Coraddi

Miss Florabel Hazelman, Masquerader
President, sits one out in an evening
gown of pink net from our new spring
collection.

C 0 li A D D I

Volume L Winter, 1946 Number 2

Student Magazine of Woman's College
University of North Carolina, Greensboro, N. C.

CONTENTS

Page
Cover Charlotte Grahame

Frontispiece ._ Cy7ithia Cox 2

Breaking Ground 3

Simmons' General Ttore Lucy Rodgers 4

The Strike Virginia McKinnon 6

The Story of Cadwalader Sniff Miki Siif 8

Episode ..Florence Hoffman 10

White Tide .Nancy Siff 12

The Necessity for World Government Janet East 14

C ORADDI

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Page 2

Winter, 1946

BREUIKG GROUND

If communication of experience is indeed the
purpose of art, the fiction of the winter edition
of the CORADDI is almost completely based on
artistic principles. Exceedingly intelligible and
detailed description permeates the stories and
sketches and gives them a realistic quality that
makes the experience communicated seem either
to be our own or to parallel our own.

A not unsympathetic objectivity is the method
Virginia McKinnon uses in "The Strike" to tell
the story of the magnified fears and reactions of
a little boy whose father is involved in a strike
and whose fear for the law increases as his belief
that his father is bigger than everything, includ-
ing the law, is shattered. Gin Gin is a junior
English major, new Coraddi staff member, and
news editor of the Carolinian; she is interested
in psychology, among other things.

"Simmons' General Store" by Lucy Rodgers has
its setting in a small town revealed by quantities
of local color and is concerned with the conflict
between the new preacher and the woman who
is accustomed to managing the town's church
affairs. The scene and characters are carefully
and minutely drawn and combine her first-hand
knowledge of a small town with imagination.
Lucy is a junior English major, headline editor
of the Carolinian, and new member of the
Coraddi staff.

An echo of at least part of our experience
is sounded in Florence Hoffman's "Episode,"
which narrates the warped and rather tainted
manner in which a little girl learns the facts of
life, dramatizes her certainty that she will never
be the carefree and happy child she was, and
forgets it all soon in a game of jump-rope. Flor-
ence is a senior English major and a member
of the Coraddi staff.

Combining lyric descriptions of nature and
revealing characterization of a man, Nancy Siff's
"White Tide" shows the interaction of the two
to reveal the quality lacking in the man's per-
sonality and his frustration in recognizing it.
Nancy, a sophomore English major and Coraddi
staff member, likes people, politics, and music.

Miki Siff's "Cadwalader Sniff" represents an
entirely different and highly original element of
fiction, that of humor and fantasy with the tracing
of satire visible in it. Cadwalader is the unsus-
pecting victim of a planned society. Miki has
never read Brave Neiu World, but the similarity
is obvious enough to be interesting. Miki, a senior
psychology major, injects a completely mad and
extreme set of psychological ideas into her story
and demonstrates wherein evils might result
from such a civilization. You probably remember
Miki as the archtype of game enthusiasts who
learned to play chess one Saturday afternoon at
four and continued to perfect her game until
nine Sunday morning. Her cohort was Marty-
vonne Dehoney, the versatile sophomore art
major, whose contributions to this issue include
cartoons and poetry.

Janet East's "The Necessity for World Govern-
ment" is Coraddi's attempt to catch a tone of
serious interest in world affairs and, also, is
Janet's first try at writing for publication. Janet's
interests lie in the direction of politics and his-
tory (her major), and her participation in cam-
pus activities extends as far as Aycock, where
she works on lights for the Playlikers.

This issue introduces several new poets in-
cluding Florence Hoffman, who has not previously
shown poetic inclination, and another Rodgers,
Winifred this time, with a first poem.

Coraddi departs from the usual photographic
cover with an example of Charlotte Grahame's
art, mostly pencil and tempera. Cynthia Cox con-
tributes the charcoal frontispiece. (And while we
are on the subject, we apologize for wrongly giv-
ing credit to Martha Posey for the frontispiece
in the fall issue ; Kenna Beall was really the artist
who did it.) Helen Sanford photographed Mas-
querader President Flossie Hazelman in Montaldo
apparel.

In conclusion, we hope your reading of this
magazine will be an interesting if sometimes
mystifying experience.

— M. R. R.

Page 3

C OR A DD I

SIMMONS' GENERU STORE

By Lucy Rodgers

An ancient stove in which no fire burned stood
on a tin mat near the center of the wide-boarded
floor of Simmons' General Store. Its black pipe
ran straight up to the ceiling, where a wire held
it, and then turned to run another six or eight
feet before entering a chimney at the back of
the store. Around the stove on apple boxes and
chairs with sagging rush bottoms sat several
farmers. A red hound dog lay stretched out beside
the stove sleeping heavily.

Flour sifted through the seams of twenty-five
pound sacks piled in one corner of the store, and
along the wall there were bags of grain, mash,
and fertilizer. Three hams hung by wires from
the ceiling.

A fly buzzed lazily over the wilted heads of
lettuce and lighted on the glass covering the
candy counter. It paused a moment, then crawled
slowly across the top and through a crack which
bore the remains of a dirty piece of adhesive
tape. Inside were all-day suckers, licorice, and
sugared orange slices. The fly landed on the
end of an orange slice.

A wagon rolled loudly down the street, and dust
floated in through the screen door. Far away a
dinner bell gonged. Two little boys ran by yelling
to each other, their bare feet beating an irregular
rhythm on the hard-packed dirt. Hiram McDonald
slapped at a fly that landed on his worn corduroy
knee, and Ben Humphrey's tobacco .juice made a
twang as it hit the tin mat. The air was still
and hot.

The swinging screech of the screen door broke
the silence, and the men turned involuntarily.
Mrs. Elmson entered, walked across the uneven
floor, and lifted her basket to a deeply scarred
wooden counter. Mrs. Elmson was well past
middle age. The townspeople agreed that she had
grown old suddenly after her husband had passed
away. It was said that he had died of a heart
disease, but the gossips firmly believed it was
drink. Mrs. Elmson was very active in church
work, and supplied the Sunday School and church
choirs with a voice that was distinctive for vol-
ume, if lacking somewhat in tone. She baked what
everybody knew, without any doubt, were the
best cakes in town, and considered it her duty
to be on hand with one whenever there was
sickness or death in a neighbor's family.

"Good moimin', Mr. Simmons," she said, as
she searched her handbag for her list of groceries.
Then turning to the men around the stove, "How's
your wife, Hiram? I sent Liz over this mornin'
with a bowl of custard an' I hope she feels better."

"Well. Miz Elmson, she's gittin' along a little
better, I reckon, but you cain't tell sometimes
when these attacks are goin' to come back. Las'

night, she told me she hurt so much she couldn't
sleep, but she felt better this mornin'. I'm sure
she'll 'predate that custard."

Ben Humphrey shifted his position, put one
foot up against the cold stove, and pulled another
plug of tobacco out of his pocket, "I wouldn't give
a hip an' hoorah for what them fancy specialists
say, if I wuz you, Hiram. My wife had a lotta
trouble not fur back, an' she tried rubbin' a
little mustard mixture on it, an' it helped a lot."

Mrs. Elmson reached in her basket and counted
out two dozen eggs. "I've got some nice, fresh
eggs for you this mornin', Mr. Simmons, and I
was wondrin' if you had any good beef to make
a stew with."

Mr. Simmons walked to the back of the store
and came back with a white package. "Now, what
else can I git you, Mrs. Elmson?" he asked.

"I'll take some of that macaroni, an' a box
of salt, an' three pounds of potatoes. That's all
I'll need today."

As Mr. Simmons rang up change in the cash
register, the nickel trimmings of which had
turned a brassy color, Mrs. Elmson picked up
her basket and started for the door. Then she
paused. "I hear Mr. Brown is thinkin' about
retirin' an' they might get a new preacher from
over at Woodville. I hope he's not that young up-
start John Goodman that I heard my second cousin
Matilda speak of. She said he wanted to put
some sort of recreation center up for the boys
an' girls in the basement of the church for games
an' such. Why, all that fuss an' noise would be
downright sacrilegious! Well, I'll be goin'." The
door swung to behind her, and I\Ir. Simmons came
back to his chair beside the stove.

"You reckon there's anything to that business
o' gittin' a new preacher? We sure do need one
bad. Mr. Brown is so ole an' sick now he cain't
preach a good sermon no more. An' my wife says
she don't care so much fur him as a preacher no-
how. I wish we would git that young feller from

Martyvoniie Dehone.v.

'^^'h.v do you keep staring at me?"

Winter, 1946

over at Woodville. I bet he'd take the runnin'
of the church outa Miz Elmson's hands."

"Well, if you ask me," said Hiram, "Miz Elm-
son's done a heap o' good. That woman's got
a head full of sense, no matter what you say
about her bossin' everybody aroun'. An' she's been
mighty nice to the folks that git sick. Why, jus'
look what she did for my Annie this mornin'."

"Well, she's got a voice that sounds like a hen
squawkin'," Mr. Simmons remonstrated, "an' I
jus' cain't git to feelin' religious when I hafta
listen to her leadin' the choir."

"I wuz talkin' to Alvin North the other day,"
put in Ben, " — you know he's doin' the fixin' up
out to the parsonage — an' he said Deacon Haley
had been talkin' to him, an' it looks like we might
git Preacher Goodman."

The sound of footsteps made them turn, and
a young man appeared at the door. He was short
and wore rimless glasses. "Do you know where
I could find Mr. Alvin North or Mr. Everett
Haley?" he asked, as he pushed open the door.
"It's very important." He did not come in, but
stood with one foot on the top step and one just
inside the door. He seemed to be in a hurry.

Mr. Simmons got up and went to the door.
"You'll find Mr. Haley over at Mr. Johnson's
hardware store. If you cain't find him there, he
might be down at the mule stable. Say, you're the
preacher from over at Woodville, ain't you?"

"Yes, I'm the Methodist preacher over there.
You're Mr. Simmons, aren't you?" glancing at the
white apron covering the large man. "Well,
thanks a lot for helping me out, Mr. Simmons,
and if either Mr. North or Mr. Haley come in
here, would you tell them I'm looking for them?"

Mr. Simmons stood in the door a few minutes
and watched him walk rapidly down the road.
Then, he turned to the two men.

"Don't know but as how I would sorta like
that feller. He's nice an' respectable lookin', an'
looks like he might be able to git in his say 'bout
things."

"Wonder how he'd look behind the pulpit,"
mused Hiram. "Seems to be he's sorta short, an'
you know how funny Mr. Brown looks when he
gits up to preach."

"But," Ben put in, "Mr. Brown is short an'
fat too, an' the Rev. Goodman ain't fat. He's
jus' short." Ben emphasized this with a squirt
of tobacco juice aimed in the general direction
of the stove. "Wonder if he has a purty wife?"

"What's a purty wife got to do with it?" Hiram
looked a little angry. "You ain't a-gonna look at
her preach, an' 'sides, I betcha'll find a heap of
wimmin'll like it better if he ain't got such a purty
wife."

"Oh, it ain't gonna hurt to have somebody purty
fer a change up in the choir or sittin' in the front
pew." Ben's blue eyes twinkled, and the corners
of his tobacco-stained, mustached mouth turned
slightly upward. Mrs. McDonald had been, until
her illness, a prominent soprano in the choir.

At this moment the screen door opened, and
Alvin North and Deacon Haley entered. Alvin was
a lanky man of about thirty-two. He wore light-
colored, dirt-stained overalls and carried a car-
penter's box. Deacon Haley was in his late forties,
a pale man who moved quickly, and frequently
smoothed the front of the black suit he was
wearing.

"You got any ten-penny nails, Mr. Simmons?"
Alvin inquired as he stepped to the back of the
store whereon an improvised set of shelves was a
jumble of screws, hammers, nails, glass jars,
and balls of string. "Some o' th' boardin's loose
over to th' parsonage."

Mr. Simmons began weighing out nails. "Then,
I reckon it's true we're goin' to git Mr. Goodman
fur a preacher. He wuz in here huntin' fur you all
a minute ago. I tol' him you might be over at the
hardware store, an' you might be down at the
mule stable. Did he run into you?"

Deacon Haley spoke in a mild voice. "Yep, we
saw him. Looks like we might be goin' to have
a new preacher. Mighty nice feller he is, too.
He don't ask much in the way of fixin' up either,
an' that's purty good, 'cause the treasury of the
church ain't so full now. 'Pears to me folks ain't
been paying all their tenth."

"Well, I got my tenth paid las' corn crop I
sold," Hiram put his hands behind his head and
looked at the others.

Ben ignored the deacon's statement.
* * * *

It was Saturday morning. The sun beat down
on the tin roof of Simmons' General Store and
streamed through its dusty windows. Mr. Sim-
mons paused from straightening the dark blue
denim- overalls, lighter blue work shirts, and straw
hats that lay in a confused mass on an ornate
walnut-colored table. He wiped his forehead with
the hem of his apron as Hiram came in for the
third time that morning.

"Seems as how I furgot to git them yeast
cakes Annie tol' me to git. Cain't recollect what
else it wuz she wanted neither."

Mr. Simmons moved a hand plow and leaned
it up against the wall beside five rakes and a keg
holding several axes. He stepped out from behind
the table and crossed the store.

"Sure am glad your wife's able to be gittin'
out, now. Reckon she'll be goin' to th' Sunday
School picnic?" Mr. Simmons asked.

"Yep, Miz Elmson has got her to helpin' bake
the cakes. It's funny, you know, but didja hear
how mad Miz Elmson wuz after the Sunday
School teachers had that meetin' las' Friday after-
noon? Well, Annie came home tellin' me how nice
Miz Goodman wuz, an' all the good things the
other teachers had to say 'bout the work she wuz
doin' with the children. Well, Miz Elmson, she
jus' set over in the corner an' didn't say beans!
Since Miz Goodman took over the runnin' of the

(Continued on page 16)

Page 5

C OR ADDI

THE STRIKE

By Virginia McKinnon

The little boy came out of Locke's combination
restaurant, grocery, and filling station with a
loaf of light bread in his hand. He slipped it under
the apron front of his overalls. Sometimes when
he went to the store he had to carry a shopping
bag to bring back all the things, but since the
strike, his mother had only wanted a can of pork
and beans or a pound of sidemeat when she sent
him. He was glad because he never had liked
carrying the shopping bag, and he wasn't hungry
anyway what with the free soup at school for
skinny kids. He liked having his father home at
night, and he liked not having to be quiet in the
daytime, but he didn't like for his father to be
so edgy and out-of-sorts and always saying
"What's the use of striking when they've closed
the mill for good? How're we gonna eat, and
where're we gonna go when they throw us out
of the house the first of the year?"

Now that he was rid of the bread he could
balance his weight evenly so that he wouldn't
fall off the curb into the branch. Sometimes he
needed both hands to clutch the hedge bushes
that grew up from the banks. He mustn't fall.
The water would not be nice; it was sewage.
There was a sidewalk across the street, but he
was too young to feel compelled to use it. The curb-
ing stopped, and he turned up a red dirt road,
but the rocks hurt his feet. He jumped over a
bunch of Queen Anne's lace growing in the ditch
and landed on the grass before the old water
works plant. He stopped for a minute to look in
at the window. It was a back window, too high
even for his father. But there was an old rusted
boiler that he could climb up on. The first day
he found the window he couldn't see through the
glass for the dust caked on the inside, but the
next time he looked in he had pressed too hard
with his nose, and the putty — dry and cracked —
had loosened, and the pane had fallen with a great
clatter to the floor. He had run home and hidden
under the house. He was sure that he would be
taken to the court house and strapped. He had
been strapped once for stealing pecans from a
lady's tree. The county clerk had said that the
next time he was sent to juvenile court he would
see that he was sent to Jacksonville Training
School and that the strapping was to make him
remember. The day after he had pushed the
window pane out he was afraid to go to school.
He was afraid of his teacher. He was afraid that
somehow she would know about the window. She
didn't like mill children because they smelled bad
like billy goats, she said. She made children who

misbehaved stand in a closet rather than the
customary corner. She had a paddle, too. with
holes in it for the repeaters who laughed at the
dark of the closet. He felt sick at his stomach
every time he looked at the paddle thinking about
a story he heard an old, old nigger woman tell
once. She said that the white men every Saturday
used to line the slaves up and beat them with big
paddles. The holes in the paddles would raise
blisters, she said, and the white men would cut
oflF the tops of the blisters and pour salt and
pepper on the raw skin. He tried to forget the
story, but it kept popping up in his mind when
the teacher paused between words. But no one
had seen him push in the window pane, and now
he could see easily. It was dark and empty inside
except for two shafts of light that danced with
dust particles kicked up by two cats in copula-
tion. That was funny because he had thought that
cats were different. He knew about people and
dogs, but he had seen tabby cats carrying kittens
by the scuff of the neck, and he had thought that
cats anyway really did find their babies under
bushes. But he was often wrong about things.
It made him mad to find that other people had
known all along and had been fooling him.

-Janice Roberts.

Page 6

Winter, 1946

He climbed back down. He remembered when
the plant was in use, and the reservoir was full.
He had come often to look at the water and walk
slowly around the narrow ledge and wonder what
would happen if he fell in. Drained, the reservoir
was less inviting for balancing practice. He kept
hoping that someone would fill it up for a swim-
ming pool; but no one did, and the mill used it
for a dye dump. The short cut from Locke's to
home went by the reservoir. He held his breath
and ran. The dye smell was still there when he
gave out of breath, but he had missed the worst
of it.

It was out of his way, but he would go by the
mill and look at the picket line. He didn't under-
stand exactly about the strike. He had heard his
mother and father talk about "five-cent increase"
and "backpay" and "union allotment." He remem-
bered that when he was very little, an ugly old
man with a big hump on his back had sat with
his father and talked about the Stingy Devil who
built the mill and the little frame houses. He
understood that stopping work was a kind of
war against the people who ran the mill and
that the picket line was to keep other workers
from coming in and manufacturing the cotton.
It all was sort of glorious to him like cowboys
and bad men in the show. A few men hadn't
wanted the strike and had tried to get work in
another mill twenty miles away ; but when the
manager found out where they were from, he
had said "No work for you," and there had been
nothing else to do but come back. The boy was
glad to see his father in the picket line. He had
been proud last week when the mill owners had
tried to truck off the cotton and sell it to another
mill, and the picket line had stood firm and sure,
and the trucks had driven away empty. The drivers
had shouted that they'd be back with the law next
time, and the picket line had laughed contemptu-
ously. The Law, to the boy, was over and above
the county clerk's juvenile court. He was a big
corpulent man with red, liquor cheeks and a gun
and holster dangling on his thigh. He had seen
the Law in action once. There had been a nigger
fight at Locke's one Saturday night, but the
Law had arrived with two assistants. The culprits
had fled into the woods, and the Law seized a
couple who were attempting to leave. They were
accused, and the girl tried to pull away. The
assistants held her husband with a gun in each
rib while the Law used his black jack dexterously.
The girl, a Black Tiger the Law called her, finally
lost consciousness. Her blouse was torn from her
body; blood ran swiftly and in spurts from her
forehead into her eyes. The boy shuddered. The
blood was red like his own. Funny — he hadn't
thought that it would be.

The picket line was smiling today. He could see
them snickering and nudging each other. The
trucks had come back. They were Ford pick-ups
with City Water Department lettered on the sides.
He was glad that he wasn't going to miss this.
They drove up into the yard and turned around
so that the ends of the trucks faced the loading
platform. There were loaders in the back of one
truck. He guessed that they were trusties. He'd
seen some of them cleaning up around the jail
house. His sister had a celluloid ring with a pink
stone in it that her boy friend bought from one
of the trusties. Some of the rings had tiny pictures
of naked girls instead of sets. A boy at school
had one, but he didn't wear it. Sometimes he to_ok
it out of his pocket during recess and showed it.

The drivers were getting out. The picket line's
smile disappeared. This time the Law had come.
He had a bundle of axe handles. They were new
and were tied together with a burlap cord. He
took a long time to untie the knot. The boy won-
dered why he didn't cut it. Maybe he saved string
and, when he got enough, plaited them together
for a noose. Now he had the handles apart. He
gave each loader one, and they divided up by
fours. Then he climbed into his truck, threw the
gear into reverse, and rammed backwards. The
line broke — first for the Law's truck and then
for the three other trucks. The men stood in
sullen groups and watched the trusties load the
cotton.

The boy was ashamed, ashamed for his father
and the picket line. He was scared, too. He ran
home and hid up under the house.

THEME FOR AN EARLY PICASSO

I saw Harlequin

With a nightingale.

The diamond figure

And the shadow bird

Sang to each other

A langourous song

In the meadowed moonlight.

I saw Harlequin
And a peacock.
The lithe lean figure.
And the arrogant bird
Strutted together
In the quiet woods
Dappled with night.

I saw Harlequin
With a grey dove.
The melancholy pair
Wept in the dawn mist.
Felt the night air lift
And vanished
In the clear sunlight.

— Martyvonne Dehoney.

Page 7

C OR ADDI

THE STORY OF CAOWALADER SNIFF

By MiKi SiFF

Degrees of conservatism and radicalism make
up human beings. Those who are followers of the
government are conservatives and those who
deviate are radicals. Governments also may be
considered radical or conservative, and radical
governments may exist in conservative societies.

Whether Rippytropul is conservative or radical
is extraneous. The fact of the matter is that its
citizens are conservative. They do not deviate
from the law of the state. They are afraid to ;
because if they do, dire consequences will follow.
However, no one has any desire to deviate from
the law of the state because he knows that the
state is only looking out for the good of the
society . . . those were the exact words (perhaps
I should have used quotes) which Hyram James
Rippytropul used when he wrote the constitution
of the state.

J. D. Jones is the great dictator of the state.
Under the dictator there are three judges: the
judge of business, the judge of pleasure, and
the judge of education, and all of these have
courts under them. The state is run in such a way
that the citizens are given the best opportunities
for business, pleasure, and education of which
they are capable of taking advantage. Businesses
are based on talents ; pleasure, on interests. Par-
ticular prowess and interests of the citizens are
observed throughout their primary educational
career. At the age of sixteen they are sent to
secondary schools to be trained in that business
for which they have shown an aptitude. A number
of hours are set aside each day for every citizen
in order that he may indulge in that which he
finds to be his pleasure. Everyone works to his
utmost and enjoys to his utmost. Anyone who
does not fall into this category is a radical and
is put into a concentration camp and deprived of
his right of citizenship.

Cadwalader Sniff was the most conservative of
all conservatives. He never thought of breaking
a rule. He had progressed beautifully up until
the age of sixteen and then reverted to stag-
nation and has been stagnant ever since.

A terrible fate befell Cadwalader Sniff, and
it all began during his beautiful progression.
When Cadwalader was one year old, and was lying
restlessly in his little crib, he heard beautiful
strains of music coming through the open window
from the pleasure building next door. It was
Les Preludes by Liszt. He listened carefully to the
entire piece, and then it was played over again . . .
and again and again. Cadwalader listened more
carefully each time. The pleasure building had
been playing the piece for those who enjoyed it
to the utmost; but no one ever knew that Cad-
walader had listened. The next night Cadwalader
again lay restlessly in his little crib, and new
strains of beautiful music came through the open

window. This time it was Gaite Parisienne by
Offenbach. Cadwalader listened to every note of
the music as it was played. The third night
Cadwalader was restless once more and for a
third time he heard beautiful music. This night
it was Beethoven's Fourth Piano Concerto, and
Cadwalader listened very carefully. The fourth
and fifth nights Cadwalader heard more music:
Sibelius' Second Symphony and Tschaikowsky's
Sixth Symphony. On the sixth day Cadwalader's
family had to move because of Mr. Sniff's busi-
ness transfer. On the trip to the new home the
Sniffs were in an automobile accident. Cad-
walader's mother and father were killed and so
little orphanated Cadwalader was put into the
care of the state.

Many years passed — almost fifteen — and during
this time Cadwalader had forgotten that he knew
the five beautiful strains of music. Those were
the only pieces which Cadwalader had ever
known, and even he did not know that he knew
them now.

Cadwalader Sniff was a shy lad. He rarely
spoke to anyone even when spoken to. The state
worried about him. He had gotten to be almost
sixteen years old and still he showed no particular
aptitudes. Nothing like this had ever occurred
in Rippytropul before. Students were usually able
to street clean or rubbish collect if nothing else;
or if their I. Q. as reported by the Stanford Binet
Intelligence test showed them to be moronic, im-
becilic, or idiotic they were given to the scien-
tists as subjects for experimentation. Sniff showed
no aptitudes whatsoever. He was not idiotic, im-
becilic. or moronic; nor could he street clean or
rubbish collect.

One day J. D. called in all the judges of all the
departments and all the members of all the
courts for a conference. In the conference they
could come to no conclusions. Finally the pleasure
judge, being the congenial sort, suggested Cad-
walader be set free to wander the streets finding

"She's decided to be a phys. ed. major.'

Page 8

Winter, 1946

shelter and food from those who would give it
to him. The next day which was Cadwalader's
sixteenth birthday, he with all the other sixteen
year old men was informed of his status as a
citizen. Cadwalader set out on his way.

The story of Cadwalader Sniff had reached the
ears of all Rippytropulites and all learned to
recognize him as he passed from town to town.
He wandered and wandered, being very righteous
about it all, never deviating from the rules of
the society. Sniff saw many sights and met many
people, but he never remembered whom he met
because he did not speak except to ask for room
and board. He never remembered the places he
saw because there were so many and they were
all alike. But one Sunday afternoon three years
after his sixteenth birthday, he chanced upon a
building of tremendous size, and people from
everywhere seemed to be pouring into it. On the
top of the main entrance in big letters was writ-
ten PLEASURE CITY OF RIPPYTROPUL. Cad-
walader mingled with the crowds and found him-
self being forced into the building. There was a
big auditorium on the inside and everyone was
finding seats and sitting. Sniff spotted an empty
seat behind five long-haired gentlemen and made
his way to it. The houselights were dimmed and
the curtain went up. It was a musical program
for music lovers. The orchestra was seated and
the conductor stood upon the platform. He sig-
naled for all to rise and the national anthem was
played. The program began. The first number was
Les Preludes by Liszt, the second Gaite Parisienne
by Offenbach, the third Beethoven's Fourth Piano
Concerto, the fourth Sibelius' Second Symphony,
and the fifth was Tschaikowsky's Sixth Symphony.
As Cadwalader listened he hummed the melody of
each piece. He hummed every single note of the
melodies. He knew where every rest came and
held onto every long note. After every piece one
of the long-haired gentlemen would turn around
and utter: "Hmm . . . Sniff . . . Phenomenal."
Sniff was too engrossed in the music to notice.

After the program was over, the five men
cornered poor, ragged Cadwalader and directed
him to a dark alley. The first who was Cllypsoifsky
was a Liszt specialist ; the second, Dripsofsky, an
Offenbach specialist; the third Shmoosiopsky, a
Beethoven specialist ; the fourth Af roskyotowhich,
a Sibelius specialist; and the fifth was Shultz, a
Tschaikowsky specialist."

"Sniff." Shultz said (he was the hot-headed
type), "this is incredible . . . and also a federal
offense. How could you know that music so
well?"

"Welp," said Sniff (his first word in two days).

He was cut off by Shmoosiopsky, "Amazing,
Sniff, amazing, but a federal offense unless you
have a ready explanation."

"Welp," said Sniff (his second word in two
days).

He was interrupted by Dripsofsky, "Utterly
preposterous. I must be going mad. What have
you to say, Sniff?"

"Welp," said Sniff (his third word in two days,
which brought his average to an unbelievable
height) .

He was cut off by Cllypsoifsky who in turn was
interrupted by Afroskyotowhich, "Give da guy a
chance, fellas. Give da guy a chance."

"Welp," said Sniff, "I don't know how it hap-
pened, but I just knew the tunes of those pieces
and couldn't help humming them."

"Phenomenal, phenomenal," muttered the five
stunned musicians, "but a federal offense. If that
is the best explanation you can give, we will have
to report you for concealing hidden talents which
may benefit the state . . . and you know what
that means."

"Yes, I know," said Sniff, "but I don't know
how I knew the tunes."

Of course, any Freudian psychologist would
realize immediately that it must have been due
to repression of a childhood experience ; but there
were no Freudian psychologists in Rippytropul.
The Rippytropulus psychologists were of the
Gestalt school because the dictator's uncle-in-law
had been related to Gestalt.

The five musicians brought Sniff to the nearest
police station and he was put behind bars to
await the verdict. "I'll call J. D.," mumbled
Shultz, "while you all (he came from southern
Rippytropul) organize the evidence . . . Hello, J.
D. ? . . . this is Shultz. I'm calling from a booth
in the corner police station. I just happened upon
something terrific . . . Snifi' yeah . . . He's got a
gi'eat talent for music and doesn't know where he
got . . . larceny ... he probably stole it . . .
Conference? 0. K. be right over."

It didn't take long for the newspaper to get the
story. Corner newsboys were shouting the head-
lines of the late editions. "Sniff Held on Charge
of Grand Larceny" ; "Sniff Found Concealing Hid-
den Talents" ; "Sniff May Be Excommunicated" ;
"Concentration C]amp for Sniff if Talents Remain
Unexplained."

Meanwhile Jones called in all the judges and all
the members of all the courts for conferences.
They discussed the problem from all angles. The
OSI was formed (Office of Sniff Information)
which organized groups to find out where Sniff
had spent his past three years. All the citizens
were interviewed. The OSMA was formed (Office
of Stolen Music Abilities) which sent out groups
to investigate all music stores to find out who
listened to or bought records for the past three
years. A Liszt club was formed to discover what
the chances were of learning Les Preludes with-
out ever having heard it. For the same purpose
an Offenbach club was formed and also a Bee-
thoven, a Sibelius, and a Tschaikowsky Club. The
best in every field were called to the capital city.
Hotel rooms couldn't be had for love or money.
Everyone worked to the utmost but no clues
developed.

Several months passed and Sniff by this time
had acclimated himself to his cell and was quite
(Continued on page 19)

Page 9

C OR ADDI

EPISODE

By Florence Hoffman

As the second hand of the big clock over the
door snapped forward with its familiar spasmodic
movement, the bell which meant that school was
over for the day burst forth in shrill dissonance.
Anna Louise bent down to return her green pencil
and red eraser to their regular positions in her
desk and then sat up with her folded hands
placed carefully on its flat-topped surface, wait-
ing for her row to be dismissed. Next year, when
she would be in the fifth grade, she would have
a desk which opened at the top, but until then
she had to peer into the lower recesses of the
one she did have whenever she wanted anything
it held.

When she heard her teacher calling for second
row to file out to the cloak room, she marched
behind a chubby little girl whose hair hung down
her back in heavy curls. One behind another
they filed, no one breaking the continuity of the
line. Anna Louise removed her coat from its hook,
put it on, and concentrated on the exacting pro-
cess of placing the correct brass buttons in the
right button holes. Then she saw that the other
girls in her row were already lined up at the
door. She snatched her lunch box from the shelf
above her and ran to join them, pulling her
beret down on her head until the rim touched
her eyebrows, then pushing it up to a comfort-
able position in the center of her forehead.

After the class had marched down the steps
to the main door, and had chorused a perfunctory,
"Good night. Miss Bicknell," in reply to the
refrain, "Good night, boys and girls," soloed by
the teacher, Anna Louise trotted along the edge
of the walk, slowing down for a moment to
balance herself on the line which divided the
pavement from the grass, her arms outspread.
She was about to start up the main street for
home when she saw a group of the older girls
crouched on the ground in an intimate circle. She
heard their giggles and squeals which sounded
tantalizing and important to her. These were some
of the seventh graders who bustled into Anna
Louise's classroom sometimes to place mysterious-
looking messages on Miss Bicknell's desk. They
were of that select group, "the older girls," who
were looked upon with awe and reverence by all
the others at school.

Anna Louise wanted to hear what they were
saying, but she knew that they would push her
away if she tried to sit with them. They would
push her away even if she didn't say anything,
even if she only listened. They never let any of
the fourth graders listen to anything they said.
There was only one way to hear what they were
saying, and that was to climb along the wall which
was a short distance behind them, and hide in
the bushes, the heavy branches of which covered
the top of the wall. She knew that she would be

spying and that the girls would shout "sneak" at
her if they found her but she was fascinated by
the way they kept looking around to see that no
one was near enough to listen. So she scrambled
to the wall at the far end where it was low and
walked along its narrow surface, carefully, so
that she wouldn't fall, stopping, and crawling on
her hands and knees where the bushes were
especially thick. Feeling adventurous, and some-
what guilty, she stopped just opposite their circle
and sitting uncomfortably forward, she strained
to listen.

All the girls were talking to one, a younger
girl, who kept asking questions. When Anna
Louise settled herself, she heard the younger one
speak, choosing her w'ords with careful hesita-
tion, "But my sister told me. My sister said it
was different. She said, they cut your hand."
She made slashing motions across her wrist.
"She said they cut — and then — then a baby came
out and she said that."

That wasn't the way at all. Anna Louise knew
that the doctor, Dr. Wilson, brought babies in
his bag, and she wanted to tell them that she
knew. But the girls were laughing now, sort of
mean laughter which made the younger girl blush

Page 10

Winter, 1946

and stop talking. It was mean of them to laugh,
even though it was funny not to know about
the bag. She wondered why that girl didn't know
it. Everyone did. Anna Louise waited for the
other girls to tell her the truth, but she didn't hear
anything about bags, and she was puzzled. They all
began to speak at once and Anna Louise couldn't
understand the jargon. Then, as they started to
speak, one at a time, she followed their words,
her thoughts confused, turning her head to look
at the contributor of each new bit of information.
It was all meaningless to her as she tried vainly
to piece the snatches of conversation together.
But soon, those snatches began to form a picture,
grotesque in its implications ; and her bewilder-
ment became disgust.

She was cramped and stiff from sitting so long
in the same position and she was cold. She
didn't want to hear any more. She wanted to
leave, but she was afraid that the girls would
notice her if she moved. She didn't want to hear
what they were saying, but she couldn't make
herself stop listening. It was like seeing the freaks
in the circus. Although they had been unpleasant
to look at, she had kept her eyes on them, fas-
cinated with what she saw and yet hating the
sight.

She was caught so completely in the significance
of their words that she forgot that she was an
intruder. She forgot everything but what those
words meant to her. All of it was ugly and
dirty, and she hated the girls for laughing.
Her throat became tight and throbbing. Sud-
denly, abruptly, she stood and jumped from the
wall. It wasn't a long jump, but she was off
balance and she fell to her knees on the hard
ground. Ignoring the sharp pain, she dashed
into the group, swinging wildly with her fists,
hitting at random with her arms and hands.
The girls turned to stare at her, anger and guilt
on every face ; but all of them were too amazed
at seeing her to return the blows.

"You big fibbers," she screamed, "that's not
so, you big fibbers — fibbers, fibbers — ." She re-
peated the word until there were sobs instead of
words. She turned to run from them, eager to
be away from this thing which made her ashamed,
eager to leave behind the mocking, yet self-
conscious laughter which followed her as she
ran.

At last she stopped, too exhausted to run, or to
cry anymore. Her breathing was heavy, and her
heart was beating so hard that it hurt. She
shook but she was through crying. Slowly, reluc-
tantly, she walked home. Standing by a bush
near the steps she tried to regulate the rhythm
of her breathing as she pulled at the leaves and
crushed them in her hand. She didn't want to go
in. She couldn't go in and look at Mother as if
she didn't know this bad thing. And Daddy would
be home later. She wouldn't be able to look at
either of them without thinking bad things.

But perhaps those things the girls were say-
ing really weren't true. Perhaps they had just
made them up because they did know that she

was listening. The older girls always became
angry when the younger ones tried to join their
group or tried to walk with them. That must
have been it. Those things couldn't have been
true. And yet, they might be. She wasn't sure
and could never be sure unless she asked some-
one who would tell her the real truth, and she was
afraid to repeat the things she had heard. Mother
was the only one she could ask, and she was
afraid. She was afraid of what Mother would
say if they weren't. But Mother would tell her
that they weren't true, and that was what she
wanted to hear.

She rushed into the house.

No one was home. The house was quiet and
empty. And she was all alone. She had wanted
Mother to be there but now she was glad that
she didn't have to tell her about what she had
heard. Mother would have looked at her in that
way she had of looking when she was displeased,
and Anna Louise would feel ashamed and want
to hide, as she always did when Mother looked
at her that way. She walked aimlessly about
the house, going idly from room to room, and
then she remembered to take off her hat and
coat. She hung them up and thought about how
lonely and unhappy she was, and how there was
no one who would understand. Nothing was good
anymore. Everything had become bad and ugly.

Her knee began to hurt, and the palms of her
hands were sore. She knew that no one loved
her. If Mother loved her, she would be home
now. Anna Louise told herself that she didn't
care, but she knew she did. She slumped down
in the window seat of the study and stared out of
the window. Some girls were playing jump rope
and Anna Louise watched them. They were happy
and laughing. Anna Louise didn't want to laugh ;
she just wanted to be by herself. She stared out
the window and tried to forget what she had
heard, but she couldn't forget. She tried to pre-
tend that she had never hidden in the bushes,
but pretending didn't help either. She kept form-
ing strange pictures in her mind — strange, ugly
pictures that revolted her. She watched the rope
go round and round, round and round. Every-
one was having fun except her, and she would
never have fun again ; nothing would be fun again.
And she would never be able to tell anyone why
she was unhappy. People would wonder why Anna
Louise was such a quiet, sad, little girl, but no
one would ever know the reason.

One of the jump-ropers was motioning for
Anna Louise to come out. She had seen Anna
Louise sitting at the window and had called
out to her to join the game. But Anna Louise
would never play jump rope again. She had
decided that.

Perhaps she'd play just once more, and then,
never again — just once more. She'd act unhappy
and they'd wonder; but she wouldn't tell them.
She'd let them wonder. She put on her coat
but forgot her hat.

(Continued on page 15)

Page 11

C OR ADDI

WHITE TIDE

By Nancy Siff

It had been snowing for three days. After the
second day, the city yielded to the swirling flakes
and the wind double-edged with ice. For a day
and a night the roofs lay silent under the weight
of snow, while drifts piled up in the streets and
the buses toiled slowly and alone across town.
And still it fell, without sound, lightly in huge
flakes, creeping steadily higher against the build-
ings. At dusk of the third day it stopped. The
dense grey ceiling thinned and a pale light seeped
down through the city wedged between twin
rivers. In the park the light tipped the icy
branches with gold and threw long, glittering
shafts across the open slopes.

The tall man held a cigarette between his stiff
fingers and smoked steadily. His hands were large
and well-shaped, with heavy knuckles. In gloves,
they would have been awkward, naked they had
a vigorous dignity. His whole body under the
overcoat was heavy and powerful, striking in its
animal grace. In the sudden glare of light on the
snow, his eyes looked out like bits of flint, dull
and colorless. His cheeks were flat and lean, the
features planed off evenly, blade-clean.

He wondered as he puffed at his cigarette, why
he had come out here to shiver on a park bench
in the snow. Martin Story was not given to
whims. The men who worked with him had no
place in their lives for idle fancies and did not
tolerate them in others. They were blunt, quiet
men who put away their whims when they came
to Martin Story, and they understood one another.
The tall man stiff with cold knew that they would
not understand this — why he had left his work
to walk in the park at twenty above zero. He
could not have explained it to them.

When the snow had begun to fall two days
before, he had watched the thermometer outside
his window and reckoned grimly that if the
temperature fell much lower and the storm con-
tinued, he might be forced to put off his trip to
Scranton another week. He swore . . . Another
week would be too late. Timing was the important
thing. To plan for the precise moment, to sense
it when it came, and then to act fiercely and
quickly . . . This was the technique that made
Martin Story a brilliant leader. This was what
made him magnificent . . . And the snow would
interfere with everything. The silent snow pil-
ing into the streets would defeat them all. All the
tedious organization, the long months of waiting
would be lost in forty-eight hours of falling
snow. Men would not go out on strike in a
blizzard. Picket lines could not form in drifts
six feet deep. Martin Story swore again and
stared bitterly down into the empty, plowed-up
streets.

A heavy snowfall is diflferent in the city from
that in the country. In one night snow sweeps

over the country in a wide white swathe, equal-
izing farmland and forest, roads and hills, creat-
ing a new universe subject to a force silent as
time and as unconquerable. In the city it is
different. In the busy sections, the streets are
choked with soiled snow and garbage. Cement
walks are sheeted with ice and rivers of dirty
water gurgling noisily into drains . . . Every-
where soot and slush . . . the rattle of tire chains
and the rasp of shovels . . . stalled cars . . . ash
cans piled high with snow, thinly covered grape-
fruit shells and tin cans ... a whiskey bottle
splintered on the snow ... a shivering dog
sniffing at back doors.

Martin Story hurried through the downtown
district, brushing impatiently by women sidling
over the ice. He was remarkably agile for a big
man and he wove his way easily through the
crowds. At Forty-eighth Street he stood near a
young girl. She stepped gingerly over a roll of
slush iust as a taxi skidded crazily towards the

Margaret Finle

Page 12

Winter, 1946

curb. With a deft thrust of his arm, he pulled her
back as the car swerved past. For an instant her
thin body rested against him. She wore a red
scarf knotted around her throat and her small
colorless eyes glittered.

"Oh, damn . . . my dress . . . just look!" It was
splattered with mud. "Oh, but . . . thanks . . . thank
you ... I wasn't looking, and . . ." She laughed up
at him. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. It's just
the snow." She looked away swiftly and they
stepped apart.

His eyes were blank. "You should watch where
you're going," he said coldly.

"Yes," she smiled. "I suppose so . . . Well,
goodby." And she disappeared into a clump of
women mincing across the street.

"Little fool." Women like that annoyed him.
And why all the excitement about the damn
snow? Even Jack, the elevator man, ordinarily
grim and reticent, had informed him that it was
three feet deep in Jackson Heights. And it seemed
to Martin Story that he was almost glad. The
tall man lengthened his stride and pushed against
the wind which struck him as he rounded the
corner. Here the crowd had thinned and he was
almost alone. The sidewalk was neatly cleared
and the snow swept into clean drifts along the
curb. It was startlingly white. The face of the
young girl gleamed in his mind, her glittering
eves laughing at him. Swerving, he tramped
through a drift into the park. At once he was
blinded by the glare. Great white plains stretched
around him, brilliant in the sunlight, smooth and
solid as thick chinaware. It made his eyes ache,
and he rubbed them.

What were the chances of getting the men to
go out the first of the month, now that the early
walk-out had failed? They would have to work
twice as hard this time ... He blinked . . . Maybe
Matson could do something. If only . . . Damn.
He shrugged. It wouldn't be easy.

The silence, the immensely, strangely resonant
silence. He felt its weight upon his shoulders,
against his eyes. He looked around him. A fine
mesh of branches laid one upon the other covered
the slopes. Web upon web of black branches walled
him in. And everywhere was silence, vast, barren.
He hated it. Beyond the trees he could see the
giant bulk of the Empire State Building, the
slim Chrysler tower and the rest of the skyline
descending gradually into the west and east. An
immense pale ceiling pressed down upon him.

It was only a moment. He walked on, aware
of the clear, thin air and the glittering fields.
His attention was caught by the strange little
mounds that the children had built tirelessly in
the early afternoon. He saw where their foot-
prints had beaten a ragged track back and forth
across the snow. Masses of ice encased the rocks
and the smaller trees sagged under the solid
weight of snow. Fascinated, he noticed the
mechanical symmetry everywhere about him in

the patterns of frost on dead leaves, in the flakes
dusted off onto his sleeve from overhead. Martin
Story was a practical man, but he was not insen-
sitive to beauty. He felt a deep pride in the
wonderful complexity of fine machinery. He
marveled at the grace and silver poise of planes
he had helped build with his own hard hands.
Once he had watched with a terrible admiration
as flames gutted a square block of factoi-y build-
ings in an hour. He understood the drama in
beauty. Often he wondered about the long, grey
ships pulling out of the East River at dusk. There
was something mammoth, primeval about them.
He would stand at his window for hours some-
times, smoking cigarette after cigarette, as the
light spilled gold over the city, then copper-
color, violet and blood-red seeping into the nar-
row, cavernous streets. It was never the same
and he respected the ingenuity of beauty that
could reveal itself in a thousand subtle ways.

Stooping under a ledge, he broke ofl" a taper-
ing spike of ice. In the sunlight, color radiated
from the translucent splinter. It stung his hands
and he dropped it. The fine point pierced the
snow cleanly, and for a moment Martin Story
let his mind drift . . . whole armies equipped
with spears of ice . . . banners embroidered with
frost. He saw the faces of the men, blank, feature-
less. Only a gleam ... a ray of light where their
eyes should be. He smiled. Fantastic . . . He had
read a glorious book once, something about
knights and armies marching with scarlet ban-
ners. But long ago . . . Strange the things one
remembered. Somewhere in his childhood there
was another dream ... a name. He groped for
the filaments. The Snowqueen . . . 'An exquisite
lady, with great white wings'. Great . . . white
. . . wings. It almost seemed . . . He looked up.
Had there been something . . .? Was there a
shadow on the snow?

It was cold. The damn snow, the silence dis-
torting, insinuating. He dug his hands into his
pockets and trudged out across an open field.

The weak sunlight drained quickly out of the
afternoon and without the sun, it was cold. His
hands were needled with cold and he felt the
snow within his body. But he did not think of
going back. He felt light-headed. Turning to the
work ahead, his thoughts ran sharply, smoothly.
He did not think of the strike itself — that was
nothing. Once it got started, it would run auto-
matically, and he had realized long ago that the
strike was uncontrollable, a force in itself. The
men were part of it but it was not the men.
He was part of it, but the way a pilot is part of
his plane. The strike was as individual and as
self-sufiicient a force as the power of the engine.
Once the realization of this had startled him. Jim
Reed had always known it. It was in the early
days at a meeting in Harrisburg. Martin Story
had just finished speaking to the small group of
men packed into the narrow hall. It was glorious,
fierce. He had never been better. As soon as he

(Continued on page 17)

Page 13

C OR ADDI

THE NECESSITY FOR WORED GOVERKMEH

By Janet East

Today, in the aftermath of a second world war,
man must build a world community based on
thorough-going economic justice; or he will suffer
inevitable and holocaustic destruction. Only by
scientific planning on a world scale can we reach
the fundamental economic and social problems
underlying war. The United Nations Organiza-
tion is a positive step in this direction. Nations
can no more live in a state of anarchy than people
can, a fact which nations failed to realize or
refused to acknowledge after World War I. It
is recognized that the world is now too small for
nations to continue to exist side by side without
some organization for international cooperation.

A fact which has gained less wide acceptance
is that while the United Nations Organization is
essential and is a positive beginning toward main-
taining peace, the UNO as it now stands is not
enough. The UNO is a confederation of inde-
pendent national states. In the new age, the mod-
ern state, based as it is on the theory of absolute
sovereignty, is obsolete. We have just come
through a second world war which resulted from
conflicting nationalistic aims. A truly centralized
world government with final sovereignty over the
individual states is the only form of government
in keeping with the new age. Only a government
of such scope is capable of meeting the problems
which peace has brought.

Since the close of World War II, the big powers
have been intent on building up a strong national
defense. This policy is based on the old theory
that if a nation is strong enough, no one will
dare attack it. Toward this end, the big powers
are engaged in an armament race never before
equaled. In General Marshall's Biennial Report
to the nation, he emphasized that for "national
security" we must maintain the nation's armed
might and its power to attack. He said that the
United States must continue military conscription
so that an army of four million trained men could
be mobilized quickly at any time. We are con-
tinuing the manufacture of arms ; work is going
ahead on rocket bombs and jet propelled fighter
planes. We are continuing to manufacture atomic
bombs ; and while it is not certain that other
nations have discovered the secret of atomic
energy, there is no doubt that they are working
toward it. Russia and England are pursuing
similar policies of peacetime conscription and
armament maintenance.

Such action is evidence that the big powers are
not taking the UNO seriously. While the big
powers recognize it and send delegates to the
conferences, they are still playing the game of
power politics in an attempt to insure their
national security. The success of the UNO depends
upon the course taken by the big powers. Under

the San Francisco Charter, the big five — ^the
United States, the Soviet Union. Great Britain,
China and France — have permanent seats on the
Security Council. The General Assembly, com-
prised of representatives of all members of the
United Nations, elects six other non-permanent
members to the Security Council from the mem-
bers of the General Assembly. Each one of the
big five has veto power on all important decisions
of the Security Council and, consequently, can
veto any action against itself. Even the barest
beginning in international machinery, then, de-
pends on the support of the big five. Yet these
powers are working toward military and indus-
trial supremacy.

We have seen armament races before and Icnow
that they bring suspicion and distrust. It is in-
evitable that the big powers will disagree on many
points. One of the most obvious is the question
of Asia. The progress of Asia has long been
held back by Western domination. There can
be no real peace as long as one nation o\\tis
another and taps its economic resources. The
people of Asia demand freedom from foreign eco-
nomic domination. Unless the imperialistic gov-
ernments change their policies toward Asia,
native revolts will continue among Asia's millions.
Eventually, Russian, British, French, and Ameri-
can policies will clash over this question. The UNO
would be powerless to settle the dispute since any
one of the four nations could veto action against
itself.

It is becoming apparent, then, that the UNO
as it now stands is not adequate to meet the
problems of peace. Only a centralized world gov-
ernment, with final sovereignty over that of the
individual nations, is large enough in scope to
settle the disputes which have heretofore led to
war.

This world period under the UNO corresponds
to the period in American history when the states
existed under the Articles of Confederation. Under
this system the states maintained their individual
state sovereignty, joined together only in a loose
federation. When this system proved inadequate,
delegates from the states met and drew up the
constitution of the Federal government which has
final authority over the individual states. Unless
such action takes place on a world scale and the
power of the UNO is extended, the UNO will be
powerless to stop another large scale war.

We are aware of the consequences which an-
other war will bring in this age of atomic power,
jet propulsion, and rocket bombs. With this in
mind many believe that action must come now.
the Charter must be amended in order that no
one nation can veto the action of the Council as
a whole. The power of the UNO must be extended

Page 14

Winter, 1946

to constitute a world government with final sov-
ereignty over the individual nations. Such a gov-
ernment could enforce a program of disarmament
and abolish peacetime conscription. There can be
no real trust between nations as long as the big
powers continue to increase their military
strength in anticipation of another world conflict.
This program under way, the immediate tension
would be lessened and the way opened for work
on the vast and complex economic and social
problems which must be solved before lasting
peace can be achieved. These problems are, after
all, the basic causes of war.

It is evident that the aim of a world govern-
ment must be toward economic security for all
its citizens. The Economic and Social Council
now set up under the UNO will work toward this
end. Work on these social and economic problems
will of necessity be slow and difficult because of
the chaotic economic conditions that exist in most
parts of the world. Another impediment to this
work will be the difficulty that the Council will
have in directing a world economic policy when
the individual nations have not yet given it full
support and groups within nations still fight
for economic control. It is becoming increasingly
obvious, however, that a capitalistic economy is
out of step with the new age. Parties that provide
a planned economy are being supported in ever
increasing numbers by voters.

The test of any economic system is whether or
not it provides economic security in the form of
food, homes, clothing, education, and a steady
income for its citizens. That our own planless
economy has not pi'ovided economic security for
all its citizens is a fact borne out by statistics.
An article of this length cannot deal with the
complex problem of economic policy. It is ade-
quate to say that the trend today is toward eco-
nomic planning, and planning on a world scale
must be attained before economic security is a
reality. Atomic power has not yet been harnessed
for domestic use ; but the time is in sight, and
we must plan for it now. Norman Cousins in
his article "Modern Man Is Obsolete" states, "The
same atomic and electrical energy that can destroy
a city can also usher in an age of economic suf-
ficiency. It is no longer a question as to which
peoples shall be deprived. There are resources
enough for all and the power to convert resources
to goods."

Toward economic security, toward freedom
from want and from fear for all peoples, the
world government must work. The difficulties of
such a program are apparent. A world govern-
ment has never been tried, and many mistakes
will be made. If the evolution from nationalism
to a world government is to be accomplished, a
new understanding between peoples must take
the place of national rivalry, jealousy, and preju-
dice. It is here that the UNESCO will play an
important role. As is stated in the constitution of
this organization, drawn up at the London con-
ference, the purpose of the organization is to

advance through the educational, scientific, and
cultural relations of the peoples of the world the
objectives of international peace and the com-
mon welfare of mankind. This organization can
do much toward abolishing the myth of racial
superiority and national superiority. It can work
toward disseminating the ideal of world citizen-
ship.

On the course of events within the next months
depends the hope of civilization. Only if action is
taken now toward establishing a world govern-
ment can world peace be assured. Within this
framework, the progress of the human race as a
whole can be realized ; without it, there is little
hope for world peace.

EPISODE

(Continued from page 11)

She had to take an end because she was new.
Her arm made wide, irregular circles as she
turned the rope. One by one, each girl had her
turn, and Anna Louise's arm went around, faster
and faster until she forgot to look sad. She started
to chant, "Apartment to let. apply within — " and
then, someone missed and it was her turn.
"Apartment to let — " Her feet scuffed on the
pavement — one big jump, a little one after that,
one big jump again — get in line — wait your turn
— take an end when you miss. Anna Louise giggled
and told the girl behind her that she would
rather play jump rope than almost any other
game.

Time passes and returns to space,
A sterile, catalytic probability.
Unreal until it joins the infinite.
To actualize a present abstraction.

Transcending eyes intent on sight
Eluding eager hands that grasp.
An aggregate of Shall and Was
In Now, perceptually undiscerned.

The realization of this moment
Appears alone when it is gone;
Eternal death eflfects its life,
Mobilized by stay of motion.

— Florence Hoffman.

How can a clock be so sure?

A moment in pain

is long to endure,

while joy is the time

of most sublime

but briefest duration.

A clock can't explain

the passing of sorrow or length of elation.

— Mildred Rodgers.

Page 15

C OR ADD I

mmE' G[NERAL STORE

(Continued from page 5)

children's department, Miz Elmson ain't hardly
spoke to her, 'cept course, when absolutely neces-
sary!"

"But, Miz Elmson wasn't ever head of the chil-
dren, wuz she?"

Hiram looked doubtfully. "No, don't reckon she
wuz 'zackly head, but she did most of the head-
in'."

Ben who had listened to the conversation with
no comment up to now, got rid of his mouthful
of tobacco juice, then said, "You're dern tootin'
she's bin doin' most of the headin' up 'til Miz
Goodman took over, an' she ain't bin so good at
it neither. She does a heap better job o' jus'
runnin' the choir, even if she ain't got such a
good voice. I heard Mr. Johnson tell Deacon Haley
the other day that she couldn't 'spect to run the
whole church by herself."

"Anyway," Mr. Simmons interposed, "ain't Miz
Elmson got charge of the Sunday School picnic,
an' ain't she gotta be head of the Bible School?"

"Well, all the same," Hiram began as he walked
toward the door, "I still — " Before he could finish,
however, a young woman and a boy of about ten
entered. The woman wore a simple green print
dress and helped the boy carry a basket of vege-
tables. Her blond hair was done in plaits around
her head, and her green eyes were lively.

"Good morning, Mr. McDonald. It's fine
weather we're having, isn't it?" she said. "Are
you on your way home, now? Won't you tell Mrs.
McDonald if she and Mrs. Elmson need any more
eggs or sugar for the cakes, I have plenty."

Hiram took off his hat. "Good mornin', Miz
Goodman, howdy. Johnny. I sure will tell her that,
Miz Goodman, an' I know she'll 'predate it." He
turned to leave.

Mrs. Goodman walked to the counter. She and
Johnny took several dozen ears of corn from the
basket and put them on top of the counter beside
the baskets of fresh strawberries and the roll of
brown paper which stood high above them. "I
thought maybe somebody else didn't have as much
corn as I did, and I might get some lard and other
things I need to fry the chicken and fix things for
the picnic."

Mr. Simmons put the corn in a basket beside
the counter, then went to the back to get the lard.
The screen door swung open, and Mrs. Elmson
entered. Her hat was on crooked, and she seemed
in a hurry.

"My land, Mr. Simmons, didn't Hiram come
by here for the lard and yeast cakes I asked
him to get? Seems as if it was ages ago he left
the house. Annie an' me told him to be sure and
get back in a hurry, or the cakes would be ruined."
Then, suddenly she became used to the darker
light on the inside of the store. "Good mornin',
Mrs. Goodman." She put her hands up to her hat.

straightened it, walked to the counter, careful not
to brush against the slightly-tilted baskets of
potatoes, beans, and squash, and stood examining
the labels of the canned peaches on the shelves.

Mrs. Goodman did not seem to notice the slight.
"Why, good morning. No, Mr. McDonald left here
just as I was coming in a few minutes ago. He
didn't have any lard in his hands. I sent word by
him that if you didn't have enough eggs and sugar
for the cakes, I would be glad to furnish some.
Do you think you will need any?"

Mrs. Elmson did not turn. "No, I think I can
get along all right alone."

Mr. Simmons had come back from the ice box.
"Here's your lard, Miz Goodman. What else can
I git fur you today? Oh, good mornin', Miz Elm-
son, Hiram wuz jus' in here. He got the yeast
cakes Annie wanted, but he couldn't remember
what else it wuz he had to buy."

"It w^as lard, an' I'll take a pound, thank you."

Rain ran down the windows of Simmons' Gen-
eral Store, and the dust on them was streaked.
The air was sticky like the orange slices in the
candy counter, and the floor was tracked with
red mud and water. Hiram dozed by the stove,
and Ben chewed his tobacco mechanically as he
cut at a piece of stick with a jack knife. Mr.
Simmons was sorting screws and nails in the
rear.

The screen door opened, and Mr. Goodman
came in. His raincoat was wet through at the
shoulders and water dripped from it to the
floor making little pools.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. It's sort of messy
weather outside. Have you got an extra keg I
could sit down on? I've got a little matter of busi-
ness to discuss with you."

Mr. Simmons stopped sorting nails and brought
a chair from the back of the store. Hiram woke
from his dozing, and Ben stopped cutting his
stick.

"I've been talking it over with Mr. Haley, and
he seems to think we have enough money to start
off with, and we can earn the rest as we go
along. It won't be an easy thing to do. but I
think we will be able to with the help of the
members of the church and a few suppers and
rummage sales, maybe."

Hiram leaned forward, and Ben stopped chew-
ing for a minute.

"What would you gentlemen say to a recreation
room for the youngsters? There's an empty store-
room behind the church, and all it needs is a little
repairing and cleaning and furniture."

Hiram sat up straight. "That's a mighty lot
of noise to have 'round a church. Them children
can make enough fuss to wake the dead ; an' "sides,
who's gonna have time to do all this here cleanin"
an' repairin'?"

Ben's tobacco juice hit the tin with a sharp
bing. "We're a-goin' to help "em, an" they're a-
goin' to do it theirselves, ain't they. Preacher?"

Mr. Goodman relaxed. "Thanks, Ben, we'll need

Page 16

Winter, 1946

all the support we can get, because the children'll
do most, but they'll need help. Now. Mr. North
has already agreed to do most of the supervising,
and the boys who have had some carpenter train-
ing in high school can do the work. The girls
can clean up and conduct the rummage sales."

"It won't work, because you got to find some-
body who'd be willin' to give plenty of time to it
an' make them stop bein' rowdy when they started,
an' that won't be easy."

The man turned around. Mrs. Elmson had
entered while they were talking.

Mr. Goodman got up. "That's just the thing
I was worried about, Mrs. Elmson, and I was
thinking you would be the best person for the
job. Now, please don't refuse me. You've always
done a good job with the youngsters, and I don't
see any reason why you couldn't make a grand
head for the project."

Mrs. Elmson fingered a blue work shirt on the
walnut-colored table. "I wonder if Junior would
like this," she murmured, and then seemed on the
point of saying something else when Mrs.
Goodman walked into the store. Mrs. Elmson's
mouth closed tightly, and she turned her back
to inspect the shirt more closely.

Mrs. Goodman walked lightly across the floor.
She smiled to the men in the circle and spoke
in an undertone to her husband. "I've just been
talking to Mrs. McDonald about your plans, John,
and she thinks the idea is excellent. She said that
she would be glad to help in every way possible,
and why didn't you ask Mrs. Elmson to be head
of it. I think it would be a grand idea."

At the mention of her name Mrs. Elmson
paused in her inspection of the shirt. Mr. Good-
man walked over to her. "Now see, Mrs. Elmson,
Mrs. McDonald has just suggested to my wife
that you would be the best possible head for our
project, and has offered her help to us. You
won't refuse now, will you? Mrs. McDonald and
my wife could be your assistants."

Mrs. Elmson was not one to scorn the opinion
and admiration of her best friend. She began to
look doubtful. "Well, maybe the project would get
along better with a little guiding if we have to
have one," she said, "But I'm still not so sure
we should have one."

Ben winked at Mr. Goodman. Mrs. Goodman
looked radiant. "Come on then," she said, "we'll
go talk to Mrs. McDonald about it."

"Now — I don't know — I might do it — don't
hurry me so — "

But Mr. and Mrs. Goodman had herded her
out of the store paying no attention to her pro-
tests.

"Well, I'll be derned !" Mr. Simmons exploded
with laughter.

Hiram's mouth dropped open. "Well," he man-
aged after a minute.

Ben pulled a piece of tobacco from his pocket
and cut another plug. His blue eyes twinkled.

WHITE TIDE

(Continued from page 13)

finished, he walked off" the platform and left the
hall immediately, as he always did, sensing the
dramatics of the situation. Jim went with him.
Suddenly turning to Martin he said, "There'll
be a lot of men killed, if you go through with it."

"Of course." His eyes were cool. They walked
on. Just before Jim left him, he turned again.

"Mart," he smiled, "you were magnificent. You
always are. Nothing can stop you. Whatever you
do, they'll back you to the limit." He paused. "But
I hope they never find out what you really are."

Martin Story remembered that night many
times in the following years and he knew that
what Jim had said was true. Once he had been
angry, but that was long ago, almost as long ago
as the Snowqueen. And he was thirty-seven now,
one of the most powerful men in the country. And
Jim Reed had gone off with the Lincoln Brigade,
to die in Spain at twenty-five. He sighed. He
missed Jim. The younger man had not always
agreed with him ; but Martin Story had seen
dozens of men killed in mine cave-ins, and Jim was
studying to be a doctor. No, they could not under-
stand each other, but they had been friends.

He was surprised when he saw the child. It
was strange to see another human being in the
silent wastes of snow. The boy was squatting
beside a hump of ice, patting it with his mittened
hands, evening off the rough places and adding
little bulbs of ice here and there. As Martin
Story came up behind him, the child stood up
suddenly and stumbled against the big man's
knees with a cry.

"Well, that's a pretty good fort you've got
there," Martin Story said heartily. "Make it all
yourself?"

"Yes," the boy answered, a look of cunning
in his face. He waited a moment, then slowly he
said, "You don't know what it is . . . You don't
even know what it is." And he looked contemptu-
ously at the big man.

"Why, it's a fort of course . . . Isn't it? There
are the turrets," he said, pointing to two jagged
ridges running along the top. "And there is the
gun . . . But you should have a flag." He pulled
out his handkerchief. "Here . . ." He picked ud a
twig and knotted the handkerchief to the end of
it. "This ought to . . ." But the child cried out
angrily and struck at his outstretched arm.

"No ! No ! You ain't goin' to touch it ! I don't
want a flag! Get away ... I don't want you to
help . . . It's mine!"

'The little boy, almost sobbing, was pounding
with his tiny fist against Martin Story's arm.
He stood up. "I won't touch it. All right . . .
All right." He stepped back and the child stared
at him bitterly.

"You don't know what it is," he flung back.
"It's not a fort . . . It's a castle ... a special kind

Page 17

C OR ADDI

of castle . . . And nobody knows but me. It ain't
an old fort." His eyes flashed. And then a secret
look came into them. "You don't understand,"
he said, with a kind of early morning light on
his face, a look of birds flying . . . His clawlike
hands clenched tightly. "It don't have a flag," he
murmured. "It's a castle. Like . . . like." He
stopped.

"Like what?" the man asked sharply. The boy
shook his head and didn't answer. "You don't
know," he said quietly, and turning his back
on Martin Story, he knelt down in the snow.

The thin crust of ice made a slight, crisp sound
as the child moved about and the big man heard
the ice-coated branches clicking against each
other in the stillness. Helplessly he glared down
at the boy, his grey eyes buiming out of his face.
His large hands stiffened and the nails bit into
the palms. Then he swung on his heels and strode
away.

You don't know . . . You don't know . . . You
don't know what it is. Gradually he slowed up
and let the tension in his body flow away. Sud-
denly he was tired, terribly tired. An immense
weariness weighed down his arms. He stopped.
"How could I know?" he said softly . . . "How
could I know?" Now there was something gross,
shambling in his heavy body. He stared at the
huge knuckles in his hands. The skin was red
and ridged with fine lines. It looked terribly old.

The snow . . . He tried to remember when he
was a little boy. Perhaps then . . . All that he
remembered were the blizzards crushing the clap-
board houses ruthlessly. There had always been
terrible cold then. It throttled the town noiselessly
and lasted a long time, and the wind blew up
blinding squalls like sandstorms. It seemed to
him that he had always been cold, always hungry.
And then the long dull days and nights when he
dozed, cramped beside the rusty stove in the
kitchen, waiting for it to clear. He remembered
the grotesque stiff lips and stretched eyes of a
man who had been found dead in the snow a few
yards from his house . . . the boardlike body, the
terrible clawing hands. He looked over the white,
radiant fields of the park. There had always been
a dirty layer of soot and coal dust over the snow.
He had hated it. Summer and winter it was
the same . . . coal dust and dirt and being hungry
and so tired that it hurt, and nothing to do,
nothing to think. Nothing. It was the same in
summer as in winter, only in winter, you were
colder and hungrier. Martin Story wondered at
the whiteness of the slopes.

The dusk was over. The first star glinted
sharply in the sky, green and shining. Pretty
soon all the stars would come out. No, that's not
true, he thought, disconnectedly. They're all there.
You can't see them, that's all. When it gets dark
enough, you can see the stars. Over the hollow
blue-white shell of the park, the buttes of sky-
scrapers loomed around him. Deep craters of
sky between the loftier buildings shone like tin-
foil, made jagged by the overhanging ledges and

oblique shafts of light and dark crisscrossed one
another in a complex pattern of ascent and
descent. He stood still watching the broad shafts
of light and the slanting and vertical lines of
towers leaning together into the luminous gi'een
glaze. Then he looked away, suddenly dizzy. He
was the center of a wheel, a great wheel turning
slowly round and round, pulling him with it . . .
Soon it would go faster and faster.

He came to the lake, curving in a white expanse
through banks black with trees. The ice snapped
and crackled under his weight and the little sound
splintered through his ears. His thoughts were
brittle as the ice, and he had to squint to keep
the cold from under his eyelids. Finishing his
cigarettes, he crumpled the empty package in
his hands. He thought of going back to the office,
but he remembered the piles of papers on his
desk, the acid, disciplined silence, the intelligent
faces of his men, the cool, hard eyes of Benton.
Benton . . . Josephine Benton had worked with
him for six years. She was indispensable to him.
intelligent, amusing, capable, and tactful. She had
lean, straight shoulders and faded yellow hair cut
in a mannish bob, and her body was as strong and
gaunt as his. Slowly, Martin Story realized that
he hated her, had hated her a long, long time.

Above him, to the left, two figures were sil-
houetted above a ledge. One of them was a girl.
Suddenly the man reached for her and pulled
her to him. They stood a long time, locked in each
other's arms, their faces hidden. The girl's hat
fell in the snow and her bright hair streamed
over the man's arm. Martin Story saw them ouite
plainly. It seemed that he could feel the thick
skeins of hair sliding through his fingers. Sud-
denly the girl drew back and with a strange,
high-pitched laugh, broke into a run, her hair
streaming out behind her. Martin Story noticed
that she wore a red scarf knotted around her
throat . . . Was it? No, not the same ... A second
later, her lover scrambled after her. and laughing
they tumbled down the slope, shaking the snow
down from the bushes. At the foot of the slope,
the girl fell headlong with a wild cry. It was a cry
of triumph. Martin Story stood very still. Gently
the man lifted her in his arms and set her on
her feet. They were not laughing anymore. He
put his arm around her and slowly they walked
across the snow, quietly, shylv, like children. The
tall man stared after them. The girl in the street
. . . What had she looked like? All he could remem-
ber was her laugh and the red scarf around her
throat. He wondered what her name was and
if she had a lover. What if he had held her arm
as she was about to leave, had laughed, had
spoken to her? What if he had said. "Come, let's
go for a walk ... a walk in the snow . . .?" Would
she have come? He stopped. He had not even said
goodbye. He had not even smiled at her.

Martin Story was not the kind of man whom
women love. He had never wanted to be. He had
never in his whole life loved a woman. He had

Page 18

Winter, 1946

respected the minds of some, and he had loved
the bodies of others, but, he admitted to himself,
with a smile that did not reach his eyes, some-
how he had missed that adventure. He had never
known what it was to love a woman. It was dark
now and, curving over the city, he saw the snap-
ping canopy of stars, a torrent flung headlong
across the earth, without design and fantastically
bright.

In a moment he would go back to the office
and work through until morning. The pile of
papers would dissolve and there would be the
bitter, scalding comfort of black coffee, and Ben-
ton's straight, thin shoulders pinned against the
light. He knew that in the morning it would be
clear. The streets would be dirty and flooded with
melting slush. He would tell the men that he had
gone out of town on business for the day. They
might wonder, but they would believe him ... In
a day or two he would forget how the slopes looked
swollen with snow. He would forget the little boy.
He would forget the bright hair of the girl and
the silent way the two walked over the snow. A
few years more and he would have forgotten Jim
Reed . . . But there was one thing . . . one thing
he knew would always be there. Wherever he
went he would carry with him, deep as the blood
in his body, the face of the young girl laughing
at him. There was the whole bitter irony of it.
He could never forget her splintering laughter,
and it would always remind him that he had
watched her walk away from him and had let
her go. God . . . Martin Story looked out across
the fields flowing like a white tide around him.
He had lost valiantly. The snow was too strong
for him. He smiled, listening. Yes, there was a
rustling in the silence, a tiny sound, and for a
glittering instant, he saw a shadow on the snow
. . . the shadow of great . . . white . . . wings.
Then it was gone. He hesitated. Then slowly he
turned in the direction of the buildings. The web
of branches closed over him.

The Story of Cadwalader Sniff

(Continued from page 9)

content. The public, however, was getting im-
patient and so were the .judges and all the mem-
bers of all the courts and, most of all, Dictator
Jones. Finally on the hottest day of the year when
everyone was perspiring to his utmost, the pleas-
ure judge in his usual congenial manner sug-
gested that Sniff be given an opportunity to exer-
cise his talents. If he proved to be a great
musician the state would not be deprived of a

great man and the society would receive the
benefits ; but if he showed no adeptness then it
must be . . . the concentration camp.

The next day Sniff was called before the verdict
committee ancl informed of the outcome. He was
greatly pleased, because he did not like the idea
of the concentration camp and this gave him an
opportunity to prove himself an as.set to the
state and a virtuous man. The verdict had stated
that he would have one month in which to show
his talent in some way. He was given an office
in a music building. It had in it a piano, a desk,
pencils, twenty pounds of staff paper, and a
chair. He was a required to be in the office on a
forty-eight hour a week plan with time and three-
quarters for overtime.

The days passed and Sniff could be seen arriv-
ing at his office every morning at nine, eating
in the automat across the way from twelve to
one,_and returning to his park bench every night
at six. At first he appeared very cheerful but as
the weeks passed his mouth began to droop at the
sides and a worried look gradually marked itself
upon his face. He acquired a few gray hairs.
The entire state was in great suspense. It began
to go Sniff crazy. Children began to play Sniff
In The Music Office, a game fashioned after the
well-known game of Farmer in the Dell. Old
men gave up their che.ss for the new game Sniff,
the object of which was to checkmate Cadwalader.
Quite often on the radio such things were heard
as "Do you have that worried Sniff look? Try
Muffies Liver Pills." Sniff made excellent bridge
parley for the women and roundtable discussion
for college intellectuals.

Toward the end of the month Sniff stayed in
hip little office all of the time. His only contact
with civilization was the elevator boy who brought
him his meals. Poor Cadwalader Sniff. He had
no talent for music. He had slaved away for the
past month but all he could do was hum the five
beautiful strains of music and he couldn't even
remember how he knew them. On the last day of
the month a big black car drove up to the music
building and four policemen stepped out. Up they
went to Cadwalader's office where they found him
resting his head upon his desk. They called him
to his feet and escorted him to the car. He
was taken to the concentration camp that after-
noon and has been there ever since.

Society gradually readjusted itself to the post-
Sniff world. His name is rarely mentioned now.
He is getting on in age and will probably die
soon and be forgotten which is a good place to
end the story of Cadwalader Sniff.

REGISTERED JEWtlER

AMERICAN GEM SOCIETY

gifts

Page 19

C 0 R A D D I

COR^DI STAFF

Angela Snell Editor

Mary Ellen Hodgin Business Manager

Martha Posey Art Editor

Caroline Smith Managing Editor

Helen Sanford Photographer

EDITORIAL STAFF

Elizabeth Bass

M.4RTYV0NNE DEHONEY

Florence Hoffman
Bennie Lowe
Virginia McKinnon

Jean Ross

Nancy Siff
Betty Sutton
Nancy Sutton
Jane Thomason

Laura Owen

Betty Waite

Jean Redden

Janis Williams

Lucy Rodgers

Nancy Nading,

Typist

Mildred Rodgers

Irene Womble,

Typist

BUSINESS

STAFF

Jeanne Barber

Doris Higgins

Dorothy Bell

Ann Ravenel

Elizabeth Gabriel

Nina Smith

Clarice

Snelson

Page 20

In the midst

Of clattering tea things,

Chattering voices —

A moment of silence,

A voice speaking.

I somehow knew what would come next,

Like seeing a movie for the second time.

Had it happened before —

In a dream

Perhaps,

Or an earlier life?

Memories, thoughts, melodies —

A picture.

I gaze in wonder.

But soon my eyes grow tired

And I turn away.

— Winifred Rodgers.

BALLAD

Three shots, the paper said next day ;

and a man,

discovering one Sunday noon in the late fall of

1945
how futile were his efforts

to reach even the significance of insignificance,
saw the attempt as a curse
and rid himself of any necessity to try,
taking his wife and daughter with him.

Shortly after

in the crowd of soothed church-goers,

now returning home assured of their immortality,

I walked

and knew how well I had hidden from myself again

what someday would make me die.

Mildred R. Rodgers.

The Lotus Restaurant

Chinese and American Dishes

105 N. Greene Street

GREENSBORO, N. C.

Peter S. Jung, Mgr. Phone 4224

GIFTS

ILLUSTRATED GIFT BOOKS

CLEVER PERSONAL STATIONERY
GREETING CARDS FOR ALL OCCASIONS

THE BOOK SHOP

115 S. Greene Street

ST. JOHN'S STUDIO

(Belk's Dept. Store)

Special For College Girls

Three 5x7's for $5.00
Originally $6.00

Walton's College Shoe Rehuililers

409 Tate Street — Phone 2-2834

T. W. Walton — J. R. Fogleman

For Your Shoe Repairing

UNDERWEAR ACCESSORIES

HOSIERY

GLADYS LINGERIE SHOPPE

118 N. Elm Street

SCHOOL SUPPLIES
GIFTS

The College Shop

405 Tate Street

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