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BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 


Vol.  XXXVII  OCTOBER,   1928  No.   1 


EDITORIAL  BOARD 

Editor-in-chief,  Anne  Lloyd  Basinger,  1929 

Managing  Editor,  Ernestine  Gilbreth,  1929 

Book  Review  Editor,  Elizabeth  Botsford,  1929 

Katherine  S.  BolmaNj  1929  Rachel  Grant,  1929 

Elizabeth  Wheeler,  1929  Elizabeth  Sha^v,  1930 

Sallie  S.  Simons,  1930 

Art — Nancy  Wynne  Parker,  1930 

BUSINESS  STAFF 

Business  Manager,  Sylvia  Alberts,  1929 

Lilian  Supove,   1929  Anna  Dabney,   1930     Mary  Folsom,   1931 

Mary  Sayre,  1930  Esther  Tow,   1931        Sarah   Pearson,   1931 

Agnes  Lyall,   1930 

Advertising  Manager,  Betsy  Tilden,  1930 

Gertrude  Cohen,  1929 

Circulation  Manager,  Ruth  Rose,  1929 


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

October  to  June,  inclusive.    Terms  $2.00  a  year.     Single  copies  25c. 

Subscriptions  may  be  sent  to  Sylvia  Alberts,  12  Fruit  Street,  Northampton. 

Advertising  Manager,  B.  A.  Tilden,  Oillett  House. 

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

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

Metcalf  Printing  §  Publishing  Company,  Northampton,  Mass. 

"Accepted  for  mailing  at  special  rate  of  postage  provided  for  in  Section  1203, 

Act  of  October  3,  1917.    Authorized  October  31,  1913."* 


/til  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. 


I 

For  Taxi  Service  -  -  Phone  55 
i 

LOWEST  RATES  IN  THE  CITY 

"Around  the  Corner  from  Treblas" 

Cadillac  and  LaSalle 


DRIVE  YOURSELF  CARS 

CHRYSLERS  AND  CHANDLERS 

SEDANS  AND  ROADSTERS 

Oldest  Drive  Yourself  in  the  City 


Phone  55  -  No"haZon  Taxi 


i  !>  Masonic  Street, 


X 


orthampton,  Mass. 


CONTENTS 


1 


The  Sour  Grape 
Two   Portraits 
Leaf  in  the  Autumn  Gale 
Entrance 
Visas 

In  the  Modern  Manner 
Jaffa  Gate 

"For  King  and  Country" 
To  a  Fencer 
Return- 
Editorial 
Book   Reviews 

Bambi 

The  Magnificent   Idler 

Marie   Grubbf 

Cowboy 


Elizabeth    Share,    1930 

Barbara   Damon    Simi.son,    1929  S 

Anne  Lloyd  Basinger,   1929  9 

Katherine  S.  Bolman,    1929  14 

Anne  Andrew,  1930  15 

Patty   Wood,   1930  18 

Rachel  Grant,   1929  V? 

Elizabeth    Wheeler.    1929  20 

Nancy   Wynne  Parker,   li)3<>  25 


26 

30 

33 

•\  M.  G. 

33 

R.G. 

35 

s.  s.  s. 

11 

E.  B. 

15 

The  oldest  and  most  dependable 

taxi  firm  in  the  city. 
OPERATING 

Buick  "Master-Six"  Cars 

u<rDrivurse/f     Department 

and 

Busses  for  Hire 


Phone  96 

Gitv  Taxi  Service 


J 

NEAR   THE   DRAPER    HOTEL 


Smith  College 
Monthly 

THE  SOUR  GRAPE 

Elizabeth  Shaw 


fi 


ECENTLY  the  fermented  grape  has  been  the  topic  of 
interest  for  many  of  our  dinner  table  and  club  meeting 
HH  discussions.  It  has  furnished  conversation  in  many  an 
arid  desert  of  silence,  when  the  weather  has,  by  common  con- 
sent been  buried  in  a  long  merited  grave;  it  has  lent  the  spice 
of  battle  to  otherwise  peacefully  dull  dances;  it  has  weathered 
the  sternest  gales  of  disapproval,  to  emerge  smiling  optimisti- 
cally at  the  end  with  a  "y°u  see  this  is  the  way  I  feel  about 
Prohibition."  Many  a  struggling  author  has  clothed  and  fed 
his  children  on  the  femented  grape,  while  the  magazines  thai 
published  his  enthusiastic  originalities  have  developed  thriv- 
ing circulations.  The  fermented  grape  has  been  boomed.  Is 
it  not  time  that  we  should  pay  some  attention  to  its  less  start- 
ling, but  equally  galling  companion,  the  sour  grape?  Is  it 
necessarily  more  shocking  that  a  man  should  spend  his  wages 
on  bad  liquor,  and  come  home  to  chase  his  wife  over  the  apart- 
ment with  the  coal  skuttle  bought  on  the  installment  plan, 
than  it  is  that  a  tender  and  affectionate  maiden  aunt  should 
perjure  her  immortal  soul,  in  which  she  devoutly  believes, 
by  teaching  a  credulous  audience  of  youthful  nieces  and  ne- 
phews that  those  grapes  which  hang  most  succulently  out  of 
reach  are  of  necessity  sour  enough  to  pucker  the  mouths  of 
those  who  may  be  so  foolish  as  to  attempt  to  reach  them  \ 

There  is  a  certain  class  of  persons,  largely  composed  of 
those  who  indulge  in  such  professions  as  medicine,  pedagogy 
and  the  ministry,  who  place  their  whole  faith  in  the  somewhat 
doubious  doctrine  of  the  sour  grape.     I  have  my  doubts  as  to 


6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

\\  hether  the  fox  who  first  pronounced  his  unattainable  grapes 
sour,  knew  what  he  was  doing  in  making  his  opinions  public. 
He  did  not  realize  perhaps  that  in  a  short  while  husbands 

would  be  telling  their  wives  that  big  ears  were  too  much 
trouble  to  keep  in  order,  that  mothers  would  he  telling  then- 
children  that  the  theater  had  so  degenerated  that  it  was  a 
great  mistake  to  go  often  and  that  children  would  he  telling 
each  other  that  the  possessors  of  curly  hair  wore  entirely  to  he 
pitied  since  it  had  to  he  put  into  cork-screw  curls  each  morn- 
ing, while  theirs  needed  only  to  he  braided  and  tied. 

Those  who  have  uncles  scattered  over  the  country  in 
thriving  parishes,  and  whose  aunts  organize  sales  that  the 
deserving  heathen  may  he  clothed  and  converted:  those  whose 
relatives  teach:  and  those  who  have  been  taught  to  believe 
that  of  all  professions  that  of  the  general  practioner  is  the 
noblest,  will,  I  think,  understand  far  better  the  misuse  of  the 
sour  grape  than  those  fathers  in  business  who  have  either 
attained  or  are  frankly  striving  for  a  good  share  of  this 
world's  goods,  and  who  do  not  say  in  a  cheerful  tout1  of  voice. 
'Its  nice  to  be  comfortably  off',  but  I  should  hate  the  respon- 
sibilities entailed  by  being  rich",  as  they  look  up  from  last 
year's  novel,  in  its  lending  library  covers.  This  responsibility 
seems  to  be  the  chief  objection  against  most  otherwise  desir- 
able grapes.  How  well  we  know  the  disparaging  tone  of  an 
aunt,  as  we  gaze  covetously  at  the  jeweler's  window,  quoting 
with  hungry  lips  our  Revelation  verses,  "The  first  foundation 
was  jasper;  the  second  sapphire;  the  third  a  chalcedony1;  the 
fourth,  an  emerald  -  -"  Before  we  had  reached  the  chrysolytc 
we  would  be  recalled  to  earth.  "Imagine  the  responsibility 
of  owning  valuable  jewels,  Tin  sure  I  would  hate  it!*1  Or 
later,  as  we  pass  the  importer's  window  with  its  smart  and 
lovely  clothes.  "Expensive  clothes  must  be  such  a  burden  to 
take  care  of!" 

Soon  we  shall  have  our  populace  trained  so  that  the 
hungry  woman  outside  the  restaurant  will  heave  a  sigh  of 
relief  al  not  having  anything  to  eat.  "Think  of  having  to 
digest  lobster  Newburg  whal  a  responsibility!"  Or.  at  her 
home,  as  she  pins  a  burlap  bag  over  the  broken  window. 
"Well.  Till  glad  that  last  pane  is  gone,  now  I  won't  have  to 
worry  any  longer  about  breaking  il  !"  Indeed  how  much  we 
can  find  to  be  thankful  for.  There  is  the  perennial  minister's 
remark  to  his  familv,  "Mv  dears,  we  should  all  be  thankful 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  7 

for  the  temptations  we  cannot  afford",  and  once  1  found  an 
old  couple  who  live  near  us  rejoicing  over  the  fact  that  they 
could  no  longer  afford  to  take  the  local  paper,  for  they  told 
me,  "Now  we  can't  spoil  our  eyes  reading  it  at  night." 

It  is  a  fact  that  has  often  been  observed,  that  self-per- 
suasion soon  leads  to  sincere  belief.  Five  minutes  after  the 
fox  had  decided  that  the  grapes  were  sour,  he  would  not  have 
touched  them,  had  they  been  handed  to  him  on  a  silver  salver. 
"Those  grapes,"  he  would  have  said  in  a  condescending  tone. 
"are  sour,  I  don't  care  for  them,  but  help  yourself  if  you  like 
them  that  way."  And  so  it  is.  When  the  long  expected  legacy 
comes  to  the  doctor,  he  remembers  that  when  we  have  fewer 
things,  Ave  love  and  appreciate  them  more,  that  a  big  car  is  too 
much  trouble  and  that  a  Ford  is  far  more  convenient  for 
traffic,  that  his  wife  positively  enjoys  planning  her  two  hun- 
dred dollars  a  year  for  clothes,  and  that  it  wouldn't  be  any 
fun  if  she  could  just  go  in  and  buy  whatever  struck  her  eye. 
that  the  public  school  is  good  for  the  children  because  they 
make  a  wide  range  of  friends,  that  there  are  so  few  good 
books  now-a-days  that  it  doesn't  pay  to  buy  them,  and  the 
old  Dickens  and  Scott  will  be  perfectly  all  right  if  they  are 
rebound,  as  he  likes  the  dear  old  set.  And  so  it  continues 
until  the  doctor  decides  that  the  family  does  not  need  a  thing, 
and  large  parts  of  the  legacy  go  to  Cousin  Ben  for  his  mission 
(he  doesn't  realize  what  a  responsibilty  clothes  and  a  religion 
will  be  to  the  heathen)  and  the  rest  is  a  nest  egg  for  travelling 
(perhaps  he  forgets  how  often  he  has  remarked  that  he  could 
see  all  the  life  and  beauty  he  wanted  in  Brunswick, Maine; 
and  that  the  City  had  grown  so  he  didn't  like  to  go  there  any 
more) . 

But  according  to  the  Scriptures,  "Take  the  foxes,  the 
little  foxes  that  spoil  the  vineyards—  "  So  perhaps  they  didn't 
believe  what  Father  Fox  told  them  about  the  grapes! 


8  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


TWO  PORTRAITS 
Barbara  Damon  Si  mi  son 


She  shut  her  life  up  in  a  narrow  box. 

Too  narrow  for  the  breadth  of  other  men. 

But  plenty  large  for  such  a  one  as  she. 

Who  put  the  cardboard  cover  down  to  stay, 

And  even  under  pressure  will  not  lift 

It  up  to  set  its  contents  out  on  view. 

Rut.  some  day.  she  will  die,  and  then  the  box 

May  still  remain  closed  up — just  as  before. 

Though  with  a  change — her  life  will  all  be  gone, 

Despite  her  carefulness  to  keep  it  there. 


II 

She  packed  up  beauty  deep  within  her  soul 

As  if  it  were  a  trunk  in  which  to  pile 

The  loveliness  she  saw   around  herself. 

That  others  did  not  see.  or  saw,  and  did 

\ot  care  about-    the  ripple  of  a  pool  in  spring 

Beside  the  new-found  wonder  of  a  phrase  or  two: 

The  wist  fulness  of  pines  that  filled  the  night 

Beneath  Madonna  blue  in  rows  of  squills. 

When  she  unpacked  her  trunk  she  used  all  care. 

\ot  spilling  out  its  contents  on  the  floor 

As  I  have  seen  some  other  travellers  do. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


LEAF  IN  THE  AUTUMN  GALE 
Anne  Lloyd  Basingek 


|>^r|S  the  car  drew  up  before  his  house  he  looked  at  his 
1*H|  watch.  He  had  been  out  just  an  hour.  Bending  his 
Elfl  head  against  the  wind  and  rain  he  hurried  across  the 
pavement  to  the  door;  and  in  that  moment  of  exposure  felt 
the  change  of  the  season.  Following  three  days  of  intense 
Indian  summer  humidity,  this  storm  that  closed  in  steely 
gloom  about  lamps  and  head-lights  had  chilled  autumn  to 
death.     Tomorrow  would  be  winter. 

He  felt  glad  that  he  had  gone  over  to  his  daughter's 
apartment,  even  though  she  had  seemed  fretful  at  his  visit. 
It  was  not  far;  the  car  protected  him  from  the  storm.  As 
twilight  had  fallen,  two  hours  ahead  of  time,  under  the  op- 
pressive clouds,  he  had  decided  suddenly  to  go  and  make  sure 
that  she  felt  well;  for  in  her  state  she  was  subject  to  depres- 
sion. He  had  never  learned  to  forget  the  premonitions  of  his 
wife  before  this  daughter's  birth,  when  in  spite  of  all  assur- 
ances from  her  doctors  she  had  sensed  her  approaching  death. 
Women  live  close  to  the  nerve  of  nature ;  they  need  a  man's 
companionship  in  storm,  he  thought.  So  he  had  gone;  had 
found  her  surprisingly  exultant  over  this  gloomy  day;  had 
fussed  over  her  until  she  became  irritable,  and  now  returned, 
reassured.  You  cannot  count  on  women;  but  so  long  as  she 
was  cheerful — well.    He  himself  felt  only  dark  restlessness. 

A  card  had  been  left  on  the  plate.  The  business  name 
he  recognized;  on  the  back,  a  scribbled  note:  "Missed  again. 
Why?  Conklin." 

He  had  been  out  just  an  hour.  In  that  hour,  Conklin 
had  come,  and  gone  again.  Thus  for  the  fourth  time  in 
thirty  years  they  missed  eachother. 

He  carried  the  card  into  the  study,  and  sat  beside  his 
fire.  The  rain  beat  at  his  windows  incessantly.  He  rubbed 
his  eyes  with  both  hands,  for  his  shaded  lamp  made  the  room 
oppressively  dark;  the  clouds  outside  had  shrouded  the  whole 
day;  and  as  if  through  a  film  he  strained  to  see  a  clear  image 


10  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

of  things.  Perhaps  his  eyes  were  tired:  at  least,  the  brighter 
edges  of  shiny  objects  tables,  chairs,  the  andirons  and  his 
ink-well  on  the  desk  made  for  him  only  a  devil-pattern 
tonight,  lying  llat  and  meaningless  before  his  tare-. 

He  rang  for  his  little  Japanese  servant,  and  questioned 
him.  Conklin,  it  seemed,  had  missed  him  by  only  fifteen 
minutes.  He  had  left  word  that  he  had  only  a  few  minutes 
between  trains,  and  could  not  wait. 

When  they  had  missed  eaehother  the  first  time,  it  had 
seemer  no  more  than  a  mischance.  They  were  young  and 
busy  then,  he  himself  just  beginning  to  build  a  reputation  of 
brilliant  amateurism  in  literature,  and  Conklin  entering  the 
rail-road  world  in  the-  west,  where  he  was  to  gain  importance. 
They  never  thought  of  separation  as  more  than  temporary; 
and  they  had  traveled  enough  to  think  of  the  world  as  a  small 
plaee.  lint  the  mischance  repeated  itself  queerly.  Twice  in 
the  west  and  now  four  times  in  New  York  they  had  tried,  ami 
failed,  to  set  eaehother.  The  margin  of  time  grew  narrower. 
Once  Conklin  had  visited  his  home  when  he  was  in  Europe; 
once,  when  he  had  gone  to  fish  for  two  weeks  up-state:  once 
when  he  was  spending  a  week-end  in  the  country.  Hut  never 
before  had  he  missed  so  narrowly  as  by  fifteen  minutes.  A 
rail-road  man  is  always  in  a  hurry;  it  so  happened  that  Conk- 
lin could  never  wait.  lie  left  his  card  each  time:  all  very 
alike.  The  first  had  read  something  like:  ".Missed  you.  Better 
luck  next  time.  Conklin."  The  two  middle  cards  wore  al- 
most identical.  "Missed  again.  Only  in  town  for  the  day. 
Sorry.  Conklin."  This  last  card  in  his  hand  gave  a  new  note. 
"Missed  again.  Why?  Conklin."  And  one  could  visualize 
Conklin.  writing,  "M  issed  you,"  in  that  scribble  of  haste:  then 
pausing  with  a  shadow  of  perplexity;  writing  "Why?"  with 
an  expression  almost  of  astonishment :  and  signing,  and  plow- 
ing away  doggedly  into  the  howling  twilighl  street.  The  new 
word  indicated  a  confirmation  of  a  secret  feeling  that  he  had 
hated  to  waste  time  upon  before:  the  feeling  that  something 
more  than  chance  played  their  lives;  that  an  external  power 
persisted  in  separating  them  and  bewildering  them;  and  that 
they  were  prey  to  an  unseen  meddler.  A  literary  man  will 
siihmit  to  this  sort  of  sen  sat  ion :  he  investigates  out  of  curios- 
ity tli<  reasons  for  things.  Hut  if  casual,  unimaginative 
Conklin.  perhaps  under  the  influence  of  this  howling  wind. 
delaved    a    minute    to    wrinkle    his    forehead    and    to    write 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  1 1 

"Why?"  on  his  card,  before  turning  up  his  collar  and  going 
away — there  must  after  all  be  something  wrong.    Just  so  a 

dog  or  a  horse  gives  sign  of  (list rust  before  a  man,  reinforc- 
ing by  instinct  an  impression  which  his  master  has  reasoned 
out  of  mind. 

And  on  this  wild  afternoon,  under  the  oppression  of 
spirits  felt  by  so  many  people  when  the  sky  is  darkly  oxer- 
cast,  such  a  slight  sign  as  his  daughter's  restlessness  during 
his  visit  seemed  also  to  confirm  the  sense  of  fatality,  hinting 
that  she  felt  something  going  wrong,  during  his  visit  to  her. 
She  had  begged  him  repeatedly  to  go  home,  with  a  nervous 
energy  which,  by  exhausting  her,  had  seemed  to  feed  itself 
by  her  added  persistence  to  overcome  weariness,  until  he  had 
wondered  whether  after  all  storm  did  not  cause  a  disturbance 
far  deeper  than  consciousness  within  her.  At  the  time  he 
had  considered  her  to  be  arguing  against  her  wishes,  out  of 
consideration  for  him;  and  so  he  had  answered  her  fretfulness 
with  stubborn  calm,  until  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  she  had 
suddenly  fallen  silent,  drooping  as  if  doped  with  a  sleeping- 
powder;  and  had  murmured  that  if  he  would  only  run  away 
and  stop  disturbing  her  she  could  rest  before  dinner;  and  he 
had  been  satisfied,  and  had  returned.  These  events  he  played 
over  again  now,  very  slowly,  and  told  himself  that  more  than 
her  condition  caused  her  irritability;  that  swinging  as  she  was 
in  the  turn  of  the  tide  of  life,  giving  more  of  herself  away 
than  her  strength  afforded,  half-dead,  perhaps,  because 
drained  of  energy,  but  half-immortal,  since  creating  like  a 
goddess  in  herself,  she  had  sensed  the  alien  force  in  his  life 
which  separated  him  from  Conklin,  and  had  tried,  not  under- 
standing her  own  motives,  to  help  him  trick  it. 

Under  the  intensity  of  his  study,  her  nervousness  that 
had  seemed  a  coincidence  at  first  became  in  turn  the  proof  of 
that  unnatural  inter ferance,  and  convinced  him  that  more 
than  chance  separated  him  from  Conklin.  But  he  could  not 
guess  any  reason  for  that  separation.  Why.  after  all,  should 
fate  choose  Conklin  for  subject?  They  had  never  been  inti- 
mate friends;  and  inevitably  they  must  have  drifted  apart  as 
they  pursued  their  different  lives,  lie  could  scarcely  under- 
stand his  own  interest  in  the  rail-road  man.  Met  by  chance 
when  he  himself  had  just  graduated  from  college,  and  Conk- 
lin, five  years  younger,  had  run  away  from  school,  they  had 
chosen  to  make  their  way  around   the  world  together,   for 


1  2  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

adventure.  A  queer  wanderer  named  Capshaw,  who  must 
have  been  a  little  older  than  cither  of  them,  made  the  third 
of  the  party.     None  of  them  defined  the  reason  for  such 

choice  of  company:  they  had  nothing  in  common  but  the 
escapade:  hut  they  had  enjoyed  eachother.  Obviously  they 
would  have  to  part  in  the  end.  since  one  was  a  horn  tramp, 
one  a  dabbler  with  hooks  .and  one  a  self-making  novice  in 
business.  They  had  known  it  when  they  came  hack  to  New 
York.  Conklin  was  a  less  interesting  boy  than  undisciplined 
Capshaw;  if  they  had  met  again  once  or  twice  it  would  have 
satisfied  them  both.  But — to  lose  eachother!  In  so  small  a 
world,  in  one  continent,  for  two  men  used  to  travel  and  wide 
friendship  to  he  separated  forever,  stung  one  to  a  defiance  of 
hick,  till  from  chafing  their  interest  in  eachother  was  in- 
flamed; and  the  memory  of  old  friendship  perpetuated  itself 
in  a  disproportionate  bond.  Thus,  though  he  told  himself  thai 
rough  Conklin  had  virtually  become  a  memory  more  than 
thirty  years  ago,  he  could  not  forget  the  ominous  manage- 
ment which  set  fifteen  minutes'  time  between  them.  And 
little  Conklin's  rugged  face  hailed  itself  before  his  eyes  as  he 
had  last  seen  it  on  a  morning  in  New  York  following  their 
trip,  to  haunt  him  forever. 

They  had  parted  so  unexpectedly  then.  Standing  in 
the  lobby  of  their  hotel,  they  had  laid  their  plans,  to  do 
errands,  see  people,  buy  a  hat.  'I  will  see  yon  here  in  an 
hour,  then,"  Conklin  had  said.  The  words  kept  ringing 
louder  in  his  ears  nowadays:  'I  will  see  yon  here  in  an  hour. 
then."  Matter-of-fact,  precise.  Conklin  walked  one  way,  he 
and  Capshaw  another.  lie  never  saw  Conklin  again.  When 
they  returned,  they  found  a  note  explaining  that  Conklin's 
mother  was  ill;  his  father  had  telegraphed;  he  had  gone  at 
once.  They  had  heen  disappointed;  hut  they  would  meet 
later.      And  Capshaw   did  meet   Conklin  later      many  times: 

he,  the  casual  vagabond,  could  drop  in  at  Conklin's  head- 
quarters and  nearly  always  find  him.  even  in  an  hour  between 
trips,  or  could  meet  him  unexpectedly  out  on  the  far  ranges, 
Or  could  find  him  in  the  cities  of  the  eastern  or  western  sea- 
board, where  he  went  only  once  a  year.  Capshaw  met  every- 
body; he  carried  messages  between  them.  This  malign  luck 
never  touched  the  adventurer. 

The  plain  square  lace  of  Conklin!  Mouse-brown  hair, 
brown  skin,  tumpv  features  already  wrinkled  and  homely 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  18 

from  squinting  in  the  sun.  It  was  no  weird  mask  to  haunt 
one  for  thirty  years  or  so.  If  it  had  been  Capshaw,  instead, 
he  would  have  gained  in  losing  him.  For  Capshaw  as  he  had 
found  him  first  had  been  a  man  to  stare  at  and  remember: 
tall,  spare,  darkly  savage;  his  teeth  and  eyes  shone;  he  had  no 
regard  for  appearanees.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who, 
while  so  passionate  as  to  be  made  ill  from  anger  or  the  con- 
templation of  suffering,  yet  practise  rigid  asceticism,  betray- 
ing by  their  severity  the  nature  of  their  dreams.  If  he  had 
lost  Capshaw,  he  would  always  have  remembered  the  tiger- 
like man  with  whom  he  had  adventured  onee,  and  who  had 
vanished  to  prepetuate  himself  in  romantic  memory.  Vet 
Capshaw  came  back  to  him  yearly,  sometimes  oftener;  while 
it  was  ugly  little  Conklin  whom  some  storm  of  destiny,  like 
the  rain  and  wind  without,  tore  away  out  of  reach.  The  face 
of  Capshaw  was  not  to  become  an  ideal;  it  was  to  be  exposed 
to  view  in  every  stage  of  its  decay:  through  the  brief  prosper- 
ity of  his  life  when  he  tried  to  settle  down,  through  the  pinch- 
ing times  of  destitution  when  he  could  find  no  work;  when  it 
received  a  scar  during  the  world  war;  when  the  hair  and  the 
thin  moustache  grizzled  and  lost  their  startling  blackness; 
when  the  brows  came  to  beetle  over  eyes  with  drooping  lids : 
when  lines  of  relaxation  fell  from  the  inner  corners  of  those 
eyes  downward  to  the  cheek;  when  vertical  creases  etched 
themselves  on  either  side  of  the  thin  mouth,  and  the  smooth 
throat  which  had  been  pale  and  straight  as  a  column  was  dug- 
out into  cords.  Such  decay  appeared  naked  when  Capshaw 
came  every  year ;  but  the  immature  features  of  an  undistingu- 
ished boy  remained  with  photographical  clearness  to  be  re- 
membered always. 

And  again  this  night  a  fear  came  in  around  his  curtains 
from  the  night  that  some  day  luck  would  desert  him  in  his 
relationship  with  Capshaw-  too;  that  this  unbound  wanderer 
would  also  drift  away  from  his  circle,  and  leave  him  alone. 
Possibly  more  might  disappear;  as  the  enchantment  widened, 
every  friend  one  by  one  would  fall  beneath  a  spell,  till  he 
could  never  again  find  those  worth  calling  companions,  with 
whom  he  had  hunted,  or  studied,  or  enjoyed  his  life.  And  he 
would  search  the  city,  but  see  only  strange  faces;  for  fate 
would  have  cleared  the  others  from  his  path,  till  not  even  a 
heel  of  them  would  be  visible,  as  in  a  fraction  of  a  second  they 
moved  beyond  sight,  hunting  him,  hunted  by  him,  separated 


14  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

forever  in  the  puzzle  of  circumstance.  Such  imaginative  stuff 
hazed  his  judgment  tonight  as  never  before;  and  it  intensified 
the  bafflement  of  every  recent  parting  from  Capshaw;  catch- 
ing again  the  reverberations  of  his  mood  when,  months  ago, 
in  the  hustle  of  a  sub-way  platform,  he  had  called  alter  him, 
feeling  infinitely  wistful;  hut   saying,  with  a  shame-faced 

O  JO 

gruffness,  'Come  hark  do  you  hear?  Don't  lose  yourself!" 
The  tall  grey  fellow  had  nodded;  his  Tare  had  glimmered 
weirdly  in  the  electric  glare,  as  faces  ought  to  look  when  you 
see  them  for  the  very  last  time;  and  then  he  had  gone;  the 
crowds  had  received  him  into  their  heart:  and  silence  had 
fallen. 


Thus  on  a  streaming  night,  alone  with  a  card  which 
marked  one  more  mischance,  the  man  brooded  his  loneliness. 
And  his  thoughts  were  deadly-serious  to  him  then.  But  when, 

next  day.  in  the  clean  bravery  of 'winter  sunshine,  he  met 
Capshaw-  in  his  worn  familial'  tweeds  at  a  block  from  his  door. 
he  forgot  such  nonsense  in  the  commonplaces  of  greeting; 

and  only  the  fact  of  Conklin's  advent  remained  as  a  queer 
mischance. 


ENTRANCE 

KATHERINE  S.   Hoi  man 

I  have  wept  and  bruised  my  hands, 
'Till  I  could  weep  no  more, 

I   found  it  was  ;i  useless  thing 
To  beat  upon  your  door. 
1  thought  the  way  was  barred, 
Beyond  your  high  stone  wall. 
I  nt il  I  found  the  garden  gate 
Was  never  closed  at  all ! 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  15 

VISAS 

Anne  Andrew 


El  COLD  wind  blew  twilight  downstream  towards  us  as 
I  we  left  Budapest  for  Vienna  and  Linz.  As  to  my  fate 
TMtJ  during  the  next  twenty-four  hours  we  were  not  quite 
sure,  Paulette  and  I.  Hers  was  to  be  simple  enough,  for  she 
was  on  the  boat  bound  for  Vienna  and,  after  a  few  hours  of 
sighting,  thence  to  Linz  and  Paris,  but  I  was  not  as  lucky. 
Through  misunderstandings  I  had  no  transit  visa  for  Hung- 
ary which  I  was  hoping  to  leave.  Lenient  officials  by  per- 
suasions had  let  me  on  the  boat,  but  they  had  ordered  me  to 
leave  at  Szob,  the  frontier,  buy  my  Hungarian  visa,,  take  the 
six  o'clock  morning  train  on  which  I  would  buy  my  Czechosla- 
vokian  visa,  later,  my  Austrian  visa,  and  arrive  in  Vienna  at 
five  that  night  ready  to  resume  my  boat  trip  up  the  Danube 
to  Linz.  I  was  to  be  traveling  in  German  speaking  lands 
where  neither  my  English  nor  my  extremely  bad  French 
would  be  of  great  assistance,  nor  would  Paillette's  able 
tongue  help  me,  for  she  had  to  remain  on  board  to  take  care 
of  our  luggage.  We  talked  long  and  it  was  advice  in  general 
and  advice  in  particular  which  she  gave  me.  For  the  advice 
in  general,  she  taught  me  to  count  up  to  ten  in  German  and 
she  wrote  down  some  useful  expressions.  I  felt  quite  capable 
and  poised,  much  more  so  than  when  I  knew  I  was  landing 
in  a  France,  the  rudiments  of  whose  language  I  had  been 
learning  for  four  years.  It  was,  however,  time  to  leave  and 
say  au  revoir. 

The  boat  moved  slowly  away  from  the  pier.  It  took  all 
the  light  with  it  and  in  the  midst  of  the  light  was  Paulette 
waving  goodbye.  Slowly  upstream  it  went  and  was  suddenly 
hidden  by  a  mass  of  blackness.  Only  the  rush  of  the  waters 
down  to  Budapest  could  be  heard. 

We  left  the  landing  and  Avalked  along  the  muddy  paved 
streets  of  midnight  Szob.  Two  arms  supported  me.  One 
belonged  to  the  short,  dark  Hungarian  douane  who  spoke 
occasionally  in  scratchy  German  gutterals.     His  remarks 


J  6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

evidently  verged  on  coarseness,  for  the  "police"  (not  gen- 
darme but  "police"  as  he  insisted)  stopped  now  and  then 
to  laugh.  1 1  is  was  the  Other  arm.  He,  too,  was  a  short  man 
but  light  in  complexion  and  flabbier  in  body.  His  hand  rest- 
ing on  my  arm  was  covered  by  a  white  cotton  glove.  He  had 
told  me  that  during  the  war  he  had  been  in  a  Russian  prison 
camp  where  his  hand  had  been  cut  off.  It  had  been  replaced 
bv  a  waxen  one  of  hard  colors.     Now  I  shivered  as  I  felt  its 


nothingness  rest  on  my  arm. 


We  walked  endlessly  past  black  houses  and  blacker  t  rees. 
We  passed  the  village  cafe.  We  walked  on  and  on  to  the 
station  where  soldiers  paced  up  and  down  or  lounged  in  small 
sleepy  groups.  In  the  hare  military  office  an  official  in  shirt- 
sleeves stamped  my  passport,  while  another  pulled  the  bed- 
clothes of  his  cot  over  his  head.  Still  a  third  said  he  hoped  I 
could  get  my  Czech  visa  on  the  (>  o'clock  train.  Alter  a  mom- 
ent of  handshakings  we  were  again  outside.  Then, 
acting  on  the  decision  of  the  "police"  we  returned  to  the  cafe, 
and  entered  a  large  common  room,  oblong  and  wooden  with 
a  sordidness  the  uniforms  of  the  soldiers  intensified.  \Vc  went 
to  sit  at  the-  further  end  near  the  gypsy  musicians  who  were 
dirty  and  inharmonious.  For  a  time  1  talked  of  America 
and  fiance  Hungarians  have  such  respect  for  that  sort  of 
tiling  though  he  was.  sad  to  say.  only  mythical.  As  I 
talked  I  was  watching  the  soldiers  gathered  in  one  group 
and  then  four  huge  loud  men  amusing  themselves  with  two 
gingham-dressed  sisters,  quite  homely  and  rather  doubtful. 
Shortly  a  Czechoslovakian  soldier  proud  of  his  style  asked 
me  to  waltz.    (Would  I  be  able  to  get  my  Czech  visa?)  Then 

the  Hungarian  national  dance,  the  Tsardas..  We  danced  to 
the  straining  zither  and  violins.     During  long  intervals   I 

talked   to  the  "police"  refusing  food  and  drink,   for   I   could 

not  bear  the  thought  of  being  under  any  obligation  to  them. 

At    three  the  cafe  closed.      I   had  intended  to  say  good- 
night to  the  gentlemen  and  go  to  the  station  hut   they  would 

nothaveit.    Verboten.    They  would  look  out  for  me  and,  too. 

I  must  rest.  'The  "police"  seemed  suddenly  unable  to  ex- 
press himself  in  French  concerning  his  reiterating  the  word 
Verboten.  Realizing  the  futility  of  a  struggle  I  went  with 
them  to  the  douane's  room  in  a  nondescript  cottage  near  the 
cafe.    We  entered  the  door,  passed  through  a  sort  of  kitchen 

lo   a    small    hedrooin    where    the    police   lit    a    candle.       In    the 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  17 

unsteady  light  1  saw  two  single  beds,  a  table,  chairs  and 
vague  overhanging  shadows.  1  sat  down  and  opened  up  my 
map  and  books,  all  I  had  taken  from  the  boat.  I  glanced  up 
and  to  my  amazement  the  douane  was  divesting  himself  of 
eoat,  collar,  tie,  shoes,  socks,  and  garters.  Then  lie  lay  down 
on  the  bed,  pulled  up  the  comforter,  sighed,  and  snored.  I 
wanted  to  laugh,  I  wanted  to  cry  but  I  lit  a  cigarette  and 
wrote  down  expenses. 

In  a  short  while  the  police  interrupted  me  and  said  1 
should  rest;  besides,  the  candle  had  only  a  half  an  inch  of 
wax  left  and  pft — it  would  be  out.  Please  to  lie  down  and 
rest.  His  insistance  was  command;  I  obeyed.  The  light  was 
blown  out.  Between  the  snores  of  the  douane  I  heard  a 
clock  strike  one,  two,  three,  four.  Silence  seemed  to  shriek 
at  me.  The  police  creaked  over  and  sat  creak,  creak  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed.  I  could  see  nothing  but  I  sensed  everything. 
I  waited.  The  whole  of  life,  all  emotions  and  thoughts, 
roared  through  my  brain,  and  in  the  following  silence  so 
dead,  I  knew.  My  surroundings  came  into  my  field  of  con- 
sciousness and  I  realised  that  the  police  had  left — that  he  had 
gone  in  that  moment  of  silence.  It  was  no  dream,  but  reality 
no  longer  fearful.  I  lit  the  candle  and  by  its  light  wrote  on 
a  scrap  of  paper,  "Merci  mille  fois  messieurs."  The  candle 
sputtered  and  went  out.  Somehow  I  left  the  man,  somehow 
I  left  the  room,  the  house,  the  street.  Good  God!  would  I 
get  my  visa  and  the  train  ?    Again  I  heard  a  clock  striking. 

It  was  a  fresh  sweet  morning  of  late  summer.  The  mud- 
dy road  to  the  station  felt  soft  underfoot;  overhead  the  sky 
was  growing  a  soft  blue,  leaves  were  a  shiny  gray  green.  The 
breeze  came  fresh  and  gentle  as  I  strolled  along  in  mood  with 
the  day.    Yet  the  visa — 

Arriving  at  the  station  and  using  my  German  expres- 
sions, I  bought  my  ticket.  Time  and  to  spare  was  mine  so 
I  looked  over  my  map  which  interested  a  bored  Czech  soldier. 
In  the  course  of  our  pantomimic  conversation  I  learned  I 
would  have  to  return  to  Budapest  for  my  Czech  visa.  I 
knew  I  could  not  do  that;  I  had  to  get  my  visa  and  go  on  to 
Vienna.*  While  I  waited,  he  went  to  search  for  a  French- 
speaking  ofriicial. 

I  saw  the  six  o'clock  train  leave.  The  next  one  would 
leave  at  ten  o'clock.  If  I  were  unable  to  take  it — but  there 
was  no  use  thinking  of  that  nor  of  the  hunger  I  felt  after 


18  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

twenty-four  empty  hours.     Up  and  down  1  paced.     Seven 

o'clock.  The  soldier  cattle  back  with  the  official.  We  talked 
uselessly.  1  said  why  1  had  to  take  the  train,  why  I  must  get 
my  visa.  He  replied  that  1  might  possibly  get  it  thereat  the 
station,  at  any  rate  not  e>n  the  train.  Still  he-  thought  it 
advisable  to  return  to  Budapest.  1  talked  and  talked.  Eight 
< t'clock.  He  w  cut  away  and  came  back.  1 1  is  idea  had  not  been 
successful.  We  talked  and  talked.  1  began  to  feel  rather 
sorry  for  myself.  Xine  o'clock.  He  went  away  again  and 
came  hack  with  the  same  sad  Look.  Nine-thirty.  1  felt  ex- 
tremely sorry  tor  myself.  Tears  came'  to  my  eyes.  Xine 
forty-five  the  train  came  in.  Again  the  official  left..  Xine 
fifty.  IK'  returned  again,  smiling.  At  last  he  had  managed 
se>  1  was  to  have  my  visa.  He  shoved  me  into  a  small  room 
where  two  officiers  were  busy  writing.  One  arose,  pulled 
on  his  white  gloves,  felt  his  sword,  adjusted  his  cape,  put  on 
his  cap,  glanced  at  me  and  marched  out.  The  other  after  a 
few  moments  ol*  frantic  writing  handed  me  my  passport.  I 
grabbed  it.  rushed  out  to  the'  train  and  jumped  on.  It  was 
ten  o'clock. 

As  I  rode  up  to  Vienna  through  the-  wooded  lands  and 
marshes  I  wondered  if  they  ever  knew  what  I  meant  when 
1  wrote  "Merci  mille  fois  messieurs." 


IX  THE  MODERN  MANNER 
Patty  Wood 


Hend  low.  goldenrod, 
in  the'  flying  wind, 
in    the   brown   grass 
hend  low 


Dust   will  swirl 

leaf  on  dry  leaf, 

scraping 

lardy  warmth  of  sun 

sickening  to  die 

Bend  low,  goldenrod, 
above  a  summer 

laid  awav  in  I  ime. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  10 


JAFFA  GATE 
Rachel  Grant 


The  air  is  ashen 
With  the  passing  of  flocks, 
Grey  sheep,  their  shoulders 
Rising  unequally,  press  at  the  foot 
Of  the  tall  arch- 
ils sudden  emptiness  of  heat 
Pours  like  a  fall  of  water 
Over  them. 

Inside  the  seller  of  licorice  water 
Clinks  his  chill  cymbals 
And  the  herders  pause; 
In  the  far  corner  a  story  teller 
Leans  forward  from  his  heels. 
Chanting  legends  of  glory. 
His  voice  taut  with  their  splendor— 
And  there,  the  sand-prophet. 
His  fingers  flickering 
Between  the  cold  threads  of  falling  sand 
Stares  at  the  magic  forming 
On  his  silver  tray. 

A  shout — a  quick  shudder — and  the  flock 
Moves  out.  under  a  furious,  blue  sky— 


20  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


yo\{  KING  AM)  COUNTRY 
Elizabeth  Wheeleb 


IT  the  heart  of  Edinburgh,  within  the  battlements  of 
her  Castle,  stands  the  Scottish  National  War  Memori- 
flj  al.  The  doorway  is  superscribed  with  the  words  'Lest 
we  forget."  Beyond,  the  walls  of  the  dim-lit  hall  Dear 
panels  "To  the  glory  of  God"  and  to  the  memory  of  all  those 
who  laid  down  their  lives  in  the  Great  War.  Here  are  re- 
presented all  the  Scottish  regiments,  the  Air  Force,  the 
Navy,  chaplains,  surgeons  and  nurses;  all  other  men  and 
women  who  died;  and  even  the  canaries  and  rats  who  by 
their  own  deaths  warned  soldiers  of  the  approach  of  gas. 
The  names,  written  in  gold,  of  battlefields — Verdun,  Ypres, 
.Jutland,  Gallipoli,  Palestine — shine  from  the  walls;  and 
also  blazoned  there,  are  the  sublimest  expressions  uttered 
by  man  through  the  ages  concerning  heroism  and  death  and 
resurrection.  The  light  through  mullioned  windows  falls 
softly  on  burnished  coats-ofarms  and  tattered  regimental 
Hags.  The  only  sound  to  he  heard  is  the  ceaseless  muffled 
fall  of  slow  footsteps  passing  through  the  hall-  the  host  of 
the  living  come  to  pay  homage  to  the  dead.  Some  bore 
arms  on  the  battlefields  named  above  them  in  the  company 
of  the  fallen  here  commemorated.  Some  approach  as  pil- 
grims to  the  shrine  of  loved  ones  who  died  for  King  and 
Country.  And  others  who  never  knew  the  horror  of  a 
battlefield  or  the  grief  of  an  irreparable  loss,  go  out  from 
this  hallowed  place  initiate  into  the  proud  sorrow  of  a  mi 
I  ion. 

These  last  will  doubtless  walk  in  silence  down  the  stone 

causeway,  thinking  not  at  all.  feeling  poignantly  as  they  have 

never  fell    before.      They   pass   under  the  arched  outer  gate 

with  its  defianl  motto—  "Nemo  me  impune  lacessit",  and 
cioss  the  open  square  before  the  Castle,  walking  more  brisk- 
ly ,'is  who  would  banish  from  their  hearts  a  new.  unwel- 
come emotion.  Bui  al  the  head  of  High  Street,  a  man  with 
horribly  disfigured  face  calls.  "Postcards  and  guide  to  the 
Castle"  in  b  half-strangled  voice.     lp  the  middle  of  the 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  21 

street  wanders  a  shabby,  bareheaded  man  singing  "The 
Long,  Long  Trail,"  his  hands  groping,  his  eyes  unseeing. 

No,  we  cannot  escape  however  much  we  would.  Be- 
cause the  war  scarcely  touched  us,  and  so  has  receded  into 

history  with  the  passing  of  ten  years,  the  recurrent  sight 
of  the  suffering  it  has  wrought  must  stab  us  the  more  keenly. 
And  more  heartrending  than  the  countless  memorials  to 
the  dead  are  the  innumerable  wrecks  of  the  living. 

Some  few  Americans  to  whom  the  name  of  Robert 
Bruce  is  hallowed  will  visit  the  battlefield  of  Bannockburn. 
It  is,  however,  a  little  frequented  spot,  but  there  is  a  guide 
who  will  reconstruct  the  battle  for  visitors.  He  is  shabbily 
dressed,  gray  and  haggard  of  face,  and  carries  a  cane  which 
he  uses  to  point  out  the  positions  of  the  opposing  armies — 
but  he  drags  one  leg  when  he  walks.  He  talks  well  in  a 
broad  Highland  accent,  and  with  his  words  the  rolling  fields 
echo  again  to  the  war  cry  of  the  clans.  One  peaceful  sum- 
mer afternoon  standing  on  the  rock  where  the  Bruce  plant- 
ed his  standard,  we  lived  again  that  clay  in  1314. 

"You  know,"  said  our  guide,  "the  famous  British 
square  was  first  employed  here  by  the  Bruce.  Front  rank 
kneeling,  second  rank  standing,  to  form  a  Avail  of  steel. 
Officially,  it  was  last  used  in  the  Sudan.  Personally.  I  can 
say  we  used  it  at  Mons  in  1914.  We  had  to  .  .  .  I  was  the 
only  man  in  my  company  who  got  out  of  there  uninjured." 

Thus  in  one  swift  sentence  he  bridged  the  gap  of  six 
centuries  from  Bannockburn  to  Mons.  Inevitably,  we 
asked  his  regiment.  He  answered  with  a  pride  that  is  his 
heritage  by  the  record  of  that  regiment  for  two  hundred 
years : 

"The  Black  Watch." 

Then,  with  a  jerk,  "Well,  to  return  to  this  battle,  and 
he  continued  his  story.  But  the  sense  of  reality  was  gone. 
Robert  Bruce  yielded  to  the  soldier  of  the  Black  Watch. 
Later  he  said, 

"I  was  at  Gallipoli  too.  That  was  the  worst  place  I 
ever  was  in.  Not  a  wash  or  a  shave  for  seven  weeks.  I 
only  saw  bread  twice  from  April  to  December.  Men  died 
of  illness  by  the  hundreds.  .  .  I've  often  been  tired  in  my 
life,  but — Yes,  I  was  glad  to  get  wounded  and  get  out  of 
it." 

Once  more  with  an  effort  he  remembered  Robert  Bruce. 


22  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

He  had  himself  in  action  helped  to  make  history:  yet  the 
hare  need  of  food  and  shelter  have  forced  him  to  bring  to 
life  in  words  the  phantoms  of  history.     His  wages  can  Be 

only  the-  smallest  pittance,  and  his  tips,  even  it  generous, 
must  he  few.  Once  he  lived  free  in  his  native  Highlands; 
then  he  gave  his  youth,  his  strength,  his  happiness,  all  hut 
his  life,  for  his  country;  and  now  he  exists  from  day  to  day, 
recalling  with  bitter  pride  that  lie  was  a  soldier  of  the  Black 
Watch. 

But  he  is  more  fortunate  than  hundreds  of  his  com- 
rades who  number  among  Britain's  million  unemployed. 
They  are  everywhere  present — destitute,  unkempt,  maimed, 
halt  and  blind.  They  wander  aimlessly  on  every  populous 
street  in  London.  Barred  by  their  disability  from  obtain- 
ing work,  they  must  resort  even  to  begging  in  order  to  live. 
Some  manage  to  sell  an  occasional  hunch  of  violets  to  a 
passing  tourist.  Some,  ashamed  openly  to  beg,  hold  out 
pencils  or  shoe  laces,  knowing  that  no  one  will  buy,  hut 
hoping  that  someone  will  give  them  a  few  coppers.  In  the 
more  crowded  thoroughfares,  some  of  them  pick  at  banjos 
or  scrape  away  at  violins.  We  saw  three  together  one  day 
on  Bond  Street — a  man  with  one  arm  grinding  a  hand 
organ,  a  blind  man  with  a  fine  tenor  voice  singing  "Sole 
Mio",  and  a  man  with  one  leg  passing  the  hat.  At  the  cor- 
ner of  Pall  Mall  and  Regent  Street  sits  a  shell  shocked  vet- 
eran who  paints,  garish  landscapes  on  the  pavement.  He 
had  to  obtain  permission  for  this  from  the  government  from 
whom  also  he  receives  a  pension  that  barely  pays  his  rent — 
and  he  has  a  wife  and  four  children.  Sometimes,  among 
his  pictures  appears  a  crude  black  cat  for  luck,  or  an  appeal 
scrawled  in  chalk—  "You  will  never  lose  bv  showing  a  kind 
heart." 

One  morning  we  were  watching  the  change  of  guard 
at  St.  James'  Palace.  As  the  troops  lined  up  in  the  court- 
yard, a  voice  addressed  us. 

"You  see  the  color-hearer  walking  up  and  down,  and 
the   captain    with   him?     Well,   that's   a    tradition   of   the 

guards.  At  the  siege  of  when  all  the  men  were  killed  or 
wounded,  except  a  few  officers  and  (he  color-hearer,  they 
walked  up  and  down  on  the  rampart  to  make  the  enemy 
think  the  fort  was  si  ill  garrisoned/ 

\\Y  turned   from  the  spectacle  before  US  to  look  at   the 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  23 

speaker.  He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  which  the  coat  and 
trousers  did  not  match.  In  his  left  hand  he  held  a  cigar- 
ette; his  right  was  thrust  in  his  pocket,  and  the  arm,  held 
close  against  his  side,  appeared  strangely  shrunken.  There 
were  deep  lines  about  his  mouth,  and  now  and  then  he 
closed  his  eyes  as  he  talked.  He  spoke  with  an  easy  grace 
of  expression  that  bore  witness  of  unusual  culture. 

He  had  won  our  attention  at  once  by  his  explanation 
of  a  ceremony  that  to  us  had  hitherto  been  meaningless. 
Now  he  continued,  "Whenever  you  see  a  wreath  on  the 
colors,  it  means  the  anniversary  of  a  victory  for  the  regi- 
ment." 

The  strains  of  a  Sousa's  march  blared  loudly  in  the 
sudden  hush  of  motionless  traffic.  "Ah!  Here  they  come," 
he  said,  turning  with  a  light  in  his  eyes  as  the  Scots  Guard 
band  swung  into  view.  In  their  scarlet  coats  and  fur  bus- 
bies, every  man  over  five  feet  ten,  these  Guards  regiments 
are  the  most  magnificent  troops  in  the  world.  But  some- 
how, beside  this  shabbily  dressed  man  with  his  crumpled 
arm,  they  seemed  unreal,  mere  wooden  soldiers  in  a  toy 
parade. 

When  it  was  all  over,  he  asked:  "Would  you  like  to 
see  where  the  Prince  of  Wales  lives?"  So  it  happened  that 
in  the  next  hour  we  went  with  him  from  the  Palace  down 
the  Mall  to  Whitehall.  Along  the  way  he  pointed  out  monu- 
ments and  buildings,  coloring  his  information  with  glamor- 
ous details  of  tradition  and  anecdote,  till  we  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  the  massive  piles  that  represent  the  nerve  center 
of  the  Empire,  built  to  stand  and  fall  with  the  Empire.  At 
length,  emerging  from  the  unpretentious  dinginess  of  Down- 
ing Street,  we  left  him  on  the  busy  corner  in  front  of  the 
Abbey.  He  moved  slowly  away  into  the  crowd  as  one  who 
has  no  incentive  for  haste,  no  destination  for  his  aimless 
footsteps,  more  tragic  than  all  his  fellow-sufferers;  for  by 
birth  and  culture  he  was  prepared  to  walk  with  his  feet 
upon  the  hills;  but  circumstance  has  compelled  him  to  share 
the  lot  of  beggars  who  must  live  by  charity. 

In  Westminster  Abbey,  the  Unknown  Warrior  sleeps 
among  the  illustrious  of  the  nation.  Nearby  in  Whitehall, 
men  bare  their  heads  before  the  wreath-banked  Cenotaph  to 
"The  Glorious  Dead."  In  one  brief  moment  life  was  de- 
manded of  them.     They  scarce  had  time  to  question  or  to 


2  I  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

mourn  the  end  of  dreams  they  had  cherished  in  days  remote 
and  tranquil.  All  thought  was  refined,  all  desire  purified 
in  the  Same  of  sacrifice.  They  died  swiftly,  unfalteringly, 
with  steadfast  courage,  passed  byond  all  doubt  and  pain,  and 

arc  at  peace  again. 

Hut  these  others,  their  living  comrades,  what  lias  been 
their  sacrifice?  They  too  offered  life,  hut  it  was  spared  to 
them  only  that  they  might  he  seared  by  years  of  agony. 
They  were  to  know  no  longer  what  had  once  been  part  and 
parcel  of  their  daily  lives: — the  light  of  friendly  faces;  the 
joy  of  striding  free  over  the  hills  of  home ;  the  clasp  of  greet- 
ing or  farewell;  the  harmony  of  relaxed  body  and  un- 
troubled mind.  Rather,  they  yielded  up  all  that  was  theirs 
save  life.    Their  strength,  their  happiness,  their  youth. 

Ten  years  after  peaee  has  come  to  their  war-torn  coun- 
try, it  has  not  come  to  them.  Poverty  lias  quenched  their 
youth  in  middle  age;  has  clothed  their  bodies  in  tattered 
garments;  has  stifled  their  pride  and  self-respect;  and  has 
made  them  the  objects  of  pity  of  a  nation  itself  too  poor  to 
help  them.  Their  life  is  sunk  to  a  sordid  struggle  for  an 
existence  which  they  cannot  value;  and  the  future  is  lit  by 
no  flickering  torch  of  hope.  but.  rather,  deeper  shrouded  in 
despair.  For  as  the  years  pass,  even  pity,  so  poignant  to- 
ward a  man  wrecked  in  the  prime  of  life,  grows  sluggish 
towards  that  same  man  when  his  long  life  is  nearly  spent. 

So.  while  their  comrades  sleep  in  glory,  they  must  five 
hour  by  hour  with  a  resignation  that  has  ceased  to  be  depair. 
till  at  last  Death  conies  to  claim  the  shattered  life  that  he 
refused  when  it  was  offered  in  the  fulness  of  youth. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  25 


TO  A  FENCER 
Nancy  Wynne  Parkeb 


This  is  lean  grace. 

Your  uncoiling  lunge 

Is  a  greyhound  that  passes. 

A  swirl  of  wind  outlined  by  quirks  of  silver. 

But  you  are  suddenly  stopped,  caught,  angled. 

You  are  a  thing  of  daylight. 

Daylight  mounds  on  your  bare  arms  and  chest. 

Waits  fierce  on  your  cheek's  flattened  curve. 

Smites  from  the  lid-gripped  cold  of  your  eyes. 

In  the  grass 

Clear  grapes  hung  cool  from  the  temples  of  slim  dancers 

Before  you  came. 

Swords  weave,  curve — echo — 

It  is  a  bird  your  fingers  hold  against  your  steadied  hand— 

A  bird  with  a  cry  in  its  throat. 

I  know  a  meadow  lark  along  whose  song 

Daylight  slithers  as  cruelly. 

I  have  been  stabbed  by  things  hunched  spiderlike. 

Half-choked  by  tremendous  bulging  knuckles  of  the  brutes. 

Known  the  shattering  darkness  after  bullets. 

But  only  song  can  pass  slim  torture  through  my  soul 

This  is  grace  flayed  of  slow  curves 
Death  laughing. 


26 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


RETURN 

Ernestine  Gilbreth 


0TVENING  came  gently,  The  pine  trees  rustled  and 
I  trembled  in  the  breeze.    Far  off  in  the  distance  sounded 

I  the  muffled  cries  of  frogs.  Tiny  ripples  fluttered  hack 
and  forth  over  the  lake. 

On  shore  the  bonfire  crackled  and  burst  into  flame.  Now 
the-  first  chords  of  the  organ  sounded;  the  voices  rose  in 
chorus,  swelling  out  over  the  water,  ringing  hack  from  the 
cove.  The  sunset  had  faded  until  only  a  blur  of  pink  stained 
the  sky.    The  world  was  hushed,  hilled  in  beauty. 

The  hymns  followed  one  upon  another,  mingling  with 
the  ripple  of  the  water,  the  rustle  of  the  trees.  Long  Haines 
darting  from  the  bonfire,  illuminated  the  rows  of  faces. 
Silence  came  completely,  wiping  away  the  distinctness  of 
reality.  Then  sighing  like  a  distant  wind,  louder,  gaining 
strength  and  volume,  sounded  the  first  spiritual.  kk\Vc  arc 
climbing  Jacob's  ladder     we  are  climbing  The  notes 

soared  higher  and  higher,  tense  and  shrill  with  emotion. 
"'Soldiers  of  the  Cross".  They  faded,  ending  in  a  whisper. 
The  negro  singers  stumbled  away,  their  hacks  hunched  and 
transparent  in  the  firelight.  The  sky  was  darker  now.  Deep 
clouds  rolled  over  it.  blotting  out  the  crystal  of  the  sky.  The 
moon  appeared,  yellow  and  waning,  smiling  down  from  a 
wealth  of  effulgent  wrinkles. 

They  were  drifting,  breathing  in  the  cool  night  air.  Dan 
turned  the  canoe  and  started  toward  the  cove.  The  service 
had  begun  to  break  up.  People  were  rising  from  the  benches; 
they  scattered,  melting  into  the  darkness.  Their  voices  echoed 
hack  from  the  road  and  were  lost  in  the  pines. 

1  list  inctively  she  had  dipped  her  hand  into  the  water  and 
fell  the  cool  drops  trickle  away.  'The  contact  sent  exquisite 
shivers  up  her  arm.  The  I  ,akc  it  had  been  SO  for  years,  cool 
summer  nights  and  moonlight,  drifting  silently  until  a  yoo- 
hoo  in  the  distance,  meant  t  ime  to  conic  home.  Hut  this  year 
there  had  heen  no  need  for  Calling;  she  was  older  now.  able 
to  judge  for  herself. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  27 

The  past  summers  returned  in  swift,  impressionistic 
Hashes.    There  were  the  old  friends,  strangely  real,  haunting 

now  because  of  their  vitality.  Fred  had  been  tall  and  blonde- 
headed  with  glowing  blue  eyes.  September  had  come  quickly, 

leaving  him  miserable  and  pathetically  lonely.  He  had  sworn 
never  to  return.  Why  then,  did  his  hearty  laugh  continue  to 
resound  through  her  memory?  Others  had  come  and  gone 
too.  Now  they  filled  every  turn  of  the  road,  lingered  under 
each  pine,  smiled  from  the  club-porch.  The  lake  was  alive 
with  their  voices.  The  springboard  reverberating  "from  a 
dive,  recalled  Woody,  graceful  as  a  girl,  in  spite  of  his  mas- 
sive build.  Raising  fieree  black  eyebrows,  he  had  boasted  of 
his  wives,  loudly  perferring  them  "young  and  silent".  Win- 
ning him  from  a  determined  blonde  had  been  a  matter  of  ease. 
But  again  Septemher  had  come,  deseending  swiftly,  leaving 
no  hope  for  resumption  the  following  year.  For  summer 
affairs  were  momentary,  pleasant  while  they  lasted,  leaving 
an  after-taste  not  to  he  quickly  forgotten.  So  Woody  con- 
tinued to  dominate  the  spring-board,  to  fill  the  swimming 
dock  with  his  shoulders,  his  quick,  graceful  motions. 

People  rarely  returned  to  the  lake ;  the  crowd  underwent 
a  ceaseless  change.  Each  summer  left  holes  never  quite  filled, 
brought  new  faces  smiling  with  an  air  of  progressive  posses- 
sion from  the  club-porch,  faces  which  sang  new  songs,  whis- 
pered new  jokes — faces  to  which  one  became  reconciled  in 
time.  The  former  spontaneity  and  enthusiasm  had  disap- 
peared; in  their  place  were  careful  calculation  and  charter- 
ing, the  application  of  technique.  It  mattered  little  that  the 
lake  remained  as  serenely  beautiful,  that  the  pine  trees  kept 
their  stiff,  relentless  watch,  that  Sunday  nights  Avere  illumi- 
nated with  Song  Service.  These,  the  treasures  of  the  past. 
had  become  mysteriously,  imperceptibly  transformed. 

The  drops  trickled  away  from  her  fingers  and  were  lost 
in  the  lake.  So  it  was  with  memories.  One  raised  them 
gently,  only  to  watch  them  recede  once  more  into  their  source. 
They  were  created  from  the  past  through  the  medium  of 
one's  mind.  Inevitably  they  returned  whence  they  had  come. 
Why  then  should  she  remember,  why  should  she  unconscious- 
ly project  past  events  into  the  present,  weaving  bright 
threads  through  a  dull  and  colorless  web?'  Life  continued 
swiftly,  surely.     Foolish  to  mark  time,  to  crane  one's  neck 


28  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

backward  like  a  reluctant  puppy.     Foolish     hut  when  one 
did  it  Instinctively. 

A  bal  skimming  past,  brushed  her  cheek.  Involuntarily 
she  shivered  with  disgust.  Reality,  it  was  interrupting, 
like  a  bat.  No,  reality  was  about  her,  the  moonlight,  the 
lake,  paddling  toward  the  cove;  material  for  dreams,  yet 
actuality  itself.  And  Dan!  She  glanced  up  at  him,  paddling 
with  long  silent  strokes,  at  his  shirt  open  at  the  neck,  at  the 
lean  rugged  features.  lie  was  whistling,  half-smiling  to 
himself.  ''Drifting  and  Dreaming!"  How  completely  it  fitted 
into  her  feelings!  The  lake  yes.  Dan  loved  it  too.  its  chill 
beauty,  its  jagged  curves.  The  realization  swept  over  her 
chokingly.  Dan  and  she  were  alive, .mutually  appreciating, 
living  in  an  exotie  harmony  of  understanding. 

Now  they  had  reached  the  cove  overhung  with  tangled 
branches,  damp  and  sweet  smelling.  The  canoe  humped 
against  a  dead  root  and  lay  drifting.  Dan  had  put  down  his 
paddle.  Still  whistling,  he  lit  a  cigarette.  She  glanced  up 
at  him  swiftly — at  the  hair  blowing  hack  from  his  temples, 
that  half-quizzical  smile. 

Was  she  unconsciously  making  notes,  hoarding  the  very 
essence  of  future  memories!' 

*-  -:-  *  *  # 

A  year  had  passed.  Strange  that  it  should  he  Sunday 
night  again.  The  intervening  winter  and  spring  were  com- 
pletely obilterated;  summer  had  become  everlasting. 

Again  they  were  drifting  silently,  listening  to  the  hymns 
following  one  upon  another,  the  spirituals  rising  and  fading 
into  nothingness.  She  was  a  year  older  now.  a  year  older 
and  Dan  had  come  back.  Dan  had  come  back!  For  the  firsl 
time  fate  had  sanctioned  a  continuance  from  summer  to  sum- 
i.  er.  The  thread  had  been  permitted  to  remain  unbroken; 
memories  and  actualities  existed  on  the  same  plane,  could  no 
longer  he  separated. 

lie  had  appeared  one  morning,  smiling  eagerly  from 
his  broad  height,  shaking  hands  with  the  old  vigor,  II is  pre- 
sence surprised,  hurt  her  beyond  endurance.  "Tonight. 
There'll  he  a  song-sen  ice  tonight  !  Til  get  a  canoe  if  it  means 
stealing  It  was  impossible  to  repel  his  pleading.  "Last 
year  do  you  remember  last  year?"  Certainly  she  remem- 
bered, hut  now  his  proximity  rang  8  sudden  hideous  discord. 
vibrated  I  hroucrh  her  mercilesslv. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  29 

Sunday  night!  There  had  been  no  chance  to  refuse-,  no 
time  to  think,  to  adjust  oneself  to  the  facts.  Reality  and 
phantasy.  Where  and  how  to  differentiate!  Dan  had  re- 
turned to  life,  to  the  lake,  miraculously,   disappointingly. 

Now  glancing  at  him,  her  memories  conflicted,  struck  on  all 
sides,  always  to  his  disadvantage. 

How  perfectly  she  had  recalled  him  during  those  inter- 
vening winter  days,  his  hair  blowing  in  the  wind,  whistling 
to  himself.  But  now  he  was  paddling.  She  could  hear  the 
water  gurgling  under  the  canoe.  And  suddenly  she  was 
frightened,  by  his  nearness,  by  the  healthy  ring  of  his  voice, 
by  her  utter  inability  to  escape. 

"Drifting  and  Dreaming".  It  was  fate  which  made  him 
whistle  that  tune  recalling  sensations  and  impressions  that 
could  only  hurt.  No,  this  was  not  Dan.  this  masquerader 
sporting  his  air  of  proprietorship,  trying  to  rekindle  the  old 
memories,  to  relive  them  once  more  .  By  his  very  presence  he 
was  sweeping  away  a  world  dim  and  beautiful  with  idealism. 
he  was — 

Something  was  breathless,  caught  and  choked  within 
her.  Dissappointment,  crumpling  illusions,  these  were  there. 
But  her  whole  philosophy,  the  unconscious  appreciation  of 
life  itself,  faded  and  died  before  her  eyes.  So  she  had  been 
merely  amusing  herself,  dressing  and  painting  life  into  some- 
thing dead  and  embalmed?  How  naive  to  try  to  breathe  life 
into  what  was  already  gone!  Unsuspectingly  Dan  had  re- 
fused her  ornaments,  calmly  brushed  them  aside.  Should 
she  not  appreciate — but  a  larger  emotion  swept  over  her. 
hatred  for  his  clumsiness,  his  thoughtlessness,  hatred  for  life 
itself. 

The  illusions  had  been  brushed  down  in  a  single  stroke. 
The  gaudy  coverings  of  imagination  once  stripped  off,  left 
the  past  revealed  for  what  it  was.  a  mummy  a  hideous  dust. 

It  was  of  no  significance  that  a  bat  flew  by,  skimming 
flatly  over  the  water,  that  Dan  was  whistling  and  raising  the 
paddle  up  and  down,  up  and  down.  She  had  dipped  her  hand 
into  the  water,  delighting  to  wince  at  the  painful  sensation 
it  produced,  at  the  drops  falling  silently,  completely,  back 
into  the  lake. 


•M) 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


EDITORIAL 


ST  happens  not  infrequently  to  ladies  of  the  arts.  Take 
almost  any  popular  actress.  She  had  all  the  hard  work 
of  establishing  herself,  once;  or  even  farther  back,  of 
picking  up  stage  tricks  while  earning  a  living.  Later  she 
Hushed  to  the  applause  of  her  first  triumph;  and  still  later. 
having  become  fashionable,  she  played  to  houses  of  people 
who  would  not  dare  to  admit  they  had  not  seen  her.  Those 
are  the  prosperous  times;  then  the  actress  becomes  aristocra- 
tic and  even  haughty;  she  spends  money  freely;  her  position 
seems  enviable.  Hut  before  she  knows  it  her  public  come 
only  out  of  habit;  then,  there  is  a  newer  star;  then  all  at  once 
her  engagements  thin  out.  and  in  a  lew  years  more-  she  has  to 
beg  for  a  place.  She  is  likely  to  wonder,  then,  how  anybody 
can  do  without  her;  surely  there  must  he  a  mistake?  Hut  the 
rejections  hammer  at  her  self-respect  until  it  is  mashed  out 
thin  and  brittle;  and  she  begins  to  think  it  would  be  queer 
lor  anybody  to  want  her.  (Though  there  are  always  the  old 
friends  sentimentalists,  probably;  they  still  remember  her, 
years  ago.  )  So  she  might  go  on  indefinitely,  and  even  starve 
somewhere  in  a  garret,  it  the  old  friends  did  not  come  to  her 
rescue;  start  a  new  fashion  for  her;  pull  wires  and  take  season 
seats  for  her,  and  presently  bring  her  forth,  renovated,  into 
a  more  dependable  spotlight. 

It    wasn't    much  use  for  her  to  act    well,  in   that   slump, 

when  people  were  out  for  style.    One  needs  a  public. 

So  Tm  not  any  exception,  thought  Monthly,  facing  her 
thirty-seventh     season;     hut     poverty,     even     common-place. 

feels  night-marish.    And  she  began  to  plan  to  economize;  she 

would  sell  her  house,  and  much  of  her  furniture,  keeping  only 
the  finest  pieces,  though  they  seemed  less  showy  than  her  old 
crowded  rooms.      No  exception.  .  .And    I   must   cut  down  on 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  31 

dress,  too,  just  this  year;  I  may  have  been  extravagant.  And 
there  are  so  many  things  one  wears  that  never  show.  .  .(She 
blushed;  all  her  friends  wore  laee  from  the  skin  out;  she  had 
believed  sueh  thorough  finery  was  the  mark  of  a  lady.)  Hut 
something  must  be  given  up.  Plain  underthings.  Nobody 
ever  saw  her  Editorial,  for  instanee;  they  expected  one-  some- 
where underneath;  but  they  would  be  embarrassed  to  have  to 
look  at  it.  Well,  she  would  leave  off  the  Editorial,  and  the 
laee;  and  her  elothes  should  be  severe  now.  ( But  if  I  had 
some  good  friends,  they  might  revive  me.  and  then,  grad- 
ually, I  would  reinstate  myself. ) 

All  of  this,  she  thought,  was  natural.  Shabby-gentility. 
But  when  she  found  that  her  influential  friends  were  working 
for  her  after  all — making  public  opinion  swing  back  her  way, 
she  tossed  her  head  in  relief,  feeling  awakened  from  an  ex- 
hausting night  of  dreams;  she  splashed  eold  water  on  her 
face;  sniffed  salts,  and  then  dashed  eau  de  cologne  under  her 
nose;  built  her  hair  high:  put  on  her  Editorial  for  the  last 
time  that  season,  and  walked  out  respectably  at  last,  thanking 
her  stars  for  the  kind  public.  The  first  appearance  of  the 
season!  Her  mood  was  genial.  Tomorrow,  she  promised 
herself,  nonsense  should  cease;  she  would  catch  up  for  lost 
time,  she  Avould  exercise  her  art;  she  would  captivate  them. 
Today  in  full  regalia,  (  including  Editorial)  she  Mould  pay 
calls,  and  thank  these  patrons. 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  M 


BOOK    REVIEWS 


BAMBI  (  A  Life  in  the  Woods)  Felix  Sal-ten 

Translated  from  the  German  by  Whittaker  Chambers- 
Simon  and  Schuster  1928 


"Bambi  came  into  the  world  in  the  middle  of  the  thicket, 
in  one  of  those  little  hidden  forest  glades  which  seem  to  be 
entirely  open,  but  are  really  screened  in  on  all  sides."  "He 
stood  there  swaying  unsteadily  on  his  thin  legs  and  staring 
vaguely  in  front  of  him  with  clouded  eyes  that  saw  nothing." 
In  this  fashion  Felix  Salten  begins  the  story  of  Bambi's 
"life  in  the  woods." 

The  writer  is  interested  in  Bambi  as  a  personality,  and 
takes  keen  pleasure  in  describing  his  first  vibating  sensations, 
his  fears  and  joys,  the  childish  naivete  so  soon  to  be  replaced 
by  stern  calmness.  With  treatment  as  poetic  and  sensitive  as 
it  is  exact  and  simple,  he  describes  Bambi's  experiences  in  the 
forest,  his  rapid  accumulation  of  knowledge.  The  relation- 
ship of  the  fawn  to  his  mother  and  to  Faline  is  carefully  in- 
dicated. But  more  delicate  is  the  bond  existing  between 
Bambi  and  "the  old  Prince."  Salten  has  managed  it.  by  the 
use  of  restraint  and  of  consistently  skillful  suggestion.  The 
aged  deer  who  knows  the  secrets  of  the  forest  and  teaches 
"the  vital  need  of  being  alone",  remains  indeed  the  per- 
sonification of  nobility,  wisdom  and  courage. 

Nature  pervades  the  book.  Poetic  descriptions  of  the  forest 
reverberating  with  life,  produce  a  striking  combination  of 
beauty  and  reality.  One  lives  keenly,  while  the  days  pass 
and  the  seasons  merge  silently  into  one  another.  There  is 
summer  with  the  forest  sweltering  under  a  scorching  sun. 
"Over  the  meadows  and  treetops  the  air  quivered  in  glassy 
transparent  ripples  as  it  does  over  a  flame."  Similes  and 
metaphors  quiver  from  every  line.  "The  forest  lay  as  though 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  35 

hurt  by  the  blinding  sun."  But  winter  wipes  away  all  memory 
of  warmth.  The  trees  stand  "as  though  violated,  their  bodies 
naked  for  all  to  see.  And  they  lifted  their  bare  brown  limbs 
to  the  sky  for  pity." 

Bambi,  Friend  Hare,  and  the  other  unforgettable  char- 
acters, speak  easily  in  human  dialogue.  They  are  always 
charmingly  consistent.  Even  the  tiny  midge-buzzings  are 
peculiarly  midge-like.  Or  as  winter  approaches  one  may 
over  hear  two  leaves  speaking  for  the  last  time. 

"Have  I  changed  much?"  asked  the  second  leaf  shyly 
but  determinedly. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  the  first  leaf  assured  her.  "You  only 
think  so  because  I've  got  to  be  so  yellow  and  ugly.  But  its 
different  in  your  case."  And  then  a  little  later.  "You're  as 
lovely  as  the  day  you  were  born.  Here  and  there  may  be  a 
little  yellow  spot  but  it's  hardly  noticeable  and  only  makes 
you  handsomer,  believe  me." 

Equally  skillful  is  the  relationship  of  the  people  of  the 
forest  to  their  most  deadly  enemy  "Him".  "The  old  Prince" 
is  able  to  draw  a  lesson  from  a  dead  hunter.  "He's  just  the 
same  as  we  are.  He  has  the  same  fears,  the  same  needs,  and 
suffers  in  the  same  way."  Bambi  listening,  was  inspired  and 
said  trembling.  "There  is  Another  who  is  over  all,  over  us  and 
over  Him".  But  to  most  of  the  animals  "Him"  remains  "A 
wave  of  scent  blowing  past,  filling  their  nostrils,  numbing 
their  senses,  making  their  hearts  stop  beating."  A  creature 
standing  remarkably  erect:"  It  was  extremely  thin  and  had 
a  pale  face  entirely  bare  around  the  nose  and  eyes.  A  kind 
of  dread  emanated  from  that  face,  a  cold  terror." 

The  reader  loses  himself,  forgets  his  own  world.  Utterly 
free,  he  roams  the  forest,  smelling  the  fragrant  glasses,  de- 
lighting in  the  touch  of  cool  moist  winds.  With  a  new  under- 
standing, a  more  sensitive  appreciation,  he  listens  to  the 
midge-buzzings,  senses  the  trembling  of  a  hare.  Heart 
pounding,  he  dares  the  sunlit  meadows--with  Bambi. 

E.  M.  G. 


"THE  MAGXIFICEXT  IDLER"        Cameron  Rogers 

Doubleday  Page  and  Co.  1926. 
To  those  who  find  their  own  setting  unexhilarating  or 

negligible,  there  is  a  vicarious  excitement  to  be  derived  from 
exploring  the  eccentricities,  particularly  the  moral  deviations, 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  37 

of  others.  This  impoverished  curiosity  frequently  involves 
an  irresistible  desire  to  draw  to  itself,  by  its  loud  remark,  the 
attention  and  interest  of  an  unheeding  world.  Needless  to 
say,  for  these  people,  the  distinction  between  the  actually  im- 
moral and  the  merely  complex  or  rare  personality  is  too  del- 
icate. A  biography  of  Walt  Whitman  would  seem  to  offer 
the  most  remarkable  oportunity  to  that  type  of  critic  who  is 
preoccupied  with  eroticism,  with  high-colored  sensuality,  and 
it  is,  therefore,  the  more  unexpected  and  exhilarating  to  find 
temperate  criticism,  intelligent  and  palatable,  unlike  so  much 
contemporary  writing  engaged  in  exhuming  the  decently 
buried.  Cameron  Rogers  has  written  fearlessly,  maturely, 
and  with  great  humor,  on  the  life  of  one  of  the  notorious  and 
little  known  men  of  recent  literature.  The  biography  tries 
to  explain  the  emergence  of  so  striking  and  profound  a  poet 
from  an  inarticulate  background.  Walt  Whitman's  poetry 
was,  in  a  peculiar  sense,  borne  of  his  life,  shaped  in  his  suffer- 
ing. Without  literary  guidance,  hampered  by  an  initial  lack 
of  taste  and  a  damaging  facility,  he  was  faced  with  the  neces- 
sity of  creating  an  entirely  new  medium  which  could  give  to 
his  great  unwieldy  thought,  sufficient  clarity,  sufficient  beau- 
ty ;  the  very  nature  of  his  thought  made  it  impossible  to  util- 
ize created  forms. 

As  a  child  he  loved  trees  and  the  sea,  passionately.  Later 
when  the  Whitmans  moved  to  the  city  he  transferred  his  ab- 
sorbing interest  to  people,  watching  them,  considering  their 
multiple  relations,  liking  them.  He  read  widely,  thought 
through  long  hours  of  idleness,  and  turned  to  people  again. 
There  is  an  unusual  emphasis  on  his  childhood  and  Cameron 
Rogers  makes  him  a  very  engaging  child,  lonely  and  abstract- 
ed, but  vitally  concerned  with  everything  surrounding  him. 
As  he  grew  older  he  turned  journalist,  finding  to  his  immense 
satisfaction  that  wrords  came  easily  to  him.  During  this  he 
wrote  morose  little  tragedies,  weighted  with  morals,  which 
he  admired  and  respected  to  a  large  extent.  His  mother, 
Louisa,  met  his  literary  productions  with  some  reserve.  She 
wras  a  "skilled  and  experienced  cook  and  her  bread  and  her 
biscuits  were  perfectly  leavened  masterpieces.  She  sensed  a 
certain  sogginess  in  Walt's  performance  in  his  different  field 
and  in  a  homely  flash  of  imagination,  she  visualized  his  little 
writings  as  muffins.  .  .  .whose  unwholesome  heaviness  became 
neither  their  size  nor  their  significance  as  nourishment."  Walt 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  39 

lacked  the  yeoman  qualities  of  his  ancestors;  he  bewildered 

his  family  and  harassed  his  employers  who  could  not  appre- 
ciate his  substitution  of  long-  periods  of  meditation  for  the 
consistent  and  productive  effort  they  demanded.  He  was 
hugely  mercurial,  driven  here  and  there  by  an  overwhelming 
energy  of  the  imagination.  His  idleness  possessed  an  elem- 
ental quality  which  impressed  even  his  associates  who  did 
his  work. 

As  the  life  goes  on  Cameron  Rogers  writes  with  in- 
creasing insight.  The  account  is  one  that  would  have  pleased 
Walt  Whitman.  It  is  quite  without  sentimentality,  orginal 
and  comprehending.  The  unsophisticated  conceit  of  the  man, 
his  pleasure  in  his  published  work,  that  writing  which  had  cost 
him  such  agony,  his  simple  amazement  at  the  violent  criti- 
cism which  thundered  over  and  around  him,  are  written  down 
in  perfect  understanding.  After  months  of  severe  work,  all 
his  nonchalance  and  easiness  gone,  he  had  finished  the  man- 
uscript of  "Leaves  Of  Grass".  He  had  given  up  his  various 
interests  in  journalism,  in  printing,  in  publishing,  to  devote 
himself  to  writing  a  book  which  should  express  his  own  es- 
sence and  the  truth  he  knew.  On  its  completion  he  went  to 
the  "northeastern  shore  of  Long  Island  to  read  it  in  its  en- 
tirety. He  was  so  excited  that  he  kept  his  hand  upon  it  in 
his  pocket  lest  by  some  malison  of  chance  it  disappear,  lost, 
dropped  as  he  walk,  to  disintegrate  again  into  the  soil  from 
which,  assuredly  it  had  come."  He  read  and  in  agony  saw  his 
failure.  What  he  had  striven  to  express  was  still  locked  in 
him  and  his  poems  said  nothing.  "Leave  of  Grass"  left  his 
hand  in  fluttering,  slanting  flight  and  met  the  sea."  Then  the 
long  struggle  began  again,  against  the  formalism  that  bound 
him,  until  he  could  be  fully  and  artistically  articulate.  The 
sixth  manuscript  reached  the  publishers.  The  story  of  its 
appearance  and  the  instant  clamor  that  assailed  it,  is  too  well 
known  to  need  repetition. 

Cameron  Rogers,  with  extraordinary  subtlety,  with- 
draws the  figure  of  Whitman  further  and  further  from  actu- 
ality as  the  book  reaches  its  last  chapters.  The  legend  that 
shadows  the  decline  of  a  great  man.  gathers  closely  about 
him,  his  enormous  vitality  lessens  and  the  entire  tonal  quality 
of  the  writing  follows  its  decrease.  As  he  was  less  the  poet 
and  more  an  unseparated  part  of  humanity  towards  his  death, 
the  impression  of  a  great  human  being  grows  increasingly  ;?s 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  41 

his  presence,  his  power  declines  in  weakness.  There  is  a  sense 
of  intimacy,  a  friendless  and  a  kind  of  gratitude,  as  the  book 
ends. 

R.  G. 


MARIE  GRUBBE  Jens  Peter  Jacobsen 

Alfred  A  Knopf  1925 

The  increasing  interest  in  Scandinavian  literature  in  the 
past  fifteen  years  has  been  both  the  cause  and  the  result  of 
the  translation  into  English  of  several  valuable  works  by 
comparatively  recent  authors.  Alfred  A.  Knopf  has  pub- 
lished a  series  of  which  perhaps  the  most  widely  known  are 
Hamsun  and  Undset.  The  latter,  in  the  trilogy  "Kristin 
Lavransdatter" ,  has  accomplished  the  difficult  fusion  of  a 
manner  of  life  which  is  past  with  the  motion  of  life  which  is 
present.  Kristin  and  Erlend  are  dominant,  absorbing  per- 
sonalities, not  bound  by  years  or  periods  in  spite  of  their 
entire  and  intimate  participation  in  the  customs  of  fourteenth 
century  Norway.  In  "Marie  Grnbbe" ,  lately  produced  by 
Knopf,  history  has  not  been  joined  to  the  present  so  defini- 
tively. Were  it  not  for  "Kristin  Lavrandsdatter"  one  might 
say  that  the  realistic  effect  of  a  story  necessarily  is  damaged 
by  translation,  adequate  though  the  translator  may  be;  but 
I  Tndset's  work  precludes  this  explanation. 

It  is  curious  that  "Marie  Grubbe" ,  a  book  potentially  so 
powerful,  should  give  the  impression  of  being  twice  removed 
from  actuality.  It  seems  to  be  the  story  of  a  story  rather  than 
the  story  of  a  life,  its  historical  basis  to  the  contrary.  Seven- 
teenth century  life  is  more  convincing  as  it  is  presented  in  the 
old  Danish  histories.  Jacobsen  consumed  volumes  of  them  in 
the  Royal  Library  in  preparation  for  his  writing.  He  says 
in  a  letter  in  1873,  "  .  .  .1  read  old  documents  and  letters  and 
lies  and  descriptions  of  murder,  adultery,  corn  rates,  whore 
mongery,  market  prices,  gardening,  the  siege  of  Copenhagen, 
divorce  proceedings,  christenings,  estate  registers,  geneal- 
ogies, and  funeral  sermons.  All  this  is  to  become  a  wonderful 
novel  to  be  called  "Mistress  Marie  Grubbe.  Interiors  of  the 
Seventeenth  Centura."  Most  of  these  pastimes  do  discover 
a  speaking  acquaintance  in  the  book.  Mistress  Marie,  social- 
ly insignificant  but  aspiring  and  romantic,  marries  into  im- 
portance through  Ulrik  Frederick,  the  King's  natural  son. 


Oil   Permanent  Wave 

|           Leaves    the    hair    soft    and    fluffv 
and    does    not    make    it    brittle. 

|  Do    you    want    a    permanent    wave    th  :t 
looks  like  a   marcel? 

Or    a    soft    round    curl? 
|  Yon    can    have   either,   and    as   large    a 

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i 

The  Smith  College  Monthly  43 

He  is  the  first  if  three  men  to  whom  she  is  successively  bound. 
Each  has  a  simple  one-sided  nature  which  is  compelling  to 
Marie  until  she  discovers  its  weakness  empirically  with  much 
tribulation.  Sti  Hogh,  who  for  variety  is  paramour  instead 
of  husband,  fascinates  her  by  a  melancholy  voluptuousness, 
and  Soren,  the  peasant  serving  in  her  father's  house  to  which 
she  returns  after  breaking  with  Sti,  has  the  brutal  stength  to 
override  her.  Together  they  are  driven  out,  and  and  she  ends 
her  life  in  plain  garments  and  a  tawdry  brocaded  cap  as 
Soren  the  Ferryman's  Marie.  This  emphasis  on  her  dress  is 
an  instance  of  the  frequent  use  which  the  author  makes  of  the 
indirect  method  of  approach  to  his  characters, — a  device 
which  he  managed  with  considerable  subtlety.  Jacobsen  says 
that  with  Soren  she  was  happy,  but  her  contentment  is  not 
persuasive.  It  is  true  that  when  she  is  alone  throughout  the 
book  she  flashes  into  tangibility.  When  incidents  crowd 
closely  her  personality  fades  until  they  seem  only  dissolving 
visions  of  her  own  imagination. 

Though  it  is  plausible  to  venture  a  criticism  of  the  char- 
acters in  a  foreign  book,  it  is  nearly  impossible  to  judge  the 
style,  the  excellency  of  which  is  a  matter  of  convention. 
Jacobsen  was  a  stylistic  innovator  in  Danish.  He  admired 
"the  luxuriant  glowing  picture."  Reading  "Marie  Grubbe" 
in  English  is  like  trying  to  determine  the  whole  signifance  of 
of  a  quotation  out  of  its  proper  context.  The  scholarly  care 
the  author  exercised  in  supplying  details  peculiar  to  the 
century,  the  people,  or  their  surroudings  sometimes  contri- 
butes to  realistic  effect,  sometimes  stultifies  it.  Overrichness 
in  style  corresponds  to  the  lack  of  balance  in  handling  which 
makes  him  introduce  chapters  about  the  besieged  Copenhagen 
populace  which  behaves  quite  like  any  other  mob  and  adds 
nothing  to  the  progress  of  the  novel.  He  has  an  extraordin- 
ary feeling  for  flowers  and  flower  settins.  There  is  ease  in 
his  descriptions  and  a  facility  which  brings  the  prose  near 
poetry.  This  is  most  evident  in  the  long  fire  passage ;  "Warm 
and  pleasant  and  luminous  the  breath  of  the  fire  streamed 
through  the  little  room.  Like  a  fluttering  fan  of  light  it 
played  over  the  parquet  floor  and  chased  the  peaceful  dusk 
which  hid  in  tremulous  shadows  to  right  and  left  behind 
twisted  chair-legs,  or  shrank  into  corners,  lay  thin  and  long 
in  the  shelter  of  mouldings.  .  ."  If  Jacobsen  had  been  as  in- 
terested in  construction  and  characterization  throughout  the 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  45 

book  as  he  was  in  aesthetic  writing  in  which  he  was  strongest, 
over-emphasis  would  not  have  struggled  with  mere  outline. 

S.  S.  S. 


COWBOY  RossSantee 

Cosmopolitan  Book  Corporation,  1928 

I  realize  that  in  undertaking  this  review,  I  am  opening 
myself  to  criticism  on  the  grounds  that  I  am  neglecting  for  it 
other  more  outstanding  pieces  of  literature,  books  which  will 
receive  more  praise  and  more  discussion.  I  doubt  wether  this 
book  will  go  beyound  two  or  possibly  three  editions  because 
it  will  appeal  to  the  minority  of  the  reading  public.  But  I 
am  ready  to  make  a  firm  stand  in  its  defense. 

From  its  title  the  general  nature  of  the  book  is  obvious, 
and  might  well  prejudice  a  perspective  reader  who  has  long 
since  been  thoroughly  disillusioned  in  the  literature  of  the 
west.  The  west  has  been  capitalized  for  a  good  many  years 
by  writers  of  little  merit  and  less  knowledge.  We  have  had 
"The  Virginian"  which  has  become  an  American  classic,  a 
few  obscure  stories  by  Bret  Harte  and  Hamlin  Garland,  and, 
more  recently,  by  Will  James — "Cowboys  North  and  South" 
and  two  companion  volumes  of  authentic  stories  and  sketches. 
But  the  rest  of  the  western  novels  have  been,  on  the  whole, 
justly  named  "trash".  Their  aim  is  sensational  action,  with 
the  result  that  they  only  occasionally  achieve  truth  of  detail 
and  actual  characterization  or  atmosphere.  There  are  excep- 
tions that  I  might  make,  but  I  am  speaking  generally. 

We  have  seen  recently  that  excellent  novels  can  be  writ- 
ten on  the  Middle  West  and  its  pioneers.  We  have  yet  to  see 
a  novelist  do  full  justice  to  the  ranch  country  and  to  the  men 
who  spend  so  much  of  their  lives  alone  with  cattle  and  horses. 
These  men  have  been  misrepresented.  They  have  been  typi- 
fied in  a  romantic  diffuse  glow,  and  have  lost  their  sturdy 
flame  of  reality.  They  deserve  as  much  attention  as  the 
middle  western  farmer  has  received  for  they  too  have  suffered 
hardships  and  have  struggled  against  the  forces  of  an  implac- 
able nature  .  The  two-gun  cowboy  and  bandit  of  cheap  novels 
has  crowed  out  the  hard  working  cow-hand,  the  camp  cook, 
the  flunky.  The  wrangler  who  rises  in  the  black  hours  before 
dawn  to  run  the  horses  in,  the  peeler  who  faces  death  every 
time  he  mounts  an  unbroken  horse.  The  vigorous  drama  of 


Army  &  Navy  Store 

I.  FINE.  Inc. 

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Riding  Boots,  $14.75,  Tan  &  Black 

Riding    Breeches,    leather    insert    $4.95 

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When    you    come    to    New    York 
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COMPLIMENTS 
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The  Smith  College  Monthly  47 

the  lives  of  these  men  has  been  sacrificed  for  exaggerated 
flashy  tales  manufactured  to  thrill  jaded  readers. 

But  Ross  Santee  in  "Cowboy"  has  aehieved  a  veracity 
and  simplicity  which  are  highly  commendable  in  themselves. 
The  people,  the  horses  and  the  maimer  of  life  have  been 
learned  through  his  own  experienee  as  a  cowboy,  and  he  does 
not  make  any  attempt  to  romanticize  them.  The  unity  of 
the  book  is  maintained  by  the  determination  of  a  small  boy 
from  an  east  Texas  farm,  to  become  a  cowboy.  Button  is 
not  remarkable  in  any  way,  except  for  his  stubborn  courage. 
His  rise  from  fifteen  dollars  a  month,  milking  cows  and  feed- 
ing the  chickens,  to  the  glorious  position  of  "bronc-peeler" 
is  told  humourously  and  with  keen  sympathy.  Button  is  boy 
enough  to  have  his  day  of  conceit  over  his  riding  ability, 
(quickly  taken  out  of  him  by  one  small  black  horse)  ;  and  boy 
enough  to  worship  Mack,  the  silent  but  friendly  com  puncher 
at  McDougal's  ranch.  His  joy  when  he  is  set  to  work  break- 
ing colts,  his  pride  over  a  new  saddle,  his  intense  excitement 
when  he  rode  into  town  for  Christmas  for  the  first  time,  on  a 
"big  roan  bronc," — these  touches  open  up  the  wistful  heart 
of  a  boy  trying  to  realize  his  ideal. 

The  humour  is  the  keen  spontaneous  humour  of  a  west- 
erner who  jests  over  the  greatest  difficulties  of  his  life  and 
grumbles  over  the  trifling  discomforts.  It  is  a  rough  humour, 
always  ready  in  any  emergency,  and  expressed  in  a  quick 
figurative  language.  Comedy  is  balanced  with  tragedy,  al- 
though the  latter  is  treated  with  the  philosophical  impassivity 
which  a  cowboy  learns.  For  them  it  is  all  in  the  run  of  things 
that  the  day  should  come  when  "old  man  Grimes"  would  be 
to  old  to  lead  his  roundup,  and  that  Mack  should  find  a  swift 
death  beneath  a  falling  horse,  alone  in  a  horse  camp.  The 
whole  book  is  very  real  and  very  moving  in  its  absolute  sin- 
cerity. It  is  written  in  the  concise  and  vivid  vernacular  of  a 
cowpuncher,  from  Button's  naive  viewpoint.  The  descrip- 
tions are  done  with  brief  suggestion — - 

"We'd  crawl  out  with  the  morning  star.  Our  boot  heels 
poppin'  on  the  kitchen  floor  before  it  started  breakin'  light. 
You  could  tell  who  each  puncher  was  by  the  jingle  of  his 
spurs."     or — 

"At  MeDongal's  we  always  kept  a  bronc  to  wrangle  on: 
an'  that  always  meant  a  show,  for  the  pony  had  been  standing 
out  all  night,  an'  them  nights  got  pretty  cold.    He'd  always 


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1    Green   St.  Northampton 

The    College    Girl's    Favorite   Store    for 

Immediate    Wants 
Girdles,  Corselette^  Beaudeaux,  Gloves 

Silk    Underwear,    Crepe    de    Chine 

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Watches,  diamonds,  high  class  gold 
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jewelry.  Some  of  the  most  attractive 
being  very  moderately  priced.  Watch 
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FRANK    E.    DAVIS 
Hit    Main  St. 


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THE  JEWEL  STORE 


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Restaurant  &  Bakery 


Come    and    bring    your    friends 
where     you     are     sure     of     good  | 

food.  I 


BANQUET    ROOM    CONNECTED      j 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  19 

have  a  hump  in  his  hack  when  you  laced  the  saddle  on,  an' 
most  of  them  had  to  be  thrown  and  tied  down  before  I  could 
get  on.  That  hour  before  daylight  was  always  the  lowest 
time  for  me,  when  I  did'nt  have  no  coffee  in  my  paunch  be- 
fore I  started  out.  After  the  sun  gets  up  awhile,  a  horse 
don't  look  so  mean,  but  to  hear  one  snort  when  you  walk  up 
to  him  while  its  still  dark,  especially  if  he's  got  rollers  in  his 
nose,  always  sent  a  chill  through  me.  But  no  matter  how 
cold  the  mornin'  was,  by  the  time  I'd  saddled  an'  crawled  a 
bronc  I'd  be  circulatin'  good." 

Button  should  he  allowed  to  make  his  own  stand  and  to 
tell  his  own  story.  I  only  hope  that  I  have  in  some  way  indi- 
cated the  excellences  of  a  book,  little  heralded  in  its  arrival 
upon  the  market.  It  is  high  time  the  west  be  given  it  .due 
praise,  and  Ross  Santee,  although  he  has  not  written  a  best 
seller  or  a  prize  winning  novel,  has  told  the  truth  about  the 
ranching  country.  He  has  written  with  a  passionate  honesty 
as  though  he  felt  that  the  friends  of  his  cowboy  life  had  too 
long  been  falsely  painted.  I  recommend  "Cowboy"  both  to 
those  who  know  the  west  and  to  those  who  do  not.  If  given 
a  fair  chance,  it  will  enlighten  many  and  do  a  great  deal  to 
remove  the  heavy  prejudice  against  western  novels. 

E.B. 


Smith  College 


November 
1928 


"I  agree  with  D'  Alvarez* 

Luckies  give  subtle  satisfaction" 


Evelyn  Herbert,  Star 
of  the  Musical  Ro- 
mance, "My  Mary- 
land," recommends 
Lucky  Strikes  to  her 
leading  man,  Na- 
thaniel Wagner, 
while  resting  be- 
ttveen  acts. 


You,  too,  will  find  that 
LUCKY  STRIKES  give  the 
greatest  pleasure — Mild1! 
and  Mellow,  the  finest  ciga- 
rettes you  ever  smoked. 
Made  of  the  choicest  to- 
baccos, properly  aged  and 
blended  with  great  skill, 
and  there  is  an  extra  proc- 
ess—"IT'S  TOASTED" 
— no  harshness,  not  a  bit 
of  bite. 


D,  Alvarez, 

Popular  Concert  Star,  write*: 
"My  role  of  CARMEN  RCC««- 
sitates  the  continual  smoking 
of  cigarettes.  Years  of  experi- 
menting have  finally  shoun 
me  that  'Lucky  Strike'  ciga- 
rettesnotonlydo  not  injure  the 
voice  hut  give  subtle  satisfac- 
tion  not  found  in  any  brand 
that  I  have  hitherto  made  use 
of." 


f* 


It's  toasted 

No  Throat  Irritation-No  Cough. 


BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 


Vol.  XXXVII  NOVEMBER,   1928  No.  2 

EDITORIAL  BOARD 

Editor-in-chief,  Anne  Lloyd  Basinger,  1929 

Managing  Editor,  Ernestine  Gilbreth,  1929 

Book  Review  Editor,  Elizabeth  Botsford,  1929 

Katherine  S.  Bolman,  1929  Rachel  Grant,  1929 

Elizabeth  Wheeler,  1929  Elizabeth  Sha^  1930 

Sallie  S.  Simons,  1930 

Art — Nancy  Wynne  Parker,  1930 

Business  Staff 

Business  Manager,  Sylvia  Alberts,  1929 

Assistant  Business  Manager,  Betsey  Tilden,  1930 

Lilian  Supove,   1929  Anna   Dabney,   1930     Mary  Folsom,   1931 

Mary  Sayre,  1930  Esther  Tow,   1931        Sarah   Pearson,   1931 

Agnes  Lyall,   1930 

Advertising  Manager,  Betsy  Tilden,  1930 

Gertrude  Cohen,  1929 

Circulation  Manager,  Ruth  Rose,  1929 


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

October  to  June,  inclusive.    Terms  $2.00  a  year.     Single  copies  25c. 

Subscriptions  may  be  sent  to  Sylvia  Alberts,  12  Fruit  Street,  Northampton. 

Advertising  Manager,  B.  A.  Tilden,  Oillett  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  1208, 

Act  of  October  3,  1917.    Authorized  October  31,  1913.'" 


fill  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. 


tAT  THE  MASQUERADE 

LADY  CYNTHIA Milord,  you're  a  perfect  Chesterfield... 

LORD  CHESTERFIELD Milady,  every  Chesterfield  is  perfect! 


Chesterfield  cigarettes  are  mild  .  .  .  not 
strong  or  harsh.  Chesterfield  cigarettes  have 
character  . .  .  they  are  not  insipid  or  tasteless. 

The  tobaccos  in  Chesterfield  cigarettes  are 


blended  and  cross-blended  in  a  different  way 
from  other  cigarettes  and  the  blend  can  7  be  copied. 
They  are  MILD  .   .   .  yes,  mild  enough  for 
anybody  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  .  they  SATISFY. 


Uootn  &  MvrRi  Tobacco  Co 


CONTENTS 


Caroline  and  Diana 

Education  X 

The  Duel 

Jealousy 

Shrine  to  Aesculapius 

Poem 

The  Personal  Touch 

Book  Reviews 

Orlando 

Reginald  and  Reginald  in  Russia 

Pennagan  Place 

The  Island  Within 


Elizabeth  Perkins,  1931  5 

Barbara  Damon  Simison,  1929  15 

Elizabeth  Wheeler,  1929  20 

Helen  Fishe,  1930  25 

Sallie  S.  Simons,  1930  26 

Rachel  Grant,  1929  28 

Virginia  Farrington,  1930  29 


35 

43 

47 
49 


Nine-Six 
Taxi 


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OPERATING 

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NEAR   THE   DRAPER    HOTEL 


Smith  College 
Monthly 


CAROLINE  AND  DIANA 

Elizabeth  Perkins 


aN  1830  there  appeared  in  London  soeiety  an  unusually 
gifted  and  beautiful  lady.  Her  husband,  the  witty, 
gifted,  and  particularly  efficient  Tom  Sheridan,  having 
died  while  in  the  service  of  the  Crown,  the  Crown  had  pre- 
sented her  with  a  modest  dwelling-place  whither  Polite 
Society  soon  learned  to  turn  when  in  need  of  social  inter- 
course at  once  intelligent  and  amusing.  For  the  lady,  in 
addition  to  her  other  admirable  attributes,  was  possessed  of 
three  daughters  whom,  Polite  Society  insisted,  one  could  not 
have  believed  to  belong  to  one  who  appeared  so  young,  had 
not  her  beauty  and  brilliance  appeared  to  an  unmistakable 
degree  in  them  also.  "Georgy"  was  perhaps  the  most  strik- 
ingly handsome  of  the  three,  and  "Cary"  was  considered  the 
wit;  but  each  of  the  sisters  was  an  addition  to  the  society 
which  was  quick  to  realize  the  fact.  Wherever  they  went  they 
were  expected  to  be  an  ornament  to  the  assembly,  the  life  of 
the  partv;  and  thev  generallv  were.  Polite  Societv  called 
them  "The  Three  Graces." 

It  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  any  one  of  the  Three 
Graces  would  remain  long  unsought  or  unwed.  "Georgy" 
and  Helen  became  respectively  the  Duchess  of  Somerset  and 
Lady  Duff'erin;  the  ladies  were  handsome,  witty,  and  withal 
womanly;  the  marriages  were  quite  suitable;  Polite  Society 
saw  nothing  of  which  to  disapprove.  But  when  Caroline, 
alike  the  most  gifted  and  the  most  impulsive,  married  the 
Hon.  George  Chappie  Norton,  in  whose  character  and  social 
attributes  the  casual  observer  at  least  could  discern  nothing 


6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

worthy  of  note-  except  the  possibility  of  his  succeeding  to  a 
title-,  murmurs  were-  heard.  Who  was  this  Norton?  Caroline 
Sheridan,  only  nineteen,  whose-  brilliance  was  already  prover- 
bial, whose  promising  literary  career  had  already  begun — 
what  hidden  merits  had  she*  seen  in  this  apparently  uncoiii- 
mendable  man'  Society  soon  had  an  opportunity  of  judg- 
ing for  itself:  and  its  decision  was  not  in  favor  of  the  object 
of  investigation.  He  was  pronounced  a  bore  of  "a  coarse 
nature  and  violent  temper;"  one-  writer  states  that  he  spent 
his  time-  in  "taking  pills  and  spinning  conversation  out  of  his 
own  how  els;"  Maurois  succinctly  characterizes  his  as  "son 
odie-nx  mari."  lie-  was  unpopular  from  the-  start :  without  the 
most  rudimentary  social  gifts,  he  was  equally  lacking  in  the 
means  of  supporting  his  wife  or  himself.  It  is  probable  that 
he-  exerted  as  little-  effort  to  acquire  the-  one-  as  the1  other.  Cer- 
tainly, amidst  the  pecuniary  difficulties  which  soon  beset 
them,  he  seemed  to  se-nse-  nothing  unworthy  in  the  i'aet  thai 
his  wife's  writings  earned  the-  money  which  maintained  their 
household.  She*  was.  at  this  time,  as  she-  continued  to  be 
throughout  her  life,  a  popular  editor  of  and  contributor  to 
the  literary  journals  of  the  daw  which  throve  by  a  type  of 
writing  to  which  her  talenl  was  exactly  suited.  Her  first  hook 
of  poetry  appeared  only  a  short  while-  after  her  marriage-. 
Meanwhile-  she-  kept  up  as  best  she  could  the'  social  life,  the 
constant  entertaining  which  seemed  almost  essential  to  her 
nature-.  It  is  significant  that  the  diarists  of  the-  time-  seldom 
if  ever  mention  Mr.  Norton  in  this  connection.  They  had 
gone-  to  a  recepl  ion  at  .Mrs.  Norton's,  or  .Mrs.  Norton  had 
hern  among  those-  present;  or  they  had  just  heard  of  Mrs. 
Norton's  latest  witticism.  Probably  Mr.  Norton  remained 
in  the-  home'  his  wife-  provided  for  him.  and  partook  of  pills. 
Society  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  marriage-.  Three 
children  were-  horn  to  the-  couple;  still  their  relations  were' 
uncordial  and  yet  without  an  open  break.  The  puzzle  be- 
came  more  and  more  inexplicable. 

But  the  difficulties  seemed  to  be  lessened  in  one-  way  at 
least.  Lord  Melbourne,  a  devoted  friend  of  "poor  dear  Tom 
Sheridan,"  found  a  government  position  for  Norton,  which 
rendered  the  struggle  of  Debit  and  Credil  not  ejuite'  so  one- 
sided. Unfortunately,  Lord  Melbourne  at  the  same-  time 
discovered  in  the  lovely  Mrs.  Norton  a  woman  who  was  both 
intelligent  and  charming;  their  tastes  were  in  many  ways 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  7 

congenial;  he  met  interesting  and  useful  people  at  her  seleet 
gatherings.  He  began  to  make  his  appearance  quite  regu- 
larly at  Mrs.  Norton's  assemblies;  he  developed  a  custom  of 
dropping  in  late  at  Mrs.  Norton's  after  long  sessions  of  Par- 
liament. This  is  all  that  was  definitely  known;  out  the  low 
and  disinterested  murmur  which  had  persisted  since  the  mar- 
riage grew  to  a  more  menacing  roar  punctuated  by  sharp 
yelpings;  stories  flew,  and  in  their  flight  became  huge  and 
distorted.  The  apparently  phlegmatic  Mr.  Norton  suddenly 
brought  suit  for  divorce,  naming  Lord  Melbourne  as  co- 
respondent. 

Polite  Society  and  Politics  were  electrified.  Greville 
writes  (May  11,  1830)  :  "Great  talk  about  Lord  Melbourne's 
affair  with  Mrs.  Norton,  which  if  it  is  not  quashed  will  be 
inconvenient.  John  Bull  fancies  himself  vastly  moral  and 
the  court  is  mighty  prudish,  and  between  them  our  off-hand 
Premier  will  find  himself  in  a  ticklish  position. .  .People  rather 
doubt  the  action  coming  on.  .  .the  Tories  will  fall  on  the  in- 
dividual from  party  violence,  the  Radicals  on  his  class  from 
hatred  to  the  aristocracy," 

This  last  sentence  suggests  the  thought  which  was  up- 
permost in  the  saner  and  less  malevolent  minds;  that  some 
urging  of  the  Opposition  was  behind  Mr.  Norton's  action. 
Certainly  when  the  trial  came  on,  the  greatest  wonder  was 
how  anyone  whose  case  was  so  absolutely  unsupported  could 
have  considered  bringing  suit.  The  trial  was  a  farce;  the 
jury  found  in  favor  of  the  defendant. 

The  trials  of  Mrs.  Norton,  however,  were  by  no  means 
over.  Attempting  reconciliation,  she  was  repulsed;  and  her 
husband,  according  to  the  incredible  laws  of  the  time,  could — 
and  did — refuse  her  money  and  the  custody,  even  the  sight,  of 
her  children.  In  one  connection  or  another  her  name  was 
forever  being  bandied  about ;  she  was  finally  even  accused  of 
having  sold  to  the  Times  a  political  secret  confided  to  her  by 
one  of  her  admirers — a  charge  Avhich  was  investigated  and  re- 
futed only  some  years  after  her  death.  Throughout  the  bit- 
ter years  of  her  notoriety  as  a  woman,  she  was  building  up 
her  fame  as  a  writer  and  a  wit.  She  seemed  to  inspire  in  her 
true  friends  a  degree  of  devotion  which  now  appears  almost 
ridiculous.  Janet  Ross  writes:  "My  mother  had  taken  up 
(Mrs.  Norton's)  cause  against  her  husband  so  warmly  that 
she  refused  every  invitation  to  great  London  houses  to  which 


8  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

her  friend  was  not  asked."  Wherever  she  went  she  was  the 
center  of  attention.  Her  cleverness  was  possibly  a  trifle 
cheapened  by  the  strain  now  put  upon  it:  for  "her  position 
in  society  was  to  a  great  degree  imperilled"  and  must  be  pre- 
served at  all  eosts.  Even  Mrs.  Koss.  one  of  her  fondest  ad- 
mirers, says:  "I  always  thought  she  was  more  agreeable  and 
brilliant  when  we  were  alone  or  'en  petit  eoniite'  than  when 
there  were  many  people:  then  she  sometime  posed  and  seemed 
to  try  and  startle  her  hearers".  She  wrote  continually:  many 
poems  which  despite  their  uniformity  of  subject-matter,  their 
sentimentality,  and  the  faithful  rhyming  of  "love"  with 
"above,"  "water"  with  "daughter,"  "tear"  with  "bier,"  seem 
to  have  a  basic  sincerity;  longer  and  more  purposeful  poems 
which  brought  out  the  weak  points  of  her  talent:  novels:  and 
a  long  stream  of  personal  letters  and  formal  articles  setting 
forth  the  injustice  of  the  existing  laws  for  women  and  plead- 
ing for  changes  in  them. 

Critics  differ  as  to  which  was  her  most  important  type  of 
writing.  Home  says  simply,  "the  writing  of  Mrs.  Norton 
breathes  melodious  plaints  over  the  desecrations  of  her  sex's 
loveliness,"  and  the  shepherd  of  "Noctes  Ambrosianae"  is  of 
much  the  same  opinion.  "Chastity  knows  her  ain  sacred  char- 
acter, and  when  inspired  by  genius,  isna'  she  a  touchin' 
Muse!"  Arthur  Arnold,  on  the  other  hand,  declares:  "The 
most  distinguished  literary  woman  of  her  time.  .  .her  style 
was  not  employed  in  its  perfection  to  protest  against  any 
other  wrongs  than  those  which  had  pierced  her  own  heart." 
She  made  no  claim  to  equality  before  the  law,  saying:"  the 
wild  and  stupid  theories  advanced  by  a  few  women  of  equal 
rights  and  equal  intelligence  are  not  the  opinions  of  their  sex. 
I  for  one  believe  in  the  superiority  of  man  as  I  do  in  the 
existence  of  a  God."  What  she  wanted  was  "protection," 
and  she  strugled  valiantly  for  it.  If  she  indeed  fell  that  her 
main  purpose  was  to  secure  changes  in  existing  laws,  it 
must  be  confessed  thai  she  used  her  personal  charm  and  power 
of  gaining  sympathy  to  obtain  her  ends.  Her  letters  are  all 
couched  in  the  most  personal  terms:  "There  is  a  bill  now  be- 
fore the  House  in  which  circumstances  have  taught  mc  to 
take  a  deep  and  painful  interest".  "What  I  suffered  respect- 
ing those  children.  God  knows,  and  lie  only."  "I  bless  God 
thai  at  leasl  mine  was  one  of  the  cases  which  called  attention 
lo  the  law  as  it  then  existed." 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  9 

Occupied  with  her  work,  eagerly  soughl  after  by  her 
friends,  harassed  by  troubles   with   her  husband,    for  over 

forty  years  she  lived  a  busy  and  worried  life.  At  length  her 
husband  died  and  most  of  her  notoriety  perished  with  him; 
before  her  own  death  she  had  a  few  months  of  tranquil 
happiness,  married  to  Sir  William  Stirling  Maxwell,  a  lov- 
ing friend  of  many  years'  standing. 

Such  was  the  life  of  the  woman  whose  death  occurred 
only  a  few  years  before  the  writing  of  "Diana  of  I  he  Cross- 
ways"  In  treating  of  one  whose  life  had  in  it  so  much  that 
was  intrinsically  dramatic,  and  whose  name  and  history  a 
few  years  before  had  been  on  everyone's  lips,  Meredith  chose 
a  subject  sure  to  be  of  interest  to  his  contemporaries;  but  to 
make  the  novel  interesting  without  regard  to  its  basis  in  fact, 
he  had  in  the  main  a  fourfold  task:  to  explain  the  marriage, 
to  explain  the  initial  scandal,  to  explain  the  betrayal  of  the 
political  secret,  and  to  provide  a  more  satisfactory  finale. 
Each  of  these  questions  involves  of  course  numerous  minor 
explanations  and  changes,  but  these  on  the  whole  constituted 
Meredith's  problem. 

The  incredible  marriage  is  his  first  concern.  He  begins 
by  making  his  Diana  a  singularly  unattached  figure:  poss- 
essed of  a  few  close  friends  but  apparently  with  no  past  as  a 
background  except  for  a  few  shadowy  experiences  with  these 
same  friends,  and  of  no  parents,  guardians,  or  beautiful  sis- 
ters. Then  he  makes  her  devastatingly  beautiful  and  clever, 
painfully  clever;  (although  one  can  never  be  sure  how  much 
of  her  discourse  is  Diana;  all  Meredith's  characters  speak  and 
think  in  Meredithian,  and  it  is  difficult  to  strain  out  their 
own  ideas.)  The  natural  result  of  so  much  unprotected  love- 
liness is  a  series  of  unfortunate  attentions  from  amorous  gent- 
lemen. She  feels  a  sense  of  inferiority  to  men,  a  need  of 
support  strongly  reminiscent  of  her  prototype.  Accordingly. 
upset  by  one  final  experience  with  the  husband  of  her  dearest 
friend,  she  accepts,  as  a  refuge,  marriage  with  "one"  Mr. 
Warwick.  Unprotected  feminine  charm  to  disturbed  feminine 
equanimity  to  headlong  feminine  rush  for  shelter. 

The  husband  thus  logically  acquired,  Meredith  depicts 
not  "of  coarse  nature  and  violent  temper,"  but  cold, 
humorless,  polite,  with  "opinions  in  packets,"  totally  lacking 
the  spark  essential  to  Diana.  Diana's  friends  fear  that  some 
dav  she  will  "lose  her  relish  for  ridicule  and  see  him  at  a  (lis- 


10  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

tance."  This  is  exactly  what  occurs;  and,  finding  her  hus- 
band incapable  or  undesirous  of  responding  to  her  wit,  she 
turns  it  against  him.  She  feels  stifled  by  the  combination  of 
his  physical  ascendancy  and  intellectual  apathy;  she  gives 
vent  to  her  feelings  by  ridiculing  him  not  only  when  they  are 
alone,  hut,  sometimes  only  too  openly,  in  public.  On  the 
other  hand,  in  her  friendship  with  the  prominent  politician 
Lord  Dannisburgh — in  which  she  later  insists  there  was  noth- 
ing more  shameful  than  an  occasional  handclasp  a  shade  too 
long,  a  glance  a  shade  too  sympathetic, — she  finds  the  stimu- 
lus of  intellectual  compatibility  and  the  pleasure  derived  from 
the  admiration  of  an  almost-disinterested  friend.  It  is 
scarcely  to  he  wondered  at  that  Warwick,  stung  despite  his 
apparent  apathy  by  his  wife's  taunts,  should  he  driven  to  a 
frenzy  by  the  stage- whispering  of  society,  and  should  take 
such  drastic — although  senseless — measures  as  he  did. 

The  trial  over,  Diana's  history  for  a  time  closely  parallels 
that  of  Mrs.  Norton,  with  one  most  important  exception 
which,  obscurely  at  first,  paves  the  way  for  the  "Happy  End- 
ing." One  sees  Diana  going  brazenly  (her  term)  into  society, 
exercising  her  arts  and  graces  in  behalf  of  her  own  good 
name — for,  "when  a  woman's  charm  has  won  half  the  battle 
her  character  is  an  advancing  standard ;"  one  sees  her  keeping 
the  wolf  from  the  door  with  no  weapon  save  her  pen;  "being 
clever,"  censuring  herself  Tor  the  occasional  cheapness  of  her 
cleverness  as  a  "drawing-room  exotic."  But  her  relations  to 
her  husband  are  totally  changed  from  the  original.  There 
are  no  children  of  this  marriage;  and  Diana,  although  con- 
sidering herself  "the  first  martyr  of  the  modern  woman's 
cause,"  is  campaigning  only  for  a  vaguely  defined  "freedom 
and  protection,"  which  one  suspects  do  not  present  them- 
selves in  any  very  clear  form  even  to  Diana  herself.  And  in 
this  instance  it  is  the  husband  who  sends  repeated  petitions 
for  a  reconciliation,  the  wife  who  with  expressive  gestures 
and  overly-dramatic  speeches  publishes  her  refusal  to  con- 
sider any  such  project.  And  Mr.  Warwick,  instead  of  living 
on  for  forty-odd  years,  a  constant  source  of  anxiety  and  no- 
toriety to  his  wife,  dies  after  a  conveniently  brief  passage  of 
time,  thus  further  clearing  the  way  for  the  "happy  ending." 

Diana  sets  out,  as  has  been  said,  to  earn  her  living  by 
her  writing.  Hersuccessal  first  is  enormous,  but  differing 
again  from  Mrs.  Norton     her  powers  of  being  as  brainy  and 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  11 

as  popular  on  paper  as  she  is  in  conversation  quickly  deeline, 
the  sales  on  her  books  grow  smaller.  The  wranglings  of 
Debit  and  Credit  which  continually  disturb  the  peace  of  her 
small  but  expensive  household  grow  ever  more  bitter  and 
more  one-sided,  with  compromises  less  easily  effected.  Diana 
is  without  resources;  Mr.  Tonans,  a  newspaper  editor  to 
whom  she  has  frequently  given  choice  t id-bits  of  news,  ral- 
lies her  on  the  score  of  being  "out  of  it;"  she  is  forced  to  sell 
her  beloved  country  home,  The  Crossways;  to  temporize;  to 
seek  cringingly  from  her  publishers  advance  payment  on  a 
book  which  she  feels  sure  she  can  never  complete  with  any 
success.  It  is  at  this  critical  moment  that  Dacier,  the  rising 
young  politician  with  whom  only  a  coincidence  a  short  time 
before  has  restrained  her  from  eloping,  confides  in  her  a 
secret  of  state.  Her  vanity  has  been  wounded  by  the  accus- 
ation of  her  being  "out  of  it" ;  her  nerves  are  on  edge  from 
the  now  continuous  howling  of  the  wolf  on  the  doorstep; 
and  she  is  evidently  quite  unaware  of  the  value  of  political 
secrets.  Scarcely  has  her  admirer  left  the  house  when  she 
hails  a  late-prowling  cab,  drives  to  the  office  of  Tonans  and 
tells  him  what  has  just  been  confided  to  her.  There  is  a 
vague  mention  of  payment — nothing  definite  spoken,  but 
large  sums  hinted  at.  She  is  quite  unaware  of  the  import  of 
what  she  has  done  until  Dacier  himself  informs  her.  Thus 
Meredith  seeks  to  exculpate  an  action  which  in  itself  seems 
inexcusable. 

Now  for  the  "happy  ending".  Meredith's  task  here 
seems  at  first  sight  somewhat  hopeless.  Dacier  utters  in  a  few 
brief  and  pithy  sentences  his  opinion  of  Diana,  and  almost  im- 
mediately takes  unto  himself  a  fair,  cold,  very  English,  en- 
tirely suitable  wife.  Diana  plays  the  broken  reed  very  mo- 
vingly for  several  chapters,  and  resigns  herself  to  an  unsat- 
isfactory and  loveless  existence.  Then  appears  once  more  as 
saviour  of  the  situation  the  noble  Redworth.  who  throughout 
Diana's  career  has  played  the  part  of  faithful  hound,  loving- 
more  or  less  dumbly,  rendering  every  service  in  his  power,  and 
several  times  unknowingly  rescuing  Diana,  as  she  herself  ad- 
mits, when  she  was  at  the  crossroads.  This  noble  Redworth, 
the  perfect  type  of  "a  good  husband,"  seeks  to  make  Diana 
his  wife  and  to  bring  her  the  good  solid  comforts  of  home  and 
family  life  which  she  has  always  lacked.  Diana,  experiencing 
again  that  feeling  of  friendlessness  which  wTas  partly  respon- 


12  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

sible  for  her  firsi  matrimonial  adventure,  still  shrinks  from  the 
worldly  sacrament  of  marriage  yet  she  feels  herself  op- 
pressed, driven,  by  custom,  her  helplessness  and  her  apparent 
inability  to  manage  her  own  life.  To  this  arc  added  the  im- 

portunings  of  her  dearest  friend,  who  argues  in  the  hast  com- 
mendable of  ways  by  pointing  out  the  long  and  faithful  ser- 
\  ice  of  the  suitor,  his  manly  bearing  in  the  lace  of  disappoint- 
ment and  the  dog-like  expression  of  his  eyes  The  weary 

Diana's  last  defense-  is  worn  down;  she  sees  "a  regiment  of 
proverbs  bearing  placards  instead  of  guns,  and  each  one  a 
taunt  at  women,  especially  at  widows",  .  .  ."Banality,  thy 
name  is  marriage!"  she  cries  with  a  last  attempt  at  a  gesture, 
and  goes  "forth  to  her  commonplace  fate".  Here  she  is,  all 
nicely  married  to  the  noble  man  whom  Nature  SO  evidently  in- 
tended for  her  protection.  Still  the  tone  of  the  finale  seems 
not  quite  satisfactory.  Accordingly,  in  the  last  chapter,  Diana 
is  rather  unaccountable  "led  to  bloom  with  the  nuptial  sent- 
iment," returns  from  her  honeymoon  in  the  mental  state  con- 
sidered appropriate  for  a  recent  bride,  and  is  speakingly 
silent,  with  an  "involuntary  little  twitch  of  the  fingers",  in  re- 
sponse to  her  dearest  friend's  sweet  discourse  of  godchildren. 
This  is  what  Meredith  has  made  of  Mrs.  Norton.  One 
cannot  help  wondering  whether  he  was  as  fond  of  his  Diana 
at  the  completion  of  the  work  as  he  was  at  the  beginning. 
While  still  engrossed  in  the  novel,  he  wrote  to  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson:  kkl  am  finishing  at  a  great  rate  a  two-volume  novel 
partly  modeled  upon  Mrs.  Norton.  I  have  had  to  endow  her 
with  brains  and  make  them  evidence  to  the  descerning.  1 
think  she  lives."  This  is  all  very  well.  Certainly  her  almost 
masculine  brain  was  the  basis  alike  of  her  finest  wit.  of  her 
great  popularity  with  certain  people  and  corresponding  dis- 
like of  her  by  others,  and  of  the  disastrous  end  of  her  first 
marriage.  Hut  Meredith  as  he  advanced  further  into  the 
story  found  much  about  his  heroine  which  demanded  expla- 
nation on  other  grounds  than  that  of  her  brains.  Surely  the 
almost  constant  necessity  for  throwing  an  explanatory  and 
flattering  light  on  so  many  dubious  actions  must  have  become 
a  soure<  of  vexation  even  to  the  tolerant  and  loving  tran- 
scriber of  these  actions.  Diana  is  a  brilliant  fascinating  char- 
acter, and  a  living  being  despite  the  extravagances  of  her 
story:  but  she  is  none  the  less  remarkably  exasperating.  Al- 
most everything  she  does  shows  her  to  be  incurably  romantic 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  13 

and  idealistic  in  attitude — or  rather  in  that  one  of  her  atti- 
tudes which  appears  most  often  and  most  consistently.  She  is 
sentimental  and  given  to  dramatic  attitudes,  and  like  Mrs. 
Norton,  she  seems  to  inspire  similar  tendencies  in  her  admir- 
ers. Thus  we  find  Mr.  Sullivan  Smith,  that  ardent  Hibern- 
ian, seeking  duels  on  the  slightest  of  pretexts,  and  several 
other  gentlemen,  ordinarily  of  perfectly  sound  mind,  grand- 
iloquently leaving  their  cards  on  journalists  with  intimations 
as  to  how  much  shall  be  published  concerning  M  rs.  Warwick, 
or  hunting  down  with  grim  zeal  the  perpetrators  of  each  new 
story  that  crops  up. 

Meredith  makes  quite  plausible  Diana's  precipitate  rush 
into  the  impossible  marriage;  but  still  finds  it  difficult  to  ap- 
prove of  her  subsequent  treatment  of  her  husband.  Certain- 
ly she  had  genuine  grievances  against  this  parasitic  creature 
who  lived  on  her  earnings;  but  her  method  of  retaliation  al- 
though it  is  made  to  account  for  a  number  af  things,  was  mean 
and  unworthy.  And  despite  all  Meredith's  vivid  description 
of  Diana's  later  pecuniary  difficulties,  of  her  mental  struggle 
and  bewilderment,  her  betrayal  of  the  political  secret  seems 
far  from  blameless.  The  plea  made  by  the  author  through 
Diana's  own  words  and  thoughts — that  of  her  ignorance  of 
the  secret's  importance — quite  loses  its  validity  both  through 
his  own  statement  that  he  has  endowed  her  with  brains,  and 
through  her  evident  interest  in  and  knowlege  of  politics. 

The  intricate  arguments  contrived  by  Meredith  to  reply 
to  such  objections  must  have  cost  him  no  little  pains  and  an- 
noyance; but  these,  after  all,  are  personal  objections  raised  by 
the  reader.  More  important  is  the  impossibility  of  making 
this  one  of  Meredith's  heroines  correspond  to  his  ideal  of 
womanhood.  Richard  LeGallienne  states  that  one  of 
Meredith's  main  tenets  was  that  of  the  union  of  body  and 
spirit.  ''Woman's  conventional"  purity.'  and  sentimental 
daintiness,  are  to  him  a  dangerous  superstition.  .  .'love,  what 
is  that  but  a  finer  shoot  of  the  tree  stautly  planted  in  good 
gross  earth'.  .To  love  the  flower  and  be  ashamed  of  the  root  is 
a  pitiable  silliness  in  Mr.  Meredith's  eyes."  Even  in  the  novel 
"Diana  of  the  Crosswaifs"  itself,  he  says  "True  poets  and  true 
women  have  the  native  sense  of  the  divineness  of  what  the 
world  deems  gross  material  substance."  In  this  case,  Diana 
can  on  the  whole  be  considered  no  true  woman.  She  is  ap- 
palled at  the  thought  of  anything  material  being  connected  in 


14  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

any  way  with  what  seems  basically  emotional  or  spiritual. 
"What  if  her  poetic  frenzy  had  not  been  of  origin  divine? 
had  sprung  from  other  than  spiritual  fonts?  had  sprung  from 

the  reddened  sources  she  was  compelled  to  conceal?"  The 
"physiological  basis  of  passion"  is  to  her  a  thing  unthinkable. 

This  conception  of  Diana's  attitude  grows  on  one  from  the 
beginning  of  the  hook,  as  though  without  the  will  or  even  the 

knowledge  of  the  author.  As  the  story  draws  to  its  close  he 
seems  suddenly  to  realize  that  his  heroine  docs  not  come  up 
to  his  standards,  and  makes  a  spasmodic  effort  to  recover  her 
position.  lie  declares  her  reactions,  both  present  and  past. 
to  be  due  to  "chastity  of  spirit,  not  coldness  of  blood,"  and  in 
the  last  few  pages  depicts  her  in  possession  of  the  quickly  ac- 
quired traits  of  his  womanly  ideal.  Hut  this  complete  and 
almost  instantaneous  change  fails  to  counteract  the  impres- 
sion made  by  the  rest  of  the  tale  of  Diana ;  it  seems  to  lack  the 
ring  of  the  genuine,  and  gives  the  effect  of  having  been  tacked 
on  hastily — and  too  late. 

One  wonders  if  Meredith  was.  not  only  slightly  dis- 
pleased, hut  quite  strongly  surprised  at  the  way  his  Diana 
turned  out.  The  story  of  Mrs.  Norton  seemed  to  many,  and 
probably  to  him.  a  dramatic  one  which  without  a  great  deal  of 
tampering  or  exposition  could  he  interpreted,  made  plausible, 
orderly,  and  heroic,  lie  must  have  found  that  the  amount  of 
apology  and  argument  necessary  was  far  greater  than  had  ap- 
peared. I  f  he  had  omitted  the  last  pages  of  the  last  chapter — a 
last  vain  attempt  to  capture  the  heroine  he  thought  he  had 
seen  in  .Mrs.  Norton — his  story  would  have  had  the  pattern  lie 
sought.  By  dint  of  much  contortion  and  struggling  he  made 
his  Diana's  fictions  and  reactions  seem  plausible  a  wonderful 
feat  :  hut  in  the  process  the  woman  herself  was  clearly  shown 
to  he  far  from  heroic,  far  from  ideal,  and  not  at  all  the  ration- 
alized hut  idealized  Mi's.  Norton  Meredith  probably  expected 
to  create. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  15 

EDUCATION  X 

Barbara  Damon  Si  mi  son 


OME  day,  perhaps — waiting  in  my  attic  room  for  fame 
to  come  to  me,  I  shall  he  hungry.  Unlike  Elijah,  the 
raven  will  avoid  me,  and  even  my  sonnets  to  the  spar- 
rows will  bring  me  no  crumbs.  Thus  prematurely  forced  to 
burn  the  rejected  manuscripts  which  are  to  do  me  no  service, 
I  shall  finally  sally  forth  in  search  of  a  job.  I  might  become 
a  parlour  maid,  and  take  up  the  art  of  dusting  which  I  had 
abandoned  so  long  ago.  My  delight  in  good  food  might 
make  me  invaluable  as  chief  taster  to  a  millionaire.  But,  be- 
fore I  think  of  any  such  occupation  I  shall  be  reminded  of 
the  college  diploma  in  the  bottom  of  my  trunk.  The  allure 
of  making  myself  mistress  of  a  schoolroom  will  inveigle  me 
into  the  teaching  profession.  Soon,  however,  I  am  to  learn 
that  my  preparation  has  been  at  fault.  I  only  have  one  year 
of  education  to  my  credit  instead  of  two!  Therefore,  the  re- 
volt which  caused  me  to  spurn  Education  in  my  senior  year 
will  lead  me  to  some  country,  or  at  least  village,  school — far 
removed  from  bookshops  and  lecture  tickets,  but  a  salvation 
place  to  such  a  one  as  I. 

Once  there,  moreover,  I  shall  determine  to  make  my  one 
year  of  Education  do  the  work  of  two.  From  the  first,  I  shall 
put  into  practice  the  theories  which  had  lain  idle  in  black  note- 
books for  so  long,  and  make  them  bear  everlasting  fruit. 

With  such  a  resolution  as  this  I  shall  step  into  my  school- 
room on  the  day  after  Labor  Day,  when  well-regulated 
schools  begin.  There,  I  shall  find  a  heterogeneous  group  of 
pupils  hitching  in  their  seats,  craning  their  necks  to  see  what 
I  look  like. 

"That's  the  new  teacher!  That's  the  new  teach-ir!"  their 
stentorian  young  voices  will  assure  me — knowing  only  too 
Avell  how  new  I  feel. 

"Good  morning,  children.  I  am  your  new  teacher,"  I 
shall,  in  turn,  reassure  them,  "Now  let  me  see,  you  are  of 
Junior  High  School  age,  I  believe?" 

"No,  no!  Seventh  grade,  teacher!"  one  voice  will  deny, 
and,  "Eighth  grade!"  "Ninth  grade!"  two  more. 


J  6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

"Ninth  grade?    Do  you  have  that?    Well,  never  mind. 

1  will  call  you  Junior  High  School,  because  that  is  what  you 
really  should  be,  you  know!"  The  .Junior  High  School  idea. 
1  shall  recall,  will  help  me  to  retain  pupils;  recognize  individ- 
ual differences;  secure  better  scholarship,  and  six  other  things 
1  had  long  since  forgotten.  It  might  be,  1  shall  decide-,  wise 
to  relearn  them      to  quote,  in  case  of  need. 

".Junior  High  School  sounds  more  grown-up,  teacher," 
one  little  hoy  will  pipe  up  with  pride  and  new-found 
wonder  in  his  tone. 

In  the  meanwhile,  one  small  hoy  will  begin  to  choke. 
"Take  him  to  the  fountain,  John!"  1  shall  command  another. 

"Fountain?"  he  will  question,  "You  mean  the  one  out 
on  the  green?" 

"No,  the  drinking  fountain,"  I  shall  correct  him.  "You 
have  one?" 

"Oh,  you  mean  the  cold  water- faucet,  teacher!"  John  will 
tell  me  scornfully.  Or,  perhaps,  he  will  cry.  "You  mean  the 
pail?" 

With  such  lacks  as  these  ringing  in  my  ears  I  shall 
trudge  to  and  fro  each  day  to  my  so-called  "Junior  High 
School".  1  may  find  my  pupils  sleepy,  and  decide  to  rectify 
their  stupidity;  wake  them  up  with  exercise.  "At  the  end  of 
every  hour,  children,  you  may  have  ten  minutes  for  anything 
you  like,"  I  plan  to  inform  them— not  expecting  the  wrath 
which  is  to  descend  upon  me  from  the  teacher  of  the  next 
room. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing?  You  interrupted  my 
biology  lesson  with  your  racket.  Let  me  warn  you — our 
principal  will  not  stand  for  things  like  this.  Your  being 
new,  1  thought  I  had  better  tell  you.  lie  demands  absolute 
quiel  at  all  times." 

klYcs,  hut      exercise!"  I  am  to  stammer. 

"They  have  plenty  of  time  to  play  as  it  is."  she  will  snap 
at  me  with  years  of  experience  to  hack  her  up.  so  to  speak. 
For  this  reason  I  shall  allow  my  children  to  stumble  stupidly 
on.  although  I  will  manage  to  let  them  sit  idle  for  a  little; 
let  them  relax  while  I  tell  them  of  Kohin  Hood  or  King- 
Arthur. 

Other  problems  1  shall  manage  less  well.  Little  Jimmy 
Jones,  freckle-faced  and  red-haired,  may  come  to  tell  mc  that 
he  must  leave  school  to  go  to  work.     Willi  horror  in  my  eyes. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  17 

I  shall  find  myself  urging  him  to  stay  a  year  or  two  longer.  I 
may  almost  succeed  in  winning  him  over,  when  the  principal, 
his  head  fringed  with  hair,  will  rebuke  me  for  what  he  will 
term  "interferenee:"  "I  eannot  have  my  teaehers  interfering 
with  what  I  eall  home  matters.  The  parent  is  the  sole  judge 
as  to  whether  his  boy  should  or  should  not  remain  in  school." 

"Very  well — but—  "  I  may  begin;  then  eheck  myself  as  L 
remember  the  slim  roll  of  bills  in  my  pocket-book. 

Another  pupil,  ready  to  enter  high  sehool,  may  tell  me 
that  he  wants  to  go  to  college,  but,  sinee  his  I.  Q.  is  low,  I 
shall  advise  him  that  he  had  better  try  something  else.  I 
dimly  remember  that  Vocational  Guidanee  should  be  a  part 
of  the  work  of  every  good  teacher,  and  so,  now,  to  the  best  of 
my  ability,  I  shall  inform  Frederick  that  he  is  too  mechani- 
cally inclined  to  waste  his  talents  upon  a  liberal  arts  college. 
Just  at  the  moment,  however,  when  I  have  him  almost  con- 
vinced, I  shall  see  my  friend,  the  good  principal,  beaming 
benevolently  upon  us. 

"Ah,  Frederick,  my  boy!"  and  his  beam  will  become  ex- 
pansive, "I  hear  you  plan  to  go  to  college!  That  is  fine,  my 
dear  boy.    You  will  do  us  proud!" 

"But,"  I  may  argue,  after  Frederick  has  retreated,"  that 
boy  will  never  be  able  to  go  to  college.  Besides,  he  is  not  in 
high  school  yet,  and  his  I.  Q.  is  low." 

"Yes,  Miss  S — ,  but  I  always  try  to  instil  the  highest 
ideals  in  the  young  minds  of  my  boys.  He  may  pass  yet.  I 
cannot  run  the  risk  of  letting  my  rating  go  down.  There 
have  always  been  six  taking  the  college  preparatory  course 
from  my  school.  This  year,  I  cannot  let  it  go  down  to  five. 
Don't  you  see?" 

I  shall  nod  when  I  feel  like  shaking  my  fist. 

"Another  matter,  Miss  S — ,  I  find  that  your  boys  do 
better  in  history  and  mathematics  than  the  girls.  Now  those 
girls  are  not  stupid." 

"No,  that  is  not  it.  The  girls  do  better  in  language 
study.  It  has  been  proven,  psychologically,  that  this  should 
be  the  case.  Therefore  I  do  not  see  that  there  is  anything  to 
do.  It  is  a  matter  of  interests."  I  may  reason  thus  as  though 
I  believed  it.  The  good  principal  will  look  bewildered  and  de- 
part— his  arguments,  mayhap,  run  out  for  the  moment.  I 
know,  however,  that  he  will  soon  be  back — peering  over  the 
glass  in  the  door  when  my  back  may  be  turned;  standing, 


18  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

perhaps,  at  the  rear  of  the  room  when  I  am  drawing  a  dinos- 
aur on  the  blackboard  for  the  edification  of  the  young  savages 
under  my  control.  I  shall  even  see  him  usher  in  the  county 
superintendent,  who  will  puff  across  the  room  with  his  Order 
of  Elks  badge  shining  from  his  vest,  and  interrupt  the  Col- 
lectors1 Club  which  1  shall  hold  in  school  hours. 

"Now,  don't  you  think,  Miss  S  ,"  the  county  superin- 
tendent may  begin,  "that  this  is  a  waste  of  school  time?" 

"Ye — s,"  1  shall  respond  meekly,  even  reluctantly  with 
a  better  answer  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue:  "Repressed  energy. 
Collectors'  instinct.  See  Briggs,  page  99,  paragraph  2." 

"It  puts  extravagant  ideas  into  their  young  brains. 
Economy  is  the  program  of  this  school,"  the  principal  may 
admonish  me  with  a  broad  sweep  of  his  plump  hand. 

On  another  day.  perhaps,  1  may  have  a  more  serious 
problem  with  which  to  cope.  Cordelia  will  decide  that  she 
does  not  want  to  study;  she  may  shriek,  even,  when  1  tell  her 
to  read.  My  educational  psychology  notes  will  then  slide  un- 
announced into  my  memory:  "Watson's  researches  upon  the 
new-born  infants  have  revealed  three  generic  types  of  innate 
response,  each  of  which  combines  the  impulsive  and  implicit 
mode  with  an  explicit  adjustment  to  objective  conditions. 
These  three  types  are  fear,  rage  and  love.  .  .An  instinct  per- 
sists with  varied  effort  until  the  disturbed  equilibrium  of  the 
organism  has  been  restored.  .  .The  innate  patterns  which 
form  the  background  of  all  behavior  are  commonly  called  in- 
stincts." 1  do  not  now  recollect  whether  our  class  was  taugfll 
lo  accept  Watson's  theory,  or  that  of  Ogden  or  Koffka.  Wat- 
son's will  do  in  this  case,  I  shall  reason,  since  this  child  is 
evidently  in  a  rage.  She  will  certainly  be  older  than  Wat- 
son's new-born  infant,  but.  since  rage  is  an  early  instinct  she 
must  still  have  it.  Therefore,  I  will  allow  her  to  cry  and 
Stamp,  and  bite,  and  tear,  lor  the  benefit.  1  shall  discover,  of 
the  selectmen  who  comprise  the  School  Committee. 

"Nice  little  performance,"  I  can  hear  them  say  as  they 
shake  their  heads.  I  shall  feel  the  slim  roll  of  bills  in  my 
pocket  with  fresh  qualms.  Their  watch-chains,  brassily 
noisy,  will  clank  their  answer  to  me  across  the  room.  Their 
penned  notice  I  shall  find  on  my  green  blotter  at  H.'M)  the 
next  morning;  "Miss  S  may  find  it  best  to  resign  at  the  end 
of  the  official  school  term."  I  can  hear  them  making  their 
decision   now.      iklt    is  a    pity,  ureal    pity   my  good   principal 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  19 

will  say  with  magnanimity  in  his  beam.  The  county  super- 
intendent will  hem  and  haw.  "Great  pity!  For  one  so  young! 
To  be  so  serious  about  it!" 

"Yes,"  the  School  Board  will  answer,  "She  aets  as  if  she 
means  what  she  says.  Very  sorry  ease  very.  Must  do  it. 
Have  a  new  candidate  for  the  job  who  has  twel-ve  hours  of 
Education  behind  her.  Evidently  si-ix  is  not  enough.  Yet, 
she  seems  to  believe  what  she  says!  Queer!  She  appears  to  be 
so  serious.    Can't  afford  to  let  such  a  person  stay." 

So,  I  shall  resign — not  as  they  suggest  with  such  polite- 
ness— "at  the  end  of  the  official  school  term",  but  in  Novem- 
ber. The  teacher  next  door  will  give  me  a  frigid  good-bye. 
The  I-told-you-so  in  her  smile  will  seem  to  tell  me  that  she 
has  heard  me  teaching  Robert  Frost  instead  of  the  geography 
of  New  England  (Maine,  New  Hampshire,  Vermont),  or 
Amy  Lowell  when  I  was  supposed  to  be  reading  Washing- 
ton's Inaugural  Address.  She  will  look  askance  when  I 
smile  back  at  her.  "And  she  got  fired!"  I  may  hear  her  mutter 
as  I  wave  my  hand. 

It  will  be,  then,  with  a  sense  of  freedom  and  a  great  shak- 
ing of  school-room  chalk  from  my  feet  that  I  shall  return  to 
my  garret.  My  memoirs  as  a  school  mistress  shall  never  be 
written  as  I  had  dared  to  hope.  Instead,  my  black  notebooks 
shall  go  the  way  of  my  manuscripts — to  keep  me  warm !  In 
the  meanwhile,  before  I  care  to  join  the  force  of  parlour 
maids,  or  the  chief  tasters'  guild,  I  shall  be  hungry,  and  I  shall 
write  more  sonnets  to  the  sparrows,  who  will  not  bring  me 
"bread  and  flesh  in  the  morning,  and  bread  and  flesh  in  the 
evening."  But,  at  least,  I  can  sit  by  my  attic  window  and 
watch  the  children  playing  in  the  street — after  their  school 
is  over ! 


20  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


THE  DUEL 
Elizabeth  Wheeler 


.© 


HE  "Lion  d'Or"  was  crowded.  Men  gathered  about 
every  tabic,  sonic  playing  cards,  all  drinking,  all  talk- 

|  ing  rapidly,  gesticulating  with  half-  emptied  glasses. 
Their  voices  rose  higher  as  the  general  din  grew  louder.  Corks 
popped,  glasses  clinked,  money  /jingled.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  smoke  and  the  odor  of  wine.  Dripping  candles  and  oil 
lamps  threw  a  wan  glow  on  the  objects  nearest  them;  the 
light  from  snapping  birch  logs  reeled  among  the  moving 
shadows  on  the  opposite  wall. 

Four  men  lounged  about  the  center  table,  animatedly 
discussing  the  other  occupants  of  the  room. 

"Bourbons,  Bonapartists,  bourgeois  and  aristocracy/' 
said  the  nervous  little  man  with  his  back  to  the  tire,  and  added 
with  a  dramatic  gesture.  "But  all  are  children  of  la  belle 
France." 

"No,  my  deal-  Gaston,"  corrected  the  fat  man  next  to 
him.     "Not  all.     Look  behind  you." 

Gaston  pivoted  swiftly  on  one  leg  of  his  chair.  On  the  set- 
1  le  before  the  fire  reclined  an  individual  who  was  long  and  lean 
and  built  in  folding  sections,  unlike  the  children  of  la  belle 
France.  His  face  was  cold  and  still  with  an  imperturbable 
calm.  A  pipe  hung  relaxed  from  his  thin  lips.  1 1  is  eyes 
travelled  leisurely  down  the  page  of  a  magazine  propped 
against  his  knees;  il  was  the  "Quarterly  Review."  His  expres- 
sion never  changed  as  he  read.  lie  was  utterly  oblivions  to 
I  be  noise  of  song  and  argument  that  raged  around  him,  and 
unconscious  of  the  stares  directed  at  him ;  wrapped  in  his  own 
thoughts  and  sufficient  unto  himself. 

Gaston  swung  around  with  a  grimace  of  disgust. 

"Mon  Dieu,  these  English!  Wherever  yon  go,  always 
the  same,  sour  and  stern,  no  joie  de  vivre." 

(Vision  spoke  loudly,  but  the  Englishman  did  not  hear. 

lie  reached  down  bis  band  to  pick  up  from  the  floor  a  glass 
of  Burgundy.     With  his  other  hand,  he  removed  the  pipe 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  21 

from  his  mouth,  and  drank  slowly,  his  eyes  still  on  the  "Quar- 
terly Review." 

"Pah!"  spat  the  fat  man.  "They  think  they  own  the 
earth.  Look  at  him,  appropriating  the  best  seat  in  the  room, 
just  as  if  he  belonged  there  instead  of  me  who  come  here 
every  night  of  my  life." 

"The  fool!  You'd  think  he'd  hear  us  talking  about  him." 

"Not  he!  He's  far  too  superior  to  listen  to  anyone 'be- 
sides himself  except  possibly  another  Englishman. 

Gaston  hitehed  his  chair  nearer  to  the  table  and  leaned 
forward. 

"Pardieu,"  he  said  in  a  lowered  tone.  "Mon  ami,  you 
shall  have  your  seat  by  the  fire.  I'll  make  him  move.  If  I 
know  these  English,  their  love  of  themselves  is  only  matched 
by  their  love  of  gambling.    Just  wait  and  see!" 

Gaston  hopped  up  briskly  and  approached  the  settle. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,  but — would  you  care  to  play  cards? 
One  finds  it  so  dull  travelling,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

The  Englishman  looked  up,  and  coolly  considered 
Gaston's  smiling  face  for  a  moment. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  I  should  like  to,"  he  replied 
gravely.  Putting  aside  his  magazine,  he  unfolded  himself 
and  stood  up.  They  joined  the  others  at  the  table,  where 
Gaston  urbanely  effected  the  introductions.  The  English- 
man bowed  stiffly,  and  took  the  seat  vacated  by  the  fat  man 
who  was  even  then  ensconced  in  the  settle  before  the  fire. 

One  of  the  Frenchmen  counted  out  the  chips.  Gaston 
dealt,  smiling  pleasantly. 

"A  sou  a  point,  Monsieur:  would  that  be  satisfactory?" 

"Oh,  quite." 

Before  picking  up  his  cards,  the  Englishman  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  large  gold  watch  which  he  laid  before  him  on  the 
table. 

"I  have  to  catch  the  Paris  stage  at  three,"  he  explained. 
It  was  then  eleven. 

They  began  to  play.  Gaston  chatted  volubly,  laughing 
and  gesticulating.  The  Englishman,  intent  on  his  game, 
replied  in  monosyllables;  if  he  was  annoyed  at  the  garrulous- 
ness  of  his* opponent,  his  face  did  not  betray  him.  As  the 
game  progressed,  his  pile  of  chips  mounted  higher,  while 
those  of  the  three  Frenchmen  shrank  steadily.    Gaston  grew 


22  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

silent,  hut  still  smiled.  The  other  two  looked  at  him  with 
open  accusation  in  their  eyes. 

Unfalteringly  the  Englishman  continued  to  gain. 
Gaston  ceased  to  smile.  His  eyes  darted  angrily  from  the 
sullen  faces  of  his  two  compatriots  to  the  face  of  the  English- 
man, still  masked  in  imperturable  calm.  Gaston  slapped 
down  his  last  card.  The  Englishman  tossed  his  on  top  of  it. 
He"  had  won  again,  and  the  hank  was  broken.  Gaston  swore. 
The  Englishman  said  nothing,  hut  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  lit  his  pipe,  lie  glanced  tor  the  first  time  at  the  corner 
of  the  table  where  his  elbow  had  rested,  then  folded  himself 
and  looked  under  the  table.  Straightening,  he  asked  casual- 
ly of  no  one  in  particular, 

"1  say.  has  anybody  seen  my  watch?" 

Gaston  sprang  to  his  feet,  upsetting  his  chair  with  a. 
crash. 

"Monsieur,  do  you  mean  to  insinuate?"  he  began  pomp- 
ously. Then  all  control  snapped,  and  he  waved  his  arms 
wildly,  exclaiming, 

"Mon  Dieu,  you  have  insulted  me!  This  is  too  much! 
You  come  here  and  take  the  only  comfortable  chair  in  the 
room.  You  oiler  to  play  cards  with  us.  You  rob  us  of  our 
money.  You  are  not  content  with  a  little,  hut  you  must  have 
it  all.  And  then  you  say  I  steal  your  watch!  ()-o-oh!  1  can- 
not hear  it !  You  have  insulted  me.  We  will  fight  a  duel.  1 — a 
thief!    Oh.  1  am  insulted!" 

He  was  at  last  interrupted  by-repeated  cries  of  "What 
is  it.  Gaston?  What  is  it?"  All  the  occupants  of  the  room 
were  crowding  round  the  table,  shouting  and  pushing,  thirst- 
ing for  excitement.  Only  the  Englishman  remained  calm. 
I  Ie  had  risen  from  his  seat,  and  had  removed  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth.  He  waited  until  there  was  comparative  silence  as 
all  eyes,  following  Gas  ton's  accusing  linger,  wore  fixed  on 
him. 

"Pardon  me.  Monsieur,  1  merely  asked  if  you  had  seen 
my  watch.      1  am  sorry  you  misunderstood  me." 

"Do  you  think  I  believe  that?  It  makes  no  difference; 
you  have  insulted  me.  We  will  light.  Pierre  and  .Michel,  be 
my  seconds.  .Make  I  he  a  rra  ngeinen  t  s  with  this  English- 
man." 

The  Englishman  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  eye  fell 
on  something  that  lay  under  the  chair  where  he  had  been  sit- 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  23 

ting.  He  stooped  and  picked  up  his  watch,  looked  at  it  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket.  No  one  appeared  to  notice;  all  were 
thronging  round  Gaston  and  his  seconds.    The  Englishman 

sauntered  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down  on  the  settle,  opening  the 
"Quarterly  Review"  at  the  page  where  he  had  left  oft*. 
Deuced  awkward  situation,  this,  he  reflected.  It  was  now  one 
o'clock.  He  was  due  to  leave  for  Paris  at  three,  and  in  the 
interim  he  had  got  to  fight  a  duel,  thanks  to  that  ass  of  a 
Frenchman.  He'd  be  damned  if  he  would  hit  him,  and  mess 
things  up  any  further.  Maybe  he  would  be  hurt  himself- 
devilish  nuisance  in  a  place  like  this;  but  if  that  Frenchman 
was  no  cleverer  with  weapons  than  he  was  with  cards,  he 
wouldn't  be  likely  to  do  much  damage  except  by  luck. 

At  this  point  Gaston's  seconds  approached,  with  obvious 
contempt  for  their  friend's  adversary,  and  equally  obvious 
enjoyment  in  the  importance  of  their  own  position. 

"Is  Monsieur  prepared  to  discuss  the  matter  of  the  duel  \ 
Good.    What  weapons  is  Monsieur  pleased  to  choose?" 
"Pistols.    At  twenty  paces.    In  the  dark." 
Under  the  cool  gaze  of  the   Englishman   the  seconds 
looked  at  each  other  apprehensively. 

"Monsieur  would  not  prefer  swords?  A  victory  with 
swords  is  more  glorious.  .  ." 

"And  death  in  either  case  is  quite  as  final." 
"Pistols  it  is,  then.    And  when  and  where  would  Mon- 
sieur prefer  to  fight?" 

The  Englishman  pulled  out  his  watch  and  made  a  lei- 
surely calculation. 

"At  two  o'clock,  in  any  empty  room  that  is  available," 
he  said  with  a  finality  that  precluded  any  protest  on  the  part 
of  the  obviously  dissatisfied  Frenchmen.  They  withdrew, 
muttering  with  their  heads  together,  and  the  Englishman  re- 
turned to  his  magazine.  Presently  he  became  aware  that  the 
foregoing  arrangements  did  not  please  his  adversary. 

"Pistols,  in  the  dark,"  shrieked  Gaston  from  the  other 
side  of  the  room.  "Mon  Dieu,  these  English  cannot  even  fight 
like  gentlemen  in  the  open  with  gentlemen's  weapons,  but 
must  fire  away  in  the  dark  like  highwaymen.  Not  even  a 
lantern?  Insult  upon  insult!  To  kill  or  be  killed  like  a  rat 
in  a  hole!    Oh.  I  will  have  his  blood  for  this!" 

During  the  ensuing  hour,  the  "Lion  d'Or"  settled  down 
to  something  like  its  normal  composure.     The  tables  were 


2  1  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

once  more  crowded  with  gamblers  and  drinkers,  singing  and 
arguing  as  before,  but  suspense,  heavier  than  the*  smoke,  hung 

over  the  room.  Even  those  most  intent  on  their  cards  cast 
frequenl  fiances  now  toward  the  fire,  now  toward  the  dark- 
est cornel-  of  the  room.  The  Englishman  read  on.  pulling 
away  at  his  pipe,  his  lace  inscrutable.  Gaston  leaned  on  a 
table,  tattooing  with  his  fingers,  drinking  Burgundy,  sput- 
tering dis  jointedly  to  his  seconds.  Occasionally  his  voice 
rose  and  a  few  words  became  audible  to  those  at  the  tables 
nearby. 

"What  an  insult!     Pistols  in  the  dark!" 
A  clever  swordsman,  Gaston,"  someone  remarked.  "Hut 
he  is  gun-shy." 

At  five  minutes  of  two,  when  suspense  had  cooled  the 
fever  of  the  most  ardent  gambler,  the  landlord  entered  the 
room,  bawling  loudly. 

"This  way,  please,  Messieurs." 

Gaston  swallowed  a  glass  of  wine  at  one  gulp,  and  al- 
most  ran  after  the  landlord,  shouting. 

"Allons,  nics  amis!" 

The  Englishman  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and 
placed  it  with  his  magazine  on  the  mantelpiece:  then  he 
strode  alter  his  adversary.  Behind  him  pushed  all  the  other 
occupants  of  the  "I aon  d'Or."  At  the  end  of  a  long  passage, 
he  found  himself  together  with  the  landlord,  Gaston  and  his 
seconds,  in  a  large  rectangular  room,  unfurnished  except  for 
a  huge  fireplace  opposite  the  door. 

The  landlord  held  out  several  pistols.  The  Englishman 
selected  one-,  examined  it  casually,  and  took  his  place  at  one 
end  of  the-  room,  with  the  fireplace  on  his  right.  On  his  left, 
two  deep  along  the-  full  length  of  the'  wall  stooel  all  his 
fellow-travellers,  eyes  Hashed  with  anticipation.  Opposite 
him.  at  a  < I isl .i i u-t  of  twenty  paces  which  had  just  hern  meas- 
ured   by   the   seconds,   Gaston   shifted    from   one'    foot    to   the- 

other,  fingering  his  pistol,  apparently  almost  unable  to  wail 

for  the  signal. 

The  Englishman's  eyes  without  moving,  took  in  every 
detail. 

"By  Jove,"  he  thought,  "What  a  perfectly  rotten  way  to 

manage  a  duel!  With  all  these  chaps  standing  about,  some- 
one's sure  to  be  hurt.  Damnme,  1  don't  want  to  hit  anybody, 
not  even  thai  ass  Gaston.    What  a  ballv  nuisance  to  be  mixed 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  25 

up  in  such  an  affair!  Wait  a  minute,  though!  Of  course — 
the  fireplace.     That'll  do." 

With  imperturable  calm,  he  listened  to  the  landlord's  in- 
structions. 

"The  lights  will  he  extinguished.  Then  1  will  count 
three.    At  three  you  will  fire.    Are  you  ready,  M essieurs  ?" 

The  lights  were  blown  out. 

"One!  Two!  Three!" 

One  shot  rang  out,  and,  strangely,  it  seemed  to  come 
from  the  fireplace. 

■'MonDieu,  I  am  killed!" 

Lanterns  were  lighted  hastily.  The  Englishman  was 
standing  in  his  place  at  the  end  of  the  room,  a  smoking  pistol 
in  his  hand.  In  the  fireplace,  moaning  and  cursing,  with  both 
hands  clasped  around  one  knee,  lay  Gaston. 

An  exclamation  of  surprise  burst  from  the  crowd  as  they 
surged  forward  around  the  unfortunate  man.  But  in  a  second, 
as  comprehension  dawned,  there  was  a  shout  of  derision. 

The  Englishman's  face  remained  inscrutable.  "By  Jove, 
serves  him  jolly  well  right,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  strode 
over  to  the  fireplace.  He  reached  up  to  lay  the  pistol  on 
the  mantelpiece.  Then,  looking  down  at  Gaston  over  the 
heads  of  twenty  babbling  Frenchmen,  he  said  coolly, 

"I  say,  I  hope  you're  not  much  hurt." 

Gaston  glanced  hastily  at  him  with  hatred  in  his  eye. 
then  turned  away,  spluttering  feebly. 

"You  have  insulted  me." 

The  Englishman  swung  around  and  strode  out  of  the 
room.  Presently  he  was  reclining  on  the  settle  before  the 
fire,  his  pipe  hanging  from  his  mouth,  and  against  his  knees 
was  propped  the  "Quarterly  Review." 


JEALOUSY 
Helen  Fiske 


But  when 

I  loved  the  moon, 

The  sun  unsheathed  his  light 

From  the  scabbard  of  the  hills  and  struck 

Me  blind. 


26  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


SHRINE  TO  AESCULAPIUS 

S.m.i IE  S.  Simons 


\KK  as  it  is.  there  may  be  that  peculiar  harmony  be- 
tween man  and  the  things  about  him  which  induces  a 
creative  repose.  It  is  not  the-  harmony  which  dulls  the 
instant  response-  of  sense  to  outward  impression,  the'  sort  of 
peace  due'  rather  to  lethargy  in  man  than  serenity  in  nature. 
An  equality  that  produces  a  repose  which  still  is  active  must 
be  formed  of  motion  and  of  quietness,  a  synthesis  of  change 
and  continuity.  This  feeling,  intangible  and  elusive,  is  ex- 
perienced, I  think,  only  in  the  country.  1  cannot  imagine  a 
sense  of  rising  power,  coupled  with  the-  most  complete  relax- 
ation, in  surroundings  pitched  to  a  tautness  of  activity.  No, 
the  movement  that  1  sense  even  late  at  night  in  the-  city  is 
harsh  and  restive,  in  no  way  comparable  to  the  stirring  in  the 
country  air.  And  it  is  at  Pelham  that  1  find  its  perfect  expres- 
sion, [am  most  e-onscions  of  it  in  the  spring,  though  I  have 
felt  it  when  color  burned  over  the  hills  and  when  blue  shadows 
drew  across  the  snow. 

Pelham  is  only  a  generic  name'.  It  seems  to  e-xte-nd  in- 
clusively over  the  Berkshires  east  of  Amherst.  1  believe  there 
is  a  Central  Pelham  and  a  West  Pelham  through  which  the 
street  ear  sways  with  alarming  purposefulness,  bu1  both  are 
slight,  hampered.  Xorth-of- Boston  gestures,  frugal,  with 
narrow  white-  houses  and  a  general  store.  To  me,  Pelham 
is  ;i  brown  shingled  house  with  a  re-d  roof,  and  woods  that 
slope  away  from  it  down  the  long  hill.  As  1  open  the  gate 
I   may  be  barked  at,  bu1    I  am  reassured  to  sev  a  poodle  with 

,-,  coal  permanently  and  badly  waved.  I  closed  it  behind  me 
so  n,,.,!  the  more  regal  Pekinese  will  not  trot  through  majesti- 
cally, drawing  the  delicate  buff  plumes  on  his  feet  and  tail 
into  a  less  appropriate  milieu.    He  would  like  very  much  to 

Stretch   his   svcll    brevity   on    the  single   pile  of  stones   which 

markes  the  one-time  aspiration  towards  a  gate  post.  Because 
it  is  still  early  spring,  the  rose  hushes  are  only  guileless 
sprouts,  and  six  feel  of  hist  summer's  sunflower  grins  dryly 

€.,l   |1,(.  house.     1   leave  my  bag  indoors  and  go  into  the  fields. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  27 

which  arc  not  cultivated,  being  maintained  as  hunting  ground 
for  the  gentleman  cat  named  "Winnie". 

The  north  edge  of  the  pasture  is  lost  in  a  growth  of 
white  pine.  As  the  sun  strikes  obliquely  on  the  highest 
branches,  they  lose  color,  the  needles  glinting  like  sparkling 
facets  of  spun  glass.  The  houghs  press  down  and  in  upon 
the  path,  and  the  ground  is  resilient  under  foot.  I  walk  with- 
out noise,  slipping  a  little  on  the  needles,  and  leaving  no  im- 
print. There  are  late  red  checker  berries  and  bluets  no  taller 
than  the  moss.  The  quiet  odor  of  pine  lies  on  the  ground, 
but  above  the  stillness  I  hear  the  wind  moving  evenly  through 
the  trees.  The  influence  is  irresistible,  exciting,  and  those 
who  love  Pelham  recognize  beneath  the  movement  a  reserve 
which  is  a  startling  source  of  power  the  greater  for  its  un- 
foreseen tranquility. 

As  I  come  from  green  shadow  into  the  open  maple  woods 
on  the  far  side  of  the  pines,  I  am  increasingly  aware  of  an- 
other sound,  very  like  the  wind  but  deeper  toned  and  unvary- 
ing. It  is  the  brook.  Xot  very  wide,  never  more  than  ten  or 
twelve  feet,  its  course  is  rough  with  rocks,  just  inaccessible 
each  from  the  other.  A  large  one  in  midstream  is  within 
wading  distance,  and  I  often  lie  there  to  watch  the  water, 
tumbling  up  to  it,  part  and  slide  in  a  long  undulation  around 
the  sides,  smoothing  them  gently.  I  try  to  catch  a  little  as 
it  slips  resolutely  and  graciously  under  my  hand.  So  I  have 
wished  on  summer  evenings  to  fasten  in  the  air  the  fragrances 
of  lavendar  stock  before  it  was  swept  away  on  the  first  night 
breeze  like  water  running  through  the  fingers.  The  sun 
glistens  in  a  bubble  and  then  plunges  deeper  reflecting  reds 
and  yellows  on  the  stones.  Where  in  the  fall  I  saw  a  crystal 
emptiness  flowing  over  pebbles,  in  the  spring  I  found  the 
warm  amber  brown  of  earth  and  old  leaves  held  melted  in 
the  water.  Brown  is  a  still  color,  without  motion,  but  merged 
with  a  quick  red  it  turns  to  bronze,  a  color  not  impassive,  not 
coldlv  rigid,  and  vet  not  wholly  changing. 

Not  all  people  go  to  Pelham.  One  must  bring  an  aware- 
ness of  what  is  lovely  and  an  eagerness  for  what  may  be 
beautiful.  The  little  things  become  the  great  things, — the 
pine  needles  and  the  odor  of  the  woods,  the  sound  and  color 
of  the  brook.  I  do  not  think  that  I  should  find  the  same 
completeness  elsewhere.  The  harmonious  perfection  de- 
mands an  increase  of  sensitivity,  a  fullness  of  appreciation. 


28  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

Whether  from  the  brook  itself  or  from  the  wind  flowing 
through  the  branches  of  the  pines,  there  is  everywhere  the 
sound  of  running  water,  tranquil  and  yet  strengthening.  1 
should  be  content  to  stay  at  Pelham.  It  draws  from  me  a 
"quickened  multiplied  consciousness",  a  sense  of  repose  most 
splendidly  creative. 


POEM 
Rachel  Grant 

These  trees  have  drunk  the  sun. 

Fire-filled,  their  strength 

Breaks  into  clarion  color  on  the  hills. 

Maples,  with  a  strange  new  energy, 

Burn  in  the  wind 

And  sumac  kindles  to  a  darker  flame 

I  n  all  the  toreh-lit  wood 

Only  the  blanched  ferns  are  dim. 

Crushed  beneath  air,  they  break 

With  a  slight  sound  of  foam. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  29 


THE  PERSONAL  TOUCH 
V 1  rginia  Fa  k  EINGTO  X 


ill 


ISS  Baxter  prided  herself  on  the  interest  she  took  in  her 
students.  The  Seventh  Grade  was  her  family,  she  was 
wont  to  say,  and  the  proprietary  air  with  which  she 
addressed  each  eleven-to-thirteen  year  old  unit  of  it  hore  out 
her  assertion.  It  is  doubtful  however,  if  the  Seventh  Grade 
accepted  Miss  Baxter's  interest  in  quite  the  spirt  in  which  it 
was  meant.  In  fact,  there  was  a  rumor  that  outside  the 
white-washed  fence  which  inclosed  the  grammar  school  play- 
ground, she  was  known  to  the  ribald  tongues  of  the  pupils  as 
"The  Snoop." 

There  was  a  neat  card  file  on  the  oak  desk  which  faced 
the  roomful  of  thirty-three  scrub-mopped  or  sleek  pigtailed 
heads.  "Taking  'Tendence"  was  the  first  process  of  the  day. 
On  this  particular  Monday  morning  the  October  sunlight 
sifting  in  broad  beams  through  the  yellow  shades  found  only 
one  member  of  the  Seventh  Grade  absent  from  school.  Thirty- 
two  pairs  of  already  grimy  hands  were  folded  on  straight 
desks,  thirty-two  mouths  were  pursed  in  adolescent  self- 
righteousness,  thirty-two  pairs  of  eyes — assorted  brown,  blue, 
tan,  and  green — were  fixed  on  Teacher's  face  as  she  looked 
up  from  the  pile  of  neatly  lettered  white  cards. 

"Can  anyone  tell  me  where  James  Bendetti  is  today?" 
asked  Miss  Baxter.  Her  pale  eyes  fairly  oozed  sympathetic 
interest  behind  the  hard  glint  of  her  rimless  spectacles. 
Jimmy  was  not  usually  absent  from  class  although  there  were 
those  who  thought  it  might  be  better  for  the  Seventh  Grade 
if  he  were.  Perhaps  he  was  ill  today.  That  would  give  Miss 
Baxter  an  opportunity  to  see  what  his  home  conditions  were 
like — she  could  take  him  a  little  note  of  condolence  from  the 
class.  She  loved  seeing  what  home  conditions  were  like  al- 
most as  much  as  she  loved  having  her  "little  family"  write 
notes  of  condolence  of  those  stricken  in  health.  Besides  be- 
ing good  practice  in  English  composition  it  developed  their 
sense  of  civic  responsibility. 


80  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

A  dozen  hands  had  sprung  up  in  answer  to  her  query 
as  to  Jimmy's  whereabouts.  There  was  always  a  delightful 
alacrity  about  the  way  the  Seventh  Grade  offered  inform- 
ation, and  on  this  occasion  it  was  more  marked  than  usual. 

"Yes,  Sophie.  Do  you  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
James  this  beautiful  autumn  morning?",  Miss  Baxter  ad- 
dressed her  favorite  pupil,  the  daughter  of  the  local  hanker. 

"Yes'm.  He's  in  jail."  Sophie  was  an  artist  she  did 
not  spoil  the  effect  of  her  announcement  by  attempting  to 
add  details.  Her  round  eyes  gazed  with  great  enjoyment  at 
her  teacher's  evident  distress.  It  wasn't  every  day  that  she 
had  a  chance  to  throw  a  bombshell  like  this— Bud  Fitch  had 
just  been  aching  to  be  the  one  to  tell  about  it.  Sophie  twisted 
in  her  seat  and  struck  the  curly  end  of  a  malicious  pink  tongue 
in  Bud's  general  direction. 

"\\  ny.  now,  how  very  terrible.  And  what  was  the  cause 
of  this  catastrophe?"  Miss  Baxter  was  beginning  to  recover 
from  the  shock  and  to  realize  the  possibilities  of  the  situation. 
She  could  see  herself  in  her  best  black  coat  holding  the  hand 
of  an  unjustly  incarcerated  .James,  and  reading  the  prisoners 
the  Christian  Science  .Monitor. 

"Aw.  he  tried  to  knife  a  guy  what  he  found  kissing  his 
sister. "  Henry  Graham  volunteered  this  information  with  a 
scornful  twist  of  his  thin  month.  Nobody'd  ever  so  makin' 
love  to  his  sister,  that  was  sure.  She  was  the  homelist  girl  in 
Delaware  county,  said  the  town. 

Miss  Baxter  felt  the  vvd  Hood  which  had  surged  up  into 
her  virginal  grey  face  subside.  "That  will  do,  Henry.  \Yc 
will  begin  on  page  forty-three  of  the  arithmetic  book,  if  yon 

case. 

School  didn't  go  very  well  that  day.  There  was  too  much 
whispering  behind  the  the  large  drab  covers  of  Dickinson's 
Geography  of  the  World;  too  many  triangular  notes  tossed 
quickly  from  row  to  row;  too  restless  an  atmosphere  through- 
out the  bare  walled  room.  The  case  of  James  Bcndetti  was 
having  a  bad  effect  on  the  Seventh  Grade. 

After  dismissal  thai  afternoon.  Principal  Arthur  called 
.Miss  Baxter  into  his  office.  He  was  a  pompous  man  with 
grey  hair  and  an  astoundingly  small  nose  which  was  likely  to 
wiggle  a  bit  at  the  end  in  limes  of  menial  stress.  It  was 
wiggling  now. 

".Miss    Baxter.    I    daresay    von    have   heard    that    VOUnc 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  31 

James  Bendetti  has  been  put  in  prison.  A  very  sad  affair 
indeed.  It  seems  that  he  was  protecting  his  sister's  honor 
against  the  advances  of  a  ruffian  cousin  who  was  boarding 
with  them.  The  boy  seized  upon  a  kitchen  knife  which  hap- 
pened to  be  at  hand,  and,  it  is  believed,  wounded  this  Paulo 
quite  badly.  No  one  censures  James  very  severely — in  fact 
I  gather  that  he  is  something  of  a  hero  in  the  town.  At  any 
rate,  Miss  Baxter,  I  felt  sure  that  you  would  want  to  go  and 
see  him,  in  accordance  with  the  interest  which  you  take  in 
your  pupils." 

"Thank  you,  Professor  Arthur,  of  course  I  was  plan- 
ning to  do  that.  I  shall  try  to  make  James  feel  that,  while 
we  deplore  his  action,  we  do  not  feel  that  he  was  greatly  to 
blame." 

"Exactly,  Miss  Baxter.  You  have  a  wonderful  way 
with  children." 

"Well,  as  I  always  say,  Professor  Arthur,  they  are  just 
like  a  little  family  to  me."  Miss  Baxter's  uplifted  eyes  and 
coy  smile  puffed  out  the  principal's  chest.  He  had  long  been 
convinced  that  were  he  an  unmarried  man,  he  would  have  but 
to  say  the  word  and  Susan  Baxter  would  be  his.  Even  with 
his  dear  wife  and  four  daughters  in  existence,  this  thought 
gave  him  a  certain  satisfaction. 

At  precisely  five  o'clock  of  that  same  Monday,  Miss 
Baxter  in  her  best  black  coat  was  ushered  by  a  red  faced  and 
obsequious  jailer  into  the  small  cell  of  James  Bendetti..  The 
criminal  looked  absurdly  small,  sitting  hunched  up  on  the 
narrow  bed  with  his  skinny  knees  drawn  up  to  meet  his  chin. 
In  the  black  eyes  which  greeted  his  visitor  there  gleamed  a 
sullen  fear  that  somehow  was  not  quite  in  keeping  with  the 
righteously  mournful  expression  on  the  thin  dark  young  face. 

"Ah,  James,  I  am  very  sorry,  very  sorry  indeed,  to  find 
you  here.  We  missed  you  in  school  today."  She  had  decided 
not  to  take  too  serious  a  tone  with  him  at  first. — She  wras  sure 
that  James  was  a  nervous,  high-strung  lad.  She  spoke  of 
affairs  of  the  Seventh  Grade  for  some  time  to  put  him  at  his 
ease,  then  abruptly  she  asked  the  question  she  had  been  pon- 
dering. 

"James,  won't  you  tell  me  just  exactly  how  this  hap- 
pened? You  know  I  am  very  anxious  to  help  you  in  any  way 
I  can,  and  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  think  it  was  very  fine 
of  you  to  go  to  your  sister's  rescue,  although  of  course  what 


32  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

you  should  have  done  would  have  been  to  call  the  police." 
Miss  Baxter  was  vaguely  annoyed  to  feel  that  she  was  blush- 
ing again.  The  boy's  stare  was  curiously  malicious,  it  seemed 
to  her.  as  though  he  found  in  her  perfectly  natural  interest  in 
a  pupil,  some  evidence  of  a  morbid  curiosity. 

But  .Jimmy's  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  tears.  He  felt 
sweep  over  him  the  necessity  of  telling  some  one  the  truth, 
and  his  teacher  was  being  as  kind  as  she  could.  He  would 
tell  her,  let  them  punish  him. 

"It  was  this  way.  Miss  Baxter.  OF  Paulo,  this  here 
cousin  of  ours,  he  was  a  mean  one.  He'd  been  boardin'  with 
us  for  pret'  near  a  month,  and  never  would  give  none  of  us 
kids  a  penny  or  nothin',  and  was  always  kickin'  us  out  of  the 
way.  Well,  last  night,  my  dad  he  was  over  on  Guinea  Hill 
buying  some  whiskey.  My  dad  he  sells  more  whiskey  than 
anyone  else  in  Walltown." 

Miss  Baxter  drew  a  sharp  breath.  The  awful  pride  with 
which  the  boy  made  this  horrible  assertion!  His  home  con- 
ditions were  impossible,  evidently.  It  was  really  wonderful 
that  such  an  impulse  of  chivalry  as  must  have  actuated  him 
last  night  had  not  been  entirely  stamped  out  in  these  sordid 
surroundings. 

"Where  was  your  mother,  James?"  she  inquired,  to 
change  the  subject  from  an  undesirable  discussion  of  the 
merits  of  Mr.  Bendetti  as  a  vendor  of  whiskey. 

"Ma?  Aw,  she  ran  off'  with  a  Greek  that  sold  popcorn 
when  we  lived  in  Newark."  James'  tone  was  casual;  he  didn't 
remember  his  mother  much.  He  continued  in  a  tone  which 
grew  more  dramatic,  as  he  approached  the  climax  of  his  story. 

"Well,  I  was  comin'  back  from  the  poolroom  'bout  ten 
o'clock.  There  wasn't  any  light  in  the  house,  I  noticed, 
Ycpt  in  the  kitchen,  so  when  I  come  in,  I  went  out  there. 
Guess  what  I  seen." 

"Saw,  not  seen,  James."  Miss  Baxter  sought  refuge 
in  grammatical  correction.  Her  maidenly  mind  forbade  it- 
self to  indulge  in  any  such  wild  conjectures  as  her  pupil  ap- 
parent ly  expected.  I  Ie  waited  a  moment,  then  went  on,  since 
no  guesses  were  forthcoming. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  Right  there  in  front  of  me  on  the 
table  was  Paulo's  wallet.  And  it  was  all  stuffed  full  of  bills, 
'cause  he  gets  paid  twenty  dollars  every  Saturday  night  for 
workin'  on  the  road.  Jeeze,  Miss  Baxter.  I  couldn't  do  nothin' 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  33 

but  gawp  around  and  wonder  what  had  made  ol'  Paulo  leave 
it  there  where  us  kids  might  find  it.  It  was  pret'  dark  in  the 
kitchen  with  the  lamp  turned  down  real  low.  'Nen  all  of  a 
sudden  I  noticed  Paulo  and  my  sister  Roise  standin'  in  the 
pantry  kissin'  each  other.    They  didn't  see  me  at  all." 

Jimmie's  eyes  were  opaque  and  glowing  ellipses  in  his 
olive  face.  He  was  talking  faster  now,  and  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  his  startled  listener. 

"I  never  thought  he'd  turn  around.  I  grabbed  that 
wallet  faster'n  anything,  and  jus'  as  I  did  it,  he  did  turn 
aroun'  an'  saw  me.  I  was  too  scared  to  run — Jeeze,  I  was 
scared.  OF  Paulo,  he  grabs  me  by  the  throat.  'You  dirty 
little  thief!'  he  says,  '  I  will  kill  you  quick.'  So  I  grabbed  a 
knife  that  was  on  the  table  and  I  dug  it  into  Paulo  ver'  hard. 
It  went  squish!  and  he  fell  on  the  floor.  So  Rosie  and  me  we 
made  up  a  story  to  tell  to  the  p'lice  /cause  Rosie  don't  really 
like  Paulo,  just  the  money  he  gives  her,"  Jimmie  ended  with 
a  grunt  of  approval. 

Miss  Baxter  was  sitting  bolt  upright  in  her  chair.  Her 
horrified  brain  was  not  functioning  properly — it  refused  to 
take  in  the  meaning  of  sentences  she  felt  related  somehow  to 
another  world.  Jimmy,  who  had  been  carried  away  by  the 
relief  of  relating  events  as  they  had  actually  happened,  came 
down  to  earth  with  a  bump  as  he  saw  the  expression  on  his 
teacher's  face.  He  felt  suddenly  haunted.  Had  he  been 
crazy?  They  might  hang  him  for  knifing  Paulo,  if  they  did 
not  think  he'd  done  it  to  help  Rosie.  Jeeze,  he  never  should 
have  told  the  old  snoop  all  that ! 

"Miss  Baxter,  you  know  I'm  a  'nawful  story  teller,"  he 
said  wheedlingly.  "I  jus'  get  started  on  a  story  and  I  cant 
stop.  That  was  all  a  big  lie  what  I  just  told  you,  Teacher. 
I  jus'  made  it  up  while  I  was  sittin'  here  with  nothing  to  do. 
'Course  why  I  really  knifed  Paulo  was  to  perfect  Rosie's 
honor."  He  had  heard  Professor  Arthur  use  this  phase  that 
morning,  and  he  seized  upon  it  in  desperation  . 

Miss  Baxter's  brain  cleared  itself  slowly  of  the  thick 
mist  that  had  seemed  for  a  few  moments  to  penetrate  it.  No 
wonder  the  poor  boy  had  gone  almost  insane — a  terrible 
strain  just  to  sit  there  feeling  the  disgrace  of  being  in  jail. 
And  of  course  he  had  always  been  an  incorrigible  story  teller. 
She  remembered  the  tale  he  had  told  one  noon  to  scare  little 


34  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

Sophie  a  lurid  horrible  account  of  the  murder  of  an  old 
darkey  in  a  graveyard. 

"I  understand.  James.  Professor  Arthur  and  I  will  do 
all  we  can.  Meanwhile  if  1  were  you.  1  should  forget  the 
whole  affair  as  much  as  1  could.  You'd  better  cat  your  din- 
ner now,  and  get  a  good  night's  sleep."  and  Miss  Baxter  rose 
to  leave  as  the  /jailer  brought  in  Jimmy's  supper. 

As  she  walked  briskly  hack  to  her  boarding  place,  she 
iclt  a  glow  of  acknowledged  virtue.  It  wasn't  every  teacher 
who  would  have  sat  in  that  damp  cell  an  hour,  letting  an 
imaginative  pupil  tell  lengthy  and  morbid  tales  of  unreal 
happenings.  Well,  she  considered  it  part  of  her  work — this 
personal  interest  in  her  pupils. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  35 


BOOK     REVIEWS 


ORLANDO 
Virginia  Woolf  Harcourt,  Brace  and  Company,  1928 


Looking  at  Michelangelo's  Last  Judgment  one  need 
not  be  very  clever  to  realize  that  he  did  not  use  models  for 
these  struggling  and  heavily  falling  bodies.  They  are 
not  posed;  nobody  ever  took  their  orginals  and  pulled 
them  into  a  posture  which  could  be  held  by  living  flesh  for  a 
half  hour,  or  even  ten  minutes,  while  the  master  sketched. 
They  portray  movement — the  wincing,  the  reluctance  and  the 
leaden  plunge  of  despair.  How  could  they  be  posed?  Pretend 
for  a  moment  that  Michelangelo  equipped  himself  with  a 
models'  gymnasium,  hung  with  safety  nets  for  acrobatics ;  he 
sent  men  and  women  up  rope  ladders  to  fling  themselves  out 
into  the  air,  and  plunge,  and  be  caught ;  he  sat  watching  fall- 
ing bodies  all  day;  and  when  his  retina  seemed  etched  with 
naked  acrobats  he  painted  the  sight  out  again  for  the  Last 
Judgment,  Would  that  explain  it?  Look  then  at  the  Day 
on  the  tomb  of  Giuliano  de'  Medici;  a  figure  in  brief  pause, 
but  swelling  to  twist  into  action;  could  this  be  posed?  And 
could  his  sister  Night  be  found  among  the  models  of  Renais- 
sance Florence?  Those  faddists  who  measure  everything, 
put  tape-measures  on  Day,  and  then  went  looking  for  his 
equal  among  prize-fighters;  but  having  searched  very  thor- 
oughly they  reported:  no  human  being's  muscles  swell  as 
large  as  these  bands;  no  wrestler  can  reproduce  his  pose.  And 
that  is  just  the  answer  which  even  casual  and  inartistic  sight- 
seers make  before  any  of  Michelangelo's  frescoes  and  statues. 

From  the  same  kind  of  tape-measure  accuracy  coupled 
with  respect  for  authority  the  middling-intelligent  man  has 
come  to  accept  the  fact  that  great  art  refuses  to  be  true  to 
life.  (Grand  Opera  isn't  a  bit  like  us,  he  says;  a  symphony 
sounds  like  nothing  else  you  ever  heard;  and  I  suppose — since 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  37 

you  insist — that  a  book  is  just  the  same.  We  can't  expect  it 
to  imitate  life.)  Of  course  these  persons  prefer  imitation, 
since  they  can  understand  it  better;  or  a  greater  art,  like 
Shakespeare's,  in  which  they  mistake  their  recognition  of 
vague  old  feelings  transfigured  for  mere  accurate  imitation. 
Other  critics  see  the  truth;  that  art  should  create;  and  that 
a  character  in  a  book,  like  a  painting  or  a  piece  of  music,  has 
more  to  do  than  shadow  an  original.  For  truth  is  more  than 
actuality;  as  a  portrait  is  more  than  a  photograph,  and  a 
lover's  aria  more  than  the  phonographic  eaves-dropping  from 
the  same  type  in  a  Bronx  apartment  house  or  a  road  just 
back  of  Main  Street.  Reproduction  has  held  writers  earth- 
bound,  except  as  they  could  forget  individual  cases,  let  ex- 
periences enter  into  the  fluid  of  their  own  personality  to  be 
dissolved;  and  finally  produce  a  new  creature,  who  has  no 
nearer  relative  than  the  writer  himself;  a  creation  unbound 
by  memory,  who  will  live  completely  in  a  pattern  formed 
from  his  own  necessities  and  those  of  his  environment.  This 
process  Mrs.  Woolf  knows  well ;  she  has  repeatedly  given  us 
men  and  women  of  intense  individuality,  whose  days  are 
flavored  freshly,  being  neither  stale  nor  warmed  over ;  whose 
life  burns  brightly  within  the'  consciousness,  not  like  our  in- 
complete life,  but  like  the  life  we  might  lead  if  we  were  not 
dull-sleepy  most  of  our  days.  Shakespeare's  lines  have  this 
quality  of  realizing  the  potentialities  of  our  own  smaller  life. 
And  as  his  situations  brought  from  the  players  on  his  scene, 
Romeo,  Othello  or  Hamlet,  words  not  as  we  would  say  them 
but  as  we  might  hope  to  have  them  said,  so  Mrs.  Woolf  sur- 
prizes the  knowledge  lying  behind  our  consciousness,  com- 
pounding a  language  different  from  many  we  use,  being  a 
medium  apart.  This  rare  talent  for  new-born  forms  has 
set  all  her  work  apart,  before  Orlando. 

In  writing  Orlando  she  traveled  dangerous  ground.  The 
subject  would  have  been  easier,  and  less  complex,  to  a  young 
writer  who  had  not  yet  ventured  to  treat  life  itself,  stripped 
of  concrete  example.  Her  two  pieces  of  impudence  were,  first, 
to  pick  up  a  contemporary  and  drop  her  into  Sham  history- 
biography;  and  second,  to  write  his  biography  as  a  joke.  At 
once  she  flouted  holy  literary  aloofness,  (call  it  propriety, 
though  it  might  better  be  described  as  artistic  creation;) 
and  her  own  sincerity.  You  may  laugh  sincerely,  but  all  the 
parts  of  your  joke  will  be  grotesques.    With  some  shrewdness 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  39 

she  next  broadened  her  field  of  targets;  and  reversed  all  laws 
at  once,  biological  and  temporal  as  well  as  literary;  then  she 
picked  out  critics,  biographers,  all  writers;  and  mortal  man. 
and  herself,  to  tar  with  the  same  stick.  Especially  she 
amused  herself  with  the  sexes.  Thus,  while  she  was  making 
enemies,  she  included  most  of  mankind,  and  having  equalized 
the  mixture,  hurt  nobody;  jealousies  were  impossible;  her 
book  retained  a  singular  pureness  from  spite.  W.  S.  Gilbert 
worked  with  the  same  impartiality,  in  the  Savoy  Operas.  Sueh 
a  joke,  aimed  at  everybody,  ceases  almost  to  be  a  joke,  and 
becomes  an  attitude  of  mind;  so,  paradoxically,  Mrs.  Woolf 
seems  to  have  been  sincere.  Then,  the  central  theme  treated 
here  would  not  have  been  invented  at  all,  but  through  a  kind 
of  sincerity  of  interpretation.  After  all,  there  must  be  some 
reason  for  every  act  or  thought ;  in  a  simple  case,  we  put  an 
egg  on  to  boil  because  we  feel  hungry ;  more  complexely,  we 
give  a  friend  a  nick-name  because  something  about  her  sug- 
gests the  figure.  So  Mrs.  Woolf  describes  a  boy  born  under 
Elizabeth  over  three  centuries  ago;  he  does  not  grow  old  or 
die ;  after  a  century  or  more  he  turns  into  a  woman ;  and  we 
follow  her  vivid  career  till  the  twelfth  stroke  of  midnight 
sounds:  "The  twelfth  stroke  of  midnight,  Thursday,  the 
eleventh  of  October,  Nineteen  Hundred  and  Twenty-eight. " 
The  account  closes  here;  yet  Orlando  lives  on.  .  .  .Not  even 
Mrs.  Woolf" s  imagination  would  build  this  story  if  it  had 
not  been  given  an  initial  push  by  truth.  It  is  thus  that  she 
again  evades  censure  for  her  joke;  she  must  have  meant  a 
great  deal  of  it.  And,  actually,  what  started  this  train  in  her? 
With  characteristic  complexity  she  saw  in  the  original  woman 
more  than  a  solitary  individual ;  the  rich  old  blood  colored  her 
life  with  reminiscent  moods  and  acts;  growing  up  from  the 
home  of  her  ancestors,  she  was  compact  of  their  lordliness 
and  their  gypsy  adventuring;  their  imaginative  restlessness 
and  their  changeable  life.  She  was  a  woman  who  could  never 
stand  like  a  naked  Eve,  clipped  of  tradition,  looking  only  for- 
ward. Again,  her  masculine  mind,  and  perhaps  an  artifici- 
ality about  her  physical  identity  worked  upon  Mrs.  Woolf  for 
expression.  Finally  all  these  observations  amalgamated  into 
one  form;  the  woman  became  her  house;  she  came  fluently 
down  the  centuries,  undying.  Such  liberties  as  Mrs.  Woolf 
took  with  time  and  with  sexual  identity  gained  value  because 
Mrs.  Woolf  is  incapable  of  leaving  her  subject  alone;  she 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  41 

must  pour  herself  into  everything;  she  sees  with  whomever  she 
treats.  The  aesthetic  experince  of  living  with  Orlando 
through  five  ordinary  life-times  has  brough  her  beyond  the 
bounds  of  joking;  with  conviction  she  flouts  death;  she  allows 
humanity  to  slide  from  manhood  to  womanhood,  changing 
manners  as  clothes  change  with  time,  and  proprieties  with 
climate;  quite  constant  underneath  all.  The  question  of  un- 
iversality is  not  forced;  we  should  not  believe  Orlando  to  be 
like  everybody  else.  The  laughing  mood  covers  all  these 
slurred  edges;  time  is  not  serious;  sex  is  not  serious;  literary 
interests  are  more  important,  but  literary  people,  how  despic- 
able !  Orlando  is  not  serious ;  that  is  why  he  never  kills  him- 
self;  he  has  only  a  bright  interest,  pliancy  and  activity.  The 
change  from  manhood  to  womanhood  is  drawn  broader,  much 
broader,  than  Mrs.  Woolf  has  drawn  before ;  the  ceremony  of 
the  Three  Sisters,  Purity,  Chastity  and  Modesty,  moves  with 
a  ludicrous,  thumping  dance  to  its  climax.  Suddenly  we  see 
the  authoress  turning  Elizabethan  herself,  to  jerk  her  original 
somewhat  coarsely  in  the  ribs.  She  does  not  work  so  grotes- 
quely again,  until,  perhaps,  the  theme  of  sexual  change  re- 
turns, and  the  Archduchess  Harriet  becomes  a  man;  while 
still  later  Orlando's  lover  Shelmerdine  plays  back  and  forth 
across  the  dividing  line  with  her  as  if  they  were  dancing  to- 
gether to  a  tune  something  like  this:  "  'Are  you  sure  you're 
not  a  woman?'  'Are  37ou  really  not  a  man?'  '  Truly  here  the 
story  avoids  the  bounds  of  biography,  or  novel,  or  even  farce ; 
and  it  becomes  a  written  dance,  like  a  violent  puppet-dance 
at  first;  then  more  human;  and  then  increasingly  graceful, 
less  jerky,  until  we  are  caught  in  its  rhythm  and  follow  per- 
force to  Mrs.  Woolf's  premise,  which  in  the  immediate  case 
turns  Orlando  into  a  genuine  woman  for  us ;  Avhile  secondarily 
it  wipes  out  the  dividing  line  between  the  characters  of  the 
sexes.  If  that  broad  comedy  stings  us  unpleasantly  in  the 
scene  of  climax,  it  may  be  remembered  finally  as  an  appro- 
priate device  to  the  form  of  the  book. 

If,  then,  Mrs.  Woolf  trifled  with  truth  and  drew  out  a 
greater  truth,  what  happened  to  her  character,  which  alone 
in  her  book  is  drawn  deliberately  from  actuality?  Has 
Orlando  been  posed?  Supposedly,  if  he  came  forth  from  his 
making  new-created,  he  would  have  been  divorced  from  his 
original,  and  the  purpose  of  the  book  would  have  lost.  Or 
if  he  was  indeed  the  ape  made  to  caper  after  his  mistress,  ever 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  43 

so  gracefully,  he  would  not,  by  the  standards  of  so  many 
critics,  remain  a  fine  creation.  I  believe  that  the  answer  must 
be  sought  in  the  quality  of  Mrs.  Woolf's  art,  in  which  the 
world  is  dipped  to  change  its  very  substance.  Orlando  en- 
tered it  blocked  out  as  a  caricature,  and  left  it  carrying  Mrs. 
Woolf's  identity,  for  the  time;  walked  through  the  centuries 
with  eyes  through  which  she  watched  mankind,  amused;  acted 
physically  as  she  acts  intellectually;  broke  through  limiting 
actuality  as  she  chips  away  the  crust  from  a  flowing  imagina- 
tive life;  and  generally  dismaved  his  neighbors  by  refusing 
to  be  a  convent ion-poldder.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  was  the 
less  like  his  original  for  being  the  person  we  read.  I  mean 
that  Mrs.  Woolf  seems  incapable  of  sustained  insincerity  or 
sustained  imitation ;  she  cannot  shut  herself  out  of  her  people ; 
and  when  she  has  flowed  in,  she  becomes  like  those  indepen- 
dent people,  only  intensifid,  heated,  and  individual  in  the  tight 
packing  of  the  character.  Orlando  will  be  considered  no  less 
than  the  greatest  of  her  creations. 

A.  L.  B. 


REGINALD  AND  REGINALD  IX  RUSSIA 

Saki  (H.  H.  Munro)        Xew  York:  The  Viking  Press,  1928 

If  it  were  possible  for  a  butterfly — a  little  butterfly,  but 
beautiful — to  be  entombed  in  a  bit  of  ice,  through  which 
its  delicate  lines  would  seem  more  distinct,  more  perma- 
nent, and  somehow  unapproachable,  it  might  recall  Saki. 
The  figure  may  be  fantastic,  but  even  that  belongs  to  him.  He 
is  at  the  same  time  so  inexplicably  impalpable  and  yet  so  inex- 
plicably hard.  Flight  arrested;  and  the  arrest  miraculously 
translated  in  to  cold  tangibility. 

The  work  of  man  who  was  killed  in  the  war  has  an  advan- 
tage all  its  own:  it  makes  an  appeal,  irrelevant  to  the  content, 
because  of  a  universal  pity  or  sympathy  or  admiration  for  the 
author,  even  after  some  lapse  of  time.  Sometimes  the  appeal 
blinds,  appreciation  becomes  an  expression  of  charity.  Saki 
himself,  with  his  characteristic  irreverence  of  death,  might 
have  laughed  at  all  this,  and  spoken  epigrammatically  on  the 
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The  Smith  College  Monthly  45 

patria  mori".  But  those  authors  who  appeal  only  to  charitable 
natures  do  not  live  long, — in  the  literary  sense;  post-war 
memory  is  too  short.  Post-war  appreciation,  however,  may 
be  permanent  and,  in  the  case  of  Saki,  accumulative,  since  he 
is  known  more  and  more  widely. 

His  strong  point  is  his  humor,  to  which  his  premature 
death  adds  a  note  of  irony,  which,  again,  he  himself  would 
have  appreciated.  Humor  is  here  too  general  a  term,  but  the 
cataloging  of  the  various  species  of  humor  is  so  eternally  de- 
batable! The  frequent  comparison  of  Saki  to  Wilde  seems 
the  best,  though  in  many  senses  the  two  are  very  different; 
Saki,  for  instance,  is  certainly  less  artificial,  more  spontan- 
eous. He  sees  everything,  even  the  tragic,  with  a  little  hum- 
orous twist,  but  he  succeeds  especially  in  his  character  obser- 
vation : 

"Before  we  had  time  to  recover  our  spirits,  we  were  in- 
dulged with  some  thought-reading  by  a  young  man,  whom 
one  knew  instinctively  had  a  good  mother  and  an  indifferent 
tailor  the  sort  of  young  man  who  talks  unflaggingly  through 
the  thickest  soup,  and  smooths  his  hair  dubiously  as  though 
he  thought  it  might  hit  back." 

— "the  girl,  for  instance,  (at  houseparties)  who  reads 
Meredith,  and  appears  at  meals  with  unnatural  punctuality 
in  a  frock  that's  made  at  home  and  repented  at  leisure." 

But  sometimes  he  descends  to  a  sort  of  stained  littleness: 

"The  cook  was  a  good  cook  as  cooks  go;  and  as  cooks  go 
she  went." 

Perhaps  he  redeems  himself,  however,  in  the  keenness  of 
his  general  observations: 

"Every  reformation  must  have  its  victims.  You  can't  ex- 
pect the  fatted  calf  to  share  the  enthusiasm  of  the  angels  over 
the  prodigal's  return." 

And  he  may  be  forgiven  much  for  his  ingenuity  and  the 
achievement  of  a  masterful  incongruity  in  such  breath-taking 
jumps  toward  the  romantic  as: 

"So  I  got  up  the  next  morning  at  early  dawn — I  know  it 
was  dawn,  because  there  were  lark-noises,  and  the  grass 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  left  out  all  night." 

He  tickles,  perhaps  he  goads  a  little,  he  tantalizes  just 
out  of  reach ;  he  is  a  literary  Puck. 

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The  Smith  College  Monthly  47 

bolized  in  his  medium,  Reginald,  a  very  young  man,  who 
believes  that  "To  have  reached  thirty  is  to  have  failed  in 
life",  but  a  very  worldly  person  who  kmnges  about  summing 
up  people  and  things  with  a  disrespectful  but  delightful  acid- 
ity. The  short  stories  in  Reginald  in  Russia  best  illustrate 
Saki's  simplicity;  Gabriel-Ernest  is  unforgetable  for  that 
very  reason.  The  first  collection,  Reginald,  more  sketches  than 
real  stories,  brings  out  a  complicated  cleverness  and,  like  all 
humorous  writing,  loses  in  volume  form  the  force  of  the 
earlier  intermittent  magazine  appearances.  But  whether 
his  mood  is  simplicity  or  sophistication  (and  he  jumps  from 
one  to  the  other  so  quickly!) ,  Saki's  manner  is  different — not 
different  in  a  glaring,  tabloid  sense,  but  different  in  a  youth- 
ful, reckless,  impertinent  sense. 

Saki  himself  pricks  so  many  balloons  that  it  would  be 
unfitting  to  give  a  well-blown  generalization  as  to  his  degree 
of  literary  excellence,  even  that  which  he  might  have  achieved 
had  he  lived;  His  work  has  an  incidental  element  that  may 
mean  an  incidental  fame,  though  the  present  popularity 
would  argue  otherwise. 

Ellen  Robinson  '29 


PENNAGAN  PLACE 

Eleanor  Chase  J.  H.  Sears  and  Co.  1928 

Pennagan  Place  is  a  'first  novel'.  Reading  it  is  like  open- 
ing a  window  in  a  stale  room.  Unconsciously  it  throws  a  re- 
vealing light  on  the  sentimentalism,  the  silly  self-conscious 
cynicism,  the  pseudo-cleverness  that  has  invaded  present  day 
literature.  The  clear  wind  of  it  blows  their  insipid  flatness 
into  the  daylight.  We  cannot  but  be  pleased  to  find  a  book 
whose  natural  charm  and  dignity  is  not  marred  by  that  lab- 
ored artificiality  that  is  so  much  a  part  of  the  modern  novel. 

The  Pennagans  live  in  the  Middle  West,  three  genera- 
tions of  them,  over  by  the  ruthless  old  patriarch  Giles.  One 
cannot  described  them,  the  Pennagans,  living  proudly  and 
contemptuously  in  the  isolation  of  their  home,  because  the 
author  herself  has  not  described  them — she  has  created  them. 
They  are  living  people,  everyone  of  them — Christopher, 
Nickodemus,  Benjamin  and  Curtis  and  Donna  and  little 
Webby;  most  of  all  Giles — 'magnificent,  terrible  old  man.' 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  49 

As  characters  they  are  entirely  consistent  throughout  the 
book.  And  Miss  Chase  lets  them  live  their  lives  in  their  own 
wilful  way.  She  lets  them  wander  in  and  out  of  the  story  as 
they  please,  drinking  and  laughing,  quarreling  and  calling 
for  more  whiskey.  This  book  is  vital,  amazingly  vital  and 
amazingly  real — Lisa's  port,  Webby's  bread  flower,  Gile's 
remarks,  so  wonderfully  obscene  and  cruel  and  amusing.  All 
of  them  become  living  realities. 

It  is  impossible  to  understand  just  how  Miss  Chase  has 
achieved  this  result.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  partly  due 
to  a  quality  of  effortlessness.  There  is  nothing  forced,  noth- 
ing labored  throughout  the  whole.  Almost  unconsciously  she 
has  put  her  vitality  and  her  own  humor  into  the  book.  Because 
she  knew  the  Pennagans  intimately,  we  also  can  know  them. 
Because  she  loved  them  and  laughed  at  them,  we  love  them 
and  laugh  at  them  with  her.  And  it  seems  to  me,  also,that 
there  is  a  certain  basic  conception  in  the  book  which  gives  it 
much  of  its  power.  This  is  the  concept  that  sincerity  and 
loyalty  are  the  fundamental  issues  of  life,  before  which  all 
conventional  moral  codes  are  subordinated.  Curtis  and 
Donna  stand  at  the  opposite  poles  in  this.  Giles  himself  is 
an  appaling  old  sinner,  an  amazing  liar,  yet  he  is  loyal  and 
wholly  sincere.  You  will  find  almost  all  the  sins  in  the 
Pennagan  family,  but  only  Donna  is  disloyal.  This  subtle 
recognition  of  sincerity,  even  though  it  is  never  mentioned, 
gives  to  the  book  the  possession  of  truth,  a  direct,  creative 
force,  vitalzing  the  whole. 

And  so  we  will  always  carry  our  memories  of  it — the 
autumn  wind,  Lisa,  in  a  blown  frock,  greeting  Giles  and  Min 
and  the  stage  coach,  Curtis  in  her  yellow  dress,  Giles  calling 
for  champagne  to  celebrate  Min's  return,  Nick  whooping 
back  to  his  family  and  tearing  off  again — and  through  it  all  a 
freedom  of  thought  and  a  freedom  of  creation  that  has  at- 
tained much.  Anne  Homer  '29 


THE  ISLAND  WITHIN 

Ludwig  Lewisohn  Harpers  1928 

Can  our  individualistic  and  introspective  age  produce  an 
epic?  Can  a  modern  author  transcend  himself  and  his  little 
materialistic  world  to  the  epic  scope  with  its  time  feeling  and 
heroic  breadth? 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  51 

That  Ludwig  Lewisohn's  The  Island  Within  is  intended 
as  an  epic  is  evident,  both  from  the  author's  preface,  and  from 
its  subject  matter.  Here  is  presented  the  story  of  a  Jewish 
family  in  its  wandering  from  Russia  where  its  prestige  had 
been  established,  to  Germany  where  much  of  its  individuality 
is  swamped,  and  finally  to  New  York  City  where  the  vestige 
of  its  racial  consciousness  balks  at  assimilation. 

But  Lewisohn's  conception  of  generation  succeeding 
generation  is  dramatic  rather  than  epic  or  panoramic.  Tie 
portrays  only  the  crises  in  the  lives  of  his  successive  characters, 
not  the  even  tenor  of  their  living  or  their  more  universal 
emotions  which  bind  one  age  to  another.  To  him,  the  in- 
dividual is  too  murningly  important  to  be  subordinated  to  the 
time  chain,  to  the  struggle  of  heridity  and  environment.  On 
the  contrary,  the  epic  writer  must  survey  the  whole  sea  of 
time,  not  the  crest  or  valley  of  a  single  wave. 

The  epic,  furthermore,  cannot  regard  all  individuals  as 
important  in  themselves,  as  does  Lewisohn.  For  it  works 
with  the  dream-stuff,  the  ideals  of  a  people,  and  with  char- 
acters superlative  in  greatness,  goodness,  or  even  in  wicked- 
ness. The  Island  Within  lacks,  consequently,  the  epic  unity, 
usually  obtained  through  one  grandly  dominating  figure. 
Only  the  epic  unity  of  strong  racial  feeling  is  here  present. 

Although  Mr.  Lewisohn  has  not  succeeded  in  his  de- 
clared intention,  nevertheless  he  has  created  a  novel  of  in- 
dubitable merit.  His  thorough  comprehension  of  the  psycho- 
logy of  the  Jew.  particularly  of  the  Jew  in  American,  enables 
him  to  create  characters  of  a  fiery  intensity  and  to  present 
problems  whose  depth  and  insolubility  yawn  like  dark  abysses 
before  the  cold  light  of  reason  which  the  author  attempts  to 
focus  upon  them.  Anthropology  and  sociology  may  deny 
the  existence  of  a  Jewish  racial  type,  but  Mr.  Lewisohn  re- 
cognizes and  poignantly  portrays  the  seemingly  inherent  race 
feeling,  and  its  fight  against  assimilation.  His  eye.  keen  for 
the  dramatic,  selects  situations  like  the  parental  reception  of 
the  two  exogamic  marriages  and  the  position  of  the  Jewish 
doctor  in  the  state  asylum,  and  makes  of  them  unforgetable 
pictures,  through  his  concrete  realism  and  his  minute  char- 
acterization. 

Without  a  doubt  this  book  is  more  carefully  written, 
more  reflectively  conceived,  than  Lewisohn's  other  novels. 
Lewisohn,    the   propagandist,    is    calmed   by   the    age    and 


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!  Leather    Coats  Plaid    Coats 

High   Shoes    for   Hiking 

PHOTOGRAPHS  LIVE  FOREVER 

i 


STUDIO 


SO,  WHY  NOT  HAVE  THE  BEST 
52    CENTER   ST. 


COMPLIMENTS 
OF 


i 

B.  &  R.  DRESS  CO,  Inc.    j 

I 

18  CENTER  ST.  | 

i 

NORTHAMPTON.    MASS. 


| 

Masonic  Street  Market        j 

i 

The  Quality  Meat  Store      j 

! 

TEL.    173  i 


18    MASONIC    ST. 


LA  SALLE 


& 


TAFT 


Boston  Fruit  Store 


The  Pioneer  Fruit  House  o) 
Northampton 

NATIONAL 
SHOE  REPAIRING 

18    PLEASANT   ST. 
John    M.ihi.i,    Prop. 

We  always  give  beal  service,  la-si 

nialeri.il    used    ami    all    wurk    jniar- 
anleed.       I'riees    Reasonable. 

(  >|a  n     frOtn     7    a  an.    In    H    li.iii. 


i 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  53 

breadth  of  the  grievance  to  which  he  is  giving  utterance.  He 
is  writing  the  modern  "epic"  of  his  own  people,  and  his  man- 
ner derives  loftiness  from  his  intent.  Unlike  his  earlier  and 
more  subjective  novels,  this  book  has  a  plan,  and  a  big  plan, 
and  its  parts  are  introduced  by  philosophic  generalizations, 
certainly  not  unsuccessful.  The  Island  Within  deserves  more 
consideration  than  we  should,  at  first,  think  warranted  to  the 
author  of  the  somewhat  sensational  Upstream  and  the  slip- 
shod Don  Juan. 

Ethel  Polacheck  '29 


BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 


Vol.  XXXVII  DECEMBER,   1928  No.   3 

EDITORIAL  BOARD 

Editor-in-chief,  Anne  Lloyd  Basinger,  1929 

Managing  Editor,  Ernestine  Gilbreth,  1929 

Book  Review  Editor,  Elizabeth  Botsford,  1929 

Katherine  S.  Bolman,  1929  Priscilla  S.  Fairchild,  1930 

Elizabeth  Wheeler,  1929  Elizabeth  Sha^v,  1930 

Rachel  Grant,  1929  Martha  H.  Wood,   1930 

Sallie  S.  Simons,  1930 

Art — Nancy  Wynne  Parker,  1930 

BUSINESS  STAFF 

Business  Manager,  Sylvia  Alberts,  1929 

Mary  Sayre,  1930  Anna  Dabney,   1930    Mary  Folsom,   1931 

Agnes  Lyall,   1930  Esther  Tow,   1931       Sarah   Pearson,   1931 

Advertising  Manager,  Gertrude  Cohen,   1929 

Assistant  Advertising  Manager,  Lilian  Supove,  1929 

Circulation  Manager,  Ruth  Rose,  1929 


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

October  to  June,  inclusive.    Terms  $2.00  a  year.     Single  copies  25c. 

Subscriptions  may  be  sent  to  Sylvia  Alberts,  12  Fruit  Street,  Northampton. 

Advertising  Manager,  Gertrude  Cohen,  Capen  House 

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

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

Metcalf  Printing  $  Publishing  Company,  Northampton,  Mass. 

"Accepted  for  mailing  at  special  rate  of  postage  provided  for  in  Section  1203, 

Act  of  October  S,  1917.    Authorized  October  81,  191S.'" 


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. 


DON'T  BE  THROWN  ABOUT! 

DON'T  TAKE  A  CHANCE 
WITH  CARELESS  DRIVING! 

|  BE  SURE 

OF  YOUR  SERVICE 

I   and  that  you  arc  going  to  gel  prompt  service,  courtesy  and 

efficiency. 


Nine-Six 


HAS  SERVED  YOU  FOR  YEARS. 


Phone  96 

Taxi 

AM)  NOTE  TIIK  DIFFERENCE" 


CONTENTS 


Cover  Design 

"How  Many  Mn.es  to  Babylon?" 

The  Fatal  Journey 

Inheritance 

Thirteen 

One  Afternoon 

Chopping  Wood 

Book  Reviews: 

The  Hamlet  of  A.  MacLeish 

Lily  Christine 

The  Father 

"A  Rover  I  Would  Be" 


Nancy    Wynne  Parker,  1930 

Pris  cilia  Fair  child,   1930  5 

Elizabeth  Botsford,  1929  S 

Sallie  S.  Simons,   1930  20 

Ernestine  Gilbreth,  1929  21 

Emilie  Heilpin,  1931  25 

Elizabeth  Shaw,  1930  29 


35 
45 
47 
51 


The  Monthly 

takes  pleasure  in  annoucing 

that  Mrs.  Curtiss 

has  been  made  advisor  lo  the  board. 


^AT  THE  MASQUERADE 

LADY  CYNTHIA Milord,  you're  a  perfect  Chesterfield... 

LORD  CHESTERFIELD Milady,  every  Chesterfield  is  perfect! 


Chesterfield  cigarettes  are  mild  .  .  .  not 
strong  or  harsh.  Chesterfield  cigarettes  have 
character  .  .  .  they  are  not  insipid  or  tasteless. 

The  tobaccos  in  Chesterfield  cigarettes  are 


blended  and  cross-blended  in  a  different  way 
from  other  cigarettes  and  the  blend  can  'tin  copied. 
They  are  MILD  .   .   .  yes,  mild  enough  for 
anybody  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  .  they  SATISFY. 


Lfccrrr  &  Myeju  To»acco  Ca 


Smith  College 
Monthly 


"HOW  MANY  MILES  TO  BABYLON?" 

Priscilla  S.  Fairchild 


Ij^lHE  train  was  clicking  along  the  track  to  a  rhythm  syn- 
|vl/|  copated  by  grunts  and  squeaks  and  groans.  Back 
g§§a  over  mv  head  my  lifted  hand  touching  the  fuzzy  sticky 
plush,  and  higher  still  the  slick  metal  stippled  to  imitate 
wood.  I  realized  suddenly  where  I  was.  We  stopped,  and 
pushing  up  the  shade  I  saw  a  man's  face  and  hand  caught, 
transfixed  in  the  light  of  an  oil  lantern  that  modeled  the  con- 
tours, and  etched  in  sharp  relief  the  edges  of  his  features 
against  the  blackness.  Hoarse  cries  of  men's  voices,  the  hiss- 
ing of  steam,  and  ponderous  thumps  echoed  in  darkness  that 
was  like  the  concave,  hollowed  back-drop  of  a  theatre,  the 
setting  for  a  symbolical  mystery  play,  in  which  the  effects 
though  important  are  muted,  subordinate  to  the  drama  of 
the  central  spectacular  figure,  in  this  case  the  man  whose 
lifted  lantern  had  sharpened  and  defined  himself.  Chief, 
then,  among  the  confused  impressions  I  bore  as  the  train 
lurched  forwrard  again,  was  this  sight  of  an  unknown  man, 
who  by  some  trick  of  circumstance  had  become  the  central 
figure  in  a  play  whose  significance  I  could  never  understand, 
whose  lines  I  should  never  know,  however  passionate  the 
drama,  whose  end,  like  its  beginning,  would  be  no  less  a 
secret  to  me,  because  I  had  glimpsed  a  single  illuminated 
moment. 

The  train  was  rushing  on  again  with  a  rhythmic  clack- 
clack  against  the  rails,  swinging  on  their  hooks  my  flopping 
clothes,  those  extra-ordinary  ghosts  whose  life  and  colour 


6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

and  motion  is  only  borrowed  from  the  flesh  which  they  rover. 
Yet  now  in  their  loose  slackness  I  saw  a  certain  dangling 
reminiscence  of  myself,  as  a  sick  man  in  his  fever  detaches 
himself  from  his  body  and  looking  at  it  from  a  height  sees  it 
thin  and  empty  as  an  old  sack  and  yet   undeniably  his. 

Into  my  mind  made  vacant  by  the  speed,  the  noise  urged 
an  old  jingle. 

"I  low   many  miles  to  Babylon? 
Three-score  miles  and  ten. 
Can  1  get  there  by  candle-light? 
Yes.  and  hack  again." 

Drugged,  numb,  body  lulled  to  a  trance  by  the  swift  on- 
rush through  the  night,  my  mind  became  as  fleet,  and  spun 
off  through  incredible  distances. 

1  saw  all  the  intense  thin  youth  of  a  nation  riding  swift 
as  .March  wind,  bright  and  boisterous  as  March  sunlight, 
towards  an  unknown  city,  whose  brilliance  and  glamour  had 
spread  as  far  as  coloured  autumn  leaves  blown  down  the 
dusty  highways.  Eager  boys  with  hair  blown  back  like  a 
saint's  in  a  stained-glass  window,  reined  in  their  horses  at 
the  cross-roads  with  nervous  fingers,  and  leaned  out  of  the 
saddles  to  ask  breathlessly,  "How  many  miles  to  Babylon?" 

The  answer,  dry.  laconic,  bored,  of  a  man  who  had  seen 
so  many  rushing  headlong  for  the  city  of  high  places,  had 
stormed  there  himself,  dry-lipped  and  wide-eyed.  once.  was. 
"Three-score  miles  and  ten." 

"Can  I  get  there  by  candle-lighl  ?" 

Oh.  hurry,  hurry,  old  fool!   There  is  no  time  to  waste! 
We  must  he  in  Hahylon  by  candle-light,  when  the  music  be- 
gins, and  rustlingly,  languorously,  the  thin  blue  haze  of  even- 
ing thickens  in  pools  down  curving  streets.     To  Babylon— 
to  Babylon ! 

Slow,  ironically  mocking,  there  is  an  answer,  "Yes,  and 
hack  again." 

lie  came  back,  they  all  come  hack  from  Babylon,  and 
life  goes  on  as  it  was  before,  Leaving  a  dry  ashy  taste  now 
and  then,  and  there  is  the  desert  to  cross  before  you  gel  home. 
the  sandy,  metallic  desert  between  Babylon,  hoi  and  wild 
as  a  flame,  and  the  cool  streams  and  green  fields  of  home. 


I  had  dozed  the  thick  unnatural  sleep  engendered  by  an 
unaccustomed  hed  and  strange  surroundings,  and  with  all 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  7 

the  queer  sensations  accompanying  such  an  awakening,  I 
stirred  again  and  pushed  up  the  shade.     We  were  crossing 

the  desert;  and  between  the  sand-hills  and  dunes  of  distorted 
shapes,  pushed  around  by  a  careless  wind,  peered  curious 
mesas,  sand-eroded  to  figures  easily  interpreted  into  animal 
and  human  likenesses.  A  red  and  flattened  moon  was  set- 
ting. The  effect  was  as  artificial  and  theatrical  as  a  fiat  seen 
in  naked  electricity,  waiting  behind  the  scenes  for  the  next 
shift.  In  its  very  overwhelming  impressiveness,  the  appear- 
ance of  the  land  was  stupid,  too  crude,  too  obvious.  Tired 
and  disgusted,  I  tried  to  imagine  the  ranch  to  which  Ave  were 
going. 

Would  the  mountains  be  bronze-tipped  at  sunset,  like 
flaming  lance-heads,  purple-shadowed  at  dawn  in  their  secret 
hollows,  when  the  white  mist  curled  up  and  was  licked  away 
from  the  river,  as  the  sun  in  its  rising  drew  up  to  us  the  smell 
of  sage-brush  and  hot  dust?  Would  the  tremendous  high- 
piled  clouds,  so  different  from  those  in  the  east,  hang  mo- 
tionless overhead  until,  borne  lower  and  lower  by  their 
weight,  they  struck  the  flank  of  a  hill,  and  were  changed  mi- 
raculously to  an  army  of  gray  spearmen,  bearing  each  a  tilt- 
ed gray  spear,  and  sweeping  slowly  from  our  sight  each  series 
of  rises  until  they  overwhelmed  us  in  turn,  bounding  the  vis- 
ible world  to  a  narrow  radius,  moved  forward  with  us? 
Would  I  know  the  insane  love  of  terrific  heights  and  depths, 
thin  cold  air,  through  whose  transparency  hot  sunlight 
poured?  Would  there  be  new  sensations,  the  prelude  to 
which  I  had  already  faintly  experienced  this  night?  Drawn 
taut  with  a  string  of  expectancy,  woven  of  the  promise  of 
three  months'  .intimacy  with  strange  people  in  an  unknown 
place,  I  fell  asleep,  later,  as  the  thumping  wheels  pounded 
out,. 

"How7  many  miles  to  Babylon? 
Three-score  miles  and  ten. 
Can  I  get  there  by  candle-light? 
Yes,  and  back  again." 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


THE  FATAL  JOURNEY 
Elizabeth  Botsford 


IV^lHERE  had  been  a  time  when  the  world  went  only  as 
|V^|    far  as  the  end  of  the  street  where  the  heavy  trees  moved 

rv£Sl  together,  and  a  horse  and  wagon  disappeared  strangely 
as  though  they  had  fallen  into  emptiness.  It  had  been  a 
small  and  comfortable  world.  The  sun  rose  at  one  end  and 
set  at  the  other,  apparently  with  no  other  purpose  than  to 
wake  her  in  the  morning  and  to  send  her  to  bed  at  night.  No 
one  else  lived  in  the  world  but  her  mother  and  father  and 
sister,  the  neighbors  and  half  a  dozen  straying  inquisitive 
dogs.  Other  people  passed  as  shadows  along  the  street,  did 
not  trouble  her  and  left  no  trace  upon  her  eonsciousness  when 
they  had  gone.  She  had  been  completely  satisfied  with  her 
world,  with  its  soft  lawns,  dusty  baek  fences  and  strawberry 
patches,  with  its  empty  lot,  its  trees  and  the  row  of  eool 
dark  houses  whose  doors  stood  always  open  to  her.  Hut  even 
before  she  began,  daringly,  to  add  block  after  city  block  to 
her  private  world  by  timorous  exploration  and  thrilling  dis- 
covery;  even  before  she  recognized  the  blurred  memories  of 
woods  steeped  in  shadows  and  of  a  yellow  road  over  a  hill, 
not  as  dreams  but  as  realities, — the  western  end  of  the  street 
had  held  her  with  a  peculiar  fascination.  She  had  stood  on 
the  horse-block  many  times  wondering  what  happened  to  the 
crippled  postman  when  he  limped  past  the  last  house  that 
she  could  see.  over  the  world's  cd^v.  There  was  nothing 
beyond.  She  could  not  conceive  of  things  unseen  existing. 
Yet  the  next  morning  he  came  baek.  Casually,  too,  as 
though  to  step  over  the  end  of  things  and  return  were  noth- 
ing more  unusual  than  to  deliver  mail  at  her  front  door.  And 
the  sun.  every  night,  settled  down  softly  into  the  trees  and 
into  that  mysterious  distance,  drawing  after  it  its  slanting 
amber.  The  sun.  too.  came  back  in  the  morning  unchanged. 
There  was  an  inconsistency  in  her  world  which  puzzled  her 

vaguely.  She  had  thought,  holding  her  breath,  of  what  would 
become    of    her    if    she    walked    westward    until    the    street 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  9 

dropped  away  beneath  her  feet,  and  then  stepped  beyond. 

Before  she  had  quite  collected  the  courage  to  march 
away  from  her  familiar  yard  on  this  perilous  adventure,  she 
was  told  that  the  world  was  round,  twenty  four  thousand 
five  hundred  miles  in  circumference,  and  swarming  with 
people.  From  then  on  it  grew  daily  about  her,  it  never 
ceased.  It  stretched  out  of  her  grasp  proportionately  as  she 
learned  more  and  more  about  it.  It  reached  terrible  dimen- 
sions. She  was  never  just  as  happy  as  she  had  been  when  the 
world  was  only  ten  or  twelve  blocks  long,  with  so  few  in- 
habitants that  she  knew  them  all. 

There  was  always,  however,  the  road  west.  It  had  now, 
with  her  vast  knowledge  of  the  city  blocks,  the  miles,  even 
the  states  that  lay  far  along  it,  the  most  exciting  possibilities. 
She  imagined  it  running  out  over  the  bluffs  past  the  farms  and 
the  towns  that  she  knew  now,  across  Minnesota  which  was 
tan  on  the  school  map,  across  yellow  South  Dakota  into 
Montana.  A  long  road  curving  around  the  elbow  of  a  hill, 
dumping  into  an  empty  ravine  and  stretching  out  thin  and 
breathless  over  wind-scraped  prairies.  Always  following  the 
sun.  Xight  after  night  she  watched  the  sun  go  down  over 
this  first  mile  or  so  of  that  infinite  road,  and  it  seemed  to 
draw  her  westward  as  it  gathered  in  its  slow  oblique  light. 

She  began  to  learn  about  that  far  country,  that  it  was 
open  and  full  of  sunlight,  that  beyond  long  prairies  were 
mountains  called  the  Rockies  and  they  were  many  times 
larger  than  her  Minnesota  hills.  She  had  stared  at  the  bluffs 
across  the  river  and  had  tried  to  imagine  them  reared  up  to 
immense  heights.  It  was  impossible.  One  day  she  had  found 
a  picture  of  a  tall  sharp  crag  with  a  patch  of  snow  in  the 
hollow  of  its  shoulder  and  a  lake  at  its  feet  that  echoed  its 
jagged  height  in  a  windless  surface.  And  the  sudden  beauty 
had  made  her  cold.  She  had  hung  it  over  her  bed  where  she 
could  see  the  moon  upon  it  as  she  went  to  sleep,  and  where  the 
sun  lingered  over  it  in  the  morning.  It  found  a  deep  and 
secret  place  in  her  heart. 

With  an  insatiable  desire  she  began  to  amass  her  know- 
ledge of  this  western  land.  She  sat  for  hours  over  boldly 
covered  novels,  thick  histories  and  biographies;  and  when 
she  was  interrupted  she  came  back  hundreds  of  miles  and 
through  many  years  to  do  as  she  was  bid.  She  picked  up 
the  fragments  of  stories  that  men  let  fall  from  their  lips 


10  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

with  careless  tobacco  smoke,  hoarding  them  with  the  same 
indefatigable  eagerness  with  which  she  hoarded  pictures  of 
cattle,  cowboys,  horses  and  wild  game.  The  names  of 
pioneers  sang  in  her  cars,  and  their  gallant  figures  rode  her 

imagination,  hooted  and  spurred.  Dan'l  Boone,  Lewis  and 
Clarke,  Kit  Carson  and  Fremont,  Davy  Crockett  and  Buffalo 
Bill  strange  wayward  figures  whose  Homeric  deeds  left 
her  stirred  and  restless.  Perhaps  they  wakened  in  her  the 
blood  tradition  of  her  family  which,  on  one  hand,  had  brought 
her  fathers  people  from  the  comfortable  eastern  eoast  to 
the  middle  west  early  in  the-  nineteenth  century;  and.  on  the 
other,  had  sent  her  mother's  brother  to  the  fickle  climate  of 
.Montana  where  crops,  eat  tie  and  sheep  failed  one  after  an- 
other hut  the  ranchers  stayed,  half  enchanted  by  the  lonely 
inclement  country.  She  did  not  know  why  she  must  go  west. 
She  only  recognized  that  there  was  something  within  her 
clamouring  to  he  satisfied,  and  that  she  would  never  he  happy 
until  she  had  followed  the  beckoning  road  that  led  past  her 
own  door. 

It  was  more  than  romance  that  had  obsessed  her.  When- 
ever  she  had  looked  at  the  picture  over  her  bed,  silence  had 
fallen  around  her.  The  same  perfect  silence  that  she  knew 
too  well  from  the  river,  the  soundless  harmony  of  nature 
undisturbed  and  at  peace,  of  all  life  in  such  exquisite  and 
faultless  vibration  that  the  result  was  not  sound  hut  silence, 
deep,  mellow  and  precious.  She  had  been  too  much  alone  as 
a  child,  perhaps  ever  to  he  happy  with  many  people.  She 
half  resented  them  because  they  brought  noise  and  confusion, 
shattering  the  spell  which  had  fitted  her  into  the  pattern  of 
nature  so  that  she  was  conscious  of  herself  only  as  part  of  a 
summer  day.  made  of  its  heat  and  its  slow  sifting  motion, 
falling  through  sunlight  as  a  particle  of  dust,  with  that  de- 
finiteness  and  completeness  of  existence.  She  had  been  torn 
from  that  charm  to  he  brought  up  as  a  normal  child,  hut  the 
tal  I  (is  of  her  other  self  were  there  reaching  out  to  he  welded 
again  with  nature.  The  silence  of  those  remote  mountains 
whispered  promises  of  this  fulfillment.  (She  had  no  thought 
of  this  at   the  lime.  | 

Then,  suddenly,  she  was  fourteen.  And  at  fourteen  she 
wcnl  west,  even  beyond  Dakota  to  the  Rockies.  It  was  the 
culmination  of  years  of  an  insistent  desire,  hut  she  realized 

later    that    it    was    much    more    than    that.       It    was    the   most 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  11 

momentous  thing  in  her  life.  All  the  night  before  they  left, 
she  could  not  sleep  but  lay  awake  in  the  dark  trembling 
strangely,  with  some  dim  sense  that  an  emptiness  within  her 
would  soon  be  filled.  She  did  not  know  why  she  should  be 
so  affected.  There  were  still  uppermost  in  her  mind,  the 
cherished  romantic  conceptions  of  the  west.  She  did  not 
analyze  why  she  should  feel  physically  weak  with  impatience, 
and  sick  with  the  intensity  of  her  anticipation.  She  did  not 
guess  what  the  journey  would  mean,  how  much  she  would 
lose  of  contentment,  and  how  much  more  she  would  gain. 
She  finally  slept,  and  dreamed  of  riding  alone  in  a  high  still 
place. 

Afe  jfe  <fc  >fc  ik, 

Remembering  her  first  journey  west,  the  realization  of 
its  significance  had  followed  slowly  the  sense  impressions 
which  remained  in  her  mind  too  clear  for  peace,  even  years 
after.  The  full  value  and  fatality  grew  upon  her  as  time 
passed,  gathering  power  as  she  gathered  age,  and  heightening 
her  memories  until  they  filled  her  with  an  unbearable  ache. 
She  found  that  she  was  bound  unalterably  with  that  distant 
country  by  some  tie  that  she  could  never  fully  comprehend. 
Each  time  she  went  back  it  tightened  about  her.  She  knew 
now  that  she  would  never  be  free  from  it.  And  although  it 
seemed  only  yesterday  that  for  the  first  time  she  had  watched 
from  a  train  window  the  dusty  Dakota  towns  shrivel  out  of 
sight,  this  unvoiced  tenuous  sorrow  of  separation  from  the 
west  had  lain  for  an  incalculable  length  of  time  in  her  heart. 

She  had  been  fourteen,  that  first  unforgettable  time. 
For  her  in  that  unwise  carefree  period  of  her  life,  there  was 
glamour  in  the  rhythmic  whirr  of  train  wheels,  in  dining  cars 
and  long  green  folds  of  a  railroad  ticket.  And  she  was  in  a 
country  twice  enriched  for  her  because  of  the  years  she  had 
dreamed  of  it.  Montana — lingering  Spanish  syllables,  deep 
and  poignant  in  their  domination  over  her.  She  sat  on  the 
rear  platform  and  tried  to  look  both  ways  at  once.  They  had 
left  the  willow  green  banks  of  the  Milk  River,  the  cattle 
grazing  on  low  swells,  the  horses  knee  deep  in  water  holes, 
crowded  together  to  keep  off  flies  with  their  restless  tails.  A 
rider  along  a  sun-dried  road  waved  his  hat  to  her,  and  they 
left  him  behind  quickly,  riding  at  a  jog  trot  to  the  small 
metal  chatter  of  his  spurs.  The  country  rose  with  the  climac- 
tic grace  of  a  slowly  rising  wind.     The  green  hills  rolled  up 


1  2  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

to  wooded  foot-hills  which,  in  turn,  swept  upward  to  the  sky- 
line- abuptly.  Behind  the  sharp  fir  heights  was  a  pause  of 
misl The  train  climbed,  puffing. 

She  remembered,  even,  thai  they  had  eaten  an  early  sup- 
per that  day.  From  he'  dining  car  windows,  she'  had 
watched  the-  sun  prostrate  itself  reverently  in  a  dark-laven- 
der hank  of  clouds.  Then  some'  one'  said  with  a  strange  note* 
of  joy  in  his  voice  "Look,  the'  mountains."  And  the-  clouds 
were-  not  clouds  at  all.  They  began  to  take-  a  definite'  and 
massive  shape-,  moving  forward  out  of  a  remote  mist.  Snow- 
caps  appeared  with  relucani  majesty,  but  their  soft  brilli- 
ance shifted  like-  a  chamelon.  They  had.  with  all  their  hulk. 
a  fragility.  She-  half  expected  them  to  fade'  away  again  like 
a  mirage.  "The'  mountains"  another  person  repeated  with  a 
fading  inflection  of  awe.  So  the  weary  out-rider  of  a  wagon 
train  must  have'  murmured  to  himself  when  he  first  saw  them 
shaping  before  him  out  of  the'  haze',  quietly  opening  up  their 
deep  beauty  to  recompense  and  comfort  his  fatigue.  So  he 
must  have  whispered,  only  more-  gratefully,  she  thought,  be- 
fore he'  Sung  back  his  triumphant  shout  to  those-  who  fol- 
lowed, blind  with  travel.  "The  mountains".  .  .  .She  stared 
and  could  not  comprehend.  No  one  talked  now.  no  one-  read 
or  played  his  tired  game  of  cards.  All  sat  close  to  the  win- 
dows, eagerly.  The  mountains  had  east  a  religious  spell 
over  them  all.  The  sun  paused  to  lay  its  shining  sac-rific-c  on 
the-  high  spotless  alters  and  then,  suddenly,  was  gone.  The 
shadows  crowded  together  like'  tall  solemn  monks. 

The  train  crept  slowly,  abjectly,  over  forested  plateaus 
to  the  foot  of  the-  mountains.  She  could  feel  the  night  air 
reaching  timidly  into  (he  stuffy  cars.  The  darkness  came 
down  with  a  Sigh,  and  when  they  stopped  at  the'  station  the 
moon  was  up.  higher  and  clearer  than  she  had  ever  known  it 
before.     (The  memory  of  this  was  disturbingly  sharp  to  her, 

bringing  hack  the  same  physical  exultation.)  From  the1  mom- 
ent thai  she  had  stood  on  the'  wooden  platform  at  Glacier 
thai  night  years  ago,  she  was  never  again  the'  same'  person. 
She  had  stepped  into  some  ouc\  great  cool  arms.  The  dark- 
ness was  Hung  about  her  like-  a  crystalline  cloak,  and  the 
fragrancy  of  virgin  pines  freshened  by  snow  was  a  scarf  for 
her  throat.  In  the  immense  stillness  the  panting  engijie  and 
the  voices  «>f  men  were  lost,  they  were  as  pine'  needles  falling 
through  deep  shadows.     Before  her  the'  mountains  reared 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  13 

up  broad  shoulders  and  great  bare  heads.  Without  a  word 
they  greeted  her  generously.  Without  motion  they  took  her 
into  themselves. 

She  was   fourteen And  there   were  the  looming 

figures  of  Indians  with  beaded  shirts  and  tall  nodding 
feathers.  She  could  hear  the  soft  booming  toms-toms  stac- 
catoing  the  wailing  minor  of  Indian  voices,  and  spurs  trail 
ing  over  the  wooden  steps.  She  could  see  a  tall  hat  in  the 
starlight  or  the  metal  ornament  on  a  pair  of  chaps.  Beyond 
the  station  a  white  pony  glimmered  in  the  dark,  and  the 
splotch  of  color  on  another's  rump.  There  was  the  continu- 
ous melody  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  hard  road,  the  waver  of 
fires  in  between  the  shadowy  tepees  of  the  Indian  encamp- 
ment. Always  the  swift  clarity  of  the  air  filling  her  entire 
body.  Impressions  descended  upon  her  keenly,  etching 
themselves  forever  on  her  memory.  (Even  now,  recalling 
that  night,  they  returned  to  her,  bodily,  filling  her  with  an 
ache  of  loneliness.)  This  one  brief  draught  of  mountain 
night  alone  had  repaid  her  for  the  years  of  waiting. 

There  was  a  mountain  outside  her  window.  She  could 
not  sleep  for  watching  how  the  trees  grew  blackly  up  its 
steep  sides,  and  how  it  seemed  to  have  long  arms  reaching 
down  to  draw  her  into  their  embrace.  The  dark  wind  laid 
its  fingers  on  her  heart  and  quickened  a  fever  there.  She  did 
not  guess,  at  the  time,  that  she  would  never  again  be  free  of 
it.  But  outside  was  the  promise  of  all  she  wished  for  in 
adventure  and  beauty.  She  slept  finally  to  the  rough  mur- 
muring of  a  stream.  And  while  she  slept,  the  moonlight 
sliding  down  from  soundless  heights  to  her  bed,  bound  her 
to  the  mountains. 

So  she  entered  the  dominion  of  silence. 

Against  the  harmonious  succession  of  days  that  had 
followed  there  were  two  personalities  that  she  remembered 
with  unusual  clearness.  One  was  Jimmie,  a  cowboy  and 
their  guide.  You  would  not  have  noticed  him  without  the 
ten  gallon  hat  he  wore,  or  his  weather-scarred  chaps.  He 
was  small,  brown  and  quiet,  and  his  voice  had  a  soft  slowness 
as  though  he  talked  much  to  himself.  Astride  a  horse  he 
gained  the  dignity  of  height,  and  his  motion  in  the  saddle 
understood  the  rhythm  in  the  action  of  the  quick  gray  horse 
he  rode.     He  was  a  man  of  strange  accomplishments.     He 


14  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

knew  swift  whirling  tricks  with  the  rope  that  hung  at  his 
saddle  horn,  he  could  toss  horse  shoes  left-handed  and  heat 
her.  ruder  his  hand  and  spurs  the  most  "ornery"  horse 
forgot  to  buck,  and  yet  his  own  pony  came  like  a  dog  at  his 
whistle.  She  had  seen  him  roll  a  cigarette  and  light  it  with 
one  match  on  a  mountain  pass  where  a  horse  staggered 
against  the  wind,  lie  knew  weird  Hlackl'eet  legends  and 
old  trail  songs  that  had  no  beginning  nor  end.  She  could 
almost  hear  his  sturdy  nondescript  voice  and  see  him  riding 
before  her  through  the  pungent  brush  that  stood  as  high  as 
his  head. 

"Oh.  I  am  a  Texas  cow  hoy, 
Far  away  from  home, 
I  f  ever  I  get  hack  to  Texas 
I  never  more  will  roam. 

Montana  is  too  cold  for  me 

And  the  winters  are  too  long; 

Before  the  round-ups  do  hegin 

Our  money  is  all  gone." 
And  bending  over  his  pony's  neck  at  a  steep  scramble  over 
rock  ledges — 

"Work  in  Montana 

Is  six  months  in  the  year; 

When  all  your  hills  are  settled 

There  is  nothing  left  for  beer." 
High  in  the  windy  sunshine  above  the  timber  line— 

''Come  all  you  Texas  cowboys 

And  warning  take  from  me, 

And  do  not  go  to  .Montana 

To  spend  your  money  free. 

Hut  stay  at  home  in  Texas 

Where  work  lasts  the  year  around. 
And  you  will  never  catch  consumption 
By  sleeping  on  the  ground. " 

There  were  innumerable  verses,  and  many  other  songs  of 
equal  length.  1 1  is  memory  was  remarkable.  One  track  in 
the  mud  was  a  story  to  him,  and  he  could  spot  a  mountain 
goal  high  on  the  rocks  miles  away.  If  he  cursed  fluently 
when    the   horses   strayed    into    the    jack    pines   and    tangled 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  15 

them  selves  in  their  reins,  he  remembered  to  say  "ma'am" 
before  a  lady.  He  had  herded  eattle  for  the  biggest  ranch 
in  Texas,  and  had  broken  three  ribs  at  the  Pendleton  Round- 
up. If  she  had  seen  him  in  a  crowd,  she  would  not  have 
looked  at  him  twice.  But  she  still  saw  him  flapping  his  hat 
at  her  as  he  dead-headed  some  loose  horses  down  an  empty 
road,  swinging  to  the  light  trot  of  his  gray  pony  and  grin- 
ning goodby.  She  would  probably  never  meet  him  again, 
but  she  could  not  lose  him. 

With  Jimmie  she  associated  the  strawberry  roan,  be- 
cause Jimmie  had  led  him  up  one  morning  for  her  to  ride. 
"I've  named  him  the  'Gentleman'  "  he  said,  and  she  knew 
from  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  he  liked  he  roan, 
"because  he's  the  politest  horse  I've  handled  for  a  long  time.'' 
It  was  the  roan's  first  year  on  the  mountain  trails,  (the  brand 
was  fresh  and  deep  on  his  flank)  and  he  remembered  still 
the  prairies  and  the  freedom  of  his  youth.  A  flat  stretch 
lured  him  to  a  gallop,  and  there  wras  a  cock-sure  swagger  to 
his  gait  that  steep  switch-backs  had  not  worn  away.  He  had 
no  claim  to  beauty.  He  was  lean  and  raw-boned,  scrawny 
at  the  neck  and  shaggy  fetlocked;  but  he  was  lithe  like  a 
cougar,  and  as  precise  with  his  feet  as  a  pianist  is  with  his 
fingers.  His  coat  was  the  color  of  dusty  strawberries.  He 
loved  the  long  upward  pull  of  the  trail,  the  jagged  corners 
over  emptiness,  the  valley  floors  deep  in  grass  where  he  could 
roll  and  run,  and  the  buffeting  mountain  streams  where  a 
horse  had  to  fight  to  keep  his  footing.  He  had  a  pleasant 
way  of  flicking  back  an  ear  attentively  if  you  spoke  to  him. 
And  no  matter  how  long  the  day's  travel,  he  was  always 
ready  to  race  for  the  home  corral.  She  had  ridden  many 
horses  since,  but  she  did  not  forget  the  strawberry  roan. 

Strange — how  vividly  the  sense  impressions  came  back 
to  her,  more  clearly  than  the  memory  of  people  that  she  had 
met.  The  waking  up  the  first  morning  to  the  rattle  of  hoofs 
under  her  window,  the  impatient  gallop  of  a  horse  straining 
on  tight  reins ;  the  blanket  of  pine-cool  air  that  lay  over  her 
bed;  the  sure  thrilling  knoAvledge  of  the  day  that  was  be- 
fore her.  She  lived  through  that  day  again.  Xow  it  was 
symbolic  for  her. 

The  morning  had  been  hard  to  bear,  it  was  so  beautiful. 
They  found  the  dew  thick  upon  the  grass,  the  clear  chill  of 
night  hanging  reluctantly  in  the  shadows  and  the  mountains 


J  6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

sheering  up  from  their  feel  breathlessly.    Jimmie  waited  for 

them  patiently,  cocked  on  the  hitching  rail  with  dangling 
hooted  feet.  Half  a  dozen  ponies  waited  too.  each  tied  by 
the  reins  to  the  other's  saddle  horn.  The  packs  were  fastened 
behind  the  cantles,  the  stirrups  adjusted.  Then  the  horses 
fell  quietly  into  line  behind  Jimmie's  small  quick-moving 
gray,  and  they  jogged  out  past  the  corrals,  past  the  Indian 
encampment,  past  the  ranger's  shack  to  a  slow  swell  of  the 
mountain. 

They  climbed  gradually  through  blossoming  thickets 
and  meadows  of  daisies  and  lupine,  with  a  quiet  squeak  of 
saddle  leather  and  the  light  thudding  of  hoofs  on  the  springy 
trail.  The  wind  from  remote  ice  fields  cleared  the  last  wisps 
of  sleep  from  their  eyes.  Outlines  were  clean  and  hold  in 
the  morning,— the  abrupt  ridge  of  the  mountain,  the  jagged 
profile  of  a  pine  against  the  sky.  the  smooth  gray  curve  of  a 
boulder  and  the  petals  of  a  wild  rose  beside  the  trail.  It  was 
all  real  and  tangible,  all  comprehensible  to  her  in  those  early 
brilliant  hours. 

But  soon  conversation  trailed  away  like  a  morning  mist. 
They  lost  sight  of  the  hotel  roofs,  pushing  through  the  in- 
terlacing darkness  of  underbush  and  trees.  The  sunlight 
reached  them  in  oblique  smoky  shafts,  its  warmth  was  remote 
and  wavering.  They  were  immersed  in  delicate  forest  night. 
She  felt  a  change  creeping  over  her  as  though  the  shadows 
were  transforming  her.  She  could  not  remember  how  she 
had  rationalized  that  first  bewildering  sensation  of  re-encoun- 
tering silence.  Perhaps  she  was  a  ghost  wandering  dimly  in 
a  world  of  tapering  heights.  Perhaps  she  was  real  and  this 
was  only  the  passionate  imagery  of  desires  still  unrealized. 
perhaps  she  was  only  dreaming  that  she  was  here.  Or  else 
she  was  a  misfit,  too  concrete,  too  prosaic  for  this  place  where 
a  pine  needle  falling  was  a  single  note  in  some  immense 
melody  of  years.  And  it  was  only  this  that  within  her 
something  long  dormant  was  struggling  again  for  life,  thrust- 
ing aside  the  neat  barriers  which  society  had  set  up  against  it 
and  pouring  forth  into  the  slow  light  of  the  forest. 

They  rode  on  boldly. 

She  could  not  think  any  longer.  A  hundred  sensuous 
impressions  drowned  thought  and  SO  permeated  her  body 
that  always  she  could  recall  them  as  sharply,  as  physically 
.•is  she  had   first    experienced   them.      The  sweet    rankness  of 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  17 

dead  pine  needles,  of  ferns  and  mosses  in  blind  hollows,  of  a 
redolent  vine  crushed  under  a  horse's  hoof.  The  cool  wet 
smell  of  a  stream  reaching  her  even  before  the  sound  of  its 
water,  a  eold  splatter  on  her  face  as  the  horses  wallowed 
through  the  deep  of  the  ford.  She  felt  again  the  strong 
movement  of  the  roan  between  her  knees,  the  quick  sturdy 
action  of  head  and  haunches  as  he  elambered  up  a  steep 
turn.  The  sensation  of  being  earried  steadily  higher  and 
higher  into  sunlight  and  increasing  heat. 

Past  the  timber  line  the  loose  shale  glared  in  the  morn- 
ing, over-grown  in  dark  ragged  patches  with  jack  pines 
flattened  down  by  endless  winds.  Far  behind  them  the  hotel 
roofs  appeared  again,  and  the  thin  shining  line  of  the  rail- 
road. Eastward,  Montana  spead  out  like  a  relief  map,  the 
Bear  Paws  lost  in  a  pallid  blue  haze,  The  trail  led  along  the 
crest  of  the  mountain.  Here  the  hot  sunlight  was  brilliant 
and  hostile,  the  peaks  closed  in  menacingly.  For  a  terrible 
moment  she  felt  absolutely  alone,  penetrating  with  colossal 
nerve  an  Olympian  height.  There  had  been  nothing  in  her 
life  to  prepare  her  for  this  sudden  revelation  of  distance,  of 
tremendous  beauty.  She  had  been  taught  other  dimensions, 
other  values.  For  a  brief  space  of  time  she  wras  afraid.  The 
little  lessons  she  had  learned  could  not  explain  this  tall  wind- 
burned  peak,  or  the  blue  ranges  that  stood  before  her,  hold- 
ing tight  to  their  hearts  their  deep  emerald  valleys  and  snow- 
rimmed  lakes.  And  the  nameless  portion  of  her  which  under- 
stood, could  not  speak.  She  was  only  something  alien  in  a 
sacred  land,  violating  world-old  laws  of  beauty  and  silence. 

But  cheerfully  Jimmie  led  the  way  down  the  other  side, 
along  a  narrow  trail  where  the  shale  that  a  horse  kicked  over 
the  edge  fell  a  thousand  feet  down,  where  a  lake  at  the 
bottom  looked  like  a  silver  puddle.  He  even  sang  an  old 
cowboy  song,  and  the  impudent  smoke  from  his  cigarette 
veered  out  over  space.  Valleys  slid  away  beneath  them. 
They  edged  upland  meadows  partially  covered  with  ancient 
snow.     One  low  cloud  scuttled  before  them. 

Xoon  was  a  reality,  with  the  coffee  boiling  over  a  small 
fire,  and  the  earth's  strong  inn  under  oip'  head.  A  stunted 
pine  with  sagging  branches  made  a  tent  of  shade  and  fra- 
grance from  the  pressing  warmth  of  the  sun.  She  slept,  and 
when  she  awoke  the  mountains  had  made  peace  with  her  and 
had  taken  her  into  their  confidence.      Thev  offered   them- 


18  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

selves  to  her  as  a  girl  offers  herself  to  her  lover,  showing  her 

their  most  secret  beauties.  She  had  no  fear  now.  Some- 
how while  she  had  slept,  that  imprisoned  part  of  her  had 
escaped  completely  and  had  been  made  whole  again.  She 
was  no  longer  herself.  She  was  a  pull'  of  shadow  on  a  bald 
crag,  a  finger  of  sunlight  in  dense  pine  branches,  the  froth 
of  melted  snow  spilling  down  through  steep  grasses.  She 
was  one  with  the  shale  dust  in  high  places  that  knew  only 
sunlight.  She  was  one  with  the  shining  headed  loam  that 
an  old  tree  uprooted  when  it  fell.  She  had  been  born  when 
these-  were  born.  She  eould  not  die  while  they  remained.  .  .  . 
While  she  had  slept  she  had  regained  her  heritage. 

The  afternoon  passed  dimly,  in  a  golden  haze.  She  re- 
membered long  trails  twisting  downward,  the  soft  chill  that 
stretched  a  hand  up  to  her  compassionately  as  they  neared 
the  tree  line  again,  and  the  plunge  from  sunlight  into  shadow. 
There  were  vague  impressions  of  the  dappled  rump  of  a 
fawn  disappearing  into  a  thicket,  a  bear's  awkwardness  as  it 
lumbered  across  the  trail,  the  chatter  of  a  red  squirrel  on  a 
log.  magnified  in  the  silence.  The  constant  rush  of  a  water- 
fall, muffled  by  trees.  She  had  so  expanded  and  merged 
into  her  surroundings  that  she  filled  this  world,  knowing  it 
all.  part  of  its  perfection.  .  .She  existed  only  in  her  realization 

of    her    own    existence The    sunlight    shrank    until    it 

touched  only  the  tree  tops,  the  scarred  crags and  paused 

tremulously. 

The  horses  were  tired.  They  moved  slowly  and  patient- 
ly, but  once  on  the  thick  green  floor  of  the  valley  they  broke 
into  a  shuffling  trot.  A  deep  sapphire  lake  appeared  mir- 
aculously with  the  mountains  rearing  up  to  enormous  peaks 
around  it  like  tall  guards  standing  over  a  priceless  treasure4. 
A  lew  shacks  huddled  in  their  heavy  shadows.  Coolness 
bathed  her  face  and  throat.  Her  horse'  nickered  and  shook 
into  a  canter. 

The  night  came  down  with  an  infinite'  gracious  silence; 
fitting  into  every  crevice  and  hollow.  There  was  a  hush  as  if 
the  lake-  and  mountains  were'  waiting.  The1  stars  were'  bright 
points  of  expectancy.  Then  slowly  the'  moon  rose',  flushed 
and  full,  and  e-ame-  to  the  darkness.     'The'  water  washed  softly 

alone  the  rocky  beach,  a  fish  broke*  the'  surface  and  the'  nifihl 
flatly.  Prom  a  moon-lit  meadow  fell  a  slow  t*l ink-clink  as 
the  bell  man-  moved  in  her  grazing. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  19 

She  went  to  sleep  with  a  new  knowledge  of  peace. 

All  night  the  moon  wheeled  over  her,  holding  her  in  his 
magnetic  silver  gaze.  And  though  her  body  slept,  she 
watched  the  moon  lay  his  pale  hand  benificently  on  one  peak 
after  another,  and  withdrawing  it  tenderly,  leave  them  to  the 
still  blue  dawn  that  followed,  lifting  up  his  dark  train.  She 
saw  the  dew  pour  upward  into  the  grass  and  hang  quivering 
to  the  imperceptible  rhythm  of  the  earth.  She  knew  how 
the  mountains  drew  the  night  about  them,  loving  it,  and  then 
tossed  back  the  black  robes  splendidly  to  meet  the  day  that 
sidled  over  the  plains  to  fawn  upon  their  somber  majesty. 
And  how  the  sun  rushed  upon  them  with  long  golden  strides. 

The  days  passed,  and  the  weeks.  She  had  found  again 
the  happiness  of  a  child,  the  wise  joy  that  is  one's  birth  right. 
It  did  not  seem  that  this  could  end,  any  more  than  it  was 
possible  that  season  should  not  follow  season,  merging  and 
changing  but  continuing  endlessly,  faultlessly.  She  lived, 
breathing  deeply.  All  that  bound  her  in  the  fetters  that 
men  inflicted  upon  themselves,  she  recognized  dimly  and  ac- 
cepted as  inevitable;  but  for  herself,  she  was  free.  She  had 
lost  all  conception  of  time  and  circumstance.  She  was  com- 
pletely in  harmony  with  nature,  keen  to  its  beauty  and  to  its 
sanctity,  unconsciously  filled  with  its  eternity. 


V  > 


But  the  end  came,  like  a  blow  in  the  face.  And  when 
she  climbed  into  the  hot  train  again,  she  felt  that  she  was 
dying.  She  took  one  long  look  at  the  mountains.  They 
stood  as  she  had  seen  them  that  first  night,  with  their  arms 
open  wide.  The  cool  wind  was  seaching  for  her  throat,  the 
moonlight  was  waiting  for  her  shadow,  and  the  trails  resting 
for  the  slow  hoofs  of  her  horse.  And  she  would  not  be  with 
them  to  know  their  great  enchantment.  She  looked  deeply 
that  she  might  keep  the  memory  forever. 

The  train  swayed  downward  to  the  plains  and  the  night 
hid  the  mountains  from  her  straining  eyes.  She  was  gone 
before  she  knew  her  sorrow  for  a  reality.  She  has  left  the 
silent  altars  where  she  had  worshipped  in  tranquillity.  They 
were  for  other  eyes  now,  and  other  hearts.  They  were  for 
the  day  and  night  to  know  and  love.  She  would  be  forgotten 
as  a  passing  wind  is  forgotten  when  it  has  ceased  to  stir  the 
sharp  points  of  the  pines.     She  was  gone,  body  and  mind, 


20  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

all  of  her  thai  had  a  name,  back  to  the  intricacies  of  a  man- 
made  world.     Hut  something  remained,  something  that  had 

hern  set  free  into  the  golden  depths  of  a  mountain  noon.  This 
strange,  inexplicable  part  of  her  clung  to  the  heavy  grass  of 

valleys,  to  the  spray  from  an  impetuous  stream,  and  was  still 
alive  in  the  dripping  sunlight  of  the  day  and  in  the-  pause,  the 
kneeling  pause  of  the  night.  It  left  a  nameless  pain  where 
it  had  been,  close  to  her  heart.  She  guessed,  prophetically, 
that  the  pain  would  always  he  there,  that  she  had  reached  a 
perfect  happiness  which  she  would  not  find  elsewhere.  That 
wherever  she  went,  whatever  she  did.  these  memories  would 
follow  her  to  torment  her  with  their  (lawlessness.  She  would 
go  hack  to  the  river,  to  the  quiet  Minnesota  hills  and  they 
would  not  satisfy  her.  She  would  ride  empty  country  roads 
and  I'eel  only  the  contrast.  She  had  paid  an  enormous  price 
for  her  joy  and  her  religion.  It  had  been  a  fatal  journey 
from  which  she  returnd  forever  changed.  Hut  she  had  been 
elose  to  the  fundaments  and  the  truth  of  life.  She  had 
achieved  a  complete  harmony  of  existence.  The  experience 
and  the  memories  were  worth  the  sacrifice. 
She  knew'  all  this.     And  it  was  so. 


[NHERITANCE 

Sam, ik  S.  Simons 


I  have  a  chain  from  you. 

Of  red-gold,  four  times  linked 

II  lies  in  long  lluenl  eoils  in  my  hand. 
Light,  almost  withoul  substance; 

Hut   when  its  meshes.  Palling,  interwine, 
I  start  at  the  muted  sound  within  them, 

A  sound  as  of  Hat  brasses  struck  in  a  Burmese  temple 

Years  ago  w  hen  il  was  found. 

I  have  a  chain  from  you  whom  I  can  never  see. 

Hut  whom  I  know. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  21 


THIRTEEN 

Ernestine  Gilbreth 


F^ANE  slipped  on  her  pajamas  and  yawned  loudly.  She 
l^^l  was  half-aware  of  Josephine  already  in  bed  and  look- 
feff&q  ing  expectantly  toward  the  light.  Josephine  evidently 
would  be  in  no  mood  for  conversation. 

The  house  was  entirely  silent.  Margaret  the  younger 
sister,  had  gone  to  her  room  and  was  doubtless  undressed. 
Her  light  no  longer  sent  a  long  yellow  stream  down  the  hall 
rug.  There  was  no  sound,  not  even  the  faint  snoring  that 
usually  followed  one  of  her  "staying-up-nights". 

"Margaret  must  be  asleep."  Josephine  spoke  gently. 

"Perhaps,  but  I  doubt  it.  Anyhow  she  looked  very 
well  tonight,  didn't  she!  That  blue  dress  is  quite  good;  it 
hides  most  of  the  scrawniness.  Thirteen' s  such  a  grotesque 
age!"  Jane  hunched  her  knees  up  to  her  chin  and  stared 
thoughtfully  at  her  mules.  "Give  her  a  couple  of  years,  and 
a  lot  of  those  embryonic  hang-overs  should  disappear  com- 
pletely." 

"Awfully  strange  kid,"  Josephine's  voice  betrayed  a 
certain  pride.  "She  acts  years  older  than  we  do  and  seems 
to  have  such  a  good  time  doing  it." 

"She  thinks  she's  wiser,  at  any  rate.  It's  going  to  drive 
me  crazy  one  of  these  days.  One  teaspoon  of  contempt  added 
to  a  cup  of  severity  and  you  produce  the  adolescent  atrocity, 
vour  gro wing-girl-sage.  Some  day  I'm  just  going  to  kill 
her!" 

Josephine  was  trying  unsuccessfully  to  keep  her  eyes 
open.  "Listen,  I'm  awfully  tired  tonight.  But  I  tell  you 
this,  she's  much  more  interesting  than  we  ever  were;  she  has 
a  much  better  time  too.  There's  something  rather  magnificent 
about  her  intensity,  if  you  don't  mind." 

They  were  silent  for  a  minute,  both  aware  of  an  un- 
pleasant discordance,  of  the  barrier  that  a  discussion  of 
Margaret  was  sure  to  produce.  If  only  Josephine 
wouldn't  always  take  her  side,  defend  her.  Well,  one 
of    these    days    perhaps    she    would    understand,    perhaps 


•>•> 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


tonight,  any  time  now  Jane  began  to  look  mysterious,  im- 
mensely pleased  with  herself. 

From  downstairs  a  clock  sounded  eleven  dull  heats.  The 
vibrations  echoed  up  and  down  the  hall.  Silence  followed. 
.Jane  had  stiffened  and  was  holding  one  long  finger  to  her 
lips,     (flaring  with  pleasure,  she  waited  expectantly. 

Someone  had  begun  to  speak,  complaining  bitterly  in 
a  gruff  and  unpleasantly  nasal  voice.  The  sound  came  dir- 
ectly from  Margaret's  room,  from  the  vicinity  of  her  bed. 

Josephine  jumped  to  attention  and  began  a  frantic 
search  for  her  negligee.  But  Margaret's  voice  followed  re- 
assuringly. "But  my  dear,  you  must  realize  that  I'm  doing 
the  very  best  I  can.  Just  you  go  to  sleep  now  George,  and 
I'll  tend  to  it  in  the  morning." 

George  seemed  to  refuse  to  be  silent.  In  spite  of 
Margaret's  tearful  pleadings,  her  poor  "Hushes",  he  con- 
tinned  to  scold  and  criticize.  Josephine  listened,  her  eyebrows 
contracting  with  horror.    Margaret  and  a  man — that  child — 

Jane  had  ducked  into  her  pillow  and  was  laughing  in 
great  gulps  of  joy.  "George!  Isn't  that  the  sweetest  name? 
Vou  know,  really,  it's  just  my  favorite.  He's  Margaret's 
brain-child,  no  less,  and  exactly  three  nights  old.  She  gave 
birth  to  him  on  Saturday,  and  I've  been  chaperoning  them 
ever  since." 

Josephine  was  beginning  to  understand.  "The  little 
devil.  My  God,  how  does  she  ever  manage  that  perfectly 
fearful  voice?  It  sounds  like  a  radiator  dragged  around  the 
room,  clankety,  clank  clank.  Of  course  I'll  try  to  be  hospit- 
able to  him,  but  whv  couldn't  the  kid  have. thought  of  some- 
one more  attractive?" 

"A  brother-in-law  and  a  half,  if  yon  ask  me.  I  always 
did  hate  the  name  "George".  Say,  he  certainly  personifies 
the  overworked  bureau  of  complaints.  1  haven't  heard  him 
approve  of  one  single  thing  in  this  house.  Vou  should  have 
heard  him  crabbing  aboul  the  dessert  for  yesterday's  lunch, 
and  even  that  new  blue  evening  dress  of  mine.  As  for  his 
remarks  on  Mother  and  Dad  I  was  positively  shocked. 
really  I  was.  Ifs  not  Margaret's  fault,  you  understand;  she 
wears  herself  out  defending  everything  and  everybody.  I 
think  she's  a  bit  ashamed  of  him  already.  The  man's  simply 
outspoken  and  decidedly  bad-tempered.    As  for  his  voice— 

They    listened    a    minute,    grinning   with    amusement. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  23 

"Catch  that  one,  Jane/'  Josephine  was  softly  clapping  her 
hands.  "He  believes  that  Margaret  should  pack  up  and  leave 
home  this  very  night.  Nobody  around  here  appreciates 
her—" 

"He  does,  does  he?"  But  Margaret's  whimpering,  her 
desperate  pleading  seemed  to  submerge  everything  else. 
"But  my  dear,  you  don't  seem  to  understand.  They  don't 
mean  a  bit  of  it,  really  they  don't.    If  you  knew  them  as  I — " 

"The  poor  boob.  I'll  bet  he  wears  checked  suits  and  a 
derby."  Josephine  jerked  her  head  with  satisfaction. 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  he  wears,  "Jane's  temper  flared 
through  her  cheeks.  "The  point  is,  I'm  damn  sick  of  this  sort 
of  thing.  It's  not  the  first  time,  you  know.  I'm  just  ready 
to  wring  George's  neck,  and  Margaret's  too,  for  that  matter! 
Lord,  what  we've  been  through  lately!  You  remember  the 
religious  craze  certainly,  and  the  cross  she  used  to  hoist  up 
on  a  pole  every  single  morning.     It  was  funny  for  a  while." 

"But  the  best  was  Abbie.  Don't  you  remember — our 
little  colored  sister?  Margaret  was  perfectly  right  too.  She 
couldn't  have  her  in  the  house,  with  Mother  and  Dad  feeling 
as  strongly  as  they  did — 

Of  course  not.  Margaret  explained  that  very  carefully. 
But  she  did  collect  all  the  old  dresses  and  make  picnic  lunches. 
Why,  she  just  wore  herself  out.  It  was  a  "very-real-de- 
votion," shall  we  say?" 

"You  got  rid  of  Abbie  somehow,  didn't  you,  Jane?  I've 
forgotten,  but  it  was  very  clever.  I've  never  heard  her  men- 
tioned since." 

"No,  she  died,  I  believe,  after  one  of  the  picnic  lunches. 
But  the  lonely  place  has  now  been  filled  to  overflowing — " 

"By  one  royal  gripe  named — George." 

"Named  George!"  Jane  made  a  violent  face.  "And  I'm 
tired  of  him  too,  dead  tired.  You  haven't  been  kept  awake 
for  three  nights  running;  this  is  no  time  for  being  humane. 
Come  on,  action  is  what  I  crave.  I  won't  have  that  man 
around  here.    I  tell  you,  he  simply  infuriates  me." 

Josephine  was  calm.  "But  certainly  your  sense  of 
humor — No?  Well  then,  I  think  you're  acting  like  a  fool. 
After  all,  you  know,  we're  at  a  disadvantage,  overhearing— 
'loves  sweet  complaints'  and  ail-that  rot." 

"Overhearing,  nothing!"  Jane  was  almost  writhing. 
"You  know  verv  well  the  kid's  trying  to  be  subtle.  Whv,  she 


24  ...  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

wanted  us  to  listen.  Wasn't  that  cute?  No  it  was  not!  Too 
darned  obvious.    1  won't  stand  it  either." 

Josephine  had  become  bored.  "Well,  just  remember 
she's  only  thirteen  and  probably  having  a  hell  of  a  good  time. 
She'll  get  tired  of  the  whole  thing  pretty  soon  and  chuck 
George  out.  Turn  off  that  light  now  and  stop  being  tem- 
peramental." She  squinted  her  eyes  shut  with  an  air  of  fin- 
ality. 

Jane  stared  at  her  a  minute  with  blazing  eyes.  "All 
right."  She  began  to  mimic  furiously.  "Just  you  go  to  sleep 
now,  George,  and  I'll  tend  to  it  in  the  morning.  You  bet 
I'll  tend  to  it—" 

She  sat  upright  for  a  minute,  smiling  with  satisfaction. 

But  Margaret's  voice  sounded  sweetly  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  hall.  "Yes,  I  always  believe  in  talking  things 
over..  Now  my  dear,  don't  you  worry  a  minute  more — 
tomorrow's  always  a  new  day." 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  25 


ONE  AFTERNOON 

Emieie  Heilprin 


IICKETT  and  Pock  and  Bramble  were  having  a  holi- 
day, so  they  planned  a  picnic. 
^M^       As  they  walked  along  through  the  city,  on  the  way 
to  a  certain  meadow  outside  the  town,  they  saw  a  large  croud 
in  the  street.     They  went  up  to  see  what  it  was. 

It  was  a  most  unusual  and  unheard  of  thing  for  a  mod- 
ern day  and  age.  A  wandering  harpist  stood  in  the  center 
of  a  gaping  group.  He  was  an  aged,  small  man,  like  an  elf 
two  or  three  sizes  too  large.  And  because  his  eyes  were  black 
and  mocking,  all  the  young  folks  liked  him.  Because  his 
smile  was  slow  and  crinkly,  all  the  children  liked  him.  The 
older  people  liked  him  also,  because  he  knew  the  by-gone 
songs  of  their  youth,  such  as  "Kelly's  Blue  Necktie,"  "Pretty 
Little  Thing",  and  so  on. 

Bramble  liked  the  Harpist  for  the  way  his  hands 
twinkled  in  and  out  among  the  harp  strings.  But  she  would 
have  preferred  him  to  play  something  other  than  the  favorite 
songs  of  past  youth.    She  said  as  much. 

"Oh",  said  the  Harpist,  "So  you  don't  like  these  songs?" 

"No  sir,"  answered  Bramble. 

The  old  player  began  to  strum  out  some  very  modern 
jazz,  to  the  delight  of  the  young  people.  Bramble,  however, 
looked  annoyed,  and  Pickett  and  Pock  looked  cross. 

"How  did  you  like  that?"  the  Harpist  asked  them  when 
he  had  finished. 

"Not  at  all."  they  answered. 

"Ah,"  remarked  the  Harpist,  and  his  eyes  sparkled 
blacker  than  ever,  "You  are  difficult  to  suit,  But  is  there 
no  quiet  spot  where  I  can  play  for  you?" 

"Yes,"  spoke  Pock  quickly,  "Bramble  is  taking  us  now." 

"Then  let's  be  off."  said  the  Harpist.  But  first  he 
bowed  solemnly  to  the  crowd,  pocketed  the  nickels  they  had 
collected  and  strapped  his  harp  over  his  back.  After  this, 
the  four  of  them  inarched  away. 


26  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

"Pock  and  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude."  apologized  Bram- 
ble as  they  walked  along."  It  was  just  that — " 

"No  offense,"  broke  in  the  Harpist  gaily.  "In  fact,  quite 
the  opposite." 

"Why  then,  do  you  mean  you  don't  like  those  songs 
yourself?"  queried  Bramble. 

"My  business"  replied  the  Harpist,"  is  to  give  pleasure. 
Haveing  pleased  every  one  else  today,  I  shall  now  try  to 
please  you." 

"What  you  play  for  us  must  be  awfully  different."  said 
Pickett,  not  meaning  to  be  conceited. 

The  Harpist  smiled.  "This  must  be  the  quiet  spot,"  he 
said.    "It  looks  just  right." 

They  were  in  a  wheat  field  which  resembled  a  golden, 
tossing  ocean.  It  was  the  sun  and  the  wind  which  had  worked 
the  magic  of  this;  the  sun  burnishing  the  grain  brilliantly, 
and  the  wind  billowing  through  it,  till  it  had  turned  to  gleam- 
ing waves.  Farther  back,  out  of  this  riotous  sea,  rose  a  hill, 
like  a  gaunt,  black  ship.  The  sky  hung  very  close  above,  so 
that  you  could  have  poked  a  hole  through  it  with  your  fist. 
To  do  this,  you  would  have  had  to  stand  on  the  tip  of  the  hill. 

The  three  children  curled  up  in  the  most  golden  part. 
The  Harpist  sat  bolt  upright  beside  his  instrument.  He  be- 
gan  to  play,  making  slight  motion  with  his  arms,  and  only 
his  fingers  twinkling  among  the  harp  strings,  as  sunlight 
twinkles  through  the  bars  of  a  gate. 

-'i'-  ^ic  2l'.  ik.  ^k. 

I  low  long  he  played,  Bramble  could  never  tell.  If  it 
seemed  a  hundred  years,  that  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for 
a  summer's  afternoon  can  be  filled  with  a  century  of  mellow- 
ncss.  And  the  solemn  minutes  flow  by  too  burdened  with 
joy  to  count  for  less  than  hours.  So  the  Harpist  played  for 
years,  if  you  please,  or  for  one  afternoon.  Pickett  and  Pock 
mikI  Bramble  lay  motionless,  listening  thirstily.  And  as  they 
listened,  they  watched  the  grace  of  wind-blown  grasses,  and 
the  faint,  taut  veil  of  the  sky  and  the  constant,  weaving  fin- 
gers  of  the  old  man.  And  they  forgot  many  things  they  had 
once  known,  but   they  also  remembered  others. 

Bramble  fell  into  a  soft,  deep  peace. 

Pock  murmured,  "Bramble  has  gone  to  sleep."  And 
Picket  I  answered,  "She  might  be  the  Sleeping  Princess.  Do 
you  think  shell  lie  here  till  a  hedge  grows  around  her?" 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  27 

"Hush,"  whispered  the  Harpist  as  he  went  on  playing. 
But  Bramble  did  not  hear  them. 

vJC  $L  £|&  ili  ^L 

For  she  was  lying  on  her  back,  torpid  with  lovely  sensa- 
tion, as  cats  grow  torpid  with  sunlight.  She  was  trapped  in 
a  hopeless,  mad  tangle  of  thought,  sound,  sight  and  scent; 
the  tangle  that  has  baffled  men  since  the  beginning  of  con- 
sciousness. It  is  in  striving  to  untangle  this  snarled  network, 
that  all  the  poetry  of  the  world  has  been  achieved.  A  poem 
is  only  one  deftly-found  loose  end.  Bramble,  lying  still,  had 
not  the  strength  nor  skill  to  untangle,  but  only  to  wrap  her- 
self thickly  in  the  fine  meshes  of  its  splendour. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  sky  and  the  grass  and  the  trees 
and  the  rocks  were  made  up  of  music;  that  each  could  be 
dissolved  into  a  special  song  which  was  the  fabric  of  its  being ; 
that  the  universe  was  expainable  at  last,  as  a  total  symphony 
in  which  all  things  played  their  individual  parts,  solid  bodies 
like  rocks,  with  the  condensed  weight  of  ponderous  themes, 
and  intangible  bodies  like  air,  with  the  heavenly  lightness  of 
ethereal  themes.  It  needed  but  a  note,  the  right  note,  to 
melt  the  world  into  symphony  and  rhythm. 

Rythm  was  the  motive  power  of  all  things.  It  was  the 
reason  people  continued  to  progress  and  struggle,  when  all 
odds  were  against  them.  It  was  the  reason  men  kept  march- 
ing when  their  tired  feet  became  gashed  with  blood.  It  was 
reason  enough  for  life. 

Bramble  became  lapped  in  serenity,  like  a  soft,  warm 
blanket.  The  wind,  with  long,  gentle  fingers,  ruffled  her 
hair.  The  sun  beat  through  her  body  as  though  she  were 
made  of  cloud. 

All  the  afternoon  the  Harpist  played,  his  melodies 
changing  and  blending  as  exquisitely  as  colors  are  blended 
in  the  plumage  of  birds.  At  one  time,  Pickett  got  up  and 
began  to  dance,  imitating  the  swaying  of  the  wheat,  for  the 
Harpist  had  matched  his  playing  exactly  to  the  wind's  tune. 
And  Pock,  at  one  time,  began  to  shout,  for  the  Harpist  had 
imitated  the  quick  tatoo  of  drums.  And  Bramble,  once,  be- 
gan to  sing,  for  she  couldn't  keep  her  joy  to  herself,  there 
was  such  an  excess  of  it.  The  Harpist  smiled  a  crinkly,  slow 
smile  when  he  saw  them. 

Then  suddenly  he  stopped  and  said,  "Are  you  pleased?" 
The  children  blinked  at  him,  but  had  no  words  to  tell  of  their 


28  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

pleasure',     lie  understood  and  said. 

"I'll  race  you  to  the  top  of  that  hill.     One — two — 

three   -" 

Off  they  went.  There  was  never  in  a  hundred  years  such 
a  fast,  light  race.  The  four  seemed  to  bound  with  swift  leaps 
all  the  way  up  the  gaunt  black  hill.  When  they  reached  the 
top.  they  found  a  sunset. 

The  Harpist  said, 

Now  I'll  play  you  one  more  song:"  and  he  played 
them  the  theme  of  Running,  which  is  one  of  the  greatest 
themes  known  to  man.  On  the  last  note  lie  smiled  another 
slow  smile  and  said, 

"It  is  getting  late." 

So  the  three  children  started  down  one  side  of  the  hill, 
for  town,  turning  back  often  to  wave  to  the  Harpist.  He 
too.  when  they  had  disappeared  into  the  distance,  started 
down  the  hill.     Hut  his  path  lay  in  the  opposite  direction. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  29 


CHOPPING  WOOD 

Elizabeth  Shaw 


IwlHE  leaden  sky  pressed  heavily  down,  seeming  to  rest  on 
V-/  the  tops  of  the  dun  coloured  hills.  The  air  .was  raw 
£§£§|  and  moist,  cold,  but  oppressive  to  breathe,  and  abso- 
lutely still.  In  the  yard  the  old  man  was  chopping  wood 
Under  his  axe  the  block  was  scarred  and  cracked  by  the  blows 
of  three  generations,  but  it  still  stood  steady,  resisting  his 
powerful  attacks.  Confused  by  the  echoes  that  came  back 
from  the  hills,  the  sounds  of  his  chopping  were  continuous, 
repeating  themselves  indistinctly  over  and  over.  Grasping 
the  heavy  axe  handle  his  hands  were  red,  ridged  with  veins, 
and  distorted  with  lumpy  muscles  and  joints.  As  Rosie 
watched  him  from  the  window  she  fluted  the  edge  of  the  torn 
curtain  between  her  fingers,  wondering  at  the  still  powerful 
shoulders  that  pulled  the  old  drab  sweater  at  every  blow.  His 
cheeks  were  red  with  a  network  of  tiny  veins  and  from  under 
the  boy's  cap  he  wore  pulled  down  over  his  ears  hung  a  thick 
fringe  of  yellowish  white  hair.  He  had  a  heavy  white  curly 
beard.  Rosie  pulled  at  the  edge  of  the  curtain.  Gramp  had 
certainly  chopped  a  lot  of  wood  that  afternoon.  He  liked  to 
work,  of  course,  but  it  hardly  seemed  right  that  he,  an  old 
man  who  should  be  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire,  should  do  as 
much  as  all  that. 

From  the  kitchen  came  the  sound  of  someone  walking 
gently  around.  That  was  Gammy.  Rosie  had  hoped  that 
she  would  sleep  until  supper  time  but  Gammy  always  slept 
lightly,  and  Rosie  didn't  wonder  at  all  that  chopping  wak- 
ing her  up.  'T  would  wake  the  dead,  the  noise  it  made.  Pre- 
sently the  kitchen  door  opened  and  Gammy  poked  her  head 
out. 

"Rosie"  she  piped,  "be  you  there?" 

"Yes,  Gammy,  I'm  here." 

"Where's  Gramp?"  Gammy  came  farther  into  the  room 
as  she  spoke.  She  was  very  short  and  almost  bald,  her  brown 
head  showing  through  the  carefully  combed  strands  of  gray 
hair.    Her  face  was  like  an  old  nut,  wizened  and  covered  with 


30  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

a  myriad  of  wrinkles,  and  her  head  nodded  a  little  as  she 

talked. 

"Can't  you  hear  him,  Gammy?"  Hose  answered  rather 
impatiently.  "You  ain't  deef.  He's  out  ehoppin'  again. 
He'll  kill  himself  with  all  them  logs."  (Tammy  stepped  to 
the  window  and  rapped  on  it  with  her  knuckles.  Gramp 
drove  his  axe  through  the  pieee  he  was  splitting  and  looked 
up.  lie  grinned  at  her,  displaying  discoloured  toothless 
gums  and  waved  his  hand  still  bent  to  the  shape  of  the  axe 
handle,  and  then  turned  to  pick  up  another  log. 

"Time  to  come  in,  Gramp,"  Gammy  called  shrilly. 

"He  can't  hear  you  way  out  there.  Do  you  want  me  to 
go  out  an'  fetch  him  in?  He  probly  won't  come  for  me  but 
I'll  try.  He'll  be  all  wore  out  if  he  keeps  on  ehoppin'  like 
that."" 

"So  do,"  Gammy  agreed,  her  head  bobbing  more  vigor- 
ously, "  So  do."  Rosie  went  into  the  kitchen,  pushed  the 
kettle  forward  on  the  stove,  and  went  out  the  back  door.  In 
the  dull  air  she  paused  shivering,  folding  her  arms  tightly  be- 
fore her  and  huddling  into  herself.  She  was  a  tall  bony 
woman  of  about  fifty,  her  iron  gray  hair  pulled  back  into  a 
tight  knob  at  the  back  of  her  head.  In  the  yard  were  two 
piles  of  wood,  one  split  and  one  unsplit;  there  was  a  saw 
horse,  and  under  it  a  pile  of  raw  yellow  sawdust.  Beside  it 
stood  the  chopping  block  and  the  old  man  wedging  his  axe 
into  a  half-split  log. 

"Gramp"  called  Rosie,"  It's  gettin'  too  dark  to  see. 
you'd  better  come  in." 

"Pretty  soon,  Rosie,"  he  answered,  "Ain't  I  done  a  lot 
of  work?" 

"You  done  enough  now,  you'd  better  come  in." 

"Pretty  soon,  Rosie,  pretty  soon."  Then  suddenly  quer- 
ulous, "1  ain't  hurtin'  any  one  out  here.  Why  don't  you  leave 
me  be?  I'll  be  in  pretty  soon,  pretty  soon." 

"Oh,  all  right,  Gramp.  Don't  get  mad  at  me.  Gammy 
scut  me  out  to  tell  you."  Hut  Gramp  was  not  listening  any 
more  and  her  voice  was  drowned  in  the  thud  of  wood  and  its 
sharp  splitting  sounds.  She  was  really  cold  now  and  walked 
quickly  back  over  the  frozen  ground  to  the  kitchen  door.  In- 
side Gammy  had  scaled  herself  in  an  old  rocking  chair,  her 
eyes  had  closed  and  she  had  fallen  again  into  one  of  her  light 
dozes.    Hut  at  Rosie's  step  she  opened  her  eyes. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  31 

"Ain't  he  comin'  in?"  she  demanded.  "They  ain't  no 
need  for  him  to  ehop  that  a  way." 

"He  knows  it,  Gammy,  but  he's  just  got  his  mind  set 
on  it  and  they  ain't  nothin'  you  can  do.  He's  terrible  set  on 
things  it  seems  now-a-days."  But  this  critiscm  was  too  much 
for  Gammy. 

"Ain't  you  shamed  to  talk  of  your  Pa  that  way,  Rosie? 
He  ain't  neither  too  set  on  things.  He'll  be  ninety  this  year 
and  they  ain't  any  one  round  as  old  as  thet  who  kin  chop 
wood  like  him.  He's  as  spry  as  the  day  you  wras  born."  But 
Rosie  was  not  listening.  Imperceptibly  the  darkness  had 
been  increasing  until  now  the  corners  were  blocked  with 
black  shadows.  Rosie  was  taking  the  smoke  chimney  off  the 
lamp  on  the  table,  she  shook  it  to  see  if  there  was  any  oil 
in  it,  turned  up  the  charred  wick  and  lit  it.  With  a  yellow 
gleam  it  flared  up,  making  long  points  of  shadow  on  the 
floor.  Outside  the  chopping  had  ceased  and  dull  sounds  of 
wood  against  wood  told  the  two  women  that  Gramp  was 
stacking  the  wood.  Rosie  opened  the  stove  and  put  in  two 
sticks  from  the  wood  box  beside  it.  They  crackled  softly  as 
Gammy  creaked  back  and  forth  in  the  old  rocker.  Slamming 
down  the  stove  cover  with  the  falsely  efficient  air  she  ahvays 
assumed  when  taking  care  of  the  slatternly  kitchen,  Rosie 
remarked  to  Gammy: 

"Guess  I'll  go  out  and  see  if  they's  any  eggs  for  supper." 
Gammy  did  not  answer  and  Rosie  left  the  room,  going  out 
through  damp,  cold,  back  passages  to  the  shed  where  in  the 
dry  darkness  the  drowsy  roosting  fowls  emitted  sleepy  clucks 
and  gurgling  noises.  Reaching  her  hand  skillfully  under 
the  feathers  of  the  setting  hens  she  felt  the  warm  ovals  of 
the  eggs  and  pulled  them  out  in  spite  of  the  sleepy  remon- 
strances. Four  eggs — that  wasn't  a  great  many,  but  you 
couldn't  expect  the  fowls  to  lay  much  this  time  of  year.  Hold- 
ing them  carefully  she  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  wondering 
if  Gramp  had  given  up  his  foolishness  and  come  in. 

As  soon  as  Rosie  had  left  the  kitchen  Gammy  had  slid 
out  of  her  chair  and  walked  stiffly  across  to  the  door.  She 
opened  it  and  looked  out  into  the  darkness,  but  her  eyes 
blinded  by  the  lamp-ligiit,  could  see  nothing,  "Pa",  she  called 
in  a  wavering  voice,  abandoning  the  "Gramp"  that  with  the 
advent  of  the  first  grandchildren  had  become  his  name,  "Pa, 
where  be  you?  Come  in,  its  gettin'  dark."  From  beside  the 


32  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

wood-piles  came  the  cheerful  answer.  "Don'  you  worrit,  Ma, 
I'll  be  righi  in.  I  .just  aim  to  lay  these  last  logs.    I've  split 
nigh  a  cord  of  wood  altogether.  You  go  in,  you'll  ketch  cold/ 
Gammy  went   slowly  hack  and  shut  the  door  just  as  Kosic 
came  hack  into  the  kitchen. 

"You  ben  callin'  him  agin,  Gammy?  Wun't  he  come  in 
yit?  What  ails  him  any  how?  lie  never  used  ter  act  like 
this:  old  men  don't  chop  wood  an'  work  all  day  long.  They 
should  set  by  the  lire  and  pest,  they  never  can  tell  when  they'll 
need  their  strength."  Rosie  spoke  mournfully,  "lie  may  drop 
dead  any  day."  Gammy  began  to  whimper.  "I  don't  know 
what  ails  him.  lie's  that  set!  Oh.  Lordy!"  Just  then  Gramp 
came  in.  lie  set  his  axe  in  the  corner  of  the  room  and  going 
to  the  sink  pumped  some  cold  water  on  his  hands,  rubbing 
them  with  yellow  soap,  saying  nothing  to  the  two  women. 
Rosie  had  been  setting  three  plates  and  some  bread  and  but- 
ter on  the  table,  now  she  took  the  eggs  off  the  stove  where 
they  had  been  boiling  and  broke  them  into  three  white  cups 
which  she  put  on  the  table.  In  silence  the  three  sat  down  to 
eat.  Gramp  cut  off  great  wedges  of  bread  which  he  piled 
with  hut  ter  and  gummed  efficiently,  while  Gammy's  c<x<j;  ran 
in  little-  yellow  streaks  over  her  chin.  Presently  the  old  man 
looked  up.  "Ain't  they  no  baked  beans  in  the  house.  Rosie?" 
he  demanded  "Seems  to  me  that  this  is  pretty  slim  pickings 
for  a  man  who's  been  choppin'  all  day." 

"No,  they  ain't,  an'  it'  they  were  you  shouldn't  have  any. 
You  oughtn't  to  eat  baked  beans.  They  ain't  good  for  a  man 
of  your  age.  An'  I  shouldn't  he  proud  of  that  choppin' 
neither.  It  ain't  right  for  you  to  work  like  that.  What  would 
anybody  think  if  they  saw  you?"  The  old  man  said  nothing. 
Kosic  got  up  and  carried  the  dishes  over  to  the  sink,  coining 
hack  lor  the  lamp,  which  she  placed  on  a  shelf  over  her  head 
l<a\ing  the  two  old  people  in  comparative  darkness.  She 
began  to  wash  the  dishes  in  the  cold  water,  then  she  took  a 
cup  and  made  a  lit  tie  tea  in  it  which  she  gave  to  Gammy,  who 

drank  it   noisily.     Presently  Gramp  rose  and  tramped  up 

stairs.  They  heard  him  take  oil'  his  hoots  and  put  them 
heavily  on  the  floor,  and  then  the  springs  of  his  bed  groaned 
and  squeaked  under  his  weight. 

As  soon  ;is  he  had  gone  up.  Gammy  turned  to  Rosie. 

"Why  don't  you  hide  his  axe.  Rosie,  then  he  can't  chop 

tomorrer?" 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  33 

"He'll  be  awful  mad",  but  Rosie  had  crossed  over  and 
held  the  heavy  axe  meditatively  in  her  hand. 

"Oh,  Lordy,  Lordy,  I  know  it,"  the  old  woman  moaned 
to  herself,  "but  Rosie,  he'll  kill  himself  choppin';  old  men 
can't  chop  like  that.  Hide  it  down  cellar,  praps  if  he  don't 
see  it  in  the  mornin'  he'll  forget  about  it."  Rosie  picked  it 
up  and  went  down  cellar.  When  she  came  up  again  Gammy 
was  asleep.     She  woke  her  and  they  both  went  up  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  Rosie  was  waked  early,  Gramp  was 
calling  her. 

"Rosie!  Rosie!  Where's  my  axe?  What  you  done  with 
my  axe?  Rosie,  wake  up  an'  come  down  here,  someone's 
stole  my  axe!  Where  is  it. Rosie?" 

"Lordy,  Gramp,  I  dunno.  What  do  you  want  to  chop 
for  this  early  in  the  morning  anyhow?  Don't  yell  so,  you'll 
wake  Gammy."  But  Rosie  rolled  out  of  bed  and  putting  on 
an  old  coat,  went  down  stairs.  The  old  man's  face  was  suf- 
fused with  blood  and  he  was  breathing  hard. 

"You  done  something  with  my  axe,  Rosie.  Tell  me 
where  it  is,  I  gotter  have  my  axe.    Where  is  it?" 

"I  tol'  you  I  dunno.  You  don't  want  to  chop  now  any- 
how. Sit  down  an'  I'll  make  you  some  coffee". 

"I  want  my  axe,  I  want  my  axe.  What  you  done  with 
it  Rosie?  You  think  I'm  too  old  to  chop,  you  hide  my  axe, 
you  lie  to  me.  Where  is  it?  I'm  a-going  to  chop  wood  till  I 
die,  I  ain't  old,  I'm  strong  enough  to  chop.  What  you  done 
with  my  axe?  Give  it  to  me,  gimme  my  axe."  He  staggered 
forwards  towards  Rosie,  his  face  purple  and  his  blue  eyes 
popping  and  blood-shot.  "Gimme  my  axe,  gimme  my  axe, 
gimme — "  He  lurched  forward  grasping  at  Rosie,  and  fell 
face  downward  on  the  floor,  where  he  lay  breathing  stertor- 
ously.  Rosie  looked  at  him  dully,  then  opened  the  door  and 
ran  out  through  the  yard  onto  the  road,  muttering  to  himself. 
"I  must  get  doc  quick.  I  alius  knew  he'd  kill  hisself,  doing  so 
much  chopin'.  He  should  have  sat  by  the  fire  and  saved  his 
strength.  I  said  to  Gammy  last  night,  he  should,  I  said  he 
might  fall  dead,  and  now  he  has.  I  told  him  he  didn't  ought 
to  chop  so  much."  Her  bedroom  slippers  flopped  as  she  ran 
along  the  frozen  road,  breathing  fast.  Upstairs  Gammy 
woke,  listened  for  the  chopping,  and  hearing  none,  sighed 
with  relief  and  fell  asleep  again. 


34  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


r 


BOOK    REVIEWS 


THE  HAMLET  OF  A.  MacLEISII 


Houghton  Mifflin  Co.  1928 


We  were  informed  a  few  weeks  ago  in  one  of  those  com- 
petitive literary  conversations  in  which  each  individual  tries 
to  outdo  the  other  in  announcements  and  criticisms,  that 

Archibald  MacLeish  had  written  a  II (unlet.  We  were  some- 
what horrified  by  this  apparent  sacrilege  at  the  altar  of  the 
great  literary  deity,  and  since  the  conversation  swept  on 
relentlessly  and  would  not  permit  our  frantic  questions,  we 
ran  down  to  the  Bookshop,  at  the  earliest  opportunity,  to  see 
for  ourselves  if  Mr.  MacLeish  were  actually  guilty  of  such  a 
presumption.  The  title  of  his  new  hook  quieted  our  per- 
turbed spirits.  It  was  not  Hamlet  by  Archibald  MacLeish. 
It  was  The  Hamlet  of  A.  MaeLeish.  We  realized  a  distinc- 
tion, and  with  relief  carried  the  hook  home  to  read  at  leisure. 

Mr.  MacLeish's  daring  is  only  to  he  gussed  at  from  the 
title  of  liis  hook.  For  centuries  critics  have  puzzled  over  the 
mystery  of  Hamlet,  have  sensed  his  dark  and  troubled  heart, 
and  have  written  down  their  faltering  interpretations.  For 
centuries  those  who  read  Hamlet  or  saw  it  enacted  before 
them,  have  felt  the  timelessness  of  the  Shakespearean  pro- 
tagonist, and,  projecting  themselves  into  his  being,  have 
found  their  sense  of  the  incomprehensibility  of  life  voiced 
through  his  eloquent  lips.  Many  felt  a  kinship  with  the 
ghost-ridden  Hamlet  of  the  sixteenth  century,  hut  no  other 
has  dared  to  name  his  hitter  experience  his  own  Hamlet. 

Archibald  MacLeish  recognized  in  himself,  as  in  the 
Danish  prince,  the  consciousness  of  the  sinister  and  the  in- 
tangible evil  in  the  world,  of  the  "dreams"  that  haunt  the 
sensitive  soul  of  a  man  who,  hy  reflection,  seeks  an  adequate 
answer  to  his  insistent  questions.     He  parallels  his  own  exis- 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  35 

tence  with  the  tragedy  of  a  man  of  an  older  time,  knowing 
that  his  fears  and  misgivings,  his  attempts  to  rationalize  and 
understand  have  lain  a  long  time  in  the  hearts  of  men.  The 
outward  manifestations  of  these  intimations  of  evil  that  man 
is  heir  to  may  ehange,  but  fundamentally  they  are  the  same. 

"No  man  living  but  has  seen  the  king  his  father's  ghost, 
None  alive  that  have  had  words  with  it.  Nevertheless  the 
knowledge  of  ill  is  among  us  and  the  obligation  to  revenge, 
and  the  natural  world  is  eonvieted  of  that  enormity 

In  the  old  time  men  spoke  and  were  answered  and  the 
thing  was  done  clean  in  the  daylight.    Now  it  is  not  so." 

The  ghost  comes  directly  to  the  Shakespearean  Hamlet 
and  lays  before  him  in  plain  words  the  crime  that  has  been 
done.  The  evil  is  translated  into  concrete  terms.  But  for 
the  Hamlet  of  A.  MacLeish  the  revelation  comes  haltingly — 

"There  have  been  men  a  long,  long  time  that  knew  this. 
The  words  come  to  us 

Far,  faint  in  our  ears,  confused.    They  have  told  us  of 

Signs  seen  by  night  and  the  vanishing  signals.  They 
have  told  of  the  ominous 

Stir  over  the  leaves  and  the  showing  among  them  of 

Mysteries  hiding  a  dark  thing.  .  .  ." 
And  for  him  there  is  no  answer. 

By  this  parallel  Mr.  MacLeish  has  made  a  striking  con- 
trast of  the  eternal  problem  of  a  thoughtful  man  in  two 
widely  separated  ages;  one  embodied  in  actuality,  the  other 
forever  evasive,  and  complicated  by  the  over-rationalization 
of  the  minds  in  which  it  is  conceived.  That  is,  the  Hamlet  of 
this  day  may  no  longer  believe  in  ghosts.  He  can  explain 
them  away  just  as  he  can  explain  the  immediate  causes  of  evil, 
of  passion,  and  of  dreams,  with  his  vast  scientific  knowledge. 
But  he  is  still  haunted  by  ghosts.  There  is  still  for  him  the 
blind  struggle  of  the  Shakespearean  hero  translated  into  the 
abstract,  the  conflicts  of  emotion,  the  sense  of  the  bleak  over- 
whelming secret  of  the  universe. 

We  may  detect  in  Archibald  MacLeish's  presentation 
of  his  conception  certain  familiar  modernistic  tendencies. 
These  we  would  criticize  mainly  on  the  ground  that  they  are 
too  conventional  of  this"  period  for  a  piece  of  work  which, 
although  itself  characteristic  of  this  century,  has  also  an 
element  of  timelessness,  The  greatest  art  is  that  which  es- 
capes from  the  pattern  of  its  age  toward  universality.    But 


36  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

over  and  above  these  occasional  influenced  passages  stands 
the  impassioned  sincerity  of  the  whole  poem,  which  is  enough 
in  itself.  There  is  no  pose  or  affectation  of  feeling,  bui  rather 
a  terrible  frankness  which  scorns  half  measures  and  implica- 
tions, coupled  with  penetrating  thought  which  is  half  divina- 
tion. We  find,  as  in  Street*  of  the  Moon,  great  beauty  of 
description  and  a  delicate  detail  of  phrasing,  here  electrified 
by  the  tremendous  force  of  the  emotion  behind  it.  Mr. 
MaeLeislfs  imaginative  conceptions  are  expressed  with  re- 
markable eonereteness  and  symbolism — 

"Ha,  hut  the  sun  among  us.  .  .  .wearers  of 
Black  cloths,  hearers  of  secrets! 
The  jay  jeer  of  the  sun  in  the  ear  of  our 
Pain.  .  .  .and  the  nudge  of  the  blunt  pink 
Thumb  troubling  the  pride  of  despair  in  us.  .  . 
Ha,  but  the  sun  in  our  air." 
It  is  this  ability  of  his  to  put  the  nameless  suggestions  of  his 
own  mind  into  forms  in  which  we  may  recognize  their  dim 
significance,   which   has   made   possible   the   success  of  his 
attempt  of  his  Hamlet.    This  is  his  ghost — 
"Much  of  the  time  I  do  not  think  anything: 
Much  of  the  time  1  do  not  even  notice 
And  then,  speaking,  closing  a  door,  I  see 
Strangely  as  though  I  almost  saw  now.  some 
Shape-  of  thing  1  have  always  seen,  the  sun 
White  on  a  house  and  the  windows  open  and  swallows 
In  and  out  of  the  wallpaper,  the  noon's  face 
Fainl  by  day  in  a  mirror;  I  see  some 
Changed  thing  that  is  telling,  something  that  almost 
'Fells     and  Ibis  pain  then,  then  this  pain.  And  no 
Words,  only  these  shapes  of  things  that  seem 
Ways  of  knowing  what  it  is  I  am  knowing." 
His  diction   is  curiously  compact    without   giving  any  sense 
of  being  over-crowded.     The  history  of  man.  "the  Cloth-Clad 
Race,  the  People  of  Horses."  lies  in  a  few   brief  lines 

"Westward  they  move  with  the  sun.    Their  smoke  hangs 
Under  the  unknown  skies  at  evening.    The  stars 

(io  down  before  them  into  the  new    lands. 

Behind   them  the  dust    falls,  the  streams  Mow    clear  again. 

Vultures  rise  from  the  stripped  bones  in  the  sand. 


They  dwell  at  the  last  shores.   Years  pass.  They  vanish. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  37 

They  disappear  from  the  light  leaving  behind  them 
Names  in  the  earth,  names  of  trees  and  of  boulders, 
Words  for  the  planting  of  eorn,  leaving  their  tombs  to 
Fall  in  the  thickets  of  alders,  leaving  their  fear 
Of  the  howling  of  dogs  and  the  new  moon  at  the  shoulder, 
Leaving  the  shape  of  the  bird  god  who  delivered 
Men  from  the  ancient  ill,  and  under  the  loam  their 
Bronze  blades,  the  broken  shafts  of  their  javelins. 
They  vanish.     They  disappear  from  the  earth. 

And  the  sea  falls 
Loud  on  the  empty  beaches 

and  above 

The  king  rises.  Lights,  lights,  lights!" 
It  is  difficult  to  put  one's  finger  on  that  actual  quality 
of  Mr.  MacLeish's  poetry  which  embodies  so  completely  his 
ideas.  It  is  not  merely  the  careful  facility  of  his  lines.  It 
is  a  quality  to  be  felt  rather  than  to  be  put  into  words,  lying 
in  the  force  of  the  generative  emotion  and  its  lasting  intensity. 
We  feel  this  best  when  Mr.  MacLeish  keeps  closely  to  his 
original  theme.  The  violence  of  the  scene  in  the  Queen's 
Closet,  which  we  understand  ( Ave  would  not  have  realized  it. 
had  we  not  been  told)  is  directed  against  the  "swell  guy"  of 
the  literary  world,  is  discordant  because  it  is  too  reminiscent 
of  the  kind  of  violence  one  finds  in  Webster  or  Tourneur  in 
the  sixteenth  century.  While  opposed  to  it,  the  scene  at 
Ophelia's  burial  is  done  with  a  great  sincerity  which  is  in- 
finitely more  moving  than  the  excessive  brutality  of  the 
former  passage.  We  feel  that  when  Archibald  MacLeish  is 
least  influenced  and  most  himself,  he  writes  poetry  of  extra- 
ordinary beauty  of  conception  and  expression. 

An  analysis  of  the  tragic  effect  of  Mr.  MacLeish's 
Hamlet  and  of  Shakespeare's  Hamlet  is  justifiable  since  they 
are  dominated  by  a  common  theme,  and  illuminating  since  it 
reveals  that  the  former  cannot  truly  be  called  tragic.  Shakes- 
peare ends  his  play  on  a  note  of  serenity,  of  a  sudden  calm. 
Hamlet,  at  last,  achieves  his  revenge  and,  though  he  dies  in 
so  doing,  he  is  triumphant  in  his  conquest  of  evil.  Peace, 
justice  and  human  equanimity  are  restored.  True  to  the 
Aristotelian  demand,  pity  and  fear  resolve  into  a  peace  of 
mind  which  recognizes  in  the  magnificence  of  his  own  soul  the 
ultimate  answer  to  man's  questionings.  The  Hamlet  of  A. 
MacLeish,  on  the  other  hand,  ends  little  farther  than  where 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  39 

it  began,  with  an  acceptance  of  life  that  is  a  confession  of 
man's  impotence.  And  with  the  reiteration  of  his  presenti- 
ment— 

"Thou  wouldst  not  think 

How  ill  all's  here  about  my  heart." 
We  close  the  book  with  that  same  illness  in  our  hearts,  and 
realize  that  we  have  been  convinced  by  Mr.  MacLeish's  pas- 
sionate words.  The  impression  remains.  Our  consciousness 
of  the  guilt  of  the  world  has  been  aroused,  but  there  is  no  res- 
toration of  peace  and  order  to  complete  the  katharsis  of  our 
emotions. 

Mr.  Krutch  in  his  essay  The  Tragic  Fallacy  in  the 
November  Atlantic  Monthly  informs  us  that  tragedy  is  no 
longer  possible  for  us  of  the  twentieth  century,  that  we  can 
no  longer  conceive  it  and  will  soon  lose  even  our  ability  to 
appreciate  it.  He  says  that,  in  comparing  a  modern  so- 
called  tragedy  such  as  Ghosts  and  a  play  of  Sophocles  or 
Shakespeare,  the  question  "is  not  primarily  one  of  art,  but 
of  the  worlds  which  two  minds  inhabited.  No  increased  pow- 
ers of  expression,  no  greater  gift  for  words,  could  have  trans- 
formed Isben  into  Shakespeare.  The  materials  out  of  which 
the  latter  created  his  work — his  conception  of  human  dignity, 
his  sense  of  the  importance  of  human  passions,  his  vision  of 
the  amplitude  of  human  life — simple  did  not  and  could  not 
exist  for  Ibsen,  as  they  did  not  and  could  not  exist  for  his 
contemporaries.  God  and  Man  and  Nature  had  all  some- 
how dwindled  in  the  course  of  the  intervening  centuries,  not 
because  the  realistic  creed  of  modern  art  led  us  to  seek  out 
mean  people,  but  because  this  meannesss  of  human  life  was 
somehow  thrust  upon  us  by  the  operation  of  that  same  pro- 
cess which  led  to  the  development  of  realistic  theories  of  art 
by  which  our  vision  could  be  justified." 

Our  world,  having  no  faith  in  man,  rationalizing  him 
out  of  his  once  magnificent  possibilities,  can  no  longer  con- 
ceive a  true  tragedy  which  is  "essentially  an  expression,  not 
of  despair,  but  of  the  triumph  over  despair  and  of  confidence 
in  the  value  of  human  life."  Our  too  sophisticated  society 
"has  outgrown  not  merely  the  simple  optimism  of  the  child, 
but  also  that  vigorous,  one  might  almost  say  adolescent,  faith 
in  the  nobility  of  man  which  marks  a  Sophocles  or  a  Shakes- 
peare,— has  neither  fairy  tales  to  assure  it  that  all  is  always 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  41 

right  in  the  end  nor  tragedies  to  make  it  believe  that  it  rises 
superior  in  soul  to  the  outward  calamities  which  befall  it. 

"Distrusting  its  thought,  despising  its  passions,  realiz- 
ing its  impotent  unimportance  in  the  universe,  it  can  tell  it- 
self no  stories  except  those  which  make  it  still  more  acutely 
aware  of  its  trivial  miseries." 

Mr.  Krutch's  essay  seems  particularly  a  propos  of 
Archibald  MacLeish's  new  book.  The  title,  The  Hamlet  of 
A.  Macleish,  lead  us  to  infer  that  it  is  tragedy  and  to  be  con- 
sidered as  such.  Therefore,  while  the  parallel  of  thought 
throughout  is  of  great  significance,  the  change  in  the  end  of 
Mr.  MacLeish's  poem,  the  failure  to  fulfill  the  requirements 
of  true  tragedy  by  some  katharsis  of  emotions, — may  have 
even  greater  significance.  It  may  be,  as  Mr.  Krutch  says, 
that  "the  tragic  solution  of  the  problem  of  existence,  the 
reconciliation  to  life  by  means  of  the  tragic  spirit,  is  now 
only  a  fiction  surviving  the  art."  Or  it  may  be  as  Hamlet,  the 
Hamlet  of  Shakespeare  says,  that  "nothing  is  either  good  or 
bad,  but  thinking  makes  it  so."  And  that  Archibald 
MacLeish  thinks  too  much. 

E.  B. 


LILY  CHRISTINE 

Michael  Arlen  Doubleday  Doran  1928 

"From  out  of  a  deepened  experience  of  grave  illness  and 
line  recovery  Michael  Arlen  has  created  this  new  vision  of  a 
woman — a  brilliant,  loyal,  passionate  creation — the  modern 
ideal  mate  for  a  man." 

So  runs  the  perhaps  embarrassingly  confidential  blurb 
on  the  paper  cover  of  "Lily  Christine".  We  are  sorry  if 
Michael  Arlen  has  been  ill,  and  we  congratulate  him  on  his 
recovery;  and  perhaps,  during  this  deepening  of  his  exper- 
ience a  new  vision  of  a  woman  did  come  to  him.  We  are 
obliged  to  the  publishers  for  supplying  this  rather  personal 
information,  for  certainly  it  is  wholly  personal.  If  Mr.  Arlen 
was  the  recipient  of  such  an  amazing  gift  from  those  notor- 
iously miserly  donors,  the  Muses,  as  actually  a  new  vision, 
(and  of  a  woman,  at  that!)  he  has  kept  it  discreetly  to  him- 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  43 

self,  except  for  his  confidences  to  his  publishers,  quite  rightly 
judging  such  a  gift  too  precious  for  the  eye  of  the  public. 
At  all  events,  to  our,  perhaps  undiscerning  eye,  "Lily  Chris- 
tine" contains  no  visions,  not  even  a  distant  whiff  (if  one  can 
whiff  a  vision!) . 

Lily  Christine  is  the  saccharine,  Arlenesque  centre  of  a 
group  of  astonishingly  stupid,  Arlenesque  friends.  And  the 
point  of  the  whole  business  revolves  about  Summerest,  Lily 
Christine's  husband,  whose  joints  fairly  creak  as  he  lumbers 
on  and  off  the  stage.  Lily  Christine  makes  the  mistake  of 
loving  him  too  much  for  the  sole  reason  that  he  appears 
"somehow  helpless"  to  her.  Xow  that  may  be  a  good  reason 
for  loving  a  man  to  the  point  of  tumbling  under  automobile 
wheels  when  he  decides  to  divorce  one — we  scarcely  feel  in  a 
position  to  judge.  We  do,  of  course,  feel  sorry  for  Lily 
Christine,  however  insipid  she  may  be,  for  having  such  hard 
luck  in  a  husband,  although  she  does  seem  to  really  love  him, 
calling  him  tenderly  "her  old  cart  horse";  and  for  having 
such  a  circle  of  utterly  unintelligent  well-meaning  friends. 
We  are  told  that  she  has  children,  yes,  we  remember  that  they 
were  mentioned  several  times,  two  of  them  in  fact,  but  their 
existence  seems  to  impress  her  as  little  as  it  does  us — perhaps 
that's  because  she  is  so  near-sighted. 

Oh,  yes,  its  amusing  if  you  don't  mind  a  rather  unin- 
teresting style  with  plenty  of  clinches  thrown  in  for  good 
measure.  It's  really  rather  interesting  in  spots  for  those  who 
like  Michael  Arlen  trying  to  be  high-minded  and  serious. 
And  we  are  glad  that  he  is  better  and  that  he  created  his 
vision.    But  why,  oh  why,  did  he  write  "Lily  Christine"? 

E.  S. 


THE  FATHER 

Katherine  Holland  Brown  John  Day  1928 

The  people  who  awarded  the  Woman's  Home  Compan- 
ion— John  Day  Prize  of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  to 
Katherine  Holland  Brown  for  her  novel,  "The  Father,"  say 
that  it  is  a  book  "notable  not  only  as  a  good  novel,  but  as  an 
authentic  piece  of  Americana."  And  so  it  is,  within  limita- 
tions. Distinctly  "The  Father"  is  neither  clever  nor  pro- 
found,  nor  yet  epoch-making,   but   read  it   when  you  are 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  45 

fagged,  and  it  does  you  good.  You  feel  that  it  was  written 
with  a  great  deal  of  love,  and  for  that  reason  it  has  warmth, 
and  a  kind  of  romantic  glamour  not  usual  in  modern  books. 

For  it  is  not  a  stylish  sort  of  book.  The  heroine — there 
is  no  other  label  for  her — Mercy  Rose,  is  beautiful,  sweet 
and  wise;  the  hero,  a  young  gallant  of  great  strength  and 
honour.  They  are  all  perfect,  even  to  the  utterly  depraved 
villain.  Their  saving  grace  is  a  rather  choice  sense  of  hu- 
mour, which  surely  Mercy  Rose  needs  to  get  her  through  the 
uncommonly  stupendous  amount  of  housework  she  must 
have  had  with  a  family  of  seven  besides  herself  after  they 
moved  out  West,  to  say  nothing  of  knitting  stockings  for 
them  all — and  she  only  sixteen  at  the  time.  Miss  Brown  has 
somehow  accounted  to  herself  for  the  way  in  which  this  labor 
got  itself  done.  A  detail  like  that  does  not  really  bother  the 
true  romantic. 

But  "The  Father"  is  also  an  historical  novel,  and  as 
such  succeeds  as  well  as  most.  The  time  is  during  that 
troubled  agitation  and  uncertainty  before  the  Civil  War,  and 
before  the  Abolitionist  cause  had  any  following  to  speak  of. 
The  Father,  John  Stafford,  editing  a  struggling  but  ardent 
anti-slavery  paper,  first  in  Massachusetts  and  afterwards  in 
Illinois,  finds  no  support  and  little  sympathy  for  his  views, 
even  in  his  friendship  with  Lincoln,  who,  I  think,  has  suf- 
fered as  usual  from  a  somewhat  sentimental  feminine  inter- 
pretation. Emerson,  and  Horace  Mann  and  "Nat"  Haw- 
thorne, come  into  the  story,  and  naturally,  without  that  effect 
of  being  lugged  in  on  pedestals,  which  has  ruined  so  many 
historical  novels.  Of  course  in  the  novel  which  has  a  defi- 
nitely historical  setting,  the  author  comes  up  against  the 
problem  of  appeasing  a  public  become  all  at  once  pedantic, 
who  complain  that  this  or  the  other  never  happened,  and  is 
therefore  a  sacreligious  invention  concerning  people  who 
have  actual  dates ;  or  that  some  pet  and  cherished  opinion  of 
theirs  has  been  rudely  assailed.  Miss  Brown  has  used  a 
great  deal  of  ingenuity  in  avoiding  these  snags,  partly,  per- 
haps, because  she  takes  her  material  chiefly  from  the  anec- 
dotes of  her  father,  who  knew  the  men  and  the  times. 

One  is  able  to  put  together  a  vivid  if  not  very  coherent 
account  of  the  Middle  West  in  those  days,  although  some- 
what limited  bv  the  fact  that  John  Stafford  seems  never  to 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  47 

have  talked  to  anyone  but  his  family  and  Mr.  Lincoln — his 
subscribers  communicating  their  disapproval  merely  by  hold- 
ing- out  on  another  bushel  of  mildewed  grain.  Except,  of 
course,  when  they  ruined  his  press  and  tried  to  shoot  him. 

Miss  Brown  has  undertaken  to  portray  the  struggle  of 
a  devoted  father  between  the  relative  claims  of  four  mother- 
less children,  and  of  his  belief  in  himself  as  an  apostle  of 
truth,  against  a  background  of  history.  At  the  end  she  loses 
sight  somewhat  of  her  problem  and  becomes  increasingly 
interested  in  Mercy  Rose,  the  eldest  child  and  only  daughter. 
Even  the  Father  himself  comes  second.  The  book  is  to  be 
read  for  its  sensitive  historical  feeling,  for  the  humorous 
quality  which  lasts  throughout,  and  for  the  color  infused  into 
a  period  which  ordinarily  does  not  attract  the  imagination. 
Especially  there  are  Aunty  and  the  parrot  Zenobia,  little 
Thomas,  Jacob's  coat,  "not  only  a  family  relic,  but  a  family 
tree" — and  Mercy  Rose's  diary,  a  better  one  than  we  ever 
hope  to  keep. 

E.  R.  Haw 


"A  ROVER  I  WOULD  BE" 

E.  V.  Lucas  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.  1928 

The  cover  is  rather  entrancing,  and  so  is  the  frontispiece 
of  the  little  "Sleeping  Sentinel"  from  the  Xational  Museum 
in  Rome.  Besides,  who  would  not  be  a  rover  if  nothing 
pressed  him  into  service  in  the  everyday  routine  of  life?  Mr. 
Lucas,  too,  has  already  written  several  works  of  that  order 
which  is  known  paradoxically  as  "a  guidebook  that  isn't  a 
guidebook."  So,  although  I  had  read  none  of  these  former 
books,  I  was  nevertheless  prepared  by  his  reputation  to  find 
in  him  a  delightful  essayist. 

Perhaps  my  hopes  were  raised  too  high  by  the  sound  of 
its  name,  or  it  may  be  that  to  an  ardent  traveller  the  reac- 
tions of  another  to  parrots  in  English  inns  and  waiting  in 
French  post-offices  never  seem  quite  adequate.  Surely  there 
are  many  of  us  who  would  disagree  with  the  author's  assur- 
ance of  the  soothing  effect  of  being  "rocked  in  the  cradle  of 
the  deep"  and  I  doubt  if  we  should  like  to  see  giant  search- 
lights   (donated,    as   the   author   suggests,   by   "Some   rich 


Oil   Permanent  Wave 

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

|  Do    you    want    a    permanent    wave    that 
looks   like   a    marcel? 

Or   a   soft    round    curl? 
i  You    can    have    either,    and    as    large    a 

wave   as   you    desire   at 

FRANK  BROTHERS     j 

fifth  Avenue  Boot  Shop     -              , 

Between  47 «Jh  and  -48'il  Streets,  New  York 

BELANGER'S 

j  277    Main    St.                                Tel   688-W 

Footwear  of  Quality 
Moderately   Priced 

1         Higgins 

i 

The   Green  Dragon  j 

229    Main    Street                           ■ 

i 

Gifts  of  Distinction           1 

ROOM    FURNISHINGS                1 

1    HILL    BROTHERS 

Dry  Goods 

Rugs 

and 

Draperies 

Christmas  Gifts               i 

A  good  book.           A   box   of   Stationery.  1 
A    Fountain    Pen            Christmas    Cards,  j 

i 

BRIDGMAN  &  LYMAN    j 

108   MAIN    ST. 

j      LaMontagne  Boot  Shop 
SHOES 

!       21    Pleasant  St.                 Tel.   1723-M 
Northampton 

Hc4alhmt'ii        | 
Department 
State            ' 

The  Smith  College  Monthly  49 

American  eager  to  do  something  fine  and  memorable  for 
Paris")  playing  at  night  upon  the  facade  of  Sacre  Coeur. 
However  this  may  be.  we  cannot  make  adverse  criticism  of 
a  book  simply  because  we  disagree  with  the  ideas  it  happens 
to  represent;  we  must  first  consider  how  these  ideas  are  ex- 
pressed. 

Mr.  Lucas  is  evidently  a  collector  of  information,  odd 
bits  of  intelligence  and  experiences  of  travelling,  for  this  is 
the  material  he  has  most  readily  at  his  fingers'  tips.  His 
chapters  on  the  homes  of  Shelley  and  Cowper,  on  the  Ched- 
dar Gorges,  on  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  who  "enjoyed  a  pipe 
while*  the  executioner  was  sharpening  his  axe"  are  best  be- 
cause they  are  based  on  fact,  which  the  author  can  best  deal 
with.  The  attempts  at  humor  are  usually  forced  and  unsuc- 
cessful and  one  notices  often  an  aptitude  for  misplaced  flip- 
pancy. For  such  essays  as  the  brief  one  on  the  passing  of 
Mali  Jongg  and  the  one  on  Swans  and  Geese,  Mr.  Lucas  has 
chosen  subjects  that  Lamb  might  have  treated  with  grace 
and  delicacy,  but  which  he  cannot  handle  brilliantly  because 
he  has  not  the  lightness  of  touch  and  the  facility  of  transition 
from  one  subject  to  another  that  contribute  to  the  essential 
charm  of  he  informal  essay. 

Besides  this  general  lack,  there  are  two  serious  defects 
in  the  style  of  the  book.  One  of  these  is  an  unfortunate 
choice  of  words.  We  object  to  such  combinations  as  "a  tinkle 
of  bells  married  to  the  beating  of  hoofs,"  and  various  inap- 
propriate epithets  that  make  their  appearance.  The  faculty 
of  choosing  the  vividly  accurate  word  to  suit  a  description  is 
not  a  part  of  Mr.  Lucas's  talent,  and  his  phrases  sound 
strained  when  he  tries  to  attain  it.  Nor  has  he  perfected  the 
art  of  concluding  an  essay,  of  which  Stevenson  has  given  us 
so  many  happy  examples.  The  Horsensian  after-dinner 
speakers,  he  tells  us,  made  their  talks  extraordinarily  brief. 
"Directly  they  came  to  a  real  point  and  had  shot  their  bolt, 
they  sat  down.  Some,  I  will  admit  sat  down  with  an  abrupt- 
ness which  rather  surprised  me,  and  even  seemed  now  and 
then  to  surprise  them."  This  is  exactly  what  the  author  him- 
self does.  He  no  sooner  gives  us  an  introduction  to  a  situa- 
tion and  launches  our  interest  in  the  direction  of  the  ideas 
that  we  expect  to  find  behind  it,  than  he  "sits  down"  upon 
it,  and  that  is  the  end  of  the  matter.  We  should  like  to  hear 
more  about   Turner's  water-colors   and   "the  game  of  the 


'.•    <^_      ^»      __      «_•      ^_      .^—^      _      «^      o^      .^_      ^_      .•_      ^—      «- 

PLYMOUTH  INN 
TEAROOM 

PLYMOUTH   INN 

"AT  THE  GATES  OF 

SMITH   COLLEGE" 

DINNER  MUSIC 
EVERY  WEEKEND 

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The  Dorothy  Brooks  Shop 

18  GREEN   ST. 

Formerly    Fireside   Gift   Shop            i 

The  Plymouth  Inn  Beauty 
Shoppe 

LAMPSHADES 

by 

c 

Helen  Woods 

12    BEDFORD    TERRACE 
NORTHAMPTON,    MASS. 

Permanent    and    Finger   Waving 

|  Shampooing,   Hair  Cutting,   Marcelling, 

Manicuring,    Facial    and   Scalp 

Treatments 

j     "Miracle-Gro"    A    hot    oil    treatment 

Phone   2275    for   Appointment 

WALSH'S 

Cleaning,  Dyeing 

Pressing 

23  Green  Ave Next   to  Scott  Gym, 

Tel.   409-R 

THE 
NEW    HOTEL    GARAGE  j 

Storage,  Washing,  Supplies  j 

Stephen  S.  Sullivan               Phone  3050  | 
OPI\    HOTEL    NORTHAMPTON       j 

W.  O.  KIRTLAND 
Good  Shoes 

1       J  fir,   Main  St.,  Northampton,  Mass. 
SMART    FOOTWEAR 

for 
SPORT    AND    DRESS 

THOMAS  F.  FLEMING     1 

THE    SHOE   SHOP 

Exceedingly  Smart  Models 

— and  moderate  prices —       ( 

Pain8taking,    Courteous    Service 

12  CRAFTS  AVENUE 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  51 

sparrow,"  not  to  mention  our  desire  for  a  deeper  insight  into 
the  psychology  of  a  perambulator  and  an  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion "Do  the  fish  that  look  like  men  in  clubs  converse  and 
behave  like  men  in  clubs?"  Mr.  Lucas  evidently  prefers  to 
leave  these  things  to  our  imagination. 

What  I  did  find  in  the  book  was  a  large  amount  of  ma- 
terial which,  although  it  might  have  been  better  presented 
and  more  gracefully  developed,  showed  enthusiasm  and  in- 
terest, as  a  traveller,  a  ready  power  of  observation  and  a  style 
which  when  it  allows  itself  to  be  natural  has  a  very  pleasant 
conversational  tone.  We  are  introduced  to  such  odd  char- 
acters as  Thomas  Tomkins  who  said  in  1777  that  "Poetry 
was  originally  intended  to  express  our  gratitude  to  the  deity 
and  teach  mankind  the  most  important  precepts  of  religion 
and  virtue"  and  we  find  sentiments  that  are  common  to  us 
all  in  such  passages  as  the  description  of  the  "Compleat 
Chauffeur,"  who  "always  asketh  the  way  of  the  wrong  peo- 
ple first."  And  for  us  who  are  not  English  there  is  great 
delight  in  finding  the  manifestation  or  rather  the  humorous 
criticism  of  the  typically  British  attitude,  summed  up  in  the 
paragraph  where  Lucas  tells  of  the  two  great  Claudes  and 
the  two  great  Turners  hung  side  by  side  in  the  National 
Gallery,  put  there,  he  says,  "so  that  the  world  may  have  the 
opportunity  of  comparing  the  masters,  French  and  English, 
and  deciding  that  the  English  is  the  better!"  We  wonder 
whether  it  is  with  conscious  or  unconscious  irony  that  he  says 
"If  we  (the  English)  were  to  adopt  a  flower  and  endow  it 
with  fortunate  characteristics,  we  could  not  do  better  than 
choose  the  violet."    In  token,  I  suppose,  of  English  modesty. 

The  book  is  chiefly  interesting,  then,  to  one  who  can  over- 
look its  faults  of  style  in  order  to  enjoy  the  subject  matter, 
and  who  can  be  sufficiently  drawn  into  its  atmosphere  of 
leisurely  observation  to  forget  that  its  language  is  not  that 
of  Lamb  or  Stevenson  whom  it  seems  to  imitate.  And  for 
those  of  us  who  confess  our  inability  to  pass  over  these  de- 
tails, there  is  still  a  pleasure  in  recognizing  familiar  names 
and  places,  in  learning  new  facts  about  them,  that  makes  the 
book  worthwhile  and  enhances  for  us  the  out-of-the-way 
corners  of  England  and  France. 

K.  S.  B. 


Smith  College 


January 
1929 


BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 


Vol.  XXXVII  JANUARY,  1929  No.  4 

EDITORIAL  BOARD 

Editor-in-chief,  Anne  Lloyd  Basinger,  1929 

Managing  Editor,  Ernestine  Gilbreth,  1929 

Book  Review  Editor,  Elizabeth  Botsford,  1929 

Katherine  S.  Bolivian,  1929  Priscilla  S.  Fairchild,  1930 

Elizabeth  Wheeler,  1929  Elizabeth  Sha^v,  1930 

Rachel  Grant,  1929  Martha  H.  Wood,   1930 

Sallie  S.  Simons,  1930 
Art — Nancy  Wynne  Parker,  1930 
BUSINESS  STAFF 
Business  Manager,  Sylvia  Alberts,  1929 
Mary  Sayre,  1930  Anna  Dabney,   1930    Mary  Folsom,   1931 

Agnes  Lyall,   1930  Esther  Tow,   1931       Sarah   Pearson,   1931 

Advertising  Manager,  Gertrude   Cohen,   1929 
Assistant  Advertising  Manager,  Lilian  Supove,  1929 
Circulation  Manager,  Ruth  Rose,  1929 


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

October  to  June,  inclusive.    Terms  $2.00  a  year.     Single  copies  25c. 

Subscriptions  may  be  sent  to  Sylvia  Alberts,  12  Fruit  Street,  Northampton. 

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

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EIGHT-O 

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You  will  always  find  our  rates  within 
the  means  of  your  pocketbook.  Giving 
the  same  service  to  everyone,  charging 
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CONTENTS 


Domestic  Relations 


Nancy  Hamilton,  1930        5 


DlAN 


Patty  Wood,  1930     11 


'Tell  Me  Where  All  Past  Years  Are"   Priscilla  Fairchild,  1930     12 


Just  Speak  Easy 


Ruth  Rodney  King,  1929      17 


Shelley  at  Field  Place — 1804 


Sallie  S.  Simons,  1930     21 


Tour 


Ellen  Robinson,  1929     22 


Hair  Pin  Evening 


Patty  Wood,  1930     27 


Five  O'Clock 


Ernestine  Gilbreth,  1929     30 


Book  Reviews: 


"That  poster  reminds  me  ...  a  horseback  scene  like  this  would  make 
a  good  cigarette  advertisement  ..." 

"Sure,  call  it  'Thoroughbreds'  and  it  would  be  perfect  for  Chesterfield!'* 


THEY'RE  MILD 

and  yet  THEY  SATISFY 

#»>2«,  LIGGETT  &  MYERS  TOBACCO  CO. 


Smith  College 
Monthly 


DOMESTIC  RELATIONS 

Nancy  Hamilton 


aT  is  true,  books  and  the  play  work  strong,  sub-cons- 
cious unrest  in  the  minds  of  the  innocent.  Take  my 
mother,  for  example.  When  she  was  younger,  she 
admits  she  read  innumerable  books  of  the  "Elsie  Dinsmore" 
variety,  and  her  father  took  her  regularly  to  the  theatre. 
This  has  had  its  calculated  effect..  Mother  has  grown  up 
with  a  multitude  of  literary  and  dramatic  superstitions,  chief 
among  which  is  the  servant  superstition.  From  all  her 
abandoned  reading  and  play-going,  this  has  insinuated  itself, 
like  a  worm,  into  her  consciousness,  and  that  worm  has  lived 
and  flourished.  Servants  are,  for  mother,  something  feudal 
and  fundamental.  If  she  could  have  had  her  way,  our  serv- 
ants would  have  been  born  and  bred  in  the  ancestral  home 
and  lived  and  died,  dusting  down  stairs  in  the  service  of  their 
lady  bountiful.  I  am  sure  mother  has  always  felt  secretly 
thwarted  that  when  she  was  married  there  was  no  old  nurse 
in  the  bridal  household  to  rush  to  her  side,  crying,  "I  will 
not  leave  darling  little  Miss  Margaret!  From  babyhood 
have  I  cared  for  her.  Her  husband  cannot  part  us !  Where 
she  goes  I  go!"  As  I  say,  mother  never  had  this  comfort, 
and  the  lack  only  served  to  redouble  her  ardor.  Her  one 
matrimonial  ambition  was  to  have  an  "old  family  servant", 
and  in  fulfilling  this  ambition,  she  has  gathered  about  her  a 
collection  of  Lithuanians,  Czechoslovakians,  Welsh,  En- 
glish, Irish  and  Africans,  that  would  stagger  a  character 
less  determined  than  she.     But  let  me  not  be  misleading. 


6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

The  flags  of  all  these  nations  do  not  wave  simultaneously 
from  the  kitchen  rafters.  They  represent  a  scries  of  serv- 
ants, throughout  the  years,  who,  long  since  gone,  still  re- 
turn with  five  children  and  an  offering  of  Saner  Kraut  to  do 
homage  to  their  benefactress.  With  unfailing  regularity, 
on  the  day  that  we  arc-  having  company  for  dinner,  one  of 
the  "old  family  servants"  comes  back  to  spend  the  after- 
noon and  ask  tor  a  twenty  dollar  loan:  and  mother,  still 
cherishing  fondly  the  idyllic  picture  of  a  funeral  procession 
in  which  the  beloved  lady  of  the  house  was  followed  on  foot 
by  all  her  faithful  and  adoring  retainers,  listens  to  their 
family  troubles  and  gives  them  the-  twenty  dollars. 

As  I  look  hack  over  the  passing  of  the  years,  it  seems 
to  me  that  there  was  a  decided  favoritism  shown  to  all  for- 
eigners, and  preferably  those  who  had  been  so  newly  im- 
ported that  "Hello"  and  "Noo  York"  were  their  onlyEng- 
lish  terms  of  approach.  Mother's  interviews  with  the  na- 
tion's most  recent  immigrants  are  memorable  in  the1  annals 
of  the  family.  She  is  at  her  best  at  such  times.  Then  is 
something  soothing  about  the  way  in  which  she1  slowly  and 
gently  forms  the  simple  and  more  elemental  words  of  the 
English  language,  her  flexible  lips  patiently  mouthing  the 
syllables.  Never  does  her  voice1  become  loud  and  harsh.  If 
she  cannot  make  herself  understood  by  careful  articulation, 
she  resorts  to  a  series  of  guttural  sounds,  which,  she  claims. 
is  German  for  "Mow  much  does  it  cost  ?"  and  the  Immigrant 
always  stays. 

The  first  of  these  was  Pauline.  She  came  into  the 
family  before  it  could  properly  he  called  a  family  at  all. — 
that  is  she  served  as  cook  to  the  bridal  couple  and  ushered 
ifi  the  advent  of  my  older  brother.  In  fact,  she  hid  fair  to 
he  an  "old  family  servant",  and  had  not  matrimony  claimed 
her.  some  two  years  after  mother  had  taught  her  to  speak 
English,  she  mighl  well  have  been.  As  it  was.  she1  met  a 
Hungarian  on  one  of  her  "Thursdays  out"  and  nothing 

would  do  hut  that  she  should  marry.  So.  after  tears  and 
well-wishes  and  the  gifl  of  some  table  linen  and  sheets. 
mother  went   one  day,  and  saw    Pauline  marry  her  Toni   in 

a  Hungarian  Catholic  Church.  The  first  "retainer"  had 
departed,  hut  she  was  not  lost  to  us  forever,  for  she  is  the 
ring-leader  in  that  great  gathering  of  continental  peasants 

who  call  on  us  annually  with  the   children  and  Saner  Kraut. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  7 

The  last  time  she  came  she  brought  Stephaine,  Louie  and  two 
chickens  with  her,  and  stayed  five  hours.     She  was  full  of 
little  family  incidents.     "Mrs.  Mami'ton",  she  said,  "I  used 
to  tink  you  vass  so  mean  to  Mr.  Marshall,  ven  he  vass  a 
paby.     You  speak  so  crool  to  him.     Now  I  haf  my  Louie,  I 
shmack  him  tree  times  in  de  face,  he  iss  so  cracy,"  and  a 
vicious,  foreign  light  gleamed   in  her  eyes,  as  she  looked 
over  at  Louie,  idly  throwing  rocks  at  the  flower  pots  on  the 
front  lawn.     She  was  very  troubled,  too,  over  George,  her 
eldest.    "He  iss  in  hospital,  Mrs.  Mami'ton.    His  apprendix 
iss  bat  and  he  haf  opera.     Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  say  any  ting 
wrong,  but  if  any  my  childern  iss  to  die  vy  couldn't  it  be 
Louie,  instead  of  George?     He  iss  so  cracy!"  and  just  then 
there  came  the  noise  of  crashing  pottery  on  the  flagstones 
in  front  of  the  house.    So  mother  listened  to  Pauline's  naive 
brutality,  and  even  subjected  us,  the  children  of  her  heart, 
to  the  influence  of  such  barbarism,  and  all  for  the  sake  of 
the  servant  superstition  strong  within  her.      She  likewise 
contributed  somewhat  to  George's  "apprendix  opera",  and 
last  Christmas  we  were  graced  with  a  picture  of  the  family, 
all  recovered  and  standing  in  filial  devotion  around  Toni, 
who  looked  belligerently  into  the  camera,  from  an  upright 
position  in  a  stiff-back  chair,  a  fat  cigar  in  his  right  hand, 
which  was  resting  delicately  on  his  knee,  his  left  hand  plant- 
ed  firmly   on   Pauline's   shoulder,    which   rose   above   him. 
Pauline  had  written  on  the  back  of  the  picture,  "Der  Mrs. 
Hamiton,  I  trid  to  get  Toni  to  cut  his  mustashs  for  the 
photograph,  but  he  voodent  do  it.    Merry  Christmas,  Paul- 
ine."    Mother  looked  upon  Pauline's  attempt  to  cut  Toni's 
moustaches,  as  a  personal  tribute,  and  speaks  of  her  with 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

When  Pauline  succumbed  to  the  charms  of  her  Toni, 
and  forsook  the  Hamilton  hearth  to  enter  into  the  state  of 
matrimony,  mother  was  forced  to  cast  about  for  a  new 
family  servant,  and  finally  Lucy  Muse  was  hopefully 
brought  home.  Lucy  was  a  well-proportioned  African  of 
comfortable  ways,  and  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  the  idea  of 
a  negro  mammy  teaching  the  children  to  say  "caint"  for 
"can't"  was  an  unquestionable  lure.  Father's  camera  was 
urged  into  action,  and  many  little  family  groups  were 
"snapped",  with  the  children  playing  tag  around  Lucy's 
voluminous  person,  or  hanging  playfully  from  her  apron 


8  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

strings.  When  Marshall  once  told  her  she  was  so  nice  that 
she  was  getting  whiter  every  day.  mother  at  last  put  her 

down  as  the-  family  servant,  and  rejoiced.  Quite  suddenly. 
however,  Lucy  joined  the  Holy  Roller  Church.     Mother 

tried  not  to  let  this  make  any  difference,  hut  when  Lucy 
insisted  upon  making  a  joyful  noise  unto  the  Lord  even  in 
the  home-,  and  when  all  of  us  children,  who  loved  her  so 
devotedly,  followed  her  example  with  frying  pans  and  egg 
beaters,  the  time  had  come  to  discard  Lucy  and  she  left. 

"Nursie"  was  the  next  venture.  "Nursie"  was  an  ancient 
Welch  woman — too  ancient,  1  am  afraid,  ever  to  have  grown 
old  in  the  service,  .Mother  realized  this  when  first  she  saw 
her  in  the  employment  agency,  hut  Nursie  developed  an 
immediate  aft'action  for  mother,  and  such  affection  could 
not  he  rejected,  so  Nursie  was  ultimately  brought  home,  in 
the  hope  that  she  might,  just  possibly,  live  longer  than  at 
the  time  it  appeared  probable,  and  in  the  end,  die  an  "old 
family  servant".  Nursie  was  a  delightful  woman,  who 
swathed  herself  in  a  yellow  woolen  shawl  and  regaled  us 
with  tales  of  her  "separated"  husband.  "lie  used  to  cum 
in  drunk  0 'nights  and  wish  ta  hang  heself,  till  finally  when 
Ld  see  him  cumin'  reelin'  down  the  street  I'd  say  'Hurry  up, 
chuldern.  Git  the  trap.  Ycr  father  wants  ta  hang  heself 
again!'  "  Such  comfortable  anecdotes  only  served  to  streng- 
then the  bond  between  Nursie  and  the  family  until  suddenly, 
one  winter's  evening,  Nursie's  husband  appeared,  an  aged 
but  spirited  old  toper,  and  bore  her  off,  in  what  seemed  to 
ns  a  whirlwind  of  romance.      .Another  hope  frustrated! 

So  the  long  list  grew — Beatrice,  the  Bohemian,  Lydia, 
the  Czechoslovakia!).  Pearl,  the  New  Yorker  and  Delia  who 
ran  off  with  a  married  man.  The  search  still  continued  for 
thai  one  who  was  to  be  the  family  servitor.  Then  Bridget 
came  into  our  lives.  It  was  generally  agreed  when  Bridget 
came  thai  she  would  only  stay  until  we  could  get  some  one 
else,  lor  she  brought  with  her  no  less  than  three  hundred 
pounds  net    weight,  and  a  set   of  whiskers  lhal    would  scare 

,-i  large-sized  policeman  into  a  trance.    Bridget  it  was  agreed. 

was  too  unsightly,  ever  to  be  allowed  to  stay.  Hut  soon  it 
was  discovered  lhal  farm  horses  could  not  drag  Bridgel  from 
the  comfortable  house  she  had  found  for  her  declining  years. 
\\Y  were  an  endowed  institution,  maintained  for  her  sole 
benefit,  and   from   which  she  drew  her  weekly  allowance  to 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  9 

be  handed  over  to  the  church.     Thirteen  years  ago  Bridgel 
came  and  she  is  still  with  ns.     We  can  not  shake  her. 

Every  morning  at  half  past  six  sharp,  her  ponderous  bulk 
thunders  down  the  back  stairs,  and  light  sleepers  are  awak- 
ened by  ominous  crashings  and  rumblings  from  the  nether 
regions  of  the  house.  Every  morning  at  ten  she  raises  her 
piercing,  tuneless  voice  in  ecstatic  song  to  the  canary-bird, 
as  she  scours  the  dining  room,  her  heavy  step  rattling  the 
silver  on  the  sideboard,  and  every  afternoon  without  fail, 
just  at  five,  she  pokes  her  head  into  the  living-room  and 
shouts,  "Tell  yer  mother  she  forgot  the  potatoes,"  and  then 
retires,  wildly  pleased  with  herself,  for  having  reported  the 
lack  just  after  the  stores  have  closed.  She  is  the  demon  in 
our  home.  Everything  must  be  run  according  to  Bridget. 
If  one  wants  guests  for  dinner,  one  consults  Bridget. 
"Bridget,  my  own,  would  it  be  too  much  to  suggest  that 
we  have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  So  and  So  for  the  evening  meal?" 
If  it  is  agreeable,  she  snorts  briefly  and  goes  on  about  her 
work,  but  if  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  the  least  bit  inconvenient 
she  calls  "God"  loudly  several  times,  and  lightly  lays  her 
hand  on  the  carving  knife.  Her  methods  are  crude,  but 
effective.  Under  such  circumstances  we  generally  do  not 
have  guests  for  dinner.  It  is  often  wondered  why  we  keep 
Bridget,  but  we  can  do  nothing  but  keep  her.  She  refuses 
to  leave,  unless  by  force,  and  she  is  a  large  woman. 

Two  summers  ago  we  decided  to  take  Bridget  to  Cana- 
da with  us.  It  was  a  bold  step,  but  she  would  not  be  left 
at  home,  so  at  last  we  risked  the  consequences  and  said  she 
might  come.  When  the  day  appointed  for  the  journey  was 
at  hand,  Bridget  put  on  a  large,  well-modelled  corset,  a  blue 
serge  suit  of  unknown  vintage,  with  a  sailor  collar  attached, 
and  a  cartwheel  hat  of  black  straw,  with  a  white  lily  on  one 
side.  It  was  evident  that  this  was  a  great  occasion  for  her. 
A  razor  had  essayed  the  arduous  task  of  removing  some  of 
the  whiskers,  but  it  had  failed,  and  left  behind  a  patchwork 
effect,  startling,  and  unique.  Her  suitcase — a  large  wicker 
box — was  Bulging  with  some  mysterious  and  speculative 
contents  and  one  stocking,  just  above  her  high  black  ground 
grippers,  was  swelled  out  like  an  apple,  where  her  money- 
roll  stretched  it.  As  we  waited  at  the  station  for  the  train 
Bridget  began  to  show  signs  of  weakness.  She  panted  up 
to  mother,  drew  her  aside  and  said  in  a  gruff,  terrified  voice. 


10  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

"They  tell  me  there's  aothin1  but  tissue  paper  between  the 
berths!"  Mother  tried  to  explain  the  technique  of  sleeping- 
cars,  ending  with  a  comforting  word  about  the  colored  porter 
who  would  fix  her  berth  for  her.  As  the  engine  steamed  in- 
to the-  station.  Bridget  shouted.  "The  further  that  nigger 
stays  irom  me  the  better  fer  himself!"  with  which  hostile 
threat  she  was  pushed  and  shoved  into  the  train.  We  scarce- 
ly dared  leave  her  to  work  out  her  destiny  with  the  porter, 
hut  having  seen  her  into  her  berth  we  could  do  little  more 
than  pay  the  unfortunate'  darky  to  keep  his  distance.  It  was 
a  long,  hot  journey.  When,  in  the  morning,  we  came  hack 
for  her,  she  was  sitting  just  as  we  had  left  her,  with  her  coal 
still  tightly  fastened  over  her  ample  bosom,  and  her  hat  a 
trifle  askew.  "Give  me  air!"  she  shouted  so  that  all  the  car 
might  hear  and  he-  frightened,  and  plunging  blindly,  like 
stampeding  cattle,  she  flew  for  the  platform. 

This  was.  needless  te>  state,  a  performance  which  none 
of  the  family,  much  less  Bridget,  cared  to  repeat,  hut  toward 
the-  end  of  the  summer  the  inevitable  question  arose,  how  to 
<4et  the-  coe>k  home?  There  was  some'  talk  of  shipping  her. 
and  not  a  little  of  drowning  her.  hut  Bridget  finally  solved 
the  problem  herself,  by  declaring  that  she'  would  go  he)ine' 
in  the-  day  coach,  where  a  body  could  breath  if  it  wanted  to. 
This  seemed  the'  besi  solution  possible,  so  having  drilled  her 
for  weeks  on  what  to  say  to  the  customs  men  at  the  border, 
and  how  to  acquire  a  respectful,  submissive  attitude  toward 
them,  when  they  wanted  to  inspect  her  luggage,  we  put  her 
oil  the-  day  coach,  with  an  unspoken  farewell  and  tremulous 
prayers.  The  next  morning,  with  bate'el  breath,  we  weni 
through  the'  coaches,  and  there'  sitting  triumphant  and  men- 
acing, her  feet  firmly  planted  on  her  wicker  box.  was 
Bridget.  "Did  you  sleep  we'll.  Bridget?"  we'  asked  in  a 
chorus.  "T  did  not!"  she'  cried,  "it  was  air  T  Mas  after  and 
I  gol  that!"  "And  did  you  open  up  your  bag  for  the  cus- 
toms?" "Sartinly  not!  The  man  came  around  and  says 
'What  did  ye  gel  up  in  Canada?1  and  T  says  'nothin'  but  a 
lot  of  hard  work.'  and  he'  says  'you're  exempt.'  Bui  there 
was  one  pool-  uirl  caught  fer  smugglin'  in  eighteen  dollars 
worth  of  diamonds!  \iver  again  to  Canada  fe>r  me'!  There's 
nothin1  to  do  unless  you  sink  a  boat,  and  nothin'  to  see  unless 
von  climb  a  tree!"  And  the'  thought  of  the  tree-  with  Bridget 
in  it.  has  so  unnerved  us.  that  we  have  never  re'turned! 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  11 

So  Bridget  rules  the  home.  She  is  as  much  a  part  of  us  as 
Peggy,  my  }roung  sister,  with  whom  she  arrived  simultan- 
eously, and  she  rules  with  a  rod  of  iron.  Guests  at  our 
table  are  often  startled  into  fasting  by  a  shrill  cry  from  the 
kitchen,  "God!  why  don't  they  hurry  up  in  there!  Ye'd 
think  I  had  all  night  to  wash  the  dishes!"  and  leaning  across 
the  beautiful  damask,  we  children  explain  gently  "Oh,  yes, 
that's  our  faithful  old  family  retainer.  She's  been  with  us 
thirteen  years,  and  wouldn't  leave  if  you  bribed  her!  Isn't 
she  a  dear!" 


DIAN 

Patty  Wood 


The  memory  of  brightnesses  extinguished; 

Exultings  frozen  perfect  at  their  height, 

And  cooled  to  marble  warmth  as  sculptured  things; 

The  captured  whisperings  of  evening,  strung 

Upon  a  thousand  strings ;  and  corners  of 

The  sun  remembered;  laughter  undefined; 

The  depths  of  emerald  waters ;  tragedy 

Reborn  from  burial  in  fragrant  years. 

Incarnate  of  such  things,  your  beauty,  and 
It  speaks  to  me  of  them,  thru  them ;  it  binds 
A  cord  of  swiftly-twisted  strength  from  them, 
That  reaches  out,  and  winds,  and  coils,  and  ties 
Me,  with  its  deep  and  perilous  power,  to  you. 


» 


12  The  Smith  College  MonVhly 


"TELL  ME  WHERE  ALL  PAST  YKAKS  ARE" 
Prisciu  a  S.   Fairchiid 


E 


ER  hand  shivered  upon  a  tabic,  palm  pressed  againsl 
the  grain,  fingers  wavering  delicately,   fantastically, 

^Tiffd  like-  fronds  of  sea-plants  o\ crw  he  line  (1  in  the  current. 
A  ray  of  sunlight  plunged  ninety  million  miles  to  strike  her 
between  the  breasts  and  impak  her  on  a  background  of  long- 
legged,  pink-billed  birds.  She  sat  relaxed,  her  pupils  ex- 
panded to  a  fantastic  size,  hollow  and  dark  as  the  entrano 
to  a  cave.  A  chain  out  of  the  past  had  wrapped  its  dragging 
links  about  her  and  swept  her  away. 

She  became  suddenly  an  abandoned  city,  the  rubble  of 
an  autumn  field,  a  house  deserted.  The  indrawn  sag  of  her 
nostrils  emphasized  a  garden  faintly  crumpled  by  neglect, 
where  weeds  blurred  the  edges  of  the  flower  beds.  Win- 
dows, black  empty  horrors,  looked  out  on  a  walled  garden, 
where  the  sun  flung  itself  on  geranium-colored  bricks.  Fruit 
had  ripened  and  rotted  here,  leaving  a  sweet  smell  of  decay, 
and  the  buzzing  of  wasps.  No  longer  trained  in  pyramid 
shapes  the  trees  sprawled,  heat-soaked  and  indolent,  and  the 
fountain,  drugged  wit li  neglect,  slithered  over  its  pedestal  in 
a  slimy  track. 

An  accumulation  of  years  tilled  the  house  with  sod- 
den relies.  Silver,  worn  paper-thin  by  many  hands,  tarn- 
ished in  the  warped  side-boards,  while  long  ago  the  crystal 
drops  of  the  lamps  had  dashed  themselves  to  a  leap  of  bril- 
liant splinters  on  the  floor. 

On  the  broad  shallow  steps  ghosts  passed  each  other  in 
a  curious  intermingling.  The  hands  of  one  melted  without 
definition  into  the  body  of  another. and  from  their  union 
appeared  the  head  of  a  third.  Their  feel  left  no  track  on 
the  dust  of  floor  bu1  their  shoulders  whispered  againsl  the 
wall-paper,  whose  languid  population  mocked  their  trans- 
parency. Blue  and  while  plates  on  the  dresser  reflected  a 
paleness  as  they  passed.  Dulled  pewter  glowered  at  them 
over  the  hearth.     Brass  leered  ironically  under  a  pfreen  pa- 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  13 

tina  of  age.  Their  coming  troubled  not  at  all  the  trembling 
gilt  Hakes  on  a  Venetian  Mirror,  in  the  deep-sea  surface  of 
which  appeared  only  their  eyes,  cold  and  desireless.  Hands 
wavered  over  the  maple  chairs  in  white  streaks  of  under- 
water light.  Old  books  exhaled  a  mustiness  for  their  breath- 
ing. White  ashes  nourished  them  and  dust  comforted  their 
senses. 

She  was  the  house,  and  the  objects  in  the  house,  and 
those  who  inhabited  it.  She  was  the  crumpled  skin  of  the 
outside  wall,  and  the  broken  brick  in  the  fire-place.  Each 
ghost  contained  some  part  of  her,  and  all  of  them  were  con- 
tained in  her.  As  house  she  watched  the  ghosts  moving 
within  her.  As  ghost  she  saw  the  house,  the  shell  of  her 
being,  and  the  other  ghosts,  sharers  in  her  existence. 

The  picture  that  blackened  on  the  wall,  the  lawn  glitter- 
ing with  mist,  the  slow  crumpling  to  shreds  of  leather  and 
silk  and  wrool,  were  the  tearing  to  pieces  of  her  present  life. 
Changes  occurred,  new  pictures  came,  after  a  little  they 
rotted  with  mildew  on  the  walls,  but  no  old  figure  ever  dis- 
appeared, nothing  disintegrated  so  completely  that  its  dust 
was  not  to  be  discerned  overlying  new  additions  and  sifting 
through  the  house.  New  shadows  wandered  dowrn  the  halls, 
ceaselessly,  silently,  pausing  to  look  at  a  table,  a  chair,  a  ban- 
jo clock,  fingering  imperceptibly  the  leaves  of  a  book.  Never 
speaking,  nor  yet  quite  soundless,  their  whispering  silence 
shivered  through  the  cob-webbed  rooms,  echoed  the  tap- 
tap  of  branches  stumbling  over  the  window-panes,  the  stut- 
tering of  rain  in  the  leaky  gutters,  the  rasp  of  leaves  shuf- 
fling over  the  floor. 

She  relived  herself  by  living  in  turn  the  life  of  each 
ghost  in  the  house.  That  one  in  which  she  existed  took  on 
for  the  time  a  reflected  light,  an  imitation,  a  mockery  of  the 
past,  which  however  cast  a  pale  gleam  over  the  house.  She 
was  possessed  by  the  creature  in  which  she  lived,  and  which 
lived  in  her.  Haunted,  rapt,  she  moved  like  a  sleep-walker 
through  the  rooms  and  about  the  country-side. 

Sometimes  she  walked  on  a  road  by  the  edge  of  the  sea. 
Tall  rank  grass  grew  up  on  each  side,  and  about  its  roots 
she  could  see  crabs  and  snails  scuttling  in  the  shallow  roots. 
A  white  fog  blurred  the  limits  of  the  farther  islands  magni- 
fying the  rim  of  the  trees.  The  world  closed  down  to  the 
circle  in  which  she  moved;  existence  narrowed  to  the  print 


14  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

of  her  heels  in  the  sand,  filling  with  water  after  she  passed. 
Her  feet  rasped  on  the  pebbles,  carving  a  hollow  out  of  the 
booming  silence.  A  row  of  deserted  bathing-shacks,  dirty- 
gray  and  white,  in  creaking  proof  of  desolation  Happed  their 
doors  emptily.  Completely  alone,  in  a  naked  blind  world, 
the  physical  desolation  emphasized  her  feeling  of  the  spirit- 
ual loneliness  of  men.  The  log  about  her  grew  alive  with 
men  and  women,  eyeless  and  dumb,  who  groped  for  each 
other  and  found  a  hollow  sea-shell,  who  grasped  at  perfec- 
tion and  threw  it  away  for  a  handful  of  sand.  Across  the 
incredible  distances  of  their  isolation  they  reached  out  their 
arms,  but  not  even  the  tips  of  their  fingers  met.  She  saw 
lovers  lying  body  to  body  and  mouth  to  mouth  who  knew  not 
that  they  stood  isolated  on  pinnacles  a  million  miles  apart,  so 
that  even  the  gnat-like  wailing  of  their  calls  disappeared  in 
the  void  between  them. 

She  flung  out  her  arms  with  a  violent  resolution  to  be 
completely  at  one  with  some  one,  so  as  to  confound  and 
refute  this  hell  of  loneliness  and  isolation.  Fire  would 
mingle  with  fire,  eating  away  the  log  out  of  the  plains.  The 
mountains  would  bow  their  heads  and  the  pinnacles  come 
together.     Union  complete  and  absolute  would  be  achieved. 

For  a  long  time  that  day  she  ran  down  the  beach,  with 
the  salt  wind  dragging  at  her  hair,  the  coldness  struggling 
lor  her  body.  She  exulted  proudly  in  the  flame  that  kept 
her  joined  with  the  lonely  air,  that  would  ultimately  give 
her  complete  unification. 

As  other  ghosts  she  slipped  from  place  to  place  through- 
out the  house,  peered  through  the  tattered  curtains,  until 
each  room  she  visited  sprang  into  vivid  relief,  renewing  its 
life  with  the  glowing  intensity  of  freshly-fanned  coals.  In 
one  small  room  the  air  smelled  lavishly  of  ilowers.  and  be- 
yond the  windows  a  noisy  summer  rain  splattered  the  lawn. 
Across  from  her  sitting  in  a  low  chair,  a  man  plaited  a  piece 
of  grass  through  his  fingers,  under  and  over,  over  and  under. 
1 1  was  green,  she  noticed,  and  his  hand  shook  a  little.  "That's 

all,"  he  was  saying,  "that's  all  that  happened."  He  laughed 
abruptly,  and  rose,  leaving  the  room  quite  still,  for  the  rain 
thumping  on  the  panes  mattered  not  at  all.    The  spear  of 

grass  lay  on  the  floor,  claiming  her  minutest  and  most  pro- 
found attention.  "Two  inches  from  the  third  brick  on  the 
left,"  she  thought,  knowing  that   he  had  gone,  but   refusing 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  15 

to  consider  that  his  departure  affected  anything  but  the  posi- 
tion of  the  grass  blade.  Footsteps  clashed  across  the  gravel. 
Her  eyes  left  the  floor  although  a  cold  ring  of  steel  clamped 
its  way  inevitably  around  her  heart.  The  silence,  thick  and 
heavy,  clung  like  fog  to  the  furniture. 

The  shower  stopped  soon,  and  rays  refracted  from  rain- 
drops struck  their  way  into  the  room.  Dully  she  leaned 
over  and  placed  one  hand  on  the  floor.  "And  four  inches 
on  the  right,"  she  said  aloud,  and  the  sound  of  her  voice 
boomed  hoarsely,  with  the  unnatural  croaking  of  words 
spoken  alone.  Her  nails  screamed  over  the  boards  as  she 
dragged  her  hand  back,  quick  as  a  snake.  The  muscles  of 
her  body  contracted  and  she  cried  out  on  a  cracking  note. 
After  the  echoes  fell  flatly  away,  waves  of  silence  beat  back 
into  the  room,lapping  over  the  chair  in  which  she  sat,  look- 
ing stupidly  at  her  fingers,  which  were  bleeding  a  little  on 
the  tips. 

That  person  slid  imperceptibly  back  to  nothingness, 
the  outlines  blurring  and  wavering,  the  fire  dying,  until  she 
resumed  the  appearance  of  a  pane  of  grey  glass,  bearing  a 
faint  reflection. 

From  ghost  to  ghost  she  passed  in  a  succession  not 
logical  but  irrelevant,  governed  by  no  desire  but  erratic  and 
involuntary,  as  they  sifted  by  each  other  throughout  the 
house  with  a  vague  unregretful  murmur. 

Once  she  lay  in  a  room  whose  corners  a  light  from  out- 
side, filtering  through  the  trees,  partly  suggested.  The  in- 
definiteness  of  its  size  impressed  her  with  a  slight  and  very 
tired  dismay,  for  the  walls  floated  away  as  she  raised  her 
eyes,  and  the  ceiling,  now  concave,  now  convex,  soared 
cloud-like  over  her  head.  Half- waking  from  a  restless  sleep 
she  felt  extraordinarily  light,  and  yet  as  heavy  as  iron  in 
the  bed.  Time  lost  all  significance.  A  minute  awake  be- 
came that  long  period  of  eternity  when  the  world  swings 
in  its  orbit  with  the  heavy  roll  of  a  log  in  the  trough  of  the 
waves,  an  hour  disappeared  in  the  brief  clutch  of  an  indrawn 
breath. 

As  a  magician  possesses  a  seed  capable  of  springing  in 
an  instant  to  a  stalk,  a  flower,  a  fruit,  only  to  rot  and  dis- 
appear, so  a  moment  of  that  night  carried  embodied  in  it- 
self the  essence  of  the  time-span,  the  terrible  antiquity  of 
the  dark  itself. 


J  6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

She  lay  trance-like,  unable  to  move  or  even  to  recog- 
nize the  presence  of  her  body,  while  past  her  hurried  the 

hours,  their  black  wings  beating  the  air  with  the  noise  of 
roaring  torrents,  with  the  stillness  of  furred  night-moths. 
In  their  swiftness,  in  their  insatiable  rapidity,  she  drew  but 
one  breath,  experienced  hut  one  passing  flicker  of  an  emo- 
tion, lived  one  impossibly  brief  second,  tor  the  space  be- 
tween midnight  and  dawn  passed  as  swiftly  as  the  wrinkling 
<»i  a  smile  in  the  outer  corners  of  the  eyes. 

She  heard  the  cock  crow  two  distinct  and  chuckling 
notes  at  dawn.  Between  each  note  she  lived  again  and 
again.  Not  dying  she  passed  from  existence  to  existence 
and  the  years  flowed  by  like  water,  swift  and  silent,  al- 
though they  were-  held  inescapably  in  the  acorn-cup  of  an 
instant  between  two  crowings  of  the  cock.  Her  thoughts 
spun  round  like  a  wheel,  now  one,  now  another  coming  to 
the  surface,  tangling  themselves  with  her  emotions  into  an 
intricate  pattern. 

For  a  long  time  she  lived  in  the  memory  of  that  night. 
Its  ghost  pursued  her  down  the  corridors,  to  lay  a  remind- 
ing hand  like  a  feather  of  mist  on  her  arm.  to  wind  shadow- 
tentacles  about  her  heart.  Hut  the  dust  continued  to  gather 
on  the  house,  shutters  clattered  in  the  wind,  the  paint  peeled 
and  l'otted.  Stones  crumhled  off  the  terrace  onto  the  lawn. 
and  under  them  the  grass  grew  yellowed,  flattened,  and  wet. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  17 


JUST  SPEAK  EASY 
Ruth  R.  King 


m 


E  walked  down  East  Fifty-Sixth  street,  trying  not  to 
look  as  though  we  didn't  know  which  brown-stone 
front  was  the  one  we  wanted. 

"Twenty  is  the  number,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  I'm  positive  about  that." 

As  we  passed  each  house  we  looked  furtively  at  the 
numbers  on  the  vestibule. 

Sixteen,  eighteen — 

"It's  the  next  one,"  I  whispered. 

We  looked  up  and  saw  "Restaurant"  written  in  gold 
letters  on  the  door.  I  gave  him  a  dig,  and  walked  up  the 
steps  firmly.  He  opened  the  door  for  me,  and  we  were  in. 
From  the  door  it  was  rather  hard  to  see  the  restaurant  be- 
cause of  the  profusion  of  potted  ferns  and  palms  wThich 
made  a  wall  of  green,  so  that  to  enter  the  room  one  had  to 
walk  past  these  and  around  in  again. 

The  room  was  typical  of  the  rooms  in  all  residential 
brown-stone  fronts.  It  had  two  long  windows  on  the  street, 
and  a  very  high  ceiling  with  an  elaborate  chandelier  grow- 
ing like  an  inverted  mushroom  from  it.  But  the  room  was 
so  large  that  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  a  wall  had  been 
knocked  out,  throwing  two  rooms  into  one.  It  was  very 
quiet.  The  small  tables  against  the  walls  held  two  or  three 
diners,  or  were  empty.     A  maitre  d'hotel  came  up. 

"Two?  Right  here,  Madame."  He  pulled  out  my 
chair.  John  relinquished  his  coat,  and  sat  down  facing  me, 
a  self-conscious  smile  on  his  face.  "Would  you  care  for  a 
cigarette?"  proffering  me  his  silver  case.  He  was  so  cour- 
teous and  deliberate  that  I  knew  he  was  nervous.  I  laughed 
and  he  kicked  me,  under  the  table.  A  waiter  came  up,  pad 
in  hand.     John  blew  out  a  match  and  looked  up  carelessly. 

"Could  we  have — "  the  sentence  faded  out  and  John 
raised  one  eyebrow  significantly.  The  waiter  became  all 
apologies. 


18  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

"Menus!  Certainly,  sir.  One  moment,  sir.  I  fought 
1  seen  you  had  menus."    He  hurried  oil'. 

1  laughed  aloud  and  .John  looked  darkly  at  me. 
"All  right,"  he  said.     "I'll  show  you." 

The  waiter  came  hark  with  the  menus. 

"What's  good  today"  I  asked,  casually  familiar. 
"Try  the  znocchi,  miss.   \cr"  good.     Artichoke  all-so, 
vcrr'  nize." 

"Znocchi  are  those  awful  pasty  little  '  I  began,  but 
John  trod  heavily  on  my  foot,  and  taking  the  conversation 
to  himself  as  a  man  picks  up  a.  distasteful  burden,  leaned 
hack  in  his  chair  and  said  firmly.  "We  will  have  znocchi, 
some  salad,  plain,  and  Tor  dessert — well,  we'll  order  that 
later." 

The  waiter,  writing  briskly  on  his  pad.  turned  away, 
hut  John  stopped  him.  and  i>ivm.U'  nie  a  long  look,  drew  the 
waiter  near  him.  and  breathed  huskily  in  his  car.  "Could 
we  have  some,  uh — some,  uh — \\ rine?" 

It  was  out.  In  a  sudden  heat  of  self-consciousness  I 
started  to  look  on  the  floor  for  something  I  might  have 
dropped.     John  ashed  his  cigarette  on  the  white  tablecloth. 

The  waiter  vanished,  but  reappeared  almost  instantly 
with  the  maitre  d'hotel,  who  bent  discreetly  over  my  bro- 
ther and  murmured.  "What  is  your  name,  monsieur?" 

John  had  been  preparing  for  this  test  but  I  saw  the  lie 
freeze  on  his  lips. 

"Gordoir",  he  said  miserably.  "G-o-r-d-o-n." 

Knowing  that  this  would  be  completely  inadequate  he 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  blurted.  "Tve  been  here  quite 
often  with  M\\  Hoss.  I  thought — perhaps  you'd  remem- 
ber me."  The  name  Hoss  seemed  to  be  all  that  was  neces- 
sary.    The  maitre  d'hotel  smiled  and  bowed. 

"Oh  yes,  of  course,  of  couse.  You  would  like  wine. 
Monsieur?    l\ed  wine  or  white?" 

"Red",  said  John  happily,  and  kissed  his  hand  at  the 
hacks  of  the  depart  ing  waiters. 

"Whal  did  I  tell  you"  he  began.  "It's  easy.  Absolute- 
ly nothing  to  it.     All  I  had  to  do  was  to  tell  him  my  name 

'J  hope  this  red  wine  of  yours  will  be  Chianti,"  I  in- 
terrupted. "And  I  do  wish  We  didn't  have  to  eat  those  hor- 
rible lit  t  le  znocchi !" 

"Oh.  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  we  cat — " 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  19 

"Oh  doesn't  it?  Well,  why  don't  you  get  cocktails  and 
highballs  and  things."  I  have  always  loathed  znocchi. 

"Oh  Lord,  we  should  have  had  cocktails,  do  you  know 
it?  Well,  we'll  get  some  Martinis  with  absinthe  for  des- 
sert."    The  order  of  things  never  has  bothered  John. 

The  lunch,  despite  everything,  was  delicious.  John 
and  I  grew  happier  under  the  influence  of  the  red  Chianti 
which  the  waiter  poured  from  a  straw  covered  bottle.  We 
noticed  that  the  handful  of  other  diners  was  composed  most- 
ly of  elderly  gentlemen,  and  on  only  one  table  did  we  see 
anything  but  water.  The  quiet  calm  of  the  room,  the  wait- 
ers, the  diners,  and  the  complete  gentility  of  the  atmosphere 
struck  us  as  curiously  incongruous,  and  at  the  same  time 
delightfully  consistent,  with  that  form  of  law-breaking  which 
had  made  this  restaurant  known  to  us.  "Of  course,"  said 
John  grandly,  "I  should  like  a  highball,  but  as  long  as  we 
are  going  to  have  those  Martinis,  you'd  better  not  have  any- 
thing more.    You  can't  hold  a  thing,  you  know." 

I  laughed  at  him  as  though  he  had  said  something  amus- 
ing.    But  after  John  had  said  to  the  wraiter: 

"We'll  dispense  with  dessert,  please.  And  bring  us 
two  Martinis  with  absinthe"  I  found  everything  amusing. 
The  Martinis  tasted  rather  badly  and  John  assured  me, 
with  delighted  wickedness,  that  they  had  "a  kick  like  a 
mule."  When  my  glass  was  half  empty  I  felt  deliciously 
airy  and  vague,  and  John's  forehead  became  quite  rosy.  We 
grew  extremely  silly  and  laughed  inordinately  at  everything. 
The  waiter  looked  like  a  beagle;  the  room  was  like  a  plant 
house:  we  were  fried;  the  znocchi  had  tasted  like  fish-bait; 
the  room  was  hot  as  hell;  we  were  fried.  "Xo,  we  aren't 
really  fried.  As  soon  as  we  get  out  doors  this'll  all  go." 
John  solemnly  lit  a  cigarette  and  solemnly  blew  out  the 
match.     Everything  was  funny. 

I  took  another  swallow  of  the  Martini.  It  was  coldly 
sweet  in  my  mouth,  with  an  under-taste  so  bitter  that  I  gave 
an  involuntary  shudder  as  it  burned  down  my  throat  and 
flamed  inside  me.  My  head  grew  suddenly  so  heavy  that 
I  had  to  support  it  on  my  hand,  and  my  body  ceased  to  be- 
long to  me.  John,  with  a  naughty  chuckle,  emptied  his 
glass,  giving  his  head  a  little  shake  after  the  last  swallow. 

"Got  a  kick  like  a  mule,". he  grinned. 


20  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

"Isn't  it  too  awful?  I'm  fried!"  I  laughed  at  him,  my 
eyes  half-closed  in  delicious  languor. 

"Conic  on,  old  bean.  A  little  fresh  air.  you  know, 
and  all  that." 

'All  right.     I'll  sit  lure  while  you  gel  your  coat." 

Feeling  very  uncertain  of  myself.  1  was  afraid  to  stand 
up.  hut  1  found  I  could  walk  perfectly  on  feet  that  had  no 
sensation  whatsoever.  John  took  my  arm  as  we  walked 
down  the  steps,  and  strolled  up  the  street. 

"This  is  the  most  divine  feeling,"  1  said. 

"You  look  happy,"  said  the  sobered  John.  He  steered 
me  around  the  corner,  into  the  bright  sunlight  that  Hooded 
Fifth  Ave.  I  still  found  it  hard  to  keep  my  eyes  open,  and 
I  smiled  happily  into  the  haze  of  people,  shop  windows,  and 
sunlight.     I  felt  a  sudden  pull  on  my  arm  from  John. 

"Hey,  snap  to,"  he  said.  "There's  Pete." 

He  propelled  me  toward  Pete.  We  gathered  on  the 
corner  of  Fifty-fifth  Street.  Pete  seemed  to  have  friends 
with  him.     We  were  introduced. 

"You  remember  my  sister.  Pete?" 

"Absolutely.  How  are  you  ?  Do  you  know  Miss  Gor- 
don, Mr. — ;  Mr. — ."  I  didn't  get  their  names  hut  I  didn't 
care.  "This  is  Gordon,  Joe,  Bill,  you  remember  John." 
There  was  a  splendid  confusion  of  cheery  young  men,  incon- 
sequential chatter,  laughter,  and  dazzling  sunlight.  I  heard 
someone  say  to  John: 

"No  kidding?  Listen  Pve  heard  of  it.  Around  here. 
isn't  it?  What's  the  number?"  "Twenty  Fast  Fifty-sixth" 
said  John.  "It's  a  cinch.  Just  go  in  and  say  you  know  me 
or  Ross.    Easy,  you  know.    Never  saw  anything  so  easy." 

I  was  dropped  from  the  conversation,  which  centered 
earnestly  ahout  John.  Soon  with  much  handshaking  and 
hand  heads  they  left  us,  and  we  continued  down  Fifth  Ave. 
which  had  grown  more  distinct  and  normal  to  mv  eves. 

"What  did  I  tell  you!"'  said  John.  "Wasn't  it  easy" 
If  you  know  how,  I  mean." 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  21 


SHELLEY  AT  FIELD  PLACE— 1804 

Sallie  S.  Simons 


Look! 

Do  you  see  the  rain- driven  wind 

Riding  the  trees  down? 

It  has  unloosed  the  horned  moon 

And  blown  it  free  of  the  sky. 

That's  why  it  is  dark  in  here,-- 

The  candle  gives  no  light,-- 

It  is  dark,  dark,  I  say! 

And  listen ! 

Do  you  hear  the  gray  step  on  the  ceiling? 

H's  an  arch-fiend  the  alchemist, 

Who  lives  on  shreds  of  brocade  in  the  attic. 

His  name  is  Cornelius  Agrippa, 

And  he  covets  the  silver  shining  raindrops. 

There!  He  has  shattered  his  lantern 

Against  the  rafters, 

And  moans  in  the  dust  and  dark. 


K  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


TOUB 

Ellen   Robinson 


f^TjlIK  sun  pushes  up  over  the  horizon  like  the  suns  on 
|vl/|  picture  post-cards.    It  is  the  proper  time-  lor  all  correct 

|  small  birds  to  twitter  in  their  soft  nests  high  in  the 
swaying  trees,  hut  if  there  is  any  such  romantic  expression 
on  their  part,  it  is  lost  in  the  early  morning  preparations  of 
the  Hoggs  family.  Mr.  Hoggs  lias  brought  the  car  around 
to  the  side  entrance  and  Mrs.  Hoggs  and  the  three  children 
are  Sling  out  to  it  at  intervals,  depositing  great  armfuls  of 
bundles  and  a  number  of  suit-cases.  The  ability  to  pile  these 
in  and  about  the  car  so  that  the  Boggses  themselves  may 
eventually  find  room,  if  not  comfort,  LS  a  true  science,  but 
one  which  they  have  studied  for  many  years.  .Mr.  Hoggs  is 
Strapping  three  suit-cases  and  a  golf-bag  on  the  running- 
board  :  Ik  stops  grunting  for  a  moment  and  stands  upright. 

"HOW  many  times  must  I  tell  you  children  not  to  get  the 
car  all  scratched  up!" 

.Mrs.  Hoggs  appears  at  the  side  door  with  a  box  of  as- 
pirin and  a  bottle  of  aromatic  ammonia.  "Sam,  will  you  put 
these  in  the  right  front  pocket.  Yes.  I  know  you  think  it's 
silly,  but  I  won't 'feel  safe.  And  tell  the  children  to  come  in 
to  breakfast." 

Breakfasl  is  a  gloomy  meal;  everyone  feels  a  little  ill. 
Julia  the  cook  kicks  the  swinging-door  as  she  goes  out  for  the 
coffee.  Mrs.  Hoggs  whispers  to  her  husband:  "She  goes 
around  looking  like  a  thunder-cloud.  Til  be  glad  to  get 
away  from  her  for  a  little  while.  And  I  am  going  to  put 
my  fool  down  on  a  few  things  when  we  get  back  in  Septem- 
ber. 

Mr.   BoggS  nods  patiently;  he  is  studying  a   road-map. 

making  long  computations  in  a  little  note-book.  He  breaks 
forth  suddenly.  "Yes,  ['think  we'll  make  it  about  twenty 
a  fter  three." 

Molly,  the  youngesl .  reaches  for  the  bul  ter  and  somehow 
pushes  a  grape-skin  on  to  the  sleeve  of  .Jo's  coat ;  he  is  sixteen. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  23 

He  jumps  up  as  though  she  had  stabbed  him  and  begins  to 
brush  the  spot  carefully,  glaring  at  her  silently.  Dot,  the 
oldest,  speaks  suddenly,  "Oh!  what  did  we  do  with  the  bath- 
ing suits?" 

The  other  two  join  in.  "We've  got  to  have  a  swim  to- 
night.   Can't  we,  Mother?" 

Mr.  Boggs  snorts.  "I'm  not  going  to  have  all  that  stuff 
left  in  that  ear  all  night.  Every  one  of  you  has  to  turn  in  and 
help  un-paek.    As  soon  as  we  get  to  the  lake." 

"But  after  that.  Please,  Mother!" 

"Ask  your  father." 

"Dad!" 

"Oh.  .  .just  as  your  mother  says!" 

"All  right.  Here,  take  my  keys  and  go  up  and  get  them 
out  of  the  big  trunk  in  my  room."  The  three  race  up-stairs, 
Jo  keeping  a  little  behind.  Mrs.  Boggs  calls  after  them,  "Be 
sure  you  all  drink  another  glass  of  milk  before  wre  leave.  I 
don't  want  to  leave  a  thing  in  the  refrigerator."  Julia  stamps 
in  and  slams  down  a  plate  of  toast. 

Dot  calls  from  the  stairs,  "Where's  Percy?" 

"Yes,  where  is  he?  Where  is  he?  He  hasn't  been  any- 
where around  all  this  time." 

Jo  goes  to  the  door  and  calls,  "Here,  Percy.  Here, 
Percy,  Percy."  His  voice  breaks  in  the  middle  of  each  word. 
Molly  squirms  into  the  door- way  beside  him. 

"There  he  is,  Jo.  Jumped  into  the  car  all  by  himself." 

"He's  so  afraid  of  being  left.  Isn't  that  cute!"  Dot  taps 
on  the  window  with  her  finger-nail.  An  enormous  airedale 
sitting  in  the  car  turns  and  looks  at  her  appealingly,  brushing 
his  club-like  tail  along  the  seat. 

At  five-thirty  they  begin  to  get  into  the  car,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Boggs  in  front,  and  Molly  and  Jo  in  back  with  Percy — 
and  a  small  space  left  for  Dot. 

"Where's  Dot?" 

Jo  sniffs  and  crosses  his  legs.  "We  always  have  to  wait 
for  her.  Was  she  ever  ready?  That's  just  the  way  they  are! 
These  women!" 

Mr.  Boggs  folds  up  the  road  map.  "It  really  seems  to 
me,  Margaret,  that  you  could  have  had  the  children  ready.  I 
simply  can't  do  everything,  with  all  this  driving  before  me." 
Mrs.  Boggs  attempts  to  shrivel  him  with  a  look,  but  he  is  again 
busy  with  the  little  note-book,  occasionally  blowing  the  horn 


24  ...  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

for  Dot.  She  at  last  appears,  carrying  a  large  leather-cov- 
ered ledger,  a  messy  sheaf  of  papers,  and  five  or  six  hooks. 

"You  don't  want  all  those.  Dot?" 

"Yes,  1  do.  Mother.  How  ran  1  write  my  novel  un- 
less... " 

"Then  why  didn't  you  put  them  in  the  trunk?" 

"Hut  I  have  to  have  them  to-morrow.  I  feel  that  I'm 
going  to  start  writing  again  right  away.  You  can't  suppress 
Art  in  trunks  and  things.  Art  is  forever.  . ." 

"Blah,"  exploded  Jo." 

"Hut,  Dot,  there  isn't  any  room!" 

"Oh.  don't  worry  about  that.  1  don't  mind  sitting  on 
them;' 

They  hack  slowly  out  of  the  yard.  Julia  waves  a  gloomy 
farewell  from  the  dining-room  window.  The  sun  has  risen 
with  a  great,  impersonal  beauty;  no  one  notices  it.  The  car 
turns  the  corner  and  is  gone. 

But  in  ten  minutes  it  stops  in  front  of  the  house.  Julia 
stalks  out  to  it  with  a  thermos  bottle  and  a  box  of  dog-bis- 
cuits. Mr.  Hoggs  is  impersonating  any  number  of  early  Chris- 
tian martyrs  as  they  start  oil'  again.  Julia  stands  at  the 
curb,  her  arms  folded  in  front  of  her.  No  one  waves. 

II 
The  Boggs  have  lost  the  road,  though  Mr.  Hoggs  prefers 

that  it  he  stated  in  other  terms.  "Why.  1  know  this  road 
from  Spadeton  to  Harby  Mills  like  a  hook!  Used  to  survey 
all  around  here  the  summer  of  my  Junior  year.  Know  every 
little  hill.    11'  you  will  just  he  quid  and  leave  it  all  to  me." 

In  silence  they  mount  higher  and  higher;  a  little  hoy  in 
overalls  Stares  at  them  as  though  he  had  never  seen  a  ear  he- 
fore;  the  road  begins  to  grow  a  little  green  heard  between  its 
two  wrinkles,  as  Dot  puts  it  softly.  Percy  is  restless  and 
walks  hack  and  forth  over  the  children.  Molly  stands  up  sud- 
denly and  thrust  her  dirty  little  pug-nosed  face  between  her 
parents.  ".Mother,  I  want  another  cookie.  Tel]  Dot  to  gel 
me  oik 

"No,  you've  had  six  since  breakfast." 

"Can  I  have  an  orange  then?" 
"No." 

"Aw.  .Mother " 

"Well,  ask  Dot  to  peel  it  for  you." 
"Want  to  suck  it." 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  25 

"No,  not  while  we're  riding." 

"Aw." 

"All  right,  but  sit  down.     This  road  gets  worse  and 


worse." 


Another  ten  minutes  during  which  no  one  speaks.  Jo  has 
been  compressing  himself  against  the  side  of  the  car.  "Mother 
I  just  wish  you'd  look  at  Molly.  Just  look  at  her.  Why, 
she  squirts  way  over  here.  Mother,  just  listen  to  her.  Honest- 

ly!" 

Dot  hears  nothing;  she  stares  dreamily  down  into  the 
valley.    "Somebody  tell  me  what  rhymes  with  leafy." 

"Beefy." 

"Mother,  make  Jo  stop.  How  can  I  create?" 

"I  want  a  hot-dog." 

"Not  till  lunch  time,  Molly." 

"I  tell  you  I  know  this  short-cut  like  a  book.  Known  it 
for  years." 

"But  just  for  fun,  Sam,  let's  ask  this  man.  It's  the  only 
farm  we've  seen  for  the  last  half-hour." 

A  tall  man  in  hip-boots  leans  reflectively  over  the  car 
door.  "Got  quite  a  load  there,  ain't  ye?  Why 'n't  ye  bring  the 
cat  and  the  chickens?"  He  laughs  and  spits. 

"Say,  captain,  this  is  right  for  Harby  Mills,  isn't  it? 
Just  want  to  make  sure,  you  know." 

"Harby  Mills!  Well,  I'll  be!  Ye'll  be  in  Spadeton  in  ten 
minutes." 

"Oh,  yes!  Thank  you. .  .Good-bye." 

Silence.  Molly  throws  the  orange-skin  away  and  it  rest 
jauntily  on  the  running-board.  She  leans  out  recklessly. 
"Mother,  why  did  Dad  call  him  'captain',  especially  when  he 
was  a  farmer?" 

"Sh!  It's  just  a  little  habit  of  your  father's.  He  proba- 
bly learned  how  when  he  was  surveying  all  around  here.  Like 
a  book." 

Mr.  Boggs  opens  his  mouth,  considers  a  moment,  and 
shuts  it  with  a  repressed  snort. 

Eventually  they  re-enter  Spadeton  and  find  the  state 
highway.  Mr.  Boggs  settles  himself.  "Well,  let  me  see:  I 
think  we'll  make  it  about  ten  after  four ;  of  course  I  can't  tell 
for  sure.  But  ten  after—about.  Not  bad,  though  last  year  it 
was  exactly  five  of." 

"When  can  I  have  a  hot-dog?" 


26  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

"Mother,  make  Molly  sit  up;  she  leans  all  over  Dot  and 
then  Dot  has  to  Kan  on  me.  Motherl" 

Sam,  1  think  the  left  front  tire-  is  down."' 

"Nonsense.  It's  your  imagination.  Do  you  think  I'd 
r\  er  start  out  with  bum  tires?" 

"Oh!" 

The  car  pitches  unhealthily.  At  last  Mr.  BoggS  stops 
it.  "Jo,  step  out  there  and  look  at  that  front  tire." 

Jo  climbs  gingerly  over  the  bathing-suits,  knocking  over 
a  hot  tic  of  sun-burn  lotion. 

"Flat  as  a  pancake,  Dad." 

"Tough.  1  >  i  j  t  we'll  have  to  fix  it." 

"Aw  Dad!  It  makes  yon  get  so  dirty!  Drive  on  a  while; 
there  must  he  a  gas  station." 

"Can  I  buy  a  hot-dog  then  ?" 

".Joseph,   this   is  an   emergency.    Let    US  meet    it    here." 

"Aw,  just  wait  till  somebody  comes  along.  I'll  go  find  a 
man  at  some  garage." 

"Joseph!  Take  off  your  coat." 

Mrs.  BoggS  waits  on  a  dampish  hit  of  grass  in  front  of  a 
sign-board.  Dot  has  found  a  dilapidated  wooden  gate  and 
leans  one  elbow  on  it.  Mr.  Boggs  takes  oil'  his  vest.  "Mar- 
garet, w  ill  you  please  call  Molly  out  from  under  the  car?" 

"Molly!" 

"Aw,  Mother,  can't  we  eat  lunch  now!'  Everything  else 
is  gone.  Can't  we  Mother?" 

"Oh,  bring  me  the  basket."  She  begins  to  takeout  soggy 
stacks  of  sandwiches  and  deviled  eggs  to  which  the  paper  has 
stuck.  Percy  sits  close  to  her.  almost  pushing  her  over. 

"This  OUghl  to  make  US  gel  there  ahont  twenty-five 
after,  I  think.  Margaret." 

"Oh.  no.  Sam.  Don"!  you  think  ahont  twenty-  seven  and 
a  half?" 

Soon  the  five  of  them  gather  around  the  basket.  Jo  sits 
oil'   to  one   side  on   a    little   rock.      A    car   passes   them      and 

another  and  another.  Mr.  Boggs  speaks  nervously  from 
behind  the  cap  of  the  thermos-bottle.  "Better  hurry  up. 
\V<  \  e  go1  to  gel  going." 

"We  can't  Sam.  Molly  going  to  be  sick." 

lie  Cflares,  and  lakes  mil    the  little  note-hook. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  27 


HAIRPIN  EVENING 

Patty  Wood 


a  NEED  another  hairpin  most  awfully— another  hair- 
pin right  there."  She  stuck  a  long  finger  low  into  the 
krinkling  gold  mass.  "And  I  can't  take  one  from  any 
other  place,  because  I  need  every  one  just  where  it  is.  O  I  do 
need  another  hairpin!" 

He  loved  her  like  this,  when  she  was  mock- serious  and 
her  voice  was  whimsical  and  her  topaz  eyes  krinkled  at  the 
edges.  Then  all  her  golden  beauty  seemed  to  warm  toward 
him,  and  glow  for  him  alone,  as  if  she  were  saying,  "You  and 
I,  my  dear— isn't  it  delightful?"  These  moments  were  price- 
less, but  O  so  perishable..  He  had  learned  the  secret  of  them, 
tho.  To  prolong  them,  he  must  take  up  the  gentle  banter. 
Then  she  would  become  even  more  melting,  more  liquid 
golden;  then  she  would  laugh  that  half-silent,  krinkling 
laugh  which  was  so  peculiarly  her  own,  clasping  her  hands 
around  one  knee  and  rocking  gently  backward  and  forward, 
or  turning  her  head  slightly  to  one  side,  deep  in  the  pillows 
of  her  high-backed  chair.  "O  how  delightful!  My  dear,  we 
do  so  enjoy  each  other — understand  each  other.  Isn't  it 
glorious?"  Of  course,  she  never  said  such  things,  but  it  was 
just  as  if  she  had,  because  she  looked  them,  she  acted  them. 
Once,  it  was  before  he  had  learned  what  his  reaction  should 
be,  he  had  made  a  fatal  blunder.  She  was  talking  about 
green  cats,  was  saying  that  life  would  be  fearfully  dreary 
until  she  possessed  "a  lovely  jade-green  kitten;"  she  had  seen 
one  once,  and  would  never  be  quite  happy  till  she  had  one  and 
could  "roll  it  into  a  soft,  furry,  green  ball,  right  here  in  my 
neck."  He  had  said,  "But  Laurel,  there  never  was  such  a 
thing  as  a  green  cat."  O  it  was  a  terrible  mistake!  Her  golden 
beauty  had  suddenly  grown  metallic,  and  she  had  said.  "O 
don't  be  so  hopelessly  literal!" 

But  he  had  learned  his  cue,  so  he  now  said,  "When  my 
ship  comes  in,  it  will  be  laden  with  a  cargo  of  hairpins — all 
for  you — long  thin  golden  hairpins  that  zig-zag  in  the  middle. 


J*  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

Ai.d  you  need  never  use  the  .same  one  twice  -for  there  will 
be  an  endless  number,  you  know."  She  was  laughing  now, 
nodding  her  head  among  her  pillows,  as  if  she  were-  saying, 

"Yes,  yes  O  do  go  on."  He  wanned  to  his  subject.  "You  can 
throw  them  aw  ay  as  soon  as  you  pull  them  Out,  while  you  take 
down  your  hair."  Here  his  voice  trembled  a  bit,  Tor  his  own 

words  startled  him  he  had  always  wanted  to  see  her  take 
down  that  lovely  glittering  mass.  Once  he  had  asked  her  to. 
hut  had  been  painfull)'  reprimanded  by  her  swift  "Of  course 
not  how  absurd!"  She  was  waiting  now.  so  he  continued. 
"And  there  w  ill  he  a  gold  wastehasket  for  you  to  toss  them  in- 
to, and  on  your  dressing  table  a  golden  box  always  with  a 
fresh  supply." 

"Just  like  the  Hihle  miracle."  she  suggested,  smiling  and 
golden  and  radiating. 

lie-  nodded,  hut  inwardly  felt  a  hit  shaky,  for 
he  did  not  know  which  miracle.  lie  was  afraid 
of  this  uncertain  feeling  it  had  so  often  been  the  means  of 
destroying  these  precious  moments  of  cameraderie.  That 
always  happened  when  she  slipped  away  from  him.  sat  slim 
and  cold,  all  wrapped  up  in  herself,  her  eyes  far  and  like 
transparent  amber  glass,  her  voice  Far  and  not  for  him.  When 
she  said,  right  in  the  middle  of  perfectly  sensible  conversa- 
tions, things  like  "And  rosemary  for  remembrance"  or  "For 
God's  sake  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground  And  tell  sad  stories  of 
the  death  of  kings.'"  I  hen  he  was  terribly  confused.  I  Ie  simply 
couldn't  follow  her;  he  couldn't  understand  her  meaning,  or 
if  she  had  one.  At  such  times  he  could  only  look  at  her  in 
pained  silence,  at  thai  Lovely  golden  beauty,  krinkling  less 
and  less,  getting  farther  and  farther  away,  aloof  and  self- 
sufficient,  like  one  cold  hand  of  sunlight.  Two  agonizing 
memories  Hashed  suddenly  hack  to  him.  The  day  they  sat  on 
the  sugar-loaf  rock  at  the  beach,  thrilling  after  a  long  swim. 
indolently    splashing    the    water    with    their    feet.      She    had 

slipped  away  then,  purring  to  herself  "Five  miles  meander- 
ing with  mazy  motion  Thru  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river 
ran,  Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man.  And  sank 

in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean."  'There  had  hcen  much  more'. 
something aboul  a  waning  moon  and  a  woman  wailing  for  her 
demon  lover.  She  had  stayed  away  long  that  time,  hut  sud- 
denly  coining  hack,  had  said  that  they  must  go  home  immedi- 
ately, and  she  was  silent  all  the  wax   into  the  city.     Then  that 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  29 

other  time — he  had  mentioned  someone  with  a  "strange"  face. 
She  seemed  to  have  heard  only  the  one  word — "It  hath  the 
strangeness  of  the  luring  west  And  of  sad  sea-horizons,"  she 
said  dreamily.  "O  that  lovely,  lovely  thing,"  and  she  had 
quoted  a  long  passage,  saying  upon  finishing,  "The  most 
idyllic  blank  verse  I  know.  Once — once — "  O  she  was  so  far 
away!  "Once  I  knew  someone — for  whom  that  was  written. 
It  couldn't  have  been  written  to  anyone  else.  O  she  was 
lovely!"  And  he  had  sat  there  all  evening,  seeing  that  other 
person  in  her  eyes.  That,  in  turn,  reminded  him  of  the  time 
she  had  said  love  was  like  a  pancake,  "so  delightfully  temp- 
ting when  fresh  (It  makes  you  say  M-m-m,  and  you  feel 
M-m-m  all  over) ,  but  so  dreary  and  unappetizing  when  cold." 
He  had  protested  vehemently.  "Love,"  he  said,  his  voice 
quivering  with  intensity,  "Love—  '  But  he  had  got  no  far- 
ther— he  did  not  know  what  he  was  going  to  say. — "is  the 
greatest  thing  in  the  world,"  she  had  supplied,  mockingly, 
"  'Beareth  all  things,  believeth  all  things,  hopeth  all  things, 
endureth  all  things.'  "  O  sacrilege!  He  had  been  deeply  hurt 
by  those  cutting  words,  and  by  her  eyes,  narrowed  and  glin- 
ting like  a  cat's. 

So  now  he  steered  clear  of  the  Bible  miracle — that  was 
thin  ice,  and  he  an  inexperienced  skater.  "Of  course,  all  the 
hairpins  won't  be  the  same,"  the  words  fairly  tumbled  from 
his  lips,  bumping  against  one  another  in  their  haste,  "there 
will  be  many,  many  different  kinds."  Her  smile  was  glowing 
her  hair  and  eyes  krinkled.  They  said,  "Of  course — differ- 
ent— these  thrilling  hairpins.  But  what  will  they  be  like?" 
He  hurried  on.  "Some  polished  and  glittering,  some  softly 
dull  like  clouded  crystal."  Xow  he  was  sure  of  himself,  now  he 
was  happy,  with  a  little  rush  of  excitement.  The  evening 
stretshed  before  him,  golden  with  hairpins — hairpins. 


30  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


FIVE  O'CLOCK 

Ernestine  Gilbreth 


j^iIIK  sun  reached  down  from  the  hills,  making  tiny  pat- 
vl/  terns  on  the  sidelawn.  The  smell  of  warm  leaves  and 
ggggj  crisp  fern  drifted  in  from  the  gardens.  A  sudden 
ireeze  caught  and  ruffled  the  syringa  bushes  and  Japanses 
maples.  It  pushed  them  swaying  against  the  porch,  caught 
in  a  rapid  rhythm. 

Five  o'clock.  This  was  Sarah  Gibb's  hour;  it  belonged 
completely  to  her.  Always  as  the  front  hall  clock  struck  the 
five  dull  heats,  she  had  that  sense  of  relief.  Now  she  could 
leave  the  baskets  stacked  with  mending,  the  endless  sorting 
and  straightening.  Away  from  the  hum  of  preparation  in  the 
kitchen,  from  the  children  dressing  for  dinner,  she  sought  the 
sunporch.  I  lair  askew,  she  ran  lightly,  thrusting  open  the 
door  and  closing  i(  firmly  behind  her.  For  twenty  years  it 
had  been  so  a  swift  plunge  into  the  cretonned  hammock, 
the  unconscious  ducking  of  her  head,  so  that  it  could  not  be 
seen  through  the  windows.  No  one  would  disturb  her.  She 
could  lie  in  complete  peace — for  an  hour. 

The  creaking  of  the  springs  as  she  settled  herself  on  the 
cushions,  brought  memories  Hocking  hack.  Strange  that  her 
mind  centered  upon  the  past,  refusing  to  look  ahead.  De- 
tails she  lived  in  them.  The  present  and  the  future  be- 
longed to  Will.  He  handled  the  big  things,  delighting  to  plan, 
lo  decide  with  a  brisk  jerk  of  his  chin.  'Tin  very  selfish  about 
decisions,  Sarah."  Will  had  confessed  il  immediately  after 
their  marriage.  "Besi  to  leave  them  lo  me!"  She  had  left 
them  for  twenty  years,  stifled  by  his  ability,  rejoicing  with 
him  as  the  plans  crystallized.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
Will's  success  in  everything  he  touched.  II is  business  she 
understood  it  vaguely,  the  change  in  partnership,  some  new 
method  of  financing.  He  was  proud  of  il.  but  prouder  of  his 
home,  of  the  four  children,  especially  of  .Jane  now  she  had 
finished  her  third  year  at  college. 

Will!  She  tingled,  remembering  how  handsome  he  had 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  31 

been  at  breakfast  that  morning.  The  coffee  had  been  cold;  he 
was  tired,  distressed  by  the  finical  junior-partner,  by  Jane's 
late  hours.  Gruff,  difficult  at  times,  but  so  fine,  so  ambitious, 
— his  white  hair,  the  high  glistening  forehead  and  firm  lips! 
Her  love  for  him  suffused  her,  still  made  her  feel  choked  and 
breathless. 

She  knew  that  she  was  tired.  Passing  the  hall  mirror  just 
now,  she  had  seen  deep  circles  under  her  eyes,  the  lines  that 
had  become  tighter  across  her  forehead.  But  there  were  so 
many  things  to  be  attended  to —  Junior's  new  coat  at  the 
tailor's ;  it  should  have  come  back  this  morning — Jane's  green 
silk  needed  lengthening,  half  an  inch  at  least — fresh  flowers 
on  the  table — all  the  innumerable  tasks  that  were  hers.  No 
ending;  no  beginning.  From  day  to  day  she  continued,  re- 
peating endlessly. 

The  children  needed  her  less  these  days.  Young  people 
wanted  to  shift  for  themselves,  to  think  independently.  No 
longer  must  she  lie  awake  at  night  listening  for  the  twins,  or 
for  Junior's  cough.  But  she  liked  to  stay  up  for  Jane — one  or 
two  o'clock — and  last  night — .She  remembered  now.  Jane 
had  been  drinking.  "Don't  kiss  me  good-night,  Mother," — an 
embarrassed  little  smile — "just  you  run  on  to  bed — " 

But  she  had  persisted  in  following  her  into  the  room, 
tucking  her  into  bed.  Jane — her  little  girl — if  Will — 

Perhaps  Junior  was  right.  She  worried  too  much.  "You 
don't  get  out  enough,  Mother,"  he  had  tickled  her  under  the 
chin,  "There's  no  need  hanging  around  home  all  your  life — " 

There  were  her  girl-scout  activities,  and  the  Ladies 
Guild.  Junior  had  smiled  at  that.  What  a  big  boy  he  was 
getting  to  be,  almost  as  tall  as  his  Father. 

Even  the  twins  objected  to  her  "fluttering  around". 
That  had  hurt.  It  Avas  a  part  of  Sarah's  code  to  feel  that  she 
was  needed. 

Yes  she  had  forgotten.  The  children  were  growing  up 
now — the  twins  would  ^o  to  high  school  next  year.  She  must 
remember  not  to  kiss  them  before  people;  she  should  know 
better.  Bob  had  spilled  some  grape  juice  on  his  new  gray 
sweater — she  must  remind  him — Then  Jim  mustn't  Avear  his, 
the  blue  ones  "would  do  until — Of  course  they  should  dress 
alike — only  a  few  years  more — - 

Then  that  chair  in  the  dining-room.  She  must  remem- 
ber to  have  it  fixed.     Will  had  remarked  on  it  again  this 


82  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

morning.     But  there  were  so  many  things — she  never  fin- 
ished— 

The  hammock  was  swaying  hark  and  forth  gently. 
Sarah's  head  ached.  The  throbbing  had  been  much  worse 
these  last  few  days.  If  she  could  only  stop  worrying.  The 
perfume  from  the  syringa  was  suddenly  comforting.  That 
sweet,  sweei  smell.  A  few  blossoms  in  a  hlue  bowl  would 
look  well  in  the  library.  Think  of  those  hushes  flowering  still, 
new  Bowers  on  the  same  bushes.  Will  liked  syringa  too — next 
to  lilies-of-the-\  alley,  wasn't  it  ]  Yes,  next  to  lilies — she 
would  pick  some  tomorrow. 

The  hush  creeping  in  from  the  lawn,  soothed  her.  She 
found  herself  less  tense.  Beautiful  world.  How  lucky  she 
was  Will — the  children!  "Such  a  nice  family — you  should 
be  proud.  .Mrs.  Gibbs".  Someone  had  said  that  just  the  other 
day. 

Yes,  she  was  lucky.  But  sometimes  she  wondered  if  Will 
realized  how  she  was  trying  to  help,  to  keep  his  home  for  him. 
There  were  times — but  he  never  meant  a  word  of  it.  He  was 
worried  lately — there  was  always  the  business,  that  trying 
partner.  Oh  yes,  she  must  ask  him  about  the  twins  tonight. 
Shouldn't  they  be  outside  more — playing  tennis  perhaps?  At 
their  age.  staying  in  the  house,  reading — 

A  draught  whipped  suddenly  across  her  hack.  Mercy! 
Someone  must  have  opened  the  door.  Her  eyes  snapped 
open.  "I'm  out  here.  Who  wants  me?"-— the  exhilaration  of 
being  needed.  "Yes,  Junior — " 

He  was  apologetic,  a  little  confused.  He  had  disturbed 
her.     So  handsome,  wasn't  he    -Will  all  over  again — 

Raising  her  head  on  her  hand,  she  surveyed  him.  Those 
.jagged  lights  again.  She  must  take  it  easier  next  time.  "Sit 
down,  son"  hut  she  had  sensed  the  sudden  blaze  of  pain  in 
his  eyes.    Had  news —  something  had  happened. 

Courage!  Vision!  She  strove  for  them  blindly.  The 
world,  twisted,  wasn't  it?  He  was  gripping  her  hand  until 
it    prickled  with  pain.  Then  at   last  his  voice,  flat,  calm. 

"Steady,   .Mother     you   see     Dad — 

A  sudden  sharp  pain  dug  through  her  heart.  "Lord, 
dear  Lord  "  was  she  praying?  Hut  in  the  hack  of  her  mind 
was  the  dining-room  chair.  She  must  remember — 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  33 


BOOK    REVIEWS 


THE  BRIDAL  WREATH 

Sigrid  Unset  New  York:  Alfred  Knopf,  1928 

Alfred  Xobel  (accent  on  the  last  syllable)  was  a  Swedish 
inventor-manufacturer  who  left  his  fortune  to  advance  the 
world's  literature,  science,  and  the  cause  of  peace.  His  speci- 
fication for  literature  was  that  it  should  be  the  "most  ex- 
cellent work  of  an  idealistic  character,"  and  this  year  the 
Academy  in  Stockholm  awarded  the  prize  to  Sigrid  Unset. 

Of  her  trilogy  of  the  early  14th  century  Norway, 
"Kristin  Lavransdattef\  the  first  book  is  "The  Bridal 
Wreath' '.  The  story  tells  Kristin's  life  from  early  childhood, 
through  her  romance  to  her  marriage. 

She  grew  from  the  young  animal  that  sniffs  the  air, 
learning  its  scents,  to  the  young  girl  who  feels  vague  stirrings 
of  responses.  That  everyday  people  live  on  co-existent  planes 
which  never  touch,  she  first  sensed  out  on  the  open  with  her 
father.  But  her  longing  for  that  contact  so  rarely  effected — 
that  "warm  and  live  love" — did  not  come  until  her  betrothed 
kissed  her.  Suddenly  she  thought  back  to  her  childhood 
friend  Arne,  but  recently  dead,  and  knew  that  between  her 
and  Simon  there  would  always  be  the  "uncertain  shadow  that 
dulls  life."  Thus  she  willing  went  to  the  Sisters  in  Oslo  at 
the  suggestion  of  Simon.  "I  know  a  little  of  some  of  the 
maidens  who  are  there,"  he  said  laughing.  "They  would  not 
throw  themselves  down  and  die  of  grief  if  two  mad  younkers 
tore  each  other  to  pieces  for  their  sakes.  Not  that  I  would 
have  such  an  one  for  my  wife — but,  methinks  Kristin  will  be 
none  the  worse  for  meeting  new  folk." 

The  second  part,  "The  Garland",  is  her  passionate,  wil- 
ful romance  with  Erland.  It  is  not  strange  to  us  that  Kristin 


DON'T  BE  THROWN  ABOUT! 

DON'T  TAKE  A  CHANCE 
WITH  CARELESS  DRIVING! 

BE  SURE 

OF  YOUR  SERVICE 

and  that  you  are  going  to  get  prompt  service,  courtesy  am 

efficiency. 


Nine-Six 


HAS  SERVED  YOU  FOR  YEARS. 


Phone  96 

Taxi 

"AND  NOTE  THE  DIFFERENCE" 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  35 

saw  her  own  and  recognized  him.  Life  behind  convent  walls 
could  not  keep  her  and  she  managed  meetings  again  and 
again.  "Once,  while  she  was  looking  at  the  dark  head  that  lay 
in  her  lap,  between  her  hands,  something  bygone  Hashed  on 
her  mind.  It  stood  out  clear,yet  distant,  as  a  homestead  far 
away  on  a  mountain  slope  may  start  to  sight  of  a  sudden 
from  out  dark  clouds,  when  a  sunbeam  strikes  it  on  a  stormy 
day.  And  it  was  as  though  there  welled  up  in  her  heart  all 
the  tenderness  Arne  Gyrdson  had  once  begged  for  while  she 
did  not  as  yet  understand  his  words."  The  tenderness  was 
part  of  that  "living  love"  which  eventually  drove  Kristin  to 
having  her  engagement  broken,  and  to  returning  home  to  the 
silent  reproach  of  her  family. 

The  third  part  is  the  culmination  in  marriage  of  her 
romance  after  long  days  of  weary  thoughts  when  "Kristin 
thought  each  morning  that  she  could  bear  no  more,  that  she 
could  never  hold  out  to  the  day's  end. — But  still,  when  the 
evening  came,  she  had  held  out  one  day  more."  During  the 
wedding  preparations,  she  discovered  that  she  had  not  been 
punished  with  sterility  by  a  just  God,  but  that  she  was  to 
bear  Erland  a  child.  She  alone  knew  it,  but  what  her  father 
suspected  when  he  saw  her  unmaidenly  glances  from  the 
bridal  bed  towards  Erland  was  not  far  from  the  truth. 

The  story  seemed  all  Kristin  to  me.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause I  was  Kristin  during  the  377  pages.  All  my  friends 
and  relatives  were  those  people,  mentioned  above,  those 
people  on  co-existent  planes.  Only  Erland's  plane  seemed 
occasionally  to  touch  mine.  Lavrans,  my  father,  and  Ragn- 
frid,  my  mother,  were  in  my  life.  But,  as  Kristin,  I  knew 
them  only  as  mother  and  father.  As  the  reader  I  saw  them 
and  heard  their  own  stories  from  their  own  lips  as  they  set- 
tled down  for  the  night  after  Kristin's  wedding.  I  heard 
Lavran's  sigh  as  he  said  of  Kristin,  "She  has  come  to  the 
bride-bed  with  the  man  she  loves.  And  it  was  not  so  with 
either  you  or  me,  my  poor  Ragnfrid." 

As  I  said  above,  this  is  an  historical  novel  of  medieval 
Norway,  but  far  removed  from  the  novels  written  by  roman- 
cers like  Scott.  Clothes  are  not  costumes,  scenery  is  not 
the  painted  background  of  the  historical  cinema ;  nor,  on  the 
other  hand,  do  the  two  together  overwhelm  the  reader  by 
the  detail  of  knowledge.  It  is  a  beautiful  Gobelin  of  mellow, 
rich  color.    Technically  it  shows  the  great  skill  of  the  weaver 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  37 

in  the  composition  and  the  decoration  borders,  but  artistically 
it  is  even  greater  in  the  figures  which  seem  not  woven  but 
standing  and  moving  against  the  hanging  tapestry. 

The  story  of  Kristin  might  well  be  written  with  the 
color  of  any  age  or  country  for  its  setting,  it  is  so  universal 
a  tale.  Pick  up  the  book  to  read,  and,  before  long,  time  will 
pass  unnoticed,  the  shorthand  of  the  clock  will  move  from 
figure  to  figure  until  you  shut  the  covers  of  this  book  and 
reach  to  pick  up  the  next  of  the  trilogy  "The  Mistress  of 
Husaby." 

Anne  Andrew  1929 


THE  HAPPY  MOUXTIAX 

Maristan  Chapman  The  Viking  Press  1928 

Out  of  that  new  South  which  gave  to  contemporary 
American  letters  Du  Bose  Heyward,  Julian  Green,  Ellen 
Glasgow,  James  Boyd,  Julia  Peterkin,  Paul  Green,  Burton 
Rascoe,  Frances  Newman,  T.  S.  Stribling,  Elizabeth  Madox 
Robert  and  Conrad  Aiken,  comes  Maristan  Chapman  as  the 
latest  to  retain  what  is  characterized  in  the  November  Har- 
per's as  a  "poetic  quality  of  style  in  dealing  with  the  pedest- 
rian prose  of  experience.  If  Ross  Santee  and  Will  James 
have  helped  the  West  to  escape  from  Zane  Grey  and  his 
confreres,  so  has  Mrs.  Chapman  in  The  Happy  Mountain 
rescued  the  Cumberland  from  the  clutches  of  John  Fox,  Jr. 

Taking  the  dangerously  simple  triangle  as  her  plot, 
(but  not  as  her  motif) ,  Mrs.  Chapman  developes  the  story  of 
Wait- S  till-on- the-Lord-Lowe's  fight  with  Burl  Bracy  for 
the  love  of  Allardene  Howard.  The  tale  is  written  with  a 
keen  eye  for  detail  and  an  awareness  of  the  beautiful.  It  is 
written  in  an  idiom  new  to  us,  the  real  speech  of  the  Cum- 
berland's, which  is  different  not  because  the  hill-billies  say 
"hyar"  or  "gwine",  but  because  spring  nights  are  "lown" 
(gentle) ,  and  the  fields  are  "fere"  or  "fellowly,"  and  the  hills 
are  lost  in  "smirr"  (mist).  These  coined  words  of  intrinsic 
loveliness  are  woven  by  the  author  into  lyric  passages  which 
are  the  more  surprising  and  delightful  because  of  their  com- 
plete unselfconsciousness. 

uThe  way  the  moon  shrinks  the  hills  is  a  sight  to  see! 
One  hour  they'll  be  standing  dark,  and  reaching  up  to 
heaven,  proud  as  they  needed  no  salvation.     Then  up  comes 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  39 

curling  the  bare,  white  moon  and  they  flatten  out  and  spread 
and  run  down  the  valley,  creeping  and  ashamed. 

"The  night  thickened  in  the  hollows,  while  the  high 
places  were  smeared  with  fresh  moonlight.  The  drifting  sha- 
dows made  the  forest  a  living,  moving  thing,  that  at  one 
time  both  threatened  and  sheltered  his  homeplace." 

Or:— 

*  'Going  on  is  like  dreaming,'  Waits  told  himself,  'and 
living  is  just  like  going  on.  Then  living  and  dreaming  must 
be  the  same  thing,  and  we  all  of  us  live  in  a  dream.'  He 
stopped  to  look  at  what  he  had  said,  and  being  unable  to 
make  it  out,  went  on  again  more  quickly  to  get  out  of  its 
wray." 

These  are  words  that  sing,  and  if  the  song  is  occasionally 
interrupted  while  the  words  go  on  in  a  talking  voice,  even 
that  is  of  a  pleasing  quality.  Mrs.  Chapman's  music  is  fine 
enough  to  hold  our  interest  through  a  fewr  intermissions. 

While  we  are  still  considering  the  mechanics  of  the 
book,  two  things  must  be  noted :  that  the  characters  stand  out 
as  individuals  instead  of  as  types;  and  that  the  relations  be- 
tween them  are  indicated  with  a  quick  subtlety  not  often 
found.  As  illustration  of  the  first  point  Ave  might  use  never- 
to-be-forgotten  Uncle  Buddy  Shannon,  who  "looked  the 
picture  of  a  down-gone  Santa  Claus  that  had'nt  been  washed 
since  Christmas,"  and  who  made  up  for  an  irateness  ex- 
pressed by  "scattering  swear  words  that  flew  around  like 
spent  bullets",  in  his  eagerness  to  share  the  last  crumb  of 
leftments  in  his  hovel  with  his  guest.  For  the  second — listen 
to  Waits  and  Barsha,  his  mother: 

"  'I'm  going  far  'n'  beyond,'  Waits  went  on,  'far  'n'  be- 
yond, and  even  farther  than  that,  maybe  so  far  as  down  to 
Fentress  and  Cumberland.' 

"Barsha  crossed  the  kitchen  and  took  the  water-pail  off 
its  shelf.  'Here!  Take  this  to  the  spring  for  fresh  water,'  she 
said,  'Least-ways  lessen  you're  gone  right  XOW!' 

"Waits  grabbed  the  pail  from  her  and,  unmindful  of 
his  steps,  ran  into  the  doorside  and  spilled  the  water  dregs 
on  the  clean  floor. 

"  'Heard  the  news?'  Barsha  asked. 

"'What?' 

"  'Fayre  Jones  fell  off  en  a  foot-log  watching  a  fence- 
rail  float  clown  the  creek  yar  morning.  He's  another  that 
never  could  do  two  things  at  one  time  neither/ 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  41 

'  'Heard  you  tell  that  before,'  Waits  gave  baek;  and 
turning  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  called  to  her:  'What's  the 
best  way  to  keep  May  frost  often  the  crops?' 

"  'Plant  'em  in  June,'  Barsha  said.  'And  if  our  old  man 
should  to  find  us  acting  simple  this  way,  the  house  wouldn't 
be  worth  living  in  for  a  perfect  hour."  " 


But  to  me,  it  is  not  in  her  natural  felicity  of  phase,  or  in 
her  delineation  of  character,  or  in  her  nice  indications  of  the 
relationships  between  people  that  Marisyan  Chapman  is 
greatest.  For  in  Waits  Lowe,  torn  between  love  and  the 
wanderlust,  going  forth  from  his  homeland  to  satisfy  his 
"nedd  to  wonder",  to  resolve  a  little  the  Chaos  left  over  in 
him  by  the  Lord,  faring  forth  to  find  words  and  booklearn- 
ing,  coming  back  with  Vegger  his  fiddle  in  place  of  these, 
contented,  yet  still  yearning, — in  this  Wait- S  till-on- the- 
Lord-Lowe,  she  has  given  us  a  universal  creation.  There  is 
a  happiness  in  Mrs.  Chapman's  philosophy,  but  it  is  quietly 
aware  of  pain.  Most  of  all  there's  truth,  for  Waits,  if  he 
finds  peace  in  his  love,  is  nevertheless  "not  one  mite  nearer 
being  easy  in  mind;"  and  at  the  end  of  a  search  that  has 
brought  him  back  to  his  starting  point,  we  find  him  owning: 

"  'I'll  have  yearnings  all  my  days  'n'  years,  and  desires 
not  to  be  quenched,  but  I've  come  full  circle,  and  hereafter 
my  shoes  are  no  more  swift  for  roaming;  my  head,  maybe — 
but  there's  Venger." 

Here  is  the  eternal  seekingness  of  man  understood, 
without  bitterness  at  the  knowledge  that  all  we  ever  find  is 
another  question  or  another  want.  In  this  understanding, 
in  her  insight,  in  her  joy,  however  poignant,  and  in  her  loyal- 
ty to  what  is  true  lies  Mrs.  Chapman's  worth.  For  if  her 
mountains  are  filled  with  the  sounds  of  gladness,  she  leaves 
her  forest  brooding. 

K.  Lawrence  Stapleton  1932 

THE  CASE  OF  SERGEANT  GRISCHA 

By  Arnold  Zweig. 

Translated  from  the  German  by  Eric  Sutton. 
New  York:  The  Viking  Press,  1928.    $2.50. 

Arnold  Zweig  is  a  new  name  to  American  readers,  and 
he  comes  to  us  credited  with  having  written  the  best  novel 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  43 

that  has  been  written  about  the  World  War.  He  is  not  to 
be  confused  with  Stefan  Zweig,  familiar  to  many  of  us  as 
the  adaptor  of  Ben  Jonson's  Volpone,  reeently  played  in 
Xew  York  by  the  Theater  Guild.  Arnold  Zweig  is  a  young 
man,  who  conceived  the  plot  of  The  Case  of  Sergeant 
Grischa  during  the  war,  wrote  it  as  a  play  in  11)21.  and  final- 
ly produced  it  as  a  novel  in  1927.  This  book  is  the  second 
of  three  volumes  whose  collective  title  will  be  A  Trilogy  of 
the  Transition.  Both  the  first,  Education  before  Verdun, 
and  the  third.  The  Crowning  of  a  King,  have  yet  to  be  pub- 
lished. 

The  story  is  concerned  with  the  Russian  peasant, 
Grischa,  a  prisoner  in  a  German  prison  camp  on  the  eastern 
front.  He  carefully  plans  and  executes  a  dramatic  escape, 
spending  the  winter  wandering  through  the  forests  towards 
his  Russian  home,  in  which  are  his  wife  and  the  baby  he  has 
never  seen.  Before  long  he  comes  upon  Babka  and  Kolja, 
two  Russian  refugees.  Babka  and  Grischa  live  together,  and 
she  tries  to  make  him  forget  that  he  is  an  escaped  prisoner 
longing  for  his  home.  Finally  she  realizes  his  unhappiness 
and  urges  him  to  go,  even  getting  him  another  identification 
tag  to  make  things  easier  in  case  of  capture.  He  is  arrested. 
The  identification  disc  proves  to  be  that  of  a  Russian  spy. 
which  means  the  death  sentence. 

He  is  imprisoned  again,  this  time  at  Mervinsk,  under 
the  supervision  of  General  von  Lychow.  There  he  succeeds 
in  establishing  his  innocence,  and  by  his  good  humor,  his 
services,  and  appealing  peasant  innocence,  he  ingratiates 
himself  with  his  immediate  superiors,  eventually  coming  to 
the  notice  of  the  General,  himself.  Maj  or-  General  S  chief - 
fenzahn  is  commander-in-chief  of  the  German  army  in  the 
eastern  sector.  Yon  Lychow  appeals  the  case  to  him,  almost 
sure  of  its  being  dropped,  but  to  his  amazement  Schieffen- 
zahn  orders  the  sentence  carried  through  for  the  sake  of 
discipline.  Von  Lychow  delays;  he  makes  a  trip  to  head 
quarters  to  see  the  Major-General.  Then  there  follows  the 
duel  between  old  Germany's  justice  and  new  Germany's  dis- 
cipline which  carries  you  through  a  desperate  struggle  to 
the  end  of  the  book.  It  is  a  battle  between  von  Lychow  of 
the  old  nobility  and  Schieffenzahn  risen  from  the  merchant 
class;  it  is  a  battle  of  doffed  resistance  on  the  right  side  and 
shrewdness  on  the  wrong. 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  45 

The  people  in  Anold  Zweig's  book  are  so  convincing,  so 
real,  that  it  is  nearly  impossible  to  select  one  characterization 
more  perfect  than  the  rest.  There  is  Grischa,  whom  you 
pity  as  an  unfortunate  pawn  in  a  game  between  greater  pow- 
ers. There  is  von  Lychow,  whom  you  admire  intensely  for 
his  sympathy  and  old-world  courtesy,  whom  you  love  for  his 
kindness  and  gentleness  to  everyone  with  whom  he  comes  in 
contact.  There  is  Schieffenzahn,  supposed  to  be  a  study  of 
Ludendorff,  who  conforms  perfectly  to  your  conception  of 
the  typical  German  officer — relentless,  brilliant,  hard,  auto- 
cratic. There  is  Babka — "  the  rough  peasant  woman  who 
had  fought  two  fights  and  killed  three  men  with  her  own 
hand",  and  holding  for  Grischa  "that  entire  affection  in 
which  mistress  and  mother  are  united".  She  followed  Grischa 
to  the  end,  bearing  his  child,  comforting  him,  fighting  for 
him. 

It  is  only  after  finishing  the  book  that  you  can  fully 
comprehend  its  power,  its  intensity,  its  greatness.  During  the 
reading  you  are  far  too  conscious  of  the  rapid  motion  of  the 
book,  of  Grischa's  struggle  for  existence,  of  a  new  and  un- 
known aspect  of  the  war.  Arnold  Zweig  did  not  attempt  to 
soften  the  world's  opinion  of  war  time  Germany.  But  we 
can  definitely  admire  the  people  who  fought  for  Grischa. 
Perhaps  with  the  completion  of  Zweig's  trilogy  we  may 
grant  humanity  and  justice  to  this  side  of  Germany  we  are 
just  beginning  to  know. 

M.  M.  S.  Johnson  1930 


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Actress 

and  Star  of  the  Stage 


retaining  a  trim  figure 


"To  slay  slender  reach  for  a  Lucky  Strike 
instead  of  a  tweet  when  your  succt-iooth 
tempts  you.  I  hux  e  practised  ihisfoi  year* 
and  find  it  a  most  effective  «av  of  wflll 
ing  a  trim  figure.  There  is  somethins  t<> 
the  toasting  process  which  develops  ■ 
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the  desire  for  stveels.  Af  the  same  time, 
toasting  lakes  out  the  irritants  and  Lucku-\ 
never  affect  the  voice." 

BlLLlt  BURK1 

A  reasonable  proportion  of  fUtfU  in  the 

diet  is  recommended,  hut  t he  authorities 
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ing sw  eets  are  h.irmful  and  that  too  main 
such  are  eaten  hv  the  American  pcoph  . 
So,  lor  moderation's  sake  we  say: — 

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INSTEAD  OF  A  SWEET." 


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BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 


Vol.  XXXVII  FEBRUARY,   1929  No.   5 

EDITORIAL  BOARD 

Editor-in-chief,  Anne  Lloyd  Basinger,  1929 

Managing  Editor,  Ernestine  Gilbreth,  1929 

Book  Review  Editor,  Elizabeth  Botsford,  1929 

Katherine  S.  Bolman,  1929  Priscilla  S.  Fairchild,  1930 

Elizabeth  Wheeler,  1929  Elizabeth  Sha^v,  1930 

Rachel  Grant,  1929  Martha  H.  Wood,   1930 

Sallie  S.  Simons,  1930 
Art — Nancy  Wynne  Parker,  1930 
BUSINESS  STAFF 
Business  Manager,  Sylvia  Alberts,  1929 
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CONTENTS 


1 


The  Land  of  Opportunity 

Archeologist 

The  Day 

Sappho 

London  Streets 

Iseult 

At  the  Sight  of  Blood 

Manana 

The  Lekythos 

Gardenias 

Book  Reviews 

Scarlet  Sister  Mary 
Joseph  and   His  Brethren 
The  Lost  Lyrist 


Mary  Chase,  1931        5 


Patty  Wood,  1930     10 


Priscilla  S.  Fairchild,  1930      11 


Marion  Bus  sang,  1932     14 


Ernestine  Gilbreth,  1929      15 


Marion  Bussang,  1932     22 


Dorothy  M.  Kelley,  1931     23 


Sallie  S.  Simons,  1930     25 


Frances  Ranney,  1929     26 


Edith  Starks,  1929     27 


28 


•  ♦ 

96     -     The  best  in  "Drivurself"  cars     -     96 


Citv  Taxi 

j 

Service 


J      •! 


^  Draper  Hotel  Building 

H 


M 


Phone  96 


X 


,  Splendid  New  Cars 

c  SPEED-  ? 

SERVICE— 

COMFORT- 
SAFETY 


96  -  Pullman  Busses  for  hire  -  96 


College 
Monthly 


THE  LAND  OF  OPPORTUNITY 

Mary  Chase  1931 


5«jARY  first  met  Joseph  Sabin  just  after  he  graduated 
>M  from  college, where  he  had  been  revently  regarded  by 
T(fM  the  undergraduates  as  a  literary  genius.  He  was  at- 
tracted by  her  strange,  Slavic  beauty,  and  she,  for  her  part, 
was  much  impressed  by  his  interesting  if  somewhat  ape-like 
appearance,  and  by  the  tradition  of  intelligence  that  had 
grown  up  about  him.  She  knew  also  that  he  cherished  great 
hopes  of  being  a  newspaper  man,  and  writing  for  the  Atlan- 
tic in  his  spare  moments. 

By  the  time  she  married  him,  he  had  made  a  few  steps 
toward  fulfilling  his  ambitions — he  was  a  reporter  on  the 
Chicago  Daily  News  and  had  had  an  article  on  the  evils  of 
city  life  accepted  by  the  Atlantic.  Alary  had  little  sympathy 
with  his  views  on  city  life,  or  on  life  in  general,  but  she  re- 
spected his  ambitions  and  his  rather  meager  achievements. 
So  she  married  him,  hoping  vaguely  that  she  could  handle 
him  and  make  him  a  credit  to  her. 

For  seven  or  eight  years  he  worked  steadily  and  was  pro- 
gressing, although  too  slowly  to  suit  him.  He  complained 
that  he  could  never  write,  cramped  in  a  city  as  he  was — that 
he  had  genius,  as  he  could  show  if  he  were  free,  and  living 
the  sort  of  life  he  fondly  supposed  an  educated  farmer  could 
live.  Alary  was  contented  in  the  city,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
they  \\ere  uncomfortably  poor,  and  always  had  difficulty  in 
taking  care  of  the  six  children  who  appeared  in  quick  succes- 
sion. They,  however,  furnished  Joseph  with  an  excellent 
argument — country  life  is  good  for  children — but  still  Mary 
refused  to  leave  the  city.    However,  the  next  April,  when 


6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

Joseph  was  sent  down  to  Florida  to  cover  a  murder  trial  in 
Tampa,  he  bought  an  orange  grove,  disregarding  Mary's 
wishes  and  came  back  to  fetch  her  and  the  children.  He  was 
full  of  glowing  but   rather  apologetic  descriptions  of  the 

platt  "There  S  a  house  of  course  it  isn't  very  nice  yet. 
but  I'll  fix  it  up  for  you.  A  creek  that  only  needs  cleaning 
out  runs  right  by  the  house.  The  schools  are  good  they're 
rather  Car  away,  hut  the  school  bus  goes  right  by  our  gate. 
The  roads  aren't  very  good  yet,  hut  they're  putting  in  new 
ones  next  year.  Anyway  it's  primitive  and  healthy  and  that's 
what  I  want.  It's  warm  the  children  can  run  about  hare- 
foot  all  day.  I'll  have  a  man  to  manage  the  grove;  and 
you  know  how  much  oranges  cost  -we'll  make  money  and 
1  'II  he  free  and  can  write." 

Tlu-  train  stopped  beside  a  small  sign  which  said 
"Sutherland  Station",  and  with  the  help  of  two  porters. 
Joseph  got  the-  bags  and  the  children  out.  Near  the  sign  a 
very  old  Chevrolet  was  waiting,  with  a  thin,  drooping  old 
man  standing  beside  it.  lie  took  the  hags  and  some  of  the 
children  and  packed  them  in  the  hack  seat,  while  the  rest  of 
them  sat  in  front.  The  sun  had  made  the  car  almost  un- 
bearably hot.  The  metal  door  burned  Mary's  arm  when  she 
leaned  against  it:  and  the  younger  children,  crowded  to- 
gether in  the  hack,  began  to  cry.  The  old  man  started  the 
car.  and.  following  two  ruts  in  an  otherwise  blank,  Hat  and 
uninteresting  field,  they  rode  for  an  hour  or  two  through  a 
series  of  fields,  each  a  repetition  of  the  first,  with  almost  the 
same  arrangement  of  scrubby  palmettos  and  tall,  naked  pine 
trees.  After  a  long  time  the  ruts  turned  and  began  to  run 
along  beside  a  narrow  creek,  choked  up  with  weeds  and  poi- 
sonous-looking loots.  Mary  decided  that  that  must  he  the 
creek  that  "only  needed  cleaning  out",  and  looking  ahead 
saw  a  house,  distorted  to  her  sight  hy  the  oily  waves  of  heat 

rising  from  the  ground.  "That's  ours,"  said  Joseph,  and  af- 
ter jolting  over  an  insecure  bridge  they  Stopped  at  the  gate. 

It  was  a  blind-looking  house,  dirty-white,  with  torn  screens 
in  the  windows  and  a  poreh  shuttered  with  tarred  paper.  The 
grass  had  obviously  been  left  to  itself  for  a  long  time,  and 
had  grown  Coarse  and  stalklike,  tangled  in  a  thick  mat  over 
Mm  ground.  There  was  oik  big  tree  shading  the  west  side 
of  the  house,  two  smaller  ones  with  big  white  flowers  on 
ih«  in.  and  a  few  bushes.     Behind  the  prove,  Marv  could  sec 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  7 

the  beginnings  of  the  grove,  and  on  each  side,  the  waste  land, 
like  the  fields  through  which  they  had  come.  "See  that  land?" 
said  Joseph,  "Nobody's  ever  put  a  plow  in  it  before.  I'm 
going  to  set  out  a  new  grove  there."  While  he  was  talking  he 
kept  brushing  his  hand  across  his  face,  and  soon  Mary 
noticed  little,  darting  black  specks  before  her  eyes.  She  dis- 
covered that  they  were  gnats  who  seemed  to  be  attracted  by 
her  eyes  and  who  danced  back  and  forth  in  front  of  them, 
occasionally  darting  in  at  her  eyeballs.  To  escape  them  she 
went  into  the  house  while  Joseph  took  the  children  off  to  see 
the  grove. 

For  several  months  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
heat  and  the  gnats.  Whenever  she  went  out,  the  hot  light 
rested  like  a  weight  on  the  top  of  her  head,  so  that  she  felt 
crushed  under  it.  And  indoors  or  out,  the  gnats  spun  like 
black  specks  before  her  eyes  and  stuck  to  her  skin.  She  was 
afraid  of  this  tropical  country  where  everything  happened 
so  quickly — it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  could  see  the  grass 
grow,  die,  and  decay.  The  color  of  the  leaves  was  also 
strange  to  her.  At  first  she  often  tried  to  find  a  word  to 
describe  it,  but  since  she  always  failed,  she  soon  stopped  try- 
ing. It  was  a  dark,  dull  green,  almost  black,  and  the  surface 
of  the  leaves  was  rough  and  dusty,  although  there  was  no 
dust  anywhere — only  the  sand  in  which  nothing  good  would 
grow.  Joseph  and  the  children  seemed  to  have  no  such  feel- 
ings of  insecurity  and  distrust.  The  children  played  hide- 
and-seek  in  the  thick  palmetto  clumps.  Joseph  was  happy, 
walking  through  the  tall  weeds,  directing  the  negroes  in  the 
clearing.  Mary  was  afraid.  At  night  when  the  tall  pines 
stood  stark  and  black  against  the  sky,  and  the  land  looked 
flat  and  lifeless,  it  seemed  like  a  setting  for  a  great  funeral ; 
but  in  the  daytime  the  land  was  agressively  alive  and  grow- 
ing, always  fighting  her  and  her  family.  So  she  stayed  in  the 
house,  while  Joseph  and  the  children  lived  outdoors. 

When  winter  came  she  felt  less  unhappy.  The  country 
no  longer  seemed  so  oppressively  tropical,  and  the  grass  and 
weeds  stopped  growing  at  the  fearful  rate  that  had  weighed 
on  her  mind  so,  at  first.  Joseph  had  started  a  book,  and,  with 
the  cold  weather,  he  and  the  younger  children  were  in  the 
house  most  of  the  day,  while  the  older  ones  were  away  at 
school.  But  in  the  spring,  Joseph  found  from  the  sale  of  his 
fruit  crop  that  orange  groves  were  not  as  profitable'  as  he  had 


8  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

dreamed.     He  dismissed  the  negroes,  and  with  the  help  of 

an  old  cracker,  did  the  work  himself.    Then  Mary  noticed 

that  the  oldest  boy  was  thin,  and  looked  pale  and  unhealthy. 

So  she  and  the  hoy  made  the  long  day's  journey  to  Tampa, 
crawling  through  the  miles  of  deep,  sandy  ruts.    The  boy 

had  hookworm,  and  they  stayed  for  a  week  in  Tampa,  while 
he  was  being  cured.  After  that,  the  children  never  went 
barefoot,  and  when,  a  month  or  two  later,  one  of  them  met 
a  rattlesnake  in  the  grove,  Mary  could  see  that  they  wore 
beginning  to  share  her  terror. 

Joseph  felt  no  fear,  hut  he  was  beginning  to  he  driven 
by  the  land.  By  the  time  they  had  been  in  Florida  two  years, 
he  had  stopped  writing  entirely  and  spent  all  hs  time  work- 
ing in  the  grove,  coming  home  at  night  too  tired  to  keep 
awake.  The  work  hent  his  back  and  made  his  shoulders  and 
arms  heavy  and  strong.  He  would  come  shambling  home  at 
night,  hent  over  with  his  long  arms  hanging  in  front  of  him. 
his  hands  almost  touching  his  knees.  Mary  sometimes  won- 
dered if  he  swung;  from  tree  to  tree  in  the  grove,  like  the  apes 
he  resembled  more  and  more. 

She  feared  these  thoughts  and  buried  herself  in  her 
work,  to  keep  from  thinking.  She  felt  safe  in  the  feeling 
of  detachmenl  her  work  gave  her,  and  gradually  became  in- 
different to  the  life  around  her,  and  even  to  the  circumstances 
of  her  own  life.  On  the  rare  occasions  when  she  caught  Sight 
of  herself  in  a  mirror,  she  could  see  that  the  fire  and  color 
which  had  made  her  beautiful,  had  gone  out  of  her  face.  With 
her  hail",  faded  to  a  drab  brownish  grey,  and  her  shrunken 
face,  she  was  becoming  like  the  old  cracker  women  who  sat 
in  the  hot  sun  outside  their  ramshackle  cabins  and  dipped 
snuff.      Hut  she  was  past  caring  even  for  that.     A  hurricane 

came  and  lore  up  half  of  their  trees.  .Joseph  worked  steadily 

for  a  year,  and  had  just  repaired  the  damage  when  there 
was  a  freeze  and  the  fruit  crop  was  lost.     Then,  slowly,  their 

fortunes  improved.  Land  became  more  valuable,  the  fruit 

crop  was  good  for  three  years  in  succession;  Joseph  boughl 

.1  Ik  \\  car.  It  was  all  the  same  to  Mary,  In  summer  it  was 
a  tilth  hotter,  and  in  winter  a  little  colder;  she  baked  and 
scrubbed,  and  the  time  passed,  as  it  always  had. 

Oik  morning  in  the  fall,  while  she  was  working  in  the 
kitchen,  she  heard  a  shout  from  the  yard.  She  went  to  the 
door  and  s;iw  Joseph  leaning  against  the  gate.  "Snakebite," 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  9 

he  said.  She  ran  out  to  him,  and,  ripping  oft'  his  stocking  and 
rolling  up  his  trouser-leg.  she  saw  the  two  red  marks  in  his 
swollen  leg.  "I'm  done  for,"  he  said,  "Get  me  a  piece  of 
paper,  for  a  will.  I  want  you  to  stay  here — the  grove  and  the 
land — ■"  She  didn't  wait  to  hear  any  more,  but  ran  into  the 
house  to  get  the  medicine  and  the  paper.  While  she  was 
fixing  the  potash,  she  looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw 
Joseph,  squatting  on  the  ground  with  his  leg  doubled  under 
him  and  his  heavy  hands  exploring  the  bite,  She  could  think 
of  nothing  but  the  thought  that  had  obsessed  her  for  so  long— 
how  like  an  ape  he  looked.  Why  should  she  be  ruled  by  an 
ape?  She  ran  back  with  the  solution  and  the  bandage,  and 
saying,  "There's  no  time  to  make  a  will,"  she  put  the  tourni- 
quet on  his  leg,  not  twisting  it  very  tightly.  While  she 
rubbed  the  potash  into  the  bite,  he  told  her  about  the  snake. 
"I  was  pruning  a  tree  and  stepped  backwards.  Something 
hit  me  in  the  leg,  very  lightly,  and  I  thought  I'd  stepped  on 
a  stick.  When  I  got  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  tree  and 
saw  the  snake,  I  knew  what  had  happened,  but  then  it  was 
too  late,  so  I  ran."  Then  he  closed  his  eyes  and  slumped  for- 
ward. By  the  time  Mary  had  the  car  ready,  she  had  to  shake 
him  to  arouse  him,  and  then,  finally,  almost  to  drag  him  to 
the  car.  When  the  long  ride  to  the  nearest  town  was  over, 
he  was  dead  asleep,  and  the  doctor  could  not  wake  him.  He 
died,  in  the  doctor's  office,  that  afternoon. 

When  the  doctor  came  out,  Mary  was  looking  steadily 
at  the  Avail  opposite.  After  he  told  her,  she  said  nothing.  She 
was  thinking  that,  with. luck,  she  and  the  children  could  leave 
for  the  north  within  two  weeks. 


10  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


ARCHEOLOGIST 

Patty  Wood  1930 


Remember,  remember — 

Why  must  you  always  he  *~ 

Remembering? 

I  think,  for  you.  today 

Is  hut  a  time  for  seeing  yesterdays. 

And  there  is  nothing  in  tomorrow. 

Remember,  remember — 

You  dig,  and  hurrow.  ferret  out. 

And  when,  from  some  ohseure  and  rotting  tomb, 

You  have  unearthed  a  moment  of  the  past. 

"Treasure!"  you  cry  and.  gloating, 

Dangle  it  before  my  eyes. 

Remember,  remember — 

I   hate  it.  hate 

I ts  brokenness,  its  failure; 
What  of  loveliness  there  w as 
Is  tarnish, 
All  of  magic  has  been  lost. 

And  there  are  tatters 

Remember,  remember 

Why  must  you  always  he 

Remembering? 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  11 


THE  DAY 

Priscilla  Fairchijd  1930 


@ ELL  this  has  been  a  day,"  she  sighed,  sinking  suddenly 
down  to  the  purple  flowers  and  green  leaves  of  the 
sofa.  "This  has  been  quite  a  day,"  she  repeated,  and 
felt  experimentally  around  her  head  for  the  wandering 
prongs  of  hair-pins  poised  like  dragon  flies  for  flight. 

Even  getting  up  at  seven  to  drive  Fred  to  the  train 
didn't  make  the  morning  long  enough.  Mrs.  Doyle  had 
come  to  clean  the  pantry  after  breakfast.  All  the  china 
taken  down,  washed,  dried,  put  back  again,  clean  bubbles 
of  glass  glowing  on  the  lace-petticoated  shelves,  hot  smell  of 
ammonia  and  soapy  water,  garrulous  Irish  voices  resound- 
ing through  the  house  all  day. 

About  ten  she  got  the  lists  and  gave  the  orders  to 
Norah.  A  long  process  this,  in  which  she  stood  tranced, 
ecstatic,  tapping  the  oil-cloth  of  the  table  with  a  pencil, 
thinking  of  nothing,  of  everything,  the  fly  buzzing  in  the 
window,  summer  and  bathing  and  wet  hair,  the  garden  to 
be  weeded,  strawberries,  hungry  children.  "Oatmeal,"  she 
said  trumphantly,  "oatmeal,  I  knew  it  all  the  time."  Norah, 
faithful  acolyte,  murmured  "Oatmeal,  of  course."  So  they 
went  through  all  the  list,  searched  the  ice-box,  peered  into 
the  closet  for  red  and  yellow  packages.  "Cinnamon,"  she 
hummed,  "clove,  allspice  and  mustard,  red  pepper,  white 
pepper,  salt,  sugar  and  tea.  Now  for  dinner  shall  we  have 
.  .  .  ."  Her  mind  spun  off  again.  Stop  at  the  bank,  write 
to  Talbot ;  Anne  needs  a  new  evening  dress.  Would  she  look 
well  in  black?  A  miniature  Anne  in  a  black  dress  pirouetted 
through  her  brain,  fascinating,  adored  by  everyone,  the  most 
attractive  girl  at  the  party.  .  .  . 

"I  shall  get  the  material  tomorrow,  and  make  it  next 
week  when  I  have  more  time.  Such  a  lovely  idea  in  my 
mind." 

" And  caramel  custard  for  dessert,  then,  that's 

always  nice." 

Caramel    custard    and    string    beans    are    favorites    of 


1  J  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

>li<  was  going  upstairs  whistling  an  assortment  of 
tunes  curiously  jumbled  together,  and  as  she  moved 
through  the  rooms,  the  crystal  <In>|>s  on  the  old-fashioned 
lamps  tinkled  an  obligate  to  her  firm  tread  and  the  click  of 
her  In  <  Is. 

Then  the  laundryman  made  his  weekly  dramatic  rush 
up  the  dm 

"Yes,  the  wife  was  better,  thank  you.  It  was  a  rotten 
job  driving  a  truck  around,  waiting  at  hack  doors  in  the  rain 
and  mud.     Fine  open  winter  it  had  been  though.'1 

Soapy  must   be  tied  out.     lie  watched  her  from  the 

window  scat  where  he  lay  in  a  pool  of  sunlight,  his  tail 
thumping  joy  and  expectation.  "You  worm,"  she  said 
through  her  closed  teeth,  and  swooping  suddenly  over  him. 
crumpled  his  ear  in  her  fingers,  "you  little  brown  worm." 

Tied  to  the  tree,  he  saw  her  walk  away  over  the  sodden 
lawn.  She  picked  tip  a  handful  of  dried  sticks  from  under 
the  hedge,  to  scatter  them  forgetfully  in  a  minute  as  she 
pulled  three  weeds  out  of  the  flowerbed.  The  earth  had  a 
rotten  feel,  a  rotten  smell,  the  musk  decaying  before  the 
kernel  sprouts.  "So  many  leaves  to  he  burned,  and  borders 
eded,  and   the  garden   must   he  ploughed  soon.      Perhaps 

ii<  \t  summer  we  can  have  a  man  ...  I  must  pop  down 
and  give  the  furnace  a  little  shake/' 

Hut  ^1k  still  stood,  her  grey-green  eyes  decked  with 
d  staring  aimlessly  across  the  road  at  a  telegraph  pole, 
i hi'  hand  clutching  a  headless  weed,  the  other  holding  a  cook- 
hook,  till  finally  the  Vague  current  of  her  thoughts  allowed 
her  to  move  again,  and  whistling  loudly,  tunelessly,  she 
entered  the  house. 

Immediately  lit'  fell  upon  her  with  the  soft  clatter  of 
a  dropped  pack  of  cards.  Norah  and  .Mrs.  Doyle  wrangled 
m  the  Kitchen.  A  man  came  to  solicit  money  for  the  Salva- 
t  ion  A  rmj . 

"After  lunch. "  she  thought,  and  walking  through  the 
dining  room,  8he  stopped  to  rub  a  spot  off  the  sideboard, 
immediately  and  utterly  forgetting  her  motive  Tor  coming 
into  the  room  al  all.  "After  lunch.  I  shall  just  lie  down  and 
take  a  lit 1 1  <  nap,  I  don't  believe  Pve  sat  down  once  all  day." 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  13 

But  after  lunch,  (on  a  tray  in  front  of  the  window,  the 
leaves  of  the  morning  paper  strewn  generously  around  on 
the  floor),  the  telephone  whirred  with  the  rasp  of  an  insect 
on  an  August  night,  and  Soapy  harked  out  of  devastating 
boredom.  Xorah  cleaning  brass  downstairs,  ("I'm  sure 
she's  spilling  polish  on  the  hard  wood  floor,  and  it  does  eat 
into  the  wax  so.")  Xorah  dropped  the  andirons  with  the 
gesture  of  a  man  beating  cymbals  in  an  orchestra,  determined 
to  make  the  most  of  his  moment,  that  has  finally  arrived. 

The  two  worst  possible  bores  came  to  call.  Under  the 
rumble  of  platitudes  her  mind  leaped  and  darted  like  a 
speckled  trout.  How  long  will  they  stay,  oh  God,  how  long! 
Why  do  fat  women  with  yellow  faces  wear  light  green? 

Her  eyes  wandered  to  the  book-cases.  Those  glass 
doors  must  be  washed,  you  can  hardly  see  the  names.  Does 
any  one  nowadays  read  Rutlcdge  and  Misunderstood?  .... 
How  I  loved  them.  Little  wrinkles  ran  up  the  sides  of  her 
nose  as  she  smiled. 

Always  the  outer  flow  of  conversation  rambled  on.  Xow 
and  then,  vaguely,  she  fell  a  little  behind,  repeated  herself, 
asked  meaningless  questions.  ''How  the  children  laugh  at 
me  when  I  do  that  ...  I  must  write  Talbot  after  dinner." 

It  was  when  they  had  gone  that  she  murmured  to  her- 
self. "This  has  been  a  day."  The  room  closed  in  about  her 
with  that  intimacy  of  a  late  winter  afternoon  when  it  is 
nearly  time  to  go  upstairs  and  dress.  Little  rumbling  noises 
crept  out  of  the  fire.  Soapy  snored  heavily.  At  last,  at 
last,  she  could  sink  into  herself,  think  of  nothing  at  all,  have 
no  demands  made  on  her,  just  the  luxury  of  sitting  and 
staring. 

The  door  clicked  and  swung.  "Fred,  is  *hat  you?  Are 
you  very  cold?  Just  a  minute,  and  I'll  ring  for  more  hot 
water.     Did  you  have  a  hard  day?" 

"Well,  we  sold  five  hundred  bales  today.  The  market 
was  good,  silver  has  gone  np.  Skinner  came  into  the  office 
and  I  told  him  .  .  .  ." 

His  eyes  were  still  very  blue,  sailor's  eyes,  puckered  in 
the  corners  from  squinting,  a  little  faded  now.  almost  the 
color  of  that  china  cow  she  had  had  as  a  little  girl.  It  was 
really  a  jug,  you  lifted  it  up  by  the  tail,  and  poured  the  milk 


1  4  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

out  of  its  mouth,  always  a  distinct  shock  to  see.  The  jug 
and  the  green  hook  with  the  gold  title  "Little  George's 
Journey  to  the  Land  of  Happiness,"  were  always  associated 

somehow 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing  today?"  he  was  saying. 
"  B<  en  \  ery  busj  .'" 

"Oh  no.   just   the  same  old  round.      I   don't   really  think 
I've  done  a  single  thing  all  day." 


SAPHO 
Marion  Bussang  1932 


When  did  they  last 

Plait  your  hair, 
By  a  (hep  sea? 
Your  purple  hair? 

Did  you  tip  hark  your  head 
Exquisitely  \ 

And  slip  a  soft  smile 

From  your  perfect  lips? 

I  )id  you  touch  your  dim  hair 
With  your  fingertips? 

By  a  deep,  cool  sea. 
( )ne  afternoon 
Near  M  vtilene,  .  . 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  15 


LONDON  STREETS 

Ernestine  Gilbreth  1929 


THE  INTRODUCTION 

For  the  pleasure  of  my  readers  as  well  as  for  my  own,  I  must  piek 
and  choose  those  who  have  an  itching  inclination  to  be  conducted  through 
the  London  Streets.  For  their  satisfaction  and  my  own  diversion  we 
must  be  a  company  stouthearted  and  sturdy-legged.  I  shall  not  expose 
the  vanities  and  vices  of  the  town  to  those  who  smart  easily,  whose  eyes, 
ears  and  noses  are  forever  a  matter  of  care  and  preservation.  But  if 
there  be  amongst  you,  a  suitable  temper  to  walk  about  and  take  a  com- 
pleat  view,  I  bid  you  welcome  to  our  company.  We'll  take  a  turn  quite 
round  and  then  we  shall  escape  nothing  worth  observing. 


leec 


f**  E  have  left  a  world  of  peace,  law  and  traffic  regulations, 
vl/  and  come  by  foot  to  eighteenth  century  London.  Here 
is  the  very  metropolis  of  England,  a  city  which  is  in- 
the  heart  of  the  commercial  and  financial  systems,  the 
warehouse  and  clearing-house  of  business  life.  Stealthily  it 
has  crept  along  the  lines  of  existing  roads  or  old  country 
lines,  frequently  submerging  the  cow-pastures  themselves. 
Ever  widening,  it  extends  through  new  and  further  roads. 
Here  is  a  growing  residential  district,  alive  with  unceasing 
progress  and  more  definitely,  congested  masses  of  people. 
Here  are  streets  straggling  in  every  direction,  topsy-turvy 
with  life  and  action. 

There  remain  many  dark  alleys,  foul,  dismal  and  devoid 
of  light  or  fresh  air.  Narrow  streets  retain  their  ancient  pav- 
ing of  hard  stone  hammered  into  the  ground,  their  filthy 
gutters  sometimes  a  succession  of  stagnant  puddles,  some- 
times almost  a  rapid  stream.  Broader  streets  are  beginning 
to  be  provided  with  flat  paving  of  freestone;  the  more  im- 
portant ones  have  posts.  The  dangerous  kennel  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  streets  tends  to  be  replaced  by  gutters  on  either 
side.  One  looks  in  vain  for  curbs.  Obstacles  to  ventilation, 
light  and  walking,  project  from  the  houses.     But  there  are 


I  ()  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

suggestions  of  improvement.  The  old  personal  obligation  of 
each  householder  to  pave  and  keep  in  repair  the  street  in 
Front  of  his  own  door,  has  been  replaced  by  a  commission 
appointed  for  this  very  purpose. 

Before  these  changes  due  to  the  new  Paving  Avts,  of 
streets  had  suggested  a  colony  of  Hottentots.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  rest  lain  the  nighl  men  and  scavengers  from  emptying 
their  carts  in  the  streets.  The  accumulated  filth  thrown  out 
from  the  doors  and  windows  of  neighboring  houses  meant  "a 
menace  to  health  and  safety."  Householders  invariably  failed 
to  sweep  the-  road  in  front  of  their  houses.  The  passerby 
was  constantly  in  fear  of  stumbling  into  a  projecting  bal- 
cony, unfenced  open  cellar,  or  unprotected  coal-shoot. 
Should  he-  escape  being  struck  by  a  falling  flower-pot,  there 
was  still  danger  of  being  drenched  by  spouts  projecting 

from  the-  house-tops. 

Hut  many  inconveniences  still  characterize  the  streets. 
In  spite-  of  continued  effort  to  bring  the  houses  into  line, 
there  are  shops,  especially  on  the  smaller  streets,  which  throw 
out  bay  windows,  or  doorsteps  advancing  into  the  narrow 
pathway.  The  pavement  remains  in  a  ruinous  condition  even 
where  it  consists  of  nothing  hut  round  stones;  there  is  con- 
stant danger  of  bullocks  driven  through  the'  streets.  One  is 
ii<  \  er  safe  from  the  packs  of  dogs  taught  to  defend  the*  house, 
lo  fly  at  strangers  and  to  fight  in  the*  ring.  Crowds  of 
pars  swarm  back  and  forth.  A  merciless  procession  of 
street-cries  jibes  with  the  bawling  from  the  shops. 

In  the  early  pari  of  the-  century,  the'  lighting  as  we'll  as 
the  paving  was  considered  the  personal  responsibility  of  the 
householders.  Lights  were  supposed  to  be  hung  out  during 
the-  six  winter  months  from  six  to  e'le've'n  P.  M.  on  dark 
nights  by  the  calendar.  (On  eighteen  nights  in  each  noon.; 
The  shops  which  were  usually  kept  open  until  eight  or  nine- 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  made  the  streets  (phte-  agreeable  with 
their  half-hearted  Lights.  Hut  il  was  nevertheless  necessary 
for  those  who  sallied  forth  in  the  evening,  to  he*  accompanied 
to  and  from  their  card  parties,  by  'prentices  carrying  clubs. 
The  Paving  Ads  however,  brought  both  the-  lighting  power 
and  ih<  new  paving  projects  under  a  body  of  trustees.  Also, 
.is  in  the  case  of  paving,  to  no  purpose.  The-  lamps  which 
were  lit  at  sunset,  were  mostly  out  by  eleven  o'clock,  because 
t  h<  light  ers  si<  >l<  most  of  the  oil. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  17 

The  streets  have  their  distinct  atmosphere.  Loeal  odors 
of  all  varieties  and  degrees  of  intensity,  keep  the  pedestrian 
ever-conscious  of  his  sense  of  smell.  Thames  Street  is  the  re- 
gion of  fish  and  meat  markets  and  oil  merchants.  Past  Fleet 
Street  one  becomes  aware  only  of  the  noxious  open  stream 
at  the  foot  of  Ludgate  Hill.  It  is  a  relief  to  reach  "the  per- 
fumed paths  of  fair  Pall  Mall."  Indeed  as  Gay  points  out 
in  Trivia 

"Experienced  men  innr'd  to  city  ways 
Xeed  not  the  Calendar  to  count  their  days." 

Addison  expands  the  subject  in  the  Spectator,  and 
emphasizes  the  prevalence  of  street-cries.  "  There  is  nothing 
Avhich  more  astonishes  a  foreigner  and  frights  a  country 
squire."  He  divides  them  neatly  into  the  vocal  and  instru- 
mental. "As  for  the  latter  they  are  at  present  under  great 
disorder.  A  freeman  of  London  has  the  privilege  of  dis- 
trubing  a  whole  street  for  an  hour  altogether  with  the  twankle 
of  a  brass  kettle  or  frying  pan."  There  are  also  the  watch- 
riian's  thump  at  midnight,  the  sowgelder's  horn.  But  "Vocal 
cries  are  of  much  larger  extent  and  indeed  so  full  of  incon- 
gruities and  barbarisms  that  we  appear  a  distracted  city  to 
foreigners."  There  are  "the  excessive  alarms  in  turnip  sea- 
son", the  call  of  the  pickle  hawkers  "which  like  the  song  of 
the  nightingale  is  not  heard  above  two  months".  "And  one 
cannot  be  deaf  to  the  shrill  note  of  the  milkman,  the  hollow 
voice  of  the  copper,  and  the  sad  and  solemn  air  with  which 
the  public  are  often  asked  if  they  have  any  chairs  to  mend." 

Attention  is  also  attracted  by  the  signboards  hung  out 
before  almost  every  house.  Monstrous,  heavy  with  ironwork, 
they  can  be  heard  swinging  ponderously  in  the  wind,  adding 
to  the  uproar  of  the  streets.  The  sign  painters  enjoy  a  fine 
business  and  keep  large  stacks  of  them  "both  carved  and 
painted,  spit  grapes  and  sugar-loaves,  lasts  and  teapots  in 
the  round,  as  well  as  the  still  familiar  lions  and  white 
harts."  Every  shop  has  its  sign  of  copper,  pewter  or  wood, 
painted  and  gilt,  some  very  magnificent. 

The  finest  shops  are  scattered  down  the  courts  and  pas- 
sages. Those  on  Strand,  Fleet  Street  and  Cheapside  are 
very  elegant,  enclosed  with  great  glass  doors  and  adorned  on 
the  outside  with  pieces  of  ancient  architecture.  The  shops 
of  the  drapers  are  particularly  beautiful,   inspired   by  the 


is  The  Smith  College   Monthly 

noble  fronts  of  banking  houses  with  emblematic  statins  over 
the  doors.  The  windows  of  the  jewelers  and  pawnbrokers 
concentrate  upon  respendeni  window-displays  to  the  public. 

Many  of  the  shops  hav<  sonn  outward  mark  signifying 
th<  occupation  of  their  tenants.  The  baker  lias  a  latice;  the 
al(  -hous< .  checkers;  the  barber  his  pole;  the  clothier,  a  golden 
sh(  (  p.  Bui  walking  along  the  street  one  is  aware  of  many 
less  obvious  objects  the  milk-score  chalked  on  every  door- 
post :  the  "flying-barber"  on  a  Sunday  morning;  white  glo^  e 
mm  a  knocker  to  show  the  arrival  of  a  child ;  pickpockets  held 
under  the  pump,  or  the  butcher's  orchestral  hand  of  morrcn  - 
bones  and  cleavers  congratulating  a  wedding  party. 

Bui  the  London  Spy  in  describing  London,  is  more  im- 
pressed by  the  number  of  advertisements  "hung  thick  round 
the  Pillars  of  each  Walk.  The  Wainscote  was  adorn'd  with 
Quacks  Hills  instead  of  Pictures.  Never  an  Emperick  in  the 
town  hut  had  his  name  in  a  lacquer'd  Frame  containing  ;< 
a  t'aii-  Invitation  for  a  Fool  and  his  Money  soon  to  he  parted." 

The  streets  seem  alive  with  amateur  roysterers  and  pro- 
fessional pickpockets  and  footpads.  The  criminals  comprise 
the  Bold-bucks  and  Hellfires.  (We  find  no  evidence  pointing 
to  the  existence  of  .Mohocks.)  Less  harmless  arc  those  whose 
favorite  pastime  is  the  breaking  of  windows  or  storming  of 
hearses.  The  Apprentice  hoys  evidently  find  in  these  harm- 
less pursuits,  their  only  outlet  for  amusement  and  exercise. 
Gambling,  the  ciub,  tavern  and  alehouse  were  doubtless  res- 
ponsible for  had  masters  and  consequently  lor  troublesome 
apprentices.     So  we  find  these  hoys,  any  hour  in  the  evening, 

shouting  and  clearing  the  pavement  of  all  persons,  boxing 
w  it  1 1  those  wIki  dare  to  offer  resistance,  or  in  times  of  scarcity. 
fighting  among  themselves  with  sticks. 

More  serious  are  the  rogue's  den.  the  smashing  mint,  the 
abodes  of  villains,  thieftakers  and  informers,  found  in  every 
eet.  Even  in  the  busiesl  thoroughfares  such  as  Ludgate 
Hill,  the  pedestrian  must  be  prepared  to  fighl  with  club  or 
tists.  The  rogues  themselves  are  limitless.  The  very  women. 
'i  the  common  prostitutes,  know  how  to  use  their  fists  as 
well  .-is  bo  rob. 

Stealing  of  luggage  occurs  all  day  long.  Without  so 
much  aa  a  l»\  your  leave,"  the  vistor  to  London  may  see 
his  trunk  disappear.  Hackney  coachmen  stand  in  villi  the 
thieves  and  take  their   'regulars".  Rvervone  is  a  "smasher" 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  19 

and  a  successful  one.  Caddees  profess  to  be  fellows  hanging 
around  for  six  penny  jobs,  but  devote  their  energy  to  pass- 
ing off  bad  money  for  good,  and  selling  it  to  everyone  for 
handsome  profits.  Picking  pockets  has  also  been  reduced  to 
a  science.  Thieves  mix  in  every  crowd,  wherever  there  is 
any  show  or  exhibiton  of  goods.  "If  a  horse  tumbles  or  a 
woman  faints  away,  they  run  to  increase  the  crowd  and  con- 
fusion; they  create  a  bustle  and  try  over  the  pockets  of  un- 
suspecting persons."  Or  they  get  up  sham  fights  and  calm- 
ly rob  the  bystanders. 

All  day  long  the  streets  resound  with  fighting.  "The 
journeyman  of  every  trade,  the  fellowship  porter,  the  steve- 
dor,  the  carter,  the  waggoner,  driver,  sailor,  watchman," 
are  prepared  to  defend  the  rights  of  the  lower  classes,  should 
the  occasion  happily  present  itself.  But  gentlemen  also 
carry  into  the  streets  a  stout  walking  stick  far  more  useful 
than  a  sword.  They  too  are  very  anxious  to  use  their  fists 
and  are  eager  for  a  bully  shoving  into  the  crowd,  or  a  per- 
son taking  the  wall  of  everyone.  It  is  considered  a  right 
and  a  pleasure  to  treat  footpads  and  pickpockets  to  a  cudg- 
elling or  the  pump.  In  every  crowd  the  hasty  quarrel,  the 
oaths  and  the  blasphemies  of  disputants,  the  fight  in  the  ring 
sure  to  be  promptly  formed  either  with  fists  or  cudgels, 
mean  the  blocking  of  the  streets  by  radiant  onlookers  who 
remain  to  see  the  ordeal  by  battle  decided.  At  the  mere 
suggestion  of  a  disagreement,  the  porters  and  dogs  run  bark- 
ing from  all  corners,  and  the  handicrafts  leave  their  garrets, 
making  a  circle  about  the  boxers.  The  standers-by  are  care- 
ful to  see  the  laws  of  combat  strictly  observed;  they  block 
and  crowd  the  streets  until  the  battle  is  decided. 

We  find  aside  from  the  vehement  action  in  the  streets, 
a  motley  group  of  people  who  make  their  living  here.  Lon- 
don is  a  favorite  place  for  beggars  and  vagrants  of  all  de- 
crees and  kinds.  Any  persons  born  with  a  defect  or  deform- 
ity, or  maimed  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  rendered  miserable, 
have  free  liberty  of  showing  their  nauseous  sights  to  terrify 
people  and  force  them  to  get  rid  of  them.  It  is  frequently 
the  custom  for  those  less  hideously  deformed  to  stir  up  busi- 
ness and  competition  by  borrowing  babies  at  4d.  a  day  from 
the  parish  nurses. 

If  the  streets  seem  noisy  and  alive  during  the  daytime, 
they  are  equally  so  at  night.    The  city  seems  fairly  to  swarm 


20  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

with  waifs  marching  about  in  the  dark,  playing  before  the 
houses.  The  London  Spy  niel  such  a  "Gang  of  Tatterde- 
malions" "A  very  young  Crew  of  diminutive  Vagabonds 
who  marched  along  in  rank  and  file  like  a  little  Army  of 
Prestor  John's  Countrymen,  as  if  in  order  to  attack  a  bird's 
nest."  "When  questioned  one  of  the  Peri  Frontiers  an- 
swered We  Master,  are  the  City  Black  Guards  marching 
to  our  Winter  quarters.  Lord  bless  you  Master,  give  us  a 
Penny  or  a  half-penny  amongsi  us,  and  you  shall  hear  us 
(if  you  please)  say  the  Lord's  Prayer  backwards,  swear  the 
Compass  round,  give  a  new  Curse  to  every  step  in  the  .Monu- 
ment, call  a  Whore  as  many  propel'  names  as  a  Peer  has 
titles.  We  gave  the  poor  Wretches  a  penny  and  away  they 
trouped  with  a  thousand  God  bless  ye's,  as  Ragged  as  old 
Stockin'  .Mops,  and  I'll  warrant  you  as  Hungry  as  so  many 
Cat-ta-Mountains.  Vet  seem'd  as  Merry  as  they  were  Poor. 
and  as  Contented  as  they  were  Miserable." 

The  London  Spy  is  also  a  pretty  judge  of  women  and 
has  much  to  say  of  the  mistresses  and  whores  found  in 
abundance  on  every  street.  "They  were  to  he  had  of  all 
Ranks,  Qualities,  Colours,  Prices  and  Sizes  from  the  Whet 
Scarf  to  the  Scotch-plaid  petticoat.  Commodities  of  all  sorts 
\\(iit  off,  for  there  wanted  not  a  suitable  Jack  to  every 
Jill." 

Quacks  also  conduct  flourishing  businesses,  addressing 
the  rabble  and  recommending  vehemently,  "A  sound  mind 
in  .'i  sound  body  as  the  Learned  Doctor  I  Ionorficieahilit ud- 
initatibusque"  has  it.  and  selling  "Pacquets  of  Universal 
Hoflg-podg."  One  also  finds  innumerable  Puppet  shows 
where  monkeys  in  balconies  imitate  men.  and  men.  monkeys, 
to  engage  "some  of  the  weaker  pari  of  the  Multitude,  as 
women  and  Children."  The  London  Spy  also  engagingly 
describes  the  storekeepers  "a  parcel  of  Nimble  Tungu'd 
Sinners"  who  leap  out  and  swarm  aboul  the  pedestrian  like 
"so  many  Bees  aboul  a  Honeysuckle,  shrieking  "Buy  any 
Clothes?"  Chimney-sweeps,  the  chandler  with  his  basket,  and 
the  butcher  with  hjs  greasy  tray,  likewise  assail  the  unsus- 
p<  cting. 

Even  on  ;i  respectable  Sunday  morning  the  streets  are 
not  bare  of  affronts.  People  going  to  church  must  fairly 
jump  over  rows  of  drunken  men  laid  out  on  the  pavement 
I"  Fore  the  public  houses,     Even  in  the  most  respectable  (lis- 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  21 

tricts  the  ears  of  ladies  are  offended  by  the  bawling  of  coarse 
songs  in  the  taverns,  and  by  the  balladmongers  turning  every 
event  from  a  victory  to  the  hanging  of  a  highwayman  into 
a  ribald  song. 

Indeed  the  streets  seem  teeming  with  disorder.  There 
is  obviously  no  street  patrol  by  day,  no  means  of  regulating 
the  slow,  congested  traffic,  of  capturing  thieves,  of  dispers- 
ing curious  crowds.  It  is  optimistically  expected  that  the 
people  themselves  will  preserve  order.  The  Government 
does  offer  large  rewards  for  the  apprehension  of  street  rob- 
bers, but  to  little  effect.  The  city  although  spasmodically 
admonished  to  clean  itself,  to  light  itself,  to  rid  itself  of 
rogues,  and  to  keep  a  guard  at  night,  remains  in  an  almost 
primitive  state  of  unconsciousness.  The  watch  is  not  set 
until  nine  o'clock  in  the  winter,  ten  in  the  summer  and 
spring,  leaving  therefore,  four  or  five  hours  in  complete 
darkness.  But  at  night  as  well  as  day,  it  is  true  that  the 
'prentices  are  able  and  anxious  to  fight.  They  make  an  at- 
tempt to  preserve  order,  in  their  own  Avay. 

The  daily  patrol  or  watch  is  inefficient  and  ineffective, 
subject  always  to  uncomplimentary  opinion  and  expression. 
The  watchmen  themselves  are  stout  and  sturdy  fellows. 
Their  fault  is  obviously  not  one  of  age,  but  of  eagerness  to 
take  bribes.  So  the  poor  streetwalker,  for  example,  in 
order  to  exist,  has  always  to  bribe  the  watch  first,  the  con- 
stable next,  and  the  magistrate  (if  she  ever  appears  before 
him)  last.     These  fellows: 

"Do  most  thro'  Interest,  and  but  few  thro'  Zeal 

Betwixt  the  Laws,  and  the  Offender  deal." 

(Ward,  The  London  Spy.) 

The  great  good  that  they  seem  to  do  in  the  streets  is  "to  Dis- 
turb People  every  Hour  with  their  Bawling,  under  pretence 
of  taking  care  that  they  may  sleep  quietly  in  their  Beds; 
and  call  every  old  Fool  by  name  seven  times  a  Night,  for 
fear  he  should  rise  and  forget  it  next  Morning;  and  instead 
of  preventing  Mischief,  make  it,  by  carrying  Honest  per- 
sons to  the  Counter,  who  would  fain  walk  peaceably  home 
to  their  own  Habitation;  and  provoke  Gentlemen  by  their 
sauciness  to  Commit  these  Follies  'tis  their  business  properly 
to  prevent.     In  short,  it  is  reasonable  to  believe  they  play 


M  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

more  Rogue's  tricks  than  ever  they  Detect  and  occasion  more 
Disturbances  in  the  Streets  than  ever  thev  Hinder." 


Behind  ns  the  London  Streets  stretch  into  the  distance. 
The  pavement  is  more  even  now,  and  glides  smoothly  under 
one's  fret.  The  crowds  are  less:  the  bellowing  of  SOngS  and 
street-cries  has  become  suddenly  faint,  a  mere  jangle  of 
notes  flung  upon  the  memory.     'There  are  only  the  ache  of  our 

legs,  the  ierk  of  our  eyes,  an  imperceptible  tingle  of  the  ears, 
to  recall  the  reality  of  this  world  so  vital,  so  blundering  with 
action.  But  these  one  treasures  as  something  apart,  yet 
personal,  ever-resounding  with  life  and  vigor. 


[SEULT 
Marion  Bussang  1932 

Powerless,  oh  white  beauty,  to  have  gone 
Bruising  your  marvellous  feel  over  the  stone. 
Down  into  caverns  under  the  sea  alone; 

Creeping  into  the  dark,  with  the  fetid  chill 
Of  the  deep  and  the  cold  and  the  silence  trying  to  till 
Your  wonderful  hair  and  your  eyes  and  your  throat,  until 
i 

Only  a  shadow  stretched  in  the  gloom  is  all 
I  -<l't  of  the  body  of  [seult;  never  a  tall 
Candle  lighting  the  rare  head,  dark  in  its  fall. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  23 


AT  THE  SIGHT  OF  BLOOD 
Dorothy  M.  Kelley  1931 


>— rlLWAYS  afterward,  at  the  sight  of  blood  Lucha  re- 
jL|  member  with  sickening  intensity  the  afternoon  of 
5HI93  the  revolution.  She  felt  an  echo  of  the  fear  that  had 
stretched  tightly,  like  sharp,  glittering  wires,  across  the 
muffled  sounds  that  came  to  them  through  the  mattresses, 
which  buttressed  them  under  the  table.  Shots  suddenly 
whirred,  and  hummed  metallically,  followed  by  the  crashing 
of  heavy  wooden  doors,  and  screams  of  pain,  clashing  of 
steel,  and  trickle  of  crumbling  plaster  walls.  Horses'  hoofs 
clattered  and  rang  on  the  cobblestones.  Soft  Spanish  voices 
had  turned  hard  and  hateful,  were  cursing  each  other.  The 
constant  echoing  of  the  bullets  in  the  narrow  street  turned 
the  air  itself  into  a  shrill  roar  which  penetrated  through  the 
dull  grey  mattresses  as  if  sight  had  been  taken  and  only 
sound  remained. 

The  reverberations  of  the  shots,  the  thud  of  falling  walls, 
the  pulsations  of  the  house,  shook  them  like  noiseless  organ- 
pipes.  The  big  door  of  the  patio  rattled.  To  the  children 
it  was  like  the  shaking  of  the  universe,  to  have  that  immense 
door  waver.  Suddenly,  the  cathedral  bell  pealed  out,  as  if 
its  fear  had  overcome  its  silence.  The  sustained  ringing 
throbbed  fainter  and  fainter  and  died  into  the  air.  At  such 
such  a  moment  the  well-loved,  mellow  striking  could  por- 
tend only  evil.  The  glass  of  a  window-pane  crackled  and 
tinkled  to  the  floor.  Bobbie  began  to  pray  rapidly  and  in- 
congruously, "Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,"  just  as  fast  as 
his  stiffened  lips  could  chant.  Lucha  realized  that  Inez  had 
been  sobbing  mechanically,  but  was  evidently  now  wearied 
into  silence. 

The  stuffiness  between  the  mattresses  was  unbearable, 
they  could  breathe  only  hot,  musty  air  through  the  padded 
greyness.  Lucha  tried  frantically  to  awake  from  this  noisy, 
trembling,  hot  nightmare.  One  must  always  awake  before 
anything  too  awful  happened.  She  pulled  at  the  corner  of 
the  mattress  and  crept  out. 


2  I  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

Through  the  balcony-window  by  the  table,  she  could  s<  i 
caverns  of  twisting  smoke-  and  dust,  glimpses  of  vague  dark 
figures  grappling  with  each  other,  the  black  Sash  of  guns, 
sweaty,  distorted  faces,  the  downward  gleam  of  steel  knives. 
Right  outside  the  window,  clear  of  the  smoke,  a  palm  tree 
waved  its  long  fringed  arms  languidly,  just  as  if  men  were 
not  fighting  and  dying  before  it.  The  haze  dissipated  a  little. 
A  black  snorting  horse  reared  as  his  rider  fell.  He  was  a 
young  man  shot  in  the  forehead  so  that  blood  seemed  stream- 
ing from  his  sightless  eyes.  Lucha  shivered  with  horror  and 
shrank  back  against  the  mattress.  She  raised  her  head  again 
at  the  sound  of  staggering  foot-steps.  A  man  came  reeling 
into  the  room,  holding  his  arm.  Blood  spurted  between  his 
fincrers.  The  whole  room  turned  bloody  red  to  Lucha.  gleam- 
infif,  wet  red.  then  dark  vcd.  then  black,  and  she  could  not 
remember  after  that. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  25 


MAN ANA 

Salue  S.  Simons  1080 


(Fishermen  on  Monhegcm  say  that  Captain 
John  Smith   landed  there  about  1612) 

The  summer  people  have  drilled  four  holes  in  a  broad-stand- 
ing rock  and  nailed  up  a  tablet  to  his  name. 

They  feel  proud  as  they  hurry  by  to  post  their  manuscripts 
and  their  thickly  wrapped  canvasses, 

And  they  think,  "He  sought  and  found.  Grateful,  we  cut  the 
letters  of  his  name  in  bronze.  My  work  is  praised,  ful- 
fils its  purpose.  I  wish  someone  would  lay  my  ghost 
like  that  when  I  am  gone." 

But  the  men  who  walk  with  their  arms  full  of  fish  nets  and 
amber  glass  floats,  never  see  the  tablet. 

They  are  looking  with  the  eyes  of  John  Smith  across  the 
channel  to  Man  ana, 

Across  the  sucking  tides  that  curl  back  from  its  cliffs  to  bare 
revolving  milk-green  cones, 

Across  the  gathering  tides  that  plunge  against  reefs  where 
spray  falls  with  a  hissing  sigh. 

Only  five  hundred  yards  of  water,  yet  these  men  know, 
though  they  are  simple,  that  their  dories  will  not  reach 
the  island. 

Their  quittance  comes  in  listening  for  the  foam  at  night  as  it 
edges  around  the  sharp  shore,  in  watching  colors  shift- 
ing on  the  grass  at  the  cliff  top,  where  no  trees  grow. 

When  they  go  past  the  tablet  every  morning  they  are  looking 
toward  the  channel; 

They  are  thinking  that  John  Smith  never  reached  Manana. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


THE  LEKYTHOS 

Fran<  is   Kannkv    \l.)'2\) 


B  SMALL,  round  man  bounded  down  the  steps  of  the 
Field  Museum,  his  fat  checks  quivering  with  the  mo- 
-T(?°d  tion.  As  lie  reached  the  street,  he  pulled  down  the 
frayed  and  tightly-buttoned  coat  that  had  wrinkled  toward 
his  collarless  neck  in  the  precipitous  descent.  Blood-shot  eyes 
glancing  furtively  aboul  him,  lie  patted  a  bulging  pocket. 
After  assuring  himself  of  the  innocent  and  unsuspecting  na- 
ture oi  the  bypassers,  lie  leaned  against  a  tree  so  that  he 
might  survey  the  building  from  which  he  had  just  departed. 

The  smooth,  white  pillars  of  the  Museum  rested  on  the 
horizon  with  the  harmonious  calm  and  simplicity  of  an 
Athenian  temple.  The  azure  tints  of  the  sky  and  the  spark- 
line  sfreen-blue  hues  of  Lake  Michigan  served  to  accentuate 
its  whiteness. 

The  small  round  nan  did  not  recognize  this  classical 
mblance.  In  fact,  he  had  not  the  faintest  notion  of  the 
implications  of  the  word  "classical."  He  did  know,  however, 
I  hat  nothing  marred  the  peace  of  the  building.  No  brass- 
buttoned  official  appeared  on  the  steps,  shrieking  whistle  to 
his  lips. 

A  sigh  of  relief  (scaped  his  puffy  month.  'There  was 
no  evidence  of  any  chase.  Luck  was  with  him,  for  once. 
Drawing  a  greasy  cap  and  a  do/en  new  pencils  from  a  baggy 
pocket,  he  shuffled  on  down  the  street,  a  grinning,  sheepish 
ex  pression  on  his  bloated  face. 

"Nice  new  pencils.  Nice  yellow  pencils.  Five  cents 
apiece.  Silly  .John  wants  a  cup  of  coffee.  Help  poor  Silly 
.1 1 dm.    he  whined. 

li  was  a  chilly  day.  hut  the  sunlghl  bathed  the  side- 
walks with  ;i  yellow  warmth.  He  would  have  liked,  no 
doubt,  to  squat  down  in  it.  doubling  his  legs  under  him  in  a 
pitiful,  crippled  position,  hut  Silly  .John  was  in  a  hurry  to- 
day.    Ai  short  intervals  his  grimy  fingers  caressed  the  cool, 

miimmI  |i  <  i!>  |(cl    iii  his  pocket . 

II<  turned  up  Michigan  Boulevard  on  the  easl  side.  He 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  27 

usually  crossed  over  to  where  streams  of  people  passed  be- 
fore the  shop  windows,  but  today  he  chose  the  opposite  side. 
where  the  sidewalks  was  empty  hut  for  the  lingering  hoboes 
and  tramps  that  watched  the  endless  iron  and  smoke  of  the 
Illinois  Central  Railway.  Here  no  one  would  notice  him. 
He  felt  safe. 

An  old  friend  sidled  up  to  him,  his  shifty,  heavy-lidded 
eyes  shadowed  by  smoked  speetaeles.  It  was  Frank,  the 
"blind"  fiddler,  whom  John  had  met  at  various  Salvation 
Army  lodging  houses  and  with  whom  he  had  often  shared 
a  newspaper  blanket  when  the  weather  permitted  sleeping 
on  the  ground  in  Grant  Park.  Silly  John  did  not  like  the 
smoked  speetaeles — they  made  him  uncomfortable. 

"Got  the  price  of  a  drink  on  yer?"  Frank  whimpered, 
his  voice  as  high  and  thin  and  timeless  as  that  of  his  cheap 
violin. 

"Nope  Business  rotten,"  answered  John,  staring  direct- 
ly at  the  smoked  glasses  with  exaggerated  unconcern. 

"Aw,  y'er  no  kind  of  a  sport,"  the  beggar  whined,  tap- 
ping his  cane  impatiently.  "Wot's  the  idea?  Wot  y'er  over 
here  for  if  y'aint  a'ready  made  yer  pile  this  mornin'?  On  yer 
vacation,  maybe,  huh!" 

"Shut  up!  I  haven't  made  a  cent  yet  this  mornin'.  S' 
help  me,  's  the  truth."  A  sly,  cautious  expression  came  into 
Silly  John's  narrowing  eyes. 

"Why  don't  ya  get  over  where  people  is  'n  make  some 
then,  ya  idiot,"  the  blind  man  snarled,  tap-tapping  on  down 
the  sidewalk. 

As  Silly  John  went  on,  avoiding  the  eyes  of  any  ac- 
quaintance he  could  chance  to  pass,  a  sharp  gnawing  doubt 
crept  into  his  consciousness.  Luck  had  heen  with  him  too 
long — it  could  not  last.  Bv  this  time  the  Museum  officials 
must  have  discovered  that  a  certain  pale,  smooth  object  v  as 
missing  from  its  glass  ease.  Soon  they  would  track  him 
down.  It  was  always  that  way  whenever  he  stole  anything, 
for  he  was  a  fool.  He  could  not  think  straight  like  other 
people.  He  could  not  even  remember,  now.  why  he  had 
stolen  what  he  had.  He  did  not  even  know  what  it  was 
called,  or  for  what  it  was  used.  He  was  a  fool.  Jail  in- 
evitably followed  his  luck — jail,  with  a  bed  and  good  food. 
but  no  whiskey! 

Beads  of  perspiration  broke  out  on  his  dirt-creased  neck. 


28  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

Prank!  Had  "Blind  Frank"  suspected  anything?  lie-  had 
been  suspicious  of  his  presence  on  the  east  side  of  the-  street, 
to  be  sure.  Could  he  have  sensed  anything  else?  What  an 
idiot  he  had  been  to  say  thai  aboul  no!  having  any  money  so 

far  this  morning,  Hut  he  always  made  mistakes  he  could 
no!  think  straight. 

Soon  he  reached  the  Art  Institute  with  its  dingy  pillars 
and  smoke-lined  friezes.  Around  to  the  side  Silly  .John 
shuffled,  the  cap  with  the  yellow  pencils  in  his  hands.  He 
reached  the  "Five  Sisters"  and  stood  watching  the  jets  of 
sparkling  water  till  the  air  with  crystal  heads.  He  liked  this 
fountain;  the  water  was  as  cold  and  silvery  as  the  side  of  a 
fish. 

He  leaned  over  the  rail  and  looked  into  the  sliding, 
shining  bottom  of  the  fountain.     There,  beneath  the  bent 

knee  of  one  of  the  "sisters"  was  a  hollow  just  large  enough 
for  an  object  the  exact  size  of  the  one  he  had.  hidden  in  his 
pocket.  No  one  was  in  sight.  Swiftly  sliding  his  hands  into 
the  eold.  clear  water,  he  concealed  his  treasure. 

I  Ie  hurried  away. 

At  noon  time  he  bought  a  can  of  baked  beans  and  got 
sonic  coffee  at  a  lunch  wagon  down  on  Canal  Street.  lie  was 
satisfied  with  himself.  lie.  Silly  John,  who  could  not  think 
as  other  people  did.  had  accomplished  something,  lie  had 
stolen  a  beautiful  "thing";  it  was  smooth  and  had  pale  colors 
nn  it.  \n  one  had  seen  him.  Moreover,  he  had  concealed  it 
in  ;i  spot  where  not  even  the  cleverest  or  most  brass-  buttoned 
person  in  the  world  could  find  it.  It  was  his.  his  very  own. 
to  keep  and  look  at  occasionally,  there  beneath  the  sliding 
w  ater. 

As  soon  as  the  sun  went  down  and  mists  began  to  gather 
over  the  lake,  Silly  .John,  with  his  waddling  shuffling  walk, 
made  straighl  for  the  "Five  Sisters"  fountain.  He  would 
look  once  more  al  the  pale,  beautiful  object  he  had  stolen. 

I  [e  splashed  his  hands  into  the  cool  water  and  fell  along 
tin  hot  loin.  It  was  not  there!  Frantically,  he  slid  his  fingers 
over  Hi*  smooth  surfaces  of  the  statues.  It  was  not  there! 
I  Ie  splashed  the  water  about,  and  tears  ran  down  his  fat,  vc(\ 
cheeks.  Someone  had  taken  his  beautiful  "thing".  Frank! 
It  niiist  have  been  "Blind  Frank"  with  his  staring,  smoked 
trlasses.    Ami  \<  I.  how  could  he  have  known? 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  29 

Silly  John  stopped  splashing  the  water  and  sat  down  by 
the  side  of  the  fountain.  Luck  was  always  the  same. 

In  the  Tribune  the  following  day,  this  article  appeared: 

Valuable  Lekythos   Stolen 

A  priceless  Greek  funeral  urn  of  the  eighth  century 
B.  C.  was  stolen  from  its  glass  case  in  the  Field  Museum 
yesterday  morning.  The  glass  was  broken,  and  the  beautiful 
polychrome  lekythos  forcibly  removed.  As  there  were 
many  visitors  to  the  Museum  during  the  morning,  there  are, 
as  vet,  no  clues  as  to  its  whereabouts.  The  Director  places 
the  loss  at  $20,000." 

Under  the  cool,  wet  knee  of  one  of  the  "Five  Sisters", 
the  palely-colored  lekythos  lies  forgotten.  Silly  John  does 
not  remember,  for  he  can  not  think  like  other  people. 


GARDENIAS 

Edith  Starrs  1929 

There  are  no  words  in  my  heart 
As  delicately  penetrative 
As  the  breath  of  one  of  these. 
I  would  tell  you  that  I  love  you ; 
That  as  I  lay  these  flowers 
Fragile,  white,  and  rare 
For  the  last  time,  here  before  you 
On  the  cool  marble  altar  of  your  passing- 
It  is  consecration. 

They  are  beautiful !  and  wounding  .  .  . 
They  have  eased  my  pain. 


30 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


r 


BOOK     REVIEWS 


1 


SCARLET  SISTEB  MARY 

.J  II  i.\  Peterkin 

Bobbs-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis.  L928 

The  work  of  such  writers  as  Julia  Peterkin  is  of  two-fold 

interest :  and  a  critic  should  remember  its  double  value.  I  ni- 
versality  mixes  with  purely  local  elements,  based  on  back- 
ground, on  the  little  social  group  discussed,  and  on  dialect,  in 
every  novel  or  play.  Hut  sometimes  one  element  overbalances 
the  other:  sometimes  their  separation  comes  to  us  sharply. 
where  background  has  been  made  so  picturesque  or  so  re- 
mote as  to  stand  alone.  Sahatini.  Stevenson.  Conrad,  Knnl 
Ilamson.  I>ret  Ilarte  and  Hardy  can  he  judged  as  writers 
simply  by  their  success  at  the  weaving  of  the  two  themes: 
and  how  many  stand  the  test!*  Add  indefinitely  to  this  list 
of  men  who  choose  their  peculiar  background;  and  still  we 
return  to  Thomas  I  lardy,  who  in  the  end  is  the  strongest, 
the  wisest:  the  man  who  has  strength  to  lace  the  universal 
and  the  particular  both  at  once,  and  remain  clear-sighted. 
And  Raphael  Sahatini  exemplifies  the  man  who  rides  his 
horse  backwards  into  thickets  of  sentimentalized  history.  The 
two  extremes,  one  so  easy  to  drift  towards,  the  other  so  far 
above  common  power,  may  easily  be  round  in  the  literature 
of  the  American  negro,  who  is  sometimes  sentimentalized, 
sometimes  ridiculed,  hut  almost  never  understood.  To  all  the 
other  forces  of  the  particular  dialect  stronger  than  any 
other  in  America;  setting,  whether  in  the  crowded  negro 
s<  cl  i"i is  of  cities,  or  on  the  southern  plantation;  and  private 
customs,  is  added  the  subject  of  racial  difference:  color,  his- 
tory, social  prejudice,  and  the  strangeness  of  savagery  mixed 
with  Ami  ricanism.  More  closely  than  ever  the  reader  watches 
the  author's  point  of  view  here.     For  no  American  author, 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  31 

we  believe,  can  write  a  book  on  the  negro  unprejudiced.  How 
far,  in  faet,  ean  he  or  she  indulge  in  the  universal  ] 

Mrs.  Peterkin  is  a  southern  woman  who  lias  observed 
this  people  from  the  vantage-point,  by  inheritance,  of  the 

mistress;  but  by  taste  and  by  inheritance  also,  it  appears,  as 
a  friend.  It  is  difficult  to  define  such  a  relationship.  Certain- 
ly it  does  not  grow  out  of  a  breaking-down  of  barriers:  more, 
it  derives  from  the  special  love  of  the  good  master  or  mistress 
for  the  good  plantation  darky.  Children  nursed  by  their 
mammies,  and  allowed  to  play  with  the  servants'  children. 
often  grew  old  before  they  dropped  their  negro  accent:  they 
turned  to  the  mammy  or  the  old  cook  often er  than  they  would 
to  any  French  or  English  governess;  they  did  not  doubt  their 
own  position,  nor  did  they  express  it.  The  intimacy  of  a  long 
life  together  and  of  plantation  solitude  bound  southerners, 
very  often,  to  their  negroes.  Of  such  experience.  Julia  Peter- 
kin  continues  to  interest  herself  in  the  darkies,  neither  con- 
descending nor  theorizing,  but  watching  sympathetically. 
We  know  that  she  must  always  be  conscious  that  these  are 
a  special  people  whom  she  describes:  but  we  must  also  re- 
member that  she  chose  them,  and  has  so  far  kept  to  them, 
for  her  subject.  Hers  are  not  the  leaders  of  the  negroes  in 
America,  traveled  and  sophisticated;  nor  are  they  the  town 
negroes  treated  by  Du  Bose  Heyward;  they  are  people  clos- 
est to  Africa,  who  made  one  move  when  they  came  to  Amer- 
ica; and  have  remained  since  the  Civil  War  in  the  same  state 
that  preceded  it. 

What  are  the  special  limiting  characteristics  of  that 
subject?  I  need  not  mention  the  language  which  has  been 
compounded  of  African  dialect  and  the  provincial  English 
of  the  south.  There  are  three  chief  facts  which  set  the  negroes 
apart:  simplicity;  the  part  that  nature  plays  for  them:  and 
superstition.  Simplicity  describes  the  back  ground:  a  nar- 
row street  of  huts;  broad  eotten-fields ;  woods:  a  single  little 
shop,  Grab- All,  that  gets  their  money;  and  a  boat  that  con- 
nects them  with  town.  It  describes  their  elementary  and 
elemental  life;  they  raise  vegetables  and  cotton;  keep  pigs 
and  chickens;  supply  each  other  with  everything  they  need 
in  the  village,  save  clothes;  and  it  suggests  their  pleasures 
from  the  nature  of  their  work.  This  simplification  extends 
to  Julia  Peterkin's  books,  which  show  not  that  false  simpli- 
fication which  becomes  mere  mechamical  book-writing,  but 


32  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

.•in  easy  routine  which  emphasizes  the  passions  and  events  of 
life,  making  pleasure  and  catastrophe  both  easy;  making  the 
characters  pattern  their  lives  without  blurrings  by  the  ncc<  s- 
sities  of  food  and  livelihood,  and  by  love  and  hate.  Religion 
also  is  emotional:  love  and  hate;  but  it  concerns  itself  strong- 
ly w  ith  superstition. 

Nature,  says  Mrs.  Peterkin,  is  kind  to  darkies:  and  in 
life,  as  in  her  book,  it  neither  dominates  them  utterly,  nor  re- 
tires into  a  landscape  background.  The  seasons  and  mens 
occupations  and  also  their  emotions  change  all  together,  a 
part  of  a  whole.  Plants,  crops,  animals  and  men  all  undergo 
the  same  general  processes  of  life.  That  is  why  negroes  talk 
so  intimately  to  animals.  Hut  negroes  can  sow  crops,  and 
pluck  cotton,  and  sell  it  for  clothing.  If  nature  roots  up  the 
garden  and  damages  the  house,  it  pays  back  later  by  draw- 
ing up  the  seed  into  plants. 

Superstition  proceeds  naturally  from  the  combination 
of  nature's  tremendous  intimacy  with  the  negroes,  and  from 
the  simplicity  of  their  natures.  They  arc  a  new  people  in 
America,  but  old  in  Africa,  and  uncivilized;  and  many  of  the 
old  beliefs  have  been  transplanted  with  the  first  men  and 
women  to  new  soil.  Somebody  taught  them  about  Jesus: 
and  they  believe  in  him  too.  And  in  hell.  And  they  fear  (iod 
the  Father.  Hut  underlying  this  religion  lives  their  own. 
which  grew  from  nature,  and  which  puts  spirit  into  inani- 
mate things.  For  emotion  and  pleasure,  they  put  on  shoes 
mm  Sundays  and  go  to  meeting;  they  bring  up  their  children 
to  have  a  vision,  and  repent  of  their  sins:  to  be  baptized,  and 
become  members  of  the  church.  Then  they  can  join  the 
shouting.  This  is  a  pari  of  religion,  and  seeking  grace,  and 
avoiding  the   Everlasting  Bonfire.     Hut  outside,  they  can 

!m>  to  old  Daddy  (  udjoe.  and  gel  the  right  kind  of  charm  to 
put  magic  over  a  man.  or  send  the  devil  out  of  the  soup,  or 
save    a    life.      Daddy    Cudjoe   governs    the    force    which    can 

help  people,  having  gol  it  from  his  ancestor  who  came  from 
ili<  older  country  as  a  conjurer.  Even  an  old  woman  like 
M.mjim  Hannah,  in  whose  house  all  Christian  meetings  are 
held  when  tin  church  is  closed,  recognizes  that  nothing  else 
can  help.  "In  the  old  days,  all  the  people  trusted  to  magic 

to  rule  and  river  and  clouds  and  seasons  as  well  as  their  tools 

and  each  other,  but  t  imes  have  changed.  ( )nly  Daddy  Cudjoe, 

of  all  the  old  people  left,  knew   any  of  the  old  secret   ways. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  33 

When  Maum  Hannah's  adopted  child  Mary  lost  her  hus- 
band's love,  the  old  woman  told  her  that  "If  she  had  stayed 
a  good  Christian  girl,  as  she  started  out  to  be,  then  God 
might  have  listened  to  her  prayers.  But  she  sinned.  She  was 
a  fallen  member.  She  would  have  to  depend  on  magic  now, 
the  only  power  that  will  work  as  well  for  a  sinner  as  it  does 
for  a  Christian."  And  everything  needs  to  be  charmed  soon- 
er or  later;  "Everything  gets  out  of  order  and  gives  trouble 
sometimes.  Men  and  women  and  pots  and  pans  and  axes; 
everything  needs  to  be  ruled."  Evidently  all  the  things  in 
the  world  fall  under  spells;  and  only  magic  can  really  help. 
At  least  it  is  more  generous  and  tolerant  than  Christian  re- 
ligion for  helping  people.  Jesus  is  a  kind  gentleman,  very 
mild;  but  hell  too  must  be  included  in  a  church-goer's  belief. 
Magic  does  not  threaten  with  hell. 

This,  then,  is  the  darky's  world:  land;  his  house  and 
tools;  his  neighbors  whom  he  knows  from  birth  to  death, 
since  he  does  not  travel;  the  rules  and  privileges  of  church- 
going;  and  the  mysterious  service  of  magic.  Everything  is 
partly  magical  to  him. 

Since  Black  April,  Mrs.  Peterkin  has  lightened  her  em- 
phasis upon  superstition.  Conjure  and  charms  play  a  part; 
but  they  do  not  rule  the  destiny  of  the  characters.  The  earlier 
book  was  gigantic  and  terrifying;  April  himself  walked  in 
it  like  a  hero,  full  of  a  hero's  strength  and  fatal  self-confi- 
dence. He  was  conjured,  and  he  died  miserably.  The  book 
itself  was  complicated  and  powerful;  while  nature  in  its 
jungle  supremacy  seemed  to  press  in  upon  the  village  of 
black  people,  defying  them,  defied  by  them.  We  remember 
April  catching  a  rattle-snake  behind  the  head,  holding  it  at 
arm's  length  while  he  squeezed  his  hand  close  about  its  throat, 
and  spitting  into  its  hissing  mouth.  Meanwhile  the  little  boy, 
his  illegitimate  son,  waited  beside  him  with  a  knife  to  cut  out 
the  sting,  if  April  should  miss  and  be  btten.  We  remember 
too  the  heavy  theme  of  charms  and  African  rites  that  filled 
the  jungle  to  our  imagination  with  shadows  of  horror.  Scarlet 
Sister  Mar//,  on  the  contrary,  has  been  simplified  to  a  single 
story  of  few  characters.  Being  a  woman's  story,  it  leaves  the 
jungle  for  the  narrow  street,  and  the  men  and  women  who 
live  there;  while  the  pots  and  pans  of  Si'  Mary's  hearth  are 
as  important.  The  storms  that  disturb  her  crops,  and  the 
weather  that  is  answered  by  the  growing  things  in  her  yard 


84  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

and  by  tlu  animals  tethered  there  alone  reach  her;  she  re- 
sponds like  all  living  things  to  the  spirit  of  the  seasons;  hut 
she  does  not  know  their  horror.  Ihr  tragedy  is  told  in  human 
terms,  when  the  husband  that  she  loves  deserts  her.     Her 

physical  recovery  is  effected  by  physical  excitement:  her 
spirit  never  heals  entirely,  for  when  that  first  man  returns  at 
last,  she  cannot  lace  him  with  a  whole  mind.  She  learns 
tolerance  and  wisdom  with  experience;  and  she  knows  that 
she  has  seen  more  of  pleasure  and  sorrow  than  stuffy  good 
women  do.  When  she  goes  to  Daddy  Cudjoe  for  a  charm 
to  use  on  her  husband,  she  cannot  hear  after  all  to  try  it  at 
once;  and  he  gets  away  before  she  acts.  So  she  uses  it  on 
other  men.  Hut  if  the-  sophisticated  reader  wishes,  he  can 
disregard  the  charm;  the  story  is  a  universal,  almost  a  hack- 
neyed theme,  which  would  have  grown  from  her  nature  alone. 
Yet  the  hook  remains  faithful;  less  congested  than  Black 
April:  less  legendary.  The  portrayal  of  negro  temperament 
and  negro  belief  is  as  true;  the  theme  is  less  specialized.  Tlu 
two  hooks  supplement  each  other.  From  the  heroic  to  the 
common-place,  from  the  ornate  to  the  simple,  from  grand 
racial  legend  to  more  obscure  individual  life,  Mrs.  Peterkin 
has  carred  her  interest  in  tin's  people.  It  is  significant  that 
Scarlet  Sister  Mary  has  on  the  \  hole  less  dialogue,  and  there- 
fore less  dialect,  than  its  fore-runner.  Singly,  it  will  not  be 
as  impressive  as  Black  April;  hut  together  with  it,  the  new 
hook  will  define  more  clearly  than  before  the  point  of  view 
which  readers  must  have  been  hunting.  Mrs.  Peterkin  has 
never  made  the  mistake  of  pointing  a  moral.  It  is  our  snob- 
bery as  readers  which  will  over-emphasize  the  racial  clement. 
We  must  remember  that  there  is  scarcely  a  white  person  in 
either  book;  they  might  have  been  written  of  a  world  of 
ii'  -nns.  lint  the  race  in  its  own  characteristics  is  perfectly 
defined;  and  human  nature,  which  we  call  psychology  today. 
is  Faithfully  treated.    The  first  novel  paid  that  race  the  com- 

pliiiH nt   of  telling  a  deeply  stirring  heroic  story   for  the  race 

itself;  the  second  shows  one  of  its  members  in  her  full  re- 
semblance to  our  own  people.  The  special  and  the  general 
have  both  been  shown,  then.  Thirdly,  Julia  Paterkin  has  in 
Scarlet  Sister  Mary  added  to  literature  one  more  analysis 
of  a  character  often  damned  by  moralists,  and  sometimes 
over-dramatized;    a    character    whom    Mrs.     Peterkin    has 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  35 

treated  not  as  a  thing  apart,  leperized;  but  as  a  sensitive  in- 
dividual, close  to  our  own  experience. 

A.  L.  H. 


JOSEPH  AM)  HIS  BRETHREN 

H.  W.  Freeman  Henry  Holt  and  Co.  1929 

With  the  eastern  part  of  Suffolk,  England  as  his  back; 
ground,  H.  W.  Freeman  tells  the  story  of  Crakenhill  Farm 
and  the  Geaiter  family.  For  Joseph  and  his  Brethren  is 
most  concerned  with  the  farm  itself,  which  dominates  the 
lives  of  Old  Benjamin  and  his  sons. 

It  is  evident  that  Benjamin  Geiter  was  nobody's  fool 
and  that  he  bought  the  old  place  with  his  eyes  open.  Contrary 
to  all  previous  experience  in  spite  of  unfavorable  predictions. 
Crakenhill  flourished  and  improved  from  year  to  year.  "Ben- 
jamin had  always  had  to  struggle  against  a  world  that  he  was 
used  to  regard  as  his  natural  enemy.  But  for  all  that,  he  did 
not  spare  his  enemies,  even  his  own  sons."  He  put  them  to 
work  immediately,  with  his  "old  dogged  and  systematic  en- 
ergy." Like  Crakenhill,  they  flourished,  each  year  becoming 
sturdier,  more  firmly  rooted  to  the  soil.  And  it  was  not  until 
middleage  that  any  of  the  "boys"  realized  how  unstintingly 
they  had  given,  how  faithfully  they  had  toiled,  how  tightly 
bound  they  had  become  to  every  inch  of  their  precious  two 
hundred  acres. 

Throughout  the  novel  runs  a  twofold  domination. 
Stronger  is  the  land  which  demands  unsparingly,  receiving 
alike  the  strength  and  the  devotion  of  its  men.  All  except 
Ben  the  oldest  son,  grow  impatient,  balance  it  against  an  out- 
side attraction.  Bob  and  Hiram  start  their  runaway  trip  to 
Canada,  "the  new  country."  But  it  is  "the  summerland  of 
ourn,  so  neat  and  reg'lar  all  over"  and  the  "rare  fine  horses 
they  are,  to  plow"  that  send  them  sheepishr?  back.  Ern,  on 
the  point  of  volunteering,  forgets  the  glamour  of  an  Army 
uniform,  for  his  sows  farrowing  without  him,  and  plunges 
desperately  across  the  fields  to  Crakenhill.  Again  pride  and 
love  of  the  farm,  more  definitely  the  chance  bleating  of  a 
restless  ewe,  force  Harry  to  cast  aside  Jessie  and  dreams  of 
marriage.  So  Benjamin's  five  sons  remain  uncomplaining, 
stolid,  silent  slaves  from  morning  until  night.    Over  them  the 


B6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

father  holds  his  rod  of  iron,  insists  on  showing  himself  the 
master  of  the  house.  He  proves  if  by  seducing  Nancy.  When 
her  condition  is  evident :  'You  thought  you  w  ere  going  to  get 
Nance  and  you  didn't."  lit-  had  seen  them  gathering  cow- 
slips  and  following  her  about  the  kitchen.  Benjamin  wasn't 
blind  yet. 

This  is  not  indeed  the  subjection  to  the  soil,  described 
by  Tolstoi  or  Turgeney  the  cruel  exaction  of  unmitigated 
toil.  There  is  none  of  the  lack  of  balance  between  the  rich 
and  the  poor,  no  hopless,  thankless  servitude,  snuffing  man's 
energy  until  he  is  left  only  feebly  glimmering  like  a  burned 
ash.  Freeman  is  concerned  with  an  absolute  devotion  to  the 
soil,  which  keeps  the  Geaiters  fighting  against  nature  certain- 
ly, but  which  includes  the  joy  of  possession,  of  struggling, 
.mi  Immense  satisfaction  that  the  land  is  being  brought  "into 
good  heart."  Is  it  not  enough  to  know  that  Crakenhill  has 
become  the  best  farm  in  the  whole  county? 

One  is  struck  by  the  similarity  between  the  life  of  the 
Greaiters  and  that  of  Isak  and  Lnger  in  the  Growth  of  the 
Soil.  Hoth  Hamsun  and  Freeman  deal  with  the  direct  re- 
lationship of  man  to  the  earth.  There  is  no  trace  of  artifice, 
of  complexity,  of  subjectivity.  The  development  of  Isak  is 
i  pieal  timeless;  man.  evolving,  building.  It  is  told  objective- 
ly, with  an  absolute  impersonality,  a  magnificently  elemental 
strength.  'The  progress  of  the  Greaiters  is  similar.  They  are 
unlimited  by  time;  they  might  exist  in  any  farming  district. 
P>ul  they  are  more  definitely  a  unit,  a  family  revolving  about 
Crakenhill.  restricted  in  orbit.  lake  Hamsun,  Freeman  is 
objective,  tells  his  story  directly,  and  permits  his  characters 
in  Ii\<  their  vigorous  silent  lives  unhampered  by  analysis  iw 
i  xplanation.  Bui  the  writer  cannot  resist  stopping  to  breath- 
the  delicate  sweetness  of  the  cowslips,  to  count  the  five  speck- 
led sky-blue  eggs  reposing  in  the  bottom  of  a  little  round 
nest,  or  io  see  the  earth  and  sky.  after  the  faint  October  sky 
has  vanished,  meeting  in  a  dark  embrace. 

Both  the  CJeaiter  family  and  Crakenhill  remain  singu- 
larly untouched  by  time.  They  live  in  the  seasons  coming 
and  going  swiftlv,  necessitating  the  cutting  of  beans  or  the 
ploughing  and  seeding  of  a  Held.  But  the  years  themselves 
pass  silently,  imperceptibly.  It  is  only  Benjamin's  dramatic 
death  in  the  fields,  or  Nancy's  remarriage,  or  Joeys  love 
affair,  thai  marks  off  a  broader  spacing,  jerking  one  to  the 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  37 

reality  of  events.  Yet  with  no  .surprise,  the  reader  watches 
the  brothers  drawing  more  closely  together,  pathetically 
overtaken  by  middle-age  and  no  longer  sure  of  their  strength. 
Young  Joey  shoots  up  and  becomes  taller  and  stronger  than 
any  of  them.  But  it  is  perfectly  plausible  for  his  five  hall- 
brothers  to  be  "as  proud  as  if  he  had  been  their  own  son/1 
The  whole  development  has  been  managed  with  perfect  con- 
sistence. The  reader,  like  the  characters,  has  so  lost  himself 
in  the  prevalence  and  importance  of  everyday  necessities,  of 
minor  incidents,  that  the  general  trend  of  events  remains 
woven  distantly  into  the  background.  The  interest  centers 
increasingly  upon  "Xance's  boy,"  although  the  emphasis  re- 
mains to  the  last,  on  Crakenhill.  The  title  vigorously  asserts 
itself,  "Joseph  and  his  Brethren."  Freeman's  concern  is  how 
Joey's  learning  to  plow  and  mow,  wrhile  the  others  wTatch 
over  him  with  fatherly  care,  correcting  him  and  guiding  his 
hands,  "each  telling  him  all  that  he  knew".  With  character- 
istric  restraint,  he  indicates  the  unspoken  affection  between 
these  silent  men,  their  mutual  love  of  Crakenhill,  and  even 
stronger,  their  devotion  to  Joey.  But  Joey  has  his  own  pro- 
blems to  solve,  the  weighing  of  outside  excitment  against  the 
earthy  beauty  of  the  farm,  Daisy's  happiness  balanced 
against  that  of  his  brothers.  Penetrating  every  decision,  is  the 
hold  of  the  soil,  the  quick  joy  of  working  in  the  clover  with  a 
scythe,  with  one's  shoulders  bowed  "like  a  sapling  in  the 
wind." 

Every  page  of  the  book  smacks  of  the  earth.  Uncon- 
sciously it  portrays  the  beauties  of  nature.  There  is  always 
the  contact  of  man,  elemental,  direct,  free  from  artifice.  But 
it  is  not  in  this  alone  that  Freeman  is  successful.  He  has 
created  from  Suffolk  background,  a  group  of  characters 
typical  and  definitely  of  a  group,  yet  so  individualized  that 
they  remain  sharply  differentiated  in  the  memory.  Without 
comment  or  analysis,  he  has  presented  men  and  women  who 
live.  E.  M.  G. 


THE  LOST  LYRIST 

Elizabeth  Hollister  Frost  Harper  &  Brothers  1928 

"Be  sure  yourself  and  your  own  reach  to  know, 
How  far  your  genius,  taste  and  learning  go ; 
Launch  not  beyond  your  depth,  but  be  discreet  , 
And  mark  that  point  where  sense  and  dullness  meet." 


I 


A   Place   of  Original  Charm 

Jfife  Ijntrl  Nnrtljamptnn 


The  Ot> en  Door"         Preserving  Colonial   Beauty  with   Modern  Comfort 

a  wiain.  Ho*.i      MAIN  DINING  ROOM  COFFEE  ROOM 

PRIVATE   DINING   ROOMS 
PHONE   8100  125  ROOMS  MOTOR    PLAZA 


McAllister 


NEW  YORK 


PARIS  LONDON 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  39 

Before  Pope's  admonishing  words  one  quails  at  attemp- 
ting just  criticism,  particularly  \\hcn  the  work  in  question  is 
lyric  poetry.  With  narrative  poetry  one  can  side-track  skil- 
fully on  dramatic  effect  and  characterization.     But  lyrics 

are  more  intangible,  concerned  immediately  with  the  emo- 
tonal  reaction;  they  are  more  various  in  form  and  more  de- 
pendant upon  it.  They  must  be  handled  like  butterflies, 
carefully,  lest  one  brush  the  shining  dust  from  their  wings. 
And  one  must  always  realize  that  no  tAvo  people  will  feel  a 
poem  in  exactly  the  same  way.  The  quality  and  extent  of 
the  appreciation  is  an  individual  matter. 

I  may  point  out  to  those  for  whom  the  quotation  from 
the  Essay  on  Criticism  has  recalled  the  whole  trend  of  eigh- 
teenth century  critical  thought  that  poetry  has,  on  the  whole, 
divorced  itself  from  an  emulation  of  the  classics.  It  is  a  far 
cry  from  Pope  to  Sandburg.  Poetry  today  is  in  a  period 
which  some  future  commentator  will  be  sure  to  brand  "transi- 
tional". We  are  not  yet  convinced  beyond  all  doubt  of  the 
success  of  free  verse.  We  have  not  yet  reached  a  satisfactory 
definition  of  poetry  which  reveals  its  undeniable  and  eternal 
essence.  With  Humbert  Wolfe  we  still  debate  form  and  con- 
tent, rythmn  and  thought,  in  spite  of  a  general  agreement 
that  they  are  both  important ;  and  we  are  piqued  because  we 
cannot  reduce  the  art  to  a  scientific  formula  and  the  exact 
knowledge  of  the  proportionate  ingredients.  In  the  face  of 
an  argument  which  has  been  going  on  for  centuries,  and  the 
wise  couplets  of  Pope,  criticism  of  poetry  becomes  perilous. 
One  may  well  throw  up  his  hands  and  say  in  dismay,  "Que 
sais-je?"  However,  with  necessity  at  the  heel,  one  is  still 
justified  to  ask  in  poetry  significance  and  originality  of  ex- 
pression, sincerity,  and  successful  use  of  verse  form  or  of  the 
lack  of  it.  The  whole,  resulting  from  a  proper  but  mysterious 
balance  of  these  qualities  is  an  aesthetic  experience  of  some 
value. 

The  Lost  Lyrist  would  probably  never  have  been  writ- 
ten if  Mrs.  Frost  had  not  encountered  profound  sorrow  at 
the  death  of  her  husband.  Her  poetry  is  clearly  the  neces- 
sary expression  of  a  sensitive  personality  saturated  with  a 
terrible  and  steadily  growing  sense  of  loss.  It  grows  out  of, 
is  dedicated  to  and  embodies  an  extra-ordinarily  beautiful 
love  and  the  grief  which  forced  it  into  words. 


I 

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The  Smith  College  Monthly  41 

"Joy  flickers  out  in  grief  articulate 

And  my  first  song  strikes,  startled,  on  the  air." 

It  is  the  revelation  of  an  experience  of  unbearable  poig- 
nancy   because    it    is    an    experience    inevitably    universal. 

One  reads  almost  shyly,  with  the  same  embarrassment  which 
makes  one  avoid  looking  at  the  distorted  face  of  a  woman 
crying.  The  implication  is  not  that  Mrs.  Frost's  poems  are 
cut  out  of  the  first  uncontrolled  burst  of  emotion,  but  that 
their  intimacy  and  their  exposure  of  the  clarity  and  depth  of 
the  lost  relationship  lay  open  the  innermost  chamber  of  sor- 
row. One  looks  within  with  a  sense  of  trespassing.  Yet  it  is 
an  unrealized  privilege,  for  if  we  see  and  understand  the 
complete  emotion  which  gave  birth  to  these  lyrics,  we  have 
looked  into  a  crucible  of  experience  and  have  seen  the  molten 
material  of  poetry.  In  The  Lost  Lyrist  that  material  has 
been  poured  out  and  cooled  into  tangible  forms.  Whether  or 
not  the  poems  are  great  art.  they  bear  the  marks  of  the 
creative  pain  of  great  art. 

We  cannot  doubt,  then,  the  significance  of  Mrs.  Frost's 
book  in  poetry's  inescapable  reference  to  life,  or  the  sincerity. 
I,  personally,  cannot  give  sincerity  too  high  a  place  in  any 
literature.  Nothing  is  more  disgusting  than  the  travesty  of 
any  emotion  for  the  sole  sake  of  a  rhyme,  or  a  name  in  print, 
or  a  fad.  Poetry  must  satisfy  an  inner  need  (if  I  may  use 
a  highly  romantic  phrase),  and  it  has  no  value  of  its  funda- 
mental structure  is  not  truth.  Knowing  how  simply  Mrs. 
Frost  turned  to  it  for  relief  and  for  no  other  reason,  we  can- 
not question  her  sincerity.  It  is,  therefore,  a  difficult  problem 
to  deal  with  certain  of  her  poems  which  may  be  called  "sen- 
timental", although  it  is  a  treacherous  term.  She  does  not 
indulge  her  motions  to  the  point  of  being  mawkish  or  maud- 
lin. The  failure  lies  less  in  the  content  than  in  the  embodi- 
ment of  it.  The  minor  tone  and  fragile  style  of  Edna  St. 
Vincent  Millay  turn  up  proverbially.  (One  feels  that  Miss 
Millay  is  losing  ground  rapidly  because  of  her  prolific  fol- 
lowers, and  pays  a  severe  price  for  being  so  imitable.  ) 
Occasionally  the  ghost  of  A.  E.  Housman  stirs  and  casts  a 
weak  shadow  of  his  lyric  melancholy.  These  reflections,  like 
the  reflections  on  ruffled  water,  are  not  perfect,  and  without 
their  original  poise  and  finish  have  a  second-hand  quality 
which  we  term  "sentimentality."  Or  Mrs.  Frost  has  allowed 
in  her  poetry  endearments  and  extravagances  which  in  speech 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  43 

might  be  accompanied  by  a  whimsicality  and  lightness  which 
they  lose,  impressed  into  written  form.  Again,  she  has  allowed 
herself  to  take  a  worn  figure  or  a  thread-hare  word  to  con- 
vey her  meaning.  In  all  cases  the  failure  seems  to  he  a  mat- 
ter of  carelessness,  as  though  she  permitted  her  emotion  to 
take  the  most  familiar  and  the  easiest  course  of  expression. 
This  observation  throws  a  new  light  on  "sentimentality" 
showing  it  up  as  often  purely  a  poor  adaptation  of  form.  One 
realizes  the  importance  of  that  intermediary  stage  of  a  poem, 
between  the  stimulus  and  the  finished  product,  in  which 
the  artist  dissects,  rearranges  and  proportions  his  generative 
idea.     Neglect  in  this  stage  is  dangerous. 

Mrs.  Frost's  work  is  fortunately,  however,  uneven. 
Many  of  her  lyrics  do  not  merit  such  adverse  criticism.  The 
best  are  those  which  less  obviously  echo  her  predecessors, 
and  they  attain  a  fine  simplicity.  Their  brevity  is  effective. 
It  startles  one  and,  being  soon  over,  allows  the  slower  re- 
flections to  flow  around  it.  From  Respiration — 

"Stretched  on  the  horizon 

Eternity,  asleep, 
Drew  in  with  his  breathing 

One  of  us  to  keep." 

Suddenly  quiet,  the  very  smallness  of  her  words  betrays  their 
overwhelming  importance.     She  may  say— 

''Agony  is  something- 
It  takes  a  while  to  make" 

and  the  tense  restraint  is  eloquent.  One  reads  with  a  grow- 
ing realization  of  the  unusually  beautiful  relationship  which 
has  been  lost.    From  The  Shattered  Urn— 

"Marriage  is  an  urn 

Chiseled  out  of  love 
Fashioned  by  four  hands 

And  the  skill  thereof: 

Point  and  drill  and  file, 

Turn  it  to  the  light, 
Keep  the  tools  from  rust, 

Never  finish  quite." 

In  her  best  moments  her  images  are  distinctive,  again  char- 
acterized bv  swiftness.     In  the  line — 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  45 

"My  thoughts  fly  backward  from  me  like  blown  hair" 
is  the  essence  of  her  verse,  the  aspiration  and  a  suggestion 
of  its  spiritual  quality.  Besides  this  dedicated  portion  of  her 
work,  there  is  a  close  relation  with  actuality,  a  vivid  descrip- 
tive sense.  A  house  "wears  a  pale  and  narrow  face",  "a  white 
wind  pries  the  doors  apart",  there  is  a  "poised  breathless 
moment  on  the  ledge  of  day."  I  succumb  to  the  temptation 
to  quote  one  of  the  most  successful  poems  in  the  book  because 
it  is  illustrative  of  all  that  is  excellent  in  Mrs.  Frost,  par- 
ticularly of  her  delicate  imagination.  She  often  expresses 
the  feeling  that  a  house  retains  a  memory  of  its  inhabitants 
and  the  stilled  echoes  of  their  footsteps,  and  is  somehow  wise 
to  the  life  within  it.  One  may  guess  that  Prescience  em- 
bodies for  her  a  poignant  experience. 

"We  kissed  and  laughed, 

The  lattice  winked, 

The  chimney  snorted, 

The  fire  blinked ; 

The  moonlight  stepped 

On  the  old  stone  floor, 

The  dark  from  the  hall 

Looked  in  through  the  door ; 

We  did  not  remark 

The  cynical  eyes 

Of  the  candles, 

Or  hear  the  spark's  surprise — 

We  thought  we  were  safe 

With  our  youth  and  You — 

But  I  wonder  now 

If  the  house  knew?" 

If  I  have  been  prejudiced  for  Mrs.  Frost  in  my  critic- 
ism, it  is  because  I  believe  in  her  poetry  as  the  sincere  ex- 
pression of  her  life,  and  that  at  its  best  it  has  the  significance 
and  originality  which  I  have  stipulated  as  the  requirements 
of  the  art.  Knowing  little  of  versification,  I  do  not  dare 
launch  beyond  my  depths.  I  can  only  judge  it  negatively 
and  says  that  it  is  conspicuous  neither  by  its  absence  nor  its 
presence.  The  form  is  (again,  at  its  best)  a  smoothly  run- 
ning and  pleasing  vehicle  for  the  burden  of  the  thought. 

It  is  highly  doubtful  that  Mrs.  Frost  will  ever  become 
an  outstanding  figure  in  poetry.  Her  work  is  deficient  in 
vigour  to  stand  the  buffeting  of  many  years  of  criticism,  it 
is  not  creative  enough  to  be  of  eternal  value.     It  lacks  the 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  47 

authority  which  Humbert  Wolfe  demands  in  poetry.  "Au- 
thority"" says  Wolfe  "means  that  the  magic  poet  of  all  times 
recreates  his  material,  and  in  the  moment  of  recreation  as- 
tonishingly assimilates  his  expression  to  that  of  his  predeces- 
sors and  of  those  who  follow  him."  And  authoritative  verse 
of  any  age,  language  or  form  has  fundamentally  "the  same 
calm  accent  of  finality."  Which  makes  poetry  a  case  of  per- 
spective and  evolution,  and  the  poet  a  magician.  We  may 
safely  say,  however,  that  The  Lost  Lyrist  lacks  authority 
inasmuch  as  we  understand  by  authority  that  "finality"  and 
powerful  beauty  of  expression  which  is  timeless.  It  is  too 
frail  to  live  long.  But  it  will  find  a  small  circle  of  readers 
kindly  because  they  understand  this  well-spring  of  poetry, 
and  a  word  or  so  of  praise  is  owed  to  this  quiet  and  delicate 
monument  to  sorrow. 

E.  B. 


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WiaaUfr-SalaB.lf.G 


Smith  College 


March 
1929 


BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 


Vol.  XXXVII.  MARCH,  1929  No.  6 

EDITORIAL  BOARD 

Editor-in-chief,  Anne  Lloyd  Basinger,  1929 

Managing  Editor,  Ernestine  Gilbreth,  1929 

Book  Review  Editor,  Elizabeth  Botsford,  1929 

Katherine  S.  Bolman,  1929  Rachel  Grant,  1929 

Elizabeth  Wheeler,  1929  Priscilla  S.  Fairchild,  1930 

Elizabeth  Shaw,  1930  Martha  H.  Wood,  1930 

Sallie  S.  Simons,  1930  Mary  F.  Chase,  1931 

Elizabeth  Perkins,  1931 

Art,  Nancy  Wynne  Parker,  1930 

BUSINESS  STAFF 

Business  Manager,  Sylvia  Alberts,  1929 

Advertising  Manager,  Gertrude  Cohen,  1929 

Assistant  Advertising  Manager,  Lilian  Supove,  1929 

Circulation  Manager,  Ruth  Rose,  1929 

Mary  Folsom,  1931     Mary  Sayre,  1930     Anna  Dabney,  1930 
Sarah  Pearson,  1931  Agnes  Lyall,  1930    Esther  Tow,  1931 


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

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

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CONTENTS 


Wrangling  at  Night 
Lake  Rhazamene 
Speak-Easy  Nights 
One  Mo'  Rock 
Museum  Portrait 
Dancing  School 
Temperature  Almost  Normal 
Winter  Moon 
Ten  Dollars 


Elizabeth  Botsford, 

Patty  Wood, 

Priscilla  S.  Fairchild, 

Mary  Chase, 

Barbara  D.  Simison, 

Georgia  Stamm, 

Rachel  Grant, 

Marion  Bussang, 

Elizabeth  Wheeler, 


Concerning  Means  of  Locomotion 

Elizabeth  Perkins, 

A  Legend  of  Old  Russia  Pauline  Slom, 

Book  Reviews: 

Keats's  Shakespeare 

The  Desert  Road  to  Turkestan 

Boston 

The  Well  of  Loneliness 


1929 

5 

1930 

11 

1930 

12 

1931 

17 

1929 

18 

1932 

19 

1929 

25 

1932 

27 

1929 

28 

1931 

33 

1932 

36 

40 

40 

43 

45 

46 

That  delicious  interval 

When  the  curtain  goes  down, 
and  the  lights  come  up.  and 
the  landaulet  is  waiting  .  .  . 
in  that  interval,  so  to  speak, 
between  supper  and  Sardou 
.  .  .  a  good  cigarette  seem-  to 
acquire  a  New  Significance. 
.  .  .  And  perhaps  you  have 
noticed  that  Camels  always 
play  the  leading  role  in  these 
gay  little  comedies  of  pleasure. 


I     1929    R.J.  Reynold*  Tobacco  <:<>.,  Winston-Salem,  N. 


Smith  College 
Monthly 


WRANGLING  AT  NIGHT 

Elizabeth  Botsford 


H~|ATE  in  thf  afternoon  it  began  to  rain,  an  infinitesimal 
rain  descending  in  thin  gray  clouds  which  lay  around 
ggjgg  the  mountain  peaks  like  chiffon  scarfs.  When  we  left 
the  camp  about  seven  o'clock,  an  opaque  dusk  had  already  be- 
gun to  fill  the  high  valley  where  our  tepees  were  pitched, 
rising  up  from  remote  bottomlands  and  the  lower  slopes  of 
the  mountains  like  a  strange  vapour  that  darkened  the  sight. 
We  abandoned  the  bright  crackle  of  the  cook  fire,  the  clatter 
of  voices  and  the  sizzling  bacon  smell  for  the  hostile  embrace 
of  a  slow  wet  wind.  There  was  no  sound  as  we  crossed  the 
opening  to  the  timber  but  the  squelching  of  our  boots  in  the 
boggy  ground  and  the  rattle  of  the  stiff  bridles  hung  over 
our  arms.  In  a  few  moments  pine  and  balsam  boughs  thrust 
themselves  darkly  between  us  and  the  camp.  The  trees  were 
not  thickly  set,  but  the  forest  floor  was  littered  with  enormous 
fallen  trunks  that  reared  grotesque  roots  over  our  heads. 
They  left  rank  caverns  where  they  had  once  stood,  filled 
with  hummocks  of  crumbling  loam  and  colossal  fragments  of 
bark.  If  we  separated  we  were  immediately  lost  from  one 
another  in  the  brush  and  the  debris  of  hundreds  of  years.  It 
was  bad  going  and  we  clambered  without  words,  pushing 
slowly  up  towards  the  pass.  A  chill  silence  made  our  foot- 
steps sound  doubly  laborious,  and  a  rotted  log  giving  way 
beneath  one's  heel  echoed  and  re-echoed.  Before  we  realized 
it  we  were  in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  surrounded  by  tall 
spruce  darkness.  I  held  tightly  to  the  memory  of  the  tepees 
as  I  had  seen  them  last,  illumined  from  within  bv  small  fires 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 

\\  hich  metamorphosed  them  into  dully  glowing  cones  haunted 
l»\  impossible  shadows.  1  remembered  the  angles  of  the  poles 
.•iikI  i1k  lacework  the  smoke  had  made  among  them. 

A  half  hour  of  stead}  walking  and  still  no  break,  no  in- 
creased light  to  reveal  the  end  of  the  timber.  A  fawn  soared 
<»ul  of  the  brush  above  us  ,-it  our  left,  paused  a  moment  to 
Stare  al  us  with  brilliant  eyes  and  wide-spread  delicate  ears. 
We  stopped  and  stared  back.  It  seemed  almost  as  though 
he  understood  a  kinship  among  us.  We  moved  toward  him 
slightly.  1  Ic  Sung  up  his  head  as  the  alien  scent  disturbed  his 
nostrils,  turned  in  mid  air  and  went  up  the  mountain  in  long 
rubber-legged  hounds.  Ili^  white  tail  Hashed  into  a  thicket.  .  . 
.  .  .There  was  no  trail  to  follow.  We  were  the  iirst  people  in 
years  to  penetrate  this  high  and  silent  luart  of  the  Rockies. 
We  could  not  find  the  faint  tracks  we  had  made  riding  in,  or 
the  scattering  trail  of  the  horses  when  they  had  wandered 
hack  to  graze.  The  motionless  and  soundless  hostility  of  the 
forest  confused  us.  An  endless  wilderness  of  rain-soaked  tree  s 
folded  us  into  its  cold  breast. 

The-  sensation  was  that  of  a  shade-  rising  slowly  and 
without  warning,  allowing  greater  light.  We  saw  a  clear 
ridge  above  us,  dully  covered  with  the'  faded  lupin  of  August. 
From  the-  top  of  it  we  could  look  hack  down  the'  valley  where- 
a  wavering  feather  of  smoke  distinguished  itself  only  by 
motion  from  the  steel  dusk.  In  front  of  us  the-  pass  spread 
out  widely,  a  long  ilal-hol  tonied  valley  lae'ed  with  streams 
which  descended  abruptly  from  precipitous  summits.  The 
peaks  on  either  side-  formed  harriers  of  incredible  height  to 
tin  world  beyond  them.  At  their  feel  lay  a  jumbled  mass  of 
iron   gray    lock,   armor   that    they   had   cast    aside  during   the' 

long  restless  years,  I  drew  a  deep  breath.  The  air  seemed 
fr<  sher  here,  quickened  by  a  sharp  wind  that  had  a  flavour 

of  snow  .  At  th<  foot  of  the  shoulder  on  which  we  were-  stand- 
ing, t  wo  of  the  pack  horses  nuzzled  the-  bare  ground,  the-  aged 

bonj  Xilchie  and  while-  l)iiiir;iii  with  the-  sore  back.  They 
snorted  w  hen  they  saw  us  and  moved  away  warily.  We-  passed 
ih<  m.  descending  to  the  floor  of  the-  pass.  A  quarter  of  a  mile- 
away,  nine  or  ten  more  horses  hung  together  in  a  draw,  and 
beyond  them,  across  the  valley,  was  a  larger  group.  We  could 
pick  on  I  outstanding  ones  as  we  approached,  Patches,  White1. 
Blue  Robin,  H<  <lw  ing,  Flossie  and  her  coll.  Snake-,  the-  never 
trusting,  grazed  apart,  nervous  and  forlorn. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  7 

A  long  stretch  of  glacial  mud  lay  between  us  and  the 
horses.  The  main  westward  running  stream  was  fed  by 
thousands  of  rivulets  and  seepings  which  had  so  undermined 
the  grassy  stretches  that  one  had  to  climb  for  firm  ground. 
Ted  plowed  ahead  determinedly,  jumping  over  the  soft  spots 
like  a  boy  playing  hop-scotch.  Hegie  was  behind  me,  whist- 
ling his  foreign  tunes.  Occasionally  he  would  stop  long  e- 
nough  to  mutter  about  the  wet.  The  bridles  clinked  and  crack- 
led, the  water  under  our  feet  gurgled  as  it  oozed  in  and  out 
of  our  boots.  The  wind  grew  colder  and  darkness  was  at 
its  heels.  We  hurried. 

Close  upon  the  first  group  we  put  the  bridles  behind  our 
backs  and  assumed  the  appearance  of  an  innocent  visit.  Ted 
stepped  tactfully  up  to  Tex,  holding  out  the  salt.  The  wise 
old  buckskin  sniffed,  pricked  up  his  ears  and  stretched  out 
his  lean  neck.  Ted  began  to  croon  to  him — 

"Come  Tex.  Steady,  boy.  Steady,  old  fellow." 

But  Tex  was  wise  in  the  ways  of  wrangling.  He  reached 
out  a  long  pale  tongue,  then  ducked  from  under  Ted's  rapid 
hand  and  whirled  away.  Out  of  reach  he  plunged  and  bucked 
viciously  to  display  his  temper.  (He  was  the  mildest  horse  in 
the  outfit.) 

"Damn,"  Ted  murmured.  "We'll  never  catch  him  now, 
the  old  fox."  Yet  with  his  peculiar  patience  with  horses  he 
again  offered  the  salt,  making  low  musical  noises  in  his  throat. 
Tex  shook  his  head  with  an  air  of  finality,  kicked  up  his  heels 
and  clattered  away.  From  a  safe  distance  he  watched  us,  his 
head  set  defiantly  in  the  wind.  Here  on  this  lonely  pass  he 
had  taken  on  a  wildness  and  spirit  which  were  hard  to  re- 
concile with  his  familiar  docility.  Ted  lifted  his  shoulders 
resignedly  and  caught  Big  Jack,  an  enormous  lanky  bay. 

Hegie  now  ceased  to  be  a  respectful  spectator.  He 
turned  to  me  with  a  wride  grin.  His  even  white  teeth  gleamed 
in  the  brown  of  his  face.  "I  catch  for  you  Prince.  You  ride 
him.  He  ban  for  bareback  one  good  horse."  He  began  an 
absurdly  dignified  approach  upon  that  dozing  animal,  then 
pounced  upon  him  suddenly.  The  bridle  was  over  Prince's 
head  before  he  woke  up.  Hegie  was  triumphant.  "See,"  he 
nodded  "Not  hard." 

Prince's  body  was  wet  and  slippery  with  the  rain,  but 
it  was  warm  between  my  knees.  I  settled  myself  on  his  fat 
back  and  let  him  toss  himself  resentfully.  His  muscles  moved 


8  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

smoothly  under  my  legs.  We  left  Hegie  doggedly  pursuing 
Baby  Face,  his  ow  n  saddle  horse,  up  the  draw,  and  rode  over 
to  tin  larger  bunch.  Ted  looked  like  a  small  boy  on  top  of  his 
(all  horse.  He  rode  with  a  marvelous  loose  certainty,  falling 
into  the  rhythm  ^\'  Big  Jack's  jarring  trot.  He  was  rapidly 
counting  the  group  in  front  of  him. 

"Forty-five,"  he  decided.  "And  all  the  colts.  There  are 
m  \(  n  missing."  We  reined  in  a  moment  to  stare  up  at  the 
bleak  ridges  for  the  vagrants,  and  hack  over  the  pass.  "Guess 

they're  way  hack  there  on  the  other  side  of  the  divide,"  said 
Ted.  "Somet hin's  grazin'  there.  "  lie  crossed  the  soft  valley 
at  a  blundering  canter,  making  for  a  clump  of  black  specks 
hall'  a  mile  or  so  away.  Before  he  had  gone  two  hundred  yards 
he  became  a  toy  figure  on  a  toy  horse.  The  mountains  on 
either  side  of  him  were  twice  their  size.  Ted  and  Big  Jack 
disappeared. 

Hegie  and  I  rounded  the  horses  into  one  hunch,  and 
tried  to  hold  them  waiting  for  Ted.  They  had  been  running 
free  for  three  days,  and  they  were  restless.  'They  swayed  hack 
and  forth  across  the  valley  as  though  they  were  moving  to  keep 
warm,  they  split  at  the  stream  and  a  dozen  or  so  strayed  up 
lo  higher  ground.  Wayward  old  Kate  and  her  colt  again  ex- 
hibited the  basis  for  suspecting  their  derivation  from  a  moun- 
tain goal  and  headed  straight  up  the  steepest  slope.  Hegie 
yelled,  waved  his  arms  and  made  splattering  reckless  dashes 
after  the  wanderers.  Forty-five  uneasy  horses,  crowding, 
snapping  and  kicking.  A  bright  sorrel  gelding  trotted  about 
the  edges  of  the  hunch  with  springing  steps.  His  eyes  flared 
with  excitement.  Boob,  lost  from  his  beloved  Kate,  whick- 
ered pitiably  as  he  nudged  about  searching  for  her,  I  found 
myself  surrounded  by  their  flying  heads;  their  rumps  pushed 

at  my  knee,  and  their  breaths  warmed  my  bridle  hand.  I 

was  glad  to  have  them  near  me.  In  this  high  rain-filled  pass  I 
had  lost  some  of  my  self-confidence,  and  there  was  a  reassur- 
ance in  their  vigour  and  in  the  heat  of  their  steaming  bodies. 
They  Ailed  the  chill  wet  silence  with  the  rattle  of  hoofs  on  the 
stony  creek  bed,  with  the  thud  of  flank  against  flank  and  with 

chit tered  snorts. 

A  shrill  whoop  announced  Ted's  return,  lie  came  alone. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  9 

shaping  suddenly  out  of  the  mist.  He  was  laughing,  bending 
down  over  his  horse's  long  ears.  "Caribou,"  he  called  from 
a  distance.  "Thought  they  were  horses.  Seven  of  them  too." 
He  rode  up  to  me  and  swung  his  leg  over  the  bay's  neck  so 
that  he  sat  sidewise,  scanning  the  mountains  inch  by  inch. 
The  clouds  were  sliding  lower  and  lower  over  the  mountains. 
A  long  yodel  from  Hegie  quivered  down  to  us.  He  was  across 
the  valley  scrambling  up  an  almost  perpendicular  ridge  on 
foot,  dragging  Baby  Face  at  his  heels.  Above  him  were  seven 
black  specks  against  the  remote  bare  wall.  Hegie  looked  like 
a  monkey.  His  elbows  and  knees  shot  out  at  rapid  angles. 
Baby  Face  climbed  with  strong  rabbit-like  action  of  the  hind 
quarters.  The  specks  were  not  caribou  this  time.  Hegie  waved 
reassuringly  at  us. 

We  sent  our  bunch  across  some  good  firm  ground  at  a 
full  gallop.  The  horses  ran  eagerly.  Redwing  took  the  lead 
with  beautiful  ease,  his  small  fine  head  thrust  forward  into 
the  mist.  Ted  was  sitting  up  on  Big  Jack's  neck  like  a  jockey. 
"Hey — aa.  Hey — aa,"  he  yelled.  I  could  feel  Prince  gallop- 
ing smoothly  between  my  knees  and  the  thin  rain  brushing 
by  my  ears.  The  grey  dusk  blew  about  us.  The  leaders 
plunged  suddenly  into  the  muskeg,  and  slowed  to  a  walk  in 
two  steps.  They  piled  into  a  jumble,  and  then  of  their  own 
accord  fell  into  single  file,  following  the  trail  over  the  pass 
that  we  had  made  three  days  earlier.  The  trail  made  a  wide 
IT,  doubling  back  across  the  valley.  There  they  were  strung 
out  like  a  parade — the  black  horses,  the  bays,  the  pintos  and 
the  roans.  In  the  dull  light  the  sorrel  gelding  stood  out  like  a 
flame,  and  Patches'  white  face  gleamed  as  he  tossed  his  neck. 
Their  heads  bobbed  in  unison.  Their  manes  flagged  in  the 
wind.  A  strange  pilgrimage  in  a  cold  gray  waste,  winding, 
serpentine,  to  a  forgotten  destiny. 

Ted  and  I  sat  our  horses  on  a  small  knoll,  waiting  for 
Hegie.  Ted's  warm  round  voice  ceased  in  the  middle  of  a 
line. 

"Look,"  he  pointed  to  the  sky. 

The  night  was  descending  visibly.  It  came  down  like  a 
dark  curtain  falling  from  the  roof  of  the  sky,  furling  over  the 
ragged  peaks.  I  held  my  breath,  watching  the  fringe  come 
nearer  and  nearer  my  face.  Rapidly  it  fell,  without  a  sound. 
The  soft  luminous  quality  of  the  dusk  snapped  out  like  a 
dim  electric  light.  The  night  was  upon  us Now  the  pass 


10  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

me  a  mysterious  void  of  blackness  in  which  horses  wen 
only  moving  sounds.  The  mountains  around  us  were  over- 
hanging shadow  s.  { lie  valley  below,  where  the  camp  had  been, 
was  lost.  1  sat  still,  glad  to  feel  Prince's  heaving  sides:  and 
remembering,  for  the  sake  of  campanionship,  Ted's  face  as  I 

had  seen  it   last       his  wide  blue  eves.   Now  it   was  only  a   pale 

blur,  illumined  for  one  Raring  moment  when  he  lit  a  match 

e  the  time. 

Above  us,  hoofs  roared,  and  the  stones  trickled  down 
from  the  ledges.  Hegie's  voice  whooping  at  his  horses. 
"Hey  aa.  Hey  aa.  Hey  aa."  Seven  swift  holts  came 
down  recklessly  out  of  the  dark  heights.  The  shod  hoofs 
struck  sparks  on  the  rocks.  Hegie  was  on  top  of  them,  exult- 
ing in  his  daring We  began  the  long  drive  home. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  now  hut  to  let  old  Blue  Robin 
take  the  lead  and  follow  the  trail  hack  to  camp,  plowing 
through  the  night  with  lowered  head.  Nothing  to  do  hut 
watch  for  dodgers  in  the  brush,  wait  for  a  wet  branch  in  the 
face,  and  brace  oneself  against  the  sag  of  one's  horse's  knees 
when  he  fell  into  a  hole.  Nothing  to  do  hut  crack  lagging 
rumps  with  the  ends  of  the  reins,  whoop  at  the  lazy  ones. 
chase  the  sly  ones  out  of  the  brush  onto  the  trail. 

We  were  in  the  timber  again.  Ears  were  better  guides 
than  eyes  to  know  the  ground  underfoot,  the  noises  off  the 
trail.  We  passed  almost  silently  with  our  long  procession. 
save  for  the  chanting  of  the  hell  on  Old  Fox's  neck.  The 
horses'  hoofs  were  muted  in  the  moss.  1  could  see  only  one 
horse  ahead,  hut  'Ted's  voice  came  hack  with  startling  clarity 
when  he  yelled  at  Maggie  or  Greenwood.  Behind  me  Hegie 
was  whistling  his  foreign  tunc,  snapping  his  reins  cheerfully. 
I  was  w<  i  and  cold  and  still',  hut  I  remembered  the  gallop 

back  on  the  pass,  the  way  the  night   had  come  upon  us.  the 

(ju<  i  r  shapes  the  horses  made  scrambling  up  a  ridge.  1  was 

Content   w  ilh  these  things  alone. 

The  tawny  Same  of  the  cook  lire  picked  Ted's  face  out 
of  the  darkness.  We  let  the  horses  go,  knowing  they  would 
not  wander  far  before  morning.  Prince  shook  himself  and 
dr<  w  iii  ,-i  long  snuffling  breath.  The  camp  was  asleep.  We 
stood  ,-i  moment  watching  the  horses  fall  to  grazing  in  the 
little  opening.  The  bell  on  old  Fox  jangled  more  and  more 
slowly.  II'  eeth  glistened.  There  was  a  warm  blue  smile 

in  T<  d "s  <  \  <  s.  1   put  my  hands  into  the  firelight.  The  rain 
had  stopped. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  11 


LAKE  RHAZAMENE 
Patty  Wood 


Here  have  your  eyes  held  tears, 
Fl  owe  r-  cupped — 
Blue  myrtles  opening  to  rain. 

Here  have  you  forgotten  years, 
Lying  limp  with  Beauty — 
Passion  fire-and-ice. 

Here  has  your  long  pilgrimage, 
Earthy  trek  over  earth — 
Come  to  sweet  end. 

Here  came  1,  with  heritage 

Of  earth — brought  back  the  years 
In  heavy  flood — dried  your  tears 
Of  ecstasy — forever  took  away 
Your  bright-happy  day. 


11' 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


SPEAK-EASY  NIGHTS 

PkisiM  1  .\  Fairch  1 1  D 


HE  scrubbed  the  red  and  white  cotton  table  cover  idly 

with  her  knuckles.    The  smoke  in  the  little  room  sank 

heavily  in  her  lungs  until  drawing  a  breath  was  so 

i«.|(  nt   and   inadequate  a   physical  effort   as   to   leave  her 

unsatisfied,     [ce  settled  noisily  in  the  drinks,  audible  even 

over  the  roar  of  the  room  and  the  clatter  of  broken  .uiass 

from  the  bar, 

Allan  leaned  across  the  table,  his  eyes  very  large  in  the 
smoky  light,  strangely  luminous,  the  color  of  a  silver  spoon 
in  a  cup  of  strong  tea. 

"You're  wry  beautiful,"  he  said,  "and  that  is  the  most 
important  thing.  I  don't  care  what  you're  like  inside.  1 
mean.  Because  you  have  an  unusual  line  from  the  corner 
of  your  eye  to  the  tip  of  your  chin.  I  am  content.  Your 
possession  or  lack  of  other  qualities  matters  not  at  all." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  a  sudden  violent  gesture, 
an  involuntary  movement  that  crept  out  of  some  recess  of 
her  body  and  spread  through  her  in  a  quickening  momen- 
tum. "What  about  courage  and  integrity?  What  about 
f<  <  ling  and  'keeping  face'  and  one's  own  standards  of  per- 
fect ion  ?" 

"Oh,"  he  said,  with  disgust,  "You're  drunk.  Things 
like  that   are  worn  out.  and  you  know  it,  certainly." 

"You  make  me  sick."  she  said  dully,  and  stared  at  her 
Iiiilv  r  naiK  in  abstraction,  while  neither  spoke  for  the  time 
it  took  a  chorus-girl  with  a  banjo  to  wail  for  her  mammy. 
Two  soft  shoe  dancers  emphasized  their  next  words  with  a 
rhythmic  patter  that  obsessed  her  mind. 

I  think  III  go  home,"  she  murmured,  hut  her  brain 
throbbed  to  the  rap-rap  patter  of  the  dancing  feet. 

'You  can'l   go  home,  it's  still   very  early,  and   I   won't 
lak<    \<ui." 

I  in  going  home,"  she  said  obstinately,  hut  syncopa- 
tion  stumbled  drunkenly   throughout    the  room.     Hvpno- 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  .13 

tized  she  stared  at  his  black  tie  and  then  down  to  his  two 
pearl  studs. 

"I'm  so  very  diga-diga-doo-by  nature,"  screamed  a 
negro  girl,  exemplifying  her  statement  to  the  utmost. 

Excitement,  that  steel  spring,  wound  up  taut  inside  of 
her.  The  muscles  of  her  legs  felt  strong  and  supple  as  rub- 
ber. Her  back  flattened  as  her  shoulders  straightened  and 
drew  back.  The  feeling  crept  up  to  her  mind,  that  swayed 
with  the  control  of  a  snake's  head  raised  to  strike,  glancing 
and  lightning-quick.  Alternately  she  was  a  concentric  coil 
bound  in  upon  herself,  or  a  flash  of  invisible  motion,  sneer- 
ing and  contemptuous  in  rapidity. 

She  rose  and  gestured  to  Allan  to  dance.  To  her  im- 
agination the  other  dancers  turned  to  the  skeletons  they 
would  eventually  become.  Through  the  flesh  of  the  negro 
girl  she  saw  dry  bones  rubbing  together.  Eye-sockets  peered 
at  her  from  the  corners  of  the  room.  A  hand  resting  on 
the  frame-work  of  a  shoulder  rattled  a  tattoo  as  she  passed. 
Under  the  slamming  music  she  heard  the  faint  tap  of  flesh- 
less  feet  beating  the  floor. 

I  am  alive,  she  thought,  and  they  are  dead;  but 
through  the  excitement  a  stiffness  crept  over  her.  She  looked 
at  her  arms,  expecting  to  see  the  flesh  curl  off  the  gleaming 
bones,  and  the  lightness  of  her  feet  no  longer  surprised  her, 
who  knew  to  what  brittle  cages  they  were  reduced.  The  flame 
of  her  body  burned  out,  leaving  that  fever  of  the  bones,  that 
icy  brilliance,  which  cold  tons  of  deep  sea  water  cannot 
quench,  or  damp  mould  riddled  with  earth-worms  utterly 
smother. 

This  is  no  death,  then,  she  thought,  as  the  drum  punc- 
tuated each  word,  this  flame  in  the  marrow,  this  trans- 
parency of  the  flesh.  They  are  dead,  long  ago,  who  have 
forgotten  the  bone  for  the  body,  the  hard  for  the  soft. 
And  she  moved  closer  to  Allan  in  the  pattern  of  the  danc- 
ing, and  as  his  arm  closed  more  tightly  around  her  she 
laughed  aloud  to  think  of  their  two  skeletons  stepping  so 
daintily,  fastidiously. 

As  the  music  stopped  the  spring  of  her  tension  ran 
down.  She  moved  heavily  to  the  table,  placing  each  foot 
with  elaborate  care.  Her  wrists  ached,  her  body  weighed 
her  down,  the  line  of  her  chin  sagged  under  the  pressure  of 
her  head.    Marking  out  a  diagram  with  a  fore-finger  on  the 


1  4  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

cloth,  sIk    stared  sullenly  at   the  table.     Her  lungs  could 

scara  ly  lift  the  lead  that  oppressed  them,  and  her  shoulders 
sank  forward  as  if  under  a  burden. 

"For  God's  sake  say  something,"   Allan  said.   "You 

l<»ok  as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost." 

"Not  -hosts,  hut  skeletons."  she  answered.  "And 
there's  nothing  to  say.  or  else  I  don'i  know  how  to  say  it." 

She  noticed  his  amazed  look  as  vaguely  as  if  curtains 
'<  \  fog  hung  between  them.  Ghosts  and  skeletons,  and 
she  was  both.  The  fact  of  her  reality  grew  to  he  impossible. 
If  she  could  not  speak  to  Allan,  convince  him  of  the  im- 
portance of  these  things,  so  vital  to  her.  did  she  exist  at  all? 
Had  she  become  as  nebulous  as  an  unexpressed  thought? 

She  neatly  placed  a  cross  in  each  square  of  the  diagram 
with  the  (iid  of  a  burned  match. 

"Bui  Allan,  you  see — ."  she  began,  and  stopped.  What 
did  he  see?  [f  she  could  not  speak,  did  she,  then,  exists  If 
she  did  not  exist,  how  could  she  possibly  speak?  Could 
he  perceive  her  meaning  if  she  failed  to  exist,  through  this 
agonizing  incapacity  for  speech? 

She  saw  herself  a  phantom,  lacking  in  life,  because  the 
words  beating  in  her  brain  disappeared  before  they  reached 
I"  r  mouth.  No  agony  or  intensity  on  her  part  could  force 
h<  r  f<  <  ling  into  expression,  her  thoughts  into  sentences. 
II«  r  head  fell  filled  with  empty  papers  idly  rattling  about. 
She  grasped  a!  them  hut  they  fell  to  pieces,  or  proved  blank, 
or  were  covered  with  a  language  whose  secret  she  did  not 
know.  Sometimes  in  her  ears  she  heard  the  beating  of 
wings,  whose  significance  travelled  to  her  tongue,  only  to 
dissolve  there,  vaguely  and  incoherently. 

"Nothing  at  all.  it  doesn't  matter. "  she  continued,  as 
Allan  put  down  his  glass  and  stared  at  her,  in  a  rather 
strange  way,  she  thought.  Perhaps  she  had  been  making 
>"h\  fact  s,  as  people  do  when  they  hold  council  with  them- 
selves. Perhaps  Allan  thought  she  was  mad,  to  gibber  as 
she  undoubtedly  had  been  doing.  Certainly  she  must  be 
mad  and   this  then  was  a  dance  in  a  mad-house! 

Th<  six'  I'  Ions  turned  to  maniacs  forthwith,  and  she, 
in  fancy,  pulled  ahoul  and  modeled  each  face  as  if  the  feat- 
ures w  <  i<  made  of  putty,  until  it  resembled  a  Daumier  draw- 
ing.    Sli-    s<  I   them  swirling  wildly  as  she  completed  in  turn 

each  pan-  thai  passed  by  the  table.    Their  frenzy  increased 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  15 

with  the  violence  of  the  music,  and  the  revolving  colored 
lights  here  touched  up  a  nose  to  a  livid  blue,  there  ehanged 
a  laugh  to  a  toothy  glare.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  faee,  to 
feel  if  she  herself  had  altered,  and  the  lack  of  difference  in 
the  state  of  her  features  surprised  her  into  an  unconscious 
smile. 

In  astonishment  she  watched  Allan's  face  contort  itself, 
amazedly  she  noticed  how  the  planes  broke  up  and  re- 
formed into  strange  patterns,  how  odd  lines  appeared,  and 
wrinkles.  She  realized  with  a  little  shock  that  he  was  smil- 
ing a  response  to  her,  and  she  became  aware  again  of  his 
presence,  but  with  such  a  detachment  that  she  placed  him 
as  far  away  as  one  of  the  outermost  stars. 

She  made  another  try,  "But  Allan,  there  must  be  some- 
thing more  than  just  futility."  As  she  said  the  wTords  they 
bounced,  hollow,  in  her  head.  Another  voice,  not  hers, 
had  surely  uttered  those  incredibly  unnatural  syllables.  They 
boomed  endlessly  along  the  ceiling,  the  orchestra  could  never 
drown  them,  not  the  concatenous  collision  of  all  the  stars 
could  erase  them  from  her  eardrums.  She  hurried  on  des- 
perately, knowing  that  nothing  but  her  own  voice  could 
give  her  even  a  pretense  of  help. 

"I  mean  there's  really  something  else."  Why  didn't 
someone  stop  her  from  letting  these  words  slide  limply  out 
of  her  mouth?  They  kept  on  in  an  avalanche,  meaningless, 
trite,  overwhelming  her.  She  saw  his  mouth  twist  at  the 
corners,  the  sentences  stringing  helplessly  along.  Finally 
in  an  agony  of  foolishness,  she  arrived  at  a  lame  finish  and 
sat  in  silence,  one  part  of  her  brain  scourging  her,  the  other 
encouraging,  until  the  conflict  so  tore  at  her  nerves  that 
with  an  exclamation  she  dragged  on  her  coat  and  stumbled 
for  the  door.  She  looked  around  quickly,  saw  Allan 
slouched  in  the  same  position,  his  very  shoulders  curved 
mockingly,  his  hand  tapping  a  cigarette  on  the  ash-tray, 
then  the  coloured  light  slid  off  him,  on  to  the  dancers.  With 
a  deep  breath  she  pushed  at  the  handle  and  moved  out  into 
the  street. 

Over  the  powdery  snow  the  lamps  threw  a  net- work 
of  patterns.  Cool  air  slid  down  into  her  lungs,  poured  over 
her  hot  eye-lids  and  throat.  She  walked,  her  head  a  little 
bent,  forgetting  to  think  or  worry,  content  in  this  imper- 


I  0  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

sonal  world  of  softly  settling  Bakes.  For  blocks  this  daze 
held  her,  then  finally  she  stopped  and  lifted  up  her  chin. 

"It's  this,  all  this."  she  murmured  half  out  loud,  look- 
ing around.  "Perhaps  now  that  [*ve  seen  it  again,  some- 
thing that  goes  on.  and  on.  and  doesn't  change,— something 
that  has  an  (  ssence,  an  integral  part  that  is  always  the  same, 
and  always  renewed  -I  could  explain  it  better." 

A  little  latei-  she  sat  opposite  .Allan  across  the  red 
and  white  table-cloth.  Though  he  scowled,  his  nostrils 
crinkled  a  little  with  amusement.  Saying  nothing  he  tapped 
the  end  of  his  cigarette,  then  looked  at  it  for  a  while. 

Silence  suddenly  made  an  opening  into  which  she 
plunged.  "Allan,  you  must  see.  Can't  you  see?  It's  so 
terribly  important,  not  to  lose  that  burning  inside  hardness, 
not  to  let  it  get  soft." 

She  felt  herself  floundering  helplessly.  The  words. 
the  words  evaded  her.  The  snow  outside — no.  he  would 
snort  again,  and  again  obstinately  refuse  to  understand. 
The  words  choked  and  died  in  her  throat,  leaving  her  burn- 
ing with  anxiety  and  an  inner  passion  of  shame. 

lie  rose  as  the  orchestra  brayed  out  its  first  note.  To- 
gether they  slid  out  on  the  oily  rhythm  of  the  music,  whose 
heat  forced  their  bodies  to  sway  in  unity,  and  their  feet  to 
move  together. 

"Happy  ?"  he  asked. 

A  es",  she  said,  hut  avoided  looking  at  his  eyes  and 
through  the  sockets  into  his  skull,  "very  happy." 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  17 


ONE  MO'  ROCK 

Mary  Chase 


l^ylEPHAS  walked  down  the  beach  toward  home,  alone. 
|vJJ  Usually  he  made  the  trip  with  three  or  four  of  his 
(K* r:|  friends,  all  in  that  pleasantly  boisterous  state  which 
followed  their  Saturday  evenings  of  craps  and  bad  shine. 
Tonight,  however,  he  had  come  from  a  changed  town.  A 
revival  was  in  full  swing  and  he  and  his  friends  had  indulged 
in  an  orgy  of  repentance.  Cephas  remembered  vaguely  go- 
ing up  to  the  mourners'  bench  to  sit  there  groaning,  at  in- 
tervals throwing  his  head  back  to  howl,   "Jesus,  sa-ave  a 


sinner." 


Now  that  had  all  passed,  and,  except  for  a  somewhat 
exalted  feeling,  he  was  the  same  as  ever.  He  walked  along 
slowly,  playing  his  game  with  the  waves — when  they  came 
in,  he  skirted  them;  when  they  went  out,  he  followed  them 
down  the  beach. 

Then  he  noticed  the  moon.  It  was  a  thin  one,  leaning 
over  on  its  back,  just  above  the  water.  It  made  a  pale,  white 
path  straight  to  him.  'T  wonder  if  that  light  is  cool  or  hot, 
like  the  sun,"  he  thought,  and  undressing  hastily,  he  went 
splashing  through  the  waves,  toward  the  end  of  the  light. 
It  always  kept  just  out  of  reach,  however,  so  he  swam  until 
he  was  tired  and  then  went  back  near  the  shore,  to  rest.  He 
looked  down — his  body  had  disappeared  entirely  in  the 
water.  "When  I  move,"  he  thought,  "the  blue  light  says 
I'm  still  there,  but  when  I'm  still,  shark-sucker  couldn't  find 
me,  no  matter  how  hard  he  tried.  Good  thing  to  be  a 
nigger,  sharks  don't  like  black  meat." 

He  swam  again,  lazily.  When  he  put  his  hands  out 
in  front  of  him  the  lights  in  the  water  made  white  cotton 
mittens  for  his  hands.  There  was  a  blue  path  behind  him, 
and  all  the  fish  left  blue  darting  trails  as  they  swam.  It  was 
all  beautiful  and  cool.  He  began  to  sing  a  rough  chant  of 
the  water  and  the  blue  trails,  but  the  idea  soon  failed  him 
and  he  fell  back  on  "One  mo'  ro-ock,  two  mo'  ro-ock,"  the 


18  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

song  he  and  his  friends  sang  to  the  concrete-mixer  when 
they  \\  orked  on  the  roads. 

"Time  to  go-oM  ai  las!  wove  itself  into  his  song.  II« 
left  the  water  slowly  and  unwillingly,  and  after  he  had 
dressed,  played  his  game  with  the  waves  down  the  beach 
toward  home,  singing  as  he  went,  "One  mo*  ro-ock — " 


MUSEUM   PORTRAIT 

Barbara  1).  Simison 


Above,  they  hung  her  portrait,  newly  oiled. 
And  done  with  [ngres  minuteness;  every  hair 

In  place,  with  that  sleek  look  for  which  she  toilee 
Because  it  was  the  fashion  then  to  wear 
It  parted  so;  perhaps,  it  was  because 
Her  husband  told  her  to.  and  she  felt  she 
Must  purse  her  lips  to  wait   lor  his  applause, 
On  having  her  accord  with  his  decree. 
Below,  they  placed  the  things  that  she  liked  best- 
A  comb  just  worn  at  night  when  she  sat  all 
Alone      a  hit  of  laee  upon  her  hreasl  ; 
The  jewelled  fan  beside  her  Spanish  shawl. 
So  here,  she  was  as  she  would  like  to  seem 
And  there,  as  lime  and  he  would  rather  dream! 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  19 


DANCING  SCHOOL 

Georgia  Stam  m 


a) 


AYBELLE,  walking  to  dancing  school  with  her  older 
sister,  felt  excited  and  frightened  both  at  once.  Her 
heart  was  thumping  violently,  uncomfortably.  She  car- 
ried a  brown  velvet  bag,  holding  her  dancing  slippers,  by  its 
drawstring,  and  it  banged  against  her  legs  with  each  step 
she  took.  Thump !  Thump!  went  her  heart.  Bang!  Bang!  went 
the  bag  against  her  legs.  She  was  thinking  feverishly,  "Sup- 
pose no  one  should  dance  with  me!  Suppose  I  should  be  the 
only  one  left  out,  and  have  to  sit  through  a  dance  all  alone! 
Or  have  to  dance  with  Miss  Evans!  What  on  earth  shall  I 
say  to  a  boy  if  one  does  dance  with  me?  O  heaven  help  me!" 
Turning  to  her  sister,  she  said  in  a  desperate,  breathless  tone, 
"What  on  earth  do  you  say  to  a  boy?"  "Oh  goodness,  I  don't 
know,"  said  her  sister  impatiently,  for  she  was  annoyed  at 
having  to  take  Maybelle  to  dancing  school,  "Just  anything 
that  comes  into  your  head."  "But  just  what  do  you  say?" 
persisted  Maybelle,  frantically  pressing.  Her  sister  was 
spared  an  answer  by  their  arrival  at  the  dancing  school.  May- 
belle was  now  struck  dumb  with  terror. 

They  climbed  the  steps  to  the  doorway.  A  boy  was 
climbing  the  steps  too.  He  held  the  door  open  for  them.  May- 
belle looked  at  him.  Why,  she  knew  him!  He  was  in  her  class 
at  school,  and  his  name  was  Charlie  Wilson.  Not  that  she 
had  ever  spoken  to  him  or  he  to  her.  The  boys  never  paid 
any  attention  to  the  girls  and  the  girls  ignored  the  boys.  Still 
it  was  cheering  to  see  a  familiar  face  and  he  looked  half  smil- 
ing as  he  held  the  door  open,  as  if  he  recognized  her.  She  went 
in  feeling  more  excited  than  ever.  An  awkward  arrangement 
of  the  rooms  made  it  necessary  for  her  to  pass  through  the 
boys'  waiting  room  to  get  to  the  girls'.  The  room  was  lined  with 
boys  putting  on  white  gloves  and  black  patent  leather  shoes. 
She  passed  through  the  black  and  white  ranks  with  eyes  cast 
down,  and  thought  in  agony  that  she  heard  a  titter  go  round 
the  room.  In  the  girls'  dressing  room,  sashes  and  hair  ribbons 
were  being  tied,  button-hooks  wielded,  hair  brushed  by  mat- 


•JO 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


ter  of  fat-!  governesses  and  fluttering  mothers.     The  girls 
were  dressed  like   Maybeile,  in  white  muslin  and  lace  over 

pink  or  blue  silk  slips,  with  pink  or  blue  sashes  and  hair-rib- 
bons. 

Maybeile  ohanged  hurriedly  into  her  black  pumps,  gave 
her  hat,  coat,  and  brown-velvet  bag  to  the  cynical,  bored- 
looking  hat-check  girl,  and  began  pulling  on  her  long,  white, 
silk  gloves.  She  saw  a  girl  that  she  knew,  whose  mother  was 
helping  her  get  ready.  Maybeile  never  liked  Lucretia  hut 
today  she  went  over  and  spoke  to  her.  I  just  love  dancing- 
school,  don't  you?"  said  Lucretia  in  her  silly  voice  while  her 
anxious,  attendant  mother  was  brushing  her  long,  brown 
curls.  "Oh,  yes,"  replied  Maybeile,  trying  to  make  her  voice 
sound  natural,  unscared.  She  turned  to  the  mirror,  and  pulled 
up  her  blue  hair-ribbon,  perched  on  the  side  of  her  head,  and 
w  ished  that  her  hair  was  not  short  and  straight. 

Maybeile  and  Lucretia  together  went  up  the  red-car- 
peted stairs  to  the  ballroom  to  make  their  curtsey  to  Miss 
Evans.  Miss  Evans  was  very  tall  with  black  hair.  She  was 
wearing  a  beautiful  sparkly  green  dress,  and  she  was  saying 
"Take  hold  of  your  skirts!  Take  one  step  to  the  right!  Left 
leg  behind!  Bend  and  straighten!"  Maybeile  coming  up  from 
hi  v  rather  wabbly  curtsey,  noted  the  great  length  of  the  big 
room.  At  the  left  was  the  piano.  At  the  right,  lining  the  wall 
were  chairs;  a  long  uninterrupted  black  line  that  was  the 
hoys,  abruptly  changing  into  a  longer  pink  and  blue  line  that 
was  the  girls.  Maybeile  and  Lucretia  /joined  the  pinks  and 
blues. 

.Miss  Evans  now  stepped  to  the  center  of  the  ballroom, 
clicked  her  castanets,  and  said.  "Take  partners  for  the 
march!"  The  black  line  stood  up.  advanced  waveringly,  then 
broke  up  as  each  boy  bowed  before  a  *_». i i •  1  with  right  hand  on 
hip.  lefi  hand  on  stomach.  A  very  small  hoy  bowed  in  front 
of  Maybeile.  She  noted  with  distaste  that  he  was  half  a  head 
shorter  than  she,  and  looked  somewhat  like  a  rabbit.  The 
couples  marched  round  the  room,  then  formed  in  rows  for 
the  Delsarte  exercises.  "Point  the  righl  foot!  Point  to  the 
side!  Extend  the  arms  sideways!  Right  foot  hack!  The  right 
fool.  William!  Hands  above  the  head!  Feet  together!  Arms 
down  slowly,  slowly!"  said  .Miss   Kvans. 

Maybeile  hied  io  imitate  .Miss  Kvans'  graceful  fingers 
ih.it  rained  down  from  her  wrists  when  shr  held  them  above 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  21 

her  head.  Miss  Evans'  fingers  seemed  to  float   through  the 

air  as  her  arms  came  slowly  down  to  her  sides.  How  silly  and 
awkward  the  hoys  looked  when  they  did  these  exercises.  They 
didn't  point  their  feet,  they  stuck  them  forward  as  if  they 
were  about  to  kick  a  soccer-hall.  They  held  their  hands  in 
fists  above  their  heads,  and  the  bad  ones  refused  to  do  the 
exercises  at  all.  "What  stupid  things  boys  are,"  thought  May- 
belle,  "They  don't  even  know  their  right  from  their  left." 

"Click-click"  went  Miss  Evans'  castanets.  "Take  part- 
ners for  the  one-step !"  Here  was  the  little  boy  bowing  to 
Maybelle  again,  hand  on  hip.  other  hand  on  stomach.  Oh,  how 
awfully  he  danced.  He  never  looked  where  he  was  going,  and 
bumped  her  into  people.  He  made  his  left  hand,  holding  her 
right,  go  up  and  down,  up  and  down.  When  the  music  stop- 
ped, Maybelle  was  glad  to  sit  down.  Miss  Evans  was  talking. 
"Gentlemen,  sit  to  the  left  of  your  partners.  Click-click! 
Don't  leave  your  partners,  boys.  Go  back  there,  Thomas  and 
William.  Xo.  you  don't  need  any  water  so  soon!  Sit  to  the 
left,  remember!  Young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  please  do  not 
cross  your  legs!  Xothing  looks  worse!  However,  you  may 
cross  your  feet  at  the  ankles."  With  a  subdued  tittering,  the 
pupils  uncrossed  their  legs,  and  sat  uncomfortably  erect. 

Xext  came  a  lesson  in  the  waltz.  Maybelle  caught  it  very 
quickly.  After  each  slide,  you  began  with  a  different  foot, 
and  made  a  sort  of  square.  The  boys,  Maybelle  noticed  with 
scorn,  had  great  difficulty  learning  it.  They  would  start  all 
right,  fumble  with  their  feet  and  go  all  wrong.  Miss  Evans 
(who  could  not  say  her  th's)  counted,  "One!  Two!  Shree! 
One!  Two!  Shree! 

"Click-click!"  "Take  partners  for  the  waltz."  Boys  were 
bowing  left  and  right.  Maybelle,  trying  to  seem  unconscious 
and  uncaring,  talked  to  Lueretia  whose  eye  was  wandering. 
A  boy  bowed  to  Lueretia.  Maybelle  and  two  other  girls  were 
left  out.  "You  two,"  said  Miss  Evans,  "dance  together.  May- 
belle will  dance  with  me."  Maybelle,  blushing  hotly,  tried 
furiously  to  follow  Miss  Evans  who  counted,  "One!  Two! 
Shree!  One!  Two!  Shree!  all  through  the  dance  without 
ceasing. 

Gladly  Maybelle  sat  down  after  it  was  over  next  to  a 
group  of  girls  whose  partners  had  deserted  them,  escaping 
Miss  Evans'  watchful  eye.  Lueretia,  also  deserted,  came  over 
and  sat  in  the  chair  next  to  Maybelle.  As  she  sat  down,  "Rip" 


22  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

went  her  dress.  The  bad  boys  had  stuck  a  pin  on  her  chair  and 
n<>\\  the)  were  sniggering  at  her  plight.  "How  nasty  boys 
are!"  said  Maybelle,  "That's  their  idea  of  something  funny!" 

"Click-click!"  "Take  partners  for  the  polka!"  Maybelle 
fell  a  dreadful,  sinking  feeling.  Oh,  if  only  one  of  those 
horrid,  horrid  boys  would  ask  her  to  dance.  A  hoy  stepped 
in  front  of  her.  Ill  bowed.  She  saw  the  top  of  his  blonde 
head,  and  then  as  he  straightened  she  recognized  the  pink 
face  of  Charlie  Wilson.  She  go!  up  and  made  her  curtsey. 
Away  they  wen!  to  the  polka  step:  slide  slide,  hop,  hop. 
hop!    ( )ne!  Two!  ( )ne.  t  wo.  shree!" 

"I  like  the  polka,  don't  you?"  said  Maybelle.  "Yep,  it's 
go!  so  much  go  to  it !"  agreed  Charlie.  "Say,"  he  said.  "Don't 
you  think  .Miss  Groui  is  a  funny  old  <^i rl ^"  Miss  Grout  was 
their  school  teacher.  "She's  a  nut!"  said  Maybelle,  delighted 
that  they  should  agree  again.  "Say,"  he  went  on  "D'j'ever 
hear  the  joke:  why  is  a  Ford  car  like  a  schoolroom?"  "No," 
said  Maybelle,  "Why?"  "Cause  there's  an  old  crank  in  front 
and  a  lot  hi  little  nuts  behind!"  Maybelle  giggled  furiously. 
She  though!  it  the  funniest  joke  she  had  ever  heard.  "How 
old  are  you?"  she  asked,  thinking  how-  easy  it  was  to  talk  to 
this  boy.  "Twelve.  How  old  are  you?"  "Eleven,"  she  said 
and  thoughl  how  nice  it  was  that  he  was  a  year  older.  "Let's 
gel  some  water."  he  said,  after  the  strenuous  polka  was  over. 
"Whew,  it's  Hot!"  Gallantly  he  pushed  the  other  boys  right 
and  left  from  tin  ice-water  pitcher,  gol  her  water  for  her.  in 
a  paper  cup.  and  presented  it  to  her  with  a  flourish. 

Take  partners  for  the  Paul  Jones!  Charlie  gulped  down 
his  water,  put  a  masterful  arm  round  Maybelle  and  danced 
off  with  her.  Maybelle  giggled  admiringly  as  she  pointed  out 

t<>   him    that    he  had   omitted   his   how.   "What    would   you've 

done  if  M  iss  K\  ans  had  caught  you  ?"  she  asked.  lie  shrugged 

his  shoulders  and  said,  "Well,  she  didn't  catch  inc.  did  she?" 
'Click-click!"  The  music  stopped.  "Face  vonr  partner! 

Girl's  righl  hand  in  hoy's  left!  Start  forward!'''  "Goodbye!" 
said  Charlie,  and  did  he?  Yes,  he  did  squeeze  her  hand  before 

he  hi  it  L!'»  and  passed  on!  Left  hand,  righl  hand,  tall  hoy. 
short  boy,  boy  with  glasses,  ugly  how  left  hand,  right  hand. 
"Click-click!"  The  music  stopped.  Oh  heavens!  Maybelle  had 

to  dance  with  the  oldest,  tallest,  handsomest  hoy  in  the  room. 

I  l'iw  he  scar<  d  her,  h<  was  so  old  and  contemptuous  looking! 
They  began  to  dance  and  she  stumbled  a  little.  kkOh.  excuse 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  23 

me!"  she  cried.  "My  fault,"  said  he  politely.  "Oh,  it  isn't 
your  fault  and  you  know  it!"  thought  Maybelle  ungratefully. 
She  was  uncomfortable,  nervous;  she  could  think  of  nothing 
to  say  to  him.  They  danced  past  Maybelle's  sister  who  was 
sitting  on  the  sidelines  among  the  governesses  and  mothers. 
Her  sister  was  trying  to  say  something  to  her;  her  lips  were 
forming  the  word,  "Talk!"  Talk! — Maybelle  could  not  say 
a  word.  She  felt  as  if  she  would  never  speak  again.  In  silence 
they  danced.  In  profound  silence  they  sat  down  together,  he 
on  her  left. 

With  what  enormous  thankfulness  did  she  see  Charlie 
Wilson's  pink  face  bob  up  and  down  in  front  of  her  in  a  bow 
as  he  asked  her  for  the  next  dance.  He  did  not  chatter  as 
gayly  during  this  dance  as  in  the  one  before,  but  the  silence 
that  fell  between  them  was  not  in  the  least  strained  or 
agonized.  Yet  Charlie  was  not  altogether  his  former  cheerful, 
easy  self,  he  seemed  preoccupied,  a  little  absent.  Suddenly 
he  said  in  a  hurried,  embarrassed  tone,  "May  I  take  you  home 
from  dancing-school?"  Maybelle's  heart  leaped  at  this  thrill- 
ing, this  glorious  offer.  A  boy  asking  to  take  her  home !  But  her 
high  heart  sank  as  she  dismally  realized  that  she  must  refuse, 
that  her  sister  was  sitting  there,  waiting  to  take  her  home.  She 
would  have  to  confess  to  this  boy  that  she  was  a  child  that 
had  to  be  called  for.  She  would  have  to  tell,  disclose  to  him 
what  an  infant  she  was,  and  he  would  no  longer  think  of  her. 
or  want  td  take  home  a  girl  so  babyish.  Humiliated,  an- 
guished, she  made  her  reply,  more  abrupt  than  she  realized. 
"No  you  can't!  My  sister's  here  for  me."  "Oh,  I  see,"  he  said 
in  what  seemed  to  her  a  curt  tone.  She  said  to  herself  in  des- 
pair, "I  suppose  he  thinks  I'm  just  a  little  kid." 

"Maybelle!"  It  was  Miss  Evans'  sharp  voice.  "Maybelle, 
please  turn  your  toes  out!"  What  an  awful  thing!  How  cruel 
of  her  to  say  that  just  then!  How  humiliating!  Oh,  I've  lost 
him  forever !  thought  Maybelle,  acutely  unhappy. 

"Young  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Miss  Evans  when 
they  Avere  all  seated.  "I  want  you  to  change  partners  after 
every  dance.  I  don't  want  you  to  go  on  dancing  with  the  same 
partner  all  the  time.  Now  then,  take  partners,  please!"  Char- 
lie left  Maybelle.  "Forever!"  she  thought  drearily  and  the 
small  rabbity-looking  boy  whom  she  first  danced  with  bowed 
before  her. 

How  miserable  she  was !  Whv  did  she  have  to  lose  Char- 


2  I  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

Ik  '.  Perhaps  li<  might  dance  with  her  again!  No,  he  never 
would!  And  here  she  was  dancing  with  this  nasty  little  fellow 
who  kepi  bumping  her  into  people.  What  was  he  saying  to 

her?  That  he  had  gotten  A.  A.  A.  on  his  report  card  that 
month.  Charlie  had  told  her  with  great  glee  that  he  had  got- 
ten B,  C,  1)  for  attendance,  work  and  conduct  in  order.  It 
was  sissy  for  a  hoy  to  be  good  at  his  lessons.  All  the  real  hoys 
w ere  terrible  in  them. 

The  little  boy  was  saying  to  her  now.  "Don't  let's  pa\ 
any  attention  to  Miss  Evans  but  let's  dance  the  next  together 
too."  "Oh  horrors!"  she  thought,  "1  don't  want  to  dance  with 
him!"  Hut  fear  that  she  would  again  be  left  out  caused  her  to 
accept.  .Inst  as  she  stood  up  to  make  her  curtsey  she  noticed 
Charlie's  blonde  hair  and  pink  lace  coming  in  her  direction. 
In  despair  she  saw  him  suddenly  turn  and  how  to  Lucretia. 

Miserable,  with  a  big  unswallowable  lump  in  her  throat. 
she  went  through  the  last  dance  with  the  brilliant  student. 
She  was  to  glad  to  hear  the  music  of  the  Polonaise  which 
apparently  meant  the  (.rand  March  and  the  end.  Hound  the 
room  marched  the  couples,  hand  in  hand,  girl's  left  hand  hold- 
ing skirts,  hoy's  right  hand  on  hip.  "Take  shree  steps,  then 
sweep  the  foot  along  the  Moor  and  up!  One!  Two!  Shree! 
Brush!  One!  Two!  Shree!  Brush!"  Curtsey  to  -Miss  Evans! 
Curtsey  to  your  partner!  Dismissed! 

Sick  at  heart,  Maybelle  stumbled  down  the  red-carpeted 
stairs,  bumped  by  the  hurrying  hordes  of  the  released  boys 
who  hounded  down  three  steps  at  a  time.  In  the  dressing- 
room,  dejectedly,  she  changed  her  shoes,  put  on  her  hat  and 
coat.  "Are  you  all  ready?  Let's  go!"  said  her  sister.  They 
passed  through  the  hoys'  now  noisy  room,  dodging  a  flying 
patent  leather  shoe.  To  her  sister's  question,  "Did  you  have 

a  good  time?"  she  could  make  no  answer. 

A  hoy  was  standing  by  the  street  door  as  if  waiting  for 
some  one,  with  his  hands  in  his  poekets.  It  was  Charlie  Wil- 
son! Maybelle's  heart  stood  still,  then  went  on  beating  very 
Cast.  As  she  passed  him,  he  closed  one  merry  blue  eye  in 
a  broad  wink.  He'd  winked  at  her!  Then  he  wasn't  mad!  He 
still  liked  her!  How  happy  she  was!  I  low  thrilling!  That 
wink!  She  would  never  forgel  it !  She  was  tired  but  she  didn't 
care.  She  had  1><  en  scared,  unhappy,  w  retched,  hut  now  every- 
thing was  joyous.  Joyfully  her  brown  velvet  bag  banged 
against  her  legs  to  the  tune  of  her  happy  thoughts,  "'He 
winki  (1  at  me!    1 J<  winh  d  at  me!" 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 

TEMPERATURE  ALMOST  NORMAL 

Rachel  Grant 


aT  was  tedious  to  be  lying  in  bed  now  that  the  fever  no 
longer  burned  heavily  through  her  body,  gnawing  at 
the  edges  of  her  eyes.  It  made  one  feel  stupidly  small 
and  childish.  The  distance  to  where  her  feet  sloped  up  in 
little  pyramids  was  too  short,  unprepossessing,  the  shape 
of  her  body  thickened  and  blurred  by  the  bedclothes.  Pet- 
tishly she  pulled  them  taut  to  her  chin  and  stretched  full 
length;  that  was  worse,  she  looked  like  a  long  block  of 
stone.  Tired,  she  let  them  go,  and  a  magazine  beside  her, 
slipping  like  a  lizard  between  the  bed  and  the  wall,  dropped 
on  the  floor.  It  annoyed  her  to  feel  young,  not  in  control. 
Even  her  hands  betrayed  her,  lying  there  on  the  coverlid,  a 
little  on  one  side,  curled,  fingertips  under.  They  looked 
young  and  uncertain.  She  lifted  them  and  examined  them 
carefully.  She  was  proud  of  her  hands,  the  long,  chiselled 
fingers  were  beautiful  and  she  had  taught  them  to  interpret 
her  silences.  They  moved  restlessly  as  she  talked,  touching 
her  face,  resting  against  her  hair  and  always  stretched  a  little 
separate,  as  if  to  emphasize  her  pleasure  in  them.  But  now 
the  nails  were  lustreless  and  too  long;  she  turned  on  one  side 
and  put  both  hands  under  the  pillow. 

The  room  was  so  still,  inert.  The  furniture  was  pas- 
sive as  though  no  one  had  ever  walked  by  it  or  moved  it. 
When  she  was  up  and  using  things  they  never  seemed  so 
unalive.  She  thought  the  writing  desk  stood  heavy  against 
the  wall,  and  yet  she  knew  how  it  lightly  shifted  position 
when  she  pulled  at  the  drawer.  The  portfolio  on  top  lay 
close,  close,  as  though  no  fingers  could  pry  it  loose.  The 
perfume  bottles  were  onyx  and  jade,  and  riveted  as  orna- 
ments to  the  top  of  her  dressing-table;  the  rug  was  a  sheet 
of  dull  red  metal  on  the  floor.  Everything  was  unmoving 
and  immovable.  The  spring  flowers  were  rigid  in  their 
vase.  She  saw  the  thick,  translucent  stems  of  tulips,  swol- 
len in  the  green  water,  and  shuddered;  she  hated  thick 
things.  Sudenly  she  wondered  if  she.  too.  had  lost  all  power 
to  move.     She  sat  up  sharply,  her  heart  shivering.     Then 


26  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

with  an  uneasy  laugh,  she  slid  back  again,  turned  the  pillow 

over  and  lay  .still. 

She  shul  her  eyes,  tired  as  they  were  of  moving  up  and 
down  the  edges  of  the  furniture,  through  the  small  brass 
drawer  handles,  and  along  the  sun  lines  on  the  floor.  She 
tried  to  visualize  herself  serving  tea  in  the  library  down- 
stairs, as  she  so  liked  to  do.  hands  outstretched  above  the 
silver  things  on  the  tray,  people  coming  up  to  her.  talking, 
listening,  liking  her.  Hut  it  was  too  difficult,  she  was  in- 
<  scapably  here,  in  bed,  and  quite  alone.  She  could  not 
accustom  herself  to  being  ill.  and  she  had  no  patience. 
Solitude  was  something  one  chose,  not  something  to  be 
forced  upon  one  like  this,  and  silence  had  more  dignity  than 
this  soundless  vacuum  in  which  they  had  left  her.  People 
m  (  med  SO  remote.     They  had  sent  Mowers,  but   it   was  such 

a  usual  gesture  to  send  flowers,  so  mechanical.     Perhaps 
this  pot  of  fuchsia  which  had  pleased  her  so  had  been  ordered 

by  his  secretary,  over  the  telephone,  without  any  conscious 
thought  of  her.  It  seemed  to  her  terribly  sad  that  she  should 
have  been  tricked  into  gratitude.  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes, 
she  opened  them  hurriedly,  aghast  at  this  childishness. 
She  must  stop  thinking  about  herself.  Without  interest, 
she  began  to  hunt  words,  describing  things,  her  curtains,  Mut- 
ed like  bronze  columns;  the  group  of  perfume  boxes,  uneven, 
cubistic,  a  diminutive  New  York  sky-line.  Words  were  too 
heavy,  her  mind  sagged  under  them. 

All  at  once  she  became  aware  of  the  bed.  It  pressed 
into  her  back  and  the  sheets  strained  across  her  chest.  She 
broke  free  of  them,  and  on  one  elbow,  struggled  to  pull 

the  bedclothes  straight  and  to  smooth  the  under  sheet.      She 

suffered  as  it  knotted  in  folds  that  seemed  to  urge  themselves 

into  hei-  back,  and  the  sheets  strained  across  her  chest.      She 

suffered  as  it  knotted  in  folds  that  seemed  to  urge  themselves 
into  her  body,  granite,  terribly  hard.     Exhausted  and  damp 

with  sweat,  she  lay  down  and   felt    the  cover  bend   like  steel 
around  her  ankles.      She  writhed,   the  mattress  was  wooden, 

corrugated.  She  drew  herself  convulsively  into  a  crouching 

position  near  the  head  of  the  bed.  watching  the  blankets  slid- 
ing iii  a  malignant  slant   towards  the  Moor, — 

"Two  degrees  more,"  said  the  nurse,"  that  seems  strange, 
after  you  have  been  lying  here  placidly  all  afternoon." 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  27 


WINTER  MOON 
Marion  Bussang 


Oh  cold  young  moon, 

The  brittle  lover 

Of  sloped  slate  roofs, 

Of  chiselled  towers: 

We  who  have  worshipped 

Summer  and  flowers 

Penitent  kneel 

Under  your  scorn; 

Steel  and  silver 

Welded  by  heat, 

Hardened  by  fire, 

We,  born 

Out  of  the  warm 

Sweet  womb  of  June 

Ask  that  no  more 

May  we  know  of  desire; 

Only  the  clear 

Swift  pain  of  the  sword 

That  is  all  beauty, 

Swift  in  its  passing*. 


28  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


TEN  DOLLARS 

Elizabeth  Wheeleb 


GTLINK!  Nine  dollars!  The  figures  leapt  at  Peter,  start- 
lingly  black  and  large.  He  picked  up  the  hank  and 
I  shook  it;  the  coins  shifted  as  if  they  had  not  much  room 
to  move.  Only  a  dollar  more.  Then  the  hank  would  open, 
and  then  he  could  by  all  the  soldiers  he  wanted.  Germans, 
French,  British  and  Americans;  infantry,  cavalry,  artillery; 
machine-guns,  tanks  and  airplanes.  In  another  week  perhaps, 
if  he  worked  very  hard. 

lh  set  the  bank  on  the  bookcase,  and  picked  up  the  over- 
sowing wastebasket.  His  mother's  was  only  half  full,  so  into 
that  he  dumped  the  contents  of  his  sisters  and  the  one  in  the 
guestroom,  and  then  went  to  the  cellar  to  empty  them.  His 
father's  wastebasket  in  the  study  had  to  be  taken  by  itself, 
it  was  so  big  and  so  full,  though  less  full  now  than  in  school 
time.  However,  it  served  the  purpose  of  carrying  up  the 
fire-wood.  Peter  threw  the  logs  into  the  woodbox,  rattled 
the  kindling  on  top,  and  swept  the  hearth  in  three  quick 
strokes.  Six  more  days  and  he  would  have  another  twenty- 
five  cents.  I  If  swept  the  front  porch,  already  so  hot  that  he 
could  feel  the  warmth  through  his  rubber  soles.  The  trees 
along  the  drive  scarcely  stirred,  and  there  was  a  haze  over 
tli<  sea,  blotting  out  the  horizon  line. 

Willi  this  heat,  the  beans  would  be  ready  in  his  garden, 
and  his  mother  had  said  she  would  buy  them  from  him. 
Basket    in  hand,  he  walked  quickly  through  the  rose  garden 

where  a  hummingbird  was  Hying,  across  the  road,  and  into  the 
field  beyond.  Two  years  ago  it  had  been  a  hay-field;  now  it 

was  planted  to  crops  to  i\rd  the  school  in  the  coming  winter. 

Across  the  upper  part,  near  the  road,  marched  rows  of  young 

(•(•in  like  soldiers  in  platoons.  Below,  among  the  white-dotted 

green  ranks  of  flowering  potatoes,  khaki-clad  figures  with 

hoes  moved  up  and  down.  Since  they  could  not  go  to  war.  the 
school  boys  had  come  back  in  squads  to  work  in  the  fields. 

Willi  bis   basket    fixed  mi   his  head    like  a   helmet.    Peter 

a< l\  anced  up< >n  them. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  29 

"Hello,  Peter.  Going  to  help  us  hoe  potatoes?" 

"No.  My  beans  ought  be  ripe  by  now.  I'm  gointa  sell 
'em.  Guess  how  much  money  I  got?" 

"How  much?" 

"Aw  c'm  on  and  guess." 

"Oh,  1  don't  know.  Two  dollars  and  a  quarter?" 

"Nope.  Much  more  'n  that." 

"You  tell  us.  We  can't  guess." 

Peter  kicked  at  a  dead  weed  with  scornful  impatience. 
Then  he  condescended.  "Nine  dollars.  When  I  get  ten,  I 
can  spend  it,  and  I'm  going  to  get  lots  of  soldiers  and  have 
a  battle." 

"That'll  be  fun,  won't  it?" 

Peter  looked  at  the  bent  back  of  the  speaker,  and  sighed, 
then  moved  on  down  the  field  to  his  own  garden.  The  boys 
did  not  seem  much  interested  in  his  soldiers.  He  thought  of 
Mac,  who  had  hoed  potatoes  last  summer  while  he  was  pick- 
ing beans,  and  had  talked  to  him  across  the  field  as  they 
worked.  In  the  fall,  instead  of  coming  back  to  school,  Mac 
had  joined  the  Marines  and  gone  to  France.  School  had  not 
been  the  same  without  him.  He  had  been  football  captain, 
and  could  pass  a  ball  further  than  anyone  else  in  school, 
and  had  taught  Peter  how  to  drop-kick,  also  how  to  tackle, 
and  a  great  many  more  things  too  numerous  to  be  recalled. 
Peter  missed  Mac.  He  wished  that  Mac  were  there  to  hear 
about  his  soldiers. 

But  thinking  of  his  soldiers  made  picking  beans  easy, 
even  in  this  heat.  Quickly  he  hitched  along  on  his  knees, 
feeling  under  the  dusty  leaves.  The  basket  filled  rapidly. 
Some  of  them  were  long  and  curved,  like  nothing  else  but 
beans;  some  were  short  and  stumpy,  like  zeppelins,  only 
thinner.  Peter  dug  his  hands  into  the  basket  and  wiggled  his 
fingers  about.  Nearly  two  quarts.  He  stood  up  and,  thrust- 
ing his  hands  in  his  pockets,  surveyed  his  garden.  Two  rows 
of  beans,  then  a  row  of  carrots,  one  of  beets,  two  of  lettuce, 
and  the  last  row  of  radishes  because  Mummy  liked  them.  The 
lettuce  looked  wilted ;  he  would  have  to  water  them  when  the 
sun  went  down.  Otherwise,  the  garden  looked  fine.  Sud- 
denly his  eye  caught  sight  of  a  bright  orange  something  with 
black  dots  on  one  of  the  beet  plants.  He  leapt  over  the  car- 
rots in  time  to  see  a  huge  potato  bug  parade  across  a  leaf  and 
disappear  underneath.  Peter  grabbed  him  and  put  him  down 


30  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

in  tlu-  path.  Then  he  selected  a  blunt  .stone  and  standing  a  lit- 
tle way  off,  dispatched  the  potato  bug  with  the  sure  aim  of  a 
grenadier.  In  satisfaction,  he  began  to  whistle  "Over 
There,"  and  picking  up  his  basket  of  beans,  he  strode  up  the 
Held  to  deliver  them  and  claim  his  wages. 

The  next  day  he  sold  some  carrots,  and  the  day  after  thai 
some  beets.  The  bank  now  registered  nine  dollars  and  sev- 
enty-five cents.  Saturday,  when  his  father  paid  him,  he 
would  have  ten.    On  Friday,  however,  a  sudden  fear  assailed 

him  that  someone  else  might  have  bought  his  soldiers,  so  he 
begged  permission  to  go  to  town  and  see  if  they  were  still 
there.  I  Le  walked  up  to  the  window  with  his  eyes  averted,  and 

he  closed  them  before  he  dared  to  look.  Yes.  there  they  were. 
the  whole  window  filled  with  them.  On  one  side  a  whole  army 
of  Germans  in  steel-pointed  helmets  marched  forward  with 
bayonets  set.  led  by  a  man  that  must  be  the  Kaiser  on  a  black 
war-horse.  On  the  other  side,  rank  upon  rank,  stood  poilus, 
Tommies  and  doughboys;  and  in  between  were  tanks  and 
guns  and  a  few  dead  soldiers.  For  one  short  hour.  Peter  ex- 
amined them  separately  and  all  together,  and  then,  with  a 
sigh  that  clouded  the  window,  he  tore  himself  away,  his  eyes 
blinking  and  the  end  of  his  nose  white  and  Hat.  To-morrow 
they  would  all  be  his. 

When  lie  go!  home,  as  always  he  looked  hopefully  on  the 
front  hall  table  for  mail,  and  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes 
when  he  saw  a  postcard  addressed  to  him.  It  was  from  .Mac. 
The  picture  was  a  colored  one  of  a  French  soldier  and  an 
American  shaking  hands.  The  American  was  labelled  "Mac" 
but  he  did  not  look  much  like  him.  Peter  turned  the  card 
over,  and  sat  down  on  the  stairs  to  read  it.  It  took  quite  a 
while.  "Deai-  Peter:  Wait  till  you  sec  the  German  helmet 
1  found  for  you  yesterday.  In  a  month  now.  you  will  be  put- 
ting them  over  from  the  thirty-yard-line.  Wish  I  could  see  you. 

Mac."  Peter  sat  still  for  several  minutes,  looking  first  at  the 
picture  .-Hid  then  at  the  writing.  Abruptly  he  jumped  up.  slip- 
ping the  card  into  the  pocket  of  his  shirt.  After  fumbling 

about    in   the  darkness  of  the  hall  closet,  he  emerged   with  a 

Foot  ball.  The  screen  door  banged  behind  him  as  he  landed  with 

H  flying  leap  on  the  lawn.  Hack  and  forth,  from  the  lilac 
hedge  i<>  the  horsechestnui  tree,  he  drop-kicked  the  football, 
running  tirelessly  after  it.  The  shadows  of  the  spruce  trees 

Crept    toward  the  house,  and  the  sun  slipped  behind  the  hill; 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  31 

but  still  Peter  kicked,  straining-  to  make  each  go  further  than 
the  last.  Once  he  put  one  from  the  hedge  over  the  tree  into  the 
drive.  Mac  would  have  said,  "Atta  Boy!  Come  on  now.  Do  it 
again."  So  Peter  tried,  until  it  was  dusk  and  the  robins 
chirped  good-night  through  the  gathering  fog. 

That  evening  after  supper  as  his  father  unfolded  the 
Times,  Peter  said  triumphantly,  "Daddy,  yon  owe  me  a 
quarter  to-morrow.  Then  I  can  open  my  bank!"  He  turned 
a  somersault  that  knocked  over  the  fire  tongs.  Peter  hastened 
to  pick  them  up,  but  the  expected  reprimand  did  not  come. 
Instead,  his  father  fished  in  his  pocket. 

"If  you'll  keep  quiet,  I'll  give  it  to  you  now,"  and  he 
tossed  the  quarter  to  Peter.  In  half  a  minute,  Peter  was  up- 
stairs and  down  again  with  his  bank.  He  jammed  the  quarter 
in  the  slot,  and  as  the  nine-seventy-five  changed  to  ten-aught- 
aught,  there  was  a  strange  click.  Peter  pressed  the  spring  in 
the  bottom.  It  opened,  and  out  poured  nickles,  dimes  and 
quarters  in  a  jingling  heap.  He  shook  the  bank  until  there 
was  nothing  left  in  it,  and  then  picked  up  the  coins  in  both 
hands,  letting  them  slip  through  his  fingers  like  sand.  Then  he 
separated  them  into  piles — nickles,  dimes  and  quarters — 
stacked  them  neatly,  and  counted  them,  then  multiplied  and 
added  to  see  if  they  made  ten  dollars.  They  did,  so  he  set  them 
out  in  platoons  with  the  nickels  and  dimes  for  privates,  be- 
cause there  were  more  of  them,  and  the  quarters  for  officers. 
The  platoons  moved  about  and  formed  in  diminutive  com- 
panies. The  nickles  were  the  Allies  and  their  officers  were 
heads  up;  the  dimes  were  the  Germans,  their  officers  tails  up. 

The  battle  was  so  exciting  that  Peter  hardly  heard  the 
telephone  ring  except  to  know  that  his  father  had  gone  to 
answer  it.  He  did  not  hear  what  was  being  said,  nor  notice  that 
his  mother  and  his  sister  had  put  down  their  books.  But  when 
his  father  came  back  and  stood  still  in  the  door,  Peter  looked 
up. 

"Mae's  been  killed."  He  spoke  so  quietly  that  Peter 
could  not  believe  what  he  had  said  until  he  heard  his  mother 
say  "Oh,  John!"  in  the  voice  that  always  meant  something 
terrible  had  happened.  Peter  looked  down  at  the  coins  and 
stared  hard  at  one  of  the  quarters. 

The  Morris  chair  creaked  as  his  father  sank  heavily  into 
it.  "Poor  old  Mac.  I've  been  waiting  every  day  to  hear  this." 

The  eagle  on  the  quarter  disappeared  and  the  quarter 


32  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

became  a  white  blur  on  the  rug,  Peter  got  up,  and  dragged 
his  feel  slowly  after  him  up  the  stairs.  1 1  is  door  closed  softly. 

The  next  morning  he  came  downstairs  before  anyone 
(1st.  His  money  was  in  an  old  candy  box  on  the  table.  He 
picked  up  some  of  the  coins  and  lei  them  drop  hack  into  tin 
box  one  by  one,  holding  the  last  quarter,  looking  at  tin-  eagle, 
and  finally  letting  it  too  fall.  As  he  heard  his  mother's  step 
on  the  stairs,  he  carefully  put  the  cover  on  the  box  and  turn- 
ing his  hack  upon  it.  walked  into  the  dining-room  with  his 
eyes  on  the  pattern  in  the  ru<^'.  1 1  is  mother  had  gone  into  the 
kitchen.  I  Ic  looked  out  of  the  window  at  a  robin  strutting  on 
the  lawn,  nor  did  he  turn  when  the  door  swung  behind  him. 

"Mummy,  the  Rid  Cross  still  wants  money  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes,  deal",  they  can  always  use  it." 

"Well,  then.  I  guess  1  want  to  give  them  my  ten 
dollars." 

Although  he  could  not  die  like  .Mac.  perhaps  he  could 
help  the  Allies  too.  Hut  now  he  could  not  have  his  soldiers. 
And  Mac  was  dead.  Suddenly  Peter  dropped  his  head  on  his 
arm  auainst  the  window-sash,  and  sobbed. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  33 


CONCERNING  MEANS  OF  LOCOMOTION 
Elizabeth  Perkins 


a  COMMON  generalization  maintains  that  every  novice 
who  gains  admission  to  the  sacred  precincts  of  Higher 
%r,8q  Education  believes  that  her  purpose  embodies  the  ac- 
quisition of  one  of  three  assets:  Learning,  friends,  amuse- 
ment. The  novice  almost  immediately  discovers  that  while 
her  purpose  may  remain  fixed,  she  is  being  forced  to  direct 
her  energies  not  immediately  towards  its  attainment,  but  to- 
wards getting  from  one  to  another  of  the  places  where  learn- 
ing, companionship  or  amusement  is  to  be  found.  This  fact  is 
less  commonly  recognized  than  the  first,  but  is  no  less  widely 
applicable;  and  while  the  mind  of  Napoleon  may  have  plan- 
ned his  most  successful  strategies  in  total  repudiation  of 
whatever  agonies  the  stomach  of  Xapoleon  was  suffering, 
smaller  brains  are  easily  distracted  from  important  considera- 
tions by  even  so  slight  a  matter  as  a  pair  of  weary  supports. 
Consequently  an  appreciable  amount  of  concentrated 
thought  is  spent  each  year  upon  means  of  locomotion. 

The  automobile,  worthy  vehicle  never  before  fully  ap- 
preciated, being  forbidden  to  all  save  a  select  few,  the  field 
is  narrowed  to  an  examination  of  three  contrivances:  the  foot, 
the  roller-skate,  and  the  bicycle.  These  are  similar  in  that 
all  three  use  overmuch  foot-  and  leg-muscle  and  thereby 
revive  the  old  grievance  against  parents  who,  fearing  lest  the 
purity  and  Scriptural  accuracy  of  their  pedigree  be  ques- 
tioned, refuse  to  instruct  offspring  in  the  impartial  use  of 
hands  and  feet.  Aside  from  this  feature,  they  differ  widely 
and  are  deserving  of  separate  consideration. 

The  foot  as  a  rule  comes  as  part  of  one's  standard  equip- 
ment ;  it  is  therefore  convenient,  its  use  is  naturally  and  easily 
acquired,  and  it  is  always  within  call.  Practically  no  know- 
ledge of  its  mechanism  is  necessary  for  the  amateur,  and  there 
is  no  danger  of  forgetting  the  key.  In  a  state  of  nature  its 
upkeep  also  is  negligible ;  unfortunately  the  deteriorating  in- 
fluence of  civilization  has  been  such  that  shoes  are  now  con- 


3i  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

sidered  advisable  and  even  necessary  by  the  decadent  daugh- 
ters of  Pithecanthropus  Erectus.  Quite  aside  from  the  ex- 
pense of  constantly  replacing  a  succession  of  broken-down 
shoes,  this  slate  of  affairs  lias  brought  it  about  thai  any  un- 
usual exertion  produces  great  wear  and  tear  on  the  foot  it- 
self. Blisters  on  one's  feel  are  no  less  unattractive  than  worn 
leather  or  tire-punctures;  and  they  are  distinctly  more  pain- 
ful. It  is  this  personal  element  in  the  relation  between  fool 
and  o\\  ik t  \\  liieh  lias  made  walking  less  popular  than  its  man- 
ifold advantages  mighl  lead  one  to  expect. 

Upon  the  roller-skate  I  gaze  with  a  frankly  /jaundiced 
eye.  There  is  to  me  an  underlying  faithlessness,  a  treachery, 
in  roller-skates  to  which  I  shall  never  become  reconciled.  Per- 
haps oui-  many  unfortunate  experiences  have  been  due  wholly 
to  my  own  lack  of  understanding;  hut  1  can  swear  to  having 
S<  (  n  what  on  the  lips  of  a  person  would  be  a  malicious  sneer 
gleam  about  the  clamps  of  a  rollerskate  as  it  relinquished  its 
grasp  at  the  crucial  moment  and  deposited  me.  at  grazing  in- 
cidence, Upon  the  pavement.  On  the  few  occasions  when  I 
have  been  allowed  to  retain  the  upright  posture,  1  have  found 
the  quality  of  self-control  to  he  quite  lacking  in  the  skate: 
however  slight  the  incline  on  which  I  embark,  an  appeal  to  a 
courteous  tree  has  always  been  necessary  in  order  to  prevent 
a  continuance  of  the  mad  course  and  an  inglorious  end  in  the 
shrubbery  at  the  bottom.  Moreover,  the  roller-skate  is  con- 
st rid  ing  to  the  ankle:  it  produces  a  most  harsh  and  uncsthetic 
effect  upon  any  but  the  smoothest  cement:  and  it  transmits 
up  the  spine  a  series  of  uneven  vibrations  which  cannot  but 

he  injurious  to  the  delicate  nerve-centers  of  the  brain. 

The  bicycle,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  thoroughbred.  Offer- 
ing a  striking  contrast  to  the  blunted  perceptions  and  pur- 
blind cruelty  of  the  roller-skate,  it  is  affectionate,  sensitive  and 
high-strung.  Quick-tempered  it  may  he,  as  is  shown  by  its 
behavior  when  forced  to  move  at  a  pace  at  variance  with  its 

own  inclinations;  and  he  who  would  master  it   must    possess 

in  addition  to  ,-i  certain  technical  skill,  hands  of  tempered 
steel,  prehensile  toes,  and  an  intuitive  quickness  of  discern- 
ment. Like  ;ill  line  creations,  it  requires  of  its  owner  intellig- 
ence and  constant  care;  hut  these  it  repays  a  thousandfold. 
Mastership,  one*  attained,  has  no  equal  among  all  the  sensa- 
tions to  which  man  is  susceptible.  Hut  all  approaches  to 
perfection  are,  by  their  very  conspicuousness,  doomed  to 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  35 

frustration.  Something  in  nature  is  aroused  to  antagonism  a- 
gainst  this  challenger  of  its  powers;  for  at  the  approach  of  the 
humblest  pedestrian,  hills  are  at  worst  quiescent;  before  au- 
tomobiles they  are  seen  to  abase  themselves ;  while  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  bicycle  they  rise  indignantly  on  end.  Unless  a  sys- 
tem of  elevators  be  installed  in  the  country  roads  of  the  land. 
I  seriously  consider  growing  a  good  set  of  callouses  and  re- 
verting to  feet. 


36  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


A  LEGEND  OF  OLD  RUSSIA 

Pauline  Si.o.m 


SI  I  E  "Malach  Ha  Moveth"  the  Angel  of  Death  was 
somewhat  tired  of  his  abode  in  heaven.  For  eons  he  had 
inhabited  the  same  dwelling  and  had  carried  on  the 
same  work  which  made  him  so  feared  on  earth.  \ot  withstand- 
ing the  respectful  awe  his  fellow-angels  accorded  him,  his 
present  life  was  somber  and  monotonous.  Now  the  Malach 
had  an  idea  that  a  wife  might  break  this  monotony.  Where- 
fore he  petitioned  the  Most  High  Tor  a  vacation  and  his 
pel  it  ion  was  granted. 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  Angel  of  Death  descended  to 
the  earth  and  assumed  the  guise  of  a  mortal  and  the  humble 
name  of  Yankel.  Hut  within  a  fortnight  came  YankePs  down- 
fall, lie  met  a  younff  iadv  in  the  village.  As  she  stood  there 
in  her  high  laced  pointed  shoes,  gathered  skirt,  tight-bodiced 
waist  and  multi-colored  head  shawl  of  the  middle  class  girl 
of  thai  period,  she  seemed  a  vision  of  loveliness  to  the  dazzled 
Yankel.  It  was  not  so  much  beauty  of  feature  as  an  unusual 
flashing  air  of  independence  that  captivated  him.  lie  made 
inquiries  and  learned  that  she  was  by  name  Alte.  daughter  of 
one  Ben-Yomin,  a  shoemaker. 

Time  and  courtship  sped  by  quickly.  Within  four 
months  there  was  a  great  commotion  in  the  home  of  Hen- 
Ybmen.  In  one  room  a  white-gowned  .Alte  sat  on  an  inverted 
wash  tul).  All  the  married  women  in  the  village  were  combing 
and  braiding  her  hair.  Then  Other  people  entered  and  each 
one  undid  a  little  of  the  "tzop"  or  braid.  Alia!  At  last  the 
secrel  was  out!  This  could  mean  nothing  other  than  a  wed- 
ding. 

And  true  enough,  for  there  in  the  next  room  rose  the 
"chupeh"  or  wedding  canopy.  At  the  other  side  of  the  room 
stood  ;i  dazed,  beatific  Yankel.  In  his  blissful  ecstacy,  his  one 
wonder  was  thai  souk  "bocher"  had  not  snatched  his  treasure 
up  long  ago.    Then,  amid  a  maze  of  happiness,  he  was  wed. 

Before  many  months  had  passed  poor  Yankel  under- 
stood why  this  wife  of  his  had  not  heen  beSOUghl  by  the  vil- 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  37 

lage  benedicts.  For  she  was  known  as  "Alte  de  Mook"- 
"Alte  the  Vixen."  She  was  a  shrew  of  first  water.  All  day 
long  she  nagged  and  nagged.  It  was  "Yankel,  be  careful, 
don't  soil  my  clean  sanded  floor,"  "Yankel,  go  to  the  porotz 
for  this,"  "Yankel,  von  made  a  mess  of  that  last  business 
deal,"  "Yankel"  this/and  "Yankel"  that. 

Poor  Yankel  awoke  from  his  rosy  dream.  Then  he  de- 
termined to  declare  himself  master.  After  all,  was  he  not 
the  Angel  of  Death?  Surely  he  could  control  a  mere  mortal 
shrew.  At  first  her  husband's  unexpected  stand  silenced  Alte, 
but  not  for  long.  It  was  impossible  to  quell  her  and  she  soon 
wore  down  his  resistance.  And  so.  year  after  year,  her  inces- 
sant nagging  continued  until  he  could  endure  no  more.  He 
decided  to  return  to  heaven. 

Now  the  reason  he  had  not  returned  long  before  was  his 
love — not  for  his  wife,  but  for  his  son  Mosche.  He  had  hated 
to  leave  the  youngster  to  fight  his  way  in  the  world  unaided. 
But  now  the  boy  was  nineteen  and,  with  his  father's  help,  old 
enough  to  make  his  way  in  the  world.  Therefore  the  angel 
summoned  his  son  to  him,  revealed  his  true  self,  and  added, 
"I  am  not  leaving  you  without  the  means  of  livelihood,  so 
listen  carefully  to  me.  You  must  become  a  doctor.  Yes,  yes, 
I  know  you  have  never  studied  medicine", — as  the  astounded 
boy  tried  to  interrupt — "but  that  will  not  matter.  If,  when 
you  enter  a  sick  room,  you  see  me  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
patient's  bed,  you  will  know  that  the  patient  will  live.  You 
may  reassure  his  family  and  prescribe  anything  you  wish— 
the  patient  will  recover.  But  should  I  be  standing  at  the 
patient's  head,  then  it  will  be  useless  to  try  remedies.  Say  at 
once  nothing  can  be  done  and  predict  death.  And  now,  my 
son,  one  last  farewell."— and  with  the  joyful  thought  of  his 
renewed  bachelordom  the  Angel  of  Death  soared  to  the  king- 
ly realms  above. 

The  years  passed,  as  years  do  pass.  To  the  Angel  of 
Death,  his  experience  on  the  earth  had  become  a  vague,  un- 
pleasant dream;  the  only  reminder  of  it  was  his  frequent 
meetings  with  his  son.  Alte  in  the  meantime  had  become  a 
scolding,  chattering,  sharp-faced  old  woman  cared  for  by 
her  son. 

As  for  Mosche — ah,  his  was  now  a  name  renowned 
throughout  the  Russian  kingdom.  His  fame  had  grown  from 
a  mere  whisper  of  a  man  who  never  failed  in  his  diagnoses,  to 


M  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

a  thundering  acclaim  as  one  of  the  greatest  doctors  in  Eu- 
rope. 1  f  he  said.  "Madam,  your  son  \\  ill  recover,"  the  mother 
would  cease  worrying,  no  matter  what  others  might  say.  Hut 
if  he  said  the  patient  was  doomed . 

However,  his  profession  did  not  occupy  all  his  thoughts. 
Hopeless  love  also  possessed  him.  For  at  a  brilliant  court 
function  he  had  met  and  lost  his  heart  to  the  youngest  daugh- 
ter of  the  Czar!  Moreover,  he  had  reason  to  believe  that  he. 
too.  had  found  favor  in  her  eyes.  Hut  realizing  the  emptiness 
of  his  aspirations,  he  had  never  breathed  a  word  of  his  affec- 
tions. 

One  night  as  he  was  attending  a  medical  case  in  Riga, 
he  received  an  urgent  summons  to  the  imperial  palace  in 
.Moscow.  The  czar's  youngest  daughter  was  dying,  all  other 
physicians  had  given  up  hope,  and  the  czar  was  frantic  in  his 
grief.  With  the  utmost  haste  Mosche  set  forth.  1 1  is  mind  was 
consumed  with  terrible  anxiety.  Where  would  his  father  he 
Standing?  I  f  at  the  foot,  then  all  would  he  well  and  good.  Hut 
what  if  he  should  he  standing  at  the  head!  He  turned  cold 
with  the  horror  of  the  thought.  No!  It  could  not  be  that  she 
would  die!  Why,  ten  days  ago  she  had  been  so  blooming,  so 
full  of  life.  If  at  the  foot,  then  all  well  and  good.  Hut  what 
if  he  should  he  standing  at  the  head.  Again  and  again  the  hor- 
rible thought  throbbed  through  his  brain  suppose  his  father 
were  standing  at  her  head,  suppose  his  father  were  standing 
it  her  head,  suppose  his  father      thus  passed  the  journey. 

In  the  lower  hall  of  the  palace  he  came  face  to  face  with 
(he  czar  himself,  who  with  tears  streaming  down  his  usually 
dignified  face.  said.  "My  boy.  if  you  will  only  save  her  I  will 
grant  vou  anything  you  ask  even  my  daughter  herself!" 
With  this  astounding  promise  he  rushed  him  to  the  princess1 

room.  As  .Mosche  crossed  the  threshold  he  closed  his  eyes. 
How  could  he  look?  Hut  he  must  face  the  situation.  With 
a  start  h<  opened  his  eyes.  1 1  is  worst  fears  were  confirmed! 
There  at  the  head  of  the  richly  canopied  bed  stood  the  Angel 

of  Death,  grim  and  Foreboding! 

For  one  endless  moment    Mosche  remained  motionless; 

then  he  shook  oil'  the  paralysis  which  had  seized  him.  There 

must    still    be  a   way    to  save  her!   Agitatedly   he  cleared   the 

room  of  bystanders.      He  must  work  quickly      it  was  evident 

she  w.ms  sinking  fast.  At  last  he  turned  and  faced  his  father. 
"Father,  won't  you  go  away?  For  my  sake,  father.  1  beg  of 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  39 

you."  For  many  precious  minutes  he  pleaded  in  an  agony  of 
anxiety,  but  the  angel  only  shook  his  head  inexorably.  "I'm 
sorry,  but  I  must  do  my  duty." 

Mosche  fell  back,  hopelessly  despondent.  Then — no,  he 
wouldn't  let  her  die;  he  wouldn't.  He  rushed  forward  shout- 
ing, "Father,  you  must  go  away.  I'll  make  you—  "  and  then 
the  inspiration  came  to  him. 

"For  the  last  time,  will  you  leave?"  he  asked  excitedly. 
The  princess  was  almost  dead.  "You  won't,  eh?  Well  then, 
I'll  bring  my  mother!  Do  you  remember?"  The  Angel  of 
Death  seemed  to  shrivel — gone  were  his  majesty,  his  proud 
and  kingly  bearing.  He  was  about  to  collapse;  he  thought  he 
heard  a  shrill  voice  cry,  "Yankel!" 

Then  he  gathered  his  waning  strength  and  with  one 
mighty  bound  was  gone,  just  before  the  last  breath  of  life  was 
about  to  leave  the  princess. 

As  you  may  know,  the  princess  recovered  and  married 
Mosche,  who  at  once  gave  up  the  medical  profession.  As  the 
princess  was  in  no  way  like  her  mother-in-law,  their  wedded 
life  was  long  and  happy. 

As  for  Alte,  it  is  known  that  she  lived  to  an  astounding 
old  age — just  as  if,  her  neighbors  used  to  say,  even  the  Angel 
of  Death  didn't  want  her  and  deferred  her  coming  as  long  as 
he  possibly  could. 


40 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


r 


BOOK  REVIEWS 


1 


KEATS'S  SHAKESPEARE 

Caroline  F.  K.  Spurgeon       Oxford  University  Press  1928 

Week-end  visits  in  the  country  are  in  general  somewhat 
similar.  We  ask  of  them  entertainment  merely.  In  the  dis- 
cos ery  of  a  startling,  fine-cut  lace,  or  an  unexpected  attitude 
of  mind  we  are  fortunate  beyond  calculation.  Probably  .Miss 
Spurgeon's  hopes  were  not  more  extravagant  on  the  day  she 
lef1  New  York  City  last  ( October;  certainly  she  had  no  presen- 
timent of  that  conversation  with  another  guest  which  led  to 
one  of  the  most  important  discoveries  in  the  literary  field  for 
many  years.  As  .Miss  Spurgeon  describes  it.  this  guest, 
"hearing  thai  I  was  interested  in  such  things,  asked  me  rather 
tentatively  whether  I  would  care  to  look  at  a  copy  of  Shake- 
speare which  had  some  marks  in  it  by  Keats,  and  which  be- 
longed lo  a  friend  of  hers  who  lived  at  Princeton."  And  so  it 
was  by  chance  thai  Miss  Spurgeon  heard  of  the  existence  in 
M  r.  ( Seorge  Armour's  library  of  those  hooks  of  Keat s's  which 
had  urown  into  the  fibre  of  his  life,  which  in  a  sense  were  his 
.is  were  no  others  that  he  owned.  Keats's  own  Shakespeare. 
s<  \<  ii  rather  shabby  .  .  .  stocky  .  .  .  and  attractive  little  vol- 
umes," stood  quietly  on  these  shelves  lor  nearly  fifty  years, 
unknown  even  to  so  expert  a  critic  as  Buxton  Forman,  unex- 
.imii i'  d  i  \  (  ii  by  Amy  I  *owell.  The  pen  markings  make  lumin- 
ous th<  mind  of  Keats,  approaching,  pondering,  sometimes 
closing  with  that  greater  mind:  they  show  his  eyes  turned 
"upon  iin<  phrases  like  a  lover."  It  is  the  revelation  of  an 
intimate  Keats,  living  in  and  by  Shakespeare.  Miss  Spur- 
geon found  him  in  these  hooks,  and  through  her  essay  makes 
it   possible  lor  lis  to  find  him. 

Irrespective  "l  the  quantity  of  Keat's  remarks  on  his 
reading  which  are  printed  and  discussed  in  his  biographies, 
something  of  ih<   movement  of  his  thought  is  lost  among  the 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  41 

conventional  letters  of  type.  Caroline  Spurgeon  avoids  this 
by  including  twenty  plates,  facsimiles  of  the  pages  which  he 
marked  with  the  sharpest  interest.  One  can  almost  look  over 
his  shoulder  and  see  the  pen  move.  A  deeper  intimacy  with 
him  begins  to  grow.  It  is  a  closeness  in  mind  like  that  sym- 
pathy of  feeling  which  comes  from  reading  his  letters.  We 
realize  not  only  by  the  profuse  underlining  but  by  the  ap- 
pearance and.  Miss  Spurgeon  says,  by  the  texture  of  the 
pages,  which  plays  he  most  frequently  read.  Some  of  the 
plates  have  been  handled  with  such  care  that  the  dark  surface 
of  the  margin,  worn  by  his  thumb,  is  still  visible.  The  Temp- 
est, ./  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  Romeo  and  Juliet  follow- 
through  1817—1818,  The  Tempest  especially  influencing  the 
writing  of  Endymion.  The  plays  serve  as  a  kind  of  barometer 
of  mental  temper  throughout  his  life.  He  underscored  heavily 
the  passages  which  pleased  him  in  their  imaginative  quality; 
usually  he  drew  down  the  margin  beside  lines  whose  meaning 
seemed  particularly  cogent.  The  impression  of  a  respectful 
familiarity  with  his  mental  reactions  is  so  strong  that  one 
reads  the  plays  Miss  Spurgeon  reproduces  at  the  end  of  the 
volume,  anticipating  his  pleasure,  thinking  that  two  pages 
ahead  there  is  a  phrase  which  Keats  is  going  to  like! 

Together  with  this  fuller  appreciation  of  his  sensitive- 
ness to  literary  expression,  admiration  for  Keats  as  a  semi- 
professional  critic  increases  through  reading  the  markings 
in  his  own  hand.  His  articles  on  Kean  define  Keats's  ability 
regarding  the  drama  in  general,  and  Shakespeare  especially. 
He  reasserts  the  claim  forcibly  in  the  notes  he  writes  in  the 
'Princeton  copy',  as  the  books  in  Mr.  Armour's  library  have 
been  called.  In  The  Tempest  and  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  he  suggests  two  valuable  emendations  to  the  text.  In 
this  somewhat  formal  aspect  his  criticism  is  more  than  worthy. 
Even  when  he  is  laughing  shamelessly  at  Doctor  Johnson's 
stolid  appraisals  which  are  appended  in  his  edition  to  each 
play,  Keats  strikes  at  the  center  of  the  question  raised.  Once 
again  one  is  impressed  by  his  perfect  poise  of  mind, — and  his 
sense  of  humor.  Through  Johnson's  paragraph  at  the  end  of 
All's  Well  Keats  draws  whirling  circles,  and  with  apt  malice 
quotes  "Wilt  thou  ever  be  a  foul-mouthed,  calumnising  (sic) 
knave?" 

When  Cowden  Clarke  read  aloud  to  him  after  school 
hours  at  Enfield,  Keats  began  his  discovery  of  Shakespeare. 


42  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

As   Keats  grew  the  association  grew  in  vital  significance, 

spreading  and  deepening.  In  1817  the  first  book  he  unboxed 
on  the  damp,  solitary,  and  portentous  journey  to  the  Isle  of 
Wighl  was  "a  Shakespeare     'there's  my  comfort1  ".  In  1820. 

the  last  year  of  bis  creative  life,  be  wrote  to  Fanny  Brawne, 

"My  greatest  torment  since  1  have  known  you  has  been  the 
tear  of  your  being  a  little  inclined  to  the  Cresseid."  'This  de- 
veloping relation  of  bis  personality  with  Shakespeare's  is  the 
study  of  .Mr.  J.  Middleton  Murry's  recent  book  (Keats  and 
Shakevpean  Oxford  1924).  It  is  bis  belief,  not  only  thai 
Keats  was  more  like  Shakespeare  than  any  other  English 
poet,  but  further  that  it  was  inevitable  that  Keats  should 
accept  finally  no  other  guide,  should  stand  close  to  no  other 
poet.  It  is  a  brilliant  piece  of  critical  insight.  The  amazing 
part  of  it  is  that  aside  from  the  letters,  be  bad  as  basis  only 
Keats's  markings  of  the  folio  edition,  in  which  he  read  very 
few  plays.  Quite  aside  from  its  intrinsic  importance,  Keats's 
Shakespeare  is  interesting  in  that  it  sustains  and  amplifies 
M  p.  M  urry's  book. 

It  is  necessary  to  insist  upon  this  connection  in  justice  to 
.Miss  Spurgeon.  With  all  the  unpublished  material  before 
her  eyes,  with  Keats's  own  Shakespeare  in  her  hands,  she  was 
still  closely  limited.  Interpretation  had  been  put  upon  the 
material  before  the  materia]  itself  was  found.  Earlier  biogra- 
phers bad  suggested  the  influence  of  Shakespeare  on  Keats. 
Mr.  Murray  had  treated  it  definitively.  Miss  Spurgeon  docs 
with  scholarly  care  what  remained  for  her  to  do.  Essentially 
this  consists  in  making  the  material  of  these  books  available  to 
all  students  of  Keats.  Without  a  thesis  to  develop,  she  merely 
describes  or  reproduces  their  content  in  part,  presenting  "an 
authentic  record  of  the  study  and  the  love  of  our  greatest 
poel  by  one  whom  many  today  place  nearest  him."  She  re- 
cognizes Keats's  attitude  towards  Shakespeare  with  fine  un- 
derstanding, relating  the  plays  to  his  life  and  poetry  as  did 
Keats  himself.  Because  of  Mr.  Murry's  book,  proof  and  con- 
troversial discussion  were  unnecessary.  She  writes  with  ease, 
lucidly,  sometimes  with  a  simple  eloquence.  There  is  no  em- 
broidery, very  little  decoration  of  the  essential  substance. 
The  materia]  of  her  tremendous  discovery  is  presented  with  a 

\  U  \\  to  sijbst;iiit  ia1  ing  the  work  of  other  scholars,  or  to  facili- 
tating that  which  will  follow.  She  might  say  with  Amy 
Lowell, 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  48 

"You  marked  it  with  light  pencil  upon  a  printed 

page, 
Thus,  with  denoting  finger,  you  make  of  yourself 

an  escutcheon  to  guide  me  to  that  in  you  which 

is  its  essence. 
But  for  the  rest, 

The  part  which  most  persists  and  is  remembered, 
I  only  know  I  compass  it  in  loving  and  neither  have, 

nor  need,  a  symbol." 

S.  S.  S. 


THE  DESERT  ROAD  TO  TURKESTAN 

Owen  Lattimore  Little,  Brown  and  Company  1929 

An  Atlantic  Month! //  Press  Publication 

A  simple  experiment  may  be  performed  to  illustrate  one 
of  the  perils  to  which  writers,  especially  those  dealing  with 
territory  to  the  East  of  the  Caspian  Sea,  are  exposed.  The 
subject,  who  should  possess  average  sensibilities  and  no  more 
than  the  conventional  literary  and  historical  equipment,  is 
seated  in  a  comfortable  chair;  the  experimenter  then  declaims 
a  series  of  words  such  as  "sarong",  "topaz",  "Samarkand", 
"Taj  Mahal",  "sandalwood",  "monsoon",  "musk".  The  re- 
actions of  the  subject  are  plainly  visible  to  the  most  unskilled 
observer;  their  intensity,  considering  the  simple  nature  of 
the  stimulus,  is  remarkable,  and  the  lack  of  discrimination 
therein  displayed  is  no  less  noteworthy.  Possibly  the  patient 
is  dimly  aware  that  these  words  differ  in  the  categories  of 
human  knowledge  to  which  they  refer,  and  even  in  geographi- 
cal distribution;  but  to  most  of  them  he  responds  with  hearty 
impartiality.  The  danger  here  is  obvious.  Finding  that  a  few 
unconnected  words,  together  with  the  opalescent  fog  that 
seems  to  emanate  from  them,  have  such  power,  the  writer  is 
tempted  to  shift  onto  them  the  burden  of  his  task  of  interest- 
ing and  amusing  the  reader. 

Mr.  Lattimore  has  not  escaped  the  temptation.  Proper 
names  like  Ku  Ch'eng-tze  are  not  as  effective  for  purposes  of 
reading  aloud  as  are  the  place-names  of  Western  Asia;  but 
when  craftily  scattered  over  a  page  they  lead  the  eye  smooth- 
ly along,  while  what  one  likes  to  call  one's  critical  faculties 
are  lulled,  by  a  wholly  unfounded  sense  of  unity  with  foreign 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  45 

lands  and  strange  races,  into  a  delicious  somnolence.  Mr. 
JLattimore  has  also,  in  the  manner  of  a  nervous  orator  who 
fears  the  roving  eye  and  shuffling  goloshes  of  a  bored  audi- 
ence, fallen  back  on  a  common  fallacy  about  the  invariable 
comicality  of  lice.  Social  Service  workers  and  even  tourists  in 
Italy, — as  well  as  the  patrons  of  the  motion  picture — are  by 
this  time  aware  that,  as  far  as  a  large  proportion  of  the 
earth's  population  is  concerned,  lice  are  of  fairly  frequent 
occurrence;  that  they  are  undesirable  as  close  acquaintances, 
multiply  rapidly,  and  when  crushed  emit  a  slight  pop  and 
a  faintly  disagreeable  odor.  Also  that  man  even  in  a  state 
of  comparative  civilization  is  not  fond  of  bathing.  But  in  Mr. 
Lattimore's  estimation  these  indisputable  phenomena  appar- 
ently retain  all  the  charm  of  novelty;  and  they  are  trotted 
out  faithfully  at  every  opportunity. 

The  most  deplorable  feature  of  these  defects  is  that  they 
arise,  apparently,  more  from  Mr.  Lattimore's  appraisal  of 
his  audience  than  from  his  own  inclinations.  The  continuity, 
the  complex  unity  of  history  is  his  basic  theme — one  which 
through  all  variations  played  on  it  has  never  become  trite. 
His  journey  from  Pekin  to  Urinehi  and  beyond  was  underta- 
ken, he  says,  "in  a  longing  to  travel  the  caravan  ways  in  the 
old  manner  of  caravans,  because  I  had  a  glimpse  of  what 
they  meant — a  survival  from  the  past  but  more  than  that: 
one  of  the  sources  or  headwaters  of  our  life  as  it  is."  Possessed 
of  wide  experience  and  study  in  inner  China,  knowledge  of 
the  discoveries  of  other  travelers,  and  familiarity  with  the 
language,  he  went  not  as  the  officially- fostered  Competent 
Traveler,  with  an  eye  to  the  Picturesque  and  the  Quaint, 
but  as  a  sharer  of  the  trials  and  dangers  of  the  camel- pullers 
themselves,  accepted  by  them  as  "an  understandable  person 
of  their  own  type."  The  combination  of  this  attitude  with  an 
unfortunate  fancy  in  regard  to  the  reading  public  has  led  to 
a  series  of  irrelevant  interpolations  in  Avhat  might  have  been 
a  fine  study  of  existing  conditions. 

The  result  is  a  disconcertingly  uneven  book.  After  pages 
of  fresh  and  vivid  description  come  phrases  like  "the  clangor 
of  their  bells  pulsing  through  the  pastel  evening"  which  might 
have  been  created  by  any  twelve  year  old  in  the  throes  of  her 
first  romance  about  the  Arab  chieftain  and  his  maiden  fail*. 
At  intervals  throughout  a  detailed  and  interesting  chapter  on 
camels  and  the  traditions  of  the  road,  the  author  feels  it  neces- 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  47 

sary  to  refer  to  the  tact  thai  "the  stink  is  thrice  wonderful  and 
past  all  whooping."  At  the  conclusion  of  a  serious  discussion 
of  the  economic  disorder  of  China  lie  smirks  self-consciously: 
"and  as  1  thought  all  these  high  thoughts,  I  scratched  my- 
self— ."  In  the  midst  of  his  most  facetious  curvetings  he 
suddenly  pauses  to  remark,  with  no  transition  whatsoever, 
"He  fixes  its  position  at  40°  43'  9"  north  and  106°  0'  0" 
east.  .  .  he  reached  it  on  his  thirteenth  march  from  Wang-yeh 
Fu  in  roughly  a  straight  line  and  describes  it  as  4352  feet 
above  sea  level.  He  then  crossed  the  Hurku  hills  and  the 
Kuei-hua-Uliassutai  road  on  his  way  to  Urga,  which  he 
reached  on  September  17.  Thus  Bain-tuhum  would  be 
roughly  a  third  of  the  way  between  Waii-yeh  Fu  and  Urga." 
And  these  digressions  into  the  fine  points  of  geography  are  in 
turn  thickly  interlarded  with  passages  of  sheer  Halliburton. 

Mr.  Lattimore  had  here,  both  in  his  general  theme  and  in 
his  specific  knowledge  and  experience,  a  meaty  subject.  But 
in  his  consideration  for  the  delicate  digestion  of  his  readers 
he  has  chopped  the  good  red  beef  so  fine  as  Aery  nearly  to 
disguise  it,  and  mixed  it  with  an  assortment  of  cabbages  and 
pungent  but  not  very  nourishing  condiments.  The  resulting 
stew  is  tasty  and  high- flavored.  But  it  seems  nevertheless 
somewhat  thin ;  one's  sensations  on  completing  it  are  not  those 
of  entire  satisfaction;  and  one  suspects  that  it  is  the  taste  of 
the  garlic  that  will  linger  most  persistently. 

E.  P. 


BOSTON 
A  CONTEMPORARY  HISTORICAL  NOVEL 

Upton  Sinclair  Albert  and  Charles  Boni,  1928. 

Upton  Sinclair  calls  his  recently  published  "Boston" — 
"a  contemporary  historical  novel."  Such  a  phrase  is,  from  its 
very  associations,  unfortunate,  for  we  are  inevitably  re- 
minded of  all  the  great  historical  novels  of  the  past — the 
brilliant  canvases  of  Scott  or  Dickens.  Perhaps,  however,  the 
use  of  "contemporary"  saves  it  from  too  odious  a  comparison. 
As  a  tragedy,  also,  the  novel  suffers.  Mr.  Sinclair  is  not  con- 
tent to  follow  in  the  steps  of  Sophocles — to  choose  one  aspect 
from  a  well-known  story.  On  the  other  hand,  he  must  tell 
the  story  of  Sacco  and  Vanzetti  from  beginning  to  end.  The 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  49 

resulting  novel,  therefore,  was  too  long-  to  be  published  in 
"The  Bookman9'  in  its  entirety  as  first  planned.  The  con- 
cluding chapters,  we  learn,  were  issued  in  a  separate  pam- 
phlet for  the  benefit  of  interested  readers;  and  the  book, 
when  published,  filled  two  volumes. 

In  any  novel,  however,  historical  or  otherwise,  we  de- 
mand that  the  characters  live.  Mr.  Sinclair  chooses  Back  Bay 
inhabitants  as  the  objects  of  his  satire.  He  sends  little  old 
Cornelia  Thorn  well,  wife  of  a  former  governor  of  Massachu- 
setts, down  to  Plymouth  to  be  fellow  boarder  of  Bartolomeo 
Vanzetti.  Consequently,  she  turns  Radical,  and  arouses  the 
antagonism  of  her  Back  Bay  family  when  she  sides  with 
Sacco  and  Vanzetti  throughout  their  trial.  She,  as  well  as 
the  other  characters,  are  mere  puppets  in  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Sinclair.  When  he  jerks  the  string  they  move — with  very 
wooden  gestures.  For  this  reason,  they  serve  as  foils  to  Mr. 
Sinclair's  main  thesis,  which  is  to  justify  Sacco  and  Van- 
zetti and  the  eyes  of  the  world. 

As  propaganda  Upton  Sinclair's  book  is  admirable.  If 
we  are  not  already  converted  to  the  cause,  so  to  speak, 
we  are  soon  won  over  by  endless  repetition — monotony.  It 
is  like  the  drone  of  the  law  court  that  he  so  despises,  and  we 
are  tempted  to  suggest  that  a  law  report  would  have  been 
more  successful  under  Mr.  Sinclair's  handling  than  a  novel. 

But  then,  the  book  is  saved  from  utter  mediocrity  by  a 
number  of  clever  and  epigramatic  witticisms.  Then,  too,  Up- 
ton Sinclair's  daringly  flippant  treatment  of  men  in  high 
places,  as  well  as  his  audacious  satire  of  the  country  as  a 
whole,  make  his  book  in  that  sense  memorable.  Yet,  even 
details  of  this  order  do  not  save  "Boston  "  because,  in  general, 
the  style  is  too  monotonous,  the  canvas  too  unlighted  to  hold 
our  interest.  Indeed,  we  may  venture  to  say  that — as  a  novel, 
Boston  is  nothing — as  an  historical  novel,  less  than  nothing, 
while  as  propaganda,  it  is  excellent. 

Barbara  Damon  Simison. 


THE  WELL  OF  LOXELIXESS 
Radclyffe  Halj.  Covici-Friede.  New  York  1928 

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The  Smith  College  Monthly  51 

A  problem  that  has  long  puzzled  mankind  is  that  of 

the  standards  by  which  a  work  of  art  should  be  judged,  and 
particularly  now  when  standards  are  confused  or  dispensed 
with  altogether,  the  question  becomes  of  overwhelming  im- 
portance. 

"Art  is  unmoral,"  cry  the  supporters  of  one  school,  'lis 
function  is  neither  to  instruct,  uplift  or  chastise.  Art  is  its 
own  excuse  for  being."  On  the  other  hand  there  are  those 
critics  who  say  that  art  should  be  a  moral  and  spiritual  influ- 
ence towards  divorcing  man  from  his  baser  passions.  It  is 
not  our  purpose  to  argue  the  respective  merits  of  these  points 
of  view  but  it  is  our  desire  to  point  out  the  unfortunate  re- 
sults of  mingling  the  two. 

A  book,  The  Well  of  Loneliness,  by  Radclyffe  Hall, 
banned  in  Xew  York  last  week,  was  also  suppressed  in  Eng- 
land. The  book,  as  every  newspaper-reading  person  in  the 
world  must  by  this  time  know,  discusses  a  problem  of  sexual 
inversion  in  a  manner  which  appeared  to  certain  authorities 
unnecessary  and  unpleasant,  leading  them  to  take  action 
against  it.  Following  the  news  of  its  suppression  in  Eng- 
land the  book  received  great  notoriety,  promptly  succeeded 
by  its  appearance,  disappearance  and  wide  fame  in  this  coun- 
try. We  need  not  repeat  the  praise  that  has  been  lavished 
on  it  by  its  supporters,  nor  the  blame  cast  by  its  detractors, 
we  are  concerned  with  the  question  of  whether  or  not.  artist- 
ically, it  is  a  valid  piece  of  writing. 

Considering  Tlie  Well  of  Loneliness,  as  a  work  of 
art,  then,  the  book  is  unsuccessful.  It  is  written  in  an  incred- 
ible style  that  belongs  with  three-decker  novels  and  the  Vic- 
torians. The  ponderous  solemnity  of  the  innumerable  pages 
creates  a  breathlessness  in  the  reader.  There  are  a  few 
touches  of  pathos,  whimsy,  or  what  you  will,  in  the  beautifully 
English,  sentimental  treatment  of  animals.  The  favorite 
horse  shot  on  the  spot  where  he  was  first  mounted,  the  adop- 
tion of  a  stray  dog  in  Paris,  these  conventional  bits  of  comic 
relief  lumber  so  obviously  into  the  story  that  the  pages  of  a 
childhood  classic,  where  the  villain  is  redeemed  by  <i'ivin<>' 
sugar  to  the  garbage  man's  horse,  Hash  before  the  eyes.  Ex- 
cept for  these  elephant-like  touches  of  humor  the  book  plods 
steadily  and  drearily  along.  As  a  book  it  has  no  excuse  for 
being,  as  a  sociological  study  of  a  case  it  need  only  have  occu- 
pied a  quarter  as  many  pages.     Written  undoubtedly  with  a 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  53 

great  deal  of  sincerity  and  feeling,  it  provides  a  perfect  ex- 
ample of  the  statement  that  sincerity  and  a  photographic  at- 
tention to  details  are  not  enough,  there  must  be  something 
more  to  make  ''roots  clutch"  and  "branches  grow  out  of  this 
stony  rubbish." 

Compton  Mackenzie  in  a  recently  published  book  used 
a  very  different  method  of  attack.  His  characters  gamboled 
through  three  hundred  pages  of  the  most  fantastic  idiocy 
and  fairly  amusing  silliness.  No  serious  moral  problem  is 
discussed,  there  are  no  solemnities,  and  despite  the  rather1 
repetitious  quality  of  its  levity  the  book  is  fairly  successful, 
in  a  thoroughly  slight  and  frivolous  way.  That  a  competent 
and  able  author  should  waste  his  time  on  such  a  futile  book 
seems  far  more  extraordinary  than  his  women. 

Proust,  on  the  other  hand  has  pictured  M.  de  Charlus 
and  Albertine  with  a  keen  insight,  and  a  complete  lack  of 
sentimentality,  with  an  intellectual  honesty  and  a  detached 
impartiality,  besides  which  the  dreary  Stephen,  two-dimen- 
sional and  unconvincing,  can  take  no  stand.  Proust  makes 
no  attempt  at  justification,  at  preaching  a  theory.  He  states 
a  fact,  explains  causes  and  consequences,  analyzes  the 
farthest  depths  of  human  consciousness  with  that  delicate  in- 
strument, his  pen,  and  when  by  means  of  the  casual  phrase 
or  gesture  of  a  character  he  has  through  twenty  pages  laid 
bare  that  character's  soul,  Proust  neither  praises,  blames 
nor  accuses. 

Miss  Hall's  book,  however,  has  a  good  deal  of  the  tract 
in  its  substance.  It  attempts  to  prove  the  rightness  of  a 
stand  against  the  world,  and  for  that  reason  it  cannot  be 
completely  honest  and  accurate,  it  must  be  prejudiced  and 
over-emphasized.  Lacking  in  all  capacity  for  suggestion, 
the  details  are  generally  given  a  neat  twist  by  the  use  of  a 
generalization  or  cliche. 

If  we  have  treated  the  book  harshly  it  is  because  the 
confusion  of  two  standards  of  criticism  has  been  so  very  ap- 
parent. To  ban  "The  Well  of  Loneliness"  for  its  subject 
matter  is  an  insult  to  intelligent  minds,  it  should  have  been 
banned  long  ago  for  sheer  bad  style  and  stupidity.  There 
is  as  much  of  a  fallacy  in  calling  it  a  bad  book,  from  the  point 
of  view  of  morals,  because  of  its  subject,  as  there  would  be 
in  calling  it  a  good  book,  from  the  point  of  view  of  art.  be- 
cause of  its  suppression.  Lei  its  dismissal  be  that  it  is  boring. 


5  I  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

( Granted  thai  it  is  boring,  why  make  all  this  fuss  about 
it  then?"  some  reader  may  ask.  and  it  is  a  fair  question.  Cen- 
sorship gi\  <  s  a  look  presl  ige  <»f  a  sort,  and  usually  a  wide,  it' 
underground,  circulation.  In  an  institution  of  learning,  of 
course,  we  do  not  expect  intelligent  and  educated  readers  to 
be  tempted  by  the  juiciness  of  Forbidden  fruit  without  noting 
the  rottenness  of  its  skin.  We  write  this  for  that  misguided 
minority,  however,  which,  dazzled  by  the  censor's  magic,  eag- 
<  rl\  swallows  down  all  tasteless  pap  that  publishers  dish  up. 
salted  wit  1 1  the  appreciation  of  intelligent  reviewers,  pep- 
pered with  the  damnation  of  the  Old  Lady  From  Dubuque. 

P.  S.  F. 


r^ 


'No  excess  weight, 

my  answer  is  ~Iju$t  smoke 

alucky" 

>J  George  Gershwin 
Noted  Composer 


"When  people  ask  me  how  I  keep  in  physical 
trim— with  no  excess  weight,  my  answer  is, 
T  just  smoke  a  Lucky  whenever  I  crave 
over-rich  pastries  which  fatten.'  There's 
nothing  to  equal  that  wonderful  flavor, 
so  appetizing  yet  never  interfering,  with 
one' snormal  appetite  for  healthful  foods." 

George  Gershwin 


THE  modern  common  sense  w.i\ 
reach  for  a  Lucky  instead  of  a  fattening 
sweet.  Everyone  is  doing  it.  Men  keep  fit, 
women  retain  a  trim  figure.  Lucky  Strike, 
the  finest  tobaccos,  skilfully  blended, 
then  toasted  to  develop  a  flavor  which  is 
a  delightful  alternative  for  that  craving 
for  fattening  sweets. 

Toasting  frees  Lucky  Strike  from  impur- 
ities. 20,679  physicians  recognize  this 
when  they  say  Luckies  are  less  irritating 
than  other  cigarettes.  That's  why  folks 
savt^It's  good  to  smoke  Luckies." 


%&c 


Authorities  attribute  the  enor- 
mous increase  in  Cigarette 
smoking  to  the  improvement  in 
the  process  of  Cigarette  manufac- 
ture by  the  application  of  heat.  It 
is  true  that  during  the  year  1928, 
Lucky  Strike  Cigarettes  showed  a 
greater  increase  than  all  other  Cig- 
arettes combined.  This  surely  con- 
firms the  public's  confidence  in  the 
superiority  of  Lucky  Strike. 


"REACH  FOR  A  LUCKY 
INSTEAD  OF  A  SWEET." 

Its  toasted' 

No  Throat  Irritation-No  Cough. 

Coast  to  coast  radio  hook-up  every  Satur- 
day  night  through  (he  National  Broadcast- 
ing  Company's  network.  The  Lucky  Strike 
Dunce  Orchestra  in  "The  Tunes  that  made 
Broadway,  Broadway." 

1929, The  American  TobaccoCo., 
Manufacturers 


SA 


<nn 


M£ 


BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 


Vol.  XXXVII  APRIL.   1929  No.   7 

EDITORIAL  BOARD 

Editor-in-chief,  Elizabeth  Shaw,   1930 

Managing  Editor,   Sallie  S.  Simons.   1930 

Booh  Review  Editor,  Priscilla  S.  Fairchild,  1930 

Elizabeth  Wheeler,   1929  Mary  F.  Chase,  1931 

Patty  H.  Wood.  1930  Elizabeth   Perkins,   1931 

Art  Editor,  Nancy  Wynne  Parker,   1930 

BUSINESS  STAFF 

Business  Manager,  Mary  Sayre,   1930 

Advertising  Manager,  Esther  Tow,  1931 

Circulation  Manager,  Sarah  Pearson,  1931 

Nancy  Dabney,  1930  Eleanor  Mathesius,  1931 

Agnes  Lyall,  1930  Eleanor  Church,  1932 

Mary  Folsom,  1931  Ariel  Davis.  1932 


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

from  October  to  June,  inclusive.    Terms  $2.00  a  year.   Single  copies  25c. 

Subscriptions  may  be  sent  to  Mary  Sayre,  Park  B,  Northampton. 

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  rates  of  postage  provided  for  in 

Section  1203,  Act  of  October  3,  1917.  Authorized  October  31,  1913." 


All  manuscript  should  be  in  the  Monthly  Box  by  the  fifteenth  of  the 
month  to  be  considered  for  the  issue  of  the  following  moyith.  All  manuscript 
should  be  signed  with  the  full  name  of  the  writer. 


96     -     The  best  in  "Drivurselt"  cars     -     96  i 


id 

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Citv  Taxi 

J 

Service 

Draper  Hotel  Building 


Phone  96 

Splendid  New  Cars 
SPEED- 

SERVICE- 
COMFORT- - 
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96  -  Pullman  Busses  for  hire  -  96 


CONTENTS 


Pursuit 

Revenge  Is  Sweet 

No,  I  Can't  Marry  You 

Voices 

Phantom 

Loneliness 

Fear 

The  Dead 

Mars 

Editorial 

Book  Reviews 

The   Bishop  Murder  Case 

The  Amenities  of  Book   Collecting 


Elizabeth  Wheeler 
Elizabeth  Boies 
Patty  Wood 
Lucia   Weimer 
Edith   Stark* 
Edith   St  arks- 
Barbara  Damon   Simison 
Helen   Paul  Kirkpatrick 
Lucia  Weimer 


11 
10 
17 
16 
21 


29 
31 

31 
32 


A    Place   of   Original   Charm 

t&ntfl  Northampton 

Tht  Ottn  Door"         Preserving  Colonial   Beauty  with  Modern  Comfort 

A  Wiwb-  Houl        \I\IX   DINING  ROOM  COFFER   ROOM 

PRIVATE   DINING   ROOMS 
PHONE   3100  125  ROOMS  MOTOR   PLAZA 


Just  Phone 

so 


Wright  &  Ditson  Co. 


Smith  College 
Monthly 


PURSUIT 

Elizabeth  Wheeler 


SHE  old  logging  road,  so  long  forgotten,  was  again 
remembered  by  one  who  had  known  it  well.  Across 
it  the  shadows  of  the  trees  were  pushing  eastward 
when  a  man  came  into  view,  running  swiftly.  He  leapt  over 
the  sodden  ties  from  log  to  log  where  the  logs  still  were,  and 
where  they  were  not,  he  bounded  hastily  in  the  grass.  On 
he  came  with  unchanging  pace,  till  suddenly  his  head  jerked 
up  and  he  ran  faster.  Where  a  dying  silver  birch  leaned 
outward  from  the  oaks  on  his  right  hand  he  turned  aside  and 
ran  with  unfaltering  feet  along  an  invisible  trail.  When  the 
road  behind  him  was  quite  lost  to  view,  he  stopped  and 
leaned  against  a  tree,  listening. 

Amid  the  vast  remoteness  of  the  forest  he  was  a  sinister 
figure.  His  clothes  alone  made  him  that.  They  hung  on 
his  thin  frame  like  the  clothes  on  a  scare-crow,  and  they 
were  gray,  with  horizontal  stripes.  His  hair  was  clipped 
short  all  over  his  head,  giving  him  a  shorn  look  which  in- 
tensified the  grayish  pallor  of  his  face,  such  a  pallor  as 
comes  only  from  living  long  behind  damp  and  dark  stone 
walls.  It  was  a  gaunt  face  with  a  mouth  and  chin  set  in 
determination  and  a  pair  of  hollow  eyes  that  peered  out  with 
a  vacant  intensity,  seeing  nothing.  His  whole  body  was 
strung  taut  with  listening. 

But  the  only  sound  that  came  to  his  ears  was  the  call 
of  a  hermit  thrush.  He  relaxed  suddenly,  and  a  light  broke 
over  his  face.     "God,  it's  good  to  hear  you  again,"  he  said 


6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

softly.  His  eyes  were  seeing  now  with  a  restless  hunger, 
hut  also  they  were  anxious. 

A  few  swift  minutes  passed  while  he  stood  there.  Then 
he  struck  off  into  a  forest  apparently  trackless  and  illimit- 
able. Hut  he  walked  as  one  who  knows  his  destination,  and 
again  la-  picked  out  an  invisible  trail  among  the  trees  and 
crowding  undergrowth.  Dead  leaves  and  twigs  hardly 
crackled  beneath  his  step;  he  knew  the  Indians'  secret,  and 
his  stride  was  rhythmical  and  tireless,  leaving  behind  him  a 
hundred  and  a  thousand  trees.  Before  him  they  climbed  the 
ever-steepening  slope  in  whispering  legions  whose  vanguard 
camped  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  mountains.  Around  him 
reared  their  trunks-  the  smooth  gray  of  beeches,  the  deep- 
furrowed  hark  of  oaks  and  maples,  and  the  ghostly  white  of 
the  lady  of  the  woods— reaching  up  through  the  shadows  to 
the  green  leaves  gilded  by  the  falling  sun.  And  behind  the 
tracery  of  the  leaves  he  could  see  the  sky.  Above  him  and 
around  him  the  horizon  of  his  sight  was  hounded  only  by  the 
limit  of  his  vision;  and  beyond  his  vision  he  felt  that  the 
space  of  trees  and  sky  was  limitless.   . 

The  line  of  his  mouth  relaxed  and  the  anxiety  dwindled 
in  his  eyes.  He  looked  about  him  lingeringly,  as  a  man  re- 
turned from  exile  looks  on  the  remembered  things  of  home. 
The  sun,  slanting  through  the  trees,  was  warm  on  his  hack, 
and  the  fragrance  of  balsam  breathed  securely.  A  chipmunk 
Hashed  across  his  path,  scurried  up  a  tree  and  sat  scolding  at 
him  from  a  high  branch.  "Don'1  you  give  me  away,  you  lit- 
tle devil,"  he  said,  shaking  his  fist,  and  looked  hack  reluctant- 
ly as  he  passed  in  his  swinging  stride. 

The  sun  was  climbing  higher  up  the  trees  and  the  way 
was  growing  steeper.  He  slackened  his  pace  to  case  the 
unaccustomed  thumping  of  his  heart.  Where  an  ancient 
hemlock  had  fallen  in  the  trail  he  stopped  again  to  listen, 
and  was  answered  only  by  the'  myriad  voices  of  the-  woods 
the  whistle  of  a  thrush,  the-  busy  tapping  of  a  flicker,  the'  soft 

pat  of  dropping  pine  needles,  and  the  sound  of  a  hrook  pour- 
ing over  stones.  Around  a  bend  in  the  trail  he-  found  it  and 
knell  lo  drink,  plunging  his  face  in  the  icy  water.  When  he 
rose  again,  it  was  to  breathe  deeply  and  fling  wide-  his  arms. 
Then  his  eyes  caughl  a  vista  through  the  trees.     He  was 

high  on  the  mountain  now.      Below  him  the  forest    fell  away, 

so  dense  thai  the  foliage  made  a  solid  pattern,  the  black  of 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  7 

conifers  interwoven  with  the  light  green  of  the  hardwoods. 
Down  in  the  valley  where  the  forest  stopped,  the  fields 
stretched  away  to  the  mountains  beyond;  but  in  the  midst 
of  the  fields  he  found  what  his  eyes  sought — a  grim  cluster 
of  red  brick  buildings  with  narrow  windows,  narrower  still 
when  you  looked  out  of  them  from  behind  the  gray  walls  of 
a  cell.  He  threw  back  his  head  exultantly  and  then  turned 
his  back  on  the  valley.  A  cold  shadow  crept  up  out  of  it  as 
the  sun's  rim  touched  the  mountain-top  beyond. 

He  sped  on,  his  feet  making  no  sound  in  the  deepening 
silence,  his  eyes  never  missing  the  trail  in  the  waning  light. 
The  world  that  he  had  left  dropped  away  from  him;  only 
the  vast  forest-clad  mountains  lay  before  him,  stretching 
northward  unbroken  to  the  frontier,  eastward  to  the  sea, 
wrapped  in  the  stillness  of  descending  night. 

Suddenly  the  silence  was  rent  with  the  long-drawn  wail 
of  a  siren.  Midway  in  his  stride  he  halted,  and  caught  hold 
of  a  young  sapling;  it  shook  beneath  his  grip.  He  held  his 
breath.  The  sound  rose  out  of  the  valley,  echoing  among 
the  mountains,  filling  the  upper  air  till  the  whole  universe 
was  engulfed  in  it.  Then  it  died  only  to  wail  again,  and  die, 
and  again  it  wailed  and  died  above  him  on  the  rocky  summits. 
His  face  had  gone  gray,  and  his  knees  turned  to  water.  He 
strained  his  eyes  downward  through  the  trees,  but  he  could 
not  see.  In  one  swift  instant  night  had  come  upon  him,  the 
black  night  of  the  forest,  dropping  from  the  mountains  like 
a  cloud,  without  warning  and  without  light. 

Xow  it  is  one  thing  to  find  an  invisible  trail  by  day  with 
high  hope  in  your  heart,  but  quite  another  thing  to  find  it 
by  night  in  an  unlit  dark  with  pursuit  at  your  heels.  Immedi- 
ately he  knew  this,  and  shivered  with  something  other  than 
cold.  But  he  set  his  teeth  and  stepped  resolutely  forward 
with  his  right  hand  outstretched,  groping,  to  guide  him  in 
the  path.  His  left  arm  he  held  crooked  before  his  face  as 
a  shield  against  the  leaves  and  branches  that  brushed  him 
and  snatched  at  him.  The  trees  were  no  longer  numberless 
hosts  advancing  before  him,  league  upon  league,  and  re- 
treating behind  him  as  he  passed;  they  were  become  a  wall 
of  darkness,  moving  nearer,  barring  his  way  with  their  trunks 
and  boughs,  compassing  him  about  with  the  knowledge  of 
their  presence.  At  each  step  they  tore  at  his  clothes  and 
slashed  at  his  hands  and  face;  at  each  step  he  shrank,  expect- 


8  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

ing  them,  but  steadily  plodded  on.  No  longer  his  feet  trod 
silently.  They  tripped  over  roots.  Dead  twigs  snapped 
and  stones  rolled  behind  him. 

He  stopped  to  listen.     A  stone  brought  up  against  a 

tree  far  below  with  a  thud  that  was  magnified  in  the-  silence. 
Hut  after  that,  there  was  no  more  silenee.  A  thousand  small 
noises  travelled  over  the  ground  and  through  the  trees,  rust- 
ling, sliding,  whispering,  crackling.  The  forest  was  moving 
nearer.  The  dark  was  alive  with  sound,  so  that  he  could 
not  hear.  He  strained  his  ears  to  listen;  and  his  eyes  ached 
with  the  intense  effort  to  probe  the  blackness.  Bui  there 
were  no  lights  anywhere  in  the  forest.  Far  above  in  a 
murky  sky  wandered  a  few  burnt-out  stars. 

lie  started  on  his  way  again.  The  woods  were  blacker 
than  before.  The  noises  followed  him.  were  all  about  him, 
creeping  closer.  A  clammy  chill  ran  up  his  spine,  making 
him  jump  sideways  and  face  about,  holding  up  his  arm  to 
ward  oft'  a  blow.  None  fell,  hut  the  chill  remained,  so  that 
now  he  shrank  also  from  what  might  he  behind  him. 

The  way  grew  steeper  and  his  progress  slower.  lie  had 
been  groping  step  by  step,  but  now  he  was  crawling  on  his 
hands  and  knees  over  rock  ledges.  He  did  not  know  where 
the  trail  was.  nor  if  he  had  lost  it.  hut  only  that  he  must  he 
nearing  timber  line.  The  leaves  that  brushed  his  face  had 
given  way  to  the  needled  prongs  of  spruces  that  jabbed  at 
him.  And  the  trees  must  he  getting  shorter  for  an  icy  wind 
chilled  him  as  it  passed.  lie  heard  it  whir  in  the  spruees: 
then  it  roared  in  the  pines  below,  and  rustled  the  leaves  as 
it  swept  down  into  the  valley.  Faintly  and  far-oil'  a  hound 
bayed,  and  his  blood  ran  cold.  Hut  as  the  baying  grew 
louder,  his  reason  told  him  it  was  only  an  owl.  So  he  strug- 
gled on  again. 

He  moved  like  a  snail  now,  for  his  legs  were  leaden 
weights  to  he  dragged  after  a  body  chilled  with  cold,  faint 
with  hunger  and  weariness,  driven  only  by  the  fear  that 
followed  him.  I  lis  knees  smarted  from  the  cuts  of  the  rocks. 
1 1  is  arms  ached  from  the  strain  of  lifting  himself  over  the 
ledges;  and  he  had  to  clench  his  teeth  to  keep  them  from 
chattering.  He  Stopped  often  now.  utterly  spent,  and  lax- 
huddled  among  the  rocks.  Hut  he  could  not  rest,  for  always 
his  nerves  were  tense  with  listening.    I  lis  eyes  throbbed  and 

jerked  like  the  eyes  of  one  in  a  high  lexer.     And  he  was  cold. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  9 

colder  than  he  had  ever  been  even  in  the  damp  of  a  prison 
cell.    But  this  was  the  price  of  his  liberty,  not  yet  won,  so  he 

dragged  himself  on  onee  more.  The  trees  shrank;  he  could 
feel  their  tops  now.  But  the  rocks  were  steeper.  lie  was 
sure  that  an  hour  had  gone  before  he  let  himself  rest  again. 

The  night  was  passing.  The  blackness  faded  to  gray 
and  the  stars  were  snuffed  out.  It  grew  lighter,  but  still  he 
could  see  nothing.  It  was  as  if  the  black  bandage  over  his 
eyes  had  been  exchanged  for  a  gray  veil.  The  dawn  had 
come,  wrapped  in  an  impenetrable  shroud  of  fog.  Out  of  it 
loomed  the  jagged  ramparts  of  the  rocks,  towering  above 
him,  their  battlements  lost  in  the  cloud.  They  were  cold  and 
wet  and  he  was  colder  than  ever,  but  the  summit  was  nearing. 

At  last  he  reached  it  and  fell  panting  in  the  stiff  grass 
between  two  boulders.  His  lungs  felt  near  to  bursting  and 
a  wave  of  faintness  darkened  his  sight.  For  a  moment,  all 
too  short,  he  kneAV  nothing.  Then  he  remembered,  and  sat 
up.  At  a  distance  of  ten  feet  on  all  sides  a  gray  wall  of 
cloud  shut  him  in  like  the  walls  of  a  prison,  and  the  gray 
roof  of  the  cloud  pressed  above  his  head.  He  could  hear  the 
thumping  of  his  heart  and  his  labored  breathing,  but  outside 
there  was  silence,  the  dead  silence  of  oblivion.  The  world 
that  he  had  known  was  lost  to  him,  its  myriad  noises  muffled, 
forest  and  valley  blotted  out,  and  he  was  lost  to  the  world. 
iHe  was  safe  amid  the  fog  as  he  had  not  been  safe  in  the 
dark  of  the  forest.  But  he  was  also  a  captive.  Beyond 
those  intangible  gray  walls  the  mountains  and  the  secret- 
sharing  forest  rolled  away  to  the  frontier  and  to  the  sea. 
But  where?  Which  was  north  and  which  east?  And  which 
the  fateful  way  that  led  back,  crossing  straight  the  serpen- 
tine trail  of  his  flight,  to  the  valley  and  the  prison? 

He  dared  not  leave  the  summit  till  he  knew.  Mean- 
while he  shook  with  cold  and  his  head  swam  with  hunger. 
Furthermore,  he  reflected,  in  the  shelter  of  the  forest  climb- 
ing would  be  easy  now.  It  was  this  that  goaded  him  to  ex- 
olore  the  summit  for  a  sign,  however  dim,  to  point  his  way. 
But  in  his  gropinars  he  stumbled  upon  a  patch  of  mountain 
cranberries,  a  dull  red  carpet  in  the  mist.  He  picked  with 
both  hands.  They  were  hard  and  sour  but  he  ate  greedily 
all  he  could  find.  Yet  still  unrelaxing  he  kept  his  guard, 
listening  for  a  sound  in  the  silence,  watching  for  a  rift  in  the 
cloud. 


10  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

At  length  the  sign  was  given.  For  a  brief  instant  the 
cloud  rolled  hack,  unveiling  the  shadowy  cone  of  a  nearby 
peak.  Hut  it  was  enough.  As  the  fog  pressed  in  upon  him, 
he  started  once  more  upon  his  way.  a  lonely  hut  a  resolute 
figure.  The  gray  striped  clothes  hung  on  his  shivering 
frame,  wet,  soiled  and  torn.  His  hands  were  scratched  and 
blue  with  the  cold,  his  face  haggard  and  weary.  Hut  the 
set  mouth  and  the  steady  eyes  bespoke  an  unshaken  purpose. 
Unfaltering  he  limped  away  over  the  rocks.  The  mist  en- 
gulfed him.  and  presently  he  was  received  into  the  forest 
whose  seen  t  trails  were  the  warders  of  his  fate. 


NO,  1  CAN'T  MARRY  YOU 

Patty  Wood 


Bright  in  the  morning, 

Quaint  at  afternoon — 
()  I  am  certain-sure 

Of  what  will  he  your  tune. 

Charming  in  the  evening, 
Sweet    (ah  sweet!)   at  night, 
'Tis  pleasing  music,  yes. 
For  something  rather  light. 

Hut     mornings  full  of  brightness, 
A  fternoons  nil  quaint 

i  You  said  yourself  mine  wasn't 
The  patience  of  a  saint) 

Every  evening  charming, 
Night  upon  sweet  night 

1  )arling,  all  my  life  I  couldn't 
Smile  and  he  polite. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  11 


REVENGE  IS  SWEET 
Elizabeth  Boies 


St*]E  had  just  missed  "Ignorance  is  Bliss."     Every  noon 
vly     as  we  hurried  home  from  school  just  on  the  corner 

jggggj  we  used  to  meet  a  tall  lanky  girl  coming  from  school 
:35  on  the  hill.  She  had  braids  which  were  tied  up  with 
purple  ribbons,  never  any  other  color,  and  she  held  her  head 
which,  I  always  said,  was  all  nose,  high,  high  in  the  air  as 
she  walked  disdainfully  by  us.  She  never  turned  it  when 
we  called  her  hook  nose  or  beak  face  or  even  when  we  at- 
tempted to  pull  off  her  purple  ribbons.  All  she  ever  did 
was  to  say  with  a  half  smile  which  annoyed  us  beyond  any- 
thing, "Ignorance  is  bliss."  So  that  became  her  name,  a 
name  which  she  seemed  to  enjoy,  for  the  more  we  shrieked 
it  the  louder  her  irritating  "Ignorance  is  bliss"  rose  accom- 
panied with  that  half  smile.  But  this  day  we  missed  Ignor- 
ance. Certainly  we  had  hurried  just  as  fast  as  ever  before 
and  arrived  at  the  same  time  as  usual. — but  no  Ignorance. 
Scarcely  concealing  our  disappointment  we  walked  deject- 
edly toward  home,  all  zest  for  food  gone. 

"Darn  it",  said  Pancake-batter  named  thus  because 
of  his  flattened  face  which  he  said  he  got  from  running  full 
force  and  unexpectedly  into  a  wall  in  the  dark.  "Darn  it," 
he  exclaimed  again.  "Elmer  is  the  only  one  who  ever  got 
a  purple  ribbon  off  her  ding  braids  and  I  bet  him  five  allies 
that  I'd  get  one  today,  but  how  ya  going  to  do  it  when  the 
old  Ignorance  don't  show  up?" 

"First  time  she's  missed  too."  replied  Gut  sadly. 

"Well,  it  doesn't  matter  much  to  you."  said  Pancake 
viciously.  "What  if  you'd  bet  five  allies.  Brand  new  allies 
at  that,"  he  added  in  an  undertone. 

"Ah,  don't  be  such  a  milk  weed,  Pancake,"  cried 
Gronie,  a  fat  jolly  boy  who  concocted  all  the  plans  for  our 
gang.  "You  aren't  the  only  one  who's  mad.  Heck,  I've 
been  kept  after  school  for  a  whole  week  now  and  missed  her 
every  da  v." 


12  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

Bui  jusi  at  this  moment  Kendall  Jones  appeared 
around  the  corner  and  immediately  our  attention  was  di- 
verted. Kendall  was  his  mother's  darling.  He  played  the 
ukelele  beautifully  at  all  her  bridge  parties  and  before  we 
had  me!  Ignorance  he  had  been  our  chief  amusement;  and 
so  his  appearance  at  this  crucial  time  hanished  Ignorance 
and  aroused  ns  to  great   things. 

"Sissy,  sissy.  Kendall,"  screamed  Mayor,  my  sister,  and 
much  the  most  cruel  of  all  of  us  when  it  came  to  teasing. 
"ill's  mother  has  to  wash  his  ears.     His  mother  has  to — ." 

"Children,  children !" 

We  looked  up.  Mrs.  Pierce  was  leaning  from  the  sec- 
ond story  window  of  her  house.  "How-  can  yon  be  so  vul- 
gar?    I  wan!  this  nonsense  to  stop  at  once.     Do  yon  hear?" 

"Yes,  .Mrs.  Sourface,"  muttered  Pancake  under  his 
breath. 

'And  besides,"  Mrs.  Pierce  went  on,  "Mrs.  Sharpe  is 
asleep."  Mrs.  Sharpe  was  her  twin  sister  who  lived  across 
the  street  and  who  was  almost  as  disliked  as  Mrs.  Pierce. 
Elmer  claimed  that  she  was  worse  because  she  had  once 
thrown  a  glass  of  water  down  on  him  when  he  was  taking 
her  gate  of]'  the  hinges  on  Hallowe'en.  "Just  like  her  to 
have  been  looking  out,"  he  had  said.  "At  least  old  Piercie 
went  to  visit  her  aunt  in  Moosie  1'or  that  night.  Can't  see 
why  she  couldn't  have  taken  her  dear  Sharpie  with  her." 
However,  I  disagreed  with  his  opinion  of  Sharpie  because 
she  usually  had  to  call  on  Mrs.  Pierce  for  help.  "And,"  1 
said,  "she  hardly  ever  had  an  inspiration  like  that  glass  of 
water  one  unless  her  sister  was  with  her." 

"Never  mind."  Elmer  had  said,  "that  glass  of  water 
was  cold!" 

Bui  now  .Mrs.  Pierce  had  slammed  her  window  loud 
enough  to  awaken  Mrs.  Sharpe,  even  if  she  had  lived  at 
the  other  end  of  the  block. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  go  get  some  lunch,"  said  Gut,  But 
she  did  no!  go  before  we  had  vowed  eternal  hatred  for  the 
twin  sisters  and  had  decided  to  meet  soon  again  in  order  to 
formulate  a  plan  to  "get  even"  with  the  hated  "old  crabs." 
"So  they'll  never  forget  US,"  ended  Pancake  with  his  fists 
clenched. 

The  next  day  at  school  we  let  Rubber  Neck  into  our 

club   for  the  destruction   of  Mrs.   Sharpe  and  Mrs.  Pierce. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  13 

We  let  her  in  because  she  was  always  necessary  on  adven- 
tures like  this.  She  had  the  unique  quality  of  being  able 
to  stretch  her  neck  so  that  she  could  see  far  above  any  one 
else  and  could  look  into  almost  any  window  not  too  far 
from  the  ground.  As  yet  we  had  no  concrete  idea  for  their 
embarrassment  or  destruction  but  we  felt  that  sooner  or 
later  Rubber  Neck  would  come  in  handy.     She  always  did. 

That  afternoon  as  we  were  roller  skating  furiously  up 
the  Pierce's  avenue,  as  we  called  it,  on  our  way  to  Elmer's 
house  where  our  meeting  was  to  be  held,  Mrs.  Sharpe  leaned 
from  her  window: 

"Not  so  much  noise.     Mrs.  Pierce  is  asleep." 

"Yes, —  I  was, —  before  all  this  clatter  came,"  Mrs. 
Pierce  called  from  her  window  where  she  had  been  sitting 
sewing  all  of  the  time  and  she  had  been,  too,  because  Rub- 
ber Neck  saw  her  and  Rubber  Neck  can  see  things  like  that. 

"We  have  got  to  act  at  once,"  said  Gronie  with  a  force- 
ful air.     "This  thing  has  gone  entirely  too  far." 

"You  said  it,  Gronie,"  Mayor  replied  as  both  win- 
dows slammed  simultaneously,  after  a  few  more  scathing 
remarks  which  we  pretended  not  to  hear. 

"I  think  it  would  be  fine  to  set  both  their  houses  on 
fire!"  said  Gut  as  we  were  settled  on  the  floor  in  Elmer's 
cellar. 

"Nix,  Gut,"  said  Gronie.  "They  could  put  it  out 
before  they  burnt  up." 

"Well,  we  might  tie  them  up,"  I  ventured. 

"Tie  them  up,  hump,  pretty  funny.  Who's  going  to 
do  it  I'd  like  to  know?"  cried  Pancake. 

"I'd  like  to  put  some  dead  gold-fish  down  Piercie's 
back,"  said  Mayor.  "I  heard  her  tell  Mrs.  Jones  once  that 
dead  fish  gave  her  goose  flesh.  Now  I  ask  you, — what  is 
goose  flesh?" 

"I  know  what  it  is,"  said  Rubber  Neck.  "Once  when 
my  canary  died  I  was  going  to  bury  it  in  a  shoe  box  and 
mother  saw  it  and  got  measles  all  over  her  for  a  minute. 
They  didn't  stay  on  longer  than  that  but  she  wouldn't  let 
me  touch  the  canary  and  I — ." 

"Oh,  never  mind,  Rubber  Neck,"  interrupted  Elmer, 
"we  aren't  interested  in  your  old  canary  and  goose  measles 
or  whatever  it  is.     This  meeting  was  called,"  he  went  on 


14  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

slamming  his  list   on  an  upright   box,  '"this  meeting  was 

called  to  decide  upon. — to  decide-  upon — ." 

1 1<>\\  we'd  gel  even  with  the  old  crooks/*  finished 
Pancake  quickly.  "Let's  gel  down  to  business  or  we'll 
nt  \  er  decide." 

"\\\11.  1  have  a  wonderful  idea,"  Gronie  said.  "1  have 
a  nice  dead  rat.  all  smelly  'nd  everything,  \W  might  put 
it  on  the-  doorstep." 

'When  eliel  you  get  it.  Gronie?"  I  asked,  filled  with  awe. 

"Oh.  1  took  it  from  the-  rat  trap  in  the-  pantry  and  kept 
it  for  awhile." 

"Gee,  Gronie,  that's  wonderful." 

"You  bet.     We-  e-oulel  elo  something  with  that.     .Make 
them   mad   as  hops   when   they  trie-el   to  nmu-  out   the-   front 
oor. 

'Can't  you  sec  the  olel  crabs  when  they  see-  it  ?  Gee 
whiz!"  Pancake  whistled  through  his  teeth. 

"Whose-  doorstep  shall  we  put  it  on?"  inquired  Elmer 
looking  at  the-  practical  side-.  Therein  ensued  a  bitter  ar- 
gument as  to  who  deserved  it  the  more  and  ended  only  when 
Gronie  agreed  to  take-  another  from  the'  trap  so  they  would 
both  be  treated  alike-. 

"We  may  have  to  wait  a  few  days,"  Gronie  said,  "be- 
cause we  may  not  catch  one-  for  awhile'  and  even  when  we 
do  we've  got  to  wait  until  it  smells  like-  the-  first  one." 

At  last  the'  day  arrived  when  both  rats  were-  ready. 
We  carried  them  in  boxes  to  school  and  hid  them  behind 
an  ash  barrel  until  after  the-  afternoon  session,  which  was  the 
appointed  time-  for  our  de-e*el. 

"Who's  going  to  put  them  on  the-  doorstep?"  I  whis- 
pered to  Pancake  as  he-  stood  ne-xt  to  me-  at  the-  blackboard. 

"Don't  know,"  muttered  Pancake,  "but  say.  how  many 
times  does  twenty  seven  go  into  this  damn  number?" 

Finally  the-  last  e*lass  was  over.  Gronie  and  Elmer 
were  given  the  honor  of  placing  the-  rats  on  either  doorstep 
while  we  stood  hidden  around  the-  corner  of  .Mrs.  Pierce's 
house. 

Elmer  quickly  performed  his  duty,  having  deposited 

his  r.'it  in  front  of  Mrs.  Sha  rp<  \  door,  hut  something  seemed 

to  be  wrong  with  Gronie.    lie  did  not  return  at  once.    We 

red  around  the  corner.     Gronie  pointed  at   the  Pierce 

baby  who  was  sleeping  on  the  porch. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  15 

"Fraid  I'll  wake  it,"  he  murmured. 

"Ah,  go  on,  Gronie,"  said  Pancake. 

"Shut  up,  Pancake.  Do  it  yourself  if  you  are  so 
anxious."  replied  Gronie  a  little  too  loudly  because  the  baby 
after  a  few  spluttering  noises  began  to  cry. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Gut  conceived  her  great  and 
miraeulous  idea. 

"Here,"  she  said  handing  Rubber  Neck  a  handful  of 
little  stones  and  pebbles  from  a  nearby  flower  bed,  "drop 
these  in  the  baby's  mouth.     Quickly.     That'll  shut  it  up." 

"Yes,  go  on,  Rubber  Neck,"  we  all  cried,  marveling  at 
the  brilliance  of  the  suggestion. 

So  Rubber  Neck  with  careful  manoeuverings  reached 
the  railing  of  the  porch  near  which  the  baby's  carriage  was 
placed.  She  climbed  up  on  to  the  ledge  on  the  outside  of 
the  railing;  then  stretching  her  long  neck,  she  located  the 
baby's  open  mouth,  and  deliberately  dropped  the  pebbles 
one  by  one  down  into  it.  With  a  gurgling  strangle  the  cry- 
ing stopped  and  Gronie  placed  the  rat  quickly  in  its  strate- 
gic position  in  front  of  door.  But  Mrs.  Pierce,  aroused 
by  the  baby's  crying,  had  come  to  the  window  almost  at  the 
same  moment  that  Rubber  Neck  began  dropping  the  pebbles, 
and  for  once  we  saw  more  than  Rubber  Neck  who  was  too 
interested  in  her  own  job.  Mrs.  Pierce  and  Mrs.  Sharpe 
were  coming  out  of  Mrs.  Pierce's  door  toward  Rubber  Neck 
— but  no — .  They  screamed  at  the  sight  of  the  rat ;  screamed 
again  at  the  sight  of  Rubber  Neck  and  the  pebbles ;  and  then 
before  poor  Rubber  Neck  could  get  away  both  Mrs.  Pierce 
and  Mrs.  Sharpe,  being  scared  to  go  near  the  mat,  had 
jumped  from  the  window  onto  the  porch,  one  saving  the 
baby  from  strangling  and  the  other  practically  strangling 
Rubber  Neck.  We  left  at  this  point,  quickly  hurrying  down 
the  back  alley  where  we  could  not  be  seen  and  to  our  ap- 
pointed meeting  place  for  discussing  the  effects  of  our  plans. 

"Whee, — "  groaned  Gronie,  "that  was  narrow.  Poor 
Rubber  Neck,  what  do  you  suppose  they  are  doing  to  her? 
We  ought  to  go  back  and  help  her." 

"Yes,"  said  Elmer  sarcastically.  "I'd  like  to  know 
who's  going?    Not  me,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

"Well  anyway,"  said  Pancake,  "it  was  worth  it.  Did 
you  ever  see  such  expressions  in  all  your  life  as  the  old 


j  6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

crooks  had  when  they  saw  the  rat?     (ice-.  1  wouldn't  have 
missed  it  even  if  I  had  had  to  be  Rubber  Neck." 

14 Rubber  Neck  didn't  see  their  faces/1  1  said. 

"Oli.  1  know,''  replied  Pancake,  "hut  I  mean — even  il 
1  had  to  be  strangled.'1 

"Well,  1  hope  they  haven't  really  killed  her,"  said 
.Mayor  sadly. 

'Pooh/'  replied  Gronie,  "they  couldn't  do  that.  They'd 
be  murderers  if  they  did  and  the  policemen  could  shoot  holes 
through  them." 

"It  was  great  though,'1  Elmer  muttered  happily,  recall- 
ing the  shrieks  of  the  twin  sisters.  "The  only  thing  which 
could  have  been  better  would  have  been  to  have  old  Sharpie 
at  home  instead  of  over  at  Piercie's"  Although  1  don't 
know-.  They  did  look  pretty  funny  jumping  out  of  the 
window  on  top  of  Rubber  Neck." 

At  this  moment  Rubber  Neck,  a  disheveled  and  tattered 
Rubber  Neck,  appeared  at  the  far  end  of  the  alley.  We  all 
rushed  to  meet  her. 

"Say,  vou  were  wonderful." 

"Hot  stuff,  Rubber  Neck,  old  pal." 

"You  sure  were  the  cat's  whiskers.  Rubber,  old  girl!" 

"Yes,  a  regular  heroine,"  1  added. 

"Well,"  said  Rubber  Neck,  wiping  her  bloody  nose.  "If 
I  am  a  heroine  I  resign  the  position  —forever." 


PHANTOM 
Edith  Starks 


One  strange  night 

( )ne  dark  nighl 
In  the  half-light 

1  saw    the  ghost  of  an  old  sail. 
Close  by  the  rock 
Where  fog  lay 
.Misty  and  grey 

And  lulled  in  the  spray 
That    washed  on   the  dock 
I  saw    the  ghosl  of  an  old  white  sail  .  .  . 
She  was  all  lighted  up  from  helow 
And  the  waves  took  her  hv  .  .  very  steady  .  .  .  very  slow 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  17 


VOICES 

Lucia  Wiemer 


o 


HE  group  in  front  had  been  so  interested  in  the  cave 
that  until  the  crash  came  they  had  not  noticed  each 
other.  Then  it  was  too  late.  When  the  land  slid  it 
severed  the  wires  and  at  the  same  time  shut  out  any  vestige 
of  daylight  that  might  have  crept  so  far.  It  also  shut  out 
the  rest  of  the  party. 

A  man's  voice — pleasantly  young  and  a  little  breathless 
said,  "Boy!  was  that  a  narrow  escape?!" 

There  Avas  a  silence  pricked  by  the  sighs  of  people 
catching  their  breath.  Then,  a  little  in  front  of  them,  another 
man  spoke,  "We  seem  to  be  rather  trapped."  he  said,  "There 
was  a  slide  in  front  of  us  too."  His  voice  was  very  English 
and  a  little  slow. 

A  woman's  hysterical  tremulo  wanted  to  know,  "Hasn't 
someone  a  match?  It's  so  dark." 

While  the  pleasant  boy-voice  stated  proudly  that  it  was 
in  training,  and  a  new  man  piped  something  about  nervous 
breakdowns  and  not  smoking,  the  Englishman's  lighter 
flared — throwing  golden  lights  on  his  face,  caressing  his 
cheek-bones,  recoiling  from  the  black  sockets  of  his  eyes. 
Over  in  the  corner  a  figure  stood  tight  against  the  wall. 
"Who  is  that?"  he  asked  sharply.  A  woman's  low  voice 
picked  its  way  carefully  through  the  statement,  "It  is  I.  My 
name  is  Lola  Bentham." 

Half  embarrassed  by  the  evident  cultivation  of  her 
voice  the  Englishman  bowed  slightly,  "How  do  you  do",  he 
said,  and  it  was  indicative  of  the  state  of  their  minds  that  lfo 
one  laughed.  There  was  a  quick  snap  and  the  flame  went 
out. 

"Don't  put  it  out."  The  sweetly  hysterical  voice  rose  in 
sudden  terror. 

The  Englishman  explained  gently,  "It  is  our  only  light. 
I  haven't  filled  it  for  several  days  and  we  may  be  in  here 
for  some  time.  Besides",  he  added,  "There  is  no  use  in 
burning  up  oxygen." 


18  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

"Oh." 

Darkness  closed  in.  Nobody  had  thought  about  ox- 
ygen.    Now  their  minds  began  to  grasp  the  significance  of 

the  situation.    The  boy-voice  said."  "My  God     this  is  ter- 
rible'1 several  t  imes  and  shook. 

After  a  time  the  man  with  the  nervous  breakdown  be- 
gan to  cry.  "1  can't  stand  this/'  lie  said.  'I  tell  you  1  can't 
stand  it.  All  alone  in  the  dark.  I  can't  see  you  it's  like 
voices  in  my  mind  as  if  I  were  going  mad.  I've  got  to 
touch  someone."  His  body  scuffed  against  the  wall  as  he 
pulled  himself  to  his  feet. 

"Don't!  Don't  conic  near  me!"  The  hysterical  voice 
ripped  the  darkness. 

"Perhaps  none  of  us  had  heller  move.  The  electric 
wires  may  be  lying  about."  The  tightly  level  voice  of  Lola 
Bentham  came  forth  in  little  .jets  of  energy  as  though  she 
paused  to  catch  her  breath  before  each  phrase. 

When  she  had  finished  there  sounded  the  slither  of  the 
man's  body  as  it  sank  to  the  ground. 

"Jolly  little  place  this.  Talk  about  your  Black  Hole  of 
Calcutta."  the  boy-voice  no  longer  shook.  Its  owner  had 
made  his  adjustments.  In  the  darkness  the  Englishman 
smiled,  hut  no  one  talked.  Each  person  sat  in  complete 
insularity.  Voices,  in  the  blackness,  sounded  sudden  and 
strange;  seemed  to  wander  about  the  narrow  prison  seeking 
an  outlet  and  to  return  to  their  owners  as  though  they  had 
never  gone  out.  One  question  was  in  every  mind  "Will 
they  get  to  us  in  time?";  hut  no  one  dared  to  ask  it.  So 
lhcv  sat  while  the  man  with  the  nervous  breakdown  moaned 
and  someone  hit  his  nails. 

After  time  had  made  itself  unbearable,  the  hysterical 
voice  shattered  itself  in  a  question,  "Couldn't  we  have  light 
for  just  a  minute?" 

The  little  scratch  of  the  wheel  announced  the  flaring  of 

llghl  below  the.  what  now  seemed  beautiful,  face  of  the 
Englishman.     lie  took  out  his  watch  and  held  it  close  to  the 

flame.  "Eleven  o'clock."  he  told  them.  They  had  been  there 
eight  hours.  lie  snapped  the  lighter  shut  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket  again. 

I  am  like  God,  he  thought,  holding  light  and  dark- 
ness in  niv  hands.     lie  could  not   know   how    near  to  a  God 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  10 

he  was  to  those  others  out  there  in  blackness.  He  was  to 
them  the  only  tangible  person  in  a  sea  of  unknown  voices 
and  blank  sound.  They  trusted  him  because  they  had  seen 
him.  The  others  might  be  anything — in  their  fevered  imagi- 
nations became  everything. 

It  was  beginning  to  get  stuffy  now  and  his  head  ached 
a  little.  Too  bad  there  had  to  be  so  many  of  them.  Now 
two  could  have  lived  maybe  a  day  and  a  half.  Twenty  hours 
would  do  tor  five  of  them,  A  horrible  thought  seized  his 
mind — 

It  occurred  to  him  that  the  same  thought  might  have 
struck  someone  else.  He  would  be  the  one  they  would  get 
too.  His  position  had  been  clearly  defined  by  the  light.  The 
heavy  breathing  of  someone  seemed  to  come  nearer,  but  he 
did  not  move. 

He  wished  absurdly  that  he  could  see  them.  In  the 
darkness  they  all  became  potential  murderers.  His  fancy 
inflamed,  he  now  felt  their  faces  surrounding  him — grotes- 
que and  distorted.  If  only  he  could  see  them!  Probably  they 
had  kind  stupid  faces — ordinary  candid  eyes;  but,  after  all, 
he  could  not,  even  in  a  situation  like  this  one,  go  around  with 
his  lighter  saying,  "Let  me  see  your  face.";  and  so  they  re- 
mained for  him  almost  disembodied  demons — voices  in  the 
dark. 

Thus,  some  time  later,  when  the  voice  of  Lola  Bentham 
wrenched  out  a  request  for  light,  he  braced  himself  as  the 
flame  sprang  into  existence;  but  nothing  happened. — only 
the  silly  quaver  of  the  boy-voice,  "What  an  ad  for  a  lighter 
this  would  make." 

Surprised  to  find  himself  still  alive  the  Englishman 
snapped  the  device  shut  and  replaced  it. 

Darkness  stood  like  a  wall  in  front  of  him;  pressed  in 
on  him.  To  die  like  a  rat  in  a  hole — strangling  within  your- 
self and  only  voices  to  hold  to !  The  hysterical  voice  had  not 
spoken  for  hours  now.  Perhaps  she  had  fainted.  Perhaps — 
Well —  they  could  all  live  half  an  hour  longer  if  she  had. 

It  was  the  man  with  the  nervous  breakdown  who  heard 
the  first  faint  sounds  of  digging.  "They're  coming"  he 
whimpered,  "For  God's  sake,  hurry!" 

It  had  gotten  to  the  point  where  they  were  pushing  with 
their  chests  in  order  to  breathe,  but  four  of  them  scuffled  to 


20  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

their  feet  and  the  Same  of  the*  Englishman's  lighter  shone 
like  a  star. 

Quite  still  they  sat  and  waited  the  Englishman  cross- 
legged  with  the  lighter  in  front  of  him,  like  an  ancient  fire- 
god.  Lola  Betham's  voice  had  passed  into  silence.  A 
litth-  later  the  lighter  sputtered  and  went  out. 

The  Englishman  spoke,  "And  J  suppose  when  they  gel 
to  us  there-  is  a  e'hanev  of  this  part's  falling  in  on  lis." 

The  boy-voice  was  only  a  whisper  now.  "]  wouldn't 
mind  dying,"  he-  said,  "if  1  could  only  have  a  little-  light  to 
see-  what   1   was  doing." 

The-  noises  of  digging  e-ame-  nearer:  echoed  through  the* 
hot  stillness.  The  man  with  the*  nervous  breakdown  scratched 
feebly  at  the-  imprisoning  stones — tossed  them  frantically 
aside.  One  fell  at  the  Englishman's  feet.  The  knocking  be- 
came a  roar.  There  was  a  crash  of  rock,  and  a  stream  of 
cool  air  rippled  through  the  cave.  It  was  swe-e-t  like-  jasmine 
and  clover.  Through  the  hole  a  grimy  hand  appeared,  hold 
ing  a  lantern  which  the  man  with  the  nervous  breakdown 
took  and  held,  like  a  child  with  a  toy. 

There  was  calling  and  heaving  and  grunting  and  the 
sound  of  people  running  about,  and  then  they  were  all  out  in 
the  air.  and  there-  was  light  and  the  Englishman  could  see- 
the- people-  who  stood  over  him.  They  had  noses  and  mouths 
and  eyes  and  they  smiled  at  him.  There  was  color  too  greys 
and  blues  and  wistaria  in  the'  sky— -white  and  black  and  dull 
and  green  in  the*  rocks.  It  was  all  keen  and  very,  very 
beautiful  after  the1  sick  smudge  of  yellow  which  had  hern  his 
light  Tor  sixteen  hours  and  which  had  seemed  so  precious 
not  lone  ago.  Suddenly  lie  remembered  his  lighter  and 
struggled  to  his  feet.  "]  le-ft  something  must  (i>eit  it."  he' 
explained  and  started  towards  the-  cave.    Somebody  caught 

him  hv  the-  shoulder  and  as  he-  stood  he-  saw   the-  crawline  slide 

of  land  that  buried  his  lighter  forever. 

A  little  sick,  he  turned  around  in  lime-  to  see'  two  cars 
drive  away.     "The   two  gentlemen",   somebody   told   him, 

"The  ladies  have  been  taken  to  the-  hospital." 

The  Englishman  smiled.    So  he  would  never  see  them 
voices  thev  would  alwavs  remain.     But  it  didn't  matter  now. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  21 


LONELINESS 

Edith  Starks 


This  new  loneliness  is  stern 

Yet  ground  as  fine 

As  ivory  sand 

That  sweeps  the  long  sea  line 

Where  green  salt-waters  burn ; 

Stern — as  the  great  hand 

Of  the  wind  who  rides 

Along  the  beach's  curving  way 

All  day 

Unmindful  of  the  tides. 


22  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


FEAR 

Barbara  Damon  Simison 


Q"ETEB  could  not  remember  a  time  when  he  had  not 
been  afraid.  Fear  came  as  naturally  to  him,  was  as 
Hg  much  a  part  of  him,  as  snow  comes  to  winter,  as  the 
roof  is  a  pari  of  the  house  that  the  snow  covers.  It  had  al- 
ways been  thus,  he  reflected,  as  he  walked  along  only,  as 
tlu-  years  slipped  by,  there  had  been  more  and  more  fears  in 
his  life.  Perhaps  he  grew  more  sensitive  to  them  as  he  grew 
older,  or  else  things  happened  so  as  to  accentuate  them. 
■  lust  when  his  mother  and  father  were  helping  him  to  over- 
come a  particular  fear  something  occurred  that  tended  to 
deepen  it.  It  had  been  so  all  his  life,  he  recollected,  and 
those  things  he  had  not  feared  from  the  first  were,  by  the 
lime  he  reached  young  manhood,  installed  in  his  mind  as 
fears,  events,  people,  things.  lie  was  afraid  of  airplanes, 
yet  he  knew*  that  in  a  few  years  airplanes  would  become  so 
common  that  he  would  he  compelled  to  ride  in  them.  lie  was 
afraid  of  people,  yet  he  must  meet  them  every  day  talk 
with  them  the  people  he  was  afraid  of  along  with  people 
who  bothered  him  less,  lie  had  been  afraid  of  death,  and 
death  had  come  into  his  family,  taking  away  John,  only  to 
make  him  more  afraid,  after  lie  had  apparently  weathered 
tin  storm  of  its  passing.  In  crises,  it  is  true,  lie  seemed  to 
possess  no  terror,  but  the  terror  always  existed,  even  though 
it  was  buried  too  deeply  to  appear  on  the  surface.  When 
he  was  apparently  the  bravest,  indeed,  he  was  most  afraid. 
Such  had  heen  his  fear  for  the  old  man  with  the  white  horse. 
Souk  of  the  fears  he  had  had  as  a  child  had  long  since 
passed  away,  and  he  could  now-  laugh  at  them.    There  had 

in  i  n  a  little  girl  in  the  past  who  had  given  him  many  of  these 
fears  ;t  little  girl  with  a  wide  mouth,  and  long,  fair  braids 
tied  al  the  ends  w  ith  pink  ribbons.  Her  legs  had  heen  longer 
than  Peter's,  and  she  used  to  climb  trees  faster,  like  a 
monkey  .  There  was  nothing  she  did  not  know,  at  least  thai 

is  how  she  appeared  to  Peter  when  he  was  young  and  knew 
no  better  himself.     It  was  Dorothy  who  had  taucrhl  him  to 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  23 

be  afraid  of  bhe  fat  women  with  brown  skin  who  came  down 
liis  street  tugging  big  bundles  that  looked  like  clothes;  the 
dark  men  who  carried  suit-cases  and  spread  out  beautiful 
laees  for  his  mother  to  see.  "They  are  gypsies,"  Dorothy 
would  say,  "Peter,  hide  under  the  hammock  quick.  They 
are  gypsies.  They  steal  children,  too."  And  Peter  hid, 
crouching  under  the  hammock  on  his  stomach  until  Dorothy 
said  they  were  out  of  sight. 

Peter  had  never  been  afraid  of  thunder-storms.  His 
father  had  taken  him  by  the  hand  to  show  him  how  beautiful 
they  were  from  the  window.  He  had  even  taught  Peter  a 
game  to  play:  told  him  to  count  two,  three,  four  between  the 
thunder  and  lightning.  If  one  counted  three  the  storm  was 
three  miles  away.  And  his  mother  used  to  tell  him  that  the 
rolling  of  the  thunder  was  Zeus  scolding  the  gods  upon 
Olympus,  or  Rip  Van  Winkle's  dwarves  playing  at  nine  pins 
in  the  mountains.  Peter  had  never  been  afraid  of  it.  He 
loved  the  twisting  snake  of  the  lightning,  th£  fiery  slit  it  tore 
in  the  sky.  He  loved  it  all  until  Dorothy  taught  him  to  be 
afraid.  "Peter!  Peter!"  she  would  scream,  "The  lightning 
will  kill  you,  Peter,  if  you  don't  come  in."  Peter  had 
trembled,  had  become  afraid.  He  had  remained  so  until  just 
lately  when  he  cast  aside  this  fear. 

Peter  always  loved  the  sea — the  salty  smell  of  it,  the 
scallop  of  the  waves  curling  around  his  pink  toes.  The  Nova 
Scotia  sea  captain's  blood  in  his  veins  made  him  love  all  that 
until  a  man  carried  him  out,  out  to  sea  on  his  shoulders 
against  Peter's  will.  Then  Peter  had  looked  down,  down 
into  the  water  that  was  no  longer  blue,  and  he  was  afraid. 
Even  after  he  learned  to  swim,  to  love  the  churn  of  the  water 
around  his  shoulders  he  never  swam  beyond  his  depth  like 
the  other  boys  because  of  the  fear  in  his  mind  which  was  as 
all  the  other  fears  that  seized  him  in  their  network  when  he 
was  off  his  guard  for  a  moment.  A  moment  ago,  for  in- 
stance, his  fear  of  the  old  man  with  the  white  horse  had  come 
to  the  surface  again,  as  he  had  never  thought  it  could,  after 
so  many,  many  years.  Just  the  mere  sight  of  a  sleigh  with  an 
erect  old  man  sitting  in  it,  and  driving  a  white  horse,  made 
him  turn  a  corner  he  had  not  meant  to  turn.  It  was  as  if  he 
were  running  away  from  the  past,  a  fear  of  that  past,  which 
was  a  fear  no  longer.    Then,  suddenly,  Peter  had  stopped 


2  I  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

and  remembered  thai  he  was  twenty,  not  five,  and  with  thai 
consideration  the  whole  story  Hooded  his  memory. 

I  [e  had  been  five,  almost  six  when  the  nice  old  man  with 
the  white  beard  had  frightened  him.  Before  thai  Peter  had 
always  given  the  white  horse  sugar,  and  i\d  him  apples. 

Once,  there  had  heen  a  box  of  blue  dishes  for  his  mother: 
once  a  bright  red  sled  lor  Peter  and  .John.  Peter  used  to 
run  to  the  door  when  he  heard  the  old  man's  voice,  "Slow- 
up.  Jerry!"  Then  the  old  man  would  clank  an  anchor-thing 
down  hard  on  the  road  to  make  the  horse  stop  in  front  of  the 
house.  The  old  man  with  the  white  horse  reminded  Peter  of 
Santa  Clans,  and  he  would  run  to  the  door  when  he  heard 
the  sound  of  the  heavy  anchor  falling.  lie  had  even  gone 
up  to  the  horse,  and  had  not  been  afraid  to  touch  its  warm 
nose  with  his  hand.  The  horse  had  liked  him.  and  made  a 
long  snorting  noise  deep  down  in  his  throat.  Sometimes  the 
old  man  put  a  cloth  bag  over  Jerry's  mouth  so  he  couldn't 
speak,  or  make  smoke  come  out  of  his  nose.  'There  was 
food  in  that  bag,  the  old  man  with  the  white  heard  told 
Peter;  he  said  the  horse  was  too  busy  eating  to  make  smoke. 

The  old  man  had  been  nice  like  that  to  Peter  until  one 
day  he  turned  ogre  in  a  fairy  talc.  When  Peter  trotted  to 
the  door,  his  brown  curls  nodding  no  and  down  on  his  fore- 
head, Peter's  little  brother  John  had  tagged  at  his  heels.  The 
old  man  looked  behind  Peter  and  saw  John.  "Peter,"  said 
he.  "Who's  that?" 

"My  brother  John,  sir,"  Peter  spoke  reluctantly. 

'Tin  going  to  take  your  little  brother  away  to  he  tny 
little  boy  next  time  I  come."  Peter  noticed  that  tin  old  man 
looked  hard  at  John  as  John  began  to  whimper.  John  was 
such  a  very  little  boy.  He  was  only  four,  and  still  wore 
rompers.  Peter's  mother  told  him  to  watch  out  for  John 
because  he  was  so  little.  So  Peter  stared  hack  at  the  old 
man,  who  was  eyeing  John  closely.  Peter  put  out  his  hand 
for  the  parcel.  "Come  on.  John."  He  took  John  by  the  hand. 

The  old  man  began  to  laugh  aloud.  "Nexl  time.  Mister 

Peter,  John  will  he  my  little  boy."  Peter  saw  John  screw  up 
his  mouth  as  if  he  were  going  to  cry.  Peter  did  not  tell  his 
mother  what  the  old  man  had  said.  Indeed,  the  next  time. 
!i<  did  not  pro  to  the  door  at  all.  He  look  John  upstairs  in- 
stead, to  hide  him  under  the  bed  so  the  gypsy  with  the  horse 
COuldn'i  steal  him.     Dorothy  said  uypsies  stole  children.  'This 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 

man  took  children  to  be  fiis  own.  He  must  be  a  gypsy,  Peter 
reasoned. 

And  when  he  met  the  old  man  on  his  way  to  Sunday 
School — with  John  trotting  behind  him  on  fat,  little  legs, 
Peter  stood  still  in  front  of  John  until  the  man  was  far  up 
the  street,  turning  the  corner  even  with  his  white  horse.  This 
day  the  old  man  had  not  seen  Peter,  and  his  heart  stopped 
going  up  and  down  inside  by  the  time  his  mother  looked 
down  at  him.  "Peter,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Peter  pointed  his  finger  up  the  street.  "That  man  is  a 
gypsy.  He  is  going  to  steal  John  the  next  time  he  conies 
with  a  bundle."  Peter  saw  his  mother  button  her  lips  together 
tight. 

"Did  he  tell  you  that?"  Peter  nodded.  His  mouth  felt 
dry  inside,  and  he  gulped.  "Peter,  don't  you  ever  let  me 
hear  you  say  that  again.  Of  course  he  couldn't  steal  John, 
nor  would  he  if  he  could."  Peter  looked  up  the  street,  then  at 
his  mother.  Perhaps  his  mother  did  not  know.  He  remem- 
bered the  old  man  shaking  his  white  beard  at  him,  looking 
like  an  ogre  at  John.  His  mother  said  the  man  couldn't,  but 
Peter  knew  he  had  a  fast  horse,  if  he  cracked  his  whip  hard 
enough.  Peter  didn't  like  that  old  man.  His  mother  glanced 
at  him  again,  "Will  you,  Peter?"  Peter  gulped.  "No, 
Mother."  But  inside  he  was  afraid.  The  old  man  had  said 
he  was  going  to  take  John,  and  it  never  occurred  to  Peter 
then  that  a  man  would  tell  a  lie  to  a  child  for  a  joke.  And 
long  after  Peter  stopped  seeing  the  old  man  with  the  white 
horse  he  was  afraid. 

The  old  man  he  had  seen  today  was  a  gentlemanly  old 
fellow — driving  a  sleigh.  He  wore  a  fur  coat  and  leather 
gloves.  But  he  had  a  long,  white  beard  and  a  white  horse. 
So  Peter  had  turned  the  corner  suddenly  when  he  forgot 
that  he  was  twenty.  Fear  was  like  that.  It  came  upon  one 
suddenly  when  one  saw  things,  met  people.  In  fact,  when 
he  least  expected  it  Peter  had  fear  in  his  heart — not  an  ab- 
stract, faraway  fear,  but  a  close,  concrete  fear  that  stole 
upon  him  like  a  ghost — only  in  the  passing  became  sharply 
distinct  and  utterly  real.  But  Peter  started  back  past  the 
corner  he  had  turned — walking  fast. 


20  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


THE  DEAD 
IIki.kx  Paul  Kirkpatrick 


They  say  that  he  is  dead.    They  do  not  know; 
They  do  not  understand  what  death  can  be. 

They  are  so  blind,  his  friends,  they  cannot  see 
That  thev  died  long  before  they  found  him  so. 


'  i ' 


I   walked  the  cliffs,  and  met  him  there  tonight, 
I  T\)  in  the  tall  sand  grass  above  the  sea. 
Where  he  had  pointed  out  the  waves  to  me. 
And  showed  the  island  carved  of  salt  gray  light. 

I   have  his  eyes,  hut   their  eyes  still  are  blind: 
They  would  see  water  from  the  cliff,  and  sand; 
They  could  not  know,  and  so  they  could  not  mind 
That  he  would  eall  it  more  than  sea  and  land. 
And  I  am  sure,  though  he  has  died,      they  say, 
Thai  \\a\cs  break  with  his  laughter  in  the  bav. 


'  i < 


'  i ' 


Ihe  Smith  College  Monthly  27 


MARS 
Lucia  Weimeb 


Yj*\  HAT  do  you  know  about  Mars?"  Strident  of  voice 
vi/  and  flushed  of  cheek,  Gaynor  greeted  her  father  at 
HH  supper  time.  She  had  been  waiting  all  afternoon  to 
ask  that  question;  ever  since  Mr.  Bolton  had  finished  telling 
the  class  about  stars.  They  were  all  as  big  as  the  earth,  he 
had  said,  and  Mars,  some  people  thought,  might  be  inhabited. 
It  had  come  as  a  blow  to  Gaynor,  who  had  gotten  as 
far  as  Junior  High  School  without  thinking  of  the  stars  as 
anything  more  tangible  than  flowers  on  the  robe  of  night  or 
diamonds  in  the  hair  of  the  wind.  Her  mother  encouraged 
her  in  these  conceptions  and  they  made  Gaynor  feel  that  the 
world  was  a  very  lovely  place.  But  with  a  few  words  this 
lovely  place  had  become  non-existent.  In  a  minute  her 
whole  foundation  had  been  swept  from  her.  When  she  had 
run  out  from  the  dingy  school-building  into  the  clear  blue 
autumn  afternoon,  she  had  felt  like  one  who,  coming  back 
to  consciousness,  asks  "Where  am  I?"  The  sky  was  no 
longer  a  pretty  blue  canopy  but  a  roaring  void.  There  were 
other  worlds  as  big  a's  this  one  out  in  that  void.  The  houses 
and  people  around  her  had  looked  small — infinitesimal  un- 
derneath the  great  million-mile  space.  She  had  shuddered 
and  tried  to  talk  about  it  to  the  rest  but  they  had  only  said 
coolly,  "Sure — I  guess  it's  true."  and  organized  a  game  of 
"Cops  and  Robbers." 

She  had  left  them  and  gone  inside  to  look  up  "Mars"  in 
the  Book  of  Knowledge.  Yet  when  the  book  was  in  front 
of  her,  she  so  dreaded  the  disclosure  of  some  new  overwhelm- 
ing truth  that  it  took  all  her  courage  to  open  it  at  first. 
Pictures  of  trains  shooting  off  into  ether  in  the  direction  of 
the  various  planets  gave  a  reassuring  touch  of  reality  to  the 
whole  idea.  But  when  she  read  the  labels  and  discovered  that 
even  though  they  went  at  the  dizzy  speed  of  eighty  miles  an 
hour,  they  could  not  reach  the  nearest  planet  in  less  than 
ninety  years,  she  felt  herself  once  more  engulfed  in  uneasi- 
ness.   The  remoteness  stood  like  a  wall  around  her.     There 


H  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

were  places  that  she  would  never  see,  could  never  see.     No 

one  could  ever  know  what  was  happening  on  those  worlds 
out  there  in  the  horrid  nothingness.  Her  hands  were  cold 
at  the  thought.  Hut  Mars  was  nearer.  She  had  waited  al- 
most hysterically  for  her  Father     he  would  know-  about  Mars. 

And  so.  strident-voiced  and  flushed,  she  greeted  him 
with  the  question,  "What  do  you  know  about  Mars?" 

"Nothing  much.  It's  so  far  away  that  even  through  tele- 
scopes they  can  make  out  nothing  hut  little  lines  which  are 
probably  mountains  and  rivers.  Some  people  claim  it's  in- 
habited although  there  has  never  been  any  evidence  to  jus- 
tify it,  1  think.'1  lie  stopped  and  looked  suspiciously  at  her 
wide  eyes  and  nervous  hands.  "But  why  so  excited?  Come 
on  and  eat  your  dinner  and  forget  it." 

Playing  tag  on  the  lawn  afterwards,  she  could  not  shake 
oil'  the  oppression  of  space  that  had  fallen  on  her.  Every- 
thing seemed  miniature;  the  voices  of  the  children  sounded 
thin  and  tinkling  as  though  dissipated  in  eternal  atmos- 
phere; and  when  the  light  of  the  stars  began  to  pierce  the 
gray  haze  of  the  late  summer  evening,  she  shivered  and  went 
inside. 

Even  in  bed  she  could  not  sleep  hut  lay  feverishly  try- 
ing to  conceive  of  space — space  with  worlds,  billions  of 
worlds  separated  from  each  other  by  billions  of  miles  bil- 
lions of  years.  There  was  no  end  to  it  all.  When  she  though! 
she  had  eome  to  the  end  she  realized  in  terror  that  there  must 
be  something  beyond  that.  An  awful  vastness  surrounded 
her.  It  was  like  the  silence  following  the  blast  of  a  trumpet. 
She  had  a  sudden  fear  of  falling  into  this  vastness  falling 
falling  for  ever.  And  she  clutched  her  bed.  Hut  she 
would  not  fall.  There  was  gravity,-  gravity  which  held  her 
tight.  She  was  clinging  like  an  insect  to  a  revolving  mass. 
Out  in  that  awful  space  other  worlds  were  revolving  too. 
A  crazy  endless  whirling  of  thousands — millions—  billions  of 
worlds.  All  turning  turning  white  shining  spirals.  And 
she  was  alone  in  the  middle.  All  alone  in  this  mad  frenzied 
twirling.  Softly.  "Mother"  she  said.  Then,  "Mother"  she 
shrieked.  And  sobbing  in  her  mother's  arms.  "Hold  me  () 
hold  me!" 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  29 


EDITORIAL 


BT  was  said  to  us  that  in  the  spring  people  may  he  di- 
vided into  three  elasses:  those  who  have  new  clothes, 
those  that  wish  they  had,  and  those  who  are  just  going 
to  get  some.  Yes,  that  is  quite  true  and  we  know  perfectly 
Avell  which  class  we  should  like  to  belong  to ;  but  is  there  not, 
perhaps,  a  more  important  distinction  to  be  made  among 
those  who  wander  or  ride  about  in  the  spring?  We  should 
divide  them  into  those  who  make  worn-out  remarks  and  those 
who  listen  to  them.  The  ratio  is  easily  twenty  of  the  first 
to  one  of  the  second.  It  has  come  to  such  a  point  already 
that  when  someone  starts  to  mutter  convulsively,  "In  the 
spring  a  young  m — "  we  take  pity  on  Tennyson  and  our- 
selves to  interrupt  hastily,  "Oh,  yes,  lovely  day,  isn't  it? 
Where  did  you  say  he  went?"  Sadder  than  she  with  no  new 
clothes  is  she  that  lacks  a  confidante  in  the  spring.  And 
there  are  perforce  many  of  them. 

One  of  the  saddest  cases  was  that  of  a  Dong — do  you 
remember  Edward  Lear  and  your  Nonsense  Book?  He  had 
an  unhappy  affair  with  a  Jumbly  Girl  and  instead  of  flock- 
ing to  hear  his  sad  tale,  whenever  he  went  by  all  the  neigh- 
bours merely  stuck  their  heads  out  of  their  windows  and  said 
coolly,  dispassionately,    (and  very  likely  disagreeably)  : 

"He  goes, 

"He  goes, 

"The  Dong  with  the  luminous  nose." 

That  is  no  way  to  treat  anyone,  least  of  all  a  Dong  who 
was  disappointed  in  love  but  who  still  went  (somewhere), 
and  who  still  kept  his  nose  luminous  and  with  it  doubtless 
hope.  Of  course,  if  they  had  stopped  him  and  asked  him 
sympathetic  questions  he  would  probably  have  begun  in  a 
mournful  tone,  "In  the  spring  a  young  Dong's  fancy — "  And 
they  would  have  gone  off  and  left  him  but  he  would  have 
been  much  happier. 


30  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

Monthly  has  had  no  sad  love  affair,  perhaps  she  thought 
once  bui  no,  it  was  not  to  be.  She  is  an  unromantic  maiden. 
Nevertheless  she  often  feels  thai  she  has  much  in  common 
with  the  Dong.  She  tries  very  hard  with  her  luminous  nose. 
Fu<  I  may  run  short  hut  she  endeavours  to  keep  a  bright  light 
though  it  may  be  small. 

"All  swathed  about  with  a  bandage  stout. 

"To  keep  the  wind  from  blowing  it  out." 
And  Northampton  is  a  very  windy  place. 

.Monthly  may  <_* ft  some  new-  clothes  in  the  spring,  but 
new  clothes  arc  far  from  being  an  unmixed  blessing:  new 
shoes  are  less  confident,  they  often  slip  and  may  not  fit.  Hut 
like  the  Dong  she  likes  attention.  "In  the  spring  the  Month- 
ly's fancy  "?  Perhaps.  Hut  then,  the  l)on^>'  may  have  had 
something  very  interesting  to  sa>\  and  we  are  sure  lie  hated 
having  people  merely  remark: 

"He  goes, 

"lie  goes, 

"The  Dong  with  the  luminous  nose." 
I  I(    wanted  attention  and  interest. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  31 


BOOK  REVIEWS 


THE  BISHOP  MURDER  CASE 
By  S.  S.  Van  Dine 


Since  detective  stories  have  reached  their  present  pin- 
nacle of  perfection,  they  have  been  stamped  with  the  approv- 
al of  all  those  whose  brains,  weary  of  abstruse  problems,  turn 
in  relief  to  the  lesser  complicated  questions  of  "who  stsole 
the  revolver?",  "where  is  the  missing  necklace?"  and  most 
important  of  all,  "who  did  it?" 

Scientists  and  bankers  devour  mystery  stories,  and  col- 
lege professors,  we  have  lately  been  informed,  are  kept  in 
touch  with  sanity  by  the  nightly  solution  of  criminal  cases. 
For  the  mind  burdened  down  with  too  much  work,  and  the 
spirit  crushed  under  the  usual  number  of  Spring  papers  we 
know  no  better  release  than  the  latest  triumph  of  that  eru- 
dite amateur  detective  Philo  Vance.  His  triumph  is  spec- 
tacular, his  progress  towards  the  denouement  not  a  steady 
plodding  advance,  but  made  up  of  checks  and  successes  in  a 
most  realistic  manner.  Xot  only  does  S.  S.  Van  Dine  baffle 
the  reader  completely  until  the  very  end  of  the  book  is 
reached,  but  to  the  mystification  of  the  reader  by  legitimate 
mystery  story  methods  he  adds  a  kind  of  cultural  element,  to 
soothe  the  more  intelligent  of  his  readers,  and  no  doubt  to 
complete  the  bewilderment  of  the  average  peruser  of  detec- 
tive stories. 

For  those  who  are  tired  of  the  crime  passionel,  or  the 
murders  of  the  white-haired  savant  in  the  oak-panelled  lib- 
rary, or  the  cold-blooded  slaughter  of  three  maiden  ladies  in 
a  rickety  house  on  Lonely  Point,  we  advise  this  crime  that 
takes  place  in  the  higher  realm  of  pure  mathematics.  It  is 
true  that  there  are  a  few  of  the  well-known  figures  of  the  de- 
tective story,  but  there  are  also  a  great  many  new  ones.    You 


32  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

ma\  find  tin  familiar  butler  with  yellow  face  and  twitchim 


r-» 


fingers,  but  you  will  also  discover  references  to  Eddincrton, 
Einstein  and  tensorial  calculus.  You  may  greet  the  literal 
minded  detective  from  headquarters  as  an  old  friend,  hut 

you  will  surely  be  startled  by  seeing  nanus  such  as  Georgia 
O'Keefe  and  "Die  Meistersinger"  in  such  a  context. 

For  the  person  bored  with  the  crimes  committeed  in  ut- 
ter contradiction  of  all  Psychology  "The  Bishop  Murder 
Cast"  will  prove  an  excellent  excursion  into  abnormal  psy- 
chology. Let  whoever  scorns  the  detective  story  as  too  easy 
and  simple  for  his  consumption,  attack  a  chapter  called 
"Mathematics  and  Murder",  where  he  will  find  material  to 
occupy  his  mind  for  some  time. 

The  fault  of  the  hook  rests  more  or  less  in  spoiling  the 
taste  for  simpler,  less  theoretical,  and  more  easily  worked  out 
detective  stories.  If  Philo  Vance,  and  one  is  tempted  to  sus- 
pect Philo  Vance  of  being  the  incarnation  of  S.  S.  Van  Dine 
as  he  would  like  to  he.  keeps  on  with  his  series  of  remarkable 
discoveries,  the  tone  of  this  type  of  writing  will  change,  will 
become  more  philosophic,  subjective  and  involved.  The 
form  of  fiction  which  has  become  an  escape,  a  release  for 
over-worked  brains,  will  alter  until  only  the  most  highly- 
trained  and  indefatigable  minds  will  dare  to  open  the  covers 
of  a  "murder  case"  and  plunge  bravely  in  at  the  first  page, 
to  struggle  out  at  the  last,  exhausted  not  only  from  contend- 
ing with  an  assassin,  hut  also  with  "space-time",  the  quan- 
tum theory,  and  modern  art. 

P.  S.  1\ 


THE  AMENITIES  OF  HOOK  COLLECTING 
By  A.  Edward  N ewton 

The  most  satisfactory  thing  in  the  world  is  to  discover 
something  with  which  nobody  else  is  acquainted  and  then 
to  have  the  fun  of  introducing  this  something,  whether  it  he 
a  person,  a  hook,  or  a  vegetable  to  one  s  friends.  Hut  this  is 
a  rare  pleasure  and  most  of  us  must  he  content  with  the  ne\t 
Ixsl    thing,   an    introduction    to   that    same   person,   hook,   or 

table  through  the  medium  of  some  friend  whose  judge- 
ment we  trust.  Accordingly  I  would  like  to  thank  a  certain 
Mr.   Washburn   from   Boston  manv  times  for  his  enthusiasm 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  33 

over  The  Amenities  of  Book  Collecting.  About  four  years 
ago,  one  evening,  we  were  talking  about  books  and  people 
and  Mr.  Washburn  was  speaking  of  Ellery  Sedgwick  with 
whom  he  roomed  in  college  and  through  whom  he  bad  met 
Mr.  A.  Edward  Newton.  At  once  he  asked  me  if  1  had  read 
The  Amenities;  1  replied  that  I  had  not,  so  he  promised  to 
send  me  a  copy.  Within  a  few  days  the  book  arrived,  and 
since  my  first  hurried  perusal,  at  which  my  interest  was  im- 
mediately aroused,  as  the  book  is  beautifully  illustrated  with 
prints  and  facsimiles,  I  have  read  and  reread  it  many  times. 

I  have  often  heard  popular  science  condemned  on  the 
grounds  that  it  attempts  to  educate  people  to  an  understand- 
ing of  Einstein,  to  take  an  extreme  example,  who  have  not 
learnt  the  principles  of  Newton.  This  argument  might  be 
applied  to  the  writing  of  popular  books  on  book  collecting 
for  people  who  have  never  read  a  catalogue  and  who  are  only 
vaguely  suspicious  of  what  a  binding  "in  boards"  might  be. 
But  the  analogy  is  slight  and  falls  to  pieees  when  the  sub- 
ject is  eonsidered.  It  would  be  almost  impossible  to  write 
an  informal  essay  on  Motion,  for  instance,;  the  essay  might 
be  popular  in  the  sense  that  scientific  terms  were  carefully 
explained  and  that  the  most  easily  recognizable  illustrations 
were  used,  but  in  nature  it  would  be  technical.  An  essay  on 
book  collecting,  on  the  other  hand,  makes  a  most  delightful 
excuse  for  an  informal  essay  and  one  which  affords  a  wide 
field  for  digression.  It  may  be  technical  in  so  far  as  it  dis- 
cusses the  fine  points  of  binding,  printing,  etc.,  but  its  nature 
is  informal. 

In  The  Amenities  of  Booh  Collecting,  Mr.  Newton  has 
included  not  only  a  discussion  of  certain  of  his  favorite 
books  and  authors,  but  has  also  brought  in  all  his  best  friends 
and  casual  acquaintances  with  a  hundred  ramifications  there- 
of. He  writes  a  chapter  on  Association  Books,  and  this  word 
"association"  gives  the  keynote  to  his  whole  book,  for  The 
Amenities  is,  properly  speaking,  a  description  of  the  sympa- 
thetic bond  existing  between  Mr.  Newton  and  his  tastes. 
Nothing  irrelevant  is  introduced;  by  irrelevant  I  mean  un- 
related to  Mr.  Newton.  Dr.  Johnson,  one  feels,  must  have 
been  in  a  direct  line  of  spiritual  descent  with  Newton,  while 
Trollope  was  more  recently  adopted  by  him. 

Literary  criticism  does  not  intrude  itself;  "the  hard 
facts  of  the  emotions"  seem  to  be  the  only  criteria  bv  which 


34  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

M  i'.  Newton  praises  or  condemns.  And  yet  his  likes  and  dis- 
likes are  fairly  contagious  and  it  is  almost  impossible  to  close 
the  book  without  being  convinced  that  there  must  be  some- 
thing Fundamentally  noble  in  the  man  who  enjoys  .Johnson. 

.Mr.  Newton  gathers  to  himself  a  motley  collection  of 
authors:  William  Godwin,  Blake,  Oscar  Wilde.  Boswell, 
I. ami)  and  others,  in  all  of  whom  he  finds  something  congen- 
ial. What  does  it  matter  if  Mr.  Newton  makes  himself  the 
center  of  this  little  grouping  and  if  their  genius  appears  to 
shine  only  in  the  reflected  light  of  his  own  personal  appre- 
ciation!  lie  describes  his  characters  so  charmingly  and  seems 
to  take  such  a  huge  pleasure  in  the  telling  of  little  incidents 
in  connection  with  them,  that  we  enjoy  the  situation  all  the 
more.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  is  very  flattering  for  .Mr. 
Newton  with  great  scorn  excludes  from  the  inner  circle  all 
those  who  cannot  share  his  tastes,  thereby  striking  the  uncon- 
scious reader  in  a  most  vital  spot,  for  it  is  somehow  gratifying 
to  know  that  you  and  .Mr.  Newton  agree  regardless  of  the 
opinion  of  the  whole  rest  of  the  world. 

This  leads  ns  to  a  consideration  of  the  conceit  in  A.  Ed- 
ward Newton.  It  must  he  admitted  that  in  his  writings  he 
is  frankly  conceited  and  it  follows  that  he  is  even  patronizing, 
lie  invariably  speaks  of  such  and  such  an  eminent  person  as 
"my  very  good  friend,  Mr.  So-and  so"  in  a  manner  which 
leaves  no  doubt  in  one's  mind  as  to  the  value  of  Mr.  New- 
ton's friendship.  He  has  rather  an  offensive  way  of  speak- 
ing of  the  superiority  of  everything  English  to  everything 
American".  And  yet  this  conceit,  it  seems  to  me,  is  perfectly 
natural  and  altogether  likeable.  It  is  difficult  not  to  become 
pedantic  in  writing  or  talking  about  any  one  thing  in  which 
one  is  tremendously  interested.  There  is  a  bit  of  the  pedant 
in  all  of  us  which,  unless  it  become  unduly  exaggerated,  is 
no  more  than  a  natural  pride.  In  talking  about  one's  books. 
Ibis  tendency  simply  cannot  be  suppressed,  nor  would  it  be 
admirable  to  do  so.  In  The  Amenities,  Mr.  Newton  is  ad- 
dressing those  who  love  books  and  who  have  supposedly  this 
same  pedantic  quality  in  more  or  less  degree.  His  conceit 
adds  ;i  flavor  to  the  account  of  his  failures  and  successes  in 
th<  I )<>ok  collecting  game  and  its  ret  ract  ion  would  be  a  decid- 
ed loss  to  the  personality  of  the  book. 

Eleanor  S.  Atterbun . 


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Oil   Permanent  Wave 

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

Do   you    want   a    permanent   wave    th  it 
looks   like   a   marcel? 

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

wave   as   vou    desire   at 


BELANGER'S 


277    Main    St. 


Tel   688-W 


Higgins 


! 

I    HILL    BROTHERS 

Dry  Goods 

Rugs 

and 

Draperies 

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 


FRANK  BROTHERS 

Bflfc  AveaMie  Boot  Shop 

Between  47  <h  and  48!h  Streets,  New  York 


Footwear  of  Quality 
Moderately   Priced 


The  Green  Dragon 

229   Main   Street 

Gifts  of  Distinction 

ROOM   FURNISHINGS 


Order  Early 

Engraved  Visiting  Cards 

Wedding    Invitations 

and 

Announcements 

BRIDGMAN  &  LYMAN 

108   Main  St. 


cGJalluttt'B 
Hepartment 
&tore 


PLYMOUTH  INN 
TEAROOM 

LOCATED    IN" 
PLYMOUTH    INN 

"AT  THE   GATES  OF 
SMITH   COLLEGE" 

DINNER  MUSIC 
EVERY  WEEKEND 

MRS.    M     A.    T.    SCHOENECK,    Mgr. 

Boston  Fruit  Store    1 

The  Pioneer  Fruit  House  of  \ 
Northampton 

Patronize 

our 
Advertisers 

When    you    come    to    New    York 
Stay    at    the 

SMITH  COLLEGE  CLUB 

283   East    L7   Street                       1 
Telephone  Algonquin  790U              j 

Transient    rooms    at    $2.10    and    $2.70 

)>er   night 

Dormitory    cubicles    $1.80 

(20$    less   for  club  members) 

The     latchstring    is    out    for    all     Smith   | 
women    and    their    guests 

WALSH'S 

Cleaning,  Dyeing 
Pressing 

!     23  Green  Ave.        Next  to  Scott  Gym. 
Tel.  409-R 

THE 
NEW    HOTEL    GARAGE  j 

Storage,   Washing,  Supplies   j 

Stephen    S.    Sullivan                   Phone   8050  j 

OPP.    HOTEL    NORTHAMPTON      j 

W.  O.  KIRTLAND 
Good  Shoes 

[65   Main  St.,  Northampton,  Mass. 
SMART    FOOTWEAR 
|                                             for 

SPORT    AND    DRESS 

THOMAS  F.  FLEMING     j 

THE    SHOE    SHOP 

Exceedingly  Smart  Models 
— and  moderate  prices — 

Painstaking,   Courteous   Service 
12  CRAFTS  AVENUE 

JULIA  B.  CAHILL 

1  GREEN  ST. 
Reminding    you    of    the 

Girdles 

that   mould     the  figure   to  the 

fashionable  silhouette 

of  today 

THE  TARDIFF  SHOP 

Antiques  and 
Reproductions 

40  CENTER  ST. 

Careful  attention  given  to  packing  and 

shipping    Students'    Furniture. 

Tel.  2867-M 

The  Frank  E.  Davis  Store 

Watches,  diamonds,  high  class  gold 
jewelry,  silverware,  clocks,  fountain 
pens,  novelties,  leather  goods  and  an 
especially  good  variety  of  costume 
jewelry.  Some  of  the  most  attractive 
being  very  moderately  priced.  Watch 
and  jewelry  repairing  solicited. 

FRANK    E.   DAVIS 

164  Main  St. 


THE  MANSE 


RANGLEY  MOCCASINS 

Made  by   Bass 

Hand    sewed    vamps 

Choice  Matched  Leathers 

$5.90  to  $7.45 

Other   beautiful  sport  oxfords  in    wide  \ 

range    of   leathers 

$5.00,  $5.90  to  $7.90 

LaMontagne  Boot  Shop 

Near    Post    Office  I 


ARTHUR  P.  WOOD 


!      THE  JEWEL  STORE 


197  MAIN  TEL.   2898 


Patronize 


our 


Advertiser 


SUNSHINE  LUNCH 

i 

PLEASANT  ST. 


Opp.   Post  Office         Northampton 


Speaking  of   silver   linings 

When  the  hair-dresser  lets 
you  down  on  the  eve  of  a 
party  .  .  .  and  your  new 
shoes  don't  come  .  .  .  and 
the  youth  is  Unavoidably 
Detained  .  .  .  and  it's  rain- 
ing .  .  .  then,  oh  then,  what 
sweet  consolation  there  is  in 
a  Camel  ...  a  cigarette  just 
so  downright  good  that  no 
grief  can  prevail  against  it! 


*a 


Q1929,  R.  J.  Rrynol.U  Toharro  Co.,  Winrton-Salrm.  V  C. 


Smith   College 


May 
1929 


BOARD 

OF 
EDITORS 


Vol.  XXXVII  MAY,   1929  No.   8 

EDITORIAL  BOARD 

Editor-in-chief ,  Elizabeth  Shaw,   1930 

Managing  Editor,   Sallie   S.   Simons,   1930 

Booh  Review  Editor,  Priscilla  S.  Fairchild,  1930 

Elizabeth  Wheeler,  1929  Mary  F.  Chase,  1931 

Patty  H.  Wood,  1930  Elizabeth  Perkins,  1931 

Art  Editor,  Nancy  Wynne  Parker,  1930 

BUSINESS  STAFF 

Business  Manager,  Peggy  Sayre,  1930 

Advertising  Manager,  Esther  T.  Tow,  1931 

Circulation  Manager,  Sarah  Pearson,  1931 

Nancy  Dabney,  1930  Eleanor  Mathesius,  1931 

Agnes  Lyall,  1930  Eleanor  Church,  1932 

Mary  Folsom,  1931  Ariel  Davis,  1932 


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

from  October  to  June,  inclusive.    Terms  $2.00  a  year.    Single  copies  25c. 

Subscriptions  may  be  sent  to  Mary  Sayre,  Park  B,  Northampton. 

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  rates  of  postage  provided  for  in 

Section  1203,  Act  of  October  3,  1917.  Authorized  October  31,  1913." 


All  manuscript  should  be  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. 


An  odds-on  favorite 

Good  things  have  a  way  of 
making  themselves  known 
in  this  world,  whether  at 
Longchamps,  or  Saratoga,  or 
Epsom  Downs.  .  .  .  And  in 
these  places,  where  people 
gather  who  are  accustomed 
to  rely  upon  their  own  taste 
and  judgment,  you  will  find 
Camels  the  odds-on  favorite. 
.  .  .  They  have  a  winning  way. 

n 


©  l'>20,  R.  J.  Reynold*  TobMOO  Co.,  Winston-Salem,  N.  C. 


CONTENTS 


Extremities 


Myrtle  Brady,   1930        5 


Missionary 


Aline   Wechsler,  1932 


Entertainment 


Ellen   Robinson,  1929        9 


Southward 


Frances   Robinson,   1930      16 


The   Princess  Who  Wanted  the  Moon  Aline  Wechsler,  1982      17 


Rain  Must  Drop  Gently  Mary  Paxton  Macatee,   1930      19 


White   Instant 


Lucia   Weimer,   1930     20 


Claim 


Sallie  S.  Simons,   1930     23 


Sofa  Corner 


27 


Book  Reviews 


31 


— =jnr==ini ini ini ini  =ini  nni  mi  mi 1 

y^  An    Inn  of   Colonial   Charm 

i^ntrl  Nnrihamjitim 

Preserving  Colonial   Beauty  with   Modern   Comfort 
"Th*  Opm  Door"  125    Rooms— $2.50    up 

A  W«in.  Houl     MAIN    DIN  INC    ROOM  COFFEE    ROOM 

PRIVATE   DINING   ROOMS  FREE   PARKING   SPACE 

LEWIS   \".   WIGGINS,  Ifgr.    Phone  MOO      GARAGE   FACILITIES 


Paddock  Tailoring  Company 

CLEANING       —       DYEING 
PLEATING       —       FURRIER 


□ 


CD 


1    MASONIC  ST.  NORTHAMPTON,   MASS 

Telephone   374 


Baal 


j 


Cfor  vacation  hours  . 
Sleeveless  Dresses 


If  you  plan  to  spend  your  vacation  months  acquiring  a 

fashionable  "sun-tan"  complexion,  of  course,  you'll  want 

sleeveless  dresses  to  help  show  it  off.   Our  sixth  floor 

misses'  shop  has  anticipated  your  needs  with  models 

in  crepe   de    Chine,    printed    silks,    wash    silks, 

piques,  ginghams,  and  figured  lawns.  In 

pastel    shades    and   white. 

K.  II.  STIIAUNS  CO. 


Smith  College 
Monthly 


EXTREMITIES 

Myrtle  Brady 


SO  judge  people  by  their  legs  is  doubtless  immediately 
to  be  damned  as  being  dogmatic  or  whimsical  and 
these  attributes  are,  possibly,  two  of  the  least  sought 
after  in  the  world  today.  Yet  something  may  be  said  for 
them:  nay  more,  something  should  be  said  and  I  have  half 
a  mind  to  take  up  their  defense  instead  of  pursuing  the  sub- 
ject which  has  been  suggested  by  the  grand  opening  infin- 
itive phrase.  (See  above.)  But,  childishly,  I  am  forever 
defending  that  which  is  popularly  scorned  (I  enjoy  seeing 
the  wondering,  incredulous  stare  in  my  opponents'  eyes 
and  their  faces  growing  a  dull  belligerent  red),  so  that  if 
I  continue  so,  I  fear  people  will  no  longer  take  me  seri- 
ously— an  attitude  which  I  have  long  apprehended.  There- 
fore it  would  on  the  whole  be  a  better  thing  if  I  were  to 
adhere  to  my  original  plan,  laying  aside  all  extraneous  con- 
siderations of  dogmatism  and  whimsicality.  We  are  now 
back  to  judging  people  by  their  legs  and  I  can  tell  by  your 
expressions  that  any  further  digressions  will  not  be  welcome. 
But  there;  no  sooner  do  yon  decide  to  write  an  informal 
essay  than  some  one  instantly  loses  the  spirit  of  the  thing 
and  insists  on  a  formal  interpretation  and  the  title  which 
proclaims  your  work  as  being  "On"  such  and  such  a  thing. 
If  I  were  to  give  my  efforts  such  a  name  it  would  be  sheer 
deception  of  the  public  and  as  such  to  be  assiduouslv  avoid- 
ed. 

However,  it  happened  that  yesterday  when  I  had  part- 
ed from  a  casual  friend  whom  I  had  considered  making 
something  more  than  casual,  I  paused  a  moment  and  idly 


6  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

watched  her  figure  go  down  the  hill.     A  good  head,  a  nici 
back,  broad  hips  of  the  extremely  potential  mother,  quarters 

sloping  si >thlv  enough.     1  smiled,  unconsciously  pleased, 

and  then  something  told  me  to  look  a  little  lower.  My  eyes 
dropped  too  quickly  to  her  calves  and  the  swiftness  of  their 
descenl  made  me  realize  more  than  the  sight  itself  that  my 
friend  lacked  the  goodly  sweep  of  thigh  which  other  friends 
of  mine  have  always  had.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  her 
thigh  had  become  a  calf  and  I  did  not  like  it  in  the  least. 
It  worried  me  and  I  thought  twice  before  I  permitted  myself 
to  measure  the  distance  from  the  calf  to  the  ground.  It 
was  as  1  feared.  My  eye.  jaundiced  perhaps  by  this  sud- 
den disillusionment,  saw  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  hi<>' 
heavy  treading  foot,  nothing  would  have  stopped  that  calf 
from  being  at  one  with  Mother  Earth.  The  notion  did  not 
please  me,  hut  as  yet  I  could  not  turn  away.  I  became  fas- 
cinated by  the  indomitable  motion  of  her  legs  as  thev  pro- 
pelled her  body  surely  towards  her  next  class.  She  would 
get  there  all  right,  all  right.  Nothing  would  stop  her.  No. 
I  forced  myself  to  turn  away  for  I  began  to  feel  a  little  sick. 

Later  in  the  agreeable  legless  desert  of  my  room  I 
though!  it  all  out.  I  knew  then  that  my  friend's  thoughts, 
which  I  had  hitherto  considered  as  particularly  appealing, 
were  nothing  but  a  defense  mechanism  provided  for  her  by 
nature  suddenly  embarrassed  at  turning  out  another  baldly 
businesslike  personality.  And  then.  I  proceeded  to  defend 
myself:  no.  certainly,  1  had  not  been  gullible  throughout 
the  apprenticeship  of  our  acquaintance,-— credulous,  yes, 
hut  not  gullible.  Surely  I  always  realized  that  when  she 
tried  to  place  herself  at  an  angle  other  than  right  to  the 
earth,  it  was  almost  impossible  for  her  and  if  by  (hut  of 
sheer  will-power  she  succeeded  for  an  imperceptible  space' 
of  time,  she  always  e\*nne'  back  to  normal  like  one  of  those 
small  toy  dolls  which  Cannot  he  upset  because  of  their  rounel 

weighted  bottoms.     I  never  really  saw  her  drift  gracefully 

<  \  en  at  an  angle  of  seventy-five  degrees.  Always  she-  would 
topple  hack,  yet  talking  frantically  to  maintain  the*  illusion 

that   she  was  still  a  little-  foreign  to  this  planet.      And  what 

was  it  that  kepi  her  from  escaping?  Of  course,  her  round- 
ed weighty  legs.  They  forced  her  hack  inevitably;  her  trunk 
mighl  bend  and  pull  and  her  head  toss  wildly  hut  she1  would 
I"   rendered  only  the  more  ridiculous  by  her  struggles.    She- 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  7 

was  indigenous  to  the  soil  and  I  must  always  have  known 
it.     Except  that  now  I  knew  why. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  I  have  never  considered  myself  a 
stickler  for  beautiful  legs.  (If  I  were,  I  would  be  miserable 
all  day  long).  A  "well-turned"  ankle  does  not  move  me  to 
rapture,  in  fact  I  have  always  thought  them  rather  lewd 
looking,  but  that  may  immediately  be  laid  up  to  jealousy 
and  middle-class  morality.  But  I  know  that  no  one,  whose 
leg  is  as  well-grounded  as  that  of  my  former  friend  can  ever 
claim  a  corner  in  this  heart.  Bow-legged  people,  thick- 
ankled  people,  even  people  over  at  the  knees,  yes  I  have 
rarely  found  fault  with  any  of  these.  It  is  true  that  I  have 
never  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  some  of  them  soar  above 
me  in  the  surrounding  ether,  but  if  that  be  the  case,  it  is 
because  they  have  not  tried.  They  have  not  pretended  and 
thus  they  have  not  been  betrayed  by  their  legs  as  my  friend 
had  been  by  hers. 

Have  I  been  dogmatic  or  whimsical?  God  grant  that 
I  have.  For  without  dogmatism  there  is  much  which  is  soul- 
destroying  and  without  whimsicality  there  is  the  "true  sense 
of  humor"  which  leads  to  practical  joking  with  intense 
physical  discomfort  in  its  wake.  These  are  not  for  me.  Rath- 
er let  me  force  upon  my  audience  ultra  obscurantist  teach- 
ings with  some  show  of  fire  in  my  eyes  than  lie  scarcely 
breathing  somewhere  in  the  underbrush  of  lethargy;  rather 
suffer  me  to  commit  a  gently  whimsical  act,  or  to  tell  a  faint- 
ly whimsical  story  than  pour  a  pail  of  water  onto  the  head 
of  the  person  on  the  street  below.  But  refrain  from  direct- 
in  i>-  toward  me  the  finder  of  Freud. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


MISSIONARY 
Aline  Wechsleb 


Vou  grovel  low  to  Ikabod, 

That  puny,  sightless,  wooden  god. 

And  as  an  antidote  for  vice, 

You  cast  a  cautious  sacrifice 

Unheeded,  at  his  rotting  feet 

Your  prayers  are  honeyed  and  discreet. 

But  Ikabod-of-wooden-ear, 

Ikabod  will  never  hear. 

Come  and  worship  Hetsakai 
Keen  of  ear  and  cold  of  eye. 
Lofty  in  a  temple  where 
Sinners  supplicate  in  prayer, 
Pompons  in  his  robes  of  state. 
Richly  broidered  and  sedate. 
Hetsakai  wil  grant  you  aid, — 
He  is  carven  out  of  jade. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


ENTERTAINMENT 

Ellen  E.  Robinson 


f^TlHE  moon  had  just  risen  and  stared  down  with  un- 
|vl/|  ashamed  curiosity  at  the  group  of  buildings  in  the 
E&jSfl  center  of  the  woods — at  the  three-story  hotel  with  its 
porches  one  above  the  other  in  front  and  in  back,  the  com- 
missary with  its  high  steps,  and  the  few  small  unpainted 
houses.  Barely  fifty  people  and  yet  the  surveyors'  map 
called  the  clearing  "London". 

"And  we'll  be  having  a  chamber  of  commerce  yet," 
said  Jim  Woods,  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel  and  the  owner 
of  the  commissary.  He  shifted  his  weight  on  the  steps  of 
the  commissaiy.  "Some  day  we  will  be  the  queen  city  of 
Alabama.     And  I'll  live  to  see  it,  too." 

There  were  ten  young  engineers  on  the  top  floor  of 
the  hotel — thin,  laughing  men  from  Eastern  colleges.  They 
slept  in  two  large  rooms  and,  if  they  had  not  been  exhausted 
every  night  at  nine-thirty,  the}^  would  have  been  a  noisy  lot. 
Noisy  enough  on  Sunday  mornings  as  it  was!  Then  there 
were  three  married  engineers  and  the  superintendent  and 
his  wife,  who  all  lived  in  the  poor  little  houses  built  on 
stilts.  They  pretended  to  a  certain  home  life,  but  they  re- 
turned to  the  hotel  for  Sunday  dinner. 

Donald  Mclnness  and  his  wife,  Caroline,  still  lived  at 
the  hotel,  but  their  house  had  been  going  up  for  four  months. 

"Anybody  would  think,"  Donald  said,  "that  it  was  a 
house  we  were  asking  for.  How  those  niggers  can  waste 
all  this  time  with  a  few  boards  and  a  little  plaster  .  .  .  ': 

"I  don't  mind  so  much,  Don  dear.  You  know  I  told 
you  I  can't  cook  much." 

"Cook!  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  you  could  have  just  as 
many  niggers  as  you  want.    Five  of  them.    Ten  of  them.  .  ,! 

"I  know,  dear — but  there  aren't  any  cooks.  And  the 
other  women  say  it's  best — " 

"But,  darling,  I  don't  want  you — " 

"Oh,  I'll  like  it."  Her  mind  flashed  back  over  these 
six  months.  She  saw  their  arrival  at  the  hotel;  everybody 
had  dressed  up  for  them.     The  women  were  open-mouthed 


10  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

at  the  magnificence  of  her  going-away  suit.    Their  room — 
\(  i\  small,  but  full  of  finery  lent  for  the  occasion. 

'"The  bridal  suite,"  Jim  Woods  railed  it  as  he  opened 
tin  door  for  them.  A  blast  of  pink  from  the  bed — that  was 
Mrs.  Howell's  best  spread:  a  flaming  dragon  writhing  over 

a  bit  of  painted  glass      that  was  the  shade  on  Mrs.  Edwards' 

lamp;  a  small  wicker  chair  donated  by  .Jim  Woods  himself. 

I  ain't  been  able  to  get  into  it  since  1909.  You  might 
as  well  keep  it.  "i  It  was  the  only  chair  in  the  room  and  a 
great  satin  cushion — piercingly  yellow — filled  it  completely. 
She  had  come  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning  in 
light  blue  silk  with  a  wide  pleated  ruffle  about  the  neck. 
Josy  the  waitress  stared  at  her.  rolling  her  eyes,  and  dropped 
a   plate  of  biscuits. 

Hut  Caroline  learned.  She  bought  some  gingham  at 
the  commissary  and  sewed  up  on  the  second  floor  porch 

w  ith  Anetta  Woods,  Jim's  daughter  and  the  only  unmarried 
white  woman  in  a  radius  of  twenty-live  miles.  They  sewed 
all  day  long;  there  was  nothing  else  to  do;  even  walking  was 
forbidden  them.  ("Had  niggers  hiding  in  these  woods,  dear. 
1  think  I'll  get  a  shot-gun  soon.")  They  made  gingham 
dresses  for  themselves,  and  for  all  the  servants,  gingham 
curtains,  gingham  bed-spreads,  and  gingham  shirts  for  tin 
men.  It  was  a  single-thread  machine  and  Caroline  was  slow 
in  learning.  Donald  was  eloquent  over  the  first  shirt  she 
made  him,  but  he  came  home  with  the  collar  oil',  and  the 
next  day  with  a  sleeve  out.  "I  just  pulled  a  little  thread. 
dear.     I'm  awfully  sorry." 

She  thought  of  the  wedding  notices  in  the  papers  back 
home.  "Mr.  and  .Mrs.  Mclnness  will  be  at  home  on  October 
1Mb  in  London.  Alabama."  And  she  thought  of  all  those 
(ailing  cards  buried  in  one  of  the  trunks — down  underneath 
the  chiffon  negligee,  the  rose  taffeta  evening-dress,  and  Don- 
ald's dress-suit. 

It  was  Saturday  night-  and  late.  The  hotel  dance  was 
over.  Caroline  sat  (nit  on  the  steps  of  the  porch,  waiting  for 
Donald,  who  had  been  called  over  to  the  negro  settlement 
near  the  mine  to  set  a  broken  leg.  Another  light.  More 
whiskey.  More  razors.  She  was  used  to  Donalds  being 
called  away  on  Saturday  nights:  and  he  rather  liked  it.  be- 
ing one  of  those  men  whose  great  regret  is  that  they  (\u\ 
not  si ndv  medicine. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  1 1 

She  thought  she  could  still  hear  the  victrola  in  the  din- 
ing room,  though  the  windows  were  black.  Leaning  her 
head  against  an  unpainted  post,  she  thought  lazily  of  the 
dance.  Dance!  Ten  couples — no,  five  couples  and  ten  ex- 
tra men.  Quite  an  ideal  arrangement  in  a  way.  They  had 
made  Donald  and  her  do  their  stunt  again.  That  silly 
vaudeville  thing — she  yodelling  and  he  clogging.  Not  very 
good —  but  it  was  fun  doing  it  for  these  people.  And  just 
as  much  appreciation  as  on  the  night  of  their  first  nervous 
performance. 

The  moon  hung  just  over  the  edge  of  the  woods — 
smug,  safe,  with  a  sudden  fearful  prominence  when  the 
clouds  left  it  entirely  free.  The  edge  of  the  woods  was  a 
sharp  semi-circle  before  her  and  the  lower  parts  of  the  trees 
were  visible,  unobscured  by  any  underbrush  except  the  fit- 
ful clumps  of  berry  bushes.  She  followed  a  path  with  her 
eyes ;  it  was  the  same  dull  red  as  the  mud  at  the  foot  of  the 
hotel  steps.  The  lights  of  the  houses  went  out  one  by  one. 
Underneath  the  hotel  she  could  hear  the  grunting  of  pigs, 
still  content  with  the  garbage  thrown  over  the  back-porch 
after  supper.  Far  off,  directly  under  the  moon,  it  seemed, 
a  whippoorwill  cried — and  suddenly  it  was  as  though  he  cried 
within  her. 

The  moon  poked  maliciously  between  the  trees  and  a 
breath  of  mist  rose  reluctantly,  standing  ghost-like  in  the 
clearings  between  the  berry  bushes,  or  clinging  low  and  close 
to  the  tree  trunks,  with  a  tortured  immobility.  Then  a  slight 
breeze,  and  the  earthly  mist  mocked  the  heavy  clouds  now 
tumbling  about  the  moon. 

Caroline  looked  up.  A  tall,  thin  negro  stood  at  the 
bottom  of  the  steps.  His  lips  bulged  out  from  his  face 
and  seemed  to  be  swelling  rapidly.  He  wore  brown  and 
white  checked  trousers — high  on  his  ankles  and  tight — and 
an  old  red-velvet  smoking  jacket,  almost  maroon  in  the 
moonlight.  He  leaned  toward  her  and  she  saw  a  long  pink- 
ish scar  on  the  top  of  his  head- — ridiculously  like  the  path 
in  the  woods.  Half  the  back  of  the  smoking  jacket  hung 
in  a  three-cornered  tear. 

"Mis  Minnus,  I'm  Jeff'son  Shakespeare.  Yo'  husband 
he  say  he  want  yo'  should  come  help  him.  They's  bavin  a 
baby  an'  Mr.  Minnus  he  say  come  quick." 

She  was  down  the  steps  in  a  moment.     How  exciting! 


12  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

Donald  and  she  helping  these  people.  Donald  calling  on 
her.  Something  to  do  at  last.  She  didn't  know  much,  but 
at  Kast  she  could  boil  water  or  pour  out  medicine  or  some- 
thing. She  hurried  to  the  path  in  the  woods.  Jefferson  a 
little  ahead  of  her. 

It  wasn't  a  path  after  all,  bui  a  road.  Jefferson  Pell  to 
the  rear  and  they  walked  in  silence.  Sometimes  a  damp 
hit  of  mud  made  her  slip.  Always  before  her  in  the  distance 
was  a  wall  of  mist  just  on  the  next  curve  of  the  road.  Hut 
when  they  reached  the-  curve  the  wall  was  further  e>n  and 
only  a  Jew  still  pull's  were  left  on  the  ground.  She  thought 
it  was  the  same  road  she-  and  Donald  had  walked  one  Sunday 
morning,  when  he  had  taken  her  to  see'  the  shafts.  Hut 
Jefferson  saiel  Donald  had  left  the  settlement  and  gone  fur- 
ther on.  the  other  side  of  the  mine. 

She  walked  on.  watching  her  feet  and  thinking  that 
she-  would  have  to  net  Donald  to  take  her  into  Birmingham 
soon.  New  shoe's,  for  one  thing.  Perhaps  they  could  go 
to  a  movie.  Her  first  movie  in  six  months! — "Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Mclnness  will  he  at  home  in  London.  Alabama/'  She' 
laughed  a  little'.  Jefferson  thought  she'  had  spoken  and 
came  abreast  of  her  for  a  moment. 

"No,  nothing  ....  hut  is  it  much  further?" 

■  In  some'  ways  it  ain't.  .Mis'  Minims,  an'  in  some  ways 
t*is." 

The'  fog  reached  above  her  head  now.  Only  the  road 
was  clear  of  it.  hut  at  the  sides  the-  grey  masses  menaced 
her.  She  could  see-  no  moon  and  yet  a  light  came  from  some- 
where and  struggled  with  the  motionless  grey  walls. 

It  had  been  foggy  like  this  the  third  time'  she'  met  Don- 
ald no.  the'  fourth  time'.  At  a  suhway  entrance.  lie  had 
a  paper  under  his  arm  and  an  overcoat  too  large  for  him.  A 
hojse  had  pushed  his  head  suddenly  at  them  through  the  fog. 

And  they  had  laughed  at  his  mournful  eyes. 

Jefferson  was  a  little'  nearer.     lie  evidently  IV!!   the 

in  i  d  of  e-on\  ersal  ion  and  began  to  te-ll  her  of  a  ham  \\  eel  mine 
near  them  over  to  the  hit.  A  cow  had  fallen  into  the  old 
shaft  and  died.  Three'  nights  later  Jeff<  rson  and  his  friends 
'.ini'  by  and  the  ghost  of  the'  cow  white'  and  terrible— pur- 
sued Hi*  in.  Half-way  through  his  story  she  remetobered 
thai   two  of  the  engineers  had   run  oil'  with  one'  of  the  hotel 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  13 

sheets  and  had  come  back  covered  with  mud  and  mooing 
ecstatically  at  each  other. 

Jefferson  now  walked  parallel  to  her  but  a  few  feel 
away.  She  asked  again  if  they  were  almost  there  and  he 
made  no  answer.  The  fog  now  surrounded  them  but  al- 
ways at  a  distance  of  five  or  six  feet.  Jefferson  seemed  to 
know  the  road  well  and  took  the  turnings  instinctively.  The 
light  had  grown  dimmer  and  she  could  see  only  his  great 
lips  and  the  whites  of  his  eyes  as  he  glanced  sideways  into 
the  woods — or,  rather,  where  the  woods  must  be,  swallowed 
up  in  the  fog. 

She  was  tired  but  she  hurried  more  and  more.  It 
seemed  as  though  she  had  been  walking  all  her  life  along 
this  road,  slipping  a  little,  her  shoes  gradually  heavy  with 
mud,  her  voile  skirt  limp  and  clinging.  The  fog  was  close 
about  her;  she  wanted  to  push  through  it  with  her  hands. 
It  pressed  against  her — against  the  front  of  her  and  all 
about  her  ears.  She  almost  heard  the  noise  of  its  advance — 
a  rumbling.  Or  was  it  just  the  silence  that  rumbled  ?  What 
was  noise?  What  was  silence?  What  was  tangible  and 
what  was  intangible? 

Jefferson  was  a  little  ahead.  She  kept  close  to  him, 
her  eyes  on  the  tear  in  his  coat,  through  which  his  black 
skin  ^listened  a  little.  Once  she  stepped  on  his  heel.  He 
said,  "'Seuse  me.  Mis'  Minnus."  And  his  voice  was  thun- 
der, resounding  back  behind  the  grey  walls  and  rolling  along 
the  ground  beneath. 

Her  throat  was  thick  and  rough.  She  wanted  to  speak 
but  she  was  afraid  somehow  to  make  herself  known  to  this 
creeping  greyness.  Her  hair  twisted  beseechingly  across  her 
face  and  when  she  pushed  it  aside  it  was  heavy  and  wet. 

Jefferson  was  hardly  visible.  She  listened  for  the  faint 
squush  of  his  feet  down  somewhere  in  the  fog.  How  far 
down?     Miles  perhaps. 

She  had  ceased  to  think.  Her  mind  was  grey  and  dam]) 
and  thick.  In  all  the  world  there  was  nothing  but  the  squush 
squush  of  Jefferson's  feet.  And  her  listening  became  so  in- 
tent that  she  lost  her  sense  of  herself — and  of  everything. 
It  was  as  though  she  were  prone  on  the  ground — listening. 

A  blurred  light  struggled  off  to  the  right.  She  felt 
that  it  must  have  been  there  all  the  time,  but  that  she  had 
somehow  just  seen  it. 


14  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

"Hen    w<   are,  Mis'  Minnus,"  said  Jefferson.     Some 
when    there  was  a  sound  of  clapping  hands  and  stamping 
feel  and  the  music  of  a  bad  violin. 

Tin  wall  of  a  house  stepped  up  to  them  quietly.  A 
door  opened  and  they  were  inside  a  lighted  room. 

The  clapping  and  stamping  stopped  and  the  violin  gai  < 
•  in    last   tortured  note.     A  crowd  of  negroes  parted  and 
Jefferson  walked  through  them  to  the  center  of  the  room. 
Caroline  followed  him.  her  eyes  still  on  the  three-cornered 
tear. 

Jefferson  turned  and  pointed  toward  her  with  his  open 
hand.    Sin  stared  at  the  huge  pink  palm. 

"Here  she  is."  he  boomed.  They  all  looked  at  her. 
The  attention  of  a  mass  of  dark  shining  faces  hundreds 
of  them,  she-  thought. 

A  short  fat  woman  in  blue  calico  lumbered  up  to  her. 
"Mis1  .Minims,  we's  been  havin'  a  pahty  an1  we  thought  as 
how  you-all  might  come  an'  make  yo'  noise  for  us.  Jeff'son 
done  said  yo'  do  it  mighty  wunnerful."  Caroline  looked 
at  her;  the  black  folds  under  her  chin  Happed  a  little. 

Jefferson   came  up,   "Y'know,   .Mis'   Minnus,   like  yo' 
done  it  at  the  hotel  eb-ry  Sa'day  night.    That  pretty  noise- 
sort  of  way  up  high  like." 

A  heavy  grey  em-tain  went  up  slowly  in  the  back  of 
her  head.    Where  was  she?    Out  alone  in  the  Black  Belt- 
not  another  white  person     the  great  black  muscles  of  these 
men     what  did  they  want?     Where  was  Donald? 

"Aw,  Mis'  .Minnus.  like  yo9  done  at  the  dance  tonight." 
Dance!     Was  thai   tonight,  only  a  few  hours  ago?  She 
and  Donald  in  a  stunt.     Something  silly.     Her  yodelling 

Oh.  that  was  what  they  wanted.     Yodelling,     She  would 

have  to  do  it.     Poor  things!     Only  children  really.     Hut 
such  a  long  walk.    Where  was  Donald? 

She   turned   to  Jefferson  and  nodded  her  head.     Tie 

nodded   to  all   the  others  and   they  seemed   to  sigh  a  little— 

and  waited.    She  cleared  her  throat  and  lifted  up  her  head 
tn  sing. 

She  finished,  liny  were  motionless.  She  took  their 
silence  for  appreciation  and  sang  again.    And  a  third  time. 

Then  she  was  tired  and  looked  at  Jefferson. 

Il<  turned  abruptly  and  went  to  the  door.  She  fol- 
lowed him.    The  crowd  moved  slowly  together  again,  smil- 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  15 

ing  at  her.  An  old  man  tuned  a  violin  thoughtfully.  The 
door  shut  and  she  could  hear  the  slow  stamping  and  a  dull 
measured  clapping.     Great  pink  palms.  .  . 

The  fog  squeezed  about  the  house.  Jefferson  found  the 
road  and  taking  hold  of  his  coat  she  followed  him.  Once 
she  shut  her  eyes  and  the  greyness  pushed  at  her  lids  until 
she  opened  them  in  defence. 

There  was  no  sound.  There  was  nothing.  Only  this 
greyness  and  a  hit  of  red  velvet  in  her  hand. 


SOUTHWARD 

Frances  Robinson 


Morning 

Snowflakes 

Powdering  down  the  air 

With  soft  insistence 

Blot  out  the  smoke-covered  walls, 

Narrowing  the  world  to  us, 

While  the  engine  stands, 

Black  and  impatient ; 

And  your  last  kiss 

Touches  my  lips  as  lightly  as  the  snow. 

Evening 

Cherry  blossoms 

Loosened  by  the  nimble  fingered  breeze, 

Fall,  as  the  evening  falls, 

Slowly  and  restfully, 

Sounding  full  tones  on  the  southern  night  air. 

The  harmony  will  remain  unbroken; 

I  will  return — 

The  petals  will  be  fashioned  back  to  snowflakes 

Falling  on  you 

From  the  magic  that  is  over  us, 

For  there's  a  charm  that's  flung  about  the  day 

Feathering  it  in. 


16 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


rilK  PRINCESS  WHO  WANTED  THE  MOON 

A  MM.     Wl.CHSI.KK 


ly^iHE  little  princess  lived  in  a  marble  palace  built  high 

\vU  upon  a  clipped  green  lawn  on  which  cedar  trees  were 
§5  planted  in  well-spaced  rows.  It  was  entirely  surround- 
ed by  a  lake  whereon  swans  floated  lazily  and  miniature 
boats  spread  their  silken  sails  in  the  breezes.  'This  was  the 
princess'  kingdom,  and  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  the 
boundaries  of  the  lake  were  the  farthest  corners  of  the  world. 
Here  she  lived,  surrounded  by  her  prime  minister,  seven 
ladies-in-waiting,  and  a  little  page  who  stood  respectfully 
beside  her  throne,  when  the  princess  was  pleased  to  sit  there, 
and  ran  errands  i'or  the  ladies-in-waiting.  Every  week  the 
court  magician  was  summoned  before  the  princess  to  de- 
\  ise  new  games  and  toys  for  the  amusement  of  her  highness, 
and  she  played  with  these  for  a  few  hours  and  then  threw 
them  listlessly  aside.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  she 
\\  as  bored. 

One  night  as  she  was  standing  on  the  terrace,  leaning 
over  the  balustrade  and  looking  out  into  the  night,  she  no- 
ticed a  crescent-shaped  piece  of  silver  suspended  from  a 
wisp  of  nothing  in  the  dark  heavens.  She  clapped  her  hands 
and  the  little  page  appeared,  with  a  waxen  taper  in  his  hand. 
The  princess  pointed  upward  to  the  roof  of  the  sky. 

"What  is  that  ?"  she  asked.  "Thai  shining  thing  up 
there?  Do  you  think  it  is  made  of  crystal,  white  gold  or 
diamonds  ?" 

"Why.  your  highness,"  said  the  little  page,  "that  is  the 
moon,  and  none  can  say  of  what  it  is  made,  for  none1  has 
ever  reached  it.  for  all  that  men  have  tried." 

"II  is  eery  pretty,"  observed  the  princess.  "Il  looks 
like  a  tiara,  or  a  strange,  shining  comb.  1  think  I  would  like 
to  have  it  to  wear  in  my  hair.  Do  you  think  it  would  look 
nice  V* 

"Beautiful,  your  highness!"  said  the  page.  "Your  hair 
would  he  the  brilliance  of  the  sun.  enhanced  by  the  chill 
splendor  of  the  moon.     II   would  he     lovely!     Hut    I  am 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  17 

afraid  that  the  sun  will  have  to  shine  alone,  for  the  moon  is 
inaccessible  and  none  may  ever  reach  it." 

"I  am  not  like  other  people,"  said  the  princess,  "Some 
day  1  will  he  a  queen,  and  kings  and  queens  may  do  as  they 
please." 

"Even  kings  and  queens  have  aspired  to  the  moon," 
said  the  page.     "And  none  has  ever  reached  it." 

"How  dare  you!"  said  the  princess.  "Send  for  the 
magician  and  the  prime  minister  at  once." 

The  magician  and  the  prime  minister  were  wakened 
and  brought  before  the  little  princess. 

"I  would  like  to  have  the  moon,"  she  said.  "There  is 
nothing  else  in  the  whole  world  that  can  satisfy  me.  1  must 
have  the  moon.     Bring  it  to  me  tomorrow  at  midnight." 

"But,  your  highness, — "  said  the  magician  and  the 
prime  minister  with  one  voice.  The  princess,  however,  had 
already  swept  past  them  into  the  palace,  her  royal  nose  tilted 
high ;  and  they  were  left  alone. 

"If  we  do  not  procure  her  the  moon,"  said  the  prime 
minister  somberly  "we  will  be  decapitated  in  the  morning." 

"Horrors!"  said  the  magician.  "There  is  only  the 
faintest  glimmer  of  a  hope, — but  I  will  see  what  can  be 
done." 

He  brewed  a  potion  in  a  silver  kettle,  muttering  gloom- 
ily, and  walking  around  in  circles  as  he  did  so.  The  kettle 
began  to  sing  and  moan,  and  at  last  a  voice  was  heard,  escap- 
ing in  the  thin  clouds  of  steam  that  exuded  from  the  caul- 
dron. 

"I  am  the  spirit  of  night,"  said  the  voice.  "What  is 
it  you  wish  of  me?     Speak!" 

"Our  princess  desires  the  moon  for  a  prize,"  faltered 
the  magician.     "She  is  not  to  be  dissuaded!" 

All  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

The  voice  said,  "The  moon  is  avid  of  human  soul ;.  She 
crushes  them  until  they  are  limp  and  useless  and  then  tosses 
them  back  to  their  owners.  Perhaps,  with  the  offer  of  a 
soul  or  two,  she  could  be  persuaded  .  .  .  just  for  one  night. 
I  know  of  no  other  way  ..." 

The  voice  faded  and  receded  until  it  was  one  with  the 
heavy  silence  of  the  black  skv, — and  the  magician  and  the 
prime  minister  looked  at  each  other.  The  prime  minister 
blew  a  silver  whistle  and  in  a  moment,  the  whole  court  was 


18  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

assembled,  the  seven  ladies-in-waiting  with  their  heads  bob- 
bing in  neat  curl  papers,  and  the  little  page  still  holding  his 

\\  axui  taper. 

The  prime  minister  cleared  his  throat.  "Ahem,"  he 
began  impressively.  "Hit  highness,  the  most  illustrious 
princess  Bramble,  has  commanded  that  the  moon  be  brought 
to  her  tomorrow  at  midnight." 

A  little  flutter  from  the  direction  of  the  ladies-in-wait- 
ing. 

And."  continued  the  prime  minister.  "'Hie  only  way 
in  which  the  moon  may  he  procured  is  witli  the  offering  of 
.1  human  soul.  Which  of  you  will  (L>ive  his  soul,  that  the 
princess  may  play  with  the  moon?" 

"Not  l,"  said  the  first  lady-in-waiting.  "Nor  I,"  echoed 
the  second  and  third  and  fourth. 

"1  would  gladly  offer  my  own,"  said  the  prime  minister, 
"but  unfortunately,  we  men  of  affairs  must  retain  our  souls. 
They  are  invaluable  in  matters  of  state.  And  the  magician 
here  sold  his  to  a  black  witch,  many  years  ago.  .  .  Will  hoik 
of  you  give  his  soul  ?     No  one  \  .  .  ." 

''I  will,"  said  the  little  page,  and  he  handed  it  to  the 
magician. 

The  magician  took  the  soul  of  the  little  page  in  his 
hand  and  whispered  softly  to  it.  Then  he  flung  his  hand 
upward  and  the  soul  departed  on  its  journey  to  the  moon. 
The  court  retired  for  the  second  time  that  night,  all  hut 
the  little  page  who  sat  down  with  his  hack  to  the  door  of 
the  room  where  the  princess  slept  and  kept  solitary  watch 
throughout  the  night. 

The  next  evening  there  was  great  commotion  in  the 
court.  It  had  become  known  that  the  princess  was  to  be 
presented  with  the  moon,  sharp  at  the  hour  of  midnight. 

The  little  princess  was  clothed  in  a  dress  tinted  the  warm 
golden  shades  of  the  sun;  her  eyes  were  bright  and  her  hail- 
tin  color  of  honey.  She  sat  upon  her  throne,  the  little  page 
standing  by  her  side  as  usual,  and  waited  for  the  long  min- 
utes to  pass  .  .  .  At  last  the  clock  struck,  slowly,  one.  .  .  . 
I  w  <•  ...   .   three  ....   four  ....  and  so  on,   until    finally, 

twelve!  A  dread  hush,  then  a  little  whirring  sound,  and  a 
silver  package  dropped  into  the  lap  of  the  princess  She 
unfastened  it  eagerlv,  with  trembling  fingers,  the  ladies-in- 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  19 

waiting  crowding  around  her.  At  last  it  was  opened  and  the 
princess  held  it  up  for  all  to  see. 

"It  is  very  pretty,"  said  the  ladies-in-waiting  politely. 

The  princess  hugged  it  to  her,  and  then  she  looked  at  it 
for  the  first  time.  Suddenly  she  stood  up,  her  eyes  blazing, 
her  little  fists  clenched  with  rage. 

"How  dare  you,  how  (hire  you!"  she  cried  to  the  whole 
court.  kI  will  have  all  your  heads  cut  off'  in  the  morning! 
How  dare  you  humiliate  me  in  sueh  a  manner!"  And  she 
threw  the  package  on  the  ground  before  her. 

The  moon  was  nothing  but  a  piece  of  green  cheese. 

The  package  rolled  down  the  carpeted  steps  of  the 
throne,  and  a  white  substance,  limp  and  inert,  dropped  at 
the  feet  of  the  little  page.  Nobody  noticed  it,  lying  there, 
crumpled  and  forlorn.  Not  even  the  little  page  could  recog- 
nize it.  It  was  nothing  but  his  soul,  lifeless  and  still,  re- 
turned bv  the  moon  when  she  had  crushed  it  to  death. 


RAIN  MUST  DROP  GENTLY 
Mary  Paxton  Macatee 


The  rain  must  drop  quite  gently  on  the  pond, 
Or  else  it  will  crack  open  with  its  blows 
The  brittle  net  of  sunlight  Hung  across 
This  sullen  water  where  a  greyness  flows. 

Rain  must  not  pierce  too  deeply  to  its  heart. 
This  little  shower  will  not  break  the  seal 
That  holds  the  water  calm,  and  gives  it  still 
A  loveliness,  because  it  seems  unreal. 

The  sun  is  drowned  within  a  lake  of  clouds, 
But  all  day  long  it  had  a  chance  to  make 
The  gossamer  of  sheen  upon  the  pond. 
To  spread  the  fragile  light  no  rain  must  break. 


20 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 


WHITE  INSTANT 
Lucia  Weimeb 


a  didn't  answer  Daphne's  first  letter.  It  was  scrawled 
in  her  large,  rather  hold  handwriting  on  fragile  crest- 
ed notepaper  and  said  something  like—  "So  Philip. 
it  seems,  has  discovered  this  castle  on  whose  grounds,  they 
say.  a  unicorn  disports  itself.  Of  course  there  was  nothing 
for  it  hut  that  he  rent  it  for  the  Spring  months  and  we  are 
to  have  unicorn  hunts  and  things.  Do  drop  in  some  week- 
end and  help." 

1  remember  throwing  the  letter  in  the  waste  basket. 
Although  1  had  known  her  and  played  big  brother  to  her  ever 
since  we  were  children.  1  had  little  sympathy  with  her  chic 
whimsies  and  less  inclination  to  set  forth  for  the  wilds  of 
Northern  England.  1  felt  that  unicorn  hunts  could  hold 
for  me  only  the  intense  boredom  which  characterized  her 
too  well-remembered  week-end  parties.  So  I  threw  the  let- 
ter away. 

She  followed  it  up.  however,  a  month  later  with  an- 
other note1  very  short  this  time.  "Please  come  up.  It  is 
lonely  and  1  want  to  talk  to  you."  she  said.  The  tone  of 
the  note,  so  dill'erent  from  her  usual  hard  flippancies,  wor- 
ried me.  After  all  I  felt  a  certain  responsibility  for  her — if 
she  really  was  depressed  up  there — .  I  packed  my  bag  and 
in  sentimental  willingness  even  to  hunt  unicorns  if  it 
would   please  her — my  guns  and   left. 

She  met  me  at  the  station  in  the  car.  "Philip  is  at 
home.  I  told  him  not  to  bother."  she  explained.  A  yellow 
felt  hat  drooped  around  her  face  so  that  I  could  not  see 
much  ol*  it.  hut  I  felt  somehow  that  she  was  not  looking  well. 
Her  hands  on  the  wheel  were  thin  and  milky. 

"I  say.  Daphne,"  1  began,  "if  this  place  is  getting  on 
your  nerves  why  stay?     Don't  tell  me  Philip  is  still  crazy 

on   this  unicorn  idea  ?" 

"Oh  it's  not  Philip,"  she  told  me  impatiently,  "he 
wanted  to  leave  long  ago.  It  is  I  who  insist  upon  staying. 
There's  something      Bui    I    want   you   to  see  it    for  yourself. 

Jim." 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  2] 

A  little  later  we  turned  in  a  stone  gateway.  At  out 
right  was  a  stretch  of  green-gold  woodland  and  in  front 
of  us  the  castle  rose  against  the  sea.  It  was  beautiful  and 
removed — "Like  fairyland",  I  whispered. 

The  normal  sound  of  Daphne's  voiee  came  sudden  and 
strident  like  the  shriek  of  a  locomotive  on  a  summer  night. 
"A  terraee  runs  down  to  the  sea,"  she  said.  Then  dreamily, 
"So  very  lovely  it  is." 

I  looked  at  her  sharply.  It  was  not  like  Daphne — this 
gentleness.  Another  pose  perhaps?  But  she  was  not  given 
to  posing  for  my  benefit.  Always  we  had  retained  that 
casual  frankness  of  our  childhood  days. 

Philip  was  waiting  for  us  on  the  terrace.  I  liked  to 
look  at  Philip,  for  he  was  tall  and  fit — the  kind  of  man  whose 
picture  the  papers  published  bob-sledding  at  St.  Moritz. 

"Good  to  see  your  face  again,  Jim."  he  said.  And  then, 
with  the  pleasant  laugh  lines  crinkling  about  his  eyes,  "Sor- 
ry I  can't  say  as  much  to  my  wife." 

Daphne  laughed  and  swept  off  the  hat.  I  had  not 
noticed  until  then  how  badly  she  looked — or  maybe  it 
was  just  different.  At  any  rate  her  mouth,  usually  red  and 
satiric,  was  now  a  sweet  streak  of  pale  rose  and  her  flat 
vivid  blue  eyes  had  faded  to  a  translucent  aquamarine.  Her 
voice  cut  through  my  dismay.  "Dinner  is  at  seven-thirty. 
See  you  then.    You  two  have  a  talk." 

She  was  gone  and  I  turned  to  Philip.  "Daphne's  look- 
ing awfully  shot." 

His  good-looking  face  clouded.  "I  know  it,  Jim.  It's 
this  place.  But  I  can't  seem  to  do  anything  about  it.  Can't 
get  her  to  leave.  God  knows  I  wish  we  had  never  come.  It's 
all  that  damned  unicorn  too.  She  thinks  she  hears  it.  And," 
he  laughed  a  little  embarrassedly,  "there  is  something.  Hear 
it  myself.  Probably  a  stag.  But  this  loneliness  is  getting 
on  my  nerves." 

I  was  surprised  that  a  man  as  healthy  and  phlegmatic 
as  Philip  had  always  seemed  to  be  should  allow  himself  to 
be  worked  up  to  the  state  where  he  was  half  ready  to  credit 
a  unicorn,  but  something  happened  as  we  were  sitting  over 
our  coffee  after  dinner  that  made  me  understand.  A  silence 
had  fallen — one  of  those  lulls  in  the  conversation — when 
through  the  stillness  there  sounded  a  crashing  and  then  a 
kind  of  musical   snort — like   nothing   so   much   as   a   sweet 


22  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

klaxon.  Daphne  sprang  to  her  feet  and  stood  there  tremb- 
ling, her  face  dead  white  against  her  ash-blonde  hair.  1 
stood  too.  The  sound  had  given  me  the  curious  feeling  that 
1  must  go  and  gel  something  that  1  had  forgotten.  And 
then  i  looked  at  Daphne  wit ii  her  hands  trembling  faintly 
attains!  the  white  mist  of  her  dress  and  suddenly  1  knew  she 
-  connected  with  it  all.  It  was  something  that  Daphne 
and  i  could  find  together.  1  felt  that  it'  only  1  could  hear 
the  sound  again  1  could  remember  remember  — .  It  was 
like  waking  up  in  the  night  and  knowing  nothing  trying  to 
force  facts  from  blackness. 

And  then  it  had  passed  and  Philip  was  talking  to  us 
irritably.  "What  has  gotten  into  you  two?  A  deer  crackles 
a  little  underbrush  and  you  go  into  trances  about  it."  He 
reached  out  calmly  enough  for  his  coffee  hut  1  noticed  his 
hand  trembled. 

I  talked  to  Daphne  about  it  the  next  day — a  strangely 
different  Daphne  with  a  small  white  i'ace  and  nervous  hands. 

"Tin  glad  you  l'eel  the  same  way.  Jim."  she  told  me,  "1 
keep  thinking  that  it  is  something  very  important  and  that 
if  we  could  see  the  unicorn  —I'm  sure  that's  what  it  is. 
aren't  you? — it  would  all  he  so  clear — so  clear." 

One  night  not  long  after  this  it  happened.  Philip  had 
gone  to  his  room  early  and  Daphne  and  1  sat  talking  on  the 
terrace.  'There  was  a  moon  lighting  the  sky  to  ultramarine 
and  sifting  silver  on  the  trees.  The  lawn  spread  out  be- 
fore us.  a  lush  midnight  blue.  Daphne  lay  Hung  on  her 
chair,  the  silver  on  her  white  dress  sparkling  faintly.  Sha- 
dows rippled  across  the  pallid  surface  of  her  face.  She  was 
as  I  had  never  known  her  to  he  before  lovely — quiet-  -gla- 
mourous— .     "Daphne — Daphne—  '  I  said. 

A  shrill  melodious  neigh  startled  the  night.  Daphne 
slipped  to  her  feet.  Her  pale  hair  was  a  silver  casque  on  her 
head.     "Come,"  she  said.  "Oh  come     before  it  is  too  late." 

Like  two  children  we  ran  hand  in  hand  acros  the  lawn 
into  the  woods.  I  low  long  or  how'  far  we  ran.  1  don't 
know.  There  were  crashes  and  we  followed  them.  And 
then  before  us  in  a  pale  blue  clearing  stood  the  unicorn.  Me 
was  white  as  milk  and  his  horn  gleamed  silver  under  the 
moon.  In  tin  soft  stillness  I  knew  everything.  1  turned 
!"  Daphne  and  found  her  looking  at  me  all  white  as  any 
Uossoni  on  a   tree.      She  knew    too.      And  then  a  shot  tore 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  23 

through  the  blue  and  .silver  haze  and  the  unicorn  fell. 
Daphne's  voice  shrieked  thinly  across  miles  to  me — "All  my 
loue  I  doe  thee  giue.  Yea  and  your  leman  for  to  be,"  and 
then  everything  went  back.  The  next  thing  I  remember  is 
Philip  crawling  through  the  bushes  disheveled  and  apolo- 
getic. 

"Jove — it  was  a  unicorn.  But  it  was  upsetting  you  so 
Daphne,  dear," — this  last  to  a  strange  and  silent  Daphne 
who  sat  wanly  near  the  spill  of  white. 

When  he  picked  her  up  in  his  arms  she  did  not  speak 
and  he  carried  her  into  the  house. 

The  next  morning  the  unicorn  was  gone.  I  like  to 
think  that  it  melted  into  moonlight.  At  any  rate  it  was 
gone  and  so  was  the  precious  knowledge  it  had  brought  me. 
All  that  remained  was  that  strange  sentence  of  Daphne's — 
the  sentence  which  made  me  think  that  perhaps  she  might 
remember,  that  it  at  least  might  serve  as  a  key  to  make 
her  remember. 

I  had  to  leave  the  next  day  and  she  was  ill  for  a  long 
time  after  so  that  it  was  a  year  before  I  saw  her  again.  It 
was  at  the  Lido — and  although  I  had  rather  dwelt  on  the 
idea  of  talking  it  over  with  her — when  I  saw  her  I  changed 
my  mind.  She  had  red  and  blue  beach  pyjamas  on  and  she 
was  running,  her  golden  head  like  a  fiery  comet  against  the 
blue  sky.  Philip  and  some  men  ran  after  her  and  when 
they  came  within  a  few  feet  of  her  she  stopped  and  turned. 
Her  eyes  blazed  blue  and  her  mouth  curved  stringent  and 
scarlet.  I  left  before  she  saw  me  because  I  didn't  want  to 
have  to  talk  to  her. 


2  I  The  Smith  College  Monthly 


CLAIM 

Sai  in:   S.   Simons 


Y~T|()\VKK  seven  in  car  eight,'1  I  told  the  porter,  and  fol- 
IX  lowed  him  down  the  platform.  1  did  not  want  to 
§  leave.  I  wondered  that  1  could  walk  on  evenly,  take 
the  train,  and  go  away.  Angry,  I  beat  against  my  own  will. 
"Shall  I  i > i j i  tlu-  bags  lure,  ma'am?"  said  the  porter. 
Abruptly  the  windows  and  the  seats  and  the  people  of  the 
Pullman  became  real  to  me.  Looking  down  I  saw  a  woman 
with  white  hair  occupying  my  seat  in  section  seven.  She 
did  not  appear  to  he  transient;  her  Luggage,  respectable, 
hut  going  grey  at  the  edges,  lilled  most  of  the  opposite  seat. 
The  porter  put  mine  where  he  could,  standing  one  suitcase 
on  end.  1  felt  dubious  about  it.  and  hoped  she  would.  I 
was  aware  of  being  imposed  upon.  As  she  continued  ob- 
livious, anger  at  myself  gratefully  changed  to  irritation 
against  her.  Evidently  she  either  did  not  know  or  refused 
to  recognize  the  conventions  of  train  travel.  1  was  on  the 
point  of  suggesting  them  to  her  when  1  remembered  that 
one  is  courteous  to  old  ladies.  Increasingly  ill-tempered,  1 
sat  silent,  staring  out  the  window  at  the  marsh  grass.  Ab- 
sorbed in  my  irritation.  1  had  almost  forgotten  her.  the  cause 
of  it.  when  she  remarked  conversationally,  "Do  you  mind 
riding  backwards?"  The  voice  was  slack,  toneless,  and  rather 
pitiful.  I  looked  at  her  again.  She  wore  a  black  dress. 
plain,  unobstrusive,  and  her  face  had  a  faint,  fresh  color, 
she  was  younger  than  I  had  imagined,  probably  not  over 
fifty.  .My  thoughl  swung  in  again  upon  myself.  I  did  not 
like  riding  backwards.  It  made  me  nakedly  conscious  that  1 
I  had  no  control  over  the  speed  or  even  my  own  eyesight. 
Things  shrank  thin  in  the  distance  before  I  could  frame  an 
image  that  was  immediate  or  true.  It  made  me  dizzy;  I 
fell  helpless.  I  [ere  the  car  lurched  suddenly,  driving  two 
of  her  bags  against  my  arm  where  the  typhoid  needle  had 
gone  in.      I  sprang  lip,  the  other  hand  at  my  shoulder.     The 

w  om.'in  had  been  watching  me  patiently  and  now,  taking  this 
for  an  answer,  she  turned  away.  I  Rung  myself  down  in  the 
seal  across  the  aisle,  (daring.    She  was  not  visiblv  disturbed. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 

After  dinner  the  ear  filled  rapidly,  and  I  returned  to 
number  seven,  intending  to  finish  my  hook.  Presently  the 
woman  began  to  breath  loudly,  almost  snorting.  I  was 
frightened,  but  her  eyes  were  placid,  apologetic.  Below  her 
skirt  her  knees  showed,  covered  by  tan  cotton  bloomers. 
Seeing  them.  I  felt  indecent.  Leaning  forward  with  a  gasp- 
ing breath  she  said  hurriedly.  "I  am  Mrs.  Murphree." 

"How  do  you  do,"  1  managed  to  answer  and  went  back 
to  my  book. 

After  a  few  minutes  she  approached  me  again,  elbows 
on  knees,  awkward  and  ugly.  "You  know.  I  had  a  son  about 
twenty-one."  A  smile,  unsure  and  trembling,  parted  her 
lips.  The  toneless  voice  continued,  "He  went  out  hunting 
with  his  best  friend  a  year  ago — and  his  friend  shot  and 
killed  him.  On  purpose,  but  I  don't  know  why."  She 
paused,  and  smiled  again,  "That's  why  I'm  wearing  mourn- 
ing." 

She  seemed  to  expect  no  answer  and  I  sat  appalled, 
listening,  scarcely  able  to  understand.  "It  don't  seem  right. 
He  was  such  a  bright  boy.  In  Clinton,  where  I  live,  the 
town  took  up  a  collection  and  paid  his  first  semester  bills  at 
the  Boston  Tech.  He  worked  his  way  and  won  two  schol- 
arships in  gold.  He  was  so  popular."  She  began  to  cry.  her 
face  grew  red.  and  sweat  shone  on  her  forehead.  She  could 
talk  about  the  actual  shooting:  it  was  unreal.  Now  she 
turned  to  me.  wanting  some  word,  painfully  wanting  some- 
thing that  neither  I  nor  anyone  could  say.  I  went  back  to 
the  book,  almost  shaking,  seeing  her  black  dress  wrinkled, 
her  red  face,  her  lips  shaping  words  she  hardly  heard.  I 
did  not  know  what  I  felt ;  it  was  much  too  big  for  pity. 

She  was  still  talking  in  a  flat,  tragic,  monotone.  "And 
so  I'm  coming  down  to  see  my  girl.  She's  going  to  have  a 
baby,  but  I  guess  she's  happy.  After  I  go  back  to  Clinton 
I'll  never  see  her  again.  Clinton's  so  far  away.  We  don't 
get  on  like  the  boy  and  I  did.  but  just  the  same  I  wish  she 
was  nearer." 

I  began  to  hear  the  clicking  of  the  rails,  the  rain  on  the 
windows,  and  slowly  I  realized  that  the  voice  was  still.  The 
tightness  inside  of  me  inside  of  me  melted,  melted  to  a  hot 
rage.  What  right  had  she  to  make  me  feel  this?  What  right 
had  she  to  tell  me?  I  ought  not  to  have  heard  it.  It  was  hers; 
it  had  nothing  to  do  with  me.     I  turned  on  her,  furious. 


26  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

"Do  you  like  to  read,  young  lady?"  she  asked  before 
1  could  speak.  1  sank  hack,  mechanically  answering  and  she 
continued,  "I  didn't  get  much  out  of  this,  but  you'll  like  it," 
handing  me  True  Romance  Magazine,     1  laughed,  aching 

with  relict'. 

She  had  rearranged  herself,-  her  dress  was  neat  and 
her  skin  only  lightly  flushed.  She  seemed  to  have  forgot- 
ten, We  chatted  about  train  riding,  and  1  began  to  like 
h  r  for  having  delivered  me  back  to  the  commonplace,  how- 
ever unconsciously.  She  undertook  a  confidential  whisper. 
"I'm  getting  off  at  midnight.  You  know,  I  really  haven't 
gol  tin's  seal  at  all;  I  ought  to  be  in  the  coaches  but  I  know 
the  conductor." 

"Indeed?"  I  said. 

"But,"  she  went  on,  "if  you  do  want  to  go  to  bed  he- 
fore  I  get  off.  you  can  have  the  upper  berth  made  down." 

"Oh  yes,  thanks."  I  had  passed  beyond  surprise,  or 
Peeling  of  any  kind.  No  formulas  applied  to  her;  she  fitted 
no  conceivable  pattern.  I  did  not  know  in  what  relation- 
ship I  stood  to  her  or  she  to  inc.  Probably,  after  all.  I  hated 
her.  Urgent,  exigent,  and  yet  impersonal,  she  had  made 
claims  upon  me  which  I  could  not  deny.  For  one  inescap- 
able moment  she  had  involved  me  in  her  life. 

"It's  Mrs.  Murphree, — don't  forget,"  she  called,  step- 
ping down  into  the  night. 

"No,"  I  said,  "goodbve." 


lhe  Smith  College  Monthly 


27 


THOUGHTS  OX  THE  MAGPIE 

(To  T.  S.  Eliot  and  a  Dark  Lady) 
H.  M.  S.  P. 


0  spirit  blithe!   When  first  I  heard  thy  song, 
A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold; 

For  though  much  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And,  be  it  right  or  wrong,  other  birds  among, 

1  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud, 
Until  thy  music,  sweet  and  loud, 
My  ear  saluted. 

Ye  little  birds  that  sit  and  sing, 
(Call  for  the  robin  and  the  wren, 
And  the  late  lark  twittering  in  the  skies!) 
Go  pretty  birds,  to  prune  the  wing; 
For  the  bonnie  Magpie  goes  up  the  glen. 
Give  gladness,  souls,  for  its  bold  cries! 
And  hear,  ye  ladies  that  despise: 
All  my  past  life  is  mine  no  more. 
Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time  .... 
(O.  happy  those  early  days  when  I — ) 


The  Smith  College  Monthly 

What  shall  1  say.  in  earth-bound  rhyme 
Of  her,  the  bird  of  fortune  and  man's  ever 
Magpie!  that  thou  shouldsi  be  living  at  this  hour! 

Wilt  thou  forgive  that  sin  where  1  begun, 

When  you  and  I  have  played  this  little  hour? 

I  "in  glad  to  know  thee,  thing  uncommon, 

And  'tis  not.  Magpie,  in  our  power 

To  lei  thy  teaching  go  for  naught, 

Or  new  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

()  world,  he  nobler  for  her  sake; 

Awake.  Aeolian  lyre,  awake' 

Farewell,  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 

Thou  youngest  virgin  daughter  of  the  skies: 

The  charter  of  thy  worth  uives  thee  releasing. 

Pardon,  Magpie,  my  bold  cries; 

And  go  on  your  untrodden  way; 

And  rather  ve  rosebuds  while  ve  maw 


KKFKHFAC  KS  TO  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Anonymous:     The  \uf  Brown  Maid. 

Binyon,  Laurence:     ()  World,  be  Nobler. 

Burns,  Robert:     Auld  Lang  Syne. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor:     Glycine's  Song. 

Constable,  Henry:     On  the  Death  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney. 

Donne.  John:      A  Hymn  to  (rod  the  Father. 

Dryden,  John:     Ode. 

Rtherege,  Sir  ( reorge: 

To  a  Lady  Asking  Him  How  Long  He  Would  Love  Her 
Fletcher,  John:      Hear,  ye  Ladies. 
Gray,  Thomas:     The  Progress  of  Poesy. 
Henley,  William  Ernest:     Margaritas  Sorori. 
Herrick,  Robert:   To  the  Virgins,  to  Make  Much  of  Time. 
Heywood,  Thomas:     The  Message;  Matin  Song. 
I  [ogg,  James:     Kilmenp. 

Keats,  John:     On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer. 
Marvel,  Andrew:     To  his  Cov  Mistress. 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  29 

Parker,  Gilbert:     Reunited. 
Pope,  Alexander:     On  a  Certain  Lady  at  Court, 
Rochester,  Earlot:     Love  and  Life. 
Shakespeare,  William:     Sonnets  ii,  ix. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe:     To  a  Ski/lark. 
Vaughari,  Henry:     The  Retreat. 
Webster,  John:     A  Dirge. 
Wordsworth,  William : 

Daffodils-.  England,  1802,  i;  Lucy,  ii. 
Wvatt.  Sir  Thomas:     Revocation. 


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B 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  31 


BOOK  REVIEWS 


THE  CHOSEN  PEOPLE: 
A  SHORT  HISTORY  OF  THE  JEWS  IN  EUROPE 

By  Jerome  and  Jean  Tharaud 

Longmans,  Green  &  Co.    1929 

In  the  trend  of  popularisation  to  which  almost  every 
field  has  been  recently  subjected,  History  has  been  one  of 
the  most  pitiful  victims.  Of  peoples  treated  thus,  the  Jews 
have  suffered  most,  for  in  Jewish  History  there  is  much  to 
attract  an  historical  writer  whose  main  desire  is  a  point  of 
view  supported  by  chosen  details.  It  is  easy  to  say  of  them 
"how  romantic"  and  to  write  a  book  so  rilled  with  such 
phrases  as  "dramatic  aspects",  "the  love  of  the  marvellous 
characteristic  of  the  Jewish  soul"  that  the  facts  which  should 
bear  this  out  are  forgotten.  In  "The  Chosen  People"  the 
Tharauds  have  been  so  skilful  in  the  employing  of  these 
comfortably  established  terms  that  one  is  likely  never  to 
realize  that  the  "dramatic  aspects"  are  not  definitely  de- 
scribed or  even  named;  they  are  hinted  at  obscurely.  One 
feels  continually  that  the  next  chapter  will  bring  forth  the 
promised  definite  explanation — and  the  next  chapter  speaks 
vaguely  of  "the  all-powerful  authority  of  the  church." 

To  make  Jewish  History  even  more  entrancing  to  writ- 
ers of  this  kind,  the  point  of  view  they  wish  to  take  is  already 
so  firmly  established  in  the  minds  of  their  probable  readers, 
particularly  the  Gentiles,  that  it  will  require  little  support 
and  almost  no  proof.  Mr.  Zangwill  and  Mr.  Browne  have 
prepared  the  way,  and  the  Tharauds,  following  it  blindly. 
can  talk  blithely  of  the  narrowness  of  the  ghetto,  of  the 
revolt  against  the  old  ritual,  of  the  persecutions.  Their  read- 
ers, having  seen  it  all  before,  will  never  question  it,  so  where 


32  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

is  t Ik  ii<  ( tl  of  proof,  of  anything  more  than  vague  discussion 
and  theory  \ 

Tins  discussion  and  theory  may  be  very  excellent  of  its 

kind,  but  its  kind  is  obviously  not  historical,  and  the 
Tharauds  themselves  insist  that  they  have  written  a  "short 
history  of  the  Jews  in  Europe".  Under  the  mistaken  im- 
pression thai  dates  and  definite  information  discourage  the 
popular  reader  they  have,  when  faeed  with  a  quite  unavoid- 
able fact,  blushed,  and  skirted  it  by  saying,  as  they  did  of 
Maimonides,  that  he  was  "born  in  the  Middle  Ages".  They 
have  not  even  given  a  satisfactory  descrption  of  the  life  of 
the-  .Jew:  they  merely  mention  frequently  the  word  'ghetto1 
under  the  apparent  impression  that  it  alone  draws  a  com- 
plete picture. 

This  is  a  book  of  sentimental  phrases  about  a  people  of 
whom  the  popular  tradition  is  that  they  have  been  deeply 
and  continually  wronged,  both  by  themselves  and  by  other 
peoples.  The  Tharauds  take  advantage  of  this  tradition,  as 
of  others  and  speak  pityingly  of  the  wronged  .Jewish  race, 
not.  of  course,  illustrating  or  explaining  to  any  sufficienl 
extent.  While  they  are  doing  this,  it  apparently  never 
occurs  to  them  that,  by  giving  the  Jews  such  light  and  flip- 
pant historical  treatment  they  are  adding  another  insult  to 
a  list  which  they  insist  is  already  quite  long  enough. 

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The  Smith  College  Monthly  35 

contemptuously  the  complete  failures.  He  records  what  In 
finds  in  his  characters  with  scrupulous  fidelity  and  tolerance, 
and  his  dealing  with  persons  who  are  in  some  way  unsuccess- 
ful is  really  the  manifestation  of  an  intense  interest  in  the 
"mapping  of  the  human  heart,"  an  interest  which  is  some- 
what one-sided  because  of  his  own  temperament.  His  latest 
poem,  Cavender's  House,  illustrates  this  interest.  Cavender, 
who  is  himself  both  characters  in  an  imaginary  dialogue  with 
his  wife  twelve  years  after  he  has  killed  her,  suspecting  that 
she  is  unfaithful  to  him,  is  certainly  a  failure,  in  a  spiritual 
rather  than  a  material  way;  but  the  emphasis  is  not  so  much 
on  this  fact  as  on  the  meticulous  analysis  of  the  tortured 
mind  of  Cavender. 

There  is  an  obvious  resemblance  to  Browning  in  Rob- 
inson's interest  in  creating  character  instead  of  stressing  his 
own  emotion,  and  in  the  use  of  the  dramatic  narrative  for 
this  purpose;  although  in  Cavender's  House  the  form  is  not 
monologue,  but  a  mixture  of  narrative  and  dialogue.  Rob- 
inson's philosophy,  however,  is  in  strong  contrast  to  Brown- 
ing's buoyant  optimism  and  faith  in  the  essential  soundness 
of  the  universe.  He  perceives  fully  the  cruelty  of  life  and 
makes  no  attempt  to  disguise  it,  but  he  finds  a  certain  amount 
of  satisfaction  in  facing  it  without  cowardice.  He  sees  hu- 
man beings  always  in  the  grasp  of  unknown  powers,  but  he 
knowrs  also  "the  faith  within  the  fear,"  and  the  possibility 
that  there  is  some  reason  for  existence.  Both  the  doubt  and 
the  fear  are  fully  set  forth  in  Cavender's  House: 

"There  are  still  doors  in  your  house  that  are  locked; 
And  there  is  only  you  to  open  them, 
For  what  they  may  reveal.    There  may  be  still 
Some  riches  hidden  there,  and  even  for  you, 
Who  spurned  your  treasure  as  an  angry  king 
Might  throw  his  crown  away,  and  in  his  madness 
Not  know  what  he  had  done  till  all  was  done. 
But  who  are  we  to  say  when  all  is  done? 
Was  ever  an  insect  flying  between  two  flowers 
Told  less  than  we  are  told  of  what  we  are? 
Cavender,  there  may  still  be  hidden  for  you 
A  meaning  in  your  house  why  you  are  here." 

Another  resemblance  to  Browning  is  found  in  the  intel- 
lectual demands  made  on  the  reader,  though  not  by  elusive- 


3f>  The  Smith  College  Monthly 

tiess  of  expression ;  Robinson's  obscurity  is  instead  dependent 
on  a  deceptive  quietness  and  lack  of  ostentation.  The  most 
notable  quality  of  his  style  is  economy  of  the  point  of  frugal- 
ity. Ill  docs  not  lack  genuinely  passionate  feeling,  hut  while 
such  feeling  is  strikingly  obvious  in  Browning,  Robinson's 
restraint  leads  often  to  a  prosaic  understatement  which  pre- 
vents the  average  reader  from  realizing  the  remarkable  depth 
and  power  of  his  feeling.  If  evidence  is  needed,  it  may  be 
found  in  lines  like  the  following: 

"The  man  who  makes  a  chaos  of  himself 
Should  have  the  benefit  of  his  independence 
In  his  defection.    lie  should  wreck  himself 
Alone  in  his  own  ship,  and  not  he  drowned. 
Or  cast  ashore  to  die.  for  scuttling  others. 
I  have  been  asking,  Cavender,  since  that  night, 
Where  so  malicious  and  inconsiderate 
A  devil  could  hide  in  you  Tor  so  long  time. 
There  may  he  places  in  us  all  where  things 
I  jvc  that  would  make  us  nm  if  we  should  see  them 
It' only  we  could  run  away  from  them! 
Hut,  Cavender,  we  can't:  and  that's  a  pity." 

Cavender'g  House  strengthens  the  impression  made  by 
Tristram,  that  Robinson's  best  work  is  found  in  his  long 
poems  rather  than  the  short  ones,  since  they  furnish  a  better 
vehicle  for  continuous  thought  and  for  the  observation  of 
human  character  and  its  operations  which  is  the  material  of 
his  art.  The  succession  of  his  most  prominent  themes  lias 
been  described  by  .Mi*.  Herbert  Gorman  as:  first  the  creation 
<>f  single  imaginary  characters,  then  the  revitalizing  of  his- 
torical personages  from  the  data  and  atmosphere  left  behind 
them,  then  the  original  representation  of  legendary  figures 
who  stand  for  certain  spiritual  manifestations,  their  re-appli- 
cation,  as  it  were,  to  our  modern  times,  and.  finally,  the  crea- 
tion of  groups  of  imaginary  figures  in  juxtaposition,  acting 
nut  liiv.  In  Cavender's  House  the  juxtaposition  is  not 
strictly  of  figures,  since  one  of  the  two  persons  is  expressed 

through    the  other's    ((construction   of  her,   hut    it    <_*  i  \  cs   the 

contacl  of  individualities,  whose  clashes  reveal  the  perplexed 
mind  and  heart  of  Cavender.  At  the  same  time  Robinson's 
skill  in  the  subtle  analysis  of  a  single  character  is  highly  dc- 

\<  loped.     As  an  analysis  it   is  more  convincing  than  the  leg- 


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The  Smith  College  Monthly  39 

endary  material  he  has  dealt  with  in  earlier  poems,  because 
in  spite  of  the  universal  traits  presented  in  these  poems 
some  sense  of  anachronism  is  almost  inescapable. 

In  Calender's  House  as  in  his  other  work  Robinson  has 
made  no  experiments  with  new  or  unusual  poetie  forms.  His 
blank  verse  is  extremely  careful,  and  its  most  notable  qual- 
ities are  simplicity  and  dignity.  There  is  no  rich  imagery,  no 
senuous  music,  no  exquisite  moment.  But  readers  who 
reject  the  obvious  and  prefer  a  sharp,  fine  flavor,  a  special 
rather  than  a  general  audience,  will  always  appreciate  the 
distinction  of  Robinson's  work;  and  Calender's  House  will 
be  found  as  excellent  technically  as  the  work  which  has  pre- 
ceded it,  and  an  advance  over  this  work  as  regards  penetrat- 
ing analvsis  of  character. 

Ruth  D.  Pillsburv. 


^KXi^leiXX^l£iXX^^iXXi3^eiX^^l£iX^^ 


Smith  College 

Monthly 


RJiifs 


June  1929 


» 


BOARD  of  EDITORS 


Vol.  XXXVII 


JUNE,  1929 


No.  9 


EDITORIAL  BOARD 

Editor-in-chief,  Elizabeth  Shaw  '30 

Managing  Editor,  Sallie  S.  Simons  '30 

Book  Review  Editor,  Priscilla  S.  Fairchild  '30 

Elizabeth  Wheeler  '29  Mary  F.  Chase 

Patty  H.  Wood  '30  Elizabeth  Perkins 

Art  Editor,  Nancy  Wynne  Parker  '30 


'3i 
'3i 


BUSINESS  STAFF 

Business  Manager,  Mary  Sayre  '30 

Advertising  Manager,  Esther  Tow  '31 

Circulation  Manager,  Sarah  Pearson  '31 

Nancy  Dabney  '30  Eleanor  Mathesius  '31 

Agnes  Lyall  '30  Eleanor  Church  '32 

Mary  Folsom  '31  Ariel  Davis  '32 


The  Smith  College  Monthly  is  published  at  Northampton,  Mass.,  each  month  from  October 
to  June,  inclusive.  Terms  $2.00  a  year.  Single  copies  25c.  Subscriptions  may  be  sent 
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All  manuscript  should  be  in  the  Monthly  Box  by  the  fifteenth  of  the  month  to  be  considered 
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of  the  writer. 


$ 


t&tS^SlKSfel^l 


Qompliments   of 


Glass    of 


1926 


Kr*4*|g 


feW" 


CONTENTS 

i 


PAGE 

Comfield  Valley Anne  Lloyd  Basinger  5 

Mary  Augusta  Jordan  Prize  Honourable  Mention 

Snapshot Barbara  Damon  Simison  20 

Discovery Barbara  Damon  Simison  20 

Mary  Augusta  Jordan  Prize  Honourable  Mention 

Return Frances  Adams  21 

Black  Poppies Edith  Starks  27 

Is  It  Death  ? Edith  Starks  27 

Pilgrimage  Downstream Elizabeth  Botsford  28 

Purchase Ernestine  Gilbreth  32 

Before  Catching  the  12:15  Train Constance  Pardee  40 

Flying  Boats Ellen  Robinson  41 

Through  A  Glass,  Darkly Ruth  Rodney  King  44 

"Old  Men  Sitting  in  the  Sun" Frances  Ranney  48 

Editorial 52 

Book  Reviews 55 


An  Inn  of  Colonial  Charm 

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Qompliments  of 


Class  of 


1909 


* 


SMITH  COLLEGE 
MONTHLY 


COMFIELD  VALLEY 

Anne  Lloyd  Basinger 


I 
OME  giant  going  for  a  walk  down  North  America, 
eons  ago,  made  a  gouge  with  his  stick  where  the 
Berkshires  today  fall  away  southward  into  small 
perverse  bumps.  The  gash  healed;  the  pile  of 
dirt  thrown  up  from  the  furrow  weathered  into  soft  green 
mountains;  rocks  uncovered  at  that  time  continued  to 
nuzzle  out  through  oaks,  soft  wood  trees  and  evergreens; 
and  hollows  in  the  mountains  filled  with  water,  to  spill 
over  into  the  crannies  below.  Very  early — fifty  years  be- 
fore Independence — colonists  had  already  established  them- 
selves here,  cut  clearings,  built  houses,  and  begun  the 
process  of  civilization.  Possibly  these  colonists  were 
Puritans;  though  I  doubt  if  they  ever  exalted  the  interests 
of  religion  above  good,  worldly  pursuits.  Yet  they  have 
never  looked  like  Puritan  stock,  to  me.  Perhaps  they  sus- 
pected that  Lucifer,  and  not  God,  scooped  out  Cornfield 
Valley  for  them;  for  they  took  care  to  render  unto  Caesar 
the  things  that  were  Caesar's;  and  repaid  the  giant  arch- 
angel penny  for  penny  in  the  hard  coin  of  pride. 

The  motorist  from  New  York  remembered  his  drive 
through  the  Valley.  He  remembered  it  not  only  because 
the  large  estates  or  cheap  modern  cottages  of  New  York 
and  southern  Connecticut  threw  it  into  relief.  It  was  an 
individuality;  its  features  etched  themselves  upon  the  mind. 
Winding  among  hills  and  second-growth  woods,  the  road 
straightened  across  two  hay-fields;  and  suddenly  passed 
between  white  houses  set  well  back  from  the  street.    Elm 


6  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

shade  and  maple  shade  fell  upon  the  road;  the  houses  were 
sunny.  Their  simplicity  was  unaffectedly  colonial;  their 
owners  unsentimentally  painted  them  when  they  greyed 
with  exposure;  they  bespoke  insolent  conservatism.  Corn- 
field Valley  had  not  seen  fit  to  idealize  herself;  she  harbored 
a  very  ugly  group  of  little  stores  in  her  midst;  she  had  no 
back-streets;  she  was  a  sepulcher  unwhited.  Slightly  be- 
yond the  stores,  the  high-road  split;  and  in  the  triangle 
ancient  elms  and  a  monument  marked  her  center.  If  you 
took  the  left  road,  you  were  soon  out  of  town  again,  rising 
a  little  above  the  Valley  floor,  yet  lying  in  the  protection 
of  an  intimate  hill-ridge;  and  soon,  through  tangled  hedge- 
rows, over  stone  walls  propped  by  wooden  posts  and 
tangled  with  wire  and  vines,  you  saw  the  patch-work 
theme  of  fields  connected  by  other  hedge-rowTs,  picked  out 
in  darker  green  by  inconsistent  woodland  patches.  The 
right  road,  holding  to  the  town  a  little  longer,  dipped 
across  a  sunny  field  and  a  meandering  brook  in  its  second 
childhood;  then  climbed  stubbornly  out  of  the  Valley,  and 
twisted  about  the  face  of  a  dwarf  mountain.  This  rocky 
knob  jutting  from  smaller  hills  went  half-naked  like  a 
beggar,  in  tattered  bushes  and  vines;  it  sat  like  an  East 
Indian  philosopher  surveying  the  long  ridge  opposite, 
across  a  brilliant  swamp  below.  A  little  higher  the  road 
passed  a  handful  of  ghost-grey  shacks,  still  climbed, 
attained  the  top  of  the  little  range,  and  loitered  along  it, 
to  let  you  see  blue  hills  rolling  over  one  another  on  three 
sides,  like  the  sea;  yellow  or  light-green  fields  again;  knobs 
and  knolls  again,  breaking  the  Valley  with  their  knuckles; 
and  two  lakes  cupped  like  flat  pieces  of  lapis  lazuli  in  the 
hollow  of  the  Valley's  hand.  A  moment  on  that  hill;  you 
would  remember  it  after  passing;  then  down  on  the  other 
side,  the  treacherous,  rolling  side,  where  careless  motorists 
lost  their  lives  every  season.  Cornfield  Valley  only  said, 
"I  told  you  so,"  when  cars  left  the  road  there  and  smashed 
into  the  trees  or  the  rocks;  it  gained  stories  to  tell;  it  was 
indifferent  to  the  vicissitudes  of  tourists.  Besides,  Allyn 
Hill  was  outside;  the  dropping-off  place;  the  farewell  of 
the  town  to  a  stranger.  People  who  invade  such  a  private 
hollow  must  expect  a  rude  awakening  on  the  other  side. 

II. 

Little  babies  in  Cornfield  Valley  were  wise;  they  ignored 
the  wild  mountains,  and  gave  their  full  attention  to  their 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  7 

feeding.  In  this  they  imitated  intelligent  town-people,  who 
disliked  fishing,  or  tracing  up  their  brooks  to  their  sources, 
or  berrying  on  steep  hills.  These  Valley-dwellers  preferred 
contemplation  of  each  other  on  flat  porches,  while  the 
season  allowed;  for  winter  brought  wildness  soon  enough. 
No  amount  of  sticky  pink  laurel  or  purple-bloomed  berries 
attracted  them. 

But  little  boy  babies  grew  out  of  their  wisdom  with 
their  Christening  dress;  and  soon  took  to  spending  all  their 
days  in  summer  along  the  brooks  with  their  lines,  or  in  the 
field  with  their  pails,  coming  down  at  night-fall  as  full  of 
nettles  as  pin-cushions  with  pins,  to  sell  from  door  to  door. 
And  large  boys  who  wouldn't  grow  into  men  ran  away  from 
their  work  to  loaf  on  high  land.  They  lay  on  their  backs 
in  fields  that  curved  out  like  fat  pillows;  their  hats  over 
their  eyes,  and  slept.  Their  wives  shook  their  heads;  but 
the  neighbors  never  troubled  to  think  of  them  at  all.  For 
in  Cornfield  Valley  many  things  are  taken  for  granted.  No, 
they  wouldn't  think  of  them  at  all — except  sometimes,  in 
passing  Willie  Jones  on  the  street.  The  sight  of  Willie 
Jones,  the  gray,  tough,  brown  man  with  pale  eyes,  made 
anybody  think.  And  that,  notwithstanding  that  it  had 
happened  to  him  fifty  years  before.  He  made  them  re- 
member— and  shiver. 

They  remembered  that  Bill  Jones  took  Willie  out  fishing 
when  the  boy  was  only  six  years  old ;  and  in  the  heat  of  the 
day  fell  asleep  beside  the  stream.  When  he  woke  up,  Willie 
was  gone.  So  he  called  him  by  name:  u Willie — Willie 
Jones!"  But  nothing  answered  him  save  the  rocks  on  the 
hill  opposite.  He  tried  to  hunt,  but  couldn't  find  anything, 
not  so  much  as  a  foot-print,  so  thick  were  the  low-growing 
laurel-bushes.  He  must  have  waked  about  four  of  that 
summer  day;  and  he  hunted  until  dark.  Then  he  ran  down 
to  the  Valley  and  asked  for  help.  Other  men  went  out;  then 
still  others;  then  the  whole  town  heard,  and  everybody 
went  to  Town  Hall  to  wait  for  news.  The  mother  was  there 
too,  crying.  They  sat  waiting  all  night,  while  their  men 
hunted;  but  in  the  morning  Willie  wasn't  found;  so  they 
went  away  about  their  work;  only,  the  mother  sat  and  held 
her  hands  in  her  lap.  Hunting  parties  kept  combing  the 
mountains.  None  of  the  men  worked  at  anything  else; 
they  would  sleep  a  little,  and  then  go  hunt.  You  wouldn't 
think  a  little  boy  could  wander  so  far!   At  last  there  came 


B  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

a  rumour  from  the  mountains.  Ryan,  the  old  bell-ringer, 
leaped  at  the  ropes  in  Town  Hall  tower,  and  again  the 
town-people  came  running.  They  waited  three  hours. 
Then,  about  two  o'clock  of  the  third  night  Willie  rode  back, 
carried  high  on  the  shoulders  of  tall  mountaineers,  who  had 
sed  up  the  father  too  as  they  swung  down  the  road. 
With  torches  and  shouts,  they  marched  into  Town  Hall, 
sw<  pi  up  the  mother,  and  set  her  on  the  platform  to  receive 
her  son.  The  people  of  Cornfield  Valley  shouted  wildly. 
But  Mrs.  Jones  only  looked  at  her  boy,  and  then  she  wrung 
her  hands.  They  fell  silent  and  looked  too;  and  it  came  to 
them  all  at  once — something  was  wrong  with  the  child. 
Willie  Jones  was  crazy — as  mad  as  a  dog;  and  he  never 
recovered.  He  knew  nobody;  he  continually  saw  something 
else  behind  them.  After  that  the  Valley  people  hated  the 
mountains  with  renewed  force;  and  they  feared  them,  too. 

III. 
I  have  been  careful  to  say  that  town-people  feared  the 
mountains.  You  are  not  to  think  that  all  the  inhabitants 
of  Cornfield  Valley  were  town-people.  Since  the  beginning 
there  had  been  a  queer  division  in  the  region:  two  parties, 
utterly  distinct;  and  nobody  knew  wThich  was  the  older. 
There  was  the  Valley  stock,  and  the  mountain  stock.  They 
seldom  intermarried.  They  hated  each  other  always,  and 
even  along  the  back  edges  of  town,  wThere  the  factions 
mingled,  living  side  by  side,  they  were  as  oil  and  water. 
The  mountain  people  loved  the  lonely  streams  and  woods, 
where  the  sweet-fern  scented  the  air.  They  were  too  proud 
to  rub  sleeves  with  anybody,  even  though  their  own  might 
be  patched  and  sweat-stained,  while  the  other  man's  was 
made  of  clean  new  cloth.  The  mountain  people  had  their 
own  names  for  places;  it  must  have  been  one  of  them  who 
named  the  little,  tattered  mountain  north  of  town  Barak 
Mai  iff,  a  Welsh  name,  and  the  only  one  of  the  towrnship. 
lor  years  they  had  used  the  warped  huts  beyond  Barak 
Mai  iff  for  their  center;  and  the  town-people  used  to  refer 
to  that  place  as  Disturbance  Corner.  Here  dwelt  four  main 
families,  named,  by  coincidence,  after  animals:  the  Foxes, 
the  W'olfes,  the  Coons  and  the  Lyons.  They  used  to  fight 
with  one  another,  when  they  were  drunk;  and  twice  some- 
one had  been  killed.  Valley  people  let  them  alone;  for 
they  preferred  to  manage  their  own  affairs,  even  in  law. 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  9 

They  seldom  attacked  people  outside  of  their  own  kind; 
remained  fiercely  aloof;  and  bred  among  themselves,  until 
the  blood  ran  thin  with  disease.  They  were  not  immoral, 
they  simply  had  no  morals.  It  was  a  public  scandal  that 
one  of  them  had  sold  his  daughter  on  the  trains;  and  the 
affair  of  the  two  brothers  was  public  property.  These  two, 
living  together  in  adjacent  houses,  found  that  they  pre- 
ferred each  other's  wives.  So  they  traded;  but  since  one 
woman  was  superior  to  the  other  in  strength  and  fruitful- 
ness,  a  cow  was  thrown  into  the  bargain  to  even  the  value. 
This  happy  arrangement  was  discussed  in  the  Valley;  but 
town-people  wrere  mainly  indulgent.  The  mountaineers 
had  always  conducted  their  affairs  so. 

Valley  people  preferred  to  live  under  the  nation's  and 
the  state's  law.  They  wrere  of  that  middle  class  nowrhere 
so  special  in  position  as  in  New  England;  yet  they  had 
sent  out  governors  and  judges  to  the  outside  world.  Here 
too,  certain  names  recurred  frequently:  Allyn,  Todd,  Corn- 
field. There  were  millionaire  Allyns  and  Todds,  and 
Cornfields,  and  there  were  poor  Allyns  and  Todds  and 
Cornfields.  In  the  Allyn  family  the  relationship  was  as 
close  as  second  cousin;  but  neither  branch  spoke  to  the 
other.  They  were  of  ancient  English  stock,  and  could,  if 
they  chose,  use  their  coat  of  arms.  None  of  the  Todds  or 
Cornfields  were  related;  the  only  explanation  I  know  for 
them  is  that  certain  retainers  of  the  earliest  Todd  and 
Cornfield  had  taken  the  family  name.  In  the  case  of  the 
Cornfields,  at  least,  proof  was  to  be  had;  all  old  members 
of  town  knew  the  Cornfield  family  tree  well,  since  they 
had  ruled  the  Valley  for  so  long  that  their  history  was 
also  town  history.  This  was  not  like  Puritan  New  England ; 
but  Cornfield  Valley  was  individual,  not  typical. 

As  I  say,  most  of  the  Cornfield  Valley  people  were 
middling  in  family  and  fortune.  But  they  had  their 
paupers.  The  two  poorest  families  in  the  whole  township 
lived  on  the  community  by  petty  thievery  and  by  begging; 
and  they  were  tolerated  because  one  could  not  see  them 
starve.  In  both  cases  children  wTere  born  every  year, 
despite  ill  health,  poor  feeding  and  poverty.  The  Dick 
Todds  were  stringy  and  dark;  silent  and  self-sufficient.  A 
strain  of  the  rare  mountain  blood  came  in  somewrhere. 
They  scrabbled  a  living  by  animal  cleverness;  a  sick  breed, 
who  ate  cheap  candy  in  preference  to  plain  food,  and  looked 
at  your  chin,  slant-eyed,  in  passing  on  the  street.    The 


io  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Pillings,  on  the  other  hand,  made  a  disturbing  appeal,  by 
the  innocent  delight  with  which  they  received  each  baby. 
Their  hovel  stood  in  the  very  ditch,  like  a  beggar  indeed; 
and  the  grass  of  its  meagre  yard  was  worn  from  the  face 
of  the  soured  ground  by  the  poisons  of  human  beings  and 
chickens.  The  mother  could  be  seen  almost  any  day  on 
her  bleak  little  porch,  holding  up  her  baby  and  kissing  it, 
her  eyes  turned  side-ways  shining  to  be  admired.  She  had 
been  very  beautiful,  with  blue-black  hair  and  deep  blue 
3.  Now  her  teeth  were  broken  and  gone;  her  skin 
coarsened.  But  she  kept  the  slim  lines  of  beauty,  like  a 
ship  which  ages;  and  her  tall  husband,  who  had  been  blond 
and  handsome  as  Apollo,  would  still  be  a  man  if  he  could 
stop  drinking. 

Town-people  were  not  so  very  much  better  than  moun- 
tain-people for  morals.  They  were  too  old  as  a  community 
to  fear  consequences.  They  were  set,  dangerously;  and 
after  convention,  expediency  was  their  only  brake.  I  do 
not  mean  that  they  sinned  enthusiastically.  They  merely 
remained  passive.  They  tolerated  much  that  might  have 
been  prevented;  because  it  was  not  their  business  to  act. 
They  loathed  no  crime  so  heartily  as  inquisitiveness;  and 
rather  than  look,  they  would  bandage  their  eyes.  The 
work  of  the  ministers  in  Cornfield  Valley  was  desperately 
trying;  because  they  expected  the  Lord  to  mind  his  own 
business  as  they  did  theirs.  Sermons  must  be  agreeable; 
religion,  sluggish.  So  two  things  happened  in  the  town- 
ship; in  one  church,  ministers  changed  every  two  or  three 
years,  as  new  men  tried  and  failed  to  stir  the  old  mixture; 
in  the  other,  a  very  frail  old  gentleman  recommended  him- 
self  to  everyone's  heart  for  a  reason  which  he  alone  knew. 
He  bowed  to  that  reason  every  Sunday  as  he  took  the  desk 
to  preach.  "There  they  sit.  Sinners — why,  I  dare  say  not 
one  of  them  deserves  Purgatory,  even.  Well,  I  must  teach 
them  their  own  nobility.  .  ."  For  this  was  his  belief:  that 
you  could  coax  the  human  animal  farther  by  praise  then 
by  abuse;  because,  in  cultivating  his  self-respect,  you  may 
make  him  be  what  he  thinks  he  is.  This  elderly  clergyman 
saved  more  souls  in  his  year  than  many  men  do  in  a  life- 
time. As  I  say,  the  proof  of  his  success  was  that  nobody 
knew   his  secret. 

Noah  Cornfield  of  Cornfield  Valley  differed  from  every- 
one,    lie   was,  of  course,   their  ruler.     I   believe  that  his 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  u 

manipulation  of  local  politics  through  relatives  and  de- 
pendents proceeded  along  Medicean  lines;  he  made  every- 
body his  dependent.  He  owned  or  controlled  nearly  a  third 
of  town  property;  and  could  look  for  miles  across  land  un- 
trespassed  by  any  save  those  whom  he  invited.  Of  the 
Valley  people  by  birth  and  education,  he  allied  himself 
with  mountaineers  in  his  love  of  woods  and  their  lore;  he 
camped  with  them,  knew  them  familiarly,  and  commanded 
their  respect  by  blood,  wisdom  and  attainments.  They 
either  hated  or  loved  the  courtly  gentleman;  there  was 
cause  for  both;  but  such  love  or  hate  was  intimate.  Corn- 
field touched  his  neighbors  more  intimately  than  any  other 
among  them;  yet  was  more  alien.  He  was  an  institution, 
like  the  old  minister  and  the  chimes  and  Town  Meeting. 

IV. 

In  summer,  wimpling  shadows  dappled  the  lawns  of 
Cornfield  Valley;  the  air  was  champagne;  robins,  song- 
sparrows  and  thrushes,  particularly  bold  in  that  country, 
made  a  shimmer  of  sound  to  accompany  the  leaf-dance; 
and  the  fire-flies  were  drunken  stars  fallen  to  the  fields  at 
night.  You  might  live  there  for  months,  thinking  this 
heaven;  unless  rainy  weeks  like  those  of  last  summer  dis- 
couraged you  into  pessimism. 

A  summer  visitor  would  never  know  much  about  Corn- 
field Valley.  He  would  remain  ignorant  simply  because 
town-people  would  not  bother  to  undeceive  him.  The 
Valley's  reserve  with  strangers  did  not  admit  of  compromise. 
Even  the  hotel  received  strangers  reluctantly,  as  if  grudging 
space  to  aliens.  Sometimes  a  traveller  "of  the  wrong  type" 
would  find  everything  full;  so  full  that  no  extra  meal 
could  be  served;  and  it  did  not  matter  if  the  chairs  were 
empty,  the  rooms  vacant,  he  must  look  farther.  Others, 
more  fortunately  received,  might  sit  upon  the  porch  for 
weeks,  rocking — the  only  sport  to  be  found  in  the  Valley — 
and  never  meet  a  town-person.  He  would  see  one  or  two 
laborers  go  by  in  sweaty  blue  shirts,  carrying  spades  or 
pitchforks;  he  would  see  straggling  children,  or  Mrs.  Todd 
pushing  her  latest  baby  down  town  in  a  dilapidated  carriage ; 
he  would  see  decently  dressed  men  about  the  post-office 
steps  Saturday  night,  and  the  ball-team  on  Sunday;  and 
automobiles  and  sagging  buggies;  but  he  would  not  see 
Cornfield  Valley.    He  would  know  nothing. 


i2  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

The  fall  might  bring  more  or  less  understanding  to  him. 
The  foliage  turned  pastel,  then  flame,  picked  out  in  dark 
evergreens,  like  a  tapestry;  tall  vaporous  clippers  sailed  the 
deep  blue  sky;  the  crystal  air  left  a  stinging  remembrance. 
The  wind  would  tease  the  leaves,  and  twist  them  down; 
the  country  would  bleed  with  Virginia  Creeper;  the  sun 
through  oak-leaves  would  glow  as  it  does  in  the  thin  ear  of 
a  gnarled  old  man  in  cold  weather.  Town-people  put  on 
sweaters  over  their  cotton  shirts  or  dresses;  sent  their 
children  to  school;  and  urged  their  last  duties  to  farm  and 
wood-pile  intensely.  They  wore  an  expression  of  finality. 
The  keen  observer  could  recognize  a  change  in  them. 
Finally  came  the  stealthy  dropping  of  leaves  every  day; 
and  then  a  great  storm  and  wind,  lashing  with  flails;  then 
lemon-colored  sunlight  on  a  cold  Valley;  and  the  trees'  bare 
branches  smoke-purple  along  the  hills;  and  the  house- 
holders built  fires;  and  the  gardens  laid  down,  sickly  brown; 
and  the  streets  would  be  desolate.    That  was  fall. 

Winter  no  outsider  saw.  Secrecy  fell  with  the  whiteness 
of  snow;  and  hid  Cornfield  Valley.  The  town  was  a  woman 
with  a  secret  malady  which  she  dragged  herself  away  to 
protect  from  inquisitive  eyes;  it  was  an  epileptic  wrhose 
crises  were  not  to  be  investigated.  From  the  long  oblivion, 
pierced  by  stabbing  pain,  she  woke  exhausted  in  the  spring. 
Towards  February  news  would  sometimes  come  through  to 
the  papers  of  other  cities,  of  a  murder,  or  of  fire,  or  illness. 
Pneumonia  and  influenza  took  their  toll.  A  boy  lost  his 
road  on  a  snowy  night,  and  fell  through  the  ice  of  a  lake 
to  drown  in  his  car.  The  others  burned  a  succession  of 
barns,  because  they  found  it  "too  damn'  dull."  An  old 
mountaineer  vented  a  long-harbored  grudge  by  setting  fire 
to  his  enemy's  house.  A  few  more  men  would  begin  to 
drink  heavily.  One  sought  recreation  in  physical  danger; 
abused  his  family;  brooded  upon  his  own  degeneracy,  and 
finally  killed  himself.  Horror  entered  every  imagination, 
as  grey-whiteness  impressed  the  retina.  Cornfield  Valley 
rested  three  months  petrified  with  cold  and  shadow,  eye- 
brows raised,  eyeballs  rolled  till  the  whites  gleamed;  lips 
peeled  back  in  a  grin  from  the  teeth,  nostrils  distended. 
And  foam  flecked  its  lips.  Then  in  the  spring  it  gradually 
relaxed,  stirred,  shivered  uncontrollably;  took  stock  of  its 
losses;  and  little  by  little  picked  up  its  old  life.  Nerves 
would  twitch;  tales  wrould  be  told  that  made  the  tellers  and 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  13 

the  listeners  sick;  new  criminals  would  be  tolerated  for  old 
sentiments;  and  nobody  stoned  his  neighbor,  because  he 
knew  that  the  winter  had  not  left  him  guiltless.  Children 
quite  innocent  in  the  fall  would  have  learned  suffering  and 
passion;  men  at  their  prime  in  the  fall  would  be  old  when 
the  thaw  came;  women  would  be  more  silent,  or  talk  with 
a  fiercer  defiance. 

Gradually  they  calmed  themselves.  But  not  before 
clashes  had  occurred  that  ran  the  gamut  from  tragedy  to 
farce.    Spring  quarrels  were  bitter,  but  soon  passed  over. 

There  was  Tom  Allyn  the  grave-digger,  who  met  Bet  on 
the  street.  He  had  been  to  school  with  her;  they  were  old 
friends.  Bet  was  a  fragile  little  lady,  her  white  hair  very 
pretty;  her  pointed  features  puckered  impulsively.  Her 
hands  shook  in  the  spring. 

"Tom  Allyn,  when  are  you  going  to  fix  my  lot?" 

"I  have  fixed  your  lot  seven  times." 

"Tom,  you  are  an  old  cheat.  I  paid  you  to  fix  that  lot 
three  years  ago;  and  it  still  looks  a  sight.  My  father  must 
turn  in  his  grave  to  lie  under  that  wilderness." 

"I  planted  young  arbor  vitae  seven  times.  They  die.  I 
told  you  they  wouldn't  grow  without  you  manured  the 
ground.    It  ain't  nothing  but  weeds  and  gravel." 

And  so  on,  until  Allyn,  who  had  quarreled  with  her 
happily  those  sixty  years,  broke  suddenly  into  anger  and 
ground  out,  "Well,  I  guess  you're  the  meanest  woman  God 
ever  made.  And  I  warn  you  to  be  looking  for  a  new  grave- 
digger,  Bet;  for  before  I'd  dig  your  grave  after  this  I'd  see 
you  lie  on  top  the  ground  and  rot!" 

Then  Bet  fled  for  her  home  moaning,  and  sobbed  pri- 
vately into  her  pillow  for  fear  of  being  left  to  rot  above 
ground. 

At  the  same  time  a  girl  left  the  Valley  for  the  city  to 
hide;  the  children  in  the  schools  wrenched  themselves  out 
of  all  control  by  the  teacher;  and  the  ministers  walked  the 
streets  meekly  with  an  anxious  frown,  deliberately  cut  by 
those  who  feared  to  be  made  sources  of  prayer.  One  lad 
who  had  always  been  wild,  coming  from  a  shaggy  mountain 
family,  shot  up,  developed  slender,  faun-like  grace,  and 
coolly  plotted  a  succession  of  cruelties,  defiantly,  osten- 
tatiously, thus  beginning  a  criminal  career  in  disdain  of  all 
law. 


1 4  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

Such  was  the  secret  of  Cornfield  Valley.  The  secret  of 
her  indulgences,  her  grimness;  her  decadence. 

V. 

Those  tardy,  haunted  spring  months  of  that  country  are 
always  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  sound  of  wood- 
chopping;  and  the  dingy,  grass-smothered  place  which 
bordered  the  property  we  bought  on  the  north.  Our  own 
house  was  old  enough,  and  sadly  in  need  of  paint;  but  the 
house  next  door  seemed  sealed  with  cob-webs,  caterpillar- 
tents  and  dirt.  In  the  very  center  of  the  Valley,  flanked  by 
neat  lawns  and  decent  houses,  it  looked  slovenly  and  forlorn. 

In  the  dawn,  as  early  as  five  o'clock,  when  the  sky  was 
scarcely  lighter  than  at  night,  and  the  earth  still  deep  blue, 
1  would  wake  to  hear  an  irregular  chop-chopping  from  the 
yard  on  the  north.  The  dawn  was  a  time  of  cold  and 
siknee  in  Cornfield  Valley — a  misty,  lifeless  hour  when  the 
earth  held  its  breath  to  listen.  In  such  perfect  stillness, 
the  sound  of  the  wood-chopping  echoed  from  one  side  of 
the  Valley  to  the  other  with  as  sharp  a  concussion  as  if  the 
abrupt  mountain  walls  to  east  and  west  were  being  struck 
with  something  flat  like  a  plank.  It  sounded  terribly 
lonely.  I  think  it  even  had  an  element  of  mysticism  for 
me  then;  for  the  chopping  stopped  with  the  coming  of  day 
and  the  stirring  of  people  in  other  houses. 

Like  all  singular  things,  this  sound  held  a  fascination. 
It  would  have  drawn  me  to  the  window  to  see — I  don't 
know  what  wreird  chopper;  but  it  made  me  so  conscious  of 
the  warm  shelter  of  bed  that  movement  was  impossible. 
Then  at  last  my  curiosity  broke  the  trance,  carrying  me  to 
the  north  side  of  the  house  on  a  morning  clammy  with 
(loud-blankets.  Why  the  sight  that  I  found  should  have 
oppressed  me  as  it  did  I  cannot  tell.  It  was  merely  the 
gnarled  figure  of  a  woman,  with  stringy  grey  hair  and 
faded  blue  dress,  taking  large  heavy  pieces  of  wood  from 
a  pile  on  her  left,  and  cutting  them  into  stove-lengths 
which  she  threw  into  a  basket  on  her  right.  When  the 
basket  was  filled,  she  picked  it  up,  slanting  her  narrow 
shoulders  to  accommodate  herself  to  the  weight,  and 
walked  unevenly  into  the  house. 

We  asked  the  workmen  on  our  place  who  lived  next 
door;  and  they  told  us,  "The  Hodders.  Old  Hodder,  he's 
a    busy-body;    and    say — you    want    to    nail    things   dowrn 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  15 

around  here.  Mis'  Hodder  is  so  close,  she'd  squeeze  blood 
out  er  turnip." 

We  saw  that  round  jelly  of  a  man,  John  Hodder,  next 
day.  He  came  to  tell  us  what  to  do  with  our  house.  But 
the  close  woman  kept  indoors  while  we  were  awake,  and 
we  knew  she  resented  us.  Then  one  day  she  saw  us  scrap- 
ing and  preparing  to  oil  some  old  furniture;  and  came  to 
watch  us  curiously,  over  the  fence.  She  didn't  seem  for- 
midable. Her  eyes  were  hollow,  with  a  washed-out  look. 
She  told  us  that  she  had  some  old  "stuff"  she  was  cutting 
up  for  fire-wood;  and  that  "The  wooden  bed's  real  pretty, 
all  made  of  cherry;  only  Mr.  Hodder  likes  everything  to 
be  nice  and  modern,  so  he's  got  him  some  good  brass  ones." 
Finally  she  asked  us  to  see  her  trash :  eight  Hitchcock  chairs, 
the  bed  and  a  table!  So  far  we  had  made  no  offers  of  friend- 
ship or  curiosity;  but  now  we  asked  her  the  price  of  the 
pieces.  Ten  cents  apiece!  Today  people  are  wiser.  We 
gave  her  a  much  fairer  part  of  their  real  worth,  and  carried 
them  home  triumphant.  I  remember  her  face  then;  the 
expression  of  her  body.  The  money  she  handled  reverently, 
touching  it  with  her  rough  finger-tips.  Her  eyes  clouded 
with  a  vague  regret  at  losing  her  "truck"  that  she  had 
been  fond  of.  But  her  attitude  towards  us  had  changed. 
She  said,  "Just  think.  When  you  folks  come  here,  I  used 
to  get  up  to  do  my  chores  at  four  in  the  morning,  so's  not 
to  have  to  be  looked  at  by  you.  Why,  even  I  wouldn't  do 
that  scraping  work!"  And  from  that  time  she  performed 
any  dreary  piece  of  work  under  our  eyes,  her  air  almost 
insolent  with  contempt  for  us. 

She  did  not  annoy  us,  however.  She  was  too  drab  and 
tired  to  be  anything  but  pitiful.  Even  when  she  fulfilled 
the  prophecy  of  our  workmen,  and  came  to  "beat  us  down" 
on  some  petty  bargain,  we  could  not  blame  her.  In  our 
short  stay  at  Cornfield  Valley,  we  had  already  seen  the 
parsimony  of  her  husband,  whose  good  blood  and  gentle- 
man's education  had  become  a  pretext  for  idleness.  In  that 
house  over  the  north  line,  there  was  no  order,  no  division 
of  labour,  no  leisurely  family  life.  One  child  had  grown  up 
and  married;  another  had  died.  The  Hodder  place  was 
kept  from  disintegration  by  one  person,  Mrs.  Hodder.  One 
could  hardly  estimate  the  nature  and  extent  of  her  deso- 
lation. She  cut  herself  off  from  sympathy,  because  this 
entailed    criticism    of    Hodder,    whom    she    admired    as   a 


1 6  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

master.  1  [elp  or  gifts  of  any  kind  were  considered  shameful 
in  the  Valley;  a  present  was  charity  there;  and  she  con- 
sidered anything  for  which  she  did  not  pay  an  insult  and 
a  punishment.  She  had  always  been  held  by  the  bright 
Bowers  we  set  out;  yet  even  after  she  had  become  our 
friend,  she  would  not  take  a  root  from  us.  Something  held 
her  hands.  "When  1  get  around  to  it,"  she  said,  "I  don't 
know  but  I  might."  But  she  never  got  around  to  planting 
flowers.  She  feared  to  let  herself  go.  She  had  lost  all 
patience  with  life;  and  found  it  easier  not  to  struggle.  And 
she  feared  interests  which  would  make  her  do  so.  At  times 
a  cruel  fault  in  her  character  rode  her,  filling  her  with  a 
mania  to  hurt  those  about  her,  as  if  in  revenge  for  her  own 
suffering;  and  then  she  preferred  to  hurt  those  whom  she 
loved.  Again,  she  was  an  automaton.  Down-town  the 
shop-keeper  set  his  jaw  when  Mrs.  Hodder  came  in  to 
market.  She  was  uncommonly  shrewd  at  driving  a  bar- 
gain— a  shrill-voiced,  brittle,  dry  creature  wThose  horny 
hand  opened  very  reluctantly  on  the  little  money  held 
within.  She  had  a  shameless  mode  of  attack  bred  of  des- 
peration, having  long  ago  lost  all  dignity,  and  being  broken 
to  humiliation  as  a  horse  is  to  a  bridle. 

I  saw  her  first  in  the  spring;  and  it  was  springtime  when 
she  paid  us  the  call.  She  had  never  come  into  our  yard,  or 
entered  our  front  door.  Never,  until  that  May  day,  when 
the  apple  trees  burst  with  pink  blossoms,  the  grass  suddenly 
made  a  sally  into  unstable  sunlight,  and  pink  knobs  on 
the  rugged  oaks  pushed  off  last  year's  leaves.  Then  we  saw 
her  walk  up  to  our  door  and  knock,  for  a  formal  call.  But 
even  then  we  did  not  guess  the  importance  of  this  visit, 
until  she  told  us  her  news,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice.  "I 
saw  Doctor  yesterday.  I  ain't  felt  just  right  this  winter; 
so  I  saw  him.  He  said  he  guessed  I'm  going  to  die  in  a 
month  or  so."  She  turned  her  faded  eyes  upon  us,  simply 
looking  to  see  how  it  would  make  us  feel.  There  was  not 
a  vestige  of  emotion  in  those  eyes.  "Well,"  she  said,  "I 
guess  I  ain't  sorry.  Don't  know  but  it'll  be  a  good  thing. 
Family  don't  need  me.  Mr.  Hodder  won't  have  to  pay  for 
my  food.    1  It'll  be  better  at  the  girl's  house." 

There  was  little  to  say.    She  only  wanted  us  to  listen. 

"You  know,  I'm  real  glad  they  found  out.  It'll  be  a  nice 
month.  John  I  [odder  can  spare  it  for  me  to  use  on  myself! 
Been   years  since   I've  got  around  to  doing  what  I  like. 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  17 

There  is  a  piece  of  embroidery  I  started  when  I  was  a  bride. 
I  used  to  do  real  nice  embroidery,  when  there  was  time. 
I'll  finish  it  before  I  die." 

She  stayed  for  an  hour  or  more.  She  wished  to  explain 
her  visit. 

"I  guess  you  are  the  only  people  I  have  to  talk  to.  I 
have  come  to  feel  real  friendly,  living  next  door  and  all." 

Then  she  nodded  with  a  smile  and  went  away. 

When  she  told  her  family,  they  were  paralyzed  with  the 
news.  So  she  took  control  of  preparations.  From  the  bed 
to  which  she  was  soon  confined,  she  directed  the  house- 
cleaning  and  the  work  on  the  lawn.  It  was  her  thought  to 
make  her  funeral  a  credit  to  the  Hodder  family;  and  like 
a  general  she  laid  her  plans.  I  hear  that  the  burial  robes 
were  beautiful — trimmed  with  a  piece  of  exquisite  embroid- 
ery that  had  taken  forty  years  in  the  completing.  Thus 
Mrs.  Hodder  spent  her  last  weeks,  working  needle  and 
brain ;  and  never,  after  that  hour's  visit  at  our  house,  open- 
ing her  lips  to  speak  to  any  soul  save  to  command  when 
that  was  necessary.  John  Hodder  and  the  girl  had  become 
meek;  and  too  fearful  to  regret  her.  She  rode  to  the  ceme- 
tery almost  unattended,  save  for  the  family  and  the  minister. 
She  was  buried  beneath  the  embroidery. 

But  Mrs.  Hodder  had  liked  stark  solitude. 

VI. 

It  is  easy  to  think  that  Mrs.  Hodder  symbolized  the 
Valley,  in  her  life  and  in  her  death.  Easy  to  think  of  that 
as  a  dying  town,  whose  mortality  indeed  exceeded  the 
births,  dragging  through  its  last  years  in  ugly  indignity, 
dying  forlorn  and  defiant.  Yet  this  conception  is  only  the 
faulty  judgment  of  a  weakling  who  cannot  look  further 
than  the  winter  toll  of  tragedy.  Another  death  symbolized 
Cornfield  Valley. 

Old  Mrs.  Winship  lived  in  a  little  house  close  in  the 
corner  of  the  road.  She  had  grown  out  of  the  soil  from  a 
stubborn,  upstanding  family;  had  inherited  the  stubborn- 
ness, and  from  sheer  exuberance  of  life  transformed  herself 
into  a  little  tyrant.  Her  mind  cut  like  a  razor,  in  a  twinkle; 
her  tongue  did  foolish  things.  She  flirted  with  men  of 
many  stations  in  her  girlhood;  and  finally,  after  much 
managing,  married  a  man  older  by  years,  and  socially  her 
superior.    It  was  useless  to  play  the  lady  there  where  she 


iS  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

had  grown  up;  but  her  wit  carried  her  far;  she  made  her 
husband  pay  for  his  comforts  by  spoiling  her;  and  she 
busied  herself  with  intrigue  and  quixotic  kindnesses.  Now 
at  the  close  of  her  life  she  had  taken  to  going  to  church 
i  very  Sunday,  in  a  stiff  black  silk  dress  and  bonnet;  and 
sat  under  the  young  minister,  whoever  he  might  be  at  the 
time,  fixing  him  pertly  with  her  blue  eyes.  Her  mouth 
folded  neatly  into  nothing,  like  a  picnic-cup;  for  she  was 
toothless.  She  prayed  with  her  eyes  open.  Her  daughter, 
who  was  nearly  seventy,  went  to  early  church  so  as  to  be 
free  for  household  duties  later;  but  Mrs.  Winship  played 
Mary,  and  sat  through  the  long  service.  Afterwards  she 
stood  and  conversed  outside  the  church  doors.  Her  talk 
ran  somewhat  like  this. 

"Good  day,  good  day;  it's  a  lovely  summer.  And  I'm 
ve-ry  glad  it  is,  for  it's  likely  to  be  my  last  on  earth." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Winship?" 

"This  time  next  year  I'll  be  in  Realms  Above." 

"Get  out,  Mrs.  Winship — an  old  sinner  like  you?  You 
aren't  even  good  enough  for  dying,  yet." 

"Har-har!  Well,  maybe  I  ain't.  You  know,  I'm  a-goin' 
to  steal  this  minister-man  here." 

"You  can't.    He's  mine."    (From  the  minister's  wife.) 

"Oh  yes  I  kin.  I've  a  turrible  way  with  the  men  when 
1  want.    I'm  a  wild  woman." 

"I  won't  let  him  out." 

"Well,  you  wait.  Say,  I  wouldn't  go  listen  to  that  old 
goat  thar,"  (as  the  old  minister  from  the  other  church 
approached.)  "He  ain't  handsome.  Got  one  foot  in  the 
grave."    She  would  raise  her  voice  for  him  to  hear. 

"Go  'long,  Minnie  Winship.  I  just  remind  you  that 
you're  no  chicken  yourself;  that's  why  you  don't  like  me." 

"Yes.  That's  so.  I  like  'em  young;  and  I'm  an  old  fool; 
for  eighty-seven  years  have  passed  over  my  haid,  and  the 
angels  will  come  for  me  soon." 

She  lived  on  and  on,  aging  imperceptibly,  until  she  was 
unable  to  leave  her  house.  But  still  when  people  came  to 
her  she  began  by  saying,  "Soon  I'll  be  in  Realms 
Above;"  and  ended  by  cackling  at  her  own  jokes. 

She  had  added  a  prophecy,  however.  "I'm  an  old  fool 
now;  but  111  be  a  bigger  before  the  end.  An  ugly  woman 
that's  funny  is  fit  to  live;  but  an  ugly  simpleton  should  be 
put    out."     True   enough,   her   mind   was  failing  her;  she 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  19 

became  increasingly  forgetful;  and  her  efforts  to  recollect 
herself  were  so  painful  that  her  friends  ceased  to  go  to 
the  house.  Then  one  of  the  severe  winters  wrought  a  tre- 
mendous change.  Mrs.  Winship  had  become  quite  mad. 
She  recovered  much  of  her  strength;  used  to  run  out  into 
the  street  in  her  night-dress,  and  only  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  could  be  persuaded  to  return  to  the  warm  kitchen. 
The  Winships  had  become  very  poor.  Her  daughter  had 
always  been  tyrannized  by  Mrs.  Winship's  stronger  will; 
and  now  scarcely  knew  how  to  cope  with  a  situation  which 
left  her  mistress  for  the  first  time.  The  fear  she  had  always 
felt  of  her  mother  prevented  her  from  controlling  the  mad 
woman;  so  passers-by  in  the  street  often  saw  a  gaunt  figure 
in  the  window  or  doorway,  with  yellow  skin  of  parchment, 
fingers  like  clawed  hooks,  skull  almost  naked  of  flesh; 
smeared  with  snuff,  her  short  white  hair  wild  about  her 
face  in  a  cloud.  Thus  old  Mrs.  Winship  wandered  pite- 
ously  as  she  had  foreseen  she  would,  seeking  the  Realms 
Above.  One  day  a  change  came.  She  slept  heavily,  and 
never  awoke.    The  angel  had  come  for  her  after  all. 

They  all  went  to  see  her  before  the  funeral,  and  followed 
her  to  the  grave.  She  lay  in  a  mass  of  flowers,  in  black  silk, 
a  deep  lace  about  her  throat.  Her  snowy  hair  was  smoothed 
back  from  her  high  forehead.  Her  eyelids  were  thin  and 
white,  as  emotional  as  a  Spanish  woman's;  so  light  on  her 
cheek,  they  seemed  to  flutter  with  life.  The  wrinkles  had 
been  smoothed  away;  the  lips  had  fallen  naturally  into  a 
long  level  smile  of  serenity.  About  the  oval  face  there  was 
an  almost  royal  fineness;  a  pride  which  explained  all,  ex- 
cused all.  It  was  a  pride  in  her  own  sufficiency  within 
herself,  as  of  one  who  had  elected  to  conduct  her  own  soul 
to  its  destiny  independent  of  God;  and  who  preferred  to 
destroy  herself  rather  than  win  luke-warm  salvation  from 
religion.  Yet  the  dead  woman's  face  was  not  the  face  of 
one  damned.  It  seemed  to  tell  that  God  had  admired  her 
spirit,  and  accepted  her. 


-o  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

SNAPSHOT 

Barbara  Damon  Simison 

a : 

I  ride  past  hills  torn  jagged  by  the  pines, 
But  I  dismiss  them  when  I  wave  my  hand, 
And  look  instead  at  birches'  flowing  lines, 
Or  rivers  cutting  mazes  in  the  land. 
I  say  a  "Charming!"  in  response  to  falls, 
That  tumble  on  down  into  larger  streams, 
And  stony  pastures  running  far  from  wralls; 
Past  woods  all  dappled  by  the  slanting  beams 
Of  sun  that  gilds  the  fields;  and  then  I  find 
Myself  with  lack  of  words  to  even  speak 
Of  look  of  tired  roads  that  dip  and  wind, 
Or  cowslips  that  go  wading  in  the  creek. 
They  give  me  prose  and  verse  and  life  to  live; 
I  only  give  to  them  what  others  give! 


DISCOVERY 

Barbara  Damon  Simison 


I  saw  pathos 
In  a  crocus 
Coming  back  in 
Spring,  to  find  that 
Young  De  Quincey 
Saw  it  too,  but 
Long  ago. 

I  liked  pale  smoke 
Trailing  up  from 
Blown-out  tapers 
Only  to  read  that 
Keats  put  it  in  a 
Line  or  so. 

But,  the  other 
Day  I  found  my 
Love  for  you  all 
Hidden  away;  nor 
Poet,  nor  you  could 
Find  it  first — and 
That — I  know! 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  21 

RETURN 

F.  Adams 


ES,  it  was  odd,  she  thought,  walking  slowly  home 
across  the  yellow  windswept  golf  course  in  the 
smoky  aftermath  of  an  early  sunset — it  was  odd 
that  in  the  last  long  years  away  from  home,  this 
noxious  sweetness  of  her  brief  returns  had  never  drugged 
her  quite  as  now.  At  first,  it  was  just  an  overpowering 
inertia — a  slow  adjustment  of  all  processes,  but  in  the  end, 
she  succumbed  with  the  abandon  of  a  lover  to  the  steady 
throb  of  that  life  which  let  her  go  for  a  time,  then  sucked 
her  back  as  resistlessly  as  flotsam  in  a  tide.  She  had  al- 
ways been  glad  to  go  again,  to  shake  off  the  atmosphere 
which  settled  so  familiarly  around  her,  to  expand  and  feel 
herself  a  full-grown  personality  in  an  environment  which 
did  not  know  her,  in  situations  which  she  could  consciously 
create.  She  liked  to  feel  the  old  existence  sliding  from  her, 
knowing  it  to  be  an  everpresent  undercurrent  to  which  she 
inevitably  returned,  exposing  herself  indifferently  to  a  life 
which  meant  nothing  either  way — nothing  but  a  remote 
consuming  paralysis  useless  to  fight,  puzzling  to  feel.  Life 
here  was  a  still  pool,  and  yet,  like  some  great  fish  swerving 
suddenly  near  the  surface,  through  the  tangled  weeds  of 
her  consciousness,  she  felt  a  vague  presentiment,  a  thought 
trembling  near  firmer  realization,  that  flashed  back  into 
the  depths,  a  will  o'  the  wisp,  and  left  her  dreaming  by  the 
pool. 

What  was  it  now  that  swelled  up  within  her,  crying  to 
be  released,  aching  through  every  limb  until  she  could 
hardly  breathe  for  the  queer  tumescent  throbbing?  Some 
Celtic  chant  the  winds  had  played,  sweeping  through  her 
body  to  answer  a  half-forgotten  tune  that  long  had  sung 
itself  into  her  being,  some  dim  subliminal  fragment 
struggling  towards  light. 

It  must  be  spring,  she  thought,  gazing  at  the  pale  new 
grass  on  the  greens,  the  lace  of  the  buds  against  the  sky, 
the  dogs  rolling  ecstatically  on  the  fairways.  But  all 
springs  were  the  same, — there  had  always  been  this  un- 
acknowledged pain,  a  pain  that  surged  through  all  living 
things,  that  found  its  consummation  in  universal  creating, 
eternal  life.   And  there  had  always  been  a  happiness  greater 


22  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

than  the  longing,  a  mad  enthusiasm  for  all  places,  all  things, 
all  experience,  a  recurrent  seasonal  excitement  correlated 
with  a  frenzy  to  experiment.  It  was  natural  that  the 
approaching  resurrection  of  the  naked  trees,  the  stiffened 
earth,  should  communicate  a  similar  sensation  of  rebirth 
to  her.  It  was  natural  that  the  long  train  of  the  feathery 
hills  and  the  curve  of  the  golf  course,  steeped  as  they  were 
in  familiarity,  and  linked  with  the  earliest  memories  of  her 
life  should  touch  off  a  peculiar  emotional  set,  but  why, 
now,  did  it  transform  itself  into  a  fierce  desire,  beating 
wildly  through  her  pulses,  pulling  her  out  of  her  soft  shell 
of  contentment,  to  fray  each  open  nerve?  She  had  never 
remained  home  for  longer  than  a  sweeping  glance  at  the 
house,  the  people,  the  country,  then  the  longing  to  escape 
returned,  and  there  was  always  a  means  at  hand,  an  excuse, 
and  once  more  independent,  a  free-lance  to  comb  the 
minute  centers  of  the  world  at  hand.  Time  that  seemed  so 
measured  here,  split  up  when  she  left  into  a  thousand 
varied  particles.  This  moment  of  acute  consciousness  had 
severed  her  mind,  then  suddenly  resynthesized  the  ele- 
ments into  an  unexpected  unity.  She  had  lost  all  personal 
feeling  in  that  momentary  cataclysm.  She  was  no  longer 
an  individual  but  a  human  expression  of  the  surrounding 
earth.  All  vestige  of  her  own  character  had  disappeared, 
she  was  mystically  identified  with  the  primordial  oneness 
of  this  place,  which  the  diverse  encounters  with  a  wider 
world  had  displaced  for  a  time,  until  she  thought  she  had 
forgotten.  Subconsciously  those  first  reactions  must  have 
persisted,  moulding  her,  however  unwillingly,  in  their 
fashion,  until  at  last  a  crisis  brought  the  two  parts  into 
conflict,  and  the  shock  momentarily  obliterated  all  more 
recent  experience. 

The  country  club  loomed  distantly  across  a  wraith-filled 
void — a  low  colonial  building,  full  of  nationally  historic 
ghosts,  headquarters  of  Lafayette  in  the  Revolution;  an 
old  house,  nursing  its  stately  memories  to  the  soft  cascade 
of  a  waterfall  in  the  wet,  earth-scented  ravine.  A  servant 
held  the  door,  taking  her  golf-bag  quietly.  She  wandered 
through  the  rooms,  holding  back  the  flood  of  memories 
clinging  to  the  scent  of  leather,  cigarettes,  and  flowers,  the 
drowsy  warmth  of  hot  chocolate  after  skating,  New  Year's 
Eve  and  egg  nog;  the  soft  arms  of  the  sofa  after  tennis; 
the  tremulous  desperation  of  first  dances  when  older  girls 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  23 

seemed  sure  and  effortless.  She  was  older  now,  she  re- 
flected. Funny  how  the  effort  seemed  to  fade — success  or 
not,  it  didn't  much  matter.  She  watched  the  gardener 
arrange  a  bowl  of  flowers. 

"Same  old  snap  dragons,  John,"  she  sighed.  It  seemed 
painful  somehow  that  things  didn't  change,  but  there  was 
a  queer  aesthetic  satisfaction  in  the  uniformity,  as  if  it 
squared  with  her  persisting  recollections  that  were  not 
buried  after  all. 

She  heard  the  door  slam  shut  behind  her  as  she  sauntered 
homeward  across  the  deserted  clock-golf  green,  wondering 
if  they  would  fill  in  the  holes  for  the  garden  party  in  May, 
in  the  immemorial  manner.  The  deep  park  around  the 
house  was  haunted  with  the  shadows  of  vast  trees  thrown 
out  across  the  mist.  She  paused  a  moment  by  the  brook, 
kicking  loose  the  dried  leaves  of  last  autumn,  watching 
them  eddy  noiselessly  toward  the  bridge. 

"How  sombre  it  is,"  she  thought,  "the  silence  and  the 
fog."  Further  on  there  was  a  pool  where  two  white  swans 
floated  through  the  gloom.  She  had  swum  there  surrep- 
titiously on  hot  summer  nights,  and  lain  naked  in  the 
moonlight  on  the  thick  turf,  trembling  to  a  thin  wild  song 
like  the  "Lohengrin"  prelude.  She  often  felt  that  curious 
singing  in  her  ears,  particularly  on  sultry  nights,  and  the 
sweet  high  sound  made  her  think  of  milk  and  ice,  and 
moonlight.  .  . 

The  swans  circled  near  her,  and  she  was  suddenly  re- 
minded of  two  white  peacocks  on  an  island  in  Maggiore; 
on  a  terrace  of  heavy  flaming  flowers  and  marble  benches 
blindingly  white  in  the  Italian  heat.  Queer — that  contrast 
in  this  blurred  Corot  dusk  of  greys  and  browns.  Some  part 
of  her  color  vision  had  died,  become  absorbed  in  shadow. 
An  unscrupulous  mixing  of  the  strongest  paints  will  pro- 
duce a  pigeon  grey  or  muddy  brown.  There  had  been  too 
many  colors,  she  thought,  the  canvas  hurt  the  eyes,  and 
suddenly  they  had  all  run  together — cancelling  each  other, 
leaving  nothing  but  the  residue  of  their  component  chemi- 
cals. Well — she  was  glad ;  she  was  sick  of  purple  patches — 
pure  line  was  more  beautiful. 

But  this  emotion  robbed  her  of  free-will;  she  could  not 
calculate  its  strength.  It  had  been  a  force  hid  deeply  under 
her  consciousness,  emerging  unexpectedly  to  dominate  it. 
How  could  she  know  which  line  to  follow — the  instinctive 


24  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

impulse,  irrational  in  its  demands,  or  the  reasonable  obli- 
gations her  superficial  life  directed?  If  one  could  resist  this 
torn-,  which  she  doubted  now  in  the  face  of  her  desire  to 
yield,  should  one?  Was  not  the  old  sensation  more  legiti- 
mate because  more  fundamental?  Or  was  it  just  a  palpable 
example  of  "evil  genius"  attempting  to  undermine  her  sane 
behavior?  If  it  was  Mephistophelean,  she  was  still  free 
ause  her  soul  was  uncommitted,  but  a  decision  must  be 
reached.  She  would  not  yield  yet  by  a  strong  effort  of  will. 
She  would  banish  the  shaggy-coated  Satyr  twisted  by  her 
tortured  eyes  from  the  soft-forming  mist  beneath  a  sumach 
bush.  It  all  seemed  pantheistic,  absurd.  She  was  acting 
like  a  landlocked  character  in  one  of  Hardy's  novels. 

The  house  was  drowned  in  fog  as  she  came  up  to  it, 
submerged  below  the  mastlike  tulip  trees.  Only  the  yellow 
lights  from  the  wandows  riddled  the  shroud  like  mouse 
holes  in  a  cheese.  In  the  firelit  room  she  found  the  vener- 
able dachshund  on  the  hearth,  reflecting  a  running  pattern 
of  flame  against  his  sleek  dark  coat,  his  rabbit-hunting  nose 
pillowed  on  his  paws,  the  silky  ears  framing  his  dazed, 
somnolent  eyes.  Across  the  room  sat  the  other,  chiselled 
into  a  repose  so  deep  that  she  hesitated  before  entering. 

"If  time  could  be  disintegrated  now,"  she  thought,  "I 
could  hold  this  moment  static  for  eternity.  .  ." 

The  figure  moved,  and  all  the  threads  of  the  Chinese 
coat  she  wrore  turned  gold  in  the  firelight.  Her  deep-sunk 
eyes  fastened  on  the  girl  as  she  sank  into  the  chintz-covered 
chair  beside  the  hearth,  exhausted.  The  well-known  sur- 
roundings surged  in  upon  her  nostalgically,  the  temptation 
to  unmask  her  struggle  seized  her,  while  unconsciously  she 
fought  against  the  asthmatic  progress  of  the  grandfather's 
clock,  velvet lv  insinuating  the  quarter  hours  on  its  golden 
dial. 

"Shall  I  speak?"  she  thought,  "try  to  tell  her?  Somc- 
times  I  can't  stand  this  reserve  this  secrecy  of  feeling. 
Hut  now  it's  too  late— we've  been  growing  individual  hedges 
around  ourselves  for  too  many  years  to  tear  them  down  in 
this  short  hour."  She  gave  tip  the  attempt  and  ran  her 
toe  absently  across  the  dachshund's  back.  A  thousand 
sparks  shattered  the  air  between  them  as  the  lire  suddenly 
leaped  into  the  circlet  of  diamonds  on  the  thin  fingers 
holding  the  outstretched  cup  of  tea.  The  girl  took  it 
Bilently,   watching   the-  brooding  way  in  which  the  hands 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  25 

dropped  back,  cupped  within  each  other  to  her  lap,  curved 
hands  that  were  ever  crooked  together  in  some  task,  whether 
it  was  infinitesimal  embroidery  on  her  childhood  dresses, 
straightening  a  twisted  flower  stalk  or  falling  reminiscently 
among  the  keys  of  the  old  piano.  She  followed  the  upward 
lift  of  her  cloudy  hair  against  the  patterned  sofa,  the 
column  of  her  neck  fluted  into  thin  chords,  the  deep  lines 
in  her  face,  the  eyes,  unfocussed  once  more  when  she  sank 
back,  losing  the  twin  spots  of  light  they  held  when  she 
spoke.  They  were  black  shadows  now,  below  the  curving 
brows,  but  still  they  seemed  to  see  beyond  her. 

"But  what?"  thought  the  girl  half-frightened,  wondering 
what  they  visioned  through  her,  through  the  chair,  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  house.  She  shivered  a  little.  Often  it  used 
to  be  that  way;  she  would  look  up,  about  to  speak,  and  see 
that  lost,  deep  look,  so  that  she  forgot,  and  the  words  died 
on  her  lips,  or  the  thought  became  a  triviality.  She  was 
not  unsympathetic — it  was  rather  that  she  saw  a  greater 
distance,  and  the  altered  perspective  robbed  other  prob- 
lems of  much  significance.  It  was  with  her  that  one  cursed 
one's  limited  horizon,  and  longed  to  lift  the  veil.  Curiously 
blended  with  this  strange  passivity  was  a  current  of  vitality 
which  ran  through  everything  she  touched,  a  magnetizing 
power  that  seemed  to  spring  from  the  brown  curves  of  her 
hand,  furrowed  by  the  garden,  quickening  into  life  even 
the  trampled  flowers  that  the  dogs  prostrated  in  their 
careless  rambles,  an  electricity  that  one  felt  might  almost 
insulate  death  itself. 

"What  is  it?"  she  wondered,  "constituting  this  curious 
personal  equation,  a  separation  I  cannot  cross.  Why 
should  this  atmosphere  creep  over  me  like  slow  frost  at 
night,  until  I  am  solidified  before  I  can  discover  it?  What 
keeps  her  aloof,  unbound,  consonant  with  this  harmony, 
but  at  the  same  time  free?    She  is  so  remote." 

The  flowery  tea  stabbed  through  her  with  the  scent  of 
hyacinths  and  the  golden  freesias  at  the  window.  She  must 
speak,  tell  her  before  she  went  away  that  nothing  else 
mattered — it  was  here,  here  by  the  fire  where  the  dachshund 
pursued  a  dreamy  senility,  where  she  filled  the  tea  cups 
silently  as  the  shadows  gathered,  crowding  in  close  around 
them,  here  where  life  moved  soundlessly,  and  days  were 
full  of  exercise  and  sunlight,  or  rain  and  worn  out  books; 
where  to  live  was  effortless  and  not  to  live  a  torture,  that 


26  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

she  found  the  realest  happiness,  a  contentment  worn  as 
smoothly  as  a  sea-surrounded  stone;  to  tell  her  that  she 
could  not  stay  because  it  was  too  perfect,  too  serene,  a 
level  still  beyond  her  grasp.  She  wanted  to  make  her 
understand  that  the  long  months  away  at  college,  the  long 
summers,  studying  or  travelling  were  not  to  get  away  from 
home  because  it  bored  her,  but  to  temper  a  metal  merely 
forged  in  that  earlier  dream-life;  to  try  the  steel  where  it 
found  most  resistance,  and  to  gain  the  prerogative  of 
strength  to  one  day  make  this  a  reality,  not  a  mere  sunken 
city,  like  Lyonesse  in  the  ancient  fairy  tale,  where  it  lay 
far  below  the  life  she  must  lead,  tolling  its  bells  dimly  at 
such  times  as  this. 

The  older  woman  raised  her  eyes,  inscrutably  levelled 
against  the  girl's  hesitant  glance.  She  faltered  a  minute — 
no,  she  could  not  speak.  And  so  it  would  always  be  this 
way — both  dumb  when  it  came  to  emotion,  armoured  in 
reticence — a  spell  as  it  were  that  must  not  be  broken  lest 
the  whole  fall  in  ruins  around  their  ears. 

She  went  out  again  into  the  mist  and  the  darkness.  The 
fog  heavy  with  scent,  rolled  all  the  faint  aromas  of  the 
night  into  one  multiple  fragrance,  quivering  in  her  nostrils, 
to  catch  in  her  throat.  From  the  pond,  the  mysterious  song 
of  the  frogs  reached  her  softly  like  a  dirge.  Now  that  the 
passion  rested  there  was  surcease  of  pain — only  a  thin 
black  rim  of  melancholy  seemed  to  edge  her  thoughts. 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  27 

IS  IT  DEATH? 

Edith  Starks 

The  world  grows  dim 
And  in  the  starlight 
Charon  comes  for  me, 
His  long  back  bent  across  the  oar; 
But  I  shall  welcome  him 
For  through  the  river's  swollen  night 
None  guide  so  well  as  he. 
We  shall  scrape  safely  on  that  further  shore 
Where  the  old  ghosts  drift  down  to  greet  the  new, 
And  after  this  long  waiting  I  shall  again  find  you 
And  clasp  your  hand,  who  have  known  death  and  all  of  this 
before. 


BLACK  POPPIES 

Edith  Starks 

My  love  for  you 

Is  like  black  poppies  blooming. 

Cool  in  the  moonlight 

And  as  darkly  mysterious  against  your  cheek, 

As  softly  caressing 

As  the  night  air  itself. 

Langorous  in  the  sunlight,  and  sombre, 

Half -closed,  swaying  in  the  breeze, 

Dreaming  always  of  the  night 

When  you  will  press  these  trembling  petals 

To  your  mouth  again. 

My  love  for  you 

Is  like  black  poppies  blooming. 


28  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

PILGRIMAGE  DOWNSTREAM 

Elizabeth  Botsford 


|N  a  full  blown  August  day,  old  Tom  Cook  became 
haunted  by  a  curious  restlessness.  When  the 
third  faded  maple  leaf  drifted  past  his  skiff  in  the 
shadowed  water,  he  moved  uneasily  and  shoved 
out  from  under  the  willow  bank  into  the  sunlight.  Out 
over  the  meadow  a  flock  of  blackbirds  circled  raucously  in 
the  top  of  an  elm  tree.  He  watched  them  a  moment, 
squinting  into  the  sun,  and  a  look  of  surprise  deepened  in 
his  moist  eyes  as  though  he  had  become  conscious  of  some 
tremendous  fact.  Then,  abruptly,  he  drew  in  his  wire  line 
that  sang  on  the  sandy  bottom,  put  the  oars  in  the  locks 
and  with  a  few  hurried  strokes  was  out  in  the  channel. 

In  the  gray  of  the  following  dawn,  the  rivermen  of 
Minnieska  found  Tom  Cook  down  at  the  docks  packing 
his  sparse  belongings  into  the  stern  of  his  skiff.  He  stood 
up  at  their  questions.  Beside  their  sturdiness  he  looked 
small  and  frail.  Although  he  grinned  with  his  wide  tooth- 
less mouth,  his  pale  eyes  held  still  the  tearful  puzzlement 
that  had  come  into  them  the  day  before.  "I  reckon  it's 
about  time  I  was  getting  home,"  he  said  in  his  thin  voice. 
One  of  the  men  held  the  boat  for  him  while  he  stepped  in, 
for  his  hands  were  trembling.  No  one  spoke  and  yet  the 
silence  was  full  of  knowledge.  The  prow  swung  outward 
into  the  current.  He  leaned  over  his  poised  oars,  his 
crumpled  face  sunk  behind  his  knuckles.  "Well,  boys, 
goodbye."  The  rivermen  answered  in  a  deep  embarrassed 
chorus  which  fell  flatly  on  the  water.  "Goodbye."  It  did 
not  occur  to  them  to  say  any  more.  They  stood  in  a  stiff 
line  along  the  dock  and  watched  him  row  downstream  until 
a  tatter  of  mist  trailed  between  them.  The  fog  swelled  up 
from  the  bottom  lands,  obscuring  the  sunrise. 

Out  on  the  blank  river  with  the  fog  creeping  about  him 
and  filling  his  ancient  brain,  Tom  Cook  did  not  stop  to 
wonder  why  he  was  there.  He  was  answering  an  instinct 
that  had  stirred  within  him.  It  is  probable  that  he  did 
not  even  realize  what  he  was  doing,  for,  as  he  passed  camps 
and  fishing  holes  familiar  to  him  for  more  than  half  a 
century,    the    years    crowded    around    him    with    insistent 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  29 

memories.  He  had  long  since  lost  track  of  time,  living  so 
much  in  the  past  as  he  grew  older  that  it  became  more 
real  to  him  than  the  present.  Now,  out  of  the  shifting 
mist  figures  took  shape  which  were  dust,  and  in  the  half 
revelation  of  shore  line  and  jutting  dam  he  saw  himself 
and  his  friends  in  a  dim  reincarnation.  His  boat  moved 
more  with  the  impetus  of  the  great  swinging  river  than  of 
his  feeble  oars,  and  the  downstream  motion  carried  him 
back  through  the  long  quiet  years.  His  mind  washed  back 
and  forth  on  the  current,  like  a  piece  of  driftwood. 

Under  the  enormous  elm  which  stood  up  over  Point  No 
Point,  Bill  Houston  and  he  had  slept  beneath  an  over- 
turned skiff  in  a  cloudburst.  There,  where  Indian  Slough 
cut  sharply  back  toward  the  hills,  was  his  famous  hole  for 
bass.  On  Box  Dam,  he  had  sat  for  hours  with  old  Craig 
when  the  crappee  were  biting.  He  remembered  the  sleepi- 
ness of  the  sun  on  his  shoulders.  Fifty  Four,  Bass  Island, 
Belvidere,  Crooked  Slough,  the  names  made  a  slow  and 
reminiscent  melody  in  his  ears,  falling  in  the  rhythm  of  his 
oars.  Chimney  Rock  stood  clear  of  the  fog  with  the  August 
noon  pouring  upon  its  serried  crest.  There  the  ladyslippers 
grew  so  thickly  that  a  patch  of  ground  was  solid  yellow 
with  them.  He  knew  one  high  slope  where  you  could 
always  find  the  rare  and  delicate  pink  ones — it  was  a 
secret  of  his.  He  said  the  flowers  over  to  the  empty  boat, 
tasting  their  fragrance — bellwort,  may-apple,  hypaticas, 
honey-suckle,  shooting  stars.  A  bunch  of  full  alert  shoot- 
ing stars  clenched  in  the  hand  of  a  child  who  had  torn  her 
bare  knees  on  wild  rose  bushes.  Steaks  sputtering  over  a 
charcoal  fire.  A  launch  filled  with  deep  picnic  baskets  and 
ferns.  Women  in  stiff  white  waists,  whose  skirts  swayed 
graciously  as  they  walked.    All  this  was  Chimney  Rock. 

At  Fountain  City  Tom  Cook  tied  up  at  a  water-logged 
boat-house.  He  felt  exhausted  until  he  heard  John  Smoker's 
voice.  A  glass  of  beer  cooled  his  hot  throat.  He  peered 
blindly  about  the  empty  beer-garden,  looking  for  Pete. 
The  brilliance  of  the  river  was  still  in  his  eyes  and  head. 
John  Smoker  told  him  Pete  was  gone.  "Down  the  river?" 
said  Tom  dully.  His  life  fell  into  the  bewildering  patterns 
of  a  kaleidoscope,  changing  at  every  touch. 

"Maybe,"  said  John  Smoker. 

"I'll  see  him,"  said  Tom,  "I  want  to  tell  him  his  beer 
has  gone  stale  again." 


3o  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

"You'll  see  him,"  John  Smoker  told  him  gently. 

He  could  not  understand  why  the  Lady  Grace  was  not 
running  between  Fountain  City  and  Winona  that  after- 
noon, (that  decrepit  passenger  launch  which  had  been 
abandoned  for  years).  "I  thought  mebbe  they'd  tow  me 
down,"  he  complained.  "I'm  in  kind  of  a  hurry."  His 
tired  eyes  looked  frightened  again,  and  his  face  curled  as 
though  he  were  going  to  cry.  John  Smoker  saw  him  off, 
a  little  bent  man  huddled  in  the  middle  of  his  skiff.  "Good- 
bye, Harry,"  said  Tom  thoughtfully.  The  boat  slid  rapidly 
downstream.  Tom  hardly  heard  the  answer.  One  long 
and  freighted  word.    "Goodbye."    Nothing  else. 

He  passed  the  head  of  the  Old  River  and  peered  down 
along  its  still  course  where  the  trees  hung  down,  covered 
with  trailing  grape  vines,  from  the  crumbling  banks.  The 
turtles  were  out  on  the  dry  logs,  the  pickerel  working  in 
the  weeds,  and  the  redstarts  dancing  among  the  dark 
warm  leaves.  Once  the  river  packets  had  steamed  over 
that  placid  water,  and  its  silent  reflections  had  been  shaken 
by  the  slow  cadenza  of  the  leadman  as  he  flung  back  the 
soundings  to  the  pilot.  The  channel  ran  in  close  past 
Burlinhame's  Cottage  with  its  fallen  roof.  Half  a  mile 
farther  down  he  passed  a  houseboat  tied  close  in  to  the 
shore.  Weighing  on  his  oars,  he  stared  at  it.  Funny  there 
was  no  one  home,  no  girls  running  bare-legged  on  the  sand, 
no  launch  creaking  against  the  dock.  It  was  queer.  He 
had  wanted  to  step  there  a  moment.  He  could  not  remem- 
ber ever  having  found  this  camp  deserted.  He  wagged  his 
head  sadly.    "Goodbye,"  he  said,  and  shivered  in  the  heat. 

Well,  he  must  hurry  home.  The  shadows  under  the  trees 
looked  cool  after  the  glare  of  the  wide  river,  but  the  levee 
was  waiting  for  him,  the  warm  benches,  the  straying  dogs, 
the  swallows  ducking  out  of  the  high  wagon  bridge.  He 
could  sit  still  to  watch  the  steam  boats  dock  and  barge 
away,  and  the  fishermens'  skiffs  slide  past  with  their  long 
poles  dangling  over  the  stern.  He  could  sleep  in  the  sun, 
and  his  memories  would  gather  close  about  him  protecting 
him  from  the  heavy  years. 

Betsy  Slough.  Now  he  had  only  to  round  Black  Bird 
Inland  to  see  the  Old  Stone  House  wrhich  had  been  built 
into  the  bluff  which  rose  sturdily  out  of  the  water.  Then 
he  could  look  down  the  river  to  the  city  in  the  distance, 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  31 

behind  the  tracery  of  the  high  bridges,  its  towers  and  smoke- 
stacks softened  by  the  haze  of  the  blue  August  afternoon. 
He  paused,  with  a  sense  of  expectancy  rising  in  his  throat, 
looking  at  the  hills.  Suddenly  the  shadows  rose  up  out  of 
their  secretive  valleys.  The  deep  breathing  of  the  river 
faded  in  his  ears. 

When  the  skiff  turned  the  corner,  it  had  whirled  around 
so  that  Tom  was  facing  downstream.  But  he  did  not  see 
the  end  of  his  pilgrimage. 


33  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

PURCHASE 

Ernestine  Gilbreth 


'MORROW  Martha  would  return  to  college. 
Today  she  had  come  to  the  city  to  finish  her 
shopping,  to  drink  in  the  atmosphere  of  New 
York  and  steep  it  in  her  memory.  Today  she 
had  hurried  up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue,  purchasing,  but 
more  often  standing  before  the  shop  windows,  or  relaxing, 
giving  herself  to  the  crowd.  The  incessant  motion,  the 
busy  click  of  heels  on  the  pavement  always  excited  her. 

She  was  tired  as  she  turned  down  Thirty-Fourth  Street 
toward  the  Tube;  that  wrarm  kind  of  fatigue  that  is  never- 
theless pleasing.  It  had  been  a  successful  day,  gloves, 
pocket-book,  those  brown  suede  slippers  with  just  the  right 
heel,  the  new  hat  concealed  now  in  an  aristocratic  but 
exceedingly  difficult  box.  Martha  looked  down  at  the 
bundles  approvingly.  There  were  certainly  a  lot  of  them, 
every  size  and  description — impossible  to  hold  gracefully. 
Her  arms  stretched  about  them  tingled,  ached.  She  was 
tired,  awfully  tired.  She'd  been  a  fool  to  wear  such  high 
heels  shopping;  might  have  known  they'd  be  killing  her  by 
the  end  of  the  day.  Her  head  throbbed.  That  blue  hat 
must  have  shrunk  through  the  summer,  or  her  head — . 
Certainly  her  forehead  had  seemed  strangled  all  day.  Per- 
haps she  might  be  getting  cerebral  hemorrhage  or  some- 
thing. "School-girl  swoons  in  Herald  Square.  Lovely 
Miss  Martha — "  Some  dresses  in  a  shop  window  caught 
her  attention.  She  stared  with  distaste  at  their  embroidery 
and  fringe.  "Everything  but  modern  plumbing."  Some- 
one bumped  into  her,  sent  her  spinning  forward.  She 
gasped  and  smiled  pleasantly.  New  York.  It  always  gave 
her  that  sense  of  the  unexpected,  the  thrilling  realization 
that  she  was  young,  powerful. 

She  had  reached  the  crossing  now.  The  huge  clock  in 
front  of  Gregg's  Inc.  indicated  five  o'clock.  Half  an  hour 
before  her  train!  That  meant  that  she  would  have  time  to 
slip  into  the  store  just  for  a  minute,  to  recall  the  summer 
she  had  been  a  salesgirl.  It  was  always  such  fun  to  in- 
tensify memories  before  returning  to  college,  to  contrast 
this  sort  of  life  humming  with  physical  action  and  sen- 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  33 

sation  with  school,  mental  indulgence,  "opportunity  knock- 
ing at  the  door  but  once." 

She  would  leave  tomorrow,  returning  to  her  last  year. 
It  had  been  three  long  years  since  she  had  been  behind  the 
counter,  a  contingent  flung  from  department  to  depart- 
ment, meek,  black-dressed  and  sixteen.  She  had  done  it 
purely  for  excitement,  exulting  in  her  role,  admitting  only 
that  she  came  from  "Jersey."  The  answer  for  some  reason 
had  discouraged  further  questioning,  had  admitted  her  to 
the  selling  "elite."  She  had  been  privileged  a  totally  new 
side  of  life,  had  used  it  later  for  her  freshman  themes, 
"The  Psychology  of  Selling,"  a  searching  essay  on  floor- 
walkers, original  and  rather  delightful,  she  thought.  Won- 
derful field  for  writing — Gregg's,  such  a  huge  place,  so 
rushed,  alive  with  strenuous  salesgirls.  A  good  store, 
catering  obviously  to  the  house-aproned  type  of  customer, 
ponderous  and  squeaky  shoed,  grim-faced  and  violent  over 
the  special  sales. 

Martha  hurried  into  the  store,  past  two  guards  standing 
at  the  entrance.  They  wouldn't  remember  her  of  course. 
She  thought  with  approval  of  the  felt  hat  sweeping  down 
over  one  eye,  of  her  sheer  stockings  and  high  heeled  shoes. 
"808  Contingent,"  but  she  was  Martha  now,  an  individual, 
all-powerful.  She  was  walking  through  the  main  floor, 
looking  critically  at  "Today's  Specials,"  at  the  tables  piled 
high  with  bargains,  rayon  shirts  brilliantly  hued,  $.69, 
hand  embroidered  nightgowns  that  seemed  made  of  sheet- 
ing, long  woolen  underwear  stretched  and  begrimed.  A 
busy  day,  good  values!  The  customers  were  pushing, 
elbowing.  She  watched  them  distantly.  Great,  hulking 
animals  —  she  had  never  recovered  from  her  disgust  at 
them.  The  girls  looked  tired;  they  always  did  at  five 
o'clock.  Standing  all  day,  or  ducking  down  behind  the 
counter  for  fresh  goods,  poor  devils!  She  recalled  how  their 
legs  must  ache  behind  the  knees,  how  their  backs  must 
feel  strained,  wrenched  out  of  position.  Thank  heavens 
she  wasn't  going  back  to  that — tomorrow. 

Her  enthusiasm  rose  as  she  mounted  to  the  second  floor. 
She  stared  about  her  a  minute  and  then  jumped  on  the 
escalator  to  the  third.  She  even  dared  to  run  up  the  last 
few  steps,  pushing  past  two  customers  who  swayed  and 
searched  frantically  for  their  high  black  shoes.  Young, 
she  was  young!   Let  the  sour  old  things  grumble  about  her; 


34  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

let  them  pant  and  heave  to  their  hearts'  content.  She 
hurried  to  the  floor  and  glanced  about  her.  Sure  enough — 
she  had  sold  in  that  very  place,  women's  house  dresses, 
wasn't  it — striped  broadcloth  in  tremendous  sizes?  There 
had  been  one  dreadful  customer,  most  grotesque  bulk  of  a 
woman,  and  going  to  get  married  that  afternoon.  Martha 
remembered  trying  to  stretch  her  arms  about  the  heaving 
waist,  grunting  as  she  had  attempted  to  tie  the  belt  in  the 
rear  somewhere — she  would  never  forget  the  sensation. 
That  was  a  good  day,  all  the  girls  had  made  their  quotas. 
She  went  on  swiftly  from  aisle  to  aisle,  surveying  the 
counters  quickly.  Women's  clothes.  As  usual  they  were 
in  frightful  taste,  poor  lines  and  trimming.  The  store 
needed  a  new  buyer.  Old  "Dora"  (they  always  called  her 
that)  was  getting  too  ancient;  she  was  so  difficult. 

Martha  found  herself  looking  for  anyone  who  had  been 
there  before.  There  was  a  red-headed  girl  like  one  she  had 
known,  but  she  looked  too  old,  lines  about  her  eyes  and 
mouth.  Still — three  years,  you  couldn't  tell.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Crosby — .  She  glanced  about  briskly.  He  had  certainly 
been  insolent,  perfectly  impossible.  But  he  wouldn't  act 
that  way  now — indeed  no,  why  he'd  just  cringe.  It  was 
only  with  the  girls  that  he . 

She  found  herself  in  the  sweater  department.  Instinc- 
tively she  began  to  finger  critically.  Much  better  lot  this 
year — less  stripes  and  a  more  secure  weave.  There  were 
still  better  ones  on  the  counter,  arranged  in  neat  piles  of 
every  color.  She  hurried  over  to  make  sure.  "These  are 
nice — awfully  good-looking,"  she  smiled  at  the  girl  behind 
the  counter.  "I  might  take  one  back  to  school."  She  had 
dumped  her  bundles  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "There — I'd  like 
a  size  32,  I  think.    Isn't  that  a  nice  shade  of  blue!" 

The  salesgirl  blossomed  immediately.  "You  know  Miss, 
I  like  that  the  best  myself.  It  would  look  pretty  on  you!" 
There  was  something  young  and  confidential  about  her,  a 
radiating  friendliness.  "Still  the  green's  nice,  too.  A  lot  of 
the  young  ladies  have  been  buyin'  green — "  She  drew  a 
"green"  from  its  immaculate  tissue  covering.  Martha 
watched  approvingly.  Nice  girl,  she  liked  her.  They  began 
to  talk,  of  the  store,  the  customers.  Martha  confessed  that 
she  had  worked  in  Gregg's  once — a  contingent — by  the  end 
of  the  summer  she  had  been  exhausted — no,  she  was  going 
back  to  school,  but  she  might  work  in  the  store  some  day — 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  35 

a  lot  of  the  girls  did  that  when  they  "got-out."  She  was 
relieved  to  learn  that  Mr.  Crosby  had  recently  been  fired, 
that  one  of  the  girls  had  finally  complained.  The  girl 
smoothed  the  sweaters  gently.  "Sure  was  time,  Miss,  he 
was  pretty  terrible  at  times,  cutting  up  something  awful, 
though  he  never  tried  nothin'  definite  on  me — " 

They  talked  until  Martha  suddenly  remembered.  She 
had  to  catch  the  train  home.  There  was  a  clock  near  the 
escalator — quarter  after  five.  Less  than  twenty  minutes 
for  the  Tube  and  those  dreadful  stairs  on  the  other  end. 
She  would  have  to  tear.  "I'll  take  the  green,  yes,  size  32," 
the  words  hurried  out,  "C.O.D. — I  won't  have  to  wait!" 
She  gave  her  name  and  address  in  a  frenzy  of  haste,  and 
swept  up  the  bundles  from  the  counter.  The  girl  was 
writing  busily,  mouthing  each  letter.  Martha  glanced  at 
her  for  a  minute.  She  felt  something  ceremonious,  almost 
sacred  in  that  look.  It  was  as  though  her  two  personalities, 
the  salesgirl  and  the  schoolgirl  were  meeting  on  common 
ground,  gripping  hands  mutely,  beautifully.  Martha  real- 
ized it  suddenly,  so  sharply  that  she  could  have  cried.  But 
instead  she  pressed  the  bundles  to  her  chest  and  started 
to  run  toward  the  elevator.  No,  they  would  be  slow, 
crowded.  She  decided  on  the  stairs  and  wheeled  about. 
Her  heels  were  making  a  resounding  clatter  over  the  floor. 
"Lightfoot  the  Deer" — it  was  her  habit  to  whisper  friendly 
names  at  herself.  She  gathered  speed,  momentum  and 
plunged  toward  the  front  of  the  store. 

She  was  suddenly  aware  of  the  guards  that  seemed  to 
fill  the  store.  But  then  Gregg's  had  always  viewTed  every 
customer  as  a  prospective  thief — nothing  particularly  new 
about  that.  You  couldn't  blame  them  either;  something 
was  missed  every  day.  All  the  departments  boasted  of 
harrowing  experiences.  Of  course  they  had  to  look  out  for 
things,  catering  to  a  class  of  customer  always  in  search  of 
bargains.  Still,  there  were  so  many  guards,  hundreds  of 
them!  Martha  hurried  past,  half  aware  of  their  grim  faces 
and  forbidding  stature,  of  the  pearl  grey  of  their  uniforms. 
How  suspicious  and  distrustful  they  seemed,  nerve-rack- 
ingly  so.  Already  she  had  begun  to  feel  guilty,  like  a 
criminal  on  his  getaway. 

She  found  the  stairs  at  last.  Only  one  chance  in  a  million 
that  her  train  would  wait,  a  wreck  or  something.  Still, 
she'd  try — .    The  bundles  were  slipping  down  almost  to 


36  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

her  waist.  She  clutched  them,  plunging  down  one  step 
after  another.  "Stay  up  ankles!"  (they  had  always  been 
weak,  but  never  like  this)  "Keep  to  the  steps  there,  feet, 
or  there'll  be  hell  to  pay!"  Talking  to  herself  as  usual. 
Perhaps  she  would  outgrow  the  habit  some  day,  but  you 
couldn't  be  sure  about  infantilisms.  Grey  uniforms  melted 
in  and  out  of  the  haze.  Lord,  dear  Lord,  what  a  store; 
Sing  Sing  must  give  something  of  the  same  impression. 
But  it  made  you  almost  want  to  steal  something,  that  was 
the  awful  effect,  to  steal  something  just  to  see  whether  or 
not  you  could — but  how  foolish!  Too  great  a  risk,  and 
besides  those  grey  uniforms  weren't  meant  to  conceal  a 
sense  of  humor.    Asinine  thing  even  to  imagine! 

The  door  at  last!  She  hurtled  through  it  and  out  to  the 
street.  She  found  herself  emerging  from  the  vest  of  a  fat 
man.  "Pardon  me" — but  the  bundles  at  least,  were  still 
intact.  Poor  thing!  Landing  full  force  like  that,  must 
have  knocked  the  wind  out  of  him!  She  collected  her 
dignity.  "Entitled:  Hurrying  for  a  train!"  Her  blasted 
monologue  again;  but  it  cheered  her  as  she  started  across 
the  street  against  the  traffic,  warmed  her  as  she  dodged  a 
taxi.  The  crowd  on  the  side-wralk  swept  her  back  as  she 
mounted  the  curb.  "Heave  ho,  my  laddie!"  She  had 
never  felt  more  completely  happy,  exuding  a  sort  of  in- 
dividual sunshine.  Her  shoulders  swayed  with  self-satis- 
faction. Noise,  ceaseless  rush,  the  elevateds  roaring  by,  a 
policeman  whistling  and  swearing  at  a  smug-faced  and 
apparently  deaf  taxi-driver.  Good  old  New  York!  Martha 
loved  it;  she  felt  as  though  she  must  tell  it  so,  hug  it. 
"Wonderful,  wonderful  city!"  No  other  city  ever  had  such 
a  sky  sharp  and  blue  above  those  buildings.  No  other 
city — She  had  bumped  headlong  into  the  man  selling  rubber 
dolls  on  the  corner.  "Pardon  me!  Always  a  lady!"  She 
breathed  deeply.  She  must  remember  every  bit  of  it,  even 
that  disgusting  little  man — store  it  up  for  the  winter  days 
musty  and  intellectual.  That  green  sweater  would  be  all 
right  for  school,  she'd  have  to  pack  it  in  her  suitcase — the 
trunk  might  burst  during  the  night,  as  it  was — thirty-two 
was  the  right  size — it  wouldn't  bag  on  the  shoulders — the 
girl  had  said  so — nice  girl! 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  37 

Her  arms  ached — so  many  bundles — she'd  never  seen  so 
many!   Martha  squeezed  them  approvingly — that  nice  little 

pocketbook,  the  heels  on  the  shoes  were  just  per "  but 

her  thoughts  refused  to  come;  they  seemed  sickeningly  to 
be  stiffening,  freezing  somewhere.  "Why,  you  poor  ass, 
don't  tell  me  you  did  that!"  She  had  stopped  stock  still 
before  the  subway  entrance — of  all  things,  talking  out  loud 
to  herself  there!  People  pushed  back  and  forth,  staring  at 
her.  What  must  they  think — in  the  middle  of  the  rush 
hour,  standing  bolt  still  like  a  blooming  dummy!  But  she 
hadn't  bought  it;  she  didn't  want  it — my  God  and  there 
it  sat  as  big  as  life,  all  unwrapped  and  indecent.  She  stared 
again.  Sure  enough,  a  green  sweater,  size  thirty-two, 
identical  to  the  one  she  had  sent  home.  She  swayed  back 
and  forth.  It  was  too  awful — so  she  had  picked  it  up  and 
run  clickety-click  out  of  the  store,  stolen  it!  She  stood 
horror-stricken,  oblivious  of  the  bumping  of  the  crowd. 
She  would  have  to  be  calm,  to  think.  She  led  herself 
gently  toward  a  shop  window  and  leaned  on  it  heavily. 
Picking  up  the  bundles  of  course — but  how  dreadful — and 
what  must  the  nice  girl  have  thought,  how  could  she  have 
any  faith  in  human  nature  left?  All  those  grey  uniforms — 
and  they  hadn't  even  noticed — kleptomaniac,  shoplifter, 
halfwit 

Well,  that  wasn't  constructive  thinking.  Action,  positive 
action  was  what  she  needed.  Martha  thought  of  dropping 
the  sweater,  of  watching  it  trampled  and  mashed  under 
incessant  feet.  She  would  wave  farewell  and  disappear 
forever  into  the  subway  entrance.  Mystery  woman!  But 
people  didn't  throw  sweaters  around  New  York  streets  and 
disappear.  She  must  go  back,  return  it  personally  to  that 
nice  girl.  "I'm  awfully  sorry.  I  seem  to  have  gone  off 
with  this!"  Could  she  explain?  It  was  the  only  decent 
remedy  certainly.  Besides  it  would  be  rather  a  noble 
gesture, — honestly  personified.  But  her  face  felt  hot  and 
dry.  How  funny!  Still,  there  was  nothing  humorous — 
nothing  at  all  funny.  Fool!  Great  blurbing  fool!  She  was 
kicking  the  pavement  now,  crushing  her  bundles  together. 

She  turned  and  started  back  across  the  street.  A  trolley 
swung  past  in  front  of  her.  Close  shave!  She  wished  she 
had  hit  it,  had  knocked  it  for  a  row.  The  crowd  was  in- 
furiating, too.  She  fairly  hurled  people  out  of  the  way. 
Plunging  ahead  she  felt  relieved  for  a  minute. 


38  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

But  suppose  she  should  be  caught  on  the  way  to  the 
third  Boor,  returning  the  nasty  thing?  Nothing  very  noble 
about  that — distinct  anti-climax  instead.  And  all  those 
awful  grey  uniforms  again.  She  would  never  get  by  them, 
never  in  the  world!  By  now  a  general  alarm  must  have  been 
sent  through  the  store  anyway.  Twenty  years  old — looks 
like  nice  young  lady  (she  did,  didn't  she?)  but — Martha 
didn't  care  to  fill  in  the  "but" — "wearing  blue  felt  hat  and 
dirty  gloves!"  She  rebuked  herself  silently.  That  wasn't 
nice;  no  time  for  joking.  The  floorwalker  might  be  waiting 
for  her  upstairs,  in  ambush  somewhere  behind  a  tree  of 
dresses.  He  would  appear  briskly,  slightly  pink  about  the 
eyes.  "This  young  lady  took  a  sweater,  did  she — just  a 
minute,  just  a  minute!"  Important,  pencil  behind  one  ear 
— Martha  knew  the  type. 

"Bringing  back  the  sweater."  She  captioned  it  neatly, 
as  she  started  through  the  revolving  door.  She  was  half 
amused  by  the  sound  of  it.  "My  dear,  I  was  never  so 
embarrassed  in  my  life;  you  didn't  say  a  word  all  evening!" 
My  goodness,  she  just  insisted  on  keeping  cheery,  smile, 
smile,  smile!  But  she  was  taking  it  back — up  to  the  third 
floor.  Tense  minute,  frightful  situation — if  it  were  only  a 
dream  from  which  one  could  wake — Martha  walked  for- 
ward with  an  air  of  determination.  If  she  used  the  esca- 
lator perhaps — What?  They  weren't  even  going  to  let  her 
in?  They  were  going  to  push  her  out?  Complications!  So 
they  were  crying  for  her  to  keep  it;  but  she  didn't  need  two 
sweaters — couldn't  possibly — .  A  grey  uniform  was  sud- 
denly before  her,  eyes  cold  and  stern.  She  was  afraid, 
desperately  afraid.  A  hand  was  grasping  her  arm.  "You 
are  under  arrest!"  She  waited  breathlessly.  No,  he  wanted 
her  to  "get  out  lady;  the  store  was  closing." 

"But  you  don't  understand.    I  want  to  return  something." 

She  could  return  it  tomorrow.  The  store  opened  at  nine 
o'clock  every  morning.  Now  it  was  five-thirty  and  no 
customers  could  enter. 

The  strain  had  begun  to  tell  on  Martha.  She  was  going 
to  cry.  How  awful — it  would  be  indecent  to  cry  before  a 
Gregg's  guard!  Her  lips  too — that  sickening  twitch  at  one 
corner. 

But  resolutions  shot  through  her  mind  suddenly.  She 
would  simply  have  to  give  it  to  him.  Perhaps  it  wouldn't 
be  so  awful     just  take  it  calmly  so — from  the  pile  of  bundles 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  39 

and  hand  it  to  him!  There  was  something  suddenly  glorious 
in  the  whole  situation.    Courage — it  would  take  courage! 

Martha  realized  it  at  the  very  moment  she  found  herself 
placed  firmly  on  the  sidewalk.  "At  nine  o'clock  tomorrow, 
lady!"    The  voice  trailed  away  through  the  revolving  door. 

Her  heart  was  pounding  with  rage.  Stupid — why  he 
didn't  even  deserve  to  keep  his  job — blind  as  an  owl — and 
when  she  was  trying  to  return  it!  She  could  feel  anger 
stiffening  her  face,  a  hot,  steaming  rag  of  fury.  "Listen 
here,"  her  voice  at  least  was  steady.  "You'll  have  to  help 
me  then.  You  see — I  took  this  by  mistake."  She  held  out 
something  green,  something  half-concealed  in  tissue  paper. 
"It's  a  sweater.    I  must  have  picked  it  up — by  mistake." 

The  guard  shot  to  attention.  Business-like!  His  eyes 
gleamed  hard,  penetrating.  Martha  was  being  drawn 
firmly  toward  the  inner  door. 

"And  now  girlie — ".  Of  course  he  thought  she  had 
stolen  it.  He  could  keep  right  on  thinking  so,  too!  But 
that  would  mean  jail. 

Martha  would  have  liked  to  strike  out  his  eyes,  to  pound 
his  chest  with  her  fist.  "I  was  hurrying — I  bet  I've  missed 
my  train  now  too — returning  the  old  thing — " 

She  understood  that  he  was  not  interested. 

"It  isn't  every  customer  that  would  return — I'm  so 
sorry.    I  came  running  right  back." 

An  inner  struggle  seemed  to  be  taking  place.  She  watched 
him  note  the  price  of  her  shoes,  the  cut  of  her  suit,  finally 
her  face  hot  and  miserable. 

Did  she  look  honest?  Had  she  remnants  of  gentility? 
For  the  first  time  Martha  questioned  herself  impersonally. 
She  pitched  her  voice  lower,  a  little  tearfully.  "I'm  most 
embarrassed.  I  hope  you'll  pardon  me,  I  really  do!" 
Before  she  had  finished,  she  realized  its  perfection;  the 
charm  was  about  to  work. 

The  guard  unbent  suddenly.  My  Lord!  So  he  could 
smile — and  such  teeth!  No  wonder  he  didn't  do  it  more 
often.  He  was  speaking  now,  a  rollicking  lilt  to  his  voice. 
"We  don't  have  this  happen  much,  Miss.  It's  all  right 
though!" 

Then  unbelievedly,  she  was  out  on  the  street  again.  But 
now  there  was  no  feeling  of  relief,  no  appreciation  of  the 


4o  smith  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

humorous.  Instead  she  was  muttering  to  herself — "Fool — 
blasted  idiot!"  Martha  pushed  her  way  toward  the  tube, 
using  her  dhows  mercilessly.  There,  so  there!  She  set  her 
teeth  resolutely  but  it  didn't  help.  Fool,  fool,  senseless, 
blundering  fool!  Her  heels  caught  the  rhythm  in  a  strange 
unhappy  clatter. 

But  looking  around  at  the  mass  of  faces,  impersonal, 
disinterested,  she  began  to  be  comforted.  They  didn't 
know;  they  couldn't  guess!   What  a  joke! 


>€&&&• 


BEFORE  CATCHING  THE  12.15  TRAIN 

Constance  Pardee 


I  wish  I  knew  why  clocks  are  slow 
And  when  this  class  will  let  me  go. 
Will  there  be  time  to  catch  my  train ; 
And  is  it  really  going  to  rain? 
Or  is  it  cold  enough  to  snow? 

Why  communistic  movements  grow 
And  wrhat  they  mean  I  do  not  know. 
What  is  the  matter  with  my  brain? 
I  wish  I  knew. 

0  will  the  sweet  cool  night  wind  blow 
Among  the  pines,  and  stars  hang  low? 
And  will  you  take  me  down  the  lane 
Where  small  spring  voices  sing,  again? 
WThy  do  I  have  to  love  you  so? 

1  wish  I  knew. 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  41 

FLYING  BOATS 

Ellen  Robinson 


OR  an  hour  David  had  been  waiting  for  a  bite. 
He  drew  in  his  home-made  tackle  and  laid  it 
carefully  beside  him.  Then  he  stood  up  and 
stretched  himself,  his  arms  high  above  his  head. 
He  scowled  down  at  the  still,  black  water. 

He  was  standing  on  a  bridge,  and  a  very  unusual  bridge, 
too,  for  it  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  river.  Twenty  years 
earlier  the  failure  of  a  short-lived  and  over-ambitious  rail- 
road company  had  resulted  in  this  incomplete  structure — 
two  cement  arches  and  then  a  blunt  end,  with  four  rusty 
rails  still  extending  to  within  a  foot  of  the  edge.  It  was  on 
this  last  foot  of  cement  that  David  now  stood,  teetering 
back  and  forth  a  little,  as  if  taunting  the  water  with  his 
security. 

He  reached  behind  his  worm-can  and  brought  out  a 
handful  of  those  bright-colored  squares  which  kindger- 
garten  teachers  turn  to  so  many  absorbing  uses.  He  began 
folding  one  of  them  slowly,  his  dirty  thumb-nail  pressing 
the  creases  and  his  tongue  passing  hesitatingly  over  his 
lower  lip.  Finally  he  held  out  a  little  orange  boat  and  sur- 
veyed it  with  one  eye  shut.  He  took  a  leafy  twig  from  a 
pile  he  had  evidently  brought  with  him  and  stuck  it  up  in 
the  center  as  a  mast.  Then  with  a  long,  arc-like  swing  of 
his  arm  he  sent  the  boat  over  the  edge  to  the  water  below, 
and  immediately  knelt  to  watch  it.  It  had  landed  on  its 
side  and  was  sinking  fast.  Stubbornly  he  set  to  work  on  a 
blue  square.  Again  his  tongue  moved  slowly  between  his 
lips. 

A  shadow  passed  over  his  work;  he  looked  up  so  quickly 
that  he  bit  his  tongue  and  grimaced.  A  girl  in  a  pink  cotton 
dress  stood  near  him,  staring  down  into  the  water.  After 
a  few  minutes  she  turned  toward  him. 

"What  you  doing,  sonny?" 

"Making  boats." 

A  long  silence.  She  watched  his  fingers.  At  last  he  threw 
the  blue  boat  over  and  it  sank  as  the  other  had. 

"Too  light,  sonny.    Try  putting  dirt  in  'em." 


42  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

He  appeared  to  consider  the  suggestion  and  finally  drew 
out  of  his  back  pocket  an  egg-shaped  pebble,  quite  smooth 
and  white.  He  placed  it  beside  him  while  he  made  another 
boat ;  then  he  arranged  the  pebble  as  ballast  and  tossed  the 
boat  out;  but  the  stone  fell  out  before  the  tiny  craft  hit  the 
water. 

"Lemme  show  you."  She  snatched  a  shiny  black  sheet 
of  paper  and  began  to  fold  quickly,  her  long  orange-red 
nails  trembling  a  little.  Silently  she  held  out  her  hand  and 
he  gave  her  a  pebble.  She  continued  to  fold,  somehow 
enclosing  the  weight  underneath  the  center  of  the  boat. 
He  took  it  in  his  hand,  examined  it  carefully,  and  threw  it 
out.  It  landed  gracefully,  floating  on  down  the  river  and 
around  the  bend. 

"It  it's  heavier,  it  falls  closer?"  he  said. 

"Yes."  She  was  gazing  directly  down  over  the  end  of 
the  bridge. 

"If  I  jumped  from  here,  would  I  make  much  of  a  splash?" 

She  jerked  around  toward  him.  "What  made  you  think 
of  that?" 

"Well,  I  know  about  Horatius.  .  ." 

"Who?  .  .  .  Oh,  never  mind."    She  sighed. 

"Would  I?" 

"Would  you  what?" 

"Splash." 

"Not  much.    Too  little,  I  guess." 

A  long  pause.  She  wiped  the  palms  of  her  hands  on  a 
bright  handkerchief. 

"Would  you?" 

"Would  I  what?" 

"Splash." 

"No — yes — I  don't  know."  She  seemed  to  forget  him 
and  began  to  talk  to  herself  in  a  low  voice.  He  tried  to 
make  a  boat  like  hers,  but  he  spoiled  several  and  crumpled 
them  up  and  threw  them  away.  He  struggled  with  a  yellow 
one.    She  clutched  his  arm. 

"Say,  got  a  pencil,  sonny?" 

Leaning  forward  he  felt  in  his  back  pocket  again  and 
brought  out  a  stub  of  red  crayon.  She  grabbed  the  last 
square  of  paper,  another  black  one,  and  began  to  write  on 
the  white  back  of  it. 

He  had  just  thrown  the  yellow  boat  over,  and  with  fair 
success.    She  folded  the  paper  once. 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  43 

"Listen,  sonny." 

He  looked  at  her;  her  large  mouth  jerked. 

"You  know  the  gas  station  on  the  state  road?  Right 
across  from  the  post-office?" 

He  nodded.    "It's  red." 

"Yes,  and  you  know  Bill  there?" 

He  thought  a  minute.  "He  took  Annie  Wilcox  to  the 
Chatauqua  every  night  last  week." 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know  ...  all  right.  Get  this  straight 
now,  sonny.  You  gotta  go  right  now  and  give  this  to  Bill. 
Hear?" 

He  felt  the  slippery  surface  of  the  paper.  She  took  out  a 
string  of  large  green  beads  and  held  them  out  to  him. 
They  looked  like  marbles;  he  put  them  in  his  pocket. 

He  started  back  to  the  village  by  a  short  cut  known  only 
to  himself,  first  heading  toward  an  old  deserted  barn.  He 
had  just  rounded  one  of  its  grey,  rotten  corners,  when  the 
black  paper  slipped  from  his  hand.  He  bent  to  pick  it  up — 
and  stopped  suddenly  in  a  half-crouched  position,  listening. 
Then  he  straightened  up  and  turned  back.  "I  guess  she 
did  do  it.    Sounded  like  a  good  one,  too,"  he  said  aloud. 

He  reached  the  end  of  the  bridge  and  looked  down. 
Everything  was  the  same,  except  for  a  few  widening  circles 
on  the  dark  water  and  four  or  five  bubbles.  "Didn't  even 
get  to  the  bend  either.    Must  be  pretty  deep." 

He  sat  down  and  twisted  about  uncomfortably  until  he 
had  removed  another  pebble  from  his  back  pocket.  He 
played  with  it  a  bit  and  then  began  to  crease  the  black 
paper,  but  with  the  written  side  out. 

"Can't  ever  see  the  black  ones  from  'way  up  here." 

It  landed  nicely.  "Never  had  one  with  figures.  It's 
pretty." 

He  wound  his  line  about  his  pole  and,  slinging  his  worm- 
can  over  one  shoulder,  went  off  toward  the  old  grey  barn. 


44  sMITII  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

THROUGH  A  GLASS,  DARKLY 

Ruth  Rodney  King 


HE  countryside  slipped  swiftly  past  the  window 
as  the  train  pushed  into  the  coming  twilight. 
Quickly  a  town  would  pass,  with  tall  factories 
and  houses  that  soon  grew  fewer,  and  became 
countryside  once  more.  The  girl  looking  out  the  window 
noticed  this  absently  as  she  thought  "It  is  over.  I've  seen 
him  and  said  good-bye.  It  is  over."  It  had  been  so  swift, 
like  a  cloud  passing  over  the  sun. 

Going  down  through  this  landscape  the  day  before,  she 
had  felt  a  little  sick  with  excitement.  She  had  thought  of 
the  week-end  with  the  tremulous  delight  that  anticipation 
arouses.  She  was  going  to  see  him,  for  the  first  time  since 
he  had  been  in  Africa.  That  was  seven  months.  She  was 
going  to  see  him,  be  wTith  him,  the  wrhole  week-end.  Her 
heart  surged  suddenly  in  realization,  and  a  tremulous 
joyousness  filled  her  so  that  she  sang  beneath  her  breath, 
looking  out  the  window.  "See  him,  see  him.  I'm  going  to 
see  him." 

Then  she  had  told  herself.  "Now,  this  is  your  chance. 
Show  him — Oh,  make  him  feel  it  again.  Be  clever,  gracious, 
friendly.  Ah,  that's  it,  friendly,  but  not  eager.  No,  no, 
not  too  eager.  That  time  last  spring — No,  no  more  of  that. 
Be  master  all  the  time.  Make  him  feel  it  again."  She  had 
planned  very  clearly  what  she  would  do,  when  the  train 
pulled  into  the  station,  incredibly  sooner  than  she  expected, 
and  she  was  on  the  platform  before  she  was  prepared  to 
meet  him,  unable  to  see  clearly  in  the  broad  sunlight  after 
the  dark  train. 

He  had  come  towTard  her,  taken  her  suitcase,  shaken 
hands  with  her,  and  she  was  in  the  roadster,  while  he 
Started  the  car,  with  familiar  brown  hands  on  the  wheel, 
his  familiar  bare  head  twisted  over  his  shoulder  to  watch 
tlu  traffic  as  he  swung  around  the  street  out  of  the  station. 
Everything  about  him  and  about  being  with  him  seemed 
so  familiar  that  her  tense  excitement  diminished  to  ner- 
vousness that  forced  her  to  talk  rapidly  about  the  train 
trip,  the  nice  day,  and  the  cold  spring,  pulling  on  one  glove 
a-    -In-    talked,    meticulously    fitting   each    linger   with    the 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  45 

fingers  of  her  other  hand.  She  was  aware  that  she  was  not 
fulfilling  her  new-made  plans,  but  the  strain  of  the  present 
kept  her  chattering  on,  scarcely  daring  to  relax  enough  to 
look  at  him. 

At  last  she  had  turned  her  head,  and  seeing  him  so 
clearly,  she  caught  her  breath.  Oh,  she  was  there,  beside 
him,  with  him.  But  she  had  said,  ''Well,  how  are  you, 
since  your  long  trip?" 

He  had  turned  his  blue  eyes  on  her,  faintly  smiling. 
"Just  the  same,"  he  had  answered. 

And  so  he  was  in  every  respect  the  same,  "but,"  she  told 
herself  with  quick  defiance,  "I'll  do  it.  I'll  be  master. 
But  there's  plenty  of  time.  All  afternoon,  and  tonight,  and 
tomorrow.  All  that  time — "  as  she  realized  this  her  breath 
quickened.  Anything  could  happen  in  all  that  time.  She 
made  conversation:    "Was  Africa  nice?" 

"Hardly  nice,  very  interesting.  Dirty  place  though — Fez. 
Thousands  of  little  shops,  arches,  walls,  mosques,  you  know 
the  type.  The  Arabs  I  liked.  They  all  over  study  the 
Koran  and  sit  cross-legged  for  hours  in  meditative  silence. 
'If  Allah  wills  it'  is  their  philosophy.  I  like  that,  too.  But 
I  grew  tired  of  it." 

"Is  there  anything  you  don't  grow  tired  of?" 

"No." 

A  flat  answer,  and  she  had  resented  it,  and  resented  the 
conversation.  "Why  does  he  always  go  off  that  way?  He 
never  thinks  of  me  even  when  I'm  here,  beside  him.  He 
liked  the  Arabs.  But  I'll  make  him,  I'll  make  him.  Soon, 
now,  soon."  They  were  at  his  house  then.  She  ran  up  the 
steps  to  greet  his  mother  and  left  him  to  change  for  luncheon. 
Her  excitement  rose  again  while  she  was  alone.  Now,  she 
thought,  now  it  will  all  start. 

But  through  luncheon  he  had  argued  about  a  book  review 
with  his  father,  and  she  had  made  talk  with  his  mother. 
After  lunch  he  said,  "Let's  play  tennis.  We  can  get  a 
lovely  tan,  today." 

The  tennis  had  been  nice.  They  talked  little  and  played 
hard.  It  seemed  to  bridge  the  strangeness  better  than  con- 
versation. They  played  till  supper  time  and  walked  home 
in  silence.  She  felt  relaxed,  and  drawn  closer  to  him  by  the 
peace  of  the  spring  evening.  As  they  entered  the  cool  dark 
house  and  flung  themselves  into  low  chairs  to  smoke  and 
rest,  fear  laid  a  finger  on  her  heart;  the  time  was  slipping — 


4f>  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

but    there's   tonight,    tonight,    she   cried    to   herself.     The 
mystery  of  a  spring  night. 

Her  spirits  rose  swiftly,  and  impelled  by  them  she  crossed 
to  where  he  lay  sprawled,  a  cigarette  in  one  lean  hand,  a 
magazine  in  the  other. 

"It's  so  nice  to  be  seeing  you  again,"  she  said  smiling 
down  at  him.  He  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled  absently  in 
return. 

"I  think  the  tripe  in  this  sheet  is  incredible.  Listen  to 
this — "  and  he  read  her  an  article  which  she  did  not  hear, 
looking  at  his  curly  head  and  brown  cheek. 

Supper  passed  as  luncheon  had.  The  evening  was  soft 
and  dark,  with  faint  stars.  They  had  gone  for  a  long  ride 
into  the  country.  Being  with  him,  she  felt  suspended  in 
time,  unable  to  think,  or  carry  out  what  she  wished  to 
think,  and  the  evening  slipped  by  in  careless  easy  chatter, 
and  comfortable  silences.  When  they  had  returned,  and 
were  walking  up  the  lawn,  he  had  pulled  her  to  him  gently, 
and  kissed  her.  It  had  seemed  a  part  of  the  soft  night,  and 
she  had  felt  no  other  emotion  at  it.  It  was  only  later,  when 
she  was  in  bed  that  she  knew  most  of  the  time  was  gone. 
"He  kissed  you,  you  fool!  Why  didn't  you  do  something 
then?    Oh,  tomorrow  I  will!    Tomorrow!" 

She  awoke  late  in  the  morning,  and  had  a  lonely  break- 
fast. He  was  still  asleep,  his  mother  said.  She  had  felt  a 
hurt  resentment  that  he  had  not  wranted  to  wake  early, 
and  she  wished  for  him  while  she  wratched  his  mother 
straighten  a  pile  of  books,  stopping  to  blow  ashes  off  the 
table  top. 

"He  smokes  too  much,"  she  said  to  the  girl,  who  agreed. 
Talking  like  that,  as  if  he  were  a  naughty  little  boy,  and 
so  intimately,  with  his  own  mother.  When  he  came  down, 
very  late,  she  had  been  brisk  in  her  greeting.  She  sat  at  the 
table  while  he  ate,  and  they  had  talked  desultorily.  She 
fell  wildly  impatient  to  be  off,  to  do  something,  to  start, 
but  the  weight  of  the  present  moment  crushed  her  thoughts 
into  impotent  anxiety. 

Hut  they  had  played  tennis  again,  and  were  in  the  middle 
of  a  game  when  his  father  came  out  on  the  verandah  and 
called  to  them.  He  had  been  confused  by  the  daylight 
saving  system,  and  her  train  left  sooner  than  they  had 
expected.  In  excited  haste  she  had  packed  and  said  good- 
bye  to   his   parents,   and   was   in   the   roadster,   while   his 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  47 

brown  hands  busied  with  the  car,  his  head  over  his  should(  r 
he  backed  out  of  the  drive. 

"It's  been  grand,  seeing  you  again."  Oh,  quick!  there's 
no  time  left,  no  time.  "I've  enjoyed  it.  You  change  so 
little.    It's  nice  to  find  something  that  changes  little." 

He  smiled  at  her.  His  blue  eyes — oh  hurry,  hurry.  But 
what  can  I  say?   What  can  I  do? 

The  dream-like  quality  of  the  moment  persisted  and  she 
was  unable  to  focus  her  thoughts.  They  were  at  the  station, 
shaking  hands.  A  despairing  mist  swirled  around  her 
thoughts.  It's  over,  it's  over.  She  said  "Good-bye,  and 
thank  you  so  much.    Good-bye." 

A  smile,  bare  head  in  the  sun,  and  the  train  pulling  away 
as  he  walked  back  to  the  car.  She  had  found  a  seat  beside 
a  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  twilight  country  absently 
as  she  thought,  "It's  over.  I've  seen  him,  and  said  good- 
bye.   It's  all  over." 


4S  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

44 OLD  MEN  SITTING  IN  THE  SUN" 

Frances  Ranney 


LD  Mr.  Muse  sal  in  the  warm  afternoon  sunlight, 
watching  the  people4  on  the  verandah  of  the  hotel. 
Girls  with  bare  arms  and  tanned  legs,  men  in 
flannels  or  golf  knickers,  older  women  sipping 
their  tea— he  liked  to  watch  them  all,  sitting  there  in  the 
sun  and  dreaming  dreams  about  them. 

Young  people  he  liked  best  of  all,  their  senseless  chatter 
and  their  noisy  laughter.  He  wished  that  one  of  them,  that 
tall  girl  with  the  laughing  eyes,  perhaps,  might  come  over 
and  talk  to  him  for  a  few  minutes  some  day.  But  of  course 
they  had  no  time  to  waste  on  an  old  man,  a  twisted,  crippled 
old  man  at  that.  They  were  always  so  busy,  those  young 
ones — swimming,  golf,  and  tennis  all  day  and  dancing  until 
three  in  the  morning.  Nothing  seemed  to  tire  them,  to 
bore  them;  but  then,  they  were  young. 

He,  too,  had  been  like  that.  He  liked  to  congratulate 
himself  that  he  had  done  everything,  everything.  And  there 
was  nothing  he  regretted.  After  the  first  stroke,  his  doctor 
had  said,  "You'll  have  to  take  it  easy,  man — you've  been 
going  it  too  hard."  He  had  only  laughed  and  bought  a 
new  polo  pony.  Why  live  at  all  if  you  have  to  mark  time, 
he  had  reasoned?  The  second  stroke  had  paralyzed  his 
left  side  and  made  him  almost  helpless,  but  still  he  re- 
gretted nothing  he  had  done.  He  had  paid  for  what  he 
had  received  at  the  hands  of  Fate,  and  what  he  had  re- 
ceived he  deemed  worth  the  price. 

Now,  an  old  man,  bent  and  shrivelled,  he  sat  waiting  in 
the  Bermuda  sun,  waiting  for  the  stroke  that  would  put 
an  end  to  everything.  Occasionally,  he  would  hear  women 
gossiping  over  their  teacups — "Pathetic,  isn't  he?  I  do 
pity  him.  So  handsome,  too,  and,  my  dear,  they  say — " 
Or  he  would  see  them  watch  with  sympathetic  eyes  his 
painful  progress  down  the  verandah  steps.  Pity  him?  Bah! 
H<  pitied  them,  their  clumsy  bodies  and  their  faded  eyes. 
What  he  loved  was  youth! 

The  sun  was  casting  oblique  shadows  on  the  verandah 
(loor.  Soon  it  would  be  time  for  the  tea-dancing  to  begin. 
He   would   go   inside  where  he  could   watch   the  whirling 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  49 

couples.  He  reached  for  his  cane  and  tried  to  pull  himself 
to  his  feet. 

"Mr.  Mase!"  A  solicitous,  anxious  voice  hurtled  itself 
through  the  afternoon  warmth. 

The  old  man  looked  up  and  saw  a  strong,  capable-looking 
woman  leave  the  shade  of  one  of  the  huge  parasols  on  the 
lawn  and  come  hastily  toward  him.  Her  eyes  squinted 
against  the  glare  of  sunlight  on  the  white  hotel,  and  her 
mouth  was  puckered  with  anxiety. 

Mr.  Mase  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  watched  her  approach, 
peevishly.  He  had  forgotten  Miss  Whitby  for  the  moment; 
but  she  was  one  he  could  not  forget  for  long.  For  the  past 
three  years  she  had  been  as  a  part  of  his  physical  being, 
doing  for  him  the  things  he  could  no  longer  do,  running 
errands  for  him,  writing  letters,  combining  the  offices  of 
nurse,  secretary,  and  companion,  until  now,  with  her  pro- 
fessional, yet  flurried  solicitude,  she  seemed  to  him  almost 
parasitic.  At  first  he  had  admired  her  strength  and  energy, 
had  realized  his  helplessness  without  her,  but  of  late  she 
had  become  almost  intolerable  to  him.  Her  vitality  of 
movement  when  he  walked  only  with  difficulty,  her  cease- 
less care  for  his  well-being  and  comfort,  her  worried  brows 
and  anxious  mouth — why  couldn't  she  leave  him  alone  for 
a  time? 

Miss  Whitby  hurried  on  to  the  verandah,  breathless  and 
a  little  damp.  "Do  be  careful,  Mr.  Mase!  Why  didn't 
you  call  me  if  you  wanted  to  get  up?" 

She  put  a  strong  arm  about  his  shoulders  and  half  lifted 
him  to  his  feet.  The  old  man  shook  the  arm  aside  im- 
patiently and  pounded  his  cane  on  the  floor. 

"Get  away!   Get  away!    I  can  walk  all  right,  I  guess." 

Slowly,  painfully,  he  moved  across  the  porch,  dragging 
his  paralyzed  leg  and  leaning  heavily  on  his  cane.  "Poor 
old  man,  I  pity  him,"  he  heard  someone  say.  "But  good- 
ness knows,  I  pity  his  nurse  the  more.  What  she  must  put 
up  with!" 

He  smiled  to  himself — "What  she  must  put  up  with!" 
Of  course  Miss  Whitby  put  up  with  a  lot.  That  was  what 
he  paid  her  for.  If  only  she  wouldn't  keep  reminding  him 
that  he  was  old,  that  he  was  helpless! 

Inside  the  orchestra  was  tuning  up  and  the  tables  around 
the  edge  of  the  floor  were  rapidly  filling.  Miss  Whitby 
pulled  his  chair  out  for  him,  and  he  sank  into  it  with  a 


5o  >MITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

sigh  of  relief.  Every  clay  it  was  getting  harder  for  him  to 
move.  Soon  he  would  have  nothing  to  look  forward  to 
except  sitting  in  the  sun,  sitting,  and  watching — and 
waiting. 

"Tea,  with  cream,"  Miss  Whitby  was  telling  the  waiter. 
"And  plain  bread  and  butter — cakes  don't  seem  to  agree 
with  him." 

"Bread  and  butter!"  he  exploded.  "Can't  I  even  order 
what  I  want?    Get  away!    Get  away!    Leave  me  alone!" 

The  floor  was  as  quiet  and  glassy  as  a  Wisconsin  lake  on 
a  summer  evening,  he  thought.  Pretty  girls  in  cool,  float- 
ing dresses  fluttered  from  table  to  table  like  great  pastel- 
colored  butterflies.  He  wished  that  one  would  float  his 
way.  But  no,  they  had  no  time!  Sitting  in  the  sun — that 
was  all  old  men  were  good  for. 

The  orchestra  started  up  with  a  crash,  then  swung  into 
a  slippery,  lilting  melody.  "It's  a  Precious  Little  Thing 
(ailed  Love,"  he  heard  a  girl  at  the  table  next  to  his  sing 
to  her  companion.  Honeymooners,  he  catalogued  them 
briefly.  He  was  sorry.  They  were  too  young,  too  happy 
to  be  married.  Marriage  was  for  the  middle-aged.  He  was 
glad  he  had  never  succumbed. 

Couple  after  couple  whirled  into  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
dipping,  swirling,  side-stepping,  until  the  whole  room 
became  an  ever-changing  kaleidoscope  of  tanned,  laughing 
faces,  pastel  colors,  and  white  flannel  trouser  legs.  He  was 
happy  through  the  process  of  identification.  He  himself 
was  floating  along  the  mirrored  floor,  that  tall  girl  in 
yellow  in  his  arms. 

"I've  brought  you  a  magazine,  Mr.  Mase."  The  harried, 
anxious  voice  grated  against  his  ear  drums  and  scarred  the 
surface  of  his  dream. 

Magazine  be  damned!  He  didn't  want  to  read.  "Take 
it  away.  Don't  want  it.  Leave  me  alone!"  he  shouted 
test  ily. 

"But  I  should  think  you'd  want  to  do  something,"  per- 
sisted the  solicitous  voice.    "You  can't  just  sit  all  day." 

Mr.  Mase  did  not  answer  her;  he  was  already  lost  in  the 
mazes  of  his  dream.  "Lover,  come  back  to  me,"  the  violin- 
ist was  wailing  through  a  megaphone.  He  had  never  gone 
back,  never — 

The  girl  in  the  yellow  dress  swung  by  him,  her  eyes 
laughing  into  his.    Suddenly  he  had  an  idea.    He  would 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  51 

dance!  What  had  been  holding  him  back  all  these  years? 
The  mere  words  of  an  over-cautious  doctor?  He'd  show 
him;  he'd  show  Miss  Whitby;  he'd  show  those  lumpy  old 
women  on  the  verandah;  he'd  show  everyone!  Why,  the 
music  alone  would  carry  him  along,  once  he  got  to  his  feet. 

He  reached  for  his  cane  and  tried  to  pull  himself  up.  His 
hands  shook  with  the  effort,  and  his  breath  came  in  hard, 
fast  gusts.  Would  he  have  to  call  for  Miss  Whitby  to  help 
him?  No,  by  God,  he  would  not!  He'd  get  up  by  himself. 
The  music  beat  against  his  head,  pounding,  pounding.  He 
sank  back  into  the  chair  again.  A  drink,  that  was  what  he 
needed,  a  good  strong  Scotch  and  soda.  Tea — bah!  Miss 
Whitby  be  damned! 

He  summoned  a  waiter. 

The  Scotch  seemed  to  fill  his  veins  with  a  cool,  energizing 
fire.  How  many?  Why  it  was  four  years  since  he  had 
tasted  anything  stronger  than  tea.  What  a  fool  he'd  been! 
He  felt  better  already. 

Once  more  he  reached  for  his  cane.  The  music  was 
pulsing  more  rapidly  now.  Faster  and  faster  the  couples 
whirled,  until  the  whole  room  was  a  hazy  blur  of  color 
and  sound. 

A  high,  thin  voice,  higher,  even,  than  the  shrieking  saxo- 
phones, came  floating  through  the  blur  to  him.  It  held  a 
familiarly  anxious  note.  "Mr.  Mase!"  it  called  from  a  great 
distance.    "Do  be  careful!" 

The  old  man  glared  about  the  room,  but  he  could  see 
nothing,  nothing  save  the  blurring,  changing  colors,  dipping, 
whirling  about.  That  had  been  Miss  Whitby's  voice.  Where 
was  the  fool?  Thought  she  could  boss  him,  did  she?  Well, 
he'd  show  her.    He  was  going  to  dance! 

His  muscles  strained  until  they  stood  out  in  great  knots 
on  his  neck  as  he  tried  to  pull  himself  to  his  feet.  He  could 
feel  the  warm  blood  rushing  toward  his  head.  He  must  get 
up  before  Miss  Whitby  came.    He  must  dance! 

The  music,  pounding  rhythmically,  frantically  on,  crashed 
against  his  body  in  heavy  waves  of  sound.  His  knees 
crumpled  under  him  and  something  inside  his  head  snapped. 
He  was  falling,  falling.  It  was  true  what  Miss  Whitby  had 
said.  The  only  thing  old  men  were  good  for  was  sitting  in 
the  sun. 


EDITORIAL  B 


In  a  recent  review  of  Monthly  the  advertisers  were 
praised  for,  at  least,  our  worthy  reviewer  found,  they 
aspired,  and  advertised  those  aspirations,  to  something 
"new  and  different."  Behold  a  more  than  worthy  prompt- 
ness in  taking  a  hint.  The  advertisers'  word  was  taken  for 
the  originality  of  their  products.  Certainly.  One  should 
always  take  an  advertiser's  word.  Monthly  has  bought 
herself  a  new  dress  and  like  the  professional  mannequin 
her  dress  is  to  advertise  the  products  of  her  house.  She 
is  too  vain  in  her  new  clothes?  Well,  perhaps;  but  she  has 
found  a  new  idea  with  which  to  back  them  up. 

Did  we  say  a  new  idea? — because  we  were  mistaken.  It 
is  not  a  new  idea  at  all.  In  adopting  it  Monthly  is  only 
following  the  example  of  her  elders  and  betters.  It  is  only 
a  new  idea  to  her,  it  is  a  very  old  and  wellworn  idea  to 
many  other  magazines.  It  has  often  seemed  a  pity  that, 
in  a  magazine  that  comes  as  often  as  every  month,  the 
literary  form  should  be  so  strictly  and  entirely  limited  to 
the  regular  monthly  progression  of  the  writing  courses  in 
College.  One  can  trace  the  assignments  of  plot  and  charac- 
ter-drawing, the  accumulation  of  hours,  in  the  contents 
of  Monthly  and  this  leads  often  to  a  certain  monotony 
of  form.  It  is  obvious  that  in  a  college  of  this  size  there 
are  other  subjects  worth  writing  and  reading  about  than 
those  one  chooses  for  a  theme  course. 

And  so  with  her  new  dress  (thank  you,  she  is  glad  you  like 
it)  Monthly  announces  the  opening  of  a  Forum.  Yes,  we 
called  it  a  Forum  but  we  would  be  glad  of  any  more  original 
su  ggestions.  '  'A  rose  by  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet. 
There  has  always  been  more  than  enough  material  in  College 
that  should  be  written  up,  but  that  finds  no  place  either 
in  Weekly,  Monthly  or  the  late  Cat.  Monthly  institutes 
a   home  for  these  very  important  waifs  and  strays.     For 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  53 

example  everyone  is  interested  in  the  new  dormitories 
which  will  soon  be  started,  the  consequent  abolishment  of 
old  houses  and  the  effect  which  this  change  of  location  will 
have  upon  the  college  as  a  whole.  The  Forum  is  a  place 
for  your  opinion  on  any  such  interesting  subject  that 
deserves  to  be  well  written  up.  There  are  plenty  of  them 
both  in  College  and  outside,  those  subjects  which  form  the 
basis  for  so  many  interesting  discussions.  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  table  conversations  through  the  weeks  Mr.  Fay 
was  lecturing  on  reparations  or,  to  hark  back,  during  the 
presidential  elections  in  the  fall?  It  has  always  seemed  a 
pity  that  the  College  literary  magazine  should  represent 
so  little  the  current  trend  of  thought  and  opinion  among 
the  students;  and  we  are  all  of  us  almost  as  interested  in 
learning  what  others  are  thinking  as  we  are  in  telling 
others  what  we  think.  It  is  moreover  hoped  that  the 
faculty  opinions  may  from  time  to  time  reveal  themselves 
in  Monthly's  forum. 

Monthly  is  optimistic  about  her  new  venture.  Her 
new  cover  has  helped  to  give  her  the  courage  of  her  con- 
victions and  she  is  further  encouraged  by  the  generosity 
of  the  Alumnae  in  this  Senior  issue.  She  hopes  to  start 
her  Forum  in  the  fall  and  that  it  will  find  her  with  a  wider 
representation  of  contributors. 


♦^r 


Compliments  of 


Class  of 


IOIO 


Qotnpliments   of 


Class  of 


1928 


BOOK  REVIEWS 


THE  BURNING  FOUNTAIN 

Eleanor  Carrol  Chilton  The  John  Day  Co.  1929 

A  critic  on  the  New  York  Times  recently  reviewed  The 
Burning  Fountain  as  "a -poet's  novel,"  tentatively  implying 
some  disparagement  of  it  on  this  account.  It  is  not  clear 
whether  he  means  that  the  book  is  too  poetic  to  exist  as 
prose,  or  whether  it  is  a  book  which  appeals  particularly 
and  exclusively  to  poets — one  of  which,  I  gather,  he  is  not. 
As  is  the  way  with  labels,  this  disposes  too  simply  of  a 
rather  difficult  novel.  Whichever  interpretation  is  attributed 
to  the  reviewer's  phrase,  either  one  is  equally  undiscerning; 
they  overlook  the  serious  intent  with  which  it  was  written, 
and  fasten  or  try  to  fasten  on  what  is  purposely  elusive. 
It  does  not,  of  course,  need  to  be  defended  against  such 
criticism,  but  its  special  qualities  are  brought  out  by  the 
juxtaposition.  The  term  "poetic"  as  applied  to  prose  has 
many  vague  implications,  but,  broadly,  it  suggests  a  funda- 
mental unimportance,  an  indefiniteness  of  plan,  a  certain 
tendency  to  pause  and  ramify  with  delightful  inconsequence, 
and  style  a  little  too  lyrical  to  be  good.  Since  the  critic 
obviously  is  not  using  the  word  in  Virginia  Woolf's  sense, 
it  must  be  these  faults  that  he  condemns  in  The  Burning 
Fountain,  on  what  evidence  I  cannot  see.  One  of  the 
questions,  if  not  the  special  question,  of  the  book  has  to  do 
with  the  nature  of  reality.  It  is  not  often  that  metaphysical 
theory  is  embodied  in  the  characters  of  a  novel:  when  it  is, 
such  a  novel  is  apt  to  be  more  than  ordinary,  and  unlikely 
to  be  described  appropriately  as  "poetic." 

The  answer  Miss  Chilton  offers  to  the  question  is  a 
double  one.  Like  Miriam  Henderson  in  Dorothy  Richard- 
son's series,  the  characters  of  The  Burning  Fountain, 
Lynneth,   of  course,   excepted,   are  projections  of  an   im- 


56  SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY 

agination  which  is  Idealistic  in  the  strict  philosophic  sense. 
They  act  on  the  principle  that  the  essence  of  the  universe 

is  mental;  they  arc  free  subjects  of  their  own  wills.  When 
Janet  and  Douglas  were  married  they  considered  soberly 
whether  they  wanted  children  and  how  many.  Alan  and 
Joan  were  the  results,  in  a  sense,  of  rational  prcarrangement, 
and.  as  Janet  hoped,  they  grew  up  to  be  interesting  and 
pleasant  people,  depending  on  their  own  ability  to  reason 
and  to  will.  All  of  them,  Alan,  Joan,  Claire  and  Douglas, 
have  the  consciousness  of  self,  the  analytical,  introspective 
attitude  of  mind  which  is  evident  in  so  many  of  the  young 
characters  in  modern  novels.  But  there  is  Lynneth,  the 
child  of  impulse  and  storm-madness,  grown  into  a  girl  of 
nineteen,  polite  but  abstracted,  asking  nothing  of  anyone 
except  freedom  to  go  out  under  the  rain  and  lightning.  She 
is  an  Eternal  Principle  in  the  shape  of  a  human  being, 
never  a  human  being  acting  according  to  principle.  And 
whatever  the  principle  is  that  she  embodies, — innocence, 
impersonality,  "elemental  tenderness,"  blind  instinct, — it 
is  definitely  non-rational:  the  spiritual  substance  which  she 
is  cannot  be  understood  on  Idealistic  premises.  All  of  the 
other  Kenwyns,  and  Clair  and  Douglas,  are  wholly  human 
beings,  and  they  are  guided  by  rational  law,  but  Lynneth's 
life  suggests  that  beyond  the  phenomenal  world  there  is  a 
reality  other  than  that  of  mind.  If,  in  all  strength,  it  is 
manifested  in  this  world  it  conflicts  with  the  manifestation 
of  Mind,  and  cannot  continue  to  exist.  It  kills  itself,  being 
too  powerful,  except  as  it  is  expressed  frugally,  sown 
shallow  in  every  man.  Without  effort,  Lynneth  had  over 
all  those  in  the  Kenwyn  house  an  influence  so  strong  as 
to  be  nearly  tangible,  and  yet  so  subtle  as  to  defy  analysis. 
Each  of  these  very  sane  people  had  a  strange,  sometimes 
perverse,  sympathy  for  her.  She  seemed  in  some  way  to 
be  inside  of  them.  Perhaps  this  other  reality  she  repre- 
sents is  not  only  non-rational,  but  suprarational.  Irre- 
spective  of  whether  or  not  this  speculation  of  Miss  Chilton's 
i^  true,  and,  after  all  who  shall  say? — it  is  worth  writing 
a  book  about,  and  probably  worth  the  thought  of  that 
anti-poet,  the  reviewer  on  the  New  York  Times,  who, 
seated  at  a  desk  that  seemed  fairly  solid  and  "looking  out 
at  a  couple  of  hotels  made  of  brick  by  men  with  trowels, 
found  it  difficult  to  succumb  to  Miss  Chilton's  fantasy." 
Fantasy  is  another  odd  label  for  The  Burning  Fountain. 


SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  57 

The  execution  of  the  idea  is  at  once  very  able  and  a  little 
out  of  balance.  The  novel  is  planned  with  extreme  care, 
swinging  in  a  circle  beginning  at  The  Tree  with  the  passion 
of  Donald  and  Janet  which  produced  Lynneth,  and  ending 
at  The  Tree  with  her  death  by  lightning.  There  is  practi- 
cally no  plot,  and  what  narrative  there  is  develops  casually, 
without  special  regard  for  sequence.  The  interest  centers 
in  the  people  surrounding  Lynneth  and  in  the  effect  she 
produces  on  them.  We  are  told  that  Lynneth  behaves 
badly  in  thunderstorms,  we  begin  to  feel  the  dread  of  them 
that  stirs  the  Kenwyns,  and  then,  in  the  eventual  April 
storm,  we  realize  something  of  the  madness  which  made 
her  try  to  kill  Donald  and  all  the  pity  that  gave  Joan  the 
desire  and  the  strength  to  set  her  free.  With  a  minimum 
of  incident,  Miss  Chilton  produces  very  dramatic  suspense. 

The  same  care  for  pattern  shows  in  the  thoughts  of  the 
characters,  which  may  revolve  and  intertwine  among 
seemingly  alien  elements  but  which  are  brought  into  re- 
lation, sometimes  tenuously,  with  the  movement  of  the 
novel.  It  is  in  characterization,  however,  that  Miss  Chilton's 
balance  is  not  perfect.  Lynneth  is  indefinite,  neither  real 
or  unreal;  she  is  comprehensible  only  in  her  influence  on 
others,  she  never  exists  in  her  own  right.  The  rest  of  the 
characters  are  interesting  and  well  differentiated,  especially 
Douglas.  It  is  to  the  method  that  the  author  uses  to  define 
them  that  objection  may  be  made.  Their  conversations 
are  brief,  relatively  unimportant,  but  authentic.  If  Miss 
Chilton  had  trusted  more  to  the  dialogue  she  handles  so 
sensitively  and  accurately,  she  would  have  avoided  the 
extended  tedious  pages  in  which  each  character  describes 
himself  by  his  thoughts.  They  would  produce  a  more 
direct,  convincing  impression  if  they  acted  what  they  were, 
and  their  thoughts,  clarified,  more  distinct,  and  less  ex- 
pository, would  profit  by  the  reduction. 

In  a  recent  book  on  prose  writing  Miss  Edith  Rickert 
quotes  passages  from  Conrad,  Meredith,  Hudson,  and 
others  which,  in  sustained  intensity,  tone,  and  rhythm  are 
prose  poems.  There  are  many  passages  in  The  Burning 
Fountain  of  which  the  same  may  be  said,  particularly  in 
Part  One  and  Part  Three.  "Then,  far  off,  thunder  rolled 
over  the  sky.  The  spell  of  the  long  stillness  was  broken 
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SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  59 

carpet  of  triumph.  It  came  closer  and  closer.  Now  it  was 
a  silver  track  in  the  meadow,  and,  a  breath  later,  the 
flowers  about  them  stirred,  Janet's  wide  skirts  and  a  lock 
of  her  hair  blew  sideways,  the  trees  rocked  and  swayed 
over  their  restless  patches  of  shadow,  and  the  first  golden 
leaf  fell  and  caught  in  Janet's  dark  hair.  It  was  only  for  a 
moment.  The  wind  trailed  off,  pushing  the  opposite  hill- 
side before  it,  but  the  hypnotic  quiet  was  gone  with  the 
fallen  leaf,  and  over  their  heads  the  leaves  were  still  stirring 
on  motionless  branches."  In  this  sense,  it  is  true  that  Miss 
Chilton's  prose  proves  that  she  can  write  poetry  when  she 
cares  to.  The  images  she  uses  have  the  heightened  im- 
agination and  a  freshness  of  perception  which  mark  many 
of  her  poems  in  Fire  and  Sleet  and  Candlelight.  The  level 
of  writing, — and  it  is  a  high  one, — is  maintained  with  un- 
usual ease,  even  when  the  thought  substance  of  her  charac- 
ters grows  redundant. 

s.  s.  s. 


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For  a  span  so  worn — 
Even  Nature,  Herself, 
Has  forgot  it  is  there — 
Too  elate  of  her  multitudes 
To  retain  despair. 

Of  the  ones  that  pursued  it 
Suing  it  not  to  go — 
Some  have  solaced  the  longing 
To  accompany; 

Some  rescinded  the  wrench — 

Others — shall  I  say? 

Plated  the  residue  of 

Woe 

With  monotony." 


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SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  61 

The  last  part  of  this  poem  seems  to  express  the  feeling 
of  most  of  the  Further  Poems  of  Emily  Dickinson,  which 
have  just  been  discovered  and  published  after  having  been 
withheld  by  her  sister.  The  volume  is  rather  disappointing 
beside  The  Complete  Poems  of  Emily  Dickinson,  and  the 
poem  quoted  indicates  a  reason.  Lascelles  Abercrombie 
says  that  withdrawing  from  the  external  world  is  not  al- 
ways a  merely  negative  gesture;  it  often  represents  a  very 
positive  faith  in  the  greater  value  of  inner  experience — in 
the  superiority  of  things  conceived  over  things  perceived. 
This  was  true  of  Emily  Dickinson — when  her  world  was 
shattered,  she  built  herself  another  which  was  entirely  one 
of  vision  and  soundless  contemplation,  of  "quietness  dis- 
tilled," interrupted  only  by  small  low  sounds  like  the  hum 
of  the  bee.  Her  images  were  mostly  of  things  vividly  seen, 
and  others  were  apt  to  be  achieved  by  visual  figures — 
"caravans  of  sound,"  and  "the  blue,  uncertain,  stumbling 
buzz"  of  the  fly.  Some  of  these  visual  figures  are  present 
in  the  new  volume  though  they  are  less  frequent  than  in 
the  first,  but  the  book  on  the  whole  seems  to  point  to  the 
fact  that  the  world  of  escape  she  built  for  herself  has 
become  a  prison,  and  that  she  wearied  of  too  much  inward- 
ness and  of  too  much  contemplation  substituted  for  human 
contacts.  She  seems  to  long  for  freedom  from  herself  and 
not  to  know  quite  how  to  attain  it: 

"Me  from  Myself  to  banish 
Had  I  art, 

Impregnable  my  fortress 
Unto  foreign  heart. 

But  since  Myself  assault  Me 
How  have  I  peace, 
Except  by  subjugating 

Consciousness? 
And  since  We're  mutual 
Monarch, 
How  this  be 
Except  by  abdication 

Me— or  Me?" 

Aside  from  this  weariness,  the  qualities  of  the  new  book 
are  not  very  different  from  those  of  the  earlier  poems.  She 
displays  the  same  rapt  intimacy  with  nature,  though  as  has 


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SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  6j 

been  justly  pointed  out,  the  word  "mystic"  is  inappropriate 
for  her  in  that  it  denies  her  unequalled  general  sensibility; 
for  mysticism  implies  indiscriminate  ecstasy.  The  follow- 
ing poem  reveals  a  deep  delight  in  nature,  but  the  very 
manner  of  expression  is  an  argument  against  the  idea  of 
the  poet's  identifying  herself  with  it  or  of  her  taking  it 
only  as  the  outward  manifestation  of  a  supreme  and  ulti- 
mate reality: 

"Heaven  has  different  signs  to  me; 
Sometimes  I  think  that  noon 
Is  but  a  symbol  of  the  place, 
And  when  again  at  dawn 
A  mighty  look  runs  round  the  world 
And  settles  in  the  hills, 
An  awe  if  it  should  be  like  that 
Upon  the  ignorance  steals. 


The  rapture  of  concluded  day 
Returning  to  the  West, — 
All  these  remind  us  of  the  place 
That  men  call  'Paradise'." 

Her  mysticism,  if  she  has  any  trace  of  this  quality,  cer- 
tainly is  not  for  external  nature;  rather  it  is  shown  in  her 
"identification  of  love  and  death  in  eternity,"  and  this 
feeling  is  very  fully  revealed  in  the  new  book.  Its  most 
passionate  expression  is  perhaps  the  following  poem: 

"A  wife  at  daybreak  I  shall  be, 
Sunrise,  hast  thou  a  flag  for  me? 
At  midnight  I  am  yet  a  maid — 
How  short  it  takes  to  make  it  bride! 
Then,  Midnight,  I  have  passed  from  thee 
Unto  the  East  and  Victory. 

Midnight,  "Good  night" 
'  I  hear  them  call. 
The  angels  bustle  in  the  hall, 
Softly  my  Future  climbs  the  stair, 
I  fumble  at  my  childhood's  prayer — 
So  soon  to  be  a  child  no  more! 
Eternity,  I'm  coming,  Sir, — 
Master,  I've  seen  that  face  before." 


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SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  65 

This  feeling  and  the  reverence  for  nature  Emily  Dickinson 
exhibits  should  be  adequate  refutal  of  the  charge  of  irrever- 
ence which  is  often  made  against  her.  The  irreverence  is 
for  the  Puritan  conception  of  God,  and  it  is  probably  a 
misinterpretation  of  this  fact  combined  with  her  whimsical 
charm  which  refers  to  God  as  "Papa  above,' '  that  has  led 
critics  to  find  a  feeling  which  does  not  exist.  An  excellent 
example  of  her  attitude  toward  the  Puritan  God  is  found 
in  this  book: 

"God  is  a  distant,  stately  Lover, 
Woos,  so  He  tells  us,  by  His  Son. 
Surely  a  vicarious  courtship! 
Miles'  and  Priscilla's  such  a  one. 
But  lest  the  soul  like  fair  Priscilla, 
Choose  the  envoy  and  spurn  the  Groom, 
Vouches,  with  hyperbolic  archness, 
Miles  and  John  Alden 
Are  synonym." 

But  she  makes  fun  only  of  an  attitude  which  she  finds 
untrue  and  despicable.  The  following  poem  is  as  devout 
as  any  hymn: 

"Life  is  what  we  make  it, 
Death  we  do  not  know; 
Christ's  acquaintance  with  him 
Justifies  him,  though, 

He  would  trust  no  stranger, 
Other  could  betray, 
Just  his  own  endorsement 
That  sufhceth  me." 

Emily  Dickinson's  whole  feeling  toward  death,  which  is 
one  of  her  most  remarkable  qualities,  is  closely  bound  up 
with  her  brilliant  understanding,  gained  through  great 
anguish,  of  the  human  heart  and  its  sufferings.  "The 
tragedy  of  Emily  Dickinson's  life,  a  great  love  tasted  in 
ecstasy  and  put  by  in  honor,  is  given  to  the  world,  like 
Shakespeare's  sonnets,  in  quintessence,  not  in  circum- 
stance." This  quintessence  is  first  a  longing  for  death  as 
the  ultimate  satisfaction  of  her  love,  which  develops  into 
a  more  general,  though  not  a  less  passionate,  feeling  that 
death  is  pleasure  rather  than  pain — 


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SMITH  COLLEGE  MONTHLY  67 

"You'll  find  it  when  you  come  to  die 
The  easier  to  let  go, 
For  recollecting  such  as  went 
You  could  not  spare,  you  know. 
*  *  * 

And  thought  of  them  so  fair  invites, 
It  looks  too  tawdry  grace 
To  stay  behind  with  just  the  toys 
We  bought  to  ease  their  place." 

It  is  in  such  poems  as  this  that  the  new  book  of  Emily 
Dickinson's  does  not  suffer  by  comparison  with  the  old. 
Perhaps  they  were  withheld  because  they  seemed  not 
reticent  enough  to  be  given  to  the  world,  while  the  best  of 
the  less  personal  poems  had  already  been  published  and 
those  left  for  this  volume  must  of  necessity  seem  a  little 
disappointing. 

The  technical  quality  of  the  work  in  the  book,  as  one 
might  expect,  does  not  differ  greatly  from  that  in  the 
earlier  one.  There  is  the  same  passionate  brevity  and 
incisiveness,  the  same  absence  of  artistic  finish  and  care- 
lessness of  everything  but  the  absolutely  definitive  word 
and  phrase.  The  poet  is  less  concerned  with  art  than  with 
expressing  the  profound  feelings  of  the  human  heart,  and 
her  keen  sense  of  words  makes  this  expression  perfect, 
though  she  gives  a  distinct  impression  of  first  thought 
rather  than  afterthought.  This  characteristic  makes  her 
poetry  sometimes  as  difficult  of  immediate  comprehension 
as  Blake's,  but  on  this  point  the  final  comment  has  been 
made  by  T.  W.  Higginson  in  his  edition  of  selections  from 
her  poems,  " After  all,  when  a  thought  takes  one's  breath 
away,  a  lesson  on  grammar  seems  an  impertinence." 

R.  D.  Pillsbury 


An  odds-on  favorite 

Good  things  have  a  way  of 
making  themselves  known 
in  this  world,  whether  at 
Longchamps,  or  Saratoga,  or 
Epsom  Downs.  .  .  .  And  in 
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gather  who  are  accustomed 
to  rely  upon  their  own  taste 
and  judgment,  you  will  find 
Camels  the  odds-on  favorite. 
.  .  .  They  have  a  winning  way. 


©  1929,  R.  J.  Reynold.  Tobirco  Co..  Wimton-Salem,  N.  C. 


SEP.  (Ml 

A*  of*'