Coraddi

1950 winter issue

v,J-^>L-o•2^

coraddi

Yes, Camels are SO MILD that in a coast-to-coast test

of hundreds of men and women who smoked Camels — and
only Camels — for 30 consecutive days, noted throat special-
ists, making weekly examinations, reported

NOT ONE SINGLE CASE OF THROAT IRRITATION DUE TO SMOKING CAMELS!

WINTER ISSUE
1950

Volume LIV
Number 2

ART

C0VI£K

Anne Wall

FkONII^PII-CIl

Mjrtyvonnc Dchuncy

Doris Poole Page 9

Andrew Morgan Page 1 1

Margaret Romefelt Page 14

Nancy Seibcrt Page 19

Photography — Davilla Smith . Page 4
S/-0/— Nancy Seibert

STAFF

Editor Mary Elliott

Biiiiin-si M,iii„ser Inge Jacobson

Muiiagins Editor Dolly Davis

Poetry Editor Jean Farley

Fcafiin- Editor Joanne McLean

Art Editor Barbara Stoughton

Make-up Editor Margaret Click

Circulation and Exchange Manaffir

Ruth Smith

LITERARY STAFF

Quick

Marilyn Sha

Lucy Page

ART STAFF

Barbara Wagoner
Davilla Smith, photography

BUSINESS STAFF

Assistant Bmiiicss J
Carolyn Pickcl
Harriet Reeves
Virginia Albritton
Anne Edwards

JIT Ann Camlin

Carole Schaefler

Priscilla Williams

Lynn Eichcnbaum

Virginia Lynch

CORADDI

Woman's College of the University of North Carolina
Greensboro, N. G.

CONTENTS

Fiction

Page

Lenoir — Joanne McLean 3

Carthage — Cuius Marius 6

The Fishing Camp — Alice Br urn field 8

The Spirit of the Martyr — Mary C. Idol 12

Poetry

And Death — Jean Farley y

Out in an Hour — Jean Farley 5

Features

Communication Through Movement — Dolly Davis 4

Visiting Celebrities — Patricia Hiinsiiigcr, Marilyn Shaic 10

Miirtyvoiiiie Dcboiicy

L

enoir

by Joanne McLean

/" f LEAK of rain came in the back window and wet

5.^ I. the httle boy's neck. He shifted in the black

corner of the car and rubbed at his arm. It had wak-
ened him from the half-sleep he had been in, and he
looked out through blurry eyes at the black, heavy
rain, shining in icy-looking blisters against the car
windows when the lightning flashed. It seemed to
him that the car was all hums. The rain was a thick
sound, beating heavily. There was the hum of the
motor and the sputtery hum of the heater that didn't
work very well, so it didn't warm the back at all.
And there was the hum of Aunt Edna's snoring up
front, and the low stirring of the baby's breathing
on the seat beside him. Only the outline of Uncle
Thomas Lord didn't hum. Uncle Thomas was thick
and heavy-set, and the head on his shoulders was
like a big rock. The little boy remembered the head
pushed against the church pew that morning. They
had knelt on the cushioned ledge of the pew. And
Uncle Thomas had laid his hand on the little boy's
head and told him to pray. But the hand had been
so heavy against him he had felt himself pushed deep
into the cushions and ached. At the time he had only
wished the weight would go away.

Thomas Lord lifted his hand from the wheel and
jerked the car into reverse. "Goddamn!" he said,
"fool woman walking on the road in this storm!"

The little boy was thrown forward. He looked
down and saw the long, ugly scar on Uncle Thomas's
right hand; and even now, the jerk and all, though
he had seen it many times, he felt the coldness go
through him when he saw it. Aunt Edna had turned
herself sideways and was asking, "What is it, Thomas?
What is it?" And then, "Bertie, is baby Charles all
right?"

The little boy said, "Yes'm," without even looking.

Thomas Lord turned his head and ordered the little
boy to watch the road. "A woman, Edna," he ex-
plained, "out in this storm with a child!"

Aunt Edna pulled at the knot of her hair. "Do
you think we should, Thomas? Is it safe? You know
Charles . . ." She stared at the window. "The storm,
yes . . ." she said. "Bertie, hand me Charles into the
front seat when we stop."

The little boy nodded. He saw a blurred white
thing by the road and called to Uncle Thomas. The
car stopped slowly beside the white figure.

The little boy felt the rain sweep in the open door
and smelled the smell of damp wool. The woman was
all wet and dripping beside him, and something soft
and matted rubbed against his hand. It was wet, too,
and cold — wet hair. He moved his hand and pushed
over in the corner.

The child in the woman's arms coughed and shook,
straining. The little boy heard it call, like a fright-
ened thing, "Ma-ma, ma-ma." The woman smoothed
the child's forehead. "Here, Carrie, here," she said.

Charles was awake in the front seat, crying and
kicking, so the little boy couldn't hear all the ques-
tions Uncle Thomas was asking. He just saw that set
look of "Now-look-what-you've-done" on Aunt
Edna's face, and every time the strange child coughed,
she jerked a little.

"Lenoir!" Thomas Lord said. "Good God, woman,
don't you know that's over a hundred miles from
here? This isn't even the right road."

The woman in the back seat — all shadowed in the
dark so the little boy couldn't see her — trembled a
little. "The man at the filling station" — her voice
was hollow — " 'bout five mile back told me it was
only roun' thirty. So I thought we could walk it
maybe."

"With a child, and in this storm?"

"Well, it weren't stormin' so bad then, just sorta'
drizzlin', and I thought we could make it. I got to
get to Lenoir. But Carrie she did get sorta' tired, and
I had to take her up in my arms, sorta' heavy-like.
That slowed us down."

Aunt Edna broke in, "How long have you been on
the road?"

"Three days," the woman answered. "We come
from South Carolina. But we only started out this
morning at ten o'clock."

Thomas Lord looked down at the clock — eleven at
night. "Good Lord," he said. Then he stopped, look-
ing at Edna, and asked the woman why she was going
to Lenoir.

"My mother told me they was wantin' work in
Lenoir," she answered. "The hosiery factory, or some-
thin'." She seemed to tighten all up then. The child
pulled at her wet coat, "Ma-ma." She hushed the
little girl, "Don't throw your arms 'round like that,
Carrie. You'll be wettin' the little boy." She looked
up, "You've got a fine little boy, don't talk all the
time."

"My nephew," Thomas Lord cleared his throat,
"sister's boy, with us for the summer."

"Well, he's a fine boy. I got a boy, you know, just
two months old, he is."

Aunt Edna moved in her seat, "But }'ou've left a
two-months-old baby — "

The woman's body loosened. "Oh, it's all right. He's
with my mother in South Carolina. But she just got
married again, and she don't wanta' keep him. I'm
gonna' send for him soon's I get work and settled in
Lenoir. My husband ain't no good. He ain't been
around since the boy come."

(CoiifiiiiieJ on Page 1 5 )

Page 5

Comiuunication TKrou^K
Movement

by Dolly Davis

OHIS year the campus has been blessed with two
important and exciting dance events — perform-
ances by Jose Limon's company and Martha Graham's
group. Here are artists of really unsurpassed quality.
And yet comments from rather unexpected quarters
following the Limon recital make it evident that
modern dance, like the
other arts, presents its
audience with certain
difficulties in apprecia-
tion and understanding.
From people who seemed
to have established fair-
ly satisfactory relations
with modern poetry,
music, and art, came the
same old statements:
"Pleasant, perhaps, but
not exciting"; "Harsh,
stark, unbeautiful";"But
what are they trying to
say?" Considering this
bewilderment, it is ap-
propriate for the CoR-
ADDi to offer a brief
sketch of the main pur-
poses and developments
in modern dance.

In the first place, one
can hardly object to the
dance on the basis of its over-intellectualism or "arti-
ness." Its principle of communication through move-
ment, although first used as an art form by Isadora
Duncan about 1900, was a familiar part of the magic
and religious ceremonies of the most primitive socie-
ties. Modern dance discards set academic and tradi-
tional forms in an attempt to rediscover the oldest,
fundamental dance movements. The theory that all
emotion expresses itself in movement leads to the con-
clusion that all movements spontaneously created,
although non-representational, may still reflect the
character of the particular emotional experience giv-
ing rise to them. Isadora Duncan began the trans-
formation of the dance from imitative to creative by
emphasizing self-expression in place of the traditional
impersonation inherent in ballet. The communica-
tion of emotion was for her and is for the artists of
today the prime purpose of the dance. Isadora Dun-
can's dancing was, however, completely personal and
non-dramatic, devoid of any narrative element, her
inspiration coming solely from music. It remained
for Mary Wigman to free the dance from its depend-

?agc 4

P/wlo by Duiillu Smith

"Psntomime as a source
of non-realistic movement"

ence upon musical accompaniment and permit the
emotion to create its own formal expression. Here
at last was the basic substance of the dance delivered
from theatrical impersonation or musical form. Once
this dance essence had been discovered, separated, and
understood, the artist could proceed to add, bit by bit,
various theatrical elements without fearing to lose or
overshadow the fundamental importance of move-
ment.

Wigman took the first step in making the new
dance a theatre art. In her awareness of space as
a power limiting her range of movement and in a
general way symbolizing the Universe, she restored
the dramatic element of conflict to the dance. Not
bound to the Pre-Raphaelite ideas of Beauty, Grace,
and Harmony, which had narrowed Isadora Duncan's
choice of basic themes, Wigman rejected no move-
ment, however superficially unattractive or grotesque,
that was capable of conveying emotion. Hanya Holm,
who spread Wigman's principles in this country, de-
veloped and adapted those ideas until an art evolved
that was her own and America's. Although primarily
occupied with teaching,
she has nevertheless done
important choreography,
exhibiting a courageous-
ly experimental attitude.
For example, the first
modern stage setting for
the dance in America
was Arch Lauterer's de-
sign for her composition,
"Trend," presented with
an all -percussion score
at the Bennington Fes-
tival in 1937.

Doris Humphrey's in-
tensive study of motion
in connection with the
conflict between fall and
recovery furnished an
interesting basis for her
choreography. Consider-
ing the moving figure
opposed by gravity, she
conceived of all motion
as existing between two

states of inactivity — the state of perfect balance,
in which there is no conflict with gravity, and the
state of inertia accompanying complete defeat by
gravity. Midway between these two points lies the
area of dramatic movement, the "danger area" where

Photo by Da,:lla Smith

"Diflicult, stark,
abstract and arty?"

gravity (her dramatic antagonist) is defied and re-
sisted. A strong sense of tension is developed through
the use of the fall movements and the oppositional
movements of recovery. Never forgetting the pri-
mary importance of the movement itself, Humphrey
went on to add costumes, settings, speech, and unor-
thodox music in her large theatre compositions. A
further distinctive contribution to the dance was
Charles Weidman's employment of pantomime as a
source of non-realistic movement. His purpose is usu-
ally comic or satiric, sometimes the sort of pure non-
sense that seems to mean something but doesn't, more
frequently recognizable comment.

In Martha Graham, who is generally considered
the greatest of today's dancers, we find an art that is
completely personal and unique. It is encouraging
to note that Graham's work, which was at first some-
what coolly received as difficult, stark, abstract, and
"arty," has now become, without compromise of
quality, exceedingly popular. Rebelling against soft-
ness and sentimentality, she reduced her compositions
to the essentials of stage equipment and a movement
that was percussive in character — forceful, sharp,
and clean. Tremendously sensitive to her environ-
ment, by a process of "integration" she attracts to
herself the world about her and reflects it in her
dance. Her purpose is to "speak in dance terms of
life." Consequently her compositions are derived
from wide sources of inspiration — from American
Indian lore to the poems of Emily Dickinson.
Her art is non-intellectual, and Miss Graham has
not attempted to define or generalize or formulate
principles. She merely states, "The most interest-

ing thing in, the world is a man's heart. A dance is a
graph of his heart or is like a fever chart."

I have intended the preceding miniature history
to indicate that the modern dance of today is no
longer a purely experimental infant-art of unsound
basis and vague purpose. On the contrary, the new
dancers of the Jose Limon and Valerie Bettis genera-
tion have behind them a solid basis of study and
development on which they may base further explo-
ration of their medium. Perhaps it would be worth-
while to conclude this rambling discourse by quoting
a few statements from Helen Tamiris's "Manifest,"
printed in one of her early programs, which throws
considerable light on not merely her own specific
practice, but the entire modern dance development:

A new civilization always creates new forms in art.

There are no general rules. Each original work of
art creates its own code.

The aim of the dance is not to narrate (anecdotes,
stories, fables, legends, etc.) by means of mimic tricks
and other established choreographical forms. Danc-
ing is simply movement with a personal conception
of rhythm.

Costumes and music are complements of the dance.
A dancer's creation should stand the test in the nude
and the experience of motion without music.

Toe dancing
the hands?

Why not dance on the palms of

Sincerity is based on simplicity. A sincere approach
to art is always done through simple forms.

And Deatk

by Jean Farley

Not possibly can the many-bladed twitch
and tear, a haggling down to beef,
precede the tendon's sudden pitch
into the jet-clean slice of a knife.

Out in an Hour

by Jean Farley

This is the day for a celebration

at the big red rock where troops surrendered.

I may get down for some great oration

in the square that I've watched them extending

from the sixteenth to the seventeenth street.

I'll leave this four-bar and seven-year window wasted

the way you bite off a brown piece of apple meat

and blow it out fast, untasted.

?age 5

CartKa^e

by Caius Marius

<< ^^^OBERT," said Mrs. Burkowitz after breakfast,

,13^ "you are old enough, my son, to go forth in
search of your father." Robert continued wiping up
the rest of the egg with a piece of bread. "Next week
you will be 21," said Mrs. Burkowitz. "It would be
nice to have your father here for the occasion. It
would be nice to have you see your father and to learn
the ways of men." Robert finished his coffee before
he spoke.

"Find Father?" he asked. "All right. Mother." That
was all he said. Mrs. Burkowitz was satisfied. She
fixed a lunch for Robert while he dressed. She packed
a paper sack with clean handkerchiefs and extra socks
for Robert. She placed the lunch and the sack in one
large bag so that Robert could carry them easily.
Then she went to his room to help him find his old
compass, to remind him to take his hunting knife,
to wear a waterproof moneybelt under his clothes
rather than carry loose bills in his pockets, to tell him
to be very careful and keep well and to be courteous
to strangers. Robert was agreeable to all this. Robert
loved his mother. Robert also knew he was only 18
and that his father was no more than an hour or so
away at his desk, working.

Mrs. Burkowitz and her son knelt together by a
plaster statue of the Virgin while Mrs. Burkowitz
asked in the name of the Virgin that no harm befall
her only son and that her husband be found and re-
turned safely. She then placed a medal of St. Chris-
topher around Robert's neck, held him close for sev-
eral minutes, then bade him farewell. Robert turned
at the wall for a last look at the house. Mrs. Burko-
witz was lighting a candle in a window by the door.
A candle would be burning until his return. Poor
Mother, he thought, and wandered slowly down the
street.

If he took a bus and then a subway, Robert knew
he could be at his father's place of work in an hour
and ten minutes. Why should I hurry, he thought.
I am equipped for adventure and am setting forth
to find my father. I shall pretend I don't know where
he is and shall look here and there for him until I am
tired of the game. If it starts to rain, he said, or if it
turns cold, I can go right away. He stood on a corner
of the street, at first, watching the cars and people
go by. A truck stopped near him at a red traffic
signal. He asked the driver if he were going to town,
and his gentle voice and rather helpless manner won
him a ride. Much better than a bus, thought Robert,
as he was jolted and bounced about beside the driver,

"You work in town, son?" asked the driver. Rob-
ert said that he didn't. "Was he still in school? No,
he did nothing. "Well, well, what a life, said the driver,
and Robert agreed because it was true. He asked to
be let o£f in the lower part of the city. Robert was

very polite and thanked the driver several times for
his kindness. Skip it, said the driver. He smiled and
gave Robert a little wave as he drove off.

But that was not really adventure, thought Robert.
I am nearer to my father and still no adventure. He
started walking down a street lined with old red build-
ings. The sidewalk was stained and grey. Wads of
chewing gum were flattened and nicely adhered to it.
Cigarette butts dotted its surface. There were vege-
table scraps by the curb and near the worn steps lead-
ing to old doors and hallways. There were newspapers
and boxes, some crushed and gutter-soggy and some
still stiff and waiting to be lifted by a wind. On top
of all this there were very young children and old
women, and trucks, and wagons with rusted pails
swinging in the back and sagging horses in the front.
Robert stopped to watch one horse for awhile. Then
his ear caught the monotonous drone of an old
woman.

"If I only knew the way . . ." she kept saying.
Robert looked about him. In the window across the
street from him leaned a thin, wrinkled woman. Her
elbow rested on a piece of embroidery whose tassels
hung over the sill. Her hair was grey and grease-dark
and her eyes were red-rimmed and sick-looking. "If
I only knew the way . . ." Robert approached the
window and addressed the old woman politely.

"Pardon me, but which way would you like to
know?"

"A way to pay my rent or a way to die," she said
without emotion, "a way to die."

"Pardon me," said Robert again, "but I have both
ways with me if I can be of any assistance."

"Go away, young man. Go away." Her mouth
turned down at the corners in a most dejected manner.

"Look," he said, "here is some money for the rent."
He handed up the few dollars he had in his pocket.
"And I have a fairly sharp knife if you want to use
it . . . for the other."

The old woman's face lighted up at the sight of the
money. Her thin fingers fumbled for it eagerly and
tore the bills from his hand. She was laughing, and
Robert noticed she had a long white tongue. Then
before he could say another word she rose and slammed
the window shut with all her strength. The embroid-
ery was caught and the tassels slapped at the sills. The
shade was pulled down before Robert could call it
to her attention. The sudden activity of the old
woman had been startling, and it was some time
before Robert collected his thoughts. He decided that
it was the old woman more than he who had had an
adventure, that it was still early and that he would
continue his round-about way to his father.

He wandered slowly up the street, turning off on
impulse into side streets or avenues, still looking hard

at the people, the passing traffic, and the shops. The
streets and walks were becoming more crowded. The
buildings were larger, old buildings with new win-
dows, and in every other one or so it seemed were large
announcements of terrific loss, of drastic reductions,
of damage by fire. In among these stores were other
establishments which did not want Robert to enter.
Dealers only, their announcements said. Robert passed
all the places silently. No one spoke to him, although
the sidewalks were filled with idle men.

Several blocks further up, Robert's attention was
arrested by the bitter weeping of a small girl. Her
dress was even smaller. Her hair was blond and curled
by her mother. She wore shiny black shoes but her
white socks were dirty.

"Why are you crying?" asked Robert. "Are you
lost?"

"NOOOooo!" screamed the little girl.
"What's wrong?" asked Robert. The girl swung
away from him to wipe her eyes and nose with her
fist. "Are you hungry, are you sick? Where is your
mother?" This brought a terrific wail from the little
girl. "Where is my mummy . . ," she cried and burst
into tears again. This time it was soon accompanied
by hiccoughs.

"Did your Mother leave you here?" asked Robert.
"YESSSsss!"

"And she hasn't come back for you? Did she tell
you to wait?" Robert was kneeling beside the little
girl. He reached into his paper bags for one of his
clean handkerchiefs, and gently wiped her face with
it. At first she resisted his efforts, then became re-
signed. She was silent except for an occasional snuffle.
"Are you hungry?" Robert asked again. The little
girl refused to say, but Robert reached once more
into his paper bag for an orange his mother had given
him. "Here," he said, "would you like this?"

"NOOOOO!" She stamped her foot and burst into
very angry weeping. She threw the orange out in the
street and struck at Robert, then started running
down the walk. Robert leaped to his feet and pur-
sued her. He had her by one arm and was attempting
to return her to her waiting place. People were star-
ing at them. Some were smiling. Suddenly there was
a second angry voice at Robert's side and much vio-
lent motion as a woman forced herself between him
and the child. He dropped back several paces. "Well,
here she is. Take her and leave me alone!" he shouted
and stalked away. He turned to see a small group of
women around the girl, one of whom he assumed to
be the mother. They were explaining, he hoped, that
he had tried to be helpful. If that was an adventure,
I didn't like it. My Mother wouldn't have behaved
that way. She would have thanked anyone for watch-
ing over me. Well . . . that was awful . . .

Robert crossed a busy street to reach a park. Here
he thought to compose himself before going on. He
even considered taking a subway to his father's estab-
lishment so he could hurry home where all was quiet.
But the shade and the sleeping men in the park relaxed

him. He thought he might even eat his lunch on the
grass. He followed a path until he found a secluded
spot screened from the walk and the street by some
large bushes. The noise of the buses and taxis dimin-
ished. Only the earth trembled occasionally when a
subway rumbled by underneath him. Robert ate his
sandwiches and sucked a pickle to counteract their
dryness. Then he rolled over on his back and stared
at the tree tops. From there his eyes turned to the
buildings surrounding the park, to the park itself. He
let his hands stray over the grass until one came in
contact with a small piece of wood. Robert sat up
to examine it. It was only half covered with bark.
Robert reached for his knife and was chipping away
idly at the wood when an old man stepped off the
path toward him.

"Son," he said, "it's been a long time since I seen
anyone whittle."

"Well," said Robert.

"No sir, you don't see no whittlers in a big city
like this." He lowered himself stiffly to the grass beside
Robert. "Now, where I come from whittlin's a pretty
common sight. Me an' my brothers used to whittle,
an' my paw could make some durn pretty things with
an old pen knife." Robert did not ask the man where
he was from, so the conversation lagged. The old man
kept his eye on Robert's knife. Finally he reached
over and took it from Robert's hand. "It's a good
blade. Tell you what," said the old man, "tell you
what, son . . . I'll trade you something for this knife."
"Well," said Robert again, "I . . ."
"I'll trade you this picture of President Grant for
this knife." He fumbled about in an inner pocket of
his coat, withdrawing finally a small print mounted
on cardboard. "This here is a fine picture of President
Grant. I'd like you to have it." Robert looked at the
picture and at his knife. He had had the knife a long
time. "Tell you what," the old man said, reaching
into an inside jacket pocket this time, "I'll swap you
the picture of Grant and this . . . it's a free pass to the
movies . . . for two. My son-in-law works in a movie
house an' he give it to me. How about that? For the
knife." Robert could tell the old man wanted the
knife a great deal. His thick old fingers stroked the
handle where Robert had carved his initials long ago.
He really wanted that knife . . . and a pass to the
movies would be a rather nice thing to have. Rather
an adventure to walk into a movie on a free pass.

"All right," said Robert, "I'll trade you. Here is
the sheath. It's yours."

"You've done an old man a favor, boy . . . but it
was a fair trade ... all around." The man was smil-
ing and turning the knife over and over in his hands.
Then he reached in a third pocket and pulled out an
object wrapped in newspaper. "How 'bout a nip to
seal the bargain?" He unwrapped the newspaper,
producing a pint of whiskey, a third empty.

"No," said Robert, "I don't drink . . . and besides,
I'm meeting my father pretty soon and he might not
like it if I smelled funny; and I don't drink, really."

(Contimied on Page 16)

Page 7

TKe FisKin^ Camp

by Alice Brumfield

j^=nHE lake was so still that I could stand up in the
vl</ boat without swaying. The lake was smooth
except occasionally when there were wrinkles in the
water. The blue of the lake was spent and faded
under the bright, morning sun. On the other side —
the east side — shadows of the green willows made the
water black. Here the light of the sun was right on
us. It burned my shoulder blades, drawing the skin
tight. My feet were still cool, for there was water
in the bottom of the boat. Only half of the boat
showed above the lake water.

"Pull up your line. Didn't you feel something on
it?" Papa said.
"No."

I pulled in the line. The hook was empty.
He laughed, drawing his stomach in so that his bot-
tom ribs stuck out.

"He got away with it all right," he said.
His shirt was unbuttoned. He only wore it to pro-
tect his shoulders. His skin was brown with the sun.
"You didn't put your shrimp on right," he told me.
"Yes, I did. It's too hot for the fish to bite."
He reached in the pail. White and curled grass
shrimp darted away from his fingers, but he caught
a big one. I could see the hook go through its soft
insides.

"Do you suppose he feels it?"
He looked up at me. His eyes had big brown pupils
with little lines of black in them.

"No, it just tickles him the way I tickle you." And
he tickled the place behind my knee. Our laughter
sounded loud on the lake in the morning. My line
moved in the water.
"I've got a bite."

Its scales were slimy. They were yellow and gold
and green. The hook was caught in its red mouth,
and I had to twist it about to get the hook off. Its
gills opened and closed frantically. I threw it in the
pail.

"Let's go home. Papa."

"You going to leave all those fish in the lake, sis?"
"Yes, it's hot."

I sat down in the front of the boat facing Papa.
He bent his head. I saw his hair, black and curly,
and his forehead and straight eyebrows, and the bone
that made a hump in his nose. He held the oar tightly,
showing the blue veins on his arm. The boat barely
disturbed the water. Between the lake and highway
was a high bank that leveled off. On Saturday and
Sunday there were a lot of cars going to town, but
this was Tuesday. We had a corn patch next to our
place, but mostly the ground was covered with weeds
and little willow trees. Down next to the water were
the reeds. It was around the edge of the lake that
Papa caught the grass shrimps.

Vage 8

The shadows on the lake were almost all gone. Far
up ahead only the green trees separated the grey of
the lake from the clear, colorless sky. Our fishing
pier looked stark and black against the light. As we
came closer I could see the people sitting on the pier
fishing. Dead branches of trees were buried under
the water. The fish stayed around these.

We pulled the boat in on the oozing mud. There
was a path through the reeds up to the store and the
cabins. Between the reeds was lake water with tad-
poles and shrimp. Rising above the reeds was the
boardwalk leading to the fishing pier. It had been
black from out on the lake, but from here it was
rough and worn-grey.

Papa bent down to string the fish. I took oflf my
straw hat and held it over my face. It smelled of
summer's sweat, strong and sweet. The rim was wet.
I put my hand on, my hair. It was soft and damp.
I put my hand on Papa's hair. His was curly where
mine had been straight.

"Your hair is wet, too," I said.

He got up with the fish.

"Come on."

He stepped through the mud, his long, bony feet
leaving grooves for me to put my feet in. After the
reeds came the brown leaves all over the black ground.
The leaves fell from the willows that kept the sun out.
We walked toward the brown-screened porch that
was supported by long poles. Piles of fishing poles
and stacks of wood were under the porch. We lived
in the back of the house. In front was the store.
Mama waited on the customers, selling bottles of pop
and beer and fish bait. On each side of the store were
the cabins. Every morning the people came out with
their eyes swollen from sleep, their clothes wrinkled
from being packed. They stopped in the store to buy
fish bait and rent a fishing pole. It was nearly noon
now. Most of the people were out on the pier. The
sun shone down on the quiet lake water. Over the
lake it was white with sunlight. The trees on the
other side seemed far away, and the green was faded.
The light hurt.

The steps from the boardwalk to the back porch
were old. The willows made deep shadows; the long-
legged birds in the reeds made sudden, gawking
sounds.

Papa stepped on a washtub to reach the boardwalk.
He held up the fish. A woman walking from the pier
stopped. She looked at the fish.

"Where did you get those fish?" she said.

The woman was short. Her legs were white, but
her arms were red from the way she had been sitting
in the sun. She had brown hair that was pulled away
from her face and then came back again against her
neck.

"In the lake," Papa said.

"I've been fishing in the lake from the pier and see
what I caught."

She leaned over to him, showing the tiny perch in
the pail. Her shirt moved and showed the white skin
beyond the red sun-burned part.

"I'd like to tell this Mr. Hibert about his fish."

"I'm Mr. Hibert."

"Oh. Well, you see how many fish I've caught."

He peered down into the pail again.

"Ifou should have thrown those back," he said,
shrugging his shoulders. "It's just been a bad day
for the fish around the pier. Besides, there're too many
people down there. They make a lot of noise. . . . You
want to fish some more now? I know where we can
find some fish."

"At the pier?" She looked at him, at his bare feet
and the bony ankles jutting out.

"No. In the lake. I'll take you in my boat. I
always guarantee fish at my fishing camp."

She smiled, spreading her lips wide over her teeth.

"O. K.," she said.

Papa gave me the fish, and they started off toward
the boat. He went on fast before her, his blue shirt
sticking to his back. She went behind him, her white
legs walking slowly. Her long hair moved with the
rhythm of her walk. They went through the reeds
to the boat. Some of the yellow-legged birds were
frightened by them. The birds flew away.

I took the fish and started up the boardwalk. When
I looked back, the boat with the woman was out
beyond the pier. Papa and the woman were sitting
facing each other. There were no shadows on the lake.
Areas of dark blue and lighter blue were side by side
in crazy, jagged shapes.

I opened the screen door fast to beat the flies into
the store. Mama was sitting on a stool behind the
counter. She was crocheting. No one
else was in the store.

"Look what we caught."

I held up the fish the way Papa had
held them up, the beautiful green and
yellow and brown fish. Mama looked
at them. Her grey eyes looked light
in the darkness of the store.

"Where's Mr. Hibert?" she asked.

The icebox was right next to the
Coca-Cola box. I went over and put
the fish in carefully on the ice.

"He's gone out on the boat. If we
sell these, can I have the money?"

She did not look up from her cro-
cheting.

"Did he go out alone?"

"No."

"Who did he go with?"

When she spoke her voice was high
and shaky. It was like her eyebrows —
they were low on both sides but went

up in a point in the middle. She sang soprano in
the church choir.

"I don't know exactly who he went with. One of
the people staying in the cabins, I guess."

Cans were stacked thick on the shelves. Red paper
with black letters were on the soup cans. Big white-
papered cans had bowls of green peas printed on them.
And down on the bottom shelves were sacks of sugar
and potatoes. There were bottles of amber-colored
vinegar and glass jars with small, round pickled
peaches. They would taste like spice and the peach
would give way under teeth like soft flesh.

"He went with one of the women staying at the
cabins?"

"I don't know," I said.

She got down from the stool. Her dress was pink,
blue and white stripes. It was a sunback dress that
showed her back — her back with its little red heat
bumps. At night Papa would stand behind her rub-
bing lotion on her back for the bumps. The stripes
were faded now. ("Stripes make you look slimmer,"
she had said when she bought it.) She wore an old
brown belt to make it tight in the waist. She had
lost weight since she bought the dress, but she was
still heavy. She stood over me talking.

"Well, you do know whether it was a man or a
woman, don't you?"

Little pink toenails showed through her straw
sandals.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"It was a woman. What difference does that make?"

She picked up the pearls around her neck and
twisted them around her finger. She looked out
towards the door.

"Get some bologna and potatoes. We'll eat when
he comes back."

{Continued vn Pai^c 17}

Page 'J

Visiting Celebrities

LIONEL TRILLING

by Patricia Hunsinger

HOUR years ago, before the time of present
Woman's College students, Lionel Trillmg was
leader of the writing panel at the Third Annual Arts
Forum. This year he has been asked to return, arui
for all those to whom he is a stranger perhaps a cur-
sory introduction may make it easier to appreciate
the criticisms and viewpoints he will express during
the course of the forum.

A man of diverse interests, Trilling has explored
many fields, with an intellectual thoroughness which
has gained him recognition as critic, author of fiction,
political thinker, student of Freud, and interpreter
of literature. To complete a well-rounded academic
life, he is a teacher of English at Columbia University.
His status as an important critic is based largely on
two works, Matthew Arnold and E. M. Forster. The
former, in his own words, "may be thought of as a
biography of Arnold's mind," and is an attempt to
interpret what Arnold, as a poet and critic, said and
meant. The latter contains an analyzation of For-
ster's fiction and criticism. Both are characterized
by clear, well-executed prose, extensive knowledge
of related subjects, and critical honesty.

A writer of short stories for some time, two of
them published in "The Best American Short Stories"
series. Trilling published his first novel in 1947, The
Middle Journey. The professional critics passed judg-
ment and generally proclaimed it a novel of distinc-
tion, recommending it to the thoughtful reader. In
their written opinions they included such comments
as "intellectually provocative," "exquisite crafts-

man," "for the politically and philosophically aware."
Some hesitated in granting their full approval, feel-
ing that Trilling's concern with ideas excluded emo-
tion from his writing.

It is true that the reader cannot lose himself in the
complexities of plot or be carried away with the
momentum of the story. Trilling is concerned with
the exploration of the mental world of his characters.
His plots center around their intellectual develop-
ment. He writes with a very high degree of percep-
tion and insight into human relationships. His writ-
ing must be read with care. The unfolding of a small
portion of his story may, by implication, pose a philo-
sophical problem which challenges the mind of the
reader.

However, these characteristics do not interfere
with the craftsmanship of his story-telling. His short
stories spin themselves out in a logical, well con-
structed pattern. His style is consistently even and
lucid. His characters, while, at times, extraordinarily
perceptive, are finely drawn and human.

This experience and proven ability in the fields of
criticism and writing fiction make Lionel Trilling
a very apt choice to lead the Arts Forum writing
panel. A return engagement generally bespeaks a
successful first appearance, so it is safe to predict
that this phase of Arts Forum will be interesting and
stimulating for all those who attend. Trilling's own
commentary on the forum was "fine, fun, com-
munal." We can look forward to this same sentiment
in March, 1950.

BLACKMUR of PRINCETON

hy Marilyn Shaw

HITERARY criticism is an exhaustive art. It
entails the most detailed research into meanings,
derivations, and leanings, a prodigious background
of information, an uncanny insight into dark places,
and finally, pure and patient labor. To judge the art
by the works of some incompetently rash or opinion-
ated critic or a stuffily didactic one is heresy. Lit-
erary criticism has come too far today for any more
raised evebrows from armchair commentators. A

Forum is proud to have Richard P. Blackmur spread
his talents to Woman's College campus, but the world
is prouder still to boast such a man of letters. "Black-
mur of Princeton" has become more than a definitive
phrase; it is fast becoming a tradition. The students
of his Creative English course have been turning out
material that has made the public notice, remark, and
in some cases, review. This course at Princeton is
evolving into a little productive circle that will some-

good criticism sometimes outweighs in value the work day rank with Kenyon and Indiana as fertile literary
it graces, but this only adds another affirmative note cubbyholes for future artists.

to the favorable appraisal of criticism. For surely, in
spite of the quality of the work, a good criticism
can be complete, studied, and enlightening.

All of this is by way of a preamble to a preamble,
that being the appearance, next month of an amazing
man in the field of criticism. The Seventh Arts

Page 10

Blackmur 's criticism has not been pigeonholed into
a definite category as yet, and probably never will.
His contemporary critics cannot ascribe to him any
one doctrine or viewpoint. Rather, "what he has is
not so much a unique method as a unique habit of
(Continued on Page 20)

Page 11

The Spirit of tKe Martyr

by Mary C. Idol

©OBEY Beaverduck Sauntered with elaborate non-
chalance around the corner of the house. He let
carelessl}' indifferent eyes rove over the lawn where
his father was assembling equipment for painting
screens. Holy gee! This could last all afternoon. He
leaned languidly against the porch and began to imag-
ine that he was Two-Gun Tyson, champion of law
and order in the West. The lawn was a rocky pass
where a band of desperate robbers camped; the step
ladder was the giant boulder that sheltered them from
the guns of the sheriff's posse; and there, carrying
the dripping bucket that contained the blood of his
latest victims, stalked Horrible Harry Hale, the
Masked Marauder.

A series of grunts and annoyed mumblings informed
Two-Gun that Horrible Harry had left his paint-
brush in the basement; and all languor deserted Bobby
Beaverduck's body as he saw the Reverend Herbert
Beaverduck disappear down a flight of cement steps.
Bobby's dusty, sneaker-clad feet raced across the lawn
with the speed of Two-Gun Tyson's horse, Streak;
and he threw a hasty glance from the vestibule of the
church to make sure his father had not come out in
time to view his entrance. Stealthily he mounted the
stairs and once at the top, made another inspection
from a window. Satisfied that he was unobserved,
he dragged a chair from one of the Sunday school
rooms and placed it under a trap door that led to the
attic. With an ease that denoted long practice, he
mounted the rungs of the chair's back and with the
strong muscles that a Charles Atlas book had taught
him to develop, knocked the door aside and pulled
himself up into the opening. He groped among the
collection of nails and BB shot in his pocket, produced
a match, and by the light of its thin flame made his
way across the unfloored beams toward the skylight
that illuminated the other end of the attic. He
stopped to add the initials "B. B. plus A. M." to the
collection written in the dust of the glass that allowed
the light to penetrate into the church proper and
then made his way over to a round hole in the wall
and climbed through it onto the sun-streaked floor
of the belfry tower. Bobby stood blinking for a
moment in the strong light and then eagerly bounded
across the small enclosure. The sight that met his
eyes stopped him in awe for an instant; and then,
dropping to his knees with an exuberant cry of joy,
he bent over the object that had caused him all his
pains. "Babies!" he shouted exultantly. "Beautiful,
beautiful little babies!"

As a matter of fact, the two scrawny little birds
that gazed wildly up at him from their slovenly nest
were far from a conventional picture of beauty; but
Bobby bent over them with all the sense of accom-
plishment of a successful midwife. "Where are your

Fai^c 12

little shells?" he crooned. "Did you break through
them all by yourselves while I wasn't here?"

He reached out his hand to touch them, and the
young pigeons broke into a squawking so loud and
harsh that Bobby started back in alarm. "All right,
all right!" he said, "I won't hurt you. I was only
trying to be friendly." The pigeons squawked louder
than before, and Bobby heard a flutter of wings on
the roof.

"Okay, I'll leave," he said. "Your mother won't
like it if she finds me here. But I'll come back and
see that you're getting along all right."

On the way out Bobby thought better of the ini-
tials he had written on the skylight and with some
difficulty scrubbed away the whole collection with
one of his socks. He had a feeling his father had
begun to notice the dazzhng letters that danced
around on the floor in front of his pulpit.

Getting out of the church unobserved proved more
difficult than getting in. Finally Bobby ducked out
while his father was on his ladder with his back
turned; but as he dashed full-sprint across the road,
Mr. Beaverduck looked around, and his gaze came into
clashing contact with the flight of his son. Imme-
diately Bobby transformed his run into a ballet of
strange and ludicrous form. Now and then sidestep-
ping exaggeratedly and with his arms bowed above his
head, he pirouetted to the lawn where his father
looked on in unbelieving amazement.

"What in the name of heaven are you doing?"

"Dancing," Bobby replied eagerly. "I read in a
magazine the other day how it develops your coordi-
nation and helps you play basketball." He gave an-
other twirl directly below the ladder.

Mr. Beaverduck grunted. "Have you been up in
that church attic again?"

Bobby was a picture of wounded innocence. "Oh,
no sir!"

"Then what were you doing over there?"

Bobby considered a moment. "Just fooling around
in the woods."

"Have you been staging another BB gun war with
those Watson boys?" Mr. Beaverduck said, coming
threateningly down off his ladder.

Bobby might have been an accused angel. "Me?"
he' said. "No, sir! You told me not to play that any
more."

Mr. Beaverduck looked down his long, thin nose
with a cynicism born of years of suffering. "That's
why I asked," he said.

"Can I paint some?" Bobby wanted to know, help-
fulness lighting up his face. "You look tired."

"Just bitter," Mr. Beaverduck murmured. "Run
down in the basement and get me a screwdriver. One
of these hinges is loose."

Bobby picked up a handful of nails while he was
at the tool drawer. He liked to jingle them in his
pockets to make people think he had money. He gave
the screwdriver to his father and, balancing himself
on one foot, leaned against the stepladder. "Pop, do
birds ever go off and desert their babies if they find
out somebody's been fooling around with them?"

"What kind of birds?"

"Oh, any kind."

"Watch out, Bobby. You're going to turn over
the ladder. Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, I just wondered," Bobby said, shifting his
weight to the other foot.

The ladder toppled, showering Mr. Beaverduck and
an enormous quantity of black paint to the ground.

"Goddamn it to hell!" the minister shouted. "I told
you not to lean against that ladder!"

"Are you hurt. Pop?" Bobby bent over him with
flurried and genuine concern. "I don't think much
paint got on the house."

Mr. Beaverduck noticed, for the first time, the long
black fingers reaching across the white weatherboard-
ing. "Oh, Jesus Christ," he groaned, "my son!" He
beat the ground with his fists. "Bobby, get out of
my sight. I'll deal with you when I'm calmer."

Bobby lost no time in obeying. He went in the
back door and, munching a dog biscuit that he took
from a box on the porch, began an investigation of
lunch.

"Boy, is you eatin' them dog biscuits again?"
Crystal, the cook, wanted to know as she made a
distracted effort to take the wafer away from him.
"Your mama done told you they made out of old
dead horse meat."

"Yum, yum!" Bobby said, smacking his lips and
rolling his eyes at her. "Dead horse sure is good!"
He went into the living-room where his mother was
running the vacuum cleaner and leaned against the
door.

"Mom" he said, "does it bother a mother bird for
people to mess with her babies?"

"Why, I don't know, Bobby," Mrs. Beaverduck
said. "Why don't you look it up in the natural science
book?"

"Hell's bells!" Bobby said. "There's nothing you
want to know in there!"

"Bobby! If I have to speak to you one more time
about cursing, you're not going to any movies for a
month!" She fussed over the vacuum cleaner. "What
would people think of the preacher's son?"

"Humph!" Bobby said, "if cussing's all that bad,
I sure hope Pop never falls out of the pulpit."

Bobby ate his breakfast the next morning in a
miasma of gloom. His father had "dealt with" him
as he had promised; and Bobby was now reflecting
that men were lamentably more ingenious when calm
than when angry. Bobby scratched his head and won-
dered how on earth he had gotten tripped up. Not
only had he admitted to: Count 1 — Playing in the
church attic; Count 2 — Engaging in BB gun warfare

and wounding Harold Watson in the hip in said war-
fare; Count 3 — Cursing wickedly. But he had con-
fessed to an accident Two-Gun Tyson had suffered
while digging a grave for one of his companions. It
had to do with a sewage pipe, and Bobby could not
figure how it got into the discussion. The result of
the interview was that he had been denied movies
and comic books for a period to be determined by
his behavior. Even Bobby realized that this was a
hopeless outlook. And moreover, upon any major
offense, he was threatened with what his father termed
degrading physical chastisement. Bobby had serious
doubts about the advisability of going to look at the
pigeons. He spent part of the morning working on
his wagon; but after he deemed it wise to return a
borrowed bolt to the pump, he gave construction up
in favor of annoying Crystal in the kitchen. But at
length she threatened to call his mother, and he wan-
dered dejectedly out to the garage. "Pigeons," he
thought, "are little and helpless, and they aren't al-
ways accusing you of things." He argued to himself.
"I ought to go and give them a look; something might
have happened. Their mother may have gone off and
left and they'll need food." He rummaged behind
a stack of lumber, extracted two comic books from a
pile sequestered there, stuck them under his shirt
where he could hold them with his arm, and set off
for the church by what he hoped was an elusive route.

The baby pigeons were squawking in their nest.
Bobby picked one of them up gently and held it in
the palm of his hand. What a tiny little creature it
was! He held it for several minutes, looking tenderly
at it, and then returned it to its nest. "They can do
all they want to to me," he said, "but just let anyone
try hurting you! Just let anyone try!"

Bobby's actions during the next three days were a
model of virtue, his reading of comic books and his
visits to the pigeons being strictly private affairs. But
on the fourth day a horrible calamity occurred that
was to color his record a dead and grisly black.

As usual, about the middle of the morning he
climbed through the round hole into the belfry tower.
At first he did not believe what he saw. It could not
be that the young pigeons had learned to fly, and

yet . Bobby ran frantically around the little

room, peering into every nook that might possibly
house a baby pigeon. He crawled up under the bell,
and he searched on the roof; but the pigeons were
nowhere to be seen. He sat down on the floor and
stared at the empty nest. In a sick daze he began to
conjure up pictures of what had happened to them.

Now he saw a giant rat creep across the floor, its
wolf -like fangs bared, its small pig-eyes glowing with
cruelty. It advanced slowly on the trembling, cow-
ering birds, crouched and lunged, ripped their tiny,
featherless bodies with its long teeth and claws; it
uttered savage shrieks of joy. Bobby's nostrils dis-
tended, his fists clenched and unclenched.

And then he imagined that a gleaming cat came
slinking in from the roof. He imagined that one of

Page 1}

its soft, furry paws reached out and patted the
pigeons. He heard the Uttle birds' screams as clearly
as if they had been those of a man. His eyes grew
wide. He searched his mind frantically for some
means of retrieving the pigeons from fate, or if res-
cue failed, of revenge. If only he could tell someone,
get some help — but he was on probation, so to speak;
it must not be known that he knew about the pigeons.
He hugged his knees with his arms and stared into
space — the sacrifice was too big. Silently and without
tears he began to cry.

That night at supper Mr. Beaverduck said, "Well!
Guess what Mr. Watson found up in the belfry
tower!"

Bobby snapped straight in his chair. "Two skele-
tons!" he cried.

Mr. Beaverduck gave him an acid look. "Why,
Bobby? Has Two-Gun Tyson been disposing of his
dead up there?"

A hot flush spread over Bobby's throat and face.
He tried to push his rage back with a mouthful of
potatoes.

"No," Mr. Beaverduck went on, more kindly, "he
went up there to put a new rope on the bell, and he
ran across this nest with two
little pigeons in it right there
on the floor. Have you ever
seen a pigeon's nest, Bobby?
They just heap up a bunch
of twigs with no rhyme or
reason and lay their eggs in
the squalor — wonder they
don't fall right out when
they're in trees."

Hope bounded from the
grave in Bobby's chest. "Then
what did he do with the lit-
tle birds?"

"Took them home to Har-
old." Mr. Beaverduck smiled
with the satisfaction of one

who has just imparted a bit of unique and delightful
knowledge. "I thought about keeping one for you,
but we decided the two of them would probably be
happier together."

Bobby's world swirled for an instant before his
eyes. Even the cat, even the rat would have been
better than Harold — Harold who pulled the wings
off flies and set fire to his dog's tail. The table turned
upside down and floated through the dining-room;
his parents were distorted into two ogre-like monsters.

The mother ogre spoke: "Aren't you hungry,
Bobby?"

"No," he mumbled, "I'm full. May I be excused?"
And without waiting for an answer, he slid down
from his chair and ran out into the side yard. He sat
on the grass and beat his fists on the ground. "Oh,
poor, poor pigeons," he gasped. "Harold, Harold,
bully Harold! And nothing I can do to help you —
after I promised! Nothing I can do!"

Page 14

And then a strange resolve began to take hold of
him. Two pictures of the future were clear before
his eyes; and then one of them moved slowly, slowly
over the other, and the other was gone.

"It will mean no movies," he thought. "It will
mean no allowance. It will mean no comic books,
no football, no rifle." He pushed back a desire to be
maudlin, he pushed back the words, "They'll beat me
every night and never let me have dessert," and he
thought, "I do not care. I do not care what happens
to me. I will never care if I desert them now." He
rose, picked up a medium-sized rock and started
down the road toward Harold's house.

Harold was in the yard, and he waved excitedly to
Bobby. "Hey! Look what I got!"

Bobby came over to where Harold was squatting
on the ground and towered over him. "What?" he
asked stonily.

"What's eatin' you?" Harold asked, leaving the
hand that had reached out toward a cardboard box
poised in mid-air.

"You know damned well what's eatin' me," Bobby
said, gritting his teeth menacingly. "And you'd bet-
ter do something about it pretty quick."

"The hell if I know what
you're talking about," Har-
old said, "but you'd better
watch the way you talk or
I'll tell your papa you've been
cussing — and he won't like it,
'cause he's a preacher." He
wiggled his shoulders and
pitched his voice into a fal-
setto.

Bobby wanted to shove his
rock into Harold's throat, but
he held his rage. "What have
you got in that box?"

Harold eyed him with in-
decision; but pride of owner-
ship overcame suspicion, and
snatched the lid off. "Look! Pigeons! My old man
brought 'em to me from the bell tower." Rubbing
a hip that apparently gave him pain, he grinned ma-
liciously up at Bobby. His voice was low and sing-
song. "Don't you wish you'd gone up there and
found 'em?"

Bobby's knuckles inside his pocket grew white as
he grasped the rock. "It happens I did find 'em,"
he said evenly, "and they're mine, so give them here!"
'Harold laughed. "Maybe you did," he said, "but
you didn't take 'em, and now I got a big interest in
them 'cause I been teachin' 'em tricks. Look! They
can swim." And running over to the side of the
house, he tugged a big bucket out from under a spigot
and dragged it toward the box.

Utter horror trebled Bobby's strength. With a
shout that reverberated from every wall, he lifted the
bucket brimming full and rammed it upside down
(Continued on Page 20)

Margaret Romcfclt

Lenoi

oir

(Contiimrd from Page 3)

She spoke the words low, with a Httle sternness;
and now she was finished, she settled back in her cor-
ner. The httle boy felt her mouth was tight closed
and would not say any more. He saw her face once
in the lightning. It had a thin, narrow nose, the
cheeks were all hollow, and the lines were hard. He
felt cold again, like when he saw Uncle Thomas's scar.
But he ached, too, as if his ribs were pinching him.

The car moved slowly through the night, the rain
was so heavy and the road winding over the ridge of
mountains. In the front seat Thomas Lord and Aun,t
Edna talked together about what they would do.
"Lenoir is over sixty miles yet from Bremen," Thomas
Lord said. They talked for awhile about the Salvation
Army. But the Salvation Army's headquarters weren't
in Bremen any more, and they only came to town on
Saturday. When they came, there was a big parade
with cornets and a bass drum and tambourines. The
little boy remembered the first he had seen. He had
run out into it and given them his nickel. And it
wasn't even the proper time. They took up the money
afterwards.

The light in the house was blinding after the hours
of darkness. The little boy stood in the light, rubbing
his eyes. He saw Uncle Thomas push up a couple of
windows for fresh air and then walk to the telephone
in the hall.

Charles was awake again, crying and wetting the
floor all around him. Aunt Edna let her hands fall
at her sides helplessly. Then she got him on the couch
to change him.

There was a click in the hall. "This is Lord, civil
engineer, speaking. This the county jail? . . . Oh,
Morrison — "

The little boy looked around at the woman. She
was just standing there near the door and off the rug.
And the little girl, standing beside her, held a thin
hand to the hem of her skirt. She was tiny and spindle-
legged, with pale, deep eyes and white-blonde hair
hanging in damp hanks. She stood uncertainly a
moment, then hid behind her mother's legs. The
woman's shoes were sogged and covered with mud.
The little boy saw Aunt Edna looking at the shoes,
and the woman bent down and took them off. Her
clothes were black, with a brown cloth coat that had
sleeves too short. She was a hard-faced woman, thin,
with deep, black hollows under her eyes so that she
seemed always to be standing in the shadows.

"Nothing," Thomas Lord said, coming from the
hallway. "Morrison checked and he says he hasn't
got a place he could put a woman and a child."

Aunt Edna pulled at the knot of her greying hair.
"Well, we'll just have to fix up something here," she
said, "that old bed in the laundry-room, I guess."

In the kitchen the little boy stood at the stove to
help Aunt Edna with the hot milk, "Carrie don't

like hot milk," the woman said, "just cold milk'U do
me and her."

Charles sat in Aunt Edna's lap with his hot bottle.
But the little girl just sat on the high stool and held
the tall glass of cold milk with her fingers, looking
all around her, the faded blue eyes big and scared.
"Drink, Carrie," her mother said. The little girl
drooped her eyes, and her fingers got still on the glass.

"Lord, don't just sit there. Drink it, child," Thomas
Lord ordered.

The little girl took the glass to her mouth at once,
and gulped.

Thomas Lord's brows drew into a frown. "Woman,
hasn't that child eaten all day?"

The woman shifted in her chair. "We had some
crackers and coke back at the filling station," she said,
her eyes down toward her long fingers pressed against
the enameled table-top.

Thomas Lord cursed. "Come here, child!" he
ordered the little girl. The little girl slid off her stool
and moved a few steps toward him. "Three years old,
you said?" he looked at the woman. "Charles is only
seventeen months, and he's almost as big as she is,
twice as fat."

The little girl smiled then. She poked a finger out
at Charles. "Baby," she said.

Charles squirmed off Aunt Edna's lap and waddled
toward her. Aunt Edna's arm reached to catch him
too late. "Baby," he echoed, smiling. His eyes caught
on the white-blonde hair. "Hair," he cried, and threw
his arms up to it.

The little girl fell back, and her eyes darkened. She
held up her hands and screamed. Charles' fingers
dropped from the white-blonde hair, and he started
screaming in answer.

Aunt Edna caught Charles up at once. The little
boy moved from his corner and touched the little
girl's head to calm her. The little girl wrenched loose
and screamed again. He fell back, shuffling his feet,
even before he saw the order on Uncle Thomas's face.

The little boy led the woman and the child up the
dark, winged stairs — he liked to think of them as
winged because at the turn they were little at one end,
spreading out wide at the other, fan-like. He bent
under the clothes-lines and pointed at the bed. The
woman laid her coat down, and the thin little girl
held to it. The little boy just stood around then a
minute. He looked at the woman and saw her staring
at the plain mattress. It was an old bed, painted
green iron and sunken in the middle. He looked at
the mattress. It was striped black-and-white with
cotton wads sewn in the hollows. He felt the eyes
of the woman on it, dark and hard. He thought they
seemed a little wet-like. She didn't say anything, and
she didn't move except once to look up at the damp
sheets hanging on the lines. She just stood there, bent
like something old and tired with use, and stared at
the mattress.

The little boy felt his way down the dark stairs and
came into Aunt Edna's bedroom- She was pulling

Vage 15

covers over Charles, and the room smelled hke the
medicine she always gave him when she was afraid
he was coming down with a cold.

He stood by Aunt Edna till she looked up at him.
"No sheets on the bed," he said.

Aunt Edna tucked at Charles' covers and kissed
his forehead. He moved restlessly in his sleep.

"There aren't any sheets on the bed," the boy said.

"Bertie," Aunt Edna turned to him, pressing her
hand over her forehead like she always did when she
had a headache, "you mean you want me to put sheets
on the bed? Don't you know what diseases that
woman might have? And that child near pneumonia."

The little boy scuffed his shoes.

"I'd have to boil them," Aunt Edna let her hands
go helplessly, "if I ever dared use them again at all."

"Yes'm," the little boy said.

"Haven't you slept on that bed without sheets?"

"Just playing. It itches."

Aunt Edna's mouth loosened. "All right, get the
sheets. Get those torn ones I was going to spread
under the table-cloth." She turned away. "You'll
have to fix them yourself. I just don't feel up to it
after this night."

The little boy spread the sheets, and the woman,
smoothed part at the corners. He saw the torn places

bulge as the sheets drew
tight, and he knew the
woman saw them too.
He smoothed them flat
and got an old cotton
blanket out of the cor-
ner and spread it.

The little girl was
asleep when he left. He
wanted to touch the
strange hair with his
fingers ; but even in her
sleep, the girl seemed
to shy. His fingers trailed in the empty air. The dark,
shadowed eyes of the woman held him. "Thank you;
you're a good boy," she said.

It was only eight o'clock in the morning when the
little boy woke to feel his bed empty, and the silence
and emptiness of the house. Uncle Thomas had gone
downstairs already — Uncle Thomas slept with him
lots of times, when Aunt Edna had her headaches, and
he snored, and rolled, and pulled all the covers off him.

The little boy lay still, sensing an emptiness as if
he had had a dark dream and lost it. The woman and
the little girl, he remembered. He moved silently
across the hall and stood with his feet cold against
the floor. He did not hear even the sounds of breath-
ing in the room.

The little boy walked down the stairs slowly. He
found Uncle Thomas in the kitchen. "They're gone?"
he said.

Thomas Lord nodded. "Left before six this morn-
ing, I imagine, even before daybreak."

Page 16

Nancy Seihcrt

The little boy saw a scrap of paper on the table.
"Thank you for your kindness," it said. "Sorry do
not have more money to pay." There was ten cents
beside the note.

The little boy fingered the money and stared out
at the sky. It was a naked, grey morning when the
sky was like a granite boulder, the rain drizzling
lightly. He tried in his mind to see the woman and
the little girl, but they were like dreams or faded,
shawled figures. "I wonder if they will get to Lenoir,"
he said. He thought of it, the grey sky, the silver grey
money in his fingers, the grey cushions of the church
with his uncle's hand pressing down on his head.

"A complete fool of a woman," Thomas Lord said.
"They'll never make it to Lenoir."

Carthag,e

(Continued from Page 7)

The old man was not offended. "You're young
yet," he said, and tipped the bottle to his mouth.
"You're young," he repeated when he could talk
again. Robert excused himself and rose to go. He put
the picture of President Grant in his paper bag and
the movie pass in his pocket. He felt to see if his
compass was still there, and after saying goodbye to
the old man, left the park.

He walked far before his next encounter . . . almost
midtown and he was becoming hot and thirsty. So
he stopped before an open counter for a glass of
orange juice. There was a girl leaning against the
counter drinking orange juice, too. She looked at him
and he could not help looking back at her. She was
very thin and had her hair tied back at the neck with
a ribbon. She was dressed like a school girl with a
white blouse and jumper, but she did not look like a
school girl. There was very much color on her face.

"It's turned hot," Robert said finally.

"Yeah, it has." She smiled at him and he felt a
little better about her. "You been sitting on grass,"
she told him. How could she tell? He had grass stains
on his pant legs. How 'bout that? And she laughed
as he observed himself and saw that it was true.

"Been out playing around, huh?" she asked. Robert
nodded a little foolishly. Yes, he had. Then he thought
of his mother at home alone and put his cup down
guiltily. He had delayed long enough. He would
"find" his father as he had been told. The girl had
finished her drink too, and it turned out that she was
walking in Robert's direction. He hesitated a little,
then slowed his pace to match hers. A few minutes
more would not matter. Robert helped her across a
street and after that they walked close to one another.
She was talking about the clothes they would pass in
the shop windows and about her girl friends and he
was pleasant and listened. They passed several bars
in a row and the girl's steps lagged somewhat. She
wagged her head and suggested a drink ... a beer or
something. Robert excused himself and confessed
that he did not drink. To counteract the look of con-

cern on the girl's face, he hurried on to say that he
had a pass for two to the movies.

"You don't drink?" the girl sounded disgusted.
"Movies? Where? Let's see the pass." He handed it
to her. She girl frowned as she looked at it. "Is this
a joke?" No, Robert told her politely. He would be
very happy if she would consent to go with him.

"Bright eyes," she said, "this show has come and
gone. Look at the date! I bet you don't even know
the time of day!" It embarrassed Robert to admit
that he didn't. Everything he said seemed to anger
the girl. "I'm not taking any more insults from you,
buddy!" Then in front of his obviously bewildered
expression she exchanged anger for suspicion. "There's
somethin' wrong here," she said slowly. "Here's the
pass, blue boy, enjoy the show."

Before Robert could straighten out his explanations
or apologies she had left him and was crossing the
street. Robert stood glaring distrustfully at the pass.

Thank goodness, I'm not far from the office, he said.
I'm not go ng to look at or speak to another person
until I get there and home again. He took big strides
and kept his eyes lowered. In fact, he was nearly run
down in one intersection and had to be pulled back
to the curb by a man who muttered, "Fool!" He
entered a large store and went to the back to take
the freight elevator up to a floor where the shipping
clerks worked. He stopped by a desk near the door.
"Please, can you tell my father his son is here? Robert
Burkowitz ... or can I speak to him myself?"

"Burkowitz?" the clerk repeated.

"Yes. My father is Ralph Burkowitz."

"Just a minute." The clerk rose from the desk.
"Just wait here, please." He returned several minutes
later with a bald-headed man who wore great black-
rimmed glasses.

"Why, Robert Burkowitz! So it is. How are you,
my boy? How's your mother?" Robert couldn't quite
place the man, but pretended he did.

"We're all right. Mother hasn't been too well
recently, though. In fact, today she sent me to get
Father. I wonder if he could leave a little early? Just
today to ease her mind?"

The man's glasses gave him an odd expression . . .
one of consternation, Robert decided. "She sent you
here for your father?"

"Yes, sir." The man remained silent for some min-
utes. Robert thought he might be deciding if Mr.
Burkowitz could leave early. He looked around him
to see if he could find his father working among the
others.

"Robert," the man said, "your father isn't here.
He hasn't been here in almost a year. Tell your mother
that. Tell her, Robert, that we would be sure to notify
her if ever we did see him about. It's a difficult task,
but try to make her understand. Tell her, won't you,
Robert?"

But Robert was no longer listening. He was being
confronted in his mind with the faces of the old
woman, the child, the old man, and the girl. And he
saw with dread the candle burning in the window.

The man was holding out his hand. Robert shook it
automatically. He was thinking of that perfectly
good orange the little girl had hurled into the street.
He wondered if he could make his way back to it
before it was crushed by the cars or by the people.

The Fishing, Camp

{Continued from I'ai^c 9)

I got the bologna and potatoes and took them back
to the kitchen. The kitchen linoleum felt good to
my feet after the oily store floor. I looked out the
window. The lake was the same except there was no
boat. There were people on the pier. They sat still
like statues. Only the yellow-legged birds swooped
in and out of the reeds hunting for fish.

Someone had come to the store. Mama's voice said
something about the weather or the fish. I went up
the stairs and over to the north bedroom until I did
not hear her talking. The north bedroom was their
bedroom. After they were up and working at the
store, I would slip in. I liked to lay on Papa's side
of the bed because his pillow smelled of his hair tonic.
The room was cool. A big oak right outside kept the
sunlight out. At night Mama set on the edge of the
bed in her corset pulling off her stockings. She would
pull off one and sit there holding the stocking and
looking far out the window. She rolled the other
stocking off carefully and tucked both stockings in
her shoes. When she took off her corset the pattern
of deep grooves left by the corset seemed an inch deep.
Finally she would put on either her blue or white
nightgown. They were of batiste and very thin. There
were garlands of pink roses all over them. She loved
roses. She had a box full of artificial roses, all colors.
If she did not wear the roses, she wore her pearls. Papa
did not have many clothes. Khaki pants and blue
shirts he wore most of the time. His white linen was
his best suit. When he wore it the white made his
hair and eyes look darker. He wore it to mass on Sun-
days and to funerals. The women looked at him. I
was proud to be walking with him. He had a straw
hat to go with it. The straw hat had a red ribbon
around it. The hat smelled just like his pillow. It all
came from his hair tonic that he poured on trying
to make his hair straight.

"Somebody might think I'm a damn nigger," he
said.

The window curtain was blowing. It was raining
to the north. It would be here soon. The wind was
blowing up little waves with white breakers on the
lake. People were running from the pier dragging
their fishing poles and letting their fish pails swing
on their arms. There were no boats on the lake.
Clouds came over the sun, and it started raining. The
rain came hard on the lake, forcing the lake water to
sprout up; all over the lake it was like steam rising.
There were sounds of the heavy rain on the roof and
on the soft earth. I lay down on the bed. The ceiling
was papered with old grey wallpaper. There was a

Page J 7

yellow splotch on the corner where it rained through.
Water seeped through the crack and the drop became
bigger and bigger, and it became heavier until it
swayed with its own weight and then fell to the floor.
Outside wind had stopped. The rain was coming
straight down.

When I woke up, the rain had stopped. In the cor-
ner of the ceiling there was another yellow spot. Out-
side the niggers had cut some poles and were trim-
ming them. I could hear their jabbering. From the
window I smelled the wet leaves and fish carcasses.
The sun was shining again, and the wet roof was
steaming.

The boat came in. Papa got up and held the arm
of the woman, helping her out of the boat. They
walked side by side up to the boardwalk. I did not
see any fish. They stopped a minute and said some-
thing and then went on. The screen door slammed.
I walked down the dark hall, down the steps to the
kitchen. Mama was standing over the sink, looking
at the lake. It was red along the edges now, but the
middle was blue. Papa sat at the table eating the
bologna. I sat down next to him.

Mama said, "Were the fish biting?"

"Not much."

"It must have been wet out there in the rain," she
said.

He leaned back in the chair chewing on the bo-
logna. The bone in his temple went round and round
even with his chewing. The niggers were deciding
who should cut the poles, their voices shrill and loud.

"That woman must have felt awful out there in a
boat in the rain."

"She didn't seem to mind," he said.

She turned around. Her face was red and her chin
was trembling. I could not look at it. The potatoes
in my plate were a grey color. They were soupy. The
water ran over to the bologna gravy. My feet were
flat on the floor. The floor was grainy with sand. I
put my hands to my mouth. They smelled of fish.

"I worked in that store all morning long. People
coming in all the time. Not once did I have a minute's
rest. And where were you? In a boat with that
woman. What do you think those people at the pier
were thinking?"

She was standing over him, her grey eyes staring
down at him, her hands flinging about wildly point-
ing at him, her hands on her hips, at her neck. Her
skin was red clear back into her hair; I could see the
skin through her thin hairline. He did not look at her.
He had stopped chewing his food. His arms fell on
the table, his long dirty fingers limp on the oilcloth.
She shouted again, her voice tight and shrill. Saliva
trickled from the corner of her mouth. She did not
stop shouting to swallow. He sat there under it. The
blue shirt was still open. His skin was dark and
smooth. It glistened with sweat. She stopped, and I
heard the little niggers. They were standing around
the door trying to hide and listen. They began run-
ning when they saw me after them.

I chased them all the way down the graveled road.

They kept looking back at me, their eye balls white,
their thick, wet lips open. They screamed to each
other, stepped on each other's heels trying to get
across the road to their house.

"You damned little niggers!"

They heard me shout and they ran faster, waving,
their arms about them.

When they went across the highway and through
the gate to their yard, I stopped. The running had
made me hot, I could feel my pulse beating in my
neck and my face burned. The screams of the nig-
gers were gone now. Thick umbrella trees shaded
our store and the yellow cabins far back at the end
of the graveled road. The store had a sign: "Hibert's
Fishing Camp — Drink Coca-Cola." There was only
the sound of the dry flies sounding first low and then
louder and louder as though they were going to burst.
A car went by. I started walking away from the store
and cabins up the road where the car was going.

On the side with the lake there was a corn patch,
the green corn growing from the broken black earth.
The shining of the lake came through the willows.
On the other side of the road were the houses with
the big porches and long white columns, their roofs
of a red tin and the windows black in the sunlight.

Then no more houses, only the careful rows of new
cane leaves. Not far off there was a yellow church.
To be closer to the building made the walls whiter.
It was the sunlight that had made them yellow. Its
walls were like concrete. The door was open; this was
St. Catherine's that only the niggers used now.
Benches brown and plain were crowded in. The floor
was dusty. My feet left black prints down the nar-
row aisle. Further away from the door it became
darker so the footprints disappeared. Only a little
light came through the windows. A statue of the
Madonna was on the altar. She held the Child next
to her. She leaned her head towards the Child, not
looking at Him, but at something else. The steps lead-
ing up to the altar were cold and damp like the plank
seats in the boat, the wet black boat on the water.
Papa had been there, his brown hands gently holding
the fishing poles. Then I saw her grey eyes staring
down at him. The eyes cursed him. But the grey eyes
were only the faded light of the church windows.
A room to the left of the altar was very dark. If the
priest were here he would come from that room, his
long robe trailing behind him. Our priest was a big,
tender man. His hands were fat, and they felt soft
against my hair when he blessed me. With his low
voice he repeated words from the Bible. Forgiveness
and love were two burning lamps for me to take
through the dark abyss of sin and sorrow. His voice
would go on chanting in the stillness. I must help
the poor, the sad. Like Papa — Papa sitting in the
kitchen, the dirty kitchen smelling of fish.

It was almost night. The light from the naked
bulb in the kitchen was beginning to show. The light
streamed through the back door to the porch where
(Continued on Page 20)

Editor's

XT'S UNFAIR ... in the last issue we groaned over the lack of
material. Yet somehow, we managed twenty-four pages which is
the standard amount. For this one we were happy over the fact that a
good deal of material was submitted (by non-staff members, at that!)
and when it came to making it up, we were sure that we would have a
full issue. But by some peculiarity, quirk or whatever, twenty pages is
the best we could do.

But it was fun to have a choice and to be pleased with it. Best of all
was to find an "old friend" among the contributors. It's — Caius
Marius (remember your Ancient History?) . . . You may find another
level of meaning in Joanne McLean's "Lenoir," but taken as a straight
narrative, it's still good. ... It has been said before, but it is difficult to
be funny. Mary Idol's "Spirit of the Martyr" is funny, she's a new
contributor, she's a sophomore. Whoopee! . . . We also use an Alice
Brumfield "First." Peter Taylor commented that it was one of the few
stories that he had ever read that made him actually feel the hot glare
of the sun on the water. . . . Pay especial attention to the art work. We've
made use of the graduate school on the cover, the frontispiece and the
center section. . . . We hope that everyone is aware that Arts Forum is
coming. If you're not, you ought to be! "Visiting Celebrities" is about
those who will criticize the spring issue, which is entirely given over to
all the writing accepted by the Forum.

M. U. E.

TKe FisKin^ Camp

{Continued from Pa^c IS)

Papa and I were. He was in the hammock. The ham-
mock was still, but I could tell he was there by the
outline of his body on the cloth. No one was at the
pier. The yellow-legged birds had gone to their nests
in the reeds. The frogs were just beginning to make
noises. From across the lake came boogie-woogie
music. The lake was purple, and it lay very still. Far
down along the lake it was getting dark. The trees
were begining to become black forms. The church
was down the river. It would be tomb-dark inside.

"Papa?"

He grunted.

"Guess where I went today."

The hammock swung slightly.

"Where?"

"To that old church — St. Catherine's. It's beauti-
ful inside, so cool and dark. . . . Papa, you mustn't
worry about anything, I'll ..."

"Mr. Hibert!"

It was Mama calling him from upstairs.

"Come fix my back for me."

He got up from the hammock and went through
the kitchen, up the stairs down the hall. He would
go into her room; then he would rub her back, stand-
ing behind her the way I had seen them before.

The insects kept buzzing and hitting against the
screen where the light was. Papa did not come down.
The river became darker. All the trees lost their form.
Mosquitoes started humming, so I went over to the
hammock and lay down, drawing the cover over me.
I did not want to go upstairs.

The Spirit of tke Martyr

(Con/iiiiUil front I'liy^c 14)

on Harold's head. He threw down his rock, picked
up the box, and ran.

Bobby stood before the door of his father's study,
his arm raised dramatically to knock. "If I were a
boy," he thought, "I would be afraid. But I am as
old as if I had lived a hundred years, because I have
saved lives; I have sacrificed myself nobly for others."
He closed his eyes and let nobility course through his
body. He basked again in the glorious light that had
seemed to shine all around him as he came home.
"What is the word," he thought, " that a long time
from now people will know I am?"

He saw Two-Gun Tyson stand unarmed before
Horrible Harry Hale and heard him say, "Take me
and let the town of Silver go!"

He opened his eyes, and the word drifted up to him
out of a sea of light at his feet. "Martyr!" he ex-
claimed exultantly. "That's what I am!" He knocked;
and as he entered the room he fancied that he was not
alone — on his left side stood Nathan Hale, and on
his right was Stephen of old.

Pase 20

Blackmur of Princeton

(Continued from Page 10)

mind, a capacity for painstaking investigation which
is essential for contemporary criticism," which sums
up his manner of work, at least. He uses patient
methods of procedure, tracing sources of vocabularies,
meanings, usages, and emerges with an exegesis of
poems and a theory of their art. Of course, every
critic may be said to put in the same type of ener-
getic procedure, but not to the very thorough and
complete extent that Blackmur does.

His approach to his critical work is an interesting
one. He maintains that he may make any demands
on the reader, can expect him to have a mind trained
for poetry. Blackmur wants to lead the reader right
into the work, and thus writes and quotes fragments
to turn the reader to the details of the poem. The
function of his work, he says, is "to promote intimacy
with particulars, and to judge the standard of achieve-
ment, that is, to analyze and to evaluate."

Blackmur 's own metaphor for criticism is that of
the magician's trick of sawing a woman in half. After
the show, we see her in one piece and jumping out
of the box; so it is with criticism which does not
really cut literature, merely sections and points out
particulars, and it is necessary to see it as a whole
before the job is accomplished with any benefit to
the reader.

Blackmur has behind him an admirable literary
career. He was associated with Lionel Kirstein in
editing Hound and Horn, a periodical largely staffed
by graduates from Harvard. He served in the same
position on the Kcnyoii Review for awhile, and in
1940 joined with Allen Tate to assist him in estab-
lishing the Creative English course at Princeton. He
has published no complete books of criticism, but
several collections including The Double Agent con-
taining criticisms of the work of twelve artists, and
The Expense of Greatness which is a collection of
criticisms of thirteen 20th century poets. He has
written a revealing introduction to the Henry James
book. The Art of the Novel, an explanatory essay,
"A Critic's Job of Work," these among many such
articles collected in volumes or published in literary
magazines. He has written three volumes of verse,
From Jordan's Delight, The Second World, and The
Good European.

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