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Full text of "Smith College Monthly"

Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

LYRASIS Members and Sloan Foundation 



http://archive.org/details/smith2627smit 




OCTOBER 



THE 



L 



College Anthology 

YOUNG 
PEGASUS 



Edited by the Intercollegiate Magazine Conference. 

Not introduced by any professor. The best of Am- 
herst, Barnard, Bryn Mawr, Columbia, Dartmouth, 
Harvard, Middlebury, Minnesota, Mount Holyoke, 
Radcliffe, Smith, Vassar and Wisconsin. 



$2.50 



LINCOLN MACVEAGH 
The Dial Press 

152 WEST 12th ST. NEW YORK, N. Y. 




BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 




Vol. XXXV 



October, 1926 



No. 1 



EDITORIAL BOARD 

Elizabeth Hamburger 1927 
Alice L. Phelps 1927 Jenny Nathan 1927 

Ruth L. Thompson 1927 Sarah Wingate Taylor 1928 

Art Editor — Josephine Stein 1927 

BUSINESS STAFF 
Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi 1927 
Doris Penkham 1927 Mildred Whitmer 1927 

Julia Kellogg 1928 Virginia Hart 1927 

Gladys Lampert 1928 Ruth Myers 1928 

Pearl Morris 1928 Ruth Rose 1929 



The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Mass., each month from 

October to June, inclusive. Terms $1.75 a year. Single copies 25c. 

Subscriptions may be sent to Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi, Northrop House 

Advertising Manager, Julia Kellogg, Chapin House. 

Contributions may be left in the Monthly box in the Note Room. 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Mass., as second class matter. 

Metcalf Printing £ Publishing Company, Northampton, Mass. 

"Accepted for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1108, 

Act of October S, 1917. Authorized October 81, 1918." 



T. Ono & Company 

CHINESE 
TABLE LAMPS 



Italian Linner Clock 
Chinese Brass Wares 

All Sorts of Oriental Novelties 
and etc. 



192 Main St., 
Northampton, Mass. 



Northampton 
Commercial College 

Offers courses which give a 
thorough technical training 
to those who desire 

Secretarial Positions 
Position as Commercial Teachers 

Send for catalogue 



All makes 

Standard and Portable Typewriters 

Sold, Rented, Repaired. Supplies. 

CORONA agency. 



76 Pleasant Street 

NORTHAMPTON, 



MASS. 



Which of These Smart Requisites 
Is Your Favorite? 



No. A few distinguished names nave come 
to stand for smartness with women of good 
taste. These smart preartalons, advertised 
in such imprlcably smart fashion publica- 
tions as Vogue and Harpers Bazaar are car- 
ried here in profuse selections. Tou can 
choose from such irreproachable makes as 
Ooty, Bourjois, Yardley, Houbigant, Elisa- 
beth Arden, Floret, Woodworth, Guerlain, 
Boger and Gallet, Oappl, Gneldy, etc. 



KINGSLEY'S, Inc. 

The Attractive Store where you get 
the good things to eat 



Fleming s Boot Shop 

189 Main Street 
Northampton, Mass. 

(formerly ill Main) 

Artistic 

Lovely quality of leather and 
workmanship as well as de- 
cidedly different styles ac- 
count for artistic appearance 
of OUR shoes. 




CONTENTS 




Smith College, America 






An Englishman 


7 


Caprice 






Anne Morrow 1928 


16 


Wings? 






Mary E. Roblin 1929 


17 


Junk 






Anne W. Ayres 1927 


19 


Peter Pan 






Roberta Seaver 1928 


20 


Died: An Old Woman 






Anne L. Basing er 1929 


21 


Kaleidoscope 






Roberta Seaver 1928 


25 


Onward and Upward For 


Ever 


Elizabeth Hall 1928 


26 


Summer Sketch 






Catherine Johnson 1928 


29 


Fog- Song 






Helen R. Schmauk 1927 


31 


Lizard's Tail 






Elizabeth Newman 1928 


32 


Orpheus and Eurydice 






Priscilla Fairchild 1930 


36 


WrvEs of Great Men 
Reflections 






Doris Russell 1927 
Roberta Seaver 1928 


37 

38 


College: After the Manner 


of 


Fannie Hurst 

Harriett Rinaldo 1928 


39 


Editorial: Dangerous Young 


People 


41 


Sofa Corner 








43 


Book Reviews 








45 



All manuscript should be typewritten and in the Monthly Box by the fifteenth 

of the month to be considered for the issue of the following month. 

All manuscript should be signed with the full name of the writer. 



Manuscript may be disposed of unless marked "Return". 






4 
I 



I 
1 



r\NE 0/ America's great hotels—and, 
surrounding it, the city's famous 
shops, theatres, and business 

"At the Crossroads of the World " 

f. A. MUSCHENHEIM 



E S SQUARE, T^ *S E. W ; TP KK 




This Book was 
Printed by 

itealf Printing 



Northampton, Mass. 



PLAZA FRUIT CO. 



NEXT TO PLAZA 

Fruit 



Candy 



Chewing-Gum 






Popcorn for the Movies 

A. LUCHINI. Prop. 



The Mary Marguerite 
Fudge Cake 

Send us your order and any date 
We'll send you a loaf of our famous 

fudge cake. 
To be had only, now make no mistake, 
At the Mary Marguerite tea rooms. 

21 State Street 



GLEASON BROTHERS 

P. P. GLEASON, Prop. 
Moving, Storing, Packing, Snipping 
Long distance transfer by auto truck 
Office 7 Pearl St. Tel. 413-W 

Northampton Baggage Transfer 

Tel. 153 
NOETHAMPTON, MASS. 





Smith College 
Monthly 



SMITH COLLEGE, AMERICA* 
An Englishman 

To the Editress of The Smith College Monthly Magazine, 
Dear Madam, 

Out of my ignorance and my conceit have I written this article, and out 
of my shamelessness do I send it to you. 1 do not dare to ask you to give it 
your earnest attention, for that would be sure to entail its rejection; on the con- 
trary, if you just skip through it lightly (and I know a Smith College girl could 
not help skipping gracefully as well), it may occur to you that such a rag-bag of 
phrases and ideas ought to be published at least to instruct Smith College, 
(should it ever need instruction), in how not to write and not to think, and also 
to provide some honest mirth for Americans at British expense. 

I have seen one number of your college magazine, and cannot deny that 
it is much more literary and much better written than the leading Cambridge 
(England) periodicals; nothing of mine has ever appeared in a Cambridge mag- 
azine, but then on the other hand I never offered them anything; it would I know 
be absurd to offer this article on its merits, so I humbly tender it in the hope 
that Smith College might be interested to know what foolish fancies can chase 
themselves through a European brain, dazzled and drunken with the beauty and 
enchantment of Smith Collegites, as Merlin by Morgan la Fay. 

May I keep my nom de plume? 

Yours sincerely, 

An Englishman. 

Although only an Englishman, I yet aspire to higher 
things, and, like the ill-omened birds of prey which followed 
the conquering armies of Alexander, of Caesar, and of Na- 
poleon, I follow the student parties of America, and espe- 
cially of Smith College: helpless and hapless maidens, 
innocently straying from under their chaperone's wing, 
have found themselves approached, addressed, yea, even 
blackmailed by an unscrupulous and resolute hobo. In fact, 
no scheme is too nefarious, no plot too base, no action too 
desperate, to be undertaken in furthering my ambitions, and 



* We publish this without comment except to say that it is a bona fide letter, 
received by us through the mail. 



8 The Smith College Monthly 

consequently I have reached the giddy heights of being 
allowed to bow to some five and twenty members of Smith 
College, of being entranced with the conversation of some 
nineteen, and of being afforded the extreme delight and 
privilege of watching no less than fifteen masticate their 
food as food should be masticated. All, without exception, 
were wonderful, were cute, were cunning, were lambs, were 
indeed houris of loveliness and charm beyond poor mortal 
imagining: it would be impossible to prefer one to another, 
for X.'s eyes can flame like the touch of dawn on a mountain 
pool, but then Y. has very neat ankles, and a set of morals 
that would do credit to an archbishop, and Q.'s conversation 
is as sparkling as a phosphorescent sea, but then R. can 
dance the Charleston as if convulsively knock-kneed from 
birth: their 'lines' are amply sufficient to catch whales, and I, 
a minnow, from the first moment have been hooked beyond 
hope of disgorging, or even desire to do so. I know a castle 
in Ober-Osterreich, with tourney champ de bataille and a 
gallery for damsels of high degree (all seats booked for 
Smith College) ; there will I prove upon the recreant body 
of any caitiff knave who dares deny it, that Smith College 
stands supreme above all other colleges in heaven or on 
earth, and that its graduates, undergraduates, and post- 
graduates are more graduated, undergraduated, and post- 
graduated than any other heavenly or earthly graduates, 
undergraduates, and postgraduates, and moreover that all 
members of Smith College, (including live-stock of any 
description within a rum-line radius) , are the most attractive, 
the most winning, the most beautiful, the most intelligent, 
the most generous, and the best of their sex to be foimd any 
wheresoever, alive, moribund, or dead. 

Alas, my long-hid secret must out: like a wiorm i' th' 
bud it has corroded my heart, and now, even more openly 
than Lorraine Lowee, it hangs across a fence of words for 
all the world to see — I have fallen beyond reason, beyond 
hope, beyond mortality, in love with every single inmate of 
Smith College, and not one single inmate has fallen in love 
with me: my heart has been broken no less than 2000 times 
(why, oh why, did I choose the largest woman's college in 
existence?), and this, I think, constitutes a record equal to 
swimming the Channel. I expect no laurel leaves, no no- 



The Smith College Monthly 9 

toriety, but at least let my suffering earn me the indulgence 
of expatiating a little while on these starry planets beyond 
my reach. 

It is well-known that former members of Harvard or 
Vale, living in blissful retirement within the sober walls of 
Sing- Sing, forget old differences to clasp hands and clink 
glasses over the memory of Smith College. 'Where,' they 
cry, 'but for Smith College, should we be now? Probably 
languishing amid the uncultured hoi polloi of Pennsylvania 
Penitentiary. Whereas it is a matter of common gossip 
that alumni of Yale or Harvard, seeking a hermitage within 
the portals of Pennsylvania Penitentiary, forgive long- 
standing scores, in order to drop a mingled tear over the 
memory of Smith College: 'Where,' they cry, 'but for 
Smith College should we now be? Doubtless drooping and 
pining among the pitiable unfortunates of dire Sing-Sing.' 
Thus has Smith College been an inspiration and a comfort 
to men in every situation, and will continue to be so, long 
after colleges that by the merest fluke chanced to begin 
operations beforehand, have crumbled into oblivious dust. 
But, while millionaires, witless with thwarted love, have 
been signing the name of Smith College to thousand dollar 
cheques, or ticket-collectors have punched tickets with the 
more vehemence for the dear sake of Northampton, Mass., 
has Smith College been a source of inspiration to itself, has 
it justified its proud title to fame by the number of things 
or persons it has done? Alack — the — day, though out- 
standing among other American women by virtue of educa- 
tion, beauty, intelligence, courage, and force of will, yet 
Smith College has permitted itself to share in some of the 
errors of its feminine compatriots, and thereby swept from 
under its feet the foundation on which to rest the ladder of 
success in the battle for woman's rights. (Now take a 
drink of water) . 

The American woman has many privileges, and most 
of these privileges she considers as her rights. But the weak 
have no natural rights; at best, among humans, the weak 
may have favours bestowed upon them. Right is might, 
without might you can have no natural right. How many 
of her privileges then has the American woman the might 
to keep, should man suddenly withdraw his favour? As the 



10 The Smith College Monthly 

only means of carrying on the race, she has a right to her bare 
existence so long as the children are too young to look after 
themselves: there is no need for her to look after the grown 
man, who can and often does quite adequately look after him- 
self, for example in college life or in the back-woods. Civi- 
lization, however, has made intellect count for more than 
strength, and it may be said that intellect has no concern with 
sex. If all American men were to decide that they should 
have the umbrella when it rained, and the wife could have the 
drips, then doubtless femininity would raise such a clamour 
that men's nerves would be rasped into defeat; American 
women would thus have a right to the umbrella. Man could 
have reduced woman to stilly quiet by beating her into un- 
consciousness with the said umbrella, but such a course of 
action would now be repugnant to most American men, 
(partly on account of the damage to the umbrella) : yet the 
American woman's right to the umbrella depends upon the 
civilization of man, without which all her rights, except bare 
existence, fly to the winds. Further if all American men were 
to say, as a good many shaggy males do already, that woman 
is unfit for anything outside the home, can American women 
prove that they succeed in so called 'men's jobs' at least as 
well, if not better than, men do themselves? I see no 
adequate reason why woman should not become intellectu- 
ally as strong as man, supposing they receive the same 
mental training. A man may be a better lawyer than a 
woman, not because generations of men have been lawyers 
before him, but because his mind has been trained to get to 
to work more efficiently than hers. If it wiere only ancestry 
that counted, women should be better cooks than men, 
which they are not. These instances are supported by an 
old axiom of the classical school, that it is not what you 
learn, but how you learn that matters. 

Why do practically all the American women over forty 
that I have met look disillusioned? It can't be due to house- 
hold worries, because I am given to understand that in the 
United States divine Providence cares for every want; it 
can't be due to husbands, because it is freely admitted that 
American men make the best husbands on earth ; it can't be 
always due to children, because, after France, America 
shares with Australia the lowest birth-rate in the world; 



The Smith College Monthly 11 

and it can't be due merely to age, b( cause it would then have 
appeared ill American men too; il must be due, I think, to 
the discovery that many of her privileges are not yet estab- 
lished rights. Woman, as woman, holds a higher position in 
America than in Europe, hut woman, as a human being, is 
more respected in Europe than in America (the kind of 
respect a fox has for a hedgehog) . The American woman 
has none of that fearfulness (distinct from timidity) which 
many European women display in the presence of the male, 
but she sometimes, perhaps often, makes the psychological 
error of expecting man to be her helper, and not her com- 
petitor, in the struggle for existence outside the home. For 
example, once upon a time, just about a week ago, I was 
able to be of assistance to an English girl who had lost her 
way: to make sure she should not lose herself again, I accom- 
panied her on her trip to Cook's, and there she cashed a 
cheque and gave me the money to look after: however, when 
we went out together that evening, she brought a chaperone 
too. Now American girls are much more sophisticated; 
with an air of incredible wisdom they store all superfluous 
banknotes under their garters or elsewhere, and then pro- 
ceed to entrust their entire persons to my absolute care 
(alas for me, my best line is a grandfatherly one, and the 
girls of my heart come for my blessing to marry somebody 
else) . This confidence of the American girl in the European 
man's honor reflects unlimited credit on the American man, 
and the surprise of the European man indicates a different 
attitude towards his own womanfolk, although, as a matter 
of fact, European politeness and American enthusiasm often 
create similar surfaces to cover radical divergencies. Who 
and what, then, is this most important American man? 

To be successful in business, one must be hard; there 
are more successful business men in America than in any 
other country; yet man cannot live by bread alone, nor can 
he be forever sternly practical and the American turns his 
gentler side towards his home and family. Indeed, if he is 
to remain human, he must do so, and therefore it is easier 
for the American to be uniformly chivalrous towards women, 
than it is for the European. The attitude of the American 
man towards women is much that of the medieval kinght, 
and there are other medieval resemblances besides. For in- 



12 The Smith College Monthly 

stance, although I am aware that Smith College is above 
such childishness, yet many of their countrymen seem to re- 
gard black flesh with as much superstitious aversion as the 
medievalists regarded black magic, and it would appear that 
those who were unfortunate enough to have any connection 
with either have sometimes suffered the same fiery fate: 
again, although the American would doubtless find the 
medieval fairy an anti-climax after seeing a member of 
Smith College, yet he looks for fairy magic in the future of 
Science, and for happiness, as well as health and wealth, 
from the philosopher's stone: again, raids, conquest, and 
pillage, so dear to the hearts of our ancestors, are reproduced 
now not only by the beaux yeux of Smith College, but also 
in many a business deal: knights combat for their lady's 
favour, now not with the sword hi tournament, but with the 
pen in signing cheques: cock-fights and bear-baiting have 
now become the football game and organized rooting: the 
guild system is now called a trust, and adventurers search 
for El Dorado not in cockel ships, but in the advertisement 
columns: the feudal lord resided in his donjon-keep, the mil- 
lionaire resides in his works, and as the feudal lord hanged 
a serf for stealing corn, so Henry Ford sacks an employee 
for immorality: the medievalists made pilgrimages to sacred 
shrines, Americans make pilgrimages under Cook's guid- 
ance, and, as always, it would seem that inn-keepers draw 
more profit out of the pilgrims, than the pilgrims can draw 
out of their sacred shrines: what does it matter whether you 
cry, 'St. George for Merry England!', or 'Have a Camel!', 
'Dieu et mon droit!' or "You can play it— if it's a Buescher 
Saxophone!', so long as you shout as loud and as spiritedly? 
Whether one says Pan-American or the Holy Roman 
Church, a nun or a woman with a Career, a monk or a man 
who will Get On, an inmate of Sing- Sing or a guest of the 
monastery, parfit knighthood or gentlemen prefer blondes, 
trial by ordeal or the third degree, miracle- plays and moral- 
ities or the cinema, they are all old ideas and new names. 
Nations are young or old as definitely as individuals; 
America was a nation before the War of Independence, or 
there would never have been a war, but even then America 
cannot be more than three or four hundred years old, and 
England is at least ten centuries older, and France older 



The Smith College Monthly 18 

still. Though outwardly up to date, inwardlj the emotions 
of the American are still medieval, thai is to say. stronger 
and less senile than those of the European. Thwarted 
natural desires demand a heavier toll in America than in 
Europe, the national energy is still Fresh and eager for work, 
and Americans still have the healthy curiosity or thirst Tor 
knowledge of the savage and child, although, perhaps, they 
allow it to be satisfied too easily. 

But there are disadvantages. The medieval knight, 
who would do anything for his lady, preferred that she 
should stay down on the farm and twiddle her thumbs until 
he came galumphing home (Calloo, Callay, O joyous day!) 
with the dragon's tail in his hat. If the lady starts doing 
things for herself, then his occupation is gone, and he will 
naturally feel rather aggravated; moreover she might find 
out the shop where he buys dragons' tails. The American, 
whose attitude towards women is both a cherished hobby, as 
a knight, and a psychological necessity, as a business man, 
however kindly disposed he may be in other directions, will 
be the last to help women to stand by themselves. And this 
attitude reacts on the woman. Suppose, for instance, it were 
the custom for husbands to take their wives for rides in 
perambulators, and one day Mr. Jones said — "The sun is 
shining, Love's Dream: put on your bonnet, and Ave will go 
to take a peep at the Wool worth Building. " But Love's 
Dream wanted to go to Coney Island, so Mr. Jones, being 
a wise man, replied — "Yes, certainly, Sunset Eyes," and pro- 
ceeded to push the perambulator towards the Woolworth 
Building. Thereupon Sunset Eyes acidly remarked that 
Mr. Jones might go to the Woolworth Building, or to a 
warmer place if he desired, but that she personally was going 
to Coney Island. "How?" "On foot!" "Impossible! The 
pavement is too hard for your angelic feet." In spite of 
masculine protests, the angelic feet get out of the perambu- 
lator, and perhaps go to Coney Island. But alas, only too 
often it is found that long usage has made the perambulator 
and the masculine arm absolute necessities, and a disillu- 
sioned Mrs. Jones is restored to her former position. After 
that even if they do go to Coney Island, it turns to ashes in 
her mouth, and neither swings nor roundabouts can bring 
back the lost sparkle to her eyes. The good men, the steady 



14 The Smith College Monthly 

men, the sound men will never help you to stand by yourself, 
because, they say, you cannot, and the attempt to do so will 
be deleterious. It is the mad, bad men who will really help 
you, who think it comic to lend you trousers to dress up in, 
who teach you to ride astride and to drive automobiles, and 
who don't care a hang whether it is deleterious for you or not. 

But the American woman, although confined within 
very definite limits, is generally allowed a larger playground 
than the women of Europe, and therefore has a better op- 
portunity of winning her freedom. Furthermore, America 
is still molten and shapeable. though rapidly solidifying: I 
have heard American girls say quite calmly that they live in 
U. S. A.; what a misunderstanding! U. S. A. is a fiction 
of the geographer's imagination, it is nothing more than a 
postal address: Smith College is actually very pleasantly 
situated in the land of the Americans. Americans are fast 
making the land of the Americans into American land, but 
it has not yet become so. Take any group of Americans, 
transplant them, and observe how fast they set about mak- 
ing another U. S. A. ; but the transplanted Englishman does 
not make another England, he cannot, because English land 
is not there to influence him; he makes instead a Canada or 
an Australia. The American tourists in Europe, when in a 
party, have U. S. A. among them, but the European, when 
away from home, however much he may yearn for it, has 
left his home behind him. Again, who kept the English 
pound steady after the war? I don't know, it was done 
without anybody's name in particular becoming prominent: 
but a like feat in America would undoubtedly have been the 
work of one genius, not of a nameless multitude. The great 
men of America, by one and one, are shaping the U. S. A. 
of the future, and Americans in general are faithfully and 
zealously following their leaders. John Brown's body has 
moulded away, Smith College might be burnt to the ground : 
it does not make one scrap of difference, because Smith 
Collegites can build similar colleges, but the buildings can 
not yet produce Smith Collegites. If, however, when the 
time comes, you can stamp Smith College as the home of 
free women, it will continue to produce free women long 
after the statues erected to your memory have become 
valuable as antiquities. 



The Smith College Monthly 1 !S 

W 1 were to judge Vassar l>y the- small group 1 have 
met, I should maintain thai they arc such pleasanl and 
worthy folk that, when they die, they ought to be given the 
option of going to Heaven or to Smith College. Mean- 
while it has been noted that Vassar, though less self-confi- 
dent and less truly proud of itself, is considerably more 
arrogant than Smith College. Can they be mistaking priv- 
ileges for rights? 

But Vassar and Wellesley are outside my ken, for 
Smith College justly absorbs all my attention, and I remain 
ecstatically enwrapped in contemplation of the treasure I 
have discovered in a world I thought was treasureless. A 
typically charming member of Smith College, whom I met 
in a European capital, informed me that the Sorbonne 
group was especially selected for its mission, that here were 
representatives of every side of Smith College activities. 
Then am I prompted to the somewhat saddening conclusion 
that Smith College has no bad side at all, and that one day 
the college buildings and all its inmates will be suddenly 
swept up to heaven, and sorrowing mankind be left to sell 
the college grounds as real estate in 20 dollar lots: show me 
a hundred, show me ten, show me one bad girl from Smith 
College, and still, like Lot, I will hope that the inmates be 
spared to us; but, O alas, Smith College most certainly 
does not contain even one bad girl, and men's eyes will weep 
a salt and dead sea where the college buildings used to stand, 
and I for ever become a pillar of salt, gazing up to the 
heavens where I saw Smith College last. 



16 The Smith College Monthly 

CAPRICE 

[Doggerel written after seeing Raqnel Metier] 
Anne Morrow 



"I should like to be a dancer, 

A slim persuasive dancer, 

A scarlet Spanish dancer, 

If you please!" 

But he said, "Just now we're crowded 

With these Carmens — simply crowded- 

I can't find — ". His forehead clouded, 

"Vacancies. 

"I suppose you want to tango," 

And he sighed — "Or a fandango 

Scarlet cigarette and tango — 

Scarlet smile — 

In a century or twenty 

We may want you. We have plenty 

Just at present — more than plenty 

For a while. 

"There's a place for Quaker Maidens, 
For brown-haired Quaker Maidens, 
For blue-eyed Quaker Maidens 
There's a place." 
So I play the role of Quaker 
And I do not blame my maker 
For I think I wear the Quaker 
With a grace ! 

But when a tune is tilting, 
Like a scarlet skirt is lilting, 
That my rebel heart is lilting 
No one sees: 

"For I want to be a dancer, 
A slim, persuasive dancer, 
A scarlet, Spanish dancer, 
If you please!" 



The Smith Colleg-e Monthly 17 

WINGS? 

Mary Etiielwyn Roblin 

"The time has come," the walrus said, 

"To talk of many things, 

Of shoes and ships and sealing-wax, 

And cabbages and kings, 

Of why the sea is boiling hot 

And whether pigs have wings." 



This exquisite bit of poetry graces the libraries of the 
world ; it adorns the minds of the great, and its cadences fall 
gently on the eager ears of little children. Gloriously con- 
ceived, its infinite possibilities of interpretation have never 
been adequately presented to the lay mind. The space 
allotted to my treatise is not sufficiently large to permit a 
full discussion of the subject, so I have selected for my 
theme the immortal words which compose the last line of the 
stanza. 

Who but a genius could have considered the value to 
the average pig of a pair of wings? The idea is so remote 
from the realm of every day, so magically transcendental, 
that we can only conclude that Mr. Carroll was a man far in 
advance of his time. 

Let us briefly consider the deplorable condition of the 
present-day pig. The sole purpose v of his existence is to 
become obese enough, and robust enough, and pink enough 
to delight, at some future date, the eye and palate of his 
master. One would suppose that he was originally intended 
for this end alone — which, in the divine order of things, is 
manifestly impossible. Furthermore, the aforesaid master 
condemns the prospective source of many appetizing titbits 
to wallow through a miserable existence in surroundings 
that are, to put it mildly, far from immaculate. The reason 
thereof can be satisfactorily explained only by a trained 
psychologist. I am quite sure, however, that if the victim 
of this barbarous system were allowed an opportunity to 



18 The Smith College Monthly 

select his environment, he would demand more scope for 
self-expression. 

What a fascinating change is wrought in the drab pic- 
ture when we provide each poor sufferer with a pair of 
beautiful opalescent wings! No longer do the wretched 
creatures writhe in the mud and filth of the pigsty. Their 
precious gift transports them to green fields and pastures 
new, where they may lie on the lush grass and sun their 
round pink backs. Their stunted, beauty-starved souls can 
expand and blossom. Instead of the dreadful thought of 
being unsightly objects, scorned and ridiculed, they can hold 
up their heads in the joyous consciousness of their beauty. 

Besides the undoubted value to the pig himself of the 
addition of wings to his corporeal equipment, the world in 
general would benefit greatly by such an experiment. It 
would be an unmixed joy to roam the country-side when 
once the noisome pigsty was no more. The artist would 
delight in the spectacle of piglets flitting among the butter- 
flies in the summer sky, or reclining gracefully, wings folded, 
beside a murmuring brook. 

Thus we see the deep significance of Mr. Carroll's im- 
mortal line, which so cleverly masks its true meaning behind 
its brevity and seeming irrelevancy. When correctly inter- 
preted it becomes a ringing challenge to those whose hearts 
are kind and whose appreciation of beauty is unmarred by 
prejudice or tradition. 






The Smith College Monthly 19 

JUNK 

Axm; W. Ayres 



j^ 1 1 E dark depths of the trunk were piled high with neat 
w mounds. Linens with a haze of cedar and lavendar 
gJSjjSSl hanging over them. Linens with carefully marked 
initials; some like long spiders crawling over a snowfield; 
some like tiny blow-fishes puffing through a cloud. Little 
hills of undulating crepe de chine with glimpses of filet and 
mechlin in the hollows. On the summit lay her bridal 
wreath all orange blossoms fragile and waxen; like frost 
iiowers waiting for a warm breath. 

"Xow this neck should be cut a trifle lower. More of 
a V, this way, and we'll put in a scrap of lace. Just to 
soften it. I have just the thing somewhere. Come with me, 
Jane, and we'll find it." And Aunt Charlotte who had 
been moving about from dressmaker to Jane, from closet to 
bureau, started off to the other room. 

"It ought to be in this drawer. I always think I'll re- 
member the exact spot and it was such a long time ago — so 
of course, why, gracious, here's a lot of Elinor's things and 
your grandmother's too. Look at these old homespun sheets 
and the fine embroidery. 'J. C. S. Fecit 1862'. You should 
have those if you want them because you were named after 
her. And here's a lot of old kid gloves. Each of us had 
dozens of pairs and the pile that went to the cleaners each 
week! Well, it seems ridiculous now. And Beth's old 
jewelry box and her school ring and, my dear, here's a Har- 
vard seal your Uncle Jim gave her and grandma thought 
she ought not to wear it. These pictures, my heavens! Leila 
Phelps' wedding party. Just look at us. Don't Ave look 
funny? Those puffed sleeves. I can't believe I was ever 
so fat. And Leila was considered such a beauty. Well, she 
really Was. My, I'm glad I can laugh at it all. Frances 
gave her bridesmaids these bar pins with the two hearts all 
tied together with pearls. Such an absurd sentimental idea. 
And these lovely jade beads, aren't they sweet? Uncle 



20 The Smith College Monthly 

George brought them to me from Paris. Green was all the 
rage and I adored it. Why don't you take them, Jane? 
They're no earthly good to me. What were we looking for? 
Oh, yes the lace. Take it all, Jane, you may find some use 
for those odd bits. You can have anything. I'm only too 
glad to get rid of this junk." 

Jane bent over the chest. The clinging odor of lav- 
enclar and distant perfume filled her nostrils. There were 
all her precious neat piles of linen. All her pink heaps of 
silk and lace. On her desk the gay pictures of friends. Price- 
less remembrances tucked away inside. And there Avas her 
wreath like fragile frost flowers waiting for a warm breath. 
Would all this be junk some day? 



PETER PAX 

Roberta Seaver 



Peter Pan, I'm sure you know, 

Once lost his shadow — 

But did you know that Peter lost 

Something else, to-day? 

Downstairs with me, then, 

Look along the dark hall, 

Peter scampered through, and the wind rushed after, 

Peter left his footprints — see, brown and curly — 

Careful! Thev're brittle, and they'd crackle all to bits. 



The Smith College Monthly 21 



DIED: AX OLD WOMAN 

Anne L. Basingeb 



BT last their mother was dying. She had been ready 
for death a long time; but then, she was a strong old 
lady. 

Caroline had come back to the old house and taken 
charge. She said that it was only decent to have a trained 
nurse; who ever heard of letting one's mother die without 
professional aid? She and George insisted upon standing 
the expense. 

Maria was mute. She had taken care of her mother for 
years; in fact, as everybody knows, she had been destined 
from early childhood for the daughterly duties of making 
pleasant a rather tyranical old age. But she had no imagin- 
ation, no taste for a crisis. She said so. She told Caroline's 
George, "I am glad you and Caroline are here. I have no 
knowledge of how to act in times like these. I am afraid I 
am not very clever." Maria was very deft about little things; 
but her mother was not in need of these any longer. 

Mary was about to have a child. She was used to that, 
however. Mary had insisted in her girlhood upon making 
a love-marriage with a mere day-labourer of the neighbor- 
hood; and so she had ever since been paying the piper by 
having babies and fighting poverty ceaselessly, no matter 
how ill she felt. She was always either having a baby, about 
to have a baby or recovering from having a baby. So now 
she was in the house too, waiting for the old lady to die. 

John came late to the gathering, rushed across the con- 
tinent back to the old New England home town by Flyers, 
special trains and quick connections. He was a rich busi- 
ness man — a bachelor. He had things his own way. 

But even later was the elder son. He was on the de- 
fensive, and was very embarrassing, for this man had once 
been in prison. His mouth was slack ; he was sulky and dis- 
appointed-looking, for he had found that all the world is not 



22 The Smith College Monthly 

so indulgent as one's own mother. He had never got over 
his surprise when people stopped spoiling him, and instead 
began to punish him for certain dishonesties. 

They were all waiting. There was really very little 
left to do. So Caroline spent the time in talking about her- 
self and George ; in saying that the old lady should be kept 
alive as long as science and the doctor could manage it, and 
that she was willing to pay for it all, since George was able 
to do so. But she did wish that mother could go soon — it 
was simply making things hard for everybody. 

George bit his finger-nails ; and finally took John aside 
into a corner, to speak to him agonizingly and apologetically 
about something. Then John said, "Yes, of course Caroline 
has made a damn fool of you; but I will." And he wrote 
George a cheque to cover the expenses that Caroline had in- 
sisted must be theirs. It was to be a loan only. 

Meanwhile the old lady lay quite still up-stairs, barely 
breathing; and the doctor presently decided that the family 
should come up to see her before the end. She could not 
last much longer. So, presently there was a little group of 
five about the still old figure and ivory-coloured face against 
the white bed-clothes. They were embarrassed at the 
solemnity of the occasion. 

But the old lady took matters into her own hands. She 
had always been wilful. Now she opened her eyes, and 
looked around with a clarity and intelligence of vision that 
astonished them all. She surveyed them critically. 

"Caroline," she enunciated in a small, clear voice that 
was like the ghost of her old tone of health and youth. "Ca- 
roline, good-bye." 

Caroline had a sense of dramatic values. She kneeled 
by the bed and said, "Not yet, mother." 

The old lady said very distinctly, "Yes, now. Go away, 
Caroline." 

There was an animosity in her faded eyes which, tra- 
veling to those of her daughter, fired these proud younger 
eyes with the same rancor. Caroline made a motion as of 
rising to go away furiously; but then she remembered that 
trained nurses are proverbially gossipy, and that it wouldn't 
look well. So she kissed the old woman coldly on her 
withered mouth, and then went out of the room. 



The Smith College Monthly 28 

Next, this mother turned her speculative gaze upon 
Maria, and thought for a minute. She had always regretted 

that flabbiness of Maria's moral fibre which made her 80 
easy a mark lor tyranny. 

"Maria," she said, "There is some angora wool in the 

farthest trunk in the attic. And my amber needles in the 
work-table. Get them; Mary's baby has got to have a sac- 
que. 

Maria looked up eagerly. Not in days had she heard 
such a tone from her mother. She had thought that all er- 
rands were at an end, and had wondered what to do now. 
But here was something definite; and if mother had thought 
all day she could not have invented a more fascinatingly ter- 
rible task than getting the wool from the farthest trunk of 
the attic, involving as it did all sorts of dusty manipulation, 
up there under the roof. Something definite to do. She 
went out with a pleased and meek expression. 

Then mother looked at Mary for a long time. She was 
silent, but there was a problem of some sort working itself 
out behind her dry, parchment-covered forehead. 

"Mary," she said, "Take care of yourself. 

Mary nodded. Her hand was in the old lady's. 

Her mother tugged at the hand feebly, and then let go. 
"Mary," she said, "Go and lie down now." 

"I don't need to, mother," Mary protested. 

A stubborn light in the old eyes. "Go. Kiss me good- 
bye, and then go lie down." 

Mary leaned close and looked into her mother's eyes, 
questioningly. And the old eyes wavered and dropped, slid 
away, and wandered to her sons. So Mary kissed her mo- 
ther, and went away also. They had understood each other 
well. They had once been inseparable. They both had the 
stubborn nature which defies restriction, and intuition which 
pries into another's mind without words. So now Mary 
knew why she was sent away, and her mother knew that she 
knew. Mother had deliberately sent her away to be with 
her sons. 

And now there was embarrassment indeed, for neither 
of the men might go away, and both dreaded her death. A 
Ionian can understand things, and has the wisdom with 
which to meet a time of this sort, where a man feels para- 



24 The Smith College Monthly 

lyzed. Furthermore, these two had not seen each other 
since the elder son's term in prison. But suddenly they for- 
got each other. They each saw something; more than an 
aged body about to be emptied of life; something indefin- 
able. They dropped down beside her; they held her hands 
so tight that it must have hurt; they gripped her shoulders, 
and interlaced their arms in their common impulse to hold 
on to that which was flowing out between their fingers. Cold, 
sweaty, breathing hard and sobbingly, they clung to the 
old lady. And she, having dismissed the only person who, 
through pain and experience of her own, might have seen 
and comprehended, seeing that her sons were panic-stricken 
and that they could not understand her now, in this time, 
smiled luminously, and let them try to hold her within her 
body. She wanted them and their need. She possessed 
them at that moment. 

Maria opened the door. She was triumphant and dusty. 
A long smudge on her nose, and her hair, falling awry from 
her efforts, gave her a rakish look. She could not remember 
a single occasion when she had been so deft and swift in the 
execution of a duty. The wool with the amber needles stuck 
through it was in her hand. She stopped on the door-sill. 

She knew at once that it was all over. She saw the 
two men, her brothers, still huddled there, and still clasping 
the ivory-coloured old body. For a minute her head swam, 
as it does coming to from an anesthetic; and she saw, per- 
haps, a strange picture, not of her mother's death, not of 
one individual's death, but the death of an Old Person 
strongly linked to earth, a gigantic figure in the sky, with 
human beings clinging and clinging; calling "Come back!" 
to that non-material part that has been life in the body, — 
human beings hopelessly alive in the flesh themselves, 
mourning because they do not understand. Life trickling 
out while they watch. Life — they do not know what it is — 
departing for a place — where, they cannot say — and leaving 
them alone and scared. 

Maria for one moment had vision. Then the discipline 
of a life-time came back to tell her that Mother had never 
countenanced reflections and independent thoughts in her, 
and that she must hold by what she knew. Material things. 



The Smith College Monthly 25 

"Oh," sobbed Maria. 'I thought I had been so quick 

I didn't gel lure in time? The wool is here. . . 

Now, when the will was read, (and il was to decide the 

destiny of a very presentable property,) everybody had 
some little share; hut the main body of the old lady's pos- 
sessions, that she had saved in so miserly a fashion, went 
to Mary, her favorite, whom she had dismissed from her 
death-bed. 



KALEIDOSCOPE 

Roberta Seaver 



Changing, kaleidoscopic is life, 

Shaken down continually into new patterns; 

Do you remember that red square 

That seemed so dominant a moment hence? 

Now it is hidden by a blue triangle 

And sinks beneath bright polygons into obscurity 

The unmoving one 

Sees patterns change, remembers all. 



26 The Smith College Monthly 

ONWARD AND UPWARD FOREVER. 
Elizabeth Hall 



IT may have been the motion of the train or the fact 
that the gentleman in the seat behind mine had fallen 
ggg asleep over his "True Wild West Stories" and was 
snoring rythmically, or it may merely have been another one 
of the wonders of Nature — with a capital N — I have never 
been quite sure. At any rate, something very strange hap- 
pened soon after we pulled out of the Worcester station. In 
spite of the fact that I was distinctly unhappy at leaving the 
summer and all its pleasures behind and was engaging in the 
most morose of reflections, I had to admit even to myself 
that western Massachusetts was beautiful in the autumn and 
that this promised to be a season of unusually lovely coloring. 
The leaves were already falling and the little stream which 
ran along beside the track was bearing its yearly freight of 
gold and crimson. The countryside looked so peaceful that 
the few spots of brilliant color on the distant hills seemed 
quite out of keeping with the gentle, green harmony of the 
rest of the world. Surely I need not fear that this autumn 
would be anything but a logical, happy sequel to a thrilling 
and exciting summer. 

And then it happened. If it had not been that I could 
still hear the measured snores of my neighbor, I would think 
that I had been dreaming. But no, it was not I who had 
changed but some great underlying principle of nature. 
When we passed the first farm house and I saw the Monday 
washing standing straight up on the line, with the sleeves 
like traffic signs to Heaven, and the shirt tails flaunting 
their newly acquired liberty to the sky, I knew at once that 
it was the law of gravitation that had gone seriously wrong. 

It was indeed a serious matter. The leaves were float- 
ing gently upward instead of down to rest on the hospitable 
brook, and even the brook was leaping and turning somer- 
saults in a most undignified manner. People were rushing 
out of their houses trying to invent some way of keeping 



The Smith College Monthly 27 

their earthly possessions earthly before il was too late, and 
everything that could be tied down, from the furniture to 
the very caps that the nun were wearing, was being securely 
fastened with ropes and slakes. 

Our i)ii 1 1 man car did not seem to be affected in the least. 
It continued on its way, quite impervious to the turmoil sur- 
rounding it, and with neither more nor less jerks and sways. 
The fact that the sky was rapidly becoming covered with 
clouds of furniture, leaves, clothing and bric-a-brac, was of 
no consequence to it. I could see people clinging to trees 
to preserve their equilibrium and watching the train as it 
passed, as if with its disappearance went their last sight of 
normality. 

Being not in the least affected by the startling state of 
affairs outside, I could look at the entire situation from a 
purely unbiassed and philosophical point of view. I had to 
admit that life on this earth would be a little difficult if our 
only means of staying here depended on our being chained 
to terra firma. But this new state of affairs would certainly 
cause a boom in the field of air travel, if only because it 
w r ould offer such a splendid opportunity for the establish- 
ment of a flourishing "Lost and Found" department. 

The material considerations w r ere, however, the least re- 
volutionary. What about the poor physicists and Newton's 
three laws of motion, and magnets and their properties? I 
shuddered at the thought. And the theologians! Their's 
was the most difficult problem of all. For centuries they 
had been urging men to turn their attention to higher things, 
to forget this mundane existence of ours, and to contemplate 
the highest they could imagine. And now there was no 
highest left to imagine, and the great blue dome of heaven 
where speculation had run riot, was rapidly filling with a 
chaotic collection of earthly impedimenta. Would they have 
to change their teachings and exhort mankind to contem- 
plate the lowly? Would it become noble to think the basest 
thoughts possible, and would high thinking become the or- 
dinary w r ay of life? High thinking as an every day matter 
w T ould be an advance, but it would be ruinous to exalt de- 
basing thoughts and actions too such a place of honor. Cler- 
gymen would become an undesirable class, and I could im- 



28 The Smith College Monthly 

agine a clergymen's prison as one of the most flourishing of 
state institutions in the new order. 

I began to be a little terrified. How would my own 
existence be changed by this scientific and theological revo- 
lution? I could hardly imagine my self going about like a 
prisoner with a ball and chain, while the undesirables of so- 
ciety were set loose to float gently upward and out of this 
life, nor did I relish the idea of spending the rest of my life 
on a railroad train although that seemed the only normal 
thing in this chaos. My breath began to fail me, I could 
hear my heart throb and feel it pound, my vision became 
blurred and — just then I caught the first glimpse of the 
Springfield station. Confusion reigned, it is true, but not 
any greater than when I had last seen it three months be- 
fore. The same porters, their caps apparently staying on 
their heads without outside assistance, were ranged along 
the platform. I gave a sigh of relief. Never again could I 
say with Calvin Coolidge "Have faith in Massachusetts, " 
but I had discovered a far more valuable slogan, "Have 
faith in Springfield. It never changes." 



The Smith College Monthly 29 

SUMMEB SKETCH 

Catherine Johnson 



0"|X that corner of the boat partially sheltered from the 
sun by a worn canvas awning, I lay sleepily with my 
jffggg head on a folded yellow slicker and my feet drawn up 
into the shade. Through half-closed eyes I was watching 
the fishermen pulling in the nets. It was a breathless 
morning in July. Far beyond the stern the bay stretched 
away, warm and blue and waveless, into the indescribable 
haze of the horizon. There I could just see the vague forms 
of ships — a fleet of destroyers at anchor, waiting for the 
tide. To the south the low shore-line curved into the 
distance — a shore-line of sun-baked sand dunes and scrubby, 
twisted trees. 

The men in the dory had swung broadside and were 
pulling the ropes closer and closer. There in the green 
water of the nets one could see fish darting quickly to and 
fro, sensing new peril. Screaming gulls circled over-head. 
The men drew the ropes yet tighter. Through a jagged 
tear in the awning I could see the sky, white and hot. A 
half- eaten peach, left on the rail in the interest of the mo- 
ment, dripped in the sun. The boards of the narrow deck 
were flaked with fish-scales, pungent with age, crusts of them 
on the dry w r ood. Off beyond the bow a lazy school of por- 
poise dipped slowly toward the sea w ith idle splash and now 
and again a glimpse of wet black sides. 

Closer and closer came the nets. Now there was panic. 
Hundreds and hundreds of fighting, gasping fish struggled, 
leaped, dove. Again and again they would dash into the 
mesh in a frantic effort of escape. Squid squirted in every 
direction with slimy, pop-like reports, thick black juice 
deadly to their fellows. Xow they were dying by dozens 
and floating limply to the surface. Black squid juice 
dripped on the boat sides, on the sleeves and coats of the 
men — a great ooz} T dash of it full in the face of one. He 
laughed and washed it off with a handful of w r ater before it 



30 The Smith College Monthly 

could harden. Flapping, quivering fish everywhere. Now 
they were being shoveled into the dory — mounds and mounds 
of them. The men in their rubber boots stood kneedeep. 
Convulsive death twitches, glazing eyes, fluttering gills .... 

Someone tossed a blow-fish on to the deck where he 
lay on his back, swelling and swelling like a great balloon of 
soft white skin. His wicked green eyes looked at me gro- 
tesquely from his corpulent sides. I kicked him overboard, 
and with a puff he subsided to normal and swam into the 
green depths. 

A shabby motor launch which had been approaching 
for some time now drew along side. "Nellie B." was 
printed near the bow in sleazy gold paint. "Macheral, Cap?" 
The frayed, watery-eyed individual in overalls left the wheel 
and rested one hand on a pile to steady the boat. On a 
kitchen chair, propped near the stern, sat a woman in a green 
polka-dot dress and frowsy pink shawl. Arms akimbo she 
watched proceedings, critically eyeing the mackeral held up 
for inspection. It was rainbow-hued and glistened in the 
sun. "Oh, Mom! Look Mom! A crab! A baby one!" A 
little girl in faded gingham gazing wide-eyed at the nets 
clutched at the green polka-dots. The good-natured cap- 
tain tossed the crab into the launch. 

Presently they chugged away while we rocked in their 
wake and the peach fell overboard. Shovel after shovel of 
fish packed into ice — mackerel, bunkers, sea-robbin, porgies 
and the foolish-mouthed skate — red squid and white squid 
with octopus-like tentacles — soft white-fish and spider crabs. 
Many were worthless and were thrown overboard to drift 
slowly away. 

Clinging to a pile we found a large green lunar moth, 
singularly delicate and lovely in that smeared and odorous 
scene. We lifted it gently to the deck where it moved its 
fuzzy body but feebly and drops of water sparkled on its 
wings. Glancing behind I saw that the haze had lifted and 
the destroyers were gone. I saw the fish on their white sides 
floating down on the tide — down to where the screaming 
gulls dipped to their easy prey, floating, floating — And this 
in a world of warm blue water and sunny sky and the radi- 
ant breath of summer. 



The Smith College Monthly 31 



FOG-SONG 

Helen 11. Scum auk 



I hear the cry 
Of pale-eyed men — 
"Fog chokes our song 
Give us the sun to drink!" 

Earth is not drab to-day 
As the gray rain drips 
From black-barked trees 
And glistening pearl -streams 
Spring from melting snows. 

Earth is not dull to-day 
While fog-clouds halo 
The bare-branched tree 
And winds breathe mists 
On stubble hills. 

Oh! pale-eyed men! 

When with the touch of fog 

Far lighter than the wind at dawn 

You hear a rain 

Soft-sounding as the stirring wings 

Of waking birds 

Sing— 

With your throats entwined 

In silken scarves of mist — 

"Give us the rain to drink" ! 



32 The Smith College Monthly 

LIZARD'S TAIL 
Elizabeth Newman 



~~pn FOUND her sitting on a bit of crumbling wall just 
over the hilltop, playing absently with the little blue 
tail some captured lizard had abandoned, and looking 
out over the rounded hills of dun-coloured velvet to the white 
crescent and sapphire sweep of the Bay of Monterey. She 
wore a flaring skirt the colour of saffron, and there was a 
crimson and }^ellow scarf knotted loosely about her neck. As 
I approached she turned, and the direct deep glance of her 
dark eyes told me I was speaking to Manuel's sister. 

"You are Cesarita?" I began, somewhat self-conscious- 
ly. "I am Arthur Townsend, Manuel's partner, you know. 
We arrived here a few minutes ago, in the motor. Yes, a 
nice trip. Manuel is working on the car now, fan-belt 
trouble, he says. He sent me out here to tell you that he 
has invited four officers from the Presidio to tea, with some 
wives and daughters. He wants you to pour, of course. At 
about five-thirty." 

She tossed the lizard's tail into the air, and caught it 
again with a clinching vindictive gesture. 

"Tea!" she said, in a scornful, slightly accented voice. 
"Officers! Wives! And I am to go indoors and put on my 
ver' best mantilla to pour tea for my brother's Amer-can 
friends, whom I des-pise? I am to be smile' at and call' 
quaint — picturesque — pretty enough to have step' out of a 
Velasquez! Madredios! Why does not Manuel understand?" 

I was embarrassed at this outburst and wondered if I 
had delivered the message correctly. 

"One of the officers — a Capitan McGuire, I believe — 
asked you to the Presidio Ball next week, and Manuel felt 
he must extend some hospitality to them while he is down 
from San Francisco." 

She was silent, so I grew bolder and added, "You will 
not need to wear Spanish clothes, Miss Mendoza, because 
Manuel has brought you a little blue dress from the city — 



The Smith College Monthly 88 

a sport dress, I imagine. Short with pleats, some sort of 
silk. I helped him to pick it out." 

She shot me a despairing glance. "Blue silk! Short 
with pleats! Senor Partner, do the Spanish women evair 
wear blue? And does Cesarita evair wear American 
clothes?" Hand on hip,, she regarded me impertinently. 
"You think I am a queer creature, yes, Seflor? Oh, but I 
can see in your hlue Amer-can eyes that you are scandalize', 
that you are afraid of the old fashion' Spanish senorita! Do 
not blush, Senor! Only listen. 

"I was born in my great-great-grandfather's adobe 
house, down over the hill. And he was the Capitan Cesar 
de Mendoza who came to Monterey in 1797 to represent the 
King of Spain. He was a suitor for the hand of the beau-ti- 
ful Ysabel they call La Favorita. You have heard that 
leyenda Senor? And great-grandfather was a soldier of 
the king as well. You have seen their swords, cross' over 
the mantel place. Our coat of arms is behind. I am ver' 
proud of those old things, Senor. I could tell you 
so many stories about them, it would take whole 
days and one would not be through. La madre told them 
to me and to Manuel when we were little children, so high. 
We sat on our cushions, like little Moors, on cold foggy 
evenings, and la madre, she would look into the fire and 
tell us what she saw there. When she died, Senor, she made 
us promise nevair to forget our blood, best and oldest in 
Spain, and our name — Men-doza — which has borne so high 
honor since the holy crusades. She was ver' beau-ti-ful, 
Senor, lying in the big twist-post bed brought from Spain, 
white and sad as the Holy Virgin at San Carlos, down by 
the shore. You see it? There. Her hair was like a black 
halo, one might say. Manuel has forgotten these things — 
but I shall nevair forget them." 

Cesarita paused to regain her composure, which had 
been shattered by the strength and poignancy of her words. 

"So," she resumed, toying with the little blue tail, "I 
remain a true Mendoza, a true hija de Espana, as we say. 
And the long skirts and old shawls and high combs I wear 
are not for childs play, Senor, but for the symbol of a dream 
I carry, oh, so deep in my heart. 

"It was my father's dream, and my mother's after him, 



34 The Smith College Monthly 

and now my very own, Sefior Arthur, that Monterey should 
be a Spanish city once again. All of the old blood to gather 
from up and down the coast, from the valley haciendas, even 
from Mexico perhaps. They should live here, on these very 
Mendoza lands, the old life in the old gay way, like the 
leyendas, Senor." 

"A very charming notion," I said, since some comment 
seemed to be expected. "But is it quite practical?" 

Oh yes, Senor! Some would be rancheros — there is 
much fine land unused, there and there, and down out of 
sight." She pointed out dun- coloured valleys among the 
velvet hills. "Some would own fishing boats, and would 
hire the Sicilian fishers the Amer'cans have brought. They 
would be our peasantry. One would find them ver' willing, 
Senor, for they are not as the Amer'can people. Hard in 
the head, as you say, and always making money. The Sicil- 
ians would be please' to be our peasantry, they are old-fash- 
ion' enough for that. They love to have a nobility to serve 
— and to talk about. And also our women would make 
lace, and shawls from the fine California wool. You can 
see that the people would be eager to buy such things. 

"Oh, it is a fine j)lan! Only imagine, Senor, the beau-ti- 
f ulness ! But Manuel laughs at me. They all laugh. How 
desperately do I need a helper, a handsome Spanish lover, 
perhaps tall and brave as that Vincent dc Vega they tell 
about. He would work with me 'til the dream came true! 
But Manuel laughs, Senor, he is ver' Amer'can. More 
Amer'can than you, Senor Arthur. And his daughter — and 
the laughter of the whole world, that is what is breaking 
Cesarita, that is what is beating out her fire. Ah, Senor, may 
you nevair, nevair know the pain it is to be the young 
champion of an old, lost cause! 

"But it is growing so late! For shame, Cesarita, to 
talk forevair to the poor young man. Adios, my ruined 
wall, and my beautiful hills and valleys! Capitan McGuire 
will be waiting for his senorita and his tea!" 

With a lilting dancing step she led the way back to the 
rambling, many-winged, many-courted house, and vanished 
through an archway into a red-tiled patio. 

I saw her no more alone. At tea I was delegated to 
entertain one of the officers' wives — a duty consisting en- 



The Smith College Monthly 35 

tirely of attentive listening and appropriately uttered "Is 
that so"s and "How remarkable"s. Over her large cham- 
pagne-coloured shoulder 1 stole glimpses of Cesarita pour- 
ing tea in a black velvet skirt and white mantilla enriched 
with blood red roses, golden leaves and long white fringe 
that swayed when she moved. Her eyes were a hit far off, 
I thought, hut there was a little-girl smile on her lips, and 
she made a perfect hostess. 

The company staj^ed rather late. Cesarita did a meas- 
ure of the tango with Captain McGuire to Manuel's lustily 
strummed guitar. When they had gone, Manuel and I sat 
down before the fire to smoke. Some time later, as Manuel 
was pouring out our night-caps of cool native wine, there 
was a burst of wind and Cesarita came in from the court. 
Her hair was blown in tiny dark curls around her face, and 
a strange hard little look was in her eyes. She had on the 
blue dress and ducked a ridiculous curtesy, flaunting the 
pleats. Somehow- she w r as laughing at us. 

"Most pleasant surprise for you," she said quickly. 
"Cesarita is going to marry Capitan McGuire. Congratulate 
her, caballerosF 

We looked at her dully. 

"A graceful ideal must die gracefully." she said, look- 
ing at us with the same queer impenetrable expression. "It 
shall be a mil'tary wedding!" And flinging us each a kiss, 
she was gone. 

A faint sparkle on the hearth caught my eye, and I 
leaned over to pick up the little blue lizard's tail. 

"Poor little lizard!" I said softly. 

"What?" said Manuel. 



36 The Smith College Monthly 

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE 

Priscilla Faikchild 



I 

Orjjheus 

All that steep way, through twisting shapes of pain 
We climbed; and I could feel her cool hand's touch, 
Nor ever looked behind. But I knew such 
Great pity for the damned who not again 
Would hear the music of the dripping rain 
Or guess at night the outline of the trees, 
That I turned to her full of joy in these, 
Forgetful that a ban on this had lain. 

Now is no peace for me in any place ; 

Not in deep pools where creamy lilies float; 

Nor in the green seas, or the most remote 

Parts of the earth, for I shall see her face 

Until the gods, in mercy grown most kind, 

Shall turn and strike me deaf and dumb and blind. 

II 
Eurydice 

Give me to drink of Lethe, but I still 

Shall not forget, oh gods, how his hair curled 

About his neck. Though to the underworld 

You snatch me, I see yet the little hill 

All green with grasses, — there beyond the gate, — 

Whereon we might be sitting, and the thin 

Erownness of his lean hands cupped for his chin, 

Had we sat silent until joy should bate. 

If on your voyage, Charon, you should see 

On that far shore of silences, and bands 

Of grim sad shades that gather soundlessly 

And beat upon your boat with death- white hands, 

One in whose face sorrow and music mix, 

Tell him Eurydice waits by the Styx. 



The Smith College Monthly 37 



WIVES OF GREAT MEN 
Dokis Russell 



hili 



H[TERATURE has for the most part cast a strange 
veil of anonomity over the wives of its great. We 
fancy them dowdy little women, raising innumerable 

en, struggling bravely to make both ends meet and 
probably boring their famous husbands to a state of frenzy. 
What reason have we for drawing this composite picture? 
Why the very fact that their husbands so seldom mention 
them. Literature, of course, is full of glittering ladies. 
Lesbia, Laura, Beatrice, Fiammette, Gretchen, Julia, Stella, 
we know all about them. Our hearts skip a bit wjien we read 
the poetry they inspired, and every pretty girl on the way 
to becoming a dowdy wife fancies herself formed of a dis- 
tillation of their loveliness, even though her lover may be a 
salesman instead of a Sir Philip Sydney. 

Yet how much those wives must have endured. Every- 
one knows that a poet in the throes of inspiration is any- 
thing but a social creature. What solitary meals thev must 
have eaten, with no one to listen to their complaints about 
the servants and the butcher. What lonesome months they 
must have passed, left to the cares of the nursery while their 
husbands wandered over the face of Europe, drinking deep 
of that cup of experience which is the very life of poetry. 

And how meagre has been their reward. All the world 
knows of Beatrice. Dante has kept his vow of making her 
immortal above all other women. Our pulses quicken as we 
see in her the symbol of all earthly and heavenly love. Few 
of us have ever heard of Signora Dante who bore his chil- 
dren and lived out her lonely life in Florence, the wife of an 
exile. We dwell a bit wistfully on the portrait of Laura in 
church on that memorable Good Friday, with her lovely 
golden hair falling in thick braids over the green velvet 
mantle sprinkled with violets. How beautiful those medi- 
eval women must have been, Petrarch could write sonnets 
to her throughout the rest of his life, but he tells us nothing 
of the friendly lady who loved him and made him a hearth 



38 The Smith College Monthly 

lire at Vauclues without even he compensation of a wedding 
ring. 

Once Sydney was safely married to another woman, he 
became the Astrophel and Penelope Devereaux the Stella 
of his exquisite sonnet series. What did he write to his 
wife? Ann Hathaway is known to us by a cottage and a 
"second best bed" while the beautiful dark lady arouses our 
imagination with the mystery of Shakespeare's melancholy 
affair. 

But why multiply the examples? This host of silent 
women who served their poet lords must have had a some- 
what common experience. They, too, must have had their 
high moments, before they settled down to babies and unpaid 
bills. Poets are such charming lovers. They always have 
their way with women. That they suffered from the disil- 
lusionment which seems always to follow matrimony was not 
their faults, poor clears. A priest at the altar is one person. 
In a golfing costume or a bathing suit he is quite another. 
So Dante in a nightcap was probably not the handsome 
youth who exchanged shy glances with Beatrice. 



REFLECTIONS 

Roberta Seaver 



The moon is a prodigal, 
A spendthrift of her silver — 
She spills it on the ocean, 
It shimmers on the bay; 
But Mars is a miser, 
And keeps all his red gold 
In black water treasure-chests, 
Locked awav. 



The Smith College Monthly 39 

COLLEGE: 
AFTER THE MANNER OF FANNIE HURST. 

Harriett Rinaldo 



m 



ORXING. Seven o'clock. The bell on College Hall. 
On«' . . Ong . . Ong . . Ong . . Ong . . Ong . . Ong . . 
I want to go back to sleep. Five minutes. Finish my 
dream. Where was I? What was I dreaming? That 
squalid boarding house — someone I knew was being tortured. 
I revelled in it and hated it all at once. It was myself. 
What happened? I can't go back over the border-line and 
find out. I've got to get up. 

Breakfast. Ugh. Bran. Everyone so smiley at this 
time. Why? Mornings are so ugly. Who ever really 
wants to get up? Xot to slip back for one more dream. 

Chapel. Sit alone. Why go? Who would know if I 
didn't? I have no conscience about the pledge card I sign 
but I do have a fear of what might happen if I didn't go. 
Everyone else is in twos or threes. Who ever said there 
was enjoyment in being alone? "Lock your door" yes, that 
is easy but how to persuade them to enter when you leave it 
wide open? It's easy enough to get them to stay out. The 
other is what I want. You can't be all alone and be happy 
when you're twenty. 

Back to class. Where can this one be? Room 30. No 
one there. Maybe this room. Of course the last one in, 
afraid to be conspicuously early. And the class! All my 
seniors by much scholarship and several years. I have the 
prereq but nothing more. Won't I hold them back? The 
course sounds as though it would be interesting. I wouldn't 
like to drop it but .... I'll stay and chance that since I've 
had the material more recently I can get away with it. 

Another hour and another class. So many hundreds, 
thousands. They seemed to be all talking together. Hello, 
Sally. Have a nice summer? Saw Jean in Switzerland. 
She's going to school this winter in Italy. 

Italy — sunshine, no harsh New England winters, no 
gloomy days, no chapels smelling of raincoats, of fur coats 



40 The Smith College Monthly 

too recently out of the moth-balls, no huge classes, no bleak 
dormitories. Sunshine, gayety, warmth. Loneliness? Of 
course, but with a feeling of superiority to balance it. 

Another lecture. Read the Plain Dealer. Galsworthy's 
Silver Spoon play. The one by which Marjorie was proved 
to have "not a moral about her". 

Back to the dorm. Two hours before luncheon. Xo 
trunk to unpack. Xo necessary assignment to read. Xoth- 
ing to do. Nothing to read. Nothing to talk about or no 
one to talk to. Alone. Absolutely. A freshman drifts in. 
What pretty furniture .... Oh, you have one of these 
beauties too, pointing to the chefTonier. They're impossible 
but my closet is too small to have it in there. 

Drift downstairs to smoke. Xo one about I know. 
Smoking by oneself. What inanity! 

Downtown for a magazine and a textbook or two. 
Home to read the magazine. Dinner. The library. Back. 
To bed. Xothing better to do. 



The Smith College Monthly 41 




EDITORIAL 



DANGEROUS YOUNG PEOPLE 




EVERAL months ago the Nation ran an article on 
college publications, which we hoped would contain 
some interesting matter for Monthly's readers and 
contributors. The main theme of the article, however, as 
given out in the first paragraph, was disappointing: "These 
young people!" was the indulgently despairing tune . . . 
"always wanting to change things! What crazy ideas they 
have." 

It becomes at once apparent that the article in the 
Nation could have interested only such of us who like to 
read the newspapers and periodicals to get an idea of what 
is going on in distant fields of endeavor. 

The point stressed was that more editors were being 
expelled from college every year for publishing seditious 
matter in their journals. The writer cited a long list of these 
advanced periodicals, and their offenses, with the eager scorn 
of a man who has just read a lewd book and wants to tell 
the world why he despised it. Among the crimes listed were 
irreverent criticisms of the faculty (there at least Smith is 
entitled to plead proudly guilty) and impudent expressions 
of opinion on every subject under the sun, these writings 
being couched in the most absurdly experimental style. 
While the writings were finding space in the organs of our 
various educational institutions, the young writers them- 
selves were suffering exquisite persecutions at the hands of 
outraged and stodgy schoolmen, but the collective souls of 
the undergraduate bodies, and incidentally the circulations of 
the different magazines, were reaping large benefits. 

One youth, whose alma mater had disclaimed him for 
daring to criticize the administrative board, had dared to set 



42 The Smith College Monthly 

up his typewriter in a private office, and was continuing to 
thumb his nose at middle-aged authority through the col- 
umns of his own press. To us in Northampton this picture 
of a new Shelley, "beating his wings in a void" must seem a 
bit ludicrous. Why would anyone need to get himself 
expelled from college for writing about the administrative 
board when there is still the moon, and insanity, and a 
thousand impersonal and fascinating topics with which to 
occupy our pen and our thoughts? (Or perhaps just our 
pen?) 

We won't deny, however, that the article in the Nation 
was as pleasant and amusing to read as were the press notices 
about the latest channel swimmer, or Captain Fonck. If we 
didn't read about such people once in a while we should for- 
get that they really existed. The Nation article appeared 
just in time to remind us that young people are frightfully 
extreme in their ideas, and take a savagely critical interest 
in the world thev live in. 

J.N. 




THE SOFA CORNER 



HOW DO THE FRESHMEN 
FEEL? 



A FABLE 



Anne Morrow 



One time two dogs found their way into a 
large building of a human institution of learning. 
As they watched the heated mass of rushing 
females the first dog remarked to the second — 
"They are chasing their own tails. It is a very 
tiring game." 

"I don't think so," replied the second, "they 
have something in their front paws. It seems to 
me they are trading bones." 

"You must be right," said the first dog as the 
mass of females squatted on their hind legs on the 
floor. "Perhaps that unpopular female in the 
middle has no bone." 

Then the unpopular female went through 
strange motions with her front paws, now scratch- 
ing, now patting the air. 

"What can it be doing now?" asked the second 
dog. 

"I'm sure I don't know," replied the first, 
"but the other females don't seem to like it. 
Look! it makes them all howl." 




up 



44 The Smith College Monthly 



SHANGHAIED 

Ei.oise Barrangon 



''There is no frigate like a book 
To take us lands away." 
But why must we set sail again 
When we would rather stay? 

I'm feeling far too travel- worn 
To scale Parnassus' height; 
No wanderlust has bid me seek 
Realms of the erudite. 

I wish my books were homeward bound 

And, closing them, I'd find 

A quiet, peaceful surcease from 

The foghorn of my mind. 

Outdoors the campus gaily calls, 
But where is my reprieve? 
Oh. put my books in dry-dock. 
And let me have shore-leave! 



The Smith College Monthly 



45 




BOOK REVIEWS 




"SHOW BOAT" 



Bv Edna Fewber 



Doubleclay Page 



We expected a great deal from "Show Boat," per- 
haps too much. But Miss Ferber had written a strong book 
in "So Big," and she had chosen in "Show Boat" a setting 
more colorful. The theatre is fascinating, and a wandering 
theatre doubly so. It would not seem, then, too much to 
expect from Miss Ferber something powerful and vivid 
about a theatre wandering on a river when Chicago was 
growing up. 

But "Show Boat" is not powerful. It has somehow the 
sketchy instability of Gaylord Ravenal. The attempt at 
the end to strengthen Magnolia into a likeness of Parthenia 
and the River is an unconvincing echo from the mother in 
"So Big." The book is vivid in one short scene: When Julie 
and her husband are driven from the boat. The rest is thin. 

For this failure to satisfy we do not blame Miss Ferber 
alone. She is, we feel, simply infected with the superfici- 
ality of the twentieth century movement; which superficial- 
ity, to do her credit, she herself condemns. Most people how- 
ever will agree, that modern novels are largely degenerating 
into dish-water. Some authors, like Hamilton Gibbs may try 
very hard to be serious. The results are limp ; tools bend in 
their hands. Even Mr. Galsworthy in "The Silver Spoon" 
does not seem to be what he was in the earlier "Forsyte 
Saga". But, more relevently, Miss Ferber has done better 
than "Show Boat." and we hope that she will do better, 
again. 

S. W. T. 



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The Smith College Monthly 47 

YOUNG PEGASUS 

Edited by the 

Intercollegiate Literary Monthly Conference 

The Dial Press 



From the literary magazines of fifteen colleges come 
the selections of prose and poetry which make up the volume 
"Young Pegasus," and this youthful steed certainly shows 
all the signs of growing into a beast with wings capable of 
carrying him high and far. The Conference has undoubt- 
edly chosen the best work from its material to form this col- 
lection, and it need not be ashamed of the merit of its choice. 
There are many of the subjects treated here which we find in 
the pages of any issue of any "Monthly," but there is a dif- 
ference in treatment between these selected specimens and 
the general run of contributions, which is very noticeable. 
This is well illustrated in the sea stories, "The Devil's 
Angels" and "Fog," and in "Crazy Lady." The poetry, 
also, although still divided into three classes — the poor, the 
good, and the clever— is distinctly above the average, and 
there are several poems which show keen observation coupled 
with original and graceful presentation. There are two dis- 
tinctly clever poems, "Epitaph for a Perfect Lady" by 
Eleanor Golden of Smith, and "The Philosophy of Love" 
by Sheridan Gibney of Amherst, while "The Secret Mill," 
"Faith Hunger," "Bequest," and "Luea Signorelli of 
Cortona" all achieve their purpose most successfully. "Don- 
ald Jones" by Helen Deutch is a little difficult to classify, 
but it is memorable. 

It is impossible in the poetry to decide whether the 
author is masculine or feminine, but the prose runs more 
nearly to type. We have a boy's love of adventure in the 
sea stories, most of them very good, and the girl's fondness 
for the psvchological in the character studies of "Crazy 
Lady" and "The Year's at the Spring." "Red Dust" by 
Anne Thies and "The New Organ" by Donald Gibbs are a 
combination of these two types well done on the whole, and 



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The Smith College Monthly 49 

interesting because they are among the few instances in 
which the characters who are analyzed arc of the opposite 
sex from the author. The absence of stories of college life, 
with the exception of "The Bluffs," is indicative of the 
obvious lack of treatment of college subject matter among 
the undergraduate writers of the day. 

Whether a Galsworthy or a Millay is represented in 
these pages is questionable, but twenty years hence one or 
two of these names are likely to appear, not in the list of 
best-sellers, but on the list which discriminating critics of 
wide reading will recommend to their friends as examples 
of interesting writing, skillfully executed. The present 
value of the book is great to those who are interested in di- 
recting the course of undergraduate writing or who are 
themselves among the undergraduate body. We need a per- 
sonal interest in the author, the subject, or the Literary 
Monthly Conference before we find the volume among those 
books for whose perusal we must steal the time. 

E. Hall. 



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Keeping fit is quite up to 
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But keeping you fitted, 
whether its for pajamas, 
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That's why the smartest 
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BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 




Vol. XXXV November, 1926 No. 2 

EDITORIAL BOARD 

Elizabeth Hamburger 1927 
Alice L. Phelps 1927 Sarah Wingate Taylor 1928 

Ruth L. Thompson 1927 Elizabeth Wilder 1928 

Jenny Nathan 1927 Catherine Johnson 1928 

Art — Josephine Stein 1927 
Priscilla Paine 1928 

BUSINESS STAFF 

Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi 1927 

Doris Pinkham 1927 Gladys Lampert 1928 

Mildred Whitmer 1927 Pearl Morris 1928 

Virginia Hart 1927 Julia Kellogg 1928 

Ruth Rose 1929 



The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Mass., each month from 

October to June, inclusive. Terms $1.75 a year. Single copies 25c. 

Subscriptions may be sent to Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi, Northrop House. 

Advertising Manager, Julia Kellogg, Chapin House. 

Contributions may be left in the Monthly box in the Note Room. 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Mass., as second class matter. 

Metcalf Printing $ Publishing Company, Northampton, Mass. 

"Aocepted for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, 

Act of October 3, 1917. Authorized October SI, 1918." 



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CONTENTS 




Over the Hill 


Elizabeth Wilder 1928 


17 


Sonnet 


Ruth L. Thompson 1927 


24 


The Curve of the Vanishing Road 


Florence Northrop 1930 


25 


W inner Freshman 


Contest 




Traveller in an Antique Land 


Elizabeth Wheeler 1928 


27 


Gardens 


Barbara Simison 1929 


29 


Enigma 


Alice Scudder 1927 


31 


Swan Song 


Lucia Jordan 1927 


37 


The Student 


Katherine Bolman 1929 


39 


Shoe Laces 


Barbara Simison 1929 


41 


Under a Board Fence 


Catherine Johnson 1928 


44 


This and That 


Elizabeth Wilder 1928 


44 


In My Cottage 


Patty Wood 1930 


44 


Shades from a Palette 




45 


All That Glitters 


Marion Nathan 1927 


48 


Limpy 


Ernestine Gilbreth 1929 


52 


Entr'Acte 


Eloise Barrangon 1928 


53 


Ach Ich Kan Nicht English Sprechen Ruth Landauer 1927 


54 


Editorial: Wanted — A Point of View 


56 


Sofa Corner 




60 


Book Reviews 




63 



All manuscript should be typewritten and in the Monthly Box by the fifteenth 

of the month to be considered for the issue of the following month. 

All manuscript should be signed with the full name of the writer. 

Manuscript may be disposed of unless marked "Return". 



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College 
Monthly 




POETRY AND THE CONDITIONED REFLEX 

Newton Aevin 



CD 



ODERTS 1 psychology has familiarized us with many 
picturesque and many affecting figures: it has, in its 
Viennese phases, inured us to the spectacle of prurient 
ittle girls and goatish dotards; it has, in the behavioristic 
cenacles, trained us to look on soberly while babes in swad- 
dling clothes do acrobatic stunts on rods thrust incontin- 
ently into their clutches. None of these exhibits, however, 
is at once so poignant and so pregnant as that of the well- 
known behavioristic dog, the dog who has contributed to 
science, if not his life, at least (what is of less importance to 
him) the great principle of the Conditioned Reflex. His 
story is only too much more than twice-told. He is the poor 
beast of every up-to-date text-book who is presented a series 
of times with a dish of meat and forced to eat it to the accom- 
paniment of a bell rung by the experimenter, and who is at 
length brought to the point where the mere ringing of the 
bell will cause a flow of saliva in his mouth and, I suppose, 
most of the initial internal symptoms of digestion. A house- 
hold character of the homeliest kind, one would suppose; 
yet a whole science of behavior leans upon him as he music- 
ally drools. 

Surely it demands but a moderate scientific imagina- 
tion to see that the mechanism at work here is a fundamental 
one. It is not merely that a dog's mouth can be made to 
water by a stimulus so irrelevant as that of a musical sound ; 
that such a "reflex" can be so arbitrarily, even fantastically, 
"conditioned." It is that, in general, the connection between 



8 The Smith College Monthly 

stimulus and response is a strangely complex and mechanical 
connection, and that in an infinite number of ways one thing 
can come to stand for another, one pressure for another, re- 
mote and even inexistent as their analogies may be. Indeed, 
it is obvious enough that without the support of the so-called 
substitute stimulus and substitute response the intricate ad- 
justments of animal and human life would be impossible. 
Our behavior is, in a profound sense, a pageantry of sym- 
bolisms: and our mouths water without our knowing it to a 
million unheard melodies in the world about us and within us. 

A student of language and of literature, at any rate, 
will see the significance to him of all this almost at first blush. 
The stimuli we call words are so clearly meaningless in 
themselves, so clearly symbolic, that they might well be 
taken as archetypal of the whole principal. Whatever the- 
ory of the origin of language one may accept, one is forced 
to admit that the first word for, say, "dog," attached itself 
to that animal in the most arbitrary, most "conventional" 
way, and that the possibility of its use depended upon the 
confidence that even in the absence of its original his image 
could be called up by its particular phonetic pattern. The 
word "dog" played exactly the role played by the bell in 
the experiment, and the eventual response to it as a series 
of significant sounds was as truly a conditional reflex as the 
watering of our friend's mouth. Without this mechanism, 
spoken language would be impossible: and written language 
is but an extension of the principle — a printed word being, 
as someone has said, the symbol of a symbol; in our jargon, 
a stimulus substituted for a substitute stimulus. 

Without a lively apprehension of this truth, the study 
of language, especially in its history, is unenlightened and 
unphilosophical. For no phenomenon thrusts itself more 
insistently upon the philologist's attention than that of the 
ceaseless shifting, the infinite fluidity, in the meaning, the 
status, the existence itself, of words. The well-known phe- 
nomenon of degenerescence, for example, furnishes an al- 
most laboratory proof of our point: the way words have of 
beginning life in respectable and even exclusive society, and 
then gradually keeping worse and worse company, until they 
end by being unutterable or even unprintable. A single 
lapse from grace, in other words — a single chance use in 



The Smith College Monthly 9 

sonic shady connection — can start a word, like a character, 
on the downward path, until gradually it substitutes itself 
for less and less dignified stimuli, and at length provokes 
only the most shameworthy response. 

Easily the most decisive process in language-making — 
regarding it strictly from the biological and utilitarian 
point of view — is the process by which words achieve gen- 
eralization, after beginning with the individual, and the later 
kindred process by which they achieve abstraction, after 
beginning with the concrete. It is a process presided over 
by the beneficent spirit of the Conditioned Reflex. All 
words, genetic philologists agree, began as proper names, 
names of single individuals or of single and complicated 
actions, and only very gradually developed the elasticity and 
the simplicity together which made it possible for them to 
apply to whole groups of individuals — as the word "dog" — 
or to typical and undifferentiated actions — as the word 
"run." And all words, similarly, begin, no matter how gen- 
eralized, by being concrete: they achieve abstraction, in 
response to the growing demands of the human mind for 
logical utterance, only by a process of symbolization. The 
word "idea" itself, for example, comes from a word meaning 
"thing seen" — concreteness of the purest sort — and the word 
"abstract" from a word meaning "to drag out." Only be- 
cause language is the result of a convention, only because 
we can count on the new responses being made to these words 
which we choose to make to them ourselves, could a special 
word ever become general, or a concrete word abstract. 

The bearing of all this on poetry may not be at once 
apparent. It will become apparent only if it is remembered 
that the use of language for artistic purposes (in other 
words, in poetry) is a derived and not a primary use. In 
the same sense in which we may say that marble does not 
exist in nature for the purposes of sculpture, or pigments for 
the purposes of painting, we may say that words do not exist 
for the purposes of beautiful expression. They came into 
being in the biological struggle because they served practical 
and immediate ends, and survived only because they contin- 
ued to serve those ends more and more efficiently. Commu- 
nication of desires originally, and of ideas eventually, was 
their function, and to fulfill it they could scarcely go too far 



10 The Smith College Monthly 

in the direction of the general and the abstract. Our most 
urgent desires we share in common, and our most important 
ideas are significant simplifications of a confused universe. 
The whole progress of language — viewed as an instrument 
for what may broadly be called prose — is away from the in- 
dividual and the accidental toward the general and the 
necessary. 

Poetry, too, like all forms of art, is essentially a com- 
munication, and only a hasty analysis would divide it funda- 
mentally from prose. But on any less basic level the two 
kinds of communication differentiate themselves sharply 
enough. The impulse that lies behind prose is an impulse to 
facilitate some practical adaptation to our environment: the 
impulse that lies behind poetry is an impulse to inundate our 
environment with some rich subjective meaning, some pas- 
sionate sense of emotional acceptance or rejection; in the one 
case, to communicate a purpose, in the other an adventure. 
"Practical people," says Mr. Max Eastman, "are chiefly 
occupied with attaining ends, poetic people with receiving 
experiences." Poetry then makes somewhat different de- 
mands upon language from those which prose makes. Ex- 
perience regarded as a value in itself is too personal, too way- 
ward, too fugitive a thing to be very easily or very perfectly 
communicated by the purified vocabulary of prose. The 
metamorphosed limestone in the jagged chambers of the 
mountains becomes marble only after a special process of 
quarrying and polish, and the sculptor has even then his 
whole exacting task ahead of him. What is it that must be 
done to this useful instrument of language — so beautifully 
designed to phrase directions for a motor trip or explanations 
of a volcanic eruption — before it can suggest with any poig- 
nancy the concussion made upon our senses by a luminous 
face, or the slow tedium of disappointment? 

Well, what the poet does is to reverse the process we 
have outlined — to reverse it without freeing himself, any 
more than the "prose"-speaker does, from the dictates of the 
conditioned reflex, or rather without rejecting its services 
any more than that other does. Beginning with the desire 
to communicate an essentially personal and intimate, there- 
fore a practically unutterable, emotional experience, he 
looks about him for the concrete and tangible image which, 



The Smith College Monthly 11 

without merely generalizing it, will charge it with all the 
electricity necessary to convey it to another mind. His ver- 
sion of the conditioned reflex will be the poetic image or 
symbol, or, to use a word more exact than either of these, 
the metaphor. "The poet's art," says Santayana, "is to a 
great extent the art of intensifying emotions by assembling 
the scattered objects that naturally arouse them. He sees 
the affinities of things by seeing their common affinities with 
passion." There is no important, at least no prose analogy 
between an arachnid and a thought: the one can, as a stim- 
ulus in language, substitute itself for the other only by virtue 
of their common affinities with emotional experience, and 
Macbeth can be made to say, "My mind is full of scorpions, 
dear my wife," with a confidence on the poet's part that we 
will respond as we should to this identification of poisonous 
pain and poisonous remorse. No sacrifice of the concrete 
has been made: indeed, an appeal has been made to a stimu- 
lus more concrete than the original, and the poet has achieved 
communication without abstraction. But he does so only 
because one thing can be made to stand for another, one 
stimulus be substituted for another: because things do have, 
in relation to our passions, a common affinity. 

In its purest form, then, poetry may be defined as an 
artistic communication of personal experience by means of 
metaphorical language. "I know it is difficult," said Goethe 
to Eckermann, "but the comprehension and the representa- 
tion of the particular is the life of art . . . And one does not 
need to fear that the particular will find no responsive echo. 
Every character, however individual it may be, and every 
thing to be represented, from a stone to the human race, has 
an element of the general ; for everything repeats itself, and 
nothing in the world is merely unique." One does not need 
to fear that the particular will find no responsive echo. No, 
one does not need to fear it, because the "instinct" toward 
symbolization, the impulse to find for our so disembodied 
hungers, our so insubstantial pains, some substantial em- 
bodiment in the world about us, is tenacious, intrinsic, and 
ineluctable. We are forever finding tongues in trees, books 
in the running brooks, and if not "good" at least the signifi- 
cant "in everything." We are not content that distant hills 
should be dimly blue, or that ashes should be gray and 



12 The Smith College Monthly 

gritty: the hills must stand to us for the desirable and inac- 
cessible, the ashes for the cold impotence of exhausted en- 
ergy. As sentient beings, responding to the world with our 
whole organisms, we are incorrigibly partisan, personal, im- 
plicated: we are only too willing that poetry should "raise 
and erect the mind," in Bacon's phrase, "by submitting the 
shows of things to the desires of the mind." We are willing 
that our mouths should water, not only at the sight of meat, 
but at the sound of an irrelevant bell. 

If the comprehension and the representation of the par- 
ticular is the life of art, the difference between a great artist 
and a small one is mainly the difference between their feeling 
for the significant particular. "This intuitive perception," 
said Hazlitt, "of the hidden analogies of things, or as it may 
be called, this instinct of imagination, is, perhaps, what 
stamps the character of genius on the productions of art 
more than any other circumstance." The great poet is he 
whose world is most subtly and flexibly and inclusively 
bound together by these imaginative affiliations, is most 
warmly drenched in psychological meaning by a profound 
and tireless psychological insight. This quality — far more 
than his alleged and very debatable command over dramatic 
structure — is what makes Shakespeare far and away the 
most towering of English poets. What makes him difficult 
reading for the uninitiated, especially at his most char- 
acteristic, is not his archaic language — a dozen contempo- 
raries are equally archaic — but the infinite metaphorical 
complexity of his style, the apparently illimitable range 
and variety of his images, and the breathlessness with which 
they crowd upon each other at the rate, sometimes, of two 
or three to a line. Take the speech of Hamlet to his mother 
in the third act, after she has charged him, fearfully, with 
abandonment to madness or "ecstasv": 

"Ecstasy! 
My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, 
And makes as healthful music. It is not madness 
That I have utter'd: bring me to the test, 
And I the matter will re-word, which madness 
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, 
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, 



The Smith College Monthly 18 

That not your trespass but my madness speaks; 

It will but skiu and film the ulcerous place, 

Whiles rank corruption, mining all within, 

Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven; 

Repent what's past; avoid what is to come; 

And do not spread the compost on the weeds 

To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; 

For in the fatness of these pursy times 

Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, 

Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good." 

In these fifteen or sixteen lines there are half as many in- 
dependent images, and in the phrasing of these, a few more 
ancillary images implied: yet so just are they, so intensely 
felt and seen, that it would be almost as exact to consider 
them the literal expression of the meaning as the symbols 
for it. In the hard light of such a style, the world does not 
seem a place where clear lines sharpen themselves between 
the concrete and the abstract, the subjective and the objec- 
tive, the literal and the figurative; but all is apprehended 
and possessed in one sweeping gesture of the imagination. 
One understands what Taine meant when he said, "Every 
metaphor is a shock. Whoever involuntarily and naturally 
transforms a dry idea into an image has fire in the brain; 
true metaphors are inflamed apparitions which resemble a 
whole landscape seen bj r a flash of lightning." 

It needs no labored analysis to show why dramatic 
poetry like Shakespeare's — freighted as it is with the ex- 
pression of all sorts of subjective motives and meanings, all 
sorts of impalpable conflicts between minds — is obstinately 
metaphorical. It is as easy to see why lyrical poetry, dic- 
tated by the need of uttering intimate emotional experi- 
ences, is no less metaphorical. The lyrical poet of genius 
may be recognized by the rightness, the inevitableness, of 
his choice (the word is too sober!) of the image for his pas- 
sion, the fastidious adjustment of the metaphor to the mean- 
ing which gives us that acute aesthetic satisfaction of seeing 
the cup full to the brim, in no danger of spilling over. The 
small poet may be known by the triviality, the factitious- 
ness, the inappositeness of his metaphors, those metaphors 
which, as Landor said, "are often lamps which light noth- 
ing, and show only the nakedness of the walls they are nailed 



14 The Smith College Monthly 

against." And in his metaphors the special quality of any 
poet, great or small, the temperamental uniqueness that pro- 
duces what is called style, may be most fully seized, most 
precisely defined. If our previous analysis has been sound, 
this is exactly what we should expect; that the responses 
which poets make to external and internal stimuli should be 
those which have been conditioned by their inherited disposi- 
tions and their acquired experiences, and that no two poets 
should be quite alike. 

Nor is it only in the type and variety of images he uti- 
lizes that a poet impresses his temperament upon his style: 
he does this no less decisively in the use he makes of them, 
and especially in the weight of the reliance he puts upon 
them. The meaning of a poem, that is to say, may be soaked 
in the image at every possible stage of saturation. At one 
extreme the image is frankly ancillary and incidental: in 
such poems what one might call the expository usefulness of 
the image is most candidly admitted, and the strain put upon 
the reader's power of responding, least heavy. A fair ex- 
ample is the tiny poem of Wordsworth's called "The Rain- 
bow," known to every schoolboy. Here the image is clearly 
only the convenient starting point for the expression of an 
idea which does not by any means limit itself to it. At 
another stage the meaning and the image are given a bal- 
anced emphasis and the full expression of the one is not 
sacrificed to that of the other. Familiar examples are 
Wordsworth's poem on "The Daffodils," Shellev's "Ode 
to the West Wind," Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn," all 
poems in which the idea is expressed in its own terms as 
fully as in those of the central image. A short and ex- 
cellent example in Andrew Lang's sonnet on "The Odys- 
sey." At a further stage the saturation is — for no better 
aesthetic reasons — more complete. The image begins to 
usurp the centre of the poet's artistic attention, and the idea 
scarcely more than intimates itself to us in a word or a line 
here and there: the strain on our capacity to respond is con- 
siderable, and can safely be put upon it only by a poet who 
is confident of his purpose and intensely clear-sighted in his 
choice of the image. It is obvious enough that the farther 
the poet goes in this direction, the more reticently he allows 
the image to do the main work of the poem, the more tingling 



The Smith College Monthly 15 

will be our response to it, and the greater the risk that \\< 
will not respond at all. At the extreme. st point oi' satura- 
tion, the point at which the image is presented boldly on its 
own terms, and no explicit clue to the idea furnished, the 
danger of mere riddling is most imminent, and the possibil- 
ities of intense poetic effect are greatest. Blake's famous 
stanzas beginning, "Tiger, tiger, burning bright," come very 
close to this point, if they do not actually reach it. Many 
stanzas from Fitzgerald's "Omar," which must be regarded, 
strictly speaking, as a series of poems, are images of which 
the interpretation is left to us: 

"Look to the blowing Rose about us — 'Lo, 
Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow, 

At once the silken tassel of my Purse 
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.' ' 

Emerson's stanza on "Brahma," Swinburne's poem called 
"The Oblation" (which reads like an expression of amorous 
dedication to a mistress, but is clearly, in its setting, a hymn 
to the spirit of liberty), Robert Frost's famous "Mending 
Wall" are all poems of this self-sufficient symbolic type. It 
is impossible to judge poems as better or worse in propor- 
tion as they approach this extreme: in every case, the poet 
must decide what use of the image his communication exacts ; 
and many poems have been marred by a too resolute inter- 
pretation of a sufficiently transparent symbol, as many others 
have been marred by the obscurity of a symbol left un- 
explained. 

This brings us to a final word on the importance for a 
study of poetry of the principle of the Conditioned Reflex. 
That principle is at the root of the whole question of conven- 
tion and revolt. If some images can be trusted to provoke 
(as stimuli) the whole relevant responses without assistance, 
it is because they have been so universally associated with 
certain experiences that all readers can be expected to make 
the right responses to them; they are in the strictest sense 
conventions of communication. But it is to be observed that 
in the experiment with a reference to which we began, the 
response to the substitute stimulus of the bell will be made 
only a certain fairly fixed number of times, if the original 
stimulus is never re-associated with it. There is a connection 



16 The Smith College Monthly 

(pace economic psychologists!) between the principle of Di- 
minishing Returns and the principle of the Conditioned 
Reflex. A literary convention, at any rate, will reach a 
point where its stimulating force has been irrevocably debil- 
itated by repetition, and a new convention, a new group of 
images, must sooner or later take its place. These new 
images will begin by being so personal, so unfamiliar, so 
"eccentric," that only certain temperaments will respond to 
them, and perhaps, if they are relied on too confidently, by 
being almost unintelligible. Xo one will need to have clari- 
fied for him the connection between the arduous youth in 
"Excelsior" and the aspirations of the idealistic spirit; on 
the other hand, the connection, in Wordsworth's age, be- 
tween the rainbow and "natural piety" was one that not 
many readers could be trusted to establish. Longfellow's 
instinct was sound when it led him to refrain from glossing 
his own poem ; Wordsworth's when it led him to do so. And 
now many contemporary poets are resorting to a whole new 
order of metaphorical stimuli, with the predictable result of 
narrowing their responsive audiences. If the whole past his- 
tory of poetry, however, is of any weight, no one need doubt 
that those symbols of which the latent communicative value 
is most genuine, will survive to become, in the way which 
Professor Lowes has so fully illustrated, the conventions of 
another generation. The "revolt" will have been justified, 
and the Conditioned Reflex solemlv vindicated. 



The Smith College Monthly 17 



OVER THE HILL 

Elizabeth Wilder 



f^?|HE little breeze ran up the hill, lightly, happily. Rose- 
yl/ Elizabeth slipped her hands into her pinafore pockets 
Igffigj and skipped up after it. She wasn't really allowed to 
put her hands in her pockets. The breeze whisked back to 
ruffle her short black ringlets; it patted Rose-Elizabeth's 
cheeks into deep-red roses. Then, dancing ahead, it kicked 
the dead leaves from a cluster of blue violets. Rose-Eliza- 
beth squealed. Immediately the sunlight shimmering across 
her counterpane had wakened her she had known it would be 
a magic morning. Dropping down on the grass she pressed 
her nose into the cool sweetness of the flowers. They 
smelled like a thousand things: May and dew and summer 
stars and fresh earth and sleepy babies. Rose-Elizabeth 
wondered if it would be quite fair to pick them. But of 
course, for Belinda. Blue violets belonged to Belinda, 
someway. 

The violets in her hands, Rose-Elizabeth climbed on 
toward the top of the hill. She walked quite slowly and aim- 
lessly, not at all as though she were planning to reach any 
particular place. She might have been going up that hill 
simply because she could think of nowhere else to play. Cer- 
tainly no one would have guessed that she expected to find 
Belinda on the other side. Rose-Elizabeth didn't intend to 
have anyone guessing about Belinda. Belinda, like hare- 
bells and larks' nests, belonged to her because she alone 
knew about them. There was, too, a whispery feeling that 
Aunt Susan wouldn't approve of Belinda; so many nice 
things seemed improper to Aunt Susan. 



18 The Smith College Monthly 

A last breathless dash over the erest of the hill tumbled 
Rose-Elizabeth, clutching her flowers, into the soft grass. 
For a moment she crinkled her eyes shut — to smell the wind 
warm with sunlight and apple-blossoms, to hear the song of 
it slithering through the grass. Then she looked out over the 
magic of spring-on-the-other-side-of-the-hill. (Aunt Susan 
really preferred that Rose-Elizabeth shouldn't go over the 
hill.) But here below her was spread out the whole world, 
all flowering with fruit trees and laced with silvery streams. 
Everything was as enchantingly neat as a panorama, neat 
and fresh and nicely clipped — all for Rose-Elizabeth and 
Belinda to look at and guess about, holding hands. And 
they could talk about the Cousin. This Cousin, Aunt Susan 
said, was a little girl, named Joan. With brown hair and 
blue eyes. It was a startling thought to Rose-Elizabeth. 
All the other cousins had been very tall and black with gold 
chains across their tummies and sometimes nose-glasses and 
always shiney boots. They were called Cousin Henry and 
Cousin James and Cousin Thomas; but this one had only 
Joan for her name. Would she possibly have a gold watch- 
chain? plainly all cousins had them. The thought of blue 
eyes and brown hair above a gold watch-chain was too alarm- 
ingly funny. Rose-Elizabeth laughed and laughed. Quite 
suddenly she stopped, glancing over her shoulder. Where 
was Belinda? She always had come as soon as Rose-Eliza- 
beth sat down, but this time she wasn't here ; and Rose-Eliza- 
beth, busy thinking about Joan, had quite forgotten her. 

And then, softly, silently, as a woods-creature comes, 
Belinda was there. There, standing right before Rose- 
Elizabeth! 

"Oh, Belinda — " said Rose-Elizabeth, and she knew 
that she loved Belinda deeply and desperately. Belinda 
smiled a tiny pointed smile, shaking her pigtails. They were 
flaxen pigtails, the color of early morning sunlight, and her 
face was pink and white, pale pink and white like apple-blos- 
soms at the top of the tree. But Belinda's eyes were bluer 
than all the blue things in the world: violets and bluebirds 
and forget-me-nots and squills. They were even bluer than 
birthday candles or the Sunday-evening porridge-bowl or 
Aunt Susan's ring. The only thing to compare with them, 
Rose-Elizabeth thought, was the reflection of the sky in the 






The Smith College Monthly 19 

deepest corner of the brook on Midsummer's Day. The wind 
curled Belinda's dress around her — it was a slipsy blue dress. 
She sat down, hugging her knees, and smiled at Rose- 
Elizabeth. 

Rose-Elizabeth squirmed ecstatically, and, dropping her 
abashed eyes, found the violets in her lap. "I had to pick 
these for you 'cause thev look as though thev belong to you, 
Belinda."* 

Belinda, taking the flowers in her soft hands, held them 
against her pink and white cheek and smelled them, and then 
dropped them gently into her lap. Opening her sky-blue 
eyes very wide, she said in a small voice of tinkling brooks: 
"Prob'ly, Rose-Elizabeth, we do belong to each other. Thank 
you so very much. Perhaps I shall make a magic wreath of 
blue violets." 

So she did, while Rose-Elizabeth sat watching her, and 
the clouds, and the drifting blossoms — not saying very much, 
but watching Belinda and feeling quite happy. Belinda's 
fingers that were so soft and slim played among the flowers, 
making a garland of blue violets and fuzzy green leaves. 
Quite unexpectedly, Rose-Elizabeth chuckled. She was for- 
getting the very best surprise! Teasingly she grinned at 
Belinda, her black eyes shining. 

"Guess!" she tempted, "Only guess what we can have 
to play with tomorrow." 

Belinda wrinkled her nose delicately: "A beautiful 
colorless stone, clearer than crystal or stream- water, through 
which we can see anything we wish." 

"Oh, no! Ever so much more excitinger." 

"A magic cloak woven of morning mist and spring twi- 
light, so that we can walk invisibly and hear the flowers say- 
ing secret things?" 

"Oh, Belinda, something alive, of course!" 

"A slim silvery- white horse to gallop us dow r n the lanes 
where white hawthorn is blooming." 

"Belinda, you do think of the most loveliest things, but 
this is a person." 

Belinda's hand fluttered between the wreath and the 
flowers in her lap, like a butterfly's wing. And, too, her 
voice fluttered, ever so slightly. 

"Not — not a Cousin?" 



20 The Smith College Monthly 

"I knew you'd guess! I knew you would!" Rose- 
Elizabeth was dancing around, clapping her hands in glee. 
Or perhaps she was just hopping. She shook her black 
curls. "It's named Joan and it has brown hair, straight, and 
blue eves, blue eves." she sang. "Aren't vou just happy, 
Belinda?" 

But Belinda's button-mouth had twisted itself into a 
slim line of wistfulness. "I'm very sorry, Rose-Elizabeth, 
but I've never been able to like cousins." 

Breathless, Rose-Elizabeth dropped on the grass beside 
her. "Oh but, Belinda darling, this one hasn't got nose- 
glasses. It's only a joke to call her Cousin, 'cause really she 
has Joan for her name. She'll be jolly! we can plav with 
her." 

Nevertheless a lonely sigh quivered Rose Elizabeth's 
slipsy blue dress. Just then the last violet was twined into 
the Avreath and Belinda slipped it quite over her head, so 
that it hung around her neck, a truly magic collar for her 
slim blue dress. She sat very still for a moment while a 
little wind, passing its hand over her head, stroked her hair 
into a soft fuzz against the sky. At last she shook her pig- 
tails back over her shoulders, smiling up through her eye- 
lashes at Rose-Elizabeth. 

"I think, Rose-Elizabeth," she said, "I think I shall 
dance you a small spring dance." 

So Belinda danced while Rose-Elizabeth, cross-legged 
in the long grass, watched her. She was like a wind-flower 
swaying in the sunlight. Now she was like a young birch 
tree quivering in the starlight. She was a slim secret brook 
ruffled by rain-drops. Here was a dance of the secret things 
of morning and youth and the spring. It was a record of 
the first tiny emerald-green leaves. It was the pattern of a 
blue-bird fluttering across a blue sky. It was a faun piping 
in a fern-brake. Xow it was blossom-petals dropping wist- 
fully through the twilight. A scarlet feather from a bird's 
wing lay, alone, on dark moss. A primrose whimpered as 
the dusk wrapped its long fingers about her. This was a 
cuckoo calling plaintively in the bright spring wood with 
only an echo for answer. — Rose-Elizabeth felt that she might 
be going to cry. 

"Please, please, Belinda, don't dance any more. I don't 



The Smith College Monthly 21 

really want you to dance now. Pretty soon I shall have to 
go back and we haven't played any games ai all!" 

Belinda stopped, all drooping. Then with a crinkly 
laugh that was perhaps too light and perhaps too deep six 
sat down beside Rose-Elizabeth, tucking her feet under her. 
She held Rose-Elizabeth's hand, almost as though she knew 
how sinking and frightened Rose-Elizabeth's tummy was. 
Rose-Elizabeth felt much happier. 

"Belinda," she smiled, sighing contentedly, "how do you 
dance so perfectly beautifully?" 

"Oh," twinkled Belinda, "You could too, if you had 
pointed ears." 

"Not really pointed ears, Belinda!" 

"But really pointed, Rose-Elizabeth, and I can wiggle 
them, too." 

So Belinda, pushing back her pigtails, wiggled her beau- 
tifully pointed ears most alluringly; Rose-Elizabeth laughed 
and laughed. And then Rose-Elizabeth must try wiggling 
her nice round ears — and of course she couldn't. So they 
laughed at Belinda's ears, and then they laughed at Rose- 
Elizabeth's ears, and then they laughed at each other, and 
then they just laughed — until they hugged each other and 
toppled over into the sweet grass. Lying so they watched 
the clouds drift by, one, two, three, like dream-thoughts. 
Belinda's voice, sweet as a wind slipping through aspen sap- 
lings, explained the Game: 

"It's a new game, but very old and very simple. It is 
just about Believing. All things we know and see and touch 
are true because we believe them. I can see you because I 
believe you, and because I am positive that I could touch 
you and feel your pinafore all smooth and starchy. You 
think I'm true — but really you can hear my voice only be- 
cause you believe me. There could be a faery on every blade 
of grass if you believed truly enough! Anyway, this is the 
Game — I'll try to stop believing you, and you do your best 
to believe that there isn't any me. Of course at the same 
time you have to believe yourself so hard that I can't make 
you unreal. And I'll keep wanting you to believe me, and 
we'll see whether I'll vanish. We'll see whether we both 
vanish — " Belinda peeped up through her long shy eye- 



22 The Smith College Monthly 

lashes at Rose-Elizabeth sitting up in excitement. Her eyes 
were like daisies, round and wondering. 

"Oh, Belinda, how exciting! But I don't really b'lieve 
it. 

"But, Rose-Elizabeth, how can you know I'm here un- 
less you touch me? If you did pinch me and find only air 
in your fingers, wouldn't you think I had never been true?" 

"Well, I wouldn't try to pinch j^ou unless I b'lieved, 
and then you'd be there, silly". 

"All the same, I'm beginning. I shall say to myself: 
'There isn't any Rose-Elizabeth, there isn't any Rose-Eliza- 
beth; and every twenty times I'll look to see if you're there." 

"You just try to vanish me! I'll say to myself: 'There 
is a Rose-Elizabeth, 'Cause it's me!' And every time you 
look at me I'll snicker at you." 

"If you snicker, it won't be fair; it isn't ever fair to 
laugh at Magic." 

"Oh, Belinda, is it truly Magic?" 

"Of course, all believing is Magic, because Magic is 
only believing. Now I shall begin." 

Rose-Elizabeth lay back in the tall grass. But she 
knew she was true! How could she lie there and feel her 
knees warm in the sun and think that the clouds looked like 
great blobs of soap-suds, if she weren't true? It was silly. 
It was utterly ridic'lous. She was wrapped in the thick 
warm scent of crushed grass. There was an apple blossom 
dropping on her cheek. Belinda's dress fluttered up, as blue 
as the sky, over the top of the grass .... The grass brushed 
swishing across her cheek, and the sun was warm — . 

"Oh," came Belinda's voice despairingly, "You're too 
chubbv. I'm sure it would be easier if you weren't chubbv, 
Rose-Elizabeth!" 

Rose-Elizabeth thought that another time she would 
have laughed at Belinda for sounding so pitiful. Just now 
laughing seemed hardly necessary. The sunlight was so 
warm; she could feel it all around her, as though she were 
lying in warm golden water. She did feel rather magic — 
but she knew she was real. Why, she could rub her thumb 
and finger together and feel the long lumpy scar where the 
jack-knife slipped. The blood had come spurting out like 
a fountain. She had stopped crying to laugh at it Noth- 



The Smith College Monthly 28 

ing like that could happen to you if you were only a belief, 
[nadvertently, Rose-Elizabeth wondered whether blood 
would spurt out of Belinda's thumb? Belinda was queer. 
Rose-Elizabeth had thought, sometimes, that she could put 
her baud right through Belinda. But of course thai was 
silly. You couldn't play with anybody day after day if she 
weren't true. Not anybody as nice as Belinda, with shell- 
pink cheeks and honey-colored pigtails. But, Belinda's ears? 
Rose-Elizabeth knew perfectly well (she had read it in a 
book, so it must be true — ) that only faeries and nymphs 
and elves and dryads and such had pointed ears. Perhaps 
Belinda was Special; undoubtedly she was rather Magic. 
She thought of such beautiful things without even trying. 
A silvery horse to gallop on. It made Rose-Elizabeth's 
breath catch. Over hill and down dale, faster than the wind. 
Or perhaps it would be more wonderful to have wide blue 
and black wings, to poise, like this butterfly, swaying on the 
grass. Then to go soaring up, ever so far, where the air was 
blue and sw r eet. Maybe stop at a cloud for luncheon — a 
piece of cloud would be like frosted angel-cake. But, Rose- 
Elizabeth decided lazily, she didn't care to be a bee. Xot 
that she didn't approve of bees. There w r as a fat buzzy bee, 
dusted with gold, whirring right past her nose. She liked 
his sound. There ought to be even more bees, so that they 
could have honey for tea every day, not just Mondays and 
Saturdays. Honey? Rose-Elizabeth wrinkled her eye- 
brows in thought. Just a minute or so ago she had been 
thinking about honey. Something was honey-colored; the 
color of honey when four o'clock sunlight is shining through 
it. Never mind, most likely she would remember at tea-time. 
Aunt Susan had promised that there would be honey for 
tea to-day. Rose-Elizabeth groped again — Why w r as that? 
It wasn't Saturday. It certainly wasn't Monday either. It 
wasn't anybody's birthday .... Joan! .... That was it. Joan 
was coming. She ought to be coming any minute now. Rose- 
Elizabeth felt rather guilty; Aunt Susan had particularly 
asked her to stay at home that morning. But there had been 
some very important reason for going over the hill. Rose- 
Elizabeth couldn't remember just now r what it w r as .... 
Anyway, the sun must be happy, it was so smiling and warm. 

Suddenly Rose-Elizabeth jumped quite onto her feet. 



24 The Smith College Monthly 

There was the sound of the motor-horn! Joan was here! 
She hopped in glee, then skipped precipitously down the hill. 
Half-way down she stopped as suddenly. There was 
something. She had a strange misty feeling of forgetting 
something. Something had been left on the other side of 
the hill. It wasn't the violets — It must be something else, 
something important. Rose-Elizabeth was trying to re- 
member about a white horse. Something about the color of 
honey at tea-time. For a moment Rose-Elizabeth felt des- 
perately unhappy, even sad. Then, as a gray car appeared 
around the corner of the hedge, she shook herself; and slip- 
ping her hands gayly into her pockets skipped on down the 
hill. 



SONNET 

Ruth L. Thompson 



There is a meeting in this tower tonight 

Arranged with Destiny by my three friends, 

Whose taut wills so refuse to bandy ends 

With accidents, with obstacles too trite. 

They passed the portal in a flash of light 

One long hour since and now a dark wind bends 

The great door op'n again and sends 

Dark listeners up to the tower's height . . . 

Most impotent of sentinels I wait 

Among the moveless shadowings, and try 

In little starts of thought to calculate 

Whether it will be they or may be I 

The more estranged when next we meet — 'tis so 

Significantly silent here below. 



The Smith College Monthly 25 



THE CURVE OF THE VANISHING ROAD 

Florence H. Northrop 



C"|HE road that leads out of our village climbs the moun- 
tain beyond and curves. From the general store plat- 
H form you can always follow a team of horses, dragging 
up a heavy load of potatoes, until they pass the bend of the 
vanishing road. Child that I was, 1 had never gone far out- 
side of the village limits. The thought of what lay beyond 
painted for me a picture of paradise. 

I asked the old woman who tended the apple stand be- 
hind the Incorporated Farmers' Stables, whether she had 
travelled the highway and rounded that curve. She answered 
me. "Land sakes. no, child. I ain't had much schooling, but 
I have a few feelings about things. I get kind a dreamy 
some days. I can see a bit of a white cottage tucked 
away in those green trees on the top of that hill. Seems like 
as if the sun was always shinin' there — 'tain't so far to reach. 
There' d be a garden patch around back where my poor bent 
man could sit and watch the green things grow. We'd be 
living so high up, like in yonder cloud, and we'd not think 
of being handy to the village or such. Me — why I'd just 
stay to home, to mind the house, keep it nice and tidy, and 
serve up the crisp eatables on a shiny white table cover. Go 
up past there sometime only to find bare rock and forest? 
I couldn't." Here I saw her eyes, brimful of tears. "Oh! I 
get so foolish betimes. Take you a rosy apple, child, and 
run along." 

There was a queer man in the village who seemed to 
have come from a foreign land. He talked to the birds and 
flowers as he would to you and me. He wrote verse, but 
they were not like those on our valentines. They were more 
like the poetry in our school books, only prettier. He, I 
thought, must know, but alas! He sadly sighed and said, 
"I see beyond that mountain — a huge castle! We see only 
part of the curved road that surrounds the moat. In the 
great hall feasts are served nightly, and the orgies of Bacchus 



26 The Smith College Monthly 

are rife. Joy, with love by the hand, however, fears to mount 
the broad staircase. High up in the lofty tower, a lovely 
princess lies alone. Her rude father could not endure her 
play with the fairies in the wood that hems in the palace. 
Lightly and fantastically she tripped on the mossy bank of a 
tinkling brooklet that tumbled down the mountain. Her 
father found that she met her lover there! He shut her in 
that cold castle cell. She will die Without her flowers, bees, 
birds, and .... him. I must save her!" He looked like a 
knight of old, ready to rush into the fray. "But, ah! If I 
should climb that hill, turn that bend, and find that I had 
been dreaming, I should know no further joys." 

Returning from school one day with books under our 
arms, we crossed the main road. "Look," said I to Miranda. 
"What do you suppose you would find up past that bend?" 
Her answer showed that she, too, saw her picture of paradise. 

"Away up that long hill, behind those trees, around that 
curve, there are three mountains: one of vanilla, one of 
strawberry, and a great big one of chocolate ice cream. 
Right near them is a little candy house with a thick fudge 
roof, patched With nuts of every kind: peanuts, walnuts, 
hickory nuts, and salted almonds. The doors and windows 
are round sugar cookies, and the chimney is a red cherry. 
Instead of grass there is sponge cake, and instead of an iron 
fence and gate there is a bright row of saucy striped pepper- 
mint sticks. The sidewalk is made of stepping-stones of 
that forbidden licorice drop candy with a few gummies 
thrown in." 

"Come, let us go there now," I suggested. 

"Oh, no," she answered. "Mother says it's all child's 
nonsense and there are only a few trees and a dangerous turn 
up there. Let's just pretend." 

Today I am still looking at that magical curve in the 
road that leads out of our village to the great outside world. 
Some day I shall pass on up the road and turn to look upon 
that which the old apple woman, the young poet, and the 
imaginative child were afraid to look upon. That day is far 
distant, however, for I, too, fear to be disappointed by a 
realitv. 



The Smith College Monthly 27 



"A TRAVELER IN AN ANTIQUE LAND" 

Elizabeth Wheeler 



K7HE primrose way to the everlasting bonfire" can be no 
vl/ more uncomfortable for the weary traveller than the 
Bjgjgj road from Athens to Marathon. I had far rather 
have been a humble soldier in the army of Miltiades, trudg- 
ing along in the dust to the defense of Hellas, than an 
American tourist, bucking along in a dilapidated Cadillac, 
trying to keep my youthful dreams of romance and glory. 
These were fast being pushed out through my cortex by the 
spasmodic hammering of my spinal column. There was an 
element of irony in the situation. We stopped at the out- 
skirts of Athens to pay the toll levied by the Greek govern- 
ment for the upkeep of its roads, and it here became evident 
why the aforementioned roads rivalled the Chemin des 
Dames after the war; the toll-collector avidly grasped the 
drachmae held out to him, though the bills did look like the 
dust in a carpet-sweeper, and made for a nearby wine-shop, 
where the toll, we felt, would disappear in a bottle of Mavro- 
daphne. The further we went from Athens the more certain 
we were that, even if the U. S. A. were unpopular abroad, 
the Greeks at least were willing to make use of her products. 
Portable houses, like a pack of mongrel dogs, squatted along 
the road, separated from each other by fences — but what 
fences ! A Standard Oil can's days of usefulness are not over 
when it is bereft of its contents; just knock the bottom out, 
flatten the sides, string several of them together on a wire, 
and you have a typical fence of present-day Greece. 

As we reached the center of the plain, the landscape 
began to look more like the pictures of Greece in Breasted's 
"Ancient Times," for there were few houses, and the green 
fields, bleeding with scarlet anemones, stretched away to the 
famous x^ttic hills. Here at last, one stepped back into the 
setting of ancient Hellas. Along the road, gnarled, mis- 
shapen olive-trees lifted their trunks like the hands of a 
corpse. One could almost believe they had been there when 



28 The Smith College Monthly 

the Athenians marched to Marathon twenty-three hundred 
years ago. Bat what was this advancing toward us? A 
grove of brushwood, swaying in rhythm — surely, "Birnam 
Wood has come to Dunsinane." It approached nearer; we 
saw a pair of mouse-colored ears protruding; it passed, and 
we beheld a tail waving gently. The life of a donkey in 
Greece is no sinecure. Behind him ambled a peasant, his 
gait somewhat retarded by his cumbersome, baggy trousers 
and clumsy shoes with their enormous pompons. 

The hills began to close in around us, and the treeless 
plain merged into wooded slopes and ravines. High above, 
we heard a thousand musical tinklings, and down a wide 
gulley gambolled a herd of goats and sheep, each with a bell 
around his neck ; after them came the shepherd with his long 
crook, muffled to the ears in his sheep-skin coat. We round- 
ed a bend, and experienced a moment of awful anticipation 
when we encountered a piratical individual carrying a gun 
of archaic but nonetheless forbidding aspect; he must be a 
bandit! But nothing untoward happened, and the next in- 
stant we had forgotten him, for we suddenly came out upon 
the plain of Marathon, with the magic water beyond. "The 
mountains look on Marathon, and Marathon looks on the 
sea." In the center of the plain rose the mound that marks 
the grave of the Athenian heroes who fell in the battle. But 
no sooner had we stopped than we were surrounded by a 
swarm of peasant children, their hands filled with grape- 
hyacinths and anemones. They were little concerned with 
the significance of the place: but they knew that the name 
of Marathon brought people who would give them money 
for their flowers. And they followed us like beggars till we 
had bought all they had. 

Then we ascended the mound. Here, in spite of 
donkeys, children and Standard Oil, the past convinced us 
and conquered us. We fought the battle again, according to 
the account of the immortal Herodotus, as set forth by the 
ever-obliging Baedeker. The air was filled with the clash of 
spear on shield, the cries of the wounded, and the prayers of 
the dying. The plain was thronged with the two hosts, locked 
in a death-struggle, and far away, drawn up on the shore, 
lav the sinister hulks of the Persian fleet. 



The Smith College Monthly 29 



GARDENS 

Barbara Simison 



Salads 

I have a liking 
For gardens, 
Prim little 
Kitchen gardens 
With fat, 
Round heads 
Of lettuce — 
Grotesquely plump 
Like old gentlemen, 
And staidly 
Planted in rows; 
Corn, tall spikes, 
Marshalled in lines 
Like soldiers 
Carrying bayonets; 
Tomatoes — 
Feathery leaves, 
And red fruit, 
Soft 

With the softness 
Of sofa-cushions — 
Ready for eating. 
I have a liking 
For gardens, 
Prim little 
Kitchen gardens — 
Delightful 
In their ugliness; 
Ineffably necessary 
For salads. 



80 The Smith College Monthly 



Beauty 

I have a longing 

For gardens. 

Brilliant 

Rose gardens — 

Bright 

In their flaming, 

Sweet 

In their perfume; 

Filled 

With the tall stateliness 

Of flowers, 

Rose-flowers, 

And steeped 

In the quaintness 

Of a sun-dial. 

I have a longing 

For gardens, 

Brilliant 

Rose gardens, 

Delightful 

In their colors — 

Ineffably necessary 

For beautv. 



The Smith College Monthly 81 



ENIGMA 

Aj KK SCUDDEB 



IXCE Dorothy had been a little girl she hod been 
afraid of telegrams. There was always that terrible 
question to be answered finally by the message, and 

then there was that other possibility. Lately Dorothy had 
wondered if he would telegraph when it happened, whether 

it would not be more like him to surprise them. On rainy 
days when Dorothy had to walk home she would "have a 
feeling" (she and Mother were always having feelings) that 
she would find grandfather waiting in the house for her. 
Dear Grandfather .... but before very long, even though 
she really tried very hard, she would be thinking of all the 
changes it would make in their lives. Ever since Dorothy 
could remember she was thinking of what they would do 
if ... . She shocked herself sometimes. It was as if that 
were all she cared about. 

Sometimes Mother felt impelled to retell familiar anec- 
dotes about that dreadful time, how she herself felt that per- 
haps it would be best for Grandfather to marry again and 
had actually encouraged the match, how Grandfather had 
brought his bride to Father's house, how she had drunk al- 
most a whole bottle of wine in her room that night and had 
come down next day to Dorothy's birthday breakfast in her 
bathrobe and had not spoken a word to anyone. Dorothy 
could not remember it at all, but she knew from the way 
Mother told it that it must have been dreadful. And then 
that night she had taken Grandfather up to the hotel, and 
had written Mother a horrible letter, so horrible that Doro- 
thy was not told its contents until so many years later that 
Mother had quite forgotten them. And then she had come 
back and had taken all of Grandfather's clothes out of his 
closet and carried them up the street with the suspenders 
hanging down. And none of them had ever seen her again. 

Mother decided that she must be crazy and that did 
seem the most satisfactory explanation. Yet they wondered 



82 The Smith College Monthly 

why Grandfather did not "put his foot down". Neither 
Dorothy nor Mother nor Father could understand this in 
anyone. Dorothy thought that he ought to be able to tell 
his wife what he was going to do just the way in which she 
sometimes heard Father tell Mother. He and Grandfather, 
she decided, were not a bit alike. Father ought to have mar- 
ried Grandfather's wife and Grandfather ought to have mar- 
ried mother, only, of course, they couldn't. Still Dorothy 
knew that long before Mother met Father she had kept house 
for Grandfather and had been very happy, so happy that 
Dorothy once asked her why she had married Father, to 
which Mother unexpectedly replied that she had been asking 
herself that question ever since. 

From that time on they didn't see Grandfather very 
often, but whenever he could he would appear. Sometimes 
they didn't even expect him, so it was much nicer. He would 
always give Dorothy some money to spend or put in the 
bank. When she decided to do the latter he was always 
pleased. Mother would ask how the Madam was. If she 
was not well Dorothy would try not to look delighted, but 
she never tried to look sorry because she wasn't sorry and 
Grandfather would know she was putting on. 

Suddenly Father died and then she and Mother went 
away to live because they had been sick too. Dorothy had 
to take care of Mother now, and she very quickly grew up 
to be a big girl. Once in a while they would go home and 
then they would see Grandfather, but they would always go 
very quietly for if the Madam knew they were in town they 
might not get to see him at all. When Grandfather was 
away on business he would try to see them, but even that 
was not always certain because the Madam insisted on 
accompanying him. 

Once Dorothy had to go to San Francisco herself to 
meet him when Mother was sick. It was a tremendous ad- 
venture for Dorothy at fourteen to go in to the St. Francis 
and wait for him. Other people were waiting too. There 
was an old man that looked like her other Grandfather, but 
he wore a derby hat and a belted-in overcoat and had puffy 
things under his eyes — 

Suddenly he was there. She stood up and found that 
she was taller than he. It shocked her terriblv to find that 



The Smith College Monthly 88 

anyone could be anything more than Grandfather. She sud- 
denly remembered why she was there, thai Grandfather 
hadn't put his foot down years before, and she fell thai after 
all she was much, much older than he. She never quite lost 
that feeling. 

They had a splendid time, Grandfather asking all about 
Dorothy and all about Mother. Dorothy wanted very badly 
to cry because Grandfather would be such a good person to 
cry to. Mother always laughed at her. But after a while 
Grandfather grew nervous and kept looking at his watch. 
Dorothy Mas disappointed, she had planned to have him say, 
"I guess I'll come home with you to see Mother." 

Besides, she wanted to have him take her out to lunch. 
No one had yet taken just Dorothy out to lunch. There 
was an undercurrent of restlessness. In a few minutes he 
was going, tucking some bills into her hand. She kissed him 
gratefully and told him he mustn't. And now he was gone, 
back to the Madam who had become almost blind, a judg- 
ment, Dorothy felt, from the just powers, but hard on 
Grandfather. Dorothy was on Market Street, wondering 
if she would catch the ferry or have to wait, and what she 
would buy with her money or if she had better save it, and 
why he didn't come and live with them. They had enough 
now, and then Dorothy would be working. She wanted to 
be able to work her fingers to the bone for him. She was at 
the age when the idea of working her fingers to the bone 
appealed to her. 

In almost every other letter he sent them some money 
and they were able to afford little things they could never 
have otherwise. When a letter came they would hold it up 
to the light ''to see if there was anything". Sometimes there 
wasn't and they would tell each other they were just as glad, 
he couldn't be expected to send them something every time. 
When they had counted on it and nothing came they were 
very stern with themselves for even appearing to care only 
for the money. The very idea ! As if they did ! 

Their favorite game was to guess what a year would 
bring to them. "Perhaps we'll have Grandfather!" one of 
them would always say, and they Would catch their breaths 
and look at each other. And then Mother would be sure 



34 The Smith College Monthly 

to remember that it was wicked "even to think of such a 
thing". 

"Don't worry, she'll outlive us all," Dorothy would say 
bitterly. 

She hadn't. The message had come, "Wife passed away 
yesterday plan to come here for summer." Dorothy was 
surprised at the haldness of the wording. She had not ex- 
pected it to be like that, but since she could not define her 
expectation she felt the injustice of her criticism. For the 
news itself she felt no emotion. And Grandfather, how did 
he feel? 

Her Mother insisted that they leave at once. True, the 
telegram had said nothing about coming immediately but 
she felt that it was implied, especially since Grandfather 
would need them. With them there it might be easier. His 
own people. 

He met them at the station, a very different, a very sub- 
dued Grandfather. Dorothy felt at once that they should 
not have come, at least not just then. The semblance of 
hypocrisy must crack. 

"Xo. the funeral's not until tomorrow," said Grand- 
father in answer to his daughter's question. "On account 
of her people. They couldn't come before." 

"You should have told us. We wouldn't have come," 
said Mother. 

"Xo, no, it's all right. Just her brother and sister. I 
haven't seen them for years. He was governor, you know." 

They knew. Everyone knew. 

They drove out in the old open car that Grandfather 
had had for years, Dorothy and the luggage bouncing in 
the back seat. Xo one spoke, except once Mother asked 
Dorothy the name of the station they had passed through 
that morning where the band was playing. Dorothy saw that 
Mother had intended to tell Grandfather all about the band, 
but Grandfather didn't seem to hear. 

The house frightened Dorothy. She had expected to 
be greeted as the mistress returning after the reign of the 
usurper. A dog came out from the back and sniffed her 
hand curiously. A strange woman greeted them at the 
door. The room that she entered was a strange one. She 
had expected to be reminded of Grandfather when she 



The Smith College Monthly 3.5 

entered the house bul she was not. It was not Grandfather's 

house. 

Upstairs dressing for dinner she fell more than ever 
the presence of the mistress of the house. The almost un- 
broken quiet made them speak in whispers as if they feared 
waking her; as if, Dorothy felt, they knew they had no real 
right there. This was. she felt, the house of the woman down 
stairs and. if nothing else did, the years she had lived and 
suffered in it made it hers. Her stamp was indelible, and 
she was beginning to see that it was indelible in Grandfather. 
Before he had always been away from her, released, escaped. 
Here he was hers, everything was hers. Mother, herself. 
She could not shake off the feeling; it grew as she dwelt upon 
it until the very air of the room seemed to solidify and close 
in about her, imprisoning her, enveloping as the embrace of 
a stout woman envelopes. She gave a sharp cry. 

"Dot! Are you all right?" 

"Oh yes, quite. Thanks", and after a minute she added, 
"I think I'll go down stairs." 

"Do, dear. It's cooler out." 

Dorothy moved languidly down the stairs. On the left 
at the bottom was the door closed on the room where she lay. 
Dorothy shuddered, wondering if it was securely locked. 

She had never seen a dead person. When Father had 
died she had been sent away. And she had always been 
afraid of Aunt Mary's room at her other Grandfather's, 
afraid of passing it lest Aunt Mary might have come back. 
But in this room .... her heart pounded .... in this room 
was the answer to those riddles, there was the personality 
who dominated still, who dominated Grandfather, herself, 
even Mother . . . and why . . . She felt that to go in w r as to 
have the answer. 

She had youth's contempt for death as something re- 
mote and unlikely in connection with herself, and she had her 
child's fear of the dead. She fought to keep calm, and look- 
ing around as she did so, she opened the door and w r ent in. 

A little light came from the shades, enough for her to 
see. Without even glancing at the figure outlined there she 
passed it hurriedly and opened the French doors. The glow 
from the sunset had just faded, but all the dying twilight 
crowded into the room, concentrating itself upon the woman 



36 The Smith College Monthly 

in front of the window. She no longer felt alone with her. 

They had never met before. Dorothy sat down beside 
her, coldly calm. 

She had always been a large woman and in her later 
years, owing perhaps to her enforced inactivity, she had 
grown obese. Her gray coarse hair had been drawn softly 
away from an unlovely face, a face which neither death nor 
suffering had softened. The corners of the mouth had 
dropped into a sullen expression and disappeared almost 
imperceptibly into the sagging lines of her face. Her lips 
were full and selfish. The white of her burial dress looked 
strange and inappropriate. 

Dorothy found no answers written on that face. Per- 
haps the silence and impassivity, traits which in life she had 
never possessed, baffled Dorothy. Selfishness and dominance 
were there. These things she had known. The expression 
of the lips suggested that strange, inexplicable creature who 
had once carried Grandfather's clothes on her arm, it also 
suggested what Grandfather had told her and what she her- 
self never fully believed, the gradual disintegration of a bril- 
liant mind. This perhaps, was what had kept Grandfather 
with her .... But the power .... 

She heard the door open and turning her head saw 
Grandfather come in. She stretched out her hand to him 
and together they faced the silent woman. She waited for 
him to speak, realizing that now she would know. Finally 
the words came, as if wrung from his soul, 

"Isn't she magnificent!" 



The Smith College Monthly 37 



SWAN SONG 
Lucia E. Jordan 



JfyHE wake of the great steamer eddied with a thousand 
vl/ whirlpools, each boiling its dizzy pot of blue-green 
HH bubbles and swirling 1 white foam. From the sloping 
sides of the stern two lines of these troubled pools broke 
away and swung out to meet in the narrow apex of a V, 
with a sudden slapping of current against current. Beyond, 
the rough path of water showed where the disappointed cur- 
rents became reconciled; beyond that the surface turned to 
a path of pale blue smoothness : and still beyond to the rock- 
ing deep blue water that stretched ahead of the steamer, to 
port and to starboard. 

Walter, resting a forlorn elbow on the stern rail and a 
sad head on his hand, watched the wake, second on second, 
minute on minute. A clear picture he made in his mind, and 
true he thought. He could see himself sitting on the rail 
and, when no one was looking, giving a little jump off, 
dropping quietly. Then the whirlpools grasp and suck him. 
He can breathe in nothing but the green bubbles of water. 
He gasps, gropes, struggles, pushes against those aching 
walls. He is twisted and tossed and tortured .... suddenly, 
miraculously thrown up where he can breathe. Nightmare 
and green walls pass when he sucks in the air, eats it hungrily. 
He is alive. He feels smooth peace for a moment, treads 
water, looks around, only to see the steamer a dark bulk far 
off, moving to the sky line. Then he strikes out with the 
strong swimming muscles of his arms and legs, all at once 
relaxing with a black realization. He cries out "My God, 
Help me!" — to no one — sees that he can never reach the 
ship, that he is becoming a part of Nothingness. Then he 
learns in the few hours before night what despair is, that life 
is good, that anything is better than this annihilation, this 
non-existence which he has chosen. 

Walter went over and over this in every detail as the 
wake slipped and bubbled, bubbled and slipped past below 



38 The Smith College Monthly 

the stern rail. Still it did not seem too terrible to him. He 
knew that this was better than living his life as he would have 
to live it. It would be a few hours of bitterness — undeni- 
ably — to save many. He did not spare himself the batter- 
ing his body and soul must undergo. Surely he could live 
through that last gasp as poignantly as if the giddy waters 
held him. He watched the wake bubbling and slipping, 
and bubbling by. And still he did not care. He looked at 
the future and it was a blackness either way — but of the two 
blacknesses, throwing himself overboard had the shine of 
adventure to him, and the other was a dull black. It would 
be so easy. 

Always he looked at the bright wake and he began to 
think of it. It was green and it was gold and it was neither ; 
it was always changing yet always the same, for he could 
not pick out the differences. He saw that it was like life. 
He knew that he must tell about it. It would be his Swan 
Song. 

Walter went to his cabin, his paper and pen, and he wrote. 
He wrote of the gulping pools and the foam as white as the 
sky and the rainbow bubbles that were neither water nor air 
nor both, and of the new bubbles that took the places of 
the old. 

He read what he had written. Before he knew it he 
found himself dancing about the cabin, laughing, lifting his 
head. Surely he, the keen, the talented had never meant to 
jump over the steamer's rail — to disappear to be of the 
elements ! 

He had written his Swan Song, but he could not die. 



The Smith College Monthly 39 

THE STUDENT 

Katherine S. Bolmam 



I am the student. Where the sound 

And tumult of the city 'round 

Emulates the tempest's roar 

Stands a grim and shadowy door, 

Shrinking 'neath its stone facade, 

Refusing one pale lantern's aid, 

Next-door neighbor to the street 

Paced by Poverty's gray feet. 

There I enter, silently 

Swings the wide door after me. 

Hushed the shouting, turmoil, all, 

Across the bleak and dim-lit hall 

A narrow door I open wide, 

Cool air and quiet are outside. 

The vision of the city dies, 

Another world around me lies. 

Here the night- wind wanders free 

From smoke and traffic, lawns there be 

Where trees, and buildings not too high 

Do homage to the star-lit sky, 

That other world without is seen 

As changing shadow on a screen. 

Above each doorway shines a light, 

Long gowns brush past me in the night. 

Old as our country's freedom stands 

This close where reverent peace expands, 

And meditation seems to dwell, 

Like still deep water in a well, 

Hid from the city's striving heat. 

Impelling on my tired feet, 

I reach the door, the narrow stair, 

Six dark steep flights I climb, to where 

A banner with old heraldry 

Flaunts its dim colors cheerfully, — 

My room! Not large, but fire-lit, warm, 

(Strange how the glow of coals can charm.) 

In this half-gloom known shapes appear 

Vaguely, yet I can feel them here. 



40 The Smith College Monthly 

I light the lamp. Above the fire 

A shelf, and yet another higher, 

On this, a Chinese temple-bell. — 

What tales that brazen tongue might tell! — 

An old blue tile from far Pekin, — 

The palace that it lay within 

Has long since gone, — beside it stands 

A dwarf with huge misshapen hands, 

And fat round belly, carved of wood, 

He grins, — they say the gods in mood 

Of ennui needs must be amused; 

This image for their pleasure used, 

Was set before them, so appeased 

Their wrath; me, too, the monster pleased. 

Two smooth stone balls, a priest, I'm told, 

Endlessly meditating, rolled 

Within his palm, — from India, those. 

That shelf above has many rows 

Of curious shells. Gay tapestry 

Adorns my dark walls brilliantly. 

My poker by the hearth is hung, 

A sword that murdered in Shantung. 

My books are precious treasures, old, 

Filled with strange names, tales seldom told. 

Here is a poem; men still wait 

For knowledge that they may translate 

Its hidden music, — books hard- worn 

By search for learning, pages torn 

That still yield up their weary store, 

Theology, and Hebrew lore, 

(We study for the ministry 

You know) . But if I wish to see 

A broader view, I push aside 

Red curtains from my window, wide 

Around lie roofs, mysterious, gray, 

Not harsh and poor as seen by day, 

Spread out as far as sight can reach, 

Between two tenements a breach 

Reveals the river far below. 

I breathe the calm, then soft and slow 

I hear sweet chimes, the chapel-gong, — 

I must be off to evensong. 



The Smith College Monthly 41 



SHOE LACES 
Barbara D. Simison 



S7HE gypsy woman shifted her ponderous white bundle 
v./ from one shoulder to another as the train snorted up 
888Sl to the dilapidated, weather-beaten South Deerfleld 
station, The bundle felt like lead on her stooped shoulders. 
If only somebody would help her! She gave a sigh of relief 
when, after the train stopped, the conductor took up her 
bundle and deposited it on the platform. Suspiciously she 
eyed him. That bundle contained all her year's earnings, 
all her worldly goods. If anything happened to them — she 
was all alone — poor and old — if anything happened to them ! 
Slowly she entered the station. Her rheumatic old 
bones ached from fatigue. She felt weary. There were 
hard, wooden benches against the walls. She didn't need 
them. The floor would feel more comfortable. Heavily she 
dropped down to the floor. People probably were looking 
at her — staring. Perhaps they laughed. She was queer, 
"nutty", Bohemian. Yes, she was Bohemian, queer. She 
sat there on the floor, untied her bundle, and began to sort 
all the possessions she had in the world. She began to count 
one, two, three — one, two, three shoe laces — hundreds of shoe 
laces. Her knotted hands moved swiftly, adroitly over the 
piles. Yes, they were all there. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty 
dollars from those shoe laces! Her eyes shone. She forgot 
she was queer. She forgot she was being laughed at. She 
forgot she was worn and old. She was absorbed in the task 
of counting one — two — three — one — two — three shoe laces. 



42 The Smith College Monthly 



UNDER A BOARD FENCE 

Catherine Johnson 



Q"|ETER had run away. Peter was a placid little boy, 
I ordinarily content with the adventures of his own small 
8BS8I imagination and seldom wandering from the back 
yard. But it was surprisingly easy. He had been playing 
in the sand-box under the cherry-tree while Nellie, his nurse, 
sat sewing in a kitchen rocker with her back to him. Nellie 
always sat with her back to him so that she could watch the 
people passing in the street. Peter stood up cautiously, his 
eyes on the yellow comb in the knot of Nellie's back hair. "I 
think," said Peter to himself, "I think that I shall run away." 
He said it firmly, but in a whisper that barely flicked his 
parted lips, and a delicious little thrill crept down his spine. 
There was a lump of excitement in his throat and his eyes 
burned. Nellie was rocking on the grass and humming in 
high falsetto, "Li-ke fair-ee-gifts fa-ding-away — " Her 
back looked forbidding. Peter stepped carefully over the 
side of the box, brushing the sand from his clothes. One 
brown sandal knocked the board noisily but Nellie did not 
turn. Next moment he was running over the shade- 
checkered lawn and slipped behind the garage where he 
leaned against the friendly shingles and peeped apprehen- 
sively through the honey-suckle bush to the cherry-tree. Re- 
assuringly the humming still sounded over the yard. 

He was squeezed in the cold shade between the wall of 
the garage and a high board fence. Through a knot-hole 
Peter had often seen the corner of an interesting red roof 
and a patch of blue sky — much bluer than the sky on his own 
side. If only one could see what else was there! At his feet 
was a hole scratched out by dog-paws. Peter dropped to his 
knees and clawed at the earth. It was yielding, and he dug 
it out by handfuls, burrowing around stones with grimy 
fingers. Next moment he had wiggled under. 

Alice herself, when she climbed through the mirror into 



The Smith College Monthly 43 

looking-glass house, could not have been more delighted khan 

was Peter as he sal up on the other side of the fence .mikI 
blinked in the sunshine, si ill clutching the weeds which had 
helped him worm through. He was in a barnyard. Speckled 
hens were scratching and pecking busily and a bright-feath- 
ered rooster was strutting pompously up and down. There 
were ducks in a tub of water, splashing shining drops on their 
ruffled wings, ducking and diving and shaking their tails. 
Peter could hear dull stamping in the red barn and in the 
doorway caught a glimpse of feed bins and harness hanging 
on nails. The sun warmed a stout pile of hay covered on top 
with a white cloth like an apron. Flies swarmed everywhere. 
One lit on Peter's knee and began rubbing its rainbow col- 
ored wings. A cat flashed around the corner and vanished. 
Brushing off the fly, Peter jumped to his feet and ran after, 
until he came to a wall of rough boards — a pig-sty. He 
stopped then and hung over the side breathlessly. Close to 
a trough lay an enormous sow, grunting sleepily in the sun, 
and how many? nine, ten — twelve baby pigs! They lay in 
a huddled heap, half covered with dusty straw, pink-nosed 
and tiny. What absurd little tails they had — like curly 
screws. Such wee baby grunts, too, and milky, soft mouths. 

"Say," said Peter, "are they yours?" The sow only 
grunted and winked her small brown eyes. A chicken flew 
noisily to the rail and fluttered into the sty, pecking greed- 
ily at scattered egfy shells and old potato peelings. There 
was brown water in the trough — golden brown in the sun. 
The little pigs squirmed closer to the hairy, sun-baked hide 
that was so warm. Two were playing clumsily, rolling each 
other over and squealing. 

"Peter! Pee — ter!" Nellie's voice shrilled behind the 
board fence. "Say," whispered Peter, "I've run away. I'd 
forgotten. And I've got to go back now — but sometime I'm 
going to run away again." The old sow grunting rapidly, 
staggered to her feet tumbling the piglets in every direction, 
and waddled to sniff at Peter's hand with her moist, wrinkled 
snout. Perhaps she thought that Peter had food, but her 
small brown eyes looked very friendly. "Toodbye," said 
Peter. "I like you — I like you much better than Nellie." 
Then he scrambled down and ran back to the hole under the 
board fence. 



44 The Smith College Monthly 



THIS AXD THAT 

Elizabeth Wilder 



Pierrette 

Sits by the sea. 

Pixie grass she twines 

That her grace may be 

As Columbine's. 

Columbine 

Seeks the faery well, 

Wants the faery-folk to tell 

Whv her wishing has not vet 

Made her pretty 

As Pierrette. 



IX MY COTTAGE 

Patty Wood 



I said to Pierrot, 

"Here is a slice of the moon 

To eat with vour silver spoon," 

But he laughed, u O no, 

Why it's only cheese, my dear!" 

And when he was gone and couldn't hear 

I leaned up against the wall 

And cried a bit 

Because it 

Did look like cheese after all. 



The Smith College Monthly 45 



SHADES FROM A PALETTE 



© 



EFORE me a vase-like parfumoir, slim, iridescent, 
tapers to its cone-shaped top. Its colors are still. I 
turn it. They stir, change, and fade into shade. Violet 
blue in depths of the sea glimmers into the light green of the 
shallows. Warm red burgundy sparkles through its cold, 
polished decanter. The cold blue-green of a flame flicks the 
fragile stem for an instant. The soft dull green on old cop- 
per kettles tarnishes the base. 

Nancy Hutton. 

The moon was adrift among soft, bubble clouds, and 
her beams fell white on the darkened earth. Her light stole 
over the high garden wall and touched the tall yucca flowers 
whose ivory petals tossed it on to play with the statue of 
Pan in the fountain. It wakened the naked god, and he 
played his pipes while the shadows danced on the white 
marble and in the clear water. It fell like a shower of snow- 
flakes on the white, drooping Japanese iris. It shone on the 
whitewashed flag-stones and caught the gleam of the polished 
pebbles scattered along the garden path. Then suddenly 
the clouds submerged the moon. The shadows of trees and 
flowers grew long in the garden, and the tall yucca plants 
were like ghosts in the sombre darkness. 

Eleanor Atterbury. 

I know a little girl who always reminds me of green. 
I can see her now in her dull, rustic green apron, a part of 
the woods and fields which are her life. In winter when she 
stands on the terraced lawn of her home, her dark wintry 
green coat is in complete harmony with the stiff' little holly 
tree and its red berries, with the stately prickly pine, and the 
long green winter grass. In summer, as she walks in her 
father's endless, majestic cotton-fields, her dress, paler and 
thinner now in the boiling southern sun, blends into the 
parched green leaves, the green grasshoppers, and the filmy, 
jade-green buterflies. 

Lucy Ellerbe. 



46 The Smith College Monthly 

A Parisian perfumer has named one of the subtlest of 
his wares Yheure bleue. He made a happy choice of names. 
One cannot exactly know when that hour comes, but whether 
at dawn or at twilight it must be witching and delicate. Per- 
haps it is the early morning before sunrise when a misty dull 
blue haze covers the fields and hides the mountain tops. 
Silence lies in the valleys and the air is cold and fresh. Or 
it may be that deeper, darker hour after sunset when dusk 
gathers under the trees and thickens in the air, leaving as 
bits of light only the pale faces of night-blooming flowers. 
The blue hour may come on a winter afternoon in a deep 
forest where the blue shadows of the trees lengthen across 
the snow. Or it may exist forever under the transculent, 
cerulean windows of Chartres or in the hidden depths of a 
lake. 

Geraldine Bailey. 



There is something unreal about purple, something that 
suggests hushed atmospheres, brooding quiet. On October 
days when the wide sweep of landscape is a riot of multi- 
colored foliage and the sky is vividly close, the mountains 
assume a remote purple hue and seem to lose their part in 
the brilliant display, looming above it, singularly detached, 
somber, faintly contemplative. Even in the street gutters 
where autumn leaves swirl together, one catches sight of the 
blurred purple of a solitary leaf, and forgets the shrieking 
colors of its bizarre companions. 

I can remember as a child passing a house in which 
someone had died and seeing a wreath of leaves upon the 
door. The wreath was a heavy, purplish black, and my 
child's heart felt a chilled compression at the sight of it. 

Ever since then purple has been the cause of a deep- 
seated, inexplicable ache within me. The cool, cloudy purple 
in my mother's amethyst ring, dusky specks in the air just at 
twilight, faintly etched shadows of purple under my grand- 
mother's patient eyes, slim threads of this same color in the 
veins at her wrists — always has it been the detached, unsym- 
pathetic coolness of purple which has been the keynote of its 
response in me. 

Esther Peck. 



The Smith College Monthly 47 

On my desk there is a pair of candles, slender spires of 
light green. Green is a beautiful color. It is a part of the 
cool, soft grass on which I sat in the sun and played when 1 
was very small, the grass which contains so many curious bits 
of life. It is streaked through the water of the sea, and it is 
spread sweepingly around us in the fields and woods, over 
the hills and down through the valleys, — the green of young 
leaves and of aged fir trees, the green of a meadow misted 
with dew, or of moss hidden in dark places. My father has 
a scarf pin set with an emerald of deep, shadowed lights, 
which a beautiful old lady gave to him. One night there 
flew against our lantern a great moth whose wings were 
silvery green, that delicate color that permeates all tales of 
elves and fairies. The fascination of the East is caught in 
jade with its pure color and smoothness of texture or intric- 
acy of carving. Many years ago I went to a party where 
pale green candles cast lights on the polished silver and ma- 
hogany in the room; we ate pistachio ice cream and winter- 
green mints; the shade of my sister's dress was cool, silky 
green, a grown-up dress which I desired, while I wore simple 
white. 

I look at the candles with their soft cool tint which sit 
on my desk, and I think of all these things. 

Carolyn Bixler. 



48 The Smith College Monthly 



ALL THAT GLITTERS 

Marion Nathan 



QHLOISE CURTIS, a college student who intended to 
J reform the world the very first year she graduated, 
gjgjg was having a dose of preparation at a Working Girls' 
Conference. Everything about factory girls was new to her: 
their habits, dress, and speech. She rather shrank from their 
vulgarisms; yet she would not be discouraged, for she was 
anxious to fight in the interest of the poor working girl. 

She desired to learn something of the psychology of 
these girls and eagerly took advantage of the first opportu- 
nity to speak to one of them. "Don't you find this an inter- 
esting conference? This certainlv is a delightful spot to 
hold it." 

"I'm havin' a swell vacation," answered Liz McCarthy. 
"First one in four years." 

Eloise tried again. "Didn't Miss Jones give an inter- 
esting talk last night?" 

"Interesting. Yuh, I suppose so." 

"Do you think they should let married women into in- 
dustry?" Eloise persisted. 

"Huh? Search me. I should worry," rejoined Liz 
proceeding to comb her pretty hair. 

Eloise was non-plussed, so ventured in despair, "What 
a nice bovish bob vou have." 

"Not bad." Liz's face brightened. "Tony, the Wop, 
carved it. Gosh, you should have seen me old man's face 
when I came home lookin' like The Face On The Bar Room 
Floor." 

Eloise, relieved at striking a sympathetic chord, con- 
tinued, "Did he really object?" 

"Object? He raised hell. Pop never opens his yip 
either. It's usually me step-mother that horns in. When 
she started in on me, I was ready to croak — she didn't lay 
off for two hours. You'd thought I belonged to her." 

"Does your step-mother distress you?" 



The Smith College Monthly 49 

Liz realized she had the attention of an unsuspecting 

car. "Distress me? She's a bird. She don't let up on Pop 
either. Take it from me, kid, if the old lady didn't cook three 
swell meals a day, me and Pop would walk out for good." 

"Are yon unhappy, dear?" sympathized Eloise. 

"Unhappy? Yon said it. Life is a grand old funeral 
for yours truly." 

Eloise dreamed that night of being Liz's "Good Sa- 
maritan." She could not wait till she could rescue her newly 
acquired protegee. She would start in with Liz, and thus 
make a debut into her world-reforming campaign. 

When Eloise returned to the city, she spent a week 
travelling from one society for the care of girls to another. 
While she thought of the unfortunate factory girl whose 
home life was made impossible by a cruel step-mother, Liz 
was telling Tony, the Wop, about the "sucker she landed." 

"You should see her, Tony — I've got her sobbin' about 
me. She takes me to great dumps for lunch where all the 
swells go, and out to her own swell shanty for dinner. I 
wish you could see the cork-screw what hands around the 
hash in her house. I'd like to stick a pin in his rear to see if 
he'd bat a lash. — No, I haven't fallen for his brass buttons; 
his crown is a billiard ball anyhow. Pa told me to wear this 
old rag and nothin' else but. He thinks I may kid her into 
supplyin' a wardrobe." 

Eloise had decided that a foster home was the best solu- 
tion to Liz's problem; so she proceeded to call on the 
president of The Girls' Rescue League. "Oh, Mrs. Good- 
rich, we must arrange to place Liz in cheerful surround- 
ings. Really, I hate to think of what may happen to 
her. Young girls can't be too careful these days; especially 
one as attractive as she is. She has such beautiful blue eyes 
and lovely golden hair; her nose is perfect and her mouth is 
just like a rosebud. — Wouldn't it be dreadful if an exquisite 
Madonna like that should er-well-er-you know what I mean. 
Mother was telling me some very revolting things last night, 
and I am greatly concerned about the poor child. — You are 
just a dear. — Please do your best to have her adopted. She 
is too delicate and lovely to be in a grimy factory." 

After Eloise left the office, Mrs. Goodrich, believing Liz 



50 The Smith College Monthly 

to be an excellent specimen for social work, decided she 
would do her best to interfere. 

The next day Liz continued her plaint to Eloise. "Ma's 
been after me hot and heavy; I can't do a thing without her 
hollerin' her head off. If she don't quit, the river for yours 
truly," she sobbed as she peeked out of the corner of her eye. 

"I had better speak to your step-mother as I suggested 
previously," said Eloise. 

9fe 3fr- ■&■ & 3lr '& -^ *5lf 

When Mrs. McCarthy at last heard the dreaded knock, 
she crossed herself and said her prayers. She trembled her 
way to the door, went back to look in the cracked mirror, 
satisfied herself that she feigned a sufficiently sour expres- 
sion and then opened the door. "Well, what do ye want 
anyhow?" 

"Is this Mrs. McCarthy?" asked Eloise. 

"Oi be. Who be ye nosin' around here?" 

"May I step in a minute to talk about Liz?" 

"Oi suppose oi'll have to lit ye in. What be on ver 
mind?" 

"I just wondered if you appreciate what a splendid girl 
Liz is," pleaded Eloise. 

"Thar ain't no good in her. The loiks of her not bavin' 
apprayciated ! It's a croime the way she cums in at two in 
the marnin'." 

"I am afraid you are exaggerating," Eloise remon- 
strated. "Besides, if you gave her the love and affection she 
craves, she would stay home once in a while." 

"What business is it of j^ourn?" 

"Well, you see, Mrs. McCarthy," Eloise tried gentler 
tactics now, "Liz and I have gotten to be very good friends 
and have had a chance to talk things over a bit. She tells me 
that factory work is too hard for her and gives her no joy in 
life at all. So I have spoken to Mrs. Gordon of The Girls' 
Rescue League Avho is going to arrange to have her placed 
in a home where she will have tender care." 

That night, after Liz came home, Mrs. McCarthy an- 
nounced, "Hoigh Hat was here this after." 

"I know it," said Liz. 

"At supper she told me you had it hot and heavy. Hon- 
est, I nearly popped tryin' to keep in the laughs. Yuh 



The Smith College Monthly 51 

handed her sonic hot stuff, old lady. Yer not such a hone- 
head after all." 

"Did she tell ye about the adoption?" continued Mrs. 
McCarthy. 

"The what!" Liz gasped. 

"She's fixin' it up that some hlue nose will take ye." 

"Hey, are youse kiddin' me?" 

"No, as shore as yer livin' she's got a society after ye. 

"My gawd, Ma, what'll I do? Feeds like ye get in her 
dump ain't so bad. What does Pa say?" 

"Shore and by gorry, a hell of a lot yer pa's said. Oi 
haven't been able to git him up all day. Boot-legger booze 
ain't so good for a man his age. If he's gut to be drunk, 
Oi'd rather have him hollerin'." 

"Well, I ain't goin' to worry, that's all. I can shut her 
up by handin' her a long yarn of how Pa is nuts about me 
and how I can't leave him. She's an awful mutt. Gosh, 
college must be chuck full of boneheads. Thank the Lord 
the kids in the factory ain't "To Let" in the upper story!" 

The red-tape of all societies takes weeks to unwind, but 
at last the time arrived when Eloise was to meet Liz's foster- 
mother, Mrs. Walker. Mrs. Gordon had shown excellent 
judgment in selecting a sweet motherly person who had no 
children of her own and was eager to adopt an unfortunate 
waif. 

Eloise unfolded Liz's unhappy tale at luncheon, and all 
three almost wept to think that anyone so sweet and simple 
should be subjected to such indignities. That evening they 
started towards Liz's home. By chance, they passed a 
church in the Italian section of the city. 

"Oh, a wedding!" exclaimed Eloise. "Let's wait, they 
are just coming out." When she saw the happy pair, how- 
ever, her smile changed to an expression of wonder, for Liz 
was the better half of the couple that got into a rattle-trap 
Ford; and as the car rode off, Eloise read the big sign on 
back — 

SHAVE AND A HAIRCUT 

BOYISH BOBS A SPECIALTY 

ASK TONY, HE KNOWS, 



52 The Smith College Monthly 



LIMPY 

Ernestine M. Gilbreth 



fr* E were always impressed by Limpy ; she was so diff er- 
vt^ ent from other hens. It may have been the trusting 
§§§§| way that she cocked her head, or the fact that she 
imped painfully, that made us feel that she was not a mere 
hen, but something higher and finer. 

She Avon our hearts from the beginning, by permitting 
us to stroke her soft, speckled feathers, and by pecking the 
grain slowly and precisely from our hands. Her manners 
and appearance weren't those of most hens. 'Fake' who 
spent her life in the nest, in the company of the one and only 
china egg, was individual because she never laid at all. 
Limpy, on the other hand, laid an egg daily, with an air of 
modest pride in her accomplishment. 'Compact' who was 
calm and unruffled, strode about complacently, happy in at- 
tending to her own business. Limpy, in spite of her deform- 
ity, was one of the gang, limping slowly into the midst of 
the excitement whenever food was brought, — pecking hap- 
pily, heedless of the jostling of the other hens, until she gave 
up and limped away again. 

Limpy, or Olympia, as we sometimes called her, was 
a model of unselfishness and good behavior. As we watched 
her leaving the food to the fighting hens, going away to 
scratch by herself in a corner, we felt a warm affection for 
her. We saved all kinds of delicacies, and watched her eat 
them with the delight of a child. Whenever we decided to 
pick her up, she always remained still and quiet, her eyes 
alone taking on a look of discomfort. How different from 
the other hens who screamed and flapped their wings wildly, 
and finally scuttled away with angry clucks to a distant part 
of the hen-yard. How we loved to feel Limpy's brittle, yellow 
claws on our hands, and to wind our fingers in and out of 
her feathers. 

Xone of us will ever forget Limpy. We remember that 



The Smith College Monthly 53 

she survived all the other hens, but finally met her death at 
the hands of the hired man. We recall the time that she was 
brought in for Sunday dinner, brown and crisp, trimmed 
with bits of parsley. It was like a bad dream— hut we try 

to forget it. Instead, we always picture her scratching in 
the hen-yard, cocking her head as the door swings open — 
apart from the other hens who rush and tumble at our feet. 
Yes, Limpy is waiting, and unconsciously we save the best 
for her. Now we must pat and stroke her feathers. How 
different she is from other hens! 



ENTR'ACTE 

Ei.oise Barraxgox 



Ring down Sleep's curtain for a little time 

Upon the melodrama of a day ; 

Let velvet folds of slumber, soft, sublime, 

Obscure the vast proscenium of our play. 

Then through the night, we snatch a moment's pause, 

And hasten to retouch our thin disguise ; 

With heart-beats catching echoes of applause, 

Renew the smeared mascara of our eyes. 

We scan, at length, the next brief bit — our share 

In that great script that holds us each a pawn; 

Rehearse our lines of humor or despair, 

And learn our cues, e'er all the time is gone. 

The orchestra is stilled ; Dawn's footlights flare ; 

The curtain rises and the play goes on. 



The Smith College Monthly 



ACH, ICH KAN NICHT ENGLISH SPRECHEN 

( With humble apologies to Katherine Mansfield in 
"Je ne parte pas franpais") 

Ruth E. Landaueb 



aT was in one of those tea-dancing restaurants for which 
Paris, or is it New York, or perhaps both, is famous, 
that I happened to find that calling-card. Now I've 
found innumerable calling-cards in innumerable restaurants 
in my day; but this one, it was so unusual with its black, 
black letters neatly printed side by side. Had it not had the 
words "Ach, ich kan nicht English sprechen" scrawled 
across its length in an extremely illegible, and so a woman's 
hand writing, I doubt whether I should ever have bothered 
to examine it a second time. But the moment my eye 
caught sight of those words, my mind was flooded with mem- 
ories; memories of days when I little realized that I should 
be the great writer I am today, but, of course, unappreciat- 
ed. The poignant pity of it that men of my ability — self- 
educated, but more power to us — are not given more time 
and thought. We could be, and should be exalted from the 
roof tops as the Hope of America's future, and yet we would 
always remain for our literature not ourselves, the ambitious 
men we are today. And what is more, egoism would never 
affect us. We couldn't let it, because conceit is prosaic and 
being prosaic is fatal to art. Nor would we become self-cent- 
ered because — but this story does not concern my fellow 
authors' lines, or even mine. I am purely incidental, a tool 
of Fate, used to complete, or rather help to bring to a climax, 
a tragic story, and then cast aside. 

Yes, it was inside the menu that I discovered it. 
No words from my Everready pen can possibly transmit to 
you the thrill I felt at coming upon that card, as well as can 
the very accurate and not altogether inartistic diagram 
that I made of it. In fact, I once seriously considered going 
in for sketching and painting. I find, whenever the oppor- 



The Smith College Monthly 55 

tunity arises to exhibit it, that I have do uncommon talent 
in that direction. 

But how unimportant this is, how unimportant I am, 
except in connection with that card. I realized when I saw 
the name, Frau Louisa Miiller, I realized then that I must 
be a real man, because none but a man could, in the first 
place, up to our most recent biological studies, experience 
the emotions that stirred and raged within me at that mo- 
ment. So I was a man, after all! And to think that if I 
hadn't dressed in my room whose rent wasn't paid, just 
when I did, hadn't slipped past the landlady who was way- 
laying me, by my sheer cleverness, hadn't walked until my 
unpaid-for shoes were causing me excruciating pain, and 
then hadn't hailed — a bus, at the precise moment that I did; 
hadn't alighted and walked into the very restaurant I did, 
surveying my unpaid-for cane, hadn't sat down at the table 
whose charges I would soon pay cover with the money I had 
recently picked off of the lady who sat next to me on the 
bus; if, I repeat. Fate hadn't arranged all these seemingly 
unimportant details, I should never perhaps have discovered 
that I was a man, capable of the indescribable surges of pas- 
sion that overran me at that moment when I found the card, 
than which no other calling-card before or since has so influ- 
enced my life. But more, it brought back a story that I did 
so want to tell you about here, but whose intricacy and 
length hinder me from attempting to relate it here. Let it 
suffice to say that Frau Miiller could not speak English. 
Odd, that most foreigners are educated, and education nec- 
essarily includes a reading and writing knowledge of four 
or five languages. Now I personally am quite a linguist. 
In fact, I even seriously considered making a study of all 
the different languages. But la vie, tou jours la vie. I had 
to live and besides, I found the Portuguese dictionaries 
wholly unreliable and inaccurate. And inaccuracy is one 
thing that we artists cannot abide. It is far too unreliable — 
and then too, much too inaccurate, but above all, et, fa va 
de sois, too fatal to art. 



56 The Smith College Monthly 




EDITORIALS 



WANTED— A POIXT OF VIEW 




IT is strange in a way, and in a way it is natural that, at 
a time when so much attention is given to "the younger 
| generation" by its elders, attention by no means flatter- 
ing, we who are this notorious set of blind fools and pleasure 
seekers, as they say, do not rise to our own defense, or at 
least suggest a cure of our own for the ills that beset us. 
When it has been tried, as by E. C. Aswell, Harvard '26, in 
an essay that won the Bowdoin Prize, it has been excellently 
done. It is unfortunate that it is not done more often, be- 
cause we, as a generation, have evolved that sort of tempera- 
ment that responds actively to decisions from within, but 
almost not at all to superimposed ones, and it is in that very 
element of our nature that both our weaknesses and our po- 
tentialities lie. 

Perhaps one reason for our seeming stagnation is that 
we do not know what is wrong with us, or knowing, find our- 
selves incapable of doing anything about it, and so we think 
a great deal to no purpose and do nothing. Nevertheless I 
cannot believe that we are as self-satisfied and as scornful 
of help as our assailants think us to be. We most of us have 
"the longing that comes with the absence of strife," and 
therein lies our first difficulty. To most of us to whom the 
usual criticisms apply, life has been too good. The idealism 
of our parents has resulted in our receiving our education on 
the much vaunted silver platter, and that platter has turned 
to quick-silver in our hands, as elusive and as deceptive. 
There is no need for us to struggle for what is given us so 
freely, and our will suffers from lack of use. Our teachers 
are as open-minded and progressive as youth itself, and so, 
finding no "stodgy-schoolmen" to fight, we turn our pugna- 



The Smith College Monthly 57 

cious instincts to less worthy ends, productive of evil instead 
of good. It is the old, old paradox of the kinship of decad- 
ence and prosperity. 

The case would not be as hopeless as, on the face of it. it 

seems, however, if we had not lost our standards and our 
goal. Retrieving them as quickly as possible would seem to 
he the only solution of the problem, and for that we need 
sympathetic and intelligent help. It is too much to expect 
that we should relinquish the advantages accruing to our 
prosperity, in order to strengthen our will by struggle. Al- 
though that drastic measure would produce the necessity of 
contention for immediate ends, and ideals too far off to need 
that close scrutiny that has proved our downfall, it would be 
as undesirable as it is purely hypothetical. The very idea 
kills all thought and hope of progress. But perhaps it is 
not too much to hope that we may, with the help of our 
elders, regain a notion of what that progress is to be. 

At present the pendulum has swung too far in the di- 
rection of free-thinking, not as a principle, for it could never 
go too far in its basic idea, but in application to the very 
rudiments of thought and philosophy. In other words, we 
have been given our freedom indiscriminately, and we have 
fallen into a slough of negation that is worse than simple 
slavery of thought, because it is harder to get out of. Our 
teachers are too much inclined to give us the mere facts and 
assume that we shall be able to work out our own conclusions 
unaided. Too many of them are kindly afraid of exerting 
undue pressure to make us believe as they do. This fear is, 
I think, quite unwarranted. If we have minds of our own 
we shall not agree with an opinion merely because it is given 
us. Discussion is stimulating and helps one to know and 
define one's own opinion, thus being more provocative of 
free-thinking than the mere uncritical statement of problems. 
This second attitude is, indeed, more likely to lead to false 
thinking, or in many cases, to no thinking at all. We rebel, 
and quite rightly, when to the statement of a credo is added, 
"Now you must believe as I do", but we rebel with as much 
justice to the attitude that we are not strong enough to hear 
the credos of those whose judgments we respect even in with- 
holding concurrence. It is highly demoralizing to receive 
mental food in the form of two opposites of which the feeder 



58 The Smith College Monthly 

says, "There may be as much reason on this side as on that, 
and I cannot help you to decide which is right." That sort 
of thing leaves us in a wavering fog. Sometimes perhaps 
we can work out the solution and make up our own minds, 
but more often we lack the experience of the world to find 
examples for argument and proof, and we give up in despair. 
The result is that we have no standards of right and 
wrong. We are even fairly well convinced that there are no 
such standards ultimately, and that past ones are mere arti- 
ficial inventions for immediate social convenience. In our 
search for truth we are led into the still pools of indecision. 
We have no point of view from which to act, so of course we 
drift to the nearest shore, and sometimes we find ourselves 
dubbed moral and more often immoral by an older genera- 
tion who, whether right or wrong, have had standards to 
guide them. Perhaps they have lost theirs now, or allowed 
them to harden and become meaningless in the pressure of 
life, and then our case must be hopeless, defeated before it 
has ever been pled. But if they still know for what they 
have been fighting, may they take courage to give us convic- 
tion too ! It cannot be by hurling epithets of sloth and low- 
hedonism at our heads. Neither can it be by talking to us 
in pure abstraction. It must be by frankly snowing us their 
standards, their beliefs, and their ideals, and then being will- 
ing to let us argue with them until we have straightened our- 
selves out, either to go their way or, far better, a new way 
of our own that has our purpose behind it. We may dis- 
agree with them, but to disagree, one has to have conviction 
within one's self, and to have conviction is to have a definite 
point of view from which to approach life. 



BUSINESS AFTER PLEASURE 



To all whom it may concern : — know that we, the editors, 
having been spoiled by receiving the majority of contribu- 
tions typewritten, like being thus spoiled and wish it con- 
tinued into world everlasting, amen. In fact it is only with 
difficulty that we can now be induced to read illegibly writ- 



The Smith College Monthly 59 

ten manuscripts. We do it of course, because of a remnant 
of conscience that we have, but we can hardly be expected to 

do justice to sentences in which only two out of five words 
can be read. We heartily sympathize with all our suffering- 
professors, and hope to do better by ourselves and the ocu- 
list. Therefore, if you wish to have all the possibilities of 
your work realized, either beg, borrow or steal a typewriter, 
or, failing that, at least cultivate a business-school hand- 
writing. 



i 




THE SOFA CORNER 

EPIC OF OUR EDITORS LUNACY 



One evening in all innocence 
A maiden ventured out, — 
Trusting that no accidents 
Would intercept her route — 
From domicile on way to Library. 

And having still a little time 

She walked through Paradise; 

She heard a voice that murmured rhyme, 

She walked right on for she was nice, 

And shut her ears with conscience zealously. 

But as she walked it seemed she saw 

Some figures through the trees. 

She looked away, she saw some more: 

Alas from all of these 

The murmur rose into a chorus — "Shoon!" 

She stopped. She thought. She knew. In vain 

She ran. Her hair she tore. 

The portents were quite plain. 

Too well she grasped, poor Editor, 

More poems from Smith College to the Moon. 

S. W. T. 

Constructive Suggestions: 

1. That moon-struck-maiden-poets be put to the test 
of reading a score of undergraduate poems to the silver orb, 
— in order that they may be fickle and develop a more fitting 
passion for the virile son of day. 

2. That Astronomy 11 be made obligatory for all po- 
etical minded Freshmen. 

3. And finally, but only as a last resort, — that some- 
one climb a rope of stars and paint the moon an unmistak- 
able red. 



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The Smith College Monthly 




BOOK REVIEWS 




MY MORTAL ENEMY 

Willa Cathfr Alfred A. Knopf, 1926 



"My Mortal Enemy" is the acme of Willa Cather's art. 
It is a highly specialized form of the novel, interested far 
more in character than in incident and, indeed, only dealing 
with incident in order to clarify and sharpen the portrait. 
It has unity above all things, the kind of unity that intensi- 
fies the single impression created. The book is so compressed 
that it would be hard to classify it, whether as novel or as 
short story. Perhaps it is but a proof of the theory that the 
future of the novel is the short story. However, the usual 
short story has as much digression, as much extraneous mat- 
ter as the usual novel. "My Mortal Enemy/' on the other 
hand, is the very essence of its situation, nothing more, noth- 
ing less. It has as much narration of fact, as much descrip- 
tion of scene and person, as much suggestion of emotion as 
we need in order to know Myra Henshawe. It is all done 
with the utmost economy and yet Without any parsimony, 
and when we have read the book, we do know Mrs. Hen- 
shawe, or at least we have reacted to her precisely as we 
should have, had we met her face to face. Those hundred 
odd pages have had all the sharpness of an etching combined 
with the richness and depth of a Rembrandt oil. 

If the book has a weakness, it seems to me to lie in the 
title, not as a title but in the over-emphasis it gives to the 
end of the situation. But I am not even sure of this, for 
when put with all its subtlety, into the mouth of the woman 
who was one of those "violent natures" that "sometimes turn 
against themselves — "against themselves and all their idolat- 
ries," — in this case the man for whose love in youth she had 



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The Smith College Monthly 05 

relinquished everything else, it serves to emphasize the essen- 
tial loneliness of her passionately individualistic nature. 

"My Mortal Enemy" is one of the hooks one should rend 
for more than one reason. It is as interesting and absorbing 
as one would expect the essentials of an essentially interest- 
ing life, refined down to an intense evening, to be. It creates 
of old passions and characteristics that rarest of rare things 
in fiction, an entirely new character. And finally, it is im- 
portant as being, in an age of literary experiment, a tri- 
umph of the new ideals in a form sufficiently like the old 
to give promise of permanency. 

E. H. 



"LABELS" 

A. Hamilton Gibbs. Little Brown and Company, 1926 



As has been mildly hinted in this issue there would be 
little poetry if there were no moon. So we begin to have 
grave doubts as to whether there would have been any nov- 
elists for this decade if there had been no war. "Labels" is 
concerned with the painful process of readjustment after the 
war in England, and — very slightly — in America. Dick 
Wickens and his sister, Madge, come back from the Front, 
heartily sick of the mess, looking for the peace of home. 
They find their parents not at all what they expected, but 
strange people, smug with an irritating unconsciousness of 
what war is like. Madge comes to breakfast in pajamas 
and kimono with a cigarette and most disconcerting banter 
not devoid of derision. Sir Thomas Wickens E. B. E., does 
not approve. Dick, with a D. S. O. asks his father's help in 
getting Tom Wickens, Jr., out of a pacifist prison-camp. 
Sir Thomas refuses with much pretence of horrified patriot- 
ism, though prompted at bottom onlv from the fear of losing 
his K. B. E. 

The author has chosen an interesting situation in the 
counter-play of a family embracing a mock-patriot, a flap- 
per, a soldier and a pacifist. There follows an understand- 
ing on the part of the disillusioned soldier of the pacifist's 



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The Smith College Monthly 

attitude toward the criminal futility of war. Dick and 
Madge, when Tom is turned away from home, go angrily 

to America. There they marry Americans, and regain an 
affection for the old people 1 in England. Tom alone does 
not compromise; he sticks to England and his ideas — the 
author doesn't exert himself to explain what those ideas are, 
makes very little, in fact, of his most interesting character. 
Sir Thomas, when Tom shows promise of becoming a famous 
playwrite is very glad to recognize his son. 

Hamilton Gihbs seems cursed with a taste for good 
themes and an inability to work them out. His characters 
are types, not individuals; the drawing is extremely super- 
ficial, lacking in any subtlety that would make his people 
live. Moreover, Gibbs affects a popular style, slang, more 
or less profanity and cheapening melodramatic emotion. The 
book should be rather a rough draught than a finished prod- 
uct. It will not last. 

S. W. T. 



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■ ■■i—d 




BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 




Vol. XXXV December, 1926 No. 3 

EDITORIAL BOARD 

Elizabeth Hamburger 1927 
Alice L. Phelps 1927 Sarah Wingate Taylor 1928 

Ruth L. Thompson 1927 Elizabeth Wilder 1928 

Jenny Nathan 1927 Catherine Johnson 1928 

Art — Josephine Stein 1927 
Priscilla Paine 1928 

BUSINESS STAFF 

Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi 1927 

Doris Pinkham 1927 Gladys Lampert 1928 

Pearl Morris 1928 Ruth Rose 1929 

Virginia Hart 1927 Julia Kellogg 1928 



The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Mass., each month from 

October to June, inclusive. Terms $1.75 a year. Single copies 25c. 

Subscriptions may be sent to Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi, Northrop House. 

Advertising Manager, Julia Kellogg, Chapin House. 

Contributions may be left in the Monthly box in the Note Room. 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Mass., as second class matter. 

Metcalf Printing $ Publishing Company, Northampton, Mass. 

"Accepted for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, 

Act of October 3, 1917. Authorized October 31, 1918," 



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CONTENTS 




A Dramatic Interlude 


Catherine Johnson 1928 


7 


Vanity Appeased 


Roberta Seaver 1928 


11 


A Plan for a University 


Granville Hicks 


12 


Christmas 


Elizabeth Wilder 1928 


17 


Moods 


Margaret V. Smith 1929 


20 


The First of May 


Stella Eskin 1930 


21 


Eight 


Stella Eskin 1930 


23 


Et Tu— ? 


Patty Wood 1930 


25 


Senior Year in America 


Marjorie Dow 1927 


26 


Ancestor Hunting 


Lillian M. Martin 1927 


28 


To D. V. 


Lucia Jordan 1927 


32 


Little Tom Thumb 


Ernestine Gilbreth 1929 


33 


In Nothing Too Much 


Isobel Strong 1927 


35 


Americans Prefer Peanuts 


Alene Smith 1927 


39 


The Other Sound 


Ernestine Gilbreth 1929 


42 


A Study in Black and White 


Catherine Johnson 1928 


43 


The Jungfrau 


Katherine S. Bolman 1929 


46 


Editorial : Of the Many Who Are Called 


47 


The Sofa Corner 




50 


Book Reviews 




53 



All manuscript should be typewritten and in the Monthly Box by the fifteenth 

of the month to be considered for the issue of the following month. 

All manuscript should be signed with the full name of the writer. 

Manuscript may be disposed of unless marked "Return". 



STUDENTS OF 



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A most satisfying place for lunch or 
afternoon tea, where people of refine- 
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real home flavor. 



! CHARLES HALL, Inc. 

411 Main Street 

The Hall Building 

Springfield Massachusetts 



For the convenience of our 
Smith College Patronage we 
have opened a new shop at 

12 GREEN STREET 
NORTHAMPTON, MASS. 

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Smith College 
Monthly 



A DRAMATIC INTERLUDE 

Catherine Johnson 




Scene: London in 1613. 

Time: Afternoon of St. Peter's Day in June. 

Place: Outside the Globe Theater. 



Enter- Peter and Patch, two door attendants. 

Patch: As hot a day as ever I saw. What say you 
Peter? 

Peter: Hot, Patch, hot, true enough. The sun 
scorches and blisters my skin and here by the door there's 
not so much as a rag of shade. I vow our bones will ache 
from standing before this afternoon is over. 

Patch : Yet when we take the price of every seat, here 
in this pouch the feel of the chinks is most pleasant. Ah, 
how the shillings rattle! How they tickle the fingers! 

Peter: And sometimes if we peep through a crack 
we may watch a bit of the acting as it goes on. Lord, how 
hot it is. How I sweat! 

Patch : They say the King comes here today. 

Peter: 'Tis likely indeed, with such a sun! 

Patch: And yet the play should bring him. 'Tis 
"Henry VIII" by one of no small repute — Master Will 
Shakespeare. 

Peter: The King has no time for the like. Hold out 
your pouch, Patch. Here come people. 

(Enter several men.) 

First Man: God gi' god-den, fellow. What is the 
price today? 



8 



The Smith College Monthly 



Patch: One shilling, sir. The King comes here this 
afternoon. 

Second Man: Too high, too high. And yet the King 
is worth a shilling — what say you, friends? Would it were 
less warm. Come, let's be in. (Exeunt.) 

(Enter more people.) 

Peter: Look, you, Patch, that man by his air and 
bearing might be that writer Ben Jonson . . . God gi' god- 
den, sir! 

Jonson: God-den, good fellow. Has the play yet 
begun ? 

Peter: Not yet, sir, not yet. The house has still a 
few seats left. 

Jonson: Besides the pit, I hope, (pays and starts to 



The King comes here today, your worship. 
And yet, sir, it may be that the heat will keep 



enter). 

Patch : 

Peter: 
him home. 

Jonson: An' he stay home he is a wiser man than I. 
And yet he will miss an excellent play. (Enters door.) 

(More people crowd in. Presently a trumpeter comes 
oat.) 

Trumpeter: (blows — then shouts.) The play be- 
gins! The play begins! A famous and original history of 
the life of King Henry the eighth. Good people, the play 
begins ! 

(People crowd through door. Exit all but Peter and 
Patch.) 

Peter: Alack, the King is not coming. 

Patch: I stand on tiptoe and I stretch my neck. I 
jump into the air, but I cannot see the King coming! 

Peter: Forget the King or we will miss the play. 

(They peek through a crack in the door.) 

See, the prologue comes. Hush, Patch, I cannot hear 
his speech. 

Patch: (listens.) Marry, it is mournful enough. He 
weeps because the King comes not. 

Peter: King, King! Still whining for the King! 

Patch: Methinks a whine is better than a tear, (list- 
ens and nods.) Aye, they'll see away their shilling richly — 
how pleasant is the feel! (fondles money.) 



The Smith College Monthly 9 

Peter: The play begins! What noble personages 
have we here! What strutting peacocks! Never saw I such 
goodly gear. Watch, Patch, and you may yet see a king. 

Patch: I see a lord an' a duke and what might be 
soldiers. But I do not see a king. 

Peter: Can you stretch your neck once again, Patch? 
You are on my toe. 

Patch: Look, you, now enters a king — and now a 
queen. How they talk! How they strut! It strains my 
heated head to see such plumage. 

Peter: They have reached the fourth scene. 

Patch: The King! The King! The King comes! 
Peter, the King! 

Peter: Loon! The heat has truly touched your brain. 
Where is the King? 

Patch: Look! Look yonder! I see men and horses. 
It is the King. 

Peter: Aye, it is the King. Cease your senseless leap- 
ing and look to the cannon. We must fire a royal salute. 

(They run to the cannon. There is a loud blast of wel- 
come.) 

Fling wide the doors. Long live the King! — bow down, 
witless wretch! (Enter King and his train.) 

Both: Long live his Majesty, the King of England. 

King: I thank you, good subjects, (enters.) 

(Patch and Peter again peep.) 

Patch: Pie sits down. See how the people bow! Ah, 
he is a King indeed ! 

Peter: The play continues. What have we here? 
Why a dance in truth. Lord, how r the king can tread a mea- 
sure. And with a lovely lady, too, though it's not the queen. 

Patch: The King does not dance, fool. He watches 
the play. 

Peter: I speak of the king on the stage. How now, 
Patch. I smell smoke! 

Patch: The King is pleased. He laughs. No, I 
think he smiles. 

Peter: It is smoke! Look, Patch, look on the roof! 
What see you? 

Patch: I see a thin wisp of flame curling on the 



10 The Smith College Monthly 

thatch. And now it grows and leaps ! Hark, how it crackles ! 
Murder! Murder! We will all perish. 

Peter: Belike it was a bit of burning wadding from 
the cannon. Go Patch, warn the people while I run for 
water. 

(Exit Peter. Patch runs to door. Flames leap.) 

Patch : Fire ! Fire ! The roof has caught a-fire ! Run ! 
run for your lives ! (Panic within. People pour forth from 
doors scrambling and fighting.) 

Fire! Fire! Oh alack, alack! We will burn, scorch, 
perish. The walls will fall. Help, help! Bring water. Oh, 
the King, the King! (His Majesty is hustled out with the 
rest, much dishevelled. Enter Peter with water.) 

Peter: Help me there, help! — this water is nothing. 
It boils e'er it quenches. Lord, how fiercely it burns! 

(People fight desperately in entrance.) 

Poor souls! They will roast alive. Is the King safe? 

King: Men! Bring axes! Break open these walls. 
Ho, I say, bring axes ! (He is unheard in the confusion.) 

Patch: (to a man.) Stop there! You cannot go 
back! Are you mad? 

Man: I left my cloak, my embroidered cloak! 

Patch: Value you your cloak more than your life? 
(holds him.) 

Peter: All are out. All are out. Now, let it burn. 
What a sight it is! (last people stagger out almost overcome 
by heat. Actors in their costumes among the crowd.) 

Patch: Here, sir, Why leap you so? What antic 
gestures are these at such a time? Stop, I say! 

A Man: An't please you, sir, my breeches have took 
fire. Help, help! I burn! 

Patch: (pulls bottle from pocket.) Stand, sir, I will 
put you out. (Empties contents on smoking trouser's seat.) 
Alas, a goodly draught of ale for such a purpose. 

(Exit King and attendants.) 

Peter: The fire is nearly out, the King gone and the 
people dispersing. Why look you so sad, Patch? Have you 
lost the money pouch? 

Patch: Nay, nay. 'Tis here. 

Peter: Then, whv so downcast? The Globe is not 



The Smith College Monthly 1 1 

our loss hut rather thai of Master Will and his troupe of 
actors. 'Tuns a fine fire and no one hurt. 

Patch: Alas, alas, I mourn the hot tic. 

Peter: What, man! Not the hot tic of ale. 

Patch: Aye. 

Peter: But rise up! rise up! Go get you another! 

Patch: 'Twould be of no use. I had fetched it to 
drink the King's health. 

Peter: (laughing.) Hy your foresight and your wis- 
dom and your timely cry of 'fire', you have done more. You 
have saved the King's life! 

Patch: Why, true, true. I had not thought of that. 
Why I am a hero in truth! What a man am I! Come, Peter 
come. Let us take the pouch and buy us ale. 

Finis 



VANITY APPEASED 

Roberta Seaver 



Pretty magnolia 
In your crisp white dress 
It's a bit hard on you 
I confess. 

There you stand just too far 
From the mirror pool, 
Cannot see your loveliness 
Cannot prink at all! 
I'll tell the fairies 
Something must be done. 
This very night 
Between twelve and one, 
When the sun's not looking, 
And the earth's asleep, 
They must move the pool a bit 
So you can peep ! 



12 The Smith College Monthly 



A PLAN FOR A UNIVERSITY 

Granville Hicks 



HHOCATIOX is everything. That much is clear. If the 
Onion King persists in his plan to establish a great 
818811 modern university for women, he must first discover 
a spot with the proper geographical qualifications. I sug- 
gest a city of about twenty thousand inhabitants, small 
enough so that the university will dominate it, but large 
enough to permit the establishment of fashionable and well- 
equipped shops. I also suggest — and this, I think, is of even 
greater importance — that the Onion King select a city locat- 
ed approximately one hundred miles from two or three of the 
best men's colleges: not much more than a hundred, for 
travelling expenses are an item; nor yet much less, for, as the 
old adage has well expressed it, "Distance lends enchant- 
ment." A minor college for men within a dozen miles is al- 
most equally necessary, and a handful of preparatory schools 
is no disadvantage. These things are absolutely essential, 
and if the Onion King can find an existing college for women 
blessed with such qualifications, he should buy it outright and 
transform it into the kind of institution which he, in his earn- 
est zeal to serve the American people, has envisaged. 

Aside from the question of location, to which, I fear, he 
has not given enough thought, the Onion King's plans could 
not conceivably be improved. His knowledge of human na- 
ture, that trait which is responsible for the tremendous for- 
tune he has made in de-odorized onions, has brought to him 
a complete understanding of the needs of modern educa- 
tion. He realizes that the majority of girls come to college 
because it is the thing to do and the only thing to be done. 
College permits them to spend four very pleasant years amid 
very pleasant surroundings. It gives them a place to recu- 
perate between week-ends, and it makes for bigger and bet- 
ter week-ends by establishing contacts with a goodly number 
of men. College, moreover, is the place to make friends, and, 



The Smith College Monthly 18 

to paraphrase a well-known American author, as the Onion 
King is fond of doing, "Education is all very well, but 
friends-made-in-college last forever." 

The Onion King, though himself a bachelor, also ap 
preciates the advantages of a college career as seen by pa- 
rents. Four years at college is the quickest and perhaps the 
cheapest way to precipitate a girl into what is vulgarly 
known as the social swim. And certainly it is the easiest way. 
It spares parents all responsibility. It takes daughters off 
their hands for the four difficult years antecedent to marriage, 
at the same time that it multiplies the chances that these 
daughters will meet the right young man. Of course col- 
lege may expose girls to ideas, but most fathers and mothers 
are well aware of their daughters' immunity to such conta- 
gion. 

All this the Onion King, with an intuition little less 
than miraculous, grasps, but he goes much farther. He sees 
that the women's college of today is not performing its true 
function. It is hampered by the honorable but antiquated 
theory that a college is an institution of learning. The Onion 
King, always a realist, has no patience with theories. As he 
himself so often says, you must give the public what it thinks 
it wants. The college as it now exists is wasting time and 
wasting money. It is employing hundreds of teachers in the 
attempt to cram down students' throats a commodity that 
they do not desire, the while it seeks to thwart the students 
in their decent and natural ambition for social prestige and 
a good time. The Onion King, says that the time has come 
for a drastic change, and the Onion King is a shrewd judge 
of tides in the affairs of men. 

To indicate the thoroughness with which the Onion 
King has made his plans, I must first describe the physical 
details of the university which he is prepared to endow. The 
library, a magnificent structure in the best pseudo-Gothic 
style, will dominate the campus. Nothing, my friend de- 
clares, impresses visitors like a good library. About this edi- 
fice he will group buildings, only a trifle less impressive, for 
class purposes. The chapel, which will naturally be a me- 
morial, though the person whom it is to commemorate has not 
yet been chosen, will serve to balance the library, thus com- 
pleting the college's central unit. The dormitories, arranged 



14 The Smith College Monthly 

in quadrangles, will form the eampus boundaries, achieving 
the cloister-like results so popular at Harvard. In equip- 
ping the dormitories the Onion King plans to install luxuri- 
ous dining rooms, superb fire-proof smoking rooms, and lav- 
ish suites. The student houses, he says, and he is a man of 
his word, will not be surpassed by the most exclusive hotels. 
The arrangements for a model theatre, a music building, a 
social center, are in keeping with the other plans. To the 
gymnasium and the playing fields the Onion King is devoting 
particular attention for mens sana in sano cor pore is a card- 
inal article in his creed. 

In this splendid setting two thousand carefully selected 
guests will congregate. The staff of the institution will be 
consecrated to the task of giving them what they want. 
Naturally they will have unlimited week-ends, and, so far as 
it can be done delicately, the authorities will assist new 
students, when necessary, in the contracting of dates. The 
college will provide dances, teas, bridge parties, and other 
forms of distraction for unfortunate stay-at-homes, and will 
take care that the local theatres display a constant variety 
of the better cinemas. No effort will be spared to make the 
social tone of the college all that either the students or their 
parents could desire. 

The girls are to have what they want, but liberty must 
never be permitted to degenerate into license, as the Onion 
King phrases it. Carefully formulated and impressive, 
though by no means oppressive, rules will guide the conduct 
of the college's guests. In fact a note of Puritanism is to be 
sounded. Such an attitude pleases the parents and need not 
handicap the girls, most of whom, according to the Onion 
King, are wholesome children and perfectly respectable. 

A less astute observer, seeking to meet the demands of 
the day, might omit classes altogether, but not so the Onion 
King. Classes, as everyone knows, really make a college. 
They are, after all, the chief reason for going to college, or, 
at least, the reason one prefers to mention. An education 
is a very valuable thing in a way, and there is no sense in 
being cynical about it. The intelligent thing to do is to 
popularize education, just as the tabloids have popularized 
journalism — but in a clean, wholesome way, of course. In 
the Onion King's twentieth century college, classes will meet 



The Smith College Monthly 15 

from ben to twelve on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, 

and Fridays. The very best lecturers, not the most learned, 

perhaps, but the best, will utilize these hours to sell the girls 
the big ideas that really eount. To show that he is not trif- 
ling with the intellectual side of life, the Onion King pro- 
poses to limit cuts strictly to four a week, for he frowns on 
the idea of unlimited cuts, regarding it as a dangerously sub- 
versive innovation. But he does not anticipate that there 
will be an undue amount of cutting, since he is determined 
to have a staff that can make good. He intends to choose 
as president a good business man w r ho knows real salesmen 
when he sees them, and he will depend on him to maintain 
the intellectual standards of the college. 

I have hinted that the equipment of the library and the 
laboratories is to be the finest ever known. The Onion King, 
who is, as his employees and competitors well know, uncon- 
scionably efficient, was long troubled at the thought that this 
magnificent equipment would be wasted, except, of course, 
as it would have a moral effect on visitors. Suddenly he lit 
upon a great idea, the finishing touch in his majestic pro- 
gram. I am honored that he has permitted me, in this article, 
to make the first revelation of his proposal. 

At a little distance from the main college he will erect 
one or two unpretentious dormitories and a simple structure 
containing a few r seminar rooms. These buildings are to 
constitute the Annex. Here will come from fifty to one 
hundred girls who actually want an education, an ambition 
which the Onion King does not pretend to understand but 
which he is willing to gratify. These students, together with 
their teachers, will form a little democratic community, 
making their own rules and governing their own lives. The 
dean will be a scholar of distinction and a man, or woman, 
of broad interests, generous sympathies, and a sincere love 
of learning. He will be 'primus inter pares, a leader but not 
a boss. As associates he will have men and women who have 
some knowledge and who w T ant more. They will assume 
that their students are also motivated by an honest interest 
in the things of the mind, and they will treat them as fellow 
seekers after truth. All the resources of the college proper 
will be at the disposal of members of the Annex. The stu- 
dents themselves will determine the amount and character 



16 



The Smith College Monthly 



of the social life. In all probability there will be no grades, 
a provision that should automatically eliminate a certain 
type of grind. The Onion King lays down no specifications 
for the administration of the Annex, for he assumes that 
when real students and real teachers meet on a common 
ground, relieved of the burden of interminable collegiate- 
ness, they can discover for themselves both the ends of edu- 
cation and the means to those ends. 

Of the Annex there is little more to say, and even if 
there were, the matter, being a mere side-issue, is hardly 
worth discussing. To the college itself I could devote many 
more pages if the editors would permit, but they have lim- 
ited me to a paltry two thousand words. I can only refer 
interested readers, and I know there will be many, to my 
forthcoming book, "A College for the Present Age," in 
which I treat in detail the Onion King's great project, the 
most important educational venture, I believe, since Sophia 
Smith sought pastoral advice. 



The Smith College Monthly 17 



CHRISTMAS 

Elizabeth Wilder 



SICK paused on the staircase, his hand on the banister. 
Yes, it was the smell of bayberry. Then Christmas 
must be coming, just as they had told him. He always 
did feel more sure when the bayberry candles were really 
lighted. He sat down on the shadowy step and sniffed 
happily. Christmas was such a good time. Everybody was 
happy. Cook laughed while she stirred up monstrous pud- 
dings and Aunt Maude went about humming a little crooked 
tune. Even the beggar-boys waved to him and shouted 
"Merry Christmas." Nick thought it might be nice to be 
a beggar-boy at Christmas time; on Christmas Eve they 
sang carols under the lighted windows, and, besides, the 
streets were so jolly and snowy and cold, and there were 
old women with red noses selling bunches of holly and hot- 
roasted-chestnuts. But if one sat very quiet in the window- 
seat after the curtains were drawn, one could hear the twink- 
ling sound of pine-needles dropping on the floor. Just this 
time of day was best, when the candles had been lighted and 
the air was warm with the scent of bayberry and fir and the 
firelight danced on the pewter platters. For only a minute 
when no one else was there, everything would be perfect, 
and he would forget to breathe because it was so pretty. 
Then probably Aunt Elsie would come in with holly in Tier 
hair, and kiss him. Aunt Elsie had softish hair, and she was 
very pretty, too; but in a different way, like a flower. — Nick 
sighed and started slowly down the stairs. All these people 
were so very nice, but he was truly happier when they weren't 
about ; he could see things then that would hide at the merest 
footstep. Especially Christmas-time was a time to be alone 
— there were so many things to think. 

At the parlor door Nick stopped to chuckle. Aunt 
Maude did look most awfully funny at the very top of that 
old step-ladder. She had a holly-wreath in one hand and a 



18 The Smith College Monthly 

ball of twine in the other, and he hoped she wouldn't step off 
but it wouldn't surprise him at all if she should. He wond- 
ered if it was Christmas that made Aunt Maude's glasses 
slip down her nose all crookedly. 

"Oh, Honey," smiled Aunt Maude, "we have such a 
surprise for you! You could never guess. You tell him, 
Elsie; goodness knows, I have my hands full." 

What was it, a new book? Maybe a pantomime was 
coming to town! Nick ran over to Aunt Elsie, he held her 
hand so that she couldn't write her letter. How pretty 
Aunt Elsie smelled, like a bunch of soft spring flowers. 

"Well, you see, dear, we did think that you are rather 
lonely, and of course Christmas is the time when everybody 
should be happy, so we've invited some of your little cousins, 
Uncle Arthur's children, to spend the holidays with you. Of 
course we don't know them, but I'm sure they're lovely and 
that you'll have a jolly time with them. We think perhaps 
they'll come this evening. Aren't you very pleased about it, 
Nick? — Why, Nick, dear, it's all right — we didn't guess that 
it would mean so much to you, or we should have had them 
before — " 

For Nick's face was hidden in the soft ruffle of Aunt 
Elsie's dress. He did hope he wasn't going to cry like a 
baby. Crying was silly. But it was very hard to be so sud- 
denly dreadfully unhappy and not cry. He knew he mustn't 
disappoint the Aunts and hurt their feelings. Oh, how could 
everything be so wrong! 

Just then the door-bell tinkled, and with a "merciful 
gracious" Aunt Maude stumbled down the step-ladder and 
hurried after Aunt Elsie into the hall. Nick stood in the 
middle of the room, alone. The candles still burned, but 
with a wistful heart-breaking flicker. Through the window 
the street showed bleak and white. The holly-wreath had 
tumbled under the table. Just in time Nick swallowed a 
sob. He knew about these jolly children, especially cousins. 
They were bigger than you, and strong; and they liked to 
drink milk, and they tore your books. Of course they wouldn't 
understand about slipping down in the dark to watch the 
candle burn out so that one could wish on the last blue flicker. 
They would always be shouting when it was most important 
to listen for the singing of the stars. He would never be 



The Smith College Monthly 19 

able to lie on his tumiiiy under the Christmas-tree and watch 
the green shadows flicker across his hook. There jusl 
wouldn't be any time to think even in bed they would be 
playing hears and jumping at him in the dark. He hated 
them! It wasn'1 fair Tor them to come and spoil his Christ- 
mas. Nick wanted to cry, to plunge his face into the comfort 
of a soft pillow and sob, but he had a terrible feeling that 
even crying wouldn't help. Everything was quite wrong and 
he would have to pretend that he liked it — Nick felt suddenly 
very small and lonely in the big room. How could the fire- 
light still dance merrily on the polished platters when he was 
so unhappy? 

" — Oh, but where is Nick? We want to see him most 
of all" — Yes, of course they did, couldn't he run and hide 
somewhere? Just then the door burst open and they rushed 
in, four bright rosy children. Nick felt them stop, embar- 
rassed, but he was looking at the floor and wrapping his 
thumb in the edge of his jersey. Quickly he turned his eyes 
up to Aunt Maude's face as she put her hand on his shoulder, 
and finally, as she introduced them, peeped cautiously at the 
terrible quartette. This was Mary, and next Joyce, and 
Tom, and Jerry. Why, they weren't bigger than he! Mary 
had pretty hair like Aunt Elsie's, but black. Jerry's eyes 
twinkled as though he might be thinking of the most excit- 
ing things. Tom was only a little fellow with blue eyes. 
And Joyce was the very person Nick had always been look- 
ing for. He Avanted to take her over behind the piano and 
whisper his secrets to her. She had two brown braids and a 
curly mouth. Nick drew a deep breath and felt, unaccount- 
ably, warm and happy, perhaps they weren't going to be 
too dreadful. He smiled shyly. 

"You see," challenged Joyce, "I said he was going to 
be the Candle-Bearer. Oh, Xick, w r e could hardly wait to 
get here, and we've just been longing and longing to see 
you. And on the train we thought up the beautifullest pan- 
tomime for Christmas Eve — " 

"All about Mary and the shepherds and the star, but 
Jerry wants Bringing Home the Yule-Log and the First 
Christmas Tree, only I think it would be out of place." 

"Well, I don't see why, it could all be historical and 
everything — " 



20 The Smith College Monthly 

"And I'm to be the Cwist-child and the boy that wides 
on the log, too." 

"Anyway, Nick, you're going to be the Most-Beautiful- 
and-Goodest-Page-of-all-the-Castle that goes before to light 
the way, holding high the candle- stick. And you have a 
holly-wreath around your neck. Like this, you see." 

The forgotten wreath was swept out from under the 
table, and dropped over Nick's head; recklessly Joyce 
dragged the heavy brass candelabrum from the table and 
thrust it into his hands. Nick felt something happening in- 
side him, something rather wonderful ; but he couldn't quite 
know what it was. Anyway, he was the Candle-Bearer; he 
marched out across the room holding the flaming candle-stick 
as high as he could, and all the rest followed gayly. The 
candles sizzled, their flames swayed, and the bright odor 
made his nose tingle. Shadows pranced before him, the 
jolly cousins skipped along behind him. The weight of the 
candelabrum made his arms ache, but he was even happier 
for that. How golden the room seemed! Why, this was a 
part of Christmas he had never known, it wasn't just looking 
at Christmas and listening to it and thinking about it, this 
was Nick being Christmas himself. The holly- wreath pricked 
his neck. Nick looked over his shoulder to see if Joyce was 
smiling, too. 



MOODS 
Margaret V. Smith 



My heart 

Has walked in dull 

Brown shoes all day . . . but now 

With you the firelight gleams on scarlet 

Slippers. 



The Smith College Monthly 21 



THE FIRST OF MAY 

Stella Eskin* 



[S71HE first of May is the day of freedom for all the work- 
|yj ers of the world. It is celebrated all through Russia. 
Egggg In Harbin, which is a Russian city in China, we decided 
to have just as big a celebration as the one in Russia. Up 
to that year, 1924, we had not been allowed to have anything 
of that kind. China had not yet recognized Russia and we 
did not know how we were going to manage it, but we would 
try. We wanted to celebrate the day by having open public 
meetings, singing workers' songs, walking around the streets 
with red flowers and ribbons on our dresses, and for such a 
celebration we made our plans. 

Girls and boys, all young communists, come after me! 
I am ready. Yesterday I was decidedly forbidden by 
my parents to go, but I am going. The girls and boys are 
all dressed simply and even poorly. Girls have on old black 
dresses and boys black trousers with red shirts. We go to 
the "House of the Workers/' There is a crowd there al- 
ready. We are eager for the meeting to begin. Our hearts 
are knocking; we are all excited; we try to be near each other 
and not to get lost in the crowd. The noise is frightful. 
Everyone is talking, everyone is trying to express his joy 
and fear for what is going to happen. 

Suddenly there is silence. You can hear the breathing 
of people, you can hear the insects flying in the air. A little 
boy about twelve years old comes to the platform. The band 
is playing "The International." We all take off our hats 
and sing. Then the boy begins to talk. He is handsome. 
His voice is strong, he has black curly hair, big brown eyes 
and red cheeks. 

"We are the workers of the world; we came here to talk 
about the day of freedom, freedom from being slaves . . ." 

*Miss Eskin was born in Vladivostok and has lived in Harbin. 



22 The Smith College Monthly 

What is it! We hear shots, we are pushed away from 
each other. Chinese soldiers come to forbid us to hold the 
meeting, they come to send us home and take the speaker, 
the twelve year old boy, to the police. But we will not go, 
and we will not let them take the boy. He is ours, he be- 
longs to the mob! 

But the soldiers do not pay any attention to our shouts. 
They push us aside and go straight to the boy. Bravely he 
stands on the platform with eyes shining and chest forward. 
He is not afraid. They come to him, and roughly take his 
hands, with the revolvers pointed at him. The boy is almost 
ready to follow the soldiers, when one of the girls in the mob 
runs up to the platform and also roughly pulls the hand of 
the soldiers. A shot! The boy, with closed eyes and open 
mouth, falls down. He did not even scream. He is dead. 



The Smith College Monthly 



EIGHT 

Steixa Eskin 

An imitation of the modern etyU inspired by Miss Eskin's first visit 
to a New York factory. 



[j5£?|HE clock strikes an order . . . Get up ! ... It is morn- 
|yj ing — morning! ... A quarter to seven! . . . Fifteen 
jjjggg minutes from my room on the fifth floor to the street. 
The clock in the butcher's shop shows 7:10. The clock at the 
Automat — 7:28. Hang with one hand, stand on one leg, 
"change" two times under the earth, "run" two blocks in the 
"express"; and after that — two steps, up three stories — the 
heart beats . . . tick . . . tock ... I am "ringing in" my hour — 
eight. To-day — eight; to-morrow — eight . . . Morning — 
twilight; twilight — noon; night — color — light — all the same. 

The window is on a shaft — unplastered bricks . . . Why? 
. . . the brick-layer lays thousands of bricks every day and 
his labor is cheaper than the land is . . . I have no twilight, 
but night . . . There is always the glare of the gas-burner in 
the morning and at night, when it is sunny and when it is 
foggy . . . That is my home . . . 

I am enriching the world. Formerly I was working in 
a doll factory, putting in the "stomachs" of the dolls, setting 
their voices. "Oh, ma-a-ma!" — the cheap kinds were crying 
out of tune, in a hoarse voice; the best — sighed faultlessly 
in the boxes, groaned in all the corners of the room: "Oh, 
mama!" 

The cheap kinds were disposed of in those houses, 
through whose windows one could see unplastered rugged 
walls, where children were unwanted extra mouths ; the best 
went to those who wanted them for their luxury and beauty 
of shape. 

But now . . . with cut, bruised hands I am caressing 
bronzes — Venuses, Jupiters, shepherds, naked girls with 
lyres . . . Venus has an electrical lamp in her stomach, Jup- 
iter — on the head, and the shepherd in his horn ... I put the 
Jupiters and Venuses into small and big "tombs", cover 



24 The Smith College Monthly 

them with pine chips, drive in the nails and send them to 
cold and Marin countries ... to China ... to France . . . What 
of it? In those houses where one cannot see unplastered 
walls, shepherds will shine with their horns . . . And I, with 
cut bruised hands will drive the nails into the "tombs", in 
one of which I am saving a bill. It came from the country 
on the other side of the ocean. "Made in Germany" — writ- 
ten on the paper which covered an electrical angel who had 
broken his wings in a long journey. Here is that bill: 

Half a pound of margarin — 3.5m. 

One bread — 23m. 

Credit in the beer shop — 20m. 

Gretchel — 50m. 

Total amount — 128m. 
It is incomprehensible to me. What does "in" mean: millions 
or milliards? At the end of the total some pensive scrawls 
. . . then three times: devil, devil, devil, and one indecent 
word. When the wings of the angel were repaired, I covered 
him in that bill again, added something to the "devil" and 
sent him to where the sun is . . . where the palm-trees grow 
. . . where the white nights are . . . where . . . 

The bell rings ! . . . Hat on head, hands in pockets, I am 
"ringing in" my hour . . . Three stories down . . . two blocks 
in the "express" . . . two changes under the earth . . . stand 
on one leg . . . hang with one hand . . . The noise is in my 
ears ... In the Automat I swallow something and hurry to 
my house, to the gas-burner . . . 



The Smith College Monthly 25 



ET TU— ? 

Patty Wood 



I am God, 
I trim the wicks of the stars 
And polish the sun's golden jars; 
With a deadly knowledge of volts 
I juggle thunderbolts 
And play with lightning flashes 
In so many dots and dashes ; 
Once, by a foolish plan, 
I created the race of Man, 
But they have forgotten me 
Marooned in eternity; 
I weary of angels' chatter ; 
Heaven's harps have ceased to matter; 
Time's dust has dimmed my glory; 
Hell is a tenth-rate story; 
I have never laughed nor cried, 
I had a son once who died — 

My head in the clouds, my foot on the devil, 
No one to meet me on my level ; 

I am God, 

O pity me! 



26 The Smith College Monthly 



SENIOR YEAR IN AMERICA 

(By a Junior who went to France) 
Marjorie Dow 



*j*|IIERE is Morrow House?" asked a gentle voice beside 
yjJ me. It was the first day of college, and I was waiting 
gJSSSl outside the Dean's office. 

"Morris, why you go . . . ." 

"No, Morrow!" she repeated more emphatically. I be- 
trayed my ignorance, and she apologized. "Oh, you're a 
Freshman too, aren't you. I'm sorry." Though embarassed 
and confused I protested. "No, I'm a Sophomore — I mean 
a Senior." And the Freshman, having looked at me once 
more as if to say "How strange!", went elsewhere to seek 
more definite authority leaving me in a Rip Van Winkle 
daze. 

Morrow house? Was this the right college? Had I 
arrived by mistake at Holyoke? At Amherst? Absurd 
thoughts flashed through my head. Oh how I wished to 
be back in Paris with my reliable little guide book in hand, 
and when lost to be able to jump into a taxi, to murmur 
glibly "43 rue d'Alesia" and to slide softly, safely home. 
But here there are no guide books. I should scorn to have 
my friends see me consulting a Freshman Bible — and taxis 
are on most occasions unnecessary, and on all occasions 
expensive. 

It was the weather which first reconciled me to my lot. 
Waking up one morning amazed to see the sun shining for 
the fourth day in succession, I got up to investigate further. 
While trying foolishly to make out which part of the sky 
was bluest, I began to reflect upon the joys of being back in 
a land where rain confines itself to Sundays, where baby 
carriages aren't provided with umbrella racks, and where it 
snows in winter. 

But after all, our sunny days are little more consoling 
than our full grown automobiles, our bigger and better heat- 



The Smith College Monthly 27 

ing systems, our sympathetic and understanding telephones. 
If we love America it must be for something more. I think 
we have come home with a self-appreciation of a new, more 
critical sort. A year of contact with foreign civilizations 
has given us basis for a clearer judgment of our own customs, 
laws, and institutions and we are less inclined blindly to 
accept the familiar as the right. 

We have had good solid experience in European meth- 
ods of working. I will not say that they are superior to our 
own methods, for that would involve the question as to wheth- 
er it is better to know everything about something or some- 
thing about everything. But we recognize fully their worth, 
and I hope we shall profit by the experience. 

A vear anions: foreigners has taught us to see ourselves, 
our country, as others see us, and w r e blush to think that 
much of their criticism is justly founded. It is rather un- 
pleasant to be considered a wealthy nation of noisy, uncul- 
tured blusterers, and in order to redeem ourselves in Euro- 
pean eyes we must show a little more consideration and a 
little less superiority. 

At the same time we distinguish and appreciate more 
readily beauty which is purely American, and value more 
our own traditions and history. European culture is like an 
old tapestry rich in color and design; America can never 
weave more than a poor imitation of that, but in time she 
may create one of her own just as beautiful in new patterns 
and colors. 

We are glad to be American. We like the crisp Xew 
England atmosphere of burning leaves and football games. 
We like the informality of college life — no hats, no gloves, 
no heels. We like southern folk songs and cowboy movies. 
We like maple sugar and ice cream sodas (though not quite 
as well as pastry and champagne). And when these things 
lose their charm, we shall go and gaze upon that small detail 
of Delacroix's Massacre de Scio in the Tryon Art Gallery 
and conjure up the whole vast Louvre; we'll seek our Sor- 
bonne friends and chatter "Est-ce que tu te rapelles . . . ?" 
over a commemorative cup of tea; or as a last resort w r e'll 
take our sorrows, postcards and diaries down to Paradise 
and dream dreams of joys forever past and gone. 



28 



The Smith College Monthly 



ANCESTOR HUNTING 

Lillian M. Martin 



HAKESPEARE speaks of that "Tide in the affairs 
of men which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." 
I wish to speak of that tide in the affairs of families 
when, after generations of progeny, someone begins to peek 
curiously into the shadowy, many-branched family tree and 
guess who grandfather's father's father was. In England 
and on the Continent these things have been established for 
centuries, but here in America we have been so busy build- 
ing up a new and powerful nation that we have only care- 
lessly dealt with our progenitors. Now, resting a bit on our 
past labors, it becomes necessary for some more leisured 
member of the family to scramble and search into the rough 
creases of the bark and along the great boughs to the tiny 
hidden shoots to find who, why, and wherefore we are. 

It was on one of these ancestor hunting expeditions that 
I went this summer. With the dull roar that comes when 
the gear is in first we left the camp with its constant "vie" 
music and laughing bathers and crawled slowly out of the 
bumpy woods road into the hot afternoon sunshine of the 
macadam highway. Shifting gear we swept along the 
smooth turnpike, rushed through a small town, and then be- 
gan a long, tortuous climb up a dirt road, gullied by recent 
rains, which led back into the hills. We were ancestor hunt- 
ing, and our destination, — graveyards. 

Up and up we climbed and then shot down into the 
valley again and slid through a cross road. At an old white 
farmhouse, crouched timidly beside a large new barn, we 
paused to enquire the way. A small, thick-set man with 
sandy-red hair, showing where his old straw hat was tilted 
backwards on his head, stopped as he was driving an empty 
hayrack from the barn, to answer our questions. "Are we 
on the right road to Quaker Hill?" I snouted, leaning way 
out on one side of the car. "How?" he yelled back. Then 



The Smith College Monthly 29 

he gol down and came over where we were, while the ques- 
tion was repeated. "Wal now," he answered, putting his 
hand familiarly on the car and bending his body to point, 
"Yon can keep on along this road, but I cal'late you'd best 
turn around and take the road to the right at the cross road 
you just passed." He had kindly blue eyes and a quick 
hospitality thai lor Hie moment made our interests his own. 

We followed his directions and found the right hand 
turn at the cross road. It was winding, grass grown in the 
center and rutted at the sides, but it was mottled with sun- 
shine and leaf shadow and smelled of crushed fern and dead- 
ripe raspberries. We twisted and turned along its length 
and at last came out on a muddy, country thoroughfare 
where again we paused to ask our way. This time we ques- 
tioned a farmer whom we met driving his buggy. He, too, 
evinced the same kindly interest as our previous director. 
Asked if the road ahead was good he answered, "None o' 
the roads 'round here are good but I cal'late you won't get 
stuck in no mud-hole for it's mostly ledge." Before we left 
him he gave us a handful of sweet apples from a bag he had 
under his buggy seat. 

We soon discovered that he was right about the road, 
and especially about the ledge as we climbed painfully up 
over it in our steep ascent up Quaker Hill. At the top we 
paused to look. Away to one side was the valley with strag- 
gling farms stretching far out to the horizon which was 
rimmed with blue-black hills. On the other side was an 
apple orchard, and peering through it we discovered the 
object of our quest, — the Quaker Cemetery. We left the 
car and tramped through the long orchard grass to a freshly 
ploughed field beyond. Crossing a corner of this we came 
to the tiny, fenced-in graveyard. The ground, with its un- 
even mounds, was entirely overgrown with myrtle and 
scragly timothy. Here and there a grave had entirely col- 
lapsed and sunken in. In a farther corner of the cemetery 
we found graves tucked in, in fact almost completely hidden, 
beneath a low growing cedar. These old slate stones, when 
finally deciphered, gave dates around 1836 and 1840. Prob- 
ably this sweet smelling cedar had not even been there when 
"Agatha M., wife of Solomon A. Robbins" had been laid 
to rest. Side by side beneath the cedar Agatha M. and Sol- 



80 The Smith College Monthly 

onion slept. They had both been in the eighties when they 
died. Born during the French and Indian Wars, they had 
seen, and perhaps Solomon had fought, even though he was 
a Quaker, in the war for independence. Their lives had 
encompassed the early struggles of the nation and finally, in 
that great regenerating epoch of the thirties, they had 
passed the struggles of life on to their children and had 
sought sleep in this quiet corner of the world. Not far from 
them, at one side was a stone half sunk in the ground. As 
I pulled awav the dead grass and myrtle from the base, I 
read "Ruth Elizabeth, wife of Silas" Campbell. Aged 19 
years." Just a girl who had lived and laughed as I was 
doing at that very moment. I could not tell the date of her 
death, but beside her, with only two small, broken pieces of 
slate to mark it, was a tiny mound three feet long. 

We copied a few names and dates, and then, not find- 
ing more that we sought, walked slowly away. The utter 
neglect and forgottenness of the little cemetery had cast a 
shadow over us. However, once in the car we hastened our 
speed for the sun was already sinking low and we had one 
more call to make, on some very distant, and, until the fam- 
ily-tree-climbing business, unheard of relatives. They, it 
seemed after diligent search, were the descendants of one 
Gideon or Hezekiah, brother of Solomon, our direct ancestor, 
and all sons of the one great progenitor, old Ludavick, who 
had come over from his native Scotland in 1665. It was all- 
important that we should learn from these new relatives if 
they knew who their grandfather's father's father had been. 
So we turned down a by-lane with a yellowing corn field on 
one side and a varicolored old-fashioned garden backed by 
pertinent pink hollyhocks on the other, and stopped sudden- 
ly, with a squawking and scattering of chickens in the farm- 
yard of a rather cluttered-looking farmhouse. A kindly old 
lady appeared at the door and hospitably invited us in. She 
was large, amply proportioned, and had a very white skin, 
finely featured face, and thin white hair, combed slickly back. 
She was greatly interested in the ancestral quest and thought 
hard, but in vain, to remember who her grandfather's father's 
father was. Then she called her brother William in from 
the fields to try his memory. He was collarless, his hands 
and shirt stained with dirt and sweat, and his face deep- 



The Smith College Monthly 81 

tanned by the sun. He, too, was interested, but unable to 
answer the vital question. Mary then went in search of the 
great family Bible to hunt through the family records, kept 
therein. She soon returned empty handed saying they had 
built an addition to the house since young William's recent 
marriage and now "she just couldn't find anything." As it 
was growing dusk and "none o' the roads" were good, we 
thanked her and promised to send her a record of the gene- 
alogy, if it were ever completed, and started for home. As 
we drove out of the yard, two plump guinea hens minced 
slowly out of our way — for all the world like dainty ladies in 
bulging hoop-skirts. 

With the sky the color of darkening slate, we left the 
strange, twisty country-roads and sped once more along the 
macadam. The slate-gray turned to black and a star crept 
forth. Suddenly, as a car whirled past us in the dark, there 
was the quick, red, gleaming flash of a lighted cigarette 
hurled into the road. I snuggled down in my corner of the 
car with a comfortable feeling. After all, it was rather nice 
to know that one was not like that gleaming cigarette end, 
just tossed into the gloom, but that behind one were centuries 
and centuries of Ruths and Gideons, and Solomons and 
Agathas, 



82 



The Smith College Monthly 



TO D. V. 

Lucia Jordan 



No wonder there is sweetness on your lips, 

The sweep of windy spray 

Has wiped the sting of salt across your mouth, 

The sea's way 

Of loving you. 

The white of gulls on green and purple seas, 

Their changing grace 

As they swing up black shadows on the sky, 

Their swift pace 

Leading you. 

Your tiller tugging under flapping sails 

And from far off the clear 

Song of a bell-buoy through a distant mist, 

You hear 

Calling you. 

The way the sky is on Southeaster days, 

Like looking through the bare 

Bright thinness of a fragile china cup; 

All there 

Knowing you. 



The Smith College Monthly 33 



LITTLE TOM THUMB 

Ernestine M. Gii«breth 



o 



EARS were filling Mother's eyes. "Well, then, he 
would run away. Yes he would! Nobody loved him 
anyway!" People usually looked funny when they 
cne< . but Mother looked pretty and her eyes were greyer 
than ever. Mother loved him and it made her feel badly to 
think he might go. 

Then Father came in, tall and brisk. "Well, well, 
what's happening- here?" 

"It's because I'm going away," he had answered, look- 
ing his father straight in the eye. 

"And where are vou going, son — out to seek vour for- 
tune like little Tom Thumb?" 

Little Tom Thumb indeed! He felt something very 
hot inside of him. "I'm going away, that's all." 

His father had laughed long and heartily. 

He looked at his mother. She was smiling too. Her 
tears were almost gone — and she was patting her cheek with 
a little white cloth. They were mean things to laugh! 

Gravely, he looked from one to the other — then trotted 
from the room. Thev thought it was funny. Little Tom 
Thumb! 

The blocks in the nursery loved him anyway. They 
were hard and woody, but they were nicer than Mother and 
Father. Nurse would be coming any minute to make him 
take his bath. Bread and milk for supper — in the yellow 
Humpty-Dumpty bowl, — then bed, — waiting for Mother's 
cool kiss and Father's "Good night, old man!" 

The sun was going away. Maybe it Avas going out to 
seek its fortune too. And shadows were coming — stealing 
across the room like little mice. That must be Xurse com- 
ing up the backstairs now. He could hear her breathing 
forced and hard. Quick, quick, he must hurry! 

It was fun to run down the front stairs into the parlor. 



34 The Smith College Monthly 

It was cold and grey, but he liked it. He pressed his face 
against a window pane. On the street a big black lamp was 
trying to give light. It looked as though it was trying 
awfully hard. There was white and brown slush on the side- 
walk, and puddles of dirty water. When he breathed ever 
so softly, it made little blurs on the glass. And shadows 
were crawling over him — coming right through the window. 
He didn't want them — but they came anyway. 

The sofa! That would be very fine. He could hide 
behind it until they were scared. Then there'd be such a 
nice surprise. Little Tom Thumb! Maybe tears would be 
on Mother's face again. Nurse would cry as she turned 
down the covers of his bed. It would make her look very red 
and queer to think of him out in the slush. It was funny 
that Nurse's eyes never looked like shiny grey silk the way 
Mother's did! And Father would clear his throat way down 
deep, and stamp and stamp. It would be fun to hide! 

He wriggled underneath the sofa. The green plush 
tickled his face and scraped along his hair. The floor was 
cold and slippery — like the glass of the window. Black 
things were filling up the room. It was getting a little dark. 
He wished his mother would come and smooth his hair. Per- 
haps she would say she loved him. Bread and milk would 
be nice too. Nurse's feet were still plunking back and forth 
upstairs. He hated the way she walked. It was getting 
cool. He must curl up and keep, oh so quiet! His eyes 
wanted to shut but he would try to keep them open. Other- 
wise he might miss all the fun. He pressed his cheek 
against the floor, and watched the shadows creeping nearer 
and nearer. 






The Smith College Monthly 35 



1\ NOTHING TOO MUCH 
Lsobel Strong 



i 



T would seem that the cause of Temperance in the 
early 1800's in England received much the same sort 
of response that it was accorded in America in the 
early 1900's — mingled amusement, disdain and fervent en- 
thusiasm. Your civilized Englishman of course did not 
work himself into a high-minded frenzy as the more primi- 
tive American did and in this state pass an injunction upon 
himself that he immediately regretted upon returning to 
consciousness. He did forget himself occasionally however, 
so far as to be inveigled by the seductive piety of Father 
Theobald Matthew's words and the appealing grip of his 
famous hand into enrolling himself as a member of a Temp- 
erance Society. In Ireland, Father Theobald's own coun- 
try, these organizations throve mightily, as they did in 
America, but sane old England withstood the emotional on- 
slaught of their leaders with some success. The movement 
enjoyed only a sporadic growth in England, the earnestness 
of its members no doubt making up for a rather low mem- 
bership. 

The Gentleman's Magazine between the last of the 
eighteenth century and the middle nineteenth follows the 
spread of the Temperance Society plague with rather desul- 
tory interest, yet great open-mindedness, giving each side 
free play on its pages. In one issue an encouraging report 
from the Universal Temperance Society was published, re- 
joicing that "There are State Temperance Societies in every 
State but one of the Union; there are eight thousand local 
Societies; four thousand distilleries are represented as hav- 
ing extinguished their fires" (this stated with admirable 
caution) "and eight thousand merchants having abandoned 
their immoral traffic. The "Temperance Recorder", estab- 
lished by the New York State Temperance Society for the 
purpose of persuading the whole community to abandon the 
making, vending, and drinking ardent spirits has perhaps 



36 



The Smith College Monthly 



a patronage beyond that of any paper ever published. Its 
Jist of subscribers at one time rose to two hundred thousand 
..." And much more in the same hopeful vein. 

The situation was never so Utopian in England. "Ard- 
ent spirits" were too much a part of a comfortable gentle- 
manly existence there to be effectually rooted out by spiritual 
ardors. True, there were always voices raised against them. 
As early as 1760, Tobias Smollett in one of his thunderous 
philippics ill-advisedly called the attention of the British 
public to the signs "Drunk for 1 d." and "Dead Drunk for 
2 d." It seems to have been a bit of advertising much appre- 
ciated by the British public, and no doubt even more so by 
the merchants boasting such drawing cards. 

But here was a deadly weapon launched through the 
columns of The Gentleman's Magazine by an implacable 
teetotaller: 

A MORAL AND PHYSICAL THERMOMETER: 

or, a Scale of the Progress of Intemperance. — Liquors, with 
their Effects, in their usual order. 

Liquors Vices Disease Punishments 



Punch 


Idleness 


Sickness 
Puking, and 






Peevishness 


Tremors of the 
Hands in the 
Morning 


Debt 


Toddy and 


Quarrelling 


Bloatedness 


Black-Eyes 


Crank 










Fighting 


Inflamed eyes 
Red Nose and 
Face 


Rags 


Grog 


Lying 


Sore and Swelled 
Legs 


Hunger 




Swearing 


Jaundice 


Hospital 


(Flip 




Pains in the 




(Shrub 


Obscenity 


Limbs, burning 
in the Palms, 
and Soles of 
the Feet 


Poor-House 


(Bitters infus'd 


Swindling 


Dropsy 


Jail 


( in Spirits 








(Usquebaugh 


Perjury 


Epilepsy 


Whipping 


(Hysteric water 








(Gin, Anniseed, 


Burglary 


Melancholy 


The Hulks 


(Brandy, Rum and 




Madness 




(Whisky in the 


Murder 


Palsy 


Botany Bay 


( Morning 




Apoplexy 




(Do. during the 








(Day and Night 


Suicide 


DEATH 


GALLOWS 



The Smith College Monthly 37 

Assuredly these were strong words, with the death knell 
sounding in those solemn capitals at the end, and by rights 
should have had a sobering effect upon a heedless people, hut 
it does not seem to have been given the serious consideration 
it deserved. Not long after an article in rather flippant mood 
appeared, reporting the discovery of evidence of an early 
Temperance Society- — one established in Germany near the 
close of the fifteenth century. The supporters of this ancient 
order, dukes, counts, rheingraves, and the like, pledged them- 
selves "never to become intoxicated," for a period of two 
years. With astounding- fortitude they limited themselves 
to seven glasses of liquor at each meal, and only two main 
meals per day. "That no one may complain of thirst, a nec- 
essary quantity of beer, mineral water, toast and water &c. 
shall be supplied with each meal. But moderation is en- 
joined even in the use of these." Moreover, — "No person 
shall be allowed to drink his seven glasses in one, or even 
two draughts, but shall make at least three." "Also, no one 
shall have the privilege of drinking the fourteen glasses at 
one sitting, nor even eight on one occasion; they must be 
equally divided between two meals." Dire punishments 
were then enumerated in case of the infringement of any of 
the above, as "that for the space of one year he be not allowed 
to drink wine; and as a lighter punishment, the culprit shall 
be adjudged to forfeit the two best horses in his stable, and 
to pay a fine equal to three hundred dollars." 

The jocular Mr. Gane who discovered and published 
this stringent code of a long dead Society sets it forth in 
comparison with the prevailing Temperance Societies with 
rather insidious connotation. It was a good-natured poke 
at them, and quite indicative of popular sentiment. Let hot- 
headed Irishmen and foolish Americans inflict upon them- 
selves unpleasant dryness, but let sensible Britains only play 
at the game, even as the good barons of old. 

Helpful hints continued to appear in the Gentleman's 
Magazine as to the treatment for ardent spirits — in one, 
"Practical Rules for Bottling Ales," and "Method of Pro- 
ducing the Effects of Age in Xew Wine," — while Father 
Matthew wrung the hands of his four million converts in 
Ireland, and the evil fires of the eight thousand distilleries 
were being stamped out in the United States. Good, level- 



38 The Smith College Monthly 

headed Englishmen kept their heads and subscribed to the 
Gentleman's Magazine with its brewing recipes, while in 
America two hundred thousand fanatics vied with one an- 
other for copies of the "Temperance Recorder" with its dev- 
astating statistics, on the eradication of the immoral traffic 
in ardent spirits. 



The Smith College Monthly 39 



AMERICANS PREFER PEANUTS 

Alene Smith 



H 



ORE LEI kept to her own limited field. She knew all 
about gentlemen and what they preferred. Her con- 
tribution to literature was accordingly valuable as the 
work of a connoisseur. Rut I often wish that Lorelei, with 
her keen brain, with her mind which might be called educat- 
ed by hand, had branched out into other realms and devoted 
herself to a study of society. Then we should have known 
all that we preferred and why. 

There is the matter of food. Certain edibles are always 
associated with certain peoples. Think of Italy, think of 
food fried in oil — no doubt a barbaric hang-over from med- 
ieval torture chambers. And so on. Rut what is the Ameri- 
can national delicacy? Quickly taking a straw vote, the 
answer seems to be ice cream. This result is in accord with 
the theory that ice cream is an American institution, of the 
people, by the people, for the people. It is in a class with 
baseball, tabloid newspapers, ten cent stores and moving 
pictures. Rut I do not hold with the Ice Cream Theory. 
Careful observations lead to a startlingly different conclu- 
sion. 

Take a train. Take any train. Take any train going 
anywhere, up, down or criss-cross in these United States. 
Sit in a day-coach. There you will find The People, that 
nebulous group which is always being declaimed over and 
is beautifully unconscious of it. Any day-coach is full of 
types. To appreciate them you must be a type, too — the 
type that stares at other people. You see at once the Wo- 
man With a Young Child. For full exposition of this char- 
acter, see Robert Renchley on "Kiddie Kar Travel." There 
is the Man Who Commutes. He is always holding an enor- 
mous book of tickets and invariably calls the conductor 
"Rill." Sitting across the aisle is the College Man, New 
Haven ticket preferred. He, please note, is inevitably 



40 The Smith College Monthly 

across the aisle. Sitting with you is usually the Solid Citizen, 
with his newspaper. He is the sort who takes his wife to 
the movies on Saturday nights and laughs immoderately at 
the comedies in . which unfortunate gentlemen lose their 
trousers. There is the Aloof Lady, muffled in furs, eyes 
turned out of the window, an aura of romance, of cosmo- 
politanism, about her. She must be at least a Russian Grand 
Duchess or a Queen of Roumania. There are others — you 
know them all well. 

Xow, on to my theory. Enter a man selling candy and 
chewing gum. "Pe-ters' Milk Choc-lit ! Chewing gum ! Get 
a bar of Pe-ters Milk Choc-lit before the train leaves!" Here 
and there a few act upon this generous advice. The Woman 
With a Young Child may be counted upon to do so, at any 
rate. Comparative silence for a half hour, then a new rush 
of icy air. "Sam'wiches! Chick'n, ham, cheese sam'wiches! 
Ice cream, a spoon in every box! Dee-licious sam'wiches 
and ice cream!" A very few are interested. The Solid Cit- 
izen avidly attacks a ham sandwich while you gaze at him 
with positive hate. The Aloof Lady gazes out of the window. 
She has not even seen the humble purveyors of sustenance, 
let alone patronized them. She is above all such common 
things. The Young Child has been refused ice cream and 
is lifting up its voice, lifting it way up. Lung power of a 
man of thirty, you decide. 

And now! "Well, folks! Try a sample of salted 
peanuts, fresh from the Sunny South! Salted peanuts! 
Only a sample — no, lady, costs you nothing. Salted pea- 
nuts from the Sunny South. Try 'em, folks!" This jovial 
spirit passes through the car and his voice can be heard in 
the distance. In each person's hand is a tiny twisted paper 
with three "salted peanuts from the Sunny South" therein. 
The Aloof Lady would not stoop to taking hers, so the seller 
has laid it carefully in her lap. It is there now — no! The 
Aloof Lady has picked it up, glanced around, and delicately 
opened it. In a moment she is munching gently. The Com- 
muter and the Solid Citizen have long since been enthusiast- 
ically chewing. The Young Child is clamoring for more. 

At length the vender of peanuts swoops back on his 
return trip. "Here's the real thing! Ten cents a bag! Fresh 
salted peanuts from the Sunny South. Just like the sample! 






The Smith College Monthly 41 

Come now, folks! Just like the sample! Try 'em again!" 
And they do! Everyone, young old, aloof and otherwise, 
produces, or has produced for him, a dime. There is the 
pleasant homey crackle of oiled paper bags being opened 
eagerly; there is the delightful crunch— crunch of "fresh 
salted peanuts" in commotion. No one is neglected, no one 
can hear to face the social ostracism of being without a pack- 
age of peanuts. The formal air of travel is gone, the tension 
of "going places" is broken. After all, we're just one big 
family! See that dear little child over there, so happy with 
his hag of peanuts! You smile at the Young Child and the 
College Man beams back. The Aloof Lady has relaxed and 
is examining a hole in her glove. Everybody understands 
everybody else perfectly. 

Did milk chocolate bring this miracle to pass? Did 
chewing gum? Or "sam'wiches"? The reception of ice cream 
was cold compared to the welcome offered to the salted pea- 
nut. Xothing but salted peanuts held interest for all alike, 
nothing but this representative of "the Sunny South" could 
thaw the frozen attitude on a Springfield-bound train. The 
misguided souls who cling to the American Theory of Ice- 
cream Supremacy will soon find it in a class with the Xordic 
Myth! 



42 The Smith College Monthly 



THE OTHER SOUND 

Ernestine M. Gilbreth 



© 



HE rain streamed down, rattling against my slicker, 
trickling down my neck. I felt wet and helpless and 
very happy. 

The sight of two girls blowing along with their mutual 
umbrella turned inside out enraptured me. The water in 
my shoes squelched pleasantly as I walked. 

How wonderful this violent sheet of rain, the thick grey 
puddles, and swimming grass. Xow I was wholly wet — 
and joyfully I stamped into a puddle. My sudden power 
amazed me. Where was I going? — Oh yes, my class, of 
course. I had almost forgotten it. I opened a door of the 
building before me and sauntered inside, fascinated by the 
steady dripping of my hat and slicker. Then the harsh sound 
of the rain was lost in that other sound — the low mechanical 
murmur of voices discussing something, — anything, — it mat- 
tered verv little. 



The Smith College Monthly 43 



A STUDY IN BLACK AND WHITE 

Catherine Johnson 



0"X the night of February third, 1848, a curious event 
took place. It was a cold, stormy evening and in the 
7{QgJi yellow patches of light from the windows of a certain 
Hiilding the rain beat hard against the panes and rolled down 
the glass in freezing drops. This building was the Society 
Library at Fordham, and inside a lecture was in progress. 
The speaker was Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. Only about sixty 
persons had found that curiosity about the "Cosmogony of 
the Universe" and, more than the subject, a desire to see in 
person this notable writer, had exceeded their distaste for 
the weather and led them to gather in this drafty, ill-heated 
hall. 

Poe rose slowly and stood before them. He was of med- 
ium height and clad in somber black, and there was in his 
graceful and easy bearing an air of Southern aristocracy that 
was charming. Curly hair framed his high, white forehead 
and etched a thick moustache on his lip, and his head was 
lifted proudly, even haughtily. His eyes were large and 
dark with the fire of a tense excitement in their look and 
something else, too, which held the audience spell-bound. He 
might have cut a very fine figure but that presently they 
began to notice that his clothes were shabby and worn; that 
his face was drawn and lined with suffering ; and that in spite 
of his arrogant manner his expression was tragic and pathet- 
ically sad. 

Poe began to speak and his voice was full and musical. 
He had a way of raising his white hand in a quick gesture 
that fascinated them and as the lecture progressed, his elo- 
quence grew and grew until the ladies forgot to watch lest 
their wide skirts drag on the dusty floor and the gentlemen 
leaned forward in their chairs in breathless interest. 

He was presenting to them, or so he supposed, a dis- 
course which would startle the world. He alone of all man- 



44 The Smith College Monthly 

kind had stumbled upon a solution to the great riddle of the 
universe; he alone had discovered the truth, and this truth 
he was disclosing, enriched by beauty so exquisite that it 
must surely compel their amazement and satisfaction. 

"To those who feel rather than to those who think," he 
wrote in a preface to the lecture later published under the 
title of "Eureka — a Prose Poem," " — to the dreamers and 
those who put faith in dreams as in the only realities — I 
offer this Book of Truths, not in its character of Truth-Tell- 
er, but for the Beauty that abounds in its truth; constitut- 
ing it true. — if by any means it be now trodden down so 
that it die, it will 'rise again to the Life Everlasting!' Xev- 
ertheless, it is as a Poem that I wish this work to be judged 
after I am dead." 

As a matter of fact the audience could hardly follow 
the intricate network of thought through which he tried to 
guide them. They could not because it was confused and 
vague, mixing even the simplest facts and expounding 
absurd notions of creation and subsequent physical phenom- 
ena. But it was Poe himself who held them. His tone was 
intense and deeply earnest, and as he became more excited 
he forgot his proud reserve and cast himself heart and soul 
into his words. 

He felt that he had created a masterpiece. It was the 
climax of a career to which his many stories and beautiful 
poems were but incidental and now at last he could be sure 
that his name as time went on would be remembered with 
ever-increasing celebration. It satisfied his ego, and would 
cure him of that sense of social ostracism that had driven 
him from the cultured circles which were not his birthright 
and brought him to a forlorn state of poverty. People 
would forget that he was the son of poor actors and only 
through charity had been adopted into a high-bred Virginia 
home. There would be no more of the scathing contempt 
that gnawed at the heart of his self-esteem, and the deep 
humiliation of poverty would be forever over. This audi- 
ence was small, true, but "Eureka" would be printed — its 
fame would soon spread. Fifty-thousand copies, thought 
Poe, would be but a beginning. And perhaps at last there 
would be refuge from that vague sense of apprehension — 
that terrible misgiving which had haunted his whole life, 



The Smith College Monthly 45 

from the nights in his boyhood that he had spent ai the grave 
of his first adoration, the mother of a school-friend, to the 
horrible months since the death of his beloved wife, Virginia, 

thai strange, half-shadowy child-wire who was not even 
quite rent and seemed like the ghostly-fair heroines of his 
poems. 

"It was many and many a year ago 
In a kingdom by the sea, 

That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
By the name of Annabel Lee; 

And this maiden she lived Avith no other thought 
Than to love and be loved by me." 
Since Virginia's death every waking hour had been misery, 
leading him to seek relief in excess liquor, in the opium that 
was breaking his health, in one violent love affair after an- 
other, in anything, in fact, that would save him from the tor- 
ment of himself. 

As the lecture went on and excitement overcame his 
self-control he grew highly overwrought. His cheeks were 
flushed and his lips trembled so that the words were hardly 
coherent. The former eloquence was verging on frenzy and 
there was a light in his eyes that was not quite sane. 

"I myself am God!" he cried. "My whole nature utterly 
revolts at the idea that there is any Being in the Universe 
superior to myself!" The last sentence died away and slow- 
ly, very slowly, his hands fell to his sides. The fingers 
twitched. There was a short silence in which the rain dripped 
steadily from the eaves and a gust of wind shook the build- 
ing. Then came a prolonged burst of applause and a bustle 
of rising. Xo one was prostrated or overcome. They 
watched Poe curiously and a little anxiously. But it was 
late and time to go home. 

Poe flung his military cape about his shoulders and went 
out into the night. He was delirious with joy. It was all, 
all over — the suffering, the pain, the fear. He — he had con- 
quered — had beaten the haunting demon of terror back into 
the shades — had become king of the world. Xot scorn, not 
pity were now his due but homage and worship. Fear w y as 
dead. 

So he babbled and exulted as he climbed the hill slipping 
in the puddles, laughing in the rain, wild with ecstacy until 



46 The Smith College Monthly 

he came to the little house on King's Bridge Road. Mrs. 
Clemm was in the kitchen. He could see her sturdy, black- 
gowned figure rocking near the smoky lamp, and her gro- 
tesque black shadow rocked too. Back and forth, back and 
forth it travelled across the wall, approaching and receding 
but always there — hideous and mocking. It was not sl 
shadow! It was the dark, unknown, mysterious horror 
dragging him, dragging him from the brightness and the 
sweetness of triumph, from freedom, back once more to a 
world of terror. The frenzy died slowly from Poe's eyes 
and a pitiful dullness took its place. He leaned against the 
porch rail with his head in his hands, a shrunken, hopeless 
figure. "Nevermore, nevermore" sang the shadow as it 
rocked. There was no escape. 



THE JUNGFRAU 

Kathertne S. Bolman 



It seems to me thou art most like a nun, 
Veiled in a mist, whose palest brow of snow 
Shines but an instant forth, that I may know 
Thy gleaming beauty, white and stately one. 
O virgin mountain, icy winds sweep down 
From thy pure summit. Lovely and serene 
Thou standest tall, proud that the world is seen 
Touching the lowest border of thy gown. 

Yet to the watchers of the rising sun 

Is given to see thy peaks one golden flame, 

And living fire along thy ridges run, 

Until thy very heart is not the same 

Cold thing it was. Behold how dazzling fair 

Thy shining soul, how passionate thy prayer! 



The Smith College Monthly 47 




EDITORIAL 



OF THE MANY WHO ARE CALLED 




^wTlHERE is this question of writing. Of writing fiction, 
\U I mean, or poetry, or informal essays, non-utilitarian 
B things. Why do we do it? Are we not, someone asks, 
committing actual wrong by adding to the mass of poor and 
mediocre literature with which the world is cluttered? It is 
a difficult question to answer, and yet I do not think that we 
need to waste sympathy on an overburdened world. After 
all, readers have powers of selection. They can choose what 
they read, and if they choose badly, it probably means that 
they could not appreciate or recognize perfection if they met 
him on the street, naked and isolated from his less Grecian 
fellows. They would probably stare and think him unbear- 
ably eccentric, as Crokker and Lockhardt did Keats. It is 
sufficient to know that bad art goes the way of all flesh in 
time, and it even has a certain use while it lasts. As the 
"lounge-lizzard" takes daughter to the movies and keeps her 
from turning morbid after the fashion of deserted maidens, 
so the Saturday Evening Post saves many a tired business 
man from monotony and intolerable boredom at a time when 
he could hardly be expected to exert himself to the extent of 
the Forsyte Saga. 

The question is rather one of the effect of the indulgence 
of this writing habit on the legion of youth who feel them- 
selves called. It is so tragically obvious that most of them 
have not been chosen, that one may justifiably fear for the 
results. This is an age of self-expression, and ''self-expres- 
sion" has joined the vulgar rank of catch phrases. Was 
there not even a successful Broadway comedy, a short while 



48 The Smith College Monthly 

ago, called Expressing Willie? So those who try to write 
use the printed page, or the manuscript sheet — to be more 
widely accurate, as a means of self-expression. It is easily 
conceivable that they might find something better to do than 
this essentially selfish proceeding which seems but a cul de 
sac. Yet how are they to know? It makes such a difference 
whether one says "selfish" or "individualistic". The second 
word has a modern connotation of courage with just a bit of 
spicy tang, and how we all long for that tang to distinguish 
us from our f ellows, — no matter how little ! 

Psychologists tell us that writing or acting or the rest 
can all be explained in one of two ways, either as escape from 
reality or as outlet for thwarted emotion. Read some of the 
biographies of artists written recently and you will find the 
same explanatory theme in most of them. If this is true, it 
may perhaps be said that the artist is not doing well by life 
as Life. That matters not at all if he is great as an artist, 
but if he is mediocre it seems rather a shame, if only for his 
own sake. 

Perhaps the answer lies in compromise. For some the 
writing habit is a passing phase soon recognized as futile and 
shoved aside by other interests. There is no need to worry 
about them. For others it is an urge almost as strong as the 
urge to love. These last may surely be permitted to indulge 
until inability is finally proved against them. Then it would 
be well to desist, for failure inevitable is not conducive to 
happiness. But until satisfactory proof is brought, there is 
a certain value in working at a form of art one loves. From 
the individual's point of view it is as justifiable as any other 
kind of training, and from the general stand this labor of 
love builds up a class of people better able to appreciate the 
fine in art and life, — for the two are really but Janus-faces, 
because they have struggled to achieve it themselves and so 
thev can understand its meaning. 



N. B. 

When we pled for essays last year, we did not mean to 
ostracize stories from our pages. We realize that it is old 






The Smith College Monthly 49 

fashioned to want a happy medium, but permit us to l>e old 
fashioned for a leisure moment. We want storks, real ones 
with plots. Now don't misunderstand us. We are not tired 

of essays, emphatically not. We shout with delight every 

time we see an essay, lor we won them with the sweat of OUT 
brow,— as the saying goes. But it was no part of our plan 
to ring out the old as we rang- in the new. Stories and essays, 
essays and stories, please, we want them BOTH. 



50 



The Smith College Monthly 




THE SOFA CORNER 

TALE OF TRUTH 
Ruth H. Rose 



Fur coats — dozens of 'em; 

In two's and three's and all possible 

Combinations. 

Coonskins, pony and muskrat, 

Squirrel, beaver or what have you? 

But mostly coonskins. 

[Got a light, somebody?] 

They sit like squatting animals — 

Nice refined ones, of course; 

Or like Sandburg's cat, on their 

Haunches. 

Sit, shivering, with cold, cold feet. 

Literally, not figuratively, 

Sit by peaceful waters, 

Sit on stumps and twigs and mud 

And snow. 

Uncomfortable ; 

[Who has the matches?] 

And consume numberless packages of 

Luckies. 



The Smith College Monthly 51 

yes. And Camels and Tareytons too; 

.And matches strike, and smoke rings 

Disappear, 

Far, far into the day — 

and sometimes night. 
Not 'mid pleasures and palaces and 
Warm bridging living-rooms, 
Do the furred masses take their 
Fun; 

But where they find it. 
By the still waters, and you know 
Winter has come. 
There they squat: 

The daughters of Eve and Others — 
"Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of 
Happiness!" 
— Even as you and I. 



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The Smith College Monthly />:* 



BOOK REVIEWS 




GALAHAD 

John Erskixk Bobbs-Merrill 



The game of modernizing age-old legends is a peculiarly 
enchanting one, not only in its intrinsic interest but also for 
the pleasure of repainting in living flesh and blood vague 
and shadowy figures called out of a long-vanished world of 
mystery and romance. John Erskine tried his hand at the 
experiment in his novel Helen of Troy. Xow he has tried 
it again in a new book entitled Galahad — "enough of his 
life to explain his reputation." Like his earlier attempt this 
also has an amusingly incongruous flavor which is due to 
the fact that instead of bringing the legendary figures into 
the world of today, like the late representation of Hamlet in 
modern clothes, Erskine has chosen to transport today back 
into the past, so that, gowned in trailing silken robes and 
long, fair braids, Guinevere talks as though she held a cig- 
arette. 

Erskine has done here exactly the same sort of thing 
that he did in Helen of Troy. Guinevere, in fact, is a dupli- 
cate of Helen with, of course, the minor difference of a slight 
change in situation. 

Galahad himself is an ideal young man — quite remark- 
ably so from what one is led to expect in the sketch of his 
boyhood. Pie is, of course, sadly and shockingly disillu- 
sioned in the fairly dramatic scene in which he learns of 
Guinevere's life and his father's early escapades. He breaks 
away, however, and continues to live for his Ideal. 

Launcelot, on the whole, is the best character study. 
But one wonders, if he was really the weak unforeseeing man 
that Erskine draws him, how in the old legends he managed 
to preserve the fine reputation that comes down to us. The 



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The Smith College Monthly 

author himself points out the amount of gossip current at 
Camelot. 

One is disappointed in Arthur. He is a good deal like 
Menelaus — stupid, good-natured, long-suffering and thor- 
oughly uninteresting. After all he is the king and this is 
his own court. One wonders how he managed to attain the 
position. 

There is no doubt that the story is written very cleverly. 
The conversation is dazzling, brilliant and witty. It glitters 
a little like a cold jewel. The biting, stinging sarcasm with 
which the characters continually rally each other is at first 
refreshing, then a little heavy, then distinctly boring. One 
feels that one more such scene between Guinevere and Lan- 
celot would be too exhausting to read. There are, however, 
occasional passages of real beauty and pathos, but only a 
very few — 

Erskine has good material in his book and not only a 
unique but an extremely interesting method of treatment. 
It is spoiled by excessive length and superficial wordiness. 
If it could be cut down into a sketch of a few chapters it 
would be very finely done. But then, of course, it would no 
longer be a "best seller." 

C.J. 



"HARMER JOHN" 

Hugh Walpole George H. Doran Co. 

Oh rare Hugh Walpole ! He ventures to moralize. He 
even administers poetic justice. Most of his characters are 
very good, like Harmer John, or very bad, like Hogg, or 
pleasantly well-intentioned human-beings, like Longstaff, 
and Mrs. Penethen and Wistons. The very good ones, as 
too idealistic, suffer martyrdom, and in a short time, enjoy 
apotheosis; the very bad ones, like Ronder, — whom surely 
we are expected to despise — undergo an unfavorable change 
of fortune, or like Hogg simply drop out of the picture to 
meet a fate the more horrible in that it is veiled. The moder- 
ately good ones go on living. They are the realistic back- 
ground of this "Unworldly Story." 



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The Smith College Monthly 57 

It is an interesting story. "Harmer John" before 
anglicized, Hjalmar Johanson came from Sweden, the son 
of a Swedish drunkard and a virtuous Englishwoman. Har- 
mer John took after his mother. Young, strong, idealistic 
and boyishly charming, he settled in Polchester, his mother's 
native home. There he becomes a gymnastic instructor, is 
welcomed and lionized. The town flocks to his classes, he 
massages the eminents of the church, and becomes engaged 
to the attractive daughter of his landlady. Success and hap- 
piness beam upon him. This first part of the book is for our 
taste, too permeated with sentimentalism, even though we 
may recognize it as the preparation for a dramatic catas- 
trophe. 

Later, complications arise. Harmer John wants to re- 
form Polchester, which he has found not to be made of pure 
beauty. He wants to make it wipe out its slum-district, 
while Hogg, the villain, chief slum-owner, objects. Harmer 
John refusing to yield one jot of his independence or of his 
principles, loses first his popularity, and consequently the 
girl to whom he was engaged; finally his life is sacrificed in 
a slum riot. He wins, six years later, a tablet to his memory. 

Hugh Walpole retains a very fresh and enthusiastic 
view of life. He believes in the good and the beautiful. His 
argument in their behalf, it seems to us, would be more ef- 
fective if he let them argue for themselves. He is not truly 
convincing because he is not sufficiently objective, the senti- 
mentalist rather than the idealist. 

S. W. T. 



SUMMER STORM 

Frank Swinnerton George H. Doran Co. 

Mr. Swinnerton's "Summer Storm" is exactly the kind 
of book its title implies: a novel with enough suspense to 
arouse our interest, yet not enough real danger to threaten 
seriously the happiness of the characters, with a calm ending 
leaving the situation almost as peaceful as it was in the be- 
ginning, and with characters whose motives and actions are 
quite common if not always easily predictable. 



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The Smith College Monthly 59 

The basis of the hook is the eternal triangle, hut so many 
other characters besides the original three arc presented thai 

we do not feel any over-emphasis or triteness in this triangu- 
lar situation. The characters are Tor the most part carefully 
and convincingly drawn, and even the minor ones are distinct 
and individual. Beatrice is perhaps the most interesting and 

undoubtedly the most carefully portrayed, while Falconer 
becomes more and more disappointingly conventional as the 
novel progresses. In fact, he is at times quite too obtuse to 
be real. Polly and her family are pleasingly natural and 
logical. The entire story centers around Beatrice and it is 
fortunate that the author has been so successful in presenting 
her rather baffling character, else the book would have been 
futile. 

Unquestionably, the novel is well written. The style is 
easy and the story moves rapidly and surely. The situations 
are interesting if not deeply moving, and there is a grace 
and charm of presentation throughout. The book is dis- 
tinctly well worth reading although it does not rise to great 
heights in any sense. 

E. Hall 



WINNIE-THE-POOH 

A. A. Milne E. P. Dutton 

After Mr. Edward Bear had had that comfortable 
chat with the King of France ("nicknamed 'The Hand- 
some,'" your remember) he w r as greatly cheered for a time 
and even rather proud of his tubbiness. And yet here he is 
again in Winnie -the -Pooh doing his Stoutness Exercises as 
patiently as ever in front of the glass and singing to him- 
self, "Tra-la-la, tra-la- oh, help! — la, as he tries to touch his 
toes" But this time it is not really so much adiposity that 
worries him as the fact that after all he is a "Bear of no brain 
at all." One cannot follow alarming-looking tracks round 
and round a spinney and find that it is frightfully confusing 
as to whether the tracks belong to "two Woozles and one, 
as it might be, Wizzle, or Two," as it might be Wizzles, and 
one, if so it is, Woozle" without its looking as though it might 



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GLEASON BROTHERS 

P. P. GLEASON, Prop. 
Moving, Storing, Packing, Shipping 
Long distance transfer by auto truck 
Office 7 Pearl St. Tel. 413-W 

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Tel. 153 
NORTHAMPTON, MASS. 

Book Collecting is now 

College Sport 

Old Books and Prints 
from England 



The Hampshire Bookshop 

The BkowN Shop 

Dressmaking 



M. HINES 1922 



8 GREEN AVE. 



The Smith College Monthly 61 

be because one teas perhaps a tiny bi1 muddled, and thai is a 
cause for Anxiety. 

Hut these aren't only stories of Pooh. Christopher 
Robin is there, and Piglet (a very small animal) and Kanga 
and Baby Roo and mournful old Eeyore. Oh, yes, and 
Rabbit and all Rabbit's relations even down to Alexander 
Beetle "who buried himself head downwards in a crack for 
two days." 

There was the time that it rained and rained so hard 
that all the rivers overflowed their beds. "Piglet was begin- 
ning to wonder if it would come into his bed soon. 'It's a 
little anxious', he said, 'to be a very small animal entirely 
surrounded by water.' " 

And once Pooh and Piglet tried to catch a Heffalump. 
(Do you know what a Heffalump is?) They tried to catch 
him in a very deep pit. And when Piglet saw the Heffalump 
making "a loud roaring noise of sadness and despair" he was 
so frightened that he scampered home crying, "Help, help! 
A horrible Hoff alump" and hoff, hoff, a hellible horralump !" 
But after all, he was only a very small animal. 

Did you like "When We Were Very Young" by A. A. 
Milne? Then you will like these adventures of Pooh Bear, 
written with all the humorous charm that understanding and 
imagination can catch. It may be the tubby wistfulness of 
Pooh that is appealing, or it may be only because he did so 
much love honey. Once he woke right up in the middle of 
the night feeling hungry and once right while Christopher 
Robin was nailing on Eeyore's tail "Winnie-the-Pooh came 
all over funny, and had to hurry home for a little snack of 
something to sustain him." And once he had to eat a whole 
jar- full of honey to make sure it wasn't cheese — 

But perhaps it is only because we feel so much like 
Christopher Robin. 

"Oh Bear!" said Christopher Robin, "How I do love 



vou!" 



"So do I," said Pooh. 



C.J. 




1 




JANUARY 



JORDAN MARSH GOMFAWY 






ALL ROADS LEAD TO 
NEW ENGLAND'S 
GREATEST STORE 



J, When you come up to shop, 
you'll notice that all the 
smartest £'irls are headed for 
Jordan's, 




Because they can't waste time 
in the less-than-best shops. 

They know that gifts from 
Jordan Marsh Company have 
made 75 Chris tmases merry. 

And that's a test, isn't it. 




► <*» '-sn 






ii^^Li Afl 



HOTEL ^lSTOK 



(^V^e (?/ America s great h otels—and, 

^^^ surrounding it, the city 's jam ous 

shops, theatres, and business 

At the Crossroads of the World " 



r. A. MUSCHENHEIM 



PSQUAHE — N E, W YOR.K 
B roadv^ ^ %rtv<fourt.h ^Forty-fifth Stress 







PLYMOUTH INN 

BEAUTY 

SHOP 




BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 




Vou XXXV JANUARY, 1927 No. 4 

EDITORIAL BOARD 

Elizabeth Hamburger 1927 
Alice L. Phelps 1927 Sarah Wingate Taylor 1928 

Ruth L. Thompson 1927 Elizabeth Wilder 1928 

Jenny Nathan 1927 Catherine Johnson 1928 

Art — Josephine Stein 1927 
Priscilla Paine 1928 

BUSINESS STAFF 

Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi 1927 

Doris Pinkham 1927 Gladys Lampert 1928 

Pearl Morris 1928 Ruth Rose 1929 

Virginia Hart 1927 Julia Kellogg 1928 



The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Mass., each month from 

October to June, inclusive. Terms $1.75 a year. Single copies 25c. 

Subscriptions may be sent to Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi, Northrop House. 

Advertising Manager, Julia Kellogg, Chapin House. 

Contributions may be left in the Monthly box in the Note Room. 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Mass., as second class matter. 

Metcalf Printing § Publishing Company, Northampton, Mass. 

"Accepted for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, 

Act of October 3, 1917. Authorized October 31, 1923." 



WHEN IN SPRINGFIELD VISIT 



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LEADERS OF FASHION 



Millinery 



HOSIERY and BAGS 
PRICED WITH A THOUGHT TO ECONOMY 



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OUR DISPLAY OF 

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CONTENTS 




Some Educational Implications of Livin«; in 



the Twentieth Century 
Safe 

The Woman from Valencia 
The American Spirit 
Ice Storm 
The Steeple-Jack 
Existence 
The Stranger 
Shadows in a Glass 
Unicorn 
A Salisbury Ghost 



Harry Elmer Barnes 

Anne Morrow 

Sarah Wingate Taylor 

Marcia Lincoln 

Barbara Simison 

Anne L. Basinger 

Frances Robinson 

Margaret Hoening 

Alice Phelps 

Anne Morrow 

Hilda Pfeiffer 



Editorial: Our Complicated College Life 
The Sofa Corner 
Book Reviews 



7 
1928 17 

1928 18 
1927 27 

1929 30 

1929 31 

1930 38 
1927 39 

1927 44 

1928 46 
1927 47 

50 
53 
55 



All manuscript should be typewritten and in the Monthly Box by the fifteenth 

of the month to be considered for the issue of the following month. 

All manuscript should be signed with the full name of the writer. 

Manuscript may be disposed of unless marked "Return". 



STUDENTS OF 



SMITH COLLEGE 

Will find the Wright & Ditson Store the best place to pur- 
! chase their Athletic Equipment, Clothing and Shoes for all 
! the sports in which girls are interested. 



ARCHERY 
TENNIS 
GOLF 
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! 344 WASHINGTON ST. BOSTON, MASS. 

i 

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A most satisfying place for lunch or 
afternoon tea, where people of refine- 
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real home flavor. 



CHARLES HALL, Inc. 

411 Main Street 

The Hall Building 

Springfield, Massachusetts 



For the convenience of our 
Smith College Patronage we 
have opened a new shop at 

12 GREEN STREET 
NORTHAMPTON, MASS. 

I. MILLER 

BEAUTIFUL SHOES 





Smith College 
Monthly 



SOME EDUCATIONAL IMPLICATIONS OF 
LIVING IX THE TWENTIETH CENTURY 

Harry Elmer Barnes 



rpylOR nothing- does the human mind long more persistent- 
IJl^I ly than for a sense of safety and assurance amidst the 

I problems forced upon us by the facts of the external 
world, the nature of our own bio-chemical equipment, and 
association with our fellows. We have a deep-seated desire 
to know just what we should do and how and when we should 
do it. Dogma, routine and habit are not only great time- 
savers, but also indispensable to that enviable feeling of intel- 
lectual sufficiency, moral certainty and economic adequacy 
which characterizes the person who finds himself perfectly 
adjusted to what he regards as the best of all possible worlds, 
which is held to be as unchanging as it is perfect. 

Down to the coming of contemporary times it was possi- 
ble for even the intellectual classes to possess some close 
approximation to that feeling of omniscience and security for 
which we all seek. Primitive folklore, mythology and mores, 
and later the dogmas of religion, politics, economics and 
education, were able to create out of their ignorance a world 
and a society of such conceptual simplicity that it was possi- 
ble to believe that one possessed the totality of relevant and 
saving knowledge with respect to every problem and issue 
confronting man. On the other hand, the net result of the 
achievements to date in modern natural science, biblical 
scholarship, critical thought and social science has been to 
show that the conceptions of the cosmos, the world, man and 
human society, upon which the older dogmas rested, were 



s 



The Smith College Monthly 



well-nigh a complete illusion. If this is true, then the dog- 
mas themselves possess no more validity than the fictitious 
world order from which they were derived. 

Further, and even more significant and disconcerting, 
modern science and scholarship have revealed the indubitable 
fact that the cosmos which we inhabit is so complex, exten- 
sive and dynamic that we can never hope to possess absolute 
certainty with respect to anything.. It was once believed 
that even if everything else might be unsettled we could at 
least cling to the law of universal gravitation, but along came 
Einstein to prove, if he proved nothing else, that this law is 
but a relative and tentative approximation. The remarka- 
ble progress in the study of man and human society from 
the angle of mechanistic biology, physiological chemistry, 
comparative and dynamic psychology, and the various social 
sciences has likewise proved that man and his culture and in- 
stitutions present a variety and a complexity which can no 
more be explained within the categories and concepts of the 
older religious and metaphysical rationalizations than can the 
cosmos revealed by modern astro-physics within the limita- 
tions imposed by the dogmas of astrology or Ptolemaic 
astronomy. 

In other words, after having taken away from a person 
the neat but antique dogmas, done up in tinfoil and properly 
distributed in a nice cabinet of pigeon-holes, which constitute 
his body of conventional knowledge, the scientifically-minded 
person well knows that there are no carefully assorted and 
clearly tabulated packages of learning to hand back in return. 
Indeed, he knows that he must not only take away the ven- 
erable dogmas but give even the cabinet of pigeon-holes a 
potent and well-placed kick. There is much grieving about 
so much tearing down of ancient beliefs without "putting 
anything in their place," but this begs the whole question. 
The first essential of the modern outlook is to recognize that 
the only thing which can replace the older cut-and-dried 
dogmas is merely a new attitude and a novel desire — namely 
open-mindedness, persistent cerebration, scientific method 
and hard study, in the hope of ultimately discovering work- 
ing approximations to truth. 

Moreover, much of the grief at the tearing-down process 
is misplaced. There is often much constructive service in 



The Smith College Monthly \) 

the pure process of tearing down and taking away. No one 
would urge a surgeon to replace an inflamed appendix by a 

malignant tumor. No one mourns because we have disrupt- 
ed many of the beliefs and practices held sacred among prim- 
itive peoples. Several centuries from now, in all probability, 
the cultivated classes will then view our most "sacred" be- 
liefs and institutions much as we now regard cannibalism, 
the couvade and the suttee. Indeed, one of the results of 
modern thought has been to render the very concept of 
"sacredness" an obstructive anachronism. Nobody has stat- 
ed this better than Professor James Harvey Robinson in the 
following paragraph : 

One of the great obstacles to a free reconsideration of the details 
of our human plight is our tendency to regard familiar notions as 'sacred'; 
that is, too assured to be questioned except by the perverse and wicked. 
This word sacred to the student of human sentiment is redolent of an- 
cient, musty misapprehensions. It recalls a primitive and savage setting- 
off of purity and impurity, cleanness and uncleanness. The French re- 
tain the double meaning of the word in their sacre, which means at once 
'blessed' and 'damned'. Blessed is he who agrees with me and let others 
be damned. When we realize that this and that notion of ours is 'sacred', 
we may be sure that, as Mr. William Trotter has emphasized in his 
Instinct of the Herd, in Peace and War, it is a childish impression which 
we have never carefully scrutinized. A woman once warned me that she 
was 'religious' and that I had better be careful what I said to her. I 
replied that she seemed to suspect me of irreligion from her standpoint, 
and that she should also be considerate of my feelings. The claim to 
immunity on the ground of sacredness is by no means confined to relig- 
ious controversy: it now includes the current system of business, gov- 
ernmental organization, and the family. It is one of the important obsta- 
cles in the way of free discussion and re-adapting our habits so as to 
bring them into accord with increasing knowledge and new conditions. 

Simple prejudices or unconsidered convictions are so numerous that 
the urgence and shortness of life hardly permit any of us, even the most 
alert, to summon all of them before the judgment seat. Then there are 
the sacred prejudices of which it seems to me we might become aware 
and beware, if we are sufficiently honest and energetic. History might 
be so re-written that it would at least eliminate the feeling that any of 
our ideas or habits should be exempt from prosecution when grounds for 
indictment were suggested by experience. 

II. 

It was inevitable that this unique situation should in 
due time impinge upon the intellectual life of college circles. 
In the period intervening between the college life of the par- 
ents of the present generation of college students and their 
children there have been more changes in our scientific know- 
ledge and outlook of an unsettling and disconcerting nature 
than in the thousand years which separates Charlemagne 
from Abraham Lincoln. This fact has, however, been 



10 The Smith College Monthly 

slow in penetrating the thinking of college students. Only 
rarely have their teachers achieved approximate contempor- 
aneity in their intellectual outlook. A goodly proportion 
of college teachers have retained unaltered the dogmas and 
convictions which they acquired in the generation in which 
they attended college and have lost touch with current intel- 
lectual progress. Others are narrow specialists who do good 
work in their particular lines but lack general orientation and 
interests. Few college teachers become such because of 
comprehensive enlightenment on their own part or on ac- 
count of the desire to bring about such a beatific state on the 
part of their students. The process is not unlike that de- 
scribed by President Clarence C. Little of the University of 
Michigan in the remarks attributed to him in a speech recent- 
ly delivered before the Xational Student Federation: 

Most professors reach their positions through a curious process. 
After they receive their pass-key to that intellectual garret of Phi Beta 
Kappa, the devil, in the form of some friend, whispers into their ears 
that they should teach. They often accept the suggestion, and that after 
securing their master's degrees, they write a thesis on some such subject 
as "The Suspenders of Henry VI11" and then are qualified to teach. A 
thesis subject is by definition a subject about which no one has ever 
cared to write before. 

This type of man is then put in charge of a group of freshmen, and 
he generally has a great disdain of their consummate ignorance, while 
they on their part have a great disdain for his consummate learning. 
Some time someone springs up among the freshmen with the declaration 
that the suspenders of Henry VIII are the most important things in the 
world. Immediately the professor picks him up from the bog of ignor- 
ance in which the rest of the freshmen lie and starts him on the path to 
another professorship. 

When, however, there is a teacher who is in reasonable 
rapport with the contemporary age and possessed of at least 
average powers of articulation the shocking power of his re- 
flections and observations is inevitably great, even though he 
does nothing more than synthesize the rudimentary plati- 
tudes of Twentieth Century knowledge. This disturbing 
influence need not be due in any sense to special ability or 
peculiarly seductive pedagogy on the part of the instructor. 
It is merely a measure of the unique gulf which separates us 
from the assured knowledge of the year 1890. When one 
calmly reflects upon the reality and extent of this gulf, he is 
likely to marvel, not at the frequency with which alarmed 
parents endeavor to tone down the lectures of teachers who 
are endeavoring to dispense information and points of view 
of a contemporaneous vintage, but rather at the relative ab- 



The Smith College Monthly I I 

sence of such efforts to intimidate university and college 
instructors and executives. 

Tin's salutary process of unsettling the eternal verities 
would appear to be bearing somewhat heavily upon certain 
college circles ai the present time. In a recent number of the 
Smith College Monthly, in an editorial, presumably written 
by Seniors, we find the following complaint of a lack of com- 
plete certainty and dogmatic finality in the local instruction: 

At presenl the pendulum has swung too far in the direction of free- 
thinking, not as a principle, for it could never go too far in its basic 
idea, but in application to the very rudiments of thought and philosophy. 
In other words, we have been given our freedom indiscriminately, and 
we have fallen into a slough of negation that is worse than simple slav- 
ery of thought, because it is harder to fret out of. Our teachers are too 
much inclined to give us the mere facts and assume that we shall be able 
to work out our own conclusions unaided. Too many of them are kindly 
afraid of exerting undue pressure to make us believe as they do. This 
fear is, 1 think, quite unwarranted. If we have minds of our own we 
shall not agree with an opinion merely because it is given us. Discus- 
sion is stimulating and helps one to know and define one's own opinion, 
thus being more provocative of free-thinking than the mere uncritical 
Statement of problems. This second attitude is, indeed, more likely to 
lead to false thinking, or in many cases, to no thinking at all. We rebel, 
and quite rightly, when to the statement of a credo is added, "Now you 
must believe as I do," but we rebel with as much justice to the attitude 
that we are not strong enough to hear the credos of those whose judg- 
ments we respect even in withholding concurrence. It is highly demoral- 
izing to receive mental food in the form of two opposites of which the 
feeder says, "There may be as much reason on this side as on that, and 
I cannot help you to decide which is right." That sort of thing leaves 
us in a wavering fog. Sometimes perhaps we can work out the solution 
and make up our own minds, but more often we lack the experience of 
the world to find examples for argument and proof, and we give up in 
despair. 

At about the same time "Five Bewildered Freshmen" 
at Cornell addressed a joint letter to the Cornell Sun bewail- 
ing the fact that after two whole months at Ithaca they were 
still somewhat uncertain as to the nature and purpose of a 
college education and were not yet possessed of full and 
definitive knowledge as to the mysteries of the cosmos and 
the destiny of man. To remedy this astonishing and deplor- 
able situation thus revealed the Cornell Sun editors proposed 
the speedy institution of an orientation course like that given 
at Columbia which "would adjust the student to his environ- 
ment, train him in thinking, convince him of the seriousness 
of college work, give him a birds-eye view of the nature of 
the world and of man, and survey the contemporary scene of 
civilization." Thereupon a letter appeared in the Cornell 
Sun by no less a person than Professor Carl Becker, next to 



12 



The Smith College Monthly 



James Harvey Robinson perhaps the most thoughful of 
American historians, congratulating the Freshmen on their 
bewilderment, and offering the comforting assurance that if 
they retained their intellectual zeal and alertness they would 
probably be even more bewildered when confronting the 
cosmos and human culture thirty-five years from now: 

I was interested in the letter of "Five Bewildered Freshmen," and 
in the discussion it gave rise to. The freshmen say they have been en- 
gaged in the intellectual life for more than two months and don't know 
what it's all about. This is bad, but who is to blame? Some say the 
students are to blame, and some say the professors. What is to be done 
about it? You suggest a foundation or an orientation course such as is 
given in other universities. 

For my part, I don't blame anyone — not the freshmen, certainly. 
It's not especially the student's fault if he doesn't know what it's all 
about. If he did, he wouldn't need to come to college. That's why, I 
have always supposed, young people come to college — to get some notion, 
even if only a glimmering, of what it's about. They come to get 
"oriented." But why expect to be oriented in two months, or a year? 
The whole four years' college course is a course in orientation. It isn't a 
very satisfactory one, indeed. Four years isn't enough. Life itself is 
scarcely long enough to enable one to find out what it's all about. 

Neither do I blame the professors — not particularly. Many people 
appear to think that professors possess some secret of knowledge and wis- 
dom which would set the students right as to the meaning of things if 
they would only impart it. This, I do assure you, is an illusion. I could 
write you a letter on behalf of "Five Bewildered Professors" which would 
make the five bewildered freshmen appear cocksure by comparison. The 
professors are in the same boat. They don't know either what it's all 
about. They tried to find out when in college, and they have been trying 
ever since. Most of them, if they are wise, don't expect ever to find out, 
not really. But still they will, if they are wise, keep on trying. That 
is, indeed, just what the intellectual life is — a continuous adventure of 
the mind in which something is being discovered possessing whatever 
meaning the adventurer can find in it. 

This effort to find out what it's all about is, in our time, more diffi- 
cult than ever before. The reason is that the old foundations of assured 
faith and familiar custom are crumbling under our feet. For four 
hundred years the world of education and knowledge rested securely on 
two fundamentals which were rarely questioned. These were Christian 
philosophy and Classical learning. For the better part of a century 
Christian faith has been going by the board, and Classical learning into 
the discard. To replace these we have as yet no foundations, no certain- 
ties. We live in a world dominated by machines, a world of incredibly 
rapid change, a world of naturalistic science and of physico-chemico- 
libido psychology. There are no longer any certainties either in life or in 
thought. " Everywhere confusion. Everywhere questions. Where are we? 
Where did we come from? Where do we go from here? What is it all 
about? The freshmen are asking, and they may well ask. Everyone is 
asking. No one knows; and those who profess with most confidence to 
know are most likely to be mistaken. Professors could reorganize the 
College of Arts if they knew what a College of Arts should be. They 
could give students a "general education" if they knew what a general 
education was, or would be good for if one had it. Professors are not 
especially to blame because the world has lost all certainty about these 
things. 

One of the sure signs that the intellectual world is bewildered is that 
everywhere, in colleges and out, people are asking for "Orientation" 



The Smith College Monthly [6 

courses which will tell the freshmen straight off wli.it it is all ah. ait. If 
we are Oriented we .shouldn't need such courses. This does not mean that 
I am Opposed to an Orientation course for freshmen. I would like an 
orientation COIine for freshmen. I would like one for seniors. 1 would 
like one for professors and trustees. 1 would Like one for 1'rcsidriit 
Parrand and President Butler. Only who is to give It? And what is 
it to consist i}\"r 1 asked Professor Hayes, "What ahout your orienta- 
tion course at Columbia?" He said, "It's a good thing for the instructor, 
who give." 1 asked a man whose son had taken the course, "What did 
he tret out of itr" The reply was, "He read three hooks in three unre- 
lated fields of knowledge and got a kick out of one of them." Who 

knows t'ne "background" or the "general held of knowledge?" If the 

course is given by many professors the student will he taking Several 
courses as one course instead of several courses as separate courses. If 
one man gives it what will it her It will he as good as the man is. If 
we could get a really top notch man to give a course, no matter what, 
and call it an orientation course, I should welcome it. II. G. Wells might 
give such a course, and it would he a good course. I doubt if it would 
orient any one or settle anything, hut it would stir the students up and 
make them think. That would he its great merit. That is the chief 
merit of any course — that it unsettles students, makes them ask questions. 
The Five Bewildered Freshmen have got more out of their course 
than they know. It has made them ask a question — What is it all about? 
That is a pertinent question. I have been asking it for thirty-five years, 
and I am still as bewildered as they are. 

In general I am inclined to agree with Professor Beck- 
er, though I would emphasize more than he does the value of 
an orientation course, in order that the bewilderment might 
be made more intelligent and relevant. Again, if certain 
Smith instructors insist upon presenting two sides to every 
problem, it would appear that this is a cause for congratula- 
tion and proof of progress away from the conventional prac- 
tice of presenting but a single side that is as likely to be arch- 
aic and erroneous as it is sure to be dogmatic. The chief crit- 
icism would rather seem to be that they stopped with merely 
presenting two sides, when there were in all probability five 
or ten sides. 

In short, it would certainly appear that the greatest 
intellectual calamity which can overtake a contemporary 
college student is to escape being jarred loose from archaic 
dogmas and ancient prejudices and being given a real chance 
to realize what it means, not only to live in the Twentieth 
Century but to be actually conscious of so doing. Further, 
if this "shaking-up" process is to come at all, there could be 
no other time as fortunate or desirable as in the years at 
college where there is ample time for reflection and, theoreti- 
cally at least, more wisdom easily accessible for consultation 
and advice. Certainly, no person can be regarded as educat- 
ed unless he recognizes the reality of the new heavens and the 



14 The Smith College Monthly 

new earth which confronts us today, and is also fully cogniz- 
ant that all knowledge must henceforth be regarded as high- 
ly cumulative, tentative and empirical. 

III. 

This need for real intellectual contact with the world in 
which we live, as well as for teachers and writers who can 
make an ever larger number of students and citizens realize 
that they are no longer in the Middle Ages, has been admir- 
ably stated by Professor Robinson in his Humanizing of 
Knowledge : 

Modern scientific research, in spite of its professed aloofness and 
disregard of human feelings and motives, has succeeded in unfolding to 
our gaze so new a world in its origin, development, workings and possi- 
bilities of control in the interests of human welfare, that practically all of 
the older poetic and religious ideas have to he fundamentally revised or 
reinterpreted. 

Now if all this he true we are forced to ask whether it is safe, since 
our life has come to he so profoundly affected by and dependent on sci- 
entific knowledge, to permit the great mass of mankind and their lead- 
ers and teachers to continue to operate on the basis of presuppositions 
and prejudices which owe their respectability and currency to their great 
age ;ind uncritical character, and which fail to correspond with real 
tilings and actual operations as they are coming to be understood. 

A great part of our beliefs about man's nature and the Tightness or 
wrongness of his acts, date from a time when far less was known of the 
universe and far different were the conditions and problems of life from 
those of today. 

Do we not urgently need a new type of wonderer and pointer-out, 
whose curiosity shall be excited by this strange and perturbing emer- 
gency in which we find ourselves, and who shall set himself to discover 
and indicate to his busy and timid fellow creatures a possible way out? 
Otherwise how is a race so indifferent and even hostile to scientific and 
historical knowledge of the preciser sort — so susceptible to beliefs that 
make other and more potent appeals than truth — to be reconciled to 
stronger drafts of medicinal information which their disease demands 
but their palates reject? .... 

We need, therefore, a new class of writers and teachers, of which 
there are already some examples, who are fully aware of what has been 
said here and who see that the dissipation of knowledge should be offset 
by an integration, novel and ingenious, and necessarily tentative and 
provisional. They should undertake the conscious adventure of humaniz- 
ing knowledge. There are minds of the requisite temper, training and 
literary tact. They must be hunted out, encouraged and brought together 
in an effective if informal conspiracy to promote the diffusion of the best 
knowledge we have of man and his world. They should have been re- 
searchers at some period of their lives, and should continue to be research- 
ers in another sense. Their efforts would no longer be confined to increas- 
ing knowledge in detail but in seeking to discover new patterns of what 
is already known or in the way to get known. 

IV. 

In fact, there is not only need on college faculties for 
teachers who are culturally and intellectually up-to-date, 



The Smith College Monthly I :> 

but even for a few real radicals. We hear much about the 
"Reds in our college faculties" particularly in the* faculties 
of our women's colleges, but the writer, with a souk what 

better than average acquaintance with both American col- 
lege faculties and with the real honest-to-God "Reds," can 
state with assurance that there is not one real "Red" on the 
faculty of any American college of first-rate reputation or 
of orthodox organization and administration. It is doubtful 
if any American college professor can lay legitimate claim to 
being even a good healthy pulsating "pink." My esteemed 
colleague, Mr. Granville Hicks, has argued forcefully in the 
Christian Century for November 25, 1926, that we need more 
radicals in every walk of life, if for no other reason than to 
force the conservatives to wake up and present more intelli- 
gent arguments in order to defend their positions. 

I would add to this the advantage of having a few true 
radicals on every college faculty in order to draw the fire of 
the moss-backs and relieve the pressure on timid liberals who 
are now condemned as dangerous incendiaries. Just let one 
picture for himself what a gorgeous time we attenuated 
"'pinks" on the Smith College faculty would have if Scott 
X earing were professor of economics and labor problems, 
Upton Sinclair professor of comparative literature, W. Z. 
Foster professor of public administration, William Hay- 
wood professor of industrial relations, William Montgomery 
Brown head of the department of biblical literature, Max 
Eastman professor of philosophy, Floyd Dell or Clement 
Wood professor of socoiologv, Fannie Hurst in the person- 
nel department, and Margaret Sanger in charge of the ward- 
en's office! Those who are now subjected to oral and epis- 
tolographic assaults for their alleged efforts to destroy the 
choicest values and most intimate convictions of the students 
would at once become the rallying points for the conserva- 
tives and would quickly become recipients of honorary de- 
grees from their alma maters. 

We may conclude this brief and rambling discussion of 
the implications of the impingement of Twentieth Century 
civilization upon modern education by the observation, not 
intended to be flippant, namely, that those who want certain- 
ty and absolute assurance should not go to college. Such 
persons should go to mass ! 



16 



The Smith College Monthly 



Editor's Note: — In expressing appreciation to Profes- 
sor Barnes for this article and an humble concurrence in the 
theory so tellingly expounded therein, we should like to ask 
one question. Does not one man have to have as firm, or if 
you will, as dogmatic a conviction in his own kind of principle 
in order to be an "honest-to-God" Radical, as another does 
in order to be a Catholic priest? 



Most emphatically, yes! 



H. E. B. 



The Smith College Monthly 1 7 



SAFE 
Anne Morrow 



My little towers shining in the sun 
Boast no safe guarding bolts, no buttress own 
Walls of conceit and parapets of pride 
Dizzily rising, gleaming stone on stone. 
Today you come with battle axe and ram 
To level down my turrets as they climb. 
One hot blast on your brazen trumpet blown 
Would spill my walls to pebbles— had you time. 

But I am there before you, eagerly 
Tumbling the blocks of splendor one by one 
Recklessly in the dust. You pity me, 
Smiling at what my foolish hands have done. 
But glancing back tomorrow you shall see 
Mv little towers shining in the sun ! 



18 



The Smith College Monthly 



THE WOMAN FROM VALENCIA 

Sarah Wixgate Taylor 




EBASTIAN believed in glory. He believed that that 
lonp; line of tall, dark figures stretching like shadows 
of interminable towers into the past had each one re- 
ceived from his predecessor a ball of gold, and had, each one, 
in duty bound, extended his hand to gather more gold, till to 
him, — Sebastian, — the ball had come, huge, heavy, glitter- 
ing. Yet, he believed proudly, it was not too huge for the 
bony, dark-haired structure of his hands, nor yet too dazzling 
for eyes that needed such light to strike any response of fire 
in their jet. 

Sebastian was the thunderbolt hurled from the pious 
grasp of Ferdinand into the midst of terrified, unholy Moors. 
Sebastian was glorious, as every son of Gonzalez before him 
had been glorious; and now he, Sebastian had his son, Fer- 
nandez. True, at times he pondered, a giant must grow to 
be able so much as to lift the burden ; and now what sort of 
a man must Fernandez be in order to hold in one hand that 
ball, and with the other to reach out into the endless sunlight 
of achievement to gather and condense his contribution? 

The woman from Valencia, of noble blood, beautiful 
and blond, had served for a time, respected, as the wife of 
Sebastian and the mother of Fernandez. Then she had 
died. Sebastian would not have wished it so, and yet since 
she was gone he was well enough satisfied to have his son 
brought up by men. He did not want him a barbarian. He 
must have grace .and yet women — Sebastian did not trust 
them with this child, who must assume the burden of the ac- 
cumulated glory of Gonzalez. The slightest weakness, the 
least relaxation might crash that treasure into golden 
splinters. 

A monastery Sebastian thought would do for the begin- 
ning of the child's education; and so Sebastian invited monks 
to build a monastery in his garden, choosing a little group of 
seven men, rugged with the poverty of a nomadic life who 
could be expected to teach Fernandez a proper hatred of the 



The Smith College Monthly L9 

heathen. W'lun the time came for the exercise of* thai ha- 
tred, Sebastian, himself, could teach the means. 

The monks accepted the invitation, and came, carting 

stones. Sebastian watched them build. Their work seem- 
ed as leisurely, though as unremitted as the drifting of 
clouds; their accomplishment as amazing as to find in tin 
passing of minutes, a quiet, eastern cloud-bank lodged quiet- 
ly in the west. They were for the most part silent among 
themselves, but at sunrise and sunset Sebastion heard them 
singing in the manner of monks; while, after vespers, there 
was a young man, with a lyric tenor voice, who walked in the 
garden singing alone. 

Within six months the monastery was completed. It 
faced lengthwise east and west, was of gray stone, low with 
only two stories, having a little peaked roof and seven small 
windows toward the north jutting their poke heads from 
the friars' cells. The whole southern side was devoted to the 
chapel, still unadorned except for a little stream from the 
garden brook, led by Brother Juan to trickle, to drip softly, 
and to bring ferns to the stone altar. Beneath the Brother's 
cells at the eastern end was the refectory with bare, stone- 
paved floor; and over the mantle was the only adornment, if 
it could be called such; a row of seven pewter plates and a 
saucepan. At the northwestern end of the building was a 
room, larger and lighter, with longer windows, having furni- 
ture upholstered in sage green, skins on the floor, and tapes- 
tries covering the cold, gray roughness of the wall. This 
room was built under the personal supervision of Sebastian 
for Fernandez. There the afternoon sun should find the 
boy studying at the carved, dark-wood table with a respectful 
monk to guide and attend. 

With due concern for rank Sebastian had concluded 
that this guide should be the abbott of the monastery and 
it was for him, of course, as the master, to choose that abbott. 
For this reason Sebastian spent some time watching and 
talking to the men in the process of building. There was 
one man in particular whom he liked, the chief mason, a man 
nearly as tall as himself; the massive head was covered with 
a mat of close-curling iron-gray hair, the keen dark eyes 
laughed from a kind, strong, ruddy face, and the hands were 
rough. He said he knew Latin. Vigorous, he would have 



20 



The Smith College Monthly 



made a good soldier; learned enough, not too sour, pious nor 
harsh for a little fellow, this man Sebastian chose for his 
abbott. One day when the actual building was over and the 
men were planting vines at the foot of the walls, Sebastian 
called them to come together into the study. Waiting, he 
stood at the far end of the room; a slim panel of tapestry 
could be seen on either side, but there was no space for the 
wall to be seen above his head. His breeches and boots were 
leather, his long black sword sheath hung from a silver gir- 
dle. Just now returned from an assault against the Moors 
he had thrown off his coat of mail, showing a soft jerkin of 
red velvet, studded with jet. His forehead, entirely visible, 
for the short, black hair lay smooth from the helmet's pres- 
sure, was high and square, the temple bones making angles 
like the corners of an old ivory box. His eyebrows, hardly 
narrowing over the slender, aquiline nose, crossed low above 
eyes as impenetrable as the jet buttons on his jerkin. Tn his 
black moustache and pointed beard there was not a trace of 



gray. 



Through the door at the other end the monks filed in 
and gathered in a cluster against the wall. Sebastian, aglow 
with the sight of fleeing Moors, proud of his report to Ferdi- 
nand, and still feeling pleasantly the swift motion of his 
horse homeward bound, was now to touch upon the very core 
of his pride, the future vitality of it, his son. Briefly he 
announced his intention: that the abbott should teach the 
young Don, and Fra Juan should be abbott. During the 
silence following this announcement the dark figures stirred 
ever so slightly, seemed hardly to move at all, and yet indi- 
cated a semi-circle about one slight, medium-tall man in the 
center. They looked at him and he, from calm gray eyes 
looked at Sebastian. 

"I have been abbott here from the beginning," he said. 
It was the priest of the monastery, Paclre Jiminez, the young 
man with the lvric tenor. 



II. 

"But, Padre, my father fights " 

"Yes — and you, a Gonzalez, must fight, too, if you wish 
to please him. But if you wish also as you have said to be 
a lay brother of our order, you must take this vow of gentle- 



The Smith College Monthly 21 

ness, and when you light you must no! fight with raflCOUT in 
your heart." 

Fernandez was fifteen. The priest, whose brown hair 
was showing silver streaks, whose shoulders stooped a little, 

was surely now two inches shorter than the hoy. 1 1 was sum- 
mer, and they were sitting on a garden bench. Fernandez, 

broad shouldered hut very thin, dressed in doublet and hose 
of pale lavender shot with green, had thrown one leg over the 
bend) in order better to watch his tutor's face. The boy's 
hair, curling slightly, falling to his shoulders, was, in the 
sunlight, blond; but as he rose and paced up the path under 
the shade of the trees it became brown, almost as dark as 
chestnut, and his eyes, as he turned and looked at Jiminez, 
were chestnut too, veiling at times an amber light. The up- 
per part of his fact resembled his father's ; the forehead, high 
and broad! was marked by level brows lighter in color and 
form than Sebastian's. The deep set eyes were, perhaps, a 
little wider than Sebastian's, or possibly it was simply that 
they were not as Sebastian's, framed in darkness. The nose, 
narrow and aquiline, was more delicate, nor were the lips as 
thin, yet firmly enough molded for a young mouth. Already 
a brown silk had gathered on the upper lip, dropped at the 
corners, and shadow-like crept from the rounded angle of the 
jaw forward to strengthen and darken a chin which was 
still a little too soft and white. 

This afternoon Fernandez had for the first time ques- 
tioned the teachings of the padre. Could one be gentle and 
still fight? Was it possible to be at once a warrior, as his 
father said within a few years he must be, and at the same 
time a lay brother of gentleness? The question was for him 
more than this: it was whom did he love most and whom 
should he follow? That huge, dark man who owned and 
ruled this place, who came and went swiftly, whom he called 
father, and who looked at him with kindness, though he won- 
dered if not now more often nervously ; that man who meant 
trumpets and banners, horses and the obeisance of troops, 
victory, and the commendation of monarchs? Or should he 
follow this little man in the sombre cassock, who sat there 
quietly on the bench with his head back against the tree, 
watching him with still gray eyes? Fernandez could re- 
member when he was a little boy, perplexed about something, 



22 The Smith College Monthly 

perhaps only Latin verbs, how Padre would smile gently 
and pat his head. Later Fernandez remembered, now with 
some distress, how he had hidden his head in the lap of the 
gray cassock and wept — he did not always know why. Pa- 
dre meant quiet voices, living in a garden, stillness, and sing- 
ing at vespers. 

"So, Padre, I can kill Moors and still be gentle can 
I?" The soft mouth betrayed the suggestion of a curl. 

"A life, my son, of gentleness in action and in spirit is 
that, you know, at which we brothers aim. But you are a 
Gonzalez trusted to me for only a little while and I cannot 
betray that trust by advocating for you all we brothers love. 
Still, at present, if you feel so disposed, I see no reason why 
you should not undertake the oath of gentleness of spirit. 
And after a little while, if you to any measure arrive at this, 
you will see how necessarily the spirit rules the deed." And 
then Fernandez by the garden bench halfway between the 
huge pile of his father's house and the miniature gray, green- 
clad chapel walls took the vow. 

That same year when Fernandez was still fifteen, Sebas- 
tian came riding back nob alone. He had on his saddle with 
him a little girl. Laughing, he lifted her down; she smiled, 
not at all afraid, but only very weary and half asleep. Her 
black eyes closed as she put tiny white hands around Sebas- 
tian's neck, and her little head, hidden in dark curls, fell on 
his broad, velvet shoulder. He carried her in and laid her 
on a couch, calling for maids ; but first he called Fernandez 
saying, "See what I have for you, D' Alvarez's daughter. 
The Moors got him this time and he left her to me. She's 
worthy of you, a little later." Fernandez looked up from 
the child to Sebastian and then off to the window. He want- 
ed to be with Padre Jiminez. 

Four years passed much in the same way. Sebastian 
came and went, from the battlefield, home, to the court ; and 
now when he w r as at home he taught Fernandez sword-play, 
fencing, jousting, rode with him and watched his riding. 
The older man was showing more nervousness now, tugged 
fitfully at his graying moustache, grew sometimes very im- 
patient ; and then at times pleaded fondly, almost tearfully. 
Indeed the boy did everything passing well; he tried hard, 
for he loved his father and admired him greatly. He was 



The Smith College Monthly 28 

himself dismayed and discouraged. Bui Sebastian never 
said what was the matter, only looked in vain, silently for the 
fire thai made warriors of Gonzalez. 

Then Sebastian went away for a long time to the far 
south, for the Moors were retreating. He would not return 
perhaps for two years. Fernandez had hoped, to please his 
lather, that he might go too; hut Sebastian shook his head, 
and said almost sneeringly, "1 would not have you killed. I 
have told the Padre to marry you— when you are ready." 
With no more kindness he rode away. Nor did Fernandez 
have any way of knowing that the older heart was almost as 
sore as his own. 

A few months more elapsed. Fernandez had said noth- 
ing to the padre nor the padre to Fernandez about the mar- 
riage. One morning at sunrise Fernandez rose purposely 
to meet the priest in his walk before matins. They came to- 
gether on the rose path ; Fernandez paused, bent down. 

"See, Padre; cool, close, with the dew on it. No doubt 
later in the day a heavier perfume and a wider bloom. But, 
Padre, I would not hasten the sun." The priest strolled on 
to the chapel door and turned from under the vines to Fer- 
nandez standing in the path. 

"Another year if you like, but your father will not be 
pleased." 

And Maria thought: how strong he was, Fernandez, 
how tall and beautiful to look at, with a veiled SMnlight about 
him. But his eyes had a strange solemnity in them, and 
sometimes when he lifted her, playing, she felt his arms 
tremble. 

Before the promised time was over Sebastian returned; 
a strained ligament had stiffened in his leg, so that he could 
not ride so well. He would go home for a time till it grew 
better. For a day after his return he said little, even upon 
hearing of the postponement of the marriage; but he was 
restless and morose, seemed to be pondering something. 
Then on the second day he gave his sword to Fernandez. 

"Go, take my place." And after Fernandez had rid- 
den away he called a servant. "Where is the senorita? In 
the garden, yes — with the padre. Send them to me." 

III. 

The war was over; after seven centuries the Moors at 






24 The Smith College Monthly 

last had fled and Fernandez had led troops in the last victory 
and long pursuit. Worthy of a Christian gentleman and of 
Gonzalez, the King had said. His father would be pleased 
— "worthy of 'Gonzalez." Xow he was riding home. Soon 
he would see Maria, would see her surely tonight, Christmas 
Eve; and perhaps tomorrow, Christmas day, Padre would 
marry them, dear old padre. Then surely all would be hap- 
py. His father would have everything he asked. And he, 
Fernandez — his heart was so light sometimes that he could 
not feel it beating and at other times it pounded like his 
horse's hoofs; a capricious action, after its surprising steadi- 
ness during a year of war. 

It was less than an hour from midnight when Fernandez 
reached the crest of the hill and looked down upon the castle 
of Gonzalez, piled a short ride below upon the slope. The 
round, high moon, in full sail on a wide ocean, billowed and 
raced as Fernandez fixed his eyes upon it, and gave free rein 
to his horse. The horse left the road and galloped across 
the fields. At the garden gate Fernandez leapt from his 
back and up the broad steps, through the dark hall, into the 
long, dimly-lit room where surely his father would be just 
before going to the chapel. 

Fernandez stood still, listened; there was no sound but 
the echo of his own steps, nothing moving but the flickering 
shadows of candle light. He turned to go out, to call for his 
father when one of the shadows came toward him, nearer — 
Padre Jiminez ! Ferdinand lifted him high in his arms, held 
him and put him down. But Padre did not smile ; and seeing 
the priest's face, laughter left Fernandez. Padre spoke in a 
low voice. "You came? Yes — through the garden. Your 
father must have seen you; he is there." Fernandez turned. 

"Wait. There is born tonight a son to Sebastian and 
Maria." Fernandez waited to hear no more. 

As the Padre stood at the window looking into the gar- 
den he saw slender flashing lines, like wires, playing crazily 
in the moonlight. They seemed, he thought, like a nervous 
cluster of golden splinters. But he must go, for the brothers 
were tolling the bell for midnight mass. 

And Fernandez felt nothing but his own eyes, wide 
streaming a white light that glanced along the blade and con- 
densed at his rapier point. Far, far away for a moment he 



The Smith College Monthly 25 

though! he heard music, men's voices singing, and dreamlike 
through his mind there passed the ghosl <>r s vow of gentle- 
ness. He Paltered, only an instant, and fell something cold 
deep in his side. Then swiftly again he pressed thai demonaic 
darkness opposite. Again the music. They were singing 
Venite Adoremns. Fools, Fools. He fell thai he must 
hurry, knew they had forgotten. Surely, keenly, he thrust 
home. 

In another moment he was striding down the hall to 
Maria's room; there it was, a white bundle in the basket. 
Taking the bundle in his arms he went out, and glimpsed 
as he passed a pale, small face wreathed in blackness, resting 
on white. Hie eyes he thought were closed, but he could not 
stop to see. Down the rose path toward the bench he went 
at a pace halfway between walk and run ; almost unconscious- 
ly he was being careful, conserving something. Here at the 
bench, always before, as he went into chapel, he left his rap- 
ier, and always he leaned over to rest the rapier the more 
gently on the ground. But now he wanted very much to 
keep his head high, to stiffen his neck that seemed to let it 
sway a little; and he was of course in a hurry. He let his 
rapier fall as he passed. 

Ah, he was in time. The brothers were still walking 
slowly down the wide path to the chapel door, singing in joy 
and triumph, Venite Adoremns. Fernandez rushed ahead 
of them, went up the aisle into the chancel, and taking the 
little wooden doll from the crib put the baby in. In doing 
so he had seen black down on the tiny head, and thought as 
he turned to his seat — Black, it is better; my father will be 
pleased. 

The mass began, went on. Fernandez followed with 
precision, but mechanically, while the contusion in his head 
increased. He had reached there in time; that was clear; 
without him the brothers would have forgotten the child, 
would have gone on singing Venite Adoremns. But what 
had happened before out there in the garden was tangled. 
Someone had been killed he knew, and he Fernandez had 
killed him. That man, taller than he, much darker, whose 
eyes now he remembered had not been angry, kind rather, 
not at all displeased, had fought with him well, but not fierce- 
ly as surely he might have fought. That place in Fernan- 



26 The Smith College Monthly 

dez's side, cold at first, now burning, Fernandez knew had 
come there only because for a moment, on hearing the music 
he had let down his defense. Then, because of the music, 
because he knew the child had been forgotten, Fernandez 
had finished quickly. The man had fallen before him; and 
Fernandez with the child had reached here in time, yes in 
time. But Fernandez's mind was clouded with dense, rac- 
ing clouds, hiding the knowledge of who that man could be. 

Now Padre Jiminez was talking, something about three 
people: Jesu, Maria, Jose. Three people, Jesu in the 
manger; of course Fernandez knew that. And Maria, lying 
so still, the pale face, the black hair resting on white. Xow 
he knew that the eyes must have been closed, for he would 
have felt them if they had been open. Jesu in the manger; 
he, Fernandez had put him there. Maria, surrounded with 
white and stillness, sleeping. Jose? — Jose! — The clouds 
broke, raced away. Jose, the dark beard turning silver, the 
kind, black eyes. Jose was the man in the garden ! 

But now the clouds had fled only to leave a terrific wind, 
whistling, roaring. That man Jose had been killed in the 
garden: Fernandez had killed him: the depth of the stroke, 
the sudden fall could admit no doubt. But Jesu, Maria. 
Jose; Fernandez had heard of them often. Padre Jiminez 
had told him all about them — all. And Fernandez could not 
remember Padre Jiminez telling of Jose killed. But Fer- 
nandez had killed him, just now in the garden. Oh, that wind! 
It was tearing things, sweeping everything away; it had now 
a rending, grinding sound. Padre Jiminez was talking, re- 
peating over and over again Jesu, Maria, Jose. Jesu in the 
manger, Maria sleeping, Jose in the garden. Jesu, Maria, 
Jose. Three. There were only three. Fernandez? But 
there was no fourth. Fernandez — oh, the peace, the quiet- 
ness of a cleared Iky, and a fallen wind, — Fernandez did not 
exist at all. 



The Smith College Monthly 27 



THE AMERICAN SPIRIT 

Marc i a Lixcoi N 



IS there such a thing as an American spirit? One need 
only go abroad to find cartoons, stories and eloquent 
j&JSSl shrugs to tell that an American is passing by. One cnn 
pick them out anywhere, "les Americains," and by their ac- 
tions ye shall know them in Europe, Asia or on the high seas. 

In spite of its many manifestations the American spirit 
is hard to define. If there is one word that can describe it 
it is exaggeration. The reasons for it lie not far afield. The 
physical features of our country explain a great deal. The 
scale is one of vastness, of something unworn and still glist- 
ening in the freshness of its paint. There are the Rocky 
Mountains, great arid stretches of desert, the grand canyon, 
broad fields of wheat, the great oceans bathing our shores — 
all limitless, untamed as yet defying man's efforts to wear 
it out. Europe on the other hand is just the size of our coun- 
try, has been a pathway, a home and a battlefield for cen- 
turies. It is old and moves forward always with a finger on 
the pulse of tradition. The outlook there is different, mel- 
lowed and subdued; suavite and finesse as to details mark 
greatness of achievement rather than size and noise. How 
different from our country, so recently outgrown the pion- 
eer and frontier days. The vastness of our enterprises is 
measured in the vastness of nature. The extravagant color 
of our speech reflects that of the lakes, the skies and the 
mountains. The celerity and ruthlessness of our actions re- 
semble those of our forefathers when they found themselves 
face to face with a world defying their codes and creeds. 
The foundations of our life were ordered by these things. 
There was so much waterpower, such rich soil, an intelligent 
lake force, boundless natural resources and shrewd men who 
could weld these factors into organs of enormous produc- 
tivity. Necessity fathered invention. It developed a finer 
business technique, a machine so vast that it governs our 
lives while we pretend to keep a hand on an illusory brake. 

Not less important in explaining this spirit is our phys- 



28 The Smith College Monthly 

iological heritage. This country was settled by radicals, men 
whose ambitions represented exaggerated ideas as to the sig- 
nificance of freedom to follow their God and their fortunes. 
The generations of immigrants were of the same stamp, see- 
ing in the undeveloped West a chance to follow where their 
ability led and such unrestricted competition for success 
accelerated the pace of life. Into such an environment their 
children were born — perhaps peculiarly fitted for such an 
atmosphere and therefore exaggerating rather than modify- 
ing it. 

How does it express itself? Superficially one sees it in 
the newspapers. Endless pictures, pink paper and lurid 
type clothe a style entirely lacking in reserve or moderation, 
fit only for such a thrill-chasing, childishly minded, childishly 
energetic people as we. Tremendous, highly colored, ex- 
travagantly worded billboards line the roads over which 
race the American and his family of a Sunday. Bluff, noisy 
congeniality distinguishes our relationships. Exhaustive back- 
slapping and Rotarian "wildness" hide our lack of subtlety 
and the finer sensibilities. The hotels are horrors of marble, 
velvet and gilt luxuriousness, as are our theatres. Stage 
beauties are covered with feathers and rhinestones, while the 
music accompanying them was invented to scare away mos- 
quitos in an African jungle. The trains go faster than any- 
where in the world, carrying club cars and bath tubs. On ar- 
riving at their destination the passenger leaps into a subway 
or a taxicab and is again hurtled through space for what pur- 
pose no one knows. 

These are the surface aspects of this exaggerative tend- 
ency of ours, but its effects go deeper into the fundamentals 
of our lives. In what other occidental country do ideas be- 
come obsessions and ride mankind? Nowhere in the West, 
for instance, is religious fervour capable of going to such 
extremes. The Dunkards and the Mennonites of the South, 
the Mormons of the West, and all over the country there are 
thousands of variations on the inscrutable, ranging from the 
sublime to the ridiculous. There is no time for philosophy 
or meditation as this is a land of radicals, of Chatauqua re- 
forming, of blind adherence to the written word and the 
printed page. Where else could the Scopes trial have been 
enacted or William Jennings Bryan flourished? The solemn 



The Smith College Monthly 20 

setting aside of the laws of the universe by a group of em- 
inenl truck farmers would be amusing if if were not pitiful. 
Joshua's descendants are numerous over here. Akin to tins 
is the amazing strength of the Ku Klux K Inn, another sur- 
vival of frontier philosophy and method. Pounded on fal- 
lacy, it is pursued with an efficiency endangering the princi- 
ples on which this country was founded. It has widened 
into a racial as well as religious cause, and is now an effort 
on the part of provincials of one race to exterminate another, 
root and branch, fool, artisan and genius. 

The spirit has affected our schools. An exaggerated 
idea of the value of time, efficiency and equipment has re- 
sulted in a regimentation of education, a veritable victory of 
the Lilliputians. Professors now sit in their offices behind 
fireproof desks and files, dictating crisp, unintelligible letters 
to a blonde transmitter. Students are rushed through four 
years of so many lectures, so many quizzes, and so many late 
periods and land on the head or feet at the bottom of the 
shute with the world reeling before their eyes. If they can 
talk and write English they are to be congratulated on their 
native resilience, but there is little use in looking for more 
than one man in a hundred who can put his mind to whatever 
problem he may encounter. The rest grow fat, join coun- 
try clubs and journey incredible distances once a year to see 
Harvard play Yale, on which occasion there is enough of a 
crowd, enough color and enough noise to impress him. 

This spirit has its good points, of course. It has result- 
ed in a mania for experts except in the field of politics where 
to represent the medium I. Q. of one's community is to court 
success. No man is entrusted with a typewriter until he has 
had at least six months at a business school. Banking and 
accounting are molded into pills and placed within the reach 
of every embryo capitalist. Every cow in a real dairy can 
rest assured that she is under the care of a man who can draw 
very good pictures of her processes of digestion at a moment's 
notice. Mud, potatoes and drains occupy four years' time 
of the serious minded young farmer. All this results in effi- 
ciency and in lowering the cost of production — also in raising 
the standard of living and education. It has one awful effect 
though — the feeding of the great vice of conformity. Gen- 
iuses in this country are geniuses at the risk of life and limb. 



30 The Smith College Monthly 

New ideas lead a hard life between the Bible and Main 
Street. There are more Fords, more country clubs, and more 
overweights here than anywhere else in the world. But 
where are we? 



ICE STORM 

(December 29, 1926) 



Barbara Simison 



Don't you 

Step into a China Shop 

To ask today 

For a crystal bowl, 

But step you 

Into the winter's street 

To see today 

A crystal world 

Crackling to pieces 

Before your eyes ; 

Not, 'tis true, a crystal bowl — 

Less lasting, perhaps, 

More beautiful. 






The Smith College Monthly 81 



THE STEEPLE-JACK 

Anne L. Basingeb 



[7J1ENTLEMAN, I was dumbfounded! Yes, I see why 
|yj[ you are forced to hold an enquiry, and I don't know 
WWII how 1 can make you believe any of this fait it is true. 
Yet now, thinking back, I suppose he was aiming for one 
thing all the time, from the very hour of his going to the 
hospital ; and the idea stuck like a burr. He must have had 
it all planned by the time he recovered. 

I met him first years ago, when only a few sporting men 
knew him. He was a steeple- jack then, but the job didn't 
mean what it does now. Work on church-steeples, yes; and 
gilding domes, and things of that sort. One da} r I was in a 
saloon, and a friend of mine came in w ith a young chap to 
introduce. "Jerry, meet Monty Roche," he said. "Monty, 
meet the famous sports promoter, Jerry Runckle. You may 
be useful to one another sometime," he said. 

I looked him over to see how he might be useful, and saw 
a slim-jim figure standing very relaxed and cool. His arms 
were gorilla-length, with tremendous hands. "What should 
you be?" I asked, trying to place him. 

"Why, I'm a steeple- jack," he said. 

"Pleased to meet you," I said, wondering what use it 
was for me to know a steeple- jack. 

"Monty is finishing off that new office-building down 
town, and putting the flag on it," my friend said, "and I 
want you should see it. Tomorrow afternoon at three." 

I went to see him do it next day, gentlemen; and from 
that time on I knew that Monty was a great chance for 
sportsmen. It was his face had fooled me at first. He had 
curly, close-cut yellow hair and bright blue eyes; and his 
skin was pink. He seemed like a girl somehow, when you 
first met him. But I am telling you, it was a treat to watch 
him do his work! Now, I don't suppose most of you gentle- 
men ever took the chance to see him, so vou won't understand. 



32 



The Smith College Monthly 



Jiut when he started up a building, he was just as sure as a 
fiy on the wall; and as pretty in his movements as a eat, 
dainty and springy with his hands and feet. He looked as 
it' he just loved to feel himself move; and that is one sign of 
a good athlete. When he had hung the flag from the pole 
upon top of the steel frame, he turned around and looked 
away down to where we stood gaping in the street, and took 
off his hat and waved it at us. The sun was shining on his 
hair, and the wind blowing his shirt flat against his ehest so 
you could see his figure very clear; and the crowd gave a 
great shout for him. 

I got so that I always went to see him do his big stunts ; 
and soon the sportsmen began to have their wagers as to 
whether he would get away with it. He was famous around 
here within five years from the time that I met him. So it 
was a surprise to me when he came and said he was retiring. 
'What for?" I asked. "Can't be you are losing your 
nerve? 

"Hell, no," responded Monty, and shot me a glance. 
He looked miserable. 

"Out with it," I snapped. "What is on vour mind, 
then?" 

"Well, you see, Jerry," confided Monty, "I am getting 
married. And it seems that Mary can't bear to have me 
steeple- jacking any more. In fact, she has made me prom- 
ise to stop." 

I was sorry, but I couldn't argue him out of it; so we 
shook hands and parted. 

Now it happened that several years passed before I ran 
into Monty Roche again one night in a restaurant. We sat 
down together and talked of old times. 

"Monty," I said, "What are you doing nowadays? We 
never see you at all any more." 

"Jerry," he said, "I am a clerk in a bank." 

I stared at him. He was the same Monty as ever but 
he wasn't relaxed any longer. !\ T o, I think he looked strung 
as ti«:ht as a fiddle; and he had got a way with him of twist- 
ing his long hands, one inside of the other, playing off the 



The Smith College Monthly 88 

strength of Left on right until the muscles bulged under his 
coat-sleeve all the way up his lore-arm. 

"Is it a good business?' 1 1 asked, being abashed by his 
silence, what with his twisting his hands that way. "What 
about Mary? Tell me all about things." 

"Why," said he, staring glumly at the table, "It is a 
steady business. Same salary all the time, unless you are 
good enough to have them add an extra dime to it every once 
in a while. Sundays, 1 shove the baby-carriage up to the 
park, and we sit and look at the animals in the cages." 

"Go to games much? Seen any fights? Cleaned up 
any on the track lately?" 

He didn't hear, as far as I could see. Presently he 
said, "Where were you yesterday at twelve o'clock?" 

I thought; and, "Why, sure enough," I cried cheerily, 
"I was down town watching Buck do some tricks all over the 
side of the sky-scrapers there. Don't tell me you were 
watching?" 

"Yeh," he said. "I didn't mean to, but my bank is 
right across the way from where he was; and on my way 
out for lunch, I saw a great mob. And not being able to 
worm my way over to Child's then, I watched too." He 
wrung his hands till the knuckles fairly cracked. "Did you 
ever see such a bungler?" he groaned. 

"Monty," said I solemnly. "There has been no steeple- 
jack or human-fly since you that could look as if he was danc- 
ing up the side of a building. Nobody else could touch 
you," said I, and meant it. 

"Yeh, I think so too," he admitted. 

"Monty," said I, hopefully, "Does your wife still feel 
so bad about it? Don't you s'pose she would let you come 
back now?" 

"No!" he cried, "No!" 

"Why not try?" I insisted. "What's the use in ruining 
yourself in a bank when you can clean up as much in a day 
with one srood stunt as you do in a year now? Besides, I 
should think you would consider the public." 

Neither of those arguments made any impression, gen- 
tlemen, but I continued to talk about the old davs when he 



IU 



The Smith College Monthly 



used to be steeple- jack and human fly until he looked home- 
sick. And I found it wasn't so much the quick money or the 
crowd watching him that he wanted as the crowd and the 
danger. So I kept on talking hopefully; and the end of it 
was that Monty came back incognito, not telling Mrs. Roche 
anything about it. Every once in so often we would give a 
little exhibition of human-fly stunts; and the big contractors, 
running up a tower or sky-scraper, all tried to get him to do 
the dangerous work because he was so sure. 

So we come to the time, about a year ago, when Monty 
met a slippery spot on a steel girder one day, and plunged. 
He was safe, all right ; but he got some ribs and a leg broken. 
There must have been eight thousand people standing un- 
derneath when it happened so there was no such thing as 
keeping the story hushed up. They took him in an ambul- 
ance to the hospital, and I followed to see what I could do. 
The minute he came down from the operating room, Monty 
opened his eyes and fixed them on me. 

"Jerry," he said, "I have it thought out. Go telephone 
my wife that I am being sent on a business-trip to California, 
and can't go home before starting. Say anything. Don't 
let her know what is wrong." 

That put a big responsibility on me. My nerves were 
shaken at seeing Monty plunge, and besides, I didn't know 
what Mrs. Roche might say if she guessed. But I made up 
a speech, and telephoned according to orders. 

Gentlemen, when I started the story, she knew! I 
can't tell you how. I heard her gasp for breath as if she had 
been on a race, and then say with a gulp, "Oh, don't lie to 
me. He is hurt, isn't he? He has had a fall. Who are 
you, man? I have got to know. Where is Monty? Don't 
dare lie; you can't fool me; I will find out sooner or later 
anyway." 

I thought very fast; and I said, "Why — yes. I mean, he 
has had an accident, and he is in a hospital; but it is only a 
broken bone; 1 swear it." Then I said, "Now, lady, I am a 
friend of Monty's; and I want to tell you, what he needs is 
rest. If there is anything I can do — " 

"Where?" she wanted to know. I said, "If I tell you, 
will you promise not to see him tonight?" 

She promised then, and I told her. So next she said. 



The Smith College Monthly 85 

"Bill if 1 come down, will von see me, and tell me all about 

it?" 

1 told her 1 would ; bul I wanted to die first. I [owever, 

she came. She was a delicate little woman with fluffy dark 
hair; and she was very seared. 1 caift say how it happened. 
gentlemen, hut she got under my story in any time; and then 
she knew 1 was a sportsman. 

"Oh," she cried reproachfully, "And you say you are 
his friend!" 

"But. lady, he likes it better than anything," I argued. 

"Suppose he should kill himself," she breathed. 

"Now, look here; don't suppose any such thing." 

She turned on me like a little tiger. "What about to- 
day?" she demanded. "It was only a matter of ehanee that 
he wasn't 'killed today." 

"See here," I said desperately. "Have you ever watch- 
ed him climb?" The same question I want to ask you, gen- 
tlemen. 

"Heaven forbid," she groaned. "How do any of you 
dare watch?" she cried out wildly. 

"Wait a minute, lady," I argued. "If you could only 
understand! He does it so fast and sure: he — he does it as 
if he isn't at home on level ground." You see, I was trying 
to make her understand, just as I am you, gentlemen. So 
1 said, "He does it the way a champion wins a big fight." 
But she didn't get it even then, so I made one more try. 
"He does it," I said, "as if he's a friend of the sky; and finds 
it cozier there than anywhere else. He acts as if nothing 
else matters to him." 

"Yes," she said then, and stopped; and she was so much 
more unhappy than before that I could have bitten my 
tongue out for saying what 1 had. "Yes," she repeated, 
"that is so. Nothing else matters to him. Xot even me or 
his children. He promised when we married — but then, he 
doesn't love us enough to keep the promise. He only wants 
to be back again, playing with danger in the sky." 

"That ain't fair," I argued. "He is earning money for 
you and the kids. Why, he can earn more in one good stunt 
than in a year at the bank." 

"What do I care about money? Besides, if he would 



36 The Smith College Monthly 

only wait, he could earn more, banking, all the time. More 
and more/' 

"Yes r and what life is that for a man?" I asked. "When 
he might be up there doing" things nobody else can do — it's 
a crime not to." 

At that the frail little thing came up to me and stared 
hard into my eyes, and whispered with her fists clenched, "I 
hate you! I will fight you to the last breath." And she 
walked out. 

Now, I was worried about what he would have to go 
through when she saw him; and I came to visit him just after 
she left next day, not knowing what I would find. His face 
was white, and pinched about the nostrils; and he shook all 
over. I forced myself to grin like a fool, and I said, "Did 
she eat you alive?" 

"No," was all he answered. 

"What?" I gasped. 

"Nothing," he said in a hollow whisper. 

I was abashed, and I shuffled my feet there by the bed 
till he commanded, "Sit down and talk." 

There is nothing harder to do than to talk when you are 
told to by a man who won't listen anyway, no matter what is 
said. I was finally taken silent, and was about to pick up 
my hat when he asked me a question. 

"Am I a coward?" he inquired. 

I laughed ,and I was mighty relieved. "No, whatever 
you may be, you are no coward," I assured him. But since 
it appeared he was not joking as I had first thought, I added, 
"You may be feeling shaken up after that tumble, Monty. 
But — coward? The last thing in the world. Maybe you 
should spend a bit of time quieting your nerves after this; 
keep on the good old ground." 

"No!" he shouted, feverishly. "I want to be back 
again. There is nothing like it — the space on all six sides, 
the sky, and wind, and just next to nothing between you and 
the fall. And the tall buildings dwindling away at the bot- 
tom. And people shouting — but far enough away to be just 
a blob. They never catch you, up there." 

I left him early that afternoon thinking to myself, "He 
needs a rest." Left him with too much time to plan. 

Three days later he came out with an idea "Look," 



The Smith College Monthly *i7 

lie said. "How about having a celebration of my getting 
w'cl 1 ^ 1 will be all right within a year." 

"How?" I asked, 

"Wewillhavea race," he suggested. "By that time the 
new Trumper building will he done most the highest in 
Manhattan; and yon can pick a man to race me to the top 
and hack to put the (lag up. First man down wins." 

There it was the plan. Yon know, gentlemen, how 
the idea caught; and I reckon the whole city was interested. 
Monty was as gay as a bird, lie made a lot of bets himself 
—stood to win a fortune of forty thousand or so by that race. 
1 staked a good deal myself. It was a fair sporting event. 

And that is all, gentlemen. You know how he went. 
Hut he didn't slip, like some say, nor did he jump. He dove. 
Yes, he dove from the top of the tower right into the street; 
and his hands were at his sides, so he gave himself, headfirst, 
to the air. I had never seen him dive, gentlemen. It was 
a perfect header; and he shot like a white streak into the 
street below as if he expected the earth to open a hole right 
through to the sky on the other side again. But that wasn't 
what he expected, gentlemen. I can see how he thought it 
out, and planned it; planned the money he would win by 
reaching the ground first; planned to have one more climb 
and finish. I reckon he wouldn't have done it if she — his 
wife — had not been Avhat she was — violent, though so little 
and helpless; pleading, even when she remained silent. In a 
corner, he knew he couldn't face her, and he knew he couldn't 
give up his game like a man. He wasn't human enough for 
her, I suppose; he ought to have been a bird. He didn't 
dare live on the earth. 



38 



The Smith College Monthly 



EXISTENCE 

Frances Robinson 



The Days repeat themselves, unsummoned come, unbidden 



go away 



And each one singly passes, a display 
Of newer splendor, — Slaves 
Advancing to the throne on sandaled feet, 
They bring their gifts and silently retreat. 

And still the Days pass by, and treasures bring, 

Still larger and more real, 

But stealthily, with skillful hands, they steal 

Small, priceless ones. At last, 

Through this, their treachery, the throne must fall. 

They come, they conquer, and take all. 






The Smith College Monthly 89 



THE STRANGEB 

Margaret Hoening 



|j^|II E greal five o'clock rush of commuters From New 
[V^/ York to New Jersey was over, and il was only a thin 
iSSIjjjjSl trickle of humanity which poured onto the five-thirty 
ferry boat. Most of them wore a look of having worked over- 
time, and remained in the cabin with a weary air of being 
glad to sit down. Out front there were only two people, a 
man and a boy. The boy leaned on the rail and looked ab- 
sently out over the harbor; the pleasant tingle of the after- 
noon's ball-game was still in his muscles, and his mind dwelt 
with vague pleasure on a particularly successful pass. The 
man, too, leaned on the rail and looked out over the dusky 
harbor, but with a certain air of alertness, as if his day's work 
had not yet begun. 

There was a shrill toot, a rumble and grinding of mach- 
inery underfoot, and the engine settled into the long steady 
throbbing motion so indefinably dear to the heart of the com- 
muter. The ferry slid out of her slip into the open harbor. 
Presently the engine stopped. A freighter, outward bound, 
her lights showing pale in the clear green twilight, was cross- 
ing her path. She passed so near that the men on her light- 
ed decks were plainly visible. They raised a halloo as they 
passed, and the two on the ferry, by a common impulse, 
waved and shouted back. 

"Lucky bums — " said the boy. 

"Right-o," said the man. "My ship sails, too, tonight." 

The boy turned to look at him with interest. He did 
not look like a seafaring man. He wore an overcoat under 
which protruded legs in tweed trousers and feet in worn 
sport-shoes. On his head he had a soft hat which gave him 
a certain flair, not so much by any eccentricity in its shape, 
as by the way in which it was worn. No hint of a uniform 
anywhere. As if to aid the scrutiny, the man at this point 
struck a match to light the pipe he had for some minutes been 
packing. Once, as he puffed at it, he raised his eyes from the 
flame his hands were guarding to look at the boy. In the 



40 The Smith College Monthly 

fiame-lit face, his eyes were very dark and shiny, and nar- 
rowed as if with amusement. The match went out. It was 
fast becoming darker. He took a few quick puffs to make 
sure that his pipe was drawing. Then, with his eyes still 
narrowed, he said, "Do you want to come along?" 

"Sure," the boy answered, grinning. 

"I'm not fooling. I mean it. Do you?" asked the other 
with sudden intensity. The boy peered through the gloom 
at him, trying in the uncertain light to make out his ex- 
pression. 

"Why. I— I couldn't"— he faltered. 

"Why not?" asked the man, "I was sixteen when I ran 
away to sea — ran away from college to do it — " He pulled 
at his pipe, then — "What are you aiming to do with your life, 
anyway?" he asked. 

"Go into wholesale hardware like Dad, I guess." 

"A-ah — . Very keen on wholesale hardware, are you?" 
It was too dark to see the stranger's face now, and the boy 
was too much in earnest to wonder whether he was poking 
fun at him or not. 

"No, of course not," he blurted out, "but there isn't any- 
thing else to do, is there? And — and — it'll do as well as any- 
thing else, I dare say." 

"There's always something else to do," said the man. 
"There's a job, now, that I can get you on our boat — we're 
short-handed and the chief ofricer'll take you on if I vouch 
for you. How about it? We sail at midnight I'm taking 
the 10:27 train down to the docks." 

Everything about the boy became suddenly very vivid. 
The harbor with the light almost withdrawn, the horsey smell 
of the ferry, the whiffs of smoke blown across his face from 
the stranger's pipe. Most vivid of all was the great black 
bow of a ship anchored in mid-harbor. They were passing 
close under it, and it rose and fell ever so gently on the swell 
made by the ferry. High up, a lantern was hung, and there 
came the faint creak of a chain. 

"No kidding?" he asked, his eyes still on that inky prow. 
Above the throb of the ferry's engine, he could hear a man 
calling something to another, away up there, and see his dark 
form. But he could not hear what he called. 

"Look here," said the stranger, "if you'll be in the wait- 



The Smith College Monthly i I 

ing-room of the D. L. S. \V. before i o :27, with a few clothes 
and a little money, I'll be (lure and we'll g<>. Hul-lo, are 
we there?" for the ferry was nosing her way into the slip. 

They had a hand-clasp on it, the stranger smiling a lit- 
tle, though whether at himself, or the boy, or the universe, 
was not apparent. Then the boy bolted up llir street. 
Once he carried his hand to his month, and it was strong 
with the reek of the stranger's tobacco. 

* * # # 

At his paternal door, he was greeted by the maid, who 
said: "Mr. Frank, they've gone into dinner and you're to go 
in as soon as ever you come." 

Frank Hew upstairs to wash; as he soaped his hands, he 
found himself wondering how he would wash the following 
night. Slowly lost in thought, he soaped them over and over 
till the lather grew stiff and pasty. "Frank," came his moth- 
er's voice, "are you coming?" 

The maid was passing second helpings when he entered. 
His father glanced up at him in annoyance. 

"Did you have a nice game?" asked his mother. 

"Yes — ■" then with the uneasy feeling she always gave 
him of having to excuse his every action, he lied: "We tied, 
so we played on to a decision. That's why I was late." 

His mother, feeling her duty done by one member of the 
family, turned to her husband. 

"What are you doing tonight, Charles?" 

"Mason's" — he answered laconically, holding a fork 
packed with peas and mashed potato suspended in mid-air. 
Frank, looking at him, was startled by a sudden thought. 
"In a few years I may be like that!" It had never occurred 
to him before. One didn't think of middle-aged people, 
somehow, in terms of oneself. Father, of course, often said, 
"When I was a boy" — but one didn't quite believe him. 
Frank had a vision of his father, a straight youngster like 
himself. There was an old picture of him in rowing togs. 
He must have become that way very gradually, comfort 
slowly stealing his uprightness and alertness away. Frank 
sat in fascinated horror, looking at that face bowed over the 
table, the dull eyes fixed on the plate, the flabby cheeks mov- 
ing to the rhythm of his chewing. Terror gripped him. He 
straightened his shoulders. "I won't be like that!" the 



4.2 The Smith College Monthly 

thought went shouting through his head. He felt everyone 
in the room must have heard it. Embarrassed, he looked at 
his mother. She was placidly cutting her chop. 

After dinner, on his way to his room, he stumbled over 
a crate. It was labeled "Handle with Care," and came from 
the Remington Rifle Co. So they had bought him the rifle 
he had been begging for, for his birthday! And now he didn't 
want it. He felt ashamed, and a little sorry, as if he had 
done something to hurt their feelings. 

Alone in his room, he began making a pack: tooth-brush, 
socks, shirts — A footstep in the hall — He picked up the 
things and pitched them into the closet, shut the closet door, 
bounded to his desk, opened a book. His heart thumped in 
his throat as the footsteps passed by and died away down the 
hall. With unsteady hands he started packing once more. 
The house was very still. He found himself listening to the 
sounds of his own movements. The stealthy opening and 
shutting to of drawers, the occasional creak of boards as he 
walked across the floor. Once he sat down on the bed to 
consider what else he should pack, and he could hear his 
mother moving about in the room below. His hand rested 
on the blanket on his bed. As if he had touched everything 
familiar in that, he was seized with a sudden terror of leaving 
it all. His bed never to be slept in again, the familiar books 
never to be carried to school — (almost subconsciously he be- 
gan to worry over the homework he had not done for the next 
day). Outside it was striking nine. He heard his mother, 
with her customary promptness, coming up the stairs. He 
sat down at his desk before the opened book, the blood beat- 
ing wildly in his throat. 

"You won't stay up much later, Frank, dear?" 

She turned down his bed, laid out his pyjamas, and left. 
Frank stared at the bed. They would find it just like that 
the next morning — unslept in, with his pyjamas neatly fold- 
ed on the . pillow. The thought filled him with a sort of 
panic. 

He decided that it might be well to slip out early, before 
his father came home. He tied up his parcel, put on his 
overcoat, slipped out of his shoes. Then cautiously he opened 
the door, started downstairs, stopping to listen on every 
step for a sound from his mother's room. Down another 



The Smith College Monthly 48 

Bight, and he stood in the dark narrow vestibule, which 
still smelled faintly of the evening's chops. Shoes in one 

hand, bundle in the other, he peered out through the cur- 
tain of the door into the dark street. A lone ear went by. 
And suddenly all the terror of the unfamiliar overwhelmed 
him. Strange how we cling to the familiar, however unat- 
tractive, in preference to the unknown, however alluring. 
Strange our fear of any act that is final, even when it ends 
something in itself not desirable. 

lie had not the courage to put on his shoes and open 
the door. He tied upstairs to his room. Sitting on his bed, 
he tried to reason with himself. "This is funk; sheer funk," 
he said over and over again. Rut it was no use. Mechani- 
cally he undressed, mechanically got into his pyjamas, turn- 
ed out the light, slipped into bed. He watched the lit fingers 
of his clock creep around the dial. At a quarter past ten 
he thought: "I can still make it," and almost leaped out of 
bed to dress. But that passed. And presently the slow 
finger moved to 10:27. Frank was kneeling up in bed, el- 
bows on window-sill, leaning out into the cold night air. 
From the direction of the railway-yards came vague chug- 
gings and a clanging of bells. Presently there was the long 
shriek of an engine. Frank shuddered. "Oh damn," he 
sobbed, "Oh damn." 



44 The Smith College Monthly 



SHADOWS IN A GLASS 

Alice Phelps 



THE MAN OF THE MOON 



P^<|E had a square, forceful, bullet head which attained 
I length only at the chin. Two elongated dimples were 
ETffij imprinted on either side of his mouth, and emphasized 
by a second deep line under his high cheek bones. These 
dimples, thus emphasized and static, gave to his expression 
an eternal optimism and happy good-nature which belied the 
seriousness of his eyes. ''Yes," he said continually, "yes, 
yes." Or "No, no, no indeed," as the case might be. His 
entire power and conviction were always at the disposal 
of the one who talked to him. Emphatic jerks of the head 
or sweeping gestures of his hand showed his agreement. His 
eyes, too, lit up with the glow of reflected enthusiasm. 
Whether good or bad, forceful or mild, assenting or dissent- 
ing opinion, it never mattered. At the first contact with one 
or the other, he, like a transparent crystal, was ready to re- 
flect the cold blueness of ice or the ruddy heat of flame. 

II. 

THE CLOSED DOOR 

She divided all people into two classes, the like and the 
unlike, using herself as a standard. The like included all 
who wore identicals of her black patent leather pumps, flan- 
nel dress and inexpensive, smart black felt, who admired but 
did not know intimately the college celebrities, who thought 
and talked and sat and ate very much as she did. 

It was wit hall a dull standard, for it took no account of 
those who were "different." It excluded the radical, the 
remarkable, the eccentric with no appreciation of their oddi- 
ties. Even humor was denied to them. The very dullness 
of the standard led inevitably to a dullness in the group 



The Smith College Monthly 15 

which made up her Friends. Their thoughts, their humor, 
their capabilities became petrified, and it was not strange 

that their conversation sounded a little ho red in the hour after 
dinner when they were habitually together. 

She who had set the standard and gathered the group 
together stood out a hit in their circle, it* only because she 
realized their dullness. Occasionally she reached an explor- 
ing hand toward those whom she did not understand, hut the 
attempt lacked courage. It was spiritless, ineffectual, and 
the circle remained closed, the conversation arid. 
She never savored that which she craved. 



46 



The Smith College Monthly 



UNICORN 
Anne Morrow 



Everything today has been 

''Heavy" and "Brown". 
Bring me a Unicorn 

To ride about the town! 

Bring me a Unicorn 

* As little and as white 
As the new moon 

On its first night. 

Green orchids, to deck him, 

The De Bussy-shade 
Like the green-gold eyes 

Of a mermaid. 

Red pomegranates 

For him to eat 
Or small purple plums 

Lush and sweet. 

And I will kneel each morning 

To polish bright his hoofs 
That they may gleam each moon-night 
We ride over roofs ! 



The Smith College Monthly 47 



A SALISBURY GHOST 
I In da Pfeiffer 



I HAD lived in the world for twenty-one years before 
I saw a ghost. By ghost I do not mean a sheet-elad 
JSJSSJ phantom, nor do I want yon to think of a sprite or 
spook. No, my ghost was none of these. It neither moved 
with the clanking of chains nor did it raise a windy voice to 
whine or whistle around the eyes of some deserted house. It 
was a spirit of the past and I saw it only by chance on the 
morning of a summer's day. 

Shadowy spirits of the past are frightened by our new- 
ness. In our kitehens Avhere gleaming aluminum kettles 
stand, row on row, on paper covered shelves, they are lost in 
the dazzling brightness of white walls. In our streets where 
trolley cars clang in passing, their faint voices cannot be 
heard above the din. Only in some spot that the voices of 
modern improvement have left untouched, either because it 
is too inaccessible or because they have deemed it not worth 
their while, can we see such forms and hear such voices. 

Only once before the morning of that summer's day had 
I felt the presence of a ghostly spirit : but feeling is not see- 
ing, and my disappointment when I had let the opportunity 
slip unfulfilled was sharp and keen. It was a foggy night. 
I stood on the porch of a Vermont farmhouse, old and well- 
lived, looking toward the mountains that I knew lay against 
the sky-line. The warm and heavy air muffled all sound. 
In the silence I knew that someone stood beside me. With- 
out the slightest sense of hurry I waited, and waiting leaned 
slightly forward to catch any words that might be spoken. 
I know I should not have been disappointed; but at that 
moment a door slammed, and my mother's voice called. By 
the time I returned the porch was empty. There was no one 
there. 

It Avas not long after this disappointment that I first set 
foot in England. The boat docked at Southampton, and 
Ave caught an early train for Salisbury. From the AvindoAv 
of the compartment I glimpsed fleeting pictures of England; 
the neat gardens backed against the railroad tracks; the 



48 The Smith College Monthly 

thatched roofs of the houses with bright flowers blooming 
upon them; and what was most amazing to me, open fields 
filled with a rose-colored fox-glove. At home rose-colored 
fox-glove was a flower that we planted in our gardens. 

It did not seem long before we reached our destination; 
and we were walking along one of the narrow Salisbury 
streets with its still narrower sidewalks w r hen I saw the shop 
and the sign above it, "The Stonehenge Woolen Shop." 
Above the doorway swung the figure of a ram. How many 
years had that ram hung there? How many storms had he 
weathered, swinging easily to and fro in the wind? I looked 
and looked again at the old oak beams, heavy and stained, at 
the broad windows, at their cloudy glass. As I watched I 
thought I saw a figure moving in the doorway. It seemed 
like a dream. I wanted to rub my eyes. But no, there he 
was, standing in the doorway of his shop. 

From the unruly brown hair that crowned his head to 
his high leather boots rolled down at the top, I thought him 
a picture of geniality. I saAv his ruddy face smile as he 
stood with his hands on his hips. If his shop were the old 
block, he was the chip of it. Brown blended with brown, the 
dust that could be seen on his clothing with the dust that I 
knew lay within the shop. 

It was as though he were waiting to give a cheery word 
to the first passer by, on horseback or on foot, it made little 
difference. I knew he must have been up early, this shop- 
keeper of Salisbury, for Salisbury was a busy town, the cap- 
ital of Wiltshire and the center of the woolen trade. At day 
break he must have thrown wide the shutters that closed his 
shop for the night. His apprentices, rough and boisterous 
fellows, had probably been as late as they dared but now, 
early morning though it was for us, he had long ago set them 
to work and was greeting many travelers from the doorway. 
I could hear his voice now and again above the din. It was 
rather more than a din if that were possible, for taverners 
and cooks were trying to sell good things hot from their ovens 
and their cries were hoarse and shrill. The nasal quacking 
of the ducks that mingled with the cattle in the narrow thor- 
oughfare punctuated the swelling voice of the town crier, 
and above it all the pealing of the church bells in the lofty 
spire of the cathedral called the townsfolk to prayer. In 



The Smith College Monthly l» 

that motley mass of people I saw the craftsmen of the town 
shoulder merchants from distant lands. Men-at-arms, bear- 
ing the emblem of some great Lord, pushed their way through. 
Benedictines in cassock and black gown and hood passed 
Franciscans in their brown habits and knotted girdles. Lay- 
men and clerics, men of peace and men of war, 1 saw all 
these meet, speak and move on, in the world that the shop- 
keeper watched from Ins doorway under the swinging sign 
of the ram. 

"Good-day," he called to a man of his profession, elad 
likewise in serviceable brown. "The cries were loud in the 
street last night." 

"Aye, I heard them. 'Twas the watch! lie sought a 
reckoning with Harry Boteler, he that was to have been 
tried ten days hence and who escaped his bonds." 

"He must have led them a goodly chase!" 

"Aye, 'twas well to the walls and many there were there 
to give the watch their help." 

Then he, too, moved on. Some children came down the 
way. As they darted between the legs of the horses and 
cows and jumped over the backs of the smaller animals, they 
sang and called to one another. Merry, singing children 
they were and they laughed at the shop keeper. He tried to 
pull their hair but failed to reach it and I heard them laugh 
again as they disappeared around the corner. 

Yes, there he was with his hands on his hips and his rud- 
dy face smiling. I tried to look through the cloudy glass in 
the window. Then I turned to the doorway again. Yes, 

he was Ah, but the doorway was empty. A woman came 

down the narrow side- walk and went into the shop. Was 
she? Yes. she was! She belonged in modern England, and 
my shop-keeper had lived in the past. It was his shop, his 
sign, the same narrow street that had been his world, but he 
was gone. His spirit was resting in peace, and it was not 
like the ghosts we hear in haunted houses that he came, that 
he sometimes may be seen in the doorway of his old shop, 
standing under the swinging sign of the ram. It is because 
he loved it so well. In life the shop-keeper and his shop 
were a part, one of the other, and death could not separate 
them. 



50 The Smith College Monthly 




EDITORIAL 




OUR COMPLICATED COLLEGE LIFE 



SF there is one fault more than another to be found with 
a campus college such as Smith, it is its virtual isolation 
from any real contact with the outside world. Of 
course, there are psuedo, super-imposed contacts. There are 
lectures, for instance, many more than one can possibly at- 
tend, but a lecture is, in most cases, a peculiarly devitalized 
way of obtaining information. I venture to say that an im- 
promptu examination given any group of girls on the content 
of the extra-curriculum lectures heard during a college sea- 
son would give rise to serious doubts as to the value of lec- 
tures in general. One learns better from experience than 
from abstraction or vicarious touch. There are newspapers, 
but ask the average college girl how regularly she reads them 
and, if you are an intellectual optimist, you will be appalled. 
For her negative answer, however, there is a possible justifi- 
cation. In a city, all of the people she knows are in personal 
contact with a few, at least, of the problems discussed in the 
newspaper clearinghouses. It is social wisdom, almost one 
might say social necessity, to be informed. At colleges there 
is no such state of affairs. One talks about writtens and 
cuts, about personalities and faculty gossip, about sex, relig- 
ion and the abstract purpose of life. There is no particular 
reason for discussing the condition of the French franc. Xo 
one around vou knows about it any more directly than you 
do, and conversations made of purely second-hand material 
are usually both boring and futile. 

During four years at college, the parents of every Smith 
girl are told, the center of a girl's interest should lie in the 



The Smith College Monthly 51 

campus and its activities. This is so that the sober intellect- 
ual duties of academic life may he carried on unhampered by 
the social attractions of the city, and so that at the end of 
these duties, every week, there may he time for quiet country 
walks, religious exercises and the calm meditation of the 
cloister. These are high ideals, hut is there anyone who, 
looking at college from any point of view hut that of retro- 
spect, will claim that such things are or may ever he again? 
The statement of the ideal is as exaggerated as the statement 
of the evil it would war against. True, there is an embarras 
de richesse so far as material for keeping each girl busy at 
college is concerned. Too, in many ways to carry out this 
idea of concentration is distinctly enjoyable. There is an 
artificial freedom from complicated obligations to other peo- 
ple that few if any will ever find in the life outside. This 
freedom carries with it a beneficial independence productive 
of a certain pleasurable sense of power. The rare few who 
have the ability to seize their opportunities do find some 
chance for the much vaunted hours or moments of meditation. 
But college life, even when free from week-ends, can be as 
strenuous and as high-pitched as the gayest whirl or the tens- 
est work in the city, and what is it all about here? A play 
given once, perhaps, on which a score of girls have spent 
hours and days of worry and effort, until they run around 
harassed and distracted in the daytime and dream about 
purple gowns and black sets at night; — or a meeting that 
must be arranged in spite of innumerable complications, not 
because anyone would really care if there were no meeting, 
but because the continuity of college life would be broken and 
the tradition imperilled by the neglect. So it goes, in our arti- 
ficial, disconnected community, just as it does in larger, rele- 
vant ones, with the difference that in college the connections 
are so transitory that it seems rather a waste to be forced to 
take them too seriously. Yet most people are so constituted 
that they must take some part of existence seriously, and it is 
usually and logically the part that is nearest at hand. 

There may be no solution for the problem in a campus 
college, but I think there is one that might be given a chance 
on virgin soil, should the opportunity ever be made. I can- 
not see why college life should be so highly organized that 
trips to the outside world must make for added strain and 



.52 The Smith College Monthly 

conflict rather than for fresh inspiration. Antioch College 
has the right idea, but Antioch is vocational in its purpose. 
It recognizes the value of using experience and reflection 
simultaneously in its own field, but there is the same value, 
apparently unrecognized, in the field of so-called cultural 
education. It Mould be hard to deny that for the student 
of English literature it is worthwhile and stimulating to see 
a fine actor produce an adaptation of Browning's "Ring and 
the Book." The hearing of an opera can hardly harm a mu- 
sic student, or a conversation on politics or finance with a man 
of the world, a student of economics. Even a dance, — or is 
this sacrilege?, has its place if we are to believe that all work 
and no play has a certain undesirable effect on Jane as well 
as on Jack. Nor can the stimulation of these and kindred 
experiences be successfully confined to specified and widely 
separated weeks in the year. They should come when the 
recipient is most anxious and, therefore, most ready for re- 
ception. Then, having this new impetus from a real world, 
there ought, in the ideal college, to be time and interest for 
the work that can point the example. The conflict comes 
when there is a return from actual problems to artificial ones 
created to fill the time in a community that changes at least 
one fourth of its constituency every year, and is reduced al- 
ways to working at left-overs, highly organized to keep from 
perishing of attenuation 

There are great and undeniable advantages to the high- 
er education as a "preparation for life." There is the oppor- 
tunity for growing up a bit under exceptionally intelligent 
guidance, the opportunity of coming into contact with new 
ideas and facts in such a way that one can really study them 
out a bit, an innoculation with the intellectuals of the world, 
a chance to find out how little it is possible to know, and time 
in which to make some decision as to what one's interests 
really are. These are advantages. — a few of many, that once 
tasted will not be relinquished without a struggle. But as 
advantages they become very much modified if they are to be 
attained by a policy of isolation, a demand that for four years 
of one's life, one's most vital interests should center entirely 
on such an artificial though useful phenomenon as the college 
campus. 



The Smith College Monthly 



58 




THE SOFA CORNER 



SALLY 

(A Seventeenth Century Sonnet in the Modern Manner 
Barbara Simisox 



My Sally's eyes are archly plucked in style; 
Her flirting eyes are decked with beads of Winx; 
Bright carmine lipstick shapes her simpering smile; 
A clash of rouge adorns my saucy minx. 
Her henna hair she wears cut like a boy's 
Unless she swirls a switch around her head, 
But then she casts aside her childish toys, 
And flaunts a foolish feather fan instead. 
She prances down the street in knee-length skirts 
Or else in knicker suit she slides down hill. 
With all the men she meets, she plays, she flirts, 
And so, with one and all she works her will. 
But yet, I love my Sally all the more 
Because she savs she loves me best of four. 



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The Smith College Monthly 




BOOK REVIEWS 




THE EMERALD OF CATHERINE THE GREAT: 
A NOVELTY IN DETECTIVE STORIES 

Hilaire Belloc Illustrated by G. K. Chesterton 

Harper & Brothers 



jFrlXYOXE can tell you that contemporary literature is 
JLI doomed to superficiality. This is one of the easiest 
W&J& thing's to say, and outside publisher's blurbs, is with- 
out doubt the favorite comment. There are many writers 
who, either unconsciously or unavoidably, are simply shallow 
— Hugh Walpole and Edna Ferber and Zona Gale. Some 
serious souls try, in spite of this curse which is upon them, to 
be noble. It is a laudable attempt but leads us to the con- 
clusion that there is nothing as sickening as superficiality 
which takes itself seriously. And on the other hand there 
are such pleasantly cynical people as Hilaire Belloc who 
quite enjoy being superficial. The most successful artists, 
we should say, are those whose individual preferences and 
potentialities coincide with the tendencies of their time. Hil- 
aire Belloc could never be anything but light and delicate, 
and luckily we demand no more of him. What goes to make 
his Miniatures of the French History an exquisitely fine piece 
of work produces, in The Emerald of Catherine the Great, 
a most subtle and amusing burlesque. 

This is a "novelty in detective stories" because from the 
first the reader knows all the secrets and may be accordingly 
amused by the bewilderment of the actors. One sees how 
the emerald was hidden in the ear of the bear-rug, and found 
by the Boy — "Ethelbert by his full baptismal name, but in 



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The Smith College Monthly 57 

the daily, Bert" and by him passed on to Lord Oalton's 

coat-pocket. And how Lord Galton (who once pulled the 

horse Attaboy) slipped it into the pocket of William de 
Bohun, Fellow of Burford (who, in the interest of Science 
and crystallography had pinched the Mullinger Diamond 
from the Abbey). And so on until finally Mr. Collop, the 

Diplomat out of Bogotar ( for only the reader knows that 
in reality he is from Scotland Yard), by a little ingenious 
placing finds the gem in a hollow tree. And, after all, the 
emerald was only paste! 

We approve of this detective story. It is consistently 
amusing, and although it numbers something beyond two 
hundred pages, can be easily read in an evening. Mr. Belloc 
knows what he is doing, his characters are as definite as they 
are comical, his style admirably suited to his matter. There 
is a dry, chuckling humor about the story which is like noth- 
ing so much as G. K. Chesterton's illustrations. Of these 
sketches our favorite is the first, which is labeled: Dear Aunt, 
so good, so kind, and a little deaf. The whole thing is, in a 
word, clever. And if Mr. Belloc is shallow and light, why 
should he not be. We find him extremely entertaining. 
"And" (to quote Mr. Belloc's own closing sentence) "as the 
Prime Minister said of his colleague on the front bench who 
got into trouble over the insurance shares, who shall blame 
himr 

E. W. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON 

W. E. Woodwakd Boni and Liveright 

Characteristic of today is a strong tendency to avoid the 
sentimental. It is a sort of scientific objectivity — of getting 
at facts as they are, and is probably high tide in the reaction 
from "the Gav Nineties" and the (lavs of "Sweet Adeline" 
and "Two Little Girls in Blue." 

W. E. Woodward was disgusted with the glorified haze 
which has so long blurred historical perspective and especi- 
ally the haze which surrounds George Washington. Amer- 
ica has always been too ready to idealize her popular heroes. 
Unhesitatingly, for nearly a century and a half, she has 
crowned Washington with wreathe after wreathe of unques- 



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The Smith College Monthly 59 

tioning devotion entirely too long, Woodward decided, for 
a man to receive such lavish homage. Call it iconoclastic if 

you will, but let US gel at the truth. 

Au extremely able biography is the result of this de- 
bunking process which has effectively disposed of the extran- 
eous uilt elinffins around the name of Washington. The 
image yes. That is the majestic figure upon a white charg- 
er, motionless against the sky-line— grave head bowed in 
prayer. That is the austere leader draped in stars and 
stripes at the bow of the boat crossing to victory among the 
charging ice-floes of the Delaware. 

That is the legendary image, hut this is the man: an 
average American, narrow, land-loving, materialistic, fretful 
— lacking in foresight, initiative and the wisdom that comes 
from thought — lacking almost in everything which gives 
greatness, except courage. This last is not so much the 
courage of realization as it is obstinate determination — a 
fierce tenacity of purpose which held the Revolution together 
and forced it on even while it withered in discouragement and 
indifference, and brought it in the face of enormous odds to a 
triumphant conclusion. But in spite of this, Washington 
was no more fitted for popular adoration than many another 
of his contemporaries. The truth is, says Woodward, he was 
an extremely lucky man. 

At times Woodward is a little unfair. The de-bunking 
process has swept him to the opposite pole from that of senti- 
ment and idealism, and extremities are no way at all to 
arrive at truth. His judgment is severe and while he never 
concedes the benefit of a doubt he continues to look for great- 
ness in the letters and diaries of a man whose genius certainly 
did not lie in articulation. Nor does he make allowance for 
the fact that he is observing Revolutionary times by the 
guiding light of historical perspective which perspective 
Washington, of course, lacked. Rut if one goes in for de- 
bunking it is natural to go in for it thoroughly. 

Xot only is this biography an unusually able piece of 
work, but it is an excellent history of America during the 
whole of Washington's life and includes interesting portraits 
of Thomas Jefferson, Samuel and John Adams, Alexander 
Hamilton, Benjamin Franklin, LaFayette, and a score of 
others. It is obviously the product of deep and intensive 



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The Smith College Monthly 61 

study the bibliography in itself testifies to that, for it con- 
tains a lis! of more thai) one hundred and thirty books 

And more than this if has !ha! quality foreign to many 
biographies it is remarkably readable. 'The humor is keen, 
the sarcasm is stinging, and the style is capable. It is writ- 
ten, too, with insighl and perception and a wide scope of 
vision which penetrates sharply into the glittering fog thai 
has so long surrounded Washington and depicts him vividly 
and truthfully in a thoroughly interesting book. 

C.J. 



THE AMERICAN TRAGEDY 
Theodore Dreiser Boni and Liveright 

The present writer is guiltless of ever having read a 
review of "The American Tragedy," and has equally forgot- 
ten any ecomiums of it to be found on the wrapper. There 
remains a completely personal admiration, combined with a 
realization of the faults of the book and a desire to defend 
them. 

The first time I saw the two thick, closely printed vol- 
umes, I dipped into them at random and read sentences that 
were promptly declared "unworthy of Freshman English." 
.Moreover, "no one would ever have the patience to struggle 
through that book. Style means so much." Then a few of us 
read it, and the house took it up. To the sensitive artist. 
crudity of style may be unforgivable. But we confess, as 
an average reader, that once we had started the book, we 
completely forgot whether there was any style or not, and 
we are still dubious whether, if there had been a conscious 
style, we could have forgotten it. As it was, the field was 
swept clear for the story. The conclusion is, that, far from 
being a stumbling block, Dreiser's very absence of style is 
power. 

Another case against the book may be made out, in that 
it is sordid, vulgar, disgusting. Dreiser is a realist, he does 
not hesitate to give details, details that may well be called 
indelicate. But in no instance does he seem to be writing the 
book as an exploitation of such detail, as a savoury dish for 
the sickening delight of the scandal monger. If the book is 



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The Smith College Monthly 68 

condemned by any reader as fit only to be a dish of thai na- 
ture, we should feel tempted to hold, not Dreiser, bul the 
reader, responsible. Each hit of detail is quite subordinate, 

used solely to build up the final, t ren lendous st met ure of con- 
vincing realism. In a well-advertised murder-ease, recently 
before the public, the tongue of the murdered victim had ac- 
tually been cut out. We doubt if in this novel there is any 
detail so morbid and pettily vulgar. IT you choose still to 
disagree, we can only contend that reality itself is. frequently, 
all (A' these: sordid, vulgar, disgusting. 

The theme of the book, as we see it, is whether or not 
weakness is wickedness. Dreiser has taken a miserable, but 
very human character, and has written a long, dramatic, and 
intensely moving story about it. For the usual run of the 
modern novel the adjectives "shallow,' and "light," seem to 
us to be applicable. For "The American Tragedy," "deep" 
and "weighty" seem none too commendatory. We have read 
no modern American novel that can be compared with it. — 
S. W. T. 

S. W. T. 





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FEBRUARY 



1927 



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terials. Afternoon Gowns in Velveteen, 

Crepes, Charmeen and Satin 
DANCE FROCKS OF 

CHIFFON AND VELVET 

Millinery, Scarfs, Novelties 




BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 




Vol. XXXV FEBRUARY, 1927 No. 5 

EDITORIAL BOARD 

Elizabeth Hamburger 1927 
Alice L. Phelps 1927 Sarah Wingate Taylor 1928 

Ruth L. Thompson 1927 Elizabeth Wilder 1928 

Jenny Nathan 1927 Catherine Johnson 1928 

Art — Josephine Stein 1927 
Priscilla Paine 1928 

BUSINESS STAFF 

Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi 1927 

Doris Pinkham 1927 Gladys Lampert 1928 

Pearl Morris 1928 . Ruth Rose 1929 

Virginia Hart 1927 Julia Kellogg 1928 



The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Mass., each month from 

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Subscriptions may be sent to Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi, Wilson House. 

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CONTENTS 




Fruit-Ship 

The Trees with Snow 

From Keith 's Vaudeville ( Jmcui 

To An I M.D Liadt 

W'll.D ( rEESE 
( ,' i:\kkis 

A.NAUHiY 

Moon-Milk 
Within the Hold 

Crows 

Editorial: As it Should Be 

The Pompehan Narcissus 

Defeat 

Dependence 



Grow Hazard ('>>>il;li>i<i 

Lu\ ia E. Jordan 

Lucia E. Jordan 

Lucia E. Jordan 

Nancy Wynne Parki r 

Sarah Wingde Taylor 

Sarah Wingate Taylor 

Sara!} Wingate Taylor 

Dorothy Jean Harger 

Louise Mcily 

On Poetry 

Elizabeth Wheeler 
Eleanor Bale Barnes 
Elizabeth Hamburger 



And He Drew Nigh Unto Hoi and Kissed Him" 

Anne Marie Homer 



Poems 
Dream 

Valentine 

Mirror oe the Moon 

The Cargo 

To Signify Regret 

A Grecian Temple 

Night By the Sea 

Lament 

Oeimpses of the Sin 

A Certain Woman 

Letter with a Foreign Stamp 

Down by the Sea 

Somersaults 

Sofa Corner 

Book Reviews 



Elizabeth Wilder 

Elizabeth ^Yil(lcr 

Elizabeth Wild* r 

A. E. Browning 

Elizabeth Bacon 

Rachel Grant 

Catherine Johnson 

Catherine Johnson 

Patty ^Yood 

Patty ^Yood 

Anne Morrow 

Anne Morrow 

Roberta Seaver 

Ernestine M. Gilbreth 





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All manuscript should be typewritten and in the Monthly Box by the fifteenth 

of the month to be considered for the issue of the following month. 

All manuscript should be signed with the full name of the writer. 

Manuscript may be disposed of unless marked ''Return". 



STUDENTS OF 



SMITH COLLEGE 

( Will find the Wright & Ditson Store the best place to pur- 
chase their Athletic Equipment, Clothing and Shoes for all 
the sports in which girls are interested. 



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and Toboggans 

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(Send for General Catalog, also Catalog of Girls' Clothing and Equipment) 
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i 
j 

l A most satisfying place for lunch or 
| afternoon tea, where people of refine- 
ment meet, and where things have the 
real home flavor. 



CHARLES HALL, Inc. 

411 Main Street 

The Hall Building 
Springfield, Massachusetts 



For the convenience of our 
Smith College Patronage we 
have opened a new shop at 

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Smith College 
Monthly 

FRUIT-SHIP 
Grace Hazard Conkling 




I said, Xo matter what happens to me, 

This March clay I have seen 

A Spanish fruit-ship dock on South street. 

All her bananas green 

As bottle-glass, as parrot feathers: 

The feather-tapered fruit 

Borne in fierce clusters on men's shoulders: 

Far from the jungle, mute 

At last, no bronze fans scraping, shaking, 

Xo leaves of metal made 

To rub the gold dust from the morning 

And hollow it to jade. 

The protest of a whole plantation, 

Of many more than one, 

This stripped glazed cargo in the pallor 

Of the northern sun ! 

What use to think of the rich ripening 

These would never know. . . 

That honey of the heat, thick honey, 

And the gold coming slow? 

Every truck spilled green bananas 

Down the stony street 

Of the accustomed town where only 

Paradox is sweet: 

And I could wonder if I wanted, 

And thank my lucky stars 

It wasn't the Indies they were loading 

On Lackawanna cars. 

New York. 



8 The Smith College Monthly 



THE TREKS WITH SNOW 
Lucia E. Jordan 

These are the second winter snows: 
Soft dropping- downward in a heat 
Uneven as the fall of plums, 

With the heaviness that jars 
When any laden thing unbends. 
Dripping thick whiteness from the trees 
Instead of fine white from the sky. 
Not sifting as thin flour sifts 
Xor drifting" as a petal drifts, 
But soaked by sun when it is high 
Taking a pity on ill ease 
Of branches and the black twig ends 
Weighted by snows in sleeping bars ; 
Regretting all the grief that comes 
To hunched fir trees with buried feet : 
These are the second winter snows. 



FROM KEITH'S VAUDEVILLE CIRCUIT 
Lucia E. Jordan 

Barry Sisters: 
Tripping on the stage . 
In silver shoes. 
Bowing as one, 
Bending as one 
Ray of new moonlight 
Shattered into curves 
Through a poplar tree. 
Turning then 
To kick like three 
Little tin angels 
Dancing: for the awls. 



The Smith College Monthly 9 



TO AX OLD LADY 
Lucia E. Jordan 

You are an echo from the hill, 
Singing the way 

Fog sings ei young clouds 
Sunfall of day. 

You have a face in cameo ; 
The fine white stone 
Wraps you in proudness 
High and alone. 



WILD GEESE 
Nancy Wynne Parker 

Wild geese a pale green sky. 

An old Norse veil, drifts down 

With you caught in the meshes of it. 

A veil, dropped by Freya 

From Asgard's battlements, 

When the Frost-Giants seized her .... 

Wild geese, you are breaking my heart ! 
With you in full strong flight there pass 
Defiant grace. 
Wind-lifted laughter, 
—All the untramelled, savage poetry of my youth! 



Wild geese, these deep notes, 

Broken as the water-flags from which you rise, 

Are not yours, but mine .... 

To me you leave 

Only the slow, doomed hearth, 

And the gloom of ice . . . 



10 The Smith College Monthly 

GENESIS 

Sarah Wingate Taylor 






The flat lands were uneasy when they felt 
They were not all. They asked completion and 
God made the hills. The night was blinded till 
He gave the moon. And skies were cold while they 
Were only blue. 

When dying things asked still for loveliness 
The west was drowned in color, and each leaf 
Lay mummified more gorgeous than itself. 
The seas, tho restless, stirred with dreams of wind 
Could seek their calm encircled with the land. 
And so Man found all things about him filled 
With peace of questions that were satisfied. 
Himself he took to God and said, "Make me," 
Proud of what the master-hand would do. 
Then he was strangely angry when he learned 
God thought that he could do it for himself. 



ANALOGY 

Sarah Wingate Taylor 

In chiselled art to case 
A gemlike thought. To polish 
To its utmost, and to chase 
The frame. 

To hew great fragments 
From the living rock, and pile 
With these crude monuments 
To fame. 

An atom of perfection 

Is the one. The other great 

In what could not be done. 

By measure of the ultimate perhaps 

These are the same. 



The Smith College Monthly I 1 



MOON-MILK 

Sarah Wingate Tayijob 

Down I stepped where the garden wall is low 
Into the meadow that lay soft below 
Melting in moonlight, and there met Pierrot. 

Leaning he was against the garden wall, 

His head thrown back, his eyes upon sonic tall 

Poplars, white-meshed nets that gathered and let fall 

In silver-showers the amber moon-beams' light. 
I paused and softly spoke for fear he might 
Be startled. "Pierre, it is a lovely night." 

I le did not look but reached his hand to seize 
My own, nor ever took his eyes from off the trees. 
"Listen! and tell me, do you hear a breeze?" 

"Yes, Pierrot, a breeze that makes a clinking 
Of those little silver leaves." "So I was thinking. 
ISnt ladv we were wrong, von share my drinking 

Of this moon-milk, share this secret. I have found 
Tonight the way moonmilk comes to ground. 
What we are hearing surely is the sound 

Of little drops of moonmilk raining down." 
He was so happy — then I saw him frown, 
For voices came of people from the town. 

Laughing they were, and loudly called my name, 

Gaily demanded that I join their game. 

I went and played and came back to the same 

Place later to find a sick, sad Pierrot. 
Puzzled I asked him what could change him so 
From his blithe happiness of a mere hour ago. 

His voice was harsh as the cry of frightened birds. 
"They turned the moonlight sour with their words; 
Thev turned my sweet blue moonmilk to green curds!" 



12 The Smith College Monthly 



WITHIN THE HOLD 

Dokoti-iy Jean Hakgkr 

Wind-puffed, white sails, all patterned bright 
With golden threads, breathe of the might 
Of deathless Rome. 

Plumed helmets nod in laughter; war, 
Forgotten for a day, no more 
Stains sword-hilts red. 

Three hundred oars of strong old oaks 
Cut clean the green-blue sea with strokes 
In even rhythm. 

No splash as like knife-edges thin 
Thev slice the waters, graceful in 



Their measured beat, 



& j 



Dip, pull — 
Dip, pull — 

One, two — 
One, two — 

Within the hold the mallet blows 
Demand obedience from the rows 
Of galley-slaves, 

At every beat a muscle strains ; 

The steaming sweat rusts ankle chains. 

"Ah Jove, how long?" 

Pain numbs the arm like gracious night — 
The whip cries, "Wake!" with lashing bite. 
"How many years?" 

The galley-master 
Beats the faster. 



The Smith College Monthly 18 



Those countless backs, whip-striped and lean; 

No world bill wastes of Water seen 

Through oar-locks framed. 

Dry throats and swollen tongues thai know 
But sally sweat for drink and oh 
The smell of it! 



Those aching arms torn hone from bone; 
The cry of mad men — then a moan 
As death frees one. 

The mallet blows — 
There it goes: 

One, two — 
One, two — 

Three hundred oars of strong old oaks 
Cut elean the green-blue sea with strokes 
In even rhythm. 



CROWS 

Louise Meily 



Seven crows in a cornfield, 

Coal black against the sky, 

Serene, majestic, still, 

Xear the sweep of the train. 

We tear a gash thru the brown stalks, 

We give a shrill cry, and are gone. 

They remain, imperturbable, superior, 
Those seven crows in a corn field. 



14 The Smith College Monthly 






EDITORIAL: AS IT SHOULD BE —OX POETRY 

I read somewhere not long ago 

An article aiming to show 

That the women of these states United 

With verse-making habits were blighted 

Ear more than the men of the place 

Whom they'd quickly outstripped in the race; 

But this, 'twas our critic's contention, 

Was not due to better invention, 

But could be explained psychologically 

And all reduced biologically, 

As the fad is to do now-a-days 

In many ingenious ways, 

To helpless emotions repressed 

And desires one could hardly called dressed, 

To thwarted lives not realized 

And common things idealized; 

And the critic was very unhappy 

That words could to women be trappy 

And cause them to think mere dilation 

Was honest-to-God inspiration. 

Alas, Mr. Critic, how rash 

To condemn so completely as trash 

What we thought jvas a new Renaissance. 

Yet perhaps it is but a nuance 

That changes one's whole view of life. 

To you it's the body in strife 

While to me it's the product that counts. 

Well, here is a volume to bounce 

On your pitying theory of us. 

It's not worth making a fuss 

Over work that's unfinished and young, 

But we just want to prove we're not stung 

By the bee in your bonnet that wails 

Of Art as a sign that Life fails. 



The Smith College Monthly 16 

THE POMPEIIAN NARCISSUS 

Elizabeth Wm eeleh 

In some Pompeiian erarden, wearv years aero, 
Above a limpid fountain, poised with conscious grace, 
You gazed in prideful wonder, loved that god-like face 
Amid the flaming goldfish, smiling from below. 

Vesuvius hissed hot steam-jets, Hung a crown of fire 
About his smoking summit, buried deep the plain 
Tn shroud of burning lava, forum, street, and fane, 
.Men's homes and all their treasures, one vast funeral pyre. 

They found you in the ashes, bore you from your home. 
Where nightingales were singing beneath the Milky Way; 
They set you in the dim room where you stand to-day 
Amid a host of statues; yet you are alone. 

I rnheedful of harsh voices, looks of wonder cast, 
You dream of golden sunbeams shining round your head. 
You know your beauty changeless ; for the ancient dead 
You stand a glorious symbol of the deathless past. 



DEFEAT 
Eleanor Dale Barnes 

Defeat — so definite a thing 

Is in itself 

Xot hard to bear. 

The aftermath — that hurts my pride. 

A pebble dropped into a pool 

Forgotten lies, 

Yet leaves there 

Each concentric ring 

First small, then ever growing wide 

To tell its tale. 

I cannot look into your eyes; 

I do not want the pity there.. 

Defeat — that is not hard to bear. 

It is the aftermath — for which I care. 



1() 



The Smith College Monthly 



DEPENDENCE 
Elizabeth Hamburger 

You carried me upon your shoulders once 
Across a pool at night 

So I could touch the swaying leaves of trees 
And thrill to drink the cooling forest breeze 
From unaccustomed height. 

By darkness fused, we superhuman seemed— 

New god from earth arisen. 

The force of all my oldly hid desires 

Was power then in me, heat of covered fires 

That shatter up from prison. 

But when I thought that 1 could ride the clouds 

At will, and soul-strong live 

To tie the rainbow in a lovers' knot 

For one I know, I had alas, forgot 

My strength was yours to give. 



AND HE DREW NEAR UNTO HIM AND 
KISSED HIM" 

Anne Marie Homer 

Judas, 

The slayer of Christ — 

Was it because he stumbled, 

Blinded bv light, on the last steps of glory, 

And fell?' 



The Smith College Monthly 17 

POEMS 

Elizabeth Wildeb 

Oak Trees 
Giants 

Wind-twisted— 
Baffled by earth-grown roots 
They reach with hungry branches; 
With myriad frantic fingers, 
For the sky. 

Poplars 
These love the moon: 
They were made for night 
To hold the moon in their branches tight. 
Against the midnight sky they stand 
Like love-charms writ in an unknown hand. 

An As j) en Sapling in Early Spring 
Aspen, do not be so proud — 
I am young, too. 
And you, too, will die 
Even as I. 



DREAM 

Elizabeth Wilder 

I dreamed life was a flower 
Frail and white on a grey tree — 
When I reached to pluck it 
There was but a shower 
Of bruised petals over me. 

I dreamed life was a river 
Green-curling in the sun — 
When I tried to gather the bright pebbles 
I could not reach one. 

I dreamed life was a window 

Round and bright and high — 

I was not tall to see what lay beyond it 

I only glimpsed 

A dry leaf blown across the sky. 



18 



The Smith College Monthly 



VALENTINE 

E I I ZABETII Wl I DER 

I thought that goddesses had ceased to tread 
This stupid earth, that all the Olympian race, 
For long time wearied of neglect, lay dead. 
And if I sometimes sought the pearl-white face 
Of Aphrodite where the foam lay bright— 
Or said that Artemis, the silver-shod. 
Was hunting with her silver hounds to-night 
Or dreamed, when I saw hyacinths a-nod, 
Calm-browed Athene stirred them as she passed— 
I pleased myself with make-believe. They lied, 
I thought, who spoke of sights divine: at last, 
Since men forgot them, all the gods had died — 

You crossed my path one April day, and then 
I knew that still one goddess dwelt with men. 

Northampton. 



MIRROR OF THE MOON 
A. E. Browning 



Who said 

The moon was cold 

Surely had forgotten 

That only heat can bring silver 

Whiteness. 



The Smith College Monthly It) 

THE CARGO 
R] i/ai;i in Bacon 

("On his death-bed, Marco Polo's friends pleaded with him, for the peace 

of his soul, to retrad some of his seeminglj incredible statements, hut 
his only reply to this was: "I have no! told half of what I know") 
Prom Travels of Marco Polo. 

"Marco Polo, say the truth before you die. 
For your soul, say that you lied of Kuhla Khan; 
That the steeps of high Pamir are not so high, 

That there is no .jade in Rivers of Kotau! 

"Take back those tales of China hung with gold, 
Of the Khan's white horses, galloping like foam. 

Of the deserts, and the "dark land" and the cold 
White steppes, where warring Tartars roam. 

"You have shown us pearls, like limes, musk of Tibet, 
You have honored Venice more than any man; 
You have shown us silks and ivory — and vet- 
Marco Polo, say you lied of Kuhla Khan!" 

"Dull Venetians, think you Marco Polo lied!" 
He looked beyond them, where they could not go 
Into his unknown China, and he cried: 
"I have not told a half of what I know!" 



TO SIGNIFY REGRET 
Rachel Quant 

If rats had furry tails and quiet eyes, 

They'd be as charming 

As the shy grey moles — 

But rats are sly and hostile things. 

If my thoughts were tiny bells 

That rang in tune, 

The oddest melody I'd make of you — 

But timid thoughts, like water trembling under wind, 

Are still. 



20 The Smith College Monthly 

A GRECIAN TEMPLE 
Catherine Johnson 

These crumbling columns, tinged with gold and browned 

With age, against the limpid Grecian sky 

And gleaming sea, were once a temple crowned 

With earven pediment and cornice high — 

Jewel-like in its loveliness. This the throne 

Of idolized Apollo eastward faced 

And the first rays of morning sunbeams shone 

In floods of light, and on the image traced 

Homage of the dawn. Here used maidens kneel 

To leave their gifts of incense and sweet wine 

Nor guessed they left them for the years to steal 

Slowly, from ruins of an outworn shrine. 

A thousand years — and now the sunlight falls 

Softly, on ruins of Cathedral walls. 



NIGHT BY THE SEA 

Catherine Johnson 

From out the empty darkness creep the waves 

And slowly, slowly fall into the light 

Shadows of foam and curling music — slaves 

Of the eternal mystery of night. 

Groping, dim-sighted fingers of the sea 

They quiver on the gleaming slopes of sand 

Mistrustful of this strange and unknown shore 

And, half-bewildered, strive to understand 

On what new coast they travel dazedly 

Whence they have come — where to return once more. 

Uncertain, yet the light is silver cool 

Tingeing the salt-grained sand with burnished glow, 

Teasing the shadows of a sinking pool, 

Kindling the beach-curves for the tide to grow. 

Slowly the waves from sonorous cascade 

Crawi forward, laughing to the friendly stars 

Thinking to steal on upward endlessly 

And then, aghast, find that a still force bars 

The way— bids them turn, heartsick and afraid, 

Back to the surging mystery of sea. 



The Smith College Monthly 2 I 



LAMENT 

Patty Wood 

Shot the window, draw the shade, 
Love has gone and left me 

Sitting by the door, 
Love has gone and left me 

And he wore 
The scarf of tears that I had made, 
The eap of laughter that 1 gave 
To him — jaunty gold and black — 
He did not even stop to wave 
His hand or give my presents back ; 
Shut the window, draw the shade, 
Love has gone and left me 

Sitting by the door. 



GLIMPSES OF THE SUN 
Patty Wood 

The sun is a pirate 

Caught prisoner behind the black bars of an elm, 

The sun is a wounded pirate 

Whose blood drips in crimson pools 

Upon the snow. 

The sun is a chunk of amber 

Ablaze upon the bosom of the sky, 

The sun is an amber brooch 

Catching the white folds of clouds together. 

The sun is golden honey 
Spilled upon the snow's white tablecloth 
And stuck to the gleaming silverware 
Of ice-clad branches. 



22 



The Smith College Monthly 



A CERTAIN WOMAN 
Anne Morrow 

Jade on your finger; 
Hair of beaten brass; 
Thoughts like frost-crystals 
On a pane of glass, 
Like the shattering of icicles 
Your laughter. 



LETTER WITH A FOREIGN STAMP 
Anne Morrow 

It was not fair of yon to flaunt your days. 
Your scarlet, fluttering days in front of me; 
Bright taunting pennants, whipping me to scorn, 
Hours of color you mention casually. 
Why did you say "It seems like April now — 
— -Those chestnut trees — " You said "When I have time 
I hunt among the bookstalls on the quai 
For old dust-covered leaves of fragrant rhyme." 
Why did you say "Last night I wore my shawl 
—Mandarin red — I wish you could have seen — 
And as I danced the silk fringe caught the light 
— Some stranger stopped and murmured 'Rouge de Chine!' ' 
Oh use bright words with caution, fire is keen: 
"Those chestnut trees" — "Some stranger" — "Rouge de 
Chine!" 



The Smith College Monthly 'j:j 



DOWN BY THE SKA 

Roberta Seaveb 

« 

1 listened to the grasses 
Whispering at twilight 
I listened to the grasses 
Down by the sea. 

They whispered that the crickets 
Had built themselves houses 
Rusty little houses 
Down by the sea. 

They whispered that the goldenrod 
Was breathlessly in love 
With the gay wild sea gull 
Swooping by above. 

They whispered that the bright star 

Shining overhead 

Was a tiny torn piece 

Of what to-morrow's dress would be 

Down bv the sea. 



24 



The Smith College Monthly 



SOMERSAULTS 
Ernestine M. Gilbreth 



Anne had white pajamas on, 
Mine were pink and blue, 
Anne was playing somersaults, 
I was playing too. 

"Hush!" said Daddy, coming in, 
With a funny smile, 
"Mary's going to try to sleep 

For a little while." ' 

Anne and I kissed Daddy hard. 
Daddy hugged us tight, 
"Mother needs me now, my pets, 
Pleasant dreams tonight!" 

Anne and I plaved somersaults. 
One! Two! Three! 
"I guess Mary's going to die," 
Annie said to me. 



The Smith College Monthly 



25 




APOLOGY 
Lucille A. Potter 



Poetry must come 

As naturally as leaves to a tree, 

According to Keats, 

And besides that, 

To be successful. 

One must have unquenchable faith 

In one's own ability. 

Neither is true of me, 

So I do not imagine 

That I have made a poem, 

(Any more than I think this to be 

Vers Libre) . 

But it is a novice's attempt, 

Made at your request. 



26 The Smith College Monthly 



PASTEL FROGS 
Barbara Simison 

(In Rhythms Class) 



Pastel frogs go hopping by. 
Jumping by, ker-plopping by, 
Pastel frogs of silken sheen, 
Pastel frogs of. Xile green, 
Frogs of pinks and palest blue, 
Purple frogs, and orange, too, 
Rainbow frogs go hopping by, 
Jumping by, ker-plopping by. 
Suddenly they change their pace. 
Slowly dancing, gain in grace. 
Pastel dancers straighten out, 
Pastel dancers float about, 
Pastel dancers swaying by. 
Whirling by, whisking by — 
Changing into pastel frogs, 
Jumping by, ker-plopping by. 



The Smith College Monthly 27 




BOOK REVIEWS 




THE ROMANTIC COMEDIANS 
Ellen Giasgow Doubledav Paere & Go. 



*o 



Miss Glasgow has a style that would 

Enhance a fairy-tale; 

Her flowery pictures of the South 

To charm us never fail. 

But as to how she draws her folk 

We are not so well pleased: 

It seems that from an old man's head 

All thoughts had been released 

Except those which pertained to love 

And youthful beauty's call. 

Pray, Readers, do not now conclude 

That we condemn it all. 

The fact is we concede the main. 

For it may be observed 

That where old age will lose its wit 

There always is conserved 

A certain sentimental love 

For things it used to be: 

For vigorous and slender youth, 

For strong fragility. 

And yet Ave hold that in a j udge 

Of full and honored years 

There would appear no small concern 

For his more travelled spheres, 

For legal life and legal thought 

And legal friends of his. 

These phases of the character 



WHEN IN SPRINGFIELD VISIT 



J. B. WILSON CO. 

LEADERS OF FASHION 

Millinery 

HOSIERY and BAGS 

PRICED WITH A THOUGHT TO ECONOMY 




CO 



ja 



FASHIONABLE MILLINERY 
379 MAIN STREET SPRINGFIELD, MASS. 



Pt 191 MAIN STREET PHONE /J071V 

Northampton , Mass. 

College Lamp Repairing 

Small Radios for 
College use. 

Ridge Shop 

Hats 

Ladies' Sport Wear 



j 243 Main St. 
1 



Northampton 



This Book was 
Printed by 

Northampton, Mass. 



The Smith College Monthly 



2<) 



Miss Glasgow banishes. 

She solicits admiration 

For a noble gentleman 

And yd we think docs not succeed; 

Draws barely half the num. 

Of incompleteness otherwise 

We don'i so much complain. 

But won't you read the book— enjoy 

Its virtues which arc plain? 

S. W. T. 



THE ROYAL ROAD TO ROMANCE 
Richard Halliburton Bobbs Merrill Co. 

The road to Romance 

Is the road 

Of youth. 

It is a glorious blaze 

Of changing color 

Reckoning — mysterious 

And leads in a reckless, gleeful dance 

Helter skelter across the map. 

It winds 

From the dizzy peak of the Matterhorn 

To "the highest, the quaintest 

The most isolated republic 

On earth." 

It crosses the sea to Egypt 

And the vagabond traveller 

Keeps vigil with the stars 

And the Nile and the solemn 

Grandeur of the desert 

From the crest of the ancient pyramid 

Kheops. 

It dances through India 

And dreams in the moonlit pool of the Taj Mahal 

Wrapped in beauty, 



T. Ono & Company 

CHINESE 
TABLE LAMPS 



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Chinese Brass Wares 



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The Smith College Monthly 81 



"A fairy torn I) 

I [armonious as music 

Lovely as the face of the immortal woman 

I I commemorates." 

And because the mountains 

Are high and forbidding, 

"The majestic Himalayas 

So cold and pair and challenging," 

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To Ladakh. 

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Majestic in the calm of winter. 

The road to Romance 

Is daring and brilliant 

Carefree and gay 

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Is the roval road 

Of vouth. 

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DARK OF THE MOON 
Sara Teasdai.e The Macmillan Company 

And so this one who has sung much of love 

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That only in one's self completeness lies. 

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For lyric joy, that death may be too sIoav. 

And she who spoke perennially of all 

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The Smith College Monthly 88 



I suppose Sara Teasdale is older 

i Though noi as near death as she thinks) 
And if age makes thehearl somewhal colder, 

I I seems to be good for the mind. 

For with the old simplicity and grace 
She says new stronger things. These songs 
1 lave more of substance and significance 

They think more than they used to and feel less. 

.And still they are as lyric, still they seem 
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MARCH 



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BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 




Vol. XXXV MARCH, 1927 No. 6 

EDITORIAL BOARD 

Elizabeth Hamburger 1 1)27 
Alice L. Phelps 1927 Catherine Johnson 1928 

Ruth L. Thompson 1927 Elizabeth Wilder 1928 

Jenny Nathan 1927 Anne Morrow 1928 

Sarah Wingate Taylor 1928 Anne Basinger 1929 

Katherine S. Bolman 1929 

Art — Josephine Stein 1927 
Priscilla Paine 1928 

BUSINESS STAFF 

Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi 1G27 

Doris Pinkham 1927 Gladys Lampert 1928 

Pearl Morris 1928 Ruth Rose 1929 

Virginia Hart 1927 Julia Kellogg 1928 



The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Mass., each month from 

October to June, inclusive. Terms $1.75 a year. Single copies 25c. 

Subscriptions may be sent to Mary Elizabeth Lumaghi, Wilson House. 

Advertising Manager, Julia Kellogg, Chapin House. 

Contributions may be left in the Monthly box in the Note Room. 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Mass., as second class matter. 

Metcalf Printing $ Publishing Company, Northampton, Mass. 

"Accepted for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, 

Act of October 3, 1917. Authorized October 31, 1913." 



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CONTENTS 




College Students, Mr. II. G. Wilis. wi> Scientific Ethics 

//. .!/. Parshley 



K. Peter Joseph 

Query 

The Riddle 



Ruth Lockwood Thompson 1927 

Rachel Grant 1929 

A! on Smith 1927 



Lament on the Loss of Perfection Isabel SUvmg 1927 

The Sphinx Jam V. Wakeman 1927 

Eyes and Windows Elizabeth Hamburger 1927 

On the Faded Beauty of the Cliche Rachel Grant 1929 



The Irony 

Parisian Working Faces 

Wizard Hand 

The Lady of the Hollow Tree 

From a Mining District 

In Praise of Barbers 

Playground Sketch 

Impression 

Kino Arthur — A Familiar Glimpse 

Chinon 

Pom egranate Seeds 

Editorial: — Long Live the King 

Book Reviews 



Roberta leaver 1928 

Constance R. Harvey 1927 

Barbara D. Simisom 1929 

Geraldine Bailey 1929 

Rosemary Watson 1927 

Isobel Strong 192? 

Alice Hesslein 1928 

Elizabeth Hamburger 1927 

Patty Wood 1930 

Jane V. Wakeman 192? 

Rachel Grant 1929 



All manuscript should be typewritten and in the Monthly Box by the fiftt 
of the month to be considered for the issue of the following month. 
All manuscript should be signed with the full name of the writer. 
Manuscript may be disposed of unless marked 'Return", 



i 

12 

17 
1- 
24 
28 
29 
35 
35 
36 
40 
41 
48 
49 
51 
5:] 
:>4 
59 
60 
61 
63 

nth 



STUDENTS OF 



SMITH COLLEGE 

Will find the Wright & Ditson Store the best place to pur- 
chase their Athletic Equipment, Clothing and Shoes for all 
the sports in which girls are interested. 



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(Send for General Catalog, also Catalog of Girls' Clothing and Equipment) 
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When in Springfield 
You will find 

The HALL TEA ROOM 

A most satisfying place for lunch or 
afternoon tea, where people of refine- 
ment meet, and where things have the 
real home flavor. 



CHARLES HALL, Inc. 

411 Main Street 

The Hall Building 
Springfield, Massachusetts 



For the convenience of our 
Smith College Patronage we 
have opened a new shop at 

12 GREEN STREET 
NORTHAMPTON, MASS. 

I. MILLER 

BEAUTIFUL SHOES 



- — II » w 




Smith College 
Monthly 




COLLEGE STUDENTS, MR. II. G. WELLS, AND 
SCI ENTIFIC ETHICS 

By H. M. Paeshley 



Is there a plot to the show; is it a drama moving through 
a vast complexity to a definite end, or at any rate moving 
in a definite direction? To that question the various religions 
have given their various answers, and I will say at once that 
I have found none of their answers satisfactory.' 1 

H, G. Wells in "The World of William Clissold." 



I "IT'S a pretty good show, what Avith the Supreme King- 
dom, smoking rules, the foreigners being kicked out of 
gjgfl China, and the new curriculum (for 19:U!). II is a 
show not wholly proper, perhaps, but one which youth in 
general looks at with high interest (if we may except the 
eight blase college students who have recently become bored 
and made for the suicide exit) . This interest, it is generally 
agreed among the elders, very frequently takes the form of 
religious fervor, or at least a religious questing; and so the 
college, according to one view, should provide opportunity 
for ordered and objective study of what man has so far 
achieved in the codification of the supernatural. Regard- 
less of the opposing opinion that courses need not and should 
not be given in subjects of lively interest to the students — 
like religion and current literature — there is to be offered 
to beginning students a historical and comparative survey 
of "the various religions" referred to in our quotation, in 
which, I am sure, "the various answers" will be given broad- 
minded consideration. Such a studv should at least relieve 



The Smith College Monthly 



the intelligent student of the idea that some one of the four 
and twenty jarring sects has the perfect key to final truth, 
and it may well stimulate the quest for something better than 
any of them. 

The cosmic play, like the Broadway stage, must have 
its dramatic criticism, if not its censorship; and every college 
student who feels this intense interest in religion must in 
some measure become a critic — a critic who not only easts a 
skeptic eye toward the transactions on the stage hut also 
directs a questioning gaze upon her own interior, who scru- 
tinizes the validity of her own assumptions and convictions. 
To accomplish this is, I think, perhaps the most important 
final aim of a college education. It is a business fraught 
with danger, to be sure, and one viewed with alarm by many 
well-meaning persons: but "safety first" is no motto for the 
thinker, and "to live dangerously" is the lot of the pioneer 
Avhether in a strange country full of savages or in the equally 
alien hinterland of ones' own personality. 

Reading Mr. Wells' new book I was lately impressed 
with the value this novel of ideas might have for those who 
aspire to the estate of cosmic critic. It was, I thought, 
especially adapted to the needs and characteristics of the 
modern college student. I do not propose to add a review 
here to the excellent series that will be found further on 
under a proper heading; but perhaps we may draw upon 
the book for a text or two and some notions that are perti- 
nent to our theme. Wells has done many and strange 
things. He has written wholesome books for boys about the 
the Martians; he has preached on "God the Invisible King"; 
there was — horrid thought! — "Men Like Gods"; he has 
sometimes respected his gift and produced novels of artistic 
merit like "Tono Bungay", and the crystalline, prophetic 
"Ann Veronica". But as an aid to our seeing and under- 
standing of the modern world, as an intellectual stimulus, 
his last is worth all the rest put together. 

Well, let us agree to accept the universe, i. e., the find- 
ings of science. "Egad, we'd better," as Carlyle put it. 
We can't very well decide whether or not there is a plan, put 
in order our critical canons, determine the purpose of life, 
and set about achieving it until we know something about 
the facts of the world. So far science alone has been able 



The Smith College Monthly 

to provide us with facts thai are verifiable, truth thai is the 
same for all competenl observers; and so we may associate 
ourselves with Wells in his fundamental position thai sci- 
entific knowledge must be the main ingredienl in our phil- 
osophy as well as the basis for our successful action. 

Hul there is objection. This is all very well, we will 
be told, as far as internal combustion engines and sanitation 
arc concerned; but what of the aspirations of the human 
spirit, the problem of good and evil, sin, and the life here- 
after? Can we find out how to behave without the help of 
idealistic philosophy and revealed religion? Isn't science 
essentially a low grubbing about in the dirt to the neglect of 
the over-arching empyrean? Evidently we must adopt at 
the outset what the mere scientist would call a working hy- 
pothesis about the aims of existence. Whether we find the 
play well constructed and intelligible or not, we are certainly 
here; and what are we going to do about it? Is the actor 
in a muddled and preposterous "modern" drama — about 
which the critics are in total disagreement when they pro- 
nounce on its meaning and artistic integrity — is such an actor 
necessarily an unhappy soul, addicted to drugs, full of a low 
discontent, constantly tempted to self-destruction? Xot 
at all. While the play continues to run, the pay-checks 
to arrive, and his wife to be amiable, he remains happy, suc- 
cessful, and full of optimistic cheer when the interviewer 
waits upon him in his dressing room. As a result of prelim- 
inary observation we may thus adopt the hypothesis that we 
exist in a world of relationships, where every event has its 
cause, where all things work according to "laws" (i. e., in 
ways that we simply have to discover and act in accordance 
with), and where the materials of success and failure, happi- 
ness and misery lie ready to hand. How are we to behave 
in order to make the best use of these materials? 

And here it is that the question of ethics comes in. The 
method of science is based upon observation; if we are to 
replace philosophical and religious ethics and morality with 
a scientific ethics, the first step would seem to be observation 
— the collection and classification of pertinent data. Com- 
mon observation, "the accumulated wisdom of the race", is 
wholly futile for the explanation of comets, germ diseases, 
and the weather; old wives' tales and the wise saws of gray- 



10 



The Smith College Monthly 



beards have never given man full understanding or control 
of any natural process. Why should such "accumulated 
wisdom" he any better in the field of ethics? Man, we 
agree, has an inner life of motive and aspiration, a life that 
at most is vaguely indicated in his overt behavior. But this 
simply means that the scientific observation of man is more 
difficult than that of the laboratory Drosophila or guinea- 
pig; further, that superficial and cloudy "common know- 
ledge" and generalization will be even more futile in compre- 
hending human problems than they are in explaining the 
rest of nature. Modern psychology has here a manifest; 
occupation. Let it study scientifically and record accurately 
the data of human behavior, mental and physical — if we may 
use an old form of words. 

While we are waiting for the slow growth of ethical 
science, there are, fortunately, some working hypotheses that 
we should act upon — that is what a working hypothesis is 
for. And moreover we have our lives to live and our happi- 
ness to attain, though we fully appreciate the imperfection 
of such guidance as science has to offer. The hypothesis 
already mentioned, that we exist in a world of natural "law", 
is long since abundantly verified and now takes on the dig- 
nity of a theory or established scientific principle. Every- 
thing arranged in accordance with it works ; it underlies our 
confidence in the inevitability of a scientific ethics. Another, 
almost equally certain, is that the human animal acts under 
the influence of the three fundamental biologic urges: hung- 
er, sex, and fear. Any system of ethics which flouts these 
first principles is ipso facto doomed to failure. 

But we have heard the objectors raising the question of 
other urges naturally characteristic of Homo sapiens at least. 
I think we may accept the hypothesis that man requires the 
satisfaction of aspiration, the pursuit of an ideal. Here 
observation and verification have not as yet done their j)er- 
fect work; but we must go forward — by trial and error, like 
a Paramoecium. There is one universally accepted ideal; 
the improvement of mundane conditions. This may take 
the form of better side- walks or the World-state; but it is 
naturally and immediately explicable as the development of 
tendencies observable in most animals. To work for the 
Xew Dawn (as Wells has done) and to dig a comfortable 



The Smith College Monthly 1 1 

burrow (as the ground-hog will) can offer no greal difficul- 
ties of synthesis to the natural philosopher. And social life 
involved cooperation long before man shocked with his un- 
sightly form the aestheticism of primordial baboons. 

Let US look at one more ideal and have done. The aims 
of existence may he subsumed under that famous phrase 
"the pursuit of happiness," conceived in its broadest sense; 
and in this pursuit no item, I venture, is more important than 
freedom. It may well he that freedom will prove the chief 
ideal of the scientific ethics. Unman freedom, it has been 
abundantly shown, depends upon acceptance of scientific 
law; and here are implicit two important principles of our 
philosophy. Freedom involves responsibility — regard for 
consequences — and it requires knowledge. Here the role 
of science is clear enough. It teaches the sure relation of 
cause and consequence, and it provides the information need- 
ed to make the outcome of action consonant with human ne- 
cessities and desires. 

In a society ravaged by preventable disease, impover- 
ished by unsound economics, debauched by Prohibition, and 
deluded b*y false and incompetent shepherds, those to whom 
it is given to spend four years in an attempt to understand 
themselves and their universe may well devote some of their 
activity — "outside" activity if need be — to the high matters 
we have touched upon. 

At any rate, if I may conclude in the time honored 
fashion with an exhortation, take time to read "Clissold" 
and ponder a little upon the fact that "science' 'is not all bugs 
and chemicals. 



12 



The Smith College Monthly 



K. PETER JOSEPH 
Ruth L. Thompson 



A 



OOWN the stairway rapidly came K. Peter Joseph 
wondering whether he had the look of a baloon bounc- 
ing from one step lightly but inevitably to the next. 

lild's piano scale descending jerkily all a hot summer's 
morning, he thought grimly. Men may up and men may 
on but I go down forever. What's that? If I should fall 
now — a skilled mechanic even might let a knee shoot out too 
far. A skilled mechanic couldn't put me together. Does 
everyone come down here as fast? Never heard of acci- 
dents reported on the grand staircases of the Louvre, though. 
Maybe just Americans never— that's why we don't hear. 
Americans apt to leave by obscure rear exits so as not to 
be seen leaving unappreciatively soon. Oh! Oh! knee! white 
steps! arm out! shoulder! Temple shaking down upon the 
worshiping people. Crash Crash! Samson's black hair 
streaming ! 

On his face he lay thrown finally on the firm floor. He 
scarcely heard the clink of hurrying heels. Some number 
(an even number anyway) came running — the two stout 
women who sold photographs at each side of the door, run- 
ning with excited gesticulations at each other, an elderly 
little French gentleman running with his beard wagging, 
a no-longer-young American young woman running as if she 
would be certainly needed, and last hesitatingly but too 
shocked and too apprehensive to yield to her timidity a de- 
lectably young American woman. 

"He must be dead!" panted one of the first, but in 
French, sinking on her knees. They turned the long lank 
body cautiously over. 

"Quickly! water! water!" Gestures were directed, as it 
happened toward the one whose uncertainty had kept her in 
the position the most removed. 



The Smith College Monthly 1 :* 

"Ask the ticket man by the door!" ordered the other 
American, detecting a fellow-country woman in the girl 

and presuming to command. 

When the water was brought, K. Peter Joseph was sit- 
ting up with a head of hair only slightly more deranged and 

a look only slightly more dazed than that of any small boy 
sitting up half-awakened in his bed. To the hearer of the 
cup, however, lie presented an appearance probably more 
moving. She crouched beside him and offered a quaking 
paper cup. lie looked at her with widening eyes and taking 
no comparative interest in the cup made no movement to 
have it. 

"Yon must have a little drink, young man," came pres- 
sure from his other side, and taking the water from the girl's 
hand the unfeeling woman held the cup to his mouth. And 
it remained a day of indignities for K. Peter- — over his chin, 
over his batik tie, over his crisp shirt, splashed and spattered 
and shone the water. Such was a thing too much. A 
grumble came from him. 

"Thank you hut I'm quite all right. Thank you but — " 
he scrambled furiously to his feet and marched away as fast 
as he could with a tendency to totter, leaving the group be- 
hind him hanging open mouths. 

"Well!" but in French. 

"Well!" 

Hitting at his face with his handkerchief he was strick- 
en with pang after pang for the pearl he Avas leaving behind 
him. Eyes like — but a cup of water dribbling over me 
couldn't lead to anything! And that on top of a cascade of 
one's self down the stairway! What a predominance of the 
physical! Xo refined girl would have it. Eyes like — eyes. 
Eyebrows! Xo one like her. I'll never find her again. 

He turned at the doorway to look regardless of every- 
thing. Some of them Mere coming back down the long room. 
They are staring at me. She was watching him — is she 
watching me? That pestiferous American woman is talk- 
ing to her, turned towards her. Just the type you meet 
voracious for chatter with their type all over Europe. Is she 
watching me? Head bowed, pretty hat, alert. If she is, 
I'll even era back now. Find some excuse. She is! 



14 



The Smith College Monthly 



He started. Must find excuse. Excuse! Excuse. Oh, 
she can't be! It's unthinkable. Sloppy shirt. She isn't! 
Oh, she isn't! 

He swung about, hot from the predicament, glimpsing 
the surprised face of the little French gentleman as he turn- 
ed. How idiotic. Might really be mad of course. Hit my 
head enough places. Nine times out of ten only hurt but 
the tenth does something. Dare say eleven knocks at that. 
What if she was interested? Look again! Oh, out of the 
question ! Wish I'd lost my handkerchief, though. Would 
have if I'd been a woman. Point there lost too of course 
anyway. 

He had reached the exit. He pushed through the turn- 
stile. Hadn't expected when I came in. Rampaging pain 
in the head. 

II. 

At the top of the steps outside crowded a group of peo- 
ple. What! who is the butt of ridicule now? A wider sur- 
vey was explanatory. There was rain. And of course no 
taxis. Where do the Parisian taxis go when it begins to 
rain? Where do the birds in the fall? Ah where are we all 
going anyway? 

"Oh if it isn't raining! And no taxis!" K. Peter 
Joseph rigidly recognized the voice. "Where do the Paris- 
ian taxis gro when it begins to rain?" I blush, thought K. 
Peter. "We will certainly have a long wait." 

"I think — " the thinking voice was interrupted. 

"Oh, isn't this — oh young man! Are you fully recov- 
ered? It was astonishing — " K. Peter turned and turned to 
a pair of eyes. 

"I — yes — indeed it was astonishing!" he evolved. "Per- 
fectly astonishing," he added straightly for the eyes. "I'm 
sorry I can't get you a taxi — do something in return for your 
kindness. " 

"We'll have a long wait, I see," and the woman saw it, 
anyone could see, with complacent expectations. "Where 
do all the Parisian taxis go when it begins to rain?" That 
was too often. K. Peter couldn't help but have an answer 
now — an answer in a single word, and one applicable to pro- 



The Smith College Monthly 1 5 

fane exclamation. He might not have been able to help say- 
ing as much had not the lovely apex of their triangle dis- 
tracted him by a murmur. 

"They neither come nor go," she suggested, with a look 
of dismay which seemed to be for farther things than taxis. 
Bui K. Peter could scarcely feel the rapture which he knew 
that the remark deserved because of an immense uneasiness 
which increased and insufferably increased as a stream of 
travel talk was generated by a comment on the bad weather 
"all over Europe this summer." 

"] think — " again the voice thought— "I think I'll go. 
It isn't raining drenchingly. And I may catch a taxi outside 
of the gardens." 

"Oh you don't want to run through this rain, my dear 
child!" 

"Well, I've an appointment — yes, I think I'll go. 
Groodby!" She smiled sweetly at her female compatriot, 
quickly at the other and slipped out of the crowd and into the 
rain. K. Peter Joseph might have had accidents — but he 
knew good fortune when he saw r it. 

"I must see that she gets a taxi!" he excused himself 
and bolted. He was immediately beside her. "May I come 
and help you in the matter of taxis?" he pfieaded. "You took 
— for a moment or two — a sympathetic interest in me, so it 
is only fair." At this they were all embarked and the rain 
was only so much the more to go upon. K. Peter's physical 
and emotional disturbances sufficiently counteracted each 
other so that he could run straight. And there was very 
soon occasion for saying that he hoped the taxis would neither 
come nor go. 

Ill 

Over the tasted, the tasty dishes, over the glasses of a 
belated dinner at Foyot's, K. Peter Joseph dolefully dangled 
his head. 

"I dreamed we might have had a romance, Cecily," he 
despaired to her. "Then I shortly saw you have no parents 
living to molest you, you have no husband and no children. 
For my part, I've too clearly nothing either. I have plenty 



16 



The Smith College Monthly 



of money. Why, we could marry each other any day we 
chose with the utmost ease!" His voice rose to an unmiti- 
gated wail. "There's not a conflict to which we can so much 
as pretend. We learned in this one day how to misunder- 
stand each other very well and how to understand each other 
not too well. AVe have inactivity before us only — that is, 
you see, we've reality only without a way of escape. Be- 
loved, we couldn't make any story at all." They sat and 
they looked at each other. It indeed seemed that that was 
all they could do. 

Then Cecily's eyes exquisitely brightened. 

"Wasn't it action on the stairway?" she proposed. He 
glimmered. "It was our beginning." 

"There was that," he remembered. "Is a turn of the 
knee, a slip of the foot, an active or a passive error? Yes, 
there is a question! Cecilv, we've a question!" 

"A question!" she echoed. "Our first!" 

"Shall we take the slim chance — with everyday risk that 
science may any day come out with a proof that falling down 
a stairway is not an act, just a case of irresistence? Shall 
we take that chance of separating ourselves irretrievably 
from the romantic world of action and creation?" 

Cecily looked him in the eyes and left it for him to say. 
Perhaps she had fiallen downstairs at some period in her ca- 
reer and was fairlv sure it was an active business, anyway. 






The Smith College Monthly 



QUERY 
Rachel Grant 



Because I am as multiple as streets 

At high tide, saturate with men in queer 

Proximities — because I change for each 

Dissimilar mood that crosses mine, to gain 

A harmony — I am not contentless ! 

Because I cannot laugh at his despair, 

Or judge her solemnly when she is gay, 

Irrational with joy — it does not mean 

I have no light or darkness of my own; 

For water running warmly in the sun 

Will turn to pale ice as the night grows cold, 

And water carrying a ship is black 

Close by the hull, and silver at the prow, 

With rocks is noisy, and in forests, still, 

But water always — so why affect this scorn of me? 



18 



The Smith College Monthly 



THE RIDDLE 

Alene Smith 



rTYJLL life is a great guess, with a theory hazarded here, 
I a supposition there. What we know is appallingly 
j over-shadowed by what we do not know. Beginning 
with the trivial question of "Whom did Cain marry?" we 
come down through a succession of unanswered queries and 
uncertainties. The lives of great men of the past are often 
shrouded in mystery, there is a point beyond which we can- 
not penetrate. What they did verges into why they did it 
and the eternal questioning goes on. If such a thing as 
truth exists at all, it must exist in relation to these shadowed 
places of the world's history. Perhaps no one knew the 
truth but the individuals concerned and it has died with 
them. But I can imagine a time, a sort of millenium, when 
from somewhere a Great Questioner will come and clear 
away all the doubt and let the truth be known. It will be 
impossible to hide anything from the Questioner for by the 
might of his mystic powers he will draw the Real from the 
False and Feigned. And no one shall elude him. 

There was one Pierre Vidal of Toulouse, the son of a 
furrier, who was a riddle to his contemporaries and is a riddle 
to posterity. He has left divinely beautiful songs and 
poetry — and a record of crazy extravagances, ludicrous con 
ceits and monstrous errors. 

enjoyed; their author is hidden to all but — whom? 
Great Questioner ask and one who knows answer. 



The songs can be known and 

Let the 



Zoc, Pierre VidaVs Greek wife, speaks: You ask me 
about Pierre Vidal the man? I, who through all the ages 
have been written and thought of as a dupe, a tool, the sub- 
ject of a prank! Well, I have been waiting for such a 
time, I have prayed for it to come. 

Pierre Vidal sang better than any man in the world. 
Songs came easily to his lips and beautiful thoughts moved 



The Smith College Monthly 19 

ai liis call. His was a rare nature, one appreciative of every 
thing which touched it. He took delight in other people's 
lives and realized them in an intense and pathetic way. It 
was like constantly being in love, in love with all life, and .-ill 
beauty. They say he was one of the most foolish men thai 
ever lived for he believed that all things thai pleased him, or 
that lie wished, were true. And they say he loved all ladies 
and thought himself loved of each one, and that each one 
deceived him. But, for the first, 1 know that he adventured 
in life, he saw the hard world, he saw that he could not he 
and have all that he wished, and so he called true all that he 
wished to have become true. And I say that he knew more 
than as ii' his heart had not been so big. And as for ladies, 
yes, he loved them all, if that he a sin. lie loved beauty and 
he could see it minutely. There were very ugly ladies, as 
the world saw them, whom Pierre taught to call beauty to 
mind wherever they went, without being beautiful in them- 
selves. He made them hold themselves lovely, simply by 
telling them of their loveliest feature, of mind or body; and 
because he did it without their realizing it, they thought a 
conquest had been made of Pierre and that they were trick- 
ing him by his own devices. Pierre understood this, but 
he was courtly and did not care, so long as he had warmed 
beauty into being by the flame of his tenderness. 

There was Azalais, wife to Milord of Marseilles. Her 
name and Pierre's have ever been linked, until the world 
knows how he pursued her and implored her; how she flout- 
ed and would have none of him; how her husband laughed 
and urged on both. But it really fell out like this: Sir 
Barral, this same lord of Marseilles, had married Azalais to 
join his estates to hers. And Azalais was neither very beau- 
tiful nor very ugly. She was simply another woman, and 
there was nothing deep in her nature at all. She was a pawn, 
a slender wisp that could not be depended upon to act ex- 
cept as the fickle wind of her own will blew her. But like 
all such women, she felt herself to be a great temptress, a 
very subtle and clever one, with powers over men. 

Xow Barral, her lord, was enamored of another lady, 
one of his court, Celeste by name, and he cared for her much 
more than for his wife, Azalais. All the time he could he 
spent with her and gave her costly gifts. Azalais was not 



20 The Smith College Monthly 

slow to learn of this and though her love for Barral was not 
great, she could not bear to have it thought that he preferred 
another to her. So she seolded and wept to her husband 
continually, to the discomfiture of everyone at the court. 

This was what Pierre found when he came to Marseilles. 
Lord Barral liked him at once and invited him to stay at the 
castle of Marseilles. So then began Pierre's life there. He 
was the greatest troubadour who had ever sat in the min- 
strel's gallery. His songs were prized more than any other 
man's. At once he heard of Barral's intrigue and felt a 
deep pity for Azalais. "It must be intolerable for her," 
thought he, "she is young and fair enough." And so one 
night after meat in the great hall, he made up a tender little 
song about her and sang it before them all assembled.. Azal- 
ais was delighted and called Pierre to her side, where she 
sat by her husband at the high table. From then on Pierre 
sang to her and lauded her. Barral, of course, was pleased, 
for while his wife's attention was taken by the troubadour, 
he was free to be with Celeste. And so he was very gra- 
cious to Pierre and honored him, even giving him armor and 
raiment like his OAvn. 

But Azalais, because of her shallow nature and lack of 
perception, soon tried to become a figure of unattainable 
beauty, one sought after, one who could drive men desperate 
by her scorn. It was very pitiful to see. She would spurn 
Pierre and think to win Barral back by appearing as one 
desired of men. But when she tried to impress Barral by 
telling him this, when he would not remark on Pierre's intim- 
acy himself, he only laughed and bade her not be foolish. 
All this was seen by Pierre who continued in his attempt to 
warm a spark of loveliness into Azalais. Thought he, 
"She yearns for love which she has never had; she is like a 
poor addled bird which knows not whither to fly next. She 
demands adoration for beauties which she does not now pos- 
sess, but yet might have, were I to awaken them.' ' 

Accordingly, he went to her room one morning early 
and kissed her and tried to tell her of love's beauty and true 
delight. But she, at heart enchanted to think that Pierre 
had done as he did, must needs call the whole castle hither, 
under pretence of crying for help. Thus she felt that they 
might all witness her triumph. So Pierre failed again. But 



The Smith College Monthly 2 1 

this limr. disgusted and wounded by the sham of life, he 
v.nit away overseas. He was nol afraid of the silly threats 
made by Azalais to attracl Barrel's attention to her amour. 
He was Riled with distrust of himself and life and a deep 
melancholy gripped him. 

The tale of Azalais Followed him abroad and everyone 
who heard it laughed al the crazy singer of love-lays who 
could be twisted aboul and deceived and played upon by any 
woman. Pierre VidaPs "fine follies" were a by-word on 
the lips of all who had ever known or heard of him. 

Now I lived in Cyprus. My mother kept an inn where 
crusading soldiers and travelers often stayed. And through 
them I first heard of the Tool. Pierre Vidal. One day one 
of these fellows said over his cups, "There is nothing he will 
not believe or do. lie is a mad singer of nonsense." And 
another laughed and said. "Ha! I have a great plan." Later 
I learned that it was to marry me. Zoe. the inn-keeper's 
daughter, to Vidal, pretending me the niece of the great 
Emperor of Constantinople and the East. They offered me 
gold in large sums. At first I refused, for it seemed im- 
possible that any man should be so mad as to believe me such. 
And then 1 grew curious, as a woman wall, and demanded 
to see the man. So at length, when he came to Cyprus, 
they sent him to me. 

When I saw Pierre Vidal face to face, a great shame 
came over me. and something hitherto dead in my heart 
flashed into life. I felt a sudden pity for the blind fools of 
the world who did not understand this man. lie was beau- 
tiful as a god and there was a look in his eyes not of this 
brown and gray earth. He came to me and said gently: 
''Thou art she whom they say is niece to the Emperor of the 
East ?" I looked up at him and we both laughed aloud, 
joyously. "Truly," said I, 'T am daughter to the woman 
who keeps this inn. But I wish I were what they told thee. 
were it to make me thy wife!" Pierre went to the window 
and looked out. "They thought to make fools of us both." 
he said, "fools of thee and me." Then turning swiftly, "Let 
us make fools of them! Come, thou wouldst like to be Em- 
press of the East, yes? With me thy lord and Emperor? 
Well, then, we shall be so. we (ire!" He came to me and 
kissed me. and we saw that we loved each other. 



I 



22 The Smith College Monthly 

The men about the inn were delighted with the succ< ss 
of their trick. They shouted with raucous enjoyment at 

Pierre and me when we rode forth together dressed in furs 
and jewels. They hailed us mockingly and bowed low be- 
fore us. More than once L begged my husband not to go on 
with the farce. "They do not know that we understand," 
I said, "and we are fools in their sight. I cannot bear to 
have thee go thus, thought so little of!" "Pfah! What 
earest thou for their sight, my Zoe? There are people who 
understand and those who never can. They only live in 
part, but we are blessed of the gods, we can live and love 
and understand. Thou art a woman that I have searched 
for all my life, and now that 1 have found thee, thou must 
love me for the Pierre whom thou knowest me to be. And 
together we shall play the greatest joke on the stupid world 
ever seen sinee the serpent fooled Eve!" 

When Pierre Avent back to Toulouse and Provenee, I 
went with him. And again we were laughed at wherever 
we went, and only the knowledge of my true Pierre, the one 
I saw when we were alone together, helped me to bear it all. 
Pierre kept on writing love-songs to ladies and singing to 
them and amusing them. But only I saw him when he came 
to me like a tired little boy and rested his head on my breast. 
"They are all so blind! They do not see thai life is hard 
and cruel, that to evade its misery we must laugh at it and 
gallantly meet it; we must go ahead of it or around it. do 
anything but recognize its ugliness. Then it cannot harm 
us." It was at such moments that I learned the real mind 
and thoughts of Pierre Vidal. 

Xow in all his singing. Pierre had never written one 
song to me. And he knew it and often said. "Zoe. some day 
when there is freedom for a spaee. I shall write thee a love- 
lay from my heart and it shall be gay. too. as thou hast been, 
and true, as thou hast been, and loving and beautiful, like 
thee." 1 longed for the day. for never sang any man like 
Pierre Vidal. But not until he Avas old and men had forgot 
a bit about his "fine follies" did he do it. We were living 
quietly at Malta, both middle-aged but still beautiful and 
young to eaeh other. One day Pierre came to me in the 
garden and sang the song which men now consider only as 
"written in the last vears of Yidal's life and to an unknown 



The Smith College Monthly 28 

lady." And the song was, as Pierre had promised, gay and 
true, loving and beautiful. It began: 

"Good luck to me who can conceal my grief will) joy- 
ous mien." And there were these brave words: "Good luck 
to me who can depise grief, and hold comfort cheap." And, 
beautifully, near the end he sang: "Good luck to me if e'er I 
dare disclose my passion's Same; good luck to me it' she can 
hear to hear me without blame." And in these verses Pierre 
told the whole story of our life together, and he spoke truth. 
"I have made my name and my living by playing a game 
with life," he said. "1 have given the world something to 
laugh at heartily, even though it was only myself. God 
knows, it is such a sad world that some of us have to he 
fools!" 



24 The Smith College Monthly 



LAMENT ON THE LOSS OF PERFECTION 
Isobel Strong 



*t* III ERE is gone perfection and the striving after per 
\Ls fection? That of an Ingres drawing or an Adelaide 
jgjggj Crapsey cinquain? 1 1 is a quality founded in infinite 
labor, an all-embracing knowledge, and ultimate technique; 
then from this grows a perfection unmarred by technical 
difficulties or errors in knowledge. One may form a con- 
ception of the laborious process by a study of that long series 
of painstaking drawings of Ingres. The meticulous draft - 
manship, the incredible attention to detail, the slowly improv- 
ing technique and developing power — the number of sub- 
jects studied, drawn from every angle, so that there may not 
be a line with which he is not conversant, not a turn of muscle 
or an underlying principle of anatomical structure. After 
these and only from these came his fine free studies in human 
anatomy and in portraiture, perfect because of his completely 
mastered technique, his assured swift line, and his thorough- 
going knowledge of his material. 

In like manner, out of Adelaide Crapsey's "Study in 
English Metrics" was born one of the most exquisite and 
musical of the modern forms of expression. What she con- 
sidered her serious life work was her most scholarly research 
on the analysis of the English metrics, with detailed investi- 
gation into the question of accent. In her estimation her 
poems were merely incidental to this more worthy work. 
But because of the lucidity, the gossamer delicacy, the per- 
fection of these poems Adelaide Crapsey's place in American 
poetry is quite distinctive. She threw herself into her re- 
search work with far greater energy than the fragility of her 
constitution warranted. But because of this thorough foun- 
dation her poems grew naturally and easily in perfection of 
form and content. She developed a type of verse entirely 
her own — the cinquain. Into these five lines of hers are com- 
pressed the purest and most delicate beauty of thought 
expressed with a fresh clarity as lucid as the thought itself. 



The Smith College Monthly 

They have the graphic quality of a very lin< etching, with ex- 
traordinary pictorial power. One she calls "Triad" follows: 

"These be 

Three silenl things: 

The falling snow. . . .the hour 

Before the dawn. . . .the mouth of one 

Just dead." 

Her poetry was written during the latter part of her 
short life, while she lived at Saranac waiting Tor the death 

that she knew would be swift in its approach. Her emotions 
have the poignancy of one who feels the hitter shortness of 
time left to her to live, and experiences every sensation with 
an intensity and keeness that must have been exquisitly pain- 
ful. "Release" gives an impression of this grief-quickened 
sensitivity: 

"With swift 

Great sweep of her 

Magnificent arm my pain 

Clanged back the doors that shut my soul 

From life." 

In most of her poems one senses the ever present speetre 
of that approaching death against which she preserved a hig- 
ly courageous front. Her incredulity that she, so alive, so 
loving her life, so vividly breathing, could and soon would 
he caught is here — 

Youth 
4 But me 
They cannot touch, 

Old Age and death. . . .the strange 
And ignominious end of old 
Dead folk!" 

And then the eold still fear that took the place of the 
stricken protestation — "The Warning." 

"Just now, 

Out of the strange 

Still dusk. . . .as strange, as still .... 

A Avhite moth flew. Why am I grown 

So cold?" 



26 



The Smith College Monthly 



Moon- Shadows 

"Still as 

On windless nights 

The moon-cast shadows are, 

So still will he my heart when I 

Am dead." 

Her genius for suggestive pregnant expression is pecul- 
iarly distinctive. This is of course markedly noticeable in 
her cinquains which are pure compressed thought or emotion. 
She knew word values, syllable stress and metrical accent so 
completely that she could use the most rigid economy and 
still paint a great picture or express a whole philosophy. I 
can remember no two lines of English verse that are so terse 
and simple and yet carry such a richness of imagery and such 
a depth of pensive meditation as this fragment — 

On Seeing Weather-Beaten Trees 
"Is it as plainly in our living shown, 
By slant and twist, which way the wind hath blown?" 

This richness in her, her never dying interest and ab- 
sorption kept her spirits high through most of those dragging 
days. Friends coming to her to cheer her found she had 
much more to give them than they could give. One burst 
of rebellion she does record among her private papers in the 
longer poem, "To The Dead in the Graveyard Underneath 
My Window." (Written, she says, in a moment of exasper- 
ation.) Them she addresses as, 

"A pallid, mouldering acquiescent folk, 
Meek inhabitants of unresented graves . . ." 
And later cries — 

"Recumbent as you others must I too 
Submit? Be mimic of your movelessness, 
With pillow and counterpane for stone and sod? 
And if the many sayings of the wise 
Teach of submission I will not submit 
But with a spirit all unreconciled 
Flash an unquenched defiance to the Stars." 
But she never showed this desperate rebellious side to 
those about her. This was what thev saw — 



The Smith College Monthly 27 

"As il 

Were I issue of silver 

HI wear. () fate, lliy grey, 
And go mistily radiant, clad 
I iike thr moon." 

And once, were it not for the mere space of physical time 
separating them, she and [ngres might have stood in con- 
templation on the same spot, after which he had turned to 
his sketch pad. and she to hers to write, 

The Elgin Marbles 

"The clustered Gods, the marching lads, 
The mighty limbed, deep bosomed Three, 
The shimmering grey-cold London fog. . . 
I wish that Phidias could see!" 

Where is gone perfection and the striving after per- 
fection? 



26 The Smith College Monthly 



THE SPHINX 
Jane Vanderburgh Wakeman 



^^]X a narrow street, that elbows its ungainly way through 
the very heart of old Paris, stands a little cobbler's 
shop. It forms the first floor of an ancient building, 
as tune- worn and dingy in aspeet as all the others in that 
street. The damp and squalor of centuries have smirched 
its walls; have eaten so deep into the stones of the aged 
building as to seem ineffaceable, like the grain of wood. 
Over its surface brown crannies have been closing like fing- 
ers, for ages, to hold at last a spidery grip on its very struc- 
ture. Perhaps they grip the old cobbler too, holding him 
fast. At any rate, there he sits, far back in the grimy den 
which is his shop: day in and day out: never, it seems, even 
turning his head to peer at the light of day. You may dim- 
ly sense him, as you pass, through the dirt-filmed pane: the 
outline of his iron-grey head and crabbed shoulders just 
sketched upon the thick blackness within. The artist who 
set him at work there has wrought him cunningly of light 
and shade: even suggesting dimly the form of the wooden 

shoe he holds in those knotty toiling fingers. Tap! 

tap! tap! 

A mystery, you muse, if you are long familiar with the 
grey intenseness of it. Xo spell could hold its subject more 
remote* And lo! upon his window-sill, supreme between 
two flower-pots, a wonderful cat; who sits with wild eyes 
fixed upon nothing. You may tap as you will upon the 
pane before her: she is a sphinx, and she will not notice you. 
Her eyes burn like candle-flames; her white fur bristles 
from her back like the rays of an aureole. The pageant of 
a swift-moving life passes in the street before her eyes as 
the stream of worshippers before the gaze of an impassive 
idol: she is rapt, transfixed by some sight beyond. You 
may tap as you will: you will not move her by so much as 
the quiver of one whisker. Meditation has taught her that 
one sort of tap-tapping is much like another in this world: 
She is a sphinx, and she disdains them all. 



The Smith College Monthly 20 



EYES AND WINDOWS 

Elizabeth 1 [amburgeb 



©ETTA stood just inside the door of the little Swiss 
church. She was quite inconspicuous in her dull brown 
§§§§3 dress, her small figure crushed hack against (he wall. 
Only the white shawl over her head gave her childish face a 
paradoxical look of maturity increased by a curious express- 
ion she had of decision held in check by doubt. 

It was late in the day and the sinking sun shot its long, 
slanting rays through the crude colored glass of a window 
near the altar. A checkered pattern of red and blue fell 
across the face of the pale statued Madonna and made the 
marble child in her arms seem even whiter by contrast. In 
the gloom of the chapel at the far end candles were burning, 
strange flickering brightnesses like elusive will o' the wisps 
that had gotten into the holy place by a malicious error. But 
Betta did not notice these things. They were a part of 
her earliest experience. Three times a week, once on Sunday 
and once on each market day. she came to them, the bloody 
Christs on the wall, the rudely carved pulpit like a erookt 
extended arm, the old-faced babies and the tortured saints, 
the burial slabs in the gray floor, the damp smell, the tangible 
quietness, the white candles flickering in the gloom. Three 
times a week for as long as she could remember, — no. she 
no longer saw the separate parts, she only felt the spirit of 
the whole as something familiar, necessary to her own com- 
pleteness. 

There were certain things that she noticed today, how- 
ever, that she might not have noticed on another day, for 
Betta was waiting inside the door with the intensity of one 
who had come for no ordinary reason. Today she saw the 
old woman kneeling on a stool near the front. The old 
woman was one of her own mother's friends and would tell 
about Betta if she saw. Betta would have to wait until she 
was gone. She saw the priest come out of the confession- 
box and go out by a side door into the vestry. She saw 



30 The Smith College Monthly 

another woman, a woman with a bright shawl on her head. 
lift up a little hild so that it could reach one of the great 
bronze candlesticks and light one of the thin white candles. 
But most of all she saw the Eye above the altar, the pale 
Eye of God, the very highest thing in the church, and she 
saw that it looked out clearly with an expression that never 
changed. 

That Eye, — she looked up at it again and again. She 
looked up at it when the door to the vestry thudded dully 
behind the priest. She looked up at it when the child laugh- 
ed aloud at the sudden flare of the candle until its mother 
put her hand over its mouth and hurried out by another side 
door. Betta saw that the Eye never changed. She wond- 
ered how long her mother's friend would stay there praying. 
Perhaps she had had a bad day at the market and was going 
home with her basket still half full. If she stayed much 
longer it would be too late for Betta to wait. She almost 
hoped that the old woman would stay. Betta could come 
back another time. She looked up at the Eye. Xo, it 
must be today. She could not wait until next market, two 
days off, Betta was very young and so she took refuge in 
certainties and was miserable if she could not say, "I know 
that is so." 

It had been that way with the Eye. Her mother had 
often said, "That is God's Eye. He watches us always. 
You must be good or He will see and punish you", and Betta 
had never questioned. Always she had been good, — in 
church. As for outside — well, that Avas a different matter. 
— the Eye could not see her there. It is true that she had 
sometimes been a bit troubled. Where, for instance, was 
God's other eye? She supposed it must be watching over 
the people in St. Nicholas' church in Liitry. It had occur- 
red to her that no one she knew would be able to have one 
eye in one place and the other half a mile away, but then, of 
course, God was different. She wished, too. that the Eye 
had been prettier. She had always thought that God ought 
to have blue eyes, like a sky. Perhaps the other one was 
blue. Xo, that would be worse. Joseph had one blue and 
one brown eye and Joseph was the ugliest boy she knew. 
By that time Betta always began to think of something else 
and ceased to trouble herself about the Eve of God. 



The Smith College Monthly :* I 

So she might have continued indefinitely, for Betta had 
neither time nor inclination for metaphysical speculations. 
Unfortunately for her peace of mind, however, there had 
been Hans Steudler. Hans was the bright-eyed son of the 
village glazer and Hans was two years older than Betta. 
Of this difference in (heir ages he was acutely conscious and 
he was anxious thai Betta should be made to feel it as 
acutely. 1 1 is chance had come the preceding Sunday morn- 
ing as they knelt in adjoining pews. It had been during 
a chant and she had been so very still beside him that he had 
reached over and tweaked one of her little black braids. That 
was how it had conic about, for she had asked him afterwards 
how he dared to behave so in church with the Eye of God 
staring down upon him, and he had laughed and slapped his 
thighs and thrown his cap into the air. "Oh, you baby!" 
he had chortled. "The Eye of God!— Why that's only' an 
old glass window. I know because I heard papa say he'd 
stayed up a whole night to mend it. He said it was broken 
by accident and the priests didn't want anyone to know. 
And you thought it was real! Oh. you baby!" and he had 
laughed and laughed until Eetta's cheeks burned and not 
even biting her lips would keep the tears out of her eyes. 

Now she was waiting to find out. Either Hans had 
lied to make a fool of her or her mother had lied to make her 
behave. In either case she felt shamed and outraged, for 
Betta, though no anarchist, already had a decided sense of 
her own individuality. There would be no arranged mar- 
riage for her when she grew up. and there was to be no 
arranged credence for her now. She had never doubted of 
her own volition, for doubt was too unpleasant to one of her 
positive nature .and now that doubt had been forcibly intro- 
duced, her instinct was to remove it by the most convincing 
method possible. She would see whether the Eye were a 
glass window or the living, seeing Eye of God. She didn't 
know what she would do if she found it were only a window. 
That was not the point to her mind yet and she hardly 
thought about it at all. Rut she Avould put it to the test. 
It took courage, but Betta had to know the truth. She had 
planned it all very carefully. When she was alone in the 
church, as she knew she could be at that hour, she Avould go 
in disregarding all the forms that she had been taught to 



32 The Smith College Monthly 

observe. She would not cross herself with. holy water. She 
would not how to the altar at any place, and she would do 
something very wicked before the holy altar itself. — perhaps 
she would curse God. Then she would know. The church 
might Tall in and bury her or God might consume her in His 
wrath, — if her mother had told the truth, hut if Hans were 
right nothing would happen. 

After a very long time the old woman who knew her 
mother rose from the kneeling- stool, picked up her market- 
basket, adjusted the black shawl over her head and creaked 
off up the aisle, pausing only to bend her knee jerkily as she 
reached the entrance. Betta had slipped behind the fount 
and the old woman, mumbling, passed out without seeing her. 
Betta breathed hard. She felt as if the most important 
moment in her life had come. She half wanted to run away 
from it, — it held such terrible possibilities, but she was cur- 
ious too. She looked into the church. The red and blue 
checkered pattern had fallen to the baby's faee now, on the 
statue down by the altar, and the Madonna looked not white 
but grey in the dimness around her. The candles were 
burning with the same flickering steadiness as before, and 
Betta suddenly realized how very still everything w^as. It 
was as if every stone in the cold floor, every pane of stained 
glass, every stiff wooden seat, every crude painted face were 
holding its breath waiting to see what would happen. 

Then a strange thing happened to Betta. She lost all 
sense of fear. She felt rather the way an actress feels on the 
first night of a play that she knows is to be a great triumph. 
The expectancy that hung in the tense silence of the church 
entered into her. She raised her head in conscious pride 
and walked past the fount. Her hand, which she had lifted 
in the instinctive gesture, was jerked taut to her side. She 
turned into the aisle and walked down it, slowly, stiffly, with 
conscious omission of the usual bending of the knee. When 
she reached the end she stopped. Nothing had happened 
yet. Should she go on or was this sufficient proof? The 
echoes of her footsteps were ringing in her ears but they only 
intensified the expectant hush. She had only half done 
what she had planned. Certainly she must go on, even 
though the place was so very quiet, so very lonesome. She 
looked up at the Eye. Its expression was the same as it 



The Smith College Monthly 

had always been. No, wliai she had < l< n u so far had been 
beneath its notice, thai is, supposing il were more than glass, 
and she must give il a fair chance. 

She turned and walked across the fronl to the center 
of the choir. Her heart was thumping now and she was 
walking like a somnambulist. Everything seemed unreal 
and her body ached with its own tenseness. 'The choir stalls 
seemed to jump before her eyes and reel hack against each 
other. She looked dow n and a malicious little face grinned 
at her from one of the misereres. She put her hand out as 
it' to keep it away and a startled little gasp escaped from her 
tight throat. Why should a wooden face look so alive? Bui 
she wasn't really thinking now, only saying over and over 
to herself. "I must do it. I must. Hans said I was a baby. 
1 must, I must, I must!" If she failed now she would never 
know. She could never tell Hans, — or her mother, what the 
truth really was, and she would have that dreadful unsettled 
feeling that she had had all Sunday and Monday, for the 
rest of her life. 

She stopped before the altar. Her dropped eyes fixed 
on a peach-colored marble stone in the floor. She held on 
tight to her sides with convulsive lingers. She opened her 
lips and closed them again without a sound. She swallowed 
hard and her throat felt as if it were about to burst. Then 
suddenly she raised her eyes. She was being carried for- 
ward on a wave of unreality. She saw nothing at all but a 
blur of many objects that were quite meaningless. She felt 
strangely quiet and light. "Damn God!" she said in a firm 
little voice. Then she caught her breath sharply before she 
spoke again. This time the words came tumbling out. 
"Damn God if his Eye is only a glass window!" 5 

She was dizzy now and her knees quivered. She sat 
down on the steps of the altar shaking like one with a chill. 
She was crying. She had forgotten that she must be quiet. 
Her sobs were almost lost in the depths of the church and 
they sounded little and helpless. 

A man was leaning over her. It was Karl, the verger. 
Eetta knew him. It was good to see someone near. He 
was asking her what the matter was. She wanted to talk 
but she didn't know what the matter was. "It was the 
Eye," she was chattering. "I wanted to know, but nothing 



'H The Smith College Monthly 

happened, did il^ Hails said it was only glass. Is it? It 
must be if nothing happened, only I was so afraid. Does 
that count as something happening, being afraid, I mean?" 

Karl's brow puckered in a genuinely puzzled frown. 
"She must be ill," he thought. "Poor child," and he picked 
her up and started to carry her out. 

"Why don't you answer me, Karl?" It was Betta, 
somewhat revived by this time and beginning to be her usual 
impatient self. "Is it His Eye or just a glass window that 
Hans' father made?" 

"Oh!" said Karl and his frown cleared away. "You 
mean that:"' and he pointed upward. 

Betta nodded. Karl was trying to explain to her. He 
was saying something about eyes and windows being the 
same thing. That was very foolish of him. Something about 
symbols to help people understand. But Betta couldn't 
understand. It all seemed like a bad dream, and really now 
she didn't care a great deal after all. She sighed 

"I'm awfully tired, Karl." It was the voice of a sleepy 
child. "Please hold me tight. And Karl, don't tell anybody. 
I guess I'll be good in church anyhow, just because — maybe." 

Karl promised not to tell and he held her comfortingly 
tight. Betta loved his kind smile even if it was a little sad. 
She was glad it had been Karl who had found her. She 
could not know that when he looked down at her so wistfully, 
he was not thinking only of her, for Betta knew nothing 
about another child, a little boy who had once thrown a stone 
at a stained glass window and grown up to be the verger of a 
church. 



The Smith College Monthly :*."> 



ON THE FADED BEAUTY OF THE CLICH* 

Rachel Grant 



Spiritless words that the years have used harshly, 

Were once odd, and bewitching — 

Like a Juliet gown at the eostumer's, 

With ravelled gold stitching; 

Hut the dingy brocades will shimmer again 

Beneath a cautious lighting — 

And dexterous men still enamel old words 

To grace their newest writing. 



THE IRONY 
Roberta Seaver 



How sweet 

To meet! 

Hut it would grate 

On Fate. 

She'd hate 

To make life so 

Complete ! 



36 The Smith College Monthly 



PARISIAN WORKING FACES 

Constance R. Harvey 



5w*|HY do I love Paris? For a long time I have been 
\ls trying to answer that question, and I think that at last 
jjgjgSl 1 have hit upon tin- answer. So many people have 
passed enthusiastic judgment on everything from the Mona 
Lisa to the Eon Marche that the subject would seem thread- 
bare, but to everyone his own reasons. Some love the 
sweep of her long avenues, some the dark corners of her old 
churches, while others delight in the gay chaos of the "boite 
de nuit." But although these things are typical of Paris 
they are not the whole story. There is also the work-a-day 
side of the picture, curiously mixed and interwoven with all 
luxe and grandeur. I have seen young aristocrats at the 
"Gingerbread Fair", and on Sundays the shopgirls all walk 
in the Bois. While early in the morning (about two o'clock) 
great loads of carrots and onions lumber heavily down the 
magnificence of the Champs Elysees. 

Here is the secret: I should not mind being poor in 
Paris. Xew York, Florence, Rome, each has its own fas- 
cination. But in Florence I should want my elegant villa, 
in Rome I should have to be of noble family, while in Xew 
York I should fight for a place on Park Avenue. But in 
Paris I could live in the Square Rameau or in La Villette 
and not mind a bit. The Parisian atmosphere is kindly to 
the poor. There is neither the death struggle of our Amer- 
ican cities, nor the degrading laziness of the south. Work 
there still has an interest and healthy dignity of its own. 
The Machine is not yet in command. The minds of the 
working people are alive. They have passionate political 
opinions ; they take a keen pride in their city. 

Everywhere one sees the faces of these working people, 
in the streets and on. the buses; shop girls, sewing girls, hair 
dressers, taxi drivers, a dozen pictures crowd into my mind. 
Gradually, for me. these working people have come to stand 



The Smith College Monthly :*7 

for something ineffably essential to the city, something con- 
nected with thai obscure phrase, "theg&iieof Paris." 

* # * * 

THE LITTLE SEWING GIRL 

The tiny room is just big enough for Christine and her 
canary and one customer. All day the canary sings in his 

bright cage, and all day Christine sews, perched among piles 
n[' dresses and ribbons and dainty chemisettes. Hour after 
hour she rolls microscopic hems and draws invisible threads. 
Christine, herself, is a live little bird with her blond head 
cocked gaily over her needle. 

For every customer she has the same bright smile, the 
same store of little jokes. She is never too busy or too tired 
to attend to all their fussy wants. "Of course the buttons 
shall be moved. Madame would prefer the mauve lace?" 
She is very patient with them all. 

Christine is an excellent saleswoman. The art of flat- 
tery has no more cunning master, no more enthusiastic de- 
votee. She practices cajolery for its own sake. "Madame, 
when I saw this negligee I thought of you at once, at 
once. It has just your air distingue, or — coquette, or— 
charmante. It will make you look so slender, or — so tall, or 
— so petite" — according to the varied ambitions and weak- 
nesses of woman. Christine never fails to promise super- 
human haste. "At all costs the gown will be delivered in 
time for the ball." Very often it is not, but there is always 
an excellent excuse. 

For a long time Christine has had a sweetheart, a tailor. 
He is a tall, comely fellow and we have all urged Christine 
to marry him. But the minx affects to scorn men: "O la! 
Why should I want a husband ? I am so well off as it is. Of 
course he is clever, that Georges. For the sake of the busi- 
ness perhaps." 

# * * * 

THE COIFFEUR 

There is a saying in France: "Un quart d'heure de 
Coiffeur" that doubtless had its origin in the sad social fact 
that when the hairdresser asks you to wait ten minutes you 
may as well be prepared for an hour. It is quite true, 



38 The Smith College Monthly 

Henri is always late. But his wife or his mother will give 
you the "Vie Parisienne", and soon you will be so absorbed 
in improving your French that the time will seem short 
enough. 

At last he hurries in, flourishing his irons and radiating 
apologies and good humor. What an attractive, lively 
fellow he is, to be sure — very neat and chic. And, if that 
wave in his hair is not guaranteed "untouched by human 
hands", who can blame him for practicing his art. 

Until after the shampoo, conversation is impossible. 
Pounded and shaken, and under water most of the time, you 
could not speak if your life depended on it. It seems a 
shame that so young a man should see a woman with her hair 
all wet and soap in her eyes. It is really a proof of Henri's 
optimism and perfect gallantry that he still believes in 
beauty. But he insists that his illusions are unshaken. 

With the marcel torrent is let loose. Henri is ready 
to discuss everything from the cathedrals of Normandy to 
the latest play. He knows all the masterpieces in the Louvre 
and is well up on Impressionistic Art. In politics he is a 
liberal conservative. He tells you that he has a little place 
out in the country and if the radicals ever get in, goodness 
knows what will happen. On one subject, Henri is apt to 
be a snob, and, it must be confessed, a bit of a bore. He 
dearly loves to tell you how many of his patronesses are of 
the old nobility, how yesterday the Comte de Blank called 
early for the Comtesse and made her so nervous that she left 
with only one side curled. He will also tell you w r hat a 
difficult thing it is to find the exact dye to turn the white hair 
of the Marquise to its accustomed auburn. This is his great 
weakness. But if you are patient and show r the right sym- 
pathetic interest, he may forget the nobility and grow en- 
thusiastic over the bicycle tour he made last Sunday with his 
young wife. He will make you see the lonely country lanes 
and hear Annette singing as they trundle along, and you will 
have a cheering picture of young French married life. 



CHAUFFEUR DE TAXI 

When one takes taxis day after day from the same corn- 
er, one is very likely to draw the same taxi. I became 



The Smith College Monthly 66 

acquainted with Pierre in ihis way, He is not young and 
spruce, hul old and stoul and rosy, with a bristling white 
moustache and tiny eyes like the shiney shoe-button eyes of a 
comfortable teddy-bear. He is always draped in innum- 
erable mufflers. 

Pierre's ear suits him to a "T". It is old and \\() and 
banged-up. l>ut if it has none of the elegant, modern trap- 
pings of the smart DeDion-Bouton taxis, the cushions and 
rugs are always clean; and Pierre will push the top up and 
down as often as yon wish, something that the younger 
chauffeurs are very haughty about doing-. 

Pierre is the ideal, the dream, of a taxi patron. After 
a long lifetime spent in Paris, lie "knows her like his pocket": 
all the little curling alleys, all the obscure squares, all the 
twisting streets that end against blank walls. lie knows 
all the cafes and dancing places. lie will wait for hours in 
front of shops in defiance of all parking regulations. Al- 
though prone to drive at hreak-neck speed through traffic, 
he always slows down when he crosses the river. Sometimes 
he even stoos in the middle of a bridge to make a proud ges- 
ture of ownership toward Notre Dame in the mist or sunset 
on the Trocadero. 

Suppose that you are in a hurry to catch a train. You 
rush down to the taxi and shout "(rare du Nord! Quick!" 
Pierre bundles you in and throws your hags in on top of 
you. There is a moment's suspense while he gets the old 
ear started, then you are off, and you do not even hesitate un- 
til the station is reached. Buses, racing cars, trucks, and 
trolleys — you leave them all behind. Pierre drives on the 
principle of the survival of the fittest. It is the nearest 
approach to the racing movie to be found in real life. You 
may get out battered, bruised, and subject to heart failure 
for the rest of your days, hut you never miss the train. 

On the other hand, suppose it is moonlight in the Bois, 
just a night to linger. Pierre will drive at a snail's pace 
round and round the lakes and up and down the dark ave- 
nues. He seems just as sorry as you are when it comes time 
to go home. 

One night in May two foolish young people danced 
along the sidewalk and waved madly for a taxi. Pierre came 
came driving up. "But, Jacques," the girl was saying, "if 



40 



The Smith College Monthly 



this place is as tiny and mysterious and unknown and out- 
of-the-way as you say, how can he ever find it? Why, even 
you forgot the name of the street!". . . . Then, hoth together, 
anxiously, "Oh chauffeur! do you know where it is, The Cafe 
of the Agile Rabbit? Do you suppose you could ever find 
it?" A slow smile spread over Pierre's face and his little 
eyes almost disappeared. kk Hh, mes enfants, what do you 
think I have been driving around Paris for all these years? 
But yes, I know your Agile Rabbit! It is in old Montmar- 
tre, way up on the hill, in a little quiet street. From there 
one sees all the lights of the city, spread out so — like fairy- 
land. Many, many times have I gone there with children 
like you. Get in and you shall see a bit of old Paris, and 
you will never, never forget." 



WIZARD HAND 
Barbara D. Simison 



The artist Ingres at work with skilful hand 

Attacks gigantic scultpure, classic face, 

The swimming stag, the prancing centaur band, 

And soon transforms them into three inch space. 

Minutely done, with surest pencil skill, 

He brings before our eyes an ancient pose, 

A thousand times reduced, yet classic still — 

A perfect profile — quarter inch from ear to nose. 

He changes ugly, fat Monsieur Bertin, 

And makes of him a charming portrait view; 

He beautifies Madame Pierre Chauvin, 

And breathes his magic into her veins, too. 

With wizard hand he holds his artist's sway, 

And orders all his subjects to obey. 



The Smith College Monthly I I 



THE LADY OF THE HOLLOW TREE 
Geraidine Bailey 



II K was called Julianna Popjoy, and she lived in a 
hollow tree. Used as we arc to strange individuals, 

this lady, to put il mildly, takes the cake. There have 
)een many queer persons in this world but I am sure that she 
was the queerest. 

Now it is not my purpose to satisfy the scientific reader 
as to exactly why Julianna Popjoy lived in a tree. To he 
perfectly frank, I don't know. Furthermore, I have never 
lived in one myself, and I see no reason why any one should. 
Vet. I have always had a certain sympathy for the unusual, 
and hence I was interested and amused, when I found in a 
very old issue of the Gentleman's Magazine the following 
entry — 

"Julianna Popjoy died last week. For thirty or forty 
years she has lived in a hollow tree. She had been mistress 
to the famous Beau Nash of Bath." 

Now, we will all admit that Popjoy is a very unusual 
name — In fact, it has even a greater charm when familiarized 
by use. Even John Galsworthy almost used it. In one of his 
latest works which deal with the inevitable Forsytes he called 
his heroine "the pet of the Panjoys." This name seems very 
tine at first but compare the two — Panjoy, Popjoy— 
Popjoy, Panjoy. The former is a trifle flat, slow-moving, 
but the other is rising, bursting, bubbling, quite glorious in 
its Pop and the succeeding joy. Take it by itself and say 
it over, roll it around the tongue, play on its dulcet syllables, 
trill it loud — Popjoy — Popjoy. 

But I digress and should now be describing Julianna. 
Unfortunately she seems to have made little impress on her 
own generation and none on ours. Xo encyclopedias hold 
her name, no fat biographies smirk it forth from well-filled 
shelves. But, if we turn to Sherlock Holmes with psychic 
insight, perhaps we can see her. To begin. I am sure she 



42 The Smith College Monthly 

was small. Hollow trees are made primarily for Squirrel 
Xutkin and his associates. No daughter of the gods di- 
vinely tall could fit comfortably into one. So she was small 
and we may be sure she was pretty. In his day Beau Xash 
was adored by three women. Julianna was the third. She 
was the last love, the old man's darling. Studies of the 
audiences of the Follies show that old men turn to youth and 
light laughter, to soft curves, even to plumpness if it brings 
dimples .and of all gentlemen, they are the ones most apt to 
prefer blondes. Grace and joy and light and laughter 
bring warmth to old hearts, and Julianna must have shown 
all these to have won the elderly Beau. But history tells 
us that he. after the wildness of his youth, settled down to an 
old age. whose only passion was gambling. If this is true, 
it was Julianna who single-handed wooed and won the 
great Master of Ceremonies. But history is often the fath- 
er of lies. In his early days, Beau Xash distinguished 
himself by riding in the Altogether, as Trilby so quaintly 
puts it, through London on a cow. He was willing to eat 
tallow candles or do whatever he thought might divert the 
ladies. So I was more willing to incriminate him than 
Julianna in commencing their affair. Like all biographers, 
I am convinced of the integrity of my heroine. 

But now Ave hear an impatient tapping of a high-heeled 
slipper and the crackle of a fan for Juliana Popjoy stands 
fully- formed and is eager for our inspection and anxious for 
our praise. She is an eighteenth century ghost, and al- 
though used to the harsh words of Xash she expects fine 
manners. So we bow very slowly before her and see two 
small feet and a skirt slightly lifted to show a pair of delicate 
ankles — for the Beau was always a eonoisseur in such mat- 
ters. Slowly, our eyes shift upwards and are drenched by 
a great wave of blue, robin's eoo- blue, the color of innocence 
and youth and Julianna Popjoy. Almost drowning in the 
stretch of blue skirt .broad and high over the pannies. we 
come to a waist small — but round, for the Beau did not like 
a woman to rattle in his arms. Over a series of ruffles of 
lace, which are laid up for the neck, we pass, and then we 
reach the face. After a few moment's silent contemplation, 
we wondered whether Paris could not here have found an- 
other Golden Helen. Maybe we say that Julianna is 



The Smith College Monthly i:> 

pretty. Go a step further and call her astonishing. She 
has all the charm of downcast eyes and dimples along with 
.•i bubbling up of life, and she seems both like a bacchante 
struggling to be proper and a cherub trying to be gay. Sine* 
the scientific reader wants details we will give them. .Joh- 
anna's Face seems to be made of delicious curves. Her eye- 
lashes curve back from her eyes as if lolli to hide them from 
sight, her nose tilts up as from disdain hut it is repudiated 
by the generous curve of her mouth, which makes her seem 
more the child of some amorous Greek than the off-spring 
of a thin-lipped Anglo-Saxon. On her forehead, the light 
hair is parted. Seeing us glance at it, she half turns her 
head coquet tishlv to show the long curls hanging behind. 
Eagerly, we lean forward to touch one of those bright spirals. 
She seems to give a gay little nod and a bright smile. We 
snatch suddenly for a curl. There is almost a second rape 
of the lock, but — we find ourselves staring on space and 
clutching the empty air. Vanished is her face, the steps of 
lace on her throat, the shining sea of billowing blue, the little 
feet on the parquet floor. The two centuries have rudely 
come between us and avc can no longer see Julianna or hear 
the light glitter of her laugh. 

Gone, quite gone, we wonder again why she never mar- 
ried Nash, and helped him rule in Bath. The life was 
happy. Every morning, in a closed chair, Julianna was 
carried to her bath and. like a fair Psyche stepped into the 
water, receiving from the attendant a little floating dish 
in which to put her handkerchief, snuff-box and nose-gay— 
and — 

"'T was a glorious sight to behold the fair sex. 
All wading with gentlemen up to their necks." 

After the bath, she rejoined her friends at the Pump 
House where three glasses of the waters were drunk and 
conversation was carried on by "the gay. the witty and the 
forward." Here, easily was found a place for a cherub 
wishing to be gay, witty, and forward, and how prettily 
Juliana passed among the groups, rallying a friend on his 
new love and vowing she must needs find a nunnery for her- 
self, or escaping with a gay grace from a too ardent gallant 
who pressed her with a fourth glass. 



44 The Smith College Monthly 

Then came the evening. Julianna exquisitely powdered 
and perfumed, a black patch on her check as a foil for her 

fairness, attended the ball, which began with a minuet. In the 
middle of a crowd of periwigged men of fashion was Beau 
Nash so glittering in a gold-laced coat with jewelled buttons, 
"that he was taken by many to be a gilt garland." All 
during the evening, Julianna daneed, pressing the band of 
one gallant, while she smiled behind her fan and fluttered 
her eyelids for the benefit of another. She joined in the 
minuet, the country-dances and the Sir Roger de Coverly, 
until eleven when Beau Nash held up two fingers for the 
music to stop. Some time was granted to the daneers to 
eool, in which time she was still active with her fan, until she 
was handed to her chair by the two gallants, each feeling 
sure he was her favorife, and not understanding the presump- 
tion of the other. 

So much of Julianna's life we can see with clearness. 
We can hear her gossiping behind her ivory fan in the Pump 
Room with some other lady as powdered and patched as her- 
self, or flirting most outrageously over her shoulder with 
an exquisite, who is taking snuff at a little distance and 
seeming to find her quite creditable. We can see her, demure 
in a long pelisse, trimmed with fur and buttoned from neck 
to hem, passing through the cobbled streets of the old 
pleasure-loving town with the Beau by her side, a little stiff 
and old, but still straight and splendid under the white hat 
he always wore, "always white to secure it from being stolen" 
as he often said. It is very easy to see her thus as a success- 
ful lady of fashion, and again we wonder why did she turn 
from that comfortable life to a more rural career. 

Maybe, Rousseau filled her with a love of nature. How- 
ever, thirty or forty years is a long time. The cold dawn 
when the leaves on the trees are wet and trembling in the 
misty air would discourage a fad in any woman as childish 
and petulant as Julianna. Rousseau's good-looks, his glow- 
ing rhetoric, could not make her forget that the hollow tree 
smelled unpleasantly of dead, or worse, of rotting things, 
that a bat lodged there, too. 

Rather, do I think that it was from a whole complexity 
of causes that Juliana resolved to go to her tree. As 
Beau's life declined, the old man grew testy and poor. Peev- 



The Smith College Monthly I -."» 

ishly he insisted on his rights and clung to his <>l<l habits. lie 
lold the same stories over continually and grew so disagree- 
able and cross ( h ; » t he was known as "old P>ean Knash." 
When Wesley, the greal preacher came to Hath, Nash did 
not hesitate to tell him that his sermons were frightening to 
the people, saying k l judge by common report." Wesley, 
thereupon asked him his name and replied: "I do not dare 
judge you by common report." At this, the greal Xash, 
the victor of a thousand wit-comhats and he who when lie 
met a man in hoots in an assembly-room would inquire "if 
he had not forgotten his horse," turned and walked away. 
We can see how Julianna's eyes followed him with disdain. 

After this rebuff, she applied herself with many ques- 
tions to his conqueror. Wesley, warmed by her beauty and 
youth, took an unequalled interest in arousing in her a love 
of God. He pointed out the life of sin she was leading ,the 
terrible punishment consequent on gossiping, jesting and 
snuff-taking, the loose morals of the society at Bath and the 
world in general. With an eloquence, augmented most pro- 
bably by her charm, he exhorted her to leave these practices, 
and shun the world. Julianna, admiring his eyes, caught 
fire and burned with a Wesleyanism that took complete root 
in her heart and lasted the rest" of her life. All that she 
had done up to that time seemed to her blasphemous and un- 
seemly. Under the influence of Wesley, she vowed to take 
off her satin and brocaded dresses, her little silk shoes and 
stockings, the watch of gold, set with diamonds in chased 
designs to show them off, the rubies for her ears and the neck- 
laces and bracelets of pearls, the little painted fan mounted 
on sticks of carved mother-of-pearl and the rouge-box, on 
which her initials were picked out in sapphires. All these 
she left and, still under the influence of Wesley, half in love 
with him, and half in love with God, she closed herself up 
in her lodgings and lived like a nun, seeing no one and refus- 
ing all invitations. For some time she lived this way and 
might have continued thus in Bath forever, but for the con- 
tinual distractions her old friends made. The Beau him- 
self made no violent effort to have her back for in his great 
capacity as a Master of Ceremonies, he could not seem both- 
ered by a woman's caprice, but ladies and gallants came often 
knocking at her door, rattling the handle and singing under 



40 The Smith College Monthly 

her windows. As her former lover had often said, "Wit, 
flattery and fine clothes are enough to debauch a nunnery." 
Julianna feared that even despite her love for the great 
Wesley and for God (who, though he held second place in 
her affections at first, finally gained pre-eminence over them 
all) she might return to her old follies. So, at last, she de- 
cided that, a female Saint Francis, she would give up even 
her comfort in praising the Lord and that she would wander 
homeless and alone in the quiet of fields and woods, her only 
food berries and fruits or whatever was given her. 

Asceticism is a fine cure for the world. After a few 
years, Bath had quite forgotten Julianna and she passed 
along the roads of England, singing Methodist hymns and 
so worn by the sun and rain and hard weather that none 
of her former friends might have recognized her. Gone were 
the curves, alas, that had charmed so many. Her face became 
ruddy and thick-skinned and lost the dazzling whiteness 
which the Beau often said was enough to blind all eyes. Her 
eyes lost their soft innocence and acquired a more nautical 
cast from squinting up at the sky for rain. Her hair still 
hung behind, but now it was in a bedraggled condition and 
resembled more an old tail than a wealth of curls. With her 
coarse face and rough hands, turned now to the pitchfork 
instead of the harpiscord, she seemed like a farmer's wife 
rather than a tine lady, and her voice, hoarse from chanting 
hymns in an attempt to drown the elements, had a rough, 
masculine quality. Often, she worked in the gardens of the 
rich for a wage, but she always refused to enter a house and 
used to sleep in the shelter of a hollow tree where she bore 
uncomplaining such hardships as the irregularities of certain 
squirrel gentlemen or the inconvenience of sharing her home 
with owls. 

One day, about the middle of December, in 1761, while 
in Somerset, she noticed that all business seemed to have 
stopped. The oxen were unyoked in the fields and the 
mines were deserted. The houses were closed and locked, 
the women and children away. She asked a countryman 
why was this festival and he replied that it was no festival 
but that all the men were in Bath. 

"But why in Bath?" she asked. And he replied, taking 



The Smith College Monthly 17 

off his cap "T'is to sec the body of the great Beau Nash pass 
to the Church." 

She said HO word to him hut began mumbling to her- 
self a prayer. Unfortunate Julianna! She seemed unrea- 
sonable and absurd from then on. She- became well-known 
in the country-side, as a strange eccentric, a half-crazed hut 
very peaceful creature. For thirty or forty years as the 
Gentleman's Magazine tells us, she lived in the hollow tree, 
and there she died. 

This, then, is a conjecture, only a conjecture concern- 
ing .Julianna Popjoy's life. Maybe we have done her an 
injustice. Perhaps for thirty long years, she sported with 
hamadryads in the forests of England; perhaps she played 
all day long with the birds on the tree-tops and visited her 
old friends in Bath at night, while they dreamed of balls and 
assemblies. Maybe she came to Beau, like a fresh, merry, 
loving spirit to win him from his mock power to green fields 
and meadows. Perhaps she did, but I think her imagin- 
ation had a more virile cast. She would have been shocked 
by the irreligion of a hamadryad, and most assuredly would 
have turned it to Christianity, Methodist Christianity, by all 
means. There are not many of us, who have such strong 
and simple faith. She had it. But she was called Julianna 
Popjoy. 



48 The Smith College Monthly 



FROM A MINING DISTRICT 
Rosemary Watson 



It's a strange, foreign country 

In winter. 

Brown and black with mud 

And train cinders. 

Wagons carrying pumps 

Or first aid machines 

Carve the roads. 

Rivers are red, 

Poisoned for the fish. 

Tall, gaunt hills 

With black holes 

In their sides 

Look from a distance 

Like the openings of rabbit warrens 

Where little men and horses 

Hurry loads of coal. 

Black men, black cars, 

At the mines 

Bruegel silhouettes. 

One scarlet cardinal has his nest 

On a scaffolding. 



The Smith College Monthly r 



1\ PRAISE OF BARBERS 
[sobel Strong 



© 



HEN I am gone, let it be said of me thai I experienced 
barber shops. Their atmosphere, vibrating to the buzz 
of many little electric motors, odorous with the scenl 
of strange ointments and doubtful perfumes, their rows of 
shining white swivel thrones; the expanse of mirror, in which 
one's eye suddenly meets and disconcertingly adheres to the 
eye of otherwise invisible strangers; the conversational cad- 
ences of the barber's monologue delivered into the unheed- 
ing ear about which he is clipping with careful scissors. 
Does he never feel a sudden lust for revenge upon that inso- 
lent unhealing ear which ignores his soothing voice, and 
thanklessly accepts his meticulously cautious care of its help- 
less lobe ? Does he never desire to give it a spiteful snip 
and startle it into active, if pained attention ? A barber's life, 
like Iphigenia's, must be fraught with suppressed desires. 
Beside the dreadful inhibition centering about the ear motif, 
there must be a staggering desire to haggle the backs of 
those haughty heads — to cut fantastic moons and stars and 
other cooky shapes with the deadly clippers — or to hide the 
collar of the long necked young man with the astounding 
Adam's apple and send him, like a plucked fowl, out into the 
the street — or to leave the hair of the sad. fat boy plastered 
down on his forehead so that he looks like a painted egg, — 
perchance Humpty Dumpty in a chastened and sober mood. 
But no, the barber is withal a noble, kindly creature. He 
spares the ear of his rude client — fashions a shapely line 
about the back of a head so full of bumps and knobs as 
might well give a phrenologist pause — with a sigh relin- 
quishes the collar to its mission of concealing or subduing 
the aggressive Adam's apple — brushes back the hair of the 
egglike boy to a more conventional, less egglike semblance. 
He is in truth a servant of the State, a saviour of the race. 

I have discovered several specie among barbers. There 
is the kindly, paternal type, who feels such a fatherly interest 



50 The Smith College Monthly 

in the egg boy that he tenderly conceals his Humpty Dump- 
ty tendencies. Also the purely informational type, dispens- 
ing current events and village polities in generous comingle- 
ment. Then the downtrodden, unhappy man who mows at 
one with the grim desperation of Father Time. By that 
furrowed brow, that drooping mouth he who runs may read 
that here is the father of eight children and the husband of 
a wife that wears curl papers. Near him stands a man who 
sharply brings to mind the pictures in magazines of the 
period of 1910 — a plump male figure advertising suits for a 
clothing mail order house. My barber is of this mold — a 
bellows-shaped being, his small feet placed at an angle of 
forty-five degrees to each other, his trousers cut snugly 
about the ankle but having a certain flare at the hip. One 
knows by the position of his feet what the expression of his 
face will be — rather prim, quite ladylike, and determined 
on doing his duty. He looks with some disapproval on the 
jocular young man next to him, who being yet new, takes 
his calling a little flippantly. However, the young barber 
has sterling qualities in him and will without doubt develop 
into one of the several types represented by the senior 
.members. 

They stand, white coated, in their tonsorial parlors, 
obedient to our slightest whim, once the resounding call of 
"Next!" has placed us in their care. They do not laugh at 
the appearance we present as they wrap a white paper frill 
about our necks and adeptly envelope us in a striped tent of 
an apron. They do not laugh — they set upon us seriously 
and with high purpose, they remodel, rehabilitate and re- 
finish, then send us out into the world, a credit to our fore- 
bears, the pride of our friends and envy of our foes. 



The Smith College Monthly :> 1 



PLAYGROUND SKETCH 

Alice Hesslein 



© 



HE young teacher closed the hook on the delightful 
antics of the Elephant Child. The pleasant memory 
of masculine grins and feminine c l» i^»^»lc s lingered in 

ler mind as she left the circle of chairs under the shade trees 
and went inside to the schoolroom for grey paper to use to 
cut out small elephants for handicraft hour. Behind her the 
children were starting their play under the leadership of the 
other teacher, spanking each other reminiscently. Every- 
thing was running according to schedule, a satisfied smile 
played about her lips as she entered the schoolroom. My 
goodness, were those girls still at the closet? They had 
been set to cleaning it up an hour ago. And Miriam, that 
big. lumpish child, sitting in a corner reading. "What is the 
matter, girls?" 

"Miriam — she says she won't clear up — always read- 
ing — lazy — we do all the work — " The heated accusations 
of the other girls confirmed her own conjectures. It was 
always this way. That child needed a little discipline. 

"Miriam why don't you do your share in clearing up 
the closet?" 

Miriam's hands twisted the end of her middy tie. She 
had heard that tone before. They always said "why don't 
you" as though they really wanted to know hut they didn't 
listen to you when you explained. 

"Dunno." 

"Don't he sulky, dear, answer me politely." 

Why couldn't they leave her alone? She really didn't 
know about that closet. It seemed so silly to clear up the 
shelves with the papers in piles and then when the little 
children wanted a sheet they upset a whole shelf to get it 
and the whole mess started over again. Now what did she 
want ? 

"Answer me, Miriam." 



52 The Smith College Monthly 

"It'll only get messed up again." She had decided to 
try telling the truth for once. 

"Now, dear, don't you think yourself that is a little 
lazy?" 

Lazy, lazy, that silly word again. Like at home when 
she didn't want to put the dishes in the closet because they 
only had to be taken out again at the next meal. Well, she'd 
try once more to explain, the teacher was young, she looked 
as though she might understand although no one ever had, 
but— 

"No, I'm not lazy. I want to read." 

"But you see, dear, that sounds lazy to me even if you 
don't think it is. Really, Miriam, frankly, haven't you plen- 
ty of time to read at home?" 

Plenty of time to read? What did she think. There 
was no such thing. When she got home there were the 
dishes to do and the baby to wheel and her Mother's comp- 
laining whine every time she sat down for a minute in the 
evening and not a corner in the three rooms where she could 
be alone. And nothing ever happened outside of books that 
was nice or happy or exciting. Nobody ever had adventures 
and fell in love with wonderful princes or was marooned on 
an island and had to build a house, and people always under- 
stood each other in books. They never had to answer long 
strings of questions that mixed you all up. Well, the teach- 
er was tapping her foot impatiently. Now what to say? 
This time she would play safe. 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"There, now, will you just help the girls finish up 
quickly," 

i es, ma am. 

She might have known it. Back from real fun to the 
mocking eyes and jeering I told-you-so's of those others who 
had listened with ill-concealed smiles. No use trying to ex- 
plain, no one ever tried to understand. She would never, 
never, never explain again. 

"And you may start by handing me that pile of grey 
paper — with a smile. We'll part friends, won't We?" 
"Yes, ma'am." 

Friends and with that sillv who hadn't even listened 



The Smith College Monthly .">:* 

to her and had made her fee] like a liar when she knew sin 
was right, in front of the other girls 

The young teacher walked confidently from the room. 
That was the way, be firm with them hut reasonable and you 
win their respect and confidence. Gel the child's point of 
view hut keep your dignity, the Dean of the Normal School 
had said. "No, Salvatore, you can not make a mouse even 
if it is grey paper. We're making elephants today." 



IMPRESSION 
Elizabeth Hamburger 



You are very like a forest plant I know, 
— Indian Pipe- Stem, white as new laid snow, 
Slender as the birch tree, frail as dawning day. 
Pale as are the blossoms that fall from trees in May. 

A bit of sunrise cloud, rosy in its cup, 

If I so much as touch it, grows black and withers up. 



54 The Smith College Monthly 



KING ARTTIUR- 
A FAMILIAR GLIMPSE OF HIM 

(With Apologies to John Erskine) 
Patty Wood 



r^xlO thank you," said Gwenevere, pushing aside the mar- 
|J— j malade, "I'm not hungry." 

fjMll Arthur set down his coffee cup with unaccustomed 
precision, cleared his throat preparatory to speaking, then 
thought better of it and, like the proverbial male, again re- 
tired behind his newspaper. Things were coming to a pret- 
ty pass indeed when one's wife had scarcely spoken or eaten 
for a week. What ailed Gwenevere anyway ? She had every- 
thing a woman could desire. Only yesterday — 

"Arthur," her cool voice cut in upon his reflections, "I 
want to go abroad. To — to Paris. In fact, I've quite made 
up my mind to." 

"You — what? Wherever did you get such an idea? 
Why, it's absurd! It's — it's preposterous! I won't have it!" 

"Now don't get huffy, Arthur. Of course I'm going. 
I've already engaged passage." 

There was a moment's brief silence. "You'd go, 
against my wish?" Arthur asked in a strained voice. 

Gwenevere reddened slowly. "Arthur," she said, "we 
may as well talk the whole thing over here and now. I've 
done a lot of thinking lately and it seems to me — . But 
we're beginning at the wrong end. You loved me when you 
married me — of course, that's all over now — " 

A knife seemed to have pierced his heart. All over 
now? Whatever was she saying? Why, he loved her now 
more than he ever had. In fact, he still had that queer un- 
steady sensation at the pit of his stomach whenever she en- 
tered the room. He never felt that he owned her; she was 
always beyond his reach. And now — 



The Smith College Monthly .*>."> 

" — and 1 was very young, you know, and very much 
Battered by your attention, and 1 though! thai I would sure- 
ly learn to love you." She laughed a bit ironically. 

The knife went deeper into his heart. She had never 
loved him! 

It seems to have been willed otherwise. Surely. Ar- 
thur, with your exalted sense of honour and duty" — he 
winced under the sarcasm of her words- "surely you inns' 
think it a sin for us to live together without love — ?" 

He could not draw the knife out of his heart. "Gwen- 
evere, I — don't know. I love you, Gwenevere," And again, 
as if he had hut suddenly thought of it, "I love you, Gwene- 
vere." 

For a long time she stared at him in silence, then burst 
into a high, hysterical laugh. "O Arthur, Arthur, you are 
it funny! Still the same old romantic fool! Still the hope- 
less idealist!" Suddenly changing her mood, she spoke in 
sharp, quick accents. "You say that you love me, hut have 
you made me happy? No — a thousand times no! Some- 
times I wonder how I have endured it so long — the endless 
monotony, the same old wars and blustering knights and 
simpering ladies year after year! Down with the villain! 
Honour and glory to the hero! Triumph of virtue! Hypo- 
crites — all! I hate them! How many times have I not 
longed to snatch that odious motto off the wall and dash it 
to pieces!" 

Arthur turned as one stunned to gaze at the words from 
which he had always drawn inspiration and which had 
seemed to him the incarnation of true nobility: 

"Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the king. 

Else wherefore born?" 
As he did so, Gwenevere crossed to the wall and, tearing off 
the tablet, threw it violently to the floor. "Hypocrisy!" she 
cried, "rank hpyocrisy! But you are not wholly to blame, 
Arthur, you have been duped. 'To the pure, all things are 
pure.' You have hut done what you considered right. You 
are too good for this world, Arthur. You should have lived 
with Christ. Man is vile, Arthur, vile. However, you have not 
used the best policy toward him. Might does not make 
right. You cannot live pure in the midst of bloodshed." 
Then with a long sob, "O God, what am I saying? I cannot 



56 The Smith College Monthly 

stay here any longer! I shall go mad — mad! Do you hear? 
I shall go mad!" And in a fit of hysteria she left the room. 

Arthur was a stricken man. His dreams, his ideals, his 
faith had all heen shattered. What to do ? His one thought 
was to see Merlin as quickly as possible, to see Merlin and 
ask his advice. Merlin was his lawyer, the best lawyer in 
Britain. In fact, he was one of the oldest and most learned 
men of the times and a true reader of human nature. Ar- 
thur found him at his club, deep in a whiskey-and-soda and 
a copy of the "Times." He glanced up as the king entered 
the room. "Arthur, by all the gods! It's quite a while 
since I've seen you. You look a bit shaken up, old man, 
Better have a drink and tell me all about it." 

Arthur sank into the nearest chair and gave a low moan. 
"It's Gwenevere," he said, "she doesn't love me. She wants 
a — a divorce." 

"Hm," said Merlin, not in the least surprised, "hm." 

"Look here, Merlin," Arthur suddenly braced himself, 
"Have you heard — that is, do you know anything about her 
and Lancelot?" 

Merlin eyed him covertly a moment before speaking. 
"Merely idle rumor, Arthur. The court must have some- 
thing to talk about and, you will admit, the supply of scandal 
lately has been somewhat scanty. Simply because Lancelot 
deeply respects your queen and pays homage to her, the 
court must needs say they are carrying on a clandestine love 
affair. There is absolutely nothing in it, Arthur, nothing." 

"But what shall I do?" Arthur asked wretchedly. "I 
can't give her up — I love her, I worship her." 

"Hm," said Merlin. "No, you can't give her up. The 
whole country would be in a state of chaos. And you would 
not only be losing your wife, but also your kingdom. A 
woman's love is not to be trifled with, Arthur, and I feel 
certain that Gwenevere loves you." 

"She says she never did," Arthur groaned, "she says 
she hates Camelot and the hpyocrisy of court life, and — and 
everything." 

"Hm," said Merlin, "the age-old cry, 'No one under- 
stands me'. Arthur, did it ever occur to you that perhaps 
you are to blame?" 



The Smith College Monthly 57 

"I ?" Arthur was properly astonished. "Why, [*ve 
given her everything, done everything for her." 

"Just so," said Merlin, "bul during these later years 
you have left her pretty much to herself. You have taken 
too much for granted. A woman craves attention, Arthur, 
recognition of her beauty and charm. Have you made love 
to her recently ?" 

"Why no' that is, 1 don't think so." 

"Exactly. Go home and tell Gwenevere that all wars 
are to he suspended and that you are taking her to the Rivie- 
ra for the winter." 

Arthur was aghast. "Stop fighting? Go to the Rivie- 
ra? But 1 can't do it! What will become of — " 

"You have able knights to carry on your administra- 
tion. The people will glory in the love and happiness of 
their idols. Arthur and Gwenevere, the perfect lovers, the 
ideal couple !" 

"All right," said Arthur. He was beginning to think 
it not such a bad idea after all. Gwenevere — all to himself. 
"All right." 

"Wait," said Merlin, "don't speak to her quite yet. I 
must see her first." 

II 

Gwenevere pulled her furs about her shoulders and sat 
down. "You wanted to see me?" Merlin merely nodded 
and continued to gaze at her over the rims of his spectacles. 
She sniffed scornfully. ' 'I suppose you are going to forbid 
me to go to Paris." 

"Hm," said Merlin, "as a matter of fact, 1 wasn't. I 
simply want to call to your attention something in which 
you will undoubtedly be interested. Gwenevere, Arthur is 
going to sue you for divorce." 

She paled and for a moment appeared extremely agi- 
tated. "Arthur — is — what?" she asked hoarsely, but im- 
mediately gained possession of herself. "My dear Merlin, 
Arthur cannot sue me — I am going to sue him!" 

"Hm," said Merlin, "Arthur has much stronger 
grounds for divorce than you have." 

Gwenevere sat quite still. Then, in a very small voice 
she asked, "Merlin, what does Arthur know?" 

"Every thing," said Merlin with an all-inclusive ges- 






.58 



The Smith College Monthly 



ture, "his valet was behind the rose-trellis that afternoon in 
the garden." 

"O Merlin, what have I done ?" She stood up and bent 
over the old man, "what shall I do?" 

"You have wrecked the life of a man who is far too 
good for yon. Yon will make a fool of yourself and bring 
nothing but sorrow and unhappiness to Lancelot." 

"Dear God, it is too much!" she sobbed. "O that I 
was ever born to such misery!" 

"Gwenevere," said Merlin, "there is yet a way of es- 
cape. If you are willing to give up Laneelot, if you will 
never mention his name to Arthur, but go home and tell 
Arthur that you love him only, then there is no cause for 
worry." 

"O are you sure? But that life — I cannot stand it!" 

"Hm," said Merlin, "Gwenevere, you are a very clever 
woman, you are a good actress. I have told you what is the 
only thing to be done. Be unhappy in the doing of it, if 
you must, but do it. Every one of us has a cross to bear. 
You will find that you can derive a great deal of a certain 
kind of enjoyment from self-sacrifice. Then too, it is al- 
ways good for the soul — although that side of it may not 
appear so attractive to you. Why don't you keep a diary 
showing yourself as two different characters, the woman you 
know and the woman the world knows? It could be pub- 
lished upon Arthur's death, with some such title as "The 
Life and Love of Gwenevere." or "Memoirs of a Queen." 
He paused. 

Gwenevere, however, was not with him. She was al- 
ready writing the first chapter. 

Ill 



The steamer bearing Arthur and Gwenevere to the 
Riviera was slowly pulling out. The whole court had come 
down to see the sovereigns off. Lancelot, however, was not 
present. Arthur and Gwenevere leaned over the railing, 
smiling and waving to their friends. Suddenly Gwenevere 
caught sight of Merlin. "O Merlin dear," she called, bran- 
dishing a tooled-leather diary, "I love the book! Thank you 
so much!" 

"Hm," said Merlin, "hm." 



The Smith College Monthly 



59 



CHINON 
.Jam V. Wakeman 



i 






T was one of those fresh, gusty days a1 the beginning 

of April when the mind stretches itself on tiptoe and 
seems to heat its wings. The sky was overblown with 
frayed, filmy clouds, hurrying before the wind. The sun- 
light, struggling behind this fuzzy mask, shot with piercing 
brightness upon isolated spots in the landscape below; gild- 
ing with dramatic intensity a thicket, sharpening the edge 
of a cliff', or spanning the broad river with a level bar of 
April light. 

Upon the cliff's edge we stood, and leaning our arms 
upon the parapet, looked out over the wide valley. The torn, 
jagged walls of the medieval fortress round us circled the 
hilltop like the ruin of an ancient crown. And glancing be- 
hind me, I could even feel the coarse, tough grass blowing 
round my l'eet to be a shock of frowzy hair, as if the giant who 
wore the diadem were tow-headed. Tethered clouds of pur- 
ple lilacs whipping the walls made the air sweet in our nos- 
trils. We leaned out over space and exulted. The old 
monarch's foot was planted imperiously in a little village 
that sat humped together between the shepherding cliff and 
the curving river. An aged medieval town, squeezed to- 
gether as if beleaguered from its birth by surrounding en- 
emies: a brave little town, bristling with peaked, red roofs. 
sharp turrets and crooked chimneys but waiting passive, as if 
for the fitful sunshine to spread beyond the clouds and set 
alight those torch-red roofs. Xot a soul was stirring in the 
cracks that wound between the dwellings; but the little 
houses had struck jaunty attitudes some centuries agone, and 
held, them still: swaying postures, with arms a-kimbo, and 
roofs cocked. The river Cher flowed stilly beyond, a hoary 
mirror, streaked with silver. Poplars grew like a clump of 
spears from a flat strip of island a little way up the river. 
A row of bare fruit-trees trained to a symetrical uniformity 
of outline, marked the hither bank of the stream, imprinting 



00 The Smith College Monthly 

a black, twisted pattern upon grey. Beyond, the wide mead- 
ows, sown with wheat and barley, stretched like a checkered 
carpet out to the level horizon. 

Clouds were racing, veering overhead. With their mo- 
lion great blotches of sunlight rode like chariots over the 
rivered plain. A bar of gold fell athwart the stream, and 
moved slowly along its course; as if a shining apparition of 
warriors, marshalled abreast, had slipped from between the 
clouds, and swept up the valley: to shimmer, to dazzle, to 
vanish at last with the merging of clouds. 



POMEGRANATE SEEDS 

Rachel Grant 



Small poems of definite shape 

Are your genius — 

Like chips of scarlet ice 

Sharp- colored 

Chill 

Impossible to confuse. 






The Smith College Monthly 01 




EDITORIAL 




LONG LIVE THE KING 



F~| ARE WELL speeches are tiresome things. There is 
so much more interest in the second than in the first 
US! clause of that inevitable cry, "The King is dead! Long 
live the King!" that it is presumptuous for number one even 
to have a funeral. The failures of the past are a sullen cer- 
tainty. The success of the future is a zest-giving potential- 
ity. Advice is usually futile since the cases are rare when 
anyone either takes it or understands it. To give it is to give 
one's self away frequently as taking one's self more seriously 
than the facts warrant. 

We of the Monthly Board have had an extremely us- 
ual career. We have experienced the irony of fate by plead- 
ing with slight hope for a taste of the essay type of writing 
and receiving it in excess and to the exclusion of other kinds. 
We hope that the next board may be more successful in pro- 
curing the variety that we consider the essential of such a 
magazine as this. We have had a certain amount of fun 
out of editing a periodical, and we have enjoyed the Monthly 
breakfasts exceedingly. We have learned enough of tech- 
nicalities and Mr. Withington's eagle eye to silence our cri- 
tical tongues forever on the subject of typographical errors. 
We have made a few people talk about a few of the things 
we have written, and felt the amusing exhileration of editor- 
ial power. We know perfectly well that we have done noth- 
ing remarkable. We are sorry, of course, but not surprised. 
We think that a college magazine is at best nothing but a 
laboratory. Nevertheless we are grateful for the opportun- 
ity and experience of editing this one. We are sure that 



62 The Smith College Monthly 

our successors will go us at least one better, and we wish 
them every kind of good luck and an abundance of advertis- 
ors while they are doing it ! 



The Smith College Monthly <\:i 




BOOK REVIEWS 




WILLIAM 

E. II. Young Harcourt, Brace and Co. 



^w^llLLIAM is the story of a couple passed middle-age, 
VlJ well-to-do, English, and the parents of a large family 
jgjggj of grown daughters and one grown son. This might 
he the story of a typical, self-made man, but William Xes- 
bitt, prosperous, successful, happy in his home, his children 
and his wife, is far from typical. He is a finely drawn per- 
sonality, humorous, courageous and understanding — a keen 
business man to the world, hut a poet at heart with a sense 
of beauty and an intense appreciation of life, which is part 
of the treasure of hidden romance stored from the sailor- 
days of his youth. 

The family is more typical, in tact Mrs. Xesbitt is 
delightfully so — typical of England and of narrow conven- 
tionality* of humorless goodness and of middle aee. She 
is stout, sensible, and comely, attached with unquestioning 
devotion to husband and children and the straight-laced mor- 
al code of convention. She loves William devotedly but 
fails to understand him, and part of the charm of the story 
is the life-long affection of this couple, for Mrs. Nesbitt's 
puzzled bewilderment over William's observations never fails 
to amuse him and never irritates him as it would a less under- 
standing nature. 

And then there is Lydia, and the shock of scandal — a 
moral lapse and the family position trembling in the balance. 
And it is then that William, with his quick insight and wis- 
dom, holds them together when disgrace and unhappiness 
are separating them. 



AT 



The ACADEMY OF MUSIC 



NOTRHAMPTOX 



The COMMONWEALTH REPERTORY COMPANY 

Under their own management 
In (rood Spoken Plays 



VELMA ROYTON 

MISSES 
HAZEL JONES 

CHARLES WARBURTON, Play Director 
FRANCIS COMPTON, Stage Manager 
REGINALD NAPIER, Business Manager 

DIRECTORS 



-JANE BURBY 
MISSES 
IGRID DILLON 

MESSRS. 

LOU TURNER 

MAURICE BURKE 

MIKE McMAHON 

LYMAN HAYES 




aESffli^ 



191 MAIN STREET PHONE /J07kV 

Northampton , Mass. 

College Lamp Repairing 

Small Radios for 
College use. 

Ridge Shop 

Hats 
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Northampton, Mass. 



The Smith College Monthly &5 

E. II. Young understands character portrayal thor- 
ough and although she is able to depicl the older people more 
vividly, the younger ones are also presented with striking 

reality. The style is pleasant and absorbing ,the situation 
is interesting and William commands not only love and sym- 
pathy but respect and admiration as well. It is a humor- 
ously ( [el iarht t'nl storv. 



THE HARD-ROILED VIRGIN 

Frances Newman JJoni and Liverieht 



■o' 



B"|kind of sophisticated Main Street is this book with the 
I astonishing title. A key to its cleverness lies perhaps 
7C&1 in that title, so out of tone with an age thai hoots the 
sensational and decries the sentimental with conscious supe- 
riority, but really hunts for them both with a disguised 
avidity that has not been often surpassed. The history 
of Katherine Faraday's social progress in Georgia and 
points north, south and east, is fruitful material for the 
studied cleverness of Frances Newman. As an exercise in 
style the book is intriguing. Not a word of conversation 
on the part of the characters interferes with the Oscar 
Wildeian repartee of the author. A dash of Henry James 
spices the sauce for the intellectuals, and the cadence of every 
sentence fascinates even though it may not always please the 
ear of the aesthete. 

One cannot help suspecting the autobiographical in this 
gaudily covered volume, a suspicion that has varying effects 
upon one's judgment of the book. Katharine Faraday is 
decidedly less clever in her life than she thought she was, 
and her progress towards the loss of her virginity was, all 
things considered, rather amazingly slow, although of course 
she pleads the excuse that, "in Georgia no lady was supposed 
to knoAv she was a virgin until she had ceased to be one." 
It is hard to believe that any girl with the love of the intel- 
lectual and the background of reading of which this virgin 
boasts so proudly could be fool enough to consider herself 
permanently in love with each of a rapid succession of a doz- 



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The Smith College Monthly 67 

en men or more, unless she reduces it entirely ♦<> a mat I < r of 

vanity, in which case the dictionary should help her out of 
her humiliation. A matter of vanity it evidently becomes 
from such sentences as. "When he told her that .Jesus cer- 
tainly had a delicate Jesuitical wit, she was very much pleas- 
ed with him and with herself, and she told him that he was 
the first man who had ever talked to her as if his mind and 
hers were not the relative sizes of their pocket handker- 
chiefs." One is moved to consider the possibility of their hav- 
ing been the same size, but, quite contrary to Katherine Far- 
aday's obvious assumption, that they were the size of her 
pocket-handkerchief rather than of his! And one is also 
moved to take her at more than her word when she speaks 
of "the small, hard core of consciousness that she had instead 
of a soul." Be that as it may, however, the Hard-B oiled 
J r ir(jin is quick and amusing reading, and gives one the pleas- 
ing sensation of having played a joke on its author by under- 
standing it more fullv than she probablv expected one to do. 

E. H. 



THE SUN ALSO RISES 
Ernest Hemingway Scribners 

I"N The Sun Also Rises, Mr. Hemingway has drawn a 
clever and amusing sketch of the life of American ex- 
§&§§! pat nates in France and Spain after the war. The 
tragically hopeless love of Jake and Brett is portrayed in 
surroundings remarkably vivid, first in Paris and later at 
a seven-day fiesta in Spain. One cannot but wonder at the 
ease with which Mr. Hemingway draws his characters 
with so few strokes and at the skill with which he calls forth 
impressions of background with an almost uncanny lack of 
description. 

The book is brilliant and colorful, but it is pervaded by 
an atmosphere so cynical and sordid, the drinking and swear- 
ing is so continual, that it has been subjected to a great deal 
of criticism on the grounds of vulgarity and immorality. 
There are those who, while acknowledging Mr. Heming- 



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McOJaUum's 
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Painstaking, Courteous Service 
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The Smith College Monthly (\\) 

way's talent as a literary artist, wish that he had turned his 
ability into other channels. Hut we would defend the hook 
from the charge of worthlessness, remembering the intense 
reality with which these same "vulgar and immoral" char- 
acters and scenes are charged, the peculiar skill which the 
author possesses in causing them suddenly to stand before us 
without our being conscious that they are going through the 
process of creation. The driving of the hulls through the 
streets of the village before the hull-fight is, for instance, an 
incident unfamiliar enough to the average reader, but the 
scene is so cleverly portrayed and the atmosphere so realistic, 
that one feels it subjectively rather than objectively, as if 
some familiar custom had been related. And so it is with 
every place and every event that is brought before us. 

Does the end justify the means!' Is the book worth 
the reading if it is so "vulgar and immoral"? In reply we 
can only say that for the reader who would seek a moral or 
the proof of an ethical truth therein, it is not; but for the 
reader who would seek literary brilliance and intense realism, 
it is decidedly so. 

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Phone 173 18 Masonic St. 

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Royal Restaurant 

Chinese and American 

A First Class Restaurant with 

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Regular Dinner from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. 

Supper from 5 to 8 p.m. 

Excellent Service Prompt Attention 

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GOODYEAR TIRES 

Storage for 50 Cars 
The Keevers Company 

MATTHEW J. KEEVERS 

Agents for Westinghouse Battery 

Tel. 1086-W 

Rear 205 Main St. Opp. City Hall 
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Automobile Repairing 
Radio Sets 



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HOTEL C0LLINGW0OD 

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Select accommodations for 
discriminating people 

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Whether for Relative or Friend, 

Look Over Our 

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| 171 Main St., Draper Hotel Bldg. 

Plain and Novelty Silks 
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21 State Street 



GLEASON BROTHERS 

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Moving, Storing, Packing, Shipping, 
Long distance transfer by auto truck 

Office 7 Pearl St. Tel. 413-W 

Northampton Baggage Transfer 

Tel. 153 
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Book Collecting is now 

College Sport 

Old Books and Prints 
from England 



The Hampshire Bookshop 

Students — Inquire. 
108 Main St. Tel. 849-W 

Spence & Newhall 

PHOTOGRAPHERS 



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Mrs. M. A. T. Schoeneck 

Formerly 22 Belmont 

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APRIL 



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Chiffon Evening Frocks — 
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"Toy" Hats- 
Washable "batik" silk scarfs 

THE PEACOCK SHOP 

26 Bedford Terrace 

(Just below the Alumnae House) 




BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 




Voi, XXXV 



APRIL. 1927 



No. 7 



EDITORIAL HOARD 

Sarah Wingate Taylor 1928 
Catherine Johnson 1928 Anxk Morrow 1928 

Elizabeth Wilder 1928 Anne Basinger 1929 

Katherine S. Bolman 1929 

Art — Priscilla Paine 1928 

BUSINESS STAFF 

Julia Kellogg 1928 

(Iladys Lampert 1928 Sylvia Alberts 1929 

Pearl Morris 1928 Alice Koogle 1930 

Ruth Rose 1929 ( 'laire Wolff 1930 



The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Mass., each month from 

October to June, inclusive. Terms $1.75 a year. Single copies 25c. 

Subscriptions may be sent to Julia Kellogg, Chapin Route. 

Advertising Manager, Gladys Lampert, Northrop House 

Contributions may be left in the Monthly box in the Note Room. 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Mass., as second class matter. 

Metcalf Printing $ Publishing Company, Northampton, Mass. 

"Accepted for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, 

Act of October 3, 1917. Authorized October 31, 1923." 



WHEN IN SPRINGFIELD VISIT 

J. B. WILSON CO. 

LEADERS OF FASHION 

Millinery 

HOSIERY and BAGS 

PRICED WITH A THOUGHT TO ECONOMY 




**\vw i i ,&&tf r^jco 



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New Spring Silks 

What is Style without Silk? 

And Silk is nowhere more interesting than at Threshers. 

Prices, are always lower than yon expect to find them. 

Quality is assured 

Silks, Underwear & Hosiery 



Tresher Brothers 



(Incorporated) 

] 19 Temple Place 41 West Street 




CONTENTS 



Brought to Earth 
Poems 

'Grand Opera" 
The Artist 
Primroses 
Paradise 

( rOLDEN APTERNOON 

Rubber Boots 

Tin: First Red Max 

Threnos 

Tom's Dance 

Twhjght 

Jaipur 

El Tango Tragico 

Fire Opals 

Early Rising; Lath Winter 

The Neglected Sense 

Story 

A Ship — That Passed 

Exasperation 

Decrescendo; Sunday Night 

Comment 

Editorial 

Soea Corner 

Book Reviews 




Amu Basing< r 

Kathervm S. Bolmam 

A a in Morrow 

Jean Burnett 

A)in< Morrow 

Robi rid S, a r, r 

Roberta Seaver 

M. Ki/f r<(/</< Sp( net r 

Elizabeth ^Yh<<l<^ 

Elizabeth Howard 

Ernestine GUbreth 

Pocctta Saunders 

Helen Fish, 

Virginia Fulh r 

Rachel Grant 

IF h n R. Noy< s 

Miriam Forsti r 

Pali}) Wood 

Ethel Laughlin 

Anne Marie Horner 

II< kn P. Noyes 

Alice Roberts 



1929 


7 


1929 


13 




1 1 


1929 


L8 




1!) 




21 




•_>•_> 




23 


1929 


25 


1929 


1^7 


1929 


2S 


1930 


29 


1930 


30 


1928 


32 


1929 


34 


1930 


35 


1927 


36 


1930 


37 


192? 


3£ 


1929 


40 


1930 


41 


1928 


42 




43 




45 




47 



All manuscript should be typewritten <ui<i in the Monthly Box by the fifteenth 

of the month to be considered for the issue of the following month. 

All manuscript should be signed with the full name of the writer. 

Manuscript mat/ be disposed of unless marked "Return.'' 




apffiis 



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191 MAIN STREET PHONE. /307W 

Northampton T Mass. 

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Small Radios for 
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This Book was 
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When in Springfield 
You will find 



The HALL TEA ROOM 

A most satisfying place for lunch or 
afternoon tea, where people of refine- 
ment meet, and where things have the 
real home flavor. 



CHARLES HALL, Inc. 

411 Main Street 

The Hall Building 

Springfield, Massachusetts 



For the convenience of our 
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have opened a new shop at 

12 GREEN STREET 
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BROUGHT TO EARTH 

Anne L. Basingeb 



pTIlTER lunch and the baby's nap, old Annie took David 
Jl| over by the brook, into the big field. It is pleasant 
WQgj there on a hot day. Drowsy from the noise of the bees 
and from the warm sun, they napped beneath the trees ; and 
they did not seem too near the edge of the stream. But then 
all at once, it seemed as though the memory of a scream came 
in upon Annie — a scream heard but not understood before, 
because of muffling sleep. She jumped up and looked 
around; and David wasn't near! She called him, and he 
answered faintly; and, good God! — his voice came from the 
brook. She ran over, and there he was. out over his depth, 
swinging in the current — his rompers holding him up for 
the minute, because they hadn't got soaked yet; his little 
round face straining up over the water; his hair floating 
back from his forehead. And she couldn't swim! Xot a 
stroke. It's over your head there. . . . Her tongue stuck to 
the roof of her mouth, and the voice wouldn't come: and she 
felt numb with cold. 

Then she saw someone across the way — a little girl of, 
perhaps fourteen or fifteen, dressed in a blue gingham frock, 
and bare-footed. Her eyes were big and dark as she looked 
at David, and her face white. But as Annie watched, she 
suddenly ran and dove into the pool, and swam like an eel 
to the little boy: and holding him up with her arm she swam 
to the edge of the pool again. But not to Annie's side. She 
swam away from her, and pulled herself up on the opposite 
bank with the baby tucked under her arm. both of them all 
dripping, and his little legs hanging and kicking — as a good 



8 The Smith College Monthly 

nurse never would carry a baby! She held him like a little 
dog. So she got herself up the other bank, and then turned 
as Annie hailed her. 

"God bless you!" cried Annie. "And how can I get 
my boy back? For the poor baby will need a change of his 
clothes." 

The girl turned around and looked at the old woman, 
and flung her head back, and laughed! And the sunlight, 
falling through the leaves of the willows there, glistened on 
her yellow head and her wet shoulders ; and the dress she had 
on was plastered close so that she looked — undressed, some- 
how; all wild. And as Annie looked, she could see that it 
was a beautiful girl, but as strange as a wild colt. So she 
shook her head and laughed ; and then she tossed David up 
in the air, for he was crying; and you never saw anybody 
so good at calming a frightened child. For David crowed 
at her, and reached for her nose . . . And there stood Annie, 
on the bank, calling and calling! All she got was that sud- 
denly the wild, lovely girl waved her hand at her, and tucked 
David under her arm on one hip, and set off running across 
the field on the other side. 

The nurse was frightened into action then. She ran to 
the lower bridge, a half a mile, and crossed over, and was 
back as fast as her old legs would carry her to pick up the 
trail the girl had made through the long meadow-grass. It 
crossed a road on the other side, and went up a hill. Then 
she found it disappearing in some woods across the road 
from a farm-house. In she ran to the door, and knocked. A 
dull woman opened. "What do you want ?" said she. "Have 
you seen a wench run past, with wet clothes, carrying a 
baby?" Annie panted, confusedly enough to bewilder a 
cleverer soul than this one. The woman shook her head 
slowly; and then Annie cried, "A strange, wild wench, 
dressed in blue gingham, with long yellow hair and a beauti- 
ful face." Something caught in the woman's face. "Did 
she go that way?" she asked, pointing. "Then I guess as 
how it's Maria, the Italian girl. She's daft, you know." 
"Where do they live?" gasped Annie, quivering. "She has 
taken the baby — my mistress' little boy; and I have got to 
find him. Are they bad people?"- 






The Smith College Monthly U 

The woman shook her head slowly, and told her, "They 
are good people. Maria was a good girl, I guess. Tli< n 
was a man who treated her bad and she so young. It un- 
hinged her mind, poor thing. They say she's harmless.' 1 

"Holy Virgin send she is," thought Annie, and getting 
the directions to her home, she set off again. The road 
climbed through woods and rough fields till it came out on 
a clear hill-top overlooking the whole country-side ; and there 

she- saw the house. It was a little cottage, hut neat and cozy : 
and the flowers all around the yard made her feel better. She 
knocked, and a dark man answered. He stood before her, 
tall and strong, with his leathery face beaming kindly at 
her; and she stopped for the first time to think what she was 
to tell these people. Behind him was a pleasant woman with 
the blond hair of the girl, and five rosy children. The child- 
ren were clean and happy-looking; but there was a sort of 
sadness in the eyes of the man and woman. Perhaps it was 
the Italian in them — for Italians have that sadness, some- 
times. Perhaps it was their daughter's trouble. Annie 
fumbled for words, and at last she said, "Have you a daugh- 
ter with yellow hair and a blue dress ?" You see, she was not 
sure how to say it. "I mean, if you have," she added, "Then 
has she come in lately with a little boy under her arm? For 
a girl rescued my little boy from drowning just now, and 
then ran off with him; and someone said it might be your 
(laughter." 

The man's eyes went to his wife's, though not for es- 
cape. She it was who answered, "It may be our girl." 

"Have you seen her lately?" The old nurse asked 
again. "Have you seen the little boy?" 

They shook their heads slowly. "We have not seen 
the little boy. Maria came in just now. She went out 
again. She was wet but she couldn't tell us why." 

"We must find her," said Annie, near tears. 

In answer, the woman stepped past the man out the 
door, and stood looking over the open hill-side as far as she 
could see, shading her eyes with her hand. But the girl was 
not to be seen; and so the Italian called. It was a beautiful 
call, round and low and ringing. It echoed back to them, so 
lonely that it would bring cold to your heart. Then, the 
man said that he would look, and went out over the fields. 



10 The Smith College Monthly 

"Our girl is not right in the head," said the mournful 
woman. ''Poor thing! She had a man — we did not know 
him well. He did not treat her honorahly. Maria has heen 
sick in her head since a year." 

"Can't we go look?" Annie asked. 

The woman nodded, and went out with her. "Do not be 
afraid," she whispered. "Maria wouldn't hurt the child." 

For an hour they looked, distractedly. They called her 
in the beginning; but after a while they only looked. Once 
or twice their eyes met, terrified almost hopeless. 

At last they came, as the sun was about to set, to an 
old orchard far from the house, surrounded by woods, and 
set upon the side of a hill. A wilder place you cannot im- 
agine. The apple-trees looked old and neglected, as though 
they had not been trimmed for a long time, shaggy and 
gnarled and rank. They came upon it from the bottom of 
the hill, so that they could see branches and branches above 
them for two or three acres. And there they caught sight 
of a piece of blue in one of the trees. They hurried forward. 
Beneath the tree they came to a halt and held their breath. 
Sitting among th branches of one of the largest trees was 
the girl Maria, like a child at play ; but she held in her arms 
the little boy David. High above the ground, perched like 
a bird, she was sleeping peacefully and he with his head 
against her breast was asleep also. They were two children 
there as they slept. Only, you were afraid to move, for fear 
she should let him drop and kill himself. As her hunters 
stood so, she waked, and took to rocking him very gently; 
and her fluffy golden hair, dry now, covered her shoulders 
and his head like a veil. Her face was sleepy still, but 
blissful; and she looked like an innocent young mother — 
like the blessed Virgin herself, with her blue dress and her 
golden hair. Annie crossed herself and prayed, the likeness 
was so strong. The girl's smile was like her mother's, pa- 
thetic, wistful. But she was happy, then. And as she sat 
there sleepily rocking the little lad, she crooned to him and 
gossiped, as children like. They heard her sing an Italian 
lullaby, and prattle about her castle, where nobody would 
see them. That must have been the tall tree. . . 

Then suddenly she saw them. Her eyes met her mo- 
ther's, first; and she smiled and waved at her, and held David 



The Smith College Monthly 11 

up for her to sec. Next, her head nodded to her father; 

and lastly she looked at Annie, and a shadow fell upon her, 
somehow. She puckered her forehead, puzzled; bul the 
memory of having seen her was not strong enough; and she 

shook her head and turned away. When she Looked at 
David again, she seemed to be shutting out the world. Bui 
David awoke and wriggled in her arms like a little eel, SO 
that he presently saw old Annie below, and called out to her. 
At that, Maria looked again to see what had come to trouble 
her in her private orchard and studied Annie's face in an ab- 
sorbed way. And suddenly she shivered, clutching David 
closer to her breast. But he, little rascal, wanted to tell An- 
nie all about his strange adventure, so he struggled a little. 

Then the mother called out to Maria, in English, "Ma- 
ria, where did you get that boy?" 

Maria's eyes hunted this way and that on the ground. 
She had forgotten what had happened. But the little face 
of David caught her eye ; and she suddenly found the words 
to say, "He is mine, of course, Mother." 

The father spoke next, for neither of the women had 
the heart to. "He is not yours, daughter," he said. 

Maria's eyes were still hunting; but she clung to David 
stubbornly. 

"Don't you remember rescuing him from the stream 
and carrying him away across the fields?" Annie asked. 

Her eyes fluttered furtively, and then went to David. 
And he, turning again to a voice he knew well, called his 
nurse by name. Baffled and plaintive, Maria struggled with 
him. Slowly Annie's words dropped into her ears, "You 
have only been playing with him." David looked up into 
her face and down into Annie's ; and suddenly called for his 
mother; and that seemed to break her heart. For he had 
become possessed with the idea of going home; and she 
couldn't bring him back to herself. 

And before the eyes of her hunters, the girl became her- 
self again — she who had been dazed and simple like a child 
for a year. The emptiness of her eyes filled with memory, 
and the puzzled expression on her face changed. But there 
was another difference. A moment before she had been pure, 
like the Virgin, and weirdly radiant. Now all at once she 
sagged and grew haggard, as though the burden of her 



1 2 The Smith College Monthly 

shame pushed her down. The evil thing that had paralyzed 
her mind came back to her, with old thoughts and old wishes. 
You could see them rush in on her. 

The cruel hot sun, all burnt out on the hill opposite, 
glared into her 1'aee ; and the old apple-trees of the unkempt 
orchard seemed to writhe as if in pain; pain that they had 
become unfit to hear good fruit, since they had run so wild. 
In her lap, David, whom she loved, cried for his mother. 
David, and the sad sun and the ugly trees confronted her in 
her first eonseious moment! She was awakened to suffer! 
The first words she found were, "I have stolen you. I am a 
bad girl." And she said it like a lesson learned. She looked 
at Annie and said piteously, "Is he yours?" And when she 
heard that she was his nurse, she cried passionately, "Take 
him home to his mother, quick, quick! She is waiting for 
for him." And, as agile as a squirrel, she tossed David over 
her shoulder and climbed down from the tree. At the bot- 
tom she gave him to Annie, silently, and then ran away 
down the hill towards the cottage. She had pressed the back 
of her hand against her lips, and was trembling and weeping; 
and she flitted down the darkening hill-side and away under 
the trees like a blue ghost, so frail, lonely, abandoned. 



The Smith College Monthly 18 



THOUGHTS 

Katherine S. 1>oi.m an 

Bach day sonic thought untold to men 
Crosses the threshold of my mind — 
I keep it in my treasure-den, 

And when at last I am alone. 
Among my /jewels 1 shall find 
Surely some bright and lovely stone. 



FANCY 

Katherine S. Bolman 
Listen ! — 
So clear, so still, 
So white against the deep 
Black night, my lady moon bends down 
And sings. 



AUTUMN WILLOWS 
Katherine S. Bolman 

See how the wind unbinds the willows' hair — 
The autumn wind, whose fingers worn and brown 
Have yet a mellow touch that loosens care — 
So, tossing back their heads, the willows weep 
No more, but fling their drooping green veils down 
And prance in fresh delight before they sleep. 



BEFORE RAIN 

Katherine S. Bolman 

Beneath 

Uneasy trees 

Shimmers a moonless lake, 

Comes trembling up a hill the ghost 

Of wind. 



14 The Smith College Monthly 

"GRAND OPERA" 
Anne Morrow 



o 



HERE are, in one's life certain days that one looks 
forward to, marking-post days which are supposed to 
show arrival at a particular place in one's career. 
"Putting-one's-hair-up" is such a point, "eighteenth birth- 
day," or "coming out." For the American public looking 
at its artists, grand opera seems to be such a point. Edna 
St. Vincent Millay has written an opera, they say with final- 
ity. Indeed, she has written the book The King's Hench- 
man for an opera of Deems Taylor. There she is gravely 
encased in the blue libretto's of Guilo-Gatti-Casazzi firmly 
fastened under the decorative lyre-playing maiden on the 
cover. All the vast resources of the Metropolitan Opera 
House are at her service; the orchestra, the army of singers, 
the heavily swinging gold silk curtains, the tiers of red- 
lighted boxes, the red plush seats. 

Writing for Opera does not mean, of course, merely 
writing for the Metropolitan Opera House. It means writ- 
ing for music with all its restrictions and demands. One 
cannot judge Miss Millay's work as one might judge "Aria 
da Capo" or "The Lamp and the Bell." She has not writ- 
ten a play or a lyric drama but a libretto. And, in this dif- 
ficult enough task she has been extremely successful. 

One of the conditions imposed on the writer for musical 
drama is that difficult brake, slow action ; to fit this retarded 
action, the story must be short and the plot simple. Here 
the poet has succeeded at the expense of originality and 
richness if regarded from the point of view of a play. She 
has taken an old plot, that of Tristan and Isolde, of Guine 
vere and Lancelot, and reset it in England of the tenth 
century. She has retold it with restraint and clarity in three 
vigorous, well-defined acts. 

But the structural restrictions of Opera are not yet at 
an end. Fundamentally, although the convention is not 
adhered to in its strictest sense. Opera is made up of recita- 
tive and aria, corresponding roughly to prose and verse. So 



The Smith College Monthly 1 5 

roughly, however, d<> they correspond thai one may make 
the statement : everything cannot be expressed by Recital h e 
and Aria. Heated dialogues, contemplation, introspection 
ami even description are nol well suited to declamation and 
song. In fact only the embroidering of a single emotion 
seems excellently suited to song and it is difficull to say if 
anything is excellently suited to declamation. Miss Millay 
in accomodating herself to this restriction deserves much 
praise. Her explanatory and transitional dialogue is restric- 
ted and her many lyric passages give full opportunity for 
the singer. 

Even at best, though, there is something absurd about 
this unnatural manner of speaking. At its worst, in the 
prose portions of English operas, the elongated declamatory 
speed becomes as grotesquely distorted and ludicrous as 
some slight action captured in slow motion-pictures. One 
need only remember Pinkerton in his tight-fitting immacu- 
lately white uniform shouting slowly up the scale "Have 
you a match?" It is certainly true that people will not have 
everyday speech any more than they will tolerate everyday 
situations in opera. Miss Millay has successfully met this 
most difficult of demands by writing her libretto in pseudo- 
old English. Whether the language is genuine or not does 
not seem important. It is successfully removed from every- 
day speech. 

But not only has Miss Millay complied to these main 
conditions. She and Deems Taylor and the stage designer 
have combined to create a beautiful opera. Whether it was 
Miss Millay's stage directions or Mr. Taylor's music that in- 
spired the perfect settings they deserve attention and praise. 
The setting for the middle act must be the incarnation of 
Miss Millay's thought; the misty forest in which the "prin- 
cess" finds the "sleeping prince," the forest where "great 
shapes of oaks and beeches are dimly visible with here and 
there the slender trunk of a birch." 

This act in particular shows completest coordination be- 
tween poet, painter and musician. Aelfrida, looking for 
romance and a lover on all Hallows Eve sings her delicate 
fey-like rune: 

"White-thorn, black-thorn, holy bough, poppy-seed," 



16 The Smith College Monthly 

while behind the scenes a humming chorus suggests the wind 
or those tearful 

"Ghosts alone 

Of men long dead 

And weaned to the dripping dark." 

Edna Millay and Deems Taylor have indeed written an 
opera. One can hardly name it, as did the headlines, "A 
Great American Opera," when one considers that the insti- 
tution is Italian; the music, German; the story, Romance; 
and the language and setting, Old English. It is, neverthe- 
less, — one might almost say therefore — a successful opera. 

Still, when the silk curtains swayed together and we 
picked up from the floor of the red plush box our gloves, 
program and umbrella, we felt somehow dissatisfied. 

As we had before thought of Miss Millay chiefly as a 
lyric poet we were disappointed not to hear the words of 
this work of hers. The only lines that stood out distinctly 
were "Ethelwold, I hight" and "Thored is drunk again"; 
lines not particularly poetical in sound or thought. We 
listened for the swift brightness of the prayer of Ethelwold. 

"Ah could we hide us here in a cleft of the night, 

And never be found! 

Lost, lost 

Forgotten and lost, 

Out of sight, out of sound! 

Letting the sun ride by, with his golden helmet, 

And all his flashing spears and his flags out streaming, 

Ride by, ride by, ride by, 

Shaking the ground!" 
We waited for Ethelwold's cry of weariness smouldering to 
sharp anguish: 

"Oh, God! — the wind that blows always 

Would I could put an arrow in the heart of the wind, 

And bring his beating feathers down. 

On that day — 

On that day when the wind lay dead, 

And the sea was smelt and smooth, 

A man might think his thought out." 
But even if we had been able to hear these lines their 
sound would have been completely different in song, the 
words mouthed, the vowels lengthened, and the rhythm 






The Smith College Monthly 17 

changed. The poetry of an opera libretto is completely lost. 

Often this loss is a fortunate one. [f one looks al the 

some of the other librettos one is appalled by the wretched 
poetry and unconvincing content. Allio sings in Cavalleria 
Rusticana: 

"My Lola's sweet kisses 

Await me — what blisses 

Her true love brings to me, hola! 

With iron hoofs banging 

And harness hells clanging 

I'm here, lads for Easter, hola!" 

In the case of the King's Henchman, however, the verse was 
worth hearing and was, we felt, completely wasted. 

Wasted, too, were such talents as Miss Millay may 
have for fine drawing of character. What a delicately 
shaded etching she might have made of the few obvious 
strokes- suggesting Aelfrida. An ambitious woman is 
trapped by a weak moment of passion into renouncing her 
lifelong desires for fame and power, 

"Cherish you then the hope I shall forget 

At length, my lord, . . . 

For all the puny fever and frail sweat 

Of human love, renounce for these, I say ..." 
There would have been the opportunity to draw the sweep 
of a great emotion. For this privilege too, the poet has 
had to leave to the musician. Deems Taylor should indeed 
be grateful for the many unselfish services of Miss Millay. 

Miss Millay has written an opera but to call it her 
greatest achievement seems reminiscent of the convention- 
ally American fallacy of judging greatness by size. Edna 
Millay has "come out." Many people feel that she "came 
out" long ago. They remember a slim figure sheathed in 
silver, a single person, a single voice reading to crowded 
listeners lines of exquisite loveliness, 

"Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare 

Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace" . . . 

Euclid alone 

Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they 
Who, though once only, and then but far away 
Have heard her massive sandal set on stone." 



18 The Smith College Monthly 



THE ARTIST 
Jean Burnett 



"His young Love died," they say 

As they watched him pass, walking the paths 

Where he and she would have been old; 

"Wind, touching his hair 

Must seem like tender fingers." 
But his are thoughts deeper than sorrow 
Or than memory. 

He, the artist, 

Searched for Beauty — 

And it fled— 

He could not lay his hands on it. 

She was too much a part of Beauty. 

The rose was lovelier because she touched it. 

The briar ugly, snatching at her gown. 

Tall poplars, full of grace, imperfect — 

She was more fair, she had more grace. 
For him, the artist, 
Beauty is set free. 
Simple and for itself beloved, each simple meadow flower 

Years pass, seasons unfold and fade, 

Care-bringing winter comes. He does not think, 

"If I die first what will become of her?" 

Nor think, when pricked awake by Spring, 

"Can I be true to her?" 

And wind-soothed poplars 

Have not come to seem lovelier than she. 

She is Memory, untarnished as morning 

And Sorrow, untouched by bitterness. 
And Beautv, loosed from Passion ; is fulfilled. 



The Smith College Monthly 



19 



PRIMROSES 

A Six O'clock Story for Constance 
Anne Morrow 



o 



NCE upon a time (Only you must go on eating your 
supper or I can't tell it ) Once upon a time there was 
a very beautiful Princess. She had long golden hair, 
curly (Because sJ/e ate up all her crusts and didn't leave any 
of (hem by tJ/e side of her plate). Her eyes were brown 
(Oh no, blue, like f/ours) and her cheeks pink as though she 
had just been running in the wind, pink and soft. (Because 
she loved carrots and string beans). 

Now Constant ia, for this was the name of the Princess, 
ruled all by herself in the kingdom. and she had a hundred 
green elves with pointed eaps and pointed shoes, and a hun- 
dred curtsying court ladies to carry out her commands. 
(Even when she wanted stories told her during supper time). 

This Princess had a garden that pleased her more than 
the whole kingdom. In it grew cool, crisp-leaved tulips that 
she liked to cup in the palm of her hand; and peesid, a trans- 
parent, fragile white; and laughter-like daffodils. But be- 
cause it was a fairy garden she had also other fairy plants; 
larkspur that had a sweet scent; graceful slender hyacinths; 
singing honeysuckle; and blue roses. (Like the ones on your 
nursery screen). 

One morning as she was walking in the garden with her 
Court Lady, she stopped and said suddenly, "What are 
those ugly looking weeds in my garden? See there, those 
sprawling yellow plants." The Court Lady made a deep 
courtsy so that the wet grass stained the hem of her gown. 

"If you please, your Highness," she said, "They are 
primroses." (Like those in your blue pitcher, Constance). 

"What stupid flowers!" said the Princess. "Why do 
they call them roses? They aren't roses at all; they are just 
yellow weeds and they are crowding out the blue roses. Have 
them removed!" She spoke in such imperious tones that the 
Court Lady called to the head gardener and courtesied again, 



20 The Smith College Monthly 

wetting her gown in the grass. The head gardener, in his 
anxiety bowed so low that his pointed elfin eap almost 
touched the pointed curls of his shoes. • 

"Have those primroses removed!" said the Prineess. "I 
don't wish any primroses in my realm. They do not befit a 
Princess. There is no distinction about them. They have 
not the courtly style of tulips, nor the royal blood of my bine 
roses, nor the heavy-sweet perfume of lilacs." 

"It shall be done," said the elf. For he was an obedient 
elf who always did as he was told. (And always held his 
spoon the right way). 

Now it happened that a few years later the Princess fell 
very ill. She lay in bed for many days and would not eat 
anything. (Not even an animal cracker which was Iter favor- 
ite food). All the Court Ladies sat disconsolately around 
her, their heads drooping like tulips after a night of rain, 
and all the green elves curled themselves into balls so that 
nothing showed of them except the curled points of their 
shoes. (The way some little girls do in bed). 

Finally the Princess said she would get well if they 
would bring her some cool flowers. The elves jumped up 
and ran into the garden. The Court Ladies jumped up and 
ran after them. They plucked tulips first and brought them 
in, smooth tulips with brittle, white-green stems, and laid 
them on the Princess's bed. But these were stiff, unyielding 
flowers and when she tried to press her hot face into them 
their stems snapped and their loveliness was gone. 

"Bring me some flowers that are cool and soft," said the 
Princess. 

The Chief Gardiner went out and looked at the Blue 
Rosebush. The flowers were blue, as blue as the eyes of the 
Princess, (as blue as your little pitcher, Constance). 

"These are very rare," he said to himself. "Her High- 
ness never lets us cut them but perhaps they might help 
her." So he cut a bunch and brought them to her. 

But when the Princess took the royal flowers in her 
hands, the thorns pricked her; and when she put her face to 
them, the heavy scent overpowered her. 

"There must be some other flowers in my garden," she 
said. "There must be. Bring me some other flowers." 

The Court Ladies drooped their tulip heads and the 



The Smith College Monthly 2 1 

Chief Gardner looked down with dejection al the tips of 
the curls of his shoes. Bui his littles! hoy. who kepi a garden 
of his own hack of the royal garden, came up to his father 
with a small hunch of flowers and said, "Lei me give these 
to the Princess. 1 think they rhighl make her well." 

So the Princess took the flowers and pressed her face 
into them. They were soft, as soft as green moss by her 
fountain; and cool, like grass in the early morning. And 
their smell was the smell, broughl by a spring breeze, of wet 
earth after rain. 

"At last!" said the Princess, this is what 1 have wanted 
all the time. What do they call this flower. Hoy ?" 

"Primroses, Your Royal Highness." 

"Primroses! of course," said the Princess. "Primroses! 
I have always loved primroses, haven't I?" She asked the 
Court Ladies. 

"Of course," said the nodding Court Ladies. "Prim- 
roses, of course." For they were very obedient, obliging 
Court Ladies. 

"It has been very careless of you," said the Princess to 
the Chief Gardner, "not to have more primroses around 
when you know how fond of them I am." 

"Yes, Your Highness," answered the Chief Gardner 
humbly. "I will put some in tomorrow." For he was a 
well brought up polite Chief Gardner. (And he always 
folded his napkin carefully when he left the supper table). 



PARADISE 
Roberta Seaver 

The moon 

Came tumbling down 

From the top of the birch, and lies 

Round and shiny in the quivering blackness 

At vour feet! 



22 The Smith College Monthly 



GOLDEN AFTERNOON 

Roberta Seaver 



The mellow chime of cowbells quite subdued 

Twinkles far in the distance on the hill, 

Trees now stand breathless, aspen leaves are still, 

While Jacob's ladders slant all golden hued 

To touch pale tips of birches with their gleam, 

Or fleck with light dark hollows cool and deep, 

Making long paths and shadowy vistas seem 

To lead through endless ways in woods asleep. 

The trail turns ; sun drifts lower through the trees, 

Cool shadows follow golden afternoon, 

Now evening comes, with tiny freshening breeze 

That whispers with the leaves, then dies, and soon 

The liquid minor music of the thrush 

Thrills through the balsam in the lingering hush. 



The Smith College Monthly 23 

RUBBEB HOOTS 

M. KlTTllEDOE SPENCEB 




CROSS our hack yard ran a shallow brook, a stream 
of dubious merits. It was the recipient of the con- 
tents of countless dirty deluged gutters, and, no 
doubt, of even less desirable underground streams. On my 
eighth birthday 1 was given a pair of rubber hoots, and 
from that day the brook was mine. 

A stone wall dropped abruptly into the stream. From 
it 1 hung suspended, feet dangling above the water, head 
turned to see how far my plunge was to he. Then my hands 
relaxed their grip, and I dropped. The first moment of 
wading was always ecstatic; my hoots became cold and the 
hurrying water sucked them close around my feet. I loved 
the feel of that chill pressure with the little fluttering that 
told of the water swirling past. I loved the rounded treach- 
erous rocks under foot that made one leg always longer 
than the other. Restless pebbles were thick on the brook's 
sandy bed, and rocks which, being lifted might happily 
disclose a lazy white worm. 

Up stream from our house was a tunnel, in reality a 
road, crossing the brook, but to me a veritable cavern of 
adventure. The water beneath its arch grew black and mys- 
terious and seemingly far swifter than out in the sun. It 
was deep, too, so deep that I had to follow a certain charted 
course, with a feeling of high importance, or else plunge in 
above my boot tops and wet my tucked-up skirt. Suddenly 
the tunnel ended and bright sunshine made me blink. There 
on the right was the back of the firehouse, where six horses, 
looking artificially dappled, stamped the floor in plain 
sight. A motor engine, a concession to the times stood 
in front of the building. Half broken crates, thrown 
into the brook, were shipwrecks; boards and tousled balls 
of excelsior rode the current, adventurous ships. My boots 
sucked close against my ankles; I stepped into a deeper 
pool and felt the pressure circling around my calves. I 



24 The Smith College Monthly 

dallied in the pool, turning round and round like a dog 
trampling a bed for himself in deep grass. 

On, and into the woods went the brook, and I with 
it. Now trees grew along its banks; first a thiek grove of 
shaggy firs that shed soft brown pine needles down to the 
water's edge. The stream reflected the darkness of the pines; 
ripples made light and dark streaks on its surface; I could 
hardly see my boots, plying up the current, so dark was 
the water. Then coming out of another tunnel, I was in 
the sun again. Here was a green sloping field with an 
orchard and a rhubarb patch at the top. Across the bottom 
the brook dawdled, spreading out and flowing more slow- 
ly. A willow hung out over the water and the ripples 
gathered up its green and dappled the sandy bottom with 
light and shade. Here on the bank where the loam was 
dark and moist and the grass was lush, always grew, I re- 
member, the biggest purple violets with the longest stems. 
And in mid-stream, where one might go since one had rub- 
ber boots, was a great flat rock like an island with a clump 
of grass growing on it and in the very center a single little 
violet plant. The current flowed slowly past the rock, wav- 
ing the long green moss that grew on its sides and making 
half- circle ripples that trailed away at the ends like great 
tenuous mustaches. Mustaches flowed from each of my 
boots, waving away towards home. 

From this point I always turned and walked with the 
current. It swept me along, sucking at my legs, fluttering 
more softly past my boots. I scuffed gently at the pebbly 
bottom, watching the fluffy puffs of dirt rise through the 
water. One foot sank into a deep pool. Regretfully I 
splashed out, kicking up little round balls of spray. Down 
past the ship wrecks, and the fire horses, and I plunged 
again into the tunnel and adventure. 



The Smith College Monthly 26 



THE FIRST RED MAX. 

(Based on an Old [ndian Legend.) 

Elizabeth \V 111:1:1.1:1; 



D 



()\\ r did the first red man come to be made? Listen, 
Little Papoose, and, I will tell thee. 
^Tffid Manv thousands of moons ago, when all the 11101111- 
tans were hills, and all the hills were prairies, up in his wig- 
wam of the sky sat the Great Spirit. He looked down at 
the earth, and saw it all, from the smiling faee of the Father 
of Waters to the snail that crawled on his hanks. He saw 
the eagle flying above the jagged cliffs. He saw the moose 
eating green leaves off the hirch trees. He saw the salmon 
jumping in the falls of the river. But the eagle flew lazily 
hecause he did not fear the whistle of the arrow. And the 
moose ate lazily because he did not fear the footstep of the 
hunter. And the salmon jumped lazily because he did not 
fear the stinging barb of the fish-hook. For, Little Papoose, 
there was no red man. 

The Great Spirit looked down, and saw himself frown- 
ing at himself out of the waters of the Big Lake. And he 
said, "I will make a Thing like me, and he shall be called 
the first red man. The eagle shall fear his arrow, and the 
moose shall fear his footsteps, and the salmon shall fear his 
hook." 

Then the Great Spirit pulled up two mighty pines 
by their roots, and rubbed them together until there were 
spark, and he built a fire on a high mountain. Then he 
dug a piece of clay as long as the tallest brave in the tribe, 
and with the longest finger of his hunting hand, he cut from 
the clay an image of himself. This image he laid in the 
ashes of the fire he had built, and covered it up. He left 
it there, and ran like the wind along the mountain tops, 
hunting for game in the forest of the stars. Three suns 
rose and set, and when he came back, the fourth sun was 
burning the earth with its heat. The Great Spirit took the 
Thing from the a*shes, and lo! it was black as a charred log 
before the canoe is hollowed out. The Great Spirit roared 



J 6 The Smith College Monthly 

with wrath, and his roar was the thunder; but he said, "Be- 
cause I have made thee, I will not destroy thee, but thou 
shalt fear the red man that I will make." The Great Spirit 
breathed on the Thing, and it stood up, and it was the first 
black man. 

Then the Great Spirit dug a second piece of clay as 
long as the tallest brave in the tribe, and with the longest 
linger of his hunting hand, he cut from the clay an image 
of himself. This image he laid in the ashes of the fire he 
had built, and covered it up. He left it there, and ran like 
the wind along the mountain tops, fishing for stars in the 
Milky Way. One sun rose and set, and when he came 
back, the white moon was washing the color from the earth. 
The Great Spirit took the Thing from the ashes, and lo! it 
was white as the weasel in winter. The Great Spirit roared 
with wrath, and his roar was the thunder, but he said, "Be- 
cause I have made thee, I will not destroy thee, but thou 
shalt fear the red man that I will make." The Great Spirit 
breathed on the Thing, and it stood up, and it was the first 
white man. 

Then the Great Spirit dug a third piece of clay as long 
as the tallest brave in the tribe, and with the longest finger 
of his hunting hand, he cut from the clay an image of him- 
self. This image he laid in the ashes of the fire he had built, 
and covered it up. He left it there, and ran like the wind 
along the mountain tops, shooting comets at the moon. Two 
suns rose and set, and when he came back, the third sun was 
dyeing the earth scarlet as war-paint. The Great Spirit took 
the Thing from the ashes, and lo! it was red as thou art red. 
Little Papoose. The Great Spirit laughed with joy, and 
his laughter was the water falling over rocks; and he said, 
"I have made thee at last. Thou shalt live in the dark pine 
forest, in a wigwam fashioned of animal skins. The eagle 
shall fly high in the clouds because he will fear thy arrow. 
The moose shall eat green birch leaves looking behind him, 
because he will fear thy footstep. And the salmon shall 
jump warily because he will fear thy hook." The Great 
Spirit breathed on the Thing, and it stood up, and, Little 
Papoose, it was the first red man. 



The Smith College Monthly 27 



THRENOS 

Elizabeth Howard 



Over the purple sea 

Slowly 

Move blaek sails. 

Rippling the calm sea 

Steadily, 

Slowly they come 

Bearing grief. 

Bearing great grief 

To you, O Aegeus 

From rock-built, windy Crete. 

O Theseus, O Theseus, 

Under black sails, 

You have left flowing-haired Ariadne; 

In the rippling shade 

To the love of the winds 

You have left Ariadne of the lovely hair. 

Stand on your cliff, Aegeus. 

Let the winds blow your grey hair, Aegeus — 

Stretch out your arm toward the wine-dark sea — 

Do you see your son ? 

O Theseus, 

O my son, 

O Theseus, 

In the violet shade of Labrynthos, 

Palace of the Double Ax, 

You have met death. 

Black sails 

Move, slow 

Over the purple sea, 

Unrippled. 

Cast yourself off the cliff, Aegeus, to the white foam, 

To the dark sea, to the red coral, O Aegeus — 

And let Ariadne, her hair wind-loved — 

Let lovely-haired Ariadne weep. 



28 The Smith College Monthly 



TOMS DANCE 

E B X EST I X E G I LB K ET H 



R57IHE sound of a harmonica always takes me back to 
\S^J those days in the kitchen, with Tom playing jigs 
§i while the four oldest of us twirled and spun about the 
floor. (This was before the children in our family num- 
bered eleven.) 

To me it was an unusual privilege to be allowed the 
freedom of the kitchen. Cursed with the name of "Queen" 
and "Boss" from the early age of six years, I was not a fa- 
vorite with the "help" (as they preferred to be called). But 
one day Tom had experienced a softening of heart when he 
found me sitting alone at the bottom of the back stairs, cry- 
ing because I had been left out. "Come on in and see the 
new dance," he had said brusquely, "I'm learning Anne and 
Marty and Frank, and they're getting it fine." 

What a place was the kitchen with its tall black stove 
and immaculate oil-clothed tables. What a floor — brown 
and warm looking! Mrs. Cunningham seemed very comfort- 
able sitting at the table shelling peas. She filled up the rock- 
ing chair completely. "I'm not going to be Queen, today, I 
think," I said to her. "Tom said I might come in and watch 
the dance." 

"All right, Miss Prim." She was always calling me new 
names I couldn't understand. 

Tom was standing there all dressed up in his big white 
apron. His face looked very red and black- whiskered, and 
his eyes were like little green flames. He seemed very im- 
portant as he clapped his hand together and called "Ready!" 

He was holding a bright red harmonica tight against 
his mouth, and when he blew very hard music began to jump 
out of all the little holes at once. "Watch'em now, Boss!" 

Anne and Marty and Frank were dancing around and 
around — such steps swaying this way, pointing that — hand 
to your partner — swing around and bow. It hurt me to see 
how graceful they were — to watch Anne's long yellow hair 
fly about as she danced, to see Marty pull off her red hair- 



The Smith College Monthly 29 

ribbon and fling it across the room. Hut Frank had stopped 

dancing and was signalling Tom to stop. "We've all got 
to do it," he said, looking at me, "Otherwise it won't be any 

llll. 

There was no refusing Prank. After a minute the music 
started again. Mrs. Cunningham had waddled across the 
room and given a thick white cup to Tom. He kepi holding 
it up to the harmonica and then taking it away again. 
"Ding dong bedavey jones 
Washed his face in the frying pan 
Rass don choka 
MEDORA ! ! " 
It was the song Tom had made up in the secret language 
he and Mrs. Cunningham always used. I tingled all over 
with pleasure as I thought how clever he had been. 

My feet were dancing, skipping over the wooden floor. 
There was the smell of something nice cooking for supper. 
The alarm clock on the shelf above the stove, was purring 
like a sleepy cat. We were dancing back and forth — curtsey 
to your partner, — around to the left. One of Tom's feet was 
pounding up and down. The peas Mrs. Cunningham was 
shelling kept drumming into the big tin bowl. 

"You're doing fine, Boss," It was Tom speaking from 
a great distance away. 

"Oh!" I said. I was so happy nothing seemed to matter. 



TWILIGHT 

Pocetta Saunders 

The moon is the halo around the head of Buddha 

The edges of his robe brush the tops of the trees. 

The frogs cease their joyous chorusing 

The birds are suddenly still. 

At first I thought it was a wind 

That stirred the crests of the grey trees 

But now in the awed breathless hush 

I feel a divinity walking invisible 

Calm and still. 

The moon, the pale moon, is his halo, 

And his robe sweeps over the tops of the trees. 



30 The Smith College Monthly 

JAIPUR 

Helen Fiske 



The hollow thud of camels, 

The vibrant roar of horses, 

Immigrants and cavaliers, 

Approaching Jaipur. 

Backed by 

Red-grey spurs of Aravelli range, 

They pass 

Beyond the desert stippled with banyan and neem, 

Beyond the marble tomb of Jai Singh silver-splashed with 

indigo, 
Eastward to the city. 

And at the gate silted with sand and rags, 
They pause. 

The rags heave and cry, "Maharaj brings 
Famine." 

But the red and yellow turbans 
Flouting, curse Maharaj 
And pass unheeding through 
The Seven Gates. 

And now they trail through low-browed arches 
Into streets 

Reeking with the smell of animals 
And spices. 
In the Market Place, 

The Bangle Seller exuding rolls of fat above his doti, 
Eats Chupattis, 
And watches 

Flashes of the Orient go plundering by; 
Scarlet peons, horn-painted zebus, and donkeys 
With plump dhobies on their cruppers. 
A Toy Maker from across the street 
Points 

To a Woman, huddled against bulging grain sacks, 
Clutching 
A shapeless bundle to her empty breast. 



The Smith College Monthly 31 

'Thai Shameless One was begging bread. 
No doubt her stomach is empty, 

Wah! 

She has no pice and a man's food 

Is his own." 

Pale bulls onyx-eyed pillage from the stalls. 

The Bangle Seller offers one a Chupattis. 

"Maharaj", the girl mother screams, lunging 

At the beast. 

Peace, She-Devil, make way." 
The Toy Maker flings her, and she falls, 
The child beneath her uttering a flaccid wail. 
"Oh well, if she die not today, she die tomorrow," 
The Maker of Toys shrugs and returns 
To his stall. 



32 The Smith College Monthly 

EL TANGO TRAGIC () 
Virginia Filler 



\<fy\ FOOT man in a purple uniform with brass buttons 
\jLX\ steadily twirled the revolving door as the after-thea- 
tffg^Jl tre crowd streamed into the Mirador. Robert Harring- 
ton and John Stanley followed the head waiter to a table for 
two on the edge of the dance floor. Dimmed lights glowed 
on the diamonds and beaded gowns of the women and shone 
softly on their bare arms and necks. At a table in one corner 
some college boys had already popped the cork from a 
champagne bottle. The orchestra was playing "Who" 
softly, whimperingly. Suddenly the saxophones blared out 
changing the whimper to a wail and the dance floor was 
jammed with swaying couples, scarcely moving except to 
follow the rhythm with every muscle in their bodies. 

The orchestra ceased. The lights faded out and a lurid 
blue-white spot-light played on the emptied dance floor. In 
the moment of darkness the dais on which the orchestra had 
played had been transformed into an Apache cafe. The 
French underworld sat grouped at tables, some smoking, 
some drinking, and a blind beggar crouched on a bench 
playing an accordian. A tall handsome bandit at a table by 
himself commenced to sing. He sang of a girl whom he 
loved w T ho was untrue to him. Something in his voice held 
the audience. The usual undertone of comments was lack- 
ing. A vivid wisp of a girl flitted past him into the arms 
of the man behind. The bandit turned and caught her. The 
orchestra played a tango softly and the man and girl danced. 

"El Tango Tragico," whispered Harrington to Stan- 
ley. "This is what I brought you to see." 

Tensely, passionately they danced the tango through, 
the girl eluding his embrace only to be caught back again 
each time she escaped. Suddenly she threw back her head 
and laughed straight at him, a mocking derisive laugh. His 
hands flew to her throat. Tighter, tighter his fingers pressed 
until with an oath he hurled her from him, half way across 
the floor. She lav there very still. A shrill whistle sound- 



The Smith College Monthly 88 

ed. "Lis gendarmes," muttered the blind beggar, and 
crouched lower on the bench. The Apaches scrambled to 
the dance floor. The bandil crepl to the girl, touched her 
cheek, her hair. The whistle sounded again. Quickly he 
snatched her up and holding her tightly against him com- 
menced to dance. Her arms and legs dangled loosely, her 
luad wobbled grotesquely againsl his chest, but the gend- 
armes suspiciously looking over the crowd of dancers, did 
not see that the tall man, twisting in and out amongst the 
others, danced with a dead woman. 

Darkness again and then the lights splashed on all 
about the room. The cafe had vanished, the orchestra was 
back on the dais, the Apaches had disappeared. The specta- 
tors breathed again and broke into applause. The bandit 
and the girl came out and bowed and smiled and bowed 
again. 

"Isn't she a wonder?" said Harrington. "Most real- 
istic thing I've seen in a dog's age," said Stanley. "I could 
see it again tomorrow night." "Let's come and bring Nat- 
talie and Doris," said Harrington. "Thev oughtn't to miss 
it." 

The entertainers were coming out of their dressing 
rooms. The erst-while bandit now in a tuxedo waited for 
the girl to appear. At last she came. Humbly, almost 
pleadingly he addressed her — "May I see you home tonight, 
Marie?" She laughed again that hard, mocking laugh. The 
man jerked violently at the sound of it. "Once again, no," 
said the girl. "Mr. Davidson is taking me home — as usual," 
she added maliciously. The man watched her tiny feet in 
their high-heeled silver slippers twinkle out of sight, a look 
of hate in his ej^es. "Damn her," he breathed. 

*&. J\W. *&* jl» *3* 

^T 7f* ^T Tjv ^T 

"If she's as good to-night as she was last night, you'll 
see some remarkable dancing and acting," said Harrington 
to Doris as the four sat at their table waiting for the act to 
begin. "Even old Stanley here was impressed." 

The lights faded out, the spot-light streamed on, the 
bandit, the Apaches and the blind beggar were in their ap- 
pointed places. The poignant note in the voice of the singer 
held the audience silent as it had done on the night before. 
The girl flitted in and the tango began. More wildly, more 



34 The Smith College Monthly 

violently than on the previous night, they danced. The man 
bent her over his arm as though he would break her back. 
Her mocking laugh sounded more bitter. "My God, he'll 
choke her to death," gasped Stanley as the bandit's fingers 
pressed deeper and deeper into her throat. Doris's face 
was pale as she gazed at the inert heap on the floor that was 
the girl. Just as on the night before the bandit crept to 
where she lay, touched her cheek, her hair, her neck, but 
tonight his hand trembled. The whistle shrilled, the gend- 
armes entered, the bandit and the girl danced as before, her 
arms and legs dangling limply. Then the spot-light faded 
out and it was over. 

"Isn't she marvelous? said Harrington ecstatically. "I 
should think he would have killed her choking her that 
way," said Natalie clapping enthusiastically. The applause 
was greater than on the previous night. Some of the men 
cheered and called again and again for the girl, but — tonight 
she did not come back. 



FIRE OPALS 

Rachel Grant 

Many things were graceless 

Until I talked with you, 

And found shapes 

Lovelier than the outline of a flame, 

In the uncertain beauty 

Of your words — 

Color glimmered in the old things, 

A deft turn here, brought pale gilt 

Thru the white, 

Tilted a triangle of green, 

And there a thin, scarlet light 

Flickering, 

Like a caught breath. 



The Smith College Monthly 86 



EARLY RISING: LATE WINTER 
Helen R. No yes 



I am today the last man left on earth, 

Or else the first one born — I know not which. 

I sit here in a lighted room, 

Yet all around me, rooms are dark and still, 

And outside, the houses around, 

They are utterly dark — 

Save for two ghastly red lights, that might be Death. 

And a street-lamp that might be Memory, 

So far away it is. 

But I am doing Chemistry, 

And my little lamp 

Spreads on the primeval darkness 

A yellow patch of radiance in the snow. 

So might the last man, 

When shadows have covered the earth, 

Keep burning this one lonely light 

Of knowledge and of effort, 

That for a while it might keep off the night. 

So might the first man, born into this darkness, 

Light this first torch, and lift it at arm's length, 

Letting it shine out on the new-waked world, 

To seek if there be any more like him 

Under the calm effrontery of the stars. 



36 The Smith College Monthly 

THE NEGLECTED SENSE. 
Miriam Fobster 



X"|NTO what joys have I stumbled by merely following 
my nose! One of my keenest memories — I ean cateh 
whiffs of it still — is of repeated encounters with an old 
cellar. It was a strangely limited world of one dimension, 
stretching out through its corners into infinite space, which 
I entered, seeing and hearing little, but with my nose fairly 
quivering before its unlimited opportunities. A soapjr 
dampness from the washroom held up the pervading odor 
of crumbling mortar and mossy bricks. The sharpness of 
freshly chopped kindling and the soft aroma of cobwebby 
chairs mingled and dissolved slowly in the musty atmos- 
phere, but the tang of the coal streaked through it cleanly. 
Out of this deep well of sensation I can remember being- 
called by an irate cook, "What can you be doing in that dirty 
cellar? Hurry up with the jelly." 

A similar, but less detached sensation I sought by sitt- 
ing on a fur rug in my old Indian tepee. Even in dry weath- 
er I could breath the pungent smell of many rains folded 
away in the old canvas. Again I discovered that inexplic- 
able feeling of earthliness, but here in the guise of a brown 
squaw sewing rough garments of fur. 

Not all such pleasures were as morbid as the dark en- 
joyment of cellars, for all my sensations of eye and ear be- 
came vivified a hundredfold through this newer sense. What 
a joy to wake in summer to sniff the sunshine and dew of a 
Maine morning! Such days w r ere not long enough to poke 
my nose into all the fragrance of the country. Just to lie 
face downward in a field, breathing its regular sweet warmth 
and tickling my nostrils with spicy grasses was enough. My 
eyes delighted in the delicate beauty of Queen Anne's lace, 
but my nose demanded that I tear the bright carrotty odor 
out of it. The sweetness of the rose became cloying com- 
pared with the tantalizing bite of orange hockweed or the 
strong aroma of tansy. 

For rainy days the tiny space at the toploft of the barn 
had bottled up some of this breath of the fields, intensified 









The Smith College Monthly 'M 

and sweetened like all preserves. Bui only occasional 
whiffs of this atmosphere were enjoyable. It was better to 
be out in the rain, drawing in greal headfuls of the fog 
which 1 sal 1 1 1 > in bed "to smell" the lasl thing at night. Often 
al such times I heard the dog sniffing aboul the house, and 
wondered drowsily why w *a dog's life" was an awful one II 
would be glorious, I thought, to run through deep woods 
and hot clearings of raspberry bushes with a nose a hundred 
times keener than mv own. 



STORY 

Patty Wood 

Nini henceforth will build in stone 

And flat-red brick, 

She will live all alone 

hi square stolid rooms with thick 

Unsympathetic walls. 

Nini will fold away 

Her tent of chequered leaves and sky, 

She will have no more trust 

In a golden day, 

A shining night, 

The molten sun, 

Splintered starlight. 

Nini has grown 

Wise; she will build in stone. 



38 The Smith College Monthly 

"A SHIP— THAT PASSED" 
Ethel Laughlin 



C"1HE conductor had stopped for tickets beside the end 
chair in the parlor car. A woman was sitting there 
whose black clothes were rumpled and smelled of cam- 
phor, and whose hat was awry. The taut quality of her 
voice caught the attention of the girl in the seat in front of 
her. The woman held out a five-dollar bill to the conductor. 

"Worcester," she said, "I haven't got a ticket. Funny 
— I never thought to buy one. You see, I — I came in such 
a hurry! My brother died — this morning! My brother — 
was killed — this morning! And so, you see, I never even 
thought to — " 

The conductor interrupted. He looked uncomfortable. 
"I am very sorry, ma'am," he said. Hastily, he gave her 
the change from her bill, and moved on. 

The woman sank back into her seat, and stared out of 
the window. Her breath came in quick, irregular gasps. 

Across the aisle, a little farther up the car, there were 
two traveling salesmen. Their voices carried through the 
entire car, and the jokes they told caused many of the men 
to squirm, and the women to avert their faces. Suddenly 
the woman in the end seat protested, in high piercing tones, 
that could be heard by everyone. 

"Oh, why do they let men like that ride with decent 
people? They should be put out of the car, for annoying 
us like this!" Her voice rose, "As if it weren't hard enough 
without having to listen to this! Oh, I can't stand it!" 

Fighting for control, she leaned back, exhausted, in 
her seat. For a second the atmosphere was tense, only to 
be broken by the hoarse laugh of one of the men whom the 
woman's speech concerned. 

"Well, of all the nerve! What struck her? She must 
be cuckoo, or something!" 

The woman leaned over, and spoke to the girl in front 
of her. 

"Oh, this is awful! If you only knew what I'm going 



. I 



The Smith College Monthly M 

It seems as though I've JUSl gol to talk to some- 
body about it, or go crazy." 

The girl was a little embarrassed, but she turned her 
chair around, and listened sympathetically. 

"My brother was killed, early tins morning. Some- 
how, 1 can hardly believe it. He was borne last night. \V< 
live in Springfield. Mother and father are dead, so there an 
just two — oh, my God — there is only one of us left now 
He goes — he went to Harvard, and he was trying to gel 
back for classes tins morning, and in Worcester, the car 
skidded! — That's all J know! Funny, isn't it, that it could 
have happened just like that'"' 

They talked for an hour, these two. It was a strange 
conversation, dealing, after the first few minutes, with al- 
most every subject under the sun, except that which was 
uppermost in both their minds. They talked entirely of the 
past, rather than of the future. The woman's speech was ac- 
centuated by a fierce haste. Her words came tumbling out, 
one after another, as if in anxiety lest a pause be left in the 
conversation. 

The train drew into Worcester, and the woman snapped 
back to reality. Her voice, which had become calm while 
she was talking, grew tense again. She looked at the girl. 

"I'm glad to have met you," she said, mechanically. 
Then she relaxed a little, and murmured, so softly that the 
girl could hardly hear her, "You don't know how much you 
have done for me. Thank you, my dear!" 

One of the salesmen laughed as she passed down the 
aisle, and she stopped, quite suddenly, and spoke to him. 

"I hope," she said, and this time her voice was firm and 
clear, "that you will never have to endure what I am going 
through. Because if you did, the realization of the way you 
have acted toward me, might make it unbearable." 

The two men watched her, as she walked out of the car, 
and then turned and looked at each other, questioningly. 
One of them whistled. 

"Whew! Wonder how she got that way? Crazy as a 
loon! But why on earth should she pick on us?" 

The girl spoke, with sharp, cold clarity. 






40 The Smith College Monthly 

"Perhaps you won't understand, even now. That wo- 
man had just heard that her brother had been killed in an 
automobile accident." 

"So?" said one. 

"Oh!" said the other. 

And both looked at each other uncomprehendingly, as 
if to inquire what that had to do with them. 



EXASPERATION 
Anne Marie Homer 






Your eyes — 
I hate their wan, 
Beseeching stare, I can't 
Endure the stupid fervor of 
Your wavs. 






The Smith College Monthly ■!■ 1 

DECRESCENDO: SUNDAY NIGHT 
1 1 1 : i i:n K. Noyes 



Dim light, docs not show me your faces. 
Hut your laughter shines out of the shadows. 
You arc playing games, and I, 
Having early been put out of the running, 

Sit on a desk under the brightest light, 

And write this — half thinking of the words I write, 

Half listening to your jesting words. 

I want to tell you that the jeweled night is singing outside. 

That the sapphire-shadowed snow is gleaming with a thou- 
sand changing lights, 

That beauty is walking in darkness. 

Touching it with a yellow window — a swift figure — a clear 
vanishing voice; — 

But you would not listen, 

And perhaps you are wiser than I 

Who sit by a window 

Watching lights come out across the dark campus, 

And writing nothing, at length, on scraps of paper, 

While you — play games. 

Behind me, light and laughter contest the room with sha- 
dows, 

Before me, deeper shadows, barely broken by golden 
squares — 

Darkness, stars, snow — and quiet — quiet — 

A darkness that knows all — that fills the eyes with peace. 

Behind me, the warm-lit room, and the voices I know — 

But I must go out into the dark, 

And find its secret of peace, to take it into my heart. 

I must make a darkness in my soul for stars to shine in, 

I must make night in me that day may come. 

I must seek — that I may sleep. . . 

I have gone out to find a mystery — 

I have gone out to pour darkness into me. 



42 The Smith College Monthly 

But over nie the sky is grey and confused. 

And there are lights to seek and find me everywhere. 

There is no sound hut the uneasy whisper of a dry oak-tree. 

And a far-off monotonous voice. 

Finding a black corner and some steps I sit down — 

People pass, almost touching, yet not seeing me — 

But even snow is grey in this half-night. 



COMMENT 

Alice Roberts 

If happiness were to be bought in every market 
Society might, quite rightly, 
Dictate the price of so common a commodity. 
But the booths in which it is sold 
Are so few and so hidden. 
That those who stumble upon them 

Ought not, I think, be compelled to show their expense ac- 
counts 
To the world in general. 






The Smith College Monthly 



*rt 




EDITORIAL 




THE CAPTAINS PLEASURE 



RCTREMULOUS are the sensations of a crew with a 
\\ls strange captain, and more tremulous are the sensa- 
gggg lions of the passengers. Particularly, perhaps, may 
the captain be styled tremulous. Now behold the good ship 
Monthly setting forth in full sail toward summer seas, shak- 
en, naturally, in the first two members but — shall we say 
unmoved in the third? All considered, it would seem to 
border on presumption to apply any epithet to the third; 
for while the crew, good sailors, have stayed at work and the 
passengers have behaved in a sufficiently seaworthy fashion, 
the captain — ah, there's the rub. Orders seem to have been 
given, for they have been carried out; the course in all ap- 
pearances is the same; but no new figure of stern dignity 
and absolute command has yet been seen in the pilot house, 
on the bridge or at the captain's table. The crew, as we 
said, stayed at work and asked no questions ; but after a few 
days the passengers, not so well disciplined, waxed uneasy 
and longed for the solid reassurance of brass buttons. In 
fact some of these passengers began to whisper, and some 
asked questions indiscreetly of the crew. Several, even, 
started running from one deck to another and shrieking 
about in a panicky manner. 

"Where's the captain? I must see the captain! 
Where — ?" But no one knew: no one could find the cap- 
tain. It has been deemed wise in order to quiet those ex- 
citable members to issue this bulletin. 

The captain resides aloft; he has had one of the crow's 
nests fitted out for his comfort. He is sensitive, and pre- 
fers to avoid the vulgar gaze. lie is temperamental, sau- 



The Smith College Monthly 

vage; given to profound meditation and deeided opinions, 
to which personalities are only cluttering. From his height 
he is able to contemplate the blue in quietness, able to main- 
lain an awful and unchallenged dignity, and to remain un- 
troubled by the hysterical cries of ladies who are wondering 
where he is . 

But this you say is a most unpractical method of run- 
ning a ship. You are impatient; you do not yet know all. For 
in the service of the captain, one of the very few who come 
into contact with him, is a small chinese-looking person. 
This person may be seen scuttling about the decks at odd 
hours, presumably communicating to the crew the captain's 
pleasure. And at other times he is seen scrambling up and 
down the rigging spider-fashion, with queue flying, to and 
from that loftiest and most remote crow's nest towering over 
the bow. It may be supposed that this person prepares the 
captain's food, since, being inevitably anthropomorphic, we 
must believe that the captain eats. In any event he is the 
sole link, so far as we know, existing between our world and 
the captain. Now, if some anxious souls are still curious 
to know anything more about the captain, this person should 
be consulted. 

For myself, I must confess to having exj:>erienced some 
slight anxiety at the beginning concerning the airy insub- 
stantiality of our captain's character, and I inquired of the 
link — he must be designated — if the course were steady. 
Whereupon he replied: 

"Plentee room in mid-ocean. No bumps." 

In time, however, I convinced myself that some reas- 
surance is to be derived from sheer inscrutability. And still 
more recently the passengers have begun to show' an almost 
kindly interest, a generous concern for the captain's enter- 
tainment. Even if he is not lonely up there, perhaps he is 
bored. Possibly he might like to have something to read. 



The Smith College Monthly 



L5 




THE FICKLE 

A SPRING DANCE IDVI 

Rosamond Lewis 



HE sat at the window looking out upon the not-very- 
rfistant i:ounta : . .. She tested Ikt \ cary hea.J in her 
hands; she sighed. How romantic it was to he in love! 
She considered the bare trees, the Spring sky, and the muddy 
streets. She sighed again. Yes, it was romantic, there was 
no doubt about it. Spring Dance was over, and her fascin- 
ating man gone the way of all Spring Dance partners, — 
away. She reflected. He had kissed her more satisfactor- 
ily than anyone she had ever known, and she, the cold, the 
distant, the unpettable (according to former reports of her) 
had enjoyed those same kisses immensely. Nothing was 
left save a vague smoky smell in her fur coat, and a rather 
strong one in the scarf she had worn, due to her wrapping 
it tightly in paper in order to preserve that smell longer. 
She had carried His Last Letters next her heart. She had 
vowed never to smile again. She just couldn't eat her meals 
in spite of the gnawing hunger within her, and she drank 
pailsful of water because she was in love. People who were 
in love always did those things, so she must be in love. Pa- 



46 The Smith College Monthly 

tiently or impatiently, she awaited a letter from Him. Per- 
haps He would want to keep on writing to her. Oh, wouldn't 
that be wonderful! such a fascinating person! she could love 
him forever! Every mail she scanned feverishly. No letters 
for her exeept from the family and the girls, and some silly- 
hoys-she-used-to-like. Finally one came postmarked Han- 
over! Ecstatically she gazed at it. drew her breath quickly 
and departed for the privacy of her own room. She tore 
it open and with a soft sigh looked at that dear handwriting. 
Suddenly eonseiousness came to her. It was so formal, she 
thought pathetically. He had had a wonderful time, had 
arrived safely, and hoped He would see her again sometime 
(Yes, He did!) and it was signed "sincerely." She sighed 
and put His letters away in a box. She was disillusioned, 
her romance blighted. What a man, he didn't like her at all. 
Well, she'd show him! Calmly she put the letter from one 
of the silly-boys-she-used-to-like into her pocket. She patt- 
ed it and sighed. "I wonder when I'll hear from Him again, 
the Darling Child," she whispered. She hoped He would 
write soon. She felt so sad and wistful. It was so roman- 
tic to be in love. 









The Smith College Monthly 



^ 




BOOK REVIEWS 




THE CABALA 

Thornton Wiidi.k Albert & Charles Boni 



o 






HE Cabala is an unorganized group of the intellectual 

and social aristocrats of modern Rome, extraordinar- 
ily powerful in church and state, and obsessed with a 
latred of everything recent. They still believe in the divine 

right of kings and are passionately in earnest about customs 
universally considered antiquarian lore. Into their circle 
come two young Americans. James Blair, scholar, archaeo- 
logist and compiler of uninteresting facts and his friend 
Samuel, the narrator of the story. Thus far Mr. Wilder 
proceeds quite in the usual manner, then he suddenly breaks 
off' and divides his book into four parts each one concerned 
with a crisis in the life of a member of the Cabala, precipit- 
ated by either Blair or Samuel. This method gives an at- 
mosphere of artificiality that pervades the whole book and 
is the keynote of his style. 

His characters lack warmth and life as individuals and 
leave us to hope in all sincerity that they do not exist as 
types. The clever, neurotic Alix does not live, she only 
exists in a carefully worked out mosaic, and her unfortunate 
love affair with Blair is but a part of the design. Theold 
Cardinal and Astree-Luce, "decently mad on a million a 
year," sum but impossible figures in a phantasmagoris 
dream, and the worthless, incontinent Marcantonio is paint- 
ed in such violent colors that we find it hard to gaze on him 
at all, even as the child of Mr. Wilder's imagination. 

He writes swiftly and colorfully, with a strong grasp 
on his subject and a convincing belief in it. But however 
forceful his presentation is. what he presents is abnormal 
and fanciful to the point of unreality. We are rather tired 



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Gifts of Distinction 



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STATIONERY 
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The Smith College Monthly 10 

of pathological studies; why not concern ourselves wiili the 
much neglected worm for a change. For after reading the 
Cabala we wondered jus! what point Mr. Wilder was trying 
to make and why lie should bother with his group of mad 
men in the first place — There is nothing gained hut bewild- 
erment, nothing lost but time, in reading it. 

Anne Robinson \ ( J'M) 






GO SHE MUST! 

David Garnett Alfred A. Knopf 

0""|AYI1) GARNETT, the author of Lady Into Fox and 
A Man in the Zoo has written a new hook. This is the 
k<mM story of Anne Dunnoek, a clergyman's daughter, liv- 
ing with her eccentric father in a small English town and 
longing to escape the dullness and the narrow repression of 
her life. The hook is like a painting by Giotto — like the 
painting of St. Francis' sermon to the birds. It has the 
same indescribable and half-unreal charm, delicately colored. 
Anne herself is like one of her father's birds which he cher- 
ishes so tenderly, a white throat, he calls her. moved by the 
fresh spring winds to fly to new lands and new beauty. 
There is a sense of outreaching, of strange restlessness like a 
resistless urge, which closes in the serenity of fulfillment. 

Those who have read the earlier hooks of David Garnett 
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the unreality of a strange dream which is yet not a dream 
and is fashioned unexpectedly out of the commonplace. 

The style is precise and beautiful, with a fine feeling for 
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Must with its fresh spring-like atmosphere and the music of 
dipping swallows and robins pecking in the snow is less 
startling, hut more subtle, and perhaps more appealing than 
its predecessors. It is an adequate successor. 

C. W. J. 



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CHIROPODIST 
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j)-12, l-o P. M. Northampton, Mass. 
Fri. Eve., 7-8 Phone 239-1-M 

And by Appointment 



Advertise 

in 

"The Monthly" 




CONTENTS 



The Devil 

When Beelzebub was Master of the House 

Jocelyn Crane, 1930 



Medallion 



A Crooked Stairway to the Sun 



Shy Night 

The Women of Karazan 

To— 

Why College f 

Pierrot 

Protection 

Epitaph 

The Flute Player 

The Fourth Dry Cistern 

Foreign Relations 

Magnolia Tree at Night 

New Easter Bonnets 

Editorial 

Book Reviews 



8 



Rachel Grant, 1929 14 



The Princess Who Asked Three Questions 

Elizabeth Wilder, 1928 15 



Helen Noyes, 1930 20 



The Diary of Mary Cawthorne Unwin 

Mary EUnore Smith, 1928 21 



Elizabeth Wilder 1928 31 

Dorothy Buchanan, 1930 32 

Anne Morrow, 1928 36 

Anonymous, 37 

Elizabeth Wilder, 1928 40 

Anne L. Ba^inger, 1929 41 

Priscilla Fair child, 1930 45 

Mary Arnott, 1929 46 

Rachel Grant, 1929 49 

M. Kittredge Spencer, 1928 50 

Anne Morrow, 1928 52 

Ernestine Gilbreth, 1929 53 

58 
61 



MAY 



1927 



HOTEL ASTOR 



|ne of America's great hotels— and, 
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shops, theatres, and business 

"At the Crossroads of the World " 

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Broadway, Fortv-- fourth 8* Forty-fifth Streets 




FRANK BROTHERS 

fifth Avenue Boot Shop 

Between 474 and 48^ Streets. New York 




PLYMOUTH GARAGE 

I CADILLAC CHANDLER 

LaSALLE 



Masonic Street 



Tel. 1440 




rie a.co c k «/"hop 
26 LeJford terrace I 

northimpl-opi, ma*t* 



Chiffon Evening Frocks — 
Warm weather frocks in gay silks 
"Toy" Hats- 
Washable "batik" silk scarfs 

THE PEACOCK SHOP 

26 Bedford Terrace 

(Just below the Alumnae House) 




BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 




Vol. XXXV MAY, L927 No. 8 

EDITORIAL BOAflRiD 

Sarah Wingate Taylor 1928 
Catherine Johnson 1928 Anne Morrow 1928 

Elizabeth Wilder 1928 Anne Basinger 1929 

Katherine S. Bolman 1929 

Art — Priscilla Paine 1928 

BUSINESS STAFF 

Julia Kellogg 1928 

Gladys Lampert 1928 Sylvia Alberts 1929 

Pearl Morris 1928 Alice Koogle 1930 

Ruth Rose 1929 Claire Wolff 1930 



The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Mass., each monti from 

October to June, inclusive. Terms $1.75 a year. Single copies 2oc 

Subscriptions may be sent to Julia Kellogg, Chap'vn House. 

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Contributions may be left in the Monthly box in the Note Room. 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton, Mass., as second class matter. 

Metcalf Printing $ Publishing Company, Northampton, Mass. 

"Accepted for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1.03, 

Act of October S, 1917. Authorized October SI, WIS." 



All manuscript should be typewritten and in the Monthly Box by the fifteenth 

of the month to be considered for the issue of the following month. 

All manuscript should be signed with the full name of the writer. 

Manuscript may be disposed of unless marked "Return.'' 



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Managing Director 




Smith College 
Monthly 




THE DKVIL 

WlJ.UAM A. Okton 



I FORGET whether it was of the Prince Consort or of 
sonic American president that the Frenchman said, if 
j%jJ§H he did not exist it would he necessary to invent him. 
Hut it does not much matter, seeing how many popular 
heroes have been children of that kind of necessity- and as 
such, have received a good deal of homage that might more 
fitly have been elsewhere. The odd thing is to find one who 
does, on the highest authority, exist sui juris receiving so 
much less than his meed of appreciation. And it is the odder, 
in this liberty-loving land, since he is traditionally denied the 
privilege of appearing as his own advocate; the occasions on 
which he has been allowed to speak for himself being ex- 
tremely disproportionate. 

Yet he suffers more even than a young wife in a grow- 
ing suburb from a deluge of unsought allusion, most of it 
derogatory; as when, for example, one describes anything 
from the political situation to a dummy with a long suit and 
no reentry as a devil of a mess. Suffers, I say: as who of such 
breeding and such susceptibilities could fail to suffer? He is, 
as the records attest, a gentleman of the loftiest descent and 
of most admirable qualities. On this point considered usage 
is all in his favor. In the middle ages folk were indebted to 
him not merely for such science as they could compass, but 
for much innocent amusement also. And do we not still speak 
of devilish skill, devilish cunning, devilish ingenuity, and 
sometimes devilish glee? These far from despicable attributes 
are his by necessity as well as by preemption. For in com- 
parison with other quarters the means at his disposal are 



6 The Smith College Monthly 

strictly limited; they have been grossly exaggerated by his 
defamers. He has need of more than common ability in his 
use of them, and must not be grudged a little jubilation when 
sometimes they succeed. By the same token he is something 
of an artist — some indeed have said, the original author of 
all art. As such he is fittingly depicted: a distinguished pre- 
sence, of a lean and graceful bearing. Doings of a wholesale 
or extravagant nature are seldom attributed to him. He is an 
eclectic, choosing — if popular report be true — persons of 
some distinction for his converse. And in society he is the 
traditional minority representative. 

Perhaps — the suggestion is advanced in all modesty — 
this is why not only artists, but writers of the more precious 
and intellectual sort, together with college and university 
professors, are so widely counted among his kith and kin (I 
say nothing of lawyers, in view of the recent quota law en- 
acted in Hades against them). They too, at least in their 
earlier and more persuasive years, are commonly lean, and 
sometimes not ungraceful. They too must labor for the maxi- 
mum of effect with means more limited than is generally sup- 
posed. And if, unlike their patron, they are allowed to speak 
for themselves, and frequently do, at quite inordinate length, 
it is fair to add that their speaking is universally discounted ; 
for who, after all (say the majority) do these fellows repre- 
sent ? They also are as much misquoted, as often and as mis- 
takenly invoked. They cannot escape the charge of unexpect- 
ed, sometimes original action. And withal, they furnish per- 
ennial amusement to a tolerant and kindly world. 

But in fact their, and their patron's claim to more gen- 
erous appreciation is better grounded than on any such mat- 
ters as these; and it is the psychologists (no less) that have 
established the case for them. They replenish, in a somewhat 
arid spiritual climate, the mainsprings of Fear: and fear and 
flight, as every schoolgirl knows, are among the authenticated 
vital instincts. Just as (I speak as a layman) the adolescent 
makes surprising discoveries of personal excellence among 
his acquaintances because to love is natural and necessary to 
his biological development: just as the cathartic action of 
anger upon the circulation, the liver and the intestines will 
reveal to the best of us unsuspected defects in our human 
environment around breakfast-time: so the need to feel, once 



The Smith College Monthly 7 

in a while, the luxury of a thoroughgoing primitive fear 
points the true social value of the Devil, his heirs and asso- 
ciates. S'il n'eaHstail pus, ilfaut Vinventer. 

Fortunately, there is no such necessity. For ai this tin n 
rise, beside the sent tered intellectuals I spoke of, the far more 
numerous emissaries of 1 1 is Satanic Majesty that darken 
the Main Sirect horizon. All the radicals and reformers, 
black, brown, yellow and white, from the birth controllers to 
the peace propagandists: all the cranks and all the faddists: 
all the Perils to Society that have the temerity to adhere to 
any other race, nation, church or party than one's own: and 
behind all, the patient myriads of that ubiquitous minority, 
the Jews — do they not all set forth the perennial powers oi 
the Prince of Darkness, and proclaim in deadly unison the 
wonderful works of the Devil? 

Mumbo Jumbo will hoo-doo you. 

He sure will, boys and girls. Or if he doesn't, we'll order 
a new one. 



► The Smith College Monthly 

WHEN BEELZEBUB WAS MASTER OF THE 

HOUSE 

" — they have called the master of the 
house Beelzebub— " Mat. 10:25. 

Jocelyn Crane 



\y- r IS name was Beelzebub and his ancestors had prob- 
| ygy ably all considered themselves respectable parrots. 
Hill Beelzebub, I grieve to say. could not possibly have 
claimed that distinction. To begin with, he belonged to a 
Chinaman, one Chang Lee, who had once sailed in a junk to 
Java, where Beelzebub supposedly first came into the world 
and where Chang Lee had acquired him. Xow, by merely be- 
longing to a Chinaman who sailed in a junk to Java, one 
loses practically all claim to respectability. Add to this the 
facts that Beelzebub was unhealthily bald on top of his head; 
had a beak streaked with brown as though he chewed tobacco ; 
had a head so green that it looked suspiciously as if it were 
dyed ; wing and back feathers of red, blue, and yellow, mixed 
indiscriminately in very bad taste ; a red tail from which sev- 
eral of the scraggly feathers were invariably missing; and 
finally, one most evil of evil eyes, (he had lost the other in an 
argument with a monkey) , and you will agree that there was 
no doubt whatever concerning his disrespectability. More- 
over, with the exception of the phrase, "Shut up", and two 
others which do not bear repetition, he spoke absolutely noth- 
ing except Chinese with a parrot-ian accent. And what good 
is a parrot who cannot — and will not learn to — speak Eng- 
lish? 

Such, in brief, was Beelzebub when he arrived at our 
California La Hacienda with Chang Lee, and neither his 
coat, his speech, nor his character changed one jot — except 
for the worse. His name alone, perhaps, was altered for the 
better from an unpronouncable mass of Chinese characters 
which Chang declared meant "devil-devil", to the above, sug- 
gested by Father as a more convenient synonym for the 
Chinese, without forcing us to profanity whenever we spoke 



The Smith College Monthly 

it in English. As Chang Lee offered no opposition, the sug- 
gestion was unanimously adopted. 

Chang Lee was to be our cook al La Hacienda tin 
old Spanish house near the Mexican border which we had 
acquired along with an adjoining orange grove. The new 
cook had numerous recommendations, and, besides, gave us, 
among other things, cherry float that was delicious, and angel 
food cake that was truly perfect, the night of his arrival, else 
he surely would never have stayed. For as soon as Beelzebub 
put in his appearance and set his evil eye and Chinese im- 
precations to work. Mother. glanced at him dubiously, Father 
cleared his throat and scowled (both very had signs), and 1, 
with scant success, endeavored to look at least courageous 
while the parrot hurled vociferous epithets at my hair ribbon. 
Jimmy alone seemed to take him as a joke, an attitude of 
which Beelzebub heartily disapproved. But, as I said, the 
cherry float, beloved by the whole family, and the angel food, 
the only cake indulged in by Father, were masterpieces— 
and as Mother said, with good cooks so scarce, it wasn't wise 
to antagonize Chang Lee at the start by suggesting, however 
tactfully, that Beelzebub either depart or at least be caged. 
Later it developed that it was a ease of "love me, love my 
parrot": either Beelzebub stayed free and uncaged, or Chang 
Lee went too. And, of course, by this time, Chang Lee was 
indispensable to the peace and contentment of La Hacienda. 

Beelzebub, however, we soon discovered, was not — to 
the contrary, he was the only jarring note in the establish- 
ment. We often speculated upon the joys we would have 
were he not included among its denizens. It was such a de- 
lightful old place with the loveliest places to play. There was 
the patio in the middle of the house, open to the sky, with a 
fountain, plashing from a dragon's mouth on silvery fish, and 
purple bougainvillea trailing up the cracked brown terra- 
cotta walls ; there was the secret room Jimmy and I had dis- 
covered between the dining room and the outside wall which 
was entered through a real sliding-panel door and contained 
the old empty Spanish chest; there was the rickety stable 
where the dons of other days had lodged their coaches and 
fours, thoroughbred saddle horses, and shining harness ; there 
was the meadow that was aglow with hundreds of golden 
poppies in the early summer; and, last but not least, there 



10 The Smith College Monthly 

was the orange grove itself, where one could play sueh lovel; 
games of hide-and-seek and run-sheep-run in the soft dusk 
laden with the perfume of the trees. 

But Beelzebub, like the poor, was ever with us, thoug] 
I often speculated, somewhat irreverently, as to whether h 
shared with them a great deal of the Almighty's affection. I 
we played with the fish in the fountain, he was there to fright 
en them; if we quickly slipped into the secret room to pla; 
pirates, behold, he was there, pounding on the panel with hi 
beak to the detriment of the wood-work until we let him in 
if we took the wings of the pursued and fled to the uttermos 
parts of the stable to tell ghost stories, even there he trailer 
us and banished all delicious sensations of "creepiness" wit] 
his raucous screechings, which could not by any feat of im 
agination be made to bear any resemblance whatever to th 
wail of even a Chinese banshee. It wasn't that we wouldn' 
have been willing to have a parrot for a playmate — we wouL 
have been overjoyed had he shown us by the least sign that h 
Avanted to be pleasant and sociable. But these qualities simpl; 
weren't in his nature. He loved or tolerated no one excep 
Chang Lee, whom he favored by leaving alone most of th 
time, while he was harassing various members of the family 
This was his one joy and delight, and the more he felt tha 
one disliked him, the more zest he took in tormenting one. 

I was the best example of all. He knew perfectly well 
and I knew that he knew, that I was more afraid of him thai 
I would for the world have let Jimmy know — (Jimmy is tw< 
years older than I) . He would cock his head to one side an< 
direct his snapping black eye first at mine, and then let i 
travel slowly up until it rested implacably on my inevitabl 
huge and brilliant hairbow. It was useless for me to try t< 
keep on the side of his bad eye. Quick as a flash he woul< 
turn and be regarding me as before in whatever I was doing 
These scrutinies invariably ended in a quick short rush at nv 
head, when he would take one end of the ribbon in his teetl 
and neatly pull it untied, then retire to his perch and swea 
gleefully in Chinese. He simply could not be taught bette 
manners. However, he had the satanic wisdom never to d< 
this trick in the presence of our elders. When I would tear 
fully bring my troubles to Mother, she would soothe and 
comfort me, but alwavs finish with, "But vou know, dear, i 



The Smith College Monthly 1 1 

Beelzebub goes, Chang Lee goes, and of course Chang L< - 
is indispensable. And remember, we're having cherry float 
for dessert I" 

His behavior concerning my ribbon is merely one ex- 
ample from among a thousand. He inflicted his insulting bil 
of English on each and everyone of Father's important 
guests. On such occasions when we tried to shut him up in 
some room, he always either Pound a way out or made an 
unbearable racket; if we asked permission to place him in the 
kitchen with Chang* for the occasion, where he would have 
been happy, we were met with the reply that Chang was 
"velly solly, but kitchen, she smelly so with things cooking, 
and smells velly bad for pallots." And that was that . 

Also, he had a precocious and wholly inexplicable (as 
was everything about him) fondness for sealing wax. If 
there were any anywhere in sight, he immediately made off 
with it to a corner where he gnashed it to bits and carefully 
piled it with his feet, into a neat heap. And if there were not 
sealing wax in sight at least on an average of once a week, he 
would search for it on his own account — and usually find it — 
or bang up the furniture so in a vain search, that it was by 
far safest to give him a weekly allotment, which we did every 
Sunday night after supper. He preferred pink, but blue, 
green or red were also acceptable when necessitv demanded 
it. 

He possessed but one good quality. And that, of course, 
wholly unconsciously and unpremeditatively good. Perhaps 
it was because he had already reached a ripe middle age and 
so w 7 as subject to rheumatism — (though I think the gout of 
the crusty old English noblemen would have been more in 
keeping with his character) , or perhaps it was merely because 
he was a bird from a tropic clime, that he was a matchless 
prophet of cold, particularly cold and damp, weather. Now 
you may object that this Avas quite a useless accomplishment 
since the weather bureau broadcasts its reports through the 
newspaper in California as well as elsewhere. But Beelzebub 
was remarkable in that, by squatting in the sun on the warm 
pavement of the patio for an hour at a time, covering his feet 
carefully with himself, and puffing out his feathers deject- 
edly, he heralded the approach of every cold spell a good 
twentv-four hours before the weather bureau, and, unlike 



1 2 The Smith College Monthly 

that worthy institution, was never failing. Only those happy, 
or unhappy, beings who have nursed and petted with ever 
present anxiety a California orange grove, through the vary- 
ing vicissitudes of the seasons, from one harvest to the next 
can appreciate what Beelzebub's one redeeming quality 
meant to us. Whenever he sought the sun of the patio pave- 
ment in the aforesaid manner, though it was ninety in the 
shade and not a cloud was in the sky, the smudge pots and 
other apparatus for "warming" the trees were prepared and. 
at the first hint of eold, while other growers were frantically 
racing with the weather to prepare, our workers were already 
calmly at work potecting the trees. And it was all due to 
Beelzebub. It almost made up for all his unbearable esca- 
pades, but not quite. Really dangerously cold spells are not 
frequent near La Hacienda. 

So, between blessing and cursing Beelzebub with the 
time most unequally divided, the latter and Chang Lee 
stayed on for two years. Father forgot and swore frequently ; 
Mother often was forced to take refuge in tight-lipped resig- 
nation; Jimmy laughed on most occasions concerning Beel- 
zebub, but learned not to tease him; I stormed and wept in 
private more than once as I retied my bow, and Chang Lee 
continued to make matchless cherry float arid perfect angel 
food cake. Chang Lee teas indispensable. 

The climax had to come, however — and it did, suddenly, 
astoundingly, overpoweringly, at the end of a singularly 
peaceful week, the familiar calm before the storm. It was 
Sunday. The entire family was dutifully seated in church, 
along with Chang Lee, very straight and proud in a new 
blue serge suit, for he was to be made a member of the 
church on that day. Frequently he so far forgot his dignity 
as to glance at the new wrist watch Father had just given 
him for the occasion, but on the whole his behavior was 
irreproachable. 

The minister was reading the Scripture Lesson when IT 
happened. I recall that I had tilted back my broad-brimmed 
black straw hat with the streamers down the back and was 
idly pulling at the rubber elastic under my chin and letting 
it snap into place, the while I was lost in a delightful day 
dream. The day dream consisted in wondering what all the 
people would do if they should suddenly see me float from 



The Smith College Monthly 18 

my seal up to the chandelier, swing there for a minute, do a 
graceful aerial "tour-jetee", and conk to resl on the pipes of 
the organ. 

Mother's hand had just reached up and stopped my own 
from playing with the elastic in time to awaken me to hear 
the minister's droning voice proclaim, "Behold, the fowls of 
the air ' when from the open window, there proceeded a 
startlingly raucous "Shut up!" followed by a rush of Chim s< 
Then amidst the indescribable gasp of the congregation, 
Beelzebub picked up in his beak an object he had dropped 
on the window sill, Hew straight to Chang Lee's shoulder, 
dropped his old watch in his lap, and with one of his two 
English expressions which won't hear repetition, settled 
down for a nap. As in Tom Sawyer's ease, "let ns draw a 
veil over the succeeding events!" 

Chang Lee and Beelzebub departed the following day. 

The way in which the tension was lifted after that mem- 
orable departure was remarkable. Though a sloppy fat cook 
fed us tasteless things which did not include cherry float or 
angel food cake, there was always the cheerful remark, "Hut 
what do we care? Beelzebub's gone!" And when a frost 
caught us unawares we bravely remembered only the had 
traits of which we were rid — Beelzehuh was gone. The seal- 
ing wax, hairbows, and silvery fish were safe. We could play 
unmolested where we would! But it was strange how, in 
spite of the relieved tension, the lack of the excitement and 
suspense which had always overhung the house, more or less 
created a most subdued, not to say sad air. In six months we 
were actually remembering (though never aloud) with 
amused chucklings the escapades of Beelzehuh. However, 
out loud, it was the same glad cry, "Beelzehuh's gone!" At 
the end of a year there positively was a note of wistfulness 
there. But "Anyway, that awful bird isn't here!" was still 
the cry. 

Mother meanwhile had advertized repeatedly and in 
vain, for a satisfactory Chinese cook. But either there were 
no applicants or they did not come up to Mother's rigid 
standards. Then one day Wu Chow arrived, hag and hag- 
gage, for a trial. Mother, with the rest of us crowding 
around, was interrogating him. 

"Can vou cook well?" she asked. 



14 The Smith College Monthly 

"Yes, missee." 

"Can you make angel food cake right?" demanded 
Father. 

"Yes sir." 
"Can yon make real honest-to-goodness cherry float?" 
questioned Jimmv eagerly. 

"Oh yes, sir." 

We all sighed ecstatically. 

"Have yon any animals?" — this from me, suspiciously 
eyeing a hamper. 

"No missee." 

"What's in the hamper?" 

"Oh that — not animal — no — something velly, velly nice. 
'N other Chinaman, Chang Lee — he get hitchy up to Chinese 
gel and he givee his bird — a pallot — to Wu Chow". 

"Shut up!" squawked the hamper. 

Beelzebub was back! 






MEDALLION 

Rachel Grant 

I would have Cellini 

Strike a medal for me 

In chiming bronze (that would be your laughter) 

On it — your lifted head; 

I would have poets, 

Who lodge coldly in attics 

And read their sonnets to irreverent mice, 

Match all their genius to devise 

The inscription. 

Then I should lay my medal 

On velvet, in a black frame, 

And hang it, 

At the end of a long, slim room 

In a famous gallery — 

Very many people would come there 

To see it, 

And my pity for a world that does not know you, 

Would be lessened. 



The Smith College Monthly 1 5 

THE PRINCESS WHO ASKED THREE 
QUESTIONS. 

Elizabeth Wii deb 



o 



N K morning when the sun had come far enough around 
the corner of the castle to shine on the bowl of hare- 
bells on her table, the Princess looked at herself in the 
glass and saw that she was neither too young nor too old, 
and as beautiful as might be expected, So out she went in 
a grass-green gown, washed her fresh face in the clear water 
by the castle gate, and sat herself down in a pansy-field he- 
side the highroad. There she sat weaving the pansies into 
her flaxen braids so, and so; and she sang a low pale song as 
she waited for the princes to come galloping and cantering 
and prancing along the highway. 

Xow came a Prince galloping proudly down the highroad, 
his dagger in his belt and his soldiers at his heels. A red 
plume waved in his cap, and his horse was the color of bur- 
nished iron. And when he saw the Princess he thought she 
was as beautiful as need be, and when he looked about her 
lands he thought they were as broad and fine as could be. So 
off he jumped from his horse, and 

"Fair lady," said he, bowing before her, "what must I 
do to win you, so that you will ride away with me and be 
my bride?" 

"Answer me three questions," said she; for although 
she found him not greatly to her liking, she was withal fair, 
and trusted in his being as stupid as he was proud. 

"Oh, easily," said he, stroking his beard and looking 
intelligent. 

"First: What is the most beautiful thing in the 
world?" 

The Prince stroked his beard and thought to impress 
her: "The sight of two big armies engaged in a broad field, 
their banners fluttering, their armour shining and their 
swords dancing in the sun." 

But she was not in the least impressed, only pleased 
because she had thouuht him that kind of man. 



16 The Smith College Monthly 

"Secondly: What is the most wonderful thing in the 
world?" 

The Prince stroked his beard. Really he thought him- 
self the most wonderful thing in the world, but he could 
hardly say that. "The victory that I won over the heathen." 
he answered with righteous pride. 

The Princess smiled a tiny secret smile. "Thirdly: AVhy 
do you wish me to ride away with you and be your bride?" 

"Ah!" exclaimed the great Prince, warming at the 
thought, "So that when I come home weary from the wars 
you will be sitting by the fireside, stirring the soup and braid- 
ing your hair to greet me." 

So the Princess laughed and tossed her braids back and 
began to hum a tune as though he were a fly, perhaps, or an 
inquisitive fish, it might be. 

And the Prince snorted so that his plume bobbed most 
indignantly, and decided that she was not as desirable as he 
had thought. And off he galloped, his soldiers clattering 
after him. 

Now as the Princess sat weaving pansies into her flaxen 
braids a Prince came cantering down the highroad, his hawk 
on his wrist and his hounds beside him. There was a pheas- 
ant's quill, in his broad hat, and his steed was the color of 
polished copper. Seeing the Princess, he thought she was 
as beautiful as he might ever meet with, and when he looked 
beyond to her fat forest lands, he leapt from his horse. 

"Most elegant and excruciatingly enchanting damsel," 
said he, bowing before her, "were I to attempt to express, 
elucidate, and unfold the whole of the intense and undeni- 
able emotion which your visage rouses in my all innocent 
and unused breast, the sun most surely would sink to its 
nocturnal rest before I might receive of you that fateful 
information for which my tongue, imaging its perturba- 
tion upon that of its prompter, my heart, almost fails of 
courage and control to enquire. Perhaps I am insolent in 
even entertaining the thought, perhaps I am impudent in 
even making an enquiry, perhaps — " 

But the Princess waved her hand impatiently. "In 
short," she said, "you admire me and wish to know the price 
of winning me?" 



The Smith College Monthly I 7 

The Prince was shocked, I >i 1 1 he was clever as well as 
elegant, and bowed his head in assent. 

"You have only to answer me three questions," said 
slic; for although she found him n<>l greatly to her liking, 
she was withal fair, and trusted moreover in his being less 
clever than he was conceited. 

"Most assuredly, and with as much pleasure as the pos- 
sibility of so glorious an end must inspire," he answered 
easily, smiling smugly down his clever nose. 

"First: What is the most beautiful thing in the 
world?" 

The Prince twisted his moustache and answered imme- 
diately: "A gay hunting party; the doe in the underbrush, 
dappled by the sunshine, the hounds running, the horses 
rearing, hawks in the sky and leopards tugging at their 
leashes." 

The Princess was only pleased because she had guessed 
him to he that kind of man. 

"Secondly: What is the most wonderful thing in the 
world?" 

The Prince twiddled his moustache. Personally he 
thought himself rather wonderful hut one could hardly say 
that. "My feat of killing two speckled fawns with one 
arrow," he replied boldly. 

The Princess smiled a small secret smile. "Thirdly: 
Why do you wish me to ride away with you and he your 
bride?" 

"Oh!" said the proud Prince, finding a subject quite to 
his liking. "So that you may shine like the queen-jewel 
among the ladies at my hunting-lodges. No knight could 
claim such honor as would come to me through possessing 
you. For your beauty is preeminent — and" (he added, 
kindly enough.) "I doubt not your wit might come, under 
my tutelage, to equal it. It shakes me to think how perfect- 
ly you will match the new r tapestries in the hall!" 

But the Princess laughed and shook her braids hack 
and began to hum a particular tune and to squint as though 
perhaps there were a mist between herself and the highroad. 

And the Prince lifted his chin as high as could be, to 
convince himself that he had decided she was unworthy of 



18 The Smith College Monthly 

l.is notice. And off he galloped, his hounds springing along 
beside him. 

So the Princess sat there, weaving large purple pansies 
into her flaxen braids. Now came a Prince down the high- 
road, the hoof-heats of his silver-white palfrey sounding 
gently, pint, plut, and its head nodding like a lily. His 
tunic was broidered with red roses and his hair curled darkly 
about his shoulders. When he saw the Princess, there was a 
sudden pain within him because of her beauty, and he 
thought that no flower of the forest or bird of the field could 
compare to her. So off he jumped from his horse and, kneel- 
ing before her: 

"Most beautiful lady," said he, "no other lady is so 
lovely as you. I place my heart at your feet and myself at 
vour service. If I were either strong or clever I might bet- 
ter dare to hope that you would honor me." 

The Princess thought him a most pleasing youth, for 
she saw that his eyes were like her pansies. But she was 
withal fair, so "Any man who answers truly three questions 
wins me," she said. 

"I can but do my best and speak honestly," said the 
Prince, shaking his hair back from his forehead and smiling 
straight into her eyes. 

"First: What is the most beautiful thing in the 
world?" 

"Nothing could be more beautiful than you, Princess." 

The Princess blushed like sunrise and pretended she 
had been thinking of a different answer. 

"Secondly: What is the most wonderful thing in the 
world?" 

"The most wonderful thing in the world is my love for 
you, — unless perhaps you should love me, for that would be 
even more wonderful." 

"Thirdly: Why do you wish me to ride away with you 
and be your bride?" 

The Prince clasped his hands. "The world is blossom- 
ing for us," he said softly. "Down the road lies happiness 
for whoever will seek it with love in their hearts." 

Then the Princess felt as though she had wakened from 
the most beautiful dream into a morning even more beau- 
tiful. She stood up in her grass-green gown, with purple 



The Smith College Monthly 10 

pansies woven in her long flaxen braids, and, slipping a 
heavy ring from her finger, held it oul to the Prince, It was 
a ring carved from a single amethyst with mystic runes 

about it, and when it exactly fitted the Prince, six knew thai 
this was a sign in itself. Then he took from his finger a ring 
around which the jewels bloomed like flowers, and he pul 
it on the Princess's slim while finger. And then the Prince 
lifted her up on the silver-white palfrey before him, and off 
they rode, the horse's head nodding like a lily on its slender 
neck, and his hoofs striking gently, pint, pint, pint on the 
cobble-stones. 



20 The Smith College Monthly 

A CROOKED STAIRWAY TO THE SUN 
Helen No yes 



An old house, half torn down, out Park Street way, 
I stopped to look at once. The roof was off, 
The second story piled up in great heaps 
Over the garden. So I stepped across, 
And peered in at the open-hanging door. 
The hall was littered full with plaster fallen, 
And half the stair's-rail hung across the hall. 
A dark and crooked stair led into space — 
Tortuous- — steep — warped to a perilous roughness. 
At no step could I see the one before me, 
And every one creaked sadly under foot 
But though the shadows splashed around my knees, 
Up on the landing near the top was sunlight, 
And all the last turn of the stair was glory 
With light of which I could not see the source. 
I turned and came back to the sagging door-sill, 
And then I saw her coming through her garden — 
The owner of the house — old, crumpled, tired, 
With that same afterglow upon her face. 
She stopped and talked to me a little while. 
She told me of her husband, lately dead, 
Her children long gone from her — now this house — 
The house she had lived in all her married life — 
The house she had hoped to die in — all was gone. 
And then she said, "Child, time has taken all- 
All else I loved — but it has brought me peace." 
And still across the broken crooked stairway 
The sunset light glowed soft above our heads, 
Till the reflection even reached the hall, 
And touched the wreckage there with mellow gold. 



The Smith College Monthly 2 1 

THE DIARY OF MARY CAWTHORNE l.WVIX 

FROM 1765 TO L778 



Maky Elinore S.mii 



ii 



(Editors note: 

Man Cawthorne Unwin was born in Ely, the daughter of a draper. While 
very young she married the Reverend Morley Unwin, a clergyman, man} years 
older than herself. She had two children a sen, William, and a daughter, Sus 
anna. At the time of her meeting with William Oowper, her children were grown, 
her husband well advanced in age, and she herself was forty-one. A portrait of 
her shows delicate, aristocratic features, with an expression of intelligent reserve. 
Cowper compared her to his Aunt Madan (formerly Judith Cowper), the famous 
"Krinna" of Pope, hut it was her sympathy, not her beauty, which attracted him. 

There are few other records of her life. Cowper mentions her often in his 
letters, hut nearly always casually as one does a well-known member of the fam- 
ily. The diary in itself docs not form a coherent, collected story of the first years 
of their life together, for she wrote at intervals, and obviously only to satisfy a 
need to express her feelings. But in its few pages may he read the fmn„ resolute 
character of the woman and the solution of the much-debated question of her 
relations with William Cowper.) 



H 



Sept. U 1765. 
GENTLEMAN to tea with us today, a Mr. Cowper. 
He is an acquaintance of my son. William having met 
him only this morning, but with his usual impetuosity, 

:)eing eager to find what sort of man he is and the reason for 
his recent removal to this town, as well as liking his appear- 
ance, addressed him without formality and after a few mo- 
ments' talk, gave him the invitation. Accustomed as I am to 
William's strange friends (plain, amiable creatures, most of 
them). I was astonished to find Mr. Cowper an agreeable 
and educated gentleman. At first he was exceedingly shy 
but soon seemed to forget it, and joined freely in the conver- 
sation, thereby contributing much to it. Of himself he said 
nothing, save that he kept two servants and had come to 
Huntingdon to be near his brother, who is at Cambridge. He 
has read a great deal more than I, yet does not display his 
knowledge openly, but rather inadvertently in his speech. He 
is not handsome, but pleasant-looking, although his face in 
repose appears wearied, and his eyes, I think, are too large 
and dark, as those of a man who has been ill with fever. 



22 The Smith College Monthly 

Oct. 18, 1765. 
Walked in the garden with Mr. Cowper, and conversed 
two hours. I do not helieve anything but reticence has kept 
him from accepting our invitations extended to him this 
month past, for he seemed eager to talk and spoke most cor- 
dially of William, Morley, and Susanna. His life is passed 
in a very pious manner, and he is an ardent Christian, yet I 
cannot but feel that some trouble has afflicted him sorely. As 
we talked, I prayed the Lord I might help him to remove the 
last traces of that sorrow, which even while being hidden be- 
neath his gentle ways and calm voice, seems constantly to be 
present. At the end of the two hours, taking my hand and 
looking at me gravely, he said: "I shall never forget this con- 
versation. You, with your uncommon understanding and 
sympathy, have done more for me than I had dreamed could 
be done." So the Lord answered my prayer. 

Oct. 25, 1765. 
Morley has taken Mr. Cowper to Cambridge in the 
chaise. He spends morning and evening with us now, and we 
profit much by his company. 

Nov. 5, 1765 

My husband and Mr. Cowper have entered into an 

agreement by which Mr. C. will lodge and board with us. He 

will come next month, to stay until Morley secures another 

pupil, or until he feels disinclined to remain longer. 

Mar. 11, 1766 
I have at last found the cause of Mr. Cowper's residence 
at Huntingdon. Poor, poor man! He speaks of St. Albans 
with awe and a strange, w r ild reverence, for it was there that 
the Lord called him. I have seen the place but once, and it 
seemed cold and grewsome. But is it not full proof of His 
omnipotence that He should make Himself known in such a 
forsaken place? Yet poor Mr. Cowper — 

He is seven years younger than I, yet says I am like a 
mother to him. 

Oct. 20, 1766 
The months pass swiftly. Mr. C. is still with us, and has 
shown no disposition to leave. William is very fond of him, 
and he of William. Morley. takes pleasure in discussing mat- 
ters of religion with him, but it is with me that he con- 



The Smith College Monthly 28 

verses most intimately. And how unworth) do I feel to hear 
his confidence! He has told me of his early life, and dwells 
much upon his sins and temptations, and upon the results oi 
his conversion to the Lord, yei it seems to me thai his youth 
was passed in more exemplary fashion than thai of most 
young men. 

1 have seldom seen a man so ferveni in his adoration of 
God, hul there is something of fright in it, as he were si ill 
looking hack to those wretched days of madness, and fearing 
their return. 

Oct. 27, 17(H) 

Yesterday when Mr. C. and 1 took our daily walk after 
tea, he demanded with an air of perturbation "if I should 
advise him to take orders?" Before I could stop myself, or 
indeed even consider the matter I had cried: "Mercy, no!" 

"Then," said he with a look of relief, "I shall not do it. 
I had hoped you would say that, but it sometimes occurs to 
me how dependent I am upon you and the atmosphere of 
your home. If anything should happen to compel me to leave 
Huntingdon and give up your friendship, I should feel that 
one of those bonds that fastens me so securely to the Lord 
would be broken." He seemed greatly agitated, and I myself 
was not overly calm, but I answered as firmly as possible: 

"I fear you are not as cheerful as usual today, Mr. Cow- 
per. If you fear another illness, I beg you to abandon all 
thoughts of it, for never have I seen a more robust-appearing 
person than yourself, nor one so full of animation. And too. 
"I added in a lighter tone, "why should the best gardener in 
Huntingdon — and everyone acknowledges you to be he — en- 
tertain such down-cast reflections? Now I think we must 
turn back, for the east bed is in need of watering and I am 
surprised that you should be so occupied with your own 
thoughts as to forget it." Which was a lie, God forgive me, 
for I had watered it that morning, but it did the trick and 
on the way home he was as merry as I have ever seen him. At 
the door, however, he became sober again, and said to me in 
a low voice : 

"You have lifted me from the Slough of Despond once 
more, dear Mary, and I feel perhaps I am out of it for good." 
Then turning his head away, murmuring as though to him- 
self, he added: "Whatever would I do without vou?" I 



24 The Smith College Monthly 

caught my breath, and my heart seemed to cease its beating, 
as lie left me and went into the garden. I went to my room, 
and did not go to supper; telling Susanna I was not well, 
and in need of rest. But with the door safely bolted and sit- 
ting as quietly as I could, I tried to look matters in the face. 

For I am guilty of a sinful love. The knowledge of it 
had struck me with great force as he spoke those last words, 
calling me "dear Mary," though I am convinced he spoke 
them out of nothing more than gratitude. A long while I sat 
straight, pressing against the back of the chair, and with my 
feet pushing down upon the floor as though to stem the wave 
of feeling that seemed ever ready to overwhelm me. I heard 
my husband's voice in the room below, raised, I had no doubt, 
in discussion of some ehurchly question ; then a gentler sound, 
the response of the one I loved. It was enough to stop my 
wavering, and remembering that he neither knew nor sus- 
pected the emotion his continued presence had aroused in me, 
I resolved my sin should go no further. 

All night I prayed God to deliver me from it, yet I felt 
a discord in my very prayers, for while one part of me was 
pleading for deliverance, the other was rejoicing in this new 
love. Often the struggle seemed more than I could bear, but 
at length I reached a decision, and became determined upon 
a course. He nor any other person shall know of that night, 
and I shall perform my daily acts as I have done heretofore, 
for though he knows not of my love, he is ever in need of my 
friendship, even let it seem to him, as it does, that of a mother. 
Only with the help of God, the Omnipotent, shall I be able 
to hold firm to this purpose, but, sinful as I am in spirit, I 
believe that He is understanding and will help me to keep 
the paths of righteousness. 

May 14, 1767 
To Cambridge today with Morley, my first holiday in a 
year. Bought half a pound of sixpenny worsted for Mr. Cow- 
per's second pair of stockings. I presented him with the first 
yesterday morning, and found him greatly pleased, having 
recently received a bill from the hosier which troubled him 
not a little. I told him I would knit all his hose in the future, 
William and Morley being well-provided with them. "God 
bless you, Mrs. Unwin," was his reply, "for taking such 
good care of me. I believe you would knit my hats, too, if 



The Smith College Monthly 26 

thai wen- possible." My task docs nol grow less difflcull with 
time. 

July 17. L767 

This day a fortnighl past, my husband, Morley Unwin, 
departed this earth for his reward, after a severe fall from his 
horse. So great a shock has it been thai I am unable to be- 
lieve it nor indeed to think on any matter with clarity. Mr. 
Cowper has been exceedingly kind and helpful, hut the evenl 
came so unforeseen and unexpected that 1 cannot hut allow 
it to he a punishment Inflicted on me by the Almighty God. 
lie knows 1 did not esteem my husband with a true wifely 
sentiment, hut rather with that of a daughter. The affection 
I owed to him I gave to another. I kept it secret within my 
heart, yet could not hide it from the eyes of the all-seeing. 

Mr. Cowper and 1 are decided to remain together hut to 
change our abode, and so the task I set myself will not be 
ended. With William and Susanna gone, there will he talk, I 
have no doubt, wherever we go, hut I know not whither we 
will remove. Though I defy all the laws of the world, 1 can- 
not leave my friend so long as he has need of me. His is a 
mind of so delicate a balance that new customs and friends, 
if faced alone, would wholly disarrange it. If I have power to 
prevent a return of his wretched illness, then shall I devote 
myself to the use of it so long as necessary, though it he to 
the end of my days. This course alone can I perceive clearly, 
and pray that, pursuing it, I may atone in some measure for 
the wrong I have done to another. 

May 7, 1768 

I cannot helieve these eleven months passed at Olney to 
have elapsed so quickly, though nothing of great import has 
occurred to mark them. Our dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. New 
ton, are in constant communication with us. They are pious, 
Christian folks, passing each day in prayer and charitable 
works. Mr. Cowper and Mr. Newton are scarce seven hours 
apart, and I find Mrs. Newton of gentle and agreeable na- 
ture, much beloved by her husband. Vet for all this amiabil- 
ity, I do not think Mr. Cowper much benefited by it. He 
seems more melancholy, meditating much upon his own un- 
worthiness, a spirit enhanced, I do helieve firmly, by contin- 
ued companionship with Mr. Newton, who is possessed of 
abundant health and a large stature, entertaining such an 







26 The Smith College Monthly 

opinion of his own acts and thoughts as I could wish Mr. C. 
had of his, which are no less worthy of esteem. 

My poor William (1 dare not call him that elsewhere 
hut here) is last slipping downward, yet I am powerless to 
help him! 

June 3, 1768 

Mr. Hill here to stay with us these lour days, inform- 
ing me of Mr. Cowper's youth before his illness, and he tells 
me much that is of interest, namely, of his gayety, and exub- 
erance, (his love for the dance, and the hunt) , and of his first 
sweetheart, Theodora. When he shall have tired a little of 
Mr. Newton and seeks other employment than the singing of 
hymns, then shall I counsel him to try his hand at poetry, 
for Mr. Hill is convinced of his talents in that direction. I 
only pray that time will soon come, for each day I grow more 
anxious for his well-being. 

For the life of me I cannot dissuade him from his in- 
tention to visit St. Albans for he believes the sight of it will 
serve as a reminder of his conversion, yet I am certain it will 
effect a more melancholic disposition. 

July 31, 1769 

Nothing changed these twelve months save that each 
day is like the last, the hours and minutes being ever appor- 
tioned in the same manner. How I long for the tea-time 
strolls at Huntingdon, and the gardens! 

Aug. 3, 1709 

Last evening. Mr. and Mrs. Xewton being suddenly 
called away to a distant part of town, we omitted divine ser- 
vice, and it being warm and pleasant. Mr. C. and I sat long 
in the garden, I with my knitting, he with Mr. Xewton's 
volume of "The Pilgrim's Progress" though it had soon be- 
come too dark to discern the print. I. rejoicing in the change, 
experienced a gayety uncommon to me in these days, and 
conversed lightly, recalling similar nights at Huntingdon 
and reciting diverting bits out of William's last letter from 
Essex. To my great and unexpected delight he seemed to 
forget his present cares and soon was laughing and evincing 
such a show of wit as I could not guess he still possessed. 

At the end of an hour or two, as if struck by a sudden 
thought, he got up from his seat, and pacing to and fro on the 
path, at length said with some hesitancy: 



The Smith College Monthly 27 

"Mary," (he has not called me thai bul once before), 
"you continue to help me, and to sacrifice your life for me. You 
gossip which has circulated all aboul us seems not to affeel 
you. If—" lie stopped, and [, holding my breath for whal 
was to come, murmured "Yea?" "If my malady has indeed 
gone for good, and tonight 1 feel 1 shall ever be rid of it, if 
nothing nothing adverse happen, Mary will you marry 
me?" 

For the second time was I transfixed by his words, yet 
I felt an ecstacy creep through my veins like a warm and liv- 
ing thing. Was this, then, my reward for the suppression of 
my love and performance of my duty these long years? Since 
that fateful night I had not allowed myself to think of him 
save as a friend in need. I could but offer a silent prayer of 
thanks to God, who in His great omniscience, has thus 
watched over my happiness. I nodded my head, gazing 
through the darkness at the one I loved. 

"Yes, William," I replied. With a smile he came to me, 
his great eyes shining with a light I had never dared hope to 
see there. "We have no use of arts of coquetry and courting, 
Mary," said he, "for we are too old and too well-known to 
each other. Yet already I feel a new cheerfulness. There shall 
be no question of the illness. With your friendship came its 
disappearance; with your love it has been vanquished." He 
spoke with confidence, and I rejoiced to hear him, but when 
we had parted for the night, vast doubts and fears assailed 
me. I could not but remember his wild, feverish eyes, and 
wept long into my pillow, affrighted even to pray. For my 
happiness does seem like griefs of other times, too great for 
sufferance. 

Sept. 1, 1769 
Our intention of marriage shall be kept secret for a time, 
so as to prove the establishment of William's health. Our life 
passes in the same manner save that he is more content, 
though to my mind the state is but transient. The joyous 
calm of Huntingdon does not return and in that only can I 
put my trust. 

I am like one who catches his breath, fearing to move 
lest some disarrangement ensue. 



28 The Smith College Monthly 

Feb. 18, 1770. 

The winter months brought a strengthened expectation 
of our marriage only to dispel it, for today was William 
called to Cambridge by the physician of his brother, inform- 
ing him by letter that Mr. John Cowper is on his death-bed. 
Hourly 1 pray the good Lord to deliver him, yet 1 feel, as 
does William too, 1 think, that one passing so unchristian a 
life cannot expect deliverance save if he repent. 

Feb. 28, 1770 

A letter from William by each post sinee his departure, 
and, God be praised, his faith in Him and anxiety for his 
brother have thus far removed all consideration of his own 
state. He writes of God: "He knows I am maimed and 
bruised, but still He maintains my life, and frequently makes 
the bones He has broken to rejoice." I could break my bones 
and bruise my heart and soul thrice over, if He only mend 
those of His dear child, so undeserving of hurt. 

April 24, 1770. 

This day a month since, John Cowper passed away, 
having become a convert to the Lord shortly before his death. 
William, though sad at his own loss, has felt great elation at 
this fresh proof of His wisdom and power. Thus is his sorrow 
alleviated, and I thank God for it. 

A year hence will our marriage take place, William 
desiring in that time to put aside a sum of money that will 
take us to Huntingdon for a holiday, where we may pass a 
fortnight in the recollection of our first days of friendship. 

April 7, 1772 

A weary two years, with no change. William talks of 
marriage as one less Christian might speak of heaven, certain, 
yet unattainable save in the distant future. Once again has 
he sunk into melancholy, and that happiness which seems so 
close at hand the Lord has snatched away. Yet will I hide 
my bitterness, for I have brought it down upon myself. 

William and Mr. Xewton engaged in composing a 
hymnal, spending long hours upon it. Seldom does he speak 
to me, so absorbed is he in this godly work. 

Were I only able to lift the cloud of fear that enwraps 
him, body and soul! For he fears to lose his peace of mind, 
and even God Himself. Indeed there is nothing he does not 
fear, save Death. 



The Smith College Monthly 29 

Nov. I I. 1772 
I begin to hope once more. Mr. Cowper has been more 
calm today, displaying good spirits and ready wit. .Mi*. New- 
ton, 1 allow, is too occupied to perceive the change, hut Mrs. 
X. and 1 arc resolved to make the most of it, encouraging 
him in all things. Perhaps the Lord has answered the plea in 
William's hymn: 

"O make this heart rejoice or ache; 

Decide this douht for me; 
And if it he not broken, break; 
And lieal it, if it he." 
and he writes in joy today: 

"'If guilt and sin afford a plea, 

And may oh tain a place, 
Surely the Lord will welcome me, 
And I shall see His face." 

Dec. 10. 1772 
Our gladness was short-lived. The change was hut 
temporary. 

Oh. to see the purposes of the Almighty in thus afflict- 
ing the most faithful of His servants! 

Jan. 24, 1773 
Never shall the horror of this day he erased from my 
mind, for with it came the abandonment of all my hopes, and 
every happiness on earth. Yet why think of myself when my 
heloved suffers so? Within the space of a few hours, his state 
has changed from melancholy to madness, a most terrible 
madness, for though his faith in Him has been unwavering, 
yet now he helieves himself condemned, thinking he sees a 
tall man ever before his eyes, shouting: 

"Actum est de te, periisti!" Which Mr. Newton tells 
'me can mean nothing but that he has a vision of eternal 
damnation. He says it is an act of God, hut I cannot and 
will not believe it. How can He be so just, if he inflict such 
torture on one poor soul? Rather must it he the work of the 
Devil. 

How long it will last, there is no knowledge. 

April 3. 1773 
He thinks himself hated by the world, by me most of 
all! Yet he nor anyone knows the depth of my love for 
him 



30 The Smith College Monthly 

(There are no more entries, but one of Mrs. Un win's 
four existing letters was written shortly after this.) 

To Mrs. Newton, at Mr. Trender's, Northampton 

Oet. 7, 1773 

I hope, my dear madam, this will meet you well, and 
safely returned thus far on your journey. Though it will he a 
sincere pleasure to me to see you and dear Mr. Newton again, 
yet I beg you will not put yourselves to the least inconveni- 
ence or hurry to reach home, till the most fit and agreeable 
time. The Lord is very gracious to us ; for though the cloud 
of affliction still hangs heavy on Mr. Cowper, yet he is quite 
calm and persuadable in every respect. He has been for these 
few days past more open and communicative than heretofore. 
It is amazing how subtly the cruel adversary has worked 
upon him, and wonderful to see how the Lord has frustrated 
his wicked machinations ; for though He has not seen good to 
prevent the most violent temptations and distressing delu- 
sions, yet He has prevented the mischievous effects the 
enemy designed by them; a most marvellous story will this 
dear child of God have to relate, when, by His Almighty 
power, he is set at liberty. As nothing short of Omnipotence 
could have supported him through this sharp affliction, so 
nothing less can set him free from it. I allow that means are, 
in general, not only lawful but also expedient ; but in the pre- 
sent case, we must, I am convinced, advert to our first senti- 
ment, that this is a peculiar and exempt one, and that the 
Lord Jehovah will be alone exalted when the day of deliver- 
ance comes. 

I must beg a favour of you to buy for me two pounds of 
chocolate, half a pound or ten ounces of white sixpenny 
worsted, half a dozen lemons, and two sets of knitting- 
needles, six in a set, one the finest that can be got, of iron 
and steel, the other a size coarser. Sally nor Judy know of 
my writing, else I am sure they would desire me to insert 
their duty. 

Pray present my affectionate remembrance to Mr. New- 
ton, and my sincere respects to Mr. and Mrs. Trender, and 
Miss Smith; and believe me to be, my dearest madam, your 
truly affectionate and highly indebted friend, 

M. Unwin. 



The Smith College Monthly :* I 

(Cowper recovered completely from his attack, although h<" 
never gave up the idea thai he was condemned by God. In 
the years after 177<>, guided by the steady hand of M rs. I n- 
win, he made greal progress first, in gardening, landscape- 
drawing and other amusements which kepi his thoughts 
from himself, and then in poetry, which made him famous. 
Throughout his life, he remained with Mrs. I liiwin, although 
they never married, and eared for her in her ill-health which 
lasted five years before her death in 17!)(>. From that time 
on, he became a victim to an almost constant melancholia, 
which was not alleviated until he died, in 1800.) 



SHY NIGHT 
Elizabeth Wilder 

To-night 
Is a shy night 

With a moon pinned in her hair- 
Grey mist 

Veils her dusky face 
And the moon-pin holds it there. 



32 The Smith College Monthly 

THE WOMEN OF KARAZAN 

Dokotily Buchanan 



"Finding him (Marco Polo) thus accomplished, his master was desirous of 
putting his talents for business to the proof, and sent him on an important con- 
cern of state to a city named Karazan, situated at a distance of six months' 
journey from the imperial residence; on which occasion he conducted himself 
with so much wisdom and prudence in the management of affairs entrusted to 
him that his services became highly acceptable." 

The Travels of Marco I'olo 



Vj^HO is this intent young man writing by candle light in 
vL' his tiny lodging in one of Kublai-khan's great Tchan 
§J8§§I houses^ Gaze at his direct, blue eyes, at his sensitive. 
dreamy mouth, and the bony contour of his face, the hard 
face of a warrior. Cast your thoughts back over a space of 
more than six hundred and fifty years and you have him. 
Xone other than Marco Polo himself, Venetian, nobleman, 
and renowned voyager. And because you are prone to jump 
at conclusions, you cry aloud, "Ah! he is recording his 
travels." 

Not at all. This is the young Marco. Perhaps he 
dreams a little of the time when he will write a marvellous 
book of great Cathay, cities with singing names, Khotan, 
Cassaria, Balshar, Kai-ping-fui, the demon haunted, whisp- 
ering desert of Gobi, rivers running with gold, and the be- 
jewelled temples of mad idolaters. But he is too busy now 
to write boks. Old age and prisons for that! Xow he is 
on the way to great Karazan on a business mission for Ku- 
blai-khan. He must do well on this mission. The great 
khan has put his trust in him. Were not his first words upon 
meeting the young traveller: "He is welcome and it pleases 
me much"? The great khan was no flattering fool. Prob- 
ably Marco Polo is busy writing out plans by which he may 
persuade Ahmed-khan to hand over to him Kublai's tax of 
gold and jewels. 






The Smith College Monthly 88 

We look over his shoulder and read: 
() evil women of Karazan! Marco Polo comes to tell 
you to repent, to renounce your corrupl ways. It pains the 
great God of the Christians much to observe your dissolute 

customs. MarCO Polo (Iocs uol conic like oilier men to giv< 

you dazzling /jewels, painted silks, ivory fans, and tiny 
monkeys; Marco Polo brings to you a hope of Paradise 
which is lasting. There is a loveliness in Paradise that no 
nian can give you. It is the loveliness of faith, Audit sheds 
on God's believers a pure beauty like the sifting of gold dust 
in a clear stream and the shadow of the moon on a blue 
night. There is no beauty yet beside it." 

We forgot to mention that Kara/an was an evil city 
and Marco Polo an earnest young man. 

Karazan! City of golden roofs and dark eyed womenl 
Through its gates night and day came travellers from all 
China, fierce, bearded Tartars, soft, moon-faced Chinamen, 
camels trudging wearily into the great city that was to give 
them water from cool streams wherein their masters sought 
harsh gold dust. There was color flashing here and there in 
the jade shawl of a woman, the fruit of a merchant, oranges 
and dull black grapes, the jewelled trappings of the strange. 
tailless ponies of Karazan. There was noise, snarling of 
camels, the shrieking and barter of tradesmen, the boom of 
the Tartars' voices, clatter, clatter, clatter on the hot cobble- 
stones as animals and men moved on restlessly, unceasingly. 
It was a city of excess. The dark eyed women with their 
soft, flowing hair and painted lips wandered softly hither 
and thither, seeking. They tinkled their Hashing jewels that 
men might know that other men too had loved them. They 
gathered in the gay, dusty streets in silent, little groups- 
waiting, and they wandered into the mighty palaces of 
Ahmed-khan himself. For generations had Karazan gone 
on the same; perhaps some of the women had grown old 
and ugly and died. One never knew. But they had always 
been there, all young, alike, beautiful. 

But for the past few days, a change like a grey shadow 
had crept over the bright places of Karazan. Rumors were 
floating through the city, ugly rumors of a Christian God, 
punishment for sin, hell and paradise, mostly hell. There 



34 The Smith College Monthly 

was a young man sent by the great Khan Kublai who told of 
his God, who knew Him personally. He was going to speak 
today for the last time. There was a faint shudder of relief 
at this information. The women gathered in the market 
plaee, some solemn eyed, some restless, some laughing open- 
ly, all drawn by a common curosity. The young man entered 
and with no preliminaries began to address his feminine 
audience. 

"O evil women of Karazan! Marco Polo comes to tell 
you to repent, to renounce your corrupt ways." His sweet, 
low voice flowed on like running water. The women were 
entranced. Never had they seen a man like him, his fair, 
white skin, his blue, blue eyes, and his young face. He was 
like a pretty boy with the singing voice of a dancer. And 
now he concluded, "I can leave satisfied only if you will 
promise me to give up your dishonorable trinkets and to 
claim the Christian God as your God and loving Father. 
There was an unanimous murmur of assent. With a deep 
sigh of pleasure, Marco Polo noted the tears in the eyes of 
some of his lovely converts. But as he mounted quickly on 
his horse, he happily failed to hear the common phrase on 
every lip, "Such a pretty boy! 'Twould be a shame to deny 
him so little a thing/' 

Marco Polo rode on into the hot desert, followed by a 
huge train of servants, merchants, and valuable camels. The 
hot sun made him drowsy. He dreamt of Paradise, "Well 
done thou good and faithful servant," of Kubali-khan, of — 
of. Suddenly he sat up with a jerk. The taxes! In his 
anxiety to convert the women, he had forgotten the mission 
upon w T hich he came. With a sharp command, he turned 
the company back to Karazan. He rode swiftly, angrily. 
Fool! fool! he called himself. Before him arose the hurt 
faces of his father, Xicolo, and his uncle, Maffeo. He had 
wished them to be so proud of him — and the mocking count- 
enance of Kublai-khan — It would take him twice as long to 
collect the taxes — It might be a week before he could de- 
mand audience of Ahmed-khan — Idiot! — But he had con- 
verted the women. Thank God for his self respect! — He 
had converted the women! 

He rode into town on a gallop and stopped short. 
Through the misty twilight, he could hear a faint sound like 



The Smith College Monthly 3fl 

a bell. He looked about him. There were the women in 
bright shawls, with their soft hair flowing, tinkling their 
trinkets, waiting. So they had lied to him, had they, mad< 

a fool of him and his God? A sob of self pity choked Ins 

throat. Suddenly a great rage mastered his whole being 
lie boomed aloud, "Women, women of Karazan!" He rode 
madly through the entire city driving them like frightened 

sheep before the lash of his whip. Into the market place he 
drove them, and from the height of his mount, he looked 
down at their frightened little faces, into their pitiful, mean 
souls. And he laughed at them, peals of ironic laughter. 
They shuddered. 

"So you thought you could lie to me!" he cried "Lie to 
me! Lie to my God! Idiots!" he raged. "Worse than ani- 
mals!" His eyes were like the burning intensity of the sun 
now, not the soft blue of the sky. Queer, they had never 
noticed that his face was hard and bony before. On and on 
he raged, scattering bombs of scorn into their midst, terri ly- 
ing them with his terrific explanation of God's justice. Fin- 
ally he stopped. There was an intense silence. "Well," 
he said in a tired voice, "what are you going to do about it?" 
The women gazed at each other with frightened eyes. One 
of their number was approaching Marco Polo. What was 
she going to do? Slowly she knelt and removed her trinkets, 
her precious jewels, and her gay shawls, casting them in a 
heap at his feet. Then she touched her white forehead to the 
dust and walked away. Swiftly they followed her example 
until not a woman was left of the great multitude that 
Marco Polo had addressed. 

Marco Polo looked about him. Heaped up at his feet 
was a high mound of precious stones whose value it was al- 
most impossible to calculate. There were gold and silver and 
ivory and rich cloths. Many thousand times more wealth 
than the great khan Kublai had asked him to obtain! And 
Marco Polo prayed. 

Kublai-khan gave a great banquet for Marco Polo at 
the end of which he made a long speech thanking the young- 
Venetian for his services and complimenting him upon his 
business ability. Then he conferred upon him a position of 
high honor in the court and there was great applause and 



36 The Smith College Monthly 

cheering. Just as Kublai-khan was about to sit down once 
more and conclude the ceremony in honor of bis new young 
officer, Marco Polo whispered something in his ear and 
blushed violently. Kublai-khan looked around tbe court 
humorously. 

"Marco Polo asks us not to forget the women of Kar- 
azan whom he converted to the Christian faith," he said. 
And the whole court laughed. 



TO . 

Anne Morrow 

She pondered still the earth, each passing mood, 
Each hour, long known to her was wondrous yet 
Who counted all the shreds of loveliness; 
The slippery gloss of lilac-leaves, rain-wet : 
And, silken soft to touch, the inside coat 
Of chestnut burs; velvet of rain-soaked bark; 
Winged seeds of maple, twirling; and the still 
Magnolia blossoms, moon- bright in the dark. 
These things she pondered as a lover might 
Finding all beauty tremulously caught 
In some slight gesture, dear beyond belief: 
A tilt of head; a brow puckered in thought; 
A way of pushing back a lock of hair 
Carelessly, so, to leave a temple bare. 



The Smith College Monthly BT 



WHY COLLEGE? 



i 



N the good old days of cravats and bustles, the selected 

"Few and far between" enjoyed the privilege of a col- 
lege education. We presume that they were serious 
young men and women (that is, if we trust the veracityofour 

elders and betters), who entered the portals of institutions 
for higher learning to make something of themselves. I \sually 
that something evolved itself into a professional career or else 
into leadership in the walk of life to which the individual re- 
turned. In other words colleges were started with the hope 
and desire of developing successful people. The ideal of su- 
periority at once became the indelible stamp on these institu- 
tions; hardly the "holier than thou" preeminence (for he who 
has experienced the rebuff's of the world at large has earned 
a higher place which is apt to be overlooked) ; but rather the 
superiority which the added privilege of a college education 
should foster. Thus college education became a desired fam- 
ily tradition to start and to maintain. 

In this country, at any rate, the well known war-cry is 
being echoed and reechoed that sons and daughters are liter- 
ally shipped off' to college because it is "the thing to do". 
Further: What has become of the idea of superiority? Is its 
essence gone? Are the ambitions of leadership, culture, re- 
finement, et cetera, merely sounding brass and clanging 
cymbals? Such pessimism seems to me utterly ridiculous. 
Surely the student who has been able to get into college is 
clever enough to imbibe something from a college experience, 
no matter how short his career is. What is more, were the 
good not overbalancing the unfortunate impressions, the 
leaders in the academic world would give up teaching as a 
bad job and there would soon be a scarcity of institutions for 
higher learning. 

Perhaps general justifications for college do not satisfy 
Mrs. Grundys and they hunger for the old out worn specific 
reasons. Everyone knows that many or most courses are valu- 
able in themselves or else thev would not be given. For some. 












38 The Smith College Monthly 

particular studies may mean the foundation of their future 
profession. In certain classrooms, of course, material goes in 
one ear of a bored student and comes out the other. Yet even 
the despiser of Latin can't help pricking up his ears occa- 
sionally at a classical allusion; and the detester of mathema- 
tics is apt to let a few moments of absorption slip by un wares 
and in spite of himself. Thus balancing interests against un- 
fruitful tediousness, the student begins to pick and choose 
according to his tastes; in short he begins to get the spirit of 
education, for his powers of discrimination are being devel- 
oped. Nor does it take long before this discovery of personal 
interests enriches his personality, he grows up and becomes 
capable of adjusting himself more easily and effectively to his 
surroundings. 

Some Delphic oracle utters the trite remark that to have 
a well-rounded personality, which means to be a successful 
social being, book learning is not the only essential. There- 
fore athletics, concerts, lectures, dramatics are available. The 
more originally minded take such things for granted without 
(saying anything about them, as they accept the fact that 
association with others for the purpose of learning how to get 
along is a first class reason for the existence of college. 

But justification for college is nothing by itself. The 
next question naturally is, "What, if anything, does a college 
experience net to the individual and to society?" Onlookers 
have been shocked and horrified at student suicides and have 
immediately jumped to the conclusion that too much knowl- 
edge is a bad thing. In the first place the student suicide sen- 
sation makes excellent front page material. Secondly, the 
cases are isolated and are found only among the neurotic or 
psychotic. Such alarms are no excuses for casting aspersions 
on college. Knowledge does not bring about results which are 
one hundred per cent satisfactory and a price has to be paid 
for everything. The human animal has always looked ahead 
and has the competitive urge to get there ; so if an individual 
winces at cost of progress, he is exhibiting poor sportsman- 
ship and should be eliminated by the law of "The Survival 
of the Fittest." 

A good college education seems to develop the capacity 
for a relatively successful adjustment to the environment in 
which the student finds himself after he leaves college. He 



The Smith College Monthly B9 

often is more active in the community than the general run 
of non-college individuals. II' he is heartily disgruntled 
with the aftermath and is overwhelmed by hopelessness, the 
fault lies not in the educational stimuli he received, rather in 

his carelessness which lead him to cat only a few of the good 
apples and to Id the others rot on the ground. However, 
he has derived some benefit, and if he is a normal person, lie 
will soon discover his own newly acquired resources and his 

miserable dissatisfaction may he the material which will fill 
out a tiny chink in his section of the globe. 

Adjustments are indeed facilitated if the classroom is 
more than a dungeon where a daily recitation must he given. 
Yet I have assumed that the student has become discrimin- 
ating through experience; therefore the classroom cannot be 
such a place. If the individual cannot derive some interest 
from his work, college is no place for him; and he or his 
parents made an unhappy faux pas in the beginning. Fur- 
thermore, outside activities are in general more than a mo- 
mentary diversion, and in the impression they leave lies their 
usefulness. If associations are to be helpful agents they 
cannot be mere fleeting pleasures. Society needs easily 
adaptable individuals and individuals are happiest if they 
have learned to get along; on the other hand, gradual 
changes are necessary since the human animal is looking 
ahead. It seems to me that a college education can enable 
the well-balanced person to move along with the herd, di- 
verging just enough to bring about a definite forward step. 

A college training can endow the student with the 
material by which he can understand causes and line them 
up accordingly; thence education can go further and give 
the individual a vision whereby he can appreciate the effects 
which naturally proceed from a given situation. To bring 
about such a turn of mind the imagination (possibly a latent 
one) is stimulated, and the student learns how to put him- 
self and the situation at hand into just relation so that he 
can survey the whole field. With such objective thinking, 
the best solution can be worked out. Then too, since in most 
instances the individual is not isolated, he discovers that the 
best solution involves the necessity of looking at the question 
from the other fellow's point of view. Infinite tact, which 
naturally comes through sensitiveness to the feelings of his 



40 The Smith College Monthly 

fellow-men, is needed. Finally with this capacity to gauge 
cause and effect he can bring about a change with the least 
possible suffering. 

Last of all, what lies behind deeisions after the causes 
are understood and the effects are foreseen? A capacity 
which college has developed for the successful student, and 
this capacity is to pass judgments according to two working 
hypotheses, values which almost defy definition. They exist 
because every animal, the human animal included, desires 
comfort primarily; and because society, which is an aggre- 
gate of human animals, naturally works toward comfort also. 
One value is the inner peace of the individual. Nobody fails 
to appreciate the moment when he is at one with himself and 
his surroundings; therefore what is meant by inner peace 
need hardly be explained. The other value is the stability 
of society. Again, it does not take a great deal of cerebral 
power to know whether or not the environment is in a tangle. 
In short, with these criteria working together, social prog- 
ress, for which fundamental reason college exists, is being 
realized. 



PIERROT 

Elizabeth Wilder 

His face 

Is open as a flower, 
But Pierrot pretends 
It is a mask. 



The Smith College Monthly 



H 



PROTECTION 

Anne L. Basingeb 



I LUTE throbbed sweetly, oppressively in the silence. 
HI Tapers like little blades of light pricked through the 

Slgfl darkness of a chamber all lined with sleek silks and 
tapestries, which candelabra and the great Bible made mock- 
religious. In the gloom, three girls with golden hair sat 
making laee. and two tiny boys like cherubs played with a 
golden ball. And everything was sweet; sweet and soft and 
shapeless like a formless dream-thing which comes to suffo- 
cate yon. The very sky, giver of life to artists and prisoners 
alike, was shut off by a window of holy stained glass that 
tortured sunshine with its colours. And here sat a woman 
indescribably beautiful, mysteriously, inscrutably passive. 

She was a tigress entrapped. If she did not move, it 
was because there was no place to move; and she was afraid 
to attract the puerile prattle of her five attendants. En- 
tangled, as it were, in a spider's-web of her own weaving, 
she held herself rigidly motionless, with the desperation of 
the condemned in her heart. 

She was a daughter of a lord of old Italy; she was of 
the stock of men who burned their way through life like pas- 
sionate brands, magnificent, deadly, consumed and consum- 
ing by the ardor of their living; men to whom danger was 
the breath of their nostrils, and beauty the food of their 
souls ; men who would rather go out in a blaze than fade into 
feeble wisps like these same tapers in the candelabra. No, 
they were eagles soaring in the vivid sky; and the sun fledged 
their wings with gold. The sons they bred consumed them 
mercilessly; but they w r ere glad to have given birth to those 
who were no weaklings; and though their daughters refined 
their lives to a more exquisite art, they were no less passion- 
ate than the men. This, then, was her heritage. And the 
present ? 

There had come to her father's house a nobleman with 
strangely pale face and glowing eyes, who had fascinated 
her for a while. He had married her; and at their marriage 



42 The Smith College Monthly 

the world knew that two of the most illustrious houses of 
Italy were uniting-. His power and his fascination had won 
her approbation; but now only the former remained. For 
the rest — she discovered in him the traits of a recluse, a 
scholar, and an idealist. Water took the place of hot blood 
in his body, and a dream dwelt in his eye rather than the 
smouldering ambition of her own kind. These things she 
might have endured- -but he was also, it seemed, a tyrant 
of sorts. He tyrannized her by his idealizing. To him she 
had become the Virgin and all the saints — a sacred object 
added to his collection of curiosities; and at the same time a 
model for his painting. He saw her objectively as a picture; 
and he built up about her a frame- work which he considered 
worthy — the silken room where she sat. The realities of her 
turbulent Italy were kept from her by curtains and stained 
glass, because purity was the key-note of his conception of 
her. A braver man might have seen that she was different 
from this. Her father would have had her mother poisoned 
long since for such slights ?s she had given her husband. It 
was useless ; for the admiring blind fool would not see a fault 
in her. His standards for her were as high as the heavens; 
and as if by instinct he seemed to protect himself by saying, 
"It is impossible for her to fall short of these standards." 

While she sat thus^ there came into the room and crawled 
to her feet an ill-favoured dwarf whose hunch-back and hair- 
lip, as well as the peculiarly venomous leer which a cut gave 
to his features, terrified the three maids and the two little 
boys. As if in panic they shrank back and arose to their feet; 
then, at a nod from the lady, they ran from the room. 

Left to the company of this dwarf, the woman brooded 
long, her chin cupped in her palm; and her eyes studied the 
servant intently. He was her favorite, brought with her from 
her father's house; a creature of infinite cunning and malice 
set off by a certain loyalty. At last, "Look you," she said. 
"Are you of a mind to risk your neck for me?" 

He nodded eagerly, and hitched nearer to her, his eyes 
shining. 

"Take this," she said, dropping a silken purse into his 
paw. "Go to my mother. Say, the slow poison which goes with 
wine — ruby in colour; you know? Bring it with all speed. 
See that it finds its way to my lord's lips. . ." For another 



The Smith College Monthly 16 

moment she mused, and then added dreamily, "If by chance 
it fails its purpose, at least let it he known that I prompted 
the attempt. Now go, quick." 

And as he slid away behind a tapestry, she murmured, 
"1 am fed up with soft foods starved for harsh spices. Dan- 
ger only will satisfy my palate." 

So she waited, this beautiful woman; and presently tin 
door was opened to admit her husband and two attendants. 
bearing his implements of painting. Thus began the daily 
routine of posing for him; and she had to hear his glowing 
dark eyes worshiping her from across the room. To give him 
light, a tapestry was moved from before a hidden window, 
this was opened, and a shaft of the free day-light fell upon 
his canvas. She watched it hungrily. If only the lute had 
eeased to sound, she might have been happy; hut this music 
he ordered to accompany her everywhere to fit his ideal. 

That night as she prepared to go to her bed, there came 
a rustling at a curtain, and a hideous shadow appeared for 
a moment to wave something at her. So she knew certainly 
that her plans were going well. 

But then next day there was waiting without word. All 
day the simple pages and the three girls pursued their games; 
all day she sat before her stained glass window and thought. 
The lute sobhed in the stillness; and the hidden window was 
.not once opened, for her husband did not come. But this 
signified nothing; he often failed to paint her, when the books 
in the library held him too engrossed. Once, to be sure, the 
door was opened, and he appeared without a word, tired and 
white, to dwell upon her with his great eyes. When she had 
rested him, he went away again, leaving her to the monotony 
of peace. 

That night she sat with but a single taper, listening for 
a. foot-step till her ears ached. She had dismissed her five. 
The wind arose without the palace and wailed at her case- 
ment; and from somewhere a draught ran under the tapest- 
ries and made them billow and fall, and the candle flicker, so 
that everywhere weird shadows chased themselves around 
her. But she was of a fearless people; and she never moved 
from that terrifying room. Then came a shuffle, and the 
dwarf darted to her side, trembling. With his ugly face raised 
to her ear, he told her his tale in a word: "Failed; and my 



The Smith College Monthly 

lord knoweth!" Then, in a convulsion of terror he fled from 
her presence, and disappeared; and a long minute afterwards 
she wondered at a scream, not of the wind, muffled in the 
distance of the palace. The tapestries billowed, and her candle 
flickered helplessly, at the mercy of the tremendous draught, 
brave rag of fire too small to he safe there. The wax in which 
the wick lay imprisoned was not inflammable; that was the 
trouble. In her brain the word "failed" echoed and reechoed, 
setting the blood to throbbing in her temple. The picture of 
her husband at his dinner, putting the wine to his lips, per- 
haps ; then drawing it back quickly, then sniffing it, and pour- 
ing it out to the last drop upon the floor; this picture sat 
back of her eyes like a vision; and she strained to see what 
happened next, when he heard her accused. But the wind 
swept thought away; and only the word "Failed" remained, 
telling her that she had begun the close of her drama; and 
that whatever her husband did now would be final and irrevo- 
cable. 

She did not know when he entered. Suddenly she saw 
him there in the dark, beside the tapestry, his thin white face 
glimmering in the candle-light, his inscrutable eyes like black 
surfaces fixed upon her. She did not start ; it was too oppres- 
sively still. There went no word between them ; but suddenly 
his eyes became black pits of fury, and he clenched his slender 
hands like claws. He was speaking, stammering, pouring a 
torrent of words forth to the empty air, scarcely seeing her 
in his passion. 

"Have I lived to paint a hundred pictures and to solve 
the secrets of antiquity, and then to meet defeat by this? I 
am no weakling. I have never tried anything without success. 
Is it poison? I have studied that art all my life. The poison 
that lurks in a man's veins for years, to kill him inevitably 
in the end. The quick poison that leaves him a scaly corpse 
the instant that it touches his skin. The poison that is a jewel 
of beauty; the poison that dyes clothes; poison is an art that 
I have studied — and conquered. It is not worth while. Fight- 
ing? That, too, can I do. Plotting? Usurping a throne? Mur- 
dering? Or studying a language forgotten to have existed? 
Or parsing this word, that phrase? Or mastering the theories 
of perspective? Or painting a little child? I have never failed 
at anything, and I will not fail now. They would destroy you. 



The Smith College Monthly 15 

my living picture. . ." For a moment he spend his arms wide, 
embracing the room and herself. "They think thai they will 
ruin you. 1 will not let them!" lie came closer, scanning her. 

"Or is it that you are tired of playing Virgin, you child of a 
tyrant, that I have made my slave? Do you wish your free- 
dom again?" lie studied her absorbedly. "I have resolved to 
keep you Tor my favorite picture," he explained almost cour- 
teously. "I am sorry; you cannot have that. Yes, 1 sec; you 
wish freedom." Suddenly he clapped his hands to his ears. 
"But 1 will not remember that. I love you as a picture my 
priceless beauty; and you must stay in the frame." 

She winced. She had not seen this in his character; she 
had not realized the extent of his tyranny or the nature of 
his pride. He too, was a brand, a destructive son of old Italy. 
No. he was a wind, blowing her flame like this candle. 

"Kill me," she flared, half in invitation, half in pleading. 

"No," he answered. 

"I tried to poison you," she cried. 

He smiled. "I will solder the hinges of your doors, and 
bar your windows," he said. "You will have no other com- 
panions but children; the most beautiful children in Italy. 
You will be utterly pure. I shall visit you as before; and I 
alone." 

"Have mercy," she sobbed. 

"I must succeed," he said quietlv. "You shall be per- 
fect," 

The door shut behind him. 



EPITAPH 
Prisciixa Faiechild 

Here in this crystal bowl 
Wine ran too fleetly. 

Dust now the heavy hair 
Once perfumed sweetly. 

Leave these long silver hands 

Emptily snatching. 
Hate and desire are gone 

Far from all catching:. 



46 The Smith College Monthly 

THE FLUTE FLAYER 
Mary Arnott 



HI SOX was horn in the great temple to the only daugh- 
ter of the seventh high priest — and he was white. The 

| conclave of priests, gathered at the high altar to thank 
the god for the first-born, trembled and called the baby an 
omen of the wrath of the gods, for there was no record, even 
in the oldest archives of the tribe, of a white skin being born 
into their beautiful bronze colored tribe. Some demanded that 
he be sacrificed at once to the great stone god who squatted 
deep behind the pillars in the innermost temple. But the high 
priest, a very old, wise man, reminded them that the boy was 
of the tribe's only family of flute players, and some day he 
must put on the robes of his grandfather, the seventh high 
priest, and play the flute at the great sacrifices. So the priests 
blessed the first-born and he was left in peace. 

Naomi, the mother, grieved over her little white son. 
"I shall place thee always in the light of the sun that shines 
in the temple gardens and thou shalt grow brown as the high 
priest himself," she whispered in his tiny ear, "Thou shalt 
become as other men." But in another way the baby was not 
to be as other men, for while she was playing with him in the 
garden, Naomi discovered that he was deaf — so deaf that 
not even two stones clapped close to his ear could rouse him. 
She ran to her father, and threw herself at his feet, imploring 
his help. They must hide this second curse. The high priest 
would sacrifice the baby instantly, if he knew that he could 
never play the flute. Her father sent back to her husband 
the marriage veil of the temple, thus signifying her desire 
for freedom, and she withdrew from the world with her little 
son, spending her days in two secluded rooms of her father's 
suite in the great temple, one looking down upon the market 
place, the other into the gardens of the temple. Thus they 
two could see the world but the world could not see them. 

The boy grew in body under his mother's care, and in 
mind under the instruction of his grandfather. He learned to 
read and write the ancient language of the priests, but he 



The Smith College Monthly 47 

could no! speak because he could no! hear speech. Often he 
peered into the market place, or watched the boys al play in 
the temple gardens, yel he did no! wish to be of them. No one 
had ever told him that he was cursed, so he believed himself 
blessed, set apart from the common tribe of brown-skins. 
Thus he lived until his tenth year. 

It was on the feast of the sacrifice of the seven maidens, 
in his tenth year, that he first saw the great silver flute of his 
family. Other flutes had he seen in his grandfather's hands. 
and disregarded, hut this he seized eagerly. He put it to his 
mouth, and low sounds came forth, mounting higher and 
higher and falling again, sounds more beautiful than any the 
grandfather had ever heard even in the days of his grand- 
father, who had been the best flute player of many genera- 
tions. The grandfather was amazed, and wrote upon the wax 
table to ask the boy if he knew what he was doing. And the 
boy wrote, "I hear no sound, at least I think it not sound 
from that which you have written me of sound. But it is as 
though something that has been running in my veins for 
many years demands to flow into this thing you call the flute. 
I shall play it always." And Naomi and the seventh high 
priest thanked the great stone god who in his wisdom had 
honored their son with none but the greatest gift of all. 

The feast of the sacrifice of the seven maidens came 
again in the boy's fifteenth year — the year of every boy's 
presentation to the tribe. The seventh high priest clothed his 
grandson in his robes and gave to him the silver flute. On 
the dav of the great sacrifice, the bov stood at the altar of 
the great stone god and played the Song of Death as it had 
never been played before in all that land, so that the seven 
maidens heeded not the flames, even as they jumped into the 
fiery belly of the god, but listened to the song. 

As the last note died aw r ay, the grandfather came forth 
and told the tribe the story of the boy. They acclaimed him 
as favored of the god, and bowed down in reverence. 

The boy came, in this way, to his place in the tribe. He 
was in the tribe, but not of the tribe, only one of its idols. At 
first, his position pleased him and he was very happy, because 
he had always prized his skin above that of the brown- 
skinned race, and his deafness had never troubled him. When, 
however, Anitra, the daughter of the high priest, fled from 



48 The Smith College Monthly 

his at tempts to make love to her, and the brown-skinned, 
sharp-eared son of Anna, Naomi's cousin, won her, he under- 
stood that the tribe did not welcome him as of themselves, 
hut only as a flute player. lie was unhappy and wrote to his 
mother: "Would that I had the skin and ears of other men. 
Then would I be like them, yet greater than any of them, foi 
I have the gift of the flute." Naomi only smiled, for the years 
had brought her wisdom and she was well satisfied with her 
son. 

The boy began to pray continuously at the altar of the 
great stone god, even far into the night, and his prayers were 
always for the two things that would make him as other men. 

A season came when no rain fell ; the sun shone fiercely, 
and men perished even as the locusts. The boy, now become 
man, sat in his mother's rooms, with the silver screens drawn 
and played the flute. And while he was dreaming there one 
day, the great stone god suddenly appeared to him and said, 
"If thou desirest still thy two gifts, go thou to the road be- 
yond the city gate, and lie in the dust. Thy prayers will be 
granted." 

The boy went at once to the road beyond the city gate, 
and lay down in the dust. The sun beat upon him, and he 
swooned. When he awoke, he felt the hands of people on his 
body and he saw a group of men standing about him in won- 
der, Strange sounds came to him from their mouths; noises 
from all about beat upon his ears. He knew that he was no 
longer deaf. He looked at his arms and saw that they were 
brown as those of the men about him. He knew that he was 
no longer white. Falling upon his knees, he thanked the stone 
god silently, for he knew not how to speak or understand 
the language of the people, although he could hear it now. 

Then he rose and went into the city to the temple, and 
the people knew him not, for he had lost the whiteness of his 
skin. And he came to his mother, and she knew him. But she 
screamed and cried, "My son, my son, what hast thou done?" 
He understood her meaning, and pointed at his skin and ears 
and tried to say, "Mother I am become as other men." But 
she would have none of him, but screamed and beat upon her 
breast. He went to his grandfather and wrote for him the 
story of the miracle, but his grandfather only shook in his 
old limbs, and wailed pitifully, and would not look at him. 



The Smith College Monthly !!• 

lie win I to the altar <>f the greal stone god. The fire in 
its belly flared forth and threatened to devour him. Th< 
priests knew him not, and drove him away with stones. He 
ilnl to his flute, saying "1 have become one of them, and they 
know me not. Yet will 1 show them how gifted I am abovt 
all of them, Tor 1 have whal they have, yrt much more." Bui 
when he put the flute to his lips, the sounds of all the world 
rang in his ears, and he e:>uld plav only discords. 



THE FOURTH DRV CISTERN 
Rachel Grant 

The village is anxious — 

On the moon-washed roofs 

Old men 

Bargain with God for rain, 

Down in the streets 

The children dance in wavering circles, 

Their thin chant wailing oyer the half-tones; 

Ivarimeh presses the cock under her arm. 

It croaks thirstily. 

Perhaps God will hear — and send rain 

To the sinless one. 



50 The Smith College Monthly 

FOREIGN RELATIONS 

M. KlTTREDGE SPENCER 



I REMEMBER I had been left at home alone to look 
after the child — Bebe, as she was called, — while her 
parents, the Professor and Madame Romaine, took 
tea at the Embassy. While I had never had much previous 
experience in handling children, being at this time an un- 
married gentleman of twenty- four, I had no fear of the after- 
noon; for the child, though only two years old and diminutive 
at that, seemed a docile child, with a sweet and sprightly 
mingling of her French and English parents in her manifold 
actions and her few words. So it was that I settled myself in 
a canvas deck chair in the garden, book in hand, anticipating 
a nice lazy afternoon. 

The book had grown interesting. I had forgotten the 
child. On a sudden came rude awakening in the shape of a 
crab-apple; one of the greenest, hardest kind which live but 
to fall from their bough and lie half hidden in the grass under 
the parent tree, a snare for weak ankles and falling arches. 
Such an apple I suddenly felt strike my head sharply. 

"Bebe!" I cried, startled and a bit annoyed by the blow. 

"Bon zoor," came a cheery, burring little voice from be- 
hind my chair, and Bebe presented herself to me with all her 
dimpled smile in evidence, her short red-gold hair ruffled 
warmly. I lost my wrath. I harked back to my text-book days 
for the child's convenience ; she spoke no English, you under- 
stand. 

"Ou est la pomme, Bebe?" Luckily this very phrase had 
been in my grammar book. I blessed the text which I had 
always cursed as useless. 

"Void la pomme!" said the little one blithely. This time 
the apple only hit me in the forehead which. I believe, is a 
supposedly impregnable and nerveless spot. I summoned a 
smile which, I fear, must have resembled that of the witch as 
she lured the little boys and girls nearer and nearer her see- 
thing cauldron. 



The Smith College Monthly 5 1 

"Donnez-moi la pomme, Bebe!" Another phrase happily 
straight from the grammar. Alas, however, the astute little 
one was my superior in language; perhaps she was already 
taking after her professor father. 

"Donne-moi la pomme!" she piped chirped oh, what 
word can express her blithe tone as she raised her little arm 
and hurled yet another apple toward my unoffending head. 
As it caught me on the point of the chin the reason for the 
child's correction flashed from my text-hook memory: "Us< 
the singular of verbs when speaking to children and animals." 
I low much, I thought bitterly, later experience helps us 
interpret what we learned in school. "Children and ani- 
mals—" 

"Bebe," said I rising. "Donne-moi les pommes!" I had 
seen that the pocket of her little French pinny was serving as 
a reservoir for the hellish missiles. I stepped toward the little 
one. 

"Bon zoor!" said she and skipped nimbly away from my 
out-stretched arms. Under the trees she ran agilely, while I 
lumbered after, ducking under branches to right and left. 
The intelligent little creature seemed to know that we were in 
the midst of a game for. stopping short, she held out an apple 
toward me. 

"Voici!" said she and as I lunged for it she skipped un- 
der some bush or other — or perhaps into a crack in the gar- 
den wall for all I could see of her — with a "Bon zoor!" in 
merry accents. 

"Bebe!" I cried, and there was a note of desperation in 
my voice, "Bebe, venezvous — no. no! — oh. hell!" cried I, for- 
getting myself, the large-cared little pitcher and my French 
in one stroke, "Oh, hell, Bebe. come here!" The force I eject- 
ed into these words was due partly to pure exasperation, 
partly to the ever-prevalent belief that any language spoken 
loudly enough can be understood. Like a small shot Bebe 
threw herself out from under a particularly small bush and 
came dancing to my knee. "She understands my English!" 
I thought warmly to myself. 

But then my warmth disappeared and I watched the 
phenomenon which was taking place before my intrigued 
eyes. The mouth of the little creature was in the process of 
opening wider and more wide. I marvelled that the rosebud 



52 The Smith College Monthly 

lips of babyhood could stretch to such a gigantic degree. And 
then, as they had reached their apparent limit, and the child's 
few teeth were standing forth plainly revealed in the great 
surrounding area of pink gum, she flung hack her head, and 
in a shout from which all sweet cadences of babyhood had 
disappeared, echoed my own perfidious words. 

"Oh hell!" said she in praise-worthy English, "come 
here!" 

And it was just then of course that the professor and 
.Madame opened the garden gate and came in. 



MAGNOLIA TREE AT NIGHT 
Anne Morrow 

A flock of silver birds upon 

This tree alight — 

I dare not stir lest there should sound 

Across still night 

The sudden fluttering of wings 

In silver flight. 



The Smith College Monthly 58 

NEW EASTEB BONNETS 

Ernestine Gilbreth 



I "IT was a warm Sunday morning. Outside the leaves 
were .just bursting into bud, and the lilac bush grow- 

S8SS1 int»; iu I lu hack-yard was bumping hack and forth in 
the light breeze. We were getting into the stiff white pi- 
quees thai Grandma had scut from California and .Jane. 
the eldest by three years, was tying my hair-ribbon and 
scolding Harriet for being so slow in dressing. 

Harriet paid no attention at all. As for me — my eyes 
were glued on a nearby shelf, for I could just see the edges 
of our new Easter bonnets, stiff and beautiful in their glory 
of white silk and clumps of forget-me-nots. 

"1 bet you nobody's going to even notice my freckles," 
I said to Jane— "leastways I shouldn't think they would, 
with such a pretty hat. "And I guess maybe I'd better put 
on my little blue apron too," I went on a minute later. "You 
see I want to have my dress awful clean so I'll be sure to 
look nice at Sunday School this afternoon." I was pulling 
up my white ribbed stockings as I talked, looking at Jane 
for approval. Jane's approval always meant a great deal. 

"Yes, I guess you'd better." said Jane. "You're al- 
ways spilling thjngs, aren't you. I think I used to when I 
was your age." 

"Well, nobody's going to make me put on my apron," 
said Harriet. "I guess it's Sunday, and I guess I don't 
care if I do spill things. It's my dress, isn't it. C'mon to 
dinner though. The bell's ringing, and you know we 
mustn't be late on Sundays!" 

Sunday dinner was always a large and dignified affair 
with Grandma presiding at the head of the table, and Fath- 
er asking us about our lessons and conduct for the past week. 
I wore my blue apron to the table in spite of protests and a 
look of keen disapproval from Harriet. Mother was evi- 
dently quite pleased by my efforts to look neat, but she 
onlv smiled at me from her side of the table. 




54 



The Smith College Monthly 



After dinner we fairly tumbled upstairs. Jane climbed 
up on a large wicker chair and handed down our bonnets 
from the high shelf. "They're really very nice," she said, 
stroking a bunch of forget-me-nots. "I am sure all the girls 
will be jealous." 

"Urn— my flowers look so real I do believe I can smell 
them,' 1 Harriet was shrieking. 

I said nothing, but holding mv hat very carefully in- 
deed, tiptoed out of the room. I stood before the mirror in 
the play-room for some time, feeling almost stifled with pride 
and happiness. Later, when I felt that I had discovered the 
most becoming angle, I gave myself final inspection, tugging 
up my stockings and fastening them securely, and making 
sure that my white silk gloves were still pure and spotless. 
My heart was pounding so loudly that it worried me, and 1 
wondered whether the Lord might not punish me for being 
so vain. But I little guessed what was to follow. 

Then I heard Mother calling from the direction of the 
front hall, 'Your coat's down here waiting, dear. You'd 
better hurry. Jane and Harriet have started already!" 

I ran downstairs, hustled into my blue serge coat, and 
almost snatched the money for collection from Mother. It 
would never do to be late to Sunday School! 

A few minutes later I caught sight of Jane disappear- 
ing into the door of the Sunday School. Harriet was drag- 
ging behind, looking quite woe-begone. "She ran ahead. She 
said she wanted to show her hat first. I decided to wait for 
you." Tears were behind Harriet's gold-rimmed glasses. 

"I think you look real nice," I said comfortingly. "I'm 
sure people will think we're pretty — but then I guess any- 
one would look pretty in such nice new hats." 

"Well maybe — "Harriet said doubtfully. 

Xow we had reached the dressing room, and soon we 
were wriggling out of our coats and hanging them up on 
pegs. But we refused to remove our hats in spite of the pro- 
tests of the superintendent. Jane finally came to our aid 
and spoke a few decisive words. "Why, of course people 
won't see them unless we wear them!" 

"Very well," said the superintendent wearily. "Have 
vour way! You children certainly know what you want." 



The Smith College Monthly 55 

"Well, it's Sunday!" 1 said, changing the subjed in 
my usual rapid way. "Besides, I guess maybe God would 
like us to keep them on." 

We filed silently, and with much dignity into the larg 
Sunday School room. .Jane, after plumping Harriet and 
me down in the front row, was captured and borne away by 
a group of admiring friends. I wished thai Jane's friends 
would not always admire. No one ever admired Harriel 
and me. 1 jerked my hat straight and reached for a prayer 
hook. 

The service began with Onward Christian Soldiers. I 
remember that it seemed especially beautiful that day hut 
what does not seem beautiful when one is surrounded by a 
halo of white silk and forget-me-nots! Harriet was singing 
slightly off' tune, oblivious of everything. Now the prayer 
w as beginning. I was afterwards to shiver with horror every 
time I thought of that prayer. 

I clasped my hands together and gazed about me. Har- 
riet, on my left, was now praying very loudly and distinctly, 
her eyes and little freckled nose all screwed up together. My 
eyes wandered to her hat. Oh it was so pretty! Jane and 
Harriet and I all had them just alike! How proud Mother 
must be of her three little girls. 

Then I heard a titter behind me, and felt a distinct 
pinch right above my ankle. Something under my chair was 
scraping. My eyes snapped open, and looking down, 1 dis- 
covered Jane sprawled on the floor beneath me, muttering 
and gesticulating violently. "Your blue apron! You've still 
got it on. All my friends are laughing at you. I crawled 
all the way up here to tell you to take it off." 

I looked quickly behind me, and saw some girls a few 
rows back staring at me, their hands clapped to their 
mouths. "Look's just like a French chef, doesn't she!" a 
boy nearby was whispering. Suddenly I felt very weak, and 
I looked clown toward Jane again. The floor gleamed yel- 
low and polished,— but Jane was nowhere to be seen. 

The minister was still praying, his hands folded neatly 
together. "Oh, Heavenly Father — we thank Thee that— ' I 
punched Harriet rapidly, "Why didn't you tell me I had 
mv blue apron on! Everybody's laughing. You must 
have—" 



56 The Smith College Monthly 

"No, I didn't sec it. You know I never can see very 
well." 

"Well Jane did, anyway. She crawled way up from 
the last row to tell me about it. She says her friends think 
I am funny. Oh I hate Jane! I just hate her. I hate you 
too. You should have paid attention and told me." I was 
jerking off the apron, struggling to keep back loud sobs. 

Suddenly my Easter hat seemed insufferable too. I 
pulled it off and slammed it against the apron. Then I 
stood up, placed both hat and apron on my chair, and sat 
down again as hard as I could. The prayer was just coming 
to a close. 

"Now," said Harriet suddenly. "Where's your hat 
gone?" 

"It flew away and I'm sitting on it. I like to sit on it 
too! I hate it along with the blue apron and you and Jane." 

Harriet peered through her glasses. "All you are is a 
bad girl. You wear an apron to Sunday School and you 
spoil your new hat!" 

"I wore my apron on purpose," I whispered hoarsely. 
"I wanted to make fun and have people laugh at me. That 
shows I'm funny. Besides, if I want a new hat I guess I 
can get one easy enough!" 

"I'm going right home and tell Mother." 

"I wish you would!" 

Children on all sides of* us were starting to get up. Har- 
riet pushed her hat down over her eyes, and ran clattering 
after Jane. "Now she's spoilt her new hat. She said she 
wanted to make more fun. I'm going to tell Mother." 

"Where's her hat?" asked Jane, looking very serious. 

"She's sitting on it — she says that makes a joke." 

"And I guess its a joke the way you crawled up under- 
neath all those seats and told everyone on the way," I was 
shouting. "I guess that was funny. I guess Mother 'd like 
to have you crawling all through the prayer." 

"Everybody's laughing at you," said Jane. "I don't 
wonder, because it was funny. I told them while I was 
crawling up — and maybe that wasn't some long trip too! 
How did the o-irls like vour hat Harriet? Thev were crazv 
about mine." 



The Smith College Monthly 



57 



"Well. 1 jusl hate them." I said. I think they look 
funny. That's why 1 spoil! mine. The forget-me-nots 
weren't real anyway." 

Jane pushed my blue serge coal toward me. "Well 
never mind. I lurry now. If we get home late you know 
I'll get the Maine. I always do because I'm the oldest. And 
you'd better bring your blue apron too. You might wanl 
it lor a souvenir." 

For the first time words ('ailed me. I stood still on tin 
pavement fingering my crumpled hat, and watching Jan< 
and Harriet skipping ahead. Then I turned slowly and 
started for home. 



58 



The Smith College Monthly 




EDITORIAL 




ON A CERTAIN LACK OF MORALE 

Editor's note:— The Editor wishes to explain, in defense of her own modesty, 
that she is not the captain; that it would, indeed, be difficult to discover the cor- 
poreal personality of the captain, but that the link is considerably more visible. 



5vHE link — viz., that mysterious in-between, only less 
%■• mysterious than the further end of the ehain — spent 
a particularly hard day yesterday. It is his duty, as 
you know, to communicate the captain's pleasure; since he 
is an humble, dutiful, patient servant, he makes not the 
slightest fuss about the communication; but what does 
trouble his worthy, yet withal somewhat stupid head is the 
discovery of that pleasure. For the captain never tells him. 
Xo! no more than he tells anyone, outright, anything. Rath- 
er, does the captain stride magnificently about the restricted 
area of his crow's-nest, orating, muttering or rapt in silent 
contemplation as the mood suits; while the link, seated on 
the very threshold of the crow's-nest, his feet twined for po- 
tential safety in the rigging, attempts to divine, from ora- 
tion, muttering and contemplative silence, exactly what it is 
that wquld please the captain. And yesterday the captain 
was unusually incomprehensible, particularly volcanic. He 
began, addressing the expansive and lethargic blue: 

"Hang it, man, can't you do things with an air!" 
Whereupon the link, being as I said, somewhat dull, but on 
the whole good-hearted, understood mainly that the captain 
was upset; so, scanning the horizon in search of consolation, 
he offered: 

"Plittee hot I guess, may be bleeze up bye and bye". 

Xow be it known to the credit of the captain's good na- 
ture and great appreciation for the well-meaning, that he 
look no notice of this, but continued: 



The Smith College Monthly 59 

"Must you go driveling about, sneaking, sniveling; ears 
back, tail between your legs?" Abruptly the tirade ceased. 
Pleading began, incongruous, almosl pathetic to observe in 
the character of one used only to command. 

"Don't you see ;? You're really not so bad. You are 
after all rather more remarkable than ordinary. Now I am 
well aware of the fact that your ancestry, scientifically ex- 
humed, is being unshrouded before you in a manner no doubl 
unpleasant to the sensitive nostril. And yet it seems that 
the point must he amazingly elusive, or the scientists in- 
credible — perhaps slow at discovering it. For, with all due 
respects to a possible identification in the past, at present 
there would seem to exist an indubitable differentiation be- 
tween the species, man and monkey. A monkey, for instance, 
might or might not have caused more disturbance than a man 
at a recent Northampton demonstration. I$ut surely a 
monkey would not have behaved in precisely the same wax 
as that in which those men present did behave. And- " his 
voice wavered a little, he was being so earnest. It was truly 
pathetic. lie continued with an optimism worthy of Robert 
Browning: "1 believe that in spite of everything, nay, that 
by reason of everything there is hope for better things." 

The link had heen fidgeting most uneasily; he was used 
to emotional exhibitions on the part of the captain, yes, hut 
certainly not of this nature. Indeed the link was about to 
break into a whimper, when fortunately the captain picked 
up a book and began to read; cursorily at first, then with 
swift interest. That he had recovered a degree of self- 
possession was demonstrated in his next remark: "Ha!" he 
exclaimed in the direction of the link rhetorically, 

" 'Is it not pitiful? 
We are all actors and all audience.' " He even looked at the 
link with an air of flattering expectancy; hut the link was 
writing rapidly, quite engrossed. The captain for a few 
moments remained dangerously silent, gazing down upon the 
minute lolling figures on the deck : 

"Pitiful, yes; but only when the actors mumble, stutter, 
shamble about." Then, standing close to the link, the cap- 
tain said, very distinctly: "Tell them they are putting a show- 
on and the curtain is up." 



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The Smith College Monthly 



<;i 




BOOK REVIEWS 



"THE DECLINE OF THE WEST 

Oswald Spengi^er 




Through six years now the great controversy about 
Spengler has been raging, and as a consequence a whole 
Spengler literature has come into existence. His theory of 
history which he expounded in "The Decline of the West' 1 
has been dissected down to its very atoms by scholars in all 
the fields of knowledge, fiercely combatted, fiercely main- 
tained, and, as it seems, has divided at least Germany into 
two opposing camps, the Spenglerianer and the Anti-Speng- 
lerianer, and every sparrow on the roof has learned to 
whistle the name of Spengler. 

A short time ago I had the chance to .meet several Ger- 
man exchange students at a conference. Innocently enough 
I happened to ask whether they had heard of "The Decline 
of the West." At first they stared at me as if they doubted 
my sanity, but after a while they became convinced that out- 
side my astounding ignorance 1 was. so to speak, normal. And 
then I heard a faint echo of the commotion that had been 
created by the appearance of the book in Germany. "A 
great number of people committed suicide — especially art 
students, musicians — don't you see, he tore away the ground 
from under their feet — no person can create unless he has 
the feeling of the absolute — and here Spengler comes and 
tells them that they positively have exhausted all possibil- 
ities in art, tells them exactly at which stage of the decadence 
they are and seems to prove it, too. by an overwhelming ref- 
erence to perfectly dry and real facts. His system seems 
very convincing, but my dear, it is too fatalistic . . . . " An- 
other student was very simple and explicit in his comment: 
"This kind of philosophy is dangerous for the German peo- 




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This Book was 
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J§> IB 



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When in Springfield 
You will find 

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A most satisfying place for lunch or 
afternoon tea, where people of refine- 
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CHARLES HALL, Inc. 

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For the convenience of our 
Smith College Patronage we 
have opened a new shop at 

12 GREEN STREET 
NORTHAMPTON, MASS. 

I. MILLER 

BEAUTIFUL SHOES 



The Smith College Monthly 



03 



I have only talked 

books thai combat 



pie, the fatalism will paralyze them, and therefore 1 hate 

Spengler, I hate his book and 1 hate the man . . . and Hate 
certainly was written all over him as he stood there with a 
flushed face and set jaws. 

Most of the opposition to Spengler 
to people and have read none of the 
him— seems to be founded on an emotional basis. Spengler 
is t'atalistie. and therefore he is no good. Yet as far as I can 
see, his fatalism is not any different from our belief thai we 
were born, that we are passing through certain well-defined 
stages of development and that some day we are going to 
die. Spengler applies this same kind of organic develop- 
ment to the different cultures. Of course, the idea is not 
new. Flinders Petrie in his hook "The Revolution of Civ- 
ilizations" has given a very precise account of the rise and 
fall of the civilizations, starting with Neolithic Man. There 
have been others too, like Henry Adams, but none has ever 
had such a complete grasp of all branches of human knowl- 
edge and has combined them into such an all-embracing, uni- 
fied and rational structure. The bewildering mass of facts 
which our specializing age is heaping up, our tendency to 
analyze and lose ourselves in details, seems to have the effect 
that we are becoming cogs and know nothing about the ma- 
chine in which we are working. Or, to change the simile we 
are all running around in a labyrinth, each one in a differ- 
ent path, but nobody exactly knows where he is in relation 
to the goal nor in relation to his fellow-runners. A bird's- 
eye-view is needed, a synthesis, and Spengler's synthesis is 
satisfying because it takes everything into account and be- 
sides being thoroughly rational, seems to be in keeping with 
the present development of thought. 

Kate Pinsdorf 



"SHADOWS WAITING" 



E I .EAN OK C H I LTOX 

Why is it that some books, calculated to stir the blood, 
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The Smith College Monthly 65 

is no answer to these questions, but they may be termed an 
apology for the reader who losses aside a detective storj as 
dull and turns to the pages of "Shadows Waiting" for his 
exciting reading. The story Eleanor Chilton tells cannot 
compete in adventure with any detective tale. It deals with 
two lovers who have been brought up in neighboring houses. 
Their parents have died rather tragically but otherwise their 
lives have never been shadowed. They are deeply in love 
with each other though their temperaments are entirely dif- 
ferent and Denis has left Ilaeekla for a time to write a hook 
while she, the practical one, stays at home and cares for his 
house for him. There is. however, no reasonable doubt that 
Denis will return shortly and the course of their love will 
run smoothly into matrimony. So much may be seen by 
their friends. — who though they never actually appear in the 
hook, still have that intangible presence that one feels so 
often with acquaintances in real life. 

To the reader, however, is given the rare privilege of 
seeing two souls laid bare, he is allowed to penetrate into the 
inmost fastnesses of the minds and hearts of the lovers, to 
witness their joys and sorrows, to share in their hopes and 
fears. This is how the story far outstrips the finest detec- 
tive plot in suspense and tension. Everyone knows that 
sooner or later the detective tale will end with the villain 
caught and the mystery nicely unraveled. But no one. not 
even the characters, can know how this story will end if it 
ends at all. What will Haeckla do, now that she has discov- 
ered through the pages of the Denis story that "the god 
damned critics can not call autobiographical" that he does 
not love her? Will Denis conquer in his silent and lonely 
struggle with the fear of being overtaken by the insanity that 
killed his mother because he has fallen in love with a creature 
of his own imagination? If there is a moral to this tale, and 
it is more than likely that there is, it is that one never knows 
what goes on in the mind of even one's dearest friend and 
lover and that to learn as one lives is the secret of an inter- 
esting if not always happy existence. 

Miss Chilton manages somehow to refrain from point- 
ing out her moral. In fact, together with many other sug- 
gestive and subtle ideas, it is so skillfully interwoven with the 
plot that one wonders occasionally if one is reading into it 



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The Smith College Monthly i\7 

what the author never knew she was saying. 1 1 is in her com- 
plete unconsciousness thai the charm of Miss Chilton's style 
lies. There is a classic simplicity about the book lli.'il would 
have pleased the Greeks who move so delightfully through 
it. It is, perhaps, misleading to speak of simplicity in case 
the reader should be led to believe thai this is an ordinary, 
straightforward story which it is not, at all. There are an 
infinite number of details, a complete disregard for time and 
plaee which those same Greeks could never have approved, 
and a rather involved method of coming to a point. It is 
simple or complex only as the human mind is simple or com- 
plex. Natural is probably the more applicable adjective. 

Miss Chilton has succeeded in several of the most mod- 
ern fields where more unwary authors have mired. She has 
written an account of a progressive insanity, its effect on a 
sensitive child and the part it played in the future lives and 
happiness of five people, together with a complete analysis of 
the minds and moods of those people, a feat no writer of the 
psychological novel would scorn. By using the device of a 
book within a book, she has been able to include, as Denis' 
story, an idyll of the love of Orpheus for Eurydice, writ- 
ten in so delicate a manner that the modernity of the treat- 
ment never disturbs the reader, a rare thing indeed. But 
best of all, she has written a real and very moving love story 
of two young people, who, (contrary to the tradition of the 
Saturday Evening Post), have no material obstacles to keep 
them apart. They are separated only by the shadows that 
are waiting to engulf them, by their fear for each other and 
their pride. That they should find each other so truly in the 
end through their mutual love and understanding is inevit- 
able. Yet there is little doubt that they did not live happily 
ever after. Life wasn't as simple for them as that, but it was 
changing, growing, progressing as they adventured into ma- 
turity together. 

Alice Hesselin 



HEAVEN TREES 

Stark Young Charles Scribner's Sons 

Mr. Stark Young, known chiefly as a dramatic critic, 
has written a novel — not a novel in the usual sense of the 
word for there is no distinct plot, no conflict or development. 
There is no more plot than in The Vicar of Wakefield yet 



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tlit* modern hook holds much the same charm of atmosphere 
and character. 

It is a series of sketches thai Mr. Stark Young 1ms 

drawn, scenes connected wit 1 1 a southern family mansion in 

the fifties, Heaven Trees was the mansion. Heaven Trees 

"with its shade trees and Bowers, its fifty miles from .Mem- 
phis by the carriage road", with its gill furniture and 
brocade curtains, its rosewood cabinets and tester-beds; 
Heaven Trees where Stark Young imagines himself to have 
lived in the person of one of his ancestors. 

For through this world moved "Young Master Hugh 
Stark" "and so did his sisters and his cousins and his aunts" 
to whom we are introduced immediately. There is Aunt 
Martha, presiding as hostess over the house, always with the 
little silver pan in her hands — -"those hands long and white, 
shining and beautiful". "As a child," the author writes, "I 
used to watch her hands and .... think she lit the candles by 
merely touching them." 

There were Cousin Hester and Cousin Mica j ah Mc- 
gehee, who looked alike and had "voices like sand" —who 
both talked so incessantly that they had to mark off' the time 
by a system. "Cousin Hester stuck a pin into the candle 
and talked till the candle burned down to it, then she stuck 
the pin further down on the candle and it was Cousin 
Micajah's turn to talk." 

Here was the pretty daughter, Georgia, in spring 
muslin and ribbons, laughing -"not about anything in par- 
ticular, just laughing, very much as the sunshine falls 
through the shutters". 

Here, indeed, are a line of daguerreotypes; the ladies 
with their wide-hooped skirts, "the gentlemen painted with 
a hand resting on a desk where lay an open hook, looking as 
if they were about to address parliament". 

But Mr. Stark Young has not merely presented these 
dusty daguerreotypes. He has brought them to life. He 
has not merely taken down the crinoline skirts, the rose-eov- 
ered bonnets, the sunshades, from the attic and exhibited 
them as quaint perfumed remembrances. He has embodied 
the costumes with living people. 

He accomplishes his end not from motivating his char- 
acters through the slight plot, the narration of the events of 
a single year, but by giving us intimate pictures of their 
casual life. We see them around the breakfast table, 
laughing and talking. We see them singing duets in the 



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parlor. We sec expeditions l<> (own in the "rockaway", 
arrivals and departures with all the "excitement of leather 
trunks, boxes with chintz covers, hat-trunks, hand-boxes and 
parcels brought in by the grinning servants", 

The action is slight, perhaps, bul never insignificant 
To one looking for more substance, more development of 
character, more stimulus to thought, we can only reply thai 
Heaven Trees is not a novel. II is no more a substitute for 
one than afternoon tea is for lunch. Yet the charm of 
afternoon tea is unmistakable to those who have the tempera- 
ment and the time to enjoy it. To these people do we rec- 
ommend Heaven Trees. \ s. M. 



DOOMSDAY 
Warwick Deeping Alfred A. Knopf 

To many of the readers of "Sorrel and Son" Warwick 
Deeping's new novel is a disappointment. There are so 
many Mary Viners in the world, struggling helplessly and 
selfishly against the humdrum of existence, so many who 
marry for wealth and social position, to find later on that 
true love is the thing that counts, — the theme seems hope- 
lessly trite and the characters no more than ordinary. 

Yet there is something lofty about the book. Although 
the plot is uninspired, decidedly weak toward the end. al- 
though most of the characters are types repeating the words 
the author puts into their mouths, there is one figure at least 
which stands out strongly. The character of Arnold Furze 
is nobly drawn; his labor for the soil he loves, his devotion 
to Mary and his disappointment in her weakening purpose, 
his satisfaction when she returns to him, are the finest thing 
about the book, and it is in this that its tone most nearly 
resembles that of "Sorrel and Son." 

For the rest, the style in which the book is written ele- 
vates it beyond the level of its plot. There is a thoughtful- 
ness and gentle earnestness about the work of Warwick 
Deeping, which makes even old ideas seem worth consider- 
ing, and brings new life into the question confronting Mary 
Viner. His own interest in the things he writes about, his 
insight, and his way of getting down to fundamentals with- 
out being tedious about it, together with a descriptive power 
which gives us a clearly detailed picture, all go to make the 
book, if not so outstanding a work as "Sorrel and Son", at 
least an interesting and worthwhile piece of fiction. 

K. S. B. 



CHILSON'S 

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Shopping Bags, Pocket Books, and 
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in 



"The Monthly" 





JUNE 



1927 







Vou XXXV 



BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 




JUNE, 192' 



No '• 



HDITORIAIv BOARD 

Sarah Wingate Taylor L928 
Catherine Johnson 1928 Anne Morrow 192* 

Elizabeth Wilder 1928 Anne Basinger 1929 

Katherine S. Bolman 1929 

Art — Priscilla Paine 1928 



BUSINESS STAFF 

Julia Kellogg 1928 
Gladys Lampert 1928 Sylvia Alberts 1929 

Pearl Morris 1928 Alice Koogle 19:50 

Ruth Rose 1929 Claire Wolff 1930 



The Smith College Monthly is published at Northampton, Mass., each month from 

October to June, inclusive. Terms $1.75 a year. Single copies 25c 

Subscriptions may be sent to Julio, Kellogg,, Chapin House. 

Advertising Manager, Gladys Lampert, Northrop House 

Contributions may be left in the Monthly box in the Note Room. 

Entered at the Post Office at Northampton. Mass., as second class matter. 

Metcalf Printing £ Publishing Company. Northampton. Mass. 

"Accepted for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1203, 

Act of October 3, 1917. Authorized October 31, WIS." 



All manuscript should be typewritten and in the Monthly Box by the fifteenth 

of the month to be considered for the issue of the following month. 

All manuscript should be signed with the full name of the 'writer. 

Manuscript may be disposed of unless marked "Return." 



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Managing Director 




CONTENTS 




Shakespeare's Mack- Hero 
Pencil Studies (After [ngres) 
Chiaroscuro 



/so in I Strong 7 

/.in in E. Jordan 21 

EUzab< lh Hamburger 2.) 



The Clever Frog and the Cowardly Bull Jane Wakemam 26 

A Tale 



Madame Bouvier 



Silverpoint 



Tea with Rachel 
"Atque Vale" 
Premonition 



Laura Brandt 30 

Luoia E. Jordan 32 

Jenny Nathan 33 

EtffteiJ Laughlin 36 

Elizabeth Hambwrgi r 38 



Greatest Philosophp:r in the Western World Isabel Strong 39 



Writing a Masterpiece 

The Scandal About the School 
A One-Act Play 



Eleanor Dehtnil 50 



Editorial 



Henrietta WeUs and Mary Arbenz 53 

65 



Book Reviews 



67 




aSSfflis 



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191 MAIN STREET PHONE IJ07W 

Northampton , Mass. 

College Lamp Repairing 

Small Radios for 
College use. 

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Hats 

Ladies' Sport Wear 



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Northampton 



This Book was 
Printed by 

The H®teaDf Printing 



ft* )« 



Northampton, Mass. 



When in Springfield 
You will find 

The HALL TEA ROOM 

A most satisfying place for lunch or 
afternoon tea, where people of refine- 
ment meet, and where things have the 
real home flavor. 



CHARLES HALL, he. 

1341 Main Street 

The Hall Building 

Springfield, Massachusetts 



For the convenience of our 
Smith College Patronage we 
have opened a new shop at 

12 GREEN STREET 
NORTHAMPTON, MASS. 

I. MILLER 

BEAUTIFUL SHOES 







Smith College 
Monthly 




SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGIC HERO. 

ISOBEI. STEONG 



II 



N the search for the quintessential qualities of the 



•ee- 



tragic hero in Shakespeare, one must discover and 
ognize the elements forming the interwoven complex- 
ities of tragedy. How did Shakespeare build his great 
tragic structures? Stone on stone, with deliberate design 
and intent? Walter Raleigh says, "It is as if Shakespeare 
were carried into tragedy against his will; his comedies, built 
on the old framework of clever trick and ludicrous misunder- 
standing, become serious in his hands; until at last he recog- 
nizes the position, cuts away all the mechanical devices where- 
by the semblance of happiness is vainly preserved, and goes 
with open eyes to meet a trial that has become inevitable." 
The "semblance of happiness" being then only vainly pre- 
served, and proven without doubt by his own experience to be 
grossly misleading, the mechanisms for its simulation aban- 
don him, and Shakespeare walks hand in hand with tragedy. 
Human unhappiness must have been discerned by him in ev- 
ery variant form and trembling degree — he exhausts its cate- 
gory. Jealousy, ingratitude, suspicion, frustrated desires. 
thwarted ambitions, perverted strength, undeserved punish- 
ments; all presented with that most excelling mastery of 
stroke more vividly, more graphically than present emotions 
can enact themselves to the sense. 

But when is human unhappiness most poignant? What 
is the quintessence of tragedy? The cruel separation of 
young lovers, who are united only to die in each other's arms ? 
No, for there is the aesthetic satisfaction in the beautiful 
union itself and the mutual act of martyrdom. In the loss 
of realms and a dictatorship? Xo, not when one's loss is 









8 The Smith College Monthly 

compensated by the greatest of all paramours. Is it then in 
the wanderings of a senile mind turned from its course by 
the heartlessness of ungrateful, unnatural daughters? Not 
when there exists collaterally the sense of retributive justice 
claiming payment, and when, payment being made, there 
follows brief happiness in the reconciliation with his one lov- 
ing daughter. No, the deepest the most devastating tragedy 
lies, or so I shall attempt to convince, within the limits of a 
tortured mind, suffering not so much from the action of out- 
side elements or personalities upon it, but from its own in- 
ward-working corroding upon itself, thwarted from the ac- 
complishment of its desires by its own painful weakness, as 
in Hamlet, or perverted from beautiful strength to hideous 
violence by slow poisonous force of false conviction, as in 
Othello. These two live out to the bitterest extent the far 
reaches of tragedy; in the one the milk of human kindness 
curdled and embittered by most gruelling jealousy; the oth- 
er, ridden by procrastination, grappling with but always 
frustrated by his own inhibitions. 

Of all the great tragedies, "Antony and Cleopatra" is 
perhaps the least tragic. In its situation it appears tragic 
enough — a great soldier, a noble Roman, a dictator, throwing 
away his half of the world for a courtesan. But when that 
courtesan was Cleopatra, his "serpent of old Nile", to An- 
tony dictatorships, battles and kingdoms were nothing. This 
"bauble of a world" was a thing for lesser men to play with- 
al — to be tossed to those unfortunates who had no Cleopatra. 
His Roman side, his noble instincts, duty, austerity, self con- 
trol, honor, all these suffer the tragedy of degradation, of 
shameful cumulative crumbling. But these had brought him 
no "semblance of happiness". Here he was thwarted, yes— 
again and yet again ignobly defeated and humbled, but these 
were outward things, Avhich Fate might snatch from and 
leave him unprotesting, if only his real desire, she toward 
whom all his senses yearned, be given to him. She betrays 
him into cowardice — "I followed that I blush to look upon;" 
and at sight of her he cries in agony of reproach, "O, whither 
hast thou led me, Egypt?" But at her littlest word, broken, 
he admits, 

"My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings. 

And thou shouldst tow me after: o'er my spirit 



The Smith College Monthly <) 

Thy lull supremacy thou knews't, and thai 
Thy lurk tnighl from the bidding of the gods 

Command inc." 
When the report is brought to him thai she is dead, .ill need 
for life is gone from him 

"All length is torture: since the torch is oul 

Lie down and stray no farther." 
And without a regrel for the world lie has lost and would 
leave, he cries. 

"I come, my queen.— Stay for me: 

Where souls do couch on flowers, we'll hand in hand. 

And with our spritely port make the ghosts gaze: 

Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops. 

And all the haunt be ours." 
lie goes out like a triumphant march; these are no broken 
funereal chords. 

Antony cannot then epitomize our idea of the tragic 
hero because he is not, in the last analysis, altogether tragic. 
However, there is another element which disqualifies him. 
He has lost somewhat of our respect. He has been duped. 
Cleopatra would never have followed him in the attempted 
"High Roman fashion" or any other, had she been successful 
in her angling after Caesar's interest. Antony blinds himself 
to her duplicity, or accepts it, and we cannot help but feel he 
is a little less the man because of it. One critic has noted of 
Othello that he never loses our sympathy. Our sympathy 
may stay too, with Antony, but much of our respect goes. 
His life is neither so tragic then nor so heroic as his death, 
and after all, your tragic hero must live as well as die. 

In "Julius Caesar" we see the type of fanatical idealist 
who is bound to come to grief because he orders his life on the 
principle that men are what they should be. Marcus Brutus 
dies having found that most men, save he, are what they 
should not be. He walks with his eyes too steadily fixed on 
the stars not to strike pitfalls. He is a philosopher contem- 
platively breathing of a rarer, nobler air than those other con- 
spirators whose confederacy he protects and adorns by his 
presence. He would kill tyranny — 

"O then that Ave could come by Caesar's spirit. 

And not dismember Caesar." 
"Like Hamlet", savs Boaz, "he is summoned from the seclu- 



^ 









10 The Smith College Monthly 

sion of the study to undertake an uncongenial task, and like 
Hamlei he fails. But while the Prince of Denmark suffers 
from a syncope of will, Brutus, once his decision is made, aets 
with energetic promptitude. Where he errs is in his com- 
plete misconception of the forces which sway humanity. Be- 
cause 1 he aets from the loftiest motives himself, he takes it 
for granted that all men are equally disinterested, and he 
fondly believes that it is possible for confederates in assass- 
ination to keep their hands undefiled by minor breaches of 
the moral code." This sublime idealism in Brutus leaves us 
rather cold and amazed and inspires none of the emotions 
usually resultant of tragic perceptions. Moreover, it is not 
consistent — he upbraids Cassius in high terms for accepting 
bribes, and then squabbles with him about "certain sums of 
money, which you denied me;" — "For I, says Brutus, "can 
raise no money by vile means," but Cassius might when it is 
a question of Brutus' wants. 

These are not faults we can easily forgive, being pro- 
ducts of an over-righteous, impractical nature. They are 
not on the heroic dimension. Brutus was, without doubt, 
"the noblest Roman of them all", but the few flaws in his 
make-up were of a sort that do not blend with tragic heroism. 
That one quarrelsome scene with Cassius does much to mar 
the otherwise perfect picture, of harmony and love between 
him and Portia, of exquisite gentleness toward his serving 
men and particularly the boy Lucius, and the genuine pain 
it cost him, with his high motives, in despatching Caesar; — 
all these do not blot out the impression that those childish 
contradictions, half false accusations, quibbling over money 
in high moral tone, have left upon us. Brutus is then rather 
an unsympathetic figure, being at once too noble, and too 
ignoble. 

If many critics have found in King Lear "the mightiest 
work that Shakespeare has created" and "the greatest single 
achievement in poetry of the Teutonic or northern genius" 
nevertheless Shakespeare's greatest tragic hero is not to be 
found here. The tumult is too profound, the storms and 
passions of physical and human nature too varied and diver- 
gent, the assemblage of horrors too complex to cumulate in 
one massive unified theme or character. Moreover, the one 
prevailing character, Lear himself, is too impotent to incite 



The Smith College Monthly 1 1 

thai terrific despair which Othello's manacled power pro- 
vokes. We feel desperately thai if only ( Khello could be set 
aright again, i'wrd from the befogging wisps of deception 
that wind round and round him, poisoning as they entangle 

him if only he could sec the truth for one instant, his ureal 
dynamic strength would brush away every least obstacle to 
the happiness he and Desdeinona should he sharing. We 
feel the horror of the waste of the massive power, the perver- 
sion of it into channels that will lead to such hideous chaos. 
In Lear we see only a worn-out, testy, unreasonable old man. 
peevishly demanding hack again that which he has relin- 
quished and venting his spleen in impotent slaps at his tor- 
mentors. When Othello roared, lago trembled; when Lear 
cursed and raged, Goneril took away fifty more of his men. 
lie excites pity in us — this little trembling, twitching skele- 
ton of a man shaking his skinny claw at his Gorgon of a 
daughter. And she? She can tweak his heard and leave him, 
with the same impunity as that with which she plucked out 
Kent's beard when he was in the stocks. Both are helpless. 
This is pathos; we are inspired to pity by Lear, hut never to 
terror. We may he moved to tears by this ancient maudlin 
figure, but the tears we shed for him would never be so gal- 
linglv bitter, so wrung from despair as those we would shed 
for Othello. 

We sit back and look at Lear in horror, but it is chiefly 
due to the unnatural actions Ave witness and the chaos that 
has come to the elements, earth and sky warring together, 
not the chaos that comes to a human heart as in Othello. The 
mixture of stony heartlessness and inhuman ferocity in the 
vixenish sisters gives them an aspect quite animal — they 
rather benumb than stimulate the faculties that apprehend 
them. The unnatural predominates in Lear — son plotting 
against father and brother, daughters adamantine in hard- 
ness to an old father, sister killing sister. All these clashing 
passions mingle in the primeval disorder of the universe to 
create a tumultuous state that Schlegel called "a commotion 
in the moral world". Against this background the idotic gib- 
berish of the three fools — the one who plays the fool to make 
his living, the one who acts the fool to save his life, and the 
one who has become a fool because life was unbearable — is 
set with gruesome appropriateness. Gloucester's lament 
seems far too true-— "Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers 



1 2 The Smith College Monthly 

divide: in cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces. 
treason; and the bond cracked between son and father. . . . 
We have seen the best of our time: machinations, hollowness, 

treachery and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to 
our graves." And yet through all these "ruinous disorders" 
there is a kind of just fate working. Lear must make atone- 
ment for his cruelty to Cordelia, and Edmund shall finally 
be defeated by his wronged brother. Old Lear totters on 
through storm, madness and retribution; finally falls into the 
arms of his divinely forgiving Cordelia, realizing his help- 
lessness and knowing he has been mad : 

"I am a very foolish fond old man 

Fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less, 

And to deal plainly, 

I fear I am not in my perfect mind." 

Shakespeare is forced to carry this tragedy of horrors 
on to its consistent conclusion, and in that gives Lear his 
single deed of prowess. The old man. summoning up the 
totality of his feeble powers, strikes down Cordelia's execu- 
tioner. This is his first, and last effective thrust against his 
foes, and ironically enough was directed against a hireling 
servant only to deliver Cordelia's dead body up to him. His 
faltering old heart breaks under this last too heavy blow, and 
we feel relief mingling with our pity, that he is safe from 
further earthly torments. 

But at his death we do not feel that a great heart has 
burst from unbearable anguish or cracked under too loath- 
some a burden. Like a worn-out machine having run too 
long, when overstrained, it collapsed. In a spiteful fit of 
peevish old age he had acted wrongfully; the process of 
atonement exhausted him. He is a piteous spectacle— but his 
very impotence prevents him from sweeping us away with 
him as Othello does. We are carried along with Othello's 
suffering, all the time realizing the injustice, the needlessness 
of it. We ache to watch the slow perversion of his writhing 
mind. The great potential strength being so grossly mis- 
directed offends all our senses; he strikes out blindly, but 
with force enough to have destroyed his evil genius could he 
have hit home. This is why Othello moves us so overpower- 
ingly. while Lear himself we can only pity; and stand aghast 
at the outward tumult which surrounds him. 



The Smith College Monthly I :\ 

In approaching Macbeth we seem a1 firsl to be eont< m 
plating a figure whose utterly tragic proportions equal or 
exceed Hamlet's. Here indeed are agonies growing oul of 
and confining themselves to the limits of a diseased mind. 
In the opening of the play we see him through the eyes of 
his king and brother officers as "brave Macbeth" "valiant 
cousin! worthy gentleman!" and "noble Macbeth". Then the 
three weird sisters fan into active life the sparks of jealous 
ambition lying in wait in him; his wife's unfaltering will 
spurs his on when he would let "I dare not" wait upon "I 
would", until in an amazingly short time we find Macbeth 
say in^. 

"I am in blood 

Stepp'd in so far. that, should I wade no more 

Returning were as tedious as go o'er." 
After that an overwrought too-vivid imagination begins its 
deadly work. Macbeth is given no moment for respose — nev- 
er for an instant does he enjoy the fruits of his crime. The 
frightful sense of insecurity haunts him. grows sharper, mad- 
dens him into unguarded violence, whets his suspicious knife 
against any who come near him in gifts, honor or position. 
It is never repentance, never contrition, never conscience 
that he smarts under. It is rather that he fears detection and 
loss of his honor; and the visual imaginings of the enactment 
of his crimes with their possible results rise continually to 
unman him. What normal sensibilities he has are deadened 
and dulled by force of repeated outrage upon them, so that 
the death of his wife seems scarcely to touch him at all save 
for a stimulus to that sorry summary of life as it comes to 
him now — 

"It is a tale 

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. 

Signifying nothing." 
Very soon he is aroused from this apathy by the instinct for 
self-preservation. Bolstered up by belief in the ambiguous 
promises of the witches, he defies defeat. But Birnam wood 
does come to Dunsinane; and Macduff pricks the bubble of 
his last illusion of safety with the weapon of his not having 
been technically "born of woman". Then Macbeth, cold in 
the clutches of a superstitious fear, utters that cry that had 
been voiced by Banquo long before — 



14 The Smith College Monthly 

"And be the juggling fiends no more believed, 

That palter with us in a double sense; 

That keep the word of promise to our ear, 

And break it to our hope" . . . 

Here lies part of Macbeth's tragedy — that far too late 
he saw that he was being led on maliciously and deceitfully 
by the powers of darkness. Duplicity, ambiguity and double 
meanings crowd the play: in grim facetiousness on the lips 
of Lady Macbeth- -"he that's coming must be provided for"; 
constantly in the prophecies of the witches, and in the mock- 
ing speech of Lenox when he pretends to uphold Macbeth. 
The "vaulting ambition that o'erleaps itself" in Macbeth has 
kept him blind to the ambiguity of the supernatural promises 
he places all his faith in. 

Macbeth and Hamlet both contemplate murder — Ham- 
let as an act of retributive justice, Macbeth motivated by 
over-reaching personal ambition. Macbeth's vacillations are 
cut short by the projection of his wife's unflinching will into 
himself. The deed is done, although his courage forsakes 
him in the midst of it when the "amen" he tries to mutter to 
bless himself sticks in his throat, and undone by this ill omen 
he flees. Lady Macbeth, scornful of his weakness, calmly 
forces herself to finish his work for him. We are constantly 
finding Macbeth thus governed by fear and shaken by super- 
stition. In this we must admire him less than Hamlet, who 
in the need of the moment is absolutely incapable of fear and 
flips jests in the face of death. 

The nature of the turbulent musings of these two men 
is very different. Macbeth's allotment is the fear of conse- 
quences of deeds already done; outraged senses creating from 
imagination apparitions that bring to him again all the sen- 
sual horrors of his crimes. After the first murder however, 
Macbeth knows no more the agony of indecision: 

"The firstlings of my heart shall be 

The firstlings of my hand 

This deed I'll do before this purpose cool." 
His torture comes from a nature too apt in commerce with 
the spirit world, whence come these ghosts, death heads, dire- 
ful cries and visions that haunt him and mock his show of 
majesty. A frightful physical revolt vivified by imagination 
wracks him, still having the effect of driving him on to more 



The Smith College Monthly 1 5 

and worse treacheries. Yd all this has nol the exquisiti r< 
finemenl of torture thai Hamlei endures. By his \<r\ na 
ture Hamlei must suffer more for his contemplated deed 
than Macbeth for all his past crimes. Macbeth has had the 
relief of action Hamlei hangs in suspense, vacillating, pro- 
crastinating, hating himself and driven to the point of mad- 
ness by his inability to act. Macbeth's blunter nature thai 
of the man of action, after the first shocks, grows calloused 
and dead to added degrees of horror. Hamlet's philosophic 
mind more delicately and dangerously balanced sways and 
nearly falls in the throes of decision. Macbeth is driven by 
one all claiming ambition, whipped on by fear and supersti- 
tion. All these elements point hut one way to security for 
him: the elimination of every creature who might conceivably 
threaten his sovereignty. Hamlet is pulled and driven in a 
dozen different directions, by his oath to this ghost of his dead 
father; by his duty to his mother; his love for Ophelia; his 
obligations to his friends; all these, colored and grouped by a 
mind out of tune with the universe into a hideous kaleido- 
scopic picture of hell. Macbeth is living an attempt to es- 
cape from the past — Hamlet, from the future. Of the two 
Hamlet's position is the more intolerable; each dawn brings 
nearer the inevitable, inexorable duty; each night showing 
he has been too weak, too fearful, unable to screw his cour- 
age to the sticking point. Coleridge says that in Hamlei 
Shakespeare "wished to exemplify the moral necessity of a 
due balance between our attention to the objects of our sen- 
ses and our meditation on the workings of our minds an 
equilibrium between the real and the imaginary worlds. In 
Hamlet this balance is disturbed; his thoughts, and the im- 
ages of his fancy are far more vivid than his actual percep- 
tions, and his very perceptions instantly passing through the 
medium of his contemplations, acquire, as they pass, a form 
and color not naturally their own. Hence we see a great, an 
almost enormous, intellectual activity and a proportionate 
aversion to real action, consequent upon it. with all its symp- 
toms and accompanying qualities. This character Shake- 
speare places in circumstances under which it is obliged to 
act on the spur of the moment: Hamlet is brave and careless 
of death; but he vacillates from sensibility, and procrasti- 






16 



The Smith College Monthly 



nates from thought, and loses the power of action in the en- 
ergy of resolve." 

Hamlet's mind, unseated from all healthy contacts, cen- 
ters, brooding, upon itself and eats away its reserve and calm 
with feverish mental activity. This leaves him in a state of 
trance, but one very different from the unfeeling apathy of 
Macbeth. His soliliquies reveal a mind in a diseased state, 
contaminating with its own poison even the freshest things 
it touches. He recognizes this dangerous tendency and tries 
to escape from this insidious malady by the assumption of a 
more obvious form of mental unbalance. He tries wilfully 
to make the flight to the world of illusion to relieve the ten- 
sion of his mind, but though it may disarm others it cannot 
satisfy him. This is "a sort of cunning bravado", says Cole- 
ridge, "bordering on flights of delirium. His wildness is but 
half false ; he plays that subtle trick of pretending to act only 
when he is very near really being what he acts". However, 
most of his madness is merely the free vent in speech of what 
had been fermenting in his mind for some time. Having 
unbottled them he is not so near being mad as when he was 
suppressing them. 

The infinitely troubled "To be or not to be"— with all 
the implications in the subsequent soliloquy of what the mind 
was contemplating, ends only in 

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, 

And thus the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought". 
Yet when his device of trying the King with the play, suc- 
ceeds, and in his conference with his mother his father's ghost 
reappears "to whet thy almost blunted purpose" then Ham- 
let resolves: 

"This thing's to do, 

Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means 

To do't." 
But, as Coleridge notes, "The utmost at which Hamlet 
arrives is a disposition, a mood, to do something — but what 
to do. is still left undecided." Into this indecision comes the 
King's order for his departure to England, with which he 
complies, but his unexpected return brings him to Ophelia's 
grave just at a moment to precipitate a quarrel with her 
brother. "Observe how perfectly equal to any call of the 



The Smith College Monthly I 7 

moment is Hamlet, lei it only not be for the future." Tin 
call of the moment now is for a duel with Laertes and Ham 
let agrees with alacrity. And now ii is thai the over medita- 
tive Hamlel is caught by an accident. He discovers the foul 
play in the poisoned cup and sword tips, and in «'i Ml of pas 
sion at the King, turning Berserk, he rushes al him and stabs 
him to death, unthinking, blinded by fury. The sublimi 
irony of Hamlet's situation lies here this was not the re- 
venge toward which he had been forcing himself, this was not 
the answer to "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 

"The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune; 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles 

And by opposing end them?" 
This was not the slow and carefully studied retribution owed 
for a father's murder and mother's shame. This was acci- 
dent — sheer, infuriated, blind impulse. Robbed at the bitter 
last of the fruits of all that painful effort. 

Here stands your tragic hero before you — a noble, a del- 
icate, a brave, a philosophic mind torturing itself toward a 
point from which it recoils again and again; willing, aiming, 
wishing with all its strength, yet ever thwarted and frust- 
rated and shamed by its own weakness and inhibitions: 
crippled, that intellect maimed by conflict, yet forcing itself 
to crawl on and on toward the hated goal — finally determined 
to do, with will set to commit his necessary crime and then 
then in one unthinking, effortless flash he is robbed! Robbed 
of his sacred mission, by himself! Caught for a moment out- 
side of himself, and with incredible eat-like velocity striking 
so as to betray himself. Thwarting through a life-time in 
hell his desires by slow and painful denial, and yet again, in 
the very swift act itself thwarting his own ends. There stands 
the cruel tragedy, the most unutterable irony. 

But if Hamlet is cruel, there is another yet darker, more 
stupendous in its tragic sweep. Othello is the most grand- 
iose of the tragedies. There stands the Moor, silent and 
beautiful in his half barbaric power and strength, throwing 
all the infinite reserves of his nature into that sudden 1111- 
pondered love for Desdemona: then insidiously attacked by 
that ''motiveless malignity" that is Iago, fighting against the 
venomous sting of jealousy, then poisoned by it — driven into 
a frenzy of hotblooded cruelty by it. then emerging into calm 









18 The Smith College Monthly 

white heat of judgment, making his own hands execute the 
horrible but to him necessary doom upon her whom he loved 
more than all else. Then, all our sensibilities crying out 
against the piteous wrong of it — too late, comes the revela- 
tion by Emilia that tells Othello his wife was as pure and 
innocent as she looked. With the last of his heart-wrung 
cries he flings life away from him, throws himself upon her 
body— "Killing himself to die upon a kiss". 

He left his own judgment in his words: 

"Then must you speak 

Of one that lov'cl not wisely but too well; 

Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought, 

Perplexed in the extreme; — " 
That cry spoke all the sufferings he had been through — the 
process of warping that regal open nature that believed every 
man as honest as himself — the long road of perversion from 
the heights of kindness and chivalric gentleness to the depths 
of passionate hatred and cruelty; the descent from an over- 
powering love to a "solemn agony" that was more than jeal- 
ousy, a profound unbearable conviction that the woman who 
was his only life was profligate of her favors — had betrayed 
him to his own officer — was a harlot. To Othello's Eastern 
mind such a conviction meant only one thing; justice must 
be done. She must die, and at his hands. 

As Sir Walter Raleigh says, "The greatness of Iago may 
be measured by this, that Othello never loses our sympathy." 
By slow and legitimate means, never extravagant, circum- 
stance is added to circumstance, until a net is woven to take 
Othello in its toils. But circumstance, is not his undoing. 
Left to himself even when the toils were closing in upon him, 
Othello would have rent them asunder, and shaken them off. 
When he grows impatient and seems likely to break free, 
Iago is at hand, to keep him still, or compel him to think. 
On matters like this Othello cannot think: he is accustomed 
to impulse, instinct, and action: these tedious processes of 
arguing on dishonor are torture to him — 

"A man not easily jealous, but being wrought, 

Perplexed in the extreme". 
Those words sound over and over again, painting a pathetic 
picture of him stumbling on, his enormous potentialities use- 
less to him. baffled bv an intricacy and malevolencv that he 



The Smith College Monthly 19 

cannot unravel or apprehend. Groping For the truth, put- 
ting all his trust in his betrayor, nol daring to trusl Desdem- 
ona because of the lack of mutual understanding. He is tor- 
mented by the very unnaturalness of il thai had firsl delight- 
ed him, thai Desdemona, in spile of differences of color and 
years, had conic to him. As [ago drops thes( suggestions 
like bits of venom into the well of his thought, murmuring 
a pious prayer against jealousy, Othello protests: 

"Thinks't thou I'd make a life of /jealousy. 

To follow the still changes of the moon 

With fresh suspicions? No! to be once in doubt 

Is once to be resolved." 

Vet only a little later he is "on the rack" of knowing hut a 
little, and suddenly seeing clear the torment before him he 
cries his moving "Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!" 
From that point on he demands ocular proofs, and I ago is 
clever enough to convince him, with his mind half crazed and 
eaten up by suspicion. To him Desdemona is now positively 
the deceitful, faithless whore, doubly vile because she had 
meant so much before to him. Life is a horrible mockery 
now to him — the sight of Desdemona always weakens him at 
first, but then the reaction of terrific physical revulsion sets 
in. resulting in his brutality to her before her kinsman in the 
first instance, and in the second culminating in that scene of 
monstrous horror where he dare not spare her another half 
hour to live lest he weaken in his purpose. He is in the grips 
of a devastating passion which tears him much more cruelly 
than its manifestations can Desdemona. who can scarcely 
sense the meaning of it. She by her innocence is incapable 
of understanding the thousand things worse than death that 
Othello is enduring — she can only be the piteous recipient of 
his violent reactions from these horrors. The malicious small 
thread of chance that holds all this misery is the cruellest 
part of the situation — one word from Emilia, or a single mo- 
ment when Othello unblinded could see the evil of I ago; but 
the small thread holds, and bound by it the Moor is helpless. 
Not with the helplessness of Fear — no. By one happy bit 
of truth Othello. with magnificent sweep of his great arm 
could clang back the doors that shut his life in pain. But that 
ray of light is denied and in immeasurably miserable dark- 
ness Othello reaches his conclusion. His reasoning is based 



20 The Smith College Monthly 

on falsehood, so for his great love she and he must suffer. 

Stealing into Desdemona's chamber on the heels of his 
resolve he finds her obediently in bed, sunk in a stupor fol- 
lowing over- wrought nerves. His love almost masters him 
here; kissing her — he weeps while she is asleep, but on her 
awakening hardens himself to his task. All her protestations 
only convince him that she is utterly perjured. The knock- 
ing of Emilia interrupts his horrible task, but with steeled 
nerves he finishes before he admits her, to hear that he had 
been utterly wrong, and duped. When the enormity of his 
deed and Iago's villany penetrate his stunned and maddened 
mind, he loses control and wildly invokes the punishments of 
fiends upon himself in an orgy of self accusation. He 
spends his last splendid fury on the viper that has poisoned 
him and then with his own hand snatches away the barriers 
that separate him from Desdemona. 

This is the tragic hero of supreme proportions. Titanic 
in his force, beautiful in strength, yet bound by small mali- 
cious filaments of chance and a "motiveless malignity", baf- 
fled, defeated, leading himself on to a bitterer sentence than 
any other could inflict on him, — the deed of horrible injust- 
ice done, and then, too late the truth that might have saved 
a moment sooner. Utter chaos come, too poignant grief, too 
hopeless regret, too unbearable repoach, from all of which 
the only escape is death. By his own will he had put happi- 
ness from him — by his own will he casts himself out of life. 
Splendid and stupendous, moved only by his own immovable 
conviction, but, "being wrought, perplexed in the extreme." 



The Smith College Monthly 2 I 

PENCIL STUDIES (AFTEB INGRES) 
Lucia E. Jordan 



She holds her head gently, 

Like hepatieas I knew. 

Palely, 

Swaying, 

Under the dew. 

Her eyes are like dew 
From looking at the sky, 
Bright and 
Drop- shaped, 
Asking why. 

II 

His forehead is like wheat 
Blown smooth by air. 
The shadows of the wheat 
Darken his hair. 

Ill 

This I draw is a hoy's foot 
Varnished by the sun ; 
It is tense for flying: 
Will it only run? 

IV 

The hand of a lady of poplar grace; 
But I think I love it more than her face 
It will grow old with tracery 
Beyond what fortune-tellers see. 



22 The Smith College Monthly 

V 

A face like ashes 
Burned again; 
Only the eyes 
Are like new rain. 

VI 

I've practised clear anatomy 
And faces drawn too bare, 
I'll try a grand duke at the court 
I saw when I was there. 
With ruff in radiating lines 
Starched and full and square, 
And velvet jacket jauntily 
Unneat to give an air. 
With boots of stiff dark leather, 
One hand light on his sword, 
The other turned in gesture 
Of one immenselv bored. 



The Smith College Monthly 



CHIAROSCURO 

Elizabeth 1 [amburgi 



MET him, for the first time in weeks, on the steps of 
the public library. We had been undergraduates al 
Harvard together and had moved in different arcs of 

the same circle since. In those days, we had both written 
poetry, more or less good, and had read our effusions to each 
other in rare moments of communion. Now, as his roving, 

haunted gaze fixed itself for a moment on my lace. I was 
conscious of being merely an abstraction to him, a receptacle 
into which he could discharge his thoughts. 

"I am looking." he stated with a certain paradoxical 
detiniteness, "I am looking for an idea, for an answer to a 
question." 

He had always been a little queer, but I confess to hav- 
ing been completely startled by his unemotionally emphatic 
way of making, for no apparent reason, this entirely unex- 
pected and unpredictable remark. 

"My dear fellow," I queried, "Are you mad ?" 

"Not at all," he replied looking away. "Merely jilted." 

It was the lunch hour. People surged past us, students 
in tortoise-rimmed glasses, children with school-bags dragg- 
ing from their shoulders, thin frustrated looking women. 
Somehow I had a feeling that they were all staring at us as 
they passed, and yet I was aware that this was not so. They 
had other things to think about, these absurdly intent people. 
Dimly I realized that my left leg was advanced a step up in 
front of my body. It was a ridiculously temporary position 
as if I had been playing the child's game of "frozen statues". 
I changed it suddenly and felt less conspicuous although I 
was still decidedly uncomfortable. 

Then, "Jilted?" I asked. A dim suspicion of the truth 
increased my pity for him by the deeply selfish joy that it 
brought to me. 

"Yes. Amalie. Last night." 

So. How embarrassing, and vet rather fitting. 

"Will von come home with me?" All mv communica- 






24 The Smith College Monthly 

tions with him seemed to be couched in question form. 

"Thank you. Yes, if you don't mind." 

I hailed a taxi. 

"Lake Drive Apartments, please." 

"Yes, sir." 

We sat in opposite corners of the machine. 

"She tried not to let me ask her," he was saying, "But 
I had to know definitely. I couldn't risk misunderstanding 
an innuendo." 

We were in my apartment now. The sun touched the 
window-seat with a dazzling brilliance that left the rest of 
the living-room in comparative darkness. 

"Will you smoke?" 

"Thank you. Yes, if you don't mind." 

"Have a seat." 

"No, thank you. I prefer to stand." 

His detached, abstracted tone annoyed me. My posi- 
tion was sufficiently difficult without a superimposed barrier 
of reserve. He had always erected barriers, however. Even 
when he had appeared to be most frank, you had known that 
there was a holy of holies somewhere scrupulously guarded 
from your sight. 

"You were saying," I ventured, "something about 
being in search of an idea, an answer to a question." 

"Oh, that!" He frowned. "It shows my essentially 
purposeful nature. They say it is an inheritance of our race, 
an ancient Hebrew characteristic reaching back to the be- 
ginning of time. So it is eminently fitting that I should be 
trying to turn my own bitter disappointment into part of a 
scheme in an ultimate purpose of the universe." 

He bit into the end of his cigarette. Then he laughed. 
"Do you like allegories?" he inquired, tilting his head to one 
side like a whimsical child. "Tobacco is so soothing to smoke, 
and yet so bitter when you bite into it, or, when you rub a bit 
of it into your eye, so stinging that it makes you cry. There 
listen, I'm-a-poet and-don't-know-it. Heavens, I'm getting 
maudlin. Give me another cigarette. I've ruined this one." 

I passed over the box. 

"But the idea you wanted?" I thought we might best 
get the whole unfortunate affair over with as soon as pos- 
sible. 






The Smith College Monthly 23 

"The idea? Oh, yes. lis quite simple, <>r oughl to be. 

You sec. I want to know why it is thai .-ill this should happen 
to me, this wretchedness for not having her, when some other 
fellow, — " 

"Some other fellow?" My interruption was involuntary 
and unnecessary. I was stalling Tor time. 

"Yes. It wasn't .just because she didn'l love me yet. I 
might have hoped then. Now if I could understand the reas- 
on, the /justice in his happiness and my misery. I might be 
ahle to make something out of it all after all. There must 
be a reason. One can't believe that there isn't, not believe it 
and stay sane. Things can't he just futile in their cruelty. 
And think how simple it is for the other one!'" 

I decided suddenly to tell him before it was too late. 
One could not betray his confidence. It was too rare a thing 
for that. 

I leaned across the walnut table that kept us an arm's 
length apart. A copy of "Judge" thrown carelessly opened 
filled me with an ironic sense of triviality. 

"Dave", I said, "I am the other one. I'm sorry." 

He looked up slowly. He frowned. There was nothing 
for me to do but wait. "Sorry?" He sounded puzzled for a 
minute, then angry. "No you're not. God, you'd better not 
be. Why do you say you are? Tell me the truth. You are 
very happy, aren't you?" 

I nodded. He put out his hand. Some foolish reticence 
kept me from responding to this trite expression of camerad- 
erie. It seemed beneath the situation. 

"I see," he was saying, "that my idea was not so very 
Car to search for, after all. I wonder, now that I have found 
it, whether it will do me any good." It seemed incongruous 
that as he took up his hat he should have left as if he were 
really amused, but then, that had always been his way. 

As the door closed behind him, I wondered whether lie 
had really found the answer to his question. I thought not. 
although there was no doubt in my mind that it would some- 
day be quite as evident to him as, at that moment, it was to 
me. It was almost as simple as he had suspected that it would 
be. It was merely a difference in destiny. I was going to be 
a happy man; but Dave was to be the poet. 



26 



The Smith College Monthly 



THE CLEVER FROG AND THE COWARDLY 

BULL 

A Talc 
Jane Wakeman 



0"JNCE there was a bull, who enjoyed a green pasture all 
to himself. It was a beautiful meadow, full of frag- 
?TQ£I rant herbs and grasses; and in the far corner of it. 
under an apple-tree, was a little clear pond, very comforting 
to thirst. One morning, when the soft, blue sky, and the 
fleecy clouds, and the drowsy field seemed melting together 
in the sunshine, the bull went over as usual to the little pond 
for a drink. But as he leaned over the water, he was asto- 
nished to behold a great horned creature looking up at him 
from the depths of the pool. The bull was convulsed with 
terror, and started back, tossing his horns, and bellowing 
loudly. 

A little green frog, in a green coat and a little white 
waistcoat, sat eyeing him from the pond's rim. 

"What is it, friend?" he cried. "Can I be of service to 
you?" 

The bull stopped short and turned around. 

"Oh," he said. "Are you there, Croaker? The 

truth is, I am afraid you will think me an awful coward; but 
there is a demon, lives in that pond:— three times as large as 
I am — and when I go to take a drink, he sticks up his horns 
to fight me." 

"I doubt it," said the frog who had seen the whole inci- 
dent, and knew how the land lay. 

"Come with me, if you don't believe it," said the bull. 
So up they went together, to the edge of the pond, the frog- 
hopping nimbly beside the bull's fore- feet. The clever frog 
took one look at the monster in the water, and one look at 
the silly bull, and he exclaimed: 

"Is that all! — My dear friend, you don't mean to say 
that this is the creature that frightened you! I Avill fight 
with him if you like, and vanquish him, — even as St. George 



The Smith College Monthly 27 

of old killed the dragon ; and then you shall drink in p< a< 

The luill trembled with gratitute. When he had retired 
to a safe distance, the frog dived into the pond: and after 
remaining below a few minutes, came up again with a lilt I* 

horned insect in his month, which he carried over and laid 
at the hull's feet. 

"Can this be the monster who frightened me so?" asked 
the hull: and his eyes bulged with wonder. 

"The same," said the frog. "He shrank to that size 
when he saw meT 

"Upon my word!" cried the bull. "What a brave frog 
you arc. to he sure!" 

"That," said the frog, with a debonair wave of his paw. 
"is why I am called the kino- of the pond." 

Arc you indeed?" replied the bull. "I salute Your 
Majesty, and would offer my thanks for the service you have 
rendered me." 

Off hopped the frog; and back went the bull for a drink. 
But what was his terror to find the same horrible creature 
confronting him in the water a second time. 

"Frog! frog!" he cried. "The monster has come back. 
You see it must have been some other creature that you 
killed, and not the one I had seen at all." 

The frog came and looked in the pond. "Oh. that!" he 
exclaimed. "That must be the fellow's brother. What will 
you give me if I get him out of the way. too?" 

"What would you like?'" asked the bull. 

"Call me the Emperor of the Pond and Field," replied 
the frog. "Acknowledge me as your overlord." 

"Anything you like," said the bull. "I've always ruled 
over this field myself; but rather than die of thirst, Fll sub- 
mit to you." 

"Then come with me!" replied the frog. "And do just 
as I say. I shall dive into the pond, and grapple with the 
fiend; and while I am down there wrestling with him. you 
are to drink: for as soon as I let him go, he will return." 

The bull agreed eagerlv, and waited, trembling, for his 
chance. It fell out just as the frog had said: no sooner had 
he dived into the pool than its surface became agitated with 
a host of waves and ripples, and the monster's head disap- 
peared. The bull took a deep, long drink. 



28 The Smith College Monthly 

Presently the frog hopped ashore, waving his eap for 
joy. "Victory!" he cried. "I left him gasping. But to- 
morrow he will be twice as strong. Well, coward, what have 
you to say?" 

"Hail to thee, Imperator," murmured the foolish bull; 
and he fell on his clumsy knees before the frog. 

"That's right," approved the frog. And he went home 
to the pond to tell the tad-poles. 

"Well, friends," he said. "I'll have you know I am Em- 
peror of the Field and Pond." 

"What?" cried the tad-poles. "Who said so?" 

"The bull himself." said the frog. "He fell on his 
knees before me, and yielded me sway over all the field." 

"Hail, Imperator!" chorussed the tad-poles. "Live 
long and gloriously!" And all the tad-poles fell on their 
knees. 

"The next thing," went on the frog, "Is to kill that silly 
bull. I ean't be bothered with underlings." 

The frog was drunk with glory. He now planned a 
campaign of war to destroy the bull. The next morning he 
again plunged into the pond, in order that the bull might 
drink in peace: but this time it was only a trick. The tad- 
poles were waiting at hand, marshalled in military rank, all 
ready to charge upon the bull at the word of command. The 
frog rode forward on a splendid minnow, and at once led 
them forth to the battle. 

"To it. tad-poles!" he trumpeted. "Death to the bull!" 

"Tad-pole-land for the tad-poles!" roared the tad-poles; 
and they charged furiously at the bull. 

But the cowardly bull was so afraid of seeing the 
monster again, that he shut his eyes tight while he drank. 
And so it was that just as the tad-poles advanced upon him, 
he blindly took a step forward in the water; and shifting one 
of his huge fore-feet, brought it down in the midst of the 
tad-pole army, crushing them down into the mud. Many of 
them were killed, others wounded, and the army put to flight 
in confusion. 

A revolution ensued, and King Croaker, the frog, was 
deposed and beheaded; but he died with a smile on his lips, 
and in time became a stirring legend, and the hero of a lost 
cause. 



The Smith College Monthly 29 

The bull, meanwhile, was lefl alone with the homed 
beast in the water. And what was his dismay, when the next 
morning he wenl to the pond, and found no frog awaiting 

him at the brink. 

"Frog! frog!" he bellowed. Bui only the crickets an- 
swered him from the grass; and their chirping seemed to 
mock at him, "Ee ! Ee !" thev shrilled de- 
lightedly. 

The hull plunged a foot boldly into the pond, and leaned 
over to drink. But .just as he had feared, the great eyes of 
the horned beast glared up into his own from the still, blue 

water. The hull drew back, Avith a beating heart. "Ee 

ee ee !" shrilled the crickets. "Ee \s afraid ! 

Ee 's afraid!" 

Mad with conflicting desire, and shame, and fear, the 
bull leaned forward again, and fixed the strange eyes with 
his own. The pond was as still as a mirror. The crickets' 
song grew fainter as he gazed. The air was heavy with the 
smell of hay and sun- warmed clover, and the sharp sweetness 
of the apples that weighed down the boughs overhead. For 
a long minute the whole field seemed to wait for something. 
Then one of the apples, yellow and fragrant as a primrose, 
loosed its long hold on the branch that bore it, and plumped 
down into the pond, scattering rings outward to the farthesl 
verge of the water; and the mysterious beast hid his head. 

When the bull saw this, he paused. 

tk A curious monster!" thought the bull. "That he 
should dwindle to an insect at the sight of little Croaker sur- 
prised me at first: but to run and hide from an apple from 

a poor fruit with neither claws nor teeth nor horns 

Oh, really !" 

And he drank his fill of the warm, still water. 

Thus the cowardly bull learned two lessons. The firsl 
was, that things are not always so terrible as they may appear 
at first sight; the second was, that you cannot believe every- 
thing you are told, especially when you have a frog to deal 
with. The bull ruled the field in his own right from this time 
forth; and as for the tad-poles, when they grew up to be 
frogs, they profited by the experience of Croaker, and ack- 
nowledged the bull as their reigning sovereign. 



30 The Smith College Monthly 

MADAME BOUVIER 

Laura Brandt 



ElVANT d'aller a Paris ma curiosite etait deja piquee 
I a Tegard des concierges de eette ville. lointaine. En 
B^H ecoutant la conversation de cenx qui avaient goute les 
charmes de la France j'avais remarque qu'ils parlaient tou- 
jours des concierges avec un sourire un peu ironique. II y 
avait la, evidemment, quelquechose que j'ignorais; un petit 
sous-entendu attrayant que je ne comprendrais jamais sans 
y aller moi-meme. J'avais l'idee qu'elles etaient. ces con- 
cierges, aussi inevitables que les Parques et aussi indiscretes 
que Jupiter. 

II me sembla, done, tout naturel que mon arrivee a 
l'appartement ou j'allais passer l'hiver soit immortalisee par 
une concierge. Je garde d'elle un souvenir qu'une eonnais- 
sance plus ou moins intime de plusieurs autres de sa profes- 
sion n'a pas pu effacer. Je la vois encore telle qu'elle etait 
ce premier jour. 

C'etait une petite femme trappue, portant une robe 
d'une etoffe grise, fanee, et froissee, qui imitait admirable- 
ment la peau de sa figure ridee, plus fanee encore que la robe. 
Ses cheveux fletris et epars etaient egalement bien assortis a 
cette physionomie pale, et toutes ces couleurs mortes etaient 
animees de deux yeux percants, deux points de lumiere 
noire, qui vous lancaient un regard avide a travers les deux 
rides profondes qui soulignaient son front. Madame Bouvier 
(ce nom lui convenait a merveille) rodait comme une bete 
fauve autour de ma malle, qu'un chauffeur de taxi imprevoy- 
ant avait laissee au beau milieu du vestibule. 

' w Voyons, mam'selle — qu'est-ce-qu'elle vient faire la, 
c'te grosse affaire americaine? Via deja deux heures qu'elle 
est plantee dans mon vestibule. Qu'est-ce-que je vais at- 
traper si les proprietaires voient ca! Faut la faire oter d'la, 



allez!" 



C'etait la l'accueil qui m'attendait a Paris! 

II n'y avait qu'une maniere de calmer ses transports, et 



The Smith College Monthly .1 1 

elle devinl I'amabilit^ meme lorsqu'elle me \it ouvrir mon 
sac a main. Apres tout, elle serait, pendani mon sejour, la 

gardienne de mes let t res! 

Pour acqueVir le titre honorable de Madame, el l< nom ro- 
buste de Bouvier il avait bien fallu que ce personnage acquit 
aussi mi mari. Adam Bouvier avail ete choisi avec soin. II 
avait un petit corps desseche surmonte d'une tete de diable 
faineant et harasse. Chaque fois que Madame Bouvier sor- 
tait pour bavarder avec ses amies aux depens des locataires, 
(.lie le placait en sentinelle a la Tenet re de sa loge pour sur- 
veiller les gens qui entraient et sortaient on ceux qui pas- 
saient dans la rue. Plus d'une fois, en entrant, j'ai rencon- 
tre deux yeux sournois et un pen craintifs, brillant sous 
d'epais sourcils triangulares. Adam etait aux aguets. Si 
son compte rendu n'etait pas exact sans doute (pie sa femme 
le priverait de l'argent qui lui etait necessaire pom- l'engour- 
dissement de ses griefs chez le "bistro." II ne faisait jamais 
autre chose. line fois, seulement, je l'ai rencontre dans 
Pesealier, dont il etait en train de laver peniblement les 
marches. II poussait des soupirs pitoyables. Soudain, du 
haut de Pesealier, je vis Madame Bouvier qui descendait sur 
lui comme un tonrbillon. 

"Allons, Adam, t'as pas bientot fini de tripoter dans 
l'eau comme 9a! Va-t-en-chez le bistro, animal! Non, mais 
quelle salete, tout de meme! Regarde-moi ca! Tu te fiches 
de moi, je pense — !" 

Je fermai la porte discretement sur cette petite querelle 
de famille. 

^Madame Bouvier avait une qualite qui ne ressemblail en 
rien a celle des autres femmes de sa race vigilante. Celles-ci 
remplissaient leurs devoirs de Cerberes admirablement bien 
pendant la journee; mais la nuit on aurait pu inettre le feu 
a la maison sans les faire bouger dans leurs lits enfermes an 
fond d'une alcove. Je suis convaincue que, tout au contraire, 
.Madame Bouvier ne se couchait jamais. Au premier eri de 
"Cordon, s'il vous plait". 011 an premier coup de sonnette, 
elle etait la devant vous, surgissant dans la nuit comme un 
nnage compact et gris. Elle allumait la minuterie et faisait 
de petites reverences brusques tandis qu'elle vous fixait de 
ses yeux furtifs et penetrants. Ses regards eveillaient en 
moi un degout infini. Le matin, en descendant, je la trouvais 



32 The Smith College Monthly 

encore la. Mais il fallait sourire aimablement ear le courier 
etait deja arrive. 

"Une lettre pour moi, Madame Bouvier?" 
Elle me tendait les lettres a eontre-eoeur et je les pre- 
nais avec la sensation que, par inon sourire gracieux, j'avais 
vendu nion anie an diable. 

11 y a, peut-etre, quelque part dans Paris, des con- 
cierges complaisantes, acueillantes et discretes, Mais je ne 
les ai pas vues et j'ai bien peur de ne les voir jamais; ear aux 
portes du purgatoire seront postees, dans cette immobility 
attentive des ehiens de garde, toutes les Madames Bouvier 
de Paris. La-bas, helas, il n'y aura jamais de lettres! 



S1LVERPOIXT 

Lucia E. Jordan 



The sky today is white as a sheet, 
Tired of winter suns ; 
The thorn trees crack the hard air 
And a thin brook runs. 

The Loggerhead Shrike draws with her bill 
A criss-cross nest in the thorn, 
And the old snow under the tree 
Is delicate and torn. 






The Smith College Monthly 38 

TEA WITH RACHEL 
Jenny Nathan 



^t^ HAD tea with Rachel a few days ago. I met her 
^•^ wandering down Main Street .... it was character- 

JS&H istic of her that she wandered, even when treading in 
the most definite and well paved places. She was hare- 
headed in the driving snow, her short fur jacket blowing 
open, her eyes on some point that seemed to keep several 
steps ahead of her black-strapped oxfords. She did not hear 
me greet her so I walked patiently by her side till gradually 
the consciousness of my presence disturbed her thoughts. She 
turned to me with shining blue eyes. 

"Oh, nice!" she said, and for several moments turned the 
fact of my presence over and over in her mind, so that she 
could absorb its more pleasant aspects and discard her annoy- 
ance at being no longer alone. 

"I am absorbing the snow," said Rachel, intending to 
put me at my ease. From then on 1 was in constant fear that 
I was actively interfering with the process, and having 
reached my destination announced it with relief at being able 
to leave Rachel to herself. She, however, followed me in the 
door. 

"I had an errand, too," she explained," but it is gone . . 
gone . . ." She looked amused and introspective, and wan- 
dered about the room while I paid a bill. 

"Strange," she said softly when I rejoined her 

"forgotten .... completely!" 

We decided to have tea to console Rachel for being for- 
getful. She had no definite idea as to where we would go, 
except that several of the places I mentioned she could not 
bear because they didn't fit into a snowy day. We finally 
found ourselves at a place that was suitably small and unfre- 
quented. 

I noticed Rachel smiling at me as I removed my gal- 
oshes. I have always had an unworthy conviction that Rach- 
el's smiles, directed at nothing in particular, were meant to 



34 The Smith College Monthly 

provoke stupid questions, which, when produced, were ig- 
nored just as severely as they deserved to be. I determined 
not to ask Rachel what she found amusing in the sight of my 
removing my galoshes. She finally volunteered The infor- 
mation. 

"I have some," she said in a faraway voice. "Why can't 
they have jeweled buckles? Snow. . . .'falling on jewels. ." 
her blue eyes glistened ecstatically. 

Rachel's hair, ordinarily a light, fluffy frame for her face 
was now limp and straight, and her appearance had there- 
by lost half its charm .... that contradictory air of friv- 
olous asceticism and grave whimsicality which she usually 
conveyed. Her spirit, however, was one to triumph easily 
over dampness, stuffiness, or uncongeniality, and soared 
above heaviness in any form. One could fancy it floating to 
the ceiling of the tea room, where it perched and surveyed the 
scene below, enjoying various subtle beauties about the place 
and smiling to itself at the sight of its corporeal frame, solid 
and shabby, imbibing a substantial tea. From the ceiling, 
it seemed, floated Rachel's conversation, consisting of frag- 
ments injected between my own commonplace remarks. The 
inconsequentiality with which she invested my weightiness by 
the turn of a single phrase I took as a challenge and a rebuke, 
though that was not how it was meant. 

I spoke crudely of my work, and set forth my difficul- 
ties in writing a history paper in terms which sounded in- 
ordinately trite in my own ears because they were used in 
conversation with Rachel. . . .though I knew that her spirit, 
soaring, was impervious to crudities. 

"Papers," said Rachel slowly. " they are certainly 

unbearable unless you suddenly get interested in something 

entirely beyond the point. I did once " she lapsed into 

a wicked chuckle. The flavor of her thought seemed to last 
for several minutes. Then she drank a little tea. Then. 

"Ibsen and a Japanese image," she went on. "It was 
mystifying. 

"Was it well received?" I prodded her. 

"Well, you see many things entered into the reception 
thereof. Oh, that lovely day ... it was on a Friday, too!" 

"Whom were you writing it for?" I persisted, with the 
obnoxious air of one who pounds defiantly at a locked door. 



The Smith College Monthly 3.5 

"That," said Rachel, "is one of the many things. . . Shi 
seemed a little tired of the conversation .'it thai point, bu1 it 
was certainly her own fault. She always managed to maki 
me feel as if I were boring her, and thai made me stubborn, 

"I had a written the other day," I flung al her. Six did 
not even wince as I told her some of the questions on the writ- 
ten, but seemed to have sunk into a profound and wakeful 
dream. 

"I have it." she interrupted me gently. 'The errand. 
1 know now that I wanted to wire somebody. 1 was going 
away this week. . . 1 was in a state of confusions. Should I 
go?" Her eyes became troubled. "It's a peculiar matter. I 
wish you could deeide for me.. ." By this time 1 had lapsed 
into sulkiness, and would not draw her out on the subject 
of her problem, nor would I advise her. 

"It means tying up a lot of loose ends," was all that she 
would volunteer as to the nature and importance of the pro- 
posed trip. "But I can't see my way very definitely. . ."she 
rose in a daze. We had finished our tea. "If you could only 
eat something else. . ." she implored, "I could think as you 
ate." I was obdurate, and she shook her head as she gathered 
up her books and my gloves. We paid the check and walked 
out on Main Street once more. There was more silence, then 
suddenly she turned to me radiant. 

"I know now," she told me. "You have helped so much. 
Thank you." 

She stood still for several minutes in the middle of the 
street, then turned and went slowly in the direction of the 
telegraph office. 



36 The Smith College Monthly 



"ATQUE VALE.' 
Ethel Laughlin 



j^j 1 1 E hospital stood on the top of a hill which was bare 
vl/ of trees. For miles around one could see the angular 
gjgga brick building, with its two long, thin chimneys point- 
ing to the sky. A girl was walking up the dusty road which 
wound around the hill. Her feet seemed to drag a little, and 
every once in a while she would stop, and reflectively sniff 
the flowers she was carrying. Then she would look up at the 
gaunt, lonely building, and go on. 

Finally she reached the top of the hill. She paused for 
a moment on the steps of the hospital, and nervously tight- 
ened the paper around her flowers. Then she opened the 
door, and walked in. The place was intensely still. It was 
not a soft, enveloping stillness, but rather a brittle, repellent 
one. The girl stood irresolutely in the corridor, and fingered 
a button on her coat. In a moment a nurse appeared. The 
clear white of her uniform contrasted sharply with the cloudy 
gray of the walls. 

"You wish to see someone?" she asked the girl. 

"Yes. I— I want to " 

"Step this way!" and the nurse led the wav to a door 
marked "Office." 

Another nurse was seated at a desk in the office, busily 
examining some sort of chart. She looked up as the girl 
entered, and smiled question ingly. 

"Could I see Miss Ruth Scott?" the girl asked hesitant- 
ly. 

The smile slowlv faded from the nurse's face. 

"I don't believe " 

"Oh, please! I — I'm a very good friend of hers. When 
I called up they said I might." 

"When you called? Oh! You're Mary Barringer?" 
The girl nodded, and the nurse went on. "She has been ask- 
ing for you. But she's — very ill. She has been ever since her 
operation, but today " 



The Smith College Monthly 87 

"She's worse?" 

"She is worse, yes. I In- mother has been with her all 
day. I haven't heard how she is this afternoon. Bui she has 

wanted to sir you. Perhaps if you saw her for only a mo- 
ment it might not it might even do her good. Bui remem- 
ber, she is very ill. She must not he excited." 

"I know," Mary Barringer said, quietly. She followed 
the nurse out into the corridor. It seemed interminably long. 
Each time they passed an open door, she looked in. hall' fear- 
fully. An old woman, pitifully small in the middle of her 
white bed; a little child with curly golden hair, who was play- 
ing with a toy dog; — these were among the things the girl 
saw — and flowers, everywhere flowers! Mary clutched tight- 
ly at the stem of her bouquet. The stillness and the smell of 
ether made her feel slightly sick. 

They turned a corner, and still the nurse kept on going. 
Mary's feet seemed to her with each step to heat ceaselessly, 
"Ruth— Ruth— (left— right) Ruth— Ruth." Her hands 
were clammy; and she felt cold all over. 

The nurse turned to her. "Almost there," she said. 

"Oh!" Instead of being relieved, Mary shivered a little. 
She fought to control herself. She kept wondering, over and 
over, if Ruth's face would be as white as some of those others 
she had seen; and if Ruth would seem as pathetically small 
under the bedclothes. 

A doctor came out of a door ahead of them, and closed 
it softly behind him. He stood for a moment in an attitude 
of utter weariness, with his back towards Mary and the nurse. 
Then he turned, and stiffened as he saw' them. The nurse 
spoke. 

"She," indicating Mary," wants to see Miss Scott. She's 
the one she's been calling for." 

The doctor brushed his hand slowly across his forehead. 
before answering. Then he looked at Mary, and shook his 
head. Later, she remembered having noticed the blackness 
of his eyes, and the drawn, tired lines about his mouth. Hut 
then she seemed to be regarding him unseeingly. 

"No?" she questioned. "Why— why not ; " 

The doctor flashed a swift glance at the nurse, and 
turned back to Mary. He put his hand on her sleeve, gently. 



38 The Smith College Monthly 

She was scarcely conscious of that, hut the huskiness of his 
voice caught her attention instantly. 

"Oh! I — I'm sorry to have to tell you." He paused for 
a second, then cleared his throat. "You can't see her no' 
You see, she- — she died, just a moment ago." 



PREMONITION 

Elizabeth Hamburger 



You are like mad scarlet leaves 

Flung by strong wind 
Against a blue painter's sky. 

You are like leaping gold flame; 

Purple shadows 
Pulse to its darting devil dance. 

I am afraid — for I know 
What gold flame does 
To blown autumn leaves. 



The Smith College Monthly M«) 



greatest philosopher i\ the 
western world. 

[sobej Strong 



"First in the East; 

First in the West. 

And greatest Philosopher in the Western World." 



CHESE sonorous lines, conceived by Lord Timothy 
Dexter, were graven in marble beneath the statue of 
J88SI the great man concerned, set up on a pedestal fifteen 

feet high and placed in the full view of the masses of \e\v- 
buryport, Massachusetts in a magnificent garden on High 
Street in the year 1798. The Facts that the garden was 
Timothy Dexter's own, that the statue was one of himself, 
ordered and set up by himself, and that the inscription be- 
neath was Timothy Dexter's modest estimate of his own char- 
acter, only testify to the man's sturdy independence of 
thought, to his courageous and generous nature from which 
all petty fears and restraints had been swept away. He was 
never a man to harbor misgivings as to his own worth, never 
doubted his ability or wisdom and was little daunted by flu 
fact that this assurance was not shared by the common herd. 
The "Xowing ones'' as he calls philosophers like himself ap- 
preciated him, then and now. 

He fully recognized the importance of his advent into 
this world and explains how his destiny was written in the 
stars, telling it in his own incomparable fashion: "I was 
born when grat powers Rouled — I was borne in 1747, Jan- 
euary 22, on this day in the morning A grat snow storme — 
the sines in the seventh house wives; mars Came Cored 
Joupeter stud by holding the Candel— I was to be one Grat 
man," 

So it was written, and so he made himself. By sheer 
brute force he created himself "grat". He was not born 
great, despite the attendance of the heavenly bodies at his 
birth, but none can deny that he achieved greatness— of a 



40 The Smith College Monthly 

sort. His beginnings were lowly. A description of his par- 
ents would undeniably fall into that well-worn category, 
"poor hut honest". His schooling was negligible — sufficient 

to provide his uneanny business sense with a fair grasp of 
figures and to develop a form of written expression entirely 
unique in the history of human letters. His spelling is quite 
unhampered by any servile obedienee to orthographical 
laws — it is a free, untrammelled thing, with a fine disregard 
for ordinary man-made limitations. It follows — your pardon, 
Timothy Dexter — it follows nothing at all — it may be said to 
initiate a form of phonetics, but the conception and execution 
is solely Dexterian. All the rest of his knowledge he has 
drawn from the "Xatur" that he professes great love for. 
With such equipment, and guided by a "lite" which he be- 
lieved he had "for the blind wharein my felloe mortels have 
bin Douped for many thousand years with untrouth" he 
started life, setting up at the Sign of the Glove as a leather 
dresser, near the wharves in Xewburyport. 

Xow for twenty years Timothy Dexter's "lite" seems 
to have burned low, but steadily. He continued at his trade 
as a quiet, inconspicuous citizen, saving his energy and money 
for greater things than dispensing leather gloves and 
breeches to the Xewburyport population. The Revolution- 
ary War with all its turmoil and excitement came and went, 
leaving the country in a very critical financial state. Con- 
tinental currency was depreciated and wary Xew Engend- 
ers were frantically getting rid of what they had. Timothy 
Dexter's genius and courage now showed themselves. With 
unusual daring for the times and his position he put his twen- 
ty years' saving into buying up continental currency; after 
Alexander Hamilton's wizardry made this convertible into 
hard cash, Dexter found himself a very rich man. It was 
his first successful gamble, to be followed by many others far 
more sensational. 

It was also his first step toward the "grateness" for 
which he was destined. He at once made suitable change of 
environment to keep pace with his advanced position in so- 
ciety, moving into the fine old Tracy mansion, which reversed 
fortunes had placed upon the block. It was one of those 
graceful yet substantial big square houses that men were 
building then to last as ancestral home for coming genera- 



The Smith College Monthly 41 

tions, when hopes for an American peerage were running 
high. Newburypori was shaken to its august and aristocratic 
foundations. Here was a parvenu, an upstart, Boiling the 
threshold of an old, revered house, and facing Newburypori 
society with no decently obsequious mien, hut strutting bold- 
ly, shamefacedly about, acting as if the house and the posi- 
tion it implied really belonged to him. Dexter's was an 
adaptable nature, destined for great things and coming into 
its own with a flourish; he immediately entered into the en- 
joyment of his new wealth with a /est and thorough-going 
heartiness that characterized all his actions— particularly 
the enjoyment of his cellar as may he gathered from the in- 
dignant comments of citizens who resented the signs and 
sounds of "unseemly merriment" issuing from poor Nath- 
aniel Tracy's house. Old established standards of conduct 
were swept aside by Timothy with the gesture of one who 
could and would set his own criteria. Not being accepted 
by the aristocracy, Dexter gathered around him a group of 
free-lances, most of them rather shabby and hungry, but 
"philosophers" like himself and capable of following if not 
understanding his flights of wit and genius. These were en- 
tertained by him long and loudly and late of nights and were 
the source of the "unseemly merriment" which disturbed so- 
berer citizens. 

Dexter, on coming into his own had had two trading 
vessels and some warehouses built for himself and launched 
into a career as a .Merchant — a career that has never been 
equalled, not even approached by any other shrewd Yankee 
bargain driver for its daring, its seeming foolhardiness, its 
spectacular strokes of fortune. Dexter's trade, like much of 
New England's was with the West Indies. Some Newbury - 
port wags, working on the assumption that a fool and his 
money are soon parted, suggested to Dexter that he export 
warming-pans to the Indies. He accepted their idea with 
bland alacrity, bought up quantities of the things, and while 
Xewburyport held its sides and rocked with laughter at his 
simplicity, Dexter's men removed the lids, attached to them 
"hansom handels" and sold them to West Indies sugar man- 
ufacturers for skimmers in the boiling vats, the pan parts 
finding ready sale as ladles. Timothy Dexter was evidently 
informed bv visions of business ventures — he savs, "Drole a 



42 The Smith College Monthly 

Xuf I Dreamed of worming pans three nites, that thay 
would done in the were inges", and was undeniably justified 
"I cleared siventy-nine per cent— the pans thay made yous 
of them for Coueking". 

Dexter knew they were laughing at him — hut the sus- 
picion lurks in the mind as to who was being most deceived, 
lie was having" his laugh, too. "Trouth" says he, "I afirme 
I am so much of A fule the Rougs want to git my Jouels 
and loaves and littel fishes without my leave. They all ealed 
me a foull, fortey years. Now I eall all fouls hut ones 
men — ". He looked susceptible — Marquand says of him. 
"the gait, the look, the voice and mental processes of a peri- 
patetic gold mine, only waiting to be tapped" enticed many 
would-be wits into the attempt to profit at his expense. But 
the shrewdness, acumen and foresight of his bargains belied 
the naivete of his appearance, and he lost few of his jouels 
and littel fishes. 

People began to talk of his exploits — word was being 
passed that he had sent a consignment of mittens to the 
Indies! And so he had, and made good profit on them too, 
taking advantage of his knowledge that the islands formed a 
point in a three cornered trade with Norway and Sweden. 
But he was buying up eats — live cats, and crating them for 
shipment! Newburyporters should have been humbly grate- 
ful, asked no questions and given him thanks, for the town 
has always been overblessed with the prowling beasts, but 
people were horrified at first and then amused. They 
stopped their snickering however when Timothy's cats sold 
at five dollars a head to eager warehouse owners in the 
Indies where rats were a plague and cats at a premium. He 
bought up anything other merchants scorned — anything that 
looked like an unsafe investment and turned it into silver. 
He got a corner in whalebone, buying it up secretly in Bos- 
ton and New York and Salem cheaply — "thay all laffed so 
I had at my oan pris" — then "in 50 days thay smelt a Rat, 
found whare it was gone to Nouebry Port. Speklelaters 
swormed like hell houns, to be short with it I made siventy 
five per sent." 

With frankness and considerable pride he tells of his 
venture in Bibles, shipping them to the benighted heathen 
in the Indies. "I found I was very luckky in spekkelation. 



The Smith College Monthly 48 

I dreamed thai the good hook was Run Down in this Coun- 
f ivy nine years gone, so low as halfe prise and Dull al that, 
the bibel I means. I had the Ready Cash 1 borl 129? under 
halfe pris thay Cos! fortey cents Bach bibbel 21,000 I 
put them into 21 vessels for the \V. inges and sent a text 
thai all of them musl have one bibel in Every familey or if 
not thay would goue to hell and if thay had Dun vviked flie 
to the bibel and on thare Neas and kiss the bibel 8 times and 
look up to heaven annesl for forgivnes. My Capttens all 
had Compleat orders here Corns the good luck, I made 
100^5 and littel over. Then I found 1 had made money 
anuf — I hant speck alated sence old times by govemenl se- 
eourities I made or cleared $17,000 — that is the old afare. 
Now 1 toald all the sekret. Now he still; let me A lone. Don! 
wonder Xoe more hone I got my money, boaz." Hut the 
hoys did wonder, will never cease to wonder at "houe" Tim- 
othy Dexter got his money. 

Timothy was now a wealthy man — he had gathered unto 
himself all the proper attachments of a man of wealth, his 
line house, horses and carriage, warehouses, and trading ves- 
sels on the sea. His name was gaining recognition, aye, more 
than that, was becoming a thing to conjure with, a name to 
he feared. Merchants were afraid to sell off their most worth- 
less old stock, lest Timothy Dexter buy it up and make a 
fortune on it. He was approaching the "grateness" for 
which he was destined, hut there Mas a lack in his life, lie 
longed for the esteem of an admiring people — for the acclaim 
of the multitude — for crowds huzzahing at his approach. In 
one small thing he felt that he was beginning to get it — poor 
foolish Dexter! The latent desire for fame was dulling his 
insight and when crowds of derisive small hoys ran at the 
heels of his cream colored horses and swarmed over his coach 
shouting, "Huzza, Huzza! Long live Dexter!" he thought 
he was tasting wine of popular applause. It was sweet to 
him and he wanted more and yet more. 

His opportunity came, and Dexter was not the man to 
ignore it. At the opening of a new bridge across the Merri- 
mack in which he was a heavy shareholder, a goodly part of 
the population of Newburyport was gathered in a tavern on 
Deers Island, celebrating the event with wine and song. 
Dexter's spirits rose high in the midst of such conviviality 









44 The Smith College Monthly 

produced chiefly at his own expense. Suddenly he was 
moved to speech. Some inner not-to-be-denied urge drove 
him on, and climbing upon a table he burst into unexampled 
eloquence. The lusty cheers of the inebriated wags drink- 
ing his liquor warmed his spirits — like one inspired he spoke 
with many tongues, none of them intelligible. He was utter- 
ly incomprehensible. There was no need for comprehensibil- 
ity. His audience was uncritical. Cheer upon eheer punc- 
tuated the remarkable flow of Dexterian wisdom which might 
have been more prolonged and posterity benefited thereby 
had not an "impertnent blue puppy," as Dexter affirms, 
"tried to upset my poulpet". This unusual animal, then, 
real or visionary, put an end to his triumphal debut, but from 
thenceforth Dexter' s chief aim in life was to stay in the publie 
eye and esteem. Xo man ever more openly and honestly 
sought the love of his fellow men. He was fated to great 
disappointment. 

He wanted to see friendly crowds in his rooms and at 
his tables, but his hospitably opened door was ignored by 
the owners of the coaehes that now rolled heedlessly on past 
the old Tracy mansion. His strategic powers sought to 
mend this situation, and an announcement in the Xewbury- 
port Impartial Herald was the result. This was the next 
Dexterian monstrosity that burst upon the public: 

"To the Curious 

A Beautiful African 

LION 

To be seen every day in the week, Sundays except- 
ed, during its continuance in town at one of the out- 
buildings in Mr. Dexter's yard." 
Since the toAvnspeople would not come otherwise, he hoped 
to entice them in, with a lion as bait — a lion from "the woods 
of Goree, a Xobel animal upwards of three feet high". It 
did attract the curious but they came and went away con- 
temptuously, leaving poor Dexter baffled and unhappy. He 
sent the "nobel" animal back to its keeper. 

Xow since the respectable element would not accept him 
he began taking in the much less respectable. The ancestral 
furniture of the Tracey's suffered in consequence — Dexter's 



The Smith College Monthly 15 

name began to have considerable odium attached to it. 1 1 1 ^ 
attentions to loose women were calling down the wrath <>r 
the town fathers, and the censure found expression in the 
lively activities of their offspring. Hordes of small boys 
swarmed into his garden, stealing his choices! fruits and 
vegetables, sometimes getting as far as his cellar and making 
off with his excellent wines. Dexter's indignant and unique- 
ly worded protests in the Newburyport Impartial Herald 
evoked more mirth than sympathy or holy fear, and his dire 
threats of exposure of the miscreants' names had no effects. 
The thieving went on merrily, lie demands to know from 
Newburyport at large why he should contribute to the good- 
ly sum of $100 per year to support a town watch if his gar- 
dens are to be stripped nightly, his picket fence carried oil 
to the outskirts of the town "whare it is noe yous to Me". 
Hut there was no response. Dexter found his name becom- 
ing less and less popular— and he played his last card. He 
offered to give Newburyport a fine public hall, with the only 
condition attached that it be named after him. His mag- 
nanimous offer was refused, and old Timothy felt it was time 
he and Newburyport should part. He put announcements 
of the sale of his goods in the paper, drove an excellent bar- 
gain on his house, and rode off in his cream colored coach, 
behind his cream colored horses, to "Chestre, new hamsher." 

With him went his family, who constituted no small 
part of his troubles. His wife was a woman of narrow vision 
and Xew England birthright — a hard dry woman living in a 
continual state of horror, bewilderment and contempt for 
her husband and his unusual abilities. She had nagged at 
him for years, had opposed him always in his upward efforts, 
had misunderstood him as thoroughly as possible. Dexter, 
driven to distraction, finally evolved a solution for his 
troublesome attachment that should place him on a level with 
Greek philosophers. He ceased to believe in her existence. 
She was dead. This was a ghost — a very persistent and 
noisy ghost in truth, but to his mind only an evil spirit that 
stayed about after his real wife's death to annoy him. 1 1 c 
always spoke of her and to her as "my wife that Avas" or "my 
deer dead wife." Mrs. Dexter's own rather limited mind 
never found a coup that could meet this Machiavellian stroke 
— never found a satisfactory means of freeing herself from 



46 The Smith College Monthly 

the spirit world. She continued to grace his bed and hoard, 
quite benumbed by this stupendous gesture of his and striv- 
ing in vain to make herself the nuisance she once had been. 

She and her son, Samuel, a half-witted youth who had in- 
herited all his father's vices and none of his virtues, formed 
the happy home circle from which Dexter escaped as often 
as possible to seek more convivial companions elsewhere. 

However, when Dexter left Newburyport the "ghost" 
and the halfwit were by his side. Landed in Chester a cloud 
of obscurity descends upon the family broken only by vague 
mutterings and occasional flashes. It was rumored that 
Dexter was again disporting himself with the village 
wenches in a fashion ill befitting a man of fifty years. But 
stranger news was filtering through to Newburyport. Some- 
one had dubbed him "Lord Dexter" and the name was 
sticking! Probably in some drunken flights of fancy Dext- 
er's regal bearing had called forth the title and in the light 
of his extravagant living — his free handed entertaining and 
riotous revelling — not to mention his cream colored coach 
and horses! — its application no doubt tickled the sensibilities 
of the jolly Chesterites. Whatever the spirit in which it was 
given, Dexter accepted the honor in no light vein. In many 
a man's heart lurked the secret desire to see himself or his 
son an American peer, and to Dexter his knighting by a 
village wag came as the fruition of earnest desires and con- 
siderable labor. He felt he had not in vain flung his money 
to the winds like rain. 

Now he could not resist the temptation to snap his noble 
fingers beneath Newburyport's nose. Back he went — a liv- 
ing, breathing lord, the impudent embodiment of the cher- 
ished hopes of many soberer saner men, and a thorn in their 
flesh. Lord Timothy's extravagances now ascended to 
erratic heights. He bought up a library — hundreds of fine 
bindings, with not a glance at what lay within them. He 
sent a man abroad with unlimited cash to collect for an art 
gallery, and the man came back actually bearing some of 
the old masters. Lord Dexter was not pleased by the 
ancient grimey smudges — he loved the modern gaudy 
daubs, yet he wanted his collection to have a worthy name in 
artistic circles. Characteristically he met the situation and 
altered it to his will — he had the venerable names scratched 



The Smith College Monthly 17 

across the canvasses of his lurid loves and sen! back the dull 
faded things pasl generations had labelled "masterpieces. 
Timothy Dexter's mind \ \ .- 1 s ever free and open, uncowed 
by tradition. Down from the walls of the nev Dexter man- 
sion stared many an uncouth Correggio, El Greco and 
Rembrandt. 

Dexter was very near to happiness. Newburyporl had 
been impressed by his titled condition, and were circumspeel 
in the observance of it. Lord Dexter he was and none came 
to deny it. He searched through a hook of heraldry, found 
several crests that pleased him and with his customary lav- 
ishness had them all painted on his coach door. Another fine 
gesture was his attaching to himself a poet laureate one 
Joseph Plummer, a disreputable hack writer who had once 
sold haddock on the wharves, hut now scented greater 
profits from a position as hanger-on of the first lord of the 
land. He was most enthusiastic in his new duties. A long 
and lavish eulogy on Lord Dexter appeared in the Impar- 
tial Herald, and from that time on his name was a frequenl 
ornament of its columns. Dexter was overjoyed and felt 
that his laureate should he fittingly crowned, even as Virgil 
and Terence. The ceremony was to he performed in tin 
garden, and a crowd of hoys gathered to watch the prepara- 
tions. Lord Dexter in the generosity of his nature, invited 
them in. and they contained themselves admirably through 
the flowery speeches of the contracting parties until there 
came the actual coronation scene. In the absence of the 
more conventional ivy or laurel Dexter had used parsley for 
the chaplet. As he was about to place it upon the poet's 
brow his audience became so boisterous in their expressions 
of joy that the ceremony had to he abruptly abandoned, and 
laureate and patron fled precipitously into the hack kitchen. 

That garden was to see stranger sights. Lord Timothy 
felt that his days were drawing near their close — a too 
bibulous existence was now taking its revenge with gout and 
choleric tempers. Into the terrace of this same garden he 
built his tomb, topped by a "toner, with 128 squars of glas 
in". The coffin within was "sumtuos, of wite with green 
trims and nobel bras nobs, and a key that I can take inside 
with me, whare I have my bibel. pipes and tobaco." He 
conducted a funeral for himself, got into his green and white 



48 The Smith College Monthly 

coffin (with the key inside) and was placed in the vault. The 
mourners of whom there were according to Dexter "nere 
three thousan", went into the house to console themselves 
with wine, when from the kitchen came frightful noises and 
cries of anguish. The dead had risen, "ghost was meeting 
ghost" — Dexter in great wrath was beating his wife because 
she had not wept realistically enough at his funeral. 

Dexter felt that in leaving this earth he should leave 
Newburyport a lasting memorial of himself, a testimonial to 
interest in world events and characters. From this desire 
sprang full-fledged a collection of noteworthy individuals of 
impeccable merit and unapproachable fame. In his garden 
Lord Timothy had erected Avooden statues, life size, set upon 
fifteen foot pedestals, of all those he considered "grat" in 
the world's history. To forty personages he extended this 
privilege, and no one could expect Timothy Dexter to slight 
himself. He was there among the other "grat." There were 
Moses and Aaron, Napoleon, Alexander Hamilton, Louis 
XVI, the rulers of all the existing powers; the first three 
Presidents with the Father of his Country gracing a gigantic 
archAvay over the door; and Timothy himself with the trib- 
ute from himself inscribed beneath: 

"First in the East, 
First in the West, 
And greatest Philosopher in the Western World." 

Let none sneer merely because Timothy Dexter was the 
only one in his own generation who understood and appre- 
ciated the surpassing uniqueness of himself. Posterity has 
found his estimate good. He was first, and more than that 
he was last. There has been no other like him. 

He had one more great act to perform. Even as be- 
fore he had been moved to utterance on Deers Island, he 
now felt the desire to write down his philosophical experi- 
ences. Lord Timothy, "Natur lant, not devil or colege lant" 
wrote a book. "A Pickle for the Noeing Ones" is the title 
of this gem. It is short, yet deals with every subject from 
Creation to New England trading. The foregoing quota- 
tions have come from it. At the time Dexter had to pay 
for the publication, but it has since run into ten editions and 
may be found now in print. Its style is no style we recog- 
nize or categorize — it is Dexter's own voice speaking — fresh, 



The Smith College Monthly 49 

forcible, strong with an absolute naturalness in phrase and 
expression thai makes it vivid as the spoken word, lis il<>\\ 
is unbroken by any kind of punctuation and this feature 
seems to have produced comment thai reached the author's 

ear. lie sent the following spicy note to the publishers of 
the second edition : 

"Fourder mister printer tlu Mowing ones corn- 
plane of my hook the first edition had no stops I 
put in A nuf here and thay may peper and soli it 
as thay plese." 
Followed a tine assortment of periods, commas, exclamation 
points and question marks. 

Some "Nowing ones" may have complained hut the true 
Nowing ones for whom the "Pickle" was written recognize 
the invaluable merit of the unedited text where one feels un- 
expurgated the force of the rough master hand. 

He died not long after his great work was finished, and 
was laid away in his green and white coffin. I hope he took 
the key inside so that his restless spirit may come out and 
again walk chuckling through the crooked streets of \e\v- 
buryport. 



50 The Smith College Monthly 



WRITING A MASTERPIECE 

Eleanor 1)ki.axd 



VpFlRITIXCi-rash is a most peculiar disease. Some people 
\JJ it attacks once like measles and leaves immune. To 
§ggs others it conies periodically, usually in the spring and 
fall, like poison ivy. Still others, apparently in good health, 
awake some morning with the fatal itch for the pencil. It 
usually breaks out on me at some opportune moment as in 
dead of night when the family is asleep and all writing ma- 
terials downstairs, when I am in a canoe on the middle of a 
lake, or auto-riding with someone I do not care for, or best 
of all, when I am in the bathtub. Just as some men who 
have no great reputation for singing, when in the bathtub 
burst into melodious song, so I too am then inspired to com- 
pose countless lovely things. Some day. I assure my itch- 
ing fingers. I will write these down — when I have the time. 
Hut. alas. I never seem to find the time. A few hours a week 
to devote to writing is time enough to dash off some flip, 
trivial thing, but my bathtub masterpieces require more— 
they are deep. I used to pray that something would happen 
to my right hand, nothing permanent or painful of course, 
just some little twist that would incapacitate it for a week 
or so. Xot being particularly ambidextrous I knew that in 
writing with my left hand I should have to go more slowly. 
I should be forced to notice the "t's" and "s's," my "p\s" and 
"q's" — my left hand is quite stubborn about forming letters 
— and thus, like Stevenson, I might come to write rhythmic 
and euphonious prose. 

At last my wish has come true. Unfamiliar with the 
domestic arts, I had a slight difficulty with a Hat iron which 
left my right hand with a few blisters and many imposing 
bandages to incite the undeserved sympathy of my friends. 

With supreme delight I grasped my pen firmly with my 
left hand. a Now at last I was going to write a masterpiece, 
something I could hold up to the world and say. "To this 
have I lived, breathed, slept, eaten, drank . . ." but alas words 
refused to come. My bed was no substitute for a canoe or 



The Smith College Monthly j 1 

auto and as for the chilling things the) called a bath, it 
(lamped my sheets and my spirits. 

'Mother/' 1 cried, "can'1 you give me a subject? 1 vvanl 
something really big this time, something deep." 

"Try the ocean," she suggested. 

Theocean! I felt truly inspired. Slowly and laborious- 
ly I traced out the first line beautiful rhythmic prose. 

"Mother," 1 exclaimed, "I've caught it. the miehtv rise 
and tall of the sea. Listen. 'Roll on thou deep and dark 
blue ocean roll.' " 

"Somehow," remarked mother, "it seems as if I had 
heard that before." 

A vision of Spoken English 11 rose before my eyes. 
Alack! So had I. Hut I must begin it some way. What 
words should 1 choose? How could 1 ever describe the gaiety 
of the sea all blue and silver, dancing in the sunlight, the 
terror of the sea raging in a storm, the mystery of the green. 
tearful hollows, the fierce joy of flying spray? Polufloio- 
boios. There in that one word was expressed the pounding 
of the surf, the swish of waves, breaking on a gentle shore, 
the rise and fall of billows out at sea. 

"I should like to write in Greek, mother," said I. "it 
has such eloquent words." 

"Do," replied mother, "it would probably he just as 
intelligible." 

Remembering the old saying about the little- prophet in 
the home, I ignored her remark. 

"I think," I continued, "1 shall begin by begging the 
ocean to tell what it has seen of pirates, shipwrecks, innocent 
maidens walking the plank, seahorses, sea fights, and sea 
sickness." 

"I think," said mother, "in such a deep subject you are 
likely to be quite swamped. You'd better limit it. for ex- 
ample, to the spell of the sea." 

"That sounds too much like Longfellow." I scoffed. 

"Well, that's only a suggestion. You might have a 
boy brought up near the sea who hates it. tries to escape 
from it, yet no matter where he goes he feels it calling, lur- 
ing him even in his dreams, till at last, an old man, he comes 
back, buys a fish boat, and finds peace in spinning yarns 
with the other old fishermen on the beach." 



52 The Smith College Monthly 

"Which is hackneyed enough to he a movie plot," I 
commented ungraciously, "but I might as well try it. It 
ought to offer opportunities for interesting psychological 
study." 

Laboriously I started in again. 

''Paul stood gazing out over the great gray-green— 

"Greasy Limpopopo river," irrelevently murmured 
mother. 

"How can I write when you keep interrupting?" I de- 
manded. "Now the whole thing's slipped out of my mind. 
It's no use trying to write with my left hand, anyway. By 
the time I've finished one word I've forgotten what was sup- 
posed to come next. I guess I'll wait until my right hand 
gets well." 



The Smith College Monthly 58 

THE SCANDAL ABOUT THE SCHOOL 

A One-Act Play by 

Henrietta Wells and Mary Arbkxz 

PERSONS OF THE COMED1 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan 
David Garrick 

Dodd Played Benjamin Backbite 

Palmer Played Joseph Surface 

Kinjr Played Sir Peter Teazle 

Smith Played Charles Surface 

.Mrs. Abington Played Lady Teazle 

Betsy Hopkins Played Maria 

Mr. Bugley, the dumier 

Mrs. Sheridan 

Kitty Clive 

Mr. Sheridan 

Dr. .Johnson & Boswell 

Charles Fox 

Time: Late afternoon, May 8, 1777. 

Scene: In the wings of the Drury Lane Theatre, 
London. Entrance door from outside stage left; narrow 
wooden bench bach left; door to Sheridan's office center 
back; back right table and chair; right door entrance to stage 
proper. 

The curtain rises on a dark stage. Two figures coming 
from different directions collide with one another. 

Dodd: (bowing ) Your most obedient — 

Palmer: (bowing) Your humble servant, sir. 

Dodd: 'Pou my soul, Jack, is it you? 

Palmer: Ay — and we've both come on the same errand. 
I'll wager. 

Dodd: No others? 'Tis deuced strange. I would've 
thought Smith and Betsy Hopkins were so eager for their 
parts they had been hammering at Sheridan's door an hour 
since. 

(Enter Garrick left.) 

Garkick: (bowing) Gentlemen! Where's Sherry? 

(The\f point to door back. Garrick starts towards it.) 

Dodd & Palmer: Ha! ha! ha! Your pains for nothing. 



54 The Smith College Monthly 

Mr. Garrick. Sherry's locked in. 

Gaerick: Locked in! What the devil! 

Dodd: ii' you han't been in the country the last two 
days, you'd heard the scandal about "The School"- 

Garrick: Scandal? What scandal? 

Dodd: At the rehearsal yesterday. Sherry had not yet 
writ the last scene; when it was discovered the players 
brawled like the pit at Sadlers' Well, Smith in a rage. Betsy 
Hopkins in tears — 

Palmer: Jack here worried for fear of being hissed oft' 
the boards on the morrow — 

Dodd: In short, everyone in a fine stew — 

Palmer: With Sheridan as the cook. 

Dodd: So this noon King enticed him with rehearsal as 
bait — lured him into tlie green room — and locked him in with 
writing materials, a bottle of claret and a plate of anchovy 
sandwiches. (Enter door right Mrs. Hopkins in evident eon- 
fusion, Mrs. Abington more calmly, King and Smith.) 

Betsy Hopkins: Where are my lines? Where's Sherry? 
Smith and me'll be the ridicule of the pit, if we do our love 
scene in dumb show! 

Mrs. Abington: There is some dumb show in love 
scenes that has a marvelous soothing effect on the pittites, 
my dear Betsy. 

(The rest laugh.) 

Betsy: How can you jest, Mrs. Abington? A half 
hour before curtain time and no lines for the last scene. I 
vow Sherry is past endurance. (Holds salts to her nose.) 

Smith: Methinks when so much depends on't, Sher- 
ry'd been working at it this long time. 

King: Sir, Sherry must be long bottled — then tossed 
off at the uncorking. 

(Loud knocking from Green Room.) 

Sheridan: Finished at last, thank God! 

Chorus: Amen! 

(Sheridan pounds more.) 

Sherry: A pox on you! Let me out. The claret s fin- 
ished too. Ods lock and bolts, come open the door. Garry, 
King — (Then hurry to open it. Sherry stands victoriously 
in the doorway, wig askew, quill pen behind his ear, one hand 
clutching a mass of papers — the oilier the empty bottle.) 



The Smith College Monthly 55 

She mo : Gentlemen, your parts are well favored 
Ladies, I han'1 done as well by you as you II do bj your- 
selves. Here Betsy my dear give it oul to 'em. 

I lands her the script and sinks on the lunch upstagi . J 
Betsy: (sweeping curtesy.) Thank you, Mr. Sheridan. 

This is a welcome surprise to receive our parts «'i full half 
hour before the performance. 'Tis more than we expected. 

Smith: I wonder you didn't give us the lines to walk 
on with M r. Sheridan. 

Sherry: (good humoredly) I was afraid you'd look 
deuced awkward clasping Betsy hew in your arms, with a 
sheaf of papers in your hand so here's your part now. 

(All except Garrick exit right affecting "la grande 
maniere".) 

Garrick: Well, Dick— 

Sherry: Eh, Garry, what would you? Have me al- 
ways inked up like a printer's clerk? They'll learn the lines 
in no time. Let's fill a dozen bumpers to the success of "The 
School for Scandal." 

Garry: No, no. my dear fellow — What — speak the 
prologue as drunk as any sot in the pits — so befuddled that 
my "s's" curl back on me and hiss in my face! A bumper 
after the play — I've business forward now. (Exit Garry.) 

Garry: (putting head in door.) A gentleman for you. 
Sherry. 

Dunxer: (advances with determination written on his 
face to Sherry w)io does not rise.) Mr. Sheridan. 1 believe . 
sir. (Sheridan bows.) 

Duxxer: Name is Bugley, sir. A year ago to the day, 
sir. Ave lent you 2000 pounds to have been paid this six 
months past. sir. Money transactions are to be settled 
promptly, not at the borrower's convenience, sir. I call the 
loan and I call it now or I call in the bailiffs, sir. 

Sherry: My dear fellow — pray leave that odious word 
out of the conversation. I han't realized the loan was so 
pressing, I assure you. 

Dunner: Pressing, that's what it is. sir. and it'll be 
more pressing when the gaoler takes hold. sir. (Changes 
tone.) Ay. sir. and I'm in sore need of the money. My two 
little ones are sick and my wife han't been off her back these 
three Aveeks. 



56 The Smith College Monthly 

Sherry: (solicitiously.) Infirmity in the joints? 

Dunner: No, sir, a sort of heart burn, you might say. 
But about this money, I — 

Sherry: Mm, I had the same fever myself two months 
since. Consider my dreadful plight, sir. A feverish gnaAv- 
ing aehe about the heart — J was consumed by fire — my 
friends had given me up — I'd even made my will, sir, settling- 
all my earthly debts including yours, of whieh I made spe- 
eial mention. As a last favor, Mr. Garriek brought me a 
bottle of his Apricot Brandy, aged in the wood and hid. it 
so warmed the cockles of my heart that I was myself in a 
few days, sir. 

Dunner: You don't say so, sir. Poor Maria would 
dearly love— 

Sherry: How, how? Is her name Maria? "Tis the* 
name of the heroine in my play tonight. She shall have a 
bottle and mav it bring us both good luck. (Calls.) Ho, 
Boy. 

(Enter Servant.) 

Sherry: Two bottles of Mr. Garrick's Aprieot Brandy 
at once, Sirrah. (Edit servant.) 

Dunner: This is indeed kind of you, sir. 

Sherry: Pshaw, my dear fellow. I'm glad to ha' been 
of service. (Enter boy ivith bottles. Sherry gives one to 
Dunner and opens door, ready to bote Dunner out.) My 
compliments, sir. 

Dunner: I thank you sir. 'Pon my soul, 'tis most 
uenerous of you, sir. But I don't wish to seem ungrateful 
sir— as regards the settlement, I must have it. 

Sherry: (elaborately casual.) Oh, the settlement. 
'Pon my soul, I'd forgotten. (Sinks head in hands melodra- 
matieally.) You come, sir, at an unfortunate time. My for- 
tune is mingled with the play tonight. Had you come to- 
morrow — my scanty funds are wrapped up in this venture — 

Dunner: A play, sir? 

Sherry: "The School for Scandal" I have a wife and 
son, too, sir they've stinted themselves for the success of this 
play. 

Dunner: I'm sure, sir, if another time would be con- 
venient or if — 

Sherry: If you might help? Yes, my dear fellow, you 



The Smith College Monthly 57 

may. A bit more will tide me over say 23 pounds. 

Dunner: (taken bach.) How, sir 1 < > ; 1 1 1 you 25 
pounds more, when you already owe me 2000? 'lis pre- 
posterous. 

Sherry: But, my dear sir, if the loan of five and 
twenty pounds tonighl will assure the repayment of 2025 
pounds tomorrow — 

Dunner: Ay, but — 

Sherry: My dear fellow, hear reason. The sum you 
ask me for is a very considerable one: whereas I only ask 
you for five and twenty pounds. 

Dunner: (scratching head.) Ay, it seems in reason. 
Well, you shall have it, sir (giving money) hut the next 

Sherry: I'll settle in full after the play has triumphed. 
Stay, my good — 

Dunner: Bugley, sir, is the name. 

Sherry: My good Bugley, pray accept tickets to the 
pit for you and your little ones tonight. Nay, 1 insist 
(writing on a slip of paper) a free pass for you all. Your 
most humble — 

DrxxEK: Your most obedient and grateful. (Goes 
out left clutching tickets.) 

(Sherry heaves sigh of relief — returns to t aisle. Opens 
other bottle of wine — drains one glass and pours another.) 

(Enter Betsy Hopkins right.) 

Betsy: Do I disturb you, Sherry^ 

Sherry: My dear Betsy, you always disturb me— but 
I suppose a belle becomes inured to the commotion her pres- 
ence eauses her admirers. A glass of wine? 

Betsy: (talcing wine.) I, a, how you flatter one! 
Sherry, I wanted to ask why you gave Smith and me such 
a paltry love scene and how may we satisfy the pittites with 
"a word, a glance"? 

Sherry: Betsy, my dear, 'twas intentional. Smith 
plays the lover like any gawky schoolboy so I kept you apart 
till the last scene. 

Betsy: 'Pon my soul, Sherry, did ye write the play 
just for us? But how shall I play it now? You see, we 
han't been near each other 'till Sir Peter says— 

Sherry: (in Sir P's voice.) "What, you rogue, don't 
you ask the girl's consent first?" (in Charles 3 voice.) "Oh, I 



58 The Smith College Monthly 

have done that a long time — a minute ago and she looked 
yes." 

Betsy: (as Maria.) "For shame. Charles! 1 protest, 
Sir Peter, there has not been a word." (as Heist/.) Sir 
Peter brings Charles to me on stage right and joins our 
hands — Should Charles embrace me then — or I withdraw 
my hand in "bashful modesty"? 

Sherry: 'Tis a grave question, madam. 

Betsy: Or, on the last speech, when Charles, turning 
to me. says, "hut here shall be my monitor, my gentle guide" 
—should we embraee then ( I appeal to your authorship 
for advice. 

(Szcceping him a lore curtesy.) 

Sherry: (bowing.) His authorship says — "you should 
withdraw this pretty hand (taking it) from Charles— in 
bashful modesty." But, on the last speech- -Charles shall 
set his arm about your waist — so (doing it) and say "But 
here shall be my monitor — my g;entle guide — Ah, how can I 
leave the virtuous path those eyes illumined" Then Charles 
shall gaze into your eyes — so — and kiss you — so. (suits ac- 
tion to the word.) 

Betsy: (jumps bach.) I, a, sir. — did I ask for a dem- 
onstration? 

Sherry: Xo, madam, 'twas hut a rehearsal. I must 
have you letter perfect in your part and so, miss, if you 
please, I'll call a dress rehearsal. 

(Kisses her again. Enter Mrs. Sheridan door left.) 

Mrs. Sheridan: Sherry! — I intrude perhaps — 

Betsy: (stammering. ) I think — they call me on the 
stage, Mr. Sheridan — Pray excuse me. madam — (Eccit 
hastily.) 

Sherry: My dear Eliza — pray sit down. "I admit ap- 
pearances are against me — but I can explain everything." 

Eliza: (seating herself. Ironically.) "There's noth- 
ing so noble as a man of sentiment." (angrily) Sherry, how 
durst you behave so? I should fancy the play tonight 
would've proved sufficient diversion. 

Sherry: 'Pon my soul, 'Liza Ann, I but just — 

Eliza: (rising.) I pictured you — forgetful of all hut 
the success of your play — torn between rapture and despair. 
1 came alone to hearten — to aid you in hearing the rehearsal, 



The Smith College Monthly '♦ 

setting the stage, adorning the galleries aye, a thousand 
ways and I find you kissing Betsy Hopkins over a glass of 
wine. 

Sherry : Pray, Eliza, be not angry! 

Eliza: Angry! you mistake me, sir. 'Tis ridiculous, 
1 own, after your vows and protestations to have done willi 
wenches. 

Sherry: Eliza, 1 proles! I was but rehearsing. 

Eijza: Rehearsing! Last week 'twas the fault of too 
much wine the week before 'twas a bet and the week before 
that she kissed yon and it matters not who 'tis a barmaid, 
a serving wench or orange woman nay 'tis all one "you 
love a pretty maid." 

(Flings herself into chair again.) 

Sherry: (going over to Eliza, arm on her chair.) 'Liza 
dear, I'm a rake, a fop, a scoundrel with but one virtue — my 
wife. But it is our night of nights, Eliza, can't we agree 
not to disagree? 

Eliza: Am 1 always to play the role of the forgiving 
wife? Were it not for my love for you — you might have 
your flirtations and welcome! "Tis the fashion, I know — hut 
I, thank Heavens, am out of fashion. 

Sherry: And I'll be out of fashion henceforth, I swear. 
Come, say you forgive me, Liza mine. (Puts arm about her 
persuasivel if.) 

Eliza: Yes, Sherry. (He kisses her.) 

Sherry: (seated on arm of her chair.) Think. Liza, 
the play's finished — Sir Peter and Joseph Surface will 
really walk on the stage in a few minutes. Will they like 
it? Is it good? 

Eliza: It's more than good, Sherry. They must like it. 

Sherry: If it sueeeeds, we're made. If 1 hear the roar 
of the pit, the handclapping — depend on't, my Delia shall 
have a home, a coach, torches, equipage, if not— 

Eijza: If not — we've lived on nothing before. Five 
and twenty is not too great an age to begin life again. 

Sherry: We've been through fair and foul together, 
ever since we ran off to France, han't we Eli/a? 

Eliza: (laughing.) How I laughed so! I see you 
crowded into your corner of the postchaise and I into mine 



60 The Smith College Monthly 

— with the generous hulk of the ehaperone you had brought 

spreading over the rest of the seat. 

Sherry: D'ye remember how J disguised myself as a 
hackney coachman that I might drive you home from your 
concerts, so no one might suspect our secret marriage? That 
was rare venturing! 

Eliza: (softly.) But 1 liked best the rose-covered cot- 
tage at East Burnham — when we were finally united and 
you were mine, entirely. 

Sherry: (kissing her.) I am yours entirely and al- 
ways, dearest Liz. 

(Enter Gar rich hurriedly.) 

Garry: Sherry, Sherry, — a pox on polities and all of 
London! The play's to go on in a trice and the license re- 
voked ! 

Sherry: License revoked? Zounds, what do you mean? 

Garry: 'Twas just this minute that a messenger from 
my Lord Hertford, the Lord Chamberlain brought me the 
news. 

Sherry: Plagues and damnation! What said he? 

Garry: The license is revoked on the ground that the 
character of Moses is a satire on that villainous moneylend- 
er who was candidate for city chamberlain in opposition to 
Wilkes at the last General Election. 

Sherry: A pox on the man! Never knew there was a 
General Election. This is fine business. 

Eliza: The play must go on, Sherry. 

Sherry: It shall, it shall — I'll go see my Lord Hert- 
ford, he's supposedly a friend of mine. 

Garry: But it's 28 past the hour now, Dick, and the 
curtain raises at 6.30. You can't leave the theatre. 

Sherry: Then you go, Garry. 

Garry: I have to speak the prologue, if we play it. 

Sherry: We plav it. 

Eliza: I'll go, Sherry. I'll find Lord Hertford and 
explain how unfounded is this revocal. 

Sherry: Yes, do you go, Eliza — with all speed. (Exit 
Eliza left. Enter King.) 

King: Eh, Sherry, what's the matter. The pit's calling 
— why don't the play commence? 

Garry: The license's been revoked. 



The Smith College Monthly I . I 

King: How? 

Sherry: License or no license it shall begin. Go and 
speak the prologue, Garry, and be damned (<> the Lord 
Chamberlain ! 

( Exit Garry.) 

(Loud noises and cries of "Hurrah. Garrick" offstagi 
and then quiet and Garrick's voice is heard-. 

A School for Scandal, tell me, I beseech you, 

Needs there a school this modish art to teach you?" 

Sherry: (to King) All's ready? the east in their 
places? Who's prompting? 

Kino: Hopkins. 

Sherry: Hopkins hasn't been here for the last two re- 
hearsals and don't know I've changed two or three speeches. 
Does Miss Pope know her part? Her memory will not bear 
a heavy load and if she should forget her lines in the first 
scene — ■ 

King: She knows it. 

Sherry: The pit's lull — ay. full of cabbages and rotten 
tomatoes. (Clapping heard outside.) Is it the lines or 
Garry? Sure it he Garry — he always gets a hand, the luck) 
fellow — But we'll get a bigger. The pittites love Mrs. 
Abington and they won't let you speak for full five minutes 
for the shouting — and. King — if the pit's in sympathy, wail 
for the laughs — they're such a thick-witted lot. 

(Loud clapping and cheers.) Go to your place- 
Garry's done. 

(Enter Garry.) 

Sherry: Sh — wait, Garry, — the play's commencing 
(voice offstage): "The paragraphs you say. Mr. Snake, 
were all inserted?" 

"They were, madam, and as 1 copied them myself in a 
feigned hand there can be no suspicion whence they came." 

Sherry: (softly) How's the crowd, Garry? 

Garry: Packed to the doors when I entered — so 
there'll be no clambering over benches — pushing or shoving 
— all's quiet. 

Sherry: Ay. Garry — but the gallery — 

Garry: Lord North is in the first box to the left- 
Burke and Dr. Johnson next — Fox with mv Ladv Gordon 



62 The Smith College Monthly 

and my Lady Beesborough directly in front, and your father 
in the first box on the right. 

Sherry: My lather — where? — show me. Ay, I see 

him and black as a thunder cloud. Garry, "The School for 
Scandal" must be a success if only to conciliate my stubborn, 
amiable father — He's never forgiven my marriage. Egad— 
he laughs! (Roar from the pit.) 

Garry: Ay, it is a good line (in Lady Sneerwell's 
voice.) "Oh, Lud, you are going to be moral and forget that 
you're among friends." 

Sherry: Garry, if the license ain't granted — I'm 
ruined — thousands of pound in debt and with a lawsuit on 
my hands tomorrow. 

Garry: Calm yourself, Sherry. Lord Hertford will 
grant the license. Egad — how could Lord Hertford think 
that Moses — 

Sherry: To the devil with Moses — Why did I ever 
put the snivelling moneylender in the play? Unconscionable 
dog, indeed! 

Garry: Weren't you a little hasty in putting the play 
on? 

Sherry: Drury Lane would've been in the hands of 
the Philistines. You know the theatre has been sinking — 
the players disgruntled and the spectators bored with the 
old plays. 

Garry: I know it — but if the Lord Chamberlain pros- 
ecutes — ? You were hasty. 

Sherry: To have given up the management, to have 
ruined the theatre and my own fortune — to have creditors 
hammering at my door. I couldn't stand it! Money — 
money — the keystone of success! I've fought for every 
penny, Garry — I've laughed and entertained on nothing — 
withstood my creditors and now some political ass wants to 
bray a revocal in my ears! 'Tis past endurance. 

Garry: I know, Sherry — pray be more easy. 'Twill be 
granted. I'm sure. 

Sherry: Look 'ee, Garry, don't think it's the money 
or the theatre that's my only thought. It's good. — it's the 
best I'll ever do. What if I did dash off that last scene: ' 
None of you who call me an indolent wit. know how I've 
fashioned and refashioned every phrase until every unneces- 



The Smith College Monthly 68 

sary epithet had vanished and every redundanl phrast 
struck out ! 

Void offstage: "When an <>l<l bachelor marries a 
young wife, he deserves no the crime carries its punish- 
ment along with ii ") (Applause. 

Sherry: They clap they shoul they call For Pope, 
King, Abington, Palmer They like it they like it! (Ap- 
plause slowly ceases calls from the orange women: 
"Oranges, oranges, penny apiece! 
Watch your pockets! 
Choice fruits and bill of the play! 
Spruce and ginger beer! 

(Enter Dr. Johnson, Mr. Sheridan, Charles Fo>r, Kitty 
(live. Boswell. Then croxvd around Sheridan and Garrick. j 
Johnson: I congratulate yon. sir. 
Boswell: Ay sir, 'twas excellent. Dr. Johnson 

laughed continually. But what's this we hear about the 
license being revoked? As Dr. Johnson was saying to me, 
'procrastination is the thief of time" and yon should have 
settled this matter long since. 

Johnson: (roaring.) Who asked yon for your opin- 
ion, sir? You're fully as impertinent as Snake. I am neither 
deaf nor dumb, sir — nor in any other wise so handicapped 
that I cannot repeat my own remarks if I choose. 
Boswell: (apologetically.) Sir. 1 but thought— 
Johnson: Pray discard that practice in the future, sir, 
till it can produce less injurious results. (Addressing 
Sherry.) My dear fellow, your characters are so admirably 
drawn that it is no wonder they found a Moses in real life. 
l>ut sir — (pompously) pray accept a word of advice from 
one much your senior in age though not in genius, sir. and 
"leave not undone those things which you ought to have 
done. 

Fox: Lord Hertford darn't withhold it. II' he docs. 
he'll have the fox on his heels and I assure you I've a deli- 
cate nose for smelling out injustices. But, my dear fellow 
— the play — t'is worth running in even greater risk. I vow 
the entr'acte will seem uncommonly long 'till I see Lady 
Teazle again. 

Sherry: Father! Fray, father and did ye like it. sir' 
Mr. Sheridan: Whv. son. t'was well enough. I little 



64 The Smith College Monthly 

thought when ye turned to plays that anything would come 
of it — but ye've done something of merit at last. But t'was 

like ye sir to imperil your fortunes. The license and the last 
act should ha' been in your hands a month agon. Now, sir- 
in the word of the immortal Macbeth (declaiming) "You 
embrace all in your ruin." 

Kitty Cijve: I protest, sir, t'is his making, (to Sherry) 
If I had not heen retired these many years, I should plague 
you until you allowed me to play Lady Teazle. 

Mr. Sheridan: My dear Mrs. Clive — your tender 
heart would excuse all. If Dick finds himself in the debt- 
or's prison tomorrow, he has but himself to blame. 

(Enter Mrs. Sheridan.) 

Ei.tza: Dick— Dick— The license— T'is granted. 

Sherry: Delia, my love — 

Ait, (croveding around) What said he? Was't a mis- 
take? Tell us quickly. Come. 

Eliza: T'was no mistake, but when Lord Hertford 
realized how much depended on't — -he granted it without 
delay. 

Sherry: I knew you could convince him, dearest Liz. 
(Bell rings. Voice calls of 'stage: The second act!) 

Fox: Pray excuse our hurry but we won't miss a word. 

Garry: Eh, Sherry — I'll go with 'em. I must see the 
rest of "the comedy of the age." 

(Exit all except Eliza.) 

(Sherry and Eliza, arm in arm, stand in the wings. 
Come vJavcs of applause — then silence- — the squeak of the 
curtain as it is sloxdi) raised.) 

(Voices from offstage): 

"Lady teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it!" 

"Sir Peter. Sir Peter, you may bear it or not as you 
please — " 

Slow Curtain 



The Smith College Monthly 



65 




EDITORIAL 




BEING A COMPLAINT. AX ENQUIRY AND A 

FAREWELL 



j^ HAT the editorial should from time to time drop a few 
U comments a propos of editorial policy and opinion is 
Sj&ggj a statement of considerable incontestability. 'That 
this policy and opinion may at other times enjoy some degree 
df obscurity is an unsound basis upon which to consider it 
nil. An editor who could emerge with only mild sensations 
from the process of producing a single issue of any maga- 
zine seems, to the present editor, to be a creature of fantast- 
ic raving. Now where there are sensations to any marked 
degree we may presuppose ideas, at least in the human 
species. The editor then may be credited with having ideas 
in regard to this magazine, even though, in granting this, 
there remains the possibility of a large emotional content in 
these ideas. At present, however, in an attitude of detach- 
ment and calm diagnosis the editor wishes to ask why — 
baldly — it is necessary for the editorial board of a college 
magazine to go out into the highways and byways in search 
of material? Surely the dignity of proud and reticent pov- 
erty is admirable. But an inquiry into the reasons tor pov- 
erty, and into the possibilities for material improvement is 
not below the honor of a practical-minded editor. 

We are not so pessimistic as to believe that there is no 
good writing being done on this campus. We have, in fact, 
by dint of diligent search and persistent ingenuity, been able 
to discover — as this issue attests — that there is a very consid- 
erable mass of truly interesting and entertaining literature 
about ; but, alas, this is devoted mainly to the doubtless appre- 
ciative, but somewhat limited audience of the Faculty: and 
frankly we grudge them their privilege of private view. 



66 The Smith College Monthly 

Our dilemma is moreover this: we are at a loss to know 
whether we are held in loathsome abhorrence, as something 
too low altogether to be the receptacle of the treasures of 
one's own inspiration. Or whether we are regarded with a 
distant and reverent awe by those too fearful and too wor- 
shipful to approach The Monthly contribution box in 
Seelye note room. Furthermore there are those who, 
having offered libations once, and receiving no visible signs 
of acceptance or appreciation, have not returned. The 
editor of course understands the modesty and chagrin of 
these less favored ones, being herself, one among those whose 
contributions are not invariably aeeepted. But persistence 
is a fruitful virtue she has found. 

This is, of course, a very bad time of year, and a very 
had issue in which to be lecturing. Everyone is going away 
directly to forget all about The Monthly, and we should, 
rightly, be saluting the Seniors. A statement, however, of 
our position and bewilderment seemed not inadvisable; the 
solution, if any, remains in the future. And if persistence 
on our part will force those secretive authors to unroll their 
scrolls, persistence shall be employed. But we greatly pre- 
fer, if possible, to work by the method of the sun in the fable, 
rather than that of wind. 

As for the Seniors. This is an unsentimental age, 
throughout which human nature continues inevitably to be 
sentimental. We have loved them, and they are going. 
And we are sad. 









The Smith College Monthly 



67 




BOOK REVIEWS 



ENOUGH ROPE 

Dorothy Parker Honi and Liveright, I i)*J<». 




Light verse, if it have any worth at all, has to recom- 
mend it in lien of the more serious qualities of poetry, wit, 
brevity, and technical perfection combined with the expres- 
sion of a momentary attitude as spontaneous and evanescent 
as the attitude itself. Such an expression, containing, as it 
must, the essence of the hour in which it appears, neces- 
sarily lacks originality in substance if not in form. "Enough 
Hope" by Dorothy Parker, is an excellent example of the 
art. It is a collection of verses expressing neatly, in skillful 
meters and felicitous rhymes, the contemporary attitude 
toward life and love. The book is dedicated to Elinor 
Wylie, but the influence of Edna Millay seems even 
stronger. There are also traces of Houseman and Le Gal- 
lienne. A gift for facile expression, plus a mind steeped in 
modern poetry, is responsible for the clever charm of these 
ver sides. 

The book is divided into two parts; the first relatively 
serious, if ironic, the second frankly flippant. The first half 
strikes the note which is conventional among the poets bv 
whom Miss Parker is most influenced, in admitting that each 
love "is neither last nor first — This is what I know." Her 
endeavor to make this admission without sentimentality is 
not always successful, and she suffers in comparison with her 
models. Nevertheless she gives graceful expression to the 
philosophy she has made her own. 

The sources of some poems are perfectlv obvious. One 
verse of "A Well Worn Story", 

"His eyes were hard as porphyry 
With looking on cruel lands; 
His voice went slipping over me 
Like terrible silver sands." 



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The Smith College Monthly 69 

might have come from .Mrs. Wylie's A Puritan Ballad.' 1 
"Hearthside" voices again the mood everyone connects with 
Miss Millay's "If I should ever travel." A different note, 

hut one as easily traceable to -Miss Millay, is struck in "The 
Satin Dress" 

"Satin glows in candle-light 
Satin's for the proud ! 
They will say who watch at night 
'What a fine shroud !' " 

Of the six sonnets which conclude this part of the hook, three 
are good, one exceptional, and all show the influence of .Miss 
.Millay. In my opinion, however, the best tiling in this whole 
section is the small epitaph "For a Sad Lady". 

"And let her loves, when she is dead, 
Write this above her hones: 
'No more she lives to give us bread 
Who asked her only stones'." 

This may have assimilated but does not seem to imitate the 
work of other poets. 

The second half makes no pretense of being anything 
hut superior "column" poetry. It is pert and pointed, witty, 
light and flip, respecting' nothing. In it. Miss Parker's in- 
dividuality has freer play. As it is, however, primarily the 
expression of the moment, the same influences are often 
found. "Godspeed" might be a new-plucked fig from a 
neighboring thistle-patch. 

"Oh, seek, my love, your newer way; 
I'll not be left in sorrow. 
So long as I have yesterday. 

Go take your damned tomorrow!" 

All the verses in this second part are clever, most of 
them are funny. The ironic note, characteristic of the whole 
book, is at the same time lighter and more consistently 
stressed, than in the first section. Again and again. Miss 
Parker treats a subject with traditional sentimentality, only 
to puncture with one phrase the sentimental impression she 
has skillfully "created, as in "Pictures in the Smoke;" 



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The Smith College Monthly 7 I 

"Oh, gallant was the firs! love, and glittering and fin< ; 
The second love was water in a clear white cup; 
The third love was his, and the fourth was mint ; 
And after that, 1 always gel them all mixed up." 

All in all, the verses are delightful. They are ;is apl 
and quotable as epigrams and rather more spontaneous. The 
book deserves to be popular, particularly with a college 
audience. 



latterday symphony 

R. Wu.sox Knopf. 1927. 

Latterday Symphony presents a concise and vivid pic- 
ture of a little group of men who are held together by the 
love and lack of a certain Mary Linton. The action takes 
place within the space of one night and a day: that is, love 
blossoms at a reception, is offered late the same night at 
another partv, and is rejected the following afternoon at 
tea. 

What is surprising in this latest commentary on the 
idler, smarter members of our latterday world is that the 
perfect subtlety of the treatment far surpasses the import- 
ance of the message which it conveys, so that the book is 
more remarkable as a piece of workmanship than as a pierc- 
ing analysis of human emotions. The writer is almost too 
completely in command of her cynical, nervous set. and she 
plays upon them as a conductor plays upon an orchestra, 
creating a tense and moving effect, like beautiful music. But 
it is not the effect of life. 

The situation in which she has chosen to set her char- 
acters is bewildering in its simplicity. Lindsay Jackson is 
an American negro, talented, sensitive, meek yet strong in 
his individuality. As an interpreter of American folk song 
he is present at an evening of Lady Caroline's where he 
meets Stephen Russell. This subtle, highly strung English- 
man has attained that perfection of culture which the un- 
civilized like to call decadence. His delicate violin staccato 
forms a nice contrast to the gently syncopated saxaphone 
notes of Jackson's voice. He and the negro immediately 
begin to "know each other's thoughts and to speak them", 



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The Smith College Monthly 7i 

.•md when together they sec Mary Linton, they become insep- 
arable. At Conrad Mallard's, where tluy repair after Lady 
Caroline's, we sec the third slave to Mary's remoteness: Con- 
rad Mallard has an engaging personality; he is sometimes 
handsome; and out of his intoxication arises a facile, bril- 
liant monologue which is so inspired as to he almost beyond 
his own depth of understanding. Over Conrad's eloquence 
there is an abandon, a little Byronesque and old-fashioned, 
which gives him the same charm one sees in chivalrous 
southern gentlemen. 

"We are all on a devil's holiday," says Conrad in the 
course of a long drunken discourse, addressed to Stephen 
and Jackson. " n I accept my part, doing what is done n 
being supremely surprised I'm doing it. I pretend not to 
he s'prized 'n you two don't, aren't joining in this smooth 
hurly-burly, but are remaining individual. And we are the 
better men 'n the cradle of the future and Mary is our object 
'n you want her to be your subject . . . ." 

But though Robinson, the middle-aged obscure figure 
of a man who owns Mary's youth is ready to release her 
when she makes her choice, that choice is never made. For 
Mary is an essentially innocent person, and has never felt, 
perhaps is incapable of feeling, the pangs of the devastating 
flame she has kindled in Stephen, Lindsay, and Conrad: 
and which burns hopelessly on when she walks out of their 
lives into the grateful, protecting arms of Robinson. 

Latter day Symphony is perhaps the modern expression 
of those forces which in another age produced Oedipus Rex. 
The course of action is inexorably pointed out, not by fate 
in the guise of a god's whim, but by a more deadly and com- 
plex fate, man's self. It is perhaps a little severe in its con- 
ception to find complete sympathy in this day. Rut in its 
technique which has moulded these conflicting emotions into 
a novel of one hundred and twenty-four pages it is as keenly 
atuned to its age as was Greek tragedy to the spirit of the 
ancients. 

This technique consists in a remarkable use of conver- 
sation as a medium through which we are projected not only 
into the minds of each character, but into the world through 
which they move. The book is entirely conversational, for 
even the occasional comments of the author are hardlv an- 



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The Smith College Monthly 7 5 

notations hut interruptions to tin words of tin characters 
themselves. 

The skill and completeness by which .Miss Wilson has 
given us difficult personalities simply by enabling us to hear 
how they talk is only surpassed by the beauty which sh< 

injects into her method. Unlike sonic authors who think 
that word-color should be excluded from within the hounds 
of the quotation mark, she sees in conversation an unlimited 
opportunity for variety, lone, and picturization. She wields 

her sentences as a musician wields a melodic line, and an 
analysis of the hook proves the assertion that her treatment 
of conversation Is musical in its conception. 

The dual capacity of words, the possibility of their use 
as sheer sound-makers and again as conveyers of thought, 
has always complicated the relationship between literature 
and music. The sonnet, the lied, the symphonic poem, and 
opera are some of the more familiar products of this union. 
Most artists recognize the value of the relationship, and 
some, like Shakespeare, have enriched their work from hoth 
sources; while others, having access to one, reach out in fu- 
tile longing to the other. There have been poets like Swin- 
burne and Foe whose gift for melody was so highly de- 
veloped that their words flowed out in a succession of mel- 
odic phrases that diluted or even drowned thought. And 
there have heen composers like Richard Strauss of whom 
Arthur Symons wrote: "If I cared more for literature than 
for music I imagine I might care greatly for Strauss, lie 
offers me sound as literature. But I prefer to read my lit- 
erature and hear nothing but music." 

On such grounds as these Symons might condemn Lat- 
terday Symphony as literature that offered itself as sound. 
As a matter of fact, it may he possible to enjoy Latterday 
Symphony entirely apart from the gorgeous rhythm of the 
conversation, just as it is possible to enjoy Strauss. Schu- 
mann, or Liszt without having the remotest conception of 
literary program around which they June woven their ideas. 

Jennv Nathan 1927 



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The Smith College Monthly 77 

/,/: SALON DE MADAME ARMAN DE 
CAILLAFET 

Jeanne Maurice Pouquet Paris, Librairie Hachette 



This delightful collection of letters, so excellently edited 
by Madame Pouquet, groups itself about the "last salon." 
that of Anatole France and Jules Lemaitre and Marcel 
Proust. It is the correspondence of Madame Arman de 
Caillavet with her distinguished friends a correspondence 
which gives one an intimate peep into the life of the French 
literary aristocracy of twenty-five years ago, s f > that one 
seems to have been a silent guest at the famous Wednesday 
evening dinners — where one has perhaps neglected to fol- 
low closely the intellectual "conversations suivees" of which 
Madame Arman was so fond, hut where one has spent one's 
time in looking around the board, defining in one's mind 
the individuality of each speaker, agreeing with Madame 
Arman that Boulanger is an upstart and a poseur, noting 
Jules Lemaitre's easy and graceful manner, and contrast- 
ing it Avith the halting gaucherie and obsequiousness of 
Anatole France, learning to love the gifted hostess for her 
unpretentious brilliancy, her honesty and uncompromising 
frankness, and for her way of bringing out the best in 
everyone. 

We observe the figures who come and go. Young Marcel 
Proust, on leave from the barracks at Orleans, sinks deep 
into the sofa, his stiff' uniform incongruous upon It's frail 
and languid form, his great eyes staring out of his white face. 
as he looks with adoration upon Madame Arman, and her 
son, Gaston, who is his dearest friend. Montesquieu, the 
social climber, amuses Madame Arman. until he composes 
a collection of insulting "portraits" in verse, of every one 
that he met at her salon. The lovely young comtesse de 
Xoailles calls one afternoon to show Madame Arman her 
baby, and recites some of the verses that she has composed, 
so that Madame Arman writes to her, "You are exquisite, 
delicate, and sensitive like the heroines one has read about, 
vou are an elf, a little fairy, but your soul is so vast that it 



The Smith College Monthly 

can hold the world, and all the mysteries of joy and sorrow 
surge through it tumultuously and heart-rendingly before 
they blossom on your lips." 

All these people were diversions for Madame Annan 
de Caillavet, but Anatole France became her charge, and 
the development of his literary talent, her life work. He 
said of her. when she died, that she was more than half of his 
soul, and we venture to add that she was more than half of 
his genius. For she not only supplied him with innumerable 
suggestions and materials to ponder, but she was the one 
person who could make him apply to the output of his mas- 
terpieces that three-fourths hard work of which genius is 
said to consist. Ingratitude was not one of his faults, for 
the first edition of Crainquebille was dedicated to her with 
the following- inscription: "A Madame Annan de Caillavet 
ce petit livre, que sans elle je n'ourais pas fait, car sans elle 
je ne ferais pas de livres." Madame de Caillavet's was a 
nature of marked didactic tendency. Possessing unusual 
brilliance she preferred to use it in the furtherance of an- 
other's glory, rather than her own. Anatole France was an 
ideal object for this sort of ministration. His possibilities 
were as immense as his lethargy and his lack of ambition. 
Using all her tact and cleverness and erudition, Madame 
Arman applied herself to make a great writer out of this 
"grand enfant," as she was fond of calling her difficult pupil. 
The success of Anatole France is her success, for her work 
with him may almost be called one of collaboration, and none 
realized better than he, that he owed to her his fame. 

Yet perhaps it was the "gentil petit Marcel" who loved 
her best, for on hearing of her death after he had been sep- 
arated from her long years by his own illness, he wrote to her 
son, "I do not think that any one has loved, admired, or 
known your poor mother better than I ; I assure you that no 
one will remember her more faithfully, and forever." 

Mary Wight '27 



SEP. 



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^DEfc^