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Vol. XXII Fall, 1958 

t^l Thought — 

Have you had one lately? If not, we hope the contents of this magazine will aid you in 
thinking by giving you something to think about. We are not concerned with what you think, 
either positively or negatively. The important thing is . . . THINK. There is a tendency among 
people to accept a story, poem, or essay as something to read but not to think about. Thev often 
classify a writing as bad if it does not have a philosophy which is acceptable to the reader. We 
must realize that it is often the purpose of a writer to create a negative reaction in order to get 
across his point. 

In this magazine the authors of the material have written in various modern and traditional 
styles, in order to arouse thovight. The expounded thoughts and situations are not necessarilv the 
thoughts or beliefs of the authors. They are merely using some of the greatest of the thought- 
provoking mediums — poetry, modern fiction and the comparative essay. 

The power of thought is, in itself, a great medium pertaining particularly to the human race. 

It is a shame we don't use it more often. 

N.ANCY Lee Brubeck, Editor-in-Chief. 


Cover Carol Lassiter 

Laments I and II Alyce Somerville 2 

Pigeons on the Grass Alas Judy Harris 3 

Commonplace and Legend LaVeme Collier 4 

The Laughter of Little Children Kay Howard 5 

The Chase LaVerne Collier 6 

Left Alone Bonnie Mann 7 

Lawrence and Freud: The Prophet and the Oracle Molly Workman 8 

Psychoanalysis Two Sophomores (wise fools) Ink blots by Barbara Odom 10-11 

Helpful Hints for English 211-212 12 

The Critics' Corner 14 

Prima Donna La\ erne Collier 17 


Editor-in-Chief Nancy Lee Brubeck 

Managing Editor Molly Workman 

Business Manager Betty Griggs 

Short Story Editor Ann Glover 

Poetry Editor Alyce Somerville 

Art Editor Carol Lassiter 

Re\iew Editor Molly Workman 

CiRCUL.\TioN Manager Mary Ellen Moore 

He.\d Typist Barbara Rossiter 

Faculty Ad\isor Dr. Richard K. Meeker 

Editorial Assistants: 

Sandra Clements. Pat Cleveland. LaVerne Collier. Joanne Fivel. Judy Harris. Kay Howard, 
Bonnie Mann, Norrish Munson, Linda Poff, Sandra Snyder, Jane Stegall, Page Tolleson, Emily 

Business Assistants: 

Becky Abernathy, Anne Clarke, Joyce Ellis. Jackie Gibson, Nancy Harnsberger, Barbara 
Railey, Sarah Rock, Joan JLee Thomas, Dotsie Wheeler. 






I walked beside the mourning sea 

Once the earth was full of joy, 

And listened to the weeping wind 

Longing to give birth. 

Sing hymns of sorrow to the night 

Life was given then to me: 

As dawn the peace of night did rend. 

I am the child of mirth. 

The mountains shivered in the light. 

Alone I walked upon the earth. 

The dying leaves fell on earth's face. 

Fate upon me smiled. 

I wandered over all the land 

To bear another was mv task. 

Searching for a joyous dwelling place. 

Sorrow is my child. 


by Judy Harris 

I started thinking about llic hiids 
as soon as I stepped from the term- 
inal into the street. I knew the people 
on the subway had reminded me of 
something — crowded, all fighting for 
a seat, and each one with his own 
distinct odor, a musty smell like a 
pile of damp feathers. And now the 
birds; here they are, a flock of them 
running around the street and in the 
gutter, all oblivious to the people and 
noise around. I wanted to kick one, 
but the thought gave me a sad feel- 
ing as though I would be harming 
an ignorant child. Well, the birds 
are ignorant. And so are people. 
Then, I saw two pigeons fighting for 
the same piece of garbage, and I 
thought of my plan again. 

I have been sad too long now; I 
have been worrying about the people, 
but doing nothing. I am so tired; I 
feel as though death is near me, but 
I must complete my plan before I 
die. I don't want to die, but I can't 
think of that now. I must think of my book. I 
am a great man, and I must write my book and 
explain life to these ignorant birds. Otherwise 
they will never know. They never question in 
a world that is full of questions. They may be 
satisfied, but those birds in the gutter are too. 
They are without minds, just surface, a crust 
of dead, futile earth that has never been turned. 
Everything seems futile and indefinite. Except 
death; death is final. 

But why do I keep thinking of death? I must 
think of life and the people now, for I am going 
to teach them. But life is evasive, and these 
people are stupid; they have no curiosity. They 
won't listen. Bach has made life as clear as a 
mathematical equation, but they won't learn 
from music. They listen, but they won't hear. 
I must tell them and make them hear. People 
are like the birds in the street; they don't think; 
they live by instinct. And they are stupid. 

I can see my apartment house now, and there 
are children playing in the street by it. But 
what is a house? What is a child? I am going 

to write a book! It will be the Verv Greatest 
Book. The Only Book. The Only Book of Life. 
Yes. But what is life? And where? Whv does 
it have to hide from me? I am so tired; I have 
searched everywhere and in every man, but 
those who say the}- understand my search are 
no nearer the secret than I am. The others don"t 
care. They are all asleep. They live in a dream 
of God and little cliildi-en and singing biids, 
but they won't stop to realize that these things 
are the epitome of absolute notliing! 

But will there be time to show them? Mavbe 
I will die before I wake, and the stupid people 
will live on in their ignorance. I must not die; 
I am the Teacher, and I have not fomid the 
answer yet. W'ho is there to tell me when to 
die? God? The people have a god. but only 
because they are scared. They use their god so 
they won't have to think. God is their answer 
to everything they don't imderstand. He is 
just a habit, an excuse. But can God explain 
death to them? Or life? Can they explain 
(continued on page 13) 


The rain rages in staccato 

Against the roof, 

Gasps in the gutter. 

And gnaws at the defeated grass. 

The wind scratches the skin 

Of feeble leaves, 

And gnashes at the windows 

Of stodgy old houses that 


In a harpsichord quaver. 

The people move 


In tjhe street 

Like a shrouded procession 

Of harpies and gargoyles 

With a yellowing love 

For life and element. 

However it is told — 

London's winds curl 
Lilacs into lyres. 

The trees of Chantilly 
Lift their leaves 
Like flagons 
To the rain. 

Spanish castle walls 
Shimmer crystalline 
And ring as purely 
As small prisms 
Falling together. 

The Africans 

Laugh liquidly 

Until it spills over into 

A river of mirth 

To match the medley 

Of the rains. 


The Laughter of Little Children 

by Kay Howard 

"The world is going to end tomorrow," 
Timmy announced. The grin on his dirty Uttle 
face made it evident that he was not at all 
aware of the meaning of his statement. Rather, 
he sensed the spell he had cast on his miniature 
audience and he hurried on. "The devil is goin' 
to put matches in that iron mushroom down by 
the lake and burn up all the animules and 
peoples and mommies and daddies and Indians 
and everythin'!" At this point he hesitated, 
grinning at the awe-stricken five-year-olds be- 
fore him. 

"It won't bum me up, Timmy, 'cause I'm 
big!" retorted a mud-splattered little girl. Her 
chubby chin was set in indignation, but her 
eyes were wide with fright. 

"Yes it will. It sure will!" he shouted. "And 
you can't do nothin' about it." 

"She could put water on her and then the fire 
couldn't get her. That's what I'm goin' to do," 
said a freckled face. 

"An angel could come get her," spoke up a 
thoughtful lad. The last remark seemed to 
satisfy the little girl. Her face brightened. 
She turned her attention from Timmy to pig- 
tails matted with dried mud and red ribbons. 

Timmy shrugged off his opposition and con- 
tinued. After all, what did they know? They 
never listened to his daddy speak in church. 
They always giggled, but Timmy listened. That 
is, he listened most of the time. Sometimes he 
squirmed in his seat while his mind drifted to 
other things — spacemen and Indians and things. 

Timmy cocked his head, thought a moment, 
and plunged on — "God and all his angels is 
goin' to blow and blow at the big fire, but the 
angels are little and they'll fall down in the 
clouds 'cause they'll get tired and won't have 
no more breath. Then God is goin' to call all 
his people and tell them to climb lots of stairs 
and everybody'll have to wear space helmets 
'cause the stairs'll be high up in the clouds — 
high as space ships go." 

This was too much for the little girl in pig- 
tails, and she blurted out in the silence which 
had fallen among her playmates, "How do you 
know that. Timmv Cox?" 

"I know that 'cause my daddy said that in 
church. He said that people who was strong 
could climb up all the stairs, but if you was 
weak 'cause you'd been bad, then you'd fall 
down in the fire and burn forever. You're goin' 
to bum forever 'cause you are bad. You never 
listen to my daddy when he talks in church." 

Tears made furrows down the little girl's 
cheeks. "I try to listen, Timmy, but your 
daddy talks too long and says big words and 
sometimes he hollers and scares me. I'll listen 
next time — I promise. Tell your daddy that 
I'll listen next time." 

"Yeah. O.K. I'll tell 'm and he'll send an 
angel to get you. My daddy and God are real 
good friends 'cause my daddy saves souls and 
is pretty important. I bet my daddy is the most 
important man . . ." 

A woman's voice called from a doorway. 
"Timmy! Come and wash for dinner." Tinrniv 
forgot his speech-making and obediently ran to 
was for dinner. 

The sun was almost down. The skv was 
darkening. The trees wliich enclosed the Cox's 
cottage swayed gently in the breeze. There was 
always a breeze at this time of day; it crept up 
from the lake. But the sky was darkening more 
rapidly than usual and the breeze was becom- 
ing more of a wind. The trees aroimd the cot- 
tage began to rock and whistle eerie times. 
They wound around in little circles, occasion- 
ally slapping against window panes — tap — 
tap — tap. 

Little Tinmiy ate his dinner and watched 
Zorro until his mother coaxed him off to bed. 
It was eas}' for Timmy to fall fast asleep with 
a rh}^hmic tapping at the \Nindow- and the 
steady beat of rain on the roof. It wasn't long 
before Timmy was lost in di-eams of candv 
mountains and ice cream houses, or was it a 
dream of big brown bears and spiders? 

The tapping at the window became a pound- 
ing and the rain could no longer be beard above 
the thunder. Tinmiy slept. Occasional flashes 
of lightning lit up his sleepmg form. Rain 
spilled itself through his ^^-indow and onto a 
(continued on page 18^ 


With elusive swish 

of tail feathers 

you taunt; 
your wings swell their width again. 
I smile at the stroke 
of your feathers 

moving across 

the strings 

of my being, 
pluckmg full-noted rhapsodies 

with a sleek wing. 
Only your glide vibrates 
those wires 

stretched between 
soul and heart, 

orderly conversation 
out of the chords. 
Seizing your soft body, 
feeling the flutter of muscles, 
Hearing your subtle music, 
I sing out 
swathed in silk. 
With time 
the cage 
of my fingers 


into claws, 
while you become 
a skeleton 
of fragile bones and skin 

parchment — thin 
with life liquid 

through the tissues 

by greedy fingers. 

In frenzy I try 
to blow life 

into your frail structure, 
but It 

into a pile of 
ragged paper and splinters. 
Then I spit out 
tasteless words 
edged in sand. La Verne Collier 




hy Bonnii^ Mann 

The snakes are all over the place — climbing 
up my legs, wrapping their long slimy bodies 
around me. I can feel their cold claminess 
against my skin. Why don't they go away? 
God, I wish they'd go away! I haven't done 
anything to deserve this. I have always been 
good. I do everything Mama tells me. I do 
everything Bob says. There are no children. 
I always wanted children; I deserve children — 
little children, climbing up my legs and wrap- 
ping their fat, little arms around me. Oh God, 
I wdsh they'd go away! Sometimes they do, 
but they always come back. I remember the 
first day they came. Mama comes to the house 
every day. Bob likes Mama. The snakes came 
that day — they came after the last day mama 
came and it wasn't my fault. I don't like blood! 
The snakes like blood. They come when they 
know it is there. They came after me that day 
and carried me here. 

Sometimes a man comes and looks at me. 
He is a sad man. Sometimes he touches me — 
like the snakes. I was beautiful once. I was 
a princess — I lived in a beautiful palace. They 
have taken everything. The witch was there — 
the prince was there, too. And then, the witch 
went away and the snakes came. There must 
be a thousand or more. Sometimes they bite 
me; I die, but I wake up and they are gone; 
then they come back. I fight and fight, bvit 
they always bite me. Ha! They tickle, they 
tickle — they slide up my legs and down my 
arms and they tickle — ha! I was the most 
beautiful thing. I knew I was beautiful. The 
king said I was beautiful — but the witch was 
ugly, ugly, ugly! She was too ugly to be here. 
The snakes are on my arms and legs — I can't 
move. They are white now. Maybe they are 
dead. No! No! They are rubbing on my head 
— they are squeezing me — I can't breathe. 
God! I can't breathe. 

The witch hated me; she talked and talked. 
She always talked. She took everything. She 
did it and he liked her. He talked and talked 
to her and never to me. He brought her things. 
I only have snakes. Sometimes I think I like 
the snakes. They rub my head — they feel cool 
on my head — but they get in my hair! Now I 

am ugly like the witch. I look like the witch: 
I have many arms and legs — I have too many 
arms and legs. My eyes are black and I am 
hard — hard like a — a — table! I feel like a table. 
The table was in between us. but it didn't 
matter — the witch is gone now. It was a beau- 
tiful table; now it is stained and ugly. Every- 
thing was beautiful before the witch came, but 
I was the most beautiful of all. Mama took my 
doll away — I ^vasn"t a big girl — I cried. I was 
a little girl. I want my doll. It was black and 
narro^v there where the witch put me. There 
were things hanging over my eyes — I couldn't 
breathe — the \valls closed in on me and 
squeezed me. 

I had a little kitten — it was an ugly little 
kitten with no tail — it \yas gray and bro\\ii 
^^^th sad green eyes. It loved me — it jiist sat 
there, looking, with its sad green eyes, and then 
it looked no more. There ^vas a tree by the 
stream — the tree had no leaves and the stream 
had no water — my beautiful palace was beside 
the stream — I looked from the palace window 
at the tree and cried because the ^^^tch was 
there. She wore a black dress and she had a 
broomstick, but her nose was not long and 
pointed. It \vas short, flat and piggish. 

(, continued on page 13) 

In 1913. D. H. Lawrence published the final 
version of his third novel. Sons and Lovers. In 
the opinion of several critics. Lawrence was not 
at that time familiar with the teachings of the 
German psychologist, Sigmund Freud. If this 
is the case, it may be assumed that those evi- 
dences in the novel of the mother-son relation- 
ship, which, Freud labeled the Oedipus com- 
plex, were Lawrence's own conclusions upon 
the subject, independent of the Freudian theory 
prevalent at the time. However, the interest 
which psychoanalysts showed in Sons and Lov- 
ers after its publication led Lawrence himself 
into a study of Freudianism. His subsequent 
rejection of Freud's basic theories is an impor- 
tant element in the interpretation of Lawrence's 
own work. 

Before we enter into any discussion of Law- 
rence's disagreement with Freud, it will per- 
haps be helpful to quote the author's own sum- 
mary of Sons and Lovers, which he wrote in a 
letter to Edward Gamett of November 14, 1912. 

A woman of character and refinement goes into 
the lower class, and has no satisfaction in her 
own life. She has had a passion for her hus- 
band, so the children are born of passion, and 
have heaps of vitality. But as her sons grow 
up, she selects them as lovers — first the eldest, 
then the second. These sons are urged into 
life by their reciprocal love of their mother — 
urged on and on. But when they come to 
manhood, they can't love, because their mother 
is the strongest power in their lives, and holds 
them. ... As soon as the young men come 
into contact with women there is a split. 
William gives his sex to a fribble, and his 
mother holds his soul. But the split kills him. 
because he doesn't know where he is. The next 
son gets a woman who fights for his soul — 
fights his mother. The son loves the mother — 
all the sons hate and are jealous of the father. 
The battle goes on between the mother and the 
girl, with the son as the object. The mother 
gradually proves the stronger, because of the 
tie of blood. The son decides to leave his soul 
in his mother's hands, and, like his elder 
brother, go for passion. Then the split begins 
to tell again. But, almost unconsciously, the 
mother realizes what is the matter and begins 
to die. The son casts off his mistress, attends 
to his mother dying. He is left in the end 
naked of everything, with the drift towards 

The similarity between Lawrence's story — 
'^The son loves the mother — all the sons hate 
and are jealous of the father" — and Freud's 
conception of the Oedipus complex is quite 
obvious. However, according to Freud, the 


Oedipus situation is based upon an unconscious 
incest-striving, which is in turn an outgrowth 
of infant sexuaUty. Freud further insisted that 
both incest-striving and infant sexuality are 
natural stages of human growth and that the 
inhibition of these instincts is the basis of all 

According to Frederick J. Hoffman in Freud- 
ianism and the Literary Mind. Lawrence's re- 
jection of the Oedipus situation is based upon a 
misinterpretation of this theory. ". . . it is a 
mistake to claim that (Freud) advocated the 
fulfillment of the incest-craving as a means of 
cure. The object of analysis is neither to find 
incest in. the patient's infantile sex life nor to 
pronounce one or another sort of moral judg- 
ment upon it. It is chiefly to point out the 
impracticability of incest as a regulating factor 
in the patient's life. Implicit in Lawrence's 
criticism is the error of the lay critic, who be- 
lieves that Freud opposes inhibitions; he does 
not countenance incest as a means of releasing 
man from the inhibition of his incest-craving, 
but suggest sublimation, re-direction, and refor- 
mation of one's conscious controls over the 
early sex life." 

Lawrence was aware that Freud considered 
the inhibition of incest-craving to be a universal 
human instinct. But, since in Lawrence's 
opinion any inhibition which causes neurosis 
and insanity is wrong, the emphasis which 
p.sychoanalysts place upon the Oedipus situa- 
tion is also wrong. Therefore, Lawrence reject- 
ed the letter of the Freudian incest-striving 
theory, although he was willing to admit to the 
existence of the mother-son relationship as it 
appears in his own work. 

How, then, in the light of Lawrence's rejec- 
tion of Freud, are we to interpret the Oedipus 
situation in Sons and Lovers? Lawrence would 
have it that the reciprocal affection of Mrs. 
Morel and her sons is merely the "tie of blood," 
of kinship. However, Lawrence himself refers 
to them as her "lovers," and no such strong 



affection appears to exist for the daughter. 
Annie. Furthermore, it is only their relations 
with other women which causes conflicts be- 
tween the mother and her sons. In other ac- 
tivities — their work, their attempts to get on in 
the world — Mrs. Morel aids and encourages 
them. It is only the women whom she fears 
and whom she is jealous. Her patent dis- 
approval of William's fiancee and the mental 
conflict which grows out of it sends that young 
man to an early grave. When she transfers her 
devotion to the second son, Paul the same situ- 
ation arises, although in this instance the con- 
flict succeeds in wearing down and killing the 
mother rather than the son. 

Although the portrait of Mrs. Morel in Sons 
and Lovers is generally a sympathetic one, 
there is something frightening, almost horrible 
in her selfish determination to hold her son's 
affection in order to make up for the husband 
whom she has cast off. She is distrustful of 
Paul's relationship with his childhood sweet- 
heart, Miriam, and accuses the girl of being 
"one of those who will want to such a man's 
soul out till he has none of his o^^^l left . . . 
She will never let him become a man; she 
never will." This is reasonably accurate crit- 
icism of Miriam. Ironically, however, it may 
also be applied to Mrs. Morel herself. The 
tragedy of Sofis and Lovers is not the bitterness 
of a broken love affair between Paul and 
Miriam or Paul and Clara. It is, rather, the 
tragedy of a mother's over-protective, over- 
affectionate attitude toward a sensitive and 
adoring son, which deprives him of a normal 
relationship with another woman. 

It would seem, then, despite Lawrence's de- 
nials, that the Oedipus situation is implicit in 
Sons and Lovers. And, although the incest mo- 
tive is never actually recognized in the novel, 
it is manifest in Lawrence's physical, almost 
sensual expression of the affection between 
Paul and his mother. In the light of the knowl- 
edge that the earlier part of the novel is largely 

iiuloliiographiral, it i.s not surprising thai I^iw- 
renco would choose to reject the Freudian roi- 
copt of the Oedipus situation. Incest is alwajs 
a repugnant subject, particularly when it 
carries personal connotations. 

Lawrence's quarrel with Freudian theory 
goes far beyond his disagreement with the basic 
Oedipus situation. The difference between the 
creative artist and the interpretive scientist is 
essentially one of attitude or point of view. In 
the case of Lawrence and Freud, the difference 
is pointed and obvious. According to Mr. Hoff- 
man in Freudianism and the Literary Mind, the 
basis of Lawrence's criticism of Freud is part 
and parcel of Lawrence's vitalistic philosophy 
of life. Lawrence himself attempted to defend 
his position in several essays, notably. Psycho- 
analysis and the Unconscious. 

In Freud's theory, the Unconscious is the 
repository of those basic drives which he has 
labeled the pleasure principle. The conflict be- 
tween man's instinctual desire for pleasure and 
the reality of the external world results in such 
mental and emotional distvn-bances as neurosis 
and insanity. Through the practice of psycho- 
anah'sis, Freud hoped to bring these repressed 
desires into the light of the Conscious mind and 
thereby cure the disturbance of the individual. 
Lawrence strongly objected both to the spirit 
and the letter of Freudian psychoanah"tic 
theory. First of all. his definition of the L'n- 
conscious is quite different from that of Freud. 
To Lawrence, the true Unconsciovis is the well 
and source of vital life. Freud tells us that it 
is the inhibition of the pleasure principle in the 
LTnconscious w^hich cripples the mental and 
emotional processes. Lawrence would have it 
that it is the mind, inhibited by the narrow- 
mental and emotional attitudes of modern ci^-il- 
ization. which has siicceeded in crippling and 
enfeebling the LTnconscious. 

Lawrence objected to psychotherapy on the 
grounds that any conscious realization of the 
processes of the LTnconscious tends to restrict 
and limit the vitality of the LTnconscious. He 
classed psychoanalysis with modem science — 
which he loathed because it represents a denial 
of man's real, ^•ital interests — and condenuied 
(continued on page 16) 


A practical tesi 

Study thes( 

turn to page 


lalysis ? 

normal people, 
blots; then 
or your test. 


Choose one of each of the following ink blot 

Ink Blot A 

1. Umbrellas. 

2. Coat-of-Arnis. 

3. Two poodles and a pekingese. 

Ink Blot B 

1. Two log rollers who just bumped into each 

2. Two genies arguing over who gets the bi- 

3. "Take me to your leader." (Upside down.) 

Ink Blot C 

1. A boxer with cauliflower ears. 

2. A headless football hero. (Upside down.) 

3. "What, me worry?" 

Ink Blot D 

1. The new silhouette for 1960 . 

2. Two martians fighting over which wav to 
take the turtle. 

3. Siamese elves trying to figure out how to get 
in a tank suit. 

Ink Blot E 

1. Two Russians with monkeys on their backs. 

2. Daniel Boone with his nose pressed against 
a mirror. 

3. "Momma says we have to apologize for 
spilling that ink.'" 

Evaluation of Results 
If you had 1,2,3, 2, 1: 

You always follow given patterns, and with a 
little persuasion you could develop a case of 
pseudomania. A case such as this would most 
likely originate in a person taking an overdose 
of methods classes. 

If you had 3, 2, 1, 3, 2: 

You are individualist and do everything back- 
wards. You are probably also a victim of 
psychrolusia (cold bathing) which develops 
when one lives in a college dormitory. 


If you thought all of these were ink blots, 
you are the only normal person around and I 
suggest you ])i;iy dumb. They woidd banish us, 
you know. 

Helpful Hints For English 211-212 


(Note: This handy guide w'as created by a 
graduate of English 211-212 who received an 
"A" on the course. Any resemblance to a Long- 
wood course or professor is purely intentional). 

General Do's and Don't's 

1. Open window before Professor enters 
classroom. Professor is unhappy and 
frustrated if he cannot do this for himself. 

2. Snicker when Professor sits down behind 
desk, presses fingertips together, looks 
over class and says "Hum! ". This is a 
habit of many years' standing which en- 
dears Professor to all who know him. 

3. Cn' or become angry when Professor 
makes sarcastic remark. Professor re- 
spects those who can "take it." 

4. Read assignments before class. Professor 
prefers fresh, novel interpretations which 
must be created on the spot. 


1. Talk about MAD magazine whenever 
possible. Professor is a MAD fan. 

2. Purchase a textbook and write copious, 
illegible notes in margin. 

3. Argue spiritedly over any point or inter- 
pretation which comes up in class. Pro- 
fessor loves intellectual discussions. 

4. Join the Colonnade staff. This impresses 
Professor with your sincere interest in 
literary activities. 

5. Go to Professor's office occasionally for 
heart-to-heart chat. This impresses Pro- 
fessor with your sincere desire to pass the 

6. Inquire frequently about health of Pro- 
fessor's child(ren). This creates friendly 

7. Offer to babysit for Professor. This is 
financially as well as academically re- 

Tests and Examinations 

1. Faint when mimeographed tests are 
passed out. The questions are just as hard 
as they look, but there's no use in getting 

2. Use textbook unless absolutely necessary. 
Be sure to turn down flaps or mark pages 
so that no time will be lost leafing 
through table of contents looking for 
particular poem or story. 

(continued on page 19) 




(continued from page 7) 

There are not so many snakes now — maybe 
they have gone where the witch is — they are 
her children — I have no children. Children 
would have pleased her, but I have no children 
— no soft, squirming babies. I would have 
loved my babies — I loved my doll — but the 
witch took my doll away! It was beautiful — 
it had yellow curls and blue eyes, but it had no 
clothes — the poor thing had no clothes. I was 
a little girl, not a big girl. I don't think the 
snakes like me — Mama said to be nice and 
everyone would like me — but see! Ha! The 
snakes don't like me — many have gone away — 
don't go away. Mama said ... It is on the 
table! I forgot to cut it for supper! Where is 
the knife? What time is it? He is late. "Don't 
worry about him — leave him alone. When your 
father was . . ." 

Oh Mama no — hush Mama — shut up Mama! 
No, it wasn't my fault, but the snakes came 
anyway and now they are leaving. I'm not 
glad — no, I'm not glad. I feel safer when they 
are here. I am so hot and they feel cool — 
some of them are beautiful — I like to look at 
them! No, don't go away, snakes — I don't hate 
you anymore — stay with me — be my babies — I 
will be good to you, and take care of you — stop! 
Once upon a time a long time ago, there was a 
handsome prince. He was the most handsome 
prince. He came to my palace on a beautiful 
white horse with silver bells; I heard the bells 
and one day we walked together. He was my 
prince! He wasn't hers — but he liked her — mv 
prince liked the witch. They talked together — 
they sang together — the wdtch had a horrible 
voice — it squeaked and shrieked — it made the 
spiders and the tlies run. 

There are only three snakes now! And they 
are very still, very still. They must be asleep. 
I will be very quiet — I won't awaken them. 
Sh! I wonder where Mama is — Mama comes 
every day — I must tell her not to awaken them. 
Mama always talks! But where is Mama? She 
comes ever}- day . . . she came the day they 
brought me here ... I was in the kitchen — the 
snakes weren't there I hen, but Mama w-as there 
— he likes aphrodesia . . . She was making it 

ihiil rl;iy — she always make it! I/K)k! Th'* 
snakes don't breathe! The snakps don't move. 
What's wrong, snakes? The snakes are dead! 
There is only a shell left now. I'm sorrj', so 
sorry. Where is she? Oh God, where? Is she 
asleep? Yes, she is asleep . . . yes. I mustn't 
awaken her — I can't! Did I cut it? Oh, jes, 
God. I did it and they have left me alone! 


(continued from page 3j 

God in life? No. Maybe death is the answer 
to God. Yes, yes! It is . . . Death is God and 
god is Death! But He is afraid of me; he will 
take me away because I have found him out. 
Oh you stupid little pigeons in the gutter. You 
stupid people who worship Death. You are 
hypocrites; Death has taught you well and you 
spurn his teachings because you are ignorant 
and will not understand. You will learn though: 
you will all meet your god and he will take 
you away as he is taking me. We will all be- 
come part of God and will absorb the world: 
then there will be nothing. Just Death, our god. 
I am not afraid of my Death-god. for I have 
known him a long time, but I must tell Walt: 
then I wdll tell the people so they can prepare 
for what is to come. Poor, poor people: they 
are innocent, yet they must die. But that little 
pigeon on the railing will not die: he will just 
sit there and smile as we stupid ones are taken 
away. And he is the cause of my death; he 
made me think and now I will die and he will 
live. But I will not let that smiling bird stay; 
if I must go. I will take him too. evil one. He 
is so tame I can reach out and take him in my 
hands; he is soft and warm and he is not afraid 
of me at all. But you will not smile at me for 
long, little bird. You have made me mad and 
you will kill me. but I will kill you fii'st. I can 
hold you in my hands, and while you grin up 
at me. I will put my fingers around your neck 
and squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze. Now. 
^•ou demon bird, you are no longer smiling at 
me. You are limp now and I am happy; you 
have made me cry. you silly dead bird, but now 
I can throw my head back and laugh and laugh 
and laugh. 


The Critics Corner 

The Reluctant Debutante 

The unique reputation of the Barter Theatre 
of Virginia invariably preceeds it on tour, for 
the Barter has enjoyed many successful theatri- 
cal seasons. It is unfortunate, therefore, that 
such a potentially enjoyable experience should 
turn out to be such a disappointment. The 
Barter's production of William Douglas Home's 
The Reluctant Debutante, presented in Jarman 
Hall on October 27, was indeed disappointing. 

Perhaps a great deal of the failure of the 
production may be blamed on the script itself. 
The plav concerns the escort problems of an 
English debutante, a subject which is rather 
unfamiliar to most American audiences. The 
story, based on a twist of the old mistaken- 
identity theme, is the type of sophisticated 
corned}- which other English playwTights. such 
as Oscar Wilde in The Importance of Being 
Earnest, have handled with much greater suc- 
cess. Mr. Douglas Home has produced some 
very witty dialogue, but the play is definitely 
handicapped b}- the rather commonplace comic 
conventions of the plot. 

The Barter Theatre has long been noted as a 
testing ground for new young talent and has 
proved a professional springboard for such 
■"name" stars as Gregory Peck. Hume Cronyn, 
Ernest Borgnine. Lizbeth Scott and Frank Love- 
joy. However, if the talent displayed in The 
Reluctant Debutante is any indication of the 
future of the acting profession, then the future 
looks unpromising indeed. 

Ned Beatty, as the debutante's long-suffering 
father, proved amusing enough in spite of the 
fact that his lines were often obscured by a 
thick British accent. Diane Hill as the anxious 
mother showed a carefully-wrought characteri- 
zation, particularly in her scenes on the tele- 
phone, but too frequently appeared artificial or 
"studied." In the role of the debutante, blonde 
Carolyn Condron was adequate, if not impres- 
sive. And Mitch Ryan as the unacceptable 
suitor did his professional best in a dismal role 
which is quite unworthy of his talents. (Mr. 
Ryan is well remembered here for his portrayal 

of the title role in The Rainmaker last season.) 

Although none of the performances were out- 
standing, the majority were at least profession- 
ally acceptable. The exceptions were Rose 
Maree Jordon, whose portraj^al of Mabel Cross- 
waite lacked the comic spirit, and Kitty Kreutz, 
who seemed to lack any spirit at all . . . 

The entire play showed occasional flashes of 
deft direction, which were unfortunately not 
sustained throughout. After a good start, the 
pace fell off badly in the second act, as though 
the actors had suddenly grown weary of the 
whole affair. The third act improved, but the 
play never quite regained its initial vigor. 

On the technical end of the production, both 
the set and the costumes appeared to be rather 
uninspired, although perhaps the limitations of 
a road show company make this understandable. 

Taken as a whole, the production was reason- 
ably successful. However, mere professional 
adequacy is not what an audience expects for a 
company' with a national reputation. Undoubt- 
edly, there are better productions in the Barter 
repertoire, and it is unfortunate that The Re- 
luctant Debutante was the play chosen to repre- 
sent the company on tour. It is to be hoped 
that future productions will bring us a happier 
cho ce of material as well as a better presenta- 
tion of that material. 



Tyrone Guthrie's conception of Greek theatre 
was exhibited at Longwood on October 20. Mr. 
Guthrie's idea was sound, so the resultant per- 
formance was good. The limitations of the film 
medium kept some of the "Greekness" out, but 
Oedipus Rex came through without much muti- 
lation — other than the self-inflicted type. 

Extreme stylization was the most prominent 
feature of the film. Of the stylistic devices, the 
most striking were the masks. After the initial 



shock, one became accustomed to the absence (jf 
facial expression. Jocasta's mask, however, was 
overdone and the faces of some of the chorus 
members were definitely too gruesome. The 
lack of facial expression was replaced by vocal 
inflection, body movement, and what we mod- 
erns term "overacting." The "overacting" is 
another stylistic device which the Greeks used 
to put the point over clearly to the back rows 
of the amphitheatre. It seemed ludicrous, be- 
cause Mr. Guthrie had us suspended some- 
where above the altar of Dionysus — a modern 
miracle which the Greeks were unable to 

The cast of relative unknowns performed 
effectively in a professional manner. Their 
voices were in pleasant contrast and their lines 
were delivered with great feeling. 

The chorus was most impressive. Their main 
contribution was in providing a flow of action 
by shifting focus. First they blend with the 
background; now they overwhelm the king 
with their mass; now they fade for him to 
speak. Because of a faulty soundtrack, how- 
ever, the chorus was often unintelligible. For- 
tunately, their function was not amplification 
of sound to the cheap seats in the back of the 

Oedipus Rex was a novel experience and a 
worthwhile one. However, this critic advises 
delay before trying to buy the soundtrack al- 
bum. Lunes, Lowe and Sophocles may concoct 
a musical version. 

Pat Cleveland 

VAN CLIBURN Richmond, Virginia 

"Appassionata" Sonata .... Beethoven 
Sonata in C major, K.330 .... Mozart 

Sonata No. 6 Prokofieff 

Scherzo, C-sharp minor Chopin 

Fantasie, F minor Chopin 

J/eux d'eau Ravel 

Mephisto Waltz Liszt 

After having postponed his debut to a Rich- 
mond audience, Van Cliburn made up for any 

inconvience he may have caused the \i<-i)\>\f:. 
On this rainy Tuesday evening a standing- 
room-only audience heard one of the finf".! 
musicians of our day. 

At I he suggestion of several local musicians, 
Mr. Cliburn substituted the beloved "Appas- 
sionata" Sonata of Beethoven for the Bach 
Tacatta in C minor. This proved to be a wise 
choice in many ways. Mr. Cliburn had a deep 
inner understanding of the composition, and 
this he managed to transmit to his listeners. 
Here were to be found both power and subtle 

The second composition of the evening was 
the Mozart Sonata in C major, K.330. After 
the highly romantic Beethoven, the Mozart 
seemed like a breath of fresh air. The wonder- 
ful second movement was given one of the 
finest readings possible. Van Cliburn is the 
master of floating pianissimo tones. 

The long and difficult first half of the pro- 
gram was completed by a performance of Pro- 
kofieff's Sixth Sonata. This sonata is one of a 
trilogy written by the contemporar\' Russian 
composer commemorating World War II. The 
fact that such a young musician could even 
attempt this work is remarkable. That Mr. 
Cliburn is the master of this music is even more 
remarkable. This composition, perhaps more 
than any other in the program, would require a 
first-rate musician. 

After intermission. Mr. Cliburn retiu-ned to 
play two works of Chopin and a piece by 
Maurice Ravel. The two Chopin pieces were 
very well done. The Ravel was not so well 
done. The spirit of impressionistic music does 
not seem to have comnnmicated itself to Mi-. 
Cliburn. This was the one weak point of the 

The last number on the progiam was Franz 
Liszt's Mephisto Waltz. Satan seems to have 
literally' jumped from the keyboard. Here was 
a devil full of life and entirely capable of cap- 
turing the soul of Faust or any other man. It 
was a wonderful climax to a fine evening. 

Many may have gone to see Van Cliburn out 
of curiosity. It might be said of him that he 
came, he was heard, and he conquered his 
audiences completely. 

Jo.\NX L. FrvEL 



Lawrence and Freud 

(continued from page 9) 

Freud as a mere scientist who was more con- 
cerned with cHnical theory than with the actual 
problem of living. He further believed, F. J. 
Hoffman says, that the patient-analyst relation- 
ship "placed too much emphasis upon complete 
submission on the part of the patient. Lawrence 
was unwilling to have any one person submit 
entirely to another; such a condition would de- 
stroy the precious germ of organic individu- 
ality . . ." which was so vital to his philosophy. 
Lawrence himself said that "While the Freud- 
ian theory of the unconscious ... is valuable as 
a description of our psychological condition, the 
moment you begin to apply it, and make it 
master of the living situation, you have begun 
to substitute one mechanistic or unconscious 
illusion for another." 

It seems fairly obvious, then, that Lawrence 
took it upon himself to change and amend 
Freudian psychology to fit his own theories of 
behavior. But, although the two men worked 
in different media and from an altogether dif- 
ferent point of view, it is apparent that their 
goals were practically synonymous. Each, in 
his own way, desired to relieve the world of the 
great ills of personal disharmony and malad- 
justment. Freud believed that the answer lay 
in therapeutic analysis, which involves recogni- 
tion and redirection of the unconscious, instinct- 
ual desires; Lawrence believed that it could be 
found in the perfection of the sexual relation- 
ship and the submission of the individual to the 
unconscious or instinctual life. 

Sons and Lovers had been Lawrence's psycho- 
logical biography. In Lady Chatterley's Lover 
the novelist abandoned the fictionalized reality 
of the earlier work in favor of a fictionalized 
ideal. Sons and Lovers was Lawrence's concep- 
tion of life as it was; Lady Chatterley's Lover 
was Lawrence's vision of life as it should be. 
The latter novel also incorporated the avithor's 
criticism of society as it affected his idea of a 
meaningful existence. It is Lawrence's final, 
definitive statement of his philosophy. 

The plot of Lady Chatterley's Lover is a 
fairly simple one. A young woman of the 
higher middle class, Constance Reid, marries 
Clifford Chatterley, heir to a baronetcy. A few 

months after the wedding, Clifford retin-ns from 
the First World War, seriously wounded. Al- 
though he eventually recovers, he remains a 
hopeless cripple, paralyzed from the hips down 
and therefore incapable of fulfilling his role as 
a husband. Upon the death of Clifford's father 
shortly afterwards, the baronetcy passes to his 
son, and the new Lord and Ladj^ Chatterley 
moved into "Wragby," the family seat in the 
coal-mining Midlands. 

Frustrated in her marriage relationship and 
lacking children or other compensations which 
might have absorbed her energies, Connie turns 
to an affair with a shallow young playwright 
called Michaelis. This unsatisfactory relation- 
ship is soon terminated. Then Connie becomes 
attracted to Oliver Mellors, the gamekeeper at 
Wragby. At this point, the novel becomes a 
phallic gospel. The physical and spiritual ful- 
fillment which Connie finds in her relationship 
wdth Mellors is the focal point of the novel and 
the ideal culmination of Lawrence's desire to 
live in harmony with the bodily consciousness 
as opposed to the mental. Because she has 
found the true source of happiness — the ideal 
sexual relationship — Connie repudiates her 
husband, her wealth and her position and tells 
Clifford that she loves Mellors, is expecting to 
bear his child, and wishes to marry him. 
Clifford, furious, refuses to give her a divorce, 
but the novel closes with the assurance that he 
will eventually free her. 

The character of Mellors in Lady Chatter- 
ley's Lover is Lawrence's answer to Freud and 
the psychoanalysts. Mellors is, F. J. Hoffman 
says, "the complete Lawrencian man . . . for 
he has kept aloof both from the repressive 
forces of modern industrialism and from the 
petty intellectualism of Clifford's tribe." Mel- 
lors, the sensualist, the antithesis of Clifford, is 
Lawrence's defense of the "religion of the 
blood." The tender, vital, frankly sensual re- 
lationship between Mellors and Connie is the 
novelist's key to personal peace and content- 
ment. In that sense, the sexual relationship in 
Lady Chatterley's Lover is as much of a thera- 
peutic method as Freudian psychoanalysis. 
Lawrence believed that the sexual act "enables 
both man and woman to go to the deepest 
sources of their natures, and thus to understand 
themselves and to know clearly their separate 



and complementary roles." To Lawrence, sex 
was nol the be-all and end-all of existence, but 
a source of renewal by means of which man 
and woman might rediscover and re-energize 
Self. Thus, what Freud would achieve through 
psychoanalysis, Lawrence would achieve in the 
physical intimacy of marriage. 

The secondary or sub-thesis of Lady Chatter- 
ley's Lover concerns Lawrence's view of mod- 
ern society. In the novelist's opinion, industri- 
alization has robbed man of his vitality. The 
working men of England, as symbolized by the 
mining class to which Lawrence belonged, have 
become so dependent upon their weekly wage 
that they have forgotten how to live. And their 
economic dependence upon mine owners such 
as Clifford condemns them to misery and 
poverty and ugliness. Lawrence's most articu- 
late statement of this problem and his proposed 
solution is found in the letter from Mellors to 
Connie, which forms the conclusion of the 

"If you could only tell them that living and 
spending isn't the same thing! But it's no 
good. If only thej' weie educated to live 
instead of earn and spend, they could manage 
very happily on twenty-five shillings. If the 
men wore scarlet trousers, as I said, they 
wouldn't think so much of monej': if they 
could dance and hop and skip, and sing and 
swagger and be handsome, they could do with 
verj- little cash. And amuse the women them- 
selves, and be amused by the women. They 
ought to learn to be naked and handsome, and 
to sing in a mass and dance the old group 
dances, and carve the stools they sit on, and 
embroider their own emblems. Then they 
wouldn't need money. And that's the only way 
to solve the industrial problem: train the people 
to be able to live, and live in handsomeness, 
without needing to spend. But you can't do 
it. They're all one-track minds nowadays. 
Wliereas the mass of people oughtn't even to 
trj- to think, because they cannot! Thev should 
be alive and frisky, and acknowledge the great 
god Pan. He's the only god for the masses, 
forever. The few can go in for higher cults if 
they like. But let the mass be forever pagan." 

Although this kind of approach would seem 
to be a plea for primitivism. it is, of course, 
advanced metaphorically rather than as a rea- 
listic solution to the problem. LawTence's 
swaggering, scarlet-trousered men represent an 
attitude toward life, and attitude which he be- 
lieved would release the working man from his 
bondage to the ruling classes. Unlike socialism, 
Lawrence's solution is not dependent upon a 
theory of class equality nor even upon an 

economic principle, save in a negative sense. 
To I^awrence, it is the pressure of society which 
cripples the individual; but, since the individual 
is an intrinsic part of society, the revolution 
must come from within. In this sense, I-»i\v- 
rence agrees with Freud, who also believed that 
man's salvation lay within himself. Freud, 
however, would work within the framework of 
existing society. Lawrence would tear down 
the old framework and build it anew. 

During their lifetime, both Lawrence and 
Freud came into contact with official censor- 
ship. Their separate yet similar opinions met 
with similar opposition because both men based 
their theories upon the knowledge and interpre- 
tation of a social taboo. Both were denounced 
as immoral and accused of being freaks or 
temporar}' fads. The passage of time, however. 
has served to clarify and solidify the position of 
both scientist and novelist, although certain 
groups still oppose psychoanalysis, and Lady 
Chatterley's Lover has not yet been published 
in Amercica in an unexpurgated form! 


I dare not acknowledge my ego 

When she appears undraped. 

I tremble to see her stand starkly 

Clutching a frayed cheesecloth robe. 

Then I rush to hide the mirrors 

From her merciless frowTi 

Before she discovers her drab face. 

I must dress her in saffron and mauve 
And draw her whalebone tightly 
To my prescribed dimensions. 
After I powder her scars. 
She is prepared for the pedestal again. 

I am her servant for life, it seems. 

LxVerne Coluer 



The Laughter of Little Children 

(continued from page 5) 
floor painted brightly with smiling clowns and 
roller-coasters. The trees outside, like wounded 
soldiers, wound and twisted their bodies for- 
ward and backward in agony, screaming and 
calling into the rain and fog filled night. 
Timmy slept. The wind pounded frantically 
against the cottage, while its inhabitants slept. 

The thunder competed with the screaming 
wind and pounding rain for an audience! BAA- 
ROOMmmm! It shook a window loose and sent 
it smashing to the floor. Timmy sat upright in 
bed. his dark, tossled hair contrasted sharply 
with the pale of his cheeks. All was silent for 
a moment save the thump, thump, thump of a 
tiny heart. A brilliant flash of light lit up a 
corner of his room — a ray gun, a space helmet 
and tribes and tribes of Indians were piled in 
careless fashion against a wall covered with 
sacred pictures. Lightning flashed again, illum- 
inating a picture of christ with a child upon his 
knee, birds on his shoulder and flowers at his 
feet. The figures seemed to have moved in that 
split-second of illumination and settled again 
when the light faded. 

Timmy crawled cautiously from his bed 
and edged his way along the wall toward the 
broken window. Another flash of light ap- 
peared — silence — thump, thump, thump, — 
BAA-ROOMmmm! One dying soldier swept 
forth a hand and clutched a row of swinging 
wires — pissss-tt — whossh! A sheet of fire raced 
along the wires down the soldier's arm, enfold- 
ed his body and groped frantically for another 
near by. Timmy stood frozen with fright. 
"The world is going to end tomorrow — the 
devil is goin' to put matches . . ." The thunder 
roared and the rain fell harder and the \vind 
tore at all in its path. Timmy stooped to the 
floor, his eyes still on the blaze outside his 
window. His tiny hands scanned the area be- 
hind him and came to rest on a slightly-used 
space helmet. ". . . and everybody'll have to 
wear space helmets 'cause the stairs'll be high 
as space ships go." 

In the room across the house Mr. Cox was 
hurriedly dressing. As a storm warden in the 
lake region it was his job to help at the dam. 
Mrs. Cox was also stirring. "Will you be long. 

"Only as long as it takes to check the water 
level. You and Timmy'U be all right 'til 
mornin' won't you? It should be daylight in 
an hour or so. Higgins down the valley got 
the weather report reading and this is the worst 
of the storms, but it should pass us 'fore day- 
light." Mr. Cox left by the kitchen door where 
a car was waiting. 

Timmy heard the door slam. "Mommy 
and Daddy have gone to climb the ladder. 
They've left me all alone. Please, God, send 
me an angel! Help me climb the ladder!" 
Timmy crawled backwards toward the door. 
His eyes would not leave the growing sheet of 
Hame. Flashes of light lit his face to distortion. 
He put the helmet in place and ran through the 
living room to the front door of the cottage. 
Timmy struggled with the latch until the door 
swung open and banged against the inside wall. 
Down the walk and across the front lawn limbs 
from giant oaks floated weightlessly through 
the air. Bits of trash and an occasional garbage 
can lid scraped and scurried along the ground. 

Timmy ran. He fell, but picking himself up 
he raced on. "She could put water on her; then 
the fire couldn't get her . . ." Timmy's light 
pajamas were soaked with rain and clung to his 
body — a form of pink in the blackness. He 
stopped to catch his breath. More trees had 
caught fire. Timmy ran toward the lake. The 
rain had swollen the water until it pushed and 
shoved far above its bed. The fire cast a glow 
of dull yellow across the black water. Timmy 
fell again. This time he fell into a shallow hole 
near the shore of the rising lake. A rock shelt- 
ered him from the wind. Too exhausted to 
move, Timnij' remained crouched where he had 

"Timmy — Timmy!" A hoarse cry rose in 
the frantic atmosphere. "Where are you? 
Where are you?" 

". . . and God will call his people." Timmy's 
faint answer was lost in the fury. ". . . an 
angel will come and help you climb the lad- 
der . . ." This thought was comforting. He 
was no longer afraid. Timmy slept. 

Morning dawned and with it the hush of the 
after-storm. A white truck half submerged in 
mud was parked on the shore. A crowd had 
gathered, a quiet crowd. Two men in white 


Tni<: coi.oNNADi-; 

knoll ill the mud allondiiig ihc swollen body of 
a child stretched limj)ly across a canvas. "Cut 
the resj)irator. I think he's coming around." 

A battered face blue from cold and lack of 
oxygen gazed blankly from the stretcher. 
"You've come to help me climb the stairs." 
Timmy smiled and said no more. 

A tearful man in black, Bible in hand, 
stepped from the crowd, stood in the mud and 
prayed. ". . . and may the souls of the faithful 
departed through the mercy of God rest in 
peace. A-men." 

And the laughter of little children shall ring 
throuehout the corridors of heaven. 

Helpful Hints For English 

(continued from page 12 J 



For the Finest in Flowers 

— call — 


Phone 600 I 16 West Third Street 

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Monogramed Stationery, 

Playing Cards 

Matches and Napkins 

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Bring a ream of paper and a whole bottle 
of ink to all tests. 

2. Bring liniment for relief of writer's 
cramp. Professor's tests are always long. 

3. Become familiar wdth Professor's method 
of marking papers. Favorite hieroglyphics 
are: "Ugh!" "?" "Vague" "Why?" "May- 
be" "!" "Your point escapes me." "F." 


1. Tell the Professor who wrote this! 


1. Take the course — you'll love it. 

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refreshes you. 

•k rich tobacco 

Smoking was never like this 
before! You taste that rich 
tobacco. ..then, surprise!... 
there's an unexpected soft- 
ness that gives smoking new 
comfort and ease. 

•k modern filter, 

Through Salem's pure-white, 
modern filterflowsthefresh- 
est taste in cigarettes. You 
smoke refreshed, pack after 
pack, when you buy Salems 
by the carton. 

Created l>y R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company