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OCTOBER 


THE 


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College  Anthology 

YOUNG 
PEGASUS 


Edited  by  the  Intercollegiate  Magazine  Conference. 

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LINCOLN  MACVEAGH 
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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 

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T.  Ono  &  Company 

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TABLE    LAMPS 


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Chinese  Brass  Wares 

All  Sorts  of  Oriental  Novelties 
and  etc. 


192  Main  St., 
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Northampton 
Commercial  College 

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

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CORONA   agency. 


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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 
wrould  offer  such  a  splendid  opportunity  for  the  establish- 
ment of  a  flourishing  "Lost  and  Found"  department. 

The  material  considerations  wrere,  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 wray  of  life?  High  thinking  as  an  every  day  matter 
wTould  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  wrood.  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  wrater  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  wras  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. 


JULIA  B.  CAHILL 

219  Main  St. 

DOCTOR   OF  CORSETRY 

Every  girl  adores  Silken 
Satisfaction  in  Van  Raalte 
Underthings  to  be  found  at 
this  favorite  shop. 


Ridge  Shop 

Hats 

Ladies'  Sport  Wear 


243   Main   St. 


Northampton 


draper  Ibotel 


FRANK  BROTHERS 

FiithAvenue  Boot  Shop 

Between  47\b  and  -484  Streets.  New  York 


Fashion  s  footsteps 


FLOWERS 


V. 


0j£S©Iii 


ELECTRIC  SHOP 


Northampton,   Mass, 

College  Lamp  Repairing 

Small  Radios  for 
College  use. 


HILL   BROTHERS 

Dry  Goods 

Rugs 

and 

Draperies 


$6.00 


$6.00 


16  Tremont  St.  Boston 

Klines 

far  all  naasinnfi 
GfatertttQ  particularly  to  college  girLa 


■■  ^■^»-.< 


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 


Oil    Permanent   Wave 

Leaves  the  hair  soft  and  fluffy 
and    does   not    make    it    brittle. 

Do  you   want   a    permanent   wave   that 
looks  like  a  marcel! 

Or  a  soft  round  curlt 
You    can    have    either,    and    as    large    a 

wave  as  you  desire  at 

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Phone   173  18  Masonic   St. 

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Scalp  Treatment 

Shampooing 

"Marcel  That  Stays" 

Facials  Manicuring 

Oil    Permanent   Waving 

Schultz,  Inc. 

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Curran  Bros. 

GROCERIES 

Canned  Meats  of  all  Kinds 
Everything  needed  for  that  bat" 
Opp.  Draper  Hotel 
Cor.   Main  and  Old  South  Streets 


Royal  Restaurant 

Chinese    and    American 

A  First  Class  Restaurant  with 

Reasonable  Price 

Regular  Dinner  from  11  a.m.  to  2  p.m. 

Supper  from  5  to  8  p.m. 

Excellent  Service  Prompt  Attention 

40   Main    Street  Northampton 


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 
Northampton,  Mass. 

Automobile  Repairing 
Radio  Sets 


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GREETING    CARDS 

The  Holidays  are  just  around  the 
corner !  Have  you  ordered  your  en- 
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beautiful  and  artistic  cards  is  now  com- 
plete. 

The  Park  Optical  Co.,  Inc. 

NORTHAMPTON 


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. 


Boston  Fruit  Store 

The  Pioneer  Fruit  House  of 
Northampton 

Oriental  Shop 

239  Main  Street 

All  kinds  of  Fancy 
Articles 

mcOIaUum'0 

lejmrtmettt 

fbtaxt 

The  Green  Dragon 

229  Main  St. 
Gifts  of  Distinction 

Students — Inquire. 
108  Main  St.        Tel.  849-W 

Spence  &  Newhall 

PHOTOGRAPHERS 

Special  discount  to  Smith  College 

— *- 

Bridgman  &  Lyman 

108  MAIN  STREET 

THOMAS  F.  FLEMING 

THE  SHOE  SHOP 
of 

Exceedingly  Smart  Models 

— and  moderate  prices — 

PainstakiDg,    Courteous    Service 

12   CRAFTS  AVENUE 

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The  Brown  Shop 

Dressmaking 

M.  HINES  1922          8  GREEN  AVE. 

iOVEMBER 


1926 


KEEPINQ  FIT 

and  Keeping 

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Fitted 


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Keeping  fit  is  quite  up  to 
you. 

But  keeping  you  fitted, 
whether  its  for  pajamas, 
rouge,  or  all  apparel,  is 
quite  up  to  us ! 


That's  why  the  smartest 
Misses  On  Campus,  boule-  \ 
vard  or  boudoir,  owe  their 
smartness    to    our    Misses 
Apparel  Section.  A 


»  v.? 

'A 


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HQTEb  ASTOR 


{~Ynte  of  America's  great  hotels-and, 
surrounding  it,  the  city's  famous 
shops,  theatres,  and  business 

"At  the  Crossroads  of  the  World  " 


1 


Book  Collecting  is  now 

College  Sport 

Old  Books  and  Prints 
from  England 


The  Hampshire  Bookshop 


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.  OLEASON,  Prop. 

Moving.  Storing,  Packing,  Shipping 
Long  distance  transfer  by  auto  track 
Office  7  Pearl  St.  Tel.  413- W 

Northampton  Baggage  Transfer 

Tel.  153 
NORTHAMPTON,  MA88. 


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." 


WHEN  IN  SPRINGFIELD  VISIT 

J.  B.  WILSON  CO. 

LEADERS  OF  FASHION 

Millinery 

HOSIERY  and  BAGS 
PRICED   WITH   A   THOUGHT   TO   ECONOMY 


" 


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Wilson 


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379  MAIN  STREET  SPRINGFIELD,  MASS. 


WE  INVITE  YOU  TO  INSPECT 
OUD  DISPLAY  OF 

NEW  FROCKS  AND 
MILLINERY 

Sport   Frocks   of   the  new   Knitted   ma- 
terials.    Afternoon  Gowns  in  Velveteen, 

Crepes,  Charmeen  and  Satin 
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CHIFFON  AND  VELVET 

Millinery,  Scarfs,  Novelties 


FRANCES  G.  BARRY 

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NATIONAL  SHOE 
REPAIRING 

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All  Work  Guaranteed 

Reasonable  Prices 


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". 


THE  NEW  SILKS  FIRST! 

And  Why  Are  We  Able  To  Sell  For  Less 

BECAUSE 

Our   5th   floor   daylight   location   eliminates   exorbitant   street 

floor  rentals. 
Our  vast  purchasing  power  combined  for  four  large  cities. 
We  have  no  so-called  free  delivery;  delivery  systems  are  ex- 
pensive. 
We  believe  we  have  the  largest   assortments  and  space   for 
proper  display  in  the  city. 

You  are  invited  to  investigate  these  statements. 
Also :  Silk  Petticoats,  Silk  Knickers,  Costume  Slips  and  Silk  Hosiery 


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The  Daylight  Specialty  Silk  Shop 

Established  24  years 

19  Temple  Place  through  to  41  West  Street 

Stores:  Boston,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Cleveland 


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 
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BASKET  BALL 


FIELD  HOCKEY 
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Sweaters,   Knickers,  Middy   Blouses.   Bloomers,   Shoe-Skates,   Skis   Snow-shoes 

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(Send  for  General  Catalog,  also  Catalog  of  Girls'  Clothing  and  Equipment) 
344  WASHINGTON  ST.  BOSTON,  MASS. 


College 
Monthly 


POETRY  AND  THE  CONDITIONED  REFLEX 

Newton  Aevin 


CD 


ODERTS1  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  bjr  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  dowrn  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  swreet.  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  wras  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  wras  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  nowr  what  it  wras  .... 
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  wras  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  wrent  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  swirling1  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,  uO  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. 


Fine  Shoe  Repairing 

Done  at  Reasonable  Prices  at  the 


Electric  Shoe  Repairing 
Shop 

FRANK  MIENTKA 

15  Masonic  St.  Northampton 


Patronize   Our  Advertisers 


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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tions as  Vogue  and  Harpers  Baiaar  are  car- 
ried  here    in    profuse    selections.     Ton    can 
choose    from    such    irreproachable    makes    as 
Ooty,    Bourjols,    Tardley,    Houbigant,    Elisa- 
beth   Arden,    Floret,    Woodworth,     Guerlain, 
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(formerly    211    Main) 

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 


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 


This  Book   was 
Printed  by 


hlng  0®. 


M  !¥  * 


Northampton,  Mass. 


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  people1  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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Gifts  of  Distinction 

Students — Inquire. 
108  Main  St.        Tel.  849-W 

Spence  &  Newhall 

PHOTOGRAPHERS 

Special  discount  to  Smith  College 

CHRISTMAS  GIFTS 

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Regular  Dinner  from  11  a.m.  to  2  p.m. 

Supper  from  5  to  8  p.m. 

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GOODYEAR  TIRES 

Storage  for  50  Cars 

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Agents   for   Westinghouse   Battery 

Tel.   1086-W 

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Automobile  Repairing 
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Ridge  Shop 

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Fashion's  footsteps 


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a£3Q1!$ 


ELECTRIC  SHOP 


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Northampton  •  Mass. 

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Small  Radios  for 
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HILL   BROTHERS 

Dry  Goods 

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Mm®  iooft  Shop 

16  Tremont  St.  Boston 

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■  ■■■       —  ■  W  M 


iCEMBER 


1926 


KEEPINQ  FIT 

and  Keeping 

You 
Fitted 


Keeping  fit  is  quite  up  to 
you. 

But  keeping  you  fitted, 
whether  its  for  pajamas, 
rouge,  or  all  apparel,  is 
quite  up  to  us ! 


That's  why  the  smartest 
Misses  On  Campus,  boule-  \ 
vard  or  boudoir,  owe  their 
smartness    to    our    Misses 
Apparel  Section.  A 


J 


>  v., 


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HOTEL  ASTOR 


r\NE  of  America's  great  hotels-andj 
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F.  A.  MUSCHENHEIM 


B  r  o  adw  ay:    F'p  viy?~fi 


:  :-—^~  N  E.  W-    YORK 
rtjv '#  F orty:fifthr  street 5 


FRANK  BROTHERS 

fifth  Avenue  Boot  Shop 

Between  47*h  and  48*  Streets.  New  York 


Fashion's  footsteps 

Boyden's 

Restaurant  &  Bakery 


Come  and  bring  your  friends 
where  you  are  sure  of  good 
food. 


BANQUET    ROOM    CONNECTED 


Phone  80 


COLLEGE  TAXI  CO. 


25c 

WHEN  MORE  THAN  ONE  RIDES 


Office:  188  Main  St. 
Northampton 


■  ■■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," 


WHEN  IN  SPRINGFIELD  VISIT 


J.  B.  WILSON  CO. 


LEADERS  OF  FASHION 


Millinery 


HOSIERY  and  BAGS 

PRICED   WITH  A   THOUGHT   TO   ECONOMY 


'Wils 


CO 


FASHIONABLE   MILLINERY 


379  MAIN  STREET 


SPRINGFIELD,  MASS. 


WE  INVITE  YOU  TO  INSPECT 
OUD  DISPLAY  OF 

NEW  FROCKS  AND 
MILLINERY 

Sport   Frocks  of   the  new   Knitted   ma- 
terials.    Afternoon  Gowns  in  Velveteen, 

Crepes,  Charmeen  and  Satin 
DANCE  FROCKS  OF 

CHIFFON  AND  VELVET 

Millinery,  Scarfs,  Novelties 


FRANCES  G.  BARRY 

FLOWERS 

12  CRAFTS  AVE.  PHONE  2052 

NORTHAMPTON,    MASS. 


NATIONAL  SHOE 
REPAIRING 

18  PLEASANT  STREET 

All  Work  Guaranteed 

Reasonable  Prices 


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 


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 
BASKET  BALL 


FIELD  HOCKEY 
ICE  HOCKEY 
FANCY  SKATING 
VOLLEY  BALL 


Sweaters,   Knickers,   Middy   Blouses.    Bloomers,   Shoe-Skates,   Skis   Snow-shoes 

and  Toboggans 

I  Wright  &  Ditson 

(Send  for  General  Catalog,  also  Catalog  of  Girls'  Clothing  and  Equipment) 
344  WASHINGTON  ST.  BOSTON,  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,  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 


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,  howr  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  wrho  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  fewr  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  wTant  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,  wre  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  wre  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  wre'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  wyas 
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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Which  of  These  Smart  Requisites 
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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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Underthings  to  be  found  at 
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Ridge  Shop 

Hats 

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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." 


►'    —  ■  ^tm-a-^m  l  —  cm^»o-— ^01 


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Articles 


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Gifts  of  Distinction 


CHRISTMAS  GIFTS 

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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. 


Oil   Permanent   Wave 

Leaves  the  hair  soft  and  fluffy 
and    does   not   make   it   brittle. 

Do  you  want  a  permanent  wave  that 
looks  like  a  marcel  t 

Or  a  soft  round  curlt 
You    can   have    either,    and   aa   large    a 

wave  as  you  desire  at 

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Canned  Meats  of  all  Kinds 

Everything  needed  for  that  bat" 
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A  First  Class  Restaurant  with 

Reasonable  Price 

Regular  Dinner  from  11  a.m.  to  2  p.m. 

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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 

Northampton,  Mass. 

Automobile  Repairing 
Radio  Sets 

ENGRAVED 
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The  Holidays  are  just  around  the 
corner!  Have  you  ordered  your  en- 
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til the  last  minute.  Our  assortment  of 
beautiful  and  artistic  cards  is  now  com- 
plete. 

The  Park  Optical  Co.,  Inc. 

NORTHAMPTON 


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  wras  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 


BEFORE  CHOOSING   YOUR  GIFTS 

Whether  for  Relative  or  Friend, 

Look   Over    Our 

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We  have  something  Useful  for 

Everybody 
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Northampton   Elictric  Ltg. 
Co. 


Crafts-Brown  Silk 
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171  Main  St.,  Draper  Hotel  Bldg. 

Plain  and  Novelty  Silks 
Wool  Flannels 

Agents  for 
Barnes,   Inc.,   Dyers   and   Cleaners 


draper  Ifootel 

NORTHAMPTON'S  LEADING 

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Reservations  now   accepted  for  Spring 
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LEONARD  L.  HEBERT,  Mgr. 


PLAZA  FRUIT  CO. 


NEXT  TO  PLAZA 

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Popcorn  for  the  Movies 

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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,     Shipping 
Long  distance  transfer  by  auto  truck 
Office  7  Pearl  St.  Tel.  413-W 

Northampton  Baggage  Transfer 

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^0^  %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 


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LEADERS  OF  FASHION 


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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 


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

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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 
BASKET  BALL 


FIELD  HOCKEY 
ICE  HOCKEY 
FANCY  SKATING 
VOLLEY  BALL 


I 


Sweaters,    Knickers,    Middy    Blouses,    Shoe-Skates,    Skiis,    Snow-Shoes 

and  Toboggans 


!  Wright  &l  Ditson 

(Send  for  General  Catalog,  also  Catalog  of  Girls'   Clothing  and  Equipment) 
!    344  WASHINGTON  ST.  BOSTON,  MASS. 

i 

e 

I 


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 


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  wras  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.  !\To,  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/' 

"Yesr  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  wrhen  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. 


Thresher  Brothers 


Incorporated 


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41  WEST  STREET 


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SILKS,  VELVETS,  UNDERWEAR  And  HOSIERY 


Just  in  time  to  make  your  new  Frocks  from  the  new 
Spring  Materials. 


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College  Lamp  Repairing 

Small  Radios  for 
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This   Book   was 
Printed  by 


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££* 


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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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ers Bazaar  are  carried  here  in  profuse 
selections.  You  can  choose  from  such 
irreproachable  makes  as  Coty,  Bourjois, 
Yardley,  Houbigant,  Elizabeth  Arden, 
Fioret,  Woodworth,  Guerlain,  Roger  and 
Gallet,  Cappi,  Gueldy,  etc. 


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(formerly    211    Main) 


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- 


Boston  Fruit  Store 


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Northampton 


itcOJaUum'B 
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Mm®  Boot  SBn@p 

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far  all  occasions 
Gtatertug  particularly  to  college  ijirlfi 

Thomas  f.  Fleming 


THE  SHOE  SHOP 
of 

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— and  moderate  prices — 

Painstaking,    Courteous    Service 
12   CRAFTS  AVENUE 


FLOWERS 


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Gifts  of  Distinction 


BOOKS 

FOR   THE   NEW   YEAR 

Diaries  —  Calendars 

Line-a-days 


Bridgman  &  Lyman 


108  MAIN  ST 


Robert  M.  Warnock 


247  MAIN  ST. 


STATIONERY 
GIFTS 
LEATHER  GOODS 


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 


Oil  Permanent  Wave 

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and  does  not  make  it  brittle. 


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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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in 

'The  Monthly" 


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. 


IL"*JS 


Poetry  Number 


FEBRUARY 


1927 


Jordan  marsh  mmpmi 


^7) 


ALL  ROADS  LEAD  TO 
NEW  ENGLAND'S 
GREATEST  STORE 


When  you  come  up  to  shop, 
you'll  notice  that  all  the 
smartest  girls  are  headed  for 
Jordan's. 


Because  the}7  can't  waste  time 
in  the  less-than-best  shops. 

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

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


,  jL^*ri~^  ^lr  *  m-m  *a    i^— -x-"^  *i^ -«*-*:  *fc;7 


I 

rA 

i 

15? 
1 


HOTEL  ASTOR 


C\uTSiDR—tbe  clamor  of  New  York's 
activities.  Inside—/^  allure   of 
restful  guest  rooms ,  designed  for  ease 
and  comfort ! 

"  At  the  Crossroads  of  the  World  " 


F.  A.   MUSCHENHEIM 


i    i  i vi  E  S       SQUARE 
Broadway,   Forty-fourtl 


NEW    YORK 


^ 


I 


W£^^ 


r--'-lr>^i? 


I i 


v*«^.*Tcv^-*T-:- 


i^^i^i^fc; -i^^^ 


i^a^ 


S^^^A^  '.^SA;    | 


FRANK  BROTHERS 

Fifth  Avenue  Boot  Shop 

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GROCERIES 

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I 


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I  26  bedforj  lerroe*  I 

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DANCE   FROCKS   OF 

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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 


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NEW  PACKARD  SEDANS  AND  BUSSES  FOR 
HIRE  FOR  ALL  OCCASIONS 


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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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 
BASKET  BALL 


FIELD  HOCKEY 
ICE  HOCKEY 
FANCY  SKATING 
VOLLEY  BALL 


Sweaters,    Knickers,    Middy    Blouses,    Shoe-Skates,    Skiis,    Snow-Shoes 

and  Toboggans 

I  Wright  &l  Ditson 

(Send  for  General  Catalog,  also  Catalog  of  Girls'  Clothing  and  Equipment) 
!    344  WASHINGTON  ST.  BOSTON,  MASS. 


I  When  in  Springfield 


You  will  find 


The  HALL  TEA  ROOM 


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 

12  GREEN  STREET 
NORTHAMPTON,  MASS. 

I.  MILLER 

BEAUTIFUL    SHOES 


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 


Italian  Linner  Clock 
Chinese  Brass  Wares 


j   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  have 
come  to  stand  for  smartness  with  women 
of  good  taste.  These  smart  preparations, 
advertised  in  such  impricably  smart 
fashion  publications  as  Vogue  and  Harp- 
ers Bazaar  are  carried  here  in  profuse 
selections.  You  can  choose  from  such 
irreproachable  makes  as  Coty,  Bourjois, 
Yardley,  Houbigant,  Elizabeth  Arden, 
Fioret,  Woodworth,  Guerlain,  Roger  and 
Gallet,  Cappi,  Gueldy,  etc. 


KINGSLEY'S  Inc. 

The  Attractive   Store  where   you   get 
the  good  things  to  eat. 


Shoes 

To  accompany  smart 
Fall  Dresses 


NEWEST  SHADES  FROM  PARIS 
IN   HOSIERY  AT 


Fleming's  Boot  Shop 

189  Main  Street 
Northampton, 

(formerly    211    Main) 


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," 

The  road  to  Romance  climbs  behind 

To  Ladakh. 

Then  saunters 

Amon^  the  deep  jungles  of  Malay 

Or  climbs  the  still  cold  slopes 

Of  Fujiyama 

Majestic  in  the  calm  of  winter. 

The  road  to  Romance 

Is  daring  and  brilliant 

Carefree  and  gay 

Exulting — supreme. 

The  road  to  Romance 

Is  the  roval  road 

Of  vouth. 

C.  W. 


DARK  OF  THE  MOON 
Sara  Teasdai.e  The  Macmillan  Company 

And  so  this  one  who  has  sung  much  of  love 

Has  learned  that  when  love  passes  on,  herself 

Remains.   And  she,  who  called  her  lovers  through 

So  many  slim  blue  volumes,  knows  at  last 

That  only  in  one's  self  completeness  lies. 

She  glimpses  now,  who  once  thought  life  too  short 

For  lyric  joy,  that  death  may  be  too  sIoav. 

And  she  who  spoke  perennially  of  all 

She  felt,  has  known  a  need  for  silence;  thus: 

"I  have  enough  to  do  to  muse,"  she  says 

"On  memories  I  would  not  lose," 


Boston  Fruit  Store 


The   Pioneer  Fruit   House   of 
Northampton 


c(£allums 
department 
^tore 


I  $6.00 


S  li(OXO) 


I  160  Tremont  St. 


$6.00 

9 

Boston 


FLOWERS 


The  Green  Dragon 


229  Main  St. 


for  all  occasions 
j  (Eatertng  particularly  tn  college  girls 

ISOMAS  F.  FLEMING 


Gifts  of  Distinction 


BOOKS 

FOR  THE  NEW   YEAR 

Diaries  —  Calendars 

Line-a-days 


Bridgman  &  Lyman 


108  MAIN  ST. 


THE  SHOE  SHOP 

of 

Exceedingly  Smart  Models 

— and  moderate  prices — 

Painstaking,    Courteous    Service 
12   CRAFTS   AVENUE 


Robert  M.  Warnock 


247  MAIN  ST. 


STATIONERY 
GIFTS 
LEATHER  GOODS 


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 
The  simplest  utterances  of  common  moods 
Such  as  we  all  experience  and  might 
Relate.   But,  to  put  shortly  what  we  have 
At  length  suggested.  Sara  Teasdale  has 
Found  something  more  to  say.  and  says  it  well, 

E.  W. 


Oil  Permanent  Wave 

Leaves    the   hair    soft    and    fluffy 
and  does  not  make  it  brittle. 

Do   you    want    a    permanent   wave   that 
looks   like   a   marcel? 
Or  a  soft  round  curl? 

You    can    have    either,    and    as   large    a 
wave  as  you  desire  at 


BELANGER'S 


277  Main  St. 


Tel.  688-W 


Masonic  St  Market 

MEATS  &  GROCERIES 

FREE   DELIVERY 

Phone   173  18  Masonic   St. 

Northampton,    Mass. 

Scalp  Treatment 

Shampooing 

"Marcel  That  Stays" 
.  Facials  Manicuring 

Oil    Permanent   Waving 

Schultz,  Inc. 

223  Main  Street 


ERIC  STAHLBERG 


HILL    BROTHERS 

Dry  Goods 

Rugs 

and 

Draperies 


Royal  Restaurant 

Chinese    and    American 

A  First  Class  Restaurant  with 

Reasonable  Price 

Regular  Dinner  from  11  a.m.  to  2  p.m. 

Supper  from  5  to  8  p.m. 

Excellent  Service  Prompt  Attention 

40   Main    Street  Northampton 


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 
Northampton,  Mass. 

Automobile  Repairing 
Radio  Sets 


Half  a  Block  from  Herald  Square 

HOTEL   COLLINGWOOD 

45  West  35th  St.    New  York  City 

Seth  H.  Moseley 

Select  accommodations  for 
discriminating  people 

European  Plan  $2.50  up 


BEFORE   CHOOSING    YOUR   GIFTS 

Whether   for   Relative  or   Friend, 

Look    Over    Our 

Electric  Appliances 


ething  Useful  for 


We  hnve  i 

I  ,\  erj  bodv 

GIVE   ELECTRICAL  GIFTS 

"They    Ire  Lasting  Memories" 

Rear  of  City  II.-iII 


Northampton  Electric  Ltg. 
Co. 

Crafts-Brown  Silk 
Shop 

|   171   Main  St..  Draper  Hotel  Bldg. 

Plain  and  Novelty  Silks 
Wool   Flannels 

Agents  for 
Barnes,    Inc.,    Dyers    and    Cleaners 

5>raper  Ibotel 

NORTHAMPTON'S  LEADING 


HOTEL   AND   CAFETERIA 


I 
i 

I   Reservations   now   accepted   for  Spring 
Dance    and    1027    Commencement 

LEONARD  L.  HEBERT,  Mgr. 

PLAZA  FRUIT  CO. 


NEXT  TO  PLAZA 


Candy 


Fruit 

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   room. 

21   State  Street 


GLEASON  BROTHERS 

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

Northampton  Baggage  Transfer 

Tel.    153 
NORTHAMPTON,  MASS. 

Book  Collecting  is  now 

College  Sport 

Old  Books  and  Prints 
from  England 


The  Hampshire  Bookshop     I 
I 

Advertise 
in 
"The  Monthly"     j 


MARCH 


1927 


mmmzmzmm^.'smzzsm 


H0TEL  ASTOR 


1 

w. 


1 

S 


(^\ne  of  America's  great  hotels—and, 
surrounding  it,  the  city 's  famous 
shops,  theatres,  and  business 

"At  the  Crossroads  of  the  World  " 

F.  A.  MUSCHENHEIM 


rwsrrwm^W: 


/    YORK 
Forty-fourth  tf  Forty-fifth  Streets 


Si 


gaggaafe^iea^^^^^^^i 


I 


FRANK  BROTHERS 

fifth  Avenue  Boot  Shop 

Between  47^  and  48»fe  Streets.  New  York 


Curran  Bros. 

GROCERIES 

Canned  Meats  of  all  Kinds 

Everything  needed  for  that  bat" 
Opp.  Draper  Hotel 
Cor.  Main  and  Old  South  Streets 


26  LeJford  ferrace  I 

nort-ha.rr.plon,  mo~/-r. 

WE  INVITE  YOU  TO  INSPECT 
OUR  DISPLAY  OF 

NEW  FROCKS  AND 
MILLINERY 

Sport   Frocks  of   the   new   Knitted   ma- 
terials.    Afternoon  Gowns  in  Velveteen, 

Crepes,  Charmeen  and  Satin 
DANCE   FROCKS   OF 

CHIFFON  AND  VELVET 

Millinery,  Scarfs,  Novelties 


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." 


WHEN  IN  SPRINGFIELD  VISIT 

J.  B.  WILSON  CO. 

LEADERS  OF  FASHION 

Millinery 

HOSIERY  and  BAGS 
PRICED    WITH   A   THOUGHT   TO   ECONOMY 


Jta 


CO 


FASHIONABLE    MILLINERY 
I    379  MAIN  STREET  SPRINGFIELD,  MASS. 

MARCH  IS  THE  MONTH 
Thresher's  The  Place  for  Planning 

Spring  Wardrobes 

SILKS,  UNDERWEAR  &  HOSIERY 


Tresher  Brothers 


(Incorporated) 


19  Temple  Place 


41  West  Street 


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. 


ARCHERY 
TENNIS 
GOLF 
BASKET  BALL 


FIELD  HOCKEY 
ICE  HOCKEY 
FANCY  SKATING 
VOLLEY  BALL 


Sweaters,    Knickers,    Middy   Blouses,    Shoe-Skates,    Skiis,    Snow-Shoes 

and  Toboggans 

Wright  &  Ditson 

(Send  for  General  Catalog,  also  Catalog  of  Girls'  Clothing  and  Equipment) 
344  WASHINGTON   ST.  BOSTON,  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,  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 


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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  0 

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- 


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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. 


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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. 


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"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! 


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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  sawr  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 


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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  wrhat  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  showr  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.  kkHh,  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  kl  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  cl» 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 
Ladies'   Sport  Wear 


243   Main   St. 


Northampton 


This   Book   was 
Printed  by 


I   m 


Mr  X  X 


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- 


T.  Ono  &  Company 

CHINESE 
TABLE    LAMPS 


Italian  Linner  Clock 
Chinese  Brass  Wares 

j   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 

wSend  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  have 
come  to  stand  for  smartness  with  women 
of  good  taste.  These  smart  preparations, 
advertised  in  such  impricably  smart 
fashion  publications  as  Vogue  and  Harp- 
ers Bazaar  are  carried  here  in  profuse 
selections.  You  can  choose  from  such 
irreproachable  makes  as  Coty,  Bourjois, 
Yardley,  Houbigant,  Elizabeth  Arden, 
Fioret,  Woodworth,  Guerlain,  Roger  and 
Gallet,  Cappi,  Gueldy,  etc. 


KINGSLEY'S  Inc. 


NeW  SPRING  SHOES 
WHICH  YOU'LL  ENJOY 


AT 


The  Attractive   Store  where  you  get    | 
the  good  things  to  eat. 


Fleming  s  Boot  Shop 


189   MAIN   ST. 


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 
Jrir(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- 


i 
Boston  Fruit  Store 


The   Pioneer-  Fruit   House   of 
Northampton 


McOJaUum's 
iepartment 


$6.00 

Boston 


\  $6.00 

i  Mm® 

160  Tremont  St 

fnr  all  occasions 

(fatcrittg  particularly  to  college  girls 

"THOMAS  F.  FLEMING 


THE   SHOE   SHOP 
of 

Exceedingly  Smart  Models 

— and  moderate  prices — 

Painstaking,    Courteous    Service 
12   CRAFTS  AVENUE 


FLOWERS 


The  Green  Dragon 


229  Main  St. 


Gifts  of  Distinction 


1797  1927 

BARGAINS 
IN  STATIONERY 

ENGRAVING  FROM  PERSONAL 

DIES 

NEW    BOOKS    AS    PUBLISHED 

at 

Bridgman  &  Lyman 

108  MAIN  ST. 


Robert  M.  Warnock 


247  MAIN  ST. 


STATIONERY 
GIFTS 
LEATHER  GOODS 


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. 

Sally  Ford. 


Oil  Permanent  Wave 

Leaves    the   hair    soft    and    fluffy 
and  does  not  make  it  brittle. 

Do    you    want   a   permanent   wave   that 
looks   like   a   marcel? 
Or  a  soft  round  curl? 

You    can    have    either,    and    as    large    a 
wave  as  you  desire  at 


BELANGER'S 


277  Main  St. 


Tel.  688-W 


Masonic  St.  Market 

MEATS  &  GROCERIES 

FREE   DELIVERY 

Phone   173  18  Masonic   St. 

Northampton,    Mass. 

Scalp  Treatment 

Shampooing 

"Marcel  That  Stays" 

Facials  Manicuring 

Oil    Permanent    Waving 

Schultz,  Inc. 

223  Main  Street 


ERIC  STAHLBERG 


HILL    BROTHERS 

Dry  Goods 

Rugs 

and 

Draperies 


Royal  Restaurant 

Chinese    and    American 

A  First  Class  Restaurant  with 

Reasonable  Price 

Regular  Dinner  from  11  a.m.  to  2  p.m. 

Supper  from  5  to  8  p.m. 

Excellent  Service  Prompt  Attention 

40    Main    Street  Northampton 


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 
Northampton,  Mass. 

Automobile  Repairing 
Radio  Sets 


Half  a  Block  from  Herald  Square 

HOTEL   C0LLINGW0OD 

45  West  35th  St.    New  York  City 

Seth  H.  Moseley 

Select  accommodations  for 
discriminating  people 

European  Plan  $2.50  up 


BEFORE   CHOOSING   YOUR   GIFTS 

Whether   for   Relative  or   Friend, 

Look    Over    Our 

Electric  Appliances 
We  ha\  c  soniel tiinM'  I  teeful  for 

I  ,\  cr\  body 
GIVE   ELECTRICAL  GIFTS 
"They  Are  Lasting  Memories" 
'  Rear  of  Citv  II.-ill 


Northampton  Electric  Ltg. 
Co. 

Crafts-Brown  Silk 
Shop 

|   171  Main  St.,  Draper  Hotel  Bldg. 

Plain  and  Novelty  Silks 
Wool  Flannels 

Agents  for 
Barnes,    Inc.,    Dyers   and   Cleaners 


draper  Ibotel 

NORTHAMPTON'S  LEADING 

HOTEL   AND    CAFETERIA 

Reservations   now    accepted   for  Spring 
Dance    and    1927    Commencement 

LEONARD  L.  HEBERT,  Mgr. 


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   room. 

21  State  Street 


GLEASON  BROTHERS 

P.   P.    GLEASON,   Prop. 
Moving,     Storing,     Packing,     Shipping, 
Long    distance    transfer    by    auto    truck 

Office  7  Pearl  St.  Tel.  413-W 

Northampton  Baggage  Transfer 

Tel.   153 
NORTHAMPTON,  MASS. 


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 


Special  discount  to  Smith  College  I 


CHILSON'S 


The    Big    Store 


28    Center    St. 


I  Twenty-five   years   of   baggage   service 


TRUNKS,    BAGS,    SUIT    CASES, 
HAT   BOXES 

Shopping  Bags,  Pocket  Books,  and 

I 


Leather   Goods 


I 

|   Locksmith,  Key  making,  Lock 


'k  repairing 


W.  L.  CHILSON 
The  Luggage  and  Leather   Store 

Odd    Fellows'   Building 

PLYMOUTH  INN 
Plymouth  Inn  Tea  Room 

JOHN  PAUL  STACK,  Mgr. 

Being    entirely    renovated,    refurnished 

and  redecorated  under  new  management 

Mrs.   M.  A.  T.   Schoeneck 

Formerly    22    Belmont 

Dinner  Music,  Fri.,  Sat.  &  Sun.  Nights 


SHAMPOOING  HAIR  CUTTING 

MARCELLING       SCALP  TREATING 

KNIGHT'S 

Permanent  Waving 

Frederic's 
Vita    Tonic    Compound    Method 


74   STATE    ST. 


TEL.   581 


PHOTOGRAPHS  LIVE  FOREVER 
SO,  WHY  NOT  HAVE  THE  BEST 


STUDIO 


12  CENTER  ST 


Life  and  Loves  of 
Rudolph  Valentino 

Profusely    Illustrated 

PICTURES  SUITABLE  FOR 
FRAMING 

50c   Postpaid.  No   Stamps 

P.  O.  or  Express  M.  O.  only 

LLEWOL  COMPANY,   P.  O.  Box  526 
Dept.    C.  Lowell,    Mass. 


Advertise 


in 


"The  Monthly" 


APRIL 


1927 


BBS 


n 


H< 


jur^  ^ir:^  *ir±  *x    i.g-^  *jltv  ^-"^ns^ 


1 


HOTEL  ASTOK 


Qne  of  America's  great  hotels— and, 

surrounding  it,  the  city's  famous 
shops,  theatres,  and  business 

"At  the  Crossroads  of  the  World  " 

P.  A.  MUSCHENHEIM 


Broadway, 


S  QUARE 


NEW    YOR.K 
'Oft'v-fifth  Streets 


mmm^^mMzmg%gz 


FRANK  BROTHERS 

fifth  Avenue  Boot  Shop 

Between  47^}  and  48*h  Streets.  New  York 


Curran  Bros. 

GROCERIES 

Canned  Meats  of  all  Kinds 

Everything  needed  for  that  bat 

Opp.  Draper  Hotel 

Cor.   Main  and  Old  South  Streets 


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 


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 


FASHIONABLE    MILLINERY 
379  MAIN   STREET  SPRINGFIELD,  MASS. 

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 


ELECTRIC  SHOP 


191   MAIN      STREET  PHONE.    /307W 

Northampton  T    Mass. 

College  Lamp  Repairing 

Small  Radios  for 
College  use. 


Ridge  Shop 


Hats 


j  Ladies'   Sport  Wear 


243   Main   St. 


Northampton 


This   Book    was 
Printed  by 


I   E 


KKg 


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,  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 


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. 
^TffidManv  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  wTho  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  wrere  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 


Boston  Fruit  Store 


The   Pioneer   Fruit    House    of 
Northampton 


HcGIaUum'a 
Separtment 


$6.00 


$6.00 

Q) 

Boston 


160  Tremont  St. 

for  all  ntraainttH 
QJatcrtna  particularly  to  college  njrln 

IHOMAS  F.  FLEMING 


THE  SHOE  SHOP 
of 


! 

Exceedingly  Smart  Models 

— and  moderate  prices — 

Painstaking,    Courteous    Service 


12   CRAFTS  AVENUE 


FLOWERS 


The  Green  Dragon 


229  Main  St. 


Gifts  of  Distinction 


1797  1927 

BARGAINS 
IN  STATIONERY 

ENGRAVING  FROM  PERSONAL 

DIES 
NEW    BOOKS    AS    PUBLISHED 

at 

Bridgman  &  Lyman 

108  MAIN  ST. 


Robert  M.  Warnock 


247  MAIN  ST. 


STATIONERY 
GIFTS 
LEATHER  GOODS 


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 
will  not  discover  here  the  unique  fancy  of  A  Man  in  the  Zoo 
or  the  mysterious  quality  of  Lady  into  Fod\  hut  there  is  still 
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 
color  and  an  evident  love  of  words.  Each  of  David  Gar- 
nett's  boks  has  these  characteristics  and  each  has  been  orig- 
inal and  individual — a  small  masterpiece  in  itself.  Go  She 
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. 


! 


T.  Ono  &  Company 


CHINESE 
TABLE    LAMPS 


Italian  Linner  Clock 
Chinese  Brass  Wares 

J   All  Sorts  of  Oriental  Novelties 
and  etc. 


192  Main  St. 
J  Northampton, 


Mass. 


Which  of  These  Smart  Requisites 
Is  Your  Favorite? 


No.  A  few  distinguished  names  have 
come  to  stand  for  smartness  with  women 
of  good  taste.  These  smart  preparations, 
advertised  in  such  impricably  smart 
fashion  publications  as  Vogue  and  Harp- 
ers Bazaar  are  carried  here  in  profuse 
selections.  You  can  choose  from  such 
irreproachable  makes  as  Coty,  Bourjois, 
Yardley,  Houbigant,  Elizabeth  Arden, 
Fioret,  Woodworth,  Guerlain,  Roger  and 
Gallet,  Cappi,  Gueldy,  etc. 


KINGSLEY'S  Inc. 

The  Attractive   Store  where   you   get 
the  good  things  to  eat. 


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. 

COR  OX  A  Agency. 

76   Pleasant    Street 


NORTHAMPTON, 


MASS. 


Fleming's  Footwear  charmingly 
interprets  every  phase  of  the 
springtime  mode.  See  our  show- 
ing and  you  can  fully  appreciate 
how  perfectly  your  every  foot- 
wear need  has  been  anticipated. 
Hosiery  in  every  correct  spring- 
time  shade   from   nude   to   black. 


Fleming's  Boot  Shop 


189   MAIN    ST. 


Oil  Permanent  Wave 

Leaves    the    hair    soft    and    fluffy 
and  does  not  make  it  brittle. 

HI  I 

,L    BROTHERS 

Do    you    want    a    permanent    wave    th.it 
looks    like    a    marcel? 
Or  a   Soft    round  curl? 

Dry   Goods 
Rugs 

You    can    have    either,    and    as    large    a 
wave   as  you  desire   .it 

and 

BELANGER'S 

277  Main  St.                                  Tel.  688-W 

Draperies 

Masonic  St.  Market 

MEATS  &  GROCERIES 

FREE    DELIVERY 

Phone   173  18   Masonic   St. 

Northampton,    Mass. 

Scalp  Treatment 

Shampooing 

"Marcel  That  Stays" 

Facials  Manicuring 

Oil    Permanent    Waving 

Schultz,  Inc. 

223  Main  Street 


Royal  Restaurant 


Chinese    and    American 

A  First  Class  Restaurant  with 

Reasonable  Price 

Regular  Dinner  from  11  a.m.  to  2  p.m. 

Supper  from  5  to  8  p.m. 

Excellent   Service  Prompt  Attention 

40    Main    Street  Northampton 


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 


Northampton, 


M« 


Automobile  Repairing; 
Radio  Sets 


Half  a  Block  from  Herald  Square 

HOTEL   COLLINGWOOD 

45  West  35th  St.    New  York  City 
Seth  H.  Moseley 

Select  accommodations  for 
discriminating  people 

European  Plan  $2.50  up 


BEFORE  CHOOSING   YOUR   GIFTS 

Whether  for  Relative  or  Friend, 

Look    Over    Our 

Electric  Appliances 

We  have  something  Useful  for 

Everybody 
GIVE  ELECTRICAL  GIFTS 

"They  Are  Lasting  Memories" 
'  Rear  of  Citv  Hall 


Northampton  Electric  Ltg. 
Co. 

Crafts-Brown  Silk 
Shop 

171  Main  St.,  Draper  Hotel  Bldg. 

Plain  and  Novelty  Silks 
Wool  Flannels 

Agents  for 
Barnes,    Inc.,   Dyers   and   Cleaners 


Oriental  Shop 

239  Main  Street 

All  kinds  of  Fancy 
Articles 


PLAZA  FRUIT  CO. 

NEXT  TO  PLAZA 

Fruit 
Candy  Chewing-Gum 


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   room. 

21  State  Street 


GLEASON  BROTHERS 

P.    P.    GLEASON,    Prop. 
Moving,     Storing,     Packing,     Shipping, 
Long    distance    transfer   by    auto    truck 

Office  7  Pearl  St.  Tel.  413-W 

Northampton  Baggage  Transfer 

Tel.   153 
NORTHAMPTON,  MASS. 

Book  Collecting  is  now 

College   Sport 

Old  Books  and  Prints 
from  England 


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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, 
surrounding  it,  the  city 's  jam  ous 
shops,  theatres,  and  business 

"At  the  Crossroads  of  the  World  " 

F.  A.  MUSCHENHEIM 


TIMES       SQUARE. NEW     YORK 

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* 


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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 


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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  0 

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  w7as  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  newr  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,  wrild  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  wThich  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  wrere  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  awray,  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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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 

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leave  one  cold  while  others,  never  intended  to  excite,  fasci- 
nate and  enthrall  us?  What  is  it  that  delights  the  butcher 
in  a  prize  fight,  the  artist  in  a  petunia,  or  vice-versa?  There 


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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- 
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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. 


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BUSINESS  STAFF 

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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 


ELECTRIC  SHOP 


191  MAIN      STREET  PHONE    IJ07W 

Northampton ,   Mass. 

College  Lamp  Repairing 

Small  Radios  for 
College  use. 

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Northampton 


This   Book    was 
Printed  by 

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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- 
cause1 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. 

tkA  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. 

'wVoyons,  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  Charles3  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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of  good  taste.  These  smart  preparations, 
advertised  in  such  impricably  smart 
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selections.  You  can  choose  from  such 
irreproachable  makes  as  Coty,  Bourjois, 
Yardley,  Houbigant,  Elizabeth  Arden, 
Fioret,  Woodworth,  Guerlain,  Roger  and 
Gallet,  Cappi,  Gueldy,  etc. 


KINGSLEY'S  Inc. 

The  Attractive   Store  where  you   get 
the  good  things  to  eat. 


Fleming's  Footwear  charmingly 
interprets  every  phase  of  the 
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Hosiery  in  every  correct  spring- 
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189   MAIN   ST. 


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,  sf>  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. 


faai 


^DEfc^