Chimes v.9:no.1 (November 1945) - v.13:no.3 (June 1948) [missing v.10:no.2]

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http://www.archive.org/details/chimesv9no1novem911ward

NOVEMBER • 1945

>T HI E C

IE

9

Vol. 9 NOVEMBER, 1945

WARD-BELMONT SCHOOL. NASHVILLE

No. I
TENNESSEE

_^,

FOREWORD

'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.

Pierce

nmuMig

CHIMES STAFF **

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

ARTISTS

Kay Keggin Editor

Beverly Williams Pat McGauly June Brown

STAFF MEMBERS

Seniors

Pat Shillings Kicki Moss Peggy Loving

Ruth Evans

Senior-Middles

Sally Flowers Camii.lk Hancock Bettye Jane Erwin

High School Representatives

Dot Hailey Clare Ann Drowota

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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

REVIEWS

Barefoot Boy \W'n\\ Cheek Pat Shillings

Rickshaw Boy Peggy Loving

Ud Front Ruth Evans

Guerrilla Wife Priscilla Bailey

20

21

22
23

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
Pierce.

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
Parade.

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
hour."

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.

Doubt

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
bird.

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

Hospital
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.

Love,

Reporter number 0500

Thinking

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-
bership.

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

Jm

10

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,

Hillocks.

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.

€€

ff

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
legs.

14

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
age.

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.

^Q^^TD

15

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

16

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!

17

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

di

iscover it

we were m iti

18

Sea

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.

19

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

20

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
race.

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."

21

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-
toonist."

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
way.

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-,
triots.

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.

2?

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.

^Q^:^0

23

THE CHIMES

Vol. 9 FEBRUARY, 1946 No. 2

WARD. BELMONT SCHOOL, NASHVILLE. TENNESSEE

. FOREWORD

^_^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.

Pierce

CHIMES STAFF

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

AR TISTS

Kay Keggin Editor

Beverly Williams Pat McGauly June Brown

STAFF MEMBERS
Ruth Evans Joanne Jeans Kicki Moss

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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

IT'S WORTH REPEATING

And This, Too, Shall Pass Away n

Wherein Lie All Our Hopes 12

CHIMES ESSAY CONTEST

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

BOOK WEEK ESSAY CONTEST

Books During Battle Martha Baird 22

The Only Immortals Eileen Springstun 23

A Never-Ending Journey Maryjane Hooper 24

RHYME AND TIME

Evil Atmosphere Ann Marshall 20

New Love Ann Marshall 20

The Spiral of Smoke Adelaide Thornton 21

Storm Pat Shillings 21

FROM THE WIND'S FOUR CORNERS

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

BOOK REVIEWS

So Well Remembered Shelia Kennard 36

A Bell for Adano Kicki Moss

37

Let Us Consider One Another Margaret Ann- Funk 38

The WTaite Tower Leotus Morrison 39

Cass Timberlane Bomar Cleveland 40

Grace

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
Stumble.

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!

^oraettln

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)

Piscovei

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
Gentleman?

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
kindly.

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.

Fable-1946

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
why?"

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
death.

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."

Discovery

(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"
folks.

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
times.

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.

K)

3

f/,

euLin

9

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

THINKING

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."

WHAT HAVE WE HERE?

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
results.

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
them?

12

AND THEN WE SPOKE
OF MUSIC

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
most?

SHEEPSKINS AND SYMBOLS

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
diploma?

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

13

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.

YES. EVEN I CAN THINK

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.

OUR PASSIVE INTELLECTS

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

14

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
clothes.

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.

"IF WINTER COMES . . ."

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
believe.

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.

C-JJa

(^.

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
believer.

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

16

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
corn.

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

17

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
king.

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)

19

AND

eve

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

ove

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.

Sti

:oi*in

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

22

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-
kind?

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

23

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
madness.

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
conversation."

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

24

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
mankind.

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.

25

(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

26

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
sinner."

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.

vgi*==0

_^3

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.

27

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-
sides.

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)

28

^our \Q^uarier6

'^»i#^

.s^/c

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)

29

Louisiana
Fairyland

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
forever.

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.

30

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
decks.

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,

31

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.

Enemy

(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

32

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
respect.

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
rain.

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

33

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
singers.

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-

34

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-
pensive.

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,
beautiful.

35

§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-
faction.

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

36

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-

37

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
prejudices.

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.

38

r

r

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
hate.

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
world.

39

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.

40

VVAKiJ-li^kLMUiN'; UiiHAKI'

c

H
I

E

S

MAY

19 4 6

T

Vol. 9
WARD

S

MAY. 1946 No. 3

ELMONT SCHOOL. NASHVILLE. TENNESSEE

EDITOR'S NOTE

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.

Pierce

CHIMES STAFF

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

ARTISTS

Kay Keggin Editor

Beverly Williams Pat McGauly Jane Erwin

June Brown

STAFF i^EMBERS
Ruth Evans Pat Shillings Sheila Kennard

KiCKi Moss Clare Ann Drowota Camille Hancock

Barbara Thorne

TABLE OF CONTENTS

SHORT STORY CONTEST

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

RHYME AND TIME

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

BOOK REVIEWS

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

28
29
30

31
33
34
37.

38
39
39

40

41

^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-
sistent.

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

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

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

then."

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
wildly.

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,
Winkie."

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
Fred.

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-
ceding.

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
birthday.

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-
field.

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
fall.

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
sweater.

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
frocks."

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-
lege.

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-
posed.

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
away.

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
"shocking."

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
street.

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

10

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
years."

'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
light.

"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
basket."

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
scamp."

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
bought.

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-
bye."

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.

12

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,

13

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.

14

iiii^H'i

Fragments

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
grave.

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.

15

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-
riety.

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-

U

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!

Cireles

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
things?

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
today?

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
ink.

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-
ical.

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
matters.

(Continued on Page 42)

19

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
coat.'

"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
body.

"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."

20

Wood

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

Collect.

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.

Indestructible.

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

Intensifies.

21

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.

oein

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.

jCi

ined to a

J-^oiidh l^ltild

By Louise Prothro

Turn upon me, once again

Lonely,

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.

23

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-
soever."

"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

24

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
here."

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)

25

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

26

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-
maiden?"

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)

27

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.

28

Chastelot

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)

29

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
pearls.

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.

30

^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.

31

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
is?"

"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
cold.

"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
lives."

"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
afternoon?"

"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-
get."

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-

32

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
lost."

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
lost."

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)

33

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

34

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-

35

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
know.

"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,
daddy?"

"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)

36

^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.

37

aak

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-

38

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
souls.

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

39

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.
$3.00.

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

40

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.
$2.50.

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

41

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.

42

^kx

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
Meritage

(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.

Chastelot

(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-
ness.

Chastelot ...

43

WARD-BELMONT
VOLUME 10

NASHVILLE. TENNESSEE
NUMBER i

»

THE C HI I M E

Vol 10 NOVEMBER, 1946 No. I

WARD-BELMONT SCHOOL, NASHVILLE. TENNESSEE

fl

FOREWORD

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!

Sheela

CHIMES STAFF

Sheila Kennard Editor

Camille Hancock Poetry Editor

Eileen Springstun Exchange Editor

Mrs. Pauline Smith Faculty Advisor

ARTISTS

Jane Erwin EdUor

June Brown Pat McGauly

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Editorial

The Squirrel Hunter Jane Erwin

Introduction Jane Ellen Tye

The Strange Liagiba Ruth Marie Walls

Summer Storm Camille Hancock

Rainbows Eileen Springstun

FOR MAGAZINE READERS

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

RHYME AND TIME

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

BOOK REVIEWS

The Stranger Albert Camus

All the King's Men Robert Penn Warren

GeoflFrey Chaucer of England . Marchette Chute

28
29
31

Editorial

"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
manner.

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
bound.

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
favour."

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.

Introduction

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-
self!

PROLOGUE

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
answers.

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
world.

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.

Rainbows

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

9

cizine

rKeucii

erd

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.

S.E.N.

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-

10

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
indisputable.

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-
band.

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-
panion.

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

12

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-
panion.

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.

13

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
maid.

Assuming, however, that our purse is
in a healthy condition externally, we will
turn our attention to the dark, mysterious

14

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
trash"?

Leavetaking

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.

15

Rhyme and Time

Outlook

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.

16

^^^-^

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.

17

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-
roach.

"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

18

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.

a^^^

The momentary fusing of one soul into

another . . .
The perfect alchemy of minds and feel-
ings . . .
An insight into divine wisdom and for-
giveness ...

Understanding
Sheila Kennard

19

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.

"MERRITT UNIVERSITY: Health
for Mind and Body" — the words chisled
in stone over the doorway bolstered her
feeling of well-being with a dependable
confirmation.

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
waiting.

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

20

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
night."

"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-

21

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
Egypt."

22

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-

23

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
know."

"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

24

i

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
church.

"Sanctuary," Jane mumbled. "I have
sanctuary."

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
down.

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
Grey.

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

25

/

/

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.

POSTLOGUE

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
facts.

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
Liagiba.

^S^^O

26

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-
selves.

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!

Thought

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?

27

/

evLcw^

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,

28

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
says: YOUR MOTHER PASSED .'
AWAY. FUNERAL TOMORROW. /
DEEP SYMPATHY. Which leaves the ^
matter doubtful; it could have been yes-
terday."

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-

29

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
turned.

30

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.

CX^^^

31

WARD BELMONT
VOLUME 10

NASHVILLE. TENNESSEE
NUMBER 3

1

THE CHIMES

Vol. 10 MAY 1947 No. 3

WARD-BELMONT SCHOOL. NASHVILLE. TENNESSEE

EDITOR'S NOTE

m

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
Note."

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.

CHIMES STAFF

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

ARTISTS

June Brown Edit-or

Jane Harte Margaret Ann Webster

Pat McGauly Elaine Craig Barbara Benson

STAFF MEMBERS
Frances Newport Barbara Needs

Susan Hoyt Marjorie Gilmore

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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

RHYME AND TIME

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

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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
cursed.

"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
devil.

'^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
rain.

"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
thought.

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.

Ljone

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

TecLSure

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
living.

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
telephone.

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?

10

Christopher

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
majority.

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
poem.

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-

:ii

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
Adoration;

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"

12

. . . "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

y^

f'

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.

13

**;

"JPof* I Bave liearned To
MjO»k tJpan The Theaire . . .

99

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

14

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!
Oh-h-h."

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
off.

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

.15

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
erased.

CJ<:^:^

16

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
problem.

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

.17

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
amelioration.

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.

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.

18

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-
movement.

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

19

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

20

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

2T

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

a

By Jane Erwin

ife

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 —

EXIT.

22

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
friend.

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-

23

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?"

.24

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
sobered.

"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."

2).

By Barbara Smith

Dreams, shadows in time
Trees spotted by moonlight
Smoke curled about a chair
Words dimmed by white mist.

26

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-
regular.

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.

27

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

ars

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.

28

•>^ 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.

29

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

30

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
undiscovered.

They read their plays, their poems, and
their stories, and listened to the criticism.

31

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

33

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
animal.

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
rr.an can force him to submit. Not long
ago, in view of his extraordinary character,
people began to respect this rangy brown
horse.

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

34

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."

35

Rhytne and Tiwne

csLonell

inedd

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.

oritt

^=.

36

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!
37

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-

38

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-
other.

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
tail.

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

39

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-
perity.

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

ROSt,,

'"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)

40

3Mediiaiian On A. Rainy
Aiiternoftn

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,
too.

Our second dressing table is austere,
cold, and awe-inspiring. It is usually
square, rather high, and of some dark

41

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
Universe?

^ ^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?

42

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
get.

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
movement.

"Darling," his wife said, "you don't
know how much I wish you weren't
going. It'll be our first separation, you
know."

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
world."

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
possible.

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

43

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-
pier."

"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. ■

44

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."

interlude

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.

45

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
room.

"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."

46

^^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?"

2),

Teumd

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.

A7

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

48

Hoyf

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.

49

^our Wo

omen

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.

50

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
me."

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
stallion.

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
nothing.

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

51

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

52

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

53

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
times.")

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."

&^^yD

54

J:

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-
ton.

"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
matter?"

"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
throat.

Dr. Holton and I watched the de-

55

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
saw:

"Ship Sunk by First of Japanese
Aggressors."

"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)\"

Qj^:i^

t'C/C-w m3

By Jane Ellen Tye

arUM

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

Together,

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.

56

^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."
57

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.

cJLc

ctmen

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?
58

Jfessie

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

59

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„"

vS^^^TD

^on

9

ea.

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."

60

'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
days.

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

pi

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?

61

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
memories.

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

62

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
remembered.

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

63

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,
Lily"

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
beauty,"

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)

64

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
land.

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
liberty.

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
death.

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.

vQi^^O

65

LAIVII BEYOND

(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
monarch.

"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
him.

"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

66

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.

ctvun

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.

66

HVor^ry^ JVar^^ry!

99

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

68

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
town!

69

THE SEED

(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.

70

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
breakfast?"

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
obvious.

"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

71

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
bewildered.

"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

72

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
0 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
riend.

"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-

73

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
type:

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

t

onne

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?

74

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

n.

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

75

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.

THE LIVIIVG THINC^S

(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

76

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
failed

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

77

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,
quietly.

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

oi/e

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.

c^Dudt

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

eadon

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.

78

evLcw^

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.

79

T HI E C HI II M E

Vol. II NOVEMBER, 1947 No. I

WARD-BELMONT SCHOOL, NASHVILLE. TENNESSEE

S.

FOREWORD

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."

JET

CHIMES STAFF

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

LITERARY STAFF

Carolyn Henderson Joyce Armitage Neilyn Griggs

ART STAFF
Pat Negley Barbara Benson

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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

RHYME AND TIME

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

BOOK REVIEWS

The Unvanqulshed Spirit Joyce Callaway

The Scared Men In The Kremlin Julia Aldrich

The Illustrious Rebel Joyce Callaway

13
15

16
16
17
17
18

19
21

23
24

25
26

27
28

29
30
31

• 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-
brushes.

• 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
edition.

• 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-
quacy.

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.

CX^^

Pit

^

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-
tion.

THE INDIANS

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".

THE CIVIL WAR AND SLAVERY

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.

10

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.

12

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
floor.

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

13

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.

i^

Life is a gardenia, first admired, then worn, wilted and crushed
by the footsteps of time.

Sue C. Coker

14

^Ite ^i

wins

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
hill,

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?"

15

^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#

raped

ip\

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.

16

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.

talent

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.

17

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

18

Sc

b

onne

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.

19

20

-^/VRD-ll^ibtvK)*^^*

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-
quired.

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

21

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-
mare.

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.

22

HH

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.

QS^^^

Sunset

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
ne.

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
soil.

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.

23

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
me.

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

24

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?

^:>c:3

25

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,"

2$

tomorrow

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.

^&^0

Ambition is a pied piper that lures us into fascination and then
shackles us from freedom with golden chains.

Sue C. Coker

27

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.

28

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.

29

The Scared Men in the
Krewntin

Reviewed By Julia Aldrlch

WHY THEY BEHAVE LIKE RUSSIANS.
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.

30

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
forever.

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.

O^^^

31

VARD BELMONT
VOLUME II

NASHVILLE. TENNESSEE
NUMBER 2

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.

THE C HI 1 M E S

Vol. 11 MARCH. 1948 No. 2

FOREWORD
^^ ,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
students.

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

CHIMES STAFF

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

LITERARY STAFF

Joyce Armitage Carolyn Henderson Mary Simms

Neilyn Griggs

ART STAFF
Cynthia Hoyt Norma Jean Krenzer Barbara Benson

Barbara Nelson Typist

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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

RHYME AND TIME

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

BOOK REVIEWS

Diversion for Delight Joyce Callaway 31

Prince of Foxes Joyce Callaway 32

2

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
thought.

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?"

^S:^^^

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
hole.

"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? WHERE THE HELL 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
going!"

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
ME WITH YOU! FOR GOD'S SAKE
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,
too.

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."

S.

I.

evenieen

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.

10

**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
indeed."

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
Jackson.

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
begun.

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

12

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
comprehend.

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
present.

"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!"

13

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
me.

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
answer.

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

14

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!

^S^^T3

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.

15

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.

16

Ljlue i^6 Ujour f-^i

oem

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..

17

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

18

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
conceived!

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-
natown.

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

19

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
worse.

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

20

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
fingers.

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
farewell.

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

21

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

22

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

21

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.

0^=0^

24

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
last.

"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

25

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?"

"Stoidi."

"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
swell."

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-
bye.

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."

"Sure."

26

ce

>, 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

id."

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

lake.

'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
cold.

"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,
thanks."

"No, I won't tell." There was a pause,
which prolonged itself, until suddenly,
she broke out into uncontrollable laugh-
ter.

"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."

27

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

28

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

29

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.

vQ^^O

i liant iKc

^

ain

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.)

30

JDiversian far MBeiight

Reviewed by Joyce Callaway

FROM THE TOP OF THE STAIRS.
Gretchen Damrosch Finletter. Boston; Little,
Brown and Company. 1947

First printed as an ATLANTIC
MONTHLY PRESS BOOK, Gretchen
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.

FROM THE TOP OF THE STAIRS
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.

31

IPrince af Fnxes

Reviewed by Joyce Callaway

PRINCE OF FOXES by Samuel Shellabarger.
Little, Brown and Company. 1947

With PRINCE OF FOXES, Samuel
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."

32

w.

VARD BELMONT
'OLUME 11

NASHVILLE. TENNESSEE
NUMBER 3

T H

C HI I M E

Vol. II JUNE 1948 No. 3

WARD-BELMONT SCHOOL, NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE

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
complete

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.

Jet

CHIMES STAFF

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

LITERARY STAFF
Joyce Armitace Carolyn Henderson Neilyn Griggs

Mary Martin Mary Simms

ART STAFF

Cynthia Hoyt Norma Jean Krenzeu Pat Negley

Barbara Benson

Barbara Nelson Typist

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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.

I

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
'ou!"

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
all."

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
imagine.

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)

C^mtoi

^puoaue

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

Adventure!

iVo Gavemtnent Can Be
Called^Perfect

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

cows.
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-

10

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
people.

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-
tiative.

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.

^as^o

OJe to iL W,

oon

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.

12

CfBwnpana

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,
people.

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.

13

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

U

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

15

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

16

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

17

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

18

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!

V.J^4--^

"Rusty'

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-
tranced.

By Anne Watters

19

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.

AMBITION IS A PIED PIPER THAT LURES US INTO FASCINATION
AND SHACKLES US FROM FREEDOM WITH GOLDEN CHAINS

By Sue Colcer

21

22

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
again.

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-

23

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

24

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

25

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
kingdom?

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.
2.

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-
mental.

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

26

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

27

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
again.

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

28

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
it.

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.

interlude

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.

29

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

ears;

There earth is but an echo of the
spheres."

— 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
breathlessly.

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-

30

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

sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils."
— Shakespeare

^^^r:)

^he iialis L^nlid

^i^

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.

31

^ne .^^liiaator

9*

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.

32

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
say?"

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

33

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-
tures.

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-
tion?"

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

34

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
again.

"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
meant.

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

35

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-
opened.

"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

9

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.

36

Preseriptian tar Peace

By Joyce Callaway

Review of BETWEEN TEARS AND LAUGH-
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.

37

38

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.

39

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

40

\d