AROUND THE WORLD IN 24 DAYS. "!twas a breathless dash," said Miss Dorothy Kilgallen, famous girl reporter, back at work (above) after finishing her assignment to circle the world by air in recordbreaking time. (Righ t) Her exciting arrival at the Newark Airport. "I snatched meals anywhere," she says, "ate all kinds of food. But Camels helped me keep my digestion tuned up I'll bet on them any time - for mildness, for their delicate flavor, and for their cheery 'lift.' Camels set me right!"
HEALTHY nerves and good digestion enable you to glide over trying incidents and get the full enjoyment out of working, eating, and playing. No wonder that so many who make their mark in the world today are steady Camel smokers!
At mealtimes- enjoy Camels for the aid they give digestion. By speeding up the flow of digestive fluids and increasing alkalinity, Camels contribute to your sense of well-being. Between meals - get a "lift" with a Camel. Camels don't get on the nerves, or irritate the throat. Join the vast army of smokers who say: "Camels set you right!"
I "MY BUSINESS MAKES me careful about 1 my digestion," says B. C. Simpson,
shooter.
THE MESSENGER
UNIVERSITY 0 F RICHMOND THE MESSENGER
To Poe
b y ~ I A R GA RET C ARPENTEll
What tragic ange l breathed upon your s oul , And tun ed the s tring s of your unheeding heart
To some strange minor melody? T h e mould Of melancholy so became a part Of your own life and love , that all in vain Could they be sundered. Dreamer of far lands , You gazed on ecs ta cy and walked with pain , And t h en reLumed with pale and trembling hands
To shape from torment, agony , despair Sad , solemn songs of lovely lyric grace Like p h antom rhythms fl.owing t h roug h w h ite air .As strong as death. as frail as paper lace. The wildest music that the pip er play s But sp urs the dancer to a furious pace ; And beauty such as this unearth l y lore Must be accounted for. Th e dancer pays In fated golden coin s ;- Thus all your days: An echo to predestined "Nevermore. "
Pulling St1•ings at College
by RICHARD L. SCAM~ION
Illustrated by t h e Author
DID someone once say , "Beware of the woman who can saw and hammer ; she'll rule man's domain"? If this statement be true , and if Richmond College men are on the lookout to evade such species of womankind, let this article be a warning that our precious stomping ground is alive with many of the Amazons. It is easy to imagine that the supposed fragile creature of last night's prom-date, or last week's midwinters was from this clan of some fifty odd craftswomen, and without doubt , the male half of the two-some didn't even know it.
There are around fifty girls in Westhampton C ollege who are busily engaged in the activity o f marionette production. This elective laborat ory division is embodied in the sophomore English course, and is associated with the study as a form of creative art.
The members of the group are shown how to make a marionette from a scrap of wood to the final string. l\.,liniature heads and hands must be sculptured , cast , and painted; bodies must be cut to scale, weighted , and assembled, with great care to preserve the balance necessary for proper coordination of marionette movement. Words cannot picture the arduous tasks and perplexing problems that enter into the building of these intricate figures. The reward comes when the finished product is viewed. The hours spent in p ainstaking application not only bring a contribution to art, but also, a triumph of accomplishment to the individual.
In addition to the mere making of a puppet , the whole realm of the theatre enters into the program. There are scripts to be written and adapted, scenery to be designed , lights , propert ies, costume harmony , and make-up. These marionettes are nothing more than little actors nearly two feet high , which play on a stage eight
feet by three and one half. By giving attention to scale proportion , the illusion of reality is created, which is the secret of the power and charm of the marionette .
This year's production will be in the nature of a campus variety entertainment, and will include timely incidents , historiettes, faculty caricatures, and satirically expounded student activities.
All these steps in marionette activity may sound greatly involved and very difficult , b Jt
really , they are not. It is all fun and relaxation for the tired mind. Those fifty girls go down to that workshop , some attired in slacks, others in gym togs , and enter into a joyous , whole-hearted spirit of cooperation. More and more the value received from specific creative activity in the arts is being proved by the results shown throughout the nation in our great institutions of education. The art of puppetry , as one of those arts , offers a wide scope for artistic creativeness , for the cultivation of natural resourcefulness, and for the definite expression of human emotion. The University of Richmond through Westhampton College is one of the pioneers in a national renaissance of th e art of puppetry.
The former tea-room at Westhampton has been given over to this English course for the sole purpose of creating and executing. marionettes. The room affords ample space in which this puppet project of five years may be handled in its present expansion. In the very near future it is planned to transform this workshop into a permanent studio-theatre for marionettes. The little theatre will include a workshop, stage, auditorium, and lounge-green-room, with a definite decorative scheme carried throughout. In the lounge, glass cases will contain representative work from group production, which may be viewed at anytime by visitors to the college.
The University of Richmond is not alone in incorporating a creative outlet of this nature. Such nationally known institutions as Temple University in Philadelphia, Wayne University in Detroit, and the University of Washington State give college credit for courses in this art; while Ohio State University offers marionette production as an integral part of their course in design. The first American Puppetry Conference which took place in Detroit in July, 193 6 gave assurance that this country had now permanently established its place in the world history of marionettes.
Learn Through Love to See
by 6. MOTTE MARTIN
Oh Love ' s not blind! It 's love alone that sees
The myriad virtues hid from duller eyes , Oft closed by chaff that o 'er the surface flies, And love that holds the spirit's golden keys. But lust , still blind from wrong, to wrong agrees, Still masquerades as Love in gentle sighs , Still calls , and feeds with straw a flame that dies And traps the soul apace in frozen seas Hence learn through Love-real Love , to see the heart Where placid pools of sorrow lend relief , And mirrored joys beneath the lilies dart In sunny places dear beyond belief; But here yourself unselfishly impart
If you would live Life 's subtle crowning art
Spain Today-A Minute Epitollle
by FLA VIUS WALKER
SPAIN today is a land of bloodshed and violence. It is a nation split by two contesting factions, bitterly opposed to one another, their ideas and theories of government abso[utely irreconcilable. The Fascists of Franco will cede no point which they believe to be right; the Loyalists are equally uncompromising.
These two factions, representatives of the two extremes, one ultra-radical, the other ultra-conservative, did not spring up in a day, in a month, or even in a year. They were in existence before the day of the republic. It was not until July, 193 6, however, that they openly and savagely clashed.
Francisco Franco , the commander of the Fascist (Nationalist) forces, is a man of great ability and foresight. He commands a small but efficient army. He has under him capable and loyal officers and devoted men. His soldiers are either members of the old Spanish Army, who are fighting under General Franco simply because he is their superior officer, or conservatives, who for the most part believe in the corporate state, the return of the monarchy, and the return of some authority to the Spanish Church. Most of these men are sincere in their beliefa They have forsaken their families, risked their wealth, and many of them have given their lives, for the sake of the Nationalist Cause. Even if the Nationalists win, their ultimate gain will be little outside of seeing their theory of government triumphant.
The Loyalists, on the other hand, have a large army, numerically very superior to that of General Franco's, but as a whole not nearly as efficient. Most of their officers are incompetent, and many of the men in the ranks do not know why they are :fighting. The backbone of the Loyalist Army is that small part of the old Spanish Army which remained loyal to the government. A val-
uable addition to the Loyalist forces has been the International Legion, a group of foreign sympathizers who banded together and organized themselves into several regiments. They, until very recently, were under the command of General Kleber, a very capable and energetic officer. He was removed from command some days ago because of the jealousies of his fellow generals.
Many of the Loyalists are perfectly sincere in their beliefs. They think that they are waging a fight for Spanish liberty and democracy, and are as unselfish in their motives as many of the better class of the Fascists are. These men are to be pitied, as they are distrusted by their comrades for their too liberal views, and are especially hated by the rebels as traitors to their class.
The immediate pretext for the war was the murder of Jose Calvo Sotelo, a monarchist Deputy and a Conservative leader. Within a few days of Sotelo' s assassination, there was flaming revolt from North Africa to the Pyrenees. The conduct of the war has been marked by many atrocities. The war itself has been waged very satisfactorily from the Fascist viewpoint. The rebels of General Franco have not as yet lost a single important battle. They have made appreciable gains in all parts of Spain except the region in the northeast. They have captured Irun and San Sebastian in the northwest sector, taken Toledo and the region about Madrid in central Spain. Recently they captured Malaga and its adjoining coast. Their greatest gains, however, have been made in western Spain, where they have conquered several whole provinces, and completely' wiped out all Loyalist resistance. On the sea the rebels have not been quite so successful, but they even there have held their own against great odds. The Spanish Loyalist forces have nearly two ships to every one of the Fascists.
Both sides have sought aid from the outside world. Germany, Italy and Portugal, being either Fascist or near-Fascist countries, naturally listened to Franco's pleas with receptive ears . These nations have helped the rebels with money and supplies again and again, and have allowed rebel sympathizers in their countries to go to Spain and enlist in the rebel armies. Soviet Russia and France have been equally as helpful to the radical Spanish Government. Russia has probably sent the Loyalists more aid than Germany and Italy combined have given the Fascists. Without this outside aid, the war would have long been over.
If the Fascists of General Franco triumph, undoubtedly a strong central government will be set up in Spain. Whether or not the monarchy would then return is a matter of speculation. My personal opinion is, however, that there will be no immediate return of the Spanish monarchy. The Spanish Church will be given some authority, and it will in all probability receive some state support. In case of a Loyalist victory, Spain would soon see itself lined up with France and Russia as a country of radical government and policies. A victory on either side will be marked by wholesale murder and proscription of the vanquished.
Sonata
by SAMUEL COHEN
Your smile, enticing with its flurried rain , Seen bright and full of the sweetness in your eyes, 0 moonlight Madonna, laughing at my pain And bathing your soft-knitted throat in paradise You cannot fool me so; you feel my pain And try to soothe my hurt-O not in vain! Dark moonlight Madonna , 0 , my love-sight , I drown my shame and take your warming breast. Has not a woman brought us into light , Quenching our fears , lulling us to rest? And now you come , in angel immolation , To put all else in happy isolation . 8 .
A Lovely Garden
by SALLY MOORE BARNES
IWANDERED dreamily down fragrant garden paths. Flowers nodded and smiled in a soft breeze, and the songs of birds filled the sunny air with joy. A mass of tumbling roses gently wafted perfume to the heaven. Waterdrops splashed musically in a marble fountain. They never stopped. The sun, in a glory of pearl and sapphire, slowly descending behind the rim of the distant horizon. Then the silver evening came on soundless feet and lightly threw its dark cloak over the whole world. I sank on a marble seat, my whole being saturated with beauty, and these lines came into my mind:
A garden is a lonesome thing, Got wot!
Rose plot , Fringed pool , Ferned grot-The veriest school
Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is notNot God! in gardens! when the eve is cool!
Nay , but I have a sign; 'Tis very sure God walks in mine
Old Age: On Dope
by G. MOTTE MARTIN
Speak no more of roses and of moonbeams
Tell me not of spring and love.
See the candle sputters and the noon-dreams, Like the smoke , dissolve above Flame with Hope this wounded heart no longer.
Spare this silvered head I pray.
Youth with Hope once made me falsely stronger , But that Hope soon died away.
Take into the now deserted garden
All the petals of my dream ; Strew them slowly , quietly , without pardon , Into Time ' s unending stream.
Youth its pathway plants with secret hoping, Blossoms beautiful to see; Autumn finds them drooping , gray heads gropingThat is tragedy to me.
Better that the seed remain unplanted And that weeds should choke the way Than to have a yearning die ungranted Leaving Failure and Dismay.
Trivia
Hoochie-Coochie revelations
Are not up to expectations.
ON DINING IN \VESTHAMPTON
Why illustrate Or speculate On what you ate?
These math classes bore me, As they did those before me!
I'd like to be impervious Instead of being nervous.
Freshmen facesEmpty spaces.
Physies
The trouble is, I just don't care How much the d--.fish weights in air, About an iceberg's hidden details, Or why an engine slowly fails. In fact, there's not a single reason For any physics, any season.
Overtime
by STUART GRAHAM
HENRY always worked late on the last day of the month. Perched on his high stool before a massive desk stacked high with bills, he resembled a chubby bullfrog sunning on a lily pad. A desk lamp which sliced a yellow cone out of the bleak, Stygian emptiness of the office was his sun.
He was in his shirt-sleeves, bent as far over the desk as the yielding bulk of his ample waistline would permit. His short legs were crooked around the rungs of the stool.
The yellow light shone softly on his freckled
bald spot and the encircling dark hair, greying around the temples. Eyes of a very light, faded blue strained from between short, colorless lashes. The straggly brows were also colorless. Every few seconds he unconsciously twitched his large, snub-tipped nose. Thin lipped and pale, his ample mouth punctuated the fleshy folds of his cheeks. His insignificant chin was cleft by a deep dimple.
A monstrous yawn distorted his round countenance. He leaned back and stretched. Two more hours to go!
A Slant-Eyed So-and-So
by STUART GRAHAM
SLITHERING toward us through the murky, smoke-laden atmosphere was Sin Tao. Sharwood had likened his venerable countenance to a snow-capped Mongolian peak, and thus it appeared to me. Flowing straight back from the bleak, sheer cliff of his brow was a cold snowfield of dead-white hair. At the foot of the cliff gleamed twin almond-shaped lakes of luminescent green, whose fathomless depths seemed to conceal sinister treasures of unguessed evil.
Under the projecting ridges of his high cheek bones lay the barren valleys of his sunken cheeks. Dividing the ridges like the Great Wall of China was his jutting Mongolian nose. Drooping mustache and goatee formed the melting outskirts of the permanent snow-field. From between thin lips flowed the sibilant whisper of his salutation. Sin Tao towered before us: Sin Tao , who, to me , represented the Yell ow Peril Incarnate.
Nostalgia
by JEAN SEARING
There is no b eauty in these sparse , green hills: winter should be bare and gray , stripped boughs against a lowering sky , crystal sunlight on thick ice. This land is fair ; it never knows the sharp and constant bite of frost. A lingering trace of summer still roams along its red clay paths.
Beneath the pines , brown needles mingle with the oozing earth: my mind is filled with thoughts of soil grown hard , left open to the air. Winter is no friend of mine. And yet , I hate it more, half-come , where tints of green deceive the eye, and make the heart remember spring.
I want to feel the cutting wind, half-dirt , along a city street , and see the pulse of moving life , the horrid rhythm of the north where steps are quick , emotion sharp , and tang of winter fills the air. This compromise is not for me.
I am grown sick of leveled hills , a city stretching ' long the side of muddy waters , half-green shrubs , and trees of evergreen and pine, the drizzling rains , the sudden change to almost-winter, then to warmth.
Oh northern sky . Oh northern land. These alien acres make me see the beauty of your polished steel , and long for winter in a land more harsh and gray , a land I know, for skies and trees and hills and sounds, for each small patterned thing of home.
. 13 .
Portfolio of Verse
by b. moore Plaint
My way lies to the North. But there before me Lies the shadow of The great god Ennui, Cross-legged, With a tired smile Life is empty.
I take the path to the South, Once more encountering Ennui, Yawning at the sheer extension of Limitless time Why do I continue my search When I know it to be Fruitless?
Eastward For there lies the Secret for which men Have sought for centuries. Pilgrimages to the Rising sun In search of What?
Once again my path Is barred by the Ubiquitous Shadow of that ever-present deity, Ennui, Faintly amused at mere man's
Puny efforts to delve into his unfathomable Secret.
But what is this For which I spend a life All too short In seeking? Alas I do not know. · 14 ·
Why am I Forever thwarted Thus? What is my Sin, That I should be denied Rest?
My way lies Westward, Beyond the setting sun, Beyond the day. In the stillness of the night I continue my weary Pilgrimage ... Again the 'cursed god of Boredom Blocks my way.
Why do you sit And smile wearily at my Striving For that which I seek?
Is there no Escape From your presence?
Am I not greater by far than Thou, A gaping phantom Of my own imagining? Or am I Doomed To search forever, Unrewarded, For
Futility
[After reading some of the more modern (?) verse]
I seem to be A failure to those about me and what is more important to MYself life seems to get along so well without me it creeps away from me with ut most stealth and i am left to face MY future squarely But how can one face square WHAT isn't isness ? ? ? ? happiness happen s to me still more rareLY or ? is it any of MY business
I am a knaue. I need a shaue.
The room is hot and stuffy.
My collar's soiled. My day is spoiled. I haven 't had my coffee.
I could not get A cigarette When I got up this morning. I haue a head.
My lids are lead. I sit here dozing , yawning.
The Prof's dull drone In monotone
Helps not the situation The slightest bit, But here I sit, Absorbing education.
Demise Delightful
Rye or bourbon, Scotch or gin, One of these will Do me in. Scotch or bourbon, Gin or rye , What more pleasant Way to die?
Be it straight or Be it blended, Let my present , State be ended While I am my Cups within Of Scotch or bourbon Rye or gin.
First I'll dine, And then I'll sup. Then I'll drink A stirrup wp. No atonement For my sin Saue rye or bourbon, Scotch or gin!
If I must pas s into eternal night , Let it be while I'm happy , gay .. and tight!
Heat Waves
"W hen winter comes ," why shouldn't it remain? I'm tired of spring and sunshine, flowers and rain.
I think that chilling breezes, snow and ice And hockey games are really rather nice.
The heat and dust of summer 'rouse my ire. I'd rather sit before an open fire.
Than spring I think that there's no season horrider , For I was born and bred in sunny Florida!
Lines on the Tenant System
by B. ~1oore
(With a prayer that Dr. Harlan may never inspect Sociology notebooks!)
The landlord is a dirty skunk; He 's always m ean , and often drunk; He neuer heard the word "e mancipation. "
The tenant gets a deal that's rotten When the land lord buys his cotton; His life is one that's full of degradation.
The tenant slaues as though a uassal To raise the wherewithal for wassail , In which the landlord frequently indulges. With a mortgage h e's inflicted , And is frequently evicted; Whereupon the landlord's income bulges.
The landlord , in a deal that 's funny, Lends the starving tenant money ; Sells to him his seed , his hoe and shovel. Then the landlord , villain , faker , Forecloses upon each acre, Ousts the tenant from his lowly hovel
The tenant gets a dirty deal. The landlord is a lousy heel! The system is a sin , without a doubt ! But if we did away with it , I'm sure we would not malw a hit iVhat , then , would Dr. Harlan gripe about ?
The Empress Was No Lady
by HERBERT HEADEN
BRIG o' WAR EMPRESS , proud and trim, she overhauled a frigate; crossed her bow with a solid shot and yawed into the wind.
Ran up alongside.
"Starboard guns, let go on the downroll 1" Sleek , black muzzles ran out at the gun-ports.
She poised
A broadside hell of iron and smoke crashed in on the frigate's larboard. The frigate shuddered , went down by the stern, run thru by forty guns.
The Empress preened herself in the sunset.
D I T 0 R I A
But Not Too Dull!
FOR the influence of women there is no cure. Lately, however , our influence has been denied, and , peculiarly, recognized at the same time.
" Without the support of Westhampton CollefTe The Messenger cannot continue as a University publication " Of course not. No one realizes this more certainly than do the women. We have shaken off that "lethargy" of ours and contributed-quality. Into this issue of The Me ssenger goes no Freshman material from Westhampton. The editors of \Vesthampton feel that the standards of the magazine are such that upper-classmen can best fulfill, though all writers of ability and promise are always encouraged. The English department , as does that at Richmond College, has cooperated in an effort to make Westhampton's part in The lvfessenger more active and more influential.
We are agreed that we have a joint publication. Therefore , The Messenger should function as such. Remember
Aesop's fable of "The stomach and its members"? One organ cannot quarrel with another. A friendly rivalry is hereby substituted for open antagonism.
Let it be tacitly understood that it is not pages which compose our magazine. The Messenger is not mere numbered sheets. It is something alive and real, a part of our university life. It is that joint meeting ground of the two strains of thought-masculine and feminine. And if, in a while, the strain is more definitely of one tone , then consider the balance of power and of numbers. Eventually the perfect balance will be struck. That is The Messenger to which both colleges can look forward confidently in the future. So away with Erskine-Richardsonian controversy.
The \Vesthampton editors would seek to uphold standards, would provide quality. We would not lay undue stress on quantity. \Vesthampton would cooperate with Richmond College
•• ... writing, an exaet man ''
PERHAPS , it is to evolve a truism to say that ours has become a writing world. The press , most vital factor in bringing this about, has reached heights of power undreamed of by those who stood by at its baptism. Publishers'
spring lists are longer and more diversified than ever before. Attractive , bewilderingly heavy floods of new books, magazines, and papers have gushed from the nation's presses; and they continue to come with amazing frequency! Someone
has even said, with facetious good wit, that every waitress and every taxi driver is a potential best-seller author nowadays.
And, consequently, even more often than formerly, we are told of the benefits accruing from an ability to write smoothly, or, more pointedly, to become at least interested in literary production. Youngsters are being taught that modern business modes need facile pens. They are shown that any number of new professions have been opened to those with a flair for the "slick" writing of today, ranging from the sophisticated stuff of the popular magazine to the still more subtle style that sells facial creams, homes, and battleships. They are made to see that a finer appreciation of good literature, old and new, comes of knowing something of the trade of writing. Elementary, too, is the fact that first impressions are rather lasting, and that these impressions will often, of necessity, be written ones. All of which brings us to the realization that we have been told these things repeatedly, and that, maybe because we have heard them so many times, they mean but little to us.
There is one enormous advantage to be gained from literary work, however, that we should never lose sight of, for, regardless of how frequently it is referred to, it can never become hackneyed to ineptness. It is simply this: one learns to marshal his thoughts by writing. On a wall of the Library of Congress in Washington, there is this inscription: "Reading maketh a full man; conference, a ready man; writing, an exact man."
Newcomers to the business of writing are usually astonished at discovering that on a subject about which they can talk at length they can write little. When one realizes that each word he writes is attended, that he will be held strictly responsible for his errors, that he must not repeat himself, nor deal with things on which his information is vague or inadequate, he suddenly finds his story vanishing, to be held only by thoughtful, pithy comments. Is this not a valuable lesson for every man? Success emanates from ideas; ideas demand exact expression.
When this is so obvious, why must editors of college literary publications have difficulty procuring material for their magazines? This condition seems to exist on many campi. Aside from every small advantage students and their schools will gain from their work-there is this paramount remuneration for them, the habit of exactness. They must not be unaware of this. Can it be that there are still some, who, like children, want to see the reward of their work, as though it might and should be something quite tangible?
For them we must tell the story the University of Chicago tells its mathematics students, who ask the same question, ''What do I get for doing all this?'' The school's new mathematics text-book cleverly relates the answer of a Greek philosopher to this question, asked by one of his students. Turning to a slave, the teacher said, "Bring a gold piece. He must be paid to learn!''
IDlpressions of Disa,ster
lty RICHARD L. SCAMMON
Author's note: Following are three episodes, each varying in mode of expression, but each of which deals with the same situation of a certain incident of the recent Ohio River flood tragedy
GBessie and Lily , two " woiking goils ," at noon lunch, New York City.)
"Say Bessie , whaddaya think ! I put on a bran ' n ew pair of hose this A. M., and then caught 'e m on that damn furniture at the office, 'n' now I gotta run !''
" Yeh , don't it beat it how they go. Eats up all my salary buyin' new ones."
" Oh , I wish they'd hurry up and bring us t hose malteds . I'll be late t' work. "
" God, it's gettin' so ' s ya ' don ' t even have tim e a ny more t' eat your noon lunch."
" Yeh , I know it."
" How do ya ' like th ' way they fixed my hair t his noon ? Gee , I thought it ' d never get dry u nder that drier. Thought for a minute I w ouldn't even get through in time to get a m alted before goin ' back to work ."
" Oh , here're the malt eds now. Gosh , they fill u p the glass, don't they? Gee , mine ' s overflowin' , runnin ' all over th ' place."
" Yeh , so ' s mine--gad , a regular flood ."
" Say Bessie ! Didje hear about that one bab y in the flood down south ?"
" No, which?"
" Well, it was like this : a man and a woman tie d their kid in a rag , or somethin ', and hung hi m on the lights-you know , the chandelier ? ' '
" What'd they do that for? "
" I dunno. Th ' water was fillin ' the house , and th ey couldn't get out , but they didn't want th ' k id t' drowned , so ' s they tied him up there ."
" Then what'd they do?"
" Who , the father an ' mother? "
" Yeh. "
" Guess they drowned. Anyway , that's what Minnie told me. Said she read it in the paper this morning.''
"Gees , s ' at seems an easy way out, don't it? Well, I'm glad I live in New York. Never have any floods here , thank God!"
" Yeh , me too. "
"Hurry up , Lily , or we'll be late."
" Yeh , jus' a minute. Wait 'till I suck th' straw out."
* * *
( A page from the diary of a serious , young mother in the mid-toest, somewhere in Illinois.)
January 28 , 193 7 Thursday
Oh , I'm tired tonight. Pearline and I did a big wash today , and I went to the Women's Club in the afternoon Am alone tonight, as John had to attend a monthly meeting of the Dental Clinic. Can hardly :..vait 'til Sunday, when John and I leave for New York for one week. I do hope Johnny Jr. , will be alright with Pearline.
Today , I read a horrible account in the paper about the flood. It seems a little baby had been tied to a chandelier in his diaper to keep him from drowning as the flood waters filled the dingy house And for some unknown reason , the father and mother committed suicide by drowning themselves.
My breath almost stops as I even think of this , and my h eart feels pierced. What if my little Johnny should be in a similar plight! I shudder to imagine it. Oh , my darling baby ; how sweet yo u look there-so protected and Heavenly.
Those parents must have been desperate. Such tragedy. I thank God that my little baby is safely asleep beside me in his little blue crib. Today, it sounded almost as if Johnny were try-
ing to talk to me as he babbled away . Oh , it ' s such a thrill caring for him. I think I would di e if anything happened to him!
( The mental thought of the mother of th e babe who swung from the chandelier . Louisville , Kentucky .)
I held Anthony close to me. I could hear, even feel, his little heart beat, so tightly I held him It seemed to me if I could just squeeze him so closely that w e would merge into one , that all my frenzy would be over. In spite of the unbelievable sight of the water-filled room, and the strange gurgling sound as the flood torrent forced itself in through cracks and knot-holes , in spite of all this , I could still hear Anthony ' s heart beating, only louder and louder with every perceivable rise of the wat er - level in the small dingy room.
I called my husband , " Anton !" and he closed his strong , prot ecting arm about both me and the baby , for he was right beside me. I didn ' t know h e was so n ear ; I thought he was far away. I could only feel his strength as he held Anthony and me close to him. I could only hear my baby ' s heart-beat . I could only feel the cold , stinging water as it rap idly crept up toward my stomach , now past my middle I noticed I didn't sense the usual tingling f eeling that I always received when I went in swimming the first time each year. Suddenly , without warning , Anton snatched my baby from my rigid arms , and with a cloth from a shelf nearby , securely wrapped Anthony and suspended him from the light fixture in the center of the ceiling. I opened my mouth to speak , but no sound came forth. However , I was at ease with what I saw , because m y husband always did the right thing. Yes , Anthony would
be safe up there . I caught a glimpse of Anton 's face; I never saw him look like that befor e.
He was breathing with excessive pants , too . Then I gazed stupified at the muddy liquid. It was now nearing my shoulder. I realized I could not have held Anthony much longer. I reached for a :floating object about two feet away from me. Strange. It was Anthony ' s little blue hair brush. I had k ept it in the kitchen ; it must hav e :floated in from there . I pressed the soft , wet bristles against my face, but not for long : two arms , like two sl edge hammers , came down on my shoulders with violence ! I was submerged ! My ears filled w ith strange noise . It was like th e rumble of a nightmare , but more real than a nightmar e. Then pain. Oh , how it hurt me I tore at my throat , then , grabbed at the form nearest me , and I recognized that it was Anton 's muscle-wrapp ed legs. His strength was ever great now . His whole body was of iron , and I was helpless in his grasp .
The terrible hurt crescendoed for a moment , then lessened slightly . Presently , light loomed all around me . It began to grow peaceful and quiet. That rumble of noise faded gradually behind me Anton was not near me now , but I could see baby Anthony swinging in a cloth sling , lik e a babe in a stork ' s bill , far ahead of me I was a little startled wh en I felt an arm slip about m y waist. I looked to see Anton , my husband Tha t strange express i on had gone from his face , and h e appeared cont ented. He handed me something . I looked at it , and found it to be the little blu e hair brush again. But it was not wet this tim e ; now it was very dry. I pressed the soft bristle s again to my face , as Anton , gently this tim e, pulled me to him Now , we both watched bab y Anthony swing in the breeze .
Round and Round
A Review of Beeorded Musie
by STUART GRAHAM
SWING devotees will welcome with a fervor little short of reverent one of Victor's latest additions to the library of "hot" music. The tunes are two old-timers , Georgia and Rockin ' C hair , and are aptly chosen as vehicles for the display of the talents of as great an aggregation of musicians as has been collected since the days of the original " Dixieland Jazz Band. "
Hoagy Carmichael, renowned as the composer of " Stardust ," one of Tin Pan Alley ' s immortal tunes, assembled the band that is to modern swing what th e All - America team is to football, a band which numbers among its members Bix Beiderbecke , outstanding cornetist of his generation , Joe Venuti , " King of Violin Swing , " Tommy Dorsey and Jack Teagarden , trombonists par excellence , and Swingmaster Benny Goodman , on clarinet and saxophone , as well as such artists as Jimmy Dorsey and Bud Freeman, saxophones; B Miley , trumpet ; E. Lang , guitar, and Gene Krupa and C. Moorehouse , drums. Several of the above named are doing very well, thank you , with their own orchestras , while the rest o ccupy featured spots in other topflight bands.
The only fault to be found with these recordings is that vocals have been assigned too big a spot , and that , because of the limitations of a standard-sized record , each artist has only a limited opportunity to demonstrate his mastery.
Rockin ' Chair possesses a medium swing that is ideally suited to Bix ' s cornet trickery , while allowing Venuti to frisk in a violin chorus and Tom Dorsey to kick out in a few brief trombone interjections. In Georgia , Beiderbecke carries the major part of the sweet swinging, achieving a tone of sterling quality on his cornet. Venuti ' s fiddle is again briefly heard , and there are a few
good trombone licks, this time by Tea garden. Let ' s have more records of this type , Victor ! VICTOR No. 25494.
* * *
Shep Fields has chosen two numbers destined to reach soon the upper strata of popularity and treated them in his usual distinctive manner. The first, I Adore You , has the typical Fields styling , beginning with the trumpet solo super-imposed upon ripling effects , followed by a piano solo and concluded with staccato brass. In our opinion , the concertina transitions and interpolations are the high spots of the arrangement . Love and Learn , on the reverse side , is a mite faster paced and features the sax team as well as the more familiar trumpet , piano , concertina , and staccato. BLUEBIRD No. B-6749.
* * *
Maple Leaf Rag is the most recent of the old timers to be dignified with a revival by Tommy Dorsey. Necessarily swiftly paced , the arrangement borders on Dixieland , but the "full " effects produced by three trombones date the effort as modern rather than authentic r 9 Io. A few old-fashioned trombone slides and the stringbass fill-in behind trumpet and clarinet leads comprise the highlights of this release.
Reversely , Jamboree , fast swing in the modern manner, features tricky vocals by Edythe Wright and the Three Esquires , a well co-ordinated sax team , and more of the full brass effects. VICTOR No. 25496.
* * *
Good Night , Sweetheart , his ever popular theme, is coupled with another old favorite, Time On My Hands , in a recent Ray Noble impression for Victor. The recordings , made in Europe , seem somehow to lack the punch we
remember from the Noble efforts of about a year ago. There is nothing tangible absent: the arrangements are above average, and the instrumental performances are technically perfect, but the combined effect doesn't quite seem to measure up to our expectations of Noble. Notwithstanding, the disks will probably sell quite a few copies. A good addition to your musical library. VICTOR No. 25016.
* * *
Arrangements of the type embodied in his version of The Gaona Goo and When You're Smiling have gone far toward erasing the stigma of "corny" that the name of Clyde "Sugar Blues" McCoy has borne for nearly a decade. The chief objection of musicians seems to be to McCoy's unique trumpet style, but Clyde's muted manipulations arouse no adverse reactions in us, as long as they are not employed to excess. The Gaona Goo, modern swing number in medium-fast tempo, furnishes motivation for trombone trickery as well as the familiar McCoy trumpet interpretations. The McCoy aggregation, in When You're Smiling, gives warning that it must be reckoned with in listing the better swing bands. The mean, more conventional swing of this number features a smooth-working sax team, a hot trumpet chorus, and a well executed tenor sax solo, as well as unusual effects in the brass. You won't go wrong on this record. DECCA No. I I 09.
Bob Crosby, foremost modern exponent of the Dixieland swing style, has picked two tunes in this category for a late Decca release. Sugar Foot Strut finds clarinet and trombone highlighted, with hot tenor sax, piano and drum choruses thrown in. Savoy Stomp, on the reverse side, has a deep-South, sway rhythm, giving better oportunity for individual instrumental calesthenics, the fundamental requirement of a Dixieland arrangement. The guitar chorus is excellent, and the two-trombone effects, sweet clarinet and muted trumpet leads, as well as tenor sax and string bass bits are very well done. Another good buy. DECCA No. 1094.
* *
RECOMlvIENDED RECORDINGS:
Tue Got You Under My Skin-Easy To Laue-Ray Noble and his Orchestra; Victor 25422.
Little Old Lady-Serenade In The NightShep Fields and His Rippling Rhythm; Bluebird B-6747.
Grand Piano Blues-Blue Nights-Earl (Father) Hines and His Orchestra; Bluebird B-6744.
There's Something In the Air-Where the Lazy River Goes By-Mal Hallett and his Orchestra; Decca 9 9 3.
The Witeh of Prineess Anne
by GEORGE SCHEER
THE rugged farmers and fisherfolk of the lower Virginia counties , who know nothing of heraldry and family trees , but whose forbears tore their existence from the same waters and soil for generations past , have preserved tales rich in the lore of the older times. A favorite story of the ancient people of the Lynnhaven country is that of Grace Sherwood , who beat her neighbors and escaped their vengeance by taking on the shape of a black cat and disappearing through a keyhole or crack under a door , and who sail ed across the ocean in an eggshell to bring the sweet rosemary plant from the shores of the Mediterranean to the gardens of Princess Anne
Where the story had its beginning no one knows. Court records reveal that Grace Sherwood brought suit against one Richard Capps in 168 9 for defamation of character. She lost the case, but , six months later , Grace and her husband were again in court , this time with two cases for slander. One d efendant testified that Grace cast a blight on her cotton crop , and the other claimed that Grace beat her in her born e one night and fled in the form of a black cat . For these reasons , the two ladies abused Grace. Both cases were dismissed.
For a few years , the community was undisturbed by talk of witches and spells. Grace Sherwood's husband died , and she lived peacefully in her little cottage ,:vith her three sons. Then in 1705. she charged Elizabeth Hill with assaulting and beating her; Grace sued for fifty pounds. Elizabeth said Grace had bewitched her, and Grace was awarded a mere twenty shillings. But angry Elizabeth and her husband , Luke, soon returned to cou.rt , charging Grace with witchcraft.
It was believed that the compact a witch
entered into with the Devil was sealed by his marking her body in some manner. On the 7th of March, 1706, a jury of twelve women searched Grace. Unfortunately for her, the forewoman was the woman who had seen her as a cat in the night seventeen years before. The women reported several spots on Grace Sherwood's body . Since she was marked by the Devil, she must be guilty , the Court said. Nevertheless, the justices did not know what to do about it. Salem burned its witches, but Virginia had had none. So they informed Luke Hill that the case was without precedent in Virginia and should be taken to the Governor's Council in Williamsburg.
The Council, as nonplussed as the County Court, referred Luke to the Attorney-General. This gentleman would have no part in the case ; he told the exasperated Luke to return the case to Princess Anne , where the Court was thoroughly acquainted with the details! Luke did.
Now the Court realized it had no alternative but to act. The sheriff was unable to procure another jury of women to examine Grace. So it was decided to test her by ducking. She would be securely trussed with rope and thrown into water "above man's depth. " If she sank, she would be considered innocent; if she swam, she would be regarded guilty. The stalwart protectors of the law intended doing all they could toward saving her from drowning , if she sank. Of course , the Court was still obscuring the question of the disposition of the lady if she were found guilty.
On Wednesday morning , July 10th , 1706, at ten o'clock, the men of the Court, the sheriff with Grace Sherwood , and spectators in knee breeches , homespun shirts, and broad -brimmed hats and in wide shirts and bonnets , assembled on John Harper's plantation , lying on Lynn-
haven Bay. Summer morning sunlight rippled on the deep blue water. Marsh grasses along the shore undulated with the rise and fall of the tide. Grace's left thumb was bound to her right foot, right thumb, to her left foot, and she was placed in one of several row boats that swished off the beach and moved out "above man's depth." The happy Puritans had a device for ducking, a chair on a long beam, that resembled the bucket of a steam-shovel. But the Princess Anne Court had to content itself with this improvised method. The boats drew into a circle, and Grace was thrown overboard. The crowd on the shore was close-mouthed as she splashed into the bayand there were cries as she swam, despite her bonds!
She was pulled into a boat. They all put about and beached. After being examined once
more by five crones, she was placed in the custody of the sheriff, who confined her in the Princess Anne jail. No court records, concerning her punishment are to be found. Thirty-four years later, her three sons presented her will, attesting her recent death; and it is assumed she went unpunished, except for a short jail sentence.
Today, the scene of Grace Sherwood's ducking is still serene and beautiful under the summertime sun. It is no longer called John Harper's plantation, however, but bears the name, "Witch's Duck," to commemorate the fact that here in the quiet waters of Lynnhaven Bay Virginia's only witch was ducked in an effort to establish her guilt. That was over twohundred years ago , but to this day the old inhabitants of Princess Anne will tell you Grace was a first-class witch!
The Moekingbird
by G. MOTTE MARTIN
Last night a mockingbird with trembling wings, From mingled joy and sorrow growing bold , In soft but molten notes its passion told Beneath the moonlit leaves that autumn brings. Ah , never in the painted forest sings The fragile bird of summer in the cold , But still ther e clung last night , in leaves of gold , A ling ' ring note of summer's carolings; For o ' er an elm I he mockingbird sent trills , Like sparks at night above a settling fire, A song once heard in Time's receding hills Now played on some wee bird ' s forsaken lyre. When thus in joy the frosty moon distills , I catch my breath--as all my being thrills.
But What They Seek
by ROBERT DELLER
IT HAD rained earlier in the morning and the black road still glistened wet, but the old man drove his little coupe at sixty-five around poorly banked corners and along the two-lane straightaway between old palisades, slowing down only to fifty through drenched, clean villages.
The sixteen-year-old boy on his right had a propensity for driving "too fast" on those rare occasions when Uncle Andy let him take out the big old sedan. He had felt the thrill of power in travelling fifty miles per hour, once even seeing the speedometer register a daring, breathless, bouncing fifty-five.
The old man said, "I can usually make seventy, but because the road's wet "
Little blond Gustave Jacobek was literally scared stiff. He sat there primly, his hard clenched fists beside him, trying to keep from holding on to the seat, his jaw clamped tight and his breath coming in short, spaced, gasping sighs. He began to think that Uncle Andy was right when he said the old man was not quite straight in the head.
Chickens ran squawking, and the longarched concrete railway overpasses known as Lafollette bridges lifted and dropped the whistling car delicately the way rises in the rollercoaster track do. The telegraph posts hummed a jerky tune as they skimmed past with spasmodic regularity. Each car going in the other direction caused a loud swishing sound easily heard above the motor's crescendo tenor drone, and through it all came the shush of the thirsty tires licking the slippery wet pavement.
When Andy Jacobek, proprietor of Jacobek's Resort on Lake Ka-bib-on-okka, where Gus worked in the summer, had told his nephew that Mr. Kane would take him to town that morning as he went to his office, Gus had been eager to accept a ride in the old man's glistening new
coupe. He had been admiring the little blue car all the week that Old Man Kane had been staying at Uncle Andy's hotel. The old man left it standing under the trees in back of the white mansion, next to J acobek' s old car, every afternoon and all night, but each morning leaving at eight-thirty he made the thirty-mile trip to the city. When Kane returned in the afternoon, Gus used to look at the two cars and dream that the owners could swap.
Yet now he was having the coveted ride, and he wished it were over. He had thought that old men were always sedate and conservative like his grandfather Jacobek, but this "old man" was quite different. Gus still liked him, but John Kane's driving was frightful. He had told them that he was sixty-eight years old, and surprisingly he seemed to want to drive one mile per hour for every year of his age. Gus watched the densely-leafed trees :flash by as they slithered around wet corners, and shuddered to think that the old man might live to be a centenarian. Cripes!
John Kane cast a leathery smile at the boy and said, "Well, son, how' d you like to drive it?"
Gus stammered, "S-swell d'you mean really?"
"Sure thing."
They were on a wide road now near the city, and they stopped while Gus got out and ran around behind the car. Boy, I'm gonna drive it slow, he was vowing. He slid under the wheel and let the old man show him what the levers and buttons were. \Vhen they started to move, he noticed again how easily the light car rode. After a few moments he had struck a moderate speed that pleased him and then glanced at the speedometer. A bold fifty punched him in the eye.
He held the smooth, quiet engine down to
thirty until they were in the city and he could stop and thank Mr. Kane for the ride and say that he would get out here, and no thank you, he would come out that afternoon on the five o'clock local train.
Gus knew he was miles from home where he was going to spend the day, but he was glad to be walking when he saw the little blue coupe lacing too swiftly for him through the city's morning traffic. What a driver!
That was a young man's car, lithe and agile. It somehow seemed misplaced under the toe of old John Kane, sixty-eight years old and whiteheaded. It gave one the feeling of airiness, of spring in the toes. But then, of course, John Kane was not the rocking chair kind of old man.
As a matter of fact, John Kane was filled with an ebullient determination not to let old rocking chair get him. A widmver, he knew that while either of his two married sons would give their father a welcome home, no happiness lay for him in another's domain. He clung viciously to his job and continued to be a highly efficient worker, always characterized by a fierce and sometimes offensive independence.
At Jacobek's Resort he was up at five each morning and out fishing on the lake until breakfast. Occasionally he came in with a few small perch or crappie, but more often with nothing. He didn't seem to mind the dearth of fish, but to a careful observer his was a studied nonchalance.
Every night after supper he was out again casting for an hour or so, generally with no more encouraging results. It was typical of him that on one of those nights he had inspired Andy Jacobek's blondined second wife to announce breathlessly:
"My Gosh, Andy, old Kane's got a fish an' he acts like he'd just got a kid after seven years' trying."
Gus was picking and dodging his way through the morning crowds on the sidewalk and meditating on John Kane.
As the boy performed his miscellany of duties
at the resort he gradually had come to notice people-people-and their manner. The young men were brusque, liked to give orders and be obeyed, always being impressive. Ageing men were more considerate, less easily aroused to impatience. He had found John Kane, who should have been the latter, a strange but not objectionable combination. A person of finer discernment than an earnest sixteen-year-old boy would have felt the old man's patient commands to be distinctly patronizing, but Gustave Jacobek had neither a mind nor a position to be pained by condescension.
So Gus developed a liking for old John Kane, feeling that he was sympathetic. Yet at the same time he couldn't help noticing that there was a ceaseless driving force behind that hearty guffaw, for John Kane was a big, lusty man. His eternal effervescence of energy sometimes inspired vague, inexplicable qualms in the boy, though old John was always amiable toward Gus. Often he puzzled about Kane, never finding in his thoughts entire satisfaction on the question, being just uncertainly dubious of the supernatural and unable to grasp that time need not age a man. Pondering thus, vainly, he walked into the city. And as Gus walked into the city and through it and into life and the length of it that was his to go through, old John Kane also walked, into the office that centered his life. In the course of his work he had to make plans for the future: for the next day and the day after-for the next month and the month after-for the next year and the year after. In the same fashion he planned his life-for an indefinite future.
When the pigment goes from a man's hair and his children have children, there comes to him inevitably the idea of his own death. All men are cowards on this subject, but they manifest their fear in widely differing reactions. A few openly welcome the prospect because they fear life more. Most drug their emotions, as they have been taught from childhood by elders who also felt the pangs, in the anticipation of a paradise free from the unpleasant. Those who see only ob-
livion after the cessation of life sometimes resign themselves to the inescapable and devote the living of the time that remains them to fretfully awaiting the end. Others of these look away and set out to wring from life the last drop of satisfaction before they should be forced to cast it aside. They see but what they seek.
When John Kane's first grandchild started going to school, the thought struck him. He spent a week in torture, considered quitting his job, considered many things. Then suddenly he turned, though not out of conscious deliberation , to the way of life he now followed. He scourged all pessimism from his mind by absorbing himself in work, in thoroughly and completely living.
That was what went on inside of old John Kane as he worked that day, pushing, pushing,
Eyes
pushing himself and his associates, rrntating them often, but never letting up. That was what was going on inside of him that night when the second Mrs. J acobek said to her bus band:
"My Gosh, Andy, old Kane is cert'ny a helluva driver. You better tell him to look out or he'll go right through the hotel some day, the way he pulls up around the loop there Look at him out there on the lake now, rowing away as if he was a young man and hadn't done a thing all day. 'Sno sense to it, the way he goes.
Crazy as a loon."
Andy J acobek puffed meditatively on his pipe, like Willem van Twiller, blew a grey jet of smoke, shook his head gravely and grunted:
"Yuh ... Always foot too heavy on the gas."
But in his stodgy mind he envied John Kane.
by LAVINIA WINSTON
Some eyes are like the ocean, Green , restless, yet deep;
Some eyes are like a locked door, Forbidding, cold;
Some eyes are like freshly-turned soil, Warm , brown , mellow;
But some are houses with the shades pulled down, Blank , and lifeless;
Some eyes are peaceful as a nun's robes, Grey and serene;
Yet some are saucy as rippling brooks , Sparkling , yet shallow;
Some eyes are encyclopedias, Thoughtful and wise;
And some are sullen as low-hanging clouds, Forboding and sombre.
Eyes are a soul revealed. · 27 ·
BOOK REVIEW
by BETTY ALLISON
THREE WORLDS
By CARL VAN DOREN
Harper and
Brothers
, New York , 19 3 6
OUT of the chaos of the present day dilemma there is one who has dared to speak with frankness and with wisdom from the experiences of "Three Worlds," changing worlds in which his own problems have been relative to those of the world at large.
Carl Van Doren has been aware of the forces at work in American life and has laid bare their intricate relationships. The dynamic spirit of revolt which made the farmers move into the towns also made the small-town merchants seek the vast resources of the larger cities. It was the same kind of revolt which later brought about upheavals in the economic and political life of America.
During the great peace which preceded the World War , Americans felt secure. They could not fathom " war in a museum." When war came people lost their heads, and the mob was carried by the sentiments of the " soap-box " orators. In close contact with this conflict , and yet only a spectator , Van Doren had from his Dutch ancestry an antipathy for the greed of the commercial airstocracy. He could not free himself from the clutches of war, however, for two of his brothers joined the American troops, and his father suffered as great losses as any of the western landowners. During this period of confusion Van Doren looked toward Professor Trent , under whom he had studied at Columbia and with whom he had worked on the Cambridge History of American Literature , as the epitome of wisdom and farsightedness. " He already saw the conflict as most sensible men were to see it twenty
years later ; not as a simple melodrama with its moral all over its face but as the outcome of a hundred years of greed and aggression and stupidity."
Life after the war was full of rebellion. This was the revolt of Post War youth against Victorianism. Life had been full of restraint; now it would be free at all costs. Such issues pressed on to the Depression of 1929.
Carl Van Doren recognizes a still younger generation which knew nothing of the boom before the fall, nothing except glory in being able to work and being paid for it; experienced men and women struggling for life. Life is Van Doren' s theme.
Life is Van Doren' s " fourth dimension " necessary for the success of any great piece of literature Literature must not have only virtue , truth, and beauty; it must live and live vividly.
The "Post-War World " is that which Van Doren develops more fully , and the section of the book on literature is the contribution of a specialist. Literature forms the pattern of Three Worlds , giving it form and uniting its varied aspects. His presentations of Sinclair Lewis, Edwin Arlington Robinson, and especially Elinor Wylie is not just analytical but real. Here is his correspondence with many of the well-known poets and journalists of today, a correspondenc e which reveals intimate details of their lives and works as well as their respect for him as a man of letters. His own work as editor of the Nation , the Century, and the Literary Guild demands attention as an important contribution in a literary career.
Carl Van Doren has lived; and his book lives -an important epoch of a half century of three generations of American life and thought.
PHOOEY ON 1HIS WEA"THER. 110 SURE61VE UPANYil-llNG,EVEN MV BUT PIPE, IF I COULD BE WARM AND WH'>' CLOTI-IES-FREE UK~ l"HOSE GIVE UP SA.VAGES COLUMBUS YOUR DISCOVERED PIPE?
DISCOVERY Or iOB~CCO
BECAUSE MY PIPE A, 1S WHER IMPORTANT iO M U 1RE WRO AND iHOSE WES Y WERE S INDIAN NATIVES N COLUM DIDN'i KNOW
lHAT OC108ER "'10RN IN 1492 , COLUMBUS WAS DUE FOR SOME SURPRISES-
ONE OF 11-lE MOST CHERISHED OFFERINGS OF 7'HE NA7NES WAS LEAF-iOBACCO, WELL DRIED
WELL, COLUMSt..lS YOU BET! IN MAY HAVE DIS- ALL 7HE COVERED THIS '7'EARS 11VE AND READY FOR SMOK1"16
MOS, OF ii-IE NAl"IVES SMOKED BY MERELY INHALING THE FUMES, BUT SOME OF ,HEM HAO A LONG, HOLLOW
7'\.JBE Wl"ll4 "THE FORKED ENDS INSERTED ' IN ii-IE ;i NOSiRILS
INDIAN CUSiOM BUT BEEN SMOKPRINCE ALBERT !Nr- P.A IT BRINGS rT"TOPER· "' •• FEC~ON -----~HASYETTO BITE MY l"ONGUE OR BURN TOO HOT FOR COOLENJOYMENT
Copyright.
R J R eynolds Tobacco Company
More Sunset
by STUART GRAHAM
THE ORCH E STRA on the afternoon recorded program is playing " Red Sails in the Sunset. "
" What a contrast !" I think. " The red on those sails would look pretty sick compared with all the reds in this sunset. "
The sun itself is a fiery ball of flame red. It is dipping one blistering edge into the cool green waters of the lake , tipping a wedge-shaped fan of ripples with thin sheet-gold. The sky all around is a pink transparency , merging very gradually into light blue.
The clouds are fleecy, billowing , piled up on the line where the lake margins to form the horizon. Their lower facets shade from light pink to deep rose ; the tops are dull, dark blue. Progressively the shade deepens .
The sun is now sinking faster , inching more and more of its seething bulk into the cooling liquid. The whole sky becomes almost a single shade, ever deepening.
The sun has set The orchestra on the afternoon recorded program is playing " When Day Is Done . "
Portfolio of Verse
by b. moore
297 DAYS 'TILL XMAS
'Tis time for Christmas cheer again, The New Year's well in view, B. Moore is spending starry nights In conference with his brew.
A fire is blazing on the hearth, The mistletoe is hung, The creamy ale is chuckling as It chortles through the bung.
The fire is mirrored three times o'er, As tankards row on row Reflect the dancing flames, and bring To B. a pleasant glow.
He lifts his tankard in the air, 'vVith slightly wav'ring arm, "May Bacchus speed you through the night And keep you safe from harm !"
Snowflakes falling through the pine trees
Nature painted green and white.
Snowflakes falling in the lamplight Yellow flurries in the night.
Snowflahes falling in the water, Vanishing with minute hiss
