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the iolio

the folio Adventure in Autobiography Biographical Essay by Frances Cianfrognd

Transition A Lyric Poem by Linda Tinelli

The Wait A Short Story by Maryann Siddons

The Light on the Piazza A Book Review by Linda Morley

Upstate Winter A Lyric Poem by Linda Tinelli

The Clown in Daumier Essay and Illustrations by Eva Kielarska

The Wooden Image A Short Story by Anne Marie McCabe

Time Continues A Short Story by Judy Bach

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The Mercenaries



Page 24

A Short Story by Val Slivka


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The Second Snow

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A Lyric Poem by Linda Tinelli

Poquessing A Lyric Poem by Linda Tinelli

Autumn Picture A Lyric Poem by Linda Tinelli

Holy Family College,

Torresdale, Philadelphia 14, Pennsylvania

Fall - 1961

ARCHIVES Holy Family Unlverslfy Phlladelphio, PA 19114


Adventure in Autobiography by Franees Cianfrogna


OTHER always thought that little girls should be accom­ plished in the gentler arts, so she insisted that Loretta and I take piano lessons. Father said that he thought so, too, but not enough to buy us a piano - just lessons. Mother said that he was standing in the way of our cultural development; but Father said that if she brought a piano into the house, we'd all have to move into the street, and no one would develop. Father wasn't so sure that he wanted us to develop culturally, anyway. But he needn't have worried. Loretta and I practiced at home only on cardboard keyboards. We hummed a bit, but Father thought that was all right. Humming never hurt anybody, and sometimes we'd hum a little tarantella just to make him feel better about the whole thing. Then one day I got tired of practicing on cardboard and brought home a viola. Father and Mother got a bit excited about that because they somehow had gotten under the impression that a viola was a 'cello. Mother was afraid a 'cello was ungraceful to hold, and Father knew I'd just fall down the steps with it. But a viola isn't a 'cello, and so Mother decided that holding a viola under my chin would be ladylike enough, even if it wasn't sitting at a piano. (Mother always considered my only talent so far as a piano is concerned - sitting gracefully at one - good enough for any piano player). Father still thought I'd fall down the stairs with whatever it was, so he insisted that I practice only at ground level in the living room. At any rate, the viola lasted exactly one practice because Father almost broke his neck rushing up from his workbench in the cellar. He thought I had disobeyed him and had fallen down some stairs again. Loretta stopped pounding out time on her card­ board keys to explain that it was only "Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes" on a viola; but Father started muttering in Italian, and the next week I was back on cardboard. Mother said I looked much nicer there. 3


ATHER became the official family photographer by default F when he was given a movie camera one Christmas. With Father and the movie camera it was war, but for Loretta and me it was like having a three ring circus all our own. Everytime Father took out the sheet we used as a screen and hung it over the fireplace, Loretta and I would start laughing; until, by the time the show was only half over, we would have to be put to bed with the hiccoughs. This didn't do much to improve our standing as girls in my father's mind, but then neither did Mother because she was always saying things like: "Should everyone move so fast, Alfred?" and "Why is it so dark, Alfred? It was a sunny day, re­ member?" Father would always blow up and threaten to wrap Loretta, Mother, and me in the sheet unless he got some silence and proper respect around the house. Father said he couldn't be held responsible for what the camera did, and besides, people wouldn't stand still. Actually, the family stood stiller for my father and his camera than it had for anything before or since. In fact, everyone co­ operated so cheerfully and whole-heartedly that the endless, blurry reels took on a kind of numbing sameness. There was always a party of some sort; and, while the scenery changed, the actors re­ mained constant. And cheerful. In the opening frame would be Aunt Lena, or Grandmom, or Cousin Lorraine pointing at a birth­ day cake ( or a punch bowl, or Uncle Gene) with a look of ecstasy Theda Bara would be hard put to match. Then the camera would pass wildly back and forth over the rest of the family, each and everyone of them squinting with the same expression of wonder at watching Aunt Lena or Grandmom or Cousin Lorraine pointing at the cake ( or Uncle Gene). It wasn't the ecstasy that caused all the squinting, of course; it was Father's four floodlights he had mounted on a board to help him with his indoor photography. Father's plugging in his floodlights was Cousin Judy's cue ( almost anything was) to do a little dance in and out of camera range while Father tried to follow her around with his four floodlights on a board. Sometimes she even got in the picture. Father said it was the kitchen parties that cramped his style not enough room for his floodlights, but even Mother got hiccoughs from his Neshaminy movies. It wasn't that they were technically any worse than his others; it's just that they gave him a scope that kitchens denied him. In one glorious scene Father could capture not only the assorted grins of the sandwich eaters at the picnic tables, but also Cousin Denny screaming wildly in Italian at the motorboat, the upturned faces of six children sitting in the motor­ boat in the middle of the creek waiting to be taken for a ride by Cousin Denny, Cousin Chuck doing his world famous imitation of Tarzan swinging out over the water on a rope, and the horror-


stricken face of Cousin Marie, watching Chuck swinging out over her. Father always liked to inject a little humor into his Neshaminy movies by catching Uncle Joe at the hot dog grill in his chef's hat, but all he ever got was twenty feet of filmed smoke and Aunt Mamie, shaking a salt shaker. Father would puff on his cigar as he watched the movies with us. He said we just weren't ready to be immortalized on film. 111

SUPPOSE the high point of my career as a child came the day Mother and Father announced that they had just bought "a little weekend place in the country." This came close upon the heels of the dreadful disclosure by my older sister, Loretta, that we were "city children." This might seem to be an obvious point to two children who had spent their five and eight years gamboling over curbstones and dodging traffic in downtown Philadelphia; however, it was, as I said, a dreadful blow to be told to my face that I was an object of pity. I had read all about "city children" in my story足 books, and I knew what they were. They were emaciated little things who got healthful milk for Sturdy Growth only because the Little Engine That Could had made it over that last hill. They were poor art lovers who nailed peach can labels on the wall for con足 templation. They had little gray faces, and Lady Bountiful carried them off to the Fresh Air Farm. Now there were some city children for you. Before the shock settled into a trauma, though, my parents enthusiastically snatched us away from the foul breath of the city and tucked us into the back seat of the old Ford. Father never talked; he exploded, and our first trip to the country was a series of explosions - green trees and new smells; squirrels and rabbits and baby wrens; a small stream that tumbled by the cabin with the steady sound of rain to lose itself in the Big Creek beyond. Loretta and I (safely preserved from healthful milk and peach labels) snuggled against the gray felt upholstery and thoughtfully pulled out the stuffing through our little hole. Mother was the quiet one; one of those quiet ones who casually lets it slip one night when everyone is having a good laugh over the Ouiga board that Aunt Maud used to raise tables by concentrat足 ing. We knew why she was quiet now, though. She was thinking girl-thoughts: white picket fences and shutters, and we automatically added a neat border of sweet peas and pansies. We arrived at Neshaminy Falls (named after the Neshaminy Indians) a few minutes after the rain began and stumbled over Cousins Louie and Denny. In the great tradition of Italian families everywhere, Cousins Louie and Denny had come To Help. No mat足 ter what you needed - a carpenter or a connoisseur of fine food we had a cousin to fit the need. Cousin Louie and Cousin Denny


were to help rebuild the cabin; Cousin Paul would come later to the cabin warming and roast a whole pig in the ground. But there was no roast pig now, and Loretta and I were shivering in the No­ vember drizzle. Where was our dear little white frame cabin of the shutters and the picket-fence and the border-garden? Where was the cunning little brook that ran to meet the great sea? (We had filched this last from Honey Bunch, Her First Little Visit To

The Farm.)

Mother and Father led us along a precarious path that clung a bit doubtfully to the crest of a sheer drop (from the vantage point of three feet it was a sheer drop, anyway). It stopped before a tipsy shack, manfully trying to keep hold of the mud. Even Cousins Louie and Denny held silent a few seconds before letting loose some choice Italian invectives. All Loretta and I could do was cry; so we did, and Father exploded - this time about pioneers. Look at Cousin Louie going into the cabin. Didn't we want to be brave little builders and help Cousin Louie? No, we didn't. We wanted to be miserable little city children who sat home in a big, overstuffed chair and prayed that The Little Engine That Could wouldn't make it that day with our healthful milk. We hadn't asked to be rosy­ cheeked farm girls, anyway, and there weren't any shutters. We would have wailed again, but we were drowned out by a tremendous shriek and a huge crash. Father and Cousin Denny rushed inside, and we would have too; except that they were all yelling in English too, and Mother wouldn't let us.

Transition by Linda Tinelli

Watching the seasons come and go, I've noticed that they seem to flow And blend into each other. Yet We live in one alone. Duet Though life may be ( a man-made descant Set to nature's tune) we grant That melody over descant towers. Just notice how the lasting flowers Of fall will bend to winter cold. Or how the trees, when they are old, Don't shrink with age, but meet the blight Of constant change by seeking height.


The Wait by Maryann Siddons HE YELLOW BULB dangling from the ceiling brought the T squalor of the hallway into focus; still it provided a light and you did need one here. Plaster lay about the floor wait足 ing for the janitor's broom. For weeks now it had waited; it would still be here tomorrow, Miss Magee thought as she care足 fully wound her way down the stairs. Her hand felt grimy from the touch of the wooden bannister, so she rubbed her palms to足 gether trying to lose the sticky feeling. Frowning as she looked about her, Miss Magee pulled open the door, anxious to leave the building. Once outside Miss Magee gathered her coat about her as she felt the cool air on her face. But after a few minutes she decided it wasn't really cool, in fact, it was almost like spring she thought. The clock in the small jewelry shop informed Miss Magee that it was 8:30. Since she never wore jewelry of any kind, Miss Magee relied on her clock at home and this one. Precisely on schedule she always timed her arrival at the bus stop. She then had to wait only three or four minutes for her bus - just enough time to be sure to catch it, yet not too long to have to converse with the others who stood on the corner every day. While they dis足 cussed the weather and the headlines in the morning paper, she remained apart. Once on her bus Miss Magee concentrated on studying the passengers. She, not a passenger but an observer, made it a habit to note the comings and goings of the other people. For weeks now she had watched a young girl, a student. Disappointed, Miss Magee saw that today the girl wasn't on the bus. Standing on a corner somewhere talking to some boy, she thought. Searching for a new case to observe, Miss Magee's eyes settled on an old man across the aisle, to the front. Head down, eyes shut, his tired thin face seemed scarred with lines, cuts, and dirt. Miss Magee was horrified. You'd think something would be done with people like that; they shouldn't be permitted on buses with decent people. Cringing inwardly she brushed at her coat, straightened her hat. Just looking at that man had made her feel unclean. The bus stopped abruptly; the man moved, looked around. With a sense of disgust Miss Magee lowered her eyes when he


looked at her. Dirty man, why does he keep staring at me she thought. The man stood up then. Thankfully Miss Magee watched him shuffle down the aisle and leave the bus. When her stop came, Miss Magee slowly made her way up the aisle. Head held high, she knew everyone was watching her. A real lady they would say. Careful not to speak to the bus driver Miss Magee stepped down onto the sidewalk, happy to he in the air again. Yes, spring was on its way she thought. Ten minutes of nine. Right on time, Miss Magee entered Brown's Department Store. As she made her way through the aisles she caught sight of her reflection in the store's mirrors. Pushing her brown hair back from her face at the first sight, rearranging the collar of her coat at the next vantage point, she finally noticed how pale her face was. Perhaps she should wear some lipstick. Then, dismissing this thought as absurd she forgot to look in the remaining surfaces. Miss Magee entered the locker room as Mrs. Tracy was leav­ ing. "Hello," Mrs. Tracy called. "Ready for another day?" Surprised, Miss Magee responded to the exuberant manner of the other woman. About thirty-five, Miss Magee's age, Mrs. Tracy was small, thin, and friendly. Even Miss Magee couldn't resist her enthusiasm. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" Miss Magee questioned. "Is your lunch hour at one today?" Mrs. Tracy asked. "Mine is and I wondered if we could have lunch together." "Why yes, it is" Miss Magee confessed, secretly pleased at the invitation. "What if I meet you at the restaurant around the corner. I have a few errands to run first, but I'll be there at quarter after one." Still smiling with pleasure at this companionship Miss Magee followed Mrs. Tracy from the room and went to her own depart­ ment. She now began thinking of the work to be done that day. "Morning, Miss Magee," Mr. Larkin, the floor manager, had interrupted her thoughts. Always a cheerful person at this hour of the morning, Miss Magee watched him as he soon lost his happy expression. Once harried clerks began having conflicts with their customers Mr. Larkin's day was ruined. Trying to please everyone, customer and employee alike, he seldom achieved either objective. At first, some twelve years ago Mr. Larkin had attempted to become friendly with Miss Magee. She had put a stop to that though. She knew he wondered what it was that she disliked about him. She saw that this made him even more sensitive where she was con­ cerned. Now and then Miss Magee wondered what life would have been like, if she had been nicer to Mr. Larkin. Perhaps - well no use going into that, she insisted. She had made her choice. In any case, she had somehow guessed how Mr. Larkin feared hurting anyone; and this knowledge made it easy for her to ignore or answer his greeting to her every day. This morning she merely 8

stared at him until, as she knew they would, his eyes full of hurt and dismay glanced away. A few customers came in and out. Miss Magee kept busy with them. But as the morning wore on she thought of her plans for lunch. Pleased with the prospect of a companion, she recalled that it had been a long time since she had been included in the plans of the other women. Once they had begun prying into her life she had withdrawn. Now everything might be better. Mrs. Tracy didn't seem like those other women. This could be a friend, someone to talk to, Miss Magee decided. At one o'clock Miss Magee left the store and walked the block to the appointed restaurant. As she noticed with interest the spring items beginning to appear on display in the store windows, she realized that it had been some time since she had bothered with such things. Somehow today she was curious again. "Table for two, please. I'm expecting another lady to join me." Bowing, the waiter left her. Keeping her eyes alert so as to see Mrs. Tracy as soon as she came in, Miss Magee again thought of Mr. Larkin. Funny about him, never getting married that is. While observing the people in the restaurant, Miss Magee's eyes searched for a clock. None was in sight. Then, glancing over the menu she planned her lunch. Looking up, her eyes again searched the room, coming to rest on the door. The waiter hovered over her. "Ready to order, Madam?" "I'm waiting for another lady, I'll wait till she comes." A few minutes passed. The waiter was back. "Would you like to order now? If not, other people are waiting for this table." Flustered, Miss Magee gave her order. Self-consciously now, she sat and waited. Time passed slowly; her meal came. Not even noticing what she was doing Miss Magee began eating - not wanting to be more conspicuous than she felt she already was. Ignoring the salt and pepper in front of her, forgetting to add cream to her tea, Miss Magee tasted nothing. On and on went the meal. Staring ot her wrist it was a long time till Miss Magee saw that she wasn't wearing a watch. She had forgotten, she never wore a watch. At the next table a young man sat reading the sports page of the paper. He would know what time it was. Although she wanted to speak, Miss Magee's throat would not open. No sound could escape. She remained silent, unmoving, Then she saw his arm move - his watch was in view. Quarter of two. Time to go. Rising slowly, tiredly, she paid her check and left the resturant. Walking out onto the sidewalk Miss Magee noticed nothing except how cold it was. As a gust of wind blew her hair, she in­ stinctively tightened her coat and walked more quickly - not even glancing at the store windows she passed.


Returning to work, Miss Magee saw a group of women. With them, talking and smiling, was Mrs. Tracy. "Did you have a nice lunch, Miss Magee?" "Yes, I had a very nice lunch, thank you." Walking away Miss Magee was conscious of the chatter of the women, Mrs. Tracy's voice was joined with theirs.

The Light on the Piazza by Linda Morley


ITH EXTRAORDINARY clarity, Mrs. Elizabeth Spencer has taken one of the darkest of human tragedies and has turned it into a beautifully luminescent experience. She has unveiled for audible conversation the problem of modern society and its young retarded constituents. And she has done all of this with an ease that includes subtle wisdom and humor languidly moving among the shadows and brightness of Florence, Italy. Mrs. Margaret Johnson, the typical American housewife, young, trim and efficient, is with her lovely child-like daughter, Clara, resting in Florence's Piazza della Signoria. Half unwillingly but with surpressed hope, she is the center of a very dangerous game which begins simply enough, but eventually binds her inextricably by the rules which become inevitable. To a degree, however, she is the victim of circumstance: None of it could have happened if she were not in Italy; if she did not carry a latent dream in her heart, if Clara weren't so beloved by her and if the Italian people were not so persistent, so striking and so subtle. It is impossible to say which facet of Mrs. Spencer's creativity is at work the most in this particular short story. Certainly the story line evolves rapidly, smoothly and believable. Could it be the tone? From the title to the very last period the tone setting symbol is 'light'. The setting is sun-lit Florence; the language is Anglo-Saxon white and golden Italian; the nar­ rator's consciousness uncovers one incredibly enlightening experi10

ence after another. The action is built up of basically simple in­ cidents. But mainly all the light comes from the sun. It's as if the author actually put her manuscript in its rays to be drenched by it. But maybe it is the excellent choice of diction that perfects the craftsmanship. The action opens most appropriately, I think, when Clara asks, "What happened here, Mother." It's most likely that when she returns to America Mrs. Johnson will often think of that very Piazza and exclaim: "What happened there!" Even more notable about the diction is the subtle humor and witty observances of life that accompanied it throughout. "In Florence we have too much history. In America you are so free, free - oh, it is wonderful!" exclaimed Signor Naccarelli. And Mrs. Johnson herself observes the Italian characteristic present in Clara's young suitor, Fabrizio. He was "proud of his body . . . He was in truth, slightly bowlegged, but he concealed the flaw by standing with one knee bent." And again in strict exposition the language is clean, light and knowledgeable: She entered from that day a conscious duality of existence, knowing what she should and must do and making no motion toward doing it. The Latin temperament may thrive on such subtleties and never find it necessary to conclude them, but to Mrs. Johnson the experience was strange and new. It confused her .... She had in fact come face to face with Italy. The characterizations are of real persons sketched economically in the manner of a pen and ink drawing. They emerge suddenly, receive the most essential ingredients of life and then continue at a gradual pace to accumulate more and more qualities throughout their entire participation in the events of the narrative. Mrs. Johnson and Clara immediately bring to mind, the Mrs. and Miss Miller of Henry James' Daisy Miller. The comparison is only one-sided - the American mother always keeping an eye open for a possible match for her daughter. Mrs. Johnson sup­ presses this instinct to a great degree through resignation acquired over the long years before, but it is there, nevertheless, even if semi-consciously at first. The Naccarellis represent the popular American notion of Latin peoples - sly, gay, handsome, passionate and warm. They might very well stare out of a huge poster in the window of any American travel bureau. What is intricate in the character arrangement is the Anglo­ Saxon American woman, out of her element, forced to play on the fields of Italy. Even her daughter finally abandons her, she notices, turning into a Signorina before her very watchful eyes. The set­ ting is incongruous to her nature and often unaware of the impli­ cations of her surroundings, Mrs. Johnson's predicament affords a great many smiles to the reader. But the smiles also point to the


pathos of her position and the reader's emotions react accordingly. Symbolic elements which enhance the perspective of any literary endeavor are employed by Mrs. Spencer with an overall unifying effect. The most readily apparent symbol is the light in which the whole story is immersed. The highly speculative symbol of "Cellini's triumphant 'Perseus' " gracing the Piazza della Signoria where the central action occurs, stands guard likewise at the opening and closing of the narrative. The statue seems to be closely related in the author's mind to the shooting incident during the high festivities in the Piazza. Final1y, the interplay of action presently occurring and the reminiscence of past happenings connected to the present is accom­ plished with ease and dexterity. Events then and now, for Mrs. Johnson mutually illuminate each other in her mind, thereby ad­ ding greatly to the overall structure of the story. The recollection of her one great 'experiment' concerning Clara's schooling seems to carry many implications of symbolism. At the very least, for Mrs. Johnson, it represents a major element of her life and her relationship with both her daughter, Clara, and her husband, Noel. "Nobody with a dream should come to Italy. No matter how dead and buried the dream is thought to be, in Italy it will rise and walk again." This expositional comment amounts to a summation of the theme which Mrs. Spencer's story set out to explore. And explore it she did in a manner that leaves the reader speechless, awestruck and elated in turn. The Light in the Piazza is nothing less than a beautifully written, artistically executed story.

Upstate Winter by Linda Tinelli

I'm lost in silent wonderment Of such bare beauty. Not a hint Exists of the all-emptiness That's in these hills. They now express A paradox in black and white. A mountain of useless anthracite Is outlined by the very thing Its heat should have been vanishing.


The Clown




by Eva Kielarska T IS perhaps great joy for us to see that insignificant little man I with a gaily painted face and in ridiculous costume prancing around, selling balloons or writhing through a pantomime at the local circus. Yet, he is not there merely to evoke our laughter. Though insignificant and frivolous as his status may seem, he is really a type of titan, that necessary component of enterti:iinment which realizes man's psychic needs. The Clown, the small man who lives his life under grease paint and faded satins, the symbol of farce and comedy, is indeed a genius of sorts. He is the fellow through whom we see the world stripped of its glamour and grandeur, the world sans its mask, seen through the mask of a commonplace buffoon. Not the world of cocktail lounges and coun­ try clubs, summer cottages and office buildings, airplanes and sportscars, but the world of man in his little worlds. The ridiculous face of the Clown, the satanic smile, the farcical gesture is by no means restricted to the stage or circus alone. It is found everywhere and the world of fine arts has capitalized on it. The Flemish Renaissance has seen its foibles recorded by the masterful hand of Hieronimus Bosch. Spain of the nineteenth cen­ tury had its Goya. Mexico has given social commentary through the mural of histories of Rivera and Orozco. Expressionist Germany of the present era shows us the morbid disgust with society in the work of Dix and Grosz. And France, of course, has contributed to social painting with Millet and his proletarian type and Daumier perhaps the most sympathetic to the weaknesses of our human brothers. Daumier, the present subject of discussion, was well prepared for his role in art. The son of a poet-glazier, he belonged to the people - sharing their primitive spirit and sanity. Living in an age of "genius sick with genius" ( said by Boudelaire of Delacroix) , Daumier had the soul of a revolutionary. He had matured under Napoleon and the Restoration, and after the July revolution he thought he had the right to lead a full life. The historical period in which Daumier lived was marked by dishonesty, mediocrity, temerity, moderation in everything save the quest for well-being of the bourgoisie, and the lack of artistic taste of the governing class. Daumier's rebellion could thus be justified.


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To sing praises of the heroes of Antiquity, as David had done, would not be in good faith. To lose himself in medieval and Oriental dreams, as Delacroix, would be the evasion of the important of society. But to strike at the lies, cruelty, cowardice of his day pre­ sented a proper outlet. The art of Daumier cannot be discussed without consideration of his caricatures which took up most of his time, numbering as they do more than four thousand. Daumier established himself as a caricaturist in 1834 with four lithographs published in Philipon's journal "Caricature." These are: 1. Have Nothing To Do With It, or Liberty of the Press, 2. The Legislative Belly, Lafayette Gone! Tough Luck Old Fellow!, 4. Rue Transnonain, April 15, 1834. These are political attacks on the government of Louis-Philippe and the men of his legislature. These have been great popular successes and are still considered his masterpieces. After the suppression of "Caricature" Daumier es­ tablished himself as a caricaturist of manners. His satire then strikes at thieves, men of law, judges and lawyers. He attacks the pettiness, obtusity, and vulgarity of the bourgeoisie of those days. These feelings have been embodied in the "Cancans" of 184,8 and the "Regrets" of 1853 which have remained unpublished, little known, and are extremely rare. Until 1872 Daumier continued to make caricatures in the medium of the lithograph. As late as 1870 and 1871 he made a few masterpieces. But from 1848 his activity as a painter had become more and more important. Caricature now served merely to find subjects for him and a means of livelihood. The painting of Daumier can be well described in the in­ terpretations by that artist of Don Quixote. Daumier's Don is not the character created by Cervantes, but a character that romanticism has invented. There is now no faith in the hero's ideal. The element of the grotesque is identified with the sublime, and the adventurous Don is seen as a martyr to an ideal. Throughout his life, as we have seen, Daumier has wrestled with the social ills of his day ennobling the painterliness of French art as well. He has perfected French "tachisme" to the core. There is plastic vision and dramatic movement in his paintings as well as the relationships of "spots" of light and dark colors. There is, in Daumier's painting, spiritual complexity, a wealth of feeling, strength and monumentality. It is clear to see the image of the Clown walking through the work of Daumier, be he Louise-Philippe, a lawyer, a thief, or a common citizen. All the aspects of the "human comedy" are present; the Clown stares at us through the blazing eyes of the protagonists of Daumier's art, laughing and crying with us as the tragic world of human weaknesses unfolds itself before our eyes. It is hard to find Daumier's art obliterated by the ravages of time and the changing mores of society. By his keen observations


and deep sympathies he has recorded the heart and mind of Man in all the facets of his life, thus achieving a universal concept which proves itself to be timeless. He is truly the bridge between Roman­ ticism and Impressionism ( as far as his technical contribution goes) and the later movement, Expressionism ( as far as the motivation for his painting is concerned).

The Wooden Image by Anne Marie McCabe T WOULD TAKE time, Henry thought. More time than he I figured. For months now he had tried to figure her out, but without any luck. She was an odd one, she was. Henry had seen lots a' people come to Hampton House. He had been on hand to meet each old man and woman with his usual handshake and how d'y'a do. They all needed something like this, Henry thought, each time a new one arrived. The thought of coming to an old people's home is kinda hard to get used to, Henry thought. They needed somebody to get them over the hump. It didn't take long before a "new" one became a part of the routine at Hampton House. But not like Henry was a part of it all. Even Henry said so. He liked his part "in things" at the old House. Generally he was "in" on all the problems of the people at Hampton House. He knew they all had something to do with their age. Who wants to become old and feeble?, Henry thought to himself. Can't do any of the things you want to do. Henry looked at his gnarled hands and remembered the pain. He was the only one who never got around to talking about his pain. He had too much to do at Hamp­ ton House. He was reliable, Henry was. You could rely on Henry. Thi� "new" one, Moira Sinclair, she's a real puzzle she is. Henry thought a lot about the "new" one. He always got to know people, even when he wasn't at Hampton House. Back home in Martinsville, he had had a nice little business going. His own car­ penter shop with all his own tools - these were the things he loved. He was kinda friendly there too. His customers always kinda lin­ gered around the shop just talkin' to Henry. People liked Henry. But this "new" one, she was different. Not even Henry could 18

make heads nor tails out of her strange ways. She didn't fit into Hampton House somehow, Henry thought. She never spoke to Henry or anybody. She never smiled or anything. She sure was odd. Henry thought she walked like a queen, though. He had talked about it to most of the "old" ones and they agreed with Henry. They all noticed something queen-like in the way she walked, and she always kinda held her hands so nice. Real genteel. Sorta high born type, maybe. Henry thought so. Henry thought she was real beautiful. He figured she was about sixty-five or more, but she was still mighty pretty. Henry noticed her eyes. They weren't any ordinary color. Sorta corn­ flower blue. But Henry knew they didn't really see him, or the others at Hampton House. Henry wanted to find out about her. He would do it too. They always said you could rely on Henry. Henry kept watching Miss Sinclair. Every afternoon she would disappear at the same time. Henry knew where she went. He knew she walked in the woods alone. Only today Henry would follow her. He was going to find out something about her. Maybe this walking habit was more than an ordinary meandering. Lots a' crab apples on the ground, Henry thought as he walked. He could smell something in the air - a crisper sort of air that was different from the muggy, lazy air of summer. Leaves crunched and crackled under his feet, a comfortable feeling. Might give him away though. Got to be careful she doesn't see me, Henry thought. He slowed down and trod more carefully. He liked autumn. Especially this autumn. Sort of more red and gold than usual, he thought. More color this year - all kinds of color. Kinda like a good piece of cherry wood - if you polish it up proper, you could get some real live colors. A fire red that glows from the inside out. Henry knew that about cherry. Always did like cherry. Ther's some real nice wood around here. Henry looked around him, mindful of the woman he was following - still walking ahead. Some real fine wood, tall and straight, didn't see any bent frees around here. He had to touch some wood - get the feeling of it. This oak'd make a nice size cabinet, he thought. Bet I'd make a good one too. Always did a nice piece of carpentry. Good hands they called them back in Martinsville. Yep, that's what his customers always said. He spotted a piece of whittlin' wood on the ground now and stooped to pick it up. He tried to make the arthritic hands work for him, to manage the twig in a firm grasp. But it fell to the ground, as it always did now. His hands didn't obey him anymore. Henry thought of something else. He didn't want those other memories to come back. He brushed them all away by thinking of her. She had stopped walking now and stood in a clearing up ahead. He slowed and stopped. He stood behind a tree while the woman began doing something he couldn't quite figure. Henry thought she was crazy. He saw her bow three times, -


a real low bow. He heard her say something. It was kinda low and pleading like ..."I will not die," Henry listened for more. "I'm not acoward," she said, "I'll lick this thing. I won't give up now." Henry didn't believe what he saw and heard. A real actress. She's a real actress. "Pretty good words, you said there, Miss Sinclair," Henry said to the woman. "Do you know these words you been saying so dramatic-like?" She turned and stared at the intruder. Hurt and fear came into her face. Henry's heart twisted as he watched her. He was afraid she was going to cry. Tears are weakness,Henry thought. "You crippled old man," she choked the words out, trying to hurt the busybody who had discovered her. Henry . . . only Henry knew she had hurt him. She ran away from him, the hurt stinging and making her want to escape. Henry followed and reached out to grab her with both his arms. His hands kinda pained him but he did stop her. He sat her down on the grass and tried to calm her. "Come on now,Miss Sinclair," Henry said. "That's right now - cry out your troubles. That's what you been needing, seems to me. Never any good to hold everything inside. It's got to come out sometime. There now ... how about telling me all about it. Henry Barlow's pretty good at listening to people's problems. Have been for some time." She looked at him now. Henry could tell she sorta calmed down a little. She brushed some hair back from her eyes with a kinda nervous sweep of her hand. She started to tell Henry her story. "You don't know anything about me," she said. "And why should you?" "I'm interested," Henry said. "I want to know." "I don't belong here," she said to Henry. "I come from a different world from you. I'm an actress. Do you hear,old man? I'm an actress!" She dared him to say anything. But Henry was silent. "I've had an exciting life. I've been to places, big places, and done things. I'm not small town like you." "Guess you're right at that, Miss Sinclair," Henry said, "Never been anywhere except Martinsville. Never wanted to go anywhere either. I was happy where I was, doing what I was doing." "Just like all the rest of them," she said. "You're so wrapped up in the small things, you probably don't even know what an actress is." "Well I didn't get to the movies much back in Martinsville,but I know what an actress is. Bet you were a good one too." "Of course, I was good," she said. "But you wouldn't even


know the difference between the really good actress and the mediocre. You probably think they're all great. But they're not all great, I know. I was one of the greats. I didn't always have the main roles, but my part always tied the show together. I com­ plemented other actors when I played opposite them. It was a special talent. I helped make some of the stars that are on top today." "Musta had lots of friends," Henry said. "Musta been real happy." "I was happy in my own way," she said to Henry. "I knew they were all jealous of my talent. I still helped them even though they didn't know it. I was better than all of them. They needed me. I always knew something about people that they never knew about themselves. I knew their weaknesses. I tried to make them strong like me, but they didn't want to be strong. They'll be sorry for all they did to me. I was a great genius. They said I was too old to act anymore. Moira Sinclair ...too old to act? How stupid they are." "You know Miss Sinclair,I was never in this here acting busi­ ness," Henry said, "but I kinda understand what you been going through. You been creatin' all your life ...been a real artist ... and all of a sudden you had to stop. Took a pleasure out of your life that somehow became a deep part of you. Nobody but a real artist knows the feelin' of creatin'. It's hard to come awav from it, knowin' that it will never come again." Miss Sinclair looked at Henry kind of funny. She stared at Henry and said, "You're nothing but a fake; I know something about you, just like I knew the others. You thought you had a secret, didn't you? It wasn't hidden from me. That piece of wood you carry around in your pocket all the time, that's your crutch, you're always fingering it. When you think nobody is looking, you take it out and look at it. You're weak like the rest of them, Henry Barlow." Henry didn't know what to say,he turned away from her ... hurt by her words. Henry felt the wooden figure in his hand and put it in his pocket. ''Don't know as I'd call it a crutch, Miss Sinclair, just my way of remembering. I know I'll never use my tools again. I sorta faced that problem a long time ago. Seems to me you've been kinda blind to your problems. Steppin' on people all'a your life, never givin' so much - funny isn't it. I'm a simple man, Miss Sinclair, don't know much about anythin' - 'cept maybe people. I'm happy just doin' the things I've been doin' - I'm sort'a peaceful now, even without my tools and wood. Seems to me, you aren't a happy person, always clawin' at people,never a chance to be at peace with yourself. I have to get back to the House. My friends'll be needin' someone to talk to just about now. Bye, Miss Sinclair - I'll be around if you need me."


Time Continues by Judy Bach HE HUGE HOUSE had been silent for a long time. It seemed T to rebel against the silence by allowing an occasional creak from a once sturdy floorboard. In the midst of this near­ perfect quiet, Mrs. Hardy sat in her favorite upright chair. She never allowed herself the luxury of the soft, pillowy sofa. Her guests could use it if they liked, but she enjoyed the hard comfort of the wood. Her short, wrinkled hands moved tirelessly back and forth, pushing the knitting needles in and out with a rhythm that showed many years experience. The children had needed warm clothes, and they were too expensive to buy at the store all the time. There was something different in the movement of her hands now. The developing pattern forming beneath Mrs. Hardy's hands was taking shape slowly. There was no hurry to finish for there was plenty of time - so many hours in the day. Everything in the house had slowed d_own and some things had stopped working altogether. There was a small cuckoo clock on the wall opposite where Mrs. Hardy was sitting. Its ornately cut form interrupted the faded, unreal flower pattern of the wallpaper. It was 3: 15. It had been 3: 15 for some years, and Mrs. Hardy could do nothing to change it. That was Robbie's job. Every afternoon about the same time, he used to come running in from his play just to pull the weighted chain. He knew that if he ever forgot, the little bird would not come out and make that funny noise and bob up and down. Robbie's face would light up everytime he saw the bird. He could never understand why he wouldn't come all the way out and fly around the room for a little while -why he didn't want to be free like the other birds Robbie saw outside. There was some­ thing different about that bird, but he liked it - it was like his very own. Mrs. Hardy would never pull the chain, and so it would have to stay 3: 15. Mrs. Hardy had always given her children something special to do. It was good for the children; it gave them a feeling that they were depended upon and needed. Besides, it did help to get things done. Mrs. Hardy smiled. Her own mother had done the same with her children. She remembered how she herself was in charge of making sure that her sisters and brothers were gathered



together, washed, and ready for dinner. It was wonderful. She had liked doing that even better than playing house. It was like being a real mother and she had felt so important. Mrs. Hardy had tried to make Jane feel the same way. Of course, Jane had only her brother to take care of and she lavished all of her attention on him. But it wasn't a harmful attention. There were many times when Jane's voice reflected Mrs. Hardy's own seemingly stern voice. The soft smile returned to her uplifted face. Paul. She re­ membered how her husband used to sit at the dinner table and wait for Jane to come to him. He would look down at her very serious face and grin as she examined his rough hands. Yes, they were very rough hands, but they were clean. They passed Jane's inspection. A sudden interruption came from the kitchen. That old re­ frigerator made such a horrible noise when the motor started to run. Mrs. Hardy meant to call the electrician long before. She had so much time, but still not enough. Paul should be there. He would fix the motor. She never had to ask him twice to fix something around the house. Her husband was like that. He always took time to make sure that everything was going right. It was funny how he was so proud of everything he did - even if it was only fixing a flat tire on Robbie's bike. He would never say any­ thing, but Mrs. Hardy always noticed the satisfied expression on her husband's dark, ruddy face. Paul's face. The little hands stopped their automatic motion and dropped to rest on the soft, woven pattern on Mrs. Hardy's lap. Her tired eyelids closed slowly, as if to gently wipe away the tiredness. She lifted her head upward to rest on the back of the upright chair. Her eyes opened, again slowly, feeling no relief in spite of their moment's rest. The clock was still there on the wall. It was still 3: 15 and the little wooden doors at the top remained closed. All that was needed to open them was a slight pull at the chain. That was all. Would it be so hard after all this time? Again the interruption came from the kitchen. The motor. There was something wrong with it - something missing perhaps but it continued running, continued interrupting .... The tired figure rose from the stern chair and walked slowly, unsuredly toward the telephone. The fingers that picked up the unfamiliar receiver held it tightly.


The Mercenaries by Val Slivka IX A.M. fog began to unglove the skyscraping giants which S glowered high above City. With each intruding ray of sun足 light, a bit of existence was shoved aside, and the eternal strug足 gle for life was on. Mick watched the strife and rooted for day - unknowing. He was anxious to shed his work-clothes and hide them deep in his locker, a handy receptacle for care along with the visible signs of daily toil. He glanced at the wristwatch which clung tenaciously to his wrist. "I've got to stop and get that band - and tomorrow, oh no, today!" But two hours of work lay before him. He closed the blind on his window ring-side seat and prepared to close Mr. Saler's office as well. "First, wring out the mop - check - now the wastebasket, all empty? Check! Oh, that window sill, what a dust足 catcher. Mick McGraugh, you've got to invent a window without a sill - you'd make a mint. But what would you do with a mint? Check!" Mick shared conversations with himself often nowadays. "There's nothing wrong with that - nothing at all - everyone does it." His whistling supplied lullaby accompaniment to the slamming of doors as he assured himself that all the floors were dry and ready for the hub-bub of activity that he pictured as taking place on this, the fourth, and every other floor of Mawrey Building, a little brother to the giants. Named for Joseph J. Mawrey, founder and first president of 3rd City Municipal Building and Loan Company. "Wouldn't that be a handle to have over my mail box, now!" Mick was a dreamer, admitting it now and then, but, for the most part, preferring to identify with humanity in general and no individual in particular. "Everybody thinks big thoughts now and then." Certain that the cleaning chores were brought to their proper end he concentrated on the closing-up segment of the job. This meant riding on the elevator - stopping off on each floor and pull足 ing door knobs until they seemed a focal point of life. The minutes flew while he pulled - then rode - then pulled - then rode and it was 8 a.m. - time for home and a shower and bed. One more thing - Friday and time for pay. Enough, perhaps, to keep an old man, well - fed and comfortable - if not president and first founder of anything. So he pulled the last knob, flicked the final light switch and


confronted Mr. Smythe, the night-guard with out-stretched hand. Commodore Everett Smythe, the first name, no title but a first name, stood his watch at the elevator door - "First floor, main lobby, all out, please, and turn to your left." For all the world his pose resembled the stance of the dawn watch on board ship - straight, guarded, as peaceful in the carpeted lobby as on the deck of some freighter, headed for lands beyond. His thoughts, released by the magic key of the lack of concentration, joined Mick's who, by that time, was counting the pot of gold at the end of a week's rainbow. "Mary's the one," he thought, "Mary will be at the door this morning. She starts classes late, so she's bound to be home for breakfast. I'll see her then and give her the money I've saved so Tina can't see." His wife even made her august presence prominent in thought. How ironic - Tina - a name that suited her size but not her strength of will. Com called it character for want of a better title. The night's watch would be over shortly. "Just like on board that old Navy tug." Strange, that tug hadn't reminded him of it­ self for some time. "A soap dish of a ship, that one was, a real soap dish. Heave and croak and groan was all it ever would do, and make me heave right along with it after a night ashore." Per­ haps Mick was not the only dreamer at the Mawrey building. "But Mary - and the other kids, too - they come first. Com Smythe, you just get these cock and bull notions out of your head - just forget the tug and the Navy and the whole blarsted sea right along with them!" Com's duties differed from Mick McGraugh's in that he, Com, supervised the night staff, along with standing dawn watch at the elevator doors - checking to see that between 12 midnight and 8 a.m. no one entered or left Maurey Building without first signing the clip-boarded list that dangled from the night-stand on a long, unfinely-linked and rusting chain. The watch of this particular Friday had been peaceful in its inactivity but restless in the thoughts of Commodore Smythe. Ever since he had come on duty he had been hounded by reminders of what he could not give to Mary and the other kids, too, of course. Brass spitoons - filled lip-high with sand - mirrored the bright lights of the lobby. "All so shiny gold." Deep-pile carpets lined the floor like velvet in a jewel­ ry box and drapes of heavy brocade hung at the windows - "Make a perfect dress for Mary - or any of the other kids except Joe and Jerry." Yes, Com sought the sun-shine and air to act as a cleansing agent, to purge his mind of those depressing thoughts of things he could not give - "to Mary and the other kids, too." But Mick McGraugh was not the only payee in Mawrey Building this morn­ ing - no, that was for sure. "Here she is now, Mrs. Brewer, as­ sistant personnel manager and just the one for me to see." FRI­ DAY, and the end of a long, tiring week for Mick and Com - the


beginning of the worst day of the week for Shirley Brewer, as­ sistant personnel manager of 3rd City Municipal Building and Loan Company. "See you Monday morning, won't I, Com?" Mrs. Brewer's statements were usually in question form. This tactic made her feel that she was lenient with her underlings - only one of the methods she consciously employed to be certain that she was loved by one and all. "Is your wife feeling better after her cold?" Calculated to bring a warm smile to the face of the listener, the statement suc­ ceeded only in calling a look of firm, unquestionable resentment to the face of Com Smythe: "Yea, she's feelin' quite up to par, she is." Com could never joke about Tina, or even think about her much, for fear of someone noticing how much he meant the run­ of-the-mill criticism that the married men had for their spouses. When forced to speak of her, he kept to the most neutral uncom­ mitted speech he could think of. Mrs. Brewer smiled in answer to his comment, muttered something that sounded like "Good" or "God," and strolled into the elevator. "Good morning, Billy, have you seen Mr. Wilhelm yet?" "Yes ma'am," replied the elevator boy, looking hard at his board of floor-lights to keep from laughing in Brewer's face. He knew that tone of voice - had heard it for seven months - since he got out of City High - every week-day morning. "Yes, I took him up just a few minutes ago." He wasn't sure just why he volunteered the information. After all, he had promised himself never to do that. "Let her fish for what she wants and see how much people like her then." he thought. "Sixth floor" - he couldn't resist stopping the elevator just a trifle below the floor level - so she'd have to step up and out. "That'll do her dignity good." For some reason the hall looked extra-clean to Shirley Brewer this morning. Her metal-heeled shoes click-clacked hollowly as she bounced her way to the office whose door was marked (in heavily inked 2 inch letters): MANAGER


Before entering she smiled, setting her face in position for the day. She opened, then closed the door - moving from an outside . to an inside position. This was the activity which was most reward­ ing to Mrs. Brewer - a fundamental part of a "well-adjusted, happy life." This was exactly the phrase she used in describing her child­ hood on the requested autobiographical summary in application for her present position. If she had lied there were few in life who could detect the lie in this smilingly-set face. "Good morning, Mr. Wilhehn, much work to do today?" The ride on the bus from her apartment this morning had been paved with smiles - to the bus-driver, to the man she saw daily


who sat in the seat across the aisle, to Martha Dwyer, her new apartment neighbor who had shared her seat. All had returned her merry "Good morning" - Martha even shared a polite con­ versation with her. "All about those three lovely children." To a divorcee whose husband had won custody of the only child of an unhappy marriage, a boy, those three children were truly lovely. "But I have my own big children," Shirley had assured herself after Martha got off. "I have Mr.Wilhelm and the office secretaries . . . today is Friday and payday .. . yes, I've at least 500 ( the number of employees at Maurey Building) children to see today." So the question-statement she made to Mr. Wilhelm did not require an answer. Neither did the look on her face when she reached her desk require an answer. The look of shock and hurt and pain which flashed there required only that anyone who see it there - forget! "Oh, there must be ... it couldn't ...but, oh my ... Mr. Wilhelm, there must be some explanation. This pink slip has my name on it. You're not letting me go! Oh, but Mr. Wilhelm this can't be!" Mr. Wilhelm sighed a small sigh and repeated (for she hadn't heard the first time), "Mrs.Brewer, please, you know I feel badly about this, but I had no choice. Mr.Maurey insisted that all the staffs be cut down to a minimum. You've done an excellent job, but he tells me I don't need an assistant. Again I repeat - / have no choice!"

"Of course" - the once-smiling eyes had filled with moisture but did not overflow - to the immense relief of the beholder. "I'll just finish up here today." Shirley Brewer turned. "Will you excuse me for a moment?" She went to the powder room, washed her face and hands, walked back to that office door - smiled and walked in.

The Second Snow by Linda Tinelli

The falling of the second snow Is lovelier than the first, And only in memory deeply immersed­ ls the green of long ago. Where once the freshness of the snow Our insignificance declared, We now will wander less impaired­ And comfortably so. 27

Poquessing by Linda Tinelli

How strange to see the summer die In cold November sun. Up north I Never noticed it. Up north when Fall and winter came we knew that then The colors of the trees would change And there would be a whole new range Of pungent odors in the air. Up North the snow comes early. Abrupt And cold, it locks the door on all That summer was. Here the fall Creeps. It has the green of summer When I look for bright and warmer Color. It lingers into mauve Uncolored days, and nights that have The coldness of December. It robs itself, and winter.

Autumn Picture by Linda Tinelli

We drove along September country roads Past threashed fields and half-bent stalks of corn. Though rural earth must feed its fruit, the Horn Of Plenty steals the ripened crops. So loads Of burnished, sun-warmed spoils were trundled off In city-going trucks, while tractors plowed New furrows for the winter wheat. These proud And withered lands we passed, and came to soft Unharnessed hills portraying best the fall. The sun poured molten color on a grove, And here we stopped. With paint and ink we strove To catch its mood. Perhaps before the tall Elms died, in softened brown perplexity, We'd pay a minor tribute to their clarity. 28

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