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lAfAWATil^l 


Vol.7 


OCTOBER,  1937 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

ON  BEING  AN  INDEPENDENT 1 

Anonymous 

LETTER  TO  A  SORORITY  WOMAN 3 

Anonymous 

WHY  I  CAME  TO  COLLEGE 4 

Ethel  Donnelly 

RELAX  AND  RUN 5 

Robert  Ingalls 

HANG  UP  THE  FIDDLE  AND  THE  BOW      ...       6 
Allen  Piatt 

FLIES  IN  A  WEB 9 

Anne  M.  Worland 
THE  SKETCH  BOOK 10 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

WEDGWOOD  CHINA 12 

Bernadine  Pendergrast 

THE  ZO  LAB 15 

Dorothy  Pilkington 

BEING  INTELLIGENT  ABOUT  MOTION 

PICTURES 16 

William  H.  Hutchinson 

THAT  DREAD  DISEASE:     HOMESICKNESS       .      .      17 
Frank  Brown 

WISE  GUY! 19 

William  Faris 

HAS  MY  HOME  TOWN  CHANGED? 20 

Anonymous 

THE  LAST  FOOTBALL  GAME 21 

David  Murray 

WHAT'S  IN  A  TITLE? 23 

MY  TRAVELS 24 

Mary  Alice  Burgett 

ALONG  THE  TRAIL  TO  TIN  CUP 25 

R.  J.  Leimbacher 

ON  MADAME'S  HAT  AND  OTHER  ABSURDITIES     27 
Lorraine  Groupe 

TROUT  FISHING 29 

Kenneth  Busch 

RHET.  AS  WRIT 32 

PUBLISHED  BY  THE  RHETORIC  STAFF,  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS,  URBANA 


JL  HE  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staff  of  the  University  of  IlHnois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
published  anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  however, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  the  Green 
Caldron  includes  Dr.  Robert  Blair,  Mr.  Lee  Hughes, 
Mr.  C.  W.  Roberts,  Mr.  C.  H.  Shattuck,  Dr.  Caroline 
Washburn,  and  Dr.  R.  E.  Haswell,  chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building  West,  Urbana,  Illinois. 
The  price  is  fifteen  cents  a  copy. 


6l» 


c 

I  J 


On  Being  An  Independent 

Anonymous 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  18,  1936-1937 


"O  EING  an  independent  in  a  university 
*^  whose  women  students  are  divided 
into  two  factions,  independent  and  soror- 
ity members,  is  somewhat  of  a  problem. 
Among  the  independents  who  could  af- 
ford to  join  a  sorority  some  enjoy  their 
status;  others  are  frankly  envious  of 
their  more  favored  sorority  schoolmates. 
Whatever  their  feeling,  the  independent 
women  cannot  help  recognizing  the  fact 
that  there  is  a  distinct  difference  between 
the  lives  of  the  members  of  the  two 
groups. 

Entering  the  University  as  a  fresh- 
man, a  girl  whose  experiences  illustrate 
this  point  attends  rushing  parties  at  sev- 
eral sororities.  Although  she  has  usually 
made  friends  easily  enough  before,  she 
feels  rather  strange  at  these  affairs.  The 
forced  animation  and  tenseness  produced 
when  rushees  and  rushers  are  each  striv- 
ing to  make  a  good  impression  upon  the 
other  seems  to  engulf  her,  and  she  senses 
that  she  is  not  being  herself,  but  rather 
is  presenting  a  caricature  of  her  real  per- 
sonality. Throughout  rush  week,  this 
strange  feeling  persists,  so  that  on  the 
day  when  pledgings  are  announced  she 
is  not  particularly  surprised  to  find  that 
she  has  not  been  pledged.  No  great 
heartbreak  accompanies  this  discovery, 
only  a  slight  disillusionment  at  the  way 
in  which  college  life  has  begun. 

Now  her  life  as  an  independent  really 
starts.  Her  first  difficulty  is  finding  a 
room,  as  all  the  most  desirable  living 
quarters  are,  by  this  time,  taken.  After 
searching  frantically  all  of  one  morning 
and  having  the  panicky  fear  that  she 
might  not  have  a  place  to  sleep  that  night. 


she  finally  discovers  a  room  in  a  house 
not  far  from  the  campus.  The  location, 
she  soon  finds,  is  one  of  the  few  good 
points  about  the  house.  Her  room  is 
tiny,  over-priced,  and  not  too  well  fur- 
nished. Her  roommate,  a  stranger,  shows 
herself  to  be  interested  in  one  thing  only 
— boys.  Her  landlady,  though  she  is  a 
harmless,  well-meaning  woman,  grows 
more  and  more  distasteful  as  she  dis- 
plays daily  her  lack  of  intelligence  and 
refinement.  Altogether,  the  independent 
appears  to  have  begun  her  college  life 
very  badly. 

In  spite  of  these  faults  in  her  room- 
ing-house, however,  the  student  finds 
other  girls  there  who  share  her  interests 
and  prove  to  be  good  friends.  They  are 
juniors  and  seniors,  for  the  most  part, 
and  have  outgrown  the  childishness 
which  her  roommate  and  some  of  the 
other  freshmen  in  the  house  display.  The 
independent  and  her  new  friends  eat  all 
their  meals  at  a  nearby  campus  restau- 
rant, and  she  begins  to  enjoy  her  meals 
there,  although  she  had  first  feared  that 
she  would  tire  of  them.  The  group  of 
girls  get  a  great  deal  of  amusement  out 
of  watching  others  who  eat  there,  getting 
acquainted  with  some  of  them,  knowing 
the  waiters  by  name,  and  getting  little 
bits  of  special  service  because  they  are 
regular  customers. 

Activities,  the  freshman  finds,  are  her 
best  substitutes  for  the  advantages  of 
sorority  life.  They  give  her  the  oppor- 
tunity to  make  many  friends  and  to  do 
something  both  interesting  and  useful  in 
addition  to  attending  classes.  Although 
she    feels   there    is    a    slight    favoritism 


[  1  ] 


I  I  77269 


toward  sorority  women  in  some  of  these 
activities,  they  are,  on  the  whole,  handled 
impartially.  Gradually  the  difference  be- 
tween herself  and  the  others  bothers  her 
less  and  less,  and  finally  it  is  not  espe- 
cially important  any  more.  In  the  activi- 
ties she  has  chosen  she  is  liked  for  herself 
and  her  work  alone,  not  because  of  her 
connection  with  any  group.  As  she  loses 
her  early  natural  resentment  toward 
sororities,  the  independent  is  able  to  see 
more  clearly  the  bad  as  well  as  the  good 
features  of  sorority  life.  She  is  glad  that 
she  is  not  restricted  almost  entirely  to 
one  group  for  her  friendships,  that  she 
does  not  have  to  spend  all  her  spare  time 
in  the  library  as  her  pledge  friends  do, 
that  she  can  have  dates  when  and  with 
whom  she  likes,  that  she  does  not  have  to 
keep  regular  hours  for  eating  and  sleep- 


ing, that  she  does  not  have  duties  to  per- 
form for  upperclassmen,  and  that  she 
can  be  herself  and  not  have  to  conform 
to  a  sorority  pattern. 

She  realizes,  however,  that  sororities 
are  really  valuable  in  numerous  ways. 
They  provide  backing  in  activities  for 
their  members,  give  them  many  chances 
for  social  contacts,  enrich  their  lives  with 
pleasant  home  surroundings,  and  add  to 
their  prestige  in  college  and,  later,  in  the 
world.  The  independent  has  opportuni- 
ties to  join  two  small  sororities,  but  does 
not  think  their  ratings  or  standards  are 
high  enough  and,  consequently,  prefers 
to  keep  her  freedom.  She  has  decided 
that  she  will  pledge  only  if  she  is  asked 
by  a  house  of  good  standing,  because  she 
has  found  that  life  can  be  just  as  full 
outside  as  inside  a  sorority. 


Family  Life 

1887 

In  the  evening  the  mother  of  the  family  usually  sat  in  a  rocking  chair  close  to  an 
old  oil  lamp  and  knitted  socks,  crocheted  bed-spreads,  or  thought  of  delicious  recipes 
for  the  family  to  sample.  At  this  time  the  children  amused  themselves  with  games 
such  as  checkers  and  dominoes.  The  evening  games  were  often  stopped  in  favor  of 
popping  popcorn  in  the  fireplace  for  the  purpose  of  eating  it  with  delicious  apples, 
which  for  some  reason  always  seemed  to  be  plentiful  in  the  eighteen-hundreds.  The 
father  of  the  home  was  usually  a  very  reserved  person.  He  usually  tried  to  read  the 
weekly  paper,  or  talked  shop  with  his  wife  as  she  worked  by  the  lamp.  His  attitude 
toward  these  evenings  and  his  family  was  one  filled  with  pride  and  contentment.  He 
was  well  satisfied  with  what  he  possessed. 

1937 

The  family  in  1937  almost  doesn't  exist.  The  women  have  been  set  free  from  their 
homes  and  have  been  shamed  into  working  in  a  business  world  that  does  not  want 
them.  They  have  become  part-time  file  clerks,  stenographers,  or  clerks  in  department 
stores  ....  Children  are  not  wanted  today.  They  are  too  much  bother.  They  keep 
parents  home  days  and  up  nights  ....  If  the  situation  does  arise  where  children  are 
unavoidable,  the  modern  couples  soon  call  in  Grandmother,  who  was  trained  in  the 
care  of  babies  when  babies  meant  something.  It  is  a  fine  thing  we  do  have  grand- 
mothers or  all  our  babies  might  die  from  neglect  ....  The  man  of  today  leads  a  mis- 
erable life  ...  .  His  evenings,  instead  of  being  restful,  are  nightmares  that  leave  him 
with  headaches  to  be  taken  to  work  and  suffered.  His  house  is  a  place  where  he  must 
be  awfully  careful  not  to  disfigure  the  lovely  rooms  and  the  beautiful  furniture. 

— Milton  Dawson 


[2] 


Letter  to  a  Sorority  Woman 

Anonymous 


Rhetoric  II  Proficiency 


D 


EAR  B- 


This  will  evidently  come  as  a  sur- 
prise to  you,  because  you  have  never 
heard  from  me  before.  If  you  glance  at 
my  signature,  you  will  recognize  it  I  am 
sure,  for  you  are  the  girl  to  whom  I  have 
been  introduced  at  least  sixteen  times. 
The  first  occasion,  I  believe,  was  at  your 
sorority's  open  house.  You  came  up  to 
me,  asked  my  name,  and  gave  yours. 
We  then  proceeded  to  chat  for  fifteen 
minutes — or  shall  I  say  you  chatted  and 


Examination,  1937-1928 

followed  with  a  little  tidbit  about  the 
effective  style  in  which  I  wore  my  hair. 
You  told  me,  I  remember,  that  I  looked 
like  Janet  Gaynor — only  I  was  dark  com- 
plexioned.  You  expressed  regret  at  not 
having    met    me    before    and    cordially 

invited   me   to    dinner   at   the   A 

M E house,  which  invita- 
tion I  gracefully  rejected. 

I  could  list  each  one  of  those  six- 
teen introductions,  with  time,  place,  and 
allusion  to  a  movie  star,  but  I'm  afraid 


I  listened?  I  heard  all  about  the  merits 
of  your  sorority  and  a  few  choice, 
muddy  comments  on  others.  We  were 
the  best  of  friends.  You  thought  I 
looked  like  Merle  Oberon,  and  I  was 
highly    flattered    to    think    that    you,    a 

junior    and    an    A M E , 

would  pay  so  much  attention  to  me,  an 
insignificant  rushee.  We  parted  amidst 
fond  farewells  and  promises  to  "look 
you  up." 

The  second  time  I  saw  you  I  was  still 
unorganized  and  still  eligible.  We  met  at 
a  fraternity  dance,  in  front  of  a  mirror. 
A  girl  I  had  just  met  introduced  us 
again,  and  your  opening  remark  was  a 
compliment    on    my    dress,    which    you 


my  patience  would  wear  out.  Before  I 
close,  however,  let  me  ask  you  one  ques- 
tion— just  who  do  you  think  you  are? 
Are  you  laboring  under  the  delusion  that 
the  fifteen  dollar  pin  you  wear  over  your 
heart  can  make  up  for  the  million  dol- 
lars' worth  of  pain  you  have  inflicted 
on  me  and  on  others  of  my  ilk?  You 
are  undoubtedly  the  most  grossly  ignor- 
ant creature  I  have  ever  had  the  mis- 
fortune of  encountering,  and  on  the  next 
occasion  we  chance  to  be  introduced  to 
each  other,  I  shall  flash  before  your  eyes 

the  insignia  of  G G D . 

Revengefully, 


[3  ] 


Why  I  Came  to  College 

Ethel  Donnelly 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  10,  1936-1937 


COLLEGE  is  an  intriguing  word. 
When  I  was  a  child  it  had  a  vague 
meaning — a  green  campus,  gay  with  Hfe 
and  laughter,  or  silent  in  the  first  hush 
of  early  evening,  with  the  cloistered 
buildings  painted  stark  and  beautiful  on 
the  pale  horizon.  But  today  when  I  think 
of  college,  I  think  of  things  that  are 
abstract  and  indefinable:  culture,  inde- 
pendence, tolerance,  and  understanding. 

The  world  in  which  I  live  is  very 
small,  bounded  on  all  sides  by  my  meagre 
knowledge,  my  ignorance  and  my  pov- 
erty of  thought.  I  can  admire  a  great 
book  or  a  painting,  but  the  philosophy 
and  true  significance  of  an  artist's  work 
elude  my  feeble  grasp.  A  black  shadow 
seems  to  enshroud  my  mind,  and  in  the 
faint  light  of  m.y  learning  I  can  only 
glimpse  the  beauty  of  truth  and  under- 
standing. The  sharp  clearness  of  culture 
would  end  this  miserable  groping,  and 
culture  can  only  be  found  in  books  and 
in  the  teachings  of  wise  men. 

I  want  to  be  self-reliant,  to  know  that 
the  food  which  I  eat  and  the  house  in 
which  I  live  are  mine,  earned  by  my  own 
toil.  The  degree  that  I  receive  upon 
graduation  should  not  be  just  an  empty 
title ;  it  should  be  the  key  to  the  gate  of 
my   chosen  profession.    I  should   stand 


upon  the  threshold  of  adult  life  assured, 
confident  of  success,  secure  in  my  pre- 
paredness for  my  chosen  field.  But  col- 
lege teaches  more  than  material,  busi- 
ness-world independence;  it  demands  an 
independence  of  thought  and  action  that 
were  not  needed  in  childhood  and  early 
youth. 

But  most  important  to  me,  I  shall 
learn  a  measure  of  tolerance  and  under- 
standing. If  youth  can  be  tolerant,  it 
will  be  the  victor.  I  shall  read  in  history 
of  other  peoples,  their  manner  of  life, 
their  philosophy,  and  perhaps  in  ques- 
tions of  international  hate  and  jealousy 
I  shall  understand  their  viewpoint  and  be 
more  in  sympathy  with  their  ideals.  I 
want  to  be  more  tolerant  of  the  opinions 
of  my  friends,  to  master  my  sudden 
flashes  of  anger  and  to  understand  that 
I  am  not  always  right  and  they  always 
wrong. 

Culture,  independence,  tolerance,  and 
understanding — they  are  not  tangible, 
like  the  trees  that  shade  the  wide  campus, 
or  the  rough  stone  of  the  cloistered 
buildings,  but  they  are  the  essence  of  a 
college,  the  foundation  on  which  it  is 
built.  I  came  to  college  to  study  the 
different  cultures,  to  learn  independence 
and  appreciate  tolerance. 


Successful  Interview 

Reporters  on  a  paper  come  in  contact  with  notorious  people  ranging  from  scien- 
tists, society  leaders,  and  reformers  to  gangsters,  movie  actresses,  and  maniacs.  There 
is  no  twaddling  about  waiting  for  introductions  or  standing  on  sidewalks  yearning 
for  glimpses.  The  reporter  walks  boldly  in  and  asks  the  notorious  one  all  sorts  of 
personal  questions,  and  within  fifteen  minutes  he  has  a  more  accurate  account  of  that 
person's  thoughts,  ideals,  references,  ambitions,  and  past  history  than  an  ordinary 
individual  could  gather  in  six  months. — Peggy  Laughun 


[4] 


Relax  and  Run 


Robert  Ingalls 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  9,  1936-1937 


XTOTHING  is  more  pleasing  to  the 
^  ^  critical  athletic  eye  than  to  watch  a 
sprinter  click  over  the  yards  of  a 
straightaway  with  the  action  of  an  ex- 
press train.  His  knees  are  pumping  like 
pistons,  and  his  feet  seem  barely  to  touch 
the  ground.  There  is  a  natural  lean  in 
the  upper  part  of  his  body,  and  his  head 
is  dropped  slightly  forward.  This  ath- 
lete appears,  with  ease,  to  be  pulling  with 
the  utmost  of  his  power. 

Many  newspaper  pictures  of  the  finish 
of  a  race  show  a  sprinter  exerting  all 
of  his  remaining  energy  in  a  last  frantic 
jump  across  the  line.  His  face  is  dis- 
torted by  an  expression  which  shows  the 
strain  to  which  he  is  unnecessarily  taxing 
his  muscles.  The  tendons  leading  from 
the  neck  to  the  shoulders  are  standing 
out,  and  in  all  probability  the  muscles  of 
the  shoulders  are  hunched  with  tension. 
There  are  other  forms  of  incorrect  run- 
ning, but  this  is  by  far  the  most  common. 

What  is  the  remedy  for  this  ?  There  is 
only  one  answer — relaxation.  A  sprinter's 
legs  should  do  the  work,  not  his  arms  or 
his  head.  Jesse  Owens,  Olympic  cham- 
pion, presents  an  example  of  perfect 
running.  Not  a  ripple  nor  a  sign  of 
tension  may  be  seen  in  the  muscles  from 
his  hips  to  his  head,  but  his  legs  are 
pumping  straight  up  and  down,  and  his 
feet  are  reaching  for  more  and  more 
ground. 

A  machine  that  roars,  clatters,  and 
bangs  attracts  attention  and  inspires  awe 
at  the  energy  which  it  is  expending,  but 
it  does  not  get  the  best  results.  Good 
results  come  from  the  machine  that  con- 


trols its  power  and  quietly  darts  along. 
The  farther  it  goes,  the  more  speed  it 
picks  up.  So  it  is  with  a  sprinter.  One 
might  speak  of  Jesse  Owens  as  a  Zephyr 
that  quietly  shoots  out  ahead  of  all  com- 
petition. Pity  the  poor  sprinter  who,  like 
the  engine  that  roars,  clatters,  bangs,  and 
sways,  fights  his  way  along  the  track ! 

As  there  is  a  correct  way  of  running 
a  dash,  so  there  is  a  correct  way  of 
watching  it.  A  dash  is  much  too  short 
to  watch  just  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
somebody  win.  A  suitable  place  from 
which  to  view  a  dash  is  at  either  end, 
preferably  the  finish,  or  about  three- 
fourths  the  distance  down  the  straight- 
away. Keep  your  eye  on  a  favorite  run- 
ner, and  watch  him  from  start  to  finish. 
Notice  how  he  shoots  out  of  his  blocks. 
He  is  not  lunging  like  a  tiger.  Rather, 
his  legs  are  moving  like  trip  hammers, 
and  his  steps  are  short  and  choppy.  As 
he  gains  speed,  and  his  stride  lengthens, 
his  trunk  will  gradually  rise  from  that 
crouched  starting  position  to  a  natural 
lean.  As  he  passes  the  three-quarter 
mark,  one  may  see  that  the  distance 
between  him  and  the  rest  of  the  field  is 
slowly  lengthening.  Here,  the  momentum 
of  his  drive  is  becoming  effective.  As  he 
breaks  through  the  finish  tape,  he  may 
lift  his  arms  slightly,  but  those  legs  keep 
driving  until  he  is  well  past  the  finish 
line. 

If  you  are  one  who  does  not  enjoy 
or  cannot  understand  such  an  athletic 
accomplishment,  even  at  its  best,  at  least 
appreciate  the  smoothness  of  coordina- 
tion and  relaxation. 


[  5] 


Hang  Up  the  Fiddle  and  the  Bow 


Allen  Platt 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  6,  1936-1937 


SOMETIMES  when  the  trombones 
blare,  and  the  trumpets  blast,  and  the 
bass  drum  beats  on  endlessly  like  a  drum- 
mer bird  on  his  favorite  hollow  log,  I  am 
troubled  for  an  explanation  of  the  origin 
of  bands,  both  military  and  "symphonic." 
After  the  din  has  subsided  and  the  blow- 
artists  have  gone  home,  I  can  imagine 
some  such  scene  as  this: 

Place:  The  court  of  August,  Prince 
of  Nordbayren 

Time:  About  1820 

[Enter  the  harrassed  Kapellmeister, 
Alfons] 

Alf.   "Your  Highness — " 

Aug.  "Yes,  Alfons?"  [He  lays  down 
his  pen  and  glowers  at  poor  Alfons] 

Alf.  "Your  Highness,  my  men,  the 
musicians,  are  complaining." 

Aug.  "Indeed,  Alfons!  And  of  what 
do  they  complain?" 

Alf.  "They  refuse  to  play  for  Your 
Highness'  review  on  the  morrow.  When 
I  told  them  it  was  your  wish  that  they 
march  with  the  soldiers,  why,  my  string 
players — Your  Highness,  I  tremble, — all 
of  them  declared  they  would  not." 

Aug.  [Resuming  his  affairs].  "Alfons, 
why  must  you  bother  me  with  trifles? 
Compel  them,  and  let  there  be  an  end." 

Alf.  "But,  Your  Highness,  the  Grand 
Duke  Dittlesdorf  is  forming  an  orches- 
tra. Dare  I  threaten  them?  They  could 
go  to  him." 

Aug.  "Um — Alfons,  perhaps  you  are 
right — this  once.  These  musicians! 
Every  year  they  grow  more  irresponsible 
— it  is  disgraceful! — Alfons,  did  you 
say  all  the  orchestra  refused?" 

Alf.   "All  but  the  players  of  blown  in- 


struments. Your  Highness.  They  are  not 
greatly  hindered  by  walking  as  they  play 
— a  thing,  Your  Highness,  impossible  for 
my  string  players.  And  then,  too,  they 
have  not  so  much  conscience  in  the  mat- 
ter. I  think  sometimes  they  enjoy  march- 
ing, because  there  they  may  blow  more 
loudly." 

Aug.  "Good,  good.  Alfons,  you  shall 
have  only  the  wind  players  march.  That, 
I  think,  will  solve  everything." 

Alf.  "But — but,  Your  Highness,  no 
violins?  no  'cellos?  Oh,  no,  Your  High- 
ness !  I  could  do  without  the  wind  in- 
struments, but  not  my  strings.  They  are 
the  soul  of  the  orchestra !  They — " 

Aug.  "Silence,  Alfons!  You  have 
heard  my  order.  Himmel !  If  violins  are 
the  soul  of  your  orchestra,  we  will  have 
music  without  a  soul." 

Alf.  "Music,  Your  Highness — with- 
out a  soul  ?" 

Aug.  "You  have  heard  me,  Alfons? 
Schnell !  Prepare  your  men." 

Alf.  "Yes,  Your  Highness."  [Exit 
slowly,  bewildered  but  convinced.] 

This  may  explain  how  bands  started. 
I  do  not  know  how  they  have  survived. 

You  must  not  think  that  I  criticize 
bands  when  they  are  in  their  proper 
place.  They  add  life  and  energy  to  many 
occasions.  At  athletic  games  when  the 
crowd  cheers,  and  we  are  in  the  most 
boisterous  spirits,  a  stirring  march  cer- 
tainly adds  to  the  excitement.  Parades 
and  political  conventions  are  nothing 
without  bands.  Bands  have  become 
linked  in  our  minds  with  patriotism  and 
more    particularly    with    that    type    of 


[6] 


patriotism  abroad  in  time  of  war.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know  how  many 
of  the  soldiers  that  went  to  France  owed 
the  final  bit  of  persuasion  that  resulted 
in  enlistment  to  the  music  of  parading 
bands.  I  can  not  deny  they  have  a  place 
in  the  scheme  of  things,  but  the  idea, 
held  particularly  by  school  systems,  that 
bands  constitute  the  highest  in  musical 
art  and  the  proper  source  for  a  student's 
musical  education  seems  to  me  gross 
error. 

Perhaps  the  most  damaging  evidence 
against  bands  as  individual  musical 
groups  is  their  constant  striving  to  be 


are  at  least  trying  to  raise  their  stand- 
ards. But  why  do  they  continue  to  be 
bands  if  they  have  higher  ideals?  If  a 
symphonic  band  is  better  than  a  brass 
band,  is  not  an  orchestra  better  than 
either?  Yet  schools  continue  to  labor 
over  their  bands  while  their  orchestras 
struggle  along  carelessly  managed  and 
poorly  equipped. 

There  is  one  quarter,  however,  where 
a  band  will  not  modify  its  organization 
to  imitate  an  orchestra.  The  percussion 
section — the  so-called  battery — must  be 
large  and  mighty.  Without  these  instru- 
ments   of    rhythmic    noise   the   marches 


what  they  are  not.  For  their  standard 
of  excellence  they  choose  the  orchestra, 
and  they  try  in  their  playing  to  approxi- 
mate as  nearly  as  possible  the  tone  qual- 
ity and  coloring  of  an  orchestra.  When 
I  used  to  play  in  a  band,  our  conductor 
often  admonished  us  to  play  with  a 
smoother  and  finer  tone  in  order  to  make 
the  whole  sound  more  like  that  of  an 
orchestra.  To  this  end  he  was  making  a 
constant  effort  to  find  more  clarinet 
players.  After  stringed  instruments  the 
clarinet  has  the  largest  range  of  tone  and 
expression,  and  the  addition  of  this  in- 
strument, our  leader  thought,  would 
drown  out  some  of  the  less  agreeable 
noises. 

The  fact  that  bands  strive  to  be  like 
orchestras  shows,  to  be  sure,  that  they 


which  a  band  delights  to  play  would  lose 
much  of  their  characteristic  vigour.  Band 
leaders  esteem  the  clash  of  cymbals  so 
highly  that  they  either  deputize  a  special 
player  to  the  office  or  provide  the  bass- 
drummer  with  a  cymbal  fixed  upon  his 
drum  which  he  can  beat  with  his  left 
hand  while  he  drums  with  his  right. 
During  the  playing  of  marches  particu- 
larly you  can  see  an  experienced  drum- 
mer beating  his  drum  with  his  right  hand 
and  on  every  other  beat,  or  at  even  more 
complicated  intervals,  smiting  the  cym- 
bal with  his  left.  A  drum  with  all  its 
modern  improvements  is  a  formidable 
instrument ! 

In  contrast  to  this  monotonous  use  of 
cymbals  consider  for  a  moment  what  I 
believe  to  be  a  highly  artistic  use.    The 


[  7] 


familiar  overture  to  Wagner's  opera, 
Die  Meister singer,  begins  with  a  broad 
theme  that  is  used  later  in  the  work  as 
a  march.  This  march,  however,  has  not 
the  earmarks  of  a  band  march:  there  is 
no  bass  drumming,  no  cymbal  clashing, 
but  rather  the  full,  large  tone  of  the 
orchestra.  The  music  changes  character 
many  times,  and  then  begins  to  build  to 
the  final  climax.  There  have  as  yet  been 
no  cymbals,  but  on  the  culminating  chord 
of  the  climax,  at  the  very  peak  of  excite- 
ment, there  is  one  loud  cymbal  crash, 
striking  out  an  unforgettable  note  of 
finality.  Wagner  has  saved  the  cymbal 
through  most  of  the  overture  for  the  one 
place  where  its  use  would  be  significant 
and  artistic. 

There  is  little  if  any  of  this  kind  of 
music  in  the  literature  of  bands,  because 
hardly  a  composer  of  importance  has 
written  music  for  bands.  Verdi,  who  as 
a  young  man  composed  some  things  for 
the  municipal  band  of  his  native  village, 
is  the  only  one  I  recall.  Could  we 
imagine  a  Debussy  or  a  Delius  inventing 
delicate  strains,  or  a  Beethoven  or  a 
Brahms  creating  deathless  symphonies 
for  a  band?  Most  composers  would  not 
confine  themselves  to  an  instrumental 
combination  of  so  few  and  such  inferior 


effects.  Consequently,  for  their  best 
music  bands  must  look  to  rearrangements 
of  orchestral  scores.  This  arranging  is 
ruinous  to  the  composer's  original  con- 
ception and  kills  any  subtle  effects  it 
might  have  had.  Even  bandsmen  must 
realize  this,  but  with  band  scores  in  their 
present  state,  they  are  helpless. 

Someone  might  advance  the  argument 
that  students  prefer  bands.  Perhaps 
many  of  them  do.  Hearing  little  else  but 
bands,  they  have  not  a  fair  chance  of 
deciding  what  they  prefer.  In  other 
phases  of  study  the  school  program  pro- 
vides that  they  shall  have  good  to  com- 
pare with  bad  whether  they  like  it  or 
not.  Schools  saw  to  it  that  most  of  us 
were  reading  Shakespeare  before  we 
actually  preferred  Shakespeare,  and  I 
hardly  think  the  argument  that  we  pre- 
ferred dime  novels  would  have  impressed 
our  teachers. 

Yet  band  music,  bearing  much  the 
same  relation  to  orchestral  music  as  wild 
west  stories  to  the  Elizabethan  drama, 
does  influence  school  officials.  They  are 
so  influenced  that  they  encourage  clang- 
orous, jarring,  sourish  musical  absurd- 
ities to  represent  their  schools  and  train 
their  students — to  the  discredit  of  Ameri- 
can good  taste. 


Street  Scenes 

Two  men  sitting  on  high  stools  behind  their  lavish  display  counter  on  the  side- 
walk wrangle  with  each  other.  One,  insisting  that  the  depression  is  over,  at  the  same 
time  weighs  a  pound  of  prunes  for  a  litde  girl  who  is  waiting.  The  other,  his  mouth 
jammed  with  grapes,  splutters  and  chokes,  heartily  disagreeing. — Harry  Goldfarb 

•  •  •  • 

Toward  the  end  of  the  street,  standing  within  a  circle  of  squatting  listeners,  an 
old  man,  his  face  lighted  by  a  smoky  lamp,  relates  the  tale  of  Passover:  how  in  the 
remote  long  ago,  Moses  led  his  people  from  the  Egyptian  chains  of  slavery  into  the 
land  of  Palestine,  wherein  milk  and  honey  flowed  as  abundantly  as  water.  He  makes 
gestures,  which  his  shadow  repeats  with  absurd  exaggeration,  and  the  audience  utters 
cries  of  admiration. — Leonard  Cohen 


[8] 


Flies  in  a  Web 


Anne  M.  Worland 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  9,  1936-1927 


JACOB  WASSERMAN'S  World's 
Illusion  started  me  thinking  about 
many  things.  All  the  characters  (and 
the  author  included  many  in  his  novel) 
are  wrapped  up  in  little  -worlds  of  their 
own,  seeking  to  understand  themselves 
and  derive  happiness  from  life.  Un- 
fortunately, none  of  them  succeed,  and, 
in  the  end,  those  that  haven't  been  mur- 
dered, or  committed  suicide,  or  died 
some  other  horrible  death  are  existing 
in  an  atmosphere  of  loneliness  and 
futility. 

The  book  was  originally  published  in 
Europe  under  the  title  of  Christian 
Wahnsehoffe.  Christian  is  a  young  man 
of  high  social  standing.  He  has  an  un- 
conscious charm  that  causes  all  people  to 
love  him.  I  will  say  that  Christian  does 
achieve  some  ultimate  satisfaction  from 
life.  But  at  what  a  cost!  He,  who,  in 
his  youth,  paled  at  the  thought  of  suffer- 
ing, hated  to  think  of  the  past,  and 
shunned  all  people  or  places  that  re- 
minded him  of  unpleasant  incidents, 
gives  up  his  fabulous  wealth,  his  home, 
his  wonderful  collection  of  art,  his  rac- 
ing stable,  and  his  position  in  society  to 
devote  himself  to  the  people  in  the  worst 
slums  of  Berlin.  He  sacrifices  himself 
completely   for   the   sake   of   humanity. 

Each  character  in  the  book  has  a  com- 
pletely distinct  personality.  The  author 
deals  mostly  with  the  mental  aspects  of 
each  person.  One  finds  oneself  strug- 
gling, as  the  characters  are  struggling,  to 
analyze  one's  own  intellect.  It's  like 
battering  one's  head  on  a  stone  wall. 

Class  conflict  plays  some  part  in  the 
novel.  Most  of  the  people  are  either  very 


rich  and  striving  to  obtain  the  stars  out 
of  reach  or  very  poor  and  deriving  what 
sordid  pleasures  they  can  among  the 
lowest  types  of  humanity.  The  women 
are  either  the  worst  prostitutes  on  the 
streets  or  the  most  poised  and  beautiful 
among  the  nobility.  The  men  vary  just 
as  much. 

The  book  is  divided  into  two  volumes: 
Eva  and  Ruth.  Eva,  one  of  Christian's 
mistresses,  is  a  dancer.  She  is  extremely 
beautiful ;  every  motion  of  her  well- 
trained  body  is  perfect.  Men  grovel  at 
her  feet.  She  is  the  toast  of  Europe. 
One  admires  her  beauty  but  dislikes  her 
for  her  ambitions.  She  enthralls  the 
political  leaders  of  many  countries  and 
thus  holds  the  fate  of  nations  in  her 
hands.  Her  perfect  body  is  crushed  to 
bits  on  the  stones  when  she  leaps  to  her 
death  from  the  highest  tower  of  the 
magnificent  castle  she  has  built. 

Ruth  Hofman,  a  little  Jewish  girl,  is 
the  only  really  lovable  character  in  the 
whole  eight-hundred  pages.  She  has 
been  born  and  reared  in  poverty.  All 
those  whom  she  has  held  most  dear  have 
been  separated  from  her.  She,  however, 
remains  happy  and  pure,  doing  all  she 
can  to  help  the  derelicts  about  her.  I 
really  grew  very  fond  of  her  and  was 
tempted  to  throw  the  book  aside  when 
she  was  brutally  murdered  by  a  sex 
maniac. 

At  the  end,  as  well  as  at  the  beginning, 
one  finds  a  group  of  people,  widely  dif- 
ferent in  hopes  and  beliefs,  thrown  to- 
gether in  an  impossible  entanglement  of 
human  lives.  It  is  like  flies  caught  in  a 
spider  web. 


[  9] 


The  Sketch  Book 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

A  Flight  Above  the  Clouds 

It  was  a  dull,  gloomy,  overcast  day  down  below,  and  the  roar  of  the  engine  as  I 
climbed  toward  the  gray  ceiling  sounded  sullen  and  fretful,  as  though  it  were  matching 
the  mood  of  the  elements. 

Soon  I  was  approaching  the  lower  portions  of  the  clouds,  with  small  fragments 
scooting  past,  for  all  the  world  like  frightened  teal  at  the  blast  of  the  hunter's  gun, 
and  a  little  higher  came  what  seemed  like  thin  clouds  of  smoke  or  haze  through  which 
the  distant  earth  showed  dim  and  ghost-like.  Another  moment  and  I  was  swallowed 
completely  in  a  dark,  gray,  clinging  mass  with  nothing  but  the  dancing  needles  on  the 
instrument  dials  to  guide  me  and  tell  me  whether  I  was  right-side-up  or  up-side- 
down;  no  earth,  no  sky,  no  horizon — nothing  but  a  thick,  cold,  clammy  mass  that 
seemed  to  have  no  ending.  From  somewhere  out  of  the  vast  grayness  beyond  my 
vision  came  the  muffled  "whroom-whroom"  of  the  engine,  and  a  warm  glow  of  satis- 
faction and  security  stole  over  me  as  I  realized  that  my  faithful  old  Lycoming  was 
still  with  me. — Glenn  L.  Brown 

Red-headed  Virtue 

Other  women  look  askance  and  hiss  things  about  "hussy"  whenever  a  redhead 
passes  by.  It  is  absolutely  illogical  to  assume  that  red  hair  is  a  clear  indication  of 
immorality;  therefore.  I  conclude  that  the  charge  is  merely  a  defense  for  the  less 
charming  blondes  and  brunettes  who  cannot  hold  their  men.  Beauty  is  not  the  red- 
heads' chief  means  of  fascination,  for  freckles  and  pale  eyelashes  are  far  from  allur- 
ing, but  the  noble  calibre  of  the  redheads'  long-suffering  soul  instinctively  attracts  the 
opposite  sex.  Thus  it  is  in  reality  not  a  fault,  but  rather  a  tribute  to  their  virtue  that 
redheads  have  established  the  reputation  of  being  bewitching. — Peggy  Laughlin 

With  Approbation 

Swiftly  and  efficiently  she  went  about  doing  all  the  things  a  girl  must  do  in  pre- 
paring for  a  school  day,  applying  carefully  a  wee  amount  of  powder  and  a  suspicion 
of  lipstick  and  combing  her  shining  brownish  hair  until  it  was  smooth.  Margaret  had 
neat,  regular  features,  a  perfect  complexion,  and  a  more  than  passable  figure.  She 
noticed  with  approbation  all  these  assets  as  she  put  the  last  bobby-pin  in  her  hair  and 
viewed  the  result. — Peggy  Laughun 

Joe  Lewis 

He  suggests  a  gorilla  or  a  jungle  lion  about  as  much  as  would  an  assistant  of 
mathematics  at  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of  Technology. — H.  Maurice  Kirby 

Character  Sketch 

Tom  was  a  happy-go-lucky  fellow  with  an  amazing  faculty  for  keeping  the  candle 
burning  indefinitely,  even  though  it  burned  at  both  ends. — Robert  Kaplan 

Campus  Impression 

The  gargantuan  buildings,  the  amoebic  students. — Robert  Gatewood 


[10] 


Newspaperwoman's  Difficulties 

A  high  wall  of  prejudice  confronts  women  when  they  enter  newspaper  work. 
Unless  possessed  of  unusual  ability  or  a  father  who  is  a  friend  of  the  editor,  women 
find  it  difficult  to  land  a  job  on  a  large  paper.  If  they  have  the  good  fortune  to  get 
on  the  staff,  they  are  given  very  little  to  do.  For  one  thing,  the  editor  feels  that 
women  are  helpless  and  not  very  bright;  he  makes  it  his  business  to  see  that  they  are 
given  dull  and  trifling  notices  to  write  up  so  as  not  to  over-tax  their  feeble  brains. 
Nor  is  it  only  kindness  that  prompts  the  editor  to  bestow  such  insignificant  tasks  upon 
the  newspaperwoman.  Dark  suspicions  assail  his  morbid  mind,  and  through  his  brain 
glide  ominous  thoughts  of  incompetence,  unreliability,  snoopiness,  sulkiness,  and  resent- 
fulness,  which  he  always  associates  with  a  skirt. — Peggy  Laughlin 

Parlor 

Aunt  Emma  lived  in  a  high  square  house  in  town  with  shutters  for  summer  heat 
and  storms.  There  was  a  parlor  where  little  boys  were  not  allowed,  and  chairs  re- 
mained in  fixed  places,  and  Great-grandfather  glared  with  righteous  indignation  from 
his  picture  on  the  wall.  There  were  crystal  candlesticks  on  the  mantle.  There  were 
rocks  and  shells  on  a  whatnot  and  a  stereoscope  on  the  table.  Aunt  Emma's  hand- 
painted  wooden  shovel  and  wicker  easel  stood  in  the  corner. — Frederick  G.  Faust 

Chief  Fly-swatter 

War  had  broken  out — grim  war  with  its  ghastly  pranks.  England  was  once  again 
fighting  desperately  for  her  life.  And  all  the  while  she  fought  in  the  front  lines,  a  fly 
kept  hovering  around  her  head,  lighting  on  the  back  of  her  neck  to  distract  and 
exasperate.  That  fly  was  Turkey.  Something  had  to  be  done,  and  T.  E.  Lawrence  was 
selected  as  chief  fly-swatter. — Grover  Haines 

In  the  Army 

At  the  trading  post  for  pants,  it  is  a  matter  of  grab  and  get,  coupled  with  swap 
and  swipe.  Occasionally  an  honest  transaction  occurs,  with  both  parties  feeling  the 
other  got  the  worst  of  the  bargain. — Harold  Massie 

Uncertainty 

She  was  in  a  fog  of  uncertainty,  broken  occasionally  by  bright  spurts  of  confidence 
and  darkened  by  moments  of  deepest  doubt. — Peggy  Laughlin 

Twig 

I  have  no  doubt  that  she  considers  me  a  malformed  twig  which  spoils  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  family  tree. — Harold  Morine 

Couple 

Susie  was  a  minister's  daughter  with  wild  red  hair  and  a  dead  fish  expression. 
Harry  was  just  a  smile  between  two  ears;  he  wore  old  football  jerseys  to  school. 

— Betty  Betz 

Simile 

I  came  out  of  the  fray  with  an  eye  like  a  plum. — John  Kaufman 

Dejected  and  hopeless  as  a  mass  of  sodden  feathers  in  the  rain. — Bettie  Becker 

•  •  •  • 

The  only  lobby  the  day  laborer  has  is  the  ballot-box. — L.  E.  Eluson 

[11] 


Wedgwood  China 

Bernadine  Pendergrast 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  10,  1926-1937 


FAURING  the  life  of  one  man,  Josiah 
'-^  Wedgwood,  an  entire  industry  was 
transformed.  Perhaps  it  was  the  beauti- 
ful English  countryside  which  deeply 
impressed  upon  his  sensitive  and  observ- 
ant mind  the  beauty  found  in  all  of 
nature's  gifts.  While  on  his  way  to 
grammar  school  he  would  pick  up  tiny 
shells,  delicate  ivy  leaves,  and  trailing 
vines ;  later,  he  used  these  as  designs  for 
his  pottery,  which  has  never  since  then 
been  surpassed  in  either  beauty  or 
daintiness.^ 

The  beauty  of  the  English  country- 
side was  not  the  only  influence  which 
started  Josiah  Wedgwood  on  a  career  in 
which  he  was  later  to  gain  the  title, 
"Prince  of  Potters."  He  belonged  to  a 
family  which  had  been  traditionally  asso- 
ciated with  the  craft  of  potting  for  many 
generations.  As  he  was  only  nine  years 
old  when  his  father  died,  it  was  neces- 
sary for  him  to  begin  his  life's  work  at 
a  much  earlier  age  than  was  customary. 
Consequently,  when  he  was  only  four- 
teen years  old,  he  was  apprenticed  to  his 
brother,  with  whom  he  worked  for  five 
years.  Here  he  gained  a  very  good 
foundation  for  his  work  which  was  to 
follow.  To  enlarge  his  experience  even 
more,  he  apprenticed  himself  to  Daniel 
Mayer  of  Stoke  for  two  years,  and  from 
him  he  learned  many  essential  things. 
After  completing  these  periods  of  ap- 

'Cooper,  N.,  "Creamsware  of  Wedgwood," 
House  Beautiful,  67  (June,  1930),  775. 


prenticeship,  he  entered  into  a  partner- 
ship with  Thomas  Wheldon,  whose 
methods  in  potting  and  particularly  in 
the  coloring  of  glazes  have  caused  his 
work  to  be  prized  as  the  most  charming 
of  all  English  earthenware  of  the  pre- 
Wedgwood  period.  Wedgwood,  however, 
was  too  ambitious  for  his  partner,  and 
so  it  is  not  surprising  that  this  partner- 
ship was  soon  dissolved.  The  dissolving 
permitted  him  full  range  to  his  individual 
ideas. 

His  great  advancement  in  the  pottery 
world  is  due  directly  to  his  "Creams- 
ware."  For  years  before  the  introduction 
of  this  beautifully  designed  and  service- 
able ware,  England  had  been  forced  to 
use  fragile  and  imperfect  imported  china. 
This  lovely  "Creamsware"  was  made 
from  the  whitest  clay  of  Devonshire," 
mixed  with  finely  ground  flint  and  gowan 
or  Cornwall  stone  to  insure  perfection. 
Not  only  was  the  quality  of  his  material 
perfect,  but  he  also  extended  his  per- 
fection to  such  an  extent  that  every  lid 
was  made  to  fit  exactly,  every  handle  was 
placed  in  the  exact  place,  and  every  base 
was  made  steady  upon  its  axis.  The 
glazes  were  soft  and  very  rich,  and  the 
designs  were  very  neat.  The  ivy  leaf  was 
the  most  popular  of  the  designs,  and 
certainly  this  little  leaf  held  an  undis- 
puted first  place  in  the  mind  of 
Wedgwood.^ 


'Hughes,   H.    S.,    "My   Wedgwood    Quest," 
House  Beautiful,  65  (May,  1929),  638. 


[12] 


We  can  easily  see  how  such  beautiful 
designs  and  serviceable  ware,  even 
though  an  entirely  new  ware,  could  be 
considered  the  greatest  of  his  achieve- 
ments, Josiah  Wedgwood,  however,  con- 
sidered this  "Creamsware"  as  only  a 
"means  to  an  end,"  or  an  "anchor  to 
windward,"  for  his  heart  yearned  for 
jasper  works.  To  him,  his  "Creams ware" 
was  only  a  means  of  keeping  a  steady 
flow  of  capital  into  his  business,  so  that 
he  might  better  accomplish  the  perfection 
of  ornamental  wares  in  classic  style.  His 
ideal  was  even  further  stimulated  by  the 
discovery  of  splendid  examples  of  Greek 
and  Roman  art  at  Pompeii  and  Hercu- 
laneum,  which  gave  great  impetus  to  the 
revival  of  classic  themes  in  art  and  which 
were  readily  adaptable  as  designs  for 
jasper  ware.  The  fine-grained  and  ex- 
tremely smooth  hard  surface  and  the 
colors  with  which  jasper  ware  could  be 
tinted  rendered  it  especially  suitable  for 
delicate  and  precise  craftsmanship.  In 
fact,  it  was  criticized  because  it  more 
closely  resembled  the  art  of  the  sculptor 
or  of  the  gem  cutter  than  the  plastic 
arts.^ 

Probably  Josiah  Wedgwood's  greatest 
designer  was  John  Flaxman,  a  sculptor 
who  was  already  a  man  of  great  emi- 
nence. Certainly  his  work  was  the  best 
representative  of  the  classical  revival  in 
England.  His  artistic  designs  are  well 
represented  on  the  jasper  vases  and  on 
the  medallions,  on  which  the  portraits  of 
notables  were  made  so  exact  that  even 
the  hairlines  were  scientifically  accurate. 

Lady  Templeton,  the  only  artist  to 
which  Josiah  Wedgwood  ever  gave  any 


'Avery,  C.  L.,  "Gift  of  Ornamental  Wedg- 
wood," Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art,  27 
(November,  1932),  238. 


acknowledgment,  contributed  the  most 
expressive  works.  Her  designs  may  be 
immediately  recognized  by  the  presence 
of  a  girl  with  a  distaff  and  two  children 
— a  very  simple  depiction  but  very  im- 
pressive. Her  skill  was  so  great  that  she 
could  make  even  classical  groups  seem 
alive. 

Everyone  recognizes  the  perfect  crea- 
tions of  Josiah  Wedgwood ;  yet  he  was 
severely  criticized  by  Emil  Hanover, 
Danish  connoisseur  and  writer,  who 
stated  that  "with  a  multiplicity  of  fault- 
lessly wrought  but  mechanical  produc- 
tions, he  has  crowded  out  of  the  field  the 
work  of  the  more  haphazard  but  more 
spontaneous  and  artistic  craftsmen."* 
Perhaps  he  deserves  this  criticism  from 
the  viewpoint  of  the  less  artistic  crafts- 
men, but  surely  it  is  unfair  to  condemn 
anyone  who  is  able  to  reach  such  a  state 
of  perfection.  The  "cool  smooth  sur- 
faces" and  "true-filled  lines"  with  grace- 
ful, little,  white  figures  and  bright 
designs  have  invested  in  them  the  sophis- 
tication of  that  century.  In  fact,  Wedg- 
wood came  nearer  than  the  poet  to  the 
spirit  of  the  age ;  his  vases  were  wrought 
cool  and  impersonal  as  the  aesthetic 
ideals,  instead  of  like  the  couplets  of  the 
poet,  which  were  often  hot  with  the 
heart- felt  emotion  of  an  unhappy  lover,^ 

We  can  readily  see  why  the  name  of 
such  a  great  man  is  associated  with  the 
building  of  the  greatest  industry  on  Eng- 
lish soil,  an  industry  which,  at  any  cost, 
has  maintained  a  steadfast  ideal  of  per- 
fection. His  wares  were  placed  upon  a 
level  which  could  be  reached  by  the  rich 
and  poor  alike ;  they  were  highly  prized 
by  both.    He  was  an  artist  of  faultless 

*Ibid.,  238. 

"Hughes,  H.  S.,  op.  cit.,  637. 


[13] 


taste,  of  extreme  enterprise,  and  of  inde- 
fatigable zeal ;  he  combined  these  qual- 
ities with  magnanimity,  dignity,  and 
kindness. 

Bibliography 

Avery,  C.  L.,  "Gift  of  Ornamental  Wedg- 
wood," Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art,  27 
(November,  1932),  237-238. 

Comstock,  H.,  "Wedg\vood  Club's  Exhibition 
in  Boston,"  Connoisseur,  95  (March,  1935), 
95. 

Cooper,  N.,  "Creamsware  of  Wedgwood," 
House  Beautiful,  67  (June,  1930),  774-775. 

"Famous  WedgAvood  Paper  Doll  Patterns," 
Mentor,  15   (April,  1937),  54-55. 


Hughes,  H.  S.,  "My  Wedgwood  Quest,"  House 
Beautiful,  65  (Alay,  1929)  637-638. 

"My  Friend,  The  Connoisseur,  Considers 
Wedgwood  Ware,"  House  Beautiful,  62 
(September,  1927),  253. 

Park,  J.  H.,  "Josiah  Wedgwood,  Industrialist," 
Antiques,  26   (August,  1934),  64-66. 

Read,  H.,  "Josiah  Wedgwood,  Prince  of  Pot- 
ters," International  Studio,  96  (May,  1930), 
31-34. 

Russel,  E.  H.,  "Pottery  with  a  Past  and  a 
Future,"  American  Home,  4  (June,  1930), 
317-318. 

"Told  By  a  China  Plate,"  Mentor,  17  (Feb- 
ruary,  1929),  62. 

"Wicked  Wedgwood,"  Antiques,  27  (March, 
1935),  87. 


Scenes  from  Childhood 

Practice  Hour 

She  sets  the  alarm  clock  on  top  of  the  piano  in  the  most  conspicuous  corner,  and 
reluctantly  places  two  pillows  upon  the  piano  bench.  The  cookies,  which  up  to  this 
time  have  been  very  carefully  concealed  beneath  her  printed  apron,  are  put  at  the 
right  end  of  the  keyboard.  After  a  few  prolonged  minutes  which  she  uses  in  giving 
an  additional  pat  to  the  pillows  and  in  searching  for  the  already  obvious  music — all  of 
this  time  carefully  counted  on  the  practice  hour — a  few  faint,  unsure  notes  become 
audible.  Slowly,  up  and  down  the  keys  her  little  fingers  feel  out  the  notes  of  the  "C" 
scale.  She  continues  this  for  perhaps  two  or  three  minutes,  but  with  every  second 
her  look  of  boredom  is  increased.  Finally  the  monotony  of  the  scales  ends  with  a 
diligent  bang,  and  she  eagerly  reaches  for  a  cooky,  which  she  eats  with  such  careful 
mastication  that  even  a  doctor  would  nod  his  head  in  approval. 

— Bernadine  Pendergast 

Small  Boy's  DiflSculty 

He  slowed  to  a  walk,  then  to  a  slow,  leisurely  amble.  His  animated  expression 
was  replaced  by  one  of  perplexity,  and  he  carelessly  hooked  his  thumbs  in  the  shoulder 
straps  of  his  unkempt  overalls  and  kicked  some  gravel  about  in  the  driveway.  Restless, 
he  flopped  to  the  ground,  almost  landing  on  Snap,  his  affectionate  white  pointer,  who 
had  softly  padded  up  behind  him.  Jimmy  sat  on  the  grass  and  gently  rubbed  behind 
Snap's  ears. 

"Aw — heck !"  he  said,  lying  back  with  his  head  cushioned  on  his  folded  arms. 
"My  work's  done  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do." — Carl  E.  Watkins 

Pet  Pig 

He  was  a  very  sweet  little  piglet,  scrubbed  white  except  for  his  snout  and  hoofs, 
with  a  most  delicate  shade  of  pink  inside  his  ears.  When  I  first  saw  him  he  was  wear- 
ing a  clown  hat  and  a  frill  around  his  neck  and  helping  a  human  clown  to  amuse  a 
circus  crowd.  Of  course  I  wanted  him,  just  as  I  wanted  everything  I  saw,  and  the 
adoring  but  malicious  uncle  who  was  treating  me  bought  him  for  me.  My  parents  were 
amused  and  worried  when  we  arrived  home;  as  days  passed,  the  amusement  lessened 
and  the  worry  increased. — Lorraine  Stuart 


[14] 


The  Zo  Lab 


Dorothy  Pilkington 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  11, 1936-1937 


O  OOM  312  is  tucked  away  modestly 
■'•  ^  in  the  northwest  corner  of  the  Nat- 
ural History  Building.  The  door  opens 
just  behind  a  dark  bend,  and  you  would 
probably  never  notice  it  unless  you 
stopped  in  the  hall  to  look  at  the  illum- 
inated nature  snapshots.  Once  inside  312 
you  would  be  aware  that  it  is  a  zoology 
laboratory,  for  the  "wild  life"  makes 
itself  aggressively  known  to  every  visitor. 
Not  that  the  animals  scamper  around 
grunting  and  squealing — on  the  con- 
trary, they  are  quite  passive.  In  fact, 
those  creatures  neatly  packed  in  sealed 
jars  in  the  glass  cases  on  the  east  wall 
(next  to  the  soldierly  ranks  of  micro- 
scopes) make  no  disturbance  whatever. 
But  the  fauna  in  the  three  sinks  along 
the  south  wall  would  claim  your  instant 
attention.  Legless  frogs  and  frogless 
legs,  bits  of  star  fish,  desolate  segments 
of  earthworms,  forlorn  mussel  shells — 
all  blending  their  indelicate  essences  with 
the  mal-odor  of  formaldehyde — ^you 
could  not  ignore  them. 

But  your  nose  could  not  long  monop- 
olize your  senses.  When  you  had  re- 
covered sufficiently  to  look  around  you, 
you  would  think  of  "Alice-Through-the- 
Looking-Glass."  For  a  big  glass  panel 
separates  312  from  the  main  laboratory 
to  its  west,  and  there  are  looking-glass 
beings  working  and  talking  in  utter 
silence.  The  light  that  enters  through  the 
panel  and  the  glass  door  to  its  left  is 
very  welcome;  312  is  rather  dim  in 
spite  of  the  few  sunbeams  that  survive 
the  northern  shade  of  the  building  and 


struggle  through  the  windows  with  their 
lime-misted  aquaria  boxes.  The  valiant 
sunbeams  are  aided  by  the  large  blue- 
globed  electric  lights  that  dangle  low 
over  the  laboratory  desks.  You  would 
see  three  rows  of  these  desks — each  row 
two  desks  long  and  two  desks  wide. 
They  are  black,  battered,  and  varnishless 
with  padlocked  drawers  for  laboratory 
materials  below  the  desk  top  and  little 
drawers  above  in  an  open  frame-work. 
The  open  work  allows  each  student  to 
see  his  neighbor  across  the  desk  and 
chat  with  him  about  coelenterata  or 
idiosyncrasies  of  paramecia.  Each  row 
of  desks  accommodates  eight  students, 
who  perch  on  gray-green  stools  that  can 
be  raised  and  lowered  "at  will"  if  the 
"victim"  grips  the  top  firmly,  pushes  his 
foot  against  the  braces  correctly  and 
breathes  the  right  prayer.  If  the  student 
is  quietly  studying,  however,  the  stools 
are  likely  to  collapse  suddenly  and  with- 
out cause. 

The  north  and  south  walls  are  lined 
with  blackboards.  These  are  generally 
covered  with  complicated  diagrams,  illus- 
trating the  life-cycle  of  the  obelia  or  the 
genealogy  of  the  drosopila  and  the  other 
mysteries  of  zoology  that  you  could 
never  learn  unless  you  steeped  yourself 
in  formaldehyde  and  "went  zoology"  for 
six  hours  a  week. 

But  even  from  your  first  visit  you 
would  likely  carry  away  with  you  an 
evasive  "something"  which  your  friends 
will  wonder  at  or  which  will  stamp  you 
as  a  veteran  of  the  Zo  lab. 


[15] 


Being  Intelligent  About  Motion  Pictures 


William  H.  Hutchinson 


Rhetoric  I  Proficiency 

AT  ONCE,  let  us  be  frank  with  our- 
selves. There  is  no  such  thing  as 
being  intelligent  about  motion  pictures. 
We  might  as  well  attempt  to  be  scientific 
about  jig-saw  puzzles,  aesthetic  about 
fishing  worms,  or  profound  about  short 
division.  Just  as  there  is  nothing  in 
balloons  but  air,  so  there  is  nothing  in 
motion  pictures  but  a  few  glorified 
magic-lantern  slides  that  don't  stand  still 
and  do  make  a  noise. 

Let  us,  however,  not  confuse  ourselves 
with  terms.  When  we  refer  to  motion 
pictures,  we  refer  to  those  we  have  seen 
— i.e.,  Holly\vood.  That  motion  pictures 
will  some  day  rise  and  take  a  place  to 
rival  even  the  stage,  I  don't  doubt;  but 
that  Hollywood  has  so  far  done  little 
more  than  to  accumulate  huge  quantities 
of  celluloid  and  money  for  maldistribu- 
tion, I  claim  to  be  evident. 

Since  we  did  set  out  to  be  intelligent, 
though,  let's  take  the  axes  off  the  grind- 
stone and  look  at  things.  We  can  at 
least  be  sensible  about  motion  pictures. 
Being  sensible  is  going  ahead  and  doing 
or  saying  whatever  we  would  have  done 
or  said  if  we  hadn't  stopped  to  figure  the 
thing  out,  in  a  manner  that  makes  other 
people  believe  that  we  really  have 
stopped  to  figure  the  thing  out. 

Being  sensible  about  pictures  involves 
two   questions.    Do  you  go  to  moving 


Examination,  1927-1938 

pictures  or  don't  you?  Now  don't  lie  to 
yourselves ;  tell  the  truth.  Like  George 
Washington,  look  yourself  right  in  the 
eye  and  say,  "Yes,  damn  it,  I  do  go  to 
moving  pictures."  It's  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of ;  I,  myself,  go  to  them.  The 
same  effect  can  be  had  by  taking  a  good 
sleeping  powder,  but  that  gives  you  a 
headache ;  then  too,  you  can't  try  to  start 
a  conversation  with  the  blonde  in  the 
seat  alongside  you. 

The  second  question:  "Do  you  go  to 
pictures  to  see  the  pictures  or  the  stars?" 
If  you  go  to  see  the  pictures,  you're 
wasting  your  time.  Maxwell  Anderson's 
Winterset  was  the  only  good  work  that 
ever  got  into  the  movies,  and  that  must 
have  been  because  somebody  made  a 
mistake.  Even  Winterset  had  to  be 
doctored  before  it  was  filmed.  If  you  go 
to  see  the  stars,  you're  a  damned  idiot, 
unless  you  just  go  to  see  Luise  Rainer 
as  I  do.  Even  then  you're  not  very  smart. 

While  we  are  yet  sensible,  we've  got 
to  admit  that  pictures  do  have  their  little 
niche  in  the  scheme  of  things.  They  give 
a  lot  of  ham  actors,  hack  writers,  and  ex- 
electricians  a  new  incentive  in  life;  they 
peddle  day-dreams  to  minds  too  inade- 
quate to  create  their  own;  and  they 
afford  a  refuge  for  men  in  ragged  coats 
when  park-benches  are  snow-frozen. 
Live,  I  say,  and  let  live. 


Homesickness 

The  patient  may  bep^in  to  suspect  that  he  is  catching  the  disease  if  he  has  a  slight 
hungry  feeling  that  will  not  be  satisfied  by  food.  He  may  be  more  sure  that  he  is 
catching  it  if  scenes  of  home  flash  frequently  before  his  mind  and  cause  a  tight, 
lumpy  sensation  in  his  throat.  When  the  patient  finds  one  night  that  he  has  to  sleep 
upon  a  damp  pillow,  he  may  be  certain  that  he  is  homesick. — Donald  H.  Staley 


[16] 


That  Dread  Disease:  Homesickness 


Frank  Brown 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  5,  1936-1937 


WERE  you  ever  homesick?  I  mean 
"the  real  thing,"  not  merely  a 
touch  of  lonesomeness.  In  my  opinion, 
homesickness  rates  as  a  minor  mind  dis- 
order and  should  be  regarded  as  such.  It 
is  a  disease  that  passes  through  several 
stages,  bringing  great  mental  anguish  to 
the  infected  person. 

The  symptoms  usually  appear,  in  a 
person  who  is  leaving  home,  about  a  half 
hour  after  the  train  pulls  out  of  the  sta- 
tion. The  excitement  of  going  away  hav- 


he  is  so  bored  by  the  program  that  he 
turns  it  off  in  disgust.  The  room  is  very 
quiet,  and  as  he  sits  there,  head  in  hands, 
he  runs  the  gamut  of  emotions.  Sud- 
denly he  looks  about  the  room  and  feels 
the  heavy,  oppressive  silence  beating  at 
his  brain.  As  one  in  a  daze,  he  quickly 
gets  his  hat  and  coat  and  runs  outside 
into  the  refreshing  night  air,  walking  as 
if  he  never  intended  to  stop.  Gradually 
his  mind  clears,  and  he  begins  to  think. 
"Why  am   I   acting  this  way?   I'm   no 


ing  worn  off,  he  gets  a  funny  little  aching 
sensation  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  He 
tries  to  forget  this  persistent  feeling  by 
attempting  to  make  himself  believe  he  is 
excited  about  what  the  future  may  have 
in  store  for  him.  This  preliminary  con- 
dition persists  until  well  into  the  next 
day.  Then  comes  the  longest  and  most 
serious  phase  of  the  illness. 

At  this  time  the  person  finds  that  he 
can  think  of  nothing  but  home — his  fam- 
ily, his  friends.  He  tries  to  sidetrack 
his  train  of  thought  by  studying,  but 
finds  his  mind  wandering  back.  He  turns 
the  radio  on,  but,  after  a  few  minutes. 


child.  I'm  old  enough  to  control  myself. 
Haven't  I  any  pride?"  As  he  returns  to 
a  more  normal  state  of  mind,  he  starts 
walking  slowly  homeward,  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  himself. 

The  patient  goes  through  this  involved 
bit  of  suffering  every  day  for  about  a 
week.  Then  a  gradual  change  takes  place. 
He  finds  that  his  increased  obligations 
give  him  less  time  to  think  of  himself, 
and  better  yet,  he  is  able  to  control  him- 
self when  the  feeling  of  nostalgia  does 
come  back.  It  is  not  as  suffocating  or  as 
painful  as  it  was  before.  When  he  thinks 
of  his  family  now,  he  smiles — a  weak. 


[17] 


half-hearted  smile,  but  a  smile  neverthe- 
less. He  is  on  the  road  to  recovery.  An 
occasional  little  heart-pang  that  comes 
and  goes  very  quickly,  and  our  patient 
is  fully  recovered,  ready  to  see  life 
through  a  perspective  not  distorted  by 
internal  torture. 

May  I  take  it  upon  myself  to  offer  a 
few  suggestions  to  help  bring  a  cure.  I 
prescribe,  not  as  the  doctor  or  psycho- 
analyst would,  but  from  personal  experi- 
ence. Seek  acquaintances  with  whom  you 
can  talk  and  unburden  yourself.  Don't 
lock  yourself  up  in  your  room  to  brood! 
Take  advantage  of  the  opportunities 
offered  by  a  nearby  library  or  movie  and 
let  your  thoughts  become  involved  in  the 
troubles  of  the  characters  in  the  book  or 


on  the  screen.  When  you  feel  nostalgia 
coming  on,  take  a  walk — a  long  walk. 
Fresh  air  acts  as  a  tonic  for  a  troubled 
mind,  and,  besides,  walking  is  good 
exercise. 

We  might  define  homesickness  as  "the 
state  of  mind  that  results  when  a  person 
has  to  adjust  himself  to  new  surround- 
ings and  a  new  social  environment."  It 
is  this  period  of  feeling  alien  to  one's 
environment,  then,  that  brings  such  an 
uncomfortable  period  of  strife  between 
emotion  and  reason.  The  person,  how- 
ever, who  possesses  a  reasonable  degree 
of  adaptability  and  manages  to  gain  con- 
trol of  himself  will  find  that  he  is  the 
better  for  the  experience,  painful  though 
it  may  have  been. 


Items  from  an  Autobiography 

Phenomena  of  Nature 

During  the  period  between  his  eighth  and  ninth  years  the  boy  began  to  wake  up  to 
the  phenomena  of  nature  about  him — the  cold  beauty  of  the  large  sleet  storm  that 
winter,  the  novelty  and  tranquillity  of  the  coming  of  spring,  the  lengthening  of  the 
days,  the  wet,  scent-saturated  breezes  as  they  passed  over  freshly  ploughed  fields  and 
lingered  around  cow-barns  and  pasture  lots.  The  different  colors  and  songs  of  nature, 
the  smell  of  a  litter  of  pups,  or  anything  young  and  breast-fed,  the  strong  animal  taste 
of  warm  milk  fresh  from  the  udder — all  things  seemed  to  unfold  to  him,  and  stir  a 
physical  side  in  his  nature  which  had  been  dormant. 

Vacation 

He  spent  three  months  of  barefoot  freedom  close  to  the  breast  of  the  native  soil — 
days  when  the  sun  beat  down  on  quiet  fields  and  woods,  nights  when  the  silence  was 
broken  only  by  the  hoot  of  an  owl  or  the  bay  of  a  hound.  A  stillness  came  into  the 
heart  of  the  boy,  a  solitude  of  spirit  caused  by  boisterous  and  yet  silent,  natural  things. 
It  was  during  that  summer  of  1926  that  a  "Peter  Pan"  spirit  stole  into  the  boy's  heart, 
where  it  remained  a  constantly  recurring  upset  to  the  painful  process  of  "growing  up." 

School  Days 

His  recollections  of  early  days  are  vague,  intangible.  Like  most  children,  he  was 
first  impressed  by  school.  It  made  the  first  indelible  mark  upon  his  memory — marching 
up  the  stairs  while  a  phonograph  scratched  tempo  from  a  record,  answering  stuffy 
questions  in  a  stuffier  classroom,  running  about  the  playground  during  recess,  or  having 
the  janitor  halve  an  apple  with  his  pocket-knife.  But  school,  at  best,  was  an  inter- 
ruption of  life's  pleasures,  except  at  Christmas  time.  Then  there  were  cards  and 
posters  to  make,  and  carols  to  sing.  The  teacher  would  read  stories  that  smelled  of 
plum  pudding,  roast  goose,  and  chestnuts,  and  echoed  with  "Merrie  Christmas." 

— Eldon  J.  Smith 


[18] 


Wise  Guy! 

William  Paris 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  12,  1936-1937 


npHE  three  boys  sauntered  into  Prehn's 
*  with  a  carefully  studied  sophistica- 
tion. They  leaned  nonchalantly  against 
the  cigarette  counter  and  indifferently 
surveyed  the  crowd  of  students.  The  tall 
blond  was  named  Robert  but  was  known 
as  Ace,  a  name  which,  though  he  brushed 
it  aside  casually,  was  a  source  of  great 
pride  to  him.  He  lit  a  cigarette  and, 
through  the  cloud  of  smoke,  spoke  to  his 
companions  without  turning  his  head  or 
looking  at  them ;  he  moved  his  lips  as 
little  as  possible. 

"There's  Beachman  over  there  with  a 
rather  smooth  looking  filly.  Think  Pll 
ankle  over  and  show  our  little  pledge 
how  it's  done." 

He  swaggered  over  to  young  Beach- 
man's  table  and  raised  one  hand  slightly 
in  greeting. 

"Hi,  pledge,"  he  drawled  slowly,  and 
pulling  out  a  chair,  he  sprawled  care- 
lessly in  a  very  good  imitation  of  Noel 
Coward. 

"Oh,  hello,  Ace.    I'd  like  to  have  you 

meet ."  Beachman  stopped,  confused 

and  a  little  embarrassed  because  Ace  had 
completely  ignored  him  and  was  talking 
to  the  girl. 

"Seems  to  me  I'd  recognize  you  if  I'd 
ever  seen  you  before.  Are  you  visiting?" 
Ace  regarded  the  girl  lazily  through  a 
cloud  of  blue  smoke. 


"I  came  down  this  afternoon  from 
Chicago.    I  wanted  to  see  the  campus 

and ."    The  girl  leaned  back  in  her 

chair  and  ran  a  hand  over  her  soft  blond 
hair,  hoping  fervently  that  she  looked  a 
little  like  Carole  Lombard.  She  lowered 
her  head  a  little  and  smiled  wanly  up  at 
him  through  her  lashes. 

"Then  how  about  seeing  the  campus 
this  evening  with  me?  We  could  take  in 
Katsinas'  and  the  Park,  and  if  you're 
here  tomorrow  night  we  could  go  slum- 
ming. You'll  find  me  rated  among  the 
best  as  a  guide." 

"Grand.  It  sounds  like  a  lot  of  fun  to 
me.  You'll  find  me  at  the  Delta  Gamma 
house  this  evening  about  nine  o'clock." 

"Be  seeing  you  then."  Ace  rose  lazily, 
smiled  at  the  girl,  and  flicked  a  finger  at 
Beachman. 

He  joined  the  boys  who  had  been 
watching  in  awe  at  the  cigarette  counter. 

"Don't  know  her  name,  but  I've  dated 
her  for  tonight  and  tomorrow  night.  Is 
Beachman  burned  up !" 

"Not  bad !"  breathed  his  public. 

That  evening  at  the  fraternity  house 
Beachman  came  up  rather  timidly. 

"Well?"  asked  Ace  coolly, 

"I  just  wanted  to  thank  you  for  being 
so  nice  to  my  sister,  sir." 


Masculine  Coifiures 
His  hair  looked  as  if  it  had  been  combed  with  an  egg-beater. — Minnie  Faucett 

•  •  •  • 

His  hair  looked  as  if  it  had  been  oiled  up  for  a  smooth- running  evening. 

— Davtd  Miller 


[19] 


Has  My  Home  Town  Changed? 

Anonymous 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  13,  1936-1937 


npHE  old  home  town  isn't  quite  the 
*  place  it  was  less  than  three  months 
ago.  One  of  us  has  changed,  the  town 
or  myself.  The  streets  are  just  as  they 
have  always  been ;  all  twenty-six  taverns 
still  light  up  the  night  with  their  red 
neon  signs,  "Beer,"  What's  more,  the 
sign  informing  the  transient  concerning 
the  number  of  souls  our  village  contains 
hasn't  even  recognized  my  absence,  and 
that  really  caused  a  large  drop  in  popu- 
lation for  such  a  small  town. 

It  isn't  at  all  strange  that  everyone  on 
the  street  remembers  me.  It  hasn't  been 
so  long  since  I  left,  and  when  I  was  there 
I  caused  a  lot  of  disturbance.  People 
don't  forget  the  troublesome  things  so 
easily.  Some  of  the  citizenry  extend  a 
hearty  welcome  as  of  old.  Others,  in- 
clined to  be  doubtful  about  the  value  of 
higher  education,  sniff,  and  snort,  and 
intimate  that  I  ought  to  be  out  making 
my  own  living.  They  seem  to  forget  that 


going  to  work  before  their  skulls  become 
hard  hasn't  done  them  much  good. 

The  children  of  the  town  aren't  im- 
pressed either  favorably  or  unfavorabl>i 
by  my  new  status.  Because  most  of  them 
can  read,  I  haven't  dared  to  tell  them 
I'm  a  football  star  at  Illinois.  It's  a  pity. 
I've  always  wanted  to  impress  children. 

The  neighbors  have  reacted  beautifuU) 
to  my  leaving.  Just  a  few  short  months 
ago  they  sat  in  their  windows,  sometimes 
till  dawn,  to  determine  whether  or  nol 
I  would  be  sober  when  I  got  home.  Now 
they  go  to  bed  fairly  convinced  that  mj 
step  will  be  uncertain.  They  have  for- 
gotten the  fortunate  death  of  the  "jaz2 
age"  and  probably  still  read  that  old 
November,  1924,  issue  of  College  Humor, 

My  own  home  is  more  beloved  thar 
ever,  but  the  home  town  has  dropped  a 
few  points  in  my  estimation,  Christmas 
time.  I  feel  very  sure,  will  find  it  still 
dropping. 


Upon  the  Dam 

Crash !  The  sound  and  a  blazing  fury  of  white  light  were  upon  us  at  so  precisely 
the  same  time  that  the  illumination  seemed  to  explode  in  our  very  faces.  A  floating 
log  some  twenty  feet  in  length  had  raised  its  ponderous  weight  from  the  water  to  be 
flung  over  the  crest  of  the  spillway.  Falling,  it  seemed  to  be  chewed  in  the  churning 
waters  like  some  black  bone  in  the  white-toothed  jaws  of  a  giant.  The  dam !  We  were 
upon  the  dam !  A  hundred  feet  below,  we  could  hear  the  flood  pounding  on  the 
bescigcd  rocks.  Spume  blew  in  our  faces,  heavier  and  wetter  than  that  damnable  fog. 
God!  What  if  the  motor  failed  us  now!  What  if  the  tank  should  run  dry!  Already 
the  top-drag  of  the  current  had  gripped  the  canoe;  an  unseen  hand  seemed  to  be 
pushing  us  over  the  spillway.  A  precious  moment  was  lost  in  bewildered,  absolute 
fear;  then  I  jammed  the  tiller  left  and  kicked  the  throttle  to  wide  open.  The  motor, 
choked  by  the  sudden  rush  of  gasoline,  coughed,  missed  fire,  then  roared  madly  as  it 
spun  the  light  boat  on  a  pivot  that  brought  the  stern  within  two  scant  feet  of  the 
concrete  abutment.  Thirty  yards  farther,  I  ran  the  boat  full-speed  upon  the  sandy  bank, 
where  we  half  fell,  half  stumbled  out  upon  the  land  to  lie  face  down  and  shivering, 
too  frightened  even  to  thank  God  for  what  still  seems  to  me  a  miraculous  escape  from 
death — cold,  drowning,  shattering  death, — Harl  E,  Son 


[20] 


The  Last  Football  Game 


David  Murray 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  7,  1926-1927 


SINCE  Saturday  I  have  been  a  re- 
formed collegian ;  before  that  I  was  a 
collegian.  I  was  stuffed  to  the  gills  with 
spirits  of  loyalty  and  all  of  the  other 
laudable  emotions.  I  must  have  been  so 
before  I  bought  those  tickets.  There  was 
something  that  made  me  buy  them ;  I 
very  rarely  shell  out  four  fifty  without 
a  reason.  Anyway,  I  am  now  a  reformed 


The  way  I  figured  it  out  the  number 
added  up  to  two  hundred  and  seventy- 
eight,  two  teams  of  eleven  men  each, 
three  men  in  white  suits  to  run  around 
and  blow  whistles,  two  men  with  two 
sticks  tied  together  to  run  up  and  down 
the  side  of  the  field,  the  bands,  and  the 
fellow  who  printed  the  tickets.  If  no  one 
were  cheated  in  the  divy,  each  one  of  the 


collegian  without  four  fifty  and  with  a 
head  cold,  who  saw  one  game  and  isn't 
going  to  see  another. 

I  might  have  had  the  wrong  attitude 
about  the  game  to  begin  with.  As  soon 
as  I'd  paid  the  price  I  felt  rooked  in  the 
buying  of  those  tickets.  It  bothered  me, 
and  I  thought  of  all  the  other  four  fifties 
that  came  rolling  in  and  wondered  where 
they  went.  I  knew  that  a  good  number 
of  people  would  be  working  hard  that 
afternoon  to  see  that  I  had  a  good  time. 


lads  was  due  to  get  a  little  bit  more  than 
one  and  six-tenths  cents  of  my  shell  out. 
That  would  have  been  perfectly  all  right 
with  me ;  the  boys  work  hard,  and  there's 
enough  underpaid  help  here  as  it  is. 

But  it  turns  out  that  the  lads  never 
even  see  the  money.  It  seems  that  the 
teams  play  for  a  pure  love  of  the  game, 
and  the  bandsmen  strut  their  complicated 
meanderings  to  enlarge  further  the  tra- 
ditions of  old  Alma  Mater.  What  I  want 
to  know  is,  who  does  get  that  money?  If 


[21] 


the  three  fellows  in  white  suits  and  the 
two  lads  with  the  sticks  got  it,  I  really 
have  been  robbed.  All  that  they  ever  did 
was  to  object  and  make  the  teams  go 
back  to  the  beginning  whenever  the 
action  started  to  pep  up.  Summed  up,  it 
seems  that  I  and  a  few  others  paid  some- 
one a  large  sum  in  order  to  see  a  show 
put  on  by  a  good  number  of  hard  work- 
ing, unpaid  actors. 

Without  the  finances  I  still  don't  like 
the  game.  What  did  the  teams  do?  The 
ball  went  in  all  directions,  but  the  score 
always  stayed  the  same.  Before  the 
game  a  friend  told  me  to  read  through 
the  rule  book  to  understand  everything; 
another  friend  told  me  that  all  the  rules 
would  be  changed  next  season  and  not  to 
bother;  so  I  didn't  read  them  and  found 
out  that  I  understood  everything  about 
the  game  wath  the  same  degree  of  intel- 
ligence as  one  who  knew  the  rules. 

Then  there  was  this  stadium  where 
they  had  the  game.  That  immense,  cold, 
damp,  concrete  mausoleum  could  be  bet- 
ter set  aside  as  a  place  for  spiritual 
meditation.     Anything  would  be   better 


suited  to  its  gloomy  soul.  I  feel  a  little 
down  on  the  place,  because  I'm  almost 
positive  that  it  was  the  big  factor  in  giv- 
ing me  a  head  cold. 

I  must  mention  the  cheering  too. 
Everyone  else  who  writes  anything  about 
football  does.  The  only  thing  to  do 
seemed  to  be  to  stand  up  and  make  a 
loud  noise  every  time  the  team  went 
forward,  and  to  yell  "HOLD  THAT 
LINE"  every  time  the  team  w^ent  back- 
ward. Now  it  stands  to  reason  that  a 
team  knows  what  it's  doing  and  doesn't 
need  advice  from  the  stands.  The  logical 
thing  would  be  for  spectators  to  shut  up 
and  let  the  team  concentrate  on  its  prob- 
lems undisturbed  in  moments  of  stress. 

I'm  all  fixed  for  the  next  game ;  I've 
figured  out  a  system  that  I  think  will 
work  nicely.  I'm  going  to  the  game  in 
someone  else's  comfortable,  radio- 
equipped  car,  and  when  the  game  starts 
I'll  be  right  there  in  that  car,  listening  to 
the  radio,  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  with  a 
sensibly  hot  and  well-filled  thermos  bottle 
beside  me.  I  don't  really  think  that  it 
will  be  the  game  that  I'll  listen  to  either. 


Night  Scenes 

Night  Sailing 

Not  only  do  we  find  more  time  for  mental  relaxation  in  quiet  night  sailing,  but 
we  also  easily  discover  unlooked-for  beauty  in  the  night.  Our  observation  becomes 
finer  and  very  soon  we  know  the  meaning  of  every  sound  on  shore  and  water.  On 
any  night,  sailing  from  the  island  to  the  head  of  the  lake,  we  are  as  clearly  aware  of 
every  star  in  the  sky  as  we  are  of  every  fisherman's  light  flickering  along  the  shore; 
we  distinguish  every  sound:  the  plaintive  call  of  the  island's  whippoorwill,  the  shrill, 
excited  noise  of  the  killdeer  at  the  water's  edge,  and  the  crane's  raucous  cry  breaking 
a  great  stillness  at  the  head  of  the  lake. — Barbara  Schroeder 

Fog  and  Darkness 

Dead,  dank  air,  overladen  with  soggy  fog.  pressed  upon  our  eyes  and  ears  like 
dirty  wool.  The  night  was  as  dark  as  the  inside  of  a  pocket,  and  almost  as  confining 
....  Leaves  and  branches  slapped  our  faces  like  wet  towels  as  I  steered  too  close  to 
the  channel  side  of  the  bank,  unable  to  judge  the  distance  properly  through  the  milky 
vapor. — Harl  E.  Son 


[22] 


What's  in  a  Title? 


(Titles  of  themes  submitted  to  the  Green  Caldron,  1936-1937) 


Alliteration 

Christmas  in  the  Country 
Fountain  Pen  Folly 

Anatomy 

To  Combat  Intestinal  Toxicity 
Finger  Wave  for  a  Corpse 
There  Goes  My  Appendix 

Comparison 

All  the  World  Is  a  Chessboard 


The  Dirty  Dragon 
Silly  Stuff 


Asparagus  Art 
Music  and  Me 


Red  Fingernail  Polish 
I  Scalp  Henry 
Crooked  Jaw 


Flies  in  a  Web 


Black  Eyes 
That  Face ! 


Discoveries 


Chinese  Drama  in  the  United  States 
My  First  Exciting  Book 
Decline  of  Sophistication 


Archaeology  for  Me 
Rhetoric  Tricks 
Pledge  Rules 


Myself 


Fish,  Flesh,  or  Fowl 

The  Owls  of  Edwards  Gulch 
Donk 


Helping  the  Stork 
Turkey  Talk 


Wise  Ducks 
Muskellunge 


Geography 


Atlantis 

At  the  End  of  a  Path 


Beneath  the  Stadium 
Down  on  the  Farm 


Oldsters  in  Eden 


Irritation 


Football  Players  Are  Not  Dumb 
Wanted:    Relief  from  Women 
Don't  Mention  Bus  to  Me ! 


That  Beastly  English  Climate 
I  Don't  Believe  It 
I  Don't  Like  It ! 


Paradox 

The  Romantic  Drudge 

Processes 


White  Blindness 


How  to  Earn  the  Hatred  of  a  Room-     Basketball :    New  Style     The  Pin  Hanging 

mate  How  to  Eat  an  Apple       Making  Beer 

My  Cures  for  Boredom  Bumming  Cigarettes 


Question 


Is  Civilization  Enough? 
Is  Imagination  Useful  ? 


Depression  ? 
Why  Not? 


Is  It  Fair  ? 


[23] 


My  Travels 

Mary  Alice  Burgett 


Rhetoric  I  Proficiency 

THE  word  travel  always  suggests 
"giagic  carpet"  to  me.  When  fairies 
and  dwarfs  and  gnomes  were  still  very 
real  to  me,  I  sometimes  imagined  myself 
drifting  about  on  a  magic  carpet  through 
a  sea  of  whipped-cream  clouds  and  pale, 
lemon  sunshine!  Today  it  is  almost  as 
easy  to  travel  as  that.  Smooth  ribbons 
of  concrete  lace  together  these  United 
States  of  ours.  Comfortable,  inexpensive 
automobiles,  streamlining  these  high- 
ways, transport  us  speedily  wherever  we 
may  wish  to  go.  If  I  had  a  magic  carpet 
just  this  minute,  we'd  float  down  to  New 
Orleans.  Two  years  ago  I  motored  from 
Dallas,  Texas  to  New  Orleans — and  it  is 
the  trip  I  would  choose  again.  You'd  like 
it  too ! 

We'd  follow  the  Gulf  of  Mexico 
closely  enough  to  see  the  glints  on  the 
crested,  blue  water,  to  watch  the  clean- 
winged  gulls  veering  out  to  sea,  to  hear 
the  slap  of  waves  against  the  piers.  We'd 
cross  the  Mississippi  at  Baton  Rouge 
and,  while  waiting  for  the  ferry,  munch 
a  bag  of  peanuts  sold  by  the  "nigger" 
boys  along  the  water  front.  From  this 
side  you  could  see  the  capitol  building 
of  Louisiana,  built  by  Huey  Long.  It's 
a  beautiful  building  with  French  win- 
dows opening  out  on  the  river,  and  it  is 
composed  entirely  of  Louisiana  products. 
Then  from  Baton  Rouge  we'd  hop  on  to 
New  Orleans.  Our  first  meal  would  be 
fine,  old  Creole  cooking,  and  we'd  buy 
a  box  of  pralines  just  for  fun. 

The  main  street  in  New  Orleans  is 
called  Canal  Street,  taking  its  name  from 
the  old   French  canal   running  through 


Examination,  1937-1928 

the  middle  of  the  street.  Today  it  is 
grass-grown  and  unclean,  but  the  French 
built  it  as  a  means  of  sewage  disposal. 
Lake  Pontchartrain,  named  by  Indians, 
would  be  so  warm  and  salty  you  could 
take  a  floating  nap ! 

But  I'd  be  anxious  to  go  back  to  the 
French  quarters.  There  the  streets  are 
twisted  and  narrow,  damp  and  dirty. 
But  if  you'd  like  to  poke  about  some  of 
the  curio  shops  you'd  be  likely  to  meet  a 
kindly  old  lady  who  would  show  her 
patio  and  court  to  you.  She  might  even 
proffer  a  glass  of  ripened  sherry.  The 
court  I  glimpsed  belonged  to  Eugene 
Field.  It  is  just  as  he  saw  it  as  he  sat 
there  writing — except  the  grapevine  is 
a  little  more  gnarled,  the  cobbles  more 
moss-covered,  the  tufted  grass  thicker  in 
the  crannies  of  the  wall.  The  sunlight 
would  lie  in  the  same  mottled  pattern, 
warm  on  the  cobblestones.  The  shadows 
would  have  the  same  picket  edges  be- 
neath the  palms,  have  the  same  cool 
grayness  beside  the  stone  steps.  The 
clatter  of  the  street  would  sound  as 
muffled.  The  peace  inside  would  be  as 
deep.  Wrought  iron  balconies  with  Marie 
de  Ponsel's  monogram  attest  the  rule  of 
Spain.  The  French  inhabitants  attest  the 
rule  of  France.  Today,  all  strife  is  over 
for  this  belle  of  the  Mississippi.  New 
Orleans  rests  in  the  serene  possession  of 
the  United  States.  Her  traditions,  her 
romance  are  ours. 

If  you've  enjoyed  this  magic-carpet 
view  of  New  Orleans,  you  can,  perhaps, 
slip  down  with  me  on  my  magic  carpet 
for  the  Mardi  Gras! 


[24] 


Along  the  Trail  to  Tin  Cup 

R.  J.  Leimbacher 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1936-37 


IN  1930  I  spent  two  months  in  south- 
western Colorado — wonderful  months 
that  will  never  be  forgotten.  And  as  I 
idly  shuffle  through  the  scores  of  snap- 
shots I  took  that  summer,  old  memories, 
joyful  scenes,  glow  warmly.  All  are  but 
memories  now,  but  memories  to  cherish 
and  to  keep.  Once  more  I  picture  my- 
self riding  along  the  trail  to  Tin  Cup 
with  Casey  and  Frank — six  days  on 
horseback  over  rugged  Indian  trails, 
through  deep  tangled  underbrush, 
through  soft,  beautifully  clean  snow  far 
above  timber  line. 

I  remember  the  shabby  false- fronted 
saloon  at  Pitken  where  we  stopped  one 
morning  to  eat  a  breakfast  of  pie  and 
root  beer.  Our  horses  were  tied  to  a 
hitching  rail  bordering  the  wooden  walk. 
While  we  were  eating  they  broke  the  rail 
and  dragged  it  with  them  down  the 
town's  only  street.  How  fortunate  for 
the  citizens  of  Pitken  that  we  had  not 
tied  them  to  the  town  hall ! 

Next  day  we  wandered  off  the  main 
trail  and  followed  the  mere  ghost  of  a 
path  until  it  faded  into  nothing  at  an 
abandoned  gold  mine  high  in  the  moun- 
tains. There  we  came  across  an  un- 
marked grave  and  the  dusty,  yellowed 
and  crumbling  notebook  of  some  luckless 
miner.  We  located  the  mine  shaft  and 
explored  it:  a  dark,  damp,  vile-smelling 
hole  that  had  long  since  been  forgotten, 
the  life's  work  of  some  old  prospector 
who  had  staked  his  life  on  that  hole — 
and  lost.  We  spent  a  good  part  of  the 
night  speculating  on  the  life  lived  by  the 
man  buried  outside,  and  we  slept  in  his 
last  home — a  crudely  fashioned  log  shack 


whose  roof  had  fallen  in  years  before. 
We  reached  Fairview  Pass,  far  above 
timber  line,  the  next  evening  just  as  the 
sun  was  sinking.  The  snow-capped  peaks 
surrounding  us  took  on  a  pale,  pink  tint 
as  the  last  light  of  dying  day  fell  upon 
them.  The  smaller  peaks  below  us 
stretched  in  parallel  ridges  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  And  somewhere — none 
of  us  knew  exactly — in  the  main  valley 
to  the  north  was  Tin  Cup.  We  began  the 
descent  of  the  steep,  narrow,  twisting 
trail  in  Indian  file.  I  took  the  lead,  Casey 
came  next,  and  Frank  brought  up  the 
rear.  The  trail  was  about  three  feet  wide, 
and  to  the  left  there  was  a  sheer  drop 
of  some  four  hundred  feet.  Casey  sighted 
a  wildcat  slinking  across  the  rugged 
slope  to  the  right,  and  without  a  word 
of  warning  he  fired  at  it.  My  horse  was 
a  spirited,  nervous  animal,  and  at  the 
sound  of  the  shot  he  reared  up  on  his 
hind  legs.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
jagged  rocks  far  below,  and  my  heart 
froze  while  the  horse  pawed  the  air  with 
his  forefeet.  After  a  moment  which 
was  an  eternity  to  me  his  feet  came  back 
to  the  trail,  but  he  continued  to  prance 
in  a  most  annoying  manner  along  the 
outer  edge  of  the  path.  Casey  had  missed 
the  "cat,"  and  while  he  was  cursing  his 
luck  I  was  damning  him.  I  was  too  shaky 
to  ride  further  in  the  deepening  dusk, 
so  we  camped  for  the  night  at  the  next 
level  spot.  Above  us  the  glorious  stars — 
those  stars  which  exist  only  in  a  western 
sky — twinkled  and  sparkled,  and  a  quar- 
ter moon  peeked  over  the  snow-capped 
mountains,  giving  them  the  appearance 
of  silver.  I  was  glad  the  stars,  the  moon. 


[25] 


and  the  mountain  peaks  were  there  to 
keep  me  company,  for,  although  I  was 
tired,  I  couldn't  sleep.  Bare  hard  rock 
was  never  intended  for  use  as  a  man's 
bed !  And  saddles  were  made  to  sit  on — 
not  to  be  used  as  pillows ! 

Late  next  afternoon  we  reached  Tin 
Cup,  the  dead  village.  At  one  time  Tin 
Cup  had  been  a  prosperous  mining  town 
— a  desolate  hotel,  a  tumble-down  and 
rotted  wooden  depot,  and  a  rusty  section 
of  narrow  railroad  track  were  monu- 
ments to   its  past  prosperity — but  now 


there  was  no  one  living  within  miles  of 
it.  In  the  depot  Casey  found  a  rusty  bed 
spring;  he  at  once  appointed  himself 
station  agent  and  slept  in  comfort  that 
night. 

In  exploring  Tin  Cup  next  day  I  found 
a  yellowed,  frail  newspaper  in  a  tin  box 
under  the  clerk's  desk  in  the  hotel  and 
read  with  much  interest  an  account  of 
a  raid  made  by  Villa  on  a  border  town 
in  Arizona — the  paper  was  dated  May 
11,  1913.  I  still  have  that  paper;  it  is  one 
of  my  most  highly  valued  possessions. 


Snapshots 


Caveman 

He  efrasped  a  huge  piece  of  slag  and  raised  it  above  his  head  and  poised,  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  throw  it.  As  he  stood  silhouetted  against  the  rising  sun,  his  thick, 
squat  body  tensed  and  his  arms  bent,  holding  the  rock,  time  ran  backwards  and  I  saw 
a  paleolithic  caveman  preparing  for  the  kill. — Kelton  M.  Scott 

Frog 

Whenever  T  see  him  going  down  the  street  I  am  reminded  of  a  frog  which  has 
reared  up  on  his  hind  legs  and,  by  some  freak  of  nature,  has  been  permanently  glued 
in  that  position. — Bettie  Becker 

Mouse 

She  was  like  a  mouse  in  most  respects.  Her  small  beady  eyes,  her  small  puckered 
mouth  down  where  her  chin  should  have  been,  her  drab  coloring,  and  even  her  cheap 
grey  coat  contributed  to  her  mouse-like  appearance.  She  sat  timidly  upright  in  her 
corner  of  the  bus  with  her  hands  and  feet  primly  folded.  Her  black  eyes  darted  fear- 
fully about,  her  bony  little  hands  clutched  her  pocketbook  with  desperate  intentness. 
One  wondered  where  the  cat  was  that  made  the  litde  mouse  so  wary. 

— Peggy  Laughun 

Co-ed 

Georgianna  entered  her  French  classroom  wearing  a  touching  expression  that 
practically  said,  "Don't  hurt  me,  teacher-weacher,  I'll  be  a  dood  dirl." 

— Peggy  Laughun 

Mr.  Quixby 

He  is  a  tall,  lanky  individual,  with  shoulders  slightly  stooped,  and  a  walk  that 
greatly  resembles  the  famous  German  goose-step.  This  latter  impression  may  be 
caused  by  his  shoes,  which  are  extremely  long,  with  curious  lumps  and  bulges  to  accom- 
modate the  tortured  toes  beneath.  A  small  Adam's  apple  skitters  up  and  down  above  a 
stiff  white  collar,  while  the  long  forehead  slopes  up  and  back  to  a  shock  of  snow-white 
hair  which  is  always  neatly  combed. — Glenn  L.  Brown 


[26] 


On  Madame's  Hat  and  Other  Absurdities 


Lorraine  Groupe 


Rhetoric  II  Proficiency 

QINCE  the  time  when  Adam  jeered  at 
^  Eve  for  twining  hibiscus  in  her  hair, 
woman  and  her  peculiarities  have  been 
a  common  source  of  humor  to  the  All- 
Perfect  Male.  The  most  consistently- 
successful  radio  programs  are  those  in 
which  the  woman  is  the  nincompoop,  the 
butt  of  all  jokes.  A  famous  novelist 
writes  a  book  on  the  Influence  of  Woman 
and  Its  Cure.  In  motion  picture  come- 
dies it  is  generally  the  woman  who  is 
embarrassingly  disconcerted  at  the  end. 
There  lurks  in  the  rear  of  the  minds  of 
even  the  most  respectful  of  men  that 
little  maggot — a  laughing  contempt  of 
the  hapless  and  helpless  female.  With 
my  attemptedly  vitriolic  pen,  I  shall  try 
to  tear  down  a  few  of  the  oldest  sub- 
jects for  leering  innuendoes — namely. 
Woman  and  the  Hat,  Woman  and  the 
Complexion,  Woman  and  Mirrors,  and 
Woman  and  Gossip. 

The  acknowledged  objective  of  every 
woman  is  to  attract  and  please  the  male 
eye.  She  accomplishes  this  end  by  mak- 
ing herself  outstanding,  different — and 
what  can  be  more  outstandingly  differ- 
ent than  an  extreme  hat?  After 
attention  has  been  attracted,  interest 
provoked,  the  elusive  male  captured,  he 
then  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
darling  little  windmill  hat,  in  which  she 
looked  so  well,  is  ridiculous,  outlandish* 
My  theory  is  that  the  turncoat  attitude 
is  prompted  solely  by  jealousy  and  noth- 
ing more.  Have  you  ever  watched  the 
wistful  expression,  the  hungry  look  on 
a  man's  face  when  he  gazes  at  the 
brightly  colored  millinery  confections  for 
men  in  Esquire?    Sometimes  a  hardier 


Examination,  1937-1938 

spirit  will  saunter  carelessly  into  a  store 
to  try  one  on — or,  courageous  soul,  to 
actually  buy  one  !  But,  alas,  the  purchase 
is  worn  only  until  he  feels  the  eye  of 
another  man  (probably  envious)  upon 
his  head ;  and  then  the  short-termed 
delight  is  laid  aside  with  the  excuse  that 
"it  didn't  fit  anyway."  Therefore,  the 
oldest  object  of  ridicule  is  laid  to  rest 
under  the  tombstone  of  envy. 

The  next,  woman's  concern  for  her 
complexion,  is  easily  understandable.  But 
what  is  underestimated,  in  fact  disre- 
garded entirely,  is  the  male  concern  over 
his  epidermis.  A  man  who  will  face  an 
irate  automobilist,  a  mad  bull,  or  a 
mother-in-law  boldly,  will  flinch  when  he 
finds  a  roughened  spot  on  his  face.  So 
he  uses  a  little  of  his  wife's,  or  sister's 
cold  cream,  tissue  cream,  and  skin  tonic, 
and  when  accused  of  theft,  blames  it  on 
evaporation  and  changes  the  subject  with 
a  long  tirade  on  the  money  wasted  on 
beauty  preparations.  Thus,  man  is  not 
only  jealous  but  deceitful  as  well. 

Thirdly,  contrast  a  woman's  careful, 
but  unconcerned  survey  of  herself  in  a 
mirror  with  a  man's  self-conscious,  self- 
admiring  preening.  A  woman  looks  into 
a  mirror  only  to  see  if  she  needs  any 
more  powder ;  a  man  gazes  complacently 
at  the  handiwork  of  God,  which  gives 
him  so  much  pleasure.  I  add  conceit  to 
the  list  of  male  faults. 

On  the  last  subject,  the  one  of  gossip- 
ing, I  wax  indignant.  Man  disclaims  any 
part  in  it,  but  boldfacedly  admits  to  the 
bull  session,  that  ruination  of  any  girl's 
reputation.  Speaking  as  an  individual,  I 
would  rather  have  my  appearance  pur- 


[27] 


ringly  commented  on  by  cats  than  my  deceitful,  conceited,  and  jealous  person 
moral  codes,  my  physical  deficiencies,  my  who  will  take  every  opportunity  to  pro- 
conversation  torn  to  shreds  by  tigers.  voke  the  rage  of  woman,  just  with  the 
In  surveying  the  arguments  I  have  idea  of  cloaking  his  own  naked  faults — 
described,  I  find  that  man  is  a  malicious,  but,  oh,  how  we  women  love  it ! 


Figures  of  Speech 

He  lived  a  moth  ball  existence. — Sister  Mary  Mercedes  Crane 


The  cream  pie  was  sprinkled  with  a  sort  of  glorified  excelsior. 

— Sister  Mary  Mercedes  Crane 


The  round  dome  of  the  auditorium  looked  like  a  huge  fruit  bowl  turned  upside 
down. — Lee  Roy  Hays 

•  •  •  • 

The  observatory  like  a  giant's  marble  half-hidden  among  the  trees. 

— E.  H.  Mueller 

•  •  •  • 

Construction  men  like  grasshoppers  on  the  stalk  of  the  structure. 

— E.  H.  Mueller 

Static  like  a  crackling  brush  fire. — E.  H.  Mueller 

The  golf  course  was  as  windy  as  a  ride  in  a  roadster. — E.  H.  Mueller 

The  fateful  words  of  the  message  danced  before  her  eyes  like  a  swarm  of  tortur- 
ing gnats. — Sister  Ida  Marie  Adams 

•  •  •  • 

His  nose  extended  into  the  sea  of  air  like  a  peninsula. 

— Sister  Ida  Marie  Adams 

My  desk-lamp  eyed  my  work  like  a  quizzical,  long-necked  goose. 

— Sister  Ida  Marie  Adams 

•  •  •  • 

She  wore  a  pink  hat  shaped  like  an  inverted  dog-dish. — Charles  J.  Taylor 

•  •  •  • 

The  clouds  looked  like  grey,  soggy  dumplings. — Charles  J.  Taylor 

Protected  by  red  shin-guards,  the  catcher's  legs  looked  like  those  of  a  lobster. 

— Charles  J.  Taylor 

As  proud  as  the  foam  on  a  stein  of  beer. — John  A.  Shaneman 

[28] 


Trout  Fishing 

Kenneth  Busch 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1926-1927 


npHE  NEXT  time  you  see  the  village 
*■  weather  prophet  cock  his  eye  at  a 
cloudless  sky,  and  announce  solemnly 
that  it  is  a  "weather-breeder,"  ask  him 
how  he  knows.  The  chances  are  you'll 
never  find  out,  for  it's  a  weakness  with 
most  men  to  conceal,  if  possible,  their 
sources  of  information,  and  the  manner 
in  which  they  achieved  skill  in  perform- 
ing certain  tasks. 

I  too  share  this  weakness  for  conceal- 
ment. I  take  particular  care  to  avoid 
exposing  some  of  my  early  experiences. 
Why,  the  very  first  time  I  set  a  steel 
trap,  the  only  thing  I  caught  was  my 
fingers.  And  my  first  pair  of  long  pants 
— I  tripped  myself  publicly  by  stepping 
on  the  cuflF  while  taking  a  step  back- 
wards. Although  I  have  since  attained 
some  proficiency  in  these  lines  of  en- 
deavor, I  still  take  care  to  keep  those 
early  memories  buried. 

There  are,  however,  a  few  youthful 
efforts  I  don't  mind  recalling.  One,  for 
example,  was  the  first  fish  I  ever  caught 
on  a  fly. 

The  family  doctor  was  responsible  for 
this.  He  was  a  great  fly-fisherman,  and, 
naturally,  a  true  sportsman.  He  hated  to 
see  me  growing  up  and  still  using  worms 
for  fishing.  When  I  was  nine,  he  gave 
me  some  flies  and  a  little  information 
about  them.  It  all  sounded  very  well,  but 
I  lacked  confidence  in  mere  feathers  and 
silk.  When  I  did  use  the  flies,  I  added  a 
hunk  of  worm.  The  results  were  just 
what  you  would  expect.  But  I  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  believe  that  trout  really 
would  be  caught  on  something  they 
couldn't  eat.   I  had  heard  about  its  being 


done,  of  course,  but  I  suspected  that 
there  was  some  secret  being  kept  from 
me. 

One  afternoon  in  May,  school  was  dis- 
missed early.  It  was  what  local  officials 
proudly  called  "Clean-up  Day."  School 
children  were  supposed  to  devote  their 
"free"  time  to  cleaning  up  their  home 
premises.  Prizes  were  to  be  awarded  to 
the  conscientious  urchins  who  exhibited 
the  cleanest  yard  as  a  result  of  their 
own  labors.  Our  yard  looked  like  more 
of  a  job  than  I  cared  to  undertake,  par- 
ticularly in  view  of  the  fact  that  the 
very  highest  reward  offered  was  an 
engraved  scroll.  Besides,  it  had  rained 
the  night  before,  and  the  amber  waters 
of  Indian  Meadow  Brook  sang  a  song 
which  I  couldn't  resist. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  civic  cleanup, 
I  was  told  at  home  to  rake  up  the  front 
yard.  I  did  for  a  while,  but  the  enchant- 
ing song  of  Indian  Meadow  Brook 
tinkled  in  my  thoughts.  I  found  it  neces- 
sary to  rake  all  the  way  across  the  pave- 
ment, and  then  I  had  to  go  across  the 
street  to  see  how  the  yard  looked  from 
there.  And  finally,  not  much  to  my  sur- 
prise, I  found  myself  at  Indian  Meadow 
Brook.  I'd  got  my  rod,  a  basket,  and  a 
can  of  worms  from  their  hiding  place. 
But,  in  my  haste,  I'd  lost  the  worms. 

I  could,  of  course,  have  grubbed 
around  in  the  woods  for  more,  but  that, 
I  felt,  would  take  too  long.  Besides, 
worm  grubbing  would  be  hard  work.  I 
decided  to  use  the  two  flies  the  family 
doctor  had  given  me.  Even  if  I  caught 
nothing  I  could  practice  casting,  about 
which  I  knew  almost  nothing. 


[29] 


My  rod  was  a  hand-me-down,  a 
battered  implement  which  had  seen  the 
depths  of  the  dread  Hammerton 
Swamps,  and  had  taken  many  a  fine 
trout  from  the  gravelly  bends  of  the 
Farmington  East  Branch.  In  an  old 
envelope,  I  carried  the  doctor's  contri- 
butions— a  three-foot  leader,  a  Coach- 
man, and  a  Professor.  I  soaked  the  dry 
leader  for  a  few  minutes  and  then 
fastened  on  the  Coachman.  I  trailed  the 
leader  in  the  water,  and  pulled  on  it,  and 
gradually  it  became  less  like  a  coiled 
spring.  Then  I  began  to  fish  in  the  best 
imitation  of  the  methods  I  had  heard 
about. 

As  the  fly  slid  across  the  current  at 
the  end  of  a  pool,  I  saw  a  trout  roll  up 
from  the  depths  and  lunge  at  it.  I  could 
scarcely  believe  my  eyes.  Startled,  I 
jumped,  and  as  I  did,  the  line  tightened, 
and  the  trout  was  fast.  Somehow  I 
pulled  myself  together,  and  played  him, 
with  due  regard  for  what  seemed  to  me 
the  criminal  smallness  of  the  hook,  which 
was  a  mere  number  ten.  I  used  number 
six  or  larger  for  worming.  But  finally 
the  trout  was  landed.  Still  I  was  unbe- 
lieving. How  could  a  trout  be  caught  on 
an  artificial  fly? 

He  was  a  big  fish,  as  they  ran  in  that 
stream  then — nine  and  a  half  inches  or 
so.  I  was  hysterical  with  joy.  It  could 
be  done !  When  I  had  put  the  trout  into 
the  basket,  and  turned  once  more  to  the 
water,  it  was  a  thrill  to  realize  that  I  was 
ready  to  continue  fishing,  without  paw- 
ing around  in  the  bait  box  for  a  worm. 
Just  heave  the  fly,  and  go  to  it.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  fly  fishing  had  some 
virtues  I  had  overlooked. 

It  took  something  under  a  minute  to 
learn  that  fly-fishing  was  not  so  easy  as 
I  had  assumed.    A  trout  rose,  mouthed 


the  fly,  spat  it  out,  and  swam  away.  All 
of  them  were  not  going  to  hook  them- 
selves. I  was  tensely  set  w^hen  the  next 
rise  came,  and  I  whipped  the  fly  away 
before  the  trout  could  get  anywhere 
near  it.  The  next  ten  minutes  I  spent 
disentangling  the  hook  from  the  unyield- 
ing upper  branches  of  a  hemlock  which 
had  crept  up  behind  me.  When  I  finally 
got  the  hook  free,  I  shinned  down  the 
tree,  and  fell  into  the  brook. 

I  wrung  out  my  clothes,  and  while  I 
dried  in  the  sun,  my  composure  returned. 
I  resumed  my  operations  cautiously.  The 
trout  were  feeding  steadily,  and  soon, 
after  many  misses,  I  caught  another.  He 
was  a  good  one,  too.  The  misses  were 
instructive,  for  I  began  to  realize  the 
mistakes  I  was  making  even  though  I 
could  not  immediately  put  my  new-found 
wisdom  into  practice.  After  a  while,  I 
took  a  third  fish,  and  then  caught  two 
on  successive  casts.  This  puffed  my  ego 
so  much  that  my  casting  grew  careless. 
The  trout,  however,  were  on  my  side, 
several  of  them  virtually  committing 
suicide. 

When  I  got  home,  I  had  sixteen  trout. 
The  largest  was  ten  inches  long,  and 
they  were  all  fat  and  brilliant.  I  rushed 
up  to  the  house,  having  forgot,  in  my 
pride,  just  what  I  was  coming  back  to. 
The  rake  leaned  accusingly  against  the 
steps,  and  there  stood  my  parents,  look- 
ing stern.  Just  leaving  was  the  Clean-up 
Day  inspection  committee — the  first 
selectman,  the  Congregational  minister, 
and  the  school  principal.  One  glance 
satisfied  me  they  weren't  pleased. 

I  crept  forward  and  exhibited  my 
catch. 

"Got  'em  all  on  a  fly,"  I  said  weakly. 
I  thought  I  detected  a  gleam  of  interest 
in  my  father's  eyes,  but  his  mouth  was 


[30] 


grim.  I  stood  meekly,  waiting  for  the 
lightning  to  descend. 

Just  then  there  was  a  gentle  hiss  be- 
hind me.  I  turned  to  see  the  doctor  driv- 
ing up  in  his  Stanley  Steamer.  I  felt 
better — here  was  an  ally. 

But  I  didn't  need  help.  Father  came 
down  the  steps,  took  the  basket  of  fish, 
and  held  it  out  for  the  doctor's  inspec- 
tion. 

"How's  that  for  a  string?"  he  asked. 
''He  caught  them  all  on  a  fly,  too!" 


The  battle  was  won.  Father  was  a 
fisherman  first,  and  a  stem  parent  sec- 
ond. The  inspection  committee  was 
forgot. 

And  then  came  the  thrill  that  made  me 
feel  suddenh'  grown  up.  The  doctor 
looked  at  the  tmtidy  yard,  the  telltale 
idle  rake.  Then  he  looked  at  the  basket 
of  fish.  Turning  to  me,  he  winked 
solemnlv. 


The  Fight 

Professional 

Baer  stands  flatfooted,  with  his  great  death-dealing  fight  fist  doubled  by  his  side. 
He  swings,  and  one  can  almost  count  three  while  his  fist  sails  through  the  air.  Louis 
moves  sidewise  and  back,  because  he  has  been  taught  that  if  he  moves  with  a  blow  it 
can  never  hurt  him.  Baer's  glove  slides  up  the  side  of  Louis'  head  harmlessly.  He 
swings  again  and  again,  and,  carefully  and  unhurriedly,  Louis  slips  awa)-.  Look! 
Louis  is  at  last  going  in.  A  left,  a  right,  and  another  left  in  close.  Louis  has  pidled 
in  his  head,  and,  with  both  arms  up  before  him,  he  looks  like  a  brown  crayfish.  All 
one  can  see  is  the  twitching  of  his  shoulders.  So  incredibly  fast  is  he  that  the  blows 
themselves  are  almost  invisible.  His  hand  cannot  possibly  be  mo%-ing  more  than  a 
few  inches.  He  is  Literally  raining  down  blows.  Baer's  nose  spurts  blood,  his  lower 
lip  is  gashed,  and  his  face  is  red  pulp. — H.  Maubice  Ktrby 

And  Amateur 

I  foolishly  precipitated  the  clash  while  mopping  in  one  of  the  cabins.   E ,  the 

chambermaid,  was  making  a  bed  in  the  other  room  of  the  cabin.   R ,  the  waiter, 

ambled  by  in  his  white  coat  and  trousers.  I  playfully  flicked  the  water-samrated  mop 
out  the  door,  not  really  meaning  to  splash  him.  It  was  a  foolhardy  move,  however,  for 
he  snarled  a  curse,  stepped  into  the  cabin,  and  dealt  me  a  lusty  slap  in  the  face.  I  was 
taken  aback.  \Mien  I  realized  what  had  happened,  I  was  thoroughly  enraged  and 
threw  myself  into  the  batde  with  vim.  We  rolled  on  the  floor,  hitting  wherever,  and 
whenever,  we  could.    I  remember  seeing,  on  one  of  the  frequent  times  when  I  was 

underneath  him.  E nm  out  of  the  cabin,  screaming  for  one  of  the  brothers  to 

come  and  break  up  the  fighL  I  vi^-idly  recall  his  face  bobbing  before  me  and  my  lash- 
ing out  at  it.  One  particularly  accurate  blow  smashed  his  upper  lip  and  made  his  nose 
gush  blood.  He,  however,  beat  the  wind  out  of  me  with  a  superb  punch  in  my  solar 
plexus  region,  bashed  my  head  against  the  end  of  the  bed,  gave  me  a  '"mouse"  (black 
eye),  and  completely  whipped  me.  I  drew  one  logical  conclusion  from  the  combat — 
the  bigger  they  are,  the  harder  I  fall. — \\'illis  Ballaxce 


[31] 


Rhet.  As  Writ. 

(Extracts  from  themes  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


Your  telephone  also  brings  incon- 
vience  to  you  by  ringing  when  you  are 
cooking  and  are  near  a  cridical  point  of 
being  burned  or  well  cooked. 


It  is  a  very  good  experience  which  he 
would  probably  never  have  had  if  it  had 
not  been  for  his  having  to  have  a  sum- 
mer job. 


I  expected  to  see  only  seven  or  eight 
college  buildings  and  to  be  placed  on  a 
hill  or  knob  away  from  the  town  and  its 
business. 

It  was  fun  for  most  of  them  to  be  able 
to  ware  a  uniform  with  shinning  but- 
toms  and  have  the  ladies  look  up  to  them. 

Every  seat  was  filled  to  capacity. 

•  •  •  • 

John  was  in  a  trench,  and  on  both 
sides  of  him  were  men  dressed  as  he 
was,  with  bowel  shaped  helmets  on  their 
heads. 

Whenever  anyone  called  on  the  head 
of  the  government,  the  visitor  was  ex- 
pected to  stand  while  he  sat. 


With  the  Arabian  Knights  in  my  arms, 
I  could  be  whisked  merrily  away  with 
Ali  Baba  and  his  forty  henchmen. 

Peoria's  growth  in  the  past  has  been 
rapid,  but  it  will  be  more  rapid  in  the 
hereafter. 

The  picnics  are  usually  held  in  forest 
preserves  during  the  day  on  Sundays, 
while  the  wiennie  roasts  are  held  in  the 
evening  over  an  outdoor  fire  place. 

When  we  follow  the  irrigation  ditch, 
we  see  many  things  of  interest — com- 
mon things,  such  as  wood  chucks,  golfers, 
and  frogs. 

I  will  be  the  butt  of  no  leg-pulling. 


[32:\ 


Honorable  Mention 


Lack  of  space  prevents  the  publishing  of  excellent  themes  written  by  the 
following  students.  Some  of  these  themes  may  be  published,  in  part  or  in  entirety, 
in  future  issues. 


Edwin  J.  Barber 
David  Ehrenberg 
George  Foster 
Doris  Good 
B.  E.  Gordon 
Collin  Handlen 
Earl  Humphrey 
RoLLiN  A.  Johnson 
Ellin  Kudo 
Buck  Lowry 
Betty  McMarron 


Patsy  Maxwell 
Randal  A.  Mehler 
Shannon  Powers 
Frances  Pritchett 
John  E.  Sicks 
Joseph  O.  Stites 
Maxine  Stogsdell 
Robert  Waters 
M.  B.  Wolfe 

IVIlLTON  YaNOW 


The  English  Readings 


Each  year  the  Department  of  English  sponsors  a  series  of  readings  from 
literature.   The  program  for  the  rest  of  this  semester  follows. 

November  2. — Ben  Jonson,  Poet  and  Man  (The  Tercentenary  of  His  Death). 
Professor  Harold  N.  Hillebrand. 

November  16. — From  John  C.  Branner's  The  How  and  Why  Stories.  Professor 
Marvin  T.  Herrick. 

December  14. — America's  Most  Popular  Play:    Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.   Mr.  Wesley 

SWANSON. 

January  11. — Modern  Metrical  Rhythms.   Professor  W.  M.  Parrish. 

The  readings  will  be  held  at  228  Natural  History  Building  (at  the  corner  of  Green 
and  Mathews),  and  will  begin  at  7:15  p.m. 


Vol.7 


DECEMBER.  IQ*^? 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

BLACK  EYES 1 

Dorothy  Dietz 

SHAKESPEARE'S  MIDSUMMER'S  IDIOM     ...       2 
June  Morgan 

A  PACIFIST'S  PHILOSOPHY:    1937 3 

M.  B.  Wolfe 

I  DON'T  BELIEVE  IT 5 

Anonymous 

THE  SKETCH  BOOK 10 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

THE  ADVANTAGES  OF  A  LARGE  FAMILY      .      .     12 
Isabel  Roberts 

ON  BEING  A  SCULLERY  MAID 15 

Irma  Breiter 

ON    BECOMING    EDUCATED 17 

R.  Marschik 

LESSON  IN  SELF-CONFIDENCE 19 

Robert  Waters 

WHAT'S  IN  A  TITLE? 22 

(Titles  of  themes  submitted  to  the  GREEN 
CALDRON,  1936-1937) 

BLUT  UND  EISEN 23 

Allen  Adams 

1914 — 1937 25 

Regina  Eberle 

SLUM  CYCLE 28 

B.  E.  Gordon 

RHET.  AS  WRIT ,32 

t       PUBLISHED  BY  THE  RHETORIC  STAFF.  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS,  URBANA 


^ 


JLhe  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staff  of  the  University  of  IlHnois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
published  anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  however, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Dr.  Robert  Blair,  Mr.  Gibbon  But- 
ler, Mr.  Lee  Hughes,  Dr.  Carolyn  Washburn,  and  Dr. 
R.  E.  Haswell,  Chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building,  Urbana,  Illinois.  The 
price  is  fifteen  cents  a  copy. 


Black  Eyes 


Dorothy  Dietz 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  13,  1926-1937 


TT  WAS  Christmas  Sunday.  All  was 
*■  warm  and  happy  and  comfortable  at 
home.  We  finished  our  dinner,  loaded 
the  baskets  into  the  car,  and  went  to 
call  for  two  of  the  Sunday  School  stu- 
dents who  were  to  accompany  us. 

Each  year  at  Christmas  time  it  had 
been  a  family  custom  to  give  away  a 
little  of  what  we  had ;  this  year  I  had 
invited  my  Sunday  School  class  of  thir- 
teen year  olds  to  help  me.  For  weeks 
before,  we  had  been  making  over  clothes, 
repairing  toys,  dressing  dolls,  and  saving 
for  the  food  and  special  presents  that 
were  to  be  included  in  our  gifts  to  a 
Mexican  family  of  the  slum  district.  It 
was  a  great  deal  of  fun ;  our  evenings 
together  were  rather  festive.  The  hours 
we  spent  together  were  part  of  the 
Christmas  season.  They  had  been  for 
years  past  and  would  be  for  many 
Christmases  to  come. 

Arriving  at  the  grayed,  tumble-down, 
wooden  tenement  that  was  the  home  we 
were  to  visit,  we  managed  to  scramble 
out  from  beneath  the  baskets  and  bundles 
that  we  had  been  packed  in  with,  and  to 
find  our  way  up  the  narrow,  dark,  worn 
staircase  to  the  small,  cold  rooms  of  the 
family  we  were  seeking.  They  were  ex- 
pecting us,  and  the  smallest  black-eyed 
boy  shyly  escorted  us,  with  our  first  load 
of  bundles,  into  the  cold  dampness  of  the 
front  room.  After  laughing  with  the 
mother  over  the  big  eyes  of  her  nine 
excited  children,  we  returned  to  the  car 
for   another   load.    Upon   entering  this 


time,  we  were  received  by  one  little  boy 
who  had  found  his  voice  enough  to  say 
something  about  Santa  Claus.  The  old- 
est girl  mustered  courage  enough  to  peek 
at  a  doll  whose  head  was  sticking  out  of 
a  box.  Soon  all  except  the  very  smallest 
little  girl,  who  was  busy  with  a  woolly 
dog,  were  chattering  happily.  After  more 
trips  to  the  car  and  when  everyone 
seemed  happy,  we  decided  to  leave. 
When  the  others  were  on  their  way 
downstairs  and  I  was  saying  a  last 
goodbye,  the  seven-year  old,  with  her 
black  eyes  shining  and  her  cold  little 
hand  in  mine,  reached  up  and  kissed 
me.  It  was  then,  very  suddenly,  then 
I  knew. 

We  had  been  wrong,  terribly  wrong. 
How  dared  we !  Making  a  convention- 
ality out  of  toying  with  their  happiness ; 
gratifying  our  sense  of  duty  by  so  "gen- 
erously" giving  of  what  we  did  not  need 
— was  it  not  little  more  than  mockery? 
Behind  those  black  eyes  had  been  love 
for  us ;  had  we  looked  behind  black  eyes 
to  see  more  than  just  an  object  for  our 
giving?  Had  we  seen  individual  person- 
ality potentially  as  rich  and  beautiful  as 
any  on  earth,  character  potentially  as 
fine  as  we  hoped  ours  might  become? 
It  zvas  there — and  we  regarded  it  much 
as  we  regarded  the  plants  we  watered 
and  the  canaries  we  fed !  Christmas  gifts 
to  the  poor?  Let  them  rather  be  Christ- 
mas gifts  to  friends  who  happen  to  be 
poor — because  a  little  girl  with  shining 
black  eyes  kissed  me  goodbye. 


[  1  ] 


Shakespeare's  Midsummer  s  Idiom 


June  Morgan 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  4, 1927-1938 


I  ABHOR  up-lifters.  I  detest  raisers 
of  the  popular  taste.  I  loathe  givers 
of  beauty  to  the  proletariat.  This  is  my 
"j 'accuse"  against  those  who  would  force 
down  the  already  much  distended  throats 
of  the  public  a  more  cultured  cinema. 
Movies  are  America's  Public  Relaxation 
No.  1.  They  are  for  the  millions  who 
cry  for  belly  laughs,  for  tears,  for  cheap 
songs,  for  superterrestrial  lovely  ladies, 
for  men  with  the  best  parts  of  an  Apollo 
and  a  Tarzan ;  they  are  not  for  the  mili- 
tant Knights  Templar  of  Culchar  who 
will  burn  the  many  in  the  hot  oil  of  blank 
verse  to  save  them  from  the  devil,  bad 
taste.  They  cannot  see  that  an  auto-da-fe 
never  truly  converts  anyone. 

Let  us  take  for  example  the  much 
heralded  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 
which  was  to  retail  the  Bard  to  breath- 
less, awe-struck  movie-goers  from 
Broadway  to  Mid-Western  whistle  stops. 
Rather  than  criticize  the  simpering 
Shearer,  the  half-hearted  Howard,  or  the 
boisterously  burping  Barrymore,  let  us 
go  to  the  spirit  in  which  this  juggernaut 
of  refinement  was  rolled  over  the  bodies 
of  those  dumb,  unquestioning  idolaters 
who  would  much  rather  be  seeing  the 
Ritz  brothers.  It  was  a  sop  thrown  to 
women's  clubs  and  school  teachers  with 
enough  super-colossalism  added  to  bring 
the  hoi  -polloi. 

In  any  case  Shakespeare  in  the  movies 
is  an  anomaly.  It  is  not  in  Shakespeare's 
own  spirit.  The  typical  movie  audience 
must  be  much  like  that  which  filled  the 
Globe.  I  dare  say  few  learned  church- 
men or  Oxford  dons  found  their  way  to 


Southwark.  The  ribboned  gallants  who 
"strutted  and  fretted"  to  their  stools  on 
the  stage,  the  ladies  in  vizards  in  cur- 
tained boxes,  the  fishwives,  the  coster- 
mongers — these  were  his  audiences.  And 
they  loved  these  plays.  They  were  in 
their  idiom ;  they  had  the  spirit  of  the 
time ;  the  language  which  so  confuses  us 
now  was  their  language.  Shakespeare  is 
now  archaic.  He  has  been  deified  by 
those  who  love  him ;  and  those  who  study 
him  understand  him  far  more  than  those 
Tudor  Londoners  out  for  good  times 
across  the  Thames.  The  point  of  all  this 
is  that  Shakespeare  in  his  time  was  ex- 
tremely popular — and  yet  all  his  works 
are  artistic.  He  is  not  popular  in  the 
movies — and  not  very  artistic.  The 
movies  putter  about  attempting  to  make 
a  popular  art  of  Shakespeare,  of  the 
great  novels,  of  historical  events  without 
even  considering  that  the  movie  public 
must  have  a  new  idiom,  one  that  is  of  the 
moment,  appealing  to  all — popular,  yet 
artistic. 

Let  us  remember  that  the  audience 
which  sat  enthralled  on  the  hard  stone 
benches  watching  the  masked  actors  per- 
form a  tragedy  of  Sophocles  were  not  a 
group  of  Walter  Paters  or  Matthew 
Arnolds — they  were  mere  citizens  of 
Athens.  Shakespeare's  audience  was  on 
the  whole  less  esthetic  than  the  Pi  Phi's 
and  Sig.  Nu's  who  sing  with  Ray  Turner 
Saturday  night  at  the  Rialto.  The  com- 
mon movie-goers  are  asking  for  master- 
pieces that  are  in  their  spirit — for  the 
all,  not  the  few — for  immortal  drama 
which  can  be  played  by  Alice  Faye. 


[2] 


A  Pacifist's  Philosophy:  1937 


M.  B.  Wolfe 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  1,  1937-1928 


OACIFISTS  can  orate,  present  facts 


r 


and  figures,  give  unanswerable  ar- 


I 


guments,  but  they  have  little  eflfect  upon 
the  stark  realism  of  war,  for  pacifism  has 
one  all-powerful  enemy,  mob  hysteria. 

A  few  thousand  people  go  to  a  theater. 
They  are  so  many  individual,  rational, 
sane  beings.  A  notice  is  flashed  on  the 
screen.  It  reads,  "In  case  of  fire,  this 
theater  can  be  emptied  in  three  minutes. 
Walk,  do  not  run  to  the  nearest  exit." 
The  theater-goers  read  it,  understand  it, 
realize  that  the  theater  can  be  emptied 
most  quickly  if  the  people  leave  in  an 
orderly  fashion.  Thus,  when  a  fire  does 
break  out,  they  file  quietly  toward  their 
respective  exits,  kindly  assist  the  aged 
and  the  children  to  safety,  and  all  es- 
cape unharmed?  Like  H — 1  they  do! 
They  cease  to  become  individuals.  They 
become  one  solid,  screaming,  clawing, 
beastlike  mass  scrambling  roughly  over 
those  too  weak  to  fight  their  way  out. 
Many  people  are  needlessly  killed.  These 
once-sane  people  have  not  suddenly  gone 
crazy,  they  are  only  responding  to  mob 
hysteria.  Their  reasoning  is  gone.  They 
have  come  a  monstrum  horrendiim  with 
one,  and  only  one  idea — to  get  out, 
quickly. 

This  is  basic,  and  illustrates  the  force 
of  the  emotion  which  grips  people  at 
the  beginning  of  a  war.  There  are  other 
factors  existing  today  which  discourage 
the  pacifist — jingoistic  nationalism,  dic- 
tators seeking  to  keep  their  subjects' 
minds  off  their  empty  stomachs,  Zahar- 
offs,   Krupps,   and   Du   Fonts   who  sell 


munitions  and  need  markets,  and  the 
tragic  results  of  the  last  war.  These  all 
help  to  provide  the  spark  and  tinder 
which  start  the  devastating  bonfire. 

Also  it  is  said  that  warfare  is  in  our 
blood,  that  war  will  last  as  long  as  man- 
kind does.  The  best  answer  I  have  seen 
to  this  dogmatic  argument  was  a  cartoon 
in  the  New  York  Times  last  year.  On  one 
side  of  the  cartoon  is  shown  a  group  of 
missing  links  disporting  themselves  in  the 
trees.  On  the  ground  is  an  enterprising 
youngster  who  is  attempting  the  danger- 
ous experiment  of  standing  on  only  two 
of  his  legs.  The  others  are  laughing  and 
saying,  "The  fool !  We  have  always 
walked  on  four  legs  and  we  always  will." 
The  other  side  of  the  cartoon  shows 
people  filing  toward  a  peace  forum.  A 
sceptic  in  the  foreground  comments  that 
such  things  are  useless,  since  war,  like 
the  poor,  will  always  be  with  us. 

Pacifist  organizations  are  not  con- 
vinced that  war  is  inevitable.  World 
Peaceways,  the  American  League  against 
War  and  Fascism,  and  the  various  stu- 
dent leagues  are  doing  spendid  work.  All 
history,  however,  seems  to  indicate  that 
their  efforts  are  useless.  All  over  the 
world,  in  the  last  war,  groups  who  had 
stood  out  most  strongly  against  war  were 
among  the  first  to  enter  the  battle  lines. 
Even  the  radical  organizations  fell  in 
line.  It  is  easy  enough  to  say  that  these 
groups  were  fickle  and  hypocritical,  but 
that  is  not  true.  They  were  an  intelli- 
gent, honest-minded  class,  but  they  were 
swept  along  in  the  tidal  wave  of  national- 


[  3  ] 


istic    emotion    which    deluged    their   re-  that  when  we  hear  the  bands  playing  and 

spective  countries  at  the  outbreak  of  the  see  the  flags  flying  and  are  urged  to  go 

war.  out  and  make  heroes  of  ourselves  we  will 

Yes,  it  is  easy  enough  to  be  a  pacifist  enthusiastically  kill  our  fellow  creatures 

after   the    fighting   is   over;    it    is   easy  in   order   to   make   something   safe    for 

enough  to  assert  that  no  such  thing  can  something? 

happen  today.  Do  we  really  believe  that  ?  We  don't  dare  to  believe  anything.  We 

Or   do  we   have   a   well-grounded   fear  only  hope. 


As  the  Movies  See  Them 

Small  Town 

Movies  concerning  small  town  life  invariably  open  with  scenes  showing  peaceful 
Main  Street  with  dusty  stores  ranged  in  an  undeviating  line  on  both  sides,  or  a  lovely 
village  residence  of  white  frame  surrounded  by  a  picket  fence  and  beautiful  elms,  or 
the  citizens  just  getting  out  of  church  and  giving  and  receiving  pleasant  gossip.  Then 
something  happens  to  disrupt  the  calm  village  life.  Perhaps  Theodora  goes  wild — 
writes  a  novel  about  the  wicked  city  and  the  sinful  people  living  there.  Immediately 
there  is  life  in  the  little  town.  The  village  paper  starts  to  work  as  it  never  worked 
before,  the  village  gossips  start  to  work  as  they  never  worked  before,  and  all  in  all 
the  whole  town  enters  into  a  lively  dispute.  Is  Theodora  right  or  wrong  to  have 
taken  to  such  a  career?  Everyone  in  town  except  the  worldly  newspaper  editor  is 
against  careers  for  women — at  any  rate  such  a  one  as  Theo's.  However,  the  reading 
of  Theodora's  books  goes  on  stealthily  and  extensively.  After  Theodora  has  proved 
that  her  innate  rectitude  can  neutralize  the  bad  effects  of  any  career  that  she  may 
wish  to  undertake,  the  townspeople  finally  remove  their  hypocritic  disguise.  The 
picture  fades  with  the  town  back  in  its  calm  serenity.  The  people  are  still  going 
calmly  to  church  and  unhurriedly  to  market. 

Big  City 

City  life  in  the  movies  is  a  picture  of  unceasing  activity.  If  the  poor  working  girl 
is  not  hurrying  down  to  work  via  the  congested  subway,  the  wealthy  daughter  of  a 
bank  president  is  rushing  from  one  cocktail  party  to  the  next  in  search  of  excitement, 
true  love,  or  a  husband.  If  I  can  believe  half  of  what  I  see,  New  York  is  a  city  in 
which  live  very  poor  people  who  must  either  honestly  or  dishonestly  gain  food,  cloth- 
ing, and  shelter  for  themselves  and  their  little  ones,  and  very  rich  people  whose  only 
problem  in  life  is  how  to  avoid  ennui.  The  latter  class  searches  for  adventure  in 
making  love,  getting  married  and  divorced  and  married  again  as  did  the  couple  in 
"Private  Lives,"  who  were  spasmodically  making  love  to  and  throwing  chinaware  at 
each  other.  Even  becoming  involved  in  a  murder  seems  to  be  a  not  uncommon  rem- 
edy. Between  drinks  and  hangovers,  the  wealthy  couple  in  "The  Thin  Man"  was 
absorbed  in  a  real  murder  mystery.  Neither  Mr.  Charles,  retired  detective,  nor  Mrs. 
Charles  seemed  to  have  any  great  interest  in  life  except  their  dog;  luck  was  with  us 
when  we  were  allowed  to  see  them  during  this  exciting  moment.  Of  course,  the  great 
detective  ferreted  out  the  criminal  as  a  movie  detective  never  fails  to  do.  Wouldn't 
Scotland  Yard  be  pleased  if  it  had  a  Sherlock  Holmes  like  Nick  Charles,  who  never 
failed  to  solve  a  mystery  he  undertook? — Jean  McJohnston 


[4] 


I  Don't  Believe  It 


Anonymous 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  10,  1936-1937 


IS  MY  personality  at  the  mercy  of  a 
group  of  ductless  glands?  The  mod- 
ern scientific  trend  would  have  it  that 
way.  One  writer  says  that  tall  thin 
men  with  an  over-supply  of  some  hor- 
mone are  destined  to  be  of  a  melan- 
choly nature ;  to  play  solitaire,  dote  on 
funerals,  read  radical  literature,  and 
seek  to  reform  the  world.  Plump  men, 
on  the  other  hand,  who  have  the  gland 
working  smoothly,  even  too  smoothly  for 
their  appearance's  sake,  are  found  to 
play  poker,  enjoy  weddings,  read  P.  G. 
Wodehouse,  and  shout  Bravo !  to  the 
world's  ways.  However,  that  my  joy 
or  anxiety,  fear  or  ecstasy,  or  the  way 
I  think  and  the  thoughts  I  have  are  all 
created  by,  and  responsible  to,  a  few 
bulbs  of  tissue  hidden  away  inside  of  me 
is  more  than  I  can  accept,  even  from 
our  intelligentsia.  The  thought  inspires 
a  sense  of  futility.  A  hundred  million 
guinea  pigs  have  been  wasted  on  that 
score,  at  least  so  far  as  I  am  concerned. 
The  intangible  perfection  of  thought 
cannot  be  approached  by  so  gross  a 
thing  as  flesh.  The  two  do  not  speak 
the  same  language.  Their  difference  is 
that  which  exists  between  the  corpse  and 
the  coroner.  One  is  shapen  clay;  the 
other,  clay  made  alive  by  thought.  What 
are  the  glands  doing  in  the  corpse  ?  Can't 
they  make  it  walk?  The  misled  physiol- 
ogist who  seeks  to  control  and  create 
thought  by  working  on  the  glands  re- 
minds one  of  the  equally  misled  chemist 
who  tries  to  build  life  from  atoms — 
tries  to  make  a  dog  out  of  a  dog-house, 
since  atoms  are  merely  the  housing  of 
thought. 


"I'll  remove  a  gland,"  says  the  scien- 
tist, "and  then  you  may  witness  the 
change  in  mental  state  as  well  as  in 
physical." 

"Very  well  Mr.  So  and  So.  PU  re- 
move your  arm,  and  then  you  witness 
the  change  in  your  mental  state  as  well 
as  your  physical.  But  even  so,  I  don't 
make  any  claims  concerning  the  arm's 
power  over  the  creation  and  control  or 
choice  of  thought,  at  least  no  farther 
control  than  all  external  circumstances 
have  on  personality." 

Pm  not  a  Christian  Scientist  declaring 
the  power  of  thought  over  matter.  Need 
I  be,  to  have  the  preceding  beliefs? 
There  are  certain  things  that  need  only 
to  be  seen  to  be  self-evident,  and  to  me, 
the  improbability  of  this  modern  scien- 
tific theory  is  one  of  them.  The  glands 
and  the  mind  have  a  relationship,  no 
doubt,  but  it  isn't  the  former's  creation 
of  the  mind's  products.  The  mind  acts 
through  the  glands,  I  believe,  and  conse- 
quently the  glands  can  alter  the  action, 
but  only  so  far  as  is  given  them  to  do 
so  by  the  mind  itself.  To  explain  more 
fully  what  I  mean,  I  will  re-tell  an  ex- 
perience I  once  had  that  seems  to  mirror 
the  idea  well. 

I  was  then  ten,  and  the  place  was  in  the 
hills  of  my  father's  cattle  ranch  in  Colo- 
rado. I  rode  with  a  companion,  a  lean, 
bronzed  man  known  to  the  rest  of  us  as 
Fritz.  The  foreman,  he  was  a  man 
capable  of  severe  exactions  when  neces- 
sary, but  also  possessing  a  remarkable 
softness  and  understanding  on  certain 
occasions.  The  season  being  spring,  we 
were    starting    the    round-up    for    calf- 


[  5  ] 


branding.  Our  morning  ride  had  taken 
us  twelve  miles  from  the  ranch,  deep 
into  a  pasture-land  of  abrupt  hills  with 
green  meadows  winding  aimlessly  be- 
tween. We  ate  lunch  on  a  flat  rock 
directly  in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  then 
continued  our  hunt  for  cows  and  calves. 

About  mid-afternoon  we  came  upon 
the  object  of  our  search.  Rounding  the 
crown  of  a  small  hill  we  found  below  us, 
relaxed  on  the  short  green  grass  and 
chewing  their  cud,  fifty  or  so  mothers 
with  their  immaculate  youngsters  frisk- 
ing about  them.  Mastering  the  herd  was 
a  giant  Hereford  bull  of  about  ten  sum- 
mers. His  head  was  obscured  in  a  mass 
of  curly  white  wool  from  which  pro- 
truded a  set  of  thick,  battle-scarred 
horns.  His  shoulder-breadth  was  im- 
mense, even  for  a  range  bull  of  his  breed, 
and  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  solidity 
about  him  that  I  felt  and  saw  even  at  a 
quarter  mile  distance. 

The  group  as  a  whole,  together  with 
the  natural  setting,  formed  such  a  de- 
lightful picture  that  Fritz  suggested  we 
dismount  and  watch  them  while  he  had 
a  smoke.  To  eliminate  the  danger  of 
becoming  "hung  up"  in  the  saddle  leather 
should  my  pony  decide  to  stage  an  act,  I 
was,  on  my  father's  orders,  riding  bare- 
back. As  a  result,  the  abused  portions 
of  my  anatomy  welcomed  a  rest  there  on 
the  warm  hillside.  I  slid  ofif  in  a  jifify, 
but  Fritz  was  more  dignified  in  his  dis- 
mounting. We  reclined  on  our  elbows 
and  hips  while  the  foreman  took  out  his 
beloved  "makin's."  Soon  the  odor  of 
Bull  Durham  was  floating  about,  mingled 
with  the  scent  of  pine  needles  and  fresh- 
growing  grass.  For  a  time  we  were 
silent,  sopping  up  the  caressing  sunshine. 
Then  we  began  to  converse  in  low  tones. 
There  is  a  quality  about  the  silent  open 
spaces  that  frustrates  sophistication  and 
the    pretensions    of    security    that    men 


ordinarily  wrap  themselves  in.  Because 
of  that,  our  conversation  led  into  things 
that  would  have  seemed  childish  back  at 
the  ranch.  We  were  attacked  by  that 
embarrassment  that  accompanies  the  con- 
fessions of  one's  inmost  ideas  and  be- 
liefs ;  but  we  continued,  because  the  pres- 
sure of  the  big  silence  about  us  had 
awakened  a  loneliness  and  an  insecurity 
that  we  sought  to  stave  off  with  the 
exchange  of  intimate  thoughts. 

While  thus  engaged,  we  noticed  the 
big  bull  had  become  restless.  After 
watching  him  for  a  moment,  Fritz  de- 
clared that  another  bull  was  somewhere 
in  the  vicinity.  Sensing  a  delightful  con- 
flict, I  looked  eagerly  about.  Sure  enough, 
another  bull  was  coming,  coming  at  a 
lope  around  the  skirt  of  the  hill  directly 
across  the  meadow.  He  held  his  head 
high,  and  his  nostrils  were  dilated  with 
quick  breathing.  He  sensed  a  conflict 
also.  As  he  moved  more  plainly  into 
view,  it  was  evident  he  was  a  younger 
bull  by  several  summers.  His  hide  was 
slick  and  his  muscles  were  rhythmic. 
Where  the  old  bull  showed  staunchness 
and  ruggedness,  the  new-comer  showed 
energy  and  litheness,  and  his  coming 
across  the  meadow  toward  the  herd  was 
a  picture  of  dashing  confidence  and 
determination. 

"He's  from  the  early  spring  crop  the 
year  we  had  so  much  snow.  Remem- 
ber?" Fritz  remarked.  "That  big  fella' 
is  his  father.  It  looks  like  the  prodigal 
son  has  returned  with  a  purpose.  There's 
gonna'  be  a  fight  that's  really  a  fight." 

It  was  a  real  fight.  When  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  the  herd,  the  stranger 
lapsed  into  a  walk  for  caution's  sake. 
The  father,  head  held  low,  massive  neck 
muscles  rippling,  walked  confidently 
from  the  herd  and  approached  the 
antagonist.  He  paused  every  few  yards 
to  gouge  up  great  hunks  of  turf  with  his 


[  6  ] 


foreleg  and  send  it  whipping  into  the 
air  above  him,  meanwhile  emitting  a  low 
bellowing  from  his  cavernous  throat. 
The  son  disregarded  these  customary 
preliminaries  and,  when  a  few  yards 
away,  broke  into  a  speedy  trot  again, 

"When  an  irresistible  force  meets  an 
immovable  object,  what  happens,"  I 
wondered.  For  standing  the  weight  and 
strength  of  the  father  against  the  speed 
and  agility  of  the  son,  the  fighting  wis- 
dom of  the  elder  against  the  lasting  abil- 
ity of  the  younger,  I  could  not  predict 
the  outcome. 


gaining  momentum  for  a  short  time  he 
suddenly  gathered  his  muscles  and,  push- 
ing the  unwary  stranger's  head  suddenly 
to  one  side,  lunged  directly  into  his  shiny 
side,  riding  him  across  the  ground  in  a 
shower  of  clods  and  grass.  The  victim 
finally  righted  himself  and  got  clear. 
Cautioned  by  this  setback,  he  changed 
tactics,  drawing  the  older  bull  into  in- 
numerable false  rushes,  escaping  from 
each  with  superior  speed.  He  explored 
the  older  bull's  wind  and  found  it  poor. 
Finally,  standing  his  ground,  but  refus- 
ing to  carry  the  fight  to  the  aggressor. 


"I'll  take  the  old  fella',"  Fritz  voiced 
excitedly. 

"Then  I'll  take  the  stranger,"  I 
countered ;  but  on  watching  the  veteran's 
confidence  and  business-like  approach,  I 
was  secretly  swayed  in  his  favor  also. 
"He  really  deserves  to  win,"  I  thought. 
"He  is  only  trying  to  protect  his  rights. 
Down  with  the  aggressor !" 

They  met  with  a  terrific  impact — a 
steadily  moving  ton  against  a  fast-mov- 
ing three-quarters.  There  followed  a 
moment  of  checking  and  straining  in 
equilibrium.  Head  to  head  and  shoulder 
braced  against  shoulder,  they  cut  a 
battle-statue  in  the  clear  air.  Then 
weight  began  to  triumph.  The  father 
moved  the  son  steadily  backwards.  After 


the  father  stood  panting  and  bellowing. 
Judging  it  the  proper  time,  the  son  met 
the  father  again  head  to  head.  There  was 
the  same  shock  and  checking,  the  same 
straining,  but  this  time  the  father  had 
lost  his  vitality.  Slowly  he  was  pushed 
back.  It  is  not  the  first  lunging,  side- 
hooking,  and  dodging  that  decides  the 
winner  in  a  bull  fight.  Rather  it  is  the 
last  steady  pushing  that  convinces  the 
loser  of  his  opponent's  superiority.  Slow- 
ly the  son  pushed  the  father  back,  gather- 
ing momentum  and  his  muscles.  When 
the  time  was  ripe,  he  pushed  the  tired 
head  suddenly  aside  and  launched  him- 
self full  into  the  old  bull's  side.  There 
was  not  the  necessary  agility  there.  The 
defeated  monarch  stumbled,  and  the  still- 


[  7  ] 


potent  rush  of  the  younger  bull  spent 
itself  on  a  foreleg.  The  bone  snapped 
and  the  victim  dropped  to  the  ground. 
Sensing  the  battle  completed,  the  new 
master  trotted  over  to  inspect  his  herd. 

In  a  cowboy's  eyes  the  source  of  tears 
is  early  dried  up  by  the  winds  and  heat 
he  must  deal  with  eternally.  But  Fritz 
had  a  lump  in  his  throat.  I  knew  by  his 
failure  to  speak  at  the  finish  of  the  fight. 
I  had  to  draw  my  handkerchief  hastily 
and  make  a  general  bluster  with  it  to 
camouflage  my  emotions;  but  the  awk- 
ward silence  that  followed  spoke  the 
feelings  of  both  of  us. 

The  old  bull  rose  unsteadily  to  his 
three  good  legs,  the  fourth  dangling  from 
the  shoulder.  He  gazed  for  a  moment  at 
the  herd,  but  a  low  bellow  warned  him  to 
begone.  He  turned  and  slowly  hobbled 
around  the  skirt  of  the  hill. 

'T'm  sorry  I  haven't  my  rifle  here," 
Fritz  said  at  length. 

"You  wouldn't  shoot  him?"  I  queried. 

"He'll  be  dead  before  morning,"  came 
the  reply.  "The  coyotes  and  wolves  will 
ham-string  him  and  clean  his  bones 
before  morning." 

My  last  look  at  the  wounded  animal 
disappearing  around  the  hill  brought 
back  that  same  creeping  loneliness  I  had 
felt  earlier  in  the  afternoon.  But  this 
time  it  was  augmented  by  a  more  serious 
factor  than  the  spaces  round  about.  It 
hurt  to  see  the  old  fellow,  proud  even  in 
defeat,  hobbling  around  the  base  of  the 
hill,  not  knowing  of,  nor  expecting,  such 
a  thing  as  the  comfort  human  beings 
give  to  one  another  under  similar  circum- 
stances. An  animal's  world  is  a  cold, 
uninviting  world,  I  thought.  That  the 
son  had  unknowingly  killed  his  father, 
that  knowing  one  another  was  a  thing 
unthought  of  in  animal  life,  set  a  fresh 
value  on  the  loveliness  of  human  rela- 
tions for  me. 


There  had  passed  before  us  in  the 
space  of  an  afternoon  the  drama  of  "con- 
tinual life." 

"What  is  life?"  I  asked  myself,  "and 
why  should  it  be  of  one  kind  in  man  and 
another  in  beasts?"  Five  years  before, 
the  young  bull  had  come  into  the  world 
as  a  portion  of  the  older  one's  life.  He 
had  been  protected  and  looked  after  until 
he  was  old  enough  to  go  away  on  his 
own.  After  a  few  years  he  had  felt  his 
strength  and  come  back  to  kill  his  father. 
Life  had  been  given  from  life,  and  then 
it  slew  its  source. 

My  mind  pored  over  the  question  and 
the  vivid  events  of  the  day  until  loneli- 
ness changed  to  anxiety,  for  there  were 
no  answers  forthcoming.  "One  thing  is 
certain — man  isn't  an  animal,"  I  rea- 
soned.  That  had  been  clearly  shown. 

"But  what  is  life?"  came  forcefully  to 
my  attention  again.  A  vague  tingling 
sensation  arose  at  the  base  of  my  spine 
and  spread  into  a  wave  enveloping  my 
entire  body.  My  throat  became  full  and 
uncomfortable;  my  eyes  filled,  I  was 
made  vitally  aware  of  some  physical 
action  going  on  within  me. 

"What  is ?"    I  started  to  ask  my 

companion,  but  the  syllables  froze  into 
silence  and  dropped  from  the  edge  of  my 
tongue.  Then  my  emotion  changed  to 
fear,  not  of  the  terror-kind,  but  the  cold, 
relentless  fear  that  comes  of  vital  ques- 
tions unanswered,  I  turned  to  speak  to 
Fritz,  but  he  was  half  way  down  to  the 
herd.  I  mounted  in  a  jiflfy  and  trotted 
ahead,  eager  for  the  comfort  of  compan- 
ionship. 

Today  as  I  remember  the  happenings 
of  that  afternoon,  it  isn't  that  I  ques- 
tioned the  how's  and  wherefore's  of 
existence  that  is  significant  in  connection 
with  my  ideas  of  modern  gland  theories. 
Rather,  it  is  the  fact  that  the  events  of 
that  specific  time  created,  or  caused  me 


[  8  ] 


i 


to  think,  a  certain  set  of  thoughts.  Be- 
cause they  were  thoughts  of  a  vital  na- 
ture, they  caused  a  general  excitement  in 
the  various  glands  of  the  body.  The 
gland  action,  in  turn,  was  felt  as  emotion, 
actual  physically  perceptible  emotion.  To 
get  at  the  mind's  bidding,  and  to  reduce 
thought  to  a  physical  entity  is  the  role 
of  those  sensitive  little  bulbs  or  leaves 
of  flesh.  That  is  the  relationship  they 
bear  to  the  personality. 

This  view  I  choose  in  preference  to  the 
one  that  would  have  it  that  upon  that 


certain  day  and  in  that  place,  from  no 
other  cause  than  the  over-supply  or 
under-supply  of  some  hormone,  my 
glands  decided  to  stage  an  exhibition  of 
their  power;  and  that  as  a  result,  the 
significance  of  the  fight  having  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  my  metabolism  was  stepped 
up  to  a  point  where  those  disturbing 
thoughts  resulted. 

But  I  distinctly  remember  that  it  was 
the  thought  that  came  first,  before  the 
emotions,  and  I  am  confident  it  was  the 
thought  that  created  the  rest. 


Touring 

The  tourist  prides  himself  on  the  five  hundred  or  six  hundred  miles  that  he  can 
make  in  one  day.  He  gets  up  before  daybreak,  eats  a  hasty  breakfast,  has  a  hot  dog 
for  lunch,  and  arrives  long  after  dark,  tired  and  hungry.  During  that  day,  what  has 
he  accomplished  beyond  traveling  a  distance  of  five  hundred  miles?  He  has  not  really 
seen  the  country  that  he  has  traveled  through.  His  goal  was  a  city  five  hundred  miles 
away.  Somewhere  off  in  the  distance  was  a  big  attraction  that  he  had  to  see  at  once. 
He  would  never  think  of  turning  off  and  exploring  an  interesting  old  dirt  side  road, 
just  to  see  where  it  led  to.  He  would  think  it  a  waste  of  time  to  stop  and  enjoy  the 
beauty  of  an  old  bridge  over  an  interesting  little  stream.  When  he  stopped  for  lunch, 
he  worried  about  the  time  lost,  and  thought  of  how  far  down  the  road  he  could  have 
been  if  he  had  not  stopped.  He  is  haunted  by  the  figures  on  his  speedometer,  and  as  a 
result  knows  nothing  about  the  country  leading  up  to  his  far  off  and  not  so  important 
goal.  .  .  . 

In  Yellowstone  Park  this  mad  rush  of  the  tourists  is  at  its  highest.  I  know, 
because  two  years  ago  I  was  among  them.  At  one  of  the  geysers  close  to  the  road 
the  tourist  would  stop,  get  out  of  his  car,  and  after  a  hasty  inspection  of  his  surround- 
ings, get  back  in  and  drive  on  to  the  next  geyser.  We  happened  to  turn  off  the  main 
road  onto  a  little  used  dirt  side  road  which,  according  to  our  map,  would  return  to 
the  main  road  a  few  miles  farther  on.  We  spent  over  an  hour  on  this  bumpy,  dusty 
side  road,  but  it  was  well  worth  the  time  and  trouble.  We  came  across  many  little 
hot  springs  and  geysers.  Finally  we  came  to  a  geyser  which  was  many  feet  in  width 
and  made  of  a  great  number  of  smaller  geysers.  It  would  have  been  a  wonderful 
sight,  but  we  could  not  wait  there  for  two  hours  until  it  was  to  go  off.  We  were 
cursed  with  the  curse  of  all  tourists — lack  of  time.  Later  on,  we  came  upon  two  of 
the  most  beautiful  pools  in  the  park — Opal  and  Sapphire.  One  was  a  clear  green,  and 
we  could  look  far  down  into  its  depths.  The  other  was  beautiful  milky  blue,  and 
little  ripples  went  across  its  surface.  They  are  far  more  beautiful  than  the  far-famed 
Morning  Glory  Pool,  yet  few  visitors  to  the  park  saw  them.  Morning  Glory,  sur- 
rounded by  a  little  fence  and  spoiled  by  trash,  is  a  few  steps  from  the  main  road. 
Opal  and  Sapphire,  as  pure  and  clean  as  they  were  before  anyone  visited  the  park, 
are  separated  from  the  main  road  by  the  Firehole  River,  and  the  visitor  must  walk 
across  a  little  plateau  covered  with  a  quarter  of  an  inch  of  overflow  water  from 
another  pool  in  order  to  reach  them. — Charles  J.  Taylor 


[  9  ] 


The  Sketch  Book 

(Material  Written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

The  Last  Hour 

That  hour  was  misery  for  me.  My  hands  were  covered  with  burning  callouses  and 
blisters  which  pained  me  like  hot  pins  driven  into  my  hands,  but  they  helped  distract 
me  from  the  aching  of  my  back,  which  seemed  to  fold  in  the  middle.  My  blood  was 
hot,  and  my  head  seemed  to  swell  with  each  heart  beat.  My  clothes  clung  un- 
comfortably to  me  like  a  sticky,  slimy  second  skin.  Dust  from  the  hay  had  collected 
on  my  arms  and  matted  in  the  hair  on  my  arms.  Sweat  cut  its  way  through  the  dirt 
until  definite  little  streams  coursed  their  way  down  to  my  hands.  My  feet  seemed 
weighted,  and  I  had  difficulty  in  dragging  them  back  and  forth  across  the  tangled 
surface  of  the  mow.  Often  they  tangled  in  the  hay,  and  I  would  reel  to  catch  my 
balance,  grit  my  teeth,  and  start  out  again  towards  the  baler.  What  was  worse,  the 
level  of  the  hay  had  sunk  until  now  we  had  to  lift  the  hay  up  into  the  baler  instead  of 
just  letting  it  fall  into  the  machine.  I  became  so  fatigued  that  I  thought  I  would 
rather  admit  defeat  than  exhaust  myself  completely. — Charles  L.  Norton 

Revivalist 

He  squirmed  impatiently  in  his  pulpit  chair  before  the  cracked  choir-loft  paneling 
and  raised  his  eyes  from  the  green-squared  carpet  to  the  watery  pink  and  blue 
windows.  He  gazed  at  the  congregation  encouragingly,  as  if  to  say:  "Sinners,  you 
too  may  be  saved."  Being  announced,  he  sprang  upon  his  feet  and  with  one  breath 
said  what  a  blessing  it  was  to  be  there,  and  what  a  blessed  worshipful  day  it  was, 
and  what  a  fine  introduction  the  blessed  young  preacher  had  given  him,  and  would 
everyone  please  turn  to  hymn  number  nine  and  raise  his  voice  in  blessed  praise. 

With  a  happy  smile  and  a  dainty  circular  flourish  of  the  hand,  "Sunlight,  sun- 
light, in  my  soul  today — "  Ah  !  it  was  good.  He  smacked  his  lips  faintly  and  began 
the  next  verse.  By  dint  of  much  hand-waving  and  a  series  of  little  curtsies  he 
carried  us  through  to  the  end.  On  the  word  heaven  he  pointed  to  the  very  peak  of 
the  discolored  ceiling,  and,  pausing  until  all  realized  the  great  truth  that  heaven  was 
indeed  in  a  generally  upward  direction,  he  smiled  indulgently  and  began  to  shout. 

— Allen  Platt 

Distance  Runner 

He  is  a  distance  runner.  With  head  erect  and  chest  arched  forward  he  seems 
to  drift  around  the  course.  There  is  in  his  action  no  laboring,  desperate  effort  but 
only  a  rhythmic  repetition  of  the  successive  movements  dictated  by  proper  form.  He 
strides  lightly,  the  ball  of  the  foot  striking  first,  followed  by  a  light  touch  of  the  heel 
as  the  other  leg  swings  past  on  its  forward  reach.  The  muscles  in  his  back  seem 
all  in  play;  they,  not  the  arms,  seem  to  furnish  the  balance  for  the  upper  part  of  the 
body. — W.  B.  Yarcho 

Darkness 

Soon,  as  I  trudged  along,  the  tall  pillars  of  dusk  fell  across  the  land,  sunset 
changed  to  evening  star,  and  darkness  covered  the  valley.  Occasionally  I  stumbled, 
for  I  had  nothing  but  the  moon  to  guide  my  footsteps.  Tall  cliffs  frowned  down  upon 
the  trail,  a  little  bit  beautiful,  perhaps,  but  a  little  bit  fearsome,  too.  Moonbeams, 
sifting  through  the  limbs  of  the  gnarled  trees,  checkered  the  floor  of  the  path  with 
strangely  silhouetted  shadow  patterns  of  the  leaves. — Wendell  Sharp 


[10] 


i 


Peace  and  Comfort 

The  highest  compliment  to  a  modern  room  is  a  sensation  of  comfort  experienced 
upon  entering.  One  might,  sincerely,  give  this  compliment  to  our  living  room  at 
home.  It  is  a  high-ceilinged  room  with  golden-oak  casings.  Afternoon  sunlight, 
filtering  through  chintz  drapes,  lends  a  mellow  grace  to  its  capacious  proportions 
and  lights  the  squares  on  the  green  carpet  like  glowing  cathedral  windows,  bright 
with  many  tapers.  The  wing-backed  chair  in  bird's-eye  maple,  the  comfortable  studio 
couch,  the  cane-seated  rocker,  the  red  hassock  before  the  radio  mean  not  only  a 
living  room,  but  a  livable  room.  The  book  case,  four-cornered  and  wooden  pegged, 
must  be  fifty  years  old,  but  it  is  a  useful  antique;  it  is  filled  with  books — classics 
and  contemporary.  And  within  reaching  distance  are  magazines  and  papers.  When 
the  curtains  are  drawn  against  the  night  there  are  good  lamps  to  soften  the  shadows 
and  trace  filigree  upon  the  ivy  growing  from  the  white  swan's  back,  afloat  upon  the 
glassy  sea  of  a  cofifee-table  top.  Perhaps  it  is  because  this  is  my  living  room,  for 
one's  personal  possessions  have  an  added  beauty,  but  to  me  this  is  a  lovely  room 
where  charm,  and  grace,  and  the  goodness  of  peace  and  comfort  reside. 

— Mary  Alice  Burgett 

And  Sat  on  the  Lid 

The  quickest  landing  of  a  muskellunge  that  I  have  ever  heard  of — and  a  very 
efficient  one,  too — took  place  one  summer  in  Georgian  Bay,  Canada.  Two  ladies 
riding  in  a  motor  boat  discovered  a  heavy  line  and  plug  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 
More  for  the  pleasure  of  watching  the  plug  swish  through  the  water  than  with  the 
idea  of  ever  getting  a  strike,  they  threw  it  in.  There  is  a  law  against  trolling  with  a 
motor  on  a  small  lake,  but  it  is  permissible  on  a  larger  body  of  water.  Suddenly  there 
was  a  jerk,  and  the  trailing  line  drew  taut.  Although  frightened  and  bewildered, 
the  two  ladies  realized  the  value  of  speeding  up  the  motor  of  the  boat.  Away  they 
went !  But  this  time  the  boat  was  pulling  the  musky.  Between  the  two  of  them, 
the  ladies  dragged  him  into  the  boat — he  was  either  drowned  or  had  not  realized  his 
predicament — put  him  in  a  large  tool  chest,  and  sat  on  the  lid  until  they  had  reached 
home  with  their  prize. — Robert  Ingalls 

Settled  for  a  Long  Stay 

Faintly  we  heard  a  pair  of  dice  rattling  on  the  planking  behind  our  relaxed 
bodies.  Lefty  quizzically  revolved  his  head  to  see  what  was  causing  the  disturbance. 
With  a  startled  gasp  he  stiffened,  and  following  his  line  of  sight,  I  saw  a  small  coil 
of  brown  resting  on  the  decomposing  boards.  The  dice  were  on  its  tail.  Our  tramp- 
ing and  talking  had  disturbed  a  rattler  who  had  taken  possession  of  the  abandoned 
building  and  had  crawled  out  to  investigate  the  noise.  Now  he  was  between  us 
and  our  freedom.    We  were  prisoners. 

For  several  minutes  neither  of  us  spoke.  Then  Lefty  turned  a  white  face 
towards  me  and  whispered,  "What're  we  gonna  do  ?" 

"I  dunno,"  I  whispered  back. 

We  looked  at  the  snake  for  what  seemed  hours,  hoping  he  would  slip  away.  But 
no,  he  had  settled  himself  for  a  long  stay. — Charles  B.  Green 

Lost  Train  Ticket 

My  last  and  only  hope !  They  must  accept  a  check.  At  any  rate  they  could  not 
hold  me  for  not  being  willing,  and  able,  to  pay  my  fare.  Taking  the  freshly  written 
check,  I  strutted  down  the  aisle  to  the  place  where  the  agent  was  draining  a  peaked 
paper  cup  of  its  contents.  Determined  to  be  as  sarcastic  as  possible,  I  presented 
that  despicable  individual  with  the  check,  saying,  "I  trust  this  will  do." 

Smugly  grinning,  he  looked  at  me  benevolently  and  said,  "Keep  it.  Buy  your- 
self a  pair  of  stockings  for  Christmas  with  it." — Ann  June  Stastry 


[11] 


The  Advantages  of  a  Large  Family 


Isabel  Roberts 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  8,  Summer  Session,  1937 


"LJE  IS  a  lucky  boy,"  they  say.  "Be- 
•*•  ^  ing  an  only  child,  he  will  have  all 
the  encouragement  and  opportunities  that 
his  parents  can  give  him."  But  is  he  so 
lucky?  Are  the  encouragement  and  op- 
portunities given  an  only  child  compensa- 
tion for  the  brothers  and  sisters  he  has 
been  deprived  of?  I  have  always  con- 
sidered myself  a  lucky  person — being  one 
of  six  children. 

A  new-born  babe  is  as  helpless  as  a 
young  animal.  All  he  can  do  is  eat  and 
sleep,  but  as  he  grows  and  develops,  he 
becomes  interested  in  this  queer  world 
of  which  he  finds  himself  a  part.  Chil- 
dren are  born  little  animals,  but  become 
human  beings  by  association.  The  chil- 
dren in  a  large  family  have  a  greater 
advantage  than  a  single  child  because 
they  have  a  wider  and  more  varied  con- 
tact with  many  individuals.  It  is  only 
natural  that  they  will  develop  quicker, 
both  mentally  and  physically,  because  of 
their  relations  with  a  group. 

A  young  child  struggles  to  sit  up,  and 
then  crawl,  and  then  walk.  He  watches 
his  older  brothers  and  sisters,  and  is 
encouraged  by  them.  Grown-ups  are  so 
old  and  wise  that  they  don't  know  what 
a  great  risk  it  is  to  walk  from  one  chair 
to  the  other.  But  he  can  watch  his  little 
playmates,  not  many  years  older  than  he, 
and  compare  himself  with  them.  "If 
they  can  walk  across  that  huge,  bare 
space,  I  can  too,"  he  thinks.  And  so  he 
does.  He  is  proud  of  himself,  and  be- 
gins imitating  all  the  things  he  sees  his 
older  brothers  and  sisters  do.  They  are 
a  part  of  his  world,  from  which  he  ex- 
cludes the  adults. 


When  a  child  has  brothers  and  sisters 
with  whom  he  may  play,  he  learns  to  be 
congenial  and  tolerant.  He  plays  their 
games  as  well  as  his  own.  He  waits  his 
turn  to  be  scrubbed  behind  the  ears,  and 
he  eats  his  spinach  along  with  the  rest. 
So,  when  he  enters  school,  he  naturally 
falls  in  with  the  other  children.  It  is 
merely  an  expansion  of  his  old  life  with 
new  worlds  to  conquer,  more  children 
to  play  with,  and  different  things  to 
learn.  He  isn't  thrown  into  a  completely 
new  atmosphere  as  is  the  child  who  has 
had  to  spend  most  of  his  time  by  him- 
self or  with  adults. 

Through  the  contacts  with  his  brothers 
and  sisters,  he  may  meet  a  great  number 
of  children  of  various  ages.  Gradually, 
he  becomes  interested  in  community  life. 
He  exchanges  ideas  with  the  other  chil-  J 
dren  and  is  attracted  by  their  interests  J 
and  hobbies.  His  mind  begins  to  expand 
and  absorb  all  these  new  ideas.  An  only 
child  is  inclined  to  be  self -centered.  All 
his  actions,  his  interests,  and  his  thoughts 
revolve  around  himself,  whereas  the 
child  in  a  large  family  is  drawn  into  as- 
sociation with  other  children.  He  realizes 
that  they  are  just  as  important  as  he, 
and  he  is  willing  to  give  to  them  just  as 
much  as  he  takes  from  them. 

Often  there  is  hostility  among  children 
toward  one  who  is  an  only  child.  Some- 
times it  is  apt  to  make  him  over-aggres- 
sive or  create  an  inferiority  complex. 
Any  tendency  toward  either  of  these 
failings  is  immediately  "squelched"  in  a 
large  family.  If  the  person  becomes  a 
little  over-bearing  or  too  sure  of  his 
good  looks,  he  is  jokingly  informed  that 


[12] 


there  are  other  people  who  are  better 
looking  than  he,  and  also,  that  he  has 
nothing  so  outstanding  in  his  accomplish- 
ments that  he  can  assume  such  a  superior 
attitude  toward  the  rest  of  the  world.  If 
he  feels  himself  inferior  to  the  people 
with  whom  he  comes  in  contact,  he  is 
encouraged  and  bolstered  up  until  he 
becomes  sure-footed  and  self-confident. 

One  of  the  most  trying  times  of  life 
is  adolescence.  The  individual  becomes 
restless  and,  likely  as  not,  irritable. 
There  is  no  place  for  him  in  the  world. 
He  is  too  mature  to  be  a  child,  and  yet 
he  lacks  the  experience  and  wisdom  of 
an  adult.  His  restlessness  leads  to  an 
over-emphasis  of  his  independence,  and 
his  lack  of  experience  leaves  him  quak- 
ing and  frightened.  And  as  a  result,  he 
resorts  to  loud  words  and  bluffing  to 
hide  his  inadequacy.  The  parents,  in  the 
eyes  of  an  adolescent,  are  complete 
strangers  to  him.  Where  the  only  child 
relies  on  his  own  judgment,  weak  as  it 
may  be,  the  adolescent  in  a  large  family 
has  his  brothers  and  sisters  to  fall  back 
on.  He  feels  free  to  discuss  his  weighty 
problems  with  them,  when  ordinarily  he 
would  labor  through  these  troublesome 
circumstances  rather  than  discuss  them 
with  his  parents. 

The  open  forum  of  books  and  news- 
papers held  in  the  home  leads  him  into 
another  new  and  broad  channel  of  his 
education.  He  reads  books  above  the 
level  of  the  average  adolescent  so  that 
he  can  enter  into  these  forums.  He 
makes  the  acquaintance  of  many  people 
in  his  tours  and  excursions  into  the 
world  outside  his  home,  and  upon  the 
approval  or  disapproval  of  his  family, 
he  learns  to  sort  the  acquaintances  and 
cultivate  those  whom  he  wants  for  his 
friends.  In  this  way  he  soon  becomes  an 
accurate  judge  of  character  and  gains  a 
sense  of  security  and  well-being.   He  has 


confidence  in  hjs  ability  to  make  friends 
and  thereby  gains  independence. 

There  is  always  someone  among  his 
family  who  is  available  and  willing  to 
listen  to  his  schemes  and  plans  for  his 
life,  who  will  help  him  to  tame  down  the 
wild  plans  so  many  adolescents  are  in- 
spired by.  He  thereby  learns  modera- 
tion. Gradually,  through  his  close  family 
life,  his  congenial  friends,  and  his  feel- 
ing of  rightness  with  the  world,  he  is 
equipping  himself  with  a  strong,  bullet- 
proof armor  with  which  to  battle  the 
business  world. 

When  he  enters  the  business  world,  he 
relies  completely  on  himself  for  the  first 
time.  But  he  has  a  solid  foundation  to 
stand  on.  He  has  an  appreciation  of 
others'  needs  and  feelings;  he  is  used  to 
spending  most  of  his  time  with  people, 
so  that  he  is  congenial  and  easy  to  work 
with ;  he  can  employ  the  strategic  meth- 
ods he  used  in  handling  his  family  in 
handling  his  co-workers.  Because  he 
misses  the  exchanging  of  ideas  with  his 
family,  he  immediately  makes  friends 
with  the  people  around  him  and  is  stimu- 
lated by  their  ideas  and  attitudes  toward 
life.  Nine  times  out  of  ten,  a  man  from 
a  large  family  will  make  a  successful 
business  man,  not  only  from  the  stand- 
point of  the  money  he  earns,  but  also  in 
the  esteem  the  public  has  for  him. 

When  he  passes  the  peak  of  his  suc- 
cess, when  he  becomes  tired  of  "bucking" 
the  business  world,  when  he  longs  for  a 
place  where  he  can  do  exactly  as  he 
pleases — where  he  has  no  established 
precedent  to  live  up  to — he  again  has  his 
family  to  fall  back  on.  If  by  some  odd 
chance,  he  has  not  become  a  success  in 
life,  he  still  has  the  love  and  interest  of 
his  family.  Then  too,  there  is  his  great 
number  of  friends  for  him  to  enjoy,  now 
that  he  has  some  leisure  time. 

When  a  man  grows  old,  if  he  has  no 


[13] 


interests,  he  is  apt  to  become  senile,  a  their   families  to  help,   so  he  keeps  in 

little    slovenly    in    his    appearance,    and  tune  with  the  changing  conditions  and 

careless  in  his  manners.    His  family  is  enjoys  the  life  that  goes  on  about  him, 

close  enough  to  him  to  rebuke  him  for  although  he  is  unable  to  take  'an  active 

these  careless  mannerisms  and  encourage  part  in  it.    He  has  passed  through  his 

him  in  keeping  up  with  the  world.    He  span  of  years,  enjoyable  and  well-lived, 

has  his  other  brothers  and  sisters  and  and  is  a  happy  and  satisfied  old  man. 


Writing  a  Theme 

Patience  and  Endurance 

Writing  a  theme  is  like  unravelling  a  ball  of  tangled  yarn — one  doesn't  know  how 
to  start.  The  student  comes  into  the  room,  throws  his  books  heavily  on  his  desk  and 
begins  to  think.  After  a  few  minutes  cogitation  on  that  all-important  "subject,"  the 
writer  jerks  out  a  pen  and  some  theme  paper  and  begins  scratching  away.  One  hour — • 
two — two  and  one-half  hours  elapse,  and  we  take  another  glimpse  at  the  would-be 
essayist.  Ah,  there  he  is — still  sitting — still  thinking — still  scratching.  But  something 
is  lacking;  yes,  it  is  the  happy-go-lucky  air  of  the  writer,  which  has  now  changed  to 
a  perturbed,  worried  look,  for  Mr.  Student  is  in  the  clutches  of  that  strange  phe- 
nomenon known  as  a  "brain  lapse."  But  don't  worry  about  him;  as  papers  continue 
to  litter  the  floor  in  ever-increasing  quantities  and  as  his  face  assumes  more  and  more 
that  look  of  a  pleading,  desperate  child,  ideas  are  forming  in  his  brain.  When  we 
look  back  on  him  after  the  short  (  ?)  space  of  an  hour,  his  face  is  beaming  like  that 
of  Old  Sol  on  a  June  morning.  In  reward  for  patience  and  endurance,  he  has  had 
wonderful,  soul-stirring  ideas  brought  to  the  tip  of  his  pen,  and  he  is  confident  that 
when  he  hands  in  his  theme  a  big  "A"  will  be  forthcoming. — Luther  E.  Ellison 

Inspiration 

When  Leni  writes  a  theme  for  her  English  composition  class,  she  herself  is  more 
entertaining  than  her  theme.  She  drags  a  chair  over  to  her  study  table,  the  toe  of  her 
shoe  hooked  around  the  leg  of  the  chair.  She  plops  herself  down  in  a  carefree  man- 
ner and.  before  settling  down  over  the  waiting  sheet  of  paper,  pulls  and  pushes  her- 
self and  the  chair  around  and  back  and  forth  until  she  is  able  to  make  up  her  mind 
that  she  is  comfortable.  She  props  her  chin  on  her  elbow  and  heaves  an  enormous 
sigh  which  informs  her  silent  observer  that  she  is  assuring  herself,  "If  I  don't  get  to 
work  now,  I'll  never  even  start."  With  her  right  hand,  Leni  rolls  her  pen  across  the 
table,  over  her  paper,  and  catches  it  nimbly  with  her  left  hand.  She  lifts  the  pencil 
over  the  first  line  on  the  theme  paper.  "What  zvill  I  write  about  today?"  she  invari- 
ably asks,  but  always  receiving  no  answer — and,  indeed,  expecting  none — she  an- 
nounces the  given  subject  with  a  groan.  "Ink!  What  is  there  to  say  about  ink  that  no 
one  knows  already?"  Receiving  no  answer,  she  sucks  the  top  of  her  pen  for  a  long 
minute.  A  smile  interrupts  the  bewilderment  in  her  face,  and  inspiration  shines 
through  every  feature.  For  five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes  Lcni's  hand  races  back  and 
forth  over  the  surface  of  the  theme  paper,  trying  to  keep  up  with  the  speed  of 
Leni's  thoughts.  It  is  like  trying  to  accomplish  the  impossible;  for  in  the  process, 
Leni's  pen  jabs  impatiently  into  the  paper,  leaving  a  hole  to  blot  a  word  or  two.  At 
last  Leni  expels  a  war  whoop  and  drops  her  pen  onto  the  table;  with  one  hand  she 
sweeps  up  her  paper,  folds  it  unevenly,  and  pushes  it  between  the  already  mistreated 
pages  of  her  book.  "I'm  through,  kid !"  she  exclaims  gleefully.  "No  more  themes  for 
another  day !   I  don't  know  whether  I'll  survive  or  not." — Beatrice  Widger 


[14] 


On  Being  a  Scullery  Maid 


Irma  Breiter 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  11,  1936-1937 


A  SCULLERY  is  a  place  where  kit- 
■^*-  chen  utensils  are  cleaned  and  kept. 
Since  cleaning  pots  and  pans  is  one  of 
the  functions  of  the  restaurant  kitchen 
in  which  I  work,  it  is  not  taxing  the 
word  unduly  to  bring  the  entire  room 
under  its  motherly  wing,  steam  table  and 
stove  and  all.  But  if  the  steam  table  and 
stove  are  in  the  scullery,  the  cook  needs 
must  work  in  the  scullery.  And  if  the 
cook  works  in  the  scullery,  surely  her 
helper  toils  hard  beside  her.  This  helper, 
girl  of  all  work,  maid  of  the  scullery — 
just  what  is  her  purpose  in  life?  Does 
she  hew  at  chunks  of  meat,  and  scrape 
endlessly  on  earthy  potatoes?  Not  this 
scullery  maid.  My  collar  is  white,  or 
very  nearly  so,  although  I  do  scrape 
carrots  and  peel  onions  and  clean  celery 
intermittently  with  my  other  work. 

But  it  is  not  so  easy  a  task  to  scrape 
carrots  as  one  might  think.  To  get  the 
greatest  efficiency,  I  grasp  the  carrot  in 
my  left  hand  and  hold  it  firmly  with  the 
butt  aimed  menacingly  at  my  abdomen. 
Then,  knife  in  right  hand,  I  begin  to 
work  on  the  patient,  shaving  from  the 
halfway  mark  toward  the  thick  end,  strip- 
ping the  carrot  of  dirty  orange,  and  leav- 
ing it  naked  and  clean.  The  shavings 
spatter  delicately  on  the  not  so  delicately 
grease-spotted  orange  of  my  apron.  When 
I  stroke  away  from  the  body,  toward  the 
root,  I  throw  decorum  to  the  winds  and 
scrape  with  abandon,  for  every  little  bit 
of  skin  is  taken  off  without  concentration 
on  my  part. 

Likewise,  I  strive  after  proficiency 
with    onions,    hardening   my   heart    and 


shedding  not  a  tear  as  I  peel  them.  And 
the  celery — I  fairly  quiver  with  desire  as 
I  brush  the  crisp  tender  stalks  and  break 
them  into  smaller  lengths.  If  celery 
makes  me  tremble,  conceive  of  the  tight 
rein  I  must  keep  upon  my  appetite  when 
I  pare  apples.  All  my  life,  to  see  an 
apple  has  been  to  eat  it,  and  to  eat  one 
has  been  to  eat  another,  and  so  on  ad 
infinitum.  Only  to  think  of  delicious  red 
peelings,  so  near,  so  tempting,  flung  into 
the  garbage  with  my  very  hands,  traitor- 
ous implements — it  fair  scunners  me. 
But  that  is  not  all.  When  I  cut  up  all 
manner  of  juicy  fruits  to  make  a  salad, 
the  boys  who  wash  the  dishes  and  pots 
and  pans  sidle  over  to  me,  one  by  one, 
and  gently,  ever  so  gently  and  innocently, 
reach  around  me  and  pick  out  a  choice 
morsel  for  greedy  consumption.  My 
smile  is  feeble,  my  mouth  is  dry,  and 
my  breath  comes  in  gasps.  A  slice  of 
peach  is  between  my  fingers.  Dare  I 
have  a  taste,  just  one  slice?  They  will 
not  care;  they  will  not  miss  it.  But  no, 
I  cannot.  My  breathing  subsides  and  I 
relax  to  comparative  sanity,  only  to  be 
aroused  again  by  the  next  pilfering 
knave. 

I  start  from  my  task  as  the  calm  of 
the  kitchen — a  medley  of  bantered  words 
from  the  boys  at  the  sink,  clatter  of  pots 
and  pans,  and  loud  whirring  from  the 
electric  dishwasher  and  the  fan — is 
rudely  shattered  by  heads  popping  in  and 
out  the  steam  table  window  and  shouting 
in  rapid  succession,  "Swiss  steak  regu- 
lar with  spinach  and  carrots,  no  pota- 
toes," "Meat  loaf  special  with  hominy," 


[15] 


"Tomato  juice  on  the  upstairs,  with  veal 
steak  and  spinach."  There  is  a  tooth- 
paste ad  smile  from  Rex  as  he  sings  in 
melody  all  his  own,  "Small  hot  mince." 
The  cook  gets  into  action,  while  I  fill  a 
glass  with  tomato  juice  and  cut  a  piece 
of  mince  pie.  I  then  help  with  the 
plates,  fixing  the  salads  and  trying  to  aid 
in  remembering  which  vegetable  goes 
with  which  meat  and  whether  it  is  regu- 
lar or  special  or  upstairs.  We  put  the 
orders  up  as  best  we  remember,  once  in 
a  while  being  chided  with,  "I  said  'No 
potatoes.'  "  But  it  is  not  sufficient  merely 
to  put  up  the  order  correctly.  It  must 
be  done  swiftly  and  neatly,  with  no 
vagrant  droplets  decorating  the  edge  of 
the  plate. 

When  the  confusion  has  been  some- 
what dispelled  I  fix  a  few  more  salads 
on  the  three  remaining  plates,  taking 
delight  in  calling  "More  plates.  Bill?" 
and  watching  the  boys  bustle  in  quick 
response  with  a  cheerful,  "O.  K., 
Cookie."  I  return  to  my  task  at  the  table, 
only  to  be  summoned  back  to  the  window 
in  eagerness  by  a  cry  of  "Peaches" 
from  a  devilishly  grinning  Joe.  I  fall 
back  chagrined  as  I  realize  what  he 
wants  and  put  up  a  dish  of  peaches, 
proffering  it  with  a  tight  smile. 

When  the  orders  begin  to  come  in  at 
greater  intervals  the  cook  spends  more 
time  in  the  preparation  of  food  for  the 
morrow,  and  I  "ret"  up.  It  is  no  mean 
task,  "retting"  up.  The  idea  is  to  trans- 
fer the  food  from  steam  table  jars  and 
pots  and  pans  into  lined  cans,  set  them 
away  in  the  large  icebox,  and  clean  up 


the  work  tables  and  the  steam  table.  I 
grab  the  huge  hot  jars,  lift  them  dripping 
from  the  steaming  water,  and  hazard- 
ously pour  the  food  into  cans.  I  gen- 
erously take  the  empty  jars  and  pans 
to  the  sink  board  for  the  boys  to  wash 
and  return  to  clean  up  the  tables. 

In  the  midst  of  my  work,  Milton  goes 
into  contortions  to  accommodate  his 
height  to  that  of  the  window  and  pokes 
his  head  in,  saying,  "Beef  san'."  In  re- 
sponse to  the  cook's  "Will  you  take  it, 
kiddo?"  I  dash  to  the  sink  to  wash  my 
greasy  hands,  jumping  a  foot  and  squeak- 
ing even  before  Al  tells  me  kindly,  "It's 
hot."  Back  again,  I  butter  the  bread 
which  was  placed  in  the  window  for  me, 
put  a  leaf  of  lettuce  on  one  side,  and 
mess  around  in  the  pan  of  roasted  meats 
until  I  find  the  sirloin  of  beef,  from 
which  I  cut  a  few  ragged  slices.  I  slap 
these  sorry  looking  pieces  on  top  the 
lettuce,  cover  the  whole  with  the  other 
slice  of  bread,  and  cut  the  sandwich 
from  corner  to  corner.  I  ting  the  bell 
for  Milton  to  come  and  get  it,  for  it  is 
getting  nigh  onto  closing  time.  At  a  little 
after  seven,  I  help  the  cook  carry  the 
cans  of  food  from  the  stove  to  the  large 
icebox  and  finish  "retting"  up  the  table 
while  she  puts  the  cans  away. 

As  I  change  into  street  clothes  in  the 
back  room,  the  cook  comes  in  to  get  her 
coat,  sighing  with  a  little  laugh  as  she 
dons  it,  "Well,  another  day."  We  walk 
together  through  the  deserted  scullery 
and  take  a  last  look  to  see  that  everything 
is  "set"  for  the  next  day.  All  is  quiet 
and  peaceful,  and  I  turn  away  satisfied. 


Co -Education 

All  the  mischief  is  supposed  to  have  beie:un  about  one  hundred  years  ago  at  some 
small  college  in  Ohio.  There  be-whiskered  pedagogues  experimented  and  permitted 
four  women  to  sip  of  higher  education.  It  seems  quite  apparent  that  these  four  coeds 
liked  the  taste  of  it.  By  1930  the  women's  feet  were  on  the  rail  and  they  were 
elbowing  the  men  for  room. — Douglas  Morse 


[16] 


On  Becoming  Educated 


R.  Marschik 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  7,  1937-1938 


AGATHA  HAYCOX  was  the  typical 
country  girl.  I  say  was,  because  she 
isn't  so  anymore.  Four  years  of  univer- 
sity life  have  created  a  change  within 
her— a  most  positive  change.  Once  she 
was  pleasingly  plump.  Now  she  is 
smoothly  slender.  Once  she  had  thick, 
chestnut-brown   hair.     Today   she    is    a 


couldn't  be  college!  Why  college  was 
different,  altogether  different,  a  serious 
and  sober  institution  in  whose  environ- 
ment you  labored  diligently,  striving  for 
an  education.  Had  it  been  misrepre- 
sented ?  Was  this  really  college  ? 

Two  weeks  later  she  joined  a  sorority. 
Of  course,  it  was  a  good  sorority.   They 


beauteous  blonde — after  surviving  four 
hennas.  Yes,  Agatha  Haycox  has 
changed.  Four  years  ago  she  was  the 
smartest  girl  in  Hillvale  High  School. 
Her  friends  looked  up  to  her.  Her  teach- 
ers were  lavish  with  compliments.  She 
was  pointed  out  as  "the  girl"  to  all  visit- 
ors. Someday  this  same  attractive 
country  lass  would  amount  to  something. 
Yes,  Agatha  Haycox  would  someday  be 
a  household  name. 

And  then  she  went  to  the  university. 
The  first  week  on  the  campus  proved  to 
be  most  disillusioning,  and  almost  un- 
bearable. Surely  these  laughingly  gay 
young  people  who  so  rudely  pushed  her 
aside  were  not  college  students?  There 
really    must    be    some    mistake.     This 


all  are.  And  of  course  it  was  only 
natural  that  an  organization  of  this  type 
should  influence  her  in  her  education. 
She  hadn't  wanted  it  to  become  the  real 
source  of  education,  however;  but  then, 
how  was  she  to  know  ? 

A  month  passed,  thirty  days  of  almost 
total  bewilderment.  Now  came  her  first 
college  date — a  blind  date — an  unfor- 
gettable evening.  Although  Agatha 
didn't  fully  realize  it,  here  was  the  turn- 
ing point  in  her  desire  for  education. 
Studies  took  a  back  seat.  Followed  a 
series  of  these  unforgettable  evenings, 
each  creating  a  definite  change  within  the 
country  girl.  Somehow,  she  found  less 
time  for  study  and  more  time  for  the 
consideration   of  her  complexion,   hair, 


[17] 


and  form.  Where  formerly  a  faint  trace 
of  rouge  revealed  itself,  now  a  vivid  dab 
of  red  flamed.  Lips  were  further  en- 
hanced by  a  thick  smear  of  vermilion. 
Eyebrows  assumed  the  arch  of  the 
ancient  Goths.  Daily  applications  of 
peroxide  upon  the  hair  did  their  required 
work.  The  diet  was  limited,  and  the 
silk  of  the  form-fitting  dress  clung 
closely  where  the  gingham  had  only  lain. 
Fingernails  harmonized  with  the  indi- 
vidual dress.  Letters  home  ended  with 
".  .  .  .  and  could  you  please  increase  my 
monthly  allowance.  I  do  need  so  many 
new  things."  And  so  ended  her  fresh- 
man year. 

The  second  year  came  and  went,  with 
but  one  important  forward  step  in 
Agatha's  education.  No  more  freshman 
or  sophomore  dates !  It  was  now  either 
a  senior  or  nothing.  Somehow  they  were 
different,  more  experienced.  They  knew 
when  and  how  to  do  things.  Besides, 
your  friends  were  more  impressed  by 
the  dignified  senior  than  by  the  lowly 
underclassman. 


The  junior  season  passed  without  in- 
cident. Perhaps  it  should  be  mentioned, 
however,  that  during  this  period  Agatha 
Haycox  became  Gail  Cox.  No,  she  didn't 
marry.  She  merely  changed  her  name. 
After  all,  Gail  Cox  was  a  more  sophisti- 
cated name,  and  therefore  a  more  ap- 
propriate name  for  a  lady  of  her  type. 
Perhaps  it  should  also  be  mentioned  that 
during  this  period  her  studies  were  more 
neglected  than  ever.  Let  it  be  under- 
stood, however,  that  the  deep  desire  for 
education  still  existed.  Miss  Gail  Cox 
would  some  day  be  somebody. 

In  the  final  year,  she  changed  again. 
No  longer  were  freshmen  excluded  from 
her  dates.  On  the  contrary,  they  were 
warmly  encouraged.  Somehow  they  were 
so  refreshing,  so  naive,  and  apt  to  be  so 
impulsive.  Besides,  the  change  was  really 
good  for  her.  Didn't  someone  say 
once  that  a  wise  man  changes  his 
mind,  a  fool  never  does?  Well,  Agatha 
Haycox  was  wise.  She  was  always 
changing  her  mind.  She  was  becoming 
educated ! 


Editing  the  High-School  Paper 

Being  of  a  rather  fiery  temperament,  I  was  constantly  being  called  on  the  carpet 
by  some  caustic  remark  I  had  put  in  the  paper.  I  think  I  shall  never  forget  the  time 
I  criticized  the  school  basketball  team  after  they  had  lost  in  the  city  semi-finals.  The 
team  coach  was  "out  for  gore,"  and  when  he  finally  caught  me  he  dressed  me  down 
for  one  solid  hour  before  the  assembled  study  body.  (The  next  issue  I  devoted  a 
seven  hundred  word  theme  to  the  inadequacy  of  the  school  coaches;  and  the  day 
the  issue  went  on  sale  I  went  home  to  spend  a  two-week  Christmas  vacation  out  of 
the  reach  of  homicidal  maniacs  and  basketball  coaches.)  Another  time  I  wrote  an 
article  telling  that  a  certain  teacher  was  going  to  spend  the  summer  traveling,  when 
in  reality  she  was  trying  to  assemble  a  summer  school  class.  This  last  episode  was 
rather  awful;   I  was  nearly  dropped  from  the  staff. 

But  these  incidents,  I  think,  did  me  more  good  than  harm.  I  acquired  a  thick 
enough  skin  to  take  stoically  any  and  all  criticism,  and  I  learned  the  necessity  of 
accuracy  in  print.  I  found  that  where  I  was  right,  as  in  the  case  of  the  basketball 
coach,  and  in  a  rather  caustic  analysis  of  a  certain  B.  M.  O.  C,  there  were  no  rever- 
berations from  the  main  ofiice.  But  where  I  was  wrong,  as  in  a  thoroughly  inaccurate 
criticism  of  the  book-supply  system  and  the  aforementioned  summer  story,  the  punish- 
ment was  swift  and  sure. — Joseph  W.  Galeher 


[18] 


Lesson  in  Self-confidence 


Robert  Waters 
Rhetoric  II.  Theme  15,  1926-1927 


I  JOINED  the  ranks  of  the  employed 
immediately  after  graduation  from 
high  school.  All  my  life  I  had  been  hear- 
ing glowing  tales  of  the  steel  mill.  Now 
at  last  I  was  to  become  a  part  of  Ameri- 
ca's most  romantic  industry.  I  got  the 
job  by  means  of  the  well  known  "drag" 
method.  Dad,  having  worked  in  the 
mill  some  twenty  years  or  more,  had  no 
trouble  getting  me  in. 

After  an  extensive  training  period,  I 
was  placed  in  a  blooming  mill,  or  what 
is  commonly  referred  to  as  a  rolling  mill. 
Here  in  one  or  two  minutes  ponderous 
rolls  reduce  steel  ingots  to  bars  having 
a  cross  section  of  only  a  few  inches.  My 
job  was  to  be  sure  the  ingots  were  heated 
hot  enough  to  facilitate  easy  and  rapid 
rolling.  When  a  heat  was  to  be  rolled,  I 
would  have  to  check  the  temperature  of 
the  steel  before  it  was  drawn  from  the 
pits.  Eight  or  nine  ingots  generally  con- 
stitute a  heat,  and  the  brick  lined  fur- 
naces are  called  pits.  I  had  very  little 
to  do  with  the  rolling  of  steel.  Most  of 
my  efforts  were  concentrated  on  heating 
it  before  it  was  rolled.  However,  to 
work  my  job  successfully  I  had  to  have 
a  general  knowledge  of  the  entire  mill, 
rolling  included. 

It  seems  the  natural  thing  for  old 
timers  to  treat  new  hands  roughly.  The 
pit  heater  with  whom  I  had  to  work  was 
a  classic  example  of  a  bear.  He  was  posi- 
tively the  largest  boned  Swede  I  have 
ever  seen.  I  felt  like  a  dwarf  whenever 
I  stood  beside  him.  His  hands  were  like 
hams,  and  he  walked  with  a  slow  deliber- 
ate stride  that  suggested  a  wealth  of 
power  and  strength  in  his  huge  body.  He 
was  appropriately  named  Big  Ed.    No- 


body trifled  with  Big  Ed's  humor.  He 
heated  his  pits  the  way  he  wanted  to. 
Woe  be  to  the  man  who  dared  criticize! 
One  of  the  favorite  stories  about  him 
relates  how  he  chased  the  mill  superin- 
tendent out  of  the  mill  with  a  crowbar 
when  the  superintendent  told  him  he  was 
using  too  much  gas. 

When  I  was  introduced  to  Big  Ed,  he 
glowered  from  beneath  his  thick  shaggy 
eyebrows  and  snorted  contemptuously. 
He  made  no  friendly  gesture  of  any 
kind,  he  just  turned  on  his  heel  and 
stalked  away.  Big  Ed,  I  thought,  was 
the  sourest,  most  ill-tempered  individual 
I'd  ever  had  the  misfortune  to  meet. 
Time,  however,  proved  me  a  poor  judge 
of  character.  Ed  gradually  lost  his  hos- 
tile attitude  and  he  and  I  became  good 
friends.  He  never  showed  to  the  outside 
world  his  friendly  actions ;  that  would 
ruin  the  illusion  the  steel  workers  held 
concerning  him.  Ed  had  to  be  tough. 
The  only  way  to  get  anyone  to  do  any- 
thing around  the  mill  is  to  swear  and 
holler  until  it  is  done.  Working  man's 
"French"  is  the  only  understandable 
language.  If  Ed  asked  someone  to  do 
something  in  his  quaint  way,  and  the 
poor  individual  neglected  to  do  it,  Ed 
would  curl  his  hair  with  a  burst  of  pro- 
fanity. He  meant  no  insult,  of  course; 
it  was  just  his  way  of  expressing  dis- 
pleasure. 

The  responsibility  of  my  job  worried 
me  a  great  deal.  I  felt  uneasy  and  un- 
certain after  every  decision  I  made.  Not 
having  confidence  in  myself  was  my 
worst  fault,  and  later  on  it  proved  to  be 
my  undoing. 

Stainless  steel  is  to  the  steel  manu- 


[19] 


facturer  what  gold  is  to  the  goldsmith. 
More  precautions  are  taken  in  the  mak- 
ing of  this  expensive  steel  than  in  any 
other  phase  of  the  industry.  Just  at  the 
time  I  was  placed  in  the  mill,  extensive 
research  was  being  carried  out  concern- 
ing the  rolling  practice  of  "25-12,"  an 
alloy  high  in  nickel  and  chromium.  The 
high  percentage  of  chromium  in  this 
steel  made  it  extremely  hard  and  expen- 
sive to  make.  The  conditions  for  proces- 
sing had  to  be  just  right.  We  pyrometer 
men,  named  so  because  of  the  instrument 
we  used,  hated  the  stuff.  We  had  to 
check  the  temperature  of  this  steel  every 
hour  while  it  was  in  the  pits.  The  whole 
responsibility  of  heating  rested  on  our 
shoulders.  If  we  found  the  heater  was 
heating  the  steel  too  fast,  it  v.as  up  to  us 
to  make  him  cut  down.  As  a  general  rule 
the  heaters  acted  surly  when  told  to  slow 
down,  and  at  such  times  I  appreciated 
Ed's  friendship. 

I  was  working  the  night  turn  when  I 
got  my  first  dose  of  stainless  steel.  The 
steel  came  to  the  mill  accompanied  with 
special  instructions  for  me.  Underlined 
in  red  pencil  was  the  very  important 
fact  that  the  steel  was  not  to  be  rolled 
until  it  reached  a  certain  temperature. 
That  red  line  scared  me  to  death.  I 
imagined  all  sorts  of  dire  things  that 
would  happen  to  me  if  the  steel  was 
rolled  at  the  wrong  temperature. 

As  the  time  drew  near  to  roll  the 
steel,  I  was  a  nervous  wreck.  Everything 
had  gone  wrong.  The  heater  complained 
of  bad  gas.  The  foreman  kept  nagging 
me,  bouncing  in  every  few  minutes  de- 
manding to  know  if  the  heating  was 
progressing  all  right.  The  arrival  of  mill 
officials  added  to  my  consternation.  They 
always  seemed  to  stick  their  noses  in  at 
the  wrong  moment.  The  plant  superin- 
tendent asked  me  if  the  steel  was  ready. 


I  mumbled  something  about  not  being 
sure  and  grabbed  my  pyrometer  and 
dashed  out  for  a  last  minute  check.  Ed 
was  anxious  to  get  the  steel  out  of  the 
pits.  He  tried  to  keep  me  from  reading 
it  by  assuring  me  in  his  most  sincere 
manner  that  it  was  all  right.  This  alone 
should  have  warned  me  that  the  steel 
probably  was  not  hot  enough.  I  insisted 
upon  reading  the  temperature  and  he 
grudgingly  opend  the  pit  door.  I  took  a 
quick  reading  and  moaned  aloud.  "Too 
low,  too  low.  You  can't  let  them  roll 
this,  Ed,"  I  said.  "It  will  crack  to  pieces. 
It's  too  cold."  Ed  immediately  lost  his 
temper  and  started  to  shout  at  the  top  of 
his  voice.  The  officials  overheard  the 
commotion  and  came  over  to  see  what 
was  causing  the  delay.  The  vainness 
and  stupidity  of  these  stiff  shirts  angered 
me  beyond  words.  Why  wasn't  the  steel 
hot?  Did  we  know  what  we  were  doing? 
\\^hat  in  hell  were  we  paid  for?  They 
kept  pounding  at  Ed  and  myself  with 
these  foolish  queries  until  Ed  silenced 
them  with  a  bull  like  roar.  "Get  the  hell 
out  of  here,  you  !*  !*  !**  before  I 
break  this  bar  over  the  back  of  your 
thick  skulls."  The  men  scurried  away 
like  rats  from  a  cat.  They  stood  away 
at  a  safe  distance  and  jabbered  and 
gesticulated  among  themselves  like  a 
pack  of  excited  sparrows.  They  made 
no  threatening  motions  you  can  be  sure. 
To  do  so  they  knew  would  bring  down 
the  full  power  of  Ed's  fury.  I  would 
have  thought  it  funny  if  Ed  had  con- 
fined his  anger  to  these  men.  But  no, 
he  told  me  I  was  crazy.  "The  steel's  all 
right,"  he  boomed.  "Do  I  have  to  wait 
all  night  while  this  damned  kid  makes 
up  his  mind?" 

I  read  that  pit  a  hundred  times  if  I 
read  it  once.  Ed  heaped  a  torrent  of 
abuse  on  me  after  every  reading  that 


[20] 


indicated  his  steel  was  not  hot  enough. 
Finally  I  could  stand  no  more.  I  threw 
up  my  hands  in  despair  and  told  him  to 
go  ahead  and  let  them  roll  it.  Instantly 
I  regretted  what  I  had  done.  I  knew 
that  steel  was  not  ready  to  roll. 

At  Ed's  sign  the  machinery  of  the 
mill  swung  into  motion.  The  giant  crane 
moved  slowly  towards  the  pit.  The  pit 
cover  rolled  smoothly  back.  Great 
tongues  of  yellow  flame  billowed  up  to 
the  roof,  illuminating  the  mill  with  a 
weird  light.  The  jaws  of  the  crane 
firmly  grasped  an  ingot  and  drew  it 
majestically  from  the  pit.  I  scanned  the 
glowing  steel  eagerly,  looking  for  cold 
spots.  To  my  dismay  I  saw  several  dark 
areas  near  the  bottom  of  the  ingot.  "Cold 
bottoms,"  I  groaned.  A  bad  sign.  Cold 
bottom  meant  an  uneven  heat  which  in- 
evitably resulted  in  poor  rolling.  It  was 
too  late  to  stop  the  rolling  now.  It 
wouldn't  have  done  any  good  to  have 
tried.  The  officials  gathered  around  the 
rolls  to  watch.  Nothing  would  escape 
their  eyes.  I  had  a  sinking  sensation  in 
my  stomach  as  I  watched  the  ingot  move 
slowly  towards  the  rolls.  The  steel  hit 
the  rolls  with  a  jarring  thud.  Relent- 
lessly the  ingot  was  squeezed  through 
with  crushing  force.  The  first  few 
passes  went  all  right  without  mishap. 
The  ingot  was  now  longer.  It  had  been 
reduced  to  a  bloom  eleven  inches  wide 
and  twelve  feet  long.  The  crucial  mo- 
ment had  arrived.  Unless  the  steel  was 
hot  enough  it  could  not  be  reduced  any 
farther  without  cracking  to  pieces.  The 
roller  flipped  the  controls  and  the  bloom 
moved  once  more  towards  the  rolls.  The 
bar  was  halfway  through  when  a  crash 
that  jarred  my  back  teeth  resounded 
through  the  mill.  Along  with  this  came  a 


rending  tearing  shriek  that  announced 
the  ripping  of  steel  from  steel.  My  heart 
was  in  my  mouth  as  I  ran  wildly  to  the 
rolls.  The  roller  shut  down  the  mill  and 
came  tearing  down  out  of  the  control 
room  like  a  man  possessed.  "If  you  have 
cracked  my  rolls  with  your  cold  steel,  I'll 
have  all  your  jobs,"  he  roared  to  nobody 
in  particular.  The  once  symmetrical  steel 
bar  was  now  a  broken  crushed  shapeless 
mass.  Stainless,  because  of  its  composi- 
tion, flies  to  pieces  if  it  is  rolled  too 
cold.  The  bar  was  wrecked  beyond 
redemption.  In  addition  to  this,  the  rolls 
were  cracked,  just  as  the  roller  feared. 
This  is  what  caused  the  first  terrible 
crash.  Cracked  rolls  meant  shutting 
down  for  eight  hours  and  a  loss  of  about 
ten  thousand  dollars  to  the  company. 

The  resulting  confusion  is  only  vague 
in  my  mind.  I  slunk  back  to  my  office. 
I  couldn't  think  of  anything  but  that  it 
was  my  fault.  If  I  had  only  insisted  on 
letting  the  steel  heat  for  another  hour. 

A  few  days  later  a  report  of  the  acci- 
dent was  circulated  around  the  plant.  It 
was  with  great  relief  that  I  read  that 
report.  The  accident  was  blamed  on  the 
mill  as  a  whole.  General  lack  of  coopera- 
tion between  employees  was  the  chief 
cause  listed.  We  all  received  minor  de- 
ductions from  our  pay  checks.  I  con- 
sidered myself  lucky  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  if  I  had  refused  to  allow  them  to 
roll  the  steel  it  never  would  have  hap- 
pened. Right  then  and  there  I  resolved 
to  use  my  best  judgment  in  all  things 
regardless  of  opinions  of  others.  Ed 
learned  his  lesson  too.  He  held  my  py- 
rometer in  higher  regard  after  that. 

Ed  and  I  made  a  great  team  from  then 
on.  You  can  be  sure  that  no  steel  left 
the  pits  unless  it  was  hot. 


[21] 


What's  in  a  Title? 

(Titles  of  themes  submitted  to  the  Gkff.x  Caldron,  1926-1937) 


Advice 


Leave  Your  Coffee  Grounds 
Make  'Em  See  It  Your  Way 


Don't  Ever  Marry  a  Waiter 
Walk  for  Health 


Relax  and  Run 
Laugh 


Characters 


Memories  of  an  Old  Bum 
Napoleon  and  Roosevelt 
The  Romantic  Drudge 


My  Brother  and  I 
A  Poet  I  Know 
Joe  College 


Freshmen 
Smokers 


DiflBculties 


My  Difficulty  with  Grammar 
My  Struggle  for  Existence 
How  I  Learned  to  Dance 


A  Freshman's  Budget 
Sleeping  on  a  Train 
Working  My  Way 


My  Pet  Problems 
This  Is  My  Job 
Girl  Trouble 


Evaluations 

An  Education  Outside  the  Classroom 
In  Defense  of  a  Sane  Hell  Week 
We  Fashionables 


A  Get-Rich-Ouick  Scheme 
An  Example  of  Progress 
A  Wasted  Vacation 


Exclamation 

Yea,  Verily ! 
Move  Over! 


Wise  Guy! 
Going  Up ! 


Taxi 


Food 

Sophisticated  Mudpies      Hard  Tack 


Stewed  Tomatoes 


Moods 


Life:    or  Forty-nine  Davs  in  a  Rabbit 

Hutch 
Just  Philosophizing 


Well,  That's  That 
Disillusionment 
Rainy  Weather 


Sweet  Misery 

Spellbound 

Lonesome 


Mystery 

A  Phantom  '^Vorld 


In  a  Fog 


Pride 


How  I  Learned  to  Dance 
And  So  They  Flunked  Me 


I  Didn't  Join  the  Xavy 
Reading  Interests  Me 


My  Name  Is  Johnson 
An  Original  Idea 


On- 


On  Being  a  Doctor's  Daughter 
On  Starting  a  Model  T  Ford 


On  Theme  Writing 
On  Family  Traits 


On  Dance  Halls 


[22] 


Blut  Und  Eisen 


Allen  Adams 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  4,  1937-1938 


BACK  in  the  eighties,  when  the  steel 
industry  existed  as  independent,  un- 
organized, wildcat  enterprises  conceived 
by  financial  plungers  to  float  huge  issues 
of  watered  stock,  technical  methods  of 
making  steel  were  ver}'  inefiicient  and 
wasteful.  A  large  percent  of  the  ore  was 
discarded  because  of  poorly  heated  smelt- 


and  bare.  Many  men  had  been  caught 
and  ground  to  pulp  in  the  heavy  ma- 
chinery, or  had  fallen  into  a  ladle  or  an 
open  hearth  full  of  shimmering,  glowing 
steel.  Steel  made  in  those  days  had  a 
high  content  of  human  blood.  Blood  and 
Iron  were  truly  partners. 

This  partnership,  however,  existed  in 


ers,  while  the  steel  that  resulted  from 
these  reduction  smelters  was  of  poor 
qualit}'  and  unable  to  stand  any  great 
stress  or  strain. 

In  those  early  days  of  American  in- 
dustr}^,  the  mills  were  long,  dark,  low- 
roofed  buildings,  painted  slate  gray  and 
blackened  by  the  sulfurous  smoke  that 
belched  from  many  chimneys.  The  night 
saw  the  flares  of  the  smelters  reflected  in 
green,  brackish  ponds  that  were  laden 
with  slag  and  ^cid  residues.  Inside  the 
mills,  the  workers  had  no  protection 
from  the  poisonous  fumes  that  resulted 
from  ore  reduction.  The  huge  furnaces 
and  smelters  were  not  furnished  with 
railings,  while  machiner}-  was  also  open 


another  way.  Often  the  mill  hands  were 
bitter  toward  their  employer,  whom  they 
held  responsible  for  the  high  death  rate 
and  the  low  wages.  The  land  of  steel  has 
run  red  many  times  from  battles  between 
workers  and  the  Pinkerton  detectives  or 
Coal  and  Iron  Police.  Equipment  was 
destroyed,  plants  were  burned,  and  men 
on  both  sides  were  killed.  Both  camps 
committed  horrible  atrocities  in  those 
steel  wars,  atrocities  not  soon  forgotten. 
None  benefited  from  any  of  these  af- 
fairs, and  both  sides  were  really  injured, 
as  the  history-  of  the  Homestead  strike 
bears  out  in  graphic,  merciless  detail. 

Let  us  now  come  down  to  the  present 
dav.   Technical  methods  in  almost  even* 


[23] 


field  of  the  steel  industry  have  advanced 
greatly  from  the  processes  of  yesterday. 
A  large  variety  of  strong,  firm,  acid- 
resisting  steels  is  turned  out  yearly  with 
the  help  of  practically  no  human  lives. 
New  alloys  for  special  industrial  and 
engineering  uses  come  from  the  mills  one 
after  another.  Our  technical  knowledge 
in  steel  is  rapidly  leading  to  great  effi- 
ciency and  perfection. 

Then,  too,  the  plants  are  long,  tall 
buildings  with  huge  windows  and  ade- 
quate artificial  light.  All  machinery  is 
fully  protected ;  the  furnaces,  which  were 
so  dangerous,  are  now  operated  me- 
chanically by  a  man  who  sits  sixty  feet 
away  at  a  switchboard.  Poisonous  fumes 
no  longer  endanger  the  workers  but  are 
carried  off  and  are  treated  chemically,  as 
is  the  smoke.  Mills  are  operated  without 
frequent  accidents.  Blood  and  Iron  have 
been  separated  in  manufacturing. 

The  strikes,  however,  claim  a  few  lives 
each  year.  During  the  last  big  steel 
strike,  the  C.  I.  O.  had  merely  to  threaten 
to  call  away  the  workers  from  the  mills 
of  the  United  States  Steel  Corporation, 
to    get    Melvin    Traylor    to    invite    Mr. 


Lewis  to  lunch  at  an  exclusive  New  York 
club.  Then  the  basic  negotiations  were 
made  for  settling  the  differences  between 
labor  and  capital  in  America's  first  bil- 
lion dollar  corporation.  No  strike  was 
needed.  Then  when  Little  Steel  came 
along  and  decided  to  make  industrial 
America  safe  for  Fascism,  trouble  came 
fast  and  furious.  The  green-eyed  mon- 
ster of  strikes  again  raised  its  fearful 
head,  but  he  had  grown  senile  with  the 
years.  Some  violence  occurred,  partic- 
ularly in  Chicago,  but  it  was  mild  in  com- 
parison with  the  riots  at  Homestead. 
The  strike  was  finally  settled,  with  Little 
Steel's  profit  dipping  ninety  per  cent  and 
United  States  Steel  rolling  up  a  sixty- 
seven  million  dollar  net  profit  for  the 
first  six  months.  A  few  lives  were  lost, 
but  the  old-time  massacres  were  avoided. 
I  have  briefly  traced  a  metamorphosis 
in  an  industry.  As  technical  methods  and 
working  conditions  have  been  improved 
and  higher  wages  paid,  less  violence  and 
strike  deaths  have  occurred.  Men  in 
both  of  the  two  opposing  camps  are 
happier  than  before.  Blood  and  Iron 
have  been  divorced. 


Baling  Hay 


Resumins^  my  duty  was  painful.  My  muscles,  unaccustomed  to  such  strenuous 
work,  had  stiffened  during  the  noon  hour,  and  every  movement  I  made  was  an  effort. 
The  work  was  monotonous.  First  I  would  look  for  a  likely  spot  where  the  hay 
appeared  loose.  Then  I  would  stick  my  fork,  take  a  firm  grasp  on  the  smooth,  hard 
handle  of  the  fork,  spread  my  legs  to  give  myself  a  good  foundation,  throw  my 
weight  backward  to  over-balance  the  resistance  of  the  hay,  and  hope  that  the  hay 
would  yield.  After  the  hay  tore  loose  (if  it  did),  I  would  carry  the  forkful  over  to 
the  edge  of  the  mow  and  drop  it  into  the  mouth  of  the  rhythmically  gulping  baler. 
I  stopped  once  to  watch  the  machine  in  action.  Each  time  the  driving  wheels  made 
a  revolution,  the  arm  which  pushed  the  hay  into  the  compressing  chamber  was  re- 
tracted just  in  time  to  evade  a  terrific  blow  which  the  plunger  delivered  to  the  hay 
in  the  chamber.  It  reminded  me  of  a  cow  lazily  chewing  her  cud,  only  this  thing  had 
to  be  fed.  The  foreman's  cry  of  "block  'er"  (meaning  a  block  of  wood  should  be 
inserted  into  the  chamber  to  separate  the  bales)  brought  me  out  of  my  daze,  and 
I  trudged  back  across  the  mow  to  find  another  forkful  of  hay  which  I  could  dislodge 
with  the  least  effort. — Charles  L.  Norton 


[24] 


1914—1937 


Regina  Eberle 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  10,  1936-1937 


TF  the  newspapers  and  periodicals  of 
^  1937  were  published  without  any 
date,  anyone  with  a  knowledge  of  the 
sort  of  things  published  in  1914  would  be 
justified  in  believing  he  was  reading  a 
newspaper  or  magazine  of  that  fateful 
year.  The  situations  in  which  the  nations 
of  the  world  have  now  entangled  them- 
selves and  those  that  resulted  in  the 
World  War  are  practically  identical.  The 
same  atmosphere  of  sharp,  unrelenting 
vigilance,  the  same  feverish  excitement 
hang  like  a  pall  over  the  capitols  of  the 
world.  Everywhere  there  is  suspicion  ; 
everywhere  there  is  watchful  waiting. 

Today  we  are  experiencing  a  long 
awaited  splurge  of  prosperity.  Industry 
is  picking  up.  Prices  are  rising  and  the 
stock  market  is  booming.  The  prices  of 
wheat  and  metals  are  soaring.  Thought- 
ful men  recall  another  time  wheat  and 
metals  brought  record  prices — it  was  in 
1914.  They  know  that  a  rise  in  the  price 
of  metals  is  an  almost  infallible  harb- 
inger of  war.  Since  1776  inflation  has 
always  preceded  a  war,  and  today  we 
find  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  America's 
fifth  great  inflationary  movement. 

A  rise  in  the  price  of  steel  and  an  arms 
race  go  hand  in  hand.  Every  nation  in 
the  world  is  participating  in  an  unprece- 
dented race  to  accumulate  huge  stores  of 
munitions.  The  budget  of  every  nation  is 
being  expanded  to  the  breaking  point  to 
allow  for  the  purchase  of  more  instru- 
ments of  war.  Staggering  sums  are  being 
expended  for  the  latest  and  most  modern 
machines  of  death.  In  1914  every  nation 
was   more   heavily   armed   than   at   any 


other  period  in  history.  Today  the  arm- 
aments accumulated  by  the  world  powers 
are  double  what  they  were  in  1914.  And 
these  nations  are  by  no  means  satisfied. 
They  do  not  intend  to  be  outraced  by 
their  neighbors. 

The  most  peculiar  thing  about  the 
whole  procedure  is  that  all  nations  sol- 
emnly deny  that  they  are  preparing  for 
war.  They  are  merely  bolstering  up  their 
lines  of  defense.  They  are  merely  being 
"prepared."  I  say  that  it  is  peculiar  be- 
cause one  would  think  that  statesmen, 
after  they  have  used  the  same  "line"  so 
many  times  before,  would  adopt  another 
method  of  camouflaging  their  true  pur- 
poses. 

In  1914  the  public  was  informed  about 
the  efforts  that  were  being  made  by  many 
nations  to  make  themselves  self-sufficient 
— independent  of  imports  from  outside 
sources.  Today  we  know  that  the  same 
program  is  being  followed.  Germany  is 
the  country  that  comes  to  mind  first  be- 
cause her  efforts  towards  conservation 
of  food  products  and  materials  that 
could  be  utilized  in  the  manufacture  of 
war  implements  are  so  concentrated. 

One  of  the  most  startling  aspects  of 
this  similarity  between  1914  and  1937  is 
the  unchanged  attitude  of  the  nations  of 
the  world  toward  each  other.  The  rela- 
tions between  nations  are  quite  as 
strained  in  1937  as  they  were  in  1914, 
and  their  distrust  of  one  another  has 
been  prompted  by  practically  the  same 
reasons  as  before.  I  quote  a  passage 
from  the  Literary  Digest  of  September, 
1914:  "The  real  roots  of  the  conflict  are 


[25] 


to  be  found  in  France's  irreconcilable 
attitude  over  the  loss  of  Alsace-Lorraine, 
in  German's  imperial  aspirations,  in  Eng- 
land's desire  to  remain  commercially  and 
industrially  supreme,  and  in  Russia's 
hostility  towards  Austria's  influence  and 
aspirations  in  the  Balkans."  If  war 
should  be  declared  tomorrow,  this  same 
passage  could  be  reprinted,  with  perhaps 
a  few  additions.  The  French  are  still 
obsessed  with  their  hatred  for  Germany. 
Germany  is  getting  out  of  hand  because 
of  her  anxiety  to  recover  her  colonies. 
Russia  is  alarmed  because  Germany  has 
been  casting  an  avaricious  eye  toward  the 
Ukraine,  which  has  the  ample  oil  supply 
that  Germany  needs  but  lacks.  To  Italy, 
the  thought  of  Germany  invading  Bren- 
ner Pass  is  a  nightmare.  Nor  could  Italy 
afford  a  Sovietized  France  and  perhaps 
a  Sovietized  Spain  for  neighbors.  Japan 
is  very  definitely  pro-German.  England 
presents  a  real  problem  when  it  comes 
to  forecasting  with  which  side  she  would 
ally  herself.  For  the  fight  would  again 
be  between  Germany  and  her  allies  and 
France  and  her  allies.  Popular  feeling, 
curiously  enough,  is  definitely  pro-Ger- 
man and  anti-French.  But  the  powerful 
political  influences  in  England  would 
probably  succeed  in  aligning  England 
with  France  as  in  1914.  And  America, 
who  in  1914  was  educated  to  hate  any- 
thing German,  in  1937  is  being  educated 
to  hate  everything  that  is  "Fascist." 
Propaganda  has  proved  a  powerful  and 
invaluable  weapon  in  producing  the  de- 
sired American  attitude  toward  the  Hit- 
ler and  Mussolini  regimes.  The  figures 
of  these  two  gentlemen  decorate  the 
cartoon  of  1937,  occupying  the  place  of 
honor  reserved  in  1914  for  the  Kaiser. 

In  the  Review  of  Reviews  for  Janu- 
ary, 1914,  the  first  fourteen  articles  were 
devoted  to  various  suggestions  for  a 
more  adequate  defense  program.    They 


all  chided  us  on  our  lack  of  "prepared- 
ness." Today,  the  American  people  are 
again  the  victims  of  a  vigorous,  pointed 
barrage  of  propaganda  in  which  our 
attention  is  directed  toward  the  ease  with 
which  this  country  could  be  attacked. 
We  know  now  that  certain  factions  knew 
long  beforehand  that  the  United  States 
was  going  to  enter  the  war.  We  know 
that  all  the  talk  about  being  "prepared" 
was  merely  a  blind  behind  which  our  war 
machine  could  be  set  in  action.  I  quote 
a  paragraph  from  the  Review  of  Reviews 
for  March,  1914,  (mark  that  the  war 
wasn't  declared  until  August,  1914)  that 
seems  to  be  significant.  It  discusses  a 
"plan  for  the  establishment  of  a  summer 
camp  where  military  instruction  and 
training  are  given  to  young  men  of  the 
higher  education  institutions."  It  goes  on 
to  say  that  "the  object  of  these  camps  is 
to  afford  educated  young  men  the  oppor- 
tunity to  spend  a  portion  of  their  vaca- 
tion in  a  profitable  and  novel  manner. 
They  can  mingle  and  become  acquainted 
with  the  students  of  other  colleges  and 
institutions,  learn  something  from  them, 
and  secure  a  wider  range  of  vision  gen- 
erally. They  receive  inestimable  physical 
benefits  from  a  life  in  the  open  and 
sleeping  in  tents  in  a  healthful  climate. 
They  will  acquire  increased  business  effi- 
ciency, learn  self-control  and  accustom 
themselves  to  a  discipline  that  is  con- 
ceded to  be  a  good  thing  for  every  3'outh 
just  entering  manhood.  .  .  .  These  camps 
are  not  to  inculcate  ideas  of  military 
aggrandizement,  but  to  encourage  meth- 
ods of  preventing  war  by  more  thorough 
preparation  and  equipment."  The  last 
sentence  is  the  key  to  the  purpose  of  the 
plan. 

Surely  we  are  not  going  to  be  fooled 
again  by  the  same  type  of  propaganda 
that  led  us  into  the  horrible  holocaust  of 
1914.  We  must  not  be  blinded  by  it,  but 


[26] 


we  must  probe  into  it  and  discover  its 
true  purpose.  We  must  realize  that 
"preparedness"  will  not  prevent  war  but 
merely  precipitate  war.  We  didn't  gain 
anything  from  the  World  War.  We  can 
prevent  the  repetition  of  such  a  futile 
orgy  of  destruction  if  we  will  but  realize 
where  the  policies  of  the  governments  of 
the  world  are  leading  us.  It  is  not  yet 
too  late. 


Bibliography 
Austen,  F.  Britten,  "Choosing  Sides  for  War," 

Chicago  Daily  News,  April  3,  1937. 
"Conservation,"  Literary  Digest,  July  25,  1914, 

16. 
"Inflation  in  World  Markets,"  Literary  Digest, 

July  20,  1914,  4. 
"Summer  Camps,"  Review  of  Reviews,  March, 

1914,  321. 
"The   Race   Is  On,"   Literary  Digest,  July  4, 

1914,  9. 
"Vindication  of  Rulers,"  Literary  Digest,  July 

11,  1914,  1. 


Figures  of  Speech 


Ferry 

The  ferry  is  an  insignificant,  patient  water-bug,  pushing  off  with  a  groan  from 
one  side  of  the  narrow  river,  coasting  in  with  a  bang  at  the  other.  Then  it  scuttles 
backward — it  really  doesn't  have  bow  or  stern,  though — to  the  American  side. 

— John  Paddock 

Sergeant 

He  turns  red  in  the  face  and  puffs  up  like  a  stuffed  toad. — N.  E.  Van  Fussan 

Dickens  and  Belloc 

I  do  not  mean  that  "On"  should  be  compared  with  books  by  such  authors  as,  say, 
Dickens,  or  even  Lewis  or  Dreiser,  any  more  than  meat  should  be  compared  with 
dessert.  Where  Dickens  supplies  beef,  solid,  substantial,  and  filling,  Belloc  supplies 
cake,  light,  spicy,  and  frosted. — Philip  Brewer 

Golf  Ball 

The  gleaming  number  six  iron,  after  a  moment's  hesitation  at  the  top  of  its  up- 
ward swing,  started  its  downward  sweep.  Faster  and  faster  the  head  came  down. 
With  a  rubbery  smack  that  would  thrill  any  golf  enthusiast,  the  ball  was  driven 
cleanly  off  the  tee.  The  small  white  pellet  rose  like  a  frightened  humming  bird. 

— Forrest  H.  Mades 

Brother  and  Sister 

One  brother  was  undeniably  elephantine;  when  he  walked  he  rippled,  and  I  had 
the  impression  that  should  he  sit  down  suddenly,  he'd  splash.  He  had  a  good-looking 
daughter,  but  she  gazed  at  me  in  a  calm  and  detached  manner  as  if  I  were  a  train 
she  didn't  have  to  catch. — Willis  Ballance 

Dizzy  Dean 

The  long  right  arm  of  Dizzy  Dean  rose  slowly  in  a  half  arc  and  then  shot  out  like 
a  striking  snake.  The  ball,  a  small  white  blur,  sped  with  incredible  swiftness  toward 
the  plate.  The  batter  swung  viciously,  but  instead  of  the  sharp  crack  of  wood  meeting 
leather,  there  was  only  a  dull  thud  as  the  ball  sank  into  the  catcher's  mitt. — Carl  Pihl 

Coed 

Trying  to  persuade  a  girl  to  return  to  a  "spinster  factory"  after  she  has  tasted 
coed  life  is  like  persuading  a  kitten  to  return  to  milk  after  she  has  tasted  catnip. 

— Douglas  Morse 


[27] 


Slum  Cycle 


B.  E.  Gordon 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1936-1937 


A  SEARING  pain,  like  a  white-hot 
■^^  iron  thrust  into  his  back,  passed 
through  him.  He  plunged  forward  into 
a  sea  of  blackness ;  suddenly  it  parted. 

"Arthur,  mein  boy,  get  up.  Already 
it's  six  o'clock."  Hot  anger  surged 
through  him ;  anger  at  this  nagging  voice 
which  disturbed  his  sleep. 

"Get  outta  here,"  he  mumbled,  pulling 
the  blanket  more  tightly  around.  But, 
the  voice  would  not  be  shaken  off. 

"If  you  come  late  again,  the  boss  will 
take  another  hour  off  from  your  pay." 
She  spoke  wearily,  with  a  heavy  Yiddish 
accent. 

"Okay,  okay,  I'm  up,"  and  with  that 
he  lethargically  rose  and  began  to  dress. 
His  mother,  knowing  from  years  of  ex- 
perience when  it  was  safe  to  leave, 
waited  until  he  had  put  on  his  shoes 
before  she  returned  to  the  kitchen. 
Arthur,  now  fully  dressed,  paused  before 
the  yellowed  sink  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
walked  out  into  the  kitchen,  unwashed. 

His  mother  was  bending  over  a  bat- 
tered pot,  from  which  came  the  sweet, 
rich  odor  of  boiling  oatmeal.  The  dingy 
kitchen  seemed  bare,  occupied  as  it  was 
by  a  sink,  a  tiny  stove,  a  table,  and  two 
chairs.  The  rough  wooden  floor  was  a 
menace  to  bare  feet.  Yet,  the  room  was 
kept  surprisingly  clean,  for  Mrs.  Cohen 
took  pride  in  her  only  worldly  posses- 
sions. On  the  table  lay  a  brown  pack- 
age, his  lunch.  Without  a  word  he  picked 
it  up  and  turned  to  leave.  His  mother 
suddenly  hearing  him,  turned,  and  seeing 
that  he  was  about  to  leave,  asked 
anxiously: 


"Ain't  you  eating  the  oatmeal  what  I 
made?" 

"Naw,"  he  said  irritably,  "I  ain't 
hungry." 

"But  look,  it's  nice  and  fresh.   Please." 

"Aw,  eat  it  yerself,"  he  snapped,  and 
hurried  out  the  door.  She  stared  after 
him,  sighed  hopelessly,  and  returned  to 
her  work. 

The  morning  was  grey  and  dismal,  the 
high  tenement  houses  effectively  block- 
ing the  first  rays  of  a  rising  sun.  Arthur 
noticed  nothing  of  this ;  his  mind  had 
not  yet  awakened.  He  hurried  down  to 
the  subway  entrance,  paid  his  nickel,  and 
managed  to  slip  through  the  closing 
doors  of  a  downtown  express.  Throwing 
a  quick  glance  around,  he  saw  that  all 
the  seats  were  filled.  He  sighed,  think- 
ing of  the  long  ride.  Gripping  a  strap, 
he  settled  down  to  his  usual  day-dream- 
ing. Now  he  was  a  hero;  now  a  philan- 
derer ;  now  a  financial  magnate.  Because 
he  had  little  in  the  real  world,  he  had 
given  himself  over  to  the  fanciful  world 
so  wholeheartedly  that,  to  his  mind, 
there  was  no  line  of  demarcation  between 
the  two.  Thus  his  imagined  conquests 
had  become  real,  and  he  turned  vain.  A 
most  unprepossessing  sight  is  a  tall,  thin, 
pimply-faced  youth  who  is  vain. 

With  a  start,  he  heard  the  name  of  his 
station  called.  Springing  toward  the 
door,  he  hustled  out  with  the  leaving 
crowd.  He  arrived  at  the  mill  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  ascended  in  the  lethargic 
elevator.  Hurrying  into  the  huge  loft 
where  lay  great  stacks  of  freshly  cut 
lumber,  he  tossed  his  cap  onto  a  nail, 
took  up  a  broom,  and  began  to  sweep. 


[28] 


Here  in  this  other  world,  he  was  the 
lowest  of  the  low.  His  job  was  to  help 
all;  to  do  everyone's  bidding;  to  make 
obeisance  before  one  and  all.  And,  by 
that  token,  one  and  all  bullied,  browbeat, 
and  cursed  him  savagely.  For  they 
vented  upon  him  all  the  anger  and  fury 
they  felt  toward  their  employer,  who 
bullied,  browbeat,  and  cursed  them  just 
as  savagely.  Arthur,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  at  the  end  of  the  line.  He  had  only 
one  upon  whom  to  vent  his  pent-up  hate 
— his  mother. 

Freddie,  also  a  helper  in  the  shop,  was 


men  discussed  the  two  things  of  which 
they  were  aware — work  and  women. 
They  were  essentially  physical  beings ; 
all  that  was  abstract  or  tenuous  was 
outside  of  their  realm.  Only  that  which 
made  an  impression  on  any  of  their  five 
senses  aroused  in  them  any  semblance 
of  thought. 

He  eagerly  did  the  men's  bidding, 
bringing  them  water,  a  newspaper,  or 
an);1;hing  else  they  wanted.  They  repre- 
sented his  goal.  Imagine !  Some  day  he 
might  become  a  machine  worker  or  a 
carpenter.     Some    day    he    would    have 


working  at  the  other  end  of  the  loft. 
Perceiving  Arthur  he  called  loudly: 

"Hey,  Arthur,  come  over  here.  I  got 
some  woik  for  yuh." 

"Aw,  I'm  doin'  somep'n  over  here," 
replied  Arthur  weakly. 

"Come  over  here,  you  — "  mouthed 
Freddie  foully.  Still  protesting,  Arthur 
went.  His  weak  will  had  been  further 
weakened  by  Freddie's  bludgeoning  fists 
in  the  first  month  of  his  employment. 
The  morning  dragged.  Finally,  the 
hoarse  whistle  announced  lunch.  Arthur 
was  the  first  to  quit  for  lunch,  and  the 
first  to  begin  eating.  He  seated  himself 
by  the  older  men,  trying  to  join  in  their 
spirit  of  comradeship.  This  gathering 
was  the  social  hour  of  the  day,  and  the 


inferiors  to  browbeat,  to  curse,  and  to 
vilify.  He  swelled  at  the  thought.  Like 
the  men,  he,  too,  was  purely  physical,  but 
unlike  them,  he  was  forced  to  compen- 
sate for  his  low  status  by  developing  a 
perverted  imagination,  one  which  was 
based  only  on  desire.  The  men  talked. 
Arthur  hung  on  to  their  words,  devour- 
ing every  detail,  yearning  to  be  as  non- 
chalantly experienced  as  they. 

Lunch  over,  they  returned  to  work. 
Arthur  was  put  to  a  back-breaking  job, 
hauling  150  pound  beams  from  one  end 
of  the  loft  to  the  other.  He  stole  rests 
whenever  he  could  but  they  were  few 
and  far  between.  Promptly  at  5:30  he 
dropped  his  work,  grabbed  his  cap,  and 
hurried  out  of  the  shop,  eager  to  attack 


[29] 


the  hot,  tasty  meal  which  he  knew  was 
ready  for  him.  Springing  into  the  open- 
ing door  of  the  subway,  he  managed  to 
slip  ahead  of  an  elderly  woman  into  the 
last  vacant  seat.  Ignoring  the  disgusted 
glance  of  the  woman,  he  sank  again  into 
his  self-induced  stupor,  rousing  only 
when  a  pair  of  pretty  ankles  or  a  shapely 
figure  crossed  his  line  of  vision.  The 
ride,  like  all  others,  was  uneventful. 

He  walked  rapidly,  urged  as  by  the 
clamourings  of  an  empty  stomach.  Burst- 
ing into  the  flat,  he  ignored  his  mother's 
greetings,  and  sat  down  to  the  steaming 
stew.  His  mother  busied  herself,  tend- 
ing to  his  every  want,  feeling  acutely 
the  fatigue  which  she  knew  her  son 
felt.  Engrossed  only  in  his  meal,  he  ate 
hurriedly,  loudly,  and  gluttonously. 
Stomach  full,  he  leaned  back  with  a 
sigh  more  like  a  gasp.  His  mother 
beamed  happily,  overjoyed  to  see  that, 
for  once,  he  had  found  no  fault  with 
her  cooking.  Sitting  sluggishly  at  the 
table,  conscious  only  of  the  unpleasant 
sensation  which  comes  from  overeating 
he  waited  for  the  food  to  settle.  Mrs. 
Cohen  busied  herself  silently.  She  knew 
better  than  to  speak  to  her  son  when  he 
sat  thus.  She  would  be  greeted  only  with 
a  vicious  snarl. 

He  sat,  staring  vacantly  ahead,  think- 
ing nothing.  After  a  while,  he  roused 
himself,  arose  slowly,  took  his  cap,  and 
turned  to  leave.  Mrs.  Cohen  confronted 
him  timidly. 

"Arthur?" 

"Yeah?"  he  snapped  impatiently. 

"Maybe  you  feel  like  staying  home 
to-night  ?" 

"Jees,  no.  I'm  gonna  meet  the  fellers." 

"Well,  I  was  thinking,  if  you  didn't 
have  nothing  to  do,  you  could  stay  with 
me  to-night.  It  gets  a  little  lonely  here, 
sometimes."  She  spoke  hesitatingly, 
afraid  to  oflFend,  yet  urged  on  by  the  fear 


of  the  intense  loneliness  she  often  ex- 
perienced. Hot  anger  surged  through 
him ;  to  think  that  she  had  the  presump- 
tion to  ask  him  to  give  up  the  little 
spare  time  he  had. 

"Fer  God's  sake,"  he  yelled  wrath- 
fully,  "I  woik  like  a  dog  all  day,  and 
now  you  wanna  make  me  stay  home. 
Ain't  it  enough  that  I  keep  the  place 
going?  Next  thing  I  bet  you'll  be  askin' 
me  to  help  you  with  the  housewoik." 
Mrs.  Cohen  cringed  beneath  his  fiery 
wrath. 

"I  didn't  mean  nothing,"  she  said 
apologetically.  "I  just  thought  you  didn't 
have  nothing  else  to  do." 

"Well,  I  got  something  else  to  do,"  he 
spat,  and  slammed  the  door. 

She  stared  after  him,  tears  filling  her  j 
eyes.  She  quickly  wiped  them  away. 
After  all,  he  did  work  very  hard,  poor 
boy.  Other  boys  went  to  school,  had 
nice,  almost  new  clothes  to  wear,  pla3'ed 
after  school,  and  lived  in  big  four-  and 
five-room  houses.  She  musn't  be  so 
selfish ;  a  boy  is  young  only  once.  Still,  J 
it  did  get  so  lonely.  1 

Arthur  slouched  down  to  the  corner 
where  a  few  of  the  boys  of  the  neigh- 
borhood had  gathered.  Even  here,  among 
his  own  kind,  he  was  looked  down  upon. 
He  had  that  unfathomable  air  about 
him  which  branded  him  as  inferior.  His 
very  bearing  invited  contempt  and  ridi- 
cule, and  he  certainly  got  it.  The  gang's 
pastime  was  rather  limited,  consisting  as 
it  did  of  talk  and  petty  thievery.  They 
talked  mainly  about  their  sex  exper- 
iences, magnifying  every  detail,  pretend- 
ing to  listen  casually,  yet  straining  all 
the  while  not  to  miss  a  word.  Arthur 
contributed  his  share,  based  only  on  what 
he  had  picked  up  down  at  the  shop.  He 
was  an  unwilling  virgin. 

After  standing  around  for  an  hour  or 
two   throwing  catcalls   and   jeers    after 


[30] 


giggling  girls,  they  decided  to  visit  the 
Five  and  Ten,  the  chief  object  of  their 
petty  thievery.  They  strolled  down  Madi- 
son Avenue  in  a  group,  yelling  loudly, 
coarsely,  and  obscenely.  They  felt  ag- 
gressive, bolstered  as  they  were  by  their 
aggregate  presence. 

Entering  the  teeming  store  in  two's 
and  three's  to  avoid  any  suspicion,  they 
wandered  about  looking  for  anything  to 
steal.  They  were  outwardly  calm,  in- 
wardly tense,  keyed  up  to  such  a  pitch 
that  every  move  on  the  part  of  the 
salesclerks  was  interpreted  as  suspicious. 
Arthur's  senses  were  on  edge ;  the  slight- 
est untoward  sound  would  send  him 
dashing  wildly  out  the  door.  He  strug- 
gled to  keep  his  face  calm  against  the 
tumultuous  pounding  of  his  heart.  Stop- 
ping by  the  hardware  counter,  he  quickly 
looked  around  and,  with  a  swift  move- 
ment, pocketed  a  flashlight. 

"There  he  is,"  rang  out  the  floor- 
walker's voice.  Instantly  the  entire  gang, 
spread  out  as  they  were  through  the 
whole  store,  bolted  for  the  exit.  They 
dashed  out  the  door  and  fled,  blind, 
overwhelming  fear  lending  wings  to 
their  feet.  The  floorwalker,  long  tor- 
mented by  these  raids,  pursued. 

"Stop,  you ,"  he  cursed.  The  offi- 
cer on  the  beat,  taking  the  scene  in  at  a 
glance,  immediately  took  up  the  chase. 
Fat,  ungainly,  knowing  that  he  would  be 
hopelessly  out-distanced,  he  drew  his 
pistol  and  fired  into  the  air,  yelling, 
"Stop!  you  damn  kids."  They  ran 
faster  and  harder.  Lumbering  after  them 
he  again  pointed  the  pistol  at  the  sky. 


Just  then  he  tripped  off  the  curb  and 
lunged  forward  pulling  the  trigger.  The 
gun  was  not  pointed  at  the  sky,  but 
straight  ahead.  There  was  a  sharp,  bark- 
ing report.  Arthur  stumbled.  A  searing 
pain,  like  a  white,  hot  iron  thrust  into 
his  back,  passed  through  him.  He 
plunged  forward  into  a  sea  of  blackness; 
it  did  not  part  .... 

The  white- jacketed  interne  straight- 
ened, looked  at  the  nurses  and  said  suc- 
cinctly, "Shattered  vertebrae,  internal 
hemorrhage ;  didn't  last  more  than  five 
minutes.  Notify  his  home."  The  nurses 
nodded  and  wheeled  out  this  load  of 
clay. 

Days  later,  the  workmen  at  the  shop 
sat  discussing  Arthur's  death, 

"Too  bad!  He  was  a  swell  guy;  al- 
ways ready  to  help  anyone  out  of  a 
jam;  always  ready  to  stand  up  for  his 
rights." 

"Yeah,  I'll  bet  he'd  'uve  gone  a  long 
way." 

His  friends,  no  longer  meeting  at  the 
corner,  spoke  in  lowered  tones. 

"A  right  guy  if  there  ever  was  one." 

"You  betcha.  Lotsa'  spunk;  he  sure 
could  stand  up  and  take  it." 

"Jees,   I'll  miss  that  guy." 

An  elderly  Jewish  woman  sat  on  the 
stoop  of  a  begrimed  tenement  house. 
Clad  only  in  a  faded  blue  kimona  and 
torn  house-slippers,  she  stared  vacantly, 
mumbling  constantly,  "He  is  a  good  boy, 
mein  Arthur,  He  woiks  very  hard.  He 
is  a  good  boy,  a  good  boy,  a  good 
boy  ,  ,  ,  ,  " 


Apology 

The  Green  Caldron  regrets  publishing-,  in  the  October,  1937,  issue,  a  paragraph 
and  a  sentence  from  "Joe  Louis  Never  Smiles"  by  Jonathan  Mitchell  (The  New 
Republic,  October  9,  1935).  Our  apologies  have  been  sent  to  the  author  and  to  the 
editors  of  The  New  Republic. 


[31] 


Rhet.  as  Writ. 


In  our  daily  newspapers  we  read  of  a 
most  dastardly  criminal,  the  hit  and  run 
driver.  It  may  be  a  small  child  who  is 
on  its  way  to  school,  or  it  may  be  an 
elderly  person  who  is  out  for  his  or  her 
exercise. 

There  was  a  spacious  cool  verenda 
with  coliders,  lawn  chairs,  and  cossacks. 

•  •  •  • 

If  this  is  kept  up,  the  human  race  will 
soon  be  wiped  out — due  to  speed-fiends, 
drunkards,  and  earless  drivers  in  gen- 
eral. 

The  characteristics  of  Grandfather 
Johnson  were  found  in  his  posteriors 
also. 

The  land  from  the  far  north  to  the 
far  south  is  webbed  with  the  trails  of 
man's  expositions.  The  oceans  have  been 
racked  with  his  vessels  and  submarines. 
It  seemed  that  new  lands,  new  places, 
and  new  worlds  to  conquer  had  finally 
come  to  the  end  of  its  rope.  But  man 
forgot  to  look  up  and  see  what  this  rope 
of  exploration  was  hanging  from.  One 
fine  day  a  man  realized  this  and  when 
he  looked  up,  he  found  stratosphere. 

We  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  run- 
ning a  grove  of  hogs  into  the  truck. 

His  maximum  was  that  the  customer 
is  right. 

That  is  the  question,  whether  to  go 
into  the  mountains  or  just  some  lake. 

No  opportunity  is  going  to  be  allowed 
to  pass  me  by  unscathed. 


My  two  cousins  would  tell  tales  that 
made  me  stand  gapping. 

And  so  a  man  with  a  college  education 
is  more  desirous  than  a  man  who  has  not 
had  a  college  education. 

Here  is  where  the  trouble  began ;  be- 
cause of  the  water  being  deeper  than 
my  head,  I  naturally  went  under. 

This  distraction  takes  her  eyes  off  of 
the  direction  of  the  car  and  may  prob- 
ably lead  to  an  accident  in  which  the 
occupants  of  the  car  may  get  seriously 
or  probably  killed. 

While  tying  his  tie  in  front  of  a  mir- 
ror, he  notices  that  his  "chest"  has 
slipped  and  will  draw  in  his  stomach  and 
try  to  walk  like  that.  After  a  time  he 
has  completely  forgotten  about  it  and 
down  comes  his  "chest." 

If  he  buys  a  new  tie,  suit,  or  any  other 
article  of  clothing  he  invariably  asks  the 
following  question:  "Are  you  certain 
that  you  like  my  new  suspenders?  Do 
you  think  I  would  look  better  in  purple 
or  red  socks." 

To  be  able  to  trot  comfortably  a 
horseman  has  to  know  how  to  post.  The 
rider  allows  himself  to  be  lifted  upward 
by  one  hind  leg  and  sits  down  again  in 
time  to  be  lifted  upward  again  by  the 
same  leg. 

At  a  state  university  the  possibilities 
of  social  life  are  unlimited  in  spite  of 
restrictions. 


[32] 


Honorable  Mention 

Lack  of  space  prevents  the  publishing  of  excellent  themes  written  by  the  fol- 
lowing students.  These  themes  are  being  held  in  the  hope  that  they  may  be  pub- 
lished, in  part  or  in  entirety,  in  future  issues. 


Sister  Ida  Marie  Adams 
Charlotte  Conrad 
Miriam  Crabtree 
Louise  Deutch 
George  E.  Evans 
Sister  Mary  Henry  Frey 
Paul  R.  Johnson 


Cedric  King 
EsPAR  Law 
Craig  Lewis 
Norton  Mendelbaum 
Harrison  B.  Ruehe 
Patricia  Shesler 


The  English  Readings 

Each  year  the  Department  of  English  sponsors  a  series  of  readings  from 
literature.   The  program  for  the  rest  of  the  semester  follows: 

December    14. — America's    Most    Popular    Play:     Uncle    Tom's   Cabin.     Mr.    Wesley 

SWANSON. 

January  11. — Modern  Metrical  Rhythms.   Professor  W.  M.  Parrish. 

The  readings  will  be  held  at  228  Natural  History  Building  (at  the  comer  of 
Green  and  Mathews),  and  will  begin  at  7:15  p.  m. 


m 


wmm^ 
immm 


Vol.7 


MARCH,  1938 


No.  3 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

AND  SO  THEY  FLUNKED 1 

Marjorie  Helen  Palfrey 

A    LETTER    3 

Anonymous 

HOW  TO  MAKE  AN  ICE  CREAM  SODA    ....       5 

Charles  Dippold 

GOSSAMER  AND   SPINDRIFT 7 

Edwin  Traisman 

MEMORIES  AHOY! 8 

Anonymous 

LIFE  IN  A  MORGUE— FUN! 9 

Arselia  Block 

THE   SKETCH   BOOK 12 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

HOBBYISTS 14 

Sister  Mary  Henry  Frey 

ON  WRITING  LETTERS 17 

Reone  Rasmussen 

LET'S  BLOW  OUR  HORNS! 19 

Clinton  Cobb 

DON'T  YOU  KNOW  OR  DON'T  YOU  CARE?     .      .     21 
Anonymous 

THAR  SHE  BLOWS! 23 

Milton  Yanow 

HAVANA 25 

Ethel  Donnelly 

CHRISTIANS'  EXHIBITS 26 

Frances  Pritchett 

BOY  DIES 30 

Betty  McMarran 

RHET  AS  WRIT 32 


udMy\!^ 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  RHETORIC  STAFF,  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS,  URBANA 


A  HE  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staff  of  the  University  of  Illinois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
published  anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  hou^ever, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Dr.  Robert  Blair,  Mr.  Gibbon  But- 
ler, Mr.  E.  G.  Ballard,  Dr.  Carolyn  Washburn,  and  Dr. 
R.  E.  Haswell,  Chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building,  Urliana,  Illinois.  The 
price  is  fifteen  cents  a  copy. 


And  So  They  Flunked 


Marjorie  Helen  Palfrey 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  2,  1926-1937 


APPROXIMATELY  2,800  of  the 
12,000  students  of  the  University 
of  Illinois  failed  during  the  first  semester 
of  the  1936-1937  term.  This  is  the  report 
of  the  newspaper;  but  even  if  this  report 
is  not  wholly  true,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  a  great  number  of  students  fail 
every  year  in  every  college  institution. 
This  unpleasant  situation  can  be  accred- 
ited to  several  factors.  A  student  may  be 
mentally  incapable  of  doing  passing 
work,  or  he  may  not  have  the  ability  to 
adapt  himself  effectively  to  a  college 
environment.  Strangely  enough,  a  large 
number  of  students  are  determined  not 
to  be  educated.  Under  such  circum- 
stances, how  is  a  college  to  keep  a  high 
scholastic  standard  without  getting  rid 
of  these  unfortunates. 

The  actual  lack  of  mental  capacity 
appears  in  a  few  students.  Because  there 
is  the  feeling  of  "keeping  up  with  the 
Joneses,"  even  in  education,  Archibald 
Percival,  Jr.  is  sent  to  college.  He  has 
inherited  his  inability  to  learn  from  his 
social-climbing  mother,  who  insists  that 
he  go  to  the  same  college  as  Billy  Van 
Deveer.  Junior  probably  had  a  great 
struggle  to  graduate  from  high  school, 
and  he  is  quite  sure  to  fail  in  college 
unless  he  exerts  an  extreme  amount  of 
energ}' — but  this  he  probably  will  not  be 
willing  to  do.  In  some  families,  going  to 
college  is  a  tradition,  and  every  branch 
of  such  families  strives  to  keep  up  the 
custom  no  matter  how  hopeless  the  new 
twig  may  be.  Sometimes,  a  family  name 
will  keep  a  student  from  getting  on  the 
flunking  list  during  his  first  year  of  col- 


lege if  the  school  is  small  enough  and  if 
the  student's  family  name  is  prominent 
enough,  but  the  probability  is  slight. 

Other  students  have  a  fine  learning 
capacity,  but  do  not  have  the  ability  to 
adapt  themselves  to  new  surroundings 
and  to  organize  their  studies.  Often  high 
schools  are  at  fault  in  this  kind  of  fail- 
ure. Most  high  schools  give  a  student 
enough  information  to  pass  college  en- 
trance examinations,  but  few  teach  their 
charges  how  to  get  along  in  college. 
Academic  pedagogues  do  not  realize  that 
the  prospective  college  student  must 
learn  to  study  before  he  gets  to  college. 
The  student,  upon  entering  college,  finds 
not  only  a  great  deal  of  studying  to  do 
but  also  a  large  number  of  attractive 
outside  activities  to  enter.  Trouble  be- 
gins if  the  new  student  does  not  know 
how  to  budget  his  time ;  he  must  allot 
certain  amounts  of  time  for  studying, 
recreation,  outside  work,  and  sleep.  A 
rigid  schedule  including  these  items 
should  be  set  up  and  kept  until  the  stu- 
dent has  acquired  the  habit  of  auto- 
matically organizing  his  time — that  is,  if 
the  student  wants  to  succeed. 

But  it  is  often  doubtful  whether  the 
collegian  wants  to  succeed  scholastically 
or  socially  while  attending  school.  Mary 
Jones  may  be  homesick  and  think  that 
flunking  out  is  the  easiest  means  of 
getting  back  to  her  family — it  is  probably 
the  quickest  way  in  most  colleges.  Some 
students  have  the  "dare-you-to-teach-me" 
attitude.  These  students  usually  refuse 
to  look  at  a  text  book,  give  the  instructor 
supposedly  clever  remarks   for  answers 


[  1  ] 


in  discussion,  and  fall  asleep  in  lecture. 
When  exams  come,  such  students  make 
a  grand  exodus  out  of  a  prominent  door 
ten  minutes  after  the  printed  question 
sheets  are  distributed.  Some  of  these 
students  go  astray  during  the  semester 
and  somehow  acquire  enough  interest  in 
a  course  to  desire  some  credit.  Then  the 
light  bill  soars  and  the  neighborhood 
drug  and  soda  store  is  relieved  of  a  large 
supply  of  black  coffee  and  anti-sleep  pills 
the  night  before  the  final  exam.  Our 
own  University  seems  to  have  an  actual 
class-cutting  group,  some  of  whose  mem- 
bers prefer  indulging  in  a  coke-and- 
smoke  at  Hanley's  at  ten  o'clock  rather 
than  attending  History  3a  or  English 
10b.    while   others  permit   Morpheus   or 


Venus    to    interfere    with    their    study 
routine  any  night  of  the  week. 

Of  course,  there  are  a  few  students 
who  have  the  misfortune  of  flunking  out 
for  legitimate  reasons  such  as  having  to 
devote  too  much  time  to  earning  money 
while  going  to  school  and  not  being  able 
to  save  time  for  studying,  too.  Or  sick- 
ness may  put  one  so  far  behind  the  rest 
of  the  class  that  he  is  unable  to  catch  up 
before  exams.  The  fact  that  only  600 
of  the  2,800  who  failed  at  Illinois  peti- 
tioned to  be  re-instated  proves  that  many 
students  either  don't  care  to  have  a  col- 
lege education,  that  they  realize  their 
inability  and  inefficiency,  or  that  they 
feel  there  are  wider  worlds  to  conquer 
elsewhere. 


America  Isn't  Always  Right 


T,  like  all  true  .Americans,  have  always  believed  that  everything'  that  the  United 
States  has  done  was  absolutely  necessary  and  endowed  with  God's  blessing.  From 
early  childhood  I  have  always  felt  perfectly  confident  that  America  did  not  have  the 
same  weaknesses  and  blunderincfs  as  other  countries.  As  I  looked  back  on  the  history 
of  the  United  States,  I  saw  the  Revolutionary  War  as  a  glorious  struggle  for  free- 
dom from  a  beastly  and  unbearable  autocrat;  a  god-sent  inspiration  to  all  Americans 
to  give  their  lives  on  the  altar  of  freedom.  The  Mexican  War  was  a  heaven-sent 
order  to  go  out  and  free  suppressed  peoples  from  the  Mexican  rule.  The  Civil  W'ar 
represented  a  determined  attempt  of  religious  and  righteous  northerners  to  punish 
the  cruel  southerners  for  enslaving  negroes.  And  the  World  War  was  a  declaration 
of  mercy  toward  other  countries  who  were  not  so  fortunate  as  ourselves  in  being 
able  to  live  in  peace  and  plenty,  unmolested  by  aggressor  nations.  All  through  grade 
school  this  doctrine  of  "America  can  do  no  wrong"  was  impressed  upon  me. 

But  now  I  can  see  the  bitter  truth.  We  would  be  the  same  as  any  nation  if  it 
were  not  for  our  isolation  and  plentiful  resources.  We  have  fought  to  gain  territory 
and  hinder  other  nations  the  same  as  European  countries.  The  Revolution  was  no 
glorious  battle  for  freedom.  The  colonists  revolted  because  they  refused  to  be  taxed 
and  have  their  incomes  decreased.  George  Washington  was  a  great  man,  but  he  was 
not  the  "God"  that  I  always  thought  he  was.  His  lands  and  possessions  were  being 
taxed  and  taken  away  the  same  as  others,  and  he  fought  to  escape  these  evils,  not 
because  he  got  an  inspiration  to  be  the  "father  of  our  country."  The  Mexican  War 
was  an  invasion  of  Mexico  just  like  Japan's  invasion  of  China  today.  H  Mexico  had 
been  a  larger  country  and  more  closely  connected  with  European  powers,  the  war 
would  have  started  a  controversy  among  all  nations.  The  war  to  bind  the  nation 
into  a  stronger  union  was,  of  course,  necessary,  but  the  cry  of  "free  the  slaves"  was 
only  a  justification  of  it.  The  northerners  would  have  used  slaves  if  they  had  been  as 
profitable  as  they  were  in  the  South.  I  will  say  little  of  the  World  War  as  everyone 
knows  that  if  it  were  not  for  the  monied  interests  in  foreign  nations,  we  would  never 
have  been  forced  into  it.   It  was  instigated  by  capitalists. — Gene  Schelp 


[  2  ] 


A  Letter 


Anonymous 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  4,  1937-1938 


DEAR  JOE, 
You  and  I  have  been  told  that  Uni- 
versity studies  are  difficult,  that  living 
conditions  are  bad,  that  luxuries  are 
absent,  that  the  days  are  long  and  full, 
that  there  is  no  scenery,  that  the  town  is 
dead,  and  that  there  are  drunkards  stag- 
gering around,  bleating  about  the  labors 
of  study  and  the  curse  of  education.  We 
have  heard  rumors  about  the  wild  night 
life,  the  immorality,  the  absence  of  re- 
ligion, the  flowing  of  liquor,  the  crazy 
mobs  of  students  that  tear  up  the  town 
on  nights  before  football  games,  and 
much  other  poppycock  not  worth  remem- 
bering. People  that  scatter  such  cheap 
talk  are  sea-anchors  on  the  ship  of 
progress. 

Studies  here  are  easier  than  those  en- 
countered in  grade  and  high  school  for 
these  four  reasons:  after  our  initiation 
into  the  mysteries  of  knowledge,  our 
curiosity  has  been  aroused,  and  we  enjoy 
delving  deeper ;  we  have  learned,  or 
should  have  learned,  how  to  work  and 
think ;  our  minds  are  approaching  ma- 
turity, and  we  are  able  to  grasp  more ; 
and  we  are  better  able  to  see  relations 
between  branches  of  human  thought  and 
endeavour.  Most  of  the  students,  if  they 
really  bent  down  to  the  beautiful  truth, 
would  admit  that  learning  is  not  so 
difficult.  In  fact,  to  a  human  being,  learn- 
ing is  the  principal  and  the  easiest  of 
all  his  adventures. 

Study  rooms  here  are  typical  of  stu- 
dents. Rooms  could  be  put  into  four 
general  classes:  they  are  clean  and  order- 
ly, clean  and  disorderly,  dirty  and  dis- 


orderly, and  simply  uninhabitable.  There 
are  characteristics  common  to  all  types: 
the  customary  college  insignia  are  placed 
on  the  walls;  banners,  pictures  of  pretty 
girls  cut  from  magazines,  city  maps, 
calendars,  remnants  of  mistletoe  and 
bittersweet,  schedules,  fake  licenses,  tie 
racks,  and  prize  candid  camera  shots 
adorn  the  humble  plaster ;  corners  and 
other  convenient  crannies  may  hide  such 
articles  as  tennis  rackets,  paddles,  and 
dilapidated  portable  typewriters.  Drying 
on  the  radiators  (articles  vary  with  the 
individual)  may  be  seen  half -washed 
handkerchiefs  and  socks,  towels,  wash- 
cloths, or  a  baggy-looking  shirt  or  two. 
There  is  usually  a  miniature  delicatessen 
in  a  box  on  the  closet  shelf.  Of  course 
I  haven't  been  in  any  of  the  girls'  rooms, 
but  I  imagine  that  they  are  about  the 
same.  There  are,  undoubtedly,  dainty 
articles  draped  on  the  furniture ;  drawers 
full  of  letters  from  old  and  new,  and 
more  or  less  imaginary,  boy  friends ;  pic- 
tures of  Clark  Gable  and  Robert  Taylor 
tacked  on  the  walls ;  and  faint  odors  of 
powder,  perfume,  bath  salts,  hair  set, 
soap,  and  other  agents  of  chemical  war- 
fare floating  around  the  room. 

I  am  living  with  twenty-two  other  fel- 
lows in  an  unorganized  house.  We  all 
sleep  in  single  beds  on  the  third  floor, 
or  to  be  exact,  in  the  attic.  Every  one,  of 
course,  must  have  his  own  clock ;  making 
necessary  twenty-three  alarm  clocks  in 
good  working  order.  A  word  or  two  may 
be  said  about  the  sonorous,  musical, 
rhythmic,  harmonious,  flowing,  liquid, 
and  otherwise  eff'ective  sounds  produced 


[  3  ] 


by  such  a  barrage  of  dollar-day  chronom- 
eters. It  is  really  quite  a  stud}-  to  de- 
tect one's  alarm  from  the  others  nearby. 
I  have  been  fooled  quite  a  few  times  into 
diving  for  my  clock  when  my  neighbor's 
went  off.  In  time,  however,  I  have  be- 
come intimately  acquainted  with  the  par- 
ticular tone  of  my  alarm,  and  sleep  until 
the  last  moment.  It  is  indeed  remarkable 
what  quickness  and  deftness  are  dis- 
played bv  some  of  the  men  in  shutting  off 
their  alarms.  It  is  certainly  an  art  to  be 
acquired.  Some  persons,  however,  insist 
on  allowing  their  alarms  to  run  com- 
pletely down.  These  persons  are  regarded 
as  common  enemies  to  the  community, 
and  are  dealt  with  accordingly. 

As  to  the  absence  of  luxuries,  indeed ! 
What  a  luxury  the  University  Library 
would  have  been  to  a  man  like  Lincoln ! 
Down  here  the  sun  still  shines,  the  moon 
still  glows,  the  sky  is  still  blue,  plants 
still  grow,  breezes  still  blow,  people  still 
laugh,  cakes  still  bake,  and  candy  is 
handy !  What  more  could  anyone  ask  in 
the  line  of  luxuries? 

Days  are  anything  but  long  and  dull. 
It  seems  that  the  days  only  get  a  good 
start  before  finishing  quickly.  One  goes 
to  bed  with  the  feeling  that  only  half  his 
work  has  been  done.  And  interesting? 
One  seldom  sees  the  same  persons  twice ! 


There  are  new  faces  every  hour.  Nor 
are  classes  dull.  Chemistry,  for  example. 
I  have  never  realized  that  the  atomic 
chart  was  such  an  absorbing  discovery 
and  development.  Every  student  has  the 
privilege  and  thrill  of  discovering  its 
laws  and  principles  all  over  again. 

You  and  I  both  agree  that  there  is  as 
much  scenery  in  a  human  face  as  in  any 
inorganic  pile  of  rock.  There  is  more 
scenery  here  than  one  is  able  to  grasp. 
It  is  new  ;  it  is  varied  ;  it  is  ever  changing. 

There  are,  naturally,  a  few  alcoholics 
walking  the  streets ;  some  meek  and 
some  violent.  As  the  risks  are  great,  the 
percentage  of  student  drunkards  is  small. 
The  average  alcoholic  student  imbibes 
alcohol  for  sheer  devilment  at  first  and 
gradually  gets  into  the  habit.  Some  feel 
that  the  only  way  to  have  a  good  time  is 
to  go  out  on  a  "bender."  When  they 
come  to,  they  are  usually  ashamed  of 
themselves. 

In  summing  up,  I  would  say  that  col- 
lege is  very  much  like  any  other  life  in 
most  respects.  Its  chief  different  char- 
acteristic is  inquisitiveness  with  resulting 
acquisitiveness.  Each  day  brings  a  new 
experience,  a  new  friend,  a  different  out- 
look, or  a  changed  viewpoint. 

I  shall  write  again  in  the  near  future. 
Yours  sincerely. 


School  for  Bachelors 

A  man  is  often  said  to  res^rtt  that  he  was  ever  married  after  he  has  first  seen 
his  wife  when  she  gets  up  in  the  morning.  If  this  is  true,  I  should  think  that  all 
sorority  house  waiters  would  remain  bachelors  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  after  seeing 
about  forty  sleepy-eyed  girls  at  the  breakfast  table  every  morning  for  nine  months 
of  the  year.  The  waiter  sees  them  as  God  made  them,  except  for  the  tin  curlers  in 
their  hair,  of  course.  He  knows  just  how  many  freckles  "Red"  Miller  has,  that 
"Dotty"  wears  red  pajamas,  that  the  beautiful  coloring  on  Marion's  cheeks  isn't 
natural  as  she  claims,  and  that  most  of  the  girls  smear  their  noses  and  cheeks  with 
cold  cream.  How  amusing  it  must  be  to  him  to  see  the  sophisticated  campus 
"smoothie"  slouching  in  her  chair  at  breakfast.  Her  traditional  grey,  baggy  "Dr. 
Denton"  nightsuit  is  about  the  same  color  as  the  soggy  oatmeal  she  is  eating,  and  on 
her  feet  is  a  pair  of  old  sheepskin-lined  "Woogie"  slippers. — Betty  Betz 


[  4  ] 


How  to  Make  an  Ice  Cream  Soda 


Charles  Dippold 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  7,  1937-1938 


AS  A  former  Amalgamator  of  Aque- 
ous Solutions  of  Carbonic  Acid,  I 
can  state  with  authority  that  the  ice 
cream  soda  is  the  acme  of  the  soda- 
jerker's  art.  Sundaes,  cokes,  and  shakes 
are  all  secondary ;  anyone  can  ladle  syrup 
over  ice  cream  or  mix  charged  water  and 
syrup  to  make  a  coke,  but  it  takes  long 
experience  and  inspired  artistic  endeavor 
to  blend  together  the  few 
simple  ingredients  of  that 
masterpiece  of  the  profession, 
the  ice  cream  soda.  As  in  any 
art,  individual  technique  va- 
ries, but  like  any  artist,  I  be- 
lieve mine  to  be  the  most 
satisfactory. 

To  begin  with,  a  glass  must 
be  chosen.  The  ideal  glass  is 
tall,  with  thick  sides  to  pre- 
vent breakage,  and  with  a 
heavy  base  to  prevent  tipping. 
It  should  be  conical  in  shape, 
since  a  cone  has  only  one- 
third  the  volume  of  a  cylinder  of  equal 
height  and  base,  while  appearing  almost 
as  large. 

Equipped  with  the  proper  glass,  one 
now  chooses  the  syrup.  I  personally 
prefer  chocolate,  but  with  any  flavor  the 
procedure  is  the  same.  The  proper 
amount  must  be  judged  by  the  soda- 
jerker.  It  is  generally  between  two  and 
three  ounces,  depending  upon  the  size  of 
the  glass  and  ones  individual  taste.  A 
dab  of  stiff  whipped  cream  is  flipped 
upon  the  syrup  by  a  dexterous  tap  of 
the  spoon  on  the  edge  of  the  glass,  and 


then  one  is  ready  for  the  most  important 
step,  adding  the  water. 

The  object  is  to  produce  a  light, 
frothy,  homogeneous  mixture  of  charged 
water  and  syrup.  To  do  this  perfectly, 
the  fine  stream  must  be  used.  At  some 
fountains,  quality  must  be  sacrificed  to 
speed  and  the  coarse  stream  substituted, 
but  since  we  are  considering  the  ideal 
soda,  we  may  disregard  this 
practice.  One  places  the  glass 
under  the  faucet,  slowly  mov- 
ing the  handle  forward  to 
allow  the  soda-water  to  fizz 
out  with  increasing  velocity, 
and  rotating  the  glass  care- 
fully to  insure  a  complete 
mixture  of  water  and  syrup. 
When  the  glass  is  about  two- 
thirds  full,  the  water  is  shut 
off  and  the  soda  is  read}^  for 
the  addition  of  the  ice  cream. 
Two  small  scoops  are  better 
than  one  large  one,  since  a 
large  one  blocks  the  bottom  of  the  glass 
so  that  all  of  the  liquid  cannot  be  re- 
moved w4th  the  straw.  The  scoops  must 
be  well  rounded  to  prevent  their  disin- 
tegration in  the  liquid.  The  ice  cream  is 
carefully  slipped  in.  to  avoid  splashing; 
and  now  the  soda  is  ready  for  its  crown- 
ing glory,  the  cap. 

Slowly  and  carefully  the  charged  water 
is  again  added  in  a  fine  stream,  the  object 
being  to  produce  as  high  a  cap  as  possible 
without  causing  it  to  run  over.  If  the 
stream  strikes  the  floating  ice  cream,  the 
water  will  splash  out  violently.    This  is 


[  5  ] 


particularly  embarrassing  if  it  lands  on  a 
customer  sitting  in  front  of  the  faucet. 
However,  a  really  great  soda-jerker  has 
so  coordinated  his  hand  and  eye  by  con- 
stant practice  that  he  skillfully  guides  the 
stream  into  the  glass  without  splashing. 
When  the  cap  has  reached  the  highest 
possible  point,  the  water  is  turned  ofif, 
the  artist  quickly  seizes  a  spoon,  and  both 
soda  and  spoon  are  nonchalantly  set  be- 


fore the  customer  in  one  graceful  motion. 
What  a  joy  it  is  to  behold !  Beads  of 
moisture  form  on  the  cool  sides,  and 
through  the  foamy  mass  one  may  discern 
the  white  lumps  of  ice  cream  floating  like 
beautiful  water  lilies.  The  top,  streaked 
with  brown  lines  of  chocolate,  rises  like 
some  snow-capped  mountain,  inviting  the 
epicure  to  partake  of  this  nectar  and 
ambrosia,  the  ice  cream  soda. 


Music  and  Musicians 
Peggy 

Every  inch  of  Peggy's  slender  five  feet  was  imp.  Now,  bent  lovingly  over  her 
violin,  she  looked  like  an  angel.  Her  hair  was  coal  black  and  lay  in  natural  waves, 
framing  a  face  that  was  almost  a  perfect  circle.  Black  eyes,  usually  laughing,  dream- 
ily wandered  over  "Humoresque."  Straight  white  teeth  between  lips  that  curved  from 
habit,  pug  nose  pushing  from  smooth  tan — that  was  Peggy. — Catherine  B.  Currax 

Grandmother 

She  used  to  pride  herself  on  her  modern  ideas  and  outlook,  and  she  did  have 
more  pep  than  any  of  her  friends.  But  at  times  she  seemed  old-fashioned  beyond 
belief.  I  have  seen  her  leave  for  a  party  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion  and  looking 
half  her  age.  And  I  have  seen  her  in  an  old  house  dress,  knitting  and  listening  to 
the  radio.  Sometimes  when  an  old  Victor  Herbert  tune  was  played  she  would  grow 
sad  and  maybe  cry.  That  was  the  way  certain  kinds  of  music  affected  her — jazz 
made  her  nervous  and  opera  bored  her.  She  preferred  the  old  melodic  songs  she  had 
sung  in  her  younger  days. — Buck  Lowry 

Opera  at  the  Dance 

Occasionally  a  miserable  arrangement  of  some  opera  tune  raises  its  battered  head 
in  their  programs.  Can  you  imagine  Saint-Saens  "Ma  coeur  a  ta  doux  voix,"  hoarsely 
vvhispered  by  a  saxophone  with  bouncing  bass  accompaniment  and  with  "slick"  breaks 
added  by  a  trumpet?  You  are  lucky  if  you  can  not!  It  is  the  most  God- forsaken 
combination  of  sounds  I  have  ever  heard. — Harry  Marlatt 

Popular  Music 

I  wonder  if  a  great  many  people,  outside  of  the  cigarette  company  which  spon- 
sors the  "Hit  Parade,"  have  ever  paused  to  consider  the  importance  of  popular  music 
in  the  every-day  lives  of  normal  persons  in  this  country.  Its  influence  is  tremendous. 
The  grocery  boy  whistles  "Caravan"  as  he  delivers  his  goods;  the  campus  play-boy 
bellows  lustily  "Turn  on  Those  Red  Hot  Blues"  as  he  wades  through  the  flooded 
gutters  on  the  way  to  his  next  class;  even  the  staid  spinster  may  be  heard  humming 
"Little  Old  Lady"  as  she  putters  around  her  rose  garden  in  summer. 

— Mary  S.  Chapman 


[  6  ] 


Gossamer  and  Spindrift 


Edwin  Traisman 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  5,  1937-1938 


j\/rR.  HUDSON  has  produced  a 
■^ '  *•  strange,  emotionally  significant 
book  out  of  gossamer  and  spindrift. 
It  is  unusual  when  anything  more  than 
a  pretty,  stylistic  rhapsody  of  sounds  is 
produced  from  such  materials.  It  is  not 
difficult  to  combine  delicate  words  and 
pleasant  ideas  to  produce  a  lacy  effect, 
but  to  do  so  and  create  a  worthwhile, 
definite  story,  with  an  important  philo- 
sophical background,  is  unusual;  and  so 
Green  Mansions  is  an  unusual  book. 

To  remain  emotionally  aloof  from  the 
book  seems  impossible.  Rima,  the  nymph- 
heroine,  is  a  character  of  such  potent 
charm  that  she  must  necessarily  project 
herself  into  the  private  life  of  the  reader. 
Sometime  every  man  has  dreamed  of 
someone  sufficiently  lovely  for  him  to  be 
able  to  transfer  his  dream  to  her  per- 
sonality, and  every  woman  sees  in  her 
the  personification  of  all  the  grace 
women  are  supposed  to  possess. 

Strangely,  frequently,  but  not  incon- 
gruously, Mr.  Hudson  weaves  into  the 
background  of  the  story  his  bitter  hatred 
of  God.  That  such  a  bitter  feeling  can 
appear  in  a  romantic  book  without  con- 
flict is  an  indication  of  the  ability  of  the 
writer  to  mix  oil  and  water,  and  obtain 
a  clear,  sparkling  solution.  Briefly,  Mr. 
Hudson  seems  to  feel  that  prayer,  re- 
pentance, good-works,  and  all  the  inani- 
ties which  organized  religion  associates 
with  virtue  are  wasted  effort,  that 
the  path  to  virtue  lies  within  the  in- 
dividual, and  that  only  by  truly  master- 


ing his  conscience  and  forgiving  his 
derelictions,  with  the  result  that  they  will 
not  be  repeated,  can  he  obtain  spiritual 
haven. 

The  story  is  not  as  simple  as  one  might 
suspect  for  a  small  book,  many  pages 
of  which  are  devoted  to  description  of 
forest  and  field.  Abel,  a  political  refugee 
in  the  wilds  of  Central  America,  is  in- 
terrupted in  his  wanderings  through  a 
forest  by  the  peculiar  melody  of  a  voice, 
half-human,  half-birdlike  in  its  quality, 
and  transcending  both  the  human  and  the 
bird  in  sheer  loveliness  of  sound.  After 
many  days  of  sweet  torment,  he  manages 
to  discover  the  origin ;  a  slight,  beautiful 
girl,  living  in  close  harmony  with  nature, 
speaking  this  lovely,  carolling  language 
b}-  which  he  has  become  entranced.  He 
falls  in  love  with  her,  and  she  with  him. 

Before  they  have  reached  entire  accord 
she  is  trapped  by  savages  and  burned  to 
death.  Abel  begins  to  go  mad  after  that 
— his  days  are  filled  with  conscience- 
stricken  agony  for  supposed  misdeeds, 
and  at  night  all  his  disintegrating  reason 
can  produce  are  dithyrambic  configura- 
tions of  his  epliemeral  bliss  with  Rima. 
He  finally  manages  to  escape  the  forest 
and  retain  his  reason. 

How  Hudson  is  able  to  produce  scenes 
of  bitter  emotional  conflict  and  almost 
unbelievable  mental  agony,  using  all  the 
time  an  unsurpassed  beauty  of  language, 
defies  analysis.  One  only  knows,  on 
finishing  the  book,  that  he  has  read  some- 
thing very  beautiful  and  moving. 


[7] 


Memories  Ahoy! 


Anonymous 
Rhetoric  I.  Theme  7.  1937-1938 


YOU  could  ask  me  to  write  of  the 
birds,  the  flowers,  or  the  broadwalk, 
and  I  would  do  so  gladly.  When  you  ask 
me  to  write  of  my  memories,  however, 
I  feel  like  the  old  soldier  in  one  of  Edgar 
Lee  Master's  poems.  When  a  little  boy 
asked  the  veteran  how  he  had  lost  his 
leg,  the  old  man  morose!}-  replied,  "A 
bear  bit  it  off."  But  through  his  mind 
ran  the  vivid  memories  of  the  stench  and 
misery  of  war.  It  is  thus  with  my  first 
impressions  of  life.  In  a  theme  I  would 
be  inclined  to  color  them ;  but  in  my 
mind  they  would  be  shadows  of  loneli- 
ness and  misery.  Yet,  you  have  com- 
manded to  remember,  and  I  shall  obey 
that  command. 

Two  ordinary  words,  the  home,  would 
speak  my  story  for  me.  To  those  of  you 
who  have  never  lived  in  an  orphanage, 
these  words  would  mean  little.  In  my 
mind  they  suggest  little  black  devils  with 
red  tongues.  Even  now,  the  devils  haunt 
me,  and  I  often  dream  I  am  back  in  their 
power.  The  picture  clearest  in  my  mind 
represents  an  incident  which  occurred 
when  I  was  about  four  years  old.  I  can 
still  see  that  group  of  skinny,  pigtailed 
orphans  pointing  their  fingers  at  me  and 
chanting,  "We're  going  to  SNITCH  on 
you!"  Oh!  the  horrible  sound  of  the 
word,  snitch.  1  ran  away  from  the  reach 
of  their  accusing  fingers  and  shook  with 
fear,  a  special  kind  of  fear  that  I  associ- 


ated with  hair  brushes  and  the  stinging 
hands  of  fat  matrons. 

Because  of  an  experience  at  the  or- 
phanage I  have  always  associated  soap 
with  bread  pudding.  While  bathing  me, 
one  day,  the  matron  applied  to  my  face 
too  much  soap,  which  I  sniffed  into  my 
nose.  All  afternoon  my  nose  burned 
and  felt  very  much  like  a  stuffed  red 
pepper.  That  evening  my  favorite  bread 
pudding  was  served  for  dinner,  but  I  was 
too  ill  to  eat  any  of  it.  Today  I  feel 
justified  in  eating  a  second  dish  of  this 
delicacy  for  the  little  girl  with  the 
stuft'ed-pepper  nose. 

Then,  most  terrible  of  all,  my  beauti- 
ful blue  dress  was  given  away,  the  first 
pretty  dress  I  can  remember  owning.  I 
was  not  allowed  to  wear  it  in  the  home, 
as  we  all  dressed  alike  in  ugly  calico 
aprons.  A  little  girl  who  had  just  been 
adopted  wore  my  dress  on  the  way  to  her 
new  home.  I  still  remember  the  embroid- 
ery work  on  the  collar,  and  the  way  the 
skirt  flared.  It  was  the  one  beautiful 
thing  in  my  life,  and  I  cried  about  losing 
it  for  months  after  the  girl  had  gone. 

I  know  now  that  I  cried  for  beauty, 
understanding,  and  the  love  which  can' 
never  be  found  in  an  orphanage.  But 
though  my  early  memories  are  bitter,  I 
am  not  sorry  I  was  placed  in  an  insti- 
tution, since  I  more  fully  appreciate  the 
freedom  and  understanding  I  now  enjoy. 


Prose  and  Poetry 

Prose  strides  purposefully  forward,  but  poetry  dances  or  dreams  to  the  music  of 
its  verses. — Dorothy  Pilkington 


[  8] 


Life  in  a  Morgue — Fun! 


Arselia  Block 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  6,  1937-1938 


A  PHONE  is  smashed  down  on  a 
desk.  The  wide-eyed  man  snaps  up 
the  transcript  of  a  cable  just  received. 
The  crack  reporter  comes  on  a  run.  "Diri- 
gible Amazon  burned  1:20  A.M.  after 
taking  off  from  Lakehurst,  New  Jersey. 
38  of  60  known  dead."  Seventeen  words 
— that  is  all  the  newspaper  has  until  re- 
porters can  get  stories.  But  this  is  a 
scoop!  An  "extra"  should  be  out  by 
dawn,  giving  every  detail  of  the  fiight, 
including  photographs,  maps,  tables,  dia- 
grams, and  as  much  as  possible  about  the 
disaster.  There  will  be  a  few  more 
precious  cables — maybe.  But  the  bulk  of 
the  material?  There  is  only  one  place 
to  look — only  one  person  who  can  secure 
it.  And  that,  my  skeptical  friends,  is  the 
librarian. 

I  call  you  skeptical  because  most 
people  simply  cannot  visualize  a  librarian 
in  any  but  the  most  peaceful  of  monk- 
like surroundings.  Interview  a  news- 
paper librarian:  "We  wouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  one  of  them  (a  reporter) 
queried  us  as  to  whether  a  'wampus' 
walked  or  waddled;  or  what  became  of 
House  Bill  4-11-44  for  the  conservation 
of  sidewinders  or  horned  toads.  If  we 
replied  'No  record'  he  would  doubtless 
damn  us  with  'Hell,  what  a  rotten 
morgue !'  "^  It  isn't  so  "dead"  in  a 
morgue.  It  isn't  so  stagnant  there  amid 
the  skeletons  of  all  those  things  once  fit 
to  be  called  "news." 

Too  often  the  editor  or  distraught  re- 
porter comes  to  the  librarian  with  only 


an  idea,  not  a  question.  One  ex-librarian 
remarked  jokingly  that  he  used  to  "sit 
up  nights  devising  ways  to  make  people 
do  their  own  thinking  ....  Half  the 
time  the  editor  doesn't  know  what  he 
wants. "^  However,  it  is  equally  true  that 
"everybody  wants  what  he  wants  when 
he  wants  it,  but  newspaper  editors  and 
reporters  want  it  a  little  more  earnestly 
and  loudly  than  anyone  else,  and  set  up 
a  bigger  holler  when  they  don't  get  it."^ 
A  sad  paradox.  But  the  newspaper  li- 
brary serves  more  than  the  staff.  Serving 
the  public  is  a  new  and  developing  phase. 
For  instance,  military  records  kept  dur- 
ing the  war  proved  invaluable  to  many 
individuals  investigating  for  memorial 
purposes.  The  Seattle  Times,  through  its 
Information  Bureau,  answers  fifteen 
liundred  questions  every  day  on  any  sub- 
ject, and  much  less  than  one  per  cent  of 
the  material  available  is  used  all  year  !* 
Think  of  meeting  fifteen  hundred  dif- 
ferent acquaintances  in  one  day  and 
just  saying  "Hello"  to  them ;  then  think 
of  facing  fifteen  hundred  strange  little 
new  problems  a  day,  and  solving  them. 
No  wonder  short-staffed  libraries  dis- 
courage direct  public  service ! 


^Rogers,  D.  G..  "The  New  York  Herald- 
Tribune  Library,"  Special  Libraries,  19  (Octo- 
ber, 1928) ,  273. 

'Conrad,  Will  C,  "Getting  the  Thing  You 
Haven't  Got,"  Special  Libraries,  19  (October, 
1928),  267. 

'"Four  Great  Newspaper  Libraries,"  Special 
Libraries,  19  (October,  1928),  276. 

*"The  Special  Library  Profession  and  What 
It  Offers,"  Special  Libraries,  25  (September, 
1934),  191. 


[9] 


Even  as  laymen  are  helped  when  li- 
brarians accommodate  them,  so  are  news- 
paper libraries  greatly  benefited  when 
they  cooperate  with  public  libraries  and 
special  libraries,  especially  other  news- 
paper libraries.  When  Brisbane  was 
young — and  there  was  included  in  his 
morgue,  along  with  the  usual  cigar  box 
files,  snakes,  an  appendix,  and  a  real 
skeleton  nonchalantly  holding  a  cigar 
butt  between  his  yellow  teeth^ — the  motto 
was  "competition"  instead  of  "coopera- 
tion." Librarians  have  done  a  great  deal 
to  preach  the  doctrine  of  good  will  in 
newspaper  relations.  It  is  to  their  ad- 
vantage. 

It  is  inevitable  that  to  equip  a  morgue 
to  render  such  constant  and  prompt 
service  as  it  must  constitutes  a  pains- 
taking and  arduous  task.  There  are,  of 
course,  the  regular  reference  library  de- 
tails, w^th  which  we  are  familiar — in- 
volving call  slips,  encyclopedias,  catalog- 
ing. But  the  real  job  is  the  filing  of  each 
important  news  item  as  it  occurs.  Filed 
also  are  mats  and  cuts,  negatives,  pam- 
phlets, periodicals,  and  entire  newspa- 
pers. There  is  necessarily  a  constant 
process  of  elimination,  and  determining 
what  can  be  safely  discarded  is  a  very 
real  problem.  What  is  of  value?  Pic- 
tures vary  extremely.  Today  a  picture 
of  Roosevelt  in  knee  breeches  would  be 
far  more  valuable  than  one  of  him  in  a 
top  hat,  but  the  latter  will  be  worth  more 
in  a  few  decades.  How  are  pictures  best 
preserved?  But  the  most  tortuous  of 
problems  is  that  of  classification.  "The 
choice  of  a  word,  made  in  the  process  of 
classifying  a  page,  may  afifect  the  system 
of  the  librarian,  not  only  for  days  but 
for  months  and  years  to  come."®  How  is 
a  reporter  most  apt  to  call  for  the  ma- 
terial? This  part  sounds  dull.   But  in  the 


way  of  compensation,  think  of  the  fun 
newspaper  librarians  have  "keeping  tab" 
on  the  politicians.  If  they  change  policies 
with  presidents  their  speeches  reflect  it — 
and  when  excerpts  from  speeches  made 
at  widely  different  times  are  compared  in 
a  single  column  of  an  up-to-date  paper 
the  combination  may  be  quite  unusual. 
New  scientific  "discoveries"  and  sup- 
posed business  "trends"  are  also  sus- 
ceptible to  pessimistic  observation  from 
the  man  in  the  morgue. 

So  newspaper  librarianship  means  all 
of  this !  I  wonder  if  I  could  meet  the  re- 
quirements.   They  are  severe. 

Physically,  the  librarian  need  be  no 
/Vtlas,  but  must  have  the  ability  to  work 
far  longer  than  the  usual  hours,  in  an 
emergency.  And  an  emergency  seems 
to  be  quite  a  usual  thing  in  this  profes- 
sion. There  is  some  moral  responsibility, 
concerning  what  is  brought  out  to  be  re- 
printed and  what  is  not.  The  mental  re- 
quirements seem  unusually  stringent. 
Native  intelligence  is  considered  more 
necessary  than  education ;  the  prepara- 
tion most  preferred  includes  a  "cultural" 
college  education  and  one  or  two  years 
of  graduate  work.  A  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  journalism  is  almost  indispen- 
sable. He  who's  going  to  live  with  a 
newspaper  should  have  a  nose  for  news 
as  great  as  Cyrano's.  Smell  it  coming 
before  it  gets  here!  What  may  be  called 
the  "social  requirement"  is  necessary,  as 
it  is  in  most  professions.  The  librarian 
must  be  able  to  deal  with  people.  Or  they 
will  not  deal  with  him.  And  then  he  can 
just  go  out  and  find  himself  a  nice  job 

°Keycs,  Willard  E.,  "Practical  Ways  in 
Which  Newspaper  Librarians  May  Effectively 
Cooperate,"  Special  Libraries,  20  (November, 
1929),  344. 

"Peterson,  A.  J.,  "The  Technique  of  Mark- 
ing Newspaper  Articles,"  Special  Libraries,  20 
(November,  1929),  335. 


[10 


keeping  bees,  or  something — at  least  he'll 
be  the  only  one  stung,  then.  There  are 
other  necessary  qualities,  too:  untold 
patience,  amiability,  adaptability,  relia- 
bility, managerial  ability,  a  business 
sense,  and  loyalty  to  authorities  and  as- 
sociates. 

It  appears  to  me  that  a  successful 
newspaper  librarian  is  quite  a  person. 
What  are  the  opportunities  and  the  re- 
wards for  him? 

If  he  goes  through  graduate  school  he 
will  probably  be  placed  within  a  reason- 
able length  of  time.  He  should  be.  The 
chances  are  that  his  beginning  salary 
will  be  higher  than  the  twenty  to  thirty 
dollars  a  week  which  is  the  professional 
average.'  During  the  depression  the 
salaries  of  librarians  were  little  affected. 
He  will  work  five  or  six  days,  or  around 
forty  hours,  on  shifts,  which  does  not 
seem  unreasonable.  And  he  will  have 
the  opportunity  to  work  up  to  a  five 
thousand  a  year  position !  It  has  been 
suggested  that  there  is  more  need  for 
persons  with  five  thousand  dollar  qualifi- 
cations than  for  the  less  qualified  f 
naturally,  I  would  want  to  be  well  quali- 
fied !  A  librarian's  security  of  tenure 
depends  entirely  upon  his  ability  to  make 
good.  But  is  this  all  that  there  is  to  be 
considered?  There  are  rewards  of  a  non- 
financial  nature:  contact  with  vital  per- 
sonalities in  a  comparatively  pleasant  en- 
vironment ;  ample  room  for  self-expres- 
sion in  the  work ;  and  a  practically  un- 
limited  opportunity   for   serving  others. 

Well,  it  looks  like  a  real  job.    It  looks 


like  work  and  plenty  of  it.  But  it  would 
be  utterly  fascinating !  And  do  you  know 
—I  think  I'll  try  it! 

Bibliography 

Baker,  H.  A.,  "Value  and  Depreciation  of 
Photos,"  Special  Libraries,  20  (1932),  326- 
328. 

Canter,  H.  B.,  "Schools  of  Journalism  and  the 
Newspaper  Library,"  Special  Libraries,  16 
(1925),  316-317. 

Conrad,  W.  C,  "Getting  the  Thing  You 
Haven't  Got,"  Special  Libraries,  19  (1928), 
267,  268. 

Crawford  and  Clement,  The  Choice  of  an  Oc- 
cupation, Yale  University,  1932,  88-101. 

Danforth,  R.  H.,  "Can  the  News  and  Library 
Departments  Get  Along  Amicably?"  Spe- 
cial Libraries,  21   (1930),  378. 

Davenport,  B.  L.,  "Keeping  a  Record  of  Li- 
brary Calls  and  Its  Use,"  Special  Libraries, 
20  (1929),  341. 

Desmond,  R.  W.,  "Instruction  in  Newspaper 
Library  Methods,"  Special  Libraries.  20 
(1929),  323-325. 

Foster,  P.  P.,  "Co-operation  Among  News- 
paper Librarians,"  Special  Libraries,  17 
(1926),  362-363. 

"Four  Great  Newspaper  Libraries,"  Special 
Libraries,  19  (1926),  362-363. 

Jones,  R.  W.,  "The  Editorial  Writer  and  the 
Library,"  Special  Libraries,  21  (1930), 
2,76-2,77. 

Keyes,  W.  E.,  "Practical  Ways  in  Which 
Newspaper  Librarians  May  Effectively  Co- 
operate," Special  Libraries,  20  (1929), 344. 

Alaugham,  Charles,  "The  Newspaper  Library 
and  Morgue,"  Special  Libraries,  15  (1924), 
132-133. 

^Miller,  J.  H.,  "Looking  in  from  the  Outside," 
Special  Libraries,  20  ( 1929) ,  338-340. 

"Newspaper  Libraries ;  Their  History,  Func- 
tion and  Methods,"  Special  Libraries,  15 
(1924),  1-12. 

Peterson,  A.  J.,  "The  Newspaper  Librarian," 
Special  Libraries,  22  (1931),  111-112. 

Rogers,  D.  G.,  "The  New  York  Herald- 
Tribune  Library,"  Special  Libraries,  19 
(1928),  273. 

"The  Special  Library  Profession  and  What  It 
Offers,"  Special  Libraries,  25  (September, 
1934).  191. 

'"The  Special  Library  Profession  and  What 
It  Offers,"  Special  Libraries,  25  (1934),  193. 
"Ibid.,  193. 


Twenty  Thousand  Pennies 

Ann's  neat  black  and  white  dress  was  designed  on  the  "square  deal"  plan — with 
broad  shoulders,  practically  no  waistline,  and  a  very  straight  skirt.  I  liked  it  and 
blurted  out  the  fact  that  I  did.  But  when  Ann  informed  me,  "Well,  you  should  like  it ! 
I  paid  $200.00  for  the  outfit,"  I  gave  up.  To  her.  $200.00  was  a  unit;  to  me  it  was 
20,000  precious  pennies. — Dorothy  Fehrenbacher 


[11] 


The  Sketch  Book 

{Material  Written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

Log  Cabin 

An  unexpected  clearing,  only  a  few  rods  square,  and  cut  so  regularly  out  of  the 
dense  pine  wood  as  to  give  the  impression  of  the  inside  of  a  huge  box  with  the  blue 
sky  for  a  lid,  was  hiding  at  the  origin  of  the  dim  path.  In  the  center,  like  a  fallen 
match-house  within  the  box,  a  one-room  cabin  of  rough-hewn  logs  sprawled  in  un- 
touched decay.  At  one  corner,  the  lock-notches  that  once  held  the  logs  firmly  coupled 
together  had  rotted  through,  allowing  them  to  roll  out  upon  the  forest  grass  and 
collapsing  the  heavy,  sodden  roof  at  an  angle  to  the  ground.  The  resulting  ruin, 
because  the  opposite  side  stood  staunchly  and  defiantly,  holding  its  part  of  the  roof 
tightly,  appeared  as  an  almost-intentionally  constructed  half-faced  camp  of  pioneer 
days.  Eerie  bars  of  light  blinked  through  spaces  where  the  chinking  between  the 
logs  had  washed  out. — Cedric  King 

H.  G.  Wells  and  Stalin 

Inasmuch  as  Stalin  and  Roosevelt  appeared  to  be  the  foremost  leaders  for 
reform,  Wells  conceived  the  idea  of  trying  to  bring  the  two  together  to  form  a  united 
front.  To  most  people,  certainly  to  most  Americans,  the  conception  seemed  slightly 
far-fetched,  but  to  Mr.  Wells,  nothing  was  far-fetched.  We  next  find  him  in  Russia 
for  a  formal  conference  with  Stalin.  Let  us  draw  up  a  brief  comparison  of  the  two 
men.  Wells — fiery,  fresh,  and  friendly;  Stalin — stern,  stolid,  and  strict.  The  former 
easily  given  to  emotion,  the  latter  willing  to  resign  himself  to  sweet,  submissive 
silence. — Alex  Goldberg 

"The  Cows  Are  Out" 

The  next  morning  at  4:30 — when  I  was  getting  my  audible  breathing  exercises 
— I  felt  someone  jerk  me  right  out  of  a  healthy  snore.  Bed  covers  were  fl3'ing,  and 
apparently  I  was  supposed  to  be.  There  stood  "Mom"  in  her  big  yellow  apron,  saying, 
"Hurry  up  out  of  there !  The  cows  are  out  and  Buddy  needs  help  with  them !" 
With  a  final,  punctuating  snore,  I  started  to  stretch.  But  then  my  temper  must  have 
got  lost  in  the  bedclothes,  for  I  jumped  up,  pushed  my  mother  out  of  the  room, 
and  banged  the  door  so  hard  that  the  knob  on  the  outside  fell  off. 

— Dorothy  Fehrenbacher 

Definition  of  a  Referee 

The  ref.  is  an  individual  who  runs  about  the  field  or  floor  of  contest  in  a  pair 
of  white  duck  trousers  and  usually  a  striped  shirt.  He  differs  from  the  players  in 
that  he  gets  paid  for  his  running. — Julian  Christensen 

Field  Trip 

Mary  and  I  came  armed  with  a  large  capacity  for  fun  and  one  small  sheet  of 
paper  for  notes. — ^Jean  McJohnston 

Quiller-Couch's  Mind 

So  to  misinterpret  the  example  would  take  a  really  active  mind — one  that  had  a 
tremendous  capacity  for  confusion. — Stephen  Kratz 


[12] 


» 


Swing  Band 

"Red  Davis"  and  his  "Five  Swing  Grenadiers"  are  the  music-makers.  Their 
organization  consists  of  two  saxophones,  a  trumpet,  a  set  of  drums,  and  a  piano. 
Leaning  towards  one  another  with  heads  close  together,  the  tenor  and  alto  saxophones 
sing  sweet,  tender  strains  in  a  way  that  would  be  almost  saccharine  if  it  were  not  for 
the  break  that  is  heard  now  and  then,  when  one  of  the  players  runs  out  of  breath  in 
the  middle  of  a  phrase,  or  a  too  blue  harmony,  when  several  notes  are  played  wrong. 
\\'ith  face  contorted,  eyes  popping,  and  veins  swelling,  the  trumpeter  jumps  from  his 
seat  and  cheerfully  screeches  into  the  "hot"  parts.  "Hit  those  high  notes  or  burst"  is 
his  motto.  At  times  we  are  led  to  believe,  and  rather  hopefully  too,  that  some  day  he 
might.  Piano  and  drums  finish  ofif  the  ensemble  by  filling  in  harmony  and  supplying 
rhythm.  The  drummer  in  particular  must  be  versatile,  for  his  equipment  includes 
practically  everything  from  Chinese  temple  blocks  to  castanets  and  cowbells. 

— Harry  Marlatt 

Reading  Quiller  Couch 

But  before  he  reads  the  essay  through,  he  is  diverted  by  examples  of  the  follies 
that  are  committed  in  everyday  writing,  is  entertained  by  Sir  Arthur's  vivid  way  of 
expressing  himself  even  though  it  differs  little  from  the  examples  he  criticizes, 
and  finally  finishes  with  a  glow  of  amusement  and  not  much  more.  He  has  lost 
whatever  constructive  ideas  he  had  at  first  in  trying  to  keep  abreast  of  the  author's 
inconsistencies. — Stephen  Kratz 

Action ! 

There  was  a  sudden  flurry,  then  we  saw  the  man  who  had  held  up  his  arms  jump 
into  the  limousine  and  race  away,  tires  screaming  on  the  rough  pavement.  The  men 
scattered;  one  poised  on  his  knee,  levelled  a  machine  gun,  and  leaned  against  the 
recoil.  Tarring,  staccato  explosions  piled  themselves  on  top  of  each  other.  The  big 
car  careened  crazily,  smashed  into  a  small  tree,  and  rolled  end  over  end  down 
the  steep  hill  that  faced  the  river,  coming  to  a  stop  as  it  burst  into  flames. 

— Harl  E.  Son 

And  the  Checks 

Xo  one,  it  seems,  is  immune  from  the  paid-testimonial  idea.  From  the  most 
famous  matron  of  Newport  to  the  freaks  in  a  circus,  all  have  some  time  or  another 
testified  to  the  marvelous  qualities  of  this  or  that  cigarette.  And  why  not?  The 
companies  are  very  courteous,  the  pictures  flattering,  the  publicity  welcome,  and  the 
checks  fat. — Martin  Wolfe 

Thoroughly  Nauseating  Odor 

When  we  reached  the  second  floor  we  were  greeted  by  the  most  thoroughly 
nauseating  odor  that  I  have  ever  experienced.  It  was  so  dense  that  the  very  air 
seemed  hazy. — E.  Richards 

Betrayal 

Her  life  is  a  continual  pose;  only  when  one  sees  her  sleeping,  can  one  actually 
see  that  she  is  graceful  in  personality  as  well  as  in  body,  that  she  is  unusually  kind, 
and  that  she  has  fine,  clean  thoughts. — Dorothy  Fehrenbacher 

Disguise 

He  tries  to  hide  his  personality  behind  a  wildly  checkered  necktie,  but  fails 
utterly. — Harry  Marlatt 


[13] 


Hobbyists 


Sister  Mary  Henry  Frey 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  8,  Summer  Session,  1927 


IN  RECENT  years.  American  atti- 
tudes toward  play  and  entertainment, 
like  other  attitudes,  have  undergone  revo- 
lutionary changes.  In  the  eighteenth 
century  people  were  unwilling  to  play. 
There  is  this  difference  between  play  and 
entertainment:  when  we  "play"  we  take 
an  active  part  in  the  game,  whereas  when 
we  are  "entertained"  others  do  the  play- 
ing— -we  look  on.  Even  as  late  as  the 
50's,  people  attended  games  by  proxy. 
For  them  a  worthy  pastime  was  the 
theater.  But  today  we  are  realizing  more 
and  more  that  in  order  to  be  "healthy, 
wealthy,  and  wise"  not  only  our  bodies 
must  be  physically  fit,  but  our  minds  also 
must  be  active  and  interested.  Most  of 
us,  it  is  true,  do  work  which  requires  an 
active  mind  and  which  may  interest  us 
vitally,  but  we  are  not  satisfied.  We 
want  something  to  pick  up  when  we  lay 
down  our  pen  or  our  shovel  at  the  end 
of  the  day — we  want  a  hobby.  If  our 
job  requires  a  "white  collar,"  we  want 
to  don  a  pair  oi  overalls  and  dig  and 
hammer ;  if  ours  is  a  pick-and-shovel  job, 
we  want  to  spend  our  leisure  time  pursu- 
ing the  aesthetic.  Thus,  our  lives  are 
balanced:  a  little  work  and  a  little 
relaxation. 

Ennui,  perhaps,  better  than  any  Eng- 
lish word  describes  a  life  without  play, 
without  a  hobby.  This  was  rather  pa- 
thetically brought  out  by  the  death  of 
Calvin  Coolidge.  He  retired  from  active 
life  to  his  home,  but  there  was  nothing 
to  do.  He  went  to  his  garden,  but  he  was 
a  stranger  to  the  flowers.  He  went  to  his 
room,  but  he  found  nothing  to  do.    He 


went  to  watch  the  janitor  shovel  coal, 
but  he  didn't  understanding  firing.  He 
went  back  to  his  room,  and  dutifully 
rode  his  "hobbyhorse,"  but  exercise 
taken  from  a  sense  of  duty  is  not  a 
hobby.  He  apparently  had  no  engrossing 
interest — he  had  no  hobby. 

That  men  are  guarding  against  this 
ennui  and  this  emptiness  in  old  age  is 
brought  out  in  the  lives  of  those  around 
us.  Men  in  both  public  and  private  life, 
by  a  wise  selection,  have  chosen  hobbies 
that  fill  their  leisure  and  guarantee  to 
them  a  kind  of  old  age  pension.  They 
realize  that  the  shop  is  not  a  thing  to 
take  home,  to  eat  with,  to  sleep  on. 

For  example,  Henry  Culver,  a  New- 
York  lawyer,  fostered  a  kind  of  penchant 
for  naval  archaeology.  He  bought  up 
rare  books  and  old  marine  prints  and 
became  an  authority  on  historically  cor- 
rect models.  He  rigged  a  dockyard 
model,  Prince  George,  and  soon  found 
himself  a  kind  of  professional  amateur. 
His  greatest  work  was  the  building  of 
the  Sovereign  of  the  Seas,  Charles  Fs 
finest  craft,  the  most  complete  model 
ever  built,  which  kept  six  Italian  wood 
carvers  busy  for  six  months,  and  cost 
$30,000. 

Perhaps  the  objection  may  be  raised 
that  a  hobby  is  too  expensive  for  the 
average  American.  The  list  of  hobbies  is 
so  long,  however,  that  there  is  a  hobby 
to  fit  every  pocketbook.  Among  the 
many  things  which  might  be  chosen  as 
hobbies  are  work  with  wood,  metal,  clay, 
cloth,  leather,  linoleum,  and  wax.  Chris- 
topher ]\Iorley  has  pictured  men  stand- 


[141 


ing  enthralled  in  front  of  windows  where 
instruments  of  precision — micrometers, 
compasses,  calipers,  and  protractors — 
are  displayed.  They  are  eager  to  put 
their  hands  on  them — to  use  them,  to 
play  with  them.  Hobbies,  however,  avoid 
the  limelight ;  the  best  hobbies  are  buried 
in  the  lives  of  their  hobbyists. 

Our  own  natural  talents  may  suggest 
a  hobby.  Music  has  always  held  its 
charms.  Doctor  Einstein,  noted  scientist 
and  theorist,  is  known  to  have  played  in 
an  orchestra.  The  former  Secretary  of 
the  Treasury,  William  H.  Woodin,  be- 
sides being  able  to  play  the  violin,  guitar, 
zither,  and  cello,  composed  music,  best 
known  of  which  are  his  Raggedy  Ann 
and  Little  Wooden  Willie.  The  Duke  of 
Windsor,  the  ex-King  of  England,  cer- 
tainly had  a  hobby  that  cost  him  very 
little.  He  was  taught  to  knit  by  his  royal 
mother  and  later  found  great  delight  in 
knitting  scarfs  and  mufflers  for  friends. 
Handwriting  has  always  been  a  hobby 
much  sought  after.  There  are  people 
who  have  transcribed  complete  volumes. 
One  hobbyist  is  known  to  have  copied 
Old  Wives  Tales,  150,000  words.  Callig- 
raphy or  elegant  writing  certainly  offers 
much  in  the  way  of  divergence,  especially 
if  one  has  learned  to  embellish.  Mark 
Twain  once  announced  that  he  was  work- 
ing on  a  book  in  Arabic — Gum  Arabic — 
which  was  nothing  more  than  a  scrap- 
book  in  which  he  pasted  many  clippings. 
Another  hobbyist,  a  loving  father,  pre- 
sented his  daughter  on  her  wedding  day 
a  book,  depicting  her  childhood  with 
clippings  and  snapshots.  Still  another 
collected  clippings  about  actors  and 
actresses  which,  when  bound,  filled  800 
volumes. 

This  is  by  no  means  a  complete  list 
of  hobbyists ;  to  complete  it  would  re- 
quire volumes.  Hobbyists,  however,  are 
found  not  only  in  public  life  but  also  in 


private  life.  I  once  knew  a  venerable 
old  man  who  cherished  and  held  every- 
thing sacred.  He  pursued  almost  every 
known  hobby,  and  yet,  unlike  the  "Jack 
of  all  trades,"  he  cannot  be  called  master 
of  none.  He  delighted  in  handwriting, 
and  the  simplest  card  he  would  embellish 
with  fine  lettering  in  red  and  black.  He 
also  drew  unusual  pictures — one,  I  espe- 
cially remember,  came  to  my  sister  on 
the  morning  of  her  tenth  birthday.  On 
the  letter,  opposite  the  heading,  was 
pictured  a  little  curly-headed  girl,  rubbing 
her  e)'es  with  her  fists,  and  under  the 
picture  was  printed,  "Good  morning, 
Margaret.  A  happy  birthday!"  In  the 
da3^s  before  1918,  he  would  delight  in 
displaying  beer  steins,  ranging  in  size 
from  very  small  to  very  large,  which  he 
had  collected  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 
He  religiously  kept  all  forms  of  corres- 
pondence and  clippings.  His  scrapbook 
would  compare  admirably  well  with  Gum 
Arabic.  Tucked  away  in  the  attic — his 
den — of  the  great  old  house  were  the 
concrete  reminiscences  of  the  olden  days, 
and  fresh  in  the  mind  of  the  appreciative 
old  hobbyist  were  the  events  connected 
with  each. 

In  the  lives  of  our  grandmothers,  or 
great-grandmothers,  knitting  and  quilting 
were  pleasurable  recreations.  Knitting, 
at  one  time,  was  a  necessary  occupation, 
but  at  the  time  my  grandmother  retired 
from  active  life  it  had  become,  at  least 
for  her,  a  pastime.  She  knitted  yard 
after  yard  of  wool,  and  when  the  family 
were  supplied  with  more  socks  than  they 
could  possibly  wear  out  in  a  lifetime,  she 
began  to  knit  socks  for  the  mail  man, 
whose  "feet  must  get  awfully  cold  plow- 
ing through  the  snow."  I  can  remember 
her  sitting  at  the  old,  wooden  quilting 
frame  and  stitching  away  at  a  pattern 
which  she  called  the  "morning  star." 
When  finally  she  rolled  up  the  unfinished 


[15] 


quilt  and  put  it  away  for  the  last  time, 
she  had  spent  her  life  and  had  not  let  it 
just  "rust  out."  In  contrast  are  the 
lives  of  her  daughters,  who  amid  the 
drudgery  of  mending  and  patching, 
haven't  found  time  in  twenty  years  to 
unroll  the  old  frame  and  finish  the  quilt. 

Hobbyists  have  pursued  hobbies  which, 
remaining  no  longer  personal  and  inti- 
mate, have  contributed  valuably  to  sci- 
ence. They  have  followed  their  hob- 
bies with  so  much  enthusiasm  that  they 
have  discovered  new  fields  opening  to 
them.  John  Braska,  a  mill  worker  in 
Philadelphia,  became  very  much  inter- 
ested in  the  stars.  He  came  home  at 
night  and,  with  his  faithful  wife,  went 
to  an  old  shed  behind  the  house — their 
observatory — to  study  the  heavens.  They 
needed  a  telescope,  but  being  too  poor 
to  buy  one,  they  determined  to  make  one. 
Year  after  year  their  interest  in  the 
stars  grew,  and  every  year  their  tele- 
scopes improved.  Finally,  Uncle  John 
(and  he  delighted  in  the  name)  became 
known  as  an  instrument  maker  of  pre- 
cision. The  head  of  the  department  of 
astronomy  at  Harvard  gave  him  an  order 
that  required  great  accuracy.  When  the 
Academy  of  Science  in  Paris  determined 
to  place  in  America  an  authentic  measure 
for  the  meter,  Uncle  John  received  the 
task  of  measuring  the  red  ray  of  cad- 
mium vapor,  correct  to  one-millionth  of 
a  millimeter. 

In  a  word,  hobbyists  may  look  forward 
to  a  threefold  reward:  they  enjoy  leisure. 


they  are  guaranteed  an  old-age  pension, 
and  sometimes  they  are  insured  finan- 
cially. A  man  I  know  now  has  a  salaried 
job  in  a  large  corporation,  but  he  realizes 
that  without  the  assurance  of  a  pension 
by  the  company  he  will  be  laid  aside  in 
sickness  or  old  age.  To  guard  against 
this  possibility  or  probability  he  has  inter- 
ested himself  in  Jersey  cows.  Today, 
when  he  is  still  active  in  business,  he 
delights  to  come  home  at  night  to  care 
for  his  herd.  His  interest  is  to  hold  the 
butterfat-producing  record.  In  this  he 
has  been  successful,  for  last  month  he 
took  the  county  record  of  84.1  pounds 
of  butter  fat.  He  sells  the  cream,  double- 
whip,  at  forty  cents  a  pint,  which  a  boy 
delivers  to  city  customers.  He  hopes  in 
this  v/ay  to  be  able  to  insure  himself 
against  the  rainy  day. 

Just  last  Thursday,  we  were  awed  by 
this  announcement:  "U.  S.  Pensions 
Aged  Scion  of  Mount  Vernon."  Harry 
Parker,  venerable  doorman  of  the  Ways 
and  Means  Committee  for  forty-six 
years,  by  a  unanimous  vote  of  the  House 
received  a  pension.  The  old  darky,  the 
seventy-five  year  old  grandson  of  George 
\A'ashington's  special  body  servant,  was 
pensioned  for  the  remainder  of  his  life 
at  his  present  salary  of  $1,250  a  year. 
We  only  hope  that  when  the  smiling  old 
darky,  whose  "feet  have  begun  to  hurt," 
returns  to  Mount  Vernon,  he  will  have 
a  hobby  waiting  for  him  lest  the  House's 
record  vote  of  340  in  favor,  0  against, 
speed  his  faltering  steps  to  the  grave. 


Curiosity 

You  don't  know  what  "sly  as  a  fox"  means,  until  you've  tried  to  put  the  clamps 
on  one  of  these  babies!  But  their  curiosity  usuallyspells  their  doom.  I  cauj^ht  one 
once,  on  a  bet.  by  puttinij  an  alarm  clock  in  the  .e:rass  and  carefully  setting  a  trap  on 
a  nearby  knoll.  The  fox  came  aloni?  and  heard  the  clock  tickine:.  His  sense  of  smell 
warned  him  of  human  odor,  so  he  kept  away  from  the  clock.  Still,  he  was  curious. 
That  tickiner  sound  worried  him.  Spottinu:  the  knoll,  he  jumped  up  to  look  the  situa- 
tion over.   Click  !    I  had  him  ! — Clarence  Springer 


[16] 


On  Writing  Letters 


Reoxe  Rasmussex 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  2,  1937-1938 


EXPERT  letter  writing  is  becoming 
an  important  part  of  every  colle- 
gian's school  life.  Although  it  is  an  art 
occupying  a  rather  lowly  place  in  literary 
circles  today,  writing  a  letter  takes  real 
talent  and  practice  if  it  is  to  be  used 
profitably.  Using  my  mailing  list  as  a 
fairly  average  one  for  a  college  girl,  I 
will  begin  with  the  diplomatic  type. 

•'Dear  Gramp,  (Always  call  him  by  a 


school  for  four  years  instead  of  only  two 
as  had  been  originally  planned. 

The    next    type    combines    diplomacy 
with  a  plea  for  funds. 

"Dear  Mom  and  Pop,  (Again  the  re- 
ceivers are  reminded  of  how  young  their 
little  girl  really  is,  and  hozv  far  she  is 
from  home.) 

"College  is  really  swell,  just  like  I 
thought  it  would  be,  but  I  do  kind  of 
miss  my  own  room  at  home  and  every- 


pet  name,  so  that  he  will  think  of  you  as 
his  'little'  grand-daughter.) 

"College  is  just  gorgeous  !   I'm  sure  it's 
the  most  wonderful  thing  that  ever  hap- 
pened   to    me.     I    intend    to    work    just 
awful  hard  so  you'll  be  real  proud  of  me 
and  won't  be  sorry  that  you're  sending 
your  oldest  grand-daughter  to  the  Uni- 
versity of  Illinois,  etc." 
The  main  characteristic  of  this  type 
of  letter  is  its  extreme  enthusiasm.   You 
just  have  to  make  him  understand  how 
much  it  all  means  to  you  and  also  to 
work  up  the  idea  that  he  send  you  to 


thing.  (This  breaks  down  the  last  vestige 
of  resistance.  Now  for  the  business  end 
of  the  letter.) 

"Gosh,  Mom,  I'm  afraid  I  just  won't 
be  able  to  get  along  on  four  dollars  a 
week  allowance  because  you  see  we 
hadn't  figured  on  my  having  to  buy  Art 
supplies  every  week  and  besides  I  want 
to  take  horseback  riding. 

Love  and  XXX  from  your 

Boots  (Always  use  their 
pet   name   for  you   so    they   will   surely 
realize  how  much  they  miss  you.) 
"P.S.  I  already  drew  three  more  dollars 


[17] 


because   I   just   had   to   have   it    for   the 
horseback  riding." 

Now  we  come  to  the  really  newsy 
letter,  that  bulging  envelope  just  chock- 
full  of  all  kinds  of  information.  This 
type  of  letter  is  usually  sent  to  the  best 
girl  friend. 

"Dear  Carrots, 

"Well,  kid,  how's  tricks?  This  college 
life  is  really  the  berries;  but  take  it  from 
me,  you  kids  are  having  a  real  vacation 
by  going  to  High  School.  I  really  never 
thought  so  much  outside  work  existed. 
We  have  to  write  a  theme  every  single 
week ! 

"I've  met  a  bunch  of  the  cutest  guys 
down  here;  one  is  an  army  officer!  Of 
course  the  fellows  back  in  Chicago 
haven't  forgotten  me  yet.  I  received  a 
dozen  roses  last  Friday  from  Harry. 
You  know  Fridaj'  always  was  my  date 
night  for  him.  Last  week-end  Weller  and 
Bob  both  came  all  the  way  down  here  to 
see  me  and  it  was  really  terrible  because 
each  of  them  thought  I  was  going  steady 
with  him.  (This  information  is  always 
sent  from  one  sorority  sister  to  another 
just  to  let  the  other  know  you've  still  got 
what  it  takes.)" 

The  fourth  major  type  is  the  love 
letter. 


"My  Darling, 

"I've  missed  you  so  much  since  you 
were  down  here  last.  Do  you  still  love 
me?  Sweetheart,  are  you  coming  down 
to  see  me  this  week-end?  etc.,  etc." 

This  letter  may  go  on  indefinitely  and 
fill  many  pages  but  is  intelligible  only 
to  the  person  it  is  written  to.  The  main 
thing  to  remember  in  writing  a  letter  of 
this  kind  is  not  to  implicate  oneself.  It's 
perfectly  ethical  to  say  you  love  him  and 
all  that,  but  never  say  anything  in  writ- 
ing that  could  be  taken  for  something 
else  or  misunderstood  by  his  parents  or 
his  friends  should  they  happen  to  pick 
it  up. 

Of  course,  there  are  other,  secondary 
types  such  as  the  sick  friend  letter,  the 
maiden  aunt  letter,  and  the  letter  to  the 
"just  a  friend"  boy  with  gobs  of  money, 
but  the  most  often  used  by  the  college 
girl  are  the  four  described  above.  The 
first,  if  written  correctly,  brings  about 
an  extension  of  college  life,  the  second, 
more  money,  the  third  keeps  up  the 
reputation,  and  the  fourth  keeps  HIM 
on  the  "string." 


Today's  Cowboys 


No  longer  the  romantic  figures  they  once  were,  the  cowboys  or  cowhands  art- 
sturdy  young  men  who  lead  a  very  ordinary  life.  They  do  not  gather  around  camp- 
fires  at  night,  but  live  in  spacious,  white  bunkhouses  furnished  with  many  of  the 
modern  conveniences.  Their  work  consists  of  driving  trucks,  handling  the  latest 
model  farm  machinery,  and  maintaining  wire  fences,  windmills,  and  other  equip- 
ment, as  well  as  tending  the  vast  herds.  Perhaps  the  cattle  have  become  more  docile 
with  the  advance  of  civilization.  At  any  rate,  they  are  moved  about  with  a  minimum 
of  lassoing  and  other  tricks  so  popularly  ascribed  to  cowboys.  The  cowboys,  although 
good  horsemen,  are,  for  the  most  part,  not  the  experts  they  are  commonly  reputed 
to  be.  At  the  rodeo  in  nearby  Cheyenne  it  is  largely  the  professionals,  who  go  from 
show  to  show,  and  not  the  local  cowhands  who  capture  the  bronco-busting  awards. 
After  their  pay-days  on  Saturday  the  cowboys  clamber  into  old  Fords  and  Chevrolets 
and  head  for  town  to  indulge  in  some  recreation,  but  not  to  "shoot  up"  the  locality 
as  their  predecessors  are  said  to  have  done.  As  for  wild  animals,  the  worst  animal 
the  rancher  faces  today  is  the  small  prairie-dog  or  gopher,  who  is  combated  with 
poisoned  food  placed  at  the  mouth  of  the  hole  where  he  lives. — Dudley  McAllister 


[18] 


Let's  Blow  Our  Horns! 


Clinton  Cobb 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  11,  1937-1938 


FROM  the  theme  entitled  "Hang  Up 
the  Fiddle  and  the  Bow"  in  the 
October,  1937,  Green  Caldron,  one  gath- 
ers that  the  author  has  a  strong  prejudice 
against  bands  as  musical  organizations 
and  a  low  opinion  of  their  value  in  public 
education.  He  claims  that  a  band  has 
no  "soul,"  apparently  because  there  are 
no  stringed  instruments  used  in  it.  He 
indicates  that  the  band  does  not  have  the 
ability  to  arouse  the  emotions  of  an  audi- 
ence, except  at  athletic  events,  military 
parades,  and  similar  gatherings.  But  has 
he  heard  the  beautiful,  rich,  melodious 
music  of  a  fine  s^inphonic  band?  The 
sonorous  tones  of  the  clarinet,  the  beau- 
tiful, lilting  quality  of  the  flutes  and 
oboes,  the  forceful  "calls"  of  horns, 
trumpets,  and  trombones  not  only  pour 
forth  "soul"  but  portray  character  and 
personality  much  as  an  orchestra  does. 

What  about  the  versatility  of  an  or- 
chestra? Who  can  imagine  a  symphony 
orchestra  playing  a  rousing  march  in 
typical  military  style  at  an  exciting  foot- 
ball game?  At  such  a  time  no  one  cares 
to  hear  the  beautiful  tones  of  a  pleasing 
melody,  no  matter  how  exquisitely  it  may 
be  played.  A  march  to  which  one  may 
beat  his  foot,  wave  his  arms,  and  sing  is 
much  more  satisfying.  Here  it  is  that 
the  versatility  of  a  band  may  best  be 
illustrated.  From  a  military  parade  or 
football  field  a  finely  trained  band  may 
move  to  a  concert  stage  and  please  equal- 
ly as  well  the  type  of  audience  attending 
this  performance  as  it  did  the  excited 
crowd  at  the  militar\'  event  or  game.  The 
band    thus    may    arouse    very    different 


human  emotions  while  an  orchestra  is 
confined  to  such  emotional  effects  as  it 
may  create  from  the  concert  stage. 

Why  do  the  public  schools  of  the 
country  not  foster  the  development  of 
symphon}'  orchestras?  The  chief  reason 
is  that  the  age  of  the  student  does  not 
permit  it.  The  stringed  instruments  are 
exceedingly  difficult  to  master,  as  com- 
pared to  the  wind  instruments  of  the 
band.  Rarely  is  a  high  school  pupil  able 
to  play  a  violin  so  that  the  music  is 
pleasing  to  listen  to.  There  are  few  such 
young  people  today,  and  when  we  do 
come  across  one,  he  is  usually  referred 
to  as  a  prodigy.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
mastery  of  the  majority  of  wind  instru- 
ments is  well  within  the  abilities  of  an 
average  child,  if  the  study  is  pursued 
from  an  early  age.  Therefore  children 
are  urged  to  start  their  musical  education 
by  learning  to  play  the  instruments  which 
make  up  the  band. 

The  band  of  today  does  choose  for  its 
standard  of  excellence  the  symphony 
orchestra,  but  only  because  it  has  no 
higher  standard  toward  which  to  work. 
Compared  to  the  orchestra,  the  band  is 
a  new  invention.  The  instruments  used 
in  the  band  have  been  developed  only 
recently,  as  compared  to  stringed  instru- 
ments, and  therefore  the  art  of  syn- 
chronization of  the  different  instruments 
has  not  been  so  well  developed  as  in  the 
orchestra.  The  possibilities  of  the  band 
have  not  yet  been  fully  exploited  ;  only 
recently  have  they  begun  to  be  dis- 
covered. 

Because  of  the  relative  under-develop- 


[19] 


ment  of  the  band,  the  musical  Hterature 
available  for  it  has  been  limited.  More 
and  more  the  great  music  of  the  orches- 
tra is  being  rewritten  for  band  use.  The 
music  which  formerly  was  played  by  a 
few  musicians  and  was  heard  by  a  com- 
paratively few  persons  now  is  being  made 
available  to  great  masses  of  people,  both 
musicians  and  laymen.  Great  numbers 
of  people  now  may  have  the  joy  of  play- 
ing and  hearing  the  works  of  the  great 
masters.  The  ponderous,  exciting,  thrill- 
ing music  of  Wagner  is  now  brought  to 
people  all  over  the  world  by  bands,  which 
are  thought  by  some  to  create  more 
nearly  the  effect  desired  by  the  composer 
than   the  great  orchestral  organizations 


do.  The  musical  qualities  of  the  great 
works  of  the  masters  undoubtedly  have 
been  preserved  in  the  transposing  of 
orchestral  literature  for  the  band.  And 
as  this  work  progresses,  the  band 
assumes  a  higher  place  in  public  edu- 
cation and  the  world  of  musical  art 
generally. 

Thus  has  developed  an  organization, 
essentially  musical,  though  adaptable  to 
the  demand  of  almost  any  occasion, 
which  has  represented  in  it,  and  is  typical 
of,  the  American  people  and  spirit.  It  is 
becoming  more  popular  because  it  is 
truly  a  product  of  the  ingenuity,  prac- 
ticability, and  musical  tastes  of  the  great 
mass  of  American  people. 


Figures  of  Speech 


There  is  something  about  September — the  smell  of  burningf  leaves,  the  hazy 
autumnal  atmosphere,  the  harvest  moon  hanging  like  a  huge  round  mold  of  yellow 
cheese  in  the  sky — that  always  makes  me  long  to  return  to  HazeKvood,  the  place  of 
my  birth. — Wendell  Sharp 


Nothing  is  as  impartial  as  a  traffic  light. — Willis  Ballance 


The  foul  lines  were  the  X  and  Y  axes,  home  plate  the  origin,  and  the  ball  a  point 
which  traced  out  various  curves  on  this  huge  piece  of  green  graph  paper. 

— Charles  J.  Taylor 

•  •  •  • 

He  was  jolted  like  a  solitary  penny  in  an  iron  bank. — Dan  McWethy 


The  radiator  gave  several  consumptive  coughs,  and  then  started  purring. 

— Helen  Kientzle 
•  •  •  • 

As  alert  as  a  robin  on  a  lawn  after  a  rain. — L.  M.  Irwin 


The  Broad  Walk  is  like  a  huge  conveyor  belt,  picking  up  its  load  and  distributing 
it  to  the  different  work  shops. — J.  R.  Gardner 


As  spineless  as  spaghetti. — Roy  Christopherson 


[20] 


Don't  You  Know  or  Don't  You  Care? 


Anonymous 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  11,  1937-1938 


HOUSING  for  independents  should 
be  as  desirable  and  healthful  as  for 
fraternity  students.  The  university  ought 
to  have  sufficient  accommodations  for  all 
the  students  so  there  would  be  no  neces- 
sity for  a  waiting  list.  But,  since  the 
university  cannot  afford  to  build  addi- 
tional residence  halls,  it  ought  at  least 
to  raise  its  requirements  for  approval  of 
private  rooming  houses.  The  house- 
owners  should  modernize  the  rooms  and 
keep  them  in  repair ;  they  should  provide 
comfortable,  if  not  attractive,  furniture 
and  adequate  lighting  facilities.  They 
should  equip  their  beds  with  healthful, 
moderately  soft,  even  mattresses  and 
coil  springs,  and  should  heat  the  rooms 
properly  during  the  winter.  They  should 
provide  a  comfortable,  fairly  modern 
living-room  where  (in  girls'  houses)  the 
girls  may  receive  guests.  They  should 
take  the  girls'  telephone  calls  pleasantly 
and  intelligently,  and  they  should  not 
molest  their  belongings. 

The  house  in  which  I  live  has  not 
been  remodeled  since  its  construction 
sometime  during  the  nineteenth  century. 
The  furniture,  old  and  unattractively 
painted  over,  is  anything  but  comfort- 
able ;  and  there  is  not  a  light  in  my  room 
except  a  reading  lamp  that  I  bought, 
and  my  parsimonious  landlady  com- 
plained about  the  size  of  the  bulb  in  that. 
The  room  had  to  be  wared,  at  my  ex- 
pense, for  my  lamp  and  radio,  because 
the  only  electric  socket,  which  was  in- 
conveniently connected  to  the  wall 
switch,  was  out  of  order.  These  condi- 
tions, unpleasant  as  they  are,  might  be 


endured,  but  the  beds  are  unbearable ! 
Mine  must  be  that  bed  of  hard  rock  I 
have  been  studying  about  in  geolog}'. 
It  has  a  dilapidated  link  spring  (I  have 
yet  to  find  any  spring  in  it),  which,  we 
learn  in  our  required  hygiene  course,  is 
most  unhealthful,  being  conducive  to 
poor  posture  and  unrestful  sleep.  The 
mattress,  if  possible,  is  worse.  It  alter- 
nately sags  and  bulges  and  is  compressed 
by  three  or  four  decades'  use  to  a  thick- 
ness of  not  more  than  three  inches. 
Although  my  room  is  fairly  well  heated, 
the  other  rooms  in  the  house  are  almost 
as  cold  as  the  out-of-doors.  Getting  up 
in  a  cold  bedroom  is  a  common  cause  of 
that  too- frequent  disease — the  cold,  as 
we  learn  in  hygiene. 

Leaving  the  inadequacy  of  the  bare 
necessities,  let  us  look  at  the  social  dis- 
advantages of  these  houses.  Our  house, 
which  is  typical  of  a  great  number  of 
independent  rooming  houses,  has  an  anti- 
quated, dust-laden  parlor  which  acts  as 
an  immediate  quencher  of  good  spirits, 
and  in  which  we  hesitate  to  receive 
guests.  The  uncomfortable  and  much- 
worn  antique  furniture  and  the  painfully 
out-of-tune  piano  do  anything  but  en- 
courage youthful  good-times.  Further- 
more, Mrs. refuses  to  answer 

tlie  telephone.  When  we  are  home,  we 
take  all  the  calls,  including  hers  and  the 
hired  boy's.  She  may  be  sitting  not  more 
than  ten  feet  from  the  phone,  but  she 
will  not  think  of  answering  it.  If,  on 
the  very  rare  occasions,  for  instance, 
when  she  is  expecting  a  call,  she  does 
answer  the  phone,  she  is  very  curt  and 


21] 


impolite  to  our  callers.  At  the  present 
time,  I  am  expecting  important  rushing 
calls  from  sororities,  and  I  do  not  like 
to  miss  my  purely  social  calls.  Periiaps 
all  this  sounds  like  a  personal  grievance, 
but  let  me  assure  you  that  it  is  not.  I 
know  and  have  talked  to  a  large  number 
of  independents  in  other  houses,  and 
they  make  the  same  complaints. 

These  undesirable  housing  conditions 
for  independents  need  not  continue.  The 
university  can  certainly  do  something, 
can  do  a  great  deal  indeed,  to  remedy 
these  evils.  The  room-renters  have  an 
unfair  advantage  over  the  students.  The 
students  must  live  somewhere,  and  since 
there  are  more  students  than  the  univer- 
sity   halls,    the    sorority    and    fraternity 


houses,  and  organized  independent 
houses  can  possibly  hold,  these  room- 
renters  can  and  do  greatly  over-charge 
for  rooms  which  they  fill  with  old  furni- 
ture which  they  themselves  would  not 
use.  To  think  that  the  deans  of  the 
university  have  approved  all  of  these 
living  quarters  !  The  university  carefully 
looks  after  us  to  see  that  we  get  enough 
exercise  by  requiring  us  to  take  ph3'sical 
education,  and  to  see  that  we  learn,  in 
our  required  hygiene  courses,  how  to  get 
the  most  out  of  life  by  the  proper  care 
of  the  body  and  mind.  Such  inconsist- 
ency! If,  as  a  state  university,  it  is  pri- 
marily interested  in  the  welfare  of  the 
students,  how  can  it  allow  this  exploita- 
tion of  the  students  to  exist? 


Amateur  Pottery 


The  kihi  proper  had  yet  to  be  prepared.  After  looking'  all  over  camp,  we  finally 
found  an  old  chlorine  can,  about  two-and-one-half  feet  hi.g^h,  in  which  we  placed  wire 
shelves  for  the  pottery.  The  whole  day  before  the  firinor,  every  one  interested  (and 
some  who  were  not)  .gathered  wood  and  chopped  down  trees.  That  night  I  went  to 
bed  early  for  at  six  the  following  morning  the  fire  had  to  be  started.  In  the  stone- 
lined  hole  we  built  a  roaring  fire  which  was  allowed  to  burn  low  after  two  hours  of 
intensive  heat.  This  was  to  heat  all  the  rocks  so  that  the  heat  could  be  kept  even  and 
constant  for  the  actual  kiln  when  the  can  was  lowered.  The  chlorine  can,  now  a  kiln 
filled  with  the  pottery,  was  placed  near  the  fire  and  gradually  (about  an  inch  every 
five  or  ten  minutes)  lowered  nearer  and  nearer  the  red  hot  ashes  in  the  rock-lined 
hole.  After  it  had  reached  these  ashes  and  was  thoroughly  heated,  a  little  fire_  was 
begun  around  the  can.  Very  gradually  this  fire  was  increased  until  the  can  could  not 
be  seen  because  of  the  collecting  wood  ashes  and  the  hot  flames.  By  twelve  o'clock 
the  can  was  red  hot  under  inches  of  wood  ashes,  and  the  fire  above  was  roaring  so 
loudly  it  could  be  heard  yards  and  yards  away.  The  fire  was  kept  going  at  this  rate 
until  four-thirty  in  the  afternoon;  then  it  was  gradually  allowed  to  diminish.  By 
seven  o'clock  the  fire  was  gone;  a  huge  heap  of  wood  ashes  gave  a  silent  evidence  of 
the  amount  of  wood  used,  and  my  scorched  legs,  face,  and  arms  gave  a  screaming 
evidence  of  who  had  been  "playing  with  fire." 

At  ten  o'clock  at  night  by  lantern  light  I  slowly  shoveled  off  the  still  hot  ashes 
until  I  could  see  the  can — still  much  too  hot  to  go  very  near.  Inch  by  inch  we  gradu- 
ally pulled  it  away  from  its  hot  bed.  By  removing  it  too  quickly,  thereby  quickly 
coolin.g  it  and  its  precious  contents,  we  would  have  ruined  many  days'  work.  Finally 
we  opened  the  end  of  our  can-kiln  and  peeked  inside.  I  became  so  excited  that  I 
forgot  the  articles  were  still  too  hot  to  touch  and  picked  up  the  first  dish  I  saw.  It 
burned  my  finger  so  that  I  dropped  it.  Luckily  it  fell  in  some  sand  at  my  feet  and  was 
none  the  worse  for  its  flight  through  space.  One  by  one  we  took  the  articles  out  and 
placed  them  on  the  hot  sand.  Of  twenty-two  pieces  only  two  broke ! — Frances  Quirke 


[22] 


Thar  She  Blows! 


Milton  Yanow 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1937-1938 


THE  fishing  was  not  very  good.  We 
had  set  out  after  sailfish  but  as  yet 
no  one  had  had  a  strike.  At  three  o'clock 
there  were  two  mackerel,  a  small  sword- 
fish,  and  two  bonito.  Shorty  had  caught 
a  barracuda,  too,  and  when  Old  Timer 
had  killed  him,  I  had  a  good  look  at  his 
teeth  and  then  looked  down  at  where 
he  came  from  and  was  glad  he  couldn't 
climb. 

"You're  sure  he  can't,  though?" 
Shorty  had  said.  "Say,  uh — up  the  side 
of  the  boat  when  your  back  was  turned?" 

Now  it  was  three  o'clock  and  Shorty 
and  the  Old  Timer  were  in  the  fishing 
chairs — the  back-rests  tipped  back  so 
their  heads  touched  the  cabin — and  I  was 
lying  on  the  cabin  roof  watching  them. 
The  sun  had  gone  behind  a  bank  of 
heavy,  rolling  clouds  and  it  was  still  hot 
and  heavy,  with  a  breathless  impending 
thickness.  The  water  had  a  dark  and 
oily  polish ;  it  looked  slippery  and  thick 
in  the  enormous  shadow.  Simultaneously, 
Shorty  and  I  began  reciting  lines  from 
the  Rhyme  of  the  Ancient  Mariner.  The 
ominous  settings  had  touched  us  both  in 
the  same  way.  When  the  water  slapped 
against  the  boat  it  made  a  heavy,  sullen 
sound  that  made  our  tiny  motor  craft 
seem  smaller  and  the  dark  clouds  darker 
and  the  land  a  long,  long  way  off.  I  had 
the  feeling  that  the  fun  was  over  but  I 
didn't  want  to  be  the  one  to  say  it. 

I  was  the  first  to  see  the  high  fin 
cutting  through  the  water,  nearing 
Shorty's  bait.  "Look!"  I  called,  "A 
shark !"  Old  Timer,  now  back  at  the 
wheel,  behind  the  cabin,  leaned  out  and 


looked  back.  He  called  out,  "Sailfish ! 
Sailfish!  If  he  nuzzles  it,  pay  out  a  little 
line,  lad.  Give  him  line  and  time.  You'll 
know  it  if  he  bites." 

Shorty  and  I  were  both  landlubbers ; 
and  this  being  our  first  such  experience, 
I  got  as  excited  about  the  strike  as  he 
did. 

The  sail  went  under.  Shorty  said, 
"He's — he's  doing  something!" 

"Give  him  line,  give  him  line !" 

Then  his  line  jerked  and  he  nearly 
lost  it  as  the  sailfish  jumped  and  every- 
one began  to  yell.  He  jumped  clean,  in 
a  beautiful  silver  arc  ;  he  went  off  kicking 
and  fighting,  in  a  series  of  enormous 
gorgeous  leaps  that  took  one's  breath 
away. 

Shorty  gasped,  "I  can't — can't  hold 
him.   Take  him,  Old  Timer." 

"Go  on  and  fish  your  own  fish!  Stay 
with  him,  boy !   Fight  him  !" 

"Help!" 

His  feet  braced  against  the  foot  rail. 
Shorty  was  trying  to  stay  with  him.  The 
fish  was  sounding  now^  and  taking  line, 
and  Shorty  was  hanging  on  and  trying 
desperately  to  get  his  rod  back  in  his 
fishing  belt.  Then  suddenly  the  fish 
started  back  toward  the  boat,  and  every- 
body yelled  again.  There,  Shorty  made 
his  big  mistake.  He  got  to  his  feet  in 
the  excitement. 

"Sit  down.    Hold  him,  somebody!" 

The  fish  came  up  again  and  jerked 
Shorty's  body  sideways  with  a  twisting, 
vicious  leap.  He  was  jerked  up  against 
the  low  rail  and  his  hand  slipped  from 
the  reel.    His  rod  was  jerked  to  arms 


[23] 


length  and  he  tried  to  reach  to  get  his 
other  hand  on  it.  Old  Timer  yelled  and 
jumped  for  him  as  he  slid  over  the  rail 
like  a  shot  from  a  bow. 

Without  a  second's  hesitation  the  old 
sailor  was  over  the  side  in  a  long  flat 
dive. 

He  couldn't  see  Shorty.  The  waves 
had  seemed  small  from  the  boat,  but  now 
they  towered  over  him  in  enormous  bil- 
lows. From  the  top  of  the  next  wave  he 
saw  the  boat  and  it  looked  far  away.  A 
life  belt  smacked  the  water  behind  him — 
then  another.  The  boat  was  turning  with 
deliberate,  maddening  slowness.  But  he 
couldn't  see  the  boy  anywhere.  He 
yelled.  "Shorty!  Shorty!"  He  heard  him 
answer  and  his  heart  turned  over  as  he 
came  up  on  the  crest  of  another  wave 
and  saw  him  there,  not  fifteen  feet  away. 


Shorty  swam  as  well  as  he  did,  and  was 
swimming  toward  the  boat. 

"Don't  swim !  Don't  move !  These 
monsters  will  strike  at  anything  that 
moves."  As  he  finished  his  instructions, 
he  reached  Shorty's  side.    "Float!" 

"I  know,"  Shorty  gasped,  clinging  des- 
perately to  him  now  that  aid  was  so  near. 

It  would  only  be  seconds  now.  The  boat 
was  near  them,  slowing  down.  I  stood  by 
the  rail,  a  rope  coiled,  and  a  rifle  at  my 
feet.  Another  ten  seconds  and  everyone 
would  be  safe.  Old  Timer  caught  the 
rope  and  I  hauled  Shorty  to  safety  while 
he  treaded  water.  His  legs  must  have 
seemed  miles  long  treading  there  beneath 
him,  and  it  must  have  seemed  like  hours 
instead  of  seconds  till  I  threw  him  the 
rope  and  finally  pulled  him  from  those 
demon-infested  waters. 


Border  Law 

He  resembled  a  man  of  dirty  brown  clay  unworked  as  yet  by  the  skilful  artist's 
hand.  Two  arms  were  suspended  like  rigid  posts  from  his  bent  body.  As  he  slowly 
slouched  across  the  street  a  silver  star  on  his  coat  caught  the  sun's  rays  at  intervals, 
hurling  them  in  blinding  reflections  about  him.  That  glistening  silver  spot  on  his 
breast  marked  him  as  superior  to  anyone  else  in  that  lonely  frontier  town.  People 
stepped  briskly  from  his  uncertain  path  and  murmered  phrases  of  "Good  morning, 
sheriff,"  or  "Howdy,  sheriff."  As  he  approached  nearer  to  where  I  stood  by  my 
horse  his  features  were  magnified  before  my  eyes.  The  wrinkles  on  his  bleached 
face  appeared  like  sand  ripples  on  an  ocean  beach.  A  jagged,  faded  brown  moustache 
soiled  with  splotches  of  dark  brown  tobacco  juice  protruded  from  his  upper  lip  like 
quills  on  a  porcupine's  back.  He  shuffled  by  me  without  turning  his  gray,  shaggy 
head.  I  watched  him  with  awe  as  he  walked  down  the  dirt  street.  Suddenly,  faster 
than  lightning,  two  great  steel-blue  guns  loomed  in  his  hands,  and  just  as  abruptly 
a  roar  like  thunder  broke  the  silence.  Flame  and  smoke  belched  into  the  air.  His 
wilting  inert  body  leaped  forward  in  a  headlong  dash.  With  a  lurch  he  tore  through 
the  swinging  doors  of  the  saloon.  A  shot — another  shot — then  stillness.  A  minute 
passed.  Then  he  appeared  at  the  entrance  of  the  saloon.  His  face  held  no  expres- 
sion; his  lips  were  still.  Gray,  cold  eyes  looked  calmly  about.  With  his  familiar 
slouchy  gait  he  came  away  from  the  bar  room.  His  chest  rose  and  fell  with  a  slow, 
even  rhythm.  He  stopped  before  two  men  standing  at  the  end  of  the  crowd.  Im- 
mediately they  hustled  off  toward  the  saloon.  Crossing  the  hot  dusty  street  he  sat 
down  in  a  chair  that  was  propped  up  against  a  small  whitewashed  building.  As  he 
looked  about  himself  a  thin  smile  appeared  upon  his  dry,  cracked  lips  and  then  dis- 
appeared.  Slumping  back  into  the  chair  he  relaxed  in  the  warm  sun — satisfied. 

— Robert  Brun skill 


[24] 


Havana 


Ethel  Donnelly 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  13,  1936-1937 


T"/ 


HAT  will  be  all  today."  How  long 
had  waited  to  hear  those  words ! 
All  day  I  had  run  errands,  typed  letters, 
helped  old  Mrs.  Snyder  with  her  knitting, 
and  sympathized  with  Miss  Keper  as  she 
repeated  the  tragic  story  of  her  little 
"Petey's"  death.  But  now,  as  I  sat  on 
the  deck,  and  watched  the  ship  sway  in 
the  rhythm  with  the  waves  and  the 
blood-red  tropical  moon  that  painted  a 
golden  path  on  the  luminous  sea,  I  de- 
cided that  perhaps,  even  with  Petey,  the 
tragic  canary,  and  the  endless  letters 
extolling  the  beauties  of  the  "Southern 
tour,"  the  life  of  a  tour  director's  secre- 
tary (personal-maid,  errand-boy,  story- 
teller, and  nurse  maid  not  being  men- 
tioned v.'hen  I  had  applied  for  a  position) 
had  it?  compensations. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  boat 
docked  at  Havana,  ancient,  beautiful 
Havana,  a  city  of  mystery  and  intrigue. 
I  stood  at  the  rail  and  looked  down  upon 
the  quay,  startling  white  in  the  brilliant 
midday  sun.  Giant  palms  were  etched 
against  the  turquoise  sky,  like  wide  green 
fans,  waving  gently  with  the  breeze.  I 
saw  the  vendors  on  the  wharf,  small 
brown  men,  shouting  of  their  wares  in 
high,  shrill  Spanish,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  a  little  girl  again,  holding  my 
father's  hand  as  he  pointed  out  the  peo- 
ple to  me,  and  brought  me  roses.  Roses ! 
Always  when  I  think  of  Havana,  I  think 
of  their  delicate,  haunting  fragrance.    It 


was  ten  years  since  I  had  seen  the  lovely 
city,  and  yet,  searching  the  crowd  for  a 
familiar  face,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  come 
home. 

The  feeling  of  nostalgia  grew  all  day 
until  I  felt  that  I  must  be  alone,  be  free 
to  wander  about  the  city  as  I  had  done 
so  long  ago.  It  was  an  easy  matter  to 
slip  away  from  the  party,  enjoying  the 
sweet  Cuban  wine  and  rhumba  music  at 
"Sloppy  Joe's,"  and  soon  I  was  out  in 
the  shadowy  darkness  of  the  soft  tropical 
night.  I  walked  slowly  past  the  silent, 
shuttered  stucco  houses,  with  their  flat 
roofs  and  bright  colors,  and  I  felt  as  an 
old,  old  woman  must  feel  when  she  re- 
turns again  to  the  scenes  of  her  child- 
hood. Soon  I  could  smell  the  ocean,  and 
hear  the  lulling  swish  of  the  waves. 

The  Malecon  was  brightly  lighted,  but 
quite  deserted.  I  made  my  way  to  the 
low  sea-wall,  and  my  breath  came  in  little 
gasps — Havana  Harbor  in  moonlight  is 
more  beautiful  than  the  most  talented 
pen  can  describe.  The  moon  shone 
through  the  clouds  just  then,  turning  the 
grim,  century-old  ]\Iorro  Castle  into  a 
fairy  palace.  Graceful  palms  were 
silhouetted  against  the  blue,  diamond- 
studded  sky,  and  the  white  foam  rode 
slowly  in  on  the  swell  of  the  white  waves. 
I  thought  of  the  morrow,  of  the  "sight- 
seeing," and  trite  phrases  of  the  tour  di- 
rector, and  still  I  was  happy.  This  night 
had  been  mine. 


In  the  Sands  of  Time 

When  this  generation  has  learned  its  lesson,  the  next  one  will  be  ready  to  follow 
in  the  "foolsteps"  of  their  fathers  and  their  forefathers. — Josephine  Farrell 


[25] 


Christians'  Exhibits 


Frances  Pritchett 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1936-1937 


THE  after-dinner  coffee  had  scarcely 
been  drunk  before  Christians  began 
to  put  up  the  screen.  We  had  been 
warned  in  advance  at  the  table  that 
Christians  had  a  few  moving  pictures, 
taken  by  himself.  Christians  was  quite 
modest  about  them. 

"I  know  that  everyone  thinks  his 
homemade  pictures  are  pretty  good,"  he 
remarked  genially,  ''but  I  don't  believe 
I'm  fooling  myself  a  bit  in  thinking  that 
ours  are  really  unusual.  They  are,  aren't 
they,  Ellen?" 

Mrs.  Christians  was  sweetly  emphatic. 
"They  really  are.  Of  course,  we  had 
simply  wonderful  subjects.  The  trip 
west,  Yellowstone  Park,  and  then,  last 
year,  the  boat  and  Europe  and  all  that." 
She  waved  her  hand  vaguely. 

My  husband  and  I  nodded,  silently 
agreeing  that  Europe  alone  was  quite  a 
subject. 

"You  see,"  Christians  continued,  "it's 
all  in  knowing  your  camera.  Now  I 
know  mine  from  A  to  Z.  But  there  are 
a  lot  of  people  who  don't." 

He  paused,  giving  us  time  to  contem- 
plate an  unfortunate  host  of  people  who 
did  not  know  their  cameras. 

"How  silly  of  them!"  exclaimed  my 
husband,  feeling  some  comment  was 
expected. 

Christians  beamed.  "Isn't  it?  Rut  you 
see,  they  don't  make  a  study  of  it.  You 
can't  just  go  slap-bang.  Well,  let's  ad- 
journ to  the  living  room  and  get  things 
set  up." 

Christians  began  to  put  up  the  screen, 
which  consisted  of  a  sheet  tacked  across 


one  end  of  the  room  between  two 
window   frames. 

'T  wouldn't  stand  on  that  chair,  Ben; 
it  isn't  very  strong,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Christians  as  he  began  the  preparations. 

"There,  that  looks  about  right,"  he 
remarked,  descending  to  view  his  handi- 
work. "It  hangs  nice  and  smooth.  Of 
course,  a  real  silver  screen  would  be 
better  and  give  you  a  clearer  image — 
they  are  making  them  now  for  home  use, 
and  we  are  going  to  get  one — but  this 
does  pretty  well,  doesn't  it,  Ellen?" 

"It  really  does,"  agreed  Mrs.  Chris- 
tians. 

"Now,"  said  Christians,  "I  will  move 
this  table  into  position  where  we  can  be 
ready  in  a  jiffy." 

"You  had  better  take  the  things  off  it 
before  you  try  to  move  it,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Christians. 

Christians  took  the  things  (a  pile  of 
magazines,  a  dozen  books,  two  book 
ends,  a  bronze  paper  cutter,  several  ash 
trays)  and  moved  the  table  to  the  spot 
designated  by  Airs.  Christians. 

"These  reels  haven't  been  functioning 
quite  right  lately,  but  I'll  have  them  fixed 
in  a  minute.  Put  the  lights  out,  Ellen.  I 
can  work  by  this  lamp.  Ellen  has  seen 
these  pictures  twent}-  times,  so  you  two 
get  the  best  seats.  JVIove  up  good  and 
close.  That's  it.  Now  a  little  nearer  the 
center.  I  don't  want  you  to  miss  any- 
thing." 

Obediently,  we  moved. 

"Close  the  door,  Ellen,  and  sliut  out 
the  light  from  the  hall.  I'll  try  the 
focus." 


[26] 


An  oblong  of  light  appeared  in  the 
upper  right-hand  corner  of  the  screen. 
Christians  fumbled,  and  it  slid  down 
toward  the  center. 

"It  looks  a  little  faint,  dear,"  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Christians.  "Why  don't  you 
move  the  projector  a  bit  nearer?" 

"It's  all  right  where  it  is,"  answered 
Christians  shortl}-.  "The  flicker  isn't 
working  properly,  but  I  can  fix  that. 
Now  I'll  thread  the  first  film,  and  we'll 
see  what  we  shall  see.  The  first  part 
shows  us  leaving  the  house  for  the  train, 
and  then  come  various  stages  of  the  trip 


picture  of  the  youngster  every  month  or 
so,  and  these  show  her  up  to  the  age  of 
two.  Would  you  like  to  see  them?" 

"W^e  should  love  to."  Bob,  my  hus- 
band, seemed  actually  interested. 

And  then  we  saw  them — Pattsie,  tak- 
ing one  bath  after  another,  looking  very 
much  the  same  in  each ;  Pattsie,  rolling 
on  a  blanket  in  the  lawn ;  Pattsie  taking 
her  bottle ;  Pattsie  always  and  invariably 
in  a  state  of  nudity. 

"Isn't  she  too  cute  for  words?"  gurgled 
Mrs.  Christians.  "See  the  way  she  lies 
on  her  back  and  kicks  her  legs   in  the 


west.  Try  to  get  in  the  mood.  We  are 
off  for  the  station.  All  aboard,  all 
aboard !" 

There  was  a  buzzing  sound  as  the  pro- 
jector went  into  action  and  the  film  began 
to  unroll,  and  then,  before  our  astonished 
gaze,  there  flashed  upon  the  screen  the 
nude  figure  of  an  infant  of  about  two 
months. 

"Great  Scott !"  exclaimed  Christians. 
"That's  the  wrong  film." 

"I  didn't  think  I  recognized  the  sta- 
tion," I  murmured  to  myself. 

"It's  Pattsie,"  cried  Mrs.  Christians 
delightedly.  "Oh,  do  show  it,  dear.  There 
are  some  lovely  pictures  of  her." 

"Well,  they  are  pretty  nice,"  agreed 
Pattsie's   father.    "You   see,   we  take   a 


air.    Don't  you  love  it?" 

"Adorable,"  I  replied,  while  I  reflected 
that  Pattsie  would  certainly  "love"  these 
pictures  when  she  was  a  young  lady  of 
eighteen. 

"The  sequence  is  wrong  here,"  Chris- 
tians explained.  "I  made  a  mistake  when 
I  was  clipping  and  joining.  This  picture 
shows  Pattsie  when  she  was  eighteen 
months.  It  really  should  come  after  the 
next  one.  It  shows  her  at  sixteen  months. 
But  it  doesn't  make  much  dift'erence 
when  it's  explained." 

So  far  as  I  could  see,  it  made  none 
at  all,  even  if  it  weren't  explained. 

"Well,  that's  about  all  there  is  of 
Pattsie."  announced  the  exhibitor.  (It 
was  difficult  to  imagine  that  there  might 


[27] 


be  more.)  "Now  we'll  rewind  this  and 
get  on  with  the  western  trip." 

There  were  difficulties  with  the  re- 
winding; but  after  five  minutes  the  pro- 
jector was  buzzing  again,  and  Christians 
had  begun  his  lecture. 

"Here  we  are  at  the  station.  You  can't 
see  very  much,  of  course,  because  there 
wasn't  enough  light,  but  you  can  get  the 
idea.  There !  That's  Ellen,  getting  on  the 
train.  It's  pretty  blurry,  but  anyone 
could  recognize  her  if  they  knew  who 
it  was  going  to  be.  See?  She's  turning 
around  and  waving  her  hand.  The  first 
part  of  the  film  didn't  come  out  so  Vvcll 
because  I  hadn't  got  used  to  the  camera. 
Now  we  are  looking  out  of  the  train 
window,  just  after  starting.  It's  con- 
fused, but  that's  the  way  the  country 
looks  from  the  train  anyway.  It  just 
rushes  past  you.  There !  That's  a  good 
picture !" 

Upon  the  screen  appeared  an  ugly, 
commonplace  frame  building,  carrying 
across  its  dingy  front  a  bold  sign:  ED 
LARKINS  —  HAY,  GRAIN,  AND 
FEED.  This  notable  structure  held  the 
center  of  the  screen,  and  continued  to 
hold  it  for  what  seemed  like  minutes. 

"That  was  outside  of  Chicago.  We 
stopped  off  there  to  see  friends.  Of 
course  I  held  the  camera  on  the  store 
too  long,  and  I  don't  know  why  I  de- 
cided to  shoot  it  at  all.  But  the  light  was 
awfully  good,  and  the  building  happened 
to  be  there.  You  see,  I  was  still  experi- 
menting. This  sort  of  thing  takes  a  lot 
of  ex[)erimenting.  Ellen  was  supposed  to 
be  in  the  j^icture,  too,  but  something 
happened.  There !  That's  Ellen's  back 
now.  She's  walking  down  the  platform 
at  Detroit.    It's  pretty  clear,  isn't  it?" 

As  a  portrait  of  a  female  back  it  was 
perfect. 

"I  was   so   self-conscious,"   confessed 


our  hostess.  "That's  why  I  walked  so 
funny,  I  guess." 

"Now  this  section  of  the  film,"  Chris- 
tians continued,  "is  badly  light-struck, 
but  there  wasn't  much  of  interest  in  it 
anyway.  The  fun  begins  when  we  get 
to  Yellowstone." 

For  a  minute  or  two  the  machine 
ground  along,  producing  nothing  more 
than  a  confused  flicker  of  light  and 
shadow ;  then  suddenly  there  flashed  up 
on  the  screen  what  looked  like  a  great 
column  of  water,  w^hich  vanished  al- 
most instantaneously,  leaving  blankness 
behind. 

"That  was  Old  Faithful!"  cried  Mrs. 
Christians. 

"That  was  Old  Faithful,  the  geyser," 
announced  Christians,  ignoring  her.  "It 
should  have  been  a  perfect  picture.  But 
I  was  too  near  it,  and  I'd  forgotten  that 
I'd  almost  used  up  the  film,  so  I  only 
got  a  flash.  I  tried  to  take  it  another 
day,  but  the  light  wasn't  very  good.  You 
could  get  the  idea,  though,  couldn't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  we  get  the  idea,"  Bob  assured 
him. 

"Now  we  come  to  the  real  film,"  said 
Christians.  "This  one  was  taken  in  Yel- 
lowstone and  it's  extraordinary.  You 
haven't  been  there,  have  you?" 

"No,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  this  will  make  it  live  for  you." 

"It  will,  indeed,"  chimed  in  Mrs. 
Christians.  "Wait  until  they  see  Inspira- 
tion Point." 

"And  Artist's  Point,"  said  Christians. 

"And  the  Devil's  Tower,"  said  Mrs. 
Christians. 

"And  the  Morning  Glory  Pool,"  said 
Christians. 

"And  the  pool  where  you  throw  youi 
handkerchief  in,"  said  Mrs.  Christians, 
thereby  apparently  having  the  last  word, 
for  Christians  did  not  respond.    Instead 


[28] 


he  busied  himself  with  re-winding  the 
old  film  and  adjusting  the  new. 

"Now  we  are  all  set,"  he  announced. 
"First  we  see  some  of  the  hot  springs. 
Would  you  believe  it,  you  can  catch  a 
trout  in  a  stream  and  flick  it  back  into 
one  of  these  springs  and  cook  the  fish 
without  ever  taking  it  off  the  hook. 
Now — watch  closely." 

The  projector  buzzed,  the  light  flick- 
ered on  the  screen,  there  was  a  sudden 
crackling,  a  sizzling  sound,  and  then  com- 
plete darkness. 

"Damn !"  shouted  Christians. 

"Oh,  Ben!  What  have  you  done?" 
asked  Mrs.  Christians. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Ellen !  What  do  you 
think  I've  done?  I've  done  nothing.  It's 
a  short  circuit ;  that's  what  it  is." 

"But  you  must  have  done  something 
wrong." 

"Well,  I  didn't.  See  if  you  can  find  a 
candle." 

"Won't  any  of  the  lights  turn  on?" 

"No,  they  won't.  They  are  out  in  this 
room  and  in  the  hall,  and  the  worst  of  it 
is  that  there  isn't  an  extra  fuse  in  the 
house." 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chris- 
tians. "That  means  we  won't  be  able  to 
show  the  pictures." 


"I'm  afraid  it  does,"  agreed  Christians 
heavily.  "I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you 
like  this,"  he  continued,  and  we  could 
feel  him  turning  towards  us  in  the 
darkness ;  "but  it  simply  can't  be 
helped.  You  will  forgive  me,  won't 
you?  And  you  will  come  over  again 
soon,  so  that  you  can  see  the  Yellow- 
stone film." 

"Of   course   we    forgive   you." 

"And  don't  forget  the  pictures  of  the 
European  trip,"  Mrs.  Christians  re- 
minded her  husband. 

"No,  we  mustn't  forget  those,"  said 
Christians.  "We  can  show  them  the  same 
evening.  Now  let's  see — what  day  would 
be  convenient  next  week?" 

"Oh,"  I  replied.  "You  and  Mr.  Chris- 
tians must  come  over  to  see  us." 

"All  right.  We  will,"  said  Christians 
heartily.  "And  what's  more  we'll  bring 
along  the  projector  and  the  films.  How 
about  it?" 

For  a  moment  silence  enveloped  the 
darkened  room ;  the  proverbial  pin 
would  have  dropped  with  a  thunder-like 
boom.  Then  I  heard  Bob  saying  in  an 
absurdly  thin  voice,  "Great,  old  man, 
great.  Why — that  will  be  perfectly — 
great !" 


Brooklyn  Bridge 

A  stubborn  drizzle  floats  over  the  massive  gray  web  stretched  taut  between  two 
slumbering  boroughs;  a  myriad  of  thick  cables  strain  under  the  load  they  support. 
The  t-lot,  t-lot,  t-lot  of  a  lonely  horse  wearily  dragging  an  antiquated  wagon  .... 
the  driver,  humped  over  on  his  seat,  hatless  and  gray,  spits  over  the  nearby  railing, 
rasps  at  the  lagging  animal. 

Far  beneath,  the  rubbish-laden  East  River.  A  pudgy  tug  whimpers  three  times 
and  puf^s  ofif  in  the  direction  of  the  bay.  A  ragged  Bowery  bum  leans  silently  over 
the  wet  rail;  the  stub  of  an  unlighted  cigarette  edges  out  from  beneath  his  shapeless 
hat.  He  stares  for  a  few  minutes  into  the  murk  below,  contemplating  perhaps.  A 
massive  policeman  is  trudging  towards  the  "forgotten  man,"  who  still  leans  over  the 
rail;  the  bum  looks  up,  pulls  his  hat  down  further  over  his  face,  slouches  away.  It 
is  still  drizzling.  A  cat  leaps  lightly  onto  the  slippery  rail,  totters  perilously,  regains 
its  footing,  and  springs  back  onto  the  wet  walk. 

Down  the  river  a  little  farther,  the  indistinct  outline  of  another  span,  and  behind 
it  another.  Only  two  more  hours  of  peaceful  silence  for  the  old  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
then  the  steady  slush  of  traflfic.   The  drizzle  still  floats  steadily  in. — Harry  Goldfarb 


[29] 


Boy  Dies 


Betty  McAIarrax 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1936-1937 


THE  undertaker  had  opened  the  coffin 
for  the  last  time,  but  I  didn't  want 
to  look  again.  There  in  the  cemetery, 
with  the  sun  glaring  down  upon  the 
gathered  throng,  I  didn't  want  to  see 
Freddie  dead.  I  wanted  to  remember 
him  as  he  used  to  be — tall,  muscular,  gay, 
playful.  I  wanted  to  hear  him  shout  and 
sing  and  whistle  as  he  always  did,  in- 
stead of  lying  there  in  his  white  satin 
bed  so  cold  and  still.  He  was  gone,  I 
wouldn't  see  him  again,  but  I  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  take  that  last  look  at 
him.  I  stared  about  me  at  the  beautiful 
morning  he  would  have  loved  so  much. 
The  grass  was  soft  green  and  dewy.  The 
buds  on  every  tree  seemed  to  have  turned 
into  leaves  overnight,  just  for  Freddie. 
The  air  was  heavy  and  depressing  with 
the  scent  of  too  many  flowers.  Every- 
where spring  was  singing,  except  in  our 
hearts. 

I  looked  at  the  banks  of  flowers  heaped 
on  the  pile  of  dirt  that  would  soon 
cover  that  young  body.  Somehow  it 
seemed  to  help  a  little  when  I  thought 
that  all  these  flowers  represented  friends 
who  had  loved  him.  To  keep  myself 
distracted  I  tried  to  read  what  it  said  on 
the  ribbons.  There  at  the  head  of  his 
grave  was  a  pillow  of  white  roses,  and 
across  it  was  written,  "Our  Son."  That 
would  be  from  his  mother  and  dad.  How 
significant  it  was.  All  his  life  his  head 
had  lain  upon  the  pillow  of  their  devo- 
tion, and  even  in  death  it  was  there. 
Never  would  they  fail  him.  I  thought  of 
how  they  would  miss  him ;  they  had  been 
so  proud  of  him  and  had  planned  his 


future  so  carefully.  He  would  have  fin- 
ished college,  gone  on  to  law  school,  and 
then,  under  their  loving  encouragement, 
worked  hard  to  become  successful.  But 
all  of  these  golden  dreams  had  been 
shattered  when,  after  the  first  awful 
months  of  illness,  they  had  discovered  it 
was  cancer  and  that  he  could  not  live. 
No  one  would  ever  take  his  place.  They 
would  always  remember  how  he  might 
have  and  how  he  had  filled  their  lives. 
How  his  dad  would  miss  the  long  tramps 
in  the  woods ;  the  hunting  trips  that  had 
been  almost  always  unsuccessful  but  that 
had  made  them  such  close  friends ;  the 
companionable  silences  as  they  sat  in  a 
boat  and  fished  for  hours.  How  his 
mother  would  long  for  the  boyish  confi- 
dences he  had  given  her;  the  mad  bed- 
lam that  entered  the  house  with  him; 
the  troubles  and  scrapes  she  always 
helped  him  to  straighten  out ;  his  kiss  of 
utter  love  and  devotion.  Oh,  there  would 
be  an  empty  place  in  their  lives  now 
that  he  was  gone.  What  were  they 
going  to  do  ? 

Just  next  to  the  pillow  of  roses  I 
could  see  a  long  silken  spray  of  lilies 
tied  in  green.  Across  the  ribbon  in  gold 
was  "Brother."  Just  that  one  word,  but 
it  meant  the  bewildered  cry  of  two  who 
could  hardly  comprehend  the  tragedy 
that  had  entered  their  small  world.  This 
boy  lying  dead  in  the  coffin  wasn't  their 
brother.  This  wasn't  he  who  had  laughed 
and  played  with  them  ever  since  they 
could  remember.  Their  brother  had 
never  allowed  them  a  dull  moment.  Long 
ago  he  had  begun  to  like  magic.   He  had 


[30] 


taken  them  with  him  to  see  every  famous 
magician  that  came  to  Chicago,  and  then 
they  had  gone  home  to  let  him  practice 
the  tricks  on  them.  He  and  Carl  had 
had  an  unbeatable  pool  team,  and  they 
had  played  for  hours  while  Lois  watched 
from  the  sidelines.  They  had  built  and 
tended  a  garden  that  one  year ;  they  had 
romped  at  the  lake  for  a  whole  summer 
together ;  just  the  three  of  them,  they 
hadn't  needed  anyone  else.  They  had 
been  the  three  musketeers,  but  now  they 
were  only  two.  I  knew  that  they  did  not 
fully  realize  yet  that  he  would  never  be 
with  them  anymore. 

Tears  welled  up  in  my  eyes  at  the 
thought  of  that  brother  and  sister,  and  I 
glanced  away.  Far  back  in  the  corner, 
half  hidden  under  the  rest  of  the  flowers 
I  saw  a  ribbon  peeping  out  that  had  on 
it  "Dearest  Friend."  I  couldn't  see  the 
spray,  but  I  knew  there  would  be  one  red 
rose,  the  sweetheart  flower,  among  them. 
Dorothy  had  been  Freddie's  girl,  and  my 
heart  bled  for  her.  All  night  long  she 
had  just  sat  in  the  house  and  stared  at 
his  coffin.  She  hadn't  shed  a  tear,  but  I 
could  imagine  what  she  was  thinking; 
she  was  his  first  love.  Call  it  puppy-love, 
say  it  wouldn't  last,  say  she  will  get  over 
it ;  it  doesn't  matter.  Freddie  and  she 
had  called  it  the  real  thing,  and  her 
heart  was  breaking.  She  knew  that  from 
this  time  on  she  must  be  without  him. 
They  had  grown  up  together,  gone  to 
grade  school,  entered  high  school,  seen 
their  first  dance,  and  always  she  had 
been  his  girl.  No  more  would  they  think 
of  crazy,  wild  things  to  amuse  them- 
selves. No  more  would  he  tell  her  things 


only  she  could  understand.  No  more 
would  they  plan  that  bright,  glorious 
future.  It  was  all  over.  Some  day  the 
pain  of  this  awful  thing  would  be  dulled. 
Some  day  she  would  be  happy  again — 
completely  happy.  But  I  knew  she  would 
never  forget  this  boy  who  had  first  loved 
her.  He  would  be  her  dearest  memory, 
and  in  years  to  come  she  could  often 
think  of  what  might  have  been  if—. 

I  couldn't  go  on.  I  turned  and  looked 
at  all  those  people  gathered  around 
him.  I  saw  his  mother  and  dad  straighten 
their  shoulders,  clasp  each  other's  hands, 
and  try  so  bravely  to  stop  the  flow  of 
their  tears.  I  saw  Grandma,  who  was 
always  so  gay  and  sprightly,  looking  old 
and  feeble  and  worn-out.  And  I  saw  my 
own  mother  gazing  at  me  while  her  lips 
moved  as  if  she  were  thanking  God  that 
I  was  spared  to  her.  A  long,  shuddering 
sigh  ran  through  the  crowd  as  the  under- 
taker stepped  up  to  close  the  coffin. 
Slowly  he  lowered  it,  and  I  caught  a 
brief  glimpse  of  the  sun  shining  upon 
Freddie's  now  frail  body  and  tawny, 
golden  curls  as  if  it  hoped  by  its  own 
warmth  to  bring  life  and  warmth  back 
to  this  dead  boy.  His  face  was  white  and 
reposed.  Those  thin,  blue-veined  hands 
that  held  such  a  tight  grip  upon  all  of 
our  hearts  were  folded  in  front  of  him. 
Under  his  arm  I  could  see  the  broken 
stick,  his  magic  wand  that  he  had  asked 
his  brother  to  break  and  bury  with  him 
when  he  died.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  caught 
in  an  iron  vise  that  was  squeezing — 
squeezing  until  I  thought  I  would 
scream.  The  lid  of  the  coffin  closed 
softly. 


Just  the  Thing 

In  this  corner  is  the  sheik.  He  wears  a  pearl  gray  suit  and  a  flaming  necktie, 
and  his  hair  is  plastered  down  with  what  appears  to  be  a  quart  of  hair  oil  ...  .  This 
sheik  is  a  fairly  good  dancer,  and  a  rather  harmless  fellow,  just  the  thing  a  good 
pearl  gray  suit  needs  to  set  it  off. — Harry  Marlatt 


[31] 


Rhet  as  Writ 


She  wore  a  sleek  mink  coat  held 
snugly  about  her  supple  body  and  a 
stocking  with  a  hole  showing  bear,  pink 
flesh. 

•  •  •  • 

He  finds  her;  they  immediately  fall  in 
love ;  and,  as  most  pictures  do,  they 
agree  to  be  married  at  once. 

Stanley  is  very  tall  and  skinny ;  his 
arms  are  long  and  at  the  end  of  each 
arm  are  two  large  hands  which  might  be 
called  paws. 

•  •  •  • 

Jean  Valjean's  rise  to  success  showed 
that  no  matter  how  far  you  may  sink, 
if  you  put  your  heart  into  a  thing  you 
will  climb  upward. 

•  •  •  • 

The  sphycological  effect  of  his  dis- 
appointments was  very  serious. 

I  took  for  granite  while  I  was  reading 
the  letter  that  both  of  you  had  taken  a 
part  in  writing  this  letter. 

•  •  •  • 

The  college  opened  this  year  with  the 
Dean  of  Men  giving  a  talk  in  welcoming 
all  the  new  commers  into  the  school. 
As  he  was  giving  his  speech  he  was 
errupted  by  an  indian,  who  was  riding  a 
motorcycle. 

•  •  •  • 

While  examining  the  building  in  its 
present  condition  one  will  find  the  type 
of  architecture  to  be  as  ancient  as  the 
building  itself. 


Shanghai  Shek  has  been  trying  to  or- 
ganize the  separate  provinces  of  China 
into  one  nation. 

Hib's  stomache,  however,  was  what 
brought  him  most  of  his  grief.  It  per- 
petualh'-  hung  at  half-mast. 

William  Lyon  Phelps  the  author  of 
Selected  Stories  from  Kipling  is  not  the 
author  of  the  stories. 

Avoid  jargon.  Jargon  is  a  word  that 
may  be  used  as  a  meaning  for  another 
word,  although  it  does  not  mean  that 
word  at  all.  Jargon  may  be  a  word  that 
does  not  have  a  meaning  at  all,  or,  if  so, 
very  little  meaning  and  perhaps  without 
a  senseable  meaning. 

Although  Germany  tried  the  best  she 
could  to  win  the  war  by  propaganda, 
other  countries  excelled  in  propagation 
technique. 

•  •  •  • 

When  the  financial  basis  is  low,  it  is 
unfair  to  have  a  large  family. 

She  is  of  a  Swedish  descent,  light 
complexed,  and  tall  of  statue. 

•  •  •  • 

Tragedy,  of  course,  has  the  inevitable 
sad  ending ;  the  lover  loses  the  girl  or 
dies  in  the  attempt. 

While  eating  a  few  days  ago  I  was 
pasted  the  potatoes. 


[32] 


Honorable  Mention 

Lack  of  space  prevents  the  publishing  of  excellent  themes  written  by  the  fol- 
lowing students.  These  themes  are  being  held  in  the  hope  that  they  may  be  pub- 
lished in  part  or  in  entirety,  in  future  issues. 


Allen  Adams 
Florence  Anderson 
Frances  At  wood 
Raphael  Aviami 
Pearl  Jean  Cohen 
Dorothy  Cox 
Cynthia  Dursema 
John  Hansen 
Sarah  Houghton 
William  Hutchinson 


Audrey  Klivans 
Wanda  Little 
R.  Marschik 
Leon  Messier 
Florence  Schnitzer 
Dan  Sitzer 
Ruby  Watson 
James  West  water 
Patricia  Weems 


The  English  Readings 

Each  year  the  Department  of  English  sponsors  a  series  of  readings  from 

literature.   The  program  for  the  rest  of  the  semester  follows: 

Wednesday,  March  23. — Songs  by  English  and  American  Authors.    Vocal  Division 
OF  THE  School  of  Music.   Smith  Recital  Hall,  7:30  p.m. 

Tuesday,  March  29. — From  The  Poems  of  Robert  Burns.    Prof.  Edward  Chauncey 
Baldwin.  228  Natural  History  Building,  7:15  p.m. 

Tuesday,  April  12. — From  The  Works  of  Lord  Byron.    Prof.  Paul  N.  Landis.    228 
Natural  History  Building,  7:15  p.m. 


Vol.7 


MAY,  1938 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

FIRST   IMPRESSIONS   OF  AN  AMMUNITION 

FACTORY     1 

Anonymous 

AN    AMERICAN    SPORT 2 

Gordon  Davis 

R.  O.  T.  C 5 

Charles   Schiller 

EVENING    NAP 6 

Marjorie  L.  Greider 

JOE  AND  JERRY— BOSSES 7 

George  S.  Amsbary 

STREET    CAR  ! 9 

Robert  Kimbrell 

THE    SKETCH    BOOK— I 10 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

NOTHING  BUT  THE  BEST 12 

Edwin  Lampitt 

THESE  WOMEN 13 

Robert  Haynes  Green 

LUCY IS 

Albert  Braviak 

THE  SKETCH  BOOK— II 16 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric   I  and  II) 

STARS  MAY  FALL 18 

D.  Curtis 

ALMS 19 

Mary   K.   Grossman 

FAITHFUL  TO  THEE 21 

Wanda  Little 

DEBUSSY'S  SUITE  "IBERIA" 24 

Grace  Hantover 

WHAT'S   WRONG   WITH    ME? 26 

Glenn  Wiegel 

MY  GREATEST  ENTHUSIASM 27 

Donald  B.  Agnew 

THE  OWLS   OF  EDWARDS   GULCH 29 

Cedric  King 

RHET  AS  WRIT 32 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  RHETORIC  STAFF,  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS,  URBANA 


JL  HE  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staff  of  the  University  of  Illinois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
published  anon3miously.  Parts  of  themes,  however, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Mr.  E.  G.  Ballard,  Dr.  Robert 
Blair,  Mr.  Gibbon  Butler,  Dr.  Caroline  Wash- 
burn, and  Dr.  R.  E.  Haswell,  chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building  West,  Urbana,  Illinois. 
The  price  is  fifteen  cents  a  copy. 


First  Impressions  of  an  Ammunition  Factory 


Anonymous 
Rhetoric  J,  Theme  16,  1937-1938 


AT  FIVE  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  it 
was  even  hotter  than  it  had  been 
at  one  o'clock  of  this  mid- July  day.  The 
hard,  black  coal  cinders  beneath  my  slip- 
per soles  were  as  hot  as  live  coals.  In 
imagination,  I  became  one  of  the  India 
mystery  men  who  walk  over  live  coals 
to  the  amazement  of  tourists.  I  was 
jerked  back  to  reality  by  the  sight  of  the 
shining  tin  roof  of  the  long,  low,  lead- 
colored  building  which  simmered  in  the 
July  heat,  and  in  which  I  was  to  spend 
eight  hours  each  evening  for — God  alone 
knew  how  long. 

The  interior  was  even  hotter  than  the 
direct  rays  of  the  sun  had  been.  The 
heat  was  oppressive ;  the  narrow  room 
with  the  machinery  jutting  out  almost  to 
the  center  of  it,  had  captured  all  the 
sun's  heat  and  the  energy  from  the  ma- 
chines, and  was  reluctant  to  let  it  escape. 
The  windows,  set  at  regular  intervals  in 
the  dusty,  nondescript  wall,  gaped  open, 
but  not  even  one  stray  breeze  wandered 
in  to  cool  the  sweating  brows  of  the 
operators.  The  one  fan  dangled  motion- 
less from  the  ceiling.  The  women  moved 
with  leaden  feet,  but  their  fingers  were 
lightning  swift.  They  all  seemed,  be- 
cause of  their  expressionless  eyes  and  the 
machine-like  rhythm  of  their  fingers,  to 
be  of  the  same  mold — as  automatic  as  the 
machines  on  which  they  worked.  I  hoped 
desperately  that  I  would  not  become 
like  this. 

I  looked  around.  In  this  room  they 
looped  and  stripped,  molded,  and  tinned 
the  wire  for  the  loaded  caps  of  electric 
blasting  caps.  Above  me,  next  to  each 
wall,  a  row  of  wheels  turned  monoto- 


nously around  and  around,  pulling  a  belt 
over  and  over,  while  the  operator  ad- 
justed the  wire  so  that  it  would  come 
off  in  the  proper  loop,  the  proper  length. 
Near  the  wall  on  one  side  stood  six  tall, 
concrete  blocks  which  contained  electri- 
cally heated  pots  of  melted  sulphur.  The 
yellow  steam  hung  in  a  haze  over  the 
sulphur  pots  and  the  women  beside  them. 
With  excellent  precision,  each  woman 
filled  her  mold,  and,  after  stirring  a 
ladelful  of  the  hot  sulphur  until  it  was  of 
the  right  consistency,  poured  it  slowly 
but  deftly  in  the  top.  At  one  end  of  the 
room,  a  stoop-shouldered,  middle-aged 
woman  dipped  the  stripped  ends  of  one 
loop  after  another  into  a  pot  containing 
solder.  The  inspector  plodded  from  one 
box  of  finished  work  to  another ;  no  im- 
perfect work  could  get  past  the  hawkish 
scrutiny  of  his  faded  blue  eyes.  As  he 
laid  aside  each  piece  of  poor  workman- 
ship, the  operator  saw  her  chances 
of  earning  a  little  extra  on  piecework 
diminish. 

The  only  thing  which  did  not  conform 
with  the  apathetic,  monotonous  atmos- 
phere of  the  place  was  the  fountain. 
Situated  at  one  end  of  the  room  on  its 
white  pedestal,  it  gurgled  and  bubbled, 
trying  in  its  inimitable  way  to  suggest  to 
these  people  that  freedom  from  monot- 
ony lay  within  themselves.  To  prove  its 
point,  the  fountain  would  punctuate  the 
murmuring  talk  by  emitting  gushes  of 
sparkling  water  into  the  sticky  air.  At 
times  the  gush  would  be  strong  enough 
to  touch  the  low  ceiling,  and  little  drop- 
lets of  water  would  cling  to  the  wall, 
momentarily  cooling  it. 


[1] 


An  American  Sport 


Gordon  Davis 
Rhetoric  11,  Theme  17,  1937-1938 


TT  WAS  a  warm  June  day.  Crowds 
^  dressed  in  their  Sunday  clothes 
thronged  the  Mall,  lazily  strolling  down 
the  long  walk  and  breathing  in  the  sun 
and  fresh  air  denied  them  six  days  a 
week.  Here  and  there  were  groups  of 
men  and  women  gathered  around  a  stand 
on  which  some  speaker  was  exhorting 
the  merits  of  Socialism,  Townsendism, 
Labor  Unions,  or  religion.  Cries  of 
"Workers,  unite!"  mingled  strangely 
with  the  soft  strains  of  some  old  English 
hymn  that  was  being  sung  fifteen  feet 
away,  and  the  grotesque  scene  was 
completed  by  the  noise  of  the  traffic  in 
the  back  ground  and  the  cries  of  street- 
hawks  selling  candy  and  ice  cream  to 
passers-by. 

People  moved  slowly  from  one  throng 
to  another  and  let  warnings  of  eternal 
damnation  fuse  with  the  warnings  of 
socialists  against  communists,  commun- 
ists against  fascists,  and  fascists  against 
capitalists.  In  some  groups  there  were 
loud  arguments  going  on,  with  three  or 
four  people  taking  different  views  on  a 
question.  Victory  seemed  to  be  obtained 
by  vehemence  of  speech  and  gestures 
rather  than  by  sound  arguments  and 
good  logic.  One  group  was  especially 
noisy.  About  thirty  men,  with  a  few 
women  here  and  there,  clustered  around 
a  lone  figure.  He  was  not  visible 
from  the  edge  of  the  circle  unless  one 
stood  on  tip-toe  and  looked  over  the 
heads  of  the  others.  He  was  a  small 
man,  no  more  than  five  feet  tall,  and  he 
was  telling  the  people  in  a  broken  accent 
of  his  religion  and  how  he  "had  seen 


the  light."  His  head  was  bald  save  fo: 
a  ring  of  hair  around  the  tops  of  his"! 
ears.  His  forehead,  now  wrinkled  in  his 
seriousness,  seemed  plain  in  contrast  to 
the  bunchy  appearance  of  the  rest  of  his 
face.  Thick,  black  brows  hung  over  his 
dark,  penetrating  eyes,  and  a  short,  broad 
nose  led  down  to  a  wide,  cavernous 
mouth,  which,  when  opened  widely 
enough,  displayed  black,  white,  and  gold 
teeth.  A  flush  on  each  unshaven  cheek 
showed  how  excited  he  was,  and  the 
perspiration  streaming  down  his  face  into 
his  open  collar,  from  which  the  tie  had 
long  since  been  loosened,  left  dirty 
streams  on  his  thick  neck  and  reduced  his 
shirt  to  a  lifeless  mass  of  saturated  cloth. 
His  suit  hung  limply  on  him  as  if  he  had 
thrown  it  on  more  to  cover  the  laws  of 
decency  than  to  cover  himself.  Heavy, 
thick-soled  shoes  seemed  to  hold  him  to 
the  spot  where  he  stood. 

It  was  obvious  that  the  man  was 
uneducated  and  that  his  religion  meant  a 
great  deal  to  him.  The  crowd  around 
him,  however,  were  not  listening  for  any 
message  he  might  give  them,  but  instead 
they  were  asking  ridiculous  questions 
and  laughing  and  jeering  at  him.  One 
fellow  in  particular,  his  straw  hat  perched 
on  the  back  of  his  head  and  a  toothpick 
dangling  insolently  out  of  his  twisted 
mouth,  seemed  to  consider  it  great  sport 
to  insult  him  and  to  push  him  when  his 
back  was  turned.  After  he  thought  he 
had  scored  a  point,  his  eyes  would  dart 
around  to  ferret  out  the  dirty  snickers 
and  glances  of  approval.  The  entire 
crowd    was    jeering   and    laughing,    but 


i 


[2] 


i 


poor  Tony,  as  they  called  him,  bore  it 
all  patiently. 

He  was  sincere  and  with  the  generosity 
characteristic  of  his  race  wanted  to  share 
his  experiences  with  others.  His  arms 
thrashed  about  him ;  his  face  flushed  with 
enthusiasm.  The  English  language 
meant  nothing  to  him:  he  cold-bloodedly 
ripped  it  to  bits  and  constructed  his  own 
idioms  and  figures  of  speech,  liberally 
sprinkled  with  his  native  Italian.  The 
crowd  would  not  let  him  alone,  however. 
They  hurled  questions  at  him  and  began 
to  taunt  him  more  loudly  and  boldly.  He 
tried  to  answer  their  questions,  in  his 
ignorance  not  knowing  that  they  were 
making  fun  of  him.  He  grew  more  and 
more  excited  as  the  crowd  began  pressing 
in  closer,  squeezing  the  small  man  in  the 
center. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  called  the  tall  man 
with  the  straw  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head;  "give  Tony  a  chance!  Eh,  Tony?" 

The  crowd  spread  back.  Tony  stood 
in  the  center  wiping  his  brow. 

"Now  tell  me,  Tony,"  the  man  con- 
tinued, "if  God  is  all  you  claim  him  to 
be,  why  the  devil  are  all  these  men 
bumming  around  the  park  without  any 
jobs,  or  money,  or  clothes?  Answer  me 
that!" 

"All  I  know  is-a  thees,"  answered 
Tony  deliberately  as  if  explaining  to  a 
child.  "My-a  God  is-a  my  Father ;  I'm-a 
his  bambino.  He's-a  good  to  me  if  I'm-a 
good  to  my  fellow-man."  He  raised  his 
arms  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if 
that  definitely  settled  the  question. 

But  of  course  it  didn't  in  the  minds  of 
his  hecklers.  Back  they  came  with  more 
questions  and  more  wisecracks.  Tony 
was  standing  it  well,  but  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  tired  and  that  the  spectators 
were  beginning  to  bother  him.  Someone 
gave  him  a  push.  Tony  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  a  speech  about  the  glories  of 


Heaven  and  turned  around  quickly.  The 
crowd  laughed  and  Tony  continued.  A 
group  of  boys  had  eased  into  the  inner 
circle  and  had  surrounded  him.  Sud- 
denly, the  man  with  the  straw  hat  gave 
Tony  another  push.  The  street-kids,  en- 
couraged by  the  action  of  the  older  man, 
also  pushed.  Before  long,  Tony  was 
bouncing  around  the  inner  circle  like  a 
rubber  ball.  Grown  men  pushed  and  little 
boys  kicked  until  he  suddenly  fell  on  his 
face.  With  a  loud  cry,  he  was  on  his 
feet  again,  his  religion  forgotten,  and 
with  a  dive,  he  hurled  himself  into  the 
mob,  his  fists  hitting  anything  he  met. 
The  crowd  dispersed  quickly  before  him, 
and  anxious  eyes  kept  on  the  look-out 
for  the  police. 

Uttering  strange  Italian  phrases,  Tony 
scrambled  after  the  man  with  the  straw 
hat.  The  pursued  unceremoniously 
ducked  behind  trees,  benches,  baby-car- 
riages and  anything  else  that  he  could 
find.  There  was  still  a  slight  smile  on 
his  face  as  if  to  assure  spectators  that  he 
was  not  at  all  afraid,  but  this  was  belied 
by  the  anxious  look  in  his  eyes  and  his 
scurried  glances  to  see  if  the  police  were 
coming. 

The  people  hooted  and  hollered.  This 
was  sport!  They  yelled  at  Tony,  en- 
couraged him,  and  laughed  at  him  when 
he  was  tripped  and  fell  to  the  ground. 
At  the  same  time,  they  surrounded  the 
intended  victim  if  Tony  got  too  close. 
They  didn't  want  to  be  pulled  in  for 
starting  a  riot, — just  a  little  Sunday 
afternoon  fun,  that  was  all ! 

Tony  suddenly  tripped  and  fell.  This 
time  his  head  glanced  off  the  edge  of  a 
bench  before  he  hit  the  ground  and  a 
thin  trickle  of  blood  soon  appeared  on 
his  forehead.  It  was  a  good  blow  but  he 
had  received  only  a  small  cut  and  he  soon 
got  up.  Yet  the  enthusiasm  of  the  crowd 
had  been  dampened  when  they  first  saw 


[3] 


him  hit  the  bench,  and  the  noise  and 
laughter  had  stopped.  Tony  pulled  out 
an  old,  red  handkerchief  and  began 
dabbing  at  the  cut  on  his  forehead.  He 
said  nothing.  His  face  still  showed 
anger.  A  few  tried  to  help  him  wash 
the  wound  but  he  impatiently  shoved 
them  aside.  About  fifteen  feet  away  at 
a  safe  distance,  the  man  in  the  straw 
hat  was  laughing  to  himself. 

Suddenly  Tony  fell  to  his  knees.  With 
hands  clasped  before  him  he  raised  his 
head  to  the  skies  and  with  eyes  closed 
began  to  pray  violently  in  Italian.  He 
swayed  on  his  knees  and  his  face 
twitched  with  deep  emotion,  anger  or 
remorse,  one  could  not  tell.  The  people 
who  had  begun  to  crowd  around  again, 
stopped,  embarrassed.  Sheepish  grins 
were  exchanged.  This  was  something 
unexpected,  something  they  didn't  know 
how  to  cope  with.  They  shifted  uneasily 
waiting  for  him  to  finish. 


Through  Tony's  loud  prayers  there 
came  loud  laughing  and  shouting.  The 
spectators  looked  up.  Coming  down  the 
Mall  was  a  man  dressed  in  old,  black 
clothes,  tall,  broad-shouldered,  his  face 
covered  by  a  thick,  black  beard.  An  old 
hat  rose  to  a  peak  on  the  top  of  his  head 
and  in  one  hand  he  carried  a  book.  The 
crowd  following  him  was  yelling  at  him 
that  he  was  crazy. 

"In  the  Catholic  Church,"  he  cried, 
"you  don't  worship  god, — you  worship 
the  Pope!" 

This  was  greeted  by  loud  cat-calls  and 
jeers.  The  people  around  Tony  joined 
the  crowd  and  the  man  in  the  straw  hat 
hurried  forward  to  the  man  in  black  and 
began  to  argue  with  him.  Their  enthu- 
siasm returned  as  they  realized  that  there 
was  still  some  sport  left  to  fill  out  the 
afternoon.  Tony  sat  alone  on  his  knees 
with  his  hands  still  clasped  piously  before 
him  and  prayed  in  Italian  to  his  God. 


Grasshoppers 


During  the  third  week  of  my  stay  came  the  dreaded  grasshopper  plague.  We 
had  cut  a  fair-sized  swath  in  the  wheat  when  newspapers  reported  that  grasshoppers 
were  coming  our  way.  I  had  never  seen  more  than  just  a  few  hundred  at  a  time, 
and  so  looked  forward  somewhat  to  this  feared  spectacle,  especially  when  the  'hopper 
masks  were  brought  forth.  The  masks  were  made  of  dark,  coarse  silk.  They  fitted 
over  the  head  and  shoulders  and  were  held  on  by  a  hat.  We  were  out  in  the  field 
rumbling  monotonously  along  in  the  glaring  sunlight  when  a  premature  darkness 
suddenly  descended.  I  thought  that  clouds  were  simply  passing  before  the  sun,  but 
when  John  pointed  to  the  sky,  stopped  the  tractor,  and  put  on  his  mask,  I  realized 
that  the  'hoppers  had  come.  When  his  mask  was  securely  on,  and  we  jerked  away 
again,  I  slipped  on  my  mask.  The  "clouds"  lowered,  and  a  peculiarly  whirring  fog 
settled  to  the  ground,  covering  everything.  Thousands  of  'hoppers  were  ground  to  bits 
in  the  combine  and  crushed  beneath  the  wheels.  Hundreds  sizzled  on  the  hot  tractor 
engine-hood.  They  crawled  up  my  arms  despite  my  vicious  slaps,  until  I  pulled  down 
my  sleeves.  We  passed  by  some  woods  which  now,  being  covered  by  insects,  had 
changed  to  a  sickly  greenish-brown  hue.  We  continued  our  work,  though,  and 
returned  home  in  the  late  evening.  I  jumped  from  my  platform  and  felt  the  ground 
give  way  beneath  me.  I  peered  closer  in  the  twilight  and  saw  a  solid  carpet  of 
'hoppers.  The  only  bare  spot  for  thousands  of  yards  was  the  chicken  yard,  whose 
inhabitants  had  gleefully  bolted  the  marauders.  By  the  next  noon,  there  was  nothing 
green  on  the  surrounding  hundreds  of  acres,  and  the  'hoppers  had  migrated  on  in 
search  of  more  food. — Willis  Ballance 


[4] 


R.  O.  T.  C 


Charles  Schiller 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  18,  1937-1928 


"  A  LL  NEW  students,  unless  exempted 
'^*'  for  special  reasons,  will  be  required 
to  take  four  semesters  of  military  train- 
ing." The  very  words  "all"  and  "re- 
quired" struck  a  discordant  sound  upon 
my  ears,  and  I  immediately  began  to  dis- 
like the  army.  Being  a  pacifist  by  nature, 
I  had  already  a  cynical  at- 
titude toward  everything 
militaristic,  and  now  I  was 
appalled  at  the  thought  of 
being  forced  to  become  a 
member  of  an  organization 
I  had  heretofore  ridiculed 
and  despised. 

My  dislike  turned  to  hate 
when  I  found  that  I  would 
have  to  attend  drill  at  eight 
o'clock  on  Saturday  morn- 
ings. This  feeling  was  not  alleviated  in 
the  least  upon  my  being  asked  to  deposit 
ten  dollars  for  a  uniform,  and  being  told 
that  I  would  be  responsible  for  its  con- 
dition and  upkeep.  The  thought  of  play- 
ing soldier,  walking  around  for  two  hours 
inside  an  overgrown  garage,  made  the 
first  session  an  event  to  be  feared  and 
dreaded.  That  session  came  and  went, 
and  to  my  surprise  I  found  myself  a  little 
pleased  with  the  outcome.  The  uniform 
wasn't  so  bad  after  all,  and  it  did  give 
me  a  rather  proud  feeling  to  wear  it. 
The  drill  itself  wasn't  so  bad,  either, 
except  for  the  action  of  one  impudent 
student  officer.  What  right  did  he  have 
to  tell  me  that  I  ought  to  spend  a  little 
time  shining  the  brass  on  my  uniform? 
I   took   the   admonition   philosophically, 


however,  as  just  another  part  of  a  bad 
bargain.  The  day  before  my  second  drill 
I  found  myself  unconsciously  shining  the 
brass,  and  taking  pride  in  the  glisten  that 
the  polish  produced.  The  next  day,  when 
I  was  dressed  in  my  carefully  groomed 
uniform,  I  automatically  held  my  should- 
ers a  little  straighter  than 
usual,  and  I  was  rewarded 
with  a  merit  for  my  neat 
appearance.  Marching  went 
along  smoothly,  and  instead 
of  being  bored  and  tired  at 
the  end  of  the  two  hours,  I 
was  interested  and  eager  to 
learn  more.  As  the  weeks 
progressed,  the  thrill  of 
doing  things  with  a  unit  in- 
creased, and  drill  became  no 
longer  a  burden  but  a  pleasure.  Rifle  prac- 
tice offered  an  interesting  diversion ;  the 
range,  with  its  incessant  cracking  of  gun- 
fire, humming  of  bullets,  and  spattering 
of  lead,  was  a  fascinating  place  to  work. 
In  the  weeks  that  I  spent  in  mili- 
tary training,  I  learned  its  advantages. 
I  realized  the  errors  of  pacifism  and  re- 
molded my  attitude  to  fit  the  more  patri- 
otic ideas  of  an  adequate  national 
defense.  I  cannot  now  define  the  stages 
through  which  I  progressed  from  dislike 
to  like.  Maybe  it  was  the  uniform,  maybe 
it  was  the  old  thrill  of  marching  feet,  but 
most  likely  it  was  the  natural  evolution 
to  a  more  progressive  attitude  which 
made  me  realize  that  military  training  for 
all  young  men  not  only  possessed 
advantages  but  is  a  necessity. 


[  5  ] 


Evening  Nap 


Marjorie  L.  Greider 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  18,  1937-1928 


ONE  darkened  elbow  rests  heavily  on 
a  cleaned  space  between  a  cluttered 
plate  and  an  empty  cup.  Against  the 
work-reddened  hand  is  pressed  a  lined 
brown  cheek.  A  tired  old  woman  has 
fallen  asleep  over  her  precious  cup  of 
coffee. 

The  table  in  front  of  her  is  stacked 
with  dirty  dishes ;  the  remains  of  the  eve- 
ning meal  have  been  only  half  cleaned 
away.  The  worn  cloth  is  white  save  for 
a  purple  blot  of  raspberry  jam.  The 
chairs  are  vacant;  two  of  them  stand 
just  as  they  were  hurriedly  pushed  back 
from  the  table;  one  of  them  is  in  its 
place  against  the  brown  stained  wall. 

Behind  the  woman  crouches  a  dusty 
buffet  loaded  with  books,  letters,  ironed 
clothes,  and  pictures  carelessly  placed 
by  a  hand  too  tired  to  bother  about  the 
effect.  In  the  opposite  wall  beside  the 
scarred  door  is  a  window  filled  with 
potted  plants;  the  bloom  of  one  large  lily 
is  a  spot  of  bright  orange  in  the  dull 
room.  The  curtains  of  limp,  white  lace 
are  piled  in  a  corner  to  be  washed,  and 
the  windows  seem  gaping  black  holes  in 
the  brown  walls. 


Against  the  side  of  the  room  stands 
a  green  covered  couch  sagging  uneasily 
from  years  of  heavy  use.  The  evening 
paper  is  spread  on  the  linoleum  floor  and 
beside  it  an  old  pipe  has  spilled  its  ashes 
in  a  gray-black  smudge.  The  only  "easy" 
chair  in  the  room  is  a  battered  rocker 
placed  in  a  cramped  position  between  the 
buft'et  and  the  couch  and  at  present 
draped  with  an  old  black  coat. 

The  woman  stirs  restlessly  as  if  even 
in  sleep  she  sees  the  muddled  room,  the 
work  yet  to  be  done.  Slowly  she  opens 
her  deep-set,  tired,  blue  eyes  and,  push- 
ing back  a  lock  of  her  braided  gray  hair, 
yawns.  She  has  a  large  mouth  with  pale, 
thin  lips.  There  is  a  slight  suggestion 
of  sag  in  her  chin  line  which  is  hardened 
by  the  light  from  the  one  glaring  bulb. 
Her  shoulders  covered  with  soiled  green 
paint  are  broad  and  only  slightly  bent  by 
the  worries  traced  in  the  lines  around 
her  e3'es.  As  she  yawns  her  arms  stretch 
stiffly  above  her  large,  solid  body,  and 
she  utters  a  long  sigh. 

"I  guess  I'm  getting  old,"  she  mutters, 
and  rising  she  begins  to  finish  clearing 
the  table. 


The  Blackberry 

The  last  of  our  berries  is  probably  the  most  reliable.  Whether  there  be  flood  or 
drought,  heat  or  cold,  the  honest  blackberry  is  sure  to  make  its  appearance.  Straw- 
berry, raspberry,  blueberry — these  may  come  or  not — but  the  blackberry  never  fails. 
Not  as  fragrant  as  the  strawberry,  nor  as  sweet  as  the  raspberry,  it  still  has  a  good, 
honest  taste  of  its  own,  and  it  never  disappoints.  The  lady  of  the  house  may  have  on 
her  shelves  a  few  glasses  of  wild  strawberry  jam,  probably  twice  as  many  of  wild 
raspberry,  but  she  is  sure  to  have  an  ample  supply  of  blackberry  jam.  True  it  is  that 
they  are  difficult  to  gather;  it  is  necessary  to  don  boots  and  thick  clothing.  But 
riches  are  heaped  upon  whosoever  will  gather  them. — Eusabeth  Baldwin 


[6] 


Joe  and  Jerry — Bosses 


George  S.  Amsbary 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  18,  1937-1938 


npHE  "L"  rattles  on  through  the  misty, 
^  morning  air  of  the  city.  "Qickety- 
click,  cHckety-cHck,  clickety,"  it  goes, 
when  suddenly  out  of  the  uproar  comes 
the  nasal  twang  of  the  conductor's  voice, 
"Ahdams  and  Wawbaysh."  The  clickety- 
clicks  slow  down  their  tempo,  and  amid 
the  screeching  of  wheels  and  the 
"swishshsh"  of  air  brakes,  the  "L"  comes 
to  a  jolting  stop.  Several  passengers, 
myself  included,  rise  and  force  their 
way  to  the  door.  "Watch  youah  stepping 
— all  out  for  'Ahdams  and  Wawbaysh,'  " 
warns  the  conductor.  We  get  out,  and 
with  the  clinking  of  starting  bells  and 
a  grunt,  the  "L"  goes  "clickety-click"  on 
its  way. 

Another  long  day  of  work  in  the  mail 
department  of  the  Rock  Wool  Com- 
pany has  started  for  me.  I  walk  a  block 
to  our  office-building,  go  up  the  elevator, 
and  upon  landing  on  the  twelfth  floor 
am  greeted  by  four  large,  inanimate,  but 
potential-looking  United  States  Govern- 
ment mail-sacks,  strewn  haphazardly 
about  in  the  foyer.  With  an  air  of  resig- 
nation T  drag  one  of  the  Hghter  ones  into 
our  mailing  rooms.  I  am  early,  so  I  turn 
on  the  lights,  open  the  bag  of  mail,  and 
proceed  to  sort  the  contents  into  the 
different  departmental  bins.  Soon  Joe 
comes  stalking  in  with  his  quick,  short 
step,  and  the  quick,  nervous  puffing  of  his 
cigarette  complementing  it.  I  greet  him 
with  the  usual  "Good  morning,  Joe,"  and 
he  returns  my  greeting  with  some  unin- 
telligible, guttural  reply.  We  silently — 
and  with  a  seeming  hostility  to  each  other 
— sort  one  bag  of  mail  after  another.  Un- 
consciously, as  I  sort,  I  analyze  Joe. 


Joseph  C.  Rovaminsky  is  Polish.  He 
is  excitable.  His  hair  is  blond  and  oily; 
his  face  is  pock-marked.  He  is  shabbily 
dressed,  with  dirty  shirt,  wrinkled  tie, 
and  unshined  shoes.  The  curious  nervous 
twitching  of  his  mouth,  and  his  uncon- 
trollable excitability  truthfully  brand  him 
as  the  "Wild  Polack"  that  he  is  called. 
Although  he  is  assistant  boss  of  the  de- 
partment, he  has  no  organizing  ability. 
As  a  result,  the  same  mistakes  occur  day 
after  day — mistakes  that  could  be  easily 
avoided.  Yet,  I  cannot  condemn  Joe.  He 
is  only  a  grammar  school  graduate,  and 
is  living  in  a  very  poor  environment. 
What  can  one  expect?  While  these 
thoughts  are  pursuing  their  way  about 
my  mind,  the  rest  of  the  eight  o'clock 
shift  is  dribbling  in,  one  by  one,  until, 
at  last,  Jerry  Kutak,  the  boss,  comes 
striding  in,  looking  neither  to  the  right 
or  left.  As  he  is  coming  close  enough  for 
me  to  see  his  cynical  expression  I  think, 
"Here's  Jerry,  an  unshaven,  black-haired 
Bohemian,  with  even  less  initiative  than 
Joe.  He  pays  absolutely  no  attention  to 
the  condition  of  the  mail  department,  and 
yet — he  is  boss !"  No  one  greets  Jerry  as 
he  comes  in.  We  have  had  experience 
with  his  surliness  in  the  morning. 

Now  the  routine  starts.  The  three 
"floor-boys"  take  their  wire  baskets,  load 
them  to  capacity,  and  deliver  the  mail  we 
have  sorted  to  the  various  departments 
on  each  of  the  company's  floors.  The 
task  of  sweeping  up  after  the  mad  whirl 
of  sorting  is  delegated  to  another.  Still 
another  and  I  sort  the  left-over  mail, 
while  Joe  and  Jerry  go  about  their  tasks 


[7] 


with  executive  mien,  hostilely  ignoring 
each  other. 

At  eleven  o'clock  there  is  a  sinister  ring 
of  the  telephone.  Joe  answers  it  and 
finds  that  the  New  York  office  received 
the  Boston  Office's  mail  from  last  night, 
and  they  want  to  know  why.  It  seems 
as  though  a  powder-charge  has  been  set 
off !  Joe  slams  down  the  receiver,  tips 
over  the  desk  chair,  and  with  his  charac- 
teristic short,  quick  steps  rushes  over 
to  the  one  who  was  undoubtedly  respon- 
sible—a rather  small,  meek  boy  of  not 
over  eighteen.  "Whatsa  matta  wid  ja, 
all  ready  yet?  Jis  fer  dis  yer  gonna  go 
right  down  ta  Art,  see!"  Joe  yells  at  the 
top  of  his  lungs.  (Art  is  the  head  of  our 
division.)  "An  an  oder  ting,  yer  goin'  on 
da  floor  for  da  rest  of  da  week — yeah — 
an  none  o'  yer  lip,  idder,"  he  adds.  The 
offender  doesn't  say  a  word,  but  I  know 
he  has  a  half-smile  on  his  face.  This 
anger  will  pass  over  and  Joe  will  prob- 
ably be  buying  him  a  "coke"  this  after- 
noon. 

A  number  of  violent  outbursts  such  as 


this  on  the  part  of  Joe,  and  a  number 
of  quiet,  sarcastic  shots  on  the  part  of 
Jerry,  occur  during  the  day,  but  no  one 
pays  the  slightest  heed.  Finally  the  day's 
work  is  ended  and  we  all — wearily, 
but  good-humoredly — make  our  nightly 
exodus. 

The  "L"  rattles  on  through  the  glaring 
electricity  and  the  silent  darkness  of 
night  in  the  city.  "Clickety-click,  click- 
ety-click,  clickety,"  it  goes,  and  while  the 
rest  of  the  passengers  read  their  news- 
papers to  the  soothing,  swaying  rhythm 
of  the  "L,"  I  think,  "Why  does  a  big 
corporation  hire  this  quick-tempered, 
slow-thinking,  unskilled  help  as  heads  of 
important  functional  departments?  Why 
do  they  hire  help  that  commands  as 
little  respect  as  this  type  does?  Why  do 
they  permit  mistakes  of  the  nature  of 
those  that  occurred  today?"  Suddenly 
the  nasal  twang  of  the  conductor's  voice 
arouses  me  from  my  thoughts.  "Howard 
Street — Citeee  Limits,"  it  calls,  and  the 
clickety-clicks  slow  down  their  tempo  and 
the  "L"  comes  to  a  jolting  stop. 


Little  Facial  Expressions 

The  hard-of-hearing  person  figures  out  most  of  what  he  fails  to  hear  from  facial 
expressions  and  little  gestures  the  normal  person  often  does  not  notice.  For  example, 
if  there  is  a  look  of  expectancy  characterized  by  intent  eyes  and  a  slightly  opened 
mouth  one  can  be  sure  that  a  question  was  asked,  but  if  the  eyes  are  glowing  and  the 
mouth  is  softly  set  in  lines  of  satisfaction  one  knows  no  answer  is  expected  and 
what  was  said  was  probably  not  worth  hearing  in  the  first  place.  The  satisfied  ex- 
pression is  sometimes  misleading,  though,  because  I  have  seen  it  on  an  instructor's 
face  many  times  after  he  has  asked  tricky  questions.  Then  too  some  interesting  and 
important  things  are  lost  by  passing  unheard  sentences  over  rather  than  asking  for 
repetition  .... 

Little  facial  expressions  give  many  away  and  watching  them,  added  to  a  slight 
ability  to  read  lips,  which  comes  naturally  to  many  hard  of  hearing,  gives  the  power 
to  find  out  just  what  the  other  person  is  up  to.  Then  on  days  when  hearing  is  a  little 
better  than  on  others,  things  are  heard  that  are  not  meant  to  be,  and  some  good  acting 
is  called  for.  Thus,  a  hard  of  hearing  person  has  to  be  something  like  the  three  little 
monkeys  that  hear  no  evil  and  see  no  evil,  yet  get  a  great  deal  of  amusement.  Next 
time  you  see  someone  who  you  know  is  hard  of  hearing  laughing  quietly  to  himself, 
don't  get  too  curious  because,  remember,  the  third  little  monkey  is  the  one  that  won't 
talk. — Anonymous 


[8] 


Street  Car! 


Robert  Kimbrell 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  12,  1937-1938 


/'^HICAGO  has  many  schools.  Many 
^-^  of  the  schools  are  large.  Many  of 
the  students  of  the  schools  ride  to  and 
fro  on  street  cars.  Some  of  the  large 
schools  are  for  boys  only.  I  went  to  a 
boy's  school. 

Chicago  has  many  street  cars.  Many 
of  the  street  cars  are  obsolete.  All  of 
them  make  noise.  Many,  many  people 
ride  the  street  cars  daily.  Many  people 
harass  the  conductors.  Students  don't 
harass  them ;  they  cheat  them. 

Chicago's  street  cars  represent  quite 
a  number  of  conductors.  Many  of  the 
conductors  are  shrewd,  deliberate  of 
movement — hard  to  cheat.  The  majority 
of  them  are  easily  excited  when  con- 
fronted by  a  howling  mass  of  humanity 
that  demands  their  utmost  speed  and  at- 
tention— easy  to  cheat. 

When  the  bell  rings,  denoting  termi- 
nation of  the  school  day,  pandemonium 
breaks  loose.  Students  speed  to  their 
lockers.  Lockers  are  hastily  opened. 
Wraps  are  hastily  donned.  Lockers  are 
hastily  closed.  Students  speed  hastily 
away.    They  speed  toward  the  car-line. 

I  usually  arrived  at  the  car-line  later 
than  the  majority  of  the  students.  Here 
is  what  I  would  see: 

A  solid  mass  of  humanity  packed  on 
what  is  known  as  a  "safety  island,"  but 
where  an  amoeba  would  be  in  grave 
danger.  This  solid  mass  was  on  an  island 
— yes,  an  island  in  a  river  of  traffic, 
covered  with  boys  as  a  sweet-roll  is  with 
flies.  Amongst  the  boys  bulged  the  forms 
of  two  or  three  women;  short,  fat,  un- 
gainly, foreign  creatures,  quite  clumsy  in 


their  movements,  pouring  forth  a  con- 
tinual stream  of  curses  in  their  guttural 
mother  tongues.  When  a  street  car  would 
finally  slide  to  a  stop  adjacent  to  the 
"safety"  island,  a  great  roar  from  the 
students,  topped  only  by  the  curses  spat 
out  b}^  the  foreign  creatures,  would  greet 
it.  There  would  be  a  mad  rush  toward 
the  rear  platform.  The  larger  boys  would 
shoulder  their  smaller  fellows  away  from 
the  door.  The  smaller  fellows  would 
shoulder  the  women  away.  The  women 
would  pour  forth  more  curses.  I  would 
wait.  When  the  vehicle  had  taken  on  its 
maximum  load,  it  would  whisk  away, 
leaving  many  to  wait  for  the  next. 

The  first  students  to  enter  the  car 
would  either  rush  into  the  most  remote 
corner,  or  slap  six  pennies  into  the  eager 
hand  of  the  conductor,  and  push  on  into 
the  car's  interior,  dump  themselves  into 
the  farthest  seat,  produce  a  worn  dime- 
novel,  and  become  seemingly  engrossed 
in  it,  meanwhile  hoping  that  the  con- 
ductor neglected  to  count  the  pennies. 
The  boys  in  the  remote  corner  would 
wait  until  the  crowd  diminished  and  then 
tell  the  conductor  they  had  already  paid 
their  fare,  hoping  that  the  conductor 
didn't  remember  them. 

I  would  wait.  I  would  get  on  the 
seventh  or  eighth  street  car.  I  would  pay 
full  fare  (the  conductor  was  no  longer 
hurried).  I  would  get  a  seat.  I  would 
ride  in  comfort.  I  would  hear  behind  me 
two  or  three  women ;  short,  fat,  un- 
gainly, foreign  creatures,  quite  clumsy 
of  movement  and  mouthing  foul  curses 
in  their  guttural  mother  tongues. 


[9] 


The  Sketch  Book  —  I 

(Material  Written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

A  Bushel  o!  Apples 

They  really  are  not  such  bad  apples.  There  are  seven  layers  of  them,  a  different 
brand  in  each  layer.  In  fact,  about  the  first  six  dozen  apples  I  ate  tasted  very  good. 
But  the  fourth  day,  starting  on  the  seventh  dozen,  I  began  to  wish  I'd  never  see 
another  pretty,  shiny,  big,  red  apple  as  long  as  I  lived.  Every  place  I  went  I  saw 
something  that  reminded  me  of  my  apples.  That  fourth  day  in  particular  everyone  on 
the  campus  seemed  to  be  eating  taffy  apples.  When  I  went  home,  every  girl  in  the 
house  was  in  the  drawing  room  dancing  the  Big  Apple.  For  lunch  we  were  served 
fried  apples.  But  the  last  straw,  the  final  blow,  came  when  someone  told  me  that 
my  cheeks  were  so  rosy  they  looked  like  apples.  My  roommate  tells  me  I  fainted;  at 
least  I  wasn't  thinking  of  apples  for  the  short  time  that  I  was  unconscious. 

— Elizabeth  Hudson 

And  Baseball  Players 

Where  but  in  America  are  there  people  who  speak  of  presidents,  kings,  poten- 
tates— and  baseball  players  in  the  same  breath?  Where  but  in  America  is  the  auto- 
graph of  an  Indian  rajah  exchanged  for  the  illegible  scrawl  of  Lou  Gehrig?  The 
National  Game  has  so  completely  won  the  American  people  that  from  mid-April  to 
early  October  metropolitan  newspapers  get  out  extras,  and  radio  stations  choose  to 
broadcast  play-by-play  accounts  of  Sunday  afternoon  double-headers  rather  than  the 
music  of  Leopold  Stokowski  and  his  Philadelphia  Symphony  Orchestra. — Carl  Pihl 


Shakespeare  in  High  School 

When  I  was  fourteen  I  entered  high  school  and  nearly  ceased  to  enjoy  literature. 
I  had  loved  the  fine  cadence  of  Shakespeare  and  the  colorful  figures  of  the  histori- 
cal novel  without  knowing  why.  Shakespeare  read  alone  while  one's  imagination 
sets  the  stage  is  a  fine  thing.  But  Shakespeare  in  the  mouth  of  a  nasal-voiced  spinster 
who  is  wrongfully  employed  as  an  English  instructor  is  quite  another.  I  have  not 
yet  recovered  from  the  beatings  my  youthful  mind  took  from  my  high-school  instruc- 
tors.  My  family  encouraged  my  enthusiasm;  my  instructors  throttled  it. 

— Frederick  Pope 

The  Doctor,  The  Lawyer,  The  Engineer 

A  doctor  can  make  mistakes  and  even  bury  them;  the  lawyer  can  make  mistakes 
and  allow  his  clients  to  go  to  prison  or  to  their  death,  and  yet  his  ability  as  a  lawyer 
is  questioned  by  no  man.  The  engineer,  however,  is  completely  torn  from  his  life- 
work  by  one  mistake.  He  will  not  be  recommended  for  engineering  projects,  and 
consequently,  he  must  follow  some  mediocre  occupation  for  the  remainder  of  his 
life. — Donald  Rader 


Farmer's  Social  Liie 

His  social  life  during  the  summer  consists  of  several  Sunday  dinners  with  Aunt 
Mary  and  Uncle  Claude;  a  series  of  community  "socials";  and  a  trip  to  the  state  fair, 
where  he  sees  more  corn,  wheat,  horses,  cattle,  hogs,  and  sheep  like  the  ones  he  has 
at  home — unless  he  is  lucky  enough  to  be  there  exhibiting  some  of  his  own. 

— Dorothy  Fehrenbacher 


[10] 


The  Paths  of  Memory 

For  almost  a  week  I  have  been  trying  to  find  a  way  into  the  dim  recesses  of 
my  childhood  memories  where  my  earliest  impressions  are  so  well  hidden.  I  have  no 
trouble  in  going  back  over  the  road  of  memories  until  I  reach  my  fifth  year.  But  at 
that  point  the  road  seems  to  divide  into  two  different,  yet  very  closely  connected,  paths. 
One  path — dark  and  forbidding,  but  intriguing — leads  to  real  memories.  The  other — 
light  and  easily  traversable — leads  to  "memories"  which  are,  in  reality,  formed  from 
the  stories  I  have  heard  my  parents  tell.  At  this  fork  in  the  "road  back"  I  become 
confused.  The  bright  road  tempts  me  to  forsake  the  darker  one,  and  I  am  sometimes 
blinded  by  the  many  lights  along  its  path.  Then  I  bring  myself  back  and  start  down 
the  other  route.  I  gradually  force  my  way  through  the  darkness  in  search  of  a 
memory  to  form  a  ray  of  light.  So  far  I  have  been  able  to  find  only  one.  Beyond 
that,  all  is  darkness.  Yet,  this  track  shouldn't  be  without  light,  for  I  remember  find- 
ing in  that  same  passage  the  material  for  a  high  school  theme.  But  now  I  can't  even 
recall  the  theme. — Betty  Coleman 

A  Mind  of  Her  Own 

Dilly-dallying"  in  milking  simply  does  not  work;  the  cow  has  a  mind  of  her  own, 
and  if  she  decides  the  milker  is  an  amateur  or  too  slow,  the  flow  of  milk  stops  almost 
instantly,  and — there  you  are !  Nothing  but  the  feel  of  experienced,  rhythmic  hands 
slipping  over  her  udders  can  induce  her  once  more  to  "let  down"  the  milk.  To  add 
to  your  general  discomfort,  your  arms  and  hands  tire  almost  to  petrifaction.  Once 
you  begin  to  milk  a  cow,  you  have  to  finish,  and  as  I  said  before,  there  can  be  no 
dilly-dallying.  The  milker  has  to  pump  as  though  his  life  depended  on  it;  otherwise 
the  cow  may  have  an  attack  of  temperament. — Margie  Engelbrecht 

Undoubtedly  a  Professor 

He  was  undoubtedly  a  professor.  A  bushy,  white  beard,  a  curious,  pointed  cane, 
the  inevitable  brief  case,  and  a  great,  black  pipe  first  attracted  our  attention  to  a 
quaint,  stout  little  man  ambling  down  the  broadwalk. — Madith  Smith. 

Mexican  Scene 

Then  you  enter  Mexico.  You  see  dusty  roads,  with  bones  bleaching  in  them, 
adobe  huts  built  at  crazy  angles,  dirty  children  and  fat  women.  But  over  all  is  an 
effect  of  cleanliness.  The  huts  are  whitewashed;  every  home  has  a  washing  on  the 
line;  and  even  the  bones  show  white  in  the  roads. — Peyton  Breckenridge 

Blondes  in  Particular 

In  that  awful  moment  of  pain,  frustration,  and  embarrassment  the  only  words  I 
could  think  of  were  "Aw,  nuts !"  These  words,  my  philosophy  on  life  and  blondes  in 
particular,  were  my  one  and  only  stand-by  for  the  rest  of  the  school  year. 

— William  Paris 

Beginnings  of  the  Depression 

I  am  no  economist,  but  my  private  explanation  of  the  present  panic  is  that  Coca- 
Cola  started  the  crash  when  it  fell  after  the  board  of  directors  heard  one  could  get 
a  seat  at  Hanley's  at  any  time. — Allan  Adams 

The  Smells  of  Spring 

The  smells  of  spring  are  fresh  paint,  perfume  from  flowers,  musty  attics  invaded 
for  cleaning,  mothballs  from  ravished  trunks,  green  onions  from  the  new  garden, 
and  sassafras. — Anne  Worland 

[11] 


Nothing  but  the  Best 

Edwin  Lampitt 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  16,  1937-1938 


"/^NE  on  the  rack,  Ben,"  Cassie  called. 
^^  Muttering  to  myself  about  the 
thoughtlessness  of  people  who  have  their 
cars  greased  early  on  Sunday  mornings, 
I  raised  the  doors  of  the  lubritory  to  let 
the  big  new  Oldsmobile  in. 

"Good  morning,"  I  said,  and  handed 
one  of  our  advertising  suckers  to  the 
little  girl  who  sat  in  the  seat  beside  the 
driver.  "What  can  I  do  for  you  this 
morning,  sir?" 

"Oh,  you  can  grease  it  and  change  the 
oil,"  he  answered  in  a  pompous  way. 

"Will  you  have  PennsA'lvania  or — ,"  I 
began. 

"Give  me  the  best.  Always  use  the 
best  on  my  car,  and  don't  worry  about 
the    cost.     I'll    worry   about    that."     He 


sounded  as  if  he  were  buying  the  Brook- 
lyn Bridge  for  a  toy. 

"Daddy,"  called  his  little  girl,  and  I 
was  surprised  that  such  a  timid  child 
could  be  the  daughter  of  such  an  over- 
bearing fellow. 

"Yes,  dear."  He  sounded  as  if  he  were 
talking  to  his  wife. 

"I  don't  have  my  money  for  Sunday 
School." 

He  beamed  at  me  with  a  smile  that  was 
as  false  as  his  upper  plate,  and  moaned, 
"That's  where  the  money  goes." 

He  reached  for  his  pocketbook  and 
said  to  his  little  girl,  "Just  a  minute,  dear, 
until  I  get  some  change." 

He  turned  to  me,  handed  me  a  nickel, 
and  said,  "Here,  give  me  five  pennies." 


Figures  of  Speech 

In  my  short  stories,  my  imagination  runs  a  trifle  wild.  Being  an  extreme  idealist, 
I  invariably  make  my  heroes  visions  of  perfection  and  my  heroines  creatures  of  flaw- 
less beauty.  About  half  way  through  a  story,  though,  my  senses  of  humor  and  of 
reality  come  to  my  rescue,  and  my  endings  are  usually  a  trifle  on  the  Mack  Sennett 
side.  The  whole  story  then  resembles  a  mongrel  pup  who  started  out  to  be  a  collie, 
changed  his  mind  half  way  along,  and  turned  out  to  be  an  airedale. — Betty  Ivey. 


She  walked  along  the  broadwalk  in  her  ski-suit  like  a  duck  dressed  in  rompers. 

— Ted  Morse 

•  •  •  • 

The  evening  has  boiled  itself  out  like  coffee  in  an  old  tin  pot. — Herbert  Levinson 


Above  us  the  moon,  like  a  single  headlight,  seeks  its  way  through  the  fog  to  the 
earth  and  casts  a  ghastly  pale  light;  it  looks  as  though  one  were  seeing  an  electric 
light  bulb  through  milk. — Frances  N.  Tuttle 


She  licked  the  stamp  like  a  small  boy  taking  his  second  bite  of  spinach. 

— Phylus  WrrzEL 


[12] 


These  Women 


Robert  Haynes  Green 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1937-1938 


npHE  night  was  cold.  The  heart  was 
'■  warm.  She  was  waiting.  Hoping. 
It  was  the  last  night.  Her  parents  were 
moving  away. 

"Mother,  what  shall  I  do?  I  don't 
want  to  move  away.  I  know  father  must 
move  because  of  his  new  job.  I  would 
rather  stay  here.  I  know  so  many  peo- 
ple, and  I  hate  to  think  of  going  away 
and  leaving  them  all  behind." 

"Martha,  I  am  so  sorry.  I  did  not 
think  that  you  would  not  want  to  move. 
All  the  other  children  think  that  it  is 
best  to  move.  They  think  that  they  need 
the  change.  But  you  are  older  and  more 
set  in  your  ways." 

"It  would  not  be  so  bad,  but  there  I 
would  be  slow  meeting  other  people  of 
my  age.  I  know  how  it  is  to  go  into  a 
town  as  a  stranger.  Look  at  Betty.  She 
is  very  nice,  but  no  one  seems  to  want 
her  in  the  crowd.  She  is  so  much  differ- 
ent from  the  rest  of  us.  I  would  feel  the 
same  as  she  does.  I  wish  I  could  stay 
here." 

"You  could  stay  here,  if  we  had  the 
money  for  your  keep.  But  I  can't  see 
how  we  can.  It  is  going  to  be  hard  for 
us  as  it  is.  I  will  speak  to  your  father 
tonight  and  see  what  he  says.  If  there 
were  only  some  other  way — ." 

"Let's  not  talk  about  it  any  more.  We 
cannot  do  it,  so  let's  forget  it.  I  will  get 
along  some  way  or  another." 

"Martha,  isn't  Richard  coming  over 
tonight?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  he  said  that  he  would 
come  to  say  goodbye  to  us." 

"If  you  would  only  fall  in  love  with  a 


person  as  nice  as  he  is,  I  would  be 
willing  to  leave  you  here." 

"I  think  that  I  do  love  him,  but  he 
has  never  been  romantic  to  me.  I  wish 
that  I  could  do  something  tonight  that 
would  be  a  test  of  love." 

"You  mean  that  you  are  going  to  flirt 
with  him?" 

"Yes,  mother,  I  am.  Don't  be  shocked. 
You  can  help  also.  Please  make  some  of 
the  candy  like  you  said  you  made  for 
father,  the  night  that  he  asked  to  marry 
you.  I  will  hurry  and  dress,  while  you 
make  the  candy." 

Mother  hurried  to  the  kitchen  and 
made  the  candy.  It  was  just  cool  enough 
to  eat  when  the  door  bell  rang. 

"Hello.   Is  Martha  at  home?" 

"Yes,  come  on  in.  Go  into  the  fire 
while  I  go  up  and  tell  Martha  that  you 
are  here." 

She  hurried  up  the  stairs,  for  her  mind 
was  young  again.  She  was  thinking  of 
the  night  that  she  became  engaged  to  be 
married. 

"Is  he  here,  mother?" 

"Yes.   And  the  candy  is  perfect." 

"Do  I  look  all  right?" 

"Yes.  Now  remember — this  night  is 
the  night  of  nights." 

"Xow,  mother,  don't  be  shocked  if  I 
do  become  engaged  tonight.  He  is  nice, 
even  though  he  has  never  been  romantic." 

"Let  luck  be  with  you.  I  will  pray  for 
you  until  he  leaves." 

He  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  fireplace, 
staring  intently  into  the  flames.  Some 
thought  seemed  to  bring  pleasure  to  him, 
but  his  face  was  not  whollv  smiles.    Oc- 


[13] 


casionally  a  shadow  of  doubt  would  cross 
his  face. 

Softly  through  the  doorway  came 
Martha.  She  was  all  smiles.  She  placed 
her  hands  over  his  eyes. 

"Martha,  you  scared  me." 

"Me  scare  you?  Is  that  all  I  do  to 
you?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Come  around  in 
front  where  I  can  see  you  better.  That's 
better.  Say,  to  see  you  now,  one  must 
think  this  must  be  your  coming  out  party, 
instead  of  just  a  farewell  to  a  friend." 

"Such  a  man,"  softly. 

"Here,  let's  be  seated  by  the  fire." 

"Just  a  minute.  I  think  mother  made 
some  candy.   I'll  see." 

She  returned  with  the  candy  and 
placed  it  on  a  small  table  before  the 
couch.   He  took  a  piece. 

"My,  but  this  candy  is  good.  What 
kind  is  it?" 

"Mother  calls  it  'Lover's  Delight.'  " 

"Some  name,  I  must  say.  I  wonder 
where  she  could  have  found  such  a  good 
candy?" 

"She  wishes  to  keep  it  a  secret,  so  I 
cannot  tell  you  about  it." 


"By  the  way,  when  does  your  furniture 
leave?" 

"The  movers  will  come  tomorrow  to 
pack  and  cart  away  our  things." 

"And  you  are  leaving  also?" 

"Yes,  I  am  leaving  on  the  train  with  the 
rest  of  the  family,  late  Sunday  evening. 
We  are  staying  at  Betty's  until  then." 

"Do  you  wish  to  leave?" 

"No.  I  wish  that  I  could  afford  to 
remain  here,  but  it  is  impossible." 

"How  I  will  miss  you  from  the 
crowd." 

"And  how  I  will  miss  my " 

"Oh!  Martha!  What  has  happened?" 

"I I'll  be  all  right  in  a  moment. 

Just  hold  me  awhile.  Too  much  candy 
I  guess." 

"Martha,  let  me  hold  you  forever." 

"You  don't  mean  it,  do  you,  Richard  ?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  am  love-struck." 

"Oh,  honey." 

"You  knew  that  I  came  over  here  to 
tell  you  goodbye  forever,  but  I  can't  let 
you  step  out  of  my  life  that  quickly. 
You'll  be  mine  forever,  won't  you, 
honey  ?" 

"Yes,  dear." 


All  Done 

The  rusty  iron  range  was  at  her  back,  its  oven  door  gaping  open  to  heat  the 
enormous  kitchen.  She  was  dwarfed  by  the  mountainous  pile  of  sheets  and  the  iron- 
ing board  that  came  almost  to  her  shoulders,  but  then,  she  was  only  five  feet  tall.  At 
first  glance,  she  seemed  ill,  the  sickly  green  of  the  high  walls  reflected  to  her  face  by 
the  glimmer  of  the  solitary  light  bulb,  almost  lost  in  the  recesses  of  the  old-fashioned 
chandelier.  Her  bird-like  activity  contradicted  the  first  impression,  though,  as  she 
grabbed  a  huge  sheet,  smacked  it  down,  and  slammed  it  viciously  with  the  iron  as 
though  she  hoped  to  remove  its  wrinkles  for  all  time.  Her  face  wore  an  expression  of 
everlasting  surprise.  A  close  observer  would  have  noticed  that  her  hair,  severely 
parted  in  the  middle,  was  drawn  back  so  tightly  to  the  knot  at  her  neck  as  to  cause 
the  extreme  arch  in  her  eyebrows.  Her  spectacles  gleamed  as  she  moved,  dropping 
down  along  her  nose  as  she  thrust  her  head  closer  to  the  ironing  board.  As  the  iron 
cooled  she  would  snatch  another  from  the  range  with  one  wrinkled,  brown  specked 
hand,  while  the  other  traveled  to  her  mouth  and  a  sharp  hiss  bounced  from  her  moist 
thumb  as  she  tested  its  temperature.  As  the  pile  of  sheets  became  smaller,  she 
worked  faster  and  faster  until,  at  last,  a  huge  sigh,  almost  over  balancing  her  slight 
frame,  billowed  forth  with  the  words,  'All  done — thank  the  Lord !" — Dan  Sitzer 


[14] 


Lucy 


Albert  Braviak 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1937-1938 


WHEN  school  starts  in  the  fall,  I 
know  Lucy  will  be  just  as  unhappy 
as  I  until  another  glorious  summer  rolls 
around.  She  is  a  real  pal,  and  I  prize 
every  ounce  of  her  forty-seven  pounds. 
Lucy  doesn't  get  temperamental  with  me, 
because  I  understand  her.  If  she  doesn't 
feel  like  playing  I  know  she  isn't  well. 
Understanding  her  as  I  do,  I  carefully 
take  her  apart  and  remedy  her  ills.  Then 


enough  for  me.  As  we  circle  and  whip 
around  corners,  she  snarls  at  the  water 
and  tries  to  chew  it  to  shreds. 

In  the  evening  when  the  sun  disap- 
pears behind  the  cliff,  we  swing  out  of 
the  bay  and  head  back  toward  the  west. 
We  have  just  enough  time  after  that  to 
get  back  to  the  cabin  before  it  gets  too 
dark. 

Lucy  and  I  never  go  out  on  moonlight 


when  she  is  well  again  we  take  our  boat 
out  on   the   lake  and  Lucy  sings   with 

joy- 
Lucy  and  I  like  to  go  out  when  the  sun 
is  just  beginning  to  peek  through  the 
leafy  sycamores  on  the  east  shore.  The 
lake  seems  to  be  too  sleepy  to  do  any- 
thing but  lie  undisturbed,  an  unrippled 
surface  before  us,  except  when  a  fish 
may  bob  up  only  to  dive  back  again  into 
the  center  of  a  dilating  circle.  We  plow 
noisily  through,  leaving  a  furrow  of 
foam  on  either  side  of  the  boat. 

At  noon  we  chatter  along  over  choppy 
waves  under  the  scorching  sun.  We  can't 
compete  with  the  speed  of  Mr.  Craig's 
Cris-Craft,  but  when  I  sit  in  the  middle 
of  the  boat  where  I  can  just  reach  Lucy, 
she    does    her    very    best — that's    good 


nights  any  more  because  I've  learned  my 
lesson.  We  were  out  with  Bitsy  one  eve- 
ning, just  easing  quietly  along.  Since 
Bitsy  and  I  were  sitting  together  at  the 
back  end  of  the  boat,  it  seemed  only 
natural  that  I  should  put  my  arm  around 
her.  Suddenly  Lucy  jumped  straight  up 
and  tried  to  do  a  half -gainer  into  forty 
feet  of  water.  Fortunately  my  grip  on 
Lucy  was  the  more  secure  of  the  two, 
and  I  saved  her  from  her  intended  fate. 
Of  course  Bitsy  warned  me  that  I 
should  be  careful  to  get  Lucy  more  se- 
curely clamped  in  the  future,  but  I  knew 
better  than  she  what  had  caused  it.  And 
now  I  don't  give  my  little  Lucy  occasion 
to  get  so  blindly  jealous  that  she  wants 
to  commit  suicide.  After  all,  she  cost 
seventy-five  bucks. 


[15] 


The  Sketch  Book  — II 

(Material  Written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

Election  Day 

Election  day  arrives,  usually  in  a  fog  or  rainstorm.  In  the  early  morning  rail- 
road workers  stop  to  vote  at  the  gas  office  or  at  the  engine  house  on  their  way  to  the 
depot.  About  7:30  or  8  o'clock  Main  Street  is  waking  up.  Office  people  rush  in  and 
out  of  the  election  buildings,  while  the  judges  inside  are  already  a  little  bored.  Then 
about  8:30  "Mama"  takes  Junior  to  school  in  the  car,  comes  down  town  and  votes, 
pastes  Republican  stickers  on  her  car,  and  goes  off  to  stalk  her  prey.  People  are 
brought  in  to  vote  until  about  noon,  when  all  the  "Mamas"  remember  that  they  are 
wives  and  mothers  and  must  prepare  lunch  at  home.  The  only  activity  within  the 
ballot  rooms  between  12  and  1  consists  of  the  hurried  entrances  and  exits  of  most 
of  the  school  teachers,  who  have  come  in  a  body  to  vote.  They  come  together  because 
they  want  the  superintendent  of  the  school,  a  radical  Republican,  to  know  that  they 
appreciate  the  honor  of  teaching  in  his  school.  In  between  customers  the  judges 
comment  on  this  one's  coat,  that  one's  hair,  and  the  havoc  caused  by  the  present  ad- 
ministration. None  of  the  six  judges  in  each  voting  place  needs  the  job  he  has  for 
the  day.  They  are  all  retired  or  about  to  retire  from  their  professions,  but  it  is  a 
novelty  to  earn  eight  dollars  by  sitting  and  checking  names.  Anyway,  that  money 
will  come  in  handy  for  bridge  or  for  a  new  cigarette  holder.  What's  more — they 
all  have,  at  one  time  or  another,  thrown  generous  contributions  in  the  "Ole  Boy's" 
hat  and  are  entitled  to  whatever  he  can  offer  them  in  the  way  of  diversion.  All  after- 
noon transformed  housewives  zealously  pull  old  ladies  and  crippled  men  from  their 
beds  and  take  them  to  vote  for  a  "truly  worthy  man."  At  5  o'clock,  finally,  the  doors 
of  the  gas  office  and  engine  house  are  locked. — Loraine  McCabe 

Just  as  a  Diversion 

In  my  early  years,  I  believe  I  read  all  the  books  that  most  boys  of  pre-high 
school  days  usually  do.  One  after  another,  in  a  never-ending  procession,  I  read  the 
numerous  tales  of  adventure.  I  imagined  myself  in  the  boots  of  the  daring  hero 
and  rescued  many  a  fair  maiden  from  the  tomahawk  of  the  savage  Indian.  I  captured 
scores  of  Spanish  brigs,  made  every  captive  walk  the  plank,  and  at  times  killed  sharks 
with  my  bare  hands — just  as  a  diversion. — James  Westwater 

Character  and  Golf 

As  a  revealer  of  hidden  traits,  golf  remains  unparalleled.  After  playing  several 
rounds  of  golf  with  some  of  my  friends,  I  found  that  I  knew  much  more  about  them. 
I  often  played  golf  with  my  high  school  principal,  a  Jekyll-Hyde  sort  of  a  fellow. 
From  all  appearances  he  was  an  upright,  clean-minded,  agreeable  person,  but  with 
a  midiron  in  his  hand  he  was  a  changed  man.  He  would  stride  around  the  golf  course 
hitting  the  ball  savagely,  puffing  heavily  on  an  evil-smelling,  black  cigar,  and  swear- 
ing under  his  breath.  He  hated  to  be  defeated,  and  would  resort  to  cheating  in  order 
to  win.  After  every  hole  some  one  would  ask  him  whether  he  took  a  seven,  a  six, 
or  whatever  it  was  that  he  shot.  His  answer  would  always  be  one  or  two  strokes 
lower  than  the  number  of  strokes  that  the  person  had  figured,  and  when  the  scores 
were  totaled,  his  came  out  just  one  or  two  strokes  under  that  of  anyone  else.  I  also 
know  a  business  man  who  works  hard  all  day,  driving  both  himself  and  his  employees. 


[16] 


However,  on  the  golf  course  he  becomes  the  most  genial  and  good-natured  man  one 
ever  met.  Sooner  or  later  golf  discovers  those  discourteous  people  who  talk,  or  walk 
across  greens,  when  one  is  putting,  who  shoot  out  of  turn,  or  who  play  too  close  to 
golfers  ahead  of  them.  There  are  also  those  annoying  people  who  pick  up  their  golf 
balls  from  the  green,  wipe  them  off,  and  set  them  down  two  feet  closer  to  the  pin; 
those  who  kick  their  golf  balls  out  of  sand  traps;  and  those  who  kick  their  golf  balls 
onto  the  greens  from  the  fairways.  Everyone  has  bad  habits  or  hidden  traits,  and 
golf  is  the  game  to  make  a  person  show  his  true  colors. — Robert  D.  Critton 

The  Duck  Season  Opens 

The  eastern  horizon  is  hazily  outlined  against  the  dull  morning  light,  and  the 
huntsmen  are  proceeding  cautiously,  on  foot  or  in  boats,  toward  their  respective 
blinds.  Here  and  there  we  see  a  man  with  a  star  and  a  revolver,  examining  guns  and 
hunting  licenses  to  make  sure  the  law  isn't  violated.  Far  down  the  lake,  a  quacking, 
flapping  flock  of  ducks  leap  out  of  the  water,  startled,  no  doubt,  by  some  unwary 
hunter,  and  leave  for  places  unknown.  Seven-thirty.  All  the  blinds  are  occupied, 
all  the  decoys  set  out,  and  as  the  strong  light  of  morning  floods  the  scene,  a  roaring, 
deafening  silence  descends  upon  this  unnaturally  natural  spot.  Seven  forty-five  and 
the  soft  click,  click  of  guns  being  loaded  fills  the  air.  Only  fifteen  more  minutes. 
Trigger  fingers  become  nervous  as  a  flock  of  early  rising  mallards  investigate  a 
bunch  of  decoys.  Suddenly,  from  the  far  end  of  the  lake,  a  single  shot  rings  out, 
followed  instantly  by  a  stentorian  bellow  from  the  game  warden,  "Cut  it  out,  you  dam' 
fool.  Don't  you  know  what  time  it  is?"  Seventy  fifty-five.  That  cruising  bunch  of 
mallards  had  better  be  somewhere  else  in  a  hurry  or  there  are  liable  to  be  a  few, 
mighty  sorry  birds.  Eight  o'clock !  A  sudden  report  from  the  warden's  boat,  followed 
closely  by  a  very  vivid  imitation  of  a  Chinese  New  Year,  and  the  1938  migratory 
waterfowl  season  is  opened,  literally  with  a  bang. — Craig  Lewis 

Saddling  a  Horse 

The  horse  stands  quietly,  looking  deceptively  meek.  Do  not  allow  yourself  to  be 
swayed  into  misjudgment  by  his  soft,  intelligent-looking  brown  eyes  and  chastened 
mien,  but  rather  let  this  serve  as  a  warning — a  weather  barometer,  so  to  speak,  which 
forecasts  storms  and  thunder  clouds.  Approach  him  with  wary  eye,  cautious  tread, 
and  a  great  deal  of  determination.  Never  allow  "friend  horse"  to  understand  you  are 
a  novice  at  the  art  of  saddling.  With  the  saddle  in  one  hand,  you  stand  at  his  left 
side.  Forgive  me  if  I  seem  to  stress  "the  left  side,"  because  he  is  brought  up  to 
respect  anyone  who  approaches  his  left.  There  is  a  saddle  blanket  which  is  used  to 
prevent  rubbing  and  chafing  of  the  leather  saddle  on  the  horse's  skin.  This,  with 
practiced  hand,  you  throw  across  his  back.  He  submits  to  this  act  peacefully  enough, 
and  you  gather  courage  to  place  the  saddle  carefully  in  its  correct  position,  just  in 
the  slight  hollow  of  his  back.  Daringly,  you  reach  underneath  his  belly  for  the  strap 
which  hangs  from  the  further  side,  preparing  to  draw  it  through  a  ring  on  your  side. 
The  horse  takes  all  this  with  calm,  unruffled  serenity,  lulling  your  suspicions  into  a 
false  security.  By  this  time,  you  have  grown  quite  bold.  The  leather  strap  slides  very 
easily  through  the  iron  ring,  almost  but  not  quite  in  place.  The  horse,  a  veritable 
fiend  incarnate,  nickers  softly  to  himself  as  he  takes  a  deep  breath,  making  it  im- 
possible for  you  to  draw  the  saddle  taut.  You  finally  realize  this  is  to  be  a  battle 
betwixt  brains  and  brute  strength;  it  is  also  a  question  of  which  one  has  the  most 
patience  and  endurance.  After  all,  the  horse  can't  hold  his  breath  forever.  Just  as 
soon  as  he  expells  his  breath,  you  renew  for  the  onslaught,  quickly  pulling  at  the  strap 
before  he  has  time  to  inhale  again.  Your  little  ruse  is  successful,  to  the  horse's  utter 
chagrin.  Patiently,  you  continue  your  little  strategem  until  finally  your  objective  is 
realized;  the  horse  is  saddled. — Dorothy  Nelson 


[17] 


Stars  May  Fall 


D.  Curtis 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  15,  1937-1938 


BUT  the  day  of  the  Lord  will  come 
as  a  thief  in  the  night,  in  which  the 
heavens  shall  pass  away  with  a  great 
noise,  and  the  elements  shall  melt  with 
fervent  heat,  the  earth  also  and  the  works 
that  are  therein  shall  be  burned  up." 

There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  little 
church  as  the  minister  slowly  read  this 
closing  prophecy. 

I  moved  closer  to  Lorraine.  From  my 
seat  in  the  children's  choir  I  looked  down 
on  the  handful  of  men  and  women  in  the 
hard,  uncomfortable  pews.  The  air  was 
hot  and  sticky  like  a  suffocating  blanket. 
The  doors  and  windows  stood  open  to  the 
black  pit  of  the  night.  The  people  all 
looked  very  strange  and  unreal  with  the 
glare  of  the  lights  on  their  white,  tense 
faces.  A  little  boy  was  asleep  with  his 
head  on  his  mother's  shoulder.  She  held 
him  tightly  to  her  as  if  she  feared  he 
would  be  torn  from  her  arms. 

After  the  minister  had  pronounced  the 
benediction,  everyone  rose  and  began 
talking  in  low  voices.  The  mother  tried 
to  awaken  her  sleeping  boy.  Lorraine 
and  I  slipped  out  of  the  church  and 
turned  toward  home.  We  walked  swiftly 
and  silently.  When  we  came  to  the  corner 
Lorraine  said,  "See  you  in  the  morning," 
and  we  parted. 

Behind  me  I  could  hear  the  sound  of 
her  feet  as  she  ran  down  the  walk.  I 
looked  up  at  the  sky  and  the  friendly, 
winking  stars  that  were  thick  across  it. 
Then    through   my   mind    flashed    those 


words,  "The  heavens  shall  pass  away 
with  a  great  noise. — "  The  stars  weren't 
friendly;  they  were  poised  in  the  sky, 
waiting — waiting  to  fall  and  crush  me 
and  the  earth.  They  would  come  hurling 
through  space  toward  me,  crashing  into 
each  other,  and  burying  me  as  they  beat 
the  earth  to  bits  with  an  unearthly  roar, 
the  noise  of  infinite  destruction.  "The 
elements  shall  melt  with  fervent  heat, 
the  earth  also  and  the  works  that  are 
therein  shall  be  burned  up."  The  earth 
was  waiting  to  burst  into  flames,  flames 
that  would  lick  up  trees,  mountains, 
writhing  and  screaming  people,  even 
rivers,  filling  the  universe  with  their  red 
glare  and  stinging  odor  and  noise.  Fear 
was  upon  me.  I  ran.  My  legs  could  not 
move  fast  enough  and  my  lungs  and 
heart  were  bursting  with  the  effort. 
Those  last  yards  to  home  were  like  an 
eternity,  home  was  an  unattainable  goal. 
I  dashed  up  the  steps  and  in  the  door. 

Father  looked  up  from  his  paper. 
"Something  scare  you?" 

"No,  I  was  just  running." 

I  looked  at  him  sitting  there  so  com- 
fortable and  ordinary  as  he  read  the  Sun- 
day papers.  The  bald  spot  on  his  head 
shone.  Mother  went  through  the  room 
with  her  cheerful,  energetic  stride  as  she 
gathered  up  the  clothes  for  Monday's 
wash.  I  picked  up  my  geography  book 
and  sat  down.  This  was  home,  warm  and 
secure  with  Father  and  Mother  near. 

I  was  safe. 


Epigram 

Sleep,  like  many  other  things  in  life,  is  something  you  must  have  and  don't  want 
in  youth — but  want  and  can't  have  as  you  grow  older. — Charlotte  Conrad 


[18] 


Alms 


Mary  K.  Grossman 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  5,  1937-1938 


'npHE  meal  had  progressed  painfully 
•^  through  the  first  and  the  main 
courses — when  it  happened !  I  was  care- 
fully maneuvering  a  plate  from  in  front 
of  a  formidable-looking  madame  when 
she  squirmed  around  dexterously  in  her 
chair  and  dropped  something  in  my 
pocket.  There  was  a  loud  clatter  as  this 
something  struck  my  compact  and  lip- 
stick. It  seemed  to  me  that  everyone  in 
the  dining  room  must  have  heard  it.    I 


me.  I  wanted  to  throw  it  as  far  as  pos- 
sible and  then  run  all  the  way  home  to 
my  parents,  where  life  was  normal  and 
money  not  a  thing  to  be  hated.  I  thought 
that  I  could  not  possibly  go  back  into 
that  dining  room  and  face  the  woman 
who  had  made  me  feel  as  no  one  else  had 
ever  quite  been  able  to — inferior.  Finally 
I  forced  myself  to  go  back  to  my  tables, 
with  an  air  of  detachment  that  I  felt 
must  be  convincing.    However,  I  doubt- 


Q 


0 


fear  I  must  have  started  rather  visibly, 
for  a  knife  fell  to  the  floor,  adding  to  my 
general  confusion.  I  hurriedly  gathered 
up  my  dishes  and  tried  to  walk  as  grace- 
fully and  unconcernedly  as  possible 
kitchenward.  Safely  behind  the  swinging 
portals  of  my  haven,  I  investigated  the 
source  of  my  trouble.  It  was  a  very 
innocent-looking  quarter.  Actually,  it 
was  no  different  from  many  quarters 
which  had  passed  through  my  fingers 
before,  without  a  thought,  but  this  one 
was  not  the  same.  I  stared  at  it  dumbly, 
and  then  suddenly  it  became  repulsive  to 


less  looked  exactly  like  the  embarrassed 
and  scared  waitress  that  I  really  was.  I 
had  received  my  first  tip. 

Afterwards  I  often  thought  about  the 
money  and  wondered  why  she  gave  it  to 
me.  Did  she  feel  sorry  for  me  in  my 
inexperience  ?  Or  was  she  paying  me  for 
being  polite,  courteous,  and  eager  to 
please?  That  I  could  not  understand. 
All  my  life  I  had  been  taught  to  be  polite 
to  everyone,  simply  because  I  wanted  to 
be  a  lady.  Why  should  this  woman,  who 
had  regarded  me  with  a  decidedly  vulgar 
stare  from  behind  her  pince-nez,  put  a 


[19] 


quarter  in  my  pocket  because  I  had  been 
a  lady  while  I  served  her?  The  only 
answer  that  I  could  find  was  a  most  dis- 
illusioning one:  there  is  no  kindness  in 
a  money-minded  world,  and  courtesy, 
like  any  commodity,  can  be  bought  and 
sold  for  a  few  cents.  Perhaps  if  I,  like 
so  many  of  the  other  waitresses,  had 
been  dependent  on  my  tips  for  a  good 
part  of  my  living,  I  would  have  felt 
differently.  Certainly,  there  is  nothing 
wrong  with  the  mere  act  of  tipping.  It 
is  simply  the  way  and  the  spirit  in  which 
it  is  done. 

I   may  never  be   able   to   reform   the 
"tipping"  world.  In  fact,  these  fortunates 


who  happened  to  be  born  on  the  right 
side  of  the  tracks  would  probably  not  be 
interested  in  hearing  advice  from  an  ex- 
waitress.  Nevertheless,  that  first  experi- 
ence from  a  thoughtless  tipper  taught  me 
how  I  shall  thank  the  girl  who  next 
serves  me  for  her  prompt  and  efficient 
services.  I  will  never  hand  money  to 
her  or  put  it  in  her  pocket.  When  I  leave 
money,  it  will  be  under  the  plate,  where 
she  will  not  find  it  until  after  I  have  left 
the  dining  room.  ]\Iy  waitresses  will 
never  feel  that  I  am  throwing  them 
alms.  My  tip  will  be  only  a  little  "thank- 
you"  from  an  appreciative  guest  and 
friend. 


Geology  Field  Trip 


As  the  bus  turned  off  the  pavement  onto  a  narrow,  gravel  road,  Mary  and  I 
began  to  have  real  misgivings.  The  bus  went  as  fast  as  ever.  Didn't  the  driver  know 
how  slippery  the  gravel  was?  Couldn't  he  feel  how  the  bus  skidded  along  the  road? 
Was  he  crazy? 

Then,  relief.  We  were  in  the  ditch.  A  car  had  come  around  a  bend  forcing  us 
off  the  road.  We  slid  to  such  a  smooth  stop  that  no  one  was  hurt.  There  wasn't  a 
bumped  elbow  or  a  skinned  knee  in  the  crowd.  Not  a  bone  was  out  of  place.  Mary 
and  I  felt  it  to  be  a  lucky  accident — one  of  those  that  prevents  some  worse  happen- 
ing. Also  the  jiggling  had  stopped;  nor  did  we  have  to  grasp  the  backs  of  seats  to 
keep  from  crushing  each  other,  for  all  of  us  were  now  piled  conveniently  on  one  side 
of  the  bus. 

A  scared  silence  had  pervaded  the  bus  during  the  entire  accident.  Now  a  normal 
chatter  began.  We  were  wondering  whether  to  get  out  or  stay  in.  Mary  and  I  got 
out  after  a  few  braver  souls  had  first  pulled  themselves  up  to  the  emergency  door 
and  had  jumped  the  three  or  more  feet  to  the  ground.  Then  began  a  game  of  getting 
in  and  getting  out  again.  It  rained  a  little,  and  we  got  in.  When  it  had  quit,  we  got 
out.   Then  we  got  cold;  so  we  climbed  in  again. 

Soon  the  bus  driver  had  rounded  up  a  couple  of  tractors  and  a  dozen  or  so 
farmers.  Mary  and  I  got  out  of  the  bus  lest  something  happen  as  the  bus  was  being 
pulled.  However,  we  did  not  need  to  be  so  hasty  because  the  tractors  could  not  budge 
it.   With  farmers  giving  advice  and  tractors  pulling,  the  bus  remained  stubborn. 

Mary  and  I  remained  cold,  and  our  last  vestige  of  delightful  anticipation  was 
blown  away  by  a  cold  wind.  As  it  started  to  rain,  we  started  to  expect  the  worst.  We 
were  out  in  the  middle  of  a  country  road  waiting  for  mind  to  show  its  superiority 
over  matter.  At  last  it  did.  One  of  the  men  ran  to  his  house  up  the  road  and  came 
back  with  a  shovel.  The  farmer  then  dug  the  bus  out  of  the  ditch  much  as  one  digs 
out  a  car  stuck  in  a  snowdrift. 

Finally,  wet,  bedraggled,  and  unhappy,  we  were  on  our  way  home.  Mary  and  I 
then  drew  a  few  conclusions  of  our  own  about  geology  field  trips.  They  were  awful, 
and  the  only  thing  you  learned  was  how  to  get  a  bus  out  of  a  ditch. 

— Jean  McJoiinston 


[20] 


Faithful  to  Thee 


Wanda  Little 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  6,  1937-1928 


'OU  would  have  understood  me  had 
,'ou  waited."  Dowson  in  that  Hne 
from  his  poem  of  the  same  name  writes 
the  story  of  his  life.  He  brought  his 
poems — delicate  spider  webs  of  verse 
with  an  occasional  line  or  phrase  in  them 
sparkling  with  genius  as  the  drops  of 
dew  on  a  web  sparkle  in  the  morning 
sun — to  a  world  which  neglected  them 
heartbreakingly.  He  did  not,  like  Keats, 
even  suffer  from  the  barbs  of  critics.  All 
manner  of  recognition  was  denied  him, 
and  he  died  too  young,  not  knowing  that 
his  meagre  offering  would  attain  an 
obscure  but  real  immortality.  There  is  a 
small  minority  who,  from  time  to  time, 
have  paused  to  give  to  his  works  the  slow 
and  sympathetic  attention  necessary  to 
their  appreciation.  To  take  that  volume 
of  two  hundred  pages  which  includes  all 
his  original  works,  both  poetry  and 
prose,  and  to  run  through  it  in  one  sitting 
is  useless.  Such  a  procedure  is  as  un- 
satisfactory as  taking  a  glass  of  fine 
sherry  and  swallowing  it  hurriedly  and 
with  closed  eyes.  Take  a  single  poem, 
hold  it  up  to  the  light  and  admire  its 
color  as  does  a  connoisseur  with  a  glass 
of  wine,  inhale  its  elusive  bouquet,  and 
then  slowly  sip  it,  tasting  it  and  prolong- 
ing enjoyment  to  the  last  syllable.  Then, 
if  you  have  found  pleasure  in  this  experi- 
ence, turn  to  his  life  to  add  under- 
standing to  enjoyment. 

Ernest  Christopher  Dowson  is  an  enig- 
matic figure.  All  that  is  known  of  him, 
outside  the  self-revelation  of  his  poetry, 
comes  from  the  pen  of  Arthur  Symons, 
who  was  his  closest  friend.  In  Symons's 
memoir  the  outlines  of  Dowson's  life  and 


character  are  shown.  It  is  no  more  than 
a  sketch,  for  the  details  necessary  to  a 
complete  portrait  have  been  obliterated 
by  time  as  effectually  as  a  sponge  effaces 
the  words  on  a  slate.  He  was  born  in 
England,  on  August  2,  1867,  but  the 
greater  part  of  his  childhood  was  spent 
wandering  around  the  Continent  because 
of  his  father's  poor  health.  This  weak- 
ness of  constitution  he  inherited,  along 
with  a  vague  but  cherished  tradition  of 
literary  talent.  His  great-uncle,  Alfred 
Domett,  who  was  Browning's  "Waring," 
wrote  Runolf  and  Amohia  and  a  number 
of  other  poems.  His  father  dosed  him- 
self well  with  literature,  but  without 
result  except  so  far  as  he  influenced 
Dowson.  After  three  years  at  Oxford, 
Dowson  returned  without  a  degree  to  the 
only  mistress  who  was  ever  faithful  to 
him,  his  beloved  France.  It  might  be 
that  in  his  hasheesh  dreams  which  started 
in  college  he  found  a  truer  one,  but  cer- 
tainly his  love  in  this  world  was  disap- 
pointing to  a  soul  which  searched  for 
someone  who  would  be  to  it  as  a  goblet 
of  crystal  wherein  it  might  see  reflected 
its  own  sensitive  image. 

Hasheesh  was  not  his  only  weakness. 
Symons  says  of  him,  "I  have  never 
known  him  when  he  could  resist  either 
the  desire  or  the  consequences  of  drink."^ 
He  haunted  the  most  sordid  and  squalid 
places  he  could  find,  in  London  and  on 
the  Continent,  especially  in  Brussels.  He 
attempted  to  drown  the  bitter  taste  of 
frustration  with  the  strongest  dregs  of 
the  cup  of  life. 

'Symons,    A.,    "Ernest    C.    Dowson,"    Fort- 
nightly Review,  73  (1900),  949. 


[21] 


The  Rhymers  Club  knew  him  at  this 
time,  and  his  contributions  were  the 
outstanding  features  of  their  pubUshed 
volumes.  His  small  income,  also  a  herit- 
age from  his  father,  was  supplemented 
only  by  the  mone}'  received  for  trans- 
lations from  the  French  which  he  did  as 
hack  work  and  the  two  novels  written  In 
collaboration  with  Arthur  Moore. 

He  was  highstrung,  nervous,  irritable, 
emotional;  his  life  was  a  chaos  to  the 
end.  Unaware  that  Fate  was  closing 
her  shears  upon  the  thread  of  his  exist- 
ence, he  lay  in  the  home  of  a  poor  friend 
on  February  23,  1900,  in  the  England  to 
which  he  had  just  returned  six  weeks 
before.  Consumption  had  weakened  him 
but  he  was  cheerful  and  full  of  plans  for 
the  future,  when,  to  quote  Symons  again, 
"he  tried  to  cough,  could  not  cough,  and 
the  heart  quietly  stopped."^ 

His  poems  are  as  delicate  and  feverish 
as  he  himself  was.  It  is  a  debatable 
question  whether  he  indulged  in  hash- 
eesh to  any  great  extent  after  leaving 
college,  but  the  hasheesh  visions  haunted 
him  all  his  life  and  recur  in  one  form  or 
another  in  many  of  his  lyrics.  That  in- 
ability to  forget  the  sensations  experi- 
enced is  one  of  the  queer  features  of  the 
drug.  The  dreams  themselves  vary  enor- 
mously; some  are  unbelievably  beautiful, 
while  some  are  more  agonizing  than  any 
physical  torment  of  the  Spanish  Inqui- 
sition. Dowson,  I  believe,  experienced 
mostly  somber-hued  fantasies.  He  seems 
filled  with  the  "agony  of  despair  for  his 
own  fate"^  which  is  mentioned  by  others 
who  have  contracted  the  habit.  In  Cease 
smiling,  Dear!  a  little  while  he  sad,  he 
cries, 

"Fear  is  upon  me  and  memory 
Of  what  is  all  men's  share."* 


And  in  Amor  Profanns  his  lament  is  that 
".  .  .  .  all  too  soon  we  twain  shall  tread 
The  bitter  pastures  of  the  dead."* 

One  of  the  peculiar  characteristics  of 
hasheesh,  which  under  the  name  of  mari- 
huana has  become  a  much  discussed 
modern  problem,  is  the  way  in  which 
it  prolongs  the  sensation  of  time,  stretch- 
ing out  a  minute  to  eternity.  Dowson 
must  have  "experienced  that  vast  change 
which  hasheesh  makes  in  all  measure- 
ments of  time."^  How  else  is  one  to 
understand  his  reference  in  Amor  Pro- 
fanns  to  a  time  in  his  own  life  "beyond 
the  pale  of  memory,"  and  his  cry  "that 
time  was  distant  as  a  star"  ? 

There  is  a  faint  flavor  of  seventeenth 
century  France  in  many  of  his  poems. 
He  was  technically  a  master  of  the  vil- 
lanelle,  and  each  one  of  the  small  number 
of  them  he  produced  seems  like  a  dainty 
and  stylized  figurine  of  fine  porcelain, 
Verlaine's  writings  also  had  some  influ- 
ence on  him.  Villanelles  and  Verlaine — 
both  start  with  the  letter  he  loved.  Again 
and  again  violets,  vines,  and  viols  sound 
their  soft  music  in  his  poems.  The  letter 
V  was  to  him  what  the  adjective  white 
was  to  Rupert  Brooke ;  he  would  have 
been  lost  without  it. 

One  feels  a  sort  of  surprise  when  first 
reading  On  the  Birth  of  a  Friend's  Child. 
It  is  soinehow  a  misplaced  note.  The 
style  is  a  faithful  copy  of  the  English 
writers  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  the 
expressions  are  purely  objective.  He  is 
not  in  the  poem  as  an  active  figure  and  it 
loses  thereby.  The  poem  was  written  on^ 
the  occasion  of  the  birth  of  Arthur' 
Symons's  daughter.  That  friendship  was 
a  strange  thing;  Symons's  character  was 


'■Ibid.,  952. 

'Ludlow,  F.  H.,   The  Hasheesh  Eater,  190. 


'Dowson,  E.  C,  Poems  and  Prose  of  Ernest 
Dowson,  65. 
'Ibid.,  31. 
"Ludlow,  F.  H.,  op.  cit.,  22. 


[22] 


the  antithesis  of  Dowson's,  but  each  was 
benefited  by  intimacy  with  the  other. 

Dowson's  lyrics  are  erotic  in  the  strict 
sense,  and  one  wonders,  thinking  of 
femininity  as  it  existed  during  his  life, 
how  the  shadowy  figures  of  his  poems 
achieve  their  classic  beauty.  Smelling 
salts  are  so  closely  related  in  my  mind 
with  the  period  in  which  he  wrote  that 
their  actual  presence  could  not  affect  me 
more  strongly.  Bustles,  whalebone  stays, 
and  false  fronts  for  female  coiifures  also 
did  their  share  to  reduce  the  illusion  of 
unrestricted  grace,  and  Dowson  was  fully 
aware  of  all  these  aids  to  beauty,  but  his 
pen,  thank  heaven,  wore  a  blindfold.  The 
result  was  pure  poetry  without  contempo- 
rary fetters.  Sir  Arthur  Quiller-Couch 
has  said  of  him,  "There  is  scarcely  a 
single  poem  in  his  scant  one  hundred  and 
sixty  pages  of  large  and  loosely  printed 
verse  which,  when  one  has  read  it,  one 
does  not  want  to  read  again,  and  which 
does  not  leave  an  echo  of  poetry,  fainter 
or  less  faint,  in  the  mind's  ear." 

"But  the  greatest  of  these"  is  Cynara. 
It  has  an  irresistible  fascination  for  me 
and  I  have  found  that  many  people  who 
do  not  even  recognize  Dowson's  name 
are  well  acquainted  with  it.  It  gives  you 
the  sensation  of  restlessness  and  unap- 
peased  desire  which  is  the  essence  of 
Dowson.  It  is  as  wistful  and  as  lonely  as 
a  single  seagull  at  dusk.  His  passionate 
cry  is  echoed  in  the  heart  of  everyone 
who  has  ever  loved  with  all  his  being 
once  and  then  gone  on,  never  forgetting, 
though  his  love  was  unavailing.  Non 
Sum  Qualis  Eram  Bonae  Sub  Regno 
Cynarae  is  the  voice  of  all  those  faithful 
though  inarticulate. 

Last  night,  ah,  yesternight,  betwixt  her  lips 

and  mine 
There  fell  thy  shadow,  Cynara!  thy  breath 

was  shed 
Upon  my  soul  between  the  kisses  and  the 

wine ; 


And    I    was    desolate    and    sick    of    an    old 

passion, 
Yea,  I  was  desolate  and  bowed  my  head: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my 

fashion. 

All  night  upon  mine  heart  I  felt  her  warm 

heart  beat, 
Night-long  within   mine   arms   in   love   and 

sleep  she  lay; 
Surely  the  kisses  of  her  bought  red  mouth 

were  sweet ; 
But    I    was    desolate   and    sick    of    an    old 

passion. 
When  I  awoke  and  found  the  dawn  was 
gray: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my 

fashion. 

I  have  forgot  much,  Cynara!  gone  with  the 

wind, 
Flung  roses,  roses  riotously  with  the  throng, 
Dancing,  to  put  thy  pale,  lost  lilies  out  of 

mind ; 
But    I    was    desolate    and    sick    of    an    old 

passion, 
Yea,  all  the  time,  because  the  dance  was 
long: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my 

fashion. 

I  cried  for  madder  music  and  for  stronger 

wine, 
But  when  the  feast  is  finished  and  the  lamps 

expire. 
Then  falls  thy  shadow,  Cynara !  the  night  is 

thine ; 
And    I    am    desolate    and    sick    of    an    old 

passion, 
Yea,  hungry  for  the  lips  of  my  desire: 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my 

fashion. 

Though  his  poetry  seems  at  first  to 
weave  a  tapestry  of  a  single  color,  one 
eventually  finds  many  threads  of  scarlet 
and  gold  among  the  shades  of  gray,  and 
they  are  of  such  richness  that  one  is  well 
repaid  for  the  time  devoted  to  it. 

Bibliography 

Dowson,  E.  C,  Poems  and  Prose  of  Ernest 
Dozvson,  New  York,  The  Modern  Library. 

Ludlow,  Fitz  Hugh,  The  Hasheesh  Eater,  New 
York,  Harper  and  Brothers,  1857. 

Symons,  Arthur,  "Ernest  C.  Dowson,"  Fort- 
nightly Revien;  72>  (1900),  947. 


122^ 


Debussy's  Suite  "Iberia" 

Grace  Hantover 

I  am  alone 

Slowly  taking  my  way 

Over  the  winding  cobbled  streets. 

I  feel  all  Spains  wine  laden  breath 

Upon  my  cheek. 

The  air  is  powdery  blue. 

Moist. 

Houses  that  I  pass, 

With  knockers  that  keep  fingers 

On  the  lips  of  the  gates  they  own. 

I  stand  still  now. 

Oh  !  the  quiet 

The  winds  dry  two  tears  upon  my  cheeks. 

Oh!    love, 

The  pigeons  cry  quietly  in  the 

Quiet  of  the  eaves. 

Oh  love ! 

My  heart  cries. 

I  am  alone. 

Three  streets  down, 

The  flower  boys'  mules 

Are  returning  to  the  city. 

Flower  laden. 

The  women  of  these  streets 

Sleep  alone. 

The  servants  are  astir 

Within  the  bodies  of  these  houses. 

Thru  the  narrow  streets 

I  can  see  the  familiar  gleam  of 

The  sun. 

I  hear  the  matin  sounding, 

Misty  on  the  morning  air. 

The  water  boys  sigh, 

Shoulders  bent  by  constant  weight, 

Bend  again  under  the  water  skins. 

Soon  their  cries  shall  fill  the  streets. 

The  sun  is  Up  !   Up !   Up ! 

Up! 

Astir ! 

Clip  clop !   mules. 

Earings  jangle. 

The  bells  of  every  steeple  ring! 

Olive  skinned  dancers  fling  shawls  to 

The  twists  of  the  Jota ! 

The  slow  brown  cattle  driven  through  the  streets, 

A  V  shape  through  the  crowds, 

Bellowing. 


[24] 


The  police  on  horseback 

Sharp  lines,  sharp  mouths,  gleaming  accoutrements. 

Riotous  color,  flowers,  skirts,  shoes ! 

Passive  mules,  ears  horizontal,  dreaming  of  their  past  glory. 

The  gypsy  fiddler  plaintively  sings  again  of  the  lost  dawn. 

All  is  color. 

Reds  of  lips,  dresses,  trappings,  ribbons. 

Black  hair,  black  boot. 

I  am  yet  alone 

Amidst  all  this. 

I  walk  alone  with  the  ghost  of  the  dawn. 

In  the  midst  of  that  carnival. 

Alone  with  the  sobbing,  remembering  violin 

The  violin  that  remembers  the  dawn. 

With  me. 


Ancient  Ruins  in  Old  Mexico 

Red  wild  flowers  blaze  upon  the  crumbling  tomb 

Of  glorious  kings  from  ages  long  forgot. 

Like  ballerinas  clad  in  bright  costume 

They  dance,  effacing  the  cold  stone  where  rot 

Fragmented  bones.   Unconscious  of  their  doom — 

Unwary  of  their  incongruity — 

They  mock  their  hidden  nourishment  of  gloom 

By  dancing  to  the  wind's  wild  melody. 

And  dimly  through  the  flowers'  lavish  face 

Loom  shady  forms  of  kingdoms  desolate. 

Dusty,  decayed  bones  of  a  mighty  race, 

These  hidden  tombs  and  temples  their  remains. 

And  on  those  mounds  of  Death,  and  Past,  and  Gloom, 

A  transient  life  will  never  cease  to  bloom. 

— Eugenie  Meeker 


October 

When  goldenrod  is  dusty-gold. 
When  aster  flowers'  blue  unfolds, 
When  autumn  tints  adorn  the  sky, 
I  know  October's  going  by. 

When  apple  trees  with  fruit  bend  down, 
When  golden  leaves  begin  to  brown, 
When  mellow  autumn's  moon  is  high, 
I  know  October's  going  by. 

— Lois  Ann  Dallenbach 


[25] 


What's  Wrong  With  Me? 


Glenn  Wiegel 
Rhetoric  I.  Theme  8,  1937-1928 


I  AM  in  no  way  a  psychic.  But  once  I 
dreamed  that  I  sat,  in  my  best  clothes, 
which  I  do  not  wear  often,  one  in  a 
crowd  of  similarly  dressed  people,  in 
some  vast,  dimly  lighted  hall,  floored 
with  rough- jointed  stone  slabs.  There 
was  a  musty,  stale  odor  to  the  atmos- 
phere; everyone  sat  motionless,  listening 
to  and  viewing  some  kind  of  ceremony. 
Strange  statues  stood  in  niches  in  the 
walls.  I  knew  not  what  had  brought  me 
to  such  a  remote  and  strange  place,  for  I 
seemed  to  be  miles  and  miles  from  home 
and  acquaintances.  I  was  awed  by  the 
architecture  and  the  peculiar  mud-like 
building  blocks  which  formed  the  walls. 
I  wondered  if  I  were  not  in  one  of  the 
ancient  buildings  of  Rome.  Even  the 
people  about  me  were  different.  Finally, 
while  I  was  still  admiring  my  surround- 
ings, the  ceremony  came  to  a  close,  and 
everyone  began  to  move  toward  the  en- 
trance at  one  end  of  the  hall.  As  I  was 
moving  along  with  them,  a  man  came 
up  behind  me,  slipped  his  hand  beneath 
my  arm,  and  said,  "I  want  a  word  with 
you." 

It  was  a  perfect  dream,  and  it  stuck  in 
my  memory. 

Six  months  or  less  later  I  was  fortu- 
nate in  having  an  opportunity  to  make 
my  first  trip  to  the  west  coast.   While  on 


my  tour  along  the  coast,  I  visited  several 
of  the  missions  built  by  Spanish  priests 
during  the  pioneer  days  of  California, 
One  Sunday  morning,  after  passing 
through  the  old  historic  town  of  Monte- 
rey, I  came  to  the  Carmel  Mission,  which 
is  supposed  to  be  the  first  of  the  missions 
built  in  California.  It  was  constructed 
under  the  supervision  of  Junipero  Serra, 
a  Spanish  priest.  I  thought  nothing 
would  be  more  interesting  that  morning 
than  to  attend  services  at  this  mission. 
So  I  entered  the  court  yard  and  hesi- 
tantly walked  toward  the  entrance.  I 
entered  and  seated  myself  in  the  rear  of 
the  hall-like  chapel.  I  felt  strange,  and 
I  wondered  whether  I  was  even  welcome, 
since  no  attention  was  paid  to  my  en- 
trance. Upon  entering,  I  was  so  curi- 
ously aroused  that  I  did  not  dare  to 
leave.  I  looked  at  the  stone  flooring, 
then  I  said  to  myself:  "But  here  is 
where  I  have  been!"  After  about  three 
quarters  of  an  hour,  mass  was  over,  and 
everyone  arose  and  began  to  leave.  As 
I  was  about  to  depart,  a  man  from 
behind  slipped  his  hand  under  my  arm, 
and  said,  "I  would  like  a  word  with  you, 
please."  It  was  the  caretaker  who  had 
mistaken  me  for  someone  else. 

How  and  why  had  I  been  shown  an 
unreleased  roll  of  mv  life-film? 


The  Owl  and  the  Chicken 

"Early  to  bed,  early  to  rise,  etc."  Who  follows  this  more  closely  than  the 
chicken?  It  goes  to  bed  with  the  sunset,  and  is  up  before  the  dawn,  and  eventually 
ends  up  in  a  frying  pan.  But  the  wise  old  owl  who  stays  up  all  night  and  sleeps  all 
day,  usually  lives  to  die  of  old  age. — Robert  Kimbrell 


[26] 


My  Greatest  Enthusiasm 


Donald  B.  Agnew 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  2,  1937-1938 


I  HUNTED  ducks  last  Sunday.  I  left 
the  city  about  four  o'clock,  strug- 
gled through  the  weeds  that  grew  knee 
high  in  the  pasture,  dodged  about  fre- 
quently in  the  corn  fields  to  miss  the 
twelve  foot  stalks  that  nearly  fell  in 
Friday's  rain,  crossed  forty  acres  of  oats 
stubble  that  was  damp  but  not  muddy, 
floundered  through  wild  grape  vines  at 
fence  rows,  pushed  through  horseweeds 


and  diving.  Four  of  them,  three  mallards 
and  one  black  duck,  saw  me,  too,  and 
left  the  pool  with  great  splashing.  They 
did  not  come  back.  Three  more  mal- 
lards, the  most  common  of  our  wild 
ducks,  flushed,  but  I  stood  still.  They 
circled  about  and,  regaining  confidence, 
leveled  into  a  smooth,  sharp  glide  to  the 
pond.  Here  they  applied  the  brakes  by 
extending  their  feet  on  the  surface  of 


i^'^'i 


ten  feet  tall  and  brittle  as  glass,  fol- 
lowed the  corn  rows  north  where  the 
high  stalks  caused  constant  flickering  in 
the  rays  from  the  low  hanging  sun,  and 
where  dry  leaves  stung  the  face,  passed 
a  hedgerow  where  each  leaf  stood  out 
sharp  and  clear  because  of  its  afternoon 
shadow,  crossed  a  graveled  country  road 
which  scrunched  loudly  underfoot,  crept 
through  a  short  field  of  alfalfa  to  its 
fence,  and  saw  the  pond. 

I  walked  slowly  to  the  edge  of  the 
pond,  and  saw  fifteen  ducks  splashing 


the  water.  This  act  splashed  water  sev- 
eral feet  to  each  side  and  made  quite 
a  bit  of  noise,  but  it  retarded  their 
speed. 

I  find  that  ducks  which  return  to  a 
pond  while  a  man  is  there  are  spring 
ducks — hatched  the  preceding  spring. 
They  are  curious  but  cautious,  and  keep 
the  pond  between  themselves  and  the 
man.  Ducks  which  have  lived  through 
even  one  hunting  season  shun  man  when 
the  first  frost  comes.  Apparently  the 
four  that  left  were  at  least  a  year  and  a 


[27] 


half  old,  and  the  rest  were  spring  ducks. 

The  mallards  swam  about  with  their 
heads  low  between  their  wings.  Then  I 
noticed  three  smaller  ducks,  bantam 
ducks  if  there  are  such  fowl,  with  short 
bodies,  straight  upright  tails,  and  long, 
straight  necks,  swimming  about  in  the 
weeds  near  the  shore.  They  splashed  and 
dived,  showing  no  fear  of  me.  I  identi- 
fied them  later  as  the  blue-winged  teal, 
a  drake  and  two  ducks. 

Ducks  were  not  the  only  birds  on  the 
pond.    I  walked  within  fifty  feet  of  that 


rare  game  bird,  the  woodcock,  probing 
in  the  soft  earth  for  a  meal.  And  I  saw 
killdeers  and  sandpipers,  doves  and  pig- 
eons, and  starlings  feeding  and  drinking 
near  the  pond. 

Soon  I  returned  my  field  glasses  to 
their  case,  shelled  some  corn  near  the 
water  to  tempt  the  ducks  to  stay  another 
Sunday,  and  left  for  the  hike  home.  No, 
I  didn't  shoot  any.  I  hunt  ducks  be- 
cause I  enjoy  hiking,  and  because  I  like 
to  watch  the  web- footed  fowl  feed  and 
play  unmolested. 


Seven  to  Eight 


The  Dorm 

The  icy  winter  wind  creeps  through  the  window  like  tafify.  Figures  of  unknown 
persons  huddled  in  beds  everywhere.  An  early  riser's  alarm  clock  booms  forth — the 
figures  squirm  like  the  segments  of  an  ancient  reptile.    A  frigid  tranquillity  reigns. 

"Hey,  get  up  there.  Seven  o'clock.  C'm'on,  get  up,  Joe,  it's  seven."  The  man  on 
bells  is  at  work.  Joe  may  be  heard  to  say,  "Eh,  Jerry — Jerr3%  roll  me  out  at  s — vn 
fif—n— thanks." 

It  might  be  the  same  story  again  at  seven  fifteen,  but  usually  with  resolution  the 
braver  proceed  to  roll  from  their  Utopias  and  clamor  out  of  the  dorm.  It  is  this 
clamor  that  is  so  interesting.  The  place  is  suddenly  alive — the  icy  air  cracks  like  a 
massive  plate  glass  struck  by  a  brick.  Life  is  everywhere.  Laughing  and  jesting 
fellows  dart  from  the  dorm  on  one  another's  heels.  The  atmosphere  is  warm.  The 
day  has  begun. 

The  molten  plate  glass  oozes  until  the  edges  meet.  The  cold  air  steals  in  again 
and  the  mass  once  more  becomes  whole.  A  few  figures  are  still  huddled  here  and 
there — seven  thirty.  Some  grouch  disperses  a  damn  and  drops  from  his  bed.  It's  a 
very  cold  day. — H.  H.  Levinson 

Getting  to  Class 

A  typical  day  is  one  when  I  have  an  hour  quiz  at  8:00.  I  invariably  oversleep, 
rush  out  of  bed  at  7:11,  dash  madly  downstairs  and  gulp  down  a  cup  of  black,  taste- 
less coffee  in  the  hopes  it  will  wake  me  up,  remember  suddenly  that  I  forgot  to  brush 
my  teeth,  notice  it  is  7:25,  and  stumble  upstairs  again  to  my  room.  I  then  throw  on 
the  first  thing  my  hand  contacts  in  the  closet,  notice  disgustedly  that  it  is  a  blouse 
with  three  buttons  ofif,  pull  on  a  pair  of  stockings  only  to  find  they  are  not  only  two 
different  kinds,  but  are  also  full  of  runs,  break  my  shoe-laces  in  four  places,  and, 
looking  more  like  an  accident  about  to  happen  than  anything  else,  I  stagger  to  the 
mirror  at  7:39,  and  start  combing  my  hair.  The  night  before  my  8:00  class  is  always 
the  one  when  I  decide  to  go  on  strike,  and  let  my  hair  take  care  of  itself,  and  after 
breaking  two  combs  and  using  my  entire  vocabulary  of  words  that  shouldn't  be  said, 
I  jam  a  hat  on  over  my  crowning  glory,  smear  some  lipstick  on  my  mouth,  smudge 
my  powder  on  my  nose,  see  that  it  is  now  7:49,  trip  over  a  box  at  the  top  of  the  steps, 
and  after  a  succession  of  thumps  land  much  the  worse  for  wear,  and  start  for  campus. 
I  arrive  panting  in  my  classroom  at  8:01. — Genevieve  Kline 


[28] 


The  Owls  of  Edwards  Gulch 


Cedric  King 
Rhetoric  11,  Theme  16,  1936-1937 


THE  letter's  first  line  transported  me 
to  the  Western  mountain  country 
again,  from  whence  it  recently,  and  I  a 
few  years  before,  had  come — a  country 
of  timber-line  firs,  hills  and  valleys,  and 
a  certain  brooding  loneliness,  all  of  which 
are  walled  ofif  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
by  great,  crooked-backed  mountains  of 
the  Continental  Divide.  In  spite  of 
its  general  unfriendliness — its  unkind 
winters  and  lack  of  companions  of  my 
own  age — it  must  have  exercised  some 
kind  of  charm  that  penetrated  my  blood, 
for  as  I  read,  old  familiarities  jumped 
forth  from  hiding  and  surprised  me  with 
their  still-virile  nature.  I  heard  the  wind 
come  again  down  the  long  meadow  by 
the  ranch;  and  I  saw  it  whip  the  silver- 
bottomed  willows  until  the  light  played 
on  the  two-toned  foliage  as  though  it 
were  whirling  folds  of  an  adagio  dancer's 
cape. 

"Things  ain't  changed  much  since  you 
was  here.  Exceptin  the  depression  had 
its  effect  on  the  ranches.  Bill  Weeks  had 
to  sell  out.  Rideout  bought  his  stock, 
exceptin  the  buckskin  that  was  a  colt 
when  you  was  here.  I  bought  him  and 
broke  him  last  spring.  He's  a  tough 
animal  and  shows  his  heels  to  all  of  'em 
at  the  end  of  a  hard  day.  Regardin  the 
sun  which  you  asked  about,  it  still  sets 
a  quarter  turn  to  the  right  of  that  big 
pine  on  the  ridge  west  of  here,  that  is 
in  summer  it  does.  A  couple  of  owls  live 
in  the  tree  now,  I  think  them  from 
Edwards  Gulch " 

Owls !  Edwards  Gulch !  I  had  nearly 
forgotten  those  famous  birds  and  that 


long  gulch  that  had  once  combined  to 
give  me  an  outstanding  experience: 

Charlie  Fry  and  I  were  companions  in 
a  way,  that  is  to  say,  as  much  com- 
panions as  a  rather  simple,  large  Nordic 
man  and  a  lonesome  boy  can  be  when 
the  man  is  close  to  fifty.  He  had  red 
hair,  and  a  moustache  of  the  same  color 
stuck  out  to  either  cheek  from  under  a 
cavernous  nose.  In  spite  of  its  shape- 
lessness,  he  took  a  great  pride  in  it,  and 
he  was  tweeking  it  gently  one  late  after- 
noon as  we  rode  down  Edwards  Gulch 
toward  its  western  end,  where  he  and 
his  mother,  an  old  crone  with  a  feeble 
mind,  had  their  cabin.  Suddenly  a 
stranger  loped  out  from  a  side  draw  and 
pulled  up  with  us.  In  typical  western 
fashion,  we  started  conversation  without 
asking  either  where  he  came  from  or  his 
destination.  If  there  was  anything 
mysterious  about  him,  as  Charlie  Fry 
afterwards  swore  there  was,  I  must 
have  mistaken  it  for  its  direct  opposite, 
for  he  spoke  without  discretion  or  re- 
serve, and  I  at  once  conceived  a  strong 
dislike  for  him.  He  talked  on  and  on, 
as  though  he  had  a  certain  number  of 
words  to  get  out  of  his  mouth  by  dark, 
regardless  of  whether  there  was  any 
sense  behind  them  or  not.  As  he  droned 
on,  two  owls,  one  on  the  ridge  to  the 
right  and  one  on  the  left  ridge,  began 
hooting  to  one  another.  They  seemed  to 
follow  us,  moving  from  tree  to  tree  as 
we  progressed  down  the  valley,  project- 
ing their  weird  cry  intermittently  across 
the  space  above  us.  Even  from  this  safe 
distance,  I  still  remember  those  cries  as 


[29] 


being  greatly  discomforting.  In  a  dull 
monotone  the  stranger  gave  us  of  his 
vast  knowledge  of  bird-lore,  which,  as  it 
conveniently  happened,  was  mostly  owl- 
lore.  He  assigned  to  them  the  power  of 
seeing  into  the  future  and  vowed  they 
were  continually  trying  to  warn  mankind 
of  impending  danger. 

"Mark  my  words,  sirs,  them  owls  is 
followin'  us  right  now  for  a  purpose. 
They  got  somethin'  to  tell  us  if  we'd 
lissen." 

With  my  accustomed  bravado  I  chal- 
lenged him  to  explain  what  it  was  they 
wanted  to  impart  to  us,  but  he  only 
looked  at  me  as  though  hurt  and  replied, 
"There  are  lots  of  things  young  bucks 
like  you  got  ter  learn." 

When  my  path  finally  loomed  up  in  the 
dusk,  leading  up  onto  the  left  ridge  and 
on  over  the  divide  to  the  ranch,  I  bid 
Charlie  and  the  stranger  goodbye,  loping 
off  with  mingled  feelings  of  heroism  and 
uneasiness  at  the  prospect  of  my  journey 
alone  through  the  dark.  But  I  arrived 
home  with  nothing  of  note  having  hap- 
pened except  the  scurrying  of  a  rabbit 
from  under  my  horse's  very  hoofs,  which 
all  but  caused  me  an  undelightful  walk 
the  rest  of  the  way.  Once  home,  and 
having  failed  to  bring  any  steers  home 
with  me,  the  object  of  my  day's  riding,  I 
ate  quietly  and  went  to  bed,  thankful  for 
the  soft  mattress  and  woolly  blankets 
that  held  off  the  bite  of  the  dry  Western 
night. 

Somewhere  in  the  early  morning 
hours,  I  was  awakened  by  activity  in  the 
kitchen.  There  was  a  light  there,  and  I 
faintly  heard  the  unmistakable  voice  I 
had  been  riding  with  most  of  the  day 
before.  Charlie  Fry  was  mumbling 
something  to  Father  in  exciting,  agitated 
tones.  I  heard  Father  say,  "Take  some 
of  that  coffee,  Charlie,  and  then  we'll 
hitch  up  the  buckboard."  There  was  a 
loud  sipping,  followed  by  an  occasional 


nervous  sigh,  and  I  knew  all  was  not  well 

with  the  big  Norwegian.  In  a  few  min- 
utes the  door  slammed  and  the  two  men 
went  to  the  barn  with  a  lantern ;  the  fol- 
lowing quarter  of  an  hour  brought  the 
sound  of  the  vanishing  buckboard  creak- 
ing through  the  night  air.  Having  been 
early  imbued  with  the  lesson  of  not  rush- 
ing headlong  into  such  occasions,  I  con- 
tained myself  until  the  sound  disap- 
peared: then  I  stepped  quietly  into  the 
kitchen  where  the  light  still  burned.  I 
was  startled  to  see  Mother  sitting  by  the 
cook  stove,  drinking  coffee  and  looking 
more  alarmed  and  uneasy  than  I  had  ever 
before  seen  her.  "What's  happened?"  I 
asked. 

"Charlie  Fry's  cabin  burned  down 
yesterday  while  he  was  out  riding  with 
you." 

Without  Mother's  finishing,  I  knew 
what  had  happened.  The  old  crone  that 
was  Charlie's  mother,  being  a  semi- 
invalid,  had  perished  in  the  flames.  I 
caught  my  breath.  For  the  first  time 
since  I  had  known  of  her  existence,  I 
thought  of  the  old  lady  as  having  been 
human^Charlie's  mother. 

"I  suppose  they  went  after  her  body," 
I  said,  to  break  the  uncomfortable 
silence. 

The  coroner  from  Cripple  Creek  de- 
cided, to  his  own  satisfaction  at  least, 
that  the  case  was  one  of  "successful 
suicide,"  inasmuch  as  the  crone  had  been 
thwarted  a  time  or  two  before  in  an  at- 
tempt on  her  own  life.  Father  assigned 
the  cause  of  the  fire  to  her  habit  of 
feeding  an  incompetent,  light-metal 
heater  with  pitch  knots  from  dead  pines 
near  the  house,  even  though  her  son  had 
warned  her  time  after  time  that  the 
practice  was  dangerous.  Charlie  himself, 
to  whom  the  country  looked  in  the  main 
for  an  explanation  or  opinion,  said  noth- 
ing. He  seemed  never  to  emerge  from  a 
stunned  state  of  mind  the  tragedy  had 


[30] 


inflicted  upon  him.  Since  it  was  well 
known  where  he  was  on  that  day,  many 
vicious  tongues  that  eagerly  looked  for  a 
chance  to  implicate  him  in  some  sort  of 
murder  w'ere  frustrated.  With  the  story, 
the  riddle,  still  unsolved,  we  moved  from 
the  country  a  few  weeks  later,  leaving 
behind  what  Father  thought  to  be  a  clear 
case  of  accidental  death  by  fire,  what  the 
coroner  thought  to  be,  beyond  a  doubt, 
suicide,  and  what  the  settlers  through- 
out the  country  still  thought  to  be  some- 
thing mysterious,  unsolved — perhaps  a 
clever  murder,  perhaps  ?   ?   ? 

Having  reached  the  end  of  that  vivid 
recollection,  I  looked  again  at  the  letter. 
".  .  .  .  I  ain't  been  over  to  the  gulch  for 
a  long  time.  Neither  has  anyone  else  that 
I  know  of.  Half  the  people  in  this  liere 
country  wouldn't  ride  over  there  at  dusk 
for  love  or  money,  but  it  ain't  that  bad 
with  me.  I  just  get  sort  of  a  queer  feelin 
over  there,  rememberin  about  Charlie 
Fry  and  his  mother  burnin.  Makes  me 
kind  of  uneasy,  so  I  just  ride  out  around 
the  darn  place  when  I  can.  Charlies  still 
livin  with  the  old  trapper  he  went  to 
when  his  cabin  burned.  He's  teched  good 
and  propper  now,  and  can't  here  an  owl 
hoot  but  what  he  goes  ravin,  mumblin 
mad.  Got  half  the  country  scared  of 
owls  and  the  other  half  ready  to  spook 
if  anvthing  show  up  favorable  to  his 
ideas.  Not  that  they  actually  bother  me, 
but  if  them  two  owls  up  in  that  big  pine 
tree  don't  move  out  and  quit  their  hootin 
at  night,  Fm  going  up  with  the  rifle  one 
of  these  evenins  and  pull  'em  down.    I 


just  don't  like  the  memories  they  put  me 
in  mind  of.  Since  youre  a  studyin 
anatomy  or  somethin  there  at  college,  I 
might  send  them  to  you  in  an  air  tight 
box.  You  ought  to  be  the  one  to  identify 
them,  seein  you  are  the  only  one  left  with 
any  sense  that  was  there  that  evenin 
when,  as  Charlie  raves,  they  was  trying 
to  warn  him  that  his  cabin  was  burnin 
as  you  and  him  and  the  stranger  were 
ridin  down  Edwards  Gulch." 

"So  poor  Charlie  is  raving  mad,"  I 
mused  aloud,  as  I  folded  the  letter.  It 
had  never  before  occurred  to  me  what 
his  feelings  must  have  been  when  he 
came  upon  the  remains  of  his  cabin  and 
his  mother,  a  black  mass  of  near-dead 
embers  smoking  in  the  still  night.  In 
those  intense  moments  of  emotion  that 
dissolved  his  reason  for  all  future  time, 
he  must  have  been  most  acutely  conscious 
of  the  horror  of  the  inhuman  silence 
about  him  and  the  cruelty  of  material 
things.  It  is  little  wonder  that  he  linked 
the  three  inseparably,  the  tragedy,  the 
owls'  hootings,  and  what  the  stranger 
had  said  of  them.  Nor  is  it  hard  to 
imagine  what  thoughts  arise  when  the 
cry  of  that  bird  is  heard  drifting  across 
darkened  valleys  at  nightfall.  In  the 
fertile  ground  of  ignorance,  and  strength- 
ened by  minor  coincidences  and  the  lone- 
liness of  that  unenlightened  section,  this 
embryo  superstition  may  assume  propor- 
tions and  twists  that  will  reach  out  to 
touch  upon  the  lives  of  many  yet  unborn, 
who  are  predestined  to  life  in  the 
mountain  country. 


Brazen  swaths  of  light. 
Stabbing  into  the  black. 
Making  the  shadows  untidy. 
The  gloom  of  the  night  is  slack, 
Tired  of  fighting  the  Dawn. 
Raises  his  hand  to  defend, 
Looks  back  in  silent  alarm. 
Retreats,  for  his  legions  are  gone  ! 
— Grace  Hantover 


[31] 


Rhet  as  Writ 


Few  are  immune  to  the  disease  of  cat- 
tiness.  College  is  an  excellent  place  for 
the  germs — especially  in  a  girls  board- 
ing house.  That  is  where  the  germ  lays 
its  first  eggs.  Jealousy  and  thoughtless- 
ness are  the  foods  for  these  eggs.  Here 
they  thrive. 

It  is  a  friendly  little  town  situated 
snugly  in  a  wooded  valley.  The  hard- 
working, honest  people  of  the  community 
conjugate  here  for  their  recreation.  It  is 
the  amusement  center  for  all  the  nearby 
farms.  The  people  are  born  and  raised  in 
this  community  and  usually  remain  there 
until  death.  The  simple  ways  hold  a 
certain  attraction  which  the  people  hate 
to  leave. 

•  •  •  • 

I  am  here  to  learn  how  to  meet  the 
problems  of  unfortunates  who  are 
brought  into  the  world  without  even  a 
beginning. 

•  •  •  • 

The  six  beds,  neatly  made,  looked  ap- 
petizing, and  I  could  hardly  wait  to  be 
told  which  one  I  might  "drop"  into. 

•  •  •  • 

You  cannot  erase  the  effect  of  drinking 
mothers  on  future  generations  by  re- 
establishing prohibition,  but  you  can  stop 
the  drinking  of  mothers  now. 

Liars  should  have  good  memories  be- 
cause too  often  a  liar  tells  a  fib  which  he 
had  told  before  in  the  presence  of  an  in- 
dividual who  has  already  heard  him  for 
the  first  time  and  then  upon  hearing  him 
tell  it  for  the  second  time  knows  that  it 
is  not  true  due  to  it  being  told  different 
during  the  first  time  that  he  heard  it. 


Then  about  1924  Professor  Wright 
photographed  Yosemite  Valley  from 
Mout  Hamilton  in  California  which  was 
120  miles  away  using  infra-red  films. 

•  •  •  • 

Among  the  diseases  which  may  be  in- 
herited are  the  size  of  the  body,  diabetes 
Mellitus,  feeblemindedness,  mental 
power,  color-blindness,  and  the  trait  of 
having  more  than  the  usual  number  of 
toes  or  fingers  or  thumbs. 

•  •  •  • 

In  the  opening  scene  of  the  pla}'  where 
Leslie  Howard  and  Olivia  deHaviland 
were  acting  in  the  Shakespeare  play  the 
theatre  rang  with  laughter  when  Leslie 
Howard  was  giving  Olivia  de  Haviland 
a  fairwell  kiss  and  she  woke  from  the 
dead  and  told  Leslie  Howard  that  he 
had  been  eating  garlic  again  and  he  in 
return  bit  her  chin  from  which  she  gave 
a  surprised  look. 

•  •  •  • 

Everyone  in  this  valley  feels  boyant 
and  invigorated  as  they  walk  over  the 
ground,  clothed  in  pine  needles. 

c  •  •  • 

Radio  broadcasts  were  frequently 
punctured  by  an  announcement  concern- 
ing the  British  situation. 

Mussolini  in  his  paper,  L'populi,  and 
Hitler  in  his  mouth  organ,  have  been 
razzing  the  United  States  over  the  recent 
Panay  incident. 

•       •       •       • 

Moving  pictures  of  the  sinking  of  this 
boat  stir  up  a  considerable  amount  of 
sediment  against  Japan  for  this  black 
deed. 


[32] 


Honorable  Mention 

Lack  of  space  prevents  the  publishing  of  excellent  themes  written  by 
the  following  students.  Some  of  these  themes  may  be  published,  in  part 
or  in  entirety,  in  future  issues. 


Allen  Adams 
J.  Arndt 

Helen  Bittermann 
Tom  Chittenden 
Pearl  Jean  Cohen 
Cherie  Fenwick 
Robert  Gatewood 
Sidney  Gooze 
Betty  Jean  Gray 
John  Hanson 
Irwin  Horwitz 
Sarah  Houghton 
Robert  Howe 
William  Hutchinson 
Raymond  Isenson 
Edward  Kamarit 
Edwin  Lampitt 
R.  Marschik 
Harold  Massie 
Loraine  McCabe 


Grace  McAllister 
Leon  Messier 
Reone  Rasmussen 
Charles  A.  Roberts 
R.  L.  Ropiequet 
Robert  Roussey 
E.  L.  Rucks 
Joseph  Sachs 
Florence  Schnitzer 
Irma  Shields 
Ellsworth  Show 
Fay  Sims 
Dan  Sitzer 
Richard  Thorsen 
D.  Todd 
Ruby  Watson 
James  Westwater 
Helen  Whitehead 
Elisabeth  Young 


Vol.8 


OCTOBER,  1938 


No.  1 


1^  PUBLISHED  BY  THE  RHE' 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

I  LOOK  AT  THE  PRESS 1 

Frank  W.  Smith 

TIME  OUT 2 

Cliff  Tichenor 
WASHING  CLOTHES   IS  GOOD  FOR  THE   SOUL       3 

Frances  Atwood 
ON   BEING   "BROKE" 4 

John  F.  Dowdall 
SUBSCRIBE  FOR— 5 

Bernerd  Johnson 
BOOK  REPORT  ON  "A  PASSAGE  TO  INDIA"  6 

Frances  Atwood 
CORONATION 7 

Eleanor  Anderson 

THE   BRITISH   LION— 1938 9 

James  Tyron 

N.H.S 10 

Anonymous 

INTERLOCHEN,  THE   NATIONAL   MUSIC   CAMP     12 
Lawrence  Gougler 

SYNCOPATERS 14 

R.  Marschik 

SKETCH  BOOK 16 

GROWING  DAHLIAS 18 

Sarah  Houghton 

BLUE-PRINT  BOY 19 

George  Phillips 

GOLF 21 

Tom  Chittenden 

PERCY  GRAINGER 22 

Clinton  Cobb 

ALL'S   NOT  WELL 25 

D.  Todd 

THE   PRIVILEGE  OF  BEING  AN  AMERICAN       .     26 
Margery  Wilson 

TRANSITION 27 

Robert  Gatewood 

BEHIND  THE  BIG  TOP 29 

Betty  Jo  Donahue 
RHET.    AS    WRIT 32 

(Extracts  from  themes  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


RHETORIC  STAFF,  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS.  URBANA 


JLhe  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staff  of  the  University  of  lUinois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
published  anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  however, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Mr.  E.  G.  Ballard,  Dr.  Robert 
Blair,  Dr.  Walter  Johnson,  Mr.  Gibbon  Butler, 
Mr.  Stephen  Fogle,  and  Dr.  Charles  W.  Roberts, 
Chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building  West,  Urbana,  Illinois. 


I  Look  at  the  Press 


Frank  W.  Smith 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  2,  1937-1938 


I  WANT  to  be  a  newspaper  publisher. 
For  six  years  I  have  looked  toward 
that  goal.  I  may  never  attain  it,  but  if 
I  do,  it  will  be  with  my  eyes  wide 
open.  My  first  impression  of  the  press 
came  from  a  book — one  of  the  most 
popular  pieces  of  fiction  in  the  bookcase 
which  our  small-town  junior  high  school 
termed  "the  library."  The  book  was 
called  The  Newspaper  Game  and  related 
the  story  of  a  young  man  who  inherited 
a  nondescript  daily  paper,  built  it  into 
a  thriving  financial  success  by  numerous 
thrilling  escapades,  bought  out  his  deadly 
rival,  and  presumably  went  on  to  more 
and  bigger  success.  Such  a  piece  of 
fiction  was  my  introduction  to  journal- 
ism. So  impressed  was  I  that  I  decided 
on  a  career  in  the  newspaper  business. 
Within  a  year  from  the  date  of  that 
decision  I  obtained  another — perhaps  I 
should  say  an  actual — insight  into  my 
desired  profession.  My  father,  his  part- 
ner, and  another  gentleman  decided  to 
combine  their  forces  and  publish  a 
weekly  paper — the  third  in  our  small 
city.  With  the  advent  of  the  Democrat — 
that  was  the  new  paper's  name — I  was 
introduced  to  a  behind-the-scenes  part  of 
the  newspaper  game  which  I  had  never 
dreamed  existed.  First  and  most  shock- 
ing of  my  discoveries  was  the  disclosure 
that  murders,   scandals  in  the  business 


dealings  of  public  officials,  and  other 
sensational  material  are  not  the  most 
plentiful  or  desirable  part  of  the  contents 
of  the  weekly  paper.  Second  in  impor- 
tance was  my  discovery  that  instantan- 
eous financial  success  does  not  always 
follow  sincere  and  applied  efforts  to 
reach  such  a  goal.  The  Democrat  is  the 
youngest  paper  in  a  town  which,  while 
it  can  comfortably  support  one  paper 
and  can  conceivably  struggle  along  under 
the  load  of  two,  should  never  be  asked 
to  sustain  a  third. 

It  is  because  I  have  looked  at  the 
newspaper  profession  under  such  condi- 
tions that  I  believe  I  am  entering  that 
field  with  my  eyes  open.  I  do  not 
expect  to  find  a  fortune  awaiting  me 
there.  I  do  not  imagine  I  will  find  the 
press  in  actual  life  as  Lee  Tracy  so  ad- 
mirably pictures  it  on  the  screen.  I  won't 
be  looking  for  romance,  adventure,  and 
excitement,  for  I  don't  believe  they  exist 
for  the  average  journalist.  I  expect  to 
find  dull,  routine  work  as  in  almost  all 
other  fields  of  human  endeavor.  There 
is  but  one  thing  I  do  look  for.  I  hope  to 
find  some  measure  of  satisfaction  in 
bringing  to  my  fellow  men  that  which 
makes  them  happier  and  better  citizens 
than  they  would  otherwise  be.  If  I  can 
find  that,  then  I  will  have  received  from 
journalism  all  I  asked  of  it. 


[  1  ] 


Time  Out 


Cliff  Tichenor 
Rhetoric  I.  Theme  8,  1937-1938 


EVERYONE  knows  that  he  is  unable 
to  work  incessantly  wtihout  spend- 
ing a  few  minutes  of  the  day  in  fresh- 
ening relaxation.  I  have  a  roommate 
who  says  that  he  has  no  time  for  relaxa- 
tion ;  yet  I  have  seen  him  stare  blankly 
at  a  page  for  as  long  as  half  an  hour, 
while  his  mind  refused  to  function  until 
it  had  the  rest  it  required.  Instead  of 
cooperating  with  his  mind  by  allowing 
it  to  relax,  he  fights  against  a  natural 
phenomenon  and  prolongs  what  could 
be  a  short  time  of  rest  into  long  periods 
of  listlessness.  Another  very  good  friend 
of  mine  feels  that  one  show  a  week  is 
sufficient  recreation.  A  show  leaves  him 
in  high  spirits  for  two  days,  but  then  his 
spirits  fade,  and  he  is  left  in  a  slump 
for  the  rest  of  the  week;  I  think  that 
these  two  examples  show  clearly  that 
there  is  need  for  refreshing  the  mind 
daily  with  some  form  of  relaxation  other 
than  necessary  sleep. 

More  important  than  relaxation  itself 
is  the  method  of  recreation  employed  to 
gain  relaxation.  Wally,  another  of  the 
boys  in  our  house,  spends  five  dollars 
each  week-end  dancing.  He  spends 
Saturday  afternoon  awaiting  evening  in 
a  fever  of  anticipation.  He  comes  in 
early  the  next  morning  and  spends  all 
day  Sunday  in  bed !  Upon  waking  Mon- 
day— if  he  does — he  has  little  or  no 
homework  done,  and  he  carries  a  prize 
grouch  with  him  the  rest  of  the  week. 
Dave,  the  third  member  of  the  house- 
hold, seems  to  think  that  women  consti- 


tute all  the  relaxation  necessary  in  his 
life.  It  is  pitiful  to  watch  him  try  to 
do  homework ;  he  cannot  seem  to  con- 
centrate on  anything.  He  was  all  right 
when  the  semester  began,  and  he  went 
around  with  a  fairly  respectable  girl  at 
that  time.  But  she  was  too  "slow"  for 
him,  and  now  he  is  not  particular  whom 
he  goes  with.  At  least  every  third  night 
he  curses,  slams  his  books  down,  and 
goes  out,  a  wolfish  look  in  his  eyes,  in 
search  of  a  "pick-up."  These  two  meth- 
ods of  relaxation,  in  excess,  could  hardly 
be  called  recreational  activity. 

Whatever  advantages  you  may  see  in 
the  methods  of  relaxation  cited  thus  far, 
for  myself,  I  have  found  that  a  moment 
spent  lying  upon  the  cool  grass  under- 
neath the  stars  will  both  clear  my  mind 
and  relax  my  nerves — or,  if  it  is  cloudy 
or  raining,  a  walk  in  the  early  evening. 
Watching  heavy  clouds  swirl  overhead 
or  listening  to  the  whisper  of  rain  is 
tremendously  satisfying.  Although 
everyone's  taste  for  relaxation  in  nature 
may  vary,  over  me  the  pure,  restful 
beauty  of  the  night  has  always  held  a 
peculiar  sway.  There  is  something 
magic  in  the  night  —  magic  as  elu- 
sive as  the  secret  of  life,  yet  as 
evident  as  life  itself.  I  know  it  is  there, 
for  I  have  seen  the  dark  fingers  of  trees 
groping  to  capture  it.  I  have  set  a  defi- 
nite time,  seven  o'clock  each  evening,  for 
my  relaxation  period ;  and  I  find  that  I 
soon  make  up  for  lost  time,  when  I  re- 
turn home,  in  the  increased  enthusiasm 


[  2  ] 


[lat  I  find  for  my  work,  and  the  result- 
ig  speed.  It  is  a  precious  asset,  to  be 
ble  to  return  to  my  work,  after  half 
n  hour,  with  my  eyes  brimming  with 
he  beauty  of  the  night  sky,  and  with  an 
xuberance  in  my  heart  that  constantly 
pills  over,  making  me  gay.  I  don't  sit 
round   during  the   day   in   such   eager 


anticipation  of  this  time  that  I  impair 
my  afternoon's  study.  I  don't  have  to 
neglect  a  necessar}^  book  or  meal  to  be 
able  to  finance  this  simple  pleasure.  But 
when  the  time  comes,  the  night  is  wait- 
ing for  me,  ever  changing,  ever  fasci- 
nating— effective,  adequate  relaxation. 


Washing  Clothes  Is  Good  for  the  Soul 


Frances  Atwood 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  18,  1937-1938 


,\  7ASHING  clothes  is  fun!  How  do 
W  I  know?  Well,  I  have  washed 
lothes  for  different  families  during  the 
ist  three  years.  I  do  their  laundry  work ; 
1  return  they  give  me  my  meals  and  a 
lace  to  sleep  while  I  am  pursuing  the 
vasive  imp,  education.  It  is  a  very 
imple  arrangement. 

The  laundry  room  isn't  very  beautiful 
r  modern.  It  contains  a  groaning  wash- 
ig-machine,  which  I  affectionately  call 
Annie,"  a  shelf  grown  round-should- 
red  from  carrying  a  twelve-years'  accu- 
lulation  of  magazines,  a  laundry  stove 
—1915  model — and  a  drain  which  always 
logs  at  crucial  moments.  Hesitatingly 
he  sun  shines  in  through  cobweb-cur- 
ained  windows. 

!  You  might  think  this  a  very  dull,  de- 
Iressing  occupation ;  really,  many  excit- 
hg  things  occur.  Each  wash-day  I 
f-^onder  whether  "Annie"  will  hold  up 
jnder  the  terrific  strain,   for  she  has  a 


pathetic  asthmatic  wheeze.  Then,  too,  it 
is  fun  to  change  the  limp,  anemic  sheets 
into  fresh,  crisp  ones ;  to  see  whether 
Mary's  red  hankie  will  fade  on  Johnnie's 
best  shirt,  and  whether  I  can  remove  the 
ink  I  spilled  on  the  best  lace  tablecloth. 
It  is  also  interesting  to  notice  white 
shirts  smeared  with  lip  rouge,  and  good 
towels  on  which  someone  has  shined  his 
shoes  (every  nickel  helps!). 

Washing  clothes  is  good  for  my  soul. 
I  recite  poetry  to  myself,  sing  soprano 
accompanied  by  "Annie's"  snoring  bass, 
and  develop  plots  for  best-selling  novels. 
There  is  no  one  to  bother  me  or  to  criti- 
cize my  actions.  I  can  be  myself.  So, 
when  soap  gets  in  my  eyes,  and  steam 
reduces  my  new  finger-wave  to  strands 
of  marcaroni,  I  just  smile  sweetly,  re- 
cite more  poetry,  and  desperately  hope 
I  can  acquire  an  education  before  I  lose 
my  temper ! 


[  3  ] 


On  Being  "Broke" 


John  F.  Dowdall 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  8,  1937-1938 


TODAY  has  been  another  typical 
school  day  for  me.  I  arose  at  seven 
o'clock,  shaved  amid  the  colorful  lan- 
guage bestowed  upon  me  for  not  having 
shaved  last  evening,  dressed,  and  had  my 
breakfast  of  rolls  and  coffee.  I  went  to 
my  morning  and  afternoon  classes 
grudgingly,  for  I  did  not  care  to  be  in- 
doors on  such  a  beautiful  day.  At  noon 
I  had  a  "Mac's  Special,"  and  for  dinner 
I  had  a  "Charlie's  Special."  Somewhere 
I  "sandwiched"  in  the  time  and  found 
the  money  to  mail  my  laundry  case,  to 
buy  a  ream  of  paper,  to  have  a  rip  sewed 
in  one  of  my  too-ancient  shoes,  and  to 
buy  a  Saturday  Evening  Post.  I  did 
nothing  spectacular,  but  I  did  have 
enough  money  to  do  these  small  things ; 
without  money  I  would  have  been  unable 
to  do  so. 

Have  you  ever  been  "broke"?  I  do 
not  mean  merely  without  spending 
money,  but  without  any  money  at  any 
time  when  you  needed  it  desperately.  If 
you  have  been  "broke,"  you  will  know 
that  to  be  absolutely  without  finances 
is  a  part  as  black  and  hopeless  as  any 
which  you  will  ever  fear  to  play ;  if  you 
have  not,  perhaps  a  short  account  of  a 
personal  experience  will  help  to  show 
you  what  I  mean. 

I  spent  the  greater  part  of  last  winter 
away  from  home  roaming  in  the  far 
southwest.  I  could  not  have  been  called 
a  traveler,  for  I  was  not.  I  was  simply 
a  "bummer."  I  rode  freights,  I  "hitch- 
hiked," and  when  I  could  not  ride,  I 
walked.  Odd  jobs  gave  me  the  little 
money  I  needed  for  food  and  a  bunk  at 
night.     In    this    fashion    I    covered    the 


greater  part  of  California  and  Arizona, 
until  one  day  in  October  I  took  a  job 
washing  dishes  in  Williams,  Arizona.  I 
resolved  to  "stick  it  out,"  but  after  three 
seemingly  endless  weeks,  I  knew  that  I 
must  either  leave  or  have  my  lungs  per- 
manently grease-coated.  I  quit  the  job, 
and  left  Williams  with  five  silver  dollars 
clinking  musically,  yet  forlornly,  in  my 
corduroys.  I  had  to  "hitch-hike"  and 
"hitch-hiking"  in  northern  Arizona  is 
very  slow  even  in  the  spring  and  summer 
months.  The  first  day  I  traveled  forty 
miles  to  Ash  Fork,  and  the  second  day 
covered  fifty  additional  miles  to  Wyck- 
enburg.  The  third  morning  I  caught  a 
ride  from  Wyckenburg  out  into  the  great 
American  Desert.  Forty  miles  from 
Wyckenburg  we  stopped  at  a  filling- 
station,  the  only  building  we  had  seen 
since  leaving  town.  The  driver  said  that 
he  turned  off  there,  and  explained  that 
he  had  a  dry  ranch  thirty  miles  south  in 
the  desert.  I  am  sure  that  it  must  have 
been  a  very  dr}'  ranch. 

There  I  was,  stranded  in  the  middle 
of    the    desert    with    $1.50    left    in    my 
pocket.   Cars  stopped  at  the  station  regu- 
larly, but  they  were  all  headed  for  Cali- 
fornia  and   were   loaded   to  the   "n-th*" 
degree  with   a  wide   assortment  of  hu- 
manity, animals,  and  baggage  of  every 
kind,  baggage  from  the  tiniest  suit  case 
to  beds  strapped  on  the  side.    For  four 
days  I  tried  to  "hitch"  a  ride,  and  for 
four  days  I  waited  in  vain.    I  could  not  j 
leave  afoot,  for  to  walk  into  the  desert  i 
would     have     been     foolish     and     very^ 
dangerous,  for  thirst  is  as  impartial  as  ? 
time.    My  ephemeral  $1.50  disappeared^ 


[  4  ] 


like  confidence  before  an  examination. 
Prices  were  "at  the  limit."  A  glass  of 
milk  and  a  candy  bar  cost  ten  cents  each, 
and  one  lone  hamburger  was  said  to  be 
worth  twenty- five  cents.  At  the  end  of 
the  second  day  I  was  "broke,"  and  at  the 
close  of  the  fourth  day  I  was  desper- 
ately "broke."  I  had  nothing  of  value 
that  I  could  trade  for  food,  and  the  pro- 
prietor was  unusually  callous ;  so  I  went 
hungry.  Money  was  the  magic  password 
that  I  needed,  money  with  which  to  buy 
food,  money  with  which  to  pay  my  fare 
on  one  of  the  transcontinental  buses  that 


roared  by  several  times  each  day.  Never 
before  had  I  realized  just  how  precari- 
ous my  position  could  become  without 
that  one  thing,  money. 

On  the  fifth  day  I  finally  obtained  a 
ride,  a  ride  of  570  miles  into  Pasadena, 
California.  I  immediately  went  to  a 
restaurant  and  washed  dishes  for  a  meal, 
and  the  next  day  I  found  a  part-time 
job  working  at  a  rooming  house  for  my 
room  and  board,  and  a  dollar  a  week. 
Pitifully  small  wages,  but  I  was  no 
longer  "broke" ;  I  had  money. 


Subscribe  For — 


Bernerd  Johnson 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  1,  1938-1939 


PREVIOUS  to  my  arrival  at  Illinois 
I  was  told  that  it  was  a  very  large 
place  with  many  things  about  it  that 
differed  greatly  from  high  school.  I  was 
informed  that  there  were  many  extra- 
curricular activities  that  would  attract 
me,  some  of  which  would  be  not  only 
interesting  but  also  complicated  and 
bewildering. 

However,  I  was  not  told  about  the 
number  of  things  that  I  would  have  to 
subscribe  for.  I  SQon  found  that  if  I 
was  to  talk  intelligently  on  the  campus 
I  had  to  subscribe  to  the  Illhii,  that  I 
was  actually  losing  two  dollars  and  a 
quarter  if  I  didn't  subscribe  for  my 
Illio  immediately,  and  that  only  barba- 
rians neglected  taking  the  Star  Course. 


These  and  many,  many  others  were  ab- 
solutely essential  for  a  well-rounded  col- 
lege life. 

For  a  while  I  tried  to  keep  up  the 
pace  set  by  the  subscription  sellers,  but 
soon  I  realized  that  before  long  I  would 
be  left  fav  behind  with  a  well-rounded 
college  life,  a  forlorn  look,  and  an  empty 
wallet.  So  I  decided  to  sing  in  the  bath- 
room and  to  listen  to  my  own  voice 
reverberating  against  the  four  walls  in- 
stead of  listening  to  Richard  Bonelli's 
filling  the  night  air;  I'll  read  the  Satur- 
day Evening  Post  instead  of  the  Illini; 
and  on  the  whole  I'll  be  almost  as  happy, 
just  as  healthy,  and  a  whole  lot 
wealthier. 


[  5  ] 


Book  Report  on  A  Passage  to  India 


Frances  Atwood 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  15,  1937-1938 


I  HAVE  before  me  the  character  of 
Aziz  from  E.  M.  Forster's  book,  A 
Passage  to  India.  He  is  a  fleeting  and 
elusive  character.  There  is  nothing 
paper-dollish  about  him.  He  cannot 
easily  be  dissected,  and  his  different 
characteristics  are  difficult  to  analyze 
separately,  as  can  be  done  with  many 
characters.  In  short,  he  is  complex  and 
very  human.    That's  why  I  like  him. 

Aziz  is  an  upper-class  Mohammedan 
doctor  in  the  English  hospital  at  Chan- 
drapore — a  small,  almost  daintily  put- 
together  man  with  a  gift  for  surgery, 
and  a  gift  for  dreaming  and  writing 
poems.  Just  an  Indian  somewhat  West- 
ernized but  never  enough  so  to  live  hy- 
gienically,  he  resents  the  English  officials 
who  govern  his  people.  He  dislikes  their 
chilly  austerity  and  their  lack  of  sym- 
pathy for  India. 

The  relationships  which  Aziz  has  with 
three  English  characters  bring  out  his 
complexity.  The  first  is  his  relationship 
with  Miss  Omsted,  a  serious,  priggish 
English  girl  who  wants  to  see  the  real 
India  so  that  she  can  tell  the  folks  back 
home.  Aziz  believes  that  women  are  put 
upon  the  earth  to  give  birth  to  strong 
sons,  and  that  the  greatest  sin  a  man  can 
commit  is  not  to  marry  and  leave  sons  to 
carry  on  his  name  after  he  is  dead.  But 
Aziz  likes  beautiful,  full-breasted 
women.  When  he  is  wrongly  accused  of 
making  improper  advances  to  the 
homely,  flat-chested  Miss  Omsted.  even 
stronger  than  his  hatred  of  the  English 
for  the  humiliation  of  being  thrown  in 
jail,  is  his  hatred  of  them  for  thinking 
he  would  lower  himself  by  even  wanting 
so  poor  a   specimen  of  young  woman- 


hood. After  the  trial,  he  becomes  the 
court  doctor  for  the  Hindus  at  the  palace 
of  Mau.  His  instruments  rust,  and  he 
resorts  to  Eastern  charms  and  native 
remedies.  He  writes  saleable  poetry  and 
believes  that  if  India  would  free  her 
women  all  India  would  be  free  forever. 

Aziz's  relationship  with  Fielding,  the 
forty-five  year  old  English  educator, 
shows  us  much  about  him.  Aziz  loves 
Fielding,  reveals  many  of  his  intimate 
thoughts  to  him,  and  yet  he  mistrusts 
him.  The  two  men  are  friends  and  want 
always  to  be  friends,  but  there  are  too 
many  patterns  in  both  their  lives.  Aziz 
can  deviate  only  so  far  from  his  native 
customs  and  traits.  Fielding  can  never 
forgive  Aziz  for  reverting  to  native  doc- 
trines of  medicine.  Kipling's  too-often- 
repeated  phrase,  "Never  the  twain  shall 
meet,"  must  be  repeated  again. 

Mrs.  Moore  is  a  third  English  charac- 
ter  who    influences   Aziz.     Theirs    is   a 
strange  friendship  inasmuch  as  she  is  a 
middle-aged  English  woman.    To  Aziz, 
however,   she   seems   always  just   right. 
In  some  strange  way  she  seems  to  under- 
stand his  oriental  mind,  and  he  feels  at 
ease  with  her  because  she  seems  to  be : 
almost  oriental.    With  her  he  is  always  ^ 
animated,    talkative,    and    poetic.     They 
never  really  know  each  other  well,  and! 
perhaps  this  is  the  reason  he  likes  her  so 
very  much  and  remembers  her  after  her 
death. 

So  we  have  Aziz — a  doctor,  a  poet,  a 
dreamer,  a  wronged  Indian,  and  a  be- 
liever that  someday  India  will  be  free — 
a  complicated  person,  yes,  and  such  a 
very  interesting  one ! 


[  6] 


Coronation 


Eleanor  Anderson 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  9,  1937-1928 


AMID  the  greatest  world  publicity 
accorded  an  event  in  recent  years, 
George  and  Elizabeth  Windsor  were 
crowned  King  and  Queen  of  England 
on  May  12.  1937.  Over  one  and  a 
half  million  people  witnessed  their  pro- 
cession through  the  streets  of  London 
after  the  event.  Among  them  were  three 
tired  American  tourists  who  had  stood 
for  twenty  hours  to  see  this  magnificent 
display  of  pomp  and  circumstance.  They 
had  had  a  wonderful  time ;  they  had  seen 
a  glorious  circus  parade — much  bigger 
and  better  than  exists  in  America.  As 
they  wended  their  weary  way  home  on 
the  "Underground,"  they  were  so  dazed 
by  fatigue  and  hunger  that  they  didn't 
have  the  time  or  the  inclination  to  reflect 
about  what  they  had  seen,  but  they 
since  have  wondered  whether  what  they 
witnessed  was  worth  the  price  they  paid. 
They  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  value  of  the  Coronation  Procession 
itself  w'as  not  only  its  marvelous  possi- 
bilities as  a  story  to  "tell  the  folks  back 
home."  but  also  the  cross  section  of 
British  life  and  opinion,  that  they  saw^ 
and  heard. 

It  was  a  warm  summer  night  about 
eight  o'clock  when  we  arrived  at  our 
chosen  spot  near  Hyde  Park  Corner, 
and,  aside  from  the  unusual  crowds  and 
the  air  of  excitement,  it  might  have  been 
any  night  in  any  May.  We  tried  to  con- 
centrate on  the  reading  matter  we  had 
brought  with  us,  after  we  had  settled 
down  on  the  curbstone,  but  concen- 
tration was  impossible.    In   front  of  us 


on  the  street  was  passing  a  continual  and 
colorful  pageant.  Taxis  streamed  b3% 
filled  to  overflowing  with  people  out  to 
see  the  fun.  They  all  were  partially 
drunk,  and  they  all  were  shouting  and 
singing  and  waving  British  flags.  Groups 
of  street  musicians  strolled  by,  singing 
and  playing  and  catching  the  few  stray 
pennies  thrown  at  them.  Earnest  people, 
armed  like  us,  with  pillows,  thermos 
bottles,  wraps,  and  lunch  boxes,  hurried 
b}',  trj'ing  to  find  the  few  front  positions 
left  on  the  curb.  Some  enterprising  sales- 
men were  already  out  selling  newspapers, 
ice  cream,  candy,  sandwiches,  and  even 
the  good  old  American  "hot-dog."  The 
gay  red,  white,  and  gold  banners  on  the 
lamp-posts  waved  gently  in  the  evening 
breeze.  The  rows  of  bleachers  across  the 
street  from  us  stood  bare  and  desolate, 
waiting  for  their  $25-a-seat  occupants 
who  would  not  arrive  until  ten  the  next 
morning.  The  crowds  became  thicker 
and  thicker,  and  the  noise  increased 
until  it  was  almost  unbearable.  The 
traffic  policemen  at  Hyde  Park  Corner 
(comparable  to  Times  Square  and 
Broadway  in  New  York)  became  frantic 
in  their  efforts  to  handle  the  tremendous 
volume  of  reckless  traffic.  England 
hadn't  had  a  Coronation  for  thirty  years, 
and  she  was  making  the  most  of  this 
one.  At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the 
din  subsided.  The  taxis  full  of  people, 
the  street  musicians,  and  the  idlers  all 
disappeared,  leaving  the  grim  and  de- 
termined few  to  wait  for  the  coming 
Hour. 


[  7  ] 


The  dawn,  five  hours  later,  was  hag- 
gard and  gray  as  we  were  after  our  long 
vigil.  During  the  hours  of  waiting,  we 
helped  the  time  pass  by  with  song  and 
conversation.  The  favorites  up  and 
down  the  line  were  The  Music  Goes 
Round  and  Round,  Rule  Britannia,  and 
A  Bicycle  Built  for  Two. 

Next  to  us  on  our  left  was  an  entire 
Cockney  family  from  London's  East 
End,  out  to  see  the  fun.  There  were 
Father  and  Mother,  two  babies,  three 
older  children,  an  aunt,  and  Grand- 
mother. We  found  out  that  Grand- 
mother had  seen  every  great  event  since 
Queen  Victoria's  Jubilee,  and  she  wasn't 
going  to  miss  this  Coronation  for  any- 
thing, even  if  she  was  seventy-eight. 

On  our  right  was  an  entirely  different 
group — as  different  from  the  left  as  Eng- 
lish class  distinction  could  make  them. 
They  were  a  radical  young  economist 
and  his  wife,  university  educated  and 
brought  up  in  upper-middleclass  fami- 
lies. On  our  left  were  representatives 
of  the  unthinking,  stolid  laboring  class 
of  England,  while  on  our  right  were  the 
most  well-informed  and  clear-thinking 
English  people  we  met  during  our  two 
months  stay  there.  Both  groups  were 
out  to  see  the  procession  for  the  mar- 
velous spectacle  it  was,  but  what  dif- 
ferent reasons  they  gave! 

The  Cockney  family  said,  "Miss  the 
Coronytion?  Not  on  yer  life!  It 
wouldn't  be  right — livin'  right  'ere  in 
London  an'  not  seein'  it."  The}'  were 
definitely  shocked.  The  young  economist 
laughed  when  we  put  our  question  to  him 
and  then  said.  "Well — I  think  it's  all  a  lot 
of  foolishness,  myself,  but  you  can't 
deny  it's  a  grand  show,  with  all  the  uni- 


forms and  silly  robes.  I  know  we  all 
like  to  see  a  big  parade.  Besides,  I  want 
to  get  some  pictures  with  my  new 
Leica." 

After  it  began  to  get  light,  time  didn't 
pass  so  interminably.  There  were  the 
policemen  and  soldiers  to  watch,  as  they 
marched  from  their  camps  in  Hyde  Park 
to  their  station.  There  were  the  berobed 
and  bejewelled  participants  in  the  cere- 
mony, who  sped  by  us  in  their  limou- 
sines on  the  way  to  the  Abbe}'.  And 
finally,  at  eleven  o'clock  there  was  the 
Coronation  itself  to  listen  to  from  the 
radio  loudspeaker  across  the  street. 
When  the  crown  was  set  down,  with 
much  ceremony,  on  the  King's  head,  the 
crowd  raised  a  cheer,  and  started  God 
Save  the  King.  Far  away  in  .St.  James 
Park  the  101 -gun  salute  started  booming 
out.  After  this  flurry  we  settled  back, 
shifted  our  weight  from  one  weary  foot 
to  the  other,  and  continued  to  wish  we 
hadn't  come. 

The  procession,  when  it  arrived  at 
3:30  p.m.,  was  a  distinct  anticlimax.  It 
was  glittering  and  magnificent  to  the  last 
degree.  After  a  mile  of  tall,  handsome 
men  with  uniforms  as  many-hued  as  the 
rainbow,  came  the  carriages.  All  the 
people  we  had  seen  in  newsreels  came 
to  life  and  passed  before  us  in  review. 
The  King  and  Queen,  when  they  came 
by  in  their  State  Coach,  drawn  by 
beautiful  Windsor  Greys,  looked  very 
bored  and  tired  and  rather  silly  with 
their  new  crowns  perched  awkwardly  on 
their  heads. 

It  began  to  rain  hard.  We  waded 
through  the  muddy,  foot-deep  debris 
left  all  over  the  streets,  by  the  all-night 
army  of  occupation,  and  went  home. 


[  8  ] 


The  British  Lion— 1938 


James  Tyron 
Proficiency  Examination,  1928-1939 


THE  British  Lion  of  1938  is  not  the 
British  Lion  of  years  ago.  The 
British  Lion  of  the  past  was  a  clawing, 
roaring  ''touch-me-not"  beast.  Perhaps 
he  has  had  a  change  of  heart,  but  I 
think  not. 

In  Africa  the  Lion  drove  the  Boers 
from  their  homes — but  only  after  the 
Boers  had  made  the  place  habitable  and 
only  when  the  true  value  of  South 
Africa  Avas  ascertained.  In  North 
America  the  British  Lion  drove  the 
French  away  and  subdued  the  Indians. 
Here,  it  is  true,  his  tail  was  trimmed, 
but  by  one  of  his  own  offspring,  sud- 
denly grown,  equipped  with  just  as  sharp 
claws,  just  as  dangerous  teeth,  and  just 
as  much  stubbornness.  All  in  all,  how- 
ever, the  Lion  came  off  well.  In  India 
he  once  more  romped  kittenishly,  but 
victoriously.  Many  other  choice  posses- 
sions he  acquired  by  force,  some  by  dis- 
covery, some  by  financial  pressure,  some 
by  trickery. 

In  the  World  War,  the  Lion  fought 
again,  and  again  it  was  for  possessions. 
This    time,    however,    he    threw    up    a 
camouflage.    The  Lion  had  suddenly  be- 
icome  alarmed  over  the  fate  of  our  civi- 
lization; he  would  be  the  savior  of  the 
[world!    Of  course,  the  mandates  he  ac- 
cepted after  the  fracas  were  in  the  in- 
Iterest    of    civilization !      He    borrowed 
[America's  money  because  America  had 
Ino  place  to  use  it ! 


And  now,  in  1938,  what  of  the  British 
Lion?  He  has  become  suddenly  indig- 
nant over  the  threatened  military  enter- 
prises of  Germany  and  Italy.  Either  his 
memory  is  bad,  or  this  is  a  brand  new 
Lion.  Sir  Anthony  Eden,  a  Lion  of  the 
old  lair,  was  blunt  and  to  the  point  in 
his  treatment  of  the  threatening  nations. 
He  told  them  that  Britain  would  fight  in 
the  interest  of  the  small  democracies. 
Eden  desired  peace  and  perhaps  (who 
knows?)  was  following  the  right  course. 
The  Prime  Minister,  however,  withdrew 
him  from  his  office  and  replaced  him 
with  a  pro-Nazi  and  a  Catholic.  Italy 
and  Austria  are  Catholic,  and  the  ap- 
pointment was  expected  to  solve  the 
problem.  Since  then,  Britain  has  made 
no  definite  statement  of  policy,  no 
definite  promise  to  aid  any  oppressed 
people.  The  Lion  is  pussy-footing.  His 
foreign  policy  is  strange  and  wonderful 
to  behold.  It  seems,  however,  to  be 
working.  To-day,  peace  is  at  least  pos- 
sible in  Europe,  almost  probable.  Is  he 
to  be  condemned  for  this?  Of  course 
not.  However,  I'm  still  not  sure  of  his 
motives.  Has  he  become  pacific,  or  does 
he  see  nothing  to  gain  by  war?  Perhaps, 
too,  he  still  wants  no  other  power  strong 
enough  to  challenge  his  position  as  King 
of  the  Beasts.  At  least,  he  is  shadow- 
boxing  with  gloves  on,  but  let  no  one 
forget  that  he  is  still  a  lion. 


[  9  ] 


N.  H.  a 


Anonymous 
Rhetoric  If,  Theme  16,  1937-1928 


IT  WAS  late  Ma}',  and  the  sky  and 
the  earth  reveled  in  the  beawty  of  the 
springtime,  and  the  sun  shone  pleasantly, 
and  the  breezes  soothed  The  Great  Mid- 
west, and  all  seemed  well  with  the  world. 

Inside  a  certain  building:  "Hell !  I 
don't  give  a  damn."  With  certain  upper- 
classmen  in  a  certain  high  school  in  The 
Great  Midwest,  all  was  far  from  well. 
You  see,  the  day  had  finally  come  when 
the  National  Honor  Society  was  to  hold 
its  annual  induction  of  new  members 
chosen  from  those  students  ranking 
highest  in  scholarship,  leadership,  char- 
acter, and  service.  Although  some  pre- 
tended not  to  "give  a  damn,"  all  the 
juniors  and  seniors — including  one  boy, 
a  junior — hoped  with  all  their  hearts  and 
souls  that  they,  too,  might  be  among 
the  favored  few  to  receive  the  highest 
honor  the  school  could  confer.  The  cere- 
mony, terrible  in  its  impressiveness,  was 
about  to  begin,  and  the  halls  were  alive 
with  students  waiting  breathlessly  for 
the  orchestra  to  begin  playing  as  a  signal 
for  them  to  pass  into  the  great 
auditorium. 

During  such  moments,  time  ceases  to 
be  measured  objectively.  At  last,  when 
time  seemed  to  have  stopped  altogether, 
the  students,  with  nerves  strained  to  the 
utmost,  heard  the  prelude  to  Pomp  and 
Circumstance,  and  the  processional  be- 
gan. The  boy  was  in  agony.  Would  he 
make  it? 

The  auditorium,  large  when  empty, 
seemed  even  vaster  when  thus  filled  to 
capacity  with  students,  faculty,  and 
townspeople.  On  either  side  of  the  stage, 
on  the  wall,  so  turned  as  to  face  each 


other,  were  busts  of  Diana  and  Apollo, 
watching  with  interest  the  ceremony 
which  was  about  to  take  place.  The 
stage,  though  but  dimly  lighted,  im- 
mediately attracted  everyone's  atten- 
tion, contrasting  as  it  did  with  the  rest 
of  the  auditorium,  which  was  in  almost 
total  darkness.  In  the  center  of  the 
stage,  towards  the  back,  steps  led  to  a 
platform  above  which,  effectively  lighted, 
was  the  symbol  of  the  society,  the  key- 
stone and  flaming  torch.  Kneeling  beside 
the  platform  v>ere  four  members,  each 
holding  a  torch  and  representing  one 
of  the  four  virtues  to  be  found  in 
qualifying  students.  Dressed  in  white, 
they  made  a  strikingly  beautiful  picture 
as,  one  by  one,  they  rose  and  presented 
short,  carefully  prepared  discourses  on 
the  qualities  required  to  satisfy  each  of 
the  four  standards  of  the  society.  In 
front  of  the  platform  were  two  rows 
of  seats,  on  which  sat  the  principal,  the 
old  members,  and  the  speaker  of  the 
day. 

By  the  time  the  white-robed  figures 
had  finished  speaking,  the  boy  had  be- 
come almost  faint  from  the  suffering 
he  was  going  through.  Never  before 
in  all  his  life  had  he  been  so  emotionally 
upset.  His  heart  was  pounding  in  his 
breast  until  he  thought  he  would  surely 
die. 

Then  the  principal  stood  up,  turned 
to  face  the  president  of  the  society, 
whose  throne  had  been  placed  on  the 
platform  under  the  great  golden  symbol, 
and  said:  "Mr.  President,  I  nominate 
the  following  students  to  membership 
in  the  National  Honor  Societv." 


[101 


"Richard 


Yes,    Dick    should 


have  made  it.  He  had  been  captain  of 
the  basketball  team,  had  had  an  excellent 
scholastic  record,  and  had  been  active 
in  an  activity-minded  school.  Besides, 
Dick  was  one  of  the  boy's  best  friends. 

"Florence   ."    The  boy  v^^as  glad 

"Flo"  had  been  selected.  He  thought 
she  deserved  it  if  anyone  did.  Pretty, 
ambitious,  intelligent,  she  had  distin- 
guished herself  in  her  work  during  the 
eleven  years  she  had  been  the  boy's 
classmate. 

"Edward   — ."    This   time   the   boy 

wasn't  so  sure  he  would  have  made  the 
same  selection.  Undoubtedly  Ed  was 
smart — there  was  no  getting  around  that ; 
but — well,  the  boy  thought  himself  defi- 
nitely superior  to  one  whose  selection, 
presumably  made  on  the  basis  of  his 
service  behind  the  footlights,  was  rather 
questionable. 

And  so  on,  through  a  list  of  fourteen 
or  fifteen  juniors,  all  of  whom  the  boy 
knew  and  most  of  whom  he  considered 
fully  eligible  for  the  honor.  But,  with 
each  name  which  was  called,  his  heart 
sank  down  lower,  lower,  lower,  lower, 
lower. 

"This  concludes  my  nominations  for 
the  year  of  1936."  Why,  what  did  that 
mean?  It  meant  that — that  he  hadn't 
been  called  at  all,  that  he'd  been  left  out 
entirely ! 

The   speaker  of  the   day,   a  veritable 


Cicero  who  had  been  imported  from  a 
neighboring  village  for  the  occasion,  be- 
gan his  address,  but  the  boy  did  not — 
could  not  hear  him.  His  gaze  had 
strayed  from  the  golden  symbol  of  the 
keystone  and  the  flaming  torch  and  had 
become  fixed  upon  the  bust  of  Diana  on 
the  wall  before  him.  Strange — he'd 
never  before  noticed  it,  but  Diana  was 
certainly  no  "crock" !  Back  to  the  flam- 
ing torch.  So  now,  after  eleven  years  of 
steady  hard  work,  he  had  failed  to 
achieve  the  goal  which  his  idealistic  soul 
had  set  before  him  as  the  one  thing  in 
life  worth  working  for.  But  v.hy  had 
he  failed  to  achieve  it  ?  The  boy  couldn't 
understand  it.  His  scholarship  had  been 
as  good  as  that  of  any  of  the  chosen 
candidates.  Character  was  something 
subjective,  not  to  be  measured  in  ergs 
or  feet  or  pounds.  As  for  leadership 
and  service,  he  had  been  elected  advisory 
reporter  on  his  school  paper,  and  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Student  Council,  on  which 
he  had  worked  hard  and  successfully. 
Well,  then,  maybe  these  hadn't  been 
sufficient  to  qualify  him  for  the  honor. 

Diana  and  Apollo  no  longer  observed 
the  ceremony,  but  now  seemed  instead 
to  be  regarding  each  other.  Funny — 
these  gods. 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  boy 
passed    from    the    building,    he    noticed 


that  the  sun  was  still  shining 


/  '  / 


m 


Taxi-Drivers  and  Pedestrians 

I  can  imagine  a  taxi-drivers'  meeting  starting  with  their  slogan  "Down  With 
Everyone"  and  ending  with  their  yell,  "Get  That  Man !"....  Every  time  I  cross 
the  street  safely,  I  feel  as  if  I  should  shake  hands  with  my  fellow  pedestrians  and 
hold  a  short  prayer  service. — Ruth  Mann 


[11] 


Interlochen,  the  National  Music  Camp 


Lawrence  Gougler 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  6,  1937-1938 


FROM  five  o'clock  in  the  morning 
until  five  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
when  we  finally  pulled  off  of  a  sun- 
blistered  Michigan  highway  into  the 
shade  of  the  comforting  pine  trees  sur- 
rounding Interlochen  Hotel,  I  did  not 
enjoy  one  of  the  hottest  and  most  tiring 
rides  of  my  life.  With  cramped  legs 
and  aching  back  I  dragged  myself,  my 
instrument,  and  my  suitcase  out  of  the 
car  and  gazed  about  me  at  what  were  to 
be  my  surroundings  for  the  next  eight 
weeks.  A  hotel,  a  lake,  trees,  cars  from 
all  states  in  the  Union,  several  other 
gaping  newcomers,  and — but  time  for 
gazing  was  brief,  for  immediately  I  was 
hustled  by  a  pompous  foreigner  (I 
found  out  later  he  was  the  singing  in- 
structor) over  to  the  headquarters  at  the 
Boys'  Camp,  about  a  ten-minute  tramp 
from  the  hotel.  There  I  was  put  in  line 
with  a  hundred  or  more  other  bewild- 
ered arrivals,  stripped  to  the  skin,  hur- 
riedly examined,  weighed,  and  whisked 
into  a  dark  blue  shirt  and  a  pair  of  dark 
blue  corduroy  trousers.  In  less  than  half 
an  hour  after  my  arrival  I  was  a 
stamped  product — to  the  last  signature 
on  my  identification  tag — of  Interlochen, 
the  National  Music  Camp.  I  felt  like  a 
cog  in  the  wheel  of  a  machine,  a  machine 
unlike  any  other  in  the  world — a  ma- 
chine which  I  found  provides  three 
hundred  boys  and  girls  of  America  a 
perfect  summer  for  the  study  of  music 
in  the  most  educational,  entertaining,  and 
recreational  manner  possible. 

The  beauty  of  the  natural  surround- 


ings alone  provides  an  inspirational  set- 
ting for  Interlochen's  musical  program. 
The  tall,  virgin  pine  trees  of  Michigan's 
Grand  Traverse  region  gracefully  scal- 
lop the  sand  beaches  of  the  twin  lakes. 
Wahbekaness  and  Wahbekanetta,  be- 
tween which  the  camp  is  situated.  Ad- 
ding to  this  natural  arrangement  the 
various  camp  equipment — a  hotel,  two 
beach  houses,  two  sets  of  tennis  courts, 
thirty-two  dormitories,  a  broadcasting 
control  building,  seventy  pianos,  a  music 
library  of  more  than  four  thousand 
titles,  the  famous  Interlochen  "Bowl," 
and  over  one  hundred  other  cottages,  re- 
hearsal buildings,  faculty  homes,  and 
practice  studios,  one  begins  to  appreci- 
ate how  thoroughl}'  Interlochen  takes 
care  of  the  campers  who  go  there  to 
study. 

Realizing  that  this  half-million  dol- 
lars" of  equipment  would  not  pro- 
duce a  music  camp  by  itself,  the  found- 
ers, Joseph  Maddy,  world-known  music 
educator,  and  Thaddeus  P.  Giddings,  In- 
structor of  Music  at  Minneapolis,  have 
assembled  some  of  the  finest  musicians ^ 
in  America  to  serve  as  instructors.  They 
include  soloists  and  concert  players  fromi 
the  outstanding  symphony  orchestras  ini 
the  country.  More  famous  are  Inter- 
lochen's guest  conductors,  who  draw  the- 
interest  of  music  lovers  from  all  parts  of 
America.  Among  them  are  Dr.  Howard 
Hanson,  who  was  inspired  by  Inter- 
lochen's enchanting  beauty  to  composei 
his  well-known  Forest  Theme,  now  used 
as  the  camp's  musical  signature  on  the 


[12] 


Sunday  evening  broadcasts  over  NBC; 
and  Edgar  Stillman-Kelley  whose  latest 
symphony,  Gulliver,  was  presented  for 
the  first  time  by  the  Interlochen  orches- 
tra. Also  as  guest  conductors  have  come 
Ernest  La  Prade,  director  of  musical  re- 
search for  the  National  Broadcasting 
Studios.  John  Phillip  Sousa,  the  "March 
King,"  and  Walter  Damrosch,  greatly 
loved  composer  and  conductor. 

But  best  liked  the  past  summer  of  all 
these  famous  men  was  Percy  Grainger, 
the  pianist  and  composer.  His  tuft  of 
sand-colored  hair,  his  fiery  flashing  eyes, 
his  captivating  English  accent,  and  most 
of  all,  his  undying  patience  through 
hours  and  hours  of  tedious  rehearsing, 
marked  him  as  a  close  friend  in  the  heart 
of  every  young  student.  While  telling 
jokes  at  the  table,  or  playing  sax  in  the 
camp  dance  orchestra,  or  marching  in  the 
band  ranks  on  their  trips  to  nearby  cities, 
"Perc,"  as  he  was  called,  was  just  like 
one  of  the  campers.  On  the  tennis  courts, 
playing  in  hob-nailed  hiking  shoes  and 
shorts  so  long  they  resembled  "sa wed- 
off"  trousers,  he  played  with  fury  in 
spite  of  his  fifty-six  years.  Always 
the  center  of  attraction,  on  the  concert 
stage  especially,  Percy,  his  long  graceful 
fingers  rippling  over  the  keys  at  terrific 
speed,  commanded  the  focus  of  every 
pair  of  eyes  present. 

The  daily  program  at  Interlochen  is 
hard  but  interesting.  The  bugler  sounds 
reveille  at  seven  o'clock,  and  the  camp- 
ers, still  half  asleep,  stumble  out  of  the 
cabins  in  their  pajamas  to  the  tennis 
courts  for  a  ten-minute  round  of  "set- 
up" exercises.  Following  these,  cabins 
are  cleaned  and  prepared  for  inspection, 
I  which  is  conducted  as  a  contest ;  the 
'  cabin  that  wins  most  receiving  a  cake, 
eaten  in  front  of,  and  to  the  envy  of, 
everyone  else  in  camp.  Immediately 
after  breakfast  a  strenuous  two-hour  re- 


hearsal period  begins  on  the  stage  of  the 
"Bowl."  There  the  guest  conductor  for 
the  week  grinds  the  orchestra  through 
the  broadcast  numbers,  repeating  difficult 
places  over  and  over  again,  and  pointing 
out  passages  needing  improvement. 
From  ten  till  eleven,  sectional  rehearsals 
are  conducted,  during  which  the  instruc- 
tors help  smooth  out  the  rough  parts 
pointed  out  by  the  conductor.  At  eleven, 
optional  classes,  which  include  conduct- 
ing, drum  majoring,  harmony,  and  com- 
position, are  attended.  Music  schools 
throughout  the  country  accept  hours 
spent  in  these  courses  as  credits  for 
entr}'. 

Lunch  is  a  much  welcomed  rest 
period.  Meals  are  served  cafeteria  style 
in  the  hotel  overlooking  the  lake.  There 
the  morning  events  are  discussed — per- 
haps Gorsky  had  a  fight  with  his  wife,  or 
Langenus  dismissed  the  clarinets  from 
rehearsal  fifteen  minutes  early.  There 
also  mail  from  home  is  read  and  reread, 
and  often  it  is  in  the  dining  room  that 
romances,  strictly  warned  against,  blos- 
som forth. 

The  afternoon  is  simply  the  morning 
routine  repeated — a  two  hour  rehearsal, 
optional  classes,  and  private  lessons — 
but  at  five  o'clock  all  studying  is  pro- 
hibited. At  that  time  most  campers  en- 
gage in  tennis,  swimming,  canoeing,  or 
horseshoes.  No  baseball  or  basketball 
is  allowed  for  fear  of  damaging  fingers. 

Probably  the  most  interesting  of  all 
Interlochen's  programs  are  the  evening 
presentations.  Sometimes  there  are  mov- 
ies in  Giddings  Hall,  or  perhaps  a  lec- 
ture in  the  "Bowl,"  or  a  student  or  fac- 
ulty concert.  One  night  each  week  the 
campers  have  a  dance  under  the  lights 
of  the  boys'  tennis  courts,  and  twice  dur- 
ing the  summer  an  opera  is  presented  by 
the  students. 

At  the  close  of  the  evening  program 


[13] 


the  campers  in  groups  amble  back  to 
their  cabins  through  the  pitch-black 
forest  which  magnificently  silhouettes 
itself  against  the  star-flecked  purple  sk>-. 
If  the  moon  is  full,  the  sandy  i)ath,  dim- 
ly outlined,  resembles  a  silver  carpet, 
and  the  lakes,  seen  intermittently  through 
the  blackness  of  the  trees,  reflect  thou- 
sands of  shimmering  shadows  in  black 
and  silver.  At  the  cabins  lifetime  friend- 
ships are  woven,  simply  by  bragging 
about  home  towns,  or  discussing  girls 
back  home,  or  telling  stories,  or  writing 
letters ;  or,  more  daringly,  toads  are  put 
in  beds,  buckets  of  water  are  tied  in  the 
rafters  above  where  the  counselor  sleeps, 
ingenious  string  devices  for  ''after  taps" 


pranks  are  worked  out.  The  penalty,  an 
hour  or  two  on  the  rake  squad,  only 
makes  the  risk  more  fun.  After  taps 
slumber  music  is  played  by  a  group  or 
soloist  from  one  of  the  cabins.  Its 
effectiveness  cannot  be  overemphasized. 
A  strain  of  Home,  Sweet  Home  or  The 
Rosary  does  strange  things  to  a  young 
person  as  he  lies  in  bed  wondering  what 
Mother  or  Dad  is  doing.  But  soon  a 
deep  and  restful  sleep  comes,  accom- 
panied with  a  silence,  well-rounded  with 
the  satisfaction  that  another  day,  tiring 
but  interesting  and  filled  with  happiness 
is  ended  at  Interlochen.  the  National 
Music  Camp. 


Syncopators 

R.  Marschik 

Rhetoric  I,  Theme  18,  1937-1938 


THERE  were  four  of  them.  And 
they  could  really  play,  even  though 
there  were  but  two  genuine  musical  in- 
struments among  them.  And  how  they 
could  play !  I  used  to  think  hell  was  hot, 
but  that  was  before  I  heard  them.  Odd 
that  they  should  have  got  together  at 
all,  being  so  utterly  different  from  each 
other.  But  then  that's  beside  the  point. 
They  could  play.  Yes,  sir !  There  was 
Harvey,  the  clarinet  virtuoso.  Not  a 
note  in  the  entire  musical  scale  existed 
that  he  couldn't  strike — and  hold.  Long, 
shrill,  loud,  piercing  notes :  low,  drawn- 
out,   wailing,  blue  notes.    All   depended 


upon  the  occasion,  of  course,  and  as  yet 
there  hadn't  arisen  an  occasion  which  he 
hadn't  met.  How  swiftly  those  thin, 
slender  fingers  flew  back  and  forth  over 
the  individual  keys !  According  to  all 
existing  rules,  those  fingers  should  have 
got  tangled  with  each  other.  W^hy,  at 
times  they  were  but  an  indistinct  blurr! 
But  then  he  managed  to  keep  them 
going  uniterruptedly.  How?  I  don't 
know.  And  he  made  a  fine  picture,  too, 
bodily  movements  accompanying  the 
swing  of  the  music,  head  high,  clarinet 
up  on  the  shrill  notes,  down  on  the  blue 
notes,  ever  going,  never  ceasing. 


[14] 


Next  in  line  came  Danny,  with  his 
banjo.  Danny  inclined  to  rather  raucous 
harmony  at  times,  but  there  was  no  de- 
nying his  full  possession  of  real  and 
varied  rh3'thm.  What  Harvey  could  do 
with  notes,  Danny  could  do  with  chords 
— maybe  more.  It  did  seem  almost  im- 
possible though  that  those  thick,  short, 
stubby  fingers  could  find  so  many  differ- 
ent chords  at  so  many  different  times — 
but  they  did.  His  range  included  every 
harmonious  combination  of  notes  ever 
recorded  in  the  annals  of  music — plus  a 
few  extra.  Down  and  up,  up  and  down, 
down  and  up,  up  and  down  went  those 
continuously-moving  fingers,  searching, 
finding,  and  giving  forth  musical  plinks, 
planks,  and  plunks.  Up  and  down  .... 

A  cleverly  improvised  bull-fiddle  gave 
the  quartet  its  necessary  throb.  Of 
course  there  were  times  when  you 
couldn't  hear  it  at  all,  but  there  wasn't  a 
minute  when  you  didn't  feel  it.  After 
all,  it  was  such  a  simple — but  effective — 
instrument.  Just  a  ruler !  Yes,  one  of 
those  very  prosaic  rulers  which  you'll 
find  on  any  Woolworth  counter.  Sam 
was  its  master.  He  had  a  peculiar  way 
of  holding  it  flat  upon  the  seat  of  a 
chair,  a  portion  of  the  ruler  protruding 
over.  This  end  he  literally  "picked  " 
with  his  right  hand,  whereas  the  re- 
mainder of  the  ruler,  slid  by  his  left 
hand,  traveled  back  and  forth  over  the 
chair,  assuming  a  different  position  for 
each  different  note.  Naturally  Sam  had 
full  control  over  this  flexible  stick,  and 
the  throbbing  tones  he  produced  there- 
from blended  beautifully  with  the  ac- 
companying music.  He  was  the  featured 
attraction — Sam  and  his  "rhythmic 
ruler."  Why  don't  you  try  it  sometime? 
I'll  Avager  you'll  be  surprised  to  discover 


what  an  effective  "Zoom"  you  too  can 
produce. 

The  percussion  section  of  the  four 
was  also  improvised.  An  ordinary  double 
cigarette  ash-stand,  with  the  tin  trays 
loosely  attached,  created  a  realistic  set  of 
trap  drums — in  sound  as  readily  as  in 
appearance.  This  contraption  was  ma- 
nipulated by  the  foot,  a  heavy  thump 
upon  the  base  of  the  stand  bringing 
forth  the  combination  clang  and  clatter 
of  a  trap  set.  Mike  was  the  engineer  in 
charge  here.  He  further  enhanced  and 
accentuated  this  rattle  by  creating  a 
novel  snare  drum,  a  fairly  stiff  piece  of 
cardboard  paper  scraped  with  a  sweep- 
ing motion  across  the  woolen  fabric  of 
his  trouser  leg.  You've  heard  the  "swish" 
of  the  genuine  snare  drum  brushes, 
haven't  you?  Then  you  know  what 
Mike's  card  sounded  like.  Don't  think 
for  a  moment  though  that  it  was  merely 
a  rattle  and  a  swish,  because  it  wasn't. 
Mike  had  technique.  He  had  swing. 
When  he  wanted  those  "drums"  to  du- 
plicate the  percussion  section  of  the  New 
York  Philharmonic,  why  he  just  did  so. 
When  he  wanted  them  to  sound  like 
those  of  Benny  Goodman,  it  was  the 
same  story.    Mike  knew  how,  that's  all. 

Of  course  they  were  popular.  Maybe 
that's  why  the  band  broke  up.  You  see, 
Harvey  flunked  the  first  semester; 
claimed  he  couldn't  get  any  studying 
done.  Dan  got  married,  to  a  girl  he  met 
at  their  first  dance  job.  Sam  took  to 
studying ;  he  was  always  the  more  or  less 
earnest  type.  Mike  moved;  claimed  he 
didn't  like  the  environment  but  couldn't 
discover  just  what  it  was  he  didn't  like. 
And  the  band?  It  went  to  hell,  of 
course. 


[15] 


Sketch  Book 


Humor  in  the  Funnies 

One  of  the  greatest  benefits  derived  from  the  "funny  papers"  is  the  world  of 
knowledge  gained  from  the  advertisements.  From  them  we  can  learn  the  reasons 
why  we  are  social  pariahs.  These  reasons  range  from  inability  to  gyrate  gracefully 
on  the  dance  floor  to  personal  uncleanliness.  The  products  advertised  promise  to 
correct  these  flagrant  faults.  They  are  even  illustrated  with  case  histories  showing 
how  Mr.  Z.,  by  the  use  of  a  certain  product,  soon  had  men  admiring  him  and  women 
throwing  themselves  at  his  feet.  These  advertisements  are  the  nearest  things  to 
humor  we  have  yet  found  in  the  "funny  papers." — Tom  CHrrrEXDEN 

The  First  to  Go 

"What  the  hell  do  I  care  how  I  come  out  in  my  exams?  My  head  will  be  blown 
off  a  year  from  now,  anyway." 

Have  you  heard  any  young  student  on  campus  utter  these  words?  The  statement 
may  be  just  a  good  excuse  for  not  studying,  but  it  may  be  so  true  that  we  hate  to 
think  of  it  seriously.  However,  if  we  do  stop  to  ponder  over  the  matter,  we  realize 
that  the  youths  in  our  class  rooms,  on  the  broad-walk,  and  crowding  the  gym  on 
game  nights  are  to  be  among  the  first  to  go  to  war  when  it  is  declared. 

Why  should  the  cream  of  the  crop  be  taken?  Why  can't  we  get  rid  of  the  aimless 
vagabonds,  idiots,  and  voluntarily  unemployed?  Some  people  commend  war  on  the 
basis  that  it  cuts  down  the  excess  population.  Others  go  further  by  saying  that  a 
smaller  population  would  settle  our  unemplo>TTient  problems.  That  is  true,  but  do  we 
want  imbeciles,  idiots,  and  physical  cripples  in  the  responsible  positions  ?  After  a 
war  in  this  modern  age,  I  am  afraid  there  would  be  nothing  but  these  "unfortunate" 
creatures  left. — Charlotte  Conrad 

Restaurant  Reform 

Let  there  be  built,  through  the  magic  wave  of  some  benefactor's  pocketbook,  the 
most  popular  building  ever  conceived,  a  "Campus  Coke  Center."  Let  there  be  soft 
lights,  sweet  music,  smooth  floors,  glamorous  girls.  Create  the  environment  desired 
by  the  lounge-lizard,  the  "coke"-dater,  the  downtown  quarterback.  Let  them  gargle, 
giggle,  gurgle,  over  their  cokes.  Ban  books !  Ban  sobriety !  Ban  serious  talk !  Let 
mirth,  merriment,  and  politics  run  wild.  Give  vent  to  those  long-repressed  peals  of 
laughter.  The  waiter  won't  throw  you  out.  He'll  probably  be  laughing  louder  than 
you  ! 

But  wait !  Only  on  one  condition  can  you  have  all  these.  Give  food  back  to  the 
restaurant,  and  clean  out  the  coke  element.  Then  cook  me  up  a  big  juicy  porterhouse 
steak,  smothered  with  onions.    I'm  hungry ! — Harold  Hubbard 

"Not  Bad.  Not  Bad!" 

One  of  the  greatest  aids  to  mannish  vanity  is  to  be  cast  in  a  play.  It's  the  grease- 
paint that  lures  them  on.  A  little  while  before  the  first  curtain  you  may  hear  them 
exclaiming.  "Oh,  you  go  next  for  make-up.  I  hate  the  stuff.  How  do  girls  stand  it? 
You  go  on.  I'll  go  last."  But  all  this  is  merely  a  subtle  cover-up.  The  real  reason 
they  all  want  to  be  last  is  to  have  more  time  spent  on  them.  As  each  one  gets  his 
paint  applied  he  dashes  to  the  mirror.  What  he  says  aloud  is,  "Gee,  will  I  be  glad 
to  get  this  stuff  off!  I  look  terrible."  But  inwardly  he's  thinking,  "Not  bad,  not  bad! 
Say,  wouldn't  I  be  a  Don  Juan  with  this  on  all  the  time !  I  guess  I'd  better  put  a 
little  more  on  after  the  first  act." — Bud  Gillis 


[16] 


The  Beauty  of  the  Campus 

Our  University  campus  has  a  definite  type  of  beauty — a  beauty  that  is  found  in 
bigness,  in  grandeur,  and  in  simplicity.  This  is  emphasized  by  the  many  stately 
buildings,  massive  but  plain,  surrounded  by  huge  trees  of  many  varieties  and  many 
shades  of  green.  Strong  elms  predominate,  stretching  their  leafy  arms  over  the 
broad  sidewalks,  forming  a  triumphal  arch  for  marchers  for  learning.  Rounded 
clumps  of  shrubs  in  varying  heights  and  hues  dot  the  grounds,  lending  that  soft 
loveliness  which  transforms  a  scene  of  severe  plainness  into  one  of  magnificence. 
Beds  of  rich,  red  geraniums,  topped  with  tall  cannas,  here  and  there  brighten  the 
campus.  Beneath  it  all,  forming  a  soft,  green  carpet,  stretches  the  vast  expanse  of 
lawn,  cool  and  inviting. 

While  I  gazed  on  this  scene  of  lovely  grandeur,  its  beauty  sank  deep  into  my 
soul,  as  it  must  have  done  for  thousands  of  other  marchers  to  learning.  Man  needs 
the  beauties  of  nature  to  help  him  live  in  this  busy,  work-a-day  world,  where  so 
much  value  is  placed  on  mere  material  things.  He  needs  the  influence  of  natural 
beauty  for  inspiration,  for  joy,  for  peace.  Man's  very  surrender  to  this  influence 
raises  him  above  the  beast.  It  heals  the  wounds  made  by  a  thoughtless  world;  it 
elevates  man  above  sordid,  unpleasant,  discouraging,  heart-rending  things;  it  makes 
him  live  on  a  higher  plane.  From  this  height  he  can  better  judge  relative  values. 
The  very  things  which  to  him  may  have  loomed  in  importance  may  now  dwindle 
into  insignificance.  He  is  able  to  see  the  finer  qualities  of  his  fellowmen  after  having 
seen  those  of  nature.  His  life  has  become  more  abundant.  Does  not  the  beauty  of 
this  campus  help  to  enrich  the  lives  of  each  student  marcher?  I  believe  that  it  does, 
but  perhaps  in  a  very  quiet,  subtle  manner. — Sister  M.  Mercedes  Crane 


Reading  Dimnet 

Ernest  Dimnet  asks  the  reader,  in  easy  conversational  language,  '"Have  you  ever 
stopped  to  think?  Have  you  ever  done  anything  on  your  own  initiative?"  At  this 
point  you  automatically  stop  reading  and  mentally  inform  the  author  that  you  have 
done  so  many  times.  But  he  continues,  "Consider  a  specific  incident,  now  did  you — 
etc.,  etc."  You  pause  again.  Well,  you  can't  think  of  an  incident  right  this  second, 
but  there  have  been  thousands  of  times  when  you've  absolutely  made  up  your  own 
mind.  Then,  suddenly,  right  in  the  middle  of  the  next  page,  the  author  asks,  "What 
are  thinking  of  this  second?  What  have  I  said  in  the  last  four  paragraphs?"  Your 
thoughts  fly  about  wildy  for  a  few  seconds,  and  you  realize  that  you  are  still  trying 
to  think  of  a  specific  incident  in  which  you  made  up  your  own  mind — and  that  you 
haven't  the  slightest  idea  of  what  has  been  said  in  the  last  four  paragraphs. 

— Reone  Rasmussen 


Forced  Feeding 

It  must  be  obvious  that  nothing  of  value  can  be  crammed  down  a  student's  throat 
against  his  will,  or  if  it  is  crammed  down  by  dint  of  much  labor,  that  it  must  be 
immediately  regurgitated  with  all  the  usual  accompanying  nausea. — Philip  Brewer 


[17] 


Growing  Dahlias 


Sarah  Houghton 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  4,  1937-1938 


AS  THE  warm,  lazy  days  of  May 
progress,  bringing  definite  promise 
of  summer,  the  dahlia  lover  looks  to  his 
treasured  store  of  brown  bulbs  which 
were  so  carefully  laid  away  in  the  fall  in 
a  cool,  damp  corner  of  his  cellar.  Per- 
haps a  week  previously  he  has  spaded 
and  raked  his  garden  in  preparation  for 
planting.  Out  of  the  musty  dark  he 
tenderly  carries  his  insignificant-looking 
dahlia  tubers.  The  balmy  sunlight  as- 
sails him,  prophesying  the  glories  that 
are  to  be.  Eagerly  he  strides  toward  the 
garden  where  stakes  have  been  driven 
into  the  soil  about  a  yard  apart.  Near 
one  of  the  stakes  he  digs  a  deep,  oblong 
hole,  the  bottom  of  which  he  covers  with 
peat-moss.  X^ow  he  sets  the  bulb  down 
carefully  with  the  sprout  about  four 
inches  from  the  stake.  He  sprinkles 
another  layer  of  peat-moss  over  it.  Fil- 
tering the  earth  through  his  fingers,  he 
fills  the  hole  until  it  is  almost  level  with 
the  rest  of  the  ground.  With  equal  pre- 
cision the  other  bulbs  are  planted. 

For  two  or  three  weeks  our  poor 
dahlia  enthusiast  has  nothing  to  do  but 
keep  the  weeds  pulled  and  the  ground 
loosened.  Unless  the  weather  is  ex- 
tremely dr}-,  the  plants  need  very  little 
water.  Our  friend  anxiously  surveys 
his  plot  of  rangy  stakes  for  the  first 
signs  of  a  sprout.  At  last  one  pokes 
through.  It  seems  to  take  a  long  time 
for  the  plants  to  grow  a  foot  high.  After 
that  their  growth  is  quite  rapid.  The 
large,  coarse,  dark  green  leaves  are 
slightly  curled  around  the  edges.  Usually 
there  is  onlv  one  main  stalk,  but  occa- 


sionally there  will  be  two  or  even  three. 
The  stalks  should  be  tied  to  the  stake 
to  keep  them  straight.  When  the  plant 
is  about  waist-high,  buds  begin  to  ap- 
pear. The  process  known  as  disbudding 
is  perhaps  the  most  important  detail  of 
growing  really  fine  flowers.  It  seems  a 
indeed  strange  that  one  should  remove  I 
buds  in  order  to  get  larger,  more  per- 
fectly shaped  flowers,  but  that  is  exactly 
what  should  be  done.  Buds  tend  to 
grow  up  between  the  stalk  and  the  main 
stems  which  branch  out  from  the  stalk. 
Buds  also  grow  up  between  the  stems 
and  their  leaves.  If  these  extra  buds  are 
nipped  and  only  the  top  ones  left,  there 
will  be  fewer  but  far  lovelier  flowers. 

At  last  the  day  comes  when  one  of 
those  large  top  buds  opens  into  full 
bloom,  bringing  forth  the  magnificent 
flower.  Here  is  the  reward  for  which 
the  dahlia  lover  has  waited  nearly  three 
long  months.  At  last  the  fruits  of  his 
labors  are  realized.  He  and  his  flowers 
have  come  together  through  wind,  hail, 
scorching  sun,  cutworms,  and  grass- 
hoppers to  emerge  at  last,  triumphant. 
Until  the  frost  ends  the  blooming  sea- 
son, flowers  of  almost  every  conceivable 
shade  deck  the  garden. 

The  frost  comes.  The  dahlias  have 
lived  their  da}'.  With  infinite  care,  the 
enthusiast  digs  up  the  tubers  and  washes 
ofif  the  dirt.  Back  they  go  to  their  winter 
shade ;  only  they  have  increased  during 
the  growing  season,  and  now,  after  they 
are  divided  by  our  friend,  there  are 
mauA'  more. 


[18] 


Blue -Print  Boy 


George  Phillips 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  10,  1937-1938 


ALL  THE  chief  engineer  said  was, 
"You'll  do,  Phillips,"  and  I  was 
hired. 

Doug  broke  me  in.  It  took  three  days 
for  me  to  learn  the  duties  of  a  blue-print 
boy.  After  five  days,  I  was  trusted  to 
run  the  machine  alone. 

The  blue-printing  machine  was  a  huge, 
steel,  humming  monster  with  rollers, 
switches,  handles,  and  gears  all  working 
together  to  guide  the  print  paper  under 
the  carbon  lights,  through  the  water, 
through  the  potash,  over  the  gas  driers, 
and  finall}^  under  the  cutting  shears. 
The  machinery  was  very  complicated 
and  needed  continuous  attention.  The 
company  used  such  a  large  supply  of 
prints  that  the  blue-printing  machine  had 
to  be  in  operation  twice  daily. 

Aly  first  day  to  make  a  "run"  alone 
came  soon  enough.  Doug  had  been  in- 
structing me  on  how  to  run  the  blue- 
print machine.  After  five  days  of  in- 
struction he  asked,  "Do  you  think  you 
can  run  it  alone  today,  Phillips?" 

"Guess  I  can." 

First,  I  had  to  collect  all  the  tracings 
that  were  to  be  printed.  Some  were 
standard  tracings  which  had  been  used 
for  making  prints  for  more  than  a 
quarter-century ;  others  were  fresh  from 
the  draftsmen's  pencil  points.  The  older 
tracings  had  to  be  hunted  in  the  files. 
The  new  tracings  had  to  be  gathered 
from  the  draftsmen.  The  office  boy 
brought  up  an  order  for  prints,  as  did  a 
stenographer  and  a  shop-helper. 


By  ten-thirty  in  the  morning  I  had 
collected  nearly  fifty  tracings,  which 
were  neatly  stacked  near  the  feeding 
rack  ready  for  printing.  I  heard  a  buz- 
zing sound  come  from  somewhere  (I 
had  been  taught  to  hear  the  difference 
between  the  chief  engineer's  buzz,  the 
chief  draftsman's  buzz,  the  stenogra- 
pher's buzz,  the  mail-chute  buzz,  and  the 
telephone  buzz).  The  buzz  sounded 
again  from  somewhere.  It  sounded  like 
the  mail-chute.  I  ran  over  to  the  chute — 
nothing  there.  The  chief  draftsman  was 
busy.  He  wouldn't  have  rung.  The 
stenographer  was  out.  I  surmised  it  was 
the  telephone,  which  had  already  been 
answered,  and  went  back  to  the  blue- 
print room.  There  was  the  chief  engi- 
neer with  his  hands  on  his  hips. 

"Didn't  you  hear  my  buzz?" 

Ouch! 

Soon  I  was  ready  to  start  the  machine. 

"Let  me  see  ;  which  switch  goes  first — 
oh,  yes,  this  one.  There  goes  the  motor. 
Now  switch  this  one.  No,  no,  that's  the 
electric  light  switch.  It  must  be  this  one. 
Ah !  the  rollers  are  turning.  Run  around 
to  the  back  of  the  machine  now  and  feed 
the  'leader'  through.  Paste  the  roll  of 
print  paper  to  it.  Turn  on  the  gas.  Open 
the  water  valve.  Turn  on  the  potash. 
Open  the  drains.  Anything  else?  No,  I 
guess  not.  What's  that  smell?  Oh  me, 
the  paper  is  burning;  I  turned  the  gas 
on  too  soon." 

A  tire  extinguisher  was  a  handy  thing 


[19] 


to  have  around  that  blue-printing 
machine. 

Ben  came  in  and  told  me  to  quit  stink- 
ing the  place  up. 

"Here  I  go  again.  Don't  light  the  gas 
now  until  the  paper  has  gone  through 
the  water  spray.  O.  K.,  snap  on  the  six 
carbon  lamps,  and  throw  in  the  gears. 

"This  first  tracing  is  O.  G.  17923,  and 
must  be  run  through  five  times  for  five 
prints.  Place  it  on  the  print  paper,  and 
feed  it  through  the  machine.  Careful, 
not  upside  down.  Mark  one  in  the  tablet 
for  O.  G.  17923.  Here  are  two  small 
tracings ;  feed  them  in  side  by  side  to 
save  paper.  ]\Iark  them  in  the  tablet. 
Next  feed  this  one,  mark  it ;  now  these 
two,  mark  them ;  and  then  this  one. 
What's  that  crackling  noise?  Look!  the 
leader  is  going  through  crooked.  Hurry 
and  straighten  it  before  it  tears,  or  you 
may  have  to  run  the  prints  all  over  again. 
Don't  waste  paper;  shove  a  tracing 
through.  Here  comes  O.  G.  17923.  It 
has  gone  through  once.  Send  it  through 
again,  and  mark  two  in  the  tablet.  Now 
you  can  turn  on  the  gas.  Hurry  so  you 
won't  waste  paper.  Where's  a  match? 
Don't  turn  it  up  too  high.  Run  back  and 
send  a  couple  more  prints  through." 

After  five  minutes,  the  first  print  had 
reached  the  shears  and  was  ready  to 
be  cut. 

"Cut  the  leader  off.  Run  around  the 
front  and  feed  in  some  tracings.  No ! 
not  O.  G.  17923;  it's  been  through  five 
times  already.  Too  late — it's  caught  in 
the  roll  now.  That's  wasting  prints ; 
don't  do  it  again." 

"I  guess  the  gas  is  not  hot  enough,  the 


prints  are  coming  out  damp.  Hey !  where 
are  the  prints?  The  paper  is  blank.  I 
must  have  forgotten  to  turn  on  the  jj 
potash.  No,  the  leader  went  under  the  ^ 
wrong  roll.  Hurry  and  do  something; 
don't  waste  paper.  That  carbon  lamp  is 
sputtering.  Catch  that  tracing;  it's  fall- 
ing to  the  floor.  I  smell  something  burn- 
ing. What  the  heck,  the  floor  is  wet ; 
the  water  tank  is  flooding  over.  Number 
five  light  is  going  out.   Oh !  oh  Doug." 

I  had  made  quite  a  mess  of  things. 
With  Doug's  help,  I  straightened  things 
up  and  completed  printing  before 
noon.  I  had  to  work  over  into  the  noon 
hour,  however,  in  order  to  distribute  the 
prints.  The  mailing  department  force 
had  to  stay  over  into  the  noon  hour  in 
order  to  mail  some  of  the  prints.  The 
shipping-room  men  had  a  fit.  The  chief 
engineer  had  to  stay  over  into  the  noon 
hour  because  of  an  air-mail  special-de- 
livery letter  which  had  to  be  mailed  im- 
mediately. The  janitor  had  to  mop  up 
the  floor,  and  the  electrician  had  to  fix 
the  number  five  lamp.  I  wasn't  making 
friends  very  fast.  Doug  said,  "You'll 
learn." 

I  did  learn  in  the  days  that  followed. 
At  first  I  lost  some  sleep  because  the 
job  worried  me,  but  I  soon  grew  ac- 
customed to  responsibilities.  After  I  had 
been  with  the  company  a  few  weeks,  my 
work  became  more  efficient.  I  learned 
how  to  make  the  maximum  number  of 
prints  in  a  minimum  amount  of  time. 
Sometimes  I  got  through  with  my  work 
so  soon  that  I  had  to  practice  the  art 
of  bluffing,  and  look  busy  even  though  I 
w  as  not. 


[201 


Golf 


Tom  Chittenden 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  7,  1937-1938 


GOLF  is  a  form  of  work  made  ex- 
pensive enough  for  business  men  to 
enjoy.  It  is  what  letter-carrying,  ditch- 
digging,  and  carpet-beating  would  be  if 
they  all  had  to  be  performed  on  the  same 
hot  afternoon.  This  is  the  impression 
of  golf  which  I  shall  carry  to  my  grave. 

One  July  afternoon  a  friend  dropped 
into  my  office,  supposedly  on  a  friendly 
visit,  and  proposed  playing  a  game  of 
golf.  I  didn't  realize  what  I  was  letting 
myself  in  for  when  I  assented.  The  de- 
sire to  see  just  what  mysterious  fasci- 
nation there  was  about  the  game  that 
made  men,  to  all  appearances  intelligent, 
desert  their  business,  neglect  their  wives, 
and  jeopardize  their  health,  was  too 
great  to  overcome. 

I  cannot  recall  any  other  experience 
in  my  life  so  vividly  as  that  first  game 
of  golf.  An  outsider  would  not  think 
that  such  an  apparently  simple  game 
could  be  so  difficult  and  fraught  with  so 
many  hidden  dangers.  The  game  is 
played  on  carefully  manicured  grass, 
with  little  white  balls  (elusive  as  quick- 
silver) and  as  many  clubs  as  the  player 
can  afford.  A  golf  course  has  eighteen 
holes,  seventeen  of  which  are  unneces- 
sary. I  think  they  are  put  in  just  to 
make  the  game  harder.  A  hole  is  a  tin 
cup  sunk  to  the  brim  in  a  green.  A  green 


is  a  small  parcel  of  grass  costing  about 
$1.65  a  blade,  and  usually  located  between 
a  brook  and  a  couple  of  apple  trees,  or 
a  lot  of  unfinished  excavation.  These 
things  are  called  hazards  by  the  profes- 
sional players  and  unprintable  things  by 
the  "run-of-the-mine"  golfers. 

The  idea  is  to  get  the  ball  from  a  given 
point,  called  a  tee  for  no  reason  at  all — 
I  often  wonder  who  named  the  parts  of 
a  golf  course;  some  inebriated  person  no 
doubt — into  each  of  the  eighteen  tin  cups 
with  the  fewest  number  of  strokes  and 
the  greatest  number  of  words.  The  ball 
must  not  be  thrown,  pushed,  or  carried. 
It  must  be  propelled  by  about  $200 
worth  of  curious  looking  implements, 
especially  designed  to  provoke  the  owner. 
Each  implement  has  a  specific  purpose, 
and  ultimately  some  golfers  get  to  know 
what  that  purpose  is. 

After  the  final,  or  eighteenth  hole,  the 
golfer  adds  up  his  score  and  stops  when 
he  reaches  87.  He  then  has  a  shower,  a 
pint  of  gin,  sings  "Sweet  Adeline"  with 
six  or  eight  other  liars,  and  calls  it  a 
perfect  day. 

There  you  have  the  great  game  of  golf 
as  I  found  it.  As  for  me,  I  shall  stay  in 
my  office  during  the  day  and  play  ping- 
pong  at  home  at  night  with  the  wife  and 
children.   It  saves  the  soul. 


[21] 


Percy  Grainger 


Clinton 

Rhetoric  II,  Them 

A  SHORT,  though  not  stocky,  rather 
foreign-looking  man  stepped  briskly 
to  the  rostrum.  He  unconsciously  ig- 
nored the  applause  which  greeted  him, 
like  one  who  is  boredly  accustomed  to  it, 
yet  he  did  not  intend  to  be  rude.  To  the 
young  musicians  who  anxiously  awaited 
his  first  words,  he  smiled  for  one  short 
instant.  Then  in  a  forced,  husky  voice. 
made  distinctive  by  a  strong  English 
accent,  he  said:  '"Good  morning,"  Such 
was  the  procedure  five  mornings  a  vveek 
last  summer  as  Mr.  Grainger  came  to 
the  stage  at  the  National  Music  Camp 
at  Interlochen,  Michigan,  to  conduct  the 
daily  informal  rehearsals  of  the  band, 
of  which  I  was  a  member. 

In  Grainger  there  is  no  outv.ard  sign 
of  the  great  artist  that  he  is.  His  appear- 
ance is  not  striking,  but  "different."  He 
might  easily  be  mistaken  for  an  ordinary 
member  of  the  laboring  class.  He  has 
thick,  bushy,  sandy-colored  hair,  through 
which,  despite  his  age,  the  graying 
streaks  can  hardly  be  distinguished.  His 
features  are  rugged:  there  is  no  hint 
of  delicacy  about  them.  A  ruddy  com- 
plexion set  oft"  by  his  sandy  hair,  his 
bushy  eyebrows,  his  twinkling,  deeply 
set  blue  eyes,  high  cheek  bones,  and 
prominent  nose  add  to  his  appearance 
of  ruggedness. 

During  his  eight  weeks'  stay  at  the 
summer  camp,  Mr.  Grainger  dressed 
always  in  the  informal  attire  customary 
at  such  a  place.  Most  of  the  time  he 
wore  the  dark  blue  corduroy  trousers 
and  the  light  blue  shirts  of  the  camp  uni- 
form. At  other  times  he  dressed  in 
light,   short-sleeved   shirts,  old  and   soft 


Cobb 

e  10,  1937-1938 

from  years  of  wear.  His  trousers  many 
times  were  old  and  of  a  homely  English 
style,  supported  by  an  old  leather  belt 
worn  several  inches  below  the  waist 
band.  Comfort,  not  convention,  gov- 
erned his  dress. 

During  the  first  few  weeks  of  our 
association  with  Mr.  Grainger,  we  were 
more  or  less  in  awe  of  this  great  artist. 
I  had  heard  of  this  man  since  I  was  a 
small  child.  One  of  the  first  piano 
pieces  I  learned  to  play  was  Country 
Gardens,  which  this  man  had  arranged 
and  published.  I  had  since  played  and 
heard  many  other  pieces  of  music  writ- 
ten by  him,  I  had  heard  him  as  a  solo 
pianist  with  great  symphony  orchestras 
over  the  radio,  I  had  seen  him  conduct, 
and  I  had  read  many  articles  about  him. 
My  impression  of  him  had  been  that 
he  was  a  great  genius,  possessed  of  a 
mind  the  inner  workings  of  which  would 
startle  the  average  scholar.  I  had  thought 
that  he  would  be  too  "great"  even  to 
talk  to  a  young  boy,  that  he  would  find 
it  impossible  even  to  converse  with  a 
person  such  as  I.  But  such  was  not 
Grainger, 

Although  at  times  he  wore  an  expres- 
sion of  one  unconcerned  with  what  was 
going  on  around  him,  or  of  one  in  deep 
thought,  a  casual  remark  made  by  him 
later  would  often  tell  us  that  he  was 
keenly  aware  of  his  surroundings.  Those 
intimately  acquainted  with  him  feel  that, 
were  it  not  a  social  impossibility,  he 
would  be  likely  to  invite  a  friendly 
road-mender  or  bus-conductor  to  a  din- 
ner party  attended  by  his  more  socially 
distinguished    friends.    As   we   grew   to 


[22] 


know  him,  we  found  him  very  lovable, 
big-hearted,    and   truly   democratic. 

I  have  noticed  that  if,  when  a  man 
was  introduced  to  him,  the  stranger  had 
some  interesting  comment  to  make, 
Grainger  was  always  ready  to  continue 
the  conversation.  But  he  never  took  the 
initiative  in  starting  it,  and  if  the  person 
had  nothing  to  say,  Grainger  would 
smile  congenially  and  move  on.  His  man- 
ners were  at  all  times  gracious  and 
pleasing.  His  whole  personality  was  that 
of  a  cultured,  congenial  gentleman. 
While  working  with  the  band  he  had  an 
attitude  of  genuine  kindness  and  ex- 
treme patience,  far  beyond  that  of  an 
average  person.  If  one  of  the  boys  was 
unable  to  play  a  certain  solo  part  in  the 
music  being  rehearsed,  Mr.  Grainger 
would  stop  the  band  and  sing  the  part 
a  couple  of  times,  or  if  a  piano  was 
handy,  he  would  play  the  part.  Some- 
times, when  the  group  could  not  seem 
to  get  the  feeling  of  the  music,  he  would 
tell  the  story  of  it,  or  do  a  little  jig  to 
demonstrate  the  dance  the  music  was 
to  portray.  At  other  times  he  would 
stamp  his  foot  as  loudly  as  possible 
while  clapping  his  hands  in  the  rhythm 
of  the  music.  From  his  long  career  as 
a  musician  he  could  draw  many  anec- 
dotes through  which  he  could  convey 
to  his  audience  the  point  he  had  in  mind. 

Mr.  Grainger,  in  his  daily  associations, 
is  straight- forward.  His  taste  for  the 
eminently  practical  is  shown  not  only  in 
his  methods  of  rehearsal,  his  relations 
with  other  people,  and  in  his  dress  and 
manners,  but  also  in  his  musical  com- 
positions and  arrangements.  Apparently 
following  his  instinct  to  be  straight- 
forward and  practical,  Grainger  scored 
his  music  in  his  own  language,  instead 
of  in  the  commonly  used  Italian  phrase- 
ology. Frequently  he  has  been  forced 
to  place  in  brackets,  after  his  own  in- 


terpretative suggestions,  the  Italian 
words  to  explain  the  slangy  obscurity 
of  his  English.  On  his  published  music 
may  be  seen  such  words  as  "bumpingly," 
"louden  lots,"  "hold  till  blown,"  and 
"dished  up  for  piano."  He  explains  the 
tempo  of  the  Irish  Tune  from  County 
Derry  thus:  "Slowish,  but  not  dragged, 
and  wayward  in  time."  At  other  places 
in  his  music  are  such  comments  as 
"linger  ever  so  slightly,"  or  "in  time, 
don't  drag,"  usually  followed  by  the 
Italian    terminolog}'. 

Still  more  interesting  are  the  titles 
of  some  of  his  pieces,  which  one  writer 
describes  as  the  "acme  of  antiartistic- 
ness."  Perhaps  the  most  antiartistic  of 
them  all  is  the  Arrival  Platform  Hiimlet, 
which  is  a  tune  one  hums  when  standing 
on  the  station  platform  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  a  train.  No  other  modern 
composer  has  so  let  himself  down  from 
the  stilted  customs  and  conventions  of 
the  nineteenth  century  classical  masters. 
And  perhaps  no  other  composer  has 
appealed  to  so  many  people  of  all  classes 
as  does  Grainger. 

Through  his  friendship  with  Edward 
Grieg,  who  had  a  great  interest  in  the 
folk  songs  of  Norway,  Grainger  was 
possibly  led  to  study  the  folk  songs  of 
his  native  race,  in  the  countries  of  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  Wales,  and  Ireland.  His 
arrangements  of  the  folk-songs  of  the 
Scottish  and  Irish  Highlanders  have 
long  been  favorites  of  people  all  over 
the  world.  These  songs  seem  to  be  an 
expression  of  the  "life"  or  spirit  of  these 
peoples.  In  recording  these  folk-songs 
Grainger  realized  what  he  was  trying 
to  do,  and  so  did  the  people  closely 
associated  with  him.  In  an  article  en- 
titled "The  Impress  of  Personality  in 
Unwritten  Music,"  he  told  the  following 
incident.  "H.  G.  Wells,  who  was  with 
me  on  a  'folk-son?  hunt'  in  Gloucester- 


[23] 


shire,  on  noticing  that  I  noted  down  not 
merely  the  music  and  dialect  details  of 
the  songs,  but  also  many  characteristic 
scraps  of  banter  that  passed  between  the 
old  agriculturalists  around  us,  once  said 
to  me:  'You  are  trying  to  record  life,' 
and  I  remember  the  whimsical,  almost 
wistful,  look  which  accompanied  the 
remark." 

He  has  been  unconventional  not  only 
in  the  scoring  of  his  works  but  in  their 
composition  as  well.  When  thirteen 
years  old,  Grainger  had  been  composing 
pieces  for  the  piano  for  some  time.  His 
earliest  works  were  influenced  by,  and 
written  somewhat  in  the  style  of,  Han- 
del. At  sixteen  years  of  age,  Grainger 
had  developed  a  style  of  his  own,  in- 
fluenced not  by  another  composer,  but 
by  a  man  of  letters,  Rudyard  Kipling. 
From  Kipling  he  received  inspiration 
for  a  great  deal  of  his  musical  compo- 
sition. €3^11  Scott  said  that  Grainger 
"becomes  Kipling  in  a  manner  which 
nobody  else  in  the  musical  arena  can 
approach." 

That  there  was  genius  in  this  young 
composer  became  apparent  when  he  used 
the  whole-tone  scale  long  before  he  had 
heard  of  Debussy,  w'ho  was  the  first  to 
make  it  well  known.  At  first  his  har- 
monies were  so  modern  that  they  were 
painful  to  the  ears  of  the  people  who  had 
not  yet  become  accustomed  to  such  mu- 
sic as  that  of  Debussy.  Of  Grainger 
it  has  been  said  that  he  did  not  trouble 
to  learn  the  rules  in  order  to  know  how 
to  break  them — he  merely  broke  them 
from  the  beginning.  The  unconventional 
new  harmony,  the  unique  scoring  w^hich 
bordered  on  vulgarity,  and  the  homely 
tunes  which  he  chose  to  use,  led  some 
people  to  doubt  his  talents  and  artistry. 
But  for  all  this  his  music  gained  great 
popularity.  It  has  been  said  that  "Grain- 
ger appeals  to  the  unmusical  as  Kipling 


appeals  to  the  illiterate.  '    His  composi- 
tions  are   not   limited  to  the   light   and 
frivolous    works    for    which    he   became 
especially  famous,  although  his  heavier,  _ 
more  meaty,  original  compositions  have  I 
suffered  in  popularity  because  of  them. 

The  nature  of  his  most  popular  music 
and  of  the  music  which  he  likes  most  to 
play  and  conduct  reflects  his  own  demo- 
cratic attitudes.  He  is  one  without  social 
prejudices.  He  likes  to  be  with  the  com- 
mon people  and  mingle  with  them.  He 
has  spent  weeks  at  a  time  on  hikes 
with  his  wife  through  the  Scottish  high- 
lands, living  with  the  people  and  re- 
cording their  music,  which  is  a  true  pic- 
ture of  their  life.  Another  characteristic 
which  shows  his  democratic  spirit  is  his 
scorn  of  affectation  and  pretense,  his  un- 
willingness to  pose.  This  last  character- 
istic sometimes  proves  embarrassing  tc 
his  friends.  As  C3Til  Scott  said,  "He 
did  not  know  w-hen  to  swerve  from  the 
path  of  his  natural  inclination  to  'pose^ 
at  the  right  moment." 

During  his  eight  weeks'  stay  at  Inter- 
lochen  last  summer,  we  who  were  at- 
tending the  camp  grew  to  like  him  foi 
his  unaffected  ways.  Early  in  the  morn- 
ing, as  we  would  pass  the  tennis  courts 
on  our  way  to  breakfast,  he  would  be 
awkwardly  swinging  a  tennis  racketj 
dressed  in  a  baggy  shirt  and  shorts 
which  reached  below  his  knobby  kneesj 
Instead  of  tennis  shoes  he  wore  huge 
hob-nailed  clod-hoppers,  probably  his 
hiking  shoes.  As  a  crowd  gathered  tc 
watch  this  amusing  scene,  he  seemec 
not  to  notice  them  or  an3rthing  unusuc 
about  the  garb  he  wore.  His  bathinj 
suit,  which  he  wore  with  equal  disregarc 
of  modern  convention,  was  of  the  vei 
peculiar  style  of  twenty-five  years  agoj 

Though  he  is  now  fifty-six  years  olc 
he  is  still  athletic.  Many  times  he  woulc 
come    running   out    of    the    hotel    afteJ 


[24] 


dinner  and  take  a  flying  leap  down  the 
five  or  six  steps  off  the  porch.  There, 
if  he  did  not  have  to  wait  for  his  wife, 
he  would  start  off  on  a  jerky  lope,  jump- 
ing over  a  bench  which  stood  in  his  way 
and  vaulting  a  fence  rather  than  using 
the  gate  a  foot  or  so  away.  It  was 
amusing  to  see  him  put  his  shoulder  to 
the  end  of  a  big  upright  piano,  only  a 
foot  or  so  above  the  floor,  and  shove 
with  all  his  might.  He  seemed  always 
to  be  moving  a  piano  to  some  other  part 
of  the  stage  and  usually  had  the  feat 
accomplished  alone  before  anyone  could 
get  to  him  to  help. 

When  the  whole  camp  went  to  the 
Cherry  Festival  in  Traverse  City,  Grain- 
ger went  along  and  marched  with  the 
band  in  the  big  parade.  He  was  to  be 
the  main  attraction  as  a  conductor  at 
a  concert  to  be  given  later  in  the  day, 


but  no  amount  of  persuasion  could  keep 
him  from  marching  ten  blocks  in  a  hot 
sun  and  carrying  a  saxophone  which  he 
played  very  artlessly.  Later  I  saw  him 
mingling  with  the  crowds,  laughing, 
drinking  pop,  and  enjoying  the  spirit 
of  the  festival  with  all  around  him. 

He  obeyed  all  rules  of  the  Camp, 
which  were  meant  especially  for  the 
young  people.  He  always  wore  a  white 
shirt  on  Sunday,  and  rubber-soled  shoes 
at  concerts,  just  as  we  were  all  required 
to  do.  He  ate  in  the  cafeteria  where  we 
ate,  refusing  the  service  of  the  dining 
room  reserved  for  the  faculty  members. 
Such  simple  actions  as  these  caused  the 
young  people  of  the  Camp  to  love  him, 
and  we  found  that  Grainger,  whom  we 
had  imagined  so  unapproachable,  was 
trulv  one  of  us. 


\ 


All's  Not  Well 

D.  Todd 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  5,  1937-1938 


X  TEXT  to  that  damned  milkman's  tap- 
^  ^  dancing  horse  (he  does  a  Suzy  Q 
down  South  Mathews  at  precisely  two 
a.m.)  my  pet  pique  is  with  the  clashing, 
unchiming  chimes  of  the  Law  building. 
Nothing  could  be  less  soothing  to  the 
freshman  whose  nerves  have  been  pulled 
taut  by  conflicting  "X's"  and  "Y's,"  with 
cosine  imps  and  tangent  devils  rolling 
each  brain  cell  in  a  barrel  of  trigo- 
nometric functions,  than  to  be  serenaded 
nightly,  just  as  relaxation  seems  near, 
with  the  crashing  "How  Dry  I  Am"  aria 
by  the  law  school  brasses.  Every  fifteen 
minutes  the  thing  has  a  partial  relapse 
and  drops  a  disconnected  measure  over 


the  campus,  whereupon  the  sleeper 
worries  himself  awake  trying  to  connect 
the  measure  to  some  song.  Those  bells 
have  probably  kept  more  students  awake 
than  the  professors  ever  will. 

Aside  from  its  insomnia-provoking 
qualities,  the  noisy  carillon  is  irritating 
in  other  ways.  The  best  that  can  be  said 
about  it  is  that  it  works  hard  and  long. 
The  notes  emanate  from  the  old  bells  as 
slowly  as  though  traditions  of  the 
funerals  for  which  their  ancestors  prob- 
ably tolled  have  induced  in  the  bells  an 
attitude  of  respectful  restraint.  "Auld 
Lang  Syne"  does  sound  like  a  hang- 
over  from   a   funeral   march,   especially 


[25] 


when  it's  played  on  the  occasion  of  our 
loss  of  the  homecoming  game.  But  I 
would  like  to  bribe  the  custodian  to 
swing  "St.  Louis  Blues."    Or  "Nola."' 

The  most  serious  indictment  facing 
the  offending  chime  (as  with  most 
criminals)  has  to  do  with  its  behaviour 
by  date.  Why  can't  the  thing  be  satis- 
fied with  a  union  dav,  or  at  least  a  stand- 


ard eight  hours  and  overtime  for  cur- 
few? After  midnight  such  nuisances 
should  be  suppressed.  It's  embarrassing, 
after  (jue  has  told  the  girl  friend  that  the 
night  is  yet  young,  to  be  contradicted 
by  millions  of  sound  waves  proving  to  J 
the  world  that  it's  three  a.m.  The  C.I.O.  ^ 
ought  to  do  something  about  this  inter- 
ference with  labor  rights. 


The  Privilege  of  Being  an  American 


Margery  Wilson 
Proficiency  Examination,  1938-1939 


XTOT  enough  propaganda  is  being 
■*•  ^  spread  these  days  on  Democracy  as 
America  is  carrying  it  out.  We  are  a 
people  who  are  essentially  superstitious, 
I  am  convinced.  W'e  go  about  crossing 
our  fingers,  knocking  on  wood,  so  afraid 
to  mention  any  of  our  blessings  for  fear 
they  won't  last.  If  we  were  not  afraid, 
how  \tvy  many  of  them  any  one  of  us 
could  hst !  The  obvious  ones — freedom 
of  speech,  opportunity  for  advancement, 
a  chance  to  make  our  political  opinions 
felt  at  the  polls,  relativel}^  low  taxes, 
food  of  good  quality — people  so  take 
these  for  granted  that  we  are  jeered  at 
for  even  mentioning  them.  Recently  I 
heard  a  speaker  mention  several  of  them 
to  his  audience.  He  was  a  foreigner  and 
was  congratulating  us  on  having  so  many 
things  for  which  to  thank  God.  The 
faces  of  the  audience  were  a  study  in 
mixed  emotions.  Their  "taking-it- for- 
granted"  Americanism  wanted  to  say  to 
their  neighbors,  "How  trite!"  But  down 
underneath,  their  latent  superstition  was 
urging  them  to  cross  their  fingers  or 
their  knees,  or  to  rap  furtively  on  wood 
because  all  might  disappear. 

No.    In  America  we  must  not  count 


our  many  blessings.    If  we  have  no  Ges-     : 
tapo  system,  say  nothing  about  it.    One     ■ 
might  rise  out  of  the  earth  and  envelop     ; 
us.    If  our  poor  are  slowly  and  surely 
being  discovered  and  redeemed  we  must    . 
not  call  attention  to  the   fact.    It  may    ' 
be  just  a  turn  of  the  wheel  of  fortune 
for  them.    If  we  have  no  leader  inciting 
us  to  war,  no  overpowering  military  ma- 
chines, no  unfriendly  nations  menacing 
our  borders,  why,  we're  in  luck,  but  the 
less  said  about  it  the  longer  the  situation 
is  likely  to  continue. 

W^e  need  people  in  this  country  to  tell 
us  over  and  over  that  it  has  not  been 
all  pure  luck.  Favorable  circumstances 
we  have  had  from  the  start.  But  behind 
those  and  working  them  to  best  advan- 
tage have  been  many  years  of  careful 
planning.  This  form  of  government  did 
not  grow  from  the  wilderness  by  itself. 
Someone  planned  it.  Someone,  gene- 
ration after  generation,  has  seen  that  it 
was  carried  out.  And  that  someone  is 
the  individual  American  who  knew  how 
he  wanted  to  live.  He  need  never  depend 
on  luck  or  chance  to  keep  him  living 
that  uay. 


26] 


Transition 


Robert  Gatewood 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  11.  1937-1928 


T  TE  LIVED  just  two  blocks  down  the 
■^  *  street — red-haired,  thin,  freckled, 
with  eyes  that  bespoke  a  grim  deter- 
mination. He  was  several  years  older 
than  I,  and  had  graduated  from  high 
school  before  I  entered.  I  heard  about 
him,  a  boy  with  a  deep  artistic  sense.  I 
determined  to  follow  him ;  I  would  be 
his  disciple  in  an  aesthetic  way.  He 
struggled  ahead,  searching  the  great  in- 
stitutions of  learning  for  that  which 
would  give  his  work  finesse — to  the  Chi- 
cago Art  Institute,  where  he  drew  over- 
proportioned  figures  with  large  biceps, 
flabby  breasts,  and  firm  unclassic  stature, 
and  was  reprimanded  in  his  anatomy 
class ;  to  the  Yale  School  of  Fine  Arts 
where  the  Beaux  Arts  Institute  bestowed 
prizes  on  him  for  fairy  tale  interpreta- 
tions, sympathetic  with  tradition.  But 
when  he  threw  tradition  into  the  fire 
and  from  the  smoldering  ashes  molded 
an  individual  interpretation  of  what  he 
saw,  he  was  immediately  censured. 
Then  he  became  interested  in  a  visiting 
professor,  Eugene  Savage,  who  did  not 
admonish  him  for  his  rebellious  beliefs 
on  contour  of  human  form.  When  the 
artist-professor  was  commissioned  to 
design  and  execute  the  Buffalo  Memo- 
rial Fountain,  and  left  the  school,  the 
student,  ever  searching  for  the  truth  in 
art,  packed  up  his  baggage  and  traveled 
posthaste  to  Buffalo. 

In  the  interim  between  his  entering 
the  Institute  and  his  exodus  from  Yale, 
I  was  in  high  school,  interested  in  art 
and  writing.  I  painted  frivolously,  in- 
exact, pretty  calendulas  in  a  blue  vase, 
an    old    pottery   pitcher    against    a    thin 


veil  and  green  velvet.  Flowers  were 
brought  to  be  arranged ;  flowers  were 
arranged  pursuant  to  the  standards ; 
flowers  were  painted  according  to  those 
standards.  My  pieces  were  shown  in  ex- 
hibitions where  fat  ladies,  and  little 
children  with  lollypops  would  gather 
and  chatter  incoherently,  where  slender 
ladies  with  lorgnettes  gazed  haughtily 
and  discussed  museum  pieces  like  con- 
noisseurs, only  the  pieces  and  their  re- 
spective authors  were  more  than  once 
confused — an  eighteenth  century  babble 
in  a  modern  show.  The  society  pages 
of  the  dailies  camouflaged  the  pictures 
with  pretty  words.  (\V'ho  said  the  so- 
ciety editor  wasn't  an  art  critic ;  didn't 
she  describe  the  gowns  at  the  Charity 
Ball?) 

I  steadily  became  sick  of  such  crowds. 
I  wanted  freedom.  Should  I  stick  for- 
ever to  these  standards?  Would  I  be 
content  to  paint  conventional  pictures 
and  write  conventional  stories?  Could  I 
live  in  the  twentieth  century  and  paint 
sixteenth  century?  Was  I  proud  of  my 
paintings  that  hung  on  the  wall,  or  was 
there  something  greater? 

Years  passed.  The  student  was  still 
struggling  for  recognition,  and  I  was 
still  just  friendly  with  him.  Then  he 
went  to  Mexico  and  there  studied  under 
Diego  Rivera.  Later  he  returned  to 
paint  a  mural  in  a  local  high  school. 

I  went  to  see  him.  I  was  searching 
for  a  new  outlook  on  art  and  life.  I  was 
disappointed  vrith  that  life  I  had  seen 
and  was  thirsting  for  a  more  satisfying 
one. 

I  learned  from  him  that  all  art  should 


[27] 


flow  upward  from  the  people ;  there  is 
useless  money  thrown  into  museums. 
Art  is  an  embodiment  of  a  spirit  and 
should  tell  a  story  of  suffering,  derision, 
scorn,  and  exaltation.  It  should  be  joy- 
ous when  the  people  are  joyous.  It 
should  teach  the  horrors  of  war — the 
grim  battlefield  with  its  slaughtered 
flesh  and  its  stinking,  rotting  blood.  The 
whole  gory  mess  should  be  translated 
into  clashing  bayonets  of  yellow  pig- 
ment held  in  thin  skeleton-like  hands 
and  controlled  by  a  thing  without  body, 
without  form,  but  with  such  qualities 
that  those  who  look  upon  it  feel  a  swift, 
chilled  breath  of  air  strike  their  cheeks, 
feel  a  guilty  yellow  streak  climb  their 
spines,  and  feel  little  beads  of  perspira- 
tion form  on  their  foreheads. 

Make  it  powerful.  Make  the  critic 
cringe;  make  his  hands  tremble  as  he 
fears  to  clench  them.  Make  the  patriot, 
in  humility,  feel  the  sting  of  swift  bul- 
lets, the  sharp  point  of  a  blade;  give  to 
all  of  them  the  deafening  clash,  the  in- 
glorious end.  Paint  in  blood  if  necessary 
— but  paint  so  terrifyingly  that  anyone 
will  get  the  meaning  of  such  a  message. 

That  afternoon  my  ideas  of  art  and 
writing  changed.  Instead  of  writing 
Booth  Tarkingtonish,  I  would  write 
powerfully,  perhaps,  as  Dreiser  or  Hem- 
ingway. I  would  not  write  mere  words. 
T  would  live ;  I  would  pour  out  my  soul 


fully;  I  would  write  of  feelings,  not  of 
persons.  I  would  work — work — work 
and  eventually,  perhaps,  my  feelings 
would  be  felt  by  others. 

A  letter  from  this  artist  I  here  quote 
in  part: 

"Work  your  way  through  Harvard. 
Such  are  the  only  people  whose  work 
has  guts. 

"Get  interested  in  proletarian  litera- 
ture. It  is  the  only  thing  living  today — 
and  learn  something  about  the  coming 
revolutionary  writers." 

I  have  talked  with  him  since,  and 
every  time  I  receive  more  that  is  good 
to  live  by.  Every  chance  I  get  I  shall 
go  to  view  his  works,  for  he  forces  one 
to  believe  what  seems  hard  to  believe. 

}kly  frivolous  flowers  die  under  the 
tramping  feet  of  soldiers  and  lie  on  a 
barbed-wire-entangled  field,  without 
power  to  say  they  have  lived.  One 
single  leaf  on  a  single  tw-ig  is  placed  in  a 
mural ;  a  huge  boulder  approaches  men- 
acingl}'  and  all  that  is  left  of  humanity 
seems  deserted,  lonely,  and  doomed  to 
be  wiped  from  the  slender  ledge  of  hope 
and  cast  forever  into  the  canyon  of 
nothingness. 

My  opinion  has  been  changed  con- 
cerning propriety  in  art:  the  stilted,  the 
insignificant  has  become  the  alive,  all- 
powerful  presentation. 


1 


Steel  Mill 

He  leaps  back,  and  from  the  spout  rushes  forth  a  substance  that  looks  like  liquid 
light.   It  falls  into  a  ladle  with  a  terrifying  "splunch." 

As  the  ingots  pass  through  the  yards  at  night,  they  are  impressive  things,  look- 
ing like  bloody  tombstones. — Willum  V.  Colbert 


[28] 


Behind  the  Big  Top 

Betty  Jo  Donahue 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  15,  1937-1928 


LA-DEEZ  and  gen-teel-men — I  give 
you — The  Greatest  Show  on 
Earth  ! ! !"  The  ringmaster  gracefully  re- 
treats. The  roll  of  the  drum!  The  blast 
of  the  band !    The  show  is  on ! 

Everybody  loves  the  circus.  From 
freckle- faced  Johnny,  who  sits  three 
hours  with  wide  eyes  and  a  dangling 
jaw,  to  Felix  Farmer  who  punctuates 
each  act  with  a  murmured  "Gosh,"  they 
love  it.  But  few  people  know  the  circus 
for  what  it  is.  To  most  people  the  circus 
is  a  shell  of  glittering  tinsel ;  they  fail  to 
appreciate  that,  behind  the  scenes,  it  is 
an  efficient  business  with  a  definite  eco- 
nomic technique,  the  success  of  which 
might  prove  a  good  example  to  many 
business  men. 

The  average  fan's  reaction  is  "if  people 
can  do  things  like  that,  they  aren't  like 
you  and  me."  The  graceful  aerial  ar- 
tists waft  through  the  air  with  twists 
and  turns  like  mysterious  winged  ghosts. 
To  the  audience  below,  they  are  like 
fairies.  When  the  animal  trainer  defies 
death  and  danger  to  compel  the  jungle 
kings  to  perform,  gasps  of  terror  choke 
the  crowd.  Here,  too,  admiration  of 
his  skill  is  lost  in  calm  acceptance  of  the 
fact  that  "they  are  different."  Even  the 
clowns  are  regarded  as  unreal.  The 
children  roar  with  laughter  at  their  every 
antic,  and  their  elders  join  them  in  ap- 
plause. But  the  audience  regards  the 
clowns  as  it  does  the  other  performers 
— as  puppets  appearing  for  a  brief  time 
to  perform  their  bits  and  then  to  vanish 
until  next  time  their  act  is  on.  It  is 
human  nature  to  love  the  glitter  and  to 
applaud  the  excitement — but  not  to  see 
beyond  the  spangles ! 


Behind  the  scenes,  the  circus  is  a 
practical  business  and,  in  population,  a 
traveling  city.  In  the  season  of  1936  the 
personnel  department  of  Ringling  Bro- 
thers and  Barnum  and  Bailey  Combined 
Circus  was  responsible  for  the  welfare 
of  1,608  employees,  897  of  whom  were 
the  actual  performers.  They  traveled 
16,370  miles  in  218  days,  visiting 
137  cities  in  thirty  states  for  394 
performances.^ 

Naturally,  to  supply  comforts  for  this 
enormous  caravan  was  not  only  a  tre- 
mendous task  but  an  expensive  one.  In 
S3^stem  and  in  expense,  the  food  problem 
was  complicated.  The  cook  tent  arrives 
in  an  exhibition  stand  before  dawn,  and, 
at  3:30  a.m.,  it  is  being  unloaded  from 
the  seventy-foot  steel  railroad  cars. 
Within  a  very  few  minutes,  the  tents 
are  up,  the  chef  and  helpers  are  busy  at 
the  ranges  and  steam  tables,  and  the 
odor  of  steak,  bacon  and  eggs,  coflfee, 
and  oranges  or  melons  is  arising  on  the 
morning  air.  Half  of  the  tent  will  be 
given  over  to  the  hundreds  of  working 
men  or  "roustabouts,"  who  drive  the 
teams,  raise  the  canvas,  and  "plan  out" 
the  lot.  The  other  half  of  the  dining 
tent  is  for  the  stafif  and  performers. 
The  two  are  separated  by  a  canvas  drop. 
Flanking  this  dining  tent,  in  which  1,608 
people  are  served,  is  the  kitchen.  Here 
seventy-four  waiters  and  chefs  function. 
Every  person  of  the  big  show  has  the 
privilege  of  ordering  from  a  variety  of 
foods.  Each  has  an  assigned  seat  at  a 
table.  Families  and  acts  sit  together. 
The   side-show  people  have   a  place  to 

^Ringling  Brothers  Circus  Statistics,  1936, 
p.  62. 


[29] 


themselves.  Small  talk  and  shop  talk 
prevail.  Circus  people,  while  cheerful 
and  courteous  at  table,  are  not  picnick- 
ing. They  eat  as  if  they  were  in  their 
own  homes.  This  is  their  home.  The 
waiters  are  attentive  and  clean ;  they 
are  tipped  at  each  week-end.  A  maitre 
d'  hotel  moves  about  as  in  any  select 
dining  room.  Nothing  is  second-rate, 
and  everything  is  in  season — fresh  food 
for  sixteen  hundred  meals  three  times 
a  day.  The  steward's  list  includes  daily: 
226  dozen  eggs,  2,470  pounds  of  meat, 
2,220  loaves  of  bread,  285  pounds  of 
butter,  30  gallons  of  milk,  1,800  pounds 
of  vegetables,  200  pounds  of  coffee  or 
tea,  110  dozen  oranges,  2  barrels  of 
sugar,  36  bags  of  table  salt,  50  bushels 
of  potatoes,  3,600  ears  of  sweet  corn, 
350  pounds  of  salad,  and  crates  of  car- 
rots, bananas,  etc."  Contracting  agents, 
five  or  six  weeks  ahead  of  the  show, 
look  after  ordering  locally.  The  steward 
is  responsible  for  fresh  supplies.  The 
last  meal  of  the  day  is  served  from 
4:00  to  5:30  p.m.  for,  after  that,  the 
tent  is  razed,  loaded  into  its  wagons, 
and  hauled  to  the  runs,  where  it  is 
again  ramped  up  on  the  flat  cars  of  the 
first  section.  Breakfast  tomorrow  will 
probably  be  served  in  another  state, 
some  140  miles  away.  So  efficient  is  this 
teamwork  that  the  German  general  staff 
studied  it  to  revolutionize  its  troop  move- 
ments, and  the  shelter  and  feeding  of 
troops  in  the  field.^ 

Transportation  is  second  in  complex- 
ity and  expense.  There  is  great  dis- 
tinction in  the  circus  world  between 
"rail"  shows  and  ignoble  "wagon"  shows. 
The  larger  circuses  all  employ  railroad 
service.  In  1936,  forty  railroads  were 
used  to  transport  the  four  railroad 
trains  of  Ringling's  16,370  miles.  The 
longest    run   of   the   season    was    Great 


Bend,  Kansas,  to  Denver,  Colorado, — 
a  distance  of  454  miles ;  and  the  shortest 
run  was  from  one  corner  to  another 
corner  in  Detroit,  ten  miles  away.  There 
were  119  one-day  stands,  and  one  twen- 
ty-five day  stand  in  New  York  City.* 
Each  family  boasts  its  own  car,  and 
acts,  if  possible,  share  one.  Meml^ers 
of  the  caravan  are  transported  by  one 
steam  engine,  and  are  free  to  use  any 
of  the  club  cars  strewn  throughout 
the  train.  Advance  men  or  general 
agents  contract  for  each  run  months 
before  time.  Now,  in  the  month  of  May, 
1938,  contracts  are  complete  for  1939  and 
w^ell  under  way  for  the  spring  of  1940. 
In  their  car,  performers  are  free  to 
decorate  as  they  please.  It  is  their  home 
and  their  castle.  In  their  sleeping  quar- 
ters, as  in  their  eating  quarters,  every 
effort  is  put  forth  to  afford  them  com- 
fort and  convenience.  In  both  it  is 
a  practical  routine  which  provides 
efficiency. 

American  business  men  might  study 
the  circus  economic  technique  with 
profit.  In  1929,  the  depression  hit  nation- 
wide organizations — and  it  hit  them 
hard.  But  the  Big  Top  took  it  on  the 
chin  and  came  through  smiling.  Early 
in  the  spring,  business  got  the  jitters, 
trade  fell  off,  advertising  almost  ceased, 
and  sales  efforts  were  curtailed.  It  was 
a  period  in  which  the  wolf  at  the  door 
opened  it  and  came  right  in.  With  over- 
flowing bread  lines  and  too  frequent  pay 
cuts,  American  budgets  had  to  be  slashed, 
and  the  first  to  suffer  was  the  entertain- 
ment budget.  Occasional  movies  were 
treats,  and  circuses  became  a  luxury. 
They  were  the  first  to  feel  the  dollar's 

"Butler,   Samuel,  Hotel  Ringling,  p.  93. 

'Hagenback-Wallace,  Circus  Nezvs  and 
World,  July  12,  1937. 

*Ringling  Brothers  Circus  Statistics,  1937, 
p.  12. 


[30] 


tightening.  It  cost  as  much  for  the  en- 
tire family  to  see  a  circus  as  it  would 
for  a  good  meal — and  good  meals  were 
might}'  scarce.  From  their  side  of  the 
fence,  circus  heads  found  it  impossible 
to  slash  prices.  In  desperation,  managers 
were  forced  to  seek  "gold  where  they 
could  find  it."  It  was  their  business 
to  find  the  spots  where  people  had  money 
to  spend,  to  route  the  show  into  those 
spots,  and  to  avoid  the  communities 
where  money  was  tight.  They  did  not 
await  the  dictum  of  some  armchair  eco- 
nomist, who  said  conditions  were  going 
to  be  bad,  and  Podunk  would  not  be  in 
the  market  for  refrigerators,  shoes,  or 
circuses.  The  agents  dropped  into  Po- 
dunk in  person  to  find  out.  They  fever- 
ishly studied  crop  production,  and,  for 
the  first  time  in  years,  the  really  big 
shows  "hit"  the  sticks.  It  was  sheer 
desperation,  but  by  radical  methods  they 
weathered  the  depression.  When  others 
cut  advertising,  they  increased  20%. 
They  made  the  public  see  some  amuse- 
ment as  a  necessity;  and  then  they  said 
the  circus  was  that  amusement.  One 
ingenious  agent  even  secured  the  opinion 
of  an  eminent  psychologist  that  the  cir- 
cus was  an  excellent  insurance  against 
depression  discouragement,  and  then 
blasted  this  expert's  statement  over  the 
country.^  Their  success  was  measured 
by  the  fact  that  four  or  five  years  ago 
there  were  but  three  major  circuses 
touring  the  country.  The  biggest  of 
them  was  heavily  mortgaged  to  the 
bankers ;  the  others  were  frequently  one 
jump  ahead  of  the  sheriff.  Last  year, 
five  railroad  shows  "put  out."  They  all 
made  money.' 


"But,"  says  the  business  man,  "the 
circus  is  different."  Yes,  it  is  different. 
It  is  up  against  keener  competition  and 
greater  hazards  than  most  businesses 
could  endure.  Every  day  it  has  to  con- 
tend with  apparently  insurmountable 
obstacles  and  weather  conditions.  Nearly 
every  night  it  must  tear  down  its  gigan- 
tic plant,  load  it,  and  transport  it.  Nearly 
every  morning  it  must  rebuild  on  another 
lot  miles  away.  The  average  business 
man  may  think  he  is  beset  with  manifold 
difficulties,  but  he  "don't  know  nuthin'  " 
about  difficulties  unless  he  is  in  the  cir- 
cus business — and  too  often  he  doesn't 
know  about  the  circus  as  a  business. 

Too  often,  the  circus  is  a  glamorous, 
exciting  unreality  with  a  vague  back- 
ground. Too  often,  the  performers  are 
puppets — talented  puppets,  but  not  folks 
like  "you  and  me."  Too  often,  it  is  ig- 
nored that  the  circus  general  agents  are 
the  best  practical  economists  of  today. 
Too  often,  all  John  Public  thinks  of  as 
the  circus  is  the  barker's  "La-deez  and 
gen-teel-men — I  give  you — The  Greatest 
Show  On  Earth!!!" 


Tellow,  William  Dexter,  Mv  Life,  1936. 
p.  362. 

'Cooper,  Courtney  Riley,  Big  Top,  1934, 
p.  108. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Butler,  Samuel,  Hotel  Ringling,  Ginn  and  Co., 

1936. 
Cooper,  Courtney  Riley,  Big  Top,  D.  C.  Heath 

and  Co.,  1934. 
Chicago    Daily    News,    "Spring;    It's    Circus 

Time,"  April  9,  1937,  p.  32. 
Fellows,  William  Dexter,  My  Life,  Doubleday- 

Doran,  1936. 
Hagenback-Wallace  Circus,  Circus  News  and 

World,  July  12,  1937. 
Ringling  Brothers  Circus  Statistics,  1937-38. 


[31] 


Rhet.  as  Writ 


(Extracts  from  theiucs  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


The  localism  of  the  banks  broke  down 
into  a  national  scale. 

The  cards  in  a  card  index  are  usually 
catalogued  according  to  the  disimal  sys- 
tem, the  aphibedical  system  or  both. 

I  had  been  looking  forward  to  the 
time  when  I  w^ould  be  allowed  to  take 
Civics  for  a  long  time. 

•  •  •  • 

The  room  is  divided  by  three  aisles ; 
one  horizontally  and  two  vertically. 

At  this  time  practically  every  home 
has  a  radio  or  phonograph  or  can  go  to 
the  movies. 

•  •  •  « 

Our  library  contains  two  unabridged 
and  several  bridged  dictionaries. 

•  *  •  • 

Our  library  also  needs  some  equipment 
for  those  who  go  to  the  library  to  seek 
knowledge  on  which  to  seat  themselves 
comfortably. 

My  legs,  feet,  and  arms  were  numb 
from  standing  on  them  all  day. 

From  the  soap  boxes  of  Washington 
Square,  from  the  picnic  grounds  of  the 
Middle  West,  from  wheat  fields  and 
orchards,  from  brothels  and  seminaries, 
America  today  is  wondering. 


interments  were  not  as  fine  as  we  have 
today  but  they  made  music  which  every- 
one enjoyed.  On  holidays  the  people 
would  come  into  to  town  from  the  near 
by  farm  and  a  big  time  was  had,  games 
of  different  types  were  played,  contests 
of  various  kinds  were  held,  and  folk 
dancing,  along  with  many  other  things. 
People  who  lived  far  from  a  town  could 
not  go  or  bad  roads  kept  them  home, 
later  the  radio  w^as  invented  and  now 
they  have  them  to  such  a  high  degree 
of  perfection  that  one  may  listen  to 
your  radio  in  a  car. 

•  •  •  • 

Numerous  charts,  grafts,  diagrams, 
and  the  like  were  to  be  found  in  our 
library.  Our  library  was  equipped  with 
efficient  librarians. 

•  •  •  • 

Vulnerable  means  unerring  and  is  used 
with  names  of  religious  persons  as  "The 
Vulnerable  Cardinal  Mundelein,"  etc. 

•  •  •  • 

The  Hebrews  follow  the  Ten  Conda- 
ments. 

•  •  •  • 

How  could  I  have  a  good  time  run- 
ning around  the  picnic  grounds  and 
looking  like  an  Egyptian  dummy? 

During  the  fourth  semester  I  began 
the  peculiar  chanting,  specifically,  known 
as  the  scanting  of  poetry. 


A  girl  that  has  all  the  ensembles  she 
could  ask  for,  and  isn't  careful  about 
her  personnel,  might  as  well  have  none. 

Let  us  go  back  to  the  beginning  of 
our  country  and  we  shall  find  that  they 
had    many    musical    interments.     These 


The  house  and  yard  was  full  of  people, 
both  relatives  and  friends. 

I  and  my  companion  carefully  notched 
our  arrows  and  then  bent  our  bows. 
What  if  we  did  not  kill  him  with  our 
first  shouts? 


[32] 


??:•■ 


Honorable  Mention 

Lack  of  space  prevents  the  publishing  of  excellent  themes  written  by 
the  following  students.  Some  of  these  themes  may  be  published,  in  part 
or  in  entirety,  in  future  issues. 


Eleanor  Anderson 
Elizabeth  Baker 
Elton  Berry 
B.  Bourgeois 
James  Bumgarner 
Bill  Case 
John  Davis 
Eleanor  Ewing 
Paul  Foxman 
Clarence  Glenn 
Bill  Guyton 
Carl  Halbak 
Donald  Haney 
Joe  Hedge 
Dorothy  Koenig 

LyDIA  KllRKPATRICK 

Arthur  Lehde 
June  Markert 


Wayne  Moore 
John  R.  Mueller 
Logan  Muir 
Robert  Nagel 
Hideo  Niiyama 
Woodrow  Patton 
William  Petersen 
H.  W.  Reusch 
Magdalene  Schoone 
Wolfgang  Schubert 
Janet  Smaltz 
F.  H.  Starr 
Bernice  Swerinsky 
A.  C.  Thomas 
Virginia  Whitton 
Roberta  Wilson 
W.  C.  Wolf 


'i'Z 


Vol.8 


DECEMBER,  1938 


No.  2 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

TONY    WADDELL 1 

Logan  Muir 

I    SAW    YOU 2 

Pearl  Jean  Cohen 

"THE     UNIVERSE     OF    LIGHT"     by    Sir    William 

H.     Bragg S 

Anonymous 

A  NIGHT  OF  SWING 6 

Allen  Cannon 

THE  MUSCLE  GRIND 8 

Raymond  Cesalctti 

I  AM  AN  ANTI-ANTIVIVISECTIONIST   ....       9 
Anonymous 

HARD    LESSON 10 

K.   L.   Compton 

ONLY    THE    LUCKIEST    SURVIVE U 

David  Mosiman 

MEN     AND    ANTS 13 

Charles  A.   Roberts 

A    HUMAN    BUSINESS    MAN 14 

Arlie  Parker 

SKETCH    BOOK 16 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

HERONRY Ig 

D.  B.  Agnew 

HIGH   FUN 19 

O.  Balchen 

ON  WORKING  ONE'S  WAY  THROUGH  COLLEGE     22 
John  Olson 

OPEN  YOUR  MOUTH 24 

W.  C.  Wolf 

OUCH  I 26 

H.  W.  Reusch 

A  MATTER  OF  CONSCIENCE 27 

William  J.   Furbish 

ENLIGHTENMENT 29 

Bernice  Swerinsky 

RHET.     AS     WRIT 32 

(Extracts  from  themes  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


^^^-LAM 


( 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  RHETORIC  STAFF,  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS,  URBANA 


JLhe  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staif  at  the  University  of  IlUnois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
])ublished  anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  however, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Mr.  E.  G.  Ballard,  Mr.  Charles 
Shattuck,  Mr.  Walter  Johnson,  Mr.  Stephen 
Fogle,  and  Mr.  Charles  W.  Roberts,  Chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building  West,  Urbana,  Illinois. 


Tony  Waddell 


Logan  Muir 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  13,  1937-1938 


(To  the  Dean  of  Men) 

pvEAR  SIR: 

With  this  letter  I  wish  to  intro- 
duce Anton  Waddell,  one  of  our  gradu- 
ates of  last  semester.  I  was  Tony's  Eng- 
lish instructor  during  his  senior  year  in 
Maklin  High  School,  and  because  of  this 
contact  I  believe  my  understanding  of 
him  is  correct. 

Tony  is  an  easy-going,  gentle  boy  with 
an  honest  love  for  beauty  in  nature, 
music,  and  art.  A  tendency  toward 
tardiness,  procrastination,  and  "dreami- 
ness" is  merely  the  outward  manifesta- 
tion of  a  bona  fide  creative  ability.  He 
has  an  undeniably  attractive  and  half- 
humorous  manner  of  expression  both  in 
his  speech  and  in  his  written  work.  His 
work  as  a  member  of  our  poetry  club 
and  his  drawings  for  our  year  book  are 
proofs  of  his  ability.  Last  semester  he 
composed  a  song  which,  while  never 
completed,  was  not  inharmonious.  Here 
is  a  boy  who,  with  proper  understanding 
and  sympathy,  should  go  far.  God  speed 
him ! 

Sincerely  yours, 

Cecelia  Watts 


(From  his  roommate) 

....  and.  Ma,  this  roommate  of  mine 
is  the  limit.  The  other  chaps  in  the 
house  are  more  than  anxious  to  take  him 
apart  to  see  what  makes  him  do  the 
things  he  does.  On  St.  Valentine's  day, 
he  had  no  money  to  buy  flowers  for  his 
girl,  so  the  boys  said  they  would  give 
him  a  dollar  and  a  half  in  advance  if  he 
would  walk  downtown  and  around  the 
main  block  in  his  pajamas.    And  he  did 


it!  The  night  before  last  the  boys  tried 
to  put  some  ice  down  his  back,  but  he 
scurried  up  a  tree — took  to  the  tall  tim- 
ber, as  it  were — and  stayed  there  for  two 
hours.  When  he  came  back  he  had  writ- 
ten quite  a  number  of  poems  in  his 
pocket  notebook.  He  is  forever  going 
about  in  a  daze,  and  is  apparently  quite 
thoughtless  of  the  other  fellows.  He 
will  leave  the  hot  water  running  till  it 
is  all  gone;  he  sings  and  whistles  late 
at  night  and  early  in  the  morning;  he 
kicks  open  doors  so  as  not  to  get  germs 
on  his  hands ;  and  he  slams  them  shut 
again  with  his  foot.  I  really  like  the 
kid  and  I  try  to  straighten  him  out,  but 
he  just  forgets  everything  I  tell  him. 
Well,  Ma,  guess  I'll  try  to  get  some  rest 
now.    So  long,  and  love  to  you  and  all 

the  family.  Charlie 

•       •       •       • 

(To  a  friend  in  the  college  town; 

....  And  as  Tony's  mother,  I  am  quite 
worried  about  his  being  away  from 
home.  I  am  somewhat  consoled  by  the 
fact  that  his  association  with  other  boys 
will  be  profitable,  but  I  am  frightened  to 
think  they  will  be  a  little  hurtful.  Tony's 
father  died,  you  know,  when  he  was  six 
years  old,  and  while  I  have  done  every- 
thing I  could  to  teach  him  and  bring  him 
up,  I  do  realize  that  he  lacks  a  father's 
strong,  strict  love  and  influence.  I  know 
Anton  Waddell  would  have  supplied  just 
that.    Oh,  God  bless  them  both! 

Won't  you  please  drop  in  and  see  me 
the  moment  you  arrive  in  town?  Noth- 
ing would  make  me  happier  right  now 
than  to  see  you  again. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Ruth  Waddell 


[  1  ] 


I  Saw  You 


Pearl  Jean  Cohen 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  6,  1937-1938 


FROM  the  flunker  to  the  five  pointer, 
from  the  ambitious  student  who  is 
working  his  way  through  college  to  the 
indolent  one  whose  father  is  working 
his  way  through  college,  from  the 
chunk}',  breezy  "I"  athlete  to  the  frail, 
plugging  Greek  scholar,  from  the  crudest 
to  the  finest — all  come  to  the  library  at 
one  time  or  another.  Surprisingly,  these 
thousands  of  library  users  lose  the  classi- 
fication of  stupid  or  brilliant,  rich  or 
poor,  ambitious  or  lazy,  crude  or  fine, 
and  resolve  themselves  into  compara- 
tively few  types  with  entirely  different 
standards.  How  Moliere  or  Dickens 
would  have  reveled  in  this  "Grand 
Hotel"  of  material  for  caricature  that 
they  provide ! 

Of  them  all  Mohere  would  have  had 
the  jolliest  time  making  the  dude  meat 
for  his  hungry  pen.  At  ten  of  ten,  after 
a  peaceful,  unruffled  sleep,  brisk  shower, 
invigorating  breakfast,  complimentary 
study  in  the  mirror,  and  a  short  walk  to 
the  library,  he  swings  out  upon  his  social 
round  of  the  day.  A  fashion  editor,  ac- 
customed to  writing  for  feminine  con- 
sumption, would  run  an  account  of  the 
promenade  like  this: 

"For  the  occasion,  Mr. chose 

a  sport  outfit  of  precise  casualness,  using 
brown  as  his  basic  color.  His  soft 
brushed  moccasins  were  of  buck.  As  he 
sauntered  along  one  caught  sight  of 
checked  wool  socks,  adding  just  that 
touch  of  forest  colors  so  fashionable  this 
season.  Topping  perfectly  creased  gab- 
ardine slacks  was  a  tweed  jacket  of  non- 
chalant cut.  Arrow's  prize  morning 
shirt,  a  tie  in  harmony  with  the  socks, 


a  sack  topcoat,  and  a  porkpie  hat  com- 
pleted his  outfit." 

As  he  approaches  he  scans  the 
gathered  human  props,  considering  with 
which  smoker  he  should  light  in.  Pass- 
ing one  group  to  answer  the  beckoning 
of  another,  he  comments,  "Out  to  class 
so  earl}^  Just  a  slave  to  your  better 
half,  eh?" 

To  a  thirty-niner's  subtle  request, 
"Say,  can  I  borrow  you  for  my  magazine 
rack?  I  didn't  buy  my  copy  of  Esquire 
this  month,"  he  has  no  answer  except 
to  move  to  a  more  appreciative,  feminine 
audience.  After  circulating  about  eight 
minutes,  talking  stereot}^ed  chit-chat,  he  . 
strolls  off  to  class.  I| 

At  about  the  same  time  the  sorority 
pledges  begin  their  retreat  to  the  general 
reading  room.  "Picked  up"  by  a  Camel, 
"satisfied"  by  a  Chesterfield,  or  "re- 
laxed" by  a  Luck}%  they  are  ready  to 
concentrate  fifty  minutes  on  sharpening 
pencils  (for  the  necessitated  walk  down 
the  length  of  the  library  they  have  a 
more  relishing  audience  than  that  of  the 
Atlantic  City  Boardwalk),  whispering 
important  messages,  exchanging  lip  read- 
ing with  the  boys  facing  them  at  the 
next  table,  impressing  impressionable 
fraternity  pledges,  and  playing  the  game 
of  slow  advance  and  quick  retreat  with 
the  more  skeptical  upperclassmen. 
They're  cute,  each  with  her  page  boy 
coiffure,  perfectly  blended  make-up,  red, 
merry  mouth  ready  to  laugh,  and  pleas- 
ing form  slightly  rolling  in  soft  sweater 
and  skirt.  Here,  the  broken,  pierced 
clamor  of  their  table  at  Prehn's  smooth- 
ens  to  a  steady  buzz  and  hiss.  Yet  what 


[2] 


unappreciative  killjoys  there  are  in  this 
world!  The  priggishness  of  that  libra- 
rian, actually  threatening  to  forbid  them 
the  use  of  the  room  if  they  cause  any 
more  disturbance,  however  slight ! 

Such  banishment  would  greatly  dis- 
tress one  species  of  the  library  user. 
Either  amateur  scientists  on  the  campus 
are  loath  to  trouble  themselves,  or  are 
ignorant  of  the  presence  of  this  group; 
so,  stretching  my  scientific  vocabulary 
and  knowledge  to  their  utmost,  I  shall 
introduce  them  to  this  find. 

The  members  of  the  species  I  am 
going  to  discuss  prefer  for  their  habitat 
the  middle  aisle  at  any  of  the  tables,  but 
they  may  distribute  themselves  down  the 
entire  length  of  the  table.  Commonly  I 
call  them  head-bobbers,  but  scientifically 
I  term  them  those  qui  capita  tallant  et 
demittant.  In  personal  appearance  they 
vary  greatly  except  for  the  eye,  which 
has  an  occupied  gaze  in  it.  The  species 
is  domestic  not  foreign.  I  consider  it 
especially  valuable  to  the  scientific  world 
because  it  serves  as  such  a  striking  ex- 
ample of  the  principle  of  reflex  action. 
The  feminine  clicking  of  a  heel  brings 
instant  reaction  from  the  male.  He  lifts 
his  head,  focuses  his  eye,  retains  that 
position  for  a  period  allowing  disap- 
proval or  approval,  and  then  relaxes  his 
head.  Similarly,  the  female  responds  to 
a  brush  of  a  thick  crepe  sole,  the  clomp 
of  a  military  boot,  or  the  clank  of  plated 
heels.  Development  in  the  species  seems 
j  arrested,  though  I  feel  sure  it  has  not 

reached  its  highest  point. 
j       In  the  reference  room  across  the  open 
hall,  the  bespectacled  thesis  writer,  wear- 
ing a  lived-in,  eaten-in,  slept-in  suit  of 
I  scratchy    wool,    perches    on    his    high 
'  wooden     stool,     much     resembling     the 
I  heart-rending  picture  I  carry  in  my  mind 
I  of   Bob   Cratchit,   taskmaster   Scrooge's 
clerk.   His  own  legs  twined  around  those 


of  the  stool,  his  head  and  back  in  a  con- 
tinuous convex  curve,  his  hair  mussed, 
he  mechanically  draws  out  long  drawers 
packed  with  neat  cards  the  contents  of 
which  he  scrutinizes. 

His  feminine  counterpart  is  the  plump 
figure  in  shaggy,  brushed  wool  sweater 
whose  shedding  fuzz  collects  on  her 
twisted  tweed  skirt.  Her  hair  she  wears 
in  the  style  which  assures  the  least 
bother,  either  chopped  oflF  at  the  ear,  or 
loosely  drawn  and  loosely  knotted. 

Concentration  is  intense.  Their  future 
degree  looms  higher  than  all  else  and 
usurps  their  minds.  Their  unity  of  pur- 
pose is  splendid  to  see,  difficult  to  attain. 

But — just  as  strong  in  purpose,  though 
directing  his  efforts  toward  a  different 
end,  is  the  sacrilegious  fellow  who  comes 
to  the  library  with  the  wholehearted  in- 
tention of  sleeping.  Though  he  may 
harangue  in  a  four  a.m.  bull  session  of 
fitfully  dozing  brothers  that  sleeping  is 
not  living,  may  denounce  the  snorers  and 
whizzers  who  rock  the  dorm  above  as 
unappreciative  of  Nature's  dark  ro- 
mance, he  himself  prizes  nothing  more 
highly,  provided  it  is  done  in  accordance 
with  his  own  distinguished  dictates  of 
style. 

Cursed  morning  after  the  session,  with 
its  dazzling  sparkle,  its  briskness,  its 
yellowness  intolerable  to  squinty  eyes, 
lumbersome  body,  numb  toes  and  fingers. 
Along  the  broadwalk  he  scuffles,  ignor- 
ing hullos  and  winks  of  misinterpreting 
friends.  He  wins  against  the  resistance 
of  two  flights  of  stairs  and  the  seem- 
ingly lengthening  reference  room,  and 
makes  a  U-turn  into  the  browsing  room. 
Extending  his  hand,  he  draws  it  back 
with  a  book  in  it.  A  chair  of  sombre 
brown  leather  yields  to  his  mold.  Deep, 
deep  relaxation  in  an  isolated  paradisiacal 
corner,  free  of  the  clutter  of  pledges, 
unhung    suits,    wet    washcloths,    strewn 


[3] 


shoes  and  socks,  scattered  books ;  free 
of  the  ringing  of  telephones,  free  of  the 
treasurer's  loud  demands  for  payment 
of  past  due  house  bills,  free  of  noise,  no 
noise,  no  ...  .  noise  ....  no  ...  . 
he  sleeps. 

Less  culpable  is  the  sleeper  who  at 
least  starts  to  study  in  the  general  read- 
ing room.  Too  soon  though,  the  words 
and  lines  become  blurred  and  begin  to 
jump  about  the  page.  He  inches  toward 
the  book,  closer,  closer  yet,  closer  still — 
until  he  is  on  the  book — asleep.  At  other 
times  he  dangles  his  feet  over  the  side 
of  the  chair  with  his  body  in  a  sidewise 
position,  or  assumes  the  sprawl  of  the 
relaxing  big  business  man,  feet  on  the 
table,  head  thrown  back. 

How  the  timid  soul  could  use  the 
strength  of  purpose  in  which  both  the 
thesis  writer  and  the  sleeper  abound ! 
On  entering  the  reading  room,  he  hesi- 
tates at  the  fascinating  magazine  shelves 
but  steels  his  hand  against  reaching 
toward  them.  In  spite  of  himself  he 
chooses  a  seat  providing  a  teasing  view 
of  them.  Uninterested,  he  contemplates 
the  dull  pages  before  him,  too  often 
letting  his  contemplation  hop  to  the  peri- 
odicals. Finally,  he  rebels  against  rou- 
tine, slaps  his  book  shut,  enclosing  in  it 
his  timidity,  strides  to  his  victors  and 
snatches  some  without  discrimination. 
Zip — down  the  length  of  the  table  he 
shoves  his  texts  to  make  way  for  the 
conquerors. 

Perhaps  the  profoundest  disciple  of 
our  library  cherishes  most  its  orphan, 
the  browsing  room.  Here,  entirely  free 
from  ridicule,  he  finds  an  outlet  for  his 
delicate  and  deep  fineness.  He  revels  in 
the  writings  which  surpass,  irritate,  com- 
fort, tease  his  brilliance.  No,  he  is  not 
a  five-point  student,  but  through  simple 
absorption  in  class  and  cramming  before 
exams  he  manages  a  three-point  average. 


He  submits  himself  to  a  great  amount 
of  self-analysis.  Uncertain  that  the  at- 
titude he  has  taken  toward  education, 
that  he  can  learn  more  from  reading 
wise  and  cultured  authors  than  dry  pro- 
fessors, is  maintainable  under  the  pre- 
vailing educational  system,  he  tells  him- 
self that  he  doesn't  belong  here,  study- 
ing the  description  of  the  fragments  in 
which  a  machine  gun  bullet  leaves  a 
man's  chest.  He  belongs  in  a  steaming 
boiler  room  stoking  coal,  dripping  sweat, 
exhausting  himself,  experiencing  him- 
self. Deep  wells  within  him  gush  up 
their  streams. 

Do  you  dismiss  him  with  the  explana- 
tory sigh,  "Ah,  youth"  ?  That's  what  the 
library  theorizer  does.  He  has  watched 
our  browser;  indeed,  he  has  watched  all 
our  other  friends  too,  for  he  is  a  watcher 
of  passing  humanity.  He  sits,  inspect- 
ing, analyzing,  philosophizing.  Though 
excellently  comjx)unded  of  common 
sense,  tolerance,  understanding,  humor, 
and  congeniality,  he  feels  nothing  but 
disgust  for  the  dude,  and  wonders  if  he 
doesn't  tire  of  being  just  Joe  College 
hunting  for  Josephine  College.  The 
pledges  he  can  see  still  talking  ten  years 
hence — this  time  about  the  merit  of  a 
new  product,  Roly-Poly  baby  food.  His 
sense  of  humor  stands  him  in  good  stead 
in  considering  the  head-bobbers  as  he 
muffles  a  guffaw  at  the  funny  picture 
they  present.  He  tingles  at  even  the 
thought  of  gathering  together  about  six 
of  the  thesis  writers  for  a  round-table 
discussion  in  which  he  knows  he  would 
be  woefully  outdone.  About  the  sleeper 
he  cannot  decide;  if  these  sleepless 
nights  continue  he  himself  might  in- 
dulge. The  timid  soul  he  would  like  to 
shake  and  order  him  either  to  select  the 
magazines  right  away  or  to  study  reso- 
lutely, but  not  to  be  so  darned  indecisive. 
Last  of  all  he  laughs  at  himself  for  sit- 


[4] 


ting  and  inspecting,  and  analyzing,  and 
philosophizing. 

Would  it  not  make  an  ideal  ending 
to  take  some  pulp  from  each  of  these 
nine  types,  send  it  through  a  press,  and 
set  up  the  resultant  pasteboard  figure  as 
the  typical  library  user  ?    Ideal,  yes ;  but 


veritable,  no ;  for  each  type  is  a  separate 
entity  not  able  to  be  consolidated,  each 
an  everlastingly  absorbing  and  intriguing 
study,  each  a  living  offering  from  our 
library  from  which  we  can  learn  more 
than  from  its  inanimate  benefaction. 


The  Universe  of  Light  by  Sir  William  H.  Bragg 


Anonymous 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  7,  1938-1939 


SAY,  what  book  are  you  gonna  re- 
port on?"  he  asked  me. 

"The  Universe  of  Light  by  Bragg,"  I 
answered. 

"Oh,"  and  his  voice  implied  a  desire  to 
lift  one  eyebrow,  "it's  a  sort  of  text  book, 
isn't  it?"  Then,  as  he  saw  my  surprised 
look,  "Well — you.  know  what  I  mean — 
that  scientific  stuff." 

A  sort  of  text  book!  That  scientific 
stuff !  That's  unfair  to  Sir  William. 
Far  from  writing  a  text  book,  he  has 
written  a  book  which  I  think  anyone 
would  enjoy  reading. 

The  book  gets  off  to  a  good  start  by 
concerning  itself  with  an  interesting  sub- 
ject. Psychologists  tell  us  that,  of  all 
the  impressions  our  five  senses  give  us, 
eighty-three  per  cent  come  to  us  through 
our  eyes.  Light  is  the  mind's  most  fre- 
quently used  contact  with  the  world.  It 
is  no  wonder  that  most  of  us  are  curious 
about  light  and  the  manifestations  of  its 
various  phenomena.  The  book.  The  Uni- 
verse of  Light,  satisfies  this  curiosity  by 
answering  some  of  our  questions  about 
light.  It  tells  just  how  we  see,  why  it 
is  that  objects  seen  through  cheap  lenses 
seem  to  have  fringes  of  color  about 
them,  what  causes  the  colors  in  a  rain- 


bow or  soap  bubble,  and  why  it  is  that  a 
setting  sun  looks  red  and  a  mountain  on 
the  distant  horizon  looks  blue. 

For  those  who  have  had  high  school 
physics,  the  first  part  of  the  book  is  a 
pleasant  review.  But  Bragg  does  not 
stop  there.  He  goes  on  to  discuss  the 
conflicting  theories  concerning  the  nature 
of  light.  He  explains  the  photo-electric 
effect  and  even  includes  a  discussion  of 
the  determination  of  crystaline  structure 
by  use  of  x-rays. 

But  an  interesting  subject  does  not 
necessarily  make  an  interesting  book. 
The  subject  must  be  clearly  explained; 
new  ideas  must  be  presented  in  terms  of 
the  older,  more  familiar  ones.  The  Uni- 
verse of  Light  is  full  of  drawings, 
photographs,  and  word  pictures  (Bragg 
is  a  skillful  user  of  apt  analogies.)  A 
difficult  point  is  presented  in  several 
different  ways,  and  one  soon  forgets 
that  the  point  was  difficult.  It  is  not  until 
one  stops  to  reflect  that  he  gets  the  feel- 
ing of  really  having  learned  quite  a  bit 
about  light.  It  is  like  taking  halibut  oil 
capsules  instead  of  a  spoonful  of  cod 
liver  oil.  One  gets  full  value  without 
any  bad  effects. 


[  5] 


A  Night  of  Swing 


Allen  Cannon 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1937-1938 


HOW  would  you  like  to  attend  a  real 
'jam  session'  at  a  typical  New 
York  'dive,'  Bud?" 

"I'd  like  nothing  better,"  I  replied. 
"When  do  we  start?" 

It  was  my  last  night  in  New  York,  and 
my  aunts  decided  to  show  me  a  real  time. 
We  made  up  a  party  of  eight  and  set 
out  for  a  small  night  club  quite  well 
known  to  swing  devotees. 

Eleven  p.m.,  down  a  narrow  stairway 
west  of  Broadwa}^  At  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  a  low-ceilinged,  subterranean 
room.  We  get  a  table  up  by  the  band- 
stand. There  are  perhaps  fifty  people  in 
the  room ;  they  have  come  here  not  to 
dance,  but  to  listen.  We  must  remember 
that  being  here  as  "alligators"  we  must 
not  applaud.  The  musicians  will  jam  the 
way  they  like  and  for  their  own  fun. 
Applause  reminds  them  of  their  com- 
mercial work. 

On  a  foot-high  platform  half  a  dozen 
musicians  are  lolling  in  their  chairs. 
Other  musicians  have  drawn  their  chairs 
close  to  the  stand  to  "sit  in."  Their 
postures  indicate  extreme  relaxation. 
Nowhere  do  we  see  a  sheet  of  music ; 
"papermen"  are  not  welcome  amongst 
jammers. 

Without  any  outward  sign,  one  of  the 
musicians  begins  to  play.  We  notice 
that  there  is  no  leader.  The  muted, 
mellow  notes  of  a  clarinet  are  picking 
out  the  faint  thread  of  a  familiar  mel- 
ody. The  other  musicians  seem  to  be 
arousing  themselves  from  letharg}\  First 
one,  then  another,  puts  his  instrument 
into  play  and  begins  to  fall  into  the  lead 


of  the  clarinet.  The  full  battery  of 
instruments  comes  by  stages  into  action. 
By  some  unspoken  consent  the  clarinet- 
ist continues  to  predominate,  setting  the 
rhythm  and  the  melodic  trend.  I 

Soon  we  notice  that  the  melody  we 
are  accustomed  to  is  no  longer  discern- 
ible. The  clarinet  is  soaring  above  it — 
below  it.  We  feel  the  original  melody 
still  strangely  present,  but  only  by  infer- 
ence. It  persists  through  its  very 
negation,  on  through  a  long  series  of 
brilliant  counterpoint  and  obbligato  that 
would  earn  an  "A"  in  any  counterpoint 
course !  By  these  intricate  variations  we 
recognize  the  superb  command  this 
player  has  over  his  instrument.  We  are 
not  surprised  later  when  we  learn  that 
he  is  one  of  the  greatest  living  masters 
of  the  clarinet.  But  the  playing  has  just 
begun.  The  piece  is  young  yet.  There  is 
much  more  to  come. 

The  clarinet  subsides  and  melts  into 
the  supporting  music.  Without  signal,  a 
Negro  trumpet  player  assumes  the  lead, 
and  soars  into  an  unbridled  improvisa- 
tion. It  becomes  almost  impossible  for 
us  to  detect  any  further  semblance  of 
the  original  melody.  Up  and  on  the 
trumpet  rises,  brilliant,  startling  se- 
quences tumbling  one  upon  another. 
The  effect  upon  the  other  players  has 
been  electric.  They  play  as  though 
possessed.  There  is  no  music  to  guide 
them,  no  longer  any  tenuous  thread  of 
melody  to  which  they  may  hold.  Nothing 
but  that  mad  trumpet  rushing  and  swerv- 
ing down  fantastic  scales  and  galloping 
up    different    arpeggios.     And    yet    the 


[6  ] 


players  are  not  a  split  second  behind  the 
Negro;  it  is  as  if  they  know  just  what 
he  will  do  as  soon  as  he  himself  knows ! 

The  big  Negro  is  standing  up  now,  his 
trumpet  at  a  forty-five  degree  angle 
upward.  His  eyes  are  closed  tightly  and 
great  rivers  of  perspiration  are  coursing 
down  his  face — his  whole  body  is  in  a 
state  of  profound  agitation.  None  of 
the  "cats"  are  as  relaxed  as  they  ap- 
peared when  we  came  in.  Out  of  that 
seemingly  tired  group  of  men,  music,  the 
like  of  which  I  have  never  heard  before, 
is  coming  fast. 

Out  of  sheer  curiosity  I  turn  to  our 
waiter  and  ask  whether  he  knows  who 
that  trumpet  player  is. 

"Yes,  suh,  boss.  That  boy  is  Louis 
Armstrong." 

Louis  Armstrong!  Well,  of  course; 
we  have  heard  that  trumpet  on  the  radio 
many  times.  We  have  heard  of  his 
triumphal  tours  of  Europe,  of  his  com- 
mand performance  before  the  King  of 
England,  of  his  world-wide  following. 
We  stumble  into  a  "jam  session"  and 
hear  one  of  the  very  men  who  brought 
swing  into  being,  perhaps  the  greatest 
trumpet  player  of  our  generation.  We 
really  are  lucky  tonight!  I  turn  to  our 
waiter  again: 

"But  Armstrong — does  he  belong  to 
this  band?" 

"No  suh !  No  small  place  like  this 
could  pay  that  man.  He  takes  in  ova'  a 
thousand  dollars  an  hour  when  he's  in 
his  white  suit.  But  he  just  comes  in  heah 
once  in  a  while  because  he  likes  to  jam. 
Why  he's  been  a  doin'  that  since  he  was 
a  kid  back  in  New  Orleans.  Yes  suh, 
that's  Louie  Armstrong  all  right !" 

We  were  so  taken  by  that  jam  session 
that  we  didn't  leave  until  the  manager 


announced  closing  time.  As  soon  as  we 
arrived  home,  my  uncle,  who  always 
enjoys  a  good  joke,  walked  up  to  the 
phonograph,  fixed  a  record  on  the 
spindle,  and  walked  away.  A  moment 
later  the  room  was  filled  with  the  beau- 
tiful, heart-rending  melody  of  the  Love 
Death  from  Wagner's  famous  opera, 
Tristan  and  Isolde!  What  an  extreme 
contrast  that  presented  to  our  ears,  which 
only  a  few  hours  ago  had  been  saturated 
with  the  wildest  of  swing  music ! 

To  Wagner,  a  jam  session  would  ap- 
pear to  be  a  gathering  of  insane  people 
with  instruments  in  their  hands,  and  to 
Louie  Armstrong  the  Love  Death  would 
sound,  no  doubt,  very  much  like  the  last 
moans  of  a  dying  cow !  There  you  have 
music  in  its  extreme  forms.  You  can't 
deny,  as  some  "musical  intellects"  do, 
that  jamming  is  music,  nor  can  you  con- 
clude that  it  is  much  more  difficult  to 
play  a  classic  than  it  is  to  jam  a  popular 
tune.  Swingsters  will  tell  you  that  swing 
music  is  destined  to  go  far — that  it  will 
bring  forth  a  deeper  and  finer  American 
music.  They  point  with  pride  to  the 
indisputable  fact  that  its  ranks  now 
include  many  of  our  finest  musicians. 
They  see  no  reason,  they  tell  you,  why 
the  principle  of  free  playing  should  not 
be  extended  to  fields  far  beyond  jazz, 
even  to  the  classics.  That  I  doubt  very 
much,  for  our  symphony  orchestras  will 
not  be  changed  for  some  time  to  come. 
However  swing  music  has  come  a  long 
way,  and  if  it  does  nothing  more,  it  does 
provide  an  interesting  way  in  which  to 
spend  a  not-so-quiet  evening.  That  cer- 
tain night  of  swing  in  New  York,  during 
the  Christmas  holidays  last  year,  will 
linger  in  my  memory  for  many  years  to 
come. 


[7] 


The  Muscle  Grind 


Raymond  Cesaletti 

Rhetoric  II,  Final  Examination,  1937-1938 


THE  announcer  said  "And  now, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  one  of  the 
'Flying  Illini'  will  tr^^  to  break  last  year's 
record  of  seventy-eight  turns  on  the  high 
trapeze."  In  a  sort  of  dragged-out  tone 
he  continued,  "The  Mu-scle  grr — ind." 

The  crowd  applauded  loudly  as  the 
boy  trotted  across  the  floor  and  climbed 
the  rope  ladder  to  his  trapeze.  His  hair 
was  plastered  back  against  his  head  as 
though  to  decrease  the  wind  resistance 
as  he  whirled  around  the  bar.  His  long, 
white  trunks  were  tight  against  his  skin. 
The  red  coloring  which  had  been  applied 
to  his  upper  body  and  arms  made  him 
look  strong  and  healthy.  White  straps 
stood  out  like  bracelets  on  his  wrists 
against  the  darker  background  of  his 
arms. 

"Make  those  straps  good  and  tight," 
he  had  said  to  the  trainer  in  the  locker 
room.  "We  have  to  beat  that  record  this 
year." 

"Never  mind  that,"  the  coach  had 
answered.    "You  just  do  your  best." 

"Yeah,  but  those  straps  give  me  a  lot 
more  pep  when  they're  tight,"  the  boy 
had  said. 

"Yeah !  more  pep,  but  they'll  stop  your 
circulation  too.  What  do  you  want  to 
do,  lose  a  hand  or  something?" 

"But  we  gotta  beat  that  record,"  the 
boy  had  answered  with  determination. 

Now  he  was  up  there,  patting  his 
hands  with  a  sack  of  rosin  to  prevent 
slipping.  The  audience  was  quiet  as  the 
boy  reached  out  and  seized  the  little 
swing.  He  made  a  few  more  prepara- 
tions, adjusted  his  grip,  and  then  he 
started. 


"One,  —  two, three,"  I  heard  the 

loudspeaker  for  the  first  time  after  the 
introduction,  although  it  had  been  going 
all  the  time. 

The  boy,  about  thirty  feet  above  the 
floor,  suspended  by  his  elbows  over  a 
small  metal  bar,  turned  round  and  roimd. 
His  speed  increased  as  he  continued. 
His  legs  swung  down  with  terrific  speed, 
then  ascended  the  other  half  of  the 
circle  a  little  more  slowly,  then  over  the 
top  and  down  again. 

The  next  time  I  heard  the  loudspeaker 
it  was  saying  "twenty — ssss — ix  .... 
tw  ....  en  ....  ty  se  ....  ve  ...  . 
ven,"  as  the  boy  struggled  desperately  to 
acquire  his  lost  momentum.  Slowly  he 
got  over  again.  Once,  twice,  and  then 
he  was  started  again. 

He  continued  to  about  thirty-four,  but 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  get  over 
that  bar  again.  His  face  was  purple; 
his  eyes  bulged ;  his  body  was  wet  with 
perspiration. 

From  below  the  coach  yelled,  "Come 
down,  Johnny !    Don't  strain  yourself." 

But  the  boy  did  not  hear,  or  probably 
he  did  not  want  to  hear.  He  continued 
to  struggle — twisting,  squirming,  jerking, 
trying  to  get  over  that  bar.  After  the 
third  try,  his  body  relaxed.  His  heavy 
legs  swung  down  and  moved  back  and 
forth  like  a  pendulum.  He  did  not  have 
enough  energy  to  release  his  grip  on  the 
bar. 

After  a  few  minutes,  the  color  left  his 
face.  His  eyes  looked  natural  again.  He 
dropped  down  to  the  net  and  after  much 
effort  made  his  way  to  the  locker  room. 


[8  ] 


I  Am  an  Anti-antivivisectionist 


Anonymous 

Rhetoric  I,  Theme  6,  1938-1939 


WHENEVER  I  think  of  an  antivivi- 
sectionist  I  am  reminded  of  the  old 
cartoon  showing  a  man  who  is  sitting  on 
the  branch  of  a  tree  and  cutting  off  the 
branch  on  which  he  sits.  The  branch  is 
vivisection ;  the  man,  an  antivivisection- 
ist.  Let  me  add  one  more  detail  which 
will  make  this  picture  mean  something 
to  us,  personally.  On  the  branch  are 
other  people  who  will  fall  if  the  anti- 
vivisectionist  succeeds.  These  others 
represent  you  and  me  and  every  other 
person  who  has  ever  been  to  a  doctor. 

Let  me  explain  in  greater  detail  the 
parts  of  this  picture. 

Vivisection  (the  branch)  is  the  act  of 
performing  an  operation  on  a  living  ani- 
mal, for  experimental  purposes.  The 
term  is  also  used  in  a  broader  sense  to 
mean  all  experiments  with  animals. 

Vivisection  is  a  necessary  activity  of 
medical  research.  For  example,  Bant- 
ing's experiments,  which  culminated  in 
the  development  of  insulin  for  diabetics, 
required  that  he  remove  various  glands 
until  he  found  one  (the  pancreas)  the 
removal  of  which  produced  the  proper 
symptoms.  His  discovery  that  a  pan- 
creatic secretion  prevents  diabetes  made 
it  necessary  for  him  to  have  diabetic 
animals  on  which  to  try  various  pan- 
creatic extracts.  It  was  necessary,  there- 
fore, that  he  remove  the  animal's  pan- 
creases to  produce  diabetes.  The  final 
result  of  it  all,  insulin,  has  saved  and 
made  useful  the  lives  of  thousands  of 
people. 

The  story  of  man's  conquering  of 
syphilis  shows  our  dependence  on  vivi- 
section. Syphilis  first  came  to  the  atten- 
tion of  European  doctors  in  1493.    Yet 


up  until  1907  there  was  very  little 
knowledge  of  the  nature  of  the  disease, 
there  was  no  accurate  method  of  diag- 
nosis, there  was  no  certain  (or  even 
nearly  certain)  cure.  The  trouble  was 
that  experimental  animals  were  useless, 
for  animals  seemed  to  be  immune. 

Then,  in  1907,  Schaudinn  discovered 
the  germ  of  syphilis.  In  1908  Neisser 
successfully  infected  monkeys  with 
syphilis.  Then  the  knowledge  started 
pouring  in.  Wassermann,  Neisser,  and 
Bruck  perfected  a  highly  specific  and 
very  accurate  diagnostic  test  for  syphilis. 
By  1910  Ehrlick  and  Hata  had  developed 
arsphenamine  (salvarson,  arsphenoben- 
zene),  an  arsenic  compound  more  effec- 
tive in  the  treatment  of  syphilis  than  is 
any  other  drug  against  any  disease. 
More  knowledge  came  in  the  two  years 
during  which  animals  were  used  than 
had  been  developed  in  the  preceding  four 
hundred  years !  And  incidentally,  Ehrlick 
and  Hata,  in  experimenting  "hit  or  miss" 
with  six  hundred  six  different  arsenic 
compounds,  killed  a  great  many  animals. 
Had  they  been  squeamish  about  doing  so, 
we  might  still  be  helpless  against  the 
ravages  of  the  great  pox. 

The  somewhat  radical  surgical  meth- 
ods used  to  ameliorate  or  cure  certain 
types  of  tuberculosis  were  first  developed 
and  perfected  on  animals.  In  fact,  all 
young  doctors  learn  scalpel  skill  by  oper- 
ating on  animals  first.  They  do  not  touch 
living  humans  until  they  are  expert.  If 
they  did,  modern  surgery  would  be 
butchery.  Vivisection  is  a  mainstay  of 
medicine;  it  is  indeed  a  branch  that 
supports  us  all. 


[  9  ] 


Yet  the  antivivisectionists  dare  to  rave 
on.  The  lurid  lies  printed  in  certain 
newspapers  continue.  Our  fool  in  the 
tree  keeps  cutting  at  the  branch.  Vivi- 
section has  indirectly  saved  millions  of 
lives;  if  the  antivivisectionists  had  had 
their  way,  all  these  people  would  have 
been  dead,  murdered  by  the  criminal 
stupidity  of  the  falsely  sentimental  few 
who,  out  of  pity  for  a  white  rat,  would 
let  a  man  die. 


What  are  we  to  do  with  them,  these 
fools  who  are  plotting  the  suicide  of 
civilization?  I  can  think  of  no  more 
fitting  end  for  them  than  that  they  be 
allowed  to  be  the  first  patients  of  young 
surgeons  who  have  had  no  previous 
practice  in  surgical  technique.  Their  last 
moments  would  be  made  happy,  no 
doubt,  by  the  knowledge  that  some  dear 
little  guinea  pig  was  still  alive  because 
of  their  death. 


Hard  Lesson 

K.  L.  COMPTON 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  7,  1938-1929 


TT  WAS  a  fine  June  afternoon.  I  had 
•■•  had  an  enjoyable  week-end,  and  my 
spirits  were  high.  I  sang  lustily,  if  not 
tunefully,  to  the  rhythm  of  the  motor. 
The  car  seemed  not  to  mind  the  singing, 
for  it  had  never  worked  better.  I  was 
only  one  and  one-half  hours  out  of  In- 
dianapolis and  was  now  within  two 
miles  of  the  Illinois-Indiana  line.  The 
hills  on  Federal  Route  Number  Thirty- 
six  had  been  fun.  Sixty  to  seventy  miles 
an  hour  had  made  quick  work  of  the 
grades  and  curves,  and  now  I  was  sailing 
along  on  level  pavement  with  the  car 
really  in  high. 

I  don't  know  how  fast  I  was  travelling 
when  the  incident  occurred,  but  I  suspect 
it  was  somewhat  too  fast  for  any  degree 
of  safety.  I  do  know  that  the  sparkle 
of  the  day  and  the  high  spirits  were 
quickly  extinguished.  As  I  cleared  the 
crest  of  a  small  rise,  I  could  see  the 
state  line  signs  almost  two  miles  ahead. 
There  was  only  one  car  to  mar  the 
beauty  of  the  landscape.  This  intruder 
was  about  a  mile  ahead  of  me  and  was 


going  in  my  direction,  but  at  a  slower 
speed. 

In  a  surprisingly  short  time  I  had 
gained  on  the  other  car  to  the  point 
where  I  had  to  turn  out  to  go  around. 
I  didn't  sound  my  horn,  for  in  another 
second  I  would  have  been  past  and  on 
down  the  road.  But  Fate  had  other 
plans.  As  my  front  wheels  reached  the 
rear  of  the  other  car,  its  driver  abruptly 
and  without  apparent  premeditation  de- 
cided to  turn  to  the  left. 

What  happened  in  the  next  few 
seconds  can  be  only  related,  not  ex- 
plained. Surely  instinct  rules  in  these 
extreme  emergencies. 

I  must  have  turned  to  the  left  to 
avoid  the  collision.  I  shot  across  the 
narrow  shoulder  and  down  into  a  ditch 
approximately  four  feet  deep  and  five 
feet  wide.  The  opposite  bank  deflected 
the  front  wheels,  and  I  roared  along  the 
bottom  for  what  seemed  a  century. 
Finally  something  inside  me  decided  I 
should  get  back  onto  the  road,  and  up  the 
shoulder  bank  I  came.    But  now  instinct 


[10] 


failed  me,  for  I  went  on  across  the 
pavement  and  down  into  the  ditch  on 
the  right-hand  side.  I  was  still  travelling 
fast  enough  not  to  feel  the  bumps.  The 
urge  to  be  on  the  roadway  persisted,  and 
again  I  came  up  over  the  shoulder.  This 
time  by  some  miracle  I  stayed  on  top. 
At  last  the  thought  came  to  me  that  I 
might  be  able  to  remedy  the  situation, 
and  I  put  my  foot  on  the  brake  pedal. 
I  stopped  on  the  shoulder  as  soon  as 
I  could  muster  enough  power  for  the 
brake.  I  got  out  and  looked  back  down 
the  road.  A  quarter  mile  away  the  other 
car  stood,  untouched,  in  the  middle  of 
the  highway.  The  driver  was  coming 
toward  me  on  a  dead  run.    My  knees 


deposited  me  on  the  grass  to  wait  for 
him. 

He  approached  with  his  hand  ex- 
tended. We  shook  hands.  Neither  could 
speak.  There  was  nothing  to  say;  we 
were  both  wrong  and  knew  it.  I  can't 
imagine  being  as  white  as  that  lad  was, 
but  I  suppose  I  was  then.  We  walked 
around  my  car. 

"There's  no  danger,  I  guess,"  I  said, 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  slowly.  "My  girl 
fainted  watching  you  take  ditches  on 
two  wheels.    I'd  better  get  back  to  her." 

That  was  all  the  conversation.  We 
didn't  need  conversation.  We  were  both 
enjoying  the  first  benefits  of  a  hard 
lesson  on  safe  driving. 


Only  the  Luckiest  Survive 

David  Mosiman 
Rhetoric  /,  Thetrve  18,  1937-1938 


XT  EARLY  ALL  theories  of  evolution 
^  ^  are  based  on  the  assumption — 
which  is  often  accepted  as  a  fact — that 
the  strongest  organisms  tend  to  survive 
and  reproduce  their  kind  and  the  weaker 
organisms  tend  to  die  out.  Some  of  these 
theories  are  worked  out  to  such  a  fine 
point  that  their  believers  declare  that  an 
average  of  one  organism  out  of  every 
five  of  the  species  will  live.  They  feel 
that  this  ratio  of  one  to  four  works 
inexorably  and  that  every  plant,  every 
animal,  and  every  human  being  now  in 
existence  is  necessarily  the  fifth  descend- 
ant of  a  line  of  fifth  descendants.  If 
these  theorists  would  stop  theorizing  and 
would  look  at  almost  any  type  of  life — 
plant  or  animal — perhaps  they  would 
realize  that  in  our  United  States  of 
America,  in  this  twentieth  century,  are 
many  organisms  which  continue  to  exist 


because  their  environment  allows  them 
to  exist. 

If  they  would  look,  for  instance,  at 
two  different  gardens — one  well-kept 
and  the  other  poorly  kept — they  would 
stroke  their  chins  and  look  thoughtful. 
A  few  years  ago,  I  was  supposed  to  tend 
our  garden,  which  was  separated  from  a 
neighbor's  garden  by  a  wire  fence.  By 
the  middle  of  the  summer,  the  weeds 
in  the  neighbor's  garden  were  practically 
extinct;  but  in  mine,  they  were  thriving 
so  well  that  the  next  spring,  before 
spading  the  ground,  I  had  to  jerk  them 
up  and  burn  them.  Before  my  spring 
bonfire  removed  them,  however,  these 
weeds  had  scattered  their  seeds  both  in 
my  neighbor's  garden  and  in  mine.  The 
seeds  which  stayed  in  the  old  home 
garden  grew  with  little  difficulty  the  next 
summer,  but  those  which  the  wind  blew 


[11] 


on  the  other  side  of  the  wire  fence  found 
the  struggle  for  existence  extremely 
difficult.  Harassed  and  punished  by  my 
neighbor's  hoe  as  soon  as  they  began 
pushing  their  shoots  above  the  ground, 
the  seeds  in  my  neighbor's  garden  did 
not  grow  to  fruition  as  did  their  brother- 
seeds  in  my  garden. 

While  the  two  branches  of  the  same 
family  of  weeds  were  struggling  to  sur- 
vive, my  neighbor's  vegetable  plants 
stood  like  green-clad  soldiers  in  parallel 
columns  of  squads ;  but  mine  resembled 
a  group  of  badly  frightened  Caspar  Alil- 
quetoasts  shivering  among  a  gang  of 
thugs.  During  the  next  winter,  my 
neighbor's  family  ate  home-grown  vege- 
tables, while  those  dependent  on  me  for 
vegetables  looked  at  seed  catalogs  and 
hoped  for  better  luck  the  next  summer. 
Through  no  outstanding  strength  or 
weakness  of  their  own,  but  through  my 
neighbor's  industry  and  my  neglect,  my 
neighbor's  vegetables  and  my  weeds 
grew,  and  my  neighbor's  weeds  and  my 
vegetables  became  extinct. 

If,  going  farther  up  the  biologic  scale, 
the  theorists  would  also  observe  any 
species  of  present-day  American  animals, 
they  would  scratch  their  heads  and 
wonder  how  it  could  be  that  life  and 
death  do  not  follow  their  rules.  Let  them 
observe  ants  for  example — the  little 
black  ants  which  scurry  over  sidewalks 
and  through  grass  in  search  of  food — 
busily  working  to  survive.  In  walking, 
I  have  often  stepped  on  and  killed  ants 
which  were  in  my  path,  while  other  ants, 
being  outside  my  path,  lived  to  drag  the 
smashed  bodies  of  their  fellow-ants  back 
to  their  storehouse.  These  ants  which  I 
killed  were  very  probably  just  as  able  to 
procure  food  as  were  their  fellows;  if 
they  had  been  spared  and  their  fellows 
had  been  killed,  thev  would  have  used. 


the  bodies  of  their  fellow-ants  for  food. 
Was  it  the  strength,  the  quickness,  or 
the  foresight  of  the  ants  which  escaped 
that  allowed  them  to  escape?  If  a  huge 
meteor  had  landed  yesterday  in  South 
America  and  had  killed  all  of  the  in- 
habitants, would  it  have  been  our 
strength,  our  quickness,  or  our  foresight 
which  saved  our  lives? 

If,  after  observing  plants  and  animals, 
the  believers  of  the  doctrine  of  the  four- 
to-one  ratio  would  take  notice  of  human 
beings,  they  would  admit  that  luck  quite 
often  causes  survival  or  extinction.  One 
night  during  my  fifth  year,  a  tornado 
struck  four  miles  west  of  my  home,  tore 
a  house  from  its  foundation,  and  killed 
a  woman  and  her  child.  When  looking 
at  the  ruins  with  my  parents,  I  noticed 
the  strong  foundation  and  the  water-^ 
tight  cellar.  Then  I  looked  at  the  beams 
nearby,  at  the  smaller  timbers  farther' 
away,  and  at  the  laths  scattered  in  threej 
different  fields  to  the  west  and  to  the 
north.  The  house  had  been  w^hite  just 
as  my  home  was  still  w^hite.  I  went  ovei 
to  my  mother  and  held  her  hand  whei 
I  thought  of  what  would  have  happenec 
had  the  tornado  struck  the  white  house 
four  miles  east.  I  know  now — but  I  di( 
not  know  then — that  the  woman  whc 
was  killed  had  been  in  the  chicken-house 
to  see  whether  her  chickens  were  safej 
I  know  now  that  the  child  who  was 
killed  would  now  very  likely  be  just  as 
useful,  just  as  capable,  just  as  fit  to  sur- 
vive as  I  am.  If  I  had  lived  in  his  white 
house  and  he  in  mine,  he  would  have 
survived  instead  of  me.  If  one  theorist 
had  lived  in  the  ruined  white  house,  anc 
another  had  lived  in  my  white  house, 
think  the  world  would  have  two  fewei 
theorists — one  of  the  two  dead,  and  th^ 
other  convinced  that  the  luckv  survive 


[12] 


Men  and  Ants 


Charles  A.  Roberts 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  18,  1937-1938 


ANTS  may  be  intelligent  insects,  but 
when  they  build  homes  they  cer- 
tainly don't  think.  They  do  indeed  choose 
soft  ground,  which  is  easy  to  dig,  and 
usually  a  spot  which  is  free  of  grass  and 
weeds — but  likely  as  not  the  spot  is 
in  the  very  middle  of  a  much-trodden 
path,  where  you  and  I,  deliberately  or 
unintentionally,  according  to  our  dispo- 
sitions, bring  destruction  upon  the  tiny 
home  by  trampling  upon  it.  If  we  ex- 
amine the  miniature  domicile  that  we 
have  crushed,  we  find  that  at  first  there 
is  no  sign  of  life,  no  activity  about  the 
place.  Then,  suddenly,  the  bewildered 
ant  becomes  aware  that  his  home  has 
been  partially  destroyed,  and  that  he 
must  repair  the  damage.  Now,  as  has 
been  said,  the  poor  ant  doesn't  think.  He 
cannot  see  that  the  middle  of  a  path  is  no 
place  for  his  home ;  he  likes  it  there,  so 
he  repairs  the  clogged  entrance  to  his 
underground  palace  and  lives  once  more 
in  peace — until  one  of  us  chances  to  use 
the  path  again. 

Man  has  built  himself  a  beautiful  city 
by  a  river.  The  surrounding  land  is  good 
for  farming,  the  city  itself  is  full  of 
industries,  and  the  citizens  of  the  place 
are  desirable.  But  man,  like  the  ant, 
encounters  difficulties.  Now  and  again, 
never  with  any  regularity,  the  river 
swells  past  its  banks  and  overruns  the 
city.  Business  transactions  are  halted, 
the  industrial  wheels  of  the  city  cease 
to  turn,  and  destruction  and  hardships 
are  met  at  every  turn. 

Have  3'ou  ever  seen  the  waste  and 
damage  left  in  the  wake  of  a  flood? 
Streets  and  sidewalks  are  covered  with 


a  silt  three  inches  thick.  Houses  are 
left  with  water  marks  around  them, 
windows  are  broken,  and  warped  boards 
stand  out  at  grotesque  angles.  Inside 
the  houses  furniture  has  floated  from 
one  room  to  another,  floors  have  buckled, 
linoleum  rugs  have  billowed  up  from  the 
floors,  and  great  rips  and  tears  have  ap- 
peared in  them  where  immovable  bits  of 
furniture  held  them  down.  The  founda- 
tions of  some  of  the  homes  have  given 
away  entirely,  and  the  buildings  are 
leaning  to  one  side — some  have  even 
toppled  over.  In  the  business  districts, 
we  see  that  enormous  logs  have  floated 
through  expensive  plate-glass  windows, 
and  have  come  to  rest  on  the  counters. 
In  bakery  shops  pies  and  pastries  are 
heaped  together  in  a  deplorable  pile  of 
mud.  In  groceries  tin  cans,  with  labels 
torn  off,  are  found  in  heaps.  The 
counters  themselves  are  heavily  loaded 
with  mud.  Everywhere  there  is  mud, 
destroyed  property,  and  more  mud. 

When  the  water  has  receded,  we  find, 
just  as  we  found  with  the  ants,  that  at 
first  there  is  inactivit3^  The  people  are 
stunned,  and,  like  the  ants,  they  do  not 
seem  to  comprehend  the  calamity  that 
has  befallen.  Then  again,  we  see  a  sud- 
den burst  of  life.  The  entire  city  begins 
to  teem  with  activity.  Here  are  groups 
of  men  removing  the  silt  from  the 
streets;  more  men  are  repairing  build- 
ings and  removing  debris  from  the 
streets  and  sidewalks.  In  the  basements 
of  the  larger  stores,  powerful  pumps  are 
forcing  the  trapped  water  out  into  the 
sewers  in  the  streets.  Inside  the  houses 
we  find  women  sweeping  the  caked  mud 


I 


[13] 


k 


from  what  is  left  of  their  furniture,  and 
now  and  then  we  see  one  either  softly 
crying  or  hysterically  laughing  as  she 
uncovers  from  the  mud  a  favorite  pic- 
ture or  tapestry.  The  little  children,  if 
there  are  any  present,  are  amusing  them- 
selves by  idly  poking  holes  in  the  walls, 
made  soft  by  the  penetrating  flood 
waters.  Upon  everyone's  face  there  is  a 
look  of  a  half-hearted  ambition  to  do, 
but  over-shadowing  that,  a  look  of  com- 
plete hopelessness.  No  one  seems  to 
understand  how  such  a  thing  could  have 
happened  to  him,  and,  in  a  bewildered 
manner,  he  tries  to  reestablish  his 
normal,  everyday  habits. 

Unlike  the  ant,  man  has  been  given  the 
power  of  reasoning,  but  little  use  does  he 
make  of  it.  He  knows  very  well  that  the 
path  of  a  river  is  no  place  for  a  city.  He 
knows  that  there  have  been  floods  in 
that  community  before— many  persons 
there  have  witnessed  them — and  he  also 


knows  that  there  will  be  other  floods  in 
time  to  come,  but  he  takes  no  advantage 
of  this  knowledge.  Instead,  he  rebuilds, 
he  repairs,  he  remodels — he  attempts 
everything  in  his  power  to  w'ipe  out  all 
traces  of  the  catastrophe  that  has  just 
passed.  He  foolishly  tries  to  forget 
everything  connected  with  his  experience. 
He  is  successful  too,  because  four  or 
five  years  later  real-estate  that  had  been 
under  eight  feet  of  water  booms  again, 
and  firms  build  large  business  concerns 
where  thousands  of  dollars  in  damages 
were  lost  just  a  few  short  years  ago.  He 
builds  himself  beautiful  little  homes  and 
lives  in  peace  and  happiness — until 
another  flood. 

How  can  we  pretend  to  be  reasonable, 
thinking  creatures  when  we  continue  to 
behave  like  this?  One  may  pity  ants  in 
their  predicaments  because  they  are  so 
helpless;  but  such  witlessness  in  men  is 
ridiculous. 


A  Human  Business  Man 


Arlie  Parker 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  4,  1938-1939 


SATURDAY  morning  I  am  going  to 
visit  the  office  where  I  worked  the 
last  two  years.  When  I  walk  in,  the  tall, 
lanky  man  seated  at  the  first  desk  will 
look  up  with  a  suggestion  of  surprise  in 
his  glance,  lift  his  head  back  and  to  one 
side,  poise  his  pen  in  midair,  and  ex- 
claim, "Well,  if  it  isn't  Parlie  Arker. 
How  the  h~l  are  you,  Arlie,  old  girl?" 
I  wouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  I  replied, 
"D— n  fine,  thanks!"  as  this  has  been  to 


us  an  almost  traditional  greeting.  Please 
understand,  this  was  neither  Mr.  Dun- 
lap's  customary  usage,  nor  mine,  but  it 
started,  as  many  habits  do,  in  a  moment 
of  bold  silliness  one  day,  and  the  custom 
persisted.  The  greeting  is  typical,  how- 
ever, of  the  spirit  of  friendliness  which 
prevailed  in  our  office. 

Most  people's  impression  of  the  busi- 
ness man  seems  to  be  that  he  is  stiflF, 
formal,    and    reserved   when    in    public. 


[14] 


and  a  tyrant  in  his  office.  Quite  to  the 
contrary,  this  boss  of  mine  is  human, 
and  one  of  the  most  interesting  persons 
I  have  ever  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing. 
He  was  a  true  friend  to  me,  as  he  is  to 
all  the  girls  who  work  for  him. 

Mr.  Dunlap  is  considerate,  and  pos- 
sesses the  rare  gift  of  understanding, 
with  which  he  is  able  to  keep  the  office 
girls  in  the  best  of  spirits.  If  one  of 
them  is  troubled  by  worries,  he  often 
talks  them  over  with  her,  reasons  them 
out;  and  soon  they  cease  to  be  worries. 
The  same  holds  true  with  hurt  feelings 
or  wounded  pride.  He  shows  in  a  tact- 
ful way  that  there  is  no  basis  for  such 
things,  and  before  long  the  hurt 
disappears. 

Mr.  Dunlap  realizes  that  there  is  a 
limit  to  what  one  can  do  and  do  well  in 
one  day,  and  never  allows  the  force  to 
work  overtime,  insisting  that  they  can 
accomplish  more  in  eight  hours  of  con- 
centrated effort,  when  rested,  than  they 
can  in  twelve  hours,  when  tired.  He 
understands,  too,  that  the  steady  grind 
of  nerve- wracking  office  work  and  custo- 
mer service  all  day  long  without  some 
relaxation  is  harmful  both  to  the  girls 
and  to  their  work.  He  likes  to  talk,  and 
naturally  all  girls  like  to  talk;  so,  at 
periodic  intervals  during  the  day,  Mr. 
Dunlap  leads  very  informal  discussions. 
He  pulls  out  the  bottom  drawer  of  his 
desk,  places  one  foot  on  the  drawer, 
crosses  his  legs,  leans  back  in  his  swivel 
chair  with  hands  clasped  behind  his  head, 
and  takes  a  deep  breath.  The  girls  in  the 
office  recognize  this  action  as  a  signal 
to  slow  down  somewhat  and  get  ready 
to  discuss  one  of  their  employer's  favor- 
ite subjects,  which  will  be  launched  as 
a  rule  with  a  "When  I  was  with  Marsh- 
all Field  and  Company — "  or  "When- 
ever you  have  enough  savings  to  be  inter- 


ested in  careful  speculation  in  the  stock 
market,  why  don't  you — "  or  "When  we 
go  back  to  Miami — ."  How  Mr.  Dunlap 
does  love  Miami !  He  lived  there  just 
one  year  several  years  ago,  but  the  happy 
memories  still  afford  excellent  dream 
material,'  and  on  his  fiftieth  birthday 
(about  fifteen  years  from  now)  he  is 
going  to  retire  from  the  drudgery  of 
steady  employment,  pack  his  trunks,  and 
go  to  Miami  where  he  can  spend  the  rest 
of  his  days  on  the  beautiful  seashore, 
reading  the  market  page  and  watching 
his  investments. 

The  characteristic  trait  which  one 
notices  first  about  Mr.  Dunlap  is  the 
preciseness  of  his  every  action,  and  his 
attention  to  detail.  It  appears  that  he 
is  working  very  slowly,  but  as  one  be- 
comes better  acquainted  with  him,  it  is 
obvious  that  though  his  movements  seem 
slow,  his  brain  works  fast,  and  that,  by 
taking  things  calmly,  and  thinking  be- 
fore doing  his  work  instead  of  after- 
wards, he  is  able  to  accomplish  more 
than  the  person  who  dashes  about  madly 
all  day  trying  to  do  a  dozen  things  at 
once.  Whenever  I  became  excited  about 
not  completing  a  day's  work,  he  always 
reminded  me  that  "tomorrow  is  another 
day."  If  I  became  alarmed  over  a  mis- 
take, he  told  me  to  remember  that 
"everything  comes  out  in  the  wash,"  and 
he  often  said,  "Show  me  a  man  who 
never  made  a  mistake  and  I'll  show  you 
a  man  who  never  did  anything." 

If  it  weren't  for  the  fact  that  it  would 
be  depriving  my  friends  in  the  office  of 
a  wonderful  employer,  I  would  suggest 
that  Mr.  Dunlap  be  placed  on  exhibit  in 
the  halls  of  the  College  of  Commerce 
to  make  clear  to  Commerce  students  that 
they  need  not  cultivate  a  veneered,  man- 
of-the-world  front  in  order  to  become 
successful  business  men  after  graduation. 


[15] 


Sketch  Book 

(Material  ivritten  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

The  sky  was  as  roug'h  and  gray  as  the  dead  coals  of  an  old  fire. — Hazel  Damisch 

Sleep  came  over  him  like  mist  over  a  swamp. — G.  E.  Edwards 

The  hen  walked  about  the  chicken-yard  nodding  her  head  in  brisk  approval. 

— Josephine  Farrell 

The  gray  sound  of  rubbing  a  young  beard  the  wrong  way. — Jay  Froman 

Her  fingernails  were  like  the  petals  of  a  poinsettia. — Robert  Kimbrell 

His  eyes  opened  suddenly,  like  a  slipped  window  shade. — Craig  Lewis 

He  had  black  eyes,  menacing  as  the  twin  bores  of  a  double-barrelled  shotgun. 

— Craig  Lewis 

The  acrid  pipe  smoke  rolled  over  my  tongue  with  the  prickling  of  a  cockle  burr. 

— R.  Marschik 

Stout,  and  arrayed  in  a  vividly  checked  suit,  he  reminded  me  of  a  sack  of  Ful-0- 
Pep  feed. — R.  Marschik 

He  remembered  details  so  well  that  one  might  say  he  had  a  "catalogical"  mind. 

— Dorothy  Robbins 

The  color  of  thistle — crushed  strawberries  with  cream. — Nona  Warrenburg 

The  dark  circles  under  her  eyes  made  her  face  look  as  though  it  were  under- 
going a  partial  eclipse. — Phyllis  Witzel 

Words 

When  I  hear  the  word  patriarch,  I  think  of  a  venerable,  white-bearded  ruler  of 
his  tribe,  wholly  lacking  in  the  dark  glamor  that  slicik  holds  for  me  and  for  all  who 
attend  the  movies  or  read  romantic  books.  China  is  a  flabby  overgrown  republic, 
alternately  overrun  with  Japanese  and  flooded  with  the  dirty  yellow  waters  of  the 
Yangtze  Kiang.  But  Cathay  is  the  land  of  Marco  Polo  and  the  age-old  glamour  of  the 
East.  1  hear  peso,  and  1  picture  a  Spanish  coin.  Since  1  am  not  well  informed  1  idly 
wonder  what  the  value  of  a  peso  is.  But,  when  I  hear  pieces  of  eight,  I  immediately 
scent  romance.  "Pieces  of  eight,  pieces  of  eight,"  Long  John  Silver,  cursing  parrots, 
pirates  and  cutlasses,  buried  treasure — all  pass  before  my  eyes  to  fill  my  mind  and  my 
thoughts.  ...  A  weazel  could  not  but  be  a  slinking  thief  as  well  as  a  cold  blooded 
killer.  Its  very  name  slinks.  Cancer  could  not  but  be  the  most  malignant  as  well  as 
the  most  insidious  of  diseases.  Its  very  whispering  syllables  betray  it.  Smugness 
could  not  but  be  one  of  the  most  despicable  as  well  as  one  of  the  most  infuriating  of 
human  faults. — Dorothy  Pilkington 


[16] 


Night  Noises 

All  through  the  night  a  dull  throbbing  pain  in  my  head  kept  me  awake.  I  lay- 
there  alone  in  my  hospital  room  listening  to  the  noises  that  came  in  through  an  open 
window.  There  were  the  rumble  of  heavy  traffic  on  the  boulevard,  the  screech  of 
brakes,  the  blare  of  horns,  the  roar  of  motors,  and  the  scream  of  the  siren  on  the 
police  cars  speeding  by.  All  this  was  mingled  with  the  gay  laughter  and  friendly 
chatter  of  the  people  passing  on  the  walk  below.  I  called  the  nurse  and  had  her  shut 
the  window,  but  then  the  noises  on  the  inside  attracted  my  attention. 

Through  an  amplifier  in  the  hall  outside  my  door  came  a  hollow,  monotonous 
drone:  "Call  for  Dr.  Gray.  Call  for  Dr.  Gray."  The  muffled  footsteps  of  the  night 
nurse  grew  louder  and  then  faded  away  as  she  passed  on  down  the  hall.  From  the 
adjoining  ward,  the  whistling  snore  of  a  sleeper  was  interrupted  by  a  low,  pleading 
moan.  As  the  night  wore  on,  a  man  prayed  aloud  for  awhile,  then  begged  the  doctor 
to  let  him  die  in  peace.  Soon  after,  he  died,  and  only  the  light  tread  of  the  orderly 
as  he  wheeled  the  body  away  broke  the  deathly  silence  that  had  settled  over  the 
hospital.  The  wail  of  an  approaching  ambulance  shattered  the  night  air,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  the  amplifier  echoed:  "Call  for  Dr.  Gray.  Call  for  Dr.  Gray."  I 
covered  my  head  and  wished  for  morning. — Art  W.  Lehde 

Suspension  Bridge 

The  pencilled  white  beam  of  the  shore  beacon  swept  out  across  the  mist-curtained 
waters  in  a  wide  arc,  disclosing  a  long  barge  train,  heavily  laden,  creeping  slowly 
past  the  massive  suspension  bridge  where  it  arched  its  great  steel  back  up  into  the 
sky.  It  was  after  midnight,  and  the  light  from  the  stars  glistened  on  the  thick  bridge 
rails  and  glinted  along  the  cable  rods  where  they  rose  perpendicularly  out  of  sight 
in  the  sky.  The  moon  was  high  overhead,  but  it  was  no  higher  than  the  great  sus- 
pension cables,  which  were  leaning  against  the  stars.  The  cables  formed  an  enormous 
black  web  which  appeared  slung  from  the  top  of  the  heavens,  a  great  steel  web 
woven  by  giants,  a  spider-web  cast  to  catch  clouds. — Wendell  Sharp 

Steam  Shovel 

Rounding  a  curve  in  the  road  on  a  cold,  dark  morning,  we  came  upon  the  steam 
shovel,  standing  like  a  huge  monster  of  ancient  times.  Its  lights  shone  out,  penetrat- 
ing the  dark  for  many  hundred  feet.  Truck  drivers,  shouting  and  swearing,  were 
hurrying  around  in  the  uncertain  lights  of  their  cars,  tinkering  and  pounding  the  big 
trucks  into  shape  for  the  day's  work.  The  whole  peace  of  the  world  before  dawn 
was  ruined  by  the  noise  and  clamor,  the  smell  of  burning  gasoline,  and  the  coughing 
and  spitting  of  the  cold  engines. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  trucks  were  ready.  The  drivers  clambered  into  their  un- 
roofed seats  and  raced  one  another  to  get  into  first  position  behind  the  shovel. 
Everything  was  ready  to  go,  and  yet  everyone  was  waiting  tensely  for  something, 
waiting  for  the  thing  that  made  the  whole  work  possible — steam !  The  tiny  fireman 
hurled  wood  into  the  red  hot  firebox,  while  the  fuelman  scurried  back  and  forth  with 
huge  loads  of  logs.  Finally  the  fireman  shone  his  flashlight  on  the  meter,  and  then, 
stepping  back,  he  reached  for  a  lever.  With  a  deafening  hiss,  a  long,  white  ribbon 
of  steam  shot  into  the  air.  The  first  truck  bounced  into  its  place  under  the  shovel. 
The  monster  slowly  lifted  his  head,  lying  motionless  before,  and  looked  majestically 
around.  Then,  spying  a  projecting  place  in  the  moist  bank  of  earth,  it  opened  its 
gigantic  mouth  and  with  one  bite  and  swing  of  its  head  piled  the  truck  high  with 
dirt. — William  Kleinpaste 


[17] 


Heronry 


D.  B.  Agnew 
Rhetoric  I,  Tlume  17,  1937-1938 


I  STOPPED  on  the  ridge  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  let  the  warm  spring 
breeze  ruffle  my  hair.  A  shining  ribbon 
of  concrete  stretched  ahead  of  me,  divid- 
ing a  checkerboard  of  green — pale  fields 
of  oats,  dark  rows  of  half-opened  soy- 
bean plants,  blankets  of  fresh  grass  in 
the  fence  rows  and  by  the  roadside,  and 
spatters  of  color  that  were  new  leaves 
in  the  woods  that  fringed  the  clear  creek. 
In  the  center  of  the  checkerboard,  near 
a  large  white  frame  church,  there  was 
a  small  area  covered  with  trees — an 
orchard,  a  grove,  and  a  border  around 
the  farmyard,  where  the  buildings  could 
scarcely  be  discerned. 

Closer  inspection  showed  that  the 
grove  was  made  up  of  straight,  tall 
young  walnut  trees,  whose  leafy  crowns 
nearly  hid  the  sky;  the  orchard,  of  old 
dead  apple  trees,  sadly  in  need  of  prun- 
ing and  spraying,  and  bordered  by  a 
double  row  of  large  red  cedars. 

The  occupants  of  the  orchard  were 
black  crowned  night  herons,  perhaps  the 
most  gregarious  of  our  native  American 
birds.  Field  glasses  showed  that  the 
adults  were  pearly  gray,  with  steel  gray 
shoulders,  white  underparts,  greenish 
feet  and  bills,  and  a  black  crown  which, 
on  the  male,  bore  two  long  thin  black 
feathers  extending  over  the  back  to  the 
rump.  The  female  was  similarly  colored, 
but  had  short,  white  tufts ;  the  yearling 
young  were  brownish  blotched  with 
white ;  all  were  slightly  larger  than  the 
common  crow. 

As  I  approached  the  trees,  the  adult 
birds  retreated  to  a  freshly  plowed  field. 
The  far  half  of  the  orchard  contained 


the  rookery.  Here  the  ground  was 
littered  with  half-eaten  or  half-digested 
fish  (if  a  nestling  gets  excited,  he'll 
regurgitate  the  contents  of  his  stomach, 
with  belching  noises),  broken  eggs,  dead 
or  dying  nestlings  ( fallen  from  the  trees 
and  neglected  by  their  parents),  and 
sticks  which  the  birds  had  dropped  when 
building  their  bulky  nests.  The  rookery 
had  a  distinctive  odor. 

After  breaking  through  the  thick  net- 
work of  twigs  and  reaching  the  nests  in 
the  topmost  branches,  I  learned  that  the 
nestlings  were  covered  with  a  black, 
oily-appearing  down,  with  silky  gray 
hair  protruding.  Most  of  the  nests  were 
lined  with  grass,  but  one  modern  bird 
had  used  excelsior.  There  were  nests 
in  all  stages  of  construction,  some  trees 
containing  eight  or  ten,  occupied  by  eggs 
or  six  weeks  old  nestlings.  The  great 
number  of  structures  was  the  reason 
for  the  slow  death  of  most  of  the  trees. 
A  few  birds,  pioneers  perhaps,  nested 
in  the  grove. 

As  I  left  the  orchard,  I  startled  a  pair 
of  little  green  herons  from  their  nest 
in  a  cedar.  They  were  smaller,  awk- 
wardly built,  and  the  color  of  angry  sea 
water;  they  flew  more  swiftly  and 
clumsily  than  the  night  herons. 

Once  more  upon  the  ridge.  I  turned 
for  another  look  at  the  heronry,  one  of 
the  few  in  Illinois.  The  adult  birds  were 
flying  in  from  the  field  to  which  they 
had  retreated  at  my  approach  ;  the  sun 
had  touched  the  horizon,  darkening  the 
grove  and  laying  long  shadows  across  the 
fields.  The  commotion  gradually  sub- 
sided as  the  birds  returned  to  their  nests. 


[18] 


High  Fun 


O.  Balchen 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  12,  1937-1938 


IT  WAS  warm  inside,  even  though  I 
was  without  a  shirt  and  the  window 
was  open  wide.  Muted  band  music  from 
a  distant  radio  crept  into  the  room,  and 
unconsciously  I  found  myself  humming. 
I  began  to  feel  drowsy.  Just  then  the 
band  broke  into  a  hot,  swing  number; 
with  a  start  I  broke  off  my  humming — 
looked  at  the  clock.  Holy  Smokes !  It 
was  after  eight,  and  I  hadn't  even  begun 
to  work. 

I  turned  to  my  desk,  piled  high  with 
balsa  wood,  tissue  paper,  plans,  and  all 
the  other  necessities  that  the  building 
of  model  airplanes  requires.  Foolishly 
I  had  waited  until  the  night  preceding 
the  meet  before  I  had  taken  stock  of  my 
assets  and  found  myself  wanting.  I 
needed  three  models  to  qualify  for  this 
meet:  a  glider,  a  stick  model,  and  a 
cabin  job.  I  had  but  one,  a  twin-pusher; 
it  consisted  of  two  sticks  fastened  at 
one  end  so  that  they  formed  a  V.  At 
six-inch  intervals,  the  sticks  were  braced 
with  balsa  wood,  to  add  strength ;  at  the 
open  end  of  the  V,  one  to  each  stick, 
hung  a  pair  of  pusher  propellers.  The 
wing  and  tail  surfaces  were  fastened  on 
with  rubber  bands,  looped  over  the  wings 
and  under  the  sticks.  This  sort  of  ar- 
rangement permitted  the  movement  of 
both  wing  and  elevator  to  take  care  of 
the  adjustments  which  are  necessary  in 
order  to  have  a  model  fly  properl}^,  if 
at  all. 

The  cabin  model  I  was  to  use  had 
but  half  a  wing.  I  sat  down  to  rebuild 
the  missing  half.  It  was  necessary  to  cut 
out  ribs  and  spars,  glue  them  together, 
and  set  them  to  dry.   After  finishing  this 


work,  I  turned  my  attention  to  the  prob- 
lem of  a  glider. 

I  pulled  out  a  sheet  of  paper  and  be- 
gan making  calculations  for  one.  All 
of  these  models  had  to  comply  with 
certain  specifications  in  order  to  be 
eligible  for  the  contest.  The  glider  was 
the  easiest  of  the  lot.  M\  that  was  nec- 
essary was  to  keep  the  wing  area  within 
a  prescribed  limit.  There  were  no  other 
restrictions.  The  requirements  for  the 
cabin  model  were  more  sharply  defined. 
The  fuselage  had  to  preserve  a  certain 
ratio  between  its  greatest  cross-sectional 
area  and  its  over-all  length,  and  the  wing 
area  was  not  to  exceed  a  hundred  and 
fifty  square  inches.  Furthermore,  for 
each  fifty  square  inches  of  wing  area  the 
model  had  to  weigh  at  least  one  ounce. 
The  specifications  for  the  wings  of  the 
twin-pusher  were  the  same  as  for  those 
of  the  cabin  model. 

I  had  just  finished  the  calculations 
and  drawings  for  my  glider  when  the 
door  to  my  room  opened  and  my  mother 
peeked  in ;  she  was  on  her  way  to  bed. 

"See  that  you  get  to  bed  right  away, 
Ossie,"  she  said. 

"O.  K.,  Mom,"  I  replied.  "I've  got 
only  a  little  more  to  do." 

"Never  mind  the  alibi :  just  do  as  I 
say."   she  retorted. 

"Yeah,  but," — I  began  to  protest. 

"Well,  my  gay  young  blade,"  she  said, 
"if  I  catch  you  up  all  night,  I'll  make 
something  fly.  and  it  won't  be  models 
either." 

"O.  K.,  Mom,"  I  smiled. 

"You  mind  what  I  say  now — good 
night."    She   closed   the   door. 


[19] 


Again  I  turned  my  attention  to  the 
glider.  I  traced  the  outline  of  my  wing 
plan  on  a  sheet  of  balsa  wood  and  then 
cut  out  the  outline.  For  the  preliminary 
operations  of  cutting  out  the  blank  and 
putting  in  the  wing  curvature  I  used  a 
razor.  After  I  had  cut  down  almost  to 
the  curve  I  wanted,  I  finished  ofif  with 
sandpaper.  The  subsequent  covering 
of  the  cabin  wing  with  tissue  paper  and 
the  assembling  of  the  glider  took  me 
almost  till  dawn  ;  wearily  I  tumbled  into 
bed. 

Mother  awakened  me  at  six  for 
breakfast.  I  dragged  myself  out  of  bed 
and  shuffled  over  to  a  window.  The  sun 
was  just  topping  a  low  bank  of  clouds 
to  the  east.  It  looked  red  and  bloated, 
and  I  prayed  that  the  clouds  would 
disappear.  Rain  today,  of  all  days,  would 
indeed  be  a  calamity.  After  eating  break- 
fast, I  applied  a  hasty  coat  of  liquid  wax 
to  the  glider.  I  had  intended  to  apply 
several  coats  of  banana  oil,  but  I  lacked 
the  time.  The  purpose  of  applying  ba- 
nana oil  is  twofold.  Besides  strengthen- 
ing the  model,  it  imparts  a  high  polish, 
thus  eliminating  a  good  deal  of  skin 
friction. 

At  seven,  a  chum  of  mine  called  for 
me  with  an  automobile.  With  him  he 
had  four  others,  all  bound  for  the  meet. 
The  ride  of  some  twenty-odd  miles  to 
the  contest  ground  was  enlivened  with 
conversation  dealing  with  models.  One 
of  the  boys  had  a  feathering  propeller, 
a  new  development  at  that  time,  which 
he  maintained  would  enable  him  to  win 
the  meet  with  ease.  It  was  an  applica- 
tion of  the  variable  pitch  idea,  now  used 
in  all  the  modern  airliners.  The  blades 
presented  a  high  angle  of  attack  to  the 
air  at  the  start  of  the  flight,  when  the 
power  was  at  its  peak,  giving  the  model  a 
fast  climb.  As  the  rubber  motor  un- 
wound, the  blades  lessened  their  angle. 


thus  getting  the  maximum  of  efficiency 
which  a  low  angle  of  attack  affords.  All 
of  the  boys  had  their  own  pet  innova- 
tions incorporated  in  their  models.  They 
gazed  somewhat  condescendingly  upon 
my  three  rather  poor-looking  entries.  I 
could  see  that  they  dismissed  me  as  not 
being  any  sort  of  threat.  I  didn't  par- 
ticularly care.  I  had  seen  too  many  fliers 
of  super-models  get  their  pants  taken  in 
competition.  I  prayed  for  a  good,  hard 
wind.  My  models  were  all  solidly  con- 
structed and  could  outlast  a  gale,  while 
theirs  had  been  built  as  lightly  as  the 
rules  allowed — a  good  idea  if  the  weath- 
er is  right. 

We  finally  reached  the  site  of  the  meet. 
My  spirits  rose  at  once,  for  the  wind 
had  freshened.  I  took  out  my  glider  and 
tested  it.  Since  the  wings  are  glued  in 
place,  a  glider  is  adjusted  by  adding 
weight,  in  the  form  of  clay,  to  the  nose. 
After  having  several  trial  flights,  I  re- 
ported to  the  judges,  who  checked  my 
wing  area  and  weight.  I  was  assigned 
to  a  timer. 

My  first  two  official  flights  were  dis- 
appointing. I  had  the  technique  of 
throwing  a  glider  down  pretty  well,  and 
I  was  gaining  more  than  twenty  feet 
of  altitude  on  most  of  the  other  con- 
testants with  my  heaves ;  but  the  model 
was  not  adjusted  properly,  so  that  I 
received  no  benefit  from  them.  I  went 
through  my  whole  bag  of  tricks.  1 
warped  the  wings,  shifted  the  weight, 
adjusted  my  tail  surfaces,  but  still  the 
model  refused  to  function  properly.  Fi- 
nally, I  decided  to  trust  entirely  to 
chance.  T  wound  up  and  gave  an  arm- 
breaking  toss.  The  model  shot  up  like 
a  projectile;  at  the  height  of  its  trajec- 
tory, it  fluttered,  then  snapped  viciously 
towards  the  ground.  About  ten  feet  oflF 
the  ground  it  began  to  pull  out,  but  too 
late ;  it  hit  going  at  full  speed.    I  raced 


[20] 


over  to  where  it  lay.  The  damage  was 
not  great — only  a  splintered  rudder, — 
but  I  knew  that  before  I  could  repair 
it  the  glider  event  would  be  over.  I 
went  back  to  my  box,  nevertheless,  glued 
up  the  rudder — now  minus  quite  a  large 
chunk — and  set  it  away  to  dry.  Then 
I  turned  my  attention  to  my  other  mod- 
els. The  twin-pusher,  in  its  amiable 
way,  behaved  perfectly.  A  few  short 
test  flights  proved  that.  The  cabin  model 
emulated  the  deportment  of  the  twin. 
Its  flights  were  as  smooth  as  a  draft  of 
ale. 

The  free-wheeling  propeller  on  both 
models  worked  like  a  charm.  This  was 
one  of  the  few  new  developments  which 
I  had  considered  important  enough  to 
adopt.  It  is  customary  to  fasten  the 
propeller  shaft  directly  to  the  propeller. 
This  arrangement  is  not  a  satisfactory 
one,  for,  after  the  rubber  motor  has 
unwound  and  the  model  has  begun  its 
glide,  the  propeller  spins  in  one  direction, 
because  of  the  action  of  the  air  upon  its 
blades.  This  spin  winds  up  the  rubber 
to  a  point  where  it  is  strong  enough 
to  counteract  the  effect  of  the  air;  it 
then  kicks  the  propeller  in  the  opposite 
direction,  cutting  down  the  glide  tre- 
mendously. The  free-wheeling  propeller 
consists  of  a  shaft  that  is  free  of  the 
propeller.  When  the  motor  is  fully 
wound,  the  tension  causes  the  shaft  to 
engage  the  propeller.  As  the  motor  un- 
winds and  the  pressure  lessens,  a  spring 
arrangement  throws  the  propeller  free 
of  the  shaft,  .allowing  it  to  revolve 
freely. 

After  I  had  eaten  my  lunch,  I  picked 
up  my  glider,  now  dry,  and  set  off  to 
see  whether  I  could  iron  out  the  kinks 
in  it.  Apparently  the  trouble  I  had  had 
with  it  had  arisen  because  of  an  over- 
sized rudder,  for  in  a  tentative  test 
glide,  the  model  showed  no  tendency  to 


fall  off  on  one  wing,  such  as  it  had 
displayed  previously.  I  gave  it  another 
lusty  heave.  The  glider  rose  in  a  long, 
smooth  arc,  splashing  sunlight  from  its 
tilted  wings.  It  pulled  out  beautifully, 
and  cut  back  in  a  slow,  lazy  swing  with 
the  wind.  It  led  me  a  merry  chase  for 
more  than  a  mile. 

When  I  returned,  dusty,  but  happy, 
the  stick  event  had  already  begun.  I 
brought  my  twin-pusher  to  the  judges' 
stand  and  had  it  weighed  in.  On  its 
first  and  only  flight,  the  twin  justified 
my  faith  in  it.  It  caught  a  riser  and 
disappeared  almost  directly  overhead 
after  twelve  minutes  and  some  odd  sec- 
onds. This  was  enough  to  award  me 
first  place  in  this  event.  I  busied  myself 
for  the  next  two  hours  helping  other 
contestants  wind  and  adjust  their  models. 

The  fuselage  event  was  a  bitter  dis- 
appointment to  me.  The  event  took 
place  at  four  o'clock.  Throughout  the 
day,  the  wind  had  grown  continually 
stronger  and  gustier,  and  by  late  after- 
noon it  was  nearly  a  small  cyclone.  Most 
of  the  contestants  had  constructed  their 
models  lightly,  gambling  on  the  presence 
of  risers  to  aid  them  in  winning.  It  was 
heart-rending  to  watch  those  light  mod- 
els being  picked  up  and  smashed  to  bits 
by  the  wind.  On  all  sides  model  builders 
could  be  seen,  with  woefully  long  faces, 
retrieving  what  was  left  of  their  once- 
beautiful  models.  I  waited  almost  until 
the  event  ended,  before  I  made  any  at- 
tempt at  an  official  flight ;  until  then  the 
best  time  was  forty-nine  seconds.  I 
knew  my  old  scow  was  one  of  the  few 
models  at  the  event  which  could  with- 
stand the  smashing  force  of  the  wind. 
Many  times  before,  I  had  flown  her  in 
weather  just  as  bad  as  this,  and  never 
had  she  failed  to  do  less  than  three  min- 
utes. Yet  I  hesitated,  for  so  much  de- 
pended on  the  success  of  this  flight. 


[21] 


Finally,  I  called  one  of  the  fellows 
I  had  driven  up  with  in  the  morning  to 
help  me  wind  my  model.  His  super- 
specials  had  long  since  been  scattered 
over  the  expanse  of  the  contest  grounds. 
The  winding  of  a  contest  model  is  an 
operation  that  requires  two  persons. 
One  holds  the  model  and  propeller,  while 
the  other  stretches  the  rubber  motor 
about  twenty  feet,  in  order  to  store  a 
greater  number  of  turns,  and  winds  it 
with  an  instrument  that  resembles  an 
egg  beater, 

I  poured  some  lubricant  on  the  rubber 
to  make  it  pliable  and  capable  of  storing 
a  still  greater  number  of  turns,  and  be- 
gan giving  the  motor  all  it  could  take. 
I  had  made  about  seven  hundred  turns, 
when  my  helpmate's  hand  slipped  and 
knocked    loose    the    free-wheeling    pro- 


peller device.  The  model  pulled  itself  out 
of  his  hands  and  shot  towards  me.  It 
seemed  to  explode  before  my  face,  seem- 
ingly disintegrating  in  a  pitiful  tangle  of 
broken  wood  and  tattered  paper,  as  the 
rubber  motor  ripped  it  to  shreds.  I  stood 
gazing  dumbly  at  it  as  it  lay  on  the 
ground  at  my  feet,  convulsively  spouting 
bits  of  debris.  And  then  I  began  to 
swear.  I  cursed  model  airplanes.  I 
cursed  model  airplane  contests.  I  cursed 
especially  boneheads  who  couldn't  hang 
on  to  a  model  properly  (after  I  had  fin- 
ished, of  course,  I  apologized  to  the 
fellow).  After  taking  another  breath  I 
cursed  some  more,  but  by  this  time  my 
oaths  had  grown  flat — they  had  lost  their 
flavor.  I  unloosed  a  final  blast  and  called 
it  a  day. 


On  Working  One's  Way  Through  College 


John  Olson 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  5,  1938-1939 


WORKING  one's  way  through  col- 
lege has  been  thought  a  noble 
accomplishment.  It  is.  But  many  people 
contend  that,  unless  the  student  earns  all 
or  at  least  a  part  of  his  college  expenses, 
he  does  not  obtain  the  full  benefit  of  his 
education.  This  is  false.  My  own  per- 
sonal experience  has  shown  me  that 
working  while  at  college  is  not  conducive 
to  learning.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  a 
hindrance  to  one's  education — very 
much  so. 

The  folks  at  home  used  often  to  nod 
their  heads  wisely  and  say,  "Yessir,  the 
boy  who  works  his  way  through  college 
is  the  fellow  who  really  gets  something 


from  his  education — yessir."  It  did  not 
then  occur  to  me  that  these  theorists 
were  not  at  all  qualified  to  voice  their 
opinion  on  the  subject.  None  of  them 
had  ever  attended  a  university;  and, 
strange  to  say,  hardly  one  of  them  had 
ever  known  anyone  who  had  actually 
worked  his  way  through  college  and 
graduated.  Of  course,  they  could  cite  the 
isolated  example  of  James  Smith  who 
made  top  grades  in  college  and  was  said 
to  have  worked  for  his  board  for  the 
first  two  years.  The  fact  was,  however, 
that  James  Smith  worked  for  his  board 
only  on  occasional  week-ends — in  order 
to  save  money  for  an  occasional  ticket  to 


[22] 


a  game  or  a  dance.  The  rest  of  the  story 
was  fantastically  built  up  by  his  proud 
mother.  But,  goaded  on  by  my  friends 
at  home,  I  finally  resolved  that  I  would 
work  my  way  through  college. 

With  my  head  crammed  full  of  fanci- 
ful ideas  about  big  kitchens,  jolly  boys 
wiping  dishes,  and  good  natured  cooks 
slipping  tidbits  to  the  help  while  work- 
ing, I  went  in  search  of  a  meal  job.  It 
soon  became  very  evident  to  me  that  the 
shiny  kitchen  exists  only  in  the  better 
fraternity  and  sorority  houses  where  the 
jobs  had  been  greedily  picked  over  by 
others  as  vultures  pick  over  a  freshly 
killed  prey.  I  was  willing,  however,  to 
forego  the  shiny  kitchen,  and  I  managed 
to  get  a  job  at  one  of  the  less  polished 
eating  houses  on  the  campus. 

I  was  one  of  several  fellows  who 
washed  and  wiped  the  dishes  at  the  reg- 
ular meal  hours  of  the  day.  It  was 
among  these  co-workers  that  I  met  my 
second  disillusionment.  Instead  of 
happy-go-lucky,  friendly  boys,  bantering 
back  and  forth  among  stacks  of  dishes, 
I  saw  an  entirely  different  picture.  These 
fellows  were  usually  very  tired  and  had 
only  one  thought  in  mind — to  finish  work 


and  get  out  of  there  as  soon  as  possible. 
Instead  of  joking  and  laughing  they 
argued  and  cursed  at  each  other.  The 
cook,  too,  was  far  from  the  angelic, 
good-natured  fellow  I  thought  he'd  be. 
He  carefully  watched  our  proportioned 
allotments  of  meat  and  potatoes  and  took 
special  care  to  see  that  we  had  only  one 
glass  of  milk.  Class  hours  meant  nothing 
to  him,  and  he  often  made  us  stay  doing 
odd  jobs  for  him  until  we  were  late  for 
class. 

My  school  work  was  becoming  sadly 
neglected  during  this  period,  and  I  be- 
gan to  see  that  things  were  not  turning 
out  at  all  as  I  had  planned.  The 
theorists  at  home  were  becoming  alarmed 
at  the  note  of  distress  in  my  letters. 
They  probably  felt  and  still  do  feel  that 
I  was  incapable  of  maintaining  myself 
at  the  university.  The  fact  remained, 
however,  that  it  was  not  my  incapability 
that  was  causing  my  failure  at  college. 
It  was  the  theory  that  was  wrong.  I  have 
found,  others  have  found,  and  many 
more  will  find  that  working  one's  way 
through  college  is  not  the  best  way  to 
get  the  most  from  one's  education. 


Her  First  Drink 

The  cherry  held  her  fascinated  gaze  for  some  moments.  It  added  a  dashing 
touch  to  the  pink  liquor,  the  tall  glass,  and  the  ornamented  stirrer.  Awed  by  her  own 
bravery  she  picked  up  the  glass  in  one  hand,  sank  back  in  the  modernistic  chair,  and 
made  a  determined  attempt  to  appear  nonchalant  and  sophisticated.  Her  effort  was  a 
miserable  failure.  A  slight,  boyish  body  and  a  flushed,  naive  face  were  not  consistent 
with  smug  sophistication.  The  new  silver  sandals  and  the  quiet  blue  formal,  with  its 
gardenia  corsage,  served  only  to  accentuate  the  slim  young  face  and  dancing  blue 
eyes.  Moreover,  her  name  was  Rose  Marie  and  she  was  decidedly  Irish.  Her  hair 
was  a  Grimm's-Fairy- Story  black  and  her  face  and  shoulders  were  softly  tanned 
from  careful  exposure  to  a  back-yard  sun. — Jack  Lammer 


[23] 


Open  Your  Mouth 


W.  C.  Wolf 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  13.  1938-1939 


I  WALKED  up  the  dark  and  narrow- 
stairway  to  the  third  floor,  where  I 
entered  the  reception  room  of  a  Dr.  F. 
Wetzel.  I  could  see  no  one  in  the  re- 
ception room,  although  I  could  hear 
someone  moving  about  in  the  inner  office. 
Presently  a  short,  stocky,  partially  bald 
man  approached  me  and  asked  what  he 
could  do  for  me, 

"I  realize  I  didn't  make  an  appoint- 
ment. Doctor,  but  I  just  dropped  in  to 
see  whether  you  would  look  at  my  teeth 
and  see  whether  they  need  any  atten- 
tion." 

With  the  word  "attention"  his  face 
lightened,  and  he  asked  me  to  follow 
him  into  his  office.  "Just  sit  back  in  that 
big  chair  and  make  yourself  comfort- 
able, he  said,  after  I  had  followed  him 
into  his  office.  "I'll  take  a  look  at  your 
teeth  and  let  you  know  what's  what." 

I  climbed  into  the  big,  old-fashioned, 
black  leather  upholstered  chair  and 
waited  for  him  to  start  poking  around 
in  my  mouth  with  his  pain-producing 
instruments. 

"Are  you  a  student  at  the  university?" 
he  asked,  fastening  a  little  white  bib 
around  my  neck. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  As  I  glanced 
around  at  the  yellow  walls,  my  eyes  were 
attracted  by  a  framed  certificate  that 
entitled  a  Mr.  F.  Wetzel  to  practice 
dentistry.  I  rather  hoped  his  practicing 
days  were  over  and  that  he  really  knew 
what  he  was  doing,  or  what  he  was  about 
to  do. 


"I  take  it  you  are  a  senior  in  school, 
aren't  you?" 

"No,  I'm  a  freshman,"  I  answered. 
"I  went  to  work  a  couple  of  years  after 
I  graduated   from  high  school." 

"Ah  yes,  I  do  believe  a  student  gets 
much  more  out  of  college  life  if  he  works 
his  way  through  school,"  he  said  as  he 
approached  me  with  a  handful  of  long, 
prong-like,  silver  instruments.  "Open 
your  mouth  wide.  That's  it.  I  was  fortu- 
nate enough  to  have  wealthy  parents, 
and  they  put  me  through  the  school  of 
dentistry.  Of  course,  that  was  about 
twenty  years  ago,  and  since  then  I  have 
learned  what  it  is  like  to  have  to  make 
a  living  for  my  family  and  myself.  I 
have  quite  a  fine  little  family,  three  boys 
and  one  girl.  That's  a  picture  of  my 
family  over  there  on  the  wall,"  and  he 
pointed  with  his  long  tooth-jabber  to  a 
picture  somewhere  in  the  back  of  the 
office  which  I  could  not  possibly  see 
from  my  position. 

I  muttered  an  "Uh-huh"  in  approval 
and  recognition  of  his  statement  about 
his  family  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

"Yep,  it's  a  great  life  if  you  .  . 
now  here's  a  tooth  that  should  be  filled. 
Yes  sir,  that'll  have  to  be  taken  care  of. 
Take  my  family  and  me  for  example. 
We  don't  have  much,  but  we  get  along 
fairly  well  on  the  little  I  make  here  at 
the  office.  I've  been  established  in  this 
office  for  twelve  years  now,  and  in  that 
time  I've  built  up  a  steady  trade  with 
my  patients." 


[24] 


"That's  fine,"  I  replied,  trying  to  keep 
from  sticking  my  tongue  on  the  minia- 
ture ice-pick  with  which  he  was  still 
poking  at  my  teeth  and  gums. 

"Yes  sir,  I  have  some  patients  who 
come  thirty  and  forty  miles  to  have  me 
work  on  their  teeth.  This  dentist  busi- 
ness is  all  right  if  you  handle  your 
customers  with  .  .  .  ." 

"Pardon  me,"  I  gulped,  making  him 
take  his  instruments  out  of  my  mouth. 
"How  do  my  teeth  look  to  you?  Do  you 
think  I  will  have  to  have  much  work 
done  to  them?" 

"Oh  yes,  your  teeth,"  and  he  again 
filled  my  mouth  with  tools,  mirrors,  cot- 
ton, and  fingers.  "Hmmmm,  now  here's 
an  upper  tooth  that  should  have  a  little 
filling.  You  know,  it's  a  funny  thing,  but 
most  people  don't  seem  to  realize  just 
how  much  work  there  is  to  be  done  in 
their  mouths.  Why,  just  last  month  I 
had  a  customer  who  had  to  come  to  see 
me  three  times  a  week  for  about  five 
weeks.  Of  course,  I  realized  he  didn't 
have  much  money,  so  I  was  easy  on  his 
bill,  but  he  certainly  had  lots  of  dental 
work  to  be  done." 

I  knew  I  was  in  for  another  pointless 
lecture  from  this  cavity-searcher.  At 
the  time,  I  couldn't  imagine  anything 
worse  than  the  noise  of  an  electric  mouth 
drill,  the  pain  of  someone  drilling  on  my 
teeth,  and  the  continual  jabbering  of  the 
dentist. 

"You  know,  I  don't  like  to  charge 
people  too  much  money  for  the  work 
they  have  done,  because  I  realize  that 
to  most  people  a  dentist  bill  is  just  an 
added  expense  that  they  didn't  figure  on 
having.  As  long  as  I  have  a  good  busi- 
ness with  plenty  of  patients,  I  feel  it 
my  duty  to  help  the  poorer  people  along. 
Yes  sir,  my  policy  is  to  'soak  the  rich' 


and  distribute  the  proceeds  among  the 
less  fortunate.  I  have  some  mighty  im- 
portant people  come  in  to  see  me  about 
their  teeth.  Why,  I've  worked  on  Mayor 
Schwab,  Senator  Bob  Carney,  and  Wil- 
liam Wright.  I  must  admit  I  charge  the 
Senator  and  Mayor  a  little  more  than  the 
usual  price  for  m}^  dental  work,  but  then 
I  figure  it's  only  fair  so  that  I  can  help 
some  less  fortunate  soul.  I  believe  the 
Mayor  and  Senator  can  well  afford  to 
pay  a  little  extra  for  their  personal 
needs,  don't  you  ?" 

I  did  my  best  to  answer  him,  but  the 
sound  that  came  from  my  tool-filled 
mouth  was  nothing  but  a  gulp.  I  was 
completely  at  his  mercy,  and,  whether  I 
agreed  with  his  statements  or  not,  I  was 
surely  in  no  position  to  argue  with  him. 
I  had  no  alternative  other  than  to  sit 
tight,  listen,  and  hope  that  he  would  soon 
remove  his  fixed  assets  from  my  mouth 
and  let  me  get  out  of  his  charitable 
office. 

"Now  let  me  see,  one  lower  cavity  and 
two  upper  teeth  that  need  fillings.  I 
guess  that  just  about  covers  it.  Of 
course,  we  may  find  another  cavity  or 
two  as  we  work  on  the  teeth  later  on. 
You  know,  we  may  have  overlooked 
some  little  defects.  Just  spit  that  cotton 
out  over  there  in  that  trough.   That's  it." 

I  was  so  anxious  to  get  out  of  that 
leather  chair  that  I  arose  without  wait- 
ing for  him  to  remove  the  bib.  "You 
say  I  will  have  to  have  about  three  teeth 
filled.  Well,  that  isn't  so  bad.  I'll  try 
to  drop  around  sometime  next  week  so 
you  can  start  work  on  them." 

"That  will  be  three  dollars,  Mr.  .  .  . 

Mr What  did  you  say  your  name 

was?" 

"Three  dollars?  Just  call  me  Senator." 


[25] 


Ouch! 


H.  W.  Reusch 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  12,  1937-1938 


YOU'RE  next,"  called  the  dentist 
from  his  operating  room. 

My  heart  beat  fast,  and  my  knees  felt 
rather  weak  as  I  entered  the  tiny  room 
which  possessed  one  large,  distorted 
chair  fastened  near  the  only  window. 

"How  are  you  today?"  asked  "Doc," 
tr>'ing  to  make  me  feel  at  ease. 

"Just  fine,"  I  managed  to  gulp. 

"Sit  down,  and  I'll  be  with  you  in  a 
moment." 

As  I  clambered  up  into  the  large  none- 
too-comfortable  chair  and  waited,  my 
head  buzzed  with  thoughts  of  the  dentist 
grubbing  out  my  two  eyeteeth  that  had 
failed  to  come  down  in  their  respective 
positions.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  I 
was  nearly  as  curious  about  the  coming 
episode  as  I  was  shaky.  How  would  he 
get  those  pesky  teeth  out  when  he 
couldn't  even  see  them?  The  dentist 
approached,  dressed  in  a  clean,  white 
jacket,  all  ready  for  business. 

Four  times  a  needle,  filled  with  a 
nerve-deadening  fluid,  was  thrust  into  my 
gums  and  discharged  its  contents ;  each 
time  a  shudder  ran  the  length  of  my 
body  as  the  needle  pierced  the  tough 
skin. 

Many  thoughts  raced  through  my  head 
as  I  lay  waiting  for  my  jaw  to  "freeze." 
"Is  Mother  thinking  of  me  now?  What 
is  Dad  doing?  Harlan  is  in  class  writing 
a  quiz.  This  is  'Doc's'  first  attempt  at 
this  kind  of  an  operation,  and  I  wonder 
if  he  knows  what  he  will  do.  I'm  not 
scared — only  curious  to  know  what  he  is 
going  to  do  to  me." 

"Open  wide." 


I  opened  my  mouth  as  far  as  I  could, 
and  "Doc"  filled  my  cheeks  with  wads 
of  cotton.  Picking  up  a  small,  steel  knife, 
he  asked  me  to  open  wider  and  began 
cutting  the  skin  in  the  roof  of  my  mouth 
all  along  the  inside  of  the  gums.  With 
each  slash,  a  spurt  of  hot  blood  sprinkled 
my  tongue,  ran  off,  and  was  absorbed 
by  the  cotton.  The  sensation  of  the 
cutting  knife  felt  much  like  the  soimd 
of  someone  scraping  a  raw  potato  with 
a  paring  knife.  When  the  incision  was 
complete,  the  roof  of  m}'  mouth,  loosened 
at  the  front,  fell  down  and  lay  like  a 
flap  on  my  tongue.  With  another  glis- 
tening, steel  tool  "Doc"  probed  about  in 
the  tissues  in  the  cavity  until  he  located 
the  teeth. 

"Do  you  want  to  have  a  look?"  he 
asked,  as  he  held  a  hand  mirror  before 
me. 

There    lay   the    flap   of    skin    on    my' 
tongue,  and  above  it  was  a  large,  gaping, 
bloody  hole  with  the  ends  of  two  teeth! 
laid  bare  at  the  base  of  the  gruesome 
pit.    I  gave  back  the  mirror.    One  look, 
was  enough. 

I  held  my  breath  as  "Doc"  tried  to 
pry   out   the   teeth.    They   were   coated 
with   a   shiny  substance,   and   his   tools  1 
would  suddenly  slip  off  and  gouge  deeply 
into    some    of    the    surrounding    tender! 
tissue.    Wow !    Such  a   feeling !    Some- 
times I  expected  the  tool  to  emerge  from 
the  top  of  my  head.  The  teeth  would  not 
loosen;  they  were  stuck  too  tight.  Taking! 
the   drill,    much   to   my   discomfort,   he] 
ground  little  holes  into  them.    The  drill- 
ing caused  such  reverberations  that,  be-j 


[26] 


tween  the  agonizing  shots  of  pain,  I 
thought  my  eyes  would  leap  from  their 
sockets. 

The  holes  gave  the  tools  a  firmer  grip, 
and  after  much  prying  and  pulling,  one 
tooth  came  out,  and  soon  out  came  the 
other.  I  sighed  with  relief  and  dared 
once  more  to  take  a  deep  breath.    The 


flap  was  soon  sewed  back  in  place,  the 
blood-soaked  cotton  was  removed,  and  I 
was  able  to  rinse  my  burning  mouth  with 
clean,  cold  water.  Glancing  at  the  clock, 
I  realized  that  just  thirty  minutes  ago 
I  had  been  dreading  a  visit  to  the  dentist, 
but  now  the  incident  was  already  in  the 
past. 


A  Matter  of  Conscience 

William  J.  Furbish 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  12,  1937-1938 


'TPHE  mosquitoes  droned  insistently 
*■  outside  my  little  pup  tent.  The 
damp,  foggy  waves  of  air  drifted  in 
through  the  netting,  and  as  I  lay  awake, 
between  my  damp  blankets,  I  wondered 
what  I  would  say  if  my  mother  served 
cold  baked  beans  and  saltless  baked  fish 
three  times  a  day  for  seven  days.  I  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  mothers 
aren't  fully  appreciated,  and  I  was 
rather  enjoying  the  irony  of  having 
reached  my  last  can  of  beans,  when  my 
line  of  thought  was  broken  by  a  faint 
bleating  sound.  The  sound  was  very 
faint  and  blended  so  easily  with  the 
drone  of  the  mosquitoes  that  I  thought 
little  of  it  the  first  second  after  it  oc- 
curred. I  had  sat  up  when  I  heard  it, 
but  I  lay  back  to  go  to  sleep  again. 

The  sound  was  repeated.  It  seemed  to 
be  clearer  this  time,  probably  because  I 
had  heard  it  once  and  my  senses  were 
far  more  alert  than  they  had  been  the 
first  time.  It  was  at  the  quiet  hour  be- 
fore sunrise  when  all  wildlife  action 
seems  to  have  lulled.  The  owls  had  long 
since  ceased  their  night  vigil,  and  it  was 
too  early  for  the  mourning-dove  and  its 
competitors  to  be  out.  I  sat  up  again 
and  listened  carefully ;  this  time  I  rec- 


ognized the  sound.  It  was  the  bleating 
of  a  little  fawn,  somewhere  up  the 
stream  from  my  camp. 

Hurriedly  I  dressed,  and  after  putting 
a  roll  of  film  in  my  camera,  I  slipped 
out  under  the  mosquito  bar,  fastened 
it  behind  me,  and  ran  for  my  canoe, 
which  was  hauled  up  on  the  bank  of  the 
stream.  I  planned  to  get  a  picture,  if  I 
could,  after  the  sun  came  up  enough  to 
give  some  light. 

I  launched  the  boat  as  quietly  as  I 
could  and  started  up  stream,  always 
paddling  on  the  right  side ;  not  changing 
to  the  left  for  fear  of  making  some 
noise. 

The  bleating  became  louder  and  oc- 
curred oftener,  so  that  I  began  to  won- 
der whether  something  might  be  wrong. 

As  I  paddled  my  canoe  through  the 
water,  the  creek  broadened  into  a  marsh. 
Sloughs  and  cuts  lay  tangent  to  the 
curves  of  the  main  stream,  and  the 
whole  finally  blended  into  a  broad  ex- 
panse of  grassless  marsh  land.  The  sun 
had  started  to  rise,  and  I  could  see  that 
the  marsh  covered  thousands  of  acres. 
As  I  progressed,  the  water  became 
muddy,  and  finally  the  main  creek 
changed  to  a  thick  mass  of  mud,  with 


[27] 


little  rivulets  of  water  cutting  it  here 
and  there.  I  pushed  on  toward  the  sound 
of  the  little  fawn's  bleating.  The  out- 
line of  some  object,  against  the  gray  of 
the  eastern  sky  line,  became  the  form  of 
a  deer  standing  out  on  the  marsh.  As 
I  pushed  my  canoe  through  the  mud,  I 
watched  it  move  back  and  forth,  always 
coming  back  to  one  spot.  The  truth  of 
the  situation  finally  dawned  upon  me. 
For  some  reason  or  other  a  doe  and  her 
fawn  had  wandered  too  far  out  onto 
the  marsh,  and  the  fawn  had  been  caught 
in  the  mud  of  one  of  the  cuts  that  were 
so  numerous. 

The  creek  became  almost  impenetrable 
because  the  mud  was  so  thick.  I  had  to 
stand  up  in  the  canoe  and  use  my  weight 
to  propel  it,  by  lunging  forward  and 
setting  my  feet  against  its  ribs.  I  finally 
managed  to  come  to  within  fifty  feet  of 
the  fawn.  Tt  had  slipped  into  one  of  the 
cuts,  and  by  consistent  movement  had 
worked  its  body  down  into  the  mud  so 
that  only  its  head  and  shoulders  were 
above  the  surface.  About  twenty  paces 
away  the  doe  stood.  She  had  been  re- 
treating, as  I  had  approached,  and  stood, 
alternately  watching  the  fawn  and  me. 
She  had  stopped  her  pacing,  but  her 
nervousness  was  plainly  visible,  for  each 
time  I  moved,  she  winced. 

The  fawn  was  not  in  the  main  channel 
but  in  a  cut  off  to  the  side.  A  strip  of 
moss  about  fifty  feet  wide  separated  us, 
and  I  could  not  propel  my  canoe  over  it. 
There  was  only  one  thing  to  do ;  to  get 
out  of  the  canoe.  T  rammed  the  end  of 
it  as  far  up  on  the  moss  bank  as  I  could 
and  tried  to  stand  on  the  moss.  My 
foot  sank  deep  into  the  moss.  As  I  put 
some  of  my  weight  on  it,  being  careful 
to  keep  most  of  my  weight  in  the  canoe, 
my  foot  cut  through  into  the  mud  below. 
That  I  could  not  walk  on  it  was  con- 
clusive.   I  next  took  off  my  shoes  and 


most  of  my  clothes.  Oh,  what  a  meal  I 
was  for  the  mosquitoes !  I  did  not, 
however,  notice  them  much  as  I  slid  out 
onto  the  moss,  from  the  fore  end  of  the 
canoe,  probably  because  it  was  rather  a 
risky  thing  that  I  was  attempting  to  do. 
Getting  as  much  of  the  surface  of  my 
body  on  the  moss  as  I  could  before  I 
shifted  my  weight  from  the  canoe  helped 
me  to  stay  on  top  of  the  bed  of  moss 
that  covered  the  mud.  Stretching  out  as 
far  in  front  of  the  craft  as  my  reach 
would  allow  and  digging  my  toes  into  the 
moss,  I  pulled  on  the  canoe.  It  would 
not  move.  I  wiggled  it  as  I  pulled,  and 
after  a  while  it  came  loose.  With  each 
move  of  the  canoe  I  would  move  my 
body  toward  the  fawn.  I  finally  man- 
aged to  push  and  pull  the  canoe  to  a 
place  where  I  could  get  the  fawn,  so  that 
after  I  had  crawled  into  the  canoe,  I 
was  able  to  remove  the  tiny  creature  from 
the  mud.  I  laid  it  on  the  moss  and 
wiped  it  off  as  well  as  I  could.  A  little 
rubbing  revived  it  and  got  its  blood  to 
circulating  so  that  it  could  handle  itself 
again. 

During  all  this  time  the  doe  had 
watched.  She  would  come  toward  me 
until  she  started  to  sink  and  then  would 
hurriedly  return  to  solid  ground  and 
stomp  her  feet  at  me  on  the  surface  of 
the  marsh. 

When  I  let  the  little  fawn  go,  it  tot- 
tered toward  its  mother.  She  waited 
until  it  had  reached  her  side.  After 
smelling  it,  she  hurried  it  off  toward  the 
tree  line,  with  never  a  backward  glance. 

T  looked  back  toward  camp.  It  was  a 
long  and  dangerous  path  that  lay  ahead 
of  me,  and  as  I  crawled  out  onto  the 
moss  mat  for  the  second  time,  I  knew 
that  my  rescuing  the  fawn  had  been 
partly  prompted  as  pa}TTient  for  the  deer 
that  had  gone  down  in  front  of  my  gun 
the  vear  before. 


[28] 


Enlightenment 


Bernice  Swerinsky 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  9,  1937-1938 


RECENTLY  in  New  York,  an  audi- 
ence arose  from  their  seats  as  the 
curtain  went  down  on  the  final  scene  of 
the  first  production  of  Bury  the  Dead. 
The  faces  of  these  Broadway  theatre- 
goers as  they  left  did  not  wear  the  com- 
placent, happy  flush  that  usually  marks 
the  final  act  of  most  Broadway  produc- 
tions. Their  countenances  were  instead 
rather  grimly  set,  perhaps  a  trifle  pale. 
Nor  was  the  lobby  filled  with  gayly  chat- 
tering cliques.  From  the  groups  descend- 
ing the  mezzanine  came  the  low  buzz  of 
earnest  conversation.  And  as  these 
patrons  left  the  theatre,  their  jaws  were 
set  even  more  tightly  when  they  heard 
the  harsh  cries  of  the  newsboy  on  the 
corner,  "Ex-try!  War  scare  frightens 
Europe !  Ex-try !  War  scare  frightens 
Europe!" 

Any  person  who  has  seen  or  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  play  Bury  the  Dead 
can  appreciate  the  strange  reversal  of 
after-theatre  form  of  these  first-nighters. 
I  myself,  having  just  participated  in  a 
local  presentation  of  this  play,  can  un- 
derstand well  their  emotional  reactions. 
Because  I  had  to  repeat  one  of  the  char- 
acter's lines  over  and  over  again,  and 
because  the  frequent  rehearsals  gave  me 
ample  opportunity  to  ponder  over  the 
implications  of  the  play,  I  knew  that 
here  was  an  indictment  of  war  strong 
enough  to  make  people  think  seriously. 
What  was  the  force  in  this  play  which 
made  it  such  a  strong  argument  against 
war  ? 

The  scene  is  a  muddy  patch  of  soil 
somewhere    in    No    Man's    Land.     The 


skies  are  overcast ;  a  biting  wind  swirls 
over  the  gloomy  landscape.  Sweating 
over  this  scrap  of  land  are  three  soldiers, 
dig — dig — digging.  Flanking  them  on 
both  sides  are  mishapen  heaps  of  what 
were  once  living  doughboys.  A  sergeant 
strides  haughtily  back  and  forth  barking 
out  commands  to  the  digging  soldiers. 
The  bitter  cold  freezes  the  sweat  into  the 
clothes  of  these  toiling  men.  Each  breath 
of  wind  sweeps  into  their  nostrils  the 
nauseating  odor  of  these  two-day-old 
corpses.  They  cry  dispiritedly,  "Let's 
bury  them,  they  stink !"  The  officious 
but  idle  sergeant,  almost  numb  from  the 
intense  cold,  finally  gives  the  welcome 
order  to  halt  the  digging  and  to  place  the 
"stinkin'  "  corpses  into  their  six  by  two 
graves.  After  the  bodies  are  lined  up,  a 
Priest  and  a  Rabbi  enter  to  say  prayers 
for  the  dead  men.  The  Priest  chants  his 
Latin,  the  Rabbi  sing-songs  his  Hebrew, 
and  to  join  the  chorus  comes  a  low,  eerie 
moan  from  the  grave.  "Wait !"  a  soldier 
whispers  hoarsely.  "Wait !  I  heard  a 
groan !" 

The  soft  mutterings  of  the  two  chap- 
lains continue  in  spite  of  the  pleading 
cries  of  the  soldier.  "Stop!  Stop!"  he 
protests.  "Can't  you  hear  those  groans! 
They're  coming  from  the  graves,  I  tell 
you!  Oh,  God!" 

After  these  earnest  entreaties  from 
the  aghast  soldier,  the  sergeant  himself 
hears  the  weird  sound  emerging  from  the 
grave.  He  commands  the  chaplains  to 
end  their  prayers.  Suddenly  one  of  the 
corpses  rises  from  his  grave ;  crouches  on 
his  knees,  and  begs  the  sergeant  and  the 


[29] 


three  soldiers  not  to  bury  him  and  his 
five  comrades.  Slowly,  one  by  one,  the 
five  other  corpses  rise  and  plead  for  the 
same  cause.  The  cowardly  sergeant  be- 
comes so  terrified  that  he  rushes  away 
from  the  awesome  sight,  leaving  the 
three  frightened  soldiers  standing  there 
gaping  at  the  live,  yet  dead  men. 

Word  of  this  strange,  incredible  occur- 
rence soon  reaches  the  general.  Schooled 
in  the  bloodless  discipline  of  the  army, 
he  can  only  think  of  how  corrupted  the 
morale  of  the  troops  would  become  if 
very  many  of  them  heard  of  this  fan- 
tastic tale.  But  before  the  general  does 
anything  else,  he  wants  to  prove  to  him- 
self that  this  is  all  true.  Consequently, 
he  orders  the  army  doctor  to  examine 
these  six  men  to  determine  if  they  are 
really  dead.  The  final  report  of  the 
doctor  gives  proof  that  these  men  have 
not  a  spark  of  life  remaining  in  their 
^  bodies.  Yet,  what  does  this  mean  ?  They 
talk.  They  smoke.  They  breathe.  Can 
you  bury  live  men?  But  what  can  the 
general  dof 

The  general  calls  before  him  the  ser- 
geant, captain,  and  the  doctor,  and  asks 
their  help  in  this  confusion.  "Why  not 
send  for  the  women  who  are  closest  to 
these  six  men?"  suggests  the  captain. 

His  novel  suggestion  is  applauded,  and 
action  is  taken  immediately.  Six  broken, 
dejected  women — wives,  mothers,  or 
sweethearts — are  summoned  before  the 
general,  who  calmly  places  before  them 
his  questionable  plan.  He  explains  that 
he  and  other  officers  have  already  at- 
tempted to  use  patriotism  and  army  dis- 
cipline as  a  weapon  to  coerce  these  men 
into  their  graves,  but  to  no  avail.  He 
paints  for  these  stricken  women  a  picture 
of  the  great  service  they  would  be 
doing  for  their  country  if  they  were  to 
go  to  these  men,  and  by  their  pleading 


win  their  consent  to  burial.  Even  though 
these  bereaved  women  are  bewildered  by 
what  has  happened,  they  resign  them- 
selves to  the  task. 

The  women  execute  their  orders  in 
trying  to  reconcile  the  men  to  being 
buried,  but  find  little  more  success  than 
the  army  officers.  Proclaiming  that  they 
have  not  lived  a  full  life  and  that  they 
have  been  cheated  of  many  things,  the 
corpses  still  refuse  to  lie  down  in  their 
graves.  The  general  is  frantic.  Army 
discipline  is  crumbling.  The  populace 
back  home  is  becoming  disheartened. 
There  is  only  one  remaining  alternative 
— enough  lead  must  be  pumped  into 
these  living  dead  men  to  silence  forever 
their  tongues,  and  to  sink  them  into 
their  graves  by  the  sheer  weight  of  the 
bullets.  Machine  guns  are  drawn  up, 
and  the  triggers  are  squeezed.  Rat-a- 
tat-tat — the  corpses  fall  and  the  yellow 
mud  is  at  last  pushed  over  them. 

That  is  the  play. 

The  vividness  of  the  plot  seemed  to  be 
embodied  in  my  part.  The  epitome  of 
all  the  horror  of  war  not  only  suffered 
by  the  soldiers  themselves,  but  by  the 
agony  of  those  waiting  at  home  as  well, 
appeared  in  the  lines  which  I  spoke.  I 
was  cast  as  the  sweetheart  of  one  of  the 
defiant  corpses.  My  life  since  his  death 
had  been  a  round  of  drinking  to  forget, 
awakening  from  my  drink  to  remember, 
and  drinking  to  forget  again.  And  then, 
as  I  stood  before  him  standing  in  his 
grave,  I  forgot  the  mission  which  the 
general  entrusted  to  me,  and  instead  I 
tearfully  poured  out  my  heart.  As  I 
bemoaned  his  death,  a  stray  bullet  hit 
me,  and  the  scene  ended  very  dramati- 
cally as  I  fell  dead  into  his  grave  with 
him. 

The  lines  I  spoke  seemed  to  me  to  be 
the  same  as  those  I  would  say  if  I  were 


[30] 


to  experience  an  identical  happening  in 
real  life.  Although  I  have  always  had  a 
fear  of  war,  it  was  the  type  of  fear  that 
had  been  taught  to  me.  Participation  in 
this  play,  however,  gave  me  the  feeling 
that  I  had  actually  experienced  a  miser- 
able war,  and  my  hatred  thus  became 
more  deeply  intensified. 

News  of  impending  war  in  foreign 
countries,  which  was  announced  coinci- 
dentally  with  the  production  of  the  play, 
made  that  play  even  more  pertinent  and 
aggravated  my  emotions.  Every  day 
that  a  rehearsal  was  held,  another  glar- 
ing newspaper  headline  announced  in  a 
subtle  way  how  inevitable  a  new  world 
conflagration  was.  Propagandist  stories 
threatened  the  populace.  With  all  these 
jumbled,  frightening  thoughts  in  my 
mind,  I  was  never  able  to  gaze  down  into 
ray  lover's  grave  without  being  seized 
by  a  sudden  feeling  of  fear. 

It  seemed,  however,  that  I  was  alone 
in  considering  the  play  so  seriously.  My 
fellow  actors  lightly  jested  about  their 
having  to  go  to  war  in  the  near  future. 
And  on  the  night  of  the  play,  even  the 
audience  seemed  to  disregard  the  story's 
brutal  realities.  They  listened  only  for 
the  humorous  Hnes,  and  found  new 
laughable  interpretations  in  the  serious 


lines.  The  lighthearted,  unthinking 
reception  of  the  play  by  the  student  audi- 
ence made  me  realize  that  they  were  not 
aware  of  its  true  meaning.  I  was  thor- 
oughly disgusted  by  this  unexpected 
response  from  both  the  actors  and  the 
audience.  I  feel  that  if  they  would 
acknowledge  the  message  of  this  particu- 
lar play  and  plays  similar  to  this  one, 
there  might  be  a  greater  protest  for  the 
prevention  of  war. 

My  part  in  this  play  had  a  profound 
effect  on  my  attitude  toward  war  and 
peace.  Before  the  play,  I  was  merely 
disturbed  by  the  thought  of  war  because 
it  would  destroy  the  normal  routine  of 
my  life.  Now,  I  have  a  definite  and 
concrete  hatred  of  war,  because  I  have 
been  shown  how  the  loved  ones  of  men 
killed  in  war  might  suffer  from  their 
treacherous  deaths.  If  there  were  any 
plausible  excuse  or  explanation  why 
such  destruction  should  be,  then  I  might 
be  able  to  forgive  the  habitual  waging 
of  wars.  But  in  this  so-called  civilized 
society  in  which  we  live,  wars  inevitably 
come,  and  it  seems  that  humanity  must 
always  suffer  from  its  savagery  and 
rottenness.  I,  as  a  woman,  must  sit 
helplessly  by,  while  my  loved  ones  come 
close  to  death,  and  all  I  can  do  is  weep. 


Apology 

The  Green  Caldron  regrets  publishing  in  the  October  1938  issue  an  essay,  "Golf," 
which  was  not  the  work  of  the  student  submitting  it. 

The  name  of  the  author  of  "Blue-Print  Boy,"  printed  in  the  October  issue,  should 
have  been  given  as  Gordon  Phillips. 


[31] 


Rhet.  as  Writ 


(Extracts  from  themes  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


With  a  comb  in  one  hand  and  a  tooth- 
brush in  the  other,  a  thought  struck  me. 

•  •  •  • 

The  recent  political  champagning  in 
the  South  is  a  good  example  of  what  I 
mean. 

•  •  •  • 

A  man,  if  he  does  wrong,  he  will  not 
improve  his  wrong-doing  if  he  is  given 
a  capital  punishment. 

•  •  •  • 

Being  a  great  lover  of  nature  I  get 
much  enjoyment  from  the  beautiful 
buildings  of  the  campus  and  their  sur- 
roundings and  am  greatly  inspired  by  the 
instructors. 

So  far  during  my  life  I  have  been  a 
person  of  extremities. 

•  •  •  • 

If  a  student  of  average  ability  is 
attending  a  school,  who  seemingly  can't 
get  ahead  in  his  efforts  for  better  grades, 
knows  that  some  of  his  friends  who 
make  those  desired  grades  are  doing  so 
by  having  outside  work  hired  do,  and 
cary  prepared  notes  on  tests,  is  he  not 
going  to  feel  that  his  efforts  are  wasted? 

•  •  •  • 

The  marihuana  smoker  usually  finds 
excess  to  some  den. 

•  •  •  • 

Since  George  Washington,  we  have 
had  some  thirty  odd  presidents  in  the 
White  House. 

Walking  down  the  street  a  few  blocks 
from  home,  there  is  a  large  government 
project,  consisting  of  repairing  streets. 


Then  of  course  at  the  half  and  the  two 
quarters,  I  would  have  a  bar  of  candy, 
hot  chocolate,  hot  dog  sandwich  in  which 
to  pass  the  time  and  to  keep  me  warm. 

But  the  best  way  of  all  is  to  have  a 
hot  chocolate  in  one  hand  a  coed  in 
the  other  and  just  yell  and  scream  your 
head  off. 

Of  course  one  has  troubles  in  keeping 
warm,  but  there  are  all  sorts  of  means 
in  which  to  keep  warm  such  as  hot 
drinks,  sandwiches,  pop  corn  and 
peanuts. 

•  •  •  • 

Everyday  Americans  have  come  to 
think  of  music  as  an  everyday  necessity. 
In  the  last  few  years  people,  song  wri- 
ters, and  everyone  in  general  have  begun 
to  write  new  versions  of  old  songs  so 
that  more  people,  old  and  yoimg  alike, 
will  get  into  the  swing  of  nineteen-hun- 
dred-thirdy-eight.  In  the  olden  days, 
when  Longfellow  and  his  fellow  writers 
wrote,  the  idea  was  for  poetry  with  a 
certain  amount  of  rh}i:hm  to  the  stanza. 
Then  go  back  to  the  verse  writing  when 
no  rh}'thm  was  used  and  you  will  won- 
der how  they  stood  it.  The  next  step 
back  brings  us  to  the  time  when  ballads 
were  sung  and  written.  If  you  will  take 
note  of  this  last  step  back  you  will  see 
that  we,  in  nineteen-hundred-thirdy- 
eight,  are  just  rewriting  those  old  songs. 
In  my  mind,  however,  there  is  one  song 
that  has  lasted  since  eighteen-hundred- 
and  twelve  to  now  and  I  believe  and 
hope  will  never  be  over  shadowed,  this 
song  is  our  dear  old  "Star  Spangled 
Banner." 


[32] 


^ 


It,-:.' 


Honorable  Mention 

Lack  of  space  prevents  the  publishing  of  excellent  themes  written  by 
the  following  students.  Some  of  these  themes  may  be  published  in  part 
or  in  entirety,  in  future  issues. 


J.  Arndt 
Ira  L.  Banks 
Roger  Braden 
Bruce  Carson 
Ruth  M.  Classen 
Madeline  Clear y 
George  Dacey 
Edgar  Drucker 
Dorothy  Eddy 
George  H.  Foster 
Lois  Fullerton 
Charles  F.  Goldstone 
Angelo  Grandinetti 
J.  E.  Hafner 
Carl  Hutter 
Betty  Ivey 
E.  Kamarit 
Max  Kelley 
Donald  Kelly 
Kathryn  Kenworthy 
Edward  Koenig 
Helen  Marie  Lueth 
Charles  Leo  Malcolm 
Dave  Miller 


Harold  Mindell 
June  Morgan 
Gordon  Muehlhausen 
M.  E.  Nelson 
Robert  L.  Painter 
Dewey  Pegler 
Virginia  Powers 
Shannon  Powers 
L.  E.  Putney 
Kenneth  Rathert 
Lois  Reisz 
Alan  Saunders 
Jack  Scraps 
Louise  Shawver 
Edward  Shilkartes 
Beryl  Stein 
Alton  Thomas 
Ward  E.  Thompson 
Richard  Thorsen 
George  L.  Watson 
E.  R.  Webb 
Arthur  Weinblatt 
Thomas  Westerlin 
Richard  Wolfley 


Vol.9 


MARCH,  1939 


No.  3 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

POOR  JUPITER 1 

Eleanor  F.  Ewing 

THE  AIRPLANE  PILOT— NEW  STYLE     ....       3 
E.  S.  Doocy 

A  DEFENSE  OF  A  LACK  OF  AMBITION       ...       4 

Mary  Ellen  Edwards 

ROBOTS    6 

Bill  Guyton 

ANCIENT  EGYPTIAN  EMBALMING 9 

Paul  Isbell 

MISREPRESENTATION  IN  THE 

DRUG   BUSINESS 12 

R.  D.  Brittenham 

FREEDOM  OF  THE  PRESS 13 

Albert  Sanner 

TAVERN 14 

Jack  Larimer 

HOW  TO   GET  INTO  A  SORORITY 15 

Anonymous 

SHE  MAKES  A  FUSS  ABOUT  EATING     ....     16 
Phyllis  Greenwald 

THE  WINNAH! 17 

Logan  Muir 

WHEN   I  WENT  TO   SCHOOL 18 

Beatrice  McClelland 

THE  WHEAT   FIELD 19 

Evert  E.  Tice 

THE  TABLE  GROANS  NO  MORE 22 

Ruth  Jinkins 

INDUSTRIAL  DICTATORSHIPS 24 

Max  Kelley 

BLACK  GOLD 26 

Mary  Elizabeth  Thompson 

THE  UGLINESS  OF  MY  HOME  TOWN     ....     28 
E.  S.  Doocy 

THE   NINETEENTH   DAY 29 

John  Dowdall 

THIS    IS    HOME 31 

Max  Kelley 

RHET.  AS  WRIT 32 

(Extracts  from  themes  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


jMy\M 


<l 


\ 


PUnrTSTnCD  BY  THR  RHRTORIC  STAFF.  UNTVICRSTTY  OF  TLriNOIS.  UPBANA 


JLhe  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staff  at  the  University  of  Illinois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
published  anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  however, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Mr.  Lester  Dolk,  Mr.  Charles 
Shattuck,  Mr.  Walter  Johnson,  Mr.  Stephen 
FoGLE,  and  Mr.  Charles  W.  Roberts,  Chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building  West,  Urbana,  Illinois. 


Poor  Jupiter 


Eleanor  R  Ewing 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1937-1938 


THE  Shorthorn  steers  in  Class  A  will 
be  shown  in  approximately  thirty 
minutes,"  boomed  the  announcement 
through  the  loud  speaker  over  our  heads. 
"All  club  members  with  calves  in  this 
class  should  wait  for  the  first  call." 

We  had  only  a  half  hour  left!  Dad 
and  I  sat  up  much  straighter,  breathed 
deeply,  and  looked  at  the  strange  scene 
about  us.  Here  was  the  International 
Livestock  Exposition,  the  greatest  live- 
stock show  in  the  world.  This  east 
room  was  filled  with  4-H  Club  calves. 
Excited  boys  and  girls  hovered  over 
their  steers,  giving  them  last-minute 
touches.  A  line  stood  at  the  water 
trough  waiting  to  get  water  for  the 
thirsty  animals.  Over  in  one  corner  two 
negroes  in  hip  boots  and  thick  rubber 
aprons  vigorously  scrubbed  a  bedraggled 
black  calf.  When  the  calf  felt  the  soapy 
water  running  over  his  eyes,  he  balked, 
pulled  back,  broke  the  rope,  and  galloped 
off.  One  of  the  negroes,  waving  the 
wet  brush  furiously  over  his  head, 
rushed  after  the  calf,  and  a  crowd  of 
shouting  men  followed  the  negro.  The 
group  of  people  in  front  of  the  animal 
and  his  pursuers  opened  before  them 
and  closed  after  them  as  the  Red  Sea 
did  for  Moses  and  the  Israelites.  Finally, 
tired  of  leaping  over  straw  bales  and 
dodging  between  rows  of  stalls,  the  calf 
ran  up  to  his  own  stall  and  stopped. 

In  another  corner  a  peanut  vendor 
cried  out  his  wares.  Crowds  gathered  in 
front  of  his  stand  and  about  the  wash- 
room   doors.     Miniature    tractor    trains 


came  chug-chugging  up  the  long  run- 
way and,  traveling  along  the  aisles, 
deposited  bales  of  hay.  Janitors  tried 
patiently  to  clean  the  straw  from  the 
aisles.  Other  workmen  followed  to  spray 
the  grey-white  concrete  floors  with  a 
strong  disinfectant.  There  arose  an  odor 
of  barnyard,  peanuts  and  popcorn,  Lysol, 
and  perspiration.  Suddenly  Jupiter,  my 
calf,  stirred  restlessly  and  bellowed.  I 
looked  at  Dad,  and  Dad  looked  at  me. 

I  gulped  and  swallowed.  "Dad,  do 
something,"  I  begged.  "Please,  Dad,  I 
just  have  to  win.  You  can  make  that 
'dip'  in  Jupiter's  back  ago  away.  I  know 
you  can  do  it." 

Dad  said  nothing,  but  kicked  Jupie 
gently  to  make  him  stand  up.  After 
brushing  him  thoroughly,  he  wetted  him 
down  with  an  old  soft  brush  dipped  in 
Creolene  water.  Then,  with  a  curry 
comb,  he  scored  straight  lines  over  his 
back,  and  finished  the  marcel  with  a  stiff 
brush. 

"Say,  fellow,"  put  in  the  man  with  the 
calf  next  to  ours,  "you  don't  expect  to 
get  any  place  with  a  'canner'  like  that, 
do  you?  You  might  as  well  start  your 
crying  right  now.  You're  not  foolin'  us 
guys  here.  You  won't  fool  the  judge 
either.  Everybody  knows  that  calf  has  a 
low  back."  The  group  of  men  standing 
around  us  laughed  heartily.  What  a  good 
joke  this  was!  But  to  Dad  and  me  the 
situation  was  tragic.  My  calf  was  nearly 
a  stockman's  dream.  His  legs  were  well- 
set  and  straight,  he  was  "low  down,"  he 
was  made  well  over  the  loin,  his  head 


[  1  ] 


was  fine,  and  his  hair  was  glossy.  Jupie 
was  a  prince.  If  only  his  back  were  as 
perfect  as  the  rest  of  him,  he  would  have 
no  trouble  in  winning.  Dad  and  I  were 
frantic.  The  crowd  moved.  Only  one 
old  man  remained  to  watch  us. 

"I  say,  son,"  he  said,  "has  that  calf 
had  anything  to  drink  today?"  Dad  and 
I  both  stared  at  him  in  open-mouthed 
astonishment.  In  our  great  excitement 
over  straightening  the  calf's  back,  we 
had  completely  forgotten  to  water  him. 

"I  .  .  .  .  I,"  Daddy  started  to  stutter 
an  explanation. 

"Cheer  up,  son,  and  you,  little  girl. 
You've  not  lost  yet.  You,  sir,  go  down 
below  and  buy  four  bottles  of  beer." 
The  old  man  grinned,  and  his  eyes 
twinkled.    Dad  registered  blankness. 

"What  ....  what?"  he  began. 

"Never  mind,"  reprimanded  the  old 
man,  "go  do  as  I  tell  you."  Soon  Dad 
came  running  back  with  two  bottles  of 
beer  under  each  arm.  It  was  ten  minutes 
before  show  time.  The  old  man  snatched 
the  bottles,  uncapped  them,  and  poured 
the  foaming  beer  into  a  clean  water  pail. 
The  thirsty  calf  gulped  it  to  the  last 
drop. 

"Boys  and  girls  who  have  Shorthorns 
in  Class  A  should  take  them  down  to  the 
arena,"  came  the  second  announcement 
through  the  loud  speaker. 

"But  what'll  happen?"  Dad  wanted  to 
know. 

"Everything's  O.K.,"  reassured  the  old 
man,  "get  your  calf  down  there."  Dad 
hurried  to  put  on  the  new  brown  leather 
halter  with  the  shiny  silver  chain.  He 
thrust  the  end  of  the  strap  into  my  hands 
and  I  started  down  the  long  concrete 
run-way  leading  to  the  arena.  An 
attendant  in  white  opened  the  white- 
washed wooden  gate  to  the  show  ring. 


"Remember  everything  1  told  you," 
Dad  called  after  me. 

"She'll  do  all  right,"  said  the  old  man. 

Another  attendant  told  us  to  line  up  on 
the  left  side  of  the  ring.  I  tried  to  recall 
every  rule  in  showmanship.  The  calf's 
head  must  be  higher  than  his  tail.  His 
feet  must  be  squarely  under  him.  If  he 
moved  his  foot,  I  must  take  my  cane  and 
punch  it  back  in  place.  If  he  stepped 
forward,  I  must  back  him  up.  His  head 
must  be  squarely  in  front  of  him.  When 
he  was  nervous,  I  should  scratch  his 
neck  and  talk  softly  to  him.  I  should 
always  keep  one  eye  on  Jupiter  and  the 
other  on  the  judge. 

Finally  the  judge  approached  the  line. 
Up  and  down  he  walked,  coolly  surveying 
each  calf.  Presently  he  sent  thirty  of 
them  from  the  ring,  and  after  a  little 
while  he  resumed  his  slow  methodical 
scrutinizing.  All  ot  a  sudden  I  noticed 
Dad  motioning  wildly.  He  seemed  to 
point  to  Jupiter's  back.  It  was  straight- 
ening out !  What  could  have  happened  ? 
Then  I  knew!  The  calf's  stomach  had 
been  empty,  and  the  gases  from  the  beer 
were  expanding  and  raising  the  fleshy 
part  of  his  back !  I  fervently  hoped  the 
expansion  wouldn't  go  too  far ! 

The  judge  was  deciding  now  between 
my  calf  and  another.  He  flexed  his 
hands  over  the  sides  and  down  the  backs 
of  the  two  to  decide  which  had  the 
firmer  flesh.  He  concentrated  on  the 
other.  Jupiter's  back  was  just  level  now. 
He  bawled  and  foamed  at  the  mouth. 
The  judge  began  to  compare  the  two 
again — then  he  stopped,  squinted,  cocked 
his  eyebrow,  scratched  his  head,  seemed 
undecided,  and  then  wagged  his  fingers 
at  me.  I  had  won !  The  blue  ribbon  was 
mine !  How  was  the  judge  to  know  what 
a  little  beer  could  do? 


I 


[2] 


The  Airplane  Pilot  —  New  Style 


E.  S.  DoocY 
Rhetoric  I,  Final  Examination,  1938-1939 


npHE  modern  airplane  pilot  follows, 
*  pretty  generally,  a  definite  pattern. 
Whether  he  is  an  x^merican,  a  European, 
or  an  Asiatic — whether  he  coaxes  out- 
dated transports  over  the  Andes,  or 
manages  a  spick-and-span  flight  office 
aboard  a  Boeing  liner,  he  tends  to  have 
a  brilliant  mind,  a  sound  physique,  and 
a  pleasant  personality.  His  training, 
whether  in  a  private  school  or  in  the 
tough,  thorough  schools  of  the  Army  and 
Navy,  has  made  him  a  competent,  self- 
reliant  aviator. 

He  admires  the  courage  of  his  World 
War  predecessors,  who  flew  and  fought 
in  rickety  "crates"  that  would  appall  a 
modern  aircraft  builder.  However,  he 
also  feels  a  certain  pitying  scorn  for 
these  legendary  heroes  who,  in  an  attempt 
to  be  dashing,  risked,  and  many  times 
lost,  their  lives. 

Our  pilot  is  rather  conservative.  Al- 
though self-reliant,  he  is  trained  to  know 
his  own  limitations  and  those  of  his 
plane,  and  not  to  attempt  to  exceed  them. 
He  has  a  great  respect  for  the  new 
developments  in  safety  equipment,  and 
recognizes  the  value  of  radio,  weather 
data,  and  navigational  instruments.  In 
this  he  differs  greatly  from  the  old-style 
pilot  who  asked  for  little  more  than  an 
engine,  some  gasoline,  and  a  few  square 
yards  of  canvas. 

The  modern  commercial  pilot  is  usu- 
ally a  college  graduate.  The  many  diverse 
technical    tasks    of    his    business    make 


engineering  training  necessary.  He  must 
have  a  thorough  knowledge  of  aero- 
dynamics and  physics ;  he  must  have  a 
complete  understanding  of  the  intricate 
mechanical  structure  and  functions  of 
his  airplane ;  he  must  understand  weather 
and  geography ;  he  must  be  able  to  oper- 
ate a  radio,  and  (if  in  military  reserve) 
understand  gunnery  and  bombing. 

The  pilot  is  usually  well  paid.  If  he 
works  for  a  large  commercial  airline,  he 
receives  between  $6,000  and  $8,000  per 
year.  If  he  is  a  military  flyer,  he  re- 
ceives more  pay  than  the  average  officer. 
He  saves  his  money,  usually  marries,  and 
after  about  fifteen  years  retires  from 
flying  and  takes  a  position  on  the  ground, 
in  the  maintenance  or  design  of  airplanes. 

He  is  quite  optimistic  about  the  future 
of  air  travel.  He  has  seen  the  airplane 
develop,  in  one  decade,  from  a  tem- 
peramental, unreliable  mechanism,  into 
a  swift,  luxurious  means  of  travel,  and 
he  sees  no  apparent  leveling  off  of  this 
phenomenal  rise.  He  believes  that  his 
trade  will  become  one  of  the  most 
important  ones  in  the  field  of 
transportation. 

The  modern  pilot  has  progressed  a  long 
way  since  the  days  of  the  erratic,  hard- 
drinking  barnstormer.  He  does  not  drink, 
and  he  does  not  barnstorm.  Instead  he 
flies  carefully  and  safely.  His  clear- 
headedness and  seriousness  have  earned 
him  the  title  of  "precision  pilot." 


[3  ] 


A  Defense  of  a  Lack  of  Ambition 


Mary  Ellen  Edwards 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  ]7,  1938-1939 


THERE  is  a  diabolical  force  loose  in 
the  world  to-day  that  would  make 
every  child  a  prodigy,  every  mouse  a 
man,  and  every  woman  an  Earhart  or  an 
Eleanor  Roosevelt.  Turn  which  way  you 
will,  there  will  be  some  one  to  prod  you 
or  to  lead  you  after  the  pot  of  gold, 
crying,  "You  too  can  learn  to  play  a 
musical  instrument."  Just  try  to  sit  down 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  sometime  to 
think  things  over.  You  can't  do  it.  A 
finger  will  point  at  you,  and  a  voice  will 
shout — "Look  at  him — he  isn't  doing 
anything — he  isn't  making  a  success  of 
his  life — he  is  just  sitting — "  Attempt 
to  sink  back  into  the  namelessness  of 
the  crowd  only  to  feel  a  relentless  hand 
pull  you  forward  and  to  hear  a  mocking 
voice  in  your  ear,  "You  should  be  out 
making  a  name  for  yourself.  You 
should  be  the  leader  of  this  crowd — not 
one  of  the  led." 

If  you  are  wise  you  will  pay  no  at- 
tention to  the  voices  and  the  pointing 
fingers  and  the  relentless  hands.  There 
are  too  many  people  trying  to  make  a 
footprint  on  the  sands  of  time  that  some 
one  with  bigger  feet  won't  wipe  out. 
And  suppose  you  don't  have  the  desire 
to  go  out  and  trap  yourself  a  fortune. 
What  difference  is  it  going  to  make  a 
thousand  or  so  years  from  now? 

Somewhere  there  must  be  a  few 
courageous  men  and  women  who  have 
dared  to  be  different.  Maybe  they  haven't 
given  the  world  any  great  truths  and 
maybe  they  haven't  been  rich  or  famous, 
but   their   lives   have   been   unhampered 


by  foolish  ambitions  and  desires  to  make 
a  success  out  of  life.  When  the  lives  of 
great  men  all  remind  them  they  can  make 
their  lives  sublime,  they  sit  down  and 
think.  Napoleon  was  no  better  off  after 
he  finished  than  when  he  started.  Caesar 
built  his  empires  only  to  be  murdered 
by  his  friend.  Kings  and  rulers  have 
lived,  and  still  do,  in  constant  danger  of 
being  liquidated  by  one  of  their  more 
public-spirited  subjects.  Bank  presidents 
get  old  and  shriveled  early  from  too 
much  contact  with  unsympathetic  gold. 
Heads  of  corporations  shoot  themselves 
when  the  books  fail  to  balance.  You  see 
if  Caesar  and  Napoleon  and  all  the 
others  had  never  tried  to  set  the  world 
on  fire  with  their  own  little  flames,  they 
might  have  spent  their  time  fishing  and 
hunting,  doing  nobody  any  harm. 

There  are  books  on  this  subject  of 
succeeding  that  would  give  as  examples 
for  you  to  follow,  the  lives  of  such  men 
as  Washington,  Lincoln,  Livingstone, 
and  Roosevelt.  (Like  the  New  England 
Minister,  I  mean  Teddy.)  But  the 
authors  fail  to  mention  the  most  out- 
standing individualist  of  his  time — 
Ferdinand  the  Bull.  Now  Ferdinand 
knew  that  he  was  expected  to  become  a 
ferocious  beast  and  paw  the  air  and 
frighten  the  poor  little  matador  to  death, 
but  do  you  think  that  made  any  dif- 
ference to  him?  Pie  went  ahead  and  did 
as  he  pleased.  Perhaps  tliat  is  the  reason 
why  no  one  advises  us  to  follow  the  ex- 
ample of  Ferdinand.  There  is  an  organ- 
ized plot  on  the  part  of  school  teachers. 


[4] 


wives,  and  mothers  to  stop  all  the  Ferdi- 
nands of  the  world  from  sitting  under 
their  cork  trees  and  smelling  the  flowers. 

But  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  not  making 
myself  very  clear.  Let  me  give  you,  as 
a  specific  example  of  what  I  mean,  the 
story  of  Jonathan  Jones.  Jonathan  was 
a  dreamy  youngster,  not  particularly 
dull,  yet  not  extraordinarily  brilliant. 
Jonathan's  one  pleasure  in  life  was  to 
sit  on  the  bank  of  a  shady  stream,  his 
fishing  rod  in  his  hand,  and  his  old  dog 
Rover  by  his  side.  Patiently  he  would 
sit  waiting  for  a  bite.  And  while  he 
waited  he  thought  his  little  boy  thoughts, 
and  he  decided  that  he  never  wanted  to 
do  anything  else,  ever,  except  fish.  Even 
when  he  didn't  catch  anything  it  was 
so  nice  and  quiet  in  the  little  woods  that 
he  was  perfectly  happy.  Jonathan  never 
dreamed  about  being  a  millionaire  or 
about  being  president.  It  wasn't  that  he 
w  as  lazy  but  that  he  disliked  the  thought 
of  the  struggle  involved  in  reaching  the 
top. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jones  couldn't  under- 
stand this  trait  in  their  boy.  His  aunts 
and  uncles  and  grandparents  and  school 
teacher  couldn't  understand  it  either. 
They  tried  to  put  a  spark  of  ambition 
into  his  soul  by  holding  him  up  to  ridi- 
cule before  his  playmates,  and  by  bribing 
him  with  dimes  and  quarters  to  make  A's 
in  school.  He  didn't  care  if  he  didn't 
make  A's.  They  didn't  matter  at  all — 
they  really  don't,  you  know. 


But  as  Jonathan  grew  older  he  found 
himself  more  and  more  ensnared  in  the 
trap  that  his  enterprising  relatives  had 
set  for  him.  He  went  to  college  and 
then  on  to  law  school.  Even  then  he 
might  have  escaped  if  he  hadn't  had  the 
misfortune  to  fall  in  love.  Lucy  had  no 
sympathy  with  his  lack  of  ambition. 
Really  she  thought  he  must  be  crazy  for 
even  having  thoughts  about  not  wanting 
to  make  a  lot  of  money  and  to  have  a 
fine  house  and  do  the  things  it  takes 
money  to  do.  Finally  Jonathan  began  to 
think  he  was  a  little  silly.  He  choked  out 
the  fine  side  of  his  nature  and  prepared 
to  climb  to  the  top  of  the  ladder 
wherever  that  might  lead  him.  He  is 
there  now,  a  grim,  cold  man  who  de- 
spises his  wife  and  himself  for  the 
bungle  they  have  made  of  living.  He 
makes  me  think  of  the  sonnet  of  Words- 
worth's that  begins: 

"The  World  is  too  much  with  us;  late 

and  soon, 
Getting  and    spending,    we   lay   waste 

our  powers; 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We   have    given    our   hearts   away,    a 

sordid  boon!" 

I  don't  know  what  you  intend  to  do 
about  it.  I  really  don't  care.  But  I  am 
going  to  sit,  a  rather  conspicuous  bump 
on  my  own  particular  log,  and  I'm  going 
to  laugh  as  the  rest  of  you  go  skither- 
ing  by,  hurrying  on  to  fame  and  fortune 
and  your  graves  without  discovering  that 
there  is  more  to  living  than  the  getting 
of  things. 


[5] 


Robots 


Bill  Guyton 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  9,  1937-1938 


p  OBOT !  The  very  term  sets  the 
*^  imagination  to  work,  and  evokes 
scenes  in  which  giant  monsters  are  kill- 
ing oflF  hordes  of  people,  blood  is  flowing 
in  streams  around  the  w  reckage  of  build- 
ings, and  women  and  children  are 
running  helplessly  to  and  fro.  For  many 
centuries,  almost  from  the  time  of  his 
creation,  man  has  been  fascinated  by  the 
thought  of  mechanical  men — men  who 
would  faithfully  perform  any  task  to 
which  they  were  assigned.  Writers  of 
every  century,  recognizing  the  almost 
universal  appeal  of  robots,  have  seized 
upon  the  subject,  and  have  woven  fan- 
tastic tales  like  R.  U.  R.,  a  play  in  which 
robots,  made  in  the  semblance  of  men, 
rise  up  in  rebellion  and  destroy  their 
human  masters.  Such  literature  has  led 
to  the  belief  that  the  robot  is  a  horrible, 
fearful  enemy  of  civilization.  No  such 
inference,  however,  could  be  drawn  from 
the  term  itself,  for  the  word,  "robot," 
comes  from  the  Czech  word  robit,  which 
means  to  work.  Robots  are  nothing  more 
than  automatic  machines  which  do  the 
work  of  men,  and  only  by  association 
with  such  preposterous  writings  has  the 
term  come  to  its  present  usage.  "Fiction 
writers  make  a  curious  mistake  about 
the  robots.  Always  these  are  imagined 
as  distorted  images  of  humanity ; 
gigantic,  horrible  monstrosities  like  store 
window  dummies  full  of  mechanical 
brains.  Real  robots  are  not  like  that."' 
Considering  robots  for  what  they 
really  are,  we  find  that  tliey  play  a  very 
significant  part  in  our  modern  world.    A 


more  plausible  reason  for  skepticism 
about  robots  than  fear  of  their  power 
would  be  their  effect  upon  labor.  Who 
has  not  heard  the  uninformed,  or  the 
misinformed,  radical  blame  the  "machine 
age"  for  our  present  depression?  In 
many  industries,  automatic  machines, 
which  are  robots,  according  to  our  defini- 
tion, are  doing  the  work  of  many  men. 
These  robots  are  indispensable  aids  to 
our  modern  civilization.  They  create ; 
they  do  not  destroy.  Can  you  imagine 
the  modern  dail}'  newspapers,  with  their 
large  circulation,  printed  one  at  a  time 
by  hand  ?  Yet  no  one  ever  stops  to  think 
that  it  is  a  gigantic  robot,  working  tire- 
lessly, which  makes  the  daily  newspaper 
possible.  Or  can  you  conceive  of  the 
modern  housewife  sitting  at  home  and 
weaving  or  knitting  so  that  her  family 
will  have  clothes  to  wear? 

Man}'     robots    have    been    developed 
which    seem    to    display    almost    super- 
human abilities.    Some  have  such  sensi- 
tive "palates"  that  they  can  test  chem- 
icals accurately  by  "taste."   The  Product 
Integraph    is    able    in    a    few    hours    to 
solve  correctly  difficult  differential  equa- 
tions which  would  take  weeks  if  worked 
mathematically.    And,  impossible  though 
it  may  seem,  this  robot  can  perform  cal- 
culations beyond  the  power  of  the  human] 
brain.    In  Washington,  the  "Great  Brass] 
Brain"  predicts  ocean  tides  with  astound- 
ing accuracy.    Giant  ocean  vessels  have! 
been  guided  and  operated  solely  b)'  the] 

'E.  E.   Free,  "Let  Electrons  Do  Your  Work!"    Re-\ 
view  of  Reviews,   77   (Feb.,  J927),    162. 


[  6  ] 


gyroscope,  with  another  robot,  the 
fathometer,  making  automatic  soundings 
every  minute. 

Countless  examples  of  robots  upon 
which  we  are  dependent  for  our  every- 
day conveniences  could  be  cited.  Who 
operates  the  many  traffic  lights  of  a  large 
city?  A  robot.  Who  connects  you  with 
your  party  when  you  dial  a  number  on 
your  telephone?  A  robot.  Why  do 
street  lights  come  on  when  it  grows  dark, 
and  go  ofif  when  it  again  gets  light? 
Because  a  robot  has  been  actuated  by  the 
degree  of  light  reaching  its  eye,  a  photo- 
electric cell.  With  an  almost  inaudible 
"click,"  issuing  from  a  little  gadget  on  a 
wall,  an  infallible  robot,  which  controls 
the  temperature,  humidity,  and  circula- 
tion of  an  entire  building,  is  commanded 
to  begin  operations. 

But  such  robots,  though  they  are  me- 
chanical men,  are  not  of  universal  inter- 
est. The  robots  which  attract  the  most 
attention  are  those  built  in  the  likeness 
of  living  creatures.  Life  seems  to  be  the 
one  thing  which  science  cannot  explain, 
and  any  attempt,  therefore,  to  create  a 
lifelike  robot  excites  the  imagination  and 
holds  the  interest  of  human  beings  every- 
where. A  very  captivating  example  of 
such  a  lifelike  robot  was  the  mechanical 
cow  developed  for  the  "Century  of 
Progress"  in  Chicago.  It  was  designed  to 
imitate  accurately  all  the  actions  of  a  real 
cow.  "The  sides  of  the  mechanical  cow- 
move  in  and  out  in  regular  rhythm  to 
simulate  breathing."-  This  mechanical 
cow  "gave"  milk,  an  automatic  milker,  a 
robot  in  itself,  drawing  milk  from  the 
udders  in  a  continuous  stream.  "The 
head  sways,  the  eyes  blink,  the  ears  move 
lazily  and  the  jaws  go  through  the 
process  of  cud  chewing.  The  tail  swings 
from  side  to  side,  and  at  intervals  gives 
a  vicious  switch."^  Inside  the  cow,  two 
small   motors  controlled   the  movements 


of  the  entire  animal.  The  "udders"  were 
supplied  with  milk  by  a  large  tank,  and, 
unseen  by  the  spectators,  the  milk  was 
pumped  back  into  the  tank  from  the 
milker  through  a  pipe  in  the  animal's 
hind  leg. 

By  far  the  most  interesting  of  the  re- 
cently developed  robots,  however,  was 
the  televox,  designed  by  R.  J.  Wensley. 
I'efore  the  development  of  the  televox, 
many  automatons  in  human  form  had 
been  constructed,  and  "as  early  as  the 
Middle  Ages,  Albertus  Magnus  made 
automatons  in  human  form  which  could 
open  doors  and  play  musical  instru- 
ments."'* But  the  televox  was  the  first 
robot  which  could  respond  to  a  telephone 
call.  It  was  originally  developed  to 
operate  electric  substations  where  the 
cost  of  stationing  an  operator  seemed  to 
be  prohibitive.  The  televox,  having  been 
put  in  charge  of  the  station,  could  be 
called  up  on  an  ordinary  telephone,  and 
commanded  by  an  operator  thousands  of 
miles  away.  "The  telephone  instruments 
employed  are  not  in  any  way  altered  and 
may  be  used  in  the  ordinary  way  when- 
ever wanted ;  distance  is  no  barrier  to  the 
operator  of  the  televocal  system."'' 

Let  us  suppose  that  w-e  are  an  operator 
calling  up  Mr.  Televox  to  inquire  about 
the  condition  of  his  substation.  We  pick 
up  the  telephone  and  call  his  number.  On 
the  other  end  of  the  line,  Mr,  Televox's 
mechanical  hand  lifts  the  receiver  from 
the  hook  and  he  says,  "Buzz-zz-zz," 
which  means  "Mr.  Televox  speaking." 

Desiring  to  know  the  height  of  the 
water  in  the  reservoir,  we  say,  "Peep, 
peep,  peep,  peep,  peep,  peep?" 

"Buzz,  buzz,  buzz,  buzz,  buzz,  buzz, 
buzz,    buzz,    buzz,    buzz,    buzz,    buzz," 

'"Robot  Cow  Moos  and  Gives  Milk,"  Popular  Sci- 
ence,   122    (May,    1933),   33. 

'"Mechanical  Cow,"  Scientific  American,  48  (June, 
1933),    323. 

*E.   E.   Free,   op.   cit.,    162. 

*"New  System  Controls  Machinery  by  Sound,"  Sci- 
entific American,   137   (Dec,   1927),   .S36. 


[  7  ] 


which  means,  "There  is  twelve  feet  of 
water  in  the  reservoir." 

Deciding  that  that  is  all  right,  we  say, 
"Peep,"  which  means,  "O.  K.   So  long." 

Mr.  Televox  hangs  up,  and  our  con- 
versation is  over.  As  you  have  noticed, 
the  televocal  system  is  not  commanded 
by  words,  but  by  tones.  There  are  three 
tones  which  are  used,  a  high-pitched 
tone,  a  low-pitched  tone,  and  an  inter- 
mediate tone.  By  various  combinations 
of  these  tones,  the  televox  is  operated. 
"The  sounds,  when  received  by  the  tele- 
vocal  apparatus,  are  passed  through 
filters  so  that  all  but  exactly  the  selected 
pitches  are  eliminated  and  extraneous 
noises  are  prevented  from  causing  opera- 
tion of  the  relays."^ 

Gradually,  more  for  amusement  than 
for  practical  use,  modifications  of  the 
televox  have  been  developed.  "The 
Westinghouse  engineers  in  their  labora- 
tory have  refined  the  televox  to  such  a 
degree  that  it  will  open  a  heavy  door 
to  the  vocal  call  of  'Open,  Sesame'  and 
to  no  other  sound  or  sequence  of 
sounds."'  Some  have  been  built  in 
human  form,  and  can  do  little  odd  jobs 
like  ringing  a  bell,  turning  on  a  fan, 
answering  a  telephone,  firing  a  furnace, 
lighting  an  oven,  or  raising  a  flag.  "Some 
robots  'understand  English' ;  they  can 
respond  to  simple  vocal  commands  like 
'Stop!'  'Reverse!'  'Go  ahead!'  but  care 
must  be  taken  to  use  the  words  actually 
arranged  for,  and  not  their  synonyms. 
For    example,    if    you    used    the    word 


Proceed!'  instead  of  'Go  ahead!'  the 
robot  might  mistake  the  two-syllable 
word  for  'Reverse!'  But  if  you  use  the 
code  agreed  upon,  whether  voice  or  sys- 
tem of  whistles,  the  robot  is  infallible."' 
Perhaps  in  the  future,  robots  will  be 
of  more  use  than  they  are  at  present. 
The  development  of  the  televox  has 
opened  an  unlimited  field  for  research. 
"So  far  this  particular  device  has  only 
been  used  with  land  telephone  lines,  but 
it  could  easily  be  adapted  to  radio. "^  The 
future  development  of  these  mechanical 
men  should  prove  very  interesting. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

"Electrical     Man     Obeys     Human    Voice    on 

Phone,"    Popular    Mechanics,    49     (Jan., 

1928),  6-7. 
Fitzgerald,  H.  J.,  "Robot  Warships,"  Popular 

Mechanics,  62  (July,  1934),  72-75. 
Free,  E.  E.,  "Let  Electrons  Do  Your  Work  I" 

Reviezu  of  Reznews,  77  (Feb.,  1927),  162- 

168. 
Hill,  Henry  Chase,  The  Nezv  Wonder  Book  of 

Knozvledge,    Philadelphia,    J.    C.   Winston 

Company,  1936. 
"Making  the  Televox  Do  Your  Work,"  Liter- 
ary Digest,  95  (November  19,  1927),  21-22. 
"Mechanical    Cow,"    Scientific    American,    48 

(June,  1933),  323. 
"New  System  Controls  Machinery  by  Sound," 

Scientific  American,  137  (Dec,  1927).  535- 

536. 
"Robot  Cow  Moos  and  Gives  Milk,"  Popular 

Science,  122  (May,  1933).  33. 
"Televox,"  Current  History,  28  (April.  1928), 

86. 
"Televox    Arrives,"    Outlook,    147    (Oct.    26, 

1927),  227-228. 

»Ibid.,    535. 

'"Televox  Arrives,"  Outlook,  147.  (Oct.  26,  1927). 
228 

»H.  C.  Hill,  The  New  Wonder  Book  of  Knowl- 
edge,  67. 

»"Televox,"   Current   History,   28    (April,    1928).   86. 


Apology 

We   regret  that  "Night  of   Swing,"  published  in   the   last   issue   of   the   Green 
Caldron,  was  not  the  work  of  the  student  who  submitted  it. 


[8  J 


Ancient  Egyptian  Embalming 


Paul  Isbell 
Rhetoric  11,  Theme  6,  1938-1939 


THE  average  citizen  knows  little  about 
embalming.  From  this  ignorance  a 
queer  set  of  ideas  has  developed  con- 
cerning both  ancient  and  modern  em- 
balming practices.  The  statement  is  often 
made  that  the  embalmer  of  today  cannot 
duplicate  the  "lost"  art  of  Egyptian 
embalming.  Since  I  am  an  embalmer 
with  several  years  of  service  in  the 
funeral  profession,  I  know  only  too  well 
with  what  horror  the  public  would  re- 
ject the  bodies  of  their  deceased  loved 
ones  if  w^e  should  preserve  them  as  did 
the  Eg>'ptians.  For  we  can  embalm  as 
the  Egyptians  did.  In  order  to  under- 
stand why  we  do  not  do  so  we  must 
understand  the  methods  and  results  of 
Egyptian  embalming.  Today,  we  em- 
balm in  order  to  restore  a  lifelike  appear- 
ance ;  preservation  is  second  in  import- 
ance. The  ancient  Egyptians,  because  of 
religious  beliefs,  embalmed  their  dead 
bodies  to  last  for  centuries ;  the  final 
appearance  of  their  dead  was  relatively 
unimportant. 

The  motivating  reason  for  Egyptian 
embalming  was  the  religious  belief  of 
the  people.  The  Egyptians  believed  in 
the  immortality  of  the  soul.  According 
to  their  ideas,  the  soul  departed  from 
the  body  at  the  hour  of  death  and  began 
its  long  journey  through  the  underworld. 
This  trip  they  called  the  "Circle  of 
Necessity" — a  very  appropriate  name 
since  it  is  certainly  a  trip  made  only 
when  it  is  a  necessity.  On  this  journey 
the  soul  was  required  to  visit  every  plant, 
animal,  fish,  bird,  and  element  in  exist- 
ence. Three  thousand  years  w'ere  allotted 


the  soul  for  this  arduous  and  monotonous 
task.  At  the  conclusion  of  this  period 
the  soul  was  supposed  to  return  to  and 
re-enter  the  body.  However,  if  the  body 
had  decomposed  during  this  long  period, 
the  soul  was  lost  for  all  eternity.  Thus, 
at  the  very  core  of  their  faith  in  eternity 
was  this  requirement  for  absolute  preser- 
vation of  the  bodies  of  their  loved  ones 
for  at  least  three  thousand  years.  The 
Egyptians  developed  a  highly  specialized 
staff  of  expert  embalmers  to  meet  these 
very  strong  demands.  Many  of  the  em- 
balmers were  slaves  working  under  the 
vigilant  eye  of  the  master  embalmer,  but 
they  repeated  their  one  special  task  so 
often  that  they  became  highly  proficient. 
The  master  was  a  priest,  a  physician,  and 
an  embalmer.  The  thousands  of  mum- 
mies existing  today,  after  an  interval  of 
more  than  four  thousand  years,  attest 
to  his  skill. 

Egyptian  embalming  varied  according 
to  the  social  and  financial  rank  of  the 
deceased.  The  poor  classes  and  the  mid- 
dle classes  received  only  the  crudest  sort 
of  preservation.  It  was  the  upper  class 
which  received  the  most  skillful  atten- 
tion of  the  best  embalmers.  In  order 
that  we  may  understand  their  methods, 
let  us  follow  a  t3^pical  case  of  embalming 
from  the  time  of  death  to  the  disposal  of 
the  body.  We  shall  follow  the  case  of 
Mr.  Horuse  Ovirus,  a  successful  mer- 
chant of  a  prosperous  town  on  the  east 
bank  of  the  Nile  river.  The  scene  is  the 
Ovirus  home.  The  time  is  early  morn- 
ing in  the  year  2161  B.  C: 

For  two  weeks  the  aged  Mr.  Ovirus 


[9] 


has  been  very,  very  ill.  On  this  cool,  gray 
morning,  just  before  sunrise,  the  little 
family  has  gathered  around  his  bedside. 
The  distinguished  Horuse  Ovirus  of  the 
trading  firm  of  Ovirus  &  Isus  is  dying. 
He  breathes  heavily,  gasps,  then  becomes 
very  quiet  and  still.  His  soul  has  left  on 
its  Circle  of  Necessity. 

As  soon  as  they  have  ascertained  that 
he  is  really  dead,  his  two  sisters  and 
three  daughters  prepare  to  announce  the 
fact  to  the  little  city.  They  wrap  flowing 
robes  about  them  but  leave  their  faces 
and  breasts  bare.  Then  they  smear  black 
Nile  mud  on  their  faces.  They  appear 
on  the  dusty  little  street  just  as  the  sun 
rises  in  the  desert  sands  east  of  their 
fertile  river-bottom  lands.  As  they  pass 
up  and  down  the  street  they  wail  and 
moan  loudly.  Thus  notified,  the  leading 
townsmen  hasten  to  the  Ovirus  home.  As 
soon  as  all  of  the  family  has  gathered  in 
the  main  room  of  the  house,  the  dis- 
tinguished friends  put  the  body  on  a 
stretcher  and  proceed  to  the  temple  of 
the  embalmer.  The  friends  with  the 
body  of  Ovirus  walk  at  the  head  of  the 
procession  followed  by  the  sobbing  fam- 
ily. The  numerous  friends  of  the  family 
march  along  at  the  rear. 

When  they  reach  the  temple  the  body 
is  laid  on  the  sand  just  outside  the  door. 
The  chief  embalmer  comes  out  in  his 
ceremonial  garb  of  long  black  robes. 
Egyptians  call  him  "paraschistes"  or  dis- 
sector and  stand  in  awe  of  this  man 
who  handles  the  bodies  of  the  dead.  He 
comes  up  to  the  body  of  Ovirus,  per- 
forms some  ceremonial  gestures,  then 
makes  a  mark  in  the  sand  on  the  left 
side  of  the  body  where  the  incision  is  to 
be  made.  After  this  preliminary  act,  the 
family  goes  inside  the  temple  to  choose 
a  pattern.  You  see,  the  bodies  and  faces 
of  the  dead  will  be  so  shriveled  and 
brown  that  they  cannot  be  exposed  after 


the  embalming  procedure  has  been  com- 
pleted; so  they  wrap  the  body,  and  paint 
the  face  in  gaudy  colors  to  represent 
some  favorite  god  of  the  people.  Mr. 
Ovirus  has  been  a  great  figure  in  Nile 
River  transportation  circles ;  conse- 
quently, he  is  permitted  the  honor  of 
being  buried  in  the  likeness  of  the 
popular  god,  Osiris. 

The  selection  having  been  completed, 
the  family  and  the  embalmer  return  to 
the  body.  The  paraschistes  makes  the 
incision  in  the  left  side  of  the  body  with 
a  sharp  stone.  Immediately,  he  begins  to 
run  down  the  street  with  the  family  and 
friends  in  hot  pursuit.  As  they  run,  they 
throw  rocks  and  sticks  at  the  retreating 
priest.  It  is  their  belief  that  anyone  who 
makes  a  cut  on  a  human  body  is  sinful 
and  should  be  killed.  However,  the  chase 
after  the  priest  is  usually  an  empty 
gesture,  and  they  have  no  intention  of 
catching  him.  After  this  religious 
gesture,  the  family  goes  home  and  the 
embalmers  begin  their  work. 

Oil  of  cedar  is  forced  up  the  nose  and 
into  the  cranial  cavity.  This  oil  dissolves 
the  brain  and  the  resultant  solution  is 
drained  out.  Melted  pitumin  is  injected 
and  allowed  to  harden.  The  next  step 
consists  of  removing  all  internal  organs 
except  the  kidneys  and  heart.  These 
viscera  are  cleaned,  steeped  in  wine,  and 
put  into  an  elaborate  vase.  The  priest 
will  fling  this  vase  into  the  Nile  at 
sunrise  after  he  has  performed  certain 
religious  duties. 

The  body  of  Mr.  Ovirus  is  placed  in  a 
solution  of  natron.  Natron  is  composed 
largely  of  sodium  carbonate,  sodium 
bicarbonate,  sodium  chloride,  and  im- 
purities. For  seventy  days  the  body 
remains  in  this  solution.  All  the  fatty 
portions  of  the  body  are  removed  by  the 
harsh  chemical  action  leaving  only  the 
brown,  hard  skin  over  the  bones.   When 


[10] 


the  body  is  removed  from  the  vat,  Mr. 
Ovirus  could  not  possibly  be  recognized. 
The  eye  sockets  are  vacant,  the  mouth  is 
drav^n  back  revealing  the  teeth  in  a  hor- 
rible grin,  and  the  skin  resembles  brown 
wood  or  metal.  The  priests  sew  up  the 
incision  in  his  side  and  treat  the  skin 
with  balsams,  spices,  and  aromatic  oils. 
Mr.  Ovirus  is  ready  to  be  wrapped. 

Yards  and  yards  of  fine  linen  strips 
are  wrapped  about  the  emaciated  body 
of  Ovirus.  A  pitch  substance  is  applied 
between  each  layer  of  cloth  to  make  the 
covering  air  tight.  A  gaudily  painted 
mask  of  the  god  Osirus  is  placed  over 
the  face,  and  the  body  of  Mr.  Horuse 
Ovirus  is  placed  in  a  casket  or 
sarcophagus  of  stone.  Thus  we  see  the 
mummy  of  Ovirus  taken  home,  four 
months  after  his  death. 

The  casket  stands  in  a  corner  for  a 
few^  days  while  the  burial  permits  are 
secured;  then  it  is  carried  to  the  east 
bank  of  the  Nile  for  funeral  services. 
A  big  river  boat,  with  forty-two  men 
dressed  as  the  forty-two  gods  of  Egypt 
and  piloted  by  a  charon,  pulls  up  at  the 
river's  edge.  The  funeral  orations  begin, 
with  all  the  friends  of  Horuse  Ovirus 
eulogizing  some  act  of  his  life.  As  soon 
as  the  services  have  been  completed,  the 


casket  is  placed  on  tlie  boat  and  carried 
west  across  the  Nile  to  the  grave,  which 
has  been  cut  out  of  solid  rock.  The 
body  now  becomes  the  property  of  the 
ages. 

The  processes  used  upon  Ovirus  were 
only  fundamentally  typical  ones  em- 
ployed by  the  Egyptians.  There  were 
variations  of  these  methods  used,  just 
as  systems  of  embalming  of  today  differ 
in  some  of  their  minor  details. 

Yes,  the  Egyptian  embalmer  was  an 
expert,  and  we  could  embalm  as  he  did 
by  using  his  methods.  But  would  people 
of  today  wait  four  months  to  have  their 
dead  returned  from  the  funeral  homes? 
Would  they  want  the  members  of  their 
family  wrapped  in  strips  of  linen  and 
wearing  gaudy  masks?  Hardly.  Each 
age  has  its  own  type  of  embalming,  for 
it  has  its  own  reasons  for  the  process. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Encyclopaedia      Britannica,      "Embalming," 

"Mummies,"  "Egypt." 
Herodotus,     excerpts     from     The    Life    and 

Travels  of  Herodotus,  by  J.  T.  Wheeler. 
A.    Lucas,    Preservative    Materials    used    by 

Ancient  Egyptians  in  Embalming   (Lucas 

of  Ministry  of  Finance,  Egypt.) 
T.  J.  Pettigrew,  History  of  Egyptian  Mummies. 
Ashworth,    lectures    at    Worsham    College    of 

Embalming,  Chicago   (1935-36.) 


Modern  Miracle 

Cholera  is  cured  by  the  simple  process  of  increasing  the  water  content  of  the 
blood  and  adding  salt  to  it  so  that  the  osmotic  pressure  in  the  intestines  is  counter- 
acted. Many  times,  during  the  epidemic  at  Haichow,  one  liter  of  salt  water  added  to 
the  blood  of  a  seemingly  hopeless  case  would  bring  surprising  results.  The  patient 
would  appear  so  shriveled  up  that  he  looked  like  a  skeleton  covered  by  some  loose 
and  wrinkled  skin.  The  orderly  or  nurse  would  take  a  sample  of  the  patient's  blood 
to  determine  its  characteristics.  The  patient  would  then  have  salt  water  pumped  into 
his  veins,  the  amount  and  concentration  being  determined  by  his  physical  build  and 
blood  characteristics.  As  his  blood  got  back  to  its  normal  fluid  state,  he  would  begin 
to  feel  better,  and  in  an  hour  or  so  he  could  get  up  and  walk  in  perfect  comfort.  The 
old  man  who  had  been  lying  on  the  bed  would  seem  to  take  on  a  new  body  and  get 
up  and  walk  around. — Carrel  B.  Morgan 


[11] 


Misrepresentation  in  the  Drug  Business 


R.  D.  Brittenham 
Rhetoric  I,   Theme  10,  1938-1939 


LAST  year,  while  I  was  working  in  a 
drug  store,  I  discovered  something 
which  I  never  knew  existed — the  mis- 
representation of  merchandise.  Before 
I  worked  in  a  drug  store,  I  accepted 
everything  a  clerk  told  me  as  fact.  How 
often  it  was  only  a  "line" !  In  the  year's 
time  I  spent  in  the  drug  business,  I  too 
learned  the  line.  Now  when  a  clerk  in  a 
drug  store  tries  to  "highpressure"  me,  I 
chuckle  to  myself  because  I  have  at  some 
time  tried  to  make  someone  else  believe 
the  same  thing. 

An  outstanding  example  of  misrepre- 
sentation is  the  sale  of  bulk  mineral  oil. 
Whenever  a  customer  came  into  the 
store  and  asked  me  for  a  gallon  of 
mineral  oil,  I  asked  him  if  he  wanted 
the  oil  for  ninety-eight  cents  a  gallon, 
for  a  dollar  twenty-nine  a  gallon,  or  for 
a  dollar  fifty-nine  a  gallon,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  "highpressure"  him  into  taking 
the  highest  priced  oil.  I  then  took  his 
jug  into  the  back  room  where  stood  the 
barrel  from  which  all  three  prices  of  oil 
were  taken,  and  drew  off  a  gallon.  I 
selected  the  correct  label  for  the  price 
paid  and  stuck  it  on  the  bottle.  I  gave 
him  his  ninety-eight  cents  worth  of  oil 
and  rang  up  a  dollar  fifty-nine.  Another 
example  of  misrepresentation  I  discov- 
ered almost  accidentally  when  I  was 
mixing  some  hand  lotion  according  to  a 
formula  given  me  by  a  customer.  The 
formula  called  for  sixteen  ounces  of 
lotion  consisting  of  eight  ounces  of 
glycerine,  seven  ounces  of  rose  water, 
and  one  ounce  of  carbolic  acid.  I  put  in 
the  correct  proportions  of  glycerine  and 
carbolic  acid,  but  when  I  measured  out 
the  rose  water  I  found  there  were  only 


four  ounces  left.  I  asked  the  druggist 
if  I  should  put  in  the  other  three  in 
water.  "You  know,"  he  replied,  "you 
are  certainly  learning  the  drug  trade 
fast." 

One  of  the  main  causes  for  misrepre- 
sentation is  the  money  involved.  As  long 
as  a  druggist  can  buy  one  grade  of  mer- 
chandise and  make  all  the  way  from 
thirty  to  sixty  per  cent  profit,  depending 
upon  the  price  the  customer  pays  for  it, 
he  thinks  that  he  should  take  advantage 
of  the  situation.  Another  cause  of  mis- 
representation is  substitution  in  prefer- 
ence to  loss  of  sale.  In  making  up  the 
hand  lotion  I  substituted  water  because 
I  had  no  rosewater.  I  knew  the  customer 
would  never  find  out.  Still  another  cause 
of  misrepresentation  is  the  customer's 
taking  everything  a  druggist  says  as  fact. 
The  customer  lets  the  druggist  talk  him 
into  buying  an  expensive  article  when  he 
knows  that  one  less  expensive  would 
serve  him  just  as  well.  If  the  customer 
would  question  what  the  druggist  tells 
him  and  stick  to  what  he  knows  is  true. 
he  would  save  money. 

There  are  remedies  for  the  evils  I 
have  mentioned.  No  one  remedy  would 
cure  all  tlie  evils,  but  a  certain  few- 
would  be  helpful.  If  the  public  would 
buy  nationally  advertised  brands  instead 
of  the  merchandise  put  up  by  independ- 
ent stores  it  would  do  away  with  the 
evil  of  the  same  grade  of  goods'  being 
sold  at  different  prices  under  different 
trade  names.  If  all  producers  listed  all 
their  merchandise  under  the  Fair  Trade 
Act,  this  listing  would  do  away  with  two 
stores'  selling  at  different  prices  the  same 
product  put  out  by  the  same  producer. 


[12] 


Stores  are  compelled  to  live  up  to  an 
agreement  of  the  Fair  Trade  Act  which 
states  that  they  must  sell  products  listed 
under  it  at  a  fixed  price.  This  solution 
would  keep  druggists  in  line  both  ways, 
preventing  the  neighborhood  druggist 
from  charging  too  much,  and  the  cut- 
rate  stores  from  charging  too  little.  The 
best  solution  for  the  whole  thing  would 
be  honesty  on  the  part  of  the  druggist. 
To  ask  for  such  a  thing,  however,  is 
probably  too  much ;  where  money  is  in- 
volved dishonesty  usually  exists.    More- 


over, honesty  on  the  part  of  the  drug- 
gist involves  confidence  on  the  part  of 
the  customer.  And  strangers  never  trust 
each  other ! 

If  all  the  evils  of  misrepresentation 
in  the  drug  trade  were  wiped  out,  the 
goods  purchased  by  the  customer  would 
be  of  a  better  quality;  the  customer 
would  be  more  satisfied;  he  would  de- 
pend more  on  the  druggist's  word;  he 
would  purchase  more ;  both  druggist  and 
customer  would  profit. 


Freedom  of  the  Press 

Albert  Sanner 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  13,  1938-1929 


"  T  N  OHIO,  six  hundred  and  twenty- 
*  five  of  seven  hundred  newspapers 
were  'reached.'  "  "A  large  part  of  its 
claims  was  fraudulent,  a  large  part  of 
its  output  was  poisonous,  but  it 
flourished,  thanks  to  advertising  in  the 
press,  and  silence  in  the  press."  "All  the 
newspaper  women  sent  out  Mrs.  Roose- 
velt's statement.  All  of  them  said  later 
they  could  find  no  trace  of  the  state- 
ment's ever  having  been  printed."  — So 
it  is  with  our  "free"  press,  the  American 
nevvspaper  )'esterday  and  today  as  shown 
us  by  George  Seldes  in  his  Freedom  of 
the  Press.  In  this  volume  the  newspaper 
game  is  stripped  of  every  bit  of  its  mask 
of  hypocrisy.  The  amazingly  large  num- 
ber of  directly  or  indirectly  controlled 
newspapers — or  more  appropriately,  the 
very  small  number  of  good  ones — is  most 
appalling  and  discouraging  in  this,  a 
democracy  which  has  as  one  of  its  great- 
est boasts  and  bulwarks  a  free  press. 
While  realizing  that  there  exists  a  far 


too  great  number  of  controlled  news- 
papers, one  is  nevertheless  shocked  to 
discover  that  the  very  great  majority  of 
them,  from  small  rural  "gazettes"  to  the 
New  York  Times,  are  directly  subsidized 
or  owned  by  big  business,  dictated  to  by 
their  advertisers,  or  simply  bribed. 

Such  are  the  facts  given  us  by  George 
Seldes.  The  word  "facts"  is  here  used 
enthusiastically,  because  Freedom  of  the 
Press  is  the  most  concrete  book  I  have 
ever  had  occasion  to  read.  The  author 
is  a  veteran  news-reporter,  thoroughly 
grounded  in  the  subject  about  which  he 
writes.  One  feels  from  the  first  that 
here  is  a  man  who  actually  does  know 
what  he  is  talking  about.  The  book  con- 
tains an  endless  amount  of  illustrative 
and  documentary  material  and  quota- 
tions from  very  many  sources.  Not  one 
statement  is  made  without  one  or  more 
cases  being  cited  to  prove  it. 

A  book  of  this  sort  might  very  well 
have  been  made  very  sensational,  what 


[13] 


with  the  revealing  of  so  many  amazing 
facts.  But  it  is  not.  The  author  does 
not  seem  to  be  bothered  with  sensational- 
ism. It  is  evident  that  his  own  aim  is 
to  impart  much-needed  information  to 
the  public  in  the  most  intelligent  and 
intelligible  manner  possible.  He  is 
entirely  successful. 


Freedom  of  the  Press  is  an  excellent 
book.  It  has  excellence  because  it  deals 
in  an  adequate,  sensible  way,  with  a  sub- 
ject vitally  affecting  all  right-thinking 
American  citizens.  Mr.  Seldes  puts  the 
whole  foul  system  before  you  for  inspec- 
tion.   It  may  well  be  taken  notice  of. 


Tavern 


Jack  Larimer 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  12,  1937-1938 


THE  glaring  red  neon  sign  read 
"Okey  Doke  Tavern,"  and  below, 
"Falls  City  Beer  on  Tap."  The  bottle- 
strewn  cinder  lot  surrounding  the  squat, 
unlovely  wooden  building  was  covered 
with  cars  and  trucks  of  every  make  and 
model.  From  the  open  door  the  blare  of 
a  toil-worn  phonograph  poured  out  to 
profane  the  young  night. 

Two  drunks  argued  loudly  and 
coarsely  on  the  fender  of  a  battered  '32 
Chewy.  A  lanky  youth  of  seventeen 
or  eighteen  leaned  against  the  single, 
bumper-scarred  tree  and  relieved  his 
protesting  stomach.  He  grinned  vacantly 
as  we  walked  carefully  by  him,  and  then 
groaned. 

Inside,  the  venerable  "hootin'  Annie" 
ground  out  Twilight  in  Turkey  in  a 
desperate  effort  to  drown  the  noise  of 
clinking  glasses,  shuffling  feet,  and  in- 
termingled snatches  of  strident  conver- 
sation. Behind  the  bar  two  dirty- 
aproned  Latins  racked  up  frothy  steins 
and  poured  liquid  dynamite  from  as- 
sorted bright-labeled  bottles  into  double- 
ended  shot  glasses.  The  tipplers  were 
a  motley  crowd,  ranging  from  overalled 
farmers     and    dark-eved     miners    with 


thick,  hairy  arms  to  loud-mouthed,  ciga- 
rette-smoking youths  with  wrinkled  suits 
and  opened  collars.  An  effort  to  satisfy 
a  thirst  was  the  only  bond  between  them. 

Beyond  the  lighted  bar,  dancers 
swirled  and  bounced  over  a  scarred 
hardwood  floor.  Couples  glued  them- 
selves together,  swaying  and  bending  to 
the  savage  rhythm.  A  loose-mouthed 
youth  marked  with  an  ugly,  puckered 
scar  under  one  eye  drew  most  of  the 
attention  of  those  in  surrounding  booths. 
Neither  he  nor  his  pale,  black-haired 
partner  seemed  to  be  bound  by  frailties 
of  the  flesh.  They  twisted  from  one  gro- 
tesque position  to  another  without  for  a 
moment  losing  the  furious  beat  of  the 
music.  Her  long  hair  whipped  about  in 
disarray  as  the  boy  bent  her  lithe  body 
far  backward,  straightened,  spun  rapidly 
several  times,  slid  swiftly  sideways  with 
short,  quick  steps,  and,  as  the  trumpet 
hit  the  last  blaring  high  note,  swung  her, 
with  a  swirl  of  her  short  black  skirt,  into 
a  bottle-littered  booth  already  partly  oc- 
cupied by  another  drunken  couple. 

The  night  air  was  cool  and  clean,  and 
a  single  bright  star  hung  low  in  the  east. 


[14] 


How  to  Get  Into  a  Sorority 


Anonymous 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  8,  1938-1939 


r^VEN  the  undignified  word  "rushing" 
•'— '  is  too  placid  to  give  an  indication  of 
the  cut-throat  activity  involved  in  a  uni- 
versity sorority  rush  week.  However,  it 
seems  that  rushing  is  a  necessary  evil  if 
girls  are  to  get  into  sororities  and  if 
sororities  are  to  get  girls.  Now  that  my 
rush  week  is  long  gone,  if  not  forgotten, 
I  feel  free  and  also  better  qualified  to 
discuss  frankly  the  most  effective  way 
of  getting  into  a  sorority. 

In  the  first  place,  if  you're  seriously 
interested  in  sorority  life  and  know  you 
couldn't  possibly  live  without  this  or 
that  little  Greek  letter  badge,  it  would 
be  best  to  begin  your  Greek  letter  cam- 
paign early  in  life.  A  good  initial  step 
is  to  keep  your  eyes  open  at  alumni  and 
parent-teacher  meetings  near  your  home 
town.  Cultivate  at  these  gatherings  the 
friendship  of  the  women  who  wear  the 
better-known  Greek  letter  pins  (and  also 
the  conceited  attitudes).  Next,  you  must 
engage  in  a  little  personal  research  to 
discover  which  of  the  women  has  bought 
a  chair  or  a  lamp  or  some  such  article 
for  her  Greek  letter  chapter  house.  Hav- 
ing successfully  sighted  one  such  woman, 
you  may  begin  to  be  your  most  charming 
self  whenever  you  are  near  her.  This 
involves,  of  course,  a  few  unpleasant 
affectations  of  interest,  such  as  listening 
enthralled  to  her  story  of  the  night  she 
reigned  as  prom  queen  and  hearing  over 
and  over  again  about  the  day  she  was 
acclaimed  the  ideal  coed.  If  you're  a 
good  listener,  these  affectations  will  suc- 
cessfully win  for  you  a  sorority  backer — 


someone  to  write  and  recommend  you  to 
the  chapter.  The  perfect  system  is  to 
cultivate  the  friendship  of  two  such 
women,  for  it  is  reassuring  to  feel  their 
rivalry  as  each  tries  to  induce  you  to 
join  her  particular  group.  I  can't  over- 
emphasize the  importance  of  this  lamp 
or  chair  or  such  article  in  deciding  your 
fate — if  it  cost  $50,  the  alum's  letter 
about  your  wonderful  ability,  personality, 
and  intellect  may  be  read — but  if  it  cost 
$500,  you  may  be  certain  that  any  lack 
of  these  qualities  will  be  overlooked 
when  the  girls  meet  you. 

Your  real  test  begins  with  rush  week. 
Let  us  assume  that  your  letter  of  recom- 
mendation came  from  an  "$150  alum." 
This  means  that  if  the  girls  see  in  you 
some  of  the  virtues  of  a  successful  coed 
you  will  be  placed  upon  their  preferred 
list.  They  feel  no  great  obligation  to  this 
alum,  however;  so  the  result  is  up  to 
you.  Perhaps  the  whole  thing  is  an  act 
of  God,  but,  if  you  fail  in  your  Greek- 
letter  quest,  you  will  be  blamed — He 
won't.  For  your  first  rush  engagements 
wear  something  at  which  your  mother 
would  scream  in  horror.  I  have  seen  nine 
preferential  party  invitations  issued  be- 
cause an  enormous  glittering  brooch  had 
been  pinned  boldly — of  all  places  ! — on 
the  back  of  a  black  glove.  The  sorority 
girls  are  going  to  try  to  remember  you 
by  some  outstanding  quality  or  article; 
so  if  you  don't  want  them  to  talk  about 
you  as  "that  green-eyed,  red-headed 
thing,"  you  had  better  give  them  some- 
thing real  to  remember.   If  you  return  to 


[15] 


the  house  a  few  times  for  breakfasts, 
luncheons,  or  dinners  it  is  an  absolute 
necessity  that  you  smile — even  if  smiling 
is  the  last  thing  3^ou  feel  like  doing — and 
that  you  always  laugh  at  anyone's  at- 
tempt to  be  funny.  Even  the  noise  of 
a  tittering  laugh  will  be  the  object  of 
gratitude.  The  active  sorority  members 
will  thank  you  for  having  kept  that 
moment  from  being  a  dead  silence,  and 
for  having  given  them  an  interval  during 
which  a  new  topic  might  be  prepared  for 
"  conversational  endeavor.  If  you  can 
move  your  eyes  quickly  from  place  to 


place,  the  actives  will  be  really  impressed 
by  your  vivacit}'.  You  needn't  say  any- 
thing along  with  this  process — just  be 
sure  to  smile.  Having  impressed  the 
group  as  much  as  you  are  able  during  the 
time  you  can  spend  in  the  house,  you  will 
return  from  the  last  party  a  nervous 
wreck.  All  this  seems  an  integral  part 
of  the  system  of  rushing.  Now  all  that 
remains  is  for  you  to  wait  until  the 
pledge  lists  appear,  and  then  proceed  to 
your  chapter  house  to  be  hugged  and 
kissed  by  the  girls  as  if  you  were  their 
long-lost  friend. 


She  Makes  a  Fuss  About  Eating 

Phyllis  Green wald 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  16,  1938-1939,  linpronipfu 


SHE  sits  down  at  the  table  and  stares 
disdainfully  at  the  plate  before  her. 
Delicately,  she  picks  up  her  fork  and 
starts  to  toy  with  a  piece  of  meat.  Then 
she  deliberately  pushes  her  plate  away, 
and  with  an  air  of  "coax  me  to  eat"  says, 
disgustedly,  "This  food  doesn't  appeal 
to  me." 

Sylvia  always  fusses  about  eating.  Day 
after  day  she  walks  into  the  dining 
room  to  complain  about  the  meal  served 
her.  Naturally,  she  is  a  mere  slip  of  a 
girl,  and  thinks  it  smart  to  look  anemic. 
She  eats,  of  course  (the  truth  of  the 
matter  is,  she  has  as  large  a  capacity  for 
food  as  the  rest  of  us),  but  to  hear  her 
talk,  nothing  tempts  her  jaded  appetite. 
Not  until  everyone  has  had  a  chance  to 
coax  her  to  "just  taste  it,  anyway,"  does 
she  consent  to  do  us  a  favor  and  try  to 
eat.   Then,  after  picking  at  the  plate  just 


long  enough  to  impress  us  that  she's 
doing  it  all  for  us,  she  begins  to  eat  with 
as  much  enthusiasm  as  the  rest  of  us, 
arid  I  always  wonder  how  she  managed 
to  control  her  appetite  through  all  the 
time  the  little  by-play  has  taken. 

Her  appetite  never  ceases  to  amaze 
me.  From  the  amount  of  fuss  she  makes 
I  always  expect  to  see  her  push  away  a 
half-emptied  plate,  after  delicately  toy- 
ing with  its  contents  for  some  time,  and 
walk  awa}'  from  the  table,  claiming  to 
have  eaten  her  fill.  Instead,  she  is  the 
first  one  to  ask  for  a  second  helping! 
When  she  has  finally  eaten  her  fill,  she 
pushes  her  plate  away,  grimacing  to  ex- 
press her  impatience  with  people  who 
enjoy  eating,  and  says:  "I  don't  see  why 
you  girls  rush  home  to  meals.  This  food 
doesn't  appeal  to  me." 


[16] 


The  Winnah! 


Logan  Muir 

Rhetoric  II,  Final  Examination,  1937-1938 


I  BELIEVE  that  when  I  was  ten  my 
barbaric  tendencies  had  come  to  per- 
fection. For  the  same  reason  that 
Romans  watched  grim  death  from  their 
stadii,  for  the  same  reason  that  orientals 
developed  their  famed  tortures,  for  the 
same  reason  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  thousand  people  crowd  to  an  auto 
race-track,  I  started  an  ant  fight. 

It  was  easy.  I  just  located  a  black 
ant  hill  and  a  red  ant  hill  and  shoveled 
the  latter  into  a  wheelbarrow.  I  carted 
it  over  to  the  black  ant  hill,  being  care- 
ful to  allow  none  of  the  teeming  little 
rascals  to  escape.  The  red  ones  were 
angry.  They  rushed  here,  then  there, 
then  back :  they  twiddled  antennae  with 
each  other ;  they  dug  furiously ;  they 
swirled  and  swarmed  about  looking  for 
their  antagonist.  I  dumped  them  and 
the  remains  of  their  castle  about  five 
feet  from  the  black  ant  hill,  and  in  a 
short  while  the  Reds  blamed  the  Blacks 
for  their  predicament.  Ferociously  they 
attacked  the  astonished  Blacks,  who 
quickly  mobilized  their  own  forces.  In- 
dividual hand-to-hand  encounters  were 
taking  place  all  over  the  area,  but  if  a 
tired  Black  won  out  on  the  Red  side  he 
was  soon  annihilated,  and  vice-versa.  A 
battle  line  formed.  The  Reds  appeared 
toughest.  They  slashed  and  reared  and 
bit  and  crushed  until  they  had  forced  the 
Blacks  to  their  own  doorstep.  On  the 
left  two  Reds  were  attempting  to  pull  a 


l^)lack  in  two.  Next  to  them  a  pair  were 
reared  up,  fighting  toe  to  toe  and  tooth 
to  tooth.  Back  a  little  from  the  line 
others  were  hauling  ofif  silent  reminders 
of  the  slaughter.  Corpses  of  both  sides 
were  carried  down  the  holes,  probably  to 
the  pantry.  It  wasn't  long  before  I  was 
siding  with  the  Blacks,  for  they  were 
the  weaker,  and  they  had  been  unjustly 
accused.  My  sense  of  fair  play,  warped 
though  it  must  have  been,  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  crush  out  a  few 
Red  lives  where  the  fight  was  going 
particularly  against  the  Blacks. 

Time  wore  on  and  my  favorites  had 
been  well  aided.  I  was  as  much  a  Black 
ant  in  feeling  as  in  size  I  was  not.  So 
absorbed  was  I  in  the  battle  that  I  did 
not  see  my  father  coming.  He  reached 
for  the  wheelbarrow  and  in  so  doing 
stepped  on  half  the  Black  army.  I  looked 
up.  I  felt  like  a  baseball  fan  whose 
home  team  has  been  sinned  against  by 
the  umpire.  I  swore  a  black,  black  oath 
for  my  ten  years.  My  father  straight- 
ened, brought  his  other  foot  in  on  top  of 
most  of  the  remaining  Blacks.  One  hand 
went  down  to  my  neck  to  make  sure  I 
kept  my  kneeling  position,  while  the 
other  swung  in  wide,  fast  arcs  from  high 
in  the  air  to  the  seat  of  my  pants.  The 
Blacks  and  I  were  beaten.  It  was 
"Father's  Day"  all  the  way  around.  I 
shouldn't  have  provoked  him — or  the 
red  ants. 


[17] 


When  I  Went  to  School 


Beatrice  McClelland 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  7,  1938-1939 


AS  I  WENT  past  our  small  country 
school  the  last  time  I  was  home  I 
remembered  hearing  someone  say  there 
was  a  new  teacher  this  year.  Sure 
enough,  there  she  was  out  in  the  yard 
playing  some  kind  of  game  with  the 
children — her  heels  clicking  and  her 
short  skirts  flying.  I  thought  of  the 
difference  between  her  and  some  of  the 
teachers  I  had  had — especially  the  first 
one. 

Mother  had  taken  me  to  school  that 
first  day  and  had  left  me  all  moved  into 
my  new  desk.  I  was  a  bashful  little 
towhead,  and  sat  there,  not  daring  to 
move.  But  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye 
I  gave  the  teacher  a  furtive  glance,  and 
I  decided  I'd  like  her,  despite  her  ap- 
pearance. She  wore  a  nondescript, 
monotone  dress  over  her  dumpy  figure — 
as  she  did  the  three  years  I  went  to 
school  to  her.  Her  skirts  were  ankle- 
length,  and  gathered  at  the  waist,  topped 
with  a  long-sleeved,  high-necked  shirt- 
waist. The  long-sleeves  and  high  neck 
were  essential  as  she  wore  the  traditional 
red  flannels,  which  occasionally  crept  out 
from  under  her  sleeves.  Her  shoes, 
always  black,  had  high  tops,  which  un- 
doubtedly kept  her  ankles  warm  and 
probably  held  the  red  flannels  down. 

Her  teaching  was  plain,  thorough 
teaching — no  wonder,  she  had  taught  for 
forty  years.  We  had  readin',  'ritin',  and 
'rithmetic  every  day;  no  music,  no  art, 
and  scarcely  any  social  life.   The  Oirist- 


mas  program  and  the  last  day  of  school 
were  the  big  events  of  the  year,  and  even 
those  were  brief  and  simple — perhaps  a 
reading  or  two,  and  songs.  The  songs 
were  the  most  fun.  There  was  an  organ, 
old  and  rickety,  but  no  one  could  play  it, 
and  anyway,  we  didn't  need  music,  for 
teacher  could  sing.  And  she  did,  stand- 
ing on  the  rostrum,  one  hand  holding  the 
song  book,  the  other  beating  time.  We 
all  joined  in  lustily,  each  with  his  own 
version  of  the  tune. 

She  was  calm  and  placid,  with  nerves 
that  must  have  been  iron-clad,  for  no 
matter  how  much  we  yelled  and  scram- 
bled about  at  noon  and  recesses,  she  read 
on,  never  being  outside  the  schoolhouse 
except  as  she  came  in  the  morning  and 
went  home  at  evening.  We  found  one 
way  to  make  her  angry  though,  and  that 
was  to  whisper  or  play  in  schooltime. 
We  had  to  study  then,  and  study  hard, 
so  that  we  learned  what  was  given  to  us. 
She  depended  on  her  own  resources  for 
her  material  for  our  work,  and  much 
of  the  equipment  we  used  she  had 
improvised. 

I  wonder  if  we  didn't  learn  more  of 
the  rudiments  of  education  in  our  simple 
school  than  the  grade  school  pupils  do 
today  with  modern  principles  and  so 
many  extra-curricular  activities  on  their 
minds.  No,  I'm  not  against  modem 
schools ;  they're  all  right  in  their  way, 
but  perhaps  I'm  prejudiced,  for — well, 
that  was  when  I  went  to  school. 


[18] 


The  Wheat  Field 


Evert  E.  Tice 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1938-1939 


IT  WAS  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
The  alarm  rang  steadily  and  I  scram- 
bled out  of  bed,  dull  and  drowsy.  I 
stumbled  over  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  "My  God,"  was  my  first  thought, 
'Til  have  to  drive  the  tractor  today." 
My  clothes  were  lying  on  the  chair,  and 
I  reluctantly  began  pulling  them  on.  I 
dressed,  ate  my  breakfast,  then  went  to 
the  tractor  shed,  and  rolled  back  the 
door.  There  stood  my  charge  for  the  day. 

It  was  a  caterpillar  tractor,  called  the 
"Cat"  for  short.  It  seemed  short  and 
rather  small  at  first  glance  in  spite  of  its 
brilliant  yellow  paint.  But  I  knew  that 
under  the  steel  hood  there  was  plenty  of 
power  for  all  kinds  of  work.  There  was 
work  to  be  done,  and  I  couldn't  stand 
admiring  the  Cat  all  day.  It  had  to  be 
greased,  and  the  twenty-gallon  fuel  tank 
had  to  be  filled.  There  are  twelve  grease 
caps  on  a  Caterpillar  tractor.  It  took 
about  fifteen  minutes  for  me  to  clean 
these  caps  and,  with  a  pressure  grease- 
gun,  to  squirt  about  a  quarter  of  a 
pound  of  grease  into  each.  It  was  a 
struggle,  and  I  came  out  of  it  with 
grease  on  my  hands,  my  clothing,  and 
even  my  face.  Then  I  carried  fuel  for 
the  tank,  water  for  the  radiator,  and 
added  a  quart  of  oil.  I  removed  the  oil 
filter  and,  finding  it  with  about  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  of  dust  and  dirt  in  the  bottom, 
cleaned  it  out.  I  screwed  the  filter  back 
on  after  filling  it  about  half  full  of  clean 
oil.  The  Cat  was  ready  to  crank. 

I  turned  on  the  switch,  checked  the 
position  of  the  gears,  and  began  crank- 


ing. Cranking  can  be  done  only  a  quarter 
of  a  turn  at  a  time,  but  on  the  second 
quarter  turn  the  motor  caught.  My 
brother,  who  was  to  operate  the  combine 
that  day,  came  up  just  then,  and,  with  an 
agreeable  glance  at  each  other  we 
climbed  to  the  seat.  We  stopped  by  the 
house  to  hook  on  the  trailer,  which  con- 
tained the  supplies  needed  to  prepare  the 
combine  for  its  day's  work.  Then  we 
headed  for  the  wheat  field.  The  combine 
was  sitting  there  ready  to  go  to  work. 
Well,  almost  ready.  It  needed  grease  in 
about  thirty-five  grease  caps,  the  drap- 
eries had  to  be  put  on,  the  motor  checked, 
and  the  inside  of  the  outfit  had  to  be 
cleaned  out.  It  was  my  job  to  check  the 
motor  and  put  on  the  draperies. 

Checking  the  motor  was  easy  work. 
Just  gas,  oil,  and  water,  with  two  grease 
caps  to  fill.  But  putting  on  the  draperies 
was  another  matter.  The  draperies  of  a 
combine  are  long  strips  of  heavy  canvas 
three  feet  wide  with  wooden  slats  spaced 
at  regular  intervals  along  their  entire 
length.  They  are  used  to  carry  the  cut 
grain  into  the  combine.  There  are  three 
of  these  draperies — or  canvases,  if  you 
prefer — on  almost  all  combines.  On  our 
outfit  one  canvas  was  twenty- four  feet 
long,  another  was  eight  feet  long,  and 
another  was  seven  feet  long.  I  had  no 
trouble  with  the  short  canvases,  but  the 
long  one  was  wrongly  rolled.  I  could  not 
simply  slip  it  around  the  rollers  as  I 
unrolled  it ;  so  I  laid  it  on  the  ground, 
unrolled  it,  and  then  re-rolled  it  in  the 
correct   manner.    When   that   had  been 


[19] 


done,  the  canvas  slipped  around  the 
rollers  very  easily. 

I  looked  around.  Homer  was  still 
greasing  the  combine,  but  when  he  saw 
I  had  done  my  job,  he  said,  "Clean  the 
combine  out,  kid.  I'm  not  done  greasing 
yet." 

"Someday,"  I  thought,  "I'm  going  to 
tell  him  what  to  do."  I  buttoned  the 
collar  of  my  shirt  and  went  into  the 
open  elevator  hole.  The  beards  on  the 
inside  managed  to  work  inside  my  shirt 
and  next  to  my  skin  in  spite  of  my 
previous  precautions.  I  threw  dirt  and 
chaflf  out  of  the  combine  in  nothing  flat 
and  climbed  out  of  that  dirty  hole  in  a 
very  few  minutes.  While  I  tried  to  get 
some  of  the  beards  out  of  my  shirt, 
Homer  walked  through  the  standing 
grain  to  see  if  it  was  dry.  When  he 
returned  he  said,  "Let's  go,  kid.  If  w^e're 
going  to  get  this  field  done  today  we'll 
have  to  step  on  it." 

But  we  had  very  bad  going  for  the 
first  round.  We  choked  the  combine 
down  three  times.  When  a  combine 
chokes  down,  it  gets  so  much  straw  in 
the  cylinder  that  it  can't  take  care  of  it 
all,  and  as  a  result  the  straw  stops  the 
cylinder.  We  usually  choked  down  be- 
cause of  wet  straw  or  because  of  driving 
too  fast.  We  picked  up  a  very  large 
"slug"  the  first  time  because  I  was 
driving  too  fast.  To  remove  the  slug 
one  must  turn  the  cylinder  backwards  by 
means  of  a  long-handled  wrench.  After 
turning  the  cylinder  a  full  turn  back- 
wards, Homer  gave  the  motor  full 
throttle,  and  threw  the  combine  in  gear. 
Eventual!}'  the  slug  was  broken  up  by 
the  cylinder  enough  to  pass  on  through 
the  combine.  Rut  such  a  method  took  a 
lot  of  time,  and  it  also  required  patience 
to  wait  for  the  slug  to  go  through  when 
we  knew  that  we  were  losing  valuable 
time. 


After  that  first  round  Homer  kept 
yelling  at  me  to  drive  slower,  even 
though  I  was  doing  my  best.  He  was 
a  hack-seat  driver  in  the  strict  sense  of 
the  word.  When  we  stopped  to  empty 
the  grain  tank,  I  was  peeved.  "I'm  run- 
ning the  tractor,"  I  said,  climbing  from 
the  seat,  "and  you're  running  the  com- 
bine. I'll  run  the  tractor  my  way,  and 
you  can  run  the  combine  your  way." 

"O.  K.,  kid,"  he  answered,  "but  re- 
member, the  fellow  on  the  tractor  is 
the  one  who  keeps  slugs  -from  going 
through." 

That  outburst  did  the  work,  all  right. 
Homer  didn't  say  anything  to  me  about 
the  way  I  was  running  the  tractor,  and 
I  noticed  that  he  was  watching  the  com- 
bine better.  We  weren't  cutting  so  much 
straw,  and  as  a  result  the  grain  was 
cleaner.  We  worked  on  until  noon,  when 
we  stopped.  Homer  didn't  want  to  lose 
any  time ;  so  he  said,  "You  take  the 
whole  outfit  by  yourself  for  a  round 
while  I  eat  my  dinner ;  then  I'll  take  it 
while  3'ou  eat." 

I  objected  at  once.  "How  is  one  man 
going  to  run  that  outfit  by  himself?"  I 
asked.  "You  can't  raise  or  lower  the 
platform  from  the  tractor  or  throttle  the 
combine  motor,  either." 

"We'll  set  the  platform  and  leave  it, 
and  we'll  set  the  throttle  on  full,"  Homer 
replied.  "What's  the  matter?  Don't  you 
want  to  tackle  it  by  yourself?" 

I  didn't  want  to  let  him  show  me  up ; 
so,  with  some  misgiving,  I  climbed  on 
the  Cat  after  setting  the  combine  plat- 
form and  throttle.  I  traveled  very  slowly 
and  was  able  to  complete  the  round  with- 
out a  stop.  Then  Homer  started  out 
while  I  ate  my  dinner.  T  walked  over  to 
the  shade  of  a  hedge-tree,  sat  down,  and 
unpacked  my  lunch  box.  It  was  good  to 
be  able  to  rest  after  listening  to  the  roar 
of    two    motors    all    morning.     Then    I 


[20] 


noticed  that  I  didn't  hear  the  sound  of 
the  Cat  as  plainly  as  before.  I  looked 
up  and  saw  Homer  was  stopped.  He 
was  trying  to  get  a  slug  out  of  the  com- 
bine. I  smiled.  He  had  been  driving  too 
fast,  and  the  combine  had  choked  down. 
'Til  have  to  tell  him  about  that,"  I 
thought  and  went  back  to  my  dinner.  T 
finished  eating,  smoked  a  leisurely  ciga- 
rette, then  noticed  that  the  combine  was 
stopped  again.  I  walked  over  to  it. 
"Want  some  help?"  I  yelled.  Homer 
just  glared  at  me.  I  helped  him  get  rid 
of  the  slug,  then  climbed  on  the  Cat. 
The  afternoon's  work  was  beginning. 

It  seems  that  farm  work  is  always 
most  tiresome  in  the  afternoon.  Com- 
bining wheat  is  no  exception.  When  a 
person  watches  a  stream  of  yellow  grain 
flow  into  the  elevator  of  the  combine,  he 
is  bound  to  get  sleepy.  I  did.  In  fact, 
I  went  to  sleep.  When  I  was  awakened 
by  an  ear-splitting  yelp  from  Homer,  I 
saw  that  we  were  heading  diagonally 
across  the  wheat  field  instead  of  down 
the  side  as  we  should  have  been.  I 
straightened  out  the  direction  of  travel, 
then  looked  sheepishly  back  at  Homer. 
He  was  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  so  I 
laughed,  too.  At  least  we  could  still 
laugh. 

But  more  than  wheat  went  into  the 
combine.  We  were  moving  along  at  a 
fairly  rapid  rate  when  Homer  yelled. 
Instantly,  I  stopped  the  Cat,  and  looked 
around.  There  was  a  bull-snake  on  the 
platform.  Before  we  could  stop,  how- 
ever, the  snake  was  carried  up  into  the 
cylinder.  Nothing  to  do  but  keep  on 
going.  But  I  wanted  to  see  what  hap- 
pened to  the  snake.  I  supposed  that  he 
would  be  killed  and  pretty  well  cut  to 
pieces.  But  about  five  minutes  later, 
the  snake  came  out.  It  was  alive,  and 
as  soon  as  it  hit  the  ground  it  humped 


its  back  and  started  crawling.  How  it 
ever  came  through  the  combine  alive,  I 
do  not  know,  but  it  was  certainly  alive 
when  I  last  saw  it. 

We  were  due  for  more  trouble. 
Clouds  began  forming  on  the  western 
horizon,  and  we  knew  that  we  would 
probably  have  a  thunderstorm  soon. 
Without  waiting  for  Homer's  signal,  I 
pulled  the  throttle  back.  It  was  a  race 
now  to  see  whether  we  could  finish  the 
field  before  the  rain  started.  Everything 
went  along  well  until  just  before  we 
were  ready  to  finish.  Suddenly  there  was 
a  terrific  clatter  somewhere  in  the  back 
end  of  the  combine.  We  stopped.  Homer 
and  I  both  glanced  at  the  sky  and  then 
rushed  to  the  source  of  the  noise.  A 
grain  elevator  had  become  clogged. 

Working  hastily,  we  took  off  the  top 
of  the  elevator  and  found  the  grain 
buckets  full  of  green  waste  which  we 
had  picked  up  during  the  course  of  the 
day.  I  turned  the  combine  slowly  back- 
wards while  Homer  cleaned  out  the 
buckets.  Finally  we  were  finished  and 
ready  to  start  again.  All  this  time  the 
clouds  were  coming  closer.  We  couldn't 
waste  any  more  time. 

We  finished  at  six-thirty.  At  once  we 
covered  the  combine,  because  the  first 
drops  of  rain  were  falling.  I  went  inside 
the  combine  again  because  it  had  to  be 
cleaned  out  before  the  rain  got  inside 
and  soaked  the  beards  and  dirt  which 
had  collected.  When  I  finished  and 
crawled  out,  it  was  raining  steadily. 
Homer  and  I  climbed  on  the  Cat.  We 
were  tired,  wet.  and  dirty,  but  both  of 
us  had  satisfaction  in  our  hearts.  We 
felt  that  we  liad  done  a  good  job.  Prob- 
ably other  men  have  felt  the  same  way 
about  their  jobs,  but  I  can't  believe  that 
their  satisfaction  is  as  deep-rooted  as  the 
farmer's. 


[21] 


The  Table  Groans  No  More 


Ruth  Jinkins 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1938-1939 


WHEN  the  inventor  of  the  combine 
fastened  the  last  nut  in  the  wheel 
and  stood  back  to  survey  his  work,  he 
probably  pictured  a  revolution  in  wheat 
production  the  world  over.  I  wonder 
whether  he  foresaw  the  effect  his  ma- 
chine would  produce  on  that  great  Mid- 
Western  institution,  the  old-fashioned 
threshing  dinner.  I  remember  anticipat- 
ing that  event  from  the  day  the  grain 
began  to  assume  the  peculiar  whitish  tint 
which  meant  the  hot  June  sun's  rays 
were  taking  effect.  When  the  threshing 
season  actually  began,  and  Dad  finally 
announced  that  the  machine  would  reach 
our  fields  in  a  few  days,  I  began  to 
watch  the  sky  for  any  small  clouds  that 
might  develop  into  thunder  showers  and 
postpone  the  day  still  farther.  I  went 
to  bed  each  night  and  woke  each  morn- 
ing with  the  number  of  days  yet  to  pass 
always  in  the  back  of  my  thoughts. 

Nor  was  I  alone  in  my  expectations. 
Mother  began  to  clean  the  house  almost 
a  week  before  the  threshing  machine  was 
to  arrive.  Curtains  in  the  dining  room 
had  to  be  freshly  laundered  and  the  rest 
of  the  downstairs  made  "spic  and  span." 
At  least  three  or  four  days  before, 
Mother  began  to  worry  over  her  menus. 
Dad  was  quizzed  about  the  dinners 
served  by  neighboring  women,  and 
Mother  attempted  to  tliink  of  different 
dishes.  Strange  to  say,  Dad  never  re- 
membered what  he  ate  beyond  the  kind 
of  pie  and  whether  the  meat  was  well 
prepared.  If  we  were  to  serve  dinner 
only  one  day,  there  was  a  most  judicial 
weighing    of    the    respective    values    of 


escalloped  oysters  or  corn  combined  with 
roast.  I  always  wanted  fried  chicken, 
and  Mother  had  to  remind  me  every  year 
that  neither  Nathan  Kendall  nor  Fred 
Rossnut  would  so  much  as  touch  chicken 
meat.  Then,  too,  there  was  John  Miller. 
He  never  ate  anything  except  roast  beef, 
sweet  potatoes,  and  white  bread. 

Of  course,  all  the  silverware  had  to 
be  polished  and  all  the  extra  table  leaves 
brought  down  from  the  closet  upstairs. 
The  huge  roaster  had  to  be  scoured  and 
a  five-gallon  crockery  jar  washed  in 
preparation  for  the  meat  and  iced  tea. 
About  two  days  before  the  dinner. 
Mother  became  even  more  particular 
than  usual  about  flies,  and  my  little  sister 
and  I  were  given  swatters  and  sent 
scurrying  over  the  house  in  chase  of  the 
half  a  dozen  merry  little  monsters  that 
had  managed  to  slip  past  her  watchful 
guard  of  the  screendoors.  Dad  was 
known  to  have  suffered  severe  embar- 
rassment once  when  a  fly  buzzed  over 
the  table  during  a  threshing  dinner,  and 
Mother  tried  her  best  to  prevent  another 
such  catastrophe. 

At  last  the  great  day  came.  Mother 
arose  long  before  the  workers  began  to 
arrive.  The  pies  were  in  the  oven,  and 
the  beans  were  boiling  on  top  of  the 
stove  before  seven  o'clock.  Mother  and  I 
washed  the  breakfast  dishes  in  between 
her  frequent  peeks  into  the  oven  to  see 
whether  the  pie  shells  were  browning 
evenly  or  whether  juice  was  bubbling 
from  the  fruit  pies.  My  little  sister 
posted  herself  at  the  dining-room  win- 
dow where  she  announced  the  arrival  of 


[22] 


each  rack  and  grain  wagon  with  de- 
lighted shouts.  By  seven-thirty  Mother 
began  to  look  anxiously  toward  the  clock 
and  wish  that  Aunt  Goldie  would  hurry 
(she  was  always  late),  and  when  she 
finally  arrived,  she  and  I  were  hurried 
away  to  town  with  the  list  of  meat, 
bread,  cheese,  extra  ice,  and  other  sup- 
plies that  could  not  have  been  safely 
purchased  the  day  before.  By  the  time 
we  returned,  Grandmother  Fisher  and 
several  neighbor  women  had  arrived  to 
help  and  were  all  busily  at  work  under 
Mother's  direction.  When  the  meat  had 
been  prepared  and  stowed  away  in  the 
oven,  the  dinner  was  considered  well  on 
its  way  to  preparation. 

The  kitchen  was  a  compelling  spot  all 
morning,  with  its  delicious  odors  and 
busy  chatter.  It  possessed  the  same 
fascination  for  Dad  that  it  did  for  me. 
He  always  found  excuse  to  stroll  in 
several  times  during  the  morning,  osten- 
sibly to  report  upon  how  the  threshing 
was  progressing  and  "how  much  the 
wheat  was  making,"  but  usually  leaving 
with  an  apple  filched  from  under  a  busy 
paring  knife  or  a  piece  of  cheese  rescued 
from  the  grater.  Then,  too,  he  seemed 
to  feel  that  despite  Mother's  years  of 
experience,  the  dinner  could  hardly  be 
served  on  time  without  his  guiding 
advice. 

By  eleven-thirty  most  of  the  dishes 
were  prepared  except  for  last-minute 
touches,  and  I  began  to  watch  at  the  rear 
kitchen  window.  From  there  I  announced 
the  arrival  of  the  first  men  at  the  wash 
basins  beside  the  rear  porch.  Then 
began  a  hurry  and  bustle  unequaled  yet 
during  the  morning.  I  was  allowed  to 
fill  the  glasses  with  iced  tea  and  to  help 
carry  vegetables  into  the  dining  table. 
Finally,  surveying  the  crowded  table  in 
triumph.  Mother  announced  that  dinner 


was  ready,  and  Dad  called  the  men. 
They  filed  in,  the  older  men  talking 
easily,  the  younger  men  silent  and  bash- 
ful, and  took  the  chairs  Mother  assigned 
them.  Grandpa  Jinkins  always  sat  at  the 
foot  of  the  table  and  Dad  at  the  head. 
After  a  brief  offering  of  grace,  Mother 
handed  the  huge  platter  of  bread  to  Dad 
and  started  the  other  dishes  on  their 
circuit  of  the  table.  The  first  few  strained 
seconds  over,  the  group  became  very 
jovial.  Verner  Ghere  always  asked 
Mother  if  there  were  enough  coconut 
cream  pies  for  him  to  eat  two  pieces,  and 
Fred  Rossnut  told  his  latest  dry  joke.  I 
reveled  in  my  important  duty  of  refilling 
the  tea  glasses.  One  shy,  stuttering  boy 
was  in  great  fear  of  my  iced  pitcher,  and 
I  enjoyed  seeing  just  how  near  to  him 
I  could  come  without  actually  touching 
him.  The  dinner  took  a  surprisingly 
short  time,  considering  the  amount  of 
preparation  it  required.  After  repeated 
refusals  of  another  piece  of  pie,  the 
men  rose  and  retired  to  the  side  yard  to 
sit  and  smoke  under  the  trees.  The 
women  cleared  the  table  and  dished 
warm  food  for  themselves.  Relaxed  after 
the  last  few  hours'  strain,  they  sat  at 
the  table  much  longer  than  the  men, 
talking  of  their  morning's  work  and  of 
"how  well  the  men  had  eaten"  certain 
dishes. 

Providing  the  men  were  not  to  return 
next  day,  the  afternoon  was  a  definite 
anti-climax  after  the  morning's  excite- 
ment. Since  everyone  was  lazy,  it  was 
late  before  all  the  dishes  were  washed 
and  stacked  away.  I  wandered  about  list- 
lessly, trying  to  decide  whether  to  find 
a  book  to  read  or  just  listen  to  the 
women's  conversation.  If  we  were  to 
serve  dinner  next  day,  the  afternoon  was 
a  repetition  of  the  previous  one.  Small 
tasks      were      completed;      and      menu 


[23] 


changes,  influenced  by  the  enthusiasm 
the  men  had  evinced  for  baked  beans  or 
salads  that  noon,  were  discussed. 

Very  Httle  cooking  was  done  the  day 
after  the  threshing  dinner.  Dad  moved 
on  with  the  machine,  and  we  who  were 
left  at  home  ate  cold  beef  sandwiches 
and  relieated  vegetables.  When  the  table 
had  been  shortened  and  the  roaster 
greased  and  stored  away,  T  realized  with 
regret  that  my  share  in  the  year's 
threshing  season  was  over. 

Of  late  more  and  more  of  the  wheat 
harvesting  has  been  done  with  combines. 
One  by  one  the  old  threshing  machines 
are  being  retired  to  their  sheds  and  used 
only  for  small  crops  of  oats.  The 
rumbling  racks  and  grain  wagons  are 
being  replaced  by  powerful  trucks.  Com- 
bining is  entirely  mechanical,  and  re- 
quires the  aid  of  few  hands.  Since  the 
only  "extra  men"  are  those  who  drive 
the    tractor    and    operate    the    machine, 


women  are  losing  the  art  of  preparing 
enormous  dinners  as  they  did  for  thresh- 
ing crews.  The  combine  men  either 
bring  their  lunches  from  home  and  stop 
only  a  few  minutes  at  noon  for  a  hurried 
meal  or  work  in  shifts  during  the  noon 
hour.  Housewives  have  no  incentive  to 
think  of  new  dishes  or  strive  for  un- 
usually enticing  meals  under  such  cir- 
cumstances. Ver}'  ordinary  food  of  little 
variety  is  served,  and  one  woman  alone 
can  prepare  all  that  is  needed  for  one 
crew.  The  combine  is  undoubtedly  a 
great  improvement  in  economy,  time,  and 
efficiency  over  the  old  threshing  machine. 
Yet  all  must  regret  the  loss  of  the 
atmosphere  attending  the  old  method. 
The  art  of  cooking  will  suffer  greatly, 
and  the  3'ounger  generation  will  lose 
many  moments  of  happy  anticipation  and 
excitement,  when  the  threshing  dinner 
becomes  completely  an  event  of  the  past. 


Industrial  Dictatorships 

Max  Kelley 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  9,  1938-1939 


npHOSE  of  us  who  are  not  too  indif- 
^  ferent  to  international  problems 
usually  give  way  to  a  more  or  less 
vehement  curse  when  we  read  the  latest 
account  of  Hitler's  or  Mussolini's  method 
of  handling  resentful  subordinates.  Con- 
centration camps  and  firing  squads  are 
indeed  inhuman  though  effective  means 
of  getting  a  desired  result.  We  as 
Americans  will  all  agree  to  this.  Yet  in 
our  own  supposedly  superior  democrac}-. 


we  have  many  situations  where  dictator- 
ship is  just  as  much  present  as  in  any 
European  government.  I  do  not  refer 
to  the  higher  politics  of  the  land,  for 
anyone  who  can  diagnose  so  complex  a 
situation  must  certainly  be  a  genius,  but 
1  speak  instead  of  the  dictatorship  which 
is  present  where  the  residents  of  a 
community  are  dependent  upon  one 
industry  for  support. 

Let  me  use.  for  an  example,  a  small 


[24] 


Middle-Western  town,  the  name  of 
which  I  will  not  state.  The  entire  life 
of  the  town  is  subject  directly  or  in- 
directly to  the  will  of  one  man.  The  man 
is,  of  course,  the  head  of  the  central 
industry.  Not  only  the  industry  is  di- 
rected and  controlled  by  him,  but  also 
the  social  life,  the  educational  system, 
and  the  political  and  the  financial  affairs 
of  the  community,  if  they  happen  to  be 
of  interest  to  him,  are  subject  to  his 
wishes.  On  the  surface  everything  is  as 
calm  as  the  placid  exterior  of  a  hospital, 
but  let  any  man  protest  a  measure  too 
loudly  and  he  will  find  himself  unem- 
ployed and  marked  as  a  troublemaker 
when  he  tries  for  another  position.  Since 
the  industr}'  is  controlled  by  one  man, 
ever\1:hing  he  wishes  need  only  be  made 
plain,  and  "presto,"  it  is  done.  There 
are  always  ready  henchmen  for  the 
dictator,  and  this  industrial  ruler  has 
little  trouble  in  finding  men  to  carry  out 
his  bidding.  No  act  which  forces  an 
unruly  subject  into  submission  ever 
points  directly  to  the  head  man,  but 
nevertheless  when  one  looks  twice  he 
sees  that  this  one  individual  is  the  only 
cause.  In  the  town  to  which  I  have 
reference  the  superintendent  of  the  in- 
dustry is  also  president  of  the  board  of 
education,  and  the  other  nine  members 
are  men  who  are  directly  below  him  in 
the  industry.  Recently  when  the  super- 
intendent of  schools  became  too  con- 
scientious and  pointed  out  the  incom- 
petency of  the  school  S3^stem  to  a  state 
inspector,  he  was  given  his  dismissal 
within  twenty- four  hours.  Not  only  the 
educational  system  but  the  public  offices 
as  well  are  controlled  by  men  who  are 
in  one  way  or  another  so  dependent  upon 
the  industry  that  no  proposal  is  carried 


out  until  the  "boss"  has  sanctioned  it.  He 
sits  in  on  the  meetings  of  the  bank's 
directors,  and  it  is  well  known  to  every 
man  present  that  if  the  financial  end  of 
the  situation  is  not  handled  to  please  him, 
the  bank  will  not  handle  the  company's 
funds  any  longer.  Since  handling  these 
funds  is  its  principal  function,  such  an 
action  would  mean  disaster  to  every  man 
present.  Consequently,  no  objections  are 
made. 

Because  of  the  existing  situation,  the 
progress  of  the  community  is  retarded. 
The  educational  system  is  barely  ade- 
quate, and  there  are  no  public  improve- 
ments unless  the  worker  and  not  the 
industry  is  taxed.  What  taxes  are  placed 
upon  the  industry  can  easily  be  modified 
by  a  hint  of  what  might  happen  if.  .  .  . 
Everything  is  run  by  one  man ;  in  his 
little  puddle,  he  is  the  only  big  frog.  All 
of  his  associates  know  that  this  frog 
will  turn  cannibal  if  they  begin  to  grow 
up ;  so  they  remain  pollywogs  and  do 
not   drop  their   tails   as   they   get   older. 

This  is  only  one  example  of  what 
actually  exists  in  hundreds  of  similar 
cases.  I  am  not  advising  labor  unions  as 
the  remedy  to  this  problem,  for  I  think 
that  they  merely  put  the  balance  of 
power  on  the  other  extreme  and  cause 
the  situation  to  exist  in  the  reverse.  My 
point  is  that  it  is  not  the  right  of  an 
industry  which  is  dominated  by  one  indi- 
vidual to  say  what  shall  be  done  outside 
of  the  actual  carr}^ing  out  of  the  manu- 
facturing process.  Let  the  politics,  edu- 
cation, finances  and  social  life  be  directed 
by  the  people  of  the  community  to  whom 
they  are  of  vital  interest  and  not  by  an 
industrial  dictator  who  is  more  con- 
cerned with  saving  his  business  money 
than  with  the  welfare  of  the  citizens. 


[25] 


Black  Gold 


Mary  Elizabeth  Thompson 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1938-1939 


A  LITTLE  less  than  three  years  ago, 
Mattoon  was  merely  a  small,  sleepy 
town  in  southern  Illinois.  It  saw  its 
greatest  activity  each  Saturday  night 
when  farmers  overran  it  to  do  their 
weekly  marketing.  Then  suddenly,  under 
the  very  noses  of  the  residents,  Mattoon 
was  metamorphosed  into  a  thriving  and 
prosperous  city.  Now  it  is  well-nigh 
impossible  to  find  parking  space  in  the 
business  district.  Almost  every  other 
building  downtown  has  a  new  and  mod- 
ern front.  Membership  in  the  country 
club  has  been  restricted — an  unheard-of 
thing — because  of  the  demand  to  join 
it.  The  cause  of  this  tremendous  change 
in  Mattoon  is  the  drilling  for  and 
producing  of  oil  in  the  surrounding 
territory. 

A  newspaper  recently  dubbed  Mattoon 
the  "oil  capital  of  Illinois."  For  Mattoon 
has  become  the  Illinois  headquarters  for 
oil  companies.  Twenty  major  companies 
have  located  there  and  more  are  coming 
in  each  week.  The  population  has  in- 
creased four  hundred  because  of  the 
influx  of  oil  men  and  their  families. 

Although  oil  was  discovered  in  Illi- 
nois in  the  nineteenth  century,  it  was  not 
until  1935  that  the  Carter  Oil  Company 
made  extensive  surveys  of  the  land.  The 
company  began  to  lease  land  rapidly. 
Other  companies  followed  the  example. 
Then  the  companies  began  to  cast  about 
for  a  community  suitable  for  permanent 
headquarters.  All  oil  companies  locate 
in  the  same  place  in  (trder  to  secure  cer- 


tain information  from  each  other.  An 
alert  Association  of  Commerce,  repre-  I 
sented  by  its  secretar}-,  a  Mr.  Seldom- 
ridge,  was  res[)onsil)le  for  Mattoon's  be- 
coming the  final  choice  of  the  oil  com- 
panies. ]\Ir.  Seldomridge  is  a  man  with  a 
great  deal  of  energ}'.  He  instigated  a 
round-up  for  all  men  interested  in  the 
development  of  oil  in  Illinois.  He  sent 
invitations  to  oil  companies  in  Kansas, 
Oklahoma,  Texas,  and  those  temporarily 
located  in  other  southern  Illinois  towns. 
The  business  men  of  Mattoon  enter- 
tained these  companies  with  a  dinner  and 
dance  at  the  Mattoon  Country  Club. 
About  five  hundred  guests  attended  the 
round-up.  The  attendance  exceeded  ex- 
pectations so  much  that,  in  order  to  take 
care  of  the  guests,  a  huge  tent  was 
erected  beside  the  clubhouse.  This  was 
in  1937.  Because  the  party  was  an  over- 
whelming success,  it  was  repeated  in  the 
early  fall  of  1938.  This  time  eight  hun- 
dred guests  came  and  there  were  two 
tents.  The  leading  department  store  gave 
each  lady  a  tine 'linen  handkerchief,  and 
a  iloral  shop  provided  corsages.  Mr. 
Seldomridge  was  especially  active  in 
comfortably  locating  the  oil  men  in 
offices  and  homes.  Mattooii  society  ac- 
cepted the  oil  people  at  once. 

Mattoon,  however,  has  more  to  offer 
the  oil  companies  than  its  hospitality. 
The  principal  requirements  for  the  suc- 
cessful administration  of  the  executive 
branch  of  an  oil  company  are  trunk-line 
railroads,    adequate    telephone    facilities, 


[26] 


good  hotels,  and  ample  office  and  resi- 
dential accommodations.  Mattoon  meets 
these  requirements  better  than  any  other 
southeastern  Illinois  city.  It  is  situated 
on  two  main  railroad  lines,  the  Illinois 
Central  and  the  New  York  Central,  and 
on  two  state  highways.  The  telephone 
company  has  enlarged  its  switchboard 
because  of  the  increased  number  of  long 
distance  calls.  One  of  Mattoon's  hotels 
has  just  built  a  twenty-room  addition. 
All  available  space  in  the  buildings  in  the 
business  district  is  being  turned  into 
offices. 

With  the  arrival  of  so  many  people 
the  housing  problem  naturally  became 
an  important  one.  The  hotels  began  to 
be  filled  to  capacity  every  night  and 
houses  to  rent  became  very  scarce.  Rents 
became  high  enough  so  that  several  Mat- 
toon  home  owners  took  small  apartments 
and  rented  their  homes  very  profitably. 
Many  private  homes  rent  one  or  more  of 
their  rooms.  Since  my  mother  had  not 
advertised  a  room  for  rent,  she  was  sur- 
prised one  day  when  a  man  called  to 
inquire  about  a  room.  He  explained  that 
because  no  rooms  were  available  he  had 
simply  chosen  a  good  neighborhood  and 
was  going  from  door  to  door  hoping 
someone  would  take  pity  on  him. 

About  two  months  ago,  in  order  to 
relieve  this  desperate  situation,  a  local 
realtor  converted  a  sixteen-acre  tract  of 
land  at  the  edge  of  Alattoon  into  a  resi- 
dential subdivision  of  the  city.  The  city 
immediately  passed  an  ordinance  incor- 
porating the  subdivision.  One  approaches 
it  over  a  wide  avenue  along  which  young 
elm  trees  have  been  planted.  All  the  lots 
are  on  a  circular  drive.  Landscaping  is 
under  way  on  each  lot.  A  sanitar}'  sys- 
tem has  been  completed.  Electric  light 
and  power  service  is  ready  to  be  fur- 
nished at  any  time.  Already  nine  houses 
have  been  built.    Elmridge,  the  name  of 


the  subdivision,  is  a  truly  beautiful,  as 
well  as  necessary,  addition  to  Mattoon. 

The  oil  industry  has  given  employment 
to  hundreds  of  Mattoon  people.  The 
restaurants  are  employing  more  wait- 
resses. Since  a  large  per  cent  of  the  oil 
people  live  in  hotels  or  rented  rooms,  the 
restaurants  enjoy  their  steady  patronage. 
Stenographic  positions  with  oil  com- 
panies are  abundant.  Man}-  girls  in  mv 
graduating  class  obtained  jobs  as  ste- 
nographers immediatel^v  upon  being  grad- 
uated. Two  years  ago  only  a  favored 
few  high  school  girls  were  lucky  enough 
to  get  jobs  in  Mattoon  so  soon  after 
graduation.  Moreover,  the  Elmridge 
project,  a  result  of  the  oil  boom  in  Mat- 
toon. has  furnished  v>-ork  for  W.  P.  A. 
workers,  contractors,  lumber  companies, 
plumbers,  and  countless  others.  Since 
the  project  was  begun,  the  average  num- 
ber of  W,  P.  A.  workers  has  been  sixty- 
five.  At  times  there  have  been  as  many 
as  one  hundred  workers. 

Many  towns  have  become,  on  the  dis- 
covery of  oil  in  the  vicinity,  dirty,  un- 
sightly places  with  the  rank  smell  of 
crude  oil  penetrating  every  corner.  Often 
ugly  oil  derricks  pop  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  street  or  in  the  neighbor's  back 
yard.  Mattoon  is  fortunate  in  having 
received  all  the  advantages  of  an  oil 
boom  and  none  of  its  disadvantages. 
Although  Mattoon  is  within  a  radius  of 
sixty  miles  of  the  oil  fields,  it  has  not 
yet  smelled  the  odor  of  crude  oil  nor  has 
its  increased  population  included  any  of 
the  riflf-raff  who  come  to  work  as  man- 
ual laborers  in  the  oil  fields.  The  immi- 
grants consist  of  executives  of  com- 
panies, independent  speculators,  and 
geologists. 

Several  wells  were  drilled  recently 
just  outside  Mattoon.  Although  they 
were  dry  wells,  Mattoon  has  had  the 
foresight  to  pass  ordinances  [)lacing  re- 


1-2:1-1 


strictions  on  the  drilling  for  oil  in  the 
city.  No  wells  may  i)e  drilled  in  the 
business  district,  and  only  one  well  may 
be  drilled  in  each  city  block.  Even  with 
these  precautions  Mattoon's  future  is,  to 
sav  the  least,  uncertain. 


Special  News  Bulletin 
The  Mattoon  oil  field  has  been  opened. 
It  has  proved  conclusively  that  the 
Michael  oil  well  located  in  Mattoon  has 
a  potential  pumping  production  of  one 
hundred  twenty-five  barrels  of  oil  a  day. 


The  Ugliness  of  My  Home  Town 

E.  S.  DoocY 

Rhetoric  I,  Theme  14,  1928-1939,  Impromptu 


TWO  railroads  intersect  in  the  center 
of  my  home  town.  To  an  aerial 
observer  they  would  give  the  appearance 
of  some  strange  stamp  of  destruction, 
covering  the  city  like  a  cross,  and  blight- 
ing everything  it  touched.  Within  two 
blocks  of  the  railroads  the  blight  begins 
to  make  itself  felt.  The  houses  become 
poorer  and  more  closely  spaced.  They 
assume  a  dull,  depressing  grey  color, 
which  nearer  to  the  railroad,  deepens  to 
black.  The  people  in  those  sections  fol- 
low the  same  pattern.  On  the  outskirts 
of  the  blight  they  subsist  moderately  well 
and,  except  for  a  slight  grimness  in  their 
attitude  toward  life,  appear  unaffected. 
Up  at  the  very  edge  of  the  black  rail- 
road right-of-way,  the  people  live  in  a 
constant  inferno  of  noise,  sulfur  fumes, 
and  black  smoke.  They  are  apparently  so 
completely  bewildered  by  the  din  and  the 
gases  that  tliey  do  not  feel  their  squalor 
and  misery. 

At  the  juncture  of  the  four  arms  of 
the  black  cross,  the  dirt  and  despair 
bursts,  as  if  under  pressure,  out  into  the 


heart  of  the  town.  Garish  neon  signs, 
gleaming  through  the  smoke  and  steam, 
invite  the  workers  to  let  their  bodies  sag 
over  greasy  bars  in  stinking,  smoke-filled 
rooms,  and  absorb  cheap  adulterated 
liquor.  Late  at  night  they  reel  down 
unswept,  broken  pavements  toward 
home,  temporarily  elevated,  thanks  to 
"white  lightning,"  beyond  consciousness 
of  their  intense  fatigue  and  despair. 

The  people  in  the  large,  well-kept  old 
houses  in  the  "better"  parts  of  the  city 
live  in  a  fine  up-and-coming  little  metrop- 
olis. To  them  the  railroad  means  busi- 
ness and  money  in  the  town.  They  call 
it  "the  backbone  of  our  community,"  and 
are  proud  of  its  large  handsome  stations 
and  offices.  They  never  mention  the 
slums  around  the  shops  and  switching 
yards,  however.  Indeed,  only  when  some 
vagrant  gust  of  wind  blows  a  cloud  of 
suffocating,  black  and  3-eIlow  soft-coal 
smoke  across  the  residential  section,  do 
they  become  vaguely  conscious  of  the 
more  sordid  effect  of  the  railroad. 


[28] 


The  Nineteenth  Day 


John  Dowdall 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1938-1939 


AND  Still  it  rained.  It  was  the 
Wednesday  of  the  third  week  of 
rain,  seventeen  days  of  interminate, 
driving  rain  without  the  sun's  shining 
for  even  a  few  fleeting  moments.  The 
first  few  days  had  merely  been  days  of 
discomfort,  days  when  clothes  were 
always  wet  and  when  washings  had  to  be 
dried  indoors,  days  of  wet  feet  and  colds, 
days  of  slush  and  mud  and  tracked 
floors ;  but  the  few  days  had  become 
seventeen,  the  colds  became  a  flu  epi- 
demic, and  discomfort  had  given  way  to 
disbelief  as  the  rain  continued,  and 
finally  to  despair  and  dismay.  For 
Beardstown  is  built  along  the  low  east 
bank  of  the  Illinois  River,  and  with  each 
day's  rain  the  river  rose  higher  than  on 
the  day  before,  higher  and  higher,  more 
and  more  menacing.  And  on  the  seven- 
teenth day  Fred  Rohn  had  told  us  that 
"she"  would  rise  to  at  least  thirty  feet, 
six  feet  higher  than  ever  before,  and 
what  Fred  said  about  the  river,  we  took 
as  fact.  Fred  had  been  born  in  a  house 
boat,  and  he  lived  in  one ;  he  made  his 
living  clam-shelling  and  fishing ;  he  knew 
every  bend  and  turn  of  the  channel, 
every  tricky  eddy  of  the  river  for  many 
miles  up  and  down  stream ;  and  most 
of  all  he  studied  the  river.  By  checking 
the  speed  of  the  current  and  the  rainfall 
upstream,  he  had  predicted  the  crest  of 
the  annual  spring  rise  for  the  past  fifteen 
years,  and  always  within  two  feet.  Fred 
said  thirty  feet,  and  our  levee  was  built 
to  withstand  only  twenty-eight. 

On  the  eighteenth   day  we  began  to 
reinforce  the  levee  even  though  the  stage 


was  only  twenty-two  feet.  Fred  or- 
ganized the  work  and  broke  us  up  into 
crews,  each  crew  having  its  own  special 
job.  One  crew  was  to  haul  sand  and 
pile  it  along  the  levee;  another  had  to 
collect  strong  stakes  and  boards  and 
gunny  sacks;  another  was  to  fill  sacks 
with  sand;  and  the  last  crew  was  put  to 
work  patching  the  weakest  parts  of  the 
levee.  Fred  bossed  this  crew  himself, 
and  I  was  one  of  it.  We  filled  in  holes 
with  cinders  and  rocks  and  riprapped 
where  the  water  would  have  its  strongest 
sweep  against  the  levee.  We  worked 
fourteen  hours  that  day,  always  in  the 
cold,  bitter  rain  of  late  March,  with 
Fred  accomplishing  more  than  any  of  the 
rest,  for  that  was  his  world — a  world  of 
water  and  mud  and  rain  and  conflict.  In 
those  fourteen  hours  the  river  had  gained 
only  five-tenths  of  a  foot,  and  we  began 
to  think  that  perhaps  Fred  was  wrong. 
But  he  only  hitched  up  his  hip  boots  and 
countered,  "Thirty  or  higher  unless  this 
rain  quits.  Don't  let  her  fool  you,  'cause 
she's  goin'  to  really  come  up  in  the  next 
couple  of  days." 

The  next  morning  we  knew  too  well 
how  right  Fred  had  been,  for  in  the 
night  the  river  had  changed  its  slow, 
gradual  rise  into  a  pounding,  driving 
wall  of  water  that  each  hour  claimed 
three  or  four  inches  of  our  precious 
levee,  and  the  current  had  jumped  from 
ten  to  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  At  eight 
o'clock  the  water  passed  the  old  high 
mark  of  twenty-four  feet.  Fred  called 
upon  every  able  man  in  town  for  emer- 
gency duty,  and  Beardstown  was  like  a 


[29] 


town  under  martial  law.  Normal  life 
and  business  ceased ;  everyone  was  doing 
his  bit  to  help.  By  nine  o'clock  we  had 
added  a  double  row  of  sand  bags,  two 
deep,  to  the  levee,  but  the  river  kept  pace. 
We  had  added  eight  inches ;  the  river 
had  moved  up  six,  its  solid  pressing  six 
against  our  untried  eight.  Again  in  the 
next  hour  we  added  our  double  row,  two 
deep,  and  again  the  river  claimed  six. 
And  sand  bags  by  themselves  can  not  be 
trusted  to  hold  back  the  force  of  a  river, 
so  at  P'red's  direction  we  spent  the  next 
two  hours  staking  the  bags  and  reinforc- 
ing them  with  planks,  a  sort  of  splash 
board  system.  In  those  two  hours  the 
river  had  gained  nine-tenths  of  a  foot 
and  stood  at  twenty-five  nine,  a  rise  of 
a  foot  and  nine-tenths  in  four  hours.  It 
seemed  beyond  all  reason  that  we  would 
be  able  to  save  the  town,  but  we  had  to 
fight,  had  to  try-.  The  river  had  become 
a  personal  enemy,  a  living  and  chal- 
lenging enemy  defying  us  with  an  arro- 
gant knowledge  of  its  superior  strength. 
And  fight  we  did. 

]n  the  next  three  hours  the  crest  had 
moved  upward  another  foot,  and  by  two 
o'clock  the  muddy  stream  was  licking 
away  at  the  top  row  of  sand  bags.  If  the 
bags  held,  we  had  an  outside  chance  of 
keeping  pace  with  the  rise  until  the  crest 
had  been  reached.  Those  bags  held,  and 
each  hour  we  added  the  two  rows,  always 
two  rows.  Even  Fred  could  make  us  do 
no  more  than  that,  for  we  could  work 
only  so  fast  and  still  work  well.  We  had 
to  work  well,  for  one  single  poorly  placed 
bag  would  have  been  the  break  through 
which  the  river  would  have  poured  into 
the  town.  And  so  we  worked  as  rapidly 
as  possible,  but  carefully,  and  Fred 
asked  no  more  of  us. 

Night  came  early  on  that  rain-soaked 
day,  and  still  the  battle  continued — a 
battle  silently  fought,  a  battle  of  current 


and  rain  drops  against  manpower  and 
grains  of  sand.  At  four  o'clock  Fred 
had  ordered  all  low-lying  houses  evacu-  J 
ated  and  the  furniture  of  houses  on  ■ 
higher  ground  moved  to  the  second 
floors.  It  certainly  was  not  a  heartening 
command,  but  it  was  an  honest  one  given  ^ 
as  man  to  man.  By  seven  o'clock  one 
fact  loomed  large  in  our  minds,  the  fact 
that  soon  the  battle  would  be  settled. 
The  river  was  rising  from  four  to  six 
inches  every  hour,  and  from  all  up- 
stream indications,  would  continue  to  do 
so.  The  river  stage  stood  at  thirty-one 
feet,  and  four  of  those  feet  were  held 
back  only  by  sand  bags  and  boards.  Sand 
boils  had  developed  in  many  scattered 
spots  along  the  levee,  not  really  danger- 
ous, but  troublesome  and  requiring  extra 
men  and  bags  to  well  them  off.  By  ten 
o'clock  the  houses  had  been  evacuated; 
the  river  was  at  thirty-two  three ;  and 
leaks  had  begun  to  develop,  leaks  that 
were  extremely  difficult  to  plug.  Fred 
came  walking  down  behind  the  levee  and 
stopped  at  one  of  the  grave  danger 
points.  He  stood  full  in  the  white  light 
of  a  flare  and  looked  quietly  about  him. 
The  glare  danced  on  his  wet  slicker  and 
face  and  on  the  long  shin}'-  barrel  of 
the  shot  gun  he  held  carelessly  cradled 
in  the  crook  of  his  left  arm.  He  called 
the  men  together  and  began  to  speak 
(juietly.  "We're  licked,  men,  and  we'll  be 
better  off  if  we  admit  it.  If  we  quit  now, 
the  water'll  simply  run  over  the  top.  I 
hate  to  see  the  town  flooded,  but  we 
can't  help  that ;  it's  beyond  us.  If  we 
keep  on  abuildin',  we  may  get  up  to 
thirty-six  or  thirty-seven  feet,  but  sooner 
or  later  she's  goin'  to  give  on  us.  And 
when  it  does,  it  won't  be  like  water 
running  over  the  top  of  a  cup;  it'll  be 
like  a  cup  with  a  side  knocked  in.  The 
water'll  really  wreck  then,  and  it  may 
kill.     So   we're   just    goin'   to   quit   now 


[30] 


before  that  happens.  And  remember,  I'm 
boss  here,  and  I  know  the  river.  We 
can't  stop  it  now,  so  I'm  doin'  this  as  the 
best  way  out.  You  may  not  hke  it,  but 
that's  how  things  stand.  Jim  and  some 
more  of  the  boys  are  scattered  up  and 


down  to  help  me  carry  this  through,  and 
we'll  do  it!"  He  looked  down  slowly  to 
the  gun  in  the  crook  of  his  arm  and 
waited.  No  one  spoke,  and  in  an  hour 
the  river  was  running  slowly  over  the 
levee  like  water  over  the  edge  of  a  cup. 


This  Is  Home 

Max  Kelley 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  12,  1938-1939 


PERHAPS  it  was  the  sun  shining  on 
the  red,  warm-looking  bricks  of  the 
south  side  of  the  building  which  made 
me  stop  in  my  tracks  and  think.  The 
building  was  the  hospital  where,  for  the 
past  three  and  one-half  months,  I  have 
worked  for  my  meals,  but  now  for  the 
first  time  I  noticed  the  feeling  of  com- 
fort which  the  atmosphere  of  the  place 
gave  me.  The  familiar  outline  of  the 
roof,  the  neatly  kept  lawn,  and  even  the 
maples  along  the  parkway  gave  me  a 
satisfied  feeling  when  I  looked  at  them. 
But  why  should  they  affect  me  like  this? 
Then  as  if  a  smoke  screen  had  been 
lifted,  the  realization  came  to  me.  This 
was  home !  the  university,  the  hospital, 
my  rooming  house — all  these  were 
"home"  to  me  now !  "Home,"  I  re- 
peated to  myself,  unable  to  believe  my 
senses — "That  can't  be."  Nevertheless, 
the  fact  remained.  This  new  life  was  no 
longer  new  to  me.  Slowly,  gradually, 
without  my  realizing  it,  I  had  grown  into 
my  new  surroundings  until  now  they  had 
become  so  familiar  that  the  past  seemed 
very  remote  and  far  away.  These  new 
surroundings  are  more  home  to  me  now 
than  the  place  I  left  only  a  few  short 
months  ago. 


If  I  had  been  observant,  I  would  have 
noticed  before  this  that  I  was  growing 
away  from  the  environment  I  had 
formerly  lived  in.  If  I  had  asked  myself 
why  I  was  glad  when  I  reached  my  room 
after  returning  from  the  Thanksgiving 
vacation  or  why  the  light  in  my  room 
and  the  outline  of  my  roommate's 
shoulders  beckoned  so  welcomingly  when 
I  came  up  to  my  room  last  night,  all 
would  have  been  very  apparent.  This  is 
home  to  me  now,  and  often  as  I  have 
cursed  the  clanging  chimes  in  the  Law 
Building  because  they  kept  me  awake 
into  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  I 
know  that  I  would  miss  them  if  I  were 
to  go  away.  Do  I  long  for  the  life  I 
knew  so  well  before  I  came  to  school? 
Do  I  want  to  go  back?  No,  certainly 
not !  I  am  adjusted  to  the  new  surround- 
ings and  the  new  way  of  living.  Now  the 
hum  of  traffic  on  Green  Street  is  as 
familiar  as  the  buzz  on  the  old  Main 
Street  at  home.  I'll  wager  that  now,  as 
I  walked  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  hos- 
pital, an  onlooker  would  have  detected 
that  familiar  swing  which  a  man  has 
when  walking  into  his  own  house.  I 
know,  at  any  rate,  that  the  door  knob 
had  a  homelike  creak. 


[31] 


Rhet.  as  Writ 


(Extracts  from  themes  zvritten  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


Campus  life  is  not  care  free.  This  is 
shown  by  the  fact  that  a  large  part  of 
college  students  are  earing  their  way 
through  college. 

•  •  •  • 

Strachy  started  part  of  the  philosophy 
of  their  period  by  showing  the  seamier 
side  of  Queen  Victoria. 

•  •  •  • 

We  can  belong  to  whichever  religious 
sex  or  creed  we  so  desire. 

•  •       •       • 

The  sooner  civilization  realizes  that 
"preparedness"  paves  the  road  to  ware, 
the  sooner  the  earth  will  cease  to  be 
rocked  by  this  devastating  conflagration. 

•  •  •  • 

People  realized,  too,  that  their  chil- 
dren, nourished  on  tin  cans  and  carbon 
monoxide  fumes,  were  not  getting  the 
best  out  of  life. 

•  •  •  • 

After  eating  and  taking  pictures  of 
the  ledge,  which  they  were  on,  and  of 
the  lake  which  lay  so  beautifully  at  their 
feet,  the  two  decided  to  get  back  to  camp. 

When  a  person  is  of  some  little  use 
to  humanity,  no  matter  what,  there  is 
value  in  human  life,  and  when  the  value 
of  each  person  is  put  together,  the  value 
of  humanity  is  valuable. 

•  •       •       • 

When  the  XRA  went  into  effect,  the 
titians  of  industry  objected. 


At  first  I  thought  as  I  was  coming 
home  after  attending  one  of  the  Fresh- 
man Mixtures,  that  something  had  gone 
wrong. 

Progress  of  civilization  has  been 
marked  by  the  battlefield,  the  scaffold, 
and  the  steak. 

Then,  also,  many  men  have  not  men- 
tal intellect  to  constitute  a  living,  hence 
they  live  in  poverty. 

•       •       •       • 

Hyphens  are  used  for  separating 
words  at  the  end  of  the  line  if  there  is 
not  enough  room  for  all  of  it.  They  are 
also  used  to  separate  cities  from  states, 
and  now  there  are  many  words  which 
are  made  up  of  more  than  one  word  and 
have  to  have  a  hyphen  between  them. 

•  •  •  • 

Tennis  and  swimming  are  two  favorite 
summer  sports.  A  bright  flowered  swim 
suit  is  very  attractive  with  the  new  cork 
soled  bathing  shoes,  while  tennis  shorts 
are  worn  so  that  you  will  be  able  to  run 
to  the  spot  where  the  ball  lands. 

•  •  •  • 

With  the  gun  he  could  shoot  game  to 
eat  as  well  as  use  it  for  Indian  protection. 

•  •  •  • 

The  unfortunate  men  had  to  work 
naked  in  the  jungles  cutting  timbers  in 
the  presence  of  tropical  aunts,  mos- 
quitoes, and  many  other  insects. 


[32] 


Honorable  Mention 

Lack  of  space  prevents  the  publishing  of  excellent  themes  written  by 
the  following  students. 


Roger  W.  Bradex 
Louis  Briggs 
Helen  Brinkman 
Wm.  R.  Davidson 
David  L.  Evans 
June  Foster 
Winifred  Hopps 
Carl  X.  H  utter 
E.  Keebler 
Donald  Kelley 


Charles  Malcolm 
Merritt  Moore 
P.  Neil  Randall 
Ruth  Shearer 
Florence  Spencer 
Bettie  Teetor 
Ward  Thompson 
Dean  W^essel 
Dorothy  Wilbourn 


Vol.  8                                        MAY, 

1939 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

BREAKFAST,    LUNCHFAST,    DINEFAST 
Max  Miller 

1 

ICE-BOAT  VERSUS  TRAIN 

2 

Paul  Foxman 

WHEN  I  WENT  TO  SUNDAY  SCHOOL     . 
Hazel  Bothwell 

4 

BACK  DIVING 

5 

Marjorie  Kane 

FROM  A  FIVE-HAND  HORSE     .... 

6 

Charles  B.  Barr 

THE  VALUE  OF  THE  COMPANIONSHIP 
OF  HORSES 

8 

Roberta  Wilson 

DON'T  EVER   CHOOSE  THE   EASY  JOB 
John  Hanson 

11 

ROADBUILDING  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 
R.  L.  Ropiequet 

13 

SKI  JUMP 

14 

J.  W.  Mcintosh 

GRAND  HOTEL     

15 

Webb  Miller 

MASTER  PRODUCTION 

18 

Marjorie  Ann  Hagen 

MEMORIES 

James  I.  Fender 

21 

AN  OLD   BOAT      

24 

A.  C.  Thomas 

A 

MY   HOBBY   IS   DIVING 

26            n\ 

Don  Pranke 

(1} 

MOUNTAINS  AND  MOLE-HILLS     .      .      . 

28                                 \}f 

Edgar  Drucker 

vL 

LUNCHEON     

.^Mafl 

Kathryn  Kenworthy 

.  ^B 

RHET  AS  WRIT 

/  ^S 

(Extracts  from  themes  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

(!  /^ 

.jMy\}^l 

V; 

b^ 

No.  4 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  RHETORIC  STAFF,  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS,  URBANA 


Tb 


HE  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staff  at  the  University  of  Illinois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
published  anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  however, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Mr.  Lester  Dolk,  Mr.  Charles 
Shattuck,  Mr.  Walter  Johnson,  Mr.  Stephen 
FoGLE,  and  Mr.  Charles  W.  Roberts,  Chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building  West,  Urbana,  Illinois. 


Breakfast,  Lunchfast,  Dinefast 


Max  Miller 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  3,  1938-1939 


AMERICAN-speed-and-efficiency"  is 
becoming  a  byword  throughout  the 
world.  The  visiting  foreigner  is  incHned 
to  marvel  openly  or  secretly  at  some  of 
the  ingenious  Yankee  time-saving  de- 
vices. But  nothing  is  so  apt  to  impress 
and  distress  him  as  the  peculiar  custom 
that  Americans  have  developed  of  bolting 
their  food  whole.  To  him  a  meal  is 
a  rite  which  is  to  be  performed  four  or 
five  times  daily  under  conditions  some- 
what conducive  to  digestion.  He  is  ac- 
customed to  allow  the  better  part  of  an 
hour  for  each  of  these  ceremonies.  In 
other  words,  he  takes  his  eating  seriously. 
Imagine  his  confusion  then  when  he 
enters  the  bedlam  of  an  American  public 
eating  place.  He  hunts  a  table  as  remote 
as  possible  from  the  clatter  of  dishes 
and  shouting  of  orders.  Before  he  is 
comfortably  seated,  a  waiter  has  placed 
ice-water  in  front  of  him  and  awaits  his 
order  impatiently.  (Incidentally,  I  won- 
der why  ice-water  is  always  served  first, 
for  it  is  a  serious  hindrance  to  digestion. 
Perhaps  the  glass  of  water  is  used  as  a 
marker  to  indicate  which  of  the  cus- 
tomers have  been  served.  Or  perhaps 
it  is  merely  put  there  to  divert  the 
patron's  attention  until  his  food  arrives.) 
But  to  return  to  our  bewildered  alien — 
he  orders  hastily  beneath  the  waiter's 
restless  gaze,  and  his  food  is  delivered 
immediately.      Delivered,     not     served. 


Hardly  has  he  sipped  his  soup  and  nib- 
bled a  cracker  when  the  man  across  the 
aisle,  who  ordered  at  the  same  time,  folds 
his  napkin  and  departs.  In  a  vain  effort 
not  to  make  himself  conspicuous  he 
consumes  his  food  in  fifteen  minutes  and 
takes  his  leave,  only  to  suffer  from  acute 
indigestion  all  afternoon. 

Actual  tests  have  been  conducted  by  a 
university  hygiene  instructor  in  restau- 
rants on  this  campus  to  determine  the 
average  length  of  time  that  students 
spend  on  their  midday  meal.  It  was 
found  to  be  just  eight  minutes  from  the 
moment  of  arrival  to  the  time  of 
departure. 

This  practice  would  be  harmless 
enough  if  the  human  body  were  equipped 
with  a  gizzard,  strong  digestive  juices 
such  as  the  python  enjoys,  or  a  system 
of  regurgitation  and  cud-chewing  like 
that  with  which  the  cow  is  endowed. 
These  handy  anatomical  devices  having 
been  overlooked,  if  we  wish  to  derive  a 
few  calories  of  energy  from  the  food  of 
which  we  partake,  we  must  learn  to  eat 
slowly  and  masticate  thoroughly  while  in 
a  contented  state  of  mind.  If  proper 
digestion,  absorption,  and  metabolism 
are  worth  a  little  of  our  over-estimated 
time,  then  let's  spend  an  hour  on  each 
meal  and  conserve  the  world's  supply 
of  sodium  bicarbonate ! 


[1] 


Ice -Boat  Versus  Train 

Paul  Foxman 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1937-1938 


JVyT  Y  BROTHER  and  I  went  down  to 
^ '  *  the  train  depot  one  Saturday 
morning  to  meet  a  friend  arriving  on  the 
nine  o'clock  train.  While  waiting,  we 
met  our  old  friend  Mr.  Jenkins,  the 
testing  engineer  for  the  Erie  Railroad 
Company.  "Well,  boys,"  he  said,  with  a 
voice  reflecting  his  pride,  "I'm  testing  a 
new  engine  today.  Expect  to  make  the 
ninety  miles  in  an  hour  and  a  quarter. 
Cuttin'  off  thirty-five  minutes  from  our 
old  run.  That's  going  some,  isn't  it?" 
My  brother  and  I  looked  at  each  other 
and  smiled  in  derision. 

"That  isn't  going  so  fast,  Jenkins. 
With  the  wind  blowing  the  way  it  is  this 
morning,  we  could  beat  your  train  any 
old  time." 

"You  could,  could  you,"  he  roared. 
"I'll  bet  you  a  turkey  dinner  that,  with 
an  even  start,  I'll  be  at  the  Albany 
Bridge  half  an  hour  before  you." 

"You're  on,  Jenks.  Don't  forget  that 
turkey," 

"All  right!  The  train  will  be  leaving 
in  about  an  hour." 

Henry  and  I  hurriedly  left  the  depot 
and  drove  to  the  Yacht  Club.  We  pushed 
the  Fury,  our  ice-boat,  over  the  rough 
ground  on  to  the  ice.  The  Fury  shook 
and  quivered,  in  the  blustery  north  wind, 
as  though  imbued  with  life,  and  seemed 
to  be  silently  laughing  at  the  stored 
summer  boats  it  was  leaving  behind. 
Those  boats  were  like  snails  in  com- 
parison to  this  spirited  racer  that  could 
travel  faster  than  the  wind.  We  went 
over  the  lean  frame,  carefully  testing 
and  tightening  every  nut  and  bolt.  After 


hoisting  sail  a  half  hour  later,  we  waited 
for  the  train  to  come  round  the  bend  on 
the  track  that  parallels  the  Hudson  up  to 
Albany. 

The  train  roared  into  view,  sparks 
flying  from  the  stack.  It  looked  fast  as 
it  thundered  up,  with  its  huge  drive 
wheels  pounding  the  track.  "Henry,"  I 
said,  "it  seems  as  though  we've  got  a 
tough  job  on  our  hands.  We'll  have  to 
go  some  to  beat  that  outfit."  Jenks 
waved  to  us  from  his  engine  cab  and 
tripped  his  whistle,  which  emitted  a  long  ; 
shrieking  blast,  the  signal  for  us  to  start. 

We  hauled  in  the  boom  to  flatten  our 
sheets.  The  rope,  supporting  the  main- 
sail, broke  near  the  top  and  the  sail  fell 
with  a  crash.  My  brother  scrambled  up 
the  mast,  and  by  working  fast  was  able 
to  splice  the  rope  before  the  biting,  icy 
wind  could  stiffen  his  fingers.  The  train, 
by  this  time,  was  almost  out  of  sight. 
Again,  we  pulled  in  our  boom  and  shoved 
off.  The  Fury  crouched  for  a  moment, 
caught  the  impact  of  the  wind,  and  the 
sails  flattened  with  a  snap  like  the  crack 
of  a  pistol-shot.  The  boat  heeled  up  in 
the  air  like  a  frightened  cat,  and,  in  the 
next  instant,  we  lurched  forward.  The 
heavy  steel  runners  dug  into  the  ice  with 
a  sharp,  crunching  noise.  My  brother 
eased  over  the  helm,  dropping  the  port 
runner  slowly  to  the  ice,  and  in  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  tell,  we  were  rapidlj 
gliding  at  an  eighty-mile-an-hour  clip. 

The  day  was  glorious.    The  sun  shin- 
ing out  of  a  clear,  blue  sky  sparkled  fror 
the   icy  hummocks  in  a  dazzling  glare. 
All  we  could  hear  was  the  wind  whistlim 


[2] 


through  the  lines  and  the  steady  scraping 
noise  of  the  runners,  interrupted  only 
when  we  hit  a  rough  patch  of  ice.  The 
Fury  would  crack  into  the  ridged  ice 
with  sudden  rending  jars,  throwing  it  in 
a  crystalline  spray  that  reflected  the  sun's 
light — a  cascade  of  diamonds.  The  feel- 
ing of  the  swift  onward  rush  of  a  bird 
was  ours,  a  sense  of  flight,  and  new 
freedom ;  the  exhilaration  of  swooping 
over  boundless  space.  From  the  middle 
of  the  river  we  could  see  the  mountains 
on  each  side,  covered  with  a  soft,  fleecy 
blanket  of  clean  white  snow,  with  here 
and  there  a  precipitous  black  rock  show- 
ing its  bare  face,  accentuated  by  its  very 
blackness. 

Rocketing  along,  we  could  see  the  gap 
between  us  and  the  train  steadily  dwind- 
ling. We  closed  in  near  the  shore  and, 
as  we  drew  alongside,  we  could  plainly 
see  Jenks  yelling  and  waving  from  his 
cab.  He  sounded  a  long  blast ;  then  most 
of  the  passengers  looked  out  to  see  what 
was  happening.  They  spied  us  and  waved 
as  we  went  past.  Propelled  by  a  terrific 
burst  of  wind,  we  curved  around  in  a 
tight  figure  eight  to  come  back  in  a  long 
sweeping  curve  alongside  of  the  train. 
We  were  laughing  at  Jenks  and  he  must 
have  realized  this.  Rolling  black  clouds 
of  smoke  poured  anew  from  the  train 
stack  as  he  tried  to  eke  out  every  ounce 
of  speed  from  the  straining  train.  All 
his  efforts  were  unavailing,  for  we  were 
increasing  our  lead  constantly. 

The  Fury  rocked  violently  from  side 
to  side  as  it  hit  small  clumps  of  ice, 
which  were  now  becommg  quite  numer- 
ous. The  runners  ground  out  their  high- 
pitched,  steely  song.  As  we  came  closer 
to  the  river's  bank,  the  landscape  flashed 
by  in  one  long,  continuous  grey  blur,  a 
blending  of  checkered  white  and  black. 
Ahead  of  us  loomed  an  open  stretch  of 
water,  some  twenty-five  feet  wide.    Be- 


fore we  could  gather  our  startled  wits 
together,  we  had  leaped  across  and  were 
scooting  on.^ 

The  ice  was  getting  rougher  as  we 
progressed  and  we  knew  that  we  would 
have  to  loosen  our  sails  and  slow  down. 
We  couldn't  keep  crashing  on  at  the  pace 
we  were  maintaining  without  something 
giving  way.  The  Fury  was  very  strong, 
each  runner  weighing  about  seventy-five 
pounds,  but  it  was  made  of  only  wood 
and  steel.  We  slowed  down  and  pro- 
ceeded at  about  fifty  miles  an  hour.  The 
train  gained  on  us,  and,  as  it  passed, 
Jenks  gave  us  a  few  short  mocking 
whistles.  It  was  his  turn  to  laugh  now. 
The  passengers  waved  to  us  from  their 
warm,  comfortable  cars.  The  scene  was 
as  new  to  them  as  it  was  to  us  and  they 
must  have  enjoyed  it  immensely. 

We  anxiously  looked  about,  but  as  far 
as  we  could  see  the  ice  was  very  rough. 
The  wind  howled  through  our  rigging, 
but  we  couldn't  use  its  full  force.  "It's 
going  to  waste,  Henry,"  I  said.  "I  know 
that  we  could  beat  the  train  if  only  we 
had  some  smooth  ice  for  the  remainder 
of  the  trip.  We're  only  about  twenty 
miles  from  the  Albany  Bridge.  If  we 
don't  get  smooth  ice  right  away  we're 
licked." 

"Let's  try  the  East  Shore,"  my  brother 
said  with  sudden  inspiration.  "We 
might  find  a  clear  channel  over  there." 
We  altered  our  course  and  crossed  at  an 
oblique  angle.  We  could  not  find  any 
clear  ice  and  were  about  to  give  up  when 
we  sighted  a  smooth,  clear  channel 
twenty  feet  off  shore.  "Smooth,  black 
ice,"  shouted  my  brother.    "Let's  go." 

It  was   rather   dangerous   running   so 

'Speeds  as  high  as  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  miles  an  hour  have  been  recorded  in  tim- 
ing one  of  Airs.  Roosevelt's  ice-boats.  Many 
ice-boats,  having  attained  sufficient  speed,  have 
crossed  the  open  water  passage  created  by  the 
ferries. 


[  3  ] 


close  to  shore,  but  we  wanted  to  win  the 
race  and  the  turkey  dinner.  We  flattened 
our  sails  until  the  ropes  strained  and  the 
mast  creaked  ominously.  We  were  tak- 
ing chances.  The  runners  once  more 
sang  their  high-pitched  song.  The  stays 
quivered  and  the  whole  boat  vibrated 
like  the  steel  strings  of  a  guitar.  We 
saw  the  train  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Hudson  falling  back,  and  as  we  looked 
forward  caught  our  first  glimpse  of  the 


Albany  Bridge.  This  whole  gleaming 
section  of  the  Hudson  was  clear  of  any 
roughness.  We  set  a  diagonal  course  so 
that  we  could  come  closer  to  the  train  on 
the  opposite  side ;  for  we  were  sure  of 
winning.  We  had  a  superabundance  of 
speed.  With  a  final  burst,  a  gift  from 
howling  Boreas,  we  swooped  under  the 
Bridge  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead  of  the 
train,  winners  of  the  race  and  a  turkey 
dinner. 


When  I  Went  to  Sunday  School 


Hazel  Bothwell 

Rhetoric  I,  Theme  5,  1938-1939 


IN  THE  little  town  where  I  spent  my 
childhood,  one  of  the  prevailing  cus- 
toms was  that  the  children  go  to  Sunday 
School.   I  adhered  to  the  custom. 

Every  Sunday  morning  I  was  scrubbed 
a  shiny  pink,  dressed  in  my  very  best 
plaid  dress,  and  with  a  clean  handker- 
chief and  a  penny  in  my  pocket,  I 
was  rushed  down  the  path  to  the  road 
just  in  time  to  be  picked  up  by  our 
neighbor.  His  five  children  made  room 
for  me  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon,  and 
we  were  ofif  on  our  pleasant,  bumpy, 
mile-long  journey  to  church. 

The  church  was  one  large  room  with 
a  stove  in  the  center,  wooden  chairs  on 
both  sides,  and  a  small  partitioned  sec- 
tion at  the  rear  where  the  secretary 
sorted  the  Sunday  School  papers,  took 
care  of  Mrs.  Jones'  baby,  and  checked  the 
attendance  for  this  Sunday  and  the  last. 

The  procedure  of  the  school  followed 
a  regular  routine.  The  organ  wheezed 
out  a  few  familiar  hymns,  despite  the 
fact  that  there  were  three  keys  missing 
on  the  treble  clef,  and  the  people  sang 
loudly.  The  announcements  told  the  peo- 
ple of  a  pie  social  to  be  held  in  the  Town 
Hall,    reminded    them    of    the    Sunday 


School  picnic  at  Deer-Tail  Creek,  and 
said  that  the  threshers  would  be  at  Lem 
Campbell's  place  on  Tuesday. 

When  classes  assembled,  each  went 
to  its  corner  of  the  room  and  a  little 
cloth  screen  was  placed  in  front  of  it. 
This  shut  in  the  view  but  not  the  sound, 
and  a  hum  pervaded  the  air  like  the  buzz 
of  the  locusts  that  plagued  Israel.  Out 
of  the  din  emerged  snatches  about  rustic 
principles  of  good  living,  about  how  to 
check  hog  cholera,  and  how  to  pickle 
peaches. 

Two  chords  sounded  on  the  organ, 
signifying  that  class  was  over;  the  little 
cloth  screens  were  put  away,  and  the 
people  stood  while  the  preacher  prayed. 

He  was  a  strong  man,  who  plowed 
six  days  a  week  and  rested  in  the  Lord 
on  the  seventh ;  he  was  kind  to  his  fam- 
ily, swore  gently  to  his  horses,  and 
helped  his  neighbors.  And  when  he  said, 
"We  thank  Thee  for  Thy  blessings,"  he 
was  giving  thanks  for  the  sun,  and  the 
rain,  and  the  green  fields. 

Softened  sunlight  streamed  gently 
through  colored  windows  on  to  bowed 
heads  and  shed  a  mellow  glow  on  the 
weather-beaten  faces. 


[4] 


Back  Diving 


Marjorie  Kane 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  12,  1938-1939 


ALL  THE  girls  in  the  first  two  rows 
go  down  to  the  deep  end  of  the 
pool ;  the  rest  of  you  will  stay  here  in 
the  shallow  end  where  Miss  Graham  will 
help  you  with  your  breast  stroke."  These 
are  the  instructions  Miss  Vaught,  our 
swimming  teacher,  gives  us  as  we  enter 
the  pool.  The  girls  unlucky  enough  to 
be  in  the  first  two  rows,  myself  included, 
move  down  to  the  deep  end  of  the  pool 
where  we  begin  our  instructions  on  the 
back  dive. 

First  of  all,  our  instructor  asks  if  any 
of  us  have  ever  attempted  diving  back- 
wards before.  But  two  have.  Miss 
Vaught  then  walks  out  to  the  end  of  the 
diving  board  and  goes  through  the  mo- 
tions showing  us  the  basic  steps,  though 
not  actually  diving  in.  She  then  calls  the 
first  girl  and  shows  her  how  to  stand 
with  just  the  balls  of  her  feet  resting  on 
the  board.  With  Miss  Vaught  holding 
her  around  the  waist,  the  girl  leans 
backwards  and  falls  in  head  first. 

The  next  girl  starts  falling  in  back- 
wards, then  becomes  scared,  and  leans 
forward.  She  hits  the  water  as  if  she 
were  going  to  sit  in  a  chair.  The  third 
girl  pulls  too  hard  after  she  leaves  the 
board  and  goes  over  backwards  too  far. 


She  lands  on  her  stomach  and  produces 
a  small  tidal  wave. 

Then  I  hear  the  fatal  word — "Next?" 
and  I  step  forward,  with  what  I  hope 
appears  to  be  self-confidence.  Actually  I 
am  quaking  within.  I  stand  straight  and 
tense  in  front  of  Miss  Vaught  as  she 
gives  me  my  final  instructions.  "Now 
as  you  go  in,  bend  backwards  first  with 
your  hands,  and  then  follow  with  your 
head,  and  keep  pulling  even  after  you  hit 
the  water." 

I  start  with  my  hands  straight  out  in 
front  of  me  at  shoulder  height  and  bend 
backwards.  Over,  over  I  bend  until  sud- 
denly I  am  released,  and  I  fall  face  down 
toward  the  water.  Terrified,  I  have 
visions  of  what  could  go  wrong;  with  a 
"sinking  into  the  unknown"  feeling  I 
think,  "What  if  I  don't  bend  enough  and 
sprain  by  back  as  the  girl  in  the  last  class 
did?  What  if  I  bend  too  much  and  hurt 
my  stomach?  What  if  I  am  hurt  so 
much  that  they  have  to  drag  me  out  of 
the  pool?  What  if—"  and  then  I  feel 
the  water  slip  away  from  my  body  as 
I  go  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  pool  in  a 
pile.  After  untangling  myself  I  rise  to 
the  surface  and  swim  to  the  edge.  I  can 
hear  Miss  Vaught  saying  that  next  time 
I  should  keep  my  knees  straighter. 


[  5  ] 


From  a  Five -hand  Horse 


Charles  B.  Barr 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  6,  1938-1939 


WHEN  our  family  moved  back  to  the 
farm,  my  father  paid  a  very  high 
price  for  a  gigantic  white  mare.  Maude, 
as  the  horse  was  called,  was  the  gentlest 
of  the  herd  and  the  most  faithful  in  the 
harness.  Now  as  Maude  was  growing 
old,  we  wanted  a  colt  from  her  to  carry 
on  her  good  qualities.  One  would  expect 
the  colt  from  such  a  wonderful  mare  to 
be  black,  naturally,  to  be  well-built,  to 
have  long  legs,  and  to  possess  all  the 
vim  and  vigor  of  a  healthy  colt.  We  had 
agreed,  several  days  before  the  colt  was 
expected  to  arrive,  that  if  he  should  be 
a  blazed- faced  colt  and  should  show  signs 
of  being  gray,  his  name  was  to  be 
Smokey.  With  great  eagerness  we 
awaited  the  birth  of  what  we  thought 
would  be  the  greatest  colt  in  the  com- 
munity. (We  still  think  he  is  the  great- 
est, but  we  have  very  different  reasons.) 
The  morning  of  June  7  dawned  bright 
and  clear.  The  bright  red  sun  beat  down 
on  the  dew-covered  world  with  the  se- 
verity of  an  acetylene  torch.  This  morn- 
ing my  mother  had  prepared  the  farm 
breakfast  as  usual,  but  when  it  was  time 
to  eat,  my  father  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  Fifteen  minutes  after  the  break- 
fast hour,  the  simple  conjecture  of  "Oh, 
he'll  be  in  after  while"  was  no  longer 
sufficient,  and  we  began  to  speculate  on 
what  was  wrong.  We  wondered  if  a  cow 
had  broken  through  the  fence,  if  one  of 
the  pigs  hadn't  come  to  the  trough,  or 
if  old  Maude  might  have  had  her  colt. 
By  the  time  father  did  appear,  the  whole 
breakfast  had  grown  cold:  the  biscuits, 
the  crisply  fried  eggs,  the  two  or  three 


slices  of  bacon,  and  the  gravy  had  lost 
much  of  their  appeal.  My  father  re- 
mained silent  until  after  he  had  washed, 
and  then  he  began  to  tell  why  he  was  so 
late.  He  said  that  old  Maude  had  found 
her  colt,  and  that  he  had  been  helping  it 
to  its  first  meal.  In  our  eagerness  to 
hear  more  about  the  new  colt,  we  began 
asking  all  sorts  of  questions.  My  father 
said  that  when  he  had  seen  the  tiny 
colt,  he  had  said  to  Maude,  half-aloud, 
"Oh,  you've  had  twins !"  Failing  to  dis- 
cover another  colt,  however,  he  had  di- 
rected his  attention  to  the  one  which  he 
could  actually  see  existed.  My  father 
avowed  that  he  had  never  seen  a  smaller 
colt  than  the  little  pile  of  flesh  that  he 
had  seen  that  morning.  The  colt  was  not 
able  to  stand  up,  and  consequently  it  had 
not  had  anything  to  eat  when  he  found 
it.  He  had  taken  some  of  the  mother's 
milk  and  had  fed  the  hungry  colt  its 
first  meal  from  his  cupped  hand.  He 
said,  however,  there  was  very  little 
chance  that  a  great  horse  would  develop 
from  those  small  beginnings. 

After  breakfast  we  loaded  ourselves 
into  the  rickety  old  car  and  started  out 
across  the  fields  in  the  direction  of  the 
strange  animal.  Upon  arrival,  we  saw  a 
little  creature  with  a  large  blazed  face 
and  a  body  little  larger  than  its  head. 
We  had  brought  a  pan  with  us  and 
gave  Smokey  a  square  meal.  He  drank 
the  milk  with  all  the  ease  and  grace  pos- 
sible in  so  young  a  baby.  Since  we  were 
curious  about  the  small  heap  of  quiver- 
ing horseflesh,  we  lifted  the  helpless 
being  to  his   feet   and   held  him   erect. 


[6] 


The  muscles  in  his  lower  legs  were  so 
weak  that  he  stood,  not  on  his  dime- 
sized  hoofs,  but  on  the  hock  joints.  Be- 
cause his  rear  legs  were  much  shorter 
than  the  front  ones,  a  neighbor  who  came 
to  see  the  freak  a  few  days  later  likened 
him  to  a  giraffe.  We  chose  a  dried  weed 
for  a  measuring  pole,  and  broke  it  off 
even  with  the  colt's  shoulder.  Measure- 
ment of  the  weed  showed  that  the  colt 
stood  thirty-one  inches  high — all  of  five 
hands !  The  colt  was  so  unusual  that  it 
became  for  a  while  a  topic  of  gossip. 
Whenever,  during  the  next  several  days, 
any  neighbors  saw  my  father,  they  said 
to  him,  "Say,  Manning,  I  hear  that  gray 
mare  of  yourn  had  a  colt."  If  they  had 
seen  the  colt,  they  asked  whether  he  had 
shot  it  yet,  or  whether  those  legs  had 
straightened  out,  or  whether  its  twin 
had  been  found  yet !  Although  we  fre- 
quently joked  about  a  twin,  not  one  of 
us  believed  that  there  actually  was  one. 
It  was,  therefore,  a  very  great  surprise 
when,  about  four  days  after  Smokey's 
birth,  a  twin  was  born !  The  twin,  al- 
though larger  and  apparently  a  much 
finer  horse,  was  born  dead. 

As  mentioned  earlier,  Smokey  was  not 
able  to  get  his  own  meals  at  first,  and, 
therefore,  had  to  be  fed  from  a  pan  or 
bucket  until  he  became  strong  enough  to 
nurse  for  himself.  At  first  his  diet  con- 
sisted of  his  own  mother's  milk,  but 
since  the  demand  soon  exceeded  the  sup- 
ply, it  was  necessary  to  use  a  substitute. 
That  substitute  was  naturally  cows' 
milk,  which,  contrary  to  any  sense  of 
pride  that  he  ought  to  have  felt,  he 
relished  ver\'  much.  Feeling,  however, 
that  he  should  have  more  nourishment 
than  was  afforded  by  so  thin  a  liquid  as 
cows'     milk,     we     added     peppermint- 


flavored  cod-liver  oil  to  the  diet.  From 
the  first,  I  had  much  desired  to  feed  the 
colt.  As  soon  as  it  had  learned  to  eat 
well  enough,  I  was  made  his  special 
nursemaid.  It  was  my  duty  to  watch  the 
clock  in  order  that,  when  mealtime  rolled 
around,  I  could  take  up  a  bucket  con- 
taining the  proper  mixture  of  milks  and 
medicines  and  hurry  for  the  pasture. 
There  the  hungry  little  baby  drank 
heartily,  showing  all  the  gratitude  that 
little  horses  can  show.  After  he  had 
become  strong  enough  to  run  about  over 
the  hills  and  to  kick  at  stumps,  I  had 
only  to  call  him  by  name  when  I  wanted 
him  to  come.  He  soon  learned  that 
"Smokey!  Smokey!"  meant  rich  milk 
and  peppermint.  Frequently,  the  colt 
was  in  need  of  "doctor's"  care.  Once 
he  was  kicked  on  the  head  by  another 
colt  in  the  pasture,  and  another  time  an 
injury  to  a  leg,  caused  either  by  a  snake's 
bite  or  by  barbed  wire,  left  the  leg  stiff 
for  months.  During  these  periods  of 
bitter  struggle  to  make  something  from 
nothing,  all  of  us  came  to  consider  the 
colt  more  precious  than  any  other. 

Smokey  has  become  a  horse !  We 
were  successful  in  producing  something 
worthwhile  from  the  tiny,  misshapen 
colt.  Today,  after  a  tremendous  growth, 
Smokey  is  able  to  walk  right  along  be- 
side the  best  of  horses.  He  is  not  yet 
white,  but  he  is  graying  very  rapidly ;  he 
is  not  quite  as  tall  as  his  mother  was, 
but  he  is  equally  blocky.  Buyers  have 
made  many  offers  for  him,  but  none  have 
been  of  sufficient  weight  to  cause  us  to 
part  with  him.  Although  most  of  the 
work  on  the  farm  is  now  done  by  a 
tractor,  Smokey  is,  nevertheless,  assured 
of  a  permanent  home. 


[  7  ] 


The  Value  of  the  Companionship  of  Horses 


Roberta  Wilson 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  6.  1937-1938 


'  I  ""HE  increasing  number  of  people  who 
^  are  donning  boots  and  breeches,  sad- 
dling their  horses  and  mounting  for  a 
ride  in  the  fresh  open  air  are  as  sure  a 
sign  of  the  coming  spring  as  the  first 
robin.  For,  as  those  who  are  connois- 
seurs in  sport  will  tell  you,  there  is  noth- 
ing like  a  ride  over  the  quiet  country 
trails  on  a  spirited  horse  to  relax  the 
body  after  a  winter  of  cold,  cramped 
inactivity  in  the  city.  It  is  only  by  riding 
under  trees  budding  in  the  new  warmth 
of  the  sun  and  hearing  the  comforting 
thud  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  thaw- 
ing earth  that  one  can  appreciate  the 
new  tang  in  the  air  and  the  yielding  of 
the  land  that  announces  the  coming  of 
spring.  After  the  artificiality  of  the  city, 
the  contact  of  the  horse's  body,  the  feel- 
ing of  his  sure,  rhythmical  movements, 
the  earthy  odor  in  the  air  allow  one's 
nerves  to  relax  in  the  knowledge  of  the 
complete  peace,  power,  and  well-being  of 
the  re-awakening  Nature. 

However,  as  one  who  has  had  close 
association  with  the  horse,  I  have  come 
to  appreciate  him  not  only  as  a  means  of 
exercise  but  also  as  a  distinct,  almost 
human  personality.  Those  eyes  which  at 
first  look  merely  blank  and  sad  are  found 
to  express  emotion,  fear,  anger,  or  placid 
contentment.  The  two  ears,  apparently 
prosaic  and  uncommunicative,  are  soon 
seen  to  be  delicate  signals,  indicating  the 
horse's  inward  state  of  feeling  as  ac- 
curately as  a  dog's  tail  indicates  his.  It 
becomes  interesting  to  notice,  too,  that  a 
horse  will  develop  habits  and  idiosyncra- 
sies that  are  as  much  a  part  of  him  as 


the  greeting,  "My  Friends,"  is  a  part  of 
the  president  of  the  United  States. 

Because  I  have  learned  to  observe 
horses  closely,  I  have  come  to  remember 
those  with  whom  I  have  been  acquainted, 
not  as  animals,  but  as  old  friends.  One 
of  my  favorites  was  old  "Pete,"  a  farm 
horse.  Pete  was  a  big-bodied,  ponderous 
Clydesdale.  From  his  size  it  seemed  he 
would  be  sloppy  and  ungainly  in  his 
movements,  but  when  he  leaned  forward 
in  the  collar  to  pull  the  plow  through  the 
heavy  earth,  there  was  a  facility  of 
movement  and  beauty  in  the  coordination 
of  muscles  rippling  under  the  shining, 
dappled  chestnut  hide  that  was  hard  to 
equal.  When  Pete  was  at  work,  all  of 
his  actions  were  calm,  purposeful,  and 
unhurried.  But  Pete  had  a  temperament 
like  that  of  Dr.  Jekyll.  As  soon  as  he 
was  turned  out  to  pasture,  he  lost  his 
air  of  calm  and  docility.  He  became, 
instead,  fiighty  and  domineering.  He 
could  swing  that  heavy  body  around  with 
amazing  speed,  and  those  back  legs  could 
strike  out  with  snake-like  accuracy.  He 
did  not  assert  his  authority  unless  it  was 
absolutely  necessary,  but  after  one  try, 
no  horse  cared  to  challenge  again  Pete's 
claim  to  kingship  of  the  pasture.  All  in 
all,  Pete  resembled  an  equine  Wallace 
Beery  in  a  "tough"  role.  Like  Beery,  no 
matter  how  often  he  was  cleaned  and 
brushed,  Pete  alwa3^s  looked  unkempt. 
Like  Beery,  too,  he  endeared  himself  to 
all  by  hiding  his  strength  and  forceful- 
ness  under  a  bland,  beguiling  naivete. 

A  perfect  foil  for  Pete  was  "Billy," 
my  first  riding  horse.   Whereas  Pete  hid 


[  8  ] 


his  strength  and  courage  by  an  air  of 
benign  and  meek  obedience,  Billy  tried 
to  mask  his  cowardice  by  a  front  of 
dashing  bravado.  Billy  was  a  sleek, 
small-boned,  bay  gelding.  Because  he 
was  unschooled  as  riding  horses  go,  and 
because  he  was  getting  old,  my  friends 
laughingly  called  him  a  "plug."  But  to 
my  mind,  Billy  was  too  intelligent,  too 
full  of  natural  style  and  spirit  to  be  called 
a  plug.  For,  old  as  he  was,  Billy  still  loved 
to  show  off.  The  moment  he  felt  someone 
watching  him,  he  arched  his  neck  a  bit 
more,  he  picked  his  feet  up  a  bit  higher, 
he  pointed  his  ears  a  bit  more  intently 
in  front  of  him,  and  carried  himself  as 
though  parading  in  front  of  the  judges 
at  the  International  Horse  Show.  What- 
ever he  did,  Billy  did  with  a  flourish ; 
whether  it  was  chasing  the  cows  in  the 
pasture — an  irritating  trick  of  his  which 
he  always  chose  to  play  just  before  milk- 
ing time — or  trying  to  frighten  innocent 
bystanders.  Billy  would  never  try  to 
frighten  people  in  the  way  the  average 
horse  does,  by  laying  back  his  ears  and 
striking  at  the  person  next  to  him.  His 
victim  was  always  some  person  standing 
just  outside  the  pasture  fence.  Billy 
would  stand,  calmly  eyeing  the  person 
for  a  few  minutes.  Then  suddenly,  with- 
out apparent  reason,  he  would  lay  back 
his  ears,  swish  his  tail  angrily,  and  thun- 
der dramatically  toward  his  victim,  look- 
ing for  the  world  as  though  he  intended 
to  clear  the  fence  in  one  mad  leap.  But, 
of  course,  he  never  did.  It  just  wasn't 
Billy's  nature  to  carry  out  those  threats. 
In  all  the  time  that  I  knew  him,  I  don't 
believe  he  ever  actually  kicked  or  bit  a 
person,  for  Billy  was  the  Jimmy  Cagney 
type— cocky,  arrogant,  but  hiding  a 
"heart  of  gold." 

Of  the  three  horses  whom  I  know 
best,  Eddy,  my  present  riding  horse,  is 
perhaps    the    most    perfect    gentleman. 


Eddy  is  a  large,  upstanding,  five-gaited 
black  gelding.  While  he  is  not  a 
"smoothie"  he  combines  beautifully  the 
qualities  that  one  attributes  to  a  gentle- 
man. Outwardly,  Eddy  does  not  have  the 
perfection  in  his  style  of  going  that 
would  enable  him  to  compete  very  keenly 
with  top-rank  show  horses,  but  inwardly 
he  has  the  nobility  of  character,  the  in- 
telligence, loyalty,  and  steadfastness  that 
come  of  good  breeding.  Eddy,  of  course, 
lays  no  claim  to  perfection — and  his 
greatest  fault  is  his  stubbornness.  The 
day  he  arrived  at  the  farm,  we  were  non- 
plussed by  his  refusal  to  enter  the  barn. 
It  was  growing  night,  and  Eddy  was 
hungry  and  thirsty;  but  no  matter  how 
much  he  wanted  the  pail  of  cool  water 
or  the  tempting  bucket  of  oats  that  had 
been  placed  just  inside  the  door,  he  still 
would  not  step  over  the  sill.  Eddy  was 
very  pleasant  about  it  all.  He  walked 
agreeably  around  the  yard  with  us,  he 
submitted  graciously  to  the  petting  of 
those  who  came  to  admire  "the  new 
horse,"  but  enter  the  barn — no.  Finally, 
in  desperation,  we  took  him  to  a  neigh- 
bor's barn,  which  he  entered  after  only  a 
few  moment's  hesitation.  After  a  few 
days  of  experimenting  we  discovered  the 
cause  of  his  refusal.  Eddy  did  not  want 
to  enter  a  single-door  barn.  The  solution 
to  this  problem  may  seem  simple,  but 
when  one  has  a  single-door  barn,  and  a 
horse  that  stubbornly  insists  upon  a 
double-door  entry,  it  can  cause  no  end  of 
complexity.  This  stubbornness,  however, 
while  inconvenient  at  times,  only  helps  to 
emphasize  the  strength  of  Eddy's  char- 
acter. Eddy,  in  fact,  with  his  intelli- 
gence, gentlemanly  ways,  and  his  insist- 
ence upon  clinging  to  his  own  beliefs, 
reminds  one  of  the  well-trained,  well- 
bred,  aloof  Harvard  graduates. 

Thus,  as  I  have  said  before,  I  enjoy 
both  the  riding  and  the  companionship 


[  9] 


of  horses.  The  rides  have  kept  me  out 
in  the  open  air  and  have  helped  me 
build  a  healthy  body.  I  have  learned  to 
keep  alert  by  watching  the  road  and 
countryside  at  all  times  for  objects  that 
might  frighten  the  horse.  I  have  learned, 
too,  to  observe  his  ears,  at  the  same  time, 
for  signals  of  his  actions.  By  riding 
horseback,  I  have  come  to  know  the 
Michigan  country  side  as  few  people  in 
this  age  of  fast-moving  motor  vehicles 
do.  I  have  felt  the  thrill  of  exploration 
even  in  this  civilized  world,  by  riding 
through  virgin  forests  and  by  ambling 
over  long  unused  country  roads. 

During  the  hours  spent  in  the  saddle 
I  have  learned  to  relax  and  enjoy  the 
scenic  beauties  of  our  Middle  West.  I 
have  felt  the  glowing,  inspiring  calm  of 
the  earth  that  comes  only  after  a  day's 
rain,  when  the  whole  country-side  again 
becomes  bright  with  color  as  the  clouds 
in  the  summer  sky  grow  rosy  in  the  re- 
flection  of  the   summer  sheen.    I  have 


found  the  beauty  in  the  sight  of  the 
cool,  green,  fragrant  mint  that  grows 
acre  upon  acre  in  the  coal-black  earth 
of  our  swamp  lands. 

From  my  association  with  horses,  I 
have  discovered  many  character-build- 
ing qualities.  I  have  learned  the  value  of 
emotional  poise,  because  one  can  get  no- 
where in  training  a  horse  by  being  quick- 
tempered and  exacting  at  one  time,  but 
gentle  and  lax  at  another.  I  have  learned 
the  value  of  good-nature,  perseverance, 
and  tact.  Most  of  all,  I  have  learned 
the  value  of  a  well-rounded,  even  dis- 
position. 

Those  who  like  their  exercise  fast  and 
vigorous  can  have  their  tennis.  Those 
who  are  stay-at-homes  and  like  their 
exercise  mild  can  play  croquet.  But  the 
person  who  likes  a  sport  that  can  be  by 
turns  relaxing  and  invigorating,  the  one 
who  likes  to  enjoy  his  exercise  with  a 
friend  that  is  faithful  and  loyal — let  him 
go  riding  on  his  favorite  horse. 


Grandfather's  Pride 

Grandfather's  personal  pride  was  noticeable  in  his  church  work  and  in  all  his 
other  social  activities.  He  spent  his  last  years  in  our  home,  where  I  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  observe  him  closely.  At  the  age  of  eighty-five,  he  would  get  out  his  old 
bucksaw,  go  out  behind  the  wood  shed  (where  all  the  neighbors  would  be  sure  to  see 
him),  rub  a  bacon  rind  across  the  saw  blade,  set  his  left  foot  up  on  an  eight-inch  log, 
and  saw  away  as  if  his  life  depended  upon  it.  As  the  years  sped  on,  however,  he  gave 
just  a  little  more  time  to  rubbing  the  bacon  rind  on  the  saw  blade.  He  was  more 
particular  in  his  later  years  than  he  had  been  earlier  in  life  about  the  trimming  of  his 
full  beard.  On  the  "Inevitable  Day,"  he  ate  a  hearty  meal,  sat  down  in  his  easy  chair, 
opened  the  daily  paper  with  great  gusto;  then  he  passed  quietly  away.  Had  he  known 
the  nearness  of  death,  he  would  have  been  too  proud  to  lie  down. 

— IVIiNTON  VV.  Arnold 


[10] 


Don't  Ever  Choose  the  Easy  Job 


John  Hanson 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  12,  1937-1938 


HERE  it  is  spring  and  time  to  start 
hunting  for  a  summer  job  again. 
Believe  me,  this  summer  I'm  going  to  try 
to  find  really  hard,  manual  labor — a  job 
that'll  keep  me  busy  and  active  and 
healthy.  I'll  mix  cement,  dig  a  ditch,  or 
push  a  wheelbarrow, — anything  that'll 
keep  me  working. 

Last  summer  I  spent  my  time,  or 
rather  wasted  my  time,  chauffeuring  for 
an  elderly  friend  of  my  mother's.  When 
I  was  offered  the  job,  I  thought  that  I 
had  been  handed  the  golden  tgg — but  I 
soon  changed  my  mind.  I  was  to  drive 
five  and  one  half  days  a  week  for  Mrs. 
Jones.  I  was  to  start  at  eight  in  the 
morning  and  quit  at  five-thirty  in  the 
evening.  I  was  to  drive  a  thirty-six  hun- 
dred dollar  Packard,  keep  it  clean  and 
shiny  and  in  good  running  condition — 
here  certainly  was  the  ideal  job !  Why,  if 
I  had  not  been  working  for  Mrs.  Jones, 
I  would  probably  do  about  the  same 
things  at  home — wash  the  car  and  drive 
it  around  a  good  bit  of  the  day. 

When  I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Jones  about 
the  job,  she  received  me  very  graciously. 
She  was  a  rather  determined  sort  of  per- 
son. Did  I  know  how  to  drive  well  ?  She 
had  heard  that  I  did.  Could  I  change 
tires  in  an  emergency?  Would  I  be  will- 
ing to  entertain  her  nieces  and  nephews 
when  they  came  to  visit  her  ?  I  sat  on  the 
edge  of  my  chair  nodding  my  head  at  the 
proper  times,  feeling  rather  ill  at  ease  as 
she  continued  her  monologue.  I  was  to 
act  as  sort  of  a  companion-driver-handy- 
man,— oh!  sort  of  a  jack-of-all  trades. 
She  had  decided  upon  a  young  person 


because  she  felt  that  she  had  young 
ideas.  Would  I  take  the  job  for  a  week 
on  trial,  so  that  she  could  determine 
whether  or  not  I  was  qualified  for  it?  I 
guess  I  must  have  looked  sort  of  glum, 
for  she  smiled  and  said  that  she  thought 
I'd  do. 

"It'll  do  you  good,  John.  You'll  learn 
to  meet  older  people  as  well  as  the  young 
— to  talk  with  them,  to  hold  their  inter- 
est. You'll  learn  to  appreciate  better 
music  and  books — I'll  want  you  to  read 
to  me  sometimes."  I  wondered,  secretly, 
how  I'd  ever  be  able  to  read  to  her  if 
she  talked  that  much  all  the  time. 

She  stood  up.  "All  right,  I'll  expect 
you  here  on  Monday  morning  at  eight; 
we'll  see  what  we  can  find  for  you  to 
do."  I  found  myself  being  gently  ushered 
out  the  door. 

I  stood  a  moment  to  collect  my 
thoughts.  What  was  I  going  to  be,  any- 
how, a  janitor,  social  secretary,  nurse- 
maid? She  hadn't  even  spoken  of  a 
salary — was  it  to  be  a  full-time  job?  Oh ! 
well,  it  sounded  easy.  I  guessed  I  had  no 
room  for  complaint. 

Monday  morning  I  arrived  bright  and 
early.  My  first  task  was  to  take  Mr. 
Jones  to  the  train.  He  looked  me  over 
and  said  to  wait  and  he'd  explain  every- 
thing about  the  car  to  me.  He  lectured 
a  good  long  hour  on  the  technique  of 
driving  a  Packard.  He  touched  lightly  on 
the  advantages  of  a  large  car  over  a  small 
one,  the  history  of  transportation,  and 
the  world  peace  situation.  (I  still  think 
I  know  more  about  an  automobile  than 
he  does.)    As  he  left  the  car  he  said, 


[11] 


"Just  do  everything  Mrs.  Jones'  way, 
Johnny,  and  you'll  get  along  fine." 

Mrs.  Jones  was  waiting  for  me  impa- 
tiently. 

"Johnny,  I  want  you  to  start  washing 
these  breakfast  dishes.  Then  take  the 
dust  mop  and  vacuum  cleaner  and  go 
over  the  whole  house.  Dust  all  of  the 
furniture,  empty  all  of  the  ash  trays  and 
the  waste  baskets.  Be  sure  to  water  the 
plants  and  change  the  water  on  the  cut 
flowers."  I  washed  and  dusted  and 
polished.  The  only  thing  I  lacked  was 
an  apron  and  a  lace  cap  to  be  the  perfect 
chambermaid.  I  scrubbed  floors,  washed 
shower  rooms,  cleaned  the  Venetian 
blinds — a  fine  chauffeur  I  turned  out 
to  be. 

"Johnny,  you  run  along  have  lunch 
now.  I  want  to  be  taken  to  Cooley's  at 
two  o'clock.  If  you  hurry  you  can  have 
the  car  washed  and  cleaned  in  plenty  of 
time.  I'll  give  you  rags  to  clean  the 
windows.  You'll  find  the  brush  and 
vacuum  cleaner  for  the  upholstery  in  the 
garage.  There's  a  special  brush  for  the 
white  tires.  Oh,  yes,  run  up  and  fill  the 
tank  with  gasoline.  All  you  need  to  wear 
is  a  suit  and  tie  when  you're  driving — 
you  can  change  while  you're  home  for 
lunch."  I  wondered  where  I  was  going 
to  find  time  to  run  home  for  lunch. 

I  raced  downstairs,  grumbling.  How 
did  she  expect  me  to  do  all  of  that  work 
on  that  big  hearse  before  two  o'clock? 
It  was  twelve  o'clock  already. 

I  washed  and  sweat  and  polished. 
Finally  I  straightened  up  and  looked  at 
my  watch — gosh,  one-thirty.  I  immedi- 
ately vetoed  the  idea  of  washing  under 
the  fenders  and  cleaning  the  upholstery, 
and  also  of  eating  lunch.  I  raced  for  the 
gas  and  oil,  washed,  threw  on  a  coat  and 
tie,  and  made  it  back  by  five  past  two. 

"Very  well,  Johnny;  I  see  you  finished 
up  in  good  time.   Now,  I  have  an  engage- 


ment in  the  loop  at  the  University  Club 
at  two-thirty.    I  must  be  there  on  time." 

I  wheeled  that  massive  Packard  onto 
Sheridan  Road,  headed  for  Chicago. 
The  loop  was  twenty  miles  away — I  had 
twenty-five  minutes.  It  would  take  me 
at  least  ten  minutes  to  get  through  the 
Loop.  What  did  she  think  I  was,  a  race 
driver? 

I  clamped  my  teeth  together  and 
pushed  the  accelerator  to  the  floor.  I'd 
either  get  her  there  on  time  or  lose  one 
good  Packard  in  the  attempt. 

My  eyes  ached  and  my  head  spun  as  I 
finally  pulled  up  to  the  loading  ramp  at 
the  club  at  twenty-five  minutes  to  three. 
Mrs.  Jones  was  pale  and  shaken. 

"I   didn't   realize  that  you'd  have  to 

drive  that  way  to  get  here  on  time.    I 

want  you  to  run  down  to  63rd  Street  and 

pick    up   my   silver    fox   at    Kolinsky's. 

.I'll  be  ready  to  leave  here  in  an  hour." 

I  drove  by  blind,  instinctive  judgment 
to  get  back  to  Mrs.  Jones  on  time.  I 
abused  that  beautiful  car,  skidded  around 
corners,  slammed  on  the  brakes,  ground 
the  gears — but  I  did  get  back  on  time. 

At  four  o'clock  we  returned  to  Evans- 
ton.  I  was  so  keyed  up  that  my  hands 
trembled  as  I  opened  the  door  for  my 
employer. 

"I'm  going  to  rest  until  dinner.  I 
want  you  to  drive  to  Trobsen's  in  Lake 
Forest  and  pick  up  some  cut  flowers  for 
me — and  then  call  for  Mr.  Jones  at  five- 
thirty  at  the  train." 

I  picked  up  Mr.  Jones  about  fifteen 
minutes  late.  He  took  one  look  at  me 
and  motioned  me  out  of  the  driver's 
seat.  My  eyes  were  blurred,  my  back 
ached. 

So  ended  my  first  day  as  chauffeur. 
Each  succeeding  day  became  more  nerve 
racking.  I  felt  tired  and  miserable — 
stale  from  sitting  behind  that  wheel  all 


[12] 


day   long — nervous    from   the   strain   of 
fast  driving  in  city  traffic. 

My  easy  job  soured  completely  by  the 
end  of  June — one  month  of  torture;  I 
quit  and  joined  a  construction  gang  as 


laborer.  Now  I  felt  that  I  was  accom- 
plishing something,  not  wearing  myself 
out  to  satisfy  the  whims  of  an  eccentric 
old  lady.  My  so-called  easy  job  turned 
out  a  nightmare. 


Roadbuilding  in  the  Mountains 

R.  L.  ROPIEQUET 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1938-1939 


NOW  I  could  understand  why  this 
narrow  gravel  road  was  named  the 
"Million  Dollar  Highway."  I  had  been 
laughing  at  the  misnomer  ever  since  we 
had  left  Durengo ;  it  had  seemed  the 
height  of  absurdity  to  me  to  refer  to  a 
sharp-curved,  steep-graded,  one-lane 
bridle  path  as  a  road  costing  a  million 
dollars,  for  I  had  been  comparing  it  with 
the  four-lane,  super-speedways  back  in 
Illinois.  I  changed  my  opinion  of  this 
road  when  I  saw,  right  before  my  eyes, 
the  difficulty  of  its  construction. 

Ahead,  the  road  was  choked  with  an 
enormous  quantity  of  irregular  rocks, 
which  had  been  blasted  off  the  cliff.  The 
mass  was  being  attacked  from  this  side 
by  a  caterpillar  tractor,  and  from  the  far 
side  by  a  throbbing  steam  shovel.  The 
steam  shovel  was  nibbling  carefully  with 
its  toothed  scoop,  gathering  a  little  debris 
at  each  nibble.  When  the  shovel  was  full, 
the  engineer  swung  the  arm  over  the 
edge  of  the  precipitous  cliff  and  dumped 
the  rocks.  Down,  down  they  thundered, 
careening  madly  until  they  came  to  rest 
in  the  valley  one  thousand  feet  below. 
Then  back  went  the  shovel  for  another 
load.  The  steam  shovel  was  inefficient 
however,  compared  to  the  small  Cater- 
pillar. On  the  front  of  the  tractor  was 
attached  a  curved  plate  of  heavy  steel. 


much  like  a  snowplow.  As  it  drove, 
this  plate  shoved  whole  masses  of  rocks 
over  the  edge  as  easily  as  a  snowplow 
pushes  snow  aside. 

One  huge  cube  of  rock  almost  four 
feet  on  a  side  nearly  thwarted  the  Cater- 
pillar. We  onlookers  had  a  lively  debate 
whether  or  not  the  little  tractor  could 
handle  it.  The  tractor  backed  up,  rushed 
forward,  and  butted  the  rock  with  a 
resounding  crash,  but  the  rock  did  not 
budge.  Again  and  again  the  tractor 
butted,  with  little  results.  Finally  it 
managed  to  get  a  hold  on  the  back  corner 
of  the  rock,  and  with  seeming  ease 
shoved  it  over  the  cliff.  We  all  gave  an 
involuntary  cheer  and  rushed  to  the  edge 
to  watch  the  stone's  mad  flight  down 
the  mountainside. 

It  was  an  hour  and  a  half  before  the 
construction  gang  had  cleared  enough  of 
the  road  to  let  the  cars  through.  And 
they  had  cleared  just  barely  enough — 
our  tires  were  only  a  few  inches  from  the 
edge  of  the  cliff  when  we  hugged  the 
inside  as  close  as  we  could.  When  I  saw 
the  difficult  task  it  was  to  clear  even 
this  narrow  space,  I  could  easily  see  why 
these  little  narrow  mountain  roads  cost 
so  much  money,  and  I  had  much  more 
respect  for  them  from  that  time  on. 


[13] 


Ski  Jump 


J,  W.  McIntosh 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  16,  1938-1939 


STANDING  on  top  of  the  runway  of 
the  Olympic  Ski  Jump,  I  can  see 
over  to  the  left  the  massive  Ol3^mpic 
Arena  towering  over  the  rest  of  the  vil- 
lage. Farther  to  the  right,  Lake  Placid 
and  Mirror  Lake  sprawl  white,  glistening 
against  their  dark  background  of  ever- 
greens. To  the  left,  the  Olympic  Bob 
Sled  Run  snakes  down  Mount  Van 
Hovenburg,  a  silver  thread  winding  down 
the  steep,  pine-covered  slope.  From  all 
sides  the  landscape  tumbles  toward  me, 
a  maze  of  white  snow  and  dark  ever- 
greens, leaping  down  steep  granite  crags, 
rolling  slowly  over  knolls  down  from 
the  mighty  peaks  of  the  sky  line. 

"There  he  goes !"  The  cry  travels 
through  the  crowd  lining  the  runway. 

A  dark  figure  hurtles  down  the  steep 
runway  off  into  space.  Beautifully  bal- 
anced, he  begins  to  come  up  from  his 
crouch,  his  arms  circling  slowly.  Sud- 
denly he  slips;  the  wind  is  under  his 
skis ;  the  rhythm  of  his  movements  is 
broken ;  he  reels  through  the  air,  hits  the 
slope  and  comes  to  a  skidding  stop,  a 
small  dark  blotch  at  the  bottom  of  the 
run.  Two  white  figures  move  toward 
him,  lift  him  on  a  stretcher  and  carry 
him  toward  the  club  house. 

"Twenty-three  on  deck." 

I  suddenly  realize  that  within  a  min- 
ute I  shall  be  riding  the  Olympic  Ski 
Jump.  I  glance  at  my  hickory  jumping- 
skis,  long  and  heavy,  leaning  against 
the  railing.  The  wax  is  evenly  coated 
over  the  flat  bottoms  and  over  the  three 
straight  grooves.    The  heavy,  low-slung 


leather  bindings,  the  steel  shoe  plates  and 
clamps,  the  bright  chrome  jumping 
springs  all  seem  strong.  They'll  never 
slip  or  let  go.  I  cannot  account  for  the 
feeling  of  nausea  in  my  stomach  or  the 
vivid  memory  of  the  dark  figure 
sprawled  at  the  foot  of  the  run.  I 
climb  onto  my  skis,  snap  the  bindings, 
and  for  the  first  time  I  look  intently 
down  the  runway ;  a  hundred  yards  of 
thirty-degree  slope,  it  looks  almost  per- 
pendicular, with  the  drop  below ;  then 
far  below,  the  landing,  the  grandstands 
filled  with  people ;  the  colors  of  the 
crowd  clash  and  begin  to  swirl  and  sink 
farther  away;  below  the  hop-off  there 
seems  nothing  but  emptiness.  The  sick 
feeling  becomes  more  intense. 

"Ready,  twenty-three?" 

The  flag  drops.  A  last  look  around.  A 
deep  breath.  Quick  strides  left,  right, 
and  Fm  riding.  I  pick  up  speed  down 
the  runway;  I  crouch  deeper  to  offset 
my  speed,  my  arms  coming  back  as  the 
drop  rushes  toward  me.  It  seems  that 
my  old  instructor  is  riding  with  me;  I 
can  hear  his  crisp  German  voice  clearly: 
"Crouch  deeper,  back  with  the  arms 
....  not  yet,  steady,  cool  ....  now !" 
My  arms  swing  forward,  my  body 
straightens,  I  lean  forward  from  my 
hips.  As  I  lean  into  the  wind,  I  leave 
the  runway;  I'm  in  space,  actually  flying, 
with  nothing  but  two  boards  under  me! 
My  arms  rotate  slowly  in  wide  circles 
to  help  maintain  balance.  The  landing 
slope  is  coming  up  now ;  I  lean  slowly 


[14] 


backward,  carefully  maintaining  my  bal- 
ance. Now  the  acid  test  of  the  jump. 
The  skis  settle  easily,  perfectly  flat, 
close  together ;  springy  knees  take  up  the 


shock  of  contact.  It's  over.  I  ride  the 
landing  slope  and  up  the  stopping  slope; 
a  quick  skid  turn,  and  I  stop  in  a  spray 
of  powdered  snow. 


Grand  Hotel 

Webb  Miller 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1938-1939 


I  CALL  IT  the  Grand  Hotel  because 
it  is  representative  of  middle-class, 
big-city  hotels.  Its  real  name  is  not  that, 
however,  nor  is  it  "The  Little  Biltmore," 
which  every  member  of  the  hotel  staff 
derisively  called  it  because  it  clung  to 
the  little,  airy  pretensions  of  a  time  when 
handle-bar  moustaches  were  de  rigeur 
and  derbies  were  the  order  of  the  day. 
It  was  built  prior  to  the  old  Chicago 
World's  Fair  (1893),  and,  for  the  time 
and  place,  it  must  have  been  a  sump- 
tuous hotel.  In  those  days  Hyde  Park 
was  an  individualistic  little  prairie  village 
watching  the  gap  of  prairie  between  its 
city  limits  and  those  of  encroaching 
Chicago  dwindle  with  each  year.  Dr. 
Jager,  who  came  from  Heidelberg  to 
become  chief  medical  officer  of  the  Co- 
lumbian Exposition  and  who  had  stayed 
at  the  hotel  ever  since,  used  to  say,  "My 
boy,  I  can  remember  during  the  second 
Cleveland  administration  when  fine 
ladies  in  voluminous  silk  skirts,  balloon 
sleeves,  and  hats  twice  as  large  as  their 
parasols  would  drive  up  in  hansoms, 
tiptoe  over  the  mud,  enter  that  door, 
and  walk  right  down  this  very  aisle, 
their  hands  resting  daintily  on  the  arms 
of  their  dandy  escorts.  Yessir,  then  the 
Holland  Hotel  was  known  all  over  the 
country."  The  place  had  not  decayed,  it 
was   still   rugged,   staunchly  built,   well- 


preserved  ;  like  fine  old  whiskey  in  an 
oak  barrel,  it  had  mellowed. 

New  blood  was  to  be  infused  into  the 
hardened  arteries  of  the  Old  Holland: 
new  paper  on  the  walls,  new  carpets  on 
the  floors,  new  bookkeeping  system  for 
the  front  office  (the  old  system  was  con- 
temporaneous with  the  architectural  style 
of  the  building),  and  a  new  night  clerk 
for  the  desk  (I  was  the  new  clerk).  The 
new  deal  for  the  Old  Holland  was  dealt 
in  early  1934  before  the  opening  of  the 
second  year  of  the  Century  of  Progress 
Exposition.  The  motto  of  the  new  owner 
was  "No  room  in  business  for  senti- 
ment" ;  his  ukase,  "Collect  the  rent  or 
plug  'em  out."  In  a  few  months  the 
reputation  of  the  hotel,  and  the  dodder- 
ing, old,  Victorian  character  of  the  place 
changed  completely. 

With  the  possible  exceptions  of  the 
professions  of  undertaking  and  the  min- 
istry, in  no  business  is  the  aspirant  more 
completely  remoulded  to  conform  to  the 
popular  conception  of  the  professional 
"ideal"  than  in  the  business  of  being  a 
hotel  front  office  man.  To  be  successful 
in  most  fields  one  must  have  usual 
qualifications  such  as  those  possessed  by 
anybody;  in  addition  he  must  be  able  to 
acquire  skill  with  practice.  Thus  any- 
body who  can  acquire  the  technique  of 
handling  corpses  can  become  an  under- 


[15] 


taker,  provided  he  has  an  amorphous, 
putty-like  demeanor  which  he  can  change 
to  suit  the  propriety  of  the  death  bed; 
similarly  he  who  with  practice  becomes 
more  and  more  dexterous  at  saving  souls 
may  be  a  potential  Bill  Sunday,  Dean 
Inge,  or  S.  Parkes  Cadman,  provided 
his  face  is  flexible  enough.  But,  your 
successful  hotel  clerk  can  be  no  eeny- 
meeny-miny-mo  fellow,  no  run-of-the- 
mine  hunk  of  coal.  He  must  be  an  extra- 
ordinary creature,  as  resourceful  as 
money;  his  thought,  poise,  tongue,  and 
action  must  be  extemporaneous  and 
always  correct.  His  ear  should  listen 
willingly  to  Old  Man  McDonald's  oft- 
repeated  tale — "When  I  was  your  age, 
we  used  to  raise  .  .  .  ." ;  he  should  say, 
"Right,  absolutely  right,"  when  the 
small-fry  business  man  in  617  fulminates 
against  the  government.  His  political 
coat  will  be  of  many  colors,  for  he  must 
also  be  of  one  accord  with  the  guest  who 
drapes  himself  over  the  desk  and  casti- 
gates "them  damned  Republicans."  The 
elderly  maiden  lad}'  in  201  would  move 
out  of  the  scandalous  hotel  if  she  found 
out  that  you,  the  clerk,  are  not  the  fine 
young  man  she  thought  you  were.  You 
must  be  hail-fellow-well-met  with  the 
young,  respectable  element  of  the  hotel 
but  be  careful  about  fraternizing  too 
much  with  them.  You  must  be  a  holy 
terror  to  all  disorderly  drunks  from  with- 
out, and  assertive,  yet  gentle,  to  those 
within  the  hotel.  You  must  be  glib, 
courteous,  and  genial,  but  not  too  much 
so  when  called  upon  to  "bounce"  a  belli- 
cose drunk. 

My  first  nights  as  a  clerk  were  spent 
handling  the  mad  mobs  come  from  all 
corners  of  the  earth  to  see  the  glorified 
county  fair  called  the  Century  of  Prog- 
ress— gaping  Carolina  hill-billies,  total 
strangers   to   elevators — guileless   Ozark 


folk,  first  time  out  of  Boone  County, 
Arkansas,  looking  in  every  corner  for 
gangsters  (one  jungle- jack  asked  me  to 
keep  ten  dollars  in  the  hotel  safe  for 
him:  "I  heard  all  about  this  town 
.  .  .  .").  Any  hotel  clerk  is  an  infor-  _ 
mation  bureau ;  when  thousands  of  I 
strangers  are  his  inquisitors  as  during 
the  Fair,  one  has  to  be,  and  I  was,  a 
Baedeker  of  everything  and  nothing. 
"Oh,  clerk,  how  do  we  get  to  the  slums?" 
"Madam,  we  have  no  slums  in  Chicago ; 
however,  we  do  have  some  depressed 
areas.  Take  the  car  in  front,  transfer 
at  twenty-second  ....  be  careful  of  the 
hatchet  men  in  Chinatown ;  tong  war, 
you  know."  "We  want  to  go  where  Dil- 
linger  was  killed."  "Nothing  there, 
madam ;  show,  tavern,  alley  ....  no,  I 
didn't  see  the  shooting  nor  dig  up  the 
bloody  bricks." 

Unavoidable  accidents  will  occur  re- 
quiring police,  ambulances,  and  a  cool 
head.  At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  J 
Bill  Keane,  a  young  Irish  waiter  at  * 
Burke's  Tavern,  came  in  drunk,  stag- 
gered into  his  room,  six  floors  up,  and 
staggered  right  on  out  the  open  win- 
dow. His  moans  awoke  the  entire  hotel. 
The  only  access  to  the  court  to  which  he 
had  fallen  was  through  the  kitchen  of 
an  apartment  occupied  by  an  Oklahoma 
farmer  and  his  family,  just  arrived  to 
see  the  Fair.  I  all  but  broke  down  the 
door  to  enter  the  apartment.  The  farm- 
er's eyes  were  like  banjoes ;  women  with 
hanging  hair  were  all  over  the  place. 
When  I  carried  the  bleeding  body  of 
Keane  back  through  the  kitchen,  the  old 
woman  fainted  dead  away.  "I  knew 
something  like  this  would  happen,"  post- 
prophesied  the  old  man.  At  sunrise  the 
family  confronted  me  en  masse.  "I'm 
not  staying  in  this  place  another  night," 
vowed  Father  as  he  turned  in  the  key. 


[16] 


"Stick  around,  and  we'll  throw  somebody 
else  out  the  window,"  the  manager  re- 
torted as  the  door  closed  on  them. 

Blessed  are  the  peace  makers,  for  they 
shall  be  called  the  children  of  God — 
small  recompense  for  the  difficult  situa- 
tions through  which  the  poised  hotel 
clerk  daily  moves.  Sometimes  these  situ- 
ations resolve  at  a  raised  voice.  Early 
one  morning  I,  in  my  official  capacity  as 
night  clerk  and  unofficial  one  as  arbiter 
of  inter-room  affrays,  stood  at  one  end 
of  the  fifth-floor  hall  (this  was  the 
"jinx"  floor,  all  illegal  acts  stemmed 
from  the  fifth)  and  advised  the  occu- 
pants in  my  best  top-sergeant  manner, 
"The  next  guy  that  throws  a  coffee  pot 
is  going  to  get  thrown  himself,  Swedish 
count  or  not."  The  disputants,  an  engi- 
neer, reputed  to  be  a  Swedish  nobleman 
masquerading  as  a  "commoner,"  and  his 
fiancee  (she  of  the  coffee  pot-projectile) 
effected  a  rapprochement  and  abused 
me.  Sometimes  the  cries  of  "Gentlemen, 
gentlemen,"  are  ineffective  in  keeping 
peace,  as  in  the  case  of  the  hard-boiled, 
well-to-do  inventor  who  resorted  to  per- 
suasive force  when  his  veracity  was  im- 
pugned. He  had  always  maintained  that 
it  was  he  who  killed  Grat  Dalton,  one  of 
the  Oklahoma  desperado  Daltons,  during 
the  famous  bank  robbery  in  Coffeyville, 


Kansas,  in  1891,  in  proof  of  which  he 
would  show  a  photograph,  taken  at  the 
time  and  scene  of  the  crime,  of  the 
corpses  of  Grat  and  Bob  Dalton  and  of 
an  uncouth  individual,  Texas  Jack  by 
name.  The  brawl  which  started  in  the 
lobby  when  a  Kansas  guest  called  him  a 
liar  stopped  only  when  I  called  three 
bell  boys  and  conducted  the  ex-vigilante 
and  his  libeler  to  the  street.  I  have  par- 
tially investigated  the  inventor's  story, 
and  it  is  plausible  that  he  did  kill  one 
of  the  Daltons. 

Hotel  people  are  notorious  Jekyll  and 
Hydes,  but  not  because  they  are  deceit- 
ful by  nature.  To  keep  his  job  the  hotel 
"front  man"  must  keep  his  reputation; 
therefore  when  he  relaxes  in  the  cup  that 
cheers,  to  which  he  is  inevitably  driven 
by  incidents  herein  described,  he  repairs 
to  a  locale  where  he  is  a  stranger.  The 
veteran  hotel  man  behaves  scandalously 
when  not  "on  location."  He  may  be  a 
gem  of  deportment  "behind  the  front" 
(on  duty),  but  away  from  his  job,  away 
from  the  flock  of  sheep  that  is  the  public, 
his  insincere  grace  is  gone,  and  the  gem 
is  not  so  flawless.  Few  "gentlemen" 
are  in  the  hotel  business.  They  cease 
to  be  hotel  men  or  they  cease  to  be 
"gentlemen." 


•  •  • 


As  desolate  as  a  February  scarecrow. — Martin  Corbell 


•  ■  •  • 


b 


Her  laughter  had  splinters  in  it. — Josephine  Farrell 


[17] 


Master  Production 


Marjorie  Ann  Hagen 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1938-1939 


THE  CURTAIN  closes  on  the  second 
act  of  The  Merry  Masons  or  Granpa 
Steps  Out,  and  Miss  Carson,  the  direc- 
tor of  the  play,  and  Mary  Pitts,  the 
charming  leading  lady,  step  momentarily 
outside  the  curtain.  As  the  hushed 
murmurs  of  the  crowd  subside,  Ann  pre- 
sents Miss  Carson  with  flowers  and 
begins,  "The  cast  of  this  play  wish  to 
present  you  with  these  flowers  as  a  token 
of  their  appreciation  for  your  splendid 
and  cheerful  direction  of  this  produc- 
tion." Whereupon  Miss  Pitts  responds 
with  comments  on  the  most  unusual  co- 
operation shown  by  all  members  of  the 
cast. 

I  relax  in  my  third-row  seat  and  with 
an  all-knowing  chuckle  say,  "Nuts."  I'm 
willing  to  stake  my  last  dollar  on  the  fact 
that  Miss  Carson  wasn't  cheerful  and 
that  there  wasn't  any  cooperation  shown 
among  the  cast  except,  maybe,  at  try- 
outs  and  on  this  final  evening.  I  know ; 
I've  been  in  plays  directed  by  Miss  Car- 
son myself,  and  if  there  was  any  co- 
operation it  certainly  wasn't  apparent. 
Nevertheless,  these  high  school  plays  are 
wonderful  experiences — in  more  ways 
than  one. 

However,  the  first  step  in  obtaining 
such  an  experience  is  securing  a  much- 
envied  part  in  this  mammoth  production. 
Therefore,  the  day  of  the  try-outs  finds 
everyone  present  from  "Half-Pint"  Har- 
per, whose  voice  is  changing  and  conse- 
quently has  an  inclination  to  be  a  bit 
squeaky  in  spots,  to  Henrietta,  who  will 
probably  be  cast  as  the   fat  cook,  pro- 


viding there  is  a  fat  cook  in  the  play. 
Of  course,  everyone  is  just  trying  out  for 
a  lark  or  because  he  didn't  have  any- 
thing else  to  do  for  the  time  being,  and 
no  one  expects  to  get  in  the  play.  Should 
the  more  honest  nature  of  those  con- 
cerned show  itself,  I'm  certain  that  we'd 
hear  tales  of  posing  for  hours  and  gri- 
macing before  a  mirror.  To  be  sure 
Josephine  didn't  spend  all  last  evening 
ejaculating  in  a  tragic  voice,  "Curfew 
must  not  ring  tonight,"  for  her  own 
amusement. 

The  list  of  prospective  members  for  the 
cast  is  posted  in  the  morning,  and  certain 
people  (not  to  mention  any  names)  find 
it  necessary  to  come  to  school  consider- 
ably earlier  than  usual — to  do  some 
studying,  of  course. 

The  tension  and  strain  that  we  have 
been  laboring  under  for  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours  finally  break  when  we  find 
that  "we  made  it."  Hardly  able  to  re- 
press the  emotion  that  is  surging  within 
us,  we  see  visions  of  our  future  stage 
career  expanding  to  the  point  of  putting 
Bernhardt  herself  to  shame. 

After  a  week  or  so  of  grueling  prac- 
tice the  novelty  wears  off  and  enthusiasm 
begins  to  wane.  The  director  sets  Tues- 
day night  as  the  deadline  for  having 
Act  I  learned.  Tuesday  night  arrives  and 
naturally  no  one  knows  his  part.  Every 
one  either  had  to  study  for  a  Chem  exam 
or  had  to  sit  up  all  night  with  a  sick 
friend.  (It's  rather  strange  to  note  the 
unusual  amount  of  illness  that  seems  to 
be  prevalent  among  the   friends  of  the 


[18] 


cast.)  Thursday  night  comes  and  still 
no  one  has  memorized  Act  I.  Then  our 
director  gathers  her  little  flock  around 
her  and  delivers  a  very  effective  lecture 
on  the  importance  of  learning  one's  lines 
when  they  are  supposed  to  be  learned. 
We  all  promise  faithfully  to  go  home 
immediately  to  study;  but  we  don't.  I 
should  say  not ;  it's  too  much  fun  to  pile 
into  George's  Model  T  and  "crate" 
around  town  after  practice.  After  all,  we 
can  study  our  parts  in  English  class 
tomorrow. 

Each  night  it's  the  same  old  story — 
no  one  knows  his  lines.  Oh,  maybe  a 
few  suckers  make  a  feeble  attempt  at 
memorization.  In  desperation  the  direc- 
tor invites  the  principal  of  the  school 
to  attend  rehearsal.  As  he  sits  and  glares, 
we  stutter  and  stammer  through  our 
parts,  all  the  time  wishing  we  had  done 
as  we  were  told. 

Now  that  the  play  is  progressing  more 
smoothly,  we  begin  to  pay  more  atten- 
tion to  life  back  stage  than  to  what's 
going  on  out  in  front,  and  practice  takes 
on  added  interest.  Granpa,  played  by 
George,  becomes  so  infatuated  by  the 
little  blonde  who's  sitting  on  his  lap  that 
he  forgets  to  watch  for  his  cue  and  is 
startled  by  the  shriek,  "George,  where 
are  you?  Please!  Please!  Pay  atten- 
tion !"  George  spills  his  blonde  on  the 
floor  and  rushes  on  stage,  meanwhile 
forgetting  his  line.  Then  our  charming 
director  calls  us  around  her  once  more 
and  informs  us  that  if  we  don't  get  down 
to  business  there  will  be  no  play. 

Each  night  the  cast  misses  more  cues 
and  the  director  gets  more  irritated,  until 
finally  getting  a  little  talk  on  what  we 
must  and  must  not  do  is  merely  part  of 
the  natural  routine. 

But  merely  getting  the  cast  to  learn 
lines  is  not  the  only  difficulty  in  the  pro- 


duction of  a  play.  About  three  nights 
before  the  presentation  in  public  some- 
one discovers  that  all  the  girls  have  blue 
dresses  for  the  first  act,  yellow  ones  for 
the  second,  and  green  ones  for  the  third. 
No  one  will  listen  to  reason,  and  each 
girl  stubbornly  refuses  to  change  her 
costume  since  it  was  purchased  especially 
for  the  play.  In  the  end  we  all  wear 
some  other  dresses  which  we  know  look 
positively  hideous  with  our  eyes  or  bag 
horribly  in  back. 

To  make  matters  worse,  the  leading 
man  refuses  to  practice  properly  his  big 
love  scene  with  the  leading  lady.  He 
positively  will  not  kiss  her,  because  his 
girl  is  going  to  see  the  play,  and  she 
might  not  like  it.  And  finally  all  the  male 
characters  unite  in  an  effort  to  resist  any 
application  of  make-up  and  grease  paint. 

Dress  rehearsals !  They  positively 
should  be  eliminated.  There  is  nothing 
so  detrimental  to  the  outlook  of  success 
for  a  play  as  these.  About  a  third  of 
the  people  don't  bring  their  costumes, 
and  Jim  is  sure  to  forget  the  alarm 
clock  he  is  supposed  to  bring  in  at  the 
end  of  the  first  act.  The  leading  man 
forgets  his  lines  and  makes  a  perfect 
mess  out  of  the  second  act,  and  Granpa, 
who  is  interested  in  that  blonde  again, 
doesn't  hear  Mother  as  she  stand  on 
the  stage  and  screams,  "There  comes 
Granpa  now." 

The  curtain  rings  down  on  the  last  act, 
and  our  final  instructions  are,  "For 
heaven's  sake,  go  home  and  get  some 
sleep."  We  don't.  The  "Model  T"  still 
runs. 

The  final  night,  which  a  month  ago 
seemed  but  a  spot  on  the  horizon,  looms 
large  before  us,  and  we  begin  to  think 
that  maybe  our  director  was  right.  We 
should  have  paid  more  attention  to  prac- 


[19] 


ticing.  Since  it's  too  late  to  think  about 
that  now,  we  face  the  ordeal  with  an  "I 
can  do  it — I  hope"  attitude. 

The  lights  are  dimmed ;  the  auditorium 
is  darkened;  the  footlights  are  turned 
on  as  the  curtains  slowly  part  for  the 
first  act.  There  is  a  silence  which  petri- 
fies us  with  fear;  beads  of  cold  perspira- 
tion stand  out  on  our  foreheads  and 
trickle  down  our  left  eyebrows.  We 
chew  our  fingernails  and  fondly  pet  the 
rabbit's  foot  that  we  brought  along  for 
luck. 

The  play  is  on.  As  we  step  for  the 
first  time  upon  the  stage  we  suddenly 
become  calm.  This  is  nothing.  Tonight 
we  are  no  longer  high  school  students 
reciting  lines,  but,  as  if  by  magic,  we  are 


transformed  into  our  characters.  Granpa 
remembers  his  cue,  and  Jim  brings  in  his 
alarm  clock  at  the  right  time.  The  play 
runs  smoothly  on. 

Everyone  is  happy  and  thrilled  by  the 
glamor  of  the  stage.  All  dissension  and 
harsh  words  have  been  forgotten.  At  the 
end  of  the  second  act,  the  director  and 
the  charming  leading  lady  step  momen- 
tarily outside  the  curtain.  As  the  hushed 
murmur  of  the  crowd  subsides,  the  lead- 
ing lady  presents  the  director  with  a 
bouquet  of  flowers  and  begins,  "The 
cast  of  this  play  wish  to  present  you  with 
these  flowers  as  a  token  of  their  appre- 
ciation for — " 

Same  old  stufT,  same  old  story — it's  all 
in  a  high  school  play. 


Slow  and  Easy 

"Here's  Art — you're  going  to  work  with  him  a  while."  Swede,  my  foreman, 
motioned  in  the  direction  of  a  tall,  seemingly  loose-jointed  and  awkward  Bohemian. 
After  the  Swede  had  left.  Art  looked  down  at  me  and  rubbed  the  stubble  on  his  chin 
with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  as  if  to  say  "What  can  I  do  with  this  little  fellow?" 
Finally  he  said,  "I  guess  you  can  stick  a  few  of  these  rivets  into  this  bin — like  this." 
He  picked  up  a  shovel,  scooped  up  about  thirty-five  pounds  of  rivets,  and  tossed 
them  into  the  bin  over  his  head  with  a  movement  of  his  forearms  and  wrists.  After 
watching  his  carefully  timed  movements  for  a  few  moments,  I  realized  that  his 
awkwardness  was  a  mere  illusion  created  by  his  height.  "OK — now  you  try'er,"  he 
said,  leaning  back  against  a  bin  and  taking  a  huge  bite  of  "chaw."  While  watching 
my  first,  rather  amusing  efforts,  he  pushed  his  safety  goggles  up  on  his  forehead,  and 
I  saw  that  he  was  smiling,  not  with  his  mouth,  but  with  his  eyes.  "Wal,  tak'er  slow 
and  easy  and  you'll  get  there,"  he  drawled,  and  I  suddenly  realized  that  this  was  the 
rule  he  used  to  time  his  own  actions.  His  slow,  careful  speech,  his  ambling  gait,  his 
methodical  work  methods,  all  fitted  in  with  his  easy-going  nature.  He  was  as  tolerant 
of  other  people  as  he  was  of  himself,  so  that  working  with  him  was  a  pleasure. 

— George  R.  Evans 


[20] 


Memories 


James  I.  Fender 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1938-1939 


ONLY  a  boy  who  has  hved  in  a  small 
town — a  Simmons  Corners  or  a 
Hickory  Junction — knows  the  true  spirit 
of  that  favorite  time  of  year  for  all  boys 
and  outdoor  men — hunting  season.  To 
the  boy  who  lives  and  goes  to  school  in 
a  town  of  six  or  seven  hundred,  where 
the  only  paved  street  is  the  state  high- 
way through  town,  and  the  men  loaf  in 
the  post  office  every  morning  until  the 
mail  is  out,  it  is  more  than  a  time  to 
kill  birds  and  animals,  destroy  property, 
and  break  laws.  To  him,  coming  as  it 
does  on  the  heels  of  Thanksgiving  and 
lasting  through  Christmas,  it  is  a  sacred 
season,  one  which  shows  him  new  won- 
ders, or  perhaps  the  forgotten  wonders 
of  last  year,  and  teaches  him  that  it  is 
good  to  be  alive  and  able  to  enjoy  God's 
outdoors. 

Groves  is  just  such  a  town,  and  Jim  is 
just  such  a  boy.  All  week  the  sound 
of  far-away  shotguns  has  reached  his 
ears  above  the  voices  of  wearisome 
school  teachers.  Now  it  is  Friday.  School 
is  out  until  another  week.  Jim  leaves  the 
old  stucco  building,  takes  his  books  home, 
then  goes  up  town. 

Up  to  the  hard  road  and  around  the 
corner  past  the  furniture  store  and  Doc 
Wharton's  dilapidated  office,  to  "The 
City  Market,"  and  Thorton's  drug  store. 
Standing  on  the  sidewalk  are  small 
groups  of  men — threes  and  fours  in 
huddles  of  high-topped  boots  fringed  at 
the  top  with  cockleburs  imbedded  in 
fuzzy  wool  stockings,  dull  khaki  breeches, 
stiff  canvas  hunting  coats,  and  half-ex- 
posed shell  vests  studded  with  the  yellow 
brass  heads  of  unused   12-gauge  cases. 


There  is  something  unusual,  something 
chill  and  smoky  in  the  air,  that  makes 
them  feel  good  way  down  inside  as  they 
talk  hurriedly,  once  in  a  while  pointing 
in  some  direction  to  indicate  where  the 
luck  has  been  good. 

Truck  drivers  and  village  loafers,  sud- 
denly come  to  life,  talk  easily  with  bank 
presidents  from  Chicago  and  baseball 
players  from  St.  Louis.  Here  tired  men 
have  come  to  seek  a  few  days  away  from 
the  busy  outside  world.  Money  and 
prejudices  are  forgotten.  The  rich  meet 
the  poor,  the  poor  the  rich.  It  is  as  God 
wants  things  to  be.    It  is  hunting  season. 

How  Jim  and  the  other  boys  admire 
the  grown-ups'  hunting  outfits — shiny 
automatics,  oily  boots,  their  clothes,  and 
cars  equipped  for  outdoor  men.  They 
think  of  the  years  ahead  when  they  can 
come  back  in  hunting  season,  and 
promise  themselves  to  take  some  kid 
along  with  them,  for  they  know  how 
much  happiness  it  will  bring  them  both. 

Down  past  the  stores  Jim  goes.  All 
the  delights  of  an  old  Christmas  and 
some  of  the  new  shine  out  from  every 
window,  for  the  slatey,  scurrying  clouds 
overhead  have  brought  an  early  dark- 
ness, and  now  the  stores  are  lighted. 
In  red -and -green -decorated  windows 
framed  with  strings  of  small  Christmas 
tree  lights  are  tin  pails  of  candy — sticks, 
lumps,  chunks, — every  color  of  the  rain- 
bow. Cheery  holly  wreaths  hang  on  the 
doors  and  "Merry  Xmas"  signs  in  every 
window.  It  isn't  advertising;  the  home 
people  who  run  the  stores  really  mean  it. 

Inside  are  baskets  of  nuts  and  golden 
popcorn,  jugs  of  cider,  apples,  cranber- 


[21] 


ries,  sticky  kegs  of  mince  meat,  pump- 
kins and  sweet-smelling  vegetables  just 
spilled  from  the  horn  of  plenty.  Through 
the  steamed  windows  of  large  ice  boxes 
plump  turkeys  and  chickens,  hams  and 
freshly  killed  beef  show  white  and 
waxen.  On  worn  wooden  counters  are 
boxes  of  cookies  which  each  customer 
"samples"  as  he  leaves,  fruit  cakes,  and 
punchboards  with  "a  delicious  fruit  cake 
to  the  lucky  winner."  Even  Jim's  young 
heart  catches  the  spirit  of  good  cheer, 
friendliness,  and  plenty. 

Inside  the  drug  store,  its  shelves  loaded 
with  cellophane-covered  boxes  of  candy 
and  bottles  of  every  patent  medicine  ever 
invented,  Jim  stands  near  the  old  stove 
and  listens  to  tales  of  the  day's  hunting 
told  by  the  town's  prize  marksman  and 
tall-story  teller.  Then  he  goes  home  to 
supper,  listens  awhile  to  the  Montgomery 
Ward  radio,  and  goes  to  bed. 

There  is  enough  city  boy  in  Jim  to 
keep  him  asleep  until  eight-thirty  or 
nine  o'clock  the  next  morning,  a  late 
hour  for  that  wide-awake  country  vil- 
lage. He  is  awakened  by  shouts  of  "Jim, 
someone  to  see  you." 

"Who?" 

"Mike." 

"OK,  I'm  coming." 

Out  of  bed  he  tumbles,  downstairs, 
and  in  his  pajamas  opens  the  back  door. 
There  stands  Mike,  his  chief  buddy,  a 
chubby- faced  kid  who  doesn't  get  mad 
when  he's  called  a  "Dutchman." 

"  'Ey,  Jim,  le's  go  huntin'."  Jim  could 
have  told  you  the  exact  words  before 
Mike  spoke. 

"OK,  where?" 

"Le's  go  down  to  the  crick,"  says 
Mike. 

Ten  o'clock  finds  the  two  "down  to  the 
crick,"  Jim  in  a  new  hunting  coat  carry- 


ing his  oft-shined  .410-gauge,  single- 
barrel  gun.  There  is  a  tremendous  bulge 
in  the  game  pocket  of  his  coat — part  of 
a  tent  and  a  Boy  Scout  cook  kit.  On 
his  feet  are  a  pair  of  trim  ankle  boots, 
just  purchased,  after  a  long  wrangle 
with  Mom  and  Dad,  on  the  grocery  bill 
down  at  Morris's  store.  Mike  ploughs 
through  the  briars  along  the  crick,  letting 
brute  strength  and  a  second-hand  pair  of 
briar-proof  breeches  rather  than  estab- 
lished paths  make  his  way  easier.  Cocked 
over  one  arm  rests  a  single-shot  20- 
gauge  which  gave  some  mail  order  com- 
pany seven  dollars'  worth  of  business 
when  it  was  purchased. 

All  morning,  ever  since  it  drizzled  at 
seven,  the  sky  has  been  cloudy,  but  as  the 
two  started  out  the  sun  peeped  through 
the  clouds  as  if  to  give  them  assurance 
of  not  being  soaked  by  a  chilly  Illinois 
rain.  Now  clouds  are  again  covering  the 
sky,  and  both  boys  begin  to  discuss  the 
possibilities  of  being  rained  on.  They 
feel  as  soldiers  must,  though,  prepared 
for  anything.  Their  clothes  are  made  to 
shed  water,  and  besides,  there  is  that  part 
of  a  tent  which  they  have  with  them. 

The  bare  crab-apple  trees  fringing 
every  little  draw  are  purple  and  hazy, 
and  the  last  leaves  of  autumn  cling  to 
the  trees  in  Moore's  orchard  where  the 
boys  stop  to  fill  their  pockets  with  apples. 
The  familiar  grove  of  catalpas  is  grey, 
sombre,  a  square  block  of  shadows. 
Overhead  a  hawk  circles  silently,  and  the 
boys  squat,  hoping  it  will  fl}'  their  way 
so  they  can  have  a  shot  at  it.  There  is 
something  about  the  place,  the  entire 
countryside,  which  stirs  up  feelings 
known  only  to  those  who  have  experi- 
enced them.  The  fields  and  trees  and 
creeks  are  lonely  and  still,  but  they  make 
the  boys  want  to  be  lonely  and  still.  The 
vastness  of  it,  the  haze  as  they  look  down 


[22] 


across  the  shallow  valley,  the  brown 
weeds  cracking  underfoot,  sweeping  their 
arms.  Many  boys  have  felt  the  same 
way,  but  only  God  can  show  all  this  to 
someone  who  has  never  been  "out 
huntin'." 

The  knock,  knock,  of  a  farmer  tossing 
shucked  corn  against  the  backboard  of 
his  wagon  comes  to  their  ears  as  the  two 
temporarily  leave  the  creek  and  go  down 
an  abandoned  road,  the  trees  and  brush 
on  each  side  grown  so  high  and  thick 
that  they  almost  meet  in  the  middle. 
Guns  ready,  they  advance,  anxiously 
awaiting  that  whirr  of  wings  which  they 
hope  to  hear,  and  which  will  give  them 
shots  at  their  king  of  game  birds,  quail. 

The  road  leads  back  to  the  creek,  and 
there  they  leave  it.  Through  weeds  as 
high  as  their  heads  they  go  down  an 
almost  indiscernible  path  paralleling  the 
shallow,  weed-choked  strip  of  water. 
Suddenly  the  brush  to  their  right  ex- 
plodes, shooting  up  a  dozen  grey-brown, 
speeding  feathered  balls.  Bang!  Both 
guns  go  off  almost  as  one,  and  there  is 
a  puff  of  feathers  in  the  air  where  a 
second  before  was  a  bob  white. 

"I  got  one,"  Jim  yells,  and  Mike  just 
flashes  his  sheepish  grin,  clears  his  throat 
and  spits  as  he  slips  another  shell  into 
his  gun.  Jim  retrieves  his  bird  from  the 
soggy  edge  of  the  creek,  fondles  its 
camouflaging  feathers,  and  slips  it  ten- 
derly into  the  game  pocket  in  the  back 
of  his  new  coat.  It  is  the  first  quail  that 
has  ever  been  there. 

The  path  meanders  back  to  the  left,  up 
the  side  of  a  slope  on  the  old  creek  bluff, 
and  there  the  two  leave  it  and  go  along 
the  side  of  the  hill  through  a  stand  of 
old  elm  trees  that  has  been  all  but 
cleared.  A  hundred  yards  in  this  direc- 
tion they  come  on  an  old  fallen  tree, 
whose  upturned  crotch  will  make  a  fine 


shelter  if  they  only  lay  the  part  of  a 
tent  across  it. 

Mike  fishes  it  out  of  Jim's  back  pocket, 
and  none  too  soon,  for  as  he  does,  it 
commences  to  rain.  Quickly  they  con- 
struct a  makeshift  hut,  facing  the  open 
side  with  bark  and  logs  to  keep  out  the 
drizzle.  Enough  wood  to  last  for  a  long 
while  is  gathered  and  put  in  out  of  the 
rain.  The  quail  is  cleaned,  a  fire  coaxed 
from  the  partly  damp  wood,  and  a  snack 
of  quail  and  sausage  is  cooked.  The 
warm  food  makes  them  feel  good,  but 
the  rain  falls  faster  and  harder — it  soon 
is  a  good  old  Southern  Illinois  rain,  pene- 
trating, cold,  and  damp. 

The  water  begins  to  come  through  the 
top  of  the  tent;  their  clothes  shed  it. 
Now  even  their  clothes  are  becoming 
damp.  They  swear  in  their  own  mild- 
mannered  way,  cursing  the  rain,  but  in- 
wardly wishing  it  to  continue.  Peace  and 
contentment  come  to  them  as  they  huddle 
there,  looking  out  over  the  valley  bottom, 
up  and  down  the  hill,  and  into  the  jungle- 
like woods,  drinking  in  every  drop  of  its 
beauty  and  solemnity.  The  world  looks 
better  through  the  rain. 

Finally,  after  two  or  three  hours,  at 
about  three  o'clock  one  of  them  makes  a 
motion  to  head  back  for  town.  There's 
something  exciting  about  walking  in  the 
rain,  especially  when  prepared  for  it  as 
these  two  are.  Like  soldiers  breaking 
camp  they  put  out  their  fire,  tear  down 
the  shelter,  pack  everything  but  the  guns 
in  their  hunting  coats,  and  start  the  damp 
trek  back  to  town  some  two  miles  away. 
The  rain  gets  in  their  eyes;  it  collects 
in  puddles  on  their  pocket  flaps ;  but  they 
love  it.  Soon  everything  becomes  so  wet 
it  is  soaked  through,  and  every  time 
they  turn  their  heads,  drops  spill  down 
their  necks.    For  them  it's  fun. 


[23] 


An  Old  Boat 


A.  C.  Thomas 
Rhetoric  II,  Tfieme  12,  1937-1938 


IT  ALL  happened  one  sunny  after- 
noon at  the  old  boat  junkyard  at 
Sturgeon  Bay,  Wisconsin.  My  friend, 
Dick  Blackwell,  and  I  had  been  swim- 
ming and  rowing  around  the  bay,  look- 
ing for  amusement.  We  finally  sensed 
adventure  in  the  atmosphere  around  the 
musty  old  lake  boats  rammed  up  into 
the  shallow  water  on  the  north  side  of 
the  bay. 

We  rowed  along  the  port  side  of  the 
Clinton,  a  comparatively  new-looking 
lake  steamer  which  had  once  seen 
brighter  days.  She  was  about  250  feet 
long,  I  judged,  and  her  bow  rose  steeply 
out  of  the  shallow  water,  towering  above 
the  smaller  boats  at  her  side  and  the 
fishing  shacks  at  the  water's  edge.  The 
first  deck  was  from  five  to  ten  feet  above 
our  heads  and  extended  out  over  the 
water.  Steel  beam  supports  were  braced 
between  the  under  side  of  the  deck  and 
the  heavy  plates  of  the  hull.  I  rowed 
cautiously  between  these  beams  under 
the  broad  aft  deck,  until  the  prow  of 
our  row  boat  jarred  into  the  hull  with 
a  hollow  boom.  Dick  and  I  peered 
through  one  of  the  small  portholes  into 
the  gloomy  interior. 

"Looks  like  the  galley,"  I  said,  and 
my  voice  was  muffled  by  the  overhang- 
ing deck. 

"I  bet  it's  the  hold,"  guessed  Dick. 

By  pushing  our  noses  up  against  the 
thick  glass  we  were  able  to  discern  a 
large  table  in  the  murky  gloom. 

"Let's  board  her,"  suggested  Dick. 

"How?"  T  questioned.  The  deck  was 
too  high  above  our  heads  to  reach,  and 
we  had  not  seen  any  way  up  on  the 
starboard  side. 


I  glanced  toward  the  great  paddle 
wheel  twenty  feet  forward,  and  contem- 
plated climbing  up  between  the  spokes. 
As  we  drifted  near,  I  saw  such  a  feat 
was  impossible. 

The  prow  of  our  small  boat  turned 
out  from  under  the  deck,  and  Dick 
caught  sight  of  the  end  of  a  thick  rope 
hanging  over  the  rail  near  the  stern. 

"Look!" 

"Good,"  I  agreed,  "we'll  make  a  noose 
of  our  tow  rope  and  slip  it  over  that 
stub  with  an  oar.  We'll  board  her  yet. 
I  don't  see  anything  else  to  catch  hold 
of,  do  you?" 

We  worked  an  hour  all  told  before 
we  shinnied  up  that  rope  and  climbed 
over  the  rail.  Soon  our  bare  feet  were 
pattering  around  the  dirty  deck,  as  we 
looked  for  open  doors.  There  were  none. 
We  climbed  like  monkeys  to  the  second 
deck  on  braces  near  the  old  paddle 
wheel,  and  soon  found  a  stateroom  door 
ajar.  From  this  room  another  door 
opened  on  to  a  balcony  looking  over  the 
ship's  ballroom.  There  were  Christmas 
decorations  about,  and  I  spotted  an  up- 
right piano  directly  below  us.  Hanging 
by  my  hands  from  the  balcony  rail,  I 
dropped  to  the  top  of  the  piano  and 
down  to  the  iloor  of  the  ballroom.  Dick 
followed,  and  I  cautioned  him  about 
glass  and  broken  decorations  at  my  feet. 

"Swell  place,"  he  said,  panting. 

"Sh-sh,  not  so  loud.  There  might  be 
a  watchman  aboard  her." 

We  slid  between  a  heap  of  deck  chairs 
piled  at  one  end  of  the  ballroom  and 
reached  a  door  which  opened  onto  the 
stairway  leading  to  the  third  deck. 

"Let's  see  the  pilot's  cabin,"  I  whis- 


[24] 


pered.  "Then  we'll  go  down  into  her 
hold." 

The  top  deck  or  roof  of  the  boat  was 
open  to  the  sky.  Black  tar  covered  the 
floor.  There  were  four  big  gray  life- 
boats hanging  on  either  side ;  so  I  walked 
over  to  peek  into  one  of  them.  A  gray 
tomcat  jumped  out. 

"Oh,  oh !  how  did  you  get  aboard  ?" 
Dick  asked,  as  it  rubbed  his  leg.  "I  can't 
see  how  you  or  anyone  could  get  on 
board,  judging  from  our  experience." 

We  sat  down  a  moment  to  look  out 
over  the  bay  and  rest  from  our  exer- 
tions. I  noticed  my  hands  and  feet  were 
black,  and  Dick's  brown  body  was  cov- 
ered with  dust  and  grease. 

"Guess  we  had  better  take  a  look 
around  for  the  bath  room,"  I  laughed. 
"Looks  like  we  need  baths." 

We  could  not  get  into  the  pilot's  cabin, 
but  from  the  window  it  seemed  to  have 
been  left  in  first-class  condition.  The 
bright  copper  and  nickel  on  the  instru- 
ments glistened,  and  the  dust  could  not 
wholly  hide  the  polish  of  the  maple 
woodwork.  It  was  not  hard  to  visualize 
the  pilot's  hand  at  that  great  wheel  in 
front. 

Soon  we  were  down  on  the  ballroom 
floor  again,  looking  for  a  way  down 
into  the  galley  or  hold.  I  made  a  noisy 
clatter  and  a  cloud  of  dust  in  trying  to 
remove  some  of  the  deck  chairs  from 
the  entrance  to  the  bar.  Dick  was  look- 
ing into  the  game  room. 

During  a  pause  for  breath  I  was 
startled  by  a  throaty  voice,  saying  "Hey, 
you  kids,  get  out  of  there !" 

I  jerked  around  but  could  see  no  one. 
My  heart  pounded.  I  tiptoed  over  to- 
ward the  game  room  and  whispered, 
"Dick,  there's  a  man  on  board." 

Soon  his  startled  face  appeared  in  the 
doorway  of  the  billiard  room,  and  to- 


gether we  tiptoed  behind  a  stack  of 
broken  card  tables.  Beads  of  sweat  stood 
out  over  Dick's  body,  for  it  was  suf- 
focatingly hot  in  that  dusty  room.  For 
several  minutes  there  was  no  sound  but 
the  faint  slap  of  the  water  against  the 
paddle  wheel  outside.  We  ventured 
forth,  taking  pains  to  avoid  upsetting  the 
chairs  and  tables.  Half  way  across  the 
dance  floor  we  stopped  dead  still,  hardly 
daring  to  breathe.  We  could  hear  foot- 
steps along  the  deck  on  the  starboard 
side.   He  was  coming  this  way ! 

In  two  bounds  we  reached  the  piano, 
but  Dick  accidentally  stepped  into  the 
pile  of  glass  I  had  warned  him  about. 

"Yow !"  he  yelled,  and  the  pursuit  was 
on  in  earnest.  A  burly  Swede  banged 
open  the  deck  door  and  strode  across 
the  floor. 

"Scram,  you  kids.    Get  the out 

of  here!" 

And  did  we  scram !  Up  and  over  the 
banister,  through  the  stateroom  and  out 
onto  the  second  deck.  As  we  ran  toward 
the  great  paddle  wheel,  near  which  we 
had  ascended,  I  heard  footsteps  on  the 
deck  below  us.  We  were  headed  off. 

"Over  the  side,"  I  panted.  Dick  stood 
on  the  top  rail  and  dived  gracefully 
into  the  water  twenty-five  feet  below.  I 
hesitated  a  moment  (diving  was  new  to 
me)  ;  then  I,  too,  plunged  toward  the 
cold,  gray  water,  which  was  still  foam- 
ing from  Dick's  dive,  I  vaguely  heard 
a  shout  from  the  watchman  and  caught  a 
blurred  glimpse  of  his  face  as  I  shot 
past.  Splash !  Water  rushed  by  my  ears. 
Down,  down,  I  went ;  then  there  was  an 
eternity  of  frantic  kicking  before  I  shot 
to  the  surface  eight  feet  from  the  boat. 
Dick  had  cast  off  and  was  rowing 
toward  me  with  all  his  might.  I  could 
still  hear  the  curse  of  the  watchman  in 
my  water-clogged  ears  as  I  clambered  in. 


[25] 


My  Hobby  Is  Diving 


Don  Pranke 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  18,  1937-1938 


OF  ALL  the  many  ways  to  discover 
the  principles  upon  which  a  diving 
helmet  operates,  I  think  we  took  the  most 
difficult.  By  trial  and  error  ( for  we  had 
almost  no  scientific  knowledge  to  build 
on)  we  developed  a  very  practical  diving 
bell,  so  useful  that  the  city  later  em- 
ployed us  on  numerous  occasions.  It  was 
purely  by  accident  that  our  club  turned 
its  energies  in  this  useful  direction. 

One  day,  while  out  swimming  at  a  lake 
near  our  town,  I  came  upon  an  old 
bucket.  Being  air-tight,  the  bucket  would 
float  upside  down  upon  the  water.  I 
found  that  by  putting  my  head  inside  it 
I  could  go  completely  under  the  water 
and  yet  continue  to  breathe.  After  we 
had  exhausted  the  limited  possibilities  of 
this  primitive  diving  bell,  we  decided  to 
spend  a  little  time  and  money  to  con- 
struct a  real  diving  helmet. 

After  considering  several  objects  we 
decided  that  a  hot  water  tank  would  best 
meet  the  demands  of  the  shell  we  needed 
to  work  on.  Selecting  a  tank  that  was 
big  enough  in  diameter  so  that  one's 
shoulders  could  almost  get  into  it,  we 
had  a  welder  cut  it  into  two  pieces,  each 
three  feet  long  and  each  having  an  open 
bottom  and  a  closed  top.  Because  of  a 
crack  in  the  side  of  one  half  we  dis- 
carded it  and  turned  all  our  attention  to 
the  other  half,  which  formed  an  air  tight 
bell.  On  the  open  end  of  this  piece  we 
cut  grooves  and  padded  them  with  can- 
vas so  they  would  fit  snugly  over  the 
shoulders  of  the  wearer.  On  one  side  of 
this  bell  we  made  a  window  by  cutting 


out  a  rectangular  piece  of  the  side  and 
replacing  it  with  isinglass  bolted  in  so 
securely  that  it  was  air-tight.  In  order 
that  the  helmet  might  be  raised  and 
lowered  by  those  above  the  surface  of  the 
water,  we  fastened  a  rope  to  the  top  by 
means  of  a  hook.  So  that  the  diver 
would  have  greater  stability  while  under 
water,  we  fastened  four  twenty-five 
pound  weights  to  the  bottom  of  the 
helmet.  To  complete  the  helmet  we  at- 
tached a  non-kinkable  hose  to  what  was 
formerly  the  water  outlet  at  the  top  of 
the  tank.  To  keep  the  air  from  rushing 
out  of  the  bell  instead  of  going  in  the 
direction  desired,  we  put  a  valve  in  the 
surface  end  of  the  hose,  which  allowed 
air  to  go  only  down.  An  air  pump  forced 
fresh  air  into  the  bell,  the  stale  air  find- 
ing its  way  out  in  the  space  around  the 
diver's  body. 

At  first  we  tried  our  new  toy  out  only 
in  shallow  water,  but  with  mounting  con- 
fidence we  ventured  into  deeper  and 
deeper  water  until  we  reached  the  maxi- 
mum depth  of  thirty-five  feet.  As  we 
continued  to  dive  day  after  day,  the 
town's  people  became  interested  in  the 
practical  use  to  which  our  instrument 
might  be  put.  As  a  result,  we  were  in- 
vited to  give  a  demonstration  at  the  local 
high  school  swimming  pool.  One  of  my 
friends  conceived  the  idea  of  attaching 
a  telephone  to  the  inside  of  the  bell  and 
connecting  it  to  an  amplifier,  so  that  the 
diver  at  the  bottom  of  the  pool  could 
talk  to  all  the  spectators.  Now  thoroughly 
convinced  of  the  usefulness  of  this  in- 


[26] 


strument,  the  city  officials  made  us  mem- 
bers of  the  local  fire  department  and 
allowed  us  to  keep  the  phones,  which 
became  a  permanent  part  of  our 
equipment. 

When  two  boys  were  drowned  in  Lake 
Pana  last  summer,  we  were  called  in  to 
assist  the  fire  department  in  finding  the 
bodies.  The  grappling  hooks  used  by  the 
department  failed  to  locate  the  boys,  but 
after  two  days  of  fruitless  search  in 
muddy  water,  we  accidentally  bumped 
into  one  of  the  bodies  and  brought  it  to 
the  surface.  Very  near  the  same  spot 
we  found  the  other  body.  It  was  my  bad 
luck  to  be  the  one  who  found  both 
corpses.  My  groping  hand  had  touched 
one  of  them  while  searching  the  black 
water,  and  by  running  my  hands  over 
my  find,  I  made  sure  it  was  really  one  of 
the  bodies.  I  called  to  the  surface  and 
asked  to  be  pulled  up.  Clasping  the  body 
tightly  against  me,  I  aw^aited  the  welcome 
tug  on  the  helmet  which  meant  I  would 
soon  be  relieved  of  my  gruesome  burden. 
The  boys  at  the  top  were  certainly  sur- 
prised when  the  corpse  and  I  suddenly 
broke  through  the  surface  of  the  water. 
One  of  them  who  was  bolder  than  the 
rest  grabbed  the  hair  of  its  head  and 
pulled  the  body  on  to  the  raft.  In  the 
excitement  I  was  almost  forgotten. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  awful  silence 
that  greeted  me  as  we  rode  back  to  the 
bank.  It  seemed  to  me  that  most  of  the 
town  was  waiting  there,  just  staring  at 


us.  For  a  long  time  the  memory  of  this 
occasion  had  a  dampening  effect  upon 
the  pleasure  we  used  to  get  from  our 
diving  helmet. 

One  of  the  more  pleasant  aspects  of 
our  hobby  is  the  money  that  we  can  make 
from  it.  For  years  the  city  had  been 
paying  from  two  to  three  hundred  dol- 
lars to  have  a  gang  of  men  build  a 
temporary  derrick  to  remove  a  screen 
over  the  intake  valve  to  the  waterworks. 
This  valve  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake, 
and  the  screen  which  covered  it  to  keep 
out  as  much  silt  as  possible  would  be- 
come coated  with  muck  sometimes  a  foot 
deep,  which  had  to  be  cleared  out  at  least 
once  a  year.  The  last  two  years  the  city 
has  paid  us  ten  dollars  apiece  and  also 
given  us  a  two-year  lease  on  our  cabin 
on  the  lake  for  going  down  and  clearing 
off  this  screen. 

Because  our  club  adopted  a  useful 
activity  for  an  outlet  for  its  energies,  it 
has  not  only  gained  considerable  local 
fame,  but  it  has  also  earned  for  itself  a 
fine  hangout  in  which  to  meet.  What 
began  as  a  week-end  amusement  de- 
veloped into  the  main  financial  support 
of  our  club.  We  seldom  dive  for  pure 
amusement  any  more,  although  there  is 
still  the  same  old  thrill  in  going  down. 
As  I  think  of  it  now  I  can  hardly  wait 
for  the  return  of  summer  so  that  we 
can  try  out  the  new  hose  which  w^e 
bought  the  club  for  Christmas. 


Rushing 

Once  in  the  house,  the  rushee  is  given  his  choice  of  amusements.  Would  he  like 
to  play  ping-pong,  shuffleboard,  Chinese  checkers,  bridge,  rummy,  or  would  he  just 
like  to  sit  and  listen  to  the  radio-phonograph,  he  is  asked  in  a  most  patronizing  tone. 
Deciding  upon  "just  sitting"  he  finds  he  has  chosen  the  most  strenuous  sport  of  all.  At 
intervals  of  about  thirty  seconds  he  is  introduced  to  newcomers,  half  of  whom  he  has 
already  met.  After  bobbing  off  the  mohair  and  on  again  for  about  forty-five  minutes 
he  is  ushered  in  to  luncheon. — James  Henry 


[27] 


Mountains  and  Mole-hills 


Edgar  Drucker 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16,  1937-1938 


NELSOX  and  I  had  heard  a  lot  about 
Grand  Teton,  the  most  difficult  peak 
in  the  United  States  to  scale,  and  also 
the  most  dangerous.  We  knew  that  it 
was  located  in  the  heart  of  the  great 
Teton  range  of  mountains  which  forms 
the  western  border  of  the  state  of 
Wyoming  and  extends  over  into  Idaho. 
To  the  east,  at  the  foot  of  the  range  lies 
Jackson  Hole,  a  large  glacial  moraine 
covered  with  sage  brush  and  a  coarse 
growth  of  prairie  grass.  The  altitude 
of  Jackson  Hole,  we  discovered,  was 
about  6,000  feet,  while  directly  from  the 
edge  of  the  moraine  rose  the  Tetons, 
climaxing  their  greatness  in  the  peak  of 
Grand  Teton,  more  than  13,900  feet 
high !  We  knew  that  we  would  never  be 
satisfied  till  we  conquered  Grand  Teton: 
we  set  the  date  for  August  12. 

I  wish  I  had  time  to  tell  you  of  all 
the  hair-raising  experiences  we  had  on 
that  trip.  Ever  since,  I  have,  from  time 
to  time,  taken  to  counting  my  blessings, 
for  I  know  how  many  misfortunes  can 
befall  me  when  luck  turns  against  me. 

We  got  a  glimpse  of  the  Tetons  before 
the  sun  set  Saturday  night;  they  were 
far  more  wonderful  than  we  had  ever 
expected.  We  agreed  perfectly  with 
w'hatever  writer  it  was  who  observed 
that  the  Tetons  looked  more  as  moun- 
tains really  should  look  than  any  other 
he  had  ever  seen. 

The  next  morning  we  were  up  early. 
If  we  were  to  be  back  by  sundown  we'd 
have  to  start  our  climb  just  after  sun-up. 
So  after  a  quick  breakfast  we  set  out  to 
find  the  ranger-naturalist  to  get  some 
maps    and    directions    for    making    the 


climb.  The  morning  was  cold  and  clear, 
and  we  knew  we'd  have  a  fine  day  for 
climbing.  We  were  at  the  edge  of  Jenny 
Lake,  on  whose  surface  the  Tetons  are 
mirrored  in  a  succession  of  blue  ripples; 
and  from  the  far  edge  of  the  lake,  just 
opposite  us,  rose  a  steep  bank  of  green 
foliage,  with  here  and  there  a  Douglas 
fir  stretching  above  the  thickets.  But  the 
bank  did  not  recede  after  a  few  feet.  It 
extended  upward  and  upward  until  the 
great  firs  gave  way  to  scrub  pine,  then 
a  few  scraggy  bushes,  and  finally — when 
it  seemed  that  we  were  looking  almost 
straight  up — to  the  snow  line  capped  by 
the  glistening  peak.  Here  was  Grand 
Teton  in  all  its  immensity.  Could  w'e 
climb  it?  Could  anyone  ever  reach  that 
impossible  height?  Our  courage  began 
to  fail  us  then,  I'm  afraid.  But  further 
disappointments  were  to  follow,  and  our 
amazement  was  to  increase. 

We  found  the  ranger  at  last,  just  as 
he  was  finishing  his  breakfast  in  his 
rooms  at  the  back  of  the  ranger  station. 
We  told  him  what  we  wanted  to  do.  Our 
intention  was  to  climb  Grand  Teton  that 
day.  It  looked  rather  a  tough  climb,  but 
at  least  it  was  close — just  across  the  lake. 
Then  for  an  hour  we  listened  to  a  lecture 
on  mountain  climbing — and  what  a  vast 
amount  we  learned!  That  peak  just 
across  the  lake?  That  was  not  Grand 
Teton,  but  Teewinot,  a  relatively  small 
peak ;  almost  anyone  with  normal 
strength  could  climb  it  in  just  a  day  and 
a  half !  Grand  Teton,  we  learned,  was 
a  real  peak ;  it  towered  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  higher  than  Teewinot; 
we  couldn't  see  it  from  where  we  stood 


[28 


for  it  was  hidden  by  Teewinot  and  lay 
some  fifteen  miles  farther  west.  Yes,  it 
was  possible  to  climb  it ;  one  or  two 
parties  reached  the  summit  every  sum- 
mer. Of  course,  more  people  were  killed 
in  trying  to  make  the  ascent  than  ever 
reached  the  peak ;  but  it  was  possible  to 
reach  the  top.  We  thanked  the  ranger 
for  his  kindness  and  asked  if  there  were 
not  some  smaller  peak  that  would  make  a 
nice  day's  climb.  No,  we  hadn't  given 
up  the  idea  of  climbing  Grand  Teton; 
we'd  be  back  and  do  it — sometime. 

Fortunately,  there  are  many  lesser 
peaks  in  the  Tetons,  and  at  the  sugges- 
tion of  the  ranger,  we  decided  on  Mt.  St. 
John,  a  mere  stump  in  the  forest,  as  it 
were,  reaching  only  to  some  10,000  feet. 

The  first  ten  miles  were  fairly  easy. 
All  we  had  to  do  was  hike  around  the 
lake,  climb  a  tortuous  pass  up  some  2000 
feet  around  the  edge  of  Teewinot,  cross 
a  small  glacier,  and  then  we  were  all 
set  to  attack  the  peak.  We  sucked  some 
lemons — the  mountain  climber's  substi- 
tute for  water — munched  a  Hershey  bar 
and  then  started  up.  As  we  began  the 
climb  Nelson  turned  and  smiled;  I  sup- 
pose he  meant  to  give  me  courage,  but 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  smile  was 
turned  down  at  the  corners,  and  his 
cheeks  were  a  chalky  white.  But  perhaps 
it  was  just  the  effect  of  the  lemon  and 
the  reflection  of  the  sun  from  the  snow. 

It  was  mid-August,  but  my  teeth  were 
chattering,  and  the  cold  pierced  my 
leather  boots  and  two  layers  of  woolen 
socks.  But  we  struggled  on  up — at  times 
our  very  lives  depending  on  the  rope, 
knotted  around  each  of  our  waists  and 
holding  us  together.  We  clambered  from 
rock  to  rock,  cutting  our  gloves  and 
scratching  our  arms  against  sharp 
corners  of  rock  and  ice.  Sometimes  we 
had  to  "lasso"  a  piece  of  over-hanging 
rock  and  then  climb  the  rope,   only  to 


have  the  piece  of  rock  crumble  away, 
dropping  us  back  on  a  stone  ledge  from 
which  a  clifif  sheered  straight  down — 
1500  feet.  Finally  we  reached  the  peak, 
and  both  of  us  fell  exhausted  on  the 
several  square  feet  of  table-like  rock 
which  formed  the  summit.  A  half  hour 
later,  after  we  had  recovered  a  little  from 
our  climb  we  began  searching  for  the 
sealed  tube  containing  records  of  ascents 
made.  Every  mountain  of  any  size,  you 
know,  keeps  a  sort  of  visitors'  register, 
furnished  by  the  government,  and  all 
sealed  in  a  little  metal  tube  containing  a 
piece  of  paper  for  you  to  sign  and  record 
your  achievement.  Personally,  I  always 
thought  they  were  to  make  one  feel 
ashamed  of  himself  to  see  how  many 
people  had  "beat  him  to  it."  But  to  our 
amazement,  we  found  no  tube  anywhere ! 
We  had  to  leave  some  memento  of  our 
triumph;  what  were  we  to  do?  Nelson 
came  to  the  rescue  though.  Taking  a 
scrap  of  paper  and  an  old  tin  match  box 
he  carried  with  him  he  wrote,  "Norton 
Nelson  and  Edgar  Drucker.  Ascent  made 
August  12,  1937.  Arrived  summit  12:00 
noon."  We  set  the  box  in  the  center  of 
the  peak,  and  piling  a  few  stones  around 
it,  started  our  descent.  We  hadn't 
climbed  Grand  Teton  that  day,  but  at 
least  we  had  conquered  Mt.  St.  John! 
We  had  climbed  our  first  mountain ! 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Nel- 
son and  I  staggered  into  the  ranger  sta- 
tion with  aching  feet.  We  told  our  story 
to  the  ranger  and  thanked  him  for  the 
information  he  had  given  us.  Yes,  we 
told  him,  we  had  climbed  St.  John's 
peak,  and  though  we  were  most  grateful, 
we  didn't  understand  why  he  had  to  pick 
out  such  a  terribly  hard  climb  for  a  pair 
of  beginners?  Then  we  mentioned  not 
finding  the  metal  tube.  At  this,  the 
ranger  seemed  surprised.  No  container? 
Why,  St.  John's  peak  had  a  register  with 


[29] 


142  names.  Then  we  learned  the  truth. 
After  listening  to  our  description  of  the 
climb  he  told  us  we  had  missed  St.  John's 
peak  by  more  than  four  miles.  What 
peak  had  we  climbed?  Well,  he  could 
show  us  on  the  map — just  a  mere  speck 
it  was — at  least  1000  feet  lower  than  St. 
John's.  Had  anyone  ever  climbed  it? 
No,  no  one  had  ever  before  considered  it 
important  enough  to  climb.  It  had  no 
name.  We  could  name  it  if  we  wanted  to ! 


But  Nelson  was  disheartened.  Have  his 
name  attached  to  some  little  pile  of  rock 
for  everyone  to  laugh  at?  Not  much. 
So  it  happens  that  somewhere  in  the 
midst  of  the  Teton  mountains  lies  Mt. 
Drucker,  but  Nelson  and  I  will  be  the 
only  persons  ever  to  know  where  it  is. 
For  you  see,  it's  much  too  small  ever  to 
to  be  named  on  a  map,  and  never  again 
will  Nelson  and  I  go  back  to  christen  it ; 
we're  going  back  to  climb  Grand  Teton! 


Luncheon 

Kathryn  Kenworthy 
Rhetoric  II,  Thenve  12,  1937-1938 


I  WONDER — five  weeks  in  advance 
is  a  long  time  to  make  a  date.  Sum- 
mer time,  too."  She  stepped  from  the 
electric  train  and  hurried  down  the  plat- 
form. "I  suppose  I  should  not  have  told 
my  aunt  to  meet  me  at  four.  I  could 
go  straight  home  and  not  have  to  bathe." 
The  crowd  was  pushing,  so  she  had  to 
watch  her  step  as  she  climbed  the  stairs 
and  passed  through  the  swinging  doors. 
"I  hope  we  don't  go  to  a  large  place." 
She  shook  her  head  as  a  man  asked  her 
to  buy  an  apple  which  he  shoved  in  front 
of  her.  "Wonder  how  his  brother  is  and 
the  rest  of  the  gang  he  had  down  with 
him."  She  paused  to  peek  into  a  mirror 
above  a  one-cent  weighing  scale.  "He 
mentioned  an  exhibit.  Maybe  we  could 
see  Martha  Raye.  Well — "  She  stepped 
from  the  tunnel  stairs  onto  the  street. 

She  saw  him  standing  in  front  of  the 
Art  Institute.  As  she  approached  him  he 
glanced  at  his  watch. 

"You're  a  minute  early." 

"I  can  walk  down  to  the  corner  and 
back  and  be  on  the  dot,"  she  offered. 

"Well,  just  so  you're  not  late." 


They  walked  along  the  avenue.  He^ 
was  a  head  taller  than  she.  Each  of  his, 
strides  equaled  two  of  her  steps. 

"In  a  hurry?"  she  asked. 

"Not  particularly,  but  I  thought  we'd 
head  for  Field's  tea  room  right  off,"  he 
returned. 

"I'm  rather  hungry,"  she  murmurec 
"But  say,  didn't  you  want  to  see  an  ex-- 
hibit  at  the  Institute?" 

"Had  thought  about  it." 

"Well,  shall  we  go  back?" 

"No,  let  it  go." 

"But   if  you   want   to,"   she   insisted^ 

"We  have  plenty  of  time." 

"I  have  to  be  home  at  two." 

"Two — why?" 

"Be  careful,"  he  cut  in.  "You're  no| 
used  to  avenue  traffic,  are  you?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  returnee 
slowly. 

They  crossed  and  proceeded  towarc 
Field's. 

"There's  quite  a  crowd  downtown  to- 
day, isn't  there?"  she  commented  lightlyJ 

"Not  any  more  than  usual.    This  ij 


[30] 


Wednesday.  You  should  be  down  on 
Saturdays." 

"Saturday's  always  a  big  day  at  home, 
too."  She  paused.  "How's  your  brother? 
Music  still  take  all  his  time?" 

"Yeah.  He  practices  all  day  except  for 
a  little  time  out.  Tennis  and  a  swim." 

"How's  the  rest  of  the  gang?  See 
much  of  them?"  she  asked. 

"Saw  a  couple  yesterday." 

"Did  they  have  anything  to  say?" 

"Not  much.  They  wanted  me  to  go 
sailing  today.    I  said  I  couldn't." 

"Did  you  tell  them  that  you  were 
coming  downtown?" 

"Hun-unh,"  he  grunted,  opening  the 
door  to  Field's. 

They  entered.  Maneuvering  through 
the  aisles  brought  them  to  an  escalator. 

"Want  to  go  up  this  way?"  he  asked. 

"If  you  wish." 

They  stepped  on. 

"Dad  contracted  these  last  fall,"  he 
said. 

"Oh?" 

"Yep,  he's  an  architectural  engineer. 
This's  not  the  only  kind  of  thing  he  does, 
though." 

"Architectural  engineer?  Sounds  nice." 

"Betcha  life  it  does. — What'd  you  say 
then,"  he  said  quickly,  turning  to  look  at 
her. 

"Nothing."    Smiling. 

They  went  up  six  floors  by  escalator. 
Entering  the  tea  room,  he  asked  the 
hostess  for  his  table.  They  were  shown 
to  a  small  one  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
When  they  had  seated  themselves,  they 
were  given  menu  cards  and  order  pads. 
Both  looked  at  the  cards. 

"What  would  you  like?" 

"li  you  will,  please  order  for  me." 

"Thanks,"  he  exclaimed.  "This  is  all 
on  me  today.  Wanted  to  keep  it  down 
to  seventy-five  apiece  if  I  could.  I've  got 
four  dollars  and  fifty-three  cents.    No 


allowance  before  I  go  East  next  week." 

"I  have  two  fives  if  you  need  them." 

"Why — ,"  he  began,  glancing  toward 
her  purse,  then  to  his  pocket. 

"You're  going  East?"  she  said  in- 
quiringly. 

"Yeah ;  had  my  personal  interview  for 
entrance  to  Brown  University  last  week. 
Passed  it  too.  The  family's  taking  me 
out  to  make  final  arrangements." 

"I  plan  to  go  to  Illinois." 

"Say,  I  wouldn't  go  there  for — " 

Their  meal  was  placed  before  them. 
While  they  ate,  they  looked  at  one 
another's  snap  shots  of  their  vacation. 
When  they  had  finished,  he  paid  the 
check  and  they  went  downstairs. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want  to  see?" 
he  asked  as  he  ushered  her  through  the 
shoppers. 

"No,  not  particularly,"  she  said,  shak- 
ing her  head  and  wondering  about  two 
o'clock. 

"Is  there  a  show  or  something?" 

"No.  But  would  you  mind  taking  me 
to  the  I.  C.  station  ?" 

"Not  at  all.  I'll  take  you." 

They  left  Field's  and  headed  for  the 
railroad  terminal.  When  they  reached 
the  stairs  leading  down  to  the  station, 
he  said: 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  leave  you 
here,"  then  murmured  something  about 
having  to  catch  an  "L." 

"You  may,"  she  consented. 

"Well,  fine  lunch  we  had  together," 
he  said,  shifting  his  weight. 

"I  appreciate  all  your  efforts,"  she 
returned. 

"Well,  so  long,  then,"  he  said  and  left. 

She  looked  at  the  watch  and  smiled. 
Ten  minutes  after  one.  She  had  time  to 
see  Martha  Raye  before  she  met  her 
aunt.  She  turned  from  the  stairs. 

"After  five  weeks,"  she  thought,  and 
smiled  again. 


[31] 


Rhet  as  Writ 


(Extracts  from  themes  ivritten  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


Its  length  was  twice  its  width,  and  as 
high  as  it  was  wide,  looking  much  like 
a  box. 

•  •  •  • 

Hair  was  worn  up  during  the  greatest 
part  of  this  reign,  but  if  whigs  were  used 
they  were  dyed  the  color  of  the  queen's 
hair. 

•  •  •  • 

To  the  south  of  this  street  is  a  small 
park  which  contains  a  bandstank. 


fire,  changed  greatly  the  destination  and 
lives  of  thousands  of  people.  Hundreds 
of  people  were  burned  to  death ;  hun- 
dreds of  others  were  turned  from  their 
beloved  homes  that  were  completely  de- 
molished b}'  that  terrible  lashing  tongue 
of  fire  that  got  a  conquering  and  dom- 
inating foothold,  that  could  not  be 
curbed. 

•  •  •  • 

Period  fault  is  use  of  a  period  after 
the  fragrance  of  a  sentence. 


Subjective  complement  is  a  pronoun 
which  makes  the  statement  more  pacific 
for  example  I  hit  him  not  her. 


....  the  queen  busy  at  her  work  of 
laying  eggs.  If  you  do  not  think  this 
work  is  hard,  try  laying  ten  thousand 
eggs  some  day  and  see  how  you  feel 
after  you  are  finished. 

•       •       •       • 

Cut  the  neck  off  close  to  the  body  and 
use  this  with  the  goblets  as  a  base  for  a 
rich  gravy. 

•  •  •  • 

Witliout  the  garlic  the  sauce  falls  flat, 
and  lacks  the  twang  which  it  should 
have. 

•  •  •  • 

I  for  one  am  always  attracted  by  the 
shrieking  of  the  fire  siren  and  blaze 
against  the  sky. 

The  greatest  of  all  fires,  the  Chicago 


Miss  Josephine,  terrier-stricken,  ut- 
tered a  cry. 

•  •  •  • 

Causal  relationship,  a  non-emotional 
relationship  or  plutonic  friendship.  A 
causal  relationship  is  impersonal  and 
persons  envolved  are  not  usually  in  con- 
stant contact. 

•  •  •  • 

Madam  Perkins  holds  one  of  the 
highest  seats  of  the  land  as  Secretary  of 
Labor  under  President  Roosevelt. 

•  •  •  • 

For  recent  statistics  I  would  consult 
the  Daily  Nezvs  Almaniac. 

1  don't  think  newspapermen  need 
reason  or  logic ;  all  they  need  is  an 
imagination,  and  all  they  want  is  a  pay 
check.  The  easiest  way  to  earn  this 
check  is  to  feed  the  glutinous  public 
with  scandal. 


[32] 


Honorable  Mention 


Lack  of  space  prevents  the  publishing  of  excellent  themes  written  by 
the  following  students. 


Jack  Clark 
Dorothy  Cox 
Charles  Fowler 
Willis  Helmantoler 
Frank  Honsik 
Ralph  Ivens 
John  Kaufmann 
Lincoln  K.  Lieber 
Morton  Lord 
Ray  O'Keefe 


Stephen  Parrish 
Sally  Rhode 
Elizabeth  Ross 
F.  W.  Smith 
Gene  Sternberg 
Bernard  Strickler 
Jacqueline  Weber 
Robert  Whitaker 
Perry  Wolff 
J.  F.  Zygmunt 


Vol.9 


OCTOBER,  1939 


No.  1 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

"SO  YOU'RE  GOING  AWAY  TO  COLLEGE!"     .      .        1 
Phyllis    Greenwald 

"OUT    TO    DINNER" 3 

Gerald  N.  Hardy 

HOMECOMING:   A  DEFINITION 5 

J.   F.  Zygmunt 

LABOR   PROBLEM 6 

Carl  Hutter 

THE  REVOLT  OF  TENNIS  AND  WOMEN    ...       7 
Virginia   Powers 

"MY   TEN    YEARS    IN   A    QUANDARY"    by    Robert 

Benchley 8 

Rudolph  Mrazek 

YOU   CAN   HAVE  IT! 9 

Dorothy   Cox 

ON  SPELLING  REFORM 10 

Robert  Kuder 

FEAR 11 

Harry    Ruud 

THE  REAL  I 12 

Stephen  Parrish 

BROTHER    DAVE 13 

John   Olson 

ONCE  IS  ENOUGH 15 

D.   S.  Abernethy 

BEHIND    THE    FOUNTAIN 17 

F.  A.  Even 

CARTOONS,     1860-1915-1940 19 

Anne    Cullerton 

AR"MY    MAN 22 

John  Kaufmann 

THE    DINNER    BELL 23 

Janet  Smaltz 

ECCENTRICITIES    OF   A    CAT 26 

Marjorie  Dillon 

MY    FIRST    PROPOSAL 27 

Cherie   Fenwick 

RHET  AS  WRIT 28 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric   I  and   II) 

PUBLISHBD  BY  THE  RHETORIC  STAFF,  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS,  XJRBANA 


JLhe  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staff  at  the  University  of  Illinois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
published  anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  however, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Mr.  Lester  Dolk,  Mr.  Charles 
Shattuck,  Mr.  Walter  Johnson,  Mr.  Stephen 
Fogle,  Mr.  Robert  Geist,  and  Mr.  Charles  W. 
Roberts,  Chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building  West,  Urbana,  Illinois. 


"So  You're  Going  Away  to  College!" 


Phyllis  Greenwald 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1938-1939 


SO  YOU'RE  going  away  to  college! 
I  suppose  you  realize,  dear  .  .  .  .  " 
And  with  that  statement,  or  one  very 
much  like  it,  I  began,  about  the  middle 
of  August,  1938,  to  find  out  all  sorts  of 
things  about  myself,  college,  men,  and 
the  world  in  general.  I  had  always  con- 
sidered going  away  to  college  a  com- 
paratively simple,  natural  thing  for  me 
to  do.  After  all,  I  had  graduated  from 
high  school  with  honors,  and  I  con- 
sidered myself  quite  a  young  woman  of 
the  world,  capable  of  getting  along  very 
well  away  from  home.  But  apparently 
I  was  mistaken,  for  I  soon  found  out, 
from  a  host  of  friends,  well-wishers,  and 
relatives,  many  things  I  not  only  didn't 
realize,  but  hadn't  even  thought  of. 

My  friends,  of  course,  were  enthu- 
siastic, thinking  it  perfectly  thrilling  that 
I  was  going  to  Illinois.  I  was  immedi- 
ately deluged  with  practical  advice  on 
what  they  considered  the  most  important 
phase  of  college  life — namely,  how  to 
make  friends  and  influence  fraternities, 
and  they  obligingly  trotted  out  their 
stories  of  campus  gossip  for  me.  The 
girls  were  all  eager  to  help  me  shop  for 
clothes  and  to  give  farewell  parties  in 
my  honor,  and  the  boys  were  curious  to 
see  whether  college  would  turn  me  into 
a  sophisticated  "smoothie"  between  Sep- 
tember and  the  Thanksgiving  holidays. 
I  think  they  w^ere  all  more  excited  and 
impatient  than  I  was.  All  of  them,  that 
is,  except  Al. 

Al  wasn't  exactly  my  boy  friend,  but 
he  thought  he  ought  to  be.  Tie's  a  nice 
looking  fellow,  tall  and  well  built,  with 
blond  curly  hair  and  moustache,  brown 


eyes,  and  dimples  in  his  cheeks  when  he 
smiles.  Al  felt  heartbroken  because  he 
was  sure  I'd  meet  so  many  other  young 
men  at  school  that  I'd  completely  forget 
all  former  friends  (meaning  himself). 
He  begged  me  to  go  to  school  in  Chicago, 
telling  me  and  my  parents  that  I  wouldn't 
be  happy  away  from  them,  that  it  wasn't 
practical  because  of  the  expense  in- 
volved, that  Chicago  schools  had  better 
faculties ;  and  he  even  went  so  far  as  to 
say  that  Illinois  would  spoil  my  innocent 
sweetness.  He  almost  convinced  my 
mother  that  he  was  right,  too,  but  I  re- 
mained adamant  until  he  gave  up  the 
struggle  and  kept  further  arguments  to 
himself.  I  reassured  him  that  I  wouldn't 
forget  him,  and  I  promised  to  write 
every  day.  So  that  quieted  one  consci- 
entious objector;  calming  the  storm  of 
disapproving  aunts  and  uncles,  however, 
was  not  such  an  easy  matter. 

We  were  at  a  family  gathering  at 
Grandmother's  the  Sunday  afternoon  my 
parents  first  mentioned  that  I  was  going 
to  Illinois  in  September.  We  had  been 
sitting  in  the  living  room,  a  large,  dreary, 
old-fashioned  room  furnished  with  itchy 
overstuffed  mohair  sofas  and  uncom- 
fortable straight-backed  chairs,  when  the 
subject  was  broached,  and  the  relatives' 
reactions  were  instantaneous.  As  usual, 
they  immediately  split  into  two  factions, 
the  "disapprovers"  siding  with  Aunt 
Maria  and  Uncle  Archibald,  and  the 
"approvers"  backing  up  Uncle  Joe,  and 
the  arguments  began. 

Aunt  Maria,  my  maiden  aunt,  of 
which  species  there  is  one  in  every  fam- 
ily,  was   "simply  horrified."    But   then, 


[  1  ] 


of  course,  she  would  be.  She's  one  of 
those  absolutely  perfect  people  who  have 
never  made  an  error ;  she's  never  got  far 
enough  away  from  home  and  mother  to 
find  the  opportunity  to  make  one.  She's 
a  mousy  woman,  gaunt  and  emaciated, 
with  gray  eyes  and  a  yellow  complexion, 
and  she  never  wears  rouge  or  any  other 
cosmetics.  Her  hair,  like  the  rest  of 
her,  is  drab  and  not  at  all  attractive.  She 
wears  it  brushed  tightly  back  from  her 
face  and  in  a  knot  on  the  nape  of  her 
neck.  But  although  she  may  be  mousy 
in  appearance,  she  has  a  definite  voice 
in  family  affairs  (she  sees  to  that)  and 
she  disapproved  very  heartily  of  my 
going  away  to  school.  From  her  I  learned 
that  I  was  a  mere  babe  in  arms,  in- 
capable of  taking  care  of  myself  away 
from  my  family's  apron  strings ;  nor  was 
I  able  to  protect  myself  from  the  ways 
of  the  world  and  the  wiles  of  designing 
men  (Aunt  Maria  isn't  familiar  with  the 
term  "wolf,"  but  I  imagine  that's  what 
she  meant),  I  was  quite  surprised.  I 
considered  myself  ready  and  willing,  as 
well  as  quite  able,  to  safeguard  my 
innocent  virtue,  as  she  termed  it. 

Uncle  Archibald  looked  at  the  matter 
from  quite  another  point  of  view.  He's 
the  financier  of  the  family  and  is  so 
practical  and  dignified  that  no  one  would 
ever  dream  of  calling  him  Archie.  He 
isn't  miserly,  but  he  is  very  careful  when 
it  comes  to  parting  with  money.  He's 
the  solid  citizen  type,  tall  and  stout  (but 
don't  dare  tell  him  so)  with  an  alder- 
man's paunch,  white  hair,  bristling 
moustache,  and  a  ruddy  complexion.  He 
hemmed  and  hawed  for  a  while,  and 
then,  with  a  characteristic  bluntness, 
came  right  to  the  point.  Through  his 
intervention  I  discovered  that  I  was  a 
selfish,  inconsiderate  girl,  a  hopeless  par- 
asite, and  a  drain  on  my  family's 
finances.    He  told  me  that  college  was 


the  wrong  place  for  me,  and  that  it  was 
high  time  I  got  myself  a  job  and  helped 
out  at  home.  Uncle  Archibald  is  very 
proud  of  the  fact  that  he  left  school  at 
fifteen  and  got  a  job  selling  papers,  and 
he  thinks  a  college  education  is  entirely 
unnecessary,  especially  for  a  girl.  I 
thought  I  was  pretty  young  to  start  sup- 
porting my  parents,  especially  since  they 
didn't  want  me  to,  and  I  told  him  so. 
I'm  sure,  from  the  explosion  that  fol- 
lowed, I  was  promptly  taken  out  of  his 
will  for  my  impudence  and  ingratitude. 

I  suspect  that  my  Uncle  Joe  got  him- 
self disinherited,  too.  He's  about  the 
only  one  in  the  family  who'll  stand  up, 
openly,  against  Uncle  Archibald,  and  he 
certainly  came  through  for  me.  He's  a 
grand  person,  who's  always  doing  some- 
thing to  make  others  happy.  He's  about 
forty-five  years  old,  small  in  stature, 
bald,  and  physically  not  very  strong.  He 
enjoys  life  tremendously,  and  the  twinkle 
in  his  blue  eyes  drawls  people  to  him 
instantly.  He  has  retired,  and  would 
have  enough  money  to  live  on  very  com- 
fortably if  he  weren't  constantly  doing 
things  for  others;  "live  and  help  live"  is 
his  motto,  and  he  follows  it  implicitly. 
He  told  Uncle  Archibald  and  Aunt 
Maria  that  my  going  away  to  school  was 
no  concern  of  theirs,  and  that  he  was 
quite  sure  I  was  capable  of  taking  care 
of  myself  and  of  knowing  what  my  par- 
ents could  and  could  not  afford  to  do. 
He  said  a  great  deal  more,  too,  but  by 
this  time  Uncle  Archibald  looked  very 
explosive,  so  my  parents  and  I  "sneaked 
out"  of  the  civil  war  we  had  so  inno- 
cently precipitated,  and  went  home  to 
peace  and  quiet. 

As  far  as  I  know,  my  relatives  are 
still  disagreeing  among  themselves  as  to 
the  advisability  of  my  going  away  to 
school.  I  have  ceased  to  care — I  am  here 
and  T  intend  to  stay. 


[  2  ] 


"Out  to  Dinner" 


Gerald  N.  Hardy 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  11,  1938-1939 


SURE,  I'll  come  over,  Harry.  Thanks 
for  asking  me." 

Harry,  whom  I  had  met  in  the  hos- 
pital, had  invited  me  over  to  his  fra- 
ternity for  dinner,  and  I  had  accepted. 
I  had  told  him  I  didn't  think  that  I 
would  ever  pledge  a  fraternity,  but  he 
had  told  me  to  come  anyhow.  His  gen- 
erosity surprised  me  because  I  had  heard 
that  the  fraternities  didn't  want  anyone 
who  wasn't  sure  of  pledging  to  come  out 
to  the  rushing  parties. 

As  I  sauntered  up  the  curved  walk,  I 
reflected  to  myself  that  it  was  a  beautiful 
house,  one  in  which  I  would  be  proud  to 
live.  It  was  a  three-story  flagstone  build- 
ing covered  with  vines  and  surrounded 
by  stately  Lombardy  poplars.  One  of 
the  men  was  smoking  on  the  low,  awn- 
ing-covered porch  as  I  walked  up  the 
steps.  He  jumped  up  and  grabbed  my 
hand.  "How  are  you,  Neil?  I'm  in  your 
tennis  class.    Remember?" 

"Of  course.  You're  Olson,  aren't 
you?"  I  queried.  Harry  was  standing 
in  the  door,  and  when  he  was  about  to 
introduce  us,  Olson  said,  "Don't  bother, 
Harry.  Neil  and  I  are  old  friends. 
Aren't  we,  Neil?" 

"Sure,"  I  said,  hoping  to  appear  at 
ease  and  nonchalant. 

From  then  on  it  was  a  great  back- 
slapping  and  hand-shaking  contest.  First 
the  president,  next  the  vice-president, 
and  then  the  other  officers  and  actives 
became  fast  friends  of  mine.  At  first  I 
was  a  little  bewildered  and  frightened, 
but  soon  there  was  a  silence  and  I 
realized  that  it  was  my  turn  to  do  the 
talking.    I  think  my  remark  had  some- 


thing to  do  with  the  eating  of  rats.  At 
any  rate  it  was  very  well  received.  The 
men  at  my  rooming  house  had  never 
really  appreciated  my  witty  remarks,  but 
these  men  laughed  loud  and  long.  I 
guess  I  really  "slayed"  them. 

One  of  the  men  took  me  aside  and 
ofifered  me  a  cigarette.  He  asked  me 
what  school  I  was  in. 

"Commerce,"  I  told  him. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  replied.  "All  the 
smooth  boys  are  in  Commerce." 

Another  fellow  joined  us  and  asked 
me  if  he  hadn't  seen  me  somewhere. 

"Maybe  it  was  at  the  Interfraternity 
dance,"  I  told  him.  "I  go  to  all  of  them." 
The  other  lad  commented  on  how  I  "sure 
got  around." 

Just  then  the  dinner  gong  rang,  Harry 
informed  me  that  I  was  to  sit  beside  the 
house  president.  Quite  an  honor,  I 
reflected,  when  there  were  half  a  dozen 
other  guests  at  the  dinner.  After  a  short 
benediction  we  were  served.  I  had  ex- 
pected a  wonderful  meal,  but  the  food 
was  beyond  my  expectations.  As  we  ate, 
the  conversation  at  our  end  of  the  table 
centered  upon  my  home  town,  my  fa- 
vorite sports,  my  choice  of  dance  bands, 
and  the  fact  that  I  had  been  out  of  high 
school  four  years  before  coming  to  col- 
lege. The  president  said  he  could  tell 
that  I  was  older  than  most  freshmen. 
The  boys  were  good  listeners  and  seemed 
satisfied  to  let  me  do  all  the  talking. 
When  the  conversation  shifted  to  Uni- 
versity grades  and  I  had  been  informed 
that  their  house  had  ranked  near  the  top 
scholastically  the  last  semester,  I  was 
asked  what  my  average  had  been. 


[3  1 


"About  a  four-point,  I  guess,"  I  re- 
plied, still  trying  to  be  nonchalant.  "You 
got  a  four-point  on  the  head,"  Harry 
ventured.  "I  looked  it  up  yesterday." 
Damned  nice  of  him,  I  thought,  to  be 
interested  enough  in  me  to  look  up  my 
grades. 

After  dinner  we  remained  at  the  table, 
and  the  men  sang  their  house  songs  and 
finished  up  with  a  school  song,  in  which 
I  chimed  in  enthusiastically.  The  presi- 
dent remarked  that  I  had  a  good  tenor 
voice.    I  thanked  him. 

After  dinner  I  was  shown  all  through 
the  house  by  Harry  and  his  roommate. 
The  rooms  were  furnished  beautifully, 
and  I  couldn't  help  comparing  their  neat 
orderliness  with  my  dingy,  litter-strewn 
room  scarcely  two  blocks  away.  I  un- 
consciously began  to  add  up  my  own 
room  and  board  expenses  and  compare 
them  with  the  amount  Harry  had  told  me 
that  he  paid  every  month  as  a  house-bill. 
Why,  the  difference  didn't  seem  so  much, 
and  when  I  considered  the  difference  in 
environment  I  was  all  ready  to  pledge. 

Harry  had  been  explaining  the  reason 


for  the  good  breeze  through  each  study 
room  during  the  hotter  months.  I  felt 
like  telling  him  to  stop — that  I  had  heard 
enough,  but  I  realized  that  I  couldn't 
act  the  same  as  I  would  when  I  was 
buying  an  automobile  because  maybe  I 
hadn't  pleased  the  president  or  the  rest 
of  the  men.  Maybe  I  wouldn't  be  wanted. 
This  fear  was  soon  silenced,  however, 
when  Harry  invited  me  over  to  dinner 
for  the  following  Sunday. 

"These  first  dinners  are  kinda  tough 
on  you,"  he  said.  "Come  over  Sunday 
and  really  get  acquainted."  I  thanked 
him  and  accepted. 

My  roommate,  whom  I  had  told  that 
I  positively  wouldn't  pledge  a  fraternity, 
met  me  with,  "Well,  I  suppose  you  had 
a  swell  meal,  saw  their  trophies,  and  are 
surprised  to  find  out  what  a  helluva  good 
guy  you  really  are?" 

"Uh,  huh,"  I  grouchily  retorted. 

"And  you  are  all  set  to  pledge?" 

"I  was  going  to  anyway.  You  don't 
think  I  fell  for  that  palaver,  do  you  ?" 

"No-o-o,  hell  no." 


Precise  Words 

Why  did  man  evolve  a  means  of  communication  with  his  fellow  tribesman? 
Certainly  not  to  tell  him  that  a  snake  was  living,  but  that  there  was  a  snake  directly 
behind  him !  He  did  not  want  to  tell  his  primitive  brother  to  go  pick  up  a  stick — he 
could  have  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the  pile — but  he  wanted  to  tell  him  zcJiich 
stick.  Man's  superiority  has  come  about,  not  because  he  could  hold  his  child  from 
fire,  but  because  he  could  tell  the  child  exactly  ivhat  it  might  do  to  him.  Of  course 
words  were  far  from  precise  in  the  beginning,  but  their  evolution  accounts  for  our 
not  grunting,  today !  The  effectiveness  of  words  in  conveying  a  thought  became  the 
yardstick  for  improvement,  giving  the  language  a  continual  increase  in  concretcncss 
and  preciseness. — Russell  Park 


[4] 


Homecoming:  A  Definition 


J.  F.  Zygmunt 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  6,  1938-1939 


WHAT  is  Homecoming?  Homecom- 
ing is  trouble.  Homecoming  is  joy. 
Homecoming  is  hurry,  excitement,  splen- 
dor, labor,  fun,  sentimentalism.  So 
numerous  and  widely  diversified  are  the 
synonyms  applicable  to  this  yearly  event. 
To  state  any  one  of  these  words  singly 
as  the  true  meaning  of  the  celebration 
would  be  to  produce  a  distorted  image,  a 
partial  and  incomplete  one.  The  error 
would  be  the  same  as  that  made  by  say- 
ing that  a  rainbow  is  red.  Surely  the 
statement  is  correct,  but  it  is  incomplete. 
A  rainbow  in  addition  to  being  red  is 
blue,  green,  yellow,  violet,  pink.  One 
can  thus  understand  why  it  is  necessary 
to  go  beyond  the  limits  of  mere 
synonyms  or  even  of  single-sentence 
definitions  and  step  into  the  broader  field 
of  expository  composition  to  define  and 
explain  truly  a  word  of  this  sort. 

What  is  Homecoming?  To  the  re- 
turning alumnus  it  is  a  period  of  happi- 
ness and  enjoyment,  of  revelry  and 
hilarity.  He  is  king  for  the  short  time. 
For  him  are  erected  the  magnificently 
elaborate  welcoming  displays.  For  him 
are  presented  countless  entertainments 
and  amusements.  The  whole  of  "Cham- 
bana"  is  his  kingdom.  This  festal  ob- 
servance is  also  a  time  of  active  remi- 
niscences for  him.  He  recalls  and  relives 
the  dear  past.  Under  the  influence  of  his 
surroundings,  his  old  friends,  his  former 
professors,  the  classrooms  of  his  school 
days,  he  experiences  the  feelings  of  yore. 
Past  aches  tear  hard  at  time-worn  scars. 
His  blood  rushes  high  at  memories  of 
conquest  and  victory;  low  at  recollec- 
tions  of    defeat.     Past    friendships    are 


renewed,  recreated ;  past  enmities  are 
crushed,  subdued.  Such  is  Homecoming 
for  the  alumnus. 

What  is  Homecoming?  To  the  stu- 
dent it  is  fun.  Overjoyed  at  seeing  Mom, 
Dad,  and  friends,  and  stimulated  by  the 
spirit  of  the  entire  situation,  he  too 
participates  with  full  vigor  in  the  joyful 
event.  To  the  fraternity  man  it  is,  in 
addition,  a  period  of  competition,  for 
at  this  time  he  calls  to  the  front  all  his 
creative,  artistic,  and  imaginative  powers 
to  aid  in  the  building  of  prize-winning 
welcoming  displays.  Of  him  the  time 
demands  hospitality,  even  to  the  point  of 
personal  inconvenience.  He  gives  up  his 
bed  to  the  old  fraternity  member  very 
gladly  (or,  shall  I  say,  very  judiciously). 
To  the  student  waiter  the  celebration 
means  hard  work,  for  he  must  exert 
himself  as  never  before  to  satisfy  the 
onrushing,  hungry  visitors.  But  to  him 
also  it  is  a  time  of  compensated  eflfort, 
because  his  patrons  reward  generously. 
To  the  student  chambermaid  it  means 
more  beds  to  make,  more  cleaning  to  do. 
Such  is  Homecoming  for  the  student. 

What  is  Homecoming?  To  the  towns- 
people it  is  a  Roman  holiday.  Joy  and 
excitement  are  infectious,  and  these 
people  prove  themselves  especially  sus- 
ceptible to  these  infections.  All  are 
happy  and  satisfied.  The  store  owner, 
the  restaurant  keeper,  the  souvenir  seller 
— all  recognize  this  great  event  as  a 
period  of  great  profit. 

Homecoming  is  all  this — and  a  great 
deal  more,  which  does  not  yield  itself  to 
verbal  expression. 


[  5  1 


Labor  Problem 


Carl  H  utter 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  15,  1938-1939 


npHE  MEN  stand  about  in  idle  groups. 
^  They  are  heavily  and  clumsily 
clothed,  huddled  together  in  the  freezing 
cold.  Ice  and  snow  cover  the  frozen 
ground.  The  bare  trees  and  snow- 
covered  houses  become  the  quiet  ob- 
servers of  a  desolate  scene.  In  a  vacant 
lot  lie  snow-capped  piles  of  sand  and 
brick.  Bags  of  cement  seem  to  shield  the 
idle  cement-mixer  from  the  chilling 
blasts  of  cold  wind.  The  men  appear 
unwilling  to  grapple  with  the  task  at 
hand.  And  who  can  blame  them?  Win- 
ter is  no  time  to  be  paving  a  street. 

Yet,  says  the  government,  regardless 
of  season — yes,  even  regardless  of  cost — 
the  unemployed  must  work.  It  matters 
little  whether  the  labor  is  productive. 
Two  men  operate  an  overgrown  version 
of  a  blow  torch,  melting  the  ice  from  the 
street  and  softening  the  asphalt  which 
covers  the  brick.  Two  men  with  crow- 
bars in  hand  slowly  pry  the  old  brick 
loose,  as  a  line  of  ten  to  fifteen  men  idly 
wait  their  turn  to  load  their  wheelbar- 
rows, also  by  hand,  brick  by  brick,  and 
transport  their  small  cargos  to  a  vacant 
lot.  Here,  seated  under  a  temporary 
shelter,  a  crew  of  forty  huskies,  mallets 
in  hand,  patiently  but  awkwardly  pound 
the  brick  into  gravel,  which  will  be  used 
later  in  the  cement  mixture. 

After  the  street  is  cleared  of  its  former 
paving,  it  must  be  covered  with  excelsior 
to  protect  the  ground  from  the  freezing 
cold.  In  a  few  weeks  the  new  curbing 
will  be  laid.  The  excelsior  is  then  re- 
moved, and  the  cement  is  poured.  Finally, 
the  street  must  be  enclosed,  a  small  sec- 
tion at  a  time,  in  a  temporary  structure, 
heated   to    facilitate   the   proper    drying 


of  the  pavement.  In  this  manner  a  group      J 
of    seventy-five    to    one    hundred    able-      1 
bodied    men    exhaust    their    efforts    in 
drudgery,  repairing  a  street  at  the  rate 
of  about  twenty-five   feet  per  week,  at 
exorbitant  cost. 

Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  desolation 
prevails  among  the  laboring  class?  Why 
doesn't  the  government  employ  modern 
machinery  in  its  projects?  The  two  men 
with  the  blow  torch,  the  two  men  with 
the  crow-bars,  and  the  fifteen  men  with 
the  wheelbarrows  could  all  be  replaced 
by  a  steam  shovel  and  truck.  A  stone- 
crusher  could  easily  replace  the  forty 
"malleteers."  By  waiting  a  few  weeks 
for  milder  weather,  the  extra  work  of 
the  spreading  and  later  removing  of 
excelsior,  and  the  tedious  process  of 
drying  the  pavement  in  enclosed  struc- 
tures, could  all  be  eliminated.  Conse- 
quently, the  same  job  could  be  com- 
pleted in  one-fourth  the  original  time, 
with  less  than  one- fourth  of  the  original 
labor  force,  at  a  cost  of  less  than  twenty- 
five  per  cent  of  the  original — and  the 
men  would  not  suffer  the  discomforts  of 
cold! 

The  money  saved  on  this  project, 
moreover,  would  finance  approximately 
four  more  similar  projects,  with  the  re- 
sult that  all  of  the  original  labor  force 
would  be  productively  employed,  and 
many  more  streets  would  be  paved,  at  a 
cost  no  greater  than  the  original  single 
project.  Thus,  government  laborers 
would  find  greater  satisfaction  in  their 
efficient  work,  and,  even  more  important, 
the  people  would  gain  new  faith  in  their 
government. 


[  6  ] 


The  Revolt  of  Tennis  and  Women 


Virginia  Powers 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  3,  1938-1939 


THE  WOMAN  in  tennis  today  is  a 
type  entirely  different  from  the  one 
of  yesterday.  Our  mothers  played  the 
game  too,  but  they  were  far  removed 
from  the  fighting,  fiery,  fast  females  that 
now  conquer  the  courts.  During  the  last 
thirty  years  American  courts  have  be- 
come a  meeting  place  for  all  modern 
girls — whether  they  be  debutantes  who 
go  to  the  "swank"  country  club  or  sales- 
girls who  monopolize  the  grassy  fields  of 
the  public  parks.  Tennis  is  now  the  test 
of  fashion,  just  as  knitting  was  during 
the  war,  and  this  new  type  of  tennis- 
woman,  the  revolutionized  "one-set  gal," 
the  indoor  lass  turned  out,  has  made  it 
so. 

In  about  1900,  one  hour  of  one  after- 
noon a  week  (perhaps  a  month)  was  set 
aside  for  a  "bit  of  exercise."  Prepara- 
tions for  that  day  involved  the  tedious 
task  of  being  outfitted.  One  had  to  have 
a  hat  of  enormous  width  and  tremendous 
weight,  often  bedecked  with  accumu- 
lated varieties  of  fine  plumes,  to  keep  the 
long  tresses  silky  and  the  delicate  skin 
satiny;  a  tight  bodice  to  maintain  self- 
confidence  ;  and  a  full,  ankle-length  skirt 
to — well,  I'll  say  to  make  the  game  more 
difficult.  The  girl's  skill  at  the  sport  was 
determined  by  the  years  that  she  had 
studied  in  Miss  Peabody's  School  of 
Dance  for  Popular  Young  Gentlewomen. 
The  forehand  drive  involved  a  graceful, 
uplifting  movement  that  ended  with  the 


pointed  toe  forward  and  the  little  finger 
crooked.  The  backhand  shot  was  much 
the  same,  only  it  made  possible  a  catch- 
ing, coy  look  over  the  right  shoulder. 
Truly,  one  must  marvel  at  these  crea- 
tures. How  valiant  they  must  have  been 
to  risk  a  sprained  ankle,  a  dirty  hand, 
or  the  ruin  of  their  taffetas  as  they 
swished  over  the  white  lines  for  a  "bit 
of  exercise." 

In  perfect  contrast,  we  have  Miss 
Tennis  herself,  the  modern  lass  with  the 
modern  swing.  From  sunrise  to  sunset, 
she  wields  a  championship  racket.  In 
only  a  minute  she  dresses  for  the  chal- 
lenge. She  leaps  into  scanty,  starched, 
spotless  shorts  of  white  linen.  She 
whisks  white  wool  anklets  over  slim, 
evenly-tanned  feet,  the  toes  of  which 
are  smoothly  pedicured  with  a  bright 
shade  of  red  nail  polish.  vShe  tosses  a 
sporty  shirt  over  loose  curls  and  trim, 
wide  shoulders.  Finally,  she  throws  a 
white  angora  cardigan  sweater  over  her 
arms,  for  the  settling  of  high  tempera- 
ture after  the  game.  She  emerges  thus. 
She  sprints  as  the  sun  bleaches  her  hair 
and  darkens  her  skin.  She  smiles  frankly 
through  smudges  of  brick-dust.  She 
pants  when  she's  tired.  She's  graceful 
in  her  awkwardness.  She  displays  her 
freckles ;  she  flashes  her  knees ;  she's 
fast  as  a  fish.  She's  alive  ;  she's  dynamic  ; 
she's  the  tenniswoman  of  1938!! 


I  7  1 


My  Ten  Years  in  a  Quandary  by 
Robert  Benchley 


Rudolph  Mrazek 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  8,  1938-1939 


THESE  are  indeed  troubled  times. 
After  a  hectic  day,  spent  in  prepar- 
ing for  that  stiff  Psych  quiz,  digesting 
the  facts  of  the  latest  grabs  of  the 
European  dictators,  and  marvelling  at 
the  efficiency  of  the  political  machine  in 
Chicago,  it  is  a  great  relief  to  escape  the 
oppressiveness  of  the  present  by  sinking 
into  a  book  which  professes  to  contain 
only  nonsense,  My  Ten  Years  in  a 
Quandary,  and  Hoiv  They  Grew  by 
Robert  Benchley. 

The  book  is  written  in  a  pseudo- 
simple  style  and  could  be  understood  by 
a  grammar-school  child,  but  a  mature 
reader  will  find  that  the  author  is  not 
naively  simple  but  a  clever  satirist  who 
is  poking  fun  at  our  society.  The  chap- 
ters of  the  book,  which  consist  of  loosely 
connected  anecdotes,  tell  of  the  flound- 
erings  of  a  bewildered  chap  who  simply 
can't  see  the  hang  of  things.  All  his 
feeble  attempts  to  advance  in  the  world 
seem  to  end  in  frustration.  But  this 
camouflage  of  Bob's  (you'll  call  Bench- 
ley  "Bob"  too,  after  you've  read  the 
book)  only  enables  him  to  satirize  the 
complacent  sophisticates  of  today.  And 
he  has  an  uncanny  way  of  finding  the 
true  reasons  for  our  silly  little  habits  and 
exposing  them,  pretending  that  the  faults 
actually  are  his,  in  an  innocent  self-con- 
demnation. Do  you  smoke?  Why?  Bob 
doesn't  accuse  any  of  us,  but  it  is  not 
by  chance  that  he  explains  that  he 
smokes  only  because  lighting  a  cigarette 
is  a  debonair  act  and  elevates  him  in  the 
eyes  of  his  companions.    He  confesses 


that,  if  sophistication  would  permit  it. 
he  would  love  to  be  a  non-cigarette 
smoker. 

Bob  interrupts  his  stretches  of  mild 
satire  with  pure,  unadulterated  gobs  of 
absolute  foolishness.  Air.  MacGregor, 
whom  I  always  associate  with  a  handle- 
bar mustache,  would  be  a  comfort  to  any 
disconsolate  railroad  worker.  You  see. 
Mr.  MacGregor  lost  a  locomotive  and 
the  railroad  accountants  don't  know 
where  to  charge  the  loss ;  neither  does 
Mr.  MacGregor,  but  since  he  doesn't  like 
tangerines  and  his  cynicism  might  de- 
stroy the  morale  of  the  office  force,  it  is  J 
best  to  forget  the  whole  matter.  Don't  * 
stop  to  make  sense  from  this  gem ;  go 
on  to  wonder  why  Mr.  John  Strickland  J 
of  Blackpool,  England,  couldn't  quite  * 
tell  why  he  set  a  new  world's  record  of 
1221^  hours  of  consecutive  piano  play- 
ing, alternating  his  hands,  cheeks,  and 
chin,  or  whether  Mr.  MacGregor's  "fine 
frogs  for  fussy  folk"  were  for  fighting, 
breeding,  steeplechasing,  or  just  were. 
Do  you  have  defective  judgment,  re- 
tarded perception,  restriction  in  the  field 
of  attention  (Bob's  can  only  be  had  by 
lashing  him  to  a  table  and  sitting  on  his 
chest,  and  even  then  his  eyes  wander), 
lack  of  skill  in  motor  performance?  Are 
you  in  a  stupor?  You  may  not  fulfill 
these  requirements,  but  I'll  wager  that 
Bob  can  prove  that  you  suffer  from 
dementia  praecox.  And  just  why  did  a 
London  newspaper  advertise  for  5,000 
hedgehogs  ? 

These  absurdities  are  illustrated  by  the 


8] 


clever  sketches  of  Gluyas  Williams.  As 
a  confirmed  follower  of  "Suburban 
Heights"  I  was  especially  pleased  with 
the  illustrations.  Williams's  plates  have 
just  the  right  vagueness  to  portray  the 
frustration,  bafflement,  and  quandaries 
that  bedevil  Bob. 

Whenever  your  cares  seem  to  get  too 
large  for  you,  take  a  few  hours  out 
of    your    crowded    schedule    and    read 


My  Ten  Years  in  a  Quandary  by  Robert 
Benchley.  You'll  get  no  great  and  pro- 
found truths  from  this  book ;  you  will 
read  no  polished  literary  style ;  you  will 
be  no  wiser  when  you  finish ;  the  book 
is  not  somehow  "vital"  and  "intense." 
You'll  get  no  addition  to  your  store 
of  accumulated  wisdom — but  you'll 
enjoy  it. 


You  Can  Have  It! 

Dorothy  Cox 
Rhetoric  11,  Theme  5,  1937-1938 


A  BUDGETED  life  would  bore  me 
to  death !  To  eat  breakfast  at  seven 
every  morning,  to  write  a  theme  between 
the  hours  of  ten  and  twelve,  to  trans- 
late French  from  two  to  three,  to  write 
letters  from  four  to  five,  to  rest  from 
five  to  six  would  make  life  terribly 
monotonous  and  tiresome.  I  have  a 
friend  who  is  so  budget-conscious  that 
she  gets  up  early  on  Sunday  morning, 
b.er  only  morning  to  sleep,  just  to  go 
out  for  breakfast.  On  Wednesday  nights, 
she  unfailingly  washes  her  hair  no  mat- 
ter what  opportunity  she  might  have  to 
do  something  exciting.  I  like  to  write 
themes  when  I  get  an  idea,  to  write  a 
letter  when  I  have  something  to  say, 
to  eat  when  I'm  hungry,  to  sleep  when 
I'm  sleepy,  to  wash  my  hair  when  it  gets 
dirty.  These  "budgeteers"  forget  that 
budgets  were  invented  only  to  help 
people  live  more  abundantly.  They  con- 
centrate on  budgeting  and  forget  to  live. 
Perhaps  you  think  that  budgeting  one's 
time  while  going  to  school  does  bring 
good  results.  It  may  for  some  people, 
but  not   for  all.    Maybe  you  think  this 


working  on  inspiration  an  impractical 
system.  I  admit  it  is  rather  inconvenient 
to  have  a  theme  due  on  Monday  after- 
noon at  one  o'clock  and  to  have  to  wait 
until  Monday  noon  for  an  inspiration. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  what  does  our 
budget-advocate  do  when  Scapin  is  trick- 
ing Argante  out  of  two  hundred  pistols 
and  he  gets  a  wonderful  idea  for  a 
theme?  Does  he  stop  and  write  his 
theme?  No!  He  waits  until  he  has 
finished  translating  his  ten  pages,  and 
lias  forgotten  his  brilliant  idea.  Then, 
while  trying  to  write  a  theme,  he  thinks 
of  a  good  translation  for  that  twenty- 
first  line,  but  does  he  go  back  to  his 
French  and  correct  his  translation  ?  No ! 
That  would  interrupt  his  budget ! 

Having  observed  many  shining  ex- 
amples of  the  budgeted  life  and  many 
champions  of  the  inspirationalist  theory, 
I  have  concluded  that  the  latter  lead  the 
more  interesting  and  exciting  life.  Fun 
does  not  always  "pop  up"  at  the  budgeted 
time,  and  far  be  it  from  me  to  pass  it 
up  when  it  comes — just  for  a  budget. 


[  9] 


On  Spelling  Reform 


Robert  Kuder 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  3.  1938-1939 


IF  ONE  were  to  add  any  positive  num- 
ber ending  in  five  to  any  other  posi- 
tive number  ending  in  two,  the  sum 
would  most  certainly  end  in  seven.  Since 
this  above  fact  is  true,  one  can  be  sure 
of  one's  result  when  one  adds  two  num- 
bers properly.  Whether  one  adds  two  to 
five  or  five  to  two,  makes  no  difference. 
But  with  letters  the  result  will  differ. 
If  adding  t  io  o  would  give  ot,  adding 
adding  o  to  /  would  give  to.  Even  though 
to  is  spelled  alike  in  various  words,  it  is 
pronounced  differentl)\  Consider  to- 
gether, tomato,  and  tot  as  examples. 
Again  let  us  look  at  examples  of  ot  in 
words  such  as  depot,  shot,  and  notable. 
At  first  thought  one  would  think  that  ot 
should  be  pronounced  the  same  at  all 
times.  But  the  difference  in  sounds  of 
letters  does  not  originate  in  the  words 
themselves,  but  in  their  etymologies.  For 
this  reason  the  spelling  of  words  in  the 
English  language  should  not  be  changed 
merely  to  simplify  spelling.  If  conquer, 
meaning  to  bring  together  (from  Latin 
conquere),  were  spelled  konyker,  Web- 
ster's pronunciation,  how  would  a  per- 
son unfamiliar  with  the  word  have  any 
idea  of  its  meaning  by  associating  it  with 
either  the  Latin  origin  or  a  familiar 
word?  The  definition  of  a  word  is  far 
more  important  than  the  spelling.  Pres- 
ent spelling  should  be  retained  for 
etymologies  and  definitions. 

Then,  too,  changing  spelling  would 
merely  serve  to  complicate  the  English 
language  by  introducing  an  entirely  dif- 


ferent language.  Newspaper  writers  and 
authors  would  be  likel}-  to  mix  the  old 
and  new  spellings  simply  for  effect. 
Sticklers  for  form  and  British  countries 
would  probably  retain  old  spellings. 
Manuscripts,  old  books,  documents,  etc. 
could  not  be  changed.  In  a  few  years 
only  the  more  learned  men  could  read 
these  old  papers.  The  English  language, 
as  it  now  is,  is  an  art  worth  mastering, 
and,  once  mastered,  can  be  handled  easily 
by  anyone. 

Lastly,  there  are  a  few  minor  defenses 
for  not  changing  spelling.  Proper  nouns, 
such  as  names  of  people  and  cities,  could 
not  be  changed  conveniently.  Not  chang- 
ing proper  nouns  but  changing  common 
nouns  which  are  now  spelled  the  same 
way  would  necessarily  introduce  two 
spellings  for  one  word.  The  generation 
of  people  living  during  the  changing 
period  would  experience  much  difficulty. 
New  letters  for  combinations  of  ae,  ai, 
ch,  eau,  etc.  would  have  to  be  invented, 
and  difficulty  would  arise  about  forming 
these  new  letters  and  placing  them  in 
the  alphabet.  Long  a's  would  have  to  be 
distinguished  from  short  a's,  hard  g's. 
from  soft  g's.  etc.  Words  with  similar 
sounds,  such  as  lurite,  right,  and  rite. 
would  be  confused  easily.  A  New 
Yorker's  words  are  sometimes  pro- 
nounced differently  from  a  Calif ornian's 
and  similarly  some  words  in  the  South 
are  pronounced  unlike  the  same  words  in 
the  North.  English  people  pronounce 
words  dift'erently   from  the  way  Ameri- 


[10] 


can  people  do.  If  spelling  were  trans- 
formed according  to  pronunciation, 
which  pronunciation  would  be  the 
base  for  the  change — English,  Ameri- 
can, Northern,  Southern,  Eastern  or 
Western  ? 


How  foolish  it  would  be  even  to  con- 
sider spelling  reform.  One  can  immedi- 
ately see  the  many  complications  spelling 
reformers  would  find  in  such  a  task  as 
"simplifying  spelling." 


Feai 


Harry  Ruud 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  5,  1938-1939 


IT  WAS  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
of  a  midsummer  day.  The  sun  had 
beaten  down  on  the  factory  since  early 
morning.  The  brick  and  concrete  fairly 
simmered,  and  the  air  was  sluggish  and 
sticky.  Squirming  uncomfortably  in  this 
torrid,  moist  atmosphere,  I  sat  at  my 
desk  calculating  the  previous  day's  coal 
consumption  per  kilowatt-hour.  The 
figures  complete,  I  raised  my  eyes  from 
my  work  and  saw  two  men  standing  in 
the  vestibule  of  my  little  office.  I  greeted 
them,  and  they  asked  if  they  were 
in  the  Aloline  Electric  Plant.  I  said 
yes.  As  the  words  left  my  lips,  the  sky 
turned  black,  as  if  a  gigantic  blanket  had 
been  thrown  over  the  sun,  blotting  it  out. 
As  the  three  of  us  turned  to  face  the 
door,  we  were  met  by  a  blast  of  rain 
driven  by  a  strong  wind.  Forcing  the 
door  closed  against  the  driving  torrent, 
I  again  gave  my  attention  to  the  two 
strangers.  Crash !  There  was  a  terrific 
roar,  the  entire  building  shook,  and  a 
blinding  blue  light  flooded  the  room. 
After  the  roar  had  subsided,  I  heard  the 
voltage  regulators  banging  as  they  ran 
the  voltage  up  and  down,  and  an  electric 
bell  clanging  out  the  warning  that  circuits 


were  out  of  service.  I  ran  to  the  switch- 
board to  see  if  the  reclosing  relays  were 
in  operation.  They  were.  Bang!  A  cir- 
cuit breaker  closed.  Crash  !  It  opened ; 
the  line  was  grounded.  Out  of  the  corner 
of  my  eye  I  saw  blue  flashes  in  the  yard. 
I  ran  to  the  door.  On  the  ground  out- 
side was  a  maze  of  wires  which  had 
come  down  from  the  poles  and  were 
shorting ;  the  ground  was  a  mass  of  blue 
flames.  Just  then  the  operator  arrived. 
I  pointed  out  to  him  the  circuits  that 
were  grounded.  He  turned  the  control 
switches  to  open  the  circuit  breakers  on 
the  shorted  lines  that  were  still  in  service. 
The  excitement  was  past. 

Where  were  the  two  strangers  to 
whom  I  had  been  speaking  before  the 
storm  began?  I  could  not  find  them  at 
first;  then  I  saw  them  cowering  in  a 
corner  of  the  vestibule,  where  I  had  left 
them.  Each  was  clinging  to  the  other 
as  a  child  clings  to  its  mother's  apron 
during  a  thunderstorm ;  they  were 
thoroughly  frightened.  As  I  approached 
them  they  composed  themselves  some- 
what. The  first  words  they  spoke  were: 
"Is  it  safe  to  go  now?"  I  said  it  was, 
providing  they  kept  clear  of  the  wires  on 


[11] 


the  ground.  They  answered,  "Thanks," 
and  went  out  into  the  soaking  rain, 
anxious  to  get  awa}'  and  completely  for- 
getting their  purpose  in  coming  to  the 
plant. 

The  fear  these  two  men  displayed  is 
not  uncommon.  They,  though  they  were 
in  practically  no  danger,  merely  feared 
what  they  did  not  understand.  We  all 
fear  something  or.  other  which  we  do  not 
have  knowledge  of.  Some  people,  as  in 
the  case  of  these  two  men,  fear  elec- 
tricity. Some  students  fear  examinations. 


Some  fear  tire.  Some  fear  lirearms. 
Some  fear  what  a  doctor  may  do  to  them 
in  treating  an  ill.   Some  fear  death. 

It  is  my  opinion  that  all  fears  are 
products  of  uncertainty,  lack  of  knowl- 
edge, or  misunderstanding.  If  we  knew 
what  was  going  to  happen  when  some- 
one points  a  gun  at  us,  when  we  are  in  a 
burning  building,  what  the  results  of  the 
examination  will  be,  what  occurs  after 
death,  or,  in  general,  if  there  were  no 
doubt,  no  uncertainty,  nor  lack  of  knowl- 
edge, there  would  be  no  fear. 


I 


The  Real  I 

Stephen  Parrlsh 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  13,  1938-1939 


ADOLESCENTS  are  singular  ani- 
mals. They  experience  sensations 
found  in  no  other  human  age  group — 
emotions  typical  of  themselves  alone. 
Their  spirits  bound  from  nadir  to  zenith 
— and  back — in  less  time  and  with  less 
provocation  than  does  the  price  of  wheat. 
They  are  as  erratic  as  so  many  ping-pong 
balls  or  mercury  globules.  They  are 
entirely  without  responsibility — yet  are 
often  meticulously  dutiful;  they  lack  the 
ability  to  project  themselves — but  excel 
at  self-dramatization;  they  are  fascinated 
with  the  pretense  of  being  cynics — yet 
they  enjoy  life  infinitely.  Yes,  ado- 
lescents are  singular  animals. 

A  young  person  in  his  "  'teens"  has 
reached  the  age  of  change.  He  is  just  at 
that  stage  of  his  existence  where  his 
character  is  in  the  molder's  hands — 
where  the  clay  of  his  soul  is  softest — 


where  the  potter's-wheel  of  his  matur- 
ity's evolution  turns  the  fastest.  In  short, 
he  is  extremely  impressionable.  A 
dazzling  escapade,  thought-provoking 
literature,  searching  ideas,  the  guiding 
hand  of  a  teacher,  a  hero  to  worship  and 
emulate — all  these  things  are  capable  of 
becoming  powerful  influences  in  the  crea- 
tion of  an  adult.  But  often  even  the  most 
profound  of  these  forces  fail  to  produce 
a  lasting  effect  on  an  adolescent,  because 
he  is  too  easily  swayed  by  counter-forces. 
His  impressionability  works  both  ways. 

The  average  adolescent  is  conceited. 
He  is  forever  worried  about  his  appear- 
ance and  is  smugly  certain  that  wherever 
he  goes  he  is  the  admired  object  of  much 
attention.  He  feels  his  importance  and 
acts  accordingly.  He  is  eager  to  win 
popularity  and  admiration,  particularly 
from  the  other  sex,  and  consequently  is 


[12] 


easily  hurt  by  many  of  our  cruel  social 
habits. 

The  youth,  if  he  is  at  all  intelligent,  is 
fond  of  pretending  to  ponder  over  the 
meaning  and  purposes,  the  why  and 
wherefore,  of  this  life  and  this  earth. 
He  fancies  himself  a  philosopher — a 
deep  thinker — though  in  reality  his  re- 
flections are,  without  exception,  pitifully 
shallow  and  feeble,  and  his  ideas  none 
but  the  most  familiar.  He  is  deeply 
flattered  at  any  adult  interest  taken  in 
him.  However,  although  he  likes  nothing 
better  than  to  appear  serious-minded, 
industrious,  and  altogether  promising 
before  his  adult  observers,  he  tries  des- 
perately to  be  strictly  average — "one  of 
the  gang" — when  with  his  fellows. 

There  are  two  additional  governing 
conceptions  present  in  the  mind  of  an 
adolescent.  The  first  of  these  is  the 
fascination  of  "martyrism,"  or  "self- 
laceration."  Every  youth  experiences  the 
desire  to   sulk,  momentarily  to  deprive 


himself  of  his  rightful  pleasures  or  bene- 
fits— sometimes  to  impress  those  who,  he 
believes,  have  wronged  him,  at  other 
limes  merely  for  the  meager  inner  satis- 
faction that  self-torture  often  brings. 
The  second  of  these  conceptions,  which 
is  present  to  some  extent  in  every  human 
being,  is  the  sense  of  a  duty  to  oneself 
and  to  humanity.  This  most  important 
of  human  ideals,  without  which  Hfe 
would  be  impossible,  helps  to  motivate 
the  actions  of  every  adolescent. 

All  in  all,  it  appears  that  adolescents 
are  essentially  well-intentioned  masses  of 
contradictions,  possessing,  in  part,  all  the 
emotional  and  spiritual  qualities  known 
to  man — the  impermanent,  transient  opti- 
mism and  pessimism  of  Youth,  traces 
of  the  maturity  and  wisdom  of  Age, 
and  the  eternal  vacillations,  uncertainties, 
and  contradictions  of  Change. 

Yes,  adolescents  are  indeed  singlar 
animals. 

I  am  an  adolescent. 


Brother  Dave 


John  Olson 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  10,  1938-1939 


T  TE  NEVER  seemed  to  give  a  rap 
■^  ^  about  an}1:hing  or  anyone — that  was 
my  brother  Dave.  I  wouldn't  say  that 
he  was  a  good-for-nothing,  but  it  seemed 
that  he  seldom  really  cared  whether  he 
came  or  went. 

I'll  never  forget  the  day  when  he  casu- 
ally mentioned  that  he  thought  he'd  go 
to  college.  It  was  a  veritable  bombshell 
thrown  in  our  house.  We  all  knew  that 
Dave    had    brains    in    him — brains    that 


could  function  quickly  when  the  time 
came  to  use  them,  but  he  seldom  cared 
to  use  them.  He  was  nineteen  at  the  time 
of  this  startling  announcement,  and  I 
was  but  sixteen.  The  idea  impressed  me 
considerably;  but  Mother,  being  a 
woman,  asked  him  where  he  was  going 
to  get  the  money.  He  just  smiled  in 
that  knowing  way  of  his  and  said,  "I 
didn't  think  much  about  that,  Mom,  but 
I  guess  I'll  sell  my  car."  The  car,  by  the 


[13] 


way,  had  been  bought  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  when  he  landed  his  first  job 
after  graduation  from  high  school.  He 
had  paid  the  last  installment  only  two 
weeks  before.  Dave  sold  the  car,  went 
to  college  for  a  semester,  and  although 
he  passed  all  subjects  with  a  four  point 
average,  he  decided  he'd  had  enough  of 
school  and  didn't  like  it  after  all.  That 
was  Dave. 

I  am  quite  sure  that  my  brother  had 
his  "affairs."  During  his  early  high 
school  days  he  stoutly  denied  that  girls 
meant  a  thing  to  him,  but  we  were  all 
"wise"  when  out  of  a  clear  blue  sky  he 
asked  for  the  car  for  a  Saturday  night. 
Although  he'd  never  had  the  family  car 
before,  he  didn't  blink  an  eye  as  he  asked 
Dad  for  permission  to  use  it.  Dad,  sur- 
prisingly enough,  mumbled  something 
about  thinking  it  could  be  arranged  so 
long  as  only  Dave  and  his  boy  friend 
were  going  to  the  basketball  game  to- 
gether and  would  be  back  before  mid- 
night. The  next  morning  Dad  came  in 
for  breakfast  after  being  in  the  garage; 
in  one  hand  he  had  a  pair  of  lady's 
overshoes  and  in  the  other  lady's  gloves. 
"Dave,"  he  said,  "I  believe  one  of  your 
friends  must  have  left  these  in  the  car 
last  night."  Dave  just  took  them  to  his 
room  without  a  word,  and  we  never  saw 


either    the    overshoes    or    gloves    again. 

It  had  always  been  brother  Dave's 
weakness  to  buy  a  great  variety  of  shirts, 
ties,  shoes,  suits,  and  numerous  other 
articles  of  clothing,  and  to  pay  for  none 
of  these  until  they  were  worn  out.  I 
wouldn't  say  that  he  was  a  sketch  from 
Esquire,  but  his  choice  was  usually  pretty 
good  as  far  as  colors,  styles,  and  patterns 
were  concerned.  I  seldom  wished  to  go 
to  church  with  him.  however,  because 
he'd  insist  on  wearing  a  loud  plaid  sport 
coat,  green  trousers,  brown  shoes — and 
to  top  it  ofif — a  red  and  white  bow  tie. 

I  don't  know  why  my  brother  went 
to  church.  It  surely  couldn't  be  that  he 
received  any  spiritual  uplifting  from  the 
sermon.  He  could  never  tell  us  just  what 
the  minister  had  said.  Usually,  though, 
he  had  some  witty  remark  to  make  about 
the  tin-soldiery  way  the  ushers  went 
down  the  aisle  with  the  collection  boxes. 
This  always  brought  spasmodic  laughs 
from  him  throughout  the  entire  service 
and  once  resulted  in  several  persons' 
moving  to  other  pews  away  from  us. 

Just  how  Dave  will  turn  out  is  some- 
thing which  none  of  us  can  say.  In  spite 
of  his  strange  ways  and  hasty  acts, 
however,  I'm  sure  he'll  really  be  some- 
thing some  day.  I  certainly  hope  so  any- 
way because,  after  all,  he's  my  brother. 


We  Are  Dumb 

We  have  come  to  the  university  after  having  paid  our  tuition,  most  of  us 
realizing  how  high  it  was.  Why  don't  we  remember  this  when,  some  morning,  we 
feel  more  like  cutting  our  eight  o'clock  to  stay  at  home  to  sleep,  or  when,  some  night, 
everyone  in  the  house  gathers  around  for  a  bull  session?  A  shopper  will  go  down  to 
the  market  and  watch  the  butcher  weigh  the  meat  so  that  she  is  sure  she  gets  her 
money's  worth.  Why  are  we  so  dumb  as  not  to  see  that  the  situation  which  confronts 
us  is  not  so  different?  Why  aren't  we  alert  so  that  we  get  our  money's  worth  of 
instruction  out  of  every  discussion? — Ruth  M.  Classen 


14 


Once  is  Enough 


D.  S.  Abernethy 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  11,  1938-1939 


THIS  pheasant  hunt  was  the  result  of 
a  series  of  over-enthusiastic  prom- 
ises and  just  plain  conversation.  I  had 
been  telling  the  girl  friend  that  we  were 
going  to  share  a  wonderful  time  together 
— some  day.  But  she  had  become  dis- 
satisfied with  idle  vows  and  demanded 
that  I  show  her  what  was  so  grand  about 
hunting  and  w^hy  it  took  so  much  of  one's 
time.  When  I  began  my  customary, 
"When  we  both  can  find  a  chance,  I'll 
take  you  on  a  real  bird  hunt,"  she 
smiled  back  a  tolerant  assent ;  right  then 
I  knew  something  was  wrong. 

So  this  year  I  took  her  along,  not  only 
to  shut  her  up,  but  to  convert  her  as 
well.  Before  the  opening  day,  I  had 
borrowed  a  trim  little  gun  for  her ;  it  was 
fast  and  light,  an  ideal  twenty  gauge. 
The  facts  that  I  bought  higher-powered 
shells  for  her  gun  than  for  mine  and  put 
a  recoil  pad  on  the  butt  of  the  twenty 
gauge  will  give  you  an  idea  of  my 
opinion  of  our  relative  abilities. 

"Your  gun  is  all  ready  for  you,"  I 
announced  with  pride.  "Try  some  shots 
at  these  clay  pigeons — you  know,  just 
to  sort  of  get  the  feel  of  it."  With  a 
hand  trap  I  threw  several  tough  angle 
shots ;  she  powdered  them  all  with  a 
nonchalant  air.  Swallowing  hard,  I 
managed  to  gulp,  "Beginner's  luck;  try 
again." 

Seeming  rather  bored  with  the  entire 
procedure,  she  came  back,  "That's 
enough ;  it's  obvious  that  there's  nothing 
to  hitting  those  silly  little  targets 
[imagine  saying  that  about  trapshooting, 


the  greatest  sport  on  earth!],  and  be- 
sides the  noise  makes  my  head  ache." 
And  that  was  that. 

Later  I  tried  to  soften  the  fall  that  I 
knew  she  was  heading  for ;  after  her 
few  shots,  she  actually  believed  that  she 
could  hit  a  pheasant!  I  carefully  ex- 
plained, "Not  more  than  one  out  of  ten 
hunters  gets  his  pheasant  the  first  year; 
why,  Doc  Hays  has  been  after  ringnecks 
for  three  years  now  and  hasn't  even 
seen  one  yet.  You  can't  expect  just  to 
walk  out  and  mow  down  a  big  pheasant ; 
they're  smart,  tricky  runners  and  strong 
fliers.  This  hunting  business  is  really  a 
man's  sport  anyway — too  tough  for 
women!" 

"If  it's  so  hard  to  catch  a  ....  " 

"Not  catch,  dear ;  kill  a  pheasant — 
fish  are  caught,  but  birds  are  killed,  shot, 
brought  down,  or  anything  else  but 
caught!"  I  was  getting  pretty  peeved  by 
now  and  wondered  if  by  some  chance  I 
could  escape  what  was  sure  to  be  a 
terrible  hunt. 

"Oh,  all  right,  if  it's  so  hard  to  kill 
a  pheasant,  how  do  you  explain  that  you 
have  gotten  several  every  3^ear  as  long 
as  we  have  been  going  together?"  She 
obviously  didn't  realize  that  I  had  no 
mean  ability  with  a  gun — oh,  well. 

So  I  tried  another  line  of  attack, 
"But  it  was  all  luck,  dear.  Those  birds 
just  happened  to  be  in  the  right  places  at 
the  right  times." 

"But  you've  always  come  back  with 
one ;  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  it  could 
be  so  hard — " 


[15] 


"Let's  just  forget  the  whole  thing  if 
it's  all  right  with  you." 

Here  we  were  walking  through  my 
favorite  grounds,  the  white  snow  crunch- 
ing sharply  under  our  feet.  I  could  see 
that  she  didn't  appreciate  the  swell  break 
that  the  weather  had  given  us  and 
thought  that  some  enlightenment  was 
in  order.  "This  snow  makes  everything 
perfect,"  I  said ;  "it'll  be  easy  to  track 
any  birds  that  are  moving  about,  and 
the  temperature  will  make  the  coveys  lie 
close  in  thickets.  I  know  exactly  where 
to  find  them  on  a  day  like  this;  they  lie 
close  and  come  out  fast ;  weather  makes 
them  frisky  once  they're  on  the  wing. 
Of  course  I'll  let  you  have  first  shot; 
but  just  in  case  any  get  away,  I'll  keep 
my  gun  up,"  I  taunted.  I  was  eager  for 
revenge  after  the  way  she  had  shown 
me  up  during  the  trapshooting  episode. 

"Don't  worry  about  my  shooting;  just 
take  care  of  yourself !"  I  trembled  with 
joy;  she  was  still  on  her  high  horse. 
What  an  awakening  was  in  store  for 
her,  soon — very  soon !  My  musings  were 
interrupted  by  the  cackle  of  a  beautiful 
cock  pheasant  as  he  rocketed  from  a 
clump  of  horseweed  to  our  left.  "It's 
a  rooster,"  1  screamed.  "Shoot  quick!" 
She  calmly  watched  the  bird  swing  across 
the  sky  directly  in  front  of  us ;  it  was 
a  perfect  shot,  and  she  didn't  even  have 
her  gun  up ;  I  swore,  then  pulled  a  quick 
snapshot.  The  rooster  crumpled  in  mid- 
air; his  head  went  limp,  signifying 
death ;  it  was  without  doubt  the  prettiest 
shot  I've  made.  "I'm  sorry  that  I 
took  him,  but  you  weren't  ready  to  shoot, 
and  I  couldn't  resist  any  longer.  What 
a  shot !  and  what  a  bird  !" 


"Oh,  that's  all  right,  don't  apologize. 
I  wasn't  going  to  shoot  anyway.  He  was 
so  pretty,  and  it  was  fun  watching  him 
fly.  But  it's  too  bad  that  you  had  to  kill 
such  a  little  one.  Why  the  poor  thing's 
not  more  than  half  grown — just  a  baby!" 
It  was  true  that  I've  killed  bigger  birds, 
but  he  was  so  well  feathered  and  marked, 
and  I  knew  that  he  was  sure  to  be  nice 
and  plump.  By  the  time  I  had  picked 
that  pheasant  up  he  seemed  to  have 
shrunk  six  inches,  and  I  could  actually 
feel  his  breastbone  through  his  feathers. 

I  walked  along  in  utter  silence  for 
some  time ;  the  weather  was  fine,  and 
talking  was  the  last  thing  I  felt  like 
doing.  Joyce  glanced  at  the  bulge  in  my 
game  pocket  several  times ;  she  didn't 
say  anything  out  loud,  but  I'll  swear 
that  she  mumbled  something  about  poor 
sports,  little  birds,  and  big  guns.  And  I 
caught  her  shaking  her  head  once  or 
twice  and  looking  at  me  with  mixed 
emotions  of  pity  and  reproval.  She  was 
really  a  damned  nuisance,  always  tagging 
along  too  close  and  making  a  quick  shot 
to  the  rear  or  side  impossible.  I  shud- 
dered to  think  of  the  result  if  her  gun 
should  go  off  accidentally ;  it  always 
seemed  to  be  pointing  directly  at  my 
back.  By  some  bodily  contortions  she 
managed  to  get  behind  every  bush  that 
whipped  back  as  I  passed  through ;  she 
didn't  whimper  once,  but  that  made  it 
all  the  worse — I  knew  that  she  was  being 
hurt  and  playing  the  martyr.  At  last 
we  returned  to  the  car.  As  I  put  the 
guns  in  their  cases,  she  said,  "Maybe 
we'll  have  better  luck  next  time,  dear." 

"Once  is  enough !" 


[16] 


Behind  the  Fountain 


F.  A.  Even 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1938-1939 


YOU  regard  it  intently  as  it  is  placed 
on  the  counter  before  you.  Its 
frothy  head  makes  its  tall  glass  taller. 
Its  delicious  velvety  brown  is  streaked 
by  white  gobs  of  ice  cream.  Two  colored 
straws  and  one  spoon  protrude.  You 
pucker  your  lips  and  draw  up  its  refresh- 
ing coolness.  There  is  a  blank  but  some- 
how satisfied  look  on  your  face.  You  are 
enjoying  the  culmination  of  the  gentle 
art  of  soda-jerking. 

Soda-jerking  wasn't  new  to  me.  I  had 
two  summers'  experience  behind  me,  but 
nothing  promising  before  me.  School 
was  out  and  I  wanted  a  job.  Any  kind 
of  job  except  soda-jerking.  But  before 
a  week  had  passed,  I  was  back  at  it^ — 
and  with  the  same  outfit.  Two  unevent- 
ful soda-filled  weeks  dragged  by  when 
one  day  the  supervisor  said  to  me,  "We 
are  opening  at  a  new  location,  and  in 
view  of  your  experience,  etc."  Well,  I 
got  a  better  job.  A  nicer  neighborhood, 
more  responsibility,  more  pay.  Soda- 
jerking  took  on  a  new,  more  pleasing 
light. 

The  new  shop,  slightly  removed  from 
the  business  section  of  Evanston,  Illinois, 
stood  on  a  main  thoroughfare.  Nearby 
were  grouped  the  buildings  of  the  School 
of  Music  of  Northwestern  University. 
In  outward  appearance  the  shop  was 
quietly  modest.  No  glaring  ballyhoo  of 
specialties  cluttered  the  windows.  One 
distinctive  neon  sign,  standing  in  the 
parking,  bore  the  sole  identification.  As 
one  entered,  the  cool,  fresh  atmosphere 


within  was  welcome  exchange  for  the 
heat  of  the  day.  Venetian  blinds  ad- 
mitted only  the  milder  of  the  sun's  rays. 
The  satiny-white  stainless-steel  fountain 
equipment  reflected  quietly,  but  distinctly, 
the  cream  and  blue  of  the  interior.  In 
front  of  a  low  counter  stood  a  row  of 
short  padded  stools,  and  along  the  walls, 
upholstered  leathern  recesses  of  booths 
invited  one  to  comfortable  seclusion. 

I  began  work  every  morning  at  nine 
o'clock,  beginning  a  long  routine  of  duties 
which  had  to  be  done  before  the  shop 
opened  at  eleven.  Johnny,  my  helper, 
arrived  soon  after  nine  and  began  the 
sweeping  and  mopping,  which  was  his 
routine  job.  Johnny  was  the  son  of  one 
of  the  companys'  officials,  but  he  sub- 
mitted to  his  lowly  job  in  an  effort  to 
"learn  from  the  bottom  up."  Meanwhile 
I  busied  myself  checking  the  refrigera- 
tion, preparing  syrups,  filling  syrup  jars 
in  the  fountain,  and  putting  away  the 
daily  delivery  of  ice  cream  and  supplies. 
Because  a  careful  daily  check  on  ice 
cream  and  supplies  was  important,  I 
recorded  the  delivery  religiously.  By  our 
combined  efforts  the  store  opened  at 
eleven  and  we  settled  down  to  a  steady 
pace  for  the  day. 

Eleven-thirty  brought  the  end  of  morn- 
ing classes  at  the  university  and  with 
it  a  stream  of  students  to  the  shop,  all 
anxious  to  be  waited  on,  and  all  in- 
capable of  understanding  the  physical 
limitations  of  men.  Orders  were  fired 
at  us  from  all  sides  as  we  rushed  about, 


[17 


trying  to  serve  everyone  with  no  more 
than  reasonable  delay.  Most  of  the  stu- 
dents were  from  the  School  of  Music. 
From  bits  of  conversation  overheard,  I 
learned  that  the  greater  part  of  them 
were  teachers  and  were  back  at  summer 
school  doing  graduate  work.  Groups  of 
young  men  earnestly  discussed  the  adagio 
from  Sibelius'  latest  symphony.  Groups 
of  middle-aged  ladies  whipped  out  their 
notes  and  earnestly  discussed  the  latest 
in  music-teaching  psychology  for  ele- 
mentary schools.  Groups  of  young  ladies 
earnestly  discussed  the  latest  of  any- 
thing. I  must  confess  I  regarded  them 
all  with  a  certain  awe  and  looked  for- 
ward to  the  time  when  I  should  become 
as  intelligent  as  those  before  me  certainly 
must  have  been.  Pretty  illusions  began 
forming  in  the  back  of  my  head.  How 
wonderful  college  must  be  to  make  these 
mere  men  sober  their  attitudes  and  trans- 
form them  into  veritable  fountains  of 
knowledge  and  wisdom.  I  must  confess 
too,  though,  that  it  has  taken  less  than 
a  semester  of  college  life  to  shatter  my 
pretty  illusions. 

The  early  afternoon  was  quiet  and  we 
had  opportunity  to  repair  the  damages 
of  the  noon  rush.  Our  repairs,  however, 
were  usually  nothing  more  extensive 
than  clearing  dishes  from  the  counter, 
sweeping  up  crumpled  napkins,  and 
straightening  chairs  and  tables. 

Soon  customers  came  into  the  shop  by 
ones  and  twos,  and  although  we  were 
not  rushed,  we  were  kept  busy.  Not  in- 
frequently during  the  afternoon,  groups 
of  young  girls  of  high-school  age  would 
enter,  attracted  by  the  automatic  record 


machine,  which  contained  two  dozen 
records  of  swing  tunes.  Hot  music 
poured  forth  in  nickels'  and  dimes'- 
worth,  and  these  young  ladies,  who  pre- 
sumably had  no  small  measure  of  refine- 
ment, proceeded  to  swing  it !  All  this  to 
the  bewilderment  and  consternation  of 
one  prissy  old  lady — an  habitue  of  the 
place — who,  bristling  with  respectability, 
mumbled  her  inarticulate  disapproval 
into  a  cherry  phosphate. 

In  the  late  afternoon  when  business 
houses  closed,  people  drifted  from  the 
business  section  toward  their  homes. 
Many  of  them  passed  the  shop  and  not 
a  few  stopped  in.  With  painful  regu- 
larity one  cantankerous  old  gent  appeared 
at  5:14  each  day  for  a  pint  of  vanilla 
cream.  Without  fail,  his  purchase  of 
the  day  before  had  been  icy,  not  fully 
packed,  and  defective  in  countless  other 
ways.  In  time  he  became  amusing,  but 
I  managed  always  to  suppress  ni}'  feel- 
ings and  give  his  complaints  the  kindest 
consideration. 

At  six  o'clock,  after  discussing  with 
the  boss  the  happenings  of  the  day,  I 
took  leave  of  the  ice  cream,  syrup,  and 
soda  until  nine  the  next  morning. 

After  a  few  weeks,  this  routine  too 
grew  stale  and  monotonous.  The  shine 
was  wearing  off  the  job  ;  it  was  still  soda- 
jerking.  By  the  end  of  the  summer  I 
swore  I'd  never  jerk  another  soda. — But 
somehow  I  have  an  uncomfortable  in- 
tuition which  tells  me  that  next  summer 
I'll  be  back  serving  the  same  music 
teachers,  the  same  jitterbugs,  the  same 
prissy  old  lady,  the  same  cantankerous 
old  gent. 


[18] 


Cartoons,  1860-1915-1940 


Anne  Cullerton 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  10,  1938-1939 


WHEN  Ben  Franklin  was  a  small  boy 
and  was  sent  to  the  baker's  to  buy 
a  loaf  of  bread,  he  would  march,  his 
money  tightly  clenched  in  his  little  fist, 
until  he  came  to  a  shop  where  a  loaf 
of  bread  was  painted  on  the  window. 
This  was  the  baker's,  and  this  was  where 
all  Benny's  little  playmates  came  when 
their  mothers  sent  them  to  buy  bread. 
If  Benny's  brother  wanted  his  horse 
shod,  he  would  go  to  a  store  with  a 
large  horse  shoe  hung  over  the  door ; 
if  Benny  needed  boots,  his  brother  would 
take  him  to  the  cobbler's  house,  where  a 
large  boot  was  sketched  on  the  window. 
These  sketches  were  the  merchants'  only 
means  of  conveying  to  the  people  in  the 
village  the  type  of  merchandise  they  car- 
ried, for  most  of  the  good  people  did  not 
know  how  to  read. 

Since  that  time,  men  supposedly  have 
become  mojre  and  more  civilized  and  have 
learned  to  read,  yet  the  sketch  or  carica- 
ture remains  as  a  convenient  method  of 
expressing  and  interpreting  ideas  to  a 
somewhat  indolent  mankind.  A  cartoon 
or  caricature  pictures  at  one  glance  what 
a  page  or  two  of  a  printed  account  of  the 
same  idea  would  show\  In  these  fast 
moving  times  a  clever  cartoon  will  at- 
tract the  eye  of  a  busy  man,  while  a  page 
of  neatly  ruled  printing  will  seem  too 
laborious  and  too  boring  for  him  to  read. 

Besides  the  convenience  of  the  cartoon 
sketch  there  is  the  element  of  drama 
which  helps  to  arouse  public  emotion. 
This  drama  is  found  in  the  horrible  ex- 
pressions upon  the  faces  of  cartoon 
figures  during  war  periods.  At  the  tip 
of  the  cartoonist's  pencil  are  to  be  found 


sneers  of  hatred,  cruelty,  and  suspicion, 
smiles  of  deceit  and  trickery,  and  ex- 
pressions of  fear,  terror,  and  madness — 
all  aiming  toward  one  end — to  incite  the 
public   into  a   state  of   frenzied  hatred. 

During  the  horrible  French  Revolu- 
tion, when  the  downtrodden  peasants 
were  trying  to  assert  their  "liberty, 
equality,  and  fraternity"  with  the 
wealthier  aristocrats  and  clerg>%  and 
when  blood  flowed  as  freely  as  water, 
the  picture  propagandists  had  ample  ma- 
terial with  which  to  terrify  the  people. 

One  of  the  greatest  grievances  of  the 
peasants  was  the  fact  that  the  clerg>' 
were  growing  fat,  lolling  about  in  luxury, 
while  the  poor  peasants  were  making 
meals  of  rats  that  scooted  about  in  the 
street  gutters.  Mirabeau's  measure  for 
the  confiscation  of  the  churches  was 
shown  in  bitter  caricature  of  the  priest- 
hood. In  one  cartoon,  a  fat  priest  is  seen 
squelched  between  a  press  which  is  being 
operated  by  two  men.  Gold  is  dripping 
out  of  the  priest's  mouth,  two  lean  monks 
are  walking  away  in  the  distance,  and 
another  fat  priest  is  being  brought  up  to 
take  his  place  in  the  press. ^ 

Not  only  was  the  clergy  cruelly  satir- 
ized, but  Marie  Antoinette  in  her  "let- 
them-eat-cake"  role  was  drawn  as  a 
loathsome  creature,  a  harpy — part 
woman  and  part  bird- — which,  accord- 
ing to  classical  mythology,  was  supposed 
to  snatch  away  the  food  of  its  victim. 
This  harpy  is  shown  tearing  up  the 
constitution  of  France  with  its  sharp 
talons.    Even  Louis  XVI  did  not  escape 


'"Cartoons  and  Caricatures  in  War  Time," 
by  Lyman  Abbot,  Outlook,  November  8,  1916. 


19] 


the  caustic  ridicule  of  the  pencil.  He  is 
shown  as  a  horned  pig,  fat  and  blank  of 
expression.^ 

Not  even  a  hundred  years  after  the 
hunger-mad  mob  of  French  peasants 
tore  down  the  walls  of  the  Bastille  in 
Paris,  far  across  the  Atlantic  Ocean 
there  was  talk  of  Negro  atrocities,  abo- 
litionists, and  emancipation.  Propagan- 
dists and  cartoonists  began  to  foment 
bitter  hatred  between  the  "Yanks"  and 
the  Confederates.  Harriet  Beecher 
Stowe  gave  to  the  North  and  to  posterity 
Uncle  Tom,  and  the  artists  had  Uncle 
Tom  cruelly  mistreated  and  the  Southern 
plantation  owner  a  merciless  despot. 

The  North,  however,  was  not  as  ma- 
licious in  its  drawings  as  was  the  South. 
The  drawings  of  the  southern  artists 
were  full  of  the  most  biting  scorn  and 
hatred.  One  such  etching  entitled  the 
Worship  of  the  North  reveals  the  Con- 
federate's attitude  toward  Lincoln's 
Emancipation  Proclamation.  A  Negro, 
the  idol,  sits  upon  an  altar  surrounded 
by  bayonets.  A  few  feet  below  this 
Negro  altar  is  a  platform  made  of  the 
stones  of  Atheism,  Witch  Burning,  and 
Negro  Worship.  Upon  this  platform  lies 
a  bloody  murdered  white  man.  Henry 
Ward  Beecher  is  wiping  off  the  sacri- 
ficial knife  with  which  he  has  just 
offered  the  white  man  to  the  Negro  idol. 
Charles  Sumner  carries  a  torch,  and 
Horace  Greeley  swings  a  censer  which 
sends  forth  snakes  as  incense.^ 

Another  etching,  still  more  gruesome, 
made  later  in  the  war,  was  done  to 
arouse  overwhelming  pity  for  the  South 
and  to  incite  utter  abhorrence  of  the 
North.  The  picture  is  called  Tracks  of 
the  Armies,  and  in  it  a  husband  returns 
to  his  demolished  home  to  find  the  dead 
body  of  his  wife  among  the  ruins.  A 
babv  cradle  is  overturned  and  the  babv 


is  gone.  A  vulture  sits  by  the  chimney, 
eager  to  leap  down  upon  the  dead  prey. 
The  grief-stricken  husband  stands  with 
his  hand  upon  his  head,  the  expression 
on  his  face  showing  his  anguish.  On 
the  floor  a  leaf  of  an  open  book  reads. 
"By  their  deeds  ye  shall  know  them."* 

In  1915  the  world  was  again  plunged 
into  another  war.  Cartoonists  and  propa- 
gandists found  their  way  into  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  men  and  stirred  them  up 
into  a  false  nationalistic  spirit. 

German  cartoons  exemplified  Ger- 
many's martial  spirit.  The  German 
doughboy  was  pictured  as  a  strong, 
strapping,  burly  fellow  with  victory 
written  all  over  his  face.  There  was  the 
very  serious  picture  sketch  of  a  German 
soldier  and  an  Austrian  soldier  shaking 
hands,  while  Bismarck,  the  grand  old 
man  and  soldier  of  Germany,  is  shown 
appearing  out  of  a  cloud  blessing  the 
boys,  saying,  "The  Germans  and  the 
Austrians  fear  God.  but  no  one  else  in 
the  world. "^ 

The  Germans  showed  unmeasured  dis- 
dain for  England  and  the  United  States 
in  their  characterizations  of  John  Bull, 
and  of  Uncle  Sam  as  President  Wilson. 
When  the  English  cut  the  German  cable, 
a  cartoon  was  published  of  a  snarling 
John  Bull  standing  with  a  gun  in  his 
hand  beside  a  tied-up  maiden,  Truth. 
Below  the  picture  was  the  sarcastic  title 
Truth  Bound  Captive — John  Bull's  First 
Heroic  Deed!^  The  German  cartoonists 
adopted  the  idea  that  England  instigated 
American  policies.  Wilson  was  shown 
sitting  at  his  desk  ready  to  sign  a  docu- 

'Ibid. 

'Sketches  from  the  Ckil  War  in  Nortli 
America,  by  Adalbert  John  Volk,  London, 
1863,  Reprinted  1917. 

*Ihid. 

'"Germany's  Martial  Spirit,"  Review  of 
Revieivs,  November,  1914. 

*md. 


[20] 


ment,  with  John  Bull  standing  over  him 
wielding  his  pen.^ 

English  and  American  cartoonists,  too, 
were  not  at  all  gentle  in  their  characteri- 
zations. They  jabbed  their  pictorial 
taunts  at  greedy  German  militarism. 
"Hans"  always  had  extra  large  hands  as 
an  indication  of  Germany's  covetous- 
ness,  and  the  inevitable  large  German 
dachshund  was  given  an  even  longer  body 
to  show  the  extent  of  the  territory  which 
the  dog  covered. 

Even  several  years  before  America's 
entry  into  the  war  cartoonists  were  slyly 
filling  the  minds  of  the  American  people 
with  ultra-patriotic  sentiments.  On  the 
first  anniversary  of  the  sinking  of  the 
Lusitania  a  cartoon  was  published  show- 
ing a  single,  cold  tombstone  with  only 
one  mourner,  who  was  bowing  her  head 
over  the  grave.  The  following  inscrip- 
tion was  engraved  upon  the  tombstone: 

IN    MEMORY  OF 

AMERICAN   CITIZENS 

MEN,     WOMEN     AND     CHILDREN 

MURDERED  BY  A   NATION  TOO   SAVAGE 

TO   SPARE, 

ABANDONED  BY  A  COUNTRY 

TOO    PROUD    TO    FIGHT 

MAY    17,    I9158 

It  is  easily  seen  how  a  series  of  such 
cartoons  could  emotionalize  a  people  and 
stir  up  their  resentment  until  it  ceased 
to  be  mere  resentment  and  became 
vicious  hatred.  Now,  in  1939,  America 
is  toppling  over  the  line  of  resentment 
onto  the  other  side,  hatred.  Each  day  our 
cartoonists  bring  home  to  us  more  point- 
edl}'  the  tyrannical  cruelty  of  such  dic- 
tators as  Hitler  and  Mussolini.  Common 
to  us  today  are  such  pictures  as  the  one 
of  a  monstrous,  surly  looking  German 
soldier  standing  with  a  whip  in  his  hand 
over  a  grovelling  population  of  home- 
less Jews.^ 

The      cartoonist,      disagreeing      with 


Britain's  Prime  Minister's  attempts  to 
pacify  the  dictators,  pictures  England 
as  Ferdinand  the  Bull  sitting  on  top  of 
a  world,  smelling  the  pretty  flowers,  all 
unaware  that  the  globe  he  sits  on  is  a 
lighted  firecracker  and  is  about  to  go  oflf. 
Ferdinand  spends  all  his  time  smelling 
the  pretty  flowers  (dilly-dallying  with 
dictators)  instead  of  learning  to  fight.*" 

Such  written  and  sketched  propaganda 
has  made  America  red-white-and-blue 
conscious.  Hollywood  is  sending  out 
war  films — Drums  Along  the  Mohawk, 
Confessions  of  a  Nazi  Spy,  and  Charlie 
Chaplin's  The  Dictator.  On  the  women's 
page  of  the  daily  papers  are  found  mili- 
tary hats,  coats,  and  even  military 
recipes. 

What  to  do  about  it?  We  might  get 
the  people  interested  in  anti-war  films 
that  show  the  horror  of  war,  we  might 
popularize  such  books  as  All  Quiet  on 
the  Western  Front,  we  might  take  every 
boy  of  eligible  age  to  visit  some  hospital 
for  wounded  veterans,  and  we  might 
set  up  a  counter  cartoon  attack  against 
the  pro-war  cartoonists. 

'"European  War  Cartoons,  Chiefly  German," 
Revieii!  of  Rezicn^s,  Oct.,  1915. 

"'Cartoons  and  Caricatures  in  War  Times," 
by  Lyman  Abbott,  Outlook,  October,  1915. 

'"American  Cartoonists  View  the  World," 
Stirvey  Graphic. 

"""Cartoons  of  the  Week,"  Scholastic,  Feb- 
ruary 18,  1939. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Lyman  Abbott,  "Cartoons  and  Caricatures  in 
War  Times,"  Outlook,  Vol.  114,  Novem- 
ber 8,  1916. 

"European  War  Cartoons,  Chiefly  German," 
Review  of  Reznezvs,  Vol.  52,  October, 
1915. 

"Germany's  Martial  Spirit,"  Reziezv  of  Re- 
z'ieivs.  Vol.  50,  November,  1914. 

"American  Cartoonists  View  the  World," 
Stirvev  Graphic,  Volume  28,  February, 
1939.  " 

"Cartoons  of  the  Week,"  Scholastic,  Febru- 
ary 18,  March  25,  1939. 

Ad.^lbert  Tohx  Volk,  "Sketches  from  the 
Civil  War  in  North  America,  1861,  1862, 
1863,'  by  V.  Blada,  London,  1863.  Re- 
printed by  W.  -Abbott,  1917. 


[21] 


Army  Man 

John  Kaufmann 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  14,  1938-1939 


FIVE  BRITISH  SOLDIERS 
DIE  IN  BLAST 

The  war  oflfice  announced  five  British 
army  gunners  were  killed  and  six  injured 
today  in  an  explosion  at  Woolwich  ar- 
senal, the  second  there  in  two  days. 

The  explosion  occuned  during  the 
loading  of  a  3.7  inch  anti-aircraft  gun. 
An  investigation  was  begun. 

THE  doctor  said,  "I'd  say  six  months. 
Bill — I'm  sorry." 

Bill  did  not  stir.  He  was  looking  past 
the  doctor,  past  the  white  hospital  furni- 
ture. A  company  was  marching  on  the 
drill  field.  His  expert  eye  followed  them 
— guide  was  too  slow  crossing — the  pivot 
moved  that  time — no  snap  in  that  halt. 
He  moved  his  big  shoulders. 

"Damned  funny,  Doc.  Me  dyin'  this 
way  after  two  wars  and  God  knows  how 
many  campaigns." 

The  major  said,  "You'll  be  retired 
tomorrow,  on  full  pay — I'm  sorry,  Bill." 
The  big  shoulders  rose  as  with  a  deep 
breath,  and  the  major  continued,  "Have 
to  do  it,  fellow.  Things  like  that  get 
around.  Bad  for  morale,  you  know." 
He  was  looking  past  the  major,  past  the 
business-like  headquarters  furniture.  The 
company  was  getting  better — that  last 
squad  left  was  the  answer  to  a  Louie's 
prayer. 

"Damned  funny,  sir,  me  in  the  army 
all  my  life,  and  out — just  in  time  to  die. 
Isn't  there  anything  ....  I  mean  me 
outside  the  army — it  just  doesn't  add  up. 
It's  my  life,  sir." 

"I'm  really  sorry.  Bill." 

The  barrack  room  was  empty  when  he 
walked  in.   There  were  the  long  rows  of 


beds  with  each  blanket  turned  back  ex- 
actly the  same  length,  the  identical  duffle 
bags,  the  uniform  brownness  of  every- 
thing. The  sameness  surrounded  him, 
and  he  liked  it — but  after  tomorrow?  He 
eased  his  two  hundred  pounds  onto  a  bed. 
He  w^asn't  thinking  of  the  evil  little  ache 
in  his  head.  He  was  twenty  again  and 
just  up  from  Sandhurst,  trying  to  make 
himself  look  mature  and  responsible, 
trying  to  make  the  colonel  see  that  he 
lived  only  for  the  army.  After  that  had 
come  Africa  and  his  first  malaria,  India 
and  the  scalp  wound  and  its  unsanitary 
dressings,  Sudan  and  the  "Fuzzy  Wuz- 
zies,"  France  and  the  Croix  de  Guerre, 
then  India  again,  and  now  Woolwich  to 
learn  the  new  guns.  Only  he  had  head- 
aches, and  now  the  doctor  said  six 
months. 

Six  months  out  of  the  army.  What 
did  civilians  do  besides  raise  families? 
He  didn't  even  have  civilian  clothes. 
He'd  sleep  in  a  room  with  one  bed,  a 
room  with  a  dresser  and  a  chair.  He'd 
take  long  walks — it'd  be  funny,  walking 
by  himself.  He'd  have  to  make  friends. 
What  did  civilians  talk  about  ?  God,  what 
a  life!  He  couldn't  even  enjoy  the 
pictures  or  the  burlesque  by  himself. 
Mother  of  God — he  couldn't  even  get 
drunk  by  himself. 

A  bugle  sounded  first  call.  It  would  be 
his  last  drill.  He  straightened  his  belt, 
squared  his  shoulders,  and  marched  out. 
God,  it  was  like  walking  to  the  tdgt  of 
a  cliff — his  last  drill.  Thank  God  he  was 
number  three  today ;  at  least  he'd  be 
busy  sliding  fifty  pound  shells  up  into  the 
breech.  His  last  drill.  He  clenched  his 
fists. 


[22] 


"You  will  be  using  a  new  fuse  today ; 
it  is  accurate  but  delicate.  Number  three 
will  be  careful  with  the  tips."  Then  the 
orders  came  down.  The  gunner  sat 
watching  pointers ;  the  fuse  was  cut ;  a 
powerful  shove  and  the  shell  went  home. 
The  gun  roared.  The  gunner  was  match- 
ing pointers  again — his  last  drill — be 
careful  of  the  tip,  if  he'd  miss  a  couple 
of  inches — the  gun  roared  again.  A 
couple  of  inches — it  was  his  last  drill — 
God  damn  the  buzzing  in  his  head — his 
last  drill — a  couple  of  inches — tomorrow 
he'd  be  out  of  the  army.   The  fuse  was 


cut — careful  with  the  tip — the  gun 
roared  again.  Tomorrow  he'd  be  out  of 
the  army — a  couple  of  inches — extremely 
delicate — dangerous — a  couple  of  inches 
— tomorrow  he'd  be  out  of  the  army — in 
six  months.  The  fuse  was  cut.  Tomor- 
row he'd  be  out  of  the  army — by  God, 
no !  A  couple  of  inches,  huh  ?  Six 
months,  huh?  No,  damn  it,  no!  He 
clenched  his  teeth  and  swung  the  shell 
at  the  breech.  The  gunner  started  to 
scream,  and  then  the  shell  hit.  A  bril- 
liant light — six  months,  huh  ? 


The  Dinner  Bell 

Janet  Smaltz 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  6,  1937-1938 


I  HAVE  always  winced  at  the  word 
"restaurant"  as  applied  to  my  place 
of  business,  feeling  that  the  connotations 
of  the  word  were  not  universally  appe- 
tizing; but  "Tea  Room"  was  too  exalted 
for  the  Dinner  Bell,  and  for  lack  of  a 
more  fitting  title,  I  have  reconciled  my- 
self to  "restaurant."  The  Gray  Shingle 
Station  and  Cabin  Camp,  of  which  the 
Dinner  Bell  was  a  part,  began  with  a 
gasoline  station,  one  small  cabin  for 
tourists,  and  a  newly  built  home  with  a 
semi-ambitious  family  in  it.  It  was  a 
family  affair  from  the  beginning,  and  as 
the  camp  grew,  each  of  the  four  mem- 
bers of  the  household  fell  into  his  respec- 
tive place  in  the  summer  and  served  until 
the  season  was  over.  When  the  camp 
was  enlarged  to  its  present  proportions 


about  six  years  ago,  it  became  evident 
that  some  place  to  feed  the  tourists  at 
the  camp  would  be  an  asset.  That  tour- 
ists had  to  ride  five  blocks  to  the  stuffy 
Main  Street  of  the  adjacent  town,  eat 
at  a  small  restaurant  which  reeked  of 
beer,  and  return,  fatigued  and  unfavor- 
ably impressed  with  the  town,  seemed 
unnecessarily  annoying.  Mom  and  Dad 
envisioned  the  restaurant  and  experi- 
mented with  it  on  a  small  scale  several 
times  one  summer,  and  because  it  was 
successful,  they  decided  to  enlarge  a 
building  and  go  into  the  business  seri- 
ously the  following  summer. 

The  place  was  to  be  small,  serving 
forty  people  when  filled  to  capacity,  and 
the  meals  were  to  be  plainly  served — 
wholesome,  well-cooked  food,  reasonably 


[23] 


priced.  I  was  to  be  manager !  Somehow 
I  was  roped  in  on  that.  I  was  just  out 
of  high  school  and  blissfully  unemplo3'ed. 
The  folks  must  have  been  worried  about 
what  to  do  with  me  all  summer,  for 
there  was  certainly  nothing  in  my  make- 
up that  would  suggest  an  ability  to  man- 
age a  restaurant.  I  never  cooked,  except 
on  very  rare  occasions ;  T  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  economical  buying  of 
food  supplies ;  and  above  all  I  despised 
dirty  dishes  and  their  renovation.  But 
Mother  put  the  idea  to  me,  and  it  was 
either  accept  or  admit  that  I  was  just 
too  lazy.  To  save  the  family  honor  I 
accepted,  and  my  career  was  begun. 

Once  begun,  there  was  no  ending 
until  late  September.  And  my  labors 
were  manifold.  Every  day  after  the 
normal  breakfast  hours,  I  frisked  down- 
town and  did  the  marketing,  and  then 
rushed  home  to  help  the  hired  cook  pre- 
pare the  luncheon  menu.  1  served  to  all 
who  came,  helped  with  the  dishes,  did 
odds  and  ends  of  cleaning  which  the 
cook  had  not  had  time  to  do,  prepared 
vegetables  for  the  evening  meal,  took  a 
hasty  shower  and  jumped  back  on  duty 
for  the  evening  rush,  which  was  the 
busiest  time  of  the  day.  Day  after  day! 
We  kept  all  our  meat,  such  as  T-bone 
steaks,  pork  chops,  catfish,  perch  fillets, 
hamburger,  etc.,  cut  into  servings  and 
frozen  in  the  Frigidaire  ready  for  cook- 
ing, and  at  a  moment's  notice  we  could 
have  the  meat  sizzling  on  the  stove. 
There  were  always  boiled  potatoes  in 
the  ice  box,  ready  for  "whole  frying," 
and  there,  too,  were  cooked  vegetables 
for  buttering  or  creaming.  The  moment 
a  step  was  heard  on  the  porch,  or  the 
familiar  bang  of  the  screen  door  an- 
nounced another  entry,  we  sprang  into 
action.  I  jumped  for  a  pencil,  a  check 
pad,  and  a  menu  and  ran  to  greet   the 


patron.  Once  the  order  was  taken  we 
really  hopped  into  it.  I  set  the  table 
leisurely  and  quietly  as  if  I  had  all  the 
time  in  the  world,  and  then  sauntered 
toward  the  kitchen  door.  Once  inside  the 
kitchen  I  raced  like  a  mad  woman,  toss- 
ing jars  of  fruit  around  into  a  salad, 
making  iced  tea,  and  perching  radishes 
on  the  plates,  while  the  cook  prepared 
the  rest  of  the  meal.  We  tried  to  have  a 
sufficient  variety  to  please  everyone,  and, 
human  nature  being  what  it  is,  we  were 
often  cooking  five  different  kinds  of 
meat,  and  making  five  varieties  of  salad 
for  five  customers.  When  we  had  an 
average  evening  business  and  served 
about  thirty  people,  we  were  really  busy. 
Often  in  the  heat  of  one  hundred  degrees 
Fahrenheit,  while  making  a  tuna  fish 
salad  with  its  million  ingredients,  cudgel- 
ing ice  cubes  from  stubborn  ice  trays, 
and  setting  and  clearing  tables  for  thirty 
people  with  peculiar  appetites,  I  felt  that 
it  was  just  too  much.  A  fifteen-hour 
day  in  the  face  of  a  gulping  public  was 
enough  to  ruin  a  much  better  disposition 
than  mine. 

We  could  never  have  kept  our  sanity 
had  we  not  been  blessed  with  an  appre- 
ciative sense  of  humor,  and  with  patrons 
who  were  amusing  and  interesting.  It 
became  easy  to  classify  them  as  they 
entered  the  long,  narrow  dining  room 
and  waited  to  be  served.  The  business 
man  was  generally  indifferent  to  his  sur- 
roundings: he  invariably  ordered  a  steak 
dinner  and  apple  pie,  and  left  the  lettuce 
under  his  salad  and  the  vitamins  in  his 
vegetables  untouched.  He  sat  staring 
absently  at  nothing,  ate  his  dinner  ab- 
stractedly, and  walked  out  as  if  in  a 
trance.  There  were  those,  too,  in  a  party 
who  were  indifferent  to  each  other  as 
well  as  to  their  surroundings.  Two 
middle-aged  ladies,  who  had  started  out 


[24] 


with  a  pleasant  opinion  of  each  other, 
had  been  intent  on  a  western  trip,  but 
after  three  thousand  miles  of  traveling 
and  its  closeness,  their  enthusiasm  for 
each  other  had  waned.  They  sat,  moody 
and  silent,  sometimes  even  at  different 
tables,  depending  on  the  acuteness  of  the 
break.  One  ordered  cinnamon  toast  and 
fruit  salad,  and  the  other  said  pointedly 
that  she  was  hungry  from  driving  so 
much  (meaning  that  Edna  hadn't  done 
her  share  today),  and  with  a  hurt  look 
ordered  a  full  dinner  with  "dark  bread 
and  black  tea." 

Elderly  married  couples  visiting  all 
the  national  parks  and  enjoying  every 
minute  of  it,  school  teachers  going  to  the 
coast  for  the  rest  of  the  summer,  and 
farmers  from  Nebraska  are  the  ideal 
tourists.  They  are  always  interesting  and 
appreciative.  It  was  never  my  intention 
to  fool  the  public,  except  in  my  weakest 
moments,  when  fatigue  overruled  my 
judgment.  It  was  at  such  a  time  one 
night  that  six  people  came  in  to  eat,  at 
nearly  ten  o'clock.  They  ordered  two 
hamburgers  apiece.  I  searched  for  five 
minutes  in  the  meat  compartment,  and 
all  that  I  could  find  was  fifteen  sausage 
cakes.  No  hamburger!  The  cook  and 
I  conferred  and  decided  to  risk  the  sau- 
sage as  a  substitute.  We  turned  on  the 
kitchen  ventilator  to  whisk  out  the  tell- 
tale odor  of  pork  and  sage,  and  I  put  two 
bottles  of  catsup  on  the  table,  hoping 
that  they  would  use  it  generously.  In  the 
buns,  the  sausage  looked  beautifully 
"hamburgerish,"  but  as  I  carried  them 
into  the  dining  room,  the  conversation 
at  the  table  was  "our  corn"  and  "Illinois 
corn."  Farmers !  My  mind  saw  butcher- 
ing and  sausage — and  my  utter  downfall. 
I  served  the  "hamburgers"  and  went 
back  to  the  kitchen   feeling  slightly  ill. 


When  the  bell  rang,  I  struggled  a  mo- 
ment with  the  idea  of  flight  and  then 
tripped  solicitously  forward.  They  were 
indeed  'the  best  hamburgers  they'd  had 
since  they  left  Nebraska,  and  they'd  been 
in  fourteen  states  since  May!'  I  gulped, 
and  thanked  the  ventilator,  the  cook, 
Nebraska,  and  these  wonderful  people. 

The  most  disturbing,  though  often 
amusing,  people  were  those  whom  we 
classed  as  "pains-in-the-neck."  There 
was  the  effusive  woman  with  the  illus- 
trious husband,  who  wanted  everything 
for  nothing,  thought  the  place  was  "just 
darling,"  and  bounced  into  the  kitchen 
when  we  were  busiest  and  wanted  to 
"help  get  breakfast."  "The  Colonel" 
liked  this  fixed  just  so,  and  his  grape- 
fruit must  be  cut  a  certain  way,  and  he 
liked  his  coffee  very  strong  and  his  pine- 
apple juice  very  weak.  "He's  very  well 
known  in  aviation  circles,  you  know," 
and  if  we  hadn't  known,  we  surely  did 
now — everything  about  "the  Colonel" 
from  his  shoe  size  to  his  I.  Q.  Then 
there  was  the  lady  who  had  to  have  boil- 
ing water  for  her  teeth,  though  what 
kind  of  teeth  she  had  and  how  she  used 
the  boiling  water  on  them  was  never 
revealed.  There  was  the  wealthy  Eliza 
from  Kansas  who  stopped  yearly  to  see 
us,  and  who  swore  and  chewed  "Horse- 
shoe" plug  with  an  agility  rivaled  by  no 
mere  man.  There  were  New  Yorkers 
who  were  wondering  how  soon  they 
would  be  seeing  Indians !  There  was  also 
that  great  curse — those  who  were 
determined  never  to  be  pleased. 

Such  was  the  array  that  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  Dinner  Bell.  My  career 
as  a  waitress  provided  me  many  laughs, 
many  pains,  and  a  practical  pre-Univer- 
sity  education. 


[25] 


Eccentricities  of  a  Cat 


Marjorie  Dillon 

Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1938-1939 


A  PROLONGED  groan  greeted  me  as 
I  walked  into  the  living-room  and 
deposited  a  squirming  kitten  on  the  floor. 
"Another  alley-cat !"  exclaimed  my 
father,  frowning  in  disapproval  at  the 
only  portion  of  the  kitten  then  visible — 
a  fuzzy  yellow  tail  disappearing  beneath 
the  davenport. 

"Oh,  no!"  I  said  reassuringly.  "This 
isn't  an  ordinary  alley-cat.  He's  dif- 
ferent." I  was  referring  to  the  coppery 
lights  in  his  fur  and  to  the  long,  plume- 
like tail  that  suggested  Persian  ancestry. 
Now,  however,  I  have  found  that 
Worry-Wart,  as  he  was  soon  appropri- 
ately named,  is  extremely  "different"  in 
many  ways.  He  possesses  a  very  versa- 
tile nature  and  the  mannerisms  and 
moods  of  a  spoiled  child. 

Like  all  spoiled  children.  Worry- Wart 
cannot  stand  neglect.  After  the  first 
few  days  of  terror  at  his  new  environ- 
ment, he  emerged  from  his  fortress  be- 
hind the  davenport  and  demanded  at- 
tention with  the  air  of  one  who  is  the 
center  of  attraction.  Even  now,  if  his 
dish  of  carefully  warmed  milk  is  not 
punctually  placed  near  the  stove,  he  as- 
sumes the  injured  air  of  a  great  martyr, 
and  sits  mournfully  in  the  doorway, — 
his  eyes  cast  down,  his  whiskers  droop- 
ing, his  tail  stretched  out  limply  on  the 
floor.  His  whole  attitude  seems  to  say, 
"I  am  hungry,  but  no  one  cares  about 
poor  little  me.  I  shall  bear  my  pain  in 
silence," 

At  other  times  of  great  neglect,  he 
voices  his  opinion  to  himself  in  some 
obscure  part  of  the  house, — perhaps  in 
the    basement,    where    he    walks    about 


meowing  loudly  and  lamenting  his  lone- 
liness. He  is  either  extremely  sad  or  so 
deliriously  happy  that  he  throws  him- 
self with  abandon  into  the  spirit  of  play. 
In  a  playful  mood,  he  is  a  sharp  contrast 
to  the  ordinary  cat  who  usually  pads 
about  silently  on  velvety  paws.  Worry- 
Wart  actually  gallops  from  one  room  to 
another,  making  a  great  deal  of  noise  and 
setting  his  "soft"  paws  down  with  so 
much  force  that  the  candlesticks  on  the 
mantel  rattle.  He  has  a  private  race 
track  extending  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
davenport  (where  he  stops  a  moment 
to  sharpen  his  claws  on  the  upholstery), 
and  then  back  again  to  the  kitchen  by  a 
circular  route  around  the  dining  room 
table.  At  the  end  of  the  track  is  a  great 
hazard — the  waxed  linoleum  on  the 
kitchen  floor.  Having  attained  a  high 
speed  on  his  record  dash,  he  has  almost 
as  much  trouble  in  stopping  as  the  cele- 
brated Pluto  of  the  "Micky.  Mouse" 
series. 

Worry-Wart's  diet  is  one  of  his  out- 
standing eccentricities.  Give  him  an  t^g, 
and  he  will  be  perfectly  contented.  By 
an  egg,  I  do  not  mean  just  any  egg, 
fried,  poached,  or  baked.  It  must  be 
a  hard-boiled  tgg,  carefully  cooked, 
shelled,  and  placed  whole  on  a  saucer. 
Worry- Wart  tests  it  critically  with  his 
paw.  If  it  is  a  little  too  warm,  he  knocks 
it  around  the  floor  until  it  has  assumed  a 
dubious  appearance,  and  then  eats  it  with 
gusto. 

One  of  Worr^'-Wart's  joys  is  deep 
meditation.  For  these  moments  of  solemn 
reflection,  he  chooses  odd  places.  It  is 
not  an  uncommon  thing  to  come  upon 


[26] 


him,  sitting  placidly  in  the  kitchen  sink, 
— his  eyes  fixed  on  some  distant  point 
of  the  horizon. 

He  is  definitely  a  spoiled  brat,  a  pam- 
pered pet,  and  the  cause  of  an  occasional 
embarrassing  moment.  Imagine  what  a 
terrible    shock    it    was    one    night    when 


guests  arrived  and  found — horrors! — a 
chicken  foot  lying  in  the  middle  of  the 
living  room  rug.  But  always  after  such 
incidents,  Worry-Wart  is  forgiven.  He 
is  an  ordinary  cat  with  an  extraordinary 
personality — a  beloved  nuisance. 


My  First  Proposal 

Cherie  Fenvvick 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  15,  1937-1938 


WE  WERE  both  freshmen  in  high 
school.  He  was  large  for  his  age, 
with  big  feet,  and  hands  he  never  did 
know  what  to  do  with.  His  hair  was 
carroty  red,  his  eyes  were  brown,  and 
his  face  was  plentifully  peppered  with 
freckles.  He  was  about  as  far  removed 
from  my  "ideal  man"  as  anyone  could 
be,  but  I  liked  him.  He  and  I  had  a 
history  class  together,  and  although  Dean 
delighted  in  teasing  the  other  girls  un- 
mercifully, he  didn't  tease  me,  but  as- 
sumed a  respectful,  protective  air  when 
near  me  that  contrasted  strangely  with 
his  boyish  looks  and  clumsy  movements. 
We  had  been  going  out  together  for 
three  or  four  months,  to  dinner,  to  a 
show,  to  class  parties,  but  this  particular 
evening  it  was  an  informal  dance,  and 
therefore  a  big  occasion. 

Dean  came  over  early,  looking,  I 
thought,  ver}^  handsome  in  a  neat  brown 
suit,  with  his  fiery  hair  lying  smooth  for 
once.  I  was  feeling  superbly  beautiful 
in  my  first  long  dress  of  rose-colored 
satin  and  was  looking  forward  to  the 
dance  with  much  excitement.  We  took  a 


cab  to  the  hall,  an  unusual  luxury,  since 
we  hadn't  far  to  go ;  so  I  had  a  premoni- 
tion that  this  evening  was  going  to  be 
different. 

Most  of  our  friends  were  attending 
the  dance,  and  we  spent  the  first  two  or 
three  hours  talking  to  them  and  dancing. 
During  this  time,  I  noticed  a  change  in 
Dean.  He  was  usually  quite  blunt  and 
not  infrequently  rude,  but  tonight  he 
was  more  polite  and  considerate,  and  all 
of  the  little  niceties  he  was  performing, 
such  as  cheerfully  carrying  my  evening 
purse  in  his  pocket,  always  opening  doors 
for  me,  and  promptly  picking  up  any- 
thing I  dropped,  impressed  me  very 
much.  While  we  were  dancing  one  of 
the  dances,  he  did  a  very  surprising 
thing.  He  bent  his  head  and  kissed  my 
shoulder.  I  was  pleased,  but  embar- 
rassed, and  told  him  not  to  do  it  again. 
He  boldly  answered,  "Why  not?"  but 
when  I  told  him  everyone  could  see  us, 
he  promised  it  wouldn't  happen  again. 
A  few  minutes  later,  he  took  my  arm 
and  said  abruptly,  "Let's  go  outside." 

We  walked  out  into  the  moonlight  night 


[27 


and  up  and  down  the  terrace  several 
times,  without  saying  a  word.  Suddenly, 
Dean  stopped,  and  grasping  my  shoulders 
as  he  turned  toward  me,  looked  straight 
at  me,  and  said  very  fast,  but  very 
earnestly,  "Cherie,  you  know  I  like  you 
an  awful  lot.  Will  you  wait  for  me  till 
we're  out  of  school  and  then  let  me  take 
care  of  you  always?"  I  was  dumb- 
founded for  a  moment,  and  then  I  rea- 
lized he  w^as  asking  me  to  marry  him. 
I  was  receiving  my  first  proposal !  The 
moon's  pale  gleam  softened  the  brilliant 
red  of  his  hair  and  made  his  freckles 
almost  invisible.  He  looked  very  manly 
and  sincere  to  my  eyes,  as  I  breathlessly 


replied,  "Oh,  of  course,  Dean!"  He 
smiled  then,  and  leaned  toward  me  bash- 
fully, saying,  "No  one  can  see  us  now." 
I  offered  him  my  cheek,  and  his  absurdly 
tender  little  "peck"  gave  me  a  thrill  I 
haven't  experienced  since.  We  returned 
to  the  dance  with  smiling  lips  and  eyes 
aglow,  and  the  news  soon  got  around  to 
our  friends.  Although  they  were  sur- 
prised they  were  happy  about  it,  too. 

Dean  and  I  went  out  together  for 
some  time  after  that,  and  although  we 
finally  drifted  apart,  without  quarrels  or 
hatred,  my  first  proposal  remains  one 
of  the  most  pleasant  memories  I  have 
of  the  past. 


Rhet  as  Writ 


(Material  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


He  tells  his  story  as  if  he  were  sitting 
around  a  fire. 


ing  bugs,   birds,   fish,   or   other   natural 
things  of  nature. 


In  honor  of  Mother's  Day,  the  band 
was  in  kilts. 

•  •  •  • 

I  little  realized  why  my  ancestors  came 
to  America  before  I  wrote  this  theme. 

•  •  •  • 

Those  people  who  are  interested  in 
hobbies  which  do  not  press  the  pocket- 
book  should  try  hiking,  fishing,  collect- 


But  when  people  say  a  modern  coed 
doesn't  know  the  first  thing  about  cook- 
ing it  makes  me  angry  because  I  know 
that  at  least  three- fourths  of  them  do, 
and  the  other  third  can  certainly  learn 
easily  enough. 

•        •        •        • 

A  big  policeman  sat  on  both  sides  of 
me  in  the  rear  seat. 


[28] 


Honorable  Mention 


Hazel  Bothwell — Looking  Inside  Your  Chest 

Charles  D.  Bromley — A  Few  Interesting  Facts  About  Cancer 

William  R.  Davidson — The  Evolution  of  Piano  Technic 

Arthur  Foster — Farm  Boy,  Why  Leave  Home? 

J.  E.  Hafner — The  Architect — A  Definition 

Carroll  K.  Heitzman — The  General  Store 

Virginia  Kautz — The  Cigarette  Girl 

Allan  MacCollam — A  Friend  in  Deed 

L.  P.  Nelson — Swedish  Foods  and  Customs 

F.  W.  Smith — How  I  Developed  an  Interest  in  Archery 

Beryl  Stein — The  Prophets 

H.  W.  Thrapp — Injustice 

William  Weaver — A  Trip  Through  the  Atom 

Thomas  Westerlin — Liquor  vs.  the  Lord 

Thomas  Westerlin — Threshing  Time 

Walter  Wiggins — International 

Ernestine  Williams — A  Journal  Entry 

Perry  Wolff— A  Night's  Walk 

J.  F.  Zygmunt — Conversation 


Vol.9 


DECEMBER,  1939 


No.  2 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

TRAINING  FOR  LIFE  AS  WELL  AS  A  LIVING     .        1 

Beryl  Stein 

GOOD  OLD  ARTIE 2 

Wilfrid  B.  Shantz 

VERN 4 

Jacqueline  Willoughby 

GEORGE   5 

Anne  Herrick 

TREES  I  REMEMBER 6 

Margaret  Oakes 

DELINQUENT  DRIVERS 7 

A.  C.  Trakowski 

THE  ORGANIZATION  OF  HULL  HOUSE     ...       9 
Ruth  Schnitzer 

GOLF— FOR    MEN   ONLY 10 

Jack  Heath 

LITTLE  EUROPE— AMERICAN  STYLE     ....     13 
Chris  Papadinoff 

"THE  HOUSE  THAT  HITLER  BUILT"     ....     15 
Norma  Adams 

TRYING   FOR  A   BLUE   RIBBON 17 

Louis  Briggs 

WAITER! 20 

Ward  Thompson 

GOD  AND  MY  MOTHER 23 

Ray  O'Keefe 

DERBY    DAY 24 

C.  E.  King 

CHECKING  UP  ON  THE  LEGISLATURE     ...     26 
Norma  Adams 

I   LIKE   HIM   ANYWAY 27 

Ruth  Schnitzer 

THE  UNICAMERAL  LEGISLATURE  OF 

NEBRASKA 28 

Eugene  Vermillion 

RHET  AS  WRIT  32 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 

PUBLISHED  BY  THE  RHETORIC  STAFF.  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS,  URBANA 


Aff-i 


JLhe  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staff  at  the  University  of  IHinois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
published  anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  however, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Mr.  Walter  Johnson,  Mr.  Ste- 
phen FoGLE,  Mr.  Robert  Geist,  Mr.  W.  McNeil 
LowRY,  and  Mr.  Charles  Shattuck,  Chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building  West,  Urbana,  Illinois. 


Training  for  Life  as  Well  as  a  Living 


Beryl  Stein 
Rhetoric  II,  Final  Examination,  1939 


IN  THREE  years  I  hope  to  graduate 
from  the  university  as  a  ceramic  en- 
gineer. I  shall  have  spent  four  years  in 
attending  a  university.  And  what  will  I 
have  gained?  What  will  I  know  when 
I'm  through?  How  will  I  find  my  place 
in  society? 

For  four  years  I  shall  have  attended 
school  and  studied ;  for  four  years  I 
shall  have  given  my  best  powers  for  the 
attainment  of  an  education ;  and  when 
I  am  through,  will  I  be  educated?  Will 
I  be  able  to  choose  my  friends  as  I 
wish,  or  will  I  have  to  limit  myself  to 
the  company  of  ceramic  engineers?  Will 
my  wife  be  able  to  call  guests  to  the 
house  who  may  interest  her  husband,  or 
will  she  always  be  afraid  that  her  hus- 
band, who  graduated  from  the  Univer- 
sity of  Illinois,  will  be  embarrassed  if 
one  of  the  guests  hits  on  a  topic  other 
than  engineering,  if  he  questions  her 
husband  about  the  economic  revolution 
in  England,  or  about  the  merits  of  some 
novelist?  After  four  years  of  training 
will  I  be  prepared  to  live,  or  will  I  be 
prepared  only  to  make  a  living?  Will  I 
be  a  potter  only  at  my  wheel,  or  also  in 
the  parlor? 

And  a  tragedy  lies  in  the  question.  It 
is  a  tragedy  that  our  institutions  of 
higher  learning  leave  room  for  such 
questions,  and  it  is  a  tragedy  for  me  to 
feel  that  I  am  probably  one  out  of  a 
hundred  who  even  asks  the  question. 
One  of  the  professors  of  the  College  of 
Engineering  of  the  University  of  Illinois 
once  said  at  an  assembly  of  freshmen: 
"I  know  that  you  engineers  don't  like 
rhetoric,  that  you  can't  imagine  lovers 


in  the  moonlight,  and  that  you  don't 
know  how  to  write  about  them."  And 
the  man  was  right.  The  engineering 
student  does  not  know  how  to  write 
artistically,  or  how  to  put  down  his 
thoughts  on  paper.  But  the  tragedy  is 
not  in  that;  the  tragedy  lies  in  the  fact 
that  a  professor  of  an  engineering  de- 
partment spoke  about  the  only  liberal 
arts  course  in  the  engineering  student's 
curriculum  apologetically.  Not  only  did 
he  fail  to  feel  that  the  student  should  be 
prepared  for  life  more  broadly  than  he 
was  being  prepared,  but  he  sympathized 
with  the  students  who  did  not  like  to  be 
taught  how  to  write  well. 

And  the  student  himself  not  only  fails 
to  ask  what  life  he  will  lead  when  he 
graduates,  but  resents  being  taught  an 
essay,  and  condescendingly  learns  how 
to  write  a  narrative  or  an  argument  for 
the  instructor.  There  lies  the  tragedy — 
in  the  attitude  of  the  instructors  and  of 
the  students.  But  /  have  asked  the  ques- 
tion— what  now? 

I  have  asked  the  question,  but  I  am 
slowly  realizing  that  I  am  getting  no- 
where nearer  a  solution.  I  planned  to 
take  extra  courses  in  conjunction  with 
my  engineering  but  I  find  that  I  can't 
very  well  lead  myself  to  a  nervous  break- 
down because  of  overwork.  I  find  that 
next  semester  I'll  spend  about  thirty-two 
hours  a  week  in  class,  and  where  can  I 
find  time  for  liberal  arts  courses?  I  find 
that  I  stay  up  late  nights  doing  what 
work  is  required  of  me,  and  how  can 
I  devote  myself  to  readings  in  psy- 
chology, sociology,  economics,  and  art? 
I  am  leaving  school  tomorrow  morning, 


[  1  ] 


and  even  before  I  can  relax  I  have  a 
job  waiting  for  me — should  I  read  his- 
tory on  my  way  into  town? 

I  am  twenty-two  years  old.  May  I  ex- 
tend my  course  for  a  year  or  two?  Have 
I  the  right  to  delay  earning  my  own 
way?  On  the  other  hand,  is  it  fair  to 
me,  to  my  parents,  to  my  future  com- 
panions that  I  should  graduate  ignorant 
of  ever)'thing  but  ceramics? 

I  have  not  solved  the  problem  yet,  but 
one  thing  I  know;  before  long  it  shall 


be  solved.  Meanwhile  I  blame  the  Uni- 
versity, I  blame  the  College,  and  I  blame 
the  attitude  of  college  men  towards  an 
education  and  what  it  means.  From  time 
to  time  I  visualize  my  Tel-Aviv  shoe- 
maker. He  was  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  every  branch  of  Jewish  life.  He 
wasn't  an  engineer — just  a  shoemaker; 
and  yet  how  I  long  to  be  able  to  change 
places  with  him.  He  was  trained  for  a 
life,  and  I  am  being  trained  for  a  living. 


Good  Old  Artie 

Wilfrid  B.  Shantz 

Rhetoric  I,  Theme  9,  1939-1940 


ARTIE  is  not  handsome.  He  stands 
five  feet  and  five  inches  tall,  weighs 
150  pounds,  is  slightly  bow-legged,  and 
has  a  scant  crop  of  sandy  hair.  His 
thick  glasses  and  freckles  add  no  beauty 
to  his  unimpressive  features.  No  matter 
what  he  wears,  it  doesn't  look  smart  on 
him.  A  Finchley  suit,  a  Stetson  hat,  and 
a  Burberry  overcoat  look  like  some  things 
from  Maxwell  Street  when  he  dons  them, 
but  no  matter  how  he  looks  people  never 
forget  him  after  spending  an  evening 
with  him,  especially  at  a  party. 

Artie  is  the  life  of  the  party.  After 
the  third  drink,  he  will  keep  the  guests 
in  good  spirits  for  the  rest  of  the  eve- 
ning, with  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  jokes, 
stories,  limericks,  and  wise-cracks  which 
he  will  unload  on  any  listener,  with  or 
without  encouragement.  In  spite  of  his 
amazing  memory,  he  makes  sure  that  no 
joke  will  be  missed,  by  writing  each  new 


one  he  hears  in  the  little  black  book 
that  is  his  constant  companion.  I  looked 
through  this  book  once  and  found  forty- 
three  stories  about  traveling  salesmen, 
twenty-six  limericks,  twenty-one  stories 
that  started  "What's  the  difference  be- 
tween," and  nineteen  very  hot  toasts 
among  several  hundred  miscellaneous 
entries. 

The  fact  that  he  keeps  a  joke  book 
should  not  be  considered  as  a  slur  on 
Artie's  memory.  He  has  the  best  one 
that  I  have  ever  discovered.  His  boast, 
"I  haven't  forgotten  anything  since  I  was 
two  years  old,"  is  almost  the  truth.  He 
remembers  the  English  translation  of 
Caesar's  Gallic  Wars  completely ;  the 
phrase  Eadcm  node  will  invariably  bring 
forth  the  full  translation  of  the  whole 
paragraph  in  which  the  expression  oc- 
curs. The  name  of  any  old  or  new 
major-league  hockey  player  will  elicit  a 


[  2  ] 


stream  of  information  about  age,  weight, 
position  played,  experience,  scoring  abil- 
ity, and  a  general  estimate  of  his  com- 
petitive worth.  Sometimes  it  is  discon- 
certing to  his  companions  to  hear 
long-discarded  opinions  brought  up  ver- 
batim. In  1938  he  reminded  me  that  I 
had  said  in  1932  that  Roosevelt  had  a 
good  record,  but  not  enough  personality 
for  the  job. 

There  is  one  place  where  his  memory 
fails.  When  he  is  on  a  golf  course,  not 
only  does  his  memory  become  faulty, 
but  deceit  and  untruth  may  be  expected. 
None  of  us  would  bet  with  him  unless  we 
were  prepared  to  count  his  score  stroke 
by  stroke.  A  poor  lie  is  no  hazard  to 
him.  He  simply  moves  the  ball  to  a 
better  position,  nearer  the  hole.  He 
seldom  counts  the  last  putt,  which  he 
concedes  to  himself.  If  he  makes  a  poor 
drive,  he  always  tries  another  one  and 
then  plays  the  better  ball,  counting  only 
one  stroke.  It  is  almost  useless  to  argue 
with  him  because  he  becomes  mulishly 
obstinate  when  his  veracity  is  questioned, 
though  it  is  not  only  questioned,  but 
derided,  in  our  weekly  game. 

His  obstinacy  is  one  characteristic  that 
is  unpredictable.  One  of  my  first  en- 
counters with  this  trait  came  shortly  after 
I  met  him.  A  group  of  my  friends, 
including  Artie,  were  driving  home  with 
me  after  a  rather  gin-soaked  Saturday 
night.  We  had  played  poker  in  the  after- 
noon, and  had  gone  to  a  midnight  bur- 
lesque show.  Everyone  but  Artie  wanted 
to  go  home.  He  wanted  to  go  to  a 
notorious  hotel,  twenty  miles  away,  to 
find  a  dice  game.  I  refused,  as  I  didn't 
want  to  go,  and  didn't  think  any  of  my 
companions  were  sober  enough  to  drive. 
Artie  was  so  angry  that  he  got  out  of 
the  car  and  walked  home.  That  was  the 
only  time  anyone  ever  walked  home  from 


an  auto  ride  with  me.  For  the  next  year 
he  avoided  speaking  to  me  directly, 
though  we  met  almost  every  day. 

The  temper  he  displayed  that  night 
was  matched  on  only  one  other  evening, 
when  he  was  set  by  one  counter  in  a 
pinochle  game  because  of  an  unfavorable 
distribution  of  cards.  This  set  was  the 
climax  of  a  week  of  bad  luck  and  losses; 
so  he  vented  his  wrath  by  smashing  a 
heavy  stein  against  the  wall  of  our  apart- 
ment, leaving  a  jagged  scar  in  the  plaster. 
He  never  repeated  the  offense,  for  we 
threatened  dire  physical  punishment  if 
he  did. 

With  all  his  faults,  Artie  is  a  good 
friend  and  a  very  loyal  one.  He  has  a 
capacity  for  good-fellowship  that  makes 
his  companions  ignore  any  shortcomings. 
I  know  that  if  I  were  in  trouble  Artie 
would  do  everything  in  his  power  to  help 
me,  and  expect  no  thanks  for  it.  On  long 
winter  evenings  he  can  more  than  hold 
his  own  in  a  discussion  of  politics,  re- 
ligion, economics,  social  trends,  sports, 
women,  or  history;  he  furnishes  dates, 
statistics,  and  quotations  with  an  in- 
credible dexterity.  If  I  wanted  to  go 
mushroom  hunting  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning  or  to  climb  a  telephone  pole 
at  noon,  Artie  was  always  game.  He 
would  always  go  along.  Friends  like  that 
are  hard  to  find. 

When  I  received  a  letter  from  him 
several  days  ago,  it  made  we  wish  that  I 
could  go  back  and  enjoy  some  of  our  old 
experiences  over  again ;  to  be  at  Old 
Heidelberg  of  Chicago's  1934  fair,  sing- 
ing the  Schnitzelbank  over  our  mugs  of 
spiked  beer,  or  standing  in  front  of  the 
busses  until  they  stopped  and  then  beat- 
ing them  over  the  radiators  with  our 
canes.  That  o!d  gang  of  mine  would  not 
have  been  the  same  without  Artie.  He 
was  indispensable.   Good  old  Artie. 


[  3  ] 


Vern 


Jacqueline  Willoughby 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  6,  1939-1940 


OF  ALL  the  four  hundred  individuals 
who  inhabit  the  village  of  Hunts- 
ville  and  the  surrounding  community,  the 
one  who  stands  out  most  clearly  in  my 
memory  is  Vern.  I  don't  remember  his 
last  name ;  in  fact,  I  doubt  that  I  ever 
heard  it,  because  to  everyone,  from  the 
town's  newest  occupant  to  its  oldest 
settler,  he  was  known  just  as  Vern,  the 
blind  man  who  knew  more  about  w'hat 
was  going  on  than  the  most  sharp-eyed 
of  the  village  gossips. 

Vern  lived  alone  in  a  dreary  two-room 
cabin  about  two  miles  from  the  village. 
His  home  was  like  himself,  a  little  bent 
over,  shabby,  run-down,  and  not  too 
clean,  yet  managing  to  appear  alert  and 
watchful.  In  this  cabin  Vern  cooked  his 
own  meals,  consisting  chiefly  of  the 
potatoes  he  grew  in  his  weedy  garden 
patch  and  the  milk  he  secured  daily  from 
his  old  Jersey  cow.  His  only  other  source 
of  food  was  the  donations  of  kindly 
friends  and  neighbors. 

Everyone  who  traveled  the  highway 
leading  past  Vern's  abode  to  Huntsville 
learned  to  watch  for  him,  groping  his 
way  along  the  edge  of  the  road  with  his 
cane,  on  the  way  to  the  village  to  learn 
the  latest  news  and  to  purchase  his  daily 
stogie.  These  long  black  cigars  were  the 
only  luxury  that  Vern  could  afford  on  his 
meager  income  of  fifteen  dollars  a  month 
blind  pension,  and  in  spite  of  rain,  snow, 
or  ice  he  made  his  daily  pilgrimage  to 
town  to  purchase  his  one  cigar. 

Vern  was  a  familiar  figure  to  all  the 
townspeople  as,  clad  in  a  drab,  baggy  suit 
and    slouchy   old    felt    hat,    he    strolled 


along,  bent  over  his  heavy  cane  and  puff- 
ing on  his  big  black  cigar.  He  would 
trudge  from  the  barber  shop  to  the  hard- 
ware store,  from  the  filling  station  to  the 
general  store,  and  from  the  restaurant  to 
the  post  office,  gleaning  all  the  tid-bits 
of  village  gossip  and  transmitting  them. 

So  highly  developed  were  Vern's  other 
senses  that  he  felt  his  blindness  no  handi- 
cap at  all.  No  matter  whom  he  en- 
countered on  his  daily  rounds,  he  would 
speak  to  him,  calling  him  by  name,  and 
he  was  never  known  to  make  a  mistake 
in  identity.  He  scorned  assistance  in 
crossing  streets  and  highways,  and 
unerringly  found  his  w^ay  about  the  town. 
Anytime  he  was  riding  home  with  some- 
one he  could  tell  the  driver  exactly 
where  his  house  was,  and  ahvays  stopped 
him  when  they  arrived  in  front  of  his 
gate. 

His  wit  and  keen  sense  of  humor  en- 
deared him  to  everyone  in  the  com- 
munity. All  the  children  loved  to  hear 
Vern  tell  his  stories,  and  would  sit  en- 
tranced for  hours  while  he  spun  them 
out.  Among  the  older  people  he  was 
famous  for  his  jokes  and  humorous 
anecdotes.  He  especially  enjoyed  relating 
any  incident  concerning  himself,  and  his 
favorite  one  was  about  the  time  he  was 
walking  down  the  street  in  Columbus  and 
rammed  his  lighted  cigar  into  the  back 
of  a  woman's  neck.  She  turned  around 
and  indignantly  demanded,  "Are  you 
drunk  or  blind,  sir?"  Old  Vern  imper- 
turbably  replied,  "A  little  bit  of  both, 
madam,"  and  sauntered  on  his  way. 


r  4  I 


George 


Anne  Herrick 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  6,  1939-1940 


WHEX  I  left  home  only  two  months 
ago,  my  brother  George  was  a 
small,  bashful  boy  with  long  hair  and  a 
high  voice.  Now  that  I  am  back,  I 
wonder  at  the  metamorphosis.  George, 
two  months  ago,  was  to  limestone  what 
George,  today,  is  to  marble.  The  slight 
tendencies  I  noticed  when  I  left  have 
recrystallized  to  form  the  solid  founda- 
tions of  the  character  that  is  George 
today. 

As  a  "HI  dinky  feller,"  he  had  tan- 
trums during  which  Mother's  silver  was 
thrown,  well-aimed  at  the  other  members 
of  our  loving  family  circle.  It  clanked  so 
hard  on  our  heads  that  most  of  it  was 
deflected  into  the  registers  where,  no 
doubt,  it  was  melted  and  then  dribbled 
down  to  meet  the  hungry  tongues  of  the 
flames,  instead  of  the  hungry  tongues  of 
the  Herricks. 

It  seemed  impossible  that  such  a  small 
boy  could  inspire  such  fear  in  the  hearts 
of  the  mothers  of  the  neighborhood. 
Still,  after  he  ran  around  the  house  with 
a  hatchet  and  a  piece  of  stove  pipe  a 
couple  of  times — the  three  Herrick  girls 
tearing  around  the  same  house  two  feet 
in  front  of  him,  trying  for  dear  life  to 
make  their  chubby  legs  put  more  ground 
between  the  hatchet  and  their  heels  than 
George  was  willing  to  let  them — I  cannot 
conscientiously  say  that  they  weren't  jus- 
tified. The  voice  of  a  guilty  conscience 
says  George  may  have  been  justified  too. 
No  grown  man  of  five  can  stomach  a 
lively  ribbing  about  his  kewpie  doll. 

The  point  is  clear,  I  hope,  that  George 
always  felt  things  strongly.  Nor  does  he 
feel  less  strongly  about  things  now,  but 
his  method  of  showing  his  feelings  has 


changed.  Whereas  he  used  to  enjoy  a 
pagan,  unrestrained  feeling  of  freedom, 
he  has  been  sufficiently  "sat  on"  to  im- 
press upon  him  the  need  of  presenting  a 
lovely  front  to  everyone,  be  he  friend  or 
foe.  George  now  presents  a  lovely  front 
(after  he's  had  breakfast),  but  every 
once  in  a  while,  when  he  is  sorely  put  to 
it,  his  temper  creeps  out  from  behind  and 
lets  go  as  nice  a  piece  of  sarcasm  as  I 
ever  hoped  to  hear. 

Now  that  the  "Mr.  Hyde"  side  of  his 
character  has  been  disposed  of,  it's  time 
Dr.  Jekyll  was  exposed. 

George  loves  animals  and  is  afraid  of 
none.  He  had  a  pet  black  snake  that  he 
kept  in  his  shirt  pocket  for  use  as  a  book- 
mark. Whenever  George  got  down  on  the 
floor  to  read  the  paper,  his  little  black 
snake  crawled  out  of  its  garage  and 
moved  dutifully  along  the  hnes  as  George 
read.  (I  suppose  George  had  to  slow 
up  for  him.)  There  was  a  time,  too,  when 
George  kept  little  white  mice  tucked  away 
in  the  turned-up  band  of  his  sweater.  (I 
don't  see  how  he  could  sit,  without  gig- 
gling, while  the  mice  ran  around  his 
middle.  It  must  have  been  a  fine  play- 
ground for  them.)  In  many  ways  George 
has  been  gentled.  Now  he  keeps  white 
rabbits  instead  of  white  mice.  His  tastes 
are  being  refined. 

Today  we  call  him  "\^elvet  Top"  be- 
cause his  hair  is  no  longer  than  the  nap 
of  velvet.  Even  though  the  top  has  been 
sliced  off,  he  is  a  couple  of  inches  taller 
than  when  I  saw  him  before.  His  dainty 
little  voice  has  changed  to  a  volatile  thing 
with  bass  undertones.  He's  a  long  way 
from  being  a  jitterbug,  but  he  is  learning 
to   dance,    and,   what   is   most   peculiar, 


[  5  ] 


enjoys  it.  The  wit  he  used  to  hide  from 
us  all  finds  its  way  out  as  George 
emerges,  a  humorist  and  a  sage.  One  day 
when  we  four  went  bicycle  riding,  three 
trucks  of  C.  C.  C.  men  went  past.  The 
first  batch  whistled,  the  second  batch 
whistled  and  yelled,  while  the  third  made 
no  sound.  My  older  sister  remarked  that 
that  last  load  of  men  were  the  nicest  men 
she'd  seen  in  a  long  time.  George  said, 
"Humph,  they're  just  tired." 


We  in  the  family  hope  that  he  won't 
persist  in  his  worldly  ways.  Most  people 
are  apt  to  become  cynical  as  time 
creeps  up,  but  we  feel  that  time  is  run- 
ning at  a  breakneck  pace,  so  far  as 
George  is  concerned.  Perhaps  when  he 
is  truly  sophisticated  he  will  revert  to  the 
boyish  manner  he  used  to  have.  Not 
now,  but  maybe  by  the  time  he  is  an  old 
grad  and  calls  himself  one  of  the  "boys." 


Trees  I  Remember 

Margaret  Oakes 

Rhetoric  I,  Theme  8,  1939-1940 


f~\P  ALL  the  kinds  of  trees  in  all  the 
^^  sections  of  the  country,  the  trees 
I  like  best  are  those  of  northern  Wis- 
consin. There,  the  combination  of 
birches,  oak,  and  pine  trees  are  always 
beautiful.  In  spring,  summer,  and  fall, 
the  trees  put  on  their  brightest  colors ; 
in  winter,  the  pines  stand  out  black 
against  the  snow. 

With  the  first  rays  of  dawn  the  tops  of 
the  hemlocks  are  touched  with  crimson ; 
the  lower  foliage  is  still  in  colorless 
shadow.  With  the  rising  sun,  mist  floats 
away,  and  the  tops  of  the  birches  begin 
to  show  their  light  green  shades;  their 
white  trunks  gleam  through  the  forest 
among  the  dark  trunks  of  the  oaks  and 
maples.  When  the  sun  has  risen  to  the 
zenith,  the  woods  are  bathed  in  light. 
The  earth  is  brown  with  old  pine  needles 
and  half  decaying  leaves.  Here  and  there, 
where  the  ground  is  marshy,  Indian  pipe, 
swamp  laurel,  and  other  swamp  plants 
grow.  In  the  soft  green  carpets  of  moss 
there  are  foot  prints  and  runways  of 
forest  animals — the  deer,  the  rabbit,  and 
the  porcupine.  On  higher  ground,  in  the 
maple  and  walnut  grove,  the  squirrel  fills 


the  air  with  his  loud  chatter.  A  little 
w^ay  beyond  is  a  dense  growth  of  young  ^ 
balsam,  and  during  the  heat  of  the  day,  I 
these  trees  give  off  a  most  clean  and  \ 
wholesome  scent.  As  the  sun  begins  its 
slow  descent,  long  shadows  begin  to 
w-eave  across  the  ground.  First  the 
shrubs  and  low  trees  grow  darker  in 
color,  and  their  leaves  make  weird  pat- 
terns on  the  ground.  The  sunlight  slants 
through  the  bright  green  leaves  of  the 
birches,  giving  one  a  feeling  of  existing 
in  an  emerald  city.  As  the  sun  sinks 
lower  it  throws  a  golden  glow  over  the 
land.  The  air  changes  and  a  mist  begins 
to  rise  from  the  swamps.  The  twitter  of 
birds  is  subdued  and  robins  call  in  their 
young.  The  pointed  tops  of  the  hemlocks 
rise  in  dark  relief  against  the  sun.  Then' 
a  grey  mantle  settles  and  the  woods  are 
very  still. 

Suddenly  a  new  light  comes  out  of  the 
east.  The  whip-poor-will  raises  his  voice, 
the  frogs  begin  their  songs,  the  owl  hoots 
eerily.  The  moon  picks  out  the  white 
trunks  of  the  birches  and  again  the 
beauty  is  breath-taking. 


[6] 


Delinquent  Drivers 


A.  C.  Trakowski 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  5,  1939-1940 


"—**/?%@\\\,  where  the  h did 

you  learn  to  drive?" 

"Listen  you  **#&%  !L,  if  you  don't 

pull  that  d jallopy  out  of  the  way 

I'm  coming  over  there  and  jam  it  down 
your  esophagus." 

Time:  almost  anytime.  Place:  nearly 
any  corner  in  Chambana.  Characters: 
two  average  Chambana  motorists.  Rea- 
son for  such  violent  expostulation:  they 
don't  know  any  better. 

I  have  been  in  many  cities  in  my  short 
lifetime.  I  have  traveled  from  Minne- 
apolis to  Memphis  and  from  Toledo  to 
Tuscaloosa,  but  never  have  I  seen  more 
foolish,  fatuous,  just  plain  dumb  auto- 
mobile driving  than  I  have  seen  here  in 
Champaign  -  Urbana.  Motorists  here 
seem  to  care  naught  for  other  people, 
whether  the  other  people  be  pedestrians, 
cyclists,  or  other  motorists.  Do  they 
really  have  no  respect  for  the  rights  of 
others,  or  are  they  just  ignorant  about 
the  ways  of  the  road?  Just  what  the 
trouble  is,  I  suppose,  will  never  be 
known. 

Lack  of  courtesy  to  other  drivers, 
however,  certainly  causes  much  of  the 
trouble.  If  two  people  happen  to  have 
their  cars  stopped  at  right  angles  to 
each  other  at  an  intersection,  one  will 
not  politely  motion  for  the  other  to  go 
ahead.  No,  they  will  both  start  at  the 
same  time,  attempting  to  beat  each  other 
across  the  intersection.  This  race  prac- 
tically always  ends  in  a  dead  heat  in  the 
middle  of  the  intersection,  of  course. 
Brakes  bring  both  cars  to  a  jolting  stop ; 
fenders  clear  each  other  by  inches ;  blue 
language  fills  the  air;  then  one  car  re- 
treats; the  other  goes  ahead;  and  all  is 


well  again.  Hardly  anyone  here  indi- 
cates which  way  he  wishes  to  turn  by 
signaling  with  his  hand.  Time  after  time 
I  have  seen  motorists  make  right  turns 
from  the  inside  lane  and  left  turns  from 
the  outside  lane.  Often  a  car  wishes  to 
pass  another  car  about  to  make  a  turn 
from  the  wrong  lane.  This  almost  al- 
ways results  in  a  well-dented  fender  or 
a  full-fledged  broad-side  smash-up. 

Failure  to  use  common  sense  also 
causes  the  inefficiency  of  local  drivers. 
At  stoplight  corners  where  there  is  room 
for  three  cars  abreast,  two  will  take  up 
all  of  the  room.  A  third  driver  will 
come  along  and  jam  his  car  in  at  an  odd 
angle.  When  the  lights  change,  he  will 
find  himself  unable  to  move  forward 
without  taking  someone  else's  fender 
with  him.  The  result  is  a  traffic  jam  of 
the  first  order. 

Pleasure-car  racing  is  a  popular  sport 
on  the  cities'  wider  streets.  Perhaps  two 
cars  are  abreast  at  a  stop  sign.  On  the 
get-away  one  driver  pulls  ahead  of  the 
other.  Determined  not  to  be  outdone, 
the  second  driver  takes  after  the  first  in 
a  wild  attempt  to  pass  him  and  thus 
avenge  his  wounded  pride.  While  roar- 
ing down  the  street  at  breakneck  speed, 
these  two  drivers  apparently  give  no 
thought  to  the  hidden  dangers  they  are 
forcing  upon  the  public.  Suppose  a  car 
starts  across  their  raceway  out  of  an 
obscure  side  street ;  suppose  a  child  runs 
into  the  street  directly  into  the  path  of 
the  racing  vehicles ;  tragedy  inevitably 
results.  If  drivers  thought,  they  would 
not  try  such  foolhardy  stunts. 

Besides  being  a  nuisance,  the  tire- 
screecher  is  a  menace  to  public  safety. 


[  7  ] 


The  screech  of  a  tire  is  a  nerve-racking 
sound.  Many  times  as  I  have  been 
settled  comfortably,  I  have  been  roused 
by  a  car's  careening  around  a  corner 
with  its  tires  giving  forth  a  deafening 
squeal.  If  a  car  is  rounding  a  corner 
fast  enough  to  have  the  tires  squeal,  it 
is  going  fast  enough  for  the  driver  to 
lose  control  of  it,  and  a  car  out  of  con- 
trol while  turning  is  far  more  dangerous 
than  a  car  out  of  control  on  the  straight- 
away. 

If  I  were  mayor  of  these  two  towns 
(I  would  have  to  be  ma3'or  of  both  be- 
cause the  same  bad  conditions  prevail  in 
both),  I  would  certainly  attempt  to 
straighten  out  this  problem  of  nonsense 
driving.  I  would  first  set  up  and  publish 
a  "'code  of  the  road."  This  code  would 
contain  all  of  the  state  and  municipal 
ordinances  for  the  operation  of  vehicles, 
besides  a  set  of  rules  for  courtesy  on 
the  road.  After  this  code  had  been  pub- 
lished for  three  months,  I  would  start 
a  raging  police  campaign.  Motorists 
would  be  arrested  on  every  charge  for 
which  it  would  be  possible  to  book  them. 
For  those  arrested  I  would  convert  a 
section  of  the  city  jail  into  a  classroom 
where  the  "code  of  the  road"  would  be 


taught,  drilled,  or  pounded  into  those 
attending.  The  "students"  would  be 
compelled  to  attend  for  a  length  of  time 
specified  by  the  judge  of  the  traffic 
court.  If  "graduates"  were  arrested  a 
second  time,  they  would  become  "gradu- 
ate students,"  except  that  this  time  they 
would  attend  classes  for  a  longer  period 
than  they  did  at  first.  This  form  of 
education  should  take  care  of  the  theory ; 
now  for  the  practical  application. 

I  would  buy  perhaps  fifteen  or  twenty 
of  the  largest,  heaviest  old  cars  that  I 
could  buy.  I  would  equip  them  with 
super-heavy  bumpers  extending  around 
the  fenders  and  running  boards.  This 
fleet  of  cars  I  would  send  forth  as  my 
"right-of-way"  or  "smash-up  squad." 
Their  duty  would  be  to  mingle  with  the 
traffic  of  the  cities  and  observe  all  laws 
of  the  "code  of  the  road,"  but  to  demand 
the  right-of-way  whenever  it  was  right- 
fully theirs.  If  the  driver  of  any  other 
car  wished  to  cause  dispute  over  a  right- 
of-way,  he  could  do  so,  and  let  his  car 
take  the  consequences.  It  is  said  that 
pain  teaches.  A  pain  in  the  pocketbook 
caused  by  paying  for  a  dented  fender 
should  teach  how  not  to  get  dented 
fenders. 


Laura 

She  used  to  sit  in  the  blue  wing  chair,  her  head  thrown  back  ever  so  slightly,  with 
her  profile  carving  a  shadow  on  the  tapestry.  Her  very  skin  was  so  translucent  that 
the  blood  could  be  seen  moving  underneath  it.  Most  of  the  time  she  sat  with  her 
eyes  shut,  and  her  eyelashes  lay  fern-like  against  the  paleness  of  her  skin.  Tiny 
veins  traced  their  way  around  her  eyes  and  bound  her  wrists  gently.  But  it  is  her 
mouth  that  I  remember  best,  not  because  of  the  things  it  said,  nor  the  way  it  said 
them,  but  because  of  its  shape  and  color.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  new-born  baby's 
hands?  Laura's  mouth  was  like  that — small,  and  pink,  and  tightly  curled,  punctuated 
on  either  side  by  reluctant  dimples.  I'd  like  to  say  her  hair  was  blonde,  because  I've 
always  liked  blondes,  but  it  wasn't.  Her  hair  was  mourning  black,  and  it  wound 
Medusa-like  around  her  temples,  coiling  and  twisting,  into  a  flat  knot  on  the  base  of 
her  neck. — Jo  Ann  Munson 


[  8  ] 


The  Organization  of  Hull  House 


Ruth  Schnitzer 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  6,  1939-1940 


THE  BUSINESS  of  rehabilitating 
and  improving  men  and  their  fami- 
lies is  a  relatively  young  one.  The  words 
charity  and  aid,  two  decades  ago,  usually 
brought  to  mind  a  picture  of  an  amply- 
proportioned  society  matron,  in  an  im- 
mense motor  car,  cruising  the  streets  and 
alleys  of  a  squalid  community  in  order 
to  ferret  out  some  "deserving  family" 
upon  whom  she  could  shower  happiness. 
Probably  the  society  matron,  and  most 
certainly  the  deserving  family,  looked 
forward  to  these  visits  with  dread.  For 
the  former  they  were  merely  ordeals  to 
undergo  for  the  sake  of  appearing  gen- 
erous and  kind-hearted,  and  for  the 
latter  they  were  humiliating  and  pride- 
wounding  experiences.  Now,  because  of 
the  humanitarian  spirit  and  progressive 
trend  of  our  national  administration, 
people  requiring  help  are  regarded  as 
problems  of  the  country  and  are  being 
given  a  real  chance  to  lead  better  lives. 
However,  despite  "society  charity"  there 
was  founded  years  ago  an  excellent  or- 
ganization which  has  been  growing  and 
improving  for  years,  until  it  is  now  one 
of  the  leading  settlement  houses  of  the 
world.    Its  name  is  Hull  House. 

On  one  of  the  busiest  streets  in  Chi- 
cago, Halsted  Street,  and  in  one  of  the 
city's  poorest  neighborhoods,  a  block  has 
been  set  apart  upon  which  stand  the  few 
unimpressive-looking  buildings  that  com- 
prise Hull  House.  The  neighborhood, 
which  is  today  made  up  mainly  of  old, 
dilapidated  tenement  houses  occupied  by 
indigent  Mexicans,  Negroes,  Greeks,  and 
Italians,  was  not  always  in  such  a  state. 
When  Jane  Addams  first  conceived  the 


idea  of  Hull  House,  after  seeing  a  suc- 
cessful settlement  house  in  England,  she 
set  out  by  buying  a  mansion  of  a  wealthy 
man.  The  house  stood  on  part  of  the 
very  block  of  Halsted  Street  where  the 
settlement  house  now  is  located.  The 
building  today  is,  of  course,  enlarged  to 
include  the  whole  block  and  is  built 
around  a  court  of  grass  and  trees,  the 
only  green  foliage  to  be  found  for  miles 
around.  However,  the  building  itself  is 
of  small  importance.  Its  occupants  and 
their  objectives  are  the  real  guiding 
spirit  of  Hull  House. 

The  true  purpose  of  a  settlement  house 
is  to  gather  together,  in  a  poor  com- 
munity, a  group  of  public-minded, 
permanent  and  temporary  residents  who 
can,  because  of  their  training  and  abili- 
ties, furnish  opportunities  to  their  neigh- 
bors. Hull  House  lives  up  to  this  pur- 
pose. Its  School  of  Music  has  a  staff  of 
resident  piano  teachers  which  cannot  be 
surpassed  by  the  most  expensive  private 
music  school.  Classes  and  private  lessons 
are  offered  at  extremely  low  fees,  and 
any  student  who  has  talent  is  allowed 
to  play  a  solo  at  one  of  the  several 
recitals  given  annually  in  the  auditorium 
of  Hull  House.  In  this  same  auditorium 
the  Drama  Guild  stages  such  well-known 
plays  as  Wintcrset,  and  Having  a  Won- 
derful Time.  Not  only  talented  young 
men  and  women  of  the  neighborhood,  but 
also  dramatic  students  from  all  over  the 
city  who  realize  the  excellent  oppor- 
tunities of  stage  work  at  Hull  House, 
participate  in  these  productions.  To  the 
foreign  men  and  women  of  the  neigh- 
borhood,  skilled   in  the  crafts  of   their 


[  9  ] 


native  countries,  Hull  House  offers,  with- 
out charge,  materials  and  workrooms 
where  they  may  make  pottery,  paint,  knit, 
crochet,  and  weave  tapestries  and  rugs. 
The  only  stipulation  that  the  settlement 
house  makes  is  that  those  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  materials  produce  two  of 
ever}^hing,  one  to  take  with  them  and 
one  to  leave  behind.  Purely  recreational 
opportunities  are  numerous.  To  tempt 
the  youth  from  the  streets,  dances  are 
held  frequently.  Athletic  teams  are 
formed,  and  keen  competition  arises. 
Thus  far,  I  have  mentioned  only  the 
opportunities  offered  the  men  and  women 
and  the  youth  of  the  community.   There 


are  two  more  groups  which  are  cared  for 
most  expertly — infants  and  children. 
Separated  from  the  main  part  of  Hull 
House  by  an  alley,  there  is  a  large  build- 
ing where  working  mothers  may  leave 
their  infants  and  young  children  for  the 
day.  A  systematized  program  super- 
vised by  skilled  employees  is  carried  out. 
There  are  morning  play  hours,  a  hot 
lunch,  and  afternoon  rest  periods.  The 
play  rooms  are  equipped  with  toys  to 
thrill  even  the  most  blase  youngster,  and 
the  poor  children  who  live  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Hull  House  are  not  blase. 
They  love  every  minute  of  the  days 
which  they  spend  in  the  nursery. 


Golf — For  Men  Only 

Jack  Heath 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  10,  1938-1939 


npHE  slang  idiom  "to  get  in  one's  hair" 
^  means  to  irk,  annoy,  or  madden  a 
person  by  contrary  actions  or  words. 
I'm  offering  this  explanation  because  I 
want  my  feminine  readers,  if  any,  to 
understand  exactly  what  I  wish  to  con- 
vey when  I  say  that  women  golfers  have 
got  in  my  hair.  If  women  understand 
slang  as  well  as  they  play  golf,  then  I'm 
sure  my  definition  is  needed.  Male  read- 
ers who  love  the  game  of  golf  will  un- 
derstand what  I  mean.  I  repeat,  vehe- 
mently, even  angrily,  that  women  golfers 
are  "in  my  hair." 

You,  my  golfing  friend,  are  on  the 
first  tee  of  your  home  course.  You  take 
in  a  deep  breath,  moisten  your  hands, 
and  pray  secretly  that  your  first  drive 
will  not  hook  or  slice.  You  have  a  feel- 
ing that  today  your  game  will  contain  a 
few  pars — maybe  a  birdie,  even,  on  the 


water-hole  on  the  back  nine.  The  sun 
w^arms  your  back  as  you  take  your 
stance.  You  concentrate  on  the  ball  be- 
fore you,  you  raise  your  club,  you  are 
at  the  height  of  your  swing.  You  feel 
potential  power  in  your  cocked  waists, 
and  in  a  moment  you  will  smash  your 
ball  past  the  second  bunker — you  hope. 
There  are  perhaps  thirty  people  watch- 
ing you.  Now  is  your  chance  to  show 
the  members  of  your  club  that  long  drive 
you  are  always  predicting. 

"Yoo-hoo,  Mrs.  Thorndike!  Do  you 
want  to  play  a  few  holes  after  the  bridge 
game?" 

This  interrogation  is  flung  across  two 
fairways  just  as  your  driver  is  about  to 
meet  the  ball.  Mrs.  Thorndike  shouts 
that  she  would  love  to,  your  ball  bounces 
off  like  a  hit  into  right  field,  and  you 
don't  even  see  where  it  goes  because  of 


[10] 


the  blood  in  your  eyes.  Reluctantly  you 
put  murder  from  your  mind.  You  stamp 
your  tee  into  the  ground,  seize  your 
clubs,  and  stalk  after  your  ball,  swear- 
ing that  you  would  give  a  dozen  new 
Kro-flites  to  be  able  to  christen  Mrs. 
Thorndike's  hostess  with  a  brassie. 

Three  holes  later  you  are  more  calm. 
Profanity  has  grown  stale,  and  you  feel 
that  perhaps  the  day  can  still  be  pleasant. 
Your  spoon  shot  rolled  into  a  trap. 
Taking  your  eight  iron,  you  wade  into  the 
sand.  Now,  concentrate.  It  is  forty 
yards  to  the  green,  and  you  will  have 
to  lift  your  shot  over  a  small  tree.  You 
gauge  the  distance  and  swing. 

"Oh,  Gracie,  look  at  my  drive!" 

Well-timed,  wasn't  it?  At  your  feet 
lies  a  broken  club — and  the  ball.  Are 
you  ready  to  quit  ?  No  ?  Well,  after  you 
plough  the  sand  beneath  your  ball  and 
add  four  strokes  to  your  score,  I  turn 
my  head  while  you  throw  your  ball  out 
of  the  trap.  Finally  you  are  on  the 
green.  There  is  a  remote  chance  for  you 
to  sink  the  putt.  Watch  it.  The  green 
is  fast  and  the  hole  is  placed  on  a  side 
hill.  You  allow  for  a  good  roll,  sight  the 
hole,  and  prepare  to  putt.  Boy,  you  need 
this  one,  with  the  score  you  are  making. 

"Could  you  tell  me  where  the  fifth 
hole  is?" 

Without  looking  up  or  turning,  you 
know  there  is  a  woman  on  the  other  side 
of  the  green.  You  could  easily  reach 
her  in  ten  steps,  and  if  you  move  fast, 
no  one  would  see  you  hit  her.  No  you 
can't  do  that — not  here. 

"How  in  he !"  — Ah,  ah,  you  must 

not  talk  like  that  to  a  lady  golfer,  my 
friend.  You  point  to  the  fifth  hole,  she 
giggles  something  about  how  stupid  of 
her,  and  you  kick  your  ball  off  the  green. 
Go  back  to  the  club  house?  Sure,  let's. 
Our  game  is  ruined  for  today. 

We   walk   slowly   to   the   club   house. 


You,  spirit-broken  and  ready  to  take  up 
tennis,  trudge  silently  by  my  side.  Don't 
be  discouraged.  You  have  experienced 
only  the  talkative  woman  golfer  in  ac- 
tion.   Let  me  tell  you  about  the  others. 

You  have  never  played  behind  a  group 
of  women  who  are  just  learning  the 
difference  between  a  caddie  and  a  divot. 
I  mean  the  types  that  have  decided  they 
won't  be  happy  until  they  have  learned 
to  play  golf.  These  women  lose  all  sense 
of  time,  direction,  and  sight  when  they 
are  turned  loose  on  a  golf  course.  Now, 
golf  is  not  a  game  to  be  played  in  race- 
time.  I  do  not  play  it  so,  nor  do  I  ask 
any  other  player  to  hurry  his  shots.  All 
I  have  ever  expected  of  those  who  play 
in  front  of  me  is  that  they  move  fast 
enough  to  keep  me  from  taking  naps 
between  shots.  But  women  make  golf 
an  affair  of  walking,  talking,  and  hunt- 
ing balls.  Women  golfers  are  the  ex- 
plorers of  the  game.  They  bunt  back 
and  forth  across  the  fairway.  They 
slice  and  they  pull,  into  cornfields,  orch- 
ards, and  creeks — everywhere  but  in  the 
fairway.  Now  they  are  lost  in  the  tall 
grass.  May  I  go  through?  Oh,  no,  they 
have  found  the  ball,  and  we  begin  this 
tedious  croquet  again.  Back  and  forth 
they  go,  while  I  sit  and  wait  for  a  chance 
to  slip  by  them. 

There  are  three  ways  in  which  I  seem 
to  be  able  to  lose  a  ball.  I  can  plunk  it 
into  a  water  hazard,  sail  it  over  a  fence, 
or  roll  it  into  a  woman's  golf  bag.  Of 
course,  in  this  last  method,  I  have  to 
have  the  woman's  help  to  complete  my 
loss.  First,  I  knock  my  ball  over  a  hill. 
Then  I  follow  my  ball,  which  should  be 
in  the  middle  of  the  fairway — if  I  have 
been  lucky.  But  when  I  come  over  the 
hill,  my  ball  has  vanished.  I  wouldn't 
accuse  anyone  of  stealing  a  golf  ball,  but 
I  know  people  who  have  the  knack  of 
finding  balls  that  haven't  really  been  lost. 


[11] 


Most  women  never  lose  sight  of  the  balls 
they  are  playing  because  they  never  hit 
them  far  enough.  Women  can't  imagine 
anyone's  being  able  to  hit  a  ball  out  of 
sight.  When  they  see  a  ball  lying  in  the 
fairway,  they  look  around  for  the  owner 
in  the  immediate  vicinity.  Seeing  no  one 
near,  they  stoop  and  "find"  it.  I  once 
asked  a  woman  if  she  had  my  ball.  She 
smiled  innocently,  felt  through  her 
jacket  pockets,  and  produced  it.  I'll 
admit  she  had  no  criminal  intentions, 
but  by  that  time  /  had.  I've  seen  many 
trick  golf  shots.  I  have  banked  balls  oiif 
trees  and  onto  greens,  I  have  seen  a 
ball  skipped  across  water,  but  I  don't 
believe  I'll  ever  really  drive  a  ball  into 
a  woman's  pocket.  At  least,  not  without 
her  help.   Such  a  help ! 

A  man  who  plays  golf  with  a  woman 
can  have  one  of  three  reasons.  He  is 
henpecked,  he  has  come  to  the  stage  in 
life  where  nothing  matters,  or  he  is 
allowing  courtesy  to  women  to  grow 
greater  than  his  love  for  golf.  Revolt, 
you  mouse.  Tell  your  wife  you  are  the 
master.  Take  away  her  clubs;  teach  her 
to  knit.  Rise  from  your  fallen  state  of 
mind,  my  despondent  fellow,  and  fight 
for  the  cause ;  you  must  help  to  exter- 
minate  women   golfers.    And   you,   my 


polite  gentleman,  tell  those  women  you 
really  don't  want  to  play  golf  with  them. 
Be  honest ;  be  a  man ! 

Unfortunately  there  will  always  be 
men  who  will  want  to  play  golf  with 
women.  These  men  must  be  dealt  with 
as  the  women  themselves.  We  can  do  no 
less  than  ban  them  from  their  country 
clubs,  take  away  their  golf  clubs,  and  let 
them  restrict  their  sporting  activities  to 
solving  riddles  or  finishing  jingles. 

What  shall  we  do  with  the  women 
golfers?  It  would  be  sensible  to  drown 
them  like  kittens,  but,  unfortunately, 
there  aren't  enough  jurors  who  play  golf. 
I  propose  we  compel  women  golfers  to 
dress  alike.  Make  them  all  wear  a 
simple  uniform  of  dirty  gray.  I'm  sure 
that  in  a  short  time  their  vanity  in  dress 
would  supplant  their  desire  to  play  golf. 
Why  do  women  play  golf?  They  wish 
to  parade  in  front  of  men  and  exhibit 
not  their  playing  skill  but  their  finely 
tailored  golfing  habits.  Take  away  a 
woman's  stylish  clothes,  and  soon  she 
will  fade  from  the  fairways.  Then,  and 
only  then,  will  you  and  I  be  able  to  send 
that  first  drive  past  the  second  bunker 
everytime  we  tee  off. 

Wonderful,  isn't  it?  No  women — boy! 


Superstition 

A  foolish  fear  is  woven  around  the  unsuspecting  black  cat,  who  probably  wonders 
why  he  is  so  frequently  snubbed,  and  why  people  dash  madly  away  from  him.  The 
sleek,  well-groomed,  black  cats  with  proud,  waving  tails  are  no  more  welcome  than  the 
whining,  scrawny  black  cats  with  ratty  tails.  They  are  all  black — black  cats,  a  symbol 
of  a  black  calamity  to  the  person  whose  path  they  may  cross.  The  cat,  himself,  is  very 
innocent,  and  is  probably  only  crossing  the  street  to  exchange  a  few  meows  with  the 
cute  little  blonde  in  the  next  block.  He  wishes  no  one  any  bad  luck,  and  surely  his 
walking  in  front  of  Mr.  Jones  could  have  no  possible  connection  with  the  fact  that 
that  dignified  gentleman  should  suddenly  lose  his  footing  on  a  piece  of  ice  and  bury 
his  head  in  a  snowdrift.  Blame  the  ice  or  blame  Mr.  Jones'  new  orange  shoes,  which 
he  has  just  purchased  in  Pallock's  basement  for  the  amazing  price  of  one  dollar,  but 
please  don't  blame  the  cat. — Marjorie  Dillon 


[12] 


Little  Europe — ^American  Style 


Chris  Papadinoff 
Rhetoric  II.  Theme  6,  1938-1939 


ALMOST  every  large  city  has  a 
foreign  element  within  its  bound- 
aries. In  Chicago,  for  example,  the 
Italian  people  all  live  together  in  one  sec- 
tion of  the  city,  and  the  Greeks  in 
another  section.  But  my  home  town  can 
boast  an  unusual  situation,  although  the 
people  of  my  home  town  do  everything 
but  boast  about  it.  One  small  section  of 
the  city,  about  six  blocks  square,  is  a 
genuine  potpourri  of  European  nation- 
alities. In  this  small  hollow  there  live 
Turks,  Bulgars,  Greeks,  Armenians, 
Mexicans,  Poles,  Russians,  and  Hun- 
garians. All  these  people  were  drawn 
to  this  community  by  the  offer  of  em- 
ployment in  the  steel  mills  in  the  years 
preceding  the  World  War.  Since  then 
they  have  lived  their  simple  lives,  half 
American,  half  foreign,  and  today  they 
present  a  very  interesting  picture  of 
community  life.  Notwithstanding  their 
petty  disagreements,  the  fact  that  they 
have  all  been  transplanted  from  their 
native  homes  has  bound  them  together  in 
such  a  way  that  they  seem  to  be  one 
great  family. 

This  friendliness  among  the  races 
stands  out  clearly  in  many  ways.  Pri- 
marily, it  is  noticed  in  the  way  their 
homes  are  spread  about.  There  is  no  seg- 
regation of  each  individual  group.  Mr. 
Manoogian,  the  Armenian,  lives  next  to 
Mr.  Dezzo,  the  Magyar,  and  across  the 
street  lives  Mrs.  Grabowski,  Polack  Joe's 
wife.  On  every  street  it  is  the  same. 
Across  the  back  fence  young  Darro  chats 
with  Senorita  Carmen,  the  Mexican  girl, 
while  Kiro,  everybody's  iceman,  rumbles 
down  the  steps,  thanking  Tashe  for  the 


nice  cold  beer.  Kiro  is  a  Macedonian, 
but  he  peddles  his  ice  in  seven  or  eight 
different  languages.  To  the  Macedonian 
and  Bulgarian,  it's  niras;  to  the  Mexican, 
it's  hielo;  to  the  Greek,  it's  pagos;  to  the 
Armenian  and  the  Turk,  it's  miishta.  His 
daily  morning  spiel  has  become  a  sort  of 
myth  which  the  mothers  tell  their  chil- 
dren. His  ice-wagon  is  always  full  of 
small  boys,  inside  and  out,  and  the  boy 
who  sees  him  first  every  morning  sits 
on  the  seat  and  drives  the  single 
emaciated  mule. 

Almost  every  day  is  some  sort  of 
holiday  in  Lincoln  Place ;  this  fact  is 
understandable  if  one  remembers  the 
great  variety  of  races.  More  holidays 
mean  more  celebrations,  and  more  cele- 
brations mean  more  beer  and  wine  to  be 
enjoyed  by  Magyar  and  Turk,  by  Greek 
and  Serb,  by  Bulgar  and  Pole ;  everyone 
helps  everyone  else  to  celebrate  his  holi- 
day. On  the  great  "Elinden  Day,"  a 
Macedonian  commemoration,  the  entire 
community  parades  and  helps  the  "Mat- 
skos"  celebrate  their  "Fourth  of  July." 
A  wedding,  especially  if  the  ne\vl_y^'eds 
are  of  different  races,  is  a  special  event 
for  all,  and  helps  to  tie  the  bond  more 
closely  between  these  people.  They  work 
together  and  they  play  together ;  they 
share  their  good  fortunes  and  their  mis- 
fortunes. Everyone  knowing  everyone 
else,  a  death  in  the  little  village  is 
mourned  by  all.  A  funeral  procession 
starts  from  the  church  and  progresses 
slowly  through  the  streets.  Everyone 
walks.  Leading  the  procession  is  the 
priest,  bedecked  in  all  his  splendorous 
robes   and   swinging  an    incense   burner 


[13] 


from  side  to  side.  Behind  him  come  the 
pall-bearers  carrying  the  coffin,  and  then 
the  family  of  the  deceased.  The  others 
in  this  mournful  procession  are  the  rest 
of  the  people  of  the  community.  After 
they  have  carried  the  dead  person  up  and 
down  the  streets  for  almost  an  hour,  they 
enter  the  cars  and  proceed  to  the  ceme- 
tery. When  the  burial  is  over,  everyone 
returns  to  the  home  of  the  dead  per- 
son's family  and  eats  and  drinks  heartily 
so  that  the  good  Lord  may  bless  the  dead 
person  with  plenty  of  food  in  the  world 
beyond. 

There  are  stores  in  Lincoln  Place,  very 
peculiar  ones  in  fact.  The  grocery  store 
is  unlike  any  that  an  American  is 
accustomed  to.  And  there  is  not,  as  may 
be  supposed,  a  Mexican  store  for  the 
Mexicans  or  a  Hungarian  store  for  the 
Hungarians.  There  is  onh^  one  grocery. 
Years  ago  when  Yane  Marko  undertook 
to  open  the  shop,  it  was  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  had  to  cater  to  people  of 
many  nationalities,  and  that  to  do  this 
he  would  have  to  learn  the  different 
languages.  One  would  never  take  Yane 
to  be  a  very  intelligent  man,  and  it  is 
hard  to  believe  that  he  could  master 
more  than  one  tongue.  Yet  today  Yane 
has  learned  enough  of  each  language  to 
converse  with  and  to  understand  each 
of  his  customers. 

An  even  more  interesting  establish- 
ment not  found  in  other  American  cities 
is  the  Cafeto.  This  coffee-house  is  the 
only  thing  that  has  not  been  tainted  by 
American  custom,  and  remains  to  the  old 
people  as  a  bit  of  their  old  country. 
Everyone  knows  Duke's  Coffee-house 
and  everyone  knows  Duke.  Everyone 
also  knows  that  "Duke  makes  the  best 
Turkish  coffee  this  side  of  Istambul." 
Duke's  is  the  meeting  place  of  all  the  men 
folk ;  they  gather  here  to  play  cards  or 
to   sip   Duke's    famous    Turkish    coffee. 


and  discuss  anything  from  the  new  baby 
to  Communism. 

Turkish  coffee  is  made  of  ordinary 
coffee  beans  pulverized  to  a  fine  powder 
and  boiled  in  water.  The  resulting  bever- 
age, a  thick  brown  liquid,  is,  like  tea, 
sipped  rather  than  drunk.  But  there  is 
an  old  art  to  sipping  this  turtsko  cafe. 
The  old  men  say  that  one  should  not 
touch  the  cup  to  his  lips  but  should  "draw 
the  liquid  out  of  the  cup."  This  belief 
results  in  a  variety  of  sucking  noises 
which  w'ould  turn  many  a  head  in  an 
American  restaurant  but  is  marveled  at 
only  b}^  the  younger  men  at  Duke's. 

Duke's  card  games  are  interesting. 
Seated  at  a  table  may  be  four  men — a 
Macedonian,  a  Greek,  an  Armenian,  and 
a  Russian — while  gathered  around  as 
spectators,  a  Pole,  a  Serb,  and  a  Bul- 
garian calmly  watch  the  game.  The 
Armenian  speaks  Turkish  to  the  Mace- 
donian and  Greek,  while  in  the  other 
corner  the  Pole  converses  with  the 
Bulgarian  in  Russian.  When  the  men 
get  tired  of  playing  skambil,  they  have 
The  Map  to  amuse  them.  The  Map,  a 
huge  dirty  map  of  pre-war  Russia,  is 
eight  feet  long  and  four  feet  high.  The 
men  draw  their  chairs  around  it  and 
argue  and  point  and  wave  their  hands  for 
hours.  They  can  quote  Marx  better  than 
they  can  the  Bible,  while  Stalin  smiles  at 
them  from  all  four  corners  of  the  room. 
Here  in  this  little  room  the  World  War 
has  been  fought  over  and  over  again,  and 
revolutions  have  been  lived  and  relived 
with  all  their  original  fervor. 

In  spite  of  all  their  talk  about  the  old 
country,  these  people  are  eager  to  be- 
come American  citizens.  The  regular 
Thursday  night  citizenship  classes  at  the 
Community  House  are  crowded  to  capac- 
ity, and  Miss  Witheringhouse  has  done 
miracles  with  her  "students."  More  and 
more  of  the  men  are  becoming  citizens, 


[14] 


but  it  is  still  a  great  day  at  the  cafcto 
when  one  of  them  is  ready  to  get  his 
papers.  When  the  applicant  is  ready  to 
take  his  examination,  the  men  who  have 
already  become  citizens  will  quiz  him, 
asking  him  various  questions  about  the 
organization  of  the  American  govern- 
ment. Who  was  our  first  president? 
How  many  senators  are  there?  How 
many  men  are  there  in  the  Cabinet? 
Name  them.  How  does  a  bill  become  a 
law?  The  answers  to  all  these  questions 
have  been  carefully  memorized  by  the 
citizen-to-be,  and  slowly  he  brings  forth 
the  correct  one.  All  the  men  are  glad 
to  quiz  the  applicant,  but  it  is  a  great 
honor  to  be  tutored  by  Mose,  the 
Armenian  "who  ought  to  be  a  lawyer." 
After  the  person  has  become  an  ameri- 


kanetz,  he  tries  to  change  himself  and 
his  family  almost  overnight.  He  tries  as 
much  as  possible  to  avoid  using  his  native 
tongue,  and  becomes  angry  if  someone 
calls  him  a  "hunky,"  a  term  he  has  been 
accustomed  to  hearing  for  years.  He 
reads  only  the  American  newspapers, 
and  usually  cancels  his  subscription  to 
the  Naroden  Glas  or  La  Prensa.  Begin- 
ning his  education  in  politics,  he  reads 
everything  printed  about  President 
Roosevelt,  and  never  misses  one  of  the 
President's  speeches  on  the  radio.  The 
climax  is  reached  when  the  new  citizen 
votes  for  the  first  time.  Proud  as  a 
peacock,  he  dons  his  best  clothes  and, 
going  to  the  polls,  casts  his  very 
important  vote. 


The  House.  That  Hitler  Built 

Norma  Adams 

Rhetoric  I,  Theme  6,  1939-1940 


STEPHEN  H.  ROBERTS  in  The 
House  That  Hitler  Built  has  tried  to 
do  the  impossible.  He  has  attempted  to 
"explain"  Hitler  and  Nazi-Germany. 
Delving  into  Adolph  Hitler's  past,  he  has 
searched,  as  have  many  others,  for 
reasons  for  der  Fuehrer's  habits,  atti- 
tudes, actions,  and  peculiarities.  After 
analyzing  the  post-war  history  of  Ger- 
many and  the  qualities  and  characteristics 
of  the  German  people,  Mr.  Roberts  gives 
the  reasons  which  he  feels  made  Nazism 
possible  and  successful.  In  an  Tinder- 
standable  and  quiet  way  he  has  explained 
the  functions  of  the  newly  created 
branches  of  the  government  and  the 
problems  which  the  Reich  faces,  and  he 


has  discussed  the  important  men  of 
Germany.  After  doing  these  things,  he 
lays  the  book  open  to  the  destroying  ele- 
ment of  time  by  speculating  about  events 
of  the  future,  basing  his  guesses  on  past 
happenings.  As  this  book  was  written 
in  1936  and  as  many  important  events 
have  occurred  since  then,  the  value  of 
the  material  is  limited. 

For  his  reader  Mr.  Roberts  has 
formed  a  background  carefully  b}'  de- 
scribing the  personalities  of  the  high 
German  officials  and  telling  how  the 
Nazis  gained  power  in  1933.  Then  he 
has  proceeded  to  discuss  entertainingly 
and  illuminatingly  the  Brown  Shirts,  the 
armv  and  Hitler's  relation  to  it,  the  labor 


[15] 


problems,  the  road-building  program 
upon  which  the  Reich  is  launched,  the 
great  Nazi  party  rally  of  1936  at  Xiirn- 
berg — the  same  annual  rally  that  was 
cancelled  this  year  because  of  the  crisis 
that  led  to  war — the  duty  of  all  German 
women,  the  education  of  German  chil- 
dren, the  ingenious  financial  system  of 
Dr.  Schacht,  and  many  other  phases  of 
German  political,  economic,  and  social 
life. 

To  me  the  most  enlightening  discus- 
sion presented  was  the  one  concerning 
Germanys'  new  roads.  The  government 
has  put  thousands  of  unemployed  men  to 
work  building  magnificenth^  wide  roads 
with  large  strips  of  grass  and  trees  be- 
tween the  two  lanes.  Speeds  from  sixty 
to  one  hundred  miles  an  hour  on  these 
roads  are  not  considered  excessive.  The 
original  aim  was  to  build  a  total  of  six 
thousand  miles  of  these  super-highways 
to  be  used  ultimately  as  military  roads. 
The  author  makes  the  prophetic  remark 
that  if  one  wants  to  know  what  Hitler's 
military  aims  are,  one  has  only  to  look 
10  see  which  roads  are  being  completed 
first  to  discover  what  are  his  first  mili- 
tary objectives.  The  roads  constructed 
and  completed  first  led  directly  to  Aus- 
tria and  Czechoslovakia ;  there  are  now 
main  roads  running  to  Holland  and 
Belgium.  Perhaps  here  is  the  answer  to 
what  Hitler  expects  to  do  next,  or,  at 
least,  what  he  expected  in  1936  would  be 
his  next  move. 

Before  making  an  estimate  of  this 
book,  which  I  fear  may  seem  a  little 
harsh,  I  want  to  commend  the  lack  of 
prejudice  which  the  author  displays.  If 
this  book  can  be  recommended  for  noth- 
ing else,  it  can  be  praised  for  its  toler- 
ance and  sanity  in  discussing  a  person- 
ality and  a  country  which  usually  arouse 
many  unfriendly  feelings.  Mr.  Roberts  is 


an  Australian  and,  therefore,  has  the 
English  point  of  view.  One  might 
naturally  expect  the  material  to  be 
slightly  marred  by  prejudice,  but  it  is 
not.  In  every  way  Mr.  Roberts  has  dealt 
considerately,  even  sympathetically,  yet 
critically,  with  the  German  viewpoints, 
and  tolerance  is  the  keynote  of  his  anal- 
3'sis.  In  this  period  when  writers  in 
despair  describe  Hitler  as  insane  and 
create  stories  which  throw  a  question- 
able light  on  his  morality,  Mr.  Roberts 
is  emphatic  in  denouncing  unauthenti- 
cated  stories  and  is  earnest  in  presenting 
the  known  facts. 

However,  one  cannot  "explain"  Hitler 
or  his  state  religion,  and  the  attempt  is 
futile.  This  book  need  not  have  been 
written.  It  does  not  present  any  out- 
standing facts  which  can  not  be  found 
in  any  other  book  on  the  same  subject. 
Perhaps  if  a  new  or  different  angle,  in- 
stead of  the  common  one  of  factualism 
and  analysis  had  been  employed,  the 
treatment  of  the  material  might  have 
given  the  book  an  excuse  for  existence. 
In  other  books,  such  as  Gunther's  Inside 
Europe,  better  and  more  illuminating 
sketches  of  Hitler,  Goering,  Hess,  Goeb- 
bels,  and  Himmler  are  to  be  found,  as  is 
a  discussion  of  the  rise  of  the  Nazis  in 
1933.  The  drive  of  Goebbels  for  a  com- 
mon culture,  the  various  scientific  means 
used  to  increase  self-sufficiency,  and  the 
pitiful  Jewish  situation  are  all  subjects 
on  which  American  and  English  readers 
are  informed.  The  House  That  Hitler 
Built  may  have  had  a  value  in  1936  as 
less  material  had  been  written  about 
Germany  at  that  time ;  but  judging  its 
worth  after  reading  it  in  1939,  I  find  it 
a  well-constructed  book  easily  under- 
stood, tolerant  in  its  viewpoint,  but 
hardly  worth  spending  a  few  hours  to 
read. 


[16] 


Trying  for  a  Blue  Ribbon 


Louis  Briggs 

Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1938-1939 


EXHIBITING  hogs  in  a  show  ring  is 
an  art  in  itself,  but  many  practices 
and  details  which  require  much  w'ork  and 
care  are  involved  in  preparing  a  hog  for 
the  show.  By  having  a  Hampshire  swine 
project  in  Vocational  Agriculture  and  in 
the  4-H  Club,  I  have  learned  many  of 
the  principles  of  raising  "show  hogs"  and 
have  found  many  tricks  in  the  business 
that  are  worth  practicing.  Many  of  the 
experiences  encountered  in  this  work 
are  extremely  interesting. 

Of  course,  the  purpose  of  exhibiting 
hogs  at  fairs  and  swine  shows  is  to  win 
money.  The  goal  of  every  showman  is 
to  drive  the  champion  out  of  the  ring. 
He  can  succeed  only  by  the  proper  select- 
ing, fitting,  and  showing  of  the  indi- 
viduals. 

The  fate  of  a  show  hog  is  largely 
determined  even  before  he  is  born.  A 
first-prize  individual  must  have  the  type, 
character,  substance,  and  style  of  the 
particular  breed  to  satisfy  the  judge's 
eye.  These  factors  are  all  hereditary  and 
can  be  obtained  only  by  careful  selection 
of  the  breeding  stock.  In  other  words,  if 
a  pig  is  the  son  of  a  grand  champion, 
he  has  a  better  chance  of  bringing  the 
showman  numerous  blue  ribbons.  All 
animals  shown  in  breeding  classes  must 
also  be  of  purebred  stock  and  registered 
in  the  association  of  that  breed. 

After  the  selection  of  foundation  stock, 
the  next  and  most  tedious  task  is  keeping 
the  new-born  pigs  alive  at  farrowing 
time.  Since  a  high  price  is  usually  paid 
for  the  foundation  stock  or  parents  of 
the  pigs  to  be  shown,  every  effort  should 
be  put  forth  to  raise  as  large  a  litter  as 


possible.  A  large  litter  also  gives  more 
selection  when  the  time  conies  for  picking 
out  the  best  pigs  for  the  show-ring. 

I  can  recall  many  hours  spent  in 
watching  the  tender  pigs  soon  after  birth 
to  see  that  they  did  not  become  chilled 
or  injured  in  any  way.  Many  old  experi- 
enced breeders  practically  live  with  their 
sows  at  farrowing  time.  Each  one  has  a 
pet  practice  of  his  own  by  which  he  saves 
the  precious  little  porkers  from  an  early 
death.  A  method  which  has  been  proven 
very  practical  and  beneficial,  especially  in 
cold  weather,  is  to  rub  the  pigs  with  a 
burlap  sack  as  soon  as  they  are  farrowed 
and  put  them  in  a  well-bedded  box  or 
bottom  of  a  barrel  in  which  a  jug  of 
warm  water  or  lantern  is  kept.  This  pre- 
caution keeps  them  from  becoming 
chilled  or  being  injured  by  the  sow.  The 
pigs  should  be  allowed  to  nurse  every 
two  hours  before  they  are  finally  turned 
over  to  the  mother. 

Skill  in  feeding  and  management  is  one 
of  the  most  important  details  involved  in 
fitting  a  pig  for  the  show.  The  pig  must 
be  fed  and  managed  so  that  he  will  stay 
smooth  in  his  bod)^  be  sound  on  his  feet 
and  legs,  and  at  the  same  time  be  made 
to  grow  rapidly  enough  to  have  the 
desired  size,  substance,  and  finish.  To 
have  an  animal  reach  the  bloom  of  a  good 
finish  just  at  the  date  of  the  fair  requires 
experienced  judgment.  Rations  for  ani- 
mals that  are  being  fitted  for  the  show- 
ring  need  differ  very  little  from  those  for 
fattening  other  swine.  Variety  both  in 
kind  of  feed  and  in  methods  of  feeding 
is  desirable  in  the  ration  of  show  pigs. 
Ground  feeds  and  feeds  soaked  in  milk 


[17] 


can  frequently  be  used  to  advantage,  and 
feeding  three  or  four  times  a  day  may 
add  the  necessary  few  pounds  of  live 
weight  that  will  make  the  animal  appeal 
to  the  judge. 

Few  people  fully  realize  the  impor- 
tance of  daily  exercise  in  fitting  an  animal 
for  the  show  ring.  Exercise  gives  the 
firmness  of  flesh  and  the  ease  of  walking 
essential  to  successful  showing,  and  it 
helps  to  keep  the  appetite  keen  and 
uniform. 

Skillful  showing  depends  largely  on 
the  thoroughness  and  care  with  which 
the  animal  has  been  trained  during  the 
fitting  period.  An  experienced  showman 
of  my  acquaintance  spends  much  time  in 
training  his  hogs  to  respond  to  the  whip. 
Each  animal  is  so  thoroughly  trained 
that  a  light  tap  on  the  right  or  left  ear 
turns  him  in  the  desired  direction,  and 
the  hog  is  under  complete  control  while 
being  driven  inside  the  show  ring.  Noth- 
ing detracts  more  from  the  animal's 
chance  to  win  than  wild  and  unruly 
conduct  in  the  ring. 

As  show  time  draws  near,  the  final 
task  begins.  Good  grooming  is  the  climax 
of  fitting  an  animal  for  the  show.  Groom- 
ing brings  out  and  places  on  display  the 
qualities  that  have  been  built  up  by 
fitting.  Clipping  the  hair  from  the  ears 
can  give  the  animal's  head  a  trim  appear- 
ance. The  tail  may  also  be  clipped,  with 
the  exception  of  the  bush  of  hair  on  the 
end.  The  toes  should  be  trimmed  at 
some  time  during  the  life  of  the  pig. 
Trimming  prevents  a  foot  or  leg  from 
becoming  crooked  and  also  makes  the  pig 
stand  straighter  on  his  toes. 

One  or  two  days  before  the  show,  the 
pig  should  be  scrubbed  with  soap  and 
water  to  remove  all  traces  of  dirt  and 
scurf  from  the  skin.  Giving  a  pig  a  bath 
is  the  hardest  task  involved  in  grooming 
the    animal    for    the    ring,    because    by 


nature  the  pig  is  perhaps  the  dirtiest 
animal  known.  A  pig  seems  to  take  no 
pride  in  remaining  clean  after  once  being 
carefully  washed.  The  task  may  be  sim- 
plified by  washing  the  pig  in  a  truck  with 
a  clean  floor,  and  by  using  a  hose  for 
rinsing  it  after  it  has  been  thoroughly 
scrubbed  with  soap  and  brush. 

On  the  evening  before  the  show  the 
pigs  are  transported  to  the  fair  and 
placed  in  their  pens  for  the  week.  They 
will  stay  fairly  clean  if  kept  in  sanitary 
quarters,  but  most  of  them  need  scrub- 
bing again  before  being  driven  into  the 
ring.  I  raised  the  Hampshire  breed,  a 
characteristic  marking  of  which  is  a 
white  belt  encircling  the  body  at  the 
point  of  the  shoulders  and  including  the 
front  legs,  which  are  always  white. 
Keeping  the  white  points  clean  requires 
special  care. 

A  few  last-minute  preparations  are 
necessary  for  showing  a  well-groomed 
animal.  After  the  hog  has  been  thor- 
oughly cleaned,  a  light  application  of  thin 
oil  should  be  brushed  well  into  the  skin 
and  hair.  Oil  is  added  to  give  the  skin 
a  soft,  clean  appearance,  and  the  hair  a 
natural  gloss.  The  skillful  use  of  talcum 
powder  on  the  "white  points"  of  black 
breeds  emphasizes  the  natural  contrast 
of  these  colors.  Any  straw  that  may  be 
clinging  to  the  hair  should  be  brushed 
off  before  the  hog  goes  in  to  the  ring. 

An  experienced  showman  often  ex- 
hibits an  animal  with  some  serious  defect 
and  "gets  by"  with  it.  For  example,  he 
frequently  keeps  his  hand  over  the  defect 
of  an  aged  hog  and,  by  rubbing  a  cane 
or  whip  over  the  superior  points  of  the 
animal,  he  continually  presents  these 
points  to  the  judges.  A  swirl,  which  is 
a  rough  spot  or  circular  arrangement  of 
the  hair  on  the  back,  is  unwanted  by 
showmen  or  breeders.  The  old  trick  of 
gluing   the    unruly    hair    so    that    it    lies 


[18] 


straight  and  smooth  has  often  been  prac- 
ticed, but  it  is  condemned  by  the  officials 
of  the  show.  Another  unlawful  trick  in 
showing  is  the  practice  of  putting  lamp- 
black on  unwanted  white  spots  of  an 
animal.  These  are  all  tricks  of  the  trade, 
but  few  are  practiced  any  longer. 

Only  a  few  minutes  are  required  to 
show  an  entry,  the  fitting  of  which  may 
have  required  a  number  of  months.  Con- 
siderable thought  and  effort  should  there- 
fore be  applied  to  showing.  Often  rather 
small  details  are  very  significant.  The 
object  to  be  sought  in  showing  an  animal 
is  to  give  the  judge  an  opportunity  to 
see  it  at  its  best.  To  make  this  possible, 
the  animal  should  be  under  control  at  all 
times  so  that  it  can  be  posed  or  moved 
as  the  judge  may  direct. 

An  exciting  but  disgusting  event  which 
frequently  occurs  while  young  male  pigs 
are  being  shown  together  in  the  junior 
boar  class  is  a  boar  fight.  Even  though 
domesticated,  swine  seem  to  harbor  a 
wild  instinct  for  fighting  strange  animals 
when  they  come  in  close  contact  with 
them.  During  my  second  year  in  show- 
ing, I  had  a  young  boar  who  had  de- 
veloped this  fighting  instinct  so  much  that 


I  could  not  handle  him.  The  brave  ani- 
mal picked  a  fight  with  a  boar  much 
larger  in  size,  and  the  battle  proceeded. 
After  a  whip  and  cane  had  failed  to  part 
the  ferocious  beasts,  I  thoughtlessly  used 
my  foot  and  tried  to  step  between  them. 
The  result  was  a  badly  ripped  trouser  and 
gashed  leg.  I'll  never  use  that  method  of 
stopping  a  boar  fight  again. 

A  judge  can  best  study  the  type  and 
general  appearance  of  a  pig  if  it  is  moved 
slowly  back  and  forth  in  front  of  him 
at  a  distance  of  ten  or  fifteen  feet.  Con- 
tinually crowding  a  judge  in  an  attempt 
to  force  his  attention  to  one's  animal  is 
entirely  useless  as  well  as  discourteous. 
It  also  should  be  kept  in  mind  that,  since 
it  is  the  pig  the  judge  wishes  to  see,  one 
should  not  get  between  the  pig  and  the 
judge  at  any  time.  A  good  showman  is 
aware  of  all  these  precautions ;  a  poor 
showman  seldom  carries  a  blue  ribbon 
out  of  the  ring.  One  should  be  a  good 
loser  and  a  humble  winner  and  always 
remember  that  the  judge  has  but  one 
first  place  to  award  in  each  class.  His 
judgment  is  likely  to  be  better  than  the 
exhibitor's,  for  it  is  not  biased  in  favor 
of  any  animal  in  the  ring. 


Class  During  a  Dull  Lecture 

I  have  stared  at  the  professor  for  so  long  that  his  round  pale  face  seems  to  float, 
moonlike,  in  a  fog  of  blackboards  and  windows.  His  flat,  expressionless  face,  and  the 
exhausting  monotony  of  his  toneless  voice,  have  hypnotized  me  so  that  I  can  do  noth- 
ing but  gaze  at  that  white  blot  swimming  in  a  varicolored  sea.  All  around  me  other 
bored  and  mesmerized  students  are  ceasing  to  stir  restlessly,  succumbing  to  the  spell 
of  boredom.  Chin  in  hand,  dull  eyes  fixed  glassily  on  an  object  they  do  not  see,  each 
student  wonders  when  this  interminable  lecture  is  going  to  end.  Watches  pop  out  all 
over  the  room  every  other  minute,  and  are  put  back  with  signs  of  impatient  despair. 
Glances  wander  vaguely  about  the  room,  roving  mostly  ceiling-ward  as  though  in 
supplication  against  the  inflexibility  of  time.  Over  the  murmur  and  drone  of  the  pro- 
fessor's voice  can  be  heard  a  shuffling  of  restless  feet,  a  rustling  of  papers  filled  with 
stupid  notations,  a  whisper  of  many  voices.  And  in  one  corner  an  owl-eyed,  bespec- 
tacled boy  nods  his  head  emphatically  as  the  lecturer  makes  a  point  that  is  completely 
lost  on  the  three  hundred  other  students. — Joan  L.  Parrish 


[19] 


Waiter ! 


Ward  Thompson 
Rhetoric  If,  Theme  10,  1938-1939 


BALANCING  a  heavily  laden  tray  in 
each  handj  the  waiter  moves  briskly 
down  the  aisle,  intent  on  getting  his 
order  out  to  the  apparently  starving 
customer  at  table  five.  Suddenly  another 
customer  shoots  out  of  a  booth  almost 
under  the  hurrying  boy's  feet.  Since  a 
collision  is  inevitable,  everything  hits  the 
floor  with  a  resounding  clatter.  The 
customer  gets  angry,  the  order  is  ruined, 
and  the  waiter  catches  hell  from  both 
ends. 

The  dance  is  over,  and  the  gay  laugh- 
ing crowd  is  heading  for  the  nearest 
"coke  and  smoke"  for  a  sandwich  and 
a  chance  to  sit  down.  They  crowd  in, 
thirty  or  forty  all  at  once,  and  begin  to 
shout  for  service  after  the  manner  of 
customers  since  time  began.  The  har- 
assed waiters  dash  from  booth  to  booth 
gathering  up  the  requests  of  the  starv- 
ing mob.  The  orders  are  carried  to  the 
kitchen  or  the  fountain  and  are  made  up 
and  placed  on  trays.  Meanwhile,  more 
people  have  come  in,  and,  seeing  some- 
one they  know,  stand  in  the  aisles  around 
the  friend's  booth,  laughing  and  talking 
with  no  regard  for  the  perspiring  waiter 
vainly  trying  to  push  his  way  through 
the  mob  with  a  tray  full  of  teetering 
glasses  and  skidding  plates. 

And  so  it  goes.  Most  of  you  are 
reasonably  polite  and  courteous  people, 
respecting  the  feelings  and  rights  of 
others  and  generally  behaving  yourselves 
as  civilized  people  should.  Rut — !  Let 
even  the  best  of  you  slide  into  a  booth 
or  sit  at  a  table  in  a  restaurant  "coke 
joint"  or  hamburger  stand,  and  you  are 
immediately  afilicted  with  the  worst  de- 
lusions   of    grandeur    imaginable.     You 


shout.  You  whistle.  You  pound  on  the 
table  and  wave  your  arms  in  the  air.  And 
nine  times  out  of  ten  when  the  fellow 
in  the  white  jacket  skids  up  to  the  table, 
fully  convinced  that  your  wife  is  having 
a  bab}'  and  you  have  to  get  to  the  hospital 
in  five  minutes,  you  first  begin  to  think 
about  what  you  want  to  order.  I've 
never  seen  it  fail,  and  I've  been  the  fel- 
low in  the  white  jacket  for  three  long 
years,  come  next  June.  I've  washed 
dishes  in  a  cafeteria,  worked  as  counter 
man  in  an  all-night  cafe,  and  waited 
tables  in  a  campus  restaurant.  I  know ! 
The  customer  taken  as  an  individual  is 
one  of  the  most  ill-tempered,  obstinate, 
thoughtless,  and  inconsiderate  creatures 
in  existence.    Just  wait,  I'll  explain. 

In  the  first  place,  the  whole  customer- 
waiter  situation  is  entirely  wrong.  The 
waiter,  quite  understandably,  has  the 
wrong  attitude  tow^ard  the  customer,  and 
the  customer,  not  so  understandably,  has 
the  wrong  attitude  toward  the  waiter. 
As  to  the  first,  customers  make  a  waiter's 
work  very  hard  at  times.  They  make  him 
stand  around  and  do  nothing  at  all  at 
other  times.  The  waiter  resents  being 
whistled,  shouted,  and  beckoned  at,  and 
also  resents  taking  orders  from  anyone 
not  proven  his  superior.  As  far  as  I  can 
see,  all  these  dislikes  are  perfectly 
natural,  and  the  waiter  should  not  be 
condemned  because  of  them.  Again, 
but— ! 

Customers  demand  constant  and  indi- 
vidual attention  for  even  the  most 
trivial  things.  They  seem  to  consider  the 
waiter  part  of  the  furniture  and  totally 
incapable  of  any  human  attributes. 
Knowing  that  by  a  few  well-chosen  re- 


20] 


marks  they  can  have  him  fired  makes 
them  feel  very  superior,  and  they  use 
this  alleged  superiority  unfairly.  Taken 
as  a  group,  they  have  some  of  the  most 
irritating  and  offensive  habits  imaginable. 
Just  put  an  ash-tray  on  a  restaurant  table 
and  see  what  happens.  Either  the  ash- 
tray is  stolen  in  the  first  five  minutes,  or 
the  occupants  ot  the  booth  spend  most 
of  their  time  trying  to  see  how  much  of 
their  ashes  can  be  scattered  about  the 
table  without  getting  any  in  the  ash-tray. 
Sometimes  I  almost  think  that  there 
must  be  a  game  or  something  connected 
with  it,  for  even  the  best  of  them  prac- 
tice long  and  diligently  at  the  art.  An- 
other pet  practice  is  burning  paper. 
Almost  any  old  kind  of  paper  will  do, 
from  a  straw,  which,  incidentally  makes 
the  most  smoke  and  the  worst  smell,  to 
plain  newspaper.  The  ashes  are  then 
mixed  on  the  table  top  with  a  liberal 
amount  of  water  and  beer  or  what  have 
you  until  a  thin  paste  is  formed.  This 
paste  is  spread  about  the  surface  of  the 
table  and  allowed  to  dry  for  five  minutes  ; 
then  the  dabblers  shout  madly  for  the 
waiter  to  rush  over  immediately  and  wipe 
off  the  mess.  Cigarette  butts  make  a 
very  good  mixer,  too.  Sort  of  add  body, 
you  might  say. 

The  most  irritating  characteristic  of 
all  is  the  superior  way  in  which  they  give 
orders.  The  correct  procedure  seems  to 
be  to  shout  loudly  or  whistle  to  attract 
the  waiter's  attention.  Then  a  series  of 
hand  signals  conveys  the  impression  that 
service  is  needed  at  once,  and  that  the 
waiter  should  drop  whatever  he  is  doing 
and  rush  right  over.  If  this  device  fails, 
cries  of  "Boy!"  "Waiter!"  and  just  plain 
"Hey,  you!"  fill  the  air.  They  give  the 
place  a  rather  festive  air,  reminding  one 
of  fox  hunts  and  circuses,  but  they're 
damned  hard  on  the  waiter's  nerves.  So, 
the  lad  rushes  over,  whips  out  his  pad  and 


pencil,  and  stands,  and  stands,  and  con- 
tinues to  stand  until  the  starved  ones 
finish  discussing  last  Saturday  night's 
binge.  Whereupon  they  begin  to  look  at 
the  menu.  After  much  arguing  and  chang- 
ing of  minds  they  complete  the  order, 
and,  urged  on  by  cries  of  "Right  now !" 
and  "Hurry  it  up!"  the  waiter  dashes 
away  to  fill  it.  Unless  he  gets  that  order 
out  in  less  than  nothing  flat,  he  is  met 
with  a  volley  of  jeers  and  abuse  not  fit 
for  a  fishmonger.  The  stock  phrase  is 
"Wha'ja  do?  Grow  those  potatoes?"  I 
wish  I  had  a  penny  for  every  time  those 
words  have  been  tossed  at  me.  I  wouldn't 
have  to  work. 

For  the  sake  of  convenience  I  have 
classified  the  various  individual  custom- 
ers according  to  types  of  pests.  The  list  is 
not  very  long,  but  is  guaranteed  to  supply 
material  enough  for  several  nightmares. 
The  most  common  and  most  trying  type, 
in  my  opinion,  is  the  mental  and  vocal  in- 
competent. He  is  the  chap  who  buries  his 
nose  in  the  menu  and  mutters  and  mum- 
bles in  a  mere  whisper  only  to  shout 
"Well?"  in  stentorian  tones  when  you 
fail  to  understand  him.  There  is  also  the 
ever-present  exception  to  the  rule.  He  is 
the  guy  who  blows  you  off  your  feet 
with  a  shouted  string  of  orders  after  the 
manner  of  a  tobacco  auctioneer.  When 
you  meekly  ask  him  to  repeat  an  item  or 
two,  he  glowers  and  sulks  and  wants  to 
know,  "Whassa  matta?  Cantcha  hear 
straight?"  Then  there  is  the  uncertain 
creature,  who,  wafted  hither  and  yon  by 
his  vaccilating  fancy,  may  well  take  an 
hour  or  so  to  get  out  a  complete  order 
unless  firmly  handled.  Even  then  he  is 
apt  to  call  you  back  to  change  his  choice 
again.  The  aisle-blocker  and  the  table- 
messer  have  already  been  discussed,  but 
the  I-want-service-now'er  should  receive 
a  little  more  attention.  He  is  the  boy  who 
grabs  the  waiter  by  the  arm  as  he  hurries 


[21] 


down  the  aisle,  regardless  of  how  busy 
the  waiter  may  be.  He  pounds  on  the 
table.  He  shouts  and  beckons.  He  prac- 
tically froths  at  the  mouth  if  he  is  kept 
waiting  more  than  a  minute,  and  he  can't 
be  made  to  understand  that  he  is  not  the 
only  customer  in  the  place.  He  may  want 
his  water  glass  filled.  He  may  want  a 
match.  To  watch  him  you  would  think 
that  he  wanted  to  tell  someone  his  dying 
wish  and  had  only  thirty  seconds  to  do 
it  in. 

There  is  only  one  sure  cure  for  these 
blots  on  the  story  of  humanity.  Let  them 
be  waiters  for  a  while.  I've  lain  awake 
nights  plotting  and  scheming  in  the  vain 
hope  that  I  could  think  of  some  way 
to  get  a  couple  of  these  lice  into  white 
jackets  and  on  duty  during  the  late 
Friday  night  rush.  That  rush  would  do 
the  trick,  I'm  sure  of  it.  Just  a  few 
hours  of  such  a  job  would  make  a  deep 
impression  on  even  the  most  calloused. 
As  long  as  such  a  thing  is  impossible,  I 
have  contented  myself  with  drawing  up 
a  few  suggestions  as  to  behavior  among 
the  great  customer  class  in  the  vain  hope 
that  someone  will  read  them  and  profit 
thereby. 

Why  is  it  that  a  customer  can't  treat 
a  waiter  as  an  individual?  I  don't  even 
require  that  the  feeling  be  one  of  equal- 
ity. Just  as  an  individual,  and  with  a 
little  respect  for  personal  feelings.  After 
all,  the  waiter  is  there  to  help  him,  and 
will  be  glad  to,  if  he  will  only  cooperate 
a  bit.  Why  should  a  customer  be  any 
more  uncouth  or  unmannerly  in  a  restau- 
rant than  he  is  at  home?  If  he  spills 
ashes,  food,  and  water  all  over  the  table 
at  home,  I  suppose  there  is  some  excuse 
for  his  doing  it  when  eating  out,  but 
I  don't  believe  many  people  do  follow 
that  messy  sort  of  practice  at  home.  Why 
is  it  that  customers  are  unable  to  realize 
that  they  are  not  the  only  people  in  the 


restaurant?   Each  seems  to  think  that  he 

is  entitled  to  the  whole  and  undivided 
attention  of  every  waiter  in  the  place  at 
the  very  instant  he  wants  it.  He  can't 
seem  to  realize  that  the  waiter,  although 
a  performer  of  miracles  at  times,  can  be 
in  only  one  given  spot  at  one  given  time. 

I  realize  that  to  expect  much  in  the 
way  of  results  from  a  plea  such  as  this  is 
more  than  futile,  but  wait.  I  have 
another  plan.  Let  the  waiters  of  the 
nation  band  together  in  an  attempt  to 
educate  the  customer  in  the  ways  of 
common  decency.  They  should  resort  to 
drastic  measures,  should  kindness  fail. 
Imagine  the  chagrin  of  the  customer  who, 
after  making  himself  thoroughly  obnox- 
ious in  the  eyes  of  the  waiter,  found  him- 
self foodless  after  hours  of  patient,  or 
should  I  say  impatient,  waiting.  The 
waiters  should  refuse  to  wait  on  anyone 
who  is  overly  impolite.  They  should 
whistle,  shout,  and  gesticulate  at  anyone 
who  does  so  to  them,  and  they  should 
forcibly  eject  all  customers  who  persist 
in  sitting  and  talking  until  long  after 
closing  hours.  As  a  fitting  climax  the 
waiters  should  push,  shove,  trip,  and 
otherwise  maul  anyone  who  blocks  the 
aisles  and  shoves  them  around. 

Drastic  measures?  Of  course,  but 
nevertheless  effective.  They  would  prob- 
ably ruin  the  restaurant  business,  and 
then  we'd  all  be  better  off  except  for 
jobs.  Seriously,  though,  a  couple  of  re- 
taliations of  one  sort  or  another  from  a 
waiter  would  do  much  to  correct  the 
misbehavior  of  particularly  disagreeable 
customers,  and  I'm  afraid  that  sometime 
in  tlie  near  future  just  such  a  thing  will 
happen.  Temptations  are  beginning  to 
get  the  best  of  me.  I'll  probably  get  fired, 
but  in  a  way  it  will  be  worth  it.  Who 
knows?  Perhaps  I  shall  be  a  pioneer  in 
an  Equality-  for- Waiters-Movement, 

This  lament  is  purely  personal,  though 


[22] 


I'm  sure  that  it  expresses  the  feelings 
of  others  in  my  position,  I  can  only  hope 
that  those  of  you  who  read  it  will  reflect 
a  bit,  and  in  future  dealings  with  the 
harried-looking  fellow  in  the  white  jacket 


will  temper  your  requests  and  actions 
with  a  little  consideration  for  his  per- 
sonal feelings,  for,  surprising  as  it  may 
seem,  he  is  a  human  being. 


God  and  My  Mother 

Ray  O'Keefe 
Rhetoric  I,  Final  Examination,  1938-1939 


T  DON'T  believe  that  there  exist  any 
*  two  people  who  understand  each 
other  better  than  God  and  my  mother. 
Mother  belongs  to  an  organized  church 
which  advances  some  pretty  dogmatic 
views  about  God.  These  views  Mother 
seems  to  accept  as  her  religion,  but  those 
which  she  actually  uses  in  her  own  rela- 
tions with  God  are  entirely  hers.  And 
I  think  they  are  pretty  good. 

When  we  children  were  all  quite 
young,  we  learned  our  religion  right  out 
of  the  catechism.  We  knew  that  we  had 
to  behave  ourselves  and  keep  from  sin- 
ning, but  occasionally  we  slipped.  Re- 
alizing that  God  was  then  down  on  us, 
we  always  went  to  Alother,  because  we 
knew  she  and  God  were  on  intimate 
terms.  And  as  usual,  she  would  explain 
to  us  God's  views  on  the  matter  and 
administer  what  corrective  measures  God 
ordained.  We  had  complete  confidence 
in  the  combined  judgments  of  God  and 
Mother. 

Now,  as  I  said,  Mother's  official 
religious  ideas  do  not  always  correspond 
with  her  actual  views  of  God.  When  I 
arrived  at  the  age  where  I  began  to  en- 
tertain doubts  as  to  the  efficacy  of  our 
particular  creed.  Mother  would  always 
defer  to  the  Church.  But  on  special 
occasions.  Mother  could  always  abandon 
church  religion  for  ideas  equally  in  har- 


mony with  God's  will.  How  often  do  I 
remember  Mother  saying,  "Well,  I  don't 
think  God  bothers  his  head  about  that," 
or  "I  wish  people  wouldn't  expect  so 
much  of  God."  Many  little  comments 
like  these,  which  to  the  reader  may  seem 
trivial,  were  very  important  to  us 
and  to  Mother.  They  still  are.  Mother's 
God  is  a  very  personal  God,  but  I  think 
she  feels  sorry  for  Him  because  He  has 
so  much  to  put  up  with. 

I  am  beginning  to  think  that  Mother's 
great  intimacy  with  God  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  she  feels  that  they  have  a  lot 
in  common.  For  example,  Mother  pre- 
fers her  own  company  to  most  people's, 
and  she  feels  that  God  too  likes  to  be 
left  alone.  Probably  the  reason  they  get 
on  so  well  is  not  so  much  that  she  pat- 
terns her  views  after  His,  as  His  after 
hers.  Consequently  Alother's  is  a  very 
comfortable  religion.  She  doesn't  have 
to  worry  about  getting  in  trouble  with 
God,  because  she  knows  they  agree  so 
well. 

And  as  long  as  God  sticks  with 
Mother,  the  world  runs  along  very 
smoothly.  But  if  Mother  and  God  ever 
break  up,  Hell  will  certainly  break  loose, 
for  Mother  is  a  very  strong-willed  per- 
son. But  I  think  God  will  continue  to 
cooperate  with  Mother,  because  she  is 
also  a  very  wise  and  prudent  person. 


[23] 


Derby  Day 


C.  E.  King 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  10,  1938-1939 


THE  Kentucky  Derby — the  mere  men- 
tion of  the  phrase  brings  thrills  to 
every  native  Kentuckian,  no  matter 
where  he  may  be.  Every  one  considers 
it  America's  number  one  horse  race. 
Why?  I'm  not  sure  I  can  tell  you,  and  I 
doubt  that  there  are  many  people  who 
can.  It  is  not  the  oldest  race  in  the 
country — there  are  twelve  races  older 
than  the  Kentucky  Derby.  Perhaps  the 
reason  lies  in  the  fact  that  Kentucky 
became  famous  for  thoroughbreds,  and 
naturally  the  rest  of  the  horse-breeding 
world  took  great  pleasure  in  racing  Ken- 
tucky horses  on  Kentucky  tracks.  An- 
other reason,  and  more  important  too, 
in  this  discussion,  for  the  fame  of  the 
Kentucky  Derby  lies  in  the  efforts  of 
Colonel  Matt  Winn,  president  of  the 
American  Turf  Association  and  execu- 
tive director  of  Churchill  Downs.  As  a 
barefoot  boy  of  thirteen  Colonel  Winn 
witnessed  the  first  Derby  won  by  Aris- 
tides,  the  little  red  horse,  in  1875 — and 
he  has  seen  every  Derby  since. 

After  all  the  Kentucky  Derby  is  just 
the  sixth  race  on  a  Saturday  card  at 
Churchill  Downs.  The  horses  aren't  any 
better  than  those  that  run  in  a  dozen  or 
more  races  during  the  year.  In  fact  they 
often  are  not  as  good,  since  the  Derby 
is  for  three-year-olds  and  is  run  so  early 
in  the  year  that  the  youngsters  haven't 
had  time  to  prove  their  class.  And  yet 
the  Derby  has  a  tremendous  hold  on  the 
citizens  of  this  country.  Only  during  the 
minute  of  silence  on  Armistice  Day  is  the 
thought  of  this  nation  so  concentrated 
on  one  thing  as  it  will  be  during  those 


two  minutes  or  so  on  the  May  afternoon 
when  the  Derby  is  being  run.  Millions 
of  persons  look  upon  the  Derby  as  the 
greatest  sporting  event  in  this  country. 
Millions  shake  with  excitement  and  emo- 
tion when  the  field  comes  on  the  track  to 
the  soft  strains  of  "My  Old  Kentucky 
Home."  And  the  reason  is  that  Colonel 
Winn  set  out  long  ago  to  sell  an  entire 
nation  the  belief  that  only  in  Louisville, 
on  his  track,  on  Derby  Day,  is  there  a 
horse  race  run  that  is  worth  the  running. 

Accompanying  all  the  publicity  and 
build-up  that  Colonel  Winn  has  given 
the  Derby  is  the  one-week  economic 
change  in  the  city  of  Louisville.  It  is 
almost  impossible  to  realize  the  effects 
of  the  efforts  of  one  man  on  a  city  of 
400,000  inhabitants.  From  an  obscure 
horse  race  in  1875,  the  Derby  has  been 
made  a  Louisville  "institution"  that,  with 
almost  no  exception,  has  some  economic 
eifect  upon  every  resident  of  Louisville 
and  the  Falls  Cities.  The  local  newspaper 
bo3's,  for  example,  sell  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  extra  copies  of  the  daily 
papers.  Restaurants  are  overflowing  with 
racing  people  from  five  to  eight  every 
evening  Derby  week.  On  Derby  eve 
an  all-American  half-back  couldn't  get 
through  a  hotel  lobby.  Municipal  and 
state  officials  are  kept  on  the  run,  meet- 
ing, greeting,  and  entertaining  officials 
from  other  cities  and  states  and  the 
national  government.  Louisville  is  so 
overrun  with  strangers  Derby  week-end 
that  one  can  walk  through  the  downtown 
streets  without  seeing  anyone  he  knows. 

It    is   only   natural   that   a   group   of 


[24] 


people  as  numerous  as  the  Derby  visitors 
would  have  the  urge  to  spend — and  spend 
they  do.  Because  the  visitors  Hke  to 
spend,  the  local  merchants  and  business 
men  exhibit  what  I  believe  is  exceedingly 
poor  Southern  hospitality  by  taking  un- 
fair advantage  of  their  guests.  Prices  of 
everything  necessary  for  the  comfort  and 
happiness  of  a  visitor  are  doubled, 
tripled,  and  oftentimes  jumped  higher 
than  that.  The  merchants  and  business 
men  decided  the  only  people  who  come  to 
the  Derby  are  the  people  who  have 
money  to  throw  away  and  there  is  no 
reason  why  they  shouldn't  have  some  of 
it.  And  they  get  it.  Hotel  rooms,  hard 
to  find  anyway,  are  reserved  for  at  least 
a  week-end  and  at  a  price  five  times  the 
regular  rate — fifteen  to  twenty  dollars 
per  night,  for  three  nights,  just  for  a 
single  room.  Recenth'  the  Louisville 
Board  of  Trade  went  on  its  annual  "good 
will  tour"  of  neighboring  towns  in  Ken- 
tucky and  bordering  states.  When  the 
group  arrived  in  a  small  West  Virginia 
town,  the  members  were  greeted  b}^  the 
town  newspaper  with  an  editorial  on  the 
price  of  a  cup  of  coffee  in  Louisville 
on  Derby  Day — reputed  to  be  forty  cents. 
The  social  effects  of  the  Derby,  though 
not  so  well  known  as  the  economic  ef- 
fects, are  almost  as  great.  The  so-called 
upper-crust  of  the  racing  world,  the 
owners  and  trainers,  and  the  socialites 
and  playboys  who  follow  racing  from 
Florida  to  California,  convene  in  Louis- 
ville for  the  Derby.  At  this  season  local 
society  assumes  new  importance  in  the 


social  world.  Colonel  Winn  has  made 
the  Derby  glamorous  with  bluegrass, 
bearded  colonels,  lovely  ladies,  and  mint 
juleps,  and  the  Louisville  hostesses  feel 
that  it  is  their  duty  to  show  their  guests 
some  real  Southern  hospitality  in  keep- 
ing with  the  publicity.  Breakfasts,  lunch- 
eons, teas,  dinners,  and  cocktail  parties 
— all  are  given  in  honor  of  visiting  so- 
ciety from  Newport  and  Palm  Beach. 
Each  such  function  affords  the  residents 
of  Louisville  an  opportunity  to  make 
valuable  social  contacts  and  renew  old 
acquaintances. 

Perhaps  it  could  be  called  spring- 
fever,  but  regardless,  along  toward  the 
last  part  of  April  and  the  first  part  of 
May,  the  Derby  is  the  chief  interest  of 
every  Louisvillian — I  may  say  every 
Kentuckian.  Everyone  in  the  vicinity 
prepares  for  the  big  race  in  some  way, 
shape,  or  fashion — materially,  mentally, 
or  otherwise.  The  spirit  of  the  Derby 
and  spring  are  two  things  one  can't 
escape  in  Kentucky.  I  might  say  that 
my  Kentucky  blood  flows  faster  lately 
and  Lm  quite  excited  about  the  Derby, 
now  only  a  few  days  away. 

Someone  once  asked  Colonel  Winn 
why  he  didn't  move  the  Derby  to  New 
York  where  he  could  get  bigger  crowds 
and  more  betting.  "There  is  only  one 
place  to  hold  the  Passion  Play,"  the 
colonel  replied,  "and  only  one  place  to 
cheer  Mussolini,  and  only  one  place  to 
hold  a  presidential  inauguration.  And 
there's  only  one  place  to  hold  the  Ken- 
tucky Derby — in  Kentucky." 


Conversation 

The   conversation  moved  on  hesitatingly  like   a   Model  T   Ford — balkingly  but 
determinedly,  creeping  towards  an  unknown  destination. — George  Stahmer 


[25] 


Checking  Up  on  the  Legislature 


Norma  Adams 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  2,  1939-1940 


ALL  during  my  high  school  days  I 
was  submitted  to  a  barrage  of  in- 
formation about  this  government,  its 
functions,  and  its  branches,  and  about 
citizenship  and  the  interest  I  should  take 
in  my  government.  It  was  inevitable  that 
some  small  curiosity  about  our  legislative 
system  should  develop  and  result  ulti- 
mately in  a  trip  to  Springfield  to  look- 
over  that  awe-inspiring  body,  the  Illinois 
legislature. 

Three  friends  of  mine  and  I  formed 
what  we  chose  to  call  the  Brandt- 
Thompson-Adams  Senate-Investigating 
Committee  and  set  out  about  discover- 
ing for  ourselves  what  Senators  looked 
like,  how  they  behaved,  and  what  w^ork 
they  completed.  Our  Civics  class  had 
brought  back  wild  tales  that  the  repre- 
sentatives indulged  in  paper-wad  shoot- 
ing and  that  order  was  a  thing  unheard 
of.  We  were  going  to  see  for  ourselves. 
This  spirit  must  have  been  something 
like  the  one  that  impelled  early  explorers 
to  come  to  this  country  in  search  of 
gold  and  jewels. 

The  self-appointed  committee  arrived 
at  the  chamber  of  the  representatives  at 
ten  o'clock,  which  was  supposedly  the 
hour  of  opening.  Representatives  were 
milling  around,  chatting,  having  a  grand 
time,  and  not  worrying  at  all  about  get- 
ting down  to  work.  About  ten-fifteen 
the  speaker  of  the  house  arrived,  and, 
banging  his  gavel  several  times,  called 
the  house  into  session — at  least  he  tried 
to.  Unheeding,  the  representatives  con- 
tinued their  gay  talking,  laughing,  and 
walking  about,  apparently  in  accordance 
with    their    usual    behavior,    since    the 


chaplain  said  a  prayer  and  roll  was 
called  without  any  further  attempts  being 
made  to  quiet  the  room.  Bills  were  read 
and  voted  upon.  Various  members  made 
pretty  little  speeches  explaining  their 
votes,  but  no  one  listened.  This  uproar 
and  constant  confusion  was  much 
greater  than  I  had  expected.  In  visual- 
izing the  legislature,  I  had  placed  solemn, 
deliberate  men  at  their  desks,  earnestly 
listening  to  speeches  and  trying  to  de- 
cide w^hether  it  was  best  to  vote  for  a 
certain  bill  or  not.  I  discovered  that  the 
representative  didn't  even  have  to  decide 
that  for  himself.  In  one  case  a  repre- 
sentative from  Cook  County  voted  on  a 
bill  only  to  have  some  fellow  Republican 
come  around  and  tell  him  to  change  that 
vote  and  do  it  quick.  The  poor  fellow 
had  unwittingly  voted  the  Democratic 
way  on  a  bill  concerning  pensions.  He 
hadn't  been  listening  at  all  and  had 
merely  answered  "Yes,"  when  his  name 
was  called. 

Two  hours  of  this  confusion  were  all 
we  could  stand ;  w^e  moved  over  to  the 
Senate  Chamber,  where  we  hoped  to 
find  peace  and  quiet.  I  am  glad  to  say 
that  the  senators  controlled  their  talking 
to  the  extent  that  it  w^as  possible  to 
hear  what  the  speaker  was  saying.  The 
most  interesting  senator  present  was 
James  McGroarty  of  Chicago.  He 
weighed  about  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  had  a  specially  built  chair  to 
hold  him,  and  in  every  way  resembled 
Clarence  Buddington  Kelland's  charac- 
ter, Scattergood  Baines.  His  favorite 
position  was  one  in  which  he  stretched 
out  full  length,  reared  back  in  his  chair, 


[26] 


and  placed  his  number  ten  feet  on  his 
desk.  He  gave  every  appearance  of 
sleeping,  but  perhaps  he  could  think  bet- 
ter in  that  position.  If  so,  then  let  him 
stretch  out  in  every  session,  for  we  cer- 
tainly need  better  legislation. 

After  I  got  home  and  had  had  time 


to  ponder  what  I  had  learned  that  day, 
I  decided  that  if  I  couldn't  get  a  job 
writing  about  senators,  representatives, 
and  would-be  politicians,  I  would  be  a 
senator  myself  and  lead  an  easy  life — 
easy,  that  is,  after  I  got  elected. 


I  Like  Him  Anyway 

Ruth  Schnitzer 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  3,  1939-1940 


I  HAVE  developed  a  strange  reticence 
when  it  comes  to  choosing  authors 
and  books.  For  many  years  I  have 
cherished  a  fondness  akin  to  love  for  the 
books  of  Sinclair  Lewis,  only  to  be  pooh- 
poohed  and  laughed  at  for  my  infantile 
literary  taste.  I  received  another  bad 
jolt  when  I  discovered  that  the  people 
who  compiled  the  manual  for  Univer- 
sity of  Illinois  rhetoric  students  thought 
so  little  of  Mr.  Lewis's  works  as  to 
squeeze  them  into  the  reading  list  only 
for  "those  who  have  done  little  or  no 
reading."  From  this  time  on,  when  I 
wish  to  withdraw  a  Lewis  book,  I  shall 
have  to  sneak  up  to  the  loan  desk,  try 
to  look  supercilious,  and  hope  that  the 
librarian  will  be  fooled  into  believing 
that  I  am  withdrawing  the  book  for  a 
mentally  retarded  roommate. 

But  I  believe  I  will  be  stout-hearted 
and  continue  to  read  Lewis's  works.  I 
think  I  like  him  for  just  the  reasons  that 
his  critics  condemn  him.  They  say  he  is 
a  "muck-raker,"  that  his  w^riting  is  bla- 
tant, choppy.  I  admire  Lewis  because  he 
has  the  courage  to  hold  up  to  ridicule 
what  he  believes  is  wrong.  I  like,  too, 
the  manner  in  which  he  goes  about  doing 
this.  Mild,  pretty  language  cannot  do  as 
much  to  sway  people  as  language  that  is 


blunt,  forceful,  direct.  Lewis  shows  the 
world  which  side  of  the  fence  he  intends 
to  sit  on. 

He  recognized  the  shams  and  hypoc- 
rises  of  a  small  midwestern  town,  and 
he  told  the  world  all  about  them  in  Maiii 
Street.  Everything  about  small  towns 
that  is  cheap  and  petty  Lewis  puts  into 
his  picture.  He  gave  back  to  small 
towns  just  what  they  had  sent  out. 
Again,  he  recognized  the  pettiness  and 
superficiality  of  women  of  the  nouveau 
richc,  and  he  wrote  a  book  about  one  of 
the  worst  of  them,  Fran  Dodsworth.  A 
great  many  people  must  have  believed  in 
his  sincerity,  because  Dodsworth  became 
a  best-seller.  Again,  Lewis  saw  the  need 
for  more  altruistic  methods  in  the  medi- 
cal profession,  and  he  made  his  plea  in 
Arrowsmith.  Still  more  recently  Lewis 
brought  out  a  book  which  not  only 
proved  convincing  and  interesting,  but 
which  was  concerned  with  one  of  the 
most  timely  subjects — Fascism.  He  rec- 
ognized the  danger  of  that  "ism"  in  the 
United  States,  and  he  wrote  a  vivid, 
moving  story  of  warning,  It  Can't  Hap- 
pen Here. 

Because  I  like  hard  truths,  I  enjoy 
reading  the  books  of  Sinclair  Lewis,  the 
"muck-raker  supreme." 


[27] 


The  Unicameral  Legislature  of  Nebraska 


Eugene  Vermillion 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  10,  1928-1939 


IN  1934  the  people  of  Nebraska,  seek- 
ing relief  from  the  state-wide  drouth. 
became  dissatisfied  with  the  half-hearted 
attempts  of  the  bicameral  legislature  to 
alleviate  the  distress.  The  citizens  looked 
with  envy  at  the  governments  of  the  re- 
public of  Finland  and  of  the  Dominion 
of  Canada.  Eight  of  the  nine  Canadian 
provinces  have  one-house  legislatures  and 
they  have  found  they  get  better  law  at 
less  expense,  while  the  activities  of  cor- 
rupt lobbyists  have  been  cut  to  a  mini- 
mum.^ The  little  country  of  Finland  has 
been  so  well  governed  that  it  is  the  only 
European  power  having  the  financial 
ability  to  meet  the  installments  of  the 
war  loans  due  the  American  government. 
Finland  has  had  a  one-house  legislature 
for  seventeen  years.^  Therefore  in  the 
fall  election  the  Nebraska  voters,  by 
popular  initiative,  adopted  an  amend- 
ment which  made  their  state  the  first  of 
the  United  States  to  experiment  in  the 
field  of  unicameral  legislatures. 

Prior  to  the  passing  of  this  amend- 
ment the  people  were  represented  by 
one  hundred  members  in  a  House  of 
Representatives  and  thirty-three  mem- 
bers in  a  State  Senate.  Elected  on  a 
partisan  basis,  these  representatives 
served  two  years  for  an  annual  salary  of 
eight  hundred  dollars,  which  included 
travelling  expenses.  Under  the  new  plan 
the  state  is  divided  into  forty-three  dis- 
tricts each  with  a  population  of  31,476. 
Each  district  is  represented  by  an  indi- 
vidual elected  for  a  term  of  two  years 
on  a  non-partisan  basis. ^ 


That  Nebraska  should  be  the  first  of 
the  states  to  attempt  to  eliminate  the  dis- 
advantages of  a  two-house  system  is  a 
result  of  the  efforts  of  George  W, 
Norris,  liberal  independent  of  that  state. 
Norris,  United  States  Senator  since  1913, 
has  become  nationally  known  as  the 
author  of  the  "Lame  Duck"  Amend- 
ment, crusader  against  power  trusts,  and 
father  of  the  Tennessee  Valley  Au- 
thority. The  unicameral  movement  in 
Nebraska  started  when  a  legislative  com- 
mittee, meeting  in  1913  and  publishing  a 
report  in  1915,  recommended  a  unicam- 
eral legislature.*  Norris  took  up  the  case 
in  1923,  when  he  published  an  article  in 
the  Nezv  York  Times  entitled  "A  Model 
State  Legislature."  Shortly  after  a 
speech  in  1934  he  began  his  campaign  for 
the  single  chamber,  but  the  prospects 
looked  hopeless.  The  legislature  refused 
to  put  the  proposition  on  the  ballot,  and 
he  had  to  get  it  there  by  resorting  to 
petition.  Thirty  thousand  more  than  the 
requisite  number  of  signatures  were 
quickly  secured,  and  the  proposal  was 
thus  referred  to  a  vote  at  the  election  of 
November  6.^   The  campaign,  conducted 

'Norris,  George  W.,  "Nebraska's  Unicameral 
Legislature,"  Annals  of  the  Americati  Acade- 
my of  Political  and  Social  Science,  180-82:50 
(September,  1935). 

"'Ibid.,  p.  50. 

'Lancaster,  Lane  W.,  "Nebraska's  Farmers 
in  Action,"  Current  llistorv,  41:434  (January, 
1935). 

*Englc,  Bernice  S.,  "Nebraska's  Legislative 
Government,"  Scholastic,  24:25  (January, 
1933). 

Wi'Ti'  International  Year  Book,  Frank  H. 
Vizetelly,  ed.,  New  York,  Funk  and  Wagnalls, 
1935.  p.  1053. 


[28] 


largely  by  Senator  Norris,  was  a  strenu- 
ous one,  since  the  proposition  was  op- 
posed by  all  political  forces  as  well  as 
by  nine-tenths  of  the  press.  The  people, 
however,  followed  the  suggestions  of  the 
liberal  senator,  who  pointed  out  that 
"there  never  was  any  sound  reason  that 
the  individual  American  states  should 
have  bicameral  legislatures,  except 
that  the  founders  had  the  English 
precedent  before  them  and  that  the 
colonial  system  of  government  perpetu- 
ated the  idea  that  there  were  separate 
classes  in  the  community  which  could 
only  be  adequately  represented  and  pro- 
tected if  they  had  their  separate  legis- 
lative bodies."®  The  bill  became  law  by  a 
majority  of  100,000,  but  Norris  took 
little  credit  for  the  victory.  "This  pro- 
gressive step,"  he  said,  "is  not  due  to  any 
individual.  First,  it  is  a  demonstration  of 
the  independence  and  wisdom  of  Ne- 
braska citizens.  Second,  it  is  a  worthy 
victory  due  to  the  efforts  of  hundreds  of 
loj'al  workers,  scattered  over  the  entire 
state,  for  better  government."^  The  mem- 
bers of  the  new  one-chamber  legislature 
were  elected  in  1936,  and  then  the  truth- 
fulness of  one  of  Norris'  prophecies  be- 
came evident.  In  the  election  Governor 
Cochran  piled  up  a  majority  of  77,000 
and  President  Roosevelt  a  lead  of 
100,000,  yet  national  politics  played  no 
part  in  the  election  of  the  representatives. 
The  unicameral's  forty-three  members, 
elected  at  the  same  time,  consisted  "in 
private  life"  of  twenty-two  Democrats 
and  twenty-one  Republicans.  This  would 
indicate  that  the  people  voted  for  the 
man  and  not  the  political  label.  The 
voting  was  just  as  Senator  Norris  said  it 
would  be.^  The  new  legislature  included 
eleven  lawyers,  twelve  farmers,  three 
ranchers,  five  merchants,  three  workers. 


one  physician,  one  veterinarian,  one  edi- 
tor, one  insurance  agent,  one  capitalist, 
two  small  bankers,  one  power  plant 
operator,  and  one  high  school  football 
coach.  There  was  included  one  negro 
from  Omaha.'-* 

Shortly  after  election  these  representa- 
tives assembled  in  Lincoln  to  organize 
the  business  procedure  of  the  first  purely 
unicameral  legislature  in  the  United 
States.  Because  there  was  no  precedent 
to  follow  in  formulating  the  rules  to 
govern  the  chamber,  the  legislators  ap- 
pealed to  Senator  Norris  in  the  hopes  of 
receiving  some  suggestions.  He  advised 
that  they  organize  as  their  honesty  and 
better  judgment  dictated.*"  Therefore  in 
an  effort  to  remove  the  dictatorial  powers 
of  the  speaker,  a  committee  on  commit- 
tees was  organized  to  approve  the  com- 
mittee selection  of  the  speaker.  Included 
among  the  other  beneficial  adjustments 
was  a  reduction  of  fifty  in  the  number 
of  committees  designated  to  consider  pro- 
posed legislation.  A  rule  prescribing  that 
five  days  must  elapse  after  a  bill  has 
been  submitted  before  it  can  become  law 
eliminates  the  possibility  of  hasty  legisla- 
tion. The  rules  governing  proposing  and 
voting  on  legislation  remain  almost  the 
same,  and  a  three-fifths  majority  is  re- 
quired to  override  the  governor's  veto.*^ 
The  governor  has  been  stripped  of  much 
of  his  authority  by  giving  the  house  the 
power  to  call  a  "special  session"  when- 
ever a  majority  favor  it,  to  consider  any 

"Fleming,  Roscoe,  "Democracy  in  Flux," 
Nation,  144:43  (January,  1936). 

'Ibid.,  p.  51. 

^Ibid.,  p.  43. 

""Nebraska's  Stage  Set  for  Battle  of  Bunk- 
mates,"  Netvs  Week,  4:11-12  (August  25,  1934). 

''Ibid.,  p.  50. 

"Reference  Shelf,  Unicameral  Government, 
Harrison  Boyd  Sumner,  cd.,  New  York:  H. 
W.  Wilson  Co.,  1935,  v.  11,  p.  214. 


[29] 


legislation  at  any  time,  and  to  remain  in 
session  as  long  as  it  deems  necessary.  The 
annual  session  is  still  required,  however. 

Careful  consideration  of  the  operation 
of  the  "Norris  Amendment"  will  indicate 
the  benefits  to  be  derived.  The  plan  will 
do  much  to  attract  a  better  group  of 
representatives  to  the  legislature.  The 
prestige  created  by  doubled  salaries  and 
reduced  numbers  will  attract  the  superior 
type  of  law-makers  with  past  experience. 
Statistics  from  past  elections  show  that 
three  out  of  every  four  legislators  are 
elected  for  only  one  term  of  office,  and 
that  more  than  fifty  per  cent  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  average  assembly  have  had 
no  previous  experienced^  Of  the  forty- 
three  elected  for  the  first  session  of  the 
one-chamber  system  thirty-five  had  had 
previous  experienced^  The  non-partisan 
election  will  also  eliminate  the  political 
lieutenants  who  ascend  to  public  office 
on  the  popularity  of  a  national  party." 
In  fact,  Senator  Norris  comments  that 
"under  present  conditions  we  elect  a 
member  of  the  legislature  because  he 
bears  the  label  of  a  national  party  and 
those  who  vote  this  ticket  'straight'  vote 
for  members  of  the  legislature  on  the 
same  ticket  regardless  of  the  fact  that 
the  voter  may  not  agree  with  the  candi- 
date on  any  of  the  state  issues  over  which 
the  legislature  will  have  jurisdiction.  We 
are  therefore  likely  to  have  a  legislature 
which  does  not  represent  the  sentiments 
of  the  state's  own  people.  Such  an  il- 
logical condition  could  be  avoided  if  the 
members  of  the  legislature  were  elected 
on  a  non-partisan  ballot.  They  would  be 
free  from  the  issues  of  national  politics. 
They  would  not  be  subject  to  the  in- 
fluence of  political  bosses  and  party 
machines. "^^ 

The  chief  evil  of  tlie  bicameral  system 
is  that  it  enables  politicians  to  escape 


responsibility  for  their  official  acts.  As 
it  operates  now  each  house  is  able  to  pass  ■ 
the  responsibility  to  the  other,  while  a 
conference  committee,  acting  behind 
closed  doors,  without  a  stenographer  and 
without  any  record's  being  made  of  its 
votes,  makes  many  important  decisions. 
The  most  important  decisions  often  are 
made  by  five  or  six  men  who  were  not 
elected  for  that  particular  purpose  and 
whose  names  usually  go  unnoticed  by  the 
public.  Nothing  of  this  kind  could  happen 
in  a  one-house  legislature.  There  can  be 
no  shifting  of  responsibility  from  the 
House  to  the  Senate,  or  from  the  Senate 
to  the  House.  The  evil  of  conference 
committees  is  completely  eliminated.^^  An 
example  of  this  lack  of  responsibility  is 
clearly  seen  in  the  legislative  history  of 
Nebraska.  There  had  been  an  attempt 
for  several  years  to  pass  legislation 
which  would  enable  the  municipal  plants 
to  extend  their  lines  outside  the  munici- 
pality just  as  the  privately  owned  plants 
are  allowed  to  do.  The  municipal  or- 
ganizations had  advocated  the  change  for 
several  years,  but  they  were  always  de- 
feated by  the  representatives  of  the 
private  power  interests  who  manipulated 
one  or  both  of  the  branches  of  the  legis- 
lature. In  a  session  prior  to  the  enact- 
ment of  the  new  system,  the  municipal 
organization  had  the  written  promise  of 
a  majority  of  both  houses  to  support  the 
new  legislation.  Yet  the  privately  owned 
interests  were  able  to  defeat  the  legisla- 
tion, and  it  was  impossible  to  show  that  J 
any  of  the  legislators  had  violated  his      " 

''Ibid.,  p.  58. 

'"Ibid.,  p.  214. 

"Reference  Shelf,  Unicameral  Governvient, 
Harrison  Boyd  Sumners,  ed.,  New  York:  H. 
W.  Wilson  Co.,  1935,  v.  10,  p.  155. 

''Ibid.,  p.  57. 

"Norris,  George  W.,  "Nebraska's  One  House 
Legislation  System,"  Congressional  Record, 
79:1743-5  (February  7,  1935). 


[30] 


promise. ^^  Therefore  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  instead  of  creating  a  check  on  one 
house  by  the  other,  the  duo-system  is  a 
shield  for  corruption  and  concealment  of 
unworthy  representation.  Mr.  Norris 
says,  "In  every  two-house  legislature, 
after  the  close  of  the  session,  if  we  post 
the  checks  and  balances  we  shall  find 
that  the  politicians  have  the  checks  and 
the  special  interests  have  the  balance."^® 

It  is  because  they  are  certain  to  lose  all 
control  that  every  monopoly  and  special 
interest  opposes  the  unicameral  legisla- 
ture. It  is  common  knowledge  that  it  is 
much  easier  for  lobbyists  to  control  a 
large  body  of  men  than  a  small  one.  In  a 
small  body  of  men,  there  is  no  oppor- 
tunity to  shift  responsibility.  We  can  be 
assured  then  that  the  laws  passed  by  a 
one-chamber  house  will  be  of  a  better 
type.  Proposing  less  legislation  and  hav- 
ing more  opportunity  for  consideration 
as  well  as  added  responsibility,  the  uni- 
cameral legislators  are  more  deliberate, 
more  logical,  and  more  careful.  The 
press,  operating  on  a  non-partisan  basis, 
will  be  very  valuable  in  keeping  the 
people  truthfully  informed  as  to  the  ac- 
tions of  their  representatives.^^ 

The  "Norris  Amendment"  has  com- 
pletely eliminated  the  strife  and  jealous- 
ies present  in  a  bicameral  legislature. 
The  bickering,  back-scratching,  log-roll- 
ing, horseplay,  and  general  blowing  off 
of  steam  to  which  democratic  assemblies 
are  addicted  exist  no  more  in  the  state 
of  Nebraska. 

Another  added  advantage  of  the  single 
house  plan  is  the  enormous  sums  of 
money  to  be  saved  each  year.  Appropria- 
tions for  the  1933  session  of  the  Ne- 
braska legislature  totaled  $201,688.  Of 
this,  $110,504  was  expended  for  salaries 
and    the    remainder    for    travelling:    ex- 


penses, printing,  and  supplies.  Under  the 
new  plan  the  maximum  expenditures 
will  be  $100,000.  This  will  mean  a  saving 
to  the  taxpayers  of  more  than  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  yearly.^**  Even  though 
the  expenditures  have  been  reduced  tre- 
mendously, the  annual  salary  of  a  law- 
maker will  be  doubled.  The  reduction  in 
printing,  travelling,  and  secretarial  ex- 
pense accounts  for  the  vast  savings. 

In  the  past  an  average  of  three 
hundred  and  fifty  bills  were  passed  in 
each  annual  session  of  sixty  days.  Fre- 
quently as  many  as  fifty  to  one  hundred 
bills  were  considered  and  acted  on  in  a 
single  legislative  day  of  four  to  five 
hours.^^  Now  that  the  single  chamber 
legislature  is  functioning  these  absurd 
conditions  will  cease  to  exist.  Legislators 
governed  by  careful  deliberation  and  un- 
limited responsibility  and  unaflFected  by 
lobbyist  pressure,  will  bring  to  Nebraska 
a  government  to  be  respected  by  all  the 
other  states.  Senator  Norris  greeted  the 
legislators  to  the  first  session  of  the  new 
chamber  with  this  challenge:  "Every 
professional  lobbyist,  every  professional 
politician,  and  every  representative  of 
greed  and  monopoly  is  hoping  and  pray- 
ing that  your  work  will  be  a  failure  .... 
Your  constituents  do  not  expect  perfec- 
tion. They  know  it  is  human  to  err  but 
they  do  expect  to  have  a  right  to  receive 
absolute  honesty,  unlimited  courage,  and 
a  reasonable  degree  of  efficiency  and 
wisdom  ....  From  now  on  Nebraska 
has  a  right  to  expect  a  business  admin- 
istration."^^ 


"Norris,  George  W.,  "One-house  Legisla- 
tures for  More  Efficient  Legislation,"  Literar\ 
Digest,  118:8   (October  13,  1934). 

'^Ibid.,  p.  54. 

'^bid.,  p.  56. 

'Vbid.,  p.  186. 

'Ubid.,  p.   434. 

"Ibid.,  p.   18. 


[31] 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Bates,  Frank  G.  and  Field,  Oliver  P.,  Legis- 
lature, New  York:  Harper  and  Brothers, 
1928.    156  pp. 

Beck,  James  il.,  Legislatures  and  Legislative 
Problems,  Chicago:  University  of  Chicago 
Press,  1933.  257  pp. 

Burdette,  Franklin  L.,  "Nebraska,  a  Business 
Corporation,"  ^Imcrican  Mercury,  80-81: 
360-4  (March,  1935). 

Engle,  Bernice  S.,  "Nebraska's  Legislative 
Government,"  Scholastic,  24:25  (January 
5,  1935). 

Fleming,  Roscoe,  "Democracy  in  Flux," 
Nation,   144:43    (January,    1935). 

Lancaster,  Lane  W.,  "Nebraska  Farmers  in 
Action,"  Current  History,  41:434  (Janu- 
ary, 1935). 

McHenry,  Dean  E.,  Single  House  Legislature, 
University  of  California,  Bureau  of 
Public,  1935.   12  pp. 

"Nebraska  Legislature,"  Christian  Centurv,  51: 
1476  and  51:1597   (November  21,  1934). 


"Nebraska  State  Set  for  Battle  of  Bunk- 
mates,"  News-Week,  4:11-12  (August  25, 
1934). 

New  International  Year  Book,  Frank  H.  Vize- 
telly,  ed.,  New  York:  Funk  and  Wagnalls 
Co.,  1935. 

NoRRis,  George  W.,  "One-House  Legislature 
for  More  Efiicient  Legislation,"  Literary 
Digest,  118:8  (October  13,  1934). 

,     "Nebraska's     One-House     Legislative 

System,"  Congressional  Record,  79:1743-5 
(February  7,  1935). 
-,   "Nebraska's   Unicameral   Legislature," 


Annals  of  American  Academy  of  Political 

and  Social  Science,  180-82:50  (September, 

1935). 
Reference     Shelf,     Unicameral     Government, 

Harrison  Boyd  Sumner,  ed.,  New  York: 

H.  W.  Wilson  Co.,  1935. 
Walker,  H.,  Lazv-making  in  the  United  States, 

New  York:    Ronald  Press,  1934.    197  pp. 


Rhet  as  Writ 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


The  Atlantic  Monthly  has  continued 
to  cater  to  a  cultured  group  of  readers, 
who  compromise  the  majority  of  its 
subscribers. 


After  going  over  the  boys  with  a  "fine 
toothed  comb,"  I  soon  had  them  all 
boiled  down  to  fifteen  members. 


Today,  the  thousands  of  natives  of 
Tahiti  can  be  counted  on  one  hand. 

When  Jack  went,  we  all  thought  theo- 
retically speaking,  that  he  was  gone. 

Some  of  us  got  out  of  car  and  help 
the  other  out,  but  we  was  tickled  that 
there  was  know  one  hurt  very  bad  as  we 
could  see.  One  girl  a  small  cut  on  her 
rist  but  not  very  bad.  The  other  three  of 
us  had  a  large  bump  on  our  head. 


The  vet  tried  to  cheer  Ruth  up  and 
said  that  he  would  be  up  and  barking  in 
a  day. 

I  straightened  up  and  her  speech 
sounded  in  my  ears  but  my  physical 
senses  were  a  bit  confused  and  were  tast- 
ing her  lipstick. 

•  •  •  • 

Baked  potatoes  that  are  hot  reminds 
one  of  heaven  when  covered  with  creamy 
melted  cheeze. 


[32] 


Honorable  Mention 


George  R.  Foster — Are  You  Sure? 

Sister  Vincent  de  Paul  Huguet — Rhetoric  I  and  Me 

Edward  Koenig — American  Culture 

Mary  Kranos — Going  Under 

Frederick  D.  Lewis — It's  a  Vice 

Lincoln  K.  Lieber — The  Scourge  of  Mankind 

Wanda  Lee  Phares — Practical  and  Poetical  People 

Janet  Sue  Poyer — My  Day  as  a  Dental  Assistant 

Marijane  Rathsak — My  Great-aunt 

Lois  Reise — Eye  Dilemma 

Gene  Sternberg — How  and  Why  I  Became  an  Engineering  Student 

T.  L.  Thomas — Transatlantic  Air  Service 

Mary  Ellen  Weiss — Cops  and  Robbers 

Jacqueline  Willoughby — Fads  and  Fad-followers 


Vol.9 


FEBRUARY,  1940 


No.  3 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

WHO  GOES  THERE? 1 

Ward  Thompson 

THE    BUBBLE    DANCER     3 

Adele  Paulina  Guntor 

REMEMBRANCE 5 

Joseph  F.  Zygmunt 

FEEDING  THE  VISITOR 7 

Vincent  West 

ORDEAL  9 

Anne  Cullerton 

LOST   IN  THE   EVERGLADES 10 

Robert  S.  Solinsky 

A    DOG    AND    A    FLY-ROD 12 

Ernestine  Williams 

SUNDANCE 14 

Raymond  Bohman 

THE  MAN  HAD  NERVE 16 

H.  W.  Thrapp 

EASTER    WEEK 18 

Mary  Kranos 

SNUFF 20 

Elmer  A.  J.  Blasco 

SPRING  AFTERNOON 21 

James  Gimblett 

SONG  OF  A  SUMMER  EVENING 22 

D.  S.  Abernethy 

TO  DO  OR  NOT  TO  DO 26 

Miriam  Boxerman 

BENNY  BUILDS   "DAMNED  GOOD  AIRPLANES"     28 
Wilfrid  B.  Shantz 

FRESHMAN  FOOTBALL 29 

J.  E.  Porter 

CALIFORNIA,   HERE  WE  COME 31 

Wilfrid  B.  Shantz 

PUBLISHED  BY  THE  RHETORIC  STAFF.  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS.  URBANA 


A  HE  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
by  the  Rhetoric  Staff  at  the  University  of  Illinois. 
Material  is  chosen  from  themes  and  examinations 
written  by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to 
publish  is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those 
published  anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  however, 
are  published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in 
charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Mr.  Stephen  Fogle,  Mr.  Robert 
Geist,  Mr.  W.  McNeil  Lowry,  Mr.  Kerker  Quinn, 
and  Mr.  Charles  Shattuck,  Chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building  West,  Urbana,  Illinois. 


Who  Goes  There? 


Ward  Thompson 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  12,  1938-1939 


ANY  OLD  jobs  for  sale?  Brother,  if 
you've  got  one  you  don't  need, 
you're  my  man.  Yeah,  I've  got  a  job  of 
my  own,  but  I  don't  Hke  it.  Not  even  a 
little  bit.  Private  Thompson  they  call 
me,  a  member  in  good  standing  of  Com- 
pany K,  129th  Infantry,  33rd  Division, 
Illinois  National  Guard.  Ever  hear  of  a 
gimp,  or  a  scab-protector?  That's  just 
smart-guy  language  for  strike-breaker, 
and  that's  the  job  I  don't  want.  I  guess 
I've  been  that  way  since  my  first  taste 
of  the  business  a  couple  of  years  back. 
It  was  a  pretty  rocky  start,  even  for 
the  toughest  Guardsman  that  ever 
climbed  into  an  CD.  shirt,  and  I  don't 
claim  to  be  in  that  class  at  all. 

About  a  year  ago  last  June  there  was 
a  bit  of  a  blow-off  over  at  the  Bemis 
Gear  Plant,  a  fairly  good-sized  shop  up 
in  Benton.  The  local  police  got  goaty 
about  the  matter  and  beat  up  a  couple  of 
the  strikers,  whereupon  the  whole  town 
got  into  the  fracas  and  played  merry  hob 
with  the  Bemis  plant.  Old  man  Bemis 
had  some  sort  of  a  pull  downstate,  and 
had  the  governor  call  out  the  Guard 
before  his  whole  shop  was  ruined.  We  re- 
ceived our  mobilization  orders  early  the 
next  morning,  and  were  on  our  way  by 
noon. 

The  convoy  rolled  into  Benton  amid 
some  of  the  loudest  boos  and  Bronx 
cheers  that  I've  ever  run  across,  includ- 
ing all  Cub-Sox  games  rolled  into  one. 
We  found  the  police  holed  up  in  what 
was  left  of  the  factory,  with  about  two 
thousand  strikers  milling  around  the  out- 
side of  the  high  wire  fence  and  occa- 
sionally tossing  a  brick  at  the  buildings. 

If  the  whole  plant  had  been  inside  of 


that  fence,  everything  would  have  been 
easy,  but  about  fifty  thousand  dollars 
worth  of  stock  and  equipment  was  stored 
around  the  outside  in  sheds.  Bemis  met 
us  at  the  gate,  practically  insane  from 
standing  around  for  two  days  watching 
his  investment  getting  kicked  into  splint- 
ers. Captain  Marsh  quieted  him  down 
with  promises  that  everything  would  be 
all  right,  and  then  ordered  us  to  disperse 
the  mob.  That  mob  just  didn't  want  to 
be  dispersed,  and  we  finally  had  to  get 
after  them  with  bayonets  to  make  them 
move.  I'd  had  bayonet  drill  back  in  the 
armory  at  home,  but  this  was  the  first 
time  I'd  ever  pointed  one  of  the  things 
at  a  man  and  tried  to  stick  it  into  him. 
The  point  was  bloody  when  I  got 
through,  and  I  was  scared  sick.  We 
broke  up  the  mob,  though,  and  then 
settled  down  to  pitch  our  camp. 

Shelter  halves  were  up  in  no  time,  and 
by  the  time  it  began  to  get  dark  we  had 
a  pretty  presentable  bivouac  set  up.  The 
strikers  must  have  been  impressed,  be- 
cause they  stayed  away  in  bunches  that 
night.  The  only  thing  of  interest  was  a 
bomb  that  was  tossed  into  the  company 
street  sometime  during  the  night.  The 
thing  lay  there  until  morning  without 
going  off,  and  one  of  the  fellows  found 
it  when  it  got  light  enough  to  see.  Just 
a  two-gallon  soup  can  filled  with  black 
powder  and  lined  with  pieces  of  scrap 
iron.  The  fuse  had  pinched  out  when  it 
lit,  or  the  company  would  have  been 
blown  to  blazes  that  first  night. 

The  mob  gathered  again  in  the  morn- 
ing, this  time  armed  with  clubs,  pitch- 
forks, and  other  bits  of  cutlery.  They 
didn't  start  anything,  though,  mainly  be- 


[  1  ] 


cause  we  had  the  automatic  rifles  out  in 
plain  sight,  and  had  been  doing  a  little 
target  practising  out  behind  one  of  the 
buildings.  Psychology,  you  might  say. 
I  didn't  like  the  way  they  stood  around 
and  stared  at  us.  You  could  tell  at  a 
glance  that  they  hated  the  ground  we 
stood  on,  and  that  we'd  be  goners  the 
first  slip  we  made.  Though  there  were 
only  fifty-seven  of  us  against  that  mob 
of  two  thousand,  we  had  organization, 
which  counts  heavily. 

The  day  passed  quietly  enough,  with 
nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  happening. 
We  began  to  think  that  maybe  the  dis- 
pute would  be  settled  peaceably  after  all. 
But  that's  where  we  were  wrong — at 
least,  I  was. 

In  the  assignment  of  guards  for  the 
night  posts,  I  was  given  post  number 
four.  The  sentry  line  was  outside  the 
plant  fence,  and  took  in  all  the  little  out- 
buildings and  sheds  that  ringed  the  fac- 
tory. Number  four  post  covered  the 
area  between  two  of  the  sheds  out  at  the 
extreme  corner  of  the  factory  land.  I 
wasn't  any  too  happy  about  getting  this 
post,  for  it  seemed  plenty  far  from  the 
guard  house  and  any  possible  help.  The 
quietness  of  the  strikers  had  us  fooled, 
though,  for  we  went  about  posting  the 
guard  cheerfully  enough,  kidding  the 
sentries  about  leaving  them  on  their 
tours  all  night.  I  stood  the  first  trick 
from  six  until  eight  and  was  relieved  for 
a  four-hour  rest.  My  second  watch  was 
from  twelve  to  two,  and  it  was  with  a 
vague  sense  of  foreboding  that  I  rolled 
out  of  my  cot  in  the  guard  house  and 
fell  in  with  the  relief. 

It's  sort  of  a  lost  feeling  that  hits  you 
in  the  pit  of  the  stomach  when  the  detail 
marches  off  in  the  night  and  leaves  you 
standing  all  alone  in  the  thick  blackness 
with  a  long  and  lonely  two  hours  of 
post-pounding  before  you.    I  shouldered 


my  rifle,  and  then  brought  it  down  again 
to  fix  the  bayonet  on  the  barrel.  Later, 
I  was  mighty  thankful  that  I  had  done 
that  little  job.  The  surrounding  ground 
was  barren  and  open,  and  the  wind  made 
queer  noises  as  it  aimlessly  blew  around 
the  sheds.  It  was  as  black  a  night  as  I 
ever  hope  to  see.  I  barked  my  shins  sev- 
eral time  as  I  slowly  walked  my  post. 
Never  having  had  night  sentry  duty 
before,  I  found  my  mind  beginning  to 
conjure  up  all  sorts  of  strange  figures 
lurking  in  the  inky  blackness  that  sur- 
rounded me.  Twice,  as  I  paused  to 
listen,  I  thought  that  I  heard  suspicious 
noises  out  in  the  open  ground  before 
me;  but,  after  standing  practically 
frozen  for  three  or  four  minutes,  I 
would  go  on,  convinced  that  it  was  only 
my  imagination. 

It  must  have  been  about  one-thirty, 
as  I  was  turning  around  at  the  south 
end  of  the  post,  that  I  again  thought  that 
I  heard  something  moving  out  in  the 
darkness.  I  slowly  walked  toward  where 
I  believed  the  sound  had  come  from, 
stopping  every  step  or  so  to  listen.  As 
I  was  about  to  turn  back,  once  again 
believing  that  my  imagination  had  been 
working  over-time,  I  seemed  to  feel 
rather  than  see  something  alien  standing 
a  little  off  to  one  side  in  the  thick  gloom 
of  the  night.  I  cautiously  moved  toward 
the  spot  and  suddenly  realized  that  I  had 
almost  run  into  whoever  or  whatever  it 
was  standing  there.  Jumping  back  a  few 
feet  I  brought  the  rifle  up  to  a  high  port 
position. 

"Who's  there?"  I  threw  into  the 
night,  thinking  what  a  razzing  I  would 
get  from  the  rest  of  the  company  if  all 
this  turned  out  to  be  purely  mental.  I 
tried  again. 

"Who's  there?"  And  then,  "Corporal 
of  the  guard!  Corporal  of  the  guard! 
Number   four!"    I  was  right  this  time. 


\ 


[  2  ] 


for  the  figure  moved  slowly  at  first,  as 
though  undecided,  and  then  with  a  rush, 
looming  up  over  me  in  the  night  as 
though  a  giant.  Long  hours  of  training 
moved  me  more  than  any  will  of  my 
own.  I  clubbed  the  butt  of  the  gun  up  in 
a  vicious  cut  and  followed  through  with 
a  thrust  at  the  head  of  the  man  who  was 
rushing  me.  Both  attempts  missed,  and 
I  dodged.  My  assailant  rushed  by,  miss- 
ing me  in  the  darkness.  I  whirled,  and 
with  the  bayonet  thrust  out  in  front  of 
me,  waited  for  his  next  charge.  I  saw 
him  coming  this  time,  and,  knowing  that 
it  was  either  him  or  me,  leveled  the  long 
blade  at  his  stomach.  He  literally  im- 
paled himself  on  that  bayonet,  and  car- 
ried on  by  the  impetus  of  his  rush  fell 
on  top  of  me.  I  crawled  from  beneath 
the  body  and  wrenched  the  bayonet  out. 


Flashlights  were  bobbing  out  from  the 
guardhouse  by  now,  and  I  waited  on 
guard  until  they  reached  me.  Kane, 
corporal  of  the  guard,  flashed  his  light 
over  the  figure  of  the  man  on  the  ground. 
He  was  very  much  dead.  I  had  missed 
his  stomach,  and  got  him  cleanly  in  the 
heart. 

Yeah,  he  was  dead.  I  still  wake  up  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  feeling  that  bay- 
onet drive  into  his  body.  The  poor  guy 
never  had  a  chance  against  a  weapon  like 
that.  I  wake  up,  all  right — in  a  cold 
sweat  and  wishing  to  God  that  I  had 
never  seen  a  bayonet,  much  less  pushed 
it  into  a  man. 

That's  why  I  want  to  swap  jobs.  I'd 
take  almost  anything,  too.  There's  only 
one  I  don't  like. 


The  Bubble  Dancer 


Adele  Paulina  Guntor 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  12,  1938-1939 


SHE  SAT  next  to  me  on  the  bus.  I 
kept  furtively  peering  at  this  combi- 
nation of  girl  and  paint,  for  she  was  per- 
haps the  gaudiest  creature  I  had  ever 
seen — complete  even  to  the  chewing  gum. 
Unexpectedly  she  looked  up,  and  her 
stale  green  eyes  caught  mine.  Before  I 
could  turn  my  head  and  look  out  the 
window,  she  spoke. 

"Nice  view,  ain't  ut?"  She  chewed 
thoughtfully  as  she  appraised  me  from 
my  blue-gray  bonnet  to  my  striped 
sandals. 

"Yes!" — frigidly.  Heavens,  I  didn't 
want  to  talk  to  her ! 

"First  time  I've  seen  Illinoiz,"  she  per- 
sisted, wagging  her  fuzzy  red  head  at 
me.    Her  voice,  unbelievably  sharp  and 


whiningly  babyish,  filled  the  whole  bus. 
Goodness,  did  I  imagine  it,  or  did  that 
nice-looking  young  man  in  the  front  seat 
turn  and  look  amusedly  at  us  ?  But  then, 
how  could  we  be  associated?  I  prided 
myself  on  my  neat  appearance  in  my 
smart  traveling  clothes.  This  girl's 
clothes  were  all  wrong;  she  did  not  have 
poise,  and  she  looked  like  a — well — like 
either  a  chorus  girl  or  a  fan  dancer.  I 
winced  as  her  gum  popped  in  my  ear. 

"You  going  far?" 

"No!" 

"I'm  going  to  Hollywood,"  she  an- 
nounced, looking  at  me  quite  smugly. 

"Hollywood?"  I  echoed.  I  could  not 
resist  ridiculing  the  stupid  little  dolt.  A 
wry  smile  played  around  the  corners  of 


[  3  ] 


my  mouth.  "Are  you  going  to  do  moving 
picture  work  out  there?" 

"Pitcher  work?  Hunh-uh !  I've  got 
a  job  sHnginghash  for  my  Uncle  Louie — 
my  uncle  on  my  mom's  side,  but  then  Ma 
does  have  the  best  relatives.  [Pop — pop 
— went  the  gum].  Well,  as  I  was  saying, 
Uncle  Louie  runs  a  restaurant.  Say!" 
She  interrupted  herself  and  leaned  inti- 
mately close.  "Say!  Did  you  see  that 
guy  in  the  front  seat  wink  at  me?  Why, 
that  fresh  guy  ....  what  does  he  think 
he  is?  Nowadays  a  lady  can't  even  ride 
on  a  bus  without  men  making  passes.  All 
the  tiyum !"  This  was  accentuated  by  a 
motion  with  her  left  hand.  "Haven't  you 
been  troubled  too,  dearie  ?"  I  choked  and 
replied  that  I  had  not. 

Although  she  tried  to  conceal  the  ac- 
tion from  me  (and  why  she  did,  I  can- 
not understand),  I  noticed  that  she  pulled 
her  tight,  pin-checked  skirt  a  little  higher 
above  her  knees  and  swung  her  curved 
leg  more  freely  than  before.  Clink — 
clink  went  a  brassy  slave  chain  on  her 
silken  ankle.  Cheap  silver  buckles  on  her 
shiny  patent  leather  pumps  caught  a 
bright  sunbeam  and  sparkled. 

Suddenly  I  sneezed !  She  was  powder- 
ing her  pert  nose  with  an  enormous  puff. 
Face  powder  was  choking  everybody  on 
the  bus,  and  there  were  angry  sneezes 
and  coughs  from  the  other  passengers. 

"Say,"  she  remarked  after  she  had 
restored  her  compact  to  a  bright  red- 
leather  purse,  "I  haven't  introduced  my- 
self, have  I?  My  name  is  Bubbles 
Morgan."  Here  she  affected  a  fanfare 
in  a  babyish  alto  and  then  giggled  shrilly. 
"That's  my  specialty — bubbles!"  This 
was  said  to  accommodate  the  ears  of 
two  callow  youths  who  sat  gawking 
avidly  at  the  shapely  calf  of  Miss  Bub- 
bles Morgan's  leg.  "I  was  with  a  troupe 
until  it  folded.    Boy,  let  me  tell  you.  Sis 


— was  that  the  liyuf !  But  give  me  a 
good  old  steady  job  like  what  my  Uncle 
Louie's  givin'  me.  Say  dearie,  did  I 
tell  you  that  Unc  had  .  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  you  did !"  I  snapped.  I  wished 
she  would  stop  anno3ing  me.  I  felt  re- 
bellion against  the  bus  company  rise  in 
me  with  a  strong  tide.  I  had  a  good  mind 
to  sue  them.  Deliberately  I  turned  my 
back  to  the  girl.  Miss  Bubbles  Morgan 
did  not  mind.  She  went  on  in  breathless 
little  intervals,  "And  this  guy  comes  up 
to  me  and  says:  'Say,  aren't  cha  tha  doll 
that  dances  at  53rd  and  Sixth?  Didn't  1 
see  you  the  other  night?'  'Mister,'  I  says 
with  an  icy  stare  in  my  eyes,  'Mister,  us 
artists  have  to  contend  with  a  lot  of 
things,  but  fresh  guys  ain't  included  in 
the  reportraw !'    I  sure  told  him,  I  did !" 

"Did  you?"  I  sighed,  wearily  putting 
away  my  magazine.  No  use  trying  to 
read.  This  honky-tonk  dancer  was  at 
present  telling  me  (and  the  other  twelve 
passengers  in  the  car),  "Do  yuh  know, 
there  was  a  guy  who  sent  me  a  dozen 
pair  of  genyuwine  chiffon  stockings.  Yes 
sir,  and  just  because  I  understood  him. 
His  wife  didn't."  There  was  a  ripple 
of  mirth  from  the  delighted  audience. 

"Rockport  —  fifteen-minute  stop  at 
Rockport — Rockport !"  sang  the  driver. 

"Say  Hon,  the  bus  stops  here  in  a 
few  minutes,  doesn't  it?  Pm  dying  for  a 
smoke  and  a  cup  of  Java.  Where  .  .  .  ." 

"At  the  terminal !"  I  was  busy  with 
my  bags  and  cases.  The  steward  rushed 
to  help  me,  and  I  was  soon  on  the  plat- 
form hailing  a  taxi. 

"Say,  dearie,"  said  that  poignantly 
familiar  voice,  "guess  Pll  never  see  yuh 
again,  but  thanks  for  being  so  friendly 
and  all!" 

"Sure,  sure,"  I  muttered,  and  dashed 
for  the  taxi. 


[  41 


Remembrance 


Joseph  F.  Zygmunt 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  15,  1938-1939 


O  AR  OF  candy,  please." 


"Any  particular  kind?" 
"No,  any  kind.  Just  so  it's  sweet." 
With  mechanical  dexterity  the  aproned 
Italian  clerk  zipped  the  nickel  from  the 
counter  with  one  hand  and  slid  a  cello- 
phane-wrapped bar  toward  Pete  with  his 
other.  Pete  reached  out  to  pick  up  his 
candy.  "Queen  Bess  Pecan  Cluster." 
The  yellow^  letters  startled  him.  His  hand 
stopped  short.  Queen  Bess  Candy  way 
out  here  in  Champaign  ?  Well !  He 
wouldn't  have  been  more  surprised  had 
the  little  red  silhouette  of  Queen  Bess 
on  the  wrapper  spoken  up  to  him.  He 
stared  at  the  piece  of  candy,  his  hand 
slowly  reaching  for  it. 

"What'sa  matter?    Don'  you  like  that 
kind?" 

"Oh,  sure.  That's  O.  K."  A  reverent 
smile  shone  on  his  face.  Pete  fondled  the 
bar  as  if  it  were  some  hard-won  prize. 
He  turned  it  around  and  around  in  his 
hands,  scrutinizing  the  symmetrical  belts 
of  pecans  surrounding  the  chocolate 
caramel,  apparently  admiring  them.  He 
saw  beyond  the  bumpy  pecans,  beyond 
the  bar  in  his  hand.  Slowly,  in  thought, 
he  drifted  from  reality  and  the  present  to 
time  already  spent  but  never  to  be  for- 
gotten, to  hard  years  of  poverty  and 
distress,  to  months  of  strife  and  toil,  to 
days  of  neck-  and  back-breaking  work, 
shelling  pecans, — to  a  particular  day — . 
He  was  once  again  in  the  back  yard 
of  Mr.  Stefan  Cowaki,  agent  of  the 
Queen  Bess  Candy  Company.  His 
wooden  "Four  -  wheel  -  turn  Coaster" 
wagon  by  his  side,  he  awaited  his 
mother.    Through  the  square,  mud-spat- 


tered basement  window  on  the  right 
shone  the  yellow  gleam  of  an  electric 
light.  Pete  stooped  to  his  knees  and  tried 
looking  into  the  window  from  where  he 
stood.  He  saw  only  himself  and  his 
wagon.  He  pulled  himself  next  to  the 
window  and  brushed  some  of  the  caked 
sand  off  the  pane.  His  hands  shielding 
his  eyes,  he  peered  into  the  basement, 
pressing  his  nose  to  the  glass.  The  sud- 
den glare  of  the  unshaded  light  threw 
before  his  eyes  a  swimming  confusion  of 
black  and  white  spots.  Pete  blinked  for 
a  while,  then  surveyed  the  long  table  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  upon  which  was 
heaped  a  range  of  miniature  mountains 
of  cracked  pecans.  With  a  hope  of 
recognition,  he  searched  among  the  bent 
figures  industriously  peeling  the  nuts. 
One  of  the  figures  straightened  up  and 
raised  a  hand  of  salutation.  Pete  focused 
his  eyes  on  his  mother.  Emptying  her 
apronful  of  pecan  shells  into  a  cardboard 
box  under  the  window,  she  gave  him  a 
smile  and  disappeared  through  a  door 
on  the  left. 

Pete's  mother  came  out  the  back  door 
accompanied  by  an  untidy,  scrawny  man. 
Mr.  Cowaki,  shirtless,  with  wide  fire- 
men's suspenders  over  his  long  flannel 
underwear,  carried  a  potato  bag  of 
cracked  pecans. 

"Ah  hah!  Dis  will  keep  little  Peter 
from  his  baseball  maybe,  huh  Peter?" 
He  greeted  the  boy  with  a  smile  which 
revealed  dirty-brown  teeth. 

"Yeah."  Pete  puckered  up  his  little 
face  in  imitation  of  an  ironic  smile.  He 
pulled  his  w^agon  forward  to  meet  the 
couple,  and  surveying  the  sack  with  a 


[  S  ] 


quick  and  haughty  air  of  experience,  he 
ventured,  confident  of  the  answer,  "Sev- 
enty-five pounds?" 

"Goot,  smart  Peter.  Right  on  the 
hett.  Tink  you  have  dem  pealt  by  da 
morning,  huh?" 

"Shucks,  yeah.  Dad  and  me  and  Mom 
and  Aggie  and  Pat  and  Annie — Sure! 
Betcha  Mom  will  bring  'em  all  ready 
for  ya  in  the  morning." 

Pete  and  his  mother  were  already  on 
their  way,  Pete  slowly  following  her 
along  the  narrow  concrete  walk  to  the 
front  of  the  house.  Anyone  could  have 
deduced  merely  by  looking  at  Mrs. 
Kowalski  that  she  had  been  peeling 
pecans  for  a  long  time.  She  bore  all  the 
characteristics  of  pecan  peelers:  back 
slightly  inclined  forward,  shoulders 
stooped,  head  leaning  heavily  ahead  as 
if  about  to  fall  from  the  stifif  and  rigid 
neck,  fingers  discolored  brown  and 
black,  hundreds  of  cuts,  scratches,  and 
scars  on  them.  As  she  walked  she  exer- 
cised her  stiff  back  and  neck  by  pulling 
them  slightly  backward  each  few  steps. 
Little  Pete  drew  his  wagon  with  one 
hand.  As  he  came  from  time  to  time  to 
the  street  corners,  his  mother  helped 
him  over  the  curbs  with  his  small  load. 

"Pat  and  Annie  cry  today?"  That  was 
always  the  question  which  demanded  a 
confession  of  all  the  pranks,  mishaps, 
and  quarrels  that  had  occurred  in  the 
Kowalski  household  during  the  day. 

"Aw!  Annie,  she  busted  her  doll's 
liead — you  know,  the  doll  Dad  brought 
her  from  the  dumps — an'  she  cried 
somethin'  awful." 

"Tsk,  tsk!  Poor  little  Annie  busted 
her  doll."  That  the  mother  understood 
perfectly  the  reported  disaster  could  be 
seen  by  the  pitying  shakes  of  her  head. 
"And  Patsy,  was  she  all  right  today?" 

"Oh,  Patsy!"  he  exclaimed  with  con- 
tempt.  "She  cried  too  'cause  she  wanted 


more  milk  for  lunch.  But  Aggie  tol'  her 
there  wasn'  no  more  milk,  but  she  cried 
anyways.  She  woudn'  eat  nothin'  'less 
she  got  some  milk.  Aggie  couldn'  do 
nothin'  with  her.    She  jus'  cried." 

Wrinkles  of  dismay  came  onto  the 
countenance  of  the  woman. 

Pete  continued  with  his  testimony 
until  the  two  reached  154th  Street  and 
were  but  a  block  away  from  home.  Here 
they  were  interrupted  by  the  sight  of 
two  badly  dressed  children  racing 
toward  them.  Tears  and  cries  of  accu- 
sation, solace,  and  reprisal  commingled. 
Everybody  tried  to  talk  at  once.  The 
chattering  party  entered  the  yard  of 
their  home.  The  mother  was  trying  to 
pacify  her  little  troublemakers.  Pete 
emitted  a  shriek  of  joy  as  he  spied  his 
father  in  the  alley  struggling  with  a 
crude,  home-made  w^agon  and  a  six- 
foot  load.  He  had  just  returned  from 
the  city  dump,  where  he  had  spent  the 
entire  day  digging  in  a  mushy,  stinking 
mess  for  dirty  rags,  junk  metal,  wood, 
or  a  few  pieces  of  dry  bread  and 
vegetable  remains  for  his  rabbits.  He 
had  once  again  successfully  evaded  the 
speeding  autos  for  three  miles  along  the 
highway.  The  father  greeted  his  son 
with  a  pat  and  a  smile.  He  greeted  his 
wife  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  and 
laughed  at  the  speedy  approach  of  Annie 
and  Pat. 

The  children  stood  by  and  watched 
their  father  unload  his  wagon,  awaiting 
expectantly  the  broken,  discarded  toys 
and  trinkets  which  he  invariably  brought 
to  amuse  them.  After  much  wrangling 
and  argument,  Annie  ran  away  with  a 
broken  electric  iron ;  Pat  had  to  be  satis- 
fied with  a  smudg)^  catalogue  of  wall- 
paper samples  and  three  empty  Maxwell 
House  coffee  cans.  Pete  faithfully 
waited  till  the  load  was  entirely  stowed 
away.    He  then  jumped  onto  the  empty 


[  6  ] 


Ordeal 


Anne  Cullerton 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  11,  1938-1939 


TT  WAS  Easter  vacation.  I  had  been 
^  home  two  days  and  had  not  yet  kept 
the  promise  I  had  determinedly  made 
myself.  I  sprawled  out  on  the  bed  up  in 
my  room  and  worried.  Should  I  tell 
them  or  shouldn't  I?  Why  did  I  have 
to  tell  them?  After  all,  wasn't  I  my  own 
boss?  Yet,  Mother  and  Dad  had  always 
told  me  that,  if  I  ever  wanted  to  smoke, 
I  must  smoke  at  home.  Yes,  I  had 
readily  promised  them  I  would,  little 
dreaming  that  I  would  ever  have  occa- 
sion to  light  a  cigarette  in  front  of  my 
parents.  Oh!  blast  it!  Why  hadn't  I  told 
Mother  before  this?  She  probably 
wouldn't  like  it,  but  she,  at  least, 
wouldn't  look  at  me  with  that  wounded 
look  that  Dad  always  assumed  when  he 
wanted  to  win  me  over  to  his  w^ay  of 
thinking.  Yet,  neither  Dad  nor  Mother 
had  ever  forbidden  me  to  smoke.  They 
only  wanted  me  to  be  fair  with  them  and 
not  sneak  cigarettes  when  I  was  out 
of  their  sight.  After  all,  that's  only 
right — I  guess. 

I  swallowed  hard,  arose  to  a  half- 
sitting  position,  and  began  to  glance 
around  that  awful,  junk-cluttered  room 
for  my  other  shoe.  Just  as  I  spied  the 
thing  under  a  pile  of  books,  hat  boxes, 
and  dirty  clothes,  I  thought  of  my  two 
older  brothers.  Horrors !  What  would 
they  say?  I  could  just  hear  their  teasing 
wisecracks.  "Little  sister  went  to  col- 
lege. Little  sister  thinks  she's  grown  up 
now.  Well,  Miss  Femme  du  Monde, 
what  brand  of  cigarettes  do  you  like 
best?  Don't  you  think  Chesterfields  are 
just  wonderfully  mild  on  the  throat?" 

I  never  could  bear  to  have  my  broth- 
ers   tease    me.     Exhausted,    I    slumped 


down  on  the  bed  again  and  thought 
nasty  thoughts  of  how  brothers  were 
necessary  evils,  and  of  how  beautifully 
one  could  get  along  without  them. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  have  all 
brothers  tarred  and  feathered  for  the 
crime  of  existing,  I  suddenly  struck 
upon  a  bold  idea.  Why  not  go  down- 
stairs now  and,  very  nonchalantly,  smoke 
a  cigarette  ?  They're  all  down  there  now, 
Mother  and  Dad — and  even  the  boys. 
Might  just  as  well  take  the  bull  by  the 
horns.    Have  to  do  it  sometime. 

With  this  very  resolute  thought  I  got 
out  of  bed,  slipped  on  my  shoe,  and 
nervously  lit  a  cigarette.  My  hands  were 
shaking  so  that  it  took  three  matches  to 
get  it  properly  going.  With  another 
brave  gulp  I  proceeded  to  the  stairway. 
I  then  did  what  I  thought  was  a  very 
good  imitation  of  a  mannequin's  sophis- 
ticated walk.  I  held  my  cigarette  loosely 
between  my  fingers  and  thought  I  looked 
very  casual.  In  reality,  though,  I  had 
scarcely  any  control  over  my  knees. 
They  buckled  as  though  I  were  a 
marionette,  and  they  hung  on  to  the 
rest  of  me  just  because  they  were 
supposed  to  be  there. 

As  I  descended  those  stairs,  wishing 
fervently  that  my  perilously  high-heeled 
slippers  were  some  place  in  China,  and 
that  I  had  on  my  safe  and  sane  "flats," 
I  saw  my  Dad's  face  half  hidden  behind 
a  newspaper.  He  glanced  at  me  as  he 
turned  a  page  and  quickly  glanced  back 
at  the  paper,  as  if  he  were  absorbed  in 
the  article  he  was  reading.  I'm  certain 
that  he  noticed  me,  for  I  know  Dad  isn't 
interested  in  the  woman's  page  of  the 
newspaper,  and  from  where  I  was  stand- 


[  9  ] 


quick  and  haughty  air  of  experience,  he 
ventured,  confident  of  the  answer,  "Sev- 
enty-five pounds?" 

"Goot,  smart  Peter.  Right  on  the 
hett,  Tink  you  have  dem  pealt  by  da 
morning,  huh?" 

"Shucks,  yeah.  Dad  and  me  and  Mom 
and  Aggie  and  Pat  and  Annie — Sure! 
Betcha  Mom  will  bring  'em  all  ready 
for  ya  in  the  morning." 

Pete  and  his  mother  were  already  on 
their  way,  Pete  slowly  following  her 
along  the  narrow  concrete  walk  to  the 
front  of  the  house.  Anyone  could  have 
deduced  merely  by  looking  at  Mrs. 
Kowalski  that  she  had  been  peeling 
pecans  for  a  long  time.  She  bore  all  the 
characteristics  of  pecan  peelers:  back 
slightly  inclined  forward,  shoulders 
stooped,  head  leaning  heavily  ahead  as 
if  about  to  fall  from  the  stiff  and  rigid 
neck,  fingers  discolored  brown  and 
black,  hundreds  of  cuts,  scratches,  and 
scars  on  them.  As  she  walked  she  exer- 
cised her  stiff  back  and  neck  by  pulling 
them  slightly  backward  each  few  steps. 
Little  Pete  drew  his  wagon  with  one 
hand.  As  he  came  from  time  to  time  to 
the  street  corners,  his  mother  helped 
him  over  the  curbs  with  his  small  load. 

"Pat  and  Annie  cry  today?"  That  was 
always  the  question  which  demanded  a 
confession  of  all  the  pranks,  mishaps, 
and  quarrels  that  had  occurred  in  the 
Kowalski  household  during  the  day. 

"Aw!  Annie,  she  busted  her  doll's 
head — you  know,  the  doll  Dad  brought 
her  from  the  dumps — an'  she  cried 
somethin'  awful." 

"Tsk,  tsk!  Poor  little  Annie  busted 
her  doll."  That  the  mother  understood 
perfectly  the  reported  disaster  could  be 
seen  by  the  pitying  shakes  of  her  head. 
"And  Patsy,  was  she  all  right  today?" 

"Oh,  Patsy!"  he  exclaimed  with  con- 
tempt.  "She  cried  too  'cause  she  wanted 


more  milk  for  lunch.  But  Aggie  tol'  her 
there  wasn'  no  more  milk,  but  she  cried 
anyways.  She  woudn'  eat  nothin'  'less 
she  got  some  milk.  Aggie  couldn'  do 
nothin'  with  her.    She  jus'  cried." 

Wrinkles  of  dismay  came  onto  the 
countenance  of  the  woman. 

Pete  continued  with  his  testimony 
until  the  two  reached  154th  Street  and 
were  but  a  block  away  from  home.  Here 
they  were  interrupted  by  the  sight  of 
two  badly  dressed  children  racing 
toward  them.  Tears  and  cries  of  accu- 
sation, solace,  and  reprisal  commingled. 
Everybody  tried  to  talk  at  once.  The 
chattering  party  entered  the  yard  of 
their  home.  The  mother  was  tr>'ing  to 
pacify  her  little  troublemakers.  Pete 
emitted  a  shriek  of  joy  as  he  spied  his 
father  in  the  alley  struggling  with  a 
crude,  home-made  wagon  and  a  six- 
foot  load.  He  had  just  returned  from 
the  city  dump,  where  he  had  spent  the 
entire  day  digging  in  a  mushy,  stinking 
mess  for  dirty  rags,  junk  metal,  wood, 
or  a  few  pieces  of  dry  bread  and 
vegetable  remains  for  his  rabbits.  He 
had  once  again  successfully  evaded  the 
speeding  autos  for  three  miles  along  the 
highway.  The  father  greeted  his  son 
with  a  pat  and  a  smile.  He  greeted  his 
wife  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  and 
laughed  at  the  speedy  approach  of  Annie 
and  Pat. 

The  children  stood  by  and  watched 
their  father  unload  his  wagon,  awaiting 
expectantly  the  broken,  discarded  toys 
and  trinkets  which  he  invariably  brought 
to  amuse  them.  After  much  wrangling 
and  argument,  Annie  ran  away  with  a 
broken  electric  iron ;  Pat  had  to  be  satis- 
fied with  a  smudg}'  catalogue  of  wall- 
paper samples  and  three  empty  Maxwell 
House  coffee  cans.  Pete  faithfully 
waited  till  the  load  was  entirely  stowed 
away.    He  then  jumped  onto  the  empty 


[  6] 


Ordeal 


Anne  Cullerton 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  11,  1938-1939 


TT  WAS  Easter  vacation.  I  had  been 
•■■  home  two  days  and  had  not  yet  kept 
the  promise  I  had  determinedly  made 
myself.  I  sprawled  out  on  the  bed  up  in 
my  room  and  worried.  Should  I  tell 
them  or  shouldn't  I?  Why  did  I  have 
to  tell  them  ?  After  all,  wasn't  I  my  own 
boss?  Yet,  Mother  and  Dad  had  always 
told  me  that,  if  I  ever  wanted  to  smoke, 
I  must  smoke  at  home.  Yes,  I  had 
readily  promised  them  I  would,  little 
dreaming  that  I  would  ever  have  occa- 
sion to  light  a  cigarette  in  front  of  my 
parents.  Oh  !  blast  it !  Why  hadn't  I  told 
Mother  before  this?  She  probably 
wouldn't  like  it,  but  she,  at  least, 
wouldn't  look  at  me  with  that  wounded 
look  that  Dad  always  assumed  when  he 
wanted  to  win  me  over  to  his  way  of 
thinking.  Yet,  neither  Dad  nor  Mother 
had  ever  forbidden  me  to  smoke.  They 
only  wanted  me  to  be  fair  with  them  and 
not  sneak  cigarettes  when  I  was  out 
of  their  sight.  After  all,  that's  only 
right — I  guess. 

I  swallowed  hard,  arose  to  a  half- 
sitting  position,  and  began  to  glance 
around  that  awful,  junk-cluttered  room 
for  my  other  shoe.  Just  as  I  spied  the 
thing  under  a  pile  of  books,  hat  boxes, 
and  dirty  clothes,  I  thought  of  my  two 
older  brothers.  Horrors !  What  would 
they  say?  I  could  just  hear  their  teasing 
wisecracks.  "Little  sister  went  to  col- 
lege. Little  sister  thinks  she's  grown  up 
now.  Well,  Miss  Femme  du  Monde, 
what  brand  of  cigarettes  do  you  like 
best?  Don't  you  think  Chesterfields  are 
just  wonderfully  mild  on  the  throat?" 

I  never  could  bear  to  have  my  broth- 
ers   tease    me.     Exhausted,    I    slumped 


down  on  the  bed  again  and  thought 
nasty  thoughts  of  how  brothers  were 
necessary  evils,  and  of  how  beautifully 
one  could  get  along  without  them. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  have  all 
brothers  tarred  and  feathered  for  the 
crime  of  existing,  I  suddenly  struck 
upon  a  bold  idea.  Why  not  go  down- 
stairs now  and,  very  nonchalantly,  smoke 
a  cigarette?  They're  all  down  there  now, 
Mother  and  Dad — and  even  the  boys. 
Might  just  as  well  take  the  bull  by  the 
horns.    Have  to  do  it  sometime. 

With  this  very  resolute  thought  I  got 
out  of  bed,  slipped  on  my  shoe,  and 
nervously  lit  a  cigarette.  My  hands  were 
shaking  so  that  it  took  three  matches  to 
get  it  properly  going.  With  another 
brave  gulp  I  proceeded  to  the  stairway. 
I  then  did  what  I  thought  was  a  very 
good  imitation  of  a  mannequin's  sophis- 
ticated walk.  I  held  my  cigarette  loosely 
between  my  fingers  and  thought  I  looked 
very  casual.  In  reality,  though,  I  had 
scarcely  any  control  over  my  knees. 
They  buckled  as  though  I  were  a 
marionette,  and  they  hung  on  to  the 
rest  of  me  just  because  they  were 
supposed  to  be  there. 

As  I  descended  those  stairs,  wishing 
fervently  that  my  perilously  high-heeled 
slippers  were  some  place  in  China,  and 
that  I  had  on  my  safe  and  sane  "flats," 
I  saw  my  Dad's  face  half  hidden  behind 
a  newspaper.  He  glanced  at  me  as  he 
turned  a  page  and  quickly  glanced  back 
at  the  paper,  as  if  lie  were  absorbed  in 
the  article  he  was  reading.  I'm  certain 
that  he  noticed  me,  for  1  know  Dad  isn't 
interested  in  the  woman's  page  of  the 
newspaper,  and  from  where  I  was  stand- 


I  9 


ing  I  could  see  an  assortment  of  beauti- 
ful ladies  wearing  monstrous  Easter 
bonnets. 

When  I  entered  the  room  I  saw  Jim, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  examining  his 
pet  camera,  stamp  heavily  on  Bill's  toe 
and  point  in  my  direction.  Both  boys 
could  hardly  suppress  their  laughter. 
They  made  some  kind  of  an  excuse 
about  a  date  and  a  telephone  call  and 
left  the  room  in  a  hurry. 

I  squirmed  around  a  bit  hoping  that 
Mother  would  notice  me,  and  that  some- 


one would  say  something.  I  looked  at 
Dad.  He  was  still  engrossed  in  women's 
Easter  bonnets.  I  looked  at  Mother.  She 
was  deeply  interested  in  making  me  a 
new  dress,  which  I  had  begged  her  for 
weeks  to  begin.  She  sewed  and  sewed, 
and  suddenly  without  the  slightest 
change  in  her  expression,  she  reached 
for  her  scissors  and  said,  "Dear,  you're 
getting  those  ashes  all  over  the  rug. 
There's  an  ash  tray  over  there." 
And  Dad  turned  to  the  sport  page. 


Lost  in  the  Everglades 

Robert  S.  Solinsky 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  5,  1939-1940 


WE  HAD  set  off  early  in  the  morn- 
ing with  our  lunch  tucked  under 
the  back  seat  of  our  trim  little  row-boat 
and  had  waved  a  cheery  goodbye  to  our 
friends  on  the  dock.  Lightly  we  had 
rowed  up  the  main  channel  on  the  crest 
of  the  incoming  tide.  All  day  we  had 
pushed  our  way  among  the  tangled  man- 
groves from  channel  to  channel  and 
from  pond  to  pond,  here  scaring  up  a 
white  ibis  feeding  in  the  swamps,  and 
there  startling  a  great  blue  heron  into 
noisy  flight.  And  now  as  the  fiery  red 
sun  hung  even  with  the  western  horizon 
our  thoughts  came  back  with  a  sudden 
jolt  to  the  problem  of  getting  home. 

Bill  looked  at  me,  and  I  knew  what 
he  was  thinking.  Neither  of  us  had  any 
idea  of  the  direction  from  which  we  had 
come.  On  all  sides  of  us  stretched  the 
great  swamp,  an  unrelenting  jumble  of 
tangled  mangroves,  large  and  small,  that 
grew  on  muddy  points  of  land  or  rose 
directly  from  the  dark  and  turbid  water. 
In  every  direction  were  small  openings. 


not  much  wider  than  our  boat,  where  the 
tangled  mass  parted  enough  to  reveal 
another  shallow  pond  or  channel  iden- 
tical with  those  from  which  we  had 
come. 

Here  and  there  the  bare  and  black- 
ened branches  of  a  dead  tree  projected 
from  the  water  and  stood  out  against 
the  green  background  of  young  man- 
groves like  the  bony  fingers  of  a  skeleton 
hand  reaching  out  to  clutch  us. 

"Look !"  Bill  sat  with  his  finger  point- 
ing at  one  of  these  spectral  trees,  an 
expression  of  fear  on  his  face.  Even  as 
I  watched  it  I  could  see  the  water  slowly 
receding  from  its  base.  The  tide  was 
going  out !  Places  where  before  we  had 
poled  our  craft  through  the  shallow 
water,  were  now  only  points  of  soft 
and  muddy  ground  pushing  slowly  up 
through  the  receding  waters.  We  were 
being  trapped  for  the  night  in  the  midst 
of  the  swamps.  The  rim  of  the  sun 
dipped  below  the  horizon,  and  the  dusk 
began  closing  in. 


[10] 


Frantically  we  pulled  at  the  oars,  row- 
ing wildly  through  one  opening  after 
another.  Fear  gripped  us  as  the  boat 
became  stuck  in  a  shallow  spot.  Shoving 
the  oars  deep  into  the  ooze  and  muck 
of  the  bottom,  we  freed  the  boat  and 
sat  panting  with  exertion  and  terror. 

Directly  overhead,  a  vulture  wheeled 
in  the  gloom.  From  nowhere  there  ap- 
peared a  second,  then  a  third,  silently 
gliding  in  great  circles  over  our  heads. 
All  day  we  had  not  seen  a  vulture,  and 
now  they  were  beginning  to  gather  above 
us.  Again  we  dug  our  oars  in  wildly  and 
began  rowing  like  madmen.  Now  shov- 
ing against  the  miry  swamp-bottom,  now 
pulling  on  the  oars,  now  snatching  with 
bleeding  hands  at  the  mangroves  that 
hindered  us,  we  raced  from  one  pond 
to  another,  each  one  seeming  the  same 
as  that  from  which  we  had  come. 

From  far  back  in  the  swamp  came 
the  terrifying  bellow  of  a  bull  alligator. 
Weird  stories  came  to  my  mind  of 
vicious  saw-toothed  barracuda,  venom- 
ous snakes,  cruel  sharks,  and  savage 
'gators  living  side  by  side  in  these 
strange  waters,  half  salt,  half  fresh, 
where  the  great  swamp  meets  the  sea. 

Ahead  of  us,  in  the  dusk,  a  night 
heron  rose  with  a  loud  whirring  of  his 
wings  and  screamed  his  hoarse  cry,  like 
a  spirit  of  the  night,  an  evil  demon  of 
the  great  swamp.  We  had  stopped  to 
rest  now,  for  we  could  scarcely  see  in 
the  deepening  gloom.  A  fourth  vulture 
had  joined  those  overhead,  and  together 
they  wheeled  in  silent  arcs,  making  dim 
but  terrifying  silhouettes  against  the 
fast  darkening  sky. 

"Listen!"  Bill  said  in  a  horrified 
whisper.   "Do  you  hear  it  too?" 

From  off  in  the  distance  seemed  to 
come  the  weird  throbbing  of  drums,  per- 
haps drums  of  some  yet  uncivilized  tribe 


of  Seminoles,  deep  in  the  wilds  of  the 
Everglades.  The  distant  booming  sound 
grew  louder,  then  died  back  into  the 
distance,  one  minute  seeming  to  come 
from  one  direction,  the  next  minute 
from  another. 

In  the  darkness  every  log  seemed  an 
alligator  lying  in  wait,  every  branch  the 
grasping  claw  of  some  horrible  creature. 
Those  few  points  of  muddy  ground 
which  rose  above  the  high  water  level 
seemed  alive  with  rattlers  and  mocca- 
sins, and  a  scurrying  land  crab  became 
a  monstrous  two- foot  spider  as  he  raced 
for  his  hole. 

From  off  to  the  right  of  our  boat  came 
a  bubbling,  gurgling  sound,  and  I  heard 
Bill  say  hoarsely,  "Alligator."  My  heart 
quaked,  and  I  took  a  firm  grip  on  my 
oar  before  I  realized  that  the  noise 
was  caused  merely  by  the  water  receding 
from  the  myriad  holes  of  the  fiddler 
crabs. 

The  land  was  hardly  dark  before  a 
sickly  moon  had  risen  to  throw  a  yellow 
light  over  our  surroundings  and  make 
them  even  more  horrible  than  before. 
The  drums  still  boomed  faintly  in  the 
distance.  We  had  come  upon  a  narrow 
channel  now,  and  we  were  pulling  with 
all  our  might  to  escape  that  weird 
throbbing  noise;  yet  we  could  not  tell 
whether  we  were  leaving  it  behind  or 
approaching  it.  Again  the  bellow  of  a 
'gator  echoed  across  the  swamp  and 
curdled  the  blood  in  our  veins. 

We  were  pulling  faster  now,  almost 
insane  from  an  indescribable  sensation 
of  terror,  when,  rounding  a  small  bend, 
we  came  out  on  the  main  channel.  In 
one  instant  that  distant  throbbing  ceased, 
the  open  sea  lay  before  us,  and  there 
on  our  right  was  a  group  of  our  happy 
friends,  waiting  without  concern  on  the 
lighted  dock. 


[11 


A  Dog  and  a  Fly-Rod 


Ernestine  Williams 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  15,  1928-1939 


"V/'OU  know,  it  sure  beats  all,  the  way 

^  some  kids  love  their  dogs.  They 
don't  give  a  hang  what  kind  they  are,  so 
long  as  they  got  four  legs  and  a  friendly 
wagging  tail,"  said  the  old  man  as  he 
went  on  repairing  a  bedraggled-looking 
fly-rod. 

"You  know  Helen  Drew — you  seen 
her  around  here — darn  nice  kid,  she  is, 
too — well,  Helen  was  out  fishing  one 
day  in  around  the  reeds  in  that  little  bay 
opposite  the  Blair's  place.  While  she 
was  sitting  admiring  that  fly-rod  her 
pa  give  her  for  Christmas,  she  heard  a 
peculiar  noise.  'Must  be  a  new  kinda 
bird,'  she  thought.  But  the  noise  kept 
a-coming.  Helen  sat  real  still,  listening. 
She  could  hear  the  breeze  hissing  around 
as  it  was  rustling  the  reeds,  and  now 
and  then  a  lily-pad  plopped  up  and 
down  on  the  water  the  way  they  do 
sometimes.  There  was  a  continual  caw- 
caw-cawing  from  Blair's  stretch  o' 
woods,  but  down  underneath  was  that 
funny  noise. 

"Well,  you  know  how  the  women- 
folks are.  Curiosity  gets  'em  every  time, 
and  Helen  ain't  no  exception.  Well,  she 
sat  there  for  about  ten  minutes,  trying 
to  figure  out  what  the  heck  it  was.  She 
peered  all  around  at  the  shore-line,  and 
all  she  could  see  was  Sims,  the  Blairs' 
handy-man.  They  call  him  a  butler — 
can  you  beat  that?  Sims  was  putting 
Master  Robert's  bicycle  up  on  the 
veranda.   Master  Robert,  huh  ! 

"Helen  just  couldn't  stand  it  no  more, 
wondering  what  that  noise  was ;  so  she 
put  her  rod  down  under  the  boat  seats, 
give  a  big  yank  at  her  oars,  and  pulled 


clear  of  the  bay  in  a  couple  of  strokes. 
It  sure  made  her  sore  to  have  to  quit 
fishing  for  a  while.  For  a  girl  who  can't 
catch  a  darn  thing,  she  sure  takes  her 
fishing  serious.  Well,  Helen  just  kept 
rowing  along  till  she  got  'round  the 
bend,  and  when  she  got  around  what  did 
she  see  but  Janie  Murchison  sitting  on 
the  end  of  old  man  Obermaier's  pier, 
sobbing  her  heart  out. 

"Well,  if  you  knew  Janie,  you'd  know 
that  Janie  just  don't  never  cry.  Why, 
one  time  Janie  fell  clear  from  oflf  one 
of  the  top  rungs  of  the  ladder  leading 
up  to  John  Harper's  hayloft.  Course, 
Janie  had  no  business  being  up  there. 
John  chased  her  away  plenty  o'  times 
before  that,  but  when  they  took  her  into 
Lakesville  to  Doc  Hayes,  did  Janie  cry? 
No  sir.  Fact,  Duchess,  Janie's  curb- 
stone setter,  put  up  racket  enough  to 
make  up  for  twenty  Janies.  So  you  can 
see  why  Helen  was  so  surprised  when 
she  found  Janie  sitting  on  the  pier, 
crying. 

"Helen  didn't  know  what  to  do.  Janie 
mad  or  fighting  was  one  thing,  but  Janie 
crying — well,  it  just  never  happened 
before.  So  Helen,  she  just  nosed  her 
boat  up  alongside  the  pier.  Grandpa 
Obermaier  always  puts  old  auto  tires 
up  along  the  pier  to  save  the  wear  and 
tear  on  the  boats,  and  on  the  pier,  too ; 
so  Helen  didn't  make  much  noise  when 
she  pulled  up.  She  sat  quiet  for  a  minute, 
hoping  Janie  would  start  saying  some- 
thing. But  not  Janie.  She  just  put  her 
head  farther  down  in  those  overalls  she's 
always  wearing  and  just  howled  louder 
'n   ever.     So   finally   Helen    reaches    up 


[12] 


a  hand  to  pat  Janie's  shoulder,  consoling- 
like,  and  Janie  just  shoved  her  away. 
Helen  sat  still  for  a  while  again  and  then 
she  said,  'Say,  Janie,  I  just  can't  seem 
to  catch  anything  today.  Maybe  you 
could  show  me  where  to  go.'  Janie  just 
shook  her  head  no. 

"Well,  now,  you  know  Janie  knows 
where  the  good  spots  are.  I  told  her 
often  enough,  and  I  even  take  the  kid 
with  me  a  lot.  She's  good  company. 
Knows  when  to  keep  quiet.  Course,  you 
have  to  keep  an  eye  on  her,  but  she's  all 
right. 

"Now,  the  longer  Helen  sat  there  the 
miserabler  she  was  getting,  and  the 
miserabler  she  got  the  madder  she  got. 
After  all,  there  was  her  fishing,  shot. 
But  she  just  couldn't  seem  to  leave  Janie 
behind.  Finally  Helen  lets  out  a  yell, 
'Janie  Murchison,  if  you  don't  tell  me 
what  the  devil  you're  crying  about,'  she 
said,  'I'll  wring  your  darn  neck.'  She 
must've  scared  the  kid  'cause  Janie  let 
out  a  wail:  'Duchess  is  dead.' 

"That  was  almost  too  much  for  Helen. 
She  told  me  after  while  that  she  got 
such  a  big  lump  in  her  throat  she  near 
choked  on  it.  Everybody  'round  here 
knows  how  close  Janie  and  Duchess  was. 
It  seems  like  Helen  had  kind  of  broke 
the  ice  for  Janie,  though,  and  Janie  told 
her  what  happened. 

"Seems  like  those  Morgan  kids — 
they're  the  ones  from  Chicago  whose 
folks  are  renting  the  Brown  place  this 
summer — well,  they  saw  Duchess  walk- 
ing along  in  front  o'  the  place — Duchess 
always  did  kinda  like  those  red  gerani- 
ums out  in  front  of  Mrs.  Brown's,  and 
many  a  battle  raged  between  her  and 
Mrs.  Brown  over  'em.  Well,  those  kids 
wanted  to  be  nice  to  Duchess  so  they 
run  in  the  house  and  brought  out  some 
chicken  bones  for  her. 

"I  bet  Duchess  was  surprised  to  be 


treated  so  good  at  the  Brown's  house. 
You  know  how  dogs  are,  though.  They 
ain't  smart  about  eating  the  way  cats 
are.  I  s'pose  Duchess  thought,  'Let  by- 
gones be  by-gones.'  Anyway,  she  ate  the 
bones  all  up,  or  tried  to.  One  got  stuck, 
and  it  wasn't  long  before  Duchess  was 
a  corpse  and  the  Morgan  kids  was 
hollering  their  heads  off. 

"When  Janie  found  Duchess,  she  just 
sat  and  was  holding  the  poor  dog  till 
her  pa  come  and  the  two  of  'em  dug  a 
hole  down  at  the  end  of  Harper's 
orchard  and  buried  Duchess.  Then 
Janie  just  run  off  an'  sat  on  the  pier 
where  she  was  when  Helen  found  her. 

"Well,  after  Janie  poured  it  all  out  to 
Helen,  Helen  was  flabbergasted.  She 
just  didn't  know  what  to  do.  After  all, 
Helen  ain't  much  more'n  a  kid  herself. 
But  you  got  to  hand  it  to  her !  While  she 
was  fooling  around  for  something  to  say, 
her  eye  lit  on  her  fly-rod.  She  must've 
hesitated  awhile  'cause  she  was  darned 
proud  o'  that  rod,  but  finally  she  said, 
'Hey,  Janie,  you're  getting  about  big 
enough  to  use  a  fly-rod  now,  don't  you 
think?  You've  been  still-fishing  long 
enough.  How  about  me  rowing  you  to 
the  spots  and  you  using  my  rod?' 

"Helen  told  me  after  while  that  Janie's 
face  lit  up  like  a  Christmas  tree,  and 
she  just  jumped  right  in  the  boat  and 
began  telling  Helen  where  to  row. 

"Helen  sure  must  of  had  some  bad 
moments  when  she  saw  Janie  churning 
up  the  water  with  her  precious  rod.  I 
know  what  Janie  does  with  a  rod  'cause 
once  or  twice  she's  finagled  me  into 
letting  her  use  mine,  but  Helen  never 
said  a  word  but  let  the  kid  churn  away. 
They  stayed  out  on  the  lake  darned  near 
five  hours. 

"When  they  come  back,  though,  Janie 
was  all  right.  The  only  thing  that  wasn't 
was  Helen's  rod."    The  old  fellow  gave 


[13] 


a  twist  to  some  thread  he  was  using  on 
the  rod  he  was  repairing.  "I  think  I 
can  get  this  in  some  shape  all  right,"  he 
said.   Anyway,  soon's  I  do,  I'm  goin'  to 


show  Helen  a  couple  of  good  fishing 
holes.  She  just  never  could  find  'em 
before." 


Sundance 

Raymond  Bohman 

Rhetoric  I,  Theme  2,  1929-1940 


THAT  must  be  the  town,"  I  said. 
We  had  just  crossed  a  divide  and 
were  looking  on  a  small  Western  town 
about  a  mile  ahead  and  to  the  right  of 
us.  We  drove  on,  the  road  winding 
down  into  the  valley,  between  a  timber- 
covered  range  of  mountains  on  the  north 
and  west,  and  some  large  scattered 
buttes  on  the  south.  Soon  we  came  upon 
a  prominently  displayed  sign:  Welcome 
to  Sundance — Speed  Limit  25  M.  P.  H. 

Our  Boy  Scout  Troop  was  on  a  two- 
week  camping  trip,  Yellowstone  bound. 
We  had  just  left  the  Black  Hills,  and, 
since  it  was  near  supper  time,  we  were 
now  stopping  to  replenish  food  supplies. 
Everyone  was  taking  the  opportunity  to 
see  the  town  and  stretch  a  bit  at  the  same 
time. 

While  I  was  viewing  the  mountains 
around,  looking  for  a  few  good  camera 
shots,  I  engaged  in  conversation  with  an 
old  cow-puncher.  1  judged  him  to  be  in 
his  sixties.  He  was  short,  bowlegged, 
stooped,  and  weather-beaten.  His  whole 
appearance  spoke  of  many  years  in  the 
saddle. 

After  we  had  exhausted  the  subject 
of  the  weather,  he  began  telling  me 
about  the  history  of  Sundance. 

"That  range  to  the  north  and  west  is 
the   Bear  Lodge  Range,"  he  said,  "and 


that  big  mountain  over  there  is  Sundance 
Mountain."  He  pointed  to  the  north- 
west, toward  a  tall  flat-topped  mountain 
that  was  practically  barren  of  timber. 
"It  was  up  there  that  the  tribe  of  the 
Sun-Worshipers  used  to  have  their  sun 
dances." 

"Who  were  the  Sun- Worshipers  ?"  I 
asked. 

"A  tribe  of  Injuns  related  to  the 
Apaches,"  he  said.  "They  lived  up  here 
in  the  Bear  Lodge  Range  kinda  halfw^ay 
between  the  plains  and  the  Rockies." 

"That's  very  interesting,"  I  said.  "Do 
they  still  live  here?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  don't  know.  Nobody  does, 
I  guess.  It's  a  long  story,  but  here's 
how  I  remember  it. 

"When  I  was  just  a  kid,  this  country 
was  all  free  range.  There  was  only  a  few 
big  ranches  then,  and  the  cattle  roamed 
all  over.  Sundance  then  was  just  a  small 
trading  post  on  the  stagecoach  line  be- 
tween Deadwood,  South  Dakota,  and 
Buffalo,  Wyoming.  There  was  lots  of 
Injuns  around  these  parts  then.  A  couple 
tribes  of  the  Apaches  had  moved  up  here 
in  the  80's  and  were  living  here  with 
their   relatives,  the   Sun- Worshipers. 

"Folks  around  here  got  along  pretty 
good  with  the  Injuns  at  first,  but  as 
more   people   came,   there   began   to   be 


[14] 


trouble.  One  summer  some  hosses  was 
stolen.  The  owner  blamed  it  on  the 
Injuns,  and  some  time  later  there  was  a 
fight  and  several  Injuns  was  killed.  Well, 
one  thing  led  to  another,  and  with  bad 
blood  between  them  and  the  whites,  the 
Injuns  were  out  for  revenge.  One  night 
four  fires  were  seen  on  top  of  Sundance 
Mountain.  All  the  chiefs  of  the  different 
tribes  were  a-holdin'  a  council  of  war, 
and  that  meant  trouble. 

"The  folks  in  town  and  the  ranchers 
round  about  knew  what  was  a-comin', 
so  everybody  moved  into  town  and  began 
to  get  ready  for  a  war.  A  messenger 
was  sent  to  Fort  Laramie  for  help.  The 
buildings  were  barricaded  just  like  regu- 
lar forts.  Well,  no  one  saw  any  Injuns 
around  for  the  next  day  or  so,  but  every 
night  four  fires  were  seen  on  top  of  old 
Sundance. 

"Then  one  afternoon  about  three  days 
after  the  first  council  fire,  things  started 
poppin'.  Just  about  sundown,  figures  of 
Injuns  were  seen  on  top  of  the  mountain, 
startin'  the  war  dance.  Everybody 
gathered  in  two  or  three  buildings  in 
the  middle  of  town  and  made  ready  for 
an  attack.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  it  got 
dark.  We  could  see  just  one  fire  goin' 
up  there  now,  and  the  war  cries  of  the 
Injuns  could  be  heard  comin'  down 
through  the  dark.  We  was  outnumbered 
ten  to  one,  and  the  Sun-Worshipers  and 
the  Apaches  were  the  worst  fighters  in 
the  west.  Nobody  knew  if  help  was 
comin'  or  not. 

"The  night  wore  on  into  the  early 
hours  of  the  morning,  but  still  there  was 
no  attack.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  there 
was  a  crash  of  thunder,  and  a  mountain 
storm  broke.  For  fifteen  or  twenty 
minutes  it  rained  somethin'  fierce.  Then 
it  quit  sudden  and  everything  was  quiet. 


The  fire  on  top  of  Sundance  had  gone 
out.  There  was  nothin'  to  do  but  wait — 
for  what,  we  didn't  know. 

"It  was  awful  just  a-waitin'.  Every- 
body was  dead-tired  but  couldn't  sleep. 
The  silence  was  terrible,  but  nobody 
dared  to  make  a  sound.  It  seemed  like 
years  before  the  light  of  mornin'  began. 
Pretty  soon  it  was  light  enough  to  see. 
A  few  of  the  men  ventured  outside. 
There  was  no  Injuns  to  be  seen  any- 
where. Later  in  the  morning  a  scouting 
party  went  up  to  tlie  top  o'  Sundance 
Mountain,  but  there  wasn't  an  Injun  in 
sight.  In  fact  they've  never  been  seen 
since!" 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  ask  him  some 
questions,  our  scout  master  hollered  "All 
aboard!"  I  said  goodbye  and  thanks  and 
ran  to  the  car.  After  we  had  left  the 
town  and  were  driving  on,  I  took  out  the 
travel  book  we  were  following  and 
looked  up  Sundance,  Wyoming.  This  is 
what  I  read: 

"Sundance,  pop.  761.  A  small  town  in 
eastern  Wyoming  on  the  old  Deadvvood- 
to-Buffalo  stagecoach  route.  The  Bear 
Lodge  Range  of  mountains  extends  to 
the  north  and  west  of  the  town.  Sun- 
dance Mountain  (elevation,  7,932  feet) 
is  located  about  three  miles  to  the  north- 
west of  the  town.  This  mountain  was  so 
named  because  several  tribes  of  the 
Blackfeet  nation  held  their  sun  dances 
on  its  flat  top.  The  Blackfeet  tribes  in- 
habited this  region  for  some  time  after 
the  coming  of  the  white  man  and  were 
one  of  the  first  tribes  to  be  granted  citi- 
zenship by  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment. The  tribe  now  inhabits  a  large 
part  of  the  Bear  Lodge  Reservation 
eighty  miles  north  of  Sundance  .  .  .  ." 

I  had  to  read  the  article  twice. 


[15] 


The  Man  Had  Nerve 


H.  W.  Thrapp 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  11.  1938-1939 


WE  HAD  finished  the  day's  riding, 
filled  out  the  wrinkles  under  our 
belts,  and  were  sitting  around  the  fire, 
smoking,  and  telling  stories  before  going 
to  bed.  Joe  Keener  was  there,  his  brother 
Price,  "Boots"  Shell,  Jim  Aram,  and  I. 

The  conversation  drifted  from  one 
topic  to  another,  and  centered,  for  the 
most  part,  around  the  cattle  the  boys  had 
seen  during  the  day.  Finally  Joe  raised 
his  hat,  scratched  his  bald  head,  and 
started  telling  about  an  encounter  he'd 
had  with  a  rattlesnake  early  that  morn- 
ing. It  seemed  that  he'd  gotten  off  his 
horse  to  tighten  his  cinch,  and  stepped 
on  one  of  the  Billy-be-damned  things. 
Had  the  sun  been  a  little  higher,  Joe 
would  have  stood  a  good  chance  of  being 
bitten,  but,  as  it  happened,  the  snake 
was  too  numb  with  cold  to  react  to  the 
insult.  Of  course,  Joe  looked  down  to 
see  what  he'd  stepped  on,  and  promptly 
killed  the  rattler. 

Naturally,  the  conversation  was  imme- 
diately changed  to  a  discussion  of  rattle- 
snakes, and  each  fellow  had  some 
experiences  to  tell.  I  suppose  the  rounds 
of  rattlesnake  tales  were  made  about 
twice  before  we  turned  in — some  of 
them  hair-raisers.  Maybe  everyone 
doesn't  react  to  snake  stories  as  I  do, 
but  believe  me,  I  picked  my  way  to  my 
bed-roll  pretty  carefully,  and  shook  it 
out  a  couple  of  times  to  be  on  the  safe 
side.  That  procedure  seems  rather  foolish 
now  that  I  think  back  to  it,  but  it  surely 
didn't  seem  so  after  the  tales  the  boys 
had  been  telling. 

Price  and  Joe  were  using  the  same 
bed-roll.   For  some  reason,  I  rolled  mine 


out  beside  theirs — on  the  side  that  Price 
was  on.  Price  and  I  talked  for  a  few 
minutes  over  the  last  cigarettes  of  the 
day,  and  then  went  to  sleep. 

No,  I  didn't  dream  of  snakes,  or  any- 
thing else,  that  night.  Just  as  it  was 
getting  light,  I  awoke  and  heard  Jim 
washing  down  at  the  creek.  He  had 
unrolled  his  bed  about  fifty  yards  toward 
the  creek  from  the  spot  we  had  picked. 
I  looked  over  at  Price,  as  I  sat  up,  and 
he  looked  at  me  with  a  peculiar  expres- 
sion on  his  face.  But  he  didn't  say  any- 
thing, and  so  I  said — pleasantly  enough 
— "Well,  get  the  hell  out  of  bed.  You 
can't  get  any  work  done  lying  there  that 
way,  or  do  you  want  your  breakfast  in 
bed?"  I  pulled  on  my  socks  and  reached 
for  my  pants.  My  mind  was  concen- 
trating on  hot  coffee  and  biscuits,  and 
so  when  he  said,  "There's  a  snake  curled 
up  agin  my  belly,"  I  did  not  get  the 
full  significance  of  the  statement  for  a 
few  seconds.  I  started  off  telling  him 
how  hungry  I  was — and  then  I  began  to 
realize  what  he'd  said.  "What  did  you 
say?"  I  asked.  "There's  a  snake  curled 
agin  my  belly,"  he  repeated.  I  asked 
him  if  it  was  a  rattler,  but  of  course  he 
didn't  know  yet.  We  both  realized,  how- 
ever, that  if  he  moved,  we  would  both 
know  in  a  hurry  whether  it  was  a  rattler. 

I  was  paralyzed.  Even  though  I  was 
fully  three  feet  away,  I  was  afraid  to 
move  for  fear  I  would  disturb  the  snake 
and  it  would  bite  Price.  Price  was  lying 
on  his  side,  with  his  back  toward  Joe ; 
the  snake  lay  between  Price  and  the  edge 
of  the  bed.  The  snake  had  obviously 
crawled  in  to  warm  up.   I  started  to  yell 


[16] 


at  Jim,  who  was  returning  from  the 
creek,  but  thought  better  of  it,  and 
slowly  eased  out  of  bed.  I  didn't  even 
pull  on  my  boots,  but  ran  toward  Jim, 
dodging  the  patches  of  prickly-pear  on 
the  way. 

"There's  a  snake  in  Price's  bed,"  I 
shouted  at  him. 

"What  breed  is  it?"  Jim  asked. 

I  told  him  we  didn't  know,  because 
it  was  under  the  blankets.  We  ran  to 
the  bed,  woke  Joe  up,  and  started  to 
plan  some  maneuver  to  get  Price  out. 
Joe  eased  out  of  bed ;  Boots  woke  up 
about  that  time,  and,  pulling  his  clothes 
on,  demanded  to  know  what  the  commo- 
tion was  about. 

It  didn't  take  long  to  conceive  of  a  plan 
to  remove  Price,  because  we  were  very 
much  impressed  by  the  fact  that  every 
second  counted — at  least  as  far  as  Price's 
nervous  system  was  concerned.  Joe  and 
I  rolled  up  the  top  blankets  as  far  as 
Price's  back,  and  then  very  carefully 
lifted  the  roll  to  the  level  of  Price's 
top  side.  Boots  had  arrived  on  the 
scene  by  this  time,  and  he  was  directed 
to  get  a  hold  on  Price's  neck  with  his 
hands.    Jim  grabbed  his  legs,  and  at  the 


signal  from  Joe,  they  lunged  backward, 
jerking  Price  from  under  the  blankets. 
As  the  three  of  them  fell  in  a  heap,  Joe 
and  1  threw  the  blankets  in  the  opposite 
direction,  and  quickly  picked  up  a  stick 
apiece.  To  our  surprise,  there  were  two 
snakes  instead  of  one — both  rattlers — 
and  believe  me,  they  objected  to  being 
disturbed  so  rudely.  They  must  have 
been  blinded  by  the  sudden  light,  because 
they  struck  at  the  air  a  few  times,  and 
buzzed  as  if  they  were  insane. 

Joe  and  I  each  took  one,  threw  them 
out  on  the  ground,  and  quickly  prepared 
them  for  burial.  They  were  good-sized 
fellows  with  fangs  that  would  have  gone 
through  a  suit  of  underwear  as  if  it 
were  tissue  paper. 

Price  has  never  said  much  about  this 
incident.  In  fact,  he  has  referred  to  it 
only  once  that  I  know  of.  That  morning, 
at  breakfast,  he  said,  "Thanks  a  lot, 
boys ;  I  was  beginning  to  get  kinda 
cramped  waiting  for  someone  to  wake 
up."  But  I'll  bet  my  hat  that  Price  will 
never  forget  that  April  morning,  and 
you  can  bet  your  boots  that  the  experi- 
ence will  stick  in  my  memory  for  many 
a  day  to  come. 


The  Airport 

The  drone  of  a  distant  aeroplane  sounded  through  the  nij^fht.  It  came  closer.  The 
pilot  circled  about  the  field  as  if  he  had  lost  somethinsf  below.  Where  in  the  world 
was  he  going  to  land?  To  me  the  field  appeared  as  if  it  were  pinned  down  with  a 
million  bright  stars  which  had  suddenly  fallen  from  the  sky.  The  beacon  flashed  on. 
Its  light  chased  all  the  shadows  across  the  field,  dashed  them  against  the  hangar 
walls, — and  fell  in  a  bright  puddle. 

The  plane  landed  and  taxied  up  to  a  waiting  mail  truck.  The  pilot  leaped  out  and 
strode  briskly  toward  the  hangars.  The  plane  must  have  been  stuffed  with  mail — the 
way  the  blue-coated  mailmen  kept  jerking  it  out.  Finally  the  mail  truck  sped  away, 
leaving  the  plane  chugging  lazily  as  if  it  were  quietly  talkinq:  to  itself.  Suddenly, 
another  mail  truck  whisked  across  the  field  toward  the  idling  plane.  Large  baj^s  of 
mail  were  quickly  transferred  from  the  truck  to  the  ship. 

The  pilot  climbed  into  the  cockpit,  gunned  the  motors,  waved  farewell,  and  taxied 
across  the  field  to  take  off.  Faster  and  faster  the  plane  went — then  lifted — as  thou.t^di 
it  had  been  suddenly  cut  loose  from  the  ground.  The  lip^hts  on  its  wings  stood  out 
like  tiny,  movins:,  red  and  green  stars  against  the  dark  background  of  the  night.  The 
field  settled  back  into  semi-darkness. — Leland  Martin 


[17] 


Easter  Week 


Mary  Kranos 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  5,  1939-1940 


|\  yT  ARITZA  was  playing  with  her 
*-^  *■  Httle  god-sister  in  the  Hving  room 
when  her  godmother  came  in  from  the 
kitchen,  wiped  her  hands,  and  sat  down. 

"Are  you  coming  to  Peoria  to  church 
with  us  on  Sunday?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  ....  well  ....  I  don't  know 
whether  Dad  will  let  me." 

"And  why  not,  for  goodness'  sake?" 

"Well,  you  know  that  we're  busy  on 
Saturday  and  Sunda}^  and  I  can't  leave 
all  the  work  to  Mum  and  Dad." 

"Oh,  they  could  get  along  without  you 
for  just  once — it's  only  once  a  year. 
We're  going  to  the  midnight  mass." 

"I  want  very  much  to  go.  I've  never 
been  to  our  church  on  Easter.  But  I 
think  I'll  have  to  work." 

"You  would  have  to  fast,  you  know," 
Maritza's  godmother  said.  "From  Mon- 
day through  Thursday  you  would  have 
to  fast.  Nothing  from  an  animal:  no 
meat,  milk,  butter,  or  eggs.  On  Thurs- 
day, we'll  go  to  Peoria  and  receive  the 
sacrament.  Ask  your  father — I'm  sure 
he'll  let  you  go." 

So,  the  next  day  Maritza  asked  her 
father. 

"I  don't  know  whether  we  can  man- 
age the  business  without  some  help  on 
Saturday  night,  but  we'll  try  to,  if  you 
really  want  to  go." 

Even  this  was  encouraging.  All  that 
week  Maritza  fasted.  She  musn't  eat 
meat,  or  ice  cream,  or  chocolate  bars — 
there  really  wasn't  much  left  after  the 
"mustn'ts"  were  checked  off  the  list !  On 
Wednesday,  she  must  eat  nothing  con- 
taining oil.  Her  diet  of  crackers  and 
soda-pop  was  becoming  monotonous. 


Thursday  came.  On  this  day  she 
could  allow  nothing  to  pass  between  her 
lips.  Not  even  could  she  drink  water, 
or  brush  her  teeth.  She  must  be  careful 
not  to  cough  or  sneeze. 

On  Thursday  her  godparents  took  her 
to  Peoria  to  receive  the  sacrament,  and 
then  they  went  to  the  home  of  some 
friends  and  broke  their  fast.  With  her 
godmother  Maritza  visited  the  depart- 
ment stores  and  the  wonderful  shops. 
There  were  so  many  kinds  of  people  in 
the  stores.  Fat  ladies  trying  on  wisps  of 
hats.  Very  thin  ladies  simpering  in  huge 
picture  hats.  First  they  had  to  buy  a 
new  hat  with  yards  and  yards  of  veiling 
for  her  godmother.  Maritza  was  glad 
that  her  godmother  chose  a  becoming 
hat,  not  one  which  made  her  look  like 
something  she  dreamed  about  after  she 
had  eaten  too  much  raspberry  pie. 

"Something  for  the  young  lady?"  the 
saleslady  asked,  smiling  and  nodding  in 
Maritza's  direction.  In  a  moment,  they 
were  placing  on  her  head  a  beautiful 
pink  bonnet  with  blue  lining.  There  was 
a  little  band  of  blue  silk  which  fitted  be- 
low her  chin  and  held  the  hat  in  place, 
and  there  were  two  broad  streamers  of 
ribbon  in  the  back,  which  made  her  feel 
like  the  lovely  lady  with  the  flowing 
gown  in  a  book  she'd  read. 

"That's  very  becoming  to  you,  dear," 
the  saleslady  beamed.  "Now,  let's  see 
if  we  can't  find  a  dress  to  go  with  it." 

Many  dainty  frocks  were  brought  out, 
and  rejected.  Would  they  ever  find  one? 
At  last!  A  filmy  dress  in  the  palest  of 
blue.  Placed  here  and  there  were  little 
pink  bows.    It  was  the  only  dress  to  go 


[18] 


with  that  hat.  But  no  time  for  posing. 
They  had  to  go. 

On  Friday,  the  fast  was  taken  up 
again,  and  on  this  day  Httle  Maritza 
could  eat  nothing.  On  Saturday  she 
worked  twice  as  hard  as  usual  during 
the  day  to  make  up  for  her  absence  in 
the  evening. 

All  during  the  journey  to  Peoria,  her 
godmother  coached  her  in  the  unfamiliar 
forms  and  ritual.  At  midnight,  at  the 
height  of  the  mass,  all  lights  in  the 
church  would  be  extinguished.  The 
priest  would  retire  behind  the  altar.  In 
a  moment,  he  would  reappear,  bearing 
a  candelabrum  of  three  candles — symbol- 
izing the  Holy  Trinity.  It  would  be  a 
token  of  good  luck  to  be  the  first  to  light 
one's  candle  from  one  of  the  three 
candles  of  the  resurrection.  Those  who 
were  the  first  passed  the  light  from 
candle  to  candle,  until  the  whole  church 
glowed.  After  one  had  lit  his  candle,  he 
turned  to  his  friend  nearest  him,  and 
saluted  him  on  the  cheek,  saying, 
"Christos  a  nesti!"  which  means,  "Christ 
is  risen!"  His  friend's  reply  would  be, 
"Alithinos  a  nesti!" — "Verily,  he  is 
risen!"  Over  and  over,  to  herself  and 
aloud,  she  repeated  these  magic  words. 
She  must  know  them  so  well  that  she 
would  not  be  too  confused  or  frightened 
to  say  them  when  the  opportunity  came. 
When  her  godfather  sang  the  beautiful 
hymn,  "Christ  Is  Risen!"  which  is  the 
central  theme  of  the  ritual,  she  thought 
she  would  burst  with  feeling  so  good. 

At  last,  here  they  were,  at  the  church. 


She  could  see  nothing  of  the  outside  of 
the  building  save  a  red  brick  wall,  and  a 
small  door  through  which  they  entered. 
Inside,  they  were  given  candles  with 
little  caps  of  cardboard  to  keep  the  tal- 
low from  dripping  onto  their  new 
clothes. 

The  men  sat  on  one  sfde  of  the  church 
and  the  women  on  the  other.  Little 
Maritza  took  a  place  beside  her  god- 
mother while  her  godfather  made  his 
way  up  to  the  front,  near  the  altar,  to 
the  alcove  for  the  men  who  would  chant 
the  ritual.  Before  the  chanters  was  a 
rack  which  revolved  to  permit  men  to 
recite  from  several  hymn  books. 

What  a  funny-looking  little  boy  across 
the  aisle,  there,  and  he  kept  making  faces 
at  her.  When  he  crossed  himself,  he  did 
so  very  rapidly,  watching  Maritza  all  the 
while  to  see  if  she  were  doing  it 
correctly. 

How  warm  and  dry  the  air  was !  The 
incense,  the  strange  tongue,  the  bright- 
colored  dresses  which  the  ladies  wore — 
all  these  made  her  thoughts  very  much 
confused.  The  candle  was  growing  very 
heavy.  Little  Maritza's  eyes  kept  want- 
ing to  close.  She  would  have  become  in- 
dignant if  you  suggested  that  she  was 
sleepy,  but  she  just  couldn't  seem  to 
keep  her  eyes  open! 

Time  flew  quickly  on,  and  now  the 
choir  was  proclaiming,  "Christ  Is  Risen !" 
The  priest  was  bearing  aloft  the  three- 
branch  candelabrum.  It  was  the  su- 
preme moment  of  the  mass. 

Little  Maritza  was  fast  asleep. 


The  sound  of  a  typewriter — pebbles  falling  on  a  concrete  floor.— Marie  Wright 
•  •  •  • 

His  personality  was  like  a  wet  towel  flung  in  the  corner  of  the  bathroom. 

— Shirley  Baikovich 


[19] 


Snuff 


Elmer  A.  J.  Blasco 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  11,  1938-1939 


"QNUFF,"  Swanson  said  to  the  water- 
*^  boy  standing  near  him,  "is  for 
hard-working  men  who  do  their  job  well. 
It's  like  a  reward." 

Swanson  turned  on  his  heel,  walked 
to  the  edge  of  the  scaffold,  and  leaned 
over  the  wall. 

"Ready  down  there?"  he  bellowed. 
"Let's  get  going!" 

The  two  laborers  at  the  bottom  of  the 
wall  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  his  voice 
and  began  to  hurry  with  the  lifting-pins 
on  this  last  piece  of  marble  for  the 
cornice  of  the  new  auditorium.  They 
drove  the  pins  in  and  adjusted  the  hooks 
— then  stepped  back  from  the  stone, 
grabbed  the  rope,  and  echoed  back. 

"Ready?   Here  it  comes!" 

From  that  instant,  Swanee's  eyes 
never  left  that  slowly  rising  piece  of 
marble.  His  head  and  shoulders  ex- 
tended out  over  the  edge  of  the  wall. 
One  hand  was  on  the  support,  while  the 
other  hand  guided  the  rope  which  was 
hoisting  the  piece  of  marble.  It  must  be 
hauled  up  past  a  carefully  laid  brick  wall 
one  hundred  feet  high.  The  slightest  mis- 
hap might  send  that  block  of  marble 
crashing  into  the  wall,  destroying 
months  of  work.  It  was  Swanee's  job 
to  see  that  a  mishap  did  not  occur. 

The  sun  shone  brightly  overhead  as 
the  crew  of  laborers  tugged  at  the  lines. 
The  pulleys  on  the  block  and  tackle 
squealed  under  the  tremendous  weight, 
while  the  stone  rose  slowly,  inch  by  inch. 
Swanee  began  to  sweat  as  the  sun  beat 
down  on  his  back.  The  rope  supporting 
the  stone  cut  into  his  hand,  sending 
drops  of  blood  running  off  the  edge  of 
his  palm.    Swanee  shook  his  hand  once 


or  twice  and  shouted  words  of  encour- 
agement to  the  struggling  laborers  far 
below. 

"Keep  it  coming,  boy!"  he  shouted. 
"Not  too  hard  now.  Don't  start  it 
swinging,  or  there'll  be  hell  to  pay." 

As  the  boss  of  the  crew  waved  his 
hand,  the  crew  started  a  chant.  Slow 
and  methodical,  the  song  rose  and  fell  as 
the  crew  pulled  at  the  rope.  The  block 
passed  the  half-way  mark  and  Swanee 
was  now  sweating  profusely.  His  shirt 
was  soaked  with  sweat,  and  the  sweat 
had  mixed  with  the  dust  until  a  thin 
paste  covered  his  face.  He  blinked  his 
eyes  to  keep  the  beads  of  sweat  out.  The 
breeze  began  to  stiffen,  sending  up 
clouds  of  brick-dust  and  making  a 
thicker  paste  on  his  face.  At  the  same 
time,  the  breeze  started  the  block  to 
swinging  ever  so  slightly.  That  was  bad. 
Swanee  swore  softly  and  then  shouted 
down  to  the  hoisting  crew. 

"Hold  it  right  there!  Got  to  stop  it 
or  the  boss  will  have  our  hides." 

The  chant  broke  oflf  as  the  crew 
stopped  their  work  and  held  on.  Swanee 
leaned  farther  out,  grasped  both  of  the 
hoisting  ropes,  and  held  them  tightly. 
Slowly,  painfully,  like  the  pendulum  of  a 
clock  just  as  the  spring  unwinds,  the 
block  stopped  swinging. 

"O.  K."  shouted  Swanee.  "Hoist 
away." 

The  chanting  started  again.  The  block 
was  almost  at  the  top.  Swanee's  real 
job  started  now.  He  had  to  swing  that 
huge  block  into  place  and  keep  it  there 
as  the  crew  lowered  it.  The  chanting 
grew  louder  now,  when  the  crew  saw 
that  the  job  was  almost  done.    As  the 


20 


block  of  marble  passed  the  top  of  the 
wall,  Swanee  reached  out  and  slowly 
swung  it  into  place.  The  end  moved  out 
of  line  and  the  water-boy  dropped  his 
buckets  and  forced  the  block  back  into 
position. 

"Lower  away,"  Swanee  cried,  and  the 
block  slowly  sank  into  the  mortar.  He 
cast  off  the  pins  and  lowered  the  lines. 


Down  below,  the  crew  was  resting  on 
the  ground.  Swanee  gave  the  block  a 
few  taps  with  his  wooden  mallet  and 
then  put  the  level  on  the  top  to  check 
its  accuracy. 

"Perfect!"  he  breathed,  and  straight- 
ened his  aching  back.  He  smiled  at  the 
water-boy  and  reached  for  his  box  of 
snufF. 


Spring  Afternoon 

James  Gimblett 

Rhetoric  II,  Theme  12,  1938-1939 


IT  WAS  a  quiet  Friday  afternoon. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  summer  in 
the  air — just  enough  to  make  the  paper 
boy  on  the  corner  think  longingly  of  that 
camp  in  the  country,  and  the  department 
manager  just  back  from  his  two-hour 
lunch  muse  thoughtfully  about  giant 
muskies  in  Minnesota.  High  above  the 
street,  perched  precariously  on  a  window 
ledge  of  the  massive  Mercantile  Trust 
Building,  worked  a  lone  window-washer. 
Inside  the  building,  on  the  fortieth  floor, 
toiled  a  battery  of  typists  who  wrote 
form  letters  to  the  bank's  many  custom- 
ers. The  day  had  been  a  long  one,  and 
the  work  dragged  on  in  a  seemingly  end- 
less fashion.  One  of  the  girls  noticed  the 
window-washer  laboring  on  a  window 
far  down  the  floor.  Only  a  slender 
leather  belt  held  him  to  the  building.  In- 
terested in  anything  to  relieve  the  mo- 
notony, she  watched  him  first  sponge  off 
the  windows  and  then  wipe  them  dry. 
Soon  she  made  a  game  of  watching  him 
— a  window  every  five  minutes  seemed  to 
be  his  average  speed.    Maybe  this  would 


help  pass  the  time  away.  There  were 
twelve  more  windows  to  the  one  opposite 
her.  In  one  hour  he  would  reach  her. 
She  watched  him  at  frequent  intervals. 
It  was  three  o'clock. 

Ten  windows  to  go — it  was  3:10. 

"I  won't  watch  now  until  I  finish 
typing  this  letter." 

Eight  windows  to  go — it  was  3:20. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  any  cooler  out  there. 
I  wouldn't  want  his  job  though — it  looks 
too  dangerous." 

Five  windows  to  go — it  was  3:35. 

Slowly  the  window-washer  progressed 
along  the  row  of  windows.  He  seldom 
looked  down — it  was  a  long  way  .... 

Inside,  the  girl  looked  up  from  her 
work.  Three  windows  to  go.  "In  fifteen 
minutes  I  can  leave.  He's  almost  op- 
posite me  now." 

Several  minutes  later  she  looked  up. 
The  window  opposite  her,  only  half 
washed,  was  empty.  A  broken  belt  hung 
limp  in  the  still,  warm  air.  The  time 
was  3:58.  It  was  a  quiet  Friday  after- 
noon  


[21] 


Song  of  a  Summer  Evening 


D.  S.  Abernethy 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  15,  1938-1939 


THE  HOT,  mid-August  night  magni- 
fied all  the  myriad  noises  of  the 
passing  hours.  A  curious  stillness  hung 
from  the  inky  sky,  bringing  with  it  a 
suffocating  heat  that  closed  in  around 
the  earth.  A  huge  full  moon  shone  like 
a  bright,  new  silver  dollar  in  the  western 
sky.  The  ugly  bulk  of  the  rectangular 
roadside  lunch  room  was  softened  a 
little  by  the  silvery  rays. 

In  front  of  the  lunch  room  a  double 
ribbon  of  smooth  concrete  pavement  ran 
endlessly  and  effortlessly  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth.  Occasionally  a  car  would 
come  shooting  around  the  curve  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  up  the  road  with  a  gentle 
moaning  sound,  and  then,  as  it  ap- 
proached, the  sound  of  its  exhaust  would 
hum  like  a  tired  swarm  of  bees. 

The  silence,  unreal  and  close,  was 
broken  by  the  harsh  croaking  of  bull 
frogs  and  the  irritating,  infinite  chirping 
of  crickets  in  the  swamp  which  lay  to  the 
rear  of  the  building.  The  croaking 
hushed  for  a  moment,  and  then  a  frog 
eased  himself  mto  the  slimy  brake  with 
a  soft,  watery  plop! 

The  neon-edged  sign  hanging  over  the 
door  of  the  lunch  room  announced  that 
here  was  the  "Quality  Lunch  Room"  and 
that  it  stayed  open  all  night.  The  glass 
tube  leaked,  and  the  red  light  flickered. 
Moths  flitted  and  swooped  around  the 
eerie  glow,  like  a  squadron  of  pursuit 
planes  attacking  a  slower  and  much 
clumsier  adversary. 

Inside  the  lunch  room  the  sole  occu- 
pant sat  hunched  over  a  newspaper,  a 
stub  of  pencil  clutched  in  his  right  fist. 
He  had  a  greasy,  once-white  apron  sus- 


pended around  his  stomach,  and  a  dirty 
white  shirt  clinging  to  his  fat  body  in 
wet  patches.  A  paper  chef's  cap  sat 
crazily  on  his  sweaty  head.  He  was  about 
forty  years  old. 

Joe  didn't  like  the  all-night  hitch  be- 
hind the  counter.  The  time  dragged  too 
slow.  He'd  worked  so  many  crossword 
puzzles  that  he  saw  black  and  white 
checkers  in  his  sleep.  Words  like  nullah, 
bauson,  and  ladrone  held  no  mystery  for 
him.  The  radio  helped  a  little,  but  he 
got  tired  of  the  swing  music.  Once  in  a 
while  he'd  hear  some  evangelist  around 
eleven  o'clock  raising  hell  about  all  the 
sin  and  vice  and  corruption  in  the  world. 
Joe  would  sit  and  listen  to  the  oratory, 
and  then  when  it  was  over,  would 
wrinkle  his  nose  in  distaste  and  say 
"Baloney"  to  himself. 

He  sat  staring  blankly  at  the  cross- 
word puzzle.  He  was  hot.  His  wet  shirt 
w^as  uncomfortable.  Joe  looked  around 
for  more  windows  in  the  room  to  open, 
but  there  were  none.  Absently  he 
watched  a  tiny  moth  trying  to  hurl 
itself  into  the  brightly  lighted  room.  The 
sweat  from  Joe's  armpits  rolled  down 
along  his  ribs  and  felt  cold.  His  arms 
stuck  to  the  paper  when  he  tried  to  lift 
them.  He  held  his  left  forearm  up  to 
the  light  and  saw  a  few  words  of  printing 
that  had  transferred  themselves  from  the 
paper.  He  put  his  finger  into  his  mouth 
and  rubbed  out  the  smudged  ink. 

Ever  since  he'd  been  working  for  old 
man  Dawson,  he'd  had  to  work  the  night 
shift.  Three  months  of  it  behind  him, 
and  more  ahead.  He  thought  idly  of 
the  kid  who  worked  in  the  lunch  room 


[22] 


during  the  day.  Probably  swimming  in 
some  quarry  right  now.  He'd  have  his 
girl  with  him  too !  Gosh ! — wouldn't  it  be 
swell  to  have  a  swim  in  cold  water  .... 
and  have  a  fine  time  ....  and  a  girl 


Walking  over  to  the  radio,  he  switched 
on  some  dance  music.  Some  New  York 
band  was  swinging  "Annie  Laurie."  Joe 
thought  of  how  he  used  to  hear  his 
mother  sing  that  song  when  she  was 
working  around  the  kitchen.  He  heaved 
a  gusty,  recollective  sigh,  and  the  air 
whistled  through  his  nostrils.  Picking 
up  the  paper  with  the  crossword  puzzle 
in  it,  he  jammed  it  underneath  the 
counter  and  pulled  a  deck  of  playing 
cards  from  his  back  pocket. 

He  threw  up  his  head  as  he  heard  a 
car's  tires  singing  on  the  hot  cement 
highway,  but  the  car  went  speeding 
by.  Carefully  shuffling  the  cards,  he 
started  to  lay  out  a  game  of  solitaire.  He 
cursed  softly  to  himself  as  the  damp 
cards  stuck  together.  After  laying  them 
out,  he  put  the  rest  of  the  deck  on  the 
counter  and  got  up  to  get  a  drink.  Run- 
ning the  cool  water  over  his  hands,  he 
thought  of  the  kid  who  worked  days 
....  and  the  girl,  swimming  in  that 
quarry. 

A  car  came  careening  around  the 
curve.  Its  twelve  cylinders  roared  in  the 
quiet  night.  Joe  heard  it  and  listened 
to  the  sweet  pulsating  of  the  motor. 
Suddenly  the  engine  slowed  a  little,  and 
Joe  knew  that  he  was  going  to  have  a 
customer. 

The  car,  a  long  maroon  touring  model 
with  Ohio  plates,  pulled  up  at  the  door. 
Two  men  and  a  girl — from  the  sound  of 
their  voices — were  coming  in. 

Joe  moved  over  to  the  cards  and 
picked  them  up.  He  glanced  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye  at  the  girl's  legs  before 
he  looked  up.    Nice  shape,  he  thought. 


And  he  thought  about  swimming  in  a 
quarry  .... 

The  two  men  were  youngish — about 
thirty,  he  judged,  as  he  filled  three  water 
glasses.  They  took  stools,  disdaining  the 
single  warped  table  the  place  boasted. 
Joe  put  the  glasses  down  on  the  counter, 
giving  the  girl  hers  first.  She  was  a 
classy  looker,  all  right. 

"Nice  night,"  he  said. 

"Yeah,"  said  the  dark  one. 

The  girl  looked  at  Joe's  greasy  apron. 

"What  d'you  have  to  eat?  she  asked 
in  a  husky,  mannish  voice  as  she  tapped  a 
cigarette  on  the  counter. 

Joe,  looking  at  her,  colored  under  her 
direct  look.  He  stammered  and  then 
handed  her  a  fly-specked  menu.  The 
other  one,  the  man  who  hadn't  said 
anything,  reached  along  the  counter  and 
took  out  another  menu.  The  dark  one 
looked  at  the  girl's. 

Joe  wiped  his  hands  on  his  greasy 
apron  and  felt  self-conscious. 

"Like  to  hear  some  music?" 

One  of  the  men  looked  up  at  him  out 
of  squinted  eyes. 

"No." 

The  girl  said,  "Yes,  let's  have  some 
music." 

The  one  who  had  said  he  didn't  want 
any  music  scowled  and  pressed  his  lips 
together. 

Finally  the  girl  made  up  her  mind. 
Blowing  out  a  cloud  of  smoke,  "Can  you 
make  me  a  ham  omelet?"  Joe  liked  her 
eyes  and  the  way  her  mouth  moved  when 
she  talked.  Nice  teeth,  too.  He  nodded 
his  head. 

"And  a  cup  of  coffee?"  she  added. 
Joe  nodded  again.  The  other  two  wanted 
sandwiches  and  coffee.  As  Joe  turned  to 
the  work  table,  he  had  a  curious  sensa- 
tion of  being  stared  at.  Lighting  the  gas 
stove,  he  speculated.  Who  were  they? 
Where  were  they  going? 


[23] 


He  put  a  frying  pan  on  the  stove  and 
listened  to  the  conversation.  The  dark 
one,  the  guy  called  Lefty,  was  talking 
to  the  girl. 

"I  tell  you  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it.  He 
was  asking  for  it  though,  reaching  for 
that  alarm  button."  Suddenly  he  looked 
at  Joe,  who  had  his  face  turned  toward 
them.  Joe  saw  him  and  looked  down  at 
the  box  of  eggs  he  was  opening. 

The  other  guy  shifted  his  weight  on 
the  stool,  and  it  squeaked  the  dry,  shrill 
whine  of  unoiled  steel. 

"Sure,  sure.  Lefty,  but  you're  too 
quick  with  that  gun.  Things  are  getting 
tough  enough  without  that." 

The  girl's  voice  drawled,  "You'd  bet- 
ter get  that  carburetor  looked  at,  Eddie. 
I  thought  it  was  going  to  give  out  on  us 
back  there." 

Joe  had  broken  the  eggs  and  put  them 
with  bits  of  ham  into  the  pan.  He  was 
slicing  bread  for  the  sandwiches.  Finish- 
ing, he  went  to  the  back  of  the  lunch 
counter  and  started  to  open  the  screen 
door  which  led  to  the  enclosed  porch  and 
the  refrigerator. 

He  felt  three  pairs  of  eyes  on  his 
back.  The  dry,  clipped  voice  of  Lefty 
was  asking,  "Where  you  going,  Pop?" 

Joe  resented  that  "Pop."  He  turned 
and  replied,  "Just  out  to  the  refrigerator 
to  get  the  meat." 

"Oh." 

As  he  opened  the  refrigerator  door,  he 
was  thinking  over  the  conversation.  His 
throat  tightened,  and  he  could  feel  the 
blood  pounding  through  the  veins  in  his 
neck.  Bandits!  He  tried  to  think  where 
the  boss  kept  the  gun.  Maybe  they'd 
try  to  rob  him.  And  then  for  the  first 
time  in  a  long  while,  Joe  got  scared. 
Composing  himself  as  much  as  he  could, 
he  noisily  slammed  the  refrigerator  door 
shut  and  pushed  open  the  screen  door 
with  his   foot.    He  put  the  two  tins  of 


meat  on   the   slicing  board  and  started 
peeling  off  the  covering  of  the  liverwurst. 

The  two  men  had  been  arguing.  As 
Joe  walked  toward  the  stove,  he  could 
see  Lefty  staring  at  him.  Again  a  scared 
feeling  came  over  him.  Folding  the 
omelet  carefully,  Joe  turned  the  gas 
down  lower. 

After  a  moment  the  girl  said,  "Isn't 
it  about  done.  Grandpa?"  Joe  stumbled 
awkwardly  over  his  feet  as  he  turned  to 
the  stove.  Taking  a  plate  from  the  rack, 
he  slid  the  eggs  on  it  and  put  it  down 
in  front  of  the  girl.  She  reached  over 
and  took  a  napkin  out  of  the  holder. 

He  hurried  to  hnish  the  sandwiches, 
and,  as  he  put  them  down  in  front  of 
the  men,  Lefty  looked  at  his  and  shoved 
it  disgustedly  to  the  other  man.  They 
exchanged  plates.  Joe  murmured  apolo- 
getically. 

"Come  on,  come  on,  get  the  coffee," 
rasped  Lefty. 

The  cups  rattled  as  Joe  set  them  in 
their  saucers.  One  of  the  men  noticed 
it.  "Whatsa  matter.  Pop?  Nervous?" 
Joe  attempted  a  smile  as  he  shook  his 
head.  He  managed  to  put  the  coffee 
down  without  spilling  any.  They  began 
to  eat.  Joe  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
counter  and  sat  down.  The  three  went 
on  talking  in  low  tones. 

Joe  noticed  that  it  wasn't  hot  any 
more.  There  seemed  to  be  a  draft  in  the 
place.  His  shirt  was  still  w'et.  but  he 
didn't  feel  it.  He  looked  along  the  shelf 
under  the  counter  for  the  gun.  The  boss 
kept  it  in  a  leather  holster  ....  ah ! 
there  it  was — there  under  the  cash 
register.  He  licked  his  lips  and  wondered 
how  such  a  good-looking  girl  could  get 
mixed  up  with  a  couple  of  bums  like 
these  guys. 

He  began  to  fidget  nervously  on  the 
stool.  His  left  foot  was  asleep,  and  he 
shifted  it  to  start  the  circulation.    One 


[24] 


wagon  and  was  pulled  to  the  side  of  the 
house.  He  leaped  off  with  a  small,  bat- 
tered red  tin  pool  table  and  a  wheelless 
green  dumping  truck  in  his  hands. 

Supper  was  soon  finished.  The  lino- 
leum-covered table  was  cleared,  and 
part  of  the  contents  of  the  pecan  sack 
emptied.  By  the  dirty  light  and  nau- 
seating smell  of  a  kerosene  lamp,  all 
shelled  pecans,  shelled  pecans,  shelled 
pecans. 

"Now,  Pete,  looky  here.  Use  your 
knife  like  this."  Pete's  mother  demon- 
strated, using  not  only  her  knife,  but 
her  bare  fingers  and  fingernails  as  well. 
She  succeeded  in  extricating  an  un- 
broken half  of  pecan  meat.  "Eight  cents 
a  pound  for  these,  but  only  six  cents  a 
pound  for  those  little  pieces.   You  are  in 


sixth  grade  already.  You  should  know 
which  will  give  us  more  money.  Eh 
boy?" 

All  attempted  to  imitate  the  technique 
of  the  mother.  They  peeled,  stopped, 
peeled,  exchanging  bits  of  news  and 
stories.  The  mother  got  up  to  put  sleep- 
ing Annie  and  I'at  to  bed.  Pete  smiled 
at  his  little  sisters  as  they  were  carried 
away.  The  heavy  hour  of  ten  arrived, 
and  Pete's  knife  slipped  from  his  hand 
for  the  third  time.  Pete's  father  scooped 
him  lovingly  into  his  arms  and  carried 
him  off  to  bed. 

Pete  still  stared  at  the  bar  in  his  hand. 
He  could  not  eat  it.  It  was  too  sacred 
to  eat!  He  placed  it  in  his  pocket  and 
walked  away. 


Feeding  the  Visitor 

Vincent  West 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  10,  1939-1940 


NO  TURKEY  this  year."  My  father 
didn't  look  away  from  the  rain- 
spotted  window  as  he  said  it.  Past  his 
mop  of  unruly  steel-gray  hair,  I  could 
see  the  squirrels  gaily  frolicking  in  the 
light  mist;  yet  I  knew  Father  was  not 
watching  them.  He  was  thinking  of 
Uncle  Garold,  who  was  coming  all  the 
way  from  New  York  for  Thanksgiving. 
Father's  face  had  that  whipped-again 
look  which  I  had  seen  on  it  so  often  in 
the  past  year.  I  knew  my  mother  must 
feel  even  worse ;  yet  when  I  glanced  at 
her  she  smiled — a  bit  wanly,  but,  never- 
theless, she  smiled.  My  sister's  doctor- 
bill  had  taken  the  last  of  the  meager 
savings  which  were  to  have  furnished 
our    Thanksgiving   table.     Whose    fault 


was  it?  Doris  couldn't  help  getting  sick 
and  my  father  certainly  couldn't  foresee 
it.  Whipped  again !  Yet  my  mother 
smiled.    She  wasn't  whipped  yet. 

"I  remember  Garold  used  to  like 
'coon."  The  forced  cheer  of  her  voice 
belied  her  smile.  It  was  to  be  her 
brother's  first  visit  in  ten  years.  She 
smiled  bravely  as  she  left  us,  but  when 
I  passed  through  the  kitchen  a  moment 
later  she  was  blinking  her  eyes  to  keep 
them  dry  as  she  checked  off  her  menu 
the  things  she  wouldn't  have.  I  firmly 
resolved  that  I  wouldn't  allow  her  to 
be  disappointed  in  these  simple  plans. 

Each  night  during  the  week  before 
my  uncle  came  T  took  my  dogs  afield 
to  get  that  'coon.  And  each  night  when  I 


[  7  ] 


returned,  I  skinned  and  stretched  a  col- 
lection of  'possum,  skunk,  and  mink — 
but  no  'coon.  It  was  Wednesday  night, 
and  the  dogs  were  unfed.  Nothing  would 
be  spared  tonight,  because  this  was  our 
last  chance.   We  couldn't  fail  again. 

We  had  a  good  night.  By  two  o'clock 
the  broad  canvas  strap  across  my 
shoulder  was  cutting  deep.  The  three 
'possums  in  the  bag,  however,  meant 
little.  I  was  after  'coon.  Tired  and  dis- 
gusted, I  sprawled  comfortably  on  the 
ground  near  a  cornfield,  the  dogs  rest- 
ing beside  me.  I  remembered  my  father's 
warning  never  to  take  the  strap  off  my 
shoulder.  Many  valuable  pelts  have  been 
lost  by  this  one  bit  of  carelessness ;  so 
I  lay  there  and  grew  drowsy  with  my 
pack  strap  still  around  my  neck. 

I  was  nearly  asleep  when  Old  Bear's 
deep  bass  reverberated  through  the 
w^oods,  echoing  back  from  the  tall  cot- 
tonwoods  along  the  river.  Soon  the 
terrier  joined  him,  her  sharp  yapping 
punctuating  the  din.  No  mere  'possum 
could  have  excited  Bear  like  that.  He 
would  chase  a  'possum  with  the  same 
half -defiant  tone  which  he  used  to  an- 
nounce visitors  at  the  house.  No,  it 
couldn't  be  a  'possum.  Bear  was  "bawl- 
ing every  jump,"  as  'coon-hunters  say. 
I  waited  impatiently,  each  second  more 
nearly  convinced  that  the  hound  had 
jumped  a  fox. 

No,  he  had  treed !  I  started  off  blindly 
through  the  tall,  frosty  stalks  of  the  corn- 
field. Fear  struck  me  as  I  ran.  What 
if  he  jumped?    What  if  I  missed  him? 


What  if  he  got  away?  No,  he  couldn't! 
Mother  was  counting  on  my  getting  him. 
I  couldn't  fail.  The  crackling  stopped. 
I  was  free  of  the  corn.  With  added 
speed  I  crossed  the  narrow  lane  and 
pressed  on  into  the  woods. 

Suddenly,  I  was  there.  The  dogs  sat 
in  a  circle,  excitedly  yapping  their  "tree- 
bark."  At  the  shot  they  became  suddenly 
quiet.  The  silence  was  terrible.  I 
couldn't  see  the  'coon,  now  that  his  eyes 
were  averted.  Had  I  missed?  I  held  my 
breath.  No,  I  could  hear  him  falling, 
striking  suddenly  against  heavy  branches, 
swishing  through  the  dried  leaves.  Sud- 
denly he  broke  into  sight  below  the 
leaves,  and  with  a  mighty  rush  the  dogs 
met  him  in  mid-air.    W^e  had  won ! 

I  brought  the  'coon  triumphantly  into 
the  kitchen  where  Mother  was  getting 
breakfast.  Yes,  it  was  morning,  but  I 
wasn't  sleepy.   I  had  won ! 

My  uncle  "said  thanks"  over  a 
Thanksgiving  table  which  fairly  groaned 
with  its  load.  Mother  had  used  the 
products  of  the  farm.  The  cornbread  and 
hominy  came  from  the  same  field  as  did 
the  pumpkins.  The  yellow  yams  were 
baked  in  molasses,  for  which  I  had 
stripped  the  cane.  The  potatoes,  peas, 
beans,  and  cherries  were  also  from  the 
farm. 

Later  my  mother  remarked  that  she 
didn't  know  what  she  could  have  done 
if  I  hadn't  got  the  'coon.  Neither  do  I, 
but  whatever  she  did,  you  can  safely 
bet  that  she  could  have  had  a  good  meal. 
Some  people  just  won't  stay  licked. 


Words  can  convince  or  dissuade  a  debater;  amuse  or  bore  a  guest;  win  or  lose  a  vote; 
make  or  break  a  theme. — Louisa  Jo  Le  Kander 

•  •  •  • 

It  was  so  quiet  in  the  library  you  could  have  heard  a  tractor  start. — Martin  Gjrbell 


[  8  ] 


of  the  men  looked  over  to  see  what  he 
was  doing. 

The  girl  finished  her  omelet  and  bent 
forward  to  look  down  the  counter  at  Joe. 

"Got  any  dessert?" 

"Yeah,  ice  cream  and  pie." 

"I'll  have  a  dish  of  ice  cream."  As  Joe 
moved  toward  the  ice  cream  freezer,  he 
felt  funny.  He  bent  to  put  his  arm 
down  into  the  ice  cream  can,  and  he 
wondered  with  an  ache  in  his  stomach 
what  was  going  to  happen.  A  wave  of 
fear  started  up  his  legs  toward  the  mid- 
dle of  his  body.  Joe  wished  with  all  his 
might  that  he  were  back  in  his  mother's 
kitchen  listening  to  her  sing. 

He  took  a  spoon  out  of  the  drawer 
and  put  it  in  the  ice  cream  dish.  Turning, 
he  caught  his  foot  in  the  worn  linoleum 
and  stumbled.  The  ice  cream  tilted  for- 
ward, then  flew  into  Lefty's  lap.  Joe 
became  so  frightened  that  he  dropped  the 
dish  on  the  counter. 

Lefty  half  stood,  his  eyes  blazing.  He 
slapped  Joe  across  the  face  with  his  open 
hand.  "Can't  ya  watch  what  you're 
doing."  His  face  worked  angrily,  and 
he  raised  his  hand  again.  The  girl 
stopped  him.  Joe  stepped  back,  dazed. 
He  didn't  try  to  apologize,  because  he 
knew  that  it  would  not  help. 

Lefty  was  brushing  his  suit  with  a 
handkerchief,  still  muttering  to  himself. 
The  girl  became  noticeably  nervous ;  she 
turned  to  Eddie  and  suggested  that  they 
go.  He  stood  up  and  spoke  to  Lefty, 
trying  to  calm  him,  but  Lefty  brushed 
his  hand  angrily  off  his  sleeve.  Eddie 
shrugged  and  turned  to  see  if  the  girl 
was  ready.  She  followed  him  out  of  the 
room,  not  bothering  to  look  back.  Alone 
in  the  place  with  the  murderous  Lefty, 
Joe  breathed  hard— his  knees  shook. 

"Come  on  now,  you  old  bastard — 
open  up  that  cash  drawer." 


Joe  looked  intently  at  him,  not  realizing 
what  he  had  said.  Lefty,  seeing  that  he 
did  not  move,  stepped  forward  quickly 
and  raised  his  hand  as  if  he  were  going 
to  hit  Joe  again. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said,  you  god- 
dam half-wit?" 

A  hot  surge  broke  loose  in  Joe's 
stomach,  and  he  wanted  to  throw  him- 
self on  this  man  and  sma.sh  him.  Lefty 
was  standing  about  three  feet  from  him, 
his  hands  at  his  sides.  Suddenly  the 
right  hand  moved  up  toward  his 
shoulder,  and  Joe  knew  that  he  had  a 
gun. 

Joe  whirled  clumsily  and  tried  to  get 
the  gun  from  under  the  counter.  A  shot 
split  the  silence  in  the  room.  Joe  gasped, 
went  down  on  his  knees,  and  pressed 
his  hands  against  a  wound  in  his  chest. 
Lefty  leaned  over  the  counter  and  looked 
at  him.  He  turned  and  walked  quickly 
to  the  car. 

As  he  jumped  into  the  rear  seat,  Lefty 
heard  Eddie  cursing.  Eddie  slammed 
the  car  into  gear  and  roared  down  the 
highway  in  the  direction  they  had  been 
going.  As  he  shoved  on  the  accelerator, 
he  shouted  above  the  scream  of  the 
wind,  "What  did  you  do  that  for,  you 
damn  hophead?" 

Lefty  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  the 
darkness  of  the  back  seat.  "He  reached 
for  a  gun.  Either  him  or  me."  The  girl 
shivered  and  drew  her  light  coat  up  close 
around  her  throat. 

After  a  few  moments  Lefty  whined, 
"Aw,  whattha  hell  difference  does  it 
make?" 

Back  in  the  lunch  room  Joe  was  dying. 
The  ringing  in  his  ears  sounded  like  a 
million  alarm  clocks,  and  the  room  was 
almost  dark.  He  had  the  curious  sensa- 
tion of  knowing  that  he  had  to  get  out  of 
bed  and  couldn't.    He  opened  his  mouth 


[25] 


to  breathe,  but  closed  it  again  quickly  as 
a  trickle  of  blood  ran  down  his  chin.  The 
pain  in  his  stomach  had  almost  stopped 
now,  but  his  legs  were  asleep  again. 
Couldn't  feel  a  damn  thing  in  them.    He 


wished  he  had  a  drink  of  cool  water 
....  and  that  he  could  hear  his  mother 
sing  "Annie  Laurie"  just  once  more 
....  and  swim  in  a  quarry  .... 


To  Do  or  Not  to  Do 

Miriam  Boxerman 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  7,  1939-1940 


ON  MONDAYS  and  Wednesdays  I 
always  go  to  sleep  an  hour  later 
than  I  do  on  the  other  nights,  since  I 
can  always  count  on  an  extra  hour's 
sleep  on  Tuesday  and  Thursday  morn- 
ings. When  I  get  a  habit,  I  have  got 
something!  You  couldn't  pry  it  loose 
with  a  cold  chisel.  You  can  imagine 
what  a  jolt  I  got  last  Thursday  morning, 
because  for  the  first  time  in  weeks  I 
could  not  sleep  my  extra  hour.  I  will 
tell  you  about  it. 

T  was  walking  north  on  Wright  Street 
at  9:50  a.m.,  on  the  way  from  the  library 
to  my  physiology  lecture.  I  was  begin- 
ning to  yawn  already,  because  it  is  in 
physiolog)'  lecture  that  I  get  my  extra 
hour  of  sleep.  As  I  passed  Gregory  Hall, 
I  happened  to  glance  at  that  inscription: 

"It  is  easier  to  learn  and  remember 
Than  to  investigate  and  think." 
John'  M.  Gregory 

I  walked  on.  I  stopped.  I  turned  around, 
walked  back,  stopped,  and  read  it  again. 
It  was  still  easier  to  learn  and  remember. 

The  remaining  way  to  the  Natural 
History  Building  my  mind  went  through 
revolutions  something  like  this: 

"Let  us  see.  What  does  it  mean?  It 
must  be  good,  or  they  would  not  carve 
it  over  the  door  of  the  only  building  on 
campus  that  is  going  to  be  air-con- 
ditioned.   'It  is  easier  to  learn  and  re- 


member— ' !  So  it  is  not  as  easy  to  in- 
vestigate and  think.  Well,  even  if  it  is 
true,  which  one  should  we  do?  Should 
we  learn  or  investigate?  Probably  we 
should  investigate.  It  sounds  better,  I 
suppose.  But  if  he  meant  investigating 
was  better  why  didn't  he  say  so  instead 
of  beating  around  the  bush !  You  can 
learn  and  remember  or  you  can  investi- 
gate and  think,  and  if  you  learn  and 
remember,  you  will  flunk  out  of  school, 
but  if  vice  then  versa.  That  would  have 
been  much  clearer." 

By  this  time  I  had  reached  my  lecture 
room  and  settled  myself  in  seat  39.  It 
was  no  use.  I  could  not  sleep.  That  silly 
inscription  kept  pestering  me.  Is  it  or 
is  it  not  better  to  flunk  out  of — I  mean 
investigate  and  think?  Which  has  the 
better  results? 

"Let  us  see.  I  want  to  do  something. 
I  want  to  reach  a  goal.  To  do  so  I  am 
given  my  choice — I  can  investigate  and 
think,  or  I  can  learn  and  remember.  But 
I  can't  do  both.  Well,  I  decide  to  in- 
vestigate and  think.  Investigate.  Investi- 
gate what?  I  can  not  read  a  book.  No, 
that  would  be  learning  and  remembering. 
I  must  not  cheat.  So  I  take  a  problem. 
I  walk  brazenly  up  to  it  and  apply  a 
stimulus.  Out  pops  a  response.  I  apply 
more  stimulus.  I  get  more  response.  I 
kick  it,  shake  it,  bite  it,  ignore  it,  spit 


[26] 


on  it,  and  produce  every  stimulus  I  can 
think  of.  Then  I  write  down  every  re- 
sponse on  a  separate  piece  of  paper.  That 
is  correct,  isn't  it?  I've  investigated. 
Now  I  must  think.  I  must  put  together 
the  responses  and  arrive  at  a  conclusion. 
I  leave  the  scene  of  the  problem  and  pro- 
ceed to  Hanley's.  It  is  too  noisy.  I  creep 
into  the  kitchen  and  crawl  under  the  sink. 
This  is  better.  There  I  take  my  papers 
and  stack  them  carefully  in  alphabetical 
order.  Then  I  shuffle  them.  I  place  them 
in  a  circle.  I  place  them  all  around  me, 
close  my  eyes,  pick  one  out,  and  open 
my  eyes  to  see  a  cockroach  staring  at  me. 
I  leave  hastily,  scattering  results  in  the 
alley  on  the  way  out.  I  am  not  disgusted. 
One  must  not  be  disgusted  when  one  is 
being  scientific.  I  read  that  once  in  a 
book. 

"Now  I  try  the  other  method.  I  will 
learn  and  remember.  I  write  down  the 
name  of  the  problem,  walk  into  the 
library,  and  ask  the  librarian  for  the 
book  about  the  problem.  She  tells  me 
where  it  is,  and  I  go  to  get  it.  I  start 
to  thumb  through  the  index  for  my  prob- 


lem and  stop  suddenly.  I  must  not  do 
that.  That  would  be  investigating.  I  go 
back  to  the  librarian  and  explain  that  I 
left  my  glasses  at  home.  I  ask  her  if 
she  will  please  run  through  the  index 
and  find  the  page  for  me.  She  finds  it. 
I  sit  down  on  the  floor,  lean  back  against 
the  librarian's  desk,  and  read.  I  must 
not  write  it  down.  I  must  remember  it. 
I  read  it  seventeen  times.  I  can  say  it 
forwards  and  backwards.  With  a  little 
more  practice  I  shall  be  able  to  say  it 
backwards  in  pig  Latin.  I  proceed  to  the 
scene  of  my  problem,  rattle  ofT  the 
answer,  and  the  problem  gasps  once  and 
bursts  into  a  shower  of  red  marbles, 
which  go  rolling  down  the  street  and 
into  the  sewer. 

"Now  for  a  conclusion.  Learn  plus  re- 
member equals  answer.  Investigate  plus 
think  equals  cockroach.  Final  conclu- 
sion: we  ought  to  remodel  Gregory  Hall." 

By  this  time  the  physiology  lecture 
was  over.  I  arose,  yawned,  and  went 
wearily  out  of  the  room,  out  of  the 
building,  clown  tlie  broadwalk,  home,  and 
to  bed. 


Casualty — ! ! 

He  felt  no  pain.  It  was  more  the  way  one  feels  just  before  falling  to  sleep — when 
the  brain  becomes  dull  and  heavy. 

It  had  happened  so  quickly.  He'd  almost  felt  like  a  spectator  at  a  play — conscious 
of  the  action  on  the  stage,  but  feeling  as  though  he  had  no  part  in  it.  He  remembered 
the  lieutenant  raising  his  arm — and  of  somehow  getting  out  of  the  trench.  From  then  on 
he  had  had  no  control  of  his  legs — he  was  merely  attached  to  them,  and  they  were  carrying 
him  along  with  no  effort  on  his  part. 

All  at  once  that  great  burst  of  light  and  sound  and  the  world  crumbling  before  him — 
he  must  have  slipped  into  a  shell  hole,  for  he  had  had  a  queer  sensation  of  falling  and 
falling  through  time  and  space.  Once  when  he  was  a  child,  after  a  Christmas  dinner  of 
turkey  and  plum  pudding,  he'd  dreamed  of  the  same  thing — as  if  there  were  no  time  or 
space,  and  he  was  falling  through  a  void.  It  seemed  as  if  he'd  fallen  for  hundreds  of 
years — he'd   remembered  how  good   that  turkey  had  tasted  going  down,  but — 

Somehow,  he  hadn't  thought  of  opening  his  eyes — it  was  sort  of  good  just  lying  here. 
It  was  early  spring,  and  the  warm  breeze  made  him  feel  like  dozing.  He  remembered  how, 
as  a  kid,  he  used  to  go  fishing  in  the  spring,  and  be  content  to  lie  on  the  bank  of  the 
mill  pond,  waking  up  occasionally  to  see  if  he  had  a  bite.  Maybe  he  was  dreaming  now, 
and  had  dreamed  everything  that  had  happened,  in  what  seemed  ages  ago.  He'd  read 
once  that  some  Chinese  philosopher  had  said  that  maybe  man  was  a  butterfly  dreaming 
he  was  a  man.  It  would  be  funny  if  he'd  open  his  eyes  and  find  himself  with  a  pair 
of  wings. 

Above  him  the  sky  was  bright  with  stars  and  a  great  red  moon  was  coming  up  in  tin- 
east.   A  bright  flare  exploded  and  slowly  died  away. — Douglas  Homs 


27] 


Benny  Builds  "Damned  Good  Airplanes" 


Wilfrid  B.  Shantz 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  6,  1929-1940 


THE  HOWARD  Aircraft  Corporation 
is  going  to  move  from  its  cramped 
one-story  factory  at  6425  West  Sixty- 
fifth  Street,  Chicago.  This  red  brick 
building,  indistinguishable  from  its  neigh- 
bors, seemed  tremendous  four  years  ago  ; 
but  the  dreams  and  dogged  pertinacity 
of  Benny  Howard  have  made  it  too  small 
for  future  operations.  Benny  is  the 
dynamo  of  the  Howard  Aircraft  Cor- 
poration ;  he  could  get  along  without  the 
corporation,  but  the  corporation  could 
not  get  along  without  him.  Both  he  and 
it  have  the  same  purpose  in  life — to 
manufacture  a  better  airplane,  per  dollar 
of  cost,  than  anyone  else  can. 

The  first  plane  that  Benny  built  was 
named  model  D.  G.  A.  1,  a  snowy  white, 
sleek  mosquito  of  a  plane.  It  was  tailored 
so  snugly  to  Benny's  dimensions  that  he 
had  to  empty  his  pockets  and  take  off 
his  shoes  before  he  could  fly  it.  He  nick- 
named it  Pete.  It  was  a  fast  ship — fast 
enough  to  win  prize  money.  Benny 
needed  that  prize  money.  He  was  collect- 
ing money  for  a  purpose — to  build  more 
airplanes. 

D.  G.  A.  2  and  D.  G.  A.  3,  Mike  and 
Ike  respectively,  were  built  with  these 
early  savings.  When  the  two  planes  were 
registered  with  the  Department  of  Com- 
merce, some  official  wanted  to  know  the 
meaning  of  the  three  letters  included 
in  the  model  names.  Benny  replied 
simply  that  they  stood  for  Damned  Good 
Airplanes.  Mike  and  Ike  lived  up  to  the 
title ;  their  sturdiness  and  maneuver- 
ability helped  Benny  to  earn  the  nick- 
name of  Pylon  Polisher  at  the  National 
Air  Races,  and  their  money  earnings 
enabled  him  to  finance  his  next  plane. 


This  one  was  a  more  ambitious  crea- 
tion. Pete,  Mike,  and  Ike  were  racing 
ships,  built  to  specifications  that  would 
allow  them  to  compete  in  the  limited 
power  class  of  planes  that  race  annually 
for  the  Greve  trophy.  But  D.  G.  A.  4, 
or  Mr.  Mulligan,  was  a  high-winged, 
four-place  cabin  monoplane  that  re- 
sembled a  commercial  pleasure  plane.  In 
appearance  the  differences  from  a  com- 
mercial plane  were  more  in  degree  than 
in  kind ;  the  wings  were  shorter,  the 
motor  was  larger,  the  streamlining  was 
better.  But  the  performance  was  far 
superior.  The  Bendix  race,  from  Los 
Angeles  to  Cleveland,  in  1934,  was  the 
first  test  for  Mr.  Mulligan.  Benny  rolled 
over  the  finish  line  a  winner  by  the 
margin  of  twenty-three  seconds  over 
Roscoe  Turner.  A  little  later  Mr.  Mul- 
ligan won  the  Thompson  race,  this  time 
with  Harold  Newman  at  the  controls. 
Ike  was  still  on  the  scene  and  again  won 
the  Greve  trophy.  This  clean  sweep  of 
all  the  major  events  by  the  planes  of  a 
single  designer  gave  Benny  not  only 
more  capital  to  work  with  but  also  the 
recognition  and  prestige  he  so  richly 
deserved. 

This  money  and  this  recognition  made 
his  next  step  easier.  He  had  worked 
toward  a  goal  for  years — the  goal  of 
manufacturing  a  better  airplane  than 
other  producers  in  the  commercial  field ; 
but  many  things  had  to  be  done  before 
production  could  start.  A  corporation 
was  formed  to  raise  more  capital.  The 
factory,  which  the  corporation  is  now 
abandoning,  was  leased.  The  plans  from 
which  Mr.  I\Iulligan  were  built  were 
revised  and  modified  to  please  the  De- 


[28] 


partment  of  Commerce.  Numerous  and 
exhaustive  tests  were  made  to  prove  to 
the  inspectors  that  every  detail  of  the 
design  was  sound.  Wing  sections  were 
loaded  with  sandbags  until  they  broke. 
Rudders  were  twisted  and  bent.  The 
fuselage  and  landing  gear  were  dropped 
from  great  heights.  Complete  wing 
assemblies  were  loaded  with  weights 
until  they  drooped  like  hound's  ears.  The 
department  finally  gave  the  proposed 
design  the  highest  rating  ever  given  to 
a  comparable  design.  Production  was 
started,  and  in  spite  of  keen  competition 
the  corporation  forged  ahead  until,  in 
September,  1935,  fate  intervened. 

Benny,  the  president  of  the  corpora- 
tion, entered  Mr.  Mulligan  in  the  annual 
Bendix  race.  Mr.  Mulligan  had  been 
tested  and  groomed  and  had  had  tem- 
porary gasoline  tanks  installed  so  that 
only  two  stops  would  have  to  be  made 
between  New  York  and  Los  Angeles. 
The  take-ofif  was  made  at  6:30  a.m. 
from  New  York.  Benny  was  piloting  the 
plane,  and  Maxine,  his  wife,  was  acting 
as  co-pilot.  They  made  a  swift  but 
uneventful  flight  to  Kansas  City,  where 
they  refueled  for  the  last  lap  of  the 
race.    When  they  left  Kansas  City,  they 


were  not  only  leading  all  of  the  other 
contestants,  but  were  half  an  hour  ahead 
of  the  transcontinental  record.  A  short 
time  after  the  take-off,  while  they  were 
over  a  wild  and  desolate  part  of  New 
Mexico,  the  hub  of  the  propeller  broke, 
so  that  they  were  forced  U)  a  crash- 
landing  in  the  yard  of  an  isolated  Indian 
school.  It  was  a  year  before  Benny 
could  walk  again,  and  longer  before 
Maxine  could  hobble  about.  r>ut  the 
corporation  went  on. 

More  capital  being  needed,  the  cor- 
poration was  refinanced  by  the  sale  of 
one  and  a  half  million  dollars  worth  of 
stock.  Production  had  slumped  while 
Benny  was  recovering,  but  his  indomi- 
table courage  soon  remedied  that  condi- 
tion. Now  more  room  is  needed  because 
there  is  another  dream  becoming  a 
reality.  A  new  D.  G.  A.  model  will  soon 
be  approved  for  production — not  a  racer, 
not  a  cabin  plane,  but  a  stout,  strong 
boxcar  of  the  skyways — a  freighter, 
ready  to  shoulder  great  burdens  and 
transport  them  safely,  swiftly,  and 
cheaply  for  long  distances.  It  will  be  a 
success,  because  Benny  builds  "Damned 
Good  Airplanes." 


Freshman  Football 


J.  E.  Porter 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  3,  1939-1940 


AT  THE  Health  Station  I  stand  in  a 
line  of  fellows,  all  about  my  own 
age  and  all  nearly  nude.  Looking  at  them 
I  begin  to  wonder  why  I  have  chosen  to 
be  mauled  and  beaten  in  the  rather  brutal 
game  of  football.  My  better  judgment 
tells  me  to  leave  the  Health  Station  when 


I  have  had  the  university's  required  ex- 
amination and  to  forget  about  football. 
All  is  well !  But  just  as  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  forget  it,  suddenly  something 
else  pops  into  my  mind:  I  see  the  Illinois 
Varsity  on  the  gridiron  and  hear  "the 
good   old   Oskee-Wow-Wow,   that   they 


29 


officer    and    Casey    kicks    him    into    in- 
sensibility. 

This  book  enlists  one's  sympathies 
with  the  Okies  and  against  the  police, 
partly  from  the  natural  sympathy  for 
the  underdog,  but  more  because  of  the 
ignoble  role  the  police  are  shown  to  play. 
The  duty  of  the  police  is  to  drive  the 
migrants  to  the  ripe  crops  in  large 
enough  numbers  to  insure  an  oversupply 
of  labor  at  each  employment  point  so  that 
enough  hungry  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren will  be  there  to  keep  the  wage  rate 
down.  The  police  must  keep  the  workers 
from  unionizing  at  any  cost  because  that 
might  force  the  great  landlords  to  lose 
some  of  their  cherished  profits.  Vigi- 
lantes often  continue  the  work  which  the 
police  are  unable  to  do. 

Carey  McWilliams'  Factories  in  tJie 
Field  goes  deeper  into  the  activities  of 
these  vigilantes  than  Steinbeck's  book 
does.  AlcWilliams  traces  the  roots  of 
this  American  form  of  Fascism  back 
past  the  days  of  the  forty-niners.  Many 
of  the  tremendous  ranches  and  land  em- 
pires that  now  flourish  in  California  are 
the  result  of  forged  and  fraudulent 
Spanish  grants,  or  of  legalized  robbery 
through  corrupt  local  governments.  The 
pattern  of  violence  and  deceit  in  which 
these  holdings  were  formed  has  been 
constant  to  the  present  time  in  the  land- 
lords' dealings  with  migratory  labor. 

McWilliams  shows  that  this  problem 
was  faced  by  the  landlords  long  before 
there  were  any  Okies.  The  Chinese,  the 
Japanese,  the  Hindus,  and  the  Mexicans 


were  used  as  harvesters  after  being  im- 
ported to  supply  the  demand  for  cheap 
labor.  Each  group  in  turn  was  hounded, 
robbed,  and  beaten  as  it  attempted  to 
organize  for  higher  wages  or  to  ac- 
quire land.  These  groups  were  vilified 
and  called  foreigners  to  rationalize  the 
tactics  of  the  patriotic  vigilantes.  When 
the  Okies  first  started  to  go  to  California, 
they  were  hailed  joyfully  as  fresh  ma- 
terial for  exploitation,  but  since  as 
American  citizens  they  could  not  be  de- 
ported, the  police,  the  health  officers,  and 
the  vigilantes  kept  them  moving  often 
enough  to  prevent  the  establishment  of 
legal  voting  residences.  To  retain  the 
cloak  of  pseudo-patriotism  the  vigilantes 
called  all  efforts  to  organize  "radical" 
and  "red." 

Since  a  factual  background  shown  in 
Factories  in  the  Field  explains  the  plight 
of  the  Joads  in  The  Grapes  of  Wrath, 
the  two  books  should  be  read  as  comple- 
ments to  one  another.  To  get  the  greatest 
impact  one  should  read  Factories  in  the 
Field  first.  It  is  not  an  exciting  or  dra- 
matic book,  but  it  presents  its  facts  in  a 
quiet,  restrained  way.  It  will  double  your 
appreciation  of  The  Grapes  of  Wrath 
because  it  raises  Steinbeck's  book  from 
the  almost  unbelievable  to  a  place  of 
power  it  richly  deserves.  One's  reaction 
to  The  Grapes  of  Wrath  will  probably 
be  determined  by  his  financial  position ; 
as  June  Provine  put  it,  in  the  Tribune: 
"The  rich  will  cry,  'Propaganda!'  The 
middle  class  will  cry  'Impossible!'  The 
poor  will  cry." 


The  weary  men,  in  the  bread  line,  leaning  against  the  building,  looked  like  old 
tattered  books  on  a  half-full  shelf. — Tom  Chittenden 


2,2 


Honorable  Mention 

Donald  Allison — Boyhood  Ramblings 

Mary  Jo  Counsil — Hurrah  for  the  County  Fair ! 

Dave  Doherty — An  Expose  of  X 

Mary  Dowling — Books  as  a  Hobby 

John  Georgacakis — Helping  My  Girl  Clean  1  louse 

Howard  Grubb — Military  Communique 

Paul  Hemp — The  Ever-Normal  Granary 

Charles  Hill — Reaching  for  the  Stars 

Helen  Hill — Something  Lacking 

Max  Kelley — Trestle  Episode 

Mrs.  L.  N.  Lane — Garden,  Defined 

RoNDA  Mann — Almost 

Walter  Mann — Fire 

Ruth  Wilson — Chief  "Getter-Upper" 

Carolyn  Parker — Love  at  First  Sight 

Herman  Schuette — Harvest  Moon 

Marjorie  Sparr — The  Dunes 

Betty  Steiner — I  Want  to  Marry  the  Butcher  Boy 

Mary  Ann  Stoker — How  to  Amuse  Oneself 

W.  J.  Yahrmarkt — My  Grandmother 

Ralph  Yohe — Memorial  Trees 


,  "   ff.'.i-.'-',-tfV'<vii 


Vol.9 


APRIL,  1940 


No.  4 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


HAYING 

R.  G.  Romersberger 


I  AM  THE  THIRD     .... 
Kenneth  E.  Herron 

WHAT    I    HAVE    INHERITED 
Julian  Dawson 


IT'S   A   GAME— FOR   BOYS 9 

Denise  Snider 

FAITH    HEALING U 

Ray  Langebartel 

MONKEY    BUSINESS IS 

Frank  Honsik 


HOSTELING— THE  THRILL  OF  NEW  TRAILS 
Mary  R.  Dowling 


19 


MAJOR 21 

Dwight  Guyer 

BRITISH    WAR    POETRY,    1914-1918 24 

Lois  Vogt 


THE   CHILDREN'S    HOUR 
Shirley  Landsman 


27 


EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY'S  "CONVERSA- 
TION   AT    MIDNIGHT" 28 

Sally  Rhode 

"MUTINY  ON  THE  BOUNTY" 29 

Norma  Adams 

"1919" 30 

George  F.  Asselin 

RHET  AS  WRIT 32 

(Material  written  in  Rhetoric  I  and  II) 


.iMj\}h 


{ 


\ 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  RHETORIC  STAFF.  UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS.  URBANA 


HE  Green  Caldron  is  published  four  times  a  year 
at  the  University  of  Illinois.  Material  is  chosen  by  the 
Rhetoric  Staff  from  themes  and  examinations  written 
by  freshmen  in  the  University.  Permission  to  publish 
is  obtained  for  all  full  themes,  including  those  pub- 
lished anonymously.  Parts  of  themes,  however,  are 
published  at  the  discretion  of  the  committee  in  charge. 

The  committee  in  charge  of  this  issue  of  The  Green 
Caldron  includes  Mr.  Robert  Geist,  Mr.  W.  McNeil 
LowRY,  Mr.  Kerker  Quinn,  Mr.  Kenneth  An- 
drews, and  Mr.  Charles  Shattuck,  Chairman. 

The  Green  Caldron  is  for  sale  in  the  Information 
Office,  Administration  Building  West,  Urbana,  Illinois. 


1 


THE  GREEN  CALDRON 

COPYRIGHT  1940 
BY  THE  university  OF  ILLINOIS 

All  rights  reserved 
No   part  of  this  periodical   may  be   repro- 
duced  in   any   form   without   permission  in 
writing  from  the  publisher. 


Haying 


R.  G.  ROMERSBERGER 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1939-1940 


"IJAYING"  has  a  host  of  different 
*  *  meanings  to  different  people.  To 
the  poet  it  means  sweet  green  hay,  strain- 
ing horses,  racks  loaded  high  above  their 
ladders,  sweating  men,  and  the  hot,  dim 
mow,  whose  enormous  maw  seems  never 
to  be  satisfied.  To  the  children  of  the 
neighborhood  it  means  a  day  of  hitching 
rides  to  and  from  the  field,  of  romping  in 
the  mow,  and  of  carrying  cold  lemonade 
and  thick  sandwiches  to  the  field  in  mid- 
afternoon.  To  my  mother  it  means 
breakfast  a  little  earlier,  a  ten  o'clock 
lunch  for  Dad,  and  an  early  dinner  for 
me.  It  also  means  keeping  cracked  ice 
ready  for  the  water  jug  and  making 
lemonade  and  bologna  sandwiches  for 
the  afternoon  lunch.  To  my  dad  it  means 
getting  up  a  little  earlier  to  get  the  hay 
cut,  raked,  and  in  the  barn  before  it  is 
spoiled  by  rain  or  before  other  work 
rushes  him.  It  also  means  feed  for  next 
winter  when  our  stock  cannot  glean  their 
living  from  the  meadow  itself,  but  must 
be  penned  in  the  barn,  away  from  cold 
and  snow.  To  me  haying  means  hard 
work  and  lots  of  it. 

I  must  rise  early,  feed  and  harness  the 
horses,  eat  breakfast,  and  start  toward 
the  field  before  the  sun  is  well  up.  My 
father  will  do  the  milking  this  morning 
because  I  must  get  an  early  start  at  the 
hay.  The  morning  is  cool,  and  the  denim 
jacket  feels  good  on  my  back.  A  heavy 
dew  is  on  the  hay  as  I  enter  the  field, 
and  the  soft  thud  of  each  planted  hoof 
brings  a  tiny  glisten-shower.  As  I  oil 
the  mower,  I  hear  the  staccato  explosions 
and  then  the  steady  pop-pop  of  a  John- 
Deere  down  to  the  southwest.  Dave 
Zimmerman  must  want  to  finish  that  last 


piece  of  corn  plowing  before  he  helps  us 
this  afternoon.  The  last  oil-hole  is  filled, 
the  mower  is  in  gear,  and  I  am  off  around 
the  field,  the  clatter  of  the  old  mower 
drowning  out  every  other  sound. 

As  the  swaths  increase  and  the  cut 
strip  widens,  I  stop  occasionally  to  re- 
oil  the  mower  and  let  the  horses  blow. 
The  dew  is  about  gone,  and  the  heat  of 
the  morning  begins  to  wave  the  brown 
stubble  in  the  field  across  the  fence.  The 
horses  are  beginning  to  sweat,  and  their 
glistening  sides  are  busy  shivering  off 
the  flies.  About  two  more  hours  and  we 
will  have  this  field  pretty  well  finished. 
Around  the  field  we  go,  each  round  mak- 
ing the  ring  of  cut  hay  wider  and  the 
strip  of  standing  hay  narrower.  As  the 
ten-twenty  train  whistles  for  Miller's 
crossing,  I  have  only  a  few  more  rounds 
and  already  see  Dad  coming  up  the 
road  with  the  side-delivery  to  start  rak- 
ing. As  he  enters  the  field,  I  see  him 
stop  and  sweep  up  a  bunch  in  his  hand, 
testing  it  for  dryness.  Yes,  it  is  just  right. 
It  feels  dry  to  the  hand,  but  there  is  just 
enough  moisture  in  it  to  give  it  a  slight 
toughness  and  keep  the  leaves  from 
breaking  off.  The  hay  will  finish  its  cur- 
ing in  the  windrow  and  will  be  ready  for 
the  mow  by  one  o'clock.  Dad  starts 
raking  in  the  same  place  where  I  started 
mowing,  raking  first  the  hay  which  is 
driest.  The  rake  is  a  queer  contraption, 
pulled  obliquely  around  the  field,  wire 
fingers  on  a  revolving  drum  gathering  an 
eight-foot  swath  of  hay  and  rolling  it  out 
to  the  side  in  an  even,  round  windrow. 

At  eleven-fifteen  I  have  finished  mow- 
ing and  raise  the  cutter  bar  for  the  trip 
home.  The  horses  have  done  their  morn- 


[  I  ] 


ing's  work  well  and  deserve  an  extra 
half-hour  rest  period.  After  seeing  that 
they  are  well  watered  and  fed,  I  open 
the  big  hay  door  in  the  north  end  of  the 
barn,  uncoil  the  manilla  rope,  and  rig  it 
through  the  pulleys  in  preparation  for  the 
afternoon  work.  Since  Dad  called  up 
the  haying  crew  last  night,  they  should 
be  ready  to  start  pretty  soon.  After  a 
hasty  dinner,  the  refreshed  team  is 
hitched  to  the  rack,  and  I  again  head  for 
the  field.  I  see  Ed  Steffen  is  there  ready 
to  load  and  Don  Hack  is  coming  down 
the  road.  Those  fellows  are  always  the 
first  ones  on  the  job.  As  I  must  be  at 
the  barn  when  the  first  load  is  mowed,  I 
shall  be  first  to  load.  The  other  two  men 
tie  their  teams  to  the  fence  and  start 
pitching  to  me. 

Pitching  hay  goes  well  if  the  pitchers 
know  what  they  are  about  and  work  to- 
gether. Don  and  Ed  have  been  working 
at  it  for  a  long  time  and  get  along  very 
well.  Don  slips  his  fork  under  the  end 
of  the  windrow  and,  lifting  gently,  folds 
the  end  over,  making  a  double  roll  of  hay. 
Then,  in  like  manner,  he  folds  the  double 
portion  over  and  he  has  a  good-sized 
forkful.  Meanwhile,  Ed  has  separated 
the  windrow  about  ten  feet  from  the  end 
and  is  folding  his  end  back  in  the  same 
way.  They  meet  in  the  middle  with  a 
giant  forkful,  place  themselves  between 
the  bunch  and  the  rack  and,  sticking  their 
forks  firmly  in  the  edges  of  the  bunch, 
they  heave  it  upward  and  backward  over 
their  heads  onto  the  rack.  If  one  of  them 
is  slow  and  awkward,  the  other  must  wait 
on  him,  or  if  they  do  not  heave  at  exactly 
the  same  time,  the  bunch  will  become 
separated  and  half  of  it  will  come 
tumbling  back  on  them,  down  their 
sleeves,  in  their  eyes,  and  down  their 
backs.  Ed  and  Don  are  old  hands  at  it, 
however,  and  the  rack  is  rapidly  filling 
up.    I  stay  on  the  load,  keeping  the  top 


level  and  keeping  the  hay  well  packed. 
The  object  in  loading  hay  is  to  put  as 
much  as  possible  on  and  keep  it  there 
until  you  reach  the  barn.  To  do  this  the 
sides  must  be  built  up  straight  and  the 
corners  packed  in  firmly.  This  makes  a 
square,  high  load  which  will  ride  over 
moderately  level  ground  and  only  sway 
gently  back  and  forth.  When  hay  is 
piled  well  above  the  ladders  on  my  rack, 
I  gather  up  my  lines,  and,  leaning  on  my 
fork  for  balance,  start  barnward.  Dave 
and  Uncle  Sam  are  here  now,  and  can 
start  to  pitch  for  the  other  two  racks. 
My  older  brother  and  another  uncle  will 
work  in  the  mow  at  home,  and  Bill,  my 
younger  brother,  will  drive  the  team  on 
the  rope.  As  I  cross  the  road  from  the 
field,  ducking  to  escape  the  sagging  tele- 
phone wire,  I  see  that  Bill  has  his  team 
in  place ;  so  I  need  only  drive  up  close 
to  the  end  of  the  barn  under  the  big 
door  and  pull  out  the  clawlike  grapple 
fork. 

The  rope  and  pulley  system  in  a  barn  is 
simple,  yet  quite  effective.  A  stationary 
steel  track  is  built  in  the  ridge  of  the 
barn,  extending  out  over  the  load  of  hay. 
On  the  end  of  the  track  is  a  trip-catch 
which  stops  and  locks  a  small  four- 
wheeled  carrier.  From  the  carrier  is  sus- 
pended the  large  fork,  rigged  so  that 
when  it  is  pulled  to  the  end  of  the  track, 
the  carrier  locks  in  place  and  the  fork 
drops  to  the  load,  pulling  with  it  the 
double  strand  of  inch,  hemp  rope  to 
which  it  is  attached.  When  the  load  is 
raised,  by  a  team  of  horses  pulling  on  the 
large  rope  at  the  other  end  of  the  barn, 
the  carrier  is  released,  and  glides  along 
the  track  to  any  point  in  the  barn. 

I  am  very  careful  as  I  pull  the  big 
grapple  fork  from  the  barn.  It  is  fastened 
to  the  pulley  which  locks  in  the  carrier, 
and  as  I  pull  it  toward  the  open  door 
with  the  three-eighths  inch  trip  rope,  I 


[2] 


move  to  the  front  of  the  load  so  that, 
when  the  carrier  hits  the  trip-catch,  re- 
leasing the  fork  and  locking  the  carrier, 
I  will  not  be  beneath  it.  The  fork  is 
quite  heavy  and  comes  down  with  its 
jaws  wide  apart,  menacing  the  life  of 
anyone  caught  under  it.  It  is  made  in 
two  parts,  hinged  in  the  middle  with 
three  fingers  or  tines  in  each  half.  It  is 
constructed  so  that  when  its  fingers  are 
pushed  into  the  hay  and  the  rope  pulls 
on  the  middle  joint,  the  halves  squeeze 
together,  sometimes  taking  as  much  as 
one- fourth  of  a  load  at  a  grab.  I  set  the 
fork  in  the  back  half  of  the  load,  jump- 
ing on  it  to  set  the  tines  firmly  and 
deeply,  and,  after  seeing  that  the  trip 
rope  is  clear,  crawl  to  the  front  of  the 
rack  to  keep  from  being  swept  off  as  the 
load  goes  up.  With  everything  in  readi- 
ness I  yell  "All-1-1  right!"  There  is  a 
moment's  pause  while  Bill  starts  the 
horses,  then  a  tightening  and  straining  of 
the  rope,  and  the  whole  back  quarter  of 
my  load  moves  slowly  toward  the  top 
of  the  barn.  Up,  up,  it  goes  until,  with  a 
moment's  hesitation,  the  pulley  clicks 
into  the  carrier,  and  the  whole  mass 
swings  quickly  into  the  barn.  By  this 
time  I  have  retrieved  the  trip  rope,  and 
when  the  hay  is  above  the  spot  where  it 
is  to  be  dropped,  the  men  inside  yell 
"Whoa!"  I  give  a  quick  jerk  on  the  trip 
rope,  and  the  hay  drops  with  a  thump 
and  swish  to  the  mow  floor,  where  it  is 
attacked  and  scattered  from  wall  to  wall. 
The  youngsters   now   do  their  part   by 


tramping  the  hay  and  packing  it  well 
against  the  wall  while  I  pull  the  fork 
back  out  and  repeat  the  operation.  Once 
in  a  while  four  forkfuls  will  empty  a 
rack,  but  ordinarily  five  or  six  are  neces- 
sary. Since  I  am  lucky  enough  to  get 
unloaded  in  five,  I  am  ready  to  move  on 
as  Ed  pulls  into  the  yard,  his  horses 
blowing  and  the  steel  wheels  of  his  rack 
noisily  crunching  on  the  gravel. 

By  four  o'clock  we  have  eight  loads  in 
the  barn,  and  word  comes  from  the  house 
that  lunch  is  ready.  The  cool  basement 
certainly  feels  good,  and  the  sandwiches 
and  sour  lemonade,  together  with  the 
fifteen-minute  rest,  refresh  us  as  nothing 
else  could.  A  basket  with  some  extra 
sandwiches  and  drink  was  sent  to  the 
field  with  the  last  empty  rack;  the 
pitchers  will  not  have  to  come  to  the 
house  for  their  lunch. 

At  six  o'clock,  as  the  sun  hangs  heavily 
above  the  trees  in  the  west,  my  last  load 
is  on  the  way  to  the  barn.  The  pitchers 
have  started  homeward,  and  the  stillness 
of  the  evening  makes  the  more  loud  my 
"All  right !"  and  the  answering  "Whoa!" 
from  within  the  bam.  As  the  last  fork- 
ful disappears  into  the  mow,  it  is  with 
a  weary  sigh  that  I  drop  to  the  ground 
and  start  to  undo  the  tugs.  It  has  been  a 
long  day  and  I  have  worked  hard,  but  as 
I  tie  up  the  last  line  and  turn  the  team 
to  the  water  tank,  I  feel  that  I  have 
accomplished  something.  This  day  has 
not  been  in  vain.  I  am  at  peace  with  the 
world. 


Tubby 

If  you  were  to  meet  Dick,  or  Tubby,  as  he  is  usually  called,  on  the  street,  your 
first  impression  would  be  one  of  amusement.  He  is  not  merely  overweight;  he  is 
absurdly  fat.  As  his  duck-like  waddle  brings  him  closer,  you  may  discover  two  mild, 
brown  eyes  watching  you  carefully,  as  if  to  see  how  you  react  to  his  presence.  His 
fat  face  is  like  thousands  of  other  fat  faces  the  country  over,  and  his  brown  hair  is 
combed  back  in  a  straight,  slick  pompadour  which  helps  to  modify  the  roundness  of 
his  cheeks.  His  legs  are  short  and  solid  columns  beneath  him,  and  his  big  feet  swing 
listlessly,  plumping  on  the  walk  as  his  weight  settles  over  them  for  the  next  step. 

— Lewis  Whisnant 


[3  1 


I  Am  the  Third 


Kenneth  E.  Hekron 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1939-1940 


OH,  AND  you're  the  Herron  baby! 
I  declare,  it  doesn't  seem  possible 
that  you  are  going  into  high  school.  Why, 
I  remember  you  as  a  tiny  tike  following 
your  brothers  when  they  played  together 
in  our  neighborhood.  Are  you  going  to 
make  as  fine  a  record  in  high  school  as 
they  did?" 

I  wanted  to  say,  "Listen,  old  lady, 
where  do  you  get  that  'baby'  stuff?  Fm 
a  few  years  beyond  the  diaper  stage."  I 
decided  to  settle  for  a  milder  answer, 
"Well,  I  hope  I  can  do  as  well  as  they 
did." 

"I  hope  so,  too.  You  have  your  job 
cut  out  for  you." 

I  wore  a  tolerant  smile  as  the  old  lady 
recounted  the  accomplishments  I  was  ex- 
pected to  equal.  This  little  chat  was  no 
new  experience.  I  was  stopped  for  just 
such  a  conversation  every  time  I  walked 
within  yelling  distance  of  one  of  the 
town's  older  residents.  All  of  the 
friendly  advice  and  unsolicited  help 
which  I  received  added  up  to  a  universal 
expectation  that  from  the  day  I  entered 
high  school  I  was  to  stay  as  close  to  my 
brothers'  footsteps  as  a  London  resident 
stays  to  his  bomb-proof  cellar.  I  was 
bathed  in  the  glory  reflected  from  my 
brothers'  records.  Certain  courses  were 
suggested  to  me  "because  your  brothers 
got  along  in  those  subjects  so  well." 

And  how  I  loved  it !  Being  the  "third 
and  last"  was  a  real  thrill.  In  a  short 
time  I  was  accepted  as  a  life-sized  repro- 
duction of  the  original  article.  I  enjoyed 
being  referred  to  as  "his  brothers  all  over 
again."  Of  course,  I  couldn't  disappoint 
everyone  by  falling  short  in  any  way.    I 


wanted  to  participate  in  all  of  the  school 
activities  in  which  my  pace-setters  had 
taken  part.  By  trying  to  match  my  broth- 
ers' achievements  I  received  much  more 
from  my  high-school  life  than  I  might 
have  otherwise. 


"Why,  of  course  you  want  to  be  in 
the  high-school  chorus,  don't  you,  Ken- 
neth? Your  brothers  were  both  fine 
singers."  The  faculty  advisor  knew  what 
'line'  I  would  swallow.  I  didn't  wonder 
that  he  was  coaxing  me  to  join  that 
group.  There  weren't  enough  boys  in  the 
entire  chorus  to  fill  an  average-sized 
phone  booth. 

"Okay,"  I  said.  "No  reason  I  can't  do 
it  if  my  brothers  did." 

A  few  days  later  the  chorus  director 
approached  me.  "Now  that  you  are  in  the 
chorus,  you  will  want  to  take  a  part  in 
the  operetta,  won't  you?" 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  just  thought  that  since  your 
brothers — " 

That  got  me.  "Sure,  I  can  do  anything 
they  did." 

"What  t)^e  of  roles  can  you  play?" 
the  director  wanted  to  know. 

"I  like  Robert's  part,"  I  ventured,  after 
glancing  through  a  copy  of  the  libretto 
which  he  had  handed  me.  I  didn't  realize 
that  I  would  have  been  as  out  of  place 
in  that  part  as  Louis  Armstrong  in  a 
symphony  orchestra. 

"Do  you  think  you  are  exactly  the 
romantic  type?"  the  director  asked  me. 
glancing  at  my  five- foot,  five-inch  frame. 
He  was  trying  to  be  very  diplomatic. 


[4] 


"I  could  do  it  all  right." 

"Your  brothers  usually  liked  comedy 
roles.  Maybe  you  could  take  the  part  of 
Dutchy.  Of  course,  that  would  require 
some  good  acting.  Your  brothers  could 
have  taken  that  part  very  well.  But  if 
you  would  rather  not  try  it — "  He 
sounded  as  if  he  wanted  to  say,  "If 
you're  as  good  as  your  brothers,  you 
could  handle  that  part." 

The  argument  was  over.  I  was  Dutchy. 


Only  when  I  stepped  from  the  beaten 
track  and  attempted  to  participate  in  a 
school  activity  "on  my  own"  did  I  realize 
that  maybe  this  "3"  business  was  not  as 
sweet  as  I  had  begun  to  imagine. 


"What  do  you  want?"  the  football 
manager  asked  when  I  stepped  up  to  the 
locker-room  window. 

"I'd  like  to  check  out  a  football 
uniform." 

"You  mean  you're  going  out  for  the 
team?" 

"Any  objections?" 

"No,  but — oh  well,  here  you  are,"  he 
said  as  he  threw  a  uniform  at  me. 

I  hurried  to  the  shower  room  and 
pulled  on  my  uniform.  On  my  way  to  the 
practice  field,  I  stopped  in  front  of  a 
mirror  hanging  near  a  door. 

"Hot  dog,  126  pounds  of  dynamite," 
I  told  myself,  noting  with  pleasure  that 
my  appearance  was  almost  as  bad  as  that 
of  some  real  footballers  I  had  watched. 

A  piece  of  shapeless,  colorless  leather, 
which  might  have  been  a  helmet  at  one 
time,  gave  a  bullet-shaped  appearance 
to  my  head.  A  lock  of  my  blond  hair  had 
crawled  out  of  the  headgear  and  gave  a 
delightful  don't-give-a-darn  attitude  to 
my  face.  My  normally  pugged  nose 
looked    even    broader    than    usual.     My 


green  eyes  and  square  jaws  were  neatly 
framed  by  the  ear-flaps.  At  the  waist,  my 
speckled  grey  jersey  was  tucked  in  my 
canvas  pants.  The  pants  themselves  were 
neatly  overlapped  at  one  side.  (Size  40 
pants  simply  aren't  made  for  size  32 
athletes.)  A  piece  of  rope  was  doing  a 
noble  job  of  substituting  for  a  belt.  It 
was  never  intended  that  a  five-and-a- 
half- footer  should  wear  those  pants.  The 
padding  which  ordinarily  protects  knees 
covered  my  shins. 

Tearing  myself  from  the  mirror,  I  left 
the  building  and  sauntered  toward  the 
field.  The  coach  saw  me  walking  near 
the  sidelines  and  ambled  over  in  my  di- 
rection. He  was  wearing  a  wide  grin. 

"Well,  by  golly,  I've  seen  everything 
now." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked.  I  had 
expected  a  somewhat  warmer  reception. 

"A  Herron  in  a  football  suit.  It's  un- 
believable. Wouldn't  you  be  more  com- 
fortable with  a  history  book  than  a  pair 
of  shoulder  pads?" 

I  glanced  at  a  circle  of  foolish,  grin- 
ning faces.  The  entire  squad  had 
gathered  to  enjoy  the  situation.  "Aw, 
coach,  for  gosh  sakes !  Just  because  my 
brothers  didn't  play  football  doesn't  mean 
I  won't  jnake  a  good  player.  I  thought 
you  liked  to  see  new  material."  For  the 
first  time  I  felt  a  slight  longing  to  break 
away  from  the  Herron  connections. 

"It's  okay  with  me,"  the  coach  said. 
"You  can  come  out.  I  won't  guarantee 
to  make  a  football  player  out  of  you, 
though." 

Within  a  week  the  entire  community 
knew  that  "one  of  the  Herron  bo^-s  has 
failed  to  come  through,  Kenneth  is  play- 
ing football.  He  has  broken  away  from 
family  traditions." 

"The  old  vultures,"  I  thought.  "From 
now  on,  one  low  mark  in  a  short  quiz 
or  a  'don't  know'  in  class-room  recita- 


[  5  ] 


tion,  and   I'll  be  pounced  upon  with  a 
chorus  of  'I  told  you  so's.'  " 


"I  won't  have  time  for  anything  like 
that,"  I  lied. 


Since  I  had  stepped  from  my  brothers' 
tracks  to  play  football,  it  was  generally 
supposed  that  I  was  making  a  clean 
break  from  my  family  connections  in 
school  and  social  life.  The  "Herron 
boys"  had  been  considered  as  one  group 
until  I  checked  out  a  football  uniform. 
From  that  time  they  were  divided — the 
"older  boys"  and  the  "Herron  ruffian." 
There  were  plenty  of  my  "friends"  who 
were  ready  and  willing  to  give  me  a  boost 
— downhill.  I  was  not  exactly  encouraged 
by  remarks  such  as  "Well,  three  of  a  kind 
is  too  much  to  expect."  I  was  expected 
to  "hit  the  skids."  Several  proposals  evi- 
dently designed  to  speed  this  action  were 
offered  to  me. 

•  •  •  • 

"Listen,  Ken,  old  boy.  I  know  you're 
a  regular  fellow.  I'll  bet  you  don't  go  in 
for  that  goody-goody  stuff  your  brothers 
liked,  do  you?"  The  speaker  was  a  boy 
several  years  older  than  I.  He  slipped 
his  huge  arm  around  my  shoulder 
paternally. 

As  he  towered  above  me,  I  thought  it 
unwise  to  say  what  I  thought.  I  began, 
"Well,  that  depends—" 

"I  knew  you'd  see  it  my  way.  Now, 
I  like  you,  and  I'd  like  to  let  you  in  on 
a  little  money-making  proposition.  I  have 
several  slot-machines  that  we  could  in- 
stall in  back  rooms  of  stores.  We  could 
make  a  nice  pile  of  change  if  you  want 
to  go  into  this  thing  with  me.  You  could 
even  handle  the  collecting.  It's  illegal,  but 
not  a  soul  would  suspect  one  of  the  Her- 
ron boys  of  being  in  on  the  scheme.  What 
do  you  say?" 

I  looked  at  his  arms  again  and 
squirmed.  I  judged  it  unwise  to  say  what 
I  really  thought. 


A  group  of  boys  who  had  ignored  me 
for  years  suddenly  became  friendly.  They 
suggested  that  I  go  to  a  near-by  town  for 
a  pleasant  evening  in  a  tavern. 

"I  don't  drink.  What's  the  use  of 
going?"  I  asked. 

"Don't  drink?"  They  seemed  shocked. 
"You're  not  going  to  be  a  sissy  like  your 
brothers,  are  you?"  one  of  them  asked. 

"Where  do  you  get  that  stuff?"  I  de- 
manded, trying  to  sound  fierce. 

This  attempt  to  uphold  my  brothers 
had  been  mistakenly  interpreted  as  a 
declaration  that  I  was  no  sissy.  "That's 
the  way  to  talk.  Now,  you  know  I  never 
liked  your  brothers.  Here's  your  chance 
to  show  them  you  aren't  like  them." 

I  finally  saw  through  their  little  plan. 
"Suppose  I  want  to  be  like  them." 

"Well,  if  that's  the  way  you  feel,"  one 
of  them  said  as  they  drifted  away.  "I 
was  beginning  to  think  you  were  a  half- 
way regular  fellow,  too." 

I  graduated  from  high  school  and  fol- 
lowed my  brothers'  lead  once  more  by 
entering  the  University  of  Illinois. 
During  rush-week  I  found  that  my  po- 
sition had  not  changed  from  that  of  my 
early  high-school  days.  I  had  climbed 
into  another  show  ring  with  hundreds  of 
judges  to  compare  me  point  for  point 
with  my  brothers.  My  first  indication 
that  the  huge  "3"  stamped  on  me  was 
going  to  be  annoying  appeared  after  I 
repeatedly  had  to  fight  for  the  recog- 
nition of  the  fact  that  I  had  a  name  of 
my  own. 

•  •  •  • 

"Herron?  Oh,  yes.  You  had  two 
brothers  up  here,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  I  answered  the  fiftieth 


[6] 


person  who  had  asked  me  the  same 
question  that  particular  day. 

"Let's  see.  Both  of  them  were  called 
'EI,'  weren't  they?  Elston  and  Elbert, 
wasn't  it?    Do  they  call  you  'El,'  too?" 

"No,  I'm  called  Ken.  My  middle  name 
is  Elgin,  but — " 

"Well,  three  El's.  Quite  an  'ell  of  a 
family,  I  would  say." 

I  wanted  to  tell  him  I  didn't  think  his 
joke  was  so  darned  funny.  Instead  I 
answered,  "Yes,  but  my  name  is  Ken. 
Everyone  calls  me  by  my  first  name." 

"Come  in  here  a  minute.  Little  El.  I 
want  you  to  meet  a  fellow." 

"Er,  my  name  is  Ken." 

"Oh  yes,  excuse  me.  Joe,  I  want  you 
to  meet  the  third  El  Herron.  You  knew 
the  others,  didn't  you?" 

The  other  fellow  looked  me  over  care- 
fully. "Yes,  he  looks  like  the  other  two 
all  right.  So  there  is  another  El  Herron 
at  the  University?" 

"Not  quite,"  I  corrected.  "My  name's 
Ken." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Well,  I've  got  to  be  run- 
ning along.  Glad  to  have  met  you, 
Little  El." 

I  had  not  been  at  the  University  long 
until  I  learned  that  it  would  be  advan- 
tageous to  avoid  any  action  that  would 
look  as  if  I  was  attempting  to  "use" 
friends  of  my  brothers  to  help  my  own 
cause.  My  brothers'  records,  I  dis- 
covered, were  to  be  incentives,  not  aids. 

"Just  a  minute,  Mr.  Herron."  One  of 
my  instructors  stopped  me  as  I  was  leav- 
ing a  class  room.  "How  is  your  brother?" 

"Oh,  you  knew  El?"  I  asked.  "Which 
one  ?" 

"The  younger  one,"  the  instructor 
answered.  "What  is  he  doing  now  ?  Does 
he  still  live  in  Toledo?" 

"Yes,  he  does,"  I  answered,  hurrying 


to  the  door.  I  wanted  to  get  to  my  next 
class. 

"Come  into  the  office  sometime  soon. 
I  want  to  ask  you  about  your  brother  and 
yourself." 

After  my  next  class  I  hurried  back  to 
the  office  of  the  friendly  instructor.  It 
was  a  relief  to  find  a  faculty  member  who 
actually  recognized  me  as  an  individual 
instead  of  a  seat  number.  I  spent  a 
pleasant  half  hour  chatting  about  every- 
thing but  the  subject  I  was  taking  under 
the  supervision  of  that  teacher.  I  left  the 
office  and  hurried  home,  pleased  at  find- 
ing a  new  friend. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  asked  an  ac- 
tive member  of  the  fraternity  I  had 
pledged. 

"Why,  I  just  had  a  nice  chat  with  one 
of  my  teachers.  He  knew  my  brother 
well." 

"Oh,  tubing,  eh?" 

"What's  tubing?"  I  asked  innocently. 
It  was  then  a  new  term  to  me. 

"Apple  polishing,  anything  you  want 
to  call  it.  Can't  you  pass  the  course 
without  taking  advantage  of  your  broth- 
er's friendship  with  the  instructor?" 

"Oh,  hell,  I  never  mentioned  the 
course." 

"Of  course  not.  It's  still  tubing, 
though.  I  haven't  been  here  three  years 
for  nothing.  We  don't  like  tubing 
around  here.  It  gives  the  house  a  poor 
name." 

"Can't  I  even  talk  to  my  instructors 
outside  of  class?" 

"Not  your  'nice  chats.'  We  don't  go 
for  that." 

"Okay,  if  that's  the  way  you  want  it," 
I  said,  resolving  to  bend  over  backwards 
to  let  everyone  know  that  I  was  strictly 
on  my  own. 

Striving  towards  this  end,  I  have  pur- 
posely avoided  making  several  acquaint- 
ances which  might  have  been  enjoyable 


in 


and  helpful.  In  the  course  of  the  se- 
mester, however,  I  have  come  to  the 
place  where  almost  as  many  people  call 
me  "Ken"  as  "El  III"  or  "Little  El." 
But  I  have  found  that  trying  to  live  up  to 
a  pre-established  standard  is  a  tough  life. 


If  I  hit  the  mark,  it's  "So  what?  It's 
no  more  than  his  brothers  did."  If  I 
fall  short  in  any  way,  I  hear  the  old  time- 
worn  words  ringing  in  my  ears,  "Uh  huh, 
I  told  you  there  couldn't  be  three  alike 
in  one  family.   I  told  you  so." 


What  I  Have  Inherited 

Julian  Dawson 
Rhetoric  I,  Final  Examination,  1939-1940 


I  AM  a  black  man !  I  have  inherited 
those  things  which  are  the  heritage 
of  every  black  man.  I  can  laugh  at 
trouble.  I  can  feel  my  worries  disap- 
pear into  nowhere  at  the  sound  of  music 
— my  burdens  are  lifted  and  I  feel  as 
free  as  the  birds.  I  am  emotional ;  I  can 
throw  myself  with  complete  abandon 
into  the  intoxicating  rhythm  of  a  drum. 
I  am  humble  before  the  Almighty.  This 
is  my  heritage.  These  things  have  come 
down  through  countless  generations  of 
black  people.  The  pulsating  rhythm  of 
tom-toms  which  has  thrown  tribes  of  men 
into  a  fanatical  frenzy  during  pagan  rites 
has  somehow  crept  into  my  being.  The 
primitive  creative  ability  and  vivid  imagi- 
nation which  were  theirs  are  mine.  That 
haughty  pride  in  being  black  which  was 
theirs  is  mine.  All  these  things  combine 
to  make  me  what  I  am,  and  I  cannot 
change. 

Those  dark  years  of  our  enslavement 
produced  a  race  of  people  that  are  the 
subject  of  song  and  verse.  They  were 
crushed,  beaten,  and  held  in  scorn ;  those 
proud  chieftains  were  cruelly  tortured ; 
they  were  driven  like  cattle,  abused  and 
reviled  on  every  hand.  From  the  status 
of  a  free,  proud  race,  they  were  lowered 
to  that  of  slaves !  But  did  this  crush  their 


spirit?  Did  this  dim  their  hopes?  The 
black  man  took  the  insults  which  fell 
upon  him  and  laughed  at  them !  Some 
of  the  most  beautiful  songs  in  existence 
are  the  spirituals  the  negro  sang  when 
in  bondage.  He  sang  while  he  worked ; 
though  his  body  was  wracked  with  pain, 
he  sang! 

The  untold  miseries  which  we  as  a 
race  have  undergone  in  our  struggle  for 
freedom  were  lightened  by  our  deep  and 
humble  reverence  for  God.  The  faith  of 
the  negro  is  simple,  and  it  is  in  its  very 
simplicity  that  its  utter  beauty  lies.  The 
faith  of  those  slaves  in  "de  Lawhd"  was 
unbounded.  "Hebb'n"  was  a  paradise 
where  their  simple  pleasures  would  be 
fulfilled.  The  Green  Pastures  is  an  ex- 
cellent portrayal  of  the  negro's  religion. 
This  deep-rooted  reverence  for  God  and 
this  faith  in  his  works  are  as  much  a 
part  of  me  as  my  arms  or  legs. 

These  various  elements  of  my  heritage 
have  moulded  my  character,  shaded  my 
thoughts,  and  made  me  what  I  am.  I 
am  not  ashamed  of  my  race ;  I  do  not 
deny  the  heritage  which  is  mine ;  I 
proudly  proclaim  to  all  the  world  that  my 
rich  heritage  is  deeply  engrained  upon 
my  heart. 

I  am  a  black  man ! 


[  8  ] 


It's  a  Game  —  For  Boys 


DeNISE    iSNIDER 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1939-1940 


A  S  LITTLE  girls  grow  into  big  girls, 
■**■  they  naturally  become  more  feminine 
and  helpless,  especially  around  men. 
They  scream  at  nothing  and  wrinkle 
their  perfectly-powdered  noses  at  even 
the  mention  of  a  worm  or  a  mouse.  In- 
deed they  are  so  dainty  they  cannot  open 
a  car  door  by  themselves  or  put  on  their 
own  coats  without  help !  That  is  all  very 
well,  for  consciously  or  unconsciously 
they  are  winning  their  way  to  a  mascu- 
line heart — and  what  girl  does  not  at 
some  time  during  her  life  strive  to  do 
that? 

Just  as  dainty  helplessness  develops  in 
a  girl  with  the  years,  so  heroic  chivalry 
develops  in  a  young  man.  He  has  not 
always  been  so  courteous.  There  was  a 
time  when  his  chief  delight  lay  in  pester- 
ing little  girls — doing  everything  to  make 
life  miserable  for  them,  from  pulUng 
their  hair  or  breaking  their  dolls  to  push- 
ing them  off  their  bicycles  or  switching 
their  legs.  Oh  no,  even  the  most  perfect 
adult  specimen  of  masculine  chivalry  was 
not  always  chivalrous.  I  know.  I  played 
basketball  on  a  boys'  basketball  team  for 
four  years. 

It  may  seem  a  bit  unusual  for  a  girl 
to  be  the  regular  forward  of  a  boys' 
grade-school  team ;  nevertheless,  I  was. 
The  fact  that  I  was  a  girl  often  made 
the  game  even  harder  for  me  than  it  did 
for  the  other  four  members  of  our  team. 
The  opposing  team  often  resented  play- 
ing against  a  girl ;  consequently  three  or 
four  would  gang  up  on  me  in  an  attempt 
to  put  me  out  of  the  game.  They  thought 
that  since  I  was  a  girl  I  would  be  ready 
to  give  up  after  a  few  hard  bumps.  They 
did  not  anticipate  the  fact  that  I  grew  up 


with  boys.  My  three  older  brothers  not 
only  taught  me  my  basketball  technique, 
but  also  taught  me  how  to  receive  bumps 
and  to  return  them. 

I  could  usually  foretell  an  attack  of 
this  kind.  The  team  first  called  time  out. 
After  they  had  all  agreed  among  them- 
selves for  a  few  seconds  and  cast  many 
a  threatening  glance  in  my  direction,  I 
knew  the  royal  battle  would  soon  begin. 

Physically  I  was  almost  a  match  for 
any  one  of  them.  I  was  tall  for  my  age 
then.  Years  of  bicycle-riding  and  tree- 
climbing,  along  with  regular  basketball 
practice  every  day,  had  strengthened  and 
toughened  my  muscles.  Rut  when  two  or 
three  rushed  me  at  once,  the  tangle  of 
arms  and  legs  afforded  ample  opportunity 
for  an  elbow  to  find  its  way  accidentally 
to  my  stomach  with  such  force  that  the 
very  breath  was  knocked  from  my  body, 
leaving  me  weak  and  sick,  gasping  for 
breath.  Our  captain  was  always  quick  to 
see  these  so-called  accidents  and  call  for 
time  out.  After  a  few  words  of  encour- 
agement from  the  team  and  cheers  from 
the  supporting  crowd,  I  was  ready  for 
action  again. 

I  had  an  impatient  way  of  tossing  my 
close-clipped  head  and  gritting  my  teeth 
which  was  a  sure  sign  that  my  anger  was 
mounting,  in  spite  of  the  coach's  warning 
against  poor  sportsmanship.  If  there 
were  a  chance  to  scratch  a  hand  intent 
upon  snatching  the  ball  from  my  grasp, 
I  did  not  hesitate — providing,  of  course, 
the  sharp  eyes  of  the  umpire  could  not 
detect  just  what  I  was  doing. 

I  played  an  easy  game — pivoting,  turn- 
ing, twisting,  guarding,  dribbling — for 
the  first  half  and  sometimes  through  the 


[9] 


third  quarter.  In  the  last  quarter,  the 
boys'  endurance  nearly  always  exceeded 
my  own  ;  yet  I  would  not  dream  of  giving 
up.  I  played  until  great  rivers  of  sweat 
rolled  down  my  face.  My  heart  pounded. 
My  lungs  fairly  burst.  My  legs  almost 
doubled  beneath  me.  My  face  was 
mottled  from  heat  and  fatigue.  Then  I 
did  not  care  how  T  looked.  I  was  playing 
a  game.  I  was  fighting  for  victory  for  my 
team  and  my  school. 

All  this  horrified  the  mothers  of  our 
community.  They  were  sure  I  would 
ruin  my  health.  In  their  time,  girls  sat 
quietly  and  knitted  all  day  or  spent  hours 
preparing  dainty  bits  of  food  for  the 
family  to  eat.  They  never  dreamed  of 
participating  in  such  muscle-straining, 
lung-bursting  games.  And  to  play  with 
boys — it  was  positively  shocking!  They 
argued  that  I  could  at  least  wear  bloom- 
ers to  play  in  rather  than  the  same  scanty 
shorts  that  the  boys  wore.  My  mother 
only  laughed  at  this.  She  knew  her 
daughter  was  physically  fit.  If  I  must 
play,  why  hinder  my  movements  with 
bagg>'  bloomers? 

I  hated  to  think  of  graduating  from 
grade  school  because  I  knew  that  would 
end  my  basketball  career.  I  did  not  have 
to  give  up  basketball  altogether,  however, 
because  the  Girls'  Athletic  Association  o-l 
our  high  school  played  basketball  as  a 
winter  activity.  Such  basketball  as  it 
was  I  We  used  six  players  on  a  team  and 
could  play  on  only  half  of  the  floor.  We 
were  not  allowed  to  dribble,  for  that 
made  the  game  too  strenuous.  We  played 
five-minute  quarters  and  rested  fifteen 
minutes  between  quarters.  It  was  dis- 
gusting! The  other  players  were  nothing 
but  sissies !  I  was  ordered  from  the  floor 
many  times  for  unnecessary  roughness, 
over-guarding,  and  dribbling. 

As  time  went  on,  I  grew  accustomed  to 
this  modified  game.   All  the  while  I  was 


growing  older.  I  rather  liked  girls' 
basketball  after  all.  I  could  play  and  not 
muss  my  newly  acquired  curls.  But  I 
found  myself  ever  so  often  longing  for 
the  good  old  days  back  in  grade  school 
when  each  game  was  a  test  of  strength 
and  skill,  when  we  fought  and  fought 
hard,  when  the  game  was  a  game,  not  a 
mere  fashion  show. 

One  evening  after  a  number  of  com- 
mittee meetings  that  had  lasted  rather 
late,  I  wandered  down  to  the  gymnasium 
to  watch  the  coach  give  his  first  team  a 
work-out.  The  coach  was  a  young  man 
interested  enough  in  girls'  athletics  to 
watch  our  basketball  practice  occasion- 
ally. Since  he  knew  I  was  captain  of  the 
girls'  team  and  had  played  basketball  all 
my  life,  he  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to 
dress  and  play  a  few  minutes  as  forward 
on  the  second  team  against  his  first  team. 
I  was  delighted.  Here  was  my  chance 
once  more  to  play  basketball  the  way  it 
should  be  played  and  the  way  I  loved  to 
play  it. 

I  rushed  into  the  dressing  room  and 
jerked  on  shorts,  sweat  shirt,  and  gym 
shoes.  Did  I  toss  my  head  defiantly  and 
walk  into  the  gymnasium  confident  of 
myself?  I  certainly  did  not.  Instead  I 
walked  across  the  room  to  examine  my- 
self in  the  full-length  mirror.  Were  my 
shorts  creased  properly?  Was  each  curl 
in  place?  Was  I  wearing  enough  lip- 
stick? After  I  was  sure  I  looked  my  very 
best,  I  walked  daintily  into  the  gymna- 
sium and  took  my  place  ready  for  the 
tip-ofif. 

The  ball  was  put  into  action  and  pur- 
posely tossed  to  me  just  to  see  what  I 
could  do  with  it.  Then  came  the  first 
shock.  Instead  of  snapping  into  action 
as  I  had  back  in  my  grade-school  days, 
I  stood  perfectly  still  with  a  helpless  ex- 
pression on  my  face.  Where  was  my 
basketball  technique?    Much  to  my  sur- 


[10] 


prise,  the  opposing  team  did  not  make  a 
single  attempt  to  take  the  ball  from  me. 
What  was  the  matter  with  this  game  ? 

I  did  not  stop  just  then  to  consider 
that  four  years  had  elapsed  since  I  had 
played  basketball  against  boys.  In  that 
length  of  time,  I  had  grown  from  a  devil- 
may-care  youngster  to  a  fully  developed 
young  lady.  It  was  from  force  of  habit 
that  I  assumed  the  helpless  expression. 
I  could  not  play  a  hard,  strenuous  game 
against  those  boys.  What  would  they 
think  of  me?  I  would  lose  my  appeal. 
I  would  destroy  all  the  feminine  qualities 
I  had  worked  to  build  up.    Why  didn't 


they  attempt  to  snatch  the  ball  from  me  ? 
Because  now  they  were  young  gentle- 
men, too  polite  and  courteous. 

The  shock  was  too  much.  I  walked 
from  the  floor  defeated.  The  boys'  ex- 
pression showed  that  my  action  was  only 
what  they  expected.  I  was  a  poor  help- 
less girl  to  be  protected  and  shielded  by 
heroes  like  themselves. 

That  was  the  last  time  I  wished  to  play 
a  game  of  basketball  as  I  had  played  it  in 
my  grade-school  days.  I  realized  now  for 
the  first  time  that  I  had  to  give  in  to 
convention. 


Faith  Healing 

Ray  Langebartel 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  16.  1939-1940 


TN  NOVEMBER  of  1929  an  estimated 
*-  one  and  a  quarter  million  people 
passed  by  the  grave  of  an  obscure  priest 
in  Maiden,  Massachusetts.  These  people, 
who  learned  through  the  newspapers  of 
great  "miracles"  accomplished  there, 
came  from  all  over  America,  believing 
implicitly  that  they  would  be  healed  of 
their  ills  by  looking  at  Father  Power's 
resting  place.  It  is  a  striking  example  of 
the  people's  belief  in  faith  cures.  How- 
ever, one  eye-witness  wrote  at  the  time, 
"It  is  a  scene  that  violates  the  most  ele- 
mentary principles  of  mental  and  physi- 
cal health."^  He  was  one  of  those  persons 
who  are  able  to  see  through  faith  healing 
and  realize  that  it  is  really  a  superstition 
with  no  supernatural  element  involved. 
If  one  compares  the  methods  and 
powers  of  the  faith  healers  with  those 
of  spiritualists,  hypnotists,  and  magneti- 
zers,  he  will  be  struck  with  the  fact  that 


the  faith  healers  can  show  no  superiority 
over  the  others.  All  lay  claim  to  curing 
the  same  diseases.  Internal  diseases  such 
as  rheumatism,  tuberculosis,  and  pa- 
ralysis are  among  those  most  frequently 
treated  by  the  faith  healers.  But  it  is 
also  true  that  these  are  the  very  ailments 
the  magnetizers  and  other  groups  special- 
ize in.  Likewise,  certain  external  dis- 
eases, mainly  warts,  other  non-malignant 
tumors,  and  erysipelas,  are  handled  with 
the  same  results  by  all. 

Also,  and  what  is  more  significant,  the 
same  limitations  are  common  to  all.  Not 
one  of  the  healers,  spiritualists,  or  mag- 
netizers can  raise  the  dead,  cause  a  lost 
leg  or  arm  to  grow  out  again,  or  raise  the 
intelligence  of  the  feeble-minded.  Of 
the  numerous  feeble-minded  who  were 
led  past  the  grave  of  Father  Power  in 

'Gardner  Jackson,  "  'Miracles'  at  Maiden," 
A^a/to«,  Vol.  129   (December  4,  1929),  p.  662. 


[Ill 


Maiden,  not  one  reported  cure  was  ever 
proved  genuine. 

Although  each  of  these  "healing 
schools"  mightily  lauds  its  own  achieve- 
ments, it  just  as  mightily  belittles  those 
of  the  other  "schools."  At  times  jealousy 
within  a  school  even  causes  one  healer 
to  speak  against  a  member  of  his  own 
sect.  Late  in  the  nineteenth  century  Dr. 
Newton,  a  well-known  faith  healer,  en- 
vious of  the  great  success  of  one  of  his 
pupils,  Dr.  Bryant,  declared  this  Dr. 
Bryant  a  mere  quack  and  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  him.  Why  should  one 
believe  in  faith  healing  more  than  hyp- 
notism or  mesmerism  if  the  faith  healers 
can  show  no  more  effectiveness  than  the 
others  and  may  even  take  to  denying  the 
results  of  fellow  faith  healers? 

It  is  the  power  of  God,  aided  by  the 
faith  of  the  patient,  which  causes  the 
cures,  say  the  faith  healers.  They  point 
to  the  verse  in  the  Bible,  "Who  forgiveth 
all  thine  iniquities ;  who  healeth  all  thy 
diseases."^  If  that  is  so,  why  can't  they 
cure  all  diseases,  since  it  is  certainly  in 
God's  power  to  do  so?  The  highest  au- 
thority, the  Bible,  relates  in  a  number  of 
places  Christ's  power  not  only  to  cure  all 
sorts  of  diseases,  but  even  to  raise  the 
dead.  Matthew  tells  us,  "And  great 
multitudes  came  unto  him,  having  with 
them  those  that  were  lame,  blind,  dumb, 
maimed,  and  many  others,  and  cast 
them  down  at  Jesus'  feet ;  and  he  healed 
them."^  In  the  Gospel  of  St.  Mark  we 
are  told  of  a  leper  who  asked  Jesus  to 
cure  him,  "And  Jesus,  moved  with  com- 
passion, put  forth  his  hand,  and  touched 
him,  and  saith  unto  him,  I  will ;  be  thou 
clean.  And  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken, 
immediately  the  leprosy  departed  from 
him,  and  he  was  cleansed."*  Notice  that 
the  leper  (leprosy  is  never  cured  by  faith 
healers)  was  healed  immediately.  He 
did  not  need  to  wait  for  a  several  weeks' 


slow  convalescence  as  the  healer's 
patients  frequently  have  to  do.  Luke 
tells  us  of  a  servant's  severed  ear  being 
instantly  restored  by  Christ.^  Never  has 
a  faith  healer  equaled  this  feat. 

The  only  other  people  ever  able  to 
parallel  Christ's  accomplishments  were 
the  apostles  and  the  saints.  Thus  we  have 
the  story  of  Tabitha  as  told  in  the  Acts: 
"And  it  came  to  pass  in  those  days,  that 
she  was  sick  and  died.  But  Peter  kneeled 
down  and  prayed  ;  and  turning  him  to  the 
body  said,  Tabitha,  arise.  And  she  opened 
her  eyes ;  and  when  she  saw  Peter ;  she 
sat  up."®  Even  though  the  apostles  were 
blessed  with  this  power,  they  rarely 
spoke  of  it  in  their  writings,  whereas 
the  modern  healers  advertise  to  the  world 
as  much  as  possible. 

In  spite  of  their  many  limitations, 
the  faith  healers  seem  to  succeed  re- 
markably well  at  times.  But  if  one  takes 
the  trouble  to  investigate  thoroughly 
these  successes,  he  turns  up  several  in- 
teresting facts.  He  discovers  that  in  by 
far  the  largest  part  of  the  "cures"  the 
sickness  was  purely  mental  or  caused  by 
an  unhealthy  mental  condition.  It  has 
been  proved  time  and  time  again,  so  that 
it  is  now  recognized  as  a  fact  by  the 
medical  profession,  that  many  types  of 
hysteria  manifest  themselves  as  warts, 
tumors,  symptoms  of  rheumatism,  di- 
gestive disorders,  and  even  paralysis.  The 
faith  healer  capitalizes  on  this  unhappy 
state  of  affairs  and  very  frequently  brings 
about  "cures"  with  the  employment  of 
the  extremely  potent  power  of  sugges- 
tion. For  instance,  in  treating  for  warts 
the  healer  merely  tells  the  patient  in  very 
convincing  tones  to  count  the  warts  twice 
a  day  and  they  will  soon  depart.    The 

'Psalms  103:3. 
'Matthew  15:30. 
'Mark  1:41,  42. 
°Luke  22:50,  51. 
'Acts  9:37.  40. 


12] 


patient  believes  the  healer,  the  hysteria 
which  was  the  direct  cause  of  the  warts 
is  broken,  and  the  warts  disappear. 

It  is  exactly  the  same  with  those  cases 
of  rheumatism  which  the  healer  relieves. 
In  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury a  Dr.  Perkins  became  famous  for 
his  "metallic  tractors"  used  especially  for 
rheumatism.  He  claimed  that  it  was  the 
electricity  in  the  "tractors"  that  benefited 
the  patients.  Another  doctor,  however, 
effectually  disproved  this  by  using 
wooden  "tractors"  painted  to  resemble 
the  originals  and  obtaining  the  same  re- 
sults. It  was  evidently  the  same  power 
of  suggestion  used  in  connection  with 
warts  which  really  aided  the  rheumatics. 
Later  this  same  Dr.  Perkins  emplo)'ed 
his  "tractors"  in  person  in  a  yellow  fever 
epidemic,  caught  the  disease,  and  died ! 

Another  example  of  the  force  of  per- 
suasion is  the  banishing  of  a  toothache 
by  pressing  a  silver  dollar  wrapped  in 
silk  against  the  offending  molar.  One 
doctor,  after  driving  away  the  pain  by 
this  method,  told  the  patient  that  the  re- 
action was  purely  mental,  and  immedi- 
ately the  patient's  ache  returned.  If  the 
cause  of  the  ache  had  been  purely  organic 
and  the  silk-wrapped  dollar  had  removed 
this  cause,  the  ache  would  certainly  not 
have  returned  with  the  mere  suggestion 
of  its  being  a  mental  reaction. 

One  of  the  less  common  but  more  spec- 
tacular of  the  faith  healer's  cures  is  that 
of  paralysis  and  crippling  due  to  pa- 
ralysis. A  heap  of  crutches  was  left  at 
the  grave  in  Maiden  by  cripples  who  sud- 
denly discovered  that  their  crutches  were 
no  longer  necessary  to  them.  As  many 
of  these  cases  as  possible  were  subjected 
to  an  investigation,  and  in  each  case  it 
was  conclusively  shown  that  there  was 
nothing  organically  wrong  with  these 
"cripples,"  and  that  they  could  have 
walked    without    their   crutches    at    any 


time.'  They  merely  lacked  the  will  to  do 
so.  There  was  a  much  larger  number 
of  other  cripples  whose  deformity  was 
real  and  whom  Maiden  helped  not  one 
bit.  Several  "cures"  of  paralysis  at  the 
grave  were  widely  imblicizcd,  but  it  was 
later  proved  that  the  afflictions  were  due 
wholly  to  a  condition  of  hysteria  which 
was  broken  by  the  patient's  faith  in  the 
slab  of  stone  over  Father  Power."  Dr. 
Cowles,  a  well-known  nerve  specialist 
of  New  York,  made  the  following  sig- 
nificant statement:  "For  more  than 
fifteen  years  I  have  treated  nervous  fear, 
nervous  prostration,  digestive  disorders, 
and  paralysis  resulting  from  mental  con- 
flicts, worry,  etc.  I  could  pick  out  in- 
numerable cases  which  would  appear  to 
the  layman  as  miracles,  but  which  to  us, 
who  understand  them,  are  but  daily  oc- 
currences. Any  one  of  these  cases  would 
be  heralded  by  a  'healer'  as  a  marvelous 
cure  of  a  baffling  and  terrible  disease. 
Medical  men  make  nothing  of  them."* 
This  theory  that  many  ailments  are 
caused  by  the  mind  and  cured  by  sug- 
gestion is  not  new.  In  1784  in  France  an 
investigation  of  mesmerism  was  con- 
ducted by  Bailly,  Lavoisier,  Berthollet, 
and  Benjamin  Franklin,  who  reported 
there  were  "no  proofs  of  the  existence 
of  Animal  Magnetism  ;  that  all  the  effects 
ascribed  to  it  were  purely  owing  to  the 
power  of  imagination ;  the  tendency  to 
imitation  natural  to  all  mankind,  and  the 
mechanical  influence  of  touching  and 
frictions  on  the  most  sensitive  parts  of 
the  body;  .  .  .  ."^° 

Faith  healing  works  sometimes  not 
only  in  sicknesses  caused  by  a  mental  con- 
dition but  also  with  certain  specifically 

'Jackson,  o/>.  cil.,  pp.  662-3. 

*Ibid.,  p.  662. 

•Quoted  in  David  Reese,  Humbugs  of  New 
York,  p.  25. 

"Quoted  in  "Episcopnlirui  Endorsement  of 
Faith  HealinR."  Literarx  Digest,  Vol.  75  (Oc- 
tober 28.  1922),  p.  30. 


[13 


organic  disorders.  Healers  find  they  have 
particular  success  with  erysipelas,  an  in- 
fectious disease  usually  attacking  the 
face.  The  victim  calls  in  the  healer,  who 
prays  earnestly  over  the  patient  for  about 
a  week,  when — presto ! — the  disease  sud- 
denly disappears.  Naturally  the  patient 
(and  the  healer)  attributes  the  departure 
of  the  ailment  to  the  healer's  effort  in 
his  behalf.  Actually  it  is  a  medical  fact 
that  erysipelas  has  the  peculiarity  of  ap- 
pearing suddenly,  running  its  course  for  a 
week  or  two,  and  then  dying  out  of  its 
own  accord.  Only  a  small  percentage  of 
the  cases  prove  fatal. 

Tuberculosis  also  often  responds  favor- 
ably to  the  healer's  art.  This  disease 
tends  to  run  in  cycles  of  apparent  im- 
provement and  relapse,  with  each  relapse 
sinking  the  patient  lower  than  the  pre- 
ceding. The  faith  healer  catches  the 
patient  right  after  a  relapse,  and  the 
patient  then  seems  to  grow  better  under 
the  curer's  care  until  he  is  pronounced 
cured.  His  subsequent  relapse  is  never 
told  to  the  world  but  is  accepted  by  the 
patient  as  "the  will  of  God,"  brought 
about  perhaps  by  insufficient  faith. 

A  few  years  ago  a  preacher  in  the  hills 
of  North  Carolina  created  quite  a  furor 
by  allowing  a  rattlesnake  to  bite  him  and 
permitting  no  medical  aid,  saying  that 
God  would  take  care  of  him.  His  ensuing 
recovery  was  hailed  throughout  the 
United  States  as  a  miracle.  However, 
Dr.  Ditmars,  the  highest  authority  in  this 
country  on  reptiles,  made  the  following 
statement  when  asked  to  comment  on  the 
preacher's  action:  "I  believe  his  faith 
and    his    general    health    will    pull    him 


through.  Faith,  and  the  state  of  mind, 
I  believe,  have  a  good  deal  to  do  with  a 
man's  physical  condition,  and  this  man's 
religion  has  buoyed  him  up  mentally.  It 
is  a  big  help.  But  the  common  belief  that 
death  from  an  untreated  rattlesnake-bite 
is  almost  certain  is  erroneous.  About 
fifteen  per  cent  of  the  persons  bitten  by 
rattlesnakes  die.  A  strong  man  has  a 
good  chance  to  recover,  even  without 
treatment. "^^  Among  the  letters  that  the 
deed  brought  the  preacher  was  one  state- 
ment which  said  that  God,  who  made 
the  rattlesnake,  also  gave  man  the  power 
of  medicine. 

Although  faith  healing  has  been  proved 
many  times  over  to  be  a  superstition 
practiced  mainly  by  charlatans,  it  still 
draws  a  tremendous  following.  Perhaps 
some  day  the  people  will  learn  that  their 
ills  can  best  be  taken  care  of  by  those 
who  are  best  trained  for  it — the  doctors. 


"Quoted  in  "Takes  Up  Serpent — and  Lives," 
Literarv  Digest,  Vol.  118  (August  25,  1934), 
p.  20. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Buckley,  J.  M.  Faith  Healing,  Christian  Sci- 
ence, and  Kindred  Phenomena.  New- 
York:    The  Century  Co.,  1900. 

BuLLARD,  F.  Lauriston,  "Maiden — In  Retro- 
spect and  Prospect,"  Atlantic  Monthly, 
Vol.  145   (April,  1930),  pp.  537-546. 

"Episcopalian  Endorsement  of  Faith  Healing." 
Literary  Digest.  Vol.  75  (October  28, 
1922),  pp.  30-31. 

Jackson,  Gardner.  "  'Miracles'  at  Maiden." 
Nation.  Vol.  129  (December  4,  1929),  pp. 
662-664. 

Reese,  David.  Humbugs  of  Nciv  York.  New 
York:  John  S.  Taylor,  Brick-Church 
Chapel,  1838. 

"Takes  Up  Serpent — and  Lives."  Literary 
Digest,  Vol.  118  (August  25,  1934),  p.  20. 

"The  'Miracles'  at  Maiden."  Literary  Digest, 
Vol.  103  (December  7,  1929).  p.  22. 


Out  of  his  "Atlas"  physique  a  "Humpty  Dumpty"  head  extended. 

— Seymour  Lampert 

He  drank  with  the  capacity  and  gentility  of  a  sewer. — Craig  Lewis 


[14] 


Monkey  Business 


Frank  Honsik 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  6,  1939-1940 


"  T)  E  -IT  Enacted,  by  the  General  As- 
*-^  sembly  of  the  State  of  Tennessee, 
that  it  shall  be  unlawful  for  any  teacher 
in  any  of  the  universities,  normals,  and 
all  other  public  schools  in  the  State, .... 
to  teach  the  theory  that  denies  the  story 
of  the  divine  creation  of  man  as  taught 
in  the  Bible,  and  to  teach  instead  that 
man  has  descended  from  a  lower  order 
of  animals."^ 

This  was  the  law  that  was  passed  by 
the  Tennessee  Assembly  on  March  21, 
1925.  This  was  the  law  that  rocked  the 
nation  with  a  detonation  as  though  the 
Rockies  had  exploded.  This  was  the  law 
that  focused  the  eyes  of  the  world  upon 
Dayton,  Tennessee.  Soft  drink  and  sand- 
wich stands  sprang  up  in  Dayton.  Spare 
rooms  were  cleaned,  hotels  were  opened, 
and  recreation  halls  were  enlarged. 
Dayton  literally  was  teeming  with  ac- 
tivity, getting  ready  for  the  great  drama 
for  which  it  was  to  be  the  stage. 

"I  never  had  any  idea  my  bill  would 
make  such  a  fuss,"^  said  Mr.  John  W. 
Butler,  the  writer  of  the  "Monkey  Bill." 
Mr.  Butler  admitted  that  he  was  a  Fun- 
damentalist and  knew  nothing  about 
evolution ;  he  introduced  this  bill  because 
he  had  heard  that  boys  and  girls  were 
coming  home  from  school  saying  that  the 
Bible  was  all  nonsense.  Believing  that 
this  state  of  affairs  should  not  continue, 
Mr.  Butler  wrote  a  bill  that  prohibited 
the  teaching  of  evolution  in  Tennessee. 

Strangely  enough,  this  bill  received  no 
opposition  when  it  was  pushed  through 
the  legislature,  and  Governor  Peay  was 
forced,  by  politics,  to  sign  it.  One  of  the 
chief  planks  in  the  Governor's  platform 
was    the    reorganization    of    the    school 


system.  Had  he  objected  to  this  bill,  he 
would  have  aroused  the  antagonism  of 
several  of  the  legislators,  and  thus  would 
have  decreased  the  chances  of  success  for 
several  larger  and  more  important  school 
bills  that  he  was  planning  to  introduce. 
Governor  Peay,  like  ex- President  Wilson 
in  his  fourteen  points,  sacrificed  the 
whole  to  save  a  part.  He  said  that  it 
would  be  hard  to  prove  that  the  Bible  and 
science  are  in  conllict.  He  found  nothing 
of  consequence  in  the  books  being  taught, 
and  assured  the  people  of  his  state  that 
this  bill  would  never  be  heard  of  again, 
and  that  the  law  probably  would  never 
be  applied.  This  the  St.  Louis  Dispatch 
cleverly  countered  with  the  question,  "If 
no  application  is  intended,  why  the  law  ?"' 

But  this  bill  soon  was  heard  of  again. 
Dr.  George  Rappleyea  of  Dayton  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  testing  its  constitution- 
ality, and  telephoned  John  Thomas 
Scopes,  a  Tennessee  high-school  teacher, 
to  lay  plans  for  the  forthcoming  battle. 
Scopes  admitted  that  he  had  used  a  text- 
book which  included  a  passage  on  evolu- 
tion. Dr.  Rappleyea  promptly  swore  out 
a  warrant  against  his  friend,  and  Scopes, 
a  willing  defendant  from  the  first,  was 
duly  indicted  by  the  grand  jury  for  teach- 
ing evolution.    The  fight  was  on ! 

But  before  we  go  any  further,  let  us 
pause  a  moment  and  see  what  were  the 
main  issues  involved  in  this  case  that 
they  should  command  the  attention  of  the 
whole  world.  Let  us  understand  from 
the  start  that   the  purpose  of  this  trial 

'L  H  .Mien,  Brxan  and  Darmu  at  Dayton. 
p.  1. 

'Lor.  cit. 

•"No  ^fonkeying  with  Evolution  in  Ten- 
nessee," Literary  Digest.  April  18.  1925,  p.  30. 


[15] 


was  not  to  determine  whether  there  was 
or  was  not  a  conflict  between  the  Bible 
and  science,  or  whether  evolution  should 
or  should  not  be  accepted.  The  issues 
were  the  following:  Does  the  law  invade 
the  fundamental  guaranties  of  freedom 
of  speech,  and  of  religion?  (i.e.  can 
custom  and  opinion  be  forced  upon  a 
nation  by  amendment  and  by  statute?) 
Should  sectarian  interpretations  of  re- 
ligious doctrines  be  allowed  to  become 
determining  factors  in  public  education? 
Should  the  determination  of  public 
policies  give  way  to  ignorant  prejudice 
and  bigotry? 

Upon  hearing  of  the  indictment,  Wil- 
liam Jennings  Bryan  immediately  offered 
his  services  to  the  prosecution.  His  be- 
liefs, as  shown  by  his  previous  books  and 
lectures,  led  him  fanatically  to  jump  at 
the  chance  to  prosecute  this  case.  Mr. 
Bryan  admitted  that  he  was  the  direct 
representative  of  the  Fundamentalists  at 
the  trial.  When  he  died,  five  days  after 
the  trial  was  over,  he  was  planning  a 
Fundamentalist,  anti-evolution  crusade  to 
the  Holy  Land.  He  was  going  to  climax 
his  career  by  preaching  a  sermon  from 
the  Mount  of  Olives.  Mr.  Bryan's  ability 
as  an  orator,  hrs  deep-rooted  anti-evolu- 
tion convictions,  and  his  enthusiastic 
interest  in  the  case  fully  qualified  him  to 
undertake  the  difficulty  of  the  prosecution 
of  the  Scopes  trial. 

And  the  prosecution  was  difficult,  for 
the  defense  procured  the  services  of  Clar- 
ence Darrow,  the  famous  criminal  lawyer, 
psychologist,  and  "pleader  of  lost  causes," 
who,  upon  hearing  of  Mr.  Bryan's  entry 
into  the  case,  immediately  agreed  to  take 
the  defense.  Clarence  Darrow  attributed 
his  agnosticism  to  his  wide  reading  during 
his  youth.  He  had  written  books  on  the 
controversy  between  the  theory  of  evolu- 
tion and  the   Bible,  and  had   frequently 


debated  the  subject.  He  was  just  as 
thoroughly  schooled  and  just  as  sincere 
as  William  Jennings  Bryan.  Where 
could  have  been  found  two  other  such 
eminent  personalities  so  capable  of  clash- 
ing in  this  great  combat? 

The  local  environment  was  a  large  fac- 
tor in  determining  the  technique  in  the 
presentation  of  this  case.  According  to 
the  census  of  1920,  the  white  population 
of  Macon  County,  the  scene  of  the  trial, 
was  14,446.  In  the  year  1922,  only  13  of 
this  population  had  paid  income  tax.  Of 
the  95  counties  in  Tennessee,  Macon 
county  was  rated  lowest  in  literacy.  Only 
43.5%  of  the  teachers  of  this  county 
had  even  elementary  school  training,  and 
10.7%  had  absolutely  none.*  And  from 
people  such  as  these,  it  was  necessary  to 
select  a  jury! 

The  jury  was  composed  of  ten  farmers, 
one  cabinet  maker,  and  one  wealthy  land- 
owner. One  of  the  jurors,  Jim  Riley, 
was  accepted  after  he  had  revealed  that 
he  could  not  read.  Of  these  twelve  men 
there  were  six  Baptists,  four  Methodists, 
one  Disciple  of  Christ,  and  one  who 
acknowledged  no  church.^ 

Mr.  Bryan  attempted  to  show  the 
judge  and  the  twelve  jurors,  in  fact  the 
whole  world,  that  the  State  of  Tennessee 
had  the  right  to  enact  and  enforce  John 
Butler's  "Monkey  Bill."  He  told  the  jury 
that  the  trial  was  being  held  not  to  de- 
termine whether  the  law  was  a  good  law 
or  a  bad  law,  but  to  determine  whether 
John  Scopes  did  or  did  not  violate  the 
law.  He  argued  that  the  state  and  the 
people  have  great  reserve  powers,  and 
that  the  power  to  control  schools  is  one 
of  them.  Tennessee  is  capable  of  making 
its  own  laws,  and  outsiders  (Mr.  Dar- 
row and  scientific  experts)  shouldn't  be 

Vbid..  p.  31. 

'Allen,  op.  cit.,  p.  7. 


[16] 


allowed  to  make  or  change  the  laws  of 
Tennessee.  "The  question  is:  Can  a 
minority  in  this  state  come  in  and  compel 
a  teacher  to  teach  that  the  Bible  is  not 
true  and  make  the  parents  of  these  chil- 
dren pay  the  expense  of  the  teacher  to 
tell  their  children  what  these  people 
believe  is  false  and  dangerous?""  Plaving 
shown  that  the  defendant's  counselors 
had  no  right  in  the  first  place  to  interfere 
with  "Tennessee  justice,"  Mr.  Bryan  re- 
minded the  court  that  the  law  forbade  the 
teaching  of  evolution.  That  Mr.  Scopes 
taught  evolution  was  proved  by  the  text- 
book that  he  was  using;  therefore,  he 
violated  the  law. 

Mr,  Darrow  presented  his  side  of  the 
case  very  ably.  The  local  environment 
favored  his  opponent,  for  most  of  the 
jurors  were  church-goers  and  believers 
to  some  extent  in  Fundamentalism ;  some 
had  never  heard  of  evolution.  He  asked 
that  the  custom  of  opening  the  court  with 
a  prayer  be  suspended,  but  was  denied. 
Mr.  Darrow  used  his  resourcefulness  to 
the  utmost  to  present  an  air-tight  case. 
Had  this  trial  been  held  in  any  other 
state  (with  the  probable  exception  of 
Kentucky  and  Florida),  it  would  have 
been  practically  impossible  to  defeat  the 
arguments  of  the  defense. 

Mr.  Darrow's  arguments  may  be  di- 
vided into  four  parts.  He  first  tried  to 
show  the  impossibility  of  getting  an  air- 
tight indictment  from  a  law  as  poorly 
worded  as  this  one.  An  indictment,  in 
order  to  be  valid,  has  to  be  worded  very 
simply.  He  further  pointed  out  that  the 
caption  did  not  agree  with  the  statute, 
and  that  therefore  one  might  just  as  well 
hand  Mr.  Scopes  a  piece  of  blank  paper 
and  throw  him  into  jail. 

The  second  point  of  the  defense  was 
that  no  conflict  existed  between  the  Bible 
and  science.  The  Bible,  it  was  stated,  was 
a  book  of  religion  and  not  a  book  of 


science.  This  book  of  religicjn  has  had 
many  interpretations,  and  will  continue 
to  have  many  interpretations,  but  who 
has  the  right  to  make  his  interpretation 
law  ?  The  Chattanooga  Times  went  on  to 
say:  "The  whole  agitation  is  caused  by 
one  faction  of  religionists  who  want  to 
enforce  their  idea  of  creation,  and  to 
prevent  others  from  presenting  their 
idea."^ 

The  defense  pointed  out  numerous 
contradictions  in  the  Bible,  among  others 
one  found  in  the  Book  of  Genesis.  In  the 
first  chapter  of  Genesis,  we  read  that  man 
and  woman  were  both  created  on  the 
same  day  and  that  this  day  occurred  after 
the  plants  and  animals  had  been  formed. 
In  the  second  chapter  of  Genesis,  we 
read  that  man  was  made  of  the  dust  of 
the  ground,  then  the  other  plants  and 
animals  were  formed  and  passed  in  re- 
view of  man  to  be  named  by  him.  After 
all  of  these  events,  woman  was  made. 
"There  is  obvious  lack  of  harmony  be- 
tween these  two  Biblical  accounts  of 
creation  as  far  as  details  of  process  and 
order  of  events  arc  concerned.  They  are, 
however,  in  perfect  accord  in  presenting 
the  spiritual  truth  that  God  is  the  author 
and  administrator  of  the  universe,  that  is 
the  sort  of  truth  we  find  in  the  Bible."' 

Thirdly,  Clarence  Darrow  tried  to 
show  the  logical  truth  in  the  theory  of 
evolution.  Many  eminent  scientists  from 
the  large  universities  of  the  country  were 
put  on  the  witness  stand  and  asked  to 
explain  and  give  evidences  of  the  four 
main  theories  of  evolution.  All  of  the 
scientists  were  in  accord  in  their  inter- 
pretations of  these  theories  and  in  the 
conclusion  that  these  theories  of  evolu- 
tion supported  rather  than  contradicted 

Ubid.  p.  66.  The  words  of  Mr.  W.  J.  Bryan. 

'"No  Monkeyins  with  Evolution  in  Ten- 
nessee," loc.   lit. 

'Allen,  of.  cit.  p.  113.  The  words  of  Or. 
Kirtley  F.  Mather  of  Harvard  Univ. 


(171 


each  other.  All  the  scientists  also  agreed 
that  the  cause  of  education  would  be 
greatly  injured  if  the  teaching  of  evolu- 
tion in  public  schools  were  to  be  for- 
bidden. 

Fourthly,  the  defense  tried  to  show 
that  the  law  is  unconstitutional  because 
it  prevents  freedom  of  speech  and  free- 
dom of  religion.  Is  man  back  in  the  days 
of  the  Inquisition,  unable  to  teach  the 
truth  as  he  sees  it  without  committing 
a  crime?  This  law  is  more  in  breach  of 
the  spirit  of  the  Constitution  of  the  State 
of  Tennessee  than  of  the  spirit  of  the 
Constitution  of  the  United  States,  be- 
cause the  State  Constitution  explains  in 
full  that  the  freedom  of  speech  and  of 
religion  of  the  people  of  the  State  of 
Tennessee  shall  in  no  way  and  under  no 
pretense  be  suppressed.  "Whatever  may 
be  the  constitutional  rights  of  legislatures 
to  prescribe  the  general  course  of  study 
of  public  schools  it  will  in  my  judgment 
be  a  serious  national  disaster,  if  the  at- 
tempt is  successful,  to  determine  the  de- 
tails to  be  taught  in  the  school  through 
the  vote  of  legislatures  rather  than  as  a 
result  of  scientific  investigations."^ 

On  July  21,  1925,  the  trial  of  the  State 
of  Tennessee  against  John  Thomas 
Scopes  came  to  an  abrupt  conclusion. 
John  Scopes  was  found  guilty  and  fined 
one  hundred  dollars,  but  as  far  as  sig- 
nificant results  are  concerned,  the  trial 
was  a  complete  failure.  It  proved  nothing 
about  science,  it  proved  nothing  about  re- 
ligion, and  it  proved  nothing  about  the 
law  which  it  called  into  question.  The 
thing  the  trial  did  do,  besides  producing 
some  brilliant  oratory,  was  to  make 
people  who  were  indifferent  turn  to  one 
side  or  the  other.  It  stimulated  some  to 
read  and  strengthen  their  beliefs  in  the 
Bible,  or  to  read  about  and  strengthen 
their  beliefs  in  the  theory  of  evolution. 


In  Tennessee  the  "bootlegging  of  evolu- 
tion" began  among  students,  who  read 
about  it  when  the  teacher's  back  was 
turned. 

The  Manchester  Guardian  said  that  we 
go  to  Europe  for  old-fashioned  places, 
but  that  the  Europeans  have  to  come  to 
America  for  old-fashioned  ideas.  The 
Tennessee  legislators,  while  proving  that 
they  didn't  descend  from  apes,  made 
monkeys  of  themselves.  The  trial  turned 
a  spotlight  on  the  conflict  of  science  and 
religion  that  is  still  raging  throughout 
the  United  States.  The  amount  of  bigo- 
try and  narrow-mindedness  still  existing 
in  this  countr}',  especially  in  small  back- 
water towns,  is  indeed  appalling.  Ex- 
President  Wilson  expressed  his  surprise 
in  a  letter:  "My  dear  Prof.  Curtis:  May 
it  suffice  for  me  to  say,  in  reply  to  your 
letter  of  Aug.  25th,  that  of  course  like 
every  other  man  of  intelligence  and  edu- 
cation I  do  believe  in  Organic  Evolution, 
It  surprises  me  that  at  this  late  date  such 
questions  should  be  raised."^" 

•Dr.  C.  H.  Judd,  "Evolution  &  Mental  Life," 
Scientific  Monthly,  Vol.  21  (September,  1925), 
p.  317. 

'°W.  C.  Curtis,  "The  Fact,  the  Courses,  and 
the  Causes  of  Organic  Evolution,"  Scientific 
Monthly,  Vol.  21   (September,  1925),  p.  301. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Allen,  Leslie  H.  Bryan  and  Darrozc  at  Day- 
ton. New  York  City:  Arthur  Lee  and 
Company,  1925. 

Curtis,  W.  C  "The  Fact,  the  Course  and  the 
Causes  of  Organic  Evolution."  Scientific 
Monthly.  Vol.  21  (September,  1925),  pp. 
295-302: 

"Dayton  Monkey  Business."  The  Li-Ang  Age, 
Vol.  39   (November,  1925),  pp.  381-382. 

Judd,  C.  H.  "Evolution  and  Mental  Life." 
Scientific  Monthh,  Vol.  21  (October, 
1925),  pp.  316-317." 

"Larger  Aspects  of  the  Dayton  Trial."  The 
Literary  Digest  (August  1,  1925),  pp.  9-11. 

Mather,  K.  F.,  "Evolution  and  Religion."  Sci- 
entific Monthly.  Vol.  21    (October,   1925). 

"No  Monkeying  with  Evolution  in  Tennessee." 
The  Literary  Digest,  April  18,  1925.  pp. 
30-31. 


[181 


Hosteling  —The  Thrill  of  New  Trails 


Mary  R.  Dowling 
Rhetoric  II.  Theme  16,  1939-1940 


T^HE  URGE  to  travel  is  in  even  the 
*  most  domestic-minded  of  us.  An 
open  road  with  hills  or  trees  or  water 
in  the  distance  is  a  challenge  to  anyone 
young  in  spirit,  romantic  in  inclination, 
and  stout  of  heart. 

Hosteling  provides  an  opportunity  to 
see  the  world  with  a  maximum  of  inti- 
macy and  a  minimum  of  expense.  Tech- 
nically a  hostel  is  an  overnight  stopping 
place  with  sleeping,  washing,  and  dining 
facilities  offered  to  hostelers  at  cost.  It 
is  usually  an  old  farmhouse  or  bam 
transformed  into  dormitories,  kitchen, 
and  dining  hall.  In  charge  are  resident 
house-parents  to  whom  the  hostelers  are 
responsible  during  the  time  they  spend  in 
the  hostel.  This  responsibility  means  pre- 
senting the  AYH  pass  (which  is  re- 
turned to  the  owner  in  the  morning), 
leaving  the  hostel  clean,  and  following  the 
general  rules,  which  include  turning 
lights  out  by  ten  o'clock,  refraining  from 
drinking  or  smoking,  and  using  the 
hostels  only  when  free  from  infectious 
disease. 

The  AYH  pass  is  obtained  for  a  nomi- 
nal amount  from  the  headquarters  of  the 
American  Youth  Hostels,  Inc.,  at  North- 
field,  Massachusetts.  The  national  direc- 
tors are  Isabel  and  Monroe  Smith,  who, 
interested  in  youth  work  and  scouting, 
established  the  first  hostel  at  Northfield 
in  December,  1934.  The  idea  grew  out  of 
a  European  trip  to  the  International  Con- 
ference of  Youth  Hostels  during  the 
previous  summer.  They  studied  hostels, 
old  institutions  in  England  and  on  the 
continent,  and  returned  to  America  to 
establish   the   single   hostel   from   which 


have  developed,  in  five  years,  two 
hundred  more  throughout  the  East,  the 
Great  Lakes  region,  and  the  Far  West. 
Since  that  first  year  when  one  hundred 
passholders  used  the  hostel,  the  number 
has  grown  to  twelve  thousand,  and  the 
movement  has  attained  great  popularity, 
especially  among  youths  of  high-school 
and  college  ages. 

In  its  simplest  sense,  hosteling  means 
oiling  up  your  bicycle  or  favorite  pair 
of  walking  shoes  and  spending  a  few 
days  or  a  weekend  biking  or  hiking 
through  the  countryside  not  too  far  from 
home.  The  hostels  are  conveniently  placed 
fifteen  miles  apart  in  loops  so  that  short 
trips  are  possible.  Hikers  cover  the 
fifteen  miles  between  hostels  easily;  the 
placement  allows  for  four  or  five  hours 
of  walking  with  ample  time  for  resting 
and  sightseeing.  Those  traveling  by  bi- 
cycle often  make  a  second  or  even  a  third 
hostel  by  eight  o'clock  (the  flexible 
closing-hour),  although  such  trying  for 
distances  is  discouraged. 

So  popular  has  hosteling  become,  how- 
ever, that  many  spend  their  whole  sum- 
mers going  across  the  country,  down 
through  Mexico,  up  to  Canada  or  Alaska, 
and  abroad  to  Europe.  Wherever  they 
go — their  passes  are  valid  for  overnights, 
although  in  foreign  countries  an  extra 
stamp  is  necessary.  Last  year  fifteen 
hundred  AYH  passes  were  used  abroad, 
but  this  number  shows  a  decrease  from 
the  two  thousand  used  in  1937  when 
foreign  war-threats  were  less  ominous. 
Some  of  those  hosteling  were  traveling 
in  sponsored  groups  with  a  leader  ap- 
pointed    by     Northfield     headquarters ; 


[191 


others  were  traveling  alone  or  in  two's 
or  three's,  seeing  what  they  chose  and 
traveling  as  long  and  as  far  as  they  liked. 
Although  in  certain  regions  hostelers  go 
by  horse,  by  boat  or  by  skis,  the  most 
popular  vehicle  remains  the  bicycle.  The 
only  restrictive  rule  is  that  one  must 
"travel  under  his  own  steam." 

Using  one's  own  energy  for  transpor- 
tation of  course  necessitates  taking  the 
minimum  of  equipment.  A  light-weight 
bicycle  is  recommended.  Into  a  knapsack 
is  crowded  all  the  baggage  one  will  either 
need  or  care  to  cart  about:  bathing  suit, 
dark  glasses,  toilet  and  grub  kits,  a 
change  of  clothes  and  shoes,  and  the 
official  sleeping-sack  required  of  anyone 
spending  the  night  in  a  hostel.  Hostelers 
are  encouraged  to  take  along  cameras  and 
sketch-books,  but  are  warned  against 
carrying  all  the  comforts  of  home. 

The  actual  cost  of  hosteling  is  quite 
low.  One  travels  at  cost ;  there  are  no 
tips  or  hotel  bills,  no  train  or  cab  fares. 
Overnights  in  the  hostels  cost  twenty-five 
cents,  plus  a  five-cent  fuel  charge  for 
kitchen  or  fireplace  privileges.  With  a 
dollar  a  day  a  hosteler  buys  food,  pays  his 
overnight  and  fuel  fees,  and,  with 
economy,  enjoys  a  few  extras,  like 
theaters,  museums,  and  concerts.  The 
sponsors  suggest  having  a  small  emer- 
gency fund  for  "repairs,  unexpected 
train  rides,  sickness,  etc."  The  sponsored 
groups  have  the  additional  expense  of 
leaders'  fees,  which  usually  amount  to 
ten  percent  added  to  the  individual  cost. 
Besides  the  pass,  which  costs  one  dollar 
for  those  under  twenty-one  and  two 
dollars  for  those  twenty-one  and  over,  a 
hosteler  usually  buys  a  handbook  (fifty 
cents)  which  contains  a  list  of  the 
chartered  hostels,  with  their  location  and 
capacities,  the  distances  from  the  hostels 


to  food  stores  and  churches,  the  local 
sports  and  points  of  interest,  and  the 
distances  to  the  nearest  railroad,  high- 
way, and  large  town  or  city. 

The  educational  advantages  of  hostel- 
ing have  been  extolled  again  and  again 
by  educators  and  others  interested  in 
youth.  President  and  Mrs.  Roosevelt  are 
honorary  presidents  of  the  AYH.  Mr. 
V.  K.  Brown,  chief  of  the  Recreation  Di- 
vision, Chicago  Park  District,  has  said, 
"The  romance  of  traveling  inexpensively, 
the  thrill  of  undergoing  Spartan  routines, 
of  physical  hardships,  or  at  least  the  ab- 
sence of  luxury,  the  lure  of  movement, 
the  contact  with  new  scenes,  forming 
new  friendships,  contacting  fresh  points 
of  view,  and  developing  acquaintance 
with  the  world  rather  than  with  an  iso- 
lated spot — all  are  so  vitally  a  part  of  the 
very  spirit  of  the  AYH  that  this  whole 
proposition  is  more  fundamental  than 
anything  which  has  yet  been  devised." 
On  the  national  board  of  the  AYH  there 
are  fifty  prominent  people,  all  of  whom 
are  interested  in  young  people,  many  of 
whom  represent  national  youth  organi- 
zations. The  president  of  the  American 
Association  is  Mary  E.  Woolley,  for 
thirty-seven  years  president  of  Mount 
Holyoke  College. 

The  hostel  movement  is  a  great  and 
growing  thing.  It  is  democratic ;  it  has 
no  restrictions  of  money,  race,  creed,  or 
social  standing.  It  not  only  broadens  the 
individual  and  makes  him  more  capable 
of  taking  care  of  himself  through  the 
"Spartan  routines"  and  "absence  of 
luxury,"  but  the  fellowship  and  cama- 
raderie along  the  road  also  make  him 
more  tolerant  of  other  people.  That  is 
said  to  be  the  secret  of  good  citizenship; 
it  is  also  the  secret  of  happy  living. 


[20] 


Major 


DWIGHT   GUYER 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  17,  1939-1940 


TT  WAS  February  2,  1938.  The  sun 
*  shone  dimly  since  a  frosty  early- 
morning  mist  had  lifted.  The  proverbial 
groundhog  surely  saw  his  shadow ;  an- 
other small  creature  was  seeing  light  of 
day  for  the  first  time  today.  A  fuzzy, 
wobbly  little  black  calf  which  bucked 
stiff -legged  around  his  mother  in  a  snow- 
covered  lot  had  been  born  in  a  thickly 
strawed  box  stall  in  the  w^ee  hours  of  the 
morning.  She  had  been  turned  out  for 
a  few  minutes  to  exercise  and  to  get 
water,  and  he  had  insisted  on  breaking 
out  past  the  door  with  her,  apparently 
not  minding  the  cold  at  all.  His  furry 
coat  looked  like  a  covering  of  black  plush 
carpet;  his  head  looked  heavy  on  his 
thin  neck ;  his  short  legs  bent  like  rain- 
bows as  they  buckled  under  him  in  his 
antics.  Just  now  he  was  dividing  his 
time  between  jumping  around  in  the 
snow,  stopping  stifif-legged  to  gaze  ofif 
into  the  distance,  and  standing  to  be 
muzzled  and  licked  by  his  mother's  big 
scratchy  tongue.  Every  time  she  licked 
him  he  was  almost  thrown  off  his  wobbly 
legs. 

Although  his  coming  had  been  long 
anticipated,  the  birth  of  this  fuzz}'  little 
package  of  Aberdeen-Angus  cow-flesh 
caused  no  great  change  in  the  routine  of 
tasks  on  his  home  farm.  It  was  a  two- 
hundred-thirty-acre  stock  farm  in  north- 
ern Crawford  County,  Illinois,  known  as 
the  Seven  Pines  Farm,  on  which  I  was 
employed  during  the  winter  of  1937  and 
the  spring  and  summer  of  1938.  There 
was  a  herd  of  thirty-two  pure-bred 
Angus  cows  on  the  farm,  so  that,  to  the 
farm-owner  and  me,  the  birth  of  this 
calf  meant  only  a  little  extra  care  to  his 


mother  for  a  few  days  and  another 
hungry  mouth  to  let  nurse  night  and 
morning.  After  a  few  scattered  com- 
ments about  crookedness  of  bone  and 
general  build  had  been  flung  at  this 
newcomer  during  the  first  few  days,  he 
was  turned  with  a  bunch  of  suckling 
calves.  They  were  kept  in  a  warm  well- 
bedded  stall,  and  only  came  out  morning 
and  night  to  get  their  milk  and  occasion- 
ally on  bright  sunshiny  days  to  romp 
around  a  lot.  I  had  the  care  of  the 
young  calves,  feeding  them  a  mixture  of 
shelled  corn  and  oats  along  with  good 
clover  hay.  The  older  of  the  bunch  of 
suckling  calves  ate  heartily  and,  follow- 
ing their  example,  the  younger  calves 
would  start  nosing  in  the  feed  trough, 
then  take  a  few  bits,  and  thus  learn  to 
eat  much  earlier  than  they  would  have  if 
put  in  a  stall  alone.  The  last  comer  to 
the  suckling  stall  learned  to  eat  within 
a  few  weeks.  With  his  mother's  milk  and 
the  additional  feed,  his  legs  and  ankles 
straightened  up  and  his  body  rounded 
out.  He  had  this  kind  of  care  until 
about  the  second  week  in  May.  Then  the 
cattle  were  all  put  on  the  tender  spring 
grass.  His  mother  was  turned  into  a 
large  woods-pasture  with  the  other  cows, 
but  the  calves  had  a  small  pasture  of 
their  own  close  to  the  big  red  cattle  barn. 
The  cows  were  brought  in  every  morning 
and  evening  for  the  calves  to  nurse  on 
the  increased  milk  flow.  The  calves  were 
still  fed  their  portion  of  corn  and  oats  in 
an  outside  trough. 

As  the  rush  of  the  crop  season  came 
on,  I  saw  less  and  less  of  the  February 
calf.  Once  in  a  while  in  the  early  morn- 
ing I  had  to  carry  out  the  corn  and  oats 


[21] 


to  the  calves.  The  warm  spring  rains 
and  the  grass  had  caused  their  old 
winter's  hair  to  slip  off,  and  now  they 
looked  slick  and  full.  The  Groundhog's 
Day  calf,  as  he  was  called  by  my  em- 
ployer and  me,  was  developing  into  the 
best  individual  among  the  male  calves. 
We  often  remarked  about  his  straight 
body  lines,  his  short,  stocky  legs,  and 
his  thick-set  body.  I  was  keeping  an  eye 
on  him  because  I  wanted  to  carry  a 
Baby  Beef  project  in  my  4-H  work  for 
1938-39. 

In  October,  1938,  I  began  to  think 
more  of  obtaining  this  animal.  I  ap- 
proached my  employer  one  day  and  asked 
him  blankly  to  let  me  buy  the  Ground- 
hog's Day  calf.  He  hadn't  known  of  my 
intentions  and  at  first  was  surprised. 
After  hem-hawing  for  some  time  and  go- 
ing over  his  favorite  blood  lines,  his  way 
of  passing  time,  he  said,  "Now  you  look 
around  at  some  of  the  other  herds  in  the 
county,  and  if  you  don't  find  something 
you  like  better,  I  may  sell  you  this  calf." 

"I  don't  care  much  about  the  profit 
this  time,"  I  told  him.  "I've  had  several 
calves  that  made  me  some  money,  but  I 
want  one  once  that  will  get  somewhere 
when  I  show  him." 

"Well,  you  look  around  some,"  he  said, 
"and,  doggone  it,  if  you  still  want  him, 
I'll  take  eleven  cents  a  pound  for  him. 
I  could  get  more  to  sell  this  calf  for 
breeding  purposes,  but  I  don't  want  to 
disappoint  you.  Besides,  the  advertising, 
if  this  calf  fed  out  well  as  a  steer, 
wouldn't  hurt  my  breeder's  trade  any.  I 
don't  want  you  to  get  a  calf  that'll  lose 
you  money  because  you  paid  too  much 
for  him  as  a  feeder,  though." 

I'll  always  believe  that  he  really 
wanted  to  see  another  one  of  his  calves 
fed  out  as  a  steer,  and  I  think  he  was 
afraid  I  would  find  something  I  would 
rather    have.     I    wasn't.     Although    my 


father  and  I  looked  at  two  bunches  of 
feeder  calves  in  the  county,  when  I  com- 
pared the  best  of  the  bunch  to  my  ideal 
back  at  Seven  Pines  Farm,  I  refused  to 
buy.  I  didn't  try  very  hard  to  suit  my- 
self with  any  of  these  calves,  because  I 
thought  all  I  needed  to  do  was  to  go 
back  and  tell  my  employer  I  couldn't 
find  anything  that  suited  me  better,  and 
he'd  sell  me  the  Groundhog's  Day  calf. 
That's  just  what  I  did. 

The  stubborn  little  fellow  was  not  yet 
halter-broken,  but  after  some  tugging, 
we  got  him  loaded  in  a  trailer.  Since  he 
was  only  nine  months  old,  we  were  all 
surprised  when  he  weighed  six  hundred 
and  forty  pounds — even  his  owner  who 
had  raised  cattle  for  many  years.  I  paid 
the  man  the  price  agreed  upon,  and  the 
much-wanted  calf  was  mine.  When  we 
reached  home  we  unloaded  him  from  the 
trailer,  got  him  into  the  strange  barn, 
after  some  high-powered  coaxing,  and 
tied  him  in  a  stall — his  new  home. 

My  brother  suggested  the  name  Major ; 
as  I  had  not  thought  of  what  I  would 
call  the  animal  that  I  had  coveted  so  long, 
the  name  stuck.  I  kept  Major  in  his 
stall  for  a  week  to  let  him  get  accus- 
tomed to  the  place.  Here  his  training 
began  when  I  led  him  out  to  get  water. 
He  was  stubborn  at  first,  but  soon 
learned  that  he  received  some  little  re- 
ward in  kindness  when  he  obeyed.  As 
he  had  just  been  weaned  and  then  taken 
away  from  his  old  home  and  herd  he 
worried  continually.  His  outcries  were 
sometimes  so  nearly  human  that  he  had 
the  whole  family  in  sympathy  with  him. 
When  he  had  become  somewhat  recon- 
ciled to  his  new  surroundings,  I  turned 
him  out  with  our  herd  of  dairy  cows  to 
run  on  grass  a  while  longer.  I  fed  him 
night  and  morning  when  the  cows  were 
brought  up  to  milk.  He  was  contented 
with  this  kind  of  life. 


[22] 


As  my  feed  records  had  to  be  started 
on  January  1,  I  decided,  after  about  two 
weeks,  to  keep  him  in  his  stall  and  start 
to  get  him  on  a  full  feed  of  grain.  All 
these  changes  went  against  him,  but  soon 
he  took  his  "solitary  confinement"  peace- 
fully and  started  to  eat  as  I  wanted  to 
see  him.  By  the  middle  of  December  he 
was  eating  a  full  feed  of  grain,  which 
was  for  him  thirteen  and  one-half  pounds 
a  day.  A  full  feed  of  grain  for  cattle  is 
two  pounds  a  day  for  every  hundred 
pounds  of  live  weight.  If  you  do  not 
approach  this  mark  gradually  and  cau- 
tiously, the  animal  will  gorge,  then  lose 
its  appetite  and  refuse  to  eat  for  several 
feeds,  thereby  losing  weight  rather  than 
gaining.  The  secret  for  obtaining  the 
greatest  amount  of  feed  consumption  and 
a  steady  maximum  gain  is  to  find  the 
amount  your  steer  will  eat  without  dis- 
order and  stick  closely  to  that  mark. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  feeding  period 
I  fed  shelled  corn  and  whole  oats.  The 
whole  grain  developed  the  young  animal's 
teeth.  Since  Major  was  getting  all  he 
wanted  to  eat,  he  did  not  gulp  the  food 
down,  but  ate  it  slowly  and  chewed  it  well. 
I  supplemented  the  grain  with  a  commer- 
cial mineral-protein  concentrate.  I  gave 
him  all  the  legume  hay  and  other  bulky 
feeds  he  would  eat  besides  his  grain,  to 
increase  his  capacity  for  more  concen- 
trated feed  later  in  the  feeding  period. 
Clean,  fresh  water  was  before  him  at  all 
times.  Major  was  a  dainty  eater,  and  I 
was  over-anxious  to  see  him  eat  ever 
larger  amounts.  Several  times  I  "stuck" 
him  on  his  feed  before  I  learned  my  les- 
son ;  nevertheless,  he  did  well  on  feed  so 
I  watched  him  gain  rapidly  month  by 
month.  Every  day  I  led  him  out  for  a 
brisk  walk  to  sharpen  his  appetite  and 
keep  him  in  a  healthy  condition.  In  the 
spring  and  early  summer  months  I 
changed  him  to  the  coolest  place  in  the 


barn.  When  his  winter's  hair  came  off 
in  the  spring,  I  could  see  that  he  was 
developing  and  fattening  into  a  very 
smooth  calf.  His  best  gains  were  in  the 
month  of  May  when  he  put  on  seventy 
pounds  at  a  daily  average  of  two  and 
one-third  pounds.  In  the  summer  he  was 
protected  from  flies  and  other  insects  by 
an  efficient  livestock  spray.  I  was  so 
anxious  that  nothing  be  lacking  on  my 
part  that  I  almost  lived  with  him. 

As  the  summer  advanced  and  Major 
approached  the  "finished"  mark,  I  began 
to  prepare  him  for  show.  I  had  the  grain 
that  he  ate  crushed  and  added  "black- 
strap" molasses  to  make  it  more  pala- 
table. The  bulky  part  of  his  ration,  such 
as  hay  and  roughage,  had  been  reduced 
to  three  pounds  a  day  to  allow  for  a 
greater  amount  of  concentrated  feeds. 
My  mother  fitted  him  with  a  blanket  of 
heavy  burlap  to  hold  body  heat.  This 
tended  to  make  his  fat  distribute  more 
evenly  over  all  parts  of  his  back  and 
hindquarters.  Depressions  in  the  fat  cov- 
ering had  to  be  kneaded  to  loosen  the 
skin  so  that  the  low  places  would  fill  with 
fat.  The  blanket  also  protected  him  from 
the  insects  and  made  his  hair  black  and 
silky.  His  stall  was  darkened  to  keep  the 
light  from  bleaching  the  hair  on  the  parts 
of  his  body  that  the  blanket  could  not 
cover.  I  gave  him  a  bath  with  a  tar  soap 
preparation  twice  a  w^eek  to  loosen  all  the 
dirt  and  grease  on  the  hair  and  to  cause  a 
more  handsome  growth  of  hair. 

I  watched  show  time  approach  with 
great  anticipation.  A  week  before  the 
time,  I  sheared  the  hair  on  his  head  and 
on  his  tail  above  the  bush  close  to  the 
skin.  On  the  evening  before  the  great 
day  Major  was  moved  to  the  fairgrounds, 
where  I  gave  him  a  last  bath,  washed  the 
bush  of  his  tail,  and  braided  it  tightly. 
When  the  call  for  the  baby  beef  class 
came,  I  was  truly  proud  of  my  Major. 


[23] 


He  weighed  one  thousand  and  eighty 
pounds — every  pound  solid  beef.  He  was 
deep-bodied,  broad  and  straight  on  his 
lines.  His  neck  was  thick  and  short,  and 
his  legs  were  straight.  He  had  been 
trained  to  keep  his  feet  placed  exactly 
underneath  his  body.  He  was  so  square 
and  solid  that  he  had  the  appearance  of 
having  been  constructed  by  an  architect. 
I  had  curled  the  hair  on  his  shoulders 
and  flanks,  and  brushed  his  coat  with 
olive  oil  until  it  shone  like  a  piece  of 
hard  coal.    His  hoofs  had  been  cleaned 


and  polished,  and  the  bush  of  his  tail 
combed  out  wavy  and  fluffy.  I  led  him 
into  line,  and  my  highest  hopes  were 
realized  when  I  heard  the  University  of 
Illinois  judge  say,  "He's  an  easy  first. 
He's  got  plenty  of  quality."  My  heart 
was  in  my  throat  when  the  blue  ribbon 
was  pinned  on  Major's  halter.  As  I  led 
him  away  (I  know  I  was  all  smiles)  the 
owner  of  the  Seven  Pines  Farm  stepped 
up  to  congratulate  me.  His  smile  outdid 
any  that  I  could  ever  produce. 


British  War  Poetry,  1914-1918 

Lois  Vogt 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  10,  1929-1940 


OUT  OF  the  strife,  emotional  fervor, 
and  human  suffering  of  the  World 
War  came  a  collection  of  poetry  written 
by  the  British  soldier-poets  which  gives 
a  coherent,  touching  picture  of  English 
emotions  and  sentiments  at  the  time  and 
contributes  much  toward  an  understand- 
ing of  the  true  significance  of  the  War 
in  English  life.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
War,  war-verse  was  overwhelmingly 
abundant,  but  not  generally  of  high  cali- 
ber, nor  capable  of  surviving  the  test  of 
time.^  It  was  written  by  civilian  poets 
who  drew  the  picture  of  war  from  their 
own  imaginations  and  not  from  actual 
experiences  in  warfare.  Under  the  stress 
of  the  excitement  and  patriotic  fervor 
prevalent  in  England  during  the  first  few 
months  of  the  War,  their  poetic  style  was 
often  forced,  pompous,  and  sentimental; 
yet  they  served  the  momentary  demand 
and  need  for  patriotic  enthusiasm  and 
incitement.^ 


Among  these  first  patriotic  verses, 
however,  there  were  some  that  expressed 
a  sincere  patriotism  and  concern  over 
England's  part  in  the  conflict.  These 
poems  reflected  the  universal  feeling  of 
the  rightness  and  almost  sacredness  of 
England's  cause. ^  One  of  these  non-com- 
batant poets,  Laurence  Binyon,  expressed 
this  sentiment  in  these  lines  from  "To 
the  Fallen": 
With     proud     thanksgiving     a     mother 

mourns  for  her  children, 
England  mourns  for  her  dead  across  the 

sea. 
Flesh  of  her  flesh  they  were,  spirit  of  her 

spirit. 
Fallen  in  the  cause  of  the  free.* 

'E.  B.  Osborn,  "Soldier  Poets,"  Living  Age, 
Vol.  296  (January  5,  1918),  p.  49. 

'Lascelles  Abercrombie,  "The  War  and  the 
Poets,"  Living  Age,  Vol.  288  (January  1, 
1916),  p.  15. 

'Arthur  Waugh,  "War  Poetry,"  Quarterly 
Review,  Vol.  230  (October  18),  p.  384. 

*Loc.  cit. 


24 


This  rather  detached,  sentimental 
view  of  the  true  meaning  of  war  did  not 
survive  after  the  soldier-poet's  actual 
participation  in  warfare.  Upon  becoming 
involved  in  the  horrors  of  war,  he  became 
conscious  of  his  own  personal  part  in  the 
conflict.  As  a  result,  his  poetry  began 
to  reflect  a  vague  uncertainty,  a  sense 
of  self-sacrifice,  and,  at  times,  even  a 
sense  of  self-pity.^  However,  his  cour- 
age and  desire  to  serve  the  country  he 
loved  dominated  his  poetic  expression. 
Perhaps  the  best-known  poem  expressing 
this  sincere  devotion  to  the  homeland  is 
Rupert  Brooke's  sonnet  beginning: 
//  /  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 
That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign 

field 
That  is  forever  England.'^ 

Still    another    expression    of    the    poet's 
feeling  of  uncertainty  combined  with  an 
almost    blind    sense    of    self-sacrifice    is 
Robert  Nichols'  poem,  "Farewell": 
They  shall  not  say  I  went  with  heavy 

heart: 
Heavy  I  am,  but  soon  I  shall  be  free, 
I  love  them  all,  but  oh  I  now  depart 
A  little  sadly,  strangely,  fearftdly, 
As  one  who  goes  to  try  a  mystery. 

Then  in  conclusion  he  says: 

Farewell.    Farewell.    There  is  no  more 

to  do. 
We  have  been  happy.   Happy  now  I  go.'' 

This  sense  of  self-importance  soon  van- 
ished amid  the  realities  of  modern  war- 
fare. The  soldier-poet  became  wrapped 
up  in  the  militaristic  side  of  war.® 
The  horror  and  ghastliness  of  a  soldier's 
life  came  home  to  him  through  his  own 
personal  experiences.  For  a  time  his 
poetry  reflected  the  grimness  of  the  con- 
flict;  then,  out  of  this  first  feeling  of 
revulsion    came    the    realization    of    the 


effect  of  the  War  on  the  lives  of  his  fel- 
lowmen.  He  began  to  see  that  he  was  not 
the  only  one  who  had  to  endure  troubles, 
sorrows,  and  sufferings.  A  new  sense  of 
comradeship,  of  the  symi)athy  between 
soldier  and  soldier,  between  officer  and 
private,  became  the  underlying  motive 
of  many  of  the  poems."  This  sentiment 
is  touchingly  expressed  in  Robert 
Nichols'  poem,  "Fulfillment": 

Was  there  love  oncef    I  have  forgotten 

her. 
Was  there  grief  oncef  Grief  still  is  mine. 
Other  love  I  have;  men  rough,  hut  men 

who  stir 
More  joy,  more  grief,  than  love  of  thee 

and  fhine.^" 

The  two  short,  but  expressive  lines  from 
E.  A.  Mackintosh's  poem,  "In  Me- 
moriam,"  which  was  written  to  the  fath- 
ers of  his  comrades  who  had  fallen  in 
action,  express  even  more  forcefully 
this  same  feeling: 

You  were  only  their  fathers, 
I  was  their  officer.^^ 

In  addition  to  these  serious,  emotional 
verses  about  the  soldier's  life,  there  were 
many  songs  and  ballads  which  depicted 
the  whimsical  or  humorous  side  of  the 
trench  life.  These  were,  for  the  most 
part,  spontaneous  outbursts  which  were 
passed  up  and  down  the  lines  for  the 
amusement  of  the  soldiers.  Although 
very  few  were  actually  written  down  and 
published,  they  must  be  noted  in  a  full 
picture  of  the  soldier's  war-life. 

During  the  months  of  inaction  and 
waiting,    the   soldier-poet    had   time    for 

'Ibid.,  p.  386. 

*E.  B.  Osborn,  The  Muse  in  .Irtns,  p.  J. 

'Ibid.,  p.  7. 

'Arthur  Waugh.  op.  cit.,  p.  387. 

'K.  B.  Osborn,  <)/>    cit ,  p.  xxii. 

'"Ibid.,  p.  257. 

"Ibid.,  p.  xxiii. 


[251 


reflections  and  dreams  of  his  homeland. 
He  derived  new  conceptions  of  the  value 
of  life  and  people  from  his  somber  hours 
of  deliberation.  Much  of  the  poetry  of 
this  period  painted  remembered  scenes 
of  the  English  country-side,  familiar 
places,  and  events  in  his  former  life.  All 
this  verse  reflects  the  soldier's  longing 
for  home,  and  again  expresses,  indirectly, 
his  love  for  his  country.  The  closing  lines 
of  Robert  Nichols'  poem,  "At  the  Wars," 
poignantly  reflect  the  Englishman's  deep, 
quiet  pride  in  his  motherland,  his  appre- 
ciation of  the  value  of  its  beauty  and  the 
sacrifice  due  it. 

The  gorse  upon  the  twilit  down, 
The  English  loam  so  sunset  brown, 
The  bowed  pines  and  the  sheep-bells' 

clamor. 
The  wet,  lit  lane  and  the  yellow-hammer, 
The  orchard  and  the  chaffinch  song 
Only  to  the  Brave  belong, 
And  he  shall  find  them  dearer  far 
Enriched  by  blood  after  long  war}^ 

An  outstanding  characteristic  of  the 
war-poetry  of  England  was  the  absence 
of  any  note  of  hatred  for  the  enemy.  The 
only  abusive,  vitriolic  expressions  of 
hatred  for  the  Germans  were  by  civilian 
poets.^^  The  few  soldier-poets  who  did 
write  about  the  Germans  wrote  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger,  as  in  these  lines 
from  Charles  Sorley's  sonnet: 


You  only  saw  your  future  largely 

planned. 
And  we,  the  tapering  paths  of  our  own 

mind. 
And  in  each  other's  dearest  ways,  we 

stand. 
And  hiss  out  hate.    And  the  blind  fight 

the  blind}* 
These  pictures  of  the  emotions  and 
moods  of  the  soldier-poet  in  war-time  not 
only  show  the  effect  of  war  on  English 
poets  of  the  time  and  their  works,  but 
also  reflect  the  attitudes  and  sympathies 
of  the  English  people  as  a  whole.  The 
poems  depicting  the  ghastly  aspect  of 
warfare  show  the  people's  and  the 
soldiers'  realization  of  the  worst  side  of 
war ;  the  more  numerous  poems  express- 
ing the  finer  ideals  and  emotions  show  the 
courage,  spirit,  and  strong  faith  in  right 
prevailing  in  the  face  of  the  troubles  of 
a  distraught  period, 

"Ihid.,  p.  4. 

"E.  B.  Osborn,  "Soldier  Poets,"  p.  52. 

"E.  B.  Osborn,  The  Muse  in  Arms,  p.  xv. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Abercrombie,  L.  "War  and  the  Poets."  Liv- 
ing Age,  Vol.  288  (January  1,  1916),  pp. 
3-15. 

Osborn,  E.  B.  The  Muse  in  Arms.  New 
York:    Frederick  A.  Stokes  &  Co. 

Osborn,  E.  B.  "Soldier  Poets."  Living  Age, 
Vol.  296  (January  5,  1918),  pp.  48-52. 

Waugh,  Arthur.  "War  Poetry  (1914-18)." 
Quarterly  Review,  Vol.  230  (October 
1918),  pp.  380-400. 


Routine 

As  production  is  streamlined,  jobs  become  more  and  more  specialized  until  the 
worker  is  left  with  one  simple  single  movement  to  repeat  over  and  over.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  appreciate  the  shock  given  the  nervous  and  muscular  system  by  the  monotony 
of  an  "assembly-line"  job  unless  one  has  actually  experienced  it.  The  same  dull, 
deadening  cadence  wears  at  one  hour  after  hour;  the  same  muscles  do  the  same  thing 
day  after  day,  and  the  rest  of  them  never  get  any  use;  the  same  joints  swell  from 
overuse  and  the  others  swell  because  they're  not  used.  All  these  things  are  part  of  a 
specialized  job.  We  put  men  to  work  where  steel  can't  do  the  job  and  forget  that 
they  are  made  of  flesh  and  blood  and  have  such  things  as  nerves  and  brains. 

— Tom  Shiff 


[26] 


The  Children's  Hour 


Shirley  Landsman 
Rhetoric  I.  Theme  17,  1939-1940 


A  T  FIVE  o'clock  every  week-day 
^*'  afternoon,  millions  of  American 
children  drop  whatever  they  are  doing 
and  rush  to  the  nearest  radio  set.  Here, 
with  feverish  eyes  and  cocked  ears,  they 
listen  for  the  first  raucous  sound  which 
indicates  that  the  children's  hour  is  at 
hand.  This  introductory  signal  may  be 
the  wail  of  a  police  siren,  the  rattle  of  a 
machine  gun,  the  explosion  of  a  hand 
grenade,  the  shriek  of  a  dying  woman, 
the  bark  of  a  gangster's  pistol,  or  possibly 
the  groan  of  a  soul  in  purgatory.  What- 
ever it  is,  the  significance  is  the  same; 
radio  has  assumed  its  daily  task  of  in- 
fluencing children's  minds  and  morals 
with  blood-and-thunder  effects. 

The  horror  programs  which  clutter  the 
air  from  five  to  six  o'clock  cover  a  wide 
range  of  topics,  but  the  themes  of  most 
are  similar.  Emphasis  is  placed  on  gore 
and  violence ;  the  other  ingredients  neces- 
sary to  dramatic  continuity  are  presented 
merely  as  camouflage.  Some  of  the  pro- 
gram heroes  are  Texas  rangers,  some 
are  cowboys,  some  are  G  men,  some  are 
police  officers,  but  all  of  them  are  oc- 
cupied with  shooting  their  antagonists  in 
cold  blood,  or  with  laying  plans  to  com- 
mit mayhem  at  the  first  opportunity. 
Somewhere  a  criminal's  gun  is  being 
aimed,  somewhere  a  smuggler's  plane  is 
crashing,  somewhere  a  village  bank  is 
being  robbed,  somewhere  a  pirate  boat  is 
sinking,  and  somew^here  a  bestial  war  is 
raging.  Utilizing  playscripts  which  are 
as  ingenious  as  they  are  vivacious,  the 
heroes  and  heroines  of  the  children's 
radio  hour  hammer  home  the  message 
of  terror  upon  the  sensitive  minds  of 
the  younger  generation.    The  results  of 


such  ceaseless  bludgeoning  are  apparent 
to  any  casual  observer  of  a  small  child. 
With  the  aid  of  radio,  we  are  doing  our 
best  to  breed  a  race  of  neurotics. 

The  fact  that  children  enjoy  listening 
to  the  blood-and-thunder  thrillers  is  not 
remarkable ;  indeed,  their  parents  spend 
considerable  time  listening  to  "adult" 
programs  little  more  mature.  The  funda- 
mental evil  of  the  current  trend  is  that 
children,  being  immature  and  inexperi- 
enced, have  no  opportunity  to  exercise 
choice  or  to  apply  discrimination.  From 
their  earliest  days  they  have  listened  to 
horror  on  the  air.  It  is  impossible  for 
them  to  realize  that  there  might  be  an 
alternative.  Therefore,  they  flock  to  the 
radio  each  afternoon  like  urchins  chasing 
a  fire  engine.  In  fact,  many  of  them  con- 
sider listening  to  the  radio  a  duty,  a 
responsibility  taking  precedence  over 
lessons.  School  books  are  dry  things. 
Why  spend  your  time  studying  grammar 
when  you  can  hear  a  prison  siren  yowl 
or  a  "Dillinger"  gun  roar? 

Behind  the  juvenile  radio  racket  lies  a 
background  of  commercialism  contrived 
by  program  sponsors.  At  least  once  a  day 
each  child  is  told  to  send  three,  six,  or 
ten  cents  in  stamps  to  the  sponsor  in  re- 
turn for  which  he  will  receive  a  hoodoo 
ring,  an  Oriental  poison  box,  a  police 
whistle,  a  sheriff's  badge,  or  perhaps  an 
up-to-date  burglar's  kit.  With  two  box- 
tops  of  "Crackies,"  he  buys  a  gun  (harm- 
less, of  course)  ;  with  three  empty  cartons 
of  "Cupsies,"  he  buys  a  useful  rubber 
dagger. 

Parents  dismiss  the  juvenile  radio 
problem,  however,  with  a  tolerant  smile. 
"Boys  will  be  boys,"  they  say.  or  "When 


127] 


we  were  young  we  read  Nick  Carter  and 
Deadtvood  Dick,  and  they  didn't  blight 
our  lives."  But  such  arguments  are  un- 
sound. The  radio,  by  means  of  its  power 
to  play  on  the  ear  with  horror  effects, 
exercises  a  far  stronger  influence  than 
did  the  dime  shockers  of  the  eighties. 
Today's  radio  gives  virtually  no  respite. 
Each  day  at  five  o'clock,  the  same  blood- 
curdling broadcasts  quiver  through  the 
loud  speaker. 

Educational   groups,    faculty  advisors, 
consumer  councils  all  over  the  country 


are  conducting  radio  surveys  of  juvenile  I 
radio  programs  with  an  eye  to  improving 
them.  Protests  will  mean  nothing,  how- 
ever. Modern  children  have  been  raised 
on  these  bloody  and  noisy  programs.  And 
the  sponsors  are  determined  that  as  long 
as  hack  continuity  writers  and  ham  actors 
can  grind  out  drama — and  as  long  as  chil- 
dren will  send  in  three,  six,  and  ten  cents 
wrapped  in  a  "Ploppsie"  wrapper — the 
horror  program  racket  will  continue.  De- 
spite all  protests  the  Children's  Hour 
sponsors  will  stick  to  their  guns. 


Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay  s 
Conversation  at  Midnight 

Sally  Rhode 
Rhetoric  II.  Theme  9,  1938-1939 


A  GLORIFIED,  dignified,  stylized  bull 
session  is  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay's 
Conversation  at  Midnight.  It  speaks  of 
love  and  war,  of  religion  and  music,  of 
politics  and  sports,  of  government  and 
people  as  do  men  (and  women  too)  the 
world  over.  It  moves  smoothly  through 
"The  Rotary  Club"  and  "The  Com- 
munistic State,"  sometimes  stumbling 
into  pitfalls  of  disagreement,  but  always 
maintaining  the  free  and  simple  style  of 
natural,  normal  conversation. 

Though  this  is  not  a  dramatic  poem 
in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  word,  it 
should  be  read  and  considered  as  such. 
No  directions  for  the  physical  behavior 
of  the  characters  have  been  given ;  yet 
one  can  readily  picture  the  scene — a 
group  of  men  seated  comfortably  beside 
an  open  fire,  smoking  and  drinking  as 
they  talk.  The  group  is  typical ;  the  in- 
dividuals are  typical — personalities,  dif- 
ferent as  day  and  night,  blended  in  their 
exchange  of  ideas  and  ideals. 


Between  the  lines  of  conversation  are 
subtle  bits  of  philosophy  that  bring  into 
its  own  the  uncanny  understanding  the 
poet  has  of  the  strength  and  weakness  of 
human  nature.  How  true  is  Carl's 
statement: 

"A  thing  might  be  beautiful  as  a  dande- 
lion blossom — that  zvon't  do; 
If  it's  common  as  a  dandelion  blossom, 
you're  through." 

Or  this  practiced  reflection  of  Ricardo: 
"If  I'm  sitting  on  a  fence,  it's  a  barbed- 
Zi/ire  fence  and  it  hurts  me 
More  than  it  does  you." 

I  read  little  poetr}-  and  understand 
less,  but  the  natural,  human  elements 
of  Conversation  at  Midnight  would  be 
appreciated  by  the  most  casual  and  ordi- 
nary reader.  I  found  myself  constantly 
taking  mental  note  of  Edna  St.  Vincent 
Millay 's  bits  of  sound  reasoning  and 
thinking,  "That's  good ;  I  must  tell  Jane 
about  it." 


(28  1 


Mutiny  on  the  Bounty 


Norma  Adams 
Rhetoric  I,  Theme  13,  1939-lQIO 


STRANGE  as  it  may  seem,  until  this 
year  I  had  escaped  reading^  Mutin\ 
on  the  Bounty  or  seeing  it  as  a  movie. 
It  was  of  my  own  volition,  and  not  under 
the  influence  of  best-seller  readers,  that 
I  finally  exposed  myself  to  Nordhoff  and 
Hall's  writing.  For  some  reason  I  had 
expected  Mutiny  on  the  Bounty  to  em- 
phasize Fletcher  Christian  and  his 
wanderings  to  find  an  island  suitable  for 
permanent  settlement,  but  this  guess  was 
wrong.  As  I  rediscovered,  for  I  knew 
it  at  one  time,  Mutiny  on  the  Bounty  is 
but  one  of  three  books  which  Nordhoff 
and  Hall  have  written  about  The  Bounty 
and  her  crew.  The  other  two  books  are 
Pitcairn's  Island  and  Men  Against  the 
Sea,  which  deal  with  Christian  and  Bligh 
respectively.  Mutiny  on  the  Bounty,  the 
introductory  book  of  the  three,  describes 
The  Bounty's  trip  to  Tahiti  to  get  bread- 
fruit trees,  the  mutiny  led  by  Christian, 
the  effect  of  the  mutiny  on  the  seamen's 
lives,  and  the  trial  of  the  accused  muti- 
neers in  England. 

This  book  has  one  great  fault,  which 
is  most  conspicuous  in  the  description 
of  the  mutiny.  Quite  oddly,  the  mutiny, 
the  most  important  part  of  the  novel,  is 
described  so  briefly  at  the  time  it  occurs 
in  the  story  that  it  is  almost  over  before 
the  reader  realizes  what  is  happening. 
The  real  details  are  given  later,  but  they 
are  buried  in  the  testimony  presented  by 
the  seamen  on  trial  in  England.  The 
mutiny  is  not  at  all  exciting  or  dramatic. 
Probably  the  mutiny  is  described  so 
sketchily  because  the  whole  story  is  re- 
lated in  restricted  first  person  by  Roger 
Byam,  a  young  lad  of  seventeen  making 
his  first  sea  voyage.    For  a  novel  of  this 


type  I  do  not  like  the  subjective  ap- 
proach, for  I  feel  that  much  action  which 
cannot  reasonably  be  noted  by  the  narra- 
tor is  lost  and  that  the  whole  story  is 
limited  in  its  dramatic  possibilities.  Had 
the  story  been  told  in  the  all-seeing,  all- 
knowing  third  person,  it  might  have  been 
much  more  gripping  than  it  is  as  related, 
forty  years  after  the  mutiny,  by  an  old 
man  whose  ideas  and  feelings  have  been 
tempered  by  the  passing  times. 

Historical  accuracy  is  the  chief  virtue 
of  Mutiny  on  the  Bounty.  Usually  in 
an  historical  novel  a  number  of  literary 
liberties  are  taken,  but  in  this  book  there 
are  relatively  few.  A  great  mass  of  in- 
formation about  The  Bounty  was  gath- 
ered in  England  for  the  authors  before 
they  started  working  on  the  book,  and 
every  source  was  explored  to  find  all  the 
material  available.  Even  a  model  of  the 
ship  was  constructed  so  that  all  refer- 
ences made  by  the  authors  to  parts  of  the 
ship  might  be  carefully  and  accurately 
worked  out.  The  authors  do  omit  a 
seaman  named  Heywood  and  replace  him 
with  Roger  Byam,  but  even  Byam's  life 
as  described  in  the  book  closely  follows 
that  of  Heywood.  Another  of  the  book's 
merits  is  its  passages  descriptive  of  Ta- 
hiti. Nordhoff  and  Hall  skillfully  man- 
age to  make  the  reader  feel  that  he  is 
on  the  island  of  Tahiti,  and  one  can 
almost  feci  himself  falling  under  the 
spell  of  the  South  Seas.  It  is  almost  a 
shock  when  one  suddenly  realizes  that  he 
is  thousands  of  miles  from  the  scene  of 
the  action  and  that  only  printed  words 
are  creating  this  feeling.  After  reading 
the  descriptions  of  the  island  and  follow- 
ing the  gentle,  sympathetic  way  in  which 


29 


the  authors  tell  of  the  habits  and  the  per- 
sonalities of  the  natives,  the  reader  is  not 
surprised  to  learn  that  Nordhoff  and  Hall 
make  their  home  in  Tahiti. 

Though  Mutiny  on  the  Bounty  is  a 
fascinating  tale,  it  is  by  no  means  a  pro- 
found novel  and  would  never  greatly  in- 
fluence anyone.  Since  its  main  purpose 
is  to  tell  a  stirring  narrative,  it  does 
not  probe  deeply  into  the  characters  of 
the  men;  only  superficial  descriptions  of 
the  personalities  of  Bligh  and  Christian 
are  given.  At  one  point  in  the  story 
Byam  comments  to  a  Dr.  Hamilton:  "It 
[a  certain  scheme  Christian  had  planned 
before  the  mutiny  occurred]  would  not 
seem  improbable  if  they  [the  jury  which 
would  hear  Byam's  case]  knew  Chris- 
tian's character  and  the  abuse  he  had 
received  from  Captain  Bligh."  I  am  sure 
that  if  I  had  been  a  member  of  the  jury 
and  had  only  the  facts  Byam  presents 
in  the  book  by  which  to  judge,  I  would 
not  have  felt  that  I  understood  Christian 
or  why  he  would  have  attempted  such  a 
scheme.  Bligh's  actions  are  also  amazing. 
Though  the  reader  is  given  an  inkling 


that  Bligh  is  a  strong-willed  man  who 
loves  rules,  he  is  represented  in  the  first 
chapter  as  being  likable  and  intelligent, 
and  one  certainly  does  not  expect  him  to 
be  a  greedy,  heartless  captain  who  robs 
his  own  men  of  their  rations  and  then 
feeds  them  food  unfit  for  wild  animals. 
One  can  hardly  imagine  a  person  as  cruel 
as  Bligh  in  the  treatment  of  his  men 
when  there  is  no  adequate  explanation 
given  for  such  unwarranted  severity. 
Though  the  main  purpose  of  Mutiny  on 
the  Bounty  is  not  to  give  a  character 
portrayal,  I  do  feel  that  a  little  more 
concentration  upon  the  men's  characters 
would  have  added  credibility  to  the  story 
and  made  it  a  better  historical  account. 
The  story  gave  me  the  impression  that  I 
was  being  told  about  events  and  that  I 
was  not  to  question  why  these  events 
occurred. 

I  think  that,  in  the  last  analysis, 
Mutiny  on  the  Bounty  may  be  called  a 
success  as  an  historical  account  of  The 
Bounty's  trip  to  Tahiti  and  the  mutiny 
and  its  after-effects,  but  a  pleasant, 
profitable  failure  as  a  novel. 


1919 


George  F.  Asselin 
Rhetoric  II,  Theme  4,  1939-1940 


A  LL  GREAT  struggles  produce  their 
^*'  tragic  aftermaths;  the  World  War 
was  no  exception.  It  broke  lives,  wrecked 
futures,  and  wrought  a  general  destruc- 
tion of  man's  faith  in  himself.  Society 
suffered  badly  enough  while  the  actual 
warfare  was  going  on;  but  when  the 
fighting  ceased  and  people  were  given 
time  to  comprehend  their  plight,  the 
situation  became  even  more  calamitous. 
The  immediate  effects  of  the  war  con- 


tinued throughout  a  decade.  But  the 
time  of  greatest  suffering  from  the  dis- 
ruption of  the  social  and  economic  order 
was  the  year  following  the  armistice. 
About  this  time  and  its  effects  John  Dos 
Passos  builds  a  superb  novel  called  1919. 
Using  his  characteristic  "newsreel" 
style,  he  gives  a  cosmorama  culminating 
in  the  year  1919,  and  made  up  of  scat- 
tered lives  that  were  affected  by  the 
World  War. 


[30] 


Joe  Williams,  a  typical  Yankee  sailor, 
gets  into  a  scrape  in  South  America. 
Using  a  set  of  forged  papers,  he  gains 
a  berth  as  an  able-bodied  seaman  on  an 
English  merchant  ship  and  becomes  in- 
volved in  the  war  mess.  He  has  a  roar- 
ing good  time  in  Paris,  and  returns  to 
New  York  to  spend  almost  a  year  dodg- 
ing the  draft  before  he  is  caught.  After 
the  fight,  he  becomes  a  good-for-nothing 
bum  and  is  "tight"  as  often  as  he  can 
get  his  hands  on  some  money.  Thus 
Dos  Passos  portrays  the  effect  of  the 
war  on  one  man's  life. 

Caxton  Hibbens,  well-to-do  young 
man,  wangles  a  commission  in  the  army 
in  order  to  see  the  world.  It  is  not  the 
pleasant  world  of  his  imagination  that 
he  sees,  but  rather  the  hard  facts  of  a 
world  at  war.  Before  his  eyes,  hitherto 
unaccustomed  to  such  sights,  are  thrown 
sights  of  "gangrened  wounds,  the 
cholera,  the  typhus,  the  little  children 
with  their  bellies  swollen  from  famine, 
the  maggoty  corpses,  drunk  Allied  offi- 
cers chasing  sick  naked  girls  upstairs  in 
the  brothels  of  Saloniki,  soldiers  looting 
stores  and  churches,  French  and  British 
sailors  fighting  with  beer  bottles  in  the 
bars."  The  war  makes  Hibbens  a 
Communist. 

These  and  the  other  tales  in  1919  are 
told  in  an  unusual  manner,  to  say  the 


least.  News  bulletins,  dispatches,  and 
headlines  are  scattered  through  the  book. 
Three  or  four  stories  are  begun  at  the 
same  time  and  continued  irrcj,'ularly 
through  the  entire  work.  The  headlines 
serve  to  connect  the  sketches  by  showing 
how  the  lives  of  individuals  are  affected 
by  various  current  events. 

The  words  are  vile  in  places-  in  many 
places — but  this  obscenity  helps  to  give 
the  novel  that  "illusion  of  reality,"  that 
"local  color,"  which  makes  the  book  great 
and  enables  John  Dos  Passos  so  force- 
fully to  drive  home  a  picture  of  the 
conditions  of  life  in  a  country  at  war. 
Some  people  may  find  fault  with  Dos 
Passos'  many  long  series  of  incomplete 
sentences ;  but,  for  me  at  least,  these 
make  effective  his  portrayal  of  the 
abandonment  of  hope  for  the  future  that 
characterized  the  year  1919. 

1919  is  a  newsreel  picture  of  life  in 
post-war  America,  taken  by  a  camera- 
man whose  eye  for  grim  reality  is  not 
blurred  by  pre-war  ideology.  If  you  are 
fond  of  realism  in  literature,  if  you  pre- 
fer your  facts  ungarnished,  and  if  you 
are  interested  in  the  disillusionment  of 
the  War  generation,  read  1919.  If  for 
no  other  reason,  read  it  to  gain  a  finer 
appreciation  of  the  trouble  in  Europe 
today. 


Book  Store 

At  seven-thirty  in  the  morning  Mr.  Dwight's  book  store  was  a  model  of  neatness 
and  cleanliness.  As  we  girls  who  were  to  work  as  extras  during  the  September 
back-to-school  rush  entered,  we  glanced  about  warily  and  found,  to  our  satisfaction, 
that  the  place  was  very  pleasant.  The  morning  sun  shone  through  the  polished  front 
windows  and  fell  upon  a  neatly  patterned  brown  linoleum  floor.  The  books  upon  the 
shelves  marched  like  soldiers  in  beautifully  straight  lines.  Upon  the  supply  tables 
yellow  and  white  pads  of  paper  were  stacked  in  piles  as  unvarying  as  the  bungalows 
of  a  new  city  suburb.  Then  we  saw  Mr.  Dwight.  His  pale,  anemic  face  stood  out 
sharply  from  the  dim  mahogany  shadows  of  the  darkened  back  part  of  the  store.  He 
wafted  his  dry  professional  smile  in  our  direction  just  once,  then  immediately 
seemed  to  forget  our  existence.  It  was  Emil,  the  chief  clerk,  a  handsome  blond 
young  man,  who  gave  us  our  instructions.  His  friendly  smile  and  assuring  manner 
put  us  at  ease  within  a  very  short  time. — Patricia  Shesler 


[31] 


Rhet  as  Writ 


•  es,   n   IS  aimost   a 
.-.z    a    woman    as   one's 
Thus    giTing    an    nxfividnal 
:  courage. 

:-e;!t  robbed  his  chin 

-ts. 


with  coocen 


I  had  no  time  to  ponder  when  ihe 
tfaiistj  and  hmigry  men  broa^t  their 
dry  and  g^ntinons  hmses  in  at  noon. 

On  keeping  ttp  with  the  new^iapers  I 
find  that  nobodj  has  seen  ereiythiug^  in 
die  Natmal  M  nsenm.  ....  The  Mu- 
seum has  on^  tibe  more  finer  articles 
and  ^lecimens  showing  on  di^ilaj  to  a 
great  extent  these  are:  things  ranging 
from  the  tiniest  sbdis  and  insects,  to  the 
largest,  sodi  as  aotomobiks,  railway 
trauspurlation  indoding  the  steam  en- 
gine, and  on  op  to  the  largest  fossils 
ever  found.  ....  I  can  sinceiefy  saj 
that  what  description  the  papers  give  is 
nothii^  like  really  walking  in  the  front 
door  and  comii^  out  tibe  back,  because 
tins,  in  niy  opinion,  is  the  reason  for  the 
two  million  people  that  come  to  the  Na- 
tional Museum  every  year  and  a  number 
anywhere  from  f  cnty-five  hundred  to 
five  thousand  a  day — yet  so  little  is  seen 
of  die  wIk^. 

He  has  a  sttdiby  turned  up  nose  widi 
small  eansu 

An  forms  of  business  would  be  turned 
over  to  the  Goremment  and  prices  would 
immediateiy  sour.  Food  would  be  ration- 
alized and  dodiing  would  become  more 
uniform. 


7»d  11) 

a  labor  nnicm  is  mentioned,  my 
usually  directed  to  a  mental  pic- 
:reet  walkers  with  signs  declar- 
u-i  „...:  grievaiKes. 

He  is  about  five  feet  ten  and  wa>*s 
around  one  hundred  sevoity  pounds, 
and  every  indi  is  a  swell  guy. 

The  part  describing  the  scalping  of 
the  victims  by  the  Indians  during  battle 
is  (Mie  of  the  most  hair-raising  of  the 
maiiy  diapters  in  die  book. 

The  road  to  Mattoon  is  a  road  diat  is 
just  about  straight.  But  you  have  a  lot 
of  curves  in  iL  ....  It  [Mattoon]  does 
not  have  ai^  of  a  cc^lege  in  the  town, 
and  it  mosthr  is  noted  for  a  shoe  factory 
winch  is  a  drawing  part  of  die  city. 

She  [Bessie,  in  The  Light  that  Fmled] 
is  a  dirty  dum  from  the  streets,  whom 
Dick  makes  his  last  master  piece  of. 


Very  few  men  and  women  who  re- 
main unmarried  fail  to  r^ret  the  fact 
that  they  remained  single  at  some  time 
or  other  during  their  life. 

•  •  •  • 

Romantic  love  is  only  an  optical  iUu- 
aon  that  we  human  bongs  strive  for  aB 
our  lives,  but  in  reality  is  only  a  fantas- 
tic dream  diat  we  all  desire.  ....  Only 
after  marriage  does  one  see  each  odier 
realistically. 


1321 


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•^VASCHER'S- 

UBR/.RY  BINLEr3 

S07  S.  Goodwin 

UrbanaliL 


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