the paths he made for hundreds 
of followers are today the highways of this 
nation. The banker, the grocer, the physi- 
cian, the lawyer, the radioman, the teacher, 
yes and others have been given their fu- 
tures by this man who lost his. I pity 
the great Wayne Crawford, yet I envy 
his youth and the chance that lay in the 
palm of his masterful hand. And although 
somewhere his bones are buried in the dust 
and ashes of this world, I cannot help 
but think that over the horizon, over his 
horizon he walks straight and tall, taking 
his second chance and making of himself 
all that he could have been. 


By Barbara Smith 

Yes, I left you. But only for awhile. 

I left to seek a new sun, a world that 

Was your rival. With pain and tiredness 

In my heart, but a picture in my eyes, 

I set out. Can I be blamed, that I did not know 

The picture was of a home, and the world, 

A dream that would turn to darkness 

When the light left your eyes? 

(I5ui4ecl ^i 


By Jeanne Bryant 

The moon was rising in the East; 

The sky was dark o'er head; 
Another day was fading fast, 

As on the Gray Hawk sped. 

The Gray Hawk was a gallant ship, 

And gallant crew had she; 
For pirates all they were and bold. 

For all their deviltry. 

The hold was filled with treasure rich 
They stole from kingly ships, 

And on the deck they merry made 
This song upon their lips: 

"Sing, 'yo ho ho,' sing, 'yo ho ho,' 

A gallant crew are we; 
For pirates all we are and bold. 

For all our deviltry." 

The ship sailed on until the moon 

Was waning in the West, 
Then in a blue and calm lagoon 

The Gray Hawk came to rest. 

The buccaneers climbed overboard 

Into a boat below. 
They placed the loot beside them there 

And then began to row. 

Oh, what a dashing crew were they — 

As brave as crew could be; 
For pirates all they were and bold. 

For all their deviltry. 

On toward a strip of moonlit beach 
They rowed, that stealthy band. 

Until they landed with the chest 
Upon the glist'ning sand. 

"Heave ho! my lads," the Captain said, 
"And do not weaklings be 

For pirates all we are and strong 
For all our deviltry." 

They heaved and pushed until they got 

The heavy chest ashore; 
And then they took their knives in hand, 

And at the lock they tore. 

They raised the lid for one last look, 
There in the pale moon's glow. 

Of rubies red and sapphires blue 
And pearls as white as snow. 

Then with a sigh they closed the lid; 

Far up the beach they stole. 
And in the shadow of a palm 

Began to dig a hole. 

For hours they were at their work. 

Long hours they did toil. 
No sound was heard save lapping waves 

And spade on virgin soil. 

At last the hole was wide and deep. 

They dropped the treasure in; 
And with an "X" they marked the spot 

To show where they had been. 

They left the shore and back they rowed 
To where the Gray Hawk lay; 

And, as the dawn broke through the dark. 
The pirates sailed away. 

And makes the shadows long, 
And on that beach, when moonlight wanes 
Just listen to the evening breeze 

And you will hear this song: 

"Sing, 'yo ho ho,' sing, 'yo ^o b<>,* 

A gallant crew are we; 
For pirates all we are and bold. 

For all our deviltry." 

(Ta Be Sung) 

By Frances Newport 

The age of the atom bomb has brought 
a number of perplexing problems to the 
average citizen of the United States. 
With the advent of a common knowledge 
of ions, electrons, and uranium, has come 
a new era of American progress that has 
gone beyond the earlier advancements 
developed by Henry Ford and Thomas A. 
Edison. Not too long ago the electric 
light was considered a wonderful inven- 
tion, the awkward Model T automobiles 
were thought to be without equal, the 
radio was a fearful instrument. During 
the present time, however, these have been 
far surpassed, and the post-war period has 
brought startling changes to our mode of 

The most startling of the changes to 
occur in my immediate family has been in 
my grandparents. Long before my birth, 
my grandfather, who was much younger 
at that time, was in charge of the entire 
Middle West branch of an important 
implement supply company. His duties 
required that he own his own automobile 
and that he travel to each branch office 
of the company at least once a month: 
consequently, he drove a good deal at a 
time when the conditions for driving were 
not their best. The rules for driving were 
not as demanding as they are now. and 
my grandfather was not required to pass 
any kind of a test before receiving his 
license. The economic depression brought 
about the failure of the company for 
which he worked: grandfather was forced 
to sell his car, and my grandparents re- 
tired to the small town in Missouri where 
they are living still. For eighteen years 
they have lived in Maiden, and no especial 
problems have arisen during their sojourn 

there. But recently new developments 
have occured which have disrupted com- 
pletely the pattern of their lives. 

Throughout the war years my grand- 
parents rented the upper floor of their 
home to the wives of army officers station- 
ed at the Army Air Base which was lo- 
cated nearby. Having no needs or de- 
sires that could not be supplied by the 
money that had been retained from the 
pre-depression days, they thriftily saved 
the money from their "boarders", and 
when the air base was closed they had 
accumulated a relatively large amount of 
money. This money was saved for the 
"rainy day" which was to come in later 
years; now, however, they have discarded 
the idea of saving the money. The atomic 
age has revolutionized the thinking of my 
grandparents, especially the thinking of 
my grandfather. Subtlely appoaching 
my father one day last week, he casually 
mentioned that he and my grandmother 
had decided to spend their carefully 
guarded "nest-egg" and were contemplat- 
ing the purchase of a new automobile, 
1947 model. An atomic bomb could not 
have had any wider repercussions than 
those which that simple statement brought 
forth in my family. 

My father was at first amused by the 
idea and gently suggested that the money 
be spent in a more appropriate manner. 
Had daddy said exactly what he was 
thinking, my grandfather would have been 
furious at the idea that he and his wife 
were considered old at seventy-six and 
seventy-four. Hoping that the idea would 
be either forgotten or abandoned, my 
father said nothing more about the new 
car. The next day my grandfather again 

approached my parents and informed 
them that steps were being taken to pro- 
cure the vehicle. With that information 
my father threw discretion aside and be- 

came quite upset; not only did he lose his 
discretion, he also lost his temper and 
intimated that he thought my grandfather 
had reached the age of senility. To ex- 
plain my father's action and opinion it is 
necessary to describe briefly the manner 
in which my grandfather drives a car; 
with, perhaps, one hand on the wheel, he 
looks first at the occupants of the back- 
seat and then at the countryside. Never 
does he look at the road. I have ridden 

only once with my grandfather, and that 
trip is implanted firmly upon my memory. 
I was being taken to the hospital to have 
my left arm X-rayed; if it had not been 
broken before the trip, it was broken 
upon our arrival at the hospital. The 
fracture was due, I am convinced, to the 
carefree manner in which the driver pro- 
gressed over the gravel road leading to the 
place of medical care. 

To return to the feud which had now 
sprung up between the first and second 
generations of the Newport family, I must 
relate the steps which my father took to 
prevent the purchase of a new car by my 
grandparents. He visited every car-dealer 
in Maiden, told them of the conspiracy, 
and received promise of their aid in the 
disillusionment of my grandfather. Find- 
ing all channels in Maiden closed, Mr. 
Newport, Sr., wired his second son, who 
lives in Flint, Michigan, and is associated 
with the Chevrolet plant in that city, and 
asked his aid. But my father had an- 
ticipated such a move and had previously 
spoken to his brother via the long-distance 

At the present time my grandfather is 
both frustrated and furious. He thinks 
he is being treated without the respect du€ 
him; my father thinks that both my grand- 
parents will be killed if they do purchase 
the new car; / think the excitement in- 
volved in the quarrel will kill them any- 
way. It's a vicious circle! Unless a solu- 
tion is reached within the next few days, 
the atomic age will have completely dis- 
rupted my family, and atomic power will 
have brought an early demise of both my 
grandparents. Does anyone have an old 
horse-and-buggy that you aren't using? 



By Betty Neil Sheppard 

The mind of a poet is a noble work of 
God. It differs from the average intelli- 
gence as a raging torrent differs from a 
still pond. Almost all men contemplate the 
same ideas and emotions; but in the poet's 
mind, they bum and glow, and cannot be 
extinguished. The poet's mental experi- 
ence is so intense that it becomes obses- 
sion. The outlet for this obsession comes 
in creating poetry. Byron said that poetry 
is an overflow of lava from the mind that 
keeps the volcano from erupting. Poetry 
not only perpetuates ideas and emotions 
that perish in non-creative minds, but it 
purges the writer of undesirable passions 
that linger to contaminate the inarticulate 

Thus, an insane poet is a curiosity. To 
be called insane and yet have the merit 
to be called a poet is almost a paradox. 
Such was Christopher Smart. 

Christopher Smart, like Cowper, Blake, 
and many other eighteenth century men, 
was hounded by a religious mania. Al- 
though he was periodically confined to 
Bedlam Mental Hospital during the last 
nineteen years of his life. Smart was not 
a dangerous case. Dr. Johnson staunchly 
declared that he was not socially noxious, 
even though (as Boswell records John- 
son's remarks) "he insisted on people 
praying with him — also falling on his 
knees and saying his prayers in the street 
or in any other unusual place; and I'd 
as lief pray with Kit Smart as any one 
else. Another charge was that he did not 
love clean linen and I have no passion 
for it." 

Nevertheless, Smart's stubborn adher- 
ence to the word of the Bible made him 
an object of pity and disdain. 

Smart has left us a remarkable poem, 
"A Song to David," that testifies to the 

power which the poet could command 
when he was rational. Daniel Gabriel 
Rossetti has called it "the only accom- 
plished poem of the last (the eighteenth) 
century." It was Browning's opinion that 
" 'A Song to David' stations Smart on 
either hand with Milton and Keats." 

Even if Smart had been a normal per- 
son, "A Song to David" could not be 
called an ordinary poem. It is not a 
poem to be read with ease. The difficulty 
of comprehension lies not in any intel- 
lectual obscurity but in its peculiar 
phraseology and sentence structure. The 
poem adheres faithfully to its six-line 
stanzas rhyming a a b c c b, but some of 
the sentences are as long as eighteen lines. 
Another characteristic of this peculiar 
diction is the over-burdening of verbs. 
Nine stanzas depend upon a verb in the 
fourth stanza. The deliberate and unas- 
suming repetition of key words is sug- 
gestive of mental derangement. Every 
phenomonen for twenty-one stanzas exists 
"for adoration." Everything in the next 
three stanzas is "sweet," in the next three 
"strcmg," in the next three "beauteous," in 
the next three "precious," and in the final 
four "glorious." Perhaps because of the 
unique and widely varying images that 
glow from each stanza, the repetition does 
not become monotonous but adds to the 
wild strangeness which magnetizes the 

Although commencing with an apos- 
trophe to David, the psalmist, "minister 
of praise at large," the design of the 
poem is to enlist all creation, animate 
and inanimate, to the praise which David 
sang and which burned in Smart's breast. 
He saw all creation enraptured even as 
he, with praise unending. He combs 
the earth and probes its crevices to dis- 


cover these creatures whose existence 
breathes an eternity of praise. 

"Praise above all — for praise prevails; 
Heap up the measure, load the scales. 
And good to goodness add: 
The generous soul her Saviour aids, 
But peevish obloquy degrades; 
The Lord is great and glad." 
With naive simplicity, he catalogues 
God's works: ''the seraph and his 
spouse," (a peculiar conception) , "Man, 
the semblance and effect of God and 
love," "the clustering spheres he made," 
"choice gums and precious balms," "every 
beak and every wing which cheer the win- 
ter, hail the spring, that live in peace or 
prey," "fishes, every size and shape, which 
nature frames of light escape devouring 
man to shun." His extensive roster does 
not exclude lizards, vultures, and martyrs. 
In the beginning of the poem. Smart 
referred to "this wreath I weave" and it 
is a good label for his strange brain child. 
He waves a wreath of deep and intense 
colors which never flash but glow darkly. 
The images appear one by one out of the 
darkness; soon the reader finds himself 
in the midst of a growing host of strange- 
ly unworldly beings. In order to capture 
the intense array of colors that smolders 
in the twenty-one "adoration" stanzas, 
Smart turned to the flora and fauna of 
tropical climates. He is not a craftsman 
of elaborate descriptions; with a few 
words he studs the "wreath" with beauti- 
ful sights as sweet, rich, and fresh as they 
are seen in nature. Each re-reading of 
the poem renders it more weird. 
"Rich almonds color to the prime for 

Tenrils climb and fruit trees pledge 
their gems 

. . . With vinous syrups cedars spout; 

From rocks pure honey gushing out, 

For adoration springs . . . 

For adoration repining canes 

And cocoa's purest milk detains 

The western pilgrims staff; . . . 

. . . The laurels with the winter strive; 

The crocus burnishes alive 

Upon the snowclad earth. . . . 
"A Song to David" is the work of a 
devout heart and a capable mind. It is 
evident that Smart had a copious knowl- 
edge of natural science. Although Smart 
was rational when he wrote the poem, it 
reveals itself as a vehicle of his life-long 
obsession. It is all a catalogue of natural 
phenomena saying the same thing; the 
Almighty is the king of beauty. The 
mental disorder must have rendered 
Smart's mind insensitive to the noxious- 
ness of repetition. 

Kit Smart used to scribble on the walls 
of his cell with charcoal. Some time be- 
tween 1756 and 1763 while interned in a 
madhouse Smart made a unique contribu- 
tion to literature: a poem written by an 
insane person. If "Song to David" was 
strange, "Rejoice in the Lamb" is extra- 
ordinary. Each of its seventy-five lines 
begins with the word "for." 

The lines of the poem are pitifully 
inane. The poet must have had a cat as 
a companion in his lonely cell. The poem 
begins, "For I will consider my cat Jeof- 
fery . . ." The cat is represented as a 
creature of God glorifying his Maker by 
his nature and abilities. The cat per- 
forms his morning worship by "wreath- 
ing his body seven times round in elegant 
quickness." His prayer is answered by a 
musk for his breakfast. Then, the cat 
begins to groom himself. The ten steps 
of operation are crudely designated first, 
secondly, thirdly, etc. The saintly cat 
does not commit brutal murder: he gives 
his prey a chance to escape. 

"For he counteracts the powers of dark- 
ness by his electric skin and glaring 
eyes" . . . "For he is an instument for 
children to learn benevolence upon" . . . 
"For English cats are the best in Europe" 


. . . "For he is a mixture of gravity and 
waggery^ . . . "For he knows that God 
b his Savior." 

And thus he chants on, wandering in 
a maze of observations, pertinent and 
senseless. The rhythm of this poem is 
suggestive of the motion of a rustic wheel 
endlessly employed in an incomplete rota- 
tion. This effect may have been instilled 
by some constantly recurring noise in the 
prison such as a slow drip-drip. It is 
interrupted once when a rat bites Jeof- 
fery's throat. But the holy feline is healed 
post haste by the Divine Spirit. 

JeoflFery was a versatile cat; he could 

sit up on his rear, fetch and carry and 
even dance. The poem ends: 

"For he can swim for life 
For he can creep." 

Smart's senses may have been absent 
when he wrote this poem; but not so the 
obsession which ruled his life and fa- 
thered his poetry. This pathetic litany 
of a disordered mind carries a forceful 
impact. Perhaps the reader is impressed 
by the fact that the poor fellow, having 
lost his senses, retains the sincere adora- 
tion for the Lord. 

If few appreciated Christopher Smart, 
there are two who did: Samuel Johnson 
and God. 

^Jntu ^he i liqnt 



By Jane Ellen Tye 

I dreamt I felt her chilling fingers 
Touch my hand. How cold and white 
They seemed, and I awoke to find 
Only the black and empty night. 

The moon shone silver through the window 
Casting shadows on the wall . . . 
And far across the hills there came 
A voice. I knew her call. 

I swiftly rose and to the window. 
Salty tears ran from my eyes. 
But only the moon lay still and silent 
On the cloud-banked starless skies. 

Many times I hear her calling, 
Feel those ghostly fingers white . . . 
Yet nothing lies outside my window . . 
Nothing but the starless night. 



"JPof* I Bave liearned To 
MjO»k tJpan The Theaire . . . 


By Betty Neil Shepherd 

Wordsworth contemplates how the 
spirit of nature transformed the "coarser 
pleasures of my boyish days and their 
glad animal movements all gone by" into 
a "more sober pleasure". As we depart 
from the delicious pagan shores of child- 
hood, harnessed in the restraint imposed 
by civilization, is not all our pleasure 
whetted down to a more circumspect 
emotion? Take me and the movies. In 
the grip of the spirit of the cinema, an in- 
fluence in our times more potent, I fear, 
than that of nature, I evolved from a 
savage to a sober dilettante. 

I was six years old when I first came 
under the spell of the moving, talking 
picture. My father took me to the little 
one-horse movie theatre which nightly 
drew a full house from the six thousand 
inhabitants of a Kentucky mining town — 
white collar workers from Oak Street, 
coal miners from Mud Town, and occa- 
sional wide-eyed mountaineers who tramp- 
ed, muddy-shod, out of the surrounding 
hollows. Because everyone knew every- 
one else and knew more about the other's 
persona! affairs than would seem prudent 
in a more urbane society, the theatre had 
an intimate atmosphere. Here one could 
mingle with neighbors that in every-day 
pursuits he might not "meet up with" for 
a week. From seven, when the doors were 
opened, until seven-thirty, when the movie 
began, the rapidly-filling theatre was a 
score of a neighborly "confab." Inspired 
conversation was often carried on with 
four rows of seats separating the con- 
versants. My father, the doctor, was in- 
evitably seeked out by grateful patients. 
"Doc, that was powerful good cough 
syrup you give me last week", he might 

be told; or perhaps, "Doc, what do you 
think of turpentine for a beeled finger?" 

The lights in the theatre went out in 
two operations: the back of the house was 
darkened first, then the front. The lower- 
ing of the lights eventually became a cere- 
mony to me. It reminded me of a beach- 
ing ocean wave: the first undulation 
lapping the rear into twilight, the partially 
hushed moments of expectancy and the 
ultimate billow that drowned the whole 
place in darkness and silence. When the 
scintillating moment came, all activity 
ceased; the pop-corn-chewing crowd settled 
back in their seats. Abandoning thoughts 
of the greasy dish-pan and the drudgery 
in subterranean coal mines to devote their 
energies to the vicissitudes and triumphs 
of Clark Gable, they gave themselves to 
the movie. 

It was only after five or six trips to the 
theatre that my father was able to con- 
vince his naive daughter that these people 
who laughed, cried and died before us 
were not real flesh-and-blood creatures. 
If I remember correctly, all this blood- 
and-tears was quite harrowing to me until 
I, like my hard-shelled colleagues, learned 
to take it with a grain of salt. 

If one were of a mind to go to the 
movies Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday 
night, there was no way to avoid the 
inevitable rip-roarin wild western horse 
opera. A classic Samuel Goldwyn pro- 
duction with Bette Davis usually kept the 
audience glued quietly to their seats 
shedding reserved tears; but when the fare 
was a wild-western, they were "in there 
pitching" every minute. If the advice and 
prompting of the audience were of any 
aid to the hero, there was no chance that 


he should fail to apprehend die dastardly 
desperado. Often the din of hoof beats 
was drawned out by shrieks from young- 
sters crouched on the edge of their seats, 
waving clenched fists in the air. "Watch 
out, Tex! He's behind you!" 

"Run, Tex. run! Not that way! 

Of late, for years in fact, I have been 
trying to reconstruct the subtle humor of 
an incident in one of these dramas that 
put me literally im the aisles. It was dur- 
ing one of the rip-snortinist scenes in the 
picture: A constant stream of bullets 
described a mortal Scapa Flow across the 
dusty, Main Street; on one side the 
sheriff's men crouched behind kegs and 
over-turned stage-coaches; across the street, 
the bandits held the bank in ambush. The 
outlaws seemed to be getting the best of 
the courageous defenders of the town. 
The audience, in a posture half-way 
between sitting and standing, winced as a 
deputy stiffened, then toppled over back- 
wards. In the midst of all this, one of 
the outlaws ventured his head around 
from behind a barrel in order to take 
aim. The fleet-triggered sheriff took aim 
at the head, lifting the five-gallon hat 
"clean off". At this, I roared with 
laughter. I managed to stifle my 
paraxysms when I realized that the offend- 
ed rooters were glaring on me with dis- 
dainful horror. It must have been the 
strain of it all relieved by the unorthodox 
incident of the shot sombrero that set me 

During the first years of my theatre 
going, the movies were shown in an un- 
pretentious box-like auditoriimi. One fall, 
when I returned to the mountains from a 
vacation in the city, my best friend, a 
galloping, two-fisted female in the sixth 
grade, told me that our adored theatre 
had been renovated. I remember our im- 
patience to reach the interior the next 
night as we figeted in the line that wormed 

slowly past the ticket man at the door. 
At last, we reached the magic threshold. 
My friend, Rosie, beaming with pride, 
pushed me through the portal so I could 
get the full effect. I gasped — dazzled. 
I had never realized the magnitude of the 
place until I beheld its walls and ceiling 
coated in a chalky orange-pink. The 
whole effect was high-lighted by two nude 
bubble dancers which flanked the screen 
on either side. Rosie led me to one of 
the creaky wooden seats where I could 
drink in the beauty of the panorama until 
the lights went off. 

But, the Wednesday matinee was the 
high-light of the theatre-going week to 
me and my beloved cohort. On Wednes- 
days, the "main show" was supplemented 
by the serial. The serial was a narrative 
of horror, or at best adventure in weekly 
installments which starred some awe-in- 
spiring figure such as the Bat Man, the 
Green Hornet or Nancy Drew. The 
continued-next-week signal invariably flash- 
ed on the screen at some hair-raising 


climax, leaving the Green Hornet sealed 
up in an air-tight chamber in a burning 
building or feverishly trying to extricate 
his fiance from a rail-road track in the 
path of an on-coming engine. 

Sixth-grade pupils were required to stay 
in after school until we had written 
correctly twenty-five times every word we 
had missed in spelling that day. Because 
of this ill-conceived practice of our 
teacher, in order to arrive on time, we 
usually had to run the quarter of a mile 
from the school house to the theatre. 
Burdened with leaden text books and other 
essential paraphernalia such as a base- 
ball bat, we reached our destination in 
some dishevelment. On Wednesdays when 
we had been especially discreet in our 
spelling, we arrived before the lights went 
out and were able to claim our seats in 
the first row. It was fortunate that the 
matinee audiences consisted solely of chil- 
dren, for we were completely uninhibited. 
At dull moments, which I must admit were 
rare, some of the little boys amused them- 
selves by shooting spit wads at be-rib- 
boned pig-tailed heads. 

For two weeks preceding, a certain 
Wednesday, we applied ourselves assi- 
duously to our spelling. The bill-boards 
posted on every other telephone pole in 
town had informed us that a traveling 
spook show was coming. We squirmed 
in our desks all day long; when three- 
thirty came, we burst out of the school 
and galloped to our front-row seats. The 
theatre rang with its usual cat-calls and 
chattering, but there was an added ten- 
sion, (instilled perhaps, by the apprehen- 

sion of being in the same roc«n with 
ghosts.) When the room was pitched in 
black darkness, a tremulous moan that 
came from a hundred tense lips swept 
down the aisles- Suddenly, a host of 
luminous forms drifted on the stage. 
I realized that they were nothing more 
than painted baloons on long strings; 
nevertheless, I kept a wary eye on them. 
My companion was also too sophisticated 
to be duped. A miner's consumptive 
little daughter on the other side of Rosie 
was evidently less confident. With one 
spasmodic leap, the scrawny little creature 
transferred herself into my friend's lap, 
clasping her bony arms around her neck. 
When she had satisfied herself that she 
was not in the clammy embrace of a ghost, 
Rosie laughed gleefully. The little crea- 
ture in her lap chattered, "I'm not afraid, 
are you.'^ 

Now, ten years later, my trips to the 
theatre are less eventful. I humbly tread 
the deep plush carpet into a silent black 
theatre where I view the drama of human 
existence with detachment. An aggrega- 
tion of icebergs, "it moves us not". I 
sometimes even doze. I have longed 
learned to discreetly wipe away my tears 
and restrain a vague impulse to confer 
with the disinterested stranger beside me. 

Neither are my rare visits to the beloved 
theatre of my childhood as satisfying as 
those of Wordsworth when he returned 
to Tintern Abbey. Less fortunate than 
the poet, my dear friend is not here and 
the dancing figures on the pink walls are 
fading; but the memories will never be 



The Hesisianee 

By Eileen Springstun 

It can be seen by glancing through the 
pages of the history of France that after 
every period of mental stress there has 
been an interval of fervent philosophical 
innovation. It is not surprising, therefore, 
that out of the confusion and chaos of 
Paris after the recent war there has grown 
a new philosophy of life called Existen- 
tialism. Synonymous with Resistentialism, 
this word that is the subject of so much 
debate and discussion bubbled up out of 
the depths of the French resistance against 
foreign occupation. It had its beginning, 
and is now centered on the literary Left 
Bank of Paris. The philosophy's influence 
is great in France, and its effects can be 
felt in the United States and elsewhere, 
principally because it is the philosophy 
behind most current works in literature. 
It is yet too soon, however, to determine 
the importance it will play in history. 
Perhaps time will prove that its only merit 
lies in the quantity and quality of the 
literary works it has fostered. 

The leading personality behind the na- 
tionwide excitement over Existentialism is 
a squat, almost ugly, wall-eyed, exuberant 
forty-year-old individual named Jean-Paul 
Sartre. Philosopher, novelist, playwright, 
and essayist, Sartre was for thirteen years 
a humdrum young teacher of philosophy 
without any distinction. Sartre came into 
prominence when, after the war, everybody 
was asking how to save France, and many, 
especially the university students, disliked 
the idea of adopting the popular remedy, 
Communism. Sartre and his existentua- 
list philosophy appealed to the discourag- 
ed, melancholy French people. The in- 
tellectuals of the Left Bank, having the 
uncertainties of postwar European life, 
think they have found in this new phil- 

osophy at least a partial answer to their 

Existentialism is difficult to define, be- 
cause it is obscured by its followers with 
abstractions and paradoxical statements. 
If only the literary aspects of Sartre's 
writings were in question, the fact that few 
understand the principles underlying Exis- 
tentialism would not be a serious matter. 
Some people think, however, that once the 
philosophy takes to stage and pages of 
fiction, it can be and is dangerous if not 
properly understood. Existentialism, how- 
ever, like any other philosophy, is in- 
nocuous. It embodies ideas, theories, and 
courses of action that have been with us 
always, but only occasionally brought to 
view. It is a rare person who would think 
of Shakespeare's Hamlet as an Existen- 
tialist, but Wylie Sypher has recently 
shown us that the character of Hamlet 
can be interpreted as "existent". 

The theory of Existentialism is not new. 
The progenitor of the philosophy is the 
Danish religious thinker Soren Kierke- 
gaard, who lived in the nineteenth cen- 
tury. Kierkegaard sought a new philo- 
sophic basis for Christianity in an analysis 
of man's existence rather than in clear, 
abstract ideas of his nature. An atheist, 
Sartre merely revamped Kierkegaard's 
philosophy by discarding its religious ker- 
nel. One American writer on the subject 
says that Existentialism sweeps aside the 
moral and ethical values of all past philo- 
sophies, and takes as its departure the 
brute fact of man's existence. Man starts 
his existence as part of the one Universal 
Being. He is then a Fundamental Being, 
and there are latent within him a set of 
potentialities permitting him to develop in 
a variety of directions depending on what 
he does with his life when he becomes an 


Individual Being. Man is born with 
potentialities, not traits; he is not properly 
a human being in the full sense, but he 
has the power of becoming such. Man 
remaining in the state of Fundamental 
Being can experience nothing but the 
primitive impulses of "birth, copulation, 
death." The springs of life are drawn 
from the necessary reaction between the 
Fundamental and Individual Being, and 
the relationship that exists between these 
tv/o Beings is the sum total of human 
frailty. The Individual Being is con- 
stantly drawing strength to himself from 
the possibilities latent in his Fundamental 
Being. Only in this way can he live . . . 
think, move, act. Through no choice of 
his own, man is meaninglessly thrust into 
the world, and it is the responsibility of 
each individual to create his own finished 
character, his own "human nature", ful- 
fill his existence, and complete his life 
which is absurd and meaningless to the 
Existentialist except as meaning is given 
to it by man and his actions. In existen- 
tialist terminology, this idea is expressed 
by the principle; "existence precedes es- 
sence." The whole philosophy rests on 
this distinction. Denying the usually ac- 
cepted idea that essence precedes existence, 
Sartre says that existence precedes essence. 
Man, the only one who can chose his 
essence, must first exist. Because he rec- 
ognizes his responsibility to make some- 
thing of his existence, he is permeated with 
a profound sense of anguish, abandon- 
ment, and despair. He is anguished be- 
cause he must act, and because he is 
judged by his actions. Man's sense of 
abandonment comes because there are no 
absolute values to which he can appeal. 
Thus, he is completely free. Man feels 
despair because of the obvious inadequacy 
of his psyche to cope with his environment 
and to understand the questions of life 
and death. Each man must act as he 
thinks all men should act. Thus he deve- 
lops a concept of life as he acts. 

What a man is, nobody can know until 
he is dead. Thus, man is without hope, 
because he cannot know the results. This 
sense of hopelessness is clearly illustrated 
in the person of Monsieur Meursault, 
who drifts through life without volition 
in the novel The Stranger written by Al- 
bert Camus, one of the leading writers 
of the French Resistance. 

Death only may withdraw Man from 
all the possibilities open to him, and when 
Man dies he carries with him his Hell . . . 
the sum total of the events that have 
made up his crowded life, now irrevocably 
fixed and incapable of change or a shifting 
of emphasis. The picture of Hell that 
Sartre offers us is a Hell that is other 
people, a Hell of our own making, carried 
within us for all time, for "Nous sommes 
ensemble pour toujours! . . . Nous res- 
terons jusqu'au bout seuls ensemble." All 
man can do, therefore, is to face with a 
stout heart a situation of his own con- 
triving. These existentialists are built 
solidly, their feet firmly on the ground. 
They are not pessimistic in the usual 
sense; they are realists. Their philosophy 
is austere and severe. It is a philosophy 
of free will. The truth of man's free- 
dom is as he makes it; there is no platonic 
or Christian realm of perfection and jus- 
tice, no naturalistic hope of progress or 

Let us examine more closely the princi- 
ples of the Existentialist, and attempt to 
follow the process of thought that resulted 
in these principles that form the basis of 

Existentialism asserts that if man has a 
life after death or has any relationship to 
an interested God (i.e. interested directly 
in him in the sense of guiding and making 

iProm Huis Clos, a play by Sartre adapted for 
Broadway by Paul Bowles and called No Exit. 
No Exit was a failure on Broadway, not because 
of lack of literary value, but because the make-up 
of the American people renders them unable to 
coniprehend the French nature and the workings 
of the French mind. Most of the existentialist 
plays aro austere and religious' in tone, although 
not in content. In all, the moral choice, which 
influences everybody, is emphasized. 


clear his fate to him) , this relationship is 
not made known to him during his con- 
scious life on this planet. He is asked 
to take it on "faith" by the church. But 
he finds, after trial, that faith does not 
supply the definite answers he wants. 
Then he considers the full array of all 
types of evidence during man's history 
against the possibility of a caring God 
and against the possibility of anything 
existing for him beyond the physical dis- 
integration which seems to mark the end 
of his span of life. (He regards Christ's 
utterances more as personal opinion larded 
with propaganda than as the result of a 
direct message from the Godhead as to 
what awaits him.) If he abandons the 
Faith in an interested God conception, 
he is left with the naked consideration of 
his position in the Universe as presented 
to him by such evidence as science and 
philosophy are able to gather and corre- 
late. This indicates that he is one unit 
of human species among several billion 
similar units following a basic life cycle 
of birth, life, death similar to his own. 
Over all these phenomena of Universal 
Being he has absolutely no control and is 
himself completely under the control of 
the same forces which cause and motivate 
the rest. His consciousness, his intelli- 
gence, his thinking processes, the existence 
of which instigate this analysis, apparently 
stand as a tiny isolated point of awareness 
in this sea of unknowing space and un- 
knowing matter. 

Now, the aware one (man) asks him- 
self: "What is the purpose of my aware- 
ness in this vast frame of unaware balls 
of matter moving through the spatial 
extension?" Further thought leads in- 
evitably to a further series of questions, 
the so-called "negative answers" to which 
form the basis of Existentialism. 

One question the Existentialist asks is 
how much control he has over the pro- 
cesses of his "self" . . . self being the 

whole living organism, body and mind- 
He concludes that it is evident that at 
present the "I" has no real control over 
the processes of its body housing. The 
functioning of the "I", its process from 
moment to moment, goes on because of 
the initial energy drive bestowed on the 
organism at conception. The Ego has, 
it appears, a power of will, of choosing 
among alternatives when it becomes fully 
developed with the growth of the organ- 
ism, but the Ego or mind cannot be con- 
sidered to have a separate destiny from 
that of the body ... a destiny which 
would give it independence and self- 

The next question that the Existentialist 
would ask is this: does man have an after- 
life, and if there is such a continuation of 
consciousness awaiting him, is there any 
particular course of action he can choose 
in this life to be sure of obtaining immor- 
tality and a desirable form of it? The 
Existentialist then reasons that there is 
an overwhelming lack of evidence on the 
likelihood of immortality, because the 
evidence of science indicates that death is 
nothing more than a deep, total, and 
permanent state of unconsciousness result- 
ing from permanent irreparable damage 
to the brain, the organ with which con- 
sciousness is almost wholly associated. 
If such a continued state of consciousness 
does actually exist, the individual 
will fall heir to it regardless of the 
choices he makes in this life. The 
vast region of the after-life either exists 
for every unit of humanity on this planet 
(including possibly the so-called lower 
forms of organic life) or it does not exist 
at all. Moral choices, "the religious atti- 
tude", do not enter into it, nor is it the 
property of any creed or non-creed. The 
human unit has no more choice of whether 
he will go on into an after-life or not than 
he has over whether he will be conceived 
or not. Attainment of an after-life does 


not depend on whether he is nice to 
Grandma or goes to church on Sunday. 
(This is brought out clearly in The 
Stranger by Camus) . There is no reason, 
therefore, to consider immortality as a 
goal-motive in man's choices. This, of 
course, eliminates one phase of the reasoci 
for the choice or conscious willing with 
an end in view of the organism during 
life. It removes the possibility of any 
deep motivation in this period of aware- 
ness between nothingness and nothingness. 
Fundamentally, the Existentialist be- 
lieves that the individual human unit is 
provided with no other purpose in enter- 
ing this life than that of living through 
it until he is blotted out, either by his own 
hand or by factors beyond his control 
(disease, accident, war, and other flux 
factors), and that although there may be 
a God-head interested in some vast plan 
ajffecting the role of the whole human race 
in the Universe, He does not, in the 
smallest degree, play the role of a Guider 
and Protector of the myraid human units 
living out their individual spans on His 
planet. Such a belief automatically de- 
prives him of the motivation to live a 
moral life synchronized with an ethical 
code handed out by a Superior Being. 
Theologians have used various devices to 
prove the assertion that the earth is mere- 
ly a testing ground for souls, but one can- 
not escape the conclusion that if God 
both created and controls the flux of the 
Universe as well as is the Universe (Doc- 
trine of Immanence) he must have known 
the results of the moral tests on each in- 
dividual before he instituted them. He is 
in the position of a chemist or physicist 
who knows the results of all his experi- 
ments before he starts them . . . having 
predetermined the answers. If He has 
not this Absolute Control, then the Crea- 
tion has gotten beyond the control of the 
Creator. Matter has taken on an Action 
(Quantum Theory) which amounts to an 

Intelligence of its own^ and God is running 
faster than himself , . , a weird paradox. 
The Existentialist then sees his position 
in the Universe as irrevocably limited to 
the phase of Nature. Within Nature 
his ultimate fate is no different from that 
of the plant or animal ... a brief ride on 
the planet in its trips around the sun and 
then Nothingness eternally. The only 
thing that distinguishes him is his extend- 
ed area of Consciousness. This heighten- 
ed consciousness afl^ords man a deep in- 
sight into his predicament, but to the 
Existentialist this occasions a mixture of 
despair and disgust. He focusses his 
consciousness on the real stages of man's 
progress through life, and he sees con- 
tinuously the passage of youth and 
strength into senility and degeneration. 
He also sees the isolated position of man 
among the indifi"erent and ever potentially 
hostile balances of nature in which the 
Creator shows equal of no greater con- 
sideration for the smallest micro-organism 
as he does for man. To the Existentialist, 
man's possession of a heightened con- 
sciousness or intelligence, of a human type 
mind, is a catastrophe. Housing a know- 
ing instrument within a mortal frame- 
work and providing it with the intelligence 
to watch and even predict the degenera- 
tion and eventual complete disintegration 
of its framework would seem to be the 
act of a most vicious Creative Intelligence. 
When man begins to speculate on Nature 
and his role within her framework, he 
approaches the state of an Overlord God, 
with some of the knowledge and none of 
the power. Even the fractional share of 
knowledge man has may be far from the 
reality because of the distortion produced 
by his limiting senses. The Existentialist, 
realizing this, turns bitterly on all meta- 
physical speculation, and abandons 
thought, because the act of starting to 
think introduces such fundamentally 
hopeless errors that it negates all his 


conclusions. We have seen how he has 
already abandoned all hope of an after- 
life as a reward for higher ethical con- 
duct. Now with the abandonment of 
metaphysical speculation, he is left with 
nothing except the ideals of the Western 
masses — happiness obtained through sen- 
sation dependent on prior economic se- 
curity. He hates to admit this, being 
a philosopher to start. He is now in 
the -position of a priest who cannot 
believe in God, a professional philosopher 
who does not beileve in philosophy, a 
thinker who does not believe in thought. 
The only thing left Is a progress of action, 
action that in any way will make one 
happy; even though action is as meaning- 
less as thought. Sartre, Camus, and other 
Existentialists stress this. But Existentia- 
list Action must not be confused with 
action purposeful in an altruistic sense. 
The truest Existeniaiist life would be 
that led by the average wage-earner who 
works that he may live, satisfying his 
necessary appetites (Existentialism at the 
primary level) , and schemes to rise in the 
world so that he may obtain more of the 
particular things that please him. 

Existentialism viewed from its applica- 
tion to human effort and conduct, in 
rvhich it has made a greater effort than 
previous schools, borrows a little from 
■nany and scrambles freely. Berkeley, 
x>cke, and Kant of course begot the idea 
f the distrust in the senses and intellect 
knowers of the Universe and specula- 
ors on metaphysical problems. The Exis- 
entialist's last bitter solution taken with 
uch a highly publicized air of hard-boiled 
ealism and courage is the centuries old 
olution of the Stoics, Epicureans, and 
"ledonists. One writer on the subject 

ys that emphasis on the philosophy as 
n ultra-modern attitude, the final word, 

suiting from conditions that men's in- 

llectual askance and progress have 
orced on him, is absurd. The same essen- 

tial philosophy was held by philosophers 
in the Aegean towns two thousand years 
ago. The writer says that the Existen- 
tialists' greatest contribution to philosophy 
has probably been reemphasis on the prob- 
able lack of synchronization between real- 
ity and the human conscious awareness 
of it, with the transference of a knowledge 
of reality to organisms without mind or 
sense specialization . . . knowledge by mere 
fact of existence that might indicate a 
superior comprehension through being im- 
mersed unaware in the whole than by being 
endowed with the terrible duality of an 
heightened awareness housed in an un- 
aware organism. 

Practically all the followers of the phil- 
osopher Sartre are young, and it is doubt- 
ful that many of them actually compre- 
hend the meaning of their philosophy. 
They vary between seventeen and twenty- 
five years of age, and are mostly students, 
A number, however, are musicians and 
painters, like Georges Patrix, a former 
Sartre student, who claims that the paint- 
ings he is now exhibiting in a Left Bank 
gallery are existentialist art. One of the 
leaders is Simone de Beauvoir, an intel- 
lectual who has been christened the 
"Queen", Lige Sartre, she is a former 
professor of philosophy and, in addition 
to writing penetrating articles on ethics, 
sociology, and metaphysics, has produced 
a number of plays and novels, De Beau- 
voir is one of Sartre's extremely rare, 
mature disciples. 

Since the followers of Sartre are con- 
sidered the intellectual elite, sincere belief 
in the philosophy is not entertained by 
many. Some are intellectual snobs who 
have found in Existentialism a fashion- 
able fad on which to cling. Whether 
sincere or not, however, the Existentialist 
looks like the traditional Left Bank Bo- 
hemian, long-haired and wearing a serene 
exprv'ssion and baggy p>ants. Invariably 
he carries books or a manuscript under 


his arm which completes the portrait of 
the eternal student or the struggling, 
French intellectual. 

It cannot be discerned as yet just what 
is tlie effect Existentialism will have on 
Fraiice and the rest of the world. Its 
worth is even more difficult to determine 
because, obviously, very few people, in- 
cluding many of the Parisian students 
who profess to be such ardent devotees of 
the philosophy, actually know what Exis- 
tentialism means. It is difficult, and 
hardly fair, therefore, to express a per- 

sonal opinion on the subject. Jacques 
Barzun, however, a professor of history 
at Columbia University, has set forth his 
evaluation of the Existentialists in his 
article Ca Existes A Note on the New 
Ism. Mr. Barzun has expressed himself 
very well by adding his version of the 
essence of Existentialism to the compact 
expression of Descartes' philosophy, "I 
think; therefore, I am." Mr. Barzun 
interprets this in the light of Existen- 
tialism as, "I amr therefore, I (occasional- 
ly) think." 

^fie ^J^i 


By Jane Erwin 


I enter. 

The hall is narrow, dark and gloomy. 
My feet rush from its emptiness 
Knowing not which way to go, for 
There are docws on either side identical, 
And here 

I stop, 

My mind confused and muddled. 

There is no purpose here. 

To the left is a room of madness; 

To the right a toora of sin; 

But where do these rooms lead from them? 

I am lost. 

At last, 

A holy light shines out 

From the other end of the hall; 

It shines through an opaque door. 

My heart sings out and I am glad. 

For at last I see my way. 

There is one word above the door — 



IjOvaMe Eva 

By Ann Morgan 

"Good mawnin', Miss Ann. How ah 
you this fine fall day? Ah you ready to 
go to school down in the South? Have 
a good time, honey. Now where's Butch 
. . . Oh, on the hne? Fse goin' to get 
him. Poor Httle dog, all tied up." 

With this greeting, Eva Smith, our 
small, middle-aged, old-fashioned Neg- 
ress, comes into our home every Wed- 
nesday morning to do all the housework 
and extra chores. After Eva had been 
with us a few weeks, I realized that my 
day would not be complete without that 
greeting and "my toothy smile." 

Eva^ an imforgettable character to us, 
would appear at the back door at eight 
o'clock, bulging shopping bag and um- 
brella in hand. A black hat, trimmed 
with a chartreuse ribbon, perched on her 
forehead like a bird ready for flight; her 
"killy green" Chesterfield is wrapped 
around her small, plump body; the con- 
servative black dress with a white lace 
collar is underneath her coat; and on her 
feet she wears low-heeled, black patent 
leather pumps — all this makes up Eva's 
wardrobe which she wears on the street 
and to our house. Eva's blue umbrella 
is a constant companion, as is her shop- 
ping bag, the contents of which are still 
a mystery to me. Last but not least, she 
carries a black patent leather pocketbook, 
with her initials, "E. S.," in gold. That 
purse is one of her two prized possessicHis, 
the other being "my gold weddin' ring 
Wilbur gave me," which is too tight for 
her fat little finger. 

Eva changed her dress from street 
clothes to "my uniform," with which she 
will never part until her last day in "dis 
ole glorious world." When she begins to 
clean, Eva usually has on an expansive 
black apron, to which she adds a pair of 

dusting gloves and her white bandana. 
Ironing does not require an apron, but 
Eva never pays attention to other maids' 
ideas: she therefore changes to a small 
white one, complementing her bandana. 
Then for cooking Eva again changes, 
this time to a huge white apron, which 
is always drawn tightly around her short, 
fat figure. Underneath this array of dif- 
ferent aprons is the ever-present blue 
dress, with white collar and cuffs; and 
below, on Eva's feet, are a pair of old 
blue play shoes. 

In addition to her funny little habits, 
such as the aprons, Eva has a large heart 
from which she pours out love and devo- 
tion. One reason why she loves our fami- 
ly is my dog, Butch, a large, red cocker. 
Wild but lovable, Butch adores the 
ground Eva walks one, and the same is 
true for her. From the minute she walks 
into our house until she starts for the 
street car at five-thirty, Butch follows at 
her heels. He plays with her dust rag5, 
gets in the wash pails, and tries to catch 
the broom; but all these little annoyances 
are enjoyed by Eva, who, I think, really 
encourages Butch to play with her. Eva 
knows the three of us in our family and 
understands our big and little problems. 
I ask her advice about matters, such as 
what to wear on Saturday night, or what 
to take to spread; she always has the right 
answers. Therefore Eva enters into our 
daily conversations, for we would not 
want her any other way. Her opinion 
means as much to us as that of a close 

To get to a more serious angle, all 
Negroes are religious in varying degrees, 
and Eva is no exception. One could say 
she is the most religious person in her 
congregation. Her church choir broad- 


casts every Sunday morning, has a din- 
ner on Wednesday nights, and constantly 
entertains for several outside organiza- 
tions. The Negro spirituals floating 
through the air of our house reflect the 
enthusiastic interest that Eva has for 
"my choir" and "my church/' She is 
constantly going to meetings out of town 
to promote religious organizations and to 
teach others what God and the church 
means to her. 

In Eva's opinion, marriage is a private 
aifair. Although she never talks about 
her marriage to Wilbur, Eva loves to tell 
us about Arthur, her only child. Arthur, 
an elevator operator in a large Columbus 
hotel, never does anything wrong, at least 
in Eva's eyes. She is very proud of him, 
but secretly wishes he would marry so 
that she could be a happy grandmother. 

Equally as proud of her house as she 

is of Arthur, Eva never fails to tell us 
the least thing she has done to change or 
add to her furniture. Since we take Eva 
home on rainy days, I have seen her small, 
compact house with its spotless rooms 
and draperies at the clean windows. Eva 
has learned in her own home how to 
keep things neat, so it is no wonder that 
our house is spotless on "my cleanin' day 
at your ail's house." 

When I stop to think about home, I 
continually think of Eva, for she plays 
an important part in my unfinished book 
called ''Life." I have enjoyed our many 
discussions, her romps with Butch, and 
her cooking; but more than all these, I 
will look forward to seeing her jolly 
smile, accompanied by, "Good mawnin'. 
Miss Ann, Nice to see you back home, 
honey. Did you all's have a ttice time in 
de South?" 


JLike A. L/ittte Flant^er 

By Marion Frederick 

He came into her room, drunk. Care- 
fully picking his way around the edge 
of the fluflFy rug, he sat down backwards, 
with great caution, on the gilded chair 
facing the ornate dressing table. The 
room was stuffy, smelling of the dainty, 
expensive Molyneux. It was too hot. 
She liked hot rooms, stuffy, smelling of 
perfume and expensive clothes, light with 
gilded furniture, and frilly with curtains 
and ruffled pillows. That was why she 
had a room of her own, filled with the 
furniture of a decaying, luxury-laden age. 
After two months of sleeping in the room 
next to hers with its windows open all 
night, the square, solid mahogany bed- 
stead, with its scratchy, bold Hudson's 
Bay blankets (she had a soft, yellow puff 
now^), had driven her to ask prettily for 
a room of her own. She had gotten it 
as a matter of course. 

He looked at his handiwork and 

"You are beautiful, my lovely, like a 
little flower. But you have no conception 
of love. Love, my dear heart, must come 
from within. It grows like a flower, too. 
But its beauty is more than superficial. 
Every soul contains the seed, but con- 
trary to popular fiction it is watered and 
fed from within. In some hearts it grows 
on comparatively shallow ground, bursting 
like a sunflower, shining, gaudy, almost 
embarrassing, but spreading its joy and 
light everywhere. In others, more tor- 
tured, more twisted by unhappiness, love 
must fight its ways to the front and pre- 
sent itself to the conscious mind like the 
eidelweiss pushing its way through the 
granite crags of a cosmic eruption to bloom 
for a short while, startlingly lovely and 
alone. It is not seen by the masses, only 
the one who climbs high and hard to 

search for it. Its roots are hidden; it 
seems to spring from nowhere. Some- 
times it is missed and then dies of its own 
accord. Sometimes it is picked by the 
hardy, unfeeling climber and worn as a 
trophy of great accomplishment. Why 
is the tearing of love from the heart to 
display until it dies in the soggy, lowland 
air the aim of some? Why not stay and 
admire the love while it lasts and, when 
evening brings a chill and a death to the 
high peaks, then retire from the freezing 
highlands to the heavy, earthbound life? 
Eternity for a moment is quite enough. 
The most perfect solution, of course, my 
dear, would be to stay on the mountain, 
being chilled and frozen to die with the 
love that brought you there. 

"But enough of this Wordsworthian 
drivel, but a short preface that was neces- 
sary before I present the facts to you. 
You are perfectly aware, even in your own 
blank and beautiful way, that there is 
something wrong. 

"I can forgive women for being sly. 
I think it enhances their natural sleek, 
feline qualities, and you know that T 
have devoted myself to the feline sophisti- 
cate, but there are some types of slyness 
I do not condone. This slyness is a form 
of brutality, which takes no account of 
another's soul; it plays with the feelings, 
with the innate dignity; this quality you 
have shown in a remarkable way. I have 
just discovered your duplicity. It makes 
me feel a bit foolish to have to explain it, 
even to myself, but people must not 
think, as they do now, that my adoration 
of you is still blind or still is an adora- 
tion. The fact of the matter is this: I 
hate you. 

"I hate you. Hate is a strange, new 
emotion for me. I have always felt it to 

be a barbaric feeling, coming when logic 
fails to give reason for dislike or loathing, 
I hate you and I dispise myself. I feel 
that I should have seen through your 
scheme, but I didn't. Therefore, I hate 
you for fooling me: I despise myself 
for being fooled. I couldn't afford to let 
you tell people how you fooled me. They 
think of me as the bon vivant interested 
in first editions, fine brandy, and delight- 
ful conversation. I broke with them when 
I married the empty-headed, selfish child 
that you have shown yourself to be. 

"After all, I take several things seri- 
ously. You knew what they were. Out- 
side of my records, my first editions, my 
brandy, and my hunting trophies, there is 
my precious dignity. I am aloof and 
graceful. With your brutal slyness, you 
have destroyed that dignity. If I hadn't 
written to you as the daughter of an old 
friend, if I hadn't met you as a lonesome 
divorcee, if I hadn't read an intellectual 
rapport into your letters, if only I hadn't 
met you, loved your beauty, your fragil- 
ity, and if I hadn't broken the even tenor 
of my life and married you (a large 
bunch of "if's", I grant you) but, never- 
theless, if all this hadn't happened, you 
would have remained the beautiful selfish 
creature that you are. My peace would 
never have been disturbed. I might have 
met you, loved you, might even have mar- 
ried you. Then I would have come to 
dislike you. Then I would have ignored 
you and left you alone. I could have 
kept my position as a man of sports and 
letters to a certain extent. I could have 

remained the man-about-town, the aloof 
sophisticate. My sprezzatura would have 
been intact. 

"Where was I? 

''I did get tired of you, sick and tired. 
I began writing to my early confidant and 
again got myself on an even keel. I 
thought there was one woman who under- 
stood me. 

"Today I went through the library. I 
found a book I had never seen. It wasn't 
one of mine. But it sounded familiar. 
Very ramiliar. They were letters. And 
then I found rough drafts and rework- 
ings of those letters in your desk. (I 
didn't even think you could write.) You 
f«x)led me, tricked me. I am not a gulli- 
ble man as a general rule, I am a lot 
less credulous than most men I know. But 
I am proud, too proud for my own good, 
as it turned out. That is why I liad to 
act this way, dear. 

"'Your very existence was infecting me 
with a slow, degrading poison. But you 
will bow to my wishes in this last little 
matter. Your letters have been destroyed. 
My books are burned, my records smashed 
by myself, and a good percentage of the 
brandy has been drunk, the rest spilled. 

''As I was saying, your poison was a 
slow one. I chose a quick one. You never 
knew what it was. They'll find you 
tomorrow morning when the maid comes 
in. They'll find me, too, I'll be in my 
room. There's a glass of brandy, flavored 
with cyanide in my room. And so I must 
go. Good night, my dear." 


By Barbara Smith 

Dreams, shadows in time 
Trees spotted by moonlight 
Smoke curled about a chair 
Words dimmed by white mist. 


The Flight 

By Barbara Benson 

As the plane rose from the ground, the 
humming of the engine increased and the 
whole craft vibrated till it shook. One 
could feel the struggle between the anvil 
hammers of the pistons and the jelly-like 
gasoline in the cylinders, each struggling 
to displace the other and take possession 
of the cylinder cases. The engine seemed 
slightly out of order, but as long as the 
gauges registered correctly, there was no 
need to be frightened. 

The gauges stared out of the instru- 
ment panel like owis, each with its own 
bit of information to impart to the pilot. 
They were blurs of white; the black 
figures raced about them as if scurrying 
for shelter under the edges of the dials. 
The oil registered normal, the tempera- 
ture was correct, the altimeter and r.p.m. 
gauges were functioning; yet there was 
something wrong inside the motor. The 
throb of the engine was jerky and ir- 

The plane gained altitude, and the 
earth seemed farther and farther away. 
Far behind the plane the runway, no 
bigger than a sidewalk for giant pedes- 
trians. The toy houses became but cubes 
scattered here and there. The patch-work 
quilt of farms unfolded itself 'round the 
front and sides of the plane. The pro- 
peller of the plane cut through the smoky 
air and sent a back-wash of wind rushing 
past the wings and into the closed cockpit 
through the chinks and cracks around 
the door. 

The sun peered cautiously through the 
clouds and gave a silver fringe to the 
bunched up bundles of black fleece hov- 
ering maliciously over the horizon. Then, 
in a blinding goldenness, it shone fully 
as it pushed aside one of the rain clouds. 
The bright ydlrvw wings of the plane 

were touched with the brilliant light and 
their dull color became lighter. Flecks of 
silver flew from the propeller as if sparks 
from a plane. The light reflected on the 
oil spilled on the nose of the plane by a 
careless mechanic, and pinkish gold and 
green lights glimmered in the thick black 
fluid on the blue canvas nose. The sun- 
light even penetrated the dirty plastic 
windshield and illuminated the cockpit 

Shadows formed and jumped about in- 
side the plane as it bounced about on 
wild and bumpy air currents. The pilot's 
features were clearly outlined; the light 
made him blink. 

Outside, the earth was covered widi 
the misty haze denoting several thousand 
feet of nothingness between the tiny plane 
and those grey-green and violet squares 
of terrain. The shapes of the plots of 
ground looked regular, each fitting into a 
sort of a pattern which was confusing to 
the novice pilot. 


Tlie plane turned in its course anci 
headed for a bank of clouds, piled up 
like mattresses waiting to be robbed of 
their stuffing and washed. The sun had 
gone into its cave amidst the dark clouds, 
and the nebulous atmosphere closed in 
around the plane. 

The wind became ever stronger; the 
craft swayed back and forth as if some 
playful gremlins were tipping it from side 
to side to see how far it would go before 
turning upside down. Wings flapping 
in the gusts of cold wind, the brave little 
plane still ventured on with the dimmed 
and hidden sun to its back. 

Suddenly the ever-present odor of gas- 
oline and rubber-cement was crowded out 
of the pilot's nostrils by a new and omi- 
nous smell, that of scorching canvas. A 
clanking set up in the nose of the plane; 
it sounded as if one of the anvil-hammers 
had broken loose and was flying about in 
the engine.. The sound of grating metal 
reached his ears, and his heart stood still. 

Then all was quiet; the motor cut off 
and the noise stopped. The propeller still 
turned, its whir decreasing. 

Gasoline from the carburetor escaped 
from the engine and burst through the 
seams of the canx-as. Choking exhaust 
fumes swirled about the cockpit, almost 
suffocating its occupants. Gasoline spray- 
ed against the windshield and flames 
climbed out of the silent engine; they fol- 
lowed the paths of gasoline which had 
soaked into the canvas body of the plane. 
The plane lurched forward and the nose 
dropped as if pushed down by some in- 
visible force. The black clouds were im- 
penetrable and thunder rolled by over- 
head. Drops of water came down and fell 
among the flames. The sky opened up 
and loosed a cascade of pelting rain. The 
orange flames ripped through blue cloth 
and hissed as the rain hit the plane. The 
pilot pulled back frantically at the wheel 
of the plane, trying vainly to lift its fall- 
ing nose. 

^o ^ke J^ti 


By Joan Hays 

Stars of silver, stars of gold. 
Stars of the ages, centuries old, 
Stars that anchored in the sky 
Watch countless eons rolling by. 
Placid and calm through all the years, 
So far above our hopes and fears — 
Oh, stars, could I but be like thee, 
Quiet and still through eternity, 
I'd leave my home on this fretful earth 
And circle the expansive heaven's girth 
Till I found my 'pointed place; — 
And there I'd stay 
Forever, and forever, and forever a day. 


•>^ cJLaualtina ^out 

By Camille Hancock 

I am a laughing soul; 

City life is all I know, and I am not unhappy. 

I live here, and the honking horns are not harsh to my ears 

Nor the pursuing throngs and leering men ofFensive. 

My rooms are gay, and I am gay, 

But I like to walk in soft rain 

At evening, when dusk begins to make afternoon a memory. 

I like wind to blow the rain stinging across my face, 

And whip it in my hair and lashes. 

I like to climb hills, and see 

The fresh green things, and smell 

The rain-soaked earth, and the damp clover, 

I like the grey sky, and the hush of the earth. 

I like the darkened bark of the trees 

And the drops caught on twigs 

Making blossoms on the bleak limbs. 

But I long to throw myself on a high hill 

Above the city; where quietness exists — 

Away from city sounds, and city faces 

In the damp grass or clover, and lie 

Motionless as stone, completely mute 

Except for the singing of my soul; 

And gather in the calm, and gather on the vastness of the sky. 

And when the solitude becomes so integrated in my flesh and bone 

That it is like a swelling pain within my breast, 

I will return to life and sound, and people who laugh, 

But I shall know that the greatest in me 

Lies quiet on a wind-swept, rain-drenched hill. 


The L/iving Things 

By Eileen Springsfun 

For two years Charles and the others 
had religiously brought their poems and 
their plays and their stories to their fav- 
orite table at Henri's to eat and drink 
and play at being literary geniuses. They 
read what they had written, discussed it, 
and in mock seriousness praised one an- 
other for having produced the master- 
piece of the century. They philosophized, 
criticized, and talked of material and 
ideas ior new stories, which they were 
writing mainly for their own enjoyment, 
but always with a cherished hope in the 
back of their minds that someday one 
small bit of their writing would be pub- 
lished. During the two years, only Charles 
had been fortunate enough to see his 
name in print. The fact that it was only 
one tiny article in a third-class newspaper 
did not dim his joy and elation, or lessen 
the respect and admiration the other held 
for him. Instead, Charles was cheered 
and hailed as the "Johnson" of the group, 
and the magnificent honor of occupying 
the chair at the head of the table was 
bestowed upon him. 

The skimpy, checked table cloths, the 
curling, picturesque wisps of smoke, and 
the heavy smell of wine at Henri's httle 
French cafe provided an escape from 
reality for Charles and the others. Here 
they lived the life they dreamed about, 
here they set free their supprssed desires 
and their innate prsonalities. The cheap 
wine flowed abundantly; exhiliaration 
coursed through their veins; they became 
intoxicated. The told low stories; they 
whispered words of double meaning to 
the perfumed women nearby; they talked 
reverently of their hopes, desires, and 
dreams. They became intoxicated by the 
wine; they became intoxicated by life. 

As the evening faded into morning, 

they would begin to leave their land of 
make-believe, and drift back into the 
world of harsh reality, back to their fru- 
gal rooms, back to anonymity in the mob 
of clerks in dismal offices. 

For some time Charles had been reluct- 
ant to leave these meetings at Henri's. 
Each time his procrastination increased, 
because more and more he hated going 
back to his bare and lonely room; he 
hated leaving the warm companionship 
of his friends; he hated being alone with 
himself and his terrible headaches. The 
headaches had come suddenly, not bad at 
first, but they increased in intensity with 
the passing months. Now that winter 
was approaching it was even worse. The 
cold, dead winter with its piercing winds 
especially increased his aches and his 
anxieties. The snow whirling around his 
thin, shivering body seemed to penetrate 
into his head and melt the warmth left 
by the wine. When the wine was gone, 
only the terrific headaches remained. 

Charles longed for the spring. Per- 
haps then the headaches would vanish, 
vanish with the snow, and once again he 
could enjoy the bright moonlight, the 
sunrise, the broad ocean, the noble rivers, 
and the soft summer evening air so sweet 
to breathe. 

Charles had mentioned his headaches 
to his friends, and they had been con- 
cerned. They suggested that perhaps he 
was working too hard at the office, and 
prescribed their own personal remedies 
for alleviating the pain. They told him 
not to worry, and jokingly assured him 
that they would always love him although 
he did put a damper on the parties at 
Henri's when he was stricken with a 
particularly painful headache. Always at 
these bad times, despite his protests, one 


or two of Charles' friends would walk 
home with him, guiding his shuffling feet 
along the cold streets while Charles held 
his screaming head with both hands. Once 
in his gloomy apartment, Charles would 
thank God for his faithful friends. With- 
out them he would be lost. He was like 
a fragile flower that withered and died 
without sunlight. The loss of the rays 
of friendship would mean living death 
for Charles. After the warm laughter of 
friends died away, Charles would curse 
the four gray walls that stared at him 
so coldly. Frequently the loneliness would 
become unbearable; and listening to the 
harsh whispering of the wind or the low 
moan of a distant train, Charles would 
again be drawn out into the night. He 
would shuffle along for hours, bumping 
into staggering drunks or dreamy-eyed 
lovers who also were wanderers of the 
night. The austere, dark hulks of build- 
ings winked at him, like shadowy, myster- 
ious women trying to seduce him into 
their warm arms; but Charles could not, 
would not, succumb to their beckonings. 
He had to walk, he had to forget that 
his head was breaking up into a thousand 
jagged pieces. But he could not forget. 
The pain was coming at more frequent 
intervals. It seemed always to be there. 

Charles turned more and more to his 
stories. He picked up tales from the lips 
of his fellow clerks, strangers on busses, 
the women who were his companions at 
night. He began a story about a man 
who was haunted by his double, but it 
did not go well. Sometimes he laid aside 
his pen and waited and winced for hours 
until the darkness was swept away from 
his eyes. Frequently he took opium and 
nodded in its fumes and dreamed away 
his pain. And he bought little jars of* 
drugs that ate up all the money he had 
set aside for a summer holiday. And al- 
ways those terrific headaches! As they 
grew in intensity he spent hours looking 

into the mirror at his eyes. They were 
beginning to haunt him, haunt him as 
the man in his story was haunted by his 
double. The more he looked into his eyes 
in the mirror, the more disconcerted he 
became. His face was growing thinner as 
if the eyes by a law of their own nature 
were feeding on the flesh. As he shaved 
in the morning, a mist came between him 
and the glass. He put his hand to his 
aching head. Was he not sufi'ering, per- 
haps, from the too ardent fatigue of love- 
making? The street-girl last night, for 
example, the stranger who had come into 
his life and gone out of it again in 
thirty minutes? 

One night Charles took his story about 
the man haunted by his double, and went 
to Henri's to meet the others. His head 
seemed to be bursting open. The icy 
wind was cruel, but even it was kinder 
than his solitary room where his only 
companions were those strange eyes in 
the mirror that looked at him with that 
burning stare. The back room at Henri's 
was hot and stuffy. The wine was good. 
Charles felt its warmth slip down his 
throat into his stomach; felt the peculiar 
tingling as his invigorated blood coursed 
through his veins. The ache in his head 
diminished. He felt good. There was 
much laughter and joking, many obsceni- 
ties. "Johnson" became very gay. It 
was good to be with his friends. It was 
good to be alive. 

Soon the conversation turned to litera- 
ture, and they were no longer clerks in 
an office. They were the budding intelli- 
gencia, bored with the follies of humanity, 
yet capturing those follies in the tip of 
their pens and making the mortal forever 
immortal. They were Bohemians, loving 
their wine, women, and song. They had 
in them that thing called genius, yet 

They read their plays, their poems, and 
their stories, and listened to the criticism. 


During the discussion of plots and ideas 
for writing yet to be done, Charles told 
them of his unfinished story about the 
man who was haunted by his double. The 
room was very quiet when he began to 
read it. Charles had had an article print- 
ed; so he was the logical leader of the 
group. His opinions were revered, and 
his work praised. From him they could 
learn. It was to Charles that they turned 
for guidance, just as he turned to them 
for love. 

As Charles read, their interested silence 
became something more. At first they 
were intent upon the words, but soon the 
words faded into a blurred monotone. 
They were no longer listening. They were 
watching. Their scrutiny of Charles 
changed from nonchalance to interest to 
fascination. Those eyes. They had never 
seen them like that before. They were no 
longer a part of Charles — they were living 
things, living things with no soul. Sud- 
denly the monotone stopped. The other 
started, embarrassed, as if they had been 
caught evesdropping, as if they had seen 
something shameful. Charles began to 
sway in his chair; his hand flew to his 
head. The others reached him in time 
to prevent him from striking the floor. 

When Charles opened his eyes, a 
strange man was standing over him. The 
walls were lined with a blurr of faces . . . 
the faces of his friends. The strange man 
was speaking. The words sounded like 
'\ . . coming out of it now . , . leave one 
of you help me get him home ..." The 
mist began to clear, and the faces moved 
toward the door. The strange man and 
one of the faces supported him, and they 
moved slowly toward the exit. 

Charles did not understand why he 
should be dying of a venereal disease con- 
tracted in a nameless, obscure moment — 
an adventure with a shadow. He did not 
understand, and he was terrified at the 
thought of death. Death was near, he 

knew. It was so near that he wanted to 
stretch out his arms to push it back. He 
saw it everywhere ... in the insects crush- 
ed in his path, in the frozen sparrow in 
the street, in the falling leaves, in the 
white hair of a passing stranger. 

Charles wondered that he had not 
realized the implication of those head- 
aches. He wondered that the others had 
not detected the slow mental and physical 
evolution that was now, suddenly, terribly 
obvious to him. His mind no longer 
seemed to be imprisoned in the cell of his 
skull. It was something apart from him 
— something all seeing and all knowing. 
It saw into the atoms of things — could 
it be because it had broken up into the 
atoms of things during the torture of 
those headaches? — it saw beyond the realm 
of plausibility. 

For Charles was no longer alone in his 
lonely room. One day as he was staring 
at his eyes in the mirror he turned quickly 
and found them staring back at him from 
the opposite wall. He turned again, but 
tney were still there wherever he looked. 
The, walls were lined with them, those in- 
human things. 

As the days passed the eyes disappeared, 
and with them went a little of the feeling 
oi: death, that monster that was spoiling 
for him all that he did, all that he saw, 
all that he ate and drank, all that he 
loved. The thought of his friends, ever 
present, loomed up above all else. He 
had not seen them since that last night 
at Henri's , . . that night he had fainted. 
Strange that none of them had come to 
see him. Charles could not understand 
their seeming disappearance. What were 
they doing now, what were they writing? 
Suddenly Charles felt an irresistable de- 
sire to see them, talk to them, laugh and 
drink with them. The desire was over- 
whelming. Even the terrible, cold snow 
wating for him outside his door could 
(Continued on Page 76) 

Oi Barses A^ttd 3€en 

arbara Needs 

When I stand in the field and study 
the "white barn", the old structure does 
not seem at all interesting. The roof 
sags forlornly like a swaybacked horse; 
the sides are patched with stray boards. 
covering ragged holes; and the bam is 
not actually white any more, but a silver 
grey, for seasons of rain, snow, and mid- 
western winds have peeled off the paint. 
Yet it has always been called "the white 
barn", and as far as I know, the name 
will remain the same until the last timber 
that supports the roof has rotted away. 
But when I step inside and close the 
sliding door behind me, something hap- 
pens. Not in appearance, certainly, because 
the clay floor is scooped hollow in spots, 
and ancient cobwebs sway over the heads 
of the horses occupying the sixteen stalls; 
but there is something, a feeling of soli- 
tude, I believe, not lonely but thoughtful 

For many years the "white barn" has 
listened to the talk of the people who pass 
in and out of its wide doorway, and has 

taken to itself the ones who return year 
after year to the shadow of its eaves. I 
do not know why these people come back, 
I do not know why I go back; but I have 
become reconciled to the mystery it holds 
and no longer attempt to search out the 
reason. Strange, but these people are 
possessed by the old barn. After long 
years, it knows well the hearts of the boys 
and girls who grew up exploring its cre- 
vices and discovering every board in the 
loft. These people are not conscious of 
the overall dilapidated condition of the 
building. Inside, the "white barn" is 
strong. The ones who understand this 
truth belong to the barn. 

When I am in the barn, I feel most 
comfortable slouched against a bale of 
hay or perched, like the stable cat, upon a 
partition between two stalls. And as I 
sit here alone, I often begin to think about 
horses and people. It is in the "white 
barn" that I have reached a conclusion, 
after some reflection and a great deal of 
analysis, that horses are like people and, 
if I may risk offending the delicate- 
minded reader, people are like horses. 
I have learned by watching the horses in 
the barn that they are as rich in character 
as people. Therefore I cannot understand 
the provincial human being who insists 
that the horse is a dumb animal. I ven- 
ture to say this same person also finds end- 
less fault with his fellow men. And why? 
He simply does not have the curiosity 
or will to try to understand either 
man or horse. There are horses and 
horses as well as people and people. I 
should no more condemn every horse as 
being a stupid creature than I should re- 
gard all human beings as being slow- 
witted or dull. Understanding grows 
from a study of character; and though 


character cannot be determined by definite 
outlines of black and white, consisting 
rather of shadows and shadings, one can 
usually find a tendency or distinguishing 
attribute that may serve to identify a per- 
son — or a horse. As far as I am con- 
cerned, it is the individual and his charac- 
ter that are important, nothing more, 
nothing less. 

As I glance down the two rows of stalls 
in the "white barn", I have an image of 
each horse's character as it distinguishes 
him from his neighbor. Each animal 
seems as powerfully individualistic as any 
person possibly can appear. From time 
to time I have met people whom I have 
disliked, but I have never known any 
man that I have detested as violently as 
I do the red roan mustang in the end 
stall. Lazy and malicious, he will avoid 
anything pertaining to work. Perhaps he 
is repugnant to me because I suspect, but 
will not admit, that he is more intelligent 
than I. From years of experience he can 
sense exactly which rider can manage him 
and which person is hesitant when riding a 
horse. His usual reaction is to lag at a 
monotonous pace which neither man nor 
bull-whip is able to enliven. This horse 
fears man, but is constantly looking for 
an opportunity to outwit his two-legged 
opponent. He has been punished in every 
conceivable manner — excepting the shot- 
gun method — but his wicked soul remains 
untouched. After one battle with him, 
from which I emerged shaken and broken 
in spirit, I faced the horse in the barn 
and noticed that he eyed me with cold 
and indifferent contempt. From that day 
to this I have not laid a hand on that 

Occasionally I have known people v;ho 
have attempted to be nonconformists. In 
the second stall to the right there is a non- 
descript bay horse who tried, also, to be 
something different from what he and his 
fellow horses are commonly accepted as 

being. This horse wanted to be a man. 
A futile desire, true, but his frustrated 
wish is sad because Bud deserves to walk, 
talk, and think upon a level with men; 
vs^hereas a great many human dolts, who 
think they are intelligent merely because 
they are fortunate enough to be included 
in the class of mammals known as human 
being, would disgrace the equine kingdom. 
This brown horse chews tobacco and is 
fond of Coca-Cola, but above all else he 
has a keen sense of business. In handling 
a group of horses and riders he is skillful 
and alert, needing no guiding hand in 
ofder to jostle a swerving horse back into 
line. With no signal from his rider, Bud 
has caught an escaping horse, brought 
him back to the group, and chastised the 
culprit with a nip on the shoulder. He 
minds his own affairs, however, and will 
do nothing under compulsion. If on rare 
occasions he does not wish to work, no can force him to submit. Not long 
ago, in view of his extraordinary character, 
people began to respect this rangy brown 

In judging the character of these horses 
I do not wish to overlook the chestnut 
animal in the middle stall. His name is 
Hobo, He is an example of the rather 
stupid but friendly type of horse. I be- 
came acquainted with him when he accom- 
pained me on a camping trip. After a 
tew days, when we got to know each 
other, he was friendly to the extent that 
he would have liked to crawl into my lap 
at the slightest encouragement. Since he 
stood head and shoulders above most other 
horses, he was not always aware of the 
fragile little people beneath his great pie- 
tin feet; and when he became affectionate, 
it required all my strength to push him 
away so that he would not follow me. 
He never did understand my vain efforts 
to discourage his approaches. Neverthe- 
less I enjoyed his company because he 
really tried to please the people or horses 


he liked. Yes, lie even fell in love with 
a little mare that was journeying with us; 
but in this situation also he was dis- 
couraged, this time by an arrogant pie- 
bald gelding. At the end of the trip, as 
I said good-bye to Hobo and walked to- 
ward the entrance of the barn, he stuck his 
nose over the top of the stall and whinnied 
loudly. He is the only animal, man or 
horse, I believe, that has seemed sad to 
see me leave. In contrast to Hobo, I 
should like to say something about the 
tiny bay mare in the stall beside him. She 
has the inborn beauty and grace of na- 
ture's creatures that no man can copy in 
his artistic attempts, but her character be- 
lies her beauty. She is anti-social. She dis- 
likes other horses as well as all men; and 
though I call for her every day, she has 
shown no signs of accepting me. Since I 
own her, I thought we might reach an 
agreement wherein each of us would go 
half-way toward being friends, but she 
will have none of my schemes and con- 
tinues to ignore me. 

The old bam grows dim with evening, 
and soon I shall break the spell; but before 
leaving I should like to call attention to 
the two horses that stand directly opposite 
each other. These animals are the wise 
ones of the "white barn". The tall, bony, 
black horse with the lines of fine breeding 
in his delicate, withered head I shall dis- 
miss by saying that his wisdom is derived 
from thirty years of work and experience. 
Unlike many persons whose life span is 
great, nearly every horse, if he lives as 
long as this horse and possesses an ounce 
of intelligence, will become wise. In the 
other stall stands Jim. His wisdom is not 
a result of age, but for some unfathomable 
reason he has a magical power that com- 
mands my respect. Often I notice him 
looking off across the horizon with his 
head held high. At these times he is a- 

ware of no activity going on nearby; 
rather he seems to be searching beyond 
the skyline, and perhaps seeing something 
far greater than mere horse or man. I 
believe I would trust Jim in any sort of 
situation, not because of his quiet strength 
and calm that remain steadfast despite 
any disconcerting turmoil going on about 
him. One day, after an afternoon shower, 
the trail dust had been changed to a 
slippery scum of mud. Intent upon com- 
pleting an errand, I galloped Jim around 
a curve; when he struck the mud, he 
turned a half somersault and crashed onto 
his side. Dazed and frightened, I sat up. 
I expected to see the big horse injured, or 
if not hurt, then flying toward the freedom 
of a distant field. But instead he stood 
above me quietly, waiting, his head lower- 
ed a bit as if inquiring whether I had 
learned my lesson and was now prepared 
to proceed along the way. 

These horses and their characters are 
about all I have time to tell about. As I 
leave the barn, however, I recall an inci- 
dent which I overheard in the bam yard 
one summer afternoon. A narrow-faced 
man stood beside an alert little horse 
whose twitching ears belied a sense of 
humor. The gentleman was gesturing 
wildly and complaining of the stupidity 
and stubbornness of this animal which he 
had only recently purchased. This person 
then made the great mistake of asking a 
bystander how he could learn to ride on 
a completely dumb animal. The onlooker 
was one of the boys who belonged to the 
"white barn", and as he looked slowly 
and steadily at the angry gentleman, the 
boy drawled a reply. 

"Mister, I don't know; but before 
criticizing, I'd sure like to hear that httle 
horse's side of the argument. But then, 
I guess he's got manners enough to keep 
his thoughts to himself." 


Rhytne and Tiwne 



By Barbara Smith 

A hill set alone 
A figure in the sun 
Laughter in the distance 
Bees close at hand 
Warmth in the ground 
Cold in the heart. 

By Nancy Fuller 

You talk, and in your talk there is nothings 
Only the empty husks of dried-up thoughts 
That rustle vaguely as you sort among them 
For the words you speak. I sit and listen, 
Hearing scarcely half of what you say, while love, 
Within my breast, darts frantically about 
And beats its wings against the bars of reason. 
Your voice flows on, around and through me, 
Till your relentless words so permeate my soul. 
That love sinks, finally exhausted, in my heart. 
Too tried to struggle longer, and those wings 
At last are quiet. So I answer, "You are right" 
And watch the secret smile af satisfaction 
Slowly spread itself across your empty face. 




I feel it first back of my mind — 

Then the tingling, disturbing sensation at my fingertips — 
I pause a moment, form the dream; 
And here upon this sheer it finds its birth, 
My poem. 

-Jane Ellen Tye 

I sit hy the window in a classroom 

So I can dream. 

I try to follow words in grammar books 

But I cannot, 

They are so dull 

I find my thoughts 

Going back to the window every time. 

On past the window to the hills 
My eyes go following some happy sparrow 
And I, too, am winging through the skies 
past the dim and dead reality. 

Out where wild honeysuckle thrills the woodlands 
And greenest grass goes blowing in the wind . . . 

^ere morning glories, dipped in dew, go climbing 
Up the rafter to some wonderland. 

For my imagination takes to wandering 

lany twisted trails and winding roads, 
And I do not hear the rumbling of the voices 
Until the teacher calls my name, 
And then, the crystal breaks, and all the pieces shatter, 

search for words, and speak with crude confusion . . . 
And so at last I've come to this CMiclusion: 

I think that you should change my seat at once! 

The Liand Beyt^wtd 

By Marion Frederick 

Melinda was quietly sleeping, dreaming 
of Christmas in July. Curled up like a 
kitten, she was sleeping on a narrow, iron 
cot, comfortably fitting the sag that all 
narrow, iron cots seem to have. The nar- 
row, iron cot was in an open tent with 
five other iron cots all fitted identically 
with sags and healthy, pre-adolescent Girl 
Scouts who might have been dreaming of 
anything or nothing. Melinda, however, 
was dreaming of very specific things. 
She was a Realist. She saw life as it was 
and no more, except for constant dreams 
of singing opera, ballet dancing, speaking 
in Congress, or killing Japs with her bare 
hands but, after all, these things were 
perfectly possible. She had within her 
her tremendous potentialities, terrific ones. 
Because of this attitude of stark Realism, 
she missed the aching blue of the lake, 
the slim wavering reflections of the hem- 
locks, the pines that grew as tall as the 
sky, and the cool, lilting chorus of big 
bull frog and little bull frog from 
"Brumps" that lulled her to sleep ever}' 
night. The only impression the soaking 
sun made on her was to turn her a shade 
darker. But, back in her Realistic dream, 
Melinda was dreaming of Christmas in 
July, How well rounded that would make 
the year if there were two Christmases! 
She was dreaming in technicolor, in ela- 
borate detail. Clearly she saw bicycles, 
hunting knives, jack-knives with can- 
openers, nail files, bottle-openers, tooling 
blades, and bark-skinning blades, sail- 
boats, and suddenly, all too clearly, she 
saw a pink satin, quilted bed jacket from 
Aunty Nell, How revolting! How per- 
fectly senile of Aunty Nell to send her a 
bed jacket, a pink satin, quited bed jacket. 
She woke with a start. She had a bad 
taste in her mouth. 

Carefully bringing her mind back to 
reality with no Christmas in July, she 
began to wonder why girls have to snore. 
In the first place, it was definitely un- 
musical, and in the second, it was unin- 
telligent since they could be heard by 
anyone prowling around. 

A slight scratching sound broke into 
her philosophic meditadon. She listened 
for a minute and then, after scarcely a 
moment of trepidation, with true cour- 
age and daring, with hardly a dream of 
coming back alive, she rose, grabbed her 
flashlight, and set out to investigate. 
Paddy-footing softly through the rustling 
scrub pine with ears cocked, she located 
a tree which seemed the center of the 
slight scratching sound. She swung the 
flashlight into place, flicked it on, and 
found herself face-to-face with a baby 
wampus. Both stared for a second, each 
looking into identical baby blue eyes shot 
with surprise, 

Melinda recovered first. She reached — 
and missed. The wampus recovered a 
second too soon and went scuttling up the 
tree. It was one of the tall pines that 
seemed to reach for the sky that Melinda 
had never noticed. She was to regret this 
oversight later. But now, realistically de- 
ciding in a flash that her sleep for the 
night was ruined, she laid plans to cap- 
ture the wampus. If Frank Buck could 
bring back rare and unusual animals, so 
could she. There is nothing rarer or more 
unusual than a wampus, as everyone 
knows, and she, Melinda Sherman O'Brien 
Richardson, would be world famous. Vis- 
ions of herself in the newsreels dressed 
in shiny puttees, khaki shirt open at the 
neck, a white sun helmet on, with a wam- 
pus on a leash, danced before her eyes. 

With great agility she began her as- 


cent. Shinnying for a while in the pitch 
dark is rough, she decided realistically. 
The scratching sounds were above her 
still. For a baby, the wampus was quite 
fast. With grit and determination, never- 
theless, she continued up and up and up. 
Branches appeared, and the going was a 
little easier. This tree was a great deal 
taller than the rest, she discovered. It 
towered over all the others. Pausing for 
a minute, she looked down and saw the 
camp spread out around her; the lake 
seemed to be the size of a small puddle. 
Then she continued. 

She followed the scratching sounds up 
and up and up, carefully noting the 
branches she used, being sure they were 
not brittle. 

She M'ent through one cloud after an- 

Her head struck with a dull thud. 
Cautiously she put her hand out towards 
the something which had produced a dull 
thud. This last cloud had a fairly solid 
lower crust. Her head had cracked it. 
Carefully she looked around her for the 
deep blue of the summer sky at midnight. 
She wasn't looking for the deepness or 
the blueness (after all, all skies are blue, 
anybody knows that) but just for some 
reassuring sky. The cloud with the solid 
crust extended for almost as far as she 
could see above her. There was a patch 
of sky over on the right but, it was 
entirely negligible. 

The wampus had disappeared. He had 
to go through the cloud. She cracked 
the crust a httle bit more and climbed 
through. The wampus must have slid 
through very close to the tree. There 
were blue hairs caught on the bark. She 
put them in her pocket and continued. 
Up and up and up she climbed through 
the damp, opaque thickness. Up and up 
and up. 

Suddenly she broke through. Blinding 
sunlight dazzled her, made her blink. She 

began to see people all around her, but 
the cloud was too prismatic to step on; 
so she clung to the tree like a monkey, 
slightly mortified. There were millions 
of people; they stretched for as far as 
the eye could see. They were ordinary 
people, all dressed in royal blue; dresses, 
suits, skirts and sweaters, knickers, hats, 
socks, stockings, coats and scarves, everv 
stitch they wore, as far as Melinda could 
see was brilliant, royal blue. These peo- 
ple were all exactly three feet tall, all of 
them, thin ones, fat ones, muscular, flab- 
by, young, middle-aged, or old, babies 
and grandfathers. They stood uniform 
at three feet. Most startling of all, they 
were wearing royal blue snowshoes. They 
milled around with a sort of swooshing 
motion to keep themselves from sliding 
through the cloud. Their feet seemed 
to be in perpetual motion. 

"This is biologically impossible," 
thought Melinda. "Children cannot be 
born as large as their mothers. Neverthe- 
less — such a thing is — and there is un- 
doubtedly a good reason for it. Realistic- 
ally thinking, it is impossible and yet, it 
is possible — since it is." 

And then she blinked. The wampus 
was in plain view. He was just sitting 
there, leering at her. He was on the end 
of a royal blue leash held in the hand of 
a girl who looked to be about her own 
age. She hadn't seen him at first, since 
his own brilliant, royal blue coloring 
matched the clothes of the people. He 
blinked at her again and waved his fox's 

As if at a signal, there was a general 
stir in the crowd and thousands of little, 
royal blue wampuses appeared between 
the legs of the people and then wax-ed 
their tails at her derisively. 

"My word," thought Melinda, "so this 
is where they all go." Aloud she sniffied 
and said with sly nastiness, "We always 
thought all the wampuses disappeared in 


the Other Direction. Now I see you're 
all here — in this Land Beyond." 
"Natch," said the wampus loftily. 

"Unfortunately, they are all here, as 
you see, instead of where creatures like 
that belong," came a voice from the 
crowd. An old man glided forward on 
his snowshoes. In his hand he carried a 
little wooden platform. Mehnda climbed 
off the tree and graciously accepted the 
board. She straightened her green and 
yellow pajamas and stood there, keeping 
a rather precarious balance. 

"In this unhappy land," the old man 
continued, "we are ruled by a ruthless, 
iron hand. Fifty kallams ago (years to 
you, my dear) , the Land Beyond was 
nearly rid of the scourge of wampuses. 
Extermination laws were in effect; boun- 
ties were given for their skins — they make 
a beautiful dye, you know — and with this 
industry, we lived in peace and pros- 

The crowd rustled behind him omi- 
nously. He glanced nervously over his 
shoulder and spoke more rapidly. 

"I must be quick," he said. "But re- 
member— YOU MUST HELP US." 

He faded away as a burly man of nor- 
mal size shouldered* his way roughly 
through the crowd. The mass of little, 
blue people disappeared in the thick 
cloud by using the simple expedient of 
tipping their snow shoes and sliding down 
to a lower level, where diey could listen 
unseen. Melinda felt their presence and 
braced herself on the platform. 

The burly man was different. He was 
dressed in a loud, red checkered suit, a 
dark green shirt, and a flowing yellow 
tie with a diamond stick pin. His snow- 
shoes were of silver with sparkling jewels 
around the edges. He chewed on a big, 
black cigar. Melinda was completely alone 
with him. Even the wampuses had dis- 
appeared. The flash of foxes' tails was 
all that was seen. The burly man turned 

to watch the blankness for a moment and 
Melinda could not help staring. The man 
had a royal blue fox's tail swishing back 
and forth under the jacket of his suit. 
The burly man was the Cliief Wampus. 
He turned back to Melinda. 

' Whadaya think you're doin' here?" 
he snarled. "You think you're gonna 
take back a wampus, huh? Well — Zat 
H'hat ya think?" 

"Why-a-er-a. Well-a," stammered the 
tearless Melinda. Then she remembered 
what a Realist she was. That this could 
not be, she knew, therefore, should not 
be frightened. Also she was a Girl Scout 
of great courage and daring. She had 
caught a porcupine once. She lifted her 


'"That is precisely what I mcend to do." 
And she bent over, grabbed the edge of 
her platform and tipped h, gliding down 
into the cloud. 

'^'^Come back here! Come back here, 
~3Jid Fil show ya," she heard him bellow; 
but fearless Melina began to think that 
discretion could easily be the better part 
of valor and kept right on gliding. She 
bumped into people who were blue shad- 
ows m the cloud and they tried to stop 
her, Finally the voice of the old man 
held her. "You must stay, child. You 
must stay and help us. Anything in the 
Land Beyond is yours if you do. We 
have been oppressed for many years." 
His gentle, withered hand found her arm. 
"Listen and let me tell you." 

Coming close behind her, she heard the 
snarl of the burly man in the red check- 
ered suit. "Commere, kid. Maybe we can 
reach some sort of agreement. Commere!" 

"Be still. He'll never And you," whis- 
pered the old man. The glide of snow- 
shoes passed them closely; the backwash 
nearly knocked them over. Both Melinda 
and the old man shivered, 

"As I was saying — I was once king of 
(Continued on Page 66) 


3Mediiaiian On A. Rainy 

By Marjorie Gilmore 

A dressing table gives one the most per- 
fect insight imaginable into the character 
of a woman. The type of dressing table 
is the first characteristic. There are those 
who favor little low stands, draped ex- 
travagantly with brightly flowered chintz 
flounces and separate, huge, round mirrors. 
This type of table is usually littered 
beyond recognition with numerous small, 
round, fat bottles and jars. Along the back 
there is a long row of the most weirdly- 
shaped containers this side of the moon. 
There are tiny little bottles with monstrous 
cut class stoppers, square bottles with fur 
caps, pencil-slim bottles with pancake lids, 
and on and on. From these containers 
there issue odors of overpowering maj- 
esty. These are milady's personality. 
Her character is ably presented by the 
amount of artifice present, and on this 
frilly, cluttered stand one is undeniably 
able to discover such articles as eyelash 
curlers, mascara, eyeshadow, brilliantine, 
et cetera. In the more advanced cases 
false hair pieces, synthetic eyelashes, and 
celluloid fingernails are present. The 
young lady — and to her, her thirty-five 
years are VERY young — who owns this 
monstrosity considers herself a femme 
fatale. Her life is one of breakfast in 
bed, luncheon at the Ritz, cocktails till 
six, and dinner on a roof garden. She is 
a perfect study for one of Dorothy 
Parker's humorous satires. Her mind is 
shallow, small, and as cluttered with pre- 
judice as the curved glass top of her 
dressing table. If she is unmarried, she 
spends hours primping in order to attract 
a male at a tea who can be flattered into 
squiring her to dinner, where she makes 
eyes at anything of the opposite sex, re- 

gardless of age or occupation. If she is 
married, she considers her husband mere- 
ly a burden she must bear in order to se- 
cure the money and position requisite to 
her happiness. As a most concisive 
epitaph to this degenerate piece of wom- 
ankind, let me say that her worst fault is 
that she has nothing in herself which can 
entertain her. Five minutes alone and she 
is so bored that no measure to join other 
people is too desperate. She disgusts me 
and I abhor her; yet, somehow, I pity her, 

Our second dressing table is austere, 
cold, and awe-inspiring. It is usually 
square, rather high, and of some dark 


wood. The scarf is an unadorned strip 
of spotless white linen. The only visible 
articles on its gleaming surface are a 
small hand morror with a tortoise shell 
back, a matching large-tooth tortoise 
comb, a brush with bristles as firm and up- 
standing as the Rock of Gibraltar, and 
to one side a small, respectable bottle with 
a plain label: Lavender Water. If the 
owner of this article of furniture should 
happen on the scene, you would gaze 
upon a tall, slim woman in a black or 
navy-blue tailored suit, wearing sensible, 
low-heeled oxfords. Her hair would be 
smooth, perhaps in a page boy, perhaps 
drawn into a knot — depending on the 
amount of influence wielded by that bottle 

of Lavender Water. Never an irrevelant 
idea or an unrespectable thought enters 
the uncluttered, dogmatic, perfectly pid- 
geon-holed cranium of this heroine. Her 
actions, thoughts, and deeds are as spot- 
lessly pure as her linen dresser scarf. Had 
the bottle contained Lilac Water I might 
say that occasionally she looked at her 
gay counterpart and wished fleetingly for 
romance and excitement. But with Laven- 
der Water! Her solitude and fastidious- 
ness were all she desired. 

Me — I'm glad I am one of the more 
priveleged sex. A man may do with his 
belongings as he desires and no woman 
dare criticize — for is he not Lord of the 

^ ^inh L4pon ^he ^€tnd& \^i 

By Eileen Springstun 

You cruel, sadistic, selfish gods, you gave 
Me willingly the light, and then cried, "No!" 
When through the shades beyond my tiny glow 
I tried to penetrate. Cruel gods, you save 
Omnipotence by losing in this maze 
That fragile instrument that would below. 
Above, beyond the cosmos, and you, go 
Into that knowing nothingness someplace, 
If you'd not bound me to this earthly dust. 
You crush me, and you tear my flesh with chains 
That hold ofF all attempts of mortal minds 
To satisfy esthetic wants and lust 
For life, that knowing life I cannot gain. 
In death will you relent, and let me find? 


Over There A. Space • . . 

Maryjane Hooper 

Frank could hear May Etta moving 
around upstairs . . . light little footsteps 
on the floor above ... as she packed his 
bag. He was relaxing in the big chair 
by the fire, lazily puffing rings of smoke 
from his pipe and writing down final 
instructions for Dr. Washington Ely. 

May Etta called down from the head 
of the stairs, "Honey, do you want me 
to pack your tweed suit?" 

He answered in a deep voice, distin- 
guished by its throaty accent, "No. It'll 
be warmer in Georgia. My blue flannel 
will be enough." 

She went back into the bedroom, and 
he went back to his last-minute instruc- 
tions. He was telling Ely about Mrs. 
Milligan, reminding him to call on her 
once or twice a week just to make certain 
that she was feeling all right. 

A smile slowly spread across his face 
as he thought of Mrs. Milligan. If it 
hadn't been for the war and the lack of 
doctors, she never would have been one 
of his patients. But there had been the 
war, and he was the only doctor she could 

How well he remembered her surprise 
when she found that his prescribed treat- 
ments were actually helping her. "By 
golly," she had said, "you're as good as 
a real doctor." 

He finished writing, took off his glass- 
es, and purely out of habit, rubbed his 
eyes and took out a clean hankie to wipe 
his glasses. That done, he went upstairs 
to join May Etta. 

She was tugging at a hand bag 
packed with more clothes than it was 
built to hold. He walked over, gently 
pushed her aside and with his big hands, 
quickly snapped the bag closed in one 

"Darling," his wife said, "you don't 
know how much I wish you weren't 
going. It'll be our first separation, you 

She was standing by him, her head 
barely reaching his broad shoulders. He 
put his arm around her. "I have to go," 
he said. "I don't like to go back there, 
but if mother wants me . . ." 

"Even in the big city of Chicago," she 
said, "it isn't always easy. And down 
there it'll be worse," 

"Don't I know?" he said, "wasn't I 
born and raised in Jonesboro?" 

"But of course," May Etta said, mov- 
ing closer, "if your mother's as bad off 3s 
they all say, it's only right 'n natural she 
should have the best doctor in the whole 

He gave her a gentle squeeze and 
lightly kissed her upturned face. 

It was all arranged. Dr. Washington 
Ely would take care of his patients until 
he returned. If there were any questions, 
he would leave word with the telephone 
operator in Jonesboro to accept long dis- 
tance calls for him. 

"Maybe they won't call you to the 
phone," May Etta said. 

He made no answer ... it was quite 

She went with him to the door. He 
kissed her again as they stood looking 
out toward the narrow road. Picking up 
his handbag, he started out. He stopped 
where the path of his house joined the 
sidewalk of the street. Turning, he 
waved to May Etta, who was leaning 
against the dorway next to the sign . . . 
his sign . . . the small shiny bronze plate 
with raised letters reading, "Frank Per- 
kins, M.D," He was glad that May Etta 
was not going back with him. For all the 


world he could not stand to see her hurt. 
Even here, as much and as hard as he 
cried to shelter her, the thorns sometimes 
came through. 

Swinging down the street toward the 
"L," he mentally calculated that he had 
three hours before train time. He pre- 
ferred it that way. That way he could 
take his time. That way he could have 
time to stop off and see his Sis. 

Stretching long legs in a proud stride, 
he walked with dignity down the street. 
A tall man he was, well built, wearing a 
blue overcoat, a dark homburg, and a 
neat pin stripe blue suit. 

^'Hello Doc," a hearty greeting rang 
out as he passed a bare-headed man. It 
was Mr. Owen, the grocer who lived in 
a cozy little house two doors from his 
own little home. Doc Perkins returned 
the friendly greeting and felt good. 

"Good evening, doctor!" The words 
seemed to shake hands with him each 
time he passed one of his neighbors. Deep 
inside, Dr. Perkins felt a glow of warmth 
in knowing that he had a good place in 
the world ... a place where he could 
help others. 

At the corner, the three little Carmelir- 
to girls were skipping rope. He almost 
tripped over one of them. They stopped 
playing and stood back in almost reverent 
respect to let the "good doctor" pass. 

His smooth white teeth flashed a smile. 
The smallest of the three spoke up, ^'Hi, 
doctor." The greeting was hardly adui- 
ble, but he returned the hello with a 
hearty laugh. 

"Lord, how they grow," he thought. 
'Why, the first time I saw Yvonne . . ." 
And he chuckled. 

He found Sis in her dressing room in 
the Dixie Club. The sign on the door 
read, "Miss Roberta Robinson," but it 
was Sis' dressing room just the same. 

She wrapf>ed her arms around his neck 
as soon as he entered. "Sis," he said, 

"you look beautiful. That white evening 
dress was made for nobody but you, and 
don't let them tell you different." 

"Frank/' she said, "Frank, it's so good 
to see you. You don't come often." 

"I've been pretty busy at nights." 

"How's May Etta?" 

"Wonderful. Sometime I'm going to 
bring her over and see if it's true what 
I've been reading lately." 

"And what's that?" she asked coyly. 

"Only that my sis is the best little 
blues singer in all of Chicago." 

She laughed and led him over to her 
dressing table. They sat there holding 
hands. People were moving past the 
door, but it was quiet inside. In a itw 
minutes they were both serious, 

"So you're going back," Sis said. 

"Yes,," he replied. 

"I guess it's right, Frank. I guess so.. 
But did you ever think how far. 'way 
we've gotten?" 

"Yes, I know," he said. 

"We haven't seen Mom in fifteen 
years. All she's been is those scrawled 
chicken tracks you could hardly read, 
coming once in two or three months. 
That and the memory of our first years." 

"Not a good memory either," he said, 
"but that v/asn't her fault." 

"No,"' Sis said. "It wasn't. But she 
should have let us bring her out as soon 
as we had the money. She should have 
let xjs do that." 

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe. But she 
probably wouldn't have been any hap- 

"No,. Probably not." 

"I owe it to her to go back this timie. 
I doubt tf I can save her, but at least I 
o'vve it to her to go back. She worked 
hard to start both of us on our way." 

There vt^as silence. At last Sis said, 
"When are you leaving?" 

"Tonight," he said. 

Hoidins hands rhev sat there. ■ 


Looking into the mirror on her table, 
they saw the portrait of the two of them 
together, the tall man in the blue pin 
stripe suit and the exotic woman in the 
evening dress. 

"Good luck, Frank," Sis said. 

Afterwards he walked. He couldn't 
say where. Up one street and down an- 
other, looking in shop windows., searching 
the eyes of his fellow human beings who 
passed him on the street, watching lights 
appear and then go out again in the eyes 
of the buildings, looking everywhere and 
yet seeing nothing but the picture his 
memory gave him of an ugly, emaciated 
old woman lying on a rumpled bed in a 
sordid shack in Jonesboro. 

He could not say where he walked. 
At about eleven o'clock he was in Union 
Station, drinking a soda in the drug store. 

How much later he couldn't say, but 
later still, he was in his berth on the 

train, edgmg south. At first it moved 
slowly — then it gained speed, snorting 
smoke and shouting at every crossing and 
whistle stop along the way. 

He slept well that night. 

In the morning, he awoke in time to 
look down on the wide waters of the 
Ohio River, as the train crossed from 
the Indiana to the Kentucky side. Ar 
Louisville the line ended, and he had 
to switch trains to go further south. 

He carried his full-packed handbag 
into the dingy station. He sat down in 
the waiting room, and in a few minutes 
cursed himself for not remembering. 

A cheerful red-faced man in a blue 
railroad station agent's uniform came 
over to him. The man did not shout. He 
looked at the well-groomed man, silently 
appraising him, and said, "Sorry, you 
can't sit there, sir. The colored waiting 
room is over there a space." 


By Nancy Lou Fuller 

You told me from the very first 

That this was just an interlude, 

A breath between two sighs, a strange 

And moving strain of music wrought 

To bring a moment's pleasure, then 

To vanish, leaving after in 

The quivering air only the tremor 

Of remembered chords to touch 

The ear with dying melody. 

I listened to your words, but there 

Within the circle of your arms 

The music swelled into a song 

To make my heart forget somehow. 

The briefness of the music, and 

For me the interlude became 

And endless, haunting symphony. 


Any l^iaeeite Hangs His Hat 

By Barbara Needs 

At the junction of the Akron Highway 
and Erie Railroad there is a small diner 
called the Green Thistle. The green 
neon sign, shaped like a thumb, points 
at the restaurant and flashes "hamburg- 
ers" on and off through the long nighL 
The place has become an habitual rende- 
vous for me through the years; I stop 
here, now, almost every night on my way 
home. I am not the only person, how- 
ever, to whom the Green Thistle is a 
familiar landmark, for everyone in the 
township spends a few minutes there, 
now and then. 

One night, as the eleven twenty-two 
freight rumbled by, I was drinking a 
last cup of coffee. The banging cars and 
throbbing undertones caused the water- 
glasses to jump on the shelf and the 
mirror behind the cash register to shiver. 
With a practiced hand Russ, the owner 
of the diner, caught the bottle of ketchup 
at it spiraled off the ledge. As he set it 
cautiously on the counter, he lifted one 
eyebrow, winked in my direction, and 
spoke to the only other occupant of the 

"Hey, George, there goes your train. 
Better step on it or you'll miss 'er when 
she slows down at the switch." 

"I ain't in no hurry," and George 
laughed quietly as if he shared in the 
joke. Then he looked down at the steam 
curling from his coffee mug. His name 
is George The Finn. Run the three words 
together, and they fit nearly together on 
the tongue. No one knows his last name. 
Since it is Finnish, no one could pro- 
nounce it probably, so it does not matter. 
George is a road bum, you might say; 
and I doubt if he would deny the fact. 

Russ was feeling amiable that night. 

Saturday is a good day for customers, 
especially those driving the highways over 
the week-end; the children out of school 
bring him business, too. Perhaps he was 
feeling rather satisfied and a bit smug. 
He flicked a clean towel across the face 
of the counter, then leaned on one elbow. 
He knew somehow, and so did I, that 
George was going somewhere; and as was 
George's wont, he might not be back for 
awhile. There is no sure sign, but when a 
man is going traveling, you feel his 
purpose without his telling you so. 

"Say, Finn," Russ said, striving for a 
serious tone, "why don't you settle down, 
get yourself a steady job — you're a crack 
teamster — and maybe get married?" 

George The Finn laughed the low 
rolling laugh again. "Was married once, 
ain't that enough?" 

"What happened?" 

"Didn't like the woman. Picked up 
and left." 

Russ was only faintly moved. "Ya 
know, in all the years you been around 
these parts I never knowed you was mar- 
ried. That's the trouble with you kind 
of guys, never say nothing about your- 
selves. Guess there ain't nothing worth 
saying. Just keep rolling along. Now 
look at me. Got a nice enough place, 
good business; I make out okay as far as 
money's concerned. Have a good time 
on my day off. Let the wife take over 
then. You oughta have a wife and kids. 
I seen you buy the kids around here ice 
cream and candy lots of times, so you 
must like 'em." George remained im- 
passive to these thrusts. Russ changed 
the subject. "Where you going this 
time?" He should have known better 
than to ask that question. 

George stirred his coffee. "Anywhere." 


^^See, you ain't even got a sure place iii 
mind. You goin' far?" 

"Far as far goes." George swallowed 
the coffee, wiped his mouth with the back 
of his hand, and stood up. 

Russ eyed him skeptically, probably 
doubting his principles of Ufe as well as 
his billfold; but George merely nodded to 
me, indicating that he was paying for m.y 
coffee too. He dug into a pocket and 
tossed the money on the counter. Russ 
punched the register key, and the bell 
tinkled reassuringly as the drawer sprang 
open. He spoke in the tone of a person 
who is not interested in the strange phi- 
losophies of some people, but, neverthe- 
less, dislikes to see anyone blind and 
ignorant to truth and common sense. "I 
don't get you road bums, that's for sure. 
You don't know where you come from 
and don't know where you're goin'. 
That's something any fool should know." 
George The Finn pushed open the door 
and stood for a moment, clutched by the 
shadows outside. There was a half-mock- 
ing smile on his face as he answered. 
"Do you?" 



By Jane Erwin 

Not all Minerva's skill could now redeem 

The shattered pieces of what used to be 

My perfect hope — a spark of God in me, 

My wings to rise above the strife — my dream. 

And then a thoughtless word that broke the beam 

Of hope was uttered all unknowingly 

And broke and scattered wild as foam at sea 

The lovely, fragile pattern of my dream. 

If I could find the strength to piece it back, 

The mended whole would never be the same. 

And so I'll sweep aside the shattered mass 

And build again a dream without the track 

Of disillusionment so apt to lame 

Even the perfect beauty of a dream. 


On Beimg JPubiie JPw&pewtx 

By Susan 

The average person has not experienced 
it. The average person will never have 
the opportunity to experience it. But I 
have — and will — for my eternity. People 
who consider me lucky, amusing, capable 
of having more fun than they, do not 
know the whole truth of the situation. 
They never consider its one obvious, yet 
apparently latent, hindrance — there is no 
privacy. I am doomed to lead a life on 
public property. 

I have never escaped the clutches of it. 
It is always present. It is there, with me, 
wherever I go. It causes embarrassing 
situations, humorous situations, trying 
ones, uncomfortable ones. It is part of 
the role that makes up my being. And 
only those who are companions of my 
fate realize my predicament. It is the 
consequence of being an identical twin. 

This involves various situations uncom- 
mon to many people, such a leading a 
very public life. There is a certain art to 
being a piece of public property. It in- 
volves a pleasant voice, a sincere tone, and 
an ability to tolerate anything and every- 
thing. I meet many types of people; they 
all, however, must ask the same questions. 
Their greetings, though, are individual, 
they think. I have learned to answer to 
any name. I am The Twin, Twinnie, 
"the other one." "which one — ?" I auto- 
matically turn at the mention of my sis- 
ter's name, which adds to the confusion 
of the addresser. The lazy ones, or com- 
pletely bewildered ones call me merely by 
my last name. And those with no initia- 
tive simply use^ "Hey, you!" 

Morning, noon, and night I am hound- 
ed by twin lovers or people with streaks 
of curiosity. They discuss among them- 
selves, before my very eyes, their direct 
opinions on all my affairs. There is no 



concealment of facts. . . . "Your face is 
fuller — are you fatter?^' . . . Do you 
ever argue?" . . . "Say, I always wanted 
to know, how do you decide what to 
wear in the morning?" . . . "How do you 
know you're you?" . . . No, I think your 
eyes slant more. Oh, turn around and let 
me figure out what's different in back." 
. . . "Now change places with each other 
\sAvXt I hide my eyes and see if I can tell 
you apart." . . . "No! You're wrong. See, 
it's the color of their skin." . . . "Oh, I'd 
just love to be a twin — what's it like?" 

There are those people (an average 
of nine out of ten) who have the special 
privilege of talking to twins because their 
grandfather's uncle was a twin, and my! 
twins are so interesting! Then follows 
the long recounting of uncle's life history 
and experiences. These talks are con- 
cluded with the usual remark, "I just had 
to tell you. Being twins I thought you 
would be interested." 

And there are always the old ladies. 
They are the ones who insist that the 
twins serve tea to their garden club 
friends because they "look so cute to- 
gether." Twins are of the symmetrical 
design, and therefore are needed defi- 
nitely at each end of the table because 
they balance the centerpiece, and present 
a general impression of orderly arrange- 
ment. "The darling twins" of course 
comply to their wishes, for it is a duty 
expected of them. 

There is another unique characteristic 
that twins possess, that is, I am not an 
individual, nor does my public wish me 
to be. In fact, it is a common trait that 
my sister and I are thought of as one. 
Often have I attended dinners and dis- 
covered, to my hostess' profound embar- 
rassment, the lack of one complete din- 

ner mat. ('*Oh, goodness, I forgot the 
twins are two people!") And similarly it 
is scandalous if I am not dressed like my 
twin. They must know why there is a 
difference in our choice of dress, and pity- 
be on me if my excuse is not a plausible 
one. Of course on such occasions comes 
the familiar phrase, "Look, they aren't 
twins any more. Now I can tell them 
apart." And of course on such occasions 
I emit a silvery tinkle of laughter. 

I cannot retreat from staring eyes. As 
a result of my "unusual" predicament I 
am accustomed to scrutinizing and as- 
tounded glances. There are the groups of 

heads that turn in perfect unison on 
street corners, in buses, restaurants, and 
theater lobbies; or the people on the side- 
walks who say, "I shouldn't have had 
that last one," "Double exposure," and 
"Am I seeing double?" Naturally, they 
comment and laugh over their original 
quips, but I have a different version. I 
do admit they are amusing, particularly 
after the six-hundredth time. 

I need not stand on a pedestal, or call 
attention to myself by outward means. 
For my sister and I are public features, 
set out for observation at all hours, on 
public property. 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

The Lady of Roses walks in her garden 

Touching the velvet petals with care. 

The bells of the village toll sunset hour. 

For the gold sun sets in her hair. 

A diamond dewdrop she places upon them. 

Then with her fingers, soft and white. 

She blesses each one with a whispered prayer 

And closes their blooms for the night. 

The Lady of Roses walks through her garden 

And moonbeams follow her feet. 

Her gown trailing softly, with musical themes, 

The gentle night wind, over-sweet. 

The star's silver sand she scatters about 

As she dances to night's lullabies . . . 

Her kisses takes flight and sparkle about 

On the wings of the wild fireflies. 

My Lady of Roses smiles at her work, 

The beauty of God on her face. 

Then she gathers her cloak about her form, 

And silendy fades into space. 


^our Wo 


By Camille Hancock 

The four women sat together in the Stardust. 

Spring was a child, in girlhood's mantle clothed, 

While hiacinths were woven in the loose golden waterfall 

Of her hair; blue hiacinths hid behind her eyes, 

And life was impatient in her naked feet 

Which loved to fly through mossy wooded places, with the wind 

Scarce touching earth. 

The second sat, and smiled to see the 
Joy of the first. Summer was sloe-eyed 
And gentle. Long slender fingers lay open in her lap. 
And behind her eyes lay the warmth of summer suns 
And sparkling water, where golden bodies 
Met lapping waves by day, and moon-blanched 
Calm by night; Night, holding beneath her mantle 
Passion, desire, and the secret of all things earthly. 

Autumn saw neither, but rather braided memories 

Of crimson leaves and golden wheat into a crown of joy. 

She kept no thought for past nor future 

But rather knew the gentle thoughts of passing days; 

Nor storm nor rain could shake her soft serenity. 

Her head was full of each day's quiet joys — 

Long walks across golden meadows and up high hills, 

Against the winds which Winter sometimes blew. 

And Winter, with snowflakes in her hair 

And garbed in a cloak of ice 

Gazed longingly at all three, wistful for that 

Which she had once been. 

When all at once she heard Spring weeping, 

And she knew that the Eternal Plan 

was wise and good; and in her heart 

She gave thanks for the infinite calm of 

Twilight snow, and for the Eternal Spring 

Which soon should follow. 


The W^hiie JParroi 

Jane Ellen Tye 

The lady Belledean lay sleeping in her 
lilac-scented chamber. The curtains were 
drawn and the room lay motionless with 
sleep except for her breathing. 

Strange things were torturing her 
mind. Her face would grow tense and 
then relax, only to grow tense again in a 
while. She imconsciously fingered at the 
gown she wore as if it were strangling 
her, and back and forth she would toss 
beneath the silken covers. 

Her golden hair lay on her white shoul- 
ders. The dark lashes resting on her pale 
cheek. The slender fingers clinched tight- 
ly above her head. 

Of a sudden a bright light filled the 
room, and she awoke with a start. The 
blue eyes glistening, the face, expression- 
less and staring straight ahead to what 
she saw. Standing before the window 
stood a knight dressed in a solid white 
armor. A silver and jewel gilted sword 
hung from his belt. He stood aglow 
from head to foot. His silver boots stood 
on the crimson carpet and around his 
feet, the floor glowed silver. Over his 
shoulder a full moon appeared like a 
halo behind his head. 

For a moment or two they only looked 
at each other and then he spoke. "I have 
come for you, Belledean, your time on 
earth is done." "Oh, please," she cried, 
"Are you the Angel of Death?" "No," 
he answered, "But you must come with 

She rose, the blue gown swaying about 
her body, the sunny hair falling like rays 
about her back. She walked forward 
and with one great sweep, he took her 
into his arms and they disappeared out 
the window, and over the hill on a white 

Over the sea they rode, above the 

clouds and pass the flight of the highest 
bird. The handsome couple raced through 
the sky, leaving reality far behind. 

The stars began to crowd out the 
golden sun, but still they rode. The next 
day they approached a white castle upon 
a hill of blue pebbles. This was the 
Castle of the White Parrot. 

The White Parrot was a pirate king, 
and the knight was his son. . . . The 
knight had gone to search in all the land 
for the most beautiful maiden he could 
find to be his bride. The king was 
pleased with Belledean and complimented 
his son for his excellent choice. 

The feast was prepared and the couple 
exchanged vows in the Royal court. Jew- 
els and golden riches were laid before 
their feet as a present from the king. 
The musicians played and the couple 
danced the dance of passion and devo- 
tion. Looking only in each others eyes, 
they were so drunk in their love for each 
other. Her skirt, made from stars, 
whirled about over the mirrored ballroom 
floor. The knight in his handsome array 
held her closely to him. On and on 
went the music and on and on went the 
dance. Faster and faster until the hours 
stopped their coming and the moon stood 
still in the sky. Time was gone, reality 
diminished, only the two, the dream, and 
the love. 

Then, the music grew soft and softer 
until it had hushed. The faces faded into 
an emptiness. AH was silent. There was 

Belledean awoke from her sleep and 
gazed about her at the bare walls of the 
cabin. The coldness bit her and the 
splashes of rain that fell from the cracks 
in the roof were hard and cold. She 
looked at her face in the mirror and 


sobbed aloud as she saw the scars and 
dead eyes and dull, stubby hair. She 
quickly sHpped into her soiled, ragged 
dress and with bare feet, walked through 

the door into the grey dawn to gather 
the firewood. An ugly woman, walking 
towards the wood, a dead, white parrott 
held tightly in her hand. 

A^nti'SewnitisMn And The 

By Marion Frederick 

The bigot is walking the face of the 
earth today, taking in with enormous 
strides every country through which he 
goes. His passion has changed from the 
medieval, religious fanaticism fostered by 
a then worldly-minded church to a more 
modern peace of fate. During the Middle 
Ages there was fanatic hatred against 
all that was non-Christian; this included 
Orientals, Moslems, and Jews. It came 
from ignorance, religious superstition, 
and bigoted fear. Today, antagonism 
against racial or cultural groups has 
taken on a different aspect. With the 
explosion of the scientific theories of rac- 
ial superiority, inferiority, and specific 
qualities of personality, this group antag- 
onism has become an opinion, a personal 
antipathy wherein the race, or nationality, 
is blamed for historical accident and for 
the characteristics exhibited by a few of 
the race. Generalizations are synthesized 
from subjective particulars. 

("My dressmaker made the seams too 
narrow. She is Jewish. Jews always try 
to cheat you. I don't like Jews, because 
they're all cheats!") 

Anti-Semitism is one of the most im- 
portant and least justified of the modern 
hatreds. It is unjustified on religious 
grounds in countries so flagrantly irreligi- 
ous as the Western democracies. The 
preachers say we are irreligious. Looking 

around you, you find people from every 
background flouting the ancient, basic 
laws of humanity, whether they have been 
codified in the Christian formula or not. 
In a country where wealth is frequently 
here one generation and gone another, 
despising the ostentatious "new rich," if 
they are Jewish is a farce. Anti-Semitism 
is the largest hatred since the Jew is 
scattered over the face of the European- 
ized world, and the most important 
hatred, since, wherever he goes, prejudice 
dogs his tracks. 

Jean Paul Sartre gives us the picture 
of the contemporary bigot in France in 
his Portrait of the Anti-Semite^ but the 
broad outline may be filled in with spe- 
cific references to any country, since the 
psychology is the same, whether French, 
English, North or South i^merican. Anti- 
Semitism, says Sartre, is a fashionable 
opinion prevalent among the bourgeoisie. 
As a matter of fact, he describes it as a 
"bourgeois phenomenon." Since the boKir- 
geois is not physically involved in actual 
production, but "directs, administers, di- 
vides work, buys and sells," and since his 
success depends on the "action of indi- 
vidual wills," he explains history as the 
action of individual and group will. In 
France, which has a distinct proletariat, 
there is no Anti-Semitism among the 
working class. This class, which produces 


by applying force and energy to machines 
which act according to strict rules, there- 
fore, interprets history as the result of real 
forces acting in accordance with more or 
less divine law. The proletariat feels no 
need of blaming historical events on any 
one group or person. The bourgeois, 
however, involved with his individuality 
wherever he turns, blames history on a 
person or a group, the ancient scapegoat, 
the Jew. 

"My dressmaker's son is in medical 
school. He was there all during the war, 
and she was happy he missed the fight- 
ing. It just shows you what this country 
would be if red-blooded American boys 
all tried to dodge the draft just to keep 
from getting killed. Those Jews never 
fight for any country that's helped them. 
Just look what we've done for them. 
They ought to be more grateful." 

Since the United States is made up 
ahnost entirely of the bourgeois, with 
the working class indistinctly separated 
from it because of its almost universal de- 
sire to become bourgeois, and since the 
middle-class is the highest in both France 
and the United States, Anti-Semitism is 
very apparent. The Jew is blamed for 
wars, depressions, and famines. 

The Nazi's raged against the ^'^Jewish 
capitalists." Sartre explains that they fos- 
tered essentially a class struggle, not a 
racial one, although few saw that fact. 
The depressions following World War I 
were ascribed to the greed of a few as 
was the truth, but they were ascribed to 
Jewish greed, indiscriminately to the 
thousands who died of starvation in the 
ghettos as well as the wealthy. And the 
bourgeois believed it. 

("She does a lot more work than she 
has to. I just know it. I'll bet she's got a 
lot of money saved somewhere. She's just 
a greedy Jew. It's people like that that 
are ruining this country.") 

North American, British, and German 

industrialists grew very rich in the first 
World War. North and South Ameri- 
cans I know grew rich as a result of the 
recent World War. They were not neces- 
sarily Jews. They were solid businessmen, 
materialists and opportunists of course, 
but wealth in business is built by initiative 
and speculation, not idealism. 

The Jew is a threat to the established 
prerogatives. Except in a rigid, bureau- 
cratic organization, mediocrity is not 
overly valued. There it is cherished. Tra- 
dition, grows unhampered under the rigid 
order; a person is placed in a position due 
him by seniority and inheritance; no ac- 
count is taken off his intrinsic worth. A 
static state is produced in extreme cases 
wherein nothing is subject to growth ex- 
cept the tradition surrounding the posi- 
tion. After the pioneer, the innovator, 
the crusader, comes the indistinguishable 
cog to carry on. The glorious beginning 
grows in thought, surpassing the capa- 
bilities of die present occupant. The 
occupant, nevertheless, feels that the posi- 
tion is his by right. When the right and 
position are challenged, he feels panic. 

Since the Jew has no settled position, 
and since he is the wanderer whether he 
has lived in a town for twenty generations 
or just moved in two weeks ago, he must 
prove his worth. There is no position 
that is his by right. He is an eternally 
disestablished factor in the well-organ- 
ized scheme, the scheme being originally 
set up without thought of including him. 
This is most disturbing to the mediocre. 

(■'She's trying to get all the spring 
formals to do. She's pushing the others 
out of business. They just hate her. She's 
so pushy. But she is good.") 

Mediocrity is not an exclusively Chris- 
tian trait, nor are the Jews a group com- 
posed entirely of individual geniuses. 
They are, nevertheless, under the neces- 
sity of proving themselves equal or su- 
perior to the established bourgeoisie in 


direct competition. They must work with 
more intelligence and energy than is de- 
manded from the Christian in a Chris- 
tian world. These virtues, applauded in 
a Christian, are evil when displayed by 
the Jew. The ability for hard work and 
long hours becomes, in the Jew, ungraci- 
ous striving and pushing to get too far 
ahead. Commendable thriftincss becomes 
stinginess and macabre greed. Adapta- 
bility becomes lack of patriotism or lack 
of sincerity. The Anti-Semite feels, as 
Sartre makes very clear, that there is an 
essence of Jewishness which predestines 
the Jew to do evil under the guise of 
good. He is evil intrinsically because he 
is a Jew and Jews have always been evil 

"But I know some very fine Jews. They 
aren't at all like Jews, or like you'd ex- 
ipect them to be. They're almost like 
Christians. But I've watched them very 
carefully and they do act Jewish at 

Because of this essence of Jewishness, 
the Jews are not judged by their actions 
alone, but always with the accompanying 
factor of inborn evil. Since this factor 
makes him "evil incarnate," the Anti- 
Semite feels a righteous sadism in perse- 
cuting him. The Anti-Semite "knows he 
is bad but he is doing evil for the sake 
of good," therefore he is justified. This 
psychological trait of sadism shows that 
the Anti-Semitism is a passion warping 
the entire personality. It is not just an 
opinion or dislike. It is deeply concerned 
with human values. It cannot be classi- 
fied as a preference; it necessarily affects 
the whole person to the extent that the 
Anti-Semite, giving a cc«nplete picture 
of his personality by this one trait, is 
separated by a clearly defined line from 

the non-prejudiced person. Sartre*s com- 
plete portrait of such a person is this: 

"His a man who is afraid. Not of the 
Jews, of course, but of himself, of his 
conscience, his freedom, of his instincts, 
of his responsibilities, of solitude, of 
change of society and the world; of 
everything except the Jews. He is a cow- 
ard who does not want to admit his 
cowardice to himself; a murderer who re- 
presses and censures his penchant for 
murder without being able to restrain it 
and who nevertheless does not dare to 
kill except in effigy or in the anonymity 
of the mob; a malcontent who dares not 
revolt for fear of the consequences of his 
rebellion. By adhering to Anti-Semitism, 
he is not only adopting an opinion, he is 
choosing himself as a person. He is 
choosing the permanence and the impene- 
trability of rock, the total irresponsibility 
of the warrior who obeys his leaders — 
and he has no leader. He chooses to 
acquire nothing, to deserve nothing but 
that everything be given him as his birth- 
right — and he is not noble. He chooses 
finally, that good be ready-made, not in 
question, out of reach; he dare not look 
at it for fear of being forced to contest 
it and seek another form of it. The Jew 
is only a pretext: elsewhere it will be 
the Negro, the yellow race. The Jew's 
existence simply allows the Anti-Semite 
to nip his anxieties in the bud by per- 
suading himself that his place has always 
been cut out in the world, that it was 
waiting for him, and that by virtue of 
tradition he has the right to occupy it. 
Anti-Semitism, in a word, is fear of man's 
fate. The Anti-Semite is the man who 
wants to be pitiless stone, furious torrent, 
devastating lightning: in sort, everything 
but a man." 




Atien Mn This 

By Gloria Dandridge 

It was a cold and rainy day, but in 
Dr. Holton*s study the fire blazed cheer- 
fully, radiating a feeling of warmth and 
congeniality among the three gathered in 
front of it. As Otto Richt sat talking 
to Dr. Holton and me, I could see the 
intense gratitude in his eyes. I sat before 
the fire, half dreaming, and thought of 
Otto's request to come here to college, 

I was suddenly brought back to reaUty 
on hearing my name mentioned. "... 
and you see, Dr. Holton, when Dean 
Guest cabeled me to come, I left on the 
next ship. Arriving in New York for the 
first time was as exciting as I had imag- 
ined. Nor was I disappointed when I saw 
this spacious campus, overrun by hun- 
dreds of gay, friendly American students. 
Of course, I had some idea of what to 
expect because I have had three years of 
English in school in Leipzig, my home. 
Then, too, Uncle John had told me 
something about it all," laughed Otto. 

"Yes, Old John was really an admirer 
of the college. Often I rem.ember his 
face would light up when he talked of 
your coming here — I know he would be 
happy if he could know that his dream 
had been realized," reminisced Dr. Hol- 

"Yes, and thank you both for making 
it come true," replied Otto. 

There was heavy silence in the room 
after he left, broken only by the splashes 
of rain on the window panes. 

"You know, Anna, when I think of old 
John's unfailing optimism, I really feel 
ashamed. Even when he first arrived here, 
knowing very little of our language, he 
was willing to work down in the furnace 
room in order to stay in this country. 
All the boys will remember those talks 

they used to have with old John down 
there on cold winter nights." 

"Yes, that's right," I agreed, still 
knowing, that since I was a woman, I 
would never know the great import of his 
words on these boys. 

The days flew by and I hardly saw 
Otto. Yet, on every hand, glowing re- 
ports were coming into Dr. Holton's 
ofiice: "a conscientious student"; a hard 
worker"; "most intelligent." Dr. Holton 
and I were pleased and nodded to each 
other over such reports. 

"Germany invades smaller countries!" 

Thus ran the headline one morning. 
The campus was fairly buzzing with the 
news and everyone was upset. The same 
question was on everyone's hps: "What 
would America do now?" 

I was sitting in my office a few weeks 
later when I got a call from Dr. Holton 
to come see him. When I arrived I saw 
Otto sitting dejectedly in a chair. I at 
once sensed that something was wrong. 

"Anna, Otto has decided to leave and 
return home," said Dr. Holton in a 
heavy voice. 

I hardly knew what to say. "But Otto, 
I thought you were happy. What is the 

"I'm sorry. Dean Guest. I just can't 
stay any longer." He rushed on, 'The 
students just don't like me. I've thought 
it over and that is my decision, I'm leav- 
ing right now, but I'm gratified for 
everything you've done for me." 

"If that is what you've decided, I guess 
there's nothing more for me to say. Let 
us hear from you soon," I miumured, 
hardly able to keep the lump out of my 

Dr. Holton and I watched the de- 


jected form with two heavy suitcases walk 
down the center walk and out of the 
gates of his newly-found paradise. Never 
shall I forget that scene! 

In later months I had a letter from 
Otto, written on the ship, the S. S. Millet, 
anchored in the Hawaiian Islands. He 
had gone to Mexico from Oklahoma, 
only to find that he could not sail from 
there to Germany, He did, however, 
board a ship sailing to San Francisco, en 
route to China. He had now arrived at 
Hawaii. He sounded like a little boy, 
very homesick, yet trying to sound so 
very brave. 

As I read his letter, the afternoon 
paper was placed in front of me. Glanc- 

ing up, something seemed to draw my 
eyes to a certain word: Millet. I picked 
up the paper. There on the front page I 

"Ship Sunk by First of Japanese 

"The S. S. Millet, a freighter which 
travels between the United States anc 
China, was one of the first ships to be 
sunk when the Japanese struck one of 
the smaller islands of Hawaii. Ail passen- 
gers and crew are still unaccounted foi 
and it is believed that all were lost." 

I laid my head on the desk in front oi 
me and wept for him — this modern "man 
without a countr)\" 


t'C/C-w m3 

By Jane Ellen Tye 


We met 

After long years of parting 

On a street somewhere. 

I can't remember now just where it was, 

For I was blind 
Except for your eyes, searching the depth of mine. 

Our steps came nearer 

And then we stood 


And all around us walked realit}/. 

Our hands touched, we spoke in casual words: 

"Hello" . . . "You're looking well" . . . 

And yet, our hearts would burst 

Into a scream to break the silentness ... 

We both knew well that still between us 

Was the knowing 

That two hearts in love 

Are bound - ' 

With unbreakable chains. 


^Ite U^altad K^f ^>^nnaaeddon 

By Marion Frederick 

'Twas the day of Armageddon 

The people were afraid, 
They had not lived the godly life, 

But still they were dismayed. 

They flocked to towns and cities, 
They gathered in the Square, 

And the preachers came and cursed them 
And laid their sore souls bare. 

rhe Apocalypse was riding on 

His steeds both black and white, 

rhey saw the black in daytime, 

And the white they saw by night, 

rhey saw him as a curse that came 

Specifically for them, 
-le was the rider of the Lord 

Who came but to condemn. 

rhey shivered and they gathered in 
Small groups with one great care, 

\nd the preachers came and cursed them 
And laid their poor souls bare. 

rhe hideous legions of the Lord 

Were on their way to see 
X'^hat should be done, what could be done 

With men that lived to free. 

^nd the people bowed before them, 

They fell into the snare; 
^nd the preachers came escorted, 

To lay their poor souls bare. 

"he salty sea rose up like hate. 
The seacoast was submerged; 

"he people travelled inland, 

They felt they had ben scourged. 

And the people travelled inland 

Up to the highest hills, 
Where the preachers came like gnats to curse 

They talked like fish, through gills. 

The Apocalypse was riding on 

His steeds both black and white:; 

The Apocalpse was riding on 

His steeds that shone like light,. 

The people all came weeping, and 

Lightning charged the air. 
And the preachers came to curse them 

And lay their sore souls bare. 

The people all were dying from 

Both ignorance and fright; 
They fell down in a sea of mud 

Before the great-white light. 

A hero rose from the out the crowd 

Lying by the sea. 
He looked around and madness gleamed, 

He said, "This should not be," 

He looked around him at the thrc«ig. 

He was a child of three; 
He looked with pity on the crowd, 

And said, "This will not be." 

He strode among the masses, 

He called on God to save; 
The great Jehovah looked and laughed. 

He snarled, "You are too brave." 

"Humble yourself before me, Boy, 

Then I might think to spare. 
Call the preachers to curse you, Boy, 

To lay your sore souls bare." 

The Lord spoke thus unto the crowd; 

The crowd rose up in wrath. 
The people turned to face the Lord, 

They turned to look — then laugh. 

The Lord was but an old, white man 

A-sitting on a cloud. 
The people turned and looked at him, 

In mockery they bowed. 

The hero looked up at the Lord; 

He looked back at the crowd. 
He looked up at the Lord again, 

And in mockery he bowed. 

The people went back to their homes. 

They bade the sea recede; 
The Lord looked down in futile wrath, 

The people did not heed. 

TTie day of Armegeddon passed. 
The people were set free; 

The preachers came and cursed their lot, 
There were no souls to see. 

The day of Armegeddon passed, 
The preachers all were killed; 

The people with their poor, dumb souls 
Had seen a fate fulfilled. 

"Oh Lord", he said, "Oh Great God Lord, There was no law to bind them now, 
O Great God made of Lead, And life returned quite well 

We are not here to die today. To the normal business of the day 
Go back among the Dead," With no sad thought of Hell. 

The hero was forgotten then 

As heroes often are; 
The people did speak now and then 

And raise their glasses at the bar. 



By Jane Ellen Tye 

If I could talk with you tonight 
And have your understanding smile, 
Your wLse advise and gentle words, 
I could be satisfied awhile. 

You have a way of seeing through 
My words, before I start. 
Why is it there is only you 
Who understands my heart? 


By Eileen Springsfun 

Once when I was four years old and a 
new-comer to the little village of Oak- 
town, an old man, driving a bottomless 
cart attached to the posterior of a blind, 
emaciated horse, pulled up to the edge of 
the churchyard where the minister's son 
with the birth-marked face and I were 
solemnly catching fire flies and stuffing 
them into a glass jar, and observed us. 
After a few minutes his gaze settled on 
me; then he calmly announced that he in- 
tended to bury me with his "ole hoss" 
when it died. After glancing at the horse, 
I surmised that my time had practically 
come, and promptly ran home to mother. 

That IS my first recollection of Jessie 
Carroll. When I grew older and dis- 
covered that I was still among the living 
and not an underground companion to 
Jessie's 'Tioss", I learned more about this 
town character. 

It seems that Jessie is the one never- 
changing figure in a world of change. He 
has been the town character and enigma 
longer than anyone can remember, and it 
is taken for granted that he had no be- 
ginning and will never die. Jessie is age- 
less and ever-present. Even when he isn't 
in sight you knou' that he is near, because 
you have two senses that will never let you 
forget diat he is . . . smell and hearing. 

Jessie smells for two reasons. First, his 
weather-beaten body is perpetually cover- 
ed with layers of dirt, not good clean soil, 
but just plain dirt. This is understandable 
because of Jessie's way of life. His 
humble abode consists of the roof of an 
old bam that gave up the ghost l<mg ago, 
and quietly sank to the ground. The 
roof is furnished with an old car seat 
that Jessie found in a junk yard. I don't 
know where the horse lives, but it is un- 
doubtedly past the stage of caring whether 

or not it has shelter from the elements. 
Of course, you may say that there is such 
a thing as water, and Jessie could bene- 
fit from its use; but if you knew Jessie, 
you wouldn't say that. Let me illustrate. 
There came a time not long ago when 
some of the businessmen of the town be- 
gan to feel sorry for Jessie, and felt it 

their duty to make a respectable citizen 
of him. G>nsequendy, they bought an 
inexpensive but durable suit of clothes 
and an overcoat for him in the hopes that 
he would discard the stiff, tattered shirt 
and overalls which constitute his only 
raiments. So Jessie took a bath, combed 
his hair, made an attempt to shave off his 
beard, and appeared in town one day m 
his new clothes. But for one day only. 
The next morning he reappeared in his 
tattered garments and announced that he 


nad sold his new clothes. "If I wore them 
fancy clothes, people wouldn't feel sorry 

ter me. 

But Jessie smells for another reason. 
He makes his living by gathering up 
garbage and trash and attempting to get 
it outside the city limits before the bottom 
of his bottomless cart gives out. It is 
seldom that he makes it, and Jessie's 
blazed trail can be easily followed by the 
dead limbs and scraps of paper that 
adorn the streets of our fair city. Bur 
trash collecting is not the sole source of 
Jessie's income. He also picks up a little 
cash by doing that work which is the 
most undignified of all undignified labor. 
Recently, however, he has begun to con- 
sider himself above that, and now he 
hires others to do the dirty work for him. 
After each job is finished, he promptly 
fires his employee so that he will not have 

to share with him that part of his income 
which is more pleasantly earned. 

Now that I have taken care of the 
more sordid side of Jessie's life, I would 
like to tell you about that other sense 
that will not let you forget Jessie's pres- 
ence . . . that of hearing. Of course, you 
know that Jessie is around because of 
the tired clop-clop of his horse's hoofs 
and by the rattling of his wagon, but that 
is not the important factor. The import- 
ant thing is this . . . Jessie sings, not just 
part of the time when he is happy like 
other people do, but all the time, because 
Jessie is always happy. There is a rumor 
that Jessie has a buried treasure and is 
probably the richest man in town, but Fm 
inclined to doubt this. Jessie is happy 
because he is Jessie, because he has found 
the secret of life, the simple life, con- 
tentment. He loves everyone, and every- 
one loves Jessie, even if he does threaten 
to bury little girls with his ''ole hoss„" 





By Barbara Smith 

The trees lift their branches to the winds. 

The earth's days mount through eternity. 

One sky melts as another one begins. 

One darkness changes to a deeper sea. 

The shadows live and, in a second, sleep. 

The snows drift lazily to the waiting ground. 

The rivers rush into the ocean's steepe. 

The leaves fall to the earth and are warmed round. 

I feel the millions searching for greater right, 

I watch them struggle, live, and cry. 

The days change into still nights v/ithout light. 

The nights lengthen into the years and die. 

The pain in my heart cries, "God, not you, too." 

The rain beating down says, "Yes, even you." 


'MJte J9«M 

By Marjorie Gllmore 

He knew the good male smell of his 
father's sitting room. What thoughts, 
worries, and childhood dreams filled his 
mind, and what long-forgotten pleasures 
and heartaches rushed to the brink of 
his brain while gazing at familiar and 
treasured articles. There, toasting in 
front of the fire, squatted the huge brown 
leather chair, with the permanent curva- 
ture in back and seat where it had 
cushioned for many blissful hours a weary 
body. Gazing with tears filling his eyes, 
he expected to see a curl of smoke arise 
and fill the air with its aromatic scent. 
The limp, leather bound copy of Keats 
clung to the rickety reed table and, as he 
picked it up, the well-chewed version fell 
open to a red-bordered page: 

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever." 
Again the odor of good tobacco and 
fragrant lotion lifted him, as he recalled 
the innumerable hours spent on a good 
tweed knee and was entranced as a re- 
sonant musical voice sang of magical hills 
and magnificent urns. 

A fog passes his eyes and as sight re- 
turned he beheld a woven leather crop 
hanging haughtily from the top of a glass- 
doored bookshelf. He flinched involun- 
tarily. His father, for all his serenity and 
patient explanations, possessed the wrath 
of Jove. He had felt that wrath on rare 
occasstons vended by this same leather 
crop. But the crop also called to mind 
the pungent, acrid odor of his father's 
mare, clinging and mixing with the pine 
smell of an oiled jacket. He remembered 
the palate-tickling aroma of scalding 
coffee, vrell-laced with brandy from musty, 
ancient bottles, and the crisp, autumn 
briskness hurled into the peaceful little 
sitting room as his father returned on fall 

The smell of his father's sitting room 
filled him with a tension, causing him to 
weep bitterly. The latest odors crowding 
the corners of this sanctuary were the 
sticky sweetness of tuberoses, the cloying 
sweetness of carnations, the compelling 
sweetness of death. 

^ne L^nexpected 


By Jane Ellen Tye 

I always knew that I would lose you. 
But I thought you'd simply walk away. 
I had, all planned, the way you'd look 
And thought I knew what you would say. 

I always knew that I would lose you. 
And this afternoon you said good-bye . . . 
But why didn't you just walk away? 
Why did you have to die? 


0i Vw^mmtis JLndl 3M^wm€Pvies 

By Eileen Sprlngstun 

Absentmindedly he ran his finger 
through the dust making weird hiero- 
glyphics on the old trunk. A spider, 
scampering out of a crevice where it had 
woven a fine, lacy film, startled the man 
back to present reality. His hand shook 
as he inserted a rusty key into the lock 
whose joints creaked as he tried to break 
their resistance. A wisp of a spider web 
slowly drifting upward caught on his nose 
and made the pent-up tears again rise 
to the surface, and begin their perilious 
journey through the slight wrinkles in his 
face. One by one the drops silently fell, 
scarring the dust-laden trunk with little 
pock marks. After several minutes the 
man determinedly brushed away the tears 
and set about his task of sorting the 
possessions that represented one woman's 
accumulation of forty years. He had left 
the trunk to the last, everything else was 
packed or stored, never to be used again. 
The house no longer bore any resemblance 
to a home. 

The man's name was James Sanders. 
Suddenly this seemed all important to him 
because the initials on the trunk were 
M. B. It was preposterous that Marcia's 
name had not always been Sanders. It 
was preposterous that she had even existed 
before they were married. He had not, 
really, except for one short interval. 

James loathed this trunk; he did not 
want to open it, because it meant opening 
up the past and leaving it exposed like a 
great gaping wound, a wound that would 
send excruciating pains through his mind 
that was struggling to blot out all that 
exquisite pleasure that bordered on pain. 
Marcia was dead now. All was dead . . . 
the renaissance experienced with the com- 
ing of each spring, the joy of watching 
the log fire bum low with her, the terrible 

thrill of feeling her body next to his, 
the little lurch of pride felt when she 
entered a room, the quiet lullaby in his 
heart, his mind, and his souL 

Marcia had died suddenly two weeks 
ago when her car crashed over an embank- 
ment. Somehow the way she had died was 
a symbol to the man who had spent eleven 
exquisite years with her. Their life to- 
gether had been growing in richness and 
depth of happiness with each year until 
it had at last reached a point that seemed 
the epitome of desired existence. Such 
perfection could not continue. It had to 
end; it was not the sort of existence that 
could taper off to a quiet contentment. 
Its end had to come suddenly. The 
weight of its perfection would cause it to 
crash — crash like a speeding automobile 
over an embankment. 

With Marcia's death, James' world had 
crashed to non-existent bits around his 
feet. This house that had been their 
home, the center of their Utopian uni- 
verse, now was nothing but a hated shell 
in which he was imprisoned. His only 
companions were his memories that were 
now only cruel, taunting shadows, because 
he knew that they could never be relived, 
never , be anything more than mere 

For two weeks now, James had known 
that he could no longer live in this house, 
live in this town where every tree they 
had seen, every path they had trod, ev^ry 
face they had known reminded him of 
Marcia. The house was permeated with 
her presence. The walls seemed to give 
out the subtle perfume of her body; every- 
thing she had touched showed evidence of 
her loving caress. The warmth she had 
left would soon die, and he would be left 
with nothing. Tomorrow he was escaping 


from the subtle presence tkat cut him to 
the very essence of his being. Yet he was 
almost afraid that the subtle presence, 
too, would die. 

Tomorrow his train was leaving, but 
he did not much care where it would take 
him . . . anywhere, anyplace where he 
could escape this this house and this town, 
and these memories. Perhaps . . . perhaps 
he could begin life again. He must try; 
he could lose himself in a sea of new 
activities, new interests, a new life. Once 
before he had cast away the remnants of 
the past and begun life anew. Then his 
new life had been Marcia, the old life 
that he was now going to leave behind 
him forever. Eleven years ago the old 
life he had reluctantly cast away had been 
a life never quite realized, a will-o-the-wisp 
that was eternally just beyond his grasp, 
an illusive dream that never crystallized. 
That dream life had been a fragile thing, 
hingeing only on weekly letters from a 
girl he was never to see. Now it was like an 
old, old song obscured through the years 
by other tunes that came and went, but 
occasionally floating back from out of the 
past to remind him of days that once were. 
The strains of that half -forgotten lullaby 
were indelibly imprinted on his mind des- 
pite the long years of exquisite forgetful- 
ness with Marcia 

The year was 1918, and James Sanders 
was very efficient and handsome and heart- 
breakingly young in his new uniform. 
At first life in a camp and training to 
fight for one's country had been unique 
and exciting, but soon the newness wore 
off, leaving only dull monotony. One 
night in a crap game he had won a little 
black address book from the boy who 
occupied the bunk next to his. The little 
book contained few names, none of which 
lived in the little town where they were 
stationed, but one name in particular 
caught James' attention. From the boy 
in the next bunk he learned that it was 

a stage name, and that the girl was cur- 
rently on Broadway playing some sort of 
a part in a musical. The boy did not 
know her real name; he had had a blind 
date with her once while on leave in New 
York, and had not seen her again. She 
was a beautiful blond. That was all he 

That name, Lily Lawrence, seemed to 
haunt James. There was something magi- 
cal and exciting about it. Sometimes in 
his sleep he saw it, Lily Lawrence, blazing 
in bright lights from an unknown marquee 
on Broadway. One night he wrote to her 
telling her little things about himself that 
he had never told anyone else. The next 
night the process was repeated. Every- 
thing that had happened to him during 
the day, during his career in the army, 
during his entire life was night after night 
set down on little sheets of paper that 
were never mailed. His thoughts flowed 
easily and became clear when he wrote 
them to Lily. All his troubles became 
less, and his joys became greater when 
they were addressed to Lily. Finally he 
mailed one of the many letters. It took 
all the courage he possessed, because he 
knew a great Broadway star would never 
even receive his letter much less answer it. 
He knew all this; he knew there was no 
hope that he would ever hear from her, 
but the second the small white envelope 
was swallowed by the ever-hungry jaws 
of the mail box, James' life began to 
change. Each day that passed became 
more insufferable than the one before. 
James went through successive periods of 
anxiety and resignation. Then one day, 
the letter came. 
"Dear Jimmy, 

Obviously, you have made of me some- 
thing that I am not. I am not a goddess 
that should be placed on a pedestal, I'm 
not even a good actress. I hate to dis- 
appoint you, but my part in the show is 
so small that I'm not even noticed. I'm 


only a small-town girl trying to make 
good in the big city, and the way things 
have gone lately, I'm convinced that the 
old home town is the place for me. 

Your homesick letter sounded just 
about like I feel, but the fact that you 
wrote made me feel good for a minute. 
Do you realize that you are the only 
person who ever wrote me a fan letter? 
If you aren't careful, I'll begin to think 
that I am the original Sarah Bernhardt 
that you evidently pictured me as. 

Write to me again. You sound like 
you need someone to tell your troubles to, 
and hearing someone else's makes mine 
seem much less important. Who knows? 
Maybe we'll be good for each ether. 

If you ever get to New York, look me 
up. I'm the third from the left end in 
the chorus. 

Sincerely yours, 

During the succeeding weeks, James' 
life was brightened by frequent letters 
from Lily, He began to know her well, 
not much about her past, but a great deal 
about her mind, because she poured out 
her thoughts to him, much as he had re- 
vealed his inmost heart to her in those 
first letters that he never sent. To James, 
Lily was no longer a great actress to be 
placed on a pedestal and worshiped, she 
was just a girl, an ordinary person to be 
loved and adored. James no longer 
visualized her name in bright lights blazing 
from a marquee; he now saw the name 
Lily Lav^rence glowing softly with his 
own over a little white cottage with a 
picket fence, 

James became more and more obsessed 
with the desire to see this girl whom he 
was now sure he wished to marry. She 
had refused to send him a picture, saying, 
"Appearances can be very misleading, 
and I want us to get to know each other 
as we really are, not in relation to how we 
look. It doesn't really matter to me 

whether you are short, fat, and ugly, or 
tall, dark, and handsome, I am growing 
to love you through your letters, and I 
want that love to be so firmly established 
that when I do see you, and if you should 
turn out to be as beautiful physically as 
I have found you to be mentally, I will 
know that my love is based on something 
solid and lasting, not an evanescent 

All Lily's reasoning could not disspell 
James' obsession. He had to see her; 
he had to tell her in person that he loved 
her, that he wanted to marry her. He was 
sure that he could never be content unless 
she became his wife, although he knew 
in the back of his mind that she would 
only laugh at him if he ever mentioned it 
in a letter. She would consider it adoles- 
cent, premature, and foolish. But he had 
to tell her. Except for this one desire, 
this one blight, his existence was blissful. 
All James' waking hours were spent think- 
ing about Lily and planning their future 
together. At night he dreamed of her. 
He knew how it would be to hold her in 
his arms; to possess her completely. 

The following month James received 
the joyful news that he was to receive a 
week's leave. Immediately plans were 
made to go to New York and Lily. His 
excitement rose by leaps and bounds, until 
on the day he was to leave he was literally 
bursting with joy, anticipation, and 
anxiety. His young body could hardly 
contain the almost violent emotions he was 
experiencing, nor was it capable of with- 
standing the shock and complete dejection 
that resulted. 

For Lily could not be found. The 
theatre was not blazing with bright lights. 
James was not greeted with the name Lily 
Lawrence flickering proudly from the mar- 
quee; he was greeted by a huge, dark 
building whose face was roughly band- 
aged with coarse boards and freshly 
(C cm tinned on Pctgc 77) 


3Man Of The 3€ountains 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

Jim Shell lives in the mountains, deep 
in a valley, in a small cabin made of pine 
wood and sweet cedar. I think he is the 
happiest man in the world. 

I had rather visit his home than the 
home of the President of the United 
States, for I am sure the great Executive 
Mansion could not be half so warm and 
friendly. His wife and children, fourteen, 
by number, are the most completely 
satisfied people with life than the 
wealthiest or most highly educated in our 

You could mention something to them 
of cancer or diabetis and they would 
look puzzled and ask you "What in tar- 
nation is they"? Yes, they are simple, 
but they have not a worry or a care in 
the world. They live a day, completely 
without disturbance from the outside 
world, and there on the hill, with a flower- 
ed wonderland of their own, they work, 
and eat, and sleep, and laugh and worship 
God with true freedom, not a political 

Not long ago a highly respected physi- 
cian visited my home, and the conver- 
sation led to the subject. Disease, and 
particularly incurable diseases, cancer etc. 

felt my heart-beat increase and the 
sweat pour into specks on my brow as he 
spoke of the horrible deaths of many of 
his patients. He spoke of suicides and 
of screaming humans lying in a white bed 
with a white ceiling to look upon all day. 

and with nothing to wait for, except 

The next morning when I awoke, the 
thought was still in my mind, so I dressed 
hurridly and walked up the road to the 
fork, cut left and climbed the steep al- 
most hidden path to the house of Jim 
Shell. When I arrived the children were 
playing along the walk, laughing and 
running, their sunny heads bright beneath 
the gold September sun. Lou Anna, his 
wife, stood in the doorway with a blue 
apron around her jolly waist and those 
healthy, rosy cheeks pink with the flush 
of sun and wind. Her smile was inviting. 
and in spite of the fact that she was a 
little heavy in build, and rather muscular 
boned, I think she was the most beautiful 
woman in the world to me that morning. 
Inside the house her husband sat at the 
broad wood table eating meat and cheese, 
and drinking white goat's milk. 

My intentions were to tell them of the 
doctor's words and have them say some- 
thing ridiculous about them, but I could 
not find the time or place, and later I did 
not have the heart to put ideas as poison- 
ous as they into their heads. There, in 
that cabin of cedar and pine was some- 
thing greater than any discovery science 
had ever made; there was something 
greater and larger than war or mechanical 
invention. There, in the room in which 
I sat was what every human searches so 
hard to find: The secret of life: Happi- 
ness, broken apart into its simplest pieces. 




(CiMtmued from Page 40) 
the Land Beyond. King Kallammey, and 
your name, my dear-" 

"I — ah — Melinda. Melinda Sherman 
O'Brien Richardson. Fm from Schenec- 
tady, New York. I Hve at 1633 Ball town 
Road. I have no brothers and no sisters. 
I'm a Second Class Girl Scout of Troop 
23, and I'm only eleven," said Melinda 
automatically as if to a maiden aunt. 
She was not really impolite, but she was 
trying to look over her shoulder through 
the thick cloud at the same time. 

"How do you do?" said the deposed 

"How do YOU do," said Melinda re- 
covering slowly from the night's trauma, 
"How DO you do????" she repeated. 

"It is difficult, my dear, very much 
so. We have lived under this tyranny for 
fifty kalians now, as I said. The horrible 
part is this; in the Land Beyond, life is 
almost eternal. No one dies under the 
age of 2,000 kallams. It's the air that 
does it. That, he shuddered, that man 
will easily live another 2,500 kallams. 

"My word!" 

"You, my earth-sent Melinda, our sav- 
ior and redeemer, you are the only one 
who can help us rid ourselves of that 
man. He came here from the earth the 
same way you did. And back to the 
earth he must go. He merely followed 
a wampus from his — his — whatever it was 
that he lived in. He found us an hos- 
pitable, peace-loving people and he took 
advantage of us. We don't know why 
he came, what he was doing in the moun- 
tains with clean, wet air and trees that 
reach to the sky and to the Land Beyond. 
All he ever said, if I can right remember, 
was something about 'federal bootleg' or 
something like that. We have no idea 
what he was talking about and now he 
forbids our discussing it. It's a very 
strange situation. How he got control, I 

don't know. Suddenly there were more 
wampuses than ever and they obeyed him 
instantly. His tail grew and he has com- 
plete power over them. They forage for 
him, feed him that food from the earth. 
He taught them to talk and they now 
spy for him." 

"That's awful, just simple devastating. 
But I don't see what I could do. He 
sounds dangerous." 

"You are the only one who could, isn't 
she, Kallikky?" He looked over his 
shoulder at nothing. A voice came out of 
the nothing and affirmed his statement. 

"My dear," he continued calmly, "there 
is a charm possessed by one of the — " 

"THERE you are. I thought I heard 
ya talkin' ". Melinda and the king 
jumped, but not quickly enough. A 
burly, hairy hand captured a shoulder of 
each. Melinda was lifted from her plat- 
form and suspended in the cloud. The 
platform slid away. 

"Now listen, kid. Let me give you 
the scoop on this deal. Don't let granpa 
feed you that fairy tale. Come along and 
we'll talk this thing over." And he car- 
ried her off without a word from the 
little, ex-king of the Land Beyond. 

Quickly they sped through the crowd 
in the cloud, driving upward. Melinda, 
playing her new role of caution well, 
made no sound as they zoomed along. 
The cloud billowed around then in waves 
of gray nothing. Once again Melinda 
was thrust out into blinding sunlight. 
She was still suspended firmly from the 
burly man's paw — firmly but exclusively. 
Realistically, she thought she should wait 
before she said anything that might upset 

"O.K. Here we are. I can't stand that 
gooey stuff." 

"My name is Melinda Sherman O'Brien 
Richardson. I live at — " 

"Yeah, sure. As I was saying, I got 
this territory, see? It was simple. So 


simple, I sometimes wonder. The only 
thing dat bothers me is homesickness. I'm 
stuck here. I can't go back, not wid dis 
tail. As I was saying, it is, nevertheless, 
a very good deal. But I get lonesome, 
as I explained." 

"I believe I understand," said Melinda 
soothingly. "There is probably a reward 
for your capture," she continued hoping 
he wasn't sensitive. 

"Well, then— how would you—?" 

"Not in. the slightest, I do not think," 
Melinda spoke bravely. 

"Well, it breaks my heart, kid. But 
you know how it is." 

And so saying he stretched out the 
arm holding Melinda and threw her as 
far as possible. She hit the cloud and 
began to fall slowly. 

She slipped through the cloud going 
faster and faster all the time. She reached 
for the little blue people but couldn't 
get a hold of them. She sank faster and 
faster, down and down and down. Sud- 
denly he fell clear of the cloud into the 
tangy, blue morning air of the mountains. 
Groping wildly, she missed and kept 

falling, down and down and down, faster 
and faster and faster, until she was 
snagged by the seat of her green and 
yellow pajamas on a branch of the pine 
tree that reached to the sky and the Land 
Beyond. Leaving a green and yellow 
patch on that branch she dropped to a 
lower limb and stayed there until she 
caught her breath. 

She thought for a minute, then slowly 
began to descend. 

Thoughtfully and Realistically she re- 
viewed the events of the night. By the 
time she reached the ground she had 
made her decision. Slowly she climbed 
back into bed and settled in the sag of 
the narrow, iron cot in the open tent with 
five other iron cots containing five heal- 
thy, pre-adolescent Girl Scouts. 

Reveille blew about an hour later. 
There were blue hairs in the pocket of 
Melinda's pajamas; but, nevertheless, she 
had decided she would not mention the 
wampus and the little blue people in the 
Land Beyond since the whole thing was 
obviously fantastic. No Realist would 
ever believe it. None could. 


Nancy Fuller 

Flowering bud of morning! 
Like a giant rose you cast your petals 
One by one into the morning sky, 
Splashing lavish color in the early air, 
Perfuming all the hazy morning mists, 
Until at last, petal by flaming petal, 
The flower unfolds, in heavenly glory, 
To bloom for yet another day. 


HVor^ry^ JVar^^ry! 


By Frances Newport 

At the age of five I was not a backward 
child, but there were times when, I am 
convinced, my mother must have thought 
me sub-normal. Being the only member 
of our family under thirty-five, a good 
portion of the time I was left to amuse 
myself with my own resourcefulness. I 
had the usual number of playmates, and 
with them I built "toad houses" in the 
sandpile, played "Tarzan" on the chain 
swing, and set up a hospital in my play- 
house. Something, however, was lacking. 
I could not whistle. The fact that my 
tricycle was the fastest on the block was 
of no consolation; Mart, my most constant 
companion, could whistle, and I could not. 

Mart was of Httle aid in my endeavors 
to learn the art of whistling; for he could 
not speak intelligible English. I was 
capable of understanding him, but his 
mother was not. His conversation was 
limited to such statements as "Baa Baa 
Nu Nu, CO CO ta te caw caw." "Baa Baa 
Nu Nu" was his way of saying Betty New- 
port, and the "co co ta te caw caw" meant 
that he wanted me to come to the comer. 
I was, in fact, the only person who could 
converse with him, and when his mother 
desired to speak to her son, she was obliged 
to call me. Try as I did, I was not able 
to discover the secret of his ability to 
whistle; he kept it closely guarded in the 
recesses of his seven-year-old's mind. 

Each time Mart whistled, my inferiority 
complex became larger and more deeply 
rooted. After pondering my plight for 
a period of days, I went to my father and 
told him that I must learn to whistle. 
Readily he agreed with my pitiful plea 
and said that he v/ould do all in his power 
to assist me. The first step in my mastery 
of the art of whistling was to be the call- 
ing of Mac, our ancient Pointer. Mac 

had watched over me since I was old 
enough to be placed in the back yard, and 
daddy must have counted on Mac*s com- 
pliance to the demands I would make. 
To call Mac my father would whistle a 
low tone, slurring it into a higher one. 
The whistle was a distinctive one, and re- 
latively simple. The day for my first 
lesson arrived, and I greeted daddy with 
shouts of joy and exultation. Leading 
me to the back yard, he instructed me to 
pucker my lips and blow through them. 
This I did, and the resulting sound re- 
sembled "wor-ry, wor-ry". If Mac had 
not been of superior intelligence, my 
father's efforts would have been in vain. 
But Mac was smart, and every time I 
muttered my "wor-ry, wor-ry", he would 
run to me. I was contented for weeks, for 
I had, at last, learned to whistle. 

The dream world in which I was living 
was shattered, however, by Mart, who in- 
formed me that I wasn't whistling at all! 
Wide-eyed and belligerent, I defended 
myself, but using a few simple examples, 
Mart convinced me that I was not, after 
all, whistling. Disillusioned, I lost all 
faith in both Mac and my father; I felt 
that I must go elsewhere to receive the 
knowledge for which I longed. Extending 
an invitation to visit his back yard. Mart 
assured me that he would teach me to 
whistle. My mother had warned me that 
I was never to go to Mart's home without 
her permission, and on the afternoon of 
his invitation, intuition must have told 
me that mother would not sanction such 
a journey. Consequently, Mart and I 
blithly walked down the alley to his home, 
telling no one of our departure. There, 
hours later, my harassed parents found me, 
and no amount of pleading could dissuade 
them from dragging me home and from 


spanking me thoroughly. I felt dis- 
criminated against; my eflForts to whistle 
had been thwarted, and my pride had 
been wounded. Vowing I would never 
whistle again, I forced myself into a 
whistling silence that extended an entire 
year and a half. 

The day after my seventh birthday I 
was in the kitchen with Mother, drying 
the dinner dishes. Suddenly the Christ- 
mas spirit descended upon me, and to the 
complete amazement of both myself and 
my mother I began whistling "Silent 
Night." Waveringly I completed my ex- 
hibition; mother called my father from 
the living room, and I repeated the selec- 

tion. Self-satisfaction issued from each 
segment of my body , . . unassisted, I had 
whistled! Filled with the glory of my 
accomplishment, I rose to greater heights. 
From "Silent Night" I progressed through 
"Home, Sweet Home" and "Beautiful 
Dreamer" until, when a freshman in high 
school, I mastered "Music Makers" by 
Harry James. With that I hit my peak; 
I was a success. At all social functions I 
was called upon to perform, and my 
happiness could not have been more com- 
plete. No longer was I the backward 
child of my youth; I had an accomplish- 
ment; I was a celebrity in my own home 



(Continued from Page 3) 

hall to the outside door with long, hur- 
ried strides. 

The frothy-laced red hearts and the 
dark green twining ivy fulfilled their 
promise of a beautiful evening, and the 
fresh-cheeked, floating-haired young girls 
and the long-legged, tuxedoed young men 
smiled their bright, flashing-white smiles 
and were happy. Outwardly Drake seemed 
no different from any of the other pen- 
quin-like young men, but inwardly he 
was different. He knew he was different, 
and the knowledge lay in his keen, young 
mind like a heavy, ripe seed ready to 
burst into life. He was not ready for 
the seed to become alive and overflow 
from its little nook in his brain, but he 
knew that it was ready. And he knew 
that it was right that the little seed should 
come to life and send its violent, dark 
purple blossom out to drop a petal into 
the fresh-cheeked young girl's brain — 
his, Drake's, fresh-cheeked young girl, 
Judy. It was right that she should know 
about the heavy, dark seed and that the 
petal should drop into her brain — into 
her sharp, carefree mind, so that it would 
be carefree no longer. For when the little 
petal from the seed of knowledge made 
her know what it knew, she would not be 
carefree. She would not be carefree, but 
she was young and the petal would die 
in time and she would forget the heavy, 
dark seed from which it came. Drake 
was glad that she would forget. It was 
enough that he must remember. 

The music was soft and whispery as 
he danced with Judy the last wonderfully 
sweet dance of the ball. For the last 
dance of the ball is always the sweetest. 

"Be back in a second, honey," Judy 
smiled as she drifted off with the stream 
of girls uttering little exclamations of 
"Oh's" and "Ah's" and "Wasn't it won- 
derful?" as they went to get their wraps. 


It v^/as indeed a few seconds, hundreds, 
Drake thought, before Judy returned 
sheathed in a black velvet evening coat 
with a funny little gold sequin design 
in one corner. "Wasn't long, was I?" she 
smiled, and it was more of a statement 
than a question. 

"Just a million years, slow-poke. It's 
raining to beat hell out there. Better 
v(/ait here at the door and let me bring 
the car around." 

'"'OK. Hurry up, though, I'm starving 
to death." 

"You look like you're bearing up under 
the strain," he remarked sarcastically, 
letting his penetrating gaze leisurely sweep 
her trim little figure — trim even in the 
heavy velvet coat. 

■^'Oh, go on," she scolded, pushing him 
laughingly out the door. 

When they were settled in the car, 
Judy leaned back and shut her eyes. "I'm 
so-o tired'n hungry," she sighed drowsily. 
"What are we having to eat at the 

Upon receiving no answer, she opened 
her tyts and turned her head on the 
seat to look at Drake, but seeing that 
he had not even heard her question, she 
dtddtA to leave him to his thoughts and, 
with another little sigh, leaned back and 
closed her eyes again. She enjoyed the 
quietness. She was tired. 

The boy beside her was tired, too — 
physically, mentally, and spiritually. He 
was very tired, more tired than he had 
ever been, for the heavy, dark seed in his 
brain was weighting him down. 

Judy heard Drake step on the brakes, 
and felt the car purr to a stop. The rain 
was beating on the roof more loudly than 
ever. She opened her eyes and sat up. 

"But, honey, this isn't the frat house," 
she said superflously, for the fact was 

"We're not going to the breakfast." 
Drake's voice was rather curt and Judy 
sat up a little straighter. 

"Why not?" 

"Because," and his voice was softer 
noHT, even gentle, "I want to talk to you, 
baby." God, she was beautiful, he 
thought. She would look beautiful smil- 
ing across a breakfast table. She would 
look beautiful anywhere. She even looked 
pretty with her hair rolled up on funny 
little strips of cloth. He knew; he had 
seen her. 

He paused so long that she asked, 
"Well, what is it? What is it, Drake?" 
and her voice was puzzled, questioning, 
and a little frightened. 

Suddenly he was angry, very angry, 
and he wanted to hurt this lovely crea- 
ture sitting beside him, this girl that 
was pretty even with her hair done up 
in funny little rags. 

"Hell! does it have to be something in 
particular? Can't I just want to talk 
to you?" 

"Don't cuss, Drake," she said quietly, 
very quietly. 

"And just where in th' hell did you 
get the idea you could — " 

"Drake," she interrupted, still quietly, 
"I don't know what's on your mind, but 
if that's the way you're going to talk you 
can just take me home." 

"I'll take you home when I get damn 
good and ready!" he snapped, and her 
face froze in a tight little mask and she 
just sat there stiffly, not looking at him. 

Looking at the rigid little figure and 
the cold, expressionless face with no 
warmth or sweetness about it now, he 
wondered desperately why he was acting 
like this. Why, when he should be trying 
to make it easy for her. When he should 
be trying to make up for what he was 
going to have to tell her — for what the 
little petal from the dark purple blossom 
was going to tell her. And the thought 
made him tender again. 

"I'm sorry, honey," he smiled apolo- 
getically. "I don't know what's wrong 

with me tonight. You look beautiful, 
Judy, baby. Come here." And he tried 
to draw her to him, but she twisted in 
his arms and looked at him with big, 
serious blue eyes that were usually bright 
and laughing, but were dark and trou- 
bled now. 

"Drake, you did have something to 
tell me. What is it? What made you 
so mad?" 

"Forget it, honey." 

"But, Drake, you — " 

"I said forget it!" he cut her off sharp- 
ly, but smiled what he hoped was his 
most becoming smile as soon as he had 
said it. Please forget it, Judy, he thought. 
Please forget it, and let me forget it. 
Just until after tonight. He would ignore 
the insistent little seed with its awful 
secret. Just until after tonight. 

And she let him forget it as his arms 
went around her beneath the black velvet 
evening coat with the sparkling gold 
sequins, and his lips (which did know 
about the heavy, dark seed) kissed hers 
with an abandon that made nothing else 
seem important. 

"Oh, Drake," she breathed, "how can 
you be such a devil?" But her words 
were caressing, not stinging. 

So they sat there with the noise of the 
rain in their ears and their arms around 
each other, not even thinking. It was 
enough just to sit there together. He 
might not have said anything if the girl 
in his arms had not turned her face with 
the bright blue, laughing eyes to him and 
said in her silky, husky voice, "I love you 
so much, Drake" and all there was be- 
tween them was in her voice as she said 
the words — words they had said to each 
other so often, but this time it was differ- 
ent. It was different because, suddenly, the 
lucky young man that was holding this 
lovely creature in his arms remembered 
that he was not lucky and that he should 
not be holding her. He knew that he was 


wrong, that he could not forget the 
heavy, dark seed, not even for tonight. 
He knew that he had to tell the beautiful, 
fresh-cheeked girl that had been his that 
she could be his no longer. And the 
knowledge made his voice gruff. 

"Judy," he snapped, abruptly taking 
his arms from about her, "there is some- 
thing." He waited for her to speak, but 
she just sat there, and it confused him 
and made his tone sharper. "Judy, I — I 
want my pin back!" he blurted. He was 
as surprised at his words as she. TTiat was 
not what he had meant to say. That was 
not what the petal from the heavy, dark 
seed would have told her. But he had not 
let the petal tell her and he knew, then, 
with a calm certainty that he never would. 
And now that he knew that what he was 
doing was the only thing he could do, he 
pushed the seed further back in its little 
corner of his brain and looked at her 
steadily. He was not confused now, but 
she was. 

"But, Drake, I don't see why — I don't 
understand." Her voice was hurt and 

"There's nothing to understand." He 
would have to speak coldly, almost hard 
to keep his voice from shaking. "There's 
nothing to understand. I simply am not 
in love with you anymore, and I want 
my pin back." 

Not in love with you, he thought, not 
in love with you? I love you more than 
anything in the world. 

"But, Drake, ou — why did you kiss me 
like that?" 

"Because you're damn good-looking, 
baby, and you kiss very well," and the 
coldness of his tone did not even surprise 
him anymore. He even laughed a little. 
It was as though he were no longer him- 
self, as though he were playing a part. 

"I see," Judy said softly, and her eyes 
were bright with unshed tears. Her fin- 
gers fumbled to unclasp the pin. (It was 

pinned on the underside of the halter 
strap of her evening gown, for she always 
wore it. She had told him once that it 
was Uke an engagement ring and so she 
never took it off.) So with stiff fingers 
she handed the pin to him and silently 
turned away. She leaned back against 
the seat and closed her eyes to squeeze 
the tears back. He almost told her then, 
almost but not quite. She heard him step 
on the starter and felt the car glide off 
down the slippery road. And perhaps a 
few tears escaped the tightly closed lids 
— just one or two. But the boy beside 
her did not see them. And they drove 
home through the rain that was no longer 
rat-gray but a thick, ugly black. 

Back in the little average dromitory 
room the frail-faced, twisted-legged boy 
still sat at his desk. The book of Homer 
still lay unread in front of him, and he 
still stared out the window at the rain 
that was no longer a rat-gray drizzle, but 
was now a thick, ugly, black downpour. 
He was thinking about the lucky boy that 
was his roommate, and who was not so 
lucky after all. But Philip did not know 
this, for he did not know about the 
heavy, dark seed. He was thinking that 
if he were like that boy, if he had the tall, 
lithe body and the long, straight, strong 
legs he would not be sitting at the desk 
with the book of Homer lying unread 
before him. He would have gone to the 
dance with the fresh-cheeked, floating- 
haired young girls and smiled a bright, 
flashing-white, smile and been happy. But 
he did not have Drake's body or straight 
legs, he had a frail-backed, twisted-legged 
body that could not dance or do any of 
the things college society demanded. And 
so he had dropped out of society. And 
he was not missed. He knew he would 
never be missed. That was what hurt. 
That was what hurt and made him bitter. 
He was suddenly seized with the desire 
to hurt someone, but he could not even 


lo that. So he slammed the book of 
-iomer shut and cursed, not knowing 
vhat or whom he cursed. 

"Well, what goes? Homer get imder 
'our skin?" The voice was Drake's as he 
ntered the little room, but without the 
|uick, easy stride that was usually his. 
lis feet moved slowly and heavily, as 
lowly and heavily as Philip's. 

Philip ignored him. He could not speak 
this healthy, straight-legged roommate 
f his right now while he was feeling like 
lis. As the two boys undressed, Drake 
oticed that something was bothering his 

"What's the matter, fellow?" he asked, 
alting a minute from the task of unty- 
\g a knot in his shoe string. 

"Nothing!" Philip snapped, but his 
>ne of voice said distinctly that some- 
ling was the matter. 

"What's eating you?" Drake persisted, 
or he could not ever remember seeing 
is roommate so disturbed before. 

"Will you shut up!" Philip's clipped 
'ords were menacing and strained. 

"Sure," Drake answered, somewhat 
iken aback at his friend's tone of voice. 
Sure, keep your shirt on. It couldn't be 
lat bad." And that was exactly what he 
lould not have said- 
Philip whirled on him, almost losing 
is balance on his unsteady legs. "Oh, it 
>uldn't!" he blazed, and Drake dropped 
is shoes and stared at the flaming black 
^'es in which he had never seen so much 
5 a spark before. "Oh, it couldn't! Well, 
ist suppose you had to live with these — 
lese — " he couldn't seem to bring him- 
;lf to say the word, but he looked at his 
visted, toothpick-legs with a hatred con- 
intrated by the years. "Just suppose you 
ad to sit up here and read Homer — 
Iomer! — while everyone else is dancing, 
ust suppose you — oh, what's the use? 
>h, hell!" and his voice broke and he 
ad to turn his back and swallow hard to 

keep from uttering the dry sob that 
struck in his throat. 

So that was it, Drake thought. Philip 
had never mentioned his infirmity before, 
and Drake had thought that he had long 
since accepted it. But now he saw that 
Philip had never accepted it. That it had 
been eating on his soul like a great cancer 
until it had eaten away all normalness and 
natural love of life and left only bitter 
despair. He knew now that it was this 
deformity that had kept Philip from 
making friends with the rest of the fel- 
lows, not just an inherent quietness; that 
it was this deformity that had prevented 
him from joining the little informal gath- 
erings and bull sessions, not a true prefer- 
ence for Homer and Plato and Socrates 
and God only knew what other crackpot. 
And he was sorry for Philip — sorrier than 
he had ever been for anyone. But he 
didn't say anything. He knew Philip was 
bitterly regretting his outburst; so he just 
silently undressed and slipped into bed. 
As he lay in the darkness he wondered 
if he should tell Philip his secret, so that 
he would know that there was some use — 
that life is never useless; and that he, 
Drake, was not so all-fired lucky as 
Philip thought. Perhaps he should let 
the seed have its way after all. Perhaps 
he should let the petal drc^ into Philip's 
brain as he had meant to let it drop into 
Judy's. It would have hurt Judy, but, 
maybe, it would help Philip. So he 
slipped out of bed and snapped on the 
light. Going to the cramped little closet 
bulging with Philip's neatly hung clothes 
and his own not so neatly hung one, he 
took out a little square piece of paper 
that he carried in the inside breast pocket 
of his coat for the last three months. He 
took it out and went over to Philip, lay- 
ing his hand gently on the boy's thin 
shoulder, "Philip — Philip, look, fellow — 
here's something I want you to see." And 
he put the little square of paper in Phil- 


ip's hand. "Look at it, Phil, I think it 
might make you see that — well, that there 
is some use after all." 

Philip looked at him questionably, and 
then down at the paper in his hand. 
Then, as he read the closely printed 
words on the little square of white paper, 
he suddenly knew what Drake meant. If 
Drake, carrying this secret with him, 
could Uve a normal life then he, Philip, 
why couldn't he? What did twisted legs 
mean in the face of this? And, curiously 
he found himself thinking about the 
beautiful, fresh-cheeked young girl that 
loved Drake and would have married 
him and borne his children, sewed the 
buttons on his coat, and smiled when 
things weren't going right. He must have 
looked his question at Drake, for his 
friend shook his head slowly. 

No, Drake thought, she did not know. 
His lovely, fresh-cheeked, floating-haired 
young girl did not know, and so she 
would not have to forget. For you do 
not have to forget what you do not know. 
And Drake was glad. 

No one could help him bear the burden 

of the heavy, dark seed in the comer of 
his brain now. No one except, maybe, 
Philip because he knew the secret of the 
seed, for the seed contained the secret of 
the little white square of paper. The sec- 
ret was there on the little square of paper 
in Philip's hand as well as in the heavy, 
dark seed. And Philip, who had the 
secret on the little square of papier, and 
Drake, who had it in the heavy, dark seed 
in his brain locJced at each other — and 
neither spoke. But there was understand- 
ing between them — understanding of the 
burden each had to bear. And Phihp had 
hope. And what did Drake have? The 
seed could tell, but it never would. And, 
quietly, Drake put a m.atch to the little 
white square of paper which was a doc- 
tor's statement and said in bold black 

Drake England, Age: 19. 

Disease: Heart, incurable. 

Life Expectancy: About 5 years. 

And somewhere in the heavens some 
benevolent God was shedding great black 
tears that made Uttle clean paths on the 
dirty window pane. 

^he ^c 



By Nancy Fuller 

To what avail these meager words I write. 
When from my window I can see the sky 
Swelling with spring? I should go out and fight 
The March wind's thrust, looking to see if I 
Could spy a crocus or a daffodil 
Hiding beside a melting spot of snow. 
I should be walking now to get my fill 
Of warm spring sun upon my face. I know 
I should not ponder on such things when I 
Have work that must be done before I play. 
And yet, how can I write when that blue sky 
Peers in at me and calls me out today? 
What good are words, or poets who have died, 
When all of spring is waiting just outside? 


Bits Of IwnwnwrtaHty 

By Eileen Sprlngs+un 

Man is bom, he lives, and he dies, 
■fis existence and habitation on this earth, 
1 this magnificent multiverse, is of no 
gnificance. This matter that makes up 
ving people is impartial; it cares not a 
it for the person it creates and is part 
f. So when it chooses, the whole organ- 
m suddenly stops and becomes again 
latter in the sense that earth-dust is. But 
uring his short span of Hfe, man holds 
ne precious possession ... a brain. Man 
ies, but the products of his mind live 


This will be the fate of those miserable, 
isignificant creatures who are now strug- 
ling in the darkness to find a glimmer of 
ght, to touch the truth, however tenta- 
vely, the Existentialists. They are 
lusing only a small ripple in the sea of 
hilosophy, a ripple that will be smoothed 
ut and virtually lost from the view of 
.1 the little people who will in the future 
'avel their short journey on the crest of 
)me other wave. But that small ripple 

making circles of influence that will re- 
:rberate through the ages. Although the 
hilosophy itself is generally condemned, 
le austere way of life advocated by these 
xistentialists will be immortal; because 
ley are embalming their minds in the 
>rm of literature, great literature that 
ill live on despite the inevitable disinte- 
ration of those who are producing it. 

Books are immortal. A novel such as 
'he Stranger by Albert Camus, and plays 
ich as No Exit and The Flies by Jean- 
aul Sartre will do what all good books 
ive always done and are still doing for 
They will speak to us, arouse us, 
rrify us, teach us, comfort us, and open 
leir hearts to us as brothers. 

They will speak to us. Through the 
iges of books we listen to the voices of 

the world's great thinkers, and a little of 
their profound wisdom is transplanted in 
us. Perhaps Sartre and Camus will never 
be classed with world's great and profound 
thinkers, but even those who most avidly 
oppose them will have to admit that they 
are doing much to tear away the remnants 
of the Middle Ages that still cling to too 
great a percentage of the masses. In A'o 
Exit Sartre says, "So this is hell. I'd 
never have believed it. You remember 
all we were told about the torture -cham- 
bers, the fire and brimstone, the "burning 
marl." Old wives' tales! There's no need 
for red-hot pokers. Hell is — other 
people!" Even those who do not agree 
with the Existentialist philosophy will con- 
tend that the best of a book is not the 
thought which it contains, but the thought 
that it suggests. What wonderful 
thoughts can be gleaned from the black 
and white of any printed page! 

Books arouse us. The influence of 
books is a mighty power in the world. 
Silent, passive, and noiseless though they 
are, they yet set in action countless multi- 
tudes and change the order of nations. 
Through their books and philosophical 
teachings the leaders of Existentialism 
have gained coimtless adherents, and will 
perhaps lure many away from the doc- 
trines of communism and Nazism, the two 
"isms" that prompted Sartre to begin his 
teachings. Sartre, Camus, and the others 
may inspire men to the greatest heights, 
or they may cause men to sink into the 
darkest pits of degradation. If they in- 
still fear in our hearts, and shake the 
very foundations of our souls, perhaps we 
will come out of the experience with some- 
thing deeper and finer than we have yet 
found. Suppose we are stunned by the 
thoughts and theories set forth in the 


literature of the Existentialists! Maybe it 
will jolt us into thinking out "the good, 
the true, and the beautiful" for ourselves. 
But then who is to say what is "the good, 
the true, and the beautiful"? 

Books teach us, but it has recently been 
noticed that not enough books are heard 
with patience or reverence. A reader must 
neither accept blindly nor condemn hastily, 
but rather absorb, ponder, and evaluate. 
It is generally accepted that upon books 
the collective education of the race de- 
pends; they are the sole instruments of 
registering, perpetuating, and transmitting 
thought, but of what avail is this if a 
book is not read with an open mind? 
Many people, hearing the word Ex'isten- 
dalism for the first time, immediately 
condemn it as a decadent philosophy of 
a decadent nation, without inquiring into 
the principles upheld by the philosophical 
school. The fact that No Exit recently 
faded on Broadway is sufficient in itself 
to prove that the average American neither 
recognizes good literature when he sees 
it, nor understands it when it is flaunted 
in his face. 

Books open their hearts to us as 
brothers. They are our friends, always 
present and never changing. The Exis- 
tentialists and their literature are among 
the best friends that the Americans have 

today. Although the average American 
does not realize it, the Existentialists art 
strongly advocating that very freedon: 
that Americans have always so willingl) 
fought for. lAnd actually what do w« 
Americans know about freedom? Nevei 
having tasted anything else how can w« 
realize its exquisite flavor? To the Exis 
tentialisc freedom is yet something mon 
than release from the oppressing hand oi 
Hitler, or freedom from outmoded re 
ligious shackles. In Sartre's The Flies 
Orestes says, "I am my freedom." Lik< 
all other books those created by the geniu; 
of the Existentialist leaders are merel) 
innate objects . . . only a few sheets oi 
unimpressive paper bound together in ar 
unimpressive cover, but one has only t( 
open this cover, and life itself will spring 
from the pages. 

Life for the Existentialist and his phi 
losophy will be short in the sense of actua 
practice, but in the true sense, the sense 
that matters, his life will never end. Gooc 
literature is immortal, and although onlj 
a few discerning critics of today recog 
nize the work of Sartre and Camus x. 
art, time v/ill tell that these Existentialists 
are producing some of the greatest litera 
ture of the twentieth century. They hav« 
produced, and are still producing price 
less little bits of immortality. 


(Continued from Page 32) 

not stop him. He wrapped his coat about 
himself and staggered through the snow 
to Henri's. But they were not there. 
Not one of his friends was there. Charles 
asked Henri if he had seen them. The 
answer came in indifferent evasive tones. 
Bewildered, Charles turned away. Shiver- 
ing, alone, he started out to look for them. 
Charles came to the house of one, but he 
was not in. The landlady did not know 

when to expect him. At the laext apart 
ment he was received and greeted by hi 
friend, but somehow the greeting wx 
different. Charles pretended that the re 
serve he detected was imagined, anc 
chatted gaily about his stories, his job 
his immediate plans, in order to conoea! 
his discomfiture. He stayed here only s 
few minutes, because his friend suddenly 
remembered an appointment and apolo 
getically hurried to leave. 

On and on he walked, from house tc 


lOuse, and each time he was received 
;oolly. At first Charles was bewildered; 
le did not understand this new attitude 
)f his friends. Always he had been hailed 
vith a hearty greeting, a playful slap on 
:he back, friendly smiles, complete unre- 
lerve. Why this change? It was unreal, 
mnatural. Perhaps it was a figment of his 
magination. Charles did not know where 
:o turn. Dejected, he shu£Fled away from 
he last house, and walked along the 
itreets, peering into faces under the lamps 
n search of a mark of recognition, a 
riend, and found none. Only cold stares 
•nd furtive whispers greeted him. 

Little by little, realization crept into his 
onsiciousness. He began to understand, 
nd the knowledge nauseated him. 

He was tired, tired, tired. At last he 
cached that stark gray monster, like all 

the other gray monsters huddled against 
the sidewalk, the house that contained his 
room. He dragged himself up, up, up 
the stairs until he reached his door. Slow- 
ly he opened it, and letting his body fall 
back against it, closed his eyes. In a few 
minutes he stirred, raised his head, and 
took a step toward the bed. He stopped 
sharply. There, sitting on the edge of the 
iron bed, was a figure, a thin figure with 
burning eyes, eyes that seemed to be feed- 
ing on the flesh of the face. The figure 
was watching him, waiting for him, 
smiling slightly. The smile was friendly. 
Charles' first impulse to flight died away. 
He was tired, so very tired and lonely, so 
very lonely. Closing the door behind him, 
he slowly, then more quickly, advanced 
toward the bed, almost eager to embrace 
the friend that awaited him there. 

OF TRrNK§ . . . 

(Continued from Page 64) 

ammered nail-heads. The marquee was 

jlemn with the word "Closed". The 

host-like structure was inhabited by one 

>ne keeper who could produce no infor- 

lation about an insignificant chorus girl. 

Vlaybe she hopped a train and went 

ack home. That's what happens to most 

these young girls who think they can 

ake good on the stage. Most of 'em 

)me from small towns in the Middle 

f^est, and if they knew what was good 

r 'em they would' ve stayed there in the 

St place. This girl you're lookin' fer 

ost likely went back home to forget 

)out it. Probably won't ever mention it 

ain. They never want the home town 

Iks to know that the show flopped and 

ey flopped with it." 

James* week in New York was spent 

liking from one big theatre to another 

the hope that someplace he would find 

e magic name Lily Lawrence, the name 

that was the key to his life, the name 
that would open the gates of future bliss. 
But James failed. He failed as Lily had 

James turned again to the trunk, and 
half angrily threw back the resisting top. 
The musty smell of age rose from the 
contents and fused with the dust. Caut- 
iously he picked up a film of silk heavy 
with small black beads. The dress was 
unfamiliar to him, but, placing it aside, 
his eyes fell on a small white satin slipper. 
He picked it up and gently fondled the 
dainty thing with his shaking, clumsy 
hands. Something made a small sound, 
and turning the sliper upside down, James 
watched two yellow grains of rice timible 
to the floor. She had been married in 
that small white slipper. Almost savagely 
James held it to his breast like a new 
child while burning tears rolled off his 
cheeks and splashed on the contents of 
the trunk. 

When the mist cleared James again 


made an effort to examine the little bits 
of sentimentality displayed in jumbled 
disorder before his eyes. Hurriedly, fran- 
tically he began pulling things out of the 
trunk. Then he stopped, horrified. There 
tucked in the corner, half hidden by some- 
thing red, was a bundle of yellowed en- 
velopes tied with a frayed blue ribbon. 
A name stood out and danced before his 
eyes. The name was Miss Lily Lawrence. 
Slowly, almost stupidly, the man reached 

for the letters and sat heading them, 

Hours later the man stumbled down the 
steps. In the front part of the house 
were denim-clad men busily carrying out 
trunks and furniture. They stopped whet 
James entered the room, and turned ex 
pectantly. "You needn't bother inovin§ 
the rest of it out. I've changed my mind 
I'm not leaving. This is my home . 
my life." 

^irst cyLc 


By Dudley Brown 

"Fwas cold and bare when first he chanced 
To capture all my fancy. Still, 
He came, and lo! my eyes so danced 
That love tripped forth with happy will. 

For years, it seemed, he held the scheme 
Which so encumbered all my mind; 
His handsomeness, a perfect theme 
Of joy and youth, the two combined. 

I ioved him fiercely all the while, 
Each day more dearly. 'Til the end 
We forced a nonchalant young style. 
Yet sweethearts true need not pretend. 
A love is good if lovers dare 
To know its meanings, genteel all. 
Such was our love, a thing so rare 
That now I wonder at its fall. 

iBut so it came, I know not why; 
I only felt its stinging dart. 
It was so fair; yet still I die, 
Love's arrow piercing deep my heart. 

Twas warm and fair when last he fled; 

No note he left. A lonely tear 

Falls silently from bended head. 

First love best? Oh, how wrong, my dear. 


By Eileen Springstun 

Oh, that the rain would slither down the p« 
In limpid rainbow drops like happy tears 
To wash away the dust — obscuring years 
Of lucidation and the clear-cut lane 
I followed. All encountered was explainec 
If I misstepped, there were no subtle leers 
To make me conscious of inevitable fears, 
Of inward, painful knowledge of disdain. 
Then maybe eager tears would also flow 
And cool the dusty burning of my eyes 
And clear the vainly hidden ignorance. 
Profound bewilderment, and that black foe 
LJncertainty. The light through all disgui 
Would dance displaying Beauty in a glanc 


By Nancy Fuller 

I would have come back, 
In time, my sweet, 
But that was before 
Two lazy blue eyes 
Laughed at me 
From a stranger's face 
On a sunlit street 
In the spring. 



TaMe Mn The Witdemess 

Ziff Davis and Company. Chicago, 1947 
By Norton S. Parker 

Reviewed by Marion Frederick 

Norton S. Parker is a magnificent 
ory-teller. Throughout his latest book, 
able in the Wilderness, he displays this 
complishment. As the reader follov/s 
)seph from his betrayal into slavery on 
rough his conquering of the Pharaoh 
Egypt and the rule of the first of the 
eat empires of the world, every char- 
ter becomes vibrantly alive. The story 
Hows the outline of the Biblical myth 
ry exactly, omitting none of the scanty 
tails offered there, and adds personality, 
pth, and modern philosophy. The Bib- 
al story, in fact, is recognizable only by 
e plot, characters, and the setting. 
Mr. Parker's knowledge of the results 
archeological research of prehistoric 
e in Palestine and Egypt, however, is 
n-existent, or at least, not noticeable in 
book. (I've never read any of his 
rs.) The philosophy propounded by 
seph and his secret Brotherhood is of 
J most advanced Christian and Socialist 
rtrmes combined. The characters of 

Joseph and of those he influences, their 
high "moral" stature is not in keeping 
with what is known of that era. Joseph 
becomes almost Christ-like in his pro- 
gression from a simple shepherd lad with 
Boy Scout tendencies to a prince con- 
sumed by a benign love for the masses. 
(In the end, symbolically enough, he is 
nearly destroyed by a misguided mob. 
He wishes he could live again, "to be 
bom a second time" as a voice from "on 
high" thunders down, to do it all over.) 
The point of the book apparently is in 
the parallel story of tyranny, exploitation 
of the masses for selfish gain, and the 
consequent near-ruin of the empire. It is 
almost allegorical. Jeffersonian democracy 
triumphs, however, and that is the moral 
all despots should learn. The author had 
a lot to say regarding Brotherhood of 
of the masses for selfish gain and the 
a lot to say regarding Brotherhood of 
Man and he said it well, if repititiously. 



Vol. II NOVEMBER, 1947 No. I 




omeone once said, "It is a great book, a good book that is opened w;ith 
expectation, and closed with profit." The Chimes of 1947-1948 would likef to 
use that sentence as our motto. Chimes is not a great book but it is certainly 
a good book because its contents are composed of the best literary work done 
on campus here at Ward-Belmont. The staif has put its heart upon these pages, ^ 

and your roommates and classmates have laid their innermost thoughts and 
ideas here. Chimes is the book you can pack in your suitcase to read long after 
you have left W-B for the last time, and looking back on those yesterdays, you 
can remember "that girl" by reading again her poem or story. 

From the staff of three we have grown to eleven. There are new names in our 
table of contents. Sue Coker has given us her beautiful poems, "PITY", and 
"THE ARTIST", plus her fascinating story, "THE INFAMOUS HERO." 
Janice Lebenstein's brilliantly written "FEAR AND A HANDFUL OF ' 

DUST", and "EVENING AT HOME" adds color and variety to this first 
issue. The art staff has burned midnight oil sketching and planning a new type 
of illustration. 

We hope you'll like this first issue because it is your magazine and you are 
its critic. May you "open it with expectation, and close it with . . . profit." 



Jane Ellen Tye • • Editor 

Sue Hoyt An Editor 

Sue C. Coker Poetry Editor 

Janice Lebenstein Business Manager 

Joyce Callaway Book Review Editor 

Gloria Gordon Exchange Editor 

Mrs. Ruth Taylor Faculty Advisor 


Carolyn Henderson Joyce Armitage Neilyn Griggs 

Pat Negley Barbara Benson 


Staff Page 

Fear and a Handful of Dust Janice Lebenstein 

Pity Sue Coker 

I Live Among This Catherine Kelly 

Home Town Jane Ellen Tye 

I Just Love To Write Carolyn Henderson 

The Twins Jeanne Ingersol 


The Artist Sue Coker 

Sour Grapes Julia Carter Aldrich 

Query Joan Hays 

Talent Sue Coker 

Melancholy Jane Ellen Tye 

Sonnets Jane Ellen Tye 

The Infamous Hero Sue C. Coker 

The Sunset Neilyn Griggs 

An Evening at Home Janice Lebenstein 

This is City Jane Ellen Tye 

As I Told Mr. Winthrop Mary Simms 

Tomorrow Sue Coker 

Ole' Man River , Billie Jackson 


The Unvanqulshed Spirit Joyce Callaway 

The Scared Men In The Kremlin Julia Aldrich 

The Illustrious Rebel Joyce Callaway 








• Jane Ellen Tye is almost never known as 
anything but "JET". Her exuberance and 
vitality never fails to amaze us. She proudly 
claims Harlan, Ky. as her home and woe be 
unto anyone who misspells it. Vanderbilt will 
be her ultimate alma mater, and we are sure 
they will like her as much as we do. She has 
everything but a poetic personality^ Jet is the 
center of our literary circle and she holds a 
definite spot in our hearts. 

• Sue Hoyt is the stabilizing force of the 
CHIMES Staff. Fairfield, Connecticut, is her 
home but she loves the South, even if she is 
classified as a Yankee. She feels the South is 
more in keeping with her tempo. She hates to 
write and took up art only because both of 
her parents were artistically talented. The 
offices she holds include, Treasurer of Anti- 
Pan, and Vice President of Phi Theta Kappa. 
She has a twin and about the only di£Ference 
between them is their different colored tooth- 

• From Caruthersville, Missouri, hails the 
CHIMES Staff angel, Sue Coker. Sue is Poetry 
Editor of CHIMES, and she thrives on good 
poetry and good coffee. She is an ardent Tri 
K, and thinks W.B. is a mighty fine place. 
She never fails to astonish us with her sudden 
inspirations which result with such beeeeutiful 
poems. Indeed Sue is a strong white pillar 
for the CHIMES . . . Just call her "Angel"w 

• Denver, Colorado, is the home of Gloria 
Gordon, better known around campus as 
"Gordy" ... of all things she likes, sleep 
comes first and then Agora, her club. Gordy 
is best typified by her horn rimmed glasses 
and her awed expression at Jet's outbursts. 

• From Louisville, Kentucky comes Joyce Cal- 
laway who states that her main and only ambi- 
tion is to write. Joyce, who has had much 
previous experience on high school papers and 
magazines, plans to major in journalism at 
Michigan State and after that — abroad as a 
foreign correspondents She claims Anti-Pan 
as her club, and is a member of the Senior- 
Mid class. 

• The intellectiial member of the CHIMES 
Staff is Janice Lebenstein from New York City. 
Her use of words can only be described as 
superlative. Jan is a TC and her husky voice 
is her dominant feature. The greatest aspira- 
tion of Jan's is to be able to do something to 
impress her older brother, and get into the 
University of Chicago. Jan is known by her 
frankness and intellectual radicalism. 

* Bess Benson, being the Texan she is, wants 
to own a ranch and an airplane of her own. 
Bess is from Wichita Falls, Texas, and she 
loves cats, music, art and puns. She is the 
jester of the staff and keeps up the morale 
of the writers. Bess always has a "tall tale" 
to relate and a "wonderful idea" for our next 

• Barbara Nelson is a PE major from Florida. 
Dependable and responsive best sums up Bar- 
bara's capabilities, for she must be prepared 
for our sudden screams to "Type this quick". 
You can always find Barbara bent over her 
little Remington deep into the night before 
CHIMES goes to press. 

• Neilyn Griggs from Los Angeles, California, 
is a Chemistry major. She loves to write — 
just anything. Her interest is in classical music 
and Jose Iturbi. Future plans include either 
Vandy or the University of Southern Califor- 
nia. Neilyn has attended W.B. for three years. 
She is a Penta Tau and the competent Secre- 
tary of the Senior-Mid class. 

• Pat Negley from Peoria, Illinois is an Art 
major and is just crazy about drawing. (It's 
a good thing, too, 'cause that's her job on the 
CHIMES Staff.) She is an ardent Penta Tau, 
and loves to swim and eat. Pat's dry wit comes 
in pretty handy when our meetings begin to 
get dull. 

Fear and a Bandiul ai Oust 

By Janice Lebensfein 

The first thing he was aware of was a 
sharp, searing pain piercing his eyeballs, 
severing sleep entirely. He tried to fight 
back consciousness, hoping for what com- 
fortable nonentity of physical insensibility. 
If he only didn't have to wake up; sleep 
was all he wanted, and he fought for it, 
concentrating on it so much, it became 
impossible, and awareness closed in on 
him. Against his will, he opened his eye- 
lids, only to close them immediately from 
the penetrating rays of the sun. He lay 
on his back considering whether he should 
get up or just ignore the pounding in his 
head. He cursed himself and the world 
in general for his discomfort and inade- 

As always, in the silence of early morn- 
ing, his thoughts turned to those well- 
remembered sounds that contrasted with 
that ugly, lonely absence of noise. No 
more screams of shells; no more whine of 
bullets . . . only silence; terrifying silence 
that made his head pound and pulse; 
horrifying silence that made flashes of 
pain gore his brain like a knife rends 
a piece of cloth. Oh, God! If he could 
only go back, back to the years before he 
had committed that one cowardly act that 
had branded him with the mark he was 
incapable of wiping out. Coward! Co- 
ward! Coward! The word cut through 
the air and shattered into a thousand 
pieces that fell ponderously about his head 
and shoulders. 

An agonizing groan escaped his lips as 
he wrenched himself hastily from the bed, 
clutching his ears to cushion the blows 
from his own conscience. He stumbled 
across the room and lighted a cigarette 
from the pack spilled across the dresser. 

Combing his hair with his hands, he stood 
indecisively, inhaling long, deep, drags 
from the cigarette until the air about him 
was clounded in a light blue fog. His 
memories and the odor of nicotine and 
spilt liquor that spread through the room, 
nauseated him so much that he ran to 
the sole window of the one-room flat and 
shoved it open. Then leaning over th? 
sill, he gulped down long breaths of fresh 
air deep into his lungs. He rested weak- 
ly in that position until the feeling of 
nausea left him. His head cleared as he 
gazed at the signs of a city awakening. 
He stared at the ill-kept backyards over- 
shadowed by the tall ofi^ice buildings 
towering above them, the distant spots of 
green were the only indications of small 
city parks. He thought of his home town, 
the small, smartly-painted houses, the clean 
streets lined with broad, fragrant trees. 
Years flashed by in seconds; big events 
and insignificant episodes — his childhood, 
the big house in the small town, the high 
school, college. College — boy, that was 
the life! The frat house, beer parties, 
and endless nights of fun. Why had it 
had to stop? The army, with its intermin- 
able hikes, too-short dances, and incon- 
venient maneuvers; the years of taking 
orders and living like a pig. Live like a 
pig? Hell, he hadn't lived like a human 
being since. All right, it was inconvenient. 
Other men had taken it. Why hadn't he? 
When the real thing, actual warfare, be- 
came an integral part of his existence he 
had been unable to cope with it. He had 
failed, and as a result nine men were 
dead. Dead and decaying in unmarked 
graves while he lived the half -existence he 
called life. A life ruined by a scream of 

terror that had disclosed the secret ten 
men had sworn to keep. A Hfe m prison 
camp that was comparative ease to what 
other men suffered. He'd called himself 
every name and used every epithet others 
had whispered and even shouted. His 
hate for himself was surpassed only by 
the hate of the one person from whom he 
desired love. Kathy, the girl that had 
refused to see him on his return and had 
sent his ring back with the short note con- 
taining one word — coward! That word 
again; it beat a tattoo on his brain; it 
burned itself deep. Pressing his mind 
for anything to change the direction to- 
wards which his thoughts were running, 
he tried to clarify the vague details con- 
cerning the last evening's escapade, but 
now his memory functioned like a rusty 
wheel, clutching at some disjointed points, 
yet skipping others entirely. He could 
clearly remember entering a cheap cafe 
just after he had finished picking at a 
lonely meal. As he recalled the incident 
he sensed once again the close odor of 
stale beer and overheated bodies, the 
raucous sound of drunken laughter and 
loud wisecracks, the sight of forced rev- 
elry and gaudy decorations. As he sensed 
these, his befuddled mind cleared and 
remembered all that had happened. 

John perched precariously on the worn 
bar-stool, elbows sprawled across the shelf 
of the bar, sipping a diluted highball. The 
raw medicinal taste of cheap scotch offend- 
ed his palate as the amber liquid burned 
its way to his stomach. He glanced at 
the small over-crowded room packed like 
a subway train during rush hour. The 
cafe had the same hurried atmosphere of 
a packed train — the feeling that every- 
one was in a great hurry to get some- 
where — anywhere. It echoed in the bodies 
of the couples swaying to the passionate 
rythms of primitive jazz, jazz that echoed 
the hungry and frenzied desires of the 

dancers. He turned back to his drink and 
gulped it down, discontentedly longing 
for companionship, yet fighting back the 
longings the music awoke in him. He was 
surprised at the parched feeling in his 
throat, since he had just finished his 
drink. While he ordered another he 
glanced at the booths in the almost black 
comers of the cabaret. 

It was not difficult to recognize the 
crisp, black hair, or the firm set of her 
head; the swift bland gestures, the soft 
shoulders . . . the wide mouth. As he 
stared at her he thought of what had been 
before. ''Kathy . . . Kathy in the sum- 
mer, the color of coffee and cream, Kathy 
with the rain trickling down her face . . . 
Kathy and a bottle of beer . . . discus- 
sions of Nietsche . . . Kathy with me." 
Memories of spring nights and winter 
afternoons made that which he sought to 
suppress rise and well up in him. Sud- 
denly his hands became clammy with 
sweat, and he felt the fatal lurch in his 
heart as his eyes met hers. He still loved 
her, and she had to feel the same for him. 
With her help he could conquer his co- 
wardice . . . with her help he could show 
the world! 

She turned quickly from him, and the 
light of recognition in her eyes died. His 
breath was coming in short little spurts 
now, and he gripped the edge of the bar 
for support. The self-loathing that had 
recently lodged in his heart was forgotten. 
Desire to speak to her overcame his rea- 
son as he wended his way through the 
tables toward her. "Kathy, please," his 
heart pounded, "Kathy, please". The 
struggle within him between conscience 
and the desire to be loved as before broke 
at the sharp look of repugnance and the 
sarcastic accusations that thundered 
against him, crushing him under the 
weight of their truth. He stood stunned 
as the last vestige of a heart within him 

died. Shame gave vent to the thought of 
escape — escape to any place away from 
the scene of his humihation; escape to 
anywhere, escape to nowhere. 

He went from one bar to another until 
he was so intoxicated he could hardly 
speak intelligibly. The last thing he 
remembered was stubling up the stairs to 
his room and falling limply on the un- 
made bed. A drunken stupor then over- 
came him. 

There he flicked away a half smoked cig- 
arette and watched the arch of fireworks 
'made by the scattered live ash. Walking 
into the small bathroom, he pondered the 
ruins he had made of his life. He knew 
no answer to the question of what to 
do with the dust that remained, and all 

his confused thoughts were incapable of 
supplying a reasonable answer. Without 
hope, and he had none, he was as good 
as dead. He wished he was dead, but he 
was much too afraid to try suicide and 
much too weak to struggle for salvation. 
He was what Kathy had called him, and 
deep in his soul he could not forget the 
fact that was always present. The only 
thing left to him was to run — run as he 
had the night before, run as he would 
again, run to an escape that would always 
be temporary. He reached for the only 
escape he knew — the amber liquid in the 
tall brown bottle. A few quick swallows 
and a mist of forgetfulness would cl^se 
in. He swallowed. 




By Sue C. Coker 

My heart was so full of gay and joyful things, 

I wanted to share happiness with you. 

Your capturing eyes beheld me. 

And with a nod accepted my treasures. 

I gave a youthful soul of unselfish faith. 

And all my dreams of greatness became your dreams. 

I gave you strength to go on. 

My courage and fire became yours. 

You wore them proudly and possessively 

And they became you well. 

I became dull and the gold that was me 

Became the glitter of you. 

And now I have dug a grave in my heart, 

For these things, once given. 

Cannot be regained. 

For you, who cannot love in return, 

I have only pity to give you now. 

I Live Among This 

By Catherine Kelly 

In the beginning of the nineteenth cen- 
tury, my forefathers migrated from Vir- 
ginia, and settled in the northern part of 
Alabama. During the past one hundred 
and forty-seven years many interesting in- 
cidents have happened to different mem- 
bers of the generations who have Uved on 
the old cotton plantation, the one on 
which I now live. In this article I would 
like to write a few of the many stories I 
have heard concerning people and things 
connected with the old Southern planta- 


There is much evidence on the planta- 
tion today that a tribe of Indians did once 
inhabit the land which we now own. As 
many as five or six bushels of Indian 
arrowheads have been found on the acres 
surrounding a creek that runs all the year 
around. It is our guess that their camp 
must have been near this creek. Along 
with the arrowheads, some tommy-hawk 
and axe heads have been found, though 
they are few. One of our prized posses- 
sions is a flat, round rock about the size 
of a bushel basket, with a very smooth 
surface one one side. We think this was 
probably used by the Indians to mash 
grain for making bread. Of course, all 
these relics were found long before I was 
born, but still if you go down by the 
creek and look around, you may find an 
arrowhead that someone else has over- 
looked. I have found two, both of which 
I prize highly. 

It is most interesting to study these 
Indian relics, for not two of them are 
alike. The arrowheads vary in size from 
less than an inch to eight inches long. 
These relics, the age of which is unknown, 
are all in our family possession. 

On another part of the plantation about 
a mile from where the relics have been 
found is an Indian burial ground, or at 
least that is what it is thought to be. 
There are several acres of forest all 
through which mounds, a little larger 
than the human body, rise. It has always 
been said that the Indians buried their 
dead here; however, of this we have no 
proof. Because of the story about the 
Indian burial ground connected with it, 
the forest has always been known as "In- 
dian Wood". 


There are several stories about various 
things that happened during the Civil 
War, but to me the one about the "Yan- 
kee Gentleman" is the most interesting. 
It is the only story of its kind I have ever 
heard about the Civil War days. 

My great-grandmother, a very kind and 
generous person, loved to help her fellow 
man. She took in Confederate soldiers, 
hid them in the basement of her old 
colonial home so the Yankees would not 
find them, cared for their wounds, and 
fed them well. When General Sherman 
came through Huntsville, Alabama (a 
city twelve miles from the plantation), he 
heard what my great-grandmother was 
doing. Immediately he sent a troop of 
soldiers out to burn the house. Arriving 
at the house, the leader of the troop saw 
my great-grandmother's six small children 
playing in the yard. This man must have 
had a home and children of his own, for 
after telling my great-grandmother the 
purpose of his mission, he ordered the 
troop back to Huntsville, leaving the 
house and everyone living there unharm- 
ed. When General Sherman heard of 

this, he immediately ordered the leader 
and his troop to return to the plantation, 
bum the house, and take all the inhabi- 
tants prisoners. The troop returned to 
the house to carry out the general's orders, 
but again returned to Huntsville leaving 
everything on the plantation as they found 
it. Before General Sherman could order 
another troop out to burn the house, his 
company was moved away from Hunts- 
ville and Sherman continued his march 
to the sea. The second trip the soldiers 
made out to burn the house, my great- 
grandmother told their leader she was 
glad there was at least one gentleman in 
the Northern army. Today the old colon- 
ial home with its massive columns still 
remains inhabited because of one "Yan- 
kee gentleman", who probably had a home 
of his own somewhere. 

During the war all the silver and treas- 
ured objects were hidden so the Yankees 

could not find them if they raided the 
house. Some of these objects still re- 
main hidden, for all of the silver was 
never found when the family looked for it 
after the war. It is possible that it may 
have been found and kept by someone, 
but to this day all the family silver has 
never been revealed. 

As most all of the big land owners in 
the South had slaves, so did my great- 
grandparents. At one time there were 
many slave houses on the plantation, but 
today only one stands as a reminder of 
the old days of the South. It is a one- 
room cabin made of large logs, notched 
together at the comers. Ironic as it Jnay 
sound, one of the children born to ^ the 
slaves that lived in that cabin still lives 
there. He, Whit Acklin, is the oldest 
living person on the plantation and the 
only one of the slave children left. Whit, 
an old bachelor, lives alone, but has his 
meals in our kitchen. Whit has not al- 
ways lived in this cabin, but I think it is 
fitting that he live in his old age in the log 
cabin in which he was born. This seems 
to be his choice too. Whit is one of the 
most polite old men I have ever known 
and one of the best workers, in spite of 
his age, that my father has. Nearly every 
day of his life has been spent on the plan- 
tation, and though we live only nineteen 
miles from the Tennessee State line, Whit 
has never been outside Alabama. There 
aren't many of his kind left in the world 
we live in today. 

A book could be written on the history 
of our plantation. Here I have only 
tried to point out a few, among the many 
things of interest that surround my every- 
day life at home. 

^J^ome ^-/c 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

It is autumn back home, , 

The hills are red 

And the poplar leaves are falling swiftly 

On the lawn 

Before my old Alma Mater. 

New faces walk the rock path to the door, 

New mouths sing the school songs 

At the football games. 

There are new yells and cheers 

And the bon fires at the pep rallys 

Are burning brightly. 

Afterward, the crowd still meets 

At the corner drug 

For a coke, or hot cocoa. j 

And a juke box tune . . . 

"Saturday night is the lonliest night of the week." 

Still later, the lights flick off 

One by one, 

And the little town 

Is dark and silent. 

The streets are damp and cool 

And the hedges sparkle with dew. 

The old chimes in the town clock 

Sound off the hour. 

And all is sleeping 

Oh, the rapture of those autumn days. 

The blueness of the sky. 

The amber, scarlet trees that 

Reach from the mountains to the sun, 

I shall always remember home, when it is autumn. 

I remember the church bells at twilight time 

And the chill blue winds that toss 

The flag on the Post Oflice roof 

At noontime. 

Sweater and red apples, and kicking leaves 

Along the sidewalk, I shall remember. 

Someday, let us walk back through the mist 
To that yesterday. 

When all our worries were American history 
Homework, and Geometry symbols. 


Let us go back to walk the hills 

When the leaves fall in patterns. 

Let us go back to play on the schoolyard swings 

At recess time, 

And laugh and run and sing 

Like we did once, 

In the old days 

Small town people are human, 

And friendly. 

Aunt Martha still knits on the Court House bench, 

And Doc Rathford still treats the football team 

To sodas after practice. 

Everyone is happy, no one is too busy 

For a cherry smile and "hello." 

Back home we learned to carry warm milk from the barn, 

And drink spring water 

And to ride to town in a truck on Saturday night. 

We learned to love ISng walks 

And new violets, and the smell of hot bread in a country oven. 

We learned to live simply. 

We learned that the secrets of the Earth are in the earth. 

We planted seed 

And got our reward at the harvest time. 

Friday night barn dances. 

Fiddler Joe, and Grandpa Howard's rusky voice 

Calling the dances 

From the platform. 

"Swing your partner left and right, into the middle, 

Back to the circle, hey hey." 

The sweet cidar and smell of new hay. 

And deep sleep afterward. 

Yes, it is autumn back home. 

I wonder who is sitting at my old wood desk now. 

I wonder if it is someone who dreams, as I once did. 

Out the wide glass windows. 

I wonder if the sun still falls in rays across 

The white pages of a Latin book. 

As it did five years ago. 

I wonder many things . . . 

Does the schoolmaster still strike his desk 

With the sharp ruler? 

Do the bells ring out at odd hours 

As a result of some boy's prank? 

Does the chapel still teem with 

The smell of must, and damp, cool flowers? 

Do the footsteps still echo along the corridors? 

Is the great piano silent now, 

In its place in the music room? 

Do the teachers still take time out for 

Poetry, in the late afternoon? 

I must go back someday; 

Someday, back through the mist. 

We carved our names on a door 

In the bandroom, 

I wonder if the emphatic drum beats 

Still creep into the classrooms 

At 3:00, and in the low, monotone 

Hum of a military march 

Off in the distance . . . does it still 

Interrupt the Biology classes. 

And confuse the Glee Club? 

And the 2:57 special. 

Do the children still jump from their 

Seats to the window 

To watch it go by 

And on across the bridge? 

Do the overalled boys still 

Take dentist excuses to the principal 

To be excused for an afternoon 

When the bass and trout are plentiful? 

Is it still the same, back home? 

Has it changed, and grown into something 

Strange and new? 

Or is it still the small town where I was born 

Staunch in its standards and morals and high ideals? 

Does the old Doc still deliver babies at all 

Hours of the night, 

And brag the next day that it was 

The most perfect child he ever brought into 

The world? 

The General store, the Hospital, 

The blacksmiths ... are they still the same? 

Someday, I shall go back through the mist. 

Back to my home town, back to yesterday. 

Oh, I sing your praise, small town. 
Whether your name be Centerville, 
Or Middletown, or Junction City, 
I shall sing your praise. 


Small town, population, 680, 

I sing your praise. 

Your heart is big and warm and you are never failing. 

The weekly newspaper, and the soap-box politicians, 

The farmer and the coal miner and the mechanic, 

I love all of you. 

You are the biggest part of my life, small town. 

I am one of you, and I sing your praise. 

Here in the city, I long for your peacefulness. 

I miss your old-fashioned ideas and lazy talk. i 

I miss the pastures and the hills and the sky. 

Here, in the city, I have to search for sky. . ' 

It is almost hidden by the tall steel buildings. ' 

I have grown used to the loud shallow talk of the city, with its — t 

Gray mornings, but your friendliness still beats in my soul, / 

And I carry you with me, deep, in the secret corner of 

My heart. 

Home town, small town, next autumn I shall walk back 

Through the mist to find you. 

Next autumn, when I shall come home again. 

I Just Mjove ta JVriiel 

By Carolyn Henderson 

Myrtle shook a fallen curler from her 
hot forehead and gave the Willowware 
plate a vicious rub. "I just love to wash 
dishes. It's the most fun I've had in 
years," she dogmatically repeated to her- 
self. The chubby hands, rough-red from 
dish water, automatically washed the 
breakfast dishes. Bits of egg remained 
fast to the cleaned dishes. Myrtle little 
cared. To get them into their shelves was 
her only aim. "Housework is facinating," 
Mrytle scowled at the coffee pot. "It 
gives one such a feeling of responsibility," 
she frowned at the four-year old kitchen 

Mrytle was practicing her philosophy of 
life. It was simple enough. Indeed, her 
entire life was simple enough. House- 
wife, mother, gardner, governess, cook — 
that is all she was. But back to her philos- 
ophy. "Keep repeating to yourself how 
much you love something (no matter how 
hateful it may be) and some day you will 
convince yourself that you are right." 
Understand? For thirty-six years Mrytle 
had tried this method. She was still con- 
vincing herself that she loved her dull 
husband and his meager salary, that she 
had always wanted five children, that she 
liked soup seven lunches a week, that she 


did not mind becoming fat and matronly, 
and that she was glad she had given up 
hopes of becoming another Dorothy Dix 
or Hedda Hopper. But not one item 
had been checked off her list of "I will 
love this," and here it was a hot Monday 
morning in July. Mrytle would not be 
defeated. She firmly believed her for- 
mula for a happy life to be the best. 

The potato plant in the kitchen window 
needed water. It usually did. Mrytle 
was not interested. Her mind was ab- 
sorbing the magazine popped up by the 
brown potato plant. 

The baby cried from upstairs. Mrytle 
dried her hands on the soiled apron and 
picked her way between wooden blocks to 
the ice box. The magazine was taken in 
one hand, the baby's bottle in the other, 
and up the steps she floundered. 

Dusting was a review of the same pro- 
ceedure. Oiled rag in one hand, maga- 
zine in the other. The grocery boy's ar- 
rival failed to interrupt the reading of 
Miss Wright's article. After opening a 
can of soup for lunch Myrtle reached in- 
to her pocket for her crumpled cigarettes. 
Lighting her cigarette was combined with 
the turning of a page. 

Lunch finished, magazine finished. 
Myrtle completed her last article with per- 
fect timing. Now to put the dishes under 
the sink, unwashed, in order to get right 
to work. 

Myrtle was a writer! Not a good one, 
but good enough to get a few things pub- 

lished. A poem now and then accepted 
by a church magazine or a junior poetry 
magazine. Once a feature article was ac- 
cepted for the city neswpaper. A few 
childrens' stories had been printed by 
Playtime and Children's Life. And 
several years ago True Romance had paid 
her twenty dollars for a short story. Then 
there were several sets of dishes, cartons 
of soap, ten dollars in trade, and one sil- 
ver spoon which had been delivered to 
her front door as first prizes for contests 
— the type where you praise a commodity 
in thirty words or less. A paragraph pub- 
lished in "Life in These United States" of 
the Reader's Digest was her one widely 
read piece. 

Myrtle might have been a better writer 
had she closed the American Literature 
Journal and opened her mind to the im- 
portance of originality. But she con- 
tinued to use the authors in "her" maga- 
zine as a basis for her writing. They were 
the outstanding writers of the day — why 
not copy them? 

Myrtle shook a fallen curler from her 
hot forehead. "I just adore writing. It's 
my one enjoyment in life." She had at 
last convinced herself on one thing. 

The aged typewriter leaped, the baby 
was fed, the lunch dishes were forgotten. 
Myrtle enjoyed her afternoon. 

A story grew . . . the pages of the 
American Literature diminished. Tlie 
writers of Myrtle's magazine had written 
another contest winner. 


Life is a gardenia, first admired, then worn, wilted and crushed 
by the footsteps of time. 

Sue C. Coker 


^Ite ^i 


By Jeanne Ingersol 

Loretta looked at the tiver and saw muddy, stagnant 
water with ragged trees reflected on its surface. 

But Lucinda saw black lace thrown carelessly across 
a dusky mirror. 

Loretta saw red and yellow leaves in a wood on the 

But to Lucinda, they were splashes of oil on the can- 
vas of the Master Artist. 

Loretta heard an organ play, saw a man at the keyboard, 

But Lucinda closed her eyes and heard a waterfall 
against a background of swishing pines. 

When the plane hurtled downward through the night, 
Loretta covered her face and cried, 

But Lucinda smiled and said to herself, "How shall I 
feel in Heaven?" 


^ke ^^rtidt 

By Sue Colcer 

I am but an artist, a simple painter of life and beauty. 

A man of small tastes and desires. 

But I would be more than artist or man, 

If I could transpose from your face the essence of life and spirit 

To this dull, unexpressive canvas. ... 

I would be a God! 

^our Cy# 



By Julia Carter Aldrlch 

Willie, let me stay awhile, 
You're wonderful and wise, 

And I can see the lights 

Of foreign countries in your eyes. 

You say you have a roving soul; 

My darling so do I! 
So take me with you where you go, 

I'll love you 'till I die. 

Ah, cruel and selfish, heartless lad, 
You're shallow and you're silly! 

Just talking, talking all the time; 
Lazy, lying Willie. 


Rhytne and Tiwne 

By Joan Hays 

Who said that night falls? 

It doesn't you know — 

It slips silently from the ground, and then 

Climbs swiftly up the hill of the sky 

Until God, seeing that night has arrived. 

Lights His celestial beacon — the moon. 

To guide all earth bound wanderers home. 


By Sue Colcer 

Some are instilled with the power to produce lovely music, 

Either by paper or voice. 

Others can paint objects in colors of splendor, 

Poets tell of soulful and human desires with mental pictures. 

These are talents; born from within or accomplished. 

Through these come comfort and inspiration to millions. 

I saw a Dago digging a long, narrow, and seemingly endless ditch. 
He stopped for lunch and sat on a pile of dirt and reached out 
Picking up a cornflower of palest blue and putting it in his lapel. 
He smiled and knew more joy than his talented fellowmen. 
For he had found what they had overlooked in the enigma of life. 


r If letancltotu 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

The dusk 

Whispers like a lonely child 

And moves me 

Like a song that has grown old 

And lost its once glorious enchantment. 

Even its colors are sad 

And its sighs are weary. 

I was riding a train 
I was alone with myself 
And the dusk fell 
Quickly, silently. 

The world lay in gray mist 

And I think the world must have been 

Like this, in the beginning. 

Evening steals from the hills and meadows 

And the dusk has passed, 

The feeling of melancholy is gone, 

Yet it is long remembered. 

For the dusk whispers like a lonely child 

And moves me 

Like a song that has grown old 

And has lost its once glorious enchantment. 

Having reached for a star, 

I was startled to find it within my grasp. 

It wavered, slipped and fell 

Upon the common earth with me. 

As if to say, "Stars are made to admire, 

But never for foolish mortals to possess." 

Sue C. Coker 





By Jane Ellen Tye 

Sing me no songs of praises, after death. 

Build me no monuments of chiseled stone ... 

My eyes will then be blind. I'll have no breath 

To quicken. All my senses will be gone. 

Say not, "She was of great or noble clan." 

But only, "She loved Ufe"; and shed no tears 

Because I've left this world of mortal man 

To walk within the land of afteryears. 

Inevitable death, I fear you not. 

But rather welcome you. Have not before 

Much greater men been stamped out by your blot? 

I, too, would know the world behind your door. 

So rise on marble stones, but in their stead 
Let only grass grow tall above my head. 

Wear not a mourning robe when I am dead. ... 
I loved bright colors, not a sullen black. 
Have me no weary dirge, but play instead 
Sweet music of the woods and hills. Turn back 
The hour glass and remember yesterdays 
With sunlight and bright laughter, dancing streams 
Across a dew-drenched meadow. Fickle ways 
Of April rains, our deep midsummer dreams. 
Remember those, forget our sorrowed hours. 
Smile on, while dust they pile upon my grave. 
Bring, as you used to bring, gay summer flowers . . . 
To witness Death is not a deed so brave. 

Think not of my dust-eaten form that lies 
Below. Remember summer in my eyes. 




i * '; 

15 * 

"Fhe MnfiBtnaus Bern 

By Sue C. Coker 

Art Chandler thought himself a living 
suicide. He stood still as he received the 
last orders of the Doctors. They were 
telling him of the simple readjustments 
he would have to make. He had been con- 
fined to this hospital for over six months, 
and many times he had re-lived these same 
horrors through fantastic dreams. They 
had kept him here to help him erase his 
fear for the ocean and war. He tried to 
stop thinking about it as Dr. Anderson 
spoke to him in a kind and sympathetic 
tone, "My son, it has not been easy and it 
will not continue to be easy in this 
different phase of life. Things will seem 
strange and unreal to you, for people can 
not conceive of your thoughts or ex- 
periences. So be patient, and, most of 
all, try to forget. It will all pass off with 
time." With these few and final words 
he had been dismissed. 

They had told him it would all pass 
and he would forget it. He only clutched 
his fists to keep from screaming, "How 
could you, how could you forget those 
unlivable nights and days spent with four- 
teen other men in a life raft meant to 
hold eight? How could you forget the 
death that lay beside you at night and 
the early morning burials at sea which 
greatly reduced the number of survivers? 
Could he ever forget the pain he had 
suffered in the arm he no longer had?" 

He picked up his small bag and got a 
taxi. It was good to be out among people. 
Art could hardly remember the last time 
he had walked the streets as a carefree 
young boy, and now, at the age of twenty- 
two, he felt like an old man. The lines 
of his face were deepened, and his eyes 
were shallow and meaningless. 

"Been overseas?" the cab driver in- 

Art gave a low, hesitant, "Yes." 

"I noticed your ribbons." 

Art made no reply. 

"I noticed your medals, too." 

Yes, thought Art, a very poor compen- 
sation for a wrecked spirit and body. 

Seeing that he was getting nowhere witH 
his conversation, the cab driver said n 
more. Art wondered why he hadn't aske 
about his arm; surely he wanted to know 
all of the dirty details about it; he could 
stand to hear it because he hadn't been 
forced to see and witness the things Art 
regarded as his very struggle for life and 
existence. Would these people, these out- 
siders, ever be able to see it as he had? 

The cab pulled to the curb and he 
stepped out It was difilcult to get the 
money from his pocket and handle the 
bag with one hand. They had told him 
an artificial arm would help, but he didn't 
feel that he was ready yet. He didn't 
want a hook where an arm should have 
been. It would be hard enough on the 
family seeing him and expecting him to 
be a drug addict or worse. After all, 
what could you expect of a psychopathic 
patient? He had known he would pull 
out of these moody spells and constant 
nervousness. He had succeeded, and now 
he was going to prove to the world he was 
mentally sane and well. If only it were 
just hb arm! He could forget the pain 
as the young lieutenant had amputated 
his arm there in that filthy, small boat if 
he didn't have to remember those ugly 
dreams about the swirling water, the way 
it swayed and gurgled and tempted him 


to give his tired, aching body to its open 
mouth. He had fought the ocean physi- 
cally during those trying days, and now 
when he was back in peace and safety 
he had to fight it mentally. 

The train wasn't too crowded, and Art 
withdrew himself from would be con- 
versationalists. He sat in the club car 
and buried his face in a magazine. This 
was the part that he truely dreaded, this 
business of going home. How would they 
take it. Would Mom cry too much? 
Would they try to consider him an in- 
valid? How would it be, going back to 
college where he had left off as a college 
freshman? ..How would the other stu- 
dents accept him? It seemed odd to be 
placed with college students; they seemed 
so young and unreal to Art. He turned 
from the magazine and carefully laid it 
aside to gaze out the window. The pass- 
ing scenery was like a painted canvas and 
a curtain of contentment fell about him. 
There were lunch, dinner, and a restful 
night's sleep that seemed odd to Art when 
he awoke the next morning. 

Art had gotten up early to watch all 
of the familiar scenery. He was nearing 
home and recalling how many times he 
had come home from college this way, and 
remembering how glad he was to make 
the first trip. As the green fields flew by 
him and he came nearer home, each barn 
and each house held some significance for 
him. Then suddenly, almost too sudden- 
ly, there was that small, aged, weather- 
beaten sign that read: 

Yardley, Calif. 
Population 10,649 

Although there had been a slight in- 
creas in population according to the last 
census, the sign had remained unchanged. 
A little like Yardley herself, unchanged. 

For a short while he had relaxed, but 
now he became tense and nervous. If only 

he could be certain how they would act. 
A few people got off before him. Then 
there they stood; he was in full view. 
He wanted to run towards them, but he 
felt nailed. His mother's eyes were filled 
with tears, and Rose • Mary, his sixteen 
year old sister, only gave a small, hushed 
cry and rushed to the side of her mother. 
Fourteen year old Randall stood with eyes 
wide open and stared. Dad was coming 
toward him smiling; he placed his hand 
on Art's back and gave him a hearty pat, 
"Arthur, my boy, its nice to have you 
back home." These were welcome words, 
and they had broken the silence. Theo 
there was a rush for him, followed by 
kisses, hugs, and welcome. He felt as if 
he were coming out of a horrible night- 

But going home seemed like a dream 
to him now. It was the only good dream. 
People had smiled sympathetically, and 
tried to understand, but after twenty-eight 
days on a raft your mind gets twisted into 
horrible and fantastic shapes. Art often 
wondered why he couldn't have returned 
to the happy, normal way of life that the 
other four men had returned to? His 
family sheltered him; they were ashamed, 
and he felt it intensely. He was a scan- 
dal, and Yardley had wondered why he 
couldn't have returned here as the young 
Lietuenant had. 

Then the dreams came back in their 
full and ugly forms. One night he awoke 
sobbing like a small child, and he saw 
his Mother and Father standing over him. 
He knew what they must be thinking. 

He had to get away; he had to regain 
himself, his self-reliance. There was only 
one way, only one answer. He must go 
back to that ocean of hatred and death. 
He would have to go back and face it 
as a man must face all of his difficulties. 
He would master his life; he would go 
down to the ocean and not be afraid. 



As he stood there silently and looked 
out into the night, he saw the peaceful 
small ripples of the water widen and wash 
up against the wharf. He knew he had 
conquered. Then suddenly he no longer 
saw the peaceful, small ripples, but in 
their place angry, tempting waves that 
could carry him back where he had lost 

his boyhood. He saw, with fear, bodies 
of men being tossed overboard, a small 
boat, the decaying flesh of his painful 
arm, and the cries of anguished men. As 
the thoughts, like a whirlpool, engulfed 
his mind, so did the water enclose his 
body, and it gave him back his soul in 
the form of a shroud. 



By Nellyn Griggs 

It was sunset when I reached the point 
that jutted high over the Pacific. Below, 
the wind was whipping the ripples of the 
inlet into small whitecaps. While the last 
rays of the sun painted the sea in hues of 
3ink and violet, the fog, on soft, gray 
feet crept in and strangled the discordant 
nusic of the city built around the bay. 
i\t that moment I first realized the beauty 
)f the scene, and its forceful hold over 

The point was part of a park that ex- 
:ended for miles along a cliff that dropped 
I thousand feet into the bay. It was 
"enced with rustic logs, faded to a dirty 
3rown by many years of exposure to the 
;alt winds. Wild morning-glory used the 
og's rough, thick bark as a path for its 
growth in the summer and in the winter; 
;ea birds huddled in the hollows for pro- 
;ection against the biting squall. 

There were many trees, some said to 
lave dated before the first Los Angeles 
nission by the Spanish Dons. Palms, 
itretching their long, thin arms into the 

sky and teasing the winds with a hundred 
slender, green fingers; eucalyptus, breath- 
ing its spicy fragrence into the air from 
delicate pink blossoms; and oak, throw- 
ing its limbs, twisted into grotesque shapes 
by the turbulent winds, down toward the 
sea as if to grasp the icey hands that 
pounded incessently on the giant rocks 
below — all sent their roots into the fertile 

Grass was the carpet of the point, 
emerald-hued and sparkling even in the 
sunset. It was thick grass and healthy, 
though for years humanity had abused it 
from dawn to dusk. Its story was one of 
the child's skipping pace, the youth's con- 
fident tread, and the slow faltering step 
of age. 

Such was my point at sundown, and 
thus do I hope it will remain, untouched 
by war and desolation, sorrow, and des- 
pair, though I know I shall never return, 
"ever return?" you ask. Yes, I shall 
not return, for you see I died last night 
at sunset. 


A^n Evening A.t Bawne 

By Janice Lebenstein 

The sun was just setting and the half 
light that fought its way through the 
slanted blinds cast weird shawdows across 
the mottled rugs, stained by countless 
cigarette ashes and spilled drinks. The 
clatter of dishes being slammed on a table 
and the clink of silverware echoed through- 
out the otherwise still apartment As 
from afar the beep-beep of automobiles 
and the clang of trollycar bells could be 
heard through the closed windows. A 
refrigerator door being slammed viciously 
drowned out the sound of a key fumbling 
in a lock. 

"Home, honey?" 

Don't know why I said that. The 
lights wouldn't be on if she weren't. 
Musn't leave lights on unnecessarily — 
costs money and we must save money for 
a new hat, or a new pair of shoes, or 
heaven knows what else. 

A weary body encased in the shiny blue 
serge suit that is the uniform of the bank 
clerk sank down in an even shinier and 
shabbier understuffed chair. The lifeless 
tie of convention was pulled loose from the 
frayed collar while the cracked, yet well 
polished, shoes were placed uncerimonious- 
ly on the already rickety end table. 

"What's for dinner tonight, dear?" 
Probably the same slop we had last night 
warmed over with sticky gravy. Reminds 
me of the stuff they gave us in the army, 
but at least they paid you to eat that. 

"Have a hard day, dear?" 

Hard, my eye. The only move she 
made was to walk across the room for 
another piece of candy. Probably had a 
tea and bridge party. I'll never see how 
those women can spend so much time doing 
nothing. I'll bet a million she hasn't sewn 
a button on my good white shirt. White 

shirts. Hell! Cheesecloth! What's happen- 
ed to the world? Nothing, I guess. Just 
too little money to buy the things you 
can't find that would be too expensive 
if you could. Boy, is that a clear thought! 
No wonder I can't think straight. I 
ought to chuck it all. Do what I want for 
a change instead of what is expected of 

The click of high heels, only slightly 
muffled by a threadbare rug, crossed the 
floor and stopped at the door for the few 
seconds needed to explain the early meet- 
ing with the girls and the dinner in the 
oven. The expected kiss of habit was ac- 
complished quickly and the door closed 
on the resumed sound of hasty footsteps. 
. . . Well at least that means no hurried 
movie, with some charm boy that's old 
enough to even be my father. This looks 


ike a great repast! I don't know why I 
take all this. Hell, I could have made 
something of myself, and what do I end 
Lip? A two-bit clerk! God, if I had it 
to do all over again, I'd show them . . . 
ler too! 

A tired back balanced comfortably on 
^he base of a spine relaxed in a wing chair 
IS a tired hand reached out for a mixed 
irink of the cheapest bourbon bottled, 
iyes bloodshot from long use peered aim- 
essly from behind sensibly framed glasses, 
^ong fingers plucked page after page 
marching for interest. 

. . Guess I shouldn't have spent a 

dollar for just a magazine, and heaven 
only knows what I'll get when she finds 
out, but it's the only time I ever get 
a chance to expose my mind to anything 
besides her idle chatter. Lord, is she 
dumb. .Wonder what in blue blazes this 
is. I never heard of that when I went to 
school. I might have had a chance to 
finish if it weren't for her. Boy, I'm 
sleepy. All day in that stuffy mausoleum. 
Used to be able to get out before. Gee, 
I remember. 

Tired eyes closed; tired hands relaxed, 
while a copy of the YALE REVIEW 
slipped quietly to the floor. 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

When I awake 

To morning 

The first thing I see is a bare limb 

Weaving up and down 

Against a brick wall. 

And I remember, this is a city. 

And when I lie 
To sleep. 

The last thing I see 
Is a bare limb 
Weaving up and down 
Against a brick wall. 
And I ren;iember. 
This is city. 

Why is it, God, 

That, in the city. 

You won't let the sky in? 



As I Taid Mr. JVinihrop 

By Mary Simms 

"Shocking is the word, absolutely 
shocking! To think that a civiHzed and 
Christian country would or could allow 
such a shocking circumstance to prevail. 
I told Mr. Winthrop, my husband, my 
dear, that I, as president of the Woman's 
Club and treasurer of Eastern Star, felt 
it was my bounden duty to relay this in- 
formation to my Congressman. You 
know those poor men just couldn't have 
much time to read, I'm sure. Well, as I 
was saying; I'm never one to shirk my 
duty; so I just sat right down and wrote 
him a full account of the divorce situa- 
tion as I had read it in Harper's. I can 
only hope, as I told Mr. Winthrop, that 
the poor man won't blame himself too 
much for not having noticed and tried 
to correct the situation himself. I'm ex- 
pecting to hear from him at any time. 
You know; one of these eternally grateful 
letters. But really, my dear, I felt it was 
no more than my duty. 

"Oh, you did enjoy the poem? My dear, ^ 
I'm so glad! I always just preface my 
little talks with a wee bit of poetry from 
Harper's. You know most of these poor, 
poor layman's wives just haven't a chance 
to absorb the really fine things of life, 
and I feel that what little portions of cul- 
ture I can manage to give them are so 
beneficial. I did think this months poetry 
was rather unusual, though. So glad you 
noticed; it just goes to show, you have 
a trained ear. It's just as I was telling 
Mr. Winthrop the other night, if you don't 
read better things, you'll never learn to 
appreciate them. Those were the exact 
words I used. I just can't seem to get 
Mr. Winthrop interested in reading, and, 

I must say, my dear, that it is one of the 
great sorrows of my life, being rather in- 
tellectually inclined myself. And it's not 
as though he hadn't been exposed to it. 
Heaven forbid. Why I'll just tell you, 
in the strictest of confidence, of course, 
that there's no better library in this town 
than my own. I'm not boasting, you un- 
derstand. What's that? Oh, yes, he has 
time to read. Not that he doesn't work, 
poor man. He has several lumber mills, 
and well, you know how inefficient help is 
these days. But as I always tell Mr. 
Winthrop, it never hurts business to be 
well informed and there is just no more 
informative magazine than Harper's, to 
my way of thinking. You do read it, of 
course? Well, of course! 

"I must ask you to keep what I'm about 
to say confidential, but, well, the truth is: 
I'v been dabbling in writing a bit myself 
these days. Oh, no! I haven't gotton any- 
thing published. Remember, I said dab- 
bling. Do you write? Not since you 
were in college. My dear, what a pity; 
I find it simply facinating. Where did I 
go to college? Well, you see, it's really 
a very long story, and it is getting rather 
late. Oh, but I really must be getting 
home. Mr. Winthrop always likes 
prompt meals. No, I have my car. My 
dear, it certainly has been charming. I 
really feel that I spent a most beneficial 
afternoon. Talking to cultured indivi- 
duals is always so stimulating. You know, 
I really shouldn't be saying this about Lake 
Falls, but, well, being such a small com- 
munity and everything. I'm sure you 
understand what I mean. Oh! my gloves. 
Thank you. Good-bye now. I do hope 
I'll be seeing you again," 



By Sue C. Coker 

He said that he would call 
And I knew well that he could. 
He told me he would call 
And I was so sure that he would. 

He said maybe tomorrow. 
I wished with all my heart 
That I knew life well enough 
To play a lasting part. 

Yes, he made a solemn oath. 
And fool as I may be, 
I have waited and still waited 
Beneath our spreading tree. 

Tomorrow was yesterday 
And even then it never came. 
There were no suns or moons, 
Only darkness and rain. 

They say tomorrow never comes. 
It has not yet come for me. 
And still I sit and pray 
That he will share that tree. 

What I have lost by waiting 

I give to time to keep, and still I stay. 

For I have learned a lesson 

I know I could learn no other way. 


Ambition is a pied piper that lures us into fascination and then 
shackles us from freedom with golden chains. 

Sue C. Coker 


Oie* 3Man Miver 

By Billle Jackson 

The people of the Mississippi River 
bottomland are a simple folk. From year 
to year they labor in their fields, breaking 
the rich, fertile, black earth, planting the 
tender, life seeds, nursing the cotton in 
its infancy, taking pride in its growth, 
cursing the river when the floods come, 
losing faith, regaining hope with the first 
warm days of spring. 

A Saturday in town is vital to their 
existence. There, they gather in clusters, 
renew old friendships, boast of their 
crops, talk of the future, discuss "that 
man Truman" in Washington, and com- 
pare hearsays on Russia. Some go to the 
show, usually a western, others go to a 
square dance; and a few get a little drunk. 

On Sunday the church is crowded with 
men in starched khakies, women in crisp 
cottons, young girls in cheap crepes, and 
with boys in stiff collared white shirts and 
tightly knotted ties. Singing lustily from 
worn hymn books and praying vigorously, 
they worship in the old-fashioned way. 

A Sunday dinner is an unpretentious 
affair, usually consisting of home-cured 
meat, dried northern beans, potatoes, 
coffee, and as a special treat — store- 
bought bread. With a few variations they 
thrive, three hundred and sixty-five days 
a year, on these unappetizing, basic foods. 

Monday morning finds them in their 
fields working the soil that they love. 

swearing when things go wrong, singing 
when the sun shines, and damning ole' 
man river when it rains. But when the 
rain comes, all work ceases, leaving the 
women free to visit and allowing the men 
to go to the one store which carries every- 
thing from ladies hair nets to horse collars. 
Gathering around the tobacco stained, pot- 
bellied stove in winter, or seated on the 
ram-shackle, elevated, porch in summer, 
the older men tease the more youthful 
about the local belles, gaining pleasure 
from the stammered replies and red-faced 
expressions. An old-timer whittling on a 
shapless piece of wood begins with, "Back 
when I was younger . . . ," and some tale 
of his lost youth is re-lived. Attentively 
they listen, and unconsciously they add 
bits and fragments of interesting, but 
irrelevant material. Thus the time passes 
until evening creeps in and cows moo to 
be milked. 

From day to day, they work, rest, sing, 
and pray. And all they ask from life is 
a simple shelter, enough food, a few 
clothes, and the right to be a free, happy 
folk. The days grow into years; the 
children into men; but the river with its 
muddy, turbulant, greedy waters, stays the 
same . . . consuming everything with an 
insatiable appetite. Laughing at man's 
efforts to control it, the Mississippi holds 
sway over all. 


The tlnr>anquished Spirit 

Reviewed By Joyce Callaway 

Bibliography: THE MONEYMAN. By Thom-- 
B. Costian. Garden City, New York; Double- 
ly & Company, Inc. 1947. 

With such a multitude of dry facts, 
Dorly colored with fiction, being pre- 
;nted to the reading public of America 
>day, it is natural that we find ourselves 
rcoming more discriminating in our selec- 
ons of "book-friends". Although, it is 
ardly conceivable that the talented hand 
f Thomas B. Costian would be criticized, 
is this writer's intention to encourage 
le choice of his latest work, which is a 
istorical novel entitled THE MONEY- 
IAN, feeling justified not only by the 
leer pleasure to be found within its 
>vers, but also by the accurate recordings 
a past age. 

Mr. Costian's vivid and dramatic por- 
ayal of fifteenth century France — the 
ance of King Charles VII, of Agnes 
rel, the king's mistress, and Jacques 
oeur, the king's moneyman — offers a 
ry realistic insight into the lines of the 
ople of this period in European his- 
ry. The depiction of the feats and trials 
the world's first great merchant prince, 
cques Coeur, who though not blessed 
birth with noble blood, reached an im- 
irtant position in court through his 
:alth, his allegiance to his traitorous 
ng, and his abiding passion for his 
untry, provides us with the threads that 
)ve the first strands in a fatal net of 
/e and intrigue. Jacques Coeur was a 

modern-minded man imprisoned in a 
narrow-minded and prejudiced world. 
He built up a trade between the Levant 
and France, which had before been but 
a wild dream, and gained for himself the 
most colossal fortune ever amassed by a 
private citizen. His ambitions, to raise 
the social and economic level of all classes '<■ 
and to replace the rapid succession of warsi 
between nations with trade, was opposed' 
violently by the indebted nobility of 
Charles' court and powerful figures joined 
in a well-executed conspiracy against him. 

With THE MONEYMAN, Mr. Cos- 
tian has given us an advantageous back- 
ground for the Renaissance history 
through a continuous series of events 
which are not diffiicult to understand. 
The novel is well-documented as to man- 
ners and customs, the clothes and armor, 
the food and gallantry, and could well 
serve as an appealing supplement to a 
course in European history. True, it is 
difficult to write from a documentary 
standpoint and even approach that of 
artistry, but the skilled technique at Mr. 
Costian's command makes it seem easy. 

This worthy endeavor to bestow some 
recognition upon the unsung hero of 
fifteenth century France will serve its pur- 
pose admirably, if read without protesta- 
tions against the natural tendency of the 
author to present it in a modern fashion, 
along with his modem interpretations. 


The Scared Men in the 

Reviewed By Julia Aldrlch 

By John Fischer, 262 pp. New York: Harper 
and Brothers. 

Mr. Fischer became interested in the 
Soviet Union while he was studying Rus- 
sian history and power relations at Ox- 
ford. During the war he served on the 
Board of Economic Warfare, and super- 
vised a number of studies of the economy 
of Russia. This helped to crystalize his 
thmking about the Communist state, and 
what urged him to write this book. Mr. 
Fischer disclaims any pretense as to being 
an expert on the Soviet Union. He 
quotes Paul Winterton's statement, "There 
are no experts on Russia — only varying 
degrees of ignorance." In spite of the 
author's denial of being an expert, he has 
presented us with a competent report of 
Russia today and the problems we will 
have to face to maintain peace. 

What are the Russians up to? Why the 
iron curtain, the distrust of foreigners, 
and the ruthless supression of conflicting 
ideas? Why the Five Year Plan to build 
up a great war industry? There are two 
possible answers: either the Russians are 
preparing for a war of aggression, or they 

are merely frightened. The author be- 
lives that the men in the Kremlin are 
scared. For centuries Russia's wide plains 
have been tempting fields for invasion and 
she has been constantly at war. The fear 
then is justifiable, and we see how it effects 
the Russian people, their jobs, living stan- 
dards and personal freedom. We are 
presented with vivid bits of life among 
the workers, the peasants, and the mem- 
bers of the ruling class. What are they 
up to? We find an answer here, and 
suggestions as how to get along with 
this great power. 

None of us know enough about Russia 
to determine whether or not this book is 
a true picture of the Soviet Union today, 
but you cannot help but feel that he is 
telling the truth. This book is neither a 
defense or criticism of the Soviet system, 
but instead an attempt to estimate how 
the system is likely to react under the 
pressure of a new and yet unstable power. 
The author's illustrations are human anc 
interesting, and his touches of humor are 
well placed. It is obvious that this is 
timely subject — you will find that it is 
an interesting one. 


The Miiusirious Rebel 

Reviewed By Joyce Callaway 

Bibliography: THE KING'S GENERAL. Da- 
iine du Maurier. New York; Doubleday & 
ompany, Inc. 1946. 

Daphne du Maurier's former successes 

1 the fields of Hterature are still so bril- 

ant in her public's mind that it is not 

irprising to find her latest "book-child" 

oiinced upon with great eagerness and 

nticipation! Her active imagination and 

owers of creation have proved worthy of 

eing relied upon to provide additional 

3urces of entertainment, which should 

ssure this book of a gracious reception. 

There is a great deal of authenticity in 

le story of the woman who loves The 

ing's General, Sir Richard Grenvile with 

jch daring and pathos. The character 

f this resentful, proud, and bitter soldier 

painstakingly contrasted to that of the 

nights of the 17th century England, still 

fluenced by the code of chivalry and 

onor. Fighting valiantly for his king in 

le Royalist struggle to put down the op- 

osing forces of Parliament's rebellious 

oops, as the most hated but ablest mili- 

iry man in command of the king's armies, 

won his way to fame and power. 

lonor Harris, his one true love, refusing 

) marry him, after being so injured that 

she could never walk again, was respon- 
sible for the development of Sir Richard's 
cruel and heartless nature. A renewal of 
the old relationship between Richard and 
Honor after many years apart made their 
final farewell the more difficult when, 
Richard, his cause lost, was surrounded 
by enemy forces, vanished from her life 

The simplicity of Miss du Maurier'sl 
style renders this book readable to people 
of many different walks of life. That it 
is written in a clear unornamented manner, 
which makes even the most intricate situa- 
tion easy to understand, is characteristic 
of her work. The meaning is there — pre- 
cise and unmistakable — but such form is 
not the best, and does not display the 
craftmanship so meritorious in the most 
revered literary circles. This criticism 
would hardly apply to all of Miss du 
Maurier's skillful compositions, but the 
fault happens to be a most noticeable one 
in the opening pages of THE KING'S 
GENERAL. Still, only this author is able 
to do justice to the hairbreadth escapes and 
exciting events which make this tale of 
three hundred years ago, and should afford 
pleasure to any receptive reader. 





The shadow by my finger cast 
Divides the present from the past 
One hour alone is in thy hands 
The now on which the shadow stands 
Before it sleeps the unborn hour 
In darkness and beyond thy power 
Behind its unrelenting line 
The vanished hour no longer thine. 


Vol. 11 MARCH. 1948 No. 2 

^^ ,w „„ .„ ... ..,.„.., „.,., ... ^^, ,^ ... ,.„„, 

and your second issue of Chimes is '^oflF the press." The Monday night meet- 
ings have been longer this quarter, the huge Publication's desk has been over- 
crowded, and eleven little people have strived earnestly for improvement, both 
in creative writing and illustration planning in hopes to give you our best. The 
material published in Chimes is for your enjoyment, and we think you'll like 
these stories and poems because they were written by people just like you who 
live, and love, and see, as you see, the beautiful things we come in contact with 
in our every day cycle of experiences. 

We give you Imogene Spoerri's heart warming, human interest story, "While 
The Wind Blew," and "Double Shot," a vividly expressed short story by 
Mary Simms, besides several original poems by both college and high school 

A great deal of thought, and time, and work goes into the completion of 
each issue of Chimes. If you throw it aside, we have failed to reach our goal. 
On the other hand, if you read it, and find here, some little something that 
makes you think, or feel — something that adds a little happiness to your life in 
some small way, we have not failed. 

Turn this page over — and read ahead! Something may be waiting just for 
you, here in this very book. JET 


Jane Ellen Tye Editor 

Sue Hoyt Art Editor 

Joyce Callaway Book Review Editor 

Sue C. Coker Poetry Editor 

Gloria Gordon Circulation Editor 

Janice Lebensfein Business Manager 

Mrs. Ruth Taylor Faculty Advisor 


Joyce Armitage Carolyn Henderson Mary Simms 

Neilyn Griggs 

Cynthia Hoyt Norma Jean Krenzer Barbara Benson 

Barbara Nelson Typist 


From The Editor's Desk 3 

Eccentricity Means My Wife Mary Simms 5 

Revenge, No More Mary Ellen McMurry 6 

The Man Who Died Twice Janice Lebenstein 7 

Seventeen Valere Potter 10 

"Jessie Harris Day" Carolyn Henderson ri 

Nebulous Thoughts Sue Coker 14 

Pit of Serpents Jane Ellen Tye 15 


Grey Days Carolyn Mansfield 16 

A Dream's Realization Sue C. Coker 16 

Give Us Your Poem Jane Ellen Tye 17 

The Legend of The Little Yellow Men Janice Lebenstein 18 

Double Shot Mary Merritt Simms 19 

While the Wind Blew Imogens Spoerri 25 

The Fabulous Bum Jane Ellen Tye 28 

Night Rain Carolyn Mansfield 30 


Diversion for Delight Joyce Callaway 31 

Prince of Foxes Joyce Callaway 32 


Frawn the Editor *s Desk 

I really don't know why I'm sitting 
here. The hands of the big office clock 
say quarter to twelve, but somehow this 
night was meant for solitude, and for 

I am alone. The huge soft leather chair 
is C(xnfortable, and the one litde blue 
light is casting odd shaped shadows on 
the walls of the Publications Office. As- 
signment sheeets are scattered across the 
desk and about the tables, even on the 
floor, but the empty coke bottles and the 
cigarette stubs tell a story — the story of 
this small, overcrowded room that has 
seen so many gay, carefree, happy, and 
weary hours . . . this room that has held 
so much laughter, so many chatting and 
planning publication staffs, so many brok- 
en hc^s, and quarrels, and so many differ- 
ent faces, and souls. 

I begin to wonder about the other 
editors, the hundred before me. Did they 
sit here alone, after the issue was safe in 
the printer's hands, and feel sort of satis- 
fied, as I do now? And after me, will 
there be more to sit here, in this very chair, 
to dream and look back upon this year? 
Yes, there will be more, for it gets in your 
blood and you can't forget it. The smell 
of glue and printer's ink ... the click 
of the typewriters and the ring of the 
phone . . . the assignment papers and the 
lastrminute editorials. It takes you by the 
hand and pulls you into the circle, and 
it makes you want to sit here, in this chair, 
and think of time past and time future. 

There is much more to the publication 
story. It is a big story — one with a plot, 
a theme, and a moral, but it has no cli- 
max, for there will always be school 
publications. They will go on although 
this office may crumble with time, and 
this funny old wooden desk may be re- 
moved for a shiny new steel or plastic 

one. There will always be the thoughts 
of man produced on paper as long as there 
is a world, and I am only a mere grain 
of sand on the shore. 

We will be gone, we who sit here in 
this room, but we will not be forgotten. 
Oh, they may lose track of our names, 
and what we have done, but they will 
remember somebody linked the years to- 
gether. We are the links. 

The moonlight outside strays through 
the window to mix with the small blue 
light, and the buildings are all dark except 
this little office. Time moves with winged 
feet, and the year will soon be closed 
with graduation goodbyes. One more is- 
sue to put together. One more final trip 
to the little printing shop, and then this 
night will be forgotten in the hustle of 
packing for home, but the way this room 
looks will never be forgotten by any of 
us who have worked here and played 
here. This room has an inspiring atmos- 
phere that lingers, even after we have 
walked out into the night. It has been the 
scene for our big-little drama. 

I must put away my melancholy mood 
and go to my room, and fall into bed 
to sleep, but tomorrow the gang will 
meet here for an after-lunch cigarette 
and a chat. Loafered feet will rest oi 
the old desk, someone will call their fellow 
on the phone, and the room will be filled 
with many voices, yet, the old office 
walls will go on silendy listening, quietly 
holding a world full of happiness. 

Eccentricity 3Means 3My JVife 

By Mary Simms 

My wife is not an ordinary woman. It 
is difficult to explain in exactly what 
respect she diflPers from the other mem- 
bers of the weaker, (I use the term 
loosely) , sex; and yet I am here to swear 
she differs. It was not until after our 
marriage that I made this discovery, for 
indeed she bears the form of other fe- 
males, in fact a better form than most, 
and during our courtship, she resembled 
them in other ways. 

It was, to be exact, the day of our 
wedding that I was first aware of her 
little eccentricities. I had rented a lodge 
in a secluded portion of mountain for 
the occasion and had been assured by 
its landlords that it was the only one 
in a radius of miles. Presuming a honey- 
moon to be a rather private affair, I had 
concluded this was an ideal arrangement 
and had spent the two weeks preceding 
the ceremony patting myself on the back 
for my ingenuity. I had decided to sur- 
prise Pat, but after the wedding, when 
we had a few minutes alone, and she 
was being particularly persuasive; I di- 
vulged the secret, (Oh, fatal error) . She 
leapt into the air, pulling me up with 
her, exclaiming that it was the most per- 
fectly charming thing she had ever heard. 
She bounced back into my arms and, 
snuggling innocently against me, asked me 
to tell her all about it. Beaming with 
masculine ego, I committed my second 
error and proceeded to aleborate on its 
ideal position and spaciousness. Four bed- 
rooms! Why, Charlie, it was enough to 
hold the whole wedding party, (thank 
God for small weddings) wasn't it? After 
all we couldn't be selfish about the thing 
could we? (I could) and anything as 
wonderful as a honeymoon should be 

shared, shouldn't it? And it might be 
the only chance we'd have to see the 
whole crowd together, mightn't it? And, 
Oh, Charlie! you perfect angel! And 
aren't you just the most thoughtful and 
wonderful husband any girl ever had? 
And how did you ever think of it? It 
must have been the last that did it for 
three hours later, bride and bridegroom, 
bridesmaids and groomsmen were on their 
way to my mountain retreat, and if my 
mouth was a thin white line, no one 
seemed to notice. 

Well, at least that experience taught 
me a valuable lesson and is the precise 
reason that our bungalow lacks both 
guest rooms and unfolding divans, and 
has a limited amount of unused floor 
space. Our domestic life, however, has 
run a rather smooth course, only oc- 
casionally ruffled by such small squawks 
as the one rising shortly after Pat dis- 
covered we would never have children 
of our own. From some obscure source, 
she read that Americans could purchase 
as many Chinese babies as they wished 
for a dollar apiece; and by the time I 
arrived home from work, our little haven 
was littered with small wooden bowls and 
miniature chopsticks. It took me long 
hours to convince Pat of the impractibility 
of this scheme, and for weeks our house 
much resembled a vacant museum in its 
stillness. Trying desperately to bring 
about a reconciliation, I conceived the 
idea of a pup; and went to some pains 
to secure a black male cocker. Pat's de- 
light was well worth my effort and the 
museum atmosphere receded. I was soon 
to regret my hastiness, however, for it 
was not many days later that Pat in- 
formed me that, being penitent for her 

Chinese obsession, she had gotten me a 
present also; and proudly produced a 
mate for the spaniel. We had twenty- 
eight black cockers at the last count, and 
Pat immediately broke into tears of re- 
proach when I timidly mentioned parting 
with — say — about twenty-seven of them. 

Well, kind readers, I've gotta stop my 
solioquy 'cause I just heard my wife's 

key in the door; and she's been gone for 
a full half hour, and I've missed her. 
Oh, God, Pat! Oh, no, darling! I know 
the church burned down and the poor 
people don't have any place to conduct 
prayer meeting, but why here — please, 
Pat, listen to reason! "One side, bud. 
Did you want the pulpit in there, Lady?" 


iKeuenaey / /o Vvlore 

By Mary Ellen McMurry 

Out of the gloom and graying light 
Fast dying into ponderous night, 
I heard the voice remembered well 
From out the past since first it fell; 
A ghost, no more. 

A voice forever in my ears 
Of one dead now these many years, 
Whose will to live, to love, to play 
Was destined soon to pass away; 
A life, no more. 

As if lament could mitigate 

Grim death's demand; the voice of Fate, 

It whimpered softly for the chain 

Of life now past, yet sought in vain; 

A thought, no more 

And while the night enveloped me 
In rolling fog like a pitching sea, 
I knew that voice would not desist 
Till I should by the tomb be kissed; 
Revenge, no more. 

The 3Man VTha MMied Twt?iee 

By Janice Lebensfein 

He threw himself hurriedly into the 
<Utch and pressed his body into the stink- 
ing mud. He lay there, panting with 
fatigue and fear, trying to bury himself 
in the foul, wet, soil enriched by the 
garbage and oflFal of the near-by settle- 
ment. As the sound of the shrill cries 
of his enemies came closer, he searched 
frantically about his barren hiding place, 
peering nervously into the blackness that 
surrounded him, groping for a measure of 
concealment, a shelter ... a sanctuary. 
As the hoarse shouts became more distinct, 
he gave one last pleaf ul look and huddled 
in what he hoped was the darkest corner 
of the filthy hole. Then he prayed. 

"Shima Yisroel . . . Hear O Israel . . . 

Adonoy Eluhenu . . . The Lord My God 

IK . . . Adc«ioy Echod . . . The Lord Is One." 

He reeled over on his back as a soft, 
moaning sigh escaped from his lips. His 
breathing was more regular now, almost 
the deep, even, rhythm of sleep. For the 
first time since he had flung himself in the 
ditch, he stared up at the sky. It was 
black. Blacker than the inside of the 
devil's belly or the hell man conceives 
for himself within the bowels of his soul. 
He lay there, staring into the darkness, 
up into the black, until he saw what he 
was locJdng for. It was one little star, 
and not a very bright one, but it was 
there. He looked at it, stared at it . . . 
adored it. He seemed to gain comfort 
until he realized the voices from which 
he was hiding had grown dimmer as if 
they had changed their direction. A weak 
smile twitdied in the comers of his mouth 
and tears of relief started to stream down 
his cheeks. Sobs, stifled chokingly by a 
sleeve crushed to his mouth, seeped quiet- 
ly at first into the still air, then louder 

and louder until they rent the air with 
their ferocity. What little control he still 
possessed flowed away with the tears, and 
he rolled over and clutched the stinking 
earth to his breast as if it were his mother's 
bosom. He sobbed hysterically until there 
was nothing left but his empty shell, and 
he hiccoughed like a child after he has 
cried. As his sobs lessened, his body re- 
laxed, arms outstretched, his face pressed 
gently to the ugly scar that was the 
earth's surface. 

"Oh, Christ, how the hell did I get 
myself into this? War — nothing but foul, 
stinking war. War! War! War!" 

Tensing suddenly he jack-knifed him- 
self into a sitting position, and ground his 
fists into his eyes as if he were trying to 
erase his very thoughts from his mind, 
as well as the tears from his dirt-streaked 
face. No sense in trying to reason why or 
how. No time for ethics or history or 
questioning. He had to think, think of 
escape, of how to get the hell out of that 

"That's right," he muttered to himself. 
"I gotta think . . . think of how to get 
away, away from this mud, this dirt, I've 
got to get away from them. Where are 
THEY? Listen you coward, listen . . . 
noise, is there any noise? Listen, it's quiet, 
boy, like at home when everyone is asleep, 
and only you know what time it is, and 
how the stars look . . . Forget that! It 
can't be far . . . only two miles, at the 
most three. They must have chased you 
at least six . . . o.k., all you have to do is 
walk out, slip out right from under their 
noses. They'll be waiting for you at head- 
quarters and you can tell them how brave 
you were, and how many you licked them 

with one hand tied behind your back. All 
Right, What are you waiting for? Pull in 
that white flag or fear and suck in your 
guts and get going. That's it, boy, get 

He placed his weight on his hands and 
raised his head slowly. As his body left 
the cold damp ground he bid good-bye to 
the mud and stepped onto the road. He 
was looking back at his dubious shelter 
when he suddenly felt a sharp twinge in 
his throat, and as he slumped back down 
to his mudhole he heard the faint whining 
good-bye kiss of a bullet. A big, red 
question mark branded itself on his brain 
as the agony began. He lay crumpled 
in pain, his hands clutched tightly about 
his neck in an effort to dispell the throb- 
bing flashes that pounded like the pulse 
of a gigantic clock. He lay there stiffly, 
grotesquely . . . How, why? He couldn't 
move, but the question mark was insistant 
. . . How? No noise, nobody, how, 
HOW ? ? ? He listened; as he lay in 
the mud, his hands wrapped tensely about 
his neck, as the liquid he knew was hi^ 
own life's substance poured, sticky and 
wet, to the filth, he listened. No noise, 
HOW? Then he felt it — two eyes staring 
at his body, his tense, grotesque, still 
body; and he heard a voice hiss out into 
the darkness, "Well, there's another one 
of the bastards dead," and then nothing. 

He tried to call. He tried to open his 
mouth and shout to them, but the impulse 
died where it started, in his brain. Help 
. . . take me with you, help me, he cried, 
but there was no sound. Don't leave me 
here. God, please don't let me die here. 
Take me with you, you bastards — TAKE 
TAKE ME WITH YOU, take me. 
There was only silence and pain and his 
own red blood. 

He lay there and he felt the pain; it 
was like a rainbow and the splotches of 

color washed away the question mark as 
his hands fell limply from his throat. He 
had the ironic feeling that if he could, 
he would laugh, but as the tears rolled 
down his cheeks, he had nothing to con- 
sole himself with, but the pain and his 
own mind. He tried to move but the 
rainbow darted at him and he relaxed 
bearing the torture of the pulsating hurt 
until it became a friend, a good friend 
that you know is there, but does not in- 
trude, just listens and says nothing. He 
lay in the wetness and his body was dead, 
but his mind sat up and spoke to him, 
and kept death company. His eyes looked 
up to the sky, to his star, the star of 
David, and his mind talked to him, telling 
him of the episodes that had preceded this 
night, his flight into darkness, into the 
maze-like paths of nowhere. 

Europe. Gay old Europe, with its vint- 
age wine and decadent philosophy. The 
university and the silly rhyme he and his 
friends had composed while they drank 
beer and belittled Hitler, 

Philosophy, Philosophy 
Neitzche was the man for me. 
With his dear old anarchy. 

He had forgotten the next line, but 
he finished with the chorus of "Ta Rah 
Rah boom-de-ay." His mind had to laugh 
at the incongruity of the situation. There 
he was, Stefan Kolchman, eyes blue, hair 
black, age thirty-seven years and five 
months, six days and how many minutes 
more? . . . No matter, there he was, a 
grown man, thinking of a silly ditty to 
an even sillier Parisian tune as he lay 
bleeding to death in a rain-soaked ditch. 

As he chuckled silently to himself his 
mind chattered on about little half-remem- 
bered incidents and questions popped out 
of the cubby-holes of his memory to 
plague him. What would Hannah do if 
she could see him now? Would she be 
sorry, would she cry? A sudden warmth 

filled his unfeeling body and his friend 
disappeared farther into the background, 
as he saw her long black hair and stern 
black eyes. How frightened he had been 
when he first met her at the place to which 
he and his friends used to go. He remem- 
bered the uncomfortable feeling that pos- 
sessed him as he spoke to the other pseudo- 
intellectuals while she looked on; his own 
voice stuttering and sputtering out his 
opinions and her quiet one emphatically 
and effectively clarifying his ideas. Her 
stem black unnerved him until he dis- 
covered they warmed under his gaze . . . 
and the way they looked into his when 
they were alone. He thought of their 
marriage, their honeymoon spent at a 
hotel in Switzerland at a price they could 
not afford . . . the clean icy snow, like a 
virgin awaiting her lover, the nights before 
an open hearth watching the flames leap 
up the chimney in an attitude of prayer. 
And Hannah, her severely braided hair let 
loose streaming down the whiteness of her 
back like black silk . . . and the perfum.e 
of it that filled him and nourished him 
when he buried his face in its softness 

. . Her softness, her yielding white 
softness . . . Oh God in Heaven, tell me, 
tell me why, why I am here. To find 
peace? To find happiness? To find the 
same horror and hell he had left behind. 

There was no sense to that, his friend, 
pain, intruded . . . Think. Think of 
Hannah ... of her soft yielding . . . but 
was she? She was hard . . . hard as the 
rock of ages and the ground he was lying 
upon, but he loved her and he believed 
that she knew best. The arguments . . . 
the infernal arguments about the boy and 
the car and the money and the man . . . 
Hitler. The years of hell in the ghetto 
as he watched his friends submerged in 
torture and his weakness grow under her 
strength. The hell united them and he 
loved her more, and when they were free 

he was no longer a person, but a living 
shadow of Hannah. 

Then Palestine . . . she'd wanted to go 
so naturally they made plans and over- 
tures to the council. The waiting outside 
the Ambassador's office, the waiting inside 
the Ambassador's office and finally the 
permits, their visas to the Promised Land. 

The heat and the joy of working with 
his own hands for the first time since he 
was a boy and the thrill of watching hfe 
he'd planted grow. He'd been happy, 
really happy, and Hannah was happy, 

Then, the man came. The man from 
Tel-Aviv came to their little settlement 
of Asher and gathered all the men together 
to speak to them. It was a crowded room 
filled with the smell of healthy sweat, 
filled with dirt-stained pilgrims, filled with 
tlie fleeting hopes of one hundred and 
twenty-five disillusioned immigrants. They 
listened, and he listened ... to the words 
and not to the horror they meant. And 
so he marched off with the rest of them 
to learn, not how to plant food, or irrigate 
land, but to fight, throw bombs, shoot 
men, and all in the name and glory of the 
Holy Land. 

Then the night. This night, with all its 
blackness and its quiet, and its peace, 
dispelled — all shot to hell by a grenade, 
a grenade thrown by him ... a flash of 
light, the fire and the screams, and the 
shots, and the smell of burning flesh; the 
blackness all blown to insignificant parti- 
cles, and only red — red from the flames 
and red from the blood. As he'd run 
down the streets, away from the explosions 
he'd caused, the windless air shouted warn- 
ings ... the yelp of a sleeping dog as 
he ran by, trampling his tail, the lights 
that flashed on and off as the hoarse 
shouting of the leaders of El Abir gave 
chase. Down alleys he ran, separated from 

the other volunteers, down filth-infested 
streets, over hard stone walls. 

"Retaliation, retaliation," his mind 
thundered as the windless air beat upon 
him. 'They attacked your brothers in 
Revivum. Retaliate! Kill! Kill! In the 
name of God, Kill!" 

Then the ditch. This ditch. And his 
visa to the Promised Land was detoured 
to a ditch. 

Why all those years of suffering? Why 
all those years of hanging on to life by 
a thin shred? Praying, praying for sal- 
vation with the hope and . . . Oh, God, 
Lord, Adonoy, why ? ? ? 

Franz, Franz ... he knew. Hannah 
did not, no, Franz. With his scarred 
body and hate-ridden mind he knew the 
answer, and now, too late, Stefan knew, 
too. The memory of the cool, impassion- 
ate, voice filled the air, and, once again, he 
heard the words of his friend. 

"Palestine offers you no escape. It is 
filled with the same problems, the same 
discontent, the same tortures. It is like 
a land with a horrible disease just below 
the surface, that awaits the opportunity 
to attack and cripple. The people there 
may have more to eat than you do, and, 
just now, a more comfortable existence, 
but is it ease you are looking for ... or 
freedom? SuflFering does not excuse or 
release you from your obligations. 

In Palestine it has been forgotten, the 
torture, the hell. They are preparing for 
another conflagration. The heat of hate is 

reaching the kindling point and the ar- 
rested germs of war are taking root. 
There is going to be a war more horrible 
than even we can conceive, because it 
will be heralded in the name of God! 

Listen to me, Stefan. It could be easy 
at first. You would be happy among 
what you consider your own people, but 
believe me, believe me, that here, in Ger- 
many, your people exist. They may be 
Catholics, or Protestants, or Lutherans, 
or atheists, but they are your people. 
Germany is your land, Jewery is your 
religion, and the salvation of mankind 
should be your goal. Fight, Stefan, Fight 
— but fight for freedom here, where you 
were born. Fight for the right to exist 
and practice your religion, but do so un- 
der your native flag, as the right of a 
human being, as the right that belongs 
to every man, not just a Jew!" 

He lay there in the mud, in the stink- 
ing mud, and he remembered and he 
knew why. He felt his blood congealing 
into a hard mass, mixing with the filth 
of the earth. He looked at his star and 
watched it fade as dawn stuck a cautious 
foot over the horizon. He lay there and 
prayed for the forgiveness of God and 
mercy for the wrong-doings of his friends. 
Not his people — his fellow-immigrants, his 
friends. And as he watched the star give 
one last eflPort at life, he heard again 
the words of hb murderers, his friends, 
as hb last friend, pain, slunk away from 
the ditch, "There's another one of the 
bastards dead." 




By Valere Potter 

They pause, 

And take a longing look at the past 
And a fleeting glance at the present. 
Then turn and step into the future. 


**Jessie Barris Bay 

By Carolyn Henderson 

Miss Jessie Harris, Jackson's oldest and 
most beloved teacher, had been scurrying 
around since 6:00, firing the stoves, cook- 
ing breakfast on the antiquated kitchen 
range, dusting her immaculate home. But 
this morning Miss Jessie forgot to water 
the wilting hydrangea. She neglected her 
chickens, and the white kitten missed her 
usual bowl of milk. Jessie's tiny hands 
shook as she brushed her gray hair and 
wound it into a knot on top of her head. 
For today was "special" few: the hump- 
backed little teacher; today, February 4, 
1947, was an exciting dream for Miss 
Jessie. "Imagine, the whole town having 
a holiday in my honor!" 

She had objected strongly when "Miss 
Jessie Harris Day" was proposed by the 
P. T. A.; hadn't wanted anyone to make 
a fuss over her. Nevertheless, anticipation 
of the coming event made her black patent 
leather shoes fly around in excitement all 
morning, but the muscle in her cheek 
jumped rapidly and her mouth was drawn 
in a stem line. Plainly Miss Jessie did 
not approve. 

Why had she ever consented to such 
an outlandish program? "Jessie Harris 
Day indeed! What would Mama and 
Papa be saying if they could see her 
now? Only a few friends and former 
pupils would be there; Jessie supposed she 
would have to go. Already a longing 
for the familiar classroom was stealing 
over her. But most of all Miss Jessie 
objected to the children's having a holi- 
day. Spoil them these days — they do 

Miss Jessie had trouble finding her 
gold-rimmed glasses; everything was out 
of place. Her habitual routine was amiss> 

Her hat was jammed on at a jaunty 
angle, and the flower corsage (purple iris 
not as pretty as the ones she grew) were 
awkwardly pinned to the worn black coat. 
She was ready — an hour early. "Should 
have walked to school. Been doing it for 
forty years. No need to change now." 

Sitting down in her rocker — coat and 
gloves on, purse in her lap, a streak of 
white powder across her forehead — ^Jessie 
let her mind relax and wander. 

Back and forth she rocked, smiling to 
herself. How well she remembered how 
she had not wanted to teach, how she 
had begged Papa to let her be a nurse; 
but in the 1800's nice young ladies were 
not nurses, or so Papa sternly believed. 
Now Miss Jessie's blue eyes closed, her 
diminutive head reclined on the chair. 
She was recalling her own school days — 
days made happy by a certain young man 
of uncertain character. But in the 1800's 
nice young ladies were not courted by 
worthless young men, or so Papa sternly 
believed. Jessie, therefore, became a teach- 
er, and the young man moved away to 
become later a Presbyterian minister. 

And to think, she was still teaching. 
Forty years! Clear in her mind were die 
faces of her first twelve pupils, boys and 
girls of all grades, who studied in her 
rural school. She could at this moment 
name several of them. There was Mildred 
Granger, mother of Jack, who is now a 
professor at Washington University, St. 
Louis, Missouri; Rev. Walkin, the Metho- 
dist minister in town; R. G. Miller, owner 
of the local grocery store; Mattie Stovall, 
now living on a farm several miles from 

The sad years after her Papa's death 

came back to Jessie; how Mama and she 
moved to town in order that Jessie might 
get a better teaching position, and, per- 
haps, a husband. Suddenly, as from a 
curious habit formed during these trouble- 
some years, Jessie's firm chin rose. She 
remembered the excitement of Jackson, 
then 2,000 strong. But she also remem- 
bered the hard time she had had to keep 
Mama ahve, to return to college, and 
to realize there were no available hus- 
bands in the small town. She discovered 
that her "college" credits amounted to 
little more than a High-school certificate, 
but a Harris would not give up. She had 
to teach, she had to get that degree. 
Summer after summer she attended Cape 
Normal School, slowly gathering enough 
hours to graduate. The grate school prin- 
cipal needed a fifth grade teacher and 
called on Jessie. Miss Harris's career in 
the Jackson public school, as doctor, 
dentist, teacher and spiritual adviser had 

A stick of wood fell in the stove and 
aroused Miss Jessie from her day dream. 
She looked at the gold watch pinned on 
her dress. On the back of the watch was 
inscribed "Class of 1915." That had been 
a good class of children, mischievous and 
naughty, but happy and eager to learn. 
That was the year that Bob Henderson, 
now an architect, took colored chaulk and 
drew pictures on every window, black- 
board, and door. And he had received a 
sound whipping. Margaret Short, now 
writing for a newspaper, was in the class, 
too. She's the one who had to spell 
"basement" two thousand times one after- 
noon. The plain girl on the second row 
became a movie star, and the boy who 
continually wrote her notes became a 
doctor. Miss Jessie gave a cackling laugh 
when she remembered how Marvin Strunk, 
president of the First National Bank, 
used to make his "8's" like capital ''S's." 

Funny how those children, boys and 
girls alike, enjoyed building and playing 
in leaf houses. So different now, when 
the girls race around during recess on 
the baseball diamond and dodgeball court. 
Children today seem to grow up so much 
more quickly. Things do change. Even 
teaching methods. Miss Jessie cocked her 
head, her chin "went up, "But I've stayed 
right up with those new education theories. 
They can't say I'm too old to teach." 

Still it was not time to go to school. 
She took from her desk a stack of 
spelling papers and some geography work- 
books and began grading. A red mark 
here, another miss on the word "civil," 
a grade of 50, another of 65; they were 
terrible! "Children can not spell anymore. 
Neither can they punctuate, write or read 
as they could when I began teaching; but 
they do their arithmetic perfectly, and 
I can proudly say they know their history 
and geography. Still they can't spell a 
lick, not a lick!" 

A horn sounded outside and Miss j 
Jessie flew out the door and down her ^ 
steps. To be sure she acted every bit as 
old as her fifth graders. 

Miss Jessie, sitting on the flower-banked 
stage, tucked her feet under her straight 
chair and kept her eyes on the wadded 
white handkerchief in her hands. The 
little old lady's heart was going lickety- 
split, her knees were trembling, drops of 
perspiration made pathways through the 
streaks of powder on her forehead. Miss 
Jessie, for the first time in her Hfe, was 
afraid. Mr. Hawkins, state superintendent 
of schools, had been speaking of Miss 
Harris' "wonderful service to her town, 
state, and nation. Her unforgettable work 
and faithful teaching will long be remem- 
bered. She has instructed over 2,500 stu- 
dents, has taught with fifty-six of her 
former pupils . . ." 

Other men made speeches too — Harry 


HoflFmiester, whom she taught thirty years 
ago, and who was now president of the 
school board; Vinny Kies (who always 
left his books in the rain and his coat 
on the playground), now head of a 
clothing factory; and Irene Wilson (who 
claimed that Miss Jessie had eyes in the 
back of her head), now teaching in high 
school. Jim Knox, principal of the grade 
school, was speaking. "Miss Jessie, your 
former pupils want to thank you for 
being our fifth grade teacher. From China 
to Missouri men and women have sent 
their contributions for this small gift, 
representative of the help you gave us. 
We hope it can, in some way, bring you 
the happiness you deserve." Jim was 
handing her a book — a lovely leather- 
covered book with her name engraved in 
gold. But the inside was cut out and lined 
with velvet. There, inside the book, was 
a check, too large for Miss Jessie to 

The audience was applauding loudly, 
but Miss Jessie's heart could be heard 
pounding above the deafening noise. She 
must say something, yet how could she 
ever express the feelings she had? A tear 

trickled down the wrinkled face, her soft 
voice carried into the hearts of everyone 

"Thank you for being so kind. But it 
is you who should be honored, not I. 
I have tried to teach you the simple things 
in Ufe — reading, spelling, adding. I have 
extracted your teeth, bound your wounds, 
spanked you for being naughty, and 
fussed at you for not studying. But I 
shall always love you as my own children. 
It is you, however, who have discovered 
the greater things in life — the giving to 
others through your life work. I am proud 
of the three generations I have taught — 
some I see every day, a few I write to, 
others I read about, several I've never 
heard of. I have learned from you, as I 
hope you have learned from me. Once 
I tried to retire, but the morning I heard 
the school bell ring and I wasn't with my 
children, I knew I must return. As long 
as I am physically able and can hold my 
job, I shall be in my classroom where I 
belong. No one has been more blessed 
with a wonderful life than I. Thank you 
again. I shall remember you always! God 
bless you!" 


JVebuiaus Thaughts 

By Sue C. Cotcer 

It's lonely in the swamp land, lonely and 
hauntingly beautiful. I had often found 
refuge there in the sereness and gaunt mys- 
ticism of its ugliness. 

I was beyond comprehension today. My 
mind was muddled. I can't remember ex- 
actly what they said, but they tried to tell 
me clearly. Of course heredity doesn't al- 
ways prove itself. They must be wrong! 
I feel the same, nothing eccentric about 
me. Why did they try to watch me at the 
house, why do they keep asking me how 
I am? I won't let them send me away 
from here. How can I stop them? If I 
can just get where it's quiet, oh God, help 
me some way. Tell me I'm alright, tell me 
I'm not insane, I'm helplessly lost; and I 
know that deep down inside, please help 

The gnarled roots about my ankles made 
no answer to my plea. I walked faster to 
find the deep heart and core of this majes- 
tic, infested wilderness. In a way you are 
like me. No one cared for you, you don't 
belong to the other world. A misfit, that's 
what we are, we're out of place. 

I'm tired, tired of running, tired of 
wishing for a wish that will never come 
true. Why was I born into this hopeless- 
ness? You'll never know, no one has the 

How can you remain so calm and cool 
in this sticky humidity? Why does your 
back gleam with temptation? 

Here I'll sit on this log and put my feet 
in the water. Let me be cool and think. 
The water is slippery and I can almost feel 
it folding around my ankles and then my 
knees. It is such a pleasant cool feeling. 
If I stand in it I can feel the sand under 

my feet and the firmness will support me. 
How good it feels to be alone and at peace 
with myself for these few moments. The 
sand gives in to my weight like a nice com- 
fortable cushion. Oh, no, Fm in the sand 
to my ankles. I can slowly feel it creeping 
up my legs like a giant monster completely 
infolding me. Oh God, it's quicksand! 
Help me, don't let me be lost in this too. 
It's like an angry god devouring me. Oh, 
help me God. Don't let death come this 
way. I can feel a compassion for this ugli- 
ness but please don't make me a part of it. 

My legs, I can't feel my legs. It's like 
trying to kick in an iron cast. Listen to 
me. Don't let these bending cypress mock 
me. Do something. Don't you hear me, do 


something! I can't stand it. God, why do could only raise my head. I hate to think 

you have to leave me, why don't you help of this monster in my face. I hate to feel 

me? I can't strugggle any more. I' tired, this sand in my mouth. Are you going to 

tired, do you hear? Damn you, damn you, try? Are you going to even make an ef- 

who ever thought you could save me? I'm fort? It's crawling on my throat now. Oh 

lost, I'm gone and vou don't care. If I God, it's too late and I don't care! 


I it oj^ ^enpentd 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

Stand before the mirror of today, Youth. 

Stand before the mirror long, and drink your beauty 

Deeply, for it promises no tomorrow. 

Youth, like a burning match, glows brightly and then is gone . . . 

Gray dusty cobwebs will mingle with your shiny hair until 

They have strangled out its softness. 

The rush of muddy waters will drown the stars of your eyes, 

And terrible winds will kiss your mouth until it is hard and cold. 

Bitter weeping will choke out your laughter, and wailing 

Violins will drum upon your brain death's dreary dirge. 

Yes, stand long before the mirror of today, Youth, 

And gloat in mad egoism, for your day will pass. 

Move your soft finger down the gentle line of your chin . . . 

Look far back into your eyes and find those starlit nights 

Of yesteryear . . . they are spinning glory there . . . 

Toss back your honey scented hair, and make your scarlet mouth 

A crescent. 

There is nothing when beauty has gone ... 

Nothing but a futureless living death 

That has as its ultimate end, a bottomless pit of serpents 

Without mercy. 


Rhyme and Time 

By Carolyn Mansfield 

I belong to days like this: 

Grey days. 

The medium between content and sorrow. 

In my nature there is not 

The black of hopelessness, 

Nor is there, yet, the pure, soft white 

Of joy. 

But only a vaporous grey 

That is moving, clinging, silent. 

I belong to days like this — 

Days that wait for light or dark. 

^^ eJDream 6 iKealizcition 

By Sue C. Coker 

I had so many dreams to fulfill — 

Like walking with Kings and feeling 

The ocean spray in my face. 

And hearing my voice roll over the seas. 

I wanted to see all there was to behold, 

And learn to be wise in the ways of men. 

Oh, I had so many wild and foolish dreams, 

Things that could never be realized. 

I wanted to know the way of the wise. 

The proud, the passionate and dumb. 

I knew I never could accomplish my hopes. 

But I felt the joy of supreme contentment 

When I looked into your eyes 

And I saw myself reflected there. 


Ljlue i^6 Ujour f-^i 


By Jane Ellen Tye 

What poem 

Does the girl with the lonely eyes 

Hold back from her fingers . . . ? 

I'm sure its there . . . 

Somewhere . . . put back in a deep dark comer 

Of her secret heart. 

Oh, let it fly loose, girl. 

Let it spread itself like wildfire 
Until it full would burst from 
The silkened bag 
To become a moth. 

Girl, strange girl . . . 

Girl with eyes as haunting 

As gypsy souls. 

Paint your picture now, while it is vivid . . , 

Give to earth your beauty while it lives . . 

Give us your poem, girl, and perhaps 

Then the loneliness will leave your eyes.. 


The Etegend at the JLitiie 
Yeilau? 3Men 

By Janice Lebensfein 

The narrow streets of Chinatown wend 
their tired way through the downtown 
section of New York, as if they them- 
selves had no knowledge of where they 
were headed. The dirty brown tenements 
that lean precariously over the crooked, 
pathlike, sidewalks blot out the few brave 
rays of sun that fight their way through 
the smog produced by noisy factories, 
near-by. Chinatown is clouded not only 
by the black cape of legend, but the dis- 
mal, filthy appearance that is its outstand- 
ing characteristic adds credence to the 
weird tales that are a part of the history 
of the "Little China of New York." The 
harmless little yellow men that stride 
busily along in their dark blue single- 
breasted suits and conservative ties were 
once thought to be arch-criminals of the 
lowest form. Their innocently slanted 
eyes construed evil to the unfamiliar out- 
siders to the Eastern world. 

When New York was just beginning 
to feel her growing pains and was ex- 
alted as the Mecca of new civilization, 
the poverty-stricken immigrants from 
China crowded bewilderingly into a slum 
district on the South-East side of Manhat- 
tan Island. Soon tales of the degenerate 
practices and habits of the unfortunate 
peoples from Chinatown spread to the 
wealthier, better established parts of the 
city. When groups of pleasure-seekers 
toured the section, their eyes met myste- 
rious, unfamiliar sights that sent their 
imaginations soaring — strange, peculiar 
signs, flowering, brightly printed gowns — 
new foods, Leechee nuts, bamboo shoots 
— and odd, different people — the Chinese. 

The yellow-tinted men that roamed the 
streets seemed to be the personification of 
evil; the dark doorways seemed to clothe 


smokey dens of degeneracy; the strange 
smells boded ill adventure. Stories of 
opium smugglers, white slave racketeers 
and Tong war-fare brought fear and 
pleasure to the curiosity-seekers that ner- 
vously treaded the winding streets. What 
sights they stared upon! What sights 
they imagined! What tortures their minds 

The filthy alleys that stunk of meagre 
garbage became entrance to a honeycomb 
of rooms known only to the lowly crimi- 
nal Chinese. The innocent door that gave 
a small measure of privacy to a sleeping 
couple struggling for survival in a strange 
world, connoted indescribable orgy. The 
soft faltering voice of a yoimg child learn- 
ing his parents' native tongue boded em- 
inent danger. Oh, how the immagination 
of the visitors soared! 

In some instances, opium dens did ex- 
ist, houses of prostitution did flourish, 
but in no greater numbers than in other 
parts of the city. Tong war- fare was an 
ever-present feature, but at the same time 
crime and murder flourished in other sec- 
tions, under different names. 

The legend grew and the tales grew and 
Chinatown prospered. Restaurants were 

built and special dishes were invented to 
please the western palate. The Chinese 
raised their soft, sing-song voices in louder 
tones to send further chills down the 
spines of the onlookers. Tours were or- 
ganized, lectures planned, and special ex- 
hibits opened. TTie little yellow men were 
hired by white entrepreneurs to smoke 
pipes supposedly filled with opium; the lit- 
tle yellow men stood evilly frcmi without 
closed doors and were paid by the hour 
for their services. Chinatown profited 
and the people were pleased. 

Today while the sun tries to shine on 
the crooked streets, Chinatown has an al- 
most benign air. Anglo-Saxon epithets 
flow unconsciously from the mouths of 
the little yellow children as they play base- 
ball in the streets; their elders crowd the 
streets and rush hurriedly about their bus- 
iness and read English newspapers on their 
way to work. But at night, when the dim 
street-lights cast ugly shadows along the 
narrow path-like streets, the legends seem 
almost plausible, and once more fear and 
pleasure enter into the hearts of the cu- 
rious onlookers, from the western world, 
as they nervously tread the streets of Chi- 

MPaubte Shot 

By Mary Merri+t SImms 

And now you are here, walking into the 
inner sanctum which is the waiting room, 
where the patients who have appointments 
wait. The nurse smilingly promises that 
it won't be long, and leaves you alone to 
be seated in one of the brash, new chrome 
and white leather chairs. You have a wild 
desire to turn and run from this cool, 
impersonal, horrid, terrifying room, but 
where — or to whom do you run? Your 

mind traces for you the intricate pattern 
followed to arrive here, and you force 
yourself to stay seated, and you grip the 
chrome arms of the chair until the per- 
spiration from your hands dulls their 
shine. You assume the attitude of the 
room and gaze impersonally at your sur- 
rotmdings. Your glance takes in the pas- 
tel walls, with their several framed fruit 
bowls and the magazine table, piled high 


with medical journals, interspersed with 
"Life", "Time", and "True Confessions". 
You see also the receptionist's desk and 
the few other patients, thumbing listlessly 
through their choices of the available lit- 
erature, but your glance finally comes to 
rest on yourself, and remains there fasci- 
nated. You — and all your praying to 
God, and all your harsh night sobbings, 
will not make it anyone else — you are glad 
you do not have to decide whether the days 
or the nights were the worse. 

Days of waiting, fearing, praying — 
days of hope and days of despair, days 
when you are forced to rise and imper- 
sonate a human being for fourteen of the 
twenty-four hours, and every minute is an 
individual hell of wondering — wondering 
as you face family, friends, and business 
associates. Have they guessed, and are 
they laughing, or worse, are they pitying? 
The family — the family over grapefruit 
in the morning — complacent, happy, and 
most of that happiness lies in their pride 
in their only daughter, who is you. It 
would be easier to scream you are a fake 
than to sit there eating grapefruit, being 
one. But easier for whom? You can ap- 
prehend the look on your mother's face, 
and the tears you've rarely seen streaming 
down your father's cheeks. You can feel 
their warm sympathy enveloping you, and 
it is so welcome that you put down your 
spoon and open your lips, but your words 
vanish as your vision continues, and you 
see them rise and put down their faith and 
their hopes with their napkins, and hold 
to you their naked love. So you ask if 
they will pass the sugar and excuse your- 
self as soon as possible to go to the of- 
fice and wonder. They must be able to 
tell, and yet they go on treating you as 
they have since you first came there to 
work after college. Can't they see that 
you've changed — changed from an at- 
tractive, intelligent, decent human being 

to a common little tramp? Occasionally 
you are sure that one of them knows. 
You feel the bright eyes of the proof- 
reader fixed on your back and you jerk 
around suddenly, and she averts her eyes 
and smiles, and from then on you must 
watch her for she is dangerous. 

Those were the days, forty-one in all, 
but there were also forty-one nights. 
Nights of reliving "the night" — night 
spent crucifying yourself and feeling the 
full weight of the cross — nights of waiting 
for Charles to call; at first alternately 
hoping and fearing that he would, then 
praying that he would, and knowing he 
would not. But if he doesn't? He must — 
how else are you to find out? You must 
put an end to this doubting, this not 
knowing! Not knowing whether to laugh 
at ungrounded fears, or lament over too 
real tragedy; nights of lying awake, dry- 
eyed, planning and rejecting plans; nights 
of sobbing and gasping for sufficient 
breath to sob again; nights of frustration 
and despair — utter despair, when the 
words you knew were not of adequate 
venom to curse yourself — lonely nights, 
filled with panic too dreadful to recall — 
waking in a cold sweat to find the sheets 
binding you in a sodden mass — waking to 
toss and turn and pray. "Oh, God, if 
thy mercy is infinite, help me now in my 
time of need?" 

Yes, you are glad you do not have to 
decide whether the days or nights were 

Last night had been one such night, and 
somewhere in your fight with yourself 
you had reached a decision. This morn- 
ing you had phoned the office to say you 
would not be there, and then, ascertaining 
that no one was within earshot, you had 
found the name of an unknown doctor 
and dialed the number. This was hard 
and required concentration because your 
fingers shook, and your mind rushed ahead 


of you trying to think of what you must 
say. Then you were telUng an efficient 
voice that you were Mrs. Jones and would 
like an appointment for this afternoon, 
if possible* But it was a He! You were 
not Mrs. Jones. You were not Mrs. Any- 
body and you were so acutely conscious 
of the He that you feared the pleasant 
voice on the other end of the wire would 
also know it was a He, and would laugh. 
But she only informed you that the doc- 
tor would see you at three, and left you 
holding the dead telephone in numb 

The hours dragged and your anxiety 
increased with the passing of each min- 
ute. Then you were leaving, and as you 
pushed the door back into its frame, the 
sound echoed in your ears like the click 
of the latch of a coffn. You felt as you 
did when you left for college the first 
time, but this time there were no tears. 
There was no capacity for them. The 
bus ride was a flashback of scenes and 
emotions, some half forgotten until now. 
Things dear to you that you must of 
necessity part with. They were young 
and too pure to exist in a part of your 
mind. You discarded them with the cello- 
phane from your cigarette pack, but not 
before you had kissed each a lingering 

And now you are here and the waiting 
is intolerable, because each second holds a 
piece of your future in its hands, and you 
are as yet unable to see if it is laughing 
at it. You try to pray but cannot re- 
member the words to any prayers, and if 
you could you probably would not say 
them for fear of profaning their holiness. 
Your mind is at last clearing, and your 
emotions jell into numbness, and you are 
free to think without feeling. Now is the 
time, you tell yourself. Now bring it 
out and look at it. Bring it out and re- 
member! Remembering is a painful proc- 

ess, but it may also be revealing, and on 
this chance your mind will bear the tor- 
ture. You brace yourself and concentrate 
on Charles. Your memory of him is at 
best vague and has been contorted by 
fear, but your final effort is successful, 
and you see Charles as you once saw 
him gay, laughing, considerate, mature. 
You were flattered by his invitations, 
more particularly this invitation for he 
had invited you to a party at which you 
would meet his friends, those glamorous 
"Bohemians" who revolved in a totally 
different and infinitely more sophisticated 
world. Their party was exciting, and you 
would have considered it brassy, had it 
not been for the excitement. Your lungs 
were filled with the smoke of many cigar- 
ettes, and your eyes smarted with it, and 
your nostrils were clogged with it, and 
their pounding rhumbas vibrated in your 
eardrums, diffused with loud laughter. 
Everyone was having a fascinatiing time 
which became more eccelerated as the eve- 
ning wore on, and the liquor became more 
profuse. You were told crude, unhumor- 
ous jokes that you felt were unhumorous 
because of your headache and your aver- 
sion to alcohol. This aversion sprang 
from pure repugnance for its taste rather 
than morals, but you were in definite need 
of stimulants, and the offers were pelted 
at you from all sides. You did not feel 
that you were making the desired impres- 
sion on Charles' friends, and your sense 
of failure was added to your headache. 
In desperation, you instructed Charles to 
fix you a weak highball, to which he pro- 
tested that a straight shot went down 
faster, took effect quicker, and would be 
on the whole less painful. The logic of 
his statement penetrated and you re- 
quested a double shot to the hearty ap- 
plause of those in the group still capable 
of applauding. The drink went down 
in a burning gulp that brought tears to 


your eyes and you were thankful for its 
brevity. After that the picture went out 
of focus and the dance hall lurched 
drunkenly, or was it you leaving the 
table? Someone screamed that it was only 
one o*clock, and you fervently agreed that 
it was only one o'clock, and the party was 
a good party which had really just begun. 
However, Charles' hand was firm on your 
arm and you were propelled toward the 
door, but it was a long way off and was 
swaying rhythmically, and you wondered 
idly if you should ever reach it, and if 
you should be able to catch the rhythm 
for the space of time necessary to walk 
through it. 

Then it was four o'clock, for the 
chimes of the hall clock were taunting 
it at you, and you were groping your 
way up the stairs and falling across your 
bed in a wave of nausea. Next morning 
your head cleared with the third cup of 
coffee, and you thought by the pounding 
of your temples and the feeling in the 
pit of your stomach that you must have 
been on what you had heard called a 
bender. You were embarrassed at the 
thought of facing Charles and his friends 
unitl you realized that the majority of 
them shared your inebriation as they were 
probably sharing your headache. The 
irony of your casual dismissal of the sub- 
ject comes to you now, but you are not 
amused by it. Your casual attitude, how- 
ever, was not one of long standing. 
Charles was conspicuously absent, and as 
the days grew into weeks, the seeds of sus- 
picion became deep-grounded roots. 

The physical symptoms had come more 
slowly, and when they presented them- 
selves, were hardly recognized as such. 
You had no intimate knowledge of early 
pregnancy or its symptoms but the nau- 
sea in the early morning and the unaccus- 
tomed fainting were too obvious evidence 
to be ignored. The day that you fainted 

in the washroom was the first day that 
you admitted the possibility to yourself. 
That night was the first in a series of 
nights that you lay awake trying de^er- 
ately to summon up some part of those 
three hours of blackness. Blackness as 
terrifying and dangerous as any you could 
conceive. It became a bottomless pit, and 
in your restless dreams you heard wild 
meaningless laughter coming from within 
its depths. Oh, God, how hard you tried 
to recapture those minutes, but they eluded 
you like so many fairy dancers; and just 
as you seemed to have them in your grasp 
they twirled on their toes and merrily ran 
away, leaving you to lie there with a feel- 
ing of helpless frustration, that makes 
you clench your fists and pound them 
against your temples and emit a sound 
which was foreign to your own ears, like 
the cry of a cornered animal who is en- 
raged at the circumstances in which he 
finds himself, and totally powerless to 
remedy it. It was also then that you be- 
gan to plan — childish, senseless, pitiful 
little plans, impossible little plans. There 
were only two things of which you were 
certain. If there was a baby, you would 
give birth to it and keep it. Vou had 
fought many battles with yourself over 
that. Was it fair to you to bring an illi- 
gitimate child into the world? On the 
other hand, was it not less fair to deny 
any creature birth? The other problem 
that added to the torment of your hell 
was that of your parents. They must not 
be the innocent victims of your shame. 
They must not witness your scarlet letter 
and your Pearl. 

The nurse calmly taps your shoulder 
and informs you that Mrs. Jones is next, 
and insinuates with her pointing finger 
that you are Mrs. Jones, and you arc 
brought back to reality, but fear also 
flourishes on reality and accompanies you. 
Tliis fear has become your most intimate 


associate and once again it embraces you 
and leaves you weak and trembling with 
the fervor of its passion. It is strange 
about fear. It is the one acquaintance in 
this changing society which is constant, 
and regardless of when, or where, you 
meet it, it recognizes you and greets you 
as an old and welcome friend. And now 
that you are once more in its embrace all 
things else fade into nonentity. You won- 
der why your body cannot die in the doc- 
tor's office with your hope. Oh, God, 
when hope is gone, only emptiness re- 
mains. Aloneness covers you like a clock, 
and the realization that all of this closely 
packed humanity shares your aloneness 
does not penetrate, and you feel that it 
is an individual possession. Then there 
nowhere to turn, and nowhere is not a 
place on the map. 

The possibility of an escape alley has 
presented itself before and been passion- 
ately rejected, but now that time has 
ceased to exist, it forces itself into the 
room and the room is filled with its pres- 
ence and everywhere you look you meet 
the stark hungry of death. You cannot 
force your glance to meet its encounter- 
ing glance or your hand to touch the out- 
stretched fingers. Suicide has a meloda- 
matic note and you have always hated 
soap operas. Yet it is the only alley you 
have entered that has not been blind, and 
you are weary of one way streets. The 
extent of your exhaustion closes over you, 
and helps you reach your decision. You 
do not feel cowardlly, but neither do you 
feel like a martyr. You have just con- 
cluded your bargain and are shaking icy 
fingers when a crisp voice directs you 
to the last circle! 

You are extremely grateful for the 
numbness that enables your mind to ac- 
cept a detached point of view, and you 
feel a cool pride in the convincing way 
you are handling the physician. Yes, this 

is your first child. You've been married 
three months. Yes, you've had the usual 
symptoms. Brace yourself . . . this is id 
If you know any helpful prayers now 
is the time to recall them and let them 
roll from your lips in a wordless appeal 
to a merciful God. "Our Father, who art 
in Heaven . . ." And it is all over and 
you are rising from the examination table, 
and the hand that you raised to push back 
the hair from your forehead returns to 
you wet and your legs are trembling so 
that you are forced to sit on the side of 
the table and wait there for the decision. 
Your trembling will not be controlled 
and your mind forms a wavering question 
mark. You cannot force your eyes to 
raise themselves and focus on the doctor 
standing beside you. It is then that he 
takes your chin in his hand, and raises 
your gaze to meet his puzzled stare. 
After minutes or hours you realize that 
he is speaking and your mind pieces to- 
gether the words and forms a sentence: 
"Child, there has never been but one 
immaculate conception, what makes you 
think you are going to have one? You're 
tired, nervous, home now . . . rest." The 
words run together and your next sen- 
sation is flavored with spirits of ammonia. 
Then you're in a cab relaxing against 
it and exercising the privilege of not 
having to think. Back home — back to 
security, and safety, and freedom, and if 
a large portion of your youth has been 
left at the doctor's office, you are not 
sure it is worth cab-fare to go back for it. 
When the cab stops in front of your 
house, a portion of your normality greets 
you, and you manage to leave some of 
your tension in the cab. You are relieved 
that the house is empty, and you open the 
door to your room and collapse across 
your bed. You must remember how lucky 
you've been and thank God for His favor, 
right now you are drained! Then the 


telephone is insisting that you wake and 
answer it. You look drowsily at your 
watch and see that you have slept for 
two hours, and it has grown dark outside. 
Your voice whispers a sleepy, and nearly 
inaudible, hello into the mouthpiece, and 
then your fingers are griping on the 
receiver, and your heart is racing for it 
is Charles on the other end of the wire. 
But then your mind becomes a functioning 
organism, and you are pleasantly aware 
that there is no longer any reason to 
either fear or hate him. You hope that 
he hasn't noticed the pause as you talk 
normally about his unexpected trip and 
make the usual light chatter. You realize 
that he is about to ask to take you out, but 
you can think of no way to avoid it, and 
your sense of guilt at your ungrounded 
suspicions of him forces you to agree that 
it would be delightful and that eight 
o'clock would suit beautifully, and then 
you are putting down the phone and 
wondering from what source you may 
borrow the strength to fulfill your en- 
gagement. You are completely exhausted 
with the day's emotional tenure, and your 
head is beginning to ache. A hot bath, 
two aspirins, and coffee are beneficial and 
by the time Charles arrives you feel better 
able to cope with the coming evening. 

This is Charles' first night back in 
town, and his spirits are high, and he 

is glad to see you. He gaily announces 
that a few of the gang are having a get- 
together at his club, and he thinks you 
might drop in for a drink. You are sure 
that by the gang he does not mean your 
gang, but there is little you can say, so 
you mentally slip on a "What the hell" 
frame of mind and Uft your chin as if 
by so doing you might also lift your 
spirits. The crowd is all assembled and 
they greet you as their oldest friend and 
address you by every known name, ex- 
cluding your own. You are seated by a 
morose blond who insists that you are 
flirting with Al, and will not be dissuaded 
from her theory. Charles brings you a 
drink and grins when you refuse it not 
realizing the true irony of his gesture, 
but then he leaves you to go welcome a 
friend and is lost somewhere in the haze. 
You do not mind being left alone except 
that it gives you leisure to realize that the 
effects of the aspirin have worn off and 
your head is pounding again and you 
are tired, so very tired. Then Charles 
is back, slightly tight and having a won- 
derful time, which he assures you is all 
because of you. This renders you in- 
capable of asking him to take you home, 
so instead you ask for a drink, a small 
one, but remembering the vile taste and 
the needed effects, you change your re- 
quest to a Double Shot. 



JVhile the fVind Btetv 

By Imogene Spoerri, Jr. 

Summer was over. 

The bellboy's alert, greedy expressions 
said so, as they stood by the many bulging 
bags stacked up beside the driveway of 
Birchwood Lodge, and waited for their 
final tips of the season; so did the clothes 
that the guests were wearing — gloves and 
handbags, tailored hats, and suits with 
starched collars. In a few more hours, 
the lodge would be emptied of its guests 
until another season. 

The Atwater's long roadster slid quietly 
down the curving drive into the space 
under the porte-cochere. The younger 
Hollaway girl, dressed in a soft aqua suit, 
white blouse with perky bow in prepara- 
tion for her trip home, slipped out of the 
side entrance and sat down with careful 
nonchalance on the cool leather cushion of 
a deep sun chair, letting the warm Septem- 
ber wind blow through her long wavy hair. 
Although her eyes were half closed, she 
could see the black outline of the early 
first quarter moon, as it took shape in the 
cloudless sky above. She watched the 
hands of the Atwater's chaufi-eur as he 
tied black oil cloth over the bags on the 
running board, 

"Are -they leaving soon?" she asked at 

"Right away. Miss ," he said. 

She had just opened her large handbag 
and taken out a small compact to see if 
her gold-looped earrings were on right, 
when she heard a sudden rapid clatter of 
steps on the veranda. A young man 
moved with quick strides over to the chauf- 
feur, handed him some tennis rackets, said 
a few words, and turned away. 

"Oh, hi, Janie," he said, coming over 

to her, "I was just wonderin' where I 
could find you to say goodbye." 

"Do we have to say goodbye? I — I'm 
not sure I want to." 

He glanced down uncomfortably at his 
freshly pressed clothes and polished shoes. 
"I don't think much o' saying goodbye my- 
self, so let's don't!" Looking up with a 
grin, he examined her slowly, from head 
to toe. 

"Gee, I hardly know ya, Janie — all dolled 
up and everything. Say, where'd ya get 
the earrings? Off your sister, I bet!" 

She blushed. 

"I don't like 'em — at least on you I 
don't," he said bossingly. 

"Why not?" 

"Oh, I don't know — anyone with long 
brown hair, sunburned, with freckles and 
shiny nose like you, looks better in — well, 
shorts and bathing suits. Gosh, you sure 


do look silly — bet your sister will give 
you heck when she finds you're wearing 
her earrings." 

Her face showed disapf)ointment. "Have 
you forgotten that I'm sixteen — pretty 
near scventen?" 

He frowned and looked at the ground. 
She laughed, embarrassed. 

"Well, if you really want to know the 
truth, you look much better in dirty flan- 
nels and sweat shirts than in all those 
things," she lied softly, pointing to the 
pressed blue shirt and matching tie. He 
really locJced wonderful — even as good as 
a movie star. And he had on a new hat 
with a band that meant he belonged to 
something important at college. 

He moved forward. "Say, I have to go 
over to the golf house for some clubs. 
Come along." 

She fell into step with his long, quick 
strides, and waited for him to speak. 

"Well, summer's over, isn't it?" he said. 
"TTiis time next year I'll be out of college 
and working." 

"I'll be going to college myself, in a 
couple of more weeks." 

"Gee, honest?" 

"I've been tellin' you all summer, but 
you wouldn't pay any attention." 

"Oh, I heard ya, but I just forgot. 
What school are you going to?" 


"Then you won't be far from me. I 
can come down to sec you, and you can 
come up to the dances at school. That's 

But even as he said these words, she 
knew she would never see him again. It 
must be those darn ol' earrings. They 
were beginning to hurt, too, 

"Next summer I'll be slaving in my 
father's mill," he said soberly. "Janie? 
When you're winning tennis cups and 

yacht races with some other guy, next sum- 
mer, will you remember me slaving away 
in the mill?" 

"I may not be here again, either. I don't 
want to come back here again — ever — .'* 

And she almost said, "If you aren't 
going to be here." She swept the back of 
her hand across her eyes and thought 
about her older sister. Sherry would never 
let a boy see her cry when they said good- 

Janie swallowed hard, trying deperately 
to dislodge a big lump that was tightly 
wedged in her throat. She looked out 
across the lake and saw the strong puffs 
that would make it dangerous sailing to- 
day. She thought of the many times that 
she and Tom had gone sailing on such 
days. Soon, in less than ten minutes may- 
be, Tom and the bags would be gone. So 
many things besides the dirty flanneb and 
bathing suits and worn tennis balls would 
be carried away with those bags! All his 
teasing and her giggling, all his bossing 
her and his praising her swift slams in 
tennis or her "marvelous" sailing, like — 
"Swell work, Janie," or "Take it easy — ." 

And bonfires. 

It had grown dark outside beyond the 
bonfire and they had just been watching 
the stars when he had suddenly kissed her. 
Then, she had been mad — at least she had 
pretended to be. 

Never before had saying goodbye made 
her feel like this. She wished she were 
back in boarding school and had never 
seen Tom — Tom with his deep tan ac- 
quired from sailing, swimming, and tennis. 
Tom with his brown wavy hair — not too 
wavy, just right — which always hung down 
over his forehead. 

"Let's walk over by the rocks," he called 
from the club house. "That b, if you 
have time." 




>, with his golf clubs strung over his 
:, they started down the winding path 
g the ledge of the cliff. TTie leaves 
I beginning to fall and the tall grasses 
to the ground and her skirt was blow- 
above her knees, as the wind drove 
>ss the lake. 

Vd be tough out in a boat today, 

Idn't it, Janie? Do you think you 
hold the tiller in this wind?" 

Sure. After all you've taught me, I 


You could. You sure are a good sailor 
I never wouldVe believed you could 
handle the boat like you do now." 

ut Janie wasn't listening. She was 

dering what her sister would do to 
a boy kiss her goodbye. 

^o you think we'd have time to sit 
m a while, Tom?" 

'Sure, why not? Here on this rock. Be 
eful so you don't slip and falL'f 
Jhe sat down and he swung his golf 
; down off his shoulders and laid it on 

ground. She lo(^ed at him again. 
'I've never seen your hair so neat," she 
i jokingly. 

Well, a fellow has to start gettin' civ- 
ed when summer's over." 
'The way you say it, it — it sounds as if 
irything has ended, as if — ." 
'There's something I wanted to tell you, 
lie," he interrupted, looking out acr(^s 


'What is it, Tom?" she asked. The 
all lake even had white caps now, and 
■ hair was blowing across her face, slap- 
ig her eyes till they stung. Maybe he's 
ng to kiss me. This time I won't be 
y and I won't be mad. 
'You sure were great this summer — I 

mean, sailing and all. We had a good 
time, didn't we?" 

Janie nodded and clutched at her blow* 
ing dress. Her knuckles were white and 

"That's why I want you to know, be- 
fore we say goodbye. Don't ya know?" 
he blurted. 

Her heart skipped a beat. Stiffed, she 
looked up at his gleaming, shy face. 

"It's a girl. I've been crazy about her 
for months now. Don't tell anyone. It — 
it's just between us. I'm engaged to her 
She's super. I just had to tell you. 
You've been so swell to me — a great pal 
and buddy." 

Janie just sat there staring at him. 

"Well, kid — aren't ya going to congrat- 
ulate me?" 

She just sat there. Her sister's ear- 
rings hurt more and more. 

"Gosh, these things hurt," she said, 
pulling them off. What would her sister 
say? Oh, hang her sister! 

"Congratulations! " 

"Gee, thanks, Janie. You're swell — 
tops, in fact. Remember not to tell any- 
one, "cuz it's a deep, dark secret. Gee, 

"No, I won't tell." There was a pause, 
which prolonged itself, until suddenly, 
she broke out into uncontrollable laugh- 

"I sure don't see any joke. What's so 
funny, anyhow?" 

"You thought I was just a little kid all 
along. Gee, that's a riot!" 

The wind was blowing her hair blindly 
as she said in a thin, choked voice, "Cuz 
I've been wondering if I ought to tell you, 
too, before we said goodbye. I'm engaged, 
too — to a boy back home." 


The JFabut»us Buwn 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

He had come a long, long way, the old 
man with the keen, twinkling blue eyes, 
and he was tired. His beard had a nice 
two weeks' growth, and his dingy old 
coat and trousers had nothing on the shoes 
with the large hole where his big toe 
peeped through. Despite the fact that he 
had ridden in cattle cars and freight cars 
from Los Angeles to Chicago, beside 
hitchhiking between stops, the old man's 
face shone with a light of something that 
cannot be described. . . . Happiness, per- 
haps, freedom ... or was it only peace? 

How out of place he looked as he 
causually walked down the wide boule- 
vard where the brightly lit shop windows 
displayed the most expensive furs and jew- 
elry! The cold wind guzzled and blew 
newspapers scattering along the sidewalk 
so that he could hardly light his old corn- 
cob pipe. Flipping the match aside into 
the gutter, he merrily puffed as he walked 
on his way. A traffic cop eyed him suspi- 
ciously as he passed the corner where the 
big neon sign flickered on and off. The 
old man waved his big dirty hand to him, 
but the cop did not wave back. 

His pace quickened as the wind blew 
hard and cruel against his thin topcoat, 
but his bright eyes danced as he watched 
taxis and buses whiz by. He watched, for 
a long time, a little girl walking ahead of 
him with her tiny hand in her mother's 
gloved one. He paused in front of a 
sporting goods store and looked long at 
the shining fishing tackle displayed there. 
Then he shuffled along his way. 

He slipped his hand into his pocket, 
hesitating as he did so. There it was, 
down at the very bottom. He felt the to- 
bacco grains, two matches, a torn piece 

of paper, a button, a safety pin, and the 
half-dollar piece. He went into the little 
do-nut shop on the sidewalk and had it 
changed. He wanted to hear the pennies 
and nickles and dimes jingle as he walked. 
The warm, sweet odor of the cakes and 
hot steaming coffee brought a wide smile 
to his face that did not linger, for the fifty 
cents must be saved. After all, he tried 
to tell himself, hadn't he had breakfast 
that morning. His traveling companion, 
a boy about thirteen who was running 
away from home, hopped off the train 
and returned with some sandwiches. It 
was now about ten-thirty at night, and it 
seemed days to him since he had talked 
the boy into going back home. Come to 
think of it, he could hardly remember the 
boy's face. He only remembered his sunny 
bright hair and the new, clean suit he had 
worn. "Guess he kind of resented my 
buttin' in on his busines," he thought, but 
he was glad that he had talked to the boy, 
telling him that home was a pretty won- 
derful thing to have. Hadn't he had a 
home, himself, once upon a time? A home 
with a father and a mother and even a 
big collie dog. ... That seemed like a 
dream now, though. So much had hap- 
pened since those gay, carefree years to 
change things. His father had had an ac- 
cident in a mine which crippled him for 
life. His mother had worked so hard 
to support them all that she died the next 
winter of pneumonia. He had a sister, 
too, somewhere, but he figured that she 
was so pretty she probably grew up and 
married some rich man, and would never 
want to know she had a tramp for a 
brother. Yes, it had been a long, long 
time since he hopped the northbound 


freight to run away from a home that 
had very little to offer him. "Just look 
at me now," he said, with a jolly laugh, 
as he patted his round stomach. He 
hadn't ever regretted leaving home, not 
much anyway. His life, which was about 
fifty years old now, had been spent walk- 
ing many roads, seeing many sights, and 
doing many things. He had met people 
from all walks of life. He had ridden 
trains with other bums, he had thummed 
rides from millionaires who trusted him 
because of his gentle face, and he had 
eaten breakfatst on the doorsteps of the 
middle class of people. Women with 
kind hearts had made him coffee, men in 
evening clothes had given him cigarettes, 
and everyone from a preacher to a gamb- 
ling hall manager had supplied him with 
a night's lodging or else had flipped him 
a dollar to stay at the Y.M.C.A. He had 
even played Cupid to some lovers in a 
park once. "What a life" he exclaimed 
aloud, as he walked, and in his voice there 
was pride and happiness. 

He came to a row of new modern apart- 
ment houses which held him in fascina- 
tion. Music rang from the windows and 
he could hear the loud noise of laughter 
amid the clinking of glasses. He found 
himself humming the music in a terrible 
monotone as he passed them. Then, sud- 
denly there was a scream, and a sort of 
heavy thud. He swung, and turned, to 
see a crowd rushing to the sidewalk. His 
feet moved swiftly to the scene, and there, 
upon the sidewalk he saw a sight that 
made him cringe and shudder. The messy 
form of a man lay in a puddle of blood, 
and above, the curtains waved back and 
forth in the open window. "Who was 
he?" Some woman cried. "Wonder what 
he went and did that for," someone else 
said. The police cars came and the night 
air was filled with the shrill sirens. News- 

paper men with their flash bulbs snapped 
scene after scene of the suicide. 

"Move back," "Get out of the way, 
you," . . . they cried to the old man, so 
he left them. When he got to the corner 
he was still shuddering. The face of the 
dead man would not leave his mind. He 
did not even feel the cold, for the thought 
had paralyzed him and made him numb 
to physical feeling. When he reached the 
corner, he turned, and there to his right 
was a tall Cathedral, and on the door was 
a sign which said, "Enter and Pray." The 
poor old tramp stood there, and then 
walked to the door and pulled it open. 
There was no one inside, so he sat down, 
for the room was warm. He sat there a 
minute, looking about him from right to 
left at the marble statues of the Saints, 
the gold Cross on the altar, and the oil 
painting of Christ behind the choir loft. 
Somehow, the tears just came from the 
tired blue eyes, and he grew ashamed, 
so he wiped them with his rough coat 
sleeve, then he took out a soiled handker- 
chief and blew his nose. He moved, and 
his knees touched the warm, soft, deep 
carpet. His head bowed, and his hands 
went over his eyes, and down in his heart 
he was saying these words, "Oh Lord, 
just let me always be content with the 
simple things." 

When the old clock in the steeple 
chimed twelve, he arose and walked to the 
door and pulled it back opened. When 
his eyes took in the sight outside, the 
widest grin you can imagine spread across 
his face. His eyes were brighter than ever 
before, and he ran down the steps into 
the white snow. For while he had been 
inside the church, the snow had fallen 
quickly, quietly, and had now blanketed 
the whole world like a wonderful fairy- 
land. "To heck widi the cold," he 
thought. . . . He loved the snow ... so 


he walked into the street, catching the 
large flakes and putting them into his 
mouth. With his head raised he watched 
the millions of them falling from above, 
and like a small child, he danced about 

the street, whistling and laughing. 

Then the old man walked away, leav'- 
ing behind him a deep path of footprints, 
as the jingling of hb few coins faded into 
the silent night. 


i liant iKc 



By Carolyn Mansfield 

Faranadole* Street in the rain 
Gleams diamond-wet and onyx-dry. 
The cuts and cavities of a day-time avenue 
By night, and the rain and the street light 
Are made little lakes of silent silver; 

In the white circle of a street lamp 
A mongrel pup 

Drinks from a silver puddle — 
And the light above him 

Makes sequins of raindrops on his wretched back. 
(Faranadole Street in the rain 
Is kind to the mongrel pup.) 

(*A faranadole is a "Quick Dance in which a number join hands and go through 
various figures" and is used in this poem to symbolize life.) 


JDiversian far MBeiight 

Reviewed by Joyce Callaway 

Gretchen Damrosch Finletter. Boston; Little, 
Brown and Company. 1947 

First printed as an ATLANTIC 
Finlcttcr's humorous chronicle of family 
life in the Damrosch household, where 
music was the main course morning, noon, 
and night and where celebrated artists 
felt free to give way to temperamental 
impulses, as viewed FROM THE TOP 
OF THE STAIRS, won the approval of 
thousands of readers for both "Pleasure 
and profit." As the daughter of the 
famous symphonic conductor, Walter 
Damrosch, Gretchen gives us the "Inside 
story" concerning the life of her family 
in the funniest and most sacred situations. 

Growing up, the Damrosch girls were 
subject not only to the complexities of the 
theater and opera, but also to impromptu 
performances at home. They gave lunch- 
eons and dinners for such renowned fig- 
ures as Paderewski, Melchoir, and Ethel 
Barrymore, and Mrs. Finletter sets forth 
detailed incidents of these illustrious oc- 
casions. "Backing up" father at the metro- 
politan in New York or cheering their 
revered mother on as she marked down 
5 th Street in a Suffragette parade, they 
are a clever, high-spirited, and violently 
loyal crew. 

is no dangerous competition for a creations 
of dramatic genius, but this simple account 
of the doings of a remarkable and hilar- 
iously funny family will provide delightful 
diversion in moments of relaxation. The 
author has produced some enchanting and 
very realistic pictures of the goings-on 
in New York during the first twenty 
years of this century in a refreshingly 
unaffected style. 

Her simile's and comparisons are price- 
less; her interpretations are human and 
vital. Mrs. Finletter's satire is typlified in 
this excerpt from her book: "There was 
a thing called 'Professional rates' and two 
ominous creatures named the 'union* and 
'overtime.' These ferocious animals seem- 
ed always looking about, trying to destroy 
our rehearsals. Their lair was a placed 
called 'Local 802' and the older they got, 
the stronger they became." 

Her descriptions are endearingly human 
and, in some cases, almost "little-girlish" 
in their innocence. In the last chapter, 
she pours out her soul in her reverie over 
"Indian Summer," and the emotions stir- 
red in her reader produce a vivid melan- 
choly. The mood of the book is set to a 
lively tune of merriment, accompanied 
by countless, capricious bars of mirth sure 
to soothe and charm a troubled spirit. 


IPrince af Fnxes 

Reviewed by Joyce Callaway 

PRINCE OF FOXES by Samuel Shellabarger. 
Little, Brown and Company. 1947 

Shellabarger has produced a great epic 
romance containing both the enchanting 
qualities of the story-teller and the au- 
thentic knowledge of a true historian. 
Dr. Shellabarger was formerly a member 
of the faculty of Princeton University, 
as he was also president of a private 
school in Columbus, Ohio. Having taken 
his A.B. degree at Princeton and his Ph.D. 
at Harvard, plus passing many years of 
residence and study in Europe, he is 
more than well-qualified to present a 
tale well-documented with the intimate 
details of customs and backgrounds, in 
almost any period of European history. 

In PRINCE OF FOXES, he has chosen 
Italy as his locale, but he has preserved 
his favorite period — the turbulent, fierce, 
and creative age, known to us as the 
Renaissance. This story begins under the 
most trite circumstances, if one escapes 
from the compelling narrative power of 
the author long enough to realize it. The 
mysterious Lord Andrea Oraine, who is 

cast as the hero, is of course, a young 
man of unusual accomplishments. He 
is an officer and diplomat, about to under- 
take a dangerous mission at the court of 
Ferrara, in the service of the illustrious 
Cesare Borgier. His talents are not limited 
merly to intrigue, and diplomacy, and war, 
but rather he proves himself a master in 
the art of lovemaking, and because of his 
too-zealous interest in the Lady Camilla, 
wife of the aged Lord Mare' Antonio 
Varano, he is drawn into a dramatic po- 
litical plot, which even the cunning Borgia 
could not prevent. 

The variety of characters and setting, 
and the animation and the vividness of 
each portrayal equals, if not surpasses, 
that of Dr. Shellabarger's best-seller, 
Literary Guild Selection of 1945, CAP- 
TAIN FROM CASTILE. The author's 
complete freedom from conventionality, 
in his treatment of the historical setting, 
acquaints the reader, first hand, with the 
artistic element which is so characteristic 
of Dr. Shellabarger's literary construction 
and style. It is this unique elegance that 
has so deservingly won for him the place 
of "ideal Chronicler of historical fiction." 



'OLUME 11 


T H 


Vol. II JUNE 1948 No. 3 


Editnr^s Nnte 

The clock hands have turned, the pages 
have closed, and the old wooden desk is 
cleared of its usual cluttered rabble, scat- 
tered papers, typewriter ribbons and such 
. . . and the time is here. It's seemed so 
far away to us before; we thought it 
would never come, but it has. The little 
black "x's" have blotted away the calendar 
year, and the last issue of CHIMES is 

We're going to miss those Monday 
nights . . . the giggles and the long deep 
discussions . . . the frank criticisms and 
the placid remarks ... the encourage- 
ments and the discouragements . . . the 
interrupted sessions that have been held 
to select the material you read in 
CHIMES. We'll remember Imp and 
Sue and their clever, original ideas for 
the cover and for the little illustrations 
.... paint brushes stuck behind two 
identical right ears, and phrases that sent 
us into howls of hysterics . . . Bessie in 
her long green flannels begging, "But I 
just have to get to Captivators . . ." And 
she races off with her violin case tucked 
under her arm, leaving us in peace. We'll 
remember Janice — her brilliant suggest- 
ions, her short stories that brought us 
chills and "ewws", and "ahhh's" of 
satisfaction . . . Janice, saying either "It 
stinks", or "It's a masterpiece." We'll 
remember little Coker dashmg into the 
Pub office at exactly seven-thirty . . . with 
those delicious poems . . . those mouth 
watering verses that made us all senti- 
mental . . . Sue ... big shy eyes asking, 
"Could I please call Tom now? We'll 
remember Joyce and Carolyn crawling 
in late with all sorts of excuses . . . Joyce 

cackling and acting up like a live wire, 
and Carolyn's awed expressions at her 
roommate's antics . . . Callaway, looking 
Uke a page from Harper's Bazaar, putting 
our soiled blue jeans to shame . . . Her 
beautiful hands turning the pages of her 
latest book review, her eyes all bright with 
our newest ideas . . . And we couldn't ever 
forget Gordy . . . the squirt with the 
water pistol at our chapel skit . . . her 
bursts into the Pub. offce in the red satin 
tommy coat saying, "Can't stay tonight 
... I'm still on the Study Hall list ..." 
We'll remember Neilyn, sitting quietly, 
listening to our chatter, and laughing at 
our silUness . . . Neilyn, bringing platters 
of poetry in at one time saying, "Maybe 
you can use something ... as we breath- 
lessly read them . . . And Kren. Kren, 
with her sunny smile and her low, soft 
voice, thanking us, mind you, for letting 
her do the cover . . . (and we've done 
handsprings over them, too.) Kren, be- 
ing around, and making you glad she's 
there . . . And Nelson, slaving over the 
typewriter the night before "Press day", 
griping about Callaway's handwriting or 
my typing . . . Our newest member, Mary 
Simms; sophisticated Mary with her haunt- 
ing eyes and her divine short stories . . . 
Mary, who possesses every characteristic 
of a future professional writer . . . Her 
low voice, her arguments with Janice, and 
especially her interest in the stajff and her 
work, we will remember . . . 

We'll remember it all . . . always . . . 
This is the story behind the stories of 
this last issue of CHIMES ... And it's 

all yours now. 



Jane Ellw* Tye . . Editor 

Sue Hoyt Art Editor 

Sue C. Coker Poetry Editor 

Joyce Caixaway Book Review Editor 

Gloria Gordon Circulation fxiitor 

Janice Lebenstkin Business Manager 

Mrs. Ruth Taylor Faculty Advisor 

Joyce Armitace Carolyn Henderson Neilyn Griggs 

Mary Martin Mary Simms 


Cynthia Hoyt Norma Jean Krenzeu Pat Negley 

Barbara Benson 

Barbara Nelson Typist 


Zippers — Yipe Wilma Lee Henry 3 

The Hypnotic Orb Betty Kelley 5 

Bronze City Janice Lebenstein 6 

Epilogue Neilyn Griggs 9 

The Little Mood Jane Ellen Tye 9 

No Government Can Be Called Perfect Mary Martin 10 

Ode To The Moon Neilyn Griggs 12 

Campana Barbara Benson 13 

Fragment Anne W\tters 19 

RHYME 'N time 

A Light Sifts Through My Window Neilyn Griggs 20 

Poem Sue Coker 20 

The Sleeping Artist Jane Ellen Tye 21 

A Refuge Sue Coker 21 

Black Utopia Mary Simms 23 

Interlude Neilyn Griggs 29 

On Enjoyment of Music Betty Coad 30 

The Ugly Child Jane Ellen Tye 3 1 

The Alligator Neilyn Griggs 32 

Fallmg Star Neilyn Griggs 36 

The Philosopher Sue Coker 36 

Prescription For Peace Joyce Callaway 37 

Down Pembroke's Halls Jane Ellen Tye 39 

Xippers" Yipel 

By Wilma Lee Henry 

I hate zippers — nasty things! They are 
ive monsters lying in wait to foul you up 

It your most important moments. 


Take the time the gang went on a spur- 
>f-the-moment picnic. Everyone was 
•eady except me. I had been uptown 
flopping. While the rest waited down- 
stairs, I dashed upstairs to put on slacks. 
S/Iy shopping dress buttoned down the 
5ack and the buttons seemed to pop out 
if of the holes at my request. I pulled on 
ny shirt and again the buttons flew into 
Dlace. Then I stepped into my slacks . . . 
Ml in all I was twenty minutes dressing! 
OC^hat had happened? The zipper had 
raught some material of my under gar- 
nents and wouldn't go up or down. I 
struggled and pushed and pulled all to no 
ivail. The zipper wouldn't budge. I was 
rapped. The horrid thing was just far 
enough up to prevent my slipping out of 
ny slacks and just far enough down so 
:hat I couldn't let it just stay there and 
itill be decently covered! "Mama, I need 

Then there is that horribly cold-then- 
lot feeling I always get when walking 
iown main street and find everyone either 
(taring shocked stares at me or pointedly 
ooking in the other direction, I have 
:ome to the point where I don't even have 
:o guess what the matter is. I already 
enow, My zipper (although guaranteed 
>n the label not to break, tear, slip, slide, 
)r catch material) has done it again! 
Somehow the evil monster has worked its 
vay loose at the top and has slipped way 
iown, giving me a sad case of what zipper 
lalesmen call gaposis. With my left arm 

held stiffly over the hole I dash into the 
nearest ladies room, hoping I've not been 
seen by everyone in town, but fearing for 
the worst. 

The incidents related above happen 
after the zipper is in the skirt. Have you 
ever tried to put a zipper in a skirt? That 
is the very place it does not want to go. 
First I try pinning the zipper in, but the 
machine won't gove over pin heads for 
some strange reason. I pull the pins out 
and baste instead. (The hallway where 
the machine is is drafty and is now getting 
dark. The sun is going down. I hurry 
a little faster.) At last the basteing is 
done. (I always have hated basteing, any- 
way.) I put the cloth on the machine to 
sew it up. But, alas! either the cloth is 
too heavy or the zipper is, because at the 
bottom the zipper has pulled away from 
the cloth! Finally after much more hurry 
and struggling the zipper is in — a bit 
crooked perhaps, but in. I take my 
finished product in to my mother. "But, 
darling, isn't this the front? Why, your 
zipper's on the right side instead of the 
left. Angel! What's the matter? Your 
face is so white! Come and lie down. 
I'll go call a doctor!" 

Yes, I need a doctor, but now I think 
I'll just lie still. At least this white jacket 
I'm wearing now ties behind my back and 
doesn't zip — no, no, I musn't let that word 
pass my lips. I must control myself. 
Back to my nice white jacket. My doctor 
calls it "straight", but it holds my arms 
back behind me so funny I wonder if he's 
"all right". Oh, well. 

P. S. The skirt I made finally got 
hooks and eyes. 

The Miypnatic Orb 

By Betfy Kelley 

When I entered the house, gay and 
carefree, little did I know that what might 
be deemed stark tragedy would soon be 
staring me in the face. I was contented, 
and it might even be said, slightly intoxi- 
cated with exuberance, for it was Friday 
and I had a happy, carefree week-end to 
look forward to. Entering the back door, 
I went cheerfully toward the front room 
where I could flop into a chair and take 
a good, deep breath of relaxation. I did 
not realize that the following moments 
would contain the greatest fear and terror 
of my lifetime. Then I saw it!!! My 
first impulse was to scream, to run, any- 
thing to abolish this appalling "thing" 
from my sight. But I could not move! 
Terror welled within me like the fog that 
sweeps swiftly in over the gulf. All I 
could do was stare at this hideous thing 
confronting me. 

There it was, perched on the back of the 
chair like some huge, loathsome insect with 
its beady, purple eye glaring, fairly radia- 
ting hate and death toward me, and its 
dingy murky legs folded underneath that 
unporportional body of sickening green, 
ready to spring at my throat with my 
slightest move. I was hypnotized by the 
dull gleam of that wicked orb, by the 
hardly preceptible, rythmical movements 
of those two dusty green plumes, but the 
fearful panic held me rooted to the spot. 
I knew that I was taring death in the face, 
for surely only from the realms of Hades 
could come such a creature. 

Slowly I began to gain a flimsy, unsub- 
stantial control over myself. Yet I dared 
not move. TTie fear of that sudden spring 
through space was like a rope binding me 
tightly to the spot. "Surely there must 

be some explanation,'" I thought. "What 
type of creature can this gruesome spec- 
tacle be? It possesses the body of some 
giant insect, the plumage of a bird, and 
an eye . . . Oh, what hideous repulsive, 
unblinking hypnotic organ of deadly 
cobra. Short fragmentary thoughts rush- 
ed through my benumbed brain . . . dead- 
ly poison . . . Amazon basin . . . tarantula 
. . . germ hormone . . death eye! The 
torture my body went through during 
those moments of agony will never be 
known. Then I thought of that picture 
in the encyclopedia. I wracked my tor- 
tured brain and the words formed before 
me slowly; "Now extinct . . . carried dead- 
ly germs in venom . . . South America . . . 
brown." Brown? Did it say brown? I 
could not be sure. That glaring eye 
seemed to draw my very thoughts from 
me. It was impossible to concentrate with 
that gleaming globe penetrating to my 
very brain. 

Through my numbed senses, I heard the 
click of a car door and the familiar steps 
of my aunL I wanted to call out, to tell 
her to stay away, but my voice was 
smothered by terror. She came slowly up 
the walk, up the steps, and onto the porch. 
It sat there by the door, and I saw its 
buring eyes slowly move toward that open- 
ing. It seemed to grow tense and the 
green plumes spread as if in preparedness 
for the spring. Her hand was still on the 
door and she was standing just inside 
when, out of the comer of her eye, she 
saw what I knew to be sudden death. 
Then from her startled countenance came 
this awful sound. "You know, I must 
have been half asleep this morning. I 
don't believe I like that new HAT after 

Bronae City 

By Janice Lebenstetti 

Eight million people call it home and 
there are five boroughs that make up the 
dot on the map labeled New York, but 
it's the island of Manhattan that's the 
heart of the city. It's a funny town made 
up of different kinds of worlds, and mine's 
the ugliest — the lower East Side, where 
all the poor people live. That's what they 
call us, the rest of the city — the poor 
people who have to live in the slums. 

I've always lived here, that is until last 
year. There were always Bill and me. 
We were bom on the same block, went to 
the same school; we played together, lived 
together, and I suppose we'll die together 
. . . here, in the same city, on the same 
block. I can remember when we first be- 
came friends. At least, you might call it 
friends. It was on a Saturday, the day the 
Jews went to church and the day we kids 
could spend our time having fun out in 
the open. There's no school on Saturdays. 
I was about nine, and small for my age. 
"Candy" Laranvino and I were sitting on 
the curb in front of my house; we called 
him "Candy" because he was the best 
candy snitcher on the street. Why, he 
could go into old man Levine's store and 
steal penny stuff right from under the old 
boy's nose without ever being found out; 
he was really good at it. This Saturday 
"Candy" had come out with some of those 
long sticky tapers of real black licorice, 
and he was sharing them with me like he 
always did, when Bill decided to walk 
over to us, moving his legs like a cocky 
rooster. He was bigger than us and he 
knew it. He jambed his thumbs into the 
tops of his trousers and stood over us, 
looking down, a slow grin twitching in 
the comers of his mouth. My throat went 
dry, and when he opened his mouth to 

speak, I could feel a tight binding across 
my chest ending in my stomach. 

"Little boys shouldn't eat candy. It 
isn't good for them. Give it here to me," 
he said taking one of his hands from 
around his waist and holding it out in 
front of him. I dropped my half-eaten 
stick in his dirty palm, but "Candy" jump- 
ed off the curb and shouted that he wasn't 
going to give anything but a sock on the 
jaw to a guy like him. Then Bill hit 
"Candy" right on the mouth and knocked 
him down. Before Candy could do any- 
thing. Bill kicked him and laughed while 
"Candy" doubled up and writhed on the 
side-walk, his eyes staring at Bill's grinning 
face with hat. I hated him too, but I was 
afraid, and when he beckoned me with a 
shake of his head, I followed Bill down 
the street, away from "Candy" sprawled 
across the walk, 

I became his best friend then, following 
him, holding his coat when he fought to 
show his superiority, protected by his im- 
pressive standing in the neighborhood. It 
became a habit for me to do my home- 
work in the afternoon, getting Pop, who 
was home all the time, to help me if he 
was sober. There was the time when my 
old man was smart, before all his brains 
floated away in alcohol. I'd take my work 
over to Bill's and he'd copy it, slapping 
me on the back and telling me what a 
good kid I was. Things were all right 
then. Sometimes we would play baseball 
over on the vacant lot next to the big 
apartment house, but someone complained 
about the noise and they sent a big red- 
headed cop to make sure our wealthy 
neighbors recovered from their day-after- 
the-night-before hangovers in peace. Bill 
thumbed his nose at the guy ^nd he 

chased us, but we scaled a fence and lost 
him down an alley behind the greasy ham- 
burger joint. We stopped playing base- 
ball then and started to go to the billiard 
place where all the older guys went. I was 
glad because I'd always been afraid the 
ball would break my glasses and then the 
old man would have given me hell. He 
used to call me four eyes because I wasn't 
athletic like the rest of the kids. He al- 
ways said if I didn't have a mind I should 
have had a body. 

I must have been about fourteen when 
Bill stopp>ed going to school. He said 
it was only four dopes and fools that 
didn't have better to do with their time. 
He started playing cards and pool for 
money and he made enough to keep from 
going hungry. I was still going to school 
because Mom made me. She tried to stop 
me from seeing Bill because she said he 
was a bad influence, as if anything where 
we came from could be a good influence. 
I think it must be the dirtiest spot in the 
whole world. The air smells like the 
brown outsides of the buildings; but they 
are brown inside, too. It's as if' the outer 
covering had diffused so far inside that 
there was nothing left but a solid brown 
mass of stone with a dirty layer of filthy 
wall-paper to masquerade under. The 
rooms are small and smell of cabbage. 
Stale brown cooked cabbage because it's 
cheap. I used to pass the big apartment 
houses on my way home from high school 
and wonder what it was like to have money 
and be waited upon and not have to go to 
bed hungry. It was too much for me to 

I didn't see much of Bill during the 
years I was going to high school. I was 
busy trying to pass, and I even got a job 
pushing a broom around a store in the 
afternoons. Bill was learning about girls 
and how to make a quick dishonest dollar. 
He was a runner for a bookie. Then, in 

my senior year in high school, he got him- 
self a job as a bartender in a clip-joint of 
a place where a lot of the Park Avenue 
millionaries went slumming. He was a 
natural behind the bar because he'd grown 
up looking like he'd never missed a meal. 
His black hair was curly and it shone, and 
he had big blue innocent eyes that the 
women went for. I got a job in a grocery 
store after graduation. They didn't care 
if you were a skinny little runt who wore 
thick glasses as long as you could add up 
the tab. 

I used to meet Bill after work every 
once and a while and we'd have a few 
beers together. One night Bill told me to 
drop around his place sometime before it 
closed at three and we'd have a few on 
the house. His boss was out of town. 
I walked over there just after two and 
went into the bar. I never could afford 
even a place like this, so it was all new 
to me . . . the satin hangings, the imitation 
leather seats and the old-time vaudeville 
singer that bellowed over the mike on the 
stage. I sat down one one of the stools 
at the back of the bar and waited until 
Bill came over with a drink, saying, "on 
the house, kid." I drank it and all the 
other drinks Bill placed before me during 
the next half hour. I was beginning to 
feel good, and I had to laugh to myself at 
all the different kinds of people packed 
into the tiny saloon. There were mink- 
coated cats from Park Avenue trying to 
have themselves a laugh, at the poor 
people, and the bums trying to mooch a 
drink off the rich guys, and then just plain 
average, poor folks trying to have them- 
selves a big night, and laughing even 
harder at the way the rich ones were being 
taken over. That place sure was a bunch 
of different worlds all mixed up to gether, 
and the mess gave off a funny smell. 

The lights were beginning to waver in 
front of my eyes, and as I looked at my 

face in the mirror across the bar from me, 
I thought of how cheap they were be- 
cause of the distortions of my image in 
them. Cheap mirrors in a cheap place. 
Bill started moving the people out, shout- 
ing: Closing time . . . everybody out . . . 
pay your checks here and out . . . come 
on. He winked at me as he insistantly 
pushed the people out, overwhelmed, him- 
self, with his importance. He locked up 
the cash register and I was surprised that 
his boss trusted him. Funny, I always 
thought Bill was going to end up in prison 
for robbery or something. He must have 
read my thoughts because he turned to 
me and said, "Stealing's too damn foolish, 
Jim. There are smarter ways to make a 
quick buck." 

"Look," he said with that funny grin 
of his, "the boss trusts me . . . he'll let me 
buy into this place cheap, one day, and 
you know what" his brin breaking into 
laughter, "then, before you know, this 
place will be all mine. I'll let you work 
for me then, Jim. You're smart and I 
like smart people as long as I can handle 
them. We sat in one of the corner booths 
talking, but his voice sounded as if it were 
coming through a tunnel or the wrong 
end of a megaphone. We must have been 
there for over an hour, drinking, when my 
head began to feel very strange ... as if 
there were pins along my scalp instead of 
hair. I interrupted Bill and started to 
tell him; we hadn't been really close 
friends for a long time, but he was the 
only one I had. 

"Bill, I want to tell you something . . . 
I want to talk to you. Bill ... it must 
be great working here with all these 
different people. All I ever see are the 
same housewives in run-down heels, search- 
ing for bargains. It's boring. Bill, real 
boring. That's why I started, I mean . . . 
that's what I want to tell you. You see, 
about five years ago I ran across some 

tubes of paint that my father had. He 
used to paint when he could stay sober 
enough to hold the brush. Anyway, I 
started fooling around with all those 
different colors. It's . . it's fascinating 
what you can do with them . . . red and 
blue ... I started to really paint with 
them, Bill, me . . . and well ..." 

I knew I was being inarticulate and in- 
coherant because my tongue felt like a 
thick slab of wood covered with an angora 
sweater, but it was all so clear in my mind 
that I wanted to tell him, tell somebody so 
very badly; I think that was the only time 
it was ever clear to me, just what painting 
did mean. It had started out of a lack of 
some kind . . a . . a, I don't know . . a 
terrific need, and somehow, something was 
satisfied when I did it. I used to hurry 
home from school and hide myself in the 
basement; I'd use whatever I could find 
in the bottom drawer of Dad's chest and 
then I'd take the paint and slash it across 
the paper . . . pure color, always pure 
color. I didn't like to mix them. Some- 
how it took av/ay from the power of the 
color itself . . . pure red and yellow . . . 
bold blue. I'd sit for hour in that damp 
basement playing with them, learning how 
to use them, and scon what I did began 
to satisfy me. Saturdays I'd go down to 
the East River and paint the water, or the 
snub-nosed little tugboats pushing the big 
steamers out to the ocean and the New 
York skyline. There never was anything 
as pretty as the skyline with the sun 
shining on it just right. It looks like a 
bronze city. That's what I called it — 
Bronze City — and I painted it all in yellow 
and orange and red. I knew it was right 
when I'd finished it, and to me it was 
beautiful and I loved it. Funny that an 
ugly little guy like me could make some- 
thing pretty. I began to paint as much 
as I could. At night, when people had 

(Continued on Page 33) 



By Neilyh Griggs 

You were the morning star of my dawning life 

And you ruled it as the moon reigns 

Over a cloudless mist of midnight 

That forever will surround me. 

At the sight of you the songs of centuries, 

Unwritten and unrecorded, echoed through my soul 

My world was one filled with scent of a 

Thousand vari-hued petals throwing their 

Breath in small gusts to perfume 

My thoughts and dull my senses to 

Your disregard of my adoration, 

But as it is with mighty monarchs, 

So the stars must wax and wain. 

And as the shimmer of your day obscured 

The sliver of a moon 

Did then my robe of darkness 

Shut you ever from my sight. 

When the days that are to make 

The years to come 

Bright rays may chance to penetrate 

My ever darkened span and 

Come to rest upon some deathless rose; 

May its fragrance lie upon my melencholy 

and stint the pain of loneliness with the 

Sweetness of what might have been. 

ZJhe cJLittle VlHood 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

Lasting so little time, 

Each evening, as the sun dips low beyond 

Blue hills, leaving the sky quickly, 

I grow strangely melancholy, and the mind 

Is left sober and naked to the thoughts of the day. 

Bare and helpless I live that little time, 

Weak, trembling slightly, unsure, until 

The sharp, piercing pain dies away into the 

Rush of evening stars that promise 


iVo Gavemtnent Can Be 

By Mary Martin 

Government has always been an enigma, 
perhaps never to be solved. Its perfection 
has been the dream of all ages; but a 
dream that has never been accomplished. 
Its essence has existed as a will-o-the-wisp, 
always eluding searching man. Peoples 
have studied and practiced many ideas, un- 
earthed their strong and weak points, only 
in the end to begin anew. 

During the English Renaissance, Dir 
Thomas More compiled his magnificent 
UTOPIA. Truly it was one of the most 
original essays of all time. His dream was 
of a governmental philosophy in which 
the political power might be vested not in 
a single haul but in a group of rulers. 
He upheld the toleration of religion, be- 
lieving that the well being of the body 
politic depended entirely upon the ethical 
and religious fiitness of its members. 
More's essay discussed on imaginary colony 
in which no money was used, where gold 
was considered a plaything for children 
and was to be put away when a boy at- 
tained manhood. These people thought 
that nature had hidden the vain and use- 
less. They possessed no private property 
and exchanged their homes every ten 
years; their doors held no locks but always 
stood open to all. The "Utopian" popu- 
las loved music greatly; they lived in per- 
fect concord. The old mingled with and 
counseled the young; life was merry; in 
his heart every man loved the sun and stars 
for more than a piece of earthly gold. 
Such was Utopia. But could such a 
government be successfully accomplished? 
And, of more importance, is it perfect? 

The evolution of nations has brought us 
many types of government, until today we 

possess many distinctly different issues". 
Before discussing their various forms more 
fully, here follows the "American View- 
point of the Political Setup". 
Socialism . , . You have two cows. You 

give one to your neighbor. 
Communism . . . You have two cows. 

You give both to the government which 

in turn gives you milk. 
Fascism . . . You have two cows. The 

government takes the milk and sells part 

back to you. 
Nazism . . . You have two cows. The 

government shoots you and takes both 

Captalism . . . You have two cows. You 

sell one and buy a bull. 

There exist in the world today four 
types of government, the first Nazism or 
Fascism; rule of the state by one. It does 
possess some attributes, however, these are 
sadly offset by its all too numerous dis- 
advantages. There is a centralized control 
and possibly a too efficient system of law 
enforcement. The education and health 
programs of Nazism have been successful 
and have proved to build a strong na- 
tionalistic feeling. The arts have been en- 
couraged but religion is outlawed and the 
people are powerless. It is an out and out 
dictatorship, with a none too pleasing goal. 
Following are a number of quotations 
from MEIN KAMPF, the textbook of 
Fascism. "The party must not become 
the masses slave but its master." "The 
argument that a government must derive 
its power from the consent of the governed 
is the very antithesis of the realistic ideal 
of progress". "Indeed, the pacifist — 
humane idea is perhaps quite good when- 


ever the man of highest standard has pre- 
viously conquered and subjected the world 
to a degree that makes him the only mas- 
ter of the globe." These quotations serve 
to illustrate the principles of a govern- 
mental philosophy which supresses the 
very imaginative and intelligence of its 

Communism, totalitarianism, is the pro- 
posed control by the masses, usually by 
one! In a true communistic government 
the workers of laboring classes are in con- 
trol. All possessions, industrial and agra- 
rian are state controlled, nothing is pri- 
vately owned; all constituents receive all 
equal dole. In its usual form a communis- 
tic government has a centralized rule, 
usually by a few top members of the party. 
Again the arts are encouraged, but re- 
ligion is in time destroyed and likewise 
man's initiative. The common people for 
all the high aims — and talk, are, in reality 
treated like slaves. 

Socialism, proposed security for all, has 
as its main promise the equalization of op- 
portunity. In its best form, socialism is 
supposed to provide for the uplifting of 
all people. There is no private property 
but a common ownership of enterpessric- 
tion on profits, and an equalization of re- 
turn; however usually distributed accord- 
ing to the laborer's worth. There is the 
usual encouragement of arts, but for the 
most part the distruction of indivdiual ini- 

The democratic and capitolistic society 
has as its main ideal a representative 
government, duly elected in free elections. 
All people are equal in the eyes of the law, 
and there is a supposed equalization of op- 
portunity. Ownership is private, wholly 
private, and a mecca for individual initia- 
tive. Also the people possess freedom of 
speech, press, and religion. England, al- 
though a limited monarchy, has a form 
of democracy more responsible to the will 

of the people than that of the United 
States. Even though they have no con- 
stitution, except the Magna Charta which 
is not essentially the same, their leaders 
are elected and kept by popular ballot 
more in accordance with the will of the 
people. True democracy is undeniably 
the closest to perfect but it too has some 
easily noted disadvantages, which are too 
numerous to be enumerated here. These 
disadvantages rest for the most part upon 
the "rottenness' of party politics. 

As may be seen each type of present day 
government has its over powering weak- 
ness. Perhaps the difficulty lies in the 
fact that people themselves are not per- 
fect. Could it be possible that from these 
various types, taking their advantages, a 
super government might be moulded? 
Such a government should possess: an en- 
couragement of the arts, and education 
and health program, a representative cen- 
tarlized control, a nationalistic feeling, 
freedom of religion, speech, and press, 
government in the hands of the people and 
a protector of them, private ownership, 
but land for all (very important), equali- 
zation of opportunity, a good system of 
return, perhaps better distribution of in- 
come, aiid the stimulatio nand direction of 
the individual and his initiative. 

The working of the world involved 
many twists and turns but any form of 
government if in the hands of the right 
people is a good form of government. 
Who, one may as, are the right people? 
The right people are those who, ruling by 
the grace of God, will be most in harmony 
with their constituents. 

There are certain undeniable principles 
which every good government must have. 
Whether all such principles could be com.- 
bined successfully remains for future gene- 
rations to solve. In time some panacea 
msut be discovered or otherwise there will 
be no world over which to put a governing 

body. The evolution of civilization should 
more suggest the way to perfection. Now 
humanity can only flounder in a sea of 
ignorance trying first one idea then an- 
other. Man has grasped a few of the 
ideals that will lead to perfection, his 
task is to find them all, for then and only 
then can he find his desired goal. One of 
the tenets he has found is the necessity of 
freedom for all. Perhaps for this founda- 
tion he can build world government. 
Government, effective and successful, is 
the first problem of this age; and through 
it alone can help be found. 

Perfection in government is an enigma, 
men can only keep on looking — for its 
component parts. Perhaps one would be 
better ojBF in Shangri-La, in the high atmosr 
phere of the Himilayas, where the Uneas 
devote themselves to music and other 
esoteric studies, where men live forever in 
perfect concord. There they have food 
for the zourmet, scenery for the traveler, 
beauty for the artist, friendship for the 
religious, happiness for the lovere, there 
the initiates are attune with the infinite, 
there — in the Valley of the Blue Moon. 


OJe to iL W, 


By Neilyn Griggs 

To western mews Apollo drives his pair, 

Then cooling night prevails o'er firey air. 

Diana raises as her sib departs, 

Her carriage brings strange thoughts into men's hearts. 

Oh Moon, who are the phantom soul of man 

Control his ardor with you sober ban. 

His hopes and sorrows lie within your light. 

His silent dreams would fain attain you hight. 

Luna, around whose visage pink mist shines 

The best and worst of man your light defines. 

A blessing to humanity your ray 

When poets' voices rise their hymn to say; 

And yet, curse to man your beam provides, 

When f raudlence, discovered flees and hides. 

Ah, shimmering crescent, monarch of the night 

Can my poor reason rightly judge your night 

For as your glow streams down upon my face, 

I realize that death will end my pace; 

But moon, your home shall always be above 

To symbolize man's hate, desires his love. 



By Barbara Benson 

It would not have mattered so much 
had it not been for the bell . . . that in- 
cessant bell. I first heard it tolling a 
monotone through the darkness as I was 
riding alone on the pampas. I heard it 
and I was lost; I had been riding most 
of the day and somehow I had lost my 
way. For hours I wandered through the 
waist-high grass which grows in that 
desolate section, grass which seemed to 
clutch at my ankels as my horse brushed 
past it. 

There were few roads, and those were 
hardly more than tracks; I knew that if 
darkness overtook me I would never be 
able to find my way back to civilization. 
I cursed myself for my failure to notice 
where I had been going; I cursed my 
weary mount for stumbling. 
My hopes sank with the sun behind the 
waving prairie grass, and my worst fears 
were justified when the night enveloped 
everything in a stifling black velvet cur- 
tain. Not a star appeared in the heavens, 
and I wished violently for a light in the 
distance or some sign of life. I rode in 
circles for what seemed hours; then I 
stopped out of sheer exhaustion and tried 
to collect my thoughts enough to decide 
what to do next. Since I had not the 
vaguest idea as to the direction of the 
estancia I could not possibly expect to 
be able to get that night; I could only 
hope to reach a nearby ranch and spend 
the night there, getting directions for my 
return the next morning. 

It was then that I began hearing the 
bell. The sound of the bell floated clearly 
acros the still night and beckoned me 
onward. A bell meant a house; a house, 

I listened carefully for a few minutes; 

sure enough, there it was again — the faint 
clang of an iron bell. It seemed to be 
coming from behind me; I turned my 
horse and retraced my steps. After a 
short time the bell rang again; it was 
louder this time. My spirits rose; I was 
approaching shelter, and now I needed 
it, for the rising wind brought with it a 
sudden torrent of cold rain which soaked 
me to the skin and made the horses's 
reins clamy to my hands. 

I rode on, shivering with intense cold, 
straining my eyes for a glimpse of light 
on the horizon. Yet all remained black; 
I couldn't distinguish my hands from the 
smothering blackness, even when I held 
them in front of my face. The grass 
rustled and sighed as the wind went 
through it; my horse snorted and breathed 
heavily as he made his way through the 
storm. Otherwise I heard no sound; the 
silence was oppressing. I rode on and 
waited for the bell to guide me to some 
habitation. But I didn't hear the bell 
again. It rang no more, and as before 
I was lost in the opaque nothingness which 
can only be experienced on the lonely 
pampas at night. 

The storm increased its volume, and 
the thunder rolled somewhere off to my 
right. I turned up my collar to keep the 
deluge which had been turned loose over 
me from running down my neck; my 
saddle screaked as my horse breathed in 
and out, in and out. 

A streak of lightnifig rent the night 
and silvered the tops of a million blades 
of grass, making it look like a rolling 
sea of sword-tips. I shut my eyes and 
prayed for the bell ... la campana. The 
drums around me beat louder; the ground 
shook with the ensuing claps of thunder. 


and I felt my horse stiffen as if frightened 
suddenly by something. I listened; it was 
not the bell I heard this time, but the 
sound of distant hoof-beats. They were 
the hoof-beats, but the bell again sounded 
and I turned in its direction. The other 
rider was perhaps a lost wanderer as was 
I, and he, too, was following the bell to 
seek refuge from the storm. I urged my 
horse on through the rain; I was consoled 
with the thought of a cheerful hearth at 
which to dry my damp self, and of the 
good wine which my host at the house of 
the bell would undoubtedly provide, 
soon they were so close behind me that 
I imagined the other rider's horse was 
breathing on my back and stepping on 
my steed's flanks. But still I could see 
nothing either behind or in front of me. 
Never before had I known such darkness; 
my body ached from hours of riding, 
my throat was dry, and I was afraid of 
the loneliness. And still the inkyness of 
the pampa sky surrounded me and the 
dismal rain poured down. 

The anxiety in me subsided as I heard 
again and again the ringing of the bell, 
come," it seemed to say. It was my only 
link with life, and I hurried towards it, 
followed always be the other horseman. 

Now I was getting very near the bell — 
its pealing became louder and louder 
until I was almost deafened by it; the 
thunder rumbled, joining the bell in a 
disonant duet. Again and again I looked 
behind me; and thought I could not see 
the other rider I could hear his horse's 
jerky breathing and the sound of its 
hooves as they sank into the soggy grass. 

Now the bell rang out right above me; 
I pulled my horse to a halt and tried to 
peer through the darkness, A flash of 
lightning lit up the sky and cast my 
shadow on the undulating grass. Not 
twenty paces in front of me I saw an 
ash white wall tinted blue by the flash 

of light; I saw the wall of a ranch house, 
an old Spanish style mansion with grill 
work over the windows with the usual 
balcony and a bell-tower jutting out of 
the flat roof. Yet there was not a single 
light to be seen within the house; and 
except for the bell, all was silent. 

However, I did stop to wonder where 
my host might be; I was too tired and 
too cold to ponder on such matters. 
Straight into the arched gateway I rode; 
the hoof-beats behind me followed still. 
I entered the courtyard and dismounted 
stiffly; my horse shook himself and stood 
quietly in the downpour, too exhausted to 
move. I turned to see if the other rider 
intended to go in, and to my surprise, 
the patio was empty except for myself 
and my horse. The other horseman was 
not there . . . perhaps it was my imagina- 
tion, I reasoned; but then I realized that 
it could not have been trick of my mind, 
for as another lightning flash filled the 
courtyard with an eerie light I saw the 
tracks of two horses in the mud. Be- 
wildered, I hurried to the entrance to 
the old estancia and pushed the massive 
wooden door open. It gave unwillingly, 
its hinges creaking as if protesting against 
my intrusion. Obviously the door had 
not been opened for a long time. 

Inside I found myself in a room which 
was as still and musty as the interior of 
a pyramid. From a blur of lightning 
which appeared at a casement window 
high up above the flagstone floor on which 
I stood, I saw the immense hall I had 
entered. It was so dark and large that 
the other end of it seemed to be miles 
away from me, and the furniture the 
room contained was covered with dank- 
smelling canvases. On the cold gray 
stone walls hung ancient faded tapestries. 
A broad marble staircase extending from 
the ceiling at the other end of the hall 
to the center of the chamber filled most 


f the room, and I was astonished to find 
jch luxury in that isolated place. 

The lightning's glare vanished, leaving 
le in total darkness. I fumbled in my 
ockets for a match; and, finding one, 

endeavored to strike it. However, it 
'as too damp to ignite, and I had no way 
f making light for myself. After feeling 
ly way in the dark to the foot of the 
aircase, I paused to wait another burst 
f lightning before progressing up the 
:airs. Since the house was evidently de- 
;rted, I had decided to look around. If 

could only find a candle or a lamp, I 
light be able to dry out my matches and 
rocure enough illumination tosee by. I 
'as grateful for any sort of shelter, with 
r without lights, and I was sure that the 
ext morning I would be able to return to 
ly destination if the storm abated. The 
Id place had been closed up for so great 

time that the air inside was very warm 
ly clothes began to dry and my spirits 
y rise. 

I got a second and better glimpse of 
le huge hall by means of another flash 
'hich was succeded by a terrible clap of 
lunder. The tapesteries on the walls 
look from the vibration; and as if from 
owhere, there suddenly appeared at the 
ead of the stairs a faint light which 
lemed to be coming towards me. I stood 
s if petrified and watched the pinprick 
f light slowly descend the steps. It be- 
ime larger as it approached me, and I 
iw at once that it was the glow from a 
nail candle. Half-frightened, I stared 
t the light until I could discern behind 
: the outline of the lower features of a 
lan's face — a horrible face whose palid 
cin was made even whiter by the flicker- 
ig flame, and whose beady eyes held in 
lem the glassy stare of a madman. At 
rst only the lower side of his chin and 
ose could be seen by the weak light; 
len as the man advanced down the stair- 

case a bright flare from the forked lightn- 
ing which tried to dart in the window high 
up to my left silhoutted the figure of 
the man against the shadowy staircase. 

His unsmiling, white face appeared to 
be flaring at me; I retreated unconciously 
a step or two as he came straight for me. 
I spoke to the man, asking him if I might 
remain in the house for the night, or at 
least until the raging storm subsided; but 
I received no answer. Instead, the man 
with the candle proceeded to walk towards 
me, his eyes burning with a fierce hatred. 

Again I spoke to the man, this time 
with a note of fear in my voice; why did 
the man not answer? I was by this time 
standing with my back against the heavy 
door; the man yet came closer and closer 
until he was near enough to touch me. I 
half-turned to to open the door behind me 
in order to flee out into the darkness, but 
the sinister figure was too near for me to 
get the door open without touching the 
man, for his eyes told me that he wished 
to kill me. 

He stood, his expression unchanging, 
holding the dancing candle in front of 
him, staring intently at me as if trying to 
memorize my features. I asked him what 
he wanted of me, but still he did not 
answer; then, being unable to get away 
from him by means of the door, I felt 
myself filled with a panic which I cannot 
describe; I sought desperately some way 
of avoiding the man, who was slowly 
moving even nearer to me. I stood face 
to face with the man, trying to think of a 
method of escape; and as he approached 
me in that silent, deliberate manner, I 
realized that I must do something. There 
was death in his eyes. I leaped as far as 
I could to my right and rushed blindly 
towards the opposite side of the dark hall. 
With a shriek the man followed me, his 
candle going out as he ran. The cry 
echoed throughout the house, building 


up and dying down, and then returning 
to pierce my ears as I stumbled over the 
scattered pieces of furniture which stood 
here and there in the unUt chamber. 

A merciful glow from the little window 
silvered the room and within the brief 
moment that the light remained in the 
room, I chanced to see a tiny door behind 
the wide staircase; it was open and meant 
an escape to m.e. I headed for it, but 
the blackness again dropped to envelope 
everything before I reached the opening, 
and I struck the wall with considerable 
force and began to grope along the damp 
stones in the direction I thought the door 
to be in. Luck was with me, for I at last 
felt the edge of the stone wall with my 
left hand and knew that I had reached 
the door; I plunged into the opening and 
groped my way along the narrow passage 
way. I soon was forced to stoop to keep 
from bumping my head on the low ceil- 
ing of the tunnel into which I had entered, 
and as I continued winding along the 
pitch-black mouse-hole I discovered that 
the passage was becoming smaller and 
smaller. An unearthly chill overcame 
me as I was made aware of the fact that 
soon the passage would lead me to a dead- 
end — it was getting more narrow with 
each step. I rested for a moment to 
gather the fragment of wits that I had 
left to me; and a curious feeling possessed 
me. I was trapped. I turned frantically 
to look over my shoulder to see if the 
man was pursuing me even here. The 
smallness of the tunnel made it difficult 
to turn my head; I listened carefully, but 
I could hear nothing but my own breath- 
ing; perhaps he had not seen me disappear 
through the door! Hope arose in me, 
but when I glanced behind me, they died, 
for I saw the man was ver there far in 
the distance along the passage I had just 
traversed. I saw the gleam of a candle — 
the white face — the yellow glow. 

I knew that I must not stop; somehow 
I must find a way to get out of the tunnel, 
I crawled further until I had to stretch 
out and wiggle my way along on my 
stomach. My hands were bruised from 
the rough stones on the floor of the pas 
sage, but my frenzy was too great for me 
to take notice of my bleeding nails. 1 
could think of but one thing — escape! 
Suddenly my numbed hands felt 
wood, not stone now, but my brain seemec 
not to be connected with my body at all 
My sense of touch told me that I was noM 
on a wooden surface, but the fact did not 
register in my confused brain. Escape! 
Escape! I could see the rays of light thai 
his candle gave oif; they lighted the pas 
sage and cast the shadow of my head or 
the floor in front of me. 

I came to the end of the passage; then 
was a hole about two feet wide. Th( 
tunnel had opened up on a huge caverr 
which had curious drawings on the walls 
I could see a part of the cavern by th( 
light of the candle behind me; now I wa; 
through the hole which terminated th( 
tunnel and was standing up in the cavern 
my head whirling and my knees trembling 
from the fear which now ran througl 
every fiber of my body. I did not stoj 
to wonder how I had managed to squeezf 
through the tiny hole as I turned in i 
daze to look at it; I was forthe momen 
safe. That was all that mattered; I wa 
safe! Then through the opening then 
protruded a hand — a hand grasping j 
candle. The candle burned brighter fo 
a few seconds, then it went out. 

The blackness terrified me; then i 
gave me a sense of security until I hearc 
the man groan as he, too, crawled througl 
the opening. The panic returned; I wa 
still trapped, and this time there was n( 
escape. I dragged my laden feet acros 
the floor; it was wooden and there wa 
a space beneath it, for my footsteps re 


ounded hollowly I moved to the other 
ide of the cavern to get as far away as 
jossible from the man. Then I heard 
he screech which had so frightened 
ne before; the man was through the hole 
md was after me. I heard him running 
icross the floor towards me, and I dodged 
lim and ran as far as I could past him 
o the other side. 

The chase continued for some minutes 
mtil I felt that I could not move another 
tep; my breath grew short, and I became 
dizzy. The man uttered one horrible 
:ry after the other until at last the noise 
Fused with all the silence and after I know 
lot how long, my senses left me; I felt 

yself sinking; I heard the splintering of 
Doards, and all was silent. 

When I awoke I had a pain in my head 
erhaps it came from the clashing of the 
>ell I now heard and the screams of the 
nad man. I could not distinguish one 
K)und from the other, and the doleful 
lang of the bell became so unbearable 
that I felt I must die. It dulled every 
nerve and I could not move. At last, 
however, I began to stir, for the last thing 

could remember was the white face of 
the man with the wickedly burining candle 
and the look of death in the man's eyes. 

I forced my aching frame up off the 
floor, and presently I recovered enough to 
wonder where I was. The bell tolled on 
and on — its peals came slowly and regular- 
ly, louder each time until I felt my head 
must break. I was jarred out of my coma 
by the sight of the candle glow which 
appeared out of nowhere. This time it 
was above my head. As my eyes became 
used to the light, I could tell that the 
white-faced man was holding the candle 
down, looking for me — he was leaning 
over a hole in the ceiling above me, peer- 
ing down at me. There was a leer on his 
face. Stunned, I starred at him. Then 
I realized that I must have fallen through 

the wooden flooring of the cavern; the 
question of whether or not the man would 
be able to follow me here haunted me. I 
moved back against the wall which I en- 
countered behind me so as to get out of 
the light and hide from the man's glassy 
stare. But his penetrating eyes and the 
fingers of candle-light seemed to follow 
me every where, and I knew once more 
that I must run. I stumbled along the 
wall; some instinct of self-preservation 
forced me to run for the man. Vainly 
hoping for a door or some outlet, I pound- 
ed the dirt walls and dug into them, tears 
of frustration streaming down my face. 

Just as I was about to give up and sink 
to the floor in despair, I felt a gust of 
air. By the gleam from the candle up 
above me I saw a huge, gaping hole in 
the wall about a foot above my head; if 
only I could make it, I might again have 
a chance to escape. Yet with the man 
and his evil eyes watching me like a 
vulture watching for a rabbit, I knew 
that this was but a part of a terrible game 
of his; his screams would at last over- 
power me and I would die — his victim. 
Yet I could not give up so readily with 
an avenue to freedom yawning so near 
me; I grasped the slimy edge of the hole 
and tried weakly to pull myself up. After 
several futile attempts, I had to drop to 
the floor of my little cage and rest. I 
was in a sort of cave which had been dug 
out of the earth; it smelled damp like a 
freshly made grave. I longed for release 
from the sound of the bell and from the 
torture of being hunted by this man with 
a candle; I fervently prayed for quiet 
and darkness and sleep. I had to get 
away from the constant din made by the 
bell. More than to escape the man and 
his infernal candle, I wanted to crawl 
into some place where the deafening roar 
would cease and leave me in peace. It 
was the bell which finally made me exert 


the last ounce of strength left in me to 
pull my body up onto the ledge in the 
side of the wall. 

With a final heave I dragged my legs 
up and collasped in a state of total ex- 
haustion. I looked back again to see if 
I might be at last safe, but I was not. The 
dreadful eyes and candle were now in 
the cave I had just left, ever in pursuit 
of me. Why should this monster want 
to kill me: I had not time to think about 
it; I had to flee, flee into the unknown 
darkness again. Terror knawed at me, 
and cautiously I crept on my hands and 
knees further into the tunnel I found 
beyond the ledge. I stood up, took a 
step, then stumbled and fell. I was 
conscious of no pain now; only the sound 
of the bell, the blinding beams from the 
candle which was eternally behind me. 
Flee! Run! Escape! Hurry! were the 
only signals which my brain sent out to 
my unmb limbs. I felt around me and 
found the cause for my fall; I had ran 
upon some stairs. Every second's delay 
wss vital now; I mustn't let him get me. 
I wanted to live, to gain the freedom of 
the night, to be out in the storm once 
more — no time to stop now — escape — he 
was after me, striving to furder me — I 
must outwit him, I mustn't die — faster, 
faster — climb, climb — up the steps — hurry! 
He's coming! "Move", screamed my 
brain; I moved. I went up the series of 
stone steps which were carved out of 
natural rock; they were damp and mossy 
to my touch. I tried to stand up, but 
my head stuck the rock top of the pas- 
sageway, and I dropped quickly to my 
hands and knees again began to climb as 
fast as I could, heedless of the cuts and 
bruises the sharp edges of the steps gave 
me. I turned for yet another look behind 
me — yes. It was still there — that Thing 
that wished to exterinate me — the pale 
face and the yellow flame jumping here 

and there, and the bell, the incessant bell. 
I was going mad; I could stand the noise 
no longer. If only the bell would stop 
for just a minute — but it did not. 
bell screamed out, "Clang, Kill! Qang! 
Kill! Cam-cam-cam — campana! Pan-Pan 
Pan-Ya!" until it seemed that I had never 
know silence — it was just a memory, a 
word. I moved slower and slower; my 
, limbs would not function correctly — I 
could go no further; but I had to! I had 
to free myself from the bell, la campana 
— the bell which tormented me. If only 
the man would kill me and free me from 
the bell! Campana. Yet I could not 
stop, though every muscle cried out for 
rest. Somehow I had to keep going; the 
steps wound around and around in 
steep, dizzy flight; I crawled up and and 
up until it seemed that I had been climb- 
ing in a spiral forver . . . then my head 
hit something hard. I could go no 
further. The cold terror clutched at my 
heart as I saw the light fall on the wall 
in front of me. "No, No!" I cried, and 
I put my hands up to the ceiling my head 
had touched and pushed with all my 
might — I must get out of there! 

I had come to a trap door — it moved, 
slowly at first, then it swung back easily, 
and I breathed fresh air for the first time 
in years, it seemed. 

Limply I climbed out of the passage 
into the bell tower. The bell was ringing 
— ringing louder than before; I could not 
think for the clash of the bell; it paralysed 
me and tore my senses from me. "Cam- 
pana! Free! Free!" The rain struck 
me in the face. It was cool, refreshing. 
I was free. The thunder rolled above 
the sound of the bell — it made the whole 
tower quiver. I could hear the bell's 
clapper strike the side of the large bell, 
but I could see nothing in the black rain. 

A brilliant flash of lightning illumi- 
nated the tower; the bleak roof of the 


ouse flashed silver before me; its glare 
ilinded me — another flash followed and 

looked at the bell. There it hung — with 
1 body hanging beneath it, the rope 
iround its neck tied to the clapper of 
:he bell. Campana. Campana. It rang 
m and on, the body swaying back and 
orth each time the clapper struck the bell. 

Hysterically I laughed with joy. The 

body was the body of that man — the man 
with the white face. He was dead. It 
was a ghost that had been following me 
— a ghost with death in its eyes. My per- 
surer was dead — he couldn't harm me. 
I laughed again as I stood in the rain. 
Then the lightning flared up again and 
I saw the body's face and realized with 
horror that it was familiar — I was staring 
at myself! 



Raking one's back yard doesn't usually 
offer a chance of finding something un- 
usual. But one sunny day last Septem- 
ber proved to be an exception. I was 
raking industriously around the low, bushy 
evergreen trees, when suddenly I saw a 
fuzzy ear that looked strangly like a part 
of my dog, "Rusty". I wondered im- 
mediately what in the world my rambun- 
cious puppy could be doing sitting stone 
still under an evergreen bush. Cautiously 

I lifted up the branches to find out. 
There peeping and chirping was a tiny 
little sparrow standing between Rusty's 
paws and looking into his eyes as if he 
were singing to him. If Rusty had had 
any hungry thoughts they had apparently 
all left him, because there he was, head 
turned sideways, ears cocked and eyes 
glued to the little bird, obviously en- 

By Anne Watters 


Rhywne Vt Time 

'vm l/Uinaow 

By Neliyn Griggs 

A light sifts through my window 
And scatters itself in varied shapes 
Upon my darkened floor. 
There was a time when right and wrong 
Were as these grotesque forms, 
Black and white. 

But now I know that with the dawn these 
Two dissolve each other 
And become but 
One dull gray. 

Close your eyes. 

Forget all of the hard faces 

Hidden by the vivid color of paint. 

Go beyond the blue smoke haze, 

And the swirling skirted figures. 

Forget the slur of savage music 

And shallow laughter. 

Close your eyes. 

While the soft sobs of a violin 

Play a prelude to your dreams. 

By Sue C. Coker 

By Jane Ellen Tye 

He had fallen asleep on the day couch, 
His touseled hair on the pillow, his lashes 
Lying gently on his cheek, his bold, strong hands 
Curved, limply resting as he slept. 
I was touched, touched deeply as if someone had taken 
A harp string from my heart and sent it quivvering, 
I was touched to see the hands, the brown, powerful 
Hands of the sleeping artist so lifeless, so gentle, 
So uncontrolled. 

^ ReL 

By Sue C. Coker 

The night is very kind to the ugly. 

Behind drawn shades and enclosed doors, 

They pour their dreams 

Into the absorbing black pitcher of night. 

The bashful scholar 

Is a brillant eloquant statesman. 

The crippled girl 

Dances in a pale blue filmy dress. 

The night is very kind to the ugly. 

It enfolds them and reflects beauty. 


By Sue Colcer 



Slack tliapia 

By Mary Simms 

In the beginning God created the 
heaven and the earth. And the earth was 
without form and void; and darkness 
was upon the face of the deep. And 
the Spirit of God moved upon the face 
of the waters. And God said, "Let there 
be Ught," and there was Ught. 
* * * 

And the Lord God formed man of the 
dust of the ground, and breathed into 
his nostrils the breath of life; and man 
became a living soul: And the Lord God 
planted a garden eastward in Eden; and 
there he put the man whom he had formed. 

But the man sinned, and he with his 
wife was driven out from the garden and 
made to become a tiller of the soil. And 
they begat children who in turn begat 
children and from amongst those begot 
God selected his chosen people, Israel. 
But Israel also sinned greatly and was 
driven away from the promised land to 
become a race of wanderers in Egypt. 
And the sins of man were so grievous 
unto the Lord God that he sent to earth 
his only begotten Son to redeem man 
of his sins. But the Son of God left 
man mortal and with free will to sin 

Then from across the Mediterranean 
there grew up another empire, but this 
empire, being also composed of mortals, 
became corrupt and was over-run by 
barbarians, and a great deal were destroyed. 
And other empires sprang up and covered 
the earth with what was called civiliza- 
tion. But the men whom God had made 
continued to sin and waged a great war — 
empire against empire — but still the Lord 
did not banish them from the face of the 
earth, for He was a merciful God and 
the great war served as a warning for the 
children of God. But this war was not 

sufficient warning to God's children, and 
in the space of two decades the empires 
saw fit to war again in a fiercer and more 
bloody war and created a grotesque weapon 
of death. The Lord God is a merciful 
God, but He is also just, and his justful 
wrath came down and fell on the empires 
of civilization, and the world that the 
Lord had created shook with the thunder 
of the wrath of the Lord, and the oceans 
heaved up from their basins and covered 
the face of the earth with a deep green 
brown crust shutting out light and the 
face of the Lord; and man was once 
again punished and again allowed to exist. 

But let those who question the justness 
of God look for a time at the great civil- 
Lzation that man spent two thousand years 
in creating, and God took but seconds 
to destroy. Let them look at the cities 
of that civilization and let them look at 
its rural sections and let them look at 
its royalty and its slaves. 

New York enveloped in a new-born 
mist through which the sun like a teasing 
coquette projects her lace fan, ripples it 
gently and tauntingly snatches it away. 
New York reaching her tall buildings 
for the sky, bespeaking her proud destiny 
— a great beautiful city with its magnifi- 
cient parke, lavish, well-kept homes, 
numerous and costly churches, and above 
all some eight million persons each en- 
Gcd-like potentialities. New York, the 
largest city on earth, situated in a de- 
mocracy which is the greatest nation on 
earth. A comparatively new and Christ- 
ian nation. A nation blessed with multi- 
tudinous natural resources. A nation 
whose principal doctorine is stated in the 
opening paragraph of its foremost govern- 
mental document which reads: "All men 
are created free and equal and are en- 


dowed with certain unalienable rights, 
and among these are life, liberty and the 
pursuit of happiness." 

And now if you would say: "why, what 
a just and noble city. For what reason 
must it be destroyed? "Let us lift up 
the golden mist and examine it with the 
aid of a sensitive telescope. Let us first 
perceive the homes of this noble city and 
from there continue our observation. 

Yes, there are lavish and well-kept 
houses with formal gardens and gracious 
drawing rooms, but it is not from these 
that New York finds its eight millions. 
If we would look for these, we must come 
nearer the heart of the city. We must 
look in impersonal apartments and un- 
pleasant walkups. We must visit the 
tenement area and smell the sickening 
stench of closely packed bodies and the 
food that rarely comes in sufficient quan- 
taties to fill the aching bellies. We must 
be repulsed by the fifth that starts out- 
side the body and eats into the soul. We 
must watch the dirty, crying children with 
their ever running noses as they fight with 
one another and fling violent oaths they 
do not understand. We must see these 
children cower as we pass and bow their 
heads and look up at us with dissillusioned 
and untrusting eyes. These are the back- 
guard and the majority . , . 

It is here in the tenements and in the 
one-room flats that the sweaters live. The 
free and equal people who clean the sewers 
of other free and equal people, and accept 
their pittance and their hate. It is here 
that the wash-women live, and the hash 
waitresses, and the prostitutes, and the 
broken down vaudeville actors and all 
those without hope of faith or the ability 
to care. Here live the possessors of cer- 
tain unalienable rights, among which are 
life, Uberty and the pursuit of happiness. 

We say there must be something wrong 
with the administration of a city that will 

allow such conditions to exist. Let us 
examine the government of this city. So 
we look at the political machine that exe- 
cutes government in our democracy, which 
is the most perfect and idealistic form of 
government to be found in all of civiliza- 
tion. We study it for a while, and we 
watch little incapable men put in big posi- 
tions requiring capability because they are 
little and incapable and thus more easily 
managed. We see the buying and selling 
of votes, and we watch the power of the 
dollar in motion and feel the hardness of 
the metal. We watch the men in power 
sit back and rule the little men with the 
case of good chess players. We watch 
their taxing systems, their principal method 
of acquiring the hard metal which buys 
their official positions and holds them, and 
we note that under these systems the poor 
grow poorer and the rich are not hurt. 
And we turn away and say, let us go to 
the churches and hear the holy music and 
watch the city worship. Here surely there 
will be goodness and charity. 

The church is a structure of massive 
beauty and fine architecture. The organ 
plays strains of ethereal loveliness and 
piety, and there are thousands here to 
pray. This surely is the house of God 
and brotherly love. And the women whose 
liveried chauffers wait to carry them to 
the manicurists, enter and, upon finding 
a negro in their pew, leave widi an air of 
self-righteous indignation. A sleeping 
child awakes to cry and be slapped and 
told to sleep again. A drunk, finding 
himself sufficiently sober, gropes his way 
out accompanied by a loud hic-cough. A 
woman wearing sable gives nobly one bill 
from a long roll of bills — a ragged child, 
a dime which is her all. The woman 
cringes on her way out and looks as if she's 
smelled a nasty smell when the child 
passes. She will start a movement soon 
to confine those vagabond children to 


churches of their own. Behind the church 
there is a thriving whore-house. 

"America,- America, God shed his grace 
on thee. 

And crown thy good with brotherhood, 

From sea to shining sea." 

But yet there must be that worth saving. 
We have not yet seen the rural communi- 
ties. The salt of the earth. The man 
who lives in communion with nature and 
God. Surely he . . . 

Continental Europe, The older part of 
our civilized world, and France the center 
of its culture, France where the main goal 
of man is self-expression and the liberty to 
exercise it freely. The village is a number 
of hamlets on a charming, impractical 
road running through acres of farmland. 
Europe has always kept society in a caste 
system, and France was too long a coun- 
try of peasants to be easily changed . . . 
We find those who would have been pea- 
sants had there been no Revolution owning 
small plots of land from which through 
simple ignorance they are unable to eke 
out more than a bare existence. They 
would have been better fed and doctored 
had they remained serfs, but they have 
their precious and dearly bought freedom 
with which to smoothe their hunger pangs 
and cure their sickness. These loose-limb- 
ed men and high-breasted women who 
form the backbone of the French or any 
other nation rise in the morning, eat to 
satisfy their hunger, draw on coarse clothes 
to hide their nakedness, and go to the 
fields to work and sweat with their anti- 
quated farming methods until the pangs 
return to tell them that it is time to eat 
again. Year following year, there are the 
crops to be planted and harvested, the 
droughts and the foods to contend with, 
the fear of not supplying the family needs 
and the wolf never safely distant from the 
door. There are the basic desires to be 
fuUfilled and the basic needs to be 

supplied. The men become bent in a 
grotesque facsimile of their plows and 
their minds are obsessed by their needs. 
They look at the sky to determine the 
weather and in the midst of nature lack 
the sensitivity to perceive it. The women 
marry as soon as they are capable of 
giving birth, and their lives are a full- 
filling of this end. They bear sons and 
raise them up to be able to take from the 
soil the same living that their fathers did 
before them. They bear daughters that 
they may marry other women's sons and 
bear sons in their turn. And always there 
is the fear and the weariness, and the 
weariness becomes an integral part of the 
man and is also in his brain and his emo- 
tions and is handed down from generation 
to generation. 

So God created man in his own image, 
in the image of God created he him; male 
and female created he them. 

But in case there are those still who 
would question God's justness in destroy- 
ing the world as He created it, let them 
look for a time at the war which was the 
final cause of the great wrath of God. 

War with all its death and destruction. 
Death on a runaway horse runs rampant 
over the countryside and has no rider to 
pull at the reins and alter its progress. 
Death in a million different forms each 
equalling its neighbor in horror. It may 
be found on the faces of those who have 
not yet lived because there has not been 
time, and on the faces of those who have 
known life most intimately and found it 
good. Everywhere there is the smell of 
death and the feel of death and the fear 
of death. There is death in the sticky 
red liquid forming a valentine around a 
sleeping soldier's head, and there is death 
and more than death in the face of a pilot 
who cannot pull out of a dive, and there 
is death on a raft ten days afloat without 
water, and everywhere there is death, A 


war constitutes the death of a great num- 
ber of individuals and each individual is 
a being whose immortal soul is submerged 
in a piece of flesh capable of halting the 
rapid progress of a bullet. There are 
many bullets to be stopped. War is also 
composed of hate. Everyone is fighting 
for the cause, or so they are told and all 
who are fighting for a different cause must 
be hated and annihilated, but only an un- 
fortunate few are ever able to discover 
what the cause is. The others fight and 
die happily for it and are noble. 

It is not only the soldiers that war 
affects. War is a time for raised prices 
and profiteering and greed and mass hys- 
teria. It is a time when prostitution takes 
on the nom de plume of patriotism and 
runs rampant. It is a time of waiting 
and day-to-day living and broken homes. 
It is a time when whole men go forth and 
return half-men. It is a time of weapons 
of destruction screaming in the night as 
a sleeping town is demolished, and a time 
of hunger, but most of all it is a time of 
desolation and fear. Fear on the faces of 
pock-marked women as they fight for a 
morsel of bread, and fear for the safety 
of those long since dead. Fear of being 
a coward and the nightmare fear of dying. 
War is a time of mass slaughter and the 
survival of the fittest caused by a few 
men's unjust lust for power passed off as 
a desire to avenge an injustice. 

"Great is the battlegod, great is his 

A field where a thousand corpses lie." 

These were the causes for the righteous 
wrath of the just God, and as the crimes 
were great, great was the punishment and 
great the degradation of the man whom 
God created to rule and have dominion 
over the earth and the beasts of the fields. 

When the wrath of God shook the 
earth and the oceans rushed up from their 

basins, the great cities of man were des- 
troyed and the crust which formed over 
the earth from the oceans revealed not 
light to man, and the crust was from the 
ground only sufficient distance to allow 
man to crawl on his belly as did the rep- 
tile that tempted Eve in the garden. And 
with the crust all light was obliterated and 
without light there was no longer present 
hope and without hope there was no God, 
and upon waking, the people had no 
remembrance of God or the universe as it 
had existed before. They had left to 
them little more than instinct, and they 
knew not how to live nor did they remem- 
ber the laws of civilization, and there were 
no courts or churches to direct them and 
no fear of something unknown to res- 
train them. And man reverted to the 
beastial state, and life became funda- 

On waking Olan found himself unable 
to rise from the ground, and for a long 
time this puzzled him, and the desire to 
rise became an obsession with him, and 
he did not understand why he wished to 
rise from the ground, for all around him 
he heard the sounds of other human beings 
whom he supposed to be like himself, 
being unable to see them and having no 
knowledge of any other form of being 
than himself, and these beings seemed con- 
tent not to rise and had no inclinations or 
knowledge of rising or motion in another 
position than upon their bellies. And he 
wondered at himself and was disturbed at 
being different, but the feeling of hunger 
soon came and overpowered all other feel- 
ings, and he forced himself to crawl along 
the ground and search for something with 
which to fill himself. After much crawl- 
ing he found some form of palatable sub- 
stance and ate of it and found it not good 
or to his taste, but it satisfied his hunger 
and he rolled over on his back and slept. 
The squirming along the ground had tired 


him, and his hands hurt from the clods 
and gravel and the skin on his stomach 
was torn and his clothes were in pieces 
and stuck to the cuts on his body. 

On waking again Olan was afraid, and 
his body hurt from his cuts, and he was 
in misery and he gathered up as much of 
the food as he could carry and prepared 
to return to the place where he had first 
waked, for it was familiar to him. Once 
more he crawled along the ground in 
search for it, and he had difficulty finding 
it, for it was dark and he had been there 
but once, and he had slept. He did finally 
reach it, and he was exultant, for he had 
been sore afraid. He lay there clutching 
the spot to him, and huge sobs racked his 
body and took away some of the soreness 
and the pain. It was then that he realized 
that he was not alone — that in his absense 
someone else had come and taken over his 
place and was lying in it. A sense of rage 
took possession of him and blinded him 
and made the blood rush to his head and 
fought with him like a mad animal, and 
when he had killed him he rolled over and 
slept from his exhaustion. 

Food was the first and principal need to 
be supplied and man learned to make the 
queer plants on which his very existence 
depended grow around the holes that he 
groveled in the dirt and would have called 
home had he remembered the word. By 
the time the first plant matured into food 
substance, Olan had felt the skin on his 
hands and stomach grow tough and cal- 
loused and he no longer had the desire to 
rise. After food and water became avail- 
able to man, he sought a way to communi- 
cate with his fellow beings, and the first 
means of communication was touch. Olan 
learned to distinguish one neighbor from 
another by smell, and he knew the strong 
from the weak, and the strong were res- 
pected and the weak overrun and only 
the strong survived. And Olan formed a 

sort of clan with those whose holes were 
nearest his own, but he did not trust them 
for they tried to steal his food and he 
trusted only his own strength. And in 
the first days when he lay in his hole a 
woman came near him and he knew it was 
a woman by the whimpering sound she 
made and he lay very still and wondered 
if she wanted his food and how she was 
different from himself and when she was 
very near to him and he could feel her 
warm breath on his shoulder he feared she 
would take of his food or water, and he 
knew he must kill her, but he lay still in 
his hole and waited. And then she made 
the whimpering sound again and he was 
filled with a strange feeling, but it was not 
the feeling he had felt toward the man 
whom he had killed, and he wondered how 
she was different from that man and from 
all men and he reached over and laid his 
hand on her and she whimpered again and 
the feeling welled up in him and choked 
him and he felt as if he must burst, and 
then she was part of him and he no longer 
thought or wondered, but knew, and it 
was over and he slept. 

He wondered when he woke if she were 
still there and he lay there until it became 
urgent for him to find out. Then he 
groped for her in the darkness and found 
her lying where he had left her and once 
again he possessed her body which was not 
like his own and for all of that day he 
did not leave his hole or the woman who 
had come to him. The next time he woke 
after having slept for a long time he 
found that he no longer desired the woman 
and he pushed her from him and struck 
her and forced her away from the hole 
where he lay and was filled with wonder 
that he longer wanted that which had so 
lately seemed desirable. And for a long 
time the man was satiated and allowed 
no woman near him. And when the 
people became able to communicate that 


which they thought through sounds they 
restricted the women to a separate part of 
the ground where no man could enter and 
from which the women could only come 
periodically so that which they had once 
found desirable might become desirable 

But after a time from the camp of the 
women came the sounds of the children 
which they had borne, and the men heard 
the sounds of the children and they were 
good and the men went to the camp of 
the women and demanded to see the child- 
ren and Olan held one which a woman had 
brought to him and he wondered if the 
child was his own and he liked the feel 
of the child in his arms and the feeling 
which he had for the child was not like 
any other feeling he had ever experienced 
and he did not want to give the child back 
to the woman who had given it birth, but 
he knew that the child was fed from the 
body of the woman and he could not take 
it with him. Then he conceived in his 
mind a plan whereby he could take them 
both back to his hole and dig another hole 
by its side in which to put the woman and 
the child until the child should grow big 
enough to eat of the food that he ate and 
he could send back the woman to her 
camp. But the woman feared that the 
others should find out and kill her and the 
child; so Olan told the men, for he was 
proud in the strength of his body and 
knew that none would openly defy him. 
So he took back with him the child and 
the woman who had given to it birth and 
dug with his hands another hole large 
enough for the woman and the child. And 
the woman fed the child and took care of 
it and Olan did not lay hold of her, for 
that was part of the plan, and soon all 
the men had dug fresh holes and brought 
to them the children which they desired, 
and the mother who nursed them. And 
the men found the plan good, and when 
the children no longer nursed the women 

they were not sent back but stayed on and 
each man had his own woman and child. 

In this way Olan lived for a time in 
peace. Then from another land beneath 
the crust came other men, and when they 
had come and been received by the men 
in Olan's region they were unable to un- 
derstand the means of communication and 
disagreements sprang up and the inen 
would not leave and Olan knew that they 
must be driven away. So the men of 
Olan's clan fought with the men from the 
distant region, for they were not able to 
understand them, and many were killed in 
the battle, but the men were driven away. 
And among those killed was the child 
Olan had taken to raise, and Olan felt 
the loss of the child and his heart was 
heavy and the woman could not comfort 
him and he was powerless and did not 
understand his grief. And he wondered 
why it should have been his child that was 
killed, and he wondered at the power of 
death and his own inability to cope with 
it or defeat it by his strength. But after 
a time there were other children and Olan 
forgot the child that had been killed, but 
he could not forget the death which had 
defeated him. 

In sleep he sometimes dreamt of the 
thing that was greater than strength, and 
he woke to wonder, and for a moment he 
would catch a glimpse of something that 
was better than that which he knew or 
had ever known and it puzzled him and 
it seemed almost like a memory, but he 
knew not what he had to remember. Then 
one day or over a period of time it came 
to him that there was perhaps something 
different and better above the crust whidh 
compelled him to grovel in the dust on his 
belly, and the crust became after a time 
an obsession, and he was filled with re- 
bellion and the desire to know. It was 
then that he began the hammering over 
the hole in which he slept, and he hammer- 
ed in the time when others slept with his 


hands or his feet or his head, and he 
found that his head worked best. He 
would hammer with his head at the crust 
which had become an obsession, and for 
long periods of time it would have no 
eifect, but before he had reached the 
stopping point he would hear a sound and 
know that it must be breaking. And 
after a long time his strength of which he 
had been so proud began to ebb, for he 
had little rest, but it no longer seemed im- 
portant, and the only thing that was im- 
portant was the crust and the breaking of 

And Olan's woman became puzzled that 
he no longer wanted her, and she left him 
and took the children with her and sought 
refuge elsewhere, but Olan no longer cared 
for anything but breaking through the 
horrible crust that bound him and kept 
him imprisoned frcMn what? He did not 
know, but he knew he must find out — 
not only for himself but for his children 
and all the others who might never bother 
to wonder. But Olan's weariness in- 
creased with time and the crust remained 

impregnable. Near the end he wanted to 
tell someone so that he might carry on the 
work Olan had begun, but he had an in- 
stinctive feeling that no one would under- 
stand and an instinctive fear of being 
thought different. So he worked on in 
the hope that he might yet have strength 
to complete the break, but still the wall 
held, and it suddenly entered his mind 
that it might never break, and the thought 
took root and grew, and he was almost 
convinced that it would never break and 
that if it did he would find nothing. Then 
he wondered for what he had been search- 
ing, and if when he found it might not be 
worse that than which he knew, and then 
he knew that better or worse, it would not 
have been familiar, and he loved his hole 
in the ground which he had made and in 
which he had lived, and giving a final 
thrust at the crust against which he had 
so long rebelled and which had robbed him 
of his strength, he fell in his hole and 
died. And the crack in the earth's crust 
emitted a tiny ray of light and closed back 
up leaving darkness. 


By Neilyn Griggs 

The earth takes a cool, satisfying breath 

While shadows expell the last ray of sun. 

Late blooming flowers drink of early dew, 

And soon the last workman will 

Come from the fields for a short moment 

By the low burning fire simple food, 

A bit of talk; 

Then silence. 

A mare and her foal stand close 

By the herd charged with a stallion 

Who shaked his name and neighs 

From a ride of soil in defience 

Of nightfall. 

The sun is down, 
The earth is still 
And sleep creeps into living things. 


On Enjoywnent at Music 

By BeHy Coad 

"There's music in the sighing of a reed; 

There's music in the gushing of a rill; 

There's music in all things, if men had 


There earth is but an echo of the 

— Byron 

A music lover does not necessarily 
would be incapable of analyzing a sym- 
phony or of defining the meaning of the 
possess musical erudition. The majority 
word "canon" except as an instrument of 
war. All share one characteristic. They 
possess a "listening acquaintance" with the 
music they enjoy. This listening acquain- 
tance means that they have heard a com- 
position a sufficient number of times to 
have become familiar with its principal 
melodies and subdivisions. They can anti- 
cipate the music as it unfolds. They are 
prepared to enjoy it when it comes. When 
deeply moved they follow it tensely, almost 

It is in this respect that music differs 
from, say, the movies. A movie is enjoy- 
ed fully when it is witnessed for the first 
time. Indeed, a few movies contribute 
more — and the majority contribute less 
enjoyment when viewed a second or a third 
time. Exactly the reverse is true with 
music. A musical composition, especially 
a complex composition such as a sympho- 
ny, may not really be "heard" when one 
listens to it for the first time. Only 
through repeated hearings does the mass 
of sound gradually take shape, sort itself 
out, and assume a definite meaning. 

The listener, then, is in a sense, a parti- 
cipant in the music he hears. He cannot 
enjoy music by being merely a bystander, 

and he does not obtain his enjoyment for 
nothing. What he contributes is familiar- 
ity; and, through familiarity, he brings to 
the performance of a composition the at- 
tention required to follow it as it develops. 

To the enjoyment of music the listener 
brings something else as well. He brings 
his likes and dislikes; also, he brings his 
mood of the moment which predisposes 
him to hear this or that music, or perhaps 
not to hear music at all. He may, for 
example, be familiar with both Beethoven 
and Mozart, but may find neither of these 
composers — to him — as meaningful as 
Brahms. He may be in the mood for 
Stravinsky's blatant and colorful "Petrou- 
chka" or crave the poetic eloquence of 
Smetana's "The oldau" or feel that noth- 
ing else will do but Debussy's elusive, 
sensitive "Nocturnes". 

Actually, there is no "must" in musical 
tastes and musical noods, no obligation to 
like music because it is Beethoven's or 
Wagner's, or Cesar Franck's, or because 
it is performed by some world famous 
musician. There is every reason, in fact, 
for liking some things and disliking others. 
In music as in love one is subject to pass- 
ing enthusiasms, to unaccountable fleeting 
passions. In music too, enduring attach- 
ments do develop overnight. It is the 
smallest thing which immediately affords 
the greatest pleasure, while the more solid 
type of musical fare does not yield itself 
completely on first acquaintance. Not 
that it is forbidding. It is merely un- 
known, and the unknown is seldom plea- 
surable. To be enjoyed, music must first 
be "contacted". 

This matter of contacting music — of 
having a composition suddenly mean some- 


thing beside a mass of bewildering sound 
— is dependent not only on the listener but 
also upon the performer. To be heard, 
music must necessarily be performed, and 
a good performance is as essential to the 
listener's enjoyment as is the familiarity 
with the music and the receptive mood 
which he himself contributes. Unfor- 
tunately, the inspired performance is rare. 
One may listen to a composition many 
times over, yet never find it more than 

mildly interesting until one day its mean- 
ing is revealed through a superlative {per- 
formance. The listener then wonders 
whether this music is the same as that 
which he has heard so many times before, 

"The man that hath no music in himself, 
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet 

Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils." 
— Shakespeare 


^he iialis L^nlid 


By Jane Ellen Tye 

Don't be afraid, child, to gaze into your mirror, 

Or look downward to you reflection in the blue pool. 

You tangled locks of hair, your misty eyes, your 

Cold, grim little mouth will show, yes, but 

Your heart, child. 

The beauty, the magic, enchanting beauty of your heart 

Outspeaks a thousand fold the face you have seen 

In your mirror, that has brought you many tears. 


^ne .^^liiaator 


By Neilyn Griggs 

In dark gray swamps I find my home 
Among the swaying, clinging vines. 
From mire to mire I quietly roam 
While up above some culture whines. 

Through dark waters I gently glide 
To find that place where life abounds 
And finding it, I slowly slide 
In to its midst that murd surrounds 

I trace the swamp fox to his lair, 
There hoping I may satisfy 
A search that is my daily care. 
As still the odd bird hovers high. 

And yet my quest is not fulfilled 
For Renyard does my jaws evade 
By means such a man has willed 
To vail some sin that he has made. 

For me life is a current quest, 
Of nurture and protection 
But unlike man perhaps I'm blessed, 
I fear not my thoughts' detection. 

Yet wooled I am by grotesque shape 
That lingers for my feast's remains. 
But other swamp life does not gape 
While thoughts are presses to black domains. 


bronze: city 

(Continued from Page 8) 

gone to bed, I'd sit and try to put on the 
scraps that I found all the things that I'd 
noticed that day. The ugliness of the 
world I lived in became something else 
then. Something deeper, something much 
bigger, something beautiful. The fat 
squat women sitting on the steps in the hot 
evenings, the confused drunks weaving 
their wobbly way home through the dusk, 
and the city. I painted the city over and 
over again, different places, different views, 
but always the Bronze City. 

Bill listened to me. I don't know how 
he understood, but he seemed to have 
because he asked me what I did with them 
after I had finished. 

"I always save them, every one. I've 
got them all stacked in my room, but, you 
know, I never touch them . . . not a line 
nor a color, not a shape or form; 
they are right the first time. When I 
look at them the next day, I can hardly 
remember working on them at all; it is as 
I was drunk . . . like I am now.' I giggled 
in an odd voice but got up when Bill 
pulled be, saying he wanted to see them. 
I had never showed them to anyone, but 
I wanted to show them to someone to- 
night, to Bill ... to anyone. I wanted to 
show him that a skinny little runt of a 
grocery clerk couldn't do more than add 
up the tab. 

Bill and I climbed up the stairs that 
squeaked dismally on every step. It was 
a long climb — six flights. I turned my 
key in the lock and we stumbled through 
the dark to my room. While he sat on the 
bed, I pulled open the closet door and 
took the large stacks from the back. The 
only light shone from the dim bulb sway- 
ing overhead. He looked at each one, in- 
dividually and I waited to hear what he 
would say. 

"Cheez, Jim, these is crazier than hell. 
I thought we could use a couple of your 
things. The boss was talking about dress- 
ing up the place and giving it class, so 
when you started talking about painting, 
I thought maybe I could buy yours cheap 
. . . give you some dough and save us 
plenty, but now . . . well, I don't know. 
I don't know a damn thing about art, but 
they sure are crazy. Hit ya' funny. But 
I tell you what . . . these are probably 
damn good. The more I look at them 
the more I like them. In fact I like them 
fine right now." He was only trying to 
make me feel good. Funny Bill worrying 
about someone's feelings. "Tell you what 
. . . I'm sure the boss could use these. 
I'll give you fifty bucks for the lot; he 
can look through them and pick out what 
he likes and I'll give the rest back to you. 
I'll sell them to him for sixty bucks and 
then we'll all be happy. What do you 

I didn't know what to do. I'd never 
thought of selling them; I never thought 
I could. I never did look at them after 
the first time, and fifty dollars was m.ore 
money than I'd ever seen at one time. I 
thought of all that fifty dollars would buy, 
and I sold. 

I didn't see Bill for quite some time 
after that because I was pretty busy. The 
grocery store decided to have some con- 
dence in me, and I was promoted to the 
manager of the dairy department and a 
five-dollar raise. I was feeling pretty good 
and the future looked to me for the first 
time as if it had something in store for 
me. I even thought of moving. I hadn't 
had time to paint anything at all since I'd 
last seen Bill, but I was still interested. I 
liked to walk down fifty-seventh street and 
look in the windows of the art galleries 
that line both sides of the street. It was 
Saturday that I saw it, on my way home 
from work. It was sitting in the window 


of the swankies gallery on the street, all 
by itself, except for a little painted card 
down front that read: Bronze City, by 
William Brant. I pushed my way into the 
store, and a little fellow with a waxed 
mustache met me in the front. 

Ah, he said in a castway voice, "I see 
you were attracted by the painting in the 
window. Let me show you other examples 
of the fine artist's work. He's a new 
contributor to our galleries, and we have 
his entire collection to date." The guy's 
voice thundered in my ears as I recognized 
all the things I'd sold Bill. "... evolved 
a new technique, that is . . . accepted as a 
true genius . . . never a lesson . . . hailed 
by critics and fellow artist alike . . . really 
remarkable fellow." Yeah, according to 
that guy I was really something. I knew 
I had to find Bill. I didn't know what 
I was going to do with him, but I was 
going to find out why there was the 
cramped signature "Brant" in the lower 
right-hand corner of every one of my pic- 

I turned toward the clip-joint on third 
avenue and walked swiftly down there 
trying to figure out how it had happened. 
I pushed into the place and although it 
was too early for any serious customers, 
there were a few drinkers in the front. 
There was ruggedly pretty man behind 
the bar that looked a little like Bill. 

"Do you know where I could find Bill 
Brant?" I asked him. 

"He don't work here any more. He's 
famous now ... an artist. Imagine that 
dope an artist? Ask the boss, back there. 
He can tell you." 

I thanked him and walked to the office 
in the back of the bar. When I knocked, 
a muffled voice answered and told me to 
come in. I was very calm as I asked 
where I could find Bill. I made it sound 
as if I were a good friend inquiring about 
someone's health. He looked me over 

and finally threw a card at me, with an 
address upon it. It said Park Avenue 
. . . Park Avenue. It wasn't far to walk. 
You just go a few blocks off Third Ave- 
nue, and there you find Park, with its 
big apartment houses and gold-braided 
doormen. I found the house; it wasn't 
hard; I'd passed it a million times on my 
way home from work. Nice of Bill to 
stay within walking distance. The door- 
man looked me up and down as if I 
should use the servant's entrance. I told 
him I was looking for Mr. Brant. He 
said he'd have to call and see if Mr. Brant 
was in. Mr. Brant was in, but who was 
calling? Jim? Just Jim? I was told 
to use the elevator on the left. Not steps 
to climb; this place had an elevator. It 
was on the twentieth floor. Way up so 
you could have a good view of the city. 

There was a party going on inside. It 
was a bunch of the people Bill used to 
have to wait on; now they were his 
guests. You could tell their brackets by 
the custom-made suits and hand-painted 
ties. There were a lot of pretty women 
about who looked like they carried their 
silver spoon around for identification. I 
saw Bill in the middle of a small group 
of them, sighing over his big six-foot 
frame. "Oh, Mr. Brant. How did you 
ever manage to capture the heart of the 
city and get that infinite quality usually 
lacking in . . ." "And the degrading parts 
of the city . . . you've given such a pro- 
found beauty . . . imbue such sensitivity 
to a debauched ... no artistic instruc- 

He had an answer. First, he used his 
eyes and then he murmured in a sick 
voice, "Feeling." "One must have feel- 
ing." Then he saw me. He couldn't 
have missed because I was standing just 
inside the doorway and I was the only guy 
in the room who had paid less than fifty 
bucks for the suit I was wearing. He 


didn't look so happy around the eyes. 
Kind of scared. Bill scared of me. We 
made some light conversation and then he 
invited me to come to his library where 
we could talk more privately. It was a 
nice room, all filled with books; just right 
for an artist, with feeling, who couldn't 
read. I figured I had him just where I 
wanted him when I looked in his eyes 
again . . . then I realized it wasn't fear I 
saw, but rage and hatred. I was scared. 

"What do you expect to do about this, 
Jim?" said Bill. 

I hadn't expected him to put me on the 
defensive, and I didn't know what to do 
or say now that he held the upper-hand 

"Well, I'm not sure, Bill. I'm not quite 
sure, but . . . 

"Let me tell you what you're going to 
do, kid. This is unfortunate that this 
has arisen. I did take your work down 
to the store with every intention of selling 
it to the boss. He hung up that Bronze 
City . . . right over the bar." Bill's voice 
had that unconcerned air of explanation 
and boredom that showed his extreme dis- 
interest in the whole story. "Then this 
woman asked about it. She liked it and 
she brought her husband in and he looked 
over the other junk. The fool took them 
all and hung them in his gallery and then 
all this started. She thought they were 
mine and she made the old guy hang them 
up. Understand? It was because she 
went for me, just like those other charac- 
ters out there. You saw them . . . can 
you imagine them making a fuss over 
you? And, Jim, it takes people like them 
to be a success in a racket like this. Now 
this is the way you're going to get around 
it. First of all, you keep your mouth 
shut. As for the money, I'll split even 
with you. You bring me fresh stuff and 
I'll sell it and before you know it, you'll 
be a rich man. Hell, you can come and 

live with me if you like. I'll tell people 
you're my valet, and that way thc/U never 
find out. You'll be rich, Jim. Think it 
over, kid . . . There's no other way. I 
looked in his eyes and I knew what he 

That's the way it was. I laid out his 
clothes, and answered the telephone and 
people called "James," if they wanted a 
drink. I became real good at it. Bill, I 
mean Mr. Brant, told me I'd missed my 
calling. We went on like that for about 
six months. I didn't mind it at all, after 
a while. The pay was good and I had 
a lot of money in the bank and the food 
was wonderful. 

He gave lots of parties, and he studied 
books about painting so he could talk like 
he knew what it was all about. The 
women liked him and they liked his stuff 
and I became a damn good valet, with a 
little experience in butlering on the side. 
The parties were always a collection of 
phonies with a few really smart ones 
thrown in to break up the montony. The 
smart ones were beginning to wonder why 
Bill hadn't done anything new for quite a 
time. One night, as I was passing the 
drinks around, one of those 25,000-a-year 
boys popped up and asked exactly what 
Bill was doing. He said he'd started an 
epic description of the social degradation 
of man as expressed through the vision of 
a debauched alchoholic. Some squeaky- 
voiced dame asked if she could watch him 
paint, but Bill only shook his head and 
said he couldn't work with people watch- 
ing him, but he would show it to her 
after it had progressed a little further. 
They let it go at that. 

I knew what was coming after all the 
people had left and I'd finished cleaning 
up the mess in the living room. Bill told 
me to follow him and ushered me into the 
large unused room he called his studio. 
It was quite a sight. One whole wall was 


almost completely glass, and there was 
every kind of paint that had ever been in- 
vented enclosed in the long cabinets that 
lined another. There were fresh, clean, 
brushes and expensive white canvasses, 
and a million shiny tubes of paint, un- 

"All right, kid, go to town. Paint 
something", said Bill as he lit a cigarette 
and sat on one of the tall stools in the 
place. I looked all the stuff over and 
finally I set up a canvass. I'd never seen 
so much equipment before and it fascinat- 
ed me. I puttered around for about a half 
an hour, squeezing out the colors unto the 
palette, but somehow it was different than 
before. Everything felt unfamiliar, not 
just because the equipment was new, but 
something different. Maybe it was be- 
cause Bill was in the room; I'd never 
worked in front of anyone before. He 
asked me why I wasn't working and I 
told him what I thought it was. He 
shrugged his shoulders, and left me alone, 
his custom made shoes clicking with final- 
ity across the hard surface of the floor. I 
sat for a while and then tried to paint. 
I slashed red across and then I tried a 
little blue, but it looked funny. Then I 
figured I'd better sketch it in first, I took 
a fresh canvass and started on that. 
Everything was going wrong. How do 
you express the social degradation of man 
as seen through a debauched alchoholic? 
I thought it was hot in the room, so I went 
to open a few of the windows. It v/as 

late and you could see the almost com- 
pletely black skyscrapers outlined against 
the lighter black of the sky. There were 
no stars but here and there you could see a 
single light, or a row like a string of pearls 
showing that someone else too was up. I 
wondered what my light looked like to 
them and then I thought I had best get 
back to the canvass. I had some vague 
shapes and lines on the white surface; 
they didn't look very good, but I figured 
I could straighten them out when I added 
the colors . . . bright color; flashes or red 
and yellow, big bold blue. I tried again. 
It was no good . . . something was 
missing. Maybe it was because I hadn't 
painted in a long time. That was it; I 
was rusty, at all. I had never learned 
anything I couldn't forget with time. It 
had been instinct, all instinct, and now 
that was gone. I tried and the room 
was no longer hot, but the perspiration 
dribbled down my back as I stood shiver- 
ing with cold in the middle of the im- 
mense room. "Try some more blue, Jim", 
I pleaded with myself." Or yellow . . . 
try anything. By God you can do it . . . 
you did it before . . . You're a genius, 
Jim. They said that about Bill and that 
means you. You can do it. Try. Try!" 
But I couldn't. I worked all night and 
when the sun forced its way into the 
room I knew it was no good and Jim 
would never believe me. There's only one 
way, he'd said, but he was wrong. Or 
was he? 

^uliina ^fap 


By Neiiyn Griggs 

Did you see the star that fled last night 
From stalls kept by the vidgelent moon. 
Like the carriage of some phantom sprite 
Bearing away love that died too soon. 


Preseriptian tar Peace 

By Joyce Callaway 

TER. Lin Yutang, New York. John Day 
Company. 1943. 

Americans are beginning to realize that 
they must have unpleasant situations in 
international affairs to maintain internal 
peace at home. We are learning to ac- 
cept facts, and trying to deal with them. 
Between Tears and Laughter is a record 
of facts: facts portraying weaknesses and 
strength; facts portraying cowardice, and 
facts portraying dauntless courage; facts 
portraying poverty, and others, wealth. It 
is Lin Yutang's story of China to the 
Qiinaman — the author, himself, is a 
combination of the modern philosopher 
and the ancient Chinese sage. He is 
capable of applying common sense to the 
most insensible situations of moder life. 

Lin Yutang had a purpose when he 
wrote this book — and he states it plainly 
as "something that must be said and said 
with simplicity". The primary problem 
he sees before modern civilization is the 
problem of moral decay and regeneration, 
and his account and suggested solutions 
are as vital and compelling as his recog- 
nition of "the shadow of another war" 
looming before us. 

In analyzing the character of the mod- 
ern age, Lin Yutang challenges right of 
economic security to overlap the much- 
fought-for idea of freedom. He points 
out the inconsistency in becoming "hard- 

boiled realists" in the midst of a war for 
idealistic Democracy and ideals, which 
were and are simply things that men 
strongly believed or believe in, and "like 
God and the soul could never be proved." 
It happens that both "human rights" and 
the modern "economic rights" are myths, 
from the philosophical standpoint. One 
of the author's basic arguments is that 
the concept of human freedom has 
changed, and that Freedom of the Will 
has disappeared. His accusation that 
the mechanistic mind of man is under- 
mining former high standards and is 
taking the meaning from life is food for 
thought that is not easily digested. Is he 
correct in assuming that man may have 
the four freedoms — the freedom to talk 
and think as he pleases and to be fed and 
sheltered — and yet be a slave? 

Between Tears and Laughter exposes 
the dangers of "armed friendships" and 
"hostile cordality", and contributes new 
ideas for the bringing about the new 
era of good will and co-operation. That 
the roots of all wars — "balance of power, 
domination by power, trade, and racial 
discrimination" — are all there is indisput- 
able, and Lin Yutang has fearlessly and 
emphatically dared America to acknowl- 
edge it. This is a topic about which 
Americans should know the facts. This 
is a book America needs to read! 

ZJIte l-^kliodoplter 

By Sue C. Coker 

He was satisfied that life must be that way 

A small spark that was enlarged into a flame, only to bum 
Itself out. 



cJJown f-^embrohe 6 ^J4aUA 

Lovingly Dedicated to evet7 graduating Senior at Ward-Belmortt 

At twilight-time, if you listen well. 
You can see the shadows on the wall, 
You can even hear footsteps there . . , 
For they linger everywhere 

Down Pembroke's halls. 

Forgotten Seniors of years gone by, 
Have walked, and carried victory's torch, 
Have held the white and yellow high 
On Heron's lawn, on Acklen's porch, 
Down Pembroke's halls. 

Who knows their names or their faces? 
Time is a trickster ... a thief . . . 
But they put the Senior banner high 
Although their time was brief 

Down Pembroke's halls. 

Yes, the years have hidden their names from sight 

But they do come back to see 

If the yellow and white still wave on hig|i 

In success ... in victory 

Down Pembroke's halls. 

This year they have walked along with us 
To the Tea Room, to Club village, too . . . 
To the O.H,, to the Bic Ac door 
And along with me, and you 

Down Pembroke's halls. 

And they're proud. They must be proud to see 
White jackets blazing in the sun . . . 
White caps on Senior's heads whene're 
A Sr.Sr-Mid Day is won, 

Down Pembroke's halls. 

And we hear them whisper, in the dark 
When all is sleeping, and the moon 
Goes shining over Senior Hall. 
And they stop by every single rocwn 

Down Pembroke's halls. 


For Spirit is real ... it does not die. 
Defeat it knows not ever . . . 
And the glorious spirit of Seniors before 
Will linger forever and ever 

Down Pembroke's halls. 

Next year, in the autumn, when leaves of red 
and yellow, and brown, and rust 
Fall on the campus , . , you will return . . . 
You will come back to us 

Down Pembroke's halls. 

And we'll wait for you, and we'll welcome you 
In our memories of '48. 
And the spirit that we will hold in our hearts 
Will bring victories twice as great 

Down Pembroke's halls. 

We will hold your banners and colors high . . . 
We will sing your song. And we'll talk 
Of you, and we'll miss you much. 
But we know that you, too, will walk 

Down Pembroke's halls . . , 
with us. 

by Jet