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THE CORADDI

Member of North Carolina Collegiate Press Association

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Volume 32

DECEMBER, 1927

Number 2

PUBLISHED BY NORTH CAROLINA COLLEGE FOR WOMEN
Subscription Rate Per Year $1.50

Martha H. Hall, Editor-in-Chief

Fadean Pleasants, Assistant Editor

Katherine Shenk, Garnett Gregory, Marjorie Vanneman, Associate Editors

Frances James, Business Manager

Betty Sloan, Grace Wolcott, Assistants to Business Manager

Contents^

Release (Poem) Marjorie Vanneman

Black Narcissus Allene Whitener

Unrest (Poem) Elizabeth Moore

The Aloof to the Passersby (Poem) Martha Hall

Largo for J. (Poem) Fadean Pleasants

Escape (Poem) ....... Marjorie Vanneman

Poem Kate C. Hall

The Individual and Culture as Factors in the Development

of THE Personality of Musicians . . . Ada J. Davis
Parrots ........ Katherine Hardeman

The Death of Autumn (Poem) . . . Antoinette Landon

Interim (Poem) Fadean Pleasants

Re-Death (Poem) . Martha Hall

Uncle Peter Mattie-Moore Taylor

Gift; Poem; Shifting Places (Poems) . . . . Kate Hall

Editorials

Recompense (Poem) Elizabeth Moore

Thru a Schoolroom Window (Poem) .... Nancy Little

Houses Annie Lee Blauvelt

Book Reviews A Word of Explanation An Announcement

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Release

No funeral for me,
When I have freed my soul
No sickening scent of flowers
Around a dank black hole.

For me who never danced,
Sedately walked my way,
A glorious crimson scarf
To flutter as I sway.

For me who never ran,
Whose feet were chained and still,
A mad race with the wind
A-down a rocky hill.

Death might be very beautiful,
If people would only let it !

Marjorie Vanneman.

[2]

Allene Whitener

NARCISSUS was the belle of the "Hill." Like the youth for whom
she was named, she too fell in love with her image, but unlike
him, she thrived rather than pined. The image which she worshiped
each morning in the mirror of the bird's eye maple dresser was not such
a bad one either, but that all depends upon your point of view. She
gazed with rapture upon the reflection of a tall, slender negress, with
strong white teeth, remarkably straight black hair, and full red lips,
that in her opinion were made to be kissed.

The blue bloods of the "Hill" were known as the high browns, and
it was beneath them to associate with their brethren of darker hue other
than in a business way. From her early youth. Narcissus had seen to
it that she should have that much desired complexion, and had daily
given her face a lemon rub. Every negro girl on the "Hill" whose
complexion was of a yellow hue had at least one element of beauty.
Every colored swain in describing his woman would inevitably add,
"Yessur, and she's got the prettiest light brown skin you ever seen.
Why, son, it's de color ob deese heah shoes i'se a wearin'."

It was on a warm April night that Narcissus made her proposition
to Patrick Henry Scott and Johnson Ellington Smith. Both of these
highly respected youths were seeking the hand of Narcissus, and she,
caring for none but herself, was indifferent as to which one got her.
A good provider was all that she was looking for. She was tired of
working out to white folks and being insulted with the phrase, "a black
nigger." She always left her job when she was referred to as "that
black coon in the kitchen."

Her two ardents were willing to pay any price to defeat each other.
If Narcissus expressed her desire for a certain article, there were two
such articles lying at her feet. She was willing to continue indefinitely
thus, knowing that two can provide better than one, but these two
were becoming impatient. They had both agreed that things had gone
far enough, and that a stopping place had been reached. Narcissus
must choose the one she preferred ; then the rejected, as befitted a per-

[3]

The CoRADDi

feet eolored gentleman, would drop out of the race, leaving a clear field
for the other.

"Narcissus, honey," pleaded the eloquent Mr. Scott, "you know that
I loves yuh hon, but yuh knows that Johnson does the same. I can't
say that I blame him, but I sure wish that he could love someone else.
I'll give yuh everything that yuh wants."

"So will I, Sissy, yuh kin hab an automobile 'n anything else yuh
wants," puts in Johnson, not wanting to be left out at all in this serious
matter.

By some means or other a compromise had to be reached, and
reached immediately. There was no time for fooling. It was a lovely
April night that the three had picked out to settle this pressing affair.
They were gathered on the front porch of Narcissus' home. She was
reclining in the swing in an attitude that rivalled Cleopatra, while the
two men were seated on the steps. The moon poured down upon her
black hair, and Patrick told her poetically that her hair looked like the
black waters of the mill pond at midnight. All three were thinking of
some plan in order to decide who was to be the lucky one.

"I'll tell yuh what," said Mr. Scott with a sudden inspiration, "we'll
have a duel. That's the way that men did long time ago, and it appears
to me that that's about as good a way as any. We each take a gun, and
when the lady say shoot, why we both shoots at each other, and the one
that comes out alive gets the lady. How 'bout it Johnson?"

"Well," said Johnson, with a great deal of doubt in his tone as to
whether this would be satisfactory or not, "I'm — ."

"No!" interrupted Narcissus quickly and firmly. "I'll have no dead
man on my hands. Can't you think of something sensible to do?" She
looked away as if she bore no further interest in the matter. To her it
was a lottery. She was the prize and would go to the man who held the
lucky number. Both the men heaved a sigh when she spoke. They had
not wanted to meet death at all, and were heartily glad that she had
vetoed the matter. But still the problem wasn't solved.

"I'll tell yuh," said Patrick happily, "we'll see who kin make the
mos' money in a week."

But again Narcissus said no. "You're both too big a liars," she
said, "and this deal's goin' to be on the square."

[4]

The CoRADDi

So they thought. For more than ten minutes the two men sat on
the steps with heads in hands. They had not had such mental exercise
since their school days when they were compelled to give the right an-
swer or take a lashing. Narcissus still reclined upon the pillows in the
swing. She too was thinking. It was high time that she was getting a
husband and steady provider. In a week she would be twenty. That
was almost an old maid, and it was absolutely necessary that she get a
good provider before she shed all of her feminine charms, for well she
knew that a woman's smiles grow weaker and have less attraction when
she begins to grow older. "Perhaps — " she thought, and a smile crept
over her face. She spoke to the two men who slowly came out of the
trance into which they had thrown themselves, and told them her plan.

"Look heah, niggers," she said, "I'se got the right thing for to
decide what to do. I'll have a birthday nex' week. The one what gets
me the bes' present kin have me." Both the men sighed happily. "How
simple," they thought. Already in their own minds they were planning
what they would get Narcissus. Both smiled. Each knew that his gift
would be by far the best, and besides. Narcissus loved him best anyway.

By the end of the third day's search for a present for the charming
Narcissus the two began to become discouraged. There just wasn't
anything in that town that they thought was good enough to give her.
Both were hunting for something original, something diflferent, and
above all something that was expensive.

On the fourth day a sign reading "Gone for the day" was found on
the door of the pressing club belonging to Mr. Scott. The same morn-
ing Johnson Ellington Smith told the foreman of his garage that he
would have to look out for the business for the day. He explained that
he had business out of town.

Both went to the city which was about thirty miles distant. Patrick
Henry Scott went into the biggest department store and confided his
troubles to a woman clerk in the store. "Look heah, lady," he said, "I'se
just got to get something to give my gal fer a birthday gif. Tell me
somethin' to get."

The clerk smiled. How strange it was that this was the second
negro to come to her that morning with a similar request. "How about
a Spanish shawl," she suggested.

[5]

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"No'm, she's got one of them things. I give her one last Christmas."

"Well, how about one of these Brazilian diamonds? They're only
six-fifty, and guaranteed not to turn. Just before you came in I sold
one of them to a colored man for his girl."

"Well, you see ma'm, I was just a waitin' to gib her one ob dem
when the day that she'll hab me."

"How about a nice bottle of perfume ? Surely she never could get
tired of that, and if she's like other women she wants all that she can
get."

"Thas' right," said Scott. "Lemme see some."

"This," said the clerk, "is the very best we have. All the white
ladies always call for this kind."

"Are yuh sure that thas' the bes' yuh got?" asked the swain
doubtfully.

"Absolutely the best," answered the clerk.

"How much?"

"Twelve dollars."

"I'll take it. She's worth mo' 'n that to me."

The morning of her birthday Narcissus received two rather small
packages. She eyed them rather doubtfully. She had expected some-
thing larger. She consoled herself, however, with the thought that
precious things come in small packages, and with this thought she began
to open them up. The smallest of them bore the card of Mr. Smith,
and when she opened it she gave an agreeable gasp of surprise. She
had not expected anything so nice. Patrick Henry Scott would have
to produce something very fine in order to beat that gift. As soon as
she opened the package which Patrick had sent, an angry look came
into her eyes. She flew to the telephone and called up the waiting
Patrick.

"Look a heah, nigger. Til have you know that I'll not be insulted by
any man. I'm sendin' your present right back. Don' ever let me see
yuh aroun' heah again."

She then called Johnson Smith. "Is that yuh, hon?" she asked
when she got him on the line, "Well this is Sissy. Listen, hon, I loved
yuh bes' all the time. Can't yuh come ovah right away and put your
present on my finger? I've always wanted a real diamon'. And listen,

[6]

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hon, if you have time please stop by and beat that Scott nigger up. He
insulted me this morning. Listen heah what that nigger had the nerve
to do, he sent me a bottle of Black Narcissus perfume, and yuh know
yourself that I'se the lightest gal on the 'Hill'."

Give me back my old dreams

You never cared.
You snatched my happiness, left
My soul bared.

I cannot find my old joys.

Your eyes are there.
My old loves, my books, are tangled
In your tossed hair.

I cannot feel my old peace

Your arms and smile
Batter down my calm reserve.
Leave me awhile!

You do not love me — let me go ;

Let me be strong.
Give me back my old loves.
Give me back my song!

Elisabeth Moore, '^o.

[7]

tKije jaioof to tJ)e ^aggersbp

I have tired of warming my hands
At my own capricious fires,
They flicker out in chill —
Else burn me with desires.

I would break the shell of loneliness,
And kneel to feel the flame
Of countless little kindly warmths
I could learn to call by name.

M. Hall, '28

Hargo for 5*

Take me, Autumn earth
As a leaf upon your breast ;
Flame and fire are gone.
Colorless I come for rest.

Hold me in the peace
Of your law-abiding heart ;
I have played too long
In my scarlet rebel's part.

Weary with my dance
I pray for a windless place
Where I can sleep and sleep
With the warm sun on my face.

Fadean Pleasants

[8]

escape

I'd like to ride away
Upon the whistle of a train.
I'd ride into the midnight
With a scarf of misty rain.

Perhaps I'd lie upon

My back, and laugh up at the sky,

Or just lie still and quiet.

And touch the stars as they went by.

I'd turn my back in pity
As my whistle onward sped
Past the poor contented prisoners
Who spend the night in bed.

Marjorie Vanneman, '2^.

You cannot know how watching you

I used to press my palms together,

As little children do in prayer,

And looking at you wonder whether

Anyone else in all the world

Had known such ecstacy as I,

Could feel when on my soul your beauty

Came to possess me utterly.

They told me you were ugly — strange !

And once — I think — I thought the same —

But ah ! the beauty of you later :

Your eyes, your hands, your lips, your name !

Kate C. Hall.
[9]

Cf)e 3nbtbibual anb Culture as Jf actorsi in tfie

©ebelopment of tlje ^ersionalitp

of ifKusicians;

^bapteb from
"0 Social ^sipcfjological ^tubp of iMusficiansf"

Ada J. Davis

THE Problem of this study presented itself to the writer of this
article in the common-sense form of the question, "Is or is not the
popular conception of the musician as a peculiar person incapable of
emotional inhibitions partially or wholly a myth?" The hypothesis
which served as a point of departure for the study was that the per-
sonality of the musician is the resultant of the process of interaction of
the culture and the undefined impulses and capacities of the individual.
Culture as used in this article refers to the material equipment of the
group, such as tools, utensils, shelter, clothing, institutions, and weap-
ons; the immaterial equipment, such as ideals, traditions, folkways,
mores, attitudes, beliefs, and wishes; and the spiritual equipment or
group memories, enthusiasm, morale, and esprit de corps. The indi-
vidual refers to one's native equipment ; to the way in which capacities
and impulses, or undefined tendencies that react with certain intensity
and speed, manifest themselves in the individual, independently of cul-
tural or social influence.

The formulations here presented are based upon the materials gath-
ered and analyzed for this study. They may be partially or wholly
invalidated by further investigation.

The new-born baby is a potential personality, perhaps even a poten-
tial great musician being equipped at birth with special capacities which
tend to direct the nature of his responses if and when certain situations
arise in his experience. The basic capacities that are necessary for
musical expressiveness are inherited by nearly every one but in varying
degrees of strength. To be equipped with a high degree of musical tal-
ents or capacities, such as sensitivity toward pitch, intensity, time,

[10]

The CoRADDi

rhythm, tone, and consonance, is to be a potential great musician. These
inherited tendencies would be powerless if the person so endowed were
never brought into contact and interaction with a musical environment.
The person must have musical instruments, encouragement, opportunity
to hear and know the best musicians of the day, and training under able
teachers. Especially is it necessary for a potential virtuoso to have
early and strenuous exercise of his musical equipment if he is to be
capable of keen, effectual, accurate adjustment and muscular coordi-
nation.

Hazel Stanton has carried on an extensive and invaluable experi-
ment in her study of the inheritance of specific musical capacities of
time, intensity, pitch, tone sensitivity, none of which seem to be greatly
affected by age, sex, general intelligence or practice. Her conclusion
was that musical parents of musical stock have musical offspring, non-
musical parents of non-musical stock have non-musical offspring, and
one musical parent and one non-musical parent will have some musical
and some non-musical offspring. Her study also showed that the de-
gree of inheritance of musical talents has little correlation with such
factors as musical environment, general education, musical activity,
or musical creativeness. In other words, musical capacities are not
limited to those having training, as exemplified in the fact that at least
one-fourth of the cases examined were not receiving musical education,
in spite of the fact they were talented. Furthermore, persons active in
musical circles today do not represent all who could be. Thirty-six
per cent of the cases found to be musically superior were inactive in
this field. The culture of the group had overlooked or failed to develop
the musical possibilities in many of these individuals.

Life histories of great musicians are suggestive of the relation be-
tween culture and heredity in the life of the musician. A few brief
accounts from these may illustrate this relation. Whether we conclude
much from these materials as to the problem of heredity will depend
upon how cautious we feel about a matter which is so little understood
and for the study of which scientific methods are yet inadequate. It is
true that in some cases parents of musicians seemed to have no musical
capacities, especially if we use as criterion their own activity in the
field. From this we may not preclude the existence of musical capacities.

[11]

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It will be noticed that in those cases where there was opposition to a
musical career some forces arose which gave the sparks of talents the
fanning necessary to arouse ardent activity and interest which could
not be again easily quelled.

Liszt's father would have been a musician had he followed his own
inclinations. He played every keyed instrument besides a flute and a
guitar. Professional musicians always welcomed him to play with
them. The delicacy and quickness of Franz's ear were extraordinary.
He could repeat complete chords without seeing notes. Once he played
a piece, he never forgot it. Though he was born in poor circumstances,
he was nevertheless surrounded by a musical environment. His parents
hazarded everything to give their child opportunities in Vienna.

Both the mother and father of Wagner were accustomed to spend
their leisure time in art, especially poetry. His father died and his
mother married Ludwig Geyer, who was playwright, singer, actor, and
painter. Geyer became Richard's most gracious friend and took the
child with him to rehearsals. Here at the theatre he met and was greatly
impressed by the musicians, artists, and dramatists with whom he con-
versed. The culture of his group thus affected the ultimate interest he
took in dramatics which he later combined with music in opera.

Mendelssohn's parents were interested in the child having musical
training so that he might be a well-rounded person. He made use of
every opportunity afforded by his generous parents who had in no way
intended that he make music his profession. He was one of the most
precocious of the musical geniuses.

Schumann's father was a merchant interested in literary studies.
While there is no long line of musical ancestry, so far as we know, to
explain his interest, as is also the case of Schubert, his father was, how-
ever, in favor of his son's interest. His mother opposed his enthusiasm
for music because she wished him to study law, which he attempted at
the University of Heidelberg. Here musical influence was not lacking,
for he learned to care for Madame Carus, a professor's wife, who
taught him something of composition. The result was his dropping
law and going to Leipzig to study with Madame Carus and later with
Herr Wieck.

The Bach family comprised twenty eminent musicians and two

[12]

The CoRADDi

score less eminent. Mr. Hubbard says : "The Bach family has supplied
the believers in heredity more good raw material in the way of argu-
ments than any dozen other families known to history combined. The
Herschels, with three eminent astronomers to their credit, or the Beech-
ers, with half a dozen great prachers, are scarcely worth mentioning
when we remember the Bachs who for two hundred and fifty years
sounded the 'A' for nearly all Germany." While living with his uncle
Johann Sebastian was allowed to practice one hour a day. Later, at
Ohrdruf , he belonged to a boys' chorus which provided opportunity for
him to sing as well as to play. In addition, he took every other occasion
to hear music, walking a distance of a hundred miles to Hamburg to
hear Reinke, whose playing filled him with enthusiasm and awe.

Handel's father, a barber-surgeon, was a man who attempted to
repress the genius of his son because he disliked musicians. However,
a relative succeeded in hiding a clavichord in the garret and the youth
Handel gave to the world the Messiah. When he was discovered prac-
ticing in the garret, even this was made prohibitive. The Duke of
Weissenfels, after hearing the child play an organ in his chapel, per-
suaded the father to allow the boy to study. He soon became master of
organ, harpsichord, violin, and oboe.

Giuseppe Verdi, born in the year that also welcomed Wagner, was
the son of an inn-keeper in Le Roncole. Though no notice of any
pronounced musical ancestry is found to account for the presence of
this striking capacity in Giuseppe, his capacity was recognized and
nourished by kind friends. At great sacrifice, his father purchased a
spinet upon which the child practiced. It was through the efforts of
Barezzi that Verdi was sent to Milan to study.

Besides the scrutiny of the lives of great composers already men-
tioned and others necessarily omitted, the writer has interviewed twenty-
five great living musicians. The life histories of these twenty-five show
that in every case musical encouragement came to the child early in life.
Eight cases show that both parents were musically expressive, although
perhaps not professionals. Eight cases show at least one parent music-
ally expressive, and in every case both parents proved to be interested
in music.

The greater the number and the finer the quality of musical contacts

[13]

The CoRADDi

the musically endowed person experiences, the greater are the chances
for becoming a great musician. Recognizing this fact, most European
countries maintain excellent conservatories subsidized by local or
national governments in order to give talented youngsters an oppor-
tunity to study with competent teachers. The student is permitted to
devote years to study, during which time he is free from financial
worries. In America the average talent in a small community either
cannot study at all because of lack of funds to pay great teachers, or
else he must rely upon mediocre teachers who, by giving him a faulty
start, hinder him from ever reaching the heights.

Musical capacities, although they give signs of their existence very
early, if undiscovered, undefined, unstimulated, will lie dormant as mere
musical potentialities. Let the folkways of a particular cultural group
stress the value of music, either as a part of its ceremonial life, as is the
case with the Indians, or as a part of its social life, as among the Welsh
people, and we will observe then how readily music takes a large and
seemingly natural place in the lives of the vast majority of the group.

Humans are musically endowed by nature but not all equally so.
The multitudinous demands made upon persons in our modern civiliza-
tion increase the tensions and the tendency toward unrelaxed conditions
of mind, body, and spirit. This condition prevents capacities from
operating easily. Furthermore, any disciplinary measures used in the
home to check the normal musical expressions act as deadly weapons
bringing about partial or complete relinquishment of musical tendencies,
which might otherwise have produced a musician of note.

Attraction to or repulsion from a musical career is often not to be
explained wholly by reference to musical talents, but is very often better
explained by considering the aleatory element in life. Much that we
do is a matter of chance and accident. It is accidental in so far as it is
unpredictable. Perhaps the individual has not received the encourage-
ment needed. Perhaps he was interested in music, but by some strange
manipulation of affairs his attention was withdrawn from music to some
other more attractive line of interest. Some gesture administered by
an unappreciative person who chose not to have the prevalent quietness
of the house disturbed by singing or practice may have checked the
expression and development of capacities. Any one of a great number

[ 14 ]

The CoRADDi

of possible incidents might have been the deciding factor in favor of
or in opposition to a musical career. The factor that works to encour-
age one person to become deeply interested in music might, if applied
to another person, produce the opposite reaction. Ultimately the musical
career, like any career, is a matter in which chance plays no small part.
Wagner has said, "I hardly know for what I was originally intended. I
only know that I heard one evening a symphony and that when I recov-
ered I was ... a musician." The failure of Count Sceau to accept
Mozart's proposals to write German operas is responsible for Mozart's
wielding his efforts toward the perfection of the Italian opera and sav-
ing him from work of less far-reaching effects. The musician's per-
sonality, or the role he plays in the group, as well as his career, is
dependent upon the interaction of the individual, born with impulses
and special capacities in varying degrees, and all the forces in his phys-
ical and cultural environment.

The musician, it may be added, as a member of a particular group,
is viewed by many only through a mist of illusion. Musical or artistic
temperament is not to be confused with bad nerves. The tendency that
people have had of attaching the term "artistic temperament" to all
oddities and lapses in the behavior of musicians has made many great
musicians despise the term. Musical temperament refers rather to the
combination of musical impulses which makes A's reaction to music as
the aesthetic object different from B's. The musically temperamental
person is endowed with sensitivities toward time, pitch, rhythm, con-
sonance, and tonal intensity. He is capable of projecting emotion into
his musical performance or composition. He responds immediately and
accurately to music as an aesthetic value.

Therefore, it may be concluded that musical temperament has little
to do with morality. Under the guise of the misunderstood term
"artistic temperament," without a doubt, much loose, excessively indul-
gent and emotionally uninhibited behavior has been excused. When
one attributes emotional display or lack of self-control to artistic tem-
perament one is misapplying the concept. This study has shown that
there are moral musicians and immoral ones; narrow-minded and
broad-minded ones ; strong musicians and weak ones ; kind and hateful
musicians ; musicians who inhibit and those who do not ; religious and

[IS]

The CoRADDi

non-religious ones; musicians who are very happily married and those
who are not ; some who stress the emotional element in music and some
who stress the intellectual ; some who are good business men and some
who are not ; some musicians who are well-educated and well-read while
others know little but music. Such materials lead to the conclusion
that how a person reacts to non-musical situations is not to be charged
to musical temperament apart from the consideration of other tempera-
mental or inherited characteristics and cultural influences.

Every individual falls somewhere in the scale of musical tempera-
ment. In some cases the capacities appear to such a meagre degree that
they are for all practical purposes non-musical. The greatest musicians,
on the other hand, are those in whom the various capacities which are
involved in the musical temperament appear to a marked degree and in
whom reactions to music occur promptly, definitely and accurately.

Accepting the existence of individual differences among musicians
and the fact that environment has not been identical for any two of
them, we must expect as many different combinations of traits of per-
sonality as we are accustomed to find among any group of people. Music
is only one factor operating in shaping the life and personality of the
musician. Though this may be dominant, he has the same fundamental
wishes as other persons. The normal development of his personality
will demand the adequate satisfaction of these wishes. No sweeping
list of personality traits can be enumerated that will include all musi-
cians. The musician tends to accommodate to the social pattern set for
him. He tends to develop those personal characteristics which he feels
he must have if he is to be considered a great artist by his group. There-
fore, his personality is the result of the cultural definition of his im-
pulses, capacities and temperament.

[16]

Katherine Hardeman, '28

As Usual, the house was in New York. The warm incensed air was
jl\ prone to settle one into a coma of utter drowsy contentment while
indoors; but the snarling, whipping wind tended to disregard all
clothing whether it be feathers or tatters, and to cause the muscles to
stiffen as soon as one ventured into a draft. There were great com-
fortable lounges, and fur rugs, and silk pillows within; there were
frozen sidewalks, sleet covered fences, and glazed benches without. As
usual at the Hatter's home, there was five o'clock tea. Without, you
could tell by the long row of limousines that were lined along the curb ;
within you had only to sniff the mingled fumes of Pall Malls and sweetly
scented Egyptian cigarettes to know that innumerable social leaders —
and followers — were partaking of the ancient English custom recently
renovated and introduced into America. That evening New York was
both hot and cold, comfortable and uncomfortable, — beautiful and ugly.

Entering the heavily carved oak door, you were stunned by the
blending of brilliant colors that were amassed in a tiny cove opposite.
Heavy draperies of Persian blue velvet faintly sheened with grey
softened the harshness of the window and the bleakness of the sleet.
A tiny mahogany desk was slyly slid into the corner. A stippled orange
and brass candle stick — the kind with the delightful ring for a handle —
held a tall, blue, tapering candle. A brass and copper desk set vied
with a jet pen for prominence on the polished table. The winged back
chair sat contentedly in place, while —

"Ho ! Ho ! See the pretty parrot !" Tommy, the parrot, squawked
forth proclaiming his beauty and ego while he perched resignedly on
his high round bronze stand. "Ho ! Ho !" he screeched as he blinked
one eye inquisitively at the intruder — whomsoever he may be. It really
was a significant blink — suitable too, for everything placed there was
just as significant as if to say "Here I am! Do look at me! Am I not
amazingly beautiful ? Aren't my colors and their harmony most strik-
ing?" They were, for Tommy was red combed, green breasted, blue
winged, yellow backed, and henna tailed. As he swung back and forth

[17]

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in his bronze swing glistening in the last startling glow of the winter's
sun, he was exquisite in his surroundings.

Exquisite in its surroundings! Yes, and so were those so-called
leaders of society. Black beaded and besatined were those mothers
who gazed upon their fond young daughters. And the fond young
daughters — fond as it were of their silks and satins and brilliant colors
— simply made the colored surroundings in that dimly lighted anti-
room. They were as sparkling and as dazzling as Tommy himself.

"Oh yes ! I had an engagement with Lindy, and he said he was so
thrilled — of course I was. I" —

"Oh my dear, but not as thrilled as I was last year when I was
presented at court. I" —

"Of course now, President Coolidge was our guest for a week. Of
course now it will add prestige to Mary's debut this fall. He" —

"Yes, Paris"—

"But London"—

"Oh!"

Suddenly the wind returned and brought its debris with it. A thin,
cold, shrunken black crow was hurled into the room and lay prostrated
at the foot of the beautiful parrot's luxurious stand.

"Where in the world did that black sheep and cousin of mine come
from? Help! Help! He might attack me !" screamed Tommy show-
ing an inevitable streak of yellow.

The butler hastened to close the window and to pick up the brittle
bunch of almost lifeless feathers when the Lady called :

"Oh Parker ! Don't trouble with removing it downstairs ; just toss
him out the window !"

"Yes, Mam!"

The crow even during this short stay in the heat and warmth of
the house, had revived one single spark and opened one eye only to see
that the Parrot shuddered and shrieked! "What an ugly creature!
Hasten to chuck him out of the window, for it is cold with his iced
body here!"

"Yes," said our lady, "he is thin and stiff, and ugly. He's even
uncanny. Toss him away quickly, he does not belong here; his very
presence is depressing! Do you hear Parker?"

"Yes m'am."

[18]

The CoRADDi

So the crow returned to his sleet and snow and soon imbibed enough
of cold and of ice to dwell dormantly chilled in his white shroud. He
was a black splotch upon the white, cold among the cold, and dead
among the dead — and the Parrot laughed again.

Yes New York was both hot and cold, comfortable and uncom-
fortable, beautiful and ugly, parrotity and crowish.

%Mt 3©eatf) of ilutumn

The sheer golden mist that enrapts the lowlands

Is a fragile chiffon scarf about the warm beauty

Of Autumn, a young woman dying.

While thru the hour glass the sands

Trickle silently but steadily

She makes revel in a flaming gown

Drunk with the poison wine that soon

Will turn her warmth to chill cold.

But better she knows to leave life gloriously at high noon

Than slowly sputter out when you are old.

Antoinette Landon.

Incense mingles with the flame

Light with shadow,

Winds beneath the autumn moon

Are soft and mellow.

Love blends in subtle harmony

Two souls in one,

And sweet the memory of your kiss

Now that love is done.

Antoinette Landon.

[19]

Snterim

Dropping . . . dropping . . . always dropping
Drains the blood from me . . .
Slowly . . . slowly , . . ever falling
Falling heavily.

Feet that danced when Beauty bled them
Dragging . . . now . . . along . . .
Lips she painted with my blood, now
White, without a song.

There is no need for me to turn
Shadowed eyes around . . .
Beauty does not draw this dull blood
Drying on the ground.

Fadean Pleasants

This, then, must pass as other things have passed,
And I must go and gently close the door
On that strange scene of passion and the last
Strong wind of your caress that came before
The day broke silently and vastly clear —
For when I swayed and looked up to your eyes.
Grown steel, impersonal and bright, the fear
Clutched me with breath-depriving force — surmise
That here, in light of morning, was the cue
That breath to breast and song to soul no more
Could cleave our nights. All must be as before
When you were dust to me and I — unborn for you.

Martha Hall, '28.
[20]

Windt ^eter

Mattie-Moore Taylor, '30

A Lonely Trail rutted by wagon wheels and roughened by horses'
hoofs leads far back into the woods. It winds around through a
forest of giant pines with tops that tower up to the sky. Here the
sunlight casts only flickering shadows through the thick branches on
the shining brown straw and the red-mud path. After many twists
and turns, the trail bends sharply to the left, ascends a hill, and dips
down into a pleasant valley.

An old negro couple, known to the neighborhood as Uncle Peter
and Aunt Mary, once occupied a small cabin which nestled in the center
of this valley. The cabin was crudely built. Its sides were of unhewn
logs daubed with mud ; its roof was of rough shingles. A tiny window
with panes replaced by cardboard gleamed at each end of the struc-
ture. A discarded whetstone served as a doorstep. A huge oak at
either end of the cabin shaded it, and somewhat lessened the force of
frequent rains on the leaky and shackly roof. An open wall, with an
old-fashioned hemp rope from which a wooden bucket hung, stood
under one of the oaks. Back of the house a mule widely circled a
rickety wagon, an unwieldly plow, and a primitive harrow, devouring
the tops of the weeds in his course. Shoots of cotton and corn strug-
gling for a foothold in the three acres of rocky, stumpy, and ill-manured
land around the cabin, bore mute witness to the use of the mule and
implements.

It was an early spring morning. A stray sunbeam, finding its way
through the pasteboard that covered the window, glanced over the
kerosene lamp on a rough packing box in the corner, over the freshly-
scrubbed floor with its one rag rug, over the corn husk chairs, and
finally rested on the face of one of the occupants of the wooden four-
poster which stood in the farther corner of the room.

Uncle Peter stretched his squeaky limbs on the hard mattress, sat
up slowly and painfully, and looked down on the quiet face of his wife.
Then, after leisurely pulling on his huge brogans and fastening in
place his heavy corduroy pants with their many red-flannel patches,

[21]

The CoRADDi

the old man smoothed the rough quilt over his wife's shoulders with
his gnarled hands, and quietly tiptoed into the cubby-hole which served
as a kitchen.

Uncle Peter smiled to himself as he began to lay the wood for the
fire. His thoughts flew back over the years to the time when he had
made the first fire in that self-same stove. He and Mary had been
young then — young and strong. Mary was the fairest and swartest
of all the young girls on the old plantation, and he had been the envy
of all the youths when she became his wife. He could see her now —
the yellow ribbon in her stiffly-curled hair, the cheap brass ring on her
finger, the bashful yet proud smile on her shining face. He could hear
Marse Frank's shaking voice as he performed the ceremony. He could
see the tears in Miss Betty's eyes.

A quiver of pain twitched the old man's face as he thought of his
former master and mistress. A few days after the ceremony Marse
Frank had led Peter to this little cabin — new then, and brave in its
sturdy lines. He had said, "Peter, this is your home — ^yours and
Mary's. You are to live here and farm for yourself with the mule and
the tools I have for you at the big house. Betty and I are going away
to look for the young Master and" — but he stopped suddenly, choked
queerly, and murmured, "May God bless you and Mary." Peter did
not understand; he had never understood. Miss Betty and Marse
Frank had never come back, nor had the young Master, either.

That had been many years ago, but he and Mary still talked of the
old days as they worked in the fields, Peter plowing with Nebuchad-
nezzar— for so he had christened the mule — and Mary chopping. Now
the couple had grown old. Peter's legs were bowed and his shoulders
were stooped; but his wide nose with its flaring nostrils was as sensi-
tive, and his eyes were as bright as ever. His jet-black skin had be-
come parched and seamed with wrinkles, and his kinky wool had
greyed around his flat forehead and temples; but his full lips opened
as easily as ever over his gleaming teeth in that shrill cackling laugh —
more like the caw of the crow than a laugh — for which he had become
famous. The years, however, had not touched Mary as they had him,
for she had become a semi-invalid. Yet Uncle Peter was supremely
happy in caring for her and in taking the heavy tasks on his own
shoulders. Their devotion to each other was pathetic, yet splendid.

[ 22 ]

The CoRADDi

Uncle Peter awoke from his day-dreaming with a start. When the
fire in the rusty stove was beginning to rattle the top, he passed into
the other room calling, "Nebuchadnezzar's a' honkin', Mary," his daily
greeting. As the door opened and Uncle Peter appeared, Nebuchad-
nezzar gave a louder honk, and a half-dozen hens cackled noisily.
Uncle Peter gave the mule a small measure of oats and scattered a
handful to the fowls. As the animals devoured the food, a mocking-
bird began to broadcast its morning song from the highest tip of the
oak. The bird's carol rang pleasantly in Uncle Peter's ears as he
watered the mule from the wooden trough by the well, and hitched
him to the rickity wagon. This finished, he turned back to the cabin
to partake of the breakfast that Mary would now have ready.

Mary was not up — an unusual thing for her. Uncle Peter was
rather surprised, but he went into the kitchen and began to prepare
the meal himself. When he had placed the steaming coffee and freshly-
baked biscuit on the table in the corner, he returned to the front room
and called loudly, "Mary, honey, I done cooked breakfus', chile, come
and eat it."

Mary did not stir. Uncle Peter called again, shook her by the
shoulder ; still she made no move. The old man's face wore a puzzled
look. What could be the matter? A sudden fear chilled his heart.
Bending over he placed his black head upon her chest and listened for
the beating of his Mary's heart ; there was no sound. With a broken
murmur Uncle Peter tiptoed from the room, gently closing the door
behind him, and stumbled across the fields to his nearest neighbors.

Negroes gather early for funerals in that section. At twelve o'clock
the next day the sun shone down mercilessly on a moving line of
vehicles; big farm wagons drawn by groaning farm mules and laden
with human freight ; shiny black buggies with the hubs almost dragging
the ground under the weight of a corpulent woman and a wizened man ;
rattling Fords with young people hanging out of the doors and over
the fenders ; here and there a creeping ox-cart with its driver lashing
and urging on the stolid bovine — all on their way to the "buryin' !"
Squalling pickaninnies, squealing children, matrons scolding their
young, giggling girls, boasting youths, drivers geeing and hawing
their beasts, auto horns tooting hoarsely — all contributed to the ear-

[23]

The CoRADDi

splitting din. One by one, the vehicles with their mass of humanity
ascended the hill, stood poised for a moment on its top, then disappeared
down into the valley.

It was a care-free throng of exotic color — pure blood Africans of
the blackest hue elbowing mulattoes of fair complexions and these, in
their turn, standing shoulder to shoulder with negroes of duller brown
color. Laughing, jostling each other, they crowded on each side of a
lane that led from the door of the open cabin to an open grave under
a lone pine in the center of the field. But when at four o'clock the
door of the cabin opened and four men appeared bearing the rude pine
coffin, a sudden and intense silence fell. Behind the coffin came Parson
Davis in the rusty frock-tailed coat which he donned for such occasions ;
his head bowed, and his hands clasped over the Bible, chanting sono-
rously, "De Lawd giveth, and de Lawd taketh away; blessed be de
name ob de Lawd." The stooped figure of Uncle Peter came next —
Uncle Peter with dry vacant eyes and the look of a sleep-walker. Last
of all came a group of professional mourners lifting their voices in a
doleful dirge.

The crowd could not bear its sufiFering in silence. A low moaning
sound, like the sigh of the rising wind, sprang up, rose and swelled to
the frenzy of a hurricane as the preacher proceeded with his exhorta-
tions. Then the barbaric moaning took articulate form ;

"Crossin' de ribber Jordan
Into de arms of my Lawd,
Leavin' dis world ob sinners
Into de arms of my Lawd.
Oh, Lawd Jesus, take me home,
Oh, Lawd Jesus, take me home ?"

The entire throng rocked to and fro, eyes closed, hands twitching,
faces working in the very ecstasy of grief. But Uncle Peter remained
mute and silent while the barbaric strain echoed and re-echoed through-
out the valley.

It was night. The full moon brooded over the valley, now silent
except for the sound of Nebuchadnezzar munching the grass. Within
the cabin Uncle Peter looked around as if seeing for the first time.

(Continued on page 27)

[ 24 ]

Hand —

Quake.
Heart —

Break.
Soul —

Wake.
Love —

Take!

Sometimes your spirit hangs,
Slim and stilly white
High in the west
On a calm night,
Like the thin moon.
Slipping down the west,
Held a moment longer.
Tethered to my breast
By a long silk thread.
Like a curved kite.
Held a moment long —
Then off upon its flight.

^Jjiftins places!

A flock of flying birds against the sky-
The separate voices in a madrigal —
And all the little loves of little things.
Flying and singing in my heart.

[25]

i.AtAtyitftrf-'-' -^'"y:;'- ■'■' ' ' "- ^^(f^**' «>W^(firfrf t i1ii^W(fr^>u>i1»^,ypMlrf/ ,),tJl»^(f,ddJ^\Ut^(^tddi„\\Ai^>^^,ddj.,

EDITORIALS

•—«"—*

y|]g,<titi •m^iikfv^v^'F^iihs'^"rFri)J^9vv^'nv^i^^'S'^ 'i^i^Vfr4)i^sf%'w rrf^i^mnv^fii^n'ss'fn^iSpwi^'^

Nation wide has been the hilarity and great the indignation over
"Big Bill" Thompson's swashbuckling determination to "keep King
George out of Chicago" — but on the trail of the dying laughter and
shouting comes the serious contemplation of this phenomenon so start-
ling to the world-minded intellectual of accidental American birth. The
case is notorious — it is simply this. A certain William Thompson,
desiring the mayoralty of Chicago, has hypnotized his voters through a
magic formula — "America first", and to make this drawing card even
more magnetic, he has pounced upon unsuspecting Supt.-of-Schools
McAndrews, with the accusation of harboring British spies between
the pages of his textbooks. Sounds like the old Revolutionary days!
We hoped we had grown since 1776.

What a vast tribute to the credulity of the voting public that it will
follow blindly a leader who evades the vital issues of the election and
sweeps all before him because of a magnetic personality. His psy-
chological keenness is to be commended — certainly the audiences who
have heard his wholesale denunciation of all that is British have no
stirrings of the British blood that runs in their veins, for they do not
even hear his words, but only his voice. But there are those who hear !

There is more significance to this incident than a revealing portrait
of mob gullibility. Here is a thumbing-of-the nose attitude indicative
of a still infant America. Nations of the old world do not cry aloud
in terror lest American propaganda destroy their spirit. They are old
and wise. Yea, verily, America is still a child in swaddling clothes —
only about two and a half centuries old.

Push Thompson's reasoning ( ?) to its logical conclusion and we will
have the American public discarding the glorious Shelley as a plague-
ridden Britisher in favor of the nonsensical but American Alfred
Krembourg. How discouraging to the promoters of world peace to
hear the mayor of one of its leading cities proclaim, "Down with the
League of Nations" — how even more embarrassing than on a visit to
Geneva to find America's chair empty.

[26]

The CoRADDi

Young America, if you would accept Mayor Thompson's proposal
to throw away your hammer and take up your horn, we would suggest
that you look to your laurels before tooting.

M. Hall
*******

Backed by the growing success of other student publications in our
state, the Coraddi is ready to put into practice its belief that a college
magazine is primarily to be read, rather than to be written for, and
since the standard of the material submitted to the staff has been con-
sistently too mediocre to please the average reader, we have resolved
to introduce manuscripts fresh from the hands of professional and
semi-professional writers. We would add a little experience and a
higher artistry to our melting pot. This will not exclude the student
writer ; it should encourage him to strive for a higher standard in his
writing. That is a predominant item in our new policy — to stimulate
student inspiration. We propose to put out a magazine where the
wisdom and technique of skilled writers may be supplemented by the
equally desirable spontaneity of immature writing.

Both are needed and wanted — we challenge the students to hold up
their end.

UNCLE PETER

(Continued from page 24)

His eyes took in the silent cabin, the lonely chair in which Mary usually
sat, the unfinished knitting — saw the cold stove, the unswept floor, the
hard biscuit which he had cooked the morning before. Only then did
Uncle Peter realize his loss. Returning to the other room, the old man
lay down on the bed and began stroking the pillow as if it were a
wrinkled cheek, murmuring softly all the while. Then he suddenly sat
up and looked around him wildly. Muttering incoherently he hastened
from the room and across the field to the fresh mound of earth under
the pine. Throwing himself across the grave, he murmured brokenly,
*'0h Mary, Mary," and broke into bitter weeping.

And the sun rose in peaceful glory over the quiet valley, the lifeless
cabin, and the still figure of the old man on the newly-turned grave.

[27]

Eecompenge

I think I died that night,
For all my frantic struggles seemed to cease
And the mad pain that held my brain so long
Had gone — and I had peace.

And then I heard you cry.

I felt your sobbing breath come hot upon my cheek,
And heard your anguished pleadings — your despair.
— I could not die !

My new found rest was gone and I

Came back again into the old pain —

Back to the useless struggle — just as mad.

But you were there and laid your tired head upon my breast —

And I was glad.

Elisabeth Moore, 'jo

Ci)ru' a ^cfioolroom Winbotu

I'm part of the down-soft cloud
Couched in silken blue —
And 'gainst it rests my body
As my heart with you.

Ah! — 'tis a lovely feeling
To rest in shifting air —
But what if your heart change
While my love is there?

Nancy Little
[28]

Annie Lee Blauvelt

I Slept away from home last night; and while I lay awake I heard
noises — many noises, as if people were walking ever so softly about,
through the little rooms, touching, feeling, and looking — ever so softly.
Yet there was no one in the house. Then I realized that they were the
footsteps of the people who lived there before us; who loved the little
house as much as we. I heard them doing the same things they used to
do; but always stopping to see if we had changed this or that. They
tipped very softly around the new bed room suite; and felt its smooth
finish. They walked many, many times across the new rug. Then on
they went in their tireless way about the house.

So many things they did! They wept, for what I do not know.
They laughed over some act of the baby footstep. They smiled and
felt as one gave a glittering ring to another. They slowly stopped and
almost groaned as they remembered some half forgotten thought. All
this within a house after we were asleep ! I slept.

When morning came I awoke and lay quietly; but all the noises
were back in place, somewhere. I dressed and ran out of doors ; but
from the outside I could only barely detect all these things. I looked
and listened but there was only a little, grey house under a tall, tall
pine.

I know I shall never rent or buy a house until I have lain awake in
its darkness.

[29]

Pi BOOK REVIEWS j

1 .... nu—uu—uii I im m, ^n nil n j-

; ^n m H a. p" dii iin u« iln T

Death Comes for the Archbishop. Willa Gather. Alfred A. Knopf

Co., New York. $2.50.

This is a book which could hardly be said to be a novel ; it stands out
sharply and refuses classification. For this alone it deserves recognition,
but it is also serene and beautiful of thought and the rhythm of its
prose pleasing.

It is the story of a French priest who in the middle of the last century
went to New Mexico as vicar, and later became Archbishop of Sante
Fe. He took with him his friend of seminary days, Joseph Velliant.
These two labored together and by their love, insight, and wisdom won
the people of the southwest for the Catholic church. After forty years
of "living," death came for the archbishop in his study near the cathe-
dral he had built.

ThroughoLit this stretch of years is given the portrait of a clean
man, a priest, against a pioneer background rich in true Mexican life.
The book held me in its swift motion, yet left time for appreciation
of its singular beauty.

Annie Lee Blauvelt, '^o.

That Man Heine. (Oct. 1927.) Lewes Browne. Macmillan.

"That Man Heine" is the biography of Heinrich Heine, poet and
prose writer of the first half of the nineteenth century, from his sen-
sitive, lonely childhood to the end of his brilliant, friendless career, first
in Germany, and later in France. Browne relates the main incidents
of his unhappy life — unhappy partly because of his own folly, and partly
because of fate — not excusing his mistakes, but explaining them, both
through his feeling of inferiority and through his consciousness of
being an outcast, for although he was born a Jew, he felt himself above
the lower class among which he was brought up, and yet was not ac-
cepted by the Gentiles. He was weak and unstable, both in character
and religion, following at least four different religions at as many brief

[30]

The CoRADDi

periods in his life, but finding satisfaction in none. His brilliance and
wit as a satirist, which were the chief causes of his indolence, were also
the cause of his exile to France, for the German government feared the
ready and scathing pen of this most radical of liberalists. It was in
France that he was happiest, for here he was accepted for himself, not
for his birth or social position, and it was here that he became intimate
with the foremost authors, musicians and statesmen of Europe.

The book, written with the collaboration of Elsa Wecht, is most
interesting, and gives a well-rounded objective view into the life of one
of the most miserable, and yet one of the most brilliant, of the German
poets.

Marjorie Vanneman, '2^.

The Evolution of Charles Darwin, a Biography. George A. Dor-
sey, Ph.D. Doubleday, Page and Co.

"The Evolution of Charles Darwin" is a biography in which the
author traces the evolution of Darwin's great personality from infancy
throughout life with detailed discussion of the whys and wherefores of
each significant act leading up to the composition of his supreme achieve-
ment, "The Origin of Species." It is interesting to note that the two
most potent influences on the great scientist were women : his mother,
who first instilled in him the passion to explore nature, and his wife,
who made bearable his later years of sickness.

Besides the scientific aspect, however, Dorsey paints a delightful
picture of Darwin, the man: genial, tender-hearted, sympathetic, al-
most perfect in the role of husband, father, citizen, and master, a char-
acterization that the reader can hardly help but feel is almost too ideal
to be true.

Dorsey, himself a strong believer in evolution, colors the account
of Darwin's theories and ideas with reenf orcements of his own. In his
enthusiasm he makes of Darwin a martyr, likening him to Abraham
Lincoln who paid the price of liberty "with his life" while the former
paid "all his life."

The book is written in simple, clear style with not too much scientific
discussion to make it of interest to the ordinary person.

K. Gravely, '2^.
[31]

A Good Woman. Louis Bromfield. Frederick A. Stokes, New York.

Louis Bromfield seems to be just another one of the many rebels in
contemporary American literature. Rebels are a good thing — they may
even be ultimately necessary. We suppose no one questions that. But
some of us are growing just a wee bit weary of this endless string of
candid, sexy, "typically American," rebellious novels. You know what
I mean. Your body is shaken powerfully by an invisible, determined
somebody who stands before you with his hands gripping your shoul-
ders. He is trying hard to convince you that he had discovered that the
world is full of greedy and unlovely people, of weak people, and of
people whose chief concern in life is that their neighbors shall be good.
Most of us are already convinced. When will people begin to write
beautiful books again — tragic if necessary, but beautifully, nobly tragic,
not sordidly so?

You can't help wondering why A Good Woman has become, as it
undoubtedly has, the most discussed novel of the fall. To be sure there
are real creations in some of the settings. The village at Megambo,
"in deepest Africa," is real. So are the mills, and the Shane castle and
park on the hill. The characters — Emma, Philip (her "little tin Jesus"),
Naomi — all of them seem hopelessly "constructed." You will probably
be interested in the narrative of their complicated relations with others,
however.

There seems to be nothing powerful, nothing profound, nothing
masterful about the book. But you may enjoy reading it.

Arvilla Copeland.

[32]

^ OTorb of explanation

We need not present the credentials of such student writers as
Fadean Pleasants and Marjorie Vanneman. Mrs. Davis submits her
first article to this magazine. She is a graduate of Oberlin College,
took her M.A. at the University of Chicago in 1925, and is now doing
outstanding work as associate professor of sociology here, preparatory
to taking a Ph.D. degree. Kate C. Hall submits several short poems;
she is an alumnae of 1926, had graduate work at Yale in dramatics, and
has contributed to us before. Nancy Little needs no word, since she is
an ex-editor of this publication. Antoinette Landon, doing laboratory
technician work in a Charlotte hospital, still finds time for a delicate
verse or two. Elizabeth Moore, Mattie Moore Taylor, and Allene
Whitener, all students, appear on these pages for the first time. These
last two portray two aspects of Negro life, in Uncle Peter and Black
Narcissus, respectively. Kate Gravely, Arvilla Copeland, and Kath-
erine Hardeman are other student contributors.

^n Announcement

New York, N. Y. (By New Student News Service) — Sterlin
North, of the University of Chicago, is the winner of the Witter
Bynner poetry prize, in the annual undergraduate contest. Grace Haz-
ard Conkling, Edgar Lee Masters, and Witter Bynner judged the poetry
of students in all parts of the country. North won $100. Marion
Staver, Barnard College; and Lucia E. Jordan, Smith College, each
won $25 prizes.

Honorable mention, in order of preference, was given Rhea de
Coudres, Brown University; Marshall Schacht, Dartmouth College;
Walter Evans Kidd, University of Oregon; Margaret Hebard, Smith
College; Karen Dillig, Carnegie Institute of Technology; John Bryon,
University of Virginia; Ernest Erskilla, University of Montana;
Gladys B. Merrifield, University of California ; M. Hazel Harris, Uni-
versity of Minnesota ; and Donald Wandrei, University of Minnesota.

Entries for the 1928 prize must be mailed by May 15, 1928. Only
undergraduates may compete, and the poems submitted may be one or
a group, but of not more than 200 lines.

[33]

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Men, women and children between 15 and

65 are protected by this policy.

PILOT LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY

GREENSBORO, N. C.

''To morrow's Styles Today"
In Smart Feminine Footwear

POPULAR PRICES
1^4.40 $5.50 $6.60

112

N. Elm
Street

>, 112

N. Elm
Street

Meet Me At

PARKS

DIXIE BUILDING

SODAS

SANDWICHES

'AT

WHEPE OUAUTY TELLS

Greensboro, N. C.
Sporting Goods — China & Gifts

Patronize Coraddi
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^Tfte SEEMAN
P KI N TE RY
INCORPORATED

'EstahUshed 1885

DURHAM ^

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